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Presented  to  the 

UNIVERSITY  OF  TORONTO 
LIBRARY 

by  the 

ONTARIO  LEGISLATIVE 
LIBRARY 

1980 


TORONTO 


3   MAR    3l9i 


BLACKWOOD'S 


DXrtttfcttrglt 


MAGAZINE 


. 


VOL.  CXXV. 


fNUARY— JUNE  1879. 


WILLIAM   BLACKWOOD  &  SONS,  EDINBURGH  ; 

AND 

37  PATERNOSTEE  ROW,  LONDON. 


1879. 

All  Rights  of  Translation  and  Republication  reserved. 


BLACKWOOD'S 
EDINBUKGH    MAGAZINE. 


No.-  DCCLIX.  JANUARY    1879.  VOL.  CXXY. 


THE  ELECTOR  S   CATECHISM. 

[DEAR  EBONY, — A  General  Election  being  imminent,  I  have  been  re- 
quested by  the  Secretary  of  our  Liberal  Committee  to  prepare  a  *  Manual 
of  Political  Information/  which  might  be  of  use  to  the  general  body  of 
Liberal  electors.  The  task,  in  present  circumstances,  is  a  delicate  one,  and 
demands  the  light  touch  and  persuasive  tact  of  an  accomplished  penman — 
a  scholar,  a  lawyer,  and  a  statesman.  "  Ce  n'est  pas  ma  phrase  que  je  polis, 
rnais  mon  idee.  Je  m'arrete  jusqu'a  ce  que  la  goutte  de  lumiere  dont  j'ai 
besoin  soit  forme'e  et  tonibe  de  ma  plume."  I  write  as  Joubert  wrote. 
It  is  my  ideas,  not  my  periods,  that  I  polish;  but  the  drop  of  light  I 
Who  can  make  bricks  without  straw  1  Who  can  crystallise  into  epigrams 
the  clumsy  invective  of  the  Conventicle?  It  is  wellnigh  impossible,  indeed, 
— try  as  hard  as  one  may,  and  I  tried  very  hard  in  the  late  debate, — to 
squeeze  any  available  political  capital  out  of  "personal  rule,"  "bastard 
Imperialism,"  "modern  Ahabs/'  and  the  other  grotesque  scarecrows  of 
the  demagogue.  I  have  therefore  preferred,  at  the  outset,  to  renew  an 
interrupted  acquaintance  with  those  native  principles  of  Liberalism 
which,  as  Macaulay  finely  said,  grow  with  our  growth  and  strengthen 
with  our  strength,  though  they  appear  to  have  got  into  a  rather  sickly 
condition  since  we  attained  maturity.  You  may  fancy,  perhaps,  that 
there  is  a  cynical  and  even  "  brutal  plainness  "  (as  the  *  Spectator/  with 
a  tremor  of  virginal  bashfulness  at  being  caught  in  the  use  of  sucli 
daringly  masculine  language,  observed  the  other  week)  about  some  of 
the  propositions;  and  that  certain  of  the  wandering  stars  of  the  Opposi- 
tion are  treated  with  a  "  levity  "  that  is  quite  out  of  character  with  the 
chronic  seriousness  of  the  Company  to  which  I  belong ;  but  knowing,  as 
you  do,  how  we  Liberals  love  each  other,  you  can  understand  that  an 
occasional  friendly  dig  at  an  unruly  or  unendurable  member  is  not  alto- 
gether unwelcome  at  headquarters.  All  this,  however,  is  between  our- 
selves ;  and  as  I  have  been  mainly  occupied  during  the  past  six  weeks 
in  preparing  some  impromptu  observations  for  the  Afghan  debate,  tie 

VOL.  CXXV. — NO.  DCCLIX.  A 


2  The  Elector's  Catechism.  [Jan. 

paper  itself — which,  you  see,  is  a  sort  of  cross  between  the  Shorter  Cate- 
chism and  an  examination  schedule  by  the  Civil  Service  Commissioners 
— is  still  in  an  incomplete  and  more  or  less  chaotic  state.  So  please  let 
me  have  an  early  proof :  it  must  be  toned  down  (and  up)  a  good  deal 
before  I  send  it  to  H 1 — g — n.  Yours,  sub  rosa,  HISTRIONICUS.] 


THE  ELECTOR'S  CATECHISM. 

(With  Proofs.) 

§  I.— Of  Patriotism. 

Question.  It  has  been  maintained,  my  friend,  by  many  historians,  an- 
cient and  modern,  that  the  prosperity  of  a  State  depends  upon  the  patri- 
otism of  its  citizens.  What,  then,  is  Patriotism  1 

Answer.  Patriotism  is  one  of  the  vague  and  emotional  expressions 
which  die  out  as  Civilisation  advances  and  language  becomes  scientific  and 
exact.  But  the  word  being  still  in  use  among  the  uneducated,  we  may 
retain  it  in  the  meantime,  and  observe  generally  that  Patriotism  is  of  two 
kinds, — true  Patriotism  and  false  or  pseudo  Patriotism. 

Q.  How  is  true  Patriotism  manifested? 

A.  (a)  True  Patriotism  embraces  all  men  as  brothers  (the  inhuman 
Turk,  of  course,  excluded). 

(b)  True  Patriotism  abolishes  the  narrow  limitations  of  race,  country, 
and  creed. 

(c)  True  Patriotism,  in  the  event  of  war  between  the  country  to  which 
by  the  accident  of  birth  we  belong  and  a  foreign  State  being  probable, 
consists  in  declaring  that  our  Government  has  been  persistently  and  in- 
famously in  the  wrong ;  and  that,  neither  legally  nor  morally,  has  it  a  leg 
to  stand  upon.     By  taking  this  ground  we  minimise  the  chance  of  war; 
and  war,  in  any  cause,  is  obnoxious  to  the  profession  of  a  true  patriot.* 

(d)  True  Patriotism,  in  the  event  of  war  being  imminent,  consists  in 
disclosing  the  moral  and  military  weakness  of  our  position  to  the  enemy; 
and  in  proclaiming  as  emphatically  as  possible  that  the  Army  will  be  de- 
feated, and  the  Ministry  impeached,  whenever  war  is  declared. 

(e)  True  Patriotism,  in  the  event  of  war  being  declared,  consists  in 
giving  the  enemy  such  information  as  to  the  disposition  of  the  troops, 
and  the  conduct  of  the  campaign,  as  may  prove  serviceable  to  him  ;  and 
in  submitting  in  a  spirit  of  Christian  cheerfulness  to  any  reverse  that 
may  befall  our  arms. 

Q.  Who  is  a  true  Patriot  1 

A.  Mr  Gladstone. 

Q.  Who  is  a  false  or  pseudo  Patriot  1 

A.  The  Earl  of  Beaconsfield. 

Q.  How  do  we  know  that  Mr  Gladstone  is  a  true  Patriot  1 

A.  The  features  of  the  true  Patriot  have  been  traced  with  rare  fidelity 


*  Even  when  a  sulky  barbarian,  lying  along  the  hills  above  us,  becomes  the  Hench- 
man of  our  bitterest  foe,  ready  at  any  moment  to  fall  like  a  hail -cloud  upon  the 
Indian  plain  ?  Of  course ;  that  is  the  precise  moment  for  the  display  of  Christian 
patience  and  ''masterly  inactivity." 


1879.]  TJie  Elector'*  Catechism.  3 

by  an  incomparable  pen,  and  cannot  be  improved  by  any  later  artist. 
Stay, — here  is  the  passage  : — 

"  What  !  shall  a  name,  a  icord,  a  sound  controul 
The  aspiring  thought,  and  cramp  the  expansive  soul  ? 
Shall  one  half-peopled  Island's  rocky  round 
A  love,  that  glows  for  all  Creation,  bound? 

No  narrow  bigot  He  ;  his  reasoned  view 

Thy  interests,  England,  ranks  with  thine,  Peru  ! 

War  at  our  doors,  he  sees  no  danger  nigh, 

But  heaves  for  Russia's  woes  the  impartial  sigh  ; 

A  steady  Patriot  of  the  World  alone. 

The  Friend  of  every  Country — but  his  own." 

And  so  on. 

Q.  How,  on  the  other  hand,  do  we  know  that  Lord  Beaconsfield  is  a 
false  or  pseudo  Patriot  1 

A.  (a)  Because  he  is  "  Machiavelli,"  "  Mephistopheles,"  "  Judas," 
*  the  lineal  descendant  of  the  Impenitent  Thief,"  "  a  malignant  Spirit," 
"  the  evil  genius  of  the  Cabinet,"  &c.,  &c.,  &c.* 

(b)  Because,  though  he  fights  fair,  he  hits  hard. 

(c)  Because  he  suffers  from  "  levity,"  and  can  laugh  at  a  joke,  espe- 
cially at  a  joke  against  himself. 

(d)  Because  he  has  "  dished  the  Whigs." 

(e)  Because  he  enjoys  the  confidence  of  his  Sovereign. 

(/)  Because  he  has  an  overwhelming  majority  in  the  House  of  Peers. 

(ff)  Bscause  he  has  an  immense  majority  in  the  House  of  Commons. 

(h)  Because  he  has  the  Country  at  his  back. 

(i)  Because  he  has  consolidated  our  Colonial  Empire. 

(./)  Because  he  has  secured  the  road  to  India. 

(k)  Because  he  has  kept  the  Czar  out  of  Constantinople. 

(/)  Because,  in  short,  by  vindicating  our  national  honour  and  extend- 
ing our  ancient  renown,  he  has  made  us  vain,  arrogant,  dogmatic,  in- 
sufferable to  our  neighbours,  and  quite  indifferent  as  well  to  those  drastic 
measures  of  domestic  reform  which  Mr  Forster  carries  in  his  pocket,  as 
to  the  lively  Interludes  and  entertaining  Conundrums  with  which  Mr 
Gladstone  enlightens  and  adorns  *  The  Nineteenth  Century.' 

Q.  There  are  many  passages  in  the  writings  of  the  English  poets  which 
appeal  to  the  purely  local  and  animal  instincts  of  the  English  people. 
Thus  Shakespeare, — the  High  Jingo  of  the  Surrey  side  in  the  reign  of 
Elizabeth, — has  said  : — 

"  I  see  you  stand  like  greyhounds  in  the  slips, 
Straining  upon  the  start :  the  game's  afoot : 
Follow  your  spirit ;  and  upon  them  charge  ; 
Cry— God  for  Harry  !  England  !  and  St  George." 

And  again : — 

"  Come  the  three  corners  of  the  world  in  arms 
And  we  shall  shock  them  :  nought  shall  make  us  rue 
If  England  to  herself  do  rest  but  true" 

*  See  (ad  nauseam)  speeches  and  sermons  by  Messrs  Freeman,  Baldwin  Brown, 
Malcolm  MacColl,  &c.  It  is  pleasant  to  reflect,  however,  that  Mr  Gladstone  has 
never  applied  a  single  uncomplimentary  epithet  to  his  illustrious  rival. 


4  Hie  Elector's  Catechism.  [Jan. 

And  again  : — • 

"  England  is  safe  if  true  within  itself" 
And  again  : — 

"0  England,  model  to  thy  inward  greatness, 
Like  little  body  with  a  mighty  heart, 
What  mightst  thou  do,  that  honour  would  thee  doj, 
Were  all  thy  children  kind  and  natural  ?  " 

And  again,  with  even  more  brutal  ferocity : — 

"  May  he  be  suffocate 
That  dims  the  honour  of  this  warlike  Isle  !" 

It  is  obvious  that  these  and  similar  passages  are  calculated  to  provoke- 
a  pugnacious  spirit  in  the  people  to  whom  they  are  addressed.  Can  any 
measures  be  taken  to  arrest  the  mischief? 

A.  The  Patriotic  Poets  (falsely  so  called*)  should  be  brought  within  the- 
provisions  of  Lord  Campbell's  Act  for  the  suppression  of  indecent  publi- 
cations ;  and,  in  the  meantime,  a  purged  edition  of  their  works  (from 
which  Henry  V.,  Eaulconbridge,  and  other  dangerous  characters,  are  ex- 
cluded) might  be  published  by  authority — Mr  Edward  Jenkins,  Editor. 


§  II.— Of  the  Earnest  Politician. 

Q.  You  have  heard,  I  daresay,  that  a  Liberal  statesman  must  be  an 
earnest  politician  as  well  as  a  true  patriot.  What,  then,  is  an  Earnest 
Politician  1 

A.  An  Earnest  Politician  is  a  man  who  has  received  a  commission 
from  within  to  promulgate  the  Truth,  and  who  does  not  permit  any  weak 
or  compassionate  scruples  to  retard  its  progress.  An  earnest  politician 
keeps  no  terms  with  unbelievers,  and  burns  the  accursed  thing  with  fire 
before  the  altar, — unless,  indeed,  it  can  be  made  to  pay,  in  which  case- 
true  religion  and  sound  economy  counsel  its  preservation,  t 

Q.  Mention  the  names  of  some  eminent  earnest  politicians. 

A.  Jacob,  who  deprived  Esau  of  his  birthright ;  Samuel,  who  hewed 
Agag  in  pieces  before  the  Lord  in  Gilgal;  Jael;  Judith;  Praise-God 
Barebones,  and  Mrs  Brownrigg.J  In  our  own  age,  with  the  exception 
of  Mr  Gladstone  and  Mr  Freeman,  earnest  politicians  are  to  be  found 
mainly  among  the  intelligent  operatives  of  the  Scottish  Burghs,  who 

*  They  were  called  Patriots  in  the  Elizabethan  age  ;  now  they  are  called  "  Jingoes. "" 
*t*  An  earnest  politician  has  "been,  otherwise  defined  as  a  man  of  the  believing  tem- 
perament without  a  single  conviction  that  will  stand  a  strain.     But  I  don't  see  the 
prudence  of  putting  it  in  this  light— some  of  our  High  Church  friends  might  not 
like  it. 

+  Is  this  the  heroine  immortalised  by  Canning  ? — 

"  Dost  thou  ask  her  crime  ? 

SHE  WHIPPED  TWO  FEMALE  'PRENTICES  TO   DEATH, 

AND  HID  THEM  IN  THE  COAL-HOLE.    For  her  mind 

Shaped  strictest  plans  of  discipline— sage  schemes ! 

Such  as  LYCURGCJS  taught  when  at  the  shrine 

Of  the  Orthyan  goddess  he  bade  flog 

The  little  Spartans,— such  as  erst  chastised 

Our  MILTON  when  at  college.     For  this  act 

Did  Brownrigg  swing.    Harsh  laws  !    But  time  shall  come 

When  France  shall  reign  and  laws  be  all  repealed." 


1879.]  The  Electors  Catechism.  5 

hive  not  been  demoralised  by  the  effeminate  habits  of  an  aristocracy, 
nor  corrupted  by  the  leading  articles  of  the  metropolitan  press.* 


§  III.— Of  Political  Parties. 

Q.  What  is  the  Tory  party? 

A.  The  party  which  is  ignorantly  and  stupidly  wedded  to  the  political 
abases  and  the  religious  fictions  of  the  Past. 

a  What  is  "the  Past "1 

A.  The  Past  is  Nothing.  What  does  not  exist  is  nothing ;  the  past 
<loes  not  exist ;  therefore  the  past  is  nothing. 

&  What  is  the  Liberal  party  1 

A.  The  party  of  Sweetness  and  Light, — the  party  which  seeks  and 
secures  the  greatest  happiness  of  the  greatest  number.  (No  Turk,  how- 
ever, need  apply.) 

Q.  What  are  Liberal  Principles  1 

A.  The  Right  of  Private  Judgment,  Toleration,  Unsectarian  Educa- 
tion, Eeligious  Liberty,  Religious  Equality. 

Q.  What  is  the  Right  of  Private  Judgment  ? 

A.  The  Right  of  Private  Judgment  is  the  privilege  and  obligation  of 
•every  right-minded  citizen  to  think  as  Mr  Bright  thinks. 

Q.  What  is  Toleration  1 

A.  Toleration  is  the  process  by  which  this  obligation  is  enforced. 

Q.  What  is  Religious  Liberty? 

A.  Religious  Liberty  is  the  inherent  and  inalienable  right  of  an  ad- 
vanced and  earnest  Liberal  to  punish  Error  and  propagate  the  Truth. 

a  What  is  "  the  Truth  "  1 

A.  Truth  is  the  latest  phase  of  Liberal  opinion,  and  is  to  be  found 
aiiainly  in  the  writings  of  Mr  Gladstone,  Canon  Liddon,  and  the  Rev. 
Malcolm  MacColl. 

Q.  What  is  Religious  Equality?  and  how  is  it  attained? 

A.  (a)  Religious  Equality  is  attained  by  disestablishing  and  disendow- 
ing the  Church,  and  devoting  its  revenues  to  the  promotion  of  schemes 
•of  real  utility — such  as  the  construction  of  roads  and  bridges,  lunatic 
asylums,  prisons,  anti-vaccination  societies,  and  lying-in  hospitals.t 

(/;)  It  is  also  attained  by  withdrawing  the  privilege  of  teaching  reli- 
gion in  the  national  schools  from  the  national  teachers  of  religion ;  and 
by  transferring  it  to  "Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry"  (to  use  a  convenient  col- 
loquialism), as  representing  the  majority  of  electors  in  any  parish  who 
are  not  in  arrear  of  their  rates  on  the  first  day  of  April  in  any  year. 

Q.  What  is  Liberal  and  Unsectarian  Education  ? 

A.  Liberal  education  is  reading,  writing,  and  arithmetic  as  far  as 
vulgar  fractions ;  and  Unsectarian  education  is  instruction  in  that  manual 
of  unsectarian  doctrinal  divinity — the  Old  Light  Catechism,  the  New 
Light  Confession — whereof  "  Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry,"  as  representing  the 
majority  of  electors  aforesaid,  approve. 

*  To  these  names  ir.ay  we  not  add  that  of  the  eminent  Scotch  Collie,  (could  it  be 
recovered, — perhaps  "Rab's"  friend  might  know — or  is  it  "Kab"  himself?)  of 
whom  his  master  remarked,  "Life's  fu'  o'  sariousness  to  him;  he  just  never  can  get 
•en such  o'  fechtiri  "  ? 

t  See  the  schedule  to  the  first  edition  of  the  Irish  Church  Bill  (1869). 


6  The  Elector's  Catechism.  [Jan. 

Q.  How  are  Liberal  Principles  to  be  carried  into  practice  ? 

A.  By  the  Liberal  Party  regaining  Office. 

Q.  How  is  Office  to  be  regained  1 

A.  By  "  sinking  "  minor  differences  of  opinion. 

Q.  What  are  "  minor  differences  of  opinion  "  1 

A.  The  opinions  of  the  Moderate  members  of  the  Party.* 

Q.  What  are  the  specific  results  of  the  Liberal  party  being  in  office  ? 

A.  Remunerative  wages ;  abundant  harvests ;  Liberty,  Equality,  Frater- 
nity; and  mutton  at  6d.  a  pound. 

Q.  Wrhat  are  the  fruits  of  Tory  rule  1 

A.  The  Cattle  Plague ;  the  epidemic  of  measles ;  the  wet  summer  of 
1877;  the  failure  of  the  City  of  Glasgow  Bank;  the  eruption  of  Mount 
Vesuvius ;  and  the  Bulgarian  atrocities,  t 


§  IV._  of  Atrocities. 

Q.  What  is  an  "atrocity"? 

A.  An  "  atrocity  "  is  an  outrage  committed  by  a  Turk  upon  a  member 
of  the  Orthodox  Eastern  Church.  An  "  atrocity  "  cannot  be  committed 
by  a  Russian  or  a  Bulgarian.  No  amount  of  evidence  can  establish  what 
is  intrinsically  incredible ;  and  any  evidence  showing  that  "  atrocities  " 
have  been  committed  by  Russians  and  Bulgarians  is  necessarily  worth- 
less.— (See  Hume  on  Miracles.) 


§  Y. — Of  the  Church  of  Ireland. 

Q.  What  is  Mr  Gladstone's  greatest  achievement  ? 

A.  The  abolition  of  the  Irish  Church. 

Q.  Why  did  Mr  Gladstone  abolish  the  Irish  Church  1 

A.  (a)  Because  Sir  Robert  Peel  increased  the  grant  to  Maynooth, 

(b)  Because  Archbishop  Laud  was  beheaded. 

(c)  Because  the  rack  and  thumb-screws  had  been  discontinued. 

(d)  Because  Dissenters  and  Nonconformists  had  been  made  eligible 
for  civil  office. 

(e)  Because  the  children  of  Israel  had  been  admitted  to  Parliament. 
(/)  Because  Mr  Disraeli  carried  an  Act  for  amending  the  representa- 
tion of  the  people. 

(g)  Because  an  Established  Church  is  an  anachronism  in  a  country 
which  is  governed  on  popular  principles. 


*  Or  it  might  be  put  thus  : — 

Q.  How  is  Office  to  be  regained  ? 

A.  By  sinking  minor  points  of  difference. 

Q.  What  are  minor  points  of  difference  ? 

A.  The  points  about  which  Liberals  differ. 

t  See  Sir  William  Vernon  Harcourt's  admirable  speech  during  the  Afghan  debate. 
The  passage  begins  thus:  "In  the  policy  of  the  Government  they  had  hoisted  the- 
old  red  flag  of  Toryism,  and  they  all  knew  the  crew  that  sailed  beneath  it.  It  was  a 
gaunt  and  grisly  company,  whose  names  were  war,  taxation,  poverty,  and  distress. 
But  the  flag  of  the  Liberal  party  bore  very  different  messages — peace,  retrenchment,. 
and  reform,"  &c.,  &c. 


1879.]  TJie  Elector's  Catechism.  7 

(h)  Because  the  Church  had  been  made  tolerant  and  comprehensive, 
a  teacher  of  righteousness  and  not  an  engine  of  oppression. 

(i)  Because  in  these  circumstances  the  State  had  assumed  a  position 
of  practical  atheism,  and  had  forfeited  its  right  to  inculcate  the  Truth. 

(/)  Because  the  Eeformation  had  destroyed  the  Unity  of  Christendom.* 


§  YI. — Of  the  Church  of  England. 

Q.  "Why  is  Mr  Gladstone  going  to  abolish  the  Church  of  England  ? 
A.  Because  what  is  sauce  for  the  goose  is  sauce  for  the  gander. 


§  VII.— Of  the  Church  of  Scotland. 

Q.  When  is  the  Church  of  Scotland  to  be  disestablished  ] 
A.  "Whenever  its  disestablishment  will  heal  the  divisions  in  the  Lib- 
eral party,  and  furnish  an  effective  rallying-cry  to  its  local  agents  and 
its  central  Committee. 

Q,  Why  is  the  Church  of  Scotland  to  be  disestablished  ] 
A.  (a)  Because  it  is  the  only  Church  in  which  "  free  "  thought  and 
"  rational "  religion  are  encouraged. 

(b)  Because  the  number  of  its  adherents  is  increasing  with  alarming 
rapidity. 

(c)  Because  the  next  census  of  the  population  is  to  be  taken  in  1881, 
w  If  it  were  done,  'twere  well  it  were  done  quickly." 

(d)  Because  you  can  take  the  breeks  off  a  Highlander  without  causing 
him  any  sensible  inconvenience. 

(e)  Because  its  ministers  being  already  accustomed  to  apostolic  poverty, 
a  little  more  or  less  starvation  is  of  no  consequence. 

(/)  Because  it  has  divested  itself  or  been  divested  of  the  exceptional 
privileges  which  it  used  to  enjoy — e.  g.,  the  privilege  of  burning  and 
drowning  witches,  and  of  enforcing  civil  penalties  against  unbelievers. 

(g)  Because  it  has  adopted  the  principle  of  popular  election. 

(h)  Because  the  Church  of  Knox  is  an  obnoxiously  Protestant  Church. 

(/)  Because  it  is  schismatic  in  its  origin,  and  an  obstacle  to  the  re- 
union of  Christendom  on  the  basis  of  the  Council  of  Ephesus. 

(j)  Because  it  is  not  a  Church  in  any  real  sense  of  the  word.  Not 
being  a  Church  in  any  real  sense  of  the  word,  the  civil  fiction  should  no- 
longer  be  maintained. 

(k)  Because  Principal  Tulloch,  Professor  Flint,  and  Dr  Story  have 
pretended  to  refute  the  arguments  of  the  Liberation  Society. 

(I)  Because  it  has  invited  its  Nonconformist  brethren  to  partake  of 
its  ordinances  and  to  share  its  emoluments. 

(m)  Because,  being  the  most  venerable  institution  in  the  country  and 
identified  with  whatever  is  characteristic  in  the  history  of  the  people, 
it  encourages  a  spirit  of  provincial  patriotism  which  is  inconsistent  with, 
the  aspirations  of  Cosmopolitan  Philanthropy. 

*  See  A  Chapter  of  Autobiography.  By  the  Right.  Hon.  W.  E.  Gladstone,  M.P. 
London  :  1869.  Pages  18,  25,  30,  463  66. 


8  TJte  Electors  Catechism.  [Jan. 

(n)  Because  Mr  DICK  PEDDIE  is  a  candidate  for  the  Kilniarnock 
Burghs. 

§  VIII.— Of  Colonies. 

Q.  What  are  Colonies  1 

A.  Colonies  are  like  plums, — they  drop  from  the  parent  tree  when 
they  attain  maturity.  It  is  the  duty  of  a  wise  statesman  to  see  that 
they  do  not  remain  after  they  are  ripe ;  otherwise  they  will  rot. 

Q.  How  is  the  separation  of  the  Colonies  from  the  Mother  Country  to 
"be  effected  1 

A.  A  despatch  by  Earl  Granville  or  the  Duke  of  Argyll  has  frequently 
produced  a  sound  and  healthy  irritation  of  the  Colonial  mind ;  but  it  is 
believed  that  the  appointment  of  the  Right  Hon.  Robert  Lowe  to  the 
Colonial  Secretaryship  would,  without  delay,  secure  the  object  in  view. 
In  the  meantime  something  may  be  done  by  extending  Manhood  Suffrage 
among  the  Maoris,  and  giving  the  Fiji  Islanders,  under  the  maternal 
government  of  Sir  Arthur  Gordon,  the  benefit  of  cheap  newspapers  and 
Trial  by  Jury. 


§  IX.— Of  the  Empire  of  India. 

Q.  Where  is  India? 

A.  Somewhere  on  the  other  side  of  the  Globe. 

Q.  What  is  our  Indian  Empire  ? 

A.  "A  hideous  nightmare" — "a  creature  of  monstrous  birth" — "a 
regular  Old  Man  of  the  Sea." 

Q.  By  whom  is  it  governed  1 

A.  It  is  governed  by  needy  and  profligate  aristocrats,  who  are  sent 
abroad  by  their  friends  in  the  Cabinet  to  relieve  them  from  the  impor- 
tunities of  English  creditors. 

Q.   How  is  it  governed] 

A.  The  Government  of  India  is  the  most  intolerable  despotism  of 
which  oriental  history  contains  any  record.  (Consult, passim  the  order  of 
the  Governor-General  in  Council,  restraining  the  free  and  honest  expres- 
sion of  native  opinion  in  the  vernacular  prints.) 

Q.  What  should  we  do  with  India  1 

A.  Three  courses — here  as  elsewhere — are  open  to  us.  We  may  re- 
main till  we  are  driven  out  by  the  Native  Princes ;  or  we  may  request 
Shere  Ali,  the  accomplished  and  pacific  ruler  of  Afghanistan,  to  under- 
take its  administration ;  or  we  may  sell  it  to  Russia.  The  last  course 
appears  to  be  the  best ;  it  is  recommended  alike  by  self-respect  and 
economy.  We  shall  feel  when  we  leave  that  we  have  consulted  the  in- 
terests of  the  people  of  India  and — our  own. 

Q.  But  assuming  that  we  elect  to  remain,  \vhat  is  the  policy  which,  in 
•view  of  the  rapid  advance  of  the  Czar  and  the  unhappy  disposition  of  the 
Ameer,  the  Liberal  Party  would  be  inclined  to  advocate? 

A.  The  policy  of  "masterly  inactivity." 

Q.  What  is  "  masterly  inactivity  "  ? 

A.  Shutting  the  stable-door  when  the  steed  is  stolen. 


1879.]  Tl i e  Elector  s  Catechism.  9 

§  X. —  Of  tlie  Divine  Figure  of  the  North. 

Q.  Speaking  of  Russia, — Who  is  "  the  Divine  Figure  of  the  North  "  ? 

A.  Mythologically,  Odin  the  God  of  War.     At  present,  the  Czar. 

Q.  Why  is  the  Czar  "  a  Divine  Figure  "  ? 

A.  (a)  Because  he  is  the  head  of  the  orthodox  Greek  Church. 

(l>)  Because  he  chastises  the  weaker  vessels, — not  sparing  the  rod,  as 
the  Scripture  advises. 

('•)  Because  he  sends  inconvenient  editors  of  metropolitan  newspapers 
to  the  Siberian  Mines. 

(d)  Because  he  has  piously  admitted  the  people  of  Poland  into  the 
communion  of  the  orthodox  Church.     (Mem. — What  is  a  little  temporal 
and  temporary  uncomfortableness  compared  with  eternal  damnation  ?)  * 

(e)  Because  he  extinguished  the  Hungarian  Revolt,  and  introduced 
Law  and  Order  among  a  disorderly  and  distracted  people  unable  to  govern 
themselves. 

(/)  Because  he  ordered  the  unspeakable  Turk  to  surrender  the  anarch- 
ical Kossuth  and  his  companions. 

(g)  Because  he  was  distressed  by  the  Bulgarian  atrocities,  and  shocked 
by  the  absence  of  local  government,  and  parliamentary  representation  and 
control,  at  Constantinople  and  throughout  the  dominions  of  the  Turk. 

(k)  Because  he  has  an  army  of  a  million  and  a  half,  and  is  much 
stronger  than  any  of  his  neighbours. 

(i)  Because  Providence  is  on  the  side  of  the  big  battalions. 

(j)  Because  it  is  sheer  impiety  to  fly  in  the  face  of  Providence. 

(k)  Because  the  success  of  his  arms  has  sensibly  diminished  the  num- 
ber of  unbelievers. 

§  XL — Of  Imperialism. 

Q.  You  were  kind  enough,  my  friend,  at  an  early  period  of  our  con- 
versation, to  define  Patriotism.  We  have  heard  of  late  also  a  good  deal 
about  "Imperialism,"  "Bastard  Imperialism,"  and  " Personal  Rule." 
What,  then,  is  "  Imperialism,"  and  wherein  does  it  differ  from  "  Bastard 
Imperialism'"? 

A.  True  Imperialism  has  been  defined  in  eloquent  words  by  an  illus- 
trious statesman, — 

"  I  see  one  vast  confederation  stretching  from  the  frozen  North  to  the  glowing 

*  The  Czar's  anxious  interest  in  the  eternal  welfare  of  this  unfortunate  and  mis- 
guided people  assumes  at  times  an  air  of  almost  ludicrous  solicitude — e.g.,  "The 
Russian  authorities  in  the  district  of  Lubin  tolerate  no  baptism  according  to  the 
rites  of  the  Romish  Church.  The  Roman  Catholics  are  therefore  obliged  to  carry 
their  children  across  the  border  in  order  to  have  them  baptised  by  priests  of  their 
own  communion  at  Cracow.  Even  this  resource,  however,  is  now  denied  them ;  for 
the  Russian  Governor- General,  having  been  informed  of  the  practice,  recently 
caused  the  persons  crossing  the  frontier  to  be  intercepted  and  seized  by  gendarmes, 
who  took  the  children  to  the  nearest  orthodox  church  and  had  them  forcibly  bap- 
tised by  the  Russian  Pope.  The  parents,  it  is  added,  wishing  to  invalidate  the  Rus- 
sian baptism,  carry  their  children  to  the  nearest  well,  in  order  to  wash  away  as  ex- 
peditiously  as  possible  the  effects  of  the  enforced  rite." — Daily  Papers,  Nov.  20, 
1878. 


10  Tlie  Elector's  Catechism.  [Jan. 

South,  and  from  the  wild  billows  of  the  Atlantic  westward  to  the  calmer  waters  of 
the  Pacific  main  ;  and  I  see  one  people,  and  one  language,  and  one  law,  and  over 
all  that  wide  continent  the  home  of  freedom,  and  a  refuge  for  the  oppressed  of  every 
race  and  of  every  clime." 

Q  One  moment,  please.  That  is  a  peroration  by  Mr  Bright,  if  I  am 
not  mistaken  1 — a  great  "  oot-brak,"  as  they  say  in  Scotland ;  but  might 
not  this  Pa3an  or  Hymn  of  Victory  be  used  or  abused  by  the  reckless  and 
the  malignant  to  glorify  the  policy  which  Lord  Bolingbroke — Lord  Bea- 
consfield,  I  mean — has  pursued  since  he  turned  us  out  of  office  1 

A.  Not  so ;  for  the  words  I  have  read  were  addressed  to  the  Maiden 
Eepublic  of  the  West. 

Q.  The  United  States  1     Then  "  Bastard  Imperialism  "  is 

A.  The  same  line  of  policy  when  adopted  by  a  King  or  an  Oligarchy. 
Imperialism  may  be  practised  by  the  severe  and  incorruptible  Dema- 
gogues of  a  Democracy  j  *  it  is  repugnant  to  the  narrow  traditions  of 
monarchal  rule.  A  Queen  who  was  educated  by  a  German  Dryasdust, 
and  whose  Cabinet  is  controlled  by  a  mercenary  Jew,  cannot  be  permitted 
to  share  the  sublime  aspirations — the  generous  transports — of  the  Re- 
public, t 

Q.  By  what  standard,  then,  ought  the  "  Imperial "  duties  and  obliga- 
tions of  England  to  be  measured  1 

A.  By  Distance. 

Q.  "What  is  the  central  political  Observatory  from  which  distance  for 
this  purpose  should  be  calculated  ? 

A.  Rochdale. 

Q.  How  is  the  principle  applied  ? 

A.  Arithmetically.  Thus  :  Penzance  is  further  from  Rochdale  than 
Rochdale  is  from  Stockport ;  therefore  the  interest  of  Rochdale  in  Penz- 
ance is  more  remote  than  in  Stockport.  If  a  foreign  army  were  to  land 
at  Penzance,  it  might  possibly  in  time  arrive  at  Rochdale  :  the  Government 
may  therefore  be  justified — practically,  if  not  morally — in  declining  to 
facilitate  the  disembarkation  of  a  foreign  army  at  Penzance  (especially 
as  the  disembarkation  would  complicate  the  accounts  of  the  Collector  of 

*  There  is  a  prejudice  against  the  word  "demagogue"  among  certain  people  who 
are  ignorant  of  its  true  derivation,  and  Mr  Lowe  on  one  occasion,  turning  to  an 
eminent  member  of  the  Liberal  Party,  exclaimed — "Demagogues  are  the  common- 
place of  history.  They  are  to  be  found  wherever  popular  commotion  has  prevailed, 
and  they  all  bear  to  one  another  a  strong  family  likeness.  Their  names  float  lightly 
on  the  stream  of  time  ;  they  are  in  some  way  handed  down  to  us,  but  then  they  are 
as  little  regarded  as  is  the  foam  which  rides  on  the  crest  of  the  stormy  wave  and  be- 
spatters the  rock  which  it  cannot  shake."  But  when  these  words  were  uttered,  Mr 
Lowe  was  in  the  gall  of  bitterness  and  the  bond  of  iniquity.  The  old  prophets,  indeed, 
were  mainly  demagogues — translating  the  sublime  but  inarticulate  passion  of  the 
people  into  red-hot  invective.  It  is  true  that  they  had  some  false  and  peculiar  notions 
about  the  ability  of  the  people  to  misgovern  themselves.  "  The  right  divine  of  mobs 
to  govern  wrong  "  is  now,  however,  universally  conceded. 

•f  This  is  a  safer  line  of  argument,  I  think,  than  that  which  maintains  that  Im- 
perialism is  a  word  unknown  in  English  literature,  and  that  an  Imperial  policy  is  an 
"un-English  "  policy.  It  happens,  unfortunately,  that  the  great  English  poet  Edmund 
Spenser  dedicated  'The  Faerie  Queen'  to  "the  most  high,  mightie, and  magnificent 
Empresse  Elizabeth," — the  ' '  imperial  votress  "  of  a  yet  greater  Englishman.  Spenser 
and  Shakespeare,  to  be  sure,  lived  before  the  era  of  authentic  history,  —which  begins 
with  the  Reform  Bill  ;  and  they  had  not  seen  the  "Vacation  Speeches"  of  Mr  Mount- 
stuart  Elphinstone  Grant  Duff,  or  Mr  Dunckley's  article  in  '  The  Nineteenth  Cen- 
tury,'—else  they  would  have  known  better. 


1879.]  TJie  Elector's  Catechism.  11 

Customs  at  that  port).  But  the  interest  of  Eochdale  in  (say)  Jersey  is- 
too  intangible  and  speculative  to  justify  us  in  resisting  the  occupation,  by 
France  or  Germany,  of  the  Channel  Islands.  Malta  is  more  distant  than 
Jersey;  and  Constantinople,  the  Suez  Canal,  and  Bombay  are  at  an  alto- 
gether incalculable  distance.  On  the  whole,  the  Imperial  obligations  of 
England  cannot  clearly  be  said  to  extend  beyond  the  English  Channel — 
opposite  Dover. 

Q.  Would  it  be  advisable  to  appoint  a  Geographical  Member  of  the 
Cabinet,  who  (armed  with  compasses  and  a  map)  could  advise  his  col- 
leagues where  an  Imperial  obligation  began  and  where  it  ended  1 

A.  The  proposal  will  be  thankfully  considered  whenever  the  Liberal 
Party  returns  to  office. 

§  XII.—  Of  Personal  Rule. 

Q.  What,  lastly,  is  "  personal  government "  1 

A.  Government  by  persons. 

Q.  What  are  the  alternatives  to  "personal  government"? 

A.  Government  by  "houses,"  or  government  by  "vestries." 

Q.  The  Whig  "  houses,"  however,  being  now  practically  out  of  the- 
field,  the  choice  appears  to  lie  between  "persons"  and  "vestries."  Which 
is  to  be  preferred  ? 

A.  Government  by  vestries.* 

Q.  What  are  the  objections  to  personal  rule  1 

A.  Personal  rule  is  only  possible  in  the  person  of  a  sovereign  or  states- 
man of  unusual  capacity ;  and  unusual  capacity  (that  is  to  say,  capacity 
above  the  average)  ought  to  be  sedulously  discouraged  in  a  country 
where,  by  law,  one  man  is  as  good  as  another.  Great  enterprises, 
it  is  true,  cannot  be  carried  out  except  by  great  men ;  but  it  is  to- 
be  remarked  that  when  a  nation  embarks  on  a  great  enterprise  it  com- 
monly comes  to  grief,  more  especially  if  it  is  blessed  with  popular  insti- 
tutions. Either  the  enterprise  fails,  because  the  people  are  lukewarm  and 
divided,  or  because  the  popular  assembly,  losing  patience,  grows  clamor- 
ous for  economy  or  reckless  for  action  ;  or  it  succeeds,  and  the  Constitu- 
tional Minister  becomes  a  Military  Dictator.  By  confining  its  attention 
to  the  business  of  money-making,  a  nation  runs  none  of  these  risks ;  and 
if,  in  consequence  of  its  alleged  want  of  enterprise  and  public  spirit,  it 
should  come  to  be  despised  (and  ultimately  annexed)  by  its  neighbours,, 
there  is  then  all  the  greater  scope  for  cultivating  the  Christian  grace  of 
humility. 

Q.  Mention  some  recent  and  outrageous  instances  of  the  exercise  of 
personal  rule. 

A.  The  acquisition  of  the  Suez  Canal;  the  loan  of  Six  Millions;  the 
calling-out  of  the  Eeserves ;  the  despatch  of  the  Mediterranean  fleet  to 
the  Dardanelles ;  the  employment  of  Indian  troops  at  Malta. 

Q.  In  what  way  were  these  measures  injurious  and  disastrous1? 

A.  They  were  the  means  of  arresting  the  advance  of  the  Eussian  troops,. 
and  they  prevented  the  Czar  from  carrying  out  his  civilising  Mission 
within  the  walls  of  Constantinople. 

*  Sometimes  known  as  "  Committees,"— e.  g.,  the  St  James's  Hall  Committee,  the 
Tooley  Street  Committee,  the  Afghan  Committee,  &c.,  &c. 


12  The  Elector's  Catechism.  [Jan. 

Q.  How  would  government  by  vestries  have  kept  our  rulers  from  tak- 
ing these  unbecoming  and  unpatriotic  precautions? 

A.  Each  of  these  measures  was  adopted  just  a  day  too  soon.  Had 
Lord  Beaconsfield  been  required  to  disclose  his  plans  before  they  were 
•formed*  (or  matured),  the  sanction  of  the  many  vestries  throughout  the 
country  could  not  have  been  obtained  under  from  four  to  six  months, — a 
delay  which  would  have  afforded  the  Czar  ample  leisure  to  complete  his 
'benevolent  labours. 

Q.  But  is  government  by  the  House  of  Commons  equivalent  to  govern- 
ment by  vestries  1 

A.  The  House  of  Commons  is  a  select  vestry ;  and  though  its  com- 
position is  in  some  measure  corrupt  and  aristocratic,  there  are  yet  many 
true  Patriots  and  earnest  Liberals  within  its  walls  who  would  have  been 
prepared  to  use  its  forms  to  stay  the  progress  of  an  obnoxious  measure. 
Moreover,  if  the  House  of  Commons  had  been  consulted  by  a  Constitu- 
tional Minister  who  had  asked  it  (as  he  would  have  done)  to  assist  him 
in  making  up  his  mind,  it  is  barely  possible  that  the  Czar  might,  through 
the  daily  newspapers  or  otherwise,  have  obtained  an  inkling  of  what  was 
going  on,  and  have  taken  his  measures  accordingly. 

Q.  Exactly ;  but  in  the  event  (if  such  an  assumption  is  admissible)  of 
.a  Liberal  Minister  hereafter  despatching  a  Confidential  Mission  or  a  Secret 
Expedition,  might  not  the  observance  of  these  constitutional  forms  be 
attended  with  practical  inconvenience  ? 

A.  No.  For,  of  course,  a  Liberal  Minister  can  at  any  time,  without 
-danger  to  the  Public  Liberties,  have  recourse  to  the  Royal  Prerogative. 


§  XIII.— Of  the  Future  State. 

Q.  Then  it  would  appear,  as  the  sum  of  the  whole  matter,  that  the 
Liberal  Party  may  regard  the  Future  without  anxiety,  and  in  a  spirit  of 
.subdued  and  chastened  cheerfulness  1 

A.  Most  assuredly.  The  Great  Soul  of  Liberalism  is  Sound.  There 
may  be  a  smutch  here  and  a  blotch  there, — venial  inconsistencies  and 
skin-deep  antagonisms ;  but,  as  the  Pomeranian  Schoolmaster  said,  when 
he  excused  himself  for  attending  a  funeral  in  a  red  waistcoat, — "What 
•does  it  signify,  reverend  sir,  when  one's  heart  is  black  ?  "  No,  my  friend, 
we  need  not  despair  of — the  REPUBLIC. 

"  Had  you  seen  these  roads  before  they  were  made, 

You  would  hold  up  your  hands  and  bless  General  Wade." 
As  the  Czar  would  no  doubt  have  done  had  General  Gladstone  been  in  command. 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate. — Part  X. 


13- 


JOHN    CALDIGATE. — PART    X. 


CHAPTER   XXXVII. AGAIN    AT    FOLKIXG. 


THUS  Hester  prevailed,  and  was 
taken  back  to  the  house  of  the  man 
who  had  married  her.  By  this  time 
very  much  had  been  said  about  the 
matter  publicly.  It  had  been  im- 
possible to  keep  the  question, — 
whether  John  Caldigate's  recent 
marriage  had  been  true  or  fraudulent, 
— out  of  the  newspapers ;  and  now 
the  attempt  that  had  been  made  to 
keep  them  apart  by  force  gave  an  ad- 
ditional interest  to  the  subject.  There 
was  an  opinion,  very  general  among 
elderly  educated  people,  that  Hester 
ought  to  have  allowed  herself  to  be 
detained  at  the  Grange.  "We  do  not 
mean  to  lean  heavily  on  the  unfor- 
tunate young  lady,"  said  the  '  Isle- 
of-Ely-Church-Intelligencer ; '  "  but 
we  think  that  she  would  have  better 
shown  a  becoming  sense  of  her  posi- 
tion had  she  submitted  herself  to 
her  parents  till  the  trial  is  over. 
Then  the  full  sympathy  of  all  classes 
would  have  been  with  her;  and 
whether  the  law  shall  restore  her  to 
a  beloved  husband,  or  shall  tell  her 
that  she  has  become  the  victim 
of  a  cruel  seducer,  she  would  have 
been  supported  by  the  approval  and 
generous  regard  of  all  men."  It 
was  thus  for  the  most  part  that 
the  elderly  and  the  wise  spoke  and 
thought  about  it.  Of  course  they 
pitied  her;  but  they  believed  all 
evil  of  Caldigate,  declaring  that  he 
too  was  bound  by  a  feeling  of  duty 
to  restore  the  unfortunate  one  to  her 
father  and  mother  until  the  matter 
should  have  been  set  at  rest  by  the 
decision  of  a  jury. 

But  the  people,  —  especially  the 
people  of  Utterden  and  JSTetherden, 
and  of  Chesterton,  and  even  of 
Cambridge, — were  all  on  the  side  of 
Caldigate  and  Hester  as  a  married 


couple.  They  liked  the  persistency^ 
with  which  he  had  claimed  his  wife, 
and  applauded  her  to  the  echo  for 
her  love  and  firmness.  Of  course 
the  scene  at  Puritan  Grange  had 
been  much  exaggerated.  The  two 
nights  were  prolonged  to  intervals- 
varying  from  a  week  to  a  fortnight. 
During  that  time  she  was  said  al- 
ways to  have  been  at  the  window 
holding  up  her  baby.  And  Mrs- 
Bolton  was  accused^  of  cruelties 
which  she  certainly  had  not  com- 
mitted. Some  details  of  the  affair 
made  their  way  into  the  metropoli- 
tan press,  —  so  that  the  expected 
trial  became  one  of  those  cause* 
celebres  by  which  the  public  is  from 
time  to  time  kept  alive  to  the  value 
and  charm  of  newspapers. 

During  all  this  John  Caldigate 
was  specially  careful  not  to  seclude 
himself  from  public  view,  or  to  seem 
to  be  afraid  of  his  fellow-creatures. 
He  was  constantly  in  Cambridge, 
generally  riding  thither  on  horse- 
back, and  on  such  occasions  was- 
always  to  be  seen  in  Trumpington 
Street  and  Trinity  Street.  Be- 
tween him  and  the  Boltons  there 
was,  by  tacit  consent,  no  inter- 
course whatever  after  the  attemp- 
ted imprisonment.  He  never 
showed  himself  at  Robert  Bolton 's- 
office,  nor  when  they  met  in  the 
street  did  they  speak  to  each  other. 
Indeed  at  this  time  no  gentleman, 
or  lady  held  any  intercourse  with 
Caldigate,  except  his  father  and 
Mr  Bromley  the  clergyman.  The 
Babingtons  were  strongly  of  opin- 
ion that  he  should  have  surrendered 
the  care  of  his  wife ;  and  aunt  Polly 
went  so  far  as  to  write  to  him  when, 
she  first  heard  of  the  affair  at  Ches- 
terton, recommending  him  very 


John  Caldigate. — Part  X. 


[Jan. 


.strongly  to  leave  her  at  the  Grange. 
Then  there  was  an  angry  correspon- 
dence, ended  at  last  by  a  request 
from  aunt  Polly  that  there  might 
be  no  further  intercourse  between 
Babington  and  Folking  till  after 
the  trial. 

Caldigate,  though  he  bore  all 
this  with  an  assured  face,  with  but 
little  outward  sign  of  inward  mis- 
giving, suffered  much, — much  even 
from  the  estrangement  of  those  with 
whom  he  had  hitherto  been  famil- 
iar. To  be  "  cut "  by  any  one  was 
a  pain  to  him.  ISTot  to  be  approved 
of,  not  to  be  courted,  not  to  stand 
well  in  the  eyes  of  those  around 
him,  was  to  him  positive  and  im- 
mediate suffering.  He  was  support- 
ed, no  doubt,  by  the  full  confidence 
of  his  father,  by  the  friendliness  of 
the  parson,  and  by  the  energetic  as- 
surances of  partisans  who  were  all  on 
his  side, — such  as  Mr  Ralph  Holt, 
the  farmer.  While  Caldigate  had 
been  in  Cambridge  waiting  for 
his  wife's  escape,  Holt  and  one  or 
two  others  were  maturing  a  plan 
for  breaking  into  Puritan  Grange, 
and  restoring  the  wife  to  her  hus- 
band. All  this  supported  him. 
Without  it  he  could  hardly  have 
carried  himself  as  he  did.  But 
with  all  this,  still  he  was  very 
wretched.  "It  is  that  so  many 
people  should  think  me  guilty," 
he  said  to  Mr  Bromley. 

She  bore  it  better; — though,  of 
course,  now  that  she  was  safe  at 
Folking,  she  had  but  little  to  do  as 
to  outward  bearing.  In  the  first 
place,  no  doubt  as  to  his  truth  ever 
touched  her  for  a  moment,  —  and 
not  much  doubt  as  to  the  result  of 
the  trial.  It  was  to  her  an  assured 
fact  that  John  Caldigate  was  her 
husband,  and  she  could  not  realise 
the  idea  that,  such  being  the  fact,  a 
jury  should  say  that  he  was  not. 
But  let  all  that  be  as  it  might,  they 
two  were  one  ;  and  to  adhere  to  him 
in  every  word,  in  every  thought,  in 


every  little  action,  was  to  her  the 
only  line  of  conduct  possible.  She 
heard  what  Mr  Bromley  said,  she 
knew  what  her  father-in-law  thought, 
she  was  aware  of  the  enthusiasm  on 
her  side  of  the  folk  at  Polking.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  this  opposition 
to  her  happiness  was  but  a  contin- 
uation of  that  which  her  mother  had 
always  made  to  her  marriage.  The 
Boltons  were  all  against  her.  It 
was  a  terrible  sorrow  to  her.  But 
she  knew  how  to  bear  it  bravely. 
In  the  tenderness  of  her  husband, 
who  at  this  time  was  very  tender  to 
her,  she  had  her  great  consolation. 

On  the  day  of  her  return  she  had 
been  very  ill,  —  so  ill  that  Caldi- 
gate and  his  father  Lad  been  much 
frightened.  During  the  journey 
home  in  the  carriage,  she  had  wept 
and  laughed  hysterically,  now  clutch- 
ing her  baby,  and  then  embracing 
her  husband.  Before  reaching 
Polking  she  had  been  so  worn  with 
fatigue  that  he  had  hardly  been 
able  to  support  her  on  the  seat. 
But  after  rest  for  a  day  or  two,  she 
had  rallied  completely.  And  she 
herself  had  taken  pleasure  and  great 
pride  in  the  fact  that  through  it  all 
her  baby  had  never  really  been  ill. 
"He  is  a  little  man,"  she  said, 
boasting  to  the  boy's  father,  "  and 
knows  how  to  put  up  with  troubles. 
And  when  his  mamma  was  so  bad, 
he  didn't  peak  and  pine  and  cry, 
so  as  to  break  her  heart.  Did  he, 
my  own,  own  brave  little  man  ? " 
And  she  could  boast  of  her  own 
health  too.  "Thank  God,  I  am 
strong,  John.  I  can  bear  things 
which  would  break  down  other 
women.  You  shall  never  see  me 
give  way  because  I  am  a  poor  crea- 
ture." Certainly  she  had  a  right 
to  boast  that  she  was  not  a  poor 
creature. 

Caldigate  no  doubt  was  subject 
to  troubles  of  which  she  knew  no- 
thing. It  was  quite  clear  to  him 
that  Mr  Seely,  his  own  lawyer, 


1879.' 


John  Caldigate. — Part  X. 


15 


did  in  truth  believe  that  there  had 
been  some  form  of  marriage  between 
him  and  Euphemia  Smith.  The 
attorney  had  never  said  so  much, — 
had  never  accused  him.  It  would 
probably  have  been  opposed  to  all 
the  proprieties  in  such  a  matter  that 
any  direct  accusation  should  have 
been  made  against  him  by  his  own 
attorney.  But  he  could  under- 
stand from  the  man's  manner  that 
his  mind  was  at  any  rate  not  free 
from  a  strong  suspicion.  Mr  Seely 
was  eager  enough  as  to  the  defence ; 
but  seemed  to  be  eager  as  against 
opposing  evidence  rather  than  on 
the  strength  of  evidence  on  his  own 
side.  He  was  not  apparently  de- 
sirous of  making  all  the  world 
know  that  such  a  marriage  cer- 
tainly never  took  place ;  but  that, 
whether  such  a  marriage  had  taken 
place  or  not,  the  jury  ought  not 
to  trust  the  witnesses.  He  relied, 
not  on  the  strength  of  his  own 
client,  but  on  the  weakness  of  his 
client's  adversaries.  It  might  pro- 
bably be  capable  of  proof  that 
Criukett  and  Adamson  and  the 
woman  had  conspired  together  to 
get  money  from  John  Caldigate ; 
and  if  so,  then  their  evidence  as 
to  the  marriage  would  be  much 
weakened.  And  he  showed  him- 
self not  averse  to  any  tricks  of 
trade  which  might  tend  to  get  a 
verdict.  Could  it  be  proved  that 
Tom  Crinkett  had  been  dishonest 
in  his  mining  operations'?  Had 
Euphemia  Smith  allowed  her  name 
to  be  connected  with  that  of  any 
other  man  in  Australia?  What 
had  been  her  antecedents?  Was 
it  not  on  the  cards  that  Allan,  the 
minister,  had  never  undergone  any 
ceremony  of  ordination?  And,  if 
not,  might  it  not  be  shown  that  a 
marriage  service  performed  by  him 
would  be  no  marriage  service  at 
all?  Could  not  the  jury  be  made 
to  think, — or  at  least  some  of  the 
jury, — that  out  there,  in  that  rough 


lawless  wilderness,  marriage  cere- 
monies were  very  little  understood  ? 
These  were  the  wiles  to  which  he 
seemed  disposed  to  trust ;  whereas 
Caldigate  was  anxious  that  he 
should  instruct  some  eloquent  in- 
dignant advocate  to  declare  boldly 
that  no  English  gentleman  could 
have  been  guilty  of  conduct  so  base, 
so  dastardly,  and  so  cruel !  "  You 
see,  Mr  Caldigate,"  the  lawyer  said 
on  one  occasion,  "  to  make  the  best 
of  it,  our  own  hands  are  not  quite 
clean.  You  did  promise  the  other 
lady  marriage." 

"  No  doubt.  "No  doubt  I  was  a 
fool ;  and  I  paid  for  my  folly.  I 
bought  her  off.  Having  fallen  into 
the  common  scrape, — having  been 
pleased  by  her  prettinesses  and 
clevernesses  and  women's  ways, — 
I  did  as  so  many  other  men  have 
done.  I  got  out  of  it  as  best  I 
could  without  treachery  and  with- 
out dishonour.  I  bought  her  off. 
Had  she  refused  to  take  my  money, 
I  should  probably  have  married 
her, — and  probably  have  blown  my 
brains  out  afterwards.  All  that 
has  to  be  acknowledged, — much  to 
my  shame.  Most  of  us  would  have 
to  blush  if  the  worst  of  our  actions 
were  brought  out  before  us  in  a 
court  of  law.  But  there  was  an  end 
of  it.  Then  they  come  over  here 
and  endeavour  to  enforce  their  de- 
mand for  money  by  a  threat." 

"  That  envelope  is  so  unfortu- 
nate," said  the  lawyer. 

"  Most  unfortunate." 

"  Perhaps  we  shall  get  some  one 
before  the  day  comes  who  will  tell 
the  jury  that  any  marriage  up  at 
Ahalala  must  have  been  a  farce." 

All  this  was  unsatisfactory,  and 
became  so  more  and  more  as  the 
weeks  went  by.  The  confidential 
clerk  whom  the  Boltons  had  sent 
out  when  the  first  threat  reached 
them  early  in  November,  —  the 
threat  conveyed  in  that  letter  from 
the  woman  which  Caldigate  had 


16 


John  Caldigate. — Part  X. 


[Jan. 


shown  to  Eobert  Bolton, — returned 
about  the  end  of  March.  The  two 
brothers,  Robert  and  William,  de- 
cided upon  sending  him  to  Mr 
Seely,  so  that  any  information 
obtained  might  be  at  Caldigate's 
command,  to  be  used,  if  of  any 
use,  in  his  defence.  But  there  was, 
in  truth,  very  little  of  it.  The  clerk 
had  been  up  to  Nobble  and  Aha- 
lala,  and  had  found  no  one  there 
who  knew  enough  of  the  matter  to 
give  evidence  about  it.  The  popu- 
lation of  mining  districts  in  Aus- 
tralia is  peculiarly  a  shifting  popu- 
lation, so  that  the  most  of  those 
who  had  known  Caldigate  and  his 
mode  of  life  there  were  gone.  The 
old  woman  who  kept  Henniker's 
Hotel  at  Nobble  had  certainly 
heard  that  they  were  married ;  but 
then  she  had  added  that  many  peo- 
ple there  called  themselves  man 
and  wife  from  convenience.  A  wo- 
man would  often  like  a  respectable 
name  where  there  was  no  parson 
near  at  hand  to  entitle  her  to  it. 
Then  the  parsons  would  be  dilatory, 
and  troublesome,  and  expensive ; 
and  a  good  many  people  were  apt 
to  think  that  they  could  do  very 
well  without  ceremonies.  She  evi- 
dently would  have  done  no  good  to 
either  side  as  a  witness.  This  clerk 
had  found  Ahalala  almost  desert- 
ed,— occupied  chiefly  by  a  few  Chi- 
nese, who  were  contented  to  search 
for  the  specks  of  gold  which  more 
ambitious  miners  had  allowed  to 
slip  through  their  fingers.  The 
woman  had  certainly  called  herself 
Mrs  Caldigate,  and  had  been  called 
so  by  many.  But  she  had  after- 
wards been  called  Mrs  Crinkett, 
when  she  and  Cilnkett  had  com- 
bined their  means  with  the  view  of 
buying  the  Polyeuka  mine.  She 
was  described  as  an  enterprising, 
greedy  woman,  upon  whom  the  love 
of  gold  had  had  almost  more  than 
its  customary  effect.  And  she  had 
for  a  while  been  noted  and  courted 


for  her  success,  having  been  the 
only  female  miner  who  was  sup- 
posed to  have  realised  money  in 
these  parts.  She  had  been  known 
to  the  banks  at  Nobble,  also  even 
at  Sydney ;  and  had  been  supposed 
at  one  time  to  have  been  worth 
twenty  or  perhaps  thirty  thousand 
pounds.  Then  she  had  joined  her- 
self with  Crinkett,  and  all  their 
money  had  been  supposed  to  vanish 
in  the  Polyeuka  mine.  No  doubt 
there  had  been  enough  in  that  to 
create  animosity  of  the  most  bitter 
kind  against  Caldigate.  He  in  his 
search  for  gold  had  been  uniformly 
successful, — was  spoken  of  among 
the  Nobble  miners  as  the  one  man 
who  in  gold-digging  had  never  had 
a  reverse.  He  had  gone  away  just 
before  the  bad  time  came  on  Poly- 
euka; and  then  had  succeeded, 
after  he  had  gone,  in  extracting 
from  these  late  unfortunate  part- 
ners of  his  every  farthing  that  he 
had  left  them !  There  was  ample 
cause  for  animosity. 

Allan,  the  minister,  who  certainly 
had  been  at  Ahalala,  was  as  cer- 
tainly dead.  He  had  gone  out 
from  Scotland  as  a  Presbyterian 
clergyman,  and  no  doubt  had  ever 
been  felt  as  to  his  being  that  which 
he  called  himself; — and  a  letter 
from  him  was  produced,  which  had 
undoubtedly  been  written  by  him- 
self. Eobert  Bolton  had  procured 
a  photograph  of  the  note  which  the 
woman  produced  as  having  been 
written  by  Allan  to  Caldigate. 
The  handwriting  did  not  appear  to 
him  to  be  the  same,  but  an  expert 
had  given  an  opinion  that  they 
both  might  have  been  written  by 
the  same  person.  Of  Dick  Shand 
no  tidings  had  been  found.  It  was 
believed  that  he  had  gone  from 
Queensland  to  some  of  the  Islands, 
— probably  to  the  Fijis;  but  he 
had  sunk  so  low  among  men  as  to 
have  left  no  trace  behind  him.  In 
Australia  no  one  cares  to  know 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate. — Part  X. 


17 


whence  a  shepherd  has  come  or 
whither  he  goes.  A  miner  belongs 
to  a  higher  class,  and  is  more  con- 
sidered. The  result  of  all  which 
was,  in  the  opinion  of  the  Boltons, 
adverse  to  John  Caldigate.  And 
in  discussing  this  with  his  client, 
Mr  Seely  acknowledged  that  noth- 
ing had  as  yet  come  to  light  suffi- 
cient to  shake  the  direct  testimony 
of  the  woman,  corroborated  as  it 
was  by  three  persons,  all  of  whom 
would  swear  that  they  had  been 
present  at  the  marriage. 

"  No  doubt  they  endeavoured  to 
get  money  from  you,"  said  Mr 
Seely ;  "and  I  maybe  well  assured 
in  my  own  mind  that  money  was 
their  sole  object.  But  then  it  can- 
not be  denied  that  their  application 
to  you  for  money  had  a  sound 
basis, —  one  which,  though  you 
might  fairly  refuse  to  allow  it, 
takes  away  from  the  application 
all  idea  of  criminality.  Crinkett 
has  never  asked  for  money  as  a 
bribe  to  hold  his  tongue.  In  a 
matter  of  trade  between  them  and 
you,  you  wrere  very  successful ; 
they  were  very  unfortunate.  A 
man  asking  for  restitution  in  such 
•circumstances  will  hardly  be  re- 
garded as  dishonest." 

It  was  to  no  purpose  that  Caldi- 
gate declared  that  he  would  will- 
ingly have  remitted  a  portion  of 
•the  money  had  he  known  the  true 
circumstances.  He  had  not  done 
;so,  and  now  the  accusation  was 
made.  The  jury,  feeling  that  the  ap- 
plication had  been  justifiable,  would 
probably  keep  the  two  things  dis- 
tinct. That  was  Mr  Seely's  view ; 
and  thus,  in  these  days,  Caldigate 
gradually  came  to  hate  Mr  Seely. 
There  was  no  comfort  to  be  had 
from  Mr  Seely. 

Mr  Bromley  was  much  more 
-comfortable,  though,  unfortunately, 
in  such  a  matter  less  to  be  trusted. 

"  As  to  the  minister's  handwrit- 
ang,"  he  said,  "that  will  go  for 

VOL.  CXXV. — NO.  DCCLIX. 


nothing.  Even  if  he  had  written 
the  note " 

"Which  he  didn't,"  said  Caldi- 
gate. 

"  Exactly.  But  should  it  be  be- 
lieved to  have  been  his,  it  would 
prove  nothing.  And  as  to  the  en- 
velope, I  cannot  think  that  any 
jury  would  disturb  the  happiness 
of  a  family  on  such  evidence  as 
that.  It  all  depends  on  the  credi- 
bility of  the  people  who  swear  that 
they  were  present ;  and  I  can  only 
say  that  were  I  one  of  the  jury, 
and  were  the  case  brought  before 
me  as  I  see  it  now,  I  certainly 
should  not  believe  them.  There  is 
here  one  letter  to  you,  declaring 
that  if  you  will  comply  with  her 
demands,  she  will  not  annoy  you, 
and  declaring  also  her  purpose  of 
marrying  some  one  else.  How  can 
any  juryman  believe  her  after  that? " 

"  Mr  Seely  says  that  twelve  men 
will  not  be  less  likely  to  think  me 
a  bigamist  because  she  has  ex- 
pressed her  readiness  to  commit 
bigamy ;  that,  if  alone,  she  would 
not  have  a  leg  to  stand  upon,  but 
that  she  is  amply  corroborated ; 
whereas  I  have  not  been  able  to 
find  a  single  witness  to  support 
me.  It  seems  to  me  that  in  this 
way  any  man  might  be  made  the 
victim  of  a  conspiracy." 

Then  Mr  Bromley  said  that  all 
that  would  be  too  patent  to  a  jury 
to  leave  any  doubt  upon  the  mat- 
ter. But  John  Caldigate  himself, 
though  he  took  great  comfort  in  the 
society  of  the  clergyman,  did  in 
truth  rely  rather  on  the  opinion  of 
the  lawyer. 

The  old  squire  never  doubted 
his  son  for  a  moment,  and  in  his 
intercourse  with  Hester  showed  her 
all  the  tenderness  and  trust  of  a 
loving  parent.  But  he,  too,  mani- 
festly feared  the  verdict  of  a  jury. 
According  to  him,  things  in  the 
world  around  him  generally  were 
very  bad.  What  was  to  be  ex- 
B 


18 


John  Caldigate. — Part  X. 


[Jan- 


pected  from  an  ordinary  jury  such 
as  Cambridgeshire  would  supply, 
but  prejudice,  thick-headed  stupid- 
ity, or  at  the  best  a  strict  obedience 
to  the  dictum  of  a  judge  1  "  It  is  a 
case,"  he  said,  "in  which  no  jury 
about  here  will  have  sense  enough 
to  understand  and"  weigh  the  facts. 
There  will  be  on  one  side  the  evi- 
dence of  four  people,  all  swearing 
the  same  thing.  It  may  be  that 
one  or  more  of  them  will  break 
down  under  cross-examination,  and 
that  all  will  then  be  straight.  But 
if  not,  the  twelve  men  in  a  box 
will  believe  them  because  they  are 
four,  not  understanding  that  in 
such  a  case  four  may  conspire  as 
easily  as  two  or  three.  There  will 
be  the  judge,  no  doubt;  but  Eng- 
lish judges  are  always  favourable 
to  convictions.  The  judge  begins 
with  the  idea  that  the  man  before 
him  would  hardly  have  been  brought 
there  had  he  not  been  guilty." 

In  all  this,  and  very  much  more 
that  he  said  both  to  Mr  Eromley 
and  his  son,  he  was  expressing  his 
contempt  for  the  world  around  him 
rather  than  any  opinion  of  his  own 
on  this  particular  matter.  "  I  often 
think,"  said  he,  "  that  we  have  to 
bear  more  from  the  stupidity  than 
from  the  wickedness  of  the  world." 

It  should  be  mentioned  that 
about  a  week  after  Hester's  escape 
from  Chesterton  there  came  to  her 
a  letter  from  her  mother. 


"DEAREST  HESTER, — You  do  not 
think  that  I  do  not  love  you  be- 
cause I  tried  to  protect  you  from 
what  I  believe  to  be  sin,  and  evil, 
and  temptation  ?  You  do  not 
think  that  I  am  less  your  mother 
because  I  caused  you  suffering? 
If  your  eye  offend  you,  pluck  it 
out.  Was  I  not  plucking  out  my 
own  eye  when  I  caused  pain  to 
you1?  You  ought  to  come  back  to 
me  and  your  father.  You  ought  to 
do  so  even  now.  But  whether  you 
come  back  or  not,  will  you  not  re- 
member that  I  am  the  mother  who 
bore  you,  and  have  always  loved 
you1?  And  when  further  distress 
shall  come  upon  you,  will  you  not 
return  to  me  ] — Your  unhappy  but 
most  loving  mother, 

"  MARY  BOLTON." 

In  answer  to  this,  Hester,  in  a 
long  letter,  acknowledged  her  moth- 
er's love,  and  said  that  the  memory 
of  those  two  days  at  Chesterton 
should  lessen  neither  her  affection 
nor  her  filial  duty;  but,  she  went 
on  to  say,  that,  in  whatever  distress 
might  come  upon  her,  she  should 
turn  to  her  husband  for  comfort 
and  support,  whether  he  should  be 
with  her,  or  whether  he  should  be 
away  from  her.  "  But,"  she  added, 
concluding  her  letter,  "  beyond  my 
husband  and  my  child,  you  and 
papa  will  always  be  the  dearest  to 
me." 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. — BOLLUM. 


There  was  not  much  to  enliven 
the  house  at  Folking  during  these 
days.  Caldigate  would  pass  much 
of  his  time  walking  about  the  place, 
applying  his  mind  as  well  as  he 
could  to  the  farm,  and  holding  up 
his  head  among  the  tenants,  with 
whom  he  was  very  popular.  He 
had  begun  his  reign  over  them  with 
hands  not  only  full  but  free.  He 


had  drained,  and  roofed,  and  put 
up  gates,  and  repaired  roads,  and 
shown  himself  to  be  an  active  man, 
anxious  to  do  good.  And  now  in 
his  trouble  they  were  very  true  to 
him.  But  their  sympathy  could 
not  ease  the  burden  at  his  heart. 
Though  by  his  words  and  deeds 
among  them  he  seemed  to  occupy 
himself  fully,  there  was  a  certain 


1879.] 


John  Cdldigate. — Part  X. 


19 


amount  of  pretence  in  every  effort 
that  he  made.  He  was  always  af- 
fecting a  courage  in  which  he  felt 
himself  to  be  deficient.  Every 
smile  was  false.  Every  "brave  word 
spoken  was  an  attempt  at  deceit. 
When  alone  in  his  walks, — and  he 
was  mostly  alone, —  his  mind  would 
fix  itself  on  his  great  trouble,  and 
on  the  crushing  sorrow  which  might 
only  too  probably  fall  upon  that 
loved  one  whom  he  had  called  his 
wife.  Oh,  with  what  regret  now 
did  he  think  of  the  good  advice 
which  the  captain  had  given  him 
on  board  the  Goldfinder,  and  of  the 
sententious,  timid  wisdom  of  Mrs 
Callender !  Had  she,  had  Hester, 
ever  uttered  to  him  one  word  of 
reproach, — had  she  ever  shuddered 
in  his  sight  when  he  had  acknow- 
ledged that  the  now  odious  woman 
had  in  that  distant  land  been  in 
his  own  hearing  called  by  his  own 
name, — it  would  have  been  almost 
better.  Her  absolute  faith  added 
a  sting  to  his  sufferings. 

Then,  as  he  walked  alone  about 
the  estate,  he  would  endeavour  to 
think  whether  there  might  not  yet 
be  some  mode  of  escape, — whether 
something  might  not  be  done  to 
prevent  his  having  to  stand  in  the 
dock  and  abide  the  uncertain  ver- 
dict of  a  jury.  With  Mr  Seely  he 
was  discontented.  Mr  Seely  seemed 
to  be  opposed  to  any  great  effort, — 
would  simply  trust  to  the  chance  of 
snatching  little  advantages  in  the 
Court.  He  had  money  at  command. 
If  fifty  thousand  pounds, — if  double 
that  sum, — would  have  freed  him 
from  this  trouble,  he  thought  that 
he  could  have  raised  it,  and  was 
sure  that  he  would  willingly  pay 
it.  Twenty  thousand  pounds  two 
months  since,  when  Crinkett  ap- 
peared at  the  christening,  would 
have  sent  these  people  away.  The 
same  sum,  no  doubt,  would  send 
them  away  now.  But  then  the 
arrangement  might  have  been  pos- 


sible. But  now, — how  was  it  now  ? 
Could  it  still  be  done  ?  Then  the 
whole  thing  might  have  been  hid- 
den, buried  in  darkness.  Now  it 
was  already  in  the  mouths  of  all 
men.  But  still,  if  these  witnesses 
were  made  to  disappear, — if  this 
woman  herself  by  whom  the  charge 
was  made  would  take  herself  away, 
— then  the  trial  must  be  abandoned. 
There  would  be  a  whispering  of 
evil, — or,  too  probably,  the  saying 
of  evil  without  whispering.  A  ter- 
rible injury  would  have  been  in- 
flicted upon  her  and  his  boy; — but 
the  injury  would  be  less  than  that 
which  he  now  feared. 

And  there  was  present  to  him 
through  all  this  a  feeling  that  the 
money  ought  to  be  paid  indepen- 
dently of  the  accusation  brought 
against  him.  Had  he  known  at 
first  all  that  he  knew  now, — how 
he  had  taken  their  all  from  these 
people,  and  how  they  had  failed 
absolutely  in  the  last  great  venture 
they  had  made, — he  would  certainly 
have  shared  their  loss  with  them. 
He  would  have  done  all  that  Crin- 
kett had  suggested  to  him  when  he 
and  Crinkett  were  walking  along 
the  dike.  Crinkett  had  said  that  on 
receiving  twenty  thousand  pounds 
he  would  have  gone  back  to  Aus- 
tralia, and  would  have  taken  a  wife 
with  him !  That  offer  had  been  quite 
intelligible,  and  if  carried  out  would 
have  put  an  end  to  all  trouble.  But 
he  had  mismanaged  that  interview. 
He  had  been  too  proud, — too  desirous 
not  to  seem  to  buy  off  a  threaten- 
ing enemy.  Now,  as  the  trouble 
pressed  itself  more  closely  upon 
him, — upon  him  and  his  Hester, — 
he  would  so  willingly  buy  off  his 
enemy  if  it  were  possible !  "  They 
ought  to  have  the  money,"  he  said  to 
himself;  "if  only  I  could  contrive 
that  it  should  be  paid  to  them." 

One  day  as  he  was  entering  the 
house  by  a  side  door,  Darvell  the 
gardener  told  him  that  there  was  a 


20 


John  Caldigate. — Part  X. 


[Jan. 


gentleman  waiting  to  see  him.  The 
gentleman  was  very  anxious  to  see 
him,  and  had  begged  to  be  al- 
lowed to  sit  down.  Darvell,  when 
asked  whether  the  gentleman  was  a 
gentleman,  expressed  an  affirmative 
opinion.  He  had  been  driven  over 
from  Cambridge  in  a  hired  gig, 
which  was  now  standing  in  the 
yard,  and  was  dressed,  as  Darvell 
expressed  it,  "  quite  accordingly 
and  genteel."  So  Caldigate  passed 
into  the  house  and  found  the  man 
seated  in  the  dining-room. 

"  Perhaps  you  will  step  into  my 
study  1  "  said  Caldigate.  Thus  the 
two  men  were  seated  together  in 
the  little  room  which  Caldigate 
used  for  his  own  purposes. 

Caldigate,  as  he  looked  at  the 
man,  distrusted  his  gardener's  judg- 
ment. The  coat  and  hat  and 
gloves,  even  the  whiskers-  and 
head  of  hair,  might  have  belonged 
to  a  gentleman ;  but  not,  as  he 
thought,  the  mouth  or  the  eyes  or 
the  hands.  And  when  the  man 
began  to  speak  there  was  a  mixture 
of  assurance  and  intended  com- 
plaisance, an  affected  familiarity  and 
an  attempt  at  ease,  which  made  the 
master  of  the  house  quite  sure  that 
his  guest  was  not  all  that  Darvell 
had  represented.  The  man  soon 
told  his  story.  His  name  was 
Bollum,  Eichard  Bollum,  and  he 
had  connections  with  Australia; — 
was  largely  concerned  in  Australian 
gold-mines.  When  Caldigate  heard 
this,  he  looked  round  involuntarily 
to  see  whether  the  door  was  closed. 
"  We're  tiled,  of  course,"  said  Bol- 
lum. Caldigate  with  a  frown 
nodded  his  head,  and  Bollum  went 
on.  He  hadn't  come  there,  he 
said,  to  speak  of  some  recent 
troubles  of  which  he  had  heard. 
He  wasn't  the  man  to  shove  his 
nose  into  other  people's  matters. 
It  was  nothing  to  him  who  was 
married  to  whom.  Caldigate 
shivered,  but  sat  and  listened  in 


silence.  But  Mr  Bollum  had  had 
dealings,  —  many  dealings,  —  with 
Tom  Crinkett.  Indeed  he  was 
ready  to  say  that  Tom  Crinkett 
was  his  uncle.  He  was  not  par- 
ticularly proud  of  his  uncle,  but 
nevertheless  Tom  Crinkett  was  his 
uncle.  Didn't  Mr  Caldigate  think 
that  something  ought  to  be  done 
for  Tom  Crinkett? 

"Yes,  I  do,"  said  Caldigate, 
finding  himself  compelled  to  say 
something  at  the  moment,  and 
feeling  that  he  could  say  so  much 
with  positive  truth. 

Then  Bollum  continued  his  story, 
showing  that  he  knew  all  the  cir- 
cumstances of  Polyeuka.  "  It  was 
hard  on  them,  wasn't  it,  Mr  Caldi- 
gate ? " 

"I  think  it  was." 

"Every  rap  they  had  among 
them,  Mr  Caldigate  !  You  left  them 
as  bare  as  the  palm  of  my  hand ! " 

"  It  was  not  my  doing.  I  simply 
made  him  an  offer,  which  every  one 
at  the  time  believed  to  be  liberal." 

"Just  so.  We  grants  all  that. 
But  still  you  got  all  their  money ; 
— old  pals  of  yours  too,  as  they 
say  out  there." 

"  It  is  a  matter  of  most  intense 
regret  to  me.  As  soon  as  I  knew 
the  circumstances,  Mr  Bollum,  I 
should  have  been  most  happy  to 
have  divided  the  loss  with  them 


"That's  it,— that's  it.  That's 
what'd  be  right  between  man  and 
man,"  said  Mr  Bollum,  interrupting 
him. 

"  Had  no  other  subject  been  in- 
troduced ? " 

"  I  know  nothing  about  other 
subjects.  I  haven't  come  here  to 
meddle  with  other  subjects.  I'm, 
as  it  were,  a  partner  of  Crinkett's. 
Any  way,  I  am  acting  as  his  agent. 
I'm  quite  above  board,  Mr  Caldi- 
gate, and  in  what  I  say  I  mean  to 
stick  to  my  own  business  and  not 
go  beyond  it.  Twenty  thousand 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate. — Part  X. 


21 


pounds  is  wliat  we  ask, — so  that  we 
and  you  may  share  the  loss.  You 
agree  to  that  ?  " 

"  I  should  have  agreed  to  it  two 
months  ago,"  said  Caldigate,  fear- 
ing that  he  might  be  caught  in  a 
trap, — anxious  to  do  nothing  mean, 
unfair,  or  contrary  to  the  law, — 
craving  in  his  heart  after  the  bold, 
upright  conduct  of  a  thoroughly 
honourable  English  gentleman,  and 
yet  desirous  also  to  use,  if  it  might 
be  used,  the  instrumentality  of  this 
man. 

"  And  why  not  now  ?  You  see," 
said  Bollum,  becoming  a  little  more 
confidential,  "  how  difficult  it  is  for 
me  to  speak.  Things  ain't  altered. 
You've  got  the  money.  They've 
lost  the  money.  There  isn't  any 
ill-will,  Mr  Caldigate.  As  for  Crin- 
kett,  he's  a  rough  diamond,  of 
course.  What  am  I  to  say  about 
the  lady?" 

"  I  don't  see  that  you  need  say 
anything." 

"  That's  just  it.  Of  course  she's 
one  of  them ;  that's  all.  If  there 
is  to  be  money,  she'll  have  her  share. 
He's  an  old  fool,  and  perhaps  they'll 
make  a  match  of  it."  As  he  said 
this  he  winked.  "At  any  rate,  they'll 
be  off  to  Australia  together.  And 
what  I  propose  is  this,  Mr  Caldi- 
gate—  Then  he  paused. 

"  What  do  you  propose  ?  " 

"Make  the  money  payable  in 
bills  to  their  joint  order  at  Syd- 
ney. They  don't  want  to  be  wast- 
ing any  more  time  here.  They'll 
start  at  once.  This  is  the  12th 
April,  isn't  it  ?  Tuesday  the  12th  ? " 
Caldigate  assented.  "  The  old 
Goldfinder  leaves  Plymouth  this 
day  week."  From  this  he  was  sure 
that  Bollum  had  heard  all  the  story 
from  Euphemia  Smith  herself,  or 
he  would  not  have  talked  of 'the 
"  old  "  Goldfinder.  "  Let  them  have 
the  bills  handed  to  them  on  board, 
and  they'll  go.  Let  me  have  the 
duplicates  here.  You  can  remit 


the  money  by  July  to  your  agents, 
— to  take  up  the  bills  when  due. 
Just  let  me  be  with  you  when  the 
order  is  given  to  your  banker  in 
London,  and  everything  will  be 
done.  It's  as  easy  as  kiss." 

Caldigate  sat  silent,  turning  it 
over  in  his  own  mind,  trying  to  de- 
termine what  would  be  best.  Here 
was  another  opportunity.  But  it 
was  one  as  to  which  he  must  come 
to  a  decision  on  the  spur  of  the  mo- 
ment. He  must  deal  with  the  man 
now  or  never.  The  twenty  thousand 
pounds  were  nothing.  Had  there 
been  no  question  about  his  wife,  he 
would  have  paid  the  money,  moved 
by  that  argument  as  to  his  "old 
pals," — by  the  conviction  that  the 
result  of  his  dealing  with  them  had 
in  truth  been  to  leave  them  "  as 
bare  as  the  palm  of  his  hand." 
They  were  welcome  to  the  money ; 
and  if  by  giving  the  money  he 
could  save  his  Hester,  how  great  a 
thing  it  would  be  !  Was  it  not  his 
duty  to  make  the  attempt  ?  And 
yet  there  was  in  his  bosom  a  strong 
aversion  to  have  any  secret  dealing 
with  such  a  man  as  this, — to  have 
any  secret  dealing  in  such  a  matter. 
To  buy  off  witnesses  in  order  that 
his  wife's  name  and  his  boy's  legiti- 
macy might  be  half, — only  half, — 
established  !  For  even  though  these 
people  should  be  made  absolutely 
to  vanish,  though  the  sea  should 
swallow  them,  all  that  had  been 
said  would  be  known,  and  too  prob- 
ably believed  for  ever  ! 

And  then,  too,  he  was  afraid.  If 
he  did  this  thing  alone,  without 
counsel,  would  he  not  be  putting 
himself  into  the  hands  of  these 
wretches  1  Might  he  not  be  almost 
sure  that  when  they  had  gotten  his 
money  they  would  turn  upon  him 
and  demand  more  1  Would  not  the 
payment  of  the  money  be  evidence 
against  him  to  any  jury  1  Would  it 
be  possible  to  make  judge  or  jury 
believe,  to  make  even  a  friend  be- 


22 


John  Caldigate. — Part  X. 


[Jan. 


lieve,  that  in  such  an  emergency  he 
had  paid  away  so  large  a  sum  of 
money  because  he  had  felt  him- 
self bound  to  do  so  by  his  con- 
science ? 

"  Well,  squire,"  said  Bollum,  "  I 
think  you  see  your  way  through 
it ;  don't  you  1 " 

"  I  don't  regard  the  money  in 
the  least.  They  would  be  welcome 
to  the  money." 

"  That's  a  great  point,  anyway." 

"But •" 

"Ay;  but!  You're  afraid  they 
wouldn't  go.  You  come  down  to 
Plymouth,  and  don't  put  the  bills 
into  their  hands  or  mine  till  the 
vessel  is  under  way,  with  them 
aboard.  Then  you  and  I  will  step 
into  the  boat,  and  be  back  ashore. 
When  they  know  the  money's  been 
deposited  at  a  bank  in  London, 
they'll  trust  you  as  far  as  that.  The 
Goldfinder  won't  put  back  again 
when  she's  once  off.  Won't  that 
make  it  square  ? " 

"I  was  thinking  of  something 
else." 

"Well,  yes ;  there's  that  trial  a- 
coming  on ;  isn't  there  ?  " 

"These  people  have  conspired 
together  to  tell  the  basest  lie." 

"  I  know  nothing  about  that,  Mr 
Caldigate.  I  haven't  got  so  much 
as  an  opinion.  People  tell  me  that 
all  the  things  look  very  strong  on 
their  side." 

"  Liars  sometimes  are  successful." 

"  You  can  be  quit  of  them, — and 
pay  no  more  than  what  you  say 
you  kind  of  owes.  I  should  have 
thought  Crinkett  might  have  ask- 
ed forty  thousand  ;  but  Crinkett, 
though  he's  rough, — I  do  own  he's 
rough,  —  but  he's  honest  after  a 
fashion.  Crinkett  wants  to  rob  no 
man ;  but  he  feels  it  hard  when 
he's  got  the  better  of.  Lies  or 
no  lies,  can  you  do  better?  " 

"  I  should  like  to  see  my  lawyer 
first,"  said  Caldigate,  almost  pant- 
ing in  his  anxiety. 


"  What  lawyer1?   I  hate  lawyers." 
"Mr  Seely.     My  case  is  in  his 
hands,  and  I  should  have  to  tell 
him." 

"  Tell  him  when  you  come  back 
from  Plymouth,  and  hold  your 
peace  till  that's  done.  No  good 
can  come  of  lawyers  in  such  a  mat- 
ter as  this.  You  might  as  well  tell 
the  town-crier.  Why  should  he 
want  to  put  bread  out  of  his  own 
mouth  1  And  if  there  is  a  chance 
of  hard  words  being  said,  why 
should  he  hear  them  ?  He'll 
work  for  his  money,  no  doubt ;  but 
what  odds  is  it  to  him  whether 
your  lady  is  to  be  called  Mrs  Caldi- 
gate or  Miss  Bolton?  He  won't 
have  to  go  to  prison.  His  boy 
won't  be  ! — you  know  what."  This 
was  terrible,  but  yet  it  was  all  so 
true!  "I'll  tell  you  what  it  is, 
squire.  We  can't  make  it  lighter 
by  talking  about  it  all  round.  I 
used  to  do  a  bit  of  hunting  once ; 
and  I  never  knew  any  good  come  of 
asking  what  there  was  on  the  other 
side  of  the  fence.  You've  got  to 
have  it,  or  you've  got  to  leave  it 
alone.  That's  just  where  you  are. 
Of  course  it  isn't  nice." 
"I  don't  mind  the  money." 
"  Just  so.  Eut  it  isn't  nice  for 
a  swell  like  you  to  have  to  hand  it 
over  to  such  a  one  as  Crinkett.  just 
as  the  ship's  starting,  and  then  to 
bolt  ashore  along  with  me.  The 
odds  are,  it  is  all  talked  about. 
Let's  own  all  that.  But  then  it's 
not  nice  to  have  to  hear  a  woman 
swear  that  she's  your  wife,  when 
you've  got  another, — specially  when 
she's  got  three  men  as  can  swear 
the  same.  It  ain't  nice  for  you  to 
have  me  sitting  here;  I'm  well 
aware  of  that.  There's  the  choice 
of  evils.  You  know  what  that 
means.  I'm  a-putting  it  about  as 
fair  as  a  man  can  put  anything. 
It's  a  pity  you  didn't  stump  up 
the  money  before.  But  it's  not 
altogether  quite  too  late  yet." 


1879.] 


Jolm  Caldigate. — Part  X. 


23 


"  I'll  give  you  an  answer  to-mor- 
row, Mr  Bollurn." 

"I  must  be  in  town  to-night." 

"I  will  be  with  you  in  London 
io-morrow  if  you  will  give  me  an 
address.  All  that  you  have  said  is 
true;  but  I  cannot  do  this  thing 
without  thinking  of  it." 

"  You'll  come  alone '{ " 

"  Yes,— alone." 

"  As  a  gentleman  1 " 

"  On  my  word  as  a  gentleman  I 
will  come  alone." 

Then  Bollum  gave  him  an  ad- 
•dress, — not  the  place  at  which  he 
resided,  but  a  certain  coffee-house 
in  the  City,  at  which  he  was  ac- 
-customed  to  make  appointments. 
"And  don't  you  see  any  lawyer," 
said  Bollum,  shaking  his  finger. 
11  You  can't  do  any  good  that  way. 
It  stands  to  reason  that  no  lawyer 
would  let  you  pay  twenty  thousand 
pounds  to  get  out  of  any  scrape. 
He  and  you  have  different  legs  to 
stand  upon."  Then  Mr  Bollum 
went  away,  and  was  driven  back 
in  his  gig  to  the  Cambridge  Hotel. 

As  soon  as  the  front  door  was 
•closed  Hester  hurried  down  to  her 
husband,  whom  she  found  still  in 
the  hall.  He  took  her  into  his 
own  room,  and  told  her  everything 
that  had  passed, — everything,  as 
accurately  as  he  could.  uAnd  re- 
member," he  said,  "though  I  do 
not  owe  them  money,  that  I  feel 
"bound  by  my  conscience  to  refund 
them  so  much.  I  should  do  it, 
now  I  know  the  circumstances,  if 
no  charge  had  been  brought  against 
me." 

"They  have  perjured  themselves, 
and  have  been  so  wicked." 

"  Yes,  they  have  been  very 
wicked." 

"Let  them  come  and  speak  the 
truth,  and  then  let  them  have  the 
money." 

"They  will  not  do  that,  Hester." 

"  Prove  them  to  be  liars,  and 
then  give  it  to  them.'; 


"My  own  girl,  I  am  thinking 
of  you." 

"And  I  of  you.  Shall  it  be 
said  of  you  that  you  bought  off 
those  who  had  dared  to  say  that 
your  wife  was  not  your  wife?  I 
would  not  do  that.  What  if  the 
people  in  the  Court  should  believe 
what  they  say1?" 

"  It  would  be  bad  for  you,  then, 
dearest." 

"  But  I  should  still  be  your  wife. 
And  baby  would  still  be  your  own, 
own  honest  boy.  I  am  sometimes 
unhappy,  but  I  am  never  afraid. 
Let  the  devil  do  his  worst,  but 
never  speak  him  fair.  I  would 
scorn  them  till  it  is  all  over.  Then, 
if  money  be  due  to  them,  let  them 
have  it."  As  she  said  this,  she  had 
drawn  herself  a  little  apart  from 
him, — a  little  away  from  the  arm 
which  had  been  round  her  waist, 
and  was  looking  him  full  in  the 
face.  Never  before,  even  during 
the  soft  happiness  of  their  bridal 
tour,  had  she  seemed  to  him  to  be 
so  handsome. 

But  her  faith,  her  courage,  and 
her  beauty  did  not  alter  the  cir- 
cumstances of  the  case.  Because 
she  trusted  him,  he  was  not  the 
less  afraid  of  the  jury  who  would 
have  to  decide,  or  of  the  judge, 
who,  with  stern  eyes,  would  prob- 
ably find  himself  compelled  to  tell 
the  jury  that  the  evidence  against 
the  prisoner  was  overwhelming.  In 
choosing  what  might  be  best  to  be 
done  on  her  account,  he  could  not 
allow  himself  to  be  guided  by  her 
spirit.  The  possibility  that  the 
whole  gang  of  them  might  be  made 
to  vanish  was  present  to  his  mind. 
JS"or  could  he  satisfy  himself  that 
in  doing  as  had  been  proposed  to 
him  he  would  be  speaking  the  devil 
fair.  He  would  be  paying  money 
which  he  ought  to  pay,  and  would 
perhaps  be  securing  his  wife's  hap- 
piness. 

He   had   promised,  at  any  rate, 


24 


Jolin  Cdldlgate. — Part  X. 


[Jaiu 


that  he  would  see  the  man  in  Lon- 
don on  the  morrow,  and  that  he 
would  see  him  alone.  But  he  had 
not  promised  not  to  speak  on  the 
subject  to  his  attorney.  Therefore, 
after  much  thought,  he  wrote  to 
Mr  Seely  to  make  an  appointment 
for  the  next  morning,  and  then 
told  his  wife  that  he  would  have 
to  go  to  London  on  the  following 
day. 


"Not  to  huy  those  men  off?"" 
she  said. 

"  Whatever  is  done  will  be  done- 
by  the  advice  of  my  lawyer,"  he- 
said,  peevishly,  "  You  may  he  sure1 
that  I  am  anxious  enough  to  do 
the  best.  When  one  has  to  trust 
to  a  lawyer,  one  is  bound  to  trusfe 
to  him."  This  seemed  to  he  so 
true  that  Hester  could  say  nothing 
against  it. 


CHAPTER   XXXIX. RESTITUTION. 


He  had  still  the  whole  night  to 
think  ahout  it, — and  throughout 
the  whole  night  he  was  thinking 
ahout  it.  He  had  fixed  a  late  hour 
in  the  afternoon  for  his  appoint- 
ment in  London,  so  that  he  might 
have  an  hour  or  two  in  Cambridge 
before  he  started  by  the  mid-day 
train.  It  was  during  his  drive  into 
the  town  that  he  at  last  made  up 
his  mind  that  he  would  not  satisfy 
himself  with  discussing  the  matter 
with  Mr  Seely,  hut  that  he  would 
endeavour  to  explain  it  all  to  Robert 
Bolton.  No  doubt  Robert  Bolton 
was  now  his  enemy,  as  were  all  the 
Boltons.  But  the  brother  could 
not  but  be  anxious  for  his  sister's 
name  and  his  sister's  happiness. 
If  a  way  out  of  all  this  misery 
could  be  seen,  it  would  he  a  way 
out  of  misery  for  the  Boltons  as 
well  as  for  the  Caldigates.  If  only 
he  could  make  the  attorney  believe 
that  Hester  was  in  truth  his  wife, 
still,  even  yet,  there  might  be  as- 
sistance on  that  side.  But  he  went 
to  Mr  Seely  first,  the  hour  of  his 
appointment  requiring  that  it  should 
be  so. 

But  Mr  Seely  was  altogether  op- 
posed to  any  arrangement  with  Mr 
Bollum.  "  No  good  was  ever  done," 
he  said,  "  by  buying  off  witnesses. 
The  thing  itself  is  disreputable,  and 
would  to  a  certainty  be  known  to 
every  one." 


"  I  should  not  buy  them  off.  I 
regard  the  money  as  their  own.  I 
will  give  Crinkett  the  money  and 
let  him  go  or  stay  as  he  pleases. 
When  giving  him  the  money,  I 
will  tell  him  that  he  may  do  as  he* 
pleases." 

"You  would  only  throw  your 
money  away.  You  would  do  much 
worse  than  throw  it  away.  Their 
absence  would  not  prevent  the  trial. 
The  Boltons  will  take  care  of  that.'* 

"  They  cannot  want  to  injure- 
their  own  side,  Mr  Seely." 

"  They  want  to  punish  you,  and 
to  take  her  away.  They  will  take 
care  that  the  trial  shall  go  on.  And 
when  it  was  proved,  as  it  would  he- 
proved,  that  you  had  given  these- 
people  a  large  sum  of  money,  and 
had  so  secured  their  absence,  do- 
you  think  that  the  jury  would  re- 
fuse to  believe  their  sworn  deposi- 
tions, and  whatever  other  evidence- 
would  remain  1  The  fact  of  your 
having  paid  them  money  would 
secure  a  verdict  against  you.  The- 
thing  would,  in  my  mind,  be  so 
disreputable  that  I  should  have- 
to  throw  up  the  case.  I  could  not 
defend  you." 

It  was  clear  to  him  that  Bollum 
had  understood  his  own  side  of  the- 
question  in  deprecating  any  refer- 
ence to  an  attorney.  The  money 
should  have  been  paid  and  the  four 
witnesses  sent  away  without  a  word 


1879.] 


John  Oaldigate. — Part  X. 


25 


to  any  one, — if  any  attempt  in  that 
direction  were  made  at  all.  Never- 
theless he  went  to  Eobert  Eolton's 
office  and  succeeded  in  obtaining 
an  interview  with  his  wife's  bro- 
ther. But  here,  as  with  the  other 
attorney,  he  failed  to  make  the 
man  understand  the  state  of  his 
own  mind.  He  had  failed  in  the 
same  way  even  with  his  wife.  If 
it  were  fit  that  the  money  should 
be  paid,  it  could  not  be  right  that 
he  should  retain  it  because  the 
people  to  whom  it  was  due  had 
told  lies  about  him.  And  if  this 
could  be  explained  to  the  jury, 
surely  the  jury  would  not  give  a 
verdict  against  him  on  insufficient 
evidence,  simply  because  he  had 
done  his  duty  in  paying  the  money  ! 

Kobert  Bolton  listened  to  him 
with  patience,  and  without  any  quick 
expression  of  hot  anger;  though 
before  the  interview  was  over  he 
had  used  some  very  cruel  words. 
"  We  should  think  ourselves  bound 
to  prevent  their  going,  if  possible." 

"  Of  course ;  I  have  no  idea  of 
going  down  to  Plymouth  as  the 
man  proposed,  or  of  taking  any 
steps  to  secure  their  absence." 

"  Your  money  is  your  own,  and 
you  can  do  what  you  like  with  it. 
It  certainly  is  not  for  me  to  ad- 
vise you.  If  you  tell  me  that  you 
are  going  to  pay  it,  I  can  only  say 
that  I  shall  look  very  sharp  after 
them." 

"  Why  should  you  want  to  ruin 
your  sister  \ " 

"You  have  ruined  her;  that  is 
our  idea.  We  desire  now  to  rescue 
her  as  far  as  we  can  from  further 
evil.  You  have  opposed  us  in  every 
endeavour  that  we  have  made. 
When  in  the  performance  of  a 
manifest  duty  we  endeavoured  to 
separate  you  till  after  the  trial,  you 
succeeded  in  thwarting  us  by  your 
influence." 

"  I  left  it  to  her." 

"  Had  you  been  true  and  honest 


and  upright,  you  would  have  known 
that  as  long  as  there  was  a  doubt 
she  ought  to  have  been  away  from 
you." 

"  I  should  have  sent  her  away  1 " 

"  Certainly." 

"So  as  to  create  a  doubt  in  her 
mind,  so  as  to  disturb  her  peace, 
so  as  to  make  her  think  that  I, 
having  been  found  out,  was  willing 
to  be  rid  of  her?  It  would  have 
killed  her." 

"  Better  so  than  this." 

"  And  yet  I  am  as  truly  her  hus- 
band as  you  are  the  husband  of 
your  wife.  If  you  would  only 
teach  yourself  to  think  that  pos- 
sible, then  you  would  feel  differ- 
ently." 

"Not  as  to  a  temporary  separa- 
tion." 

"  If  you  believed  me,  you  would," 
said  Caldigate. 

"  But  I  do  not  believe  you.  In 
a  matter  like  this,  as  you  will  come 
to  me,  I  must  be  plain.  I  do  not 
believe  you.  I  think  that  you  have 
betrayed  and  seduced  my  sister, 
Looking  at  all  the  evidence  and  at 
your  own  confession,  I  can  come  to 
no  other  conclusion.  I  have  dis- 
cussed the  matter  with  my  brother, 
who  is  a  clear,  cool-headed,  most 
judicious  man,  and  he  is  of  the 
same  opinion.  In  our  own  private 
court  we  have  brought  you  in 
guilty, — guilty  of  an  offence  against 
us  all  which  necessarily  makes  us 
as  bitter  against  you  as  one  man 
can  be  against  another.  You  have 
destroyed  our  sister,  and  now  you 
come  here  and  ask  me  my  advice 
as  to  buying  off  witnesses!" 

"  It  is  all  untrue.  As  there  is 
a  God  above  me  I  am  her  loyal, 
loving  husband.  I  will  buy  off  no 
witness." 

"  If  I  were  you  I  would  make  no- 
such  attempt.  It  will  do  no  good. 
I  do  not  think  that  you  have  a 
chance  of  being  acquitted, — not  a 
chance  ;  and  then  how  much  worse 


26 


John  Caldigate.—Part  X. 


[Jan. 


it  will  be  for  Hester  when  she  finds 
herself  still  in  your  house  ! " 
"  She  will  remain  there." 
"Even  she  will  feel  that  to  be 
impossible.  Your  influence  will 
then  probably  be  removed,  and  I 
presume  that  for  a  time  you  will  have 
no  home.  But  we  need  not  dis- 
cuss that.  As  you  are  here,  I  should 
not  do  my  duty  were  I  not  to  as- 
sure you  that  as  far  as  we  are  con- 
cerned,— Hester's  family, — nothing 
shall  be  spared  either  in  trouble  or 
money  to  insure  the  conviction  and 
punishment  of  the  man  whom  we 
believe  to  have  brought  upon  us 
so  terrible  a  disgrace." 

Caldigate,  when  he  got  out  into 
the  street,  felt  that  he  was  driven 
almost  to  despair.  At  first  he  de- 
clared to  himself,  most  untruly, 
that  there  was  no  one  to  believe 
him, — no,  not  one.  Then  he  remem- 
bered how  faithful  was  his  wife ; 
and  as  he  did  so,  in  his  misery,  he 
told  himself  that  it  might  have  been 
better  for  her  had  she  been  less 
faithful.  Looking  at  it  all  as  he 
now  looked  at  it,  after  hearing  the 
words  of  that  hard  man,  he  almost 
thought  that  it  would  have  been  so. 
Everybody  told  him  that  he  would 
be  condemned ;  and  if  so,  what 
would  be  the  fate  of  that  poor  young 
mother  and  her  child  1  It  was 
very  well  for  her  to  declare,  with 
her  arms  round  his  neck,  that  even 
should  he  be  dragged  away  to  prison, 
she  would  still  be  his  true  wife, 
and  that  she  would  wait, — in  sor- 
row indeed  and  mourning,  but  still 
with  patience, — till  the  cruel  jailers 
and  the  harsh  laws  had  restored 
him  to  her.  If  the  law  declared 
him  a  bigamist,  she  could  not  then 
be  his  wife.  The  law  must  decide, 
— whether  rightly  or  wrongly,  still 
must  decide.  And  then  how  could 
they  live  together  ?  An  evil  done 
must  be  endured,  let  it  be  ever  so 
unendurable.  But  against  fresh 
evils  a  man  may  guard.  Was  it 


not  his  duty,  his  manifest,  his  chief 
duty,  to  save  her,  as  far  as  she  could 
be  saved,  from  farther  suffering  and 
increased  disgrace?  Perhaps,  after 
all,  Robert  Bolton  was  right  when 
he  told  him  that  he  ought  to 
have  allowed  Hester  to  remain  at 
Chesterton. 

"Whatever  he  might  do  when  he 
got  to  London,  he  felt  it  to  be  his 
duty  to  go  up  and  keep  his  appoint- 
ment with  Bollum.  And  he  brought 
with  him  from  home  securities  and 
certificates  for  stock  by  which  he 
knew  that  he  could  raise  the  sum 
named  at  a  moment's  warning, 
should  he  at  last  decide  upon  paying 
the  money.  When  he  got  into  the 
train,  and  when  he  got  out  of  the 
train,  he  was  still  in  doubt.  Those 
to  whom  he  had  gone  for  advice 
had  been  so  hard  to  him,  that  he 
felt  himself  compelled  to  put  on 
one  side  all  that  they  had  said. 
Bollum  had  suggested,  in  his  graphic 
manner,  that  a  lawyer  and  his  client 
stood  upon  different  legs.  Caldi- 
gate acknowledged  to  himself  that 
Bollum  was  right.  His  own  lawyer 
had  been  almost  as  hard  to  him  as 
his  brother-in-law,  who  was  his  de- 
clared enemy.  But  what  should  he 
do  ?  As  to  precautions  to  be  taken 
in  reference  to  the  departure  of  the 
gang,  all  that  was  quite  out  of  the 
question.  They  should  go  to  Aus- 
tralia or  stay  behind,  as  they  pleas- 
ed. There  should  be  no  understand- 
ing that  they  were  to  go, — or  even 
that  they  were  to  hold  their  tongues 
because  the  money  was  paid  to 
them.  It  should  be  fully  explained 
to  them  that  the  two  things  were 
distinct.  Then  as  he  was  taken  to 
the  inn  at  which  he  intended  to 
sleep  that  night,  he  made  up  his 
mind  in  the  cab  that  he  would  pay 
the  money  to  Crinkett. 

He  got  to  London  just  in  time  to 
reach  the  bank  before  it  was  closed, 
and  there  made  his  arrangements. 
He  deposited  his  documents  and 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate. — Part  X. 


27 


securities,  and  was  assured  that  the 
necessary  sum  should  be  placed  to 
his  credit  on  the  following  day. 
Then  he  walked  across  a  street  or 
two  in  the  City  to  the  place  indicat- 
ed by  Bollum  for  the  appointment. 
It  was  at  the  Jericho  Coffee-house, 
in  Levant  Court, — a  silent,  secluded 
spot,  lying  between  Lombard  Street 
and  Cornhill.  Here  he  found  him- 
self ten  minutes  before  the  time, 
and,  asking  for  a  cup  of  coffee,  sat 
down  at  a  table  fixed  to  the  ground 
in  a  little  separate  box.  The  order 
was  given  to  a  young  woman  at  a 
bar  in  the  room.  Then  an  ancient 
waiter  hobbled  up  to  him  and  ex- 
plained that  coffee  was  not  quite 
ready.  In  truth,  coffee  was  not 
often  asked  for  at  the  Jericho  Cof- 
fee-house. The  house,  said  the 
waiter,  was  celebrated  for  its  sherry. 
Would  he  take  half  a  pint  of  sherry  1 
So  he  ordered  the  sherry,  which 
Avas  afterwards  drunk  by  Bollum. 

Bollum  came,  punctual  to  the 
moment,  and  seated  himself  at  the 
table  with  good-humoured  alacrity. 
"  Well,  Mr  Caldigate,  how  is  it  to 
be?  I  think  you  must  have  seen 
that  what  I  have  proposed  will  be 
for  the  best." 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  I  mean  to 
do,  Mr  Bollum,"  said  Caldigate, 
very  gravely.  "  It  cannot  be  said 
that  I  owe  Mr  Crinkett  a  shilling." 

"  Certainly  not.  But  it  comes 
very  near  owing,  doesn't  it  ? " 

"  So  near  that  I  mean  to  pay  it." 

"  That's  right."       . 

"  So  near  that  I  don't  like  to  feel 
that  I  have  got  his  money  nr  my 
pocket.  As  far  as  money  goes,  I 
have  been  a  fortunate  man.;J 

"Wonderful!"  said  Bollum,  en- 
thusiastically. 

"  And  as  I  was  once  in  partner- 
ship with  your  uncle,  I  do  not  like 
to  think  that  I  enriched  myself  by 
a  bargain  which  impoverished  him." 

"It  ain't  nice,  is  it, — that  you 
should  have  it  all,  and  he  nothing ?" 


"  Feeling  that  very  strongly," 
continued  Caldigate,  merely  shaking 
his  head  in  token  of  displeasure  at 
Bollum's  interruption,  "  I  have  de- 
termined to  repay  Mr  Crinkett  an 
amount  that  seems  to  rne  to  be  fair. 
He  shall  have  back  twenty  thousand 
pounds." 

"  He's  a  lucky  fellow,  and  he'll 
be  off  like  a  shot, — like  a  shot." 

"  He  and  others  have  conspired 
to  rob  me  of  all  my  happiness, 
thinking  that  they  might  so  most 
probably  get  this  money  from  me. 
They  have  invented  a  wicked  lie, 
— a  wicked,  damnable  lie, — a  dam- 
nable lie  !  They  are  miscreants, — 
foul  miscreants ! " 

"  Come,  come,  Mr  Caldigate." 

"  Foul  miscreants  !  But  they  shall 
have  their  money,  and  you  shall 
hear  me  tell  them  when  I  give  it 
to  them, — and  they  must  both  be 
here  to  take  it  from  my  hands, — 
that  I  do  not  at  all  require  their 
absence.  There  is  to  be  no  bar- 
gain between  us.  They  are  free  to 
remain  and  swear  their  false  oaths 
against  me.  Whether  they  go  or 
whether  they  stay  will  be  no  affair 
of  mine." 

"  They'll  go,  of  course,  Mr  Caldi- 
gate." 

"  Not  at  my  instance.  I  will  take 
care  that  that  shall  be  known.  They 
must  both  come;  and  into  their 
joint  hands  will  I  give  the  cheque, 
and  they  must  come  prepared  with, 
a  receipt  declaring  that  they  accept 
the  money  as  restitution  of  the  loss 
incurred  by  them  in  purchasing  the 
Polyeuka  mine  from  me.  Do  you 
understand?  And  I  shall  bring  a 
witness  with  me  to  see  them  take 
the  money."  Bollum,  who  was  con- 
siderably depressed  by  his  com- 
panion's manner,  said  that  he  did 
understand. 

"  I  suppose  I  can  have  a  private 
room  here,  at  noon  to-morrow1?" 
asked  Caldigate,  turning  to  the  wo- 
man at  the  bar. 


John  Caldigate. — Part  X. 


[Jan, 


"When  that  was  settled  he  assured 
Bollum  that  a  cheque  for  the  amount 
should  be  placed  in  the  joint  hands 
of  Thomas  Crinkett  and  Euphemia 
Smith  if  he,  and  they  with  him, 
would  be  there  at  noon  on  the 
following  day.  Bollum  in  vain 
attempted  to  manage  the  payment 
without  the  personal  interview,  but 
at  last  agreed  that  the  man  and  the 
woman  should  be  forthcoming. 

That  night  Caldigate  dined  at 
his  club,  one  of  the  University 
clubs,  at  which  he  had  been  elected 
just  at  the  time  of  his  marriage. 
He  had  seldom  been  there,  but 
now  walked  into  the  dinner-room, 
resolving  that  he  would  not  be 
ashamed  to  show  himself.  He  fan- 
cied that  everybody  looked  at  him, 
and  probably  there  were  some  pres- 
ent who  knew  that  he  was  about 
to  stand  his  trial  for  bigamy.  But 
he  got  his  dinner,  and  smoked  his 
cigar ;  and  before  the  evening  was 
over  he  had  met  an  old  College 
friend.  He  was  in  want  of  a  friend, 
and  explained  his  wants.  He  told 
something  of  his  immediate  story, 
and  then  asked  the  man  to  be  pres- 
ent at  the  scene  on  the  morrow. 

"  I  must  have  a  witness,  Gray," 
said  he,  "  and  you  will  do  me  a 
kindness  if  you  will  come."  Then 
Mr  Gray  promised  to  be  present  on 
the  occasion. 

On  the  following  morning  he 
met  Gray  at  the  club,  having  the 
cheque  ready  in  his  pocket,  and 
together  they  proceeded  to  Levant 
Court.  Again  he  was  a  little  before 
his  time,  and  the  two  sat  together 
in  the  gloomy  little  room  up-stairs. 
Bollum  was  the  first  to  come,  and 
when  he  saw  the  stranger,  was 
silent, — thinking  whether  it  might 
not  be  best  to  escape  and  warn 
Crinkett  and  the  woman  that  all 
might  not  be  safe.  But  the  stranger 
did  not  look  like  a  detective ;  and, 
as  he  told  himself,  why  should 
there  be  danger  1  So  he  waited,  and 


in  a  few  minutes  Crinkett  entered 
the  room,  with  the  woman  veiled. 

"Well,  Caldigate,"  said  Crink- 
ett, "  how  is  it  with  you1? " 

"  If  you  please,  Mrs  Smith,"  said 
Caldigate,  "  I  must  ask  you  to  re- 
move your  veil, — so  that  I  may  be 
sure  that  it  is  you." 

She  removed  her  veil  very  slowly, 
and  then  stood  looking  him  in  the 
face, — not  full  in  the  face,  for  she 
could  not  quite  raise  her  eyes  to 
meet  his.  And  though  she  made 
an  effort  to  brazen  it  out,  she  could 
not  quite  succeed.  She  attempted 
to  raise  her  head,  and  carry  herself 
with  pride;  but  every  now  and 
again  there  was  a  slight  quiver, — • 
slight,  but  still  visible.  The  effort, 
too,  was  visible.  But  there  she 
stood,  looking  at  him,  and  to  be 
looked  at, — but  without  a  word. 
During  the  whole  interview  she 
never  once  opened  her  lips. 

She  had  lost  all  her  comeliness.  It 
was  now  nearly  seven  years  since 
they  two  had  been  on  the  Gold- 
finder  together,  and  then  he  had 
found  her  very  attractive.  There 
was  no  attraction  now.  She  was 
much  aged ;  and  her  face  was 
coarse,  as  though  she  had  taken  to 
drinking.  But  there  was  still  about 
her  something  of  that  look  of  in- 
tellect which  had  captivated  him 
more,  perhaps,  than  her  beauty. 
Since  those  days  she  had  become  a 
slave  to  gold, — and  such  slavery 
is  hardly  compatible  with  good 
looks  in  a  woman.  There  she  stood, 
— ready  to  listen  to  him,  ready  to 
take  his  money,  but  determined 
not  to  utter  a  word. 

Then  he  took  the  cheque  out  of 
his  pocket,  and  holding  it  in  his 
hand,  spoke  to  them  as  follows ; 
"  I  have  explained  to  Mr  Bollum, 
and  have  explained  to  my  friend 
here,  Mr  Gray,  the  reasons  which 
induce  me  to  pay  to  you,  Thomas 
Crinkett,  and  to  you,  Euphemia 
Smith,  the  large  sum  of  twenty 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate. — Part  X. 


29 


thousand  pounds.  The  nature  of 
our  transactions  has  been  such  that 
I  feel  bound  in  honour  to  repay  so 
much  of  the  price  you  paid  for  the 
Polyeuka  mine." 

"  All  right,  Caldigate  ;  all  right," 
said  Crinkett. 

"And  I  have  explained  also  to 
both  of  them  that  this  payment  has 
nothing  whatever  to  do  with  the 
base,  false,  and  most  wicked  charge 
which  you  are  bringing  against  me. 
It  is  not  because  that  woman,  by  a 
vile  perjury,  claims  me  as  her  hus- 
band, and  because  I  wish  to  buy 
her  silence  or  his,  that  I  make  this 
restitution.  I  restore  the  money 
of  my  own  free  will,  without  any 
base  bargain.  You  can  go  on  with 
your  perjury  or  abstain  from  it,  as 
you  may  think  best." 

"We  understand,  squire,"  said 
Crinkett,  affecting  to  laugh.  "  You 
hand  over  the  money, — that's  all." 
Then  the  woman  looked  round  at 
her  companion,  and  a  frown  came 
across  her  face ;  but  she  said  no- 
thing, turning  her  face  again  upon 
Caldigate,  and  endeavouring  to  keep 
her  eyes  steadfastly  fixed  upon 
him. 

"Have    you    brought   a   receipt 


signed  by  both  of  you?"  Then 
Bollum  handed  him  a  receipt  signed 
"Thomas  Crinkett,  for  self  and 
partners."  But  Caldigate  demanded 
that  the  woman  also  should  sign  it. 

"  There  is  a  difficulty  about  the 
name,  you  see,"  said  Bollum.  There 
was  a  difficulty  about  the  name,  cer- 
tainly. It  would  not  be  fair,  he 
thought,  that  he  should  force  her 
to  the  use  of  a  name  she  disowned, 
and  he  did  not  wish  to  be  hindered 
from  what  he  was  doing  by  her 
persistency  in  calling  herself  by  his 
own  name. 

"  So  be  it,"  said  he.  "  There  is 
the  cheque.  Mr  Gray  will  see  that 
I  put  it  into  both  their  hands." 
This  he  did,  each  of  them  stretching 
out  a  hand  to  take  it.  "  And  now 
you  can  go  where  you  please  and  act 
as  you  please.  You  have  combined 
to  rob  me  of  all  that  I  value  most 
by  the  basest  of  lies ;  but  not  on 
that  account  have  I  abstained  from 
doing  what  I  believe  to  be  an  act 
of  justice."  Then  he  left  the  room, 
and  paying  for  the  use  of  it  to  the 
woman  at  the  bar,  walked  off  with 
his  friend  Gray,  leaving  Crinkett, 
Bollum,  and  the  woman  still  with- 
in the  house. 


CHAPTER   XL. WAITING   FOR   THE    TRIAL. 


As  he  returned  to  Cambridge 
Caldigate  was  not  altogether  con- 
tented with  himself.  He  tried  to 
persuade  himself,  in  reference  to  the 
money  which  he  had  refunded, 
that  in  what  he  had  done  he  had 
not  at  all  been  actuated  by  the 
charge  made  against  him.  Had 
there  been  no  such  accusation  he 
would  have  felt  himself  bound  to 
share  the  loss  with  these  people  as 
soon  as  he  had  learned  the  real  cir- 
cumstances. The  money  had  been 
a  burden  to  him.  For  the  satis- 
faction of  his  own  honour,  of  his 
own  feelings,  it  had  become  neces- 


sary that  the  money  should  be  re- 
funded. And  the  need  of  doing  so 
was  not  lessened  by  the  fact  that  a 
base  conspiracy  had  been  made  by 
a  gang  of  villains  who  had  thought 
that  the  money  might  thus  be  most 
readily  extracted  from  him.  That 
was  his  argument  with  himself,  and 
his  defence  for  what  he  had  done. 
But  nevertheless  he  was  aware  that 
he  had  been  driven  to  do  it  now, — 
to  pay  the  money  at  this  special  mo- 
ment,— by  an  undercurrent  of  hope 
that  these  enemies  would  think  it 
best  for  themselves  to  go  as  soon  as 
they  had  his  money  in  their  hands. 


30 


John  Caldlgate. — Part  X. 


[Jan. 


He  wished  to  be  honest,  he  wished 
to  be  honourable,  he  wished  that 
all  that  he  did  could  be  what  the 
world  calls  "  above  board ; "  but 
still  it  was  so  essential  for  him  and 
for  his  wife  that  they  should  go! 
He  had  been  very  steady  in  assuring 
these  wretched  ones  that  they  might 
go  or  stay,  as  they  pleased.  He  had 
been  careful  that  there  should  be  a 
credible  witness  of  his  assurance. 
He  might  succeed  in  making  others 
believe  that  he  had  not  attempted 
to  purchase  their  absence;  but  he 
could  not  make  himself  believe  it. 

Even  though  a  jury  should  not 
convict  him,  there  was  so  much  in 
his  Australian  life  which  would  not 
bear  the  searching  light  of  cross- 
examination  !  The  same  may  prob- 
ably be  said  of  most  of  us.  In 
such  trials  as  this  that  he  was  an- 
ticipating, there  is  often  a  special 
cruelty  in  the  exposure  of  matters 
which  are  for  the  most  part  happily 
kept  in  the  background.  A  man 
on  some  occasion  inadvertently  takes 
a  little  more  wine  than  is  good  for 
him.  It  is  an  accident  most  un- 
common with  him,  and  nobody 
thinks  much  about  it.  But  chance 
brings  the  case  to  the  notice  of  the 
police  courts,  and  the  poor  victim  is 
published  to  the  world  as  a  drunk- 
ard in  the  columns  of  all  the  news- 
papers. Some  young  girl  fancies 
herself  in  love,  and  the  man  is  un- 
worthy. The  feeling  passes  away, 
and  none  but  herself,  and  perhaps 
her  mother,  are  the  wiser.  But  if 
by  some  chance,  some  treachery,  a 
letter  should  get  printed  and  read, 
the  poor  girl's  punishment  is  so 
severe  that  she  is  driven  to  wish 
herself  in  the  grave. 

He  had  been  foolish,  very  fool- 
ish, as  we  have  seen,  on  board 
the  Goldfinder,  —  and  wicked  too. 
There  could  be  no  doubt  about 
that.  "When  it  would  all  come  out 
in  this  dreaded  trial  he  would  be 
quite  unable  to  defend  himself. 
There  was  enough  to  enable  Mrs 


Bolton  to  point  at  him  with  a 
finger  of  scorn  as  a  degraded  sin- 
ner. And  yet, — yet  there  had  been 
nothing  which  he  had  not  dared  to 
own  to  his  wife  in  the  secrecy  of 
their  mutual  confidence,  and  which, 
in  secret,  she  had  not  been  able  to 
condone  without  a  moment's  hesita- 
tion. He  had  been  in  love  with 
the  woman, — in  love  alter  a  fashion. 
He  had  promised  to  marry  her.  He 
had  done  worse  than  that.  And 
then,  when  he  had  found  that  the 
passion  for  gold  was  strong  upon 
her,  he  had  bought  his  freedom 
from  her.  The  story  would  be  very 
bad  as  told  in  Court,  and  yet  he  had 
told  it  all  to  his  wife !  She  had 
admitted  his  excuse  when  he  had 
spoken  of  the  savageness  of  his  life, 
of  the  craving  which  a  man  would 
feel  for  some  feminine  society,  of 
her  undoubted  cleverness,  and  then 
of  her  avarice.  And  then  when  he 
swore  that  through  it  all  he  had 
still  loved  her, — her,  Hester  Bolton, 
— whom  he  had  but  once  seen,  but 
whom,  having  seen,  he  had  never 
allowed  to  pass  out  of  his  mind, 
she  still  believed  him,  and  thought 
that  the  holiness  of  that  love  had 
purified  him.  She  believed  him ; 
— but  who  else  would  believe  him  ? 
Of  course  he  was  most  anxious  that 
those  people  should  go. 

Before  he  left  London  he  wrote 
both  to  Mr  Seely  and  to  Robert 
Bolton,  saying  what  he  had  done. 
The  letter  to  his  own  attorney  was 
long  and  full.  He  gave  an  account 
in  detail  of  the  whole  matter,  de- 
claring that  he  would  not  allow 
himself  to  be  hindered  from  paying 
a  debt  which  he  believed  to  be  due, 
by  the  wickedness  of  those  to  whom 
it  was  owing.  "  The  two  things 
have  nothing  to  do  with  each 
other,"  he  said;  "  and  if  you  choose 
to  throw  up  my  defence,  of  course 
you  can  do  so.  I  cannot  allow 
myself  to  be  debarred  from  exercis- 
ing my  own  judgment  in  another 
matter,  because  you  think  that  what 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate.— Part  X. 


31 


I  decide  upon  doing  may  not  tally 
with  your  views  as  to  my  defence." 
To  Robert  Bolton  he  was  much 
shorter.  "  I  think  you  ought  to 
know  what  I  have  done,"  he  said; 
"at  any  rate,  I  do  not  choose  that 
you  should  be  left  in  ignorance." 
Mr  Seely  took  no  notice  of  the 
communication,  not  feeling  himself 
bound  to  carry  out  his  threat  by 
withdrawing  his  assistance  from  his 
client.  But  Robert  and  William 
Bolton  agreed  to  have  Crinkett's 
movements  watched  by  a  detective 
policeman.  They  were  both  deter- 
mined that  if  possible  Crinkett  and 
the  woman  should  be  kept  in  the 
country. 

In  these  days  the  old  squire  made 
many  changes  in  his  residence, 
vacillating  between  his  house  in 
Cambridge  and  the  house  at  Folk- 
ing.  His  books  were  at  Cambridge, 
and  he  could  not  have  them  brought 
back ;  and  yet  he  felt  that  he  ought 
to  evince  his  constancy  to  his  son, 
his  conviction  of  his  son's  inno- 
cence, by  remaining  at  Eolking. 
And  he  was  aware,  too,  that  his  pre- 
sence there  was  a  comfort  both  to 
his  son  and  Hester.  When  John 
Caldigate  had  gone  up  to  London, 
his  father  had  been  in  Cambridge, 
but  on  his  return  he  found  the  old 
squire  at  his  old  house.  "  Yes," 
he  said,  telling  the  story  of  what 
he  had  just  done,  "  I  have  paid 
twenty  thousand  pounds  out  of 
hand  to  those  rascals,  simply  be- 
cause I  thought  I  owed  it  to 
them  ! "  The  squire  shook  his 
head,  not  being  able  to  approve  of 
the  act.  "  I  don't  see  why  I  should 
have  allowed  myself  to  be  hindered 
from  doing  what  I  thought  to  be 
right,  because  they  were  doing  what 
they  knew  to  be  wrong." 

"  They  won't  go,  you  know." 

"  I  daresay  not,  sir.  Why  should 
they  ] " 

"  But  the  jury  will  believe  that 
you  intended  to  purchase  their  ab- 
sence.' 


"I  think  I  have  made  all  that 
clear." 

"I  am  afraid  not,  John.  The 
man  applied  to  you  for  the  money, 
and  was  refused.  That  was  the 
beginning  of  it.  Then  the  applica- 
tion was  repeated  by  the  woman  with 
a  threat ;  and  you  again  refused. 
Then  they  present  themselves  to 
the  magistrates,  and  make  the  accu- 
sation ;  and,  upon  that,  you  pay 
the  money.  Of  course  it  will  come 
out  at  the  trial  that  you  paid  it 
immediately  after  this  renewed  ap- 
plication from  Bollum.  It  would 
have  been  better  to  have  defied 
them." 

"  I  did  defy  them,"  said  John 
Caldigate.  But  all  that  his  father 
said  seemed  to  him  to  be  true,  so 
that  he  repented  himself  of  what 
he  had  done. 

He  made  no  inquiry  on  the  sub- 
ject, but,  early  in  May  he  heard 
from  Mr  Seely  that  Crinkett  and 
the  woman  were  still  in  London, 
and  that  they  had  abandoned  the 
idea  of  going  at  once  to  Australia. 
According  to  Mr  Seely's  story, — of 
the  truth  of  which  he  declared  him- 
self to  be  by  no  means  certain, — 
Crinkett  had  wished  to  go,  but  had 
been  retained  by  the  woman.  "As 
far  as  I  can  learn,"  said  Mr  Seely, 
"  she  is  in  communication  with  the 
Boltons,  who  will  of  course  keep  her 
if  it  be  possible.  He  would  get  off 
if  he  could ;  but  she,  I  take  it,  has 
got  hold  of  the  money.  When  you 
made  the  cheque  payable  to  her 
order,  you  effectually  provided  for 
their  remaining  here.  If  he  could 
have  got  the  money  without  her 
name,  he  would  have  gone,  and  she 
would  have  gone  with  him." 

"  But  that  was  not  my  object," 
said  Caldigate,  angrily.  Mr  Seely 
thereupon  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

Early  in  June  the  mail  came 
back  who  had  been  sent  out  to 
Sydney  in  February  on  behalf  of 
Caldigate.  He  also  had  been  com- 
missioned to  seek  for  evidence,  and 


32 


John  Caldigate. — Part  X. 


[Jan. 


to  bring  back  with  him,  almost  at 
any  cost,  whatever  witness  or  wit- 
nesses he  might  find  whose  pres- 
ence in  England  would  serve  Cal- 
digate's  cause.  But  he  brought  no 
one,  and  had  learned  very  little. 
He  too  had  been  at  Ahalala  and  at 
Nobble.  At  Nobble  the  people 
were  now  very  full  of  the  subject, 
find  were  very  much  divided  in  opin- 
ion. There  were  Crinketters  and 
anti  -  Crinketters,  Caldigatites  and 
anti-Caldigatites.  A  certain  number 
of  persons  were  ready  to  swear  that 
there  had  been  a  marriage,  and  an 
equal  number,  perhaps,  to  swear 
that  there  had  been  none.  But  no 
new  fact  had  been  brought  to  light. 
Dick  Shand  had  not  been  found, — 
who  had  been  living  with  Caldigate 
when  the  marriage  was  supposed  to 
have  been  solemnised.  Nor  had 
that  register  been  discovered  from 
which  the  copy  of  the  certificate 
was  supposed  to  have  been  taken. 
All  through  the  colony, — so  said 
this  agent, — a  very  great  interest 
was  felt  in  the  matter.  The  news- 
papers from  day  to  day  contained 
paragraphs  about  it.  But  nobody 
had  appeared  whom  it  was  worth 
while  to  bring  home.  Mrs  Hen- 
niker,  of  the  hotel  at  Nobble,  had 
offered  to  swear  that  there  had 
been  no  marriage.  This  offer  she 
made  and  repeated  when  she  had 
•come  to  understand  accurately  on 
whose  behalf  this  last  agent  had 
€ome  to  the  colony.  But  then, 
before  she  had  understood  this,  she 
had  offered  to  swear  the  reverse ; 
and  it  became  known  that  she  was 
very  anxious  to  be  carried  back  to 
the  old  country  free  of  expense.  No 
credible  witness  could  be  found 
who  had  heard  Caldigate  call  the 
woman  Mrs  Smith  after  the  date 
assigned  to  the  marriage.  She  no 
-doubt  had  used  various  names,  had 
called  herself  sometimes  Mrs  Cal- 
digate, sometimes  Mrs  Smith,  but 
generally,  in  such  documents  as  she 
liad  to  sign  in  reference  to  her 


mining  shares,  Euphemia  Cettini. 
It  was  by  that  name  that  she  had 
been  known  in  Sydney  when  per- 
forming on  the  stage ;  and  it  was 
now  alleged  on  her  behalf  that  she 
had  bought  and  sold  shares  in  that 
name  under  the  idea  that  she  would 
thus  best  secure  to  herself  their 
separate  and  undisturbed  possession. 
Proof  was  brought  home  that  Caldi- 
gate himself  had  made  over  to  her 
shares  in  that  name ;  but  Mr  Seely 
did  not  depend  much  on  this  as 
proof  against  the  marriage. 

Mr  Seely  seemed  to  depend  very 
little  on  anything, — so  little  that 
Caldigate  almost  wished  that  he  had 
carried  out  his  threat  and  thrown 
up  the  case.  "  Does  he  not  believe 
you  when  you  tell  him  1 "  his  wife 
asked.  Caldigate  was  forced  to 
confess  that  apparently  the  lawyer 
did  not  believe  him.  In  fact,  Mr 
Seely  had  even  said  as  much.  "In 
such  cases  a  lawyer  should  never 
believe  or  disbelieve;  or,  if  he  does, 
he  should  never  speak  of  his  belief. 
It  is  with  your  acquittal  or  convic- 
tion that  I  am  concerned,  in  which 
matter  I  can  better  assist  you  by 
cpol  judgment  than  by  any  fervid 
assurance."  All  this  made  Caldi- 
gate not  only  angry  but  unhappy, 
for  he  could  not  fail  to  perceive 
that  the  public  around  him  were  in 
the  same  mind  as  Mr  Seely.  In  his 
own  parish  they  believed  him,  but 
apparently  not  beyond  his  parish. 
It  might  be  possible  that  he  should 
escape, — that  seemed  to  be  the  gen- 
eral opinion ;  but  then  general  opin- 
ion went  on  to  declare  that  there 
was  no  reason  for  supposing  that 
he  had  not  married  the  woman 
merely  because  he  said  that  he  had 
not  done  so. 

Then  gradually  there  fell  upon 
poor  Hester's  mind  a  doubt, — and, 
after  that,  almost  a  conviction. 
Not  a  doubt  as  to  her  husband's 
truth  !  No  suspicion  on  that  score 
ever  troubled  her  for  a  moment. 
But  there  came  upon  her  a  fear, 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate. — Part  X. 


33 


almost  more  than  a  fear,  that  these 
terrible  enemies  would  be  strong 
enough  to  override  the  truth,  and  to 
carry  with  them  both  a  judge  and 
a  jury.  As  the  summer  months 
ran  on,  they  all  became  aware  that 
for  any  purpose  of  removing  the 
witnesses  the  money  had  been  paid 
in  vain.  Crinkett  was  living  in 
all  opulence  at  a  hotel  at  Bright- 
on ;  and  the  woman,  calling  herself 
Mrs  Caldigate,  had  taken  furnished 
apartments  in  London.  Eumour 
came  that  she  was  frequently  seen 
at  the  theatres,  and  that  she  had 
appeared  more  than  once  in  an 
open  carriage  in  the  parks.  There 
was  no  doubt  but  that  Caldigate's 
money  had  made  them  very  com- 
fortable for  the  present.  The  whole 
story  of  the  money  had  been  made 
public,  and  of  course  there  were 
various  opinions  about  it.  The 
prevailing  idea  was,  that  an  attempt 
had  been  made  to  buy  off  the  first 
wife,  but  that  the  first  wife  had 
been  clever  enough  to  get  the  money 
without  having  to  go.  Caldigate 
was  thought  to  have  been  very 
foolish ;  on  which  subject  Bollum 
once  expressed  himself  strongly  to 
a  friend.  ".Clever!"  he  said;  "Cal- 
digate clever  !  The  greatest  idiot 
I  ever  came  across  in  my  life  !  I'd 
made  it  quite  straight  for  him, — so 
that  there  couldn't  have  been  a  wrin- 
kle. But  he  wouldn't  have  it.  There 
are  men  so  soft  that  one  can't  un- 
derstand 'em."  To  do  Bollum  jus- 
tice it  should  be  said  that  he  was 
most  anxious  to  induce  his  uncle 
and  the  woman  to  leave  the  country 
when  they  had  got  the  money. 

Though  very  miserable,  Hester 
was  very  brave.  In  the  presence 
of  her  husband  she  would  never 
allow  herself  to  seem  to  doubt.  She 
would  speak  of  their  marriage  as  a 
thing  so  holy  that  nothing  within 
the  power  of  man  could  disturb  it. 
Of  course  they  were  man  and  wife, 
and  of  course  the  truth  would  at 

VOL.  CXXV. — NO.  DCCLIX. 


last  prevail.  Was  not  the  Lord 
able,  in  His  own  good  time,  to  set 
all  these  matters  right1?  And  in 
discussing  the  matter  with  him  she 
would  always  seem  to  imply  that 
the  Lord's  good  time  would  be  the 
time  of  the  trial.  She  would  never 
herself  hint  to  him  that  there  might 
be  a  period  of  separation  coming. 
Though  in  secrecy  she  was  preparing 
for  what  might  befall  him,  turning 
over  in  her  woman's  mind  how  she 
might  best  relieve  the  agony  of  his 
jail,  she  let  no  sign  escape  her  that 
she  looked  forward  to  such  misery. 
She  let  no  such  sign  escape  her  in 
her  intercourse  with  him.  But  with 
his  father  she  could  speak  more 
freely.  It  had,  indeed,  come  to  be 
understood  between  her  and  the  old 
squire,  that  it  would  be  best  that 
they  should  discuss  the  matter 
openly.  Arrangements  must  be 
made  for  their  future  life,  so  that 
when  the  blow  came  they  might  not 
be  unprepared.  Hester  declared 
that  nothing  but  positive  want  of 
shelter  should  induce  her  to  go  back 
to  Chesterton.  "  They  think  him 
to  be  all  that's  bad,"  she  said.  "  I 
know  him  to  be  all  that's  good. 
How  is  it  possible  that  we  should 
live  together  1 "  The  old  man  had, 
of  course,  turned  it  over  much  in  his 
mind.  If  it  could  be  true  that  that 
woman  had  in  truth  become  his 
son's  wife,  and  that  this  dear,  sweet, 
young  mother  had  been  deceived, 
betrayed,  and  cheated  out  of  her 
very  existence,  then  that  house  at 
Folking  could  be  no  proper  home 
for  her.  Her  grave  would  be  best ; 
but  till  that  might  be  reached,  any 
home  would  be  better  than  Folking. 
But  he  was  almost  sure  that  it  was 
not  so;  and  her  confidence, — old  as 
he  was,  and  prone  to  be  suspicious, 
— made  him  confident. 

When  the  moment  came  he  could 

not  doubt   how  he  would   answer 

her.     He  could  not  crush  her  spirit 

by  seeming  for  a  moment  to  have 

c 


34 


John  Caldigate. — Part  X. 


[Jan. 


a  suspicion.  "  Your  home,  of  course, 
shall  be  here,"  he  said.  "  It  shall 
be  your  own  house." 

"And  you?" 

"  It  shall  be  my  house  too.  If 
it  should  come  to  that,  we  will  be, 
at  any  rate,  together.  You  shall 
not  be  left  without  a  friend." 

"  It  is  not  for  myself,"  she  said, 
"but  for  his  boy  and  for  him; — 
what  will  be  best  for  them.  I 
would  take  a  cabin  at  the  prison- 
gate,  so  as  to  be  nearest  to  him, — if 
it  were  only  myself."  And  so  it  was 
settled  between  them,  that  should 
that  great  misery  fall  upon  them, 
she  would  remain  at  Folking  and  he 
would  remain  with  her.  Nothing 
that  judge  or  jury  could  do  would 
deprive  her  of  the  right  to  occupy 
her  husband's  house. 

In  this  way  the  months  of  May 
and  June  and  the  first  fortnight  of 
July  wore  themselves  away,  and 
then  the  time  for  the  trial  had 
come.  Up  to  the  last  it  had  been 
hoped  that  tidings  might  be  heard 
either  by  letter  or  telegram  from 
Dick  Shand ;  but  it  seemed  that 
he  had  vanished  from  the  face  of 
the  earth.  JSTo  suggestion  of  news 
as  to  his  whereabouts  was  received 
on  which  it  might  have  been  pos- 
sible to  found  an  argument  for  the 
further  postponement  of  the  trial. 
Mr  Seely  had  been  anxious  for  such 
postponement,  —  perhaps  thinking 
that  as  the  hotel  at  Brighton  and 
the  carriages  in  the  park  were 
expensive,  Crinkett  and  the  lady 
might  take  their  departure  for 
Australia  without  saying  a  word  to 
the  lawyer  who  had  undertaken  the 
prosecution.  But  there  was  no 
adequate  ground  for  delay,  and  on 
Tuesday  the  17th  July  the  trial  was 
to  be  commenced.  On  the  previous 
day  Caldigate,  at  his  own  request, 
was  introduced  to  Sir  John  Joram, 
who  had  been  brought  down  special 
to  Cambridge  for  his  defence.  Mr 
Seely  had  advised  him  not  to  see  the 


barrister  who  was  to  defend  him, 
leaving  it,  however,  quite  at  his 
option  to  do  so  or  not  as  he  pleased. 
"  Sir  John  will  see  you,  but  I  think 
he  had  rather  not,"  said  Mr  Seely. 
But  Caldigate  had  chosen  to  have 
the  interview.  "  I  have  thought  it 
best  to  say  just  one  word  to  you," 
said  Caldigate. 

"I  am  quite  at  your  service," 
said  Sir  John. 

"I  want  you  to  hear  from  my 
own  lips  that  a  falser  charge  than 
this  was  never  made  against  a  man." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Sir 
John, — and  then  he  paused.  "  That 
is  to  say,  Mr  Caldigate,  I  am 
bound  in  courtesy  to  you  to  make 
some  such  civil  reply  as  I  should 
have  made  had  I  not  been  employed 
in  your  case,  and  had  circumstances 
then  induced  you  to  make  such  a 
statement  to  me.  But  in  truth,  as 
I  am  so  employed,  no  statement 
from  your  lips  ought  to  affect  me  in 
the  least.  For  your  own  sake  I  will 
say  that  no  statement  will  affect  me. 
It  is  not  for  me  to  believe  or  dis- 
believe anything  in  this  matter. 
If,  carried  away  by  my  feelings,  I 
were  to  appeal  to  the  jury  for  their 
sympathy  because  of  my  belief,  I 
should  betray  your  cause.  It  will 
be  my  duty  not  to  make  the  jury 
believe  you,  who,  in  your  position, 
will  not  be  expected  even  to  tell 
the  truth ;  but  to  induce  them,  if 
possible,  to  disbelieve  the  witnesses 
against  you  who  will  be  on  their 
oath.  Second-hand  protestations 
from  an  advocate  are  never  of  much 
avail,  and  in  many  cases  have  been 
prejudicial.  I  can  only  assure  you  that 
I  understand  the  importance  of  the 
interests  confided  to  me,  and  that  I 
will  endeavour  to  be  true  to  my  trust." 

Caldigate,  who  wanted  sympathy, 
who  wanted  an  assurance  of  con- 
fidence in  his  word,  was  by  no 
means  contented  with  his  counsel- 
lor ;  but  he  was  too  wise  at  the  pres- 
ent moment  to  quarrel  with  him. 


1879.] 


The  Hai'en  of  Carmel. 


35 


THE    HAVEN    OF    CARMEL. 


THE  shore-line  which  bounds  the 
Mediterranean  on  the  south-east  is 
cue  of  the  straightest  in  the  world. 
The  current  of  the  Xile  brings 
with  it  the  soil  of  Upper  Egypt, 
and  spreads  it  along  the  coast 
of  Palestine  almost  as  far  north 
as  Jaffa.  The  traveller  who 
approaches  the  Holy  Land  from 
Egypt  sees  before  him  an  inhos- 
pitable beach  strewn  with  wrecks 
and  backed  by  glaring  yellow  sand- 
dunes.  For  two  hundred  miles 
from  Port  Said  this  harbourless 
coast  stretches  northwards  to  the 
promontory  of  Carmel.  Gaza,  As- 
calon,  Joppa,  and  Cccsarea  have  no 
natural  harbours;  and  the  small 
ports  once  formed  at  these  cities, 
behind  the  dangerous  reefs,  are 
now,  with  the  exception  of  Joppa, 
choked  by  sand,  and  entirely  un- 
used. 

But  on  reaching  the  Carmel  pro- 
montory, crowned  by  its  lighthouse 
and  its  white  fortress-monastery,  a 
new  scene  opens  before  the  eye. 
A  bay,  three  miles  deep  and  eight 
miles  across,  runs  in  with  a  regular 
sweep.  At  the  south  end  is  the 
small  walled  town  of  Haifa,  the 
ancient  Hepha  or  "  haven  "  of  Jew- 
ish times.  On  the  north,  the  famous 
town  of  Acre  —  the  last  Christian 
stronghold  in  Palestine — rises  from 
the  water,  girt  with  the  walls  which 
were  first  built  by  Crusaders,  and 
afterwards  repaired  by  the  famous 
Syrian  chief,  Dhahr  el  Amr. 

The  scenery  of  this  bay  is  per- 
haps the  most  charming  to  be 
found  in  Palestine. 

On  the  south  is  Carmel — a  long 
dark  ridge,  clothed  with  dense 
copses,  in  which  the  fallow-deer, 
the  roebuck,  and  the  gazelle  are 
found;  while  at  its  north-west  or 
sea  extremity  the  monastery  stands, 


surrounded  with  rich  vineyards,  at- 
testing the  fertility  of  the  red  moun- 
tain-soil. The  ridge  is  narrow,  and 
the  northern  slopes  very  steep;  while 
to  the  south  a  maze  of  deep  pre- 
cipitous valleys,  full  of  clear  springs, 
divides  the  block  of  hill  into  an  in- 
tricate system  of  spurs  and  rounded 
tops.  The  long  hog's-back  whence 
these  run  out  rises  to  about  1700 
feet  above  the  sea,  and  forms  a 
protection  for  the  bay  in  the  time 
of  the  winter  gales,  which  beat 
from  the  south-west.  The  pro- 
montory and  reefs  which  run  out 
below  the  mountain,  also  break  the 
force  of  the  sea;  and  thus  the  Haven 
of  Carmel  is  the  only  place  in  Pales- 
tine where  the  mail-boats  can  touch 
in  all  weathers  during  the  winter. 

On  the  narrow  plain  between 
Carmel  and  the  shore  stands  Haifa, 
a  town  of  4000  inhabitants  squeezed 
in  between  four  brown  walls  a  cen- 
tury old,  and  presenting  the  usual 
picturesque  and  half-ruinous  appear- 
ance of  Levantine  towns.  Above 
it  stands  an  old  square  tower,  in 
whose  walls  the  shot  and  shell  of 
the  English  guns  of  18-40  are  still 
sticking.  Between  Haifa  and  the 
promontory  is  the  neat  village  of 
the  German  colony,  and  beyond 
this  the  ruins  of  Haifa  'Attka,  and 
the  ancient  rock-cut  cemetery  of 
Jewish  tombs. 

About  a  mile  north-east  of  Haifa, 
the  Kishon  enters  the  sea,  flowing 
down  under  the  brow  of  Carmel 
from  the  broad  inland  plain  of  Es- 
draelon.  Rows  of  tall  date-palms, 
standing  on  the  sand-dunes  which 
have  gradually  forced  the  stream 
northwards,  surround  the  lagoons 
at  its  mouth. 

Following  the  line  of  the  bay,  we 
arrive  next  at  the  Belus  river,  which 
runs  into  the  sea  just  south  of  Acre, 


36 


The  Haven  of  Carmel. 


[Jan, 


and  which  repeats  the  scenery  of 
the  Kishon  mouth.  The  name  of 
the  Belus  is  scarcely  less  familiar  to 
us  than  that  of  the  southern  stream, 
as  being  the  famous  scene  of  the 
discovery  of  glass;  and  the  white 
sand,  which  was  thought  by  the 
ancient  sailors  to  have  such  peculiar 
properties,  is  still  heaped  up  on 
either  bank,  where  the  rapid  current 
runs  down  to  the  sea  with  a  per- 
ennial supply  of  clear  water. 

The  view  northwards  from  Haifa 
is  striking.  The  long  line  of  the 
Galilean  mountains  rises  gradually 
from  the  Ladder  of  Tyre  to  the 
crags  of  Jebel  Jermuk,  and  behind 
these  appears  the  snowy  dome  of 
Hermon,  eighty  miles  away.  In  the 
evening,  about  sunset,  the  colour- 
ing of  this  view  is  marvellous.  The 
mountains  are  suffused  with  a  flush, 
at  first  of  mellow  amber  colour,  but 
gradually  deepening  to  a  rich  rosy 
red.  Long  blue  shadows  slowly 
creep  up  the  slopes,  and  the  tall 
minaret  at  Acre  stands  out  white 
against  them.  The  brilliant  hues 
fade  rapidly,  a  dull  leaden  colour 
spreads  over  the  hills  and  over  the 
smooth  waters  of  the  bay,  while 
only  the  top  of  Hermon,  9000  feet 
above  the  sea,  still  reflects  the  sun's 
rays  for  a  few  minutes  longer. 

The  roadstead  of  Carmel  is  capa- 
ble of  being  easily  made  into  a  good 
harbour.  A  breakwater  might  run 
out  from  the  promontory,  formed  of 
the  stone  of  the  mountain,  already 
quarried  by  the  Germans ;  while  the 
line  of  beach  is  sufficiently  wide 
to  admit  of  quays  and  buildings 
extending  along  it.  At  Acre  are 
remains  of  the  old  medieval  port, 
and  of  the  tower  el  Mendrali  ("  the 
lighthouse ")  on  its  rock  at  the 
entrance ;  but  the  small  port  has 
been  filled  up  with  sand  and  stones, 
and  even  if  reopened  would  be  ex- 
posed to  the  full  force  of  the  storms 
blowing  on  shore,  unbroken  as  at 
Haifa  by  the  mountain-ridge. 


Napoleon  called  Acre  "the  key 
of  Syria  ; "  but  the  dictum  applies 
still  better  to  Haifa.  Not  only 
does  it  possess  a  sheltered  harbour,, 
but  it  forms  a  natural  landing-place, 
whence  main  roads  lead  in  every 
direction.  The  maritime  plain  ex- 
tending from  Carmel  to  the  Lad- 
der of  Tyre,  communicates  by  three 
passes  with  the  inland  plateaux  of 
Esdraelon  and  the  Buttauf.  The 
main  routes  to  Shechem,  to  the  corn- 
plains  of  the  Hauran,  to  Damascus,  to 
Upper  Galilee,  and  along  the  coast 
north  or  south,  all  radiate  from 
Haifa.  The  town  is  already  gaining 
in  importance,  while  Acre  remains 
ruinous;  and  should  civilisation  ever 
reach  the  shores  of  Palestine,  the 
Carmel  Plaven  would  immediately 
become  a  port  of  consequence. 

Haifa  is  one  of  the  harbours 
which  has  a  claim  to  consideration 
as  the  starting-point  of  the  Eu- 
phrates Valley  Railway.  This  idea 
was  first  proposed  in  1873,  and  has 
of  late  been  warmly  advocated.  Ii* 
its  favour  it  may  be  said  that  south 
of  the  bay  of  Iskanderun  there  is 
no  point  where  the  inland  water- 
shed can  be  more  easily  crossed. 
A  harbour  exists  at  Beirut,  but  the 
steep  ridge  of  Lebanon  rises  behind 
it.  Tyre  has  been  proposed  as  the 
starting  -  point,  but  possesses  no- 
very  observable  advantages,  as  the 
small  and  very  exposed  harbour  is 
filled  up  with  sand,  and  as  the 
country  behind  is  rugged  and  moun- 
tainous. From  Haifa  only  can  the 
Palestine  watershed  be  easily  cross- 
ed, as  the  greatest  elevation  in  the 
plain  of  Esdraelon  would  be  only 
250  feet  above  the  sea. 

There  are,  however,  many  diffi- 
culties connected  with  this  route- 
which  probably  will  prevent  its 
competing  with  that  from  Iskan- 
derun. It  is  true  that  nearly  200' 
miles  might  be  saved  by  a  direct 
line  from  Carmel  by  Bozrah  and 
Baghdad  to  Bassorah  on  Euphrates,. 


1879.] 


The  Haven  of  Carmel. 


37 


as  compared  with  that  by  Antioch, 
Aleppo,  and  Birehjik;  but  the  levels 
.are  in  favour  of  the  longer  route. 
The  deep  valley  of  the  Jordan 
would  have  to  be  crossed  by  the 
southern  line,  and  a  fall  of  1100 
feet  would  occur  in  less  than  25 
miles.  After  crossing  the  river,  the 
line  of  the  Yermuk  or  Hieromax 
would  be  followed — a  narrow  valley 
between  walls  of  white  rock — and 
in  about  30  miles  the  ascent  would 
be  not  less  than  2000  feet.  The 
highest  point  reached  by  the  north- 
ern route  is  only  about  1900  feet 
above  the  sea ;  and  the  ascent  is 
gradual,  no  deep  gorge  like  that 
of  Jordan  intervening. 

A  second  objection  of  greater 
force  may  also  be  urged  against  the 
•Carmel  line.  It  must  of  necessity 
•cross  some  part  of  the  waterless 
and  unknown  wilds  called  Bedi- 
yet-esh-Sham,  "  the  waste  of  Dam- 
ascus." 

From  Jordan  to  Euphrates  this 
wilderness  is  inhabited  by  almost 
independent  Arab  tribes — the  fierce 
Sugr  or  "hawk"  Arabs,  and  the 
great  nation  of  the  'Anazeh  or 
4 'goat-keepers." 

These  nomads  are  able,  indeed, 
to  support  large  droves  of  camels, 
cattle,  and  even  horses,  on  the 
water  found  in  the  desert;  but  they 
are  at  times  driven  to  the  boundary 
livers  by  thirst,  and  would  certain- 
ly resist  any  attempt  to  invade 
their  country  and  to  drink  up  their 
water.  The  line  would  be  rendered 
costly  by  the  great  difficulty  of 
obtaining  supplies,  and  by  the  con- 
stant hostility  of  the  lawless  tribes. 

As  a  starting  -  point  for  other 
lines  the  Carmel  port  would,  how- 
•ever,  prove  most  valuable.  Da- 
mascus, Horns,  Hamah,  and  Alep- 
po might  thus  be  connected  with 
the  coast,  and  a  line  to  Jerusalem 
through  Nablus  would  be  far  more 
easily  made  than  the  proposed  rail- 
way from  Jaffa,  which  could  only 


at  great  expense  be  carried  up  the 
hill-rampart  which  rises  west  of  the 
Holy  City.  The  accessibility  of 
Shechem  (or  Nablus)  is  a  matter  of 
special  importance;  for  that  city — 
the  first  gathering-place  of  Israel 
— will  prove  in  all  probability  the 
true  capital  of  Palestine.  Situate 
in  cool  healthy  mountains,  in  the 
centre  of  the  land,  close  to  the  most 
fertile  plains  and  the  finest  olive- 
gardens  and  vineyards — supplied 
with  water  from  a  score  of  beau- 
tiful springs  —  Shechem  possesses 
advantages  with  which  the  little 
mountain-town  of  Jerusalem  could 
not  hope  to  compete. 

The  position  of  Haifa  possesses 
military  not  less  than  industrial 
advantages,  and  the  town  may  for 
this  reason  alone  become  some  day 
famous.  No  military  man  can  look 
at  the  map  without  seeing  in  the 
little  district  (scarcely  larger  than 
Cyprus)  which  comprises  the  full 
extent  of  the  Holy  Land  from  Dan 
to  Beersheba,  a  natural  bulwark  de- 
fending the  Suez  Canal  against  at- 
tack from  any  point  in  Asia  Minor. 
In  Palestine  a  second  Torres  Vedras 
might  be  established  —  a  base  of 
operations  in  a  position  in  imme- 
diate communication  with  the  sea, 
and  which  must  be  attacked  in 
front,  as  it  could  neither  be  out- 
flanked nor  masked. 

The  deep  trench  of  the  Jordan 
valley  can  only  be  easily  crossed 
just  south  of  the  Sea  of  Galilee;  and 
thence  by  the  valley  of  Jezreel,  the 
plain  of  Esdraelon,  and  the  smal- 
ler plain  of  Dothan,  lies  the  high- 
way from  Aleppo  and  Damascus  to 
Egypt.  It  is  the  same  highway  by 
which  Thothmes  advanced  before 
the  Exodus,  and  Necho  when  he 
met  Josiah  at  Megiddo.  Strange 
as  it  may  appear,  the  battle  of 
Armageddon  is  a  military  proba- 
bility, because  the  strategical  lines 
of  advance  are  not  changed  by  mod- 
ern tactical  improvements,  and  the 


The  Haven  of  Oarmel. 


[Jan, 


old  battle-fields  of  Palestine  might 
again  form  the  theatre  of  civilised 
contests. 

The  rugged  chain  of  Lebanon, 
the  Eastern  desert,  the  difficult 
Judean  hills,  bound  the  line  of  ad- 
vance, and  confine  it  to  the  imme- 
diate neighbourhood  of  Carmel  and 
the  bay  of  Acre. 

It  is  a  curious  and  perhaps  not 
unimportant  consideration,  that  the 
military  and  commercial  centres  of 
Palestine  most  interesting  to  Eng- 
land are  thus  remote  from  the  re- 
ligious centres — the  Holy  Places — 
with  which  France  is  specially  con- 
cerned. Jerusalem  and  Bethlehem 
lie  far  south  of  the  most  fertile  and 
open  part  of  the  country.  Nazareth 
stands  in  its  chalk-hills  north  of 
the  great  plain  of  Esdraelon.  Thus 
there  is  room  for  the  practical  and 
sentimental  side  by  side,  and  the 
holy  cities  need  never  be  deformed 
by  modern  fortifications  or  by  rail- 
way termini. 

It  is  well  known  to  those  who 
have  visited  the  Levant  that  Pales- 
tine is  a  special  centre  of  Russian 
intrigue.  An  ugly  fortress  built  in 
1860  dominates  Jerusalem,  and  in- 
cludes the  Russian  cathedral,  the 
hospice,  consulate,  mission  -  house, 
and  buildings  capable  of  containing 
1000  pilgrims.  Pilgrimages  are  not 
only  encouraged,  but  even  subsi- 
dised by  the  Russian  Government ; 
Russian  intrigue  forms  the  talk  of 
the  country;  and  the  belief  is  com- 
mon in  Palestine  that  Jerusalem  is 
coveted  by  the  Czar  as  a  centre  of 
the  Greek  faith  which  should  rival 
Rome  itself. 

The  possibility  of  a  Russian  ad- 
vance on  India  was  some  little  time 
ago  considered  chimerical,  yet  recent 
events  have  gone  far  to  justify  this 
opinion.  The  possibility  of  a  Rus- 
sian advance  on,  and  occupation 
of  Palestine,  is  not  by  any  means 
less. 

From  Tiflis  to  Erzerum  the  Rus- 


sian army  advanced  a  distance  of 
250  miles.  From  Erzerum  to  Damas- 
cus is  only  a  distance  of  500,  and 
from  Batum  to  Port  Said  the  total 
distance  is  about  950  miles.  The 
distance  from  Khiva  to  the  Indian 
frontier  is  800  miles,  and  from  the 
Caspian  to  Khiva  about  600.  Thus 
the  total  distance  from  the  starting- 
point  is  half  as  long  again  in  the 
case  of  India,  while  the  country  is 
even  more  difficult  than  that  which 
would  be  traversed  in  an  advance 
on  Damascus. 

If,  then,  the  true  aim  of  Russia  is 
to  be  sought  in  Asia  Minor,  and  if 
it  should  prove  that  she  is  seeking 
in  Syria  that  Mediterranean  port 
and  that  religious  capital  which 
have  been  denied  her  in  Europe,  it 
will  not  be  by  the  acquisition  of 
Cyprus  that  our  interests  will  be 
guarded,  nor  by  a  lengthy  advance 
from  Aleppo  that  the  Russian  in- 
vasion would  best  be  encountered. 
A  long  advance  through  a  difficult 
country,  without  roads,  and  but 
thinly  populated,  would  prove  dis- 
advantageous to  a  Power  whose 
military  resources  are  not  unlimit- 
ed; and  an  English  force  might  be 
held  in  check  while,  with  charac- 
teristic boldness,  the  Russian  gen- 
erals continued  their  advance. 

In  such  a  possible  case  the  posi- 
tion which  would  be  best  and  most 
securely  held  would  be  near  the 
port  of  Haifa — a  position  which 
could  not  be  masked  or  outflanked, 
dominating  the  old  highroad  to  the 
plain  of  Sharon. 

There  is  another  feature  in  the 
possible  future  of  Palestine  which 
is  worthy  of  consideration — namely, 
the  Jewish  immigration,  which  may 
be  said  already  to  have  commenc- 
ed. Hitherto  the  insecurity  of  the 
country  and  the  obstructiveness  of 
Turkish  officials  have  deterred  Jew- 
ish capitalists  from  employing  their 
money  in  the  land;  but  the  Jewish 
population  of  the  poorer  class  has 


1879.] 


The  Haven  of  OarmeL 


39 


for  several  years  been  increasing  in 
Jerusalem  at  the  rate  of  over  a 
thousand  souls  per  annum. 

The  number  of  Jews  in  the  Holy 
City  is  now  probably  not  far  short 
of  10,000,  or  nearly  half  the  total 
of  inhabitants. 

Many  reasons  have  been  suggest- 
ed for  this  influx  of  Jews  into  Pal- 
estine. The  terror  of  the  conscrip- 
tion has  driven  away  a  number  of 
Polish  and  Russian  Jews  from  those 
countries,  and  the  Hallukah  or 
alms  distributed  to  the  poor  in 
Jerusalem  has  also  proved  an  attrac- 
tion to  many.  Religious  attach- 
ment to  the  Holy  City  has  also 
been  in  many  cases  the  reason  of 
the  return  of  the  poorer  and  more 
pious,  and  no  one  can  visit  the 
Wailing-place  on  a  Friday  without 
being  impressed  with  the  reality  of 
Jewish  devotion,  and  the  vitality 
of  their  belief  in  the  future,  and 
of  their  sorrow  for  the  past  and 
present. 

It  would  appear,  also,  that  an 
interest  in  Palestine  is  gradually 
growing  up  among  the  more  influ- 
ential class  of  European  Jews ;  and 
among  the  wonderful  changes  which 
are  so  rapidly  developing  in  the 
East,  we  may  perhaps  be  destined 
to  witness  an  extensive  movement 
in  Palestine,  by  which  the  Jews 
would  become  the  owners  of  the 
country  and  the  chief  employers  of 
native  labour. 

In  such  a  case  the  town  of  Haifa 
would  certainly  rise  to  a  position  of 
importance  as  the  only  good  port 
within  the  limits  of  the  Holy  Land. 
From  the  Christian  era  downwards, 
it  has  been  a  favourite  abode  of  the 
Jews.  In  the  twelfth  century  it 
is  specially  noted  as  having  a  large 
Jewish  population  ;  and  at  the  pres- 
ent time,  its  trade,  which  is  grow- 
ing steadily,  is  principally  in  the 
hands  of  the  Jewish  inhabitants, 
who  number  1000  souls,  or  about  a 
quarter  of  the  population. 


Christian  information  with  re- 
gard to  the  Jews  is,  as  a  rule,  so 
imperfect,  that  it  is  not  easy  to 
estimate  the  influence  of  such  or- 
ganisation as  is  represented  by  the 
"  Universal  Israelite  Alliance;"  but 
it  is  indisputable  that  the  Jews 
have  taken  and  are  taking  measures 
to  promote  industrial  education  and 
the  employment  of  Jewish  capital 
in  Palestine,  and  it  can  scarcely  be 
doubted  that  they  are  well  fitted  by 
character  and  by  linguistic  attain- 
ments to  deal  with  the  native  popu- 
lation of  Syria. 

The  subject  of  colonisation  in 
Palestine  excites  much  interest  in 
certain  classes  of  English  society. 
Colonies  have  already  been  started 
in  the  country,  and  a  society  has 
been  formed  for  the  promotion  of 
agriculture  in  the  land. 

The  Germans  who  live  at  Haifa 
and  Jaffa  are,  however,  the  only 
colonists  who  have  practically  suc- 
ceeded in  establishing  themselves 
in  the  country.  Impelled  by  a 
mystic  sense  of  the  importance  of 
giving  to  the  world  the  example  of 
a  community  living  on  the  model 
of  the  apostolic  society  —  building 
a  "spiritual  temple"  of  faith  and 
good  works  in  the  very  country 
where  the  actual  Temple  once  stood, 
and  raising  a  sacrifice  of  prayer 
where  the  ancient  sacrifices  were 
offered — these  humble  settlers  have 
gathered  from  Germany,  England, 
and  America,  and  have  established 
a  society  which  in  some  respects 
resembles  the  well  known  American 
sects,  Bible  Communists,  &c.,  but 
which  is  not  distinguished  from 
the  rest  of  the  world  by  any  pecu- 
liar ideas  on  domestic  matters. 

From  the  sandy  beach  west  of 
the  walls  of  Haifa,  a  broad  road 
runs  up  to  the  stony  foot  of  Car- 
mel.  On  either  side  are  gardens 
shaded  by  young  acacias,  which 
grow  yearly  more  luxuriant.  Be- 
hind these  stand  the  little  villas, 


TJie  Haven  of  Carmel 


[Jan. 


each  in  its  own  plot  of  ground, 
built  tastefully  and  strongly  of  the 
brown  shelly  limestone  from  the 
mountain,  with  piers  and  arches  of 
snow-white  chalk.  The  orderly 
and  cleanly  appearance  of  this  little 
model  village  of  eighty-five  houses 
offers  a  startling  contrast  to  the  ill- 
built,  ruinous,  mud-roofed  cabins  of 
the  Fellahin,  and  the  gloomy  and 
dirty  mansions  of  the  townsmen. 
The  honest  faces  of  the  colonists, 
the  brown  straw -hats  and  short 
skirts  of  the  women,  the  wheeled 
vehicles  and  agricultural  instru- 
ments, which  meet  the  eye  of  a 
visitor  to  the  colony,  are  sights 
which  seem  strangely  incongruous 
with  the  palm-groves  on  the  white 
sand-hills  and  the  Eastern  vegeta- 
tion which  clothes  the  steep  slopes 
of  Carmel,  the  minarets  of  the 
Haifa  mosques,  and  the  old  rock- 
sepulchres  of  the  Jews. 

Yet  in  spite  of  industry  and 
energy,  the  German  colonists  cannot 
be  said  to  be  prosperous.  Want  of 
capital,  want  of  a  leader,  and  want 
of  influence  with  the  Government  of 
the  country — internal  dissensions, 
and  feuds  with  the  natives — are  diffi- 
culties which  threaten  the  existence 
of  the  community ;  but  beyond 
these  there  is  a  fundamental  source 
of  weakness  which  is  incurable — 
namely,  the  impossibility  of  com- 
peting with  the  native  population 
in  agricultural  employments.  The 
German  cannot  endure  the  sun  like 
the  Fellah;  the  German  habits  of 
life  make  it  impossible  for  him  to 
live  on  wages  which  would  seem 
fabulous  riches  in  the  eyes  of  the 
native  peasant.  Thus  the  idea  that 
a  whole  nation  can  be  exterminated 
and  replaced  by  Germans  is  one 
which  will  scarcely  recommend 
itself  to  any  but  the  "Temple 
Society"  enthusiasts. 

It  will  be  evident  to  any  who 
consider  the  question  of  developing 
the  resources  of  Palestine  in  a  prac- 


tical manner,  that  the  employment 
of  the  native  population  is  far  more 
likely  to  be  practicable  than  their 
extermination  or  expatriation.  The 
labour  of  the  peasantry,  who  are 
seasoned  to  the  climate,  who  live 
with  a  frugality  equal  to  that  of  the 
Hindoo,  and  who  are  possessed  of 
powers  of  endurance  and  of  natural 
energy  and  abilities  of  no  mean 
order,  has  a  value  not  to  be  dis- 
regarded. 

The  Syrian  Fellahin  are  indeed  a 
race  peculiarly  interesting,  not  only 
to  those  interested  in  the  future 
of  Palestine,  but  also  to  those  who 
study  its  past  history.  In  the  Fel- 
lah we  see  the  modem  represen- 
tative of  that  ancient  population 
which  owned  the  country  before 
the  Jewish  invasion  under  Joshua, 
and  which  was  never  exterminated 
even  by  the  fierce  persecution  suc- 
ceeding that  conquest.  Their  re- 
ligion is  the  old  religion  of  the 
"high  places,"  against  which  the 
Mishnah  in  the  second  century 
of  our  era  inveighs  not  less  strongly 
than  the  Pentateuch  itself,  and 
which  had  its  shrines  at  Gaza  and 
at  Ascalon  as  late  as  the  fourth 
century.  Their  language  is  the 
Aramaic  tongue,  which  was  spoken 
by  the  "  ignorant "  in  the  time  of 
Christ,  and  which  Jerome  still 
called  the  language  of  the  country. 
Their  customs  recall  the  graphic 
episodes  of  the  Books  of  Samuel; 
their  methods  of  agriculture  are 
those  which  are  incidentally  de- 
scribed in  the  law  of  Moses. 

There  is  perhaps  no  nation  more 
cruelly  oppressed  in  the  Turkish 
dominions  than  are  the  peasantry 
of  Syria.  The  taxes  are  assessed 
without  any  reference  to  the  char- 
acter of  the  harvest;  and  the 
corn  is  not  allowed  to  be  reaped 
until  that  assessment  has  been 
made.  To  this  crying  injustice  is 
added  the  violence  and  greediness 
of  the  irregular  gendarmerie  em- 


1879.] 


The  Haven  of  Carmel. 


41 


ployed  in  levying  the  taxes ;  while 
the  injustice  of  venal  magistrates 
and  the  cruel  severity  of  the  con- 
scription seem  sufficient,  when  add- 
ed to  the  exactions  of  the  money- 
lenders, to  reduce  the  whole  popu- 
lation to  ruin  and  despair. 

To  those  acquainted  with  the 
Levant,  it  is  interesting  and  en- 
couraging to  observe  how  well  the 
English  scheme  of  reform  probes 
the  worst  defects  of  Turkish  govern- 
ment. The  appointment  of  honest 
and  influential  Englishmen  to  regu- 
late the  collection  of  the  taxes,  to 
watch  the  administration  of  justice, 
and  to  rule  the  wild  corps  of  ir- 
regular police,  would  perhaps  be 
sufficient,  without  any  more  funda- 
mental changes,  to  restore,  in  time, 
prosperity  and  happiness  to  the 
Syrians.  Men  of  tact  and  deter- 
mination, acquainted  with  the  cus- 
toms and  prejudices  of  the  country, 
and  with  the  spirit  in  which  Mos- 
lems regard  civil  law  as  founded 
on  religious  faith,  must  be  selected. 
They  must  be  given  power  more 
than  nominal,  to  secure  their  in- 
fluence being  practically  felt ;  and, 
above  all,  they  must  be  English  by 
birth,  and  not  merely  in  name — for 
to  no  half-bred  Maltese  or  Levant- 
ine British  subject  will  either  the 
governor  or  the  governed  accord 
that  respect  which  our  fellow-coun- 
trymen in  the  East  encounter  inva- 
riably. It  is  sincerely  to  be  hoped 
that  the  reforms  signed  by  the 
Sultan  are  intended,  on  the  part  of 
Turkey,  to  prove  of  such  practical 
importance. 

The  fact  that  Midhat  Pasha  has 
been  appointed  to  rule  Syria  for 
five  years  is  sufficient  evidence  that 
there,  at  least,  a  genuine  effort  to 
reform  will  be  made.  The  energy 
and  ability  of  this  enlightened 
statesman  are  now  more  generally 
known  and  appreciated  than  in 
1873,  when  for  a  short  time  he  held 
the  same  position,  and  left  behind 


him  a  reputation  for  probity  and 
administrative  capacity  which  en- 
deared him  to  the  inhabitants  of 
Syria,  who  now  welcome  him  back. 
So  long  as  Midhat  rules  Palestine, 
a  marked  and  progressive  improve- 
ment of  the  land  may  be  expected. 

We  cannot  doubt  that  English 
administration  will  be  regarded  in 
Palestine  with  unmixed  feelings  of 
delight  by  all  save  the  cruel  and 
rapacious  tyrants  who  have  lived 
on  the  misery  of  the  native  peas- 
antry. 

It  is  true  that  Moslems  regard 
the  native  Christians,  and  all  those 
of  the  Greek  Church  with  whom 
they  come  in  contact,  with  feelings 
of  hatred  and  contempt.  Nor  can 
we  wonder  at  this  if  we  take  into 
account  the  miserable  character  of 
the  native  Christians  and  the  vices 
of  the  Greek  clergy.  It  is  not, 
however,  in  this  light  that  they 
regard  the  English  Brudesddnt. 
They  know  that  millions  of  their 
co-religionists  are  happy  under  Eng- 
lish rule — that  the  Melilca  Ingliz 
is  a  great  Mohammedan  sovereign ; 
and  they  find  a  toleration  and  cath- 
olicity of  religious  opinion  among 
the  English  with  whom  they  are 
acquainted  which  they  contrast  with 
the  narrow  fanaticism  of  Eastern 
Christians. 

The  poor  peasants  of  Syria  used 
to  ask  English  travellers  constantly, 
"  When  will  you  come  to  build  up 
our  country?"  They  have  a  say- 
ing that  "England  is  the  Sultan's 
sword  ;"  and  they  would  rejoice  to 
hear  that  while  the  Sultan  remains 
the  "  Head  of  the  Faith,"  in  which 
capacity  he  is  firmly  established  in 
their  affections,  yet  that  the  same 
arm  which,  in  their  estimation, 
wields  the  Sultan's  sword,  is  also 
to  be  employed  in  holding  the 
sword  of  justice  in  his  dominions, 
and  that  the  reign  of  mongrel  for- 
eign rulers,  who  have  so  long  ground 
the  faces  of  the  poor,  is  over. 


The  Haven  of  Garmel. 


[Jan. 


There  is  no  people  who,  from 
habit  and  character,  are  so  likely 
to  be  successful  in  governing  the 
Levantine  Moslems  as  are  the  Eng- 
lish. 

It  may,  however,  be  asked,  Is 
Palestine  a  country  which  would 
repay  any  serious  attempt  to  de- 
velop its  resources'?  The  land  is 
regarded  as  barren  and  desolate — 
a  ridge  of  stony  mountain  flanked 
by  malarious  plains  and  a  sandy 
coast.  Yet  such  an  estimate  of  its 
value  is  quite  untrue.  The  country 
is  naturally  as  fertile  as  ever,  and 
is  merely  depopulated  and  unculti- 
vated because  ill  ruled,  or  rather 
not  governed  at  all.  The  rich  har- 
vests—  which  are  raised  without 
manure  on  ground  only  scratched 
with  the  plough,  by  a  population 
only  about  one-tenth  of  that  which 
even  now  might  be  supported  by 
the  country — attest  the  fruitfulness 
of  the  soil;  and  the  prosperity  of 
the  villages  and  farms  owned  by 
foreigners  who  employ  the  native 
peasantry,  is  a  sign  of  the  change 
which  might  speedily  be  wrought 
by  good  government,  and  by  the 
use  of  very  moderate  capital. 

Palestine  possesses  one  great  ad- 
vantage in  the  accessibility  of  its 
geographical  position.  Not  only 
could  an  English  army  in  Palestine 
base  itself  on  the  sea,  and  yet  de- 
fend the  breadth  of  the  land  by  a 
single  day's  march,  but  the  same 
advantage  would  render  the  rich 
corn-plateau  of  the  Hauran  a  valu- 
able source  for  the  supply  of  Eu- 
rope. The  soil  of  the  Hauran,  and 
of  the  great  plains  of  Lower  Galilee, 
consists  of  a  rich,  friable,  basaltic 
debris,  in  which  every  production 
of  the  country  flourishes.  The  soil 
of  Sharon  is  scarcely  less  produc- 
tive ;  and  the  stony  hills  are  still 
fitted  for  that  luxuriant  vine-cul- 
ture which  must  at  one  time  have 


covered  the  slopes  with  rich  foliage, 
such  as  still  lights  up  the  rugged 
cliffs  of  Hermon,  and  which  has 
left  its  marks  in  the  old  wine- 
presses, hewn  in  rock,  which  occur 
all  over  the  hills  of  Palestine. 

The  oil  of  Galilee  is  still  almost 
as  famous  as  in  the  days  when  the 
Talmudic  scholars  sang  its  praises ; 
and  there  is  probably  no  article  of 
production  found  in  Southern  Italy 
which  might  not  be  grown  in  Pal- 
estine. The  sugar-cane  was  once 
extensively  cultivated  by  the  Cru- 
saders in  the  Jordan  valley,  and 
the  indigo-plant  still  grows  wild  in 
the  plains. 

The  construction  of  some  fifty 
miles  of  road  in  the  plain  of  Sharon, 
and  the  re-establishment  of  its  old 
system  of  irrigation  and  drainage ; 
the  extension  of  a  railway  from 
Haifa  to  Damascus,  through  the 
rich  agricultural  districts  of  Central 
Palestine  and  of  the  Hauran;  the 
acquisition  of  land  by  Jews  or  Eu- 
ropeans, employing  the  natives  of 
the  country  as  farm-labourers ; — 
these  changes,  which  seem  now  far 
less  improbable  than  they  did  only 
a  year  ago,  would  render  Pales- 
tine a  valuable  and  accessible  agri- 
cultural district,  and  the  wealth 
now  neglected  would  flow  to  the 
coast  at  the  old  "Haven"  of  Carmel, 
which  might  thus  become  one  of 
the  most  thriving  ports  in  the  Le- 
vant, the  commercial  gateway  to 
Syria,  and  the  military  base  from 
which  most  effectively  the  Suez 
Canal  might  be  defended. 

Events  in  the  East  hasten  on- 
ward so  rapidly  that  the  future 
thus  suggested  may  perhaps  be- 
come, at  no  distant  time,  an  accom- 
plished fact;  for  it  can  hardly  be 
denied  that  many  events  apparently 
far  more  improbable  have  actually 
occurred  during  the  course  of  the 
past  year. 


1879.] 


A  Medium  of  Last  Century. — Part  I. 


43 


A   MEDIUM   OF   LAST   CENTURY. — PART   I. 


ONE  evening  last  spring  my  friend 
Clifton  and  I  found  ourselves  at 
his  fireside  enjoying  a  bottle  of 
West  India  Madeira.  We  had  had 
a  pouring  wet  day  with  the  hounds, 
no  kill,  and  such  a  ride  home  !  So, 
there  being  nothing  in  the  day's 
adventures  to  think  or  talk  over 
with  pleasure,  we  had  both  been 
out  of  sorts  since  half -past  five 
o'clock,  had  come  in  to  dinner  in 
anything  but  high  spirits,  and  had 
conversed  chiefly  in  monosyllables 
during  the  repast.  But  the  nice 
cosy  dinner,  and  the  good  wine 
(Clifton's  wines  are  undeniable), 
had  operated  powerfully  during 
three  quarters  of  an  hour,  to  bring 
us  into  something  of  a  genial 
humour ;  and  by  the  time  the 
butler  had  retreated,  and  we  were 
comfortably  arranged  flanking  the 
fire,  our  spirits  were  raised  a  little, 
and  our  tongues  loosed.  The  rainy 
day  had  been  followed  by  a  stormy 
evening.  We  could  hear  the  hail 
driven  every  now  and  then  against 
the  windows  with  startling  violence; 
the  wind  roared  in  the  chimneys 
and  howled  among  the  trees,  whose 
branches  gave  out  agonised  creaks 
in  the  strong  gusts.  The  fireside 
was  decidedly  the  right  place  to  be 
in  just  then.  "  This  is  pleasanter 
than  Moscow,"  said  Clifton,  with 
the  first  attempt  at  a  smile  that 
either  of  us  had  made  since  we  sat 
down.  "  Decidedly  so,"  I  answered ; 
"pleasanter  than  any  other  place 
I  can  think  of  at  this  moment." 
"Just  my  idea,"  replied  he.  "  That 
row  outside — I  shall  be  sure  to  find 
some  trees  down  in  the  morning, 
but  never  mind — that  row  in  some 
way  or  another  greatly  enhances 
the  comfort  of  the  hearth.  I  am 
glad  I  told  Millett  to  turn  down 
the  lights." 


"  Yes,  the  glow  of  the  fire  seems 
the  right  thing.  Lots  of  shadows 
and  all  sorts  of  unearthly  noises. 
Just  the  time  when  one  gets  into  a 
credulous  mood,  and  can  take  in 
tales  such  as  bards 

'  In  sage  and  solemn  tunes  have  sung 
Of  tourneys  and  of  trophies  hung; 
Of  forests  and  enchantments  drear, 
Where  more  is  meant  than  meets  the 
ear.' " 

"  By  Jove  !  yes.  Do  you  believe 
in  ghosts  1  I  can't  say  I  don't  j  and 
I  don't  know  that  I  very  distinctly 
do." 

"Not  a  very  decided  confession 
of  faith,"  said  I.  "  But,  in  truth, 
one  must  word  one's  creed  carefully 
nowadays;  for  there  are  so  many 
new-fangled  ideas  about  the  invis- 
ible world  that  you  don't  know 
what  you  may  be  assenting  to  if 
you  make  a  simple  profession  of 
belief." 

"Yes;  the  terrible  old  sheeted 
spectre  of  our  boyish  days  is  very 
nearly  exploded.  I  must  say  I 
rather  regret  it.  Spiritualism  seems 
to  be  the  modern  form  of  supersti- 
tion." 

"  Oh,  it  hardly  amounts  to  super- 
stition. Don't  call  it  so,  Clifton. 
It  is  nothing  but  the  most  wretched, 
shallow,  charlatanry." 

"Well,  come,  I  don't  know. 
Some  of  its  phenomena  are  surely 
as  well  attested  as  the  pranks  of 
our  old  friends  of  the  churchyard." 

"  Attested  or  not,  I  denounce  it 
because  of  its  utter  uselessness. 
With  all  the  wonderful  powers 
which  it  professes  to  bring  into 
action,  do  we  get  a  bit  wiser1?  I 
never  heard  of  any  of  the  spirits 
interfering  for  any  good  or  reason- 
able purpose." 

"Yes;  you  may  take  that  ground. 
Whether  there  be  anything  aston- 


44 


A  Medium  of  Last  Century. — Part  I. 


[Jan. 


ishing  about  it  or  not,  it  does 
not  repay  the  trouble  of  investi- 
gation." 

"  Of  course  not.  The  character 
of  its  professors  pretty  well  explains 
what  it  is.  A  parcel  of  keen,  de- 
signing fellows  make  money  by  it. 
It  would  be  different  if  educated, 
disinterested  persons  thought  it 
worth  their  notice." 

"  H'm,  perhaps ;  but  I  can't  say 
I  think  that  argument  so  strong  as 
the  other." 

"  You  surely  admit  that  the 
credit  of  a  science,  art, — whatever 
you  choose  to  call  it, — must  be 
very  low  when  it  is  practised  and 
preached  chiefly  by  persons  who  do 
not  otherwise  enjoy  a  great  reputa- 
tion for  accuracy  or  conscientious- 
ness, perhaps  quite  the  reverse." 

"  Of  course  I  admit  that  a  thing 
brought  out  under  questionable 
sponsorship  will  justly  be  regarded 
with  suspicion.  But  whatever  we 
may  suspect,  nothing  is  proved  for 
or  against  by  the  character  of  the 
agents  or  professors." 

"  I  don't  quite  follow  you.  I 
think  a  great  deal  is  proved." 

"  No,"  said  Clifton.  "  Look  here. 
If  there  be  any  truth  in  these 
things — spiritualism ,  clairvoyance, 
divination,  fortune -telling,  I  don't 
care  what  you  call  them  —  there 
must  be,  behind  the  wizard,  or 
medium,  or  somnambulist,  some 
power  greater  than  human.  Now, 
then,  why  should  such  a  power 
choose  as  we  would  choose?  why 
should  it  select  the  learned,  the 
wise,  the  good,  to  be  the  recipients 
of  its  revelations?" 

"  Well,  of  course,  I  can't  answer," 
said  I. 

"  More  than  that,"  said  Clifton, 
rather  warming  in  his  argument — 
"  if  the  powers  which  tell  these 
strange  things  be,  as  many  would 
have  us  believe,  evil  spirits,  is  it 
not  conceivable  that  they  might, 
out  of  wickedness  or  wantonness, 


choose  to  make  their  announce- 
ments through  some  vile  and  con- 
temptible channels  ? " 

"  You  are  miles  beyond  me  in 
weird  science.  I  shall  only  listen." 

"  Well,  you  haven't  got  much 
more  to  hear,"  said  Clifton ;  "  but 
you  know  it  is  just  possible  that 
spirits,  from  some  motives  of  se- 
crecy and  mystery — just  to  avoid 
the  inquisitiveness  of  minds  accus- 
tomed to  investigation — may  reveal 
themselves  through  beings  who  do 
not  half  comprehend,  and  do  not 
care  to  speculate  on,  the  import  of 
what  they  utter." 

"  May  be  so,"  said  I ;  "  but  we 
are  getting  into  very  misty  regions 
now." 

"  I  think  such  an  idea  as  that 
makes  one  understand  how  gipsies, 
spae-wives,  and  clairvoyants  may 
sometimes  utter  oracles  concerning 
things  of  which  naturally  they  have 
no  knowledge,  and  in  which  they 
feel  no  interest." 

"Pardon  me,  Clifton,"  said  I, 
"  but  you  seem  to  me  to  speak  as  if 
you  had  some  experience  or  other 
of  such  things." 

tl  My  dear  fellow,  everybody  has 
had  such  experience,  only  some 
banish  it  from  their  minds.  Think, 
now, — has  something  odd  never 
come  within  your  own  knowledge  1 " 

"  By  Jove  !  I  do  remember  one  or 
two  strange  inexplicable  things — co- 
incidences." 

"  Yes;  well  I  have  had  knowledge 
of  some  coincidences  too." 

"  Anything  worth  telling  1 " 

"  Well,  of  my  own,  no.  But  I 
have  been  thinking  during  these 
five  minutes  of  something  on  rec- 
ord which  I  lighted  on  only  a  few 
weeks  ago,  and  which  has  led  me 
to  ponder  a  good  deal  over  these 
matters.  By  the  by,  it  has  some- 
thing to  do  with  the  Madeira  we 
are  drinking;  for  our  connection 
with  the  Spences,  through  whom 
my  father  obtained  this  wine,  arose 


1879.] 


A  Medium  of  Last  Century. — Part  I. 


45 


out  of  the  circumstances  of  which 
I  found  the  account." 

"  Just  listen  to  that  gust  of  wind. 
Well  for  you  that  your  house  is 
pretty  solidly  built,  or  we  must  have 
heard  something  crash  before  now. 
Suppose  you  stir  the  fire  a  little,  or 
let  me;  I  declare  I  am  becoming 
quite  nervous." 

"  Then  help  yourself  to  wine.  I 
was  hunting,  you  know,  for  some- 
thing to  throw  light  on  that  Led- 
yard  dispute.  It  was  imagined  that 
my  grandfather,  having  been  so 
long  in  the  regiment  with  old  Gen- 
eral Ledyard,  might  possibly  have 
known  something  about  his  testa- 
mentary doings  or  intentions,  and 
so  I  was  requested  to  look  among 
some  heaps  of  old  papers." 

"  Ah  !  and  you  were  mysterious- 
ly guided  to  something  explanatory 
of  the  whole  secret.  There's  some 
sense  in  that." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.  I  couldn't  find 
a  word  even  bearing  upon  the  Led- 
yard affair.  But  I  found  a  little 
family  narrative  which  seemed  to 
have  been  carefully  drawn  up  by 
some  indifferent  person  who  had 
the  whole  of  the  facts  presented  to 
him  of  an  episode  in  the  early  regi- 
mental life  of  my  grandfather.  We 
have  been  accustomed  to  think  of 
him,  you  know,  as  a  superior  officer 
in  the  great  wars  under  Cornwallis 
and  Baird  in  India,  and  afterwards 
under  Moore  and  Wellesley  in  Spain. 
But  this  story  shows  him  to  us  as 
quite  a  fresh  ensign.  I  confess  I 
read  it  with  a  good  deal  of  interest." 

"  Already  you  have  kindled  a 
similar  interest  me.  I  feel  that  the 
horrentia  Mortis  arma,  in  connec- 
tion with  which  we  have  been  ac- 
customed to  think  of  the  general, 
have  just  now  shrunk  into  nothing 
beside  the  youthful  ensign,  gracili 
modulatus  avend,  or  whatever  was 
the  fancy  of  his  early  romance. 
After  thus  rousing  curiosity  you 
cannot  refuse  to  gratify  it.  The 


tempest,  the  hour,  are  in  keeping 
with  the  recital  of  a  strange  le- 
gend." 

"  I  don't  want  in  the  least  to- 
make  a  secret  of  the  thing/'  answer- 
ed Clifton;  "only  it's  a  longish  yarn, 
I  haven't  got  it  up  perfectly,  or  I 
would  abbreviate  it.  'Twon't  be  in 
the  least  tedious  to  me  to  go  over 
it  all  again;  so,  if  you  still  wish 
for  the  story  after  hearing  that  it's 
lengthy,  I'll  fetch  it  at  once.;' 

I  persisted  in  my  request,  and 
Clifton,  after  a  short  absence,  dur- 
ing which  he  was  heard  making  a 
considerable  noise  with  the  bolts  of 
locks,  came  back  into  the  dining- 
room,  bearing  a  manuscript  on  fools- 
cap, which  had  turned  yellow  from 
age,  and  was  spotted  in  places.  The 
leaves  were  tied  together  with  silk 
ribbon,  which  also  had  turned  from 
white. to  yellow.  It  was  written  in 
an  even  round  hand,  such  as  a  clerk's- 
or  scrivener's.  The  heading  of  the 
MS.  was,  "An  Account  of  Some 
Passages  in  the  Early  Life  of  Gen- 
eral Sir  Godfrey  Clifton,  K.B. ;" 
and  it  bore  at  the  end  the  initials- 
"  G.  C. ;"  but  the  story  was  told  in 
the  third  person.  Many  times  since- 
that  evening  have  I  pored  over  its- 
pages.  I  am  two  days'  journey  from 
Clifton  now,  so  cannot  give  the  ex- 
act words  of  the  narrator,  but  if  the 
reader  will  trust  me  he  shall  hear 
the  substance  of  what  he  read,  which, 
is  as  follows  : — 

In  the  autumn  of  the  year  1777,. 
the  freight -ship  Berkeley  Castle, 
of  600  tons  burthen,  sailed  from 
Deal  for  Montego  Bay,  on  the 
north  side  of  the  island  of  Jamaica.. 
It  was  hoped  that  she  would  reach 
her  destination  a  little  before 
Christmas,  she  being  laden  with 
supplies  which  would  be  required 
at  that  season.  Her  state-rooms- 
were  not  numerous  ;  and  it  was 
only  by  the  master  turning  out  of 
his  cabin  and  getting  some  accom- 


46 


A  Medium  of  Last  Century. — Part  1. 


[Jan. 


modation  rigged  up  for  himself  be- 
tween decks,  that  she  could  take 
the  few  passengers  who  sailed  in 
her.  These  were  mostly,  but  not 
all,  connected  with  a  regiment  at 
that  time  stationed  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Montego  Bay.  Travel- 
ling in  Jamaica  was  not  so  easy  a 
matter  in  those  days  as  it  is  now ; 
so  those  who  were  to  serve  on  the 
north  side  found  it  convenient  to 
be  landed  at  a  northern  port.  Dr 
Salmon,  a  military  surgeon,  his 
wife,  and  his  daughter  Flora,  aged 
eighteen,  were  a  little  family  party; 
and,  appointed  to  the  same  regi- 
ment to  which  Dr  Salmon  be- 
longed, there  was  Ensign  Clifton, 
a  young  man  of  good  family.  The 
passenger,  however,  who  sailed  in 
the  greatest  state  was  a  young  lady 
who  had  been  at  school  in  Edin- 
burgh, and  was  now  returning 
home  in  charge  of  the  master  of 
the  vessel.  Every  luxury  that 
wealth  could  buy  had  been  sup- 
lied  to  make  the  voyage  agreeable 
to  her;  she  was  attended  by  two 
negresses ;  her  dresses  and  orna- 
ments were  of  a  most  costly  de- 
scription, and  seemed  inexhaust- 
ible. Miss  Arabella  Chisholm  was 
evidently  a  personage  of  some  con- 
sequence in  her  own  land;  and,  let 
it  be  remarked,  she  could  not  have 
passed  unnoticed  anywhere.  She 
was  a  remarkably  pretty  and  well- 
shaped  girl  —  a  brunette,  but  such 
a  splendid  one  as  it  was  dangerous 
for  young  men  to  look  on.  Beside 
these  there  was  a  young  man  named 
Spence,  also  a  Creole  try  birth,  but 
a  pure  white.*  He  had  been  seve- 
ral years  in  England,  had  just  taken 
his  degree  at  Cambridge,  and  was 
now  on  his  way  back  to  his  father's 
estate.  Six,  therefore,  was  the 
number  of  the  cabin  passengers, 
who,  after  a  day  or  two  (for  they 
sailed  in  bright,  calm  weather),  all 


showed  themselves  at  the  cuddy- 
table,  and  began  an  acquaintance 
which  was  to  last,  if  all  should  go 
well,  for  more  than  twa  months. 
Two  young  ladies  and  two  young 
gentlemen  embarked  together  seem- 
ed likely  enough  to  make  the  time 
pass  pleasantly.  The  ensign  had 
his  seat  at  table  next  to  Miss 
Salmon,  but  he  sat  opposite  to  the 
lovely  brunette,  by  whose  side  Mr 
Spence  was  established,  in  right  of 
an  old  acquaintance  of  their  fami- 
lies, if  not  of  themselves,  and  the 
neighbourhood  of  their  estates. 
And  Miss  Salmon  was  a  young 
lady  by  whose  side,  in  nineteen 
voyages  out  of  twenty,  a  young 
officer  would  have  thought  it  a 
great  privilege  to  sit.  She  was 
very  nice-looking,  pleasant,  and 
rather  witty  in  her  conversation, 
and  quiet  and  lady-like  in  her  man- 
ner. But  on  this  occasion  the  blaze 
and  animation  of  the  Jamaica  belle 
threw  her  a  little  into  shadow. 
Their  first  dinner  was  a  cheerful 
one,  at  which  everybody  showed  a 
wish  to  be  friendly.  The  weather- 
beaten  skipper  was  most  attentive 
to  Mrs  Salmon,  who  sat  on  his 
right,  and  told  her  stories  innumer- 
able about  the  wonderful  country 
to  which  she  was  going, — oysters 
growing  on  trees,  crabs  crawling 
about  the  hill-tops  miles  from  the 
sea,  cabbages  rising  sixty  feet  from 
the  ground — and  so  on. 

They  liked  each  other's  company 
so  much  that  they  sat  a  good  while 
after  dinner  on  this  first  occasion, 
and  it  was  too  cold  for  the  ladies 
to  go  on  deck  afterwards ;  so  the 
gentlemen  only  walked  the  poop, 
and  smoked  in  the  twilight. 

"You  and  Miss  Chisholm  have 
been  acquainted  before,  have  you 
not,  Mr  Spence?"  asked  young 
Clifton,  while  they  thus  paced. 

"  It   is   very   possible    that    we 


*  Creole  means  "born  in  the  West  Indies  ;"  thus  Creoles  may  be  of  any  colour. 


1879.] 


A  Medium  of  Last  Century. — Part  I. 


47 


have,"  answered  Mr  Spence ;  "but 
I  have  not  the  least  recollection  of 
her.  It  is  nine  years  since  I  left 
Jamaica.  I  remember  Mr  Chis- 
holm,  though  not  very  distinctly; 
but  could  not  have  said  a  week 
ago  whether  there  were  children  at 
his  house  or  not." 

"I  fancy  that  your  information 
will  be  much  more  accurate  after 
you  get  home,  eh,  Dr  Salmon  1 " 
said  the  skipper.  "  By  George,  sir  ! 
old  Sandy  Chisholm,  as  they  call 
her  father,  is  one  of  the  richest  men 
on  the  island.  I  don't  know  how 
many  estates  he  owns." 

"  Rich  enough,  I  should  think,  by 
the  style  in  which  the  young  lady 
is  appointed,"  answered  the  doctor. 

"  And  I  think  I  can  tell  you 
young  men  something,"  rejoined 
the  skipper,  in  a  confidential  tone. 
"  Mr  Chisholm  is  exceedingly  anxi- 
ous that  this  daughter  should  marry 
well,  and  will  give  a  very  handsome 
fortune  to  a  son-in-law  of  whom  he 
may  approve." 

"  However  much  she  may  bring 
her  husband,  I  think  she  will  know 
how  to  spend  it,  ha,  ha  !  "  laughed 
Dr  Salmon. 

"  No,  doctor,  don't  say  so,"  re- 
turned the  skipper,  who  seemed  a 
little  jealous  of  the  opinion  enter- 
tained of  his  temporary  ward.  "Their 
habits  appear  more  extravagant  than 
those  of  people  at  home,  without 
really  being  so.  Their  methods  of 
spending  money  are  restricted,  and 
they  lean  a  good  deal  towards  dress 
and  gewgaws.  With  an  English 
education,  such  as  my  young  friend 
has  had,  they  make  clever,  sensible 
women." 

"  Perhaps  so,  perhaps  so,"  con- 
ceded the  doctor,  somewhat  grudg- 
ingly. "  It  would  be  as  well,  though, 
for  a  young  fellow  who  might  feel 
inclined  to  bid  for  the  fortune,  to 
consider  how  a  handsome,  extrava- 
gant wife  might  be  disposed  to  deal 
with  it." 


"  By  Jove,  sir  !  "  said  the  gallant 
skipper,  stopping  short  in  his  walk, 
and  withdrawing  his  pipe  from  his 
lips  with  decision,  "  I  only  wish  I 
was  a  smart  young  bachelor  this 
day;  if  I  wouldn't  go  in  and  try 
my  luck,  there's  no  salt  in  sea- 
water." 

"  Bravo,  captain  ! "  said  young 
Clifton. 

"  You  know,"  pursued  the  skip- 
per, calming  down  again,  after  his 
little  burst  of  excitement,  "  her 
father  insists  upon  her  'doing 
things  in  style,'  as  he  calls  it.  The 
display  and  luxury  may  be  set 
down  to  the  old  gentleman's  ac- 
count. Those  two  negresses,  now, 
he  sent  home  with  me  last  voyage, 
and  had  'em  kept  in  England  five 
months  so  that  they  might  be  ready 
to  attend  their  young  mistress  on 
her  voyage  out." 

"  I  wonder,"  put  in  Mr  Spence, 
"  that  he  didn't  frank  some  white 
married  couple  on  a  trip  to  Eng- 
land that  they  might  return  in 
charge  of  the  young  lady.  I  have 
known  that  done  before  to-day." 

While  the  gentlemen  were  thus 
discoursing  on  the  poop,  the  sub- 
ject of  their  conversation  was  below 
showing  a  disposition  to  be  very 
friendly  with  Mrs  and  Miss  Salmon. 
Those  ladies,  so  affably  encountered, 
were  not  long,  one  may  be  sure,  be- 
fore they  made  some  observations 
on  Arabella's  rich  dress  and  orna- 
ments ;  whereat  Miss  Chisholm,  far 
from  being  displeased,  entered  in- 
to descriptions  of  all  the  treasures 
contained  in  her  voluminous  bag- 
gage, and  promised  to  gratify  them 
with  a  sight  of  the  same. 

"But  how  can  you  do  it?"  ob- 
jected Miss  Salmon,  whose  pro- 
phetic mind  foresaw  a  difficulty  in 
the  way  of  this  gratification.  "  You 
cannot  have  all  these  packages  in 
your  cabin,  and  the  captain's  direc- 
tions were  that  we  were  to  keep 
with  us  everything  likely  to  be 


48 


A  Medium  of  Last  Century. — Part  I. 


[Jan. 


wanted  for  use,  as  none  of  the 
heavy  things  which  had  been  low- 
ered into  the  hold  could  be  dis- 
turbed during  the  voyage." 

"The  captain's  directions  !  "  echo- 
ed Miss  Chisholm,  with  disdain. 
"  What  do  I  care  for  the  captain's 
directions'?  There  are  plenty  of 
sailors  in  the  ship  to  pull  things  up 
and  down,  and  when  I  wish  to  have 
my  chests  and  trunks  brought  up 
they  will  have  to  bring  them." 
Her  look  seemed  to  add,  "JSTay,  I'll 
tickle  ye  for  a  young  Creole  prin- 
cess, i'  faith."  This  imperious  de- 
meanour somewhat  astonished  the 
military  ladies,  who  had  no  expe- 
rience of  Creole  princesses,  and  be- 
lieved that  before  all  things  it  was 
necessary  that  "  disciplines  ought  to 
be  used."  Arabella  was  not  half 
so  fond  of  answering  the  other 
ladies'  questions  about  her  native 
island,  as  she  was  of  talking  about 
her  life  in  England ;  which  perhaps 
was  natural.  She  had  been  a  child 
in  Jamaica,  but  in  England  had 
expanded  towards  womanhood,  and 
acquired  new  sentiments,  new  ideas, 
new  aspirations,  all  of  which  were 
foreign  to  her  West  India  recollec- 
tions. She  said  she  would  be  de- 
lighted to  see  her  father  again,  but 
she  feared  she  would  find  the  island 
dull ;  "  and  if  so,"  she  remarked, 
"  I  shall  make  my  papa  go  home 
for  good.  He  has  wasted  quite 
enough  of  his  life  in  the  stupid 
colony."  Her  new  acquaintances, 
who  hardly  knew  what  it  was  to 
move  independently,  marvelled  at 
all  this  wilfulness. 

The  Creole  beauty  was  as  good 
as  her  word  about  her  baggage. 
The  captain,  although  he  yielded 
to  her  as  to  a  spoiled  child,  calling 
her  "  My  dear,"  and  made  as  though 
he  were  spontaneously  according 
these  exceptional  indulgences,  did 
nevertheless  let  her  have  her  way  ; 
and  the  tars  were  manning  the 
tackle  and  shifting  the  luggage  as 


often  as,  and  for  as  long  as,  it 
pleased  Miss  Arabella  Chisholm  to 
require  their  services  in  this  way. 

Mrs  Salmon  told  her  husband 
that  there  was  something  very  frank 
and  winning  about  the  handsome 
Creole.  She  was  good-natured  too, 
and  had  forced  upon  Miss  Salmon's 
acceptance  trinkets  and  other  trea- 
sures which  the  latter  young  lady 
had  admired.  "  But  do  you  know," 
added  Mrs  Salmon,  "  her  conversa- 
tion is  too  free  on  some  subjects — 
hardly  what  I  call  nice.  When 
the  two  girls  are  alone,  she  says 
things  to  Flora  about  young  men 
and  love-making  which  it  quite 
distresses  our  girl  to  hear,  for  she 
isn't  accustomed  to  those  subjects. 
I  hardly  know  what  to  do  about  it." 

"You  can  do  nothing,  I  am 
afraid,"  answered  Dr  Salmon ; 
"  Miss  Chisholm  means  nothing 
wrong,  I  am  persuaded  ;  and  we 
must  impute  to  her  tropical  blood 
and  her  early  education  among 
coloured  people  this  foreign  style. 
Flora  is  loo  well  principled  to  be 
hurt  by  it ;  and  as  she  will  not 
encourage  it,  Miss  Chisholm  will 
probably  soon  find  that  other  sub- 
jects would  be  more  agreeable." 

"  My  dear,  she  will  find  nothing 
of  the  sort.  She  will  allow  no- 
thing and  do  nothing  but  what  she 
pleases.  There  never  was  such  an 
arbitrary  creature." 

"Well,  well,"  answered  the  doc- 
tor, "  the  voyage  is  not  to  last  for 
ever.  Explain  to  Flora  that  this 
is  not  an  English  young  lady,  and 
therefore  that  she  does  not  deserve 
the  censure  which  we  should  direct 
against  a  countrywoman  allowing 
herself  such  licence.  As  long  as 
she  has  her  mother  to  guide  her,  I 
feel  quite  easy  about  Flora's  sense 
of  propriety," — with  which  compli- 
ment to  his  wife's  good  sense  Dr 
Salmon  closed  the  conversation, 
drew  in  his  head  and  went  to 
sleep ;  for  they  had  been  talking  in 


1879.] 


A  Medium  of  Last  Century. — Part  I. 


49 


their  state-room,  where  they  lay  in 
little  berths  one  over  the  other,  and 
the  doctor,  being  in  the  nether  com- 
partment, had  to  put  out  his  head 
to  listen  to  the  oracles  which  came 
to  him  from  above. 

The  same  night  on  which  this 
conversation  occurred  there  were 
minds  occupied  with  Miss  Arabella 
in  other  cabins  than  the  doctor's. 
Mr  Sperice,  tossing  in  his  berth, 
Avas  reflecting  that  he,  in  right  of 
his  Creole  origin  and  strong  claims 
of  family,  was,  under  present  cir- 
cumstances, Arabella's  natural  ally, 
attendant,  and  sympathiser;  and 
that  she  was  bound  to  be  a  great 
deal  more  familiar  and  confidential 
with  him  than  with  that  rather 
pensive  and  genteel  ensign,  whose 
natural  affinity  was  with  Miss  Sal- 
mon. He  did  not  venture,  even  in 
thought,  to  lay  claim  to  more  than 
this,  though  it  is  to  be  feared  that 
neighbourly  frankness  would  have 
gone  but  a  small  way  towards  sat- 
isfying the  craving  of  his  heart. 
Like  a  turbulent  patriot,  who  puts 
in  a  reasonable  demand  for  tolera- 
tion and  equal  rights,  when  in  his 
heart  he  abhors  both  liberty  and 
equality,  and  aims  at  tyranny,  so 
the  self  -  deluding  Spence  fretted 
•himself  about  the  rights  of  neigh- 
bours, while  already  it  was  an  idea 
•of  exclusive  rights  wrhich  was  mak- 
ing him  so  restless.  The  young 
fellow  was  considerably  smitten. 

However  reasonable  Spence  might 
take  his  own  notions  and  arrange- 
ments to  be,  Ensign  Clifton  could 
*iot  help  seeing  things  in  a  very 
•different  light.  In  that  young 
officer's  judgment,  Miss  Salmon 
;and  Mr  Spence  appeared  to  be  ad- 
mirably fitted  for  each  other.  As 
•for  Spence  pretending  to  a  lady  so 
brilliant  as  Miss  Chisholni,  the  idea 
•was  preposterous :  it  was  a  viola- 
tion of  the  eternal  fitness  of  things  : 
it  could  not  by  possibility  tend  to 
.promote  the  happiness  of  anybody, 

VOL.  CXXV. NO.  DCCL1X. 


and  might  be  productive  of  much 
misery.  Now,  for  a  calm  bystander 
who  could  see  all  this  mischief 
brewing,  not  to  try  and  prevent  it 
would  have  been  gross  dereliction 
of  duty.  And  Clifton  thought  him- 
self a  calm  philosophic  bystander, 
laying  claim  to  that  character  on 
the  ground  of  a  passion  which  he 
had  entertained  for  a  cousin  some 
live  years  older  than  himself,  who 
had  thought  him  very  clever  when 
he  was  fifteen.  Eor  more  than  a 
year  it  was  his  dream  to  make  this 
cousin  his  bride  after  he  had  raised 
himself  to  eminence;  but  the  vision 
was  disturbed  by  intelligence  that 
a  captain  of  dragoons,  who  con- 
sidered himself  already  sufficiently 
eminent  for  the  achievement,  was 
about  to  marry  her.  The  stricken 
youth  mourned  becomingly,  then 
hardened  his  heart  to  study  and 
ambition.  He  even  grew  to  think 
that  it  would  facilitate  his  future 
career  to  be  thus  early  acclimatised 
to  the  trying  air  of  love :  he  learned 
to  set  a  value  upon  his  scar,  and  to 
feel  that  the  crushing  of  his  affec- 
tions gave  him  an  immense  advan- 
tage over  even  older  men  who  were 
still  vulnerable  about  the  heart. 
So  the  ensign  thought  that  while 
the  voyage  lasted  it  would  be  as 
well  to  obtain  as  large  a  share  as 
he  could  of  Miss  Chisholm's  atten- 
tion, just  to  shield  her  (she  being 
very  young  and  inexperienced)  from 
plunging  into  mischief.  Once  they 
were  on  shore  his  responsibility 
would  be  over.  It  would  be  an- 
other thing  then ;  and  her  father 
being  at  hand  to  care  for  her,  it 
would  be  the  father's  affair,  and  very 
unfortunate  if  she  should  form  an 
imprudent  attachment — that  was  all. 
And  Ensign  Clifton  sighed  deeply, 
and  turned  himself  over  in  his  berth, 
as  he  came  to  this  conclusion. 

Miss  Salmon  had   her  thoughts 
too,  as  the  Berkeley  Castle,  on  this 
bright   night,   being   now  clear  of 
D 


50 


A  Medium  of  Last  Century. — Part  I. 


[Jan. 


the  Bay  of  Biscay,  walked  steadily 
before  the  wind  towards  Madeira. 
And  there  was  something  in  Miss 
Salmon's  mind  which  coincided 
curiously  with  a  thought  which 
has  been  ascribed  to  Mr  Spence. 
Mora  Salmon  was  beginning  to 
see  very  strongly  the  natural  affin- 
ity between  Mr  Clifton  and  her- 
self. They  belonged  to  the  same 
profession  in  a  manner  ;  at  any 
rate  they  must  have  many  ideas 
in  common.  Their  lots  might  be 
cast  in  the  same  place  for  a  long 
time  to  come.  She,  Mora,  was 
perhaps  a  little  more  sprightly  and 
spirituelle  than  the  ensign;  but 
what  of  that  1  it  only  made  her 
more  fit  to  be  his  companion  and 
complement.  He  was  very  nice 
and  gentlemanly,  if  a  little  shy  and 
silent.  Flora  didn't  think  at  all 
the  worse  of  him  because  he  wasn't 
noisy  and  silly  like  many  ensigns 
whom  it  had  been  her  lot  to  mark ; 
but  why  didn't  he  recognise  the 
claims  of  his  own  cloth  1  It  would 
not  have  been  surprising  if  one  of 
the  brainless  subalterns,  of  whom 
she  had  then  two  or  three  in  her 
mind's  eye,  hid  been  taken  with 
the  handsome  person  and  not  very 
reserved  conversation  of  the  spark- 
ling Creole.  They  were  incapable 
of  appreciating  anything  which  did 
not  lie  on  the  surface  ;  but  of  Mr 
Clifton,  who  seemed  to  have  a  mind, 
better  things  might  have  been  ex- 
pected. It  is  just  possible,  too, 
that  Flora  perceived,  or  perhaps 
she  had  been  informed,  that  Clifton 
was  a  youth  of  good  family,  and  of 
a  fortune  that  made  him  indepen- 
dent of  his  profession  ;  but  she 
didn't  confess  to  herself  that  this 
had  anything  to  do  with  her  griev- 
ance, which  she  rested  on  general, 
open,  unselfish  grounds.  Yet  Miss 
Salmon  was  hardly  just  to  Arabella. 
The  latter  young  lady  was  not 
merely  a  pretty  compound  of  pre- 
tension and  coquetry,  notwithstand- 


ing her  wilfulness  and  variableness, 
and  the  trivial  matters  which  often 
seemed  to  occupy  her.  Her  caprices 
were  not  without  their  charm,  and 
and  sometimes,  though  rarely,  they 
spirited  her  into  moods  of  reverie 
and  feeling  which  were  but  the 
more  winning  from  their  sudden- 
ness and  rarity. 

"  If  tenderness  touched  her,  tlie  dark  of 

her  eye 

At  once  took  a  darker,  a  heavenlier  dye, 
From  the  depths  of  whose  shadow,  like 

holy  revealiugs 
From  innermost  shrines,  came  the  light 

of  her  feelings  !  " 

Miss  Chisholm,  while  all  these 
cogitations  were  going  on,  had 
fallen  very  happily  to  sleep.  She 
had  been  accustomed  to  have  her 
own  way  in  most  things,  and  there 
was  nothing  in  the  situation  on 
board  ship  to  hinder  her  sovereign 
will  in  the  least.  She  may  have 
been  utterly  indifferent  about  both 
the  young  men  on  board,  or  she 
may  have  preferred  one  to  the 
other.  However  this  may  have 
been,  she  had  not  the  least  doubt 
about  being  able  to  please  herself 
whenever  she  might  ascertain  what 
her  own  pleasure  was.  And  so  she 
dropped  asleep  tranquilly  and  early. 
A  moonbeam,  slanting  into  her 
cabin  as  she  lay  in  her  first  slumber, 
glanced  on  the  accurate  moulding 
of  an  arm  which,  escaped  from  the 
loose  night-dress,  was  thrown  high 
on  her  pillow,  and  wound  over  the 
crown  of  her  head,  beyond  which 
the  hand  rested  in  shadow.  The 
sheen  played  softly  on  the  curves 
of  the  regular  features,  and  caught 
the  tangles  of  her  luxuriant  hair 
in  such  wise  as  to  graze  each  tress 
with  a  streak  of  light.  In  the 
day  her  tresses  were  of  a  rich  dark 
brown,  very  effective  in  their  mass, 
though  the  strands  were  not  par- 
ticularly fine  ;  but  this  chiaroscuro 
gave  them  an  unearthly  richness, 
and  made  the  lace  about  her  neck, 


1879." 


A  Medium  of  Last  Century. — Part  I. 


51 


which  peeped  between  their  folds, 
gleam  like  fretted  silver.  We  hear 
sweet  things  said  about  the  sleep  of 
virtue,  and  the  sleep  of  innocence, 
also  of  the  slumber  of  a  mind  at 
peace  with  itself;  but  the  slumber 
of  a  young  lady  entirely  satisfied 
with  herself  and  with  her  lot,  wants 
nothing  that  goodness  or  purity  or 
quiet  conscience  could  give.  It  is 
a  tranquillity  which  accident  may 
scare  from  the  pillow  ;  but  while  it 
lasts  it  is  excellent. 

The  voyage  proceeded  prosper- 
ously. Rolling  down  the  Trades  is 
generally  a  not  very  checkered  or 
perilous  course  ;  but  the  days,  if 
uneventful,  were  not  tedious  to  the 
passengers.  Dr  and  Mrs  Salmon 
had  had  too  much  of  the  bustle, 
and  too  many  of  the  vicissitudes  of 
life,  to  chafe  at  two  or  three  weeks 
of  calm,  bright,  listless  days  ;  and 
as  for  the  rest  of  the  company,  they 
were  all  busily  engaged  in  a  little 
drama  which  was  to  reach  its  de- 
nouement in  other  scenes ;  and  the 
sameness  was  no  sameness  to  them. 

Flora  and  Arabella  were  in  the  lat- 
ter's  state-room,  rummaging  among 
a  profusion  of  jewels  and  orna- 
ments. Flora  had  never  handled 
so  many  treasures  in  her  life ;  and 
though  she  had  sense  enough  to 
be  somewhat  angry  with  herself  for 
being  so  delighted,  yet  the  woman 
was  strong  in  her,  and  she  revelled 
among  the  gems  and  gold.  One 
article  after  another  was  taken  up 
and  admired,  and  pronounced  to  be 
the  most  beautiful  that  ever  was 
seen,  until  the  next  came  up  for 
criticism,  and  was  in  its  turn  found 
to  surpass  all  others.  A  Maltese 
cross  had  just  been  returned  to  the 
case  with  a  glowing  eulogium,  and 
was  now  being  utterly  eclipsed  by 
a  set  of  emeralds  which  took  away 
Flora's  breath.  "  Well,  I  never 
saw  anything  like  it,"  said  she ; 
"  how  lovely ! — how  very  lovely  ! " 
"  Flora,"  said  Miss  Chisholm, 


"I  shall  leave  those  emeralds  to 
you  when  I  die." 

"Oh,  will  you?"  said  Flora, 
who  was  quick  at  a  joke  ;  "  then  if 
I  live  to  be  ninety  I  may  deck  my 
ruins  with  emeralds." 

"  A  shorter  life  than  that  may 
bring  you  the  bequest.  I  wasn't 
trifling."  Then,  said  Arabella,  after 
an  instant's  pause,  "  Flora,  do  you 
believe  in  spirits  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  answered  Miss  Sal- 
mon, astonished. 

"  Do  you  ever  see  them  1 " 

"  See  them  !  no.    They  cannot  be 


"  I  see  them,"  said  Arabella, 
in  a  subdued,  mysterious  manner. 
"  All  my  life  I  have  seen  strange 
things,  and  they  impress  me  always 
with  the  idea  that  my  life  will  not 
last  long." 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Flora  ;  "  you 
should  not  allow  yourself  to  think 
of  such  things." 

"  They  do :  they  make  me  sad, 
so  that  I  almost  wish  to  die.  Is  it 
not  dreadful  1 " 

"It  is  dreadful  if  you  give  way 
to  it,  my  dear.  You  must  be  ail- 
ing. Will  you  speak  to  my  father 
about  it  1 " 

"  No,  Flora,  not  for  the  world. 
I  don't  give  way.  But  my  heart  is 
sore  sometimes.  You  shall  have 
the  emeralds." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Flora  ;  "  but 
don't  encourage  morbid  thoughts. 
It  isn't  right." 

"  Very  well,  then,  let's  laugh  ;  " 
and  Arabella  was  immediately  in  a 
new  mood. 

The  reader  will  scarcely  consider 
his  credulity  too  severely  taxed  if 
he  is  asked  to  believe  that  Ensign 
Clifton  soon  descended  from  his 
platform  of  exalted  benevolence  to- 
wards Miss  Chisholm,  and  became 
her  devoted  admirer.  He  had  not 
found  it  easy  to  come  between  her 
and  Mr  Spence,  except  just  when 
it  was  her  pleasure  that  he  should 


52 


A  Medium  of  Last  Century. — Part  I. 


[Jan. 


do  so.  She,  and  not  he,  pulled  the 
wires  ;  and  after  a  little  while  he 
submitted  to  his  fate  and  moved 
as  he  was  impelled  by  the  guiding 
power.  Each  young  man  got  his 
share  of  sunshine,  and  neither  could 
flatter  himself  long  with  the  idea 
that  he  was  preferred.  Miss  Sal- 
mon was  hardly  an  unbiassed  j  udge ; 
but  she  (in  bitterness  of  disappoint- 
ment perhaps)  thought  that  Clifton 
was  the  favourite. 

One  evening  when  they  were  ap- 
proaching the  Gulf  of  Mexico, -Ara- 
bella was  seated  on  a  luxurious 
pile  of  cushions  and  wraps,  looking 
over  the  ship's  side.  Clifton,  who 
had  managed  to  be  in  possession  of 
her,  was  standing  near,  leaning  on 
the  gunwale.  The  girl  was  chatter- 
ing earnestly  about  the  grandeur  of 
her  father's  house,  his  slaves,  and 
his  establishment,  and  declaring 
what  great  things  should  be  done  at 
home  under  her  influence.  When 
she  gave  him  the  chance  of  putting 
in  a  word,  Clifton  said  it  made  him 
sad  to  hear  of  the  magnificence  to 
which  she  was  going.  Of  course 
the  wily  youth  intended  to  provoke 
a  question,  in  answer  to  which  he 
was  going  to  deprecate  pathetically 
the  distance  which  so  much  wealth 
would  interpose  between  her  and  a 
subaltern  of  low  degree.  Her  reply 
might  possibly  have  given  some 
comfort  to  his  soul.  But  Arabella 
somewhat  disconcerted  him,  by 
changing  her  manner  suddenly  and 
saying,  "  Yes ;  it  makes  me  very 
sad  too."  His  little  plot  thus  foiled, 
it  was  now  Clifton's  turn  to  de- 
mand the  meaning  of  what  had 
been  said. 

"  Well,"  answered  Arabella,  soft- 
ly, "money,  and  negroes, and  a  fine 
house,  and  ever  so  much  gaiety, 
don't  bring  happiness,  do  they?" 

Clifton  wasn't  ready  with  an 
answer;  and,  after  an  instant's 
pause,  Arabella  went  on.  "  I  feel 
sometimes,  when  I  am  thinking,  as 


if  I  could  be  very  miserable  with  all 
the  comfort  that  I  shall  live  in. 
There's  something  one  wants  that 
isn't  in  these  fine  things,  isn't 
there?  I  don't  know  what  it  is, 
but  it  seems  to  be  something  far 
away,  out  of  one's  reach,  you  know  ; 
and  I  feel  I  shall  never  get  it,  and 
I  shall  be  miserable  among  all  my 
luxury." 

"  You  desire  sympathy,  affec- 
tion, Miss  Chisholm,"  ventured  Clif- 
ton, cutting  in  very  cleverly  for 
so  young  a  player  at  the  game. 
"  Surely  that  is  not  a  matter  for 
you  to  be  unhappy  about.  Your 
wealth  is  only  fortune's  gift,  but 
you  can  command  sympathy,  and, 

and "  the  boy  hesitated,  partly 

from  want  of  courage,  and  partly 
from  the  fascination  which  her  un- 
wonted looks  exercised.  Her  long 
lashes  were  drooping  over  her  eyes ; 
her  features  expressed  gentle  sad- 
ness ;  the  lips  were  parted,  and  her 
bosom  rose  with  a  sigh  which  was 
almost  a  sob. 

"No"  said  she,  "it  is  something 
that  I  never  shall  obtain, — never, 
never.  I  know  that  I  shall  not 
live  very  long.  I  can't  tell  how  I 
know  it,  but  I  do." 

If  Clifton  thought  his  opportunity 
was  now  come  he  was  mistaken. 
No  sooner  did  he  attempt  to. avail 
himself  of  her  soft  mood  than  she 
shook  herself  into  a  merry  laugh, 
saying,  while  the  moisture  could  be 
seen  in  her  reopened  eyes,  "How 
foolish  one  can  be  !  Mr  Clifton, 
you  make  me  quite  melancholy. 
Oh,  come  here,  Mr  Spence,  if  you 
please,  and  say  something  amusing. 
I  know  you  can  be  entertaining  if 
you  like." 

This  day's  experience  did  not 
lighten  Clifton's  heart  a  bit.  While 
he  thought  Arabella  a  thousand 
times  better  worth  winning  than 
ever,  he  thought  her  a  thousand 
times  further  removed  beyond  his 
reach.  But  he  was  making  more 


1879.] 


A  Medium  of  Last  Century. — Part  I. 


progress  than  lie  knew  of — indeed, 
more  than  she  knew  of  either. 
Arabella  was  after  a  time  conscious 
that  she  was  rather  pleased  with 
the  young  man.  But  this,  she  was 
sure,  was  only  a  passing  fancy. 
And  teasing  him  passed  the  time 
so  merrily  !  Yet  she  was  ventur- 
ing rashly. 

At  last  the  good  ship  reached  her 
port.  The  north  side  of  Jamaica 
showed  itself  one  splendid  evening, 
with  its  park-like  slopes  backed  by 
the  giant  hills ;  all  the  colours  of 
of  the  rainbow  smiled  and  glowed 
on  its  broken  surface ;  and  the 
beautiful  town  of  Montego  Bay, 
decked  in  white  and  green,  lay  a 
crescent  on  the  shore,  and  grasped 
the  bright  glowing  harbour  in  its 
span.  The  black  pilot  came  off 
while  they  were  all  overcome  with 
the  glory  of  the  sunset,  but  he 
thought  it  better  not  to  go  in  to  the 
anchorage  at  once.  "Bettar  lay 
off  to-night,  sar;  soon  as  de  day- 
light come,  me  will  take  you  in." 
This  was  not  an  inconvenient  ar- 
rangement for  the  passengers.  The 
Berkeley  Castle  was  recognised  by 
those  on  shore  before  sunset,  and 
there  would  be  plenty  of  time  in 
the  morning  to  come  down  with 
a  welcome  from  Blenheim,  Sandy 
Chisholm's  place ;  from  Stubbs  Cas- 
tle, the  abode  of  Mr  Spence's  father ; 
and  from  Elsinore,  where  lay  the 
detachment  to  which  Ensign  Clifton 
would  belong.  Accordingly,  when, 
soon  after  daybreak  the  next  morn- 
ing, the  ship's  anchor  was  dropped, 
boat-loads  of  demonstrative  friends 
surrounded  her  berth.  She  was 
boarded  first  by  two  washerwomen, 
who  stopped  on  the  ladder  to  fight  till 
the  mate  rope's-end ed  them,  and  who 
afterwards  attempted  to  renew  the 
combat  on  the  quarter-deck.  Then 
followed  a  troop  of  sable  ladies  and 
gentlemen  offering  mangoes,  cocoa- 
nuts,  star-apples,  bread-nuts,  alli- 
gator-perns (as  they  are  called), 


spruce-beer,  and  a  great  assortment 
of  island  dainties  which  delight 
Jack  after  his  voyage.  While  these 
were  making  their  rush  for  the 
deck,  Miss  Chisholm  recognised  her 
father  in  a  large  barge,  seemingly 
delighted  at  the  sight  of  her ;  and 
Ensign  Clifton  saw  the  badge  of  his 
regiment  on  the  dress  of  some  per- 
sons in  another  and  smaller  boat. 
The  skipper  himself  stood  at  the 
gangway  to  receive  Sandy  Chisholm. 
He  did  not  take  off  his  hat  to  that 
personage,  because  the  fashion  of 
that  country  is  for  everybody  to 
shake  hands  with  everybody;  but 
he  showed  by  his  manner  (as  in- 
deed Sandy  Chisholm  showed  by 
his),  that  as  long  as  the  latter  gen- 
tleman should  be  pleased  to  remain 
on  board,  the  whole  ship  would 
be  at  his  commandment.  Sandy 
caught  his  daughter  in  his  arms, 
then  he  held  her  off  to  look  at 
her,  then  pronounced  her  "bon- 
ny," and  kissed  her  again  :  after 
which  salutations,  he  issued  orders 
about  the  barge  and  baggage  to  a 
henchman  who  attended,  in  that 
kind  of  style  which  we  consider 
appropriate  to  the  Great  Mogul  or 
the  Grand  Lama — orders  which  a 
troop  of  niggers,  his  own  property, 
and  all  the  sailors  in  the  ship, 
hastened  to  execute.  He  then  said 
a  few  patronising  words  to  the  skip- 
per, whom  he  thanked  for  bringing 
him  this  "  bonny  bit  of  mairchan- 
dize"  (parenthetically  kissing  the 
"  mairchandize  "  again),  and  whom 
he  made  free  of  Blenheim  during 
the  ship's  stay.  This  done,  Ara- 
bella said  she  must  introduce  her 
fellow-voyagers,  with  all  of  whom 
the  great  Sandy  shook  hands,  and 
to  each  and  all  of  whom  he  then 
and  there  offered  unlimited  hospi- 
tality. As  for  Mrs  and  Miss  Sal- 
mon, he  insisted  on  taking  them 
home  with  him  until  they  could 
be  joined  by  the  doctor,  who  had 
first  to  go  and  report  himself;  and 


54 


A  Medium  of  Last  Century. — Part  I. 


[Jan. 


as  for  Mr  Spence,  he  said  he  was 
right  glad  to  see  his  father's  son. 
Ensign  Clifton,  of  course,  got  a 
shake  of  the  magnate's  hand,  and 
was  enjoined  to  make  his  appear- 
ance at  Blenheim  to  see  his  "  auld 
messmate  "  (which  meant  his  young 
idol)  "  as  airly  as  poassible."  Half 
an  hour  after  that,  the  passengers 
were  all  on  shore. 

Clifton,  after  reporting  himself 
to  his  colonel  at  Montego  Bay,  was 
ordered,  as  he  expected,  to  Elsinore, 
which  was  a  large  country-house, 
unoccupied  by  the  proprietor,  and 
so  a  convenient  place  of  sojourn  for 
a  detachment  of  troops  which  had 
been  ordered  temporarily  to  that 
region  in  consequence  of  some  tur- 
bulence among  the  negroes.  There 
is  a  great  deal  in  the  MS.  con- 
cerning the  impression  made  upon 
the  pensive  ensign  by  the  magni- 
ficent scenery  of  the  island,  the 
details  of  which  I  omit,  seeing  that 
in  these  lettered  days,  they  may  be 
found  elsewhere.  Suffice  it  to  say 
that  the  gorgeous  colours,  the  ripe 
vegetation  extending  down  to  the 
tide- line  and  toppling  over  into  the 
sea  in  the  struggle  for  existence, 
the  charmingly  broken  contour  of 
the  glorious  hills,  soothed  in  some 
degree  the  anxiety  of  his  breast, 
and  made  him  wonder  how  such 
scenes  could  be  associated  with 
pestilence  and  death. 

It  was  Clifton's  opinion  at  this 
period  of  his  life  that  to  come 
among  a  set  of  hearty,  high-spirited 
comrades  in  a  strange  and  beautiful 
country  is  the  best  possible  anti- 
dote for  melancholy;  but  at  the 
date  of  the  MS.  (some  years  after) 
he  had  modified  this  opinion,  and 
thought  that  the  monotony  of  a 
military  life  in  quarters  is  in  itself 
depressing.  Tempora  mutantur.  It 
is,  however,  pretty  plain  that  his 
jolly  friends,  and  the  novelties  of 
the  West  Indies,  delighted  him 
greatly;  and  if  absence  made  his 


heart  grow  fonder  at  odd  time?, 
when  he  found  himself  alone,  their 
society  prevented  him  from  falling 
a  prey  to  love-sickness.  There  was 
very  little  duty  to  do,  and  so  these 
young  heroes  improved  the  occa- 
sion of  their  sojourn  among  the 
spurs  of  the  mountains  by  roaming 
the  country,  looking  after  all  that 
was  worth  seeing,  which,  according 
to  their  practice,  included  a  great 
deal  that  was  not  worth  seeing  at 
all.  However,  the  restlessness  kept 
them  in  exercise,  and  that  was  a 
good  thing. 

One  day,  not  long  after  Clifton's 
arrival,  a  member  of  the  little  mess 
announced  at  dinner  that  he  had 
discovered  an  old  witch ;  which  an- 
nouncement was  received  with  de- 
risive cheers  and  much  incredulity. 
The  discoverer,  however,  was  not 
very  seriously  affected  by  the  hu- 
mour of  his  audience,  but  went  on 
to  say  where  he  had  heard  of  the  old 
lady,  and  to  tell  of  the  marvellous 
things  that  she  had  done.  She 
was  a  negress,  and  to  be  found  at 
Higson's  Gap,  an  estate  belonging 
to  that  rich  old  fellow  Sandy 
Chisholm.  She  had  predicted  mar- 
riages, shipwrecks,  deaths,  inherit- 
ances ;  had  penetrated  secrets  which 
were  supposed  to  be  locked  in  one 
breast  alone ;  had  mapped  out  the 
destinies  of  certain  individuals  in 
oracles,  which  had  been  fulfilled  to 
the  letter;  had  held  communion 
with  duppies — that  is  to  say,  ghosts 
— and  had  extracted  the  knowledge 
which  lay  hid  with  them  beyond 
this  world.  Of  course,  there  was  a 
superior  man  present  who  asked 
how  a  sensible  being  could  believe 
such  confounded  nonsense.  Of 
course,  the  discoverer  of  the  old  lady 
knew  that  the  facts  were  too  well 
attested  to  be  treated  as  nonsense 
at  all.  Of  course,  the  company  dis- 
puted the  matter  as  if  it  had  been 
one  of  life  and  death ;  and  very 
fortunately  the  dispute  ended  in  a 


1879.] 


A  Medium  of  Last  Century. — Part  I. 


55 


bet-,  not  a  fight.  The  property  of 
five  doubloons  hung  in  the  balance 
until  the  proof  or  the  failure  of  the 
old  lady's  skill  should  incline  the 
scale.  An  expedition  to  Higson's 
Gap,  nine  or  ten  miles  distant,  was 
arranged  for  the  morrow  by  four  of 
them  ;  and  all  was  good  -  humour 
again. 

"  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Dix,"  said 
he  who  had  first  made  mention  of 
the  sorceress  the  night  before,  "  I 
had  this  from  old  Henriquez,  the 
merchant  in  town,  and  he  wouldn't 
be  likely  to  make  more  of  it  than 
ifc  was  worth ;  besides,  he  told  me 
to  use  his  name  to  the  busha  *  at 
Higson's  Gap  if  I  chose  to  go  and 
try  the  old  lady." 

"  Did  he?"  answered  Dix.  "  I've 
a  great  opinion  of  Henriquez,  you 
know.  Cashes  my  bills.  Knows 
some  friends  of  mine.  Devilish 
rich,  liberal  old  boy.  So,  Marten, 
my  good  fellow,  we  won't  dispute 
any  more  just  now  ;  we  shall  soon 
see  what  she  can  do.  I'm  glad  you 
have  an  introduction  to  the  busha, 
though,  because  he'll  give  us  some 
second  breakfast." 

Spite  of  the  heat  the  young  men 
pushed  on,  pulling  up  at  various 
houses  to  ask  their  way,  and  always 
receiving  an  invitation  to  drink  as 
well  as  the  information  they  de- 
manded. At  last  they  rode  through 
a  gateway  without  a  gate,  over  a 
villanously  rough  road,  where  their 
horses  with  difficulty  could  be  kept 
from  stumbling,  and  got  safely  into 
what  in  England  would  be  called 
the  farmyard  of  Higson's  Gap.  On 
one  side  of  this  stood  the  busha's 
house,  supported  upon  piers,  obvi- 
ously with  the  intent  that  there 
should  be  a  circulation  of  air  be- 
tween the  inhabitants  and  the 
ground.  But  this  intent  had  been 
in  some  degree  frustrated,  be- 
cause a  large  portion  of  the  space 


below  had  been  boarded  in  and 
turned  into  rooms  of  some  sort. 
The  busha,  from  his  veranda  above, 
saw  the  arrival  of  the  strangers,  and 
descended  to  meet  them.  He  was 
standing  on  the  steps  as  they  rode 
up,  and  called  out,  '  Here,  'Kiah, 
Jubal !  come,  take  the  gentlemen's 
horses ;  cool  them,  and  then  come 
to  me  for  some  corn  ;  hear  1 " 

"Yes,  massa,"  responded  two 
darkies,  appearing  from  somewhere 
about  the  premises ;  and  when  the 
young  men  had  dismounted,  they 
were  hospitably  invited  to  walk  up 
and  take  a  drink.  Hereupon  Mar- 
ten pronounced  the  potent  name  of 
Henriquez, — said  that  he  had  told 
them  of  the  fame  of  the  old  negress 
on  the  property,  and  that  they  had 
come  to  test  her  power,  which  seemed 
a  most  strange  thing  to  them,  they 
being  officers  not  long  out  from 
England.  And  then  the  busha  told 
them  he  was  delighted  to  find  that 
they  were  not  mere  passengers,  but 
had  come  to  pay  a  visit  to  himself; 
and  he  bade  them  all  to  second 
breakfast,  but  recommended,  in  the 
meantime,  that  they  should  refresh 
with  rum  and  water.  Ice  never 
found  its  way  to  Jamaica  in  those 
days — they  trusted  to  the  porous 
goglets  for  cooling  their  water;  and 
unless  the  domestics  were  careful 
to  place  these  in  the  breeze,  the  cool- 
ing was  but  imperfectly  done,  and 
the  comfort  of  the  drink  far  less 
than  it  might  have  been.  The 
busha  was  a  tall,  taw-boned  young 
man,  all  over  freckles  except  his 
long  neck,  which  the  sun  had  roasted 
to  the  colour  of  new  copper.  A  very 
civil,  honest  fellow  he  was,  but  he 
had  unfortunately  some  idea  that  he 
was  a  beau.  His  breeches  and  boots, 
though  decidedly  the  worse  for 
wear,  had  evidently  been  moulded 
with  some  attempt  at  style,  and 
there  was  a  picture  of  him  against 


Negro  name  for  overseer  ;  often  used,  also,  as  a  slang  name  for  the  same. 


56 


A  Medium  of  Last  Century. — Part  I. 


[Jan. 


the  wall  of  his  hall  which  exhibited 
some  hopelessly  depraved  artist's 
idea  of  a  petit  mditre. 

"  Another  drink,  sir ;  you've  had 
a  long  ride,"  said  he  to  Dix.  But 
Dix  required  no  more  at  present. 
Might  it  not  be  as  well  if  they  were 
to  visit  the  old  lady  before  second 
breakfast  1  Was  she  real]y  as  clever 
as  was  reported  1 

"  WelJ,  sir,"  answered  the  over- 
seer, "  I  think  I  know  a  little 
about  the  sex;  but  I  confess  she 
puzzles  me.  A  huge  lot  of  what 
she  says  is  right.  I  used  to  think 
she  had  agents  among  the  people 
who  brought  her  information ; — 
they're  confounded  cunning,  you 
know,  especially  the  women — but 
no  confederate  could  help  her  to 
some  of  her  guesses,  or  whatever 
you  may  like  to  call  them.  ISTow, 
there  was  my  predecessor  out  there" 
(and  he  pointed  through  the  jalous- 
ies to  a  tomb  over  against  the  house), 
''she  told  him  he  would  make  a 
black  Christmas  ;  and  he  died  on 
Christmas-eve,  and  was  buried  on 
Christmas- day.  Odd,  wasn't  it?" 

"  Does  she  work  on  the  estate  ? " 

"  Well,  no,  sir;  she  doesn't  work. 
She's  been  a  person  of  some  con- 
sequence when  she  was  younger " 
(with  a  wink),  "  and  now  she's  in 
an  honourable  retirement — sort  of 
a  dowager." 

"  Oh,  indeed  ! " 

"  Bacchus,  go  see  where  Mammy 
Cis  is,"  called  the  overseer;  on  which 
a  tall,  thin,  cadaverous  negro,  pre- 
senting himself  at  one  of  the  nu- 
merous doors,  answered,  "  He  dere, 
massa  ;  me  see  him  jes'  now." 

"  Yery  well,  then,  gentlemen, 
what  do  you  say  ?  Shall  we  go  on 
and  see  her  while  they're  laying  the 
cloth  1 "  and  he  led  them  down  the 
steps,  taking  a  glance,  as  he  went,  at 
a  small  mirror  in  the  veranda,  and 
adjusting  his  hat  to  a  becoming  cock. 

The  young  men  having  heard  of 
a  dowager,  and  seeing  the  busha's 


little  reference  to  the  glass,  imag- 
ined that  they  were  to  be  taken  to- 
a  dower -house.  But  the  busha'a 
glance  at  his  image  or  reflection 
was  habitual,  being  the  nearest  ap- 
proach he  could  make  to  the  luxury 
enjoyed  by  society  at  large  of  look- 
ing on  the  original.  The  dower- 
house  was  part  of  the  boarded  space- 
under  the  room  where  they  had 
been  sitting.  Passing  round  to  the 
gable-end  after  they  descended  to- 
the  ground,  the  gentlemen  saw  an 
apartment,  open  at  one  end,  in 
which  perhaps  a  chaise  might  oc- 
casionally have  been  placed,  or 
something  which  might  be  not  of 
sufficient  value,  or  not  sufficiently 
small,  to  stand  in  the  house,  and 
yet  not  weather-proof ;  or  it  was  a 
place  where  a  job  of  carpentry  might 
be  wrought,  or  where  the  people 
might  do  a  little  indoor  work  on  a 
stormy  day.  The  farther  end  was 
closed  by  a  partition  with  a  door  in 
it,  and  this  door  the  busha  open- 
ed, letting  out  a  villanous  smell  of 
salt  fish.  He  called — 

"  Mammy  Cis,  come  out  a  bit, 
will  ye  1  Here's  gentlemen  come  to- 
see  you.  Smooth  your  ringlets,  you. 
know ;  and  tighten  your  bodice- 
and  let  down  your  skirt,  for  they're 
lively  fellows."  And  here  the 
busha,  who  had  a  pretty  wit  of  his 
own,  looked  round,  winked  again, 
and  laughed.  As  he  did  so,  there- 
issued  through  the  door  a  stout 
mulatto  woman  of  middle  height* 
Her  skin  was  greatly  wrinkled,  but 
her  eyes  were  still  bright,  and  her 
carriage  good.  It  was  impossible 
to  guess  how  old  she  might  be,  for 
these  coloured  people,  when  their 
youth  has  once  passed,  wax  hideous* 
in  a  very  short  time.  She  had  a 
striped  handkerchief  bound  round 
her  head,  with  the  ends  depending 
behind ;  a  short  skirt  was  tied  about 
her  waist,  and  over  it  was  a  won- 
derful robe,  just  drawn  together  at 
one  point,  and  made  of  some  bright- 


1879.] 


A  Medium  of  Last  Century. — Part  I. 


57 


ly-flowered  material,  which,  would 
have  been  all  the  better  for  a  visit 
to  the  wash-tub.  Stockings,  which 
might  by  courtesy  have  been  called 
white,  covered  her  ankles,  whereof 
one  was  neat  and  slim,  and  the 
other  exhibited  a  leaning  to  ele- 
phantiasis. A  pair  of  exceedingly 
misshapen  slippers  adorned  her  feet. 
Large  bright  drops  hung  in  her 
ears,  and  a  showy  necklace  was 
about  her  neck. 

"  Mornin',  gentlemen,"  said  the 
old  lady,  as  she  saluted  the  com- 
pany with  much  dignity.  Then 
she  turned  her  glowing  eyes  upon 
the  overseer,  looked  through  him 
for  an  instant,  and  asked  in  a  quiet 
voice,  but  with  a  very  pointed  man- 
ner, "Who  is  you  making  fun  of, 
sar "?  Is  dis  your  manners  to  a 
leady  7 " 

The  youth  was  embarrassed.  He 
was  evidently  not  disposed  to  incur 
the  weird  woman's  vengeance,  and 
at  the  same  time  he  was  anxious, 
before  the  young  officers,  to  main- 
tain his  superiority,  and  make  good 
the  sallies  of  his  redundant  wit. 

"Accuse  me  of  anything  but 
that,"  said  the  gallant  busha.  "  111 
manners  to  a  lady  I  could  never  be 
guilty  of.  You  mistake,  mammy, 
I'm  sure.  I  wish  to  treat  you  with 
the  very  highest  respect."  It  was 
necessary  to  wink  again,  to  make 
the  irony  of  this  apparent ;  but  he 
gave  a  very  timid  wink,  hardly  dar- 
ing to  look  toward  the  strangers. 

"  You  tink  it  respeckful,  sar,  to 
talk  to  me  about  ringlets  and 
about  my  skirt  1  And  what  you 
mean,  sar,  by  bringing  gentlemen 
to  see  me  widout  sending  fust  to 
inform  me?" 

"  Eeally,  mammy,  I  thought  you 
knew  everything  so  well  without 
telling,  that  it  was  quite  unneces- 
sary to  warn  you." 

"  You  know,  sar,  dat  is  not  true. 
Gentlemen,  doan't  let  dis  young 
man  persuade  you  dat  I  am  fond 


of  making  a  show  of  myself.  He 
knows  better.  He  knows  well  dat, 
poor  old  woman  as  I  am,  I  have 
plenty  to  care  for  me,  and  all  my 
relations  is  not  old  and  poor.  He 
knows,  too,  dat  it  is  not  wise  to  be 
talking  too  freely  about  dis  and  dat 
dat  I  knows." 

At  all  hazards,  temporal  and 
spiritual,  the  busha  was  constrained 
to  wink  when  he  was  accused  of 
saying  what  was  not  true,  that  he 
might  demonstrate  the  exquisite 
flavour  of  the  joke  ;  but  he  was  not 
at  all  comfortable  when  the  wise 
woman  boasted  about  her  influence 
in  this  world,  and  the  indiscretion 
of  talking  of  her  dealings  with  the 
other.  It  was  a  relief  to  him  when 
she  turned  to  look  at  the  group  of 
strangers.  Her  eye  fell  on  Clifton, 
and  she  uttered,  with  emphasis,  the 
exclamation,  "  Hei ! "  He  appeared 
in  some  way  to  interest  her.  But 
before  she  could  speak  to  him,  Dix, 
impatient  for  some  sorcery,  stepped 
forward,  and  said,  "  The  fact  is,  old 
lady,  that  we  heard  you  could  do 
something  in  the  conjuring  line, 
and  we  were  geese  enough  to  take 
a  ride  through  the  sun  to  witness 
your  art.  It  looks  very  like  non- 
sense, I'm  afraid." 

"Perhaps  so,  sar,"  said  the  sor- 
ceress, very  calmly.  "  I  wish  for 
nobody  to  tink  me  a  conjuror,  as 
you  call  it.  Well  for  you  if  I  am 
not." 

Hereupon  Marten,  who  had  more 
patience,  and,  as  he  fancied,  more 
tact  than  his  friend,  stepped  up 
and  put  a  silver  dollar  in  Mammy 
Cis's  hand,  saying  at  the  same  time 
in  a  soothing  tone,  "Come  now, 
old  girl,  that  will  make  it  right,  I 
daresay.  Now,  please,  tell  me  my 
fortune." 

"  Look  he',  sar,"  said  the  old 
woman,  drawing  herself  up  ;  "  you 
tink  I  want  for  you  dollar  1  Chaw ! 
I  know  where  to  get  money  in 
plenty  if  I  want  it.  You  is  mis- 


58 


A  Medium  of  Last  Century. — Part  I. 


[Jan. 


taken  ;  for  true  you  is.  Take  back 
de  silber,  and  tank  you  all  de 
same  ! "  and  she  returned  the  dollar 
with  a  magnificent  air. 

It  only  remained  now  for  the 
fourth  of  the  party,  whose  name 
was  Worth,  to  try  his  luck,  and 
he  fortunately  chose  to  begin  with 
a  little  fair  speaking. 

"Really,  ma'am,"  said  he,  "I 
think  we  have  been  presumptuous 
in  supposing  that  there  was  any- 
thing in  the  fortunes  of  ordinary 
people  like  us  for  spirits  to  care 
about.  If  there  is  nothing  to  tell, 
we  must  only  regret  having  troubled 
you,  but  if  anything  occurs  to  you 
worth  mentioning,  and  you  would 
be  good  enough " 

"  Dere  is  something  to  tell,  sar ; 
and  since  you  is  polite,  I  have  de 
pleasure  of  informing  you  dat,  be- 
fore you  sleeps  to-night,  you  will 
hear  of  something  dat  will  sweet  * 
vou  greatly." 

"Indeed!  and  what  is  it  V 

11 1  can't  say,  sar,  but  you  will 
see."  Then  turning  to  Marten 
again,  with  something  like  a  smile, 
she  said  to  him,  "  Since  you  is  so 
kind  as  to  offer  me  money,  sar,  I 
can't  do  less  dan  tell  you  dat  some 
money  is  comin'  to  you,  but  instead 
of  silber  you  will  get  gold.  My 
king,  you  is  lucky." 

"A  piece  of  good  news, — a  bag 
of  gold,"  put  in  Dix,  sarcastically ; 
"you  know,  old  lady,  we  can  get 
quite  as  good  conjuring  as  this 
under  a  hedge  in  England.  I  can 
guess  what  the  next  announcement 
will  be.  You  will  promise  me  a 
princess  for  a  wife  ;  isn't  that  it  1 " 

At  mention  of  the  princess,  the 
busha  eyed  Lieutenant  Dix  much 
as  a  sportsman  eyes  a  poacher. 
But  there  was  not  time  for  him  to 
make  a  remark,  for  Mammy  Cis 
sternly  took  up  her  parable  and 
said,  "  It  is  not  a  princess,  sar  ;  and 


if  your  tongue  didn't  so  long,  I 
shouldn't  speak  to  you  at  all.  Come 
dis  way,  sar,  and  I  will  mention  to 
you  what  I  know  privately.  You 
can  tell  your  friends  or  not,  as  you 
tink  proper." 

After  hesitating  a  little,  Dix, 
with  a  derisive  ejaculation  and 
gesture,  withdrew  in  the  direction 
to  which  the  old  lady  pointed,  and 
she  began  to  make  to  him  a  com- 
munication in  an  undertone.  It 
had  not  proceeded  far  when  the 
bystanders  saw  the  young  man  turn 
as  pale  as  death.  In  a  moment  he 
stamped  furiously  on  the  ground 
and  burst  away,  swearing  that  she 
was  the  devil. 

"  No,  sar,"  said  Mammy  Cis  ; 
"  I  am  not  de  debbil.  It  is  de 
debbil  dat  put  sich  tings  in  your 
heart," 

"What  has  she  told  you,  Dix?" 
was  the  general  cry. 

"  Oh,  curse  her  !  I  can't  tell  you. 
Something  disagreeable  to  listen  to, 
but,  of  course,  a  lie." 

The  old  lady  did  not  speak  in 
reply,  but  she  glanced  towards  Dix, 
and  "  held  him  with  her  glittering 
eye"  for  a  second;  then  released 
him.  Dix,  anxious  for  a  diversion, 
then  said,  drawing  Clifton  forward, 
"  Here,  give  him  some  of  your  wis- 
dom. He's  modest ;  he  hasn't  had 
any  yet." 

Instead  of  addressing  Clifton,  the 
prophetess,  in  a  theatrical  attitude, 
put  her  hands  before  her  face,  as  if 
to  shut  out  some  disagreeable  sight, 
and  turned  her  head  away  from 
him.  While  her  look  indicated 
intense  distress,  she  said,  "Dis 
young  buckra  may  bring  much 
sorrow  to  me  and  mine ;  but  I  see 
noting  clear ;  I  can't  tell  what  it 
will  be.  For  true,  sar,  trouble  will 
come  between  you  and  me.  My 
king !  my  king !  But,  sar,  you 
doan't  seem  to  mean  wrong,  and  de 


Delight. 


1879.] 


A  Medium  of  Last  Century. — Part  I. 


59 


trouble  may  pass.  And  now  make 
me  [i.e.,  let  me]  say  what  you  will 
mind  more  than  de  griefs  of  an 
ole  woman.  You  is  prospering 
already  in  what  is  nearest  to  your 
heart ;  but  where  you  want  to  bring 
j°y  y°u  may  bring  a  curse  if  you 
and  others  is  not  careful." 

Cliiton  blushed  at  the  first  part 
of  this  prediction,  and  his  heart 
bounded  as  it  rushed  to  the  inter- 
pretation. As  to  the  second  part, 
he  could,  in  the  pleasant  idea  which 
had  been  called  up,  find  no  place 
for  it. 

"  By  Jove  !  Clifton,  you're  in 
love.  That  must  be  it,"  exclaimed 
some  of  the  youngsters ;  and  the 
whole  party  laughed  at  his  evident 
consciousness,  while  the  overseer 
looked  him  over  critically  to  dis- 
cover what  the  devil  there  was 
about  him  that  he  should  have  a  suc- 
cessful love  affair.  Meantime  the 
sorceress  called  "  Pinkie,  Pinkie  !  " 
and  thereupon  a  little  negress  is- 
sued from  the  interior  apartment 
and  stood  awaiting  the  old  lady's 
commands,  while  she  improved  the 
occasion  by  scratching  her  head. 
It  seemed  that  she  had  been  sum- 
moned only  to  give  dignity  to 
Mammy  Cis's  retreat;  which  Cis 
now  accomplished,  after  dismissing 
her  visitors  in  a  stately  manner, 
and  giving  a  few  more  words  of 
caution  to  the  overseer. 

Out  in  the  air  once  more,  the 
young  men  were  soon  laughing  and 
chattering  over  a  host  of  subjects, 
and  the  sorceress  was  for  a  moment 
out  of  mind.  Their  appetites  re- 
minded them,  also,  that  they  had 
breakfasted  early,  and  they  were 
not  sorry  to  learn  that  the  promised 
collation  was  nearly  ready.  They 
went  above  again,  where  they  were 
accommodated  with  a  basin,  a  towel, 
and  a  bucket  of  water,  and  left  to 
perform  their  ablutions  as  they 


could,  each  chucking  the  water  he 
had  used  through  the  window. 
Meanwhile  the  busha  got  off  his 
boots,  and  assumed  a  pair  of  silk 
stockings  well  darned,  also  a  shirt 
with  a  frill  and  ruffles,  and  turned 
out  quite  a  stunning  figure. 

If  the  second  breakfast  was  some- 
what rude,  it  was  given  with  hearty 
goodwill ;  and  it  was  distinguish- 
ed by  some  remarkably  fine  rum- 
punch,  the  influence  of  which  made 
the  youngsters  talk  again  of  the  visit 
to  the  fortune-teller. 

"  Now  that  old  lady,"  observed 
Marten — "what  humbug,  to  be 
sure  ! — is,  I  suppose,  what  is  called 
an  obi  woman." 

"Not  at  all,"  the  overseer  an- 
swered ;  "  she  uses  no  incantation, 
does  nothing  illegal,*  and  she  abu- 
ses Obeah.  I  can't,  either,  call  her 
one  of  the  Myall  people,  who  pro- 
fess to  undo  the  mischief  of  Obeah. 
She  takes  not  the  slightest  trouble 
to  impress  visitors,  and  says  she 
doesn't  know  how  she  comes  by 
her  knowledge." 

"  Knowledge,  indeed  !  "  echoed 
Worth.  "  I  never  saw  a  much 
poorer  attempt  at  fortune-telling. 
I  am  to  hear  of  some  good  luck 
before  night,  isn't  that  it?  But 
I  say,  Dix,  she  seemed  to  astonish 
you!" 

"  Curse  her  ! "  said  Dix. 

"  I  am  to  win  gold,"  said  Mar- 
ten ;  "  but  as  for  you,  Clifton " 

"  My  friend  here,"  interrupted 
the  busha,  in  an  aggrieved,  super- 
cilious tone,  "  is  going  to  win  a 
lady." 

And  on  that  hint,  and  inspired 
by  the  punch,  the  busha  turned 
the  conversation  on  ladies ;  and  it 
became  very  confidential — so  much 
so,  that  the  substance  of  what  oc- 
curred up  to  the  hour  of  the  guests' 
departure,  about  four  o'clock,  never 
transpired,  the  only  thing  recorded 


*  The  practice  of  Obcali  was  illegal;  peihaps  is  so  still. 


GO 


A  Medium  of  Last  Century. — Part  I. 


[Jan. 


being  that  they  made  the  "busha 
promise  to  come  down  and  have 
an  evening  with  them. 

An  orderly  from  Montego  Bay 
was  pacing  before  the  door  at 
Elsinore  when  the  young  men, 
powerfully  refreshed,  clattered  up 
to  the  house.  He  had  come  up  on 
an  estate-cart  most  of  the  way,  and 
been  despatched  by  the  adjutant. 

"  Holloa  !  what's  up  now  1 "  sang 
out  Marten,  who  was  in  front. 

"  Despatch  for  you,  "Worth;  hope 
you're  not  to  be  moved." 

"Worth  began  to  read  the  note 
carelessly,  but  his  eyes  soon  ex- 
panded over  it.  "  By  Jove  !  "  he 
exclaimed ;  "  only  think  !  Poor 
Rowley  was  this  morning  thrown 
from  his  horse  against  the  angle 
of  the  barrack,  and  killed  on  the 
spot." 

"You  don't  say  so!"  "Good 
heavens  !  "  "  Poor  fellow  ! " 

"  And  I  get  the  company." 

" By  Jove!  yes,  of  course.  Glad 
of  your  luck,  old  fellow  ;  but  sorry 
for  Rowley.  Good  fellow,  Rowley." 

No  wonder  that  they  were  gloomy 
that  evening.  Felicitations  for 
Worth  would  come  hereafter  when 
the  promotion  should  be  officially 
announced.  They  talked  about 
Rowley,  and  kindly  remembered  all 
his  good  deeds,  while  most  made 
arrangements  for  starting  before 
daybreak  to  attend  his  funeral. 
In  the  midst  of  the  regrets,  Dix 
burst  in  with — 

"By  George!  Worth,  that  ugly 
old  devil  said  you  would  hear  of 
some  luck  before  night." 

"  So  she  did ;  how  odd  !  "  said 
they  all. 

"  And  she  promised  you  gold, 
Marten.  Here  it  is ;  not  a  large 
fortune  —  only  five  doubloons," 
added  Dix,  with  a  bitter  smile. 

"  But,  my  dear  fellow,  don't  be 
precipitate.  This  promotion  of 
Worth's  is  only  a  coincidence.  I 
don't  feel  at  all  satisfied  that " 


"Take  the  money,"  said  Dix, 
with  an  oath.  "  It  isn't  Worth's 
good  luck  that  has  convinced  me. 
The  wretch  "  (and  he  turned  pale 
again)  "  told  me  darkly  of  what 
could  not,  I  thought,  be  known  to 
any  one  in  the  island  but  myself. 
Curse  her ! " 

"  The  devil  she  did  ! "  was  the 
general  rejoinder. 

Clifton's  heavy  baggage  had  not 
yet  come  up.  It  was  at  that  time 
lying  by  the  roadside,  somewhere 
about  midway  betwixt  Montego 
Bay  and  Elsinore.  In  another  week 
it  was  expected  that  it  might  make 
its  appearance  at  the  station.  Clif- 
ton, therefore,  could  not  get  at  his 
uniform,  and  could  not  conveniently 
appear  at  the  funeral;  which  circum- 
stance, as  the  others  said,  was  not  of 
consequence,  as  Clifton  had  never 
seen  poor  Rowley.  So  they  ar- 
ranged that  he  should  remain  about 
the  station,  which  would  enable  all 
the  others  to  go  down ;  and  to  this 
arrangement  Clifton  readily  agreed, 
because  he  had  a  little  plan  of  his 
own  which  there  would  be  now  an 
opportunity  of  carrying  out.  He 
had  scarcely  mentioned  Miss  Chis- 
holm's  name,  fearing  lest  his  secret 
should  be  detected ;  and  from  the 
same  shyness,  he  had  refrained  from 
making  a  visit  to  her.  Nothing, 
perhaps,  could  have  helped  forward 
Clifton's  cause  more  effectually  than 
his  thus  postponing  his  visit  to 
Blenheim.  Arabella,  accustomed  to 
have  everything  done  for  her,  had 
all  her  time  disposable,  and  from 
the  day  of  her  arrival  found  some 
of  it  hang  heavy  during  the  hot 
hours.  She  had  many  apartments 
appropriated  to  herself,  and  among 
these  was  a  gallery,  formed  to  catch 
the  grateful  sea-breeze.  Here  she 
would  swing  in  a  grass  hammock,  and 
think  over  the  days  of  her  voyage 
out,  and  wonder  why  she  could  not 
be  as  well  amused  here  at  home  as 
she  had  been  on  board  ship.  It 


1879.] 


A  Medium  of  Last  Century. — Part  I. 


61 


was  nearly  the  same  party.  Flora 
was  here,  and  there  was  an  infinity 
of  things  strange  to  her  to  show 
Flora.  Then  Mr  Spence,  though 
he  did  not  live  at  Blenheim,  seemed 
as  though  he  couldn't  live  away 
from  it.  "Why  should  this  society 
be  less  entertaining  on  shore  than 
it  had  been  at  sea1?  It  began  to 
strike  her  that  she  missed  Ensign 
Clifton. 

Now  an  imperious  young  lady 
like  Arabella,  when  she  has  once 
formed  a  wish,  is  most  impatient 
for  its  gratification.  She  desired  to 
see  Clifton.  She  was  hurt  that  he 
did  not  come ;  it  was  presumption 
in  him,  to  be  able  to  stay  away  from 
her  so  long.  She  doubted  whether 
his  wound  might  not  prove  to  have 
been  a  scratch  which  was  fast  heal- 
ing, and  whether  his  comrades  might 
not  have  introduced  him  to  many  a 
belle  quite  capable  of  supplanting 
her.  She  grew  angry,  and  had  that 
exceedingly  threatening  symptom 
of  tenderly  yearning  for  the  young 
man's  visit  in  one  fit,  and  in  the 
next  vindictively  devising  against 
him  those  penalties  and  pains 
wherewith  lovers  are  not  seldom 
tortured  by  their  mistresses.  Ara- 
bella was  very  proud  and  very 
politic,  and  so  kept  her  feelings  to 
herself,  or,  at  least,  intended  to  do 
so  ;  but  it  is  not  certain  that  Flora 
was  unsuspicious  of  them. 

"While  matters  went  thus  at 
Blenheim,  Clifton's  comrades,  as 
has  been  said,  left  him  one  day  to 
his  own  resources. 

Here  was  the  lover's  opportunity, 
and  he  used  it.  When  they  were 
all  off  in  the  direction  of  the 
coast,  he  got  on  a  horse  and 
made  for  Blenheim.  The  negroes 
whom  he  met  directed  him 
fairly  enough,  but  their  remarks 
about  the  distance  did  not  en- 
lighten him.  Some,  of  whom  he 
inquired  "  How  far  1 "  answered, 
"  Far  enough,  inassa ; "  and  others, 


to  the  same  query,  said  "  Not  so  far, 
inassa,"  However.,  he  made  his  way 
thither  somehow  ;  and  it  may  be  in- 
ferred that  his  inner  consciousness 
was  very  busy  as  he  rode  along,  for 
he  does  not,  as  he  was  wont,  expa- 
tiate much  on  the  appearance  of 
outward  things.  He  found  Blen- 
heim to  be  a  large  rambling  house, 
built  principally  of  wood,  well  shel- 
tered by  trees,  and  surrounded  by 
ground  which  there  had  been  some 
attempt  to  make  ornamental.  The 
site  commanded  a  splendid  view, 
stretching  down  to  the  sea.  There 
was  an  immense  display  of  bar- 
baric grandeur  and  profusion ;  and 
negroes  and  negresses  of  all  ages 
swarmed  about  the  place.  Miss 
Chisholm's  bright  eyes  sent  forth 
an  additional  sparkle  when  she  saw 
her  visitor,  who,  however,  could 
gather  but  small  comfort  from  her 
looks ;  for  he  perceived  that  Mr 
Spence  was  in  the  room  with  her, 
established,  as  it  would  seem,  on 
very  easy  terms.  The  Salmon  ladies, 
also,  were  still  there,  and  they  all 
welcomed  their  fellow- voyager  with 
cordiality.  Mr  Chisholm  was  away 
on  business  somewhere,  and  did  not 
appear,  but  the  ladies  had  plenty  to 
say,  and  were  full  of  a  large  ball 
which  was  to  come  off  at  Montego 
Bay  in  a  few  days,  and  to  which 
the  military  were  of  course  to  be 
invited.  Arabella  was  too  grand 
to  do  anything  for  herself,  but  Miss 
Salmon  was  very  busy  in  getting 
up  a  little  millinery  for  her  mother 
and  herself,  to  be  worn  at  the  com- 
ing entertainment.  Flora  managed 
to  get  possession  of  Mr  Clifton,  and 
seemed  much  to  rejoice  in  his  pro- 
pinquity— a  compliment  for  which 
he  would  have  been  more  grateful 
had  he  not  perceived  Mr  Spence  at 
the  same  time  monopolising  Ara- 
bella. However,  they  found  plenty 
to  say  about  the  past  voyage  and 
the  coming  ball,  and  the  impression 
which  the  island  had  made  on  the 


A  Medium  of  Last  Century. — Part  I. 


[Jan. 


new-comers.  By-and-by  Miss  Sal- 
mon took  occasion,  guardedly,  to 
hint  that  the  affair  between  Ara- 
bella and  Spence  seemed  very  like 
a  settled  thing.  "  He  is  always 
here,"  said  Flora,  "  and,  I  fancy, 
has  plenty  of  encouragement  to 
come."  Perhaps  she  read  in  her 
hearer's  features  the  pang  with 
which  the  poor  lad  received  this 
information,  and  perhaps  Flora 
thought  that  he  deserved  for  his 
perversity  to  feel  the  pang ;  she, 
however,  tried  to  divert  him  from 
the  subject  by  sprightly  conversa- 
tion, and  when  he  offered  to  move 
away,  pinned  him  to  his  place,  by 
making  him  wind  silk  for  her.  A 
superior  strategist,  however,  deliver- 
ed him  from  this  snare ;  for  Arabella 
came  to  them  and  said  she  would 
take  Clifton  and  show  him  the  blood- 
hounds, which,  when  on  board  ship, 
he  had  often  expressed  a  desire  to 
inspect;  and  she  commanded  Spence 
to  come  and  take  Clifton's  place  as 
Flora's  silk  -  winder.  If  this  had 
been  intended  expressly  to  favour 
Clifton's  wishes  it  could  not  have 
been  more  craftily  done,  for  Flora 
was  in  great  fear  of  dogs  generally, 
and  could  not  possibly  volunteer  to 
be  of  the  party  to  the  kennel  •  so, 
with  some  chagrin,  she  accepted  Mr 
Spence's  services,  and  looked  happy, 
and  talked  pleasantly,  while  there 
was  bitterness  in  her  heart.  Mean- 
while Clifton's  heart  beat  a  little 
more  happily  when  he  found  him- 
self walking  forth  with  the  lady 
of  his  affections.  Arabella  looked 
more  charming  than  he  had  ever 
seen  her.  She  was  richly  and  be- 
comingly dressed,  and  the  escape 
from  the  confinement  of  the  ship 
had  told  most  favourably  on  her 
appearance  and  spirits.  She  did 
not  hurry  towards  the  dogs,  but  by 
the  way  called  Clifton's  attention  to 
numerous  things  about  the  place 
which  must  be  quite  new  to  him. 
After  a  time  she  asked  him  if  he 


did  not  think  Miss  Salmon  looking 
particularly  well.  Clifton  said  he 
thought  she  was  looking  very  well, 
and  that  her  spirits  and  wit  seemed 
improved  by  her  residence  at  Blen- 
heim. 

"  She  was  in  high  glee  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  ago,  certainly,"  said  Miss 
Chisholm ;  "  but  do  you  know,  I 
don't  think  she'll  be  quite  so  merry 
just  now." 

"  Indeed  !  I  don't  understand 
you." 

"  I  daresay  not.  How  blind  men 
are  !  I  mean  that  she  won't  thank 
me  for  taking  you  away  from  her." 

"  Me  ! " 

"  Yes,  you.  I  have  a  suspicion 
that  she  thinks  very  highly  of 
you." 

"  You  are  joking,  Miss  Chis- 
holm." 

"No  —  no  joke  at  all;  I  have 
my  reasons." 

"Which  are?" 

"That  she  seems  particularly 
anxious  to  promote  a  good  under- 
standing between  Mr  Spence  and 
me." 

"  Oh !  does  she  1  but  how  does 
that  prove " 

"  You  are  too  tiresome,  I  vow. 
How  shall  I  say  it  ?  Perhaps  she 
thinks  I  might  stand  in  her  way 
a  little,  so  she  would  like  to  see 
me  disposed  of." 

The  ensign  would  have  said 
something  very  serious  then  and 
there,  only  his  heart  gave  such  a 
great  jump  at  this  plain  speaking 
that  his  tongue  refused  its  office. 

"I  only  tell  you  now,"  went  on 
Arabella,  "what  may  be  passing 
in  her  mind.  Of  course  it  is  all 
nonsense.  I  wouldn't  for  the  world 
cross  her  path,  and  she  ought  to 
know  it." 

"  But  tell  me,  Miss  Chisholm, 
for  heaven's  sake " 

"Well,  I  never  knew  any- 
body so  absurd,"  said  Arabella, 
laughing  heartily.  "  I  wish  I 


1879.] 


A  Medium  of  Last  Century. — Part  I. 


G3 


had  never  told  you  at  all.  Now 
do  let  us  be  reasonable,  and  talk 
of  something  else.  There,  now, 
what  do  you  think  of  that  horse  1 
It  is  Wallenstein,  and  he  won  the 
Kingston  Cup  the  year  before 
last." 

"His  limbs  are  too  fine  for  hard 
work,"  faltered  the  baffled  ensign. 

'•'  Yes,  so  my  papa  says :  but  he 
can  go  like  the  wind  under  a  light 
weight.  Now  tell  me  what  you 
have  been  doing  since  I  saw  you 
last." 

And  Clifton  gave  as  good  an  ac- 
count as  he  could  of  himself,  taking 
care  to  make  it  appear  that  he  had 
eagerly  seized  the  first  opportunity 
that  offered  of  presenting  himself  at 
Blenheim.  When  he  said  that  he 
had  been  the  day  before  at  Higson's 
Gap,  Arabella  turned  sharply  to- 
wards him,  and  asked  what  he  was 
doing  there. 

"  Well,  we  went  to  see  an  old 
witch,"  said  Clifton. 

Arabella  bent  her  bright  eyes  on 
him  with  a  look  that  pierced  through 
the  young  man.  ""Well,"  asked 
she,  "  and  did  you  see  the  old 
witch,  as  you  call  her  1 " 

"  Oh  yes,"  answered  Clifton, 
feeling  as  if  something  were  wrong 
and  not  knowing  what.  "  Oh  yes, 
we  saw  her." 

Miss  Chisholm  became  silent  and 
thoughtful  after  this.  They  saw 
the  dogs  and  other  things  of  inter- 
est beside ;  but  the  lightness  of  the 
young  lady's  manner  had  quite  left 
her.  At  last,  when  they  were  near- 
ly at  the  house  again,  she  stopped 
and  said — 

"  Don't,  Mr  Clifton,  ever  speak 


to  anybody  about  that  silly  visit  to 
Higson's  Gap  ;  I  entreat  you,  I  de- 
sire you." 

Clifton  said  he  would  obey  her, 
but  he  would  like  to  mention  that 
there  were  some  rather  extraordinary 
circumstances  connected 

"  No  matter ;  nonsense  ;  you  are 
not  to  speak  of  it,"  said  Arabella, 
peremptorily. 

The  remainder  of  his  visit  Clif- 
ton does  not  appear  to  have  thought 
worth  recording.  He  could  not 
wait  for  dinner  and  the  return  of 
Sandy  Chisholm,  because  there  was 
no  officer  at  Elsinore,  and  he  felt 
that  he  ought  to  return.  And  so 
he  rode  away  pleased,  distracted, 
puzzled,  a  conflict  of  emotions  rack- 
ing his  breast.  It  was  delicious  to 
reflect  upon  Arabella's  looks  and 
words  when  she  owned  the  con- 
sciousness that  she  might  appear 
attractive  to  him  ;  but  her  coolness 
about  the  subject,  and  the  way  she 
turned  it  off,  presented  less  agreeable 
food  for  thought.  And  then  the 
fuss  she  made  about  the  sorceress. 
What  on  earth  could  it  mean  1  On 
one  point,  however,  he  felt  rather 
relieved.  If  Arabella  had  really 
felt  a  preference  for  Spence,  she 
could  not  possibly,  strange  and  wil- 
ful though  she  was,  have  spoken 
with  such  sang  froid  about  her  rela- 
tions with  him.  Many  doubts  and 
fears,  with  just  enough  of  hope 
lurking  about  his  heart  to  exercise 
it  pitifully,  kept  him  perplexed  and 
helplessly  love-sick.  He  could  not 
disburden  his  mind  nor  draw  com- 
fort from  anywhere.  But  the  ball 
was  not  far  off ;  at  present  he  lived 
for  that. 


Heather. 


[Jan. 


HEATHER. 


Julias.  Hi,  good  dog  !  Here  ! 
Come  out  of  the  sun,  you  four- 
legged  idiot !  Many  years  in  my 
•company,  and  still  so  little  wisdom. 
Eh?  What?  "Only  dogs  and 
Englishmen  walk  in  the  sun."  I 
have  heard  something  to  that  effect 
before,  but  I  forgive  you.  Sit  here 
under  my  left  arm.  That  is  better. 
You  are  mucli  to  be  pitied  in  that 
you  cannot  lean  your  back  against 
the  smooth  trunk  of  a  pine,  and 
stretch  out  your  legs  before  you. 
I  too  can  lie  on  my  stomach,  if  it 
please  me,  but  you  cannot  for  all 
your  aspirations  lean  your  back 
against  a  tree  in  comfort.  NOT, 
though  you  cock  your  ear  like  a 
critic,  do  you  care  a  jot  for  that 
faint  sighing  overhead,  which  even 
on  this  stillest  of  summer  days  is 
sweet  to  hear.  Nor  do  those  bright 
intelligent  eyes  perceive  the  beauty 
of  heather.  See  how  my  right  arm, 
half  sunken,  lies  along  this  tuft, 
which  is  springy  as  the  very  finest 
smoking-room  sofa,  and  beautiful — 
yes,  by  the  immortality  of  humbug ! 
more  beautiful  than  the  last  creation 
of  the  last  aesthetic  upholsterer ! 
But  heather  is  healthy,  irrepres- 
sible, and  vulgar;  it  rebounds,  it 
asserts  itself;  it  is  vulgar,  vivid, 
and  healthy  as  those  reapers  out 
beyond  the  wood,  where  the  sun 
•smites  the  wide  field  golden.  Hea- 
ther is  vulgar,  and  probably  its 
colour  is  voyant  to  the  well-ordered 
•eye.  In  truth,  this  England  has 
become  a  strange  place  Aurelian, 
while  you  and  I  have  been  knock- 
ing about  the  world.  Here  lie  you 
in  the  shade  of  the  old  pine-wood, 
.and  wag  your  tail — an  incurable 
Philistine.  Here  lie  I  happy  in  the 
heather,  and  wag  my  jaw — a  Phil- 
istine— but  perchance  to  be  cured 
and  become  oblivious  of  Ascalon. 


And  the  strange  thing  is  that  we 
were  wont  to  value  ourselves  on  our 
taste.  In  this  very  spot  have  we 
reposed  side  by  side,  as  now,  and 
been  well  pleased  with  ourselves. 
Were  I  as  once  I  was,  I  should  hug 
myself  with  joy  of  that  broad  corn- 
land,  all  Danae  to  the  sun,  of  the 
blue  through  the  dark  fir -tops :  I 
should  turn  an  idle  eye  to  the  hard 
whiteness  of  the  road  away  on  the 
right,  where  you  delayed  in  the 
glare  and  ran  the  risk  of  madness, 
and  then  bless  myself  that  I  could 
feel  the  entire  charm  of  a  bed  of 
heather  spread  in  the  shade  for  me. 
But  now  I  am  beset  by  doubts. 
What  if  heather  be  vulgar?  It 
pushes,  it  rebounds,  it  asserts  it- 
self ;  it  is  decked  with  purple  bells. 
It  is  not  a  sun-flower ;  it  does  not 
even  wish  to  be  a  sun-flower ;  it  is 
not  wasted  by  one  passionate  sweet 
desire  to  become  a  sun-flower ;  it 
seems  to  be  content  with  itself — 
content  as  a  thriving  grocer.  Has 
Elfrida  become  a  sun-flower?  She 
used  to  be  great  fun.  She  was 
once  a  little  girl,  but  now  a  young 
lady.  She  would  not  agree  with 
the  heather.  Under  the  dark  pine- 
trees  her  dark-green  gown  would  be 
but  a  bit  of  the  shadow,  and  she 
unseen  save  for  the  sunshine  of  her 
hair.  0  wheat,  out  in  the  happy 
field,  where  the  reaper  is  singing  or 
ought  to  be  !  Oh — but  rhapsody  is 
out  of  date.  Elfrida  has  changed, 
O  my  dog,  since  the  days  when  she 
was  Elf,  and  rode  the  old  horse 
bare-back,  and  played  cricket  with 
the  boys,  princess  and  witch  of  the 
schoolroom,  elf  of  this  wood,  and 
utter  fairy  !  She  is  a  beauty  now, 
and  her  gowns  are  as  the  dead 
leaves  of  the  forest  for  number  and 
colour,  and  her  head  is  a  little  bowed 
on  one  side  as  the  head  of  the  lily, 


1879.]  Heather. 

and  her  face  is  a  comely  mystery. 
These  are  brave  words,  Aurelian. 
Yet  there  is  none  like  her.  What 
does  she  think  of  me?  Were  I  a 
lover,  thus  idle  in  the  sweet  shade, 
I  would  solve  the  question  by  some 
pretty  test,  as  thus :  She  loves  me — 
she  loves  me  not ;  she  loves — no  ; 
she — but  I  perceive  that  you  do  not 
like  me  to  pluck  hairs  from  your 
tail ;  and  yet  I  have  called  you  friend 
these  many  years.  Let  the  ques- 
tion remain  unanswered.  Or  let  us 
be  wise,  and  know  she  loves  us  not. 

"Sing  little  bird  in  the  tree, 
But  not  because  my  love  loves  me, 
For  she  does  no  such  thing  ; 
Therefore,  for  your  good  pleasure,  only 
sing." 

Thank  you.  And  now  for  lunch- 
eon. Now  is  the  hour,  when  in 
eating-houses  all  the  world  over, 
there  is  clink  of  knives  and  small 
change,  clatter  of  plates,  and  hum 
of  talking  and  eating.  Here  there 
is  no  bustling  waiter  nor  scent 
of  roast  joint,  but  only  a  crust  of 
bread,  an  apple,  and  pure  air.  Were 
this  my  last  crust  you  should  share 
it.  It  is  well,  however,  that  you 
have  no  taste  for  apples.  He  would 
have  tempted  you  with  tea  and  a 
chop.  Steady  !  Don't  bolt  your 
bread,  and  I  will  find  a  biscuit  in 
my  pocket.  Be  dignified,  as  be- 
comes a  traveller  and  one  who  has 
had  losses.  Have  I  lost  something 
rare?  I  cannot  say.  But  if  I  had 
not  so  longed  to  see  the  world,  I 
might  have  gained  something,  when 
an  Elf  was  tenant  of  this  old  wood. 
What  ?  Enough  ?  Why  these  ex- 
travagant demonstrations,  this  wag- 
ging of  the  tail,  and,  indeed,  of  the 
entire 'body?  What  do  you  see? 
Who  is  it?  Elfrida!  I  did  not 
think  you  would  come  out  to-day. 

Elfrida.  Is  it  not  beautiful  ? 

Jul.  Yes.— 

"The  valleys  stand  so  thick  with  corn 

that  they  do  laugh  and  sing." 
VOL,  CXXV. — NO.  DCCLIX, 


65 


Elf.- 


"  Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they 
mean — 

Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  de- 
spair, 

Rise  in  the  heart  and  gather  to  the  eyes, 

In  looking  on  the  happy  autumn  fields." 

Jul.  It  is  scarce  autumn  yet. 
Let  it  be  summer  still ;  and  let  us 
laugh  with  the  valleys.  Consider 
that  broad  beauty  in  the  sun. 

Elf.  Is  it  not  exquisite,  pathetic? 

Jul.  Is  it  ? 

Elf.  Oh  yes. 

Jul.  Not  too  bright,  too  garish  ? 

Elf.  Perhaps  it  is.  I  did  not 
think  that  you  would  feel  that. 

Jul.  Oh,  not  too  bright  for  me. 
I  like  to  sit  in  shadow  and  stare 
into  the  sun.  But  for  you  ?  I 
thought  that  you  would  resent  the 
shining  of  the  blue,  the  gleaming 
of  the  yellow  corn,  the  cheerfulness 
of  all  things. 

Elf.  Are  you  laughing  at  me  ?  I 
never  know. 

Jul.  I  laugh  because  you  are 
here.  It  brings  back  other  days. 
Oh,  don't  sigh.  They  were  jolly, 
but  none  so  jolly  as  this.  Jolly  ! 
Let  me  say  jocund. 

Elf.  I  think  it  is  all  too  bright. 
It  hurts  the  eyes  a  little. 

Jul.  Are  they  weak,  those  eyes  ? 

Elf.  I  think  not. 

Jul.  I  think  not. 

Elf.  But  I  like  soft  colours  best ; 
don't  you  ? 

Jul.  Tender  grey  skies,  tender 
green  grass,  and  tone. 

Elf.  Oh  yes.  That  is  good.  That 
is  like  Lacave.  It  is  only  by  study- 
ing the  Erench  painters  that  one 
can  learn  to  love  our  grey -green 
English  landscapes,  to  comprehend 
their  infinite  tenderness. 

Jul.  It  is  hard  even  for  a  French 
painter  to  comprehend  the  infinite. 

Elf.  Is  it  so  hard?  I  wish  you 
could  see  his  pictures.  I  know  so 
little,  and  I  can't  explain  myself; 
but  he  is  so  clever,  and  it  is  all  so 
E 


66 


Heather. 


[Jan. 


true.  I  should  like  you  to  know 
him,  Julius. 

Jul.  Let  it  be  so.  I  don't  hate 
a  Frenchman.  What  does  he  paint  1 

Elf.  Oh,  wonderful  still  things, 
all  rest  and  brooding  calm  ;  a  level 
grey-green  sea;  long,  level,  level 
sands  all  grey  with  wan  sea-water ; 
and  far-off  creeping  mist  and  low 
grey  sky. 

Jul.  Always  that  1 

Elf.  Yes,  I  think  so;  but  with 
infinite  variety  in  the  monotone. 

Jul.  He  must  have  a  merry  heart 
to  keep  him  warm,  or  an  endless 
cold  in  the  head.  Is  he  jocund, 
this  painter? 

Elf.  Oh,  Julius !  He  is  always 
very  still. 

Jul.  And  grey?  But  I  will  learn 
to  like  the  right  things.  Am  I  too 
old  to  learn?  Will  you  teach 
me? 

Elf.  I  can't  teach  anything,  as 
you  know,  Julius.  You  must  ask 
M.  Lacave. 

Jul.— 

"  The  owl  in  the  sunlight  sat  and  said, 
'  1  hate  your  vulgar  blue  and  red ; 
Oh,  better  the  grey  of  a  wan  twilight, 
Or  a  black  nocturne  at  the  dead  of  night.' 
0  M.  Hibou, 
A  word  with  you — 

Pray,   how  can  you  gain    your  potent 
sight?" 

But  in  sober  prose,  sweet  coz,  I 
will  to  school  again,  and  learn  to 
love  grey  weather — a  taste  much  to 
be  desired  in  this  old  land  of  ours. 
Only  let  this  day  be  holiday.  Let 
us  be  happy  to-day — happy  as  sun- 
burnt reapers  in  the  field.  I  give 
the  day  to  vulgar  joy,  for  I  am  at 
home  again,  and  the  hour  is  fair. 
Joy  is  vulgar,  is  it  not  ? 

Elf.  Oh  no.     Joy  is  good. 

Jul.  Good,  and  sweet,  and  sad, 
and  so  evil. 

Elf.  You  are  mocking  me  again, 
I  think.  But  surely  it  is  true  that 
joy  and  sorrow  are  very  near  to- 
gether, are  one  in  some  sort;  are  for 


us  so  blended  and  intermingled, 
that  we  can  no  more  sever  one  from 
another  than  the  tuberose  from  its 
scent. 

Jul.  I  knew  it.  Evil  is  sad,  and 
sad  is  sweet,  and  sweet  is  good. 
But  no  more  gladness,  which  is 
scarce  better  than  jollity.  We 
must  be  sweetly,  sadly,  seriously 
joyous.  It  shall  be  so  to-morrow. 
To-morrow  I  will  begin  to  learn. 
-To-morrow  to  school;  to-niorrow, 
to-morrow,  to-morrow.  But  to-day ! 
To-day  I  am  so  deeply,  unutterably 
glad  of  the  goodly  earth,  where 
angels  might  gather  in  the  corn. 
Think  of  me  as  one  who  will  do 
better,  as  one  who  has  kept  bad 
company  for  years  :  do  you  wag 
your  tail  at  me,  sir?  I  said  bad 
company,  Aurelian;  nay,  pat  him 
not  Elfrida,  for  he  is  a  Philistine, 
and  must  be  chastened.  He  is 
happy  with  a  bone,  sorry  with  a 
beating.  To-morrow  will  I  give 
him  a  bone  and  a  beating  at  the 
same  time,  thus  complicate  his 
emotions,  thus  begin  his  education. 
Down,  you  fantastic  pup  ! — Elfrida, 
this  grove  intoxicates  me.  It  is 
not  long  since  an  Elf  ran  wild  here, 
leaping  in  the  heather,  laughing  to 
the  air,  darting  through  the  sha- 
dows like  a  truant  sunbeam  fresh 
from  heaven. 

Elf.  Do  you  remember  those  old 
days? 

Jul.  That  is  better.  There  is 
the  old  colour  in  your  cheeks.  Do 
you  ever  run  now  ? 

Elf.  Sometimes,  but  not  now. 
M.  Lacave  is  painting  me,  and  he 
likes  me  to  be  pale. 

Jul.  Would  he  were  pale,  very 
pale !  You  are  too  rare  to  fade, 

Elf.  Julius,  what  is  the  matter 
with  the  dog  ? 

Jul.  He  has  found  a  mare's  nest. 
I  know  that  air  of  preternatural 
sagacity.  Lead  on,  Aurelian ;  we 
follow  thee.  Hush  !  Look  here  ! 


1879.] 


Heather. 


67 


Scarce  ten  yards  from  where  \ve 
sat !  Is  not  this  a  day  of  enchant- 
ment? 

Elf.  Hush!  Poor  child,  how 
sound  he  sleeps. 

Jul.  A  little  tramp  of  Italy,  and 
a  jolly  little  fellow. 

Elf.  He  has  crept  in  here  from  off 
the  hard  road  of  life.  Don't  wake 
him,  Julius. 

Jul.  Not  I.  Do  you  think  I 
would  mar  such  slumber?  Look 
how  evenly  the  breath  stirs  the 
torn  shirt  on  his  breast,  and  how 
easily  he  lies,  his  knees  a  little 
bent,  as  if  he  would  curl  himself 
like  some  soft-coated  animal  warm 
in  the  heather!  Did  an  eagle  let 
him  fall? 

Elf.  How  beautiful  is  the  soft 
olive  face  lying  on  the  outstretched 
arm !  and  look  at  the  lashes — how 
long  they  are  on  the  cheek  !  Poor 
child  !  The  path  before  him  must 
be  rough  for  those  little  feet.  Poor 
child,  poor  child ! 

Jul.  Not  so  poor  neither.  Is 
sleep  like  that  worth  nothing  1  See 
how  he  smiles,  and  the  humorous 
wrinkle  between  the  eyebrows,  and 
the  warm  blood  in  the  cheek.  It 
is  a  child's  cheek,  round  and  soft ; 
but  the  jaw  is  firm  enough.  Such 
a  one  moves  well  and  cheerily 
among  the  chances  of  life.  No  fear 
for  him.  He  was  born  in  a  happy 
hour. 

Elf.  How  beautiful  he  is,  astray 
from  a  poet's  Italy,  fragrant  of  the 


wine-press,  and   eloquent   of  most 
delicate  music  ! 

Jul.  Yet  should  he  wake,  that 
rustic  bagpipe  would  be  doubtless 
discordant.  Sleep,  little  one,  in  good 
sweet  Northern  heather;  sleep,  little 
Ampelus,  out  of  the  swinging  vines. 
Sleep,  vagrant  poem,  not  Ampelus  ; 
for  now  I  bethink  me,  Elfrida,  this 
is  the  very  god  of  love. 

Elf.  Poor  little  child  of  the 
South. 

Jul.  Bad  grandchild  of  the 
Southern  sea,  lovely  and  capricious, 
with  malice  in  her  smiles.  "Wake 
him  not  or  tremble.  Elves  of  the 
wood  a-many  have  confessed  his 
power.  See  how  the  dog  trembles. 
Away ! 

Elf.  Can  we  do  nothing  for  him, 
Julius  1 

Jul.  Nothing.  But  stay.  There 
is  a  book  of  antique  lore  that  says 
to  those  who  chance  to  find  Eros 
asleep,  that,  be  they  many  or  few, 
one  or  two,  each  must  sing  the  god 
a  song,  and  cross  his  palm  with  sil- 
ver. I  therefore  in  this  upturned 
little  brown  hand  place  this  half- 
crown.  Do  you  take  this,  its  fel- 
low, and  do  likewise. 

Elf.  I  shall  never  pay  you, 
Julius. 

Jul.  You  never  can.  So  half 
the  charm  is  done.  Now,  sit  you 
here  upon  this  tiny  knoll.  I  will 
lie  here  on  the  other  side.  So  our 
theme  lies  between  us.  Do  you 
begin  the  song. 


Elf.  (sings) — Love  lies  asleep 

Deep  in  the  pleasant  heather ; 
Wake  him  not  lest  ye  weep 

Through  the  long  winter  weather  j 
And  sorrow  bud  again  in  spring, 
With  apple- blossoming, 
And  bloom  in  the  garden  close, 
With  blooming  of  the  rose, 
And  ye,  ere  ye  be  old, 
Die  with  the  brief  pale  gold, 
And  when  the  leaves  are  shed, 
Ye  too  lie  dead. 


Heather. 


[Jan. 


Jul.    No   fear    of    waking    this 
vagrant  Love.     How  fast  he  sleeps. 


Elf.  What  utter  weariness  ! 
Jul.  What  splendid  health  ! 


Jul.  (sings) — Oh,  merry  the  day  in  the  whispering  wood, 

Where  the  boy  Love  lies  sleeping ; 
And  clad  in  artistic  ladyhood 
An  Elf  her  watch  is  keeping  ! 
Oh,  she  was  a  queen  of  the  elfin  race, 

And  flower  of  fairy  land  ! 
The  squirrel  stood  to  look  in  her  face, 

And  the  wild  dove  came  to  her  hand  ; 
Bat  her  fairies  have  given  a  gift  more  fair 
Than  any  that  elves  or  ladies  wear, 
llnbought  at  any  mart — 
A  woman's  heart. 

Boys  and  maidens  passing  by, 

Be  ye  wise,  and  let  Love  lie  ! 

There's  never  a  word  than  this  more  wise 

In  all  the  old  philosophies. 

Hush  your  song  this  summer  day, 
Lest  he  wake  and  bid  you  stay ; 
Hush  and  haste  away, 
Haste  away, 

Away  ! 


Elf.  And  we  too  must  be  going, 
for  look  how  long  the  shadows  of 
the  reapers  lie  along  the  land.  How 
sad  so  sweet  a  day  must  end  ! 

Jul.  And  are  not  others  coming 
better  than  this  1 

Elf.  Who  can  say  1  Ah,  yes ! 
I  will  believe  that  they  are  coming. 

Jul.  That  is  wise,  Elfrida.  That 
is  bravely  said.  Look  how  the 
sunlight  comes  like  a  conqueror, 
slanting  through  the  dark  firs ! 
It  touches  the  poor  child's  cheek, 
and  you  stoop  to  kiss  the  place. 


That  is  well  done.  Did  you  see 
how  he  smiled  and  moved  in  sleep  1 
He  will  wake  soon  with  the  even- 
ing light  about  him,  to  find  wealth 
in  his  little  brown  hand,  and  in 
his  heart  the  dream  of  a  young 
queen's  kiss. 

Elf.  Come.  It  is  time  to  go 
home. 

Jul.  And  after  our  many  jour- 
neys by  land  and  sea,  is  there  still 
a  home  for  us  ?  Arise,  Aurelian  ! 
come,  good  pup,  and  follow  our 
gracious  lady  home. 


1879.] 


Contemporary  Literature. 


69 


CONTEMPORARY  LITERATURE. 


II.    JOURNALISTS   AND   MAGAZINE-WRITERS. 


PERHAPS  the  least  satisfactory 
feature  of  contemporary  journalism 
is  the  unpatriotic  animus  inspiring 
the  articles  of  newspapers  which 
have  weight  and  a  very  consider- 
able circulation.  We  confess  that 
we  have  little  sympathy  with  those 
who  resent  all  hostile  criticism  of 
our  foreign  policy,  because  our  re- 
lations with  some  foreign  Power 
may  seem  to  be  tending  to  a  rup- 
ture. It  may  be  the  legitimate 
office  of  a  responsible  opposition  to 
save  us  by  seasonable  warnings 
from  what  they  feel  must  be  a  na- 
tional misfortune,  and  believe  may 
be  a  national  crime.  Because  they 
have  but  imperfect  information  on 
the  points  in  dispute,  is  no  sufficient 
reason  for  their  refusing  to  express 
themselves  upon  evidence  that  may 
almost  have  the  force  of  conviction 
for  them.  We  can  understand  an 
honest  patriot  in  such  circumstances 
feeling  impelled  by  his  duty  to  de- 
liver his  conscience.  But  from  that 
there  is  a  very  long  way  to  syste- 
matically giving  aid  and  comfort  to 
the  enemy;  to  exhausting  all  the 
resources  of  special  pleading  in 
constituting  one's  self  his  advocate 
and  apologist  in  every  conceivable 
contingency;  finally,  to  labouring 
to  persuade  him  that,  happen  what 
may,  and  should  the  quarrel  come 
to  be  settled  by  the  arbitrament  of 
arms,  he  would  be  dealing,  in  any 
case,  with  a  divided  nation,  and 
have  a  mass  of  sympathetic  discon- 
tent upon  his  side.  We  do  not 
say  that  these  transcen dentally 
moral  journals  would  not  be  quick 
to  change  their  tone  were  war  actu- 
ally to  break  out ;  because  we  do  not 
believe  it.  But  by  that  time  the 
mischief  would  have  been  done,  and 


the  struggle  precipitated  by  cosmo- 
politan philanthropists  who  had  all 
along  been  pretending  to  deprecate  it. 
Never,  in  our  recollection  —  we 
might  almost  say,  never  in  our  his- 
tory— has  anti-national  agitation 
been  carried  to  such  unpatriotic 
lengths  as  during  the  course  of  the 
present  troubles  in  the  East.  No 
doubt,  the  whole  miserable  busi- 
ness began  most  unfortunately  for 
all  parties,-  except,  possibly,  for  the 
single  aggressive  State  that  had 
been  deliberately  working  towards 
its  long-determined  ends.  As  Lord 
Derby  remarked  at  the  time — and 
the  reflection  needed  small  gifts  of 
prophecy — the  Bulgarian  atrocities 
were  likely  to  cost  the  Turks  more 
dearly  than  many  a  lost  battle. 
Russian  emissaries  had  paved  the 
way  to  them  in  their  knowledge  of 
certain  phases  of  the  English  char- 
acter; nor  had  the  Russians  reck- 
oned in  vain  on  the  short-sighted 
extravagance  of  our  emotional  phil- 
anthropists. In  spite  of  sensational 
exaggeration,  the  "  atrocities  "  were 
atrocious  enough ;  and  the  indigna- 
tion that  was  vented  from  the  plat- 
forms found  an  echo  in  the  heart  of 
England.  Yet,  setting  aside  alto- 
gether what  the  Turks  had  to  urge 
in  extenuation  of  the  excesses  of 
irregular  troops  they  should  never 
have  been  deluded  into  employing, 
it  was  evident  to  those  among  us 
who  kept  their  heads,  that  others 
than  the  Turks  might  have  to  pay 
the  penalty.  We  were  bound  in  hu- 
manity to  do  what  we  could  to  take 
pledges  and  guarantees  against  their 
repetition ;  but  they  were  no  suffi- 
cient reason  for  breaking  with  the 
policy  which  had  been  dictated  by 
self-preservation  and  the  dread  of 


70 


Contemporary  Literature : 


[Jan. 


Russian  ambition.  Yet  a  not  unin- 
fluential  section  of  the  Liberal  press, 
following  the  lead  of  the  most  im- 
pulsive of  Liberal  agitators,  clamour- 
ed at  once  for  an  absolute  revolution 
in  the  attitude  that  had  recom- 
mended itself  to  the  common-sense 
of  our  fathers.  Because  some  wild 
Asiatic  levies  had  been  massacring 
and  outraging  some  insurgent  Chris- 
tians, we  were  to  welcome  the  Rus- 
sians to  the  south  of  the  Danube 
in  their  novel  character  of  benevo- 
lent crusaders.  The  probabilities 
were,  that  the  invading  corps  of 
half-civilised  Sclavs,  Tartars,  and 
Cossacks,  might  cause  much  more 
misery  than  they  were  likely  to 
remedy.  But  even  supposing  that 
they  had  come  as  the  messengers 
of  mercy,  and  behaved  with  a  dis- 
cipline beyond  all  reproach,  it  was 
certain  they  meant  to  remain  where 
they  where,  as  a  menace  to  us. 
"Whether  the  testament  of  Peter  the 
Great  was  apocryphal  or  not,  there 
was  no  gainsaying  the  candour  of 
Nicholas,  who  was  the  very  genius 
incarnate  of  modern  Muscovite  am- 
bition. If  the  Russian  success  did 
not  actually  carry  them  to  Constanti- 
nople, at  least  it  would  leave  them 
intrenched  in  formidable  outposts, 
whence  they  would  threaten  that 
city  and  our  Eastern  communica- 
tions. At  the  best,  the  Russian 
victory  that  seemed  a  foregone  con- 
clusion, must  end  in  a  permanent 
increase  to  our  national  burdens. 
At  the  worst,  it  might  well  land  us 
in  the  war  which,  at  the  moment  of 
our  writing,  is  still  a  possibility. 
That  the  Russians  had  views  be- 
yond Bulgarian  emancipation  was 
clearly  shown  by  their  attack  on 
Asia  Minor ;  for  in  those  early  days 
they  held  Turkish  fighting  power 
too  cheap  to  attack  the  Ottomans  all 
along  their  front,  purely  by  way  of  a 
diversion.  The  Turks  were  holding 
the  front  lines  of  Anglo-Indian  de- 
fence, where  they  were  gallantly 


standing  to  their  guns  along  the 
Danube,  and  had  rolled  back  the 
Russian  advance  from  the  mountain- 
ranges  between  Kars  and  Erzeroum. 
Yet  at  that  critical  moment,  when 
there  seemed  almost  a  hope  of  Rus- 
sia being  checked,  without  the  Eng- 
lish empire  being  engaged  or  forced 
to  intervene,  a  leading  English  week- 
ly was  writing  despondently  of  the 
"  evil  news "  that  came  steadily 
from  the  East  to  cast  such  heavy 
shadows  on  its  pages.  That  seemed 
un-English  and  unpatriotic  enough, 
though  charity  might  set  it  down  to 
short-sightedness,  and  to  the  inno- 
cence that  will  think  no  evil  of  any- 
body— of  anybody,  at  all  events, 
who  makes  profession  of  Christian- 
ity. The  Russians  were  still  in  their 
roles  of  emancipators ;  they  had  as 
yet  had  no  opportunity,  for  the  best 
of  reasons,  of  showing  their  notions 
of  civilisation,  and  their  clemency  in 
the  treatment  of  women  and  non- 
combatants;  they  had  had  no  time 
to  think  of  "  rearrangement  of  terri- 
tory "  while  they  held  their  positions 
on  the  tenor  of  help  from  the  Rouma- 
nians. Later,  and  subsequently  to 
the  Treaty  of  San  Stefano,  they  had 
dropped  the  mask.  At  the  Congress 
of  Berlin  they  were  brought  face  to 
face  with  England  ;  and  England 
was  acknowledged  by  the  common 
consent  of  Continental  nations  as 
the  champion  of  treaties  and  the 
common  interests.  The  *  Debats ' 
and  the  '  Temps '  held  precisely  the 
same  tone  as  the  '  Union,'  the 
'  Soleil,'  and  the  '  Republique  Fran- 
£aise.'  The  '  Kolnische  Zeitung ' 
and  the  '  Allgemeine  Zeitung '  were 
in  agreement  with  the  '  Post '  and 
the  '  Neue  Freie  Presse.'  We  may 
believe  that  our  foreign  friends  were 
not  altogether  unwilling  that  we 
should  pull  the  chestnuts  out  of  the 
fire  for  them ;  but  be  that  as  it  may, 
it  was  universally  recognised  that 
the  triumph  of  international  right 
depended  upon  strengthening  the 


1879.] 


//.  Journalists  and  Magazine-  Writers. 


71 


hands  of  our  Ministers.  When  the 
only  discordant  notes  were  sounded 
from  the  London  offices  of  one  or  two 
of  the  Liberal  organs  of  "  conscien- 
tious" English  opinion,  it  was  hardly 
a  time  for  debating-society  sophis- 
tries. Eussia  had  ceased  to  care  to 
conceal  her  intentions  ;  or  rather  she 
had  been  forced  to  show  her  hand 
in  the  terms  she  dictated  in  the  inso- 
lence of  victory.  Her  generals  and 
administrative  organisers,  with  most 
outspoken  cynicism,  had  approved 
or  exaggerated  the  extortionate 
claims  of  the  San  Stefano  Treaty. 
If  Russia  had  reluctantly  consented 
to  modify  the  San  Stefano  conditions 
at  Berlin,  her  acts  were  in  contradic- 
tion of  those  solemn  engagements. 
Yet  English  journals  still  served 
their  party  by  professing  to  cling 
blindly  to  their  original  belief. 
Erom  the  language  of  Russian  gen- 
erals, intoxicated  with  sudden  suc- 
cess— from  the  consistent  energy  of 
the  Russian  War  Office,  massing 
fresh  troops  in  the  territory  they  had 
undertaken  to  evacuate — there  were 
men  of  intelligence  who  insisted  up- 
on appealing  back  to  the  words  of 
the  Russians  when  soberly  plotting. 
They  still  took  Prince  Gortschakoff 
and  General  Ignatieff  au  serieux  in 
their  old  and  favourite  Muscovite 
part  of  Tartuffe,  while  ignoring 
Prince  Dondoukoff  -  Korsakoff  and 
General  Scoboleff,  who  were  swagger- 
ing as  Bombastes  Furiosos.  The  best 
we  can  say  of  them  is,  that  had  they 
shown  themselves  as  incompetent 
in  their  judgments  on  things  in  gen- 
eral as  in  that  most  momentous  and 
dangerous  Eastern  Question,  they 
would  never  have  attained  the  in- 
.fiuential  position  which  has  made 
it  worth  the  while  of  our  enemies 
to  court  their  alliance. 

Their  only  conceivable  apology, 
if  apology  it  can  be  called,  is  that 
they  have  been  working  for  their 
political  friends  according  to  their 
peculiar  lights,  and  following  the 


lead  of  their  most  prominent  leaders. 
The  Conservatives  are  in  office ; 
and  if  the  Liberals  were  to  return  to 
power  with  a  strong  working  ma- 
jority, Ministers  must  be  discred- 
ited in  the  eyes  of  the  nation.  It 
is  conceivable  that  a  Cabinet  may 
blunder  almost  stupidly.  The  ex- 
traordinary timidity  with  which 
that  of  Mr  Gladstone  had  alienated 
the  Affghan  Ameer,  by  rejecting  his 
overtures  and  refusing  him  some 
contingent  security  against  Russian 
aggression,  is  an  unhappy  case  in 
point.  But  it  seemed  incredible 
that  a  group  of  eminent  English 
statesmen  of  honourable  antece- 
dents, Conservatives  though  they 
might  be,  should  have  committed 
themselves  en  masse  to  a  systematic 
conspiracy,  as  much  against  their 
personal  honour  as  the  grave  in- 
terests they  had  in  charge.  Yet 
that  is  the  indictment  which  has 
been  practically  brought  against 
them,  and  they  have  been  loaded 
with  improbable  and  indiscriminate 
abuse  in  the  well-founded  expecta- 
tion that  some  of  it  might  bespat- 
ter them.  Party  spirit  has  never 
been  working  more  strenuously  on 
the  maxim  of  giving  a  dog  an  ill 
name  and  hanging  him.  If  Minis- 
ters spoke  out  manfully,  they  were 
blustering;  if  they  saw  reason  to 
be  discreetly  reserved,  they  were 
shuffling  intriguers  and  time-servers ; 
when  they  asked  for  a  war-vote, 
they  were  working  in  advance  for 
the  failure  of  the  coming  congress 
of  peacemakers — although,  as  what 
happened  at  Berlin  conclusively 
demonstrated,  had  England  not 
persuaded  men  of  her  readiness  for 
war,  we  should  have  had  even  less 
of  moral  support  from  the  Ger- 
man Chancellor,  and  obtained  no 
shadow  of  concessions  from  Russia. 
Repeatedly,  when  time  has  made 
disclosures  permissible,  the  expla- 
nations have  been  more  than  satis- 
factory to  candid  minds.  Yet  we 


72 


Contemporary  Literature  : 


[Jan. 


have  never  once  had  an  honest 
admission  to  that  effect;  and  the 
special  pleaders  have  either  slightly 
shifted  their  ground,  or  continued 
their  abuse  upon  vague  generalities. 
The  Cabinet  would  have  fared  even 
worse  had  not  the  Premier  served 
as  a  lightning-conductor;  the  favour- 
ite assumption  being  that  his  col- 
leagues must  be  fools  and  dupes. 
In  other  words,  that  some  of  the 
ablest  and  most  experienced  and 
most  highly  placed  of  English  poli- 
ticians are  content  to  place  their 
honour  in  the  hands  of  a  "char- 
latan," and  stake  the  chances  of 
a  brilliant  political  future  on  the 
caprices  and  surprises  of  a  "feather- 
brained adventurer."  For  "  char- 
latan "  and  "  feather  -  brained  ad- 
venturer" are  the  characters  in 
which  it  pleases  Lord  Beaconsfield's 
detractors  to  represent  him.  Truly 
it  may  be  said  of  him,  that  a  pro- 
phet has  no  honour  in  his  own 
country.  It  is  nothing  that  foreign 
Liberals  have  recognised  him  as  the 
worthy  representative  of  the  gen- 
erous strength  of  England — as  the 
champion  of  essentially  liberal  ideas 
against  the  autocratic  absolutism  of 
great  military  empires.  It  was 
nothing  that  his  journey  to  Berlin 
was  made  a  significant  triumphal 
progress,  when  crowds  of  phleg- 
matic Flemings  and  Germans  came 
cheering  the  veteran  statesman, 
with  few  dissentient  voices.  It  is 
nothing  that  he  has  the  confidence 
of  his  Royal  Mistress,  who  is  per- 
haps as  nearly  concerned  as  most 
people  in  the  stability  of  her 
throne  and  the  welfare  of  her 
subjects,  and  whose  political  ca- 
pacity and  knowledge  of  affairs 
have  been  amply  demonstrated  in 
the  'Life  of  the  Prince  Consort.' 
It  is  nothing,  of  course,  that  after 
surmounting  almost  unprecedented 
obstacles  and  prejudices,  he  has  the 
confidence  of  the  great  party  who 
hold  the  heaviest  stakes  in  the 


country.  But  it  is  much  that  he 
has  been  steadily  swaying  to  his 
side  the  masses  who  once  pinned 
their  faith  on  Mr  Gladstone,  and 
that  the  nation  at  large  is  disposed 
to  judge  him  more  generously,  and 
deal  tenderly  with  any  mistakes  he 
may  have  made,  in  consideration  of 
the  difficulties  with  which  he  has 
been  contending.  We  are  no  indis- 
criminate admirers  of  Lord  Beacons- 
field  ;  but  in  the  course  of  history 
we  remember  no  one  who  has  been 
treated  with  more  deliberate  ma- 
levolence and  injustice.  We  have 
understood  it  to  be  the  boast  of  the 
British  constitution,  that  it  offered 
the  freest  openings  to  men  who  are 
parvenus  in  the  best  sense  of  the 
word.  It  has  been  Mr  Disraeli's 
misfortune  to  awaken  fresh  jeal- 
ousies and  animosities  at  each  step 
he  has  made  in  advance.  He  has 
distinguished  himself  as  a  writer,  as 
a  debater,  as  an  orator,  as  a  states- 
man,— but,  above  all,  as  the  most 
patient  and  successful  of  party 
leaders.  He  has  held  together  the 
party  he  has  disciplined,  and  made 
of  a  despised  minority  the  majority 
he  commands ;  and  that  is  the  sin 
that  will  never  be  forgiven  him. 
Lord  Beaconsfield  has  his  faults, 
and  they  must  have  occasionally 
betrayed  him  into  error.  Reckless 
and  romantic  as  we  are  told  he  is 
in  his  speech,  we  do  not  remember 
his  making  any  claim  to  infalli- 
bility. But  if  we  take  him  on  the 
estimates  of  his  inveterate  detrac- 
tors, there  seldom  was  such  a  mon- 
ster of  moral  perversity;  and  we 
can  only  marvel  at  the  transcendent 
powers  which  have  made  him  the 
foremost  statesman  of  England,  in 
spite  of  such  transparent  chicanery. 
If  he  speaks  with  apparent  frank- 
ness, he  is  discredited  beforehand, 
since  it  is  notorious  that  there  is 
nothing  he  detests  like  the  truth. 
If  he  says  nothing,  it  is  the  silence  of 
the  conspirator.  If  he  winds  up  a 


1879.] 


//.  Journalists  and  Magazine-Writers. 


73 


brilliant  speech  with  a  soul-stirring 
peroration  that  would  have  been 
reprinted  in  all  the  elocution  books 
had  it  fallen  from  the  lips  of  Lord 
Chatham,  it  is  merely  a  bouquet  of 
the  Premier's  fireworks.  A  seem- 
ingly far-sighted  stroke  of  policy 
is  a  dangerous  development  of  his 
weakness  for  surprises.  He  is  abused 
simultaneously  for  abstention  as  for 
meddling;  and  is  made  personally 
responsible  for  each  dispensation  of 
Providence,  from  the  depreciation 
of  the  Indian  rupee  to  the  lowering 
of  agricultural  wages. 

Lord  Beaconsfield  serves  as  a 
lightning-conductor  for  his  Cabinet. 
But  other  public  men  in  their  de- 
grees have  equally  hard  measure 
dealt  out  to  them.  Sir  Henry 
Elliot  has  been  out  of  the  storm 
since  he  shifted  his  quarters  from 
Constantinople  to  the  comparative 
obscurity  of  Vienna.  But  Sir  Hen- 
ry Layard,  who  stepped  into  his 
place,  has  had  to  bear  the  brunt 
of  the  merciless  pelting.  It  is  a 
strange  coincidence,  to  say  the  least 
of  it,  that  our  agents  in  the  East, 
from  the  highest  to  the  lowest, 
and  whether  originally  appointed 
by  Liberals  or  Conservatives,  have 
proved  themselves  equally  unworthy 
of  credit.  They  can  hardly  have 
sold  themselves  to  the  Turks,  for 
the  Turks  have  never  had  money 
to  buy  them.  We  can  only  sup- 
pose them  to  have  been  demoralised 
by  the  taint  of  Mohammedan  air, 
and  the  disreputable  company  they 
have  been  keeping.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  their  evidence,  ex  offitio,  goes 
for  nothing.  A  passing  traveller, 
who  knows  as  little  of  the  habits  of 
the  country  as  of  its  language,  who 
sees  through  the  eyes  and  hears 
with  the  ears  of  a  dragoman  that 
has  taken  the  measure  of  his  em- 
ployer, pens  a  letter  to  a  sympa- 
thetic paper,  with  a  piece  of  start- 
ling intelligence  that  makes  the 
blood  run  cold.  Forthwith  it  is 


made  the  text  for  a  scathing  leader, 
and  the  editor  stands  committed  to 
the  assertion  of  his  informant.  We 
can  understand  that  he  prints  with 
a  civil  sneer  the  explanations  of  the 
embassy  in  Bryanston  Square.  But 
in  due  time  comes  the  contradiction 
from  the  English  consul,  who  has 
spent  half  a  life  in  those  border- 
lands of  barbarism.  The  consul 
has  been  at  the  pains  to  make 
searching  inquiries,  and  can  pro- 
nounce the  whole  story  to  be  a 
fable.  Possibly  his  communication 
may  be  printed,  since  it  is  sure, 
sooner  or  later,  to  find  publicity 
somewhere.  And  the  philanthrop- 
ical  editor  accepts  it  as  confirming 
his  conviction  that  the  philo-Otto- 
manism  of  these  officials  is  beyond 
belief.  So  it  was  when  Mr  Fawcett 
undertook  a  mission  into  Thessaly 
to  inquire  into  the  melancholy  fate 
of  one  of  the  '  Times' '  correspond- 
ents. A  universally-respected  con- 
sul-general being  sent  on  such  a  mis- 
sion at  all,  was  only  the  farcical  epi- 
logue to  a  grim  tragedy.  So  with 
Mr  Fawcett  and  the  other  delegates 
of  the  impartial  foreign  Powers  ap- 
pointed to  inquire  into  the  atro- 
cities in  the  Ehodope.  We  were 
informed  that  biassed  judges  were 
examining  perjured  witnesses.  The 
wretched  Turkish  women  who  told 
of  diabolical  outrages  with  the  un- 
mistakable truth  of  depression  fol- 
lowing upon  suffering,  simple  peas- 
ants as  they  seemed,  were  in  reality 
incomparable  actresses.  Set  the  agi- 
tation over  the  Bulgarian  atrocities 
side  by  side  with  the  indifference 
to  the  Bhodope  horrors,  and  say 
whether  there  has  even  been  a  show 
of  common  fairness.  We  can  under- 
stand a  Russian  journalist  making 
the  best  of  a  bad  cause,  and  patriot- 
ically defending  his  countrymen  at 
any  cost  from  the  delicate  impeach- 
ment of  being  half-reclaimed  bar- 
barians. We  should  have  said  some 
time  ago  that  it  was  inconceiv- 


Contemporary  Literature : 


[Jan. 


able  that  English,  journalists  could 
have  held  themselves  so  hard  hound 
by  their  own  precipitate  assumptions, 
or  had  their  judgments  so  warped 
by  the  spirit  of  party,  as  to  reject 
the  most  direct  and  irresistible  evi- 
dence, and  turn  a  deaf  ear  to  the 
promptings  of  duty  and  humanity. 
It  seems  a  light  thing  by  comparison 
that  they  have  been  systematically 
unjust  to  meritorious  and-  conscien- 
tious public  servants,  doing  their 
best  to  injure  them  in  their  feelings 
and  disqualify  them  for  honourable 
careers.  But  it  is  certain  that,  for 
simply  speaking  the  truth  and  doing 
their  duty  in  the  face  of  a  storm 
of  obloquy,  men  like  Sir  Henry 
Layard  and  Mr  Fawcett  must,  in 
common  consistency,  be  removed 
from  the  public  service,  should  cer- 
tain of  the  philosophical  Liberals 
ever  return  to  power. 

Yet  these*independently  interna- 
tional journals  are  human  and  hu- 
manitarian before  anything.  They 
charge  themselves  with  the  general 
interests  of  mankind,  leaving  those 
of  England  to  take  care  of  them- 
selves. Nothing  more  surely  ex- 
cites their  indignant  eloquence  than 
any  language  that  reminds  us  of 
our  former  glories :  they  regard  a 
hint  of  our  imperial  interests  as 
synonymous  with  Chauvinism  of 
the  wildest  type ;  and  were  a  Tyr- 
tseus  to  animate  us  to  deeds  of 
arms,  he  would  have  a  hard  time  at 
the  hands  of  these  critics.  They 
write  us  as  if  we  were  a  nation  of 
reckless  filibusters,  sent  for  its  sins 
into  a  world  of  Quakers  and  saints. 
To  hear  them,  one  might  imagine 
that  England  armed  to  the  teeth, 
with  a  universal  conscription  and  her 
inexhaustible  resources,  was  medi- 
tating a  new  crusade  against  the 
legitimate  aspirations  of  peace-lov- 
ing Russia.  If  we  take  the  simplest 
precaution  in  self-defence,  we  give 
provocation  to  some  well-meaning 
neighbour.  Learned  jurists  prove 


to  demonstration  that  in  our  light- 
est actions  we  are  infringing  the 
treaties  which  it  is  the  prerogative 
of  other  nations  to  tear  up,  so  soon 
as  opportunity  conspires  with  con- 
venience. With  an  adroitness 
which,  in  a  sense,  is  highly  credit- 
able to  them,  they  invent  for  sensi- 
tive foreigners  the  grievances  they 
are  bound  to  resent.  Americans, 
embarrassed  over  the  surplus  com- 
pensation for  the  Alabama  claims, 
have  their  warm  sympathies  in  pro- 
testing against  the  liberality  of  the 
Canadian  Fisheries  award.  The 
French  are  warned  that  we  pre- 
sumed on  their  misfortunes  when, 
declining  a  foothold  on  the  shores 
of  Syria,  we  rented  an  outlying 
island  from  the  Porte ;  and  the 
Italians  are  reminded  that  we  are 
trifling  with  their  notorious  self- 
abnegation,  when  we  spare  Egypt 
a  finance  minister  without  praying 
them  to  provide  him  with  a  col- 
league. Agitation  originating  in 
England  furnishes  the  strongest  of 
arguments  to  Opposition  journals 
abroad,  when  they  do  their  best  to 
make  mischief  between  our  Govern- 
ment and  the  Cabinets  who  are 
persuaded  that  we  are  giving  them 
no  cause  of  offence.  ISTor  does  the 
spirit  of  faction  stop  short  even 
there.  It  goes  the  length  of  en- 
couraging sedition  within  our  own 
dominions,  at  the  very  moment 
when  it  loudly  proclaims  that  the 
safety  of  the  empire  is  being  en- 
dangered. A  weekly  journal  to 
which  we  have  made  repeated  allu- 
sion, in  deprecating  our  advance 
across  the  frontier  of  Affghanistan, 
warned  us  solemnly  that  any  check 
to  our  army  would  be  the  signal  for 
a  general  revolt  among  our  feuda- 
tories. Had  we  really  held  India 
by  so  frail  a  tenure,  it  was  surely 
a  time  for  patriotism  to  be  silent. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  suggestion 
was  absolutely  groundless.  From 
Kashmir  and  the  Punjaub  down  to 


1879.] 


//.  Journalists  and  Magazine-Writers. 


75 


the  Deccan,  our  feudatories  have 
given  substantial  guarantees  for 
their  loyalty  by  emulously  placing 
their  forces  at  our  disposal;  and 
we  are  assured  by  Anglo-Indian 
officials,  fresh  from  a  residence  in 
these  districts,  that  if  there  has 
been  discontent  among  the  contin- 
gents of  Sindiah  or  of  Holkar, 
nothing  would  stifle  it  more  effec- 
tually than  accepting  their  services 
for  the  war.  The  provocation  of 
such  a  danger,  by  way  of  bolster- 
ing an  argument,  forcibly  illustrates 
the  recklessness  of  those  who,  as 
the  'Debats'  remarks,  at  the  mo- 
ment of  our  writing,  apropos  to 
the  Affghan  Committee,  are  entering 
upon  a  second  campaign  against 
their  country  in  alliance  with  the 
Russian  statesmen  and  scribes. 

Setting  party  before  patriotism  is 
unfortunately  nothing  new,  although 
not  even  in  the  struggle  for  exist- 
ence with  Napoleon  was  it  carried 
to  such  scandalous  length  as  of  late. 
What  is  more  of  a  novelty  in  the 
contemporary  press  is  the  tone  of 
what  are  styled  the  society  journals. 
We  fancy  that  the  germ  of  the  idea 
may  be  traced  to  '  The  Owl,'  a  paper 
which  had  a  brilliant  ephemeral 
existence  through  "  the  seasons  "  of 
a  good  many  years  back.  And  '  The 
Owl'  was  really  a  journal  of  society. 
Its  sparkling  articles  were  by  witty 
men  and  women,  who  mixed  evening 
after  evening  in  the  circles  they 
professed  to  write  for.  They  were 
sarcastic  and  satirical  of  course,  but 
they  carefully  shunned  personali- 
ties. Those  articles  by  Mrs  K,  or 
Mr  L.,  were  well  worth  reading  for 
their  merit :  the  clever  writers  had 
won  their  spurs  long  before,  and 
were  welcomed  and  admiied  in  the 
world  they  frequented.  They  real- 
ly picked  up  their  scraps  of  social 
intelligence  in  the  drawing-room  or 
at  the  dinner-table  ;  and  if  a  mis- 
take were  made,  there  was  no  great 
harm  done.  Editors  and  contri- 


butors carried  into  their  columns 
the  good  taste  and  delicate  feelings 
which  guided  them  in  their  private 
life.  They  succeeded  in  being 
lively  and  entertaining,  but  they 
scrupulously  avoided  giving  pain; 
and  while  they  held  those  who 
lived  in  public  to  be  legitimate 
game,  they  invariably  respected 
private  individuals.  We  wish  we 
could  say  as  much  for  their  suc- 
cessors. To  many  of  them  nothing 
is  sacred  as  nothing  is  secret.  Un- 
lucky men  or  women  who  have  the 
misfortune  to  have  a  name,  find 
themselves  paraded  some  fine  morn- 
ing for  the  entertainment  of  the 
curious  public.  Possibly  the  first 
intimation  of  their  unwelcome  no- 
toriety comes  from  an  advertise- 
ment, in  letters  a  couple  of  inches 
long,  flaunting  them  full  in  the  face 
from  a  staring  poster  on  a  railway 
stall.  Imagine  the  horror  of  that 
sudden  shock  to  a  man  of  reserved 
habits  and  keen  susceptibilities.  He 
would  not  stand  for  an  election  to 
save  his  life;  in  his  desire  to  escape 
even  a  passing  notice,  he  is  as  mo- 
destly unobtrusive  in  his  dress  as  in 
his  manners  :  and  here  he  is  being 
made  a  nine  days'  talk  in  the  clubs 
and  the  railway  carriages  ;  while 
even  without  being  made  the  subject 
of  a  portrait  and  biographical  sketch, 
a  paragraph  may  sting  him  or  do 
him  irreparable  injury.  Tom,  Dick, 
and  Harry  have  the  satisfaction  of 
learning  that  he  has  arranged  a 
marriage  with  the  Hon.  Miss  So- 
and-so.  There  is  just  so  much  of 
truth  in  it,  that  he  has  long  been 
hovering  round  that  fascinating 
young  woman,  with  intentions  that 
have  been  daily  growing  more  seri- 
ous, when  that  premature  an- 
nouncement scared  him  for  good 
and  all,  and  possibly  spoiled  the 
lifelong  happiness  of  a  loving  couple. 
Always  shamefaced  in  the  presence 
of  the  enchantress,  he  now  is  ready 
to  shrink  into  himself  at  the  faintest 


76 


Contemporary  Literature : 


[Jan. 


rustle  of  the  skirts  of  her  garment ; 
and  he  retires  to  the  seclusion  of 
his  country-seat,  or  takes  shipping 
for  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth. 
While  another  gentleman  is  let- 
ting his  mansion  for  reasons  that 
are  entirely  satisfactory  to  himself, 
or  possihly  for  a  simple  caprice, 
straightway  we  hear  that  he  has 
outrun  the  constable,  and  that  his 
creditors  are  in  full  cry  at  his  heels. 
A  lady  of  rank  and  reputation  who 
has  a  weakness  for  a  rubber,  and 
who  was  tempted  in  an  evil  hour  to 
be  playfully  initiated  into  the  mys- 
teries of  baccarat,  learns  that  her 
lord  will  no  longer  be  responsible 
for  her  gambling  debts,  and  that  the 
family  diamonds  are  gone  to  Mr 
Attenborough's.  Another  fair  one, 
with  a  foible  for  private  theatricals, 
figures  as  the  heroine  of  some  rather 
ambiguous  adventure,  with  allusions 
that  make  her  identity  unmistak- 
able to  the  initiated.  The  stories 
may  be  true,  false,  or  exaggerated. 
Let  them  be  false  in  the  main,  if 
there  be  a  shadow  of  truth  in  them, 
denial  or  explanation  only  insures 
their  circulation,  so  that  the  victim 
of  the  indiscretion  is  practically 
helpless.  It  may  be  said  that  of- 
fences against  decency  and  public 
morals  deserve  to  be  exposed,  and 
that  society  is  improved  thereby. 
We  cannot  assent  to  that  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  everything,  at  all  events, 
is  in  the  manner  of  doing  it.  We 
have  quite  enough  of  the  washing 
of  our  linen  in  the  law  courts — 
whose  reports,  by  the  way,  might 
often  be  curtailed,  in  ordinary  con- 
sideration for  modest  readers. 

At  present  there  are  at  least  half- 
a-dozen  tolerably  widely  read  jour- 
nals of  the  kind  we  are  describing. 
Each  of  them  devotes  some  half- 
dozen  of  pages  to  paragraphs  whose 
staple  is  gossip  or  scandal.  We 
can  conceive  the  rush  and  the  ri- 
valry among  them  to  get  on  for  a 
"good  thing."  There  can  be  no 


time  to  verify  doubtful  facts,  for 
while  you  are  inquiring,  a  less 
conscientious  contemporary  may  get 
the  start  of  you.  If  you  know 
next  to  nothing  of  a  possible  sensa- 
tion, at  least  make  matters  safe  in 
the  meantime  by  the  dark  hint  that 
may  be  developed  in  "our  next." 
You  have  taken  the  preliminary 
step  to  register  your  discovery,  and 
though  you  may  be  stumbling  over 
a  mare's  nest,  you  are  secure  against 
an  action  for  libel.  Not  that  an 
action  for  libel  is  always  an  un- 
mixed evil.  On  the  contrary,  it 
may  be  an  excellent  advertisement, 
though  an  expensive  one ;  especially 
should  the  prosecutor's  general  ante- 
cedents be  indifferent,  even  if  he 
cast  you  for  damages  in  this  particu- 
lar instance.  Sometimes,  no  doubt, 
a  rascal  gets  his  deserts.  And 
yet,  when  his  secret  sins  are  set 
before  him  by  half-a-dozen  bitter 
and  lively  pens;  when  he  is  held 
up  to  social  reprobation  in  half-a- 
dozen  of  most  unlovely  aspects — we 
feel  some  such  pity  for  him  as  we 
should  have  felt  for  the  wretch  who 
had  been  flogged  through  the  public 
streets  after  passing  the  morning  in 
the  pillory. 

Naturally  nothing  sells  these  pa- 
pers better  than  flying  at  exalted 
game.  They  are  never  more  nobly 
and  loyally  outspoken  than  in  lec- 
turing some  royal  personage  as  to 
some  supposed  dereliction  of  duty; 
although  we  might  honour  them 
more  for  the  courage  of  their  pa- 
triotism, were  there  such  things 
as  English  lettres  de  cachet,  or  if 
we  had  retained  a  Star -Chamber 
among  our  time-honoured  institu- 
tions. And  if  there  really  are  holes 
to  be  picked  in  the  robes  of  royalty, 
we  must  remember  that  it  may  be 
done  with  comparative  impunity. 
A  prince  may  know  that  he  is  being 
maligned;  that  very  innocent  actions 
are  being  foully  misconstrued ;  that 
the  evidence  hinted  at  as  existing 


1879.] 


II.  Journalists  and  Magazine-Writtrs. 


77 


against  him,  would  not  bear  the 
most  cursory  examination.  But  he 
can  hardly  condescend  to  put  him- 
self on  his  defence  in  the  public 
prints,  still  less  to  seek  redress  in 
the  law  courts.  And  what  would 
be  amusing,  if  it  were  not  irritat- 
ing, in  some  of  these  papers  in  par- 
ticular, is  the  airs  of  omnisicence 
affected  by  their  contributors.  The 
editors  of  most  are  pretty  well 
known ;  and  some  of  those  editors, 
on  general  topics,  have  very  fair 
means  of  information.  One  or  two 
of  them  are  more  or  less  in  society, 
or  may  be  supposed  to  be  familiar 
with  men  who  are.  But  each  and 
all,  from  the  best  known  to  the 
most  obscure,  have  their  political 
and  social  correspondents,  who  are 
everywhere  behind  the  scenes.  You 
might  fancy  that  Ministers  babbled 
State  secrets  over  their  claret, 
choosing  their  intimates  and  con- 
fidants among  the  gossiping  re- 
porters ;  or  that  their  private  secre- 
taries and  the  confidential  heads  of 
their  departments  were  one  and  all 
in  the  pay  of  the  scandal-monger- 
ing  press.  The  most  delicate  dip- 
lomatic negotiations  get  wind  at 
once  \  and  we  learn  everything  be- 
forehand as  to  military  preparations 
from  spies  who  must  be  suborned  at 
Woolwich  and  in  the  War  Depart- 
ments. While,  as  for  dinners  and 
evening  parties,  each  of  the  journals 
has  its  delegate  who  is  the  darling 
of  the  most  exalted  and  fastidious 
society.  How  Philalethes,  or  '  Brin 
de  Faille,'  manages,  as  he  must  do, 
to  distribute  himself  in  a  score  of 
places  simultaneously,  is  a  mystery 
that  can  only  be  explained  by  his 
intimate  relations  with  the  spirits. 
And  the  tables  and  mirrors  of  his 
sitting-room  should  be  a  sight  to 
see,  embellished  as  they  must  be 
with  the  scented  notes  and  auto- 
graphs of  the  very  grandest  seigneurs 
and  the  greatest  dames. 

That  these  gentlemen  are  hand- 


in-glove  with  the  most  exclusive  of 
the  exclusives,  is  plain  enough  on 
their  own  showing.  When  they 
ask  you  to  walk  with  them  into 
White's  or  the  Marlborough — and 
those  haunts  of  the  fashionables  are 
their  familiar  resorts — they  present 
you  to  the  habitues  by  their  Chris- 
tian names,  and  always,  if  it  may 
be,  by  a  friendly  abbreviation.  It  is 
professional  "form"  to  talk  of  Fred 
This  and  Billy  That ;  and  we  often 
please  ourselves  by  picturing  the 
faces  of  the  said  Fred  or  Billy,  prid- 
ing himself  on  a  frigidity  of  man- 
ner warranted  to  ice  a  whole  room- 
ful of  strangers,  were  he  to  be 
button-holed  in  Pall  Mall  by  his 
anonymous  allies  and  affectionately 
addressed  by  his  queerly  -  suited 
sobriquet.  Of  course,  when  a  great 
light  of  the  turf,  the  clubs,  or  the 
hunting-field  goes  out  in  darkness, 
unanimous  is  the  wail  raised  over 
his  departure.  Philalethes,  and  all 
the  rest  of  his  brotherhood,  have 
to  bemoan  the  loss  of  a  comrade 
and  boon  companion.  It  is  the 
story  of  Mr  Micawber  and  David 
Copperfield  over  again  ;  you  would 
fancy  that  every  man  of  them  had 
been  the  chosen  crony  of  the  de- 
parted old  gentleman  from  the  days 
of  his  boyhood.  They  are  full  of 
excellent  stories,  showing  the  good- 
ness of  his  heart  and  the  elasticity 
of  his  conscience ;  they  knew  to  a 
sovereign  or  a  ten-pound  note  how 
nicely  he  had  made  his  calculations 
as  to  ruining  himself;  and  to  tell 
the  truth,  they  are  by  no  means 
chary  as  to  making  vicarious  con- 
fession of  the  follies  of  their  friend. 
It  can  matter  but  little  to  him, 
though  it  may  be  anything  but 
pleasant  for  his  relations.  But 
hereafter,  each  man  who  cuts  a 
figure  in  society  must  count,  when 
his  time  shall  come  at  last,  on 
pointing  a  profusion  of  humorous 
morals  and  adorning  a  variety  of 
extravagant  tales. 


78 


Contemporary  Literature : 


[Jan. 


As  to  the  biographical  sketches 
of  living  ladies  and  gentlemen 
which  come  out  in  serial  form,  we 
do  not  so  greatly  object  to  them. 
For  this  reason,  that  in  most  in- 
stances they  err  on  the  kindly  side, 
and  do  their  subjects  something 
more  than  justice.  If  you  prevail 
on  a  celebrity  to  let  you  interview 
him  "  at  home,"  you  give  a  pledge 
tacitly  or  in  words  that  you  propose 
to  treat  him  considerately.  These 
catalogues  of  his  personal  surround- 
ings, the  trophies  of  arms  on  his 
walls,  the  favourite  volumes  on  the 
book-shelves,  the  cat  on  the  hearth- 
rug, and  the  letter-weight  on  the 
writing-table,  can  only  be  drawn 
up  from  personal  inspection.  We 
know  that  body-servants  are  occa- 
sionally corruptible,  and  that  elder- 
ly housekeepers  are  susceptible  to 
flattery.  But  as  a  rule,  we  imagine 
that  the  accomplished  interviewer 
makes  his  entry  by  the  front  door, 
and  is  courteously  welcomed  by  his 
victim.  A  public  man,  who  knows 
he  must  be  painted,  feels  he  may 
as  well  choose  his  own  attitude,  and 
have  something  to  say  to  the  mix- 
ing of  the  colours.  We  have  often 
imagined  what  we  should  do  in  such 
circumstances  had  the  achievements 
of  a  checkered  career  invited  the 
blaze  of  publicity.  We  should 
make  an  appointment  with  an  illus- 
trious artist  for  the  luncheon-hour ; 
we  should  send  the  snuggest  of  car- 
riages to  the  station  if  we  chanced 
to  live  in  the  country;  and  we 
should  put  the  servants  into  grand 
livery.  It  would  be  hard  indeed 
if  we  found  our  friend  a  teetotaller, 
and  strange,  considering  his  calling. 
And  by  the  help  of  our  old  sherry 
and  velvety  claret,  it  would  be  odd 
if  he  did  not  take  us  for  all  that 
was  admirable  by  the  time,  with  a 
winning  touch  on  the  arm,  we  led 
him  aside  into  the  "  snuggery,"  and 
settled  him  with  a  Havannah  in  an 
easy-chair.  Then  over  the  fragrant 


Mocha  we  should  abandon  ourselves 
to  the  reminiscences  that  should 
kindle  him  with  a  sympathetic 
glow.  We  should  modestly  note 
our  early  triumphs,  and  direct  at- 
tention to  the  turning-points  of  a 
brilliant  career.  We  should  inci- 
dentally anticipate  the  insinuations 
of  our  enemies,  and  perhaps  touch 
delicately  and  playfully  on  those 
weaknesses  which  it  would  be  diffi- 
cult altogether  to  ignore.  Then,  if 
we  were  fortunate  enough  to  be  the 
master  of  an  historic  mansion,  or  of 
some  artistically-decorated  villa  in 
the  northern  suburbs,  we  should 
dazzle  our  mellowed  guest  with  the 
inspection  of  its  apartments  and  cu- 
riosities ;  and  having  led  him  away 
to  take  leave  of  the  ladies  of  the 
family,  and  handed  him  into  the 
carriage  with  heartiness  tempered 
by  a  gentle  regret,  we  should  be 
content  to  wait  the  result  with  con- 
fidence. We  should  hope  that  our 
grateful  visitor  would  take  advan- 
tage of  the  inspiration  of  our  claret 
and  chasse-cafe  to  dash  off  his  study 
while  his  mind  was  full  of  us  ;  and 
we  should  picture  him  in  his  writ- 
ing den,  or  at  the  neighbouring  rail- 
way hotel,  busy  between  his  memory 
and  metallic  note-book. 

The  subjects  of  the  caricatured 
portraits,  which  are  the  conspicuous 
attraction  of  some  of  those  weeklies, 
scarcely  come  so  happily  off  as  a 
rule.  There  are  men  who  lend 
themselves  so  obviously  to  artistic 
satire,  that  the  meanest  talent  can 
hardly  miss  the  mark.  They  re- 
mind one  of  the  story  of  the  in- 
sulted fairy  at  the  christening.  Her 
sisters  have  bestowed  on  the  fortu- 
nate child  most  of  the  worldly  gifts 
that  could  be  desired  for  it.  Among 
other  things,  it  has  a  set  of  features 
that  may  be  either  handsome  or 
redeemed  from  ugliness  in  after-life 
by  the  expression  which  stamps 
them  with  genius  or  dignity.  But 
then  malevolence  has  willed  it  that 


1879.] 


77.  Journalists  and  Magazine- Writers. 


79 


they  may  be  easily  hit  off,  and  wed- 
ded with  associations  that  may  be 
ludicrous  or  even  degrading.  The 
nose  and  legs  of  Lord  Brougham 
made  him  a  standing  godsend  to 
the  comic  papers,  till  he  with- 
drew, in  the  fulness  of  years  and 
fame  to  the  Riviera.  And  then  the 
mantle  that  his  lordship  let  fall 
settled  permanently  on  the  shoul- 
ders of  Mr  Disraeli.  It  was  only 
in  keeping,  by  the  way,  that  the 
Kadical  lampooners  should  not  hold 
their  hands,  but  exercise  pen  and 
pencil,  with  stale  monotony,  when 
his  lordship  went  to  Berlin,  with 
Europe  looking  on,  not  as  the  chief 
of  a  party,  but  as  the  guardian 
of  England.  When  we  laugh  in 
season,  and  keep  the  laugh  to  our- 
selves, there  is  little  harm  done, 
though  feelings  may  suffer.  But  it 
does  seem  unfair  on  some  innocent 
private  gentleman,  to  see  the  dis- 
torted image  of  the  presentment 
he  has  been  studying  in  his  looking- 
glass,  figuring  in  the  windows  of  all 
the  advertising  news-agents,  and 
gibbeted  on  the  lamp-posts  at  the 
corners  of  the  thoroughfares.  If  he 
be  philosophic  enough  not  to  care 
much  for  himself,  his  female  connec- 
tions will  be  scarcely  so  indifferent. 
The  slight  and  graceful  figure  is 
shown  as  meagre,  to  lankiness  ;  and 
the  stout  gentleman  who,  in  spite  of 
appearances,  has  been  fretting  over 
his  increasing  corpulence,  is  horri- 
fied by  the  sight  of  the  too  solid 
spectre  of  what  he  may  come  to  be 
in  a  few  years  hence.  The  bon  viv- 
ant,  who  dreads  that  the  deepening 
tints  on  his  nose  may  be  traced  to 
•his  connoisseurship  in  curious  vin- 
tages, sees  himself  branded  in  the 
eyes  of  the  public  as  the  incarna- 
tion of  a  dismounted  Bacchus  with- 
out the  vine-leaves ;  while  it  is 
borne  home  upon  the  middle-aged 
Adonis  that  the  happy  days  of  his 
bonnes  fortunes  are  departing.  Of 
course  there  is  caricature  that  is  far 


more  subtle;  that  can  laugh  good-hu- 
mouredly,  or  sting  maliciously  with 
the  force  of  an  unexpected  betrayal 
or  a  revelation,  when  it  interprets 
character  by  insinuating  or  accen- 
tuating some  half-  concealed  trait 
of  most  significant  expression.  With 
our  easy  insouciance  as  to  the  sor- 
rows of  our  neighbours,  we  are 
willing  enough  to  condone  the  cruel- 
ty for  the  wit ;  but,  unfortunately, 
the  wit  is  become  rarer  than  we 
could  wish  it  to  be.  The  cleverest 
master  of  the  manner  has  ceased  to 
satirise,  and  his  imitators  are  less  of 
satirists  than  unflattering  portrait- 
painters. 

There  is  another  class  of  like- 
nesses that  catch  the  public  eye, 
addressing  themselves  to  the  fash- 
ionable proclivities  of  prowlers  on 
the  outskirts  of  society,  and  to  the 
mixed  multitude  of  the  mob  that 
admires  beauty  and  notoriety  where 
it  finds  them.  We  do  not  know 
how  many  of  the  "Queens  of  So- 
ciety," the  "  Sultanas  of  the  salons," 
or  the  "Houris  of  the  Garden 
Parties,"  may  have  been  prevailed 
upon  actually  to  sit  for  their  por- 
traits. But  one  thing  to  be  said  is, 
that  the  brief  biographical  sketches 
which  illustrate  the  portraits  are 
usually  written  in  all  honour.  The 
lady's  descent,  if  she  can  boast  any  ; 
her  connections  and  her  husband's 
connections,  with  some  high-flown 
compliments  on  her  looks  and  her 
social  charms,  sum  up  the  short  and 
gratifying  notice. 

There  is  one  social  power  even 
greater  than  that  of  beauty,  since 
too  often  it  can  purchase  beauty 
at  its  will,  and  that  is  Mammon. 
If  a  man  means  to  make  his  way 
in  politics,  he  must  have  something 
more  than  a  handsome  competency. 
Phineas  Finns  are  phenomena, 
though  Mr  Trollope's  clever  couple 
of  novels  are  of  no  very  ancient 
date  ;  and  an  Edmund  Burke  would 
have  even  harder  measure  dealt  out 


80 


Contemporary  Literature : 


[Jan. 


to  him,  now  that  pocket-boroughs 
are  wellnigh  exploded.  People  who 
have  to  shine  in  any  way,  unless 
they  fall  back  upon  confirmed  celi- 
bacy, live  in  their  bachelor  tubs 
like  cynics,  and  trust  to  their  con- 
versational gifts  for  social  currency, 
must  have  something  more  than 
even  a  good-going  income.  The 
battle  of  life  is  to  the  strong,  who 
have  indefinite  resources  —  who 
thrive,  like  the  gambler,  by  bold 
speculation — or  who  are  content  to 
trade  on  their  expectations,  and  com- 
mit those  who  should  inherit  from, 
them  to  Providence.  In  fact,  al- 
most everybody  who  is  socially  am- 
bitious goes  in  for  gambling  nowa- 
days, in  one  shape  or  another,  not 
always  excepting  the  fortunate  few 
who  have  hereditary  incomes  that 
may  be  called  colossal.  Hence  the 
enormous  increase  within  the  last 
few  years  in  the  sworn  brokers  of 
the  city  of  London;  hence  the 
extraordinary  success  of  the  foreign 
loans,  which  appealed  to  the  cupidity 
of  the  many  who  were  doomed  to 
be  their  victims ;  hence  the  shoals 
of  joint-stock  companies,  launched 
with  a  flush  .of  credit  or  flood  of 
cheap  money,  to  be  stranded  and 
hopelessly  shipwrecked  on  the  ebb 
of  the  next  neap  tide  ;  and  hence 
the  importance  assumed  by  our 
"  city  articles,"  and  the  profusion 
of  the  financial  organs  that  must 
have  some  sort  of  circulation.  When 
a  man  has  been  trading  far  beyond 
his  means,  or  has  risked  a  danger- 
ous proportion  of  them  in  venture- 
some speculations,  he  becomes  fe- 
verishly alive  to  the  fluctuations  of 
the  stock  markets,  and  nervously 
credulous  of  reports  as  to  the  shift- 
ings  of  its  currents.  The  empire 
may  have  staked  its  credit  on  an 
Affghan  war ;  the  Ministry  may  be 
committed  to  delicate  negotiations 
which  are  visibly  passing  beyond 
our  control,  and  may  end  in  an 
ultimatum  and  a  declaration  of  hos- 


tilities. The  finance-dabbling  Gal- 
lic cares  for  none  of  these  things, 
save  in  so  far  as  they  may  affect 
consols,  and  bring  down  the  price 
of  Russians.  If  he  has  gone  in 
seriously  for  "  bearing  "  against 
next  settling-day,  he  would  illum- 
inate in  the  lightness  of  his  spirits 
for  the  national  humiliation  which 
threw  the  markets  into  a  panic. 
Once  accepting  him  for  what  he  is, 
we  can  hardly  blame  him :  a  man 
should  have  the  patriotic  self-abne- 
gation of  a  Curtius  or  a  Regulus  to 
accept  ruin  and  annihilation  with  a 
cheerful  heart ;  and  if  he  is  backing 
the  Russians  to  humble  England  in 
the  long-run,  he  must  necessarily 
triumph  in  his  heart  at  a  Russian, 
victory.  II  va  sans  dire  that  he 
lends  his  money  in  any  conceivable 
quarter  upon  tempting  interest  if 
he  fancies  the  security,  just  as  hon- 
est African  traders  pass  their  rifles 
and  powder  among  the  tribes  that 
are  making  preparations  to  mas- 
sacre our  colonists.  And  it  follows, 
as  a  matter  of  course,  that  he  con- 
sults financial  publicists  as  so  many 
oracles ;  unless,  indeed,  he  is  levia- 
than enough  to  be  behind  the  scenes, 
and  to  take  a  lead  in  one  of  those 
formidable  "  syndicates  "  which 
combine  to  "  rig  "  the  markets,  and 
to  subsidise  the  journals  that  con- 
spire with  them. 

If  investors  knew  more  of  city 
editors,  they  would  undoubtedly 
spare  themselves  considerable  worry; 
although  the  city  editor,  whoever 
he  may  be,  must  secure  an  influence 
which  is  invariably  very  sensible, 
and  which  increases  in  times  of  crisis 
and  panic.  Innocent  outsiders,  liv- 
ing peaceably  in  the  provinces,  and 
spinster  ladies,  retired  officers,  busy 
clergymen,  and  doctors  who  have 
little  thought  for  anything  beyond 
their  professions,  are  ready  to  con- 
cede him  the  infallibility  which  it 
is  a  part  of  his  duties  to  assume. 
He  gives  his  utterances  with  an 


1879.] 


II.  Journalists  and  Magazine  -  Writers. 


81 


authority  which  seems  divine  or 
diabolical,  according  as  it  favours 
their  investments  or  injures  them. 
Should  he  condescend  to  enter  into 
explanations,  he  invokes  facts  or 
figures  to  back  his  conclusions.  He 
always  seems  terse  andlucid, pitiless- 
ly logical,  and  business-like.  They 
take  him  naturally  for  what  he  in- 
sinuates himself  to  be — an  omnis- 
cient financial  critic,  the  centre  of 
a  network  of  nervous  intelligences 
which  stretch  their  feelers  to  the 
confines  of  the  money-getting  world. 
Or,  putting  it  more  prosaically, 
they  believe  him  to  be  more  or 
less  in  relation  with  everybody  in 
the  city,  from  the  greatest  of  the 
Hebrew  capitalists  and  the  gov- 
ernor of  the  bank,  down  to  the 
jackals  of  the  promoters  of  the 
latest  investment  trust.  He  is  be- 
lieved to  have  spies  where  he  has 
not  friends,  with  the  means  of  in- 
forming himself  as  to  all  that  goes 
on.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  there  are 
editors  and  editors.  Not  a  few  of 
them  are  extremely  well  informed 
as  to  the  monetary  matters  they 
report  and  discuss.  They  make  in- 
fluential and  useful  acquaintances 
on  the  strength  of  timely  good 
offices  mutually  rendered.  In  spite 
of  strong  temptations  to  the  con- 
trary, arising  out  of  difficult  and 
compromising  relations,  they  keep 
their  honesty  intact,  and  may  be 
trusted  so  far  as  their  lights  go. 
But  after  all,  and  at  the  best,  they 
may  be  little  shrewder  than  their 
neighbours,  and  nearly  as  liable  to  be 
mistaken  or  to  mislead.  They  can 
only  comment  or  advise  to  the  best  of 
their  limited  judgment.  And  more- 
over, the  city  editor,  like  the  hard- 
working stockbroker,  is  seldom  the 
man  to  go  to  for  a  far-sighted  opin- 
ion. It  is  in  the  very  nature  of 
his  occupation  that  he  does  his 
thinking  from  day  to  day,  and 
rather  rests  on  the  immediate  turns 
of  the  markets  than  on  the  far-reach- 

VOL.  CXXV. NO.  DCCLIX. 


ing  influences  which  are  likely  to 
govern  them. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  are  city 
writers,  and  on  important  journals 
too,  who  have  been  pitchforked 
into  their  places  rather  than  de- 
liberately selected  for  them.  They 
have  those  qualities  of  a  methodical 
clerk,  which  are  useful  so  far,  and 
indeed  indispensable.  For  the  city 
editor  should  be  a  man  of  indefat- 
igable industry  and  inexhaustible 
patience  :  ever  at  his  post  dur- 
ing business  hours,  and  always 
ready,  at  a  moment's  notice,  to 
enter  intelligently  into  elaborate 
calculations,  and  to  audit  long  col- 
umns of  figures.  He  has  recom- 
mended himself  to  his  employers 
by  regularity  and  trustworthiness. 
He  may  have  been  the  useful  right- 
hand  man  of  a  former  chief  in  the 
city  department.  When  that  chief 
is  removed  for  any  reason,  it  is  no 
easy  matter  to  fill  his  place.  The 
managers  of  the  paper  cast  about 
for  a  successor;  but  the  writers 
of  honesty  and  ability,  who  have 
been  regularly  bred  to  the  vocation, 
for  the  most  part  are  already  retain- 
ed elsewhere.  So  the  useful  fac- 
totum, who  has  been  seated  for  the 
time  in  the  editorial  chair,  stays 
on  in  it  doing  its  duties  from  day 
to  day,  till  the  -appointment  in 
chief  is  practically  confirmed  to 
him.  Probably  he  is  honest  in  in- 
tention and  in  act,  which  is  much. 
But  he  is  merely  a  machine  after 
all,  and  has  no  capacity  for  brain- 
work.  He  knows  less  of  foreign 
affairs  than  an  average  third  secre- 
tary of  legation,  and  is  as  likely  to 
be  misled  as  anybody  by  the  flying 
rumours  of  the  day.  He  has  no 
resources  of  general  information, 
and  is  quite  incapable  of  estimat- 
ing the  real  security  of  a  foreign 
loan  or  the  prospects  of  some  South 
American  railway.  If  he  be  con- 
scious of  his  own  deficiencies,  and 
is  impelled  to  supply  them 


82 


Contemporary  Literature : 


[Jan. 


how,  he  is  exposed  to  becoming  the 
dupe  and  complacent  tool  of  crafty 
financiers  of  superior  intelligence. 
Knowing  little,  it  is  only  natural 
that  he  should  try  to  appear  as 
universally  well  informed  as  may 
be.  Thus  "  he  has  every  reason  to 
believe  that  powerful  influences  are 
at  work  for  placing  Patagonian  cre- 
dit on  a  more  satisfactory  footing." 
"There  has  been  a  deal  of  sound 
buying  in  the  last  few  days ;  and  it 
is  understood  that  a  powerful  syn- 
dicate has  been  formed  to  come  to 
a  permanent  arrangement  with  the 
Government  of  the  Republic."  "  It 
is  rumoured  that  an  English  finan- 
cier of  note  has  entered  on  a  seven 
years'  engagement  with  the  Presi- 
dent and  his  ministers."  The  fact 
being,  that  the  oracle  has  been 
"earwigged"  by  the  agent  of  a 
group  of  bulls,  who  are  bound  to 
"  rig "  the  market  and  raise  it  if 
they  can,  that  they  may  unload 
their  superfluity  of  worthless  "Pata- 
gonians  "  on  the  credulous  investing 
public.  The  operation  performed 
with  more  or  less  success,  it  is 
found  that  the  Patagonian  Govern- 
ment is  more  impenitently  reckless 
than  ever,  and  the  stocks  relapse 
more  rapidly  than  they  had  risen. 
Should  no  plausible  explanation  be 
forthcoming,  the  disappointment  of 
the  expectations  is  quietly  ignored ; 
and  the  editor  goes  on  writing 
oracularly  as  before,  on  other  sub- 
jects on  which  his  authority  is 
equally  reliable. 

It  happens  sometimes  that  the 
city  editor  betrays  his  trust,  accept- 
ing pecuniary  pots  de  vin  and 
bribes  in  paid-up  shares,  and  stand- 
ing in  with  designing  conspirators. 
Considering  his  opportunities  and 
the  improbability  of  detection  so 
long  as  times  are  good  and  specu- 
lation lively,  it  is  creditable  on  the 
whole  that  such  scoundrels  are  so 
rare.  When  money  is  plentiful 
and  credit  inflated,  and  companies 


of  all  kinds  are  being  floated  whole- 
sale, the  city  editor  reminds  us  of 
Clive  in  the  treasury  of  Moorsheda- 
bad ;  and  if  he  keeps  his  hands 
from  picking  and  stealing,  we  may 
imagine  him  astonished  at  his  own 
virtue  and  moderation.  For  it  must 
be  avowed  that  if  he  accepted  the 
honoraria  that  are  pressed  upon 
him,  he  would  sin — if  sin  it  were 
— in  highly  respectable  company. 
Some  of  the  best  names  in  the  city 
have  been  dragged  through  the 
mire  when  the  proceedings  of  cer- 
tain eminent  boards  have  at  length 
been  brought  to  light  by  their  dif- 
ficulties ;  noblemen  and  gentlemen 
coming  out  of  the  west  have  been 
seen  to  change  their  code  of  moral- 
ity altogether  when  they  took  to 
trading  to  the  east  of  the  Cannon 
Street  Station  ;  and  as  for  "  promo- 
tion," it  has  come  to  be  a  synonym 
for  everything  that  is  shady,  disrep- 
utable, or  criminal.  In  the  happy 
times,  when  so  many  were  rich,  and 
everybody  was  hasting  to  be  richer ; 
when  superabundant  savings  were 
ready  to  overflow  into  every  scheme 
that  was  broached  under  decent 
auspices  ;  when  rival  banks  were 
emulously  generous  of  accommoda- 
tion to  customers  who  were  perpet- 
ually turning  over  their  capital ; 
when  any  scheme  that  ingenuity 
could  suggest  was  sure  to  go  to 
some  sort  of  premium,  and  a  letter 
of  allotment  was  tantamount  to  a 
bank-note  or  a  cheque, — then  the 
shrewd  city  writer  was  the  centre 
of  very  general  interest.  It  was 
the  object  of  the  professional  pro- 
moter to  "  square  "  him  if  possible  ; 
and  success  in  the  experiment  was 
one  of  the  considerations  which 
the  promoter  offered  for  the  money 
that  was  pressed  upon  him.  Noth- 
ing proved  it  more  than  the  subsi- 
dies those  gentlemen  continued  to 
receive  for  their  very  dubious  ser- 
vices, even  after  their  names  had 
been  so  thoroughly  blown  upon  that 


1879.] 


//.  Journalists  and  Magazine -Writers. 


83 


if  they  had  been  published  in  the  se- 
ductive prospectuses  they  composed, 
they  would  have  scared  away  con- 
fidence instead  of  attracting  it.  But 
the  city  editor  might  pride  him- 
self on  being  a  man  of  the  world, 
and  show  a  generous  toleration  for 
the  tricks  of  finance.  He  was  flat- 
tered by  the  respect  paid  to  his 
position  and  opinions,  by  the  suc- 
cessful millionaire  who  was  building 
mansions  in  South  Kensington,  and 
castles  in  the  country,  and  filling 
them  with  titled  and  avaricious 
guests.  It  was  no  bad  thing  to  be 
the  "  friend  of  the  house,"  and  have 
the  run  of  a  table  where  one  met 
the  most  fashionable  of  company 
over  the  best  of  wines  and  unex- 
ceptionable cookery.  Nothing  could 
be  more  than  natural  that  he  should 
listen  pleasantly  to  the  easy  confiden- 
ces of  his  host  in  the  snug  smoking- 
room  towards  the  small  hours.  He 
was  genially  disposed  towards  any 
scheme  in  those  days  when  almost 
every  thing  seemed  to  succeed.  When 
you  were  paying  fifteen  or  twenty 
per  cent,  the  biggest  commission 
was  a  comparative  bagatelle.  When 
he  wrote  of  a  prospectus  in  the 
way  of  business,  he  wrote  as  he 
had  been  impressed  in  the  moments 
of  abandon.  His  judgment  must 
be  satisfied,  of  course — that  was  a 
sine  qua  non :  but  if  all  was  fair 
and  above  board,  where  was  the 
harm  if  he  accepted  some  shares, 
and  even  consented  to  take  a  seat 
among  the  benefactors  of  their 
species  ?  Conscience  was  salved  or 
silenced ;  and  from  the  accepting  of 
shares  to  the  taking  a  cheque  on 
occasion,  the  step  was  a  short  one. 
Once  upon  the  slope  that  led  to 
Avernus,  the  descent  was  swift  and 
easy.  He  owed  a  duty  to  his  part- 
ners or  patrons  as  well  as  to  the 
public,  and  something  to  himself 
and  self-interest  as  well.  Should 
the  company  be  inclined  to  totter, 
or  should  damaging  revelations  be 


elicited  at  one  of  the  meetings, 
he  was  almost  bound  over  to  write 
them  away,  or  at  all  events  to 
take  an  encouraging  view  of  things. 
And  in  that  case,  having  the  ear  of 
so  many  of  the  shareholders,  the 
mischief  he  had  in  his  power  was 
incalculable  in  the  way  of  prevent- 
ing them  from  saving  themselves  in 
time  and  in  bolstering  undertakings 
that  were  essentially  rotten.  That 
such  things  did  occur,  we  have 
learned  from  disclosures  in  the  law 
courts.  The  censor  who  betrayed 
his  trust  was  tolerably  safe,  so  long 
as  things  went  well  and  all  the 
markets  were  buoyant.  But  when 
distrust  and  failures  brought  com- 
panies to  liquidation,  and  indignant 
shareholders  formed  committees  of 
investigation,  then  honest  men  came 
to  learn  the  truth  if  they  did  not 
actually  recover  their  own. 

The  confiding  public  have  to  take 
that  risk  into  account  in  following 
the  counsels  of  the  city  column  in 
their  favourite  journal;  although, 
as  we  have  said,  we  believe  it  is 
not  very  often  that  there  is  a  case 
of  actual  treachery.  What  is  more 
generally  to  be  guarded  against  is 
the  political  bent  of  the  paper  when 
it  is  extending  its  patronage,  for 
reasons  of  state,  to  some  financial 
combination  of  international  spec- 
ulators. The  checkered  history  of 
the  Khedive's  affairs  has  been  a 
case  singularly  in  point.  Egyptian 
investors  have  had  a  surprising  turn 
of  luck  of  late ;  and  we  hope  their 
satisfaction  with  their  prospects 
may  be  justified  by  results.  It  is 
certain,  however,  that  at  one  time 
they  came  almost  as  near  to  ship- 
wreck as  their  unfortunate  neigh- 
bours who  had  been  financing  for 
the  Porte ;  and  repeatedly  some 
slight  turn,  in  circumstances  might 
have  made  their  holdings  almost 
unmarketable.  Yet  it  was  unpleas- 
antly significant  that,  through  that 
prolonged  crisis,  the  newspapers 


84 


Contemporary  Literature : 


[Jan. 


ranged  themselves  upon  opposite 
sides,  writing  on  the  Egyptian  out- 
look with  impossible  consistency, 
and  being  sanguine  or  despairing  as 
the  case  might  be.  Some  made  the 
worst  of  the  unfavourable  facts, 
and  exaggerated  all  the  disturbing 
rumours,  while  others  suppressed 
them  or  explained  them  away.  As 
it  has  happened,  Egyptians  have  ap- 
parently turned  up  trumps  for  those 
who  believed  the  best  and  decided 
to  hold  on.  Had  they  gone  the 
other  way,  as  seemed  a  certainty  at 
one  time,  those  who  followed  the 
guides  who  saw  everything  in  rose 
colour,  would  have  had  reason  for 
regretting  their  over  -  confidence ; 
and  it  is  their  luck  far  more  than 
their  wisdom  that  has  brought  these 
optimists  through  with  credit. 

And  the  city  editor  should  be  not 
only  honest  but  discreet.  Nothing 
can  be  more  delicate  than  his  re- 
sponsibilities in  anxious  times  like 
the  present.  When  the  public  is 
depressed,  with  too  good  reason,  it 
needs  very  little  to  throw  it  into  a 
panic.  Alarmists  who  have  been 
growing  lean  with  other  people  see 
their  opportunity.  Disquieting  re- 
ports are  industriously  propagated, 
and  deplorable  facts  give  them 
ready  circulation.  There  is  a  rush 
to  sell  and  no  buying  resistance ; 
the  quotations  of  the  shares  are  apt 
to  become  merely  nominal  in  those 
establishments  whose  credit  is  the 
breath  of  their  existence  ;  the  job- 
bers will  hardly  "  make  a  price," 
and  property  is  literally  flung  away. 
And  the  investor  who  throws  his 
property  away,  may  be  doing  the 
wisest  thing  in  the  circumstances, 
since  he  may  be  cutting  short  an 
inevitable  loss,  or  ridding  himself 
of  terrible  contingent  liabilities. 
In  many  instances,  however,  those 
threatened  establishments  would  be 
safe  enough  if  they  had  fair-play, 
and  were  it  not  for  the  unreasonable 
apprehensions  that  are  working  out 


their  own  fulfilment.  Then  is  the 
time  when  the  calming  assurances 
of  the  press  are  invaluable,  and  if 
the  city  editors  keep  their  heads 
and  hold  their  pens,  the  crisis  may 
be  averted  that  would  be  otherwise 
inevitable.  But  the  temptations  to 
sensational  writing  and  unseason- 
able warnings  are  very  great.  It  is 
so  easy  to  be  wise  after  events,  and 
so  agreeable  to  preach  or  exhort 
when  your  warnings  are  coming 
home  to  the  very  hearts  of  the 
victims  who  are  pointing  your 
moral.  Indeed  there  is  the  less 
reason  to  lay  lurid  colouring  on 
your  paragraphs,  that  the  bare  state- 
ment of  the  facts  in  such  a  catas- 
trophe as  the  stoppage  of  the  City 
of  Glasgow  Bank  is  sufficiently 
appalling  in  its  unadorned  sim- 
plicity. And  on  this  occasion  we 
are  bound  to  admit,  that  the  city 
writers,  as  a  rule,  have  expressed 
themselves  with  praiseworthy  self- 
restraint.  They  have  calmed  alarms 
instead  of  exciting  them,  and  done 
their  utmost  to  limit  the  circle 
of  disturbance.  For  criticisms  that 
may  be  sound  in  themselves  may  be 
wofully  ill-timed  j  and  the  height 
of  a  half-panic  is  scarcely  the  time 
to  show  up  the  shortcomings  and 
dangers  of  our  banking  system — all 
the  less  so,  when  it  is  admitted  that 
they  may  be  easily  rectified.  But 
as  articles  of  this  kind  have  been 
the  exception  and  not  the  rule, 
investors  have  good  reason  to  be 
grateful. 

As  for  the  leading  financial  week- 
lies, they  have  necessarily  grave 
difficulties  to  contend  with.  They 
have  to  give  judgment  in  most  im- 
portant matters  at  short  notice;  and 
so  the  shrewdest  of  counsellors  may 
be  tempted  into  over- confidence,  and 
occasionally  make  a  faux  pas  he 
would  willingly  retrace.  But,  on 
the  whole,  and  considering  those 
circumstances,  few  journals  in  the 
contemporary  press  are  more  care- 


1879.] 


II.  Journalists  and  Magazine -Writers. 


85 


fully  or  judicially  conducted.  They 
have  gradually  made  themselves 
the  authorities  they  deserve  to  be. 
They  are  usually  written  on  solid 
information,  and  have  a  well-estab- 
lished character  for  honesty  and 
impartiality.  They  are  outspoken 
where  they  ought  to  speak  out ; 
reticent  where  silence  is  literally 
golden  on  matters  that  involve  the 
prosperity  of  the  country,  and  the 
fortunes  and  happiness  of  innumer- 
able individuals.  In  most  cases 
their  information  may  be  trusted. 
It  is  not  in  their  columns  you  must 
seek  for  the  vague  rumours  of  firms 
and  establishments  supposed  to  be 
compromised  by  such  and  such 
stoppages,  present  or  prospective. 
They  seem  to  confine  their  com- 
ments to  ascertained  facts,  and  they 
deal  with  commercial  dangers  and 
difficulties  in  the  abstract.  They 
rarely  write  on  politics,  except  where 
politics  are  inextricably  involved 
with  finance;  and  their  observa- 
tions are  the  more  original  and  the 
better  worth  reading,  that  they  are 
written  from  a  rigidly  financial 
point  of  view.  In  broad  contrast 
with  those  carefully  conducted 
papers,  are  the  innumerable  imi- 
tations which  have  been  issued  of 
late  years,  and  whose  existence 
is  generally  as  ephemeral  as  the 
management  is  discreditable.  It 
would  seem  that  it  is  possible  to 
start  a  paper  of  a  certain  stamp  in 
the  city  here,  at  an  expense  almost 
as  trifling  as  in  Paris,  where  some 
ambitious  member  of  the  Fourth 
Estate  finds  a  capitalist  with  a  few 
thousand  francs  at  his  disposal,  and 
forthwith  launches  the  'Comete,' 
or  the  '  Pavilion  Tricolor.'  We  need 
hardly  say  that  those  mushroom 
financial  broadsheets  are  really  the 
trade  circulars  of  the  advertising 
jobbers  and  brokers ;  inen  who,  for 
the  most  part,  are  outsiders  of  the 
Stock  Exchange,  and  whose  names 
have  an  unsavoury  odour,  even 


in  the  tainted  atmosphere  of 
its  precincts.  Some  of  them 
scarcely  profess  to  conceal  their 
purpose,  and  each  member  offers 
you  a  choice  of  means  of  en- 
riching yourself,  by  employing  the 
services  of  Messrs  So  &  So  on  an 
extremely  moderate  commission. 
Others  are  directed  with  somewhat 
higher  art,  though  the  burden  of 
the  advice  they  dispense  so  liber- 
ally tends  in  a  similar  direction. 
The  difference  is  that  the  net  is 
not  spread  so  unblushingly  in  the 
sight  of  unwary  birds,  and  there 
is  no  obvious  connection  between 
the  stocks  and  shares  that  happen 
to  be  going  at  an  alarming  sacri- 
fice, and  any  gentleman  who  is  pro- 
fessedly connected  with  the  jour- 
nal. But  as  some  of  these  bare- 
faced advertising  sheets  have  no 
inconsiderable  circulation — many  of 
them,  indeed,  are  given  away  by 
the  hundred  —  we  presume  that 
they  find  readers.  And  it  might 
be  worth  the  while  of  the  habitual 
dabbler  in  short  investments  to 
subscribe  for  them,  if,  guided  by 
some  previous  knowledge  and  expe- 
rience, he  were  carefully  to  avoid 
most  things  they  recommend.  At 
the  best,  they  make  themselves  the 
mouthpieces  of  individuals  eager 
to  unload  of  stocks  that  have  either 
been  temporarily  inflated  for  a  pur- 
pose, or  which  are  sinking  steadily 
towards  the  unsaleable  point;  of 
"bears"  who  have  banded  together 
and  are  breaking  out  upon  a  wreck- 
ing raid ;  and  of  promoters  who  still 
have  hopes  of  making  profits  by 
foisting  doubtful  companies  on  the 
public. 

It  would  seem  to  be  a  hard  thing 
to  float  an  influential  journal  in 
London,  whatever  it  may  be  in 
Paris.  Otherwise  the  profits  of  a 
successful  venture  are  so  enormous 
— one  paper  which  sold  for  £500 
not  many  years  ago,  is  now  sup- 
posed to  be  clearing  at  least  £70,000 


86 


Contemporary  Literature : 


[Jan. 


a-year — and  the  social  and  political 
influence  it  confers  is  so  consider- 
able, that  in  these  days  of  ambition 
and  bold  speculation,  the  attempt 
would  be  made  far  more  frequently. 
But  not  only  must  you  be  prepared 
for  an  original  outlay  and  a  pro- 
longed drain,  commensurate  in  some 
measure  with  the  possible  gains,  but 
it  is  difficult  to  get  a  staff  of  prac- 
tised professionals  together,  who 
will  give  it  a  reasonable  chance  of  a 
start.  Able  and  experienced  men 
are  slow  to  give  up  assured  engage- 
ments. Frequently  it  is  a  case  of 
vos  non  vobis;  and,  as  we  have  just 
remarked,  some  fortunate  specula- 
tor reaps  the  harvest  that  has  been 
sown  by  the  ruined  promoters. 
With  a  new  magazine  it  is  a  dif- 
ferent thing  altogether.  You  find 
a  publisher,  and  you  catch  your 
editor — and  catching  the  editor  is 
easy  enough.  There  are  men  and 
women  of  more  or  less  literary  rep- 
utation, who  are  ready  enough  to 
lend  their  names  by  way  of  puff  for 
the  sake  of  some  additional  noto- 
riety. They  will  be  powers  in  a 
small  way — or  in  a  greater;  nor  do 
they  dislike  the  sense  of  authority 
involved  in  patronising  or  snubbing 
aspiring  contributors.  We  fancy 
that  in  most  cases  the  work  of 
supervision  sits  easily  on  them.  "All 
contributions  may  be  carefully  con- 
sidered;" but  we  have  a  shrewd  sus- 
picion that  we  know  what  is  meant 
by  that.  Distinctly  written  manu- 
scripts have  the  fairer  chance ;  for 
any  one  who  has  the  slightest  criti- 
cal or  editorial  qualifications  can  tell, 
on  a  very  superficial  inspection, 
whether  the  applicant,  in  sending  in 
his  testimonials,  is  craving  a  favour 
or  laying  them  under  an  obligation. 
Generally  speaking,  there  is  some 
small  clique  or  coterie  of  little- 
knowns,  who  have  rallied  round 
the  new  chief,  and  undertaken  to 
help  him  to  work  a  monopoly.  So 
the  services  of  absolutely  anonymous 


outsiders  are  at  a  discount ;  while 
very  often  the  title  of  the  proffered 
article  may  indicate  as  much  as  the 
name  of  the  writer.  Nmeteen-twen- 
tieths  of  the  packets  that  carry  such 
a  burden  of  hopes  and  fears  are  re- 
turned "  with  thanks,"  after  having 
taxed  the  resources  of  the  office  to 
the  extent  of  opening  and  making 
them  up  again.  There  are  excep- 
tions, we  know,  to  that  mode  of 
editing.  Magazines,  like  ancient 
families,  must  have  a  beginning 
somewhere ;  and  there  are  editors 
who  are  determined  to  do  their  ut- 
most for  the  new  venture  which  at 
best  has  to  contend  with  long-estab- 
lished favourites,  and  who  take  a 
positive  pleasure  in  unearthing  un- 
developed genius.  And  that  is  the 
editor  to  whom  we  should  pin  our 
faith,  had  we  been  rash  enough  to 
stake  something  pecuniarily  on  his 
enterprise.  When  he  draws  his 
chair  round  to  the  fire  after  dinner, 
and  lights  his  post-prandial  pipe  or 
cigar,  in  place  of  taking  up  the  even- 
ing journal,  or  some  rival  periodical, 
he  helps  himself  to  a  heavy  armful  of 
papers.  Lying  back  luxuriously  on 
his  cushions,  with  vague  hopes  of 
possible  discoveries  to  soothe  him, 
he  flips  his  fingers  through  the  pages 
of  manuscript.  A  sample  or  two, 
taken  almost  at  random,  suffices. 
With  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders  he 
throws  a  packet  aside,  and  another 
and  another  follows  in  course,  with 
what  the  unfortunate  rejected  would 
call  most  hasty  judgment ;  when 
suddenly  he  draws  himself  together. 
There  is  something  in  the  set  and 
stiffening  of  the  shoulders  that 
might  suggest  a  pointer  drawing  in 
a  scent,  or  a  spaniel  cocking  its  ears 
in  a  cover,  while  a  sparkle  of  dawn- 
ing interest  lights  up  his  indifferent 
eyes.  There  is  really  something  in 
this  young  man.  That  expressive 
picture  by  itself  bears  some  evi- 
dence of  original  genius.  There  is 
talent  in  that  scene,  though  it  may 


1879.] 


//.  Journalists  and  Magazine -Writers. 


87 


be  crudely  conceived,  and  power  in 
those  characters,  although  they  are 
sketchy  and  unshapely.  The  story 
may  have  to  be  revised  or  rewritten, 
but  it  contains  the  elements  of  a 
success,  and  the  promise  of  a  literary 
career.  He  sits  down  on  the  spur 
of  the  moment  and  dashes  off  a 
note.  The  novice  receives  it  next 
morning  with  a  throbbing  pulse, 
and  is  elevated  straightway  to  the 
seventh  heaven.  He  keeps  the  mo- 
mentous appointment  in  a  mingled 
state  of  nervous  excitement  and  ir- 
repressible jubilation,  for  we  may 
presume  that  he  has  the  sensitive 
literary  temperament.  And  in  the 
place  of  the  austere  critic,  whose 
approbation  he  has  had  the  auda- 
city to  court,  he  makes  a  cordial 
and  sympathetic  acquaintance,  who 
mingles  advice  with  hearty  en- 
couragement, and  welcomes  him  as 
a  man  and  a  brother  into  the  aspir- 
ing guild  of  the  penmen. 

A  word  of  warm  approbation 
in  season  is  worth  anything  to 
the  diffident  young  debutant,  who 
must  necessarily  have  felt,  in  his 
maiden  attempts,  like  a  school- 
boy preparing  a  task,  or  a  proba- 
tioner going  in  for  competitive  ex- 
amination. It  gives  him  the  con- 
fidence that  sends  him  forward  in 
his  swing,  in  place  of  pausing  to 
hesitate  between  trains  of  thought, 
and  pick  and  choose  among  partic- 
ular phrases.  His  head  may  be 
turned  later,  and  he  may  very  likely 
sin  on  the  side  of  over-confidence,  till 
he  is  brought  back  to  his  bearings 
by  some  disagreeable  experiences 
which  show  him  that  he  must  not 
presume  upon  his  gifts.  But  he 
has  learned  that  he  has  powers  if 
he  chooses  to  exert  them — that  he 
has  some  literary  taste  into  the  bar- 
gain,— and  that  is  everything,  so 
far  as  the  initial  step  is  concerned. 
And  the  enlisting  of  such  vigorous 
recruits  is  the  chief  secret  of  success 
to  a  new  magazine.  "Writing  comes, 


after  all,  to  be  a  matter  of  pounds, 
shillings,  and  pence,  and  of  per- 
sonal credit.  The  best  men,  or  the 
second  best,  will  not  write  for  utter- 
ly inadequate  remuneration;  more 
especially  when  they  appear  in  a 
measure  to  compromise  their  repu- 
tations by  mixing  themselves  up 
with  obscure  or  inferior  company. 
Now  and  then  one  of  them  may 
be  bribed  by  a  price  to  forward  a 
contribution  which  shall  serve  as 
a  costly  advertisement;  but  even 
then  there  are  odds  that  the  mas- 
ter has  done  his  work  in  slovenly 
or  perfunctory  style.  And  the 
longest  practice  can  never  supply 
the  lack  of  talent  with  beaten  hacks 
who  have  failed  elsewhere,  and  who 
have  been  hitched  together  in  a 
scratch  team  to  labour  up-hill  in 
new  harness  against  the  brilliant 
action  that  has  outpaced  them  al- 
ready. But  freshness,  when  united 
to  versatility,  goes  for  even  more 
than  knack  and  skill.  There  must 
always  be  many  men  coming  on 
who  should  prove  superior  to  the 
average  of  established  writers ;  and 
with  their  freshness  in  their  favour, 
they  can  make  reading  more  at- 
tractive than  that  which  is  chiefly 
recommended  by  names  which  the 
public  are  already  beginning  to  be 
wearied  of. 

The  newspapers  must  retain  on 
their  professional  staff  men  who 
are  sacrificing  everything  to  the 
exigencies  of  their  calling; — men 
who  are  in  the  habit  of  turning 
night  into  day;  who  are  ready  to 
write  a  leader  upon  anything  at 
a  moment's  notice,  and  who  must 
leave  their  address  at  the  office  of 
their  journal,  when  they  drop  in  to 
dinner  with  a  friend.  But  any 
clever  dilettante  or  amateur  may 
linger  over  his  magazine  article  or 
story,  sending  it  in  when  it  suits 
his  convenience  after  he  has  polish- 
ed the  style  to  his  fancy.  His 
brilliancy  may  dazzle  the  public  to- 


88 


Contemporary  Literature : 


[Jan. 


day,  but  it  will  shine  forth  with 
undhninished  lustre  in  a  twelve- 
month. And  the  range  of  his  pos- 
sible subjects  is  as  wide  as  the 
whole  scope  and  sphere  of  mortal 
interests.  All  depends  upon  the 
method  of  handling  :  even  the  dif- 
ferential calculus  may  be  made  enter- 
taining ;  and  the  more  entertaining 
from  the  surprises  he  is  preparing 
for  his  readers.  Say,  for  instance, 
you  introduce  a  philosophical  math- 
ematician in  his  study,  distracted 
from  the  pursuits  of  a  lifetime  by  a 
passion  for  some  blooming  beauty, — 
and  we  may  leave  the  imagination 
of  our  readers  to  fill  in  the  rest. 
And  as  hope  always  tells  a  flatter- 
ing tale  to  the  literary  aspirant, 
ingenious  treatment  of  the  most  im- 
practicable subjects  seems  to  be 
easily  within  the  reach  of  everybody. 
Thus  contributors  to  the  various 
grades  of  the  magazines  are  cropping 
up  continually  in  all  conceivable 
quarters.  The  fine  lady  in  studied 
morning  neglige,  and  stockings  that 
are  slightly  tinted  with  blue,  is  seat- 
ed before  the  davenport  in  her  bou- 
doir previous  to  the  duties  of  the 
luncheon  and  the  afternoon  drive, 
dashing  off  lyrics  of  the  Loves  or 
soft  stories  of  the  affections,  on  wire- 
woven  note-paper  with  rose-coloured 
quills  :  while  the  astronomer  in  his 
study  is  stooping  his  intelligence  to 
make  science  easy  for  some  popu- 
lar periodical ;  and  dilating,  from 
the  point  of  view  of  the  people, 
on  the  revolutions  of  the  spheres 
or  the  eccentricities  of  the  comets. 
Different  magazines  have  their  vari- 
ous specialities ;  but  nothing  comes 
amiss  to  the  catholic  -  minded  edi- 
tor, from  the  latest  conjectures  on 
the  origin  of  species  to  half -hours 
with  the  sirens  of  the  stage  or  mis- 
sionary misadventures  in  the  South 
Seas. 

Next,  perhaps,  to  the  growth  of 
the  circulating  libraries,  nothing 
proves  more  clearly  the  spread  of 


intelligent  interest  and  the  taste  for 
miscellaneous  reading,  than  the 
wonderful  multiplication  of  the 
lighter  monthlies.  Not  a  few  have 
a  hard  struggle  for  life ;  but  when 
some  expire  there  are  others  to  re- 
place them.  In  the  old  days  of 
the  '  Gentleman's  Magazine/  Syl- 
van us  Urban  filled  his  close-printed 
pages  chiefly  with  remarks  upon  his 
weekly  contemporaries,  and  with 
notices  of  public  affairs,  interspersed 
and  enlivened  with  scraps  of  gossip. 
It  is  curious  to  glance  back  on  the 
early  numbers  and  read  the  criti- 
cisms on  the  heavy  historical  papers 
in  the  '  Craftsman,'  &c. ;  or  the  re- 
ports on  the  military  operations  in 
the  North  ;  on  the  marching  and 
countermarching  of  Sir  John  Cope 
and  ( Mr '  Hawley ;  on  the  ad- 
vance of  the  Highland  host,  and 
the  trials  and  executions  of  the 
unhappy  Jacobite  gentry.  The 
*  Gentleman's  Magazine '  was  in  fact 
a  gentleman's  newspaper  ;  and  more 
of  a  mere  reporter  than  the  daily 
journals  of  our  time.  Fiction  was 
a  thing  apart — a  task  not  to  be 
lightly  undertaken,  and  the  pon- 
derous results  were  in  many-vol- 
umed  octavos.  We  may  imagine 
the  precise  author  of  '  Sir  Charles 
Grandison,'  sitting  down  to  his 
heavy  labours,  like  Buffon,  in  court 
suit  and  in  ruffles.  Fielding  and 
Smollett  were  condemned,  not  for 
indecency,  but  for  vulgarity,  when 
they  dared  to  be  truthful  and  face- 
tious, and  actually  succeeded  inbeing 
amusing.  The  time  of  short  stories 
and  telling  serial  sketches  had  not 
come  as  yet.  In  the  dearth  of 
writers  and  the  scarcity  of  readers, 
there  were  few  literary  performances 
to  be  reviewed.  The  writers  of 
'Ramblers,'  even  when  they  were 
contributors  to  "  Sylvanus,"  pub- 
lished solemn  essays  in  separate 
form.  They  sought  for  apprecia- 
tion in  the  coffee-houses  and  in  the 
circles  of  literary  connoisseurs.  All 


1879.] 


//.  Journalists  and  Magazine -Writers. 


89 


that  casts  a  clear  side-light  on  the 
uneducated  dulness  of  the  society 
of  the  times.  An  ordinary  dinner- 
party is  wearisome  enough  now  ;  it 
must  have  been  many  times  more 
intolerable  then,  had  one  not  been 
bred  to  the  habit  of  it.  We  can 
imagine  the  worthy  women  sitting 
stiffly  in  hoops  and  stomachers,  on 
high -backed  chairs,  giving  them- 
selves over  to  the  earnest  occupa- 
tion of  the  hour,  while  the  squires 
were  laying  a  foundation  for  serious 
drinking.  The  talk  must  have  been 
as  light  and  aesthetic  as  the  menu, 
which  consisted  chiefly  of  barons 
and  sirloins,  with  such  trifles  as 
sucking-pigs  and  turkeys  thrown  in 
by  way  of  "  kickshaws."  A  few 
fine  ladies  might  get  up  on  their 
hobbies,  and  chatter  over  the  mania 
of  the  day, — china,  pug-dogs,  and 
court  trains — Shakespeare,  Garrick, 
and  the  musical  glasses.  Their  less 
fashionable  sisters,  when  scandal 
ran  short,  could  only  sit  in  silence 
or  compare  notes  over  domestic 
grievances.  The  men,  when  the 
cloth  was  cleared  away,  might  grow 
animated  over  their  port ;  and  most 
of  them  took  an  interest  in  paro- 
chial business  if  not  in  public  affairs. 
But  their  talk,  at  the  best,  was 
limited  to  the  next  move  of  the 
Ministers,  or  the  latest  news  from 
the  Low  Countries — to  their  crops 
and  cattle,  their  horses  and  hounds. 
Now,  the  Squires  Western  have 
taken  university  degrees,  bring 
their  ladiea  to  town  for  a  third  of 
the  year,  and  are  as  much  at  home 
in  European  questions  as  on  their 
ancestral  acres.  They  have  sat  for 
their  county  or  on  their  member's 
election  committee;  their  sons  are 
in  the  Church,  the  army,  or  the  col- 
onies •  everybody  you  meet  in  so- 
ciety appears  to  have  a  respectable 
income,  and  the  means  of  bestow- 
ing some  cultivation  on  his  mind. 
The  younger  son,  who  would  have 
been  a  hanger-on  a  hundred  years 


ago — a  bailiff  or  a  better  sort  of 
keeper  on  the  family  estate,  great 
upon  farming  and  on  the  drenching 
of  cows — is  now,  superficially  at 
least,  a  well-informed  gentleman. 
His  wife  or  sister,  in  the  intervals 
of  husband  -  hunting  and  lawn  - 
tennis,  has  found  time  to  sit  at  the 
feet  of  philosophers,  and  listen  to 
the  eloquence  of  popular  lecturers. 
They  manoeuvre  for  tickets  for  the 
Geographical  Society  and  the  Royal 
Institution  as  their  grandmothers 
used  to  do  for  vouchers  to  Almack's; 
and  if  they  have  but  vague  notions 
of  the  sense  of  modern  speculation, 
at  all  events  they  have  caught  some 
echoes  of  its  sound.  They  have 
their  artistic  and  literary  idols 
whom  they  worship ;  and  in  art  and 
literature,  as  well  as  religion,  they 
profess  some  fashionable  form  of  be- 
lief. Few  of  them  can  shine  by  good 
looks  alone,  and  they  are  bound  to 
cultivate  a  habit  of  babbling.  They 
would  far  sooner  be  guilty  of  a 
solecism  in  good-breeding,  than  con- 
fess to  being  taken  aback  upon  any 
conceivable  subject.  Tact  and  ju- 
dicious reserve  go  for  a  great  deal ; 
but  they  must  have  some  skeleton 
framework  of  general  information. 
And  in  supplying  them  with 
what  they  want,  with  the  smallest 
expenditure  of  trouble,  the  lighter 
or  more  frivolous  magazines  are 
invaluable.  The  " padding''  is  often 
the  more  serviceable  in  that  way. 
Run  over  the  lists  of  "contents"  for 
the  month,  and  you  see  where  to  turn 
for  the  knowledge  you  may  be  the 
better  for,  while  contriving  to  com- 
bine some  amusement  with  instruc- 
tion. The  '  Gentleman's  Magazine ' 
of  our  time  —  and  a  very  pleas- 
antly conducted  periodical  it  is — is 
to  the  *  Gentleman's  Magazine '  of 
Cave  and  Sylvanus  Urban,  as  the 
society  of  her  present  Majesty's 
reign,  to  the  society  of  her  grand- 
father "  Farmer  George." 

The   birth   of   the   *  Edinburgh 


90 


Contemporary  Literature : 


[Jan. 


Review '  marked  the  beginning  of 
a  new  era.  But  the  brilliant  liter- 
ary brotherhood  who  clubbed  their 
brains  in  the  Scottish  capital,  nec- 
essarily wrote  for  the  few  rather 
than  the  many,  as  their  successors 
are  writing  now.  They  had  no 
slight  advantage,  not  only  in  having 
exclusive  possession  of  the  field, 
but  in  the  authority  they  claimed, 
and  which  was  conceded  to  them  in 
some  departments.  The  Areopagites 
of  the  modern  Athens  assumed  that 
they  were  absolute  arbiters  in  all 
matters  of  home  and  foreign  pol- 
itics, in  the  arts  and  sciences,  and 
in  literary  taste.  The  new  ally  of 
the  Whig  party  was  extremely  ser- 
viceable politically;  but  as  it  had 
its  origin  in  the  violence  of  party 
spirit,  it  rather  provoked  party 
opposition  than  dominated  it.  In 
science  and  literature  it  was  other- 
wise. Philosophers  and  authors 
might  murmur  and  protest;  but 
there  were  no  tribunals  of  equal 
influence  to  which  they  could  car- 
ry their  sentences  for  reconsidera- 
tion. The  critics  had  the  self- 
assurance  of  youth  as  well  as  its 
life  and  freshness ;  they  had  the 
art  of  putting  doubtful  points  so 
as  to  make  the  worse  seem  the 
better  reason ;  and  although  we 
doubt  not  that  they  desired  to  do 
substantial  justice,  yet  not  a  few 
of  them  had  marked  individuali- 
ties and  pronounced  opinions.  To 
a  critical  anatomist  like  Jeffrey,  to 
a  born  wit  like  Sydney  Smith,  the 
temptation  to  be  bitter  must  often 
have  been  irresistible;  and  we  know 
that  Brougham,  with  all  his  tal- 
ents, was  made  up  of  prejudices  and 
crotchets,  and  was  in  a  measure  an 
impostor.  His  irrepressible  activ- 
ity and  galvanic  versatility  must 
often  have  made  him  mischievously 
unfair.  In  contributing  half-a- 
dozen  of  articles  to  a  number,  he 
must  have  embarrassed  the  editor 
as  much  as  he  Jielped  him ;  and 


as  we  stumble  across  the  frequent 
shortcomings  and  blunders  in  the 
deliberate  productions  of  his  ma- 
turer  years,  we  can  only  pity  many 
of  the  victims  who  were  dragged  up 
before  him  for  summary  judgment. 
It  was  high  time  that  there  should  be 
a  rival  review  to  impress  the  neces- 
sity of  greater  caution  on  the  dash- 
ing gentlemen  of  *  The  Edinburgh ; ' 
and  'The  Quarterly '  is  another  item 
in  the  debt  of  gratitude  which  the 
world  of  letters  will  always  owe 
them.  Sir  Walter  Scott  showed 
his  habitual  shrewdness  when,  in 
advising  Murray  as  to  the  man- 
agement of  the  new  Review,  he 
urged  the  necessity  of  an  invariable 
rule  of  forcing  cheques  upon  all 
contributors.  Some  of  the  most 
brilliant  of  the  Tories,  with  Canning 
at  their  head,  would  have  been 
willing  and  happy  to  render  their 
services  gratuitously ;  but  even  with 
quarterlies  and  the  monthlies,  as 
with  the  daily  newspapers,  a  liberal 
paymaster  must  be  the  backbone  of 
a  lasting  success.  We  fancy  that 
the  man,  whatever  his  means,  who 
is  altogether  superior  to  pecuniary 
considerations,  is  more  of  a  pheno- 
menon than  we  are  apt  to  suppose. 
Most  people  will  have  value  for 
their  time  in  some  shape  or  another, 
and  self-approval  scarcely  seems  a 
sufficient  reward  for  the  pains  that 
have  been  bestowed  on  anonymous 
authorship.  Since  then,  that  liber- 
ally profitable  principle  has  been 
universally  adopted.  It  is  well  un- 
derstood that  any  periodical  must 
waste  away  in  a  decline  unless  its 
supporters  are  suitably  and  invari- 
ably remunerated.  And  with  the 
quarterlies  the  system  has  proved 
especially  advantageous;  for  we  take 
it  to  be  the  secret  of  their  lasting 
vitality,  in  these  days  when  every- 
body is  living  so  fast,  that  a  quar- 
ter seems  much  the  same  thing  as  a 
century.  In  the  first  number  of 
'  The  Edinburgh  Review '  there  were 


1879.] 


//.  Journalists  and  Magazine -Writers. 


91 


no  less  than  twenty-nine  articles — 
a  profusion  evidently  inconsistent 
with  the  essential  conditions  of  a 
publication  which  made  its  appear- 
ance only  four  times  in  the  year. 
No  w  we  may  take  the  quarterly  aver- 
age at  nine  or  ten.  There  can  hardly 
be  said  to  be  a  limit  as  to  length ; 
or  at  least  a  most  generous  licence 
is  allowed  to  a  writer  where  an  im- 
portant subject  demands  exhaustive 
treatment.  Hence  one  of  the  learn- 
ed pundits  who,  when  he  goes  to  ne- 
gotiate for  a  couple  of  folio  volumes, 
receives  but  small  encouragement  in 
Paternoster  Eow,  is  tempted  every 
now  and  then  to  skim  his  brain  for 
the  benefit  of  the  editors  of  those 
serious  periodicals.  Our  readers 
may  remember  a  recent  judicial  tra- 
gedy, when  a  laborious  clergyman 
of  much  erudition  was  driven  over 
the  verge  of  insanity,  and  betrayed 
into  a  murderous  homicide  by  his 
heart-breaking  failure  in  the  career 
of  letters.  He  had  published  — 
literally — largely,  with  one  of  the 
leading  and  most  liberal  houses  in 
the  metropolis,  and  yet  his  gains 
had  been  so  small  as  to  be  almost 
illusory.  Probably,  with  a  twen- 
tieth part  of  the  trouble,  he  might 
have  made  many  times  the  money 
had  he  sent  an  occasional  article  to 
one  of  the  quarterlies ;  and  instead 
of  wasting  his  time  and  wrecking 
his  life  in  labouring  over  monu- 
ments by  which  he  will  never  be 
remembered,  he  might  have  felt 
that  his  studies  had  been  useful 
to  his  kind,  while  the  hearth  that 
he  stained  with  blood  was  made  a 
happy  one. 

The  quarterlies  are  most  solidly 
established,  we  believe,  on  those 
occasional  articles  of  special  value, 
which  not  only  deserve  to  live  them- 
selves, but  which  reflect  their  credit 
on  the  contrasts  of  other  numbers. 
Calling  on  our  recollections,  almost 
at  random,  we  may  refer  to  the 
most  suggestive  essay  on  the  Tal- 


mud and  the  historical  principles 
of  the  Hebrew  faith  and  polity  by 
the  lamented  orientalist,  Emman- 
uel Deutsch.  You  may  look  to 
find,  from  time  to  time,  the  result 
of  the  studies  and  careful  reflec- 
tions of  a  lifetime.  There  are  sub- 
jects of  the  day  which  lose  rather 
than  gain  by  the  most  deliberate 
treatment.  There  are  others,  such 
as  archaeology  or  art,  which  are  none 
the  worse  for  any  amount  of  keep- 
ing. Now  you  have  an  eminent 
Church  dignitary  expressing  him- 
self with  equal  authority  and  know- 
ledge on  the  latest  developments  of 
Tractarian  and  Ritualistic  excesses. 
If  the  critic  in  one  periodical  in- 
clines to  extremes,  the  glove  is 
almost  certain  to  be  taken  up  in  the 
other.  Now  you  have  an  exhaust- 
ive paper  on  the  latest  results  of 
scientific  explorations  in  Palestine, 
or  on  the  much  -  disputed  sites  of 
the  Holy  Places.  Now  you  have 
an  article  on  the  excavations  in 
Mycenae  or  the  Troad,  enriched  and 
made  engrossingly  suggestive  and 
entertaining  by  its  wealth  of  classi- 
cal and  archaeological  research.  And 
again  you  are  delighted  by  a  lucid 
summary  of  the  political  geography 
or  the  geographical  politics  of  some 
borderland  peopled  by  semi- barbar- 
ous tribes,  which  seems  likely  to  be- 
come the  battle-ground  of  liberalism 
and  absolutism.  These  contribu- 
tions are  assumed  to  be  anonymous, 
no  doubt ;  but  everybody  who  is  in- 
terested to  know  may  inform  him- 
self as  to  the  authorship.  And  the 
acknowledged  authority  of  a  great 
name  awakens  curiosity  and  com- 
mands respect,  when  it  does  not 
actually  carry  conviction.  We  fear 
that  the  articles  on  current  politics 
are  at  least  as  often  a  drag  as  an 
assistance.  They  are  demanded  by 
long-standing  traditions,  nor  could 
they  well  be  omitted,  unless  the 
venerated  organs  of  the  Whigs  and 
the  Conservatives  were  to  agree  to 


92 


Contemporary  Literature. 


[Jan. 


divest  themselves  of  what  remains 
to  them  of  their  old  political  power. 
Sometimes  the  publication  of  an 
able  manifesto  by  a  minister  or 
an  ex-minister,  sends  a  particular 
number  through  several  editions. 
Independently  of  his  acknowledged 
political  ability,  and  any  gifts  of 
vigorous  pamphleteering  that  he 
may  possess,  the  ideas  of  the  writer 
must  have  a  permanent  interest, 
since  they  may  foreshadow  the 
future  policy  of  a  cabinet.  But 
necessarily,  in  those  days  of  swift 
transition,  quarterly  political  arti- 
cles on  passing  events  must  almost 
inevitably  have  the  appearance  of 
being  behind  the  news  of  the  day. 
Maturely  considered  and  lucidly  ar- 
gued they  may  have  been,  but  they 
are  likely  to  bear  the  evidences  of 
hurried  revision.  The  shrewdest 
prescience  has  been  confounded, 
the  soundest  logical  conclusions 
have  been  upset,  by  the  unexpect- 
ed surprises  which  time  has  been 
preparing;  and  the  most  cursory 
reader  may  hit  upon  the  blots 
which  have  escaped  the  hasty  cor- 
rection of  the  thoughtful  author. 
At  the  best,  he  has  to  go  back  upon 
the  arguments  which  have  been 
thoroughly  threshed  out  ad  nau- 
seam, by  the  dailies,  weeklies,  and 
monthlies.  It  will  do  him  credit, 
indeed,  if  he  can  make  a  new  point, 


or  accomplish  anything  better  than 
a  clever  summing-up  by  a  judge 
who  is  avowedly  confounding  him- 
self with  the  advocate. 

We  may  add,  in  conclusion,  that 
the  quarterlies,  as  a  rule,  have  been 
singularly  fortunate  in  the  choice 
of  their  editors,  and  that  goes  far 
to  account  for  their  continued  pop- 
ularity. They  might  have  passed 
under  the  direction  of  book-worms 
or  bookish  students,  in  whose 
hands  they  would  have  become 
insupportably  ponderous.  On  the 
contrary,  since  the  days  of  Jeffrey 
and  Gifford,  of  Lockhart  and  Macvey 
Napier,  they  have  been  conducted 
by  accomplished  scholars  who  have 
mixed  familiarly  and  easily  in  the 
world,  and  who  have  had  the  tact 
and  good  sense  to  lighten  their 
"  contents  "  with  a  fair  proportion 
of  popular  subjects.  Some  of  the 
most  graceful  biographical  skeches 
of  the  political  leaders  of  fashion- 
able society — sketches  that  were 
written  by  intimate  friends ;  some 
of  the  very  best  contributions  on 
hunting  and  field-sports ;  some  of 
the  most  sparkling  articles  on  dress, 
art,  music,  cookery,  lawn-tennis, 
and  heaven  knows  what  besides, — 
making  their  appearance  in  the 
pages  of  those  weighty  periodicals, 
have  been  found  worthy  of  preser- 
vation in  more  accessible  forms. 


1879.] 


The  Novels  of  Alphonse  Daudet. 


93 


THE   NOVELS   OF  ALPHONSE  DAUDET. 


FRENCH  novels  have,  and  with 
justice,  a  bad  name  in  England. 
Most  of  us  have  a  corner  somewhere 
full  of  these  yellow  volumes,  un- 
bound, and  often  not  worth  the 
binding,  either,  so  to  speak,  in  body 
or  in  soul ;  volumes  in  which  bad 
paper,  indifferent  print,  indifferent 
wiiting,  and  atrocious  morality, 
make  up  the  very  worst  example  of 
the  thing  called  a  book  which  mo- 
dern times  have  known ;  volumes 
picked  upon  rail  way  journeys,  which 
we  are  by  no  means  anxious  to  com- 
municate to  our  households.  A 
great  many  people  think  and  be- 
lieve that  there  is  a  universal  bril- 
liancy of  wit  or  play  of  sentiment 
in  these  works  which  make  them 
dangerous ;  that  they  are,  as  the 
pleasures  they  portray  are  sup- 
posed also  to  be,  seductive  beyond 
description,  full  of  vigour  and  pas- 
sion and  charm.  If  they  were  so, 
there  would  be  a  certain  justifica- 
tion of  their  existence,  a  licence  to 
live  and  to  be  read  which  they  do 
not  now  possess ;  for,  to  tell  the 
truth,  a  great  many  of  these  perfor- 
mances which  travellers  buy  with 
a  not  disagreeable  thrill  of  stealthy 
pleasure,  as  of  something  rather 
wrong,  and  sure  to  be  exciting,  are 
as  dull  in  their  debauchery  as  the 
dullest  English  sketch  of  the  domes- 
tic circle,  full  of  the  flavour  of  muf- 
fins and  tea.  There  is  nothing  new 
in  vice,  any  more  than  in  virtue  ; 
and  no  excitements  pall  so  quickly 
as  those  which  address  themselves 
to  a  feverish  imagination  and  de- 
praved appetite.  Vice,  indeed,  is 
of  all  atmospheres  the  most  narrow 
and  limited.  It  is  contracted  by 
its  very  nature.  It  has  no  resource 
except  in  repetitions,  in  sickening 
details  which  cannot  be  brightened 
by  any  newly-invented  catastrophe, 


but  can  lead  to  one  climax  only. 
A  course  of  reading  more  fatiguing, 
more  disgusting,  more  wearisome, 
than  that  of  those  romances,  falsely 
so  called,  which  ring  the  changes 
upon  one  way  after  another  of  break- 
ing the  law  of  purity,  and  contem- 
plate the  varied  and  many-sided 
human  being  only  in  one  aspect, 
cannot  be  imagined.  To  read 
through  the  lesser  works  even  of 
a  great  genius  like  that  of  Balzac, 
leaves  an  intolerable  sense  of  dul- 
ness,  narrowness,  meanness,  upon 
the  mind.  Here  and  there,  where 
his  great  powers  blaze  forth  into  a 
study  of  mankind,  terrible  though 
odious,  like  that  which  appals  the 
reader  in  the  '  Pere  Goriot,'  we  are 
seized  upon  by  the  awful  tragedy 
which  can  weave  in  every  combina- 
tion of  folly  and  wickedness  into 
its  sombre  web,  without  losing  the 
higher  force  of  fate  and  misery  in 
it ;  but  even  Balzac,  at  his  ordinary, 
is  full  of  the  monotonous  repetition, 
which  cannot  be  got  rid  of  when 
the  mind  of  the  writer  and  the 
attention  of  the  reader  are  concen- 
trated upon  the  means  of  forming 
an  illicit  connection,  or  of  keeping 
it  interesting  when  formed.  They 
are  not  piquant,  as  we  hope  they 
must  be,  since  so  wrong  ;  but  dull, 
more  dull  than  a  record  of  Sunday- 
schools.  And  when  the  work  is  in 
indifferent  hands,  the  result  is  more 
monstrous,  more  sickening  still ;  a 
series  of  nauseous  scenes,  more 
flat  in  the  ardours  of  so-called  pas- 
sion than  are  the  minute  details  of 
tea-parties  which  we  have,  or  have 
had,  on  this  side  of  the  Channel.  To 
see  the  little  pride  of  naughtiness, 
the  conscious  smile  of  superior 
enlightenment,  yet  pretended  com- 
punction, with  which  a  man  who 
prides  himself  on  being  of  the  world, 


94 


The  Novels  of  Alphoiise  Daudet. 


[Jan. 


or  a  woman  above  prejudice,  con- 
fesses to  a  knowledge  of  the  books 
which  "it  would  not  do  to  leave 
lying  about,  don't  you  know  1 "  is 
enough  to  make  any  malicious  de- 
mon laugh.  "  I  have  got  hold  of 
the  very  worst  book  that  ever  was 
written,  I  think,"  says  one  fashion- 
able critic  to  another.  "  I  shall 
burn  it  when  I  have  done  with  it." 
"  But  let  me  see  it  first,"  says  the 
other,  eagerly.  And  yet  the  work 
thus  characterised  will  be  like  ditch- 
water,  boiling  hotly,  splashing  and 
sputtering  in  muddy  bubbles,  but 
with  neither  flavour  nor  savour, 
save  that  of  the  miserable  ooze 
from  whence  it  came. 

However,  though  this  is  the  case 
with  so  much  contemporary  French 
fiction,  it  is  no  more  a  universal 
law  than  is  the  other  counterbalanc- 
ing faith  which  opens  French  houses 
and  families  to  English  novels  with- 
out exception,  making  the  very 
name  of  Tauchnitz  a  guarantee  of 
moral  excellence.  It  is  not  always 
certain  nowadays  that  an  English 
story  is  safe  reading  ;  and  no  more 
is  it  certain  that  a  French  one,  how- 
ever yellow,  contains  a  chapter  of 
dull  and  dismal  vice,  and  nothing 
more.  The  works  of  Alphonse 
Daudet  are  a  most  hopeful  and  con- 
solatory proof  that  France  is  thank- 
ful to  escape  from  the  shower  of 
mud  that  is  being  rained  over  her, 
and  retains  the  better  taste  of  a 
healthful  human  imagination  after 
all.  Of  the  volumes  which  lie  be- 
fore us,  one  is  in  its  forty-third, 
the  other  in  its  forty-fourth  edi- 
tion ;  while  the  unmitigated  filth 
of  M.  Z  >la,  for  example,  which  has 
somehow  drifted  to  the  side  of 
the  more  wholesome  productions, 
shows  no  such  evidence  of  accept- 
ance. A  reputation  so  large  and 
popular  could  scarcely  arise  without 
legitimate  reason  ;  and  the  spice  of 
contemporary  scandal  contained  in 
these  books  is  not  enough  to  give 


more  than  a  temporary  impetus  to 
their  circulation.  Those  who  would 
form  some  acquaintance  with  France 
as  it  is,  or  was  some  twenty  years 
ago,  will  scarcely  find  a  better  guide 
than  in  the  picture  here  described. 
It  does  not  reveal  a  pure  society — 
far  from  it ;  nor  does  it  present  us 
with  any  ideal  of  honest  public  life 
which  is  equal  to  our  own.  Swind- 
ling and  sham  are  portrayed  in  it  in 
full  career — false  charity,  false  trade, 
false  statesmanship ;  and  the  rela- 
tions of  men  and  women  are  treated 
with  that  impartiality,  if  we  may 
use  the  expression,  which  character- 
ises all  literature  but  our  own.  But 
the  world  is  not  narrowed  into  a 
shameful  chamber,  nor  all  the  con- 
cerns of  life  subordinated  to  an 
intrigue,  as  in  the  other  books  to 
which  we  have  referred.  The  good 
and  the  evil  stand  together ;  there  is 
the  breadth  of  a  solid,  round  world, 
full  of  differing  interests  and  serious 
complications,  in  which  other  pas- 
sions than  one  are  involved.  Vice 
is  not  left  out  of  the  count,  but 
there  is  no  choice  of  vice,  nor  lin- 
gering preference  for  its  debasing 
records.  And  while  Daudet's  works 
are  not  to  be  recommended,  ac- 
cording to  the  favourite  sneer  of 
French  criticism,  as  specially  adapt- 
ed for  a  pensionnat  de  demoiselles, 
neither  are  they  to  be  apprehended 
as  unfit  reading  for  any  pure-mind- 
ed woman.  The  world  they  deal 
with  is  not  a  virtuous  world,  yet 
virtue  lives  in  it,  and  struggles, 
and  is  not  always  beaten;  and 
evil,  if  it  often  triumphs  basely,  is 
never  more  than  base,  and  wears  no 
gloss  of  fictitious  delicacy  or  beauty. 
The  wicked  wife  is  a  mean  little 
intrigante,  as  contemptible  as  she 
is  depraved  —  not  a  sentimental 
heroine ;  and  the  triumphant  lover 
a  Cockney  and  a  fool, — in  the 
only  one  of  these  novels  which 
at  all  hinges  upon  this  favour- 
ite topic.  But  even  with  this 


1879.] 


The  Novels  of  Alplionse  Daudet. 


95 


manly  treatment,  M.  Daudet  does 
not  find  the  subject  inspiring,  and 
soon  throws  it  aside  for  other  themes 
and  interests  more  broad  and  gen- 
eral. How  life  can  be  tragically 
confused  and  overcast  by  the  sha- 
dow upon  it  of  wickedness  not  its 
own  ;  how  folly  and  vice,  wherever 
these  rotten  threads  twine  into  the 
web,  rend  it  across  and  across,  tear- 
ing hearts  and  lives  asunder, — is  the 
sombre  yet  not  ignoble  theme  which 
has  engaged  his  imagination.  It 
involves  a  great  many  terrible  ele- 
ments, in  the  inevitable  crushings  of 
fate  out  of  which  the  victim  cannot 
escape,  and  the  devotion  with  which 
that  victim  gives  himself,  conscious- 
ly, to  expiate  faults  which  are  not  his 
own.  Sometimes  the  struggles  of 
duty  and  affection  against  disgust 
and  disgrace  are  the  inspiration 
of  the  tale;  sometimes  the  delu- 
sions and  disenchantments  of  an 
honest  soul  amid  deceit  and  lying. 
Such  are  the  subjects  M.  Daudet 
has  chosen.  His  books  are  sad  with 
the  burden  of  a  life  unsatisfactory, 
vain  and  false  and  full  of  trouble, 
beset  by  lies,  preyed  upon  by  har- 
pies, delivered  over  to  those  cruel- 
ties of  civilisation  which  crush  the 
weak.  But  the  conflict  they  set 
before  us  is  very  different  from  the 
sentimental  struggle  between  a  fash- 
ionable fine  lady  and  a  hero  of  the 
salons,  the  arts  of  mutual  seduction, 
the  fears  of  discovery,  the  sickening 
loves  and  quarrels  which  drag  their 
tedious  detail  through  so  many  con- 
temporary volumes. 

There  is  perhaps  another  reason 
why  the  works  of  M.  Daudet  have 
attracted  special  notice  in  England. 
Critics  have  found  out — with  some 
reason,  no  doubt,  yet  with  less 
reason,  we  think,  than  they  take 
for  granted — a  marked  influence 
from  our  own  literature  in  the  style 
and  character  of  his  books.  It  has 
become  common  to  say  that  he 
has  been  trained  in  the  school  of 


Dickens;  and  various  resemblances, 
more  or  less  well  founded,  can,  no 
doubt,  be  pointed  out,  especially 
after  the  first  suggestion  has  set  the 
reader's  wits  astir.  Here  there  is  an 
oddity  of  a  pedlar,  more  formally 
odd  than  French  finesse  is  apt  to 
be  content  with;  there  a  gushing 
ideal  family,  more  bound  to  the 
household  lamp  and  uncharacter- 
istic the,  than  ever  Parisians  were 
known  to  be  in  their  own  right. 
And  there  is  enough  of  evidence 
to  justify  the  assertion  that  in  these 
and  some  other  particulars  the 
leading  of  a  foreign  guide  is 
perceptible.  But  to  an  unbiassed 
mind  the  likeness  will  scarcely 
ever  show  more  strongly  than  is 
legitimate  and  pleasing.  The  co- 
piers of  Dickens  in  English  have 
not  left  any  very  favourable  im- 
pression on  our  mind.  They  have 
been,  like  copyists  in  general,  more 
clever  in  following  the  extrava- 
gances than  the  strong  points  of 
their  leader ;  and  as  time  has  made 
these  extravagances  more  apparent 
by  breaking  the  link  of  personal  at- 
traction which  binds  his  generation 
to  a  great  living  writer,  the  indif- 
ference of  the  public  mind  to  his 
school  has  lapsed  into  a  stronger 
feeling — a  feeling  of  almost  dislike. 
The  difference,  however,  of  the 
French,  and  the  faintness  of  the 
echo,  prevent  us  from  any  such 
sensation  in  respect  to  M.  Daudet. 
The  indication  of  a  following,  per- 
haps unconscious,  of  the  English 
novelist  whose  works  represent  the 
favourite  French  view  of  English 
life,  is  rather  a  compliment  than  a 
plagiarism.  We  are  pleased  un- 
consciously by  the  influence  which 
comes  from  ourselves  as  a  nation, 
even  though  we  may  not  ourselves 
care  for  Dickens  as  a  model.  And 
the  influence  of  English  literature 
of  this  description  upon  French  is 
novel,  and  interests  the  reader. 
Except  in  the  single  instance  of 


96 


The  Novels  of  Alphonse  Daudet. 


[Jan. 


Scott,  the  stream  of  influence  has 
usually  gone  the  other  way ;  and 
the  well-worn  saying,  "They  do 
these  things  better  in  France,"  has 
never  heen  more  used  than  in  re- 
spect to  novels — the  English  tedi- 
ousness  of  which,  as  compared  with 
consummate  French  skill,  concise- 
ness, and  grace,  have  been  pointed 
out  a  thousand  times.  It  is  there- 
fore a  little  solace  to  our  national 
amour  propre  to  find  the  most 
popular  of  French  romancers  copy- 
ing something  from  a  school  so 
insular  and  even  Cockney  as  that 
of  Dickens.  Paris  has  indeed  a 
Cockneyism  still  more  marked  than 
that  of  London,  and  the  humours 
of  the  two  great  capitals  meet  sym- 
pathetically at  various  points  ;  but 
it  is  in  a  narrow  and  more  ex- 
clusively personal  way  that  M. 
Daudet  has  taken  the  leading  of 
his  English  predecessor. 

The  first  of  the  series,  not  yet 
at  all  an  extended  one,  is  the  least 
remarkable  in  construction  and  the 
least  effective  as  a  contemporary 
picture,  but  yet  is  powerful  and 
striking.  It  is  a  tale  of  Parisian 
life  in  the  'bourgeois  class,  drawn 
upon  the  ordinary  lines  of  French 
romance  —  a  simple  husband  de- 
ceived on  one  side,  and  a  saintly 
wife  on  the  other,  with  a  pair  of 
sinners  between,  in  whose  vulgar 
intrigue  there  is  nothing  to  shut  the 
eyes  of  the  reader  for  an  instant  to 
the  inherent  ugliness  and  wretched- 
ness of  their  sin.  It  is,  however, 
in  the  scene  to  which  they  intro- 
duce us,  and  the  noble  and  loyal 
character  of  the  deceived  husband, 
that  the  charm  of  the  book  lies. 
Fromont  Jeune  and  Risler  Aine  is  a 
firm  of  paper-manufacturers  estab- 
lished in  the  Marais,  in  a  huge  old 
hotel  with  a  garden,  round  which 
rise  the  workshops,  the  studios,  all 
the  different  buildings  necessary  for 
the  production  of  the  wall-papers 
which  are  their  special  industry. 


The  highest  members  of  this  little 
society  are  the  young  Fromont  and 
his  wife,  the  aristocrats  of  the  story, 
rich  young  tradespeople,  separated 
by  only  one  step  from  the  makers 
of  their  fortune,  but  yet  holding  a 
tranquil  superiority  as  of  ever  so 
many  quarterings  over  the  little 
crowd  in  their  employment — among 
whom  the  other  personages  of 
the  tale  are  found.  Risler  ain£ 
has  been  the  chief  designer  and 
most  faithful  workman  of  the  Fro- 
monts.  It  is  a  curious  tribute  to 
that  Alsace  which  France  laments 
so  deeply,  that  nowhere  can  the 
novelist  find  so  ready  a  type  of 
simple  honesty  and  goodness  as 
among  her  children  and  the  other 
French-Teutons  who  hold  a  similar 
position.  We  had  written  the  first 
part  of  this  sentence  under  the 
impression  that  the  brothers  Ris- 
ler, with  their  simple  hearts,  their 
sound  honesty,  their  unselfish  devo- 
tion, were  Alsacians,  like  Balzac's 
Schumck,  and  like  the  honest 
peasants  of  MM.  Erckmann-Cha- 
trian.  The  mistake  is  a  not  un- 
natural one,  to  judge  by  their  lan- 
guage ;  but  on  going  back  to  the 
book  we  find  that  the  Rislers  are 
Swiss,  a  kindred  race ;  and  so 
is  Sigismond  Planus,  the  old  cash- 
ier of  the  establishment,  the  im- 
personation of  virtue  and  loyalty, 
true  to  his  trust  and  to  his  friend 
save  when  he  thinks  that  friend 
himself  swerving  from  the  ways  of 
honour.  Beside  the  fabrique,  the 
great  establishment  of  the  Fromonts, 
round  which,  with  its  ateliers  and 
workshop  and  the  private  house  of 
the  master,  which  the  workmen 
and  their  families  regard  with  pride 
and  admiration  as  the  home  of  hap- 
piness and  splendour — we  find  an- 
other little  group  of  families  on 
the  top-storey  of  a  house  near, 
where  there  are  three  little  sets  of 
apartments  on  one  landing,  inhabit- 
ed by  Risler  and  his  young  brother 


1879.] 


The  Novels  of  Alplionse  Daudtt. 


07 


Frantz,  and  by  the  families  Chc-be 
=and  Delobelle.  From  the  window 
the  little  Sidonie  Chebe  looks  down 
upon  the  manufactory  with  all  its 
wealth,  and  upon  Claire,  the  little 
heiress,  and  her  cousin,,  playing  in 
the  garden,  with  admiration,  with 
envy  and  longing.  It  is  the  para- 
dise towards  which  this  little  peri 
directs  all  her  thoughts  \  and  when 
the  good  Bisler,  never  weary  of 
boasting  of  his  beloved  manufactory 
to  his  friends,  or  of  making  known 
the  virtues  of  his  friends  to  his 
patrons  and  superiors,  at  last  gets 
an  invitation  for  her  to  a  child's 
ball  in  this  enchanted  palace,  the 
head  of  the  little  coquette  is  turned, 
and  the  course  of  her  life  is  decided. 
The  three  little  menages  upon  this 
landing,  cm  cinquieme,  complete  the 
groups  of  the  little  drama.  They 
are  all  set  before  us  with  the  utmost 
care,  with  minute  touches,  and  with 
fine  little  strokes  of  satire.  Chebe 
-and  Delobelle  might  have  stepped  out 
•of  Dickens,  had  Dickens  ever  been 
-able  to  conquer  the  charm  of  that 
-difference  which  makes  men  French. 
The  one  is  an  old  commerpant,  in 
whose  mind  the  recollections  of  the 
time  when  he  had  ahorse  and  tilbury 
(which  is  the  French  interpretation 
of  the  gig  of  respectability),  raise 
him  above  the  acceptance  of  lower 
•occupations.  "  Who  can  reckon  the 
fantastic  follies,  the  silly  eccentri- 
•eities  with  which  an  unoccupied 
tit  succeeds  in  filling  up  the  void 
•of  his  life?"  says  the  author.  M. 
•Chebe  made  himself  rules,  to  give 
importance  to  his  daily  movements. 
All  the  time  that  the  Boulevard  de 
Sebastopol  was  building  he  went 
•out  twice  a- day  to  see  "  how  it  was 
getting  on."  His  wife  at  home  is 
but  too  glad  to  give  him  an  occa- 
sional commission  to  get  rid  of  his 
constant  presence  and  projects ;  and 
the  good  man  makes  it  the  object 
•of  half  a  day's  exertions  to  procure 
•"  two  brioches,  of  the  value  of  three 

VOL.  CXXV. — NO.  DCCLIX. 


sous,  which  he  brought  in  triumph 
antly,  wiping  his  forehead."  The 
Chebe  family  are  petits  rentiers, 
with  just  enough  to  live  on;  and 
Madame  continues  to  possess  a 
Cashmere  shawl,  and  two  little  dia- 
mond buttons,  which  give  her  glory 
in  the  eyes  of  her  neighbours.  De- 
lobelle is  an  old  comedian,  "  eloigno 
du  theatre  depuis  quinze  ans  par  la 
mauvaise  volonte  des  directeurs," 
yet  with  perfect  faith  in  himself 
and  in  some  heaven  -  taught  man- 
ager who  will  still  open  to  him 
the  way  to  fame.  His  wife  and 
his  daughter — the  poor,  little,  lame 
and  pale  Desiree,  pretty  and  sad  and 
sentimental — labour  night  and  day 
at  the  dainty  manufacture  and  ar- 
rangement of  "  oiseaux  et  mouches 
pour  mode,"  with  one  great  aim  be- 
fore them,  "  the  dramatic  glory  of 
the  illustrious  Delobelle."  Chebe 
and  Delobelle  patronise  equally  the 
honest  Eisler,  who  occupies  the 
third  of  the  little  apartments,  and 
who  has  no  thought  but  his  fab- 
rique,  his  designs,  and  his  master, 
whom  he  adores.  The  honest  fel- 
low—  half  Teuton  or  more,  shy, 
and  no  great  talker,  ashamed  of  his 
own  accent  and  rustic  air — is  delight- 
fully looked  down  upon  by  his 
neighbours.  They  have  over  him 
"the  immense  superiority  of  the 
man  who  does  nothing  over  him 
who  works" — a  superiority  which 
Chebe  exhibits  frankly,  while  De- 
lobelle, more  gracious,  condescends 
to  him  with  effusive  kindness. 
Eisler  believes  in  them  both, 
he  helps  their  wives  secretly, 
takes  them  all  to  the  theatre  on 
Sundays,  and  gets  his  friends  to 
accept  from  him  perpetual  clwpes 
of  beer.  The  picture  is  very  like 
Dickens,  but  it  is  not  so  detailed 
and  long-drawn-out;  French  cus- 
tom does  not  exact  three  volumes. 
Nevertheless,  the  vanity  and  selfish- 
ness of  the  restless  old  rentier,  with 
his  dreams  of  "  la  haute  commerce," 
G 


08 


The  Novels  of  Alphonse  Daudet. 


[Jar, 


and  of  the  superannuated  comedian 
heroically  vowing  never  to  renounce 
the  theatre,  are  entirely  according 
to  the  humour  of  our  great  fiction- 
ist ;  and  so  in  one  case  is  the  little 
household  behind, — Desiree  and  her 
mother  working  hard  at  their  moucli- 
es  to  keep  the  great  actor  in  toilet, 
and  give  him  something  in  his  pocket 
with  which  to  fldner  at  his  ease. 
Little  Sidonie  spying  from  her  win- 
dow the  garden  of  the  fabrique,  and 
the  wealthy  house  where  she  spends 
now  and  then  an  hour  of  paradise 
with  Claire  and  Georges,  and  tastes 
the  delights  of  wealth — is  of  a  dif- 
ferent inspiration.  She  in  her  folly 
and  prettiness,  her  longing  after 
money  and  grandeur  and  gaiety,  her 
self-absorbed  little  being,  is  the 
key  of  the  tragedy.  "  Personne  n'a 
jamais  pu  savoir  ce  qu'elle  pen- 
sait,"  says  her  mother.  Sidonie 
is  of  the  school  of  George  Eliot 
rather  than  of  Dickens.  Frantz, 
the  poor  young  Eisler,  her  neigh- 
bour, adores  her.  So,  in  an  aim- 
less way,  does  Georges  Fromont, 
the  young  master.  So  does  Bisler 
aine,  he  who  invents  all  her  pleas- 
ures for  her,  and  watches  over  her 
growth,  and  regards  her  with  a 
gentle,  patient  adoration,  until  it 
pleases  the  little  intrigante  to  an- 
nounce that  it  is  he  whom  she 
loves — and  to  marry  him,  to  his 
misery  and  ruin. 

Amid  the  group  of  characters 
so  distinctly  marked,  the  effect  of 
this  little  creature  without  charac- 
ter, this  colourless  being,  with  her 
frizzed  locks,  her  pretty  figure,  her 
little  airs  and  graces,  "  des  elegances 
un  peu  appretees  de  la  demoiselle 
de  magasin,"  is  wonderful.  They 
all  love  and  admire  her,  but  she 
loves  nobody.  She  loves  her  own 
ease,  her  own  advancement,  luxury, 
pleasure,  and  pretty  things  around 
her ;  but  even  her  prettinesses  are  all 
vulgar,  and  her  taste  false.  The 
ennui  of  the  Sunday  excursions, 


when  all  the  rest  of  the  party  are 
so  gay,  and  she  alone  finds  their 
pleasures  beneath  her,  dislikes  the 
wild-flowers  as  she  does  her  own- 
lilac  print,  and  sighs  for  the  car- 
riages and  the  finery  which  are  out- 
of  her  reach ;  and  the  silent  revolt 
with  which  she  turns  from  all  the 
details  of  her  humble  life,  yet  ful- 
fils them,  never  complaining,  never 
revealing  herself,  though  with  her 
eyes  in  tent  upon  every  possible  outlet 
of  escape — make  up  a  very  powerful 
picture.  No  one  of  all  the  people 
round  her  suspects  what  kind  of 
being  she  is.  Her  acceptance,  then 
rejection  of  Frantz,  as  having  mis- 
taken her  feelings ;  her  sudden  dis- 
covery, when  Eisler  aine  becomes 
a  partner  in  the  great  mine,  that 
it  is  he  whom  she  has  loved  all  the 
time,  are  received  with  perfect  faith 
by  all  as  the  sincere  workings  of  her 
veiled  spirit.  She  is  perfectly  com- 
monplace, ignorant,  silly,  without 
even  those  instincts  which  (espe- 
cially in  novels)  make  untrained 
girls  bloom  into  women  of  the  world 
with  scarcely  an  interval;  not 
great  enough  to  be  tragic,  only  in- 
vulnerable in  frivolous  selfishness 
and  lovelessness,  and  carrying  de- 
struction round  her.  How  a  thing 
so  trifling,  childish,  and  unimport- 
ant can  all  but  ruin  a  community, 
and  can  break  the  heart  and  destroy 
the  life  of  the  noble  and  simple- 
hero  without  ever  disturbing  a  fea- 
ther of  her  own  painted  plumage — 
turning  up  again  irrepressible  after 
the  havoc  she  has  made,  in  sheer 
force  of  no-feeling  —  it  has  been 
the  author's  task  to  set  forth ;  and 
he  has  done  it  with  wonderful  force 
and  simplicity.  This  work,  which 
first  brought  its  author  into  notice, 
was  "  couronne  par  TAcademie 
Fran9aise,"  and  shows  that  the 
Academy  knows  what  it  is  about, 
in  the  matter  of  fiction  at  least. 

"We   will   not  attempt  to  touch 
the  highly-wrought  tragedy  of  the 


1879.] 


The  Novels  of  Alplwnse  Daudet. 


conclusion,  nor  to  show  the  he- 
roic desperation — in  which  his  rude 
and  simple  nature  mixes  something 
cruel,  almost  brutal  —  with  which 
the  deceived  husband  turns  from 
the  contemplation  of  his  own  mis- 
ery in  order  to  save  from  bankrupt- 
cy the  house  which  his  wife  has 
ruined.  She  has  ruined  him  still 
more  completely,  but  Eisler  must 
save  the  Maison  Fromont  whatever 
becomes  of  himself.  As  he  tears 
the  jewels  from  her  neck  and  arms, 
and  dictates  to  the  companion  of 
her  guilt  the  terms  of  their  new 
contract,  by  which  he  gives  up  his 
partnership  and  becomes  once  more 
"  simple  com  mis  "  in  order  to  restore 
the  credit  and  prosperity  of  the 
house,  the  big  and  rude  Teuton 
with  his  peasant  roughness  becomes 
sublime ;  that  terrible  climax,  those 
heights  of  stern  misery,  neither 
change  his  language  nor  his  man- 
ners. He  keeps  his  natural  tone, 
his  workman  roughness,  through  all. 
Passion  does  not  change  him  into  a 
gentleman,  or  give  him  any  varnish 
of  refinement.  When  he  has  de- 
nuded himself  of  everything,  even 
the  furniture  of  his  house,  the 
wretched  Georges,  who  is  as  guilty 
as  Sidonie,  utters  a  cry  of  protes- 
tation. 

'•' '  Mais  c'est  impossible,'  dit  Georges. 
'  Je  ne  peux  pas  souffrir  cela.' 

"  Risler  se  retourna  avec  mi  mouve- 
ment  d'indignation.  '  Comment  dites- 
vous  1  Qu'est-ce  que  vous  ne  souffrirez 
pas?' 

"Claire  1'arreta  d'une  geste  suppliant. 

C'est  vrai — c'est  vrai,'  murmura-t-il ; 

et  il  sortit  bien  vite  pour  echapper  a 

cette  tentation  que  lui  venait  de  laisser 

en  fin  deborder  tout  son  cceur." 

We  will  not  venture,  however,  to 
enter  further  into  the.  catastrophe, 
which  has  a  still  deeper  chapter  of 
pain  to  reach. 

In  the  <  Nabab,1  M.  Daudet  strikes 
a  far  bolder  note.  His  first  work 
had  attracted  a  great  deal  of  no- 


tice, and  had  opened  his  career  with 
a  triumph ;  but  the  next  which 
followed  is  perhaps  the  boldest 
piece  of  contemporary  criticism 
that  has  been  made  in  this  gen- 
eration. It  is  not  the  same  kind 
of  personal  satire  which  gave  force- 
to  the  play  of  "  Eabagas  " — a  satire 
broad  enough  to  be  perceived  even 
at  this  distance.  We  do  not  pre- 
tend to  enter,  with  knowledge  of 
the  circumstances,  into  any  history 
of  the  real  Nabob  whose  image  is 
suggested  to  all  who  knew  Parisian 
society  a  dozen  years  ago  by  the 
figure  of  Bernard  Jansoulet,  and 
the  bold  picture  of  his  sorrow  and 
wrongs.  English  readers  in  gen- 
eral will  neither  know  nor  care  for 
the  actual  model  who  sat  for  this 
strange  yet  attractive  portrait ;  nor 
will  they  take  any  interest  in  the 
clamour  of  gossip  which  the  pub- 
lication of  the  work  called  forth. 
It  contains,  indeed,  one  sketch 
which  it  is  impossible  not  to  iden- 
tify; and  fortunately,  the  represen- 
tation of  the  Due  de  Mora  here  given 
is  not  likely  to  hurt  the  reputation 
of  the  original.  The  author,  how- 
ever, has  entirely  changed  his  scene 
and  surroundings.  Instead  of  the 
out-of-the-way  corner  of  the  Marais, 
the  background  of  the  usine,  the 
society  of  rich  industriels  and 
little  tradesfolk,  we  have  now  the 
greater  stage  of  Paris,  with  all  the 
big  shams  of  its  corrupt  society 
under  the  Empire,  exposed  with  an 
unflinching  hand.  The  plausible 
fashionable  doctor  with  his  work  of 
sham  philanthropy  —  his  big  hos- 
pital, and  the  miserable  children 
who  are  at  once  his  decoys  and  vic- 
tims— and  the  Perles  Jenkins  which 
stimulate  his  patients  into  ficti- 
tious vigour  only  to  kill  them  more 
quickly  at  the  end ;  the  magnificent 
bureaux  of  the  Caisse  Territoriale 
with  its  "  huit  fenetres  de  facade  en 
plein  Boulevard  Malesherbes,"  and 
its  little  band  of  officials  living  upon 


100 


The  Novels  of  Alplionse  Daudet. 


[Jan. 


the  money  paid  by  unhappy  share- 
holders, or  the  few  unwary  deposi- 
tors who  fell  into  the  snare  of  the 
big  establishment ;  nay,  even  the 
sham  fine  lady,  Marquise  de  Bois- 
Landry,  whose  profession  it  is  to 
show  off  a  fashionable  modiste's  last 
inventions,  appearing  magnificently 
dressed,  a  walking  advertisement  at 
every  imperial  fete  and  fashionable 
assembly, — form  among  them  the 
background  of  falsehood  and  vain 
show,  against  which  the  rude,  frank, 
homely  figure  of  the  Nabob,  true  as 
honest  meaning  can  make  him,  yet 
vain,  vulgar,  purse-proud,  and  osten- 
tatious, is  disclosed  to  us.  None 
but  a  Frenchman,  perhaps,  would 
venture  to  set  before  us  so  plain- 
ly, and  engage  our  sympathies  so 
warmly  for  a  figure  so  unideal. 
Though  we  give  ourselves  credit  for 
so  much  uiiexaggerated  honesty  of 
portraiture,  and  profess  so  largely 
the  creed  of  realism  in  art,  no 
English  artist  ever  attempts  a  treat- 
ment so  impartial.  Even  Thackeray, 
though  he  laughs  at  his  greatest 
favourites  and  refuses  to  believe  in 
a  hero,  makes  the  faults  of  the 
faulty  object  of  his  study  either  so 
adorable  or  so  amusing  that  we 
prefer  them  to  virtues.  But  Bernard 
Jansoulet  is  as  far  removed  from 
Colonel  Newcome  as  from  the  Arch- 
angel Michael.  He  is  covered  with 
the  soil  of  earth,  full  of  the  gross 
vanity  and  vulgar  ambition  of  the 
parvenu.  Honestly,  when  he  aids 
JDr  Jenkins's  oeuvre  of  Bethlehem, 
it  is  (though  with  some  real  charity 
mixed  in  his  confused  ideas)  the 
tempting  bait  of  the  Cross  of  the 
Legion  of  Honour  to  be  gained 
by  this  exhibition  of  philanthropy 
which  is  his  chief  inducement.  He 
is  quite  willing  to  gain  his  election 
— which,  again,  he  frankly  seeks  as 
the  means  of  assuring  his  financial 
safety — by  any  kind  of  deceit  and 
corruption.  Yet  notwithstanding 
all  this,  and  his  pleasure  in  the 


flatteries  that  surround  him,  and 
the  credulous  folly  with  which  he 
lends  his  ear  to  all  those  thirsty 
applicants  for  his  bounty,  Jansoulet 
wins  the  reader's  heart,  and  takes 
his  place  among  the  number  of 
our  imaginary  friends  whose  trou- 
bles we  weep  with  hot  tears,  and 
whose  wrongs  fill  us  with  fury. 
There  is  not  the  smallest  illusion 
attempted  as  to  his  qualities  or  de- 
fects; his  very  appearance  is  painted 
with  a  coarse  brush,  which  spares 
not  an  imperfection.  He  is  "a 
kind  of  giant,  tanned,  sunburnt, 
yellow,  his  head  sunk  between 
his  shoulders,  his  short  nose  lost 
in  the  fulness  of  his  visage,  his 
coarse  crisp  hair  massed  like  an 
Astrakan  cap  on  his  low  forehead, 
his  bristling  eyebrows  overshadow- 
ing the  gleaming  eyes,  give  him 
the  ferocious  aspect  of  a  Kalmuck, 
of  a  savage  Borderer,  living  by  war 
and  rapine."  His  low  extraction  also 
betrayed  itself  by  his  voice,  "  the 
voice  of  a  Rhone  boatman,  hoarse 
and  indistinct,  in  which  the  accent 
of  the  South  was  more  coarse  than 
harsh ;  and  two  large,  short,  and 
hairy  hands,  with  square  and  nail- 
less  fingers,  which,  spread  out  upon 
the  whiteness  of  the  tablecloth,  pro- 
claimed their  own  past  with  dis- 
agreeable eloquence."  And  from 
his  first  appearance  on  the  scene, 
the  Nabob's  thirst  for  fashionable 
notice  and  distinction  is  made  clear- 
ly apparent.  When  Monpavon,  the 
new  version  of  "  marquis,"  like,  yet 
unlike,  him  of  Moliere,  the  old 
beau  with  sham  teeth,  sham  hair, 
sham  complexion,  who  is  one  of  the 
leaders  of  the  sham  Caisse  Terri- 
toriale,  and  of  many  other  shams,  is 
persuading  the  Nabob  to  support 
with  his  real  money  the  bankrupt 
and  more  than  bankrupt  establish- 
ment, his  strongest  argument  is  that 
"le  due  "  had  "  beaucoup  parle  de 
vous."  One  recalls  M.  Jourdain's 
delight  in  hearing  that  he  himself 


1879." 


TJie  Novels  of  Alpltonse  Daudtt. 


101 


had  been  mentioned  in  the  king's 
chamber.  "  '  Yraiment !  il  vous  a 
parle  de  moi  ? '  Et  le  bon  Nabob, 
tout  glorieux,  regardait  autonr  de  lui 
avec  des  mouvements  de  tete  tout- 
a-fait  risibles  ou  bien  il  prenait 
1'air  recueilli  d'un  devote  entendent 
nommer  Notre  -  Seigneur."  When 
again,  during  the  course  of  the  same 
meal,  he  is  asked  if  he  has  seen 
what  the  Messayer  says  of  him  : 
"  Sous  le  hale  epais  de  ses  joues  le 
Nabob  rougit  comme  un  enfant,  et 
ses  yeux  brillaient  de  plaisir.  '  C'est 
vrai  1  le  Messager  a  parle  de  moi  1 ' J! 
"  His  large  face  shone  "  while  the 
passage  was  being  read.  "  Often," 
adds  the  author,  "  when  far  away, 
he  had  dreamt  of  being  thus  cele- 
brated by  Parisian  papers — of  being 
somebody  in  the  midst  of  that 
society,  the  first  of  all  society,  upon 
which  the  entire  world  has  its  eyes 
fixed.  Now  his  dream  had  become 
true." 

But  this  vain  and  coarse  roturier 
has  a  heart  of  gold.  The  duke  and 
the  newspapers  are,  after  all,  nothing 
to  him,  in  comparison  with  the  old 
peasant  -  mother  whom  he  has  in- 
stalled in  his  big  chateau.  His 
follies  and  mistakes  arise  out  of 
the  very  excess  of  his  warm-heart- 
ed confidence  in  all  around  him. 
When  he  returns  in  the  ignorant 
elation  of  wealth  to  buy  himself  all 
the  glories  and  pleasures  of  life, 
among  the  harpies  and  charlatans 
who  flock  around  him,  side  by  side 
with  M.  de  Monpavon,  is  "  le  chan- 
teur  Garrigou,  un  '  pays '  de  Jan  sou- 
let,"  the  provincial  ventriloquist  and 
buffoon,  whose  cleverness  had  seem- 
ed supernatural  to  him  in  his  youth; 
and  Cabassu,  the  barber  -  chiropo- 
dist-dentist, who  belonged  to  the 
same  period,  cordially  established 
in  the  finest  company;  while  the 
poor  Nabob's  affairs  are  in  the 
hands  of  another  local  authority,  the 
old  village  schoolmaster,  now  inten- 
dant,  manager,  and  paymaster  of 


the  huge,  lavish,  ill-regulated  house- 
hold. With  them  are  a  troop  which 
reminds  us  again  of  M.  Jourdain 
and  his  many  instructors  —  the 
theatrical  manager,  the  picture- 
dealer,  the  author,  who  give  the 
Nabob  so  many  opportunities  of 
becoming  a  patron  of  the  arts, — a 
position  which  his  honest  natural 
instinct  feels  to  be  in  keeping  with 
the  possessor  of  a  great  fortune. 
HisLevantine  wife,  "une  demoiselle 
Afchin,"  who  did  the  French  ad- 
venturer so  much  honour  in  marry- 
ing him  that  he  can  never  speak  of 
it  but  with  awe  and  exultation,  he 
continues  to  surround  with  as  much 
superstitious  reverence  in  Paris  as 
if  the  silly,  luxurious,  obstinate 
Eastern  who  seals  his  ruin  were  a 
queen  ;  and  the  still  deeper  domes- 
tic tragedy  which  has  overshadowed 
his  whole  life,  and  procures  him  his 
final  overthrow,  he  endures  with 
homely  nobility  and  a  self-sacrifice 
which  is  in  the  last  degree  touch- 
ing. The  author  spares  us  no  re- 
velation of  Jansoulet's  ignorance 
and  helplessness  in  the  hands  of 
the  deceivers  who  surround  him. 
The  fetes  he  prepares  for  the  Bey 
of  Tunis  are  the  wildest  of  opera- 
masquerades,  with  ballet  -  girls  in 
the  dress  of  peasants,  and  every 
impurity  of  the  coulisses  defiling 
the  park  and  avenues  which  his 
manager  turns  into  a  sort  of  glorified 
Mabille  for  the  occasion — not  with- 
out a  subtle  stroke  of  bitterness  at 
the  Imperial  fetes  which  are  their 
model.  But  the  Nabob  takes  every- 
thing with  simple  faith,  glorying 
only  in  the  unimaginable  splendour 
of  his  preparations  ;  and  the  reader, 
ranging  himself  instinctively  on  the 
hero's  side,  is  as  indignant  at  his 
disappointment  as  if  Cardailhac's 
opera-dancers  had  been  nymphs  of 
Arcadia.  Thus  the  poor  millionaire 
is  swept  along  in  a  crowd  of  the 
false  and  fictitious,  but  himself  is 
always  true — true  in  his  goodness 


102 


The  Novels  of  Alphonse  Daudet. 


[Jan. 


and  his  folly,  his  vainglory  and  his 
ignorance,  his  tender  heart  and  ob- 
tuse yet  upright  understanding. 
We  are  never  allowed  to  forget  how 
greedy  of  grandeur  and  applause  he 
is,  nor  how  sure  of  the  omnipotence 
of  his  wealth ;  but  even  in  the  first 
outburst  of  triumphant  folly  he  is 
always  ready  to  respond  to  the 
tender  touch  of  real  feeling.  After 
he  has  been  hunted  by  all  the  wild 
beasts,  hungry  and  eager,  marquis, 
doctor,  journalist,  bankrupt,  every 
kind  of  famishing  harpy  which  could 
get  a  claw  upon  the  prey,  and  after 
distributing  cheques  and  money  on 
every  side,  has  thrown  himself 
weary  into  a  chair,  he  finds  with 
some  impatience  still  another  suitor 
waiting  with  a  letter.  After  a  mo- 
mentary glance  of  annoyance  he  is 
mollified  by  the  sight  of  the  hand- 
writing :  "  Te  —  c'est  de  Hainan," 
cries  the  Nabob. 

"  He  said  this  with  a  look  so  happy — 
the  word  '  maman7  illuminated  his  face 
with  a  smile  so  youthful,  so  amiable — 
that  the  visitor,  at  first  repulsed  by  the 
vulgar  aspect  of  the  parvenu,  felt  an 
instant  awakening  of  sympathy." 

The  grand  scene  of  the  book  is 
that  in  which  a  noble  family  senti- 
ment and  tender  delicacy  of  feeling 
towards  this  homely  old  peasant- 
mother  stop  the  self- vindication 
on  Jansoulet's  very  lips,  and  ruin 
him  heroically  at  the  very  crisis 
of  his  career.  Space  forbids  us  to 
go  through  the  entire  story,  which, 
besides,  the  reader  had  much  better 
master  for  himself  (if  needs  must, 
in  the  English  translation  recently 
published).  It  may  be  briefly  indi- 
cated, however,  as  follows  :  Bernard 
Jansoulet  has  a  brother,  "TaineY' 
for  whom  everything  the  poor  people 
could  do  has  been  done,  to  the  con- 
stant neglect  and  obliteration  of 
the  younger  brother.  At  the  time 
the  story  opens,  "  1'aine,"  a  wretch- 
ed wreck,  diseased  and  imbecile, 
after  ruining  the  hopes  and  break- 


ing the  hearts  of  his  family,  is  un- 
der the  charge  of  the  poor  old  mother 
in  the  Chateau  de  Saint-Romans, 
in  which  Bernard  has  installed  her 
as  housekeeper,  and  his  dismal  past 
remains  an  inheritance  of  evil  to 
his  brother,  upon  whom  all  his  sins 
are  thrown,  nobody  remembering,  or 
caring  to  remember,  that  there  have 
been  two  Jansoulets — one  of  them 
as  honest  and  honourable  as  the 
other  is  disgraceful.  From  the 
time  when  the  Nabob  has  begun 
to  find  out  the  falseness  of  the 
sycophants  surrounding  him,  and 
to  tell  them  so  with  characteristic 
frankness,  a  general  hue  and  cry 
has  been  raised  against  him.  The 
Messagcr,  which  once  had  held  him 
up  as  the  benefactor  of  the  human 
race,  now  proclaims  him — through 
the  pen  of  the  writer  to  whom  his 
purse  has  ceased  to  be  open — its 
shame  and  offence,  heaping  up 
upon  his  unfortunate  head  the 
scandal  of  his  brother's  misde- 
meanours. The  Nabob  all  but 
kills  the  contemptible  journalist, 
but  makes  no  other  reply.  When, 
however,  he  is  elected  deputy  for 
Corsica,  and  the  whole  question  of 
his  continuance  or  downfall  rests 
upon  the  validation  or  invalidation 
of  his  election,  and  the  answer  he 
can  make  to  these  accusations,  Jan- 
soulet is  on  the  eve  of  declaring 
the  truth.  He  is  on  his  trial  be- 
fore the  Assembly — a  crowd  of  bit- 
ter enemies  against  him,  Mora  dead 
who  was  his  friend,  and  every  in- 
fluence which  the  Hemerlingues  can 
buy,  in  active  operation  to  defeat 
him.  This,  however,  is  the  day  on 
which  his  old  mother,  weary  of 
waiting  for  him  in  the  country,  has 
come  at  last  to  Paris  to  see  her  son, 
to  make  acquaintance  with  her 
grandchildren.  Not  finding  him 
in  his  house,  she  has  followed  to 
the  Chamber,  and  with  difficulty 
has  made  her  way  inside,  and  found 
a  place  whence  she  can  see  every- 


1879.] 


The  Novels  of  Alphonse  Daudet. 


103 


thing — the  pomp  of  the  Assembly, 
the  president  in  his  chair,  the  as- 
sailant reading  his  report,  and 
Bernard  Jansoulet  himself  making 
his  defence.  The  old  woman  lis- 
tens, her  head  swimming,  her  whole 
attention  concentrated  upon  the 
drama,  in  which  she  is  far  from 
foreseeing  the  effect  which  her  ap- 
pearance will  have.  The  Nabob 
has  resolved  at  last  to  give  the 
answer  which  will  exculpate  him- 
self completely.  His  speech,  elo- 
quent in  its  honest  simplicity,  has 
already  gained  the  ear  of  the  As- 
sembly. He  has  recounted  his 
struggles  of  early  life — his  success 
in  the  East,  not  due  to  any  rene- 
gade complaisance,  but  because  he 
had  "  carried  into  that  country  of 
indolence  the  activity  and  adroit- 
ness of  a  southern  Frenchman;" 
and  he  has  also  told  "  les  peines,  les 
angoisses,  les  insommies,  dont  la 
fortune  m'a  accable,"  with  all  the 
force  and  fervour  of  excited  feel- 


"  These  words  may  seem  cold  in  the 
form  of  a  narrative,  but  there  before 
the  Assembly  the  man's  defence  was 
imprinted  with  an  eloquent  and  gran- 
diose sincerity,  which  in  that  rustic, 
that  parvenu,  without  training,  with- 
out education,  with  his  voice  like 
a  Rhone  boatman,  and  his  manners 
like  those  of  a  porter,  first  astonished, 
then  touched  the  audience  by  its  very 
-strangeness  —  the  wild  and  unculti- 
vated vigour  so  far  from  anything  that 
was  parliamentary.  Already  signs  of 
applause  had  moved  the  benches  accus- 
tomed to  receive  the  grey  and  monot- 
onous downpour  of  ministerial  dis- 
course. But  at  this  cry  of  rage  and 
•despair  sent  forth  against  Wealth  it- 
self, by  the  unfortunate  whom  it  en- 
veloped, wrapped  up,  drowned  in 
floods  of  gold,  and  who  struggled 
against  its  power,  calling  for  help 
from  the  bottom  of  his  Pactolus,  the 
whole  Chamber  rose  with  warm  ap- 
plause, with  hands  held  out,  as  if  to 
give  the  unfortunate  Nabob  those  evi- 
dences of  esteem  for  which  he  showed 
liiinself  so  eager,  and  at  the  same  time 


to  save  him  from  shipwreck.  Jan- 
soulet felt  this,  and  warmed  by  the 
sympathy,  he  resumed  with  his  head 
high,  and  his  countenance  full  of  con- 
fidence— 

"'You  have  been  told,  gentlemen, 
that  I  was  not  worthy  of  a  seat  among 
you.  And  he  who  has  said  it,  was 
the  last  from  whom  I  should  have  ex- 
pected those  words,  for  he  alone  knows 
the  sorrowful  secret  of  my  life  ;  he 
alone  could  speak  for  me,  could  justify 
me  and  convince  you.  He  has  not 
done  so.  Eh  lien  !  I  must  do  it  my- 
self, however  much  it  may  cost  me. 
Outrageously  calumniated  'before  the 
entire  country,  I  owe  to  myself,  I  owe 
to  my  children,  this  public  justifica- 
tion of  my  name,  and  I  have  decided 
to  make  it ' 

"  By  a  sudden  movement  he  turned 
towards  the  gallery  from  which  his 
enemy  watched  him,  and  all  at  once 
stopped  short  full  of  consternation. 
There,  exactly  in  face  of  him,  behind 
the  little  head,  pale  and  full  of  hate,  of 
the  baroness, — his  mother — his  mother 
whom  he  believed  to  be  two  hundred 
leagues  distant  from  that  storm, — gazed 
at  him,  leaning  upon  the  wall,  turning 
towards  him  her  divine  countenance, 
all  wet  with  tears,  but  proud  and  beam- 
ing notwithstanding,  over  the  success 
of  her  Bernard.  For  it  was  the  true 
success  of  sincere  and  truly  human 
emotion  which  a  few  words  might 
turn  into  triumph.  *  Go  on  !  go  on  ! ' 
was  called  out  to  him  from  every  side 
of  the  Chamber  to  reassure  him — to 
encourage  him.  But  Jansoulet  said 
not  a  word.  He  had,  however,  very 
little  to  say  to  complete  his  defence. 
*  Slander  has  wilfully  confounded  two 
names ;  I  am  called  Bernard  Jansou- 
let, the  other  was  called  Louis.'  Not  a 
word  more.  But  it  was  too  much  in 
presence  of  the  mother,  who  up  to  this 
time  was  ignorant  of  the  dishonour  of 
her  eldest  son.  It  was  too  much  for 
family  respect  and  union.  He  seemed 
to  hear  the  voice  of  his  old  father,  '  I 
am  dying  of  shame,  my  child.'  Would 
not  she  too  die  of  shame  if  he  spoke  ? 
He  cast  a  sublime  glance  of  renuncia- 
tion towards  that  maternal  smile,  then 
with  a  dull  voice  and  gesture  of  dis 
couragement — 

"'Pardon  me,  gentlemen;  this  ex- 
planation is  beyond  my  strength. 
Command  an  inquest  into  my  life. 


104 


Tlie  Novels  of  Alphonse  Daudet. 


[J' 


which  is  open  to  all,  and  full  in  the 
light,  so  that  every  one  can  interpret 
all  its  acts.  I  swear  to  you  that  you 
will  find  nothing  there  to  prevent  me 
taking  my  place  among  the  representa- 
tives of  my  country.' 

"  The  astonishment,  the  disenchant- 
ment were  immense  before  that  defeat 
which  seemed  to  all  the  sudden  break- 
ing down  of  a  great  effrontery.  There 
was  a  moment  of  agitation  among  the 
benches,  then  the  tumult  of  the  vote, 
which  the  Nabob  watched  under  the 
doubtful  daylight  from  the  windows, 
as  the  condemned  contemplates  from 
the  scaffold  the  murmuring  crowd. 
Then  after  that  pause,  a  century  long, 
which  precedes  a  supreme  moment, 
the  president  pronounced  in  the  great 
silence,  with  the  utmost  simplicity — 

" '  The  election  of  M.  Bernard  *Jan- 
soulet  is  annulled.'  Never  was  a 
man's  life  cut  in  twain  with  less 
solemnity  or  trouble." 

This  is  the  climax  of  the  story. 
How  the  old  mother  divines  what  a 
sacrifice  lias  been  made  for  her,  and 
half  suffocated  with  tears  and 
trouble,  cries  aloud  to  his  enemies 
who  will  not  listen,  *c  J'avais  deux 
fils,Monsieur — deux  fils,  Monsieur;" 
and  how,  when  all  is  over,  the 
homely  hero  lays  his  great,  rough, 
middle-aged  head  upon  her  aged 
shoulder,  and  with  his  big  frame 
shaken  by  sobs,  calls  her  name  in 
the  voice  of  his  childhood,  the 
patois  so  long  forgotten, — it  is  need- 
less to  tell.  There  is  a  temporary 
rally,  when  Paul  de  Gery,  the  one 
devoted  friend  who  never  forsakes 
the  Nabob,  returns  from  Tunis  with 
a  remnant  of  his  fortune  saved  from 
the  machinations  which  have  de- 
stroyed him  ;  but  the  Nabob's  vain, 
tender,  kind,  and  honest  heart  is 
broken.  Never  was  there  a  hero 
less  refined,  less  ideal,  nor  one  who 
more  entirely  gets  hold  of  our  sym- 
pathies. Even  after  this  great  scene, 
his  old  faith  in  his  fellow-creatures, 
and  longing  for  the  applause  which 
had  been  so  riotous  at  first,  tempts 
him  out  again  into  the  world,  and 


to  the  final  blow  ;  but  Jansoulet  is- 
never  less  nor  more  than  himself, 
and  the  treacherous  public  keeps  to- 
its  cruel  verdict.  The  tragedy  is 
not  noble,  it  is  not  sublime  on  one- 
side  or  the  other,  but  yet  it  is  heart- 
rending in  its  pathos  and  force  of 
indignant  reality. 

We  are  sorry  not  to  be  able  to 
quote  the  story  of  the  Caisse  Terri- 
toriale,  which  events  of  the  pres- 
ent day  make  but  too  painfully 
suggestive.  That  utterly  bankrupt 
concern  is,  however,  in  its  complete 
dishonesty,  honester  than  some  of 
the  gigantic  swindles  nearer  homer 
which  did  not  betray  their  failuro- 
by  any  such  palpable  means.  The 
cashier,  who,  shut  up  in  his  office, 
employs  himself  in  making  shirt- 
fronts  and  collars  of  paper,  the  clerk 
who  makes  nets  for  the  shops,  and 
the  solemn  Swiss  Passajon  who 
cooks  his  onions  in  the  great  empty 
office — all  these  industries  are  cred- 
itable indeed,  in  comparison  with 
the  occupations  of  much  greater 
mercantile  authorities.  The  official 
above  named  who  tells  the  story  of 
the  great  swindle,  and  who,  after  it 
has  been  resuscitated  by  the  Nabob's- 
money,  extends  his  observations- 
into  the  high  life  below  stairs — or 
rather  very  much  above  stairs — of 
Parisian  servants'  parties,  is  one  of 
M.  Daudet's  most  palpable  copies 
from  Dickens.  We  cannot  con- 
gratulate him  upon  the  success  of 
his  borrowing.  Passajon  is  some- 
thing of  a  bore,  with  none  of  the 
wit  of  Sam  Weller;  and  though 
his  great  entertainment  does  more 
to  help  on  the  story,  yet  it  is  notr 
in  itself,  at  all  equal  to  the  famous 
supper  with  the  leg  of  mutton  and' 
trimmings  which  has  furnished  the 
model.  Very  Dickensish,  too,  is 
the  picture,  pretty  enough  in  itselfr 
of  the  Joyeuse  family, — gushing 
and  fond  and  mutually  devoted ;. 
but  a  very  strange  importation  into- 
Paris,  notwithstanding  the  local 


1879.] 


The  Novels  of  Alplwnse  Daudet. 


10& 


colour.  This  too  evident  Anglican- 
ism is  a  real/emfe,  like  one  of  gram- 
mar or  spelling;  but  is  evidently 
held  by  the  author,  with  innocent 
vainglory,  to  be  one  of  the  best 
things  in  the  book,  so  tenderly 
does  he  linger  upon  it,  and  the  two 
virtuous  and  tranquil  love-stories, 
coming  to  the  most  approved  and 
happy  end,  which  modify  the  tra- 
gedy. There  are  many  other  ad- 
mirable sketches  which  our  space 
forbids  us  to  dwell  on.  That  of 
the  Due  de  Moray  is  not,  as  we 
have  already  said,  calculated  to 
blacken  the  reputation  of  that 
strange  charlatan  statesman.  It  is 
no  posthumous  stab,  but  a  lively 
and  interesting  picture,  presenting 
to  us  the  "  Richelieu-Brummel "  un- 
der an  aspect  more  favourable  than 
any  other  contemporary  portrait. 
He  is  like  nothing  so  much  (and 
probably  he  himself  would  not 
have  disliked  the  comparison)  as 
the  Buckingham  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  mixing  chiffons  and  diplo- 
macy with  impartial  zeal,  yet  re- 
taining a  faint  glow  of  the  chiv- 
alrous and  romantic  through  all. 
This  same  lost  light  of  something 
heroic,  even  though  it  is  a  heroism 
not  without  reminiscences  of  the 
theatre — throws  a  gleam  of  interest 
essentially  French  upon  the  old 
beau  Monpavon,  which  surprises 
us  in  the  midst  of  his  artificial 
being.  Even  his  pagan  sacrifice  to 
the  manes  of  his  old  comrade  and 
leader  is  artificial  —  yet  amid  the 
mock-heroic  there  is  still  a  glimmer 
of  the  true. 

We  are  by  no  means  sure  that 
we  have  not  mistaken  the  suc- 
cession of  M.  Daudet's  novels  by 
placing  the  'NabaV  before  'Jack;' 
but  if  so,  the  mistake  is  unimport- 
ant. '  Jack '  is  by  much  the  long- 
est, and  it  is  also  the  saddest  of  the 
three.  A  character  more  touching, 
a  story  more  melancholy,  is  sel- 
dom placed  before  the  sympathetic 


reader ;  and  to  the  numerous  class 
which  dislikes  in  fiction  the  inva- 
sions of  that  distress  which  we 
are  too  well  acquainted  with  in- 
real  life,  it  will  always  be  a  book 
too  sad  to  be  agreeable.  But  the- 
sadness  of  such  a  story  is  inevita- 
ble, and  fiction  will  have  lost  its- 
highest  development  when  it  is 
prevented  from  treading  this  path 
of  suffering,  and  following,  like  tra- 
gedy, the  fated  steps  of  the  child 
of  sorrow  to  the  only  end  which  is- 
possible.  The  story  of  '  Jack,'  how- 
ever, is  not  an  unmitigated  record 
of  woe.  Like  the  '  Nabab,'  though 
in  a  very  different  way,  the  hands 
of  the  poor  young  hero  are  clean, 
and  his  heart  pure;  but  the  shadow 
of  sin  and  shame  is  upon  him,  and 
all  his  own  exertions  are  insufficient 
to  free  him  from  its  burden  and 
punishment. 

Jack  is  introduced  to  the  reader 
in  a  scene  which  gives  in  brief  the- 
whole  plan  of  his  story.  "  Par  un 
7c,  monsieur  le  superieur,  par  un 
It.  Le  nom  se  ecrit  et  se  prononce 
a  1'Anglaise — comme  ceci,  Djack. 
Le  parrain  de  Tenfant  etait  Anglais, 
major-general  dans  1'armce  des  Indes- 
— Lord  Peambock — vous  connaissez 
peut-etre."  It  is  a  lady,  a  young 
mother,  "  une  elegante *  personne 
d'une  mise  irreprochable,  bien  am 
gout  du  jour  et  de  la  saison,"  who- 
has  come  to  enter  the  child  as  a 
pupil,  "  chez  les  peres,"  in  the 
most  fashionable  educational  insti- 
tution in  Paris,  and  who  thus  ex- 
plains the  name  of  the  little  boy  of 
eight,  in  a  Highland  costume,  whe- 
elings to  her  in  terror  of  being  left 
behind.  Her  exuberance  of  words, 
which  hides  a  certain  embarrass- 
ment, her  hesitation  about  his  sur- 
name, and  production  of  a  card 
inscribed  "Ida  de  Barancy,"  alarms 
the  head  of  the  establishment, 
who  elicits  at  length  a  confession 
that  the  child  has  neither  name  nor 
father;  and  that  "Madame  la  Com- 


106 


The  Novels  of  Alplwnse  Daudet. 


[Jan. 


tesse  Ida  cle  Barancy  etait  une 
comtesse  pour  rire."  The  priest 
refuses  the  poor  little  pupil,  in 
whose  absence  this  disclosure  has 
taken  place;  and  when  Jack  is 
brought  back,  he  is,  contrary  to  all 
his  fears,  carried  off  again  by  his 
mother,  trembling  and  happy  at  the 
escape  he  has  made,  but  hearing 
with  childish  wonder  the  "  Pauvre 
enfant,  pauvre  enfant ! "  of  the 
firm  but  pitying  Jesuit.  Thus 
his  rejection  by  the  respectable 
and  blameless,  his  condition  of 
pariah  outside  of  all  laws  and 
sympathies,  are  at  once  indicated. 
It  is  the  key-note  boldly  struck  of 
all  that  follows.  Poor  little  Jack, 
outgrowing  his  kilt,  growing  long 
and  too  intelligent,  but  always  ten- 
der and  docile,  goes  back  to  the 
luxurious,  extravagant  little  house 
in  which  his  mother  is  establish- 
ed. The  child  knows  and  suspects 
no  harm  —  too  young  to  do  any- 
thing but  admire  and  worship  the 
beautiful  mother  who  always  loves 
and  pets  him,  whatever  her  other 
habits  may  be — and  her  sobs  and 
tears  as  they  return  in  their  luxu- 
rious carriage  fill  him  with  dismay. 
"  II  se  sentait  vaguement  coupable, 
ce  cher  petit;  mais  au  fond  de 
cette  tristesse  il  y  avait  aussi  la 
grande  joie  de  n'etre  pas  entre  a  la 
pension."  But  soon  the  tears  and 
sobs  come  to  an  end,  the  reign  of 
folly  recommences,  and  Ida  de  Bar- 
ancy goes  off  to  a  masked  ball,  leav- 
ing her  child  pondering  the  incom- 
prehensible words  "  pauvre  enfant," 
and  hearing  a  discussion,  which  he 
cannot  understand,  yet  which  alarms 
him  vaguely,  going  on  among  the 
servants  about  himself  and  his  fu- 
ture career. 

Poor  little  Jack !  the  lonely  child, 
innocent  in  an  atmosphere  of  shame, 
adoring  the  foolish,  childish,  yet 
soft-hearted  and  tender  mother,  who, 
amid  shame  and  sin,  is  still  his 
mother,  and  adores  him  as  much  as 


her  superficial  nature  can,  makes 
the  most  pitiful  picture.  There  is 
no  place  in  the  world  for  this  in- 
nocence which  is  the  offspring  of 
corruption.  We  cannot  for  a  mo- 
ment imagine  that  such  a  subject 
would  have  been  chosen  by  an 
English  writer.  A  combination  of 
circumstances  so  hopeless  demands 
courage  greater  than  belongs  to 
insular  fiction;  and  our  respect  for 
our  audience  makes  it  a  kind  of 
crime  to  throw  light  upon  the  se- 
crets of  a  life  lived  in  defiance  of  all 
laws,  and  under  the  universal  ban. 
But  Trench  art  is  impartial,  and 
considers  the  dramatic  capabilities 
of  a  subject  before  everything.  No 
reader,  however,  need  fear  a  sublime 
Traviata,  an  interesting  Dame  aux 
Camelias  from  the  hands  of  M. 
Daudet.  The  partial  innocence  of 
extreme  folly  —  of  which  we  may 
suppose  that  it  is  scarcely  capable 
of  understanding  its  own  criminality 
— is  the  prominent  quality  in  Jack's 
mother.  The  poor  little  fool  and 
parvenue  is  as  frivolous  as  a  butter- 
fly, and  has  no  capability  of  pas- 
sion in  her.  The  Gymnase  Mor- 
onval,  to  which  humble  establish- 
ment the  poor  little  hero  is  finally 
consigned,  brings  the  little  sham 
comtesse  with  all  her  luxuries  into 
contact  with  a  shabby  and  hungry 
community  of  would-be  artists 
and  intellectualists,  Rates,  who  are 
described  at  some  length,  and  whose 
threadbare  society  again  reminds  us 
strongly  of  Dickens.  "  Moronval 
appela  autour  de  lui  ses  anciennes 
connaissances  de  cafe,  un  medecin 
sans  diplome,  un  poete  sans  editeur, 
un  chanteur  sans  engagement,  des 
declasses,  des  fruits  sec,  des  rates, 
tous  enrages  comme  lui  contre  la  so- 
ciete  que  ne  voulait  pas  de  leur  tal- 
ents." These  teachers  out  at  elbows 
form  the  staff  of  a  Dotheboys  Hall 
much  less  humble  than  the  original, 
and  chiefly  consisting  of  poor  little 
pupils  from  the  tropics,  petit  pays 


1879.] 


The  Novels  of  Alplwnse  Daudet. 


107 


chaud, — Moron val  himself  being  a 
colonial  mulatto  from  Guadaloupe. 
The  poete  sans  editeur — a  heartless 
pedant,  with  a  Vicomte's  title  and 
a  Byronic  exterior — becomes  the 
god  of  Jack's  mother  and  his  own 
evil  fate.  M.  Daudet  has  taken 
great  pains  in  the  portraiture  of 
this  would-be  splendid  and  intoler- 
able personage,  who,  having  fallen 
heir  at  length  to  a  little  money, 
retires  with  the  companion  he  has 
chosen  to  a  cottage  in  the  country, 
which  he  has  elaborately  prepared 
as  the  type  of  poetical  retirement 
and  seclusion,  inscribing  pompously 
over  its  doorway,  Parva  domus, 
magna  quies.  It  is  needless  to  say 
that  the  quiet  soon  becomes  intoler- 
able to  this  strange  pair,  who  bore 
each  other  to  distraction ;  though 
the  poor  little  woman — who  has 
all  the  care  of  a  legitimate  wife, 
without  any  credit  or  consolation, 
and  whose  silly  kindness  is  always 
amiable,  like  a  Ruth  Pinch  in  equiv- 
ocal circumstances — makes  a  heroic 
effort  to  cheer  her  lord  and  master  by 
calling  the  old  coterie  round  them; 
when,  by  dint  of  perpetual  visitors 
from  Paris,  all  ready  to  admire  and 
applaud  the  poetical  host,  whose 
bust  and  portraits  adorn  every  room, 
the  magna  quies  becomes  tolerable. 
Jack  runs  away  from  his  school, 
and  seeks  his  mother  in  this  poetical 
retreat,  walking  from  Paris  through 
the  darkness  of  a  long  distracting 
night,  which  would  have  been  a 
very  touching  incident  if  David 
Copperfield  had  not  made  a  similar 
journey  before  him.  But  Copper- 
field  was  not  in  himself  so  interest- 
ing or  pathetic  a  figure  as  Jack,  the 
poor  little  outcast,  without  a  friend 
in  the  world  except  the  equally 
trembling  and  helpless  woman, 
whose  very  love  never  brings  him 
anything  but  evil;  and  his  utter 
devotion  to  his  mother,  and  the 
tender  docility  with  which  he  obeys 
her  weeping  recommendations,  sub- 


duing all  rebellion  the  moment  she 
appeals  to  him,  is  very  tenderly  and 
beautifully  touched  with  a  pathos 
which  is  peculiarly  French.  The 
scene  in  which  D'Argenton  and  his 
strolling  coterie  settle  the  question 
of  Jack's  future  life,  and  the  child's 
trembling  spectatorship  and  silent 
despair  while  his  destiny  is  thus 
being  decided,  are  very  effective  and 
powerful.  Labassindre,  the  basso, 
who  is  always  trying  his  voice, — 
"  pour  constater  tout  au  fond  de  son 
clavier  souterrain  la  presence  d'uii 
certain  ut  d'en  bas,  dont  il  etait 
tres  fier  et  tou  jours  in  quiet," — has 
been  a  workman,  a  mecanicien  in 
some  great  iron-works  on  the  Loire, 
and  it  is  he  who  suggests  to  the 
would-be  poet,  the  harsh  stepfather, 
all  the  harsher  that  he  has  no  legal 
right  to  the  name,  a  way  of  getting 
rid  of  the  child  whom  he  hates  and 
is  jealous  of,  by  making  a  workman 
of  him  in  this  foundry,  under  the 
auspices  of  the  singer's  brother,  a 
foreman  there.  The  poor  little 
foolish  mother  weeps  and  protests, 
yet  is  half  persuaded  by  the  vapour- 
ing periods  of  the  singer,  who  de- 
clares the  ouvrier  to  be  now  the 
master  of  the  world.  When  Jack, 
vaguely  conscious  of  a  doom  to  be 
pronounced,  is  called  in  to  be  in- 
formed of  it,  the  shabby  company 
are  gathered  round  the  table,  while 
his  mother  stands  with  her  back,  to 
him  gazing  out  from  the  window, 
and  hiding  her  trouble  and  her 
tears. 

"  '  You  understand,  Jack,'  resumed 
D'Argenton,  his  eyes  shining,  his  arm 
stretched  out,  '  in  four  years  you  may 
be  a  good  workman. — that  is  to  say, 
the  best,  the  most  noble  thing  on  this 
enslaved  earth.  In.  four  years  you  will 
be  that  holy  thing,  a  good  workman.3 

"  He  had  indeed  heard  very  distinct- 
ly '  a  good  workman,'  only  he  did  not 
understand, — he  wondered.  At  Paris 
sometimes  the  child  had  seen  this  class 
of  men.  There  were  some  who  lived 
in  the  passage  des  Douze-Maisons,  and 


108 


The  Novels  of  Alplionse  Daudet. 


[Jan. 


near  the  pension  itself  was  a  manufac- 
tory of  lamps,  from  which  he  liked  to 
watch  the  people  streaming  out,  when 
they  left  off  work  about  six  o'clock,  a 
troop  of  men  in  blouses,  all  stained 
with  oil,  their  hands  rough,  black,  de- 
formed with  work.  The  idea  that  he 
must  wear  a  blouse  struck  him  in  the 
first  place.  He  recalled  the  tone  of 
disdain  with  which  his  mother  had  said, 
( They  are  work-people,  men  in  blouses/ 
— the  care  with  which  she  avoided  in 
the  street  all  contact  with  their  soiled 
clothes.  All  the  fine  speeches  of  Lab- 
assindre  upon  work,  and  the  influence 
of  the  workman  on  the  nineteenth 
century,  were  also  in  his  recollection, 
it  is  true.  But  what  moved  him  most 
was  the  thought  that  he  must  go  away  ; 
— leave  the  woods,  of  which,  where  he 
stood,  he  could  see  the  green,  tree-tops — 
the  house  of  Rivals,  and  his  mother, — 
his  mother  whom  he  had  regained  with 
such  difficulty,  and  whom  he  loved  so 
much. 

"  What  was  the  matter  with  her, 
that  she  should  stand  always  at  that 
window  detached  from  everything  that 
was  going  on  around  ?  However,  for 
the  moment  she  had  lost  her  look  of  still 
indifference.  Was  it  something  sad 
that  she  saw  outside,  in  the  country, 
on  the  horizon  where  the  daylight 
always  died  away,  and  where  so  many 
dreams,  illusions,  tendernesses,  ardours 
disappeared  also  ? 

"  '  Must  I  go  away,  then  ? '  asked 
the  child  in  a  suffocated  voice,  almost 
mechanically,  as  if  he  allowed  his 
thought  to  speak,  the  sole  thought  that 
was  in  him.  At  this  simple  question 
the  members  of  the  tribunal  looked 
at  each  other,  with  a  smile  of  pity ; 
but  from  the  window  there  came  a 
great  sob." 

There  is,  however,  no  appeal 
from  this  terrible  decision — the  in- 
dignant remonstrance  attempted  by 
Jack's  sole  friend,  the  old  country 
doctor,  Rivals,  a  choleric  but  warm- 
hearted old  man,  ending  only  in  a 
desperate  quarrel.  Jack's  own  im- 
pulse of  childish  desperation  is  sub- 
dued by  his  mother,  who,  after  try- 
ing to  console  him  with  vague 
parrot  repetitions  of  the  arguments 
with  which  her  feeble  intelligence 


has  been  silenced, — "Vous  savez 
bien  que  le  tour  de  1'ouvrier  est 
venu  maintenant ;  la  bourgeoisie  a 
fait  son  temps,  la  noblesse  aussi," 
— at  last  touches  the  true  note  : 

" '  We  have  nothing  of  our  own,  my 
poor  child ;  we  depend  absolutely  on 
— on  him.  .  .  .  Ah,  if  I  could  go  in 
your  place  to  Indret  !  Think  that 
it  is  a  trade  you  will  have  in  your 
hands.  Will  you  not  be  proud  to  have 
no  more  need  of  any  one,  to  gain  your 
own  bread,  to  be  your  own  master  ? ' 

"  By  the  glance  that  came  into  the 
child's  eyes  she  saw  that  she  had  found 
the  right  means  to  move  him  ;  and  in 
a  low  tone,  in  the  caressing  and  woo- 
ing voice  which  is  proper  to  mothers, 
she  murmured,  '  Do  it  for  me,  Jack, 
will  you?  Make  yourself  able  to 
gain  your  own  living  quickly.  Who 
knows  but  that  I,  gome  day,  may  be 
obliged  to  have  recourse  to  thee  as  to 
my  sole  support,  my  only  friend  1 ' " 

The  great  foundry  on  the  Loire, 
into  which  the  poor  little  delicate 
child,  with  all  his  refined  instincts 
and  prejudices,  is  now  swept,  fur- 
nishes us  with  a  companion  picture, 
on  a  larger  scale,  to  the  usine  of 
Fromont.  The  lurid  glare  of  the 
furnaces  —  the  pale  gleam  of  the 
river,  covered  with  boats,  lined 
with  its  files  of  great  poplars — the 
noise,  the  tumult,  the  life  of  mere 
labour,  without  care  or  beauty — the 
evening  gossip  of  the  rough-voiced 
men,  the  scarcely  less  loud  women, 
eating  their  bare  unattractive  meals 
in  the  scorched  bits  of  garden  at- 
tached to  their  monotonous  little 
houses, — all  this  is  set  before  us 
with  graphic  power;  and  a  little 
group  of  work-people  grow  out  of 
the  haze,  which,  from  the  eyes  of 
poor  little  Jack,  so  out  of  place, 
so  silent  and  pathetic,  amid  these 
strange  surroundings,  communi- 
cates itself  to  the  reader.  The 
family  of  Roudic,  however,  is  quite 
episodical,  and  may  be  passed  over 
without  further  note,  though  it  in- 
volves a  very  tragic  passage  in  the 


1879.] 


The  Novels  of  Alphonse  Daudet. 


109 


life  of  poor  Jack,  who  is  accused  of 
stealing  a  sum  of  money  of  which  he 
knows  nothing,  in  consequence  of 
his  first  debauch — a  day  and  night 
of  terrihle  excitement  and  misery, 
in  which  the  author  spares  his  poor 
young  hero  none  of  the  miserable 
details  of  a  wild  drinking  -  bout 
under  the  lowest  conditions.  Jack, 
however,  is  at  last  cleared  triumph- 
antly of  this  short  imputation  on 
his  honour,  and  progresses  into  as 
good  a  workman  as  his  delicate 
constitution  permits.  Then  comes 
a  still  more  terrible  episode.  The 
poor  Roudic,  his  host  and  patron 
at  the  foundry,  advises  him  to  be- 
come a  stoker,  as  a  means  of  mak- 
ing a  little  money.  "  Si  la  cham- 
bre  de  chauffe  ne  te  fait  pas  peur 
tu  pourrais  tenter  le  coup,"  says 
this  rough  friend.  "  Tu  gagnerais 
tes  six  francs  par  jour  en  faisant 
le  tour  du  monde,  logc,  nourri, 
chauffe  —  Ah,  dam  !  oui,  dam  ! 
chauffe.  Le  metier  est  rude,  mais 
ou  en  revient,  puisque  je  1'ai  fait 
deux  ans,  et  que  me  voila." 

Poor  Jack  succumbs  to  the  temp- 
tations of  this  calling,  and  falls  into 
the  lowest  depths.  Too  young, 
too  badly  trained  to  be  able  to 
resist  the  influences  round  him,  he 
loses  the  last  ghost  of  the  early  re- 
finement which  had  been  natural 
to  him,  and  adapts  himself  to  his 
terrible  work.  The  moral  of  this 
downfall  is  both  painful  and  path- 
etic :  "  II  commencait  un  reve  fou 
d'ivresse  et  de  torture  qui  devait 
durer  trois  ans."  He  went  round  the 
world,  by  lovely  coasts,  into  beau- 
tiful places ;  but,  always  under  the 
fatal  dog-star  of  that  blazing  hole, 
no  skies  were  blue,  no  climate  sweet 
for  Jack.  The  more  delightful  the 
climate,  the  more  terrible  was  the 
stoking-room. 

At  last  he  is  delivered  from  this 
terrible  existence  by  an  accident, 
by  the  loss  of  the  ship,  from  which 
he  escapes  lame  and  suffering.  His 


mother  has  heard  some  vague  news 
of  the  loss  of  the  Cydnus,  when 
Jack  appears,  no  longer  the  gentle 
boy,  but  a  worn  and  gaunt  working 
man,  with  hoarse  voice  and  rude 
manners,  with  habitudes  de  caba- 
ret, which,  after  her  first  joy  in 
regaining  him,  make  her  blush, — his 
appearance  and  bearing  altogether 
being  now  those  of  a  lower  class  than 
any  which,  even  in  her  degradation, 
she  has  ever  known.  At  last  she 
is  permitted  by  D'Argenton,  now 
established  in  Paris  as  manager  of 
an  unsuccessful  paper,  chiefly  in- 
stituted by  money  which  has  been 
left  to  poor  Jack,  but  which  he 
knows  nothing  of,  to'send  him  to 
Les  Aulnettes,  the  parva  domus 
from  which  they  were  both  so  glad 
to  flee.  Les  Aulnettes  means  peace 
and  happiness  to  the  broken  youth, 
who  encounters  the  good  old  doctor, 
his  only  friend,  and  the  little  Cecile, 
his  infant  companion,  now  a  beauti- 
ful girl  who  has  never  forgotten 
him.  The  idyl  is  pure  and  beauti- 
ful, but  brief.  The  magna  quies 
which  had  not  existed  for  D'Argen- 
ton descends  with  the  sweetness  of 
heaven  upon  the  child  of  shame, 
the  poor  young  soul  repentant  of 
all  his  misfortunes,  from  whom  the 
soil  of  evil  days  drops  away  in  the 
tender  tranquillity.  And  all  is  going 
to  be  well  with  Jack.  Dr  Rivals 
sets  him  to  work  to  enable  him  to 
pass  the  examinations  in  medicine, 
which  will  fit  Jack  to  be  his  own 
successor — work  which  can  be  car- 
ried on  along  with  his  own  work  of 
engineering  when  he  resumes  that ; 
and  telling  him  the  story  of  Cecile, 
which  is  almost  as  painful  as  his 
own,  allows  the  two  to  be  betrothed. 
But  Jack  is  not  born  to  end  hap- 
pily. The  tragedy  of  expiation  must 
be  carried  out  to  its  end.  When 
all  is  going  well  with  him — his  days 
employed  in  his  trade,  his  nights 
in  study,  his  Sundays  in  happiness 
at  Etiolles  with  Cecile  —  sud- 


110 


The,  Novels  of  Alplionse  Daudet. 


[Jan. 


denly  his  mother  fulfils  her  own 
prevision,  and,  after  a  quarrel  with 
D'Argenton,  throws  herself  upon  his 
care.  Jack  responds  with  joy  to 
the  appeal ;  but  alas  !  his  mother, 
whom  he  adores,  is  no  bird  to  sing 
in  a  garret,  and  has  never  been 
used  to  the  privations,  the  self- 
denial,  the  gravity  of  that  life  in 
which  her  son  finds  health  and 
power.  When  the  first  moment  of 
satisfaction  is  over,  he  has  a  hard 
task  to  keep  her  amused — to  keep 
her  contented.  She  is  as  foolish 
and  frivolous  in  advanced  life  as  in 
her  youth ;  and  at  last,  after  strain- 
ing Jack's  patience  to  the  utmost, 
and  swearing  to  remain  with  him 
for  ever,  she  leaves  him  without 
warning  to  return  to  her  tyrant,  and 
all  the  shames  of  the  past.  There 
•  now  remains  only  Cecile ;  and  she, 
by  a  caprice — by  a  mistaken  scruple, 
which  the  reader  resents  almost 
with  bitterness  —  turns  from  him 
also  ;  and  the  poor  fellow,  worn  out 
by  work, weakness,  and  distress,with 
the  seeds  of  disease  sown  in  him 
during  his  terrible  probation,  sinks 
under  all  these  blows  at  last. 

The  denouement  is  wrought  out 
with  much  pathos  and  force,  but, 
as  we  have  said,  the  reader  resents 
the  expedient  by  which  poor  Jack's 
heart  and  strength  are  finally  broken. 
It  is  beyond  the  range  of  legitimate 
art,  which  cannot  be  allowed  to  re- 
sort to  extravagant  means  in  order 
to  bring  about  a  heartrending  con- 
clusion, however  necessary  it  may 
be  to  the  tragical  intention  of  the 
drama.  Cecile,  the  sweet  and  peace- 
ful and  sensible  French  girl  of  the 
earlier  chapters,  could  never  have 
committed  so  cruel  and  so  obstinate 
a  folly ;  and  even  poor  Jack  might 
have  been  delivered,  we  feel,  other- 
wise than  by  the  hand  of  death. 
When  we  say  this,  not  without  a 
lingering  anger,  we  give  the  highest 
testimonial  that  an  author  can  wish 
— for  his  hero  is  not  one  whose  fate 


we  can  follow  with  indifference,  or 
from  whose  end  we  can  turn  with- 
out that  choking  sensation  of  tears 
suppressed  which  only  genuine  emo- 
tion can  produce.  He  grows  upon  us 
through  the  two  volumes — so  much 
more  space  than  a  French  novelist 
generally  gives  himself — with  an  in- 
creasing attraction ;  grows  up — and 
this  of  itself  is  a  fine  effort  of  art 
— naturally,  from  his  very  infancy, 
before  our  eyes.  We  see  the  glim- 
mering of  a  noble  nature  in  him 
through  all  the  evils  which  are  not 
of  his  doing.  We  watch  the  fatal 
power  which  overshadows  him,  the 
curse  of  shame  and  sin  from  which 
even  his  innocence  cannot  get  him 
freed,  and  accompany  the  struggle 
with  interest  in  which  a  pang  of 
sympathy  is  involved.  He,  poor 
young  fellow,  with  scarcely  a  friend, 
is  aux  prises  with  all  the  powers 
of  evil — with  cruelty,  folly,  error, 
a  broken  heart.  Perhaps  it  could 
not  be  possible  that  he  should 
escape  and  be  happy  like  the  or- 
dinary subject  of  romance;  but, 
with  the  sob  in  our  throat,  we  are 
angry,  and  resent  the  last  blow. 
M.  Daudet  could  not  ask  for  higher 
applause. 

The  chief  figures  that  surround 
this  pathetic  image  of  injured  youth 
and  goodness  are  equally  true  and 
powerful.  The  character  of  the 
mother  Ida,  or  Charlotte,  as  she  is 
called  by  D'Argenton,  is  sustained 
with  wonderful  force.  Always  friv- 
olous, facile,  good  -  hearted  —  full 
of  love  in  her  way,  yet  uncon- 
sciously cruel — terrible  in  the  in- 
consequent prattlings  by  which, 
while  trying  to  delude  even  her  son 
as  to  her  past,  she  betrays  herself — 
she  goes  on  from  youth  to  age,  un- 
improving,  unimprovable,  the  same 
creature;  faithful,  affectionate,  and 
patient,  yet  loveless,  heartless,  and 
unfeeling  —  all  in  a  breath.  The 
words  are  too  harsh  for  such  a  light 
and  soulless  being.  She  is  her 


1879.] 


The  Novels  of  Alpltonse  Daudet. 


Ill 


child's    curse    and    his    ruin,    yet 

this  inspiration,  his  first  and  last 
thought.  The  conjunction  is  ter- 
rible, and  if  the  appalling  lesson 
which  is  taught  could  reach  those 
who  might  profit  hy  it,  there  would 
be  an  excellent  reason  for  thus 
using  the  tragic  gift  of  a  prophet. 
But  to  the  regions  in  which  dwell 
the  Ida  de  Barancys  of  life,  what 
moralist  is  likely  to  reach?  And 
we  might  ask,  why  should  our  souls 
be  harrowed  by  such  a  combina- 
tion? Perhaps,  however,  there 
never  has  existed  on  earth  a  state 
of  morals  in  which  this  combina- 
tion might  not  occur,  and  therefore 
it  cannot  be  called  unjustifiable 
in  art. 

We  have  altogether  omitted, 
carried  away  by  the  grave  strain 
of  the  tale,  to  notice  another  figure, 
which  is  entirely  Dickensish.  The 
wandering  pedlar  Belisaire,  with 
his  good  heart  and  his  bad  feet, — 
his  perpetual  longing  for  a  pair  of 
shoes,  sur  mesure,  and  his  excel- 
lent wife  and  happy  wedding  and 
bliss  in  his  garret,  and  le  cama- 
rade  whom  to  find  is  the  necessary 
condition  of  his  marriage,  are  all 


Dickens  done  into  French,  and 
therefore,  with  a  touch  of  piquancy 
in  the  differences  of  intonation.  The 
picture  is  pretty  enough;  but  all 
M.  Daudet's  finer  effects  are  from 
the  style  which  is  his  own,  which 
is  borrowed  from  nobody. 

Here,  then,  are  three  French 
novels  which  eschew  no  questions 
of  bitter  and  painful  life,  which 
recognise  the  misery  of  the  mceurs 
contemporaines  they  illustrate,  and 
their  dark  abysses  of  evil  —  the 
wind  which  they  sow,  and  the 
whirlwind  which  they  reap — yet 
which  are  neither  foul  nor  senti- 
mental, but  manly  and  true.  The 
breadth  and  honesty  and  sound  na- 
ture in  them  may  lack  the  so-called 
refinements  of  analysis  which  some 
other  noted  writers  have  turned  to 
such  evil  purpose.  But  we  know 
no  French  novelist  in  whom  the 
English  reader  will  find  so  little 
to  object  to,  or  whose  pictures  of 
his  native  country  will  yield  a 
better  and  higher  interest,  a  more 
broad  understanding  of  the  life  of 
France  as  it  is — so  like,  yet  so  un- 
like, all  that  we  experience  and 
know. 


112 


The  Affghan  War  and  its  Authors. 


[Jan. 


THE  AFFGHAN  WAR  AND   ITS   AUTHORS. 


THOSE  who  wish  to  get  at  the 
bottom  of  the  Anglian  difficulty, 
and  to  judge  for  themselves  who  is 
really  responsible  for  the  war,  will 
do  well  to  begin  their  study  of  the 
Blue-books  at  page  102  of  the 
"  Correspondence  respecting  the 
Relations  between  the  British  Gov- 
ernment and  that  of  Afghanistan 
since  the  accession  of  Ameer  Shere 
Ali  Khan."  They  will  there  find 
the  following  telegram,  which  speaks 
for  itself,  without  any  need  for 
comment  of  ours  to  explain  its 
meaning : — 

TELEGRAM  No.  1,  414  P,  DATED 

27TH  JUNE  1873. 

"  From  [NorthbrooJc]  Viceroy,  Simla, 
to  [Argyll]  Secretary  of  State, 
London. 

"  Despatch  goes  by  next  mail,  sum- 
ming up  Central  Asian  correspondence 
with  Russia  in  conciliatory  spirit,  in 
accord  with  Gladstone's  speech  on 
East  wick's  motion." 

Our  readers  may  be  pardoned  for 
thinking  that  we  are  trying  to  palm 
•off  a  canard  upon  them  ;  but  if  they 
turn  to  the  Blue-book  at  the  page 
we  have  indicated,  they  may  read 
the  despatch  for  themselves.  And 
we  do  not  hesitate  to  say  that  there 
is  no  document  in  the  Blue-book 
•which  throws  more  light  upon  Lord 
JSTorthbrook's  Affghan  policy,  or 
which  better  explains  the  position 
that  he  took  up  upon  the  Central 
Asian  question,  than  this  frank 
and  confidential  communication. 
No  clearer  proof  could  be  adduced 
that  Lord  Northbrook,  during  his 
Ticeroyalty,  consulted  the  views 
of  the  Liberal  party,  rather  than 
the  critical  condition  into  which 
our  alliance  with  Cabul  was  then 
drifting.  The  despatch  shows,  too, 
that  as  early  as  1873  Mr  Glad- 


stone's Government  had  begun  to 
play  the  game  of  Russia ;  and  that 
Lord  Northbrook  was  shaping  his 
course  not  so  much  by  the  actual 
events  that  were  transpiring  around 
him,  as  to  support  the  views  put 
forward  by  his  chief  in  Parliament. 
Is  it  at  all  surprising,  then,  that  a 
policy  which  had  for  its  object  to 
keep  "in  accord  with  Gladstone's 
speeches "  should  result  in  trouble 
and  war?  Can  imagination  con- 
ceive what  would  have  been  the 
consequences  to  our  Eastern  em- 
pire had  its  foreign  policy  con- 
tinued to  be  "  in  accord  with  Glad- 
stone's speeches "  during  the  two 
years  that  succeeded  Lord  JSTorth- 
brook's  retirement  from  office  1  In 
this  respect,  at  least,  Lord  Lytton 
may  be  charged  with  having  initi- 
ated a  "  departure  "  from  his  prede- 
cessor's policy ;  and  we  question  if 
the  files  of  the  Calcutta  Secretariat, 
before  or  since  Lord  Northbrook's 
time,  can  show  another  instance  of 
subserviency  to  party  requirements 
worthy  of  being  put  parallel  to  the 
telegram  we  have  quoted  above.  It 
is  a  fitting  sequel  to  this  incident 
that  the  Liberal  Cabinet  appar- 
ently had  not  the  moral  courage  to 
communicate  the  despatch  "  sum- 
ming up  the  Central  Asian  cor- 
respondence with  Russia  in  con- 
ciliatory spirit,  in  accord  with 
Gladstone's  speech,"  to  the  St 
Petersburg  Government,  although 
the  Yiceroy,  in  Council,  had  strong- 
ly urged,  in  the  interests  of  peace, 
"  that  it  should  be  laid  before  the 
Czar's  ministers." 

The  flood  of  eloquence  which  the 
ex- Premier  has  poured  upon  the 
public  since  he  went  out  of  office, 
has  naturally  washed  away  all  re- 
collections of  his  speech  on  Mr 
East  wick's  motion;  and  to  show  the 


1879.] 


Tlie  Afghan  War  and  its  Authors. 


113 


full  significance  of  Lord  Xorth- 
brook's  telegram,  we  shall  recall 
the  gist  of  what  Mr  Gladstone  said 
on  that  occasion.  He  had  then, 
as  he  fancied,  reached  a  definite 
understanding  with  Russia  about 
Central  Asian  affairs.  Prince  Gort- 
schakoff  had  accepted  a  definite 
boundary  of  the  Ameer's  dominions, 
and  had  assured  us  that  Affghanistan 
lay  "  outside  Russia's  sphere  of 
action  ;  "  but  he  had  also  assumed 
an  obligation  on  the  part  of  Eng- 
land "  to  maintain  Shere  Ali's 
peaceful  attitude,  and  to  restrain 
him  from  all  measures  of  aggression 
or  further  conquest."  This  was 
no  slight  responsibility,  considering 
the  difficulties  that  lay  in  the  way 
of  our  accepting  it ;  and  Mr  Glad- 
stone took  the  opportunity  of  assur- 
ing the  country  that  "the  engage- 
ment referred  solely  to  the  moral 
influence  possessed  by  England  and 
Russia  in  the  East — Russia  engag- 
ing to  abstain  from  any  attempt 
to  exercise  it  in  Affghanistan,  and 
England  engaging  to  exercise  it  for 
a  pacific  purpose."  The  only  mean- 
ing that  could  be  extracted  from 
this  was,  that  we  meant  to  limit 
our  interest  in  the  Ameer  as  much 
as  possible  to  giving  him  good  ad- 
vice, but  that  if  he  got  into  diffi- 
culties he  would  have  to  bear  the 
burden  himself;  and  so  Mr  Glad- 
stone's speech  was  interpreted,  both 
in  India  and  in  Russia.  This  was 
the  speech  in  accord  with  which 
Lord  Northbrook  and  his  Council 
summed  up  the  Central  Asian  cor- 
respondence ;  and  we  are  justified 
in  saying  that  its  effects  were  speed- 
ily visible  in  the  unsettled  state  of 
Shere  Ali's  feelings,  and  in  his  de- 
sire for  some  more  definite  guaran- 
tee for  his  security  than  the  "  mor- 
al influence"  of  which  Mr  Gladstone 
had  made  so  much. 

It  is  round  Lord  Northbrook's  ad- 


ministration that  the  whole  interest 
of  the  Blue-books  centres;  and  as  his 
lordship  has  both  the  power  and  the 
disposition  to  put  his  own  version 
of  his  proceedings  before  the  public, 
we  need  have  no  hesitation  in  briefly 
recapitulating  them  as  they  are  pre- 
sented to  us  in  the  official  docu- 
ments. It  was  quite  natural  that 
the  late  Viceroy  should  feel  it  neces- 
sary to  wash  his  hands  in  innocency 
as  soon  as  the  official  accounts  of 
his  dealings  with  the  Ameer  were 
made  public  ;  but  we  see  no  reason 
that  he  had  to  fling  the  slops  into 
his  successor's  face.  No  one  knows 
so  well  as  Lord  IsTorthbrook  the 
difficulties  which  the  Government 
of  India  has  had  to  contend  with 
in  managing  its  refractory  ally ; 
and  yet  he  has  stood  forth  as  its 
severest  critic.  With  what  justice 
he  may  occupy  this  position  we 
trust  to  show  in  the  course  of  this 
article;  but  it  will  be  evident  to 
all  that  he  has  been  eminently  suc- 
cessful in  making  the  tone  of  his 
criticism  like  his  Central  Asian 
despatch,  in  accord  with  Mr  Glad- 
stone's speeches. 

The  Blue-books  probably  will 
not  add  much  to  the  information  of 
our  readers,  before  whom  we  had 
already  placed  'f  all  the  points  that 
bear  upon  the  recent  situation. 
They  supply. us,  however,  with  an 
authoritative  corroboration  of  seve- 
ral of  the  more  important  facts  con- 
nected with  present  Affghan  nego- 
tiations, to  which,  on  a  former  occa- 
sion, we  were  only  justified  in  mak- 
ing a  bare  allusion.  Keeping  in  view 
the  narrative  which  we  have  already 
given  of  the  relations  of  the  Gov- 
ernment of  India  with  the  Cabul 
Durbar,  we  shall  be  able,  on  the 
present  occasion,  to  confine  our 
attention  to  some  of  the  more  con- 
troverted points  of  our  Affghan 
negotiations,  especially  to  those 


*  See  article  "  India  and  Affghanistan,"  Blackwocd's  Magazine,  November  1878. 
VOL.  CXXV. — NO.  DCCLIX.  H 


114 


The  Afghan  War  and  its  Authors. 


[Jan. 


upon  which  it  has  been  sought  to 
found  a  charge  of  aggression  and 
hostility  against  her  Majesty's  pre- 
sent advisers. 

Lord  Northbrook's  dealings  with 
the  Ameer  have  been  very  tersely 
summed  up  in  a  single  paragraph 
(No.  9)  of  Lord  Cranbrook's  de- 
spatch of  18th  November  last ;  and 
as  that  paragraph  contains  the  chief 
issues  upon  which  discussion  of  the 
question  has  been  made  to  hinge, 
we  cannot  do  better  than  quote  it 
at  length : — 

"Finding  that  the  object  of  the  Ameer 
was  to  ascertain  definitely  how  far  he 
might  rely  on  the  help  of  the  British 
Government  if  his  territories  were 
threatened  by  Kussia,  Lord  North- 
brook's  Government  was  prepared  to 
assure  him  that,  under  certain  condi- 
tions, the  Government  of  India  would 
assist  him  to  repel  unprovoked  aggres- 
sion. But  her  Majesty's  Government 
at  home  did  not  share  his  Highness's 
apprehension,  and  the  Viceroy  ulti- 
mately informed  the  Ameer  that  the 
discussion  of  the  question  would  be 
postponed  to  a  more  convenient  sea- 
son. The  effect  of  this  announcement 
on  his  Highness,  although  conveyed 
in  conciliatory  language,  was  not  fa- 
vourable ;  the  policy  which  dictated  it 
was  unintelligible  to  his  mind,  and  he 
received  it  with  feelings  of  chagrin 
and  disappointment.  His  reply  to 
Lord  Northbrook's  communication 
was  couched  in  terms  of  ill-disguised 
sarcasm ;  he  took  no  notice  of  the  Vice- 
roy's proposal  to  depute  a  British 
officer  to  examine  the  northern  fron- 
tier of  Affghanistan  ;  he  subsequently 
refused  permission  to  Sir  Douglas  For- 
syth  to  return  from  Kashgar  to  India 
through  Cabul ;  he  left  untouched  a 
gift  of  money  lodged  to  his  credit  by 
the  Indian  Government,  and  generally 
assumed  towards  it  an  attitude  of 
sullen  reserve." 

That  this  paragraph  furnishes  a 
correct  account  of  the  issue  of  the 
negotiations  between  Lord  North- 
brook  and  the  Ameer  we  shall 
readily  show  by  a  few  references  to 
the  Blue-books,  supported  by  the 


late  Viceroy's  own  explanations. 
"We  must  premise,  however,  that 
to  interpret  the  despatches  in  the 
Blue  -  book  aright,  we  must  care- 
fully take  into  account,  not  merely 
the  Russian  movements  in  High 
Asia,  but  the  development  of  the 
difficulty  in  Europe  between  the 
Czar  and  the  Porte,  as  well  as  the 
danger  which  for  some  time  exist- 
ed of  Great  Britain  being  dragged 
into  the  quarrel.  Any  criticism 
which  fails  to  include  these  points 
in  its  consideration  must  of  neces- 
sity be  one-sided  and  imperfect. 

When  Lord  Northbrook  entered 
office  in  India,  it  was  admitted 
that  our  relations  with  Shere  Ali 
and  his  country  were  in  a  fairly 
satisfactory  condition.  The  only 
difference  between  us  turned  on  the 
succession  to  the  Cabul  musmid  ; 
and  at  that  time  there  was  no 
necessity  for  pressing  that  to  a 
settlement.  Discomposed  by  the 
rapidity  of  the  Russian  advance, 
and  naturally  dreading  that  Aff- 
ghanistan would  share  the  fate  of 
the  Turkistan  Khanates,  the  Anieer 
began  to  nervously  seek  reassurances 
from  the  Indian  Government.  For 
this  he  certainly  was  not  to  blame. 
He  had  noted  how  fallacious  the 
pledges  which  Russia  had  given 
about  the  Khivan  expedition  had 
proved  to  be,  and  the  difficulties 
which  the  St  Petersburg  Govern- 
ment seemed  disposed  to  raise 
about  his  own  frontier  boundary 
were  to  him  a  justifiable  source 
of  anxiety.  At  the  same  time  we 
must  point  out  that  the  assurances 
which  Russia  was  offering,  however 
gratifying  to  the  Liberal  Govern- 
ment, were  not  such  as  could  have 
altogether  allayed  the  Ameer's 
anxiety.  Experience  had  taught 
Shere  Ali  that  all  Viceroys  were 
not  of  the  same  way  of  thinking  as 
the  friend  whom  he  had  just  lost ; 
and  he  had  good  reason  to  dread 
the  revival  of  the  "  Masterly  In- 


1879.] 


The  Affglian  War  and  its  Authors. 


115 


activity "  regime  under  the  new 
Indian  ruler.  It  was  at  this  time 
that  Lord  Northbrook  summed  up 
the  Central  Asian  question  "  in  ac- 
cord with  Gladstone's  speech," — not, 
in  our  opinion,  the  course  that  was 
most  calculated  to  give  confidence 
to  our  ally.  Nor  was  a  despatch 
that  was  confessedly  summed  up 
to  support  Mr  Gladstone's  utter- 
ances in  the  House,  and  not  to 
place  the  real  condition  of  affairs 
before  the  Cabinet,  likely  to  enable 
the  Home  Government  to  see  its 
way  clearly.  Soon  after,  the  follow- 
ing telegrams  were  exchanged  be- 
tween India  and  England  : — 

"  Telegram  from  Viceroy  to  Secretary 
of  State. 

"  SIMLA,  dated  July  24,  1873. 

"Ameer  of  Cabul  alarmed  at  Rus- 
sian progress,  dissatisfied  with  general 
assurance,  and  anxious  to  know  defin- 
itely how  far  he  may  rely  on  our  help 
if  invaded.  I  propose  assuring  him 
that  if  he  unreservedly  accepts  and 
acts  on  our  advice  in  all  external  re- 
lations, we  will  help  him  with  money, 
arms,  and  troops,  if  necessary,  to  expel 
unprovoked  invasion.  We  to  be  the 
judge  of  the  necessity.  Answer  by 
telegraph  quickly." 

"  Telegram  from  Secretary  of  State  to 
the  Viceroy. 

"INDIA  OFFICE,  dated  26tk  July  1873. 
"  Cabinet  thinks  you  should  inform 
Ameer  that  we  do  not  at  all  share  his 
alarm,  and  consider  there  is  no  cause 
for  it ;  but  you  may  assure  him  we 
shall  maintain  our  settled  policy  in 
favour  of  Affghanistan  if  he  abides  by 
our  advice  in  external  affairs." 

It  is  obvious  that  an  excellent 
chance  of  placing  our  relations  with 
Shere  Ali  upon  a  firm  basis  was  lost 
on  this  occasion,  and  that  the  hesi- 
tating and  uncertain  nature  of  the 
assurance  which  was  then  offered  to 
the  Ameer  seriously  shook  his  faith 
in  British  support.  Our  "  settled 
policy  "  had  never  been  so  clearly 


defined,  or,  indeed,  so  disinterested, 
that  Shere  Ali  could  draw  much 
comfort  from  the  Duke  of  Argyll's 
assurance.  But  we  may  question 
whether  the  Cabinet  at  home  suffi- 
ciently realised  the  fears  which  were 
pressing  upon  the  Ameer ;  for  the 
information  which  had  been  laid 
before  it  had  been  summed  up 
not  so  much  in  accordance  with 
affairs  in  Central  Asia  as  "  in  accord 
with  Gladstone's  speech."  At  all 
events,  between  the  two  Govern- 
ments Shere  Ali's  representations 
met  with  no  satisfactory  response  ; 
and  from  this  time  we  are  justified 
in  dating  those  rancorous  feelings 
which,  fostered  by  foreign  influence 
and  by  the  political  uncertainties 
arising  out  of  the  Eusso-Turkish  war, 
finally  committed  him  to  a  course 
of  hostility  against  the  Viceregal 
Government,  to  whose  friendship 
and  alliance  he  had  solemnly 
pledged  himself  at  the  Umballa 
Conference.  From  the  date  of  his 
earlier  intercourse  with  Lord  North- 
brook,  the  Ameer  appears  to  have 
treated  his  communications  with 
scanty  respect,  which,  in  the  end, 
gave  way  to  irony  and  insult.  In 
the  spring  of  1873,  when  the  Gov- 
ernment of  India  proposed  to  send 
a  present  of  5000  Enfield  rifles  to 
the  Ameer,  his  Highness  rejected 
the  gift  as  insufficient,  in  terms  of 
which  the  Government  of  India  was, 
we  think,  bound  to  take  notice  : — 

"  t  No  doubt,'  said  his  Highness  to 
the  Cabul  agent,  '  the  kingdom  which 
God  has  given  me  should  be  thankful 
to  the  British  Government  for  their 
sympathy  and  cordiality  ;  but  it  is  as 
clear  as  daylight  that  both  the  nobles 
and  common  people  of  Affghanistan 
are  armed  with  guns,  and  always 
accustomed  to  the  use  of  rifles.  .  .  . 
His  Excellency  the  Viceroy  and  Gov- 
ernor-General of  India  has  expressed 
his  wish  to  send  5000  Enfield  rifles. 
This  offer,  though  it  is  a  proof  of  the 
kindness  and  favourable  consideration 
of  the  British  Government,  will  not 


116 


The  Affylian  War  and  its  Authors. 


[Jan.. 


meet  the  requirements  of  the  army 
of  this  kingdom  :  consequently,  as 
intimated  before,  it  is  necessary  that 
small-arms  to  the  number  of  15,000 
three -grooved  rifles  and  5000  Snider 
guns  should  be  procured  at  any  price 
at  which  it  may  be  possible  to  procure 
them.'" 

We  must  speak  of  the  tone  of  a 
translated  document  with  a  certain 
amount  of  caution ;  but  if  the  ori- 
ginal Persian  at  all  bears  out  the 
offensive  tenor  of  the  remarks  we 
have  just  quoted,  it  was  high  time 
for  Lord  Northbrook  to  have  vin- 
dicated the  dignity  of  the  Govern- 
ment of  India.  And  what  aggra- 
vates both  the  Ameer's  impertinence 
and  the  Viceroy's  obtuseness  is  the 
fact  that  these  utterances  sprang 
from  no  hasty  outburst  of  temper, 
to  be  recalled  as  soon  as  sober 
judgment  returned,  but  were  delib- 
erately spoken  with  the  intention 
that  they  should  be  reported  to  the 
Viceroy,  for  the  Cabul  agent  was 
careful  to  read  over  his  report  of 
the  conversation  to  the  Ameer  be- 
fore despatching  it.  Those  who  do 
not  know  the  part  which  forms  of 
address  occupy  in  Eastern  diplo- 
macy will  have  some  difficulty  in 
realising  the  false  position  in  which 
a  communication  of  this  character 
placed  the  Government  of  India ; 
but  we  venture  to  say  that  no  affront 
of  so  flagrant  a  kind  had  hitherto 
been  pocketed  by  the  Calcutta 
Foreign  Office. 

This  was  not  an  auspicious  pre- 
lude to  the  interviews  which  took 
place  between  Lord  Northbrook  and 
the  Ameer's  envoy,  Syud  Noor 
Mohammed  in  the  months  of  July 
and  August  1873.  The  Ameer's 
anxiety  for  some  more  definite  as- 
surance than  the  "moral  influence" 
which  we  professed  to  exercise  in 
his  councils  had  been  gaining  in 
intensity  as  the  wave  of  Russian 
aggression  swept  still  closer  to  his 
border.  He  had  already  seen  one 


understanding  between  Russia  and 
Britain  violated  in  the  Khivan  expe- 
dition, and  no  attempt  made  to  call 
the  aggressor  to  account ;  and  the 
British  Government  might  allow 
his  own  dominions  to  be  sacrificed 
next,  rather  than  risk  a  quarrel  witli 
Russia  on  the  subject.  There  was 
a  confident  belief  in  Affghanistan 
in  the  spring  of  1873  that  the- 
Russians  would  be  in  possession  of 
Merv  before  twelve  months  were- 
over.  It  was  unquestionably  the 
interest  of  the  Ameer  to  make  fast 
by  our  friendship,  just  as  much  as 
it  was  ours  to  secure  his  alliance 
and  to  guarantee  him  our  support. 
Under  such  circumstances,  for  ne- 
gotiations to  fail  so  signally  as  did 
those  of  Lord  Northbrook  with 
Syud  ]SToor  Mohammed,  implies,  to 
sa.y  the  least,  an  unfortunate  want 
of  statesmanship  upon  our  side. 

The  Affghan  envoy  came  to  Sim- 
la, and  in  answer  to  Lord  North- 
brook's  assurances  of  the  satisfactory 
understanding  which  had  been  ar- 
rived at  between  Russia  and  Eng- 
land regarding  the  integrity  of 
Affghanistan,  spoke  his  mind  very 
frankly. 

"  The  rapid  advances  made  by  the 
Russians  in  Central  Asia  had,"  he  said, 
"  aroused  the  gravest  apprehensions  in. 
the  minds  of  the  people  of  Affghan- 
istan. Whatever  specific  assurances 
the  Russians  might  give,  and  however 
often  these  might  be  repeated,  the 
people  of  Affghanistan  could  place  no 
confidence  in  them,  and  would  never 
rest  satisfied  unless  they  were  assured 
of  the  aid  of  the  British  Government/' 

But  it  was  no  part  of  Lord 
North  brook's  policy,  or  of  his  in- 
structions from  the  Duke  of  Argyll,, 
to  give  any  such  assurance.  On 
the  contrary,  the  blunt  appeals  of 
the  envoy  for  some  tangible  guar- 
antee were  met  by  cold  evasion?. 
With  regard  to  the  envoy's  direct 
request  for  assistance  to  enable  him 
to  strengthen  his  northern  frontier 


1879.] 


The  Affyhan  War  and  its  Authors. 


117 


so  that  he  and  his    people  might 
Test  in  security,  Lord  Northbrook's 
response  was  such   as   might  well 
have  overcome  the  patience  of  even 
&  meeker  ruler  than  the  Ameer  of 
Afghanistan.       Lord     Mayo    had 
given  Shere  AH  a  written  guarantee 
that  the  Government  of  India  would 
•"  endeavour  from  time  to  time,  by 
-such  means  as  circumstances  might 
require,  to  strengthen  the  Govern- 
ment of  his  Highness."   Lord  North- 
brook   admitted   the   promise,  but 
qualified    it    by   saying    that    the 
"  British     Government     must     be 
judges    of    the    propriety   of    any 
request   preferred  by  the  Ameer." 
No  doubt  the  British  Government 
would,  under  all  circumstances,  be 
the  judges ;  but  Lord  Northbrook 
contrived  to  put  the  matter  so  that 
the  Ameer  caught  alarm   lest   the 
generous  policy  which  Lord  Mayo 
had  pursued  should  relapse  into  the 
old  selfish  attitude  which  the  Gov- 
ernment of  India  had  taken  up  to- 
wards him  in  the  days  of  "  Masterly 
Inactivity."    All  the  assurance  that 
the    envoy  could  extract  from  the 
•Government  of  India  was  the  Vice- 
roy's personal  pledge  that  "  if,  in 
the  event  of  any  aggression  from 
without,  British  influence  were  in- 
voked,  and   failed    by  negotiation 
to  effect  a  satisfactory  settlement, 
it   icas  probable   that   the   British 
•Government     would      afford     the 
Ameer   material   assistance    in    re- 
pelling an  invader,   but  that  such 
assistance  would  be  conditional  on 
the  Ameer  following  the  advice  of 
the  British  Government,  and  having 
himself  abstained  from  aggression." 
We  italicise  this  very  conditional 
assurance,  to  show  how  hypothetical, 
and  how  different  from  Lord  Mayo's 
frank   language,    was   the   promise 
now  held  out  to  the  Ameer.     To 
•every    request    preferred    by    the 
-envoy — most  of  them,  in  our  opin- 
ion, just  to  the   Ameer   and  pru- 
dent for   ourselves  —  Lord   North- 


brook  returned  a  stiff  refusal.     The 
envoy  asked  that  England  should 
specifically  declare  that  any  Power 
invading    Affghanistan    should   be 
treated   as    an    enemy.      This  was 
refused  as    "  causing  needless  irri- 
tation."    He   then    "pressed   that 
the   contingency  of  aggression  by 
Russia  should  be  specifically  men- 
tioned in  writing  to  the  Ameer." 
To  this  Lord  Northbrook  replied — 
and  we  call  particular  attention  to 
his  response — "  that  setting   aside 
the  inexpediency  of  causing  needless 
irritation   to   a  friendly  Power  ^by 
such  specific  mention,  the   sugges- 
tion  was    one   that   could   not   be 
adopted,  inasmuch  as  it  implied  an 
admission  of  the  probability  of  such 
a  contingency  arising,    which   the 
British   Government    are   not   pre- 
pared to  admit  in  the  face  of  the 
repeated  assurances  given  by  Rus- 
sia."    Lord  Northbrook,  it  will  be 
seen,  summed  up  the  Simla  negotia- 
tions, as   he  had  already  summed 
up  his  despatch,   in  a  conciliatory 
spirit  to  Russia,  in  accord  with  Mr 
Gladstone's  speeches.     But  what  a 
failure  of  common  tact,  not  to  say 
British    statesmanship,    was  here  ! 
It  could  have  entailed  no  great  out- 
lay   of    diplomatic   ingenuity,  and 
certainly   no   sacrifice    of   honesty, 
to  have  satisfied  the  Ameer  with- 
out reflecting  upon  Russia's  fidelity 
to   her  engagements — of  which  de- 
spatches almost  contemporary  show 
Lord   Northbrook's  Government  to 
have  been  very  far  from  being  as- 
sured.    The  most  lenient  view  that 
we  can  take  of  the  Simla  negotia- 
tions is,  that  they  were  sadly  bun- 
gled ;  and  it  is  from  this  period  that 
we  must  date  the  complete  loss  of 
that  influence  with  the  Ameer  which 
Lord  Mayo  had  gained  for  the  gov- 
ernment of  India,  and  which  Lord 
Northbrook  now  sacrificed  to  con- 
ciliate   Russia,    and    to    keep    his 
policy   in    accord   with    Mr   Glad- 
stone's harangues. 


118 


The  Affijlian  War  and  its  Authors. 


[Jan, 


This  mismanaged  interview  speed- 
ily bore  fruit,  although,  luckily  both 
for  Lord  Northbrook  and  for  India, 
it  did  not  fall  to  his  lordship's  lot  to 
gather  it.  The  subsequent  communi- 
cations from  the  Ameer  which  appear 
in  the  Blue-books,  are  couched  in  a 
tone  of  covert  hostility,  which  fre- 
quently breaks  out  into  open  sar- 
casm. The  Viceroy  had  already 
made  the  mistake  of  receiving  from 
his  Highness  an  improper  and  im- 
pertinent letter,  which  we  have  al- 
ready quoted  ;  and  when  his  High- 
ness found  that  Lord  Northbrook 
had  put  up  with  this  affront,  he 
apparently  thought  that  he  could  not 
adopt  too  insulting  a  tone  towards 
him.  The  communications  from 
Cabul  which  reached  the  Viceroy 
towards  the  end  of  1873  and  the 
beginning  of  1874,  were  even  more 
offensive;  and  had  Lord  North- 
brook  been  properly  sensible  of 
what  was  due  to  his  high  office 
and  to  British  prestige  in  the  East, 
he  would  have  declined  to  receive 
them.  What  are  we  to  say  of  such 
a  passage  as  this  in  the  Ameer's 
letter  of  13th  November  1873  ?— 

"The  friendly  declaration  of  your 
Excellency  to  the  effect  that  you  will 
maintain  towards  myself  the  same 
policy  which  was  followed  by  Lord 
Lawrence  and  Lord  Mayo,  has  been 
the  cause  of  much  gratification  to  me. 
My  friend,  under  this  circumstance  of 
the  case,  it  was  not  necessary  to  hold 
all  those  conversations  with  Syud 
Noor  Mohammed  Shah  at  Simla.  The 
understanding  arrived  at  in  Umballa  is 
quite  sufficient.  As  long  as  the  benefi- 
cent Government  of  her  Majesty  the 
Queen  of  England  continues  firm  and 
constant  in  its  friendship,  I  shall  also, 

E lease  God,  remain  firm  in  my  sincere 
:iendship,  as  on  the  occasion  of  my 
meeting  at  Umballa  with  Lord  Mayo, 
whose  writing  I  hold  in  my  posses- 
sion, as  also  a  document  from  Lord 
Lawrence.  Of  this  friendship  your 
Excellency  may  rest  assured." 

The   translation  has  not   removed 
the  sneer  at  the  fruitless  issue  of 


the  Simla  Conference,  or  the  disre- 
spectful insinuation  that  the  Ameer 
trusted  more  to  the  pledges  of  the 
Viceroy's  predecessors  than  to  his- 
Excellency's  goodwill.  A.gain,  on 
the  10th  April  1874,  we  find  the 
Ameer  flouting  Lord  Northbrook's 
predecessors  in  his  lordship's  face 
in  a  way  that  certainly,  to  say 
the  least  of  it,  was  far  from  com- 
plimentary. Lord  Northbrook  had 
written  to  the  Ameer  on  January  23,. 
saying  that  he  was  anxious  to  give 
his  Highness  "assurances  of  support 
even  more  explicit "  than  had  been 
given  by  Lord  Lawrence  and  Lord 
Mayo,  but  he  thought  it  would  be 
well  to  postpone  discussion  of  the 
matter  till  some  more  convenient 
opportunity.  The  Ameer  was  cer- 
tainly to  be  pardoned  for  not  hav- 
ing discovered  the  fact  of  this 
intention  from  his  lordship's  pre- 
vious despatches  or  from  his  con- 
versations with  the  envoy.  Shere 
Ali  coldly  replies  : — 

"  The  arrangements  made  by  Lord1 
Lawrence  and  Lord  Mayo  at  the  Um- 
balla Conference  are  sufficient,  and 
there  is  no  need  to  repeat  all  this 
discussion.  .  .  .  Your  Excellency, 
since  Lord  Lawrence  and  Lord  Mayo, 
especially  the  former,  possessed  an  in- 
timate knowledge  of  Affghanistan  and 
its  frontiers,  and  your  Excellency  also 
must  certainly  have  acquired  the  same 
knowledge,  I  therefore  am  desirous 
that  your  Excellency,  after  full  and 
careful  .consideration  of  the  approval 
expressed  by  her  Majesty  the  Queen. 
the  '  sunnud '  of  Lord  Lawrence,  and 
the  decision  of  Lord  Mayo,  will  remain 
firm  and  constant,  in  order  that  Af- 
ghanistan and  its  territories  may  be 
maintained  inviolate  and  secure." 

It  is  quite  clear  from  these  ex- 
tracts that  all  hopes  of  Lord  North- 
brook  being  able  to  influence  the 
Ameer  in  the  interests  of  our 
alliance  were  at  an  end.  His  High- 
ness deigned  to  take  no  notice  of 
the  proffered  "  more  explicit  assur- 
ances/' and  indeed  by  this  time  he 


1879.] 


The  Afghan  War  and  its  Authors. 


119 


was  beginning  to  assure  himself  by 
negotiations  on  the  other  side  of 
his  dominions.  Lord  Northbrook 
had  had  his  opportunit}7-,  and  ne- 
glected to  turn  it  to  account.  Now 
that  he  was  disposed  to  rectify  the 
omission,  he  found  that  the  Ameer 
had  fairly  embarked  in  a  course  of 
reckless  intrigue,  and  was  in  no 
mood  to  accept  either  his  assurances 
or  his  counsels. 

In  the  meantime,  while  the 
Government  of  India  was  gradually 
relaxing  its  hold  upon  Shere  Ali, 
and  the  Ameer  on  his  side  was 
beginning  to  resent  a  diplomacy 
which  professed  to  set  store  by  his 
friendship,  and  yet  refused  to  re- 
cognise the  circumstances  in  which 
he  was  placed,  Russia  had  been 
drawing  nearer  and  nearer  to  the 
"neutral  zone."  Among  the  un- 
settled tribes  and  ill-defined  terri- 
tories of  Turkistan  it  was  impossible 
for  a  Power  like  that  of  Russia  to 
arrest  its  progress  at  pleasure,  how- 
ever averse  it  might  have  been  to 
extending  its  boundaries.  We  get 
an  instructive  glimpse  of  the  system 
under  which  the  Khanates  were 
conquered,  in  the  conversations 
which  took  place  between  Lord 
Augustus  Loftus  and  the  Russian 
officials  in  the  early  part  of  1874. 
Prince  Gortschakoff  certainly  ad- 
mitted that  there  was  a  party 
anxious  for  military  activity  and 
decorations,  but  asserted  that  his 
power  was  strong  enough  to  keep 
their  zeal  within  bounds,  and  that 
he  would  do  so.  It  is  quite  clear, 
however,  from  the  papers,  that  so 
long  as  the  Turkistan  commanders 
conducted  their  operations  with 
secrecy  and  despatch,  the  Russian 
Chancellor  was  well  content  to 
let  them  play  their  own  game.  If 
they  were  successful,  the  St  Peters- 
burg Government  would  undertake 
their  justification ;  if  they  failed,  it 
would  apologise  for  the  "  mal  enten- 
du,"  as  M.  de  Westmann,  the  acting 


Minister  for  Foreign  Affairs,  called 
General  Llamakin's  ambitious  at- 
tempt to  annex  the  Attrek  and 
Goorgan  valleys  to  Russia.  The 
only  mistake  they  could  commit 
was  being  found  out  too  soon.  This 
gave  rise  to  awkward  questions, 
which  could  not  always  safely  be 
met  by  a  denial,  and  might  compel 
the  Government  for  its  own  credit 
to  stop  the  undertaking.  "We  hear 
much  of  Russian  autocracy  and 
military  despotism,  but  really  the 
despatches  in  the  Central  Asian 
Blue-book  would  almost  tempt  us 
to  suppose  that  no  administrators 
and  commandants  have,  in  modern 
times,  enjoyed  half  the  freedom  and 
latitude  that  have  been  extended 
to  the  Russian  officers  in  Central 
Asia.  There  is,  withal,  a  deal  of  in- 
genuous modesty  manifested  in  the 
way  in  which  they  describe  their 
own  proceedings.  A  military  ex- 
pedition is  playfully  designated  as 
a  reconnaissance;  an  annexation 
proclamation,  commanding  obedi- 
ence to  the  "  Sovereign  of  the 
world,"  and  telling  the  Turkomans 
"to  look  to  themselves  for  good 
or  evil,"  is  a  "  mere  friendly  let- 
ter "  (Correspondence  respecting 
Central  Asia,  p.  17);  scouting  expe- 
ditions are  simply  scientific  explo- 
rations,— and  so  on.  Another  very 
surprising  fact  revealed  by  the  cor- 
respondence is,  that  the  St  Peters- 
burg Government  knew  next  to 
nothing  of  the  proceedings  of  its 
officers  in  Central  Asia,  for  it  is  al- 
most invariably  by  the  circuitous 
route  via  the  Government  of  India, 
our  Foreign  Office,  and  the  British 
ambassador  at  St  Petersburg,  that 
it  receives  any  information  of  its 
own  aggressions  in  Turkistan.  And 
so  careful  were  the  Liberals,  when 
in  office,  of  Russia's  sensitive  feel- 
ings about  the  proceedings  of  her 
representatives  in  Central  Asia,  that 
they  invariably  evaded  all  allusion 
to  these  until  they  had  become  a 


120 


The  AffgUan  War  and  its  Authors. 


[Jan. 


matter  of  European  scandal.  This 
course  kept  our  relations  with  Russia 
to  all  appearances  fair  and  above 
hoard;  but  it  was  merely  a  time 
policy,  and  each  Government  knew 
that  the  other  had  something  be- 
hind hand.  We  have  only  too 
clear  a  proof  of  the  timidity  and 
want  of  frankness  on  our  own  side 
in  the  suppression  by  the  Liberal 
Cabinet  of  the  Indian  despatch, 
dated  30th  June  1873,  which  Lord 
Northbrook  had  summed  up  in  a 
tone  conciliatory  to  Russia,  and  "  in 
accord  with  Gladstone's  speech," 
and  which  the  'Calcutta  Govern- 
ment had  expressly  desired  to  be 
handed  to  the  Czar's  ministers. 

We  might  draw  from  the  Central 
Asian  Blue-books  of  1873,  and 
those  just  published,  materials  for 
a  very  damaging  exposure  of  the 
way  in  which  our  Central  Asian 
interests  had  been  trifled  with  by 
Lord  Granville  and  the  Duke  of 
Argyll  during  the  last  two  years  of 
the  Liberal  Ministry.  Our  space, 
however,  compels  us  to  confine  our- 
selves to  an  examination  of  such 
facts  as  bear  most  directly  upon  the 
origin  of  the  Affghan  rupture.  Al- 
though Prince  Gortschakoff  had  ex- 
pressly declared,  in  the  beginning 
of  1874,  that  "  Affghan istan  was 
beyond  the  sphere  of  Russia's  polit- 
ical action,  and  that,  happen  what 
might  in  the  internal  state  of  that 
country,  the  Imperial  Government 
would  not  interfere,"  neither  India 
nor  England  could  shut  its  eyes  to 
the  certainty  that  such  a  promise 
must  necessarily  be  contingent.  It 
was  merely  a  matter  of  time,  and  of 
very  short  time  too,  when  the  Rus- 
sian boundary  must  necessarily  be- 
come conterminous  with  the  Ameer's 
northern  frontier;  and  then,  had 
Russia  been  the  most  peaceful  and 
inoffensive  of  modern  Powers,  she 
would,  for  her  own  interests,  have 
been  obliged  to  concern  herself  with 
the  internal  administration  of  Aff- 


ghanistan.  But  her  Central  Asian 
representatives  were  not  disposed  to 
wait  until  this  necessity  should  of 
itself  arise.  On  one  pretence  or  an- 
other, the  Russian  commandants  had 
foisted  communications  and  private 
missions  on  the  Ameer  almost  from 
the  time  of  the  Umballa  Durbar. 
These  attempts  were  made  through 
Bokhariots,  who  are  the  Greeks  of 
Central  Asia,  and  the  ever-ready 
agents  of  mischief  and  intrigue;  and 
so  the  St  Petersburg  Government 
could,  at  the  expense  of  an  equi- 
voque, assure  our  representative 
that  no  Russian  messenger  or  mis- 
sion had  been  near  Cabul.  So 
long  as  Lord  Mayo  was  spared,  the 
Ameer  loyally  reported  the  arrival 
of  these  missions,  and  laid  the  let- 
ters which  they  brought  before  the 
Viceroy  for  his  counsel.  It  was 
not  until  Lord  Northbrook  dis- 
couraged these  confidences  that  the 
Ameer  began  to  act  for  himself 
with  respect  to  the  Russian  over- 
tures. When  the  Khivan  expedi- 
tion was  raising  a  ferment  all  over 
Central  Asia  —  when  the  Ameer 
was  feeling  that  the  chances  of  his 
being  dragged  into  collision  were 
steadily  growing  more  imminent — 
and  when  Russian  envoys  and  Rus- 
sian letters  were  pouring  in  upon 
him  with  increasing  frequency, — 
his  Highness  fain  would  have  re- 
peated this  confidence  to  Lord 
Northbrook,  as  he  had  done  to 
Lord  Mayo.  But  Lord  North- 
brook  coldly  repulsed  him. 

"Should,"  said  Lord  Northbrook, 
"  his  Highness  the  Ameer  allude  to 
these  letters,  and  manifest  the  appre- 
hensions which  his  courtiers  entertain, 
the  agent  should  be  instructed  to  state 
that  the  Viceroy  and  Governor-General 
in  Council  see  in  them  no  ground  what- 
ever for  apprehension,  but  rather  an 
additional  reason  for  believing  that 
the  Russian  authorities  desire  to  main- 
tain none  other  relations  but  those  of 
amity  with  the  Government  of  Affghan- 
istan." 


1879.] 


The  Affglian  War  and  its  Authors. 


121 


This,  be  it  noted,  was  a  direct  re- 
versal of  Lord  Mayo's  policy  which 
had  for  its  primary  object  to  en- 
courage Shere  Ali  to  give  the  Gov- 
ernment of  India  his  unreserved 
confidence,  and  to  repose  his  trust 
in  its  alliance,  at  a  time  when  the 
increasing  exigency  of  Central 
Asian  affairs  had  made  the  wis- 
dom of  that  policy  much  more  ap- 
parent. This  response,  followed 
by  the  refusal  of  a  definite  guar- 
antee, and  by  the  futile  negotia- 
tions at  Simla,  completed  the  evil 
impression  upon  Shere  All's  mind. 
Abandoned  by  Lord  Northbrook  to 
Russian  intrigue,  we  can  hardly 
blame  him  for  falling  into  the 
snares  which  the  Russian  officials 
in  Turkistan  were  actively  prepar- 
ing for  his  reception. 

The  Russian  letters  to  Cabul,  at 
first  civil  explanations  of  military 
movements  designed  to  allay  pos- 
sible apprehensions  on  the  part  of 
the  Ameer,  soon  began  to  evince 
a  closer  interest  in  Affghanistan. 
Shere  Ali,  in  November  1873,  no- 
minated his  son  Abdulla  Jan  his 
heir-apparent,  and  sent  a  formal 
intimation  of  this  step  to  the  Gov- 
ernment of  India.  This  was  re- 
plied to  by  an  equally  formal  com- 
munication from  the  Viceroy;  but 
the  officiating  Russian  Governor- 
General,  to  whom  a  similar  notice 
had  been  given,  seized  the  oppor- 
tunity to  offer  high-flown  congrat- 
ulations to  the  Ameer  and  his  in- 
tended successor.  In  a  previous 
article  we  expressed  an  opinion 
that  it  would  be  found  that  Russia 
had  succeeded  in  ingratiating  her- 
self with  the  Ameer  chiefly  by  tak- 
ing a  side  with  his  Highness  in 
his  family  quarrels  regarding  the 
succession.  The  papers  now  pub- 
lished fully  confirm  our  anticipa- 
tions in  this  respect. 

Bearing  in  mind  that  all  the  evils 
which  of  late  years  have  overtaken 
Afghanistan  have  sprung  from  the 


struggles  for  sovereignty  of  the 
Barukzye  family,  we  are  of  opinion 
that  Lord  Northbrook  maintained 
a  very  prudent  course  with  regard 
to  the  succession.  In  this  respect 
at  least  he  loyally  continued  Lord 
Mayo's  policy.  And  when  he  inter- 
posed on  behalf  of  Yakoob  Khan,  al- 
though such  interposition  no  doubt 
aggravated  the  Ameer's  hostility,  the 
Viceroy  took  a  step  that  all  parties 
at  home  must  unite  in  approving 
of.  The  unfortunate  drawback  that 
attended  this  interference  was,  that 
Lord  Northbrook  had  before  that 
time  thrown  away  all  chances  of 
being  able  to  bring  personal  influ- 
ence to  bear  upon  the  Ameer  on 
this  or  on  any  other  subject.  The 
natural  result  of  this  attempted 
mediation  was  therefore  to  impel 
Shere  Ali  still  more  closely  towards 
the  Russian  emissaries,  who  saw 
that  their  surest  game  was  to  cham- 
pion the  cause  of  the  boy  Abdulla ; 
and  there  was  a  considerable  party 
of  darbarees  at  Cabul,  who,  from 
enmity  to  Yakoob  or  friendship  for 
the  heir- apparent,  did  their  best  to 
encourage  him  in  trusting  to  Russia's 
assistance  for  securing  his  favour- 
ite's chances  of  the  kingdom. 

In  this  unsatisfactory  position 
stood  our  relations  with  Affghan- 
istan at  the  time  when  the  present 
Government  came  into  office  in 
February  1874.  From,  the  Indian 
side  Lord  Northbrook  had  lost  all 
that  Lord  Mayo  had  gained  for  us, 
and  there  was  little  hope  of  much 
being  done  with  the  Ameer  through 
the  medium  of  the  Viceroy.  At 
home  the  Central  Asian  question 
had  either  been  altogether  neglected, 
or  considered  solely  from  a  point  of 
view  conciliatory  to  Russia.  How 
little  interest  the  India  Office  under 
the  Liberal  Government  had  taken 
in  the  subject,  may  be  inferred  from, 
a  statement  made  by  Lord  Cran- 
brook  in  the  debate  on  the  Address 
in  the  Upper  House.  "  Your  lord- 


122 


The  Afghan  War  and  its  Authors. 


[Jan. 


ships  will  view  with  astonishment," 
said  he,  "  the  fact  that  during  the 
whole  of  the  time  that  the  Duke  of 
Argyll  was  Secretary  of  State  for 
India,  not  a  single  despatch  on  this 
subject  was  sent  by  the  noble  Duke 
to  the  noble  Earl  the  Viceroy  that 
can  be  found."  The  only  communi- 
cation from  his  Grace  appears  to  be 
his  telegram  requesting  the  Viceroy 
to  tell  Shere  Ali  that  her  Majesty's 
Government  did  not  share  his  alarm 
about  Russia,  and  would  abide  by 
"its  settled  policy,"  the  exact 
nature  of  which  we  have  never 
been  able  to  define,  unless  it  was  to 
conciliate  Russia  and  keep  in  ac- 
cord with  Gladstone's  speeches.  It 
is  not  uncharacteristic  of  the  Duke 
of  Argyll  that  having  thus  neglect- 
ed the  Central  Asian  Question 
when  it  was  his  special  duty  to 
attend  to  it,  he  should  at  the  pres- 
ent moment  be  anxiously  preparing 
to  settle  it  by  the  issue  of  a  post 
octavo.  His  lieutenant,  Mr  Grant 
Duff,  too,  appears  to  have  applied 
his  superior  mind  to  the  matter, 
more  with  a  view  to  the  edification 
of  his  Elgin  electors  than  to  be  of 
service  to  either  the  Home  or  the 
Indian  Governments.  The  right 
honourable  gentleman  very  natur- 
ally began  his  review  of  the  Affghan 
difficulty,  in  the  debate  on  the  Vote 
of  Censure,  at  the  point  where  his 
successor  came  into  office,  for  he 
does  not  appear  to  have  had  much 
personal  knowledge  of  the  subject 
during  the  time  that  it  might  pro- 
perly have  been  supposed  to  have 
engaged  the  greater  part  of  his  at- 
tention. 

No  sooner,  however,  had  the 
present  Ministry  come  into  power, 
than  it  discovered  the  imperative 
necessity  of  putting  our  relations 
with  the  Ameer  on  a  securer  basis. 
Whatever  that  "settled  policy"  had 
been  of  which  the  Duke  of  Argyll 
had  spoken,  it  was  quite  evident 
that  it  had  broken  down  in  Lord 


Northbrook's  hands,  and  that  serious 
dangers  of  entanglements  from  the 
other  side  were  threatening  to  sweep 
Affghanistan  without  the  range  of 
our  influence.  General  Llamakin, 
by  his  " mal  entendus"  on  the  At- 
trek,  was  menacing  Meshed  on  the 
highway  to  Herat ;  and  the  assur- 
ances which  Lord  Derby  was  able 
to  extract  from  the  St  Petersburg 
Government  were  neither  so  consis- 
tent nor  explicit  as  to  warrant  us 
in  pinning  much  faith  to  'them. 
Throughout  the  whole  of  1874  the 
Government  did  its  best  to  establish 
a  firm  understanding  with  Russia 
upon  the  various  points  of  Central 
Asian  policy  that  came  to  the  surface; 
but  it  was  quite  evident  that  the 
latter,  had  launched  out  on  a  course 
of  annexation  between  the  Caspian 
and  the  Oxus  which  it  was  beyond 
the  power  of  diplomacy  to  rein  in. 
The  Government,  we  have  reason 
to  know,  was  not  satisfied  with 
Lord  Northbrook's  management  of 
the  Affghan  negotiations;  and  it 
had  no  cause  to  be  so.  But  it  does 
not  follow  that  it  should,  therefore, 
have  either  reversed  his  measures 
or  recalled  himself.  A  wide  free- 
dom of  action  must  always  be  al- 
lowed to  an  Indian  Viceroy  in  re- 
turn for  the  heavy  responsibilities 
that  rest  upon  him  personally;  and 
when  the  Opposition  now  urges 
that  the  Government  should  have 
taken  one  or  other  of  these  meas- 
ures, it  is  guilty  of  a  cheap  imper- 
tinence. "What  Lord  Salisbury  did 
Was  to  recommend  the  Viceroy  to 
take  such  steps  as  the  altered  as- 
pect of  affairs  beyond  the  north- 
west frontier  exigently  demanded. 
In  his  despatch  of  22d  January 
1875,  to  which  the  Opposition  has 
taken  so  much  exception,  he  points 
out  that  the  information  which 
Government  received  regarding  Aff- 
ghanistan was  inadequate  for  its 
guidance,  and  that  the  establish- 
ment of  an  English  agency  at  Herat 


1879.] 


The  Afghan  War  and  its  Authors. 


123 


would  not  only  be  important  as  a 
source  of  information,  but  "  would 
be  an  indication  of  English  solici- 
tude for  the  safety  of  our  allies, 
and  so  tend  to  discourage  counsels 
dangerous  to  the  peace  of  Asia." 

There  has  been  a  good  deal  of 
abuse  vented  on  this  despatch  by 
members  of  the  Opposition,  who 
have  carefully  left  out  of  count  the 
condition  of  Central  Asia  at  the 
time  when  it  was  written.  The 
Eussian  movements  on  the  Attrek 
were  still  causing  increasing  alarm, 
and  we  had  no  means  of  satisfying 
ourselves  how  far  they  menaced  Aff- 
ghan  interests.  The  information 
which  reached  India  was  still  very 
meagre,  and  the  capacity  of  the 
Cabul  Munshee  for  grasping  the 
exact  situation  of  affairs  more  than 
doubtful.  Another  chance  was  thus 
given  to  Lord  Northbrook  for  re- 
medying the  mistakes  which  he  had 
made  with  regard  to  the  Ameer.  The 
opening  of  negotiations  for  the  des- 
patch of  an  English  officer  to  Herat 
would  have  enabled  him  to  explain 
those  "  more  explicit  assurances  " 
which  he  had  professed  himself 
anxious  to  offer  in  1873,  but  which 
the  irritated  Ameer  had  refused  to 
listen  to.  Had  the  Ameer  been 
addressed  at  this  time  in  a  proper 
spirit,  frightened  as  he  then  was  at 
the  Russian  movements  from  the 
Caspian  in  his  direction ;  had  he  re- 
ceived a  renewed  guarantee  for  the 
security  of  his  dominions  ;  and  had 
he  been  made  clearly  to  understand 
that  the  presence  of  a  British  officer 
at  Herat  was  meant  as  a  token  to 
other  Powers  of  our  interest  in  his 
independence, — we  have  little  doubt 
that  he  coul<J  have  been  made  to 
hear  reason,  and  that  we  should 
once  more  have  regained  our  ascend- 
ancy in  his  country.  But  Lord 
Northbrook  was  not  disposed  to 
grasp  the  opportunity,  and  showed 
every  wish  to  evade  interference 
with  Affghan  affairs  at  all.  He 


craved  time,  and,  as  is  usually  the 
way  when  rulers  want  to  shirk  re- 
sponsibility and  postpone  an  unplea- 
sant duty,  called  for  reports.  It  was 
in  January  1875  that  Lord  Salisbury 
instructed  the  Viceroy  to  take  mea- 
sures for  obtaining  Shere  Ali's  as- 
sent to  posting  an  English  officer  to 
Herat.  It  was  June  before  Lord 
Northbrook  sent  home  a  despatch 
stating  his  objections  to  his  course, 
and  enclosing  the  opinions  of  a 
number  of  distinguished  Indian 
officials  in  corroboration  of  his  argu- 
ments. The  weight  of  Indian  offi- 
cial opinion  was  undoubtedly  on 
Lord  Northbrook's  side,  as  it  could 
hardly  fail  to  have  been,  from  the 
leading  questions  which  the  officers 
consulted  were  invited  to  answer ; 
but  it  must  be  carefully  remem- 
bered that  the  case  put  to  them  did 
not  embrace  the  increasing  influ- 
ence which  the  Russians  were  ac- 
quiring at  Cabul,  or  the  alternative 
necessity  which  was  now  pressing 
upon  us  of  either  reclaiming  the 
Ameer  to  his  engagements,  or  of 
devising  other  means  for  strength- 
ening our  position  in  Affghanistan. 
Meantime,  in  the  interval  between 
Lord  Salisbury's  despatch  and  Lord 
ISTorthbrook's  objections  to  carrying 
out  its  instructions,  the  tone  of 
Russia  regarding  the  Affghan  un- 
derstanding underwent  a  material 
change.  Prince  Gortschakoff's  cir- 
cular announcements  that  Russia 
had  reached  the  goal  of  her  eastward 
progress,  have  always  been  the  pre- 
lude to  a  fresh  advance;  and  his 
Highness's  Circular  of  5th  April 
1875  did  not  belie  its  predecessors. 
That  despatch  introduced  the  new 
and  startling  assumption,  that  un- 
der the  agreement  existing  be- 
tween the  two  Powers,  Russia  was 
left  full  freedom  of  action  upon 
every  portion  of  territory  between 
her  own  frontiers  and  Affghanistan, 
without  any  apparent  right  of  re- 
monstrance on  the  part  of  the  English 


124 


The  Ajfylt.an  War  and  its  Authors. 


[Jan. 


Government.  In  other  words,  Rus- 
sia now  claimed  the  right,  when  she 
chose,  to  push  her  frontiers  up  to  the 
Ameer's  territories ;  while  our  Em- 
bassy at  St  Petersburg  reports  soon 
after  that  "  many  Russians,  and 
amongst  them  men  of  political 
position  and  in  Government  ser- 
vice, entertain  the  full  persuasion 
that  the  maintenance  for  any  num- 
ber of  years  of  a  great  neutral  terri- 
tory between  the  two  empires  of 
Russia  and  India  is  an  impossi- 
bility, and  that  the  notion  must 
be  abandoned."  Lord  Salisbury 
promptly  pointed  out  the  new 
danger  which  threatened  if  Russia 
were  confirmed  in  this  assumption, 
•and  it  added  to  the  urgency  for 
pushing  on  a  satisfactory  settlement 
with  Shere  AH.  In  November 
1875  evidences  of  intrigue  between 
Russia  and  Cabul  had  so  multiplied; 
the  danger  from  the  direction  of 
Merv  had  so  increased ;  the  grow- 
ing insecurity  of  the  Cabul  Govern- 
ment from  fiscal  corruption  and 
excessive  taxation  had  become  so 
marked, — that  the  mere  establish- 
ment of  a  single  agency  at  Herat 
would  no  longer  meet  the  crisis. 
Lord  Northbrook's  Government 
had  allowed  the  time  to  pass 
when  such  a  measure  would  have 
sufficed,  and  Lord  Salisbury  was 
now  compelled  to  order  the  de- 
spatch of  a  mission  to  Cabul  with- 
out loss  of  time.  Again  Lord 
Northbrook's  Government  proved 
obstructive  ;  again  a  despatch  was 
sent  home,  showing,  by  elaborate 
arguments,  that  it  was  best  to  do 
nothing — the  fact  being  that  Lord 
Xorthbrook  had  been  so  uniformly 
unfortunate  in  his  Affghan  policy, 
and  had  kindled  so  keen  a  resent- 
ment in  Shere  Ali's  mind  against 
himself  personally,  that  he  could  en- 
tertain no  reasonable  hope  of  con- 
ducting further  negotiations  with 
success.  Under  these  circumstances 
Lord  JSTorthbrook,  we  think,  did 


well  to  make  over  to  another  the 
carrying  into  effect  of  a  policy 
which  was  distasteful  to  him,  al- 
though it  was  the  only  course  of 
which  the  situation  admitted  ;  and 
he  accordingly  came-  home,  be- 
queathing to  his  successor  the 
worst  legacy  of  foreign  policy  that 
any  Governor- General  of  India  had 
left  behind  him  since  the  days  of 
Lord  Auckland. 

The  bitter  attack  made  by  the 
Opposition  upon  Lord  Lytton  has 
called  forth  from  Lord  Cranbrook, 
from  the  Lord  Chancellor,  and  from 
the  Marquis  of  Salisbury,  so  full 
explanations  of  the  present  Viceroy's 
course  of  action,  that  we  need  not 
dwell  upon  subsequent  events  with 
the  same  minuteness  as  we  have  felt 
it  necessary  to  use  in  the  case  of 
Lord  Northbrook's  Affghan  negotia- 
tions. It  has  been  said  that  Lord 
Lytton  was  sent  out  to  India  to 
force  English  Residents  upon  the 
Ameer.  This  is  not  an  incorrect  de- 
scription of  the  instructions  con- 
tained in  the  admirable  despatch 
which  Lord  Salisbury  penned  for 
the  new  Viceroy's  guidance.  Thanks 
to  Lord  Northbrook's  policy,  we 
could  hope  to  do  nothing  with  the 
Ameer  unless  a  firmer  tone  were 
adopted  towards  him,  and  he  were 
given  to  understand  that  the  time 
had  now  come  when  he  must  make 
us  some  return  for  our  previous 
gratuitous  assistance,  even  though 
the  desired  concessions  might  not 
be  altogether  to  his  taste.  Lord 
Lytton  was  instructed 

"To  find  an  early  occasion  for  send- 
ing to  Cabul  a  temporary  mission,  fur- 
nished with  such  instructions  as  may, 
perhaps,  enable  it  to  overcome  the 
Ameer's  apparent  reluctance  to  the 
establishment  of  permanent  British 
agencies  in  Afghanistan,  by  convinc- 
ing his  Highness  that  the  Government 
of  India  is  not  coldly  indifferent  to  the 
fears  he  has  so  frequently  urged  upon 
its  attention,  that  it  is  willing  to 
afford  him  material  support  in  the 


1879.' 


The  Affyhan  War  and  its  Author?. 


125 


defence  of  his  territory  from  any  actual 
and  unprovoked  external  aggression, 
but  that  it  cannot  practically  avert  or 
provide  for  such  a  contingency  without 
timely  and  unrestricted  permission  to 
place  its  own  agents  in  those  parts  of 
his  dominions  whence  they  may  best 
watch  the  course  of  events." 


The  Government  was  now  pre- 
pared to  give  to  Shere  Ali  all  that 
he  had  hitherto  sought  in  return  for 
the  right  to  station  agents  in  his 
country.  "We  were  ready  to  give 
him,  as  the  price  of  that  concession, 
a  fixed  and  augmented  subsidy  ;  a 
decided  recognition  of  Abdulla  Jan 
as  his  successor;  and  an  explicit 
pledge,  by  treaty  or  otherwise,  of 
material  support  in  case  of  foreign 
aggression.  Now,  it  may  be  asked, 
did  Shere  Ali  feel  so  keenly  jealous 
of  the  presence  of  British  officers  in 
his  country,  or  did  he  anticipate  so 
many  difficulties  from  their  residence 
among  his  subjects,  that  he  could 
readily  put  aside  the  guarantees 
which  we  offered  rather  than  con- 
sent to  this  measure  1  Some  Mem- 
bers have  insinuated  that  his  recol- 
lections of  the  unfortunate  issues  of 
former  English  missions  to  Cabul 
made  him  dread  that  fresh  envoys 
would  simply  prove  the  avant- 
couriers  of  another  expedition.  Our 
readers  may  dismiss  this  idea  from 
their  imagination.  We  have  no 
hesitation  in  saying  that  Shere  All, 
if  he  could,  would  readily  have 
closed  with  the  terms  of  the  Govern- 
ment of  India  ;  and  that  lie  did  not 
do  so  was  simply  because  lie  stood 
already  too  far  committed  to  Russia 
to  dare  to  admit  British  officers  into 
his  country,  ivithout  having  his  per- 
fidy exposed,  and  running  the  risk  of 
quarrelling  with  loth  sides.  Those 
who  can  read  between  the  lines  will 
find  ample  confirmation  for  this 
assertion  in  the  papers  recently 
published.  No  doubt  Shere  Ali 
would  have  preferred  the  guarantees 
and  the  increased  subsidy  without 


any  inconvenient  stipulations  tack- 
ed on  to  them;  but  there  is  equally 
little  doubt  that  in  the  then  pressing 
condition  of  the  Cabul  exchequer, 
and  in  the  insecure  state  of  his  coun- 
try, he  would  gladly  have  closed 
with  our  terms,  had  he  dared  to 
break  with  the  Russian  Governor- 
General  of  Turkistan,  and  have  his 
perfidious  dealings  of  the  previous 
twelvemonth  exposed  to  the  eyes 
of  the  Government  of  India. 

The  rebellion  in  the  western 
principalities  of  the  Porte,  and  the 
certainty  that  Russia  was  watching 
for  an  opportunity  to  take  part  in 
the  quarrel,  exercised  an  important 
irifl  uence  upon  the  Ameer's  attitude 
during  the  year  1 875.  The  Khokancl 
insurrection  employed  General  Kauff- 
mann's  energies  for  some  time  dur- 
ing that  summer;  but  no  sooner  were 
the  rebels  put  under  than  he  appears 
to  have  renewed  his  efforts  to  secure 
Shere  Ali  to  the  Russian  side.  A 
Samarcand  agent  visited  Cabul  in 
September  of  that  year,  and  there 
is  every  ground  for  believing  that 
his  complimentary  mission  wa& 
merely  an  excuse  for  private  repre- 
sentations and  overtures,  to  which 
the  Ameer,  exasperated  as  he  then 
was  by  Lord  Northbrook's  coldness, 
lent  only  too  willing  an  ear.  By 
the  beginning  of  1876  the  possi- 
bilities of  a  collision  of  British  and 
Russian  interests  in  Europe,  arising 
out  of  the  Turkish  difficulty,  were 
coming  more  into  view ;  and  it  was 
only  natural  that  Russia  should  re- 
cognise the  importance  of  inflaming 
the  Affghan  ulcer  on  tne  side  of  our 
Indian  empire. 

On  the  25th  February  1876, 
Count  Schouvaloff  informed  Lord 
Derby  that  the  presumed  under- 
standing which  had  hitherto  existed 
between  the  two  Powers  that  Aft- 
ghanistan  was  to  remain  outside  the 
sphere  of  Russian  influence,  should 
cease  as  unpractical;  and  that  all 
the  fancied  security  which  we  had 


126 


The  Afghan  War  and  its  Authors. 


[Jan. 


built  upon  the  supposed  neutral 
zone,  and  Russia's  pledges  of  her 
limited  "sphere  of  political  ac- 
tion "  was  swept  to  the  wind.  It 
was  three  days  after  this  commun- 
ication that  Lord  Salisbury  penned 
his  despatch  from  which  we  have 
quoted  above ;  and  it  was  not  an 
hour  too  soon.  This  fact,  the  altered 
attitude  of  Russia,  which  the  Oppo- 
sition has  conveniently  left  out  of 
sight  in  the  controversy,  effected  an 
entire  alteration  in  our  interests  in 
the  Affghan  question.  Henceforth, 
under  the  new  scope  which  Russia 
now  gave  to  her  aims,  our  first  duty 
was  to  provide  for  the  security  of  our 
frontier ;  and  Shere  Ali's  pleasure, 
and  even  Shere  Ali's  independence, 
were  certainly  secondary  matters  to 
our  own  safety.  Even  those  who 
are  most  disposed  to  criticise  our 
policy  at  this  period  will  scarcely 
gainsay  this  fact ;  and  if  they  keep 
in  mind  the  force  of  this  "  new  de- 
parture," which  Russia  had  an- 
nounced to  us,  the  action  of  both 
the  Home  and  Indian  Governments 
will  yield  a  truer  interpretation. 
All  through  1876  the  Russian  Gov- 
ernment either  evaded  the  discus- 
sion of  its  Affghan  connection  or 
returned  assurances  that  were  insin- 
cere upon  the  face  of  them.  When 
we  produced  evidences  of  General 
Kauff man's  interference  with  the 
Ameer,  and  laid  before  the  St 
Petersburg  Government  a  copy  of 
his  letter,  we  received  a  direct  de- 
nial, which  the  Blue  -  books  show 
to  have  been  a  falsehood.  But  by 
the  end  of  the  year  the  Czar  and 
his  Ministers  had  other  matters  to 
engross  their  Attention,  and  General 
Kauffmann  was  left  to  take  his  own 
course  unchecked.  "  Quand  nous 
avons  'en  main  une  baleine"  said 
Prince  Gortschakoff  to  Lord  A. 
Loftus  on  the  15th  November,  "je 
ne  puis  pas  m'occuper  des  petit s 
poissons"  The  way  was  therefore 
left  clear  for  action  on  the  part  of 


the  Russian  Governor-General,  whose 
successes  his  Government  would  be 
glad  to  turn  to  account,  and  whose 
failures  it  would  be  able  to  disclaim 
any  responsibility  for. 

The  year  1876  was  spent  in 
fruitless  efforts  by  Lord  Lyttoii  and 
his  Government  to  reclaim  the 
Ameer  from  his  isolated  position, 
and  to  restore  those  cordial  rela- 
tions which  had  existed  at  the 
time  of  Lord  Mayo's  assassination. 
The  situation  had  of  course  so  far 
altered,  that  new  and  more  definite 
guarantees  were  needed  on  both 
sides ;  and  the  Government  of  India 
was  quite  willing  to  do  its  part. 
We  sent  a  most  intelligent  native 
officer,  Ressaldar  Major  Khanan 
Khan,  to  the  Ameer  in  the  spring 
of  1876,  bearing  a  letter  announc- 
ing Lord  Lytton's  accession  to  office, 
and  mentioning  the  gracious  mo- 
tives which  had  induced  her  Ma- 
jesty to  add  the  style  of  Empress 
of  India  to  her  Royal  Titles.  The 
Ameer  refused  to  receive  him,  and 
the  messenger  returned  from  Cabul 
as  he  came.  This  slight  would  suf- 
ficiently have  justified  the  Govern- 
ment in  adopting  a  sterner  tone  to- 
wards Shere  Ali,  but  the  inexpedi- 
ency of  driving  him  openly  into 
the  outstretched  arms  of  Russia 
counselled  patience — in  addition  to 
which  the  Government  appears  to 
have  been  sincerely  desirous  to  se- 
cure the  independence  of  Aff- 
ghanistan  in  friendly  alliance  with 
India.  In  October  our  Cabul  agent 
came  to  Simla  with  communications 
which  seemed  to  afford  a  basis  for 
negotiations.  He  stated  the  Ameer's 
causes  of  discontent  arising  from 
Lord  Northbrook's  policy,  which 
our  readers  already  know,  and  un- 
folded the  whole  course  of  Russian 
intrigue  which  had  been  interven- 
ing between  us  and  our  ally. 

"  In  short,  the  information  gradually 
extracted  from  our  Cabul  agent  con- 


1879. 


77/6  Afghan  War  and  its  Authors. 


127 


vinced  us  that  the  system  on  which 
\ve  had  hitherto  conducted  our  rela- 
tions with  Shere  Ali  had  practically 
resulted  not  only  in  the  alienation  of 
his  Highness  from  the  Power  which 
had  unconditionally  subsidised  and 
openly  protected  him,  but  also  in  the 
increased  closeness  and  confidential 
character  of  his  relations  with  the  only- 
other  Power  that  can  ever  cause  seri- 
ous danger  to  •  our  empire  in  India. 
The  Vakeel,  however,  represented  to 
the  Viceroy  that  the  Ameer,  though 
strongly  disinclined  to  admit  British 
officers  into  any  part  of  Affghanistan, 
would  probably,  if  the  point  were 
pressed,  accept  such  a  condition  rather 
than  forfeit  the  advantage  of  a  long- 
desired  alliance  with  the  British 
Government  upon  terms  certain  to 
strengthen  his  personal  position  at 
home,  about  which  his  Highness  was 
chiefly  anxious." 

If  the  Ameer  was  at  all  sincere 
at  this  time,  his  change  of  mind 
was  probably  due  to  the  projected 
Russian  expedition  against  Merv, 
which  was  one  of  Prince  Gortscha- 
kofFs  "pet its  poissons  "  that  had  to 
be  let  go  when  the  Turkish  whale 
was  to  be  taken  in  hand.  Whether 
sincere  or  not,  Shere  AH  had  given 
our  envoy  apparently  to  understand 
that  as  a  dernier  ressort,  and  rather 
than  altogether  forfeit  our  friendship, 
he  would  accept  British  agents ;  and 
this  fact  furnishes  a  powerful  justi- 
fication for  the  course  which  the 
Government  of  India  had  since 
pursued.  But  before  the  interview 
could  be  arranged  between  Sir  Lewis 
Pelly  and  the  Ameer's  representa- 
tive at  Peshawur,  an  event  had 
taken  place  which  thoroughly  un- 
settled the  Ameer. 

Russia  had  mobilised  her  forces, 
and  there  were  the  gravest  odds 
that  a  war  between  her  and  Britain 
would  be  inevitable.  Under  these 
circumstances  Shere  Ali  would  have 
been  no  Affghan,  no  Barukzye,  if 
he  had  taken  a  side  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  quarrel,  and  before  it 
could  be  conjectured  who  was  to 


be  the  winner.     We  need  not  dis- 
cuss the  lengthened  negotiations  at 
Peshawur  in  the  beginning  of  1877. 
It  must   be    evident  to  every  one 
who  reads  the  official  report  of  the 
conferences  between  Sir  Lewis  Pelly 
and  Syud  Noor  Mohammed,  that  the 
latter  had  no  power  to  come  to  any 
arrangement,  and  that   his   master 
simply  wished  to  postpone  a  settle- 
ment until  the  issue  of  events  could 
be  ascertained.    The  war-fever  which, 
seemed  to  be  a 'universal  epidemic 
at  that  time  broke  out  also  in  Cabul, 
and  Shere  Ali  appears  to  have  so 
far  caught  the   infection  as  to  va- 
pour  about  a  jihad,  or  a  religious 
war  against  the  infidel   British — a 
course  which  was  probably  design- 
ed rather  to  propitiate  the  Russians 
than  to  cause  the   Government  of 
India    any  serious    alarm.      Shere 
Ali's  eyes  were   now  bent  on   the 
European    crisis ;    it   was    by   the 
issue  of  events  there   that   he   in- 
tended to  shape  his  course,  and  he 
had  no  intention  of  allowing  him- 
self to   be    prematurely  entangled 
into   any  agreements   with   a   side 
which  might  prove  in  the  end  not 
to  be  the  winning  one.     The  Pesh- 
awur  conferences   were   protracted 
with  great  patience  on  the  part  of 
both  the  Government  of  India  and 
Sir  Lewis  Pelly ;  and  every  effort 
was   made  on  our  side  to   smooth 
away   difficulties,    to    inspire     the 
Ameer  with  confidence,  and  to  pro- 
vide a  basis  for  a  new  and  perma- 
nent understanding  that  would  have 
guaranteed  Shere  Ali  in  the  inde- 
pendent possession  of  his  dominions, 
and  have  secured  for  ourselves  the 
means  of  watching  over  the  mutual 
interests  of  India  and  AfFghanistau. 
But  it  was  quite  clear  that  the  Ameer 
was  then  in  no  mood  to  listen  to 
reason ;  and  when  the  envoy  died 
before   the  conference   was   finally 
closed,  Lord  Lytton  withdrew  Sir 
Lewis  Pelly,  and  very  properly  de- 
clined to  allow  the  time  of  the  Gov- 


128 


Tlie  Affglian  War  and  its  Authors. 


[Jan. 


ernment  of  India  to  be  wasted  in 
discussing  the  Ameer's  complaints 
and  doubts  when  his  Highness  posi- 
tively declined  to  meet  our  propo- 
sals for  their  removal.  Lord  Lytton 
has  been  censured  for  not  having 
waited  until  the  new  messenger 
came,  but  those  who  have  taken 
this  view  of  the  subject  can  hardly 
have  been  acquainted  with  the  tone 
of  the  Cabul  durbar  at  this  time,  or 
they  \vould  have  been  more  guarded 
in  their  strictures.  Shere  Ali  at 
this  period  seems  to  have  lost  his 
head,  much  about  the  same  time  that 
a  similar  mental  alienation  overtook 
other  eminent  individuals  nearer 
home.  He  had  apparently  made 
his  calculations  that  in  the  almost 
certain  event  of  war  between  Eng- 
land and  Eussia,  the  latter  would 
march  upon  India  through  his 
territories ;  and  as  he  stood  in 
more  immediate  danger  from  Eussia 
than  from  India,  which  he  knew 
would  not  interfere  with  him  but 
as  a  last  measure,  and  after  a  locus 
penitent  ice  had  been  granted  him, 
he  felt  that  his  best  policy  would 
be  to  give  the  first  place  in  his 
plans  to  his  Northern  neighbour. 
He  was,  moreover,  apparently  under 
the  impression  that  if  he  were  to 
accept  the  .overtures  which  the 
Viceroy  was  making  him,  he  would 
draw  down  the  immediate  resent- 
ment of  Eussia  upon  his  territories ; 
and  we  do  not  know  what  grounds 
the  latter  may  have  given  him  for 
this  belief.  At  all  events  the 
Government  of  India  now  knew 
enough  of  Shere  Ali's  views,  and 
of  the  embarrassing  position  into 
which  his  intrigues  and  shifty 
tactics  had  thrown  him,  to  be  con- 
scious that  nothing  more  was  to  be 
hoped  for  from  suasive  measures 
from  the  outside,  and  that  our  only 
chance  of  rescuing  Afghanistan 
from  the  fate  of  Khokand,  Khiva, 
and  Bokhara,  was  by  bringing  the 
Ameer  to  book  in  his  own  capital, 


and  by  extracting  from  him  a  defin- 
ite answer  to  the  proposals  that  re- 
mained for  settlement  between  him 
and  her  Majesty's  Government. 

Admitting  this  to  be  the  case, 
why,  say  the  Opposition,  did  Lord 
Lytton  not  at  once  follow  up  Sir 
Lewis  Felly's  Mission  by  an  em- 
bassy similar  to  that  which,  some 
eighteen  months  later,  he  despatched 
under  Sir  Neville  Chamberlain1? 
Like  most  of  the  other  criticisms  to 
which  recent  policy  has  been  sub- 
jected, this  question  takes  into  ac- 
count only  one  side  of  the  case. 
But  it  must  be  borne  in  mind  that 
in  Europe  Eussia  was  now  prepar- 
ing to  take  the  field,  that  she  was 
as  ready  to  seek  cause  of  offence  in 
our  foreign  policy  as  her  Liberal 
allies  in  this  country  were  to  find 
it  for  her,  and  that  the  interests  of 
peace  demanded  guarded  action  in 
India  as  well  as  at  home.  So  for  a 
time  the  Affghan  question  had  to 
stand  aside,  until  our  negotiations 
with  the  Ameer  could  be  renewed 
without  adding  to  the  already  ex- 
isting rancour  of  Eussia,  or  giving 
her  further  excuses  for  evading  our 
mediatory  attempts  at  making  peace 
between  her  and  the  Porte.  The 
despatch  which  Lord  Salisbury  sent 
out  to  India  in  the  autumn  of  1878 
summed  up  our  position  with  ad- 
mirable conciseness,  and  regulated 
our  policy  until  the  crisis  in  Europe 
had  drawn  to  a  close  : — 

"  The  independence  of  Afghanistan 
is  a  matter  of  importance  to  the  British 
Government ;  and  as  an  essential  part 
of  arrangements  for  its  protection,  her 
Majesty's  Government  would  still  be 
glad  to  station  agents  upon  whom  they 
could  rely  at  Herat  and  Candahar. 
In  the  event,  therefore,  of  the  Ameer 
within  a  reasonable  time  spontaneous- 
ly manifesting  a  desire  to  come  to  a 
friendly  understanding  with  your  Ex- 
cellency on  the  basis  of  the  terms 
lately  offered  to  but  declined  by  him, 
his  advances  should  not  be  rejected. 
If;  on  the  other  hand,  he  continues  to 


1879." 


TJie  Ajfghan  War  and  its  Authors. 


129 


maintain  ail  attitude  of  isolation  and 
scarcely-veiled  hostility,  the  British 
Government  stands  unpledged  to  any 
obligations,  and  in  any  contingencies 
which  may  arise  in  Afghanistan,  will 
be  at  liberty  to  adopt  such  measures 
for  the  protection  and  permanent  tran- 
quillity of  the  north-west  frontier  of 
her  Majesty's  Indian  dominions  as  the 
circumstances  of  the  moment  may 
render  expedient,  without  regard  to 
the  wishes  of  the  Ameer  Shere  All  or 
the  interest  of  his  dynasty." 

We  find  little  in  this  paragraph 
of  the  hostile,  grasping  spirit  which 
Government  has  been  accused  of 
showing  towards  the  Ameer,  or  of 
the  offensive  attitude  towards  Eus- 
sia  attributed  to  Lord  Beacons- 
field's  Cabinet.  On  the  contrary, 
the  forbearance  which  was  then 
manifested  was  such  as  few  ad- 
ministrations have  ever  shown  un- 
der similarly  critical  circumstances. 
Although  the  watchful  observa- 
tion which  was  kept  upon  Aff- 
ghanistan  during  the  winter  of 
1877-78  could  have  left  the  Gov- 
ernment of  India  under  no  doubt 
that  it  would  at  an  early  date 
be  compelled  to  bring  pressure  to 
bear  upon  the  Ameer,  and  although 
the  depressed  condition  of  Russia's 
military  fortunes  at  the  time  of- 
fered no  slight  temptation  to  ac- 
tion, the  Government  was  resolved 
to  do  nothing  in  Asia  that  might 
furnish  any  pretence  for  post- 
poning the  conclusion  of  peace 
in  Europe.  The  conduct  of  the 
Ameer  was  in  no  way  calculated 
to  allay  our  anxiety,  for  his 
communications  with  the  Eussian 
Government  of  Turkistan  grew 
more  frequent  and  confidential; 
and  the  preponderance  of  Eussian 
influence  in  his  counsels  was  seen 
by  the  fact  that  every  warlike  out- 
burst in  the  Eussian  press  was 
answered  at  Cabul  by  Shere  Ali's 
threats  of  engaging  in  a  jihad 
against  the  English  in  India.  He 
was  now  completely  in  the  toils  of 

VOL.  CXXV. — NO.  DCCLIX. . 


the  Eussian  intriguers;  and  if  we 
hold  him  responsible  for  his  hostile 
conduct  to  us  at  this  period,  we 
must  still  make  allowance  for  the 
unseen  force  which  was  probably 
precipitating  him  against  us.  The 
war  in  Europe,  and  the  check  which 
Eussia  was  then  beginning  to  ex- 
perience at  the  hands  of  British 
diplomacy,  had  weakened  the  con- 
trol of  the  Eussian  Foreign  Office 
over  its  officials  in  Asia,  as  may 
readily  be  seen  from  the  ignorance, 
real  or  pretended,  which  it  showed 
of  General  Kauffmann's  doings;  and 
it  is  more  than  probable  that  that 
administrator  was  allowed  to  take 
his  own  way,  and  do  anything  that 
seemed  to  him  likely  to  create  a 
diversion  in  favour  of  Eussia  by 
disconcerting  British  policy  in 
India. 

Eeviewing  the  aims  of  Eussia  in 
Central  Asia,  her  interest  at  the 
time  in  avoiding  another  war,  and 
her  certain  knowledge  that  Eng- 
land would  not  surrender  Afighanis- 
tan  to  her  influence  without  drawing 
the  sword,  we  may  express  a  strong 
doubt  whether  the  Stolieteff  mis- 
sion meant  as  much  as  it  professed 
to  do,  and  whether  its  main  aim 
was  not  to  divert  the  attention  of 
the  British  Government  from  the 
execution  of  the  Berlin  Treaty. 
That  Eussia  was  not  prepared  to 
run  the  risk  of  a  war  with  Eng- 
land for  the  sake  of  a  position  in 
Aflghanistan,  her  subsequent  course 
has  made  clear;  and  if  the  mis- 
sion was  not  one  of  those  mal  en- 
tendus  which  occur  now  and  then 
on  her  Asiatic  frontier,  we  must 
look  upon  it  as  a  mere  diplomatic 
move — an  attempt  to  hold  our  power 
in  India  in  check  until  Eussia 
could  get  wriggled  out  of  her 
European  embarrassments.  So  far 
as  Eussia  is  concerned,  the  move 
has  been  a  blunder,  and  goes  a  long 
way  to  prove  that  the  traditional 
skill  and  astuteness  that  were  wont 


130 


The  Afghan  War  and  its  Authors. 


[Jan. 


to  guide  her  foreign  policy  must  now 
be  reckoned  among  the  qualities  of 
the  past. 

The  details  of  the  circumstances 
which  led  to  the  despatch  of  Sir 
Seville  Chamberlain's  Mission  have 
been  so  carefully  discussed  in  Par- 
liament and  in  the  newspapers,  that 
we  need  not  go  over  them  minutely. 
The  publication  of  the  despatches  has 
entirely  cut  away  the  grounds  upon 
which  the  Liberals  had  attacked 
the  Government  of  India ;  and  the 
Opposition  very  prudently  said  as 
little  as  possible  about  the  subject, 
preferring  rather  to  found  imaginary 
charges  of  imperialism  upon  the 
very  matter  -  of  -  fact  instructions 
which  Lord  Salisbury  had  sent  out 
to  the  Viceroy.  In  criticising  the 
steps  which  Lord  Lytton  was  com- 
pelled to  take  between  June  and 
October  of  last  year,  the  Opposition 
speakers,  with  scarcely  an  excep- 
tion, took  no  account  of  the  diffi- 
culties which  circumscribed  the  ac- 
tion of  the  Government  of  India, 
limiting  its  choice  practically  to 
doing  what  it  did  or  doing  nothing; 
or  of  the  fact  that  the  last  chance 
of  saving  Afghanistan  from  falling 
altogether  under  Russian  influence 
was  just  then  slipping  from  our 
fingers.  The  Government  knew  well 
that  Shere  Ali  was  so  far  committed 
to  his  Russian  friends,  that  he  could 
not  venture  to  accept  our  terms  un- 
less some  show  of  pressure  was  put 
upon  him.  There  was  still  a  possi- 
bility that  by  sending  a  mission  to 
his  own  capital,  to  put  before  him 
plainly  the  risk  that  he  was  run- 
ning, and  to  convince  him  of  the 
good  intentions  of  the  British  Gov- 
ernment, we  might  circumvent  the 
counsels  of  his  Russian  advisers, 
and  preserve  the  integrity  of  his 
territories.  The  despatch  of  a  Rus- 
sian mission  to  Cabul  compelled 
us  to  carry  out  our  plans  in  all 
haste.  The  Ameer  had  repeatedly 
said  that  he  could  not  be  respon- 


sible for  the  safety  of  an  English 
mission,  and  therefore  it  was  neces- 
sary that  it  should  be  made  suffi- 
ciently strong  to  protect  itself.  It  was 
of  no  use  then  to  talk  of  negotiations 
on  the  frontier ;  the  only  assurance 
that  we  could  have  of  Shere  Ali's 
real  intentions  was  by  seeing  him  face 
to  face,  and  directly  foiling  the  ad- 
vice of  the  foreign  intriguers.     At 
the  same  time,  there  was  little  pros- 
pect of  Shere  Ali  being  able  to  free 
himself  from  the  pro-Russian  clique 
in  his  Durbar   sufficiently  to   em- 
brace  the   opportunity  which    the 
Viceroy   was    offering    him.       His 
temper    had    again    undergone    a 
change  for  the  worse  since  the  death 
of  his  son  Abdulla,  and  his  mind 
had  again  relapsed  into  that  state 
of  reckless  and  sullen  moroseness 
which   had    formerly  characterised 
ifc    after    the    battle    of    Kujhbaz. 
Knowing  this,  the  Government  of 
India  had  little  hope  for  a  peace- 
ful  settlement   of    our   differences 
with    the    Ameer ;    but    none    of 
the  steps  which  it  took  betrayed 
any  such  feeling.     It  made  every 
preparation  for  the  despatch  of  a 
friendly    mission;    it    omitted    no 
formality  that  was   due   to    Shere 
Ali's  dignity  or  to  its  own  honour ; 
it  went    to  work  with    deliberate 
and  diplomatic  gravity,  although  it 
must  have  been  conscious  that  its 
pains  were  lost  labour;  it  addres- 
sed  the   Ameer  in   language   that 
was  both  dignified  and  courteous : 
and  when  the   Mission  did  fail — 
when   the    Ameer  with    his   eyes 
open  spurned  the  British  alliance, 
thinking    in    all    probability   that 
Russia  would  support  him — no  re- 
flections could  with  justice  rest  upon 
the  Government  of  India ;  and  by 
a  strong  majority,  both  in  Parlia- 
ment and  in  the  country,  Britain 
has   stamped   its  course   with   her 
approval. 

From  what  we  have  said,  some 
may  feel  that   Shere   Ali   is  in  a 


1879.] 


The  Afghan  War  and  its  Authors. 


131 


sense  a  victim  to  the  Liberal  desire 
to  conciliate  Russia  and  keep  in  ac- 
cord with  Mr  Gladstone's  speeches  j 
and  that  if  abstract  justice  were  to 
be  done,  we  ought  rather  to  impeach 
Lord  Northbrook  than  make  war 
upon  the  Ameer.  We  have  no  desire 
to  encourage  any  such  false  sym- 
pathy for  Shere  Ali.  His  conduct 
towards  us  has  been  selfish,  insin- 
cere, and  ungrateful.  Our  assistance 
kept  him  on  the  throne  at  a  time 
when  he  in  all  probability  would 
not  have  maintained  himself  in  Ca- 
bul  for  twelve  months,  but  for  the 
British  friendship  and  money  and 
arms,  against  the  ability  and  popu- 
larity which  Abdulruhman  Khan 
then  enjoyed.  He  may  have  had 
some  excuse  for  resenting  the  in- 
different treatment  he  met  with 
from  Lord  North  brook,  but  that 
furnished  him  with  no  excuse  for 
slighting  the  manifest  disposition 
which  Lord  Lytton  evinced  to  give 
him  efficient  guarantees  for  the  in- 
tegrity of  .his  dominions;  nor  for 
his  intrigues  with  a  Power  with 
whom  our  relations  were  in  a  pre- 
carious position ;  nor  for  the  threats 
which  he  had  publicly  uttered  of 
hostilities  towards  the  Government 
that  had  befriended  him  and  main- 
tained his  power.  Lord  Cranbrook, 
in  his  despatch  of  the  18th  No- 
vember, has  summed  up  Shere  Ali's 
personal  offence  in  language  that  is 
severely  and  impartially  judicious, 
and  we  cannot  do  better  than  quote 
his  lordship's  exact  words : — 

"  This  conduct  on  the  part  of  the 
Ameer  was  wholly  without  justifica- 
tion. He  was  aware,  from  various 
communications  addressed  to  him  by 
your  Excellency's  predecessors,  that 
the  Russian  Government  had  given 
assurance  to  the  Government  of  her 
Majesty  to  regard  his  territories  as 
completely  beyond  its  sphere  of  action. 
He  was  equally  aware  that  the  whole 
policy  of  the  British  Government  since 
his  accession  to  the  throne  had  been 
to  strengthen  his  power  and  authority, 
and  to  protect  him  from  foreign  aggres- 


sion, although  the  methods  adopted  for 
doing  so  may  not  have  at  all  times 
accorded  with  his  Highness's  own 
views.  He  had  received  from  the  Brit- 
ish Government  evidence  of  goodwill, 
manifested  by  large  gifts  of  money 
and  arms,  as  well  as  by  its  successful 
efforts  in  obtaining  from  the  Czar's 
Government  its  formal  recognition  of 
a  fixed  boundary  agreeable  to  himself 
between  his  kingdom  and  the  neigh- 
bouring Khanates.  His  subjects  had 
been  allowed  to  pass  freely  throughout 
India,  to  the  great  benefit  of  the  trade 
and  commerce  of  his  country;  and  in 
no  single  instance  has  the  Ameer  him- 
self, or  any  of  his  people,  been  treated 
unjustly  or  inhospitably  within  British 
jurisdiction.  By  every  bond  of  inter- 
national courtesy,  as  well  as  by  the 
treaty  engagement  of  1855  existing  be- 
tween the  two  countries,  binding  him 
to  be  the  friend  of  our  friends,  and  the 
enemy  of  our  enemies,  the  Ameer  was 
bound  to  a  line  of  conduct  the  reverse 
of  that  which  he  adopted." 

So  far  as  Shere  Ali  personally  is 
concerned,  we  can  have  no  compunc- 
tions about  either  the  justice  or  the 
necessity  of  the  war  :  we  may  feel 
sorry  for  his  subjects ;  but  there  is 
this  consolation,  that  however  irk- 
some to  them  may  be  a  temporary 
occupation  of  their  country,  it  has 
saved  them  from  worse  evils,  which 
Shere  Ali's  Russian  leanings  would 
infallibly  have  brought  upon  them. 

The  discussions  in  Parliament  on 
the  Address,  on  the  Vote  of  Censure, 
and  on  the  imposition  of  the  cost 
of  the  Affghan  expedition  on  the 
Indian  revenues,  have  on  the  whole 
been  of  benefit.  The  strong  majori- 
ties in  both  Houses  who  voted  con- 
fidence in  the  Government,  and  the 
still  stronger  majority  in  the  Com- 
mons on  the  question  of  finance, 
have  given  a  direct  contradiction 
to  the  Liberal  assertions  that  the 
Conservative  party  was  divided  and 
breaking  into  disunion.  The  con- 
duct of  the  Opposition,  on  the  other 
hand,  clearly  showed  that  they  had 
no  intention  to  deal  with  Afghan- 
istan themselves,  and  no  desire  to 


132 


Tlie  Afghan  War  and  its  Authors. 


[Jan. 


wrest  the  question  out  of  the  hands 
of  Government.  They  knew  also 
that  the  course  which  they  pro- 
posed to  themselves  met  with  no 
sympathy  outside  the  ranks  of  their 
own  partisans ;  and  that  the  only 
support  which  they  were  receiving 
came  from  quarters  whose  assistance 
was  of  doubtful  benefit.  Under  such 
circumstances,  with  no  firm  ground 
for  attack,  and  feeling  themselves 
out  of  sympathy  with  the  country, 
it  is  hard  to  say  what  the  Liberal 
leaders  ought  to  have  done.  We 
have  no  quarrel  with  them  for  ful- 
filling the  functions  of  an  Opposi- 
tion. At  a  time  like  the  present 
the  want  of  sound  criticism  of  the 
measures  of  Government  would 
have  been  a  disadvantage  only  a 
little  less  than  the  clamours  of 
the  ill-conditioned  and  worse  organ- 
ised rabble  who  sought  to  annoy  the 
Government  and  the  country  during 
the  Eusso-Turkish  troubles.  The 
Opposition  arraignment  has  been, 
as  was  to  be  expected,  the  means 
of  strengthening  the  hands  of  Gov- 
ernment, and  of  making  its  policy 
clear  before  the  eyes  of  the  country. 
The  course  taken  by  Lord  Halifax  in 
the  Lords,  and  by  Mr  Whitbread  in 
the  Commons,  was  quite  defensible 
and  proper  from  a  party  point  of 
view,  and  the  Government  has  no 
reason  to  complain  either  of  the 
attack  or  of  its  result.  The  unfor- 
tunate feature  in  the  present  state 
of  the  Opposition  is,  that  its  proced- 
ure is  liable  to  be  taken  advantage 
•of  by  an  irresponsible  and  intract- 
able section  of  its  own  members, 
who  discard  argument  for  personal 
abuse  and  imputation  of  motives,  in 
a  style  of  debate  that  until  the  last 
few  years  we  had  been  accustomed  to 
look  upon  as  peculiarly  characteris- 
tic of  Mr  Gladstone's  "kin  beyond 
sea." 

The  meeting  of  Parliament  found 
the  Opposition  without  any  definite 
plans,  but  disposed  to  turn  to  account 


such  opportunities  as  the  situation 
might  offer.  They  got  little  assist- 
ance from  the  Queen's  Speech  ;  and 
the  telegram  of  the  successful  attack 
on  the  Pei  war  Pass,  arriving  as  it  did, 
while  the  Houses  were  assembling, 
was  not  encouraging.  There  was 
also  an  embarrassing  want  of  unan- 
imity of  purpose  among  themselves 
which  forbade  their  indulging 
hopes  of  being  able  to  direct  a 
strong  and  combined  attack  against 
Government.  A  considerable  party 
was  anxious  to  discharge  the  duty 
of  a  constitutional  Opposition,  to 
criticise  the  action  of  Govern- 
ment without  seeking  to  embar- 
rass or  obstruct  it.  Another  was 
determined  to  do  anything  that 
might  bring  the  Government  into 
disrepute,  irrespective  of  conse- 
quences. While  a  third,  and  a 
very  large  section,  though  at  heart 
approving  of  the  Government's 
Afghan  policy,  joined  in  the 
Opposition  vote  because  they  knew 
that  it  could  do  no  harm.  Had 
the  division  been  a  neck-and-neck 
struggle,  and  had  the  prosecution 
of  the  Affghan  war  depended  upon 
the  result,  we  have  little  doubt  that 
many  Liberal  members  would  have 
thought  twice  about  their  vote  be- 
fore they  followed  Mr  Whitbread 
into  the  lobby. 

The  chief  feature  of  the  debates 
in  the  House  of  Lords  was  Lord 
Cranbrook's  spirited  and  convinc- 
ing vindication  of  the  policy  of 
Government,  and  of  his  own  sum- 
mary of  it  in  his  despatch  of  the 
18th  November.  In  this  difficulty 
the  country  has  leaned  more  upon 
his  lordship  than  upon  any  other 
individual  member  of  the  Cabinet, 
and  its  confidence  has  not  been 
misplaced.  The  narrative  which 
we  have  set  before  our  readers  will 
show  that  neither  in  his  despatch 
nor  in  his  speeches  in  the  House  has 
Lord  Cranbrook  borne  more  strongly 
upon  the  evil  effects  of  Lord  North- 


1879.] 


The  Afghan  War  and  its  Authors. 


133 


brook's  dealings  with  Shere  AH 
than  plain  facts  warranted.  Lord 
Granville's  criticism  dealt  almost  en- 
tirely with  petty  personal  details, 
with  carping  objections  to  the 
despatches  of  Government,  with 
charges  of  inconsistent  action,  and 
with  insinuations  that  the  Minis- 
try had  warped  the  truth  in  the 
accounts  which  it  had  given  of  the 
origin  of  the  Affghan  difficulty.  In 
both  Houses  the  leaders  of  the  Op- 
position, in  the  debate  on  the  Ad- 
dress, presented  the  curious  spec- 
tacle of  persons  who  had  definitely 
made  up  their  mind,  and  who  yet, 
by  their  own  confession,  were  not 
able  to  render  a  reason  for  their  con- 
victions. Lord  Cranbrook,  however, 
boldly  faced  the  issues  that  Lord 
Granville  had  scrupled  to  raise,  and 
in  a  tone  worthy  of  his  position 
resented  the  base  allegations  which 
Mr  Gladstone  at  Woolwich,  and  Mr 
Childers  at  Pontefract,  had  made 
against  the  despatches. 

"I  take  upon  myself,"  said  Lord 
Cranbrook,  "  the  entire  responsibility 
of  the  despatch  of  the  18th  November; 
and  I  neither  apologise  for  nor  retract 
a  single  sentence  of  it — (cheers).  The 
noble  earl  (Lord  Granville)  has  spoken 
in  a  different  tone  from  that  which  has 
been  held  out  of  doors.  I  sat  with 
hon.  and  right  hon.  gentlemen  opposite 
me  in  the  other  House  for  twenty  years, 
and  on  no  occasion  have  I  known  my 
conduct  to  be  impugned  for  honesty 
and  integrity.  But  one  of  these  right 
hon.  gentlemen,  in  the  coarsest  invec- 
tive, has  charged  me  with  falsehood ; 
and  another  has,  with  more  poisonous 
insinuations,  held  me  up  as  guilty  of 
that  offence.  If  I  have  committed  the 
offence  which  they  allege  in  publishing 
that  despatch — if  I  have  wantonly  or 
deliberately  prejudiced  the  public  mind 
against  the  late  Ministry  without  truth 
and  reason — I  admit  the  justice  of  all 
the  attacks  which  have  been  made 
upon  me.  The  question  is  not  whether 
I  arrived  at  a  right  or  wrong  conclu- 
sion, but  whether  I  took  such  fair  and 
reasonable  means  as  I  was  bound  to  do 
in  arriving  at  the  conclusion  stated  in 


that  despatch  —  whether  I  put  down 
that  which  would  fairly  arise  in  one's 
mind  from  an  examination  of  the 
papers  before  me." 

In  spite  of  this  challenge  to  re- 
duce the  controversy  to  a  question 
of  facts,  and  of  Lord  Salisbury's  ex- 
posure of  the  motives  on  which  the 
personal  attacks  of  the  Liberal 
party  were  grounded,  the  discussion 
on  the  Address  did  not  rise  above 
personal  recrimination  on  the  part 
of  the  Liberal  peers.  As  Lord 
Salisbury  pointed  out,  the  policy  of 
the  Opposition  was  to  confine  itself 
to  small  personal  attack  in  order 
to  draw  aside  the  attention  of  the 
country  from  the  broad  issues  before 
it,  so  that  the  fact  might  be  con- 
cealed that  the  main  props  of  the 
Liberal  party  had  been  taking  the 
side  of  the  enemies  of  their  country. 
The  attempt  made  by  Earl  Grey  to 
raise  the  question  of  prerogative  in 
the  declaration  of  war  without  con- 
sulting Parliament,  naturally  broke 
down,  as  his  lordship  admitted  the 
prerogative,  and  did  not  show  that 
its  exercise  had  been  inexpedient  in 
the  present  instance.  The  patriotic 
speech  of  the  Duke  of  Somerset 
was  of  great  significance,  coming 
from  the  Liberal  side  of  the  House. 
It  was  the  most  practical  rebuke 
that  the  Gladstone  faction  has  yet 
received,  and  was  the  only  speech  on 
the  Opposition  benches  that  frank- 
ly stated  the  difficulties  that  the 
Government  had  to  contend  with. 
Lord  JSTorthbrook,  on  the  other 
hand,  confined  himself  to  textual 
criticism  of  the  Government  de- 
spatch, and  never  once  faced  the 
question  on  the  broad  lines  of 
policy.  Lord  Beaconsfield,  there- 
fore, was  not  unfair  when  he  stated 
that  the  House  had  been  compelled 
to  waste  its  time  in  an  official 
squabble,  while  the  country  was 
waiting  for  its  deliverance  upon  a 
question  of  vital  interest  to  our 
future  in  the  East. 


134 


The  Affglian  War  and  its  Authors. 


[Jail. 


The  debate  in  the  Commons  was 
even  more  spiritless  than  that  in 
the  upper  House.  Lord  Hartington 
in  a  speech,  the  moderation  and  judi- 
cial tone  of  which  presented  a  strik- 
ing contrast  to  the  invective  and  per- 
sonal abuse  with  which  he  wound 
up  the  debate  on  the  Vote  of  Cen- 
sure, took  up  the  same  position  with 
Earl  Granville,  that  the  Government 
was  wrong,  but  that  they  had  not 
had  time  to  get  together  the  proof 
necessary  for  its  conviction.  The 
speech  was  one  to  which,  as  a  piece 
of  Opposition  criticism,  no  objec- 
tion could  have  been  taken ;  while 
the  sentiments  which  he  expressed 
of  the  necessity  for  supporting  Gov- 
ernment, and  enabling  it  to  pro- 
secute the  war  to  a  speedy  issue, 
met  with  general  commendation.  A 
chief  feature  in  the  discussion  was 
the  remarkable  reticence  of  Mr  Glad- 
stone, who  on  this  occasion  waived 
his  usual  custom  of  occupying  lines 
in  advance  of  those  taken  up  by 
his  leader,  and  who  indulged  only  in 
a  few  trifling  criticisms  of  the  text  of 
the  Queen's  speech.  Sir  Stafford 
Northcote's  vindication  of  the  policy 
of  the  Government  put  very  clearly 
before  the  House  the  fallacies  on 
which  Lord  Hartington's  strictures 
had  been  founded.  He  conclusively 
showed  that  it  was  for  no  question 
of  prestige  that  we  were  at  war, 
that  it  was  for  no  lust  of  territory, 
but  simply  for  the  safety  of  our 
Indian  empire.  As  for  Lord  Har- 
tington's assertion  that  we  were  bent 
on  picking  a  quarrel  with  the  Ameer, 
he  pointed  out  that  the  Govern- 
ment of  India  had  striven  to  smooth 
away  all  cause  of  offence,  but  that 
"  the  reception  of  a  Russian  mission 
at  Cabul  at  a  time  when  an  English 
mission  was  refused — and  refused  on 
two  grounds :  one, that  theycouldnot 
receive  any  mission  at  all ;  the  other, 
that  if  they  received  an  English  they 
must  also  receive  a  Russian  mission," 
-  —practically  left  us  no  alternative  but 


hostilities.  Towards  the  end  of  the 
debate  Mr  Childers's  speech  reassur- 
ed the  House  that  the  discreditable 
language  which  he  had  employed  at 
Pontefract  was  not  a  mistake  into 
which  he  had  allowed  himself  to  be 
carried  by  his  feelings  on  the  sub- 
ject, to  be  ashamed  of  afterwards, 
but  studied  abuse.  The  right  hon- 
ourable gentleman,  who  alone  of 
all  the  late  Cabinet  seems  able  to 
keep  pace  with  the  vehemence  of 
his  chief,  assailed  the  Government 
on  the  threadbare  charge  of  Lord 
Cranbrook's  9th  paragraph,  which 
he  sought  by  an  elaborate  argu- 
ment from  analogy  to  show  to  be 
wrong.  Altogether,  if  the  debate 
in  the  Lords  had  been  unsatisfactory 
to  the  country,  the  discussion  in  the 
Commons  was  still  more  so,  except 
that  it  served  to  bring  out  the  fact 
of  the  unanimous  view  which  Min- 
isters took  of  the  Affghan  war,  and 
of  the  thorough  grasp  which  the 
Cabinet  had  of  the  whole  question. 
With  so  little  encouragement  as 
the  discussions  on  the  Address  af- 
forded, it  is  a  question  whether  the 
Opposition  was  justified  in  proceed- 
ing with  the  Vote  of  Censure  at  all. 
From  the  statements  of  both  Earl 
Granville  and  Lord  Hartington  we 
may  conclude  that  the  Vote  of 
Censure  was  resolved  upon,  and 
notice  given  of  it,  before  the  Oppo- 
sition had  come  to  any  understand- 
ing as  to  the  grounds  on  which  it 
was  to  be  justified.  Although  we  in 
Britain  can  estimate  a  party  demon- 
stration at  its  true  value,  abroad 
there  is  some  danger  of  the  public 
being  misled;  and  it  can  hardly 
be  gratifying  to  Earl  Granville  and 
Lord  Hartington  to  think  that  M. 
Gambetta's  organ,  the  '  Republique 
Frangaise,'  feels  it  necessary  to  give 
the  members  under  their  leadership 
a  lecture  in  the  duties  of  patriotism. 
However,  right  or  wrong,  they  took 
the  step  of  censuring  the  Govern- 
ment, and  must  now  abide  by  the 


1879.] 


TJie  Affglian  War  and  its  Authors. 


135 


result,  whether  as  affecting  their 
influence  at  home  or  their  credit 
abroad.  In  the  Lords,  the  Opposi- 
tion speakers  still  played  with  the 
real  points  in  the  controversy.  The 
chief  argument  by  which  Lord  Hal- 
ifax supported  his  amendment  of 
censure, — that  the  Government  was 
violating  the  Treaty  of  1855  with 
Dost  Mohammed,  and  that  this  was 
tantamount  to  a  breach  of  faith, 
which  would  be  looked  upon  in  the 
East  as  an  act  of  spoliation, — was 
not  a  happy  one.  Article  III.  of 
that  Treaty  distinctly  engages,  on 
the  part  of  Dost  Mohammed  and 
his  heirs,  that  they  "are  to  be 
the  friend  of  the  friends,  and  ene- 
my of  the  enemies,  of  the  Honour- 
able East  India  Company," — both 
of  which  conditions  had  indisput- 
ably been  violated  by  the  present 
Ameer. 

It  is  a  remarkable  fact  that  neith- 
er Lord  Northbrook  nor  Lord  Law- 
rence made  any  attempt  to  close 
with  the  main  arguments  which 
Lord  Cranbrook  had  put  before  the 
House.  Lord  Lawrence,  indeed, 
offered  no  defence  of  his  own  isolat- 
ed policy,  which  had  countenanced 
so  much  cruel  bloodshed  in  Afghan- 
istan, and  had  imbued  the  Ameer 
with  so  deeply  rooted  an  idea  of 
British  selfishness.  The  only  coun- 
sel that  Lord  Lawrence  could 
offer,  was  to  go  back  to  "  Masterly 
Inactivity,"  to  take  no  notice  of 
the  Ameer's  insulting  conduct,  and 
generally  to  let  events  take  care  of 
themselves.  The  only  impression 
his  lordship's  speech  made  was  one 
of  profound  pain  that  a  statesman 
to  whom  Britain  owes  so  much  and 
whom  it  rates  so  highly  should  be  so 
unable  to  discern  the  signs  of  the 
times.  With  Lord  Northbrook  the 
case  is  different.  In  Westminster, 
as  at  Simla,  his  lordship  is  still 
summing  up  in  a  tone  conciliatory 
to  Eussia,  and  in  accord  with  Mr 
Gladstone's  speeches.  How  far 


successful  his  lordship  has  been 
in  the  latter  respect  appears  from 
the  tone  of  his  references  to  his 
successor,  and  to  the  measures 
which  Lord  Lytton  has  been  com- 
pelled to  take  to  avert  the  con- 
sequences of  his  —  Lord  JSTorth- 
brook's — treatment  of  the  Ameer. 
The  House  had  good  reason  to 
complain  of  the  line  adopted  by 
Lord  Northbrook  in  the  debate. 
He  had  had  better  opportunities 
tli an  any  other  peer  on  the  side 
of  the  Opposition  of  knowing 
how  serious  was  the  danger  which 
pressed  the  Government  of  India 
to  action,  how  hopeless  it  was  to 
think  of  influencing  the  Ameer,  and 
what  contingencies  we  had  to  ex- 
pect if  the  Ministry  stood  quiet- 
ly by  and  allowed  events  in  High 
Asia  to  take  their  course.  And 
yet  Lord  Northbrook  made  no  ad- 
mission that  there  was  any  emer- 
gency j  he  entirely  left  out  of  sight 
that  there  was  a  side  to  the  AfFghan 
question  other  than  our  mere  differ- 
ence with  Shere  Ali ;  and  he  only 
made  use  of  the  knowledge  which 
he  had  acquired  in  his  official  capa- 
city to  attack  and  depreciate  the 
Government  and  his  successor. 

The  vigorous  speech  of  the  Lord 
Chancellor,  on  the  second  night  of 
the  debate,  effectually  cleared  away 
all  the  irrelevant  issues  that  the 
Liberal  peers  had  raised,  and 
brought  the  discussion  back  to  the 
main  question — the  change  that 
came  over  the  Ameer's  disposition 
towards  the  Government  of  India 
during  Lord  Northbrook's  viceroy- 
alty.  He  followed  up  with  legal 
precision  the  various  steps  by  which 
the  Ameer,  repelled  by  the  Viceroy, 
got  deeper  and  deeper  enmeshed  in 
the  toils  of  Eussia,  until  practically 
he  lost  the  power  of  choosing  for 
himself  between  the  friendship  of 
the  Indian  Government  and  that  of 
General  Kauffmann.  Another  point 
which  the  Liberals  seemed  inclined 


136 


The  Affghan  War  and  its  Authors. 


[Jan. 


to  insist  on  was  well  disposed  of  by 
Lord  Cairns.  If  Russia  has  really 
led  the  Ameer  into  war,  why  not 
punish  the  stronger  Power  ?  Why 
not  declare  war  against  Russia? 
Mr  Gladstone  advanced  this  argu- 
ment in  the  other  House,  but  did 
not  say  that  the  Government,  in  the 
event  of  its  adopting  his  suggestion, 
might  rely  upon  his  support.  On 
the  contrary,  we  have  no  hesitation 
in  saying  that,  had  we  sought  to 
make  Russia  responsible  for  Shere 
Ali's  infidelity  to  his  engagements 
with  the  British  Government,  Mr 
Gladstone,  had  his  reason  withstood 
the  shock,  would  have  lashed  him- 
self and  his  party  into  frenzy  at  the 
criminality  of  such  conduct !  But 
Lord  Cairns  was  careful  to  point  out 
that  it  was  with  the  Ameer,  not 
with  Russia,  that  our  quarrel  lay. 
We  made  no  cause  of  hostilities  of 
his  having  received  a  Russian  en- 
voy, but  of  his  having  refused  to 
receive  one  from -us  at  the  same 
time.  And  Russia  seems  well 
pleased  to  accept  the  distinction 
which  we  have  drawn.  It  is,  how- 
ever, a  remarkable  illustration  of 
the  shifts  to  which  party  misrepre- 
sentation has  been  recently  put, 
that  the  very  persons  who  for  the 
last  two  years  have  been  endeavour- 
ing to  fasten  upon  Lord  Beacons- 
field's  Government  the  charge  of 
seeking  to  provoke  Russia,  should 
now  make  it  a  ground  of  complaint 
that  we  do  not  send  her  an  ulti- 
matum to  disavow  all  connection 
with  Shere  Ali's  misconduct. 

In  the  Lower  House,  as  in  the 
Lords,  there  was  no  real  attempt 
made  to  grapple  with  the  issues 
raised  by  the  Government.  In- 
deed, Mr  Whitbread  and  those 
who  followed  the  same  line  of  argu- 
ment were  careful  to  avoid  closing 
with  Ministers  upon  those  points 
which  they  had  declared  to  be  the 
motives  of  their  policy.  They  avow- 
edly directed  their  criticism  to  the 


past,  and  refused  to  be  influenced  by 
any  considerations  for  the  future. 
They  contented  themselves  with 
bringing  home  certain  charges  to 
the  Ministry,  and  never  asked 
themselves  whether,  supposing 
these  charges  to  be  proved,  the 
Cabinet  had  not  yet  a  good  excuse 
for  acting  as  it  had  done.  They 
narrowed  the  question  to  the  mere 
quarrel  between  the  Viceroy  and 
the  Ameer,  and  declined  to  recog- 
nise that  this  was  only  one  of  the 
elements  in  the  difficulty,  and  that 
there  were  other  Powers  involved 
besides  Affghanistan. 

The  debate  flagged  wofully  to- 
wards the  end,  and  the  device  of 
the  Opposition  to  spread  its  best 
speakers  over  successive  nights  to 
protract  the  discussion,  failed  to 
keep  up  any  interest.  Certainly 
there  can  be  no  complaint  that  the 
Government  sought  to  stifle  dis- 
cussion; for  every  one  who  knew 
anything  about  the  subject  was 
allowed  to  have  his  say,  as  well  as 
those  who  knew  nothing  whatever 
about  it.  We  would  scarcely  per- 
haps be  justified  in  including  Sir 
William  Harcourt  in  this  latter 
class;  but  his  speech  on  the  last 
night  of  the  debate  certainly  show- 
ed that  he  was  far  from  having 
mastered  the  history  of  our  rela- 
tions with  Afghanistan.  He  at- 
tributes the  alienation  of  the  Ameer 
entirely  to  Lord  Lytton,  although 
the  Blue-books  contain  letters  from 
him  to  Lord  Northbrook  couched 
in  an  unfriendly  and  insulting  tone, 
and  although  the  Ameer  himself 
distinctly  refers  all  his  complaints 
against  the  Government  of  India 
to  the  period  of  Lord  Northbrook's 
viceroyalty.  He  also  makes  the 
mistake  of  asserting  that  the  Ameer's 
secret  correspondence  with  Russia 
began  in  1876,  and  was  due  to 
Lord  Lytton's  menacing  attitude. 
Long  before  that,  our  Government 
was  cognisant  of  Russian  missions 


1879.] 


The  Afghan  War  and  its  Authors. 


137 


to  Cabul,  of  correspondence  with 
the  Ameer,  and  of  attempts  to 
draw  him  into  Eussian  alliance; 
and,  as  the  Central  Asian  papers 
show,  not  indifferent  to  these  in- 
trigues. Sir  William  Harcourt  was 
much  stronger  in  his  epithets  than 
in  his  facts;  and  if  "blood-and- 
thunder  policy,"  the  "  old  red  Tory 
flag,"  and  "bastard  imperialism," 
did  not  strike  terror  into  the 
Ministerial  benches,  the  phrases  will 
doubtless  prove  acceptable  addi- 
tions to  the  Liberal  repertoire  of 
abuse,  which,  in  the  hands  of  its 
present  editors,  seems  likely  to 
undergo  an  indefinite  and  enliven- 
ing expansion.  The  speech  by 
which  the  Marquis  of  Hartington 
wound  up  the  debate  would  re- 
quire no  notice  but  for  the  remark- 
able difference  between  its  tone  and 
that  of  his  remarks  on  the  Address. 
His  language  in  the  first  debate 
was  so  patriotic,  so  considerate, 
and  in  such  excellent  taste,  as  to 
elicit  general  compliments  from 
the  Opposition  press.  In  the  de- 
bate on  the  Vote  of  Censure,  in 
invective  and  in  vilification  of 
the  Viceroy,  his  harangue  went, 
if  possible,  beyond  Mr  Gladstone 
himself.  A  very  general  signifi- 
cance is  attached  in  parliamentary 
circles  to  this  change  of  attitude. 
It  is  held  that  Lord  Hartington 
began  the  session  with  an  earnest 
desire  to  keep  himself  in  harmony 
with  the  Whig  party,  to  whose 
sentiments  the  Duke  of  Somerset 
in  the  Peers  gave  correct  expres- 
sion; but  that,  finding  the  Glad- 
stonian  faction  too  strong  for  him, 
he  has  been  compelled  reluctantly 
to  swim  with  the  Eadical  tide. 

The  other  speakers  on  the 
Opposition  side  never  once  rose 
above  technical  criticism,  or 
pointed  out  any  other  course 
that  the  Government  could  have 
pursued  with  more  advantage  to 
the  country.  When  Lord  John 


Manners,  in  his  spirited  and  power- 
ful speech  in  the  second  night's  de- 
bate, which  entirely  carried  with 
it  the  feelings  of  the  House, 
put  the  plain  question,  "What 
would  the  critics  of  the  Indian 
Government  have  done  had  they 
been  in  the  same  position  as  Lord 
Lytton?"  there  was  no  response 
hazarded.  From  the  opening  to 
the  end  of  the  debates  in  both 
Houses,  it  was  evident  that  the 
Opposition  would  not  join  issue 
with  the  Government  upon  the 
only  ground  where  discussion  was 
possible  —  namely,  whether  the 
Affghan  war  was  a  legitimate 
measure  for  the  defence  of  our 
Indian  empire ;  or  whether  we  could 
have  waived  armed  interference 
with  the  Ameer,  and  yet  saved  the 
honour  of  the  Indian  Government 
and  the  safety  of  our  north-west 
frontier  ?  The  sweeping  majorities 
in  both  Houses  return  the  only 
answer  that  a  British  Parliament 
could  have  given,  and  the  Liberal 
party  once  more  discovers  that  it 
has  succeeded  in  placing  itself  in 
opposition,  not  so  much  to  Minis- 
ters as  to  the  temper  of  the  nation. 
The  result  leaves  no  doubt  that 
the  Government  is  as  strong  as,  if 
not  stronger  than,  it  has  been  at  any 
previous  period,  and  that  the  boasts 
which  the  Opposition  has  been  mak- 
ing of  recent  gains,  are  altogether 
without  foundation. 

There  are  one  or  two  speeches 
that  call  for  a  passing  notice,  more 
from  intrinsic  circumstances  than 
from  any  influence  that  they  exer- 
cised on  the  debate.  The  two  ex- 
Ministers  gave  the  Government  the 
full  benefit  of  their  opposition,  and 
if  they  did  not  both  record  their 
votes  for  the  amendment,  they 
both  did  their  best  to  furnish  the 
assailants  of  the  Government  with 
arguments.  The  Cabinet  is  to  be 
congratulated  that  statesmen  who 
are  so  indifferent  to  the  credit  of 


138 


The  Afghan  War  and  its  Authors. 


[Jan. 


our  Indian  administration  in  the 
eyes  of  the  other  kingdoms  and 
states  of  Asia,  and  who  most  cer- 
tainly had  shared  in  the  responsi- 
bility of  the  measures  which  they 
now  condemn,  had  ceased  to  impede 
its  counsels  before  the  present  crisis 
came  on.  With  regard  to  Lord 
Derby,  the  Central  Asian  papers 
just  published  contain  conclusive 
evidence  that  his  resignation  did 
not  take  place  a  day  too  soon  for 
the  weighty  interests  of  our  Foreign 
Office.  We  have  ample  evidence 
that  it  was  Lord  Salisbury  who 
watched  over  the  Russian  advance, 
and  who  combated  the  slippery 
policy  of  Prince  Gortschakoff  in 
Central  Asia,  to  which  the  proper 
head  of  the  Foreign  Office  seems 
himself  to  have  been  profoundly  in- 
different. Mr  Gladstone's  speech, 
also,  has  an  interest  that  lies  quite 
apart  from  the  subject  of  debate. 
The  general  impression  was,  that 
as  the  right  honourable  gentleman 
had  purged  himself  of  so  much 
abuse  in  the  congenial  mud  of 
Woolwich  quite  recently,  he  would 
be  in  a  position  to  treat  the  House 
to  temperate  argument.  But  this 
was  a  mistake.  Mr  Gladstone 
seemed  disposed  to  say  at  his  leis- 
ure that  all  the  Ministers  were  liars, 
— and  that  was  about  all  that  he 
did  say.  As  the  '  Times  '  pithily  re- 
marks of  the  ex-Premier's  "  furious 
anatomy  of  Blue-books,"  "it  is  an 
unwelcome  task,  in  the  presence  of 
so  momentous  a  subject,  to  notice 
these  passionate  accusations ;  but 
it  will  enable  us  to  disregard  them 
for  the  future ;  and  there  is  really 
little  else  to  be  said  of  Mr  Glad- 
stone's speech." 

The  practical  solution  of  the 
question  in  Affghanistan  itself  has 
been  making  much  more  rapid  pro- 
gress than  our  efforts  at  home  to 
come  to  an  understanding  as  to  the 
causes  of  the  war  ;  and  it  is  no  small 
pleasure  to  be  able  to  turn  away 


from  the  display  of  party  passion, 
unscrupulous  misrepresentation,  and 
shifty  stratagem  that  is  going  on 
under  our  eyes,  to  mark  the  gallant 
start  that  our  army  has  made  on 
the  Afghan  border.  It  is  there  that 
the  real  interest  of  the  country  is  at 
present  centred.  It  is  only  natural 
that  the  sight  of  a  British  army  in 
the  field,  animated  by  all  the  tradi- 
tional spirit  and  valour  of  our  ser- 
vice, pressing  into  the  heart  of  the 
enemy's  country,  over  mountain  ram- 
parts manned  by  a  foe  that  we  have 
never  found  unworthy  of  us,  should 
make  us  for  a  time  forgetful  of  party 
feeling,  and  arouse  whatever  is  man- 
ly and  patriotic  in  the  national  char- 
acter. Whatever  view  may  be  taken 
of  the  objects  of  the  expedition,  or 
of  the  events  which  have  forced 
it  upon  us,  there  is  no  Englishman 
but  must  feel  a  pride  in  noting  the 
bearing  of  our  columns  as  they 
make  their  way  up  the  Affghan 
passes.  We  are  satisfied  now  that 
the  Anglo-Indian  military  spirit  is 
the  same  as  it  was  in  the  days  of 
Clive  and  Wellesley ;  and  that  what- 
ever changes  our  Indian  armies  may 
have  been  subjected  to,  their  old 
promptness  to  fight  when  called 
upon  still  remains  unchanged.  The 
rapidity  with  which  the  Indian 
Government  was  able  to  put  so 
large  a  force  into  the  field,  has 
made  a  deep  impression  upon  Eu- 
ropean military  authorities,  and  is 
a  very  high  testimony  to  the  effi- 
ciency of  the  local  departments. 
The  bond  of  union  between  Euro- 
pean and  native  troops  has  been 
greatly  strengthened  by  the  well- 
judged  policy  which  brought  the 
latter  to  Malta.  And  what  is  not 
less  important  than  the  condition 
of  our  army,  we  carry  with  us  into 
Affghanistan  the  goodwill  and  even 
the  enthusiastic  support  of  our 
native  subjects,  the  princes  and 
people  of  India.  The  ready  assist- 
ance which  we  have  received  from 


1879.] 


The  Afghan  War  and  its  Authors. 


139 


the  Indian  chiefs,  has  promptly 
belied  the  doubts  which  some  little 
time  ago  the  Eussian  press  was  so 
eager  to  throw  upon  their  loyalty, 
and  which  some  of  our  own  news- 
papers were  equally  ready  to  reiterate. 
It  is  in  vain  that  Eadical  agitators 
have  sought  to  show  India  that  she 
is  badly  used  in  the  present  busi- 
ness, and  that  our  policy  is  impos- 
ing unwarrantable  burdens  on  her 
revenues.  The  national  feeling  in 
India  is  too  strongly  with  the 
Government  to  count  the  cost  at 
present;  and  the  only  response 
that  has  been  returned  to  the  home 
agitators  has  come  from  critics  quite 
as  ill-conditioned  as  themselves,  and 
of  equally  little  influence  in  their 
own  country. 

Up  to  the  present  date,  our  mili- 
tary operations  in  Affghanistan  have 
been  carried  on  without  a  single  re- 
verse. From  the  Khyber,  from  the 
Kurrum,  and  from  the  Bolan  Passes, 
we  have  penetrated  into  the  heart 
of  the  country  with  trifling  loss, 
and  with  some  notable  successes 
which  have  done  much  to  dispirit 
the  enemy.  The  ease  with  which 
the  important  position  of  Ali  Mus- 
jid,  the  key  of  the  Khyber,  fell 
into  our  hands,  gave  an  auspicious 
commencement  to  the  campaign ; 
and  the  brilliant  action  by  which 
General  Eoberts  carried  the  Peiwar 
Pass,  occurred  just  in  time  to 
brighten  the  rather  unfortunate 
circumstances  under  which  Parlia- 
ment was  assembling.  The  difficul- 
ties which  were  foreseen  at  the  com- 
mencement of  the  campaign  have 
vanished  before  the  march  of  our 
troops  in  a  surprising  manner.  The 
weather  has  been  our  powerful  ally, 
for  seldom  in  the  experience  of 
our  oldest  frontier  officers  have 
the  passes  kept  open  so  far  through 
the  winter.  The  frontier  tribes, 
as  we  ventured  to  predict  on  a 
previous  occasion,  have  been  on  the 
whole  friendly  to  us,  and  disposed 


to  help  the  troops  on  their  way ; 
while  the  cordial  reception  our 
officers  have  received  at  Jellalabad 
gives  us  ground  for  believing  that 
the  British  advance  is  welcomed  as 
relief  from  Shere  Ali's  tyrrany. 
Of  course  we  cannot  expect  the 
Aflghans  to  forego  the  pleasures  of 
"looting"  when  a  favourable  op- 
portunity offers ;  and  their  nature, 
always  ungovernable  and  prompt 
to  violence,  will  doubtless  break 
out  into  occasional  outrages.  And 
although  we  have  already  got  a 
commanding  footing  in  the  country 
with  comparatively  little  trouble, 
we  need  feel  no  surprise  if  some  of 
the  tribes  make  a  desperate  stand 
before  the  final  object  of  our  mission 
is  accomplished.  On  the  other 
hand,  there  is  some  probability  that 
our  task  may  be  more  nearly 
achieved  than  we  can  at  present 
reckon  on.  Ever  since  the  fall  of 
Ali  Musjid  first  struck  the  Cabul 
Durbar  with  alarm,  Shere  Ali's  posi- 
tion in  Cabul  must  naturally  have 
been  growing  desperate.  He  had 
long  ago  seen  that  he  has  nothing 
to  expect  from  the  assistance  of 
Eussia.  His  means  were  presum- 
ably approaching  exhaustion;  and 
his  subjects  were  disaffected,  and 
apparently  inclined  to  resent  his 
conduct  in  bringing  war  upon  their 
country.  Under  these  circumstan- 
ces, the  news  that  Shere  Ali  had 
abandoned  his  capital  and  taken 
refuge  in  Turkistan  excites  no  sur- 
prise. At  the  present  moment  it 
would  be  rash  to  say  whether  the 
flight  of  the  Ameer  simplifies  or 
complicates  the  prospect  of  a  satis- 
factory settlement.  The  future  of 
Affghanistan,  as  well  as  of  our  own 
policy  towards  it,  will  mainly  de- 
pend upon  the  attitude  of  Yakoob 
Khan  and  the  chiefs  who  still  stand 
by  him  in  Cabul,  and  who  will  pro- 
bably have  the  good  sense  to  see 
that  a  well-timed  submission  will 
be  very  much  in  their  own  interests. 


140 


The  Afghan  War  and  its  Authors. 


[Jan.  1879. 


An  object  of  the  war  was,  of  course, 
the  personal  punishment  of  Shere 
All  for  his  ingratitude  and  inso- 
lence, and  that  has  already  been 
attained  by  his  flight  from  his  capi- 
tal, to  which,  we  may  venture  to 
predict,  he  will  never  return  as  a 
sovereign.  He  will  now  see  what 
Russian  promises  are  worth,  and 
experience  the  practical  estimate 
of  the  value  which  the  St  Peters- 
burg Government  has  always  set 
upon  its  broken  tools.  We  do  not 
apprehend  that  the  Ameer's  flight 
to  the  Eussian  confines  will  be  a 
source  of  serious  misunderstanding 
between  Russia  and  her  Majesty's 
Government.  The  former  will 
most  probably  find  that  the  Ameer 
can  no  longer  forward  her  inter- 
ests, and  will  try  to  get  rid  of 
him  as  cheaply  as  possible.  The 
danger  that  we  most  readily 
foresee  would  be  the  establish- 
ment of  Shere  Ali  in  his  Turk- 
istan  territories,  nominally  as  an 
independent  sovereign,  but  really  as 
a  Russian  vassal,  to  disturb  and  an- 
noy whatever  system  of  administra- 
tion we  finally  resolve  to  establish  to 
the  south  of  the  Paropamisus.  It  is 
to  be  hoped,  however,  that  the  good 
understanding  with  Russia  which 
we  trust  will  follow  the  Afighan 
expedition,  will  prevent  any  such 
element  of  instability.  As  for  our- 


selves, the  success  of  the  expedition 
has  already  placed  us  in  a  position 
so  favourable  that  we  can  afford  to 
give  or  take  large  concessions.  With 
the  Khyber  in  our  hands  and  Canda- 
har  almost  within  our  grasp,  wehave, 
in  the  opinion  of  so  far-seeing  a  critic 
as  General  E.  B.  Hamley,  all  the 
strategical  advantages  necessary  for 
the  safety  of  our  frontier ;  and  there 
is  an  evident  disposition  to  give 
all  due  weight  to  the  views  of  so 
high  an  authority  in  the  settlement 
of  the  military  question.  A  num- 
ber of  other  important  matters 
must  come  up  for  consideration  at 
the  close  of  the  campaign  which  it 
would  be  premature  even  to  indi- 
cate at  this  moment.  Everything 
will  depend  upon  the  final  issue  of 
the  expedition,  and  the  course  taken 
by  the  Afighan  chiefs.  It  will  then 
be  time  to  discuss  how  the  ex- 
penses of  the  campaign  are  to  be 
apportioned  when  we  have  some 
data  to  go  by  more  certain  than 
Mr  Eawcett's  meddlesome  crotchets. 
There  is,  however,  one  question  that 
we  trust  will  finally  be  set  at  rest. 
The  Central  Asian  question,  with 
all  the  anxiety,  bad  feeling,  and 
expense  which  it  has  brought  upon 
our  Indian  empire,  must,  at  what- 
ever cost  and  at  whatever  hazard, 
be  finally  removed  from  among  our 
causes  of  political  disquiet. 


Printed  by  William  Blac&wood  &  Sons. 


BLACKWOOD'S 
EDINBUBGH    MAGAZINE. 


No.  DCCLX. 


FEBRUARY   1879. 


VOL.  CXXY. 


JOHN     CALDIGATE. — PART    XL 


CHAPTER   XLI. THE   FIRST   DAY. 


THEX  came  the  morning  on 
which  Caldigate  and  Hester  must 
part.  Very  little  had  been  said 
about  it,  but  a  word  or  two  had 
been  absolutely  necessary.  The 
trial  would  probably  take  t\vo  days, 
and  it  would  not  be  well  that  he 
should  be  brought  back  to  Folk  ing 
for  the  sad  intervening  night.  And 
then, — should  the  verdict  be  given 
against  him,  the  prison  doors  would 
be  closed  against  her,  his  wife, 
more  rigidly  than  against  any  other 
friend  who  might  knock  at  them 
inquiring  after  his  welfare.  Her, 
at  any  rate,  he  would  not  be  allow- 
ed to  see.  All  the  prison  authori- 
ties would  be  bound  to  regard  her 
as  the  victim  of  his  crime  and  as 
the  instrument  of  his  vice.  The 
law  would  have  locked  him  up  to 
her  injuries, — of  her,  whose 
uture  joy  eauld  come  from  that 
distant  freedom  which  the  fraudu- 
lent law  would  at  length  allow  to 
him.  All  this  was  not  put  into 
words  between  them,  but  it  was 
understood.  It  might  be  that  they 
were  to  be  parted  now  for  a  term 

VOL.  CXXV. — NO.  DCCLX. 


of  years,  during  which  she  would 
be  as  a  widow  at  Folking  while  he 
would  be  alone  in  his  jail. 

There  are  moments  as  to  which 
it  would  be  so  much  better  that 
their  coming  should  never  be  ac- 
complished !  It  would  have  been 
better  for  them  both  had  they  been 
separated  without  that  last  embrace. 
He  was  to  start  from  Folking  at 
eight,  that  he  might  surrender  him- 
self to  the  hands  of  justice  in  due 
time  for  the  trial  at  ten.  She  did 
not  come  down  with  him  to  tho 
breakfast  parlour,  having  been  re- 
quested by  him  not  to  be  there 
among  the  servants  when  he  took 
his  departure;  but  standing  there 
in  her  own  room,  with  his  baby  in 
her  arms,  she  spoke  her  last  word, 
"  You  will  keep  up  your  courage, 
John  1 " 

"  I  will  try,  Hester." 

"  I  will  keep  up  mine.  I  will 
never  fail,  for  your  sake  and  his," 
— here  she  held  the  child  a  moment 
away  from  her  bosom,  —  "I  will 
never  allow  myself  to  droop.  To  be 
your  wife  and  his  mother  shall  be 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XI. 


[Feb. 


enough  to  support  me  even  though 
you  should  be  torn  from  both  of  us 
for  a  time." 

"  I  wish  I  were  as  brave  as  you," 
he  said. 

"  You  will  leave  me  here,"  she 
continued,  "  mistress  of  your  house ; 
and  if  God  spares  me,  here  you  will 
find  me.  They  can't  move  me  from 
this.  Your  father  says  so.  They 
may  call  me  what  they  will,  but 
they  cannot  move  me.  There  is  the 
Lord  above  us,  and  before  Him  they 
cannot  make  me  other  than  your 
wife, — your  wife, — your  wife."  As 
she  repeated  the  name,  she  put  the 
boy  out  to  him,  and  when  he  had 
taken  the  child,  she  stretched  out 
her  hands  upwards,  and  falling  on 
her  knees  at  his  feet,  prayed  to  God 
for  his  deliverance.  "  Let  him  come 
back  to  us,  0  my  God.  Deliver 
him  from  his  enemies,  and  let  him 
come  back  to  us." 

"  One  kiss,  my  own,"  he  said,  as 
he  raised  her  from  the  ground. 

"  Oh  yes  ; — and  a  thousand  shall 
be  in  store  for  you  when  you  come 
back  to  us.  Yes ;  kiss  him  too. 
Your  boy  shall  hear  the  praises  of 
his  father  every  day,  till  at  last  he 
shall  understand  that  he  may  be 
proud  of  you  even  though  he  should 
have  learned  why  it  is  that  you  are 
not  with  him.  Now  go,  my  dar- 
ling. Go ;  and  support  yourself  by 
remembering  that  I  have  got  that 
within  me  which  will  support  me." 
Then  he  left  her. 

The  old  squire  had  expressed  his 
intention  of  being  present  through- 
out the  trial,  and  now  was  ready 
for  the  journey.  When  counselled 
to  remain  at  home,  both  by  Mr 
Seely  and  by  his  son,  he  had  de- 
clared that  only  by  his  presence 
could  he  make  the  world  around 
him  understand  how  confident  he 
was  of  his  son's  innocence.  So  it 
was  arranged,  and  a  place  was  kept 
for  him  next  to  the  attorney.  The 
servants  all  came  out  into  the  hall 


and  shook  hands  with  their  young 
master;  and  the  cook,  wiping  her 
eyes  with  her  apron,  declared  that 
she  would  have  dinner  ready  for 
him  on  the  following  day.  At  the 
front  door  Mr  Holt  was  standing, 
having  come  over  the  ferry  to  greet 
the  young  squire  before  his  depar- 
ture. "  They  may  say  what  they 
will  there,  squire,  but  they  won't 
make  none  of  us  here  believe  that 
you've  been  the  man  to  injure  a 
lady  such  as  she  up  there."  Then 
there  was  another  shaking  of  hands, 
and  the  father  and  son  got  into  the 
carriage. 

The  court  was  full,  of  course. 
Mr  Justice  Brarnber,  by  whom  the 
case  was  to  be  tried,  was  reputed 
to  be  an  excellent  judge,  a  man  of 
no  softnesses;  able  to  wear  the 
black  cap  without  convulsive  throb- 
bings,  anxious  also  that  the  law- 
should  run  its  course ;  averse  to 
mercy  when  guilt  had  been  proved, 
but  as  clear-sighted  and  as  just 
as  Minos ;  a  man  whom  nothing 
could  turn  one  way  or  another, 
— who  could  hang  his  friend,  but 
who  would  certainly  not  mulct  his 
enemy  because  he  was  his  enemy. 
It  had  reached  Caldigate's  ears  that 
he  was  unfortunate  in  his  judge; 
by  which,  they  who  had  so  said, 
had  intended  to  imply  that  this 
judge's  mind  would  not  be  pervert- 
ed by  any  sentiments  as  to  the 
prisoner,  as  to  the  sweet  young 
woman  who  called  herself  his  wife 
at  home,  or  as  to  want  of  sweetness 
on  the  part  of  the  other  woman 
who  claimed  him. 

The  jury  was  sworn  in  without 
more  than  ordinary  delay,  and  then 
the  trial  was  commenced.  That 
which  had  to  be  done  for  the  prose- 
cution seemed  to  be  simple  enough. 
The  first  witness  called  was  the 
woman  herself,  who  was  summoned 
in  the  names  of  Euphemia  Caldi- 
gate alias  Smith.  She  gave  her 
evidence  very  clearly,  and  with 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XL 


143 


great  composure, — saying  how  she 
had  become  acquainted  with  the 
man  on  board  the  ship;  how  she 
had  been  engaged  to  him  at  Mel- 
bourne ;  how  he  had  come  down  to 
her  at  Sydney ;  how,  in  compliance 
with  his  orders,  she  had  followed 
him  up  to  Ahalala;  and  how  she 
had  there  been  married  to  him  by 
Mr  Allan.  Then  she  brought  forth 
the  documents  which  professed  to 
be  the  copy  of  the  register  of  the 
marriage,  made  by  the  minister  in 
his  own  book ;  and  the  envelope, — 
the  damning  envelope, — which  Cal- 
•digate  was  prepared  to  admit  that  he 
had  himself  addressed  to  Mrs  Cal- 
digate; and  the  letter  which  pur- 
ported to  have  been  written  by  the 
minister  to  Caldigate,  recommend- 
ing him  to  be  married  in  some 
"better  established  township  than 
that  existing  at  Ahalala.  She  did 
it  well.  She  was  very  correct,  and 
at  the  same  time  very  determined, 
giving  many  details  of  her  early 
theatrical  life,  which  it  was  thought 
better  to  get  from  her  in  the  com- 
parative ease  of  a  direct  examina- 
tion than  to  have  them  extracted 
afterwards  by  an  adverse  advocate. 
During  her  evidence  in  chief,  which 
was  necessarily  long,  she  seemed  to 
be  quite  at  ease ;  but  those  around 
her  observed  that  she  never  once 
turned  her  eyes  upon  him  whom 
she  claimed  as  her  husband  except 
when  she  was  asked  whether  the 
man  there  before  her  was  the  man 
she  had  married  at  Ahalala.  Then, 
looking  at  him  for  a  moment  in 
silence,  she  replied,  very  steadily, 
"  Yes ;  that  is  my  husband,  John 
Caldigate." 

To  Caldigate  and  his  friends, — 
and  indeed  to  all  those  collected  in 
the  court,  —  the  most  interesting 
person  of  the  day  was  Sir  John 
Joram.  In  a  sensational  cause  the 
leading  barrister  for  the  defence  is 
always  the  hero  of  the  plot, — the 
actor  from  whom  the  best  bit  of 


acting  is  expected, — the  person  who 
is  most  likely  to  become  a  person- 
age on  the  occasion.  The  prisoners 
are  necessarily  mute,  and  can  only 
be  looked  at,  not  heard.  The  judge 
is  not  expected  to  do  much  till  the 
time  comes  for  his  charge,  and 
even  then  is  supposed  to  lower  the 
dignity  of  the  bench  if  he  makes 
his  charge  with  any  view  to  effect 
on  his  own  behalf.  The  barrister 
who  prosecutes  should  be  tame,  or 
he  will  appear  to  be  vindictive. 
The  witnesses,  however  interesting 
they  may  be  in  detail,  are  but  epi- 
sodes. Each  comes  and  goes,  and 
there  is  an  end  of  them.  But  the 
part  of  the  defending  advocate  re- 
quires action  through  the  whole  of 
the  piece.  And  he  may  be  impas- 
sioned. He  is  bound  to  be  on  the 
alert.  Everything  seems  to  depend 
on  him.  They  who  accuse  can  have 
or  should  have  no  longing  for  the 
condemnation  of  the  accused  one. 
But  in  regard  to  the  other,  an  ac- 
quittal is  a  matter  of  personal  prow- 
ess, of  professional  triumph,  and 
possibly  of  well  simulated-feeling. 

Sir  John  Joram  was  at  this  time 
a  man  of  considerable  dignity,  above 
fifty  years  of  age,  having  already 
served  the  offices  of  Solicitor  and 
Attorney  General  to  his  party.  To 
his  compeers  and  intimate  friends 
it  seemed  to  be  but  the  other  day 
since  he  was  Jacky  Joram,  one  of 
the  j  oiliest  little  fellows  ever  known 
at  an  evening  party,  up  to  every 
kind  of  fun,  always  rather  short  of 
money,  and  one  of  whom  it  was 
thought  that,  because  he  was  good- 
looking,  he  might  some  day  achieve 
the  success  of  marrying  a  woman 
with  money.  On  a  sudden  he 
married  a  girl  without  a  shilling, 
and  men  shook  their  heads  and 
sighed  as  they  spoke  of  poor  Jacky 
Joram.  But,  again,  on  a  sudden, — 
quite  as  suddenly, — there  came  tid- 
ings that  Jacky  had  been  found 
out  by  the  attorneys,  arid  that  he 


1-U 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XI. 


[FeK 


was  earning  his  bread.  As  we  grow 
old  things  seem  to  come  so  quickly ! 
His  friends  had  hardly  realised  the 
fact  that  Jacky  was  earning  his 
bread  before  he  was  in  Parliament 
and  had  ceased  to  be  Jacky.  And 
the  celerity  with  which  he  became 
Sir  John  was  the  most  astonishing 
of  all.  Years  no  doubt  had  passed 
by.  But  years  at  fifty  are  no  more 
than  months  at  thirty,  —  are  less 
than  weeks  in  boyhood.  And 
now  while  some  tongues,  by  dint 
of  sheer  habit,  were  still  forming 
themselves  into  Jacky,  Sir  John 
Joram  had  become  the  leading 
advocate  of  the  day,  and  a  man 
'renowned  for  the  dignity  of  his 
manners. 

In  the  House, — for  he  had  quite 
got  the  ear  of  the  House, — a  certain 
impressive  good  sense,  a  habit  of 
saying  nothing  that  was  not  neces- 
sary to  the  occasion,  had  chiefly 
made  for  him  the  high  character  he 
enjoyed;  but  in  the  law  courts  it 
was  perhaps  his  complaisance,  his 
peculiar  courtesy,  of  which  they 
who  praised  him  talked  the  most. 
His  aptitude  to  get  verdicts  was  of 
course  the  cause  of  his  success*. 
But  it  was  observed  of  him  that  in 
perverting  the  course  of  justice, — 
which  may  be  said  to  be  the  special 
work  of  a  successful  advocate, — he 
never  condescended  to  bully  any- 
body. To  his  own  witnesses  he 
was  simple  and  courteous,  as  are 
barristers  generally.  But  to  adverse 
witnesses  he  was  more  courteous, 
though  no  doubt  less  simple.  Even 
to  some  perjured  comrade  of  an 
habitual  burglar  he  would  be  studi- 
ously civil;  but  to  a  woman  such 
as  Euphemia  Caldigate  alias  Smith, 
it  was  certain  that  he  would  be  so 
smooth  as  to  make  her  feel  almost 
pleased  with  the  amenities  of  her 
position. 

He  asked  her  very  many  ques- 
tions, offering  to  provide  her  with 
the  comfort  of  a  seat  if  it  were 


necessary7.  She  said  that  she  was- 
not  at  all  tired,  and  that  she  pre- 
ferred to  stand.  As  to  the  absolute 
fact  of  the  marriage  she  did  not 
hesitate  at  all.  She  was  married  in 
the  tent  at  Ahalala  in  the  presence- 
of  Crinkett  and  Aclamson,  and  o-f 
her  own  female  companion,  Anrm 
Young, — all  of  whom  were  there  to 
give  evidence  of  the  fact.  Whether 
any  one  else  was  in  the  tent  sin* 
could  not  say,  but  she  knew  that 
there  were  others  at  the  entrance. 
The  tent  was  hardly  large  enough, 
for  more  than  five  or  six.  Dick 
Shand  had  not  been  there,  because 
he  had  always  been  her  enemy,  and 
had  tried  to  prevent  the  marriage. 
And  she  was  quite  clear  about  the 
letter.  There  was  a  great  deal  said 
about  the  letter.  She  was  sure  that 
the  envelope  with  the  letter  had 
come  to  her  at  Ahalala  by  post  from, 
Sydney  when  her  husband  was  at 
the  latter  place.  The  Sydney  post- 
mark with  the  date  was  very  plain. 
There  was  much  said  as  to  the  ac- 
curacy and  clearness  of  the  Sydney 
post- mark,  and  something  as  to  the 
absence  of  any  post-mark  at  Nob- 
ble. She  could  not  account  for  the 
absence  of  the  Nobble  post-mark. 
She  was  aware  that  letters  were 
stamped  at  Nobble  generally.  Mr 
Allan,  she  said,  had  himself  handed 
to  her  the  copy  of  the  register  al- 
most immediately  after  the  marriage, 
but  she  could  not  say  by  whom  it 
had  been  copied.  The  letter  pur- 
porting to  be  from  Mr  Allan  to  her 
husband  was  no  doubt,  she  said, 
in  the  minister's  handwriting. 
Caldigate  had  showed  it  to  her 
before  their  marriage,  and  she  had 
kept  it  without  any  opposition  from 
him.  Then  she  was  asked  as  to 
her  residence  after  her  marriage, 
and  here  she  was  less  clear,  fehe 
had  lived  with  him  first  at  Ahalala 
and  then  at  Nobble,  but  she  could 
not  say  for  how  long.  It  had 
been  off  and  on.  There  had  been 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate. — Part  J.V. 


145 


<quarrels,  and  after  a  time  they  had 
agreed  to  part.  She  had  received 
from  him  a  certain  amount  of  mining 
shares  and  of  money,  and  had  under- 
taken in  return  never  to  bother  him 
any  more.  There  was  a  great  deal 
said  about  times  arid  dates,  which 
left  an  impression  upon  those 
around  her  in  the  court  that  she 
was  less  sure  of  her  facts  than  a 
woman  in  such  circumstances  nat- 
urally would  have  been. 

Then  Sir  John  produced  the 
letter  which  she  had  written  to 
Caldigate,  and  in  which  she  had 
distinctly  offered  to  marry  Crin- 
kett  if  the  money  demanded  were 
paid.  She  must  have  expected  the 
production  of  this  letter,  but  still, 
for  a  few  moments,  it  silenced  her. 
'"Yes,"  she  said  at  last,  "I  wrote 
it," 

"  And  the  money  you  demanded 
has  been  paid  ?" 

"  Yes,  it  has  been  paid.  But 
not  then.  It  was  not  paid  till  we 
came  over." 

"But  if  it  had  been  paid  then,  you 
would  have — married  Mr  Crinkett?" 
Sir  John's  manner  as  he  asked  the 
question  was  so  gentle  and  so  soft 
that  it  was  felt  by  all  to  contain 
an  apology  for  intruding  on  so  deli- 
cate a  subject.  But  when  she 
hesitated,  he  did,  after  a  pause, 
renew  his  inquiry  in  another  form. 
"  Perhaps  this  was  only  a  threat, 
and  you  had  no  purpose  of  carrying 
it  out  1 " 

Then  she  plucked  up  her  courage. 
*l  I  have  not  married  him,"  she 
said. 

"  But  did  you  intend  it?" 

"I  did.  What  were  the  laws  to 
me  out  there  1  He  had  left  me  and 
had  taken  another  wife.  I  had  to 
•do  the  best  for  myself.  I  did 
intend  it;  but  I  didn't  do  it.  A 
woman  can't  be  tried  for  her  inten- 
tions." 

"  No,"  said  Sir  John  ;  "  but  she 
may  be  judged  by  her  intentions." 


Then  she  was  asked  why  she 
had  not  gone  when  she  had  got  the 
money,  according  to  her  promise. 
"  He  defied  us,"  she  said,  "  and 
called  us  bad  names, — liars  and 
perjurers.  He  knew  that  we  were 
not  liars.  And  then  we  were 
watched  and  told  that  we  might 
not  go.  As  he  said  that  he -was 
indifferent,  I  was  willing  enough 
to  stay  and  see  it  out." 

"  You  cannot  give  us,"  he  asked 
again, — and  this  was  his  last  ques- 
tion,— •'  any  clearer  record  of  those 
months  which  you  lived  with  your 
husband  1 " 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  I  cannot.  I 
kept  no  journal."  Then  she  was 
allowed  to  go,  and  though  she  had 
been  under  examination  for  three 
hours,  it  was  thought  she  had 
escaped  easily. 

Crinkett  was  the  next,  who  swore 
that  he  had  been  Caldi gate's  part- 
ner in  sundry  mining  specula- 
tions,— that  they  had  been  in  every 
way  intimate, — that  he  had  always 
recommended  Caldigate  to  marry 
Mrs  Smith,  thinking,  as  he  said, 
"that  respectability  paid  in  the 
long-run," — and  that,  having  so 
advised  him,  he  had  become  Caldi- 
gate's  special  friend  at  the  time, 
to  the  exclusion  of  Dick  Shand, 
who  was  generally  drunk,  and 
who,  whether  drunk  or  sober,  was 
opposed  to  the  marriage.  He  had 
been  selected  to  stand  by  his  friend 
at  the  marriage,  and  he,  thinking 
that  another  witness  would  be  bene- 
ficial, had  taken  Adamson  with  him. 
His  only  wonder  was  that  any  one 
should  dispute  a  fact  which  was 
at  the  time  so  notorious  both  at 
Ahalala  and  at  Nobble.  He  held 
his  head  high  during  his  evidence 
in  chief,  and  more  than  once  called 
the  prisoner  "  Caldigate,"—"  Caldi- 
gate knew  this," — and  "  Caldigate 
did  that."  It  was  past  four  when 
he  was  handed  over  for  cross- 
examination  ;  but  when  it  was  said 


146 


John  Caldigale. — Part  XI. 


[Feb.. 


that  another  hour  would  suffice  for 
it,  the  judge  agreed  to  sit  for  that 
other  hour. 

But  it  was  nearly  two  hours 
before  the  gentleman  who  was 
with  Sir  John  had  finished  his 
work,  during  which  Mr  Crinkett 
seemed  to  suffer  much.  The  gentle- 
man was  by  no  means  so  complacent 
as  Sir  John,  and  asked  some  very 
disagreeable  questions.  Had  Crin- 
kett intended  to  commit  bigamy  by 
marrying  the  last  witness,  knowing 
at  the  time  that  she  was  a  married 
woman  1  "I  never  said  that  I  in- 
tended to  marry  her,"  said  Crin- 
kett. "  What  she  wrote  to  Caldi- 
gate  was  nothing  to  me."  He  could 
not  be  made  to  own,  as  she  had 
done  in  a  straightforward  way,  that 
lie  had  intended  to  set  the  law  at 
defiance.  His  courage  failed  him, 
and  his  presence  of  mind,  and  he 
was  made  to  declare  at  last  that  he 
had  only  talked  about  such  a  mar- 
riage, with  the  view  of  keeping  the 
woman  in  good-humour,  but  that 
he  had  never  intended  to  marry 
her.  Then  he  was  asked  as  to  Bol- 
lum ; — had  he  told  Bollum  that  he 
intended  to  marry  the  woman  1  At 
last  he  owned  that  he  might  have 
done  so.  Of  course  he  had  been 
anxious  to  get  his  money,  and  he 
had  thought  that  he  might  best  do 
so  by  such  an  offer.  He  was  re- 
duced to  much  misery  during  his 
cross-examination ;  but  on  the  one 
main  statement  that  he  had  been 
present  at  the  marriage  he  was  not 
shaken. 

At  six  o'clock  the  trial  was  ad- 
journed till  the  next  day,  and  the 
two  Caldigates  were  taken  in  a  fly 


to  a  neighbouring  inn,  at  which 
rooms  had  been  provided  for  them.. 
Here  they  were  soon  joined  by  Mr 
Seely,  who  explained,  however,, 
that  he  had  come  merely  to  make  ar- 
rangements for  the  morrow.  "  How 
is  it  going  1 "  asked  Caldigate. 

The  question  was  very  natural, 
but  it  was  one  which  Mr  Seely  was- 
not  disposed  to  answer.  "  I  couldn't 
give  an  opinion,"  he  said.  "In- 
such  cases  I  never  do  give  an 
opinion.  The  evidence  is  very 
clear,  and  has  not  been  shaken ; 
but  the  witnesses  are  people  of  a* 
bad  character.  Character  goes  a 
long  way  with  a  jury.  It  will 
depend  a  good  deal  on  the  judge, 
I  should  say.  But  I  cannot  give 
an  opinion." 

No  opinion  one  way  or  the  other 
was  expressed  to  the  father  or  son, 
— who  indeed  saw  no  one  else  the 
whole  evening;  but  Eobert  Bolton, 
in  discussing  the  matter  with  his- 
father,  expressed  a  strong  convic- 
tion that  Caldigate  would  be  ac- 
quitted. He  had  heard  it  all,  and 
understood  the  nature  of  such  cases. 
"  I  do  not  in  the  least  doubt  that 
they  were  married,"  said  Eobert- 
Bolton.  "All  the  circumstances 
make  me  sure  of  it.  But  the  wit- 
nesses are  just  of  that  kind  which 
a  jury  always  distrusts.  The  jury 
will  acquit  him,  not  because  they 
do  not  believe  the  marriage,  but 
out  of  enmity  to  Crinkett  and  the 
woman." 

"What  shall  we  do,  then?"' 
asked  the  old  man.  To  this  Eobert 
Bolton  could  make  no  answer.  He- 
only  shook  his  head  and  turned 
away. 


CHAPTER   XLII. THE    SECOND    DAY. 


The  court  had  been  very  full  on 
the  first  day  of  the  trial,  but  on 
the  following  morning  it  was  even 
more  crowded,  so  that  outsiders  who 


had  no  friend  connected  with  jus- 
tice, had  hardly  a  chance  of  hear- 
ing or  seeing  anything.  Many  of 
the  circumstances  of  the  case  had,. 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XI. 


147 


long  been  known  to  the  public, 
but  matters  of  new  and  of  peculiar 
interest  had  been  elicited, — the  dis- 
tinct promise  made  by  the  woman 
to  marry  another  man,  so  as  to  ren- 
der her  existing  husband  safe  in  his 
bigamy  by  committing  bigamy  her- 
self,— the  payment  to  these  people 
by  Caldigate  of  an  immense  sum  of 
money, — the  fact  that  they  two  had 
lived  together  in  Australia  whether 
married  or  not; — all  this,  which 
had  now  been  acknowledged  on 
both  sides,  added  to  the  romance 
of  the  occasion.  While  it  could 
hardly  be  doubted,  on  the  one  side, 
that  Caldigate  had  married  the  wo- 
man,— so  strong  was  the  evidence, 
— it  could  not  be  at  all  doubted, 
on  the  other  side,  that  the  accusa- 
tion had  been  planned  with  the 
view  of  raising  money,  and  had 
been  the  result  of  a  base  conspiracy. 
And  then  there  was  the  additional 
marvel,  that  though  the  money  had 
been  paid,  —  the  whole  sum  de- 
manded,— yet  the  trial  was  carried 
on.  The  general  feeling  was  ex- 
actly that  which  Eobert  Bolton 
had  attributed  to  the  jury.  People 
did  believe  that  there  had  been  a 
marriage,  but  trusted  nevertheless 
that  Caldigate  might  bo  acquitted, 
— so  that  his  recent  marriage  might 
be  established.  No  doubt  there 
was  a  feeling  with  many  that  any- 
thing done  in  the  wilds  of  Austra- 
lia ought  not  "  to  count  "  here,  at 
home  in  England. 

Caldigate  with  his  father  was  in 
couit  a  little  before  ten,  and  at 
that  hour  punctually  the  trial  was 
recommenced.  The  first  business 
was  the  examination  of  Adamson, 
who  was  quite  clear  as  to  the  mar- 
riage. He  had  been  concerned 
with  Crinkett  in  money  operations 
for  many  years,  and  had  been  asked 
by  him  to  be  present  simply  as  a 
witness.  He  had  never  been  par- 
ticularly intimate  with  Caldigate, 
and  had  had  little  or  nothing  to 


do  with  him  afterwards.  He  was 
cross-examined  by  the  second  gentle- 
man, but  was  not  subjected  to  much 
annoyance.  He  had  put  what 
little  money  he  possessed  into  the 
Polyeuka  mine,  and  had  come  over 
to  England  because  he  had  thought 
that,  by  so  doing,  he  might  perhaps 
get  a  portion  of  his  money  back. 
Had  there  been  a  conspiracy,  and 
was  he  one  of  the  conspirators? 
Well, — he  rather  thought  that  there 
had  been  a  conspiracy,  and  that  he 
was  one  of  the  conspirators.  But 
then  he  had  conspired  only  to  get 
what  he  thought  to  be  his  own. 
He  had  lost  everything  in  the 
Polyeuka  mine ;  and  as  the  gentle- 
man no  doubt  had  married  the 
lady,  he  thought  he  might  as  well 
come  forward, — and  that  perhaps  in 
that  way  he  would  get  his  money. 
He  did  not  mind  saying  that  he 
had  received  a  couple  of  thousand 
pounds,  which  was  half  what  he 
had  put  into  Polyeuka.  He  hoped 
that,  after  paying  all  his  expenses, 
he  would  be  able  to  start  again  at 
the  diggings  with  something  above 
a  thousand.  This  was  all  straight 
sailing.  The  purpose  which  he  had 
in  view  was  so  manifest  that  it  had 
hardly  been  worth  while  to  ask 
him  the  questions. 

Anna  Young  was  the  next,  and 
she  encountered  the  sweet  courte- 
sies of  Sir  John  Joram.  These 
sweet  courtesies  were  prolonged  for 
above  an  hour,  and  were  not  ap- 
parently very  sweet  to  Miss  Young. 
Of  the  witnesses  hitherto  examined 
she  was  the  worst.  She  had  been 
flippantly  confident  in  her  memories 
of  the  marriage  ceremony  when 
questioned  on  behalf  of  the  prose- 
cution, but  had  forgotten  everything 
in  reference  to  her  friend's  subse- 
quent married  life.  She  had  for- 
gotten even  her  own  life,  and  did 
not  quite  know  where  she  had  lived. 
And  at  last  she  positively  refused 
to  answer  questions  though  they 


148 


John  Caldigate.— Part  XI. 


[Feb. 


were  asked  with  the  most  engaging 
civility.  She  said  that,  "  Of  course 
a  lady  had  affairs  which  she  could 
not  tell  to  everybody."  "No,  she 
didn't  mean  lovers;  —  she  didn't 
care  for  the  men  at  all."  "  Yes,  she 
did  mean  money.  She  had  done 
a  little  mining,  and  hoped  to  do  a 
little  more."  "  She  was  to  have  a 
thousand  pounds  and  her  expenses, 
but  she  hadn't  got  the  money  yet," 
— and  so  on.  Probably  of  all  the 
witnesses  yet  examined  Miss  Young 
had  amused  the  Court  the  most. 

There  were  many  others,  no  doubt 
necessary  for  the  case,  but  hardly 
necessary  for  the  telling  of  the  story. 
Captain  Munday  was  there,  the 
captain  of  the  Goldfinder,  who 
spoke  of  Caldigate's  conduct  on 
board,  and  of  his  own  belief  that 
they  two  were  engaged  when  they 
left  the  ship.  "  As  we  are  prepared 
to  acknowledge  that  there  was  an 
engagement,  I  do  not  think  that 
we  need  trouble  you,  Captain  Mun- 
day," said  Sir  John.  "  We  only 
deny  the  marriage."  Then  the 
cheque  for  twenty  thousand  pounds 
was  produced,  and  clerks  from  the 
bank  to  prove  the  payment,  and 
the  old  waiter  from  the  Jericho 
Coffee-house, — and  others,  of  whom 
Sir  John  Joram  refused  to  take  any 
notice  whatever.  All  that  had  been 
acknowledged.  Of  course  the  money 
had  been  paid.  Of  course  the  in- 
timacy had  existed.  No  doubt  there 
had  been  those  interviews  both  at 
Folking  and  up  in  London.  But 
had  there  ever  been  a  marriage  in 
that  tent  at  Ahalala?  That,  and 
that  only,  was  the  point  to  which 
Sir  John  Joram  found  it  necessary 
to  give  attention. 

A  slight  interval  was  allowed  for 
lunch,  and  then  Sir  John  rose  to 
begin  his  speech.  It  was  felt  on 
all  sides  that  his  speech  was  to  be 
the  great  affair  of  the  trial.  Would 
ho  be  able  so  to  represent  these 
witnesses  as  to  make  a  jury  believe 


that  they  had  sworn  falsely,  and 
that  the  undoubted  and  acknow- 
ledged conspiracy  to  raise  money 
had  been  concocted  without  any 
basis  of  truth  ?  There  was  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  during  which  the  father 
remained  with  his  son  in  the  pre- 
cincts of  the  prison,  and  then  the 
judge  and  the  lawyers,  and  all  they 
whose  places  were  assured  to  them 
trooped  back  into  court.  They 
who  were  less  privileged  had  fed 
themselves  with  pocketed  sand- 
wiches, not  caring  to  risk  the  loss 
of  their  seats. 

Sir  John  Joram  began  by  hold- 
ing, extended  in  his  ringers  towards 
the  jury,  the  envelope  which  had 
undoubtedly  been  addressed  by 
Caldigate  to  "Mrs  Caldigate,  Aha- 
lala,  Nobble,"  and  in  which  a  cer- 
tain letter  had  been  stated  to  have 
been  sent  by  him  to  her.  "  The 
words  written  on  that  envelope," 
said  he,  "  are  to  my  mind  the 
strongest  evidence  I  have  ever  met 
of  the  folly  to  which  a  man  may  be 
reduced  by  the  softnesses  of  femi- 
nine intercourse.  I  acknowledge, 
on  the  part  of  my  client,  that  he 
wrote  these  words.  I  acknowledge 
that  if  a  man  could  make  a  woman 
his  wife  by  so  describing  her  on  a 
morsel  of  paper,  this  man  would 
have  made  this  woman  his  wife.  I 
acknowledge  so  much,  though  I  do 
not  acknowledge,  though  I  deny, 
that  any  letter  was  ever  sent  to  this 
woman  in  the  envelope  which  I 
hold  in  my  hand.  His  own  story 
is  that  he  wrote  those  words  at  a 
moment  of  soft  and  foolish  confi- 
dence, when  they  two  together  were 
talking  of  a  future  marriage, — a 
marriage  which  no  doubt  was  con- 
templated, and  which  probably  had 
been  promised.  Then  he  wrote  the 
address,  showing  the  woman  the 
name  which  would  be  hers  should 
they  ever  be  married ; — and  she  has 
craftily  kept  the  document.  That 
is  his  story.  That  is  my  story. 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XL 


149 


Now  I  must  show  you  why  I  think 
it  also  should  be  your  story.  The 
woman,  —  I  must  describe  her  in 
this  way  lest  I  should  do  her  an 
injustice  by  calling  her  Mrs  Smith, 
or  do  my  client  an  injustice  by  call- 
ing her  Mrs  Caldigate, — has  told 
you  that  this  envelope,  with  an  en- 
closure which  she  produced,  reached 
5ier  at  Nobble  through  the  post 
from  Sydney.  To  that  statement 
I  call  upon  you  to  give  no  credit. 
A  letter  so  sent  would,  as  you 
have  been  informed,  bear  two  post- 
marks, those  of  Sydney  and  Nobble. 
This  envelope  bears  one  only.  But 
that  is  nob  all.  I  shall  call  before 
you  two  gentlemen  experienced  in 
affairs  of  the  post-office,  and  they 
will  tell  you  that  the  post-marks 
on  this  envelope,  both  that  of  the 
town,  Sydney,  and  that  by  which 
the  postage-stamp  is  obliterated,  are 
cleaner,  finer,  and  better  perceived 
than  they  would  have  been  had  it 
passed  in  ordinary  course  through 
the  post-office.  Letters  in  the  post- 
office  are  hurried  quickly  through 
the  operation  of  stamping,  so  that 
one  passing  over  the  other  while 
the  stamping  ink  is  still  moist,  will 
to  some  extent  blot  and  blur  that 
with  which  it  has  come  in  contact. 
He  will  produce  some  dozens  taken 
at  random,  and  will  show  that  with 
them  all  such  has  been  the  case. 
This  blotting,  this  smudging,  is 
very  slight,  but  it  exists  ;  it  is 
always  there.  He  will  tell  you 
that  this  envelope  has  been  stamped 
as  one  and  alone, — by  itself, — with 
peculiar  care ; — and  I  shall  ask  you 
to  believe  that  the  impression  has 
been  procured  by  fraud  in  the  Sydney 
post-office.  If  that  be  so ;  if  in  such 
-a  case  as  this  fraud  be  once  dis- 
covered,— then  I  say  that  the  whole 
case  will  fall  to  the  ground,  and 
that  I  shall  be  justified  in  telling 
you  that  no  word  that  you  have 
heard  from  these  four  witnesses  is 
worthy  of  belief. 


"Nothing  worthy  of  belief  has 
been  adduced  against  my  client 
unless  that  envelope  be  so.  That 
those  four  persons  have  conspired 
together  for  the  sake  of  getting 
money  is  clear  enough.  To  their 
evidence  I  shall  come  presently, 
and  shall  endeavour  to  show  you 
why  you  should  discredit  them. 
At  present  I  am  concerned  simply 
with  this  envelope,  on  which  I 
think  that  the  case  hangs.  As  for 
the  copy  of  the  register,  it  is  noth- 
ing. It  would  be  odd  indeed  if 
in  any  conspiracy  so  much  as  that 
could  not  be  brought  up.  Had  such 
a  register  been  found  in  the  archives 
of  any  church,  however  humble,  and 
had  an  attested  copy  been  produced, 
that  would  have  been  much.  But 
this  is  nothing.  Nor  is  the  alleged 
letter  from  Mr  Allan  anything. 
Were  the  letter  genuine  it  would 
show  that  such  a  marriage  had  been 
contemplated,  not  that  it  had  been 
solemnised.  We  have,  however,  no 
evidence  to  make  us  believe  that 
the  letter  is  genuine.  But  this 
envelope," — and  he  again  stretched 
it  out  towards  the  jury, — "is  evi- 
dence. The  impression  of  a  post- 
office  stamp  has  often  been  accepted 
as  evidence.  But  the  evidence  may 
be  false  evidence,  and  it  is  for  us 
to  see  whether  it  may  not  probably 
be  so  now. 

"  In  the  first  place,  such  evidence 
requires  peculiar  sifting,  which  un- 
fortunately cannot  be  applied  to  it 
in  the  present  case,  because  it  has 
been  brought  to  us  from  a  great 
distance.  Had  the  envelope  been 
in  our  possession  from  the  moment 
in  which  the  accusation  was  first 
made,  we  might  have  tested  it, 
either  by  sending  it  to  Sydney  or 
by  obtaining  from  Sydney  other 
letters  or  documents  bearing  the 
same  stamp,  affixed  undoubtedly 
on  the  date  here  represented.  But 
that  has  not  been  within  our  power. 
The  gentlemen  whom  I  shall  bring 


150 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XL 


[Feb. 


before  you  will  tell  you  that  these 
impressions  or  stamps  have  a  knack 
of  verifying  themselves,  which 
makes  it  very  dangerous  indeed  for 
fraudulent  persons  to  tamper  with 
them.  A  stamp  used  in  June  will 
be  hardly  the  same  as  it  will  be  in 
July.  Some  little  bruise  will  have 
so  altered  a  portion  of  the  surface 
as  to  enable  detection  to  be  made 
with  a  microscope.  And  the  stamp 
used  in  1870  will  certainly  have 
varied  its  form  in  1871.  Now  I 
maintain  that  time  and  opportunity 
should  have  been  given  to  us  to 
verify  this  impression.  Copies  of 
all  impressions  from  day  to  day  are 
kept  in  the  Sydney  post  -  office, 
and  if  it  be  found  that  on  this  day 
named,  the  10th  of  May,  no  im- 
pression in  the  Sydney  office  is  an 
exact  fac-simile  of  this  impression, 
then  I  say  that  this  impression  has 
been  subsequently  and  fraudulently 
obtained,  and  that  the  only  morsel 
of  corroborative  evidence  offered  to 
you  will  be  shown  to  be  false  evi- 
dence. Wo  have  been  unable  to 
get  impressions  of  this  date.  Op- 
portunities have  not  been  given  to 
us.  But  I  do  not  hesitate  to  tell 
you  that  you  should  demand  such 
opportunities  before  you  accept  that 
envelope  as  evidence  on  which  you 
can  send  my  client  to  jail,  and  de- 
prive that  young  wife,  whom  he 
has  made  his  own,  of  her  husband, 
and  afford  the  damning  evidence  of 
your  verdict  towards  robbing  his 
son  of  his  legitimacy." 

He  said  very  much  more  about 
the  envelope,  clearly  showing  his 
own  appreciation  of  its  importance, 
and  declaring  again  and  again  that 
if  he  could  show  that  a  stain  of 
perjury  affected  the  evidence  in  any 
one  point  all  the  evidence  must  fall 
to  the  ground,  and  that  if  there 
were  ground  to  suspect  that  the  en- 
velope had  been  tampered  with, 
then  that  stain  of  perjury  would 
exist.  After  that  he  went  on  to  the 


four  conspirators,  as  he  called  them, 
justifying  the  name  by  their  ac- 
knowledged object  of  getting  money 
from  his  client.  "  That  they  came 
to  this  country  as  conspirators,  with 
a  fraudulent  purpose,  my  learned 
friend  will  not  deny." 

"I  acknowledge  nothing  of  the 
kind,"  said  the  learned  friened. 

"Then  my  learned  friend  must 
feel  that  his  is  a  case  in  which 
he  cannot  safely  acknowledge  any- 
thing. I  do  not  doubt,  gentlemen, 
but  that  you  have  made  up  your 
mind  on  that  point."  He  went  on 
to  show  that  they  clearly  were 
conspirators  ; — that  they  had  con- 
fessed as  much  themselves.  "  It  is 
no  doubt  possible  that  my  client 
may  have  married  this  female  con- 
spirator, and  she  is  not  the  less  en- 
titled to  protection  from  the  law 
because  she  is  a  conspirator.  Nor, 
because  she  is  a  conspirator,  should 
he  be  less  amenable  to  the  law  for 
the  terrible  injury  he  would  then 
have  done  to  that  other  lady.  But 
if  they  be  conspirators,  —  if  it  be 
shown  to  you  that  they  came  to 
this  country, — not  that  the  woman 
might  claim  her  husband,  not  that 
the  others  might  give  honest  testi- 
mony against  a  great  delinquent, 
— but  in  order  that  they  might 
frighten  him  out  of  money,  then 
I  am  entitled  to  tell  you  that 
you  should  not  rest  on  their  evi- 
dence unless  it  be  supported,  and 
that  the  fact  of  their  conspiracy 
gives  you  a  right,  nay,  makes  it 
your  imperative  duty,  to  suspect 
perjury." 

The  remainder  of  the  day  was 
taken  up  with  Sir  John's  speech, 
and  with  the  witnesses  which  he 
called  for  the  defence.  He  cer- 
tainly succeeded  in  strengthening 
the  compassion  which  was  felt  for 
Caldigate  and  for  the  unfortunate 
young  mother  at  Folking.  "  It 
was  very  well,"  he  said,  "  for  my 
learned  friend  to  tell  you  of  the 


1879.] 


John  Caldiyate. — Part  XI. 


151 


protection  which,  is  due  to  a  married 
woman  when  a  husband  has  broken 
the  law,  and  betrayed  his  trust  by 
taking  another  wife  to  himself,  as 
this  man  is  accused  of  having  done. 
But  there  is  another  aspect  in 
which  you  will  regard  the  ques- 
tion. Think  of  that  second  wife 
and  of  her  child,  and  of  the  pro- 
tection which  is  due  to  her.  You 
well  know  that  she  does  not  suspect 
her  husband,  that  she  fears  nothing 
but  a  mistaken  verdict  from  you, — 
that  she  will  be  satisfied,  much  more 
than  satisfied,  if  you  will  leave  heY 
in  possession  of  her  home,  her  hus- 
band, and  the  unalloyed  domestic 
happiness  she  has  enjoyed  since 
she  joined  her  lot  with  his.  Look 
at  the  one  woman,  and  then  at  the 
other.  Remember  their  motives, 
their  different  lives,  their  different 
joys,  and  what  will  be  the  effect  of 
your  verdict  upon  each  of  them. 
If  you  are  satisfied  that  he  did 
marry  that  woman,  that  vile  wom- 
an, the  nature  of  whose  life  has 
been  sufficiently  exposed  to  you,  of 
course  your  verdict  must  be  against 
him.  The  law  is  the  law,  and  must 
be  vindicated.  In  that  case  it  will 
be  your  duty,  your  terrible  duty,  to 
create  misery,  to  destroy  happiness, 
to  ruin  a  dear  innocent  young 
mother  and  her  child,  and  to  sep- 
arate a  loving  couple,  every  detail 
of  whose  life  is  such  as  to  demand 
your  sympathy.  And  this  you  must 
do  at  the  bidding  of  four  greedy, 
foul  conspirators.  Innocent,  sweet, 
excellent  in  all  feminine  graces  as  is 
the  one  wife, — unlovely,  unfeminine, 
and  abhorrent  as  is  the  other, — 
you  must  do  your  duty.  God  for- 
bid that  I  should  ask  you  to  break 
an  oath,  even  for  the  sake  of  that 
youug  mother.  Eut  in  such  a 
case,  I  do  think,  I  may  ask  you  to 
be  very  careful  as  to  what  evidence 
you  accept.  I  do  think  that  I  may 
again  point  out  to  you  that  those 
four  witnesses,  bound  as  they  are 


together  by  a  bond  of  avarice, 
should  be  regarded  but  as  one, — 
and  as  one  to  whose  sworn  evi- 
dence no  credit  is  due  unless  it  be 
amply  corroborated.  I  say  that 
there  is  no  corroboration.  This 
envelope  would  be  strong  corrobo- 
ration if  it  had  been  itself  trust- 
worthy." When  he  sat  down  the 
feeling  in  court  was  certainly  in 
favour  of  John  Caldigate. 

Then  a  cloud  of  witnesses  were 
brought  up  for  the  defence,  each 
of  whom,  however,  was  soon  de- 
spatched. The  two  clerks  from  the 
post-office  gave  exactly  the  evidence 
which  Sir  John  had  described,  and 
exposed  to  the  jury  their  packet  of 
old  letters.  In  their  opinion  the 
impression  on  the  envelope  was 
finer  and  cleaner  than  that  generally 
produced  in  the  course  of  business. 
Each  of  them  thought  it  not  im- 
probable that  the  impression  had 
been  surreptitiously  obtained.  Eut 
each  of  them  acknowledged,  on 
cross-examination,  that  a  stamp  so 
clean  and  perfect  might  be  given 
and  maintained  without  special 
care;  and  each  of  them  said  that 
it  was  quite  possible  that  a  letter 
passing  through  the  post  -  office 
might  escape  the  stamp  of  one  of 
the  offices  in  which  it  would  be 
manipulated. 

Then  there  came  the  witnesses 
as  to  character,  and  evidence  was 
given  as  to  Hester's  determination 
to  remain  with  the  man  whom  she 
believed  to  be  her  husband.  As  to 
this  there  was  no  cross-examination. 
That  Caldigate's  life  had  been  use- 
ful and  salutary  since  his  return  to 
Folking  no  one  doubted, — nor  that 
he  had  been  a  loving  husband.  If 
he  had  committed  bigamy,  it  was, 
no  doubt,  for  the  public  welfare 
that  such  a  crime  should  be  exposed 
and  punished.  Eut  that  he  should 
have  been  a  bigamist,  would  be  a 
pity, — oh,  such  a  pity !  The  pity 
of  it ;  oh,  the  pity  of  it !  Tor  now 


152 


John  Caldigatc.—Part  XI. 


[Feb. 


there  had  heen  much  talk  of  Hester 
and  her  home  at  Folking,  and  her 
former  home  at  Chesterton ;  and 


people  everywhere  concerned  them- 
selves for  her  peace,  for  her  happi- 
ness, for  her  condition  of  life. 


CHAPTER    XLI1I. THE    LAST    DAY. 


After  Sir  John  Joram's  speech, 
and  when  the  work  of  the  second 
day  had  been  brought  to  a  close, 
Caldigate  allowed  his  hopes  to  rise 
higher  than  they  had  ever  mounted 
since  he  had  first  become  aware 
that  the  accusation  would  in  truth 
be  brought  against  him.  It  seemed 
to  be  almost  impossible  that  any 
jury  should  give  a  verdict  in  opposi- 
tion to  arguments  so  convincing  as 
those  Sir  John  had  used.  All  those 
details  which  had  appeared  to  him- 
self to  be  so  damning  to  his  own 
cause  now  melted  away,  and  seemed 
to  be  of  no  avail.  And  even  Mr 
Seely,  when  he  came  to  see  his 
client  in  the  evening,  was  less  op- 
pressive than  usual.  He  did  not, 
indeed,  venture  to  express  hope, 
but  in  his  hopelessness  he  was 
somewhat  more  hopeful  than  be- 
fore. "  You  must  remember,  Mr 
'Caldigate,"  he  said,  "that  you  have 
not  yet  heard  the  judge ;  and  that 
such  a  jury,  Judge  Bramber 
go  much  further  than  any  ad- 
vocate. I  never  knew  a  Cambridge- 
shire jury  refuse  to  be  led  by  Judge 
Bramber." 

"  Why  a  Cambridgeshire  jury  ? " 
nsked  old  Mr  Caldigate  ;  "  and  why 
Judge  Bramber  especially  ?  " 

"  We  are  a  little  timid,  I  think, 
here  in  the  eastern  counties, — a 
little  wanting  in  self-confidence. 
An  advocate  in  the  north  of  Eng- 
land has  a  finer  scope,  because  the 
people  like  to  move  counter  to 
-authority.  A  Lancashire  jury  will 
generally  be  unwilling  to  do  what 
a  judge  tells  them.  And  then 
•Judge  Bramber  has  a  peculiar  way 
of  telling  a  jury.  If  he  has  a 
strong  opinion  of  his  own  he  never 


leaves  the  jury  in  doubt  about  it. 
Some  judges  are — what  I  call  flabby, 
Mr  Caldigate.  They  are  a  little 
afraid  of  responsibility,  and  leave 
the  jury  and  the  counsel  to  fight 
it  out  among  them.  Sir  John  did 
it  very  well,  no  doubt, — very  well. 
He  made  the  best  he  could  of  that 
postage-stamp,  though  I  don't  know 
that  it  will  go  for  much.  The 
point  most  in  our  favour  is  that 
those  Australians  are  a  rough  lot 
to  look  at.  The  woman  has  been 
drinking,  and  has  lost  her  good 
looks, — so  that  the  jurymen  won't 
be  soft  about  her."  Caldigate, 
when  he  heard  this,  thought  of 
Euphemia  Smith  on  board  the 
Goldfinder,  when  she  certainly  did 
not  drink,  when  her  personal  ap- 
pearance was  certainly  such  as 
might  touch  the  heart  of  any  jury- 
man. Gold  and  drink  together 
had  so  changed  the  woman  that  he 
could  hardly  persuade  himself  that 
she  was  that  forlorn  attractive  female 
whom  he  had  once  so  nearly  loved. 
Before  he  went  to  bed,  Caldigate 
wrote  to  his  wife  as  he  had  done 
also  on  the  preceding  evening. 
"  There  is  to  be  another  long,  tedi- 
ous, terrible  day,  and  then  it  "may 
be  that  I  shall  be  able  to  write  no 
more.  For  your  sake,  almost  more 
than  for  my  own,  I  am  longing  for 
it  to  be  over.  It  would  be  vain  for 
me  to  attempt  to  tell  you  all  that 
took  place.  I  do  not  dare  to  give 
you  hope  which  I  know  may  be 
fallacious.  And  yet  I  feel  my  own 
heart  somewhat  higher  than  it  was 
when  I  wrote  last  night."  Then 
he  did  tell  her  something  of  what 
had  taken  place,  speaking  in  high 
praise  of  Sir  John  Joram.  "And 


1870.' 


John  Caldigato. — Part  XL 


153. 


now  my  own,  own  wife,  my  real 
wife,  my  beloved  one,  I  have  to 
call  you  so,  perhaps  for  the  last 
time  for  years.  If  these  men  shall 
choose  to  think  that  I  married  that 
woman,  we  shall  have  to  be  so  part- 
ed that  it  would  be  better  for  us  to 
be  in  our  graves.  But  even  then 
I  will  not  give  up  all  hope.  My 
father  has  promised  that  the  whole 
colony  shall  be  ransacked  till  proof 
be  found  of  the  truth.  And  then, 
though  I  shall  have  been  convicted, 
I  shall  be  reinstated  in  my  position 
as  your  husband.  May  God  Al- 
mighty bless  you,  and  our  boy,  till 
I  may  come  again  to  claim  my  wife 
and  my  child  without  disgrace." 

The  old  man  had  made  the  pro- 
mise. "  I  would  go  myself,"  said  he, 
"  were  it  not  that  Hester  will  want 
my  support  here."  For  there  had 
been  another  promise  made, — that 
by  no  entreaty,  no  guile,  no  force, 
should  Hester  be  taken  from  Folk- 
ing  to  Chesterton. 

Early  on  the  third  day  Judge 
Bramber  began  his  charge,  and  in 
doing  so  he  told  the  jury  that  it 
would  occupy  him  about  three 
hours.  And  in  exactly  three  hours' 
time  he  had  completed  his  task.  In 
summing  up  the  case  he  certainly 
was  not  "flabby;" — so  little  so,  that 
he  left  no  doubt  on  the  minds  of 
any  who  heard  him  of  the  verdict 
at  which  he  had  himself  arrived. 
He  went  through  the  evidence  of 
the  four  chief  witnesses  very  care- 
fully, and  then  said  that  the  ante- 
cedents of  these  people,  or  even 
their  guilt,  if  they  had  been  guilty, 
had  nothing  to  do  with  the  case 
except  in  so  far  as  it  might  affect 
the  opiuion  of  the  jury  as  to  their 
veracity.  They  had  been  called 
conspirators.  Even  though  they 
had  conspired  to  raise  money  by 
threats,  than  which  nothing  could 
be  more  abominable, — even  though 
by  doing  so  they  should  have  sub- 
jected themselves  to*  criminal  pro- 


ceedings, and  to  many  penalties, — 
that  would  not  lessen  the  criminali- 
ty of  the  accused  if  such  a  marriage 
as  that  described  had  in  truth  taken- 
place.  "  This,"  said  the  judge,  "  is 
so  much  a  matter  of  course,  that 
I  should  not  insist  upon  it  had  it 
not  been  implied  that  the  testimony 
of  these  four  persons  is  worth  noth- 
ing because  they  are  conspirators. 
It  is  for  you  to  judge  what  their 
testimony  is  worth,  and  it  is  for 
you  to  remember  that  they  are  four 
distinct  witnesses,  all  swearing  to 
the  same  thing."  Then  he  went 
into  the  question  of  the  money* 
There  could  be  no  doubt  that  the 
four  persons  had  come  to  England 
with  the  purpose  of  getting  money 
out  of  the  accused,  and  that  they 
had  succeeded.  With  their  mode 
of  doing  this, — whether  criminal  or 
innocent, — the  jury  had  nothing  to 
clo,  except  as  it  affected  their  credit. 
But  they- -were  bound  to  look  to 
Caldigate's  motive  in  paying  so 
large  a  sum.  It  had  been  shown 
that  he  did  not  owe  them  a  shilling, 
•and  that  when  the  application  for 
money  reached  him  from  Australia, 
he  had  refused  to  give  them  a  shil- 
ling. Then,  when  they  had  arrived 
here  in  England,  accusation  was 
made ;  and  when  they  had  offered 
to  desert  the  case  if  paid  the  money, 
then  the  money  was  paid.  The 
prisoner,  when  paying  it,  had  no 
doubt  intimated  to  those  who  re- 
ceived it  that  he  made  no  bargain 
with  them  as  to  their  going  away. 
And  he  had  taken  a  friend  with 
him  who  had  given  his  evidence 
in  court,  and  this  friend  had  mani- 
festly been  taken  to  show  that  the 
money  was  not  secretly  paid.  The 
jury  would  give  the  prisoner  the 
benefit  of  all  that, — if  there  was 
benefit  to  be  derived  from  it.  But 
they  were  bound  to  remember,  in 
coming  to  their  verdict,  that  a  very 
large  sum  of  money  had  been  paid 
to  the  witnesses  by  the  prisoner, 


154 


John  Ccddigate. — Part  XI. 


[Feb. 


•which  money  certainly  was  not  due 
to  them. 

He  dwelt,  also,  at  great  length  on 
the  stamp  on  the  envelope,  but 
contrived  at  last  to  leave  a  feeling 
on  the  minds  of  those  who  heard 
him,  that  Sir  John  had  shown  the 
weakness  of  his  case  by  trusting  so 
much  to  such  allegations  as  he  had 
made.  "  It  has  been  represented," 
said  Judge  Bramber,  "  that  the 
impression  which  you  have  seen  of 
the  Sydney  post-office  stamp  has 
been  fraudulently  obtained.  Some 
stronger  evidence  should,  I  think, 
be  shown  of  this  before  you  believe 
it.  Two  clerks  from  the  London 
post-office  have  told  you  that  they 
believed  the  impression  to  be  a 
false  one  ;  but  I  think  they  were 
hardly  justified  in  their  opinion. 
They  founded  it  on  the  clearness 
and  cleanness  of  the  impression; 
but  they  both  of  them  acknow- 
ledged afterwards  that  such  clear- 
ness and  cleanness  are  simply  un- 
usual, and  by  no  means  impossible, 
— not  indeed  improbable.  But  how 
would  it  have  been  if  the  envelope 
had  been  brought  to  you  without 
any  post-office  impression,  simply 
directed  to  Mrs  Caldigate,  by  the 
man  who  is  alleged  to  have  made 
the  woman  his  wife  shortly  before 
the  envelope  was  written  1  Would 
it  not  in  that  case  have  been  strong 
evidence?  If  anyfraud  were  proved, 
— such  a  fraud  as  would  be  that 
of  getting  some  post-office  official 
falsely  to  stamp  the  envelope, — then 
the  stain  of  perjury  would  be  there. 
But  it  will  be  for  you  to  consider 
whether  you  can  find  such  stain 
of  perjury  merely  because  the  im- 
pression on  the  envelope  is  clear 
and  clean." 

When  he  came  to  the  present 
condition  of  Caldigate's  wife  and 
child  at  Folking,  he  was  very 
tender  in  his  speech, — but  even  his 
tenderness  seemed  to  turn  itself 
against  the  accused. 


"Of  that  poor  lady  I  can  only 
speak  with  that  unfeigned  respect 
which  I  am  sure  you  all  feel.  That 
she  was  happy  in  her  marriage  till 
this  accusation  reached  her  ears,  no 
one  can  doubt.  That  he  to  whom 
she  was  given  in  marriage  has  done 
his  duty  by  her,  treating  her  with 
full  affection  and  confidence,  has 
been  proved  to  us.  Who  can  think 
that  such  a  condition  of  things  shall 
be  disturbed,  that  happiness  so 
perfect  is  to  be  turned  to  misery 
and  misfortune,  without  almost  an 
agony  of  regret  ?  But  not  on  that 
account  can  you  be  in  any  way 
released  from  your  duty.  In  this 
case  you  are  not  entitled  to  think 
of  the  happiness  or  unhappiness 
of  individuals.  You  have  to  con- 
fine yourself  to  the  evidence,  and 
must  give  your  verdict  in  accord- 
ance with  that." 

John  Caldigate,  as  he  heard  the 
words,  told  himself  at  once  that 
the  judge  had,  in  fact,  desired  the 
jury  to  find  a  verdict  against  him. 
Not  a  single  point  had  been  made 
in  his  favour,  and  every  point  had 
been  made  to  tell  against  him. 
The  judge  had  almost  said  that  a 
man's  promise  to  marry  a  woman 
should  be  taken  as  evidence  of 
marriage.  But  the  jury,  at  any 
rate,  did  not  show  immediate  alac- 
rity in  obeying  the  judge's  be- 
hest. They  returned  once  or  twice 
to  ask  questions ;  and  at  three 
o'clock  Caldigate  was  allowed  to 
go  to  his  inn,  with  an  intimation 
that  he  must  hold  himself  in 
readiness  to  be  brought  back  and 
hear  the  verdict  at  a  moment's 
notice.  "I  wish  they  would  de- 
clare it  at  once,"  he  said  to  his 
father.  "The  suspense  is  worse 
than  all." 

During  the  afternoon  the  matter 
was  discussed  very  freely  through- 
out the  borough.  "  I  thought  they 
would  have  agreed  almost  at  once," 
said  the  mayor,  at  about  four  o'clock, 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XL 


155 


to  Mr  Seely,  who,  at  this  moment, 
had  retired  to  his  own  office,  where 
the  great  magistrate  of  the  bor- 
ough was  closeted  with  him.  The 
mayor  had  "been  seated  on  the 
"bench  throughout  the  trial,  and  had 
taken  much  interest  in  the  case. 
•"  I  never  imagined  that  there  could 
be  much  doubt  after  Judge  Bram- 
ber's  summing  up." 

"  I  hear  that  there's  one  man 
holding  out,"  said  the  attorney,  in 
&  low  voice. 

"Who  is  it?"  whispered  the 
mayor.  The  mayor  and  Mr  Seely 
were  very  intimate. 

"  I  suppose  it's  Jones,  the  tan- 
ner at  Ely.  They  say  that  the 
•Caldigates  have  had  dealings  with 
his  family  from  generation  to  gen- 
eration. I  knew  all  about  it, 
and  when  they  passed  his  name,  I 
wondered  that  Burder  hadn't  been 
sharper."  Mr  Burder  was  the  gen- 
tleman who  had  got  up  the  prose- 
cution on  the  part  of  the  Crown. 

"It  must  be  something  of  that 
kind,"  said  the  mayor.  "Nothing 
else  would  make  a  jury  hesitate 
after  such  a  charge  as  that.  I  sup- 
pose he  did  marry  her."  Mr  Seely 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  "I  have 
attended  very  closely  to  the  case, 
and  I  know  I  should  have  been 
against  him  on  a  jury.  God  bless 
my  soul !  did  any  man  ever  write 
to  a  woman  as  his  wife  without 
having  married  her?" 

"It  has  been  done,  I  should 
think." 

"And  that  nobody  should  have 
been  got  to  say  that  they  weren't 
man  and  wife." 

"  I  really  have  hardly  formed  an 
opinion,"  said  Mr  Seely,  still  whis- 
pering. "I  am  inclined  to  think 
that  there  was  probably  some  cere- 
mony, and  that  Caldigate  salved 
his  conscience,  when  he  married 
Bolton's  daughter,  by  an  idea  that 
the  ceremony  wasn't  valid.  But 
they'll  convict  him  at  last.  When 


he  told  me  that  he  had  been  up 
to  town  and  paid  that  money,  I 
knew  it  was  all  up  with  him.  How 
can  any  juryman  believe  that  a 
man  will  pay  twenty  thousand 
pounds,  which  he  doesn't  owe,  to  his 
sworn  enemy,  merely  on  a  point 
of  conscience  ? " 

At  the  same  time  the  old  banker 
was  sitting  in  his  room  at  the  bank, 
and  Robert  Bolton  was  with  him. 
"  There  cannot  be  a  doubt  of  his 
guilt,"  said  Robert  Bolton. 

"No,  no, — not  a  doubt." 

"  But  the  jury  may  disagree  1 " 

"  What  shall  we  do  then?"  said 
the  banker. 

"There  must  be  another  trial. 
We  must  go  on  till  we  get  a 
verdict." 

"And  Hester?  What  can  we 
do  for  Hester  ?  " 

"  She  is  very  obstinate,  and  I  fear 
we  have  no  power.  Even  though  she 
is  declared  not  to  be  his  wife,  she 
can  choose  her  own  place  of  living. 
If  he  is  convicted,  I  think  that 
she  would  come  back.  Of  course 
she  ought  to  come  back." 

"  Of  course,  of  course." 

"  Old  Caldigate,  too,  is  very  ob- 
stinate ;  but  it  may  be  that  we 
should  be  able  to  persuade  him. 
He  will  know  that  she  ought  to 
be  with  her  mother." 

"  Her  poor  mother !  her  poor 
mother  !  And  when  he  comes  out 
of  prison  ? " 

"  Her  very  nature  will  have  been 
altered  by  that  time,"  said  the 
attorney.  "  She  will,  I  trust,  have 
consented  before  that  to  take  up 
her  residence  under  your  roof." 

"  I  shall  be  dead,"  said  the  old 
man.  "  Disgrace  and  years  together 
will  have  killed  me  before  that  time 
comes." 

The  Sniirkies  were  staying  at 
Babington,  and  the  desire  for  news 
there  was  very  intent.  Mr  Smirkie 
was  full  of  thought  on  the  matter, 
but  was  manifestly  in  favour  of  a 


156 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XI. 


[Feb. 


conviction.  "  Yes ;  the  poor  young 
woman  is  very  much  to  be  pitied," 
he  said,  in  answer  to  the  squire, 
who  had  ventured  to  utter  a  word 
in  favour  of  Hester.  "  A  young 
woman  who  falls  into  the  hands  of 
an  evil  man  must  always  be  pitied; 
but  it  is  to  prevent  the  evil  men 
from  preying  upon  the  weaker  sex 
that  examples  such  as  these  are 
needed.  When  we  think  what 
might  have  been  the  case  here,  in 
this  house,  we  have  all  of  us  a 
peculiar  reason  to  be  thankful  for 
the  interposition  of  divine  Provi- 
dence." Here  Mr  Smirkie  made 
a  little  gesture  of  thanksgiving, 
thanking  Heaven  for  its  goodness 
to  his  wife  in  having  given  her 
himself.  "  Julia,  my  love,  you 
have  a  very  peculiar  reason  to  be 
thankful,  and  I  trust  you  are  so. 
Yes, — we  must  pity  the  poor  young 
lady ;  but  it  will  be  well  that  the 
offender  should  be  made  subject  to 
the  outraged  laws  of  his  country." 
Mrs  Smirkie,  as  she  listened  to 
these  eloquent  words,  closed  her 
eyes  and  hands  in  token  of  her 
thankfulness  for  all  that  Providence 
had  done  for  her. 

If  she  knew  how  to  compare  her 
condition  with  that  of  poor  Hester 
at  this  time,  she  had  indeed  cause 
for  thankfulness.  Hester  was  alone 
with  her  baby,  and  with  no  infor- 
mation but  what  had  been  con- 
veyed to  her  by  her  husband's 
letters.  As  she  read  the  last  of  the 
two  she  acknowledged  to  herself 
that  too  probably  she  would  not 
even  see  his  handwriting  again  till 
the  period  of  his  punishment  should 
have  expired.  And  then  ?  What 
would  conie  then?  Sitting  alone, 
at  the  open  window  of  her  bed- 
room, with  her  boy  on  her  lap,  she 
endeavoured  to  realise  her  own 
position.  She  would  be  a  mother, 
without  a  husband, — with  her  bas- 
tard child.  However  innocent  he 
might  be,  such  would  be  her  posi- 


tion under  the  law.  It  did  not  suf- 
fice that  they  two  should  be  man  and 
wife  as  thoroughly  as  any  whom  God 
had  joined  together,  if  twelve  men  as- 
sembled togetherin  a  jury-box  should 
say  otherwise.  She  had  told  him 
that  she  would  be  brave; — but  how 
should  she  be  brave  in  such  a  con- 
dition as  this]  What  should  she 
do  1  How  should  she  look  forward 
to  the  time  of  his  release  1  Could 
anything  ever  again  give  her  back 
her  husband,  and  make  him  her 
own  in  the  eyes  of  men?  Could 
anything  make  men  believe  that  he 
had  always  been  her  own,  and  that 
there  had  been  no  flaw  ?  She  had 
been  very  brave  when  they  had 
attempted  to  confine  her,  to  hold 
her  by  force  at  Chesterton.  Then 
she  had  been  made. strong,  had  al- 
most been  comforted,  by  opposition. 
The  determination  of  her  purpose 
to  go  back  had  supported  her.  But 
now, — how  should  it  be  with  her 
now  1  and  with  her  boy  ?  and  with 
him? 

The  old  man  was  very  good, 
good  and  eager  in  her  cause,  and 
would  let  her  live  at  Folking.  But 
what  would  they  call  her  ?  When 
they  wrote  to  her  from  Chesterton, 
how  would  they  address  her  letters? 
Never,  never  would  she  soil  her 
fingers  by  touching  a  document 
that  called  her  by  any  other  name 
than  her  own.  Yes,  her  own  ; — let 
all  the  jurymen  in  all  the  counties, 
let  all  the  judges  on  the  bench,  say 
what  they  would  to  the  contrary. 
Though  it  should  be  for  all  her  life, 
— though  there  should  never  come 
the  day  on  which  they, — they, — the 
world  at  large,  would  do  him  justice 
and  her, — though  they  should  call 
her  by  what  hard  name  they  would, 
still  up  there,  in  the  courts  of  her 
God,  she  would  be  his  wife.  She 
would  be  a  pure  woman  there,  and 
there  would  her  child  be  without 
a  stain.  And  here,  here  in  this 
world,  though  she  could  never 


1879.] 


Jolm  Caldigate.—Part  XL 


157 


more  be  a  wife  in  all  things,  she 
would  be  a  wife  in  love,  a  wife  in 
<jare,  a  wife  in  obedience,  a  wife  in 
all  godly  truth.  And  though  it 
would  never  be  possible  for  her  to 
«how  her  face  again  among  man- 
kind, never  for  her,  surely  the 
world  would  be  kinder  to  her  boy  ! 
They  would  not  begrudge  him  his 
name  !  And  when  it  should  be 
told  how  it  had  come  to  pass  that 
there  was  a  blot  upon  his  escutcheon, 
they  would  not  remind  him  of  his 
mother's  misery.  But,  above  all, 
there  should  be  no  shade  of  doubt 
as  to  her  husband.  "  I  know," 
she  said,  speaking  aloud,  but  not 
knowing  that  she  spoke  aloud, — 
•"  I  know  that  he  is  my  husband." 
Then  there  was  a  knock  at  the 
door.  "  Well ;  yes ; — has  it  come  ? 
Do  you  know?" 

No ;  nothing  was  known  there 
at  that  moment,  but  in  another 
minute  all  would  be  known.  The 
•wheels  of  the  old  squire's  carriage 
had  been  heard  upon  the  gravel. 
"  No,  ma'am,  no ;  you  shall  not 
leave  the  room,"  said  the  nurse. 
*l  Stay  here,  and  let  him  come  to 
you." 

"  Is  he  alone  1 "  she  asked.  But 
the  woman  did  not  know.  The 
wheels  of  the  carriage  had  only 
been  heard. 

Alas  !  alas  !  he  was  alone.  His 
heart,  too,  had  been  almost  broken 
as  he  bore  the  news  home  to  the 
wife  who  was  a  wife  no  longer. 

"  Father  !  "  she  said,  when  she 
•saw  him. 

"  My  daughter  ! — 0  my  daugh- 


ter ! "  And  then,  with  their  hands 
clasped  together,  they  sat  speech- 
less and  alone,  while  the  news  was 
spread  through  the  household  which 
the  old  man  did  not  dare  to  tell  to 
his  son's  wife. 

It  was  very  slowly  that  the  actual 
tidings  reached  her  ears.  Mr  Cal- 
digate,  when  he  tried  to  tell  them, 
found  that  the  power  of  words  had 
left  him.  Old  as  he  was,  and 
prone  to  cynic  indifference  as  he 
had  shown  himself,  he  was  affect- 
ed almost  like  a  young  girl.  He 
sobbed  convulsively  as  he  hung  over 
her,  embracing  her.  "  My  daugh- 
ter ! "  he  said, — "  my  daughter  !  my 
daughter  ! " 

But  at  last  it  was  all  told.  Caldi- 
gate  had  been  declared  guilty,  and 
the  judge  had  condemned  him  to 
be  confined  in  prison  for  two  years. 
Judge  Bramber  had  told  him  that, 
in  his  opinion,  the  jury  could  have 
found  no  other  verdict;  but  he 
went  on  to  say  that,  looking  for 
some  excuse  for  so  terrible  a  deed 
as  that  which  had  been  done, — so 
terrible  for  that  poor  lady  who  was 
now  left  nameless  with  a  nameless 
infant, — he  could  imagine  that  the 
marriage,  though  legally  solemnised, 
had  nevertheless  been  so  deficient 
in  the  appearances  of  solemnity  as 
to  have  imbued  the  husband  with 
the  idea  that  it  had  not  meant  all 
that  a  marriage  would  have  meant 
if  celebrated  in  a  church  and  with 
more  of  the  outward  appurtenances 
of  religion.  On  that  account  he 
refrained  from  inflicting  a  severer 
penalty. 


CHAPTER   XLIV. — AFTER    THE   VERDICT. 


When  the  verdict  was  given, 
•Caldigate  was  at  once  marched 
round  into  the  dock,  having 
hitherto  been  allowed  to  sit  in 
front  of  the  dock  between  Mr 
£>eely  and  his  father.  But,  stand- 

VOL.  CXXV. NO.  DCCLX. 


ing  in  the  dock,  he  heard  the 
sentence  pronounced  upon  him. 
"  I  never  married  the  woman,  my 
lord,"  he  said,  in  a  loud  voice. 
But  what  he  said  could  be  of  no 
avail.  And  then  men  looked  at 
L 


158 


John  Cdldigate. — Part  XL 


[Feb. 


him  as  he  disappeared  with  the 
jailers  down  the  steps  leading  to 
regions  below,  and  away  to  his 
prison,  and  they  knew  that  he 
would  no  more  be  seen  or  heard 
of  for  two  years.  He  had  vanished. 
But  there  was  the  lady  who  was 
not  his  wife  out  at  Eolking, — the 
lady  whom  the  jury  had  declared 
not  to  be  his  wife.  What  would 
become  of  her  1 

There  was  an  old  gentleman 
there  in  the  court  who  had  known 
Mr  Caldigate  for  many  years, — one 
Mr  Ryder,  who  had  been  himself 
a  practising  barrister,  but  had  now 
retired.  In  those  days  they  seldom 
saw  each  other;  but,  nevertheless, 
they  were  friends.  "Caldigate," 
he  said,  "  you  had  better  let  her 
go  back  to  her  own  people." 

"  She  shall  stay  with  me,"  he 
replied. 

"  Better  not.  Believe  me,  she 
had  better  not.  If  so,  how  will  it 
be  with  her  when  he  is  released1? 
The  two  years  will  soon  go  by,  and 
then  she  will  be  in  his  house.  If 
that  woman  should  die,  he  might 
marry  her, — but  till  then  she  had 
better  be  with  her  own  people." 

"She  shall  stay  with  me,"  the 
old  man  said  again,  repeating  the 
words  angrily,  and  shaking  his 
head.  He  was  so  stunned  by  the 
blow  that  he  could  not  argue  the 
matter,  but  he  knew  that  he  had 
made  the  promise,  and  that  he  was 
resolved  to  abide  by  it. 

She  had  better  go  back  to  her 
own  people !  All  the  world  was 
saying  it.  She  had  no  husband 
now.  Everybody  would  respect  her 
misfortune.  Everybody  would  ac- 
knowledge her  innocence.  All  would 
sympathise  with  her.  All  would 
love  her.  But  she  must  go  back 
to  her  own  people.  There  was  not 
a  dissentient  voice.  "  Of  course 
she  must  go  back  to  you  now," 
Nicholas  Bolton  said  to  her  father, 
and  Nicholas  Bolton  seldom  inter- 


fered in  anything.  "  The  poor  lady 
will  of  course  be  restored  to  her 
family,"  the  judge  had  said  in  pri- 
vate to  his  marshal,  and  the  marshal 
had  of  course  made  known  what 
the  judge  had  said.  On  the  next 
morning  there  came  a  letter  from 
William  Bolton  to  Eobert.  "Of 
course  Hester  must  come  back  now.. 
Nothing  else  is  possible."  Every- 
body decided  that  she  must  come 
back.  It  was  a  matter  which  ad- 
mitted of  no  doubt.  But  how  was 
she  to  be  brought  to  Chesterton  1 

None  of  them  who  decided  with 
so  much  confidence  as  to  her  future^ 
understood  her  ideas  of  her  position 
as  a  wife.  "  I  am  bone  of  his  bone, 
and  flesh  of  his  flesh,"  she  said  to 
herself, — "  made  so  by  a  sacrament 
which  no  jury  can  touch.  What 
matters  what  the  people  say  ?  They 
may  make  me  more  unhappy  than 
I  am, — they  may  kill  me  by  their 
cruelty ;  but  they  cannot  make 
me  believe  myself  not  to  be  his 
wife.  And  while  I  am  his  wife, 
I  will  obey  him,  and  him  only." 

What  she  called  "  their  cruelty  " 
manifested  itself  very  soon.  The 
first  person  who  came  to  her  was 
Mrs  Eobert  Bolton,  and  her  visit 
was  made  on  the  day  after  the 
verdict.  When  Hester  sent  down 
word  begging  to  be  permitted  in 
her  misery  to  decline  to  see  even 
her  sister-in-law,  Mrs  Eobert  sent 
her  up  a  word  or  two  written  in 
pencil — "My  darling,  whom  have 
you  nearer  ?  Who  loves  you  better 
than  1 3 "  Then  the  wretched  one 
gave  way,  and  allowed  her  brother's 
wife  to  be  brought  to  her.  She 
was  already  dressed  from  head  to 
foot  in  black,  and  her  baby  was 
with  her. 

The  arguments  which  Mrs  Eobert 
Bolton  used  need  not  be  repeated, 
but  it  may  be  said  that  the  words 
she  used  were  so  tender,  and  that 
they  were  urged  with  so  much  love,, 
so  much  sympathy,  and  so  much 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XL 


159 


personal  approval,  that  Hester's 
heart  was  touched.  "But  he  is 
my  husband,"  Hester  said.  "  The 
judge  cannot  alter  it ;  he  is  my 
husband." 

"I  will  not  say  a  word  to  the 
contrary.  But  the  law  has  separ- 
ated you,  and  you  should  obey  the 
law.  You  should  not  even  eat  his 

bread  now,  because, — because . 

Oh,  Hester,  you  understand." 

"  I  do  understand,"  she  said, 
rising  to  her  feet  in  her  energy  ; 
"and  I  will  eat  his  bread  though 
it  be  hard,  and  I  will  drink  of  his 
cup  though  it  be  bitter.  His  bread 
and  his  cup  shall  be  mine,  and  none 
other  shall  be  mine.  I  do  under- 
stand. I  know  that  these  wicked 
people  have  blasted  my  life.  I 
know  that  I  can  be  nothing  to  him 
now.  But  his  child  shall  never 
be  made  to  think  that  his  mother 
had  condemned  his  father."  "  Yes, 
Margaret,"  she  said  again,  "I  do 
love  you,  and  I  do  trust  you,  and 
I  know  that  you  love  me.  But 
you  do  not  love  him ;  you  do  not 
believe  in  him.  If  they  came  to 
you  and  took  Eobert  away,  would 
you  go  and  live  with  other  people  ] 
I  do  love  papa  and  mamma. 
But  this  is  his  house,  and  he  bids 
me  stay  here.  The  very  clothes 
which  I  wear  are  his  clothes.  I 
am  his ;  and  though  they  were  to 
cut  me  apart  from  him,  still  I 
should  belong  to  him.  No, — I  will 
not  go  to  mamma.  Of  course  I 
have  forgiven  her,  because  she 
meant  it  for  the  best ;  but  I  will 
never  go  back  to  Chesterton." 

Then  there  came  letters  from  the 
mother,  one  letter  hot  upon  the 
other,  all  appealing  to  those  texts 
in  Scripture  by  which  the  laws  of 
nations  are  supposed  to  be  sup- 
ported. "  Give  unto  Caesar  the 
things  which  are  Cresar's."  It  was 
for  the  law  to  declare  who  were 
and  who  were  not  man  and  wife, 
and  in  this  matter  the  law  had 


declared.  After  this  how  could 
she  doubt1?  Or  how  could  she 
hesitate  as  to  tearing  herself  away 
from  the  belongings  of  the  man 
who  certainly  was  not  her  husband  ? 
And  there  were  dreadful  words  in 
these  letters  which  added  much  to 
the  agony  of  her  who  received 
them, — words  which  were  used  in 
order  that  their  strength  might 
prevail.  But  they  had  no  strength 
to  convert,  though  they  had  strength 
to  afflict.  Then  Mrs  Bolton,  who 
in  her  anxiety  was  ready  to  sub- 
mit herself  to  any  personal  dis- 
comfort, prepared  to  go  to  Folk- 
ing.  But  Hester  sent  back  word 
that,  in  her  present  condition,  she 
would  see  nobody, — not  even  her 
mother. 

But  it  was  not  only  from  the 
family  of  the  Boltons  that  these 
applications  and  entreaties  came. 
Even  Mr  Seely  took  upon  himself 
to  tell  Mr  Caldigate  that  under  ex- 
isting circumstances  Hester  should 
not  be  detained  at  Eolking. 

"  I  do  not  know  that  either  she 
or  I  want  advice  in  the  matter," 
Mr  Caldigate  replied.  But  as  a 
stone  will  be  worn  hollow  in  time 
by  the  droppings  of  many  waters, 
so  was  it  thought  that  if  all 
Cambridge  would  continue  firm 
in  its  purpose,  then  this  stone 
might  at  last  be  made  to  yield. 
The  world  was  so  anxious  that  it 
resolved  among  itself  that  it  would 
submit  to  any  amount  of  snubbing 
in  carrying  out  its  object.  Even 
the  mayor  wrote,  —  "  Bear  Mr 
Caldigate,  greatly  as  I  object  to  all 
interference  in  families,  I  think  my- 
self bound  to  appeal  to  you  as  to 
the  unfortunate  condition  of  that 
young  lady  from  Chesterton."  Then 
followed  all  the  arguments,  and 
some  of  the  texts, — both  of  which 
were  gradually  becoming  hackneyed 
in  the  matter.  Mr  Caldigate's 
answer  to  this  was  very  charac- 
teristic :  "  Dear  Mr  Mayor,  if  you 


160 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XI. 


[Feb. 


have  an  objection  to  interfere  in 
families,  why  do  you  do  it  ? "  The 
mayor  took  the  rebuke  with  placid 
good-humour,  feeling  that  his  little 
drop  might  also  have  done  some- 
thing towards  hollowing  the  stone. 

But  of  all  the  counsellors,  perhaps 
Mr  Smirkie  was  the  most  zealous 
and  the  most  trusting.  He  felt 
himself  to  be  bound  in  a  peculiar 
manner  to  Folking, — by  double  ties. 
Was  not  the  clergyman  of  the 
parish  the  brother  of  his  dear  de- 
parted one  ?  And  with  whom  better 
could  he  hold  sweet  counsel  1  And 
then  that  second  dear  one,  who  had 
just  been  vouchsafed  to  him, — had 
she  not,  as  it  were  by  a  miracle,  been 
rescued  from  the  fate  into  which 
the  other  poor  lady  had  fallen,  and 
obtained  her  present  thoroughly 
satisfactory  position  ?  Mr  Smirkie 
was  a  clergyman  who  understood  it 
to  be  his  duty  to  be  urgent  for  the 
good  cause,  in  season  and  out  of 
season,  and  who  always  did  his 
duty.  So  he  travelled  over  to  Ut- 
terden  and  discussed  the  matter  at 
great  length  with  Mr  Bromley.  "  I 
do  believe  in  my  heart,"  said  Mr 
Bromley,  "  that  the  verdict  is 
wrong."  But  Mr  Smirkie,  with 
much  eloquence,  averred  that  that 
had  nothing  to  do  with  the  question. 
Mr  Bromley  opened  his  eyes  very 
wide.  "Nothing  at  all,"  said  Mr 
Smirkie.  "  It  is  the  verdict  of  the 
jury,  confirmed  by  the  judge ;  and 
the  verdict  itself  dissolves  the  mar- 
riage. Whether  the  verdict  be 
wrong  or  right,  that  marriage  cere- 
mony is  null  and  void.  They  are 
not  man  and  wife ; — not  now,  even 
if  they  ever  were.  Of  course  you 
are  aware  of  that." 

Mr  Smirkie  was  altogether  wrong 
in  his  law.  Such  men  generally 
are.  Mr  Bromley  in  vain  endeav- 
oured to  point  out  to  him  that  the 
verdict  could  have  no  such  power 
as  was  here  claimed  for  it,  and  that 
if  any  claim  was  to  be  brought  up 


hereafter  as  to  the  legitimacy  of  the 
child,  the  fact  of  the  verdict  could 
only  be  used  as  evidence,  and  that 
that  evidence  would  or  would  not 
be  regarded  as  true  by  another  jury, 
according  to  the  views  which  that 
other  jury  might  take.  Mr  Smirkie 
would  only  repeat  his  statements 
with  increased  solemnity, — "That 
marriage  is  no  marriage.  That  poor 
lady  is  not  Mrs  John  Caldigate. 
She  is  Miss  Hester  Bolton,  and 
therefore,  every  breath  of  air  which 
she  draws  under  that  roof  is  a  sin." 
As  he  said  this  out  upon  the  dike- 
side,  he  looked  about  him  with 
manifest  regret  that  he  had  no 
other  audience  than  his  brother- 
in-law. 

And  at  last,  after  much  persever- 
ing assiduity,  Mr  Smirkie  succeeded 
in  reaching  Mr  Caldigate  himself, 
and  expressed  himself  with  bold- 
ness. He  was  a  man  who  had  at 
any  rate  the  courage  of  his  opinions. 
"  You  have  to  think  of  her  future 
life  in  this  world  and  in  the  next," 
he  said.  "And  in  the  next,"  he 
repeated  with  emphasis,  when  Mr 
Caldigate  paused. 

"As  to  what  will  affect  her 
happiness  in  this  world,  sir,"  said 
the  old  man  very  gravely,  "  I  think 
you  can  hardly  be  a  judge." 

"  Good  repute,"  suggested  the 
clergyman. 

"Has  she  done  anything  that 
ought  to  lessen  the  fair  fame  of  a 
woman  in  the  estimation  of  other 
women  1  And  as  to  the  next  world, 
in  the  rewards  and  punishments  of 
which  you  presume  it  to  be  your 
peculiar  duty  to  deal,  has  she  done 
anything  which  you  think  will  sub- 
ject her  to  the  special  wrath  of  an 
offended  Deity?"  This  question 
he  asked  with  a  vehemence  of  voice 
which  astounded  his  companion. 
"  She  has  loved  her  husband  with 
a  peculiar  love,"  he  continued. 
"  She  has  believed  herself  to  be 
joined  to  him  by  ties  which  you 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XI. 


1G1 


shall  call  romantic,  if  you  will, — 
superstitious,  if  you  will." 

"  I  hope  not, — I  hope  not,"  said 
Mr  Smirkie,  holding  up  both  his 
hands,  not  at  all  understanding  the 
old  man's  meaning,  but  intending 
to  express  horror  at  "  superstition," 
which  he  supposed  to  be  a  peculiar 
attribute  of  the  Roman  Catholic 
branch  of  the  Christian  Church. 
"  Not  that,  I  hope." 

"  I  cannot  fathom,  and  you,  ap- 
parently, cannot  at  all  understand, 
her  idea  of  the  sanctity  of  the  mar- 
riage vow.  But  if  you  knew  any- 
thing about  her,  I  think  you  would 
refrain  from  threatening  her  with 
divine  wrath ;  and  as  you  know 
nothing  about  her,  I  regard  such 
threats,  coming  from  you,  as 
impertinent,  unmanly,  inhuman, 
and  blasphemous."  Mr  Caldigate 
had  commenced  this  conversation, 
though  vehemently,  still  in  so 
argumentative  a  manner,  and  in 
his  allusions  to  the  lady's  romantic 
and  superstitious  ideas  had  seemed 
to  yield  so  much,  that  the  terri- 
ble vigour  of  his  last  words  struck 
the  poor  clergyman  almost  to  the 
ground.  One  epithet  came  out 
after  another,  very  clearly  spoken, 
with  a  pause  between  each  of  them  j 
and  the  speaker,  as  he  uttered  them, 
looked  his  victim  close  in  the  face. 
Then  he  walked  slowly  away,  leav- 
ing Mr  Smirkie  fixed  to  the  ground. 
What  had  he  done  1  He  had  simply 
made  a  gentle  allusion  to  the  next 
world,  as,  surely,  it  was  his  duty 
to  do.  Whether  this  old  pagan  did 
or  did  not  believe  in  a  next  world 
himself,  he  must  at  any  rate  be 
aware  that  it  is  the  peculiar  busi- 
ness of  a  clergyman  to  make  such 
references.  As  to  "  impertinent " 
and  "  unmanly,"  he  would  let  them 
go  by.  He  was,  •  he  conceived, 
bound  by  his  calling  to  be  what 
people  called  impertinent,  and  man- 
liness had  nothing  to  do  with  him. 
But  "  inhuman  "  and  "  blasphem- 


ous ! "  Why  had  he  come  all  the 
way  over  from  Pluni-cum-Pippins, 
at  considerable  personal  expense, 
except  in  furtherance  of  that  highest 
humanity  which  concerns  itself  with 
eternity  1  And  as  for  blasphemy,  it 
might,  he  thought,  as  well  be  said 
that  he  was  blasphemous  whenever 
he  read  the  Bible  aloud  to  his  nock  ! 
His  first  idea  was  to  write  an  ex- 
haustive letter  on  the  subject  to  Mr 
Caldigate,  in  which  he  would  in- 
vite that  gentleman  to  recall  the 
offensive  words.  But  as  he  drove 
his  gig  into  the  parsonage  yard  at 
Plum-cum-Pippins,  he  made  up  his 
mind  that  this,  too,  was  among  the 
things  which  a  Christian  minister 
should  bear  with  patience. 

But  the  dropping  water  always 
does  hollow  the  stone, — hollow  it  a 
little,  though  the  impression  may 
not  be  visible  to  the  naked  eye. 
Even  when  rising  in  his  wrath, 
Mr  Caldigate  had  crushed  the 
clergyman  by  the  violence  of  his 
language, — having  been  excited  to 
anger  chiefly  by  the  thick-headed- 
ness  of  the  man  in  not  having 
understood  the  rebuke  intended  to 
be  conveyed  by  his  earlier  and 
gentler  words, — even  when  leaving 
the  man,  with  a  full  conviction  that 
the  man  was  crushed,  the  old  squire 
was  aware  that  he,  the  stone,  was 
being  gradually  hollowed.  Hester 
was  now  very  dear  to  him.  From 
the  first  she  had  suited  his  ideas  of 
a  wife  for  his  son.  And  her  con- 
stancy in  her  misery  had  wound 
itself  into  his  heart.  He  quite 
understood  that  her  welfare  should 
now  be  his  great  care.  There  was 
no  one  else  from  whom  she  would 
listen  to  a  word  of  advice.  Erom 
her  husband,  whose  slightest  word 
would  have  been  a  law  to  her,  no 
word  could  now  come.  From  her 
own  family  she  was  entirely  estrang- 
ed, having  been  taught  to  regard 
them  simply  as  enemies  in  this 
matter.  She  loved  her  mother ; 


162 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XL 


[Feb. 


bub  in  this  matter  her  mother  was 
her  declared  enemy.  His  voice,  and 
his  voice  alone,  could  now  reach 
her  ears.  As  to  that  great  here- 
after to  which  the  clergyman  had  so 
flippantly  alluded,  he  was  content 
to  leave  that  to  herself.  Much  as 
he  differed  from  her  as  to  details 
of  a  creed,  he  felt  sure  that  she  was 
safe  there.  To  his  thinking,  she 
was  the  purest  human  being  that 
had  ever  come  beneath  his  notice. 
"Whatever  portion  of  bliss  there 
may  be  for  mankind  in  a  life  after 
this  life,  the  fullest  portion  of  that 
bliss  would  be  hers,  whether  by 
reason  of  her  creed  or  in  spite  of 
it.  Accustomed  to  think  much  of 
things,  it  was  thus  that  he  thought 
of  her  in  reference  to  the  world  to 
come.  But  as  to  this  world,  he 
was  not  quite  so  sure.  If  she 
could  die  and  have  that  other  bliss 
at  once,  that  would  be  best, — only 
for  the  child,  only  for  the  child ! 
But  he  did  doubt.  Would  it  do 
for  her  to  ignore  that  verdict  al- 
together, when  his  son  should  be 
released  from  jail,  and  be  to  him  as 
though  there  had  been  no  verdict  ? 
Would  not  the  finger  of  scorn  be 
pointed  at  her;  and, — as  he  thought 
of  it, — possibly  at  future  children  1 
Might  it  not  be  better  for  her  to 
bow  to  the  cruelty  of  Fate,  and 
consent  to  be  apart  from  him  at 
any  rate  while  that  woman  should 
be  alive  ?  And  again,  if  such  would 
be  better,  then  was  it  not  clear  that 
no  time  should  be  lost  in  beginning 
that  new  life  ?  If  at  last  it  should 
be  ruled  that  she  must  go  back  to 
her  mother,  it  would  certainly  be 
well  that  she  should  do  so  now,  at 
once,  so  that  people  might  know 
that  she  had  yielded  to  the  verdict. 
In  this  way  the  stone  was  hol- 
lowed,— though  the  hollowing  had 
not  been  made  visible  to  the  naked 
eye  of  Mr  Smirkie. 

He  was  a  man  whose  conscience 
did  not  easily  let  him  rest  when  he 


other 


believed  that  a  duty  was  incumbent 
on  him.  It  was  his  duty  now,  he 
thought,  not  to  bid  her  go,  not  to 
advise  her  to  go, — but  to  put  before 
her  what  reasons  there  might  be 
for  her  going. 

"I  am  telling  you,"  he  said, 
"  what  other  people  say." 

"  I   do   not   regard   what 
people  say." 

"That  might  be  possible  for  a 
man,  Hester,  but  a  woman  has  to 
regard  what  the  world  says.  You 
are  young,  and  may  have  a  long 
life  before  you.  We  cannot  hide 
from  ourselves  the  fact  that  a  most 
terrible  misfortune  has  fallen  upon 
you,  altogether  undeserved,  but 
very  grievous." 

."God,  when  he  gave  me  my  hus- 
band," she  replied,  "did  me  more 
good  than  any  man  can  do  me  harm 
by  taking  him  away.  I  never  cease 
to  tell  myself  that  the  blessing  is 
greater  than  the  misfortune." 

"But,  my  dearest " 

"I  know  it  all,  father.  I  know 
what  you  would  tell  me.  If  I  live 
here  after  he  comes  out  of  prison 
people  will  say  that  I  am  his  mis- 
tress." 

"Not  that,  not  that,"  he  cried, 
unable  to  bear  the  contumely  of 
the  word,  even  from  her  lips. 

"Yes,  father;  that  is  what  you 
mean.  That  is  what  they  all  mean. 
That  is  what  mamma  means,  and 
Margaret.  Let  them  call  me  what 
they  will.  It  is  not  what  they  call 
me,  but  what  I  am.  It  is  bad  for 
a  woman  to  have  evil  said  of  her, 
but  it  is  worse  for  her  to  do  evil. 
It  is  your  house,  and  you,  of  course, 
can  bid  me  go." 

"  I  will  never  do  that." 

"But  unless  I  am  turned  out 
homeless  on  to  the  roads,  I  will 
stay  here  where  he  left  me.  I  have 
only  one  sure  way  of  doing  right, 
and  that  is  to  obey  him  as  closely 
as  I  can.  He  canno.t  order  me  now, 
but  he  has  left  his  orders.  He  has 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XI. 


163 


told  me  to  remain  under  this  roof, 
and  to  call  myself  by  his  name,  and 
in  no  way  to  derogate  from  my  own 
honour  as  his  wife.  By  God's  help 
I  will  do  as  he  bids  me.  Nothing 
that  any  of  them  can  say  shall  turn 
me  an  inch  from  the  way  he  has 
pointed  out.  You  are  good  to  me.'; 
"  I  will  try  to  be  good  to  you." 
"  You  are  so  good  to  me  that  I 


can  hardly  understand  your  good- 
ness. Trusting  to  that,  I  will  wait 
here  till  he  shall  come  again  and 
tell  me  where  and  how  I  am  to 
live." 

After  that  the  old  squire  made 
no  further  attempt  in  the  same 
direction,  finding  that  no  slightest 
hollow  had  been  made  on  that 
other  stone. 


CHAPTER  XLV. — THE   BOLTONS   ARE   MUCH   TROUBLED. 


The  condition  of  the  inhabitants 
of  Puritan  Grange  during  the  six 
weeks  immediately  after  the  verdict 
was  very  .  sad  indeed.  I  have  de- 
scribed badly  the  character  of  the 
lady  living  there,  if  I  have  induced 
my  readers  to  think  that  her  heart 
was  hardened  against  her  daughter. 
She  was  a  woman  of  strong  convic- 
tions and  bitter  prejudices ;  but  her 
heart  was  soft  enough.  "When  she 
married,  circumstances  had  separated 
her  widely  from  her  own  family,  in 
which  she  had  never  known  either 
a  brother  or  a  sister ;  and  the  bur- 
den of  her  marriage  with  an  old 
man  had  been  brightened  to  her 
by  the  possession  of  an  only  child, 
— of  one  daughter,  who  had  been 
the  lamp  of  her  life,  the  solitary 
delight  of  her  heart,  the  single  re- 
lief to  the  otherwise  solitary  tedium 
of  her  monotonous  existence.  She 
had,  indeed,  attended  to  the  reli- 
gious training  of  her  girl  with  con- 
stant care; — but  the  yearnings  of 
her  maternal  heart  had  softened  even 
her  religion,  so  that  the  laws,  and 
dogmas,  and  texts,  and  exercises  by 
which  her  husband  was  oppressed, 
and  her  servants  afflicted,  had  been 
made  lighter  for  Hester,  —  some- 
times not  without  pangs  of  con- 
science on  the  part  of  the  self-con- 
victed parent.  She  had  known,  as 
well  as  other  mothers,  how  to  gloat 
over  the  sweet  charms  of  the  one 
thing  which  in 'all  the  world  had 


been  quite  her  own.  She  had 
revelled  in  kisses  and  soft  touches. 
Her  Hester's  garments  had  been  a 
delight  to  her,  till  she  had  taught 
herself  to  think  that  though  sack- 
cloth and  ashes  were  the  proper 
wear  for  herself  and  her  husband, 
nothing  was  too  soft,  too  silken,  too 
delicate  for  her  little  girl.  The 
roses  in  the  garden,  and  the  gold- 
fish in  the  bowl,  and  the  pet 
spaniel,  had  been  there  because 
such  surroundings  had  been  needed 
for  the  joyousness  of  her  girl.  And 
the  theological  hardness  of  the 
literature  of  the  house  had  been 
somewhat  mitigated  as  Hester  grew 
into  reading,  so  that  "Watts  was  oc- 
casionally relieved  by  "Wordsworth, 
and  Thomson's  '  Seasons  '  was  al- 
ternated with  George  Wither's 
*  Hallelujah/ 

Then  had  come,  first  the  idea  of 
the  marriage,  and,  immediately  con- 
sequent upon  the  idea,  the  marriage 
itself.  The  story  of  that  has  been 
told,  but  the  reader  has  perhaps 
hardly  been  made  to  understand  the 
utter  bereavement  which  it  brought 
on  the  mother.  It  is  natural  that 
the  adult  bird  should  delight  to 
leave  the  family  nest,  and  that  the 
mother  bird  should  have  its  heart- 
strings torn  by  the  separation.  It 
must  be  so,  alas  !  even  when  the 
divulsions  are  made  in  the  happiest 
manner.  But  here  the  tearing 
away  had  nothing  in  it  to  reconcile 


164 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XI. 


[Feb.- 


the  mother.  She  was  suddenly 
told  that  her  daughter  was  to  be  no 
longer  her  own.  Her  step-son  had 
interfered,  and  her  husband  had 
become  powerful  over  her  with  a 
sudden  obstinacy.  She  had  had  no 
hand  in  the  choice.  She  would 
fain  have  postponed  any  choice, 
and  would  then  fain  have  herself 
made  the  choice.  But  a  man  was 
brought  who  was  distasteful  to  her 
at  all  points,  and  she  was  told  that 
that  man  was  to  have  her  daughter ! 
He  was  thoroughly  distasteful !  He 
had  been  a  spendthrift  and  a  gam- 
bler;— then  a  seeker  after  gold  in 
wild,  godless  countries,  and,  to  her 
thinking,  not  at  all  the  better  be- 
cause he  had  been  a  successful 
seeker.  She  believed  the  man  to 
be  an  atheist.  She  was  told  that 
his  father  was  an  infidel,  and  was 
ready  to  believe  the  worst  of  the 
son.  And  yet  in  this  terrible 
emergency  she  was  powerless.  The 
girl  was  allowed  to  see  the  man, 
and  declared  almost  at  once  that 
she  would  transfer  herself  from  her 
mother's  keeping  to  the  keeping  of 
this  wicked  one  !  She  was  trans- 
ferred, and  the  mother  had  been 
left  alone. 

Then  came  the  blow, — very  quick- 
ly; the  blow  which,  as  she  now 
told  herself  morning,  noon,  and 
night,  was  no  worse  than  she  had 
expected.  Another  woman  claimed 
the  man  as  her  husband,  and  so 
claimed  him  that  the  world  all 
around  her  had  declared  that  the 
claim  would  be  made  good.  And 
the  man  himself  had  owned  enough 
to  make  him  unfit, — as  she  thought, 
— to  have  the  custody  of  any  honest 
woman.  Then  she  acknowledged 
to  herself  the  full  weight  of  the 
misfortune  that  had  fallen  upon 
them, — the  misfortune  which  never 
would  have  fallen  upon  them  had 
they  listened  to  her  counsel;  and 
she  had  immediately  put  her  shoul- 
ders to  the  wheel  with  the  object 


of  rescuing  her  child  from  the- 
perils,  from  the  sin,  from  the  degra- 
dation of  her  position.  And  could 
she  have  rescued  her,  could  she 
have  induced  her  daughter  to  re- 
main at  Puritan  Grange,  there 
would  even  then  have  been  conso- 
lation. It  was  one  of  the  tenets  of 
her  life, — the  strongest,  perhaps,  of 
all  those  doctrines  on  which  she- 
built  her  faith, — that  this  world  is- 
a  world  of  woe;  that  wailing  and 
suffering,  if  not  gnashing  of  teeth, 
is  and  should  be  the  condition  of 
mankind  preparatory  to  eternal  bliss, 
For  eternal  bliss  there  could,  she- 
thought,  be  no  other  preparation. 
She  did  not  want  to  be  happy  here, 
or  to  have  those  happy  around  her 
whom  she  loved.  She  had  stum- 
bled and  gone  astray, — she  told  her- 
self hourly  now  that  she  had  stum- 
bled and  gone  astray, — in  preparing 
those  roses  and  ribbons,  and  other 
lightnesses,  for  her  young  girl.  It 
should  have  been  all  sackcloth  and 
ashes.  Had  it  been  all  sackcloth, 
and  ashes  there  would  not  have  been 
this  terrible  fall.  But  if  the  loved 
one  would  now  come  back  to  sack- 
cloth and  ashes, — if  she  would  as- 
sent to  the  balckness  of  religious 
asceticism,  to  penitence  and  theolog- 
ical gloom,  and  would  lead  the  life 
of  the  godly  but  comfortless  here- 
in order  that  she  might  insure  the 
glories  and  joys  of  the  future  life, 
then  there  might  be  consolation ;  — 
then  it  might  be  felt  that  this  trib- 
ulation had  been  a  precious  balm 
by  which  an  erring  soul  had  been, 
brought  back  to  its  due  humility. 

But  Wordsworth  and  Thomson r 
though  upon  the  whole  moral  poets,, 
had  done  their  work.  Or,  if  not. 
done  altogether  by  them,  the  work 
had  been  done  by  the  latitude 
which  had  admitted  them.  So  that, 
the  young  wife,  when  she  found 
herself  breathing  the  free  air  with 
which  her  husband  surrounded  her,, 
was  able  to  burst  asunder  the  rem- 


18 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XI. 


165> 


nants  of  those  cords  of  fanaticism 
with  which  her  mother  had  endeav- 
oured to  constrain  her.  She  looked 
abroad,  and  soon  taught  herself  to 
feel  that  the  world  was  bright  and 
merry ;  that  this  mortal  life  was  by 
no  means  necessarily  a  place  of 
gloom ;  and  the  companionship  of 
the  man  to  whom  Providence  had 
allotted  her  was  to  her  so  happy,  so 
enjoyable,  so  sufficient,  that  she 
found  herself  to  have  escaped  from 
a  dark  prison  and  to  be  roaming 
among  shrubs,  and  flowers,  and  run- 
ning waters,  which  were  ever  green, 
which  never  faded,  and  the  music 
of  which  was  always  in  her  ears. 
When  the  first  tidings  of  Euphemia 
Smith  came  to  Folking  she  was  in 
all  her  thoughts  and  theories  of  life 
poles  asunder  from  her  mother. 
There  might  be  suffering  and  trib- 
ulation,—  suffering  even  to  death. 
But  her  idea  of  the  manner  in 
which  the  suffering  should  be  en- 
dured and  death  awaited  was  alto- 
gether opposed  to  that  which  was 
hot  within  her  mother's  bosom. 

But  not  the  less  did  the  mother 
still  pray,  still  struggle,  and  still 
hope.  They,  neither  of  them,  quite 
understood  each  other,  but  the 
mother  did  not  at  all  understand 
the  daughter.  She,  the  mother, 
knew  what  the  verdict  had  been, 
and  was  taught  to  believe  that  by 
that  verdict  the  very  ceremony  of 
her  daughter's  marriage  had  been 
rendered  null  and  void.  It  was  in 
vain  that  the  truth  of  the  matter 
came  to  her  from  Robert  Bolton, 
diluted  through  the  vague  explana- 
tions of  her  husband.  "  It  does  not 
alter  the  marriage,  Robert  says."  So 
it  was  that  the  old  man  told  his 
tale,  not  perfectly  understanding, 
not  even  quite  believing,  what  his 
son  had  told  him. 

"How  can  he  dare  to  say  so1?" 
demanded  the  indignant  mother  of 
the  injured  woman.  "  Not  alter 
the  marriage  when  the  jury  have 


declared  that  the  other  woman  is 
his  wife  !  In  the  eyes  of  God  she  is 
not  his  wife.  That  cannot  be  im- 
puted as  sin  to  her, — not  that, — be- 
cause she  did  it  not  knowing.  She,, 
poor  innocent,  was  betrayed.  But 
now  that  she  knows  it,  every  mouth- 
ful that  she  eats  of  his  bread  is  a 
sin." 

"  It  is  the  old  man's  bread,"  said 
this  older  man,  weakly. 

"  What  matter]  It  is  the  bread 
of  adultery."  It  may  certainly  bo 
said  that  at  this  time  Mrs  Bolton 
herself  would  have  been  relieved 
from  none  of  her  sufferings  by  any 
new  evidence  which  would  have 
shown  that  Crinkett  and  the  others 
had  sworn  falsely.  Though  she 
loved  her  daughter  dearly,  though 
her  daughter's  misery  made  her 
miserable,  yet  she  did  not  wish  to 
restore  the  husband  to  the  wife. 
Any  allusion  to  a  possibility  that 
the  verdict  had  been  a  mistaken, 
verdict  was  distasteful  to  her.  Her 
own  original  opinion  respecting 
Caldigate  had  been  made  good  by 
the  verdict.  The  verdict  had  prov- 
ed her  to  be  right,  and  her  husband 
with  all  his  sons  to  have  been, 
wrong.  The  triumph  had  been 
very  dark  to  her;  but  still  it  had 
been  a  triumph.  It  was  to  her  an. 
established  fact  that  John  Caldigate 
was  not  her  daughter's  husband ;, 
and  therefore  she  was  anxious,  not 
to  rehabilitate  her  daughter's  posi- 
tion, but  to  receive  her  own  miser- 
able child  once  more  beneath  the 
shelter  of  her  own  wing.  That  they 
two  might  pray  together,  struggle 
together,  together  wear  their  sack- 
cloth and  ashes,  and  together  con- 
sole themselves  with  their  hopes  o£ 
eternal  joys,  while  they  shuddered, 
not  altogether  uncomfortably,  at 
the  torments  prepared  for  others, — 
this  was  now  the  only  outlook  in 
which  she  could  find  a  gleam  or 
satisfaction ;  and  she  was  so  as- 
sured of  the  reasonableness  of  her. 


1G6 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XL 


[Feb. 


wishes,  so  convinced  that  the  house 
of  her  parents  was  now  the  only 
house  in  which  Hester  could  live 
without  running  counter  to  the  pre- 
cepts of  her  own  religion,  and  coun- 
ter also  to  the  rules  of  the  wicked 
outside  world,  that  she  could  not 
bring  herself  to  believe  but  that 
she  would  succeed  at  last.  Merely 
to  ask  her  child  to  come,  to  repeat 
the  invitation,  and  then  to  take  a 
refusal,  was  by  no  means  sufficient 
for  her  energy.  She  had  failed 
grievously  when  she  had  endeav- 
oured to  make  her  daughter  a  pris- 
oner at  the  Grange.  After  such 
an  attempt  as  that,  it  could  hardly 
be  thought  that  ordinary  invitations 
would  be  efficacious.  But  when 
that  attempt  had  been  made,  it  was 
possible  that  Hester  should  justify 
herself  by  the  law.  According  to 
law  she  had  then  been  Caldigate' s 
wife.  There  had  been  some  ground 
for  her  to  stand  upon  as  a  wife,  and 
as  a  wife  she  had  stood  upon  it 
very  firmly.  But  now  there  was 
not  an  inch  of  ground.  The  man 
had  been  convicted  as  a  bigamist, 
and  the  other  woman,  the  first 
woman,  had  been  proved  to  be  his 
wife.  Mrs  Bolton  had  got  it  into 
her  head  that  the  two  had  been 
dissevered  as  though  by  some 
supernal  power;  and  no  explan- 
ation to  the  contrary,  brought  to 
her  by  her  husband  from  Eobert, 
had  any  power  of  shaking  her  con- 
viction. It  was  manifest  to  all  men 
and  to  all  women,  that  she  who  had 
been  seduced,  betrayed,  and  sacri- 
ficed should  now  return  with  her 
innocent  babe  to  the  protection  of 
her  father's  roof;  and  no  stone 
must  be  left  unturned  till  the  un- 
fortunate one  had  been  made  to 
understand  her  duty. 

The  old  banker  in  these  days 
had  not  a  good  time,  nor,  indeed, 
had  the  Boltons  generally.  Mrs 
Bolton,  though  prone  to  grasp  at 
power  on  every  side,  was  apt,  like 


some  other  women  who  are  equally 
grasping,  to  expect  almost  omni- 
potence from  the  men  around  her 
when  she  was  desirous  that  some- 
thing should  be  done  by  them  in 
accordance  with  her  own  bidding. 
Knowing  her  husband  to  be  weak 
from  age  and  sorrow,  she  could  still 
jeer  at  him  because  he  was  not 
abnormally  strong  -  and  though  her 
intercourse  with  his  sons  and  their 
families  was  now  scanty  and  in- 
frequent, still  by  a  word  here  and 
a  line  there  she  could  make  her 
reproaches  felt  by  them  all.  Eobert, 
who  saw  his  father  every  day,  heard 
very  much  of  them.  Daniel  was 
often  stung,  and  even  Nicholas. 
And  the  reproaches  reached  as  far 
as  William,  the  barrister  up  in 
London. 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  know  what 
we  can  do,"  said  th*e  miserable 
father,  sitting  huddled  up  in  his 
arm-chair  one  evening  towards  the 
end  of  August.  It  was  very  hot, 
but  the  windows  were  closed  because 
he  could  not  bear  a  draught,  and  he 
was  somewhat  impatiently  waiting 
for  the  hour  of  prayers  which  were 
antecedent  to  bed,  where  he  could 
be  silent  even  if  he  could  not  sleep. 

"  There  are  five  of  you.  One 
should  be  at  the  house  every  day  to 
tell  her  of  her  duty." 

« I  couldn't  go." 

"  They  could  go,— if  they  cared. 
If  they  cared  they  would  go.  They 
are  her  brothers." 

"  Mr  Caldigate  would  not  let 
them  enter  the  house,"  said  the 
old  man. 

"Do  you  mean  that  he  would 
separate  her  from  her  brother  and 
her  parents  1 " 

"  Not  if  she  wished  to  see  them. 
She  is  her  own  mistress,  and  he 
will  abet  her  in  whatever  she  may 
choose  to  do.  That  is  what  Eobert 
says." 

"  And  what  Eobert  says  is  to  be 
law?" 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XI. 


167 


"  He  knows  what  lie  is  talking 
about."  Mr  Bolton  as  he  said  this 
shook  his  head  angrily,  because  he 
was  fatigued. 

"  And  he  is  to  be  your  guide 
even  when  your  daughter's  soul  is 
in  jeopardy?"  This  was  the  line 
of  argument  in  reference  to  which 
Mr  Eolton  always  felt  himself  to  be 
as  weak  as  water  before  his  wife. 
He  did  not  dare  to  rebel  against  her 
religious  supremacy,  not  simply  be- 
cause he  was  a  weak  old  man  in 
presence  of  a  strong  woman,  but 
from  fear  of  denunciation.  He,  too, 
believed  her  creed,  though  he  was 
made  miserable  by  her  constant 
adherence  to  it.  He  believed,  and 
would  fain  have  let  that  suffice. 
She  believed,  and  endeavoured  to 
live  up  to  her  belief.  And  so  it 
came  to  pass  that  when  she  spoke 
to  him  of  his  own  soul,  of  the  souls 
of  those  who  were  dear  to  him,  or 
even  of  souls  in  general,  he  was 
frightened  and  paralysed.  He  had 
more  than  once  attempted  to  reply 
with  worldly  arguments,  but  had 
suffered  so  much  in  the  encounter 
that  he  had  learned  to  abstain. 
"  I  cannot  believe  that  she  would 
refuse  to  see  us.  I  shall  go  my- 
self; but  if  we  all  went  we  should 
surely  persuade  her."  In  answer 
to  this  the  poor  man  only  groaned, 
till  the  coming  in  of  the  old  servant 
to  arrange  the  chairs  and  put  the 
big  Bible  on  the  table  relieved  him 
from  something  of  his  misery. 

"  I  certainly  will  not  interfere," 
Robert  Bolton  said  to  his  father  011 
the  next  morning.  "  I  will  not  go 
to  Folking,  because  I  am  sure  that 
I  should  do  no  good.  Hester,  no 
doubt,  would  be  better  at  your 
house, — much  better.  There  is 
nothing  I  would  not  do  to  get  her 
back  from  the  Caldigates  altogether, 
— if  there  was  a  chance  of  success. 
But  we  have  no  power; — none 
whatever." 

"No    power  at    all,"   said    the 


banker,  shaking  his  head,  and  feel- 
ing some  satisfaction  at  the  posses- 
sion of  an  intelligible  word  which 
he  could  quote  to  his  wife. 

"  She  is  controller  of  her  own 
actions  as  completely  as  are  you 
and  I.  We  have  already  seen  how 
inefficacious  with  her  are  all  at- 
tempts at  persuasion.  And  she 
knows  her  position.  If  he  were 
out  of  prison  to-morrow  he  would 
be  her  husband." 

"  But  he  has  another  wife." 

"  Of  that  the  civil  law  knows 
nothing.  If  money  were  coming 
to  her  he  could  claim  it,  and  the 
verdict  against  him  would  only  be 
evidence,  to  be  taken  for  what  it 
was  worth.  It  would  have  been  all 
very  well  had  she  wished  to  sever 
herself  from  him;  but  as  she  is 
determined  not  to  do  so,  any  in- 
terference would  be  useless."  The 
question  as  to  the  marriage  or  no 
marriage  was  not  made  quite  clear 
to  the  banker's  mind,  but  he  did 
understand  that  neither  he,  nor  his 
wife,  nor  his  sons  had  "  any  power," 
— and  of  that  argument  he  was  de- 
termined to  make  use. 

William,  the  barrister  in  London, 
was  induced  to  write  a  letter,  a  very 
lengthy  and  elaborate  epistle  having 
conie  from  Mrs  Bolton  to  his  wife, 
in  which  the  religious  duty  of  all 
the  Boltons  was  set  forth  in  strong 
language,  and  in  which  he  was 
incited  to  do  something.  It  was 
almost  the  first  letter  which  Mrs 
William  Bolton  had  ever  received 
from  her  step -mother,  whatever 
trifling  correspondence  there  might 
have  been  between  them  having 
been  of  no  consequence.  They, 
too,  felt  that  it  would  be  better  that 
Hester  should  return  to  her  old 
home,  but  felt  also  that  they  had 
no  power.  "  Of  course  she  won't," 
said  Mrs  William. 

"  She  has  a  will  of  her  own,"  said 
the  barrister. 

"Why  should  she?     Think   of 


168 


Joli  n  Caldigate. — Part  XI. 


[FeK 


the  gloom  of  that  home  at  Chester- 
ton, and  her  absolute  independence 
at  Folking.  No  doubt  it  would  bo 
better.  The  position  is  so  frightful 
that  even  the  gloom  would  be  better. 
But  she  won't.  We  all  know  that." 
The  barrister,  however,  feeling 
that  it  would  be  better,  thought 
that  he  should  perform  his  duty 
by  expressing  his  opinion,  and  wrote 
a  letter  to  Hester,  which  was  in- 
tended to  be  if  possible  persua- 
sive ; — and  this  was  the  answer : — 

"DEAR  WILLIAM, — If  yon  were 
carried  away  to  prison  on  some  hor- 
rible false  accusation,  would  Fanny 
go  away  from  you,  and  desert  your 
house  and  your  affairs,  and  return 
to  her  parents  1  You  ask  her,  and 
ask  her  whether  she  would  believe 
anything  that  anybody  could  say 
against  you.  If  they  told  her  that 
her  children  were  nameless,  would 
she  agree  to  make  them  so  by  giving 
up  your  name  1  "Wouldn't  she  cling 
to  you  the  more,  the  more  all  the 
world  was  against  you  V  ['I  would/ 
said  Fanny,  with  tearful  energy. 
'  Fanny'  was,  of  course,  Mrs  William 
Bolton,  and  was  the  happy  mother 
of  five  nearly  grown-up  sons  and 
daughters,  and  certainly  stood  in 


no  peril  as  to  her  own  or  their 
possession  of  the  name  of  Bolton. 
The  letter  was  being  read  aloud  to- 
ner by  her  husband,  whose  mind 
was  also  stirred  in  his  sister's  fa- 
vour by  the  nature  of  the  arguments- 
used.]  "If  so,"  continued  the  writer, 
"why  shouldn't  I  be  the  same*? 
I  don't  believe  a  word  the  people 
said.  I  am  sure  I  am  his  wife. 
And  as,  when  he  was  taken  away 
from  me,  he  left  a  house  for  his 
wife  and  his  child  to  live  in,  I  shall 
continue  to  live  in  it. 

"  All  the  same,  I  know  you  mean 
to  be  good  to  me.  Give  my  best 
love  to  Fanny,  and  believe  me  your 
affectionate  sister, 

"  HESTER  CALDIGATE." 

In  every  letter  and  stroke  of  the 
name  as  she  wrote  it  there  was  sn 
assertion  that  she  claimed  it  as  her 
own,  and  that  she  was  not  ashamed 
of  it. 

"  Upon  my  word,"  said  Mrs  Wil- 
liam Bolton,  through  her  tears,  "  I 
am  beginning  to  think  that  she  is. 
almost  right."  There  was  so  much  of 
conjugal  proper  feeling  in  this,  that 
the  husband  could  only  kiss  his 
wife  and  leave  her  without  further 
argument  on  the  matter. 


1879.]          Present  and  Past  Conditions  of  Domestic  Service. 


1G9 


PRESENT  AX-D   PAST  CONDITIONS   OF  DOMESTIC   SERVICE. 


IN  spite  of  all  that  is  said  and 
written  about  the  servants  of  the 
present  day,  we  think  it  probable 
that  service  was  never  better  per- 
formed, taking  it  as  a  whole,  than 
it  is  now.  Never  were  houses  bet- 
ter kept,  the  order  that  meets  the 
eye  more  exact,  the  domestic  ar- 
rangements more  finished,  the  dress 
and  demeanour  of  the  servants 
while  performing  their  functions 
more  neat  and  appropriate.  We 
do  not  say  this  as  at  all  contraven- 
ing the  facts  on  which  a  contrary 
view  is  set  forth,  but  simply  as  the 
state  of  things  that  strikes  the  mere 
observer.  It  is  a  rare  thing  in  cul- 
tivated households  to  come  upon 
palpable  disorder.  We  know  that 
neatness,  nicety,  finish,  do  not  come 
of  themselves.  Do  the  ladies  of  the 
house  take  more  work  upon  them- 
selves than  they  used  to  do  in  the 
good  old  times  of  the  good  old 
servants'?  and  if  not,  who  are  to 
be  thanked  for  these  comfortable, 
cheering,  stimulating  accessories  to 
social  intercourse?  Of  course  we 
know,  from  the  universal  tone  of 
complaint,  that  there  is  trouble  in 
the  background — that  the  lady  of 
the  house  has  grievances  which 
strike  her  as  quite  unparalleled  in 
former  generations  :  but  surely  it  is 
something  to  be  able  to  put  a  good 
face  upon  things ;  and  servants  who 
aid  in  the  pleasant  delusion  are 
equal  to  a  task  which  perhaps  their 
progenitors  in  service  would  have 
found  themselves  scarcely  up  to,  to 
j  udge  by  the  descriptions  of  loutish 
men  and  clumsy  maids  given  in  our 
classical  literature. 

Servants  are,  no  doubt,  now  a 
more  shifting  generation  than  they 
used  to  be.  It  is  not  always  that 
the  maid  is  found  inefficient,  but 
that  she  gives  warning  ;  and  house- 


keeping troubles  that  take  the  form 
of  disturbance  are  naturally  more 
keenly  felt  where  intellectual  inter- 
ests are  predominant  than  in  the  old 
good-housewife  days.  But  also  in 
those  days  the  mistress  felt  change 
and  unsettlernent  more  in  her  own 
power  than  she  does  now,  and  this 
makes  them  by  no  means  such  for- 
midable ideas.  When  labourers' 
and  artisans'  wages  were  low,  and 
their  fare  poor,  service  for  their 
children  was  promotion,  and  a  good 
place  was  a  position  of  envy ;  for 
there  were  more  candidates  for  a 
good  place  than  there  were  places. 
All  this  is  changed  now.  A  ser- 
vant with  a  passable  character  can 
always  get  a  new  situation,  in  the 
estimation  of  her  class,  as  good  as 
the  one  she  leaves.  Formerly, 
therefore,  it  was  the  mistress  that 
dismissed  the  maid;  now,  it  is  the 
maid  who  suits  and  fits  her  place 
well  that  gives  warning.  This  is  very 
unpleasant  to  the  mistress.  She  is 
prevented  from  the  exercise  of  her 
legitimate  authority  by  the  consid- 
eration that  if  she  speaks  she  may 
be  thrown  into  a  domestic  per- 
plexity. She  has  to  choose  her  time 
for  reproof,  or  for  even  the  mild- 
est remonstrance.  It  is  no  longer 
the  running  comment,  to  be  taken 
up  whenever  the  occasion  presents 
itself,  the  still  recurring  "  That's 
the  fault  I  find  with  you,  Betsy," 
of  a  former  age — Mrs  Poyser's  bar- 
rel-organ set  to  the  tune  of  admo- 
nition—  but  an  irksome  necessity 
feared  and  delayed.  The  criticism 
has  to  be  wrapped  up  in  smooth, 
half-apologetic  phrase;  and  if  the 
maid  sulks  for  a  day  or  two,  only 
internally  revolving  change,  and 
then  silently  and  by  slow  degrees 
returns  to  cheerfulness  and  seeming 
content,  it  is  the  best  that  can  be 


170 


Present  and  Past  Conditions  of  Domestic  Service. 


[Feb. 


expected.  The  more  frequent  re- 
sult is  warning  given  ;  and  then  fol- 
low inquiries  at  the  register  office, 
the  sense  of  failure,  the  fear  of  get- 
ting a  character  for  bad  manage- 
ment, and,  worse,  to  be  set  down 
in  certain  mysterious  documents — 
heard  of,  but  never  seen  by  un- 
privileged eyes  —  as  undesirable. 
The  truth  is,  the  high  modern  edu- 
cation of  the  mistress  class  adds  a 
morbid  element  to  the  difficulty. 
The  two  belligerents  are  less  a 
match,  and  encounter  each  other  on 
less  equal  terms,  than  of  old.  Who 
can  imagine  Miss  Grizzy  Oldbuck, 
for  instance,  afraid  of  speaking  her 
full  mind  to  Jenny  Eintherout  1 

Change  is  the  taste  of  the  age. 
For  no  other  reason  than  the  desire 
for  change,  unchecked  by  any  fear 
of  risk  in  effecting  it,  does  the  eli- 
gible, handy,  efficient  parlour-maid 
give  warning.  She  simply  wants 
to  see  more  of  the  world.  In  en- 
countering this  craving,  no  lady 
can  really  feel  settled  in  her  house- 
hold. All  may  seem  smooth,  and 
yet  she  may  be  greeted  any  moment 
by  the  courteous  request  for  a  few 
moments'  conversation,  and  "  I  wish, 
ma'am,  to  give  warning."  It  is 
little  use  inquiring  the  cause.  Some 
grievance  can  always  be  trumped 
up,  but  there  is  scarcely  the  attempt 
to  prove  it  a  substantial  one.  Some- 
body else  has  higher  wages,  or  the 
damsel  does  not  like  a  mixed  class 
of  work,  or  she  is  now  and  then 
called  upon  to  help  a  fellow-servant, 
and  she  prefers  having  her  own 
duties  alone  to  attend  to ;  any  trifle 
manifestly  sought  for  at  the  moment. 
And  if  the  mistress  replies  that  these 
are  small  reasons  for  giving  up  a 
good  place,  where  she  has  every 
comfort,  and  has  never  heard  a 
harsh  word,  she  serenely  acquiesces, 
for  of  course  they  none  of  them  fur- 
nish the  true  motive.  The  fact  is, 
that  the  old  romantic  virtue  of 
loyalty  in  service  has  given  way 


before  the  pressure  of  modern  ideas. 
All  things  else  have  changed,  and 
such  a  relic  of  a  bygone  age  must 
go  with  them.  The  whole  relation 
has  altered  between  master  and 
man,  mistress  and  maid.  Servants 
are  more  a  distinct  class,  with 
social  ties  among  themselves,  and 
none  other,  than  ever  they  have 
been  since  the  world  began.  Where 
the  mere  comforts  and  good  usage 
of  one  place  seem  certainly  a  com- 
mon incident  of  all  service,  it  does 
not  seem  reasonable  to  adduce  them 
as  a  moral  obligation.  Mere  liberal 
usage  won't  do  much  so  long  as 
there  is  a  sense  of  quid  pro  quo. 
Loyalty  and  fidelity  both  imply 
relations  with  master  and  sovereign 
wholly  different  from  that  of  em- 
ployer and  employed  which  the  re- 
spective parties  in  service  have  now 
subsided  into,  at  least  partly  from 
the  pressure  of  events.  Wherever 
there  has  been  loyalty  there  has 
been  companionship  or  relationship 
of  some  sort,  and  this  is  not  com- 
patible with  the  structure  and  habits 
of  modern  society.  The  high  polish 
of  the  lady  makes  intercourse  on 
the  equal  terms  meant  by  com- 
panionship uncongenial.  The  bustle 
and  variety  of  polished  life  leave 
no  time  for  such  intercourse.  Ser- 
vants communicate  their  feelings 
and  thoughts  to  one  another.  The 
kitchen,  the  servants'  hall,  are  their 
world  in  a  more  exclusive  sense 
than  ever  before.  Servants  are  now 
elevated  into  a  class.  As  a  body 
they  can  assert  themselves  with 
more  effect,  and  secure  better  terms ; 
but  service  as  a  position  never  kept 
its  members  more  rigidly  within  its 
own  limits  ;  and  the  habits  of  classes 
cannot  easily  be  run  counter  to. 
We  may  feel  all  this,  but  not  be 
able  to  alter  it.  Things  are  changed, 
and  old  relations  cannot  be  brought 
back  again  by  any  forced  efforts  to 
revive  them. 

What    the    intercourse    of    the 


1879.] 


Present  and  Past  Conditions  of  Domestic  Service. 


171 


kitchen  is,  which  is  thus  the  sole 
social  arena  of  so  many,  is  a  mystery 
to  the  parlour.  In  contravention 
of  the  common  idea  of  unlimited 
gossip  there,  it  sometimes  seems  as 
if  an  extraordinary  reticence  pre- 
vailed on  personal  matters  in  the 
more  thoughtful  of  the  class.  They 
may  find  a  good  deal  to  say,  be 
cheerful  and  excellent  friends,  and 
yet  keep  their  private  affairs  to 
themselves  with  a  reserve  evincing 
more  prudence  than  their  betters 
always  show  under  compulsory  com- 
panionship. In  fact,  it  is  more 
wonderful  that  so  much  harmony 
prevails  as  does  for  long  spaces  of 
time  among  persons  thus  thrown 
together  by  chance,  than  that  an 
occasional  outbreak  of  incompatibil- 
ity should  disturb  domestic  peace. 
But  good  friends  as  prudence  and 
necessity  may  keep  these  young 
people  so  long  as  it  suits  them  to 
remain  together,  it  is  rare  that  any 
friendship  is  established  firm  enough 
to  overbalance  the  temptation  of  frac- 
tional higher  wages  or  the  love  of 
mere  variety.  If  the  love  of  master 
and  mistress  is  not  a  motive,  friend- 
ship with  their  equals  is  not  a  more 
powerful  one.  The  ties  which 
bound  the  two  classes  of  served  and 
servant  are,  as  it  seems,  permanent- 
ly relaxed.  This  is  a  state  of  things 
that  adds  to  the  cares  of  housekeep- 
ing, or,  we  would  say,  aggravates 
one  of  its  cares.  It  disturbs  its 
repose,  but  it  is  by  no  means  all 
change  for  the  worse.  And  repose 
must  here  be  used  in  a  qualified 
sense  as  affecting  the  ease  of  the 
mistress,  not  her  family  surround- 
ings. Once  scolding  was  a  good 
housewife's  privilege,  if  not  duty : 
things  were  not  assumed  to  go  on 
well  without  it.  How  much  we 
hear  of  scolding  and  chiding  in  our 
older  literature  !  What  an  amount 
of  pain  and  irksomeness  does  not 
this  imply  to  the  mere  listener ! 
Who  likes  to  hear  scolding  but  the 


scolder?  Scolding  has  gone  out 
possibly  under  greater  refinement  of 
manners  j  but  many  a  temper  holds 
itself  in  check,  not  from  any  delicacy 
of  sentiment,  but  because  a  domes- 
tic revolution  would  be  the  probable 
result  of  its  indulgence. 

If  we  regard  the  qualifications 
for  most  forms  of  service,  we  find 
they  naturally  belong  to  the  earlier 
years  of  life.  We  are  speaking 
now  not  of  households  on  a  large 
scale,  with  their  graduated  steps  of 
service,  descending  from  the  stately 
housekeeper  and  grey-haired  butler 
who  waits  upon  no  one  but  his 
master;  but  of  the  simpler  house- 
holds of  the  cultivated  middle  class. 

The  great  employers  of  the  skilled 
labour  of  service  are  the  households 
which  have  to  be  maintained  in 
order  and  comfort,  and  some  degree 
of  elegance,  on  limited  means,  and 
where,  because  there  are  no  super- 
numeraries, service  is  often  most 
effectual,  and  most  willingly  per- 
formed. What  becomes  of  the  super- 
annuated, we  do  not  know ;  let  us 
hope  they  are  comfortably  settled 
in  life  j  but  the  maids  we  see  offi- 
ciating in  their  various  offices  in 
these  modest  homes  are  rarely  past 
the  freshness  and  vigour  of  life. 
Health  and  strength  and  comeliness 
of  aspect  find  no  better  female  rep- 
resentative than  in  the  neat-hand- 
ed and  neatly-attired  Phillis  who 
waits  at  table,  or — call  when  we 
will — ushers  us  into  her  mistress's 
presence.  The  neat  attire  may  pos- 
sibly be  the  livery  of  service,  to  be 
exchanged  at  every  free  moment  for 
a  costume  which  betrays  the  lurking 
awkwardness  of  an  untrained  figure ; 
but  simple,  easy  occupations,  car- 
ried on  in  suitable  garb,  and  with 
a  consciousness  of  skill  in  them, 
show  all  people  at  their  best.  No- 
body need  be  awkward  who  knows 
what  he  has  to  do,  and  knows  he  can 
do  it.  This  must  account  for  the 
large  average  of  presentable  young 


172 


Present  and  Past  Conditions  of  Domestic  Service. 


[Feb. 


-women  the  existing  conditions  of 
service,  so  much  mourned  over,  has 
to  show.  Not  only  looks,  but  that 
spirit  and  hope  which  carry  people 
•contentedly  through  the  present, 
because  there  is  a  different  future 
in  prospect,  all  change  with  time. 
The  woman  of  forty-five  or  fifty  may 
be  fully  equal  to  her  work,  and 
experience  may  add  to  her  value 
and  trustworthiness  ;  but  she  loses 
something.  She  becomes  wedded 
to  her  plans,  possibly  she  sours. 
She  will  less  than  ever  endure  in- 
terference. It  has  been  said,  that 
for  the  first  five  years  of  service  the 
servant  serves  her  mistress ;  for  the 
next  five  years  she  is  her  own  mis- 
tress and  does  as  she  pleases ;  for 
the  third  five  years  she  rules  her  mis- 
tress and  is  paramount.  Old  servants 
who  are  the  pride  and  credit  of  a 
house  are  not  always  its  comfort. 
Things  must  go  on  in  a  groove.  They 
must  be  consulted  in  all  changes ; 
they  must  be  considered,  let  who 
will  be  inconvenienced.  This  is  the 
case  where  a  true  fidelity  and  sin- 
cere regard  for  their  master's  inte- 
rest are  an  equivalent.  But  often 
where  selfish  and  crafty  views  were 
only  forming  in  youth,  long  habit 
and  impunity  mature  them  into 
active  principles.  What  painful 
histories  we  read  of  the  tyrannies  of 
old  servants !  Most  experiences  have 
their  own  examples.  Finally,  there 
is  a  consideration  we  mention  with 
some  hesitation,  for  it  concerns  an 
obligation  which  no  one  should  feel 
burdensome  on  whom  it  rightly 
falls ;  but  it  is  simply  a  fact  that 
where  change  is  become  so  much 
a  rule,  the  duty  of  supporting  the 
superannuated  servant  falls  through 
for  want  of  an  object.  Many  a 
small  income  has  been  further  lim- 
ited by  such  claims.  On  such 
occasions  the  thought  may  occur 
that  persons  so  loud  in  their  com- 
plaint of  the  independence  of  the 
modern  servant,  escape  the  chance 


of  this  tax  on  a  narrowed  income 
in  declining  years. 

This  train  of  thought  has  been 
followed  rather  against  the  grain  ; 
for  who  does  not  fancy  old  times 
rather  than  new?  and  what  em- 
ployer of  labour  of  any  sort  likes 
the  jaunty  air  of  independence 
which  belongs  to  all  its  branches 
now1?  But  there  is  a  tone  common 
in  our  day  which  must  set  thought 
going  ;  the  domestic  grievance,  as 
a  modern  grievance,  suggests  so 
much  counter  inquiry  and  reflec- 
tion on  what  were  the  practices  of 
the  days  which  stand  now  for  the 
good  times, — the  days  when  the 
relation  was  so  much  more  to  the 
advantage  of  the  master  than  it  is 
now.  We  shall  find,  in  the  first 
place,  that  good  results  at  no  time 
were  ever  brought  about  without 
trouble  and  sacrifice.  A  letter 
which  recently  appeared  in  the 
*  Times '  throws  some  light  on  this 
point.  The  lady  who  writes  it  was 
stimulated  by  another  correspond- 
ent's picture  of  the  slavery  of  wait- 
ing -  maids  at  lodging  -  houses  —  a 
letter  which  we  had  also  read  and 
speculated  upon.  Servants  at  lodg- 
ing-houses are  no  doubt  the  drudges 
of  the  profession.  There  are  always 
women  who  would  rather  do  hard 
work  in  a  rough  way,  than  easier 
work  for  the  body  that  demands 
the  brain -work  of  attention  and 
precision.  In  a  certain  slatternly 
way  they  will  get  through  Herculean 
labours;  and  the  temporary  occu- 
pants of  lodgings  are  always  in 
their  hardest-hearted  state,  throw- 
ing all  the  cruelties  of  overtasking 
strength  on  the  conscience  of  the 
mistress  and  organiser  of  the  estab- 
lishment. But,  also,  many  women 
really  prefer,  on  the  whole,  such 
drudging  service  to  that  of  what  are 
called  regular  families,  where  one  day 
is  like  another  all  the  year  round. 
Over -driven  and  almost  sinking 
under  their  burden,  they  have  al- 


1879.] 


Present  and  Past  Conditions  of  Domestic  Service. 


173 


ways  the  expectation  of  fees,  and 
keep  up  their  spirits  by  a  running 
calculation  of  chances  of  what  the 
collective  gifts  of  half-a-dozen  sep- 
arate occupants  will  have  amount- 
ed to  when  the  season  is  over 
and  the  time  of  rest  and  holiday 
comes :  the  gay,  perhaps  rollick- 
ing, time,  looking  forward  to  which 
sweetens  toil  to  so  many.  How- 
ever this  may  be,  the  writer  in 
question  is  incited  by  the  catalogue 
of  wrongs  to  state  her  own  case, 
which  she  seems  to  consider  a  dam- 
aging counter- charge  against  Lon- 
don servants  as  a  body.  But  on 
looking  into  it  we  see  that  her 
quarrel  is  more  justly  with  human 
nature,  as  it  always  has  been  and 
always  will  be,  than  with  any  tem- 
porary .state  of  affairs ;  for  her 
domestic  arrangements,  which  she 
very  naively  places  before  the  reader, 
are  such  as  to  secure  almost  certain 
failure.  She  is  a  young  house- 
keeper with  an  evident  preference 
for  youth  and  good -looks  in  her 
attendants.  She  can  only  afford  to 
keep  two  servants  ;  and  the  plan  of 
the  house,  the  rule  of  master  and 
mistress  is  never  to  be  at  home 
on  Sunday  themselves ;  the  re- 
spectable cook  having  her  Sunday 
out  alternately  with  the  pretty 
housemaid,  who  is  left  in  sole 
charge  with  the  liberty  of  inviting 
her  relations.  Need  we  wonder 
that  the  damsel,  whether  pretty  or 
ugly,  whom  she  hires  as  a  perfect 
stranger,  with  simply  the  ordin- 
ary vouchers  for  character,  should 
abuse  such  unwonted,  unprecedented 
liberty  ?  that  <<  No.  4  "  of  her  series 
should  never  agree  with  the  cook 
as  to  the  amount  of  provisions  to 
be  supplied  to  her  numerous  rela- 
tions, her  Sunday  guests'?  or  even 
that  "No.  5,"  engaged  as  a  thorough 
servant  at  high  wages,  should  be 
discovered  turning  her  house  into 
a  sort  of  bar-parlour?  Does  the 
writer  think  that  -the  "  constant 

VOL.  CXXV. NO.  DCCLX. 


service  of  the  antique  world "  was 
produced  under  such  a  system  as 
this?  In  fact,  a  young  girl  may 
have  all  the  qualities  that  make  a 
good  servant  under  prudent  guid- 
ance, who  would  be  thrown  out  of 
all  moral  gear  by  a  temptation  like 
this  to  liberty  and  patronage.  The 
very  condition  of  servitude,  as  op- 
posed to  rule  and  headship,  implies 
supervision  in  its  early  stages ;  and 
every  good  servant  is  proud  to  look 
back  on  this  sort  of  apprenticeship 
to  strict  system  and  order.  We  are 
quite  aware  that  these  are  truisms, 
but  the  correspondents  of  news- 
papers do  not  seem  to  know  them. 
The  modern  literature  of  our  sub- 
ject is  to  be  found  in  the  columns 
of  newspapers — where  probably  the 
power  of  writing  a  telling  experi- 
ence is  in  an  inverse  ratio  to  the 
worth  of  it  as  a  practical  guide — 
and  in  some  novels ;  and  we  think 
it  is  mainly  confined  to  these  me- 
diums. Looking  back,  we  see  a 
difference.  Our  old  literature,  grave 
or  gay,  didactic  or  satirical,  has  a 
great  deal  about  servants.  They 
must,  indeed,  always  be  talked  of 
as  a  class  by  themselves;  but  in 
fact  they  were  much  more  mixed 
with,  as  sharing  intercourse  with, 
their  social  betters,  as  humble  com- 
panions. They  had  more  chances  of 
rising  ;  service  was  less  of  a  social 
separation.  Of  course  the  servant 
was  subject  to  his  master  in  a  sense 
that  would  be  intolerable  to  his 
successor.  He  had  to  submit  to  his 
humours,  to  be  subservient,  to  en- 
dure harsh  language,  and  even  blows, 
and  to  be  thankful  for  fare  and 
lodging  which  men  and  maids  now 
would  reject  with  scorn  :  but, — he 
had  more  personal  intercourse — he 
could  speak  his  mind,  give  his 
opinion,  and  be  familiar  upon  oc- 
casion }  and  wherever  there  is  such 
intercourse,  inseparable  from  it  is  a 
certain  sense  of  equality.  The  ser- 
vant, if  he  is  the  wiser  man  of  the 

M 


174 


Present  and  Past  Conditions  of  Domestic  Service. 


[Feb. 


two,  has  the  chance   of  not  only 
feeling  it,  but  making  it  apparent. 
And  this  the  present  rigid  separa- 
tion of  classes  bars.     When  Nicole 
in  the  play  laughs  at  her  master's 
"  pleasant  figure  "  in  his  new  clothes 
aspersonne  de  qualite,  and  he  threat- 
ens to  give  her  the  best  slap  in  the 
face  she  ever  had  in  her  life,  her 
answer  lets  us  into  the  relation  we 
indicate  :  "  Tenez,  monsieur,  battez- 
moi  plutot,  et  me  laissez  rire  tout 
mon  saoul,  cela   me  ferai  plus  de 
bien,  hi,  hi,  hi,  hi,  hi ! "     Here  Mo- 
liere  represents,  in   caricature  cer- 
tainly, but  yet  a  real  state  of  things, 
which   comedy   could   not   parody 
now,  because  society  presents  noth- 
ing analogous  to  it.     But  indeed, 
as  we  call  to  mind,  it  need  have 
been  no  caricature,  but  only  what 
happened  every  day ;  for  Pepys  re- 
cords  in   his   Diary  having  given 
his  maid  a  cuff  which  made  her 
cry  for  some  piece  of  clumsiness, 
and  being  vexed  at  himself,  not  for 
doing  it,  but  because  he  was  seen 
doing  it  by  his  neighbour's  footboy, 
who  would  be  sure  to  report  it  to 
his  own  mistress.     Nor  was  he  be- 
hind M.  Jourdain  in  an  appeal  to 
the  taste  of  the  humbler  members 
of  his  household,  though  probably 
relying  on  a  more  politic  verdict. 
After  huge  deliberation  he  had  sub- 
mitted his  head  to  the  barber,  had 
his  abundant  haire  cut  off  to  be 
made  another  wig  of,  and  donned 
the  periwig  the  man  had  brought 
with  him  tit  I  paid  him  £3  for  it "). 
"  By-and-by  I  went  abroad,  after 
I  had  caused  all  my  maids  to  look 
upon  it;  and  they  conclude  it  do 
become  me,  though  Jane  was  might- 
ily troubled  for  my  parting  with  my 
own  haire,  and  so  was  Besse."  Such 
private  ordeals  have  their  use,  en- 
abling Mr  Pepys,  in  this  instance, 
to  face  the  scrutiny  of  the  Court 
with  a  bolder  countenance — "  I  am 
glad  it   is  over,"  he  writes ;   and 
the  equal,  if  not  superior  terrors  of 


church,  "  where  I  found  my  coming 
in  a  periwig  did  not  prove  so 
strange  as  I  was  afraid  it  would, 
for  I  thought  that  all  the  church 
would  presently  have  cast  eyes  upon 
me ;  but  I  found  no  such  thing." 
Probably  the  maids  were  better 
judges  then  than  we  should  find 
them  now :  their  eyes  were  practised 
on  a  wider  field  ;  they  were  equally 
at  home  in  kitchen  and  parlour, 
dressing  the  mistress  or  following 
her  into  company.  All  the  plays 
of  the  Restoration  take  this  for 
granted.  "What  would  Mellamant, 
— too  fine  a  lady  to  carry  a  memory 
of  her  own  —  have  been  without 
her  Mrs  Mincing  at  hand  to  tell 
her  what  she  had  been  doing  and 
thinking  the  day  before?  Swift, 
in  his  "  Grand  Question  Debated," 
represents  the  waiting-maid  as  pres- 
ent at  the  controversy  between  Sir 
Arthur  and  his  lady : — 

"  But  Hannah,  who  listened  to  all  that 
was  past, 

And  could  not  endure  so  vulgar  a 
taste, 

As  soon  as  her  ladyship  called  to  be 
drest, 

Cry'd,  *  Madam,  why,  surely  my  mas- 
ter's possesst ! ' " 

And  elsewhere,  while  amusing  him- 
self at  the  airs  which  this  position  of 
prominence  inspired  in  the  waiting- 
maid,  he  testifies  to  the  same  state 
of  things.  "  I  hear,"  he  quotes  one 
saying,  "  it's  all  over  London  al- 
ready that  I'm  going  to  leave  my 
lady."  Indications  of  this  compan- 
ionship are  still  found  in  the  memoirs 
of  last  century :  for  example,  George 
Selwyn's  friend,  Lady  Townsend, 
took  what  he  chose  to  consider  too 
sentimental  an  interest  in  the  unfor- 
tunate Lord  Kilmarnock,  just  con- 
demned, and  he  treated  her  anxiety 
so  coolly  that  she  "flung  up-stairs," 
leaving  him  at  table.  Upon  which 
he  took  Mrs  Dorcas,  her  woman, 
and  made  her  sit  down  and  finish 
the  bottle  with  him,  who,  taking  ad- 


1879.]          Present  and  Past  Conditions  of  Domestic  Service. 


175 


vantage  of  the  occasion,  pursued  the 
subject  in  a  tone  and  spirit  he  could 
much  better  sympathise  with.  "And 
pray,  sir,  do  you  think  my  lady  will 
be  prevailed  on  to  let  me  see  the 
execution?  I  have  a  friend  that 
has  promised  to  take  care  of  me, 
and  I  can  lie  in  the  Tower  the  night 
before."  Comedy,  which  could  not 
dispense  with  the  waiting-maid,  in 
its  transition  to  modern  manners 
had  to  present  her  in  dialogue  with 
her  mistress,  in  casual  encounters, 
or  soliloquising  on  the  marketable 
value  of  simplicity.  So  long  as  this 
more  familiar  footing  was  the  rule — 
so  long,  perhaps,  as.  noblemen  offer- 
ed personal  attendance  on  their  sov- 
ereign, and  gentlemen  were  trained 
by  service  in  the  houses  of  the 
great — we  find  constant  examples 
of  social  rise  from  this  condition. 
Thus  Ben  Jonson's  servant,  Brome, 
became  a  writer  of  comedies  himself, 
and  the  author  of  no  mean  lines — 
in  commendation  of  which  his  mas- 
ter wrote : — 

' '  I  had  you  for  a  servant  once,   Dick 

Brome, 
And  you  performed  a  servant's  faithful 

parts  ; 

Now  you  are  got  into  a  nearer  room 
Of  fellowship,  professing  my  old  arts." 

Later  on,  Wood,  in  his  'Athe- 
nse,'  has  examples.  Thus  he  tells 
of  one  Vavasor  Powell,  a  noted 
preacher,  who  boasted  himself  a 
member  of  Jesus  College,  Oxford. 
"  He  was  brought  up  a  scholar,  saith 
the  publisher  of  his  life;  but  the 
writer  of  '  Strena  Vavasoriensis ' 
tells  us  that  his  employment  was 
to  walk  guests'  horses,  by  which, 
finding  no  great  gain,  he  was  ele- 
vated in  his  thoughts  for  higher  pre- 
ferment, and  so  became  an  ostler 
(I  would  say  groom)  to  Mr  Isaac 
Thomas,  an  innkeeper  and  mercer 
in  Shropshire."  From  thence  he 
found  his  way  to  Oxford,  and  got 
learning  enough  to  make  a  stir  in 


the  world.     The  gossip  of  the  last 
century   all   tells    the    same   way. 
Thus   a  footman   of  the   Duke  of 
Marlborough,  of  the  name  of  Craggs, 
was   advanced  by  his  master's  fa- 
vour  till   eventually   his    son    be- 
came Secretary  Craggs,  a  power  in 
the  State.     Arthur  Moore,  the  fa- 
ther of  James  Moore  Smyth,  whose 
name  lives  in  Pope's  verse,  "had 
worn  a  livery  too ; "  and  whether 
truly  or  by  an  ingenious  supposi- 
tion, when  Craggs  (the  Secretary) 
got  into  a  coach  with  him,  he  ex- 
claimed, "Why,  Arthur,  I  am  al- 
ways getting   up   behind — are  not 
you  1 "     Horace  Walpole's  comment 
upon  a  certain  wedding  is,  "The 
great-granddaughter  of  a  king  mar- 
ries the   grandson   of  a  footman." 
When   a   man  got   out  of  temper 
with  his  heirs,  instead  of  leaving 
his  money  to  a  charity,  he  thought 
of  his  body-servant,  with  whom,  no 
doubt,  he  was  on  terms  of  famil- 
iarity.     One   General  Fitzwilliam 
of  that  day  made  a  will  that  was 
indeed  pronounced  "a  disgrace  to 
misanthropy,"  whatever  that   may 
mean ;  but  it  proves  that  his  own 
man,  "  whom  he  originally  took  a 
shoeless  boy  in  Wales  playing  on 
the  harp,"  was  more  to  him  than  the 
crookedest  temper  finds  a  valet  now; 
the  servant  showing  himself  deserv- 
ing of  this    regard   under   circum- 
stances upsetting  to  a  weaker  head. 
"Some  large  and  useless  legacies," 
writes  Richard    Cambridge    to    Miss 
Berry,  "to  people  who  neither  want 
nor  will  be  thankful,   and  to  Lord 
Fitzwilliam  ,£500  a-year  ;  the  servant, 
Harper  Tom  Jones,  residuary  legatee, 
above   ,£40,000.      He    came  to   Lord 
Fitzwilliam,  said  he  was  overpowered 
— wished  he  had  only  had  a  suitable 
provision — did  not  know  what  to  do 
with  his  fortune  ;  had  no  friend — beg- 
ged his  lordship's  protection  ;  offered 
all  the  books  and  pictures,  and  any- 
thing else  his  lordship  would  accept. 
Lord  F.  said  to  me,  if  the  General  had 
known  he  would  have  behaved  so,  he 
would  not  have  left  it  him." 


176 


Present  and  Past  Conditions  of  Domestic  Service. 


[Feb. 


We  doubt  if  any  "biographical 
picture  of  the  worthies  of  this  past 
date  is  held  complete  that  does  not 
inform  us  of  the  relation  of  the 
man  and  his  servants.  They  were 
part  of  his  family — stationary  mem- 
bers. There  will  always  be  a  class 
of  men  who  like  to  spend  their  own 
money,  and  to  whom  spending  in 
its  details  is  interesting ;  and  this 
disposition  will  of  course  draw  mas- 
ter and  servant  into  intercourse. 
Pepys,  for  example,  would  have 
found  it  so  at  any  time_;  he  would 
never  have  been  disposed  to  give 
his  wife  —  "  poor  wretch  "  —  the 
charge  of  his  purse ;  but  also,  it 
seems  according  to  the  custom  of 
the  time  that  he  should  engage 
the  cook.  "  This  morning  came  a 
new  cook-maid  at  «£4  per  annum, 
the  first  time  I  ever  did  give  so 
much.  She  did  last  live  at  my  lord 
Monk's  house."  But  where  the 
wife  was  probably  housewife  in  the 
full  sense,  we  find  all  the  good  men 
of  that  date  had  a  sense  of  respon- 
sibility towards  their  domestics 
which  would  arise  from  more  in- 
tercourse —  more  interchange  of 
words  and  ideas— than  is  the  cus- 
tom now,  when,  in  many  a  house- 
hold, the  master  passes  his  life 
with  scarcely  a  word  with  his  ser- 
vants beyond  the  most  necessary 
orders;  satisfied  in  leaving  all  to 
his  wife,  both  the  planning  and 
carrying  out  of  rules,  as  her  func- 
tion. The  saints  of  our  English 
biography  are  generally  shown  as 
taking  the  office  of  ruler  upon  them- 
selves. The  good  man  keeps  his 
household  in  strict  order,  expects 
a  faithful  attendance,  directs  their 
religious  duties,  exercises  his  hu- 
mility upon  them,  gathers  them 
round  his  deathbed,  gives  parting 
admonitions,  and  thanks  for  their 
faithful  service.  In  all  it  is  as- 
sumed that  the  service  is  long  and 
faithful.  Thus  Doctor  Hammond 
"sought  to  ensnare  the  servants 


to  their  benefit,"  while  catechising 
the  children  of  the  family  where  he 
had  found  shelter  in  evil  times, 
"  giving  liberty  —  nay,  invitation 
—  to  as  -many  as  would  come 
and  hear,  hoping  they  happily 
might  admit  the  truths  obliquely 
levelled,  which  bashfulness  per- 
suaded not  to  inquire  for."  Be- 
sides, "  he  invited  single  persons 
to  religious  conference  with  him  at 
their  leisurable  hours,  using  all  the 
arts  of  encouragement  and  obliging 
condescension;  and  having  once 
got  the  scullion  in  his  chamber 
upon  that  errand,  he  would  not 
give  him  the  uneasiness  of  stand- 
ing, but  made  him  sit  -down  by  his 
side."  Sir  Matthew  Hale  in  his 
family  was  a  very  gentle  master. 
He  was  tender  to  all  his  servants ; 
he  never  turned  any  away  except 
they  were  faulty  and  there  was  no 
hope  of  reclaiming  them.  When 
he  did  reprove  them,  he  did  it  with 
that  sweetness  and  gravity,  that  it 
appeared  he  was  concerned  for  their 
having  done  a  fault,  more  than  for 
the  offence  given  by  it  to  himself.  If 
on  one  occasion  he  gave  way  to  a 
temper  naturally  passionate,  it  was 
for  no  personal  disrespect.  He 
was  scarce  ever  seen  more  angry 
than  with  one  of  his  servants  for 
neglecting  a  bird  that  he  kept,  so 
that  it  died  for  want  of  food. 
Bishop  Bull,  the  vivacity  of  whose 
natural  temper  exposed  him  to 
sharp  and  sudden  fits  of  anger, 
which  gave  him  no  less  uneasiness 
than  they  did  those  persons  con- 
cerned in  the  nearest  offices  about 
him  (but  the  trouble  was  soon 
over),  made  sufficient  amends  to  all 
his  domestics  by  the  goodness  and 
tenderness  of  his  nature  towards 
them  at  all  times  and  on  all  occa- 
sions. He  was  very  particular  to 
have  Sunday  readings  for  his  ser- 
vants. He  would  not  keep  ser- 
vants who  did  not  receive  the  Holy 
Communion;  he  called  them  around 


1879.]          Present  and  Past  Conditions  of  Domestic  Service. 


177 


him  when  dying  to  express  his  grat- 
itude for  attendance. 

To  pass  on  to  the  following  cen- 
tury, when  the  crowd  of  lazy 
servants  had  "become  one  of  the 
reproaches  of  the  day.  Still,  in 
steady  families,  their  welfare  was 
considered  in  a  sense  often  missing 
among  ourselves.  Mrs  Elizabeth 
Carter,  we  are  told,  never  lost  the 
consciousness  of  their  presence  while 
waiting  at  table,  where  they  are  too 
often  forgotten  in  modern  society. 
She  was  so  popular  a  converser, 
that,  living  in  London  in  a  house 
of  her  own,  she  never  dined  at 
home,  some  one  or  other  of  her  nu- 
merous friends  sending  their  car- 
riage or  chair  for  her  every  day; 
and  her  biographer,  in  somewhat 
formal  terms,  enlarges  on  the  con- 
stant attention  to  the  important  in- 
terests of  piety  and  virtue  which 
characterised  her  conversation. 

"  Especially  while  servants  were  in 
attendance  at  meals,  she  made  a  point, 
as  far  as  it  could  be  done  without  break- 
ing through  the  customs  of  society,  to 
give  the  conversation  such  a  turn  as 
might  be  useful  to  them.  So  that  in- 
directly and  incidentally,  as  it  were,  she 
often  contrived  to  impress  upon  their 
minds  truths  of  the  greatest  conse- 
quence, which,  perhaps,  made  some- 
times a  deeper  impression  than  if  deliv- 
ered from  the  pulpit  by  the  most  elo- 
quent preacher ;  and,  in  fact,  they  al- 
ways listened  to  instruction  so  conveyed 
with  the  utmost  earnestness,  and  iri 
all  families  where  she  was  accustomed 
to  visit  intimately,  showed  her  the 
most  marked  and  zealous  attention. 
Indeed,  her  manners  were  so  gentle, 
and  her  tone  of  voice  so  sweet,  that  it 
was  almost  impossible  to  be  uncivil  to 
her ;  and  I  have  heard  a  lady  of  rank, 
who  was  one  of  her  dearest  friends,  and 
with  whom  she  lived  a  great  deal,  de- 
clare that  she  attributed  much  of  the 
general  good  conduct  of  her  servants 
• — of  whom  there  was  a  large  es- 
tablishment—  to  their  listening  so 
frequently  to  such  conversation, — in 
which,  indeed,  it  ought  to  be  added 
that  nobody  was  better  qualified  or 
more  willing  to  join  than  herself  and 
her  lord." 


Dr  Johnson  comes  out  very  plea- 
santly, as  every  one  knows,  in  this 
relation.  Eather  than  hurt  Francis 
Barber,  his  black  servant's  feelings, 
he  himself  brought  his  cat  her  din- 
ner; and  what  is  more,  while  "this 
faithful  negro"  was  at  school  at 
Easton,  probably  of  his  placing 
there,  he  wrote  letters  to  him.  In 
travelling  in  Scotland,  and  visiting 
Lord  Monboddo,  Boswell  finds, 
among  other  coincidences  of  resem- 
blance between  Johnson  and  his 
host,  that  they  had  each  a  black 
servant.  This  man,  "Gory,"  was 
sent  to  conduct  them  from  the  house 
to  the  highroad.  At  parting,  John- 
son addressed  him  :  "  Mr  Gory, 
give  me  leave  to  ask  you  a  question. 
Are  you  baptised  ?"  Gory  told  him 
he  was,  and  confirmed  by  the  Bishop 
of  Durham.  He  then,  it  is  add- 
ed, gave  him  a  shilling.  Towards 
the  class  he  seems  always  to  have 
showed  respect;  and  Boswell  records 
with  pride  his  commendation  of  his 
Bohemian  servant,.  Joseph  Eitter. 
"Let  not  my  readers  disdain  his 
introduction,  for  Dr  Johnson  gave 
him  this  character :  '  Sir,  he  is  a 
civil  man  and  a  wise  man.'" 

Nor  was  the  country  without  its 
lettered  members  of  the  order.  The 
'  Monthly  Eevtew,'  of  a  few  years' 
earlier  date  than  this,  patronises 
with  its  warmest  encouragement  a 
work  on  the  abstrusest  doctrinal 
questions  by  George  Williams,  a  liv- 
ery servant — bondfide,  as  the  review- 
ers took  the  trouble  to  ascertain. 
This  George  is  a  prig  of  the  first  wa- 
ter, and  dismisses  the  conclusions  of 
ancient  Fathers  and  modern  divines 
with  an  easy  assurance.  "  Believe 
me,"  says  he,  "  they  have  not  one 
text  of  Scripture;"  and  so  on.  "Well 
said,  honest  George  !  "  cries  the  het- 
erodox reviewer.  "If  his  manner 
borders  sometimes  on  coarseness," 
it  is  added,  "  the  liberal  and  candid 
reader  will  consider  his  education." 
Encouraged  by  such  applause,  honest 
George  proceeds  to  take  the  Articles 


178 


Present  and  Past  Conditions  of  Domestic  Service. 


[Feb. 


in  hand  by  the  same  easy  method  ; 
but  whether  for  going  farther  still, 
or  for  retracting  what  he  had  already 
said,  he  receives  a  sort  of  snub  from 
his  admirer. 

From  the  pen  of  Berkeley,  not 
yet  Bishop,  we  have  the  character 
of  a  servant  written  in  his  easy 
style.  The  good  servant,  we  may 
observe,  generally  carries  his  date 
with  him.  The  bad  one  contrives 
to  be  always  modern,  always  to  fit 
in  as  a  portrait  of  one  we  know  : — 

"Dec.  1,  1726. — You  also  desire  I 
would  speak  of  Ned.  You  must  know 
Ned  hath  parted  from  me  ever  since 
the  beginning  of  last  July.  I  allowed 
him  six  shillings  a -week,  besides  his 
annual  wages.  Besides  an  entire  livery, 
I  gave  him  old  clothes,  which  he  made 
a  penny  of.  But  the  creature  grew 
idle  and  worthless  to  a  prodigious 
degree.  He  was  almost  constantly 
out  of  the  way ;  and  when  I  told  him 
of  it  he  used  to  give  me  warning.  I 
bore  with  this  behaviour  about  nine 
months,  to  let  him  know  I  did  it  in 
compassion  to  him,  and  in  hopes  he 
would  mend ;  but  finding  no  hopes  of 
this,  I  was  forced  at  last  to  discharge 
him  and  take  another,  who  is  as  dili- 
gent as  he  was  negligent.  When  he 
parted  from  me  I  paid  him  between 
six  and  seven  pounds  which  was  due 
to  him,  and  likewise  gave  him  money 
to  bear  his  charges  to  Ireland,  whither 
he  said  he  was  going.  I  met  him 
t'other  day  in  the  street,  and  asking 
him  why  he  was  not  gone  to  Ireland 
to  his  wife  and  child,  he  made  answer 
that  he  had  neither  wife  nor  child. 
He  got,  it.  seems,  into  another  service 
when  he  left  me,  but  continued  only  a 
fortnight  in  it.  The  fellow  is  silly  to 
an  incredible  degree,  and  spoiled  by 
good  usage." 

Berkeley  was  clearly  an  easy  mas- 
ter, and  such  a  fellow  in  London 
would  find  an  abundance  of  kin- 
dred spirits.  Being  invited,  as  the 
'  Spectator '  puts  it,  to  write  a  satire 
on  grooms,  Addison  enters  on  the  re- 
lation of  master  and  servant,  and  all 
the  abuses  of  the  period.  The  swarm 
of  servants  kept  for  mere  ostenta- 
tion could  not  but  produce  the 


worst  results.  The  men  followed 
their  masters  to  places  of  entertain- 
ment, where  they  had  nothing  to  do 
but  to  gossip.  The  custom  of  the 
time,  in  giving  them  board-wages, 
led  them  to  congregate  in  clubs 
and  taverns,  where  all  the  scandal 
of  the  day  was  discussed  and  propa- 
gated among  them.  What  is  note- 
worthy in  the  complaints  put  into 
the  mouths,  or  rather  pens,  of  the 
men  against  their  masters  is,  that 
however  ill  they  are  used,  they 
cling  to  their  places.  Not  that  this 
is  the  general  assumption.  On  the 
contrary,  foreigners  are  represented 
as  astonished  at  the  condition  of 
things  in  England,  considering  there 
is  no  other  part  of  the  world  where 
servants  have  such  privileges  and 
advantages  —  nowhere  else  where 
they  have  such  wages  or  indulgent 
liberty — no  place  where  they  labour 
less;  and  yet  where  they  are  so 
little  respectful,  more  wasteful,  more 
negligent,  or  where  they  so  frequent- 
ly change  their  masters.  This  may 
only  have  meant  that  in  other  coun- 
tries the  condition  of  the  classes 
which  furnish  servants  was  much 
more  miserable  than  in  England, 
and  a  return  to  their  privations  a 
thing  not  to  be  thought  of  by  the 
French  valet  under  any  tyranny. 
The  '  Spectator '  gives  amusing  ex- 
amples of  the  modes  by  which  an 
ill-tempered  sardonic  master  could 
make  himself  unpleasant ;  but  at 
the  end  we  find  the  reporter  of  it  all 
has  served  him  upwards  of  nine 
years,  and  only  begins  to  despair  of 
ever  pleasing  him.  Some  of  our 
readers  will  recollect  the  "pleas- 
anter  tyrant  than  any  of  the  above  " 
who  was  observed  on  the  Five 
Fields  towards  Chelsea.  "A  fat 
fellow  was  passing  on  in  his  waist- 
coat ;  a  boy  of  fourteen  in  a  livery 
carrying  after  him  his  cloak,  upper 
coat,  hat,  wig,  and  sword.  The  poor 
lad  was  ready  to  sink  under  the 
weight,  and  could  not  keep  up  with 
his  master,  who  turned  back  every 


1879.]          Present  and  Past  Conditions  of  Domestic  Set'vice. 


179 


half  furlong,  and  wondered  what 
made  the  lazy  young  dog  lag  be- 
hind." Of  the  number  of  servants 
supposed  necessary  for  a  gentleman 
of  position,  we  may  form  an  idea 
from  Lord  Chesterfield's  directions 
to  his  son,  then  a  lad  with  his 
tutor  at  Paris,  who  was  coming  over 
to  England  on  a  short  visit. 
"  Bring  with  you  only  your  valet 
de  chambre,  Christian,  and  your 
own  footman  —  not  your  valet  de 
place,  whom  you  may  dismiss  for 
the  time — as  also  your  coachman." 
It  is  not  wholly  out  of  place  to 
add  the  instructions  regarding  his 
wardrobe,  as  showing  that  the  fine 
gentleman  of  the  period  needed  a 
good  deal  of  waiting  upon,  as  well 
as  protection  from  the  weather. 
"Bring  only  the  clothes  you  travel 
in,  one  "suit  of  your  fine  clothes, 
two  or  three  of  your  laced  shirts, 
and  the  rest  plain  ones ;  of  other 
things,  as  bags  and  feathers,  as  you 
think  proper."  The  Court  being  in 
mourning  is  given  as  a  reason  for 
the  moderation  of  this  list.  We 
see  that  a  gentleman  could  not  look 
after  his  own  feathers,  and  also  what 
a  work  of  art  he  was,  and  how 
many  artists  he  needed  about  him. 
Garrick's  "  High  Life  below 
Stairs  "  was  a  satire  on  the  fashion 
of  crowding  the  house  with  useless 
menials,  as  it  was  the  custom  to 
call  them.  "  You  are  a  young  man, 
Mr  Lovel,"  says  the  moral  Mr  Free- 
man, "  and  take  a  pride  in  a  num- 
ber of  idle,  unnecessary  servants, 
who  are  the  plague  and  reproach 
of  this  kingdom."  And  there  fol- 
low in  illustration  some  capital 
scenes,  which  never  lose  their  fun, 
though,  as  a  satire,  it  may  be 
hoped  they  have  lost  some  of  their 
edge.  A  notice  of  the  farce  at  the 
time  pronounces  "  that  it  has  a 
considerable  share  of  merit,  and  has 
met  with  most  amazing  success  in 
London  ; "  but  goes  on  to  state  that 
"  in  Edinburgh,  however,  it  found 
prodigious  opposition  from  the 


gentlemen  of  the  party-coloured 
regiment,  who  raised  repeated  riots 
in  the  playhouse  whenever  it  was 
acted,  and  even  went  so  far  as  to 
threaten  the  lives  of  some  of  the 
performers."  Nothing  certainly  could 
more  emphatically  illustrate  the 
pitch  to  which  the  evil  had  arrived 
than  this  mode  of  meeting  the 
charge.  "This  insolence,"  we  are  fur- 
ther told,  "in  some  degree  brought 
about  the  very  reformation  it  meant 
to  oppose,  being  the  occasion  of  an 
association  immediately  entered  into 
by  almost  all  the  nobility  and  gentry 
in  Scotland,  and  publicly  subscribed 
to  in  the  periodical  papers,  whereby 
they  bound  themselves  mutually  to 
each  other  to  put  a  stop  to  the  ab- 
surd and  scandalous  custom  of  giv- 
ing vails,  prevalent  nowhere  but 
in  these  kingdoms."  We  almost 
see  here  Mr  Sneer's  ideal  carried 
out,  and  the  stage  made  a  court  of 
ease  to  the  Old  Bailey. 

About  the  date  of  this  farce,  an 
absurd  and  yet  most  pitiable  tragedy 
was  enacted,  in  which  the  wearers 
of  livery  must  have  been  principal 
performers,  and  one,  we  are  told,  a 
leading  sufferer.  Horace  Walpole, 
writing  of  the  execution  of  Earl 
Ferrers,  says  Lord  Ferrers  went  to 
the  gallows  in  his  landau-and-six, 
dressed  in  his  wedding-clothes,  his 
coachman  crying  all  the  way;  a 
hearse  following.  The  procession 
lasted  two  hours,  with  a  mixture  of 
pageantry,  shame,  and  ignominy. 
A  protracted  torment  to  man — men, 
no  doubt  as  well  as  master — surely 
unique  in  its  circumstance. 

In  all  these  instances  gathered 
from  a  past  date,  "servants"  mean 
men-servants.  The  word  was  so 
understood  in  the  literature  of  the 
period.  The  crowd  of  useless  at- 
tendants wore  liveries.  An  adjunct 
had  to  be  applied  where  the  con- 
trary was  intended  —  cook -maid, 
scullery  -  maid,  and  the  like.  In 
its  familiar  use,  and  as  a  news- 
paper topic,  we  may  say  the  word 


180 


Present  and  Past  Conditions  of  Domestic  Service. 


[Feb. 


nowadays  has  changed  its  sex. 
Perhaps  because  the  middle  classes 
are  having  their  say.  But  in 
country  places,  among  quiet  people, 
women  now  wait  and  are  visible 
where  men  alone  used  to  be  seen. 
Wages  have  risen  enormously, 
which  is  one  reason, — and  some 
people  would  say  the  class  has 
become  more  unmanageable ;  but 
also  the  world  has  outlived  certain 
forms  of  finery — that  is,  has  ex- 
changed them  for  others.  The 
genteel  period  is  passed.  No  obitu- 
ary of  an  old  lady  would  report  it 
now,  as  we  have  seen  it  in  records  of 
the  last  century,  as  an  eccentricity 
on  a  par  with  keeping  eighty  cats 
and  a  black  woman  to  attend  upon 
them,  "  that,  though  affluent,  she 
never  would  have  a  man-servant." 
No  doubt  the  class  of  female  domes- 
tics has  advanced  in  refinement 
with  the  world  at  large.  It  is  the 
fashion  to  assume  that  cleanliness 
in  its  thorough-going,  all-pervading 
acceptation,  was  the  quality  for 
which  households  of  the  old  stamp 
were  distinguished.  Where  the 
mistress  and  her  daughters  held 
strict  supervision  that  would  be 
so;  but  we  have  now  and  then  an 
insight  into  things  as  they  were, 
where  this  eye  was  wanting,  which 
tells  another  tale.  A  certain  Will 
Verral's  experiences  are  so  much 
to  the  point  that  we  will  give  them, 
as  chancing  upon  them  in  our  own 
reading,  though  we  have  seen  them 
quoted  not  very  long  since  eke- 
where.  Will  was  an  innkeeper 
and  man-cook,  of  Lewes,  in  Sussex, 
employed  by  the  gentlemen  of  his 
neighbourhood  to  cook  their  State 
dinners  for  them.  He  published  a 
cookery-book — the  date  1759 — and 
wrote  a  preface  to  it  which  shows 
him  master  of  a  picturesque  style  : 

"I  have  been  sent  for  many  and 
many  a  time  to  get  dinners  for  some 
of  the  families  hereabouts.  The  salute 
generally  is,  'Will'  (for  that  is  my 


name),  { I  want  you  to  dress  me  a  din- 
ner to-day.'  '  With  all  my  heart,  sir,' 
says  I ;  *  how  many  will  your  company 
be  ? '  '  Why,  about  ten  or  twelve  oV 
thereabouts/  'And  what  would  you 
please  to  have  me  get,  sir,  for  ye  1 ' 
'  Oh/  says  the  gentleman,  '  I  shall 
leave  that  entirely  to  you/  &c.  My 
next  step  was  to  go  and  offer  a  great 
many  compliments  to  Mrs  Cook  about 
getting  the  dinner.  The  girl,  I'll  say 
that  for  her,  returned  the  compliment 
very  prettily  by  saying,  '  Sir,  whatever 
my  master  or  you  shall  order  me  to 
do,  shall  be  done  as  far  and  as  well  as 
I  am  able.'  But  Nanny  (for  that  I 
found  to  be  her  name)  soon  got  into 
such  an  air  as  often  happens  upon  such 
occasions.  'Pray,  Nanny/  says  I, 
'  where  do  you  place  your  stew-pans 
and  other  things  you  make  use  of  in 
the  cooking  way  ? '  '  La,  sir/  says  she, 
'  that  is  all  we  have '  (pointing  to  one 
poor  solitary  stew-pan,  as  one  might 
call  it,  but  no  more  fit  for  the  use 
than  a  wooden  hand-dish).  'Umph!' 
says  I  to  myself,  '  how's  this  to  be  1 
A  surgeon  may  as  well  attempt  to 
make  an  incision  with  a  pair  of  shears, 
or  open  a  vein,  with  an  oyster-knife, 
as  for  me  to  pretend  to  get  this  dinner 
without  proper  tools  to  do  it.'  At 
length,  wanting  a  sieve,  I .  begged  of 
Nanny  to  give  me  one ;  and  so  she  did, 
in  a  moment — but  such  a  one  !  I  put 
my  fingers  to  it,  and  found  it  gravelly. 
'  Nanny/  says  I,  *  this  won't  do ;  it  is 
sandy.'  She  looked  at  it,  and  angry 
enough  she  was.  '  Rot  our  Sue/  says 
she,  '  she's  always  taking  my  sieve  to 
sand  her  nasty,  dirty  stairs  ! '  But, 
however,  to  be  a  little  cleanly,  Nanny 
gave  it  a  thump  upon  the  table,  much 
about  the  part  of  it  where  the  meat 
is  generally  laid,  and  whips  it  into  the 
boiler,  where,  I  suppose,  the  pork  and 
cabbage  were  boiling  for  the  family, 
gives  it  a  sort  of  a  rinse,  and  gave  it  to 
me  again  with  as  much  of  the  pork-fat 
about  it  as  would  poison  the  whole 
dinner  :  so  I  said  no  more,  but  could 
not  use  it,  and  made  use  of  a  napkin 
that  I  slyly  made  friends  with  her  fel- 
low-servants for,  at  which  she  leered 
round  and  set  off ;  but  I  heard  her  say, 
as  she  flirted  her  tail  into  the  scullery, 
'  Hang  these  men-cooks,  they  are  so 
confounded  nice  !  I'll  be  whipt/  says 
she, '  if  there  was  more  sand  in  the  sieve 
than  would  lay  upon  a  sixpence  ! ' " 


1879.]          Present  and  Past  Conditions  of  Domestic  Service. 


181 


Nanny,  evidently  under  no  fe- 
male supervision  or  control,  is  no 
case  in  point ;  but  as  a  general  re- 
mark, we  may  observe  that  the  con- 
dition of  service  never  takes  a  stand 
that  more  develops  feminine  powers 
and  resource  than  where,  as  do- 
mestic, and  strictly  in  that  capacity, 
she  presides  over  her  master's  estab- 
lishment. The  relation  gives  per- 
haps more  room  than  any  other  of 
dependant  and  superior  for  a  satis- 
factory division  of  the  respective 
merits  of  either  sex.  Each  gives 
way  to  the  other  with  a  willing  def- 
erence. The  woman  ungrudgingly 
allows  to  the  man  all  intellectual 
pre-eminence  of  the  speculative 
kind;  the  more  readily  because 
this  implies  powers  exciting  no 
curiosity.  Eousseau  made  a  mis- 
take when  he  proposed  that  man 
should  only  be  waited  on  by  his 
wife.  However  devoted  the  wife, 
however  she  may  say, 

"  I  cannot  understand,  I  love," — 

she  has  yearnings,  provoking  ques- 
tions, and  the  trouble  of  answering 
them,  which  may  be  a  bore.  The 
ideal  housekeeper,  the  presiding 
genius  of  the  kitchen,  while  con- 
ventionally looking  up  to,  really 
looks  down  upon  her  master  from  an 
unapproachable  eminence.  On  the, 
to  her,  sole  important  questions, 
she  feels  she  can  do  without  his 
gifts ;  in  fact,  she  could  not  do 
with  them,  while  he  is  wholly 
dependent  on  hers.  He  thinks, 
he  writes,  he  talks,  he  amuses  him- 
self in  doors  and  out;  she  keeps 
the  house  going,  looks  after  his 
comfort  and  his  dinners,  and  pro- 
tects him  from  imposition,  to  which 
his  confiding  and  open  hand  renders 
him  liable.  To  have  the  charge  of 
a  superior  being  is  very  like  in  feel- 
ing to  being  his  superior.  On  his 
side  nobody  minds  being  under  the 
gentle  control  of  servants  devoted 
to  him.  It  is  felt  a  sort  of  distinc- 
tion as  implying  easiness  of  temper. 


The  adoring  patronage  of  the  ser- 
vants' hall  leaves  a  man  free  to 
indulge  his  humour  with  unre- 
straint. This  relation  implies  in- 
deed, on  the  man's  part,  what  we 
will  call  the  gift  of  being  waited 
upon,  which  a  good  many  people, 
indeed  the  majority,  are  without — 
the  habit  of  receiving  watchful  at- 
tention, not  as  a  claim,  not  to  be 
exacted  as  a  due,  but,  like  the  air 
you  breathe,  part  of  a  state  of 
things.  There  are  cases  where 
this  watchful,  intelligent  respect 
soothes  like  an  anodyne.  Persons 
unfortunate  in  the  distant  survey 
of  their  positions  are  seen  by  those 
who  look  close  to  have  a  compen- 
sation in  a  surrounding  atmosphere 
of  unobtrusive  loving  tendance. 

This  relation — divested,  however, 
of  the  chivalrous  respect  of  these 
ideal  instances — is  seen  in  the 
households  of  the  humbler  class  of 
priests  in  foreign  countries,  accord- 
ing to  the  accounts  we  read  of  them; 
in  cases  in  which  no  breath  of  scan- 
dal throws  suspicion.  The  readers 
of  Manzoni  will  remember  among 
his  most  telling  scenes  those  of  the 
lively  wrangles  between  Don  Ab- 
fondio,  testy  and  querulous,  and  his 
faithful,  truth  -  speaking  Perpetua. 
Just  the  same  relation  exists — exists, 
indeed,  necessarily  —  between  the 
Prevosto  and  his  one  servant  now, 
as  we  are  shown  in  Mrs  Comyn 
Carr's  lively  volumes,  '  North 
Italian  Folks.'  She  gives  a  scene. 
The  old  man  has  invited  a  poor 
parishioner  to  share  the  scanty 
dinner  with  him  and  his  house- 
keeper. He  has  laid  aside  his 
clerical  garments,  and  lounges  at 
ease  in  an  old  coat,  his  tonsured 
head  covered  by  a  battered  straw- 
hat. 

"  Presently  Caterina  bustles  in : 
(  Listen  to  me,  Prevosto/  breaks  forth 
the  faithful  woman,  and  she  is  not 
careful  to  moderate  her  voice  even  to 
the  semblance  of  secrecy  ;  l  you  don't 
bring  another  mouth  for  me  to  feed 


182 


Present  and  Past  Conditions  of  Domestic  Service. 


[Feb. 


here  when  it  is  baking-day  again.  Per 
JBacco !  no  indeed,  the  mean,  grasp- 
ing creature  !  She  has  as  much  food 
in  her  own  house  as  we  have  any  day. 

.  .  But  it  shan't  happen  again,  do 
you  hear  ?  For  shame  of  you  !  Come 
now  to  your  dinner  in  the  kitchen ;  I'm 
not  going  to  bring  it  in  here.  You'd 
best  look  sharp,  for  I  know  there's  a 
dying  woman  up  at  San  Fedele  you 
ought  to  go  after.  I  don't  know  what 
you  took  off  your  canonicals  for  ! ' 
And  Caterina,  the  better  for  this  free 
expression,  hastens  to  dress  up  the 
minestra. 

"  Poor  old  priest !  what  a  shrew 
he  has  got  in  his  house  !  says  some 
pitying  reader.  Yet  he  would  not 
part  with  her  for  worlds.  She  is  his 
solace,  his  right  hand,  and  loves  him 
besides  none  the  less  for  her  sharp, 
uncurbed  speech. 

"  Words  in  Caterina's  mouth  are 
only  the  natural  vent  of  her  quick, 
eager  nature,  when  the  words  are 
spoken  to  the  old  priest.  For  the 
most  part  they  are  forgotten  as  soon  as 
uttered,  both  by  master  and  servant. 
The  lonely  man  cannot  afford  to 
quarrel  with  mere  froth  of  words  in 
the  woman  who  devotes  her  life  to  his 
comfort.  Who  would  care  for  him  as 
cares  this  poor  hard-working  servant  1 
Who  else  could  lay  aside  her  ease,  and 
forget  her  people,  that  she  might  carry 
his  interests  the  steadier  at  heart,  the 
better  to  fight  his  battles,  and  guard 
his  homestead,  and  order  his  goods  to 
advantage  ? 

"  Yet  Caterina  is  no  miracle  of  a  ser- 
vant. In  many  a  lonely  and  cheer- 
less home  of  Italian  priest  can  I  call 
to  mind  such  a  woman  as  this — such  a 
fond  and  faithful  drudge,  with  harsh 
ways  and  soft  heart !  And  where  the 
priest  is  old,  having  plodded  out  his  life 
in  some  little  secluded  parish,  among  a 
people  more  uneducated  than  himself, 
there  the  servant  is  old  also,  and  the 
one  has  almost  drifted  into  a  shape 
and  mould  of  the  other's  nature  and 
mind.  For,  as  home  companionship 
goes,  are  they  not  all  in  all  to  each 
other?  There  is  no  wife  for  a  com- 
rade, there  are  no  children  to  keep 
the  old  life  burning  to  the  end  in  these 
homes  of  the  Roman  priesthood,  and 
yet  who  shall  pretend  that  they  are  al- 
ways sad  ? " 

Here  at  least  is  that  freedom  of 


speech  which  we  have  required  as 
indispensable  to  attachment ;  to  in- 
stilling fidelity  and  loyalty,  as  dis- 
tinct from  honesty  and  fair  dealing, 
in  which  we  believe  modem  ser- 
vice does  not  fall  short  of  any 
previous  age.  Modern  experience, 
where  mistress  and  maid  are  thrown 
together  by  the  exigencies  of  a 
common  interest  —  as  in  sickness, 
or  by  the  bond  of  loving  devotion 
to  the  same  child,  almost  equally 
strong  in  mother  and  nurse — can. 
recall  cares  where  self  and  private 
hope  and  prospects  voluntarily 
give  way  to  a  romantic  sense  of 
duty  and  the  claims  of  service, — 
at  the  expense  of  real  sacrifice. 
There  is  nothing  that  gathers 
romance  about  it  more  quickly 
than  such  service  as  this.  Every 
memory  has  some  example,  "long 
ago,"  to  itself,  but  yet  recent 
enough  to  keep  up  the  tradition  as 
a  current  thing.  Every  correspon- 
dence has  its  scenes  and  pictures. 
Thus  the  nurse  of  a  large  family, 
after  years  of  most  faithful  service, 
marries  and  settles  comfortably. 
The  family  she  served  are  travel- 
ling in  her  direction,  and  give  her 
notice  of  a  call.  A  letter  de- 
scribes the  scene.  "Poor  Betsy 
was  standing  at  her  door  looking 
exceedingly  nice,  and  better  look- 
ing than  ever  I  recollect  her,  but 
so  excited,  and,  as  she  said,  over- 
joyed, she  could  hardly  speak.  She 
could  only  seize  mamma's  hand  and 
kiss  it,  till  we  all  got  out  of  the 
carriage  and  surrounded  her.  She 
told  us  afterwards  that  from  the 
time  she  had  F.'s  letter  to  say  we 
were  coming,  she  had  no  rest  night 
or  day."  One  word  in  perusing 
this  narrative  suggests  change  :  the 
prosperous  wife  with  her  children 
about  her,  uses  throughout  the 
words  "  Master  "  and  "  Mistress  " — 
words  obsolete  now.  "  Her  husband 
is  the  best  in  the  world  except 
'  Master/  as  she  always  calls  papa." 
"  I  always  says  that  Master  was 


1878.]          Present  and  Past  Conditions  of  Domestic  Service. 


183 


the  best  husband  and  father  in  the 
world."  Of  course  the  abandon- 
ment of  this  title  has  a  meaning 
lying  at  the  root  of  change. 

The  true  school  for  service  of  the 
thorough  sort  is  probably  where 
there  is  work  to  do  :  real  work, 
and  plenty  of  it,  but  at  the  same 
time  consideration.  No  caprice, 
no  ill-temper,  and  as  little  interfer- 
ence as  possible  in  the  manner  and 
method  of  doing,  so  long  as  the 
work  is  done  as  it  ought  to  be. 

The  faithful  servant,  we  trust, 
will  never  be  reduced  to  a  recollec- 
tion, but  there  is  one  specimen  of 
the  class  which  we  really  believe  to 
be  out  of  date.  Observation  and 
present  report  give  us  110  example 
of  it :  and  that  is  what  we  will  call 
the  Puritan — the  frigidly  strict  and 
precise  in  dress,  diction,  and  man- 
ners. The  type  lives  in  Lyddy, 
the  sole  domestic  of  Mr  Lyon,  the 
minister  in  '  Felix  Holt : '  Lyddy, 
who  announces  visitors  in  a  tone  of 
despondency,  finishing  with  a  groan ; 
and  who  would  not  object  to  drink- 
ing warm  ale  as  a  remedy  against 
the  face-ache  — one  of  her  numerous 
maladies — if  it  would  hinder  poor 
dear  Miss  Esther  from  speaking 
"light,"  who  had  objected  to  her 
broth  on  the  ground  that  she  cried 
into  it.  Some  forty  or  fifty  years  ago 
Methodism  still  enjoined  a  Quakerish 
gravity  of  attire  upon  its  votaries ; 
and  we  find  in  a  letter  on  domestic 
affairs  a  description  of  one  in  ser- 
vice. "  Nothing,"  writes '  the  lady, 
"  can  set  me  free  from  my  embar- 
rassments but  the  marriage  of  my 
housemaid.  I  cannot  find  anything 
in  the  even  tenor  of  her  way  that 
will  give  me  a  reasonable  pretext 
for  discharging  her,  and  yet  her 
leaden  movements  seem  to  hang 
like  a  dead  weight  upon  us  all. 
Then  she  provokes  me  past  my 
patience  by  determining  never  to  be 
well.  Mr  J.  says  there  is  nothing 
on  earth  the  matter  with  her.  All 
this  time  she  would  consider  her- 


self the  greatest  sinner  in  the  place 
if  she  wore  a  bunch  of  ribbons  in 
her  bonnet,  or  put  a  curl-paper 
in  her  hair;  and  I  suppose  she 
would  be  turned  out  of  the  society 
if  she  exhibited  such  symptoms  of 
a  worldly  spirit." 

The  cold  chill  diffused  by  the 
presence  of  such  a  living  walking 
gloom  of  disapproval  as  is  here  de- 
scribed, must  be  unpleasant  enough; 
but  the  inconvenience  is  of  the 
passive  endurable  order  as  com- 
pared to  the  opposite  temper  and 
ways  of  its  modern  extreme  con- 
trary. We  must  go  to  America  for 
the  picture  of  the  servant  as  the 
direct  produce  of  modern  ideas. 
"  A  Groan  from  New  York  "  is  dis- 
posed to  think  Britain  avenged  for 
the  rebellion  of  last  century  by  the 
new  rebellion  of  this.  "  That  a  new 
and  horrible  tyranny  has  grown  up 
in  American  society  cannot  be  de- 
nied. Every  year  our  domestics 
demand  more  money,  do  less  work, 
insist  on  greater  privileges,  destroy, 
without  atonement,  a  greater  num- 
ber of  household  goods,  solace  them- 
selves with  more  receptions  and 
symposia  at  our  unwilling  expense, 
indulge  in  a  greater  number  of 
amatory  adventures  under  our  very 
noses,  copy  more  literally  the  cos- 
tumes, and,  so  far  as  they  can,  the 
manners  and  habits,  of  our  wives 
and  daughters;  and,  to  conclude, 
set  our  taste,  purse,  and  comfort 
more  supremely  at  nought.  The 
same  grievance  is  complained  of 
bitterly  in  England  of  late;  but 
we  believe  that  in  no  country  in  the 
world  are  household  servants — per- 
haps it  is  just  to  say  female  house- 
hold servants  —  so  given  over  to 
waste,  sloth,  exaction,  and  finery, 
as  in  the  United  States  of  to-day." 

Something  of  this  state  of  things 
might  certainly  have  been  foreseen 
when  the  Americans  as  a  body 
threw  over  the  authority  above 
them.  We  are  not  treating  of  their 
right  to  do  so,  but  only  the  natural 


184 


Present  and  Past  Conditions  of  Domestic  Service. 


[Feb. 


consequences  of  the  act.  It  stands 
to  reason  that  servants  cannot  hold 
the  same  relation  to  master  and 
mistress  that  they  used  to  do,  when 
master  and  mistress  in  their  turn 
acknowledged  social  superiors,  and 
the  term  "  betters  "  was  an  accepted 
one  in  all  ranks  but  the  highest  of 
all.  It  is  a  flat  impossibility  for 
American  society  to  have  servants 
in  the  Old  World  sense  so  long  as 
this  word  is  odious  to  the  nation. 
It  would,  no  doubt,  be  very  pleasant 
for  the  high  sense  of  independence 
to  stop  short  with  the  individual 
who  rejoices  in  it,  seeing  that  the 
qualities  that  make  this  lofty  inde- 
pendence amiable  and  serviceable 
require  a  mental  training,  rarely 
attained  by  the  uncultured. 

Nothing  but  a  course  of  service 
from  early  years,  an  apprenticeship 
under  the  superiors  of  the  class, 
can  teach  the  fundamental  lesson 
that  lies  at  the  bottom  of  the 
theory  of  service,  that  the  ser- 
vant's time  is  his  master's ;  that 
his  work  is  not  a  certain  set  of 
duties  to  be  performed,  and  then 
freedom  to  act  as  he  chooses  and 
go  where  he  chooses,  like  a  jour- 
neyman doing  a  job,  and  then 
taking  himself  off;  but  that  he 
is  a  member  of  his  master's  family, 
bound  by  its  rules,  and  subject  to 
its  laws.  It  is  a  frequent  experi- 
ment— often  forced  upon  people  by 
necessity — to  take  into  service  a 
young  woman  whose  life  has  been 
passed  in  factories,  or  some  employ- 
ment where,  work  done,  she  is  her 
own  mistress.  We  do  not  say  it 
never  answers,  but  we  know  no 
instance  in  which  there  was  not 
this  difference  between  the  trained 
servant  and  the  amateur,  that  the 
quondam  "  hand  "  thinks  herself 
her  own  mistress  when  her  work 
is  done.  She  has  not  the  instinct 
of  service  —  the  family  tie  to  her 
mistress,  the  relationship  which 


puts  her  concerns  first  and  fore- 
most. This  is  the  much  -  desired 
relation  which  it  is  the  tendency 
of  social  changes  to  weaken,  if 
not  to  destroy.  So  hopeless  as  an 
object,  and  so  little  desirable  to  some 
modern  theorists  indeed  is  it,  that  a 
new  scheme,  as  everybody  knows, 
is  set  on  foot  for  carrying  on  the 
domestic  work  of  life.  As  we  write, 
our  eye  happens  to  fall  on  an  ad- 
vertisement, proposing  itself  an  at- 
tempt to  test  the  working  power 
of  "  Mr  Kuskin's  ethical  teaching." 
"  To  WOMEN. — LADY  HELP  required 
for  Nursery;  another  for  Kitchen. 
Country  life  of  much  simplicity  and 
self-help.  Entire  social  equality. 
Adequate  Salary.  No  servants 
kept,  but  work  fairly  shared  by  all. 
— *  Oxon,'  Spectator  Office,  &c." 

We  can  only  say  that  this  is  an 
experiment  of  which  we  should  like 
to  watch  the  progress  at  a  safe  dis- 
tance ;  but  falling  this  opportunity, 
we  will  hazard  the  opinion  that 
the  most  exasperated  of  American 
grumblers  at  the  state  of  things  as 
it  now  is  with  him,  would  thank- 
fully return  to  his  existing  griev- 
ances after  a  three  months'  trial  of 
this  mode  of  escaping  them.  He 
would  be  keeping  them  at  arm's- 
length  by  relegating  them  again  to 
the  kitchen  in  comparison  with  this 
ever-present  conflict  with  the  em- 
barrassing and  uncongenial.  Changes 
in  the  social  relation  of  classes 
should  be  gradual.  The  way  to 
make  the  best  of  things  is  to  see 
the  good  in  them,  and  act  upon 
that — not  to  take  a  flying  leap  out 
of  them,  as  in  this  scheme ;  which 
we  believe  arises  out  of  an  exag- 
gerated view  of  existing  evils,  as 
though  society  were  the  victim  of 
some  abnormal  experience,  instead 
of  its  suffering  from  one  of  the 
many  forms  of  disorder  to  which  a 
difficult  and  complicated  relation 
must  ever  be  subject. 


1879.] 


A  Medium  of  Last  Century. — Conclusion. 


185 


A  MEDIUM   OF  LAST  CENTURY. — CONCLUSION. 


THOSE  West  India  balls  of  the 
olden  time  have  been  described  by 
so  many  powerful  pens  that  I  must 
again  take  the  liberty  of  abbreviat- 
ing Mr  Clifton's  somewhat  lengthy 
description,  which,  when  it  was 
written,  being  new,  would  no  doubt 
have  been  infinitely  amusing.  Quiet 
as  he  was,  he  seems  to  have  had  a 
keen  sense  of  humour;  and  as  he 
wrote  before  there  was  a  Michael 
Scott  or  a  Marryat,  he  did  well  to 
indulge  his  talent.  He  tells  of  the 
wonderful  dresses  of  the  company, 
which  to  his  eye,  fresh  from  Europe, 
presented  an  appearance  exquisitely 
quizzical.  He  was  more  impressed 
by  the  degree  and  quantity  of  beauty 
in  the  ladies  than  by  their  dresses ; 
but  the  men  he  evidently  consid- 
ered to  be  what  we  should  now  call 
"  guys."  The  busha  from  Higson's 
Gap,  perspiring  in  a  laced  velvet 
coat,  is  celebrated  by  him,  as  also  the 
wearers  of  various  costumes,  some 
including  thick  wigs.  But  especially 
he  notes  the  hilarity  of  the  whole 
company,  where  nobody  was  blase 
or  cynical,  and  all  the  world  seemed 
determined  to  have  a  night  of 
thorough  enjoyment  if  possible. 
He  was  astonished  to  observe  how 
all  these  people,  so  languid  and  in- 
animate in  the  daytime,  became 
now  at  night  filled  with  the  very 
spirit  of  action  :  how  they  tore  and 
scampered  about  the  room,  the  ladies 
more  alive  if  possible  than  their 
partners,  their  eyes  sparkling,  their 
cheeks  glowing, their  feet  twinkling; 
while  the  barbarous  music  screamed, 
and  scratched,  and  brayed,  and 
clanged,  but  entirely  answered  the 
purpose  for  which  it  was  provided. 
Spite  of  his  quiet  habits  he  found 
himself  more  than  once  in  the 
stream  which,  like  that  brook  which 


brags  that  it  goes  on  for  ever,  flowed 
incessantly  towards  the  "tap,"  where 
a  dozen  coloured  people  dispensed 
powerful  refreshments  through  a  win- 
dow opening  on  a  veranda,  and  free- 
ly exchanged  compliments  and  ob- 
servations with  their  customers.  He 
understood,  for  he  sympathised  with, 
the  thirst  of  his  own  sex;  but  it  made 
him  open  his  eyes  to  see  dainty, 
delicate  girls  come  up  to  the  bar 
and  toss  off  tumblers  of  beer,  while 
the  attendants  remarked  to  them, — 
"My,  missy,  you  really  lubly  dis 
evening  !  me  long  for  come  hax  you 
to  dance;"  or,  "Hei,  my  sweet  missy, 
you  too  hansom  !  you  pleay  de  deb- 
bil  wid  de  buckrah  gentlemen  to- 
night ;  fifty  or  a  hunded  of  dem, 
me  hear,  like  a-mad,  preasin'  for 
you  beauty.  Gad  sen'  dere  doan't 
nobody  killed  before  de  mornin', 
dat  all  me  say  ! "  and  he  marvelled 
to  see  them,  thus  refreshed,  return 
to  the  business  of  the  evening  with 
a  ten  times  better  will  than  when 
they  began.  The  entertainment,  he 
says,  took  place  in  the  Court-house. 
The  fresh  night  air  was  let  in  from 
all  sides,  and  would  have  been  more 
agreeable  than  it  was  if,  in  passing 
through  the  verandas  and  doors 
and  windows,  it  had  not  swept 
over  some  hundreds  of  negroes  and 
negresses  who  thronged  these  com- 
munications, and  laughed  and  shout- 
ed and  made  remarks  with  tolerable 
freedom,  so  as  to  elicit  sometimes 
from  within  a  hint  of  cowskin. 

"I  hear  you,  Sam  Swig;  look 
out  for  fum-fum  to-morrow, — hear 
'ee?" 

"  S'ep  me  gad,  massa,  it  not  me  ! 
it  dis  Bungo ;  for  him  dam  v'ice 
fabour  mine.  Hei,  Bungo  !  is  you 
not  asheamed  of  you'selH  my 
king!"* 


*  "For  him"  means  "his  :"  "fabour"  for  "favour"  means  " resembles."     The 


186 


A  Medium  of  Last  Century. — Conclusion. 


[Feb. 


And  then  such  a  supper  !  which 
for  solidity,  the  Ensign  says,  was  fit 
to  put  before  famished  troopers  in 
northern  Europe.     The  viands  dis- 
appeared, though,  at  a  great  rate; 
and  the  flying  of  corks  kept  up  a 
feu-de-joie  till  long  after  daybreak. 
Some  few  gentlemen,  it  is  hinted, 
did  not,  after  the  third  or  fourth 
visit  to  the  supper-room,  leave  that 
apartment   again   until    they   were 
assisted  out  into  the  sunshine ;  and 
some  others  who  did  leave  it  stood 
about  the  walls  of  the  ball-room,  a 
little  noisy  and  facetious.     But  of- 
fences like  these  were   easily  con- 
doned ;  for,  says  Clifton,  everybody 
was    tolerably   unrestrained.      Old 
Sandy  Chisholm  appeared  there  at 
first    the   very  pink   of  good '-hu- 
moured condescension.     He  joked 
with   the   young   ladies,    and   had 
his  cracks  with  the  men.     Every- 
body  was    ambitious   of    drinking 
healths  with  this  great  man,  who 
bore  the  process  exceedingly  well, 
and  seemed  only  to  become  more 
good-humoured  and  jocular   (per- 
haps a  little  broader  in  his  fun)  as 
the    hobnobbing   went   on.     After 
supper,  he   swore   he  would   have 
a  reel ;    and  calling  forth  some  of 
his  countrymen  and  countrywomen, 
roared  at  the  orchestra  for  "  Loard 
Macdonald."     But  to  the  "  spring  " 
the  native  band  was  quite  unequal : 
howbeit,  a  hard-baked  Caledonian 
of  the  company,  laying  hold   of  a 
musician's  feedle,  made  it  as  potent 
as  the  chanter  of  Alister  M'Alister, 
and   set    them   working    like   der- 
vishes.    Old  Chisholm  vaulted  and 
wriggled  and  tossed  his  nose  in  the 
air,   and  snapped  his  fingers,  and, 
every  time  the  tune  recommenced, 
shouted  like  a  Stentor.    Never  mind 
if  it  was  in  the  tropics  ;  the  fit  was 
on,  and  the  dance  kept  going  with 


such  animation  as  was  never  seen  be- 
fore, and  never  since,  except,  perhaps, 
in  Alloway  Kirkyard.     By  Jupiter, 
it  appears  to  have  been  great  fun ! 
But  the  Ensign  could  not,  he  says, 
have  given  his  description  of  it  at 
the  time,  or  for  years  after.     His 
eyes  took  in  all  that  was  going  on, 
but  his  mind  was  intent  on  far  other 
things.     He  had  gone  to  the  ball 
determined  to  bring  his  suspense  to 
an  end,  if  only  Arabella  could  be 
wrought  for  a  while  into  a  serious 
mood.    But  he  was  thrown  off  his 
balance,  at  first  entering  the  room, 
by  the  sight  of  Mr  Spence  dancing 
with  Miss  Chisholm   and  looking 
much  at  his  ease — nay,  supremely 
happy.     This   need   not  have   dis- 
couraged the  Ensign,  but  it  was  in 
those   days  his   disposition  to   be 
timid  and  diffident   in   matters  of 
feeling.     He  was  like  enough  to  be 
shy  and   unready   at   the   best   of 
times ;   but   an  unfavourable   inci- 
dent might  have  the  effect  of  pain- 
fully   increasing    his    bashfulness. 
He  was  conscious  that  his  resolu- 
tion had  received  a  check,  and  angry 
with  himself  that  such  was  the  case ; 
while  into  his  mind,   as  he  stood 
gazing  half  entranced  at  the  dancers, 
came  some  lines  of  a  poet  *  who  was 
known  to  youths  of  that  time  as  well 
as  Moore  is  to  those  of  the  present 
day: — 

"  Every  passion  but  fond  Love 
Unto  its  own  redress  does  move ; 
But  that  alone  the  wretch  inclines 
To  what  prevents  his  own  designs  ; 
Makes  him  lament,  and  sigh,  and  weep, 
Disorder'd  tremble,  fawn  and  creep  ; 
Postures  which  render  him  despis'd, 
Where  he  endeavours  to  be  prized. 
For  women  (born  to  be  control'd) 
Stoop  to  the  forward  and  the  bold." 

After  a  while  he  succeeded  in  re- 
covering his  equanimity,  and  when 
the  dance  was  over,  he  went  up  and 


Jamaica  negro  commonly  forms  his  possessive  pronoun  by  putting  "/or"  before  the 
personal. 
*  Waller. 


1879.] 


A  Medium  of  Last  Century. — Conclusion. 


187 


paid  his  compliments  to  Arabella 
with  tolerable  assurance.  But  un- 
fortunately the  young  lady  was  not 
in  the  gracious  mood  which  he  had 
hoped  for :  she  was  engaged  for  an- 
other dance  to  Mr  Spence,  and  for 
two  after  that  to  another  gentle- 
man ;  so  that,  for  the  present,  Clif- 
ton was  thrown  out.  He  felt  a 
little  angry  and  resentful,  and  see- 
ing Miss  Salmon  disengaged,  he 
secured  her  hand  for  the  next  two 
dances.  Flora  was  gracious  enough, 
at  any  rate ;  and  as  the  scene  was 
new  to  both  of  them,  they  found 
plenty  to  talk  about.  She  made 
amusing  remarks  on  the  queer  cus- 
toms and  accidents,  and  soon  raised 
her  partner's  spirits  to  a  pleasanter 
level.  She  did  not,  however,  fail 
to  direct  his  attention  to  Arabella 
and  Mr  Spence,  or  to  repeat  the 
expression  of  her  belief  that  they 
were  happy  lovers.  Clifton  had  his 
own  reasons  for  not  wholly  accept- 
ing this  view  of  the  case ;  but  he 
was  sufficiently  pained  and  fretted 
at  hearing  such  remarks ;  and  Flora, 
content  with  having  just  suggested 
the  idea,  was  too  wise  to  allow  her- 
self to  be  associated  in  his  mind 
with  disagreeable  thoughts,  and  so 
became  sprightly  and  entertaining, 
drawing  the  young  man  into  free 
conversation.  She  had  discernment 
to  perceive  that  when  the  mauvaise 
honte  was  once  charmed  away,  his 
words  were  worth  listening  to  ;  the 
sound  of  them  was  infinitely  pleas- 
ant to  her  ear. 

It  was  late  in  the  evening  before 
the  Ensign's  patience  was  rewarded 
by  a  dance  with  Arabella;  but 
when  this  was  obtained  there  did 
not  come  with  it  the  slightest 
opportunity  of  pouring  out  the 
thoughts  of  which  his  heart  was 
full.  Arabella  was  as  gay  and  ani- 
mated as  she  could  be.  Her  dress 
and  ornaments,  which  would  have 
been  in  excess  for  most  styles  of 
beauty,  were  not  too  much  for  her 


sultana-like  head  and  figure.  Clif- 
ton had  never  seen  her  look  so 
splendid.  But  he  was  not  the  only 
one  who  thought  her  admirable. 
Attentions  were  offered  in  profusion 
from  all  quarters,  and  the  young 
lady  did  not  seem  in  the  least  dis- 
posed to  give  herself  up  to  any 
particular  admirer.  The  ball  was 
a  failure,  the  young  man  saw,  as 
regarded  any  clearing  up  of  his 
prospects  with  his  love.  But  on 
the  other  hand,  he  had  no  reason  to 
complain  of  Arabella's  father,  who, 
coming  across  him,  took  him  off  for 
a  drink,  and  then  reproached  him 
for  not  being  more  frequently  at 
Blenheim,  saying  that  when  he 
was  a  youth,  the  "  muckle  deil " 
himself  would  not  have  kept  him 
away  from  a  place  where  he  would 
have  been  welcomed  by  "twa 
bonnie  lassies."  He  engaged  Clif- 
ton to  dine  with  him  three  days  after, 
and  told  him  to  bring  one  of  his 
brother  officers,  that  he  might  begin 
to  make  their  acquaintance. 

Among  the  earliest  departures 
was  that  of  Mr  and  Miss  Chisholm. 
Mrs  and  Miss  Salmon  had  left 
them  now,  and  rejoined  the  Doctor ; 
and  they  (the  Chisholms)  had  come 
down  to  stay  the  night  at  a  house 
a  short  distance  from  the  town. 
Clifton,  rather  wearied,  had  gone 
outside,  and  was  wandering  about  a 
part  of  the  verandas  which,  afford- 
ing no  view  of  the  ball-room,  was 
free  from  negroes.  From  hence  he 
caught  sight  of  Miss  Chisholm  in 
the  ante-room  attended  by  a  follow- 
ing of  young  men  all  eagerly  assist- 
ing to  wrap  her  up.  He  went  in- 
side the  doorway,  intending,  as  he 
could  do  no  more,  to  say  "  good 
night "  as  she  should  pass  out,  and 
perhaps  to  tell  her  of  his  engage- 
ment to  dine  at  Blenheim,  but  not 
in  the  least  to  interfere  with  her 
present  attendants.  Indeed,  not  to 
appear  to  be  particularly  interested, 
he  turned  away  a  little,  knowing 


188 


A  Medium  of  Last  Century. — Conclusion. 


[Feb. 


that  she  would  have  to  pass  him, 
and  could  hardly  miss  bidding  him 
adieu.  While  he  stood  thus  "  cool- 
ing his  heels,"  as  the  MS.  has  it, 
he  felt  a  soft  hand  placed  on  his 
arm,  and  looking  round  to  the 
owner  of  it,  he  was  electrified  to 
find  it  was  Miss  Chisholm's.  She 
had  left  all  her  beaux  behind,  and 
come  up  to  him  as  deliberately  as 
if  he  had  been  ordered  to  wait  for 
her.  "  I  will  just  step  outside  until 
papa  is  quite  ready,"  she  said ;  and 
then  bowing  to  her  deserted  fol- 
lowers, she  went  on  to  the  steps. 
The  road  was  full  of  carriages  and 
negroes,  the  latter  of  whom  kept 
up  a  stunning  jabber,  calling  up 
carriages,  wrangling,  and  butting 
each  other  with  their  heads. 
Pausing  there  a  moment  in  the 
bright  starlight,  and  throwing  her 
weight  a  little  on  Clifton's  arm,  she 
said  in  a  clear,  gentle  key,  very  dif- 
ferent from  that  of  the  Babel  of 
negroes,  and  therefore  audible  to 
him  —  "  You  have  not  seemed 
happy  to-night;  has  anything  dis- 
tressed you  1 "  Taken  aback  as  he 
had  been,  and  notwithstanding  that 
he  was  much  inclined  to  be  on  his 
dignity,  the  young  man  did  not 
waste  this  opportunity.  "I  have 
been  unhappy,  and  disappointed 
too,"  he  answered.  "  I  came  here 
hoping,  Miss  Chisholm,  to  have 
heard  from  your  lips  whether  I  was 
ever  to  be  happy  again  or  not." 

"  From  me  ! "  echoed  Arabella. 
"  Oh,  if  I  could  make  you  happy, 
you  may  be  sure  I  would  do  it." 

"  You  would  !  Oh,  if  I  could 
only  believe  you  meant  that  seri- 
ously ! "  and  he  took  possession  of 
the  hand  that  lay  on  his  arm,  and 
continued,  "  Tell  me  in  earnest  that 
I  may  be  happy." 

"  Nonsense  ! "  she  answered,  but 
in  very  soft  accents,  and  with  her 
dark  eyes  resting  gently  on  his  face. 
"  There  is  papa  in  the  carriage,  and 
waving  his  whip  for  me  ;  we  must 


go  to  him."  As  she  stepped  down 
towards  the  road  a  dozen  niggers 
sang  out,  "Hei !  clear  de  way  dere !" 
But  they  simply  pushed  each  other 
about  without  clearing  the  way  at 
all,  until  a  man  with  a  long  whip 
dashed  in  among  them.  Arabella 
got  safely  to  the  carriage,  which 
was  an  open  one,  built  for  only 
two,  with  a  flat  board  across  the 
top  supported  on  four  standards,  to 
keep  off  the  sun.  As  she  bade  the 
young  man  good  night,  she  said 
she  hoped  he  would  be  happier 
now;  and  then  taking  her  seat 
beside  her  parent,  away  they  drove, 
escorted  by  two  negroes  on  mules, 
and  followed  by  her  maids  and  her 
father's  valet  or  boy  on  foot,  each 
of  these  personal  attendants  carry- 
ing on  the  head  a  bandbox  or  a 
trunk.  It  is  uncertain  how  long 
the  Ensign  stood  there  in  the  road- 
way looking  out  his  soul  after  the 
enchanting  figure.  He  roused  him- 
self at  last,  and  thought  he  did  feel 
happy,  although  rather  stunned. 
Presently  he  went  back  to  the 
rooms,  exhibiting  a  liveliness  which 
none  had  ever  seen  in  him  before. 

"What  the  deuce  has  come  to 
Clifton  ? "  asked  one  of  his  brother 
officers  of  another. 

"  Slightly  inebriated,  I  should 
say,"  replied  Worth,  who  was  the 
person  referred  to. 

He  was,  but  it  wasn't  with  wine 
or  strong  drink. 

After  this  the  melancholy  ceased, 
and  there  was  frequent  visiting  at 
Blenheim,  the  young  man  standing 
fire  capitally  when  they  rallied  him. 
As  for  poor  Spence,  it  was  his  turn 
now  to  feel  anxious,  and  even  Miss 
Salmon  could  hardly  .persuade  him 
that  his  chance  was  still  good.  In- 
deed Miss  Salmon  herself  was  much 
exercised  by  what  she  heard,  and 
began  to  make  some  very  particular 
inquiries  concerning  Arabella's  for- 
tune, and  so  on — eliciting  answers 
which  rather  set  her  thinking. 


1879.] 


A  Medium  of  Last  Century. — Conclusion. 


189 


Sandy  Chisholm  seemed  to  take 
very  kindly  to  the  Ensign  on  ac- 
quaintance, and  for  a  few  weeks  the 
life  of  the  latter  was  an  Elysium. 

There  must  be  breaks,  however, 
in  every  happiness,  and  it  was  a 
little  interruption  of  the  current  of 
bliss  when  Mr  Chisholm  one  day, 
with  a  grave  face,  asked  Ensign 
Clifton  to  give  him  a  few  minutes 
in  his  private  room,  and  began  their 
colloquy  with,  "Noo,  young  sir." 
The  old  fellow  spoke  as  kindly  and 
sensibly  as  could  be.  He  said  he 
had  observed  Clifton's  attentions  to 
his  daughter,  as  he  doubted  not 
others  had  done  also,  and  the  time 
seemed  to  him  to  have  come  when 
either  these  frequent  visits  must  be 
discontinued,  or,  if  ever  renewed  at 
all,  renewed  on  an  understood  foot- 
ing. Hereupon  the  young  officer 
spoke  up  as  eloquently  and  as 
heartily  as  a  parent  could  have 
desired,  and  Chisholm  took  his 
hand  and  wrung  it.  He  did  not, 
however,  depart  from  his  grave 
tone ;  but  after  telling  the  suitor 
how  entirely  he  had  won  his  esteem, 
went  on  to  say  that  so  young  a  man 
had  no  right  to  make  an  engage- 
ment to  marry  without  the  consent 
of  his  relations.  He  (old  Sandy) 
knew  the  world,  and  thought  old 
heads  and  young  heads  might  view 
such  matters  differently.  His  "  las- 
sie "  was  not  that  forlorn  or  homely 
that  she  need  marry  into  a  family 
where  they  would  look  askance  at 
her.  And  the  short  and  the  long 
of  it  was  that,  before  he  would 
allow  the  matter  to  proceed  further, 
the  Ensign  must  obtain  his  father's 
full  consent,  keeping  away  honour- 
ably from  Arabella  until  such  con- 
sent could  be  produced.  It  was  a 
cruel  sentence,  but  Clifton  saw  the 
propriety  of  it,  and  said  he  was 
quite  certain  his  friends  would  not, 
could  not,  object;  which  Sandy 


said  drily  that  he  was  glad  to  hear. 
After  some  time  Clifton  said  that 
if  he  was  to  be  banished  from  his 
beloved  he  would  rather  not  re- 
main close  to  her,  and  that  he 
would  try  and  obtain  leave  (short 
as  was  the  time  that  he  had  been 
out)  and  plead  his  cause  himself, 
returning  with  his  credentials. 

"  As  ye  like,  sir,"  said  old  Sandy  ; 
"  but  remember,  ye'll  tell  yer  freens 
aiverything  aboot  Bell  —  the  haill 
truth,  ye  understan'." 

Clifton  readily  promised  this, 
thinking  that  he  understood  the 
other's  meaning,  and  believing  that 
the  more  particularly  he  described 
"  Bell  "  and  everything  connected 
with  her,  the  more  his  family  would 
exult  in  his  having  obtained  such  a 
prize ;  and  then  with  much  entreaty 
he  obtained  leave  to  spend  another 
hour  with  Arabella. 

Unfortunately  he  did  not  quite 
understand,  poor,  simple  fellow, 
what  old  Chisholm  meant ;  but  he 
was  soon  to  be  enlightened.  It  has 
been  said  that  Miss  Salmon,  in  her 
chagrin,  made  many  inquiries  con- 
cerning Arabella ;  and  she  soon 
heard  a  good  deal  which  she  felt 
certain  the  Ensign  did  not  know, 
and  with  which,  in  her  judgment, 
he  ought  to  be  acquainted.  Her 
chief  informant  was  a  middle-aged 
native*  lady,  whose  daughter  had 
married  an  officer  in  the  regiment; 
and  this  lady  undertook,  at  Flora's 
solicitation,  "to  have  a  little  talk" 
with  Mr  Clifton.  Now  that  young 
officer,  in  order  the  more  effectually 
to  interest  the  adjutant  and  all  in- 
fluential men,  ending  of  course  with 
the  colonel,  in  his  petition  for  leave, 
went  to  stay  a  few  days  at  head- 
quarters, so  that  Mrs  Evitt  (that 
was  the  matron's  name)  soon  found 
her  opportunity.  She  bade  her 
son-in-law  to  bring  him  to  her 
house  one  evening;  and  having 


*  This  does  not  mean  a  coloured  lady,  but  a  white  Creole. 
VOL.  CXXV. — NO.  DCCLX. 


190 


A  Medium  of  Last  Century. — Conclusion. 


[Feb. 


established  herself  tete-a-tete  with 
him  at  cribbage,  began  to  congratu- 
late him  on  the  favour  with  which 
he  was  received  at  Blenheim.  He, 
as  she  expected,  treated  this  as 
raillery,  and  their  game  went  on 
swimmingly  for  a  time.  At  length 
the  lady  remarked,  "  Indeed,  then, 
you  may  laugh,  Mr  Clifton,  but 
there's  many  a  young  officer  that 
wouldn't  mind  winning  Miss  Chis- 
holm,  spite  of  all  her  drawbacks. 
She'll  have  a  finer  fortune  than 
many  a  young  miss  that's  been 
honestly  come  by.  Hah,  there !  one 
for  his  nob !  " 

"Mrs  Evitt,"  answered  Clifton, 
turning  very  red,  "  I  don't  under- 
stand you.  Drawbacks  !  honestly 
come  by!  How  can  you  think  of 
using  such  expressions  in  reference 
toMissChisholml" 

"  How  can  I  think  ?  You  haven't 
scored  that  five.  Why,  there's  no 
scandal,  I  hope,  in  alluding  to  what 
is  notorious.  Surely  you  know  very 
well  who  Arabella's  mother  is,  and 
that  the  old  lady  is  to  be  seen  now 
on  one  of  Mr  Chisholm's  estates — 
an  old  mulatto  who  tells  fortunes." 

"  You  are  joking,"  faltered  the 
Ensign,  turning  now  from  red  to 
pale.  "  Eeally  you  ought  not — to 
_t0 " 

"  Ought,  or  ought  not,"  proceeded 
the  lady,  "there's  nobody  doubts 
that  Mammy  Cis  (that's  the  old 
crone's  name)  is  mother  to  the  bril- 
liant Arabella." 

"  For  God's  sake,  don't  trifle  with 
— with — don't " 

"  Take  up  your  cards,  Mr  Clifton, 
and  go  on.  It's  your  play.  I'm 
heartily  glad  you  disclaim  all  in- 
tention towards  Arabella,  since  you 
appear  not  to  know  her  origin." 


"I  know  that  she  is  Mr  Chis- 
holm's daughter,"  answered  he, 
grandly,  "  and  as  charming  a  young 
woman " 

"Hoity-toity!  Mr  Chisholm's 
daughter  f  interrupted  the  not  very 
refined  lady.  "  It's  Mr  Chisholm's 
pleasure  to  make  a  pet  of  her,  and 
to  bring  her  out  in  state  as  his 
1  bairn,'  as  he  calls  her;  but  folks 
might  call  her  by  another  name  if 
they  weren't  afraid  of  flashing  eyes 
and  angry  looks." 

"  Call  her !  what  dare  they  call 
her?"  shrieked  the  maddened  lad. 

"  They  might  call  her  his  slave. 
Heavens,  don't  bite  me,  but  that's 
the  truth !  He  might  sell  her  in- 
stead of  marrying  her ;  for  although 
not  very  dark,  she  isn't  white  by 
law — only  a  quadroon." 

The  young  man  got  to  his  cham- 
ber he  knew  not  how.  He  was 
hardly  sane.  Here  was  a  pretty 
account  with  which  to  introduce  an 
intended  daughter-in-law  to  an  old 
proud  family  !  He  felt  in  his  soul 
that  it  was  true.  Arabella's  prohi- 
bition of  all  mention  of  his  visit  to 
Higson's  Gap,  and  Mr  Chisholm's 
hints  about  the  whole  truth,  were 
intelligible  enough  now.* 

Clifton  had  not  to  sue  for  his 
leave — the  doctors  got  that  as  soon 
as  it  was  safe  to  move  him ;  for  he 
had  a  violent  fever — a  seasoning 
fever,  as  knowing  people  called  it. 
But  Mrs  Evitt  and  Miss  Salmon 
knew  what  kind  of  seasoning  had 
produced  it,  —  and  Miss  Salmon 
also  had  a  fever.  Sandy  Chisholm, 
and  Arabella  too,  came  down  to  see 
the  sick  man  while  the  fever  was 
running  its  course,  but  he  could  re- 
cognise no  one  ;  and  when  he  was 


*  The  selection  by  one  of  these  old  sinners  of  a  daughter  or  of  daughters,  to  be 
educated  as  gentlewomen,  and  acknowledged,  was  by  no  means  uncommon.  Such  a 
selection  involved  a  complete  separation  from  the  mother  at  the  time  of  the  daughter 
proceeding  to  school,  if  not  before.  Maternal  and  filial  affections  were  generally  very 
mild  in  such  cases — the  young  ladies  desired  to  have  the  relationship  forgotten,  and 
the  elder  ladies  philosophically  acquiesced  in  ignoring  it. 


1879.] 


A  Medium  of  Last  Century. — Conclusion. 


191 


free  of  the  fever,  and  hovering  be- 
tween life  and  death,  none  but  a 
nurse  was  allowed  near  him :  and 
he  was  carried  on  board  ship  in  a 
hammock,  with  a  thick  veil  over 
his  face. 

The  blow  of  course  fell  as  the 
reader  may  expect.  Clifton  did 
not  return  to  Jamaica,  but  wrote 
like  a  good  and  feeling  young  man 
to  Mr  Chisholm,  telling  him  that 
he  had,  as  he  had  been  desired, 
told  everything  to  his  friends,  who 
would  not  hear  of  the  match ;  that 
he  had  never,  before  leaving  Ja- 
maica, opened  his  lips  to  a  soul 
concerning  his  proposal ;  and  that 
he  trusted  his  short  visit  there 
would  be  forgotten  by  most  people 
before  the  letter  he  was  writing 
could  come  to  hand.  He  had  made 
his  offer  with  a  sincere  heart,  believ- 
ing that  he  could  win  over  his 
friends  to  his  wishes  ;  but,  alas  ! 
Mr  Chisholm  knew  better  than  he. 
He  implored  Arabella,  whom  he 
still  loved  as  fondly  as  ever,  to 
forgive  and  forget  him, —  and  a 
great  deal  more  betokening  honest 
remorse. 

Mr  Chisholm,  as  he  had  foreseen 
the  possibility  of  such  an  issue  as 
this,  bore  the  disappointment  with 
equanimity.  "  I  was  no'  mistaken 
in  the  laddie,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"  He's  been  aye  honourable  and 
true,  and  there's  not  a  word  of 
hypoacrisy  in  a'  the  letter.  I'd 
have  loved  him  weel  as  a  son-in- 
law,  and  the  connection — but  there, 
it's  of  nae  use  encouraging  idle  re- 
graits :  what  maun  be,  maun  be  j 
and  there's  as  gude  fish  in  the  sea 
as  ever  cam  oot  of  it.  As  for  Bell, 
she'll  maybe  greet  sairly  eneugh; 
but  she's  young,  and  she'll  do  weel 
belyve."  Shrewd  as  he  was,  though, 
the  old  gentleman  miscalculated  al- 
together the  effect  which  this  news 
would  have  upon  his  daughter.  He 
expected  her  to  be  affected  as  an 


English  or  Scotch  girl  would  have 
been  by  such  a  reverse.  But  he 
was  quite  unprepared  for  the  burst 
of  passion  with  which  Arabella  re- 
ceived the  communication.  She 
wept  and  shrieked ;  then  poured 
out  a  volume  of  reproaches  against 
Clifton,  whom  she  said  she  would 
spit  upon  and  trample  in  the  dust, 
raging  and  stamping  while  she  thus 
raved,  as  if  she  were  literally  crush- 
ing her  lost  lover  to  pieces ;  then, 
exhausted  by  her  violence,  she  threw 
herself  on  the  floor,  weeping  bitter- 
ly again,  and  calling  upon  her  be- 
loved by  every  endearing  name. 
The  variations  of  her  fury  con- 
tinued so  long  that  the  old  planter 
was  perfectly  shocked,  and  even 
alarmed,  at  the  paroxysms.  Eeason- 
ing  with  her  was  quite  out  of  the 
question  ;  but  after  trying  for  a 
long  while  to  coax  and  soothe  her, 
he  spoke  a  little  sternly,  and  tried 
to  touch  her  pride.  He  told  her 
that  this  was  not  the  behaviour  of 
a  gentle  body,  but  more  like  the 
savagery  of  the  people  on  the  estate, 
who  were  unable  in  any  circum- 
stances to  control  themselves.  This, 
however,  did  very  little  good ;  and 
when  the  girl  became  more  subdued, 
it  was  because  she  had  expended 
her  strength.  She  then  turned 
sullen,  lay  on  the  floor,  and  moaned 
or  threatened.  It  was  a  most  piti- 
able case.  The  old  man  hesitated 
from  shame  to  send  for  a  medical 
man,  and  the  young  lady's  negro 
attendants  were  of  no  use  to  him 
in  the  circumstances.  "  My,  sar  J 
someting  mus'  upon  her  mind,"  one 
abigail  said  j  while  another  one 
brought  her  a  piece  of  lead  to  bite 
(and  Arabella  bit  it),  saying,  "  She 
will  better  after  she  kick  lilly  bit." 
No  food  passed  her  lips  that  day, 
and  she  never  spoke  rationally. 
"When  she  was  not  in  the  sullens,  she 
was  in  such  a  violent  fit  as  has  been 
described.  Of  course  this  could  not 
last,  and  after  some  hours  Arabella 


192 


A  Medium  of  Last  Century. — Conclusion. 


[Feb. 


became  somewhat  calmer ;  but  she 
seemed  a  changed  girl.  She  was 
careless  of  her  appearance,  would 
scarcely  eat  or  drink,  and  lay  sob- 
bing and  moaning  the  half  of  her 
time.  To  speak  of  anything  con- 
nected with  her  trouble  was  im- 
possible, for  it  made  her  rage  like 
a  pythoness.  Her  poor  father  was 
almost  out  of  his  wits  with  alarm, 
and  the  negro  servants  had  a  dread- 
ful time  of  it.  One  of  them  having 
imprudently  hinted,  "  I  think  missy 
mus'  a  crossed  in  love,"  was  de- 
spatched under  escort  to  the  driver, 
with  an  order  that  she  should 
receive  a  sound  flogging  Old 
Sandy  watched  the  course  of  her 
temper;  and  as  soon  as  he  could 
let  her  be  seen  without  shame,  he 
entreated  Miss  Salmon  to  come  and 
stay  at  the  house,  judging  rightly 
enough  that  the  presence  of  an 
English  lady,  before  whom  she  had 
always  appeared  as  a  person  of 
wealth  and  distinction,  would  prove 
a  greater  restraint  on  her  humours 
than  that  of  natives  with  whom 
her  infancy  had  been  familiar, — 
and  Miss  Salmon  came.  The  old 
gentleman  prepared  Flora  for  the 
condition  in  which  she  would  find 
her  friend,  and  hinted  that  they 
had  received  disagreeable  news  con- 
cerning some  one  in  whom  they 
were  interested  in  England.  But 
Flora  was  very  little  behind  him  in 
knowledge  of  what  had  happened. 
Where  there  are  negroes  about, 
nothing  can  be  kept  very  quiet.  It 
was  known  all  over  the  neighbour- 
ing estates,  and  from  them  had 
passed  "a  Beea" — that  is  to  say, 
down  to  Montego  Bay — that  Ara- 
bella in  a  fit  of  passion  had  well- 
nigh  lost  her  reason ;  and  Flora  was 
not  slow  to  guess  what  it  all  meant. 
An  old  negress  on  the  estate  was 
very  eloquent  concerning  the  case  : 
"I  is  nat  supprise,  for  true ;  doan't 
me  know  him  modda,  hei?  dat 


Cissy  de  moas'  passiony  pusson 
upon  de  prappety  before  him  turn 
wise  woman.  Befo'  dis  creecha 
barn,  him  hab  terrible  fits  ob  vi'- 
lence.  I  is  nat  astanish." 

Whether  Arabella  cared  to  see 
Flora  or  not,  is  doubtful;  but 
she  did  make  an  effort  to  be  more 
reasonable  after  her  visitor  arrived. 
Yet  to  Miss  Salmon  the  change  in 
her  was  very  marked.  She  had 
lost  all  care  about  her  appearance, 
and,  indeed,  seemed  to  take  interest 
in  nothing.  Her  looks  were  sadly 
altered,  and  though  she  did  not 
always  refuse  to  converse  or  to  join 
in  amusement,  she  would  sit  for 
hours  silent  or  else  weeping. 

Mr  Spence,  who  could  hardly 
fail  to  perceive,  after  the  ball  at 
Montego  Bay,  that  Clifton  had 
distanced  him,  did  nevertheless 
make  his  appearance  again  at  Blen- 
heim after  the  Ensign  sailed  for 
England.  But  he  no  longer  got 
any  encouragement.  Arabella,  there 
is  reason  to  believe,  had  wholly  and 
determinedly  given  her  heart  to  the 
young  soldier,  and  was  true  in  her 
affection,  not  wishing  to  practise 
hypocrisy  or  coquetry  during  her 
lover's  absence.  Miss  Salmon,  how- 
ever, the  first  time  she  encoun- 
tered Spence,  mysteriously  hinted 
that  the  ground  might  be  clear  now, 
and  urged  him  to  come  and  try  his 
fortune  again ;  and  this  probably 
she  did  partly  out  of  pure  good- 
will to  Arabella,  whose  melancholy 
might  possibly  be  dissipated  by  the 
attentions  of  another  young  man 
more  readily  than  by  other  means. 
At  the  same  time,  be  it  remem- 
bered, it  was  expected  that  Clifton 
would  soon  rejoin  his  regiment; 
and  so,  if  Arabella  should  accept 
another  lover  before  he  came,  it 
might  be  as  well  for  her  and  for 
Flora  too.  Spence,  who  had  de- 
clined further  competition  only 
because  he  believed  it  to  be  hope- 


1879.] 


A  Medium  of  Last  Century. —  Conclusion. 


193 


less,  was  not  unwilling  to  recom- 
mence his  suit.  He  renewed  his 
addresses;  and  being  by  nature 
an  easy-going,  cheerful  fellow,  he 
was  certainly  a  desirable  guest  at 
that  season.  The  fear  was  as  to 
how  Arabella  might  receive  him, 
connected  as  he  was  with  the  mem- 
ory of  the  voyage  out  and  of  the 
chief  incidents  of  the  courtship. 
But  she  set  all  minds  at  rest  by 
greeting  him  with  rather  more 
kindliness  than  she  had  of  late 
been  accustomed  to  accord  to 
any  one.  Notwithstanding  this, 
she  did  not  improve  in  health  or 
spirits,  but  still  underwent  the 
fits  of  sullenness  and  despondency. 
What  to  her  friends  was  more  pain- 
ful still,  was  her  indifference  to 
her  personal  appearance  and  to  the 
observances  of  society.  She  went 
about  with  her  luxuriant  hair  tan- 
gled and  disordered :  often  she  would 
not  be  at  the  trouble  of  putting 
on  a  dress,  but  shuffled  along  in  a 
dressing-gown,  with  loose  slippers 
on  her  feet,  and  her  stockings  fall- 
ing about  her  ankles;  and  she 
might  occasionally  be  seen  in  this 
garb  on  a  low  seat,  with  her  elbows 
on  her  knees  and  her  face  on  her 
hands,  rocking  herself  to  and  fro. 
In  fact,  she  was  unconsciously  fol- 
lowing the  customs  of  the  negroes. 
When  told  of  her  failings  in  this 
way,  she  would  for  a  time  endeavour 
to  correct  them;  but  she  soon  re- 
lapsed. She  fancied  that  she  saw 
visions,  all  indicative  of  an  early 
death ;  and  the  negroes,  who  either 
had  heard  her  utter  words  referring 
to  these,  or  else  recognised  in  her  the 
symptoms  which  indicate  a  negro 
visionary,  quite  adopted  the  idea 
that  she  was  in  some  way  doomed. 

"Where  you  takin'  dat  roas'- 
fowl,  Patience  1 "  asked  one  of 
Arabella's  troupe  of  another. 

"  I  is  takin'  it  away  fram  Miss 
Bell.  She  not  goin'  eat  it." 


"My!  it  smell  nice  too;  and 
de  ham,  and  de  ochra  saace  look 
good.  She  doan't  no  better,  now  ?" 

"  Better  !  no  ;  she  won't  better." 

"  You  tink  she  goin'  die  1 " 

"I  can't  tell,  for  true.  What 
questions  you  ax,  Iris  !  How  is 
me  to  know  1 " 

"Whisper,  Patience.  I  hear 
Miss  Dinah  say  she  see  duppy." 

"Hei!  Well,  she  really  look 
like  it." , 

"  It  bad  when  duppy  come. 
Life  doan't  sweet  noting  after  dat. 
You  ever  see  duppy  ?  " 

"  Me  !  chaw  !  my  king  !  Me 
doan't  want  for  see  duppy.  Me 
hope  for  live  long,  and  be  happy 
wid  a  sweet  nyoung  buckra  dat 
come  court  me." 

"  Buckra  !  chaw !  For  you  sweet- 
heart black  Billy  de  driver.  It 
better  dan  a  fun  to  hear  about  de 
buckra." 

"  Hei !  you  doan't  b'lieve  ?  'Top 
and  you  will  see.  Him  really 
charmin'.  Him  'kin  fabour  lily. 
My !  how  me  lub  him  !  But  Miss 
Bell,  now;  if  she  grieve,  it  will  bad. 
She  come  of  a  sad  race.  Her 
granny,  ole  Frolic,  pine  away  and 
die." 

"  But  Mammy  Cis  no  pine  away." 

"  Hush-h-h  ;  no  'peak  of  Mammy 
Cis.  She  will  kill  for  me  sweet 
buckra,  and  gib  me  crooked  yeyes." 

"  She  will  a  mad  'posin'  Miss 
Bell  die." 

"  Why  she  no  come  and  send 
away  de  debil  dat  want  for  kill 
Miss  Bell  ? " 

Here  a  cook  from  the  kitchen- 
door  shouted  "Patience!"  and  the 
two  young  ladies  shouted  "Hei!" 
and  separated. 

Sandy  Chisholm,  greatly  grieved 
and  annoyed  to  see  his  daughter, 
of  whom  he  was  very  fond,  and  in 
whose  beauty  and  accomplishments 
he  had  taken  such  pride,  so  afflicted, 
decided  that  a  thorough  change  of 


194 


A  Medium  of  Last  Century. — Conclusion. 


[Feb. 


air  and  scene  would  be  the  best 
remedy  to  make  trial  of.  Although 
he  could  not  without  great  incon- 
venience quit  the  island,  he  began 
to  make  arrangements  for  a  long 
absence,  intending  to  take  the  un- 
happy girl  to  entirely  new  scenes 
— that  is  to  say,  to  the  continent  of 
Europe.  There  was,  however,  a  good 
deal  to  be  thought  of  before  he  could 
turn  his  back  upon  his  possessions. 
.'..•• 

We  now  look  once  more  toward 
Higson's  Gap,  where  Mammy  Cis 
one  morning  was  in  a  state  of  great 
excitement,  and  despatched  little 
Pinkie  to  the  busha  to  let  him 
know  that  she  wanted  to  see  him. 
"  Whew  ! "  said  the  young  man  ; 
"  here's  a  mess  now.  I've  shot  at 
a  pigeon  and  killed  a  crow  " — the 
meaning  of  which  exclamation  was 
supposed  to  be,  that  Mammy  Cis  was 
enamoured  of  him,  having  fallen  a 
victim  to  fascinations  and  embel- 
lishments which  he  had  been  using 
for  some  days  to  subjugate  a  co- 
quette in  the  neighbourhood.  As 
a  bit  of  fun,  the  dangerous  ras- 
cal rather  enjoyed  the  idea  of  the 
affaire;  and  he  even  speculated 
upon  the  bearing  which  he  should 
adopt  in  case  of  his  being  intro- 
duced by  the  fond  old  creature  to 
immaterial  acquaintances.  He  fin- 
ished his  breakfast  briskly,  rather 
curious  to  see  how  the  wise 
woman  would  conduct  herself. 
When  he  got  to  the  ground -floor 
he  found  her  outside  her  own  pro- 
per apartment,  sitting  on  a  bench 
and  rocking  herself  from  side  to 
side,  occasionally  groaning  as  she 
did  so. 

"  How  d'ye,  mammy  ? "  the  busha 
said;  and  hereupon  the  old  body 
looked  up,  showing  a  very  sad  coun- 
tenance. 

"How  d'ye,  busha?"  she  an- 
swered. 

"  You  wanted  to  see  me." 


"I  have  to. tell  you,  sar,  dat  I 
shall  want  to  use  de  big  house  dis 
evening.  You  will  please  open  it 
and  make  dem  sweep  away  de  dus'." 

There  is,  on  nearly  every  estate, 
a  larger  house  than  that  occupied 
by  the  busha,  kept  for  the  conveni- 
ence of  the  proprietor  in  case  he 
should  choose  to  reside.  It  was 
this  house  that  Mammy  Cis  de- 
sired to  have  at  her  disposal  for  a 
while.  The  overseer  could  not  tell 
what  to  make  of  such  a  request,  and 
began  to  suspect  that  the  old  lady 
was  a  little  cracked.  "  Have  you 
got  an  order  from  Big  Massa  ? "  he 


"  No,  sar,  I  have  not  seen  de  Big 
Massa,"  she  replied;  "but  dis  mus' 
be  done.  I  only  want  de  pleace  for 
to-night.  I  will  keep  you  from  all 
blame,  sar." 

"Yes,  that's  all  very  fine,"  said 
the  busha,  "but " 

"Sar,  what  I  say  I  mean,  and 
you  know  dat  I  don't  always  speak 
for  noting.  You  will  please  to  say 
if  you  will  do  what  I  wish,  or 
wedder  you  will  take  de  conse- 
quence." 

The  "  consequence  "  was  an  ugly 
nut.  If  it  meant  only  a  complaint 
to  Mr  Chisholm,  he  thought  he 
could  defend  himself  by  saying 
that  he  had  no  warrant  for  indulg- 
ing the  old  woman ;  but  if  it 
meant  a  berth  next  his  predecessor 
over  there,  he  had  no  fancy  for  it  at 
all.  Conceiving  as  he  did  that  he 
had  in  this  world  a  very  distinct 
mission  in  which  the  fair  sex  was 
largely  interested,  he  did  not  quite 
like  coming  face  to  face  with  cold 
obstruction. 

She  let  him  ponder  quietly. 
After  a  minute  he  said,  "Well,  I 
don't  know  what  harm  it  can  do. 
I  take  a  great  responsibility,  but 
I  suppose  you  can  make  all  right 
with  the  proprietor.  Yes,  I  will 
have  the  house  opened." 


1879.] 


A  Medium  of  Last  Century. — Conclusion. 


195 


"  Tank  you,  sar.  All  will  be 
well." 

"But,  mammy,  what  the  deuce 
is  the  matter1?  You  are  not  like 
yourself." 

"  Sar,  great  trouble  come  upan 
me.  My  chile  is  sick,  and  I  great- 
ly fearful  for  de  end.  Ebberyting 
look  black.  You  remember  when 
you  bring  the  nyoung  soldier  buckra 
to  see  me  1 " 

"  Certainly;  but  what  has  that  to 
do  with  it  ? " 

"My  good  sar,  I  see  de  same 
cloud  dat  darken  all  now  when  one 
of  dem,  de  bashful  one,  come  before 
me.  Eber  since,  de  same  cloud 
black  about  me  an'  my  chile.  And 
now  she  sicken  as  if  de  duppy  call 
her.  It  is  de  spirit  and  not  de 
body  dat  bad." 

"  Well,  I  hope  things  will  take  a 
favourable  turn  yet,  mammy,"  the 
busha  said. 

The  old  lady  busied  herself  that 
day  in  seeing  that  the  big  house 
was  properly  cleaned  and  dusted, 
and  tried  in  that  way  to  keep  down 
the  dark  presages  that  were  oppres- 
sing her.  Towards  evening  she 
attired  herself  in  a  showy  robe 
which  had  at  some  time  cost  a 
great  deal  of  money.  She  put  silk 
stockings  on  her  feet,  and  uncom- 
fortably confined  the  same  in  satin 
shoes.  Rings  were  on  her  fingers, 
bracelets  round  her  arms,  and  on 
her  head  the  ordinary  handkerchief 
was  replaced  by  a  huge  yellow  tur- 
ban, rich  with  pink  flowers  and 
tinsel.  The  principal  rooms  in  the 
large  house  were  lighted  up  after 
sundown,  and  the  old  lady  took  her 
seat  there  in  great  state,  ordering 
several  negroes  to  be  about  the 
building  in  readiness  to  obey  her 
behests. 

Mammy  Cis  had  been,  as  has 
been  hinted,  a  favourite  slave ;  and 
while  her  charms  were  effective, 
had  no  doubt  enjoyed  a  vast  deal 


of  barbaric  grandeur.  She  had 
been  indulged  in  all  kinds  of  orna- 
ments and  attires  that  could  set  off 
her  beauty.  She  had  been  allowed 
to  tyrannise  over  other  slaves  ;  and 
had  enjoyed  every  kind  of  luxury 
according  to  her  ideas.  She  was 
entirely  ignorant,  and  in  her  grand- 
est days  became  but  little  less  un- 
couth than  the  negroes  in  the  field. 
By  consequence,  when  her  bodily 
charms  began  to  fade  she  was  sup- 
planted by  a  younger  slave,  and  rel- 
egated to  the  retirement  in  which 
she  was  first  introduced  in  this  nar- 
rative. Of  course  the  condition  of 
such  a  person  was  absolutely  accord- 
ing to  the  will  of  her  owner.  But 
generally,  faded  favourites  had  not 
to  complain  of  illiberality  on  the 
part  of  their  masters.  If  they  re- 
lapsed into  savagery,  it  was  because 
that  state  was  more  congenial  to 
them  than  civilised  life.  They 
liked  salt-fish  and  plantain  better 
than  the  dainty  fare  which  they 
might  have  consumed.  They  liked 
to  stow  away  in  old  trunks  the 
finery  of  their  former  days,  to  be 
paraded,  possibly,  on  some  excep- 
tionally grand  occasions ;  but  the 
finery  was  never  allowed  to  en- 
croach upon  the  ease  of  everyday 
life.  Above  all,  they  enjoyed  the 
dirt  in  which  the  negroes  lived, 
and  preferred  to  "pig  it."  With 
all  this,  they  were  fond  of  remind- 
ing those  about  them  that  they 
were  not  as  ordinary  slaves,  and 
that  "they  could,  an'  if  they 
would,"  show  themselves  to  be  of 
considerable  importance. 

In  Mammy  Cis's  case  there  was 
still  a  link  to  connect  her  with  her 
ancient  glory.  She  had  a  daughter 
whom  it  was  the  pleasure  of  her 
lord  to  distinguish  above  his  other 
offspring,  whom  he  allowed  to  bear 
his  surname,  and  whom  he  did  his 
best  to  bring  up  as  an  English 
gentlewoman.  But  this  link  had 


196 


A  Medium  of  Last  Century. — Conclusion. 


[Feb. 


been,  according  to  the  custom  of 
that  society,  reduced  to  the  weak- 
est tenuity.  The  first  step  in 
Anglicising  the  child  was  to  separ- 
ate her  from  her  mother.  Inter- 
course between  them  was  more  and 
more  restricted  as  the  girl  grew  up ; 
on  both  sides  the  ties  of  nature 
were  to  a  great  extent  effaced,  but 
more  especially  on  the  side  of  the 
daughter.  Children  thus  recog- 
nised by  their  fathers  have  in 
many  instances  disowned  their 
mothers,  especially  while  prosper- 
ous. Arabella  had  not  been  utterly 
unnatural,  but  she  had  been  toler- 
ably unmindful  of  her  dark  parent. 
And  the  old  lady,  however  con- 
temptible she  might  choose  to 
appear  to  ordinary  people,  always 
endeavoured  to  be  a  person  of  some 
dignity  in  the  eyes  of  her  child, 
who  had  only  too  much  encourage- 
ment to  despise  her. 

It  is  not  with  certainty  known 
how  long  Mammy  Cis  had  been 
en  retraite  when  she  first  took  to 
divination.  Neither  can  it  be 
determined  whether  her  greatness 
was  thrust  upon  her  by  the  invis- 
ible world,  or  whether  she  took 
to  it  as  a  good  old -lady -like  vice. 
She  possessed,  says  the  MS.,  some 
very  curious  powers,  which  it  is 
useless  to  deny,  or  to  daff  aside  as 
shallow  imposture.  How  or  why 
she  came  by  it  there  is  no  pretence 
at  explaining.*  But  to  return. 

On  the  day  of  which  we  have 
been  speaking,  Sandy  Chisholm 
had  gone  from  home  on  business, 
and  was  not  expected  to  return 
till  next  evening.  In  the  after- 
noon Arabella  issued  orders  through 
her  attendants  that  a  mule  with  a 
soft  pad  on  it,  and  a  man  to  lead  it, 
were  to  be  ready  in  the  cool  of  the 


evening.  She  apologised  to  Miss 
Salmon  for  leaving  her  for  a  short 
time,  and  deputed  Mr  Spence  to 
entertain  the  young  lady.  When 
the  evening  came  she  set  off  quietly 
and  secretly,  saying  nothing  of  her 
destination  until  she  was  about  a 
mile  from  Blenheim.  Then  she 
informed  her  escort  (consisting 
of  one  man  and  three  women, 
slaves)  of  her  intention  to  proceed 
by  the  least  frequented  paths  that 
could  be  found  to  Higson's  Gap. 
There  she  arrived  about  dusk ;  and 
desiring  all  her  attendants,  save 
one  woman,  to  remain  without  and 
to  keep  out  of  sight,  she  dis- 
mounted and  went  stealthily  to- 
wards the  busha's  house,  the  girl 
who  had  come  with  her  professing 
to  know  well  how  to  guide  her. 
But  as  they  crept  along,  the  slave- 
girl's  arm  was  touched  by  an  un- 
seen hand,  and  the  voice  of  little 
Pinkie  whispered,  "Miss  Juny,  de 
mammy  say  you  is  to  come  to  the 
big  house." 

"Who  can  have  told?"  said 
Arabella,  amazed. 

"  Chaw,  missy !  nobody  tell," 
said  Juno;  "Mammy  Cis  know 
every  ting.  Come,  den." 

The  last  words  meant,  "  Let  us 
change  our  course."  This  was 
accordingly  done ;  and  the  party, 
guided  by  Pinkie,  made  for  the 
mansion.  At  the  bottom  of  the 
stair  (which  was  outside  the  house) 
two  negro  women  were  in  waiting, 
who  exclaimed  "  Hei !  "  when  they 
distinguished  the  figures  through 
the  gloom.  These  preceded  Ara- 
bella up  the  steps,  and  ushered  her 
into  the  large  hall,  which  was  toler- 
ably well  lighted,  and  which  looked 
brilliant  to  persons  who  had  j  ust  com  e 
from  the  darkness  outside.  Mammy 


*  Since  Ensign  Clifton  wrote  this  remark,  the  world  has  been  informed  how  the 
Empress  Josephine  was  in  her  early  youth  told  by  a  coloured  woman  that  she  would 
wear  a  crown. 


1879.] 


A  Medium  of  Last  Century. — Conclusion. 


197 


Cis,  in  gorgeous  array,  sat  on  a 
faded  sofa,  attended  by  two  or  three 
more  women.  She  rose  as  Arabella 
crossed  the  threshold,  and  said, 
"  Welcome,  Miss  Bell ;  how  d'  ye, 
my  child  ?  "  At  the  same  moment 
the  glasses  on  a  large  sideboard 
at  the  end  of  the  room  began  to 
jingle  in  an  extraordinary  manner; 
presently  the  floor  shook,  and  a 
noise  as  of  a  multitude  tramping 
was  heard  as  it  were  under  the 
house.  The  negroes  looked  aghast, 
and  were  for  an  instant  speechless 
with  terror.  Then  they  made  a 
rush  towards  the  door,  where  Ara- 
bella was  still  standing.  But  the 
old  woman's  voice  arrested  them. 
"  Where  you  goin'  now,  you 
creechas  1  'Tand  quiet,  I  tell  you  ; 
nothing  goin'  for  hurt  you.  De 
eart' quake  pass."  It  was  all  over; 
it  had  not  lasted  three  minutes ; 
but  it  cast  a  mysterious  awe  over 
this  meeting  of  the  mother  and 
daughter.  There  was  no  embrace, 
nor  any  demonstration  of  affection 
between  them.  Arabella  said, 
"  How  d'ye,  mammy  ? "  and  was 
conducted  by  Cis  to  the  sofa,  where 
they  both  seated  themselves. 

"  You  have  come  to  live  in  the 
big  house  now,  mammy?"  in- 
quired Arabella,  opening  the  con- 
versation. 

"No,  Miss  Bell,  I  live  where 
I  did.  But  dat  is  not  a  place  to 
receive  a  fine  nyoung  leady  dat  live 
more  finer  dan  a  princess." 

"Yes,"  said  Arabella;  "I  live 
daintily,  and  I  have  more  than  I 
wish  for — everything  splendid  and 
delightful;  but  it  does  not  make  me 
happy." 

"My  chile,"  answered  the  mother, 
"I  know  what  it  is  to  live  in 
grandeur,  and  I  know  your  fader 
can  be  an  open-handed  man.  I 
know,  too,  dat  happiness  don't 
come  always  wid  fine  tings." 

"  But,  mammy,  if  you  have  come 


here  to  receive  me,  how  could  you 
know  I  was  coming?  I  never 
spoke  of  it  to  a  soul  till  after  I 
left  Blenheim  a  little  before  sun- 
down." 

"I  knew  dis  mornin'  early  dat 
you  would  come  see  me  before 
midnight.  Eberyting  prepare  dis 
mornin'.  But  now,  Miss  Bell,  you 
will  take  some  coffee  and  refresh 
yourself.  After  dat  I  talk  to  you.'7 

On  a  sign  to  the  women,  they 
proceeded  to  some  part  of  the 
establishment,  from  which  after  a 
time  they  returned  bearing  two 
large  cups  of  coffee,  already  sweet- 
ened and  mixed  with  goat's  milk, 
no  waiter  being  used.  While  the 
women  were  absent,  Mammy  Cis 
had  made  inquiries  concerning 
Sandy  Chisholm,  and  as  to  whether 
there  was  any  pickninny  about 
Blenheim  that  he  was  at  all  likely  to 
make  a  "bairn"  of.  Being  satisfied 
on  these  points,  she  exhorted  the 
young  lady  to  drink  her  coffee,  and 
herself  set  the  example  of  so  doing. 
When  this  process  had  been  gone 
through,  the  old  lady  ordered  all 
the  negro  women  out  of  the  apart- 
ment. 

"  You  is  sick  at  heart,  my  chile  ? " 
said  Mammy  Cis,  when  she  and 
Arabella  were  alone. 

"  Yes,  mammy,  I  am  very,  very 
miserable,  and  I  feel  as  if  I  should 
die." 

"  What  misfortune  come  to  make 
you  sad  ? " 

"  No  misfortune ;  only  my  heart 
sinks,  and  nothing  can  raise  it." 

"  Dere  come  a  buckra  soldier  lad 
here,  some  time  ago,  who  bring  a 
shadow  to  de  house.  You  sure  he 
not  bring  de  sorrow  ? " 

"Oh,  mammy,  yes;  you  saw  him. 
He  told  me  so.  Mammy,  you  are 
wise.  You  can  kill  him.  Do  kill 
him,  and  my  heart  will  be  light 
again." 

"  Ah  !  dis  is  de  matter,  den,"  the 


198 


A  Medium  of  Last  Century. — Conclusion. 


[Feb. 


sorceress  said.  "  De  nyoung  man 
doan't  love  you  back." 

"  Oh  kill  him  !  kill  him  !  "  said 
Arabella,  getting  into  one  of  her 
paroxysms. 

"I  think  the  nyoung  man  not 
bad.  He  seem  soft  and  gentle. 
He  please  me." 

"Yes,  mammy,  he  is  soft  and 
gentle.  He  is  the  dearest  man 
alive.  I  would  die  for  him.  But 
he  is  far  away  in  England,  think- 
ing nothing  of  the  quadroon  girl. 
Tell  me,  mammy,  is  there  a  hope 
that  he  will  be  true  and  will  come 
out  again  1 " 

"  It  was  dark  about  him  when 
he  was  here.  It  is  all  dark  now. 
I  can  see  nothing  clear  about  him, 
only  as  at  de  fust — trouble  to  me 
and  mine  concerning  him." 

"  Cannot  you  tell  me,  mammy, 
whether  the  light  will  come  again  3 
I  will  believe  it  if  you  say  so." 

"  My,  chile,  I  can  see  noting  plain 
concerning  you." 

"  But  what  do  you  see  1 " 

"  It  is  all  dark  about  you.  I  can 
see  neider  good  man  at  your  side, 
nor  pickninny  at  your  bres',  and  my 
heart  doan't  tell  of  noting  pleasant." 

"  Then  it  is  as  I  feared,"  returned 
Arabella,  placidly.  "  I  am  going 
to  a  far  country.  I  have  often  seen 
this  fate  in  the  distance ;  now  it  is 
near." 

"  Your  heart  is  good  1 " 

"  Yes,  for  death  my  heart  is  good. 
I  thought  you  could  have  given  me 
comfort.  At  least  you  show  me 
that  no  comfort  is  to  be  had." 

The  sorceress  did  not  reply.  And 
as  Arabella  looked  towards  her  for 
her  answer  it  was  plain  that  her 
thoughts  were  elsewhere.  Her  rapt 
gaze  and  motionless  figure  attested 
it.  The  quadroon  girl  sat  still  for 
a  few  minutes,  until  the  old  woman's 
form  became  less  rigid;  then  she 
pressed  her  arm. 

"  I  see  you  meet  de  gentle  buckra 


by  de  cotton  -  tree  in  Broadrent 
Gully.  But  it  not  a  joyful  meeting. 
De  shadow  dere  still,  and  you  is 
pale  as  death." 

"  I  shall  meet  him,"  were  Ara- 
bella's words ;  "  if  it  is  in  death,  I 
shall  meet  him.  Let  me  die,  then." 

Arabella  had  now  risen  to  go,  for 
it  was  getting  late.  "  Go  in  peace, 
my  chile,"  said  the  old  lady,  as  she 
took  Arabella's  two  hands  in  hers 
and  pressed  them  gently.  "  De 
Lard  sen'  you  better  tings  dan  I  can 
see  for  you." 

And  the  young  girl  slid  silently 
out  into  the  night,  and  summon- 
ing her  slave,  made  rapidly  for  the 
entrance-gate.  As  she  turned  out 
of  the  little  square  of  buildings  the 
busha  happened  to  have  come  to 
the  window  to  take  a  goblet  of  cool 
water  off  the  sill,  and  a  gleam  of 
moonlight  showed  him  a  figure  such 
as  he  well  knew  the  estate  did  not 
own.  Whereupon  that  young  man, 
persuaded  that  some  lady  of  dis- 
tinction had  fallen  a  victim  to  his 
charms,  rushed  to  his  toilet-table 
and  gilded  the  refined  gold  of  his 
person  as  much  as  was  practicable 
in  a  few  seconds.  After  that  he 
sat  in  agony  of  expectation  for  some 
time,  and  passed  a  feverish,  restless 
night — the  first  of  many  feverish, 
restless  nights.  And  while  he  was 
waiting  in  the  flurry  of  a  vague 
hope,  Arabella  was  proceeding  home- 
ward in  the  horror  of  a  vague  de- 
spair. Heavy  clouds  obscured  the 
moon,  and  made  the  heavens  as 
gloomy  as  the  chambers  of  her 
heart. 

The  desponding  races  can  be  in- 
duced by  an  augury,  a  prophecy, 
or  some  equally  trifling  cause,  to 
abandon  hope  or  desire  of  living. 
Once  they  take  a  freak  of  this  sort 
there  is  no  turning  them  from  it. 
They  are  as  resolute  to  part  with 
life  as  people  of  another  tempera- 
ment would  be  to  preserve  it. 


1879.] 


A  Medium  of  Last  Century. — Conclusion. 


199 


Arabella  was  observed  after  this 
to  be  visited  by  frequent  fits  of 
excitement  and  depression :  the 
former  made  her  eyes  flash  like 
brilliants,  and  brought  bright  spots 
of  colour  to  her  now  sunken  cheek. 
She  scarcely  consumed  food,  and  it 
was  a  marvel  how  she  subsisted. 
Her  father  had  already  selected  a 
gentleman  to  act  as  attorney  for  his 
estates,  and  now  pushed  on  his  pre- 
parations for  departure  vigorously. 

One  day  when  Mr  Spence  was 
exerting  himself  to  amuse  her,  and 
Miss  Salmon  was  not  present,  Ara- 
bella, being  in  a  very  low  condition, 
for  the  first  time  gave  way  before 
him  to  weeping  and  moaning.  The 
young  man  had  presence  of  mind 
to  ask  no  question  and  to  exhibit 
no  surprise,  but  he  redoubled  his 
efforts  to  cheer  her.  Suddenly  she 
cast  her  glistening  eyes  upon  him 
and  said,  "  You  are  very  good,  Mr 
Spence,  to  try  and  comfort  me.  But 
it  is  of  no  use  ;  I  know  my  fate." 

Spence  replied  that  her  fate  was, 
no  doubt,  to  be  a  healthy,  happy 
woman,  admired  and  beloved.  But 
this  remark  somehow  disturbed  her, 
and  her  humour  changed.  There 
came  the  bright  flashing  eye  again, 
and  the  excited,  imperious  manner. 
"  I  shall  not  be  long  here,  you  may 
rest  assured.  You  will  live  and  be 
happy,  I  hope.  But  if  you  care 
anything  for  me,  there  is  a  thing  I 
will  bind  you  to  do  for  my  sake." 

"  I  shall  only  be  too  happy  to 
serve  you,  Miss  Chisholm." 

"  That  is  well.  Now  listen  to 
me.  You  recollect — you  recollect 
our  fellow-passenger  in  the  Berkeley 
Castle.  I  mean,  of  course,  Mr — Mr 
Clifton,"  and  as  she  pronounced  his 
name  she  rose  and  stamped  on  the 
floor,  and  gave  way  to  great  rage. 
Then  coming  up  to  Spence  and 
speaking  in  a  calm  voice,  though 
her  whole  frame  quivered  with 
emotion,  she  went  on  :  "  You  will 


go  to  England  and  kill  him,  for 
he  has  killed  me.  I  give  this  to 
you  as  a  charge  :  don't  dare  to  dis- 
obey." This  scene  impressed  Spence 
very  profoundly.  He  perceived,  or 
thought  he  perceived,  that  Clifton 
had  acted  infamously ;  and,  in  gen- 
erous indignation,  he  thought  it 
would  be  a  chivalrous  act  to  dare 
the  traitor  to  the  field.  But  he  did 
not  take  for  granted  everything  that 
Arabella  said  about  her  own  condi- 
tion. She  had  youth  on  her  side, 
and  might  probably  outlive,  and 
learn  to  smile  over,  her  sad  antici- 
pations. It  was  not  long,  however, 
before  he  saw  reason  to  be  less  con- 
fident on  this  head.  Miss  Chisholm 
looked  worse  and  worse,  and  all  her 
strange  symptoms  were  aggravated. 
By -and -by  a  curious  rumour  got 
about  among  the  slaves,  and  soon 
found  its  way  to  the  white  people. 
"Hei!  missy  nyarn  dirt,"  which 
meant,  eats  dirt, — and  imputed  a 
disorder  not  uncommon  among  ne- 
groes belonging  to  a  race  inhabit- 
ing a  certain  region  on  the  African 
coast.  These  tribes  were  known  to 
be  addicted  to  melancholy  and  sui- 
cide ;  and  when  they  fell  into  their 
despondency,  they  were  observed  to 
swallow  at  times  a  small  portion  of 
a  certain  kind  of  clay,  the  provoca- 
tion to  do  which  was  never  under- 
stood, so  far  as  Clifton  was  informed, 
although  the  fact  that  such  a  prac- 
tice indicated  the  worst  form  of 
hypochondria  was  undoubted.  As 
all  the  negro  tribes  were  not  liable 
to  this  affliction,  it  was  made  a  re- 
proach to  certain  breeds  of  them. 
"  For  you  modda  nyarn  dirt" — that 
is,  "  your  mother  ate  dirt " — being  a 
common  form  of  reviling.  It  is  to 
be  feared  that  Arabella  had  only 
too  truly  fallen  into  this  dreadful 
infirmity  which  was  incidental  to 
her  mother's  blood.  Her  father 
heard  of  the  appearance  of  the 
symptom  with  horror  and  alarm. 


200 


A  Medium  of  Last  Century. — Conclusion. 


[Feb. 


He  completed  his  preparations  now 
with  all  speed,  engaged  passages, 
and  only  on  the  day  preceding  that 
of  embarkation  told  the  afflicted  girl 
of  the  proposed  change.  She  received 
the  announcement  without  showing 
emotion  of  any  kind,  and  simply 
acquiescing  in  the  arrangement. 

A  little  before  sunset  that  even- 
ing the  sky  was  black  with  clouds, 
and  as  the  night  fell,  there  came 
on  one  of  those  sudden  storms  with 
which  dwellers  in  the  tropics  are  so 
well  acquainted.  "Wind,  lightning, 
torrents  of  rain ;  nature  convulsed, 
as  if  she  meant  to  wreck  herself ; 
and  then  after  a  few  hours  every- 
thing looking  placid  and  bright,  as 
though  there  had  been  no  tempest. 

The  next  morning  there  was  an 
alarm — a  great  running  to  and  fro 
— the  young  lady  was  nowhere  to 
be  found.  Her  father  fancied  that, 
in  a  fit  of  mania,  she  had  taken  to 
flight ;  and  he  went  himself  and 
started  all  his  neighbours  to  scour 
the  roads  and  adjacent  villages. 
The  negroes  seemed  to  see  the  hand 
of  fate  in  her  disappearance,  and 
took  part  in  the  search  without 
hope  of  success,  and  uttering  all 
kinds  of  melancholy  reflections, 
such  as,  "I  know  it  mus'  come." 
"  She  didn't  care  for  live."  "  Me 
hear  de  duppy  call  her  in  de  storm  : 
him  call  her  name."  "  0  Lard, 
she  gone;  and  we  doan't  see  her 
no  more." 

The  search  continued  all  day, 
but  in  vain.  Sandy  Chisholm  was 
in  despair  when  he  found  the  even- 
ing approaching;  and  Mr  Spence, 
who  had  loyally  kept  at  his  side 
and  assisted  him,  began  to  fear  the 
worst.  They  were  some  way  from 
home,  and  pausing  to  decide  on 
what  direction  they  next  should 
take,  when  the  overseer  from  Hig- 
son's  Gap  rode  up  and  said  he  had 
been  tracking  them  for  the  last 
hour. 


"  Have  you  anything  to  tell  us  of 
my  bairn  1 "  asked  poor  Sandy. 

"  Only  this,  sir,  that  Mammy 
Cis  bade  me  follow  you  and  say 
that  you  must  go  to  the  silk-cotton- 
tree  in  Broadrent  Gully." 

Mr  Chisholm  and  Mr  Spence 
looked  at  each  other,  each  wishing 
to  know  what  the  other  thought  of 
this  proposal.  It  was  a  place  they 
would'  not  have  thought  of;  but 
Sandy  remarked,  "  Cis  is  wonder- 
fully sagacious  sometimes.  I  can 
suggest  nothing  better.  Suppose 
we  go." 

Broadrent  Gully  was  a  cleft  on 
the  mountain -side  opening  an  ex- 
tensive view  over  many  miles  of 
variegated  country,  down  to  the 
blue  sea.  It  was  a  place  for  sight- 
seers and  for  pleasure-parties.  But 
not  only  did  it  afford  a  glorious 
view — it  was  in  itself  a  romantic 
and  remarkable  locality.  The  bot- 
tom of  the  cleft,  which  meandered 
charmingly,  was  the  boundary  be- 
tween two  distinct  formations  of 
ground.  On  one  side  of  it — that  is, 
to  the  right,  as  you  looked  towards 
the  sea  —  the  rock  rose  steep  and 
sharp  as  a  whole,  but  beautifully 
broken  with  rocky  pillars  and  pro- 
jections, interspersed  with  slopes  and 
faces  of  earth,  from  which  sprang 
forth  grasses,  shrubs,  and  trees  in 
much  variety.  The  rocks,  where 
their  shapes  could  be  distinguished, 
were  covered  with  mosses  of  many 
colours ;  the  thinly-clad  spaces  dim- 
inished in  number  and  size  towards 
the  summit  of  the  steep ;  and  the 
trees  became  larger  and  stronger,  the 
height  being  crowned  with  large 
timber,  which  was  the  border  of  a 
primeval  forest  that  stretched  away 
for  miles  over  the  mountain.  On 
the  left  side  of  the  chasm  the  slope 
was  generally  much  easier.  Here, 
too,  the  ground  was  irregular ;  but 
it  was  not  so  ragged  but  that  there 
was  a  turf  all  over  it,  which  spread 


1879.] 


A  Medium  of  Last  Century. — Conclusion. 


201 


itself  in  graceful  irregularity.  It 
had  to  rise  gradually  almost  to  the 
height  of  the  opposite  steep ;  but  it 
had  shown  the  waywardness  of  a 
spoiled  beauty  or  an  Irishman's  pig 
in  taking  its  direction,  and  thus 
many  a  dint  and  fold  diversified  its 
breadth.  Trees  stood  about  on  this 
side,  but  they  were  single  or  in 
very  small  groups.  The  distinction 
between  the  two  sides  of  the  cleft 
was  not  invariable.  In  one  or  two 
instances  the  rock  stretched  across 
at  a  low  level,  and  penetrated  a  little 
way  into  the  grass  bank  on  the 
other  side.  Where  this  occurred 
there  was  a  sudden  step  in  the 
bottom  of  the  cleft,  which  would 
make  a  waterfall  when  a  stream 
should  be  running  in  the  channel. 
One  of  these  outbreaks  of  the  rock, 
bringing  over  with  it  some  of  the 
wild  grass  and  foliage,  and  showing 
in  itself  charming  forms  and  colours, 
was  marked  by  the  growth,  at  its 
extremity,  of  a  gigantic  silk-cotton- 
tree,  the  straight  stem  of  which 
measured  its  height  against  the 
opposite  precipice,  and  was  hardly 
surpassed.  When  the  waters  flowed, 
there  was  a  fine  cascade  at  this 
point,  and  the  general  beauty  of  the 
spot  made  the  cotton -tree  noted; 
indeed  it  was  a  try  sting-place  for 
lovers,  and  had  many  legends. 

One  might  have  supposed  that 
the  grassy  side  of  this  chasm  had 
been  gently  sloped  away  on  pur- 
pose, to  let  the  beams  of  the  west- 
ern sun  glow  on  the  steep  side.  At 
any  rate,  one  easily  perceived  that, 
had  there  been  no  slope,  some  of 
the  most  gorgeous  of  tropical  views 
would  never  have  been  known. 

But  if  the  fair-weather  aspect  of 
this  gully  was  beautiful,  it  was  in 
its  war-paint  or  stormy  dress  fright- 
ful and  desolate.  The  winds  roared 
up  and  down  it  as  if  it  had  been 
formed  for  their  boisterous  diver- 
sions. The  waters,  rapidly  collect- 


ing off  the  hillsides,  made  there  a 
general  confluence,  and  poured  along 
it  with  irresistible  force,  leaping 
over  obstacles  and  down  falls,  and 
making  such  a  tumult  as  nothing 
but  the  voice  of  the  wind  could 
overbear.  The  shrubs  bending  be- 
fore the  blast,  and  the  agonised 
groaning  of  the  trees  above  as  their 
branches  were  wrenched  round  or 
torn  from  the  trunks,  had  their  part 
in  the  wild  scene ;  and  the  volume 
of  water,  not  dropping,  but  stream- 
ing from  the  clouds,  made  a  mist 
which  robbed  objects  of  their  out- 
lines, and  brought  obscurity  to  in- 
tensify the  effect.  The  darkness  of 
the  clouds  was  doubly  dark  by  con- 
trast with  the  usual  brightness,  and 
the  glance  of  the  lightning  through 
the  awful  gloom  was  almost  too 
much  for  mortal  senses. 

When  Sandy  Chisholm  and  his 
party  made  their  way  to  Broadrent 
Gully,  a  heavenly  evening  seemed 
to  deny  the  possibility  of  an  ele- 
mental war  having  raged  there 
recently.  The  beams  were  gilding 
the  precipitous  faces,  and  there 
bringing  out  the  hues  of  Paradise  ; 
there  was  not  wind  enough  to  stir 
a  leaf ;  only  the  brawling  torrent — 
which,  though  much  diminished  in 
bulk,  had  not  yet  run  out — bore 
testimony  to  the  convulsion  that 
had  been. 

As  they  approached  the  silk-cot- 
ton-tree, Sandy  Chisholm,  elder  as 
he  was,  was  the  first  to  catch  sight 
of  something  remarkable,  and  to 
rush  forward.  The  others,  follow- 
ing quickly,  assisted  him  to  raise 
from  the  earth  the  object  of  which 
they  had  been  so  long  in  search — the 
beauteous  Arabella,  silent  now  and 
motionless.  Was  it  possible  that 
she  could  yet  live  ?  Her  garments 
and  hair  were  soaked  with  wet;  the 
form  was  stiffened ;  and  as  her  head 
hung  over  the  father's  arm,  it  was 
seen  that  the  large  gold  drop  in  the 


202 


A  Medium  of  Last  Century. —  Conclusion. 


[Feb. 


ear  had  been  melted  into  a  shapeless 
mass,  while  the  other  drop  retained 
its  form.  The  hair,  too,  had  the 
appearance  of  being  singed.  "  My 
God ! "  sobbed  out  the  old  man, 
"she's  been  thunder-stricken."  It 
was  even  so. 

I  have  forborne  to  quote  more 
from  this  melancholy  part  of  the 
story.  The  reader  must  imagine 
the  consternation  and  the  distress 
caused  by  this  sad  event.  One  so 
lovely  and  so  apparently  fortunate 
taken  away  by  such  a  miserable 
death !  The  next  morning,  soon 
after  sunrise,  Arabella  Chisholm 
was  laid  in  the  earth ;  and  not 
many  weeks  after,  was  reared  over 
her  the  tomb  which  visitors  to  that 
part  of  the  island  are  to  this  day 
taken  to  see. 

The  monument  was  for  a  long 
time  a  great  gathering-place  for  the 
black  people,  especially  the  females, 
who  asked  every  educated  passer- 
by to  read  to  them  the  inscription. 
Patience  and  Iris  had  one  evening 
heard  it  from  the  mouth  of  a  white 
person,  and  were  proceeding  to  mor- 
alise on  it. 

Iris.  Dem  tell  out  for  her  fader 


name  big;  why  dem  say  noting 
about  her  modda 3 

Patience.  Chaw  !  de  modda  isn't 
of  no  consequance.  'Posing  a  pus- 
son's  fader  big  man,  any  creecha 
will  do  for  a  modda. 

Iris.  Den,  when  your  buckra 
come  marry  you,  perhapsin  you  will 
bring  him  gubnas,  an'  big  plantas, 
an'  marchants  1  eh,  Patience  ? 

Patience.  Perhapsin  so ;  no  make 
for  you  fun,  Iris,  here  by  de  nyoung 
missy  grave. 

Iris.  Me  is  not  making  fun,  my 
dear.  Only  doan't  tink  too  much 
upon  black  Billy  till  after  de  fus' 
one  come  all  safe  \  for  fear  de  pick- 
ninny  complexion  'poil. 

Patience.  Hei !  for  you  mouth 
too  big !  You  really  black,  Iris ; 
I  not  remark  it  before ;  I  tink  you 
was  only  bery  dark  brown. 

Iris.  Who  dis  you  call  black  1  * 
You  fader  black,  you  modda  black, 
you  huncle  black,  you  haunt  black, 
you  broda  black,  you  sista  black — 
eberyting  alongs  to  you  black  as  the 
debbil. 

The  remainder  of  the  conversa- 
tion had  better  not  be  recorded. 

Mr  Spence,  hurried  on  by  strongly 


*  The  definable  mixtures  of  races  were  (perhaps  still  are),  in  Jamaica,  classed  as 
follows : — 

White  and  black  produced  a  Mulatto. 
"White  and  Mulatto  produced  a  Quadroon. 
White  and  Quadroon  produced  a  Mustee. 

White  and  Mustee  produced  a  Mustafina,  who  was  white  by  law, 
if  not  in  fact. 

A  Mulatto  and  a  black  produced  a  Sambo,  and,  as  one  easily  perceives,  the  propor- 
tions of  white  and  black  blood  might  be  varied  ad  infinitum,  and  the  differences  be- 
tween some  of  them  would  be  so  slight,  that  to  distinguish  them  would  be  most  diffi- 
cult. Nevertheless,  every  addition  of  white  blood,  though  to  a  European  it  might  have 
seemed  inappreciable,  was  greatly  prized  and  boasted  of  by  the  possessor.  Nature 
not  seldom  declined  to  put  her  sign  to  these  additions,  and  the  actual  colour  seemed 
to  belie  the  genealogy.  Thus  a  Quadroon  would  now  and  then  be  almost  white,  while 
a  Mustee  might  be  very  dark  indeed.  Accordingly,  a  brown  (i.e.,  in  Jamaica  a 
coloured)  person  might  lay  claim  to  a  lineage  not  warranted  by  complexion,  or  might 
be  gifted  with  a  complexion  which  the  lineage  would  not  justify.  Here  was  a  fertile 
source  of  wrangling,  quarrels,  and  revilings !  What  proverbially  we  are  said  to  do 
sometimes  by  the  devil,  a  brown  person  was  always  ready  to  do  by  his  fellow — that 
is,  to  make  him  blacker  than  nature  had  painted  him. 


1879.] 


A  Medium  of  Last  Century. — Conclusion. 


203 


roused  feeling,  which  he  mistook  for 
the  promptings  of  duty,  and  really 
sickened  by  so  many  sad  scenes  and 
events,  took  his  passage  for  Eng- 
land ;  but  when  he  had  been  a  short 
time  at  sea,  and  his  morbid  feelings 
had  somewhat  worn  off,  he  began 
to  see  that  he  really  had  but  little 
reason  to  dare  Clifton  to  mortal 
combat.  The  disappearance  of  the 
Ensign  from  Jamaica  had  at  first 
certainly  opened  a  way  for  the  pro- 
secution of  Spence's  suit;  and  if 
Arabella  had  survived,  might  have 
proved  greatly  to  Spence's  advan- 
tage. Spence  had  only  jumped  at 
the  conclusion  that  Clifton  had  be- 
haved ill;  he  had  no  proof  of  it. 
Upon  the  whole  he  thought  he  had 
better  hear  Clifton's  story  before  he 
condemned  him ;  and  after  this  his 
thoughts  became  less  and  less  blood- 
thirsty. He  did,  however,  imme- 
diately on  his  landing,  seek  out 
Clifton,  who  by  this  time  had  ex- 
changed into  another  regiment, 
and  was  by  him  so  kindly  and 
courteously  received,  that  he  at 
once  blamed  himself  for  entertain- 
ing doubt  of  Clifton's  integrity ; 
and  the  Ensign  was  so  frank  in  all 
he  had  to  say,  and  evinced  such 
genuine  sorrow  at  the  heavy  news 
which  Spence  brought  him,  that  all 
thought  of  disagreement  vanished. 
Erom  Spence  it  was  that  Clifton 
learned  particulars  of  what  had 
happened  in  the  island  since  his 
departure.  Most  anxiously  did  he 
inquire  every  particular  of  the  §&! 
events  to  which  Spence  could  bear 
such  ample  testimony,  and  Spence 
told  him  all  that  was  known  con- 
cerning Arabella's  illness,  explain- 
ing that  what  took  place  at  Higson's 
Gap  had  been  partly  communicated 
by  Mammy  Cis,  and  partly  learned 
from  the  slaves  about  the  place. 
Clifton  heard  all  with  an  interest 
and  an  emotion  of  the  most  lively 
kind,  seeming  to  have  no  thought 


for  any  other  subject.  When  Spence 
told  of  her  death  and  the  attend- 
ant circumstances,  the  Ensign  was 
greatly  overcome,  and  for  a  long  time 
could  not  continue  the  conversation. 
"When  at  last  he  did  so,  he  asked  in 
a  faltering  voice  the  exact  date  of 
the  event ;  and  on  being  informed, 
he  exclaimed,  "  Good  God !  how 
wonderful ! "  Clifton  then  recount- 
ed to  Spence  the  details  of  an  ex- 
traordinary occurrence  which  had 
happened  to  him  at  this  very  date, 
which  details  he  had  recorded  at 
the  time.  (The  record  is  attached 
to  the  MS.,  but  it  will  suffice  here 
to  give  the  heads.)  It  appears 
that  Clifton  was  thinking  over  his 
Jamaica  sorrows,  and  his  mind  was 
filled  with  thoughts  of  his  still  dear 
Arabella.  Of  a  sudden  he  lost  the 
consciousness  of  what  was  around 
him,  and  was,  or  fancied  himself,  in 
a  tropical  scene  which  was  quite 
strange  to  him,  but  which  he  graph- 
ically described.  There  he  saw  his 
beloved  girl  pale  and  dripping  with 
wet.  She  told  him  this  would  be 
their  last  meeting  and  fell  senseless 
on  his  breast.  He  was  in  an  agony 
of  grief,  and  greatly  perplexed  as  to 
what  should  be  done.  After  a  mo- 
ment's thought  he  judged  it  neces- 
sary to  lay  her  down  on  the  ground 
and  to  seek  assistance.  "When  he 
moved  he  discovered  that  a  tempest 
was  raging  of  which  until  then  his 
mind  was  too  much  occupied  to 
take  account.  A  tremendous  peal 
of  thunder  shook  the  earth  and  de- 
prived him  of  sense  and  motion. 
"When  his  spirit  came  back  to  him 
he  was  in  his  apartment,  as  before, 
with  the  recollection  of  this  vision 
so  vivid  that  he  was  fain  to  write 
it  down.  It  is  remarkable  that  this 
record  describes  Broadrent  Gully, 
which  Clifton,  in  the  flesh,  had 
never  seen. 

Clifton  had  not    much    to  tell 
Spence   in   return  for  his   intelli- 


204 


A  Medium  of  Last  Century. —  Conclusion. 


[Feb. 


gence;  but  one  little  noteworthy 
item  he  did  communicate,  and  it 
supplemented  strangely  the  fulfil- 
ment of  the  predictions  announced 
by  Mammy  Cis.  Lieutenant  Dix 
had  left  the  service  suddenly,  and, 
at  the  first,  mysteriously.  After  he 
had  disappeared  it  came  out  that 
a  very  fraudulent  transaction  had 
taken  place,  which  might  have 
led  to  worse  consequences  than 
Lieutenant  Dix's  retirement  from 
his  Majesty's  service.  The  Berke- 
ley Castle  had,  it  seems,  on  the 
same  voyage  which  has  been  de- 
scribed in  this  narrative,  brought 
.to  Dix  a  letter,  which  gave  him 
great  delight.  It  was  signed  with 
the  name  of  a  London  merchant  of 
the  highest  character,  and  it  autho- 
rised the  lieutenant  to  use  the  said 
name  as  a  means  of  obtaining  money 
accommodations  from  Mr  Henriquez 
at  Montego  Bay,  who  has  been  men- 
tioned above.  Henriquez  at  once 
cashed  bills  for  Dix  to  a  consider- 
able amount.  The  latter  had  lost 
heavy  sums  at  cards  and  on  the 
race-course,  and  could  not  meet  his 
engagements  until  this  timely  as- 
sistance became  available.  It  was 
then  supposed  that  remittances, 
which  he  had  bragged  that  he 
could  obtain  from  England,  had 
arrived,  and  that  his  affairs  were 
straight  again.  He  had,  before 
this,  tired  out  the  patience  of  his 
friends  at  home,  and  had  his  own 
reasons  for  expecting  that  his  bills 
might  be  returned  dishonoured. 
But  he  had  fancied  that,  after  his 
first  strait  was  passed,  he  could 
infallibly  make  money  enough  to 
redeem  the  paper,  if  the  worst 
should  come;  and  the  bills  could 
not  be  back  for  a  long  time.  He 
was  disappointed — as  is  not  infre- 
quent with  such  clever  youths.  The 
bills  came  back  at  last ;  and  what 
was  worse,  the  London  merchant 
on  whose  recommendation  they  had 


been  cashed,  disclaimed  all  know- 
ledge of  the  drawer.  The  truth 
was,  as  Dix  confessed  to  Henriquez, 
that  the  letter  was  written  by  a 
nephew  of  the  London  merchant,  a 
friend  and  schoolfellow  of  Dix,  who 
bore  the  same  name  as  his  uncle. 
It  was  not,  therefore,  a  forgery,  but 
it  was  a  fraud.  Henriquez,  after 
Dix  opened  his  breast  to  him,  very 
generously  declined  to  take  any 
proceedings,  and  said  he  would 
leave  it  to  the  honour  of  Dix's 
friends  to  make  good  the  loss. 
But,  unfortunately,  the  matter  got 
wind;  and  Dix's  colonel  dropped 
heavily  on  him,  and  made  him  re- 
tire, to  avoid  a  court-martial.  And 
Henriquez  got  his  money  after  a 
while. 

Instead  of  mortal  enemies,  Clif- 
ton and  Spence  became  fast  friends. 
Spence  wrote  from  England  several 
times  to  Miss  Salmon,  who  had 
been  always  a  faithful  ally  of  his. 
When  he  went  back  to  Jamaica,  he 
renewed  his  acquaintance  with  her, 
and  began  to  perceive  that  he  had 
never  half  appreciated  her  merits. 
Clifton  received,  with  much  plea- 
sure, before  he  embarked  for  India, 
the  news  of  their  having  become 
man  and  wife.  At  intervals  of 
years  he  met  them  again  and  again, 
and  to  the  end  of  his  days  kept  up 
a  correspondence  with  them.  From 
them  it  was  that  he  heard  of  Mr 
Chisholm's  death,  years  after  Ara- 
bella's, and  of  the  estate  passing  to 
a  distant  relative ;  also  that  Mam- 
my Cis  was  still  alive,  very  little 
changed,  and  likely  to  live,  as  many 
of  her  countrywomen  do,  to  the  age 
of  a  hundred. 

I  must  not  omit  to  mention  that 
the  overseer  of  Higson's  Gap  did  at 
last  turn  his  charms  to  some  account. 
He  had  left  Mr  Chisholm's  service, 
and  taken  a  place  under  another 
planter,  equally  rich,  and  maintain- 
ing very  much  the  same  sort  of  es- 


1879.] 


A  Medium  of  Last  Century. —  Conclusion. 


205 


tablishment.  This  new  employer 
got  very  wet  at  a  cock-fight,  and  had 
a  long  dispute  about  a  bet,  which 
prevented  the  change  of  his  apparel 
until  after  he  had  got  chilled.  Two 
days  after,  he  was  in  a  raging  fever, 
suspected  that  it  was  all  over  with 
him  in  this  world,  and  felt  very  un- 
comfortable about  the  next.  There 
was  a  handsome  slave-girl  in  the 
house,  who  occupied  very  much  the 
same  position  as  Mammy  Cis  at 
Blenheim.  This  woman  he  manu- 
mitted formally,  and  then  made  a 
will,  bequeathing  to  her  all  his 
large  property,  making  our  friend 
the  busha  an  executor,  and  inform- 
ing him  of  the  dispositions  which 
he  had  effected.  That  being  settled, 
he  desired  the  busha  to  read  the 
Bible  to  him;  and  a  mutilated  copy 
of  the  Scriptures  having  been,  after 
a  search  of  some  length,  extracted 
from  a  lumber-room,  the  busha 
tranquillised  the  sick  man's  mind 
by  the  description  of  Solomon's 
temple.  After  this  preparation,  the 
planter  sank  and  died.  While  they 
were  laying  him  out,  the  busha, 
who  was  a  Briton  born,  proposed  to 
the  heiress  to  take  her  to  church 


and  marry  her.  She  thought  n;ore 
of  having  a  real  buckra  for  a  hus- 
band than  of  all  the  wealth  that 
had  become  hers,  and  closed  at  once 
with  the  offer.  In  a  week  they 
were  man  and  wife.  The  busha 
was  a  good  deal  baited  at  first  about 
this  connection ;  but  he  was  a  plucky 
fellow,  and  did  not  allow  disparag- 
ing remarks  about  the  step  which 
he  had  taken.  After  he  had  shot 
one  friend  dead,  and  lamed  another 
for  life,  society  conceived  rather  a 
high  respect  for  him  and  his  wife. 
His  name  has  not  been  mentioned 
here,  because  descendants  of  his  are 
alive  to  this  day.  They  remained 
wealthy  as  long  as  the  island  flour- 
ished, and  have  furnished  council- 
lors, judges,  and  colonels  of  militia 
for  generations.  All  of  them  have 
fiery  hair,  curling  very  crisp,  and 
the  sun  tans  their  skin  a  bright 
red. 

The  friendship  of  the  Spenccs 
and  Cliftons  descended  to  the  next 
generation;  and  as  Clifton  (my 
friend  Clifton,  I  mean)  often  says, 
the  memory  of  it  won't  die  out  as 
long  as  there's  a  bottle  of  this 
splendid  Madeira  forthcoming. 


VOL.  CXXV. NO.  DCCLX. 


206 


Two  Ladies. 


[Feb. 


TWO     LADIES. 


THE  present  generation  is  much 
disposed  to  think  that  a  great  many 
ideas  are  of  its  invention,  which  are 
in  reality  as  old  as  the  hills,  and  as 
firmly  rooted  in  human  nature  as 
are  these  ancient  summits  in  the 
green  earth.  One  of  these,  and  a 
very  prominent  one,  is  that  of  the 
employment  of  women — a  supposed 
novelty  which  has  given  to  many 
busy  persons  in  our  age  the  delight- 
ful conviction  of  being  themselves 
inventors,  apostles,  and  missionaries 
of  an  altogether  novel  undertaking 
— one  for  which  it  was  not  unlikely 
they  might  be  sent  to  the  stake,  if 
not  of  actual  burning,  at  least  of 
popular  indignation  and  opposition. 
The  critics  of  women  —  who  are 
more  or  less  the  whole  "  male  sect," 
just  as  the  female  part  of  the  com- 
munity are  the  unsparing  though 
less  demonstrative  critics  of  men 
— are  fond  of  saying  that  heat  and 
excitement  are  unfailing  accompani- 
ments of  all  female  advocacy,  what- 
soever its  objects  may  be ;  and  per- 
haps there  is  something  of  this  in  the 
polemical,  warlike,  and  indignant 
assertion  of  the  right  of  women  to 
toil,  which  has  been  of  late  days  so 
strenuously  put  forth.  We  are  not 
inclined  to  combat  that  assertion. 
For  our  own  part,  we  are  much  dis- 
posed to  believe  that  the  greatest 
and  most  fundamental  wrong  done 
to  women  in  this  world  is  the  small 
appreciation  ever  shown — at  least 
in  words — of  the  natural  and  inevi- 
table share  of  the  world's  work 
which  they  cannot  avoid,  and  which 
no  one  can  say  they  do  not  fulfil 
unmurmuringly.  So  long  as  the 
occupations  of  mother  and  house- 
keeper are  taken  for  granted  as  of 
no  particular  importance,  and  the 
woman  who  discharges  them  is 
treated  simply  as  one  of  her  hus- 


band's dependants,  her  work  bear- 
ing no  comparison  with  that  of  the 
"  bread-winner,"  so  long  will  all  hot- 
headed and  high-spirited  women 
resent  the  situation.  But  this  is 
not  the  question  that  we  have  here 
to  discuss.  We  began  by  saying 
that  the  present  generation  consid- 
ers itself  to  have  invented  the  idea 
that  women  have  a  right  to  the 
toils  and  rewards  of  labour,  not- 
withstanding the  long  array  of  facts 
staring  them  in  the  face  from  the 
beginning  of  history,  by  which  it  is 
apparent,  that  whenever  it  has  been 
necessary,  women  have  toiled,  have 
earned  money,  have  got  their  living 
and  the  living  of  those  dependent 
upon  them,  in  total  indifference  to 
all  theory.  The  " widow-woman" 
with  her  "sma'  family" — and  there 
is  scarcely  any  one  who  is  not  ac- 
quainted with  two  or  three  speci- 
mens of  this  class — has  not  waited 
for  any  popular  impulse,  poor  soul, 
to  put  her  shoulder  to  the  wheel,  nor 
has  stopped  to  consider  whether 
the  work  she  could  get  to  do.  was 
feminine,  so  long  as  she  could  get 
it,  and  could  get  paid  for  it,  and  get 
bread  for  her  children.  In  all  classes 
of  society  the  existence  of  need  has 
been  a  key  which  has  opened  spheres 
of  labour  to  women,  and  developed 
capabilities  of  work  which  have  had 
nothing  to  do  with  any  theory.  And 
even  on  a  much  higher  level  than 
that  which  we  have  already  indicat- 
ed, those  persons  are  few  who  do  not 
number  among  their  acquaintance 
some  lady  whom  the  necessities  of 
existence  have  forced  into  active 
competition  with  other  strugglers 
for  bread.  These  workers,  perhaps, 
may  not  have  found  their  career  so 
dignified  as  that,  for  example,  of  the 
young  female  conveyancer  whom 
we  lately  heard  of,  whose  chambers 


1879.]  Two  Ladles. 

in  Lincoln's  Inn  are  thronged  by 
clients  ;  but  at  all  events  they  man- 
aged to  keep  their  heads  above  wa- 
ter, and  did  their  work,  though  with 
little  blowing  of  trumpets.  The 
two  ladies*  whose  memorials  lie 
before  us — one  the  record  of  a  life 
which  is  over,  the  other  the  recol- 
lections of  a  still  vivacious  and  ac- 
tive intelligence,  which  we  hope  may 
yet  derive  a  great  deal  of  tranquil 
pleasure  from  the  evening  time  of 
life — give  admirable  proof  of  what 
we  have  said.  They  were  friends, 
and  belonged  to  the  same  society 
more  or  less  :  they  were  in  full  tide 
of  their  lives,  if  not  beginning  to 
wane,  when  the  agitations  of  receut 
times  were  but  beginning ;  which  did 
not  hinder  them,  however,  from  step- 
ping into  the  busy  current  of  active 
life  when  necessity  made  it  desirable 
so  to  do — finding  work  that  suited 
them,  and  doing  it,  as  well  as  if  all 
England  got  up  in  church  on  Sun- 
day and  said,  "  I  believe  that  wo- 
men ought  to  be  allowed  to  work  " 
at  all  the  trades  in  the  world.  Anna 
Jameson  and  Fanny  Kemble  were 
not,  it  may  be  said,  ordinary  wo- 
men ;  they  had  each  a  special  gift 
— but  it  was  not  the  highest  mani- 
festation of  that  gift,  that  either 
possessed.  Fanny  Kemble  was  not 
worthy,  she  would  herself  be  the 
first  to  admit,  to  loose  the  latchet 
of  her  aunt,  the  great  Mrs  Siddons, 
who  preceded  her  in  her  trade  ;  nor 
•can  Mrs  Jameson  be  considered  a 
person  of  that  overmastering  genius 
which  holds  its  place  by  divine 
Tight.  And  neither  the  one  nor 
the  other  had,  so  far  as  these  books 
indicate,  that  strongest  stimulus  of 
a  woman's  exertion,  a  family  of 
•children  to  be  brought  up.  Yet 
neither  of  them  found  any  obstacles 
worth  speaking  of  between  them 


207 


and  the  professions  which  they  re- 
spectively chose. 

Much  more  interesting,  however, 
than  any  argument  which  they  can 
illustrate,  are  the  chapters  of  life 
which  they  supply.  The  fact  that 
they  came  across  each  other  at  vari- 
ous points  of  their  life,  and  that  each 
has  something  to  say  about  the 
other,  gives  a  double  interest  to  the 
twin  threads  of  story.  Both  were 
admirable  and  devoted  daughters ; 
both  were  unhappy  wives :  both 
had  to  fight  their  own  way,  through 
storms  and  troubles,  from  a  be- 
ginning full  of  that  bright  hap- 
piness, hope,  and  visionary  daring 
which  somehow  seem,  nowadays, 
almost  more  conspicuous  in  young 
women  of  talent  than  in  young 
men,  to  a  life  of  achievement  more 
moderate  than  their  ideal,  and  of 
sorrow  far  beyond  any  prognostica- 
tion. In  other  respects  those  two 
women  were  very  different.  Mrs 
Jameson  was  sentimental,  and  Miss 
Kemble  gay;  but  indeed  any  at- 
tempt to  compare  them  would  be 
out  of  place,  since  the  recollections 
of  the  latter  are  confined  to  the 
earlier  part  of  her  life,  and  cannot 
be  judged  as  we  can  estimate  the 
entire  and  perfect  chrysolite  of  the 
other's  completed  career. 

Mrs  Jameson's  memoir  comes  to 
us  under  sad  circumstances.  It 
had  not  been  intended  to  publish 
any  biography  of  her;  and  when  at 
last  her  favourite  niece,  after  an 
interval  of  many  years,  took  it  in 
hand,  she  was  herself  already  over- 
shadowed by  the  glooms  of  the 
valley  of  death,  and  died  before 
the  book  was  through  the  press. 
It  is  a  modest,  and  in  many  re- 
spects graceful  memoir,  giving  a 
very  unaffected  and  agreeable  pic- 
ture of  a  woman  whose  character 


*  Memoirs  of  the  Life  of  Anna  Jameson.     By  her  Niece,  Gerardine  Macpherson, 
London,  Longmans  &  Co. 

Records  of  a  Girlhood.     By  Fanny  Kemble.     London,  Eichard  Bentley  &  Son. 


208 


Two  Ladies. 


[Feb. 


-and  its  defects,  whose  style  and 
studies,  were  all  womanly ;  and  of 
the  society  in  which  she  lived, 
with  some  glimmering  side-lights 
of  foreign  society,  in  which  she 
shone,  a  faint  yet  luminous  star — 
a  representative  of  English  culture 
and  literary  grace.  Her  travels  are 
much  less  remarkable  now  than 
when  she  made  them ;  her  attain- 
ments were  never,  perhaps,  very 
great,  or  her  insight  very  profound  ; 
but  her  work  in  the  world  was  very 
distinct  and  perfect  in  its  way — true 
to  all  it  professed,  well  considered, 
and  full  of  the  poise  and  balance 
which  only  leisure  and  reflection 
can  give. 

We  do  not  find  in  her  books  any 
of  the  hurry  and  precipitation  to 
which  we  are  getting  used  in  most 
literary  productions.  She  says  in- 
deed, again  and  again,  that  nothing 
would  induce  her  to  bind  herself  to 
a  certain  time  of  publication,  which 
she  calls  "  putting  herself  in  bond- 
age to  the  booksellers."  Alas  !  the 
bondage  thus  undertaken  means,  in 
many  cases,  a  preliminary  bondage 
to  life,  in  comparison  with  which 
the  hardest  of  taskmasters  is  liberal. 
Mrs  Jameson  had  learned  a  lesson 
which  her  successors  in  literature 
find  it  more  and  more  difficult  to 
master.  She  had  acquired  the  art 
of  content  with  earnings  that  were 
never  great,  and  of  life  within  the 
strict  limits  of  her  capability.  The 
man  or  woman  who  does  this  need 
never  fear  to  be  hurried'  into  igno- 
ble or  imperfect  work ;  but  of  all 
the  arts  within  human  reach  it  is 
perhaps,  in  this  age,  the  most 
hard.  The  contrast  between  the 
modest  existence  and  limited  pro- 
duction of  such  a  writer,  and  the 
perpetual  overstrain  of  exertion  and 
greater  social  independence  of  her 
successors  in  literature,  is  very 
marked.  It  indicates,  perhaps,  a 
change  in  national  manners,  as  well 
as  in  those  of  individuals.  The 
author  in  earlier  days,  was  very 


well  content   to  be  the  attendant 
star  of  some  noble  or  wealthy  house, 
getting   society   and   its   privilegos 
upon  a  footing  which  was  not  ex- 
actly that  of  inferiority,   often  in- 
deed that  of  flattered  elevation  and 
nominal    sovereignty  —  but    never 
upon  an  equal  footing;  and  even 
in  the  more  recent  past  up  to  the 
borders  of  to-day,  though  individual 
patrons    are    less    notable,    society 
itself  has  assumed  this  protecting 
attitude.       More   or    less,    let    us 
allow  it,  the   artist's   position   has 
always   been   the   same.      He   has 
been  supposed   to   lend  lustre,    in 
the  days  of  more   magnificent  pa- 
tronage, to  the  Court  or  the  great 
man  who  entertained  him.     He  has 
been  the  ornament  and  pride  of  the 
society  which  never  in  its  soul  has  • 
considered  him  as  more  than  its  de- 
pendant ;  although,  after  all  the  little 
details  of  everyday  intercourse  were 
over,   and  the  patron  and  the  pa- 
tronised both  dead  and  turned  to 
clay,  his  position  has  appeared,  in 
the  light  of  subsequent  records,  a 
very  delightful  and  admirable  one, 
and  he  himself  the  central  light  in 
the   picture,   of  which   he  was   in 
reality,    could   we   but  know,    the 
merest  little  twinkling  taper.    Time 
sets  all  this  to  rights  in  the  most 
astonishing   way — changing    every 
social  arrangement,  "putting  down 
the  mighty  from   their   seats"   in 
true  Biblical  fashion,  though,  per- 
haps, those  who  are  "'exalted  "  can 
scarcely  be  termed  the  "  humble  and 
meek."     Sir  Walter  Scott,  perhaps, 
was  the  first  writer  who  set  his  face 
against  this  order  of  things.     He 
wanted  to  establish  a  family,  every- 
body says  ;  to  be  a  county  magnate, 
and  leave  to  his  sons  and  grandsons 
after  him  (alas  !)  the  inheritance  of 
that  magnificent  position.   Perhaps  ; 
— we  say  nothing  against  the  uni- 
versal verdict  which  has  marked  out 
this   foolishness   (if   foolishness   it 
was)  in  the  mind  of  the  most  sensi- 
ble of  all  men  of  genius.     But,  we 


1879. 


Two  Ladles. 


209 


humbly  opine,  there  was  something 
more  in  it.  Sir  Walter  was  not  a 
man  to  be  patronised,  though  in  the 
most  flattering  way.  He  was  the 
first  great  writer  who  was  deter- 
mined to  be  socially  independent, 
— to  be  the  host  and  not  the  guest, 
to  give  and  not  to  receive.  Alas  ! 
one  knows  what  came  of  it.  We 
who  have  been  bred  upon  Sir 
Walter  are  loath  to  allow  that  any- 
thing of  his  (short  of  '  Count  Ro- 
bert' or  '  Castle  Dangerous  ')  is  too 
much ;  and  of  all  noble  struggles  on 
record,  his  struggle  against  debt  and 
dishonour  —  with  hasty  taskwork 
of  not  always  admirable  but  always 
honest  work,  for  which  it  pleased  the 
public  (God  bless  it  for  the  memory 
of  that  wise  and  gracious  folly !)  to 
pay  absurd  prices — is  one  of  the  most 
noble.  Still  it  was  a  grievous  and 
a  painful  price  to  pay  for  the  posi- 
tion not  only  of  Scotch  laird  (we 
are  disposed  to  think  a  secondary 
aspiration),  but  of  host  and  enter- 
tainer of  the  whole  world  at  Abbots- 
ford — genial  prince  of  letters,  not 
the  "ornament"  of  anybody  else's 
society,  were  it  a  king,  but  head 
of  his  own.  The  fashion  thus  set 
has  had  results  which  Sir  Walter 
did  not  contemplate.  Society,  find- 
ing that  way  decidedly  cheaper,  has 
recognised  the  revolt  against  patron- 
age by  giving  it  up  to  a  great  degree ; 
and,  alas !  in  a  great  many  cases  the 
artist,  not  giving  up  society,  but  in 
the  heyday  of  success  feeling  him- 
self rich  enough  in  his  pen  or  pencil 
to  cock  his  beaver  with  any  man, 
has  set  up  for  equality,  as  Sir  Wal- 
ter did,  and  in  something  of  the 
same  way — hence  how  many  floods 
of  hurrying  books  one  on  the  heels 
of  another !  how  many  brilliant 
splashes  of  raw  pictures,  hard  tran- 
scripts of  nature  that  mean  nothing 
but  so  many  hundreds  or  thousands 
of  pounds  !  This  is  the  drawback 
of  that  social  independence  which 
means  a  more  expensive  life  than 
we  can  afford.  Would  it  be  better 


to  go  back  (if  we  could)  to  the 
position  of  "  ornaments  of  society," 
acknowledging  ourselves  the  legiti- 
mate amusers  of  our  betters,  and 
nothing  more  ?  There  is  something 
that  would  perhaps  be  still  more 
expedient  than  this ;  which  is  to  do 
without  our  betters,  to  give  up  all 
hankerings  after  them,  and  try  "  the 
little  oatmeal"  which  has  proved 
such  excellent  fare  —  the  "high 
thinking  and  poor  living  "  which  is 
so  good  for  art.  If  we  always  could 
when  we  would  ! 

This  is  once  more  a  digression  : 
but  it  indicates,  we  think,  a  marked 
difference  in  the  life  of  our  own 
days,  when  literature  is  becoming, 
or  has  become,  a  profession  like  any 
other ;  and  those  who  follow  it, 
and  who  are  known  to  be  able  to 
earn  a  very  good  substantial  income 
by  it,  are  no  longer  supposed  to  re- 
quire the  petting  and  admiring  pity 
of  the  world  as  persons  whose  very 
gifts  imply  a  certain  folly  and  want 
of  practical  qualities.  This  tradi- 
tion still  lingered,  when  Mrs  Jame- 
son rose  into  popularity  as  the 
author  of  a  pretty,  languishing  little 
book  of  travel,  in  which,  beside  a 
good  deal  of  sentimental  self-be- 
moaning, there  were  some  charm- 
ing descriptions  of  places  little 
enough  known  to  excite  the  eager 
reader  whose  imagination  was  then 
apt  to  take  fire  at  the  very  name 
of  Italy,  and  some  indications  of 
a  budding  comprehension  of  art. 
The  pretty  young  woman  who 
gained  this  entirely  lady-like  tri- 
umph had  just  been  married,  and 
was  now  no  melancholy  ennuyee 
at  all,  though  she  had  known 
troubles  even  at  that  early  stage. 
She  was  not  a  girlish  bride,  being 
about  thirty  at  the  time  of  her 
marriage  ;  but  there  is  nothing  in 
that  age  to  prevent  her  from  being  a 
pretty  young  woman,  golden-haired 
and  fair,  with  beautiful  hands  and 
arms,  and  a  lovely  complexion,  as 
one  of  her  contemporaries — the  lady 


210 


whose  name  we  have  linked  with 
hers,  Fanny  Kemble — describes  her. 
Before  she  came  to  this  stage,  how- 
ever, there  had  been  a  good  deal  of 
change  and  variety,  and  some  touch 
of  hardship,  in  her  life.  Her  father, 
whose  name  was  Murphy,  an  Irish 
miniature-painter  of  very  consider- 
able ability,  as  some  of  his  minia- 
tures still  existing  amply  testify, 
had  probably  some  difficulty,  as  is 
unfortunately  common  enough  in 
artists'  households,  in  making  both 
ends  meet;  and  his  eldest  child,  the 
eldest  of  a  little  party  of  five  sisters 
— just  the  kind  of  family  which  is 
most  delightful  in  babyhood,  and 
most  alarming  when  the  question  of 
providing  for  them  comes  to  be  con- 
sidered— very  soon  seems  to  have 
been  seized  by  the  prophetic  con- 
viction that  she  was  to  take  this 
burden  upon  her  with  as  little  delay 
as  possible.  Nothing  can  be  pret- 
tier than  the  picture  of  the  live 
little  maidens,  four  of  them  in 
awed  and  unquestioning  subjection 
to  their  sister,  who  followed  their 
parents  in  their  wanderings  about 
the  north  of  England,  and  final 
settlement  in  London.  The  others 
were,  it  is  likely,  as  little  impressed 
by  any  struggles  of  poverty  in  the 
house  as  children  generally  are ; 
but  little  Anna  understood  and 
foresaw  that  it  was  her  business 
to  remedy  that  domestic  trouble. 
When  she  was  about  twelve,  she 
conceived  for  this  purpose  a  not- 
able plan.  She  gathered  her  little 
sisters  together,  probably  after  some 
unrecorded  family  incident  which 
had  made  the  situation  clear  to  her, 
and  harangued  them.  Here  were 
four  of  them  from  twelve  down- 
wards (the  fifth  being  still  in  the 
cradle),  eating  the  bread  of  idle- 
ness, she  said,  while  their  father 
and  mother  were  struggling.  Her 
plan  was — that  they  should  imme- 
diately "  set  out  for  Brussels,  learn 
the  art  of  lace-making,  work  at  it 
at  once  successfully,  and  achieve  in 


Two  Ladles.  [Feb. 

the  shortest  possible  time  a  for- 
tune with  which  to  set  their  parents 
at  ease  for  the  future.  The  pro- 
ceeding was  tout  simple.  .  .  .  The 
plan  would  be,  to  take  their  course 
straight  along  by  the  banks  of 
the  Paddington  Canal  as  far  as 
it  went,  then  inquire  which  was 
the  nearest  road  to  the  coast,  and 
then  take  ship  for  Belgium."  This 
heroic  scheme  did  not  come  to  any- 
thing, through  the  weakness  of  one 
of  the  little  conspirators.  But  it  is 
as  pretty  a  story  of  childish  hero- 
ism and  foolishness,  delightfully 
true  and  touching  in  both,  as  we 
ever  remember  to  have  heard.  The 
high-spirited  child  is  an  ideal  little 
heroine. 

This  and  a  few  other  charming 
anecdotes  are  derived  from  the  re- 
collections of  the  one  surviving 
sister,  a  lady  who  has,  we  believe, 
attained  the  venerable  age  of  eighty, 
with  intelligence  as  bright  and 
heart  as  warm  as  ever.  "  Camilla 
remembers  still  how  Anna,  with  her 
head  erect  and  her  blue  eyes  gleam- 
ing, would  declaim  the  well-known 
verses — 

'  Tliy  spirit,  Independence,  let  me  share, 
Lord  of  the  lion  heart  and  eagle  eye  ; 
Thy  steps  I'll  follow  with  my  bosom 

bare, 

Nor  heed  the  storm  that  howls  along 
the  sky ' — 

till  the  other  feeble  voices  of  the 
nursery  party  had  learned  to  lisp 
them  after  her,  a  little  awed,  and 
wondering  at  their  own  heroism." 
And  when  time  had  somewhat  ma- 
tured the  young  saviour  of  the 
family — but  not  much,  for  she  was 
only  sixteen — Anna  went  out  into 
the  world  as  a  governess,  which 
perhaps  was  harder  than  the  lace- 
making.  The  chief  thing  that 
interests  us  in  her  *  Diary  of  the 
Ennuyee,'  is  just  the  side  glimpse 
afforded,  quite  unwittingly,  of  this 
governess  life — the  unconscious  rev- 
elation of  her  own  partial  solitude 
in  the  midst  of  a  gay  party,  which 


1879.]  Two  Ladies. 


211 


she  puts  down  to  the  score  of  the 
mysterious  sorrow  in  which  it  is 
her  pleasure  to  shroud  herself,  the 
mild  feminine  Byron  ism  of  a  heart- 
broken wanderer.  ~No  doubt  it 
was,  as  her  biographer  suggests,  a 
fashion  of  the  time. 

The  little  book  which  first 
brought  her  into  notice  was  not 
written  to  be  printed  at  all.  It 
was  made  up  of  the  contents  of  a 
journal  which  it  was  her  practice 
to  keep,  and  which  she  kept  all 
her  life,  though  the  later  volumes 
were  destroyed.  A  governess  of 
some  genius  on  the  grand  tour  with 
her  pupils  and  their  family,  who 
were  of  no  genius  at  all — a  young 
woman  who  had  quarrelled  with 
her  lover  and  broken  off  her  en- 
gagement, and  had  a  turn  for  writ- 
ing,— what  more  easy  than  to  un- 
derstand what  sort  of  a  book  it  was  *? 
Few  people  nowadays  know  much 
of  the  '  Diary  of  an  Ennuyee ; '  but 
the  elders  among  us,  and  especially 
ladies  who  were  young  about  that 
time,  or  indeed  twenty  years  after 
that  time,  will  certainly  have  fallen 
in  with  the  elegant  little  volume, 
so  pretty  and  spirited,  so  melan- 
choly and  languishing, — the  very 
ideal  book  which  the  heroine  in 
white  satin  or  the  confidante  in 
white  muslin  might  have — granted 
the  gift  of  composition — been  ex- 
pected to  write.  We  advise  the 
reader,  if  he  finds  it  on  some  dusty 
book -shelf,  to  make  acquaintance 
with  that  melancholy  young  lady. 
He  will  not  cry  probably,  as  his  con- 
temporaries did,  but  he  will  often 
smile,  and  he  will  like  her,  notwith- 
standing her  sincere  affectation. 
She  has  the  courage  to  venture  some 
very  rash  judgments  upon  pictures 
which  made  her  own  hair  stand  on 
end  in  after  and  more  enlightened 
days ;  and  she  affords  us  glimpses, 
unintentional,  of  her  own  position, 
which  are  touching  without  any  in- 
tention of  being  so.  The  journal 
was  brought  out  by  a  sort  of  quack 


publisher  and  Jack-of- all-  trades,  after 
she  had  recovered  from  herdejection, 
and  had,  unhappily  for  her,  made  it 
up  with  her  lover ;  and  she  got  a 
guitar  with  the  price — which,  no 
doubt,  it  was  by  no  means  disagree- 
able to  her  to  play  with  her  beauti- 
ful hands.  Miss  Martineau  gives  an 
ill-natured  line,  in  her  general  abuse 
of  all  her  acquaintance,  to  a  lady 
thinly  protected  by  an  initial,  Mrs 

J ,  who  lets  her  hand  hang  over 

the  back  of  a  chair  by  way  of  show- 
ing its  beauty.  And  why  not  1  A 
pretty  hand  is  not  a  possession  to 
be  hid. 

Mrs  Jameson's  marriage  was  en- 
tirely unsuccessful  and  unhappy. 
The  story  of  it,  as  given  here,  is 
perhaps  inadequate,  and  scarcely 
accounts  for  the  superficial  and 
brief  union,  the  ever  -  widening 
breach,  bet  ween  these  two  unsuitable 
people.  Evidently  not  half  is  told, 
or  would  bear  telling,  though  the 
writer  is  anxious  to  assure  the  pub- 
lic that  no  wrong  of  a  serious  kind, 
no  greater  blame  on  one  side  or  the 
other  than  that  of  absolute  incom- 
patibility, existed  between  the  un- 
fortunate pair.  There  is  an  account 
of  an  incident  which  happened  in 
the  first  week  of  their  marriage, 
however,  which  throws  some  light 
upon  the  character  of  the  husband, 
who  is  not  the  subject  of  the 
memoir,  and  for  whom  there  is  not 
even  a  devil's  advocate  to  plead , 
though  Mrs  Macpherson  has  been 
scrupulous  in  throwing  no  unneces- 
sary mud  upon  him  : — 

"  The  pair  had  been  married  in  ihe 
middle  of  the  week — Wednesday,  my 
informant  believes — and  settled  at  onee 
in  their  lodgings.  On  the  Sunday  Mir 
Jameson  announced  his  intention  ©f 
going  out  to  the  house  of  some  friends,, 
with  whom  he  had  been  in  the  habit  oi" 
spending  Sunday  before  his  marriage. 
The  young  wife  was  struck  dumb  by 
this  proposal.  'But/  she  said,  '  they 
do  not  know  me  ;  they  may  not  want 
to  know  me.  "Would  it  not  be  better- 
to  wait  until  they  have  time  at  least 


212 


Two  Ladies. 


[Feb. 


to  show  whether  they  care  for  my  ac- 
quaintance ] '  '  That  is  as  you  please,' 
said  the  husband  ;  '  but  in  any  case, 
whether  you  come  or  not,  I  shall  go.' 
The  bride  of  three  or  four  days  had 
to  make  up  her  mind.  How  could  she 
intrude  herself  upon  strangers  ?  But 
supposing,  on  the  other  hand,  any 
friend  of  her  own  should  come,  any 
member  of  her  family,  to  congratulate 
her  on  her  happiness,  how  could  her 
pride  bear  to  be  found  alone  and 
forsaken  on  the  first  Sunday  of  her 
married  life?  Accordingly,  with  an 
effort  she  prepared  herself,  and  set  out 
with  him  in  her  white  gown — forlorn 
enough,  who  can  doubt?  They  had 
not  gone  far  when  it  began  to  rain  ; 
and  taking  advantage  of  this  same 
white  gown  as  a  pretext  for  escap- 
ing from  so  embarrassing  a  visit,  she 
declared  it  impossible  to  go  further. 
1  Very  well/  once  more  said  the  bride- 
groom. '  You  have  an  umbrella.  Go 
back,  by  all  means  ;  but  I  shall  go  on.' 
And  so  he  did  ;  and  though  received, 
as  his  astonished  host  afterwards  re- 
lated, with  exclamations  of  bewilder- 
ment and  consternation,  carelessly  ate 
his  dinner  with  them,  and  spent  the 
rest  of  the  evening  until  his  usual 
hour  with  perfect  equanimity  and  un- 
concern." 

This  curious  story  is  as  much  as 
we  need  give  of  the  record  of  Mrs 
Jameson's  matrimonial  troubles. 
Fortunately  circumstances  as  well 
as  inclination  kept  the  pair  much 
apart ;  and  when,  after  a  cheerless 
visit  paid  by  the  wife  to  the  hus- 
band in  Canada,  and  dreary  attempt 
to  renew  their  relations  on  a  bet- 
ter footing,  which  it  is  to  be  sup- 
posed both  made  conscientiously, 
yet  which  failed  completely,  they 
parted,  he  declaring  that  in  leaving 
him  she  carried  with  her  his  "  most 
perfect  respect  and  esteem."  "  My 
affection  you  will  never  cease  to 
retain,"  he  adds.  The  wife,  on  her 
side,  makes  no  response  to  these 
pretty  sayings,  and  never  seems  to 
hive  assured  him  of  respect  and 
esteem  on  her  part.  His  letters 
are  very  neat,  and  nicely  expressed ; 
while  in  hers  there  is  always  a  sup- 
pressed tone  of  aggrieved  indigna- 


tion. Oddly  enough,  her  friends 
say  that  as  much  love  as  there  was 
between  this  strange  couple  was  011 
the  woman's  side.  However,  they 
parted  with  these  fine  expressions 
of  confidence  twelve  years  after 
their  marriage,  and  saw  each  other 
110  more. 

Mrs  Jameson  returned  after  this 
painful  expedition  to  her  own  fam- 
ily, of  which,  henceforward,  she 
became  the  chief  stay.  Her  hus- 
band gave  her  an  allowance  of 
£300  a-year;  but  very  soon  her 
father's  life  was  threatened  by  par- 
alysis, and  though  he  lived  for 
many  years  longer,  he  was  never 
able  for  work  again.  The  sisters, 
once  making  so  pretty  a  group  in 
their  adoring  submission  to  their 
elder  sister,  were  now,  like  herself, 
growing  into  middle  age.  Two  of 
them  married,  not  in  such  a  way  as 
to  be  of  much  use  to  their  relations ; 
and  the  two  unmarried,  along  with 
the  father  and  mother,  fell  upon 
Anna's  hands.  She  was,  as  we 
have  said,  a  writer  more  elegant 
than  vigorous,  a  workwoman  fastidi- 
ous about  her  work,  and  entirely 
incapable  of  the  precipitation  of 
modern  toil;  but  nevertheless  she 
took  up  this  burden  without  a  mur- 
mur, and  patiently  eked  out  her 
income  with  a  great  deal  of  in- 
dustry, much  grace  and  limpid 
purity  of  style,  and  a  subdued 
sense  of  the  hardship  of  her  posi- 
tion, which  never  for  one  moment 
made  her  falter  in  the  doing  of  this 
affectionate  duty.  She  produced 
another  pretty  book,  in  which  there 
lingers  much  of  the  melancholy  and 
more  or  less  sentimental  charm  of 
the  '  Ennuye"e ' — a  book  about  the 
"Women  of  Shakespeare,  in  which 
there  is  not  indeed  much  profound 
criticism,  but  a  great  deal  of  charm- 
ing writing.  The  "  elegant  female  " 
is  never  quite  absent  from  our 
mind  when  we  glance  over  those 
graceful  discussions;  yet  we  cannot 
help  wondering  whether  the  girls 


1879.] 


Two  D.idies. 


213 


who  read  them  were  not  far  more 
likely  to  become  refined  and  culti- 
vated women,  than  those  who  are 
brought  up  upon  George  Sand  and 
De  Musset,  or  those  who,  like  some 
intelligent  specimens  we  have  lately 
met  with,  pursue  the  "  higher  edu- 
cation of  women  "  through  all  man- 
ner of  lecturings,  without  knowing 
who  Portia  is,  or  that  Beatrice  who 
could  have  eaten  the  heart  in  the 
market-place  of  the  man  who  had 
scorned  her  friend.  Elegant  and 
a  little  artificial  as  they  may  be, 
these  gentle  disquisitions  upon  the 
highest  and  noblest  of  poetical  crea- 
tions, al\va3Ts  pure,  generous,  arid 
lofty  in  their  tone,  are  better  things 
by  far  than  much  that  has  sup- 
planted them.  It  was  still  "  chiefly 
for  my  own  sex "  that  Mrs  Jame- 
son proposed  to  write ;  and  we  think, 
for  our  own  part, — notwithstand- 
ing that  "the  female  figure  seated 
dejectedly  beneath  a  tall  lily-bush  " 
watching  "the  tiny  bark  vanish- 
ing into  a  stormy  distance  "  which 
forms  its  frontispiece,  is,  in  its  con- 
ventional elegance  and  feeble  draw- 
ing, not  uncharacteristic  of  the  liter- 
ary matter  it  prefaces, — that  there  is 
a  healthier  soul  in  its  enthusiasm, 
and  a  far  higher  aim,  than  we  are 
apt  to  meet  with  nowadays.  This 
pretty  book  is,  we  believe,  out  of 
print :  it  deserves  reinvestiture  in 
that  apparel  better  than  many  pro- 
ductions of  much  greater  import- 
ance. "  The  female  figure  under 
the  lily  "  was  a  pretty  compliment 
to  the  young  friend,  Fanny  Kemble, 
to  whom  the  book  was  dedicated, 
and  who  was  then  disappearing  into 
a  very  stormy  distance  indeed — over 
the  misty  Atlantic,  seeking  fortune 
for  her  family  and  herself,  as  Anna 
Jameson,  with  less  eclat  and  much 
less  profit,  was  seeking  a  living  for 
her  dependants  at  home. 

The  story  of  the  struggling  and 
laborious  life  in  which  she  did  this 
is  often  very  pathetic :  it  had  its 
times  of  depression,  its  gleams  of 


better  hope.  Sometimes,  in  her  let- 
ters, she  complains  of  the  want  of 
companionship  to  which  her  life  is 
doomed ;  sometimes,  with  tender 
bravery,  declares  herself  to  have 
"love  and  work  enough  "to  keep 
her  spirit  strong.  Her  family,  more 
or  less,  were  always  dependent  on 
her  •  and  as  if  she  had  not  enough 
to  do  with  the  father  and  mother 
and  sisters,  who  were  none  of  them 
over- prosperous,  the  childless  wo- 
man took  upon  her  the  training 
and  charge  of  one  of  the  two  chil- 
dren who  were  the  sole  representa- 
tives of  the  family  in  the  second 
generation  —  the  little  Gerardine, 
about  whom  all  her  correspondents 
speak  as  of  the  dearest  interest  in 
her  life.  Very  pretty  is  the  picture 
she  herself  gives  of  this  vicarious 
motherhood  : — 

"  I  wish  you  could  see  the  riot  they 
make  on  my  bed  in  the  morning,"  she 
writes,  "  when  Gerardine  talks  of  Rich- 
ard the  First — the  hero  of  her  infantine 
fancy — whose  very  name  makes  her 
blush  with  emotion  ;  and  little  Dolly 
Dumpling  (by  baptism  and  the  grace 
of  God  Camilla  Ottilie)  insists  upon 
reciting  '  Little  Jack  Horner/  who  is 
her  hero.  They  are  my  comfort  and 
delight." 

Yet  there  were  many  times  when 
she  felt  bitterly  enough  those  pri- 
vations of  the  heart  which  all  must 
feel  who  have  no  one  in  the  world 
absolutely  and  by  right  their  own. 

"  In  the  whole  wide  world  I  have 
no  companion,"  she  says,  in  a  very  in- 
teresting and  touching  letter.  "All 
that  I  do,  think,  feel,  plan,  or  endure, 
it  is  alone.  .  .  .  You  think  I  am  not 
religious  enough.  I  fear  you  are  right ; 
for  if  I  were,  God  would  be  to  me  all 
I  want,  replace  all  I  regret  thus  self- 
ishly and  weakl}7",  and  more,  if  to 
believe  and  trust  implicitly  in  the 
goodness  of  God  were  enough  :  but 
apparently  it  is  not ;  and  my  resigna- 
tion is  that  which  I  suppose  a  culprit 
feels  when  irrevocable  sentence  of 
death  is  pronounced — a  submission  to 
bitter  necessity,  which  he  tries  to  ren- 
der dignified  in  appearance,  that  those 


214 


who  love  him  may  not  be  pained  or 
shamed." 

Such  were  the  differing  moods 
of  her  refined  and  sensitive  nature. 
"Do  not  think  that  I  voluntarily 
throw  up  the  game  of  life,"  she 
adds.  And  it  is  very  clear  that 
she  never  was  permitted  to  do  so, 
though  now  and  then  a  fit  of  im- 
patience and  weariness  would  seize 
her,  and  she  would  rush  away  from 
the  little  coterie  at  home  to  the  freer 
air  at  a  distance,  where  her  cares 
might  be  forgotten  for  a  moment, 
and  the  '  daily  evidences  of  them 
be  lost  sight  of.  The  heart -sick- 
ness of  that  perpetual  uphill 
struggle  against  difficulty,  and  the 
strain  of  keeping,  not  her  own 
head  only,  but  so  many  other 
heads  above  water,  can  be  read  be- 
tween the  lines  rather  than  in  full 
revelation — her  very  biographer  be- 
ing, as  she  herself  says,  "  too  near  " 
the  subject  of  her  sketch  to  get  her 
in  just  perspective,  and  too  much 
imbued  with  the  natural  family 
feeling  of  property  in  the  bread- 
winner to  feel  the  full  meaning  of 
the  very  phrases  she  quotes. 

Mrs  Jameson,  however,  was  far 
from  being  lonely,  according  to  the 
superficial  meaning  of  the  word. 
She  exclaims  in  playful  impatience 
that  it  would  be  almost  as  good 
to  have  a  friend  in  heaven  as  in 
America !  yet  she  had  many  very 
warm  friends  in  different  parts  of 
the  globe,  and  had  at  all  times  of 
her  life  a  genius  for  friendship. 
For  the  long  space  of  about  twenty 
years  her  connection  with  Lady 
Byron  was  so  close  as  to  be  half 
resented  by  many  other  friends,  who 
found  her  separated  from  them  by 
the  "absorbing"  and  "engrossing" 
effect  of  this  master  -  friendship. 
And  there  is  a  curious  glimpse 
afforded  us  of  this  strange  woman 
— a  glimpse  which  certainly  does 
not  throw  any  light  more  warm  or 
kindly  upon  the  self-contained  be- 
ing, who  seems  to  have  had  the 


Two  Ladies.  [Feb. 

faculty  of  drawing  her  friends  into 
her  orbit  without  ever  for  a  mo- 
ment deflecting  from  its  rigid  course 
by  any  movement  of  sympathy  or 
self-abandonment  on  her  own  part. 
Mrs  Jameson  was  one  of  those  who 
were  swallowed  up  in  the  absorbing 
and  stifling  atmosphere  of  personal 
influence  which  surrounded  her : 
until  the  moment  came  when  the 
humbler  friend  disturbed  in  some 
mysterious  way  the  self-satisfaction 
of  the  greater,  when  she  was  sud- 
denly cast  forth  into  outer  darkness 
— tossed  to  the  outside  earth  like  a 
fallen  meteor,  and  excluded  from 
all  the  doubtful  advantages  of  the 
connection  which  had  stifled  her 
intercourse  with  less  exacting  as- 
sociates. Mrs  Macpherson  is  dis- 
posed to  be  mysterious  about  this 
breach,  and  speaks  of  it  with  bated 
breath — with  a  sense  of  the  tre- 
mendous importance  of  it  to  her 
aunt,  which  the  reader  will  be  dis- 
posed to  smile  at ;  but  it  is  evident 
that  even  the  rebellious  youthful 
member  of  the  society  overshadowed 
by  Lady  Byron's  presence  could  not 
calmly  contemplate  the  penalty  of 
being  torn  from  her  side,  or  look 
upon  that  severance  in  the  light  of 
ordinary  good  sense.  "  Mrs  Jame- 
son had  become,  partially  by  acci- 
dent, acquainted  with  some  private 
particulars  affecting  a  member  of 
Lady  Byron's  family  which  had  not 
been  revealed  to  Lady  Byron  her- 
self," the  biographer  says,  with 
studied  reticence.  "  When  these 
facts  were  finally  made  known  at 
the  death  of  the  person  chiefly  con- 
cerned, Lady  Byron  became  aware 
at  the  same  time  of  Mrs  Jame- 
son's previous  acquaintance  with 
them ; "  and  the  result  was  a 
breach  which,  she  believes,  short- 
ened her  aunt's  life,  and,  according 
to  her  own  complaint,  "  broke  her 
heart."  Fatal  woman,  whom  even 
to  be  friends  with  was  dangerous  1 
will  the  world,  we  wonder,  ever 
get  a  real  glimpse  under  the  veil  so- 


1879.]  Two  Ladies. 

studiously  draped  round  this  mys- 
terious personage1?  If  they  do  — 
which  is  certainly  not  desirable — 
it  seems  more  than  likely  that  the 
unveiling  would  reveal,  as  in  so 
many  other  cases,  but  a  sorry  idol 
underneath ;  but  there  is  a  certain 
picturesqueness  in  the  figure  in 
shadow,  of  which  we  cannot  dis- 
cover anything  more  than  an  out- 
line. This,  however,  seems  to  have 
been  the  only  quarrel  which  dis- 
turbed Mrs  Jameson's  many  friend- 
ships, and  it  was  a  cruel  blow  to 
her. 

In  1849  she  went  to  Italy,  tak- 
ing with  her  the  child  to  whom 
there  have  been  so  many  references; 
and  there  is  nothing  more  interest- 
ing in  this  very  touching  volume 
than  the  half -remorseful,  modest, 
and  tender  description  of  the  (one 
is  tempted  to  think)  far  more  real 
disappointment  and  heartbreak  in- 
nocently occasioned  by  herself  to 
the -adopted  mother  whose  warmest 
tie  to  life  she  was — which  is  given 
by  Mrs  Jameson's  affectionate  bio- 
grapher after  life  and  experience 
had  opened  her  eyes,  and  showed 
to  her  the  breaking  up  of  hopes 
and  plans  which  her  own  girlish 
romance  had  caused.  Upon  this 
particular  expedition  Mrs  Jameson 
set  out  with  more  pleasure  than 
usual,  and  with  a  much  more  ex- 
tended plan, — the  companionship  of 
the  bright,  sweet,  intelligent,  seven- 
teen-year-old girl  making  everything 
brighter  and  sweeter  to  the  woman 
who  had  hungered  for  something 
that  should  be  her  very  own.  "  My 
first  thought  and  care  must  be  my 
child  for  the  next  year,  or  perhaps 
two  years,"  she  writes,  with  all  the 
happy  importance  of  a  mother, 
proud  to  make  the  most  of  the 
anxiety  which  is  her  happiness; 
"  the  means  of  instruction  and 
improvement  for  her  are  what  I 
seek  first  everywhere;"  and  that 
"  the  masters  are  good "  becomes 
another  attraction  to  Florence,  in 


215 


itself  always  so  attractive  to  a  tra- 
veller of  her  special  tastes  and  stu- 
dies. Her  letters  from  Rome,  when 
she  gets  there,  are  full  of  the  same- 
pleasant  reference.  "  Gerardine  offi- 
ciates very  •  prettily  "  at  the  tea- 
table  when  her  aunt's  friends  drop 
in  of  an  evening;  but  must  not 
go  out  too  often,  "  for  the  little 
head  cannot  stand  it."  Even  her 
own  chosen  friends  take  a  new  as- 
pect to  her  as  seen  in  their  relations- 
to  this  cherished  child.  "  Dear  Mrs- 
Reid"  takes  Gerardine  out  occasion- 
ally :  Madame  von  Goethe  gives  her 
"  a  beautiful  scarf."  A  new  and 
sweet  completeness  is  thus  given  to 
the  elder  woman's  life,  and  old  Rome 
brightens  to  her  in  the  light  of 
the  young  eyes  seeing  them  for  the 
first  time,  and  enjoying  everything 
they  see  with  all  the  enthusiasm  of 
youth.  But  "  in  the  very  moment 
when  Providence  seemed  to  have 
given  to  Mrs  Jameson  a  child  who- 
might  cherish  and  comfort  her  for 
years,  and  make  up  to  her  a  little 
for  the  adversities  of  fate — at  the 
time  when  she  began  to  get  a  little 
real  pleasure  and  aid  from  the  girl 
to  whom  she  had  been  a  second 
mother  all  her  life — another  great 
disappointment  was  already  pre- 
paring for  her." 

"  I  cannot  but  feel  with  a  remorse- 
ful pang,"  Mrs  Macpherson  continues,, 
"  how  bitter  it  must  have  been  to  her 
to  see  the  child  she  had  so  cherished 
desert  her  so  summarily.  It  is  the 
course  of  nature,  as  people  say ;  and  it 
is  only  by  the  teaching  of  years  that 
we  perceive  how  hardly  the  loves  and 
joys  of  our  youth  often  fall  upon  those 
from  whom  the  tide  of  our  own  per- 
sonal life  and  story  carries  us  away. 
Mrs  Jameson,  of  course,  no  more  than 
any  other  in  her  position,  would  will- 
ingly have  kept  her  niece  unmarried,, 
in  order  to  make  of  her  a  permanent 
companion  ;  but  the  speedy  conclu- 
sion of  this  companionship  startled 
her,  and  I  fear  must  be  reckoned 
among  the  disappointments  of  her 
life." 


216 


The  second  modest  personality 
thus  twined  into  the  story  adds  the 
interest  of  a  delicately  -  suggested 
undercurrent  of  life  to  the  chief 
subject — a  tragic  one,  of  which  we 
find  the  ending  recorded  within 
the  same  modest  volume,  which 
tells  all  that  is  to  be  told  of  the 
living  and  dying  of  Anna  Jame- 
son; and  after  this  introduction 
of  the  pretty  young  figure  of  the 
chronicler,  we  think  the  reader 
will  scarcely  be  able  to  glance  at 
the  few  pages  of  the  postscript  in 
which  the  rest  of  her  story  is 
.•summed  up,  without  a  pang  of 
sympathy  and  pity.  There  we  find 
how  hard  was  the  last  chapter  of 
Gerardine's  existence,  after  many 
years  of  not  unprosperous  nor  un- 
happy, yet  far  from  tranquil  or 
«asy,  married  life,  which  followed 
her  union  with  Robert  Macpherson, 
once  a  very  well-known  figure  in 
Eome.  (Peace  be  with  him  where 
he  lies  among  the  crowd  at  San 
Lorenzo — his  jests  and  follies,  his 
quarrels  and  kindnesses,  all  over — 
the  song  gone  from  his  lips,  and 
the  twinkle  from  his  eye ;  the 
kind,  hot-headed,  vapouring,  noisy, 
tender-  hearted  Highland  man,  friend- 
liest and  quarrelsomest  of  men !) 
He  died  in  1873,  leaving  her  pen- 
niless and  overwhelmed  with  debt, 
and  barely  recovered  from  a  severe 
illness,  to  struggle  for  herself  and 
her  children  as  she  best  might. 

"  She  dragged  herself  up  out  of  her 
suffering  with  aching  limbs,  and  heart 
in  which  the  seeds  of  disease  were  al- 
ready sown,  and  faced  her  evil  fortune 
with  the  courage  of  a  hero.  Whatever 
could  be  got  to  do  she  undertook — 
brave,  ready,  cheerful,  unhesitating ; 
iiow  giving  lessons  or  readings  in  Eng- 
lish, now  working  as  an  amanuensis, 
now  compiling  paragraphs  for  the 
newspapers — no  matter  what  it  was  ; 
nor  ever  grudging  the  service  of  the 
night  to  a  sick  friend  or  neighbour 
after  she  had  toiled  from  one  scantily- 
paid,  precarious  occupation  to  another 
all  the  day.  In  the  hot  summer, 


Two  Ladies.  [Feb. 

when  every  body  who  could  escape  the 
dangerous  city  was  out  of  Rome,  she 
took,  on  more  than  one  occasion,  the 
post  of  the  correspondent  of  an  Eng- 
lish newspaper  who  could  a  fiord  to 
find  a  substitute  for  the  deadly  season, 
too  glad  to  have  her  children's  living 
secured  even  for  so  long.  Thus  she 
laboured  on,  though  always  subject  to 
excruciating  attacks  of  rheumatism, 
and  to  the  still  more  alarming  par- 
oxysms of  gradually  increasinglieart- 
disease,  winding  herself  up  for  her 
year's  work  by  a  visit,  when  she  could 
manage  it,  to  the  sulphur-baths  of 
Stigliano,  a  wild  and  primitive  place 
not  far  from  Rome  ;  now  and  then 
nearly  dying,  but  always  struggling 
up  and  to  work  again, — always  bright, 
even  gay — never  less  than  a  delightful, 
vivacious  companion,  an  accomplished 
and  cultivated  woman,  through  all  her 
toils." 

Thus  the  author  of  the  book  we 
have  been  discussing  has  her  me- 
morial along  with  the  subject  of  her 
biography.  The  little  volume  con- 
tains both  their  lives  :  in  their 
death  they  are  not  divided.  Mrs 
Jameson  knew  no  such  passion  of 
toil  and  suffering  as  her  niece  passed 
through.  Her  later  years  were 
spent  in  dignified  and  becoming 
labour  —  spoilt  by  no  hurry,  made 
painful  by  no  over-strain ;  a  hap- 
piness which  was  made  possible  to 
her  by  the  kindness  of  friends,  and 
specially  by  the  zeal  of  Mrs  Proctor, 
a  name  so  well  known  in  literat- 
ure, in  wit,  and  in  friendship.  Mrs 
Jameson  was  able  to  continue  her 
noble  service  to  her  family  to  the 
very  end  of  her  life,  and  her  merits 
secured  for  her  sisters  a  pension 
when  she  died.  The  volumes  of 
1  Sacred  and  Legendary  Art'  have 
not  lost  their  value  or  their  popu- 
larity, notwithstanding  the  much 
more  pretentious  exponents  of  the 
subject  who  have  risen  since  her 
time.  If  her  taste  does  not  con- 
form to  the  latest  canons  of  art- 
criticism,  or  if  the  fashion  of  the 
cognoscenti  has  changed  since  then, 
and  Eaphael  given  place  to  Botti- 


1879.' 


Two  Ladies. 


21 


celli  among  the  highest  authorities, 
that  does  not  affect  the  beauty  of 
her  narratives,  or  the  value  of  the 
delightful  knowledge  of  which  she 
has  been  one  of  the  most  popular 
and  attractive  of  teachers.  We 
know  few  more  charming  books 
than  the  Legends  of  the  Madonna 
and  the  Saints,  with  the  delicate  il- 
lustrations, which,  though  perhaps 
they  too  show  now  and  then  a  little 
feebleness  of  line,  yet  are  full  of 
grace  and  sweetness.  In  some  cor- 
ners of  the  etchings  may  be  seen  a 
tiny  G.  here  and  there,  which  stands 
for  the  young  helper,  the  child,  the 
shadow,  the  biographer,  whose  name 
is  now  joined  to  hers  in  this  last 
and  doubly  close  union  for  ever — 
for  as  long  a  "for  ever"  as  their 
modest  merits  may  win  them  from 
a  forgetful  world. 

Mrs  Fanny  Kemble  comes  before 
us  in  her  own  person,  with  the 
kindly  salutation  of  an  old  friend, 
and  that  pleasant  confidence  in  the 
interest  of  her  readers  which,  when 
there  is  anything  to  justify  it,  is  al- 
ways so  ingratiating.  In  this  case 
there  is  a  great  deal  to  justify  it. 
Not  only  the  position  of  an  old  fav- 
ourite of  the  public,  always  received 
with  pleasure,  and  the  representa- 
tive of  a  family  dear  to  the  arts, 
and  accustomed  to  be  much  in  the 
eye  of  the  world ;  but  her  own 
talent,  bright  intelligence,  and  viva- 
cious power,  have  made  the  famil- 
iar title  of  Fanny  Kemble — a  name 
somewhat  too  familiar  when  the 
possessor  stands  upon  the  bound- 
aries of  old  age — pleasant  to  thou- 
sands :  and  it  is  delightful  to  read 
an  autobiography  which,  though 
containing  plenty  of  difficulty  and 
trouble,  is  yet  concerned  with  the 
brighter  part  of  life,  and  has  no 
doleful  postscript  to  wind  up  its 
pleasant  revelations.  The  book  is 
well  named.  It  is  in  reality  what  it 
professes  to  be — the  Records  of  a  Girl- 
hood— and  embraces  the  training, 


antecedents,  and  brilliant  beginning 
of  professional  life,  which  made  its 
writer  so  well  known  in  England — 
but  little  more.     There  is  therefore 
but  little  dramatic  interest   in  it. 
It  is  a  fragmentary  bit  of  life — the 
story  of  youth  with  its  romance  dis- 
creetly deleted,   and  no  place  left 
in  the  chronicle  for  those  episodes 
which  at  twenty  tell  for  so  much  in 
existence.     But  the  reader  need  not 
fear  that  with  this  sparkling  and 
lively  companion  he  is  likely  to  tire 
of  the  unromantic  pathway  by  which 
she  leads  him.    Youth  can  never  be- 
without  romance ;  there  is  variety, 
hope,  and  infinite  suggestiveness  in 
every  curve  of  the  pleasant  way,  at 
the  turn  of  which  no  one  can  ever 
tell  what  wonderful  new  landscape, 
what  delightful  prospect,  may  not 
open  upon   the  traveller.      And  a 
more  charming  young  woman  it  has 
rarely  been  our  lot  to  meet  than 
the  young  lady  who  tells  all  about 
her  schools  and  her  comrades,  her 
pleasant  home,  her  tender  upbring- 
ing, and  all  the  early  chances  of  her 
life,   with   so   much   sincerity  and 
openness.       The    same    society  in 
which  we  found  ourselves  with  Mrs 
Jameson  is  to  be  met  again  in  these 
pleasant  pages,  but  with  differences. 
Instead  of  the  stern  benevolence  of 
Lady  Byron,  we  have   the  bright 
young  household  of  Lord  Francis 
Egerton,  who  was  also  a  dabbler  in 
ink  and  a'  lover  of  the  artistic  class- 
es ;  and  fine  society  in  general  is 
treated  from  a  lighter  point  of  view, 
and  with  less  perhaps  of  the  proper 
awe  which  we  all  owe  to  that  ele- 
vated portion  of  the  world.     Miss 
Fanny  was  saucy,  as  her  high  pop- 
ularity warranted,  and  could  deal 
with   her  patrons   on   more   equal 
ground   than  was  possible  to   the 
woman  of  letters.     And  it  is  curi- 
ous to  see  how  these  two  ladies  ap- 
pear  in   each   other's  recollections 
under  a  somewhat  different   light 
from  that  in  which  they  are  pre- 
sented to  us  in  their  own.     Mrs- 


218 


Two  Ladies. 


[Feb. 


Jameson's  opinion  of  Fanny  Kem- 
ble  was  very  exalted.  She  consulted 
her  about  her  Shakespeare  book, 
dedicated  it  to  her,  and  comments 
on  her  genius  in  terms  which  seem 
.somewhat  exaggerated  at  this  dis- 
tance— speaking  of  her  "  almost  un- 
equalled gifts,"  and  the  trials  that 
must  await  such  a  spirit ;  and  de- 
scribing one  of  her  plays,  as  regret- 
.  ting  greatly  to  have  heard  only  a 
part  of  it,  which  "was  beautiful, 
.and  affected  me  very  powerfully." 
Mrs  Kenible  does  not  give  the  same 
-superlative  picture  of  her  elder 
friend.  She  has  a  somewhat  care- 
worn air  as  she  appears  and  disap- 
pears in  the  young  actress's  lively 
•records.  "  What  a  burden  she  has 
to  carry  !  I  am  so  sorry  for  her," 
the  girl  says,  who  is  still  free  of 
personal  care  notwithstanding  the 
family  troubles,  in  which  she  takes 
a  sympathetic  part.  "Mrs  Jame- 
son came  and  sat  with  me  some 
time,"  she  says.  ll  We  talked  of 
marriage,  and  a  woman's  chance 
•of  happiness  in  giving  her  life 
into  another's  keeping.  I  said  I 
thought  if  one  did  not  expect  too 
much  one  might  secure  a  reasonably 
fair  amount  of  happiness,  though 
of  course  the  risk  one  ran  was 
immense.  I  never  shall  forget  the 
•expression  of  her  face  ;  it  was  mo- 
mentary, and  passed  away  almost 
immediately,  but  it  has  haunted  me 
•ever  since."  Thus  the  one  shadow 
flits  across  the  other,  in  that  past 
which  is  now  no  more  than  a  tale 
that  is  told. 

Fanny  Kemble  was  the  niece  of 
the  great  Mrs  Siddons  and  of  John 
Kemble,  and  the  daughter  of  Charles 
Kemble,  who  was  also  an  accom- 
plished actor  in  his  day  Her 
mother  was  of  French  origin,  and 
according  to  the  accounts  of  her 
given  in  this  book,  was  a  woman 
of  singularly  beautiful  character  and 
great  acquirements,  especially  dis- 
tinguished by  admirable  theatrical 
taste  and  judgment  She  had  her- 


self been  on  the  stage  in  her  youth, 
but  had  left  it  shortly  after  her 
marriage,  and  distinguished  herself 
by  as  great  a  gift  for  household 
management,  and  the  most  exqui- 
site cookery.  Fanny  was  her  eld- 
est daughter  and  second  surviving 
child,  and  in  her  youth  a  little 
pickle  of  the  most  unmanageable 
description,  out  of  whom  no  satis- 
faction, not  even  that  of  making 
her  suffer  by  the  punishments  that 
were  inflicted  upon  her,  could  be 
had,  the  monkey  being  too  proud 
or  too  light-hearted  to  care.  Her 
account  of  her  schools  and  her  ex- 
periences is  both  pretty  and  amus- 
ing, and  still  more  charming  is  the 
picture  she  presents  of  the  player- 
folk  among  whom  she  was  born 
and  bred.  So  far  as  is  to  be  seen 
from  this  memoir,  no  house  in  Eng- 
land could  have  possessed  a  more 
refined  atmosphere,  or  habits  more 
entirely  worthy,  pure,  and  honest. 
The  fictitious  excitement  in  which 
actors  are  supposed  to  live,  seems 
to  have  had  no  existence  among 
them  ;  the  only  jar  is  the  frequent 
and  alarmed  reference  to  the  great- 
est personage  of  the  kindred,  the 
stately  Mrs  Siddons,  whose  old  age 
Fanny  speaks  of  with  a  certain  horror. 
"  What  a  price  she  has  paid  for  her 
great  celebrity!"  she  cries;  "  weari- 
ness, vacuity,  and  utter  deadness 
of  spirit.  The  cup  has  been  so 
highly  flavoured,  that  life  is  abso- 
lutely without  savour  or  sweetness 
to  her  now — nothing  but  tasteless 
insipidity.  She  has  stood  on  a 
pinnacle  till  all  things  have  come 
to  look  flat  and  dreary,  mere  shape- 
less, colourless  monotony,  to  her." 
This  note  of  alarm  is  the  only  one 
that  breaks  into  the  delightful  and 
respectable  home -life  amid  which 
the  girl  grew  up,  shivering  a  little 
at  sight  of  the  Tragic  Muse,  so 
changed  and  fallen,  but  with  noth- 
ing around  herself  but  the  protec- 
tion and  security  of  a  refined  and 
careful  English  home.  Her  father 


1879.] 


Two  Ladies. 


219 


had  Covent  Garden  on  his  shoul- 
ders, the  costly  undertaking  which 
had  broken  the  heart  and  spirit  of 
other  members  of  his  family,  and 
which  brought  to  him  something 
very  like  ruin ;  but  kept  his  head 
high  against  difficulty  and  discour- 
agement, though  daily  fearing  the 
crash  which,  staved  off  by  one  ex- 
pedient after  another,  and  most  of 
.all  by  his  daughter's  appearance  on 
the  stage  and  great  success  there, 
had  to  come  at  last.  But  there 
,seems  to  have  been  nothing  hugger- 
mugger  or  disorderly  in  the  actor's 
house,  though  this  shadow  was  for 
ever  hanging  over  it,  the  income 
small  and  the  needs  many.  Mrs 
Kemble  says  that  her  father's  in- 
come was  but  eight  hundred  a-year, 
of  which  her  eldest  brother's  ex- 
penses at  the  university  took  away 
about  three  hundred — a  proof  of 
his  anxiety  to  equip  his  son  in  the 
best  way  for  the  struggle  of  life, 
which  is  very  impressive  and  noble. 
Almost,  of  course,  this  expensively 
trained  son  carried  out  none  of  the 
hopes  set  upon  his  head,  but  fol- 
lowed a  specialite  of  his  own  choos- 
ing, and  en  tout  bien  et  tout  lion- 
neur,  gave  his  family  more  anxiety 
than  aid.  But  the  sacrifice  thus 
.made  shows  how  little  the  con- 
ventional idea  of  the  harum-scarum 
existence  of  the  stage,  with  all 
its  excitements  and  supposed  ir- 
regularity, is  to  be  credited.  No 
family  could  be  more  actors  than 
the  Kembles,  and  the  mother  of 
.the  household  had  been  on  the 
stage  from  her  childhood,  brought 
up  amid  all  its  unwholesome  com- 
motions; but  from  the  other  side 
of  the  picture  we  see  nothing  but 
the  most  highly  toned  family  life, 
and  that  heroic  struggle  to  raise 
their  children  a  step  above  their 
own  precarious  level  of  existence, 
and  give  them  the  means  of  ad- 
vancement, which  always  enlists 
the  spectator's  best  feelings  and 
sympathies. 


The  most  interesting  portion  of 
these  recollections  is  that  which 
describes  the  way  in  which  Fanny 
stepped  into  the  breach,  and  did 
her  best  to  prop  up  the  big  theatre 
and  the  family  fortune  on  her  own 
delicate  girlish  shoulders — a  heroic 
act,  though  one  that  did  little  more 
than  postpone  the  evil  day.  She 
was  nineteen  when  the  crisis  which 
had  been  long  approaching  seemed 
at  last  to  have  become  inevitable. 
"  My  mother,  coming  in  from  walk- 
ing one  day,"  she  tells  us,  "  threw 
herself  into  a  chair  and  burst  into 
tears.  .  .  .  .  '  Oh,  it  has  come  at 
last!'  she  answered;  *  our  property 
is  to  be  sold.  I  have  seen  that  fine 
building  all  covered  with  placards 
and  bills  of  sale.  The  theatre  must 
be  closed,  and  I  know  not  how 
many  poor  people  will  be  turned 
adrift  without  employment.' "  This 
bad  news  filled  the  anxious  and 
sympathetic  girl  with  distress.  She 
begged  to  be  allowed  to  write  to 
her  father,  to  ask  his  permission  to 
"  seek  employment  as  a  governess, 
so  as  to  relieve  him,  at  once,  at  least 
of  the  burden  of  my  maintenance." 
To  this  forlorn  plan — the  natural 
first  idea  of  a  generous  girl  longing 
to  help  somehow,  and  snatching  at 
the  first  melancholy  helpless  way 
of  doing  so  that  presented  itself  to 
her  mind — the  mother  gave  an  am- 
biguous answer ;  but  next  day  sud- 
denly spoke  of  the  stage,  and  sug- 
gested that  Fanny  should  study  a 
part  out  of  Shakespeare,  and  recite 
it  to  her.  The  girl  chose  Portia — a 
character  of  which  she  speaks  with 
unfailing  enthusiasm;  but  on  her 
recitation  of  this  her  mother  made 
little  comment.  She  said,  "  There 
is  hardly  passion  enough  in  this 
part  to  test  any  tragic  power.  I 
wish  you  would  study  Juliet  for 
me."  When  Mr  Kemble,  who  had 
been  absent,  returned,  the  little 
performance  was  repeated,  "  with 
indescribable  trepidation"  on  the 
part  of  the  novice. 


220 


Two  Ladies. 


[Feb. 


"  They  neither  of  them  said  any- 
thing beyond  'Very  well,  very  nice, 
dear,'  with  many  kisses  and  caress- 


my 


es,  from  which  I  escaped  to  sit  down 
on  the  stairs  half-way  between  the 
drawing-room  and  my  bedroom,  and 
get  rid  of  the  repressed  nervous  fear 
I  had  struggled  with  while  reciting,  in 
Hoods  of  tears.  A  few  days  after  this 
my  father  told  me  he  wished  to  take 
me  to  the  theatre  with  him,  to  try 
whether  my  voice  was  of  sufficient 
strength  to  fill  the  building  ;  so  thither 
I  went.  That  strange-looking  place 
the  stage,  with  its  rocks  of  pasteboard 
and  canvas,  streets,  forests,  banqueting- 
halls,  and  dungeons,  drawn  apart  on 
either  side,  was  empty  and  silent ;  not 
a  soul  was  stirring  in  the  indistinct 
recesses  of  its  mysterious  depths,  which 
seemed  to  stretch  indefinitely  behind 
me.  In  front  the  grey  amphitheatre, 
equally  empty  and  silent,  wrapped  in 
its  grey  Holland  covers,  would  have 
been  absolutely  dark  but  for  a  long, 
sharp,  thin  shaft  of  light  that  darted 
here  and  there  from  some  height  and 
distance  far  above  me,  and  alighted  in 
a  sudden  vivid  spot  of  brightness  on 
the  stage.  Set  down  in  the  midst  of 
twilight  space,  as  it  were,  with  only 
my  father's  voice  coining  to  me  from 
where  he  stood,  hardly  distinguishable 
in  the  gloom,  in  those  poetical  utter- 
ances of  pathetic  passion,  I  was  seized 
by  the  spirit  of  the  thing ;  my  voice 
resounded  through  the  great  vault 
above  and  before  me,  and,  completely 
carried  away  by  the  inspiration  of  the 
wonderful  play,  I  acted  Juliet  as  I  do 
not  believe  I  ever  acted  it  again,  for  I 
had  no  visible  Eomeo,  and  no  audience 
to  thwart  my  imagination — at  least  I 
had  no  consciousness  of  one,  though 
in  truth  I  had  one.  In  the  back  of 
one  of  the  private  boxes,  commanding 
the  stage,  but  perfectly  invisible  to  me, 
sat  an  old  and  warmly-attached  friend 

of  my  father's,  Major  D, .     .     . 

the  best  judge,  in  many  respects,  that 
my  father  could  have  selected  of  my 
capacity  for  my  profession,  and  my 
chance  of  succeeding  in  it.  Not  till 
after  the  event  had  justified  my  kind 
old  friend's  prophecy  did  I  know  that 
lie  had  witnessed  that  morning's  per- 
formance, and  joining  my  father  at  the 
end  of  it  had  said,  '  Bring  her  out  at 
once  ;  it  will  be  a  great  success.7  And 
so  three  weeks  from  that  time  I  was 


brought  out,  and  it  was  a  great  suc- 
cess." 

Thus  Fanny  Kemble's  fate  was 
decided.  Girls  are  often  enough 
helpless  in  a  domestic  catastrophe  ; 
but  that  there  are  frequent  occa- 
sions in  which  the  loyal  and  duti- 
ful daughter  is  the  mainstay  and 
saviour  of  the  falling  house,  is  not 
a  fact  that  requires  proof  from  us. 
Among  the  artist-classes  it  is  more 
general  than  in  any  other — simply, 
we  suppose,  because  it  is  art  alone 
which  (more  or  less)  equalises  the 
value  of  labour  without  respect  of 
sex  or  circumstance.  Miss  Kemble 
had  no  enthusiasm  for  the  work  she 
thus  undertook.  On  the  contrary, 
she  seems  to  have  disliked  and  dis- 
approved of  it  throughout  her  ca- 
reer. "  At  four  different  periods  of 
my  life,"  she  says,  "  I  have  been 
constrained  by  circumstances  to 
maintain  myself  by  the  exercise  of 
my  dramatic  faculty;  .  .  .  but 
though  I  have  never,  I  trust,  been 
ungrateful  for  the  power  of  thus 
helping  myself  and  other?,  .  .  . 
though  I  have  never  lost  one  iota 
of  intense  delight  in  the  art  of  ren- 
dering Shakespeare's  creations ;  yet 
neither  have  I  ever  presented  myself 
before  an  audience  without  a  shrink- 
ing feeling  of  reluctance,  or  with- 
drawn from  their  presence  without 
thinking  the  excitement  I  had  un- 
dergone unhealthy,  and  the  exhibi- 
tion odious."  Elsewhere  she  speaks 
of  her  trade  as  "  an  avocation  which 
I  never  either  liked  or  honoured. " 
Macready  entered  upon  the  profes- 
sion in  the  same  way,  but  at  a  still 
earlier  age,  and  in  a  manner  more 
matter  of  fact. 

The  moment  the  decision  was 
made,  every  arrangement  was  hur- 
ried on  to  "  bring  her  out  at  once," 
as  necessity  and  policy  both  seemed 
to  require.  She  had  everything  to- 
learn,  and,  according  to  her  own 
account,  learned  not  very  much. 
"  I  do  not  wonder,"  Mrs  Kemble 


1879.]  Two  Ladles. 

says,  "  when  I  remember  this  brief 
apprenticeship  to  my  profession, 
that  Mr  Macready  once  said  that  I 
did  not  know  the  elements  of  it." 
But  though  she  does  not  wonder  at 
this  severe  verdict,  it  is  evident 
that  she  felt  it  painfully,  since  she 
Teturns  again  and  again  to  the  sen- 
tence thus  passed  upon  her.  Her 
own  description  of  her  system  of 
acting  shows  exactly  how  Mr  Mac- 
ready,  who  was  nothing  if  not  pro- 
fessional, and  whose  art  was  learned 
and  elaborate,  should  have  given 
forth  such  an  opinion.  She  tells 
us  that  her  acting  varied,  so  that 
probably  no  two  renderings  were 
exactly  the  same.  "My  perform- 
ances," she  writes,  "  were  always 
uneven  in  themselves,  and  perfect- 
ly unequal  with  each  other ;  never 
complete  as  a  whole,  however  strik- 
ing in  occasional  parts,  and  never 
•at  the  same  level  two  nights  to- 
gether,— depending  for  their  effect 
upon  the  state  of  my  health  and 
spirits,  instead  of  being  the  result 
•of  deliberate  thought  and  considera- 
tion— study,  in  short,  carefully  and 
conscientiously  applied  to  my  work." 
The  result  was,  that  all  her  higher 
successes  were  gained,  not  by  cal- 
culation, but  by  the  sudden  access 
of  excitement  or  feeling  which  made 
her  one  with  the  character  she  rep- 
resented, filling  her  with  the  di- 
Tine  intoxication  of  poetry — an  in- 
fluence not  to  be  secured  at  will. 
This  impulsive  kind  of  acting  would 
be  likely,  we  should  imagine,  to 
have,  in  its  moments  of  power,  a 
greater  effect  than  any  other ;  but 
though  magnificent,  it  is  not  Art. 
In  the  meantime,  however,  she  has 
not  yet  made  her  debut,  the  story 
of  which  is  very  pretty  too. 

"  My  mother,  who  had  left  the  stage 
for  upwards  of  twenty  years,  deter- 
mined to  return  to  it  on  the  night  of 
my  first  appearance,  and  that  I  might 
have  the  comfort  and  support  of  her 
presence  in  my  trial.  We  drove  to  the 

VOL.  CXXV. — NO.  DCCLX. 


221 


theatre  very  early  indeed,  while  the 
late  autumn  sunlight  yet  lingered  in 
the  sky.  It  shone  into  the  carriage 
upon  me ;  and  as  I  screened  my  eyes 
from  it  my  mother  said,  '  Heaven 
smiles  on  you,  my  child!'  My  poor 
mother  went  to  her  dressing-room  to 
get  herself  ready,  and  did  not  return 
to  me,  for  fear  of  increasing  my  agita- 
tion by  her  own.  My  dear  aunt  Dall 
and  my  maid  and  the  theatre  dresser 
performed  my  toilet  for  me,  and  at 
-length  I  was  placed  in  a  chair  with 
my  satin  train  laid  carefully  over  the 
back  of  it ;  and  there  I  sat  ready  for 
execution,  with  the  palms  of  my  hands 
pressed  convulsively  together,  and  the 
tears  I  in  vain  endeavoured  to  repress 
welling  up  into  my  eyes  and  brimming 
slowly  over  down  rny  rouged  cheeks  ; 
upon  which  my  aunt,  with  a  smile  full 
of  pity,  renewed  the  colour  as  often 
as  those  heavy  drops  made  unsightly 
streaks  in  it.  Once  and  again  my 
father  came  to  the  door,  and  I  heard 
his  anxious  (  How  is  she?' — to  which 
my  aunt  answered,  sending  him  away 
with  words  of  comforting  cheer.  At 
last,  '  Miss  Keinble  called  for  the 
stage,  ma'am,'  accompanied  by  a  brisk 
tap  at  the  door,  started  me  upright  on 
my  feet,  and  I  was  led  round  to  the 
side -scene  opposite  to  the  one  from 
which  I  saw*  my  mother  advance  on 
the  stage ;  and  while  the  uproar  of  her 
reception  filled  me  with  terror,  dear 
old  Mrs  Davenport,  my  Nurse,  and 
dear  old  Mr  Keeley,  her  Peter,  and 
half  the  dramatis  personce  of  the  play 
(but  not  my  father,  who  had  retreated, 
quite  unable  to  endure  the  scene) 
stood  round  me  as  I  lay  all  but  in- 
sensible in  my  aunt's  arms.  '  Courage, 
courage,  clear  child  !  Poor  thing,  poor 
thing!'  reiterated  Mrs  Davenport. 
*  Never  mind  'em,  Miss  Kemble/ 
urged  Keeley,  in  that  irresistibly  com- 
ical, nervous,  lachrymose  voice  of  his, 
which  I  have  never  since  heard  with- 
out a  thrill  of  any  thing  but  comical  asso- 
ciations. '  Never  mind  'em!  don't  think 
of  'em  any  more  than  if  they  were 
so  many  rows  of  cabbages.'  '  Nurse ! ' 
called  my  mother,  and  on  waddled  Mrs 
Davenport,  and  turning  back,  called  in 
her  turn  '  Juliet !'  My  aunt  gave  me 
an  impulse  forward,  and  I  ran  straight 
across  the  stage,  stunned  with  the  tre- 
mendous shout  that  greeted  me;  my 
p 


222 


Two  Ladies. 


[Feb. 


eyes  covered  with  mist,  and  the  green 
baize  flooring  of  the  stage  feeling  as  if 
it  rose  up  against  my  ieet :  but  I  got 
hold  of  my  mother,  and  stood  like  a 
terrified  creature  at  bay,  confronting 
the  huge  theatre  full  of  gazing  human 
beings.  I  do  not  think  a  word  I 
uttered  during  this  scene  could  have 
been  audible ;  in  the  next — the  ball- 
room— I  began  to  forget  myself;  in 
the  following  one — the  balcony  scene — 
I  had  done  so,  and  for  aught  I  knew, 
was  Juliet,  the  passion  I  was  uttering 
sending  hot  waves  of  blushes  all  over 
my  neck  and  shoulders,  while  the 
poetry  sounded  to  me  like  music  while 
I  spoke  it,  with  no  consciousness  of 
anything  before  me,  utterly  transported 
into  the  imaginary  existence  of  the 
play.  After  this  I  did  not  return 
into  myself  till  all  was  over ;  and  amid 
a  tumultuous  storm  of  applause,  con- 
gratulation, tears,  embraces,  and  a  gen- 
eral joyous  explosion  of  unutterable 
relief  at  the  fortunate  termination  of 
my  attempt,  we  went  home." 

She  was  still  not  twenty  when  she 
thus  entered  the  stormy  ways  of  life, 
and  the  simplicity  of  the  girlish 
heroine  could  scarcely  be  better 
shown  than  by  the  incident  that 
followed.  "I  sat  down  to  supper 
that  night  with  my  poor  rejoicing 
parents,  well  content,  God  knows, 
with  the  issue  of  my  trial,  and  still 
better  pleased  with,  a  lovely  little 
Geneva  watch,  the  first  I  had  ever 
possessed,  all  encrusted  with  gold- 
work  and  jewels,  which  my  father 
laid  by  my  plate,  and  I  immediate- 
ly christened  Romeo,  and  went,  a 
blissful  girl,  to  sleep  with  it  under 
my  pillow."  This  pretty  piece  of 
childishness  touches  the  reader's 
heart  for  the  impassioned  Juliet 
who  was  so  easily  made  happy. 
Her  life  became  a  fairy  life  after 
this  for  a  time,  and  she  got  every- 
thing that  girl  could  desire,  with  a 
pleasant  natural  girlish  unconsci- 
ousness that  it  was  her  own  earn- 
ings which  procured  these  advan- 
tages, and  total  absence  of  all  self- 
assertion  and  independence.  Oh, 
H "she  cries,  "I  am  exceed- 


ingly happy  !  et  pour  pen  de  chose, 
you  will  perhaps  think  :  my  father 
has  given  me  leave  to  have  riding- 
lessons."  Besides  this  wonderful 
delight  (and  it  was  a  genuine  de- 
light to  her,  as  she  became  an 
admirable  horsewoman)  the  happy 
difference  between  poverty  and  com- 
parative wealth  made  itself  instant- 
ly felt.  She  who  had  enjoyed  the 
revenue  of  "  twenty  pounds  a-year,. 
which  my  poor  father  squeezed  out 
of  his  hard-earned  income  for  my 
allowance,"  had  now  gloves  and 
shoes  in  abundance;  fashionably- 
made  dresses,  instead  of  "  faded,, 
threadbare,  and  dyed  frocks;"  and 
all  the  adulation  of  success  and  the 
flattery  of  society,  to  boot.  And  it 
is  easy  to  imagine  her  happiness 
when,  knowing  so  well,  as  she  did, 
what  the  needs  of  the  household 
were,  she  presented  herself,  on  the 
first  Saturday  after  her  beginning, 
"  for  the  first  and  last  time,  at  the 
treasury  of  the  theatre,"  to  receive 
her  salary,  "  and  carried  it  clinking 
to  my  mother ;  the  first  money  I 
ever  earned." 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  delightful 
success  and  triumph,  which  seems 
to  have  been  absolutely  free  from 
any  of  those  drawbacks  of  publicity 
which,  we  are  told  surround  a  young 
woman  on  the  stage — but  who  could 
venture  to  offend,  even  by  too  much 
admiration,  Charles  Kemble's  care- 
fully-guarded daughter,  who  was 
no  less  sedulously  watched  over 
than  a  princess  ? — there  was  still  one 
death's-head  which  the  young  debu- 
tante seems  always  to  have  beheld 
before  her,  the  most  solemn  of  warn- 
ings. She  had  heard  of  the  "  moral 
dangers"  of  the  life  upon  which 
she  had  entered,  without  apparent- 
ly understanding  very  clearly  what 
these  dangers  were ;  "  but  the  vapid 
vacuity  of  the  last  years  of  my  aunt 
Siddons's  life  had  made  a  profound 
impression  upon  me — her  apparent 
deadness  and  indifference  to  every- 
thing, which  I  attributed  (unjustly, 


1879.]  Two  Ladies. 

perhaps)  less  to  her  advanced  age 
and  impaired  powers,  than  to  what 
I  supposed  the  withering  and  dry- 
ing influence  of  the  over-stimulating 
atmosphere  of  emotion,  excitement, 
and  admiration  in  which  she  had 
passed  her  life."  This  delicate  mo- 
ral peril  is  not  what  we  generally 
think  of  when  we  speak  of  the  dan- 
ger of  the  stage;  but  the  young 
actress,  member  of  a  family  "  to 
whom,  of  course,"  she  says  with 
spirit,  "  the  idea  that  actors  and 
actresses  could  not  be  respectable 
people  did  not  occur  " — feeling  no 
alarm  for  the  risks  she  knew  nothing 
of,  yet  thought  of  this  with  a  shud- 
der, asking  to  be  preserved  from  it 
when  she  said  her  daily  prayers. 

The  young  performer  remained 
the  chief  attraction  of  Covent  Gar- 
den for  a  considerable  time;  and 
her  theatrical  life  is  perhaps  more 
piquant,  as  being  much  less  com- 
mon, than  her  society  life,  which 
•was  brilliant  and  pleasant,  with- 
out containing  much  that  is  differ- 
ent from  other  people's  experience. 
There  is,  however,  always  an  inter- 
est in  knowing  something  of  that 
dingy  world  behind  the  scenes 
where  ordinary  human  creatures 
are  changed  into  dazzling  heroes 
and  heroines ;  and  where  the  feet, 
especially  of  the  young,  are  sur- 
rounded by  so  many  snares.  But 
Fanny  Kemble's  life  behind  the 
scenes  seems  to  have  been  much 
like  her  life  at  home.  She  was 
taken  to  the  theatre  by  one  of  her 
family,  "  and  there  in  my  dressing- 
room  sat  through  the  entire  play, 
when  I  was  not  on  the  stage,  with 
some  piece  of  tapestry  or  needle- 
work, with  which,  during  the  in- 
tervals of  my  tragic  sorrows,  I 
busied  my  ringers."  The  green- 
room, with  all  its  intrigues  and 
commotions,  was  as  much  a  mystery 
'to  her  as  to  the  girls  who  stay  at 
home.  "  When  1  was  called  for 
the  stage,  my  aunt  came  with  me, 
carrying  my  train.  .  .  .  She  re- 


223 


mained  at  the  side-scene  till  I  came 
off  again,  and  folding  a  shawl  round 
me,  escorted  me  back  to  my  dressing- 
room  and  my  tapestry."  This  seclu- 
sion of  the  brilliant  heroine,  the 
cynosure  of  all  eyes,  between  the 
intervals  of  public  applause — her 
Berlin-wool  and  her  careful  aunt, 
the  mixture  of  the  cloister  or  the 
domestic  parlour  (perhaps  a  still 
completer  image  of  sobriety  and 
dulness)  with  the  overwhelming 
excitement  and  illusion  of  the 
theatre  —  is  wonderfully  amusing 
and  original.  And  the  criticism 
to  which  the  young  actress  was 
subjected  is  equally  interesting. 
She  does  not  tell  us,  like  Mac- 
ready,  of  any  tremblings  of  anxiety 
about  the  newspaper  criticism  of 
the  morning.  A  pair  of  anxious 
eyes,  more  alarming  than  those  of 
any  critic,  watched  her  every  move- 
ment; and  this  was  the  tribunal 
before  which  she  trembled. 

"I  played  Juliet  upwards  of  a 
hundred  and  twenty  times  running,, 
with  all  the  irregularity  and  nn- 
evenness  and  immature  inequality  of 
which  I  have  spoken  as  characteris- 
tics which  were  never  corrected  in  my 
performances.  My  mother,  who  neves' 
missed  one  of  them,  would  sometimes- 
come  down  from  her  box,  and  fold- 
ing me  in  her  arms,  say  only  the 
very  satisfactory  words, '  Beautiful,  my 
clear  ! '  Quite  as  often,  if  not  often er, 
the  verdict  was,  '  My  clear,  your  per- 
formance was  not  fit  to  be  seen.  I 
don't  know  how  you  ever  contrived 
to  do  the  part  decently  ;  it  must  have 
been  by  some  knack  or  trick,  which  you 
appear  to  have  entirely  lost  the  secret 
of :  you  had  better  give  the  whole 
thing  up  at  once  than  go  on  doing  it 
so  disgracefully  ill.'  This  was  awful, 
and  made  my  heart  sink  down  into 
my  shoes,  whatever  might  have  been 
the  fervour  of  applause  with  which 
the  audience  had  greeted  my  perform- 
ance." 

It  is  one  of  the  advantages  of 
autobiography  that  it  often  reveals 
quite  unawares,  often  more  clearly 
than  the  principal  figure,  some  other, 


perhaps  more  remarkable,  human 
creature,  whom  no  adventitious  il- 
lumination of  genius  in  his  or  her 
own  person  had  withdrawn  from 
the  obscurity  of  common  life.  This 
Mrs  Fanny  Kemble  does  for  her 
mother,  whose  severe  discipline 
sometimes  draws  from  her  the 
ghost  of  a  complaint,  but  whose 
admirable  mind  and  character  she 
has  set  forth  with  rare  and  un- 
conscious power.  Her  father  was 
perhaps  the  best  beloved  of  her 
parents,  and  his  is  a  name  already 
known  to  the  public;  but  it  is  with 
much  inferior  force  that  he  stands 
out  in  the  early  record  of  his 
daughter's  experiences.  Her  mother 
was  evidently  her  chief  instructor, 
and  her  most  important  critic,  the 
most  influential  agent  in  her  life. 

There  are  many  other  very  inter- 
esting sketches  in  the  book — as,  for 
instance,  that  of  Sir  Thomas  Law- 
rence, the  sentimental  painter,  who 
nearly  turned  young  Fanny's  head, 
and  who  had  brought  confusion 
before  her  time  into  the  house  of 
her  aunt  Siddons,  two  of  whose 
daughters  he  had  loved  in  bewilder- 
ing succession,  though  without  (since 
Death  was  beforehand  with  him) 
marrying  either.  His  gallantry  and 
his  enthusiasm  and  his  woes  make 
up  a  curious  little  sketch  which 
will  be  new  to  many  readers.  While 
her  mother  watched  her  perform- 
ance with  such  jealous  eyes,  and  de- 
livered such  uncompromising  judg- 
ments at  night,  Lawrence  sent  her 
long  letters  in  the  morning,  going 
over  every  point  with  minute  criti- 
cism. Surely  never  was  girl  of 
genius  so  carefully  watched  over. 
Meanwhile  the  lively  girl  acted  of 
nights,  and  lived  an  easy  girlish 
life  at  home  during  the  day,  going 
to  every  dance  she  could  get  a 
chance  of,  becoming  a  bold  and 
fine  rider,  reading  good  books  — 
Blunt's  '  Scripture  Characters,'  and 
suchlike — and  writing  long  letters 


Two  Ladies.  [Feb. 

about  everything  to  one  beloved 
and  constant  friend.  We  are  bound 
to  add  that  young  Miss  Fanny 
Kemble  at  twenty  does  not  write 
with  half  so  much  spirit  and  vi- 
vacity as  does  Mrs  Fanny  Kemble 
nearly  fifty  years  after.  The 
letters  are  not  only  less  interest- 
ing, but  much  less  youthful  and 
bright  at  the  earlier  date — which 
is  a  curious  effect  enough :  though 
perhaps,  when  one  comes  to  think 
of  it,  not  an  unnatural  one :  for 
there  is  nothing  so  solemn,  so  con- 
scientious, so  oppressed  by  a  sense 
of  its  own  importance  and  respon- 
sibilities (when  it  happens  to  take 
that  turn),  as  youth. 

We  have  made  no  reference  to 
the  literary  efforts  in  which  the 
clever  girl,  up  to  the  moment  of  her 
debut,  considered  her  chances  of 
fame  to  lie — the  tragedies,  one  of 
which  Mrs  Jameson  thought  beauti- 
ful, and  which  affected  that  graceful 
critic  so  powerfully.  Mr  Murray 
gave  her  four  hundred  pounds  for 
the  copyright  of  one  of  these 
dramas — Francis  I.,  which,  we  are 
obliged  to  confess,  we  never  heard 
of,  but  which  enabled  her  to  buy, 
she  tells  us,  a  commission  for  her 
brother,  which  was  an  admirably 
good  raison  d'etre  for  any  drama. 

It  is  time,  however,  to  come  to 
an  end,  for  Mrs  Kemble's  book  is 
almost  inexhaustible,  and  might 
keep  us  occupied  for  the  rest  of  the 
number.  It  is  an  entirely  pleasant 
book,  full  of  many  bright  pictures, 
and  no  bitterness — introducing  us 
to  a  number  of  notable  people,  but 
throwing  no  dart  of  deadly  scandal 
either  at  the  living  or  the  dead. 
In  this  way  "an  old  woman's 
gossip  " — which  was,  we  believe, 
the  name  under  which  most  of  the 
work  was  originally  published  in  an 
American  contemporary — will  bear 
a  very  favourable  comparison  with 
other:  recent  works  of  extended 
popularity. 


1879.] 


Contemporary  Literature. 


225 


CONTEMPORARY  LITERATURE. 


III.    MAGAZINE-WRITERS. 


THE  simplest  autobiographical 
sketch  is  always  a  delicate  matter, 
since  enemies  and  charitable  friends 
alike  are  sure  to  find  something  to 
take  exception  to.  They  are  severe 
on  the  score  of  good  taste,  and 
receive  with  suspicion  and  distrust 
anything  that  sounds  like  self- 
laudation.  At  the  same  time  a 
piece  of  frank  autobiography  must 
in  any  case  possess  exceptional  in- 
terest. There  are  personal  confiden- 
ces which  can  hardly  come  within 
the  reach  of  the  most  intelligent 
and  indefatigable  author  of  memoirs; 
while  the  public  are  always  in  the 
kindly  expectation  that  vanity  and 
excessive  self-esteem  may  get  the 
better  of  you,  and  gratify  their  legiti- 
mate curiosity  in  a  fashion  you 
never  contemplated.  But  in  writ- 
ing of  magazines  and  magazine- 
contributors,  it  is  an  absolute  neces- 
sity that  we  should  become  autobio- 
graphical— may  we  add,  that  it  is 
a  pride  and  a  pleasure  as  well1? 
For  'Maga'  was  beyond  dispute 
the  parent  and  the  model  of  the 
modern  magazine ;  and  the  idea 
then  originated  has  proved  so  hap- 
pily successful  that  she  has  had  a 
most  miscellaneous  family  of  pro- 
mising imitators,  and  has  founded 
a  school  of  extraordinary  popular 
literature.  We  have  no  wish  to 
indulge  in  self-glorification,  and  we 
may  leave  the  contents  of  the  124 
volumes  to  speak  for  themselves. 
But  we  may  say  that  the  form 
which  the  Magazine  quickly  as- 
sumed has  never  been  improved 
upon  or  materially  altered ;  and  it 
seems  to  us  that  there  could  hardly 
be  a  more  conclusive  tribute  to  the 
intelligence  and  experience  which 
planned  it.  In  modestly  taking 


credit  for  the  position  the  Magazine 
has  made  for  itself,  and  for  the  vol- 
umes it  has  contributed  to  contem- 
porary literature,  we  need  make  the 
panegyric  of  no  individual  in  par- 
ticular. We  merely  pass  in  review 
the  corps  of  writers  which  has  in- 
variably found  its  recruits  among  the 
brilliant  talent  of  the  day — talent 
which  in  very  many  instances  we 
can  congratulate  ourselves  on  hav- 
ing been  the  first  to  recognise.  On  a 
dispassionate  retrospect,  we  see  little 
reason  to  believe  that  there  have 
been  visible  fluctuations  in  the 
quality  of  the  Magazine,  although, 
it  necessarily  gained  in  vigour  and 
repute  in  its  riper  maturity  with 
extending  connections.  And  we 
can  show  at  least  that  its  pages 
have  always  been  the  reflection  of 
the  literary  genius  and  lustre  of  the 
times. 

The  Magazine  found  the  field  free 
when  it  was  planted,  and  circum- 
stances were  eminently  propitious. 
In  1817  there  had  been  a  general 
revival,  or  rather  a  genesis,  of  taste 
— a  stirring  of  literary  intelligence 
and  activity.  The  newly  -  born 
Quarterlies  were  no  doubt  the 
precursors  of  the  Magazine ;  but 
from  the  first  it  asserted  its  in- 
dividuality, striking  out  a  line 
of  its  own.  Its  monthly  publica- 
tion gave  an  advantage  in  many 
ways.  It  threw  itself  as  earn- 
estly into  party  fight,  and  ex- 
pressed itself  equally  on  the  gravest 
questions  of  political  and  social 
importance.  But  it  could  touch, 
them  more  quickly  and  lightly, 
though  none  the  less  forcibly.  In 
political  warfare,  as  in  the  fencing- 
room  or  on  the  ground,  flexibility 
of  attack  and  defence  goes  for  much. 


226 


Contemporary  Literature  : 


[Feb. 


When  the  strife  is  animated  and 
the  blood  is  hot,  it  is  everything  to 
recover  yourself  rapidly  for  point 
or  for  parry.  The  political  con- 
tributors to  'Maga'  came  to  the 
front  at  once,  and  if  they  thrust 
home  and  hard,  they  fought  fairly. 
They  seemed  to  have  hit  off  the 
happy  mean  between  those  articles 
of  the  newspaper  press  that  were 
inevitably  more  or  less  hastily  con- 
ceived, and  the  elaborately-reasoned 
lucubrations  of  the  quarterly  period- 
icals, which  took  more  or  less  the 
form  of  the  pamphlet.  Or  to 
change  the  metaphor,  those  flying 
field-batteries  of  theirs  did  excellent 
execution  between  the  heavy  guns 
of  position  and  the  rolling  mus- 
ketry -  fire  of  the  rank  and  file ; 
and  'Blackwood'  from,  the  first 
won  the  political  influence  which 
it  has  since  been  its  purpose  and 
ambition  to  maintain. 

But  it  is  not  exclusively  or  even 
chiefly  on  its  political  articles  that  it 
has  the  right  to  rest  its  reputation. 
Perhaps  its  most  cherished  tradi- 
tions are  more  closely  associated 
with  the  belles  lettres.  In  1817 
the  public  taste  had  been  educated 
with  marvellous  rapidity  to  the  con- 
sciousness of  new  wants  and  to  long- 
ings for  intellectual  luxuries.  Never 
had  name  been  more  happily  be- 
stowed than  that  of  the  "  Wizard 
of  the  North  "  on  Sir  Walter  Scott. 
His  genius,  and  the  fresh  vraisem- 
Uance  of  his  romance — intensely 
patriotic  yet  most  catholic  and  cos- 
mopolitan— had  been  working  like 
spells  on  the  intelligence  of  his 
countrymen.  Thenceforth  there 
were  to  be  open  markets  for  the 
delicate  productions  of  the  brain  ; 
and  men  of  culture  and  fancy,  if 
they  satisfied  the  popular  taste, 
could  count  upon  admirers  and  on 
generous  appreciation.  There  were 
currents  of  simpler  and  more  natural 
feeling;  everybody  had  unconscious- 
ly become  something  of  a  critic — 


knowing,  at  all  events,  what  pleased 
themselves.  Writers  were  en  rapport 
with  a  very  different  class  of  read- 
ers from  those  who  had  gone  into 
modulated  raptures  over  the  pol- 
ished formality  of '  Sir  Charles  Gran- 
dison,'  and  had  been  charmed  with 
the  philosophical  melody  of  Pope. 
The  springs  of  the  new  impulse 
were  in  Scotland.  Scott  had  famil- 
iarised his  countrymen  with  those 
graphic  pictures  of  homely  scenery, 
with  those  vivid  sketches  of  local 
character,  of  which  everybody 
acknowledged  the  truth  and  the 
feeling.  Their  instincts,  with  the 
training  he  had  given  them,  had 
come  to  reject  the  artificial  for  the 
real.  People  who  had  been  wel- 
comed to  the  hospitality  of  the 
baronial  tower  of  Tullyveolan ;  who 
had  been  brought  face  to  face  with 
the  smugglers  of  the  Sol  way  and 
the  stalwart  sheep-farmers  of  Lid- 
desdale ;  who  had  laughed  with 
the  learned  Pleydell  in  his  "  high- 
jinks"  at  Clerihugh's,  and  looked  in 
on  the  rough  plenty  of  the  cottage- 
interior  of  the  Mucklebackets, — 
could  no  longer  be  contented  with 
false  or  fantastic  pictures  of  habits 
of  existence  which  lay  beyond  their 
spheres.  There  was  a  demand,  we 
repeat,  for  the  subordination  of  the 
ideal  to  the  actual  —  a  demand 
which  must  gain  in  strength  with 
its  gratification — 'and  the  origina- 
tors of  the  Magazine  proposed  to 
satisfy  it. 

In  one  sense,  as  we  have  already 
remarked,  the  contributions  were 
lighter  than  those  in  the  Quarter- 
lies. The  latter  asserted  their 
raison  d'etre,  as  against  the  more 
ephemeral  productions  of  the  press, 
on  the  ground  of  their  more  de- 
liberate thought,  and  the  elabora- 
tion and  polish  of  their  workman- 
ship. Nor  let  it  be  supposed  for  a 
moment  that  we  dream  of  under- 
valuing that.  All  we  mean  to 
point  out  is,  that  the  predominat- 


1879.] 


///.  Magazine-  Writers. 


227 


ing  and  distinctive  idea  of  the  new 
undertaking  was  the  assuring  its 
contributors  chances  of  fame,  for 
which  its  predecessors  could  offer 
no  similar  opportunities.  If  we  per- 
sist in  referring  to  the  Quarter- 
lies, it  is  for  purposes  of  illustra- 
tion— certainly  not  for  the  sake  of 
invidious  comparison.  Essayists  and 
reviewers  like  Jeffrey  and  Sydney 
Smith,  and,  subsequently,  like  Sou- 
they  and  Hay  ward,  might  collect 
and  reprint  their  articles;  but  it 
was  in  the  shape  of  a  miscellany  of 
the  fragmentary  and  fugitive  pieces 
that  were  rescued  from  unmerited 
and  unfortunate  neglect.  Each  in- 
dividual article  had  to  stand  on  its 
merits ;  it  was  a  stone  cast  at  ran- 
dom, as  it  were,  on  the  cairn  which 
was  to  serve  as  a  monument  to  the 
memory  of  the  writer.  By  inserting 
the  publication  of  works  in  serial 
form,  '  Blackwood '  passed  vol- 
umes and  libraries  of  volumes 
through  his  pages.  A  book  that 
might  have  been  ignored  had  it 
been  brought  out  anonymously, 
or  merely  introduced  by  some 
slightly -known  name,  was  there 
sure  of  extensive  perusal  and  some- 
thing more  than  dispassionate  con- 
sideration. The  subscribers  to  the 
Magazine  had  come  to  feel  some- 
thing of  self-pride  in  the  growing 
success  and  popularity  they  con- 
tributed to.  At  all  events,  they 
were  predisposed  to  look  kindly  on 
the  proteges  whom  l  Maga '  vouched 
for  as  worth  an  introduction.  It 
was  for  the  more  general  public 
afterwards  to  confirm  or  reverse  the 
verdict.  The  debutant  had  the  en- 
couragement of  knowing  that  he 
addressed  himself  in  the  first  place 
to  a  friendly  audience ;  and  those 
who  know  anything  of  the  finer 
and  more  sensitive  literary  tempera- 
ment, will  understand  that  a  con- 
sciousness of  this  kind  goes  far 
towards  promoting  inspiration. 
The  new  Magazine  was  fortunate 


in  having  begun  as  it  hoped  to  go 
on.  At  that  time  the  name  of  "  the 
Modern  Athens  "  was  by  no  means 
a  misnomer  for  the  Scottish  capital, 
for  there  was  a  brilliant  constella- 
tion of  Northern  Lights.  The  men 
who  had  grouped  themselves  round 
the  founder,  and  thrown  themselves 
heart  and  soul  into  his  enterprise, 
were  Wilson,  Lockhart,  and  Hogg, 
Gait  and  Gleig,  Moir  and  Hamilton, 
("Delta"  and  «  Cyril  Thornton,") 
Alison  (the  historian),  Dr  Maginn, 
and  others,  who,  at  that  time,  were 
less  of  notorieties.  And  we  may  ob- 
serve that,  from  the  first,  the  strength 
of  the  new  venture  was  very  much 
in  the  close  union  of  its  supporters. 
The  directing  mind  was  bound  to 
the  working  brains  by  the  ties  of 
personal  intimacy  and  friendship. 
It  is  now  more  than  forty  years 
since  the  death  of  Mr  William 
Blackwood,  and  the  generation  of 
his  colleagues  and  friends  has  been 
gradually  following  him.  But  our 
notice  of  his  Magazine  would  be 
manifestly  incomplete,  if  it  did  not 
comprehend  a  passing  notice  of  a 
really  remarkable  man.  Nor  can 
we  do  better  than  quote  some  para- 
graphs from  the  obituary  remarks 
which  appeared  in  the  number  for 
October  1834,  — the  rather  that 
they  were  written  by  one  who  knew 
him  well,  and  who  had  every  op- 
portunity of  appreciating  his  qual- 
ities, whether  from  personal  inti- 
macy or  in  business  relations.  Next 
to  Professor  Wilson,  there  was  no 
one  to  whom  the  Magazine  in  its 
early  days  was  more  indebted  than 
to  John  Gibson  Lockhart ;  and  pre- 
vious to  his  leaving  for  London  in 
1826,  to  undertake  the  direction 
of  'The  Quarterly,'  no  man  contri- 
buted more  regularly  or  more  bril- 
liantly to  its  pages.  Mr  Lockhart 
thus  wrote : — 

"In  April  1817  he  put  forth  the 
first  number  of  this  journal  —  the 
most  important  feature  of  his  profes- 


228 


Contemporary  Literature : 


[Feb. 


sional  career.  He  had  long  before 
contemplated  the  'possibility  of  once 
more  raising  magazine  literature  to  a 
point  not  altogether  unworthy  of  the 
great  names  which  had  been  enlisted 
in  its  service  in  a  preceding  age.  It 
was  no  sudden  or  fortuitous  sugges- 
tion which  prompted  him  to  take  up 
the  enterprise,  in  which  he  was  after- 
wards so  pre-eminently  successful  as  to 
command  many  honourable  imitators. 
From  an  early  period  of  its  progress 
his  Magazine  engrossed  a  very  large 
share  of  his  time  ;  and  though  he 
scarcely  overwrote  for  its  pages  himself, 
the  general  management  and  arrange- 
ment of  it,  with  the  very  extensive 
literary  correspondence  which  this  in- 
volved, and  the  constant  superinten- 
dence of  the  press,  would  have  been 
more  than  enough -to  occupy  entirely 
any  man  but  one  of  first-rate  energies. 
"  No  man  ever  conducted  business 
of  all  sorts  in  a  more  direct  and  manly 
manner.  His  opinion  was  on  all  occa- 
sions distinctly  expressed — his  ques- 
tions were  ever  explicit — his  answers 
conclusive.  His  sincerity  might  some- 
times be  considered  as  rough,  but 
no  human  being  ever  accused  him 
either  of  nattering  or  shuttling ;  and 
those  men  of  letters  who  were  in  fre- 
quent communication  with  •  him  soon 
conceived  a  respect  and  confidence 
for  him,  which,  save  in  a  very  few 
instances,  ripened  into  cordial  regard 
and  friendship." 

Mr  Blackwood's  sons  inherited 
their  father's  friendships ;  and  for 
sixty  years  the  editorship  of  the 
Magazine  has  been  continued  in 
the  family  with  the  same  unvary- 
ing good  fortune  and  ever-increasing 
influence.  To  the  warm  personal 
regard,  to  the  perfect  confidence 
existing  between  the  Blackwoods 
and  their  contributors,  we  believe 
that  the  consistent  character  and 
continuous  success  of  the  Maga- 
zine are  mainly  to  be  attributed. 
Then,  as  since,  the  writers  have 
not  only,  for  the  most  part,  held 
the  same  general  political  views,  but 
have  been  united  in  something  like 
a  common  brotherhood  by  common 
tastes  arid  mutual  sympathies. 
There  is  a  irood  deal  in  the  "daff- 


ing  "  of  the  '  Noctes  Ambrosianse ' 
that  is,  of  course,  dramatically  ex- 
aggerated. As  the  fun  in  the  Blue- 
Parlour  sometimes  grew  fast  and 
furious  —  as  when  North  stripped 
for  his  "  set-to  "  with  the  Shepherd, 
and  when  those  jovial  worthies 
made  a  race  of  it  with  Tickler  in 
their  wheeled  chairs  from  one  apart- 
ment to  another — as  the  eating  and 
drinking  was  always  Garagantuan, 
when  these  men  of  "  not  only  good,, 
but  great  appetites,"  "forgathered," 
— so  the  arguments  and  declamation 
often  became  brilliantly  hyperboli- 
cal, and  are  seldom  to  be  taken  ab- 
solutely au  serieux.  But  in  these  in- 
imitable '  Noctes'  we  have  the  actual 
reflection  of  the  standing  relationship 
of  the  contributors  ;  of  men  who 
belong,  by  virtue  of  unspoken  vowsr 
by  some  community  of  labour,  opin- 
ions, and  feeling,  to  an  order  of 
which  they  are  reasonably  proud, 
and  for  whose  associations  and  tra- 
ditions they  have  an  affectionate 
veneration ;  of  men  who  are  happy 
to  meet,  when  they  have  the  oppor- 
tunity, on  a  common  ground,  re- 
newing and  refreshing  the  old  ac- 
quaintanceship, which  may  have 
been  formed,  after  all,  at  second- 
hand, and  only  by  hearsay  —  and 
who,  we  may  add,  have  no  sort  of 
objection  to  indulge  in  the  discreet 
conviviality  of  such  "  flows  of  soul " 
as,  in  our  more  degenerate  times,, 
has  replaced  the  boisterous  hospi- 
tality of  "  Ambrose's." 

From  the  first,  the  new  serial 
that  had  taken  the  thistle  for  its- 
badge,  and  was  to  show  the  features 
of  old  George  Buchanan  on  the 
cover,  struck  a  key-note  that  was 
at  once  patriotic  and  popular. 
Even  now,  amid  much  that  has- 
long  gone  out  of  date,  there  seems- 
to  us  to  be  delightful  reading  in 
those  early  numbers.  There  was 
metal  most  attractive  in  those  gos- 
siping papers  on  the  Gypsies,  in- 
spired, if  not  dictated,  by  Sir  Walter 
Scott — as  full  of  esprit  as  of  know- 


1879.] 


///.  Magazine- Writers. 


ledge  of  the  subject.  The  race  of 
vagabonds  and  "  sorners  "  and  mas- 
terful thieves  Lad  become  the  ob- 
jects of  most  romantic  interest 
since  the  novel -reader  had  been 
taken  to  the  ruined  roof-trees  of 
Derncleugh —  had  been  introduced 
to  "  Tod "  Gabriel  on  the  hills  of 
the  Liddell ;  and  the  randy  beggar- 
wife,  faithful  to  the  death,  had 
died  by  Dirk  Hatteraick's  pistol  in 
the  cavern.  To  our  fancy,  there 
is  no  finer  passage  in  all  Scott's 
poetry  than  Meg  Merrilies's  prose 
apostrophe  to  the  weak  laird  of 
Ellangowan,  when  he  was  brought 
face  to  face  with  the  vagrants  his 
bailiffs  had  driven  from  their 
hearths ;  nothing  more  touching 
than  her  regretful  reference  to  the 
good  old  easy  times,  and  her  allu- 
sion to  the  wild  devotion  of  her 
people.  Then  came  'Mansie  Waucb,' 
by  Delta,  and  some  of  the  very  best 
of  Gait's  Scottish  novels,  claiming 
precedence  in  that  perennial  series 
of  fiction  which  has  been  streaming 
ever  since  through  our  columns ; 
to  be  followed,  no  long  time  after- 
wards, by  that  charming  military 
story,  *  The  Subaltern,'  from  the  pen 
of  the  ex-Chaplain-General  of  the 
Forces,  who,  we  are  glad  to  say,  is 
still  alive,  the  father  of  the  contri- 
butors to  '  Maga.'  From  that  time 
forward,  with  neither  stint  nor 
check,  the  Magazine  has  been 
standing  sponsor  to  English  clas- 
sics. For  many  years  it  may  be 
said  to  have  owed  the  lion's  share 
of  its  attractions  to  the  vigorous 
versatility  of  Wilson  and  Lockhart. 
Besides  the  long  and  lively  course 
of  '  The  Noctes,'  what  an  infinite 
variety  of  tales  and  essays,  poems 
and  critiques,  Christopher  scattered 
broadcast !  The  flow  of  wit  and 
scholarship,  of  pathos  and  keen 
critical  humour,  was  inexhaustible. 
With  Professor  Wilson  as  with  Sir 
Walter  Scott,  to  appreciate  the  au- 
thor, one  should  know  something 
of  the  man.  With  a  redundance 


of  bodily  health  that  reacted  on 
his  mental  activity,  never  was  there 
a  more  large-minded  or  great-heart- 
ed gentleman.  We  recognise  the 
gentle  strength  of  his  nature,  when 
he  stood  bareheaded  of  a  win- 
ter day  at  the  funeral  of  his  old 
comrade  in  literature,  the  Et trick 
Shepherd — the  solitary  mourner  of 
his  class.  He  was  too  earnest  n ot- 
to be  sometimes  severe,  but  his 
hardest  hitting  was  straightforward 
and  above-board ;  and  though  hi» 
bite  might  be  savage,  there  was  no- 
venom  in  it.  We  know  very  few 
essayists  who  have  made  their  in- 
dividuality so  vivid  to  us,  and 
hence  the  home-like  and  inexpres- 
sible charm  of  his  writing.  Had 
his  lines  been  cast  in  a  different  lot 
of  life,  he  might  have  been  such  a 
humble  genius  and  genial  vagabond 
as  old  Edie  Ochiltree.  The  "cal- 
lant "  who  was  lost  in  the  moorland 
parish,  where  "little  Kit"  had 
been  sent  to  be  educated  by  the 
worthy  minister — who  risked  his 
life  in  shooting  sparrows  with  the 
rusty  gun  that  had  to  be  supported 
on  the  shoulders  of  two  or  three  of 
his  schoolfellows — grew  up  into  the 
accomplished  sportsman  of  "  Chris- 
topher in  his  Sporting  Jacket."  No- 
wonder  that  the  stalwart  professor 
of  moral  philosophy,  who  loved  the 
shores  of  Windermere  and  the  soli- 
tary tarns  of  the  Lake  country ;  who 
dropped  his  red-deer  in  the  "for- 
ests of  the  Thane,"  and  the  grouse 
on  the  wild  moors  of  Dalnacar- 
doch  ;  who  was  such  a  "fell  hand" 
with  the  "  flee  "  in  the  Tweed  and  its. 
tributaries,  and  was  only  beaten  by 
the  neck,  teste  the  Shepherd,  by  the 
Flying  Tailor  of  Ettrick  "himsel'," 
— should  have  kept  the  kindly  fresh- 
ness of  his  spirits  unimpaired,  and 
had  a  somewhat  supercilious  con- 
tempt for  those  he  sweepingly  des- 
ignated as  Cockneys.  Wilson,  in 
his  manly  frankness,  detested  false 
sentiment  and  fine-spun  theories, 
with  all  that  was  affected  and  arti- 


230 


Contemporary  Literature  : 


[Feb. 


ficial  in  social  conventionalities  :  he 
held  to  those  old-fashioned  ideas  of 
fast  party  fidelity  and  public  patri- 
otism which  it  became  the  fashion 
to  decry  as  the  signs  of  narrow- 
mindedness  by  those  who  might 
envy  his  logic  and  his  eloquence. 
"Were  his  writings  less  universally 
known,  we  would  willingly  linger 
over  his  memory,  for  he  has  left  his 
mark  on  the  Magazine.  What 
the  author  of  the  Waverley  Novels 
was  to  fiction,  Christopher  North 
was  to  magazine- writing :  and  he 
must  have  sensibly  influenced  the 
tone  of  many  a  man  of  talent,  who 
may  fairly  put  forward  pretensions 
to  originality. 

From  Wilson  we  pass  by  a  nat- 
ural succession  to  Professor  Ay- 
toun,  a  kindred  spirit  in  many  re- 
spects. Aytoun,  while  thoroughly 
cosmopolitan  —  witness  his  '  Bon 
Gaultier '  ballads,  executed  in 
partnership  with  Mr  Theodore  Mar- 
tin— was  at  the  same  time  charac- 
teristically Scottish ;  and  much  of 
what  we  have  said  of  his  prototype 
applies  to  him.  All  the  Lays  that 
elicited  from  southern  reviewers  the 
admission  that  Scotland  could  still 
boast  of  a  poet,  appeared  originally 
in  the  pages  of  '  Maga.'  So  did  an 
instalment  of  the  germ  of  that  ad- 
mirable parody  *  Firrnilian,'  which 
agreeably  tickled  the  subjects  it 
scarified — see  the  lately-published 
memoir  of  Sydney  Dobell.  A 
fragment  of  'Firmilian'  was  pub- 
lished as  a  review  of  a  poem 
of  the  spasmodic  school.  It  was 
done  so  cleverly,  and  was  so  ex- 
ceedingly natural,'  that  it  com- 
pletely took  in  one  of  the  devotees 
of  the  "  spasmodics,"  who  had  been 
in  the  habit  of  denouncing  the  in- 
justice of  *  Maga.'  Whereupon  Ay- 
toun finished  and  published  the  ex- 
travaganza, which  surpassed  alike 
the  beauties  and  eccentricities  of  the 
gentlemen  he  so  ingeniously  satir- 
ised. And  apropos  to  Aytoun,  we 
may  refer  to  the  collections  of '  Tales 


from  Blackwood,'  literally  so  volu- 
minous, which  have  proved  by  their 
very  wide  circulation  the  charity 
that  suggested  the  idea  of  reprint- 
ing them.  For  perhaps  there  is  no 
happier  story-satire  in  the  language 
than  his  "  How  we  got  up  the  Glen- 
mutchkin  Railway;"  not  to  speak 
of  others  of  his  contributions,  such 
as  the  "  Emerald  Studs,"  "  How  we 
got  into  the  Tuileries  " — a  veritable 
foreshadowing  of  the  follies  and 
frenzy 'of  the  Commune — and  "How 
I  became  a  Yeoman." 

The  piquancy  of  a  dressed  salad 
or  a  mayonnaise  lies  in  the  con- 
flicting ingredients  that  are  artisti- 
cally blended.  So  De  Quincey  was 
a  welcome  guest  at  the  imaginary 
symposia  in  Gabriel's  Road,  as  he 
was  an  honoured  member  of  the 
fraternity  of  the  Magazine.  Yet 
there  could  hardly  have  been  a 
greater  contrast  to  Christopher,  the 
hero  of  "  the  sporting  jacket," 
than  the  dreamy  philosopher,  who, 
in  spite  of  diligent  searching,  had 
never  discovered  a  bird's  nest,  be- 
cause he  always  took  his  rambles  in 
the  country  between  sunset  and 
sunrise.  The  '  Confessions  of  an 
Opium- Eater '  excepted,  all  De 
Quincey's  most  striking  works  were 
given  to  the  world  in  the  Maga- 
zine. And  there  is  one  aspect  in 
which  the  conjunction  of  Wilson 
and  De  Quincey  in  its  pages  is  espe- 
cially worth  noting.  For  they  may 
be  said  unquestionably  to  have 
given  contemporary  criticism  its 
present  form  and  spirit,  when  they 
asserted  the  supremacy  of  nature  as 
a  standard  over  the  affectation  and 
morbid  sentiment  of  the  Cockney 
school  of  their  day. 

In  as  different  a  vein  as  can  be 
imagined,  yet  no  less  likely  to  live, 
are  the  sea- tales  of  '  Tom  Cringle.' 
The  *  Log '  and  the  '  Cruise  of  the 
Midge'  are  simply  inimitable  in 
their  way.  They  had  never  been 
anticipated  by  anything  in  similar 
style,  and  they  have  never  since 


1879.] 


///.  Magazine-Writers. 


231 


been  even  tolerably  copied.  It 
was  so  strange  that  they  should 
have  been  written  by  a  landsman, 
that  people  were  slow  to  believe  it. 
"We  have  heard  it  reported  that 
professional  critics  can  hit  off  a  flaw 
here  and  there,  when  "  Tom  "  sends 
his  seamen  aloft  among  the  spars  and 
the  rigging,  or  is  handling  his  craft 
in  a  gale  on  a  lee-shore.  We  defy 
the  uninitiated  even  to  doubt,  so 
admirable  is  the  vraisemblance,  if 
not  the  omniscience.  But  the  grand 
triumph  of  Michael  Scott's  genius 
is  in  the  apparent  absence  of  any- 
thing approaching  to  art.  He  is  the 
hearty  sailor,  full  of  life  and  animal 
spirits,  recalling  his  adventures  with 
the  enthusiasm  that  comes  of  reviv- 
ing pleasant  associations.  We  see 
him  back  again  in  the  midshipman's 
berth  with  the  reefers  as  he  sits 
behind  the  Madeira  decanter  spark- 
ling to  the  wax  lights.  "  Poor  as  I 
am,"  he  observes,  in  his  bluff  nauti- 
cal lingo,  "to  me,  mutton-fats  are 
damnable."  Or,  luxuriating  in  the 
crisp  biscuits  and  salt-junk,  which  he 
prefers  to  rarer  delicacies  —  "  Ay  ! 
you  may  turn  up  your  nose,  my 
fine  fellow,  but  better  men  than 
you  have  agreed  with  me."  And 
then  how  his  pen  runs  on,  as  mem- 
ories crowd  upon  him  in  actual 
inspiration  !  And  how  lightly  and 
naturally  he  can  change  the  vein, 
passing  from  gay  to  grave,  and  from 
the  picturesque  to  the  familiar  ! 
Now  you  are  among  a  knot  of 
jovial  spirits  in  the  wardroom,  in  a 
running  fire  of  wit,  anecdote,  and 
repartee,  pleasantly  flavoured  by  a 
whiff  of  the  brine  and  the  powder. 
Now  a  sail  is  sighted,  and  there  is  the 
excitement  of  a  stern-chase  before  all 
hands  are  piped  away  to  quarters. 
What  can  be  more  animating  than 
the  "Action  with  the  Slaver,"  when 
the  lumbering  Spaniard,  jammed  up 
against  the  Cuban  coast,  has  been 
laid  aboard  by  the  "tidy  little 
Wave"?  or  the  involuntary  cruise 
in  that  "  tiny  Hooker,"  when,  pay- 


ing the  penalty  of  his  indiscreet  curi- 
osity, Lieutenant  Cringle  is  walked 
past  the  windows  of  the  comfort- 
able sleeping- room  he  has  quitted, 
to  be  carried  into  captivity  by 
Obed  under  the  very  guns  of  the 
Gleam  and  the  Firebrand.  The 
incidents  crowded  upon  incidents 
in  all  the  impressive  intensity  of 
this  illusive  realism,  might  have 
made  the  fortunes  of  a  score  of  sen- 
sational sea-novels.  But  what  we 
admire  even  more  are  the  masterly 
descriptions.  Unfamiliar  scenery 
takes  form  and  shape  •  strange  and 
barbarous  races  change  to  familiar 
acquaintances ;  the  glow  and  glories 
of  the  tropics  are  borne  into  our 
very  souls.  We  know  not  how 
it  may  be  with  other  people,  but 
since  we  used  to  wrap  ourselves  up 
in  'Tom  Cringle'  in  the  days  of 
our  boyhood,  we  have  always  had 
an  affectionate  longing  for  the  West 
Indies :  nay,  we  have  even  had  a 
kindly  feeling  for  the  plague-strick- 
en coasts  of  West  Africa,  since  we 
went  up  "  the  noble  river "  among 
the  slaving  gentry  and  the  mephitic 
exhalations  in  the  company  of  Brail 
and  Lanyard  and  old  "  Davie 
Doublepipe."  For  that  reason  we 
own  to  having  been  disappointed  in 
everything  we  have  since  read  on 
those  countries, — even  in  Kingsley's 
1  At  Last,' — though  we  had  hoped 
that  the  Rector  of  Eversley  was 
the  very  man  to  do  them  justice,  as 
he  had  fully  shared  our  anticipa- 
tions and  impressions.  If  we  set 
foot  on  the  wharves  of  Kingston  to- 
morrow, we  are  persuaded  that  we 
should  feel  ourselves  thoroughly  at 
home,  though  we  might  be  sadly 
impressed  by  the  changes  of  time, 
— by  the  ruin  of  those  hospitable 
merchants  and  planters, — even — tell 
it  not  in  Gath — by  the  results  of  the 
emancipation,  which  turned  whole 
households  of  attached  and  industri- 
ous slaves  into  a  listless,  indolent, 
good-for-nothing  peasantry.  We 
should  recall  those  rides  in  merry 


232 


Contemporary  Literature : 


[Feb. 


company,  through  morning  mists  or 
noon-day  sunshine,  where  the  tropi- 
cal luxuriance  of  the  landscape,  the 
magnificent  shapes  of  the  cloud- 
capped  mountains,  and  the  com- 
manding views  through  the  limpid 
air,  over  hill,  and  dale,  and  azure 
ocean,  were  unrolled  before  our  en- 
raptured eyes  in  the  most  pictur- 
esque of  all  Turneresque  panoramas. 
And  like  every  born  humorist, 
Michael  Scott  had  a  dash  of 
almost  melancholy  seriousness  in 
his  nature.  He  is  never  more 
eloquent  than  among  those  scenes 
of  beauty  that  are  either  gloomy 
or  even  oppressively  melancholy, — 
witness  the  moonlight  "  nocturne  " 
on  the  broad  bosom  of  the  West 
African  river,  rolling  its  torrent 
onwards  to  the  broken  bar,  between 
the  pestilential  mangrove  copses  on 
its  muddy  banks ;  or  the  break  of 
the  morning  there,  when  the  mists 
are  melting  before  the  fiery  splen- 
dours of  the  ascending  sun ;  or  the 
reverie  on  the  translucent  waters 
of  the  Cuban  creek,  when  the 
Firebrand  is  threading  the  nar- 
row passage  that  winds  under  the 
batteries  of  the  Moro  Castle  ;  or 
the  interview  with  "the  Pirate's 
Leman  "  on  her  deathbed,  when  the 
hurricane  is  bursting  over  the  house 
and  the  hills  are  gliding  down 
into  the  valleys.  His  impulses 
towards  the  pathetic  became  occa- 
sionally incontrollable,  and  when 
his  feelings  were  stirred  he  wrote 
as  they  moved  him.  We  are  per- 
suaded of  that,  because  he  shows 
so  evidently  a  horror  of  "  boring " 
his  readers,  or  becoming  mawk- 
ishly sentimental.  Like  Byron  in 
"  Don  Juan,"  or  his  own  Aaron 
Bang,  who  had  been  betfayed  for 
once  into  solemn  talk  over  the 
duckweed  -  covered  waters  of  the 
mountain  pool  in  Hayti,  he  always 
hastens  to  pass  from  the  one  ex- 
treme to  the  other.  Thus  he 
breaks  away  at  the  Moro,  when  the 
steward  is  made  to  announce  that 


dinner  is  waiting ;  and  he  hastens 
to  dive  into  the  captain's  cabinr 
where  they  have  a  merry  nightr 
"and  some  wine,  and  some  fun, 
and  there  an  end."  And  we  may 
be  sure  indeed,  when  he  has  been 
exceptionally  grave  or  patheticr 
that  his  melancholy  is  the  prelude 
to  some  "excellent  fooling."  In 
short,  he  never  stales  in  his  infinite 
variety  of  mood;  and  if  we  are 
conscious  that  we  have  been  be- 
trayed into  an  undue  digression 
on  him,  it  is  because  we  owe 
him  profound  gratitude  as  one  of 
the  writers  whom  we  delight  to 
dip  into  again  and  again,  though 
we  have  pretty  nearly  got  him  by 
heart.  We  fear,  besides,  that  he 
is  not  nearly  so  well  known  now- 
adays as  he  deserves  to  be;  and 
how  we  envy  those  who  may  have 
hitherto  been  strangers  to  him, 
should  they  make  his  acquaintance 
upon  our  introduction ! 

Looking  at  him  in  that  point  of 
view,  we  may  plead  forgiveness  for 
writing  of  "  Tom,"  as  we  love  to  call 
him,  and  giving  him  a  relatively 
long  notice.  Many  of  the  contri- 
butors who  succeeded  him  have  be- 
come household  words  and  classics 
wherever  the  English  tongue  is- 
spoken  or  English  literature  held 
in  regard.  There  is  Warren,  with 
his  '  Diary  of  a  late  Physician '  and 
his  'Ten  Thousand  a- Year.7  He 
passed  medicine,  law,  and  divinity 
successively  through  his  hands  in 
three  successive  romances ;  and  it 
was  but  natural  that  the  lawyer 
and  active  politician  should  have 
made  his  legal  and  political  romance 
the  most  masterly  of  the  three» 
'Ten  Thousand  a- Year'  will  always 
be  a  historical  memoir  pour  servir 
those  who  care  to  study  the  polit- 
ical situation  in  England  after  the 
passing  of  the  Eeform  Bill.  Bul- 
wer  and  George  Eliot,  Thackeray, 
Dickens,  and  Trollope,  and  most 
novelists  of  mark,  have  since  de- 
scribed the  humours  of  the  canvass* 


1879." 


///.  Magazine-  Writers. 


233 


ing  committees  and  the  hustings. 
But  without  indulging  in  any  com- 
parisons, we  may  safely  say  that 
no  one  of  them  has  surpassed  the 
humorous  excitement  of  the  neck- 
and-neck  contest  for  Yatton.  And 
then  the  dramatic  romance  of  the 
great  Yatton  case !  Surely  never 
were  musty  legal  documents  and 
shrivelled  parchments  handled  so 
freshly :  the  fluctuations  in  the 
grand  trial  at  the  York  assizes 
remind  you  of  "  the  gentle  passage 
of  arms  "  in  '  Ivanhoe,'  in  the  lists 
of  the  neighbouring  Ashby-de-la- 
Zouch.  You  listen  breathlessly, 
and  throw  yourself  into  the  speeches, 
as  champion  faces  champion,  and 
Mr  Subtle  breaks  a  lance  with  the 
Attorney-General.  As  certain  dilet- 
tanti students  are  in  the  habit  of 
going  to  Dumas  as  an  agreeable 
authority  on  the  French  history  of 
the  League  and  the  Fronde,  so  we 
believe  there  are  many  of  us  who 
have  learned  our  English  law,  and 
taken  our  notions  of  the  forensic 
powers  of  Lords  Abinger,  Brougham, 
&c.,  from  the  great  suit  of  "Doe 
dem.  Titmouse,  versus  Jolter  and 
others,"  and  from  such  portraits  by 
Warren  as  Subtle  and  Quicksilver. 
George  Eliot's  '  Scenes  of  Clerical 
Life '  were  written  for  the  Maga- 
zine; and  with  all  our  admiration 
for  the  extraordinary  power  which 
has  ripened  so  wonderfully  with 
experience  and  maturity,  in  our 
opinion  she  has  scarcely  surpassed 
them.  The  intuitive  perception  of 
character  ;  the  profound  intelli- 
gence of  the  human  heart,  and  the 
intense  sensibility  to  human  moods 
and  feelings  ;  the  subdued  drollery 
and  the  ready  sympathy,  were  all 
naturally  reliausse  by  a  freshness 
that  must  almost  inevitably  fade 
more  or  less.  Then  look  at  the  late 
Lord  Lytton.  First  comes  the 
Caxton  series,  culminating  in 
'My  Novel;'  and  perhaps  in  the 
whole  range  of  English  literature, 
in  its  comprehensive  grasp  of  the 


motley  life  of  England,  there  is  no- 
thing to  rival  that  remarkable  book. 
The  statesman  and  the  refined  man 
of  fashion,  the  country  gentleman, 
the  artist,  the  student,  and  the 
practical  philosopher,  have  em- 
bodied all  their  multifarious  ex- 
periences in  it.  Seldom  has  there 
been  so  striking  a  group  of  more 
noble  portraits,  so  set  off  by  their  sur- 
roundings or  more  graphically  re- 
produced. If  anything,  Bulwer  was 
in  the  habit  of  going  to  extremes 
in  idealising  the  characters  he  held 
up  for  admiration  ;  and  the  loftiest 
of  them  were  stately  almost  to  for- 
mality, in  their  habits  of  thought 
as  in  their  forms  of  speech.  But  in 
days  when  we  fear  humanity  tends 
to  degenerate,  that  was  the  safe 
side  to  err  upon  ;  and  we  can  never 
take  up  one  of  Bulwer's  late  novels 
without  rising  a  better  and  a  wiser 
man  for  the  reading  of  it ;  while 
such  manly  or  exalted  conceptions 
as  Squire  Hazeldean  and  Eger- 
ton,  Lord  L'Estrange,  Biccabocca, 
and  Parson  Dale,  were  thrown  into 
higher  relief  by  the  knowledge  dis- 
played of  the  shady  side  of  our 
nature  in  such  finished  scoundrels 
as  Randal  and  Peschiera  and  Baron 
Levy.  And  it  is  to  be  remarked 
that  'The  Caxtons,'  with  its  suc- 
cessors, were  conceived  in  an  en- 
tirely novel  style  by  a  writer  who 
stands  almost  alone  for  the  varied 
originality  of  his  resources.  They 
rank  now  incontestably  as  the  first 
of  his  fictions ;  and  we  may  take 
some  credit  for  having  given  them 
to  our  readers  on  their  merits,  when 
we  might  have  been  tempted  to 
give  them  a  sensational  introduc- 
tion, with  all  the  advantages  of  the 
author's  name.  In  his  essays  of  the 
Caxtoniana  set  were  embodied  the 
teachings  of  a  most  practical  famil- 
iarity with  life,  by  a  man  of  the 
world  who  had  a  supreme  contempt 
for  all  that  was  false,  base,  and  ig- 
noble. Gay  young  men  about  town, 
would-be  aspirants  to  fashionable 


234 


Contemporary  Literature  : 


[FeK 


notoriety,  who  laughed  at  the 
morality  of  recluses  and  held  lec- 
tures from  the  pulpit  in  horror, 
might  he  content  to  profit  hy  the 
high-minded  teachings  that  were 
replete  with  wit  and  worldly  wis- 
dom. It  is  a  melancholy  satis- 
faction that  our  connection  with 
Lord  Lytton  was  heing  drawn 
closer  year  after  year,  till  his  death 
cut  short  that  last  of  his  novels 
which  had  excited  so  much  criti- 
cal curiosity.  It  was  a  proof  the 
more  of  his  inexhaustible  versa- 
tility, that  in  "bringing  out  his 
'Parisians,'  he  was  still  ahle  to 
shelter  himself  to  a  great  extent 
under  the  mask  of  the  anony- 
mous. We  do  not  say,  that  when 
the  secret  was  made  public,  there 
were  not  suggestive  touches  that 
might  have  betrayed  the  author- 
ship. But  it  is  almost  unprece- 
dented that  so  thoughtful  and  pro- 
lific a  writer  should  have  retained 
his  inventive  variety,  as  well  as  the 
vigour  of  his  execution,  entirely  un- 
impaired to  the  last. 

Talking  of  prolific  novelists  and 
such  pregnant  essays  as  the  '  Cax- 
toniana/  reminds  us  of  another  val- 
ued and  lamented  friend.  For  many 
a  year  "  Cornelius  O'Dowd  "  was  one 
of  the  mainstays  of  the  Magazine. 
For  many  a  year,  in  unstinted  pro- 
fusion, he  lavished  those  manifold 
literary  gifts  that,  with  him  as  with 
Lord  Lytton,  appeared  practically 
inexhaustible.  Time  had  toned 
down  the  rollicking  joviality  of  the 
author  of  '  Charles  O'Malley '  and 
the  scapegrace  heroes  of  the  mess. 
But  the  mirthful  humour  flowed  free- 
ly as  ever,  and  the  intuitive  know- 
ledge of  life  had  deepened  and  wid- 
ened. Like  other  distinguished  lit- 
erary men,  Lever  had  consented  to 
banish  himself  in  the  consular  ser- 
vice. Possibly,  the  seclusion  of  exile 
was  not  unfavourable  to  his  unflag- 
ging powers  of  production.  At  least 
he  was  less  exposed  to  those  social 
seductions  which  must  have  proved 


a  snare  at  home  to  one  who  was  so 
great  a  favourite  of  society.  It  is- 
certain  that  Lever  to  the  last  would 
always  answer  to  the  call ;  and  that 
he  could  be  safely  counted  upon  at 
the  shortest  notice  for  a  story  that 
would  show  slight  traces  of  haste. 
While  the  distance  from  which 
he  looked  on  seemed  to  tend  to- 
give  breadth  and  quickness  to 
his  political  vision  without  dim- 
ming the  penetrating  sagacity  of 
his  insight,  there  was  no  lighter 
or  more  lively  pen  than  that  of 
the  work-worn  veteran.  He  had 
always  much  of  the  French  verve 
and  esprit,  and  he  lost  far  less 
than  he  gained  by  living  with  men 
more  than  with  blue-books  and 
daily  newspapers.  Seldom  has  any 
one  had  a  more  happy  faculty  of 
treating  the  gravest  questions  with 
a  playful  earnestness  which  compel- 
led attention,  while  it  carried  his 
readers  along  with  him ;  of  min- 
gling wit  and  drollery  with  sound 
sense  and  satire,  and  making  ridi- 
cule and  good-humoured  badinage 
do  the  work  of  irritating  invective. 
He  had  learned  to  know,  like  the 
great  Swedish  statesman,  with  how 
little  wisdom  the  world  may  be 
governed ;  and  having  ceased  to  be 
scandalised  by  the  blunders  he  ex- 
posed, he  treated  them  with  the 
benevolent  tolerance  of  resignation. 
By  a  not  unnatural  chain  of  as- 
sociations, we  are  carried  back  from 
Lever  to  another  of  our  contribu- 
tors, who  translated  the  adventures 
of  sensational  fiction  into  action. 
George  Ruxton's  adventures  were 
even  more  romantic  and  spirit- 
stirring  than  those  of  '  Con  Cregan,' 
the  Irish  '  Gil  Bias.'  There  have 
been  few  more  extraordinary  men — 
no  more  daring  explorer ;  and  had 
his  career  not  been  cut  prematurely 
short,  England  would  have  heard 
a  great  deal  more  of  him.  With 
winning  manners  and  highly -cul- 
tivated tastes,  Ruxton  had  a  pas- 
sion for  the  existence  of  the  prim- 


1879.] 


III.  Magazine-Writers. 


235 


itive  savage;  toil  and  hardship 
were  positive  enjoyment  to  him  ; 
and  he  was  never  happier  than 
when  he  had  taken  his  life  in  his 
hand,  with  the  chance  of  having 
his  "  hair  lifted  "  at  any  moment. 
His  self-reliance  was  indomitable  ; 
his  spirits  rose  in  his  own  society, 
away  among  the  wolves  and  the 
coyotes  of  the  wilderness  ;  and  yet 
he  could  make  himself  so  much  at 
home  among  the  trappers  and  the 
mountain  -  men,  that  those  rude 
specimens  of  half -savage  society 
had  learned  to  look  on  him  as  one 
of  themselves.  Born  hunter  and 
vagabond  as  he  seemed,  he  wrote 
with  a  grace  and  easy  dramatic 
power  which  many  an  eminent  pro- 
fessional litterateur  might  have  en- 
vied. The  '  Life  in  the  Far  West/ 
which  "Blackwood"  brought  out  in 
a  series  of  articles,  may  still  be  re- 
garded as  a  standard  authority  on 
countries  which  have  changed  but 
little,  and  races  that,  in  the  course  of 
extermination,  had  hardly  changed 
at  all.  As  for  the  narrative  of 
the  long  ride  through  New  Mexico 
to  the  upper  waters  of  the  Divide, 
where,  like  Con  Cregan,  he  "  struck 
the  Chihuahua  trail,"  it  is  impos- 
sible not  to  follow  it  with  the  most 
intense  interest.  How  the  adven- 
turer passed  by  sacked  villages  and 
jealously-guarded  presidios  through 
a  country  that  was  raided  by  roving 
Indians — how  he  escaped  assassina- 
tion by  his  solitary  follower — how 
he  saved  himself  from  snow-drifts, 
and  starvation,  and  deatli  from  ex- 
posure to  the  bitter  cold — how  he 
ran  the  gauntlet  of  war-parties  and 
lurking  savages,  and  managed  to 
forage  in  winter  for  himself  and  his 
beasts,  so  as  to  keep  body  and  soul 
together, — all  that  is  told  with  a 
vigorous  simplicity  which,  almost 
incredible  as  the  story  often  sounds, 
carries  irresistible  conviction  of  its 
truth.  George  Euxton  was  among  the 
foremost  of  that  race  of  accomplished 
explorers,  who  came  home  from 


experiences  of  privation  and  peril 
to  write  books  which  must  have 
been  literary  successes  independ- 
ently of  their  intrinsic  interest. 

From  Indian  fighting  on  the 
Mexican  frontier  to  the  Carlist  wars 
of  old  Spain  is  an  easy  transition, 
and  Ruxton  and  his  writings  remind 
us  of  Hardman.  Before  betaking 
himself  to  letters,  which  seemed 
his  natural  vocation,  Hardman  had 
tried  his  hand  at  arms,  and  in 
these  he  might  have  attained  equal 
distinction.  He  came  back  from 
serving  in  the  Spanish  Legion  to 
embody  his  adventures  and  obser- 
vations in  some  of  the  most  excit- 
ing stories  that  have  ever  enlivened 
our  pages.  In  spite  of  constitu- 
tional experiments  and  the  intro- 
duction of  Liberal  rule,  Spain  and 
the  genuine  Spanish  people  have 
changed  almost  as  little  as  Mexico 
and  the  Mexicans  ;  and  in  Hard- 
man's  novel,  '  The  Student  of  Sala- 
manca/ we  have  pictures  of  Spanish 
life  that  might  be  reproduced  in  some 
pronunciamento  of  to-morrow.  Noth- 
ing can  be  more  inspiriting  than  the 
exploits  of  the  dashing  Christino 
captain,  who  had  been  driven  to 
choose  his  side  by  the  cruelty  of 
the  Carlist  partisans.  Nothing 
more  telling  or  more  characteristic 
than  the  story  of  the  love-affair; 
the  Carlist  attack  on  the  house  of 
old  Herrera;  the  glimpses  of  the 
match  at  ball ;  of  the  soldiers  car- 
ousing in  the  ventas ;  of  the  gipsy 
shaving  the  poodle  by  the  watch- 
fires  in  camp  ;  of  the  Mochuelo  and 
his  band  out  "  on  the  rampage ; " 
of  the  confinement  and  escapes  of 
Don  Luis  and  Don  Baltasar ;  of  the 
veteran  sergeant  extricating  himself 
from  the  ambush  where  all  his 
comrades  had  fallen, — all  these  are 
actual  photographs  of  incidents  of 
partisan  warfare.  Hardman  had  not 
only  travelled  and  fought  in  the 
Peninsula,  but  he  had  lived  in  close 
companionship  with  Cervantes  and 
Le  Sage ;  and  in  his  vivid  pages 


236 


Contemporary  Literature  : 


[Feb. 


he  has  caught  the  very  spirit  of  the 
genius  of  those  masters  of  Spanish 
romance. 

From  the  men  who  had  put  epics 
and  ballads  in  action,  we  turn  to  the 
most  fascinating  of  feminine  poets, 
and  can  glance  back  through  our 
pages  on  some  of  the  most  charm- 
ing of  their  pieces.  Conspicuous 
among  them  are  Mrs  Hemans,  Mrs 
Southey,  and  Mrs  Barrett  Brown- 
ing with  her  'Cry  of  the  Children  ;' 
and  there  are  others  who  will  come 
forward  in  the  crowd,  when  we  look 
back  in  a  final  retrospect.  We  owe 
not  a  few  contributions  to  George 
Henry  Lewes,  and  many  more  to 
William  Smith,  the  author  of 
'Thorndale.'  Smith  likewise  had 
a  powerfully  philosophical  intellect, 
and  his  writings  were  invariably 
characterised  by  striking  vigour  and 
originality.  Ferrier,  also,  the  great 
Scotch  metaphysician,  and  a  writer 
who  seemed  to  have  the  faculty  of 
transmuting  philosophy  into  poetry 
without  the  loss  of  its  weightier 
elements,  first  gave  many  of  his 
more  notable  papers  to  the  world 
through  our  pages.  Then  there 
was  Croly — a  constant  contributor 
— whose  novel  of  '  Salathiel/  with 
its  rapid  changes  of  scene  and  re- 
markable variety  of  dramatic  inci- 
dent, was  so  widely  read  at  the 
time,  and  well  deserves  to  be  re- 
membered. Among  the  earliest  of 
our  friends  was  pleasant  James 
White,  author  of  the  'Eighteen 
Christian  Centuries/  who  contri- 
buted '  Sir  Frizzle  Pumpkin,' 
*  Nights  at  Mess/  &c.  ;  and  Sir 
Samuel  Ferguson,  whose  '  Father 
Tom  and  the  Pope'  is  a  gem  of 
audacious  Irish  humour  unsur- 
passed in  the  writings  of  either 
Lever  or  Maginn.  The  higher 
culture  of  the  universities  has  also 
•always  had  good  representatives. 
Eagles  "the  Sketcher,"  who  for 
long  was  our  art- critic,  excelled  in 
his  vocation,  and  was  gifted  with 
•an  extraordinary  command  of  his 


pen,  as  the  editor  of  'Fors  Cla- 
vigera'  had  some  reason  to  know. 
Coming  to  our  own  day,  to  Lucas 
Collins,  the  editor  of  the  '  Ancient 
Classics/  we  owe  many  charming 
disquisitions,  many  masterly  criti- 
cisms. We  feel  it  to  be  more 
delicate  as  we  draw  nearer  to 
our  own  times,  and  are  tempted 
to  make  allusion  to  living  celeb- 
rities. But  at  least  we  may  take 
the  opportunity  of  barely  naming 
a  few  of  them,  leaving  the  reputa- 
tion they  have  made  to  the  appre- 
ciation of  the  public.  Place  aux 
dames,  and  succeeding  the  bevy  of 
poetesses  we  have  alluded  to  above 
comes  Mrs  Oliphaiit,  whose  connec- 
tion with  us  began  with  '  Katie 
Stewart.'  The  lowly-born  maiden 
who  was  welcomed  only  too  warmly 
by  the  long-descended  Erskines,  is 
the  heroine  of  a  very  perfect  little 
Scots  story,  which  yields  in  no 
degree  to  '  Mrs  Margaret  Maitland 
of  Sunnyside.'  There  was  much, 
besides,  which  it  might  be  tedious 
to  detail,  before  the  appearance 
of  the  '  Chronicles  of  Carlingford/ 
which  were  at  once  made  famous  by 
'  Salem  Chapel.'  It  would  be  more 
than  superfluous  in  this  present 
year  of  grace  to  launch  out  in  praise 
of  one  of  our  most  valued  friends, 
since  happily  we  may  hope  that  for 
many  a  day  to  come  Mrs  Oliphant 
will  speak  for  herself  in  our  col- 
umns. Then  there  are  Anthony 
Trollope,  Charles  Reade,  and  Robert 
Blackmore  ;  John  Hill  Burton, 
Laurence  Oliphant,  William  Story, 
and  R.  H.  Patterson  :  while  among 
soldiers  who  vary  their  severer  pro- 
fessional studies  with  recreations  in 
general  literature  and  fiction,  are 
the  Hamleys,  the  author  of  the 
1  Battle  of  Dorking/  Colonel  Lock- 
hart,  and  others  whom  we  have  even 
more  scruples  in  naming.  And 
there  is  Andrew  Wilson,  whose 
1  Abode  of  Snow'  reminds  one,  mu- 
tatis mutandis,  of  Ruxton's  adven- 
tures on  the  Mexican  frontier.  Let 


1879.' 


///.  Magazine-  Writers. 


237 


us  reiterate,  that  of  the  writers  we 
have  mentioned — there  are  excep- 
tions that  of  course  will  strike 
everybody  —  most  had  their  first 
introduction  to  the  literary  world 
through  '  Maga,'  and  published  the 
works  to  which  they  first  owed 
their  fame  in  its  pages.  They  were 
unknown  to  literary  society  when 
they  made  their  first  literary  success 
with  us ;  and  we  may  observe,  that 
in  the  system  of  advertising  names 
adopted  by  many  of  the  younger 
serials,  they  would  never  have  had  a 
similar  opportunity  of  distinguish- 
ing themselves.  We  presume  that 
there  is  something  to  be  said  on 
either  side;  but  we  fancy  that,  so  far 
as  the  satisfying  of  our  readers  is  con- 
cerned, argument,  as  well  as  experi- 
ence, is  decidedly  in  favour  of  our 
own  system.  "We  have  always  pre- 
ferred to  leave  each  separate  article 
to  be  commended  or  condemned  for 
itself,  or,  at  all  events,  with  the 
reflected  prestige  of  the  company  in 
which  it  chances  to  find  itself.  We 
believe  our  practice  to  be  a  safe 
one,  even  in  the  case  of  writers  of 
name  and  experience.  It  is  hardly 
in  human  nature  not  to  be  hasty 
and  careless  in  the  workmanship, 
when  you  are  assured  that  your 
simple  name  will  suffice  to  push 
the  sale  of  a  magazine  ;  and 
when  a  man  takes  merely  to  trad- 
ing on  his  name,  he  is  tempted  to 
"  turn  "  his  intellectual  capital  too 
quickly.  If  he  is  versatile,  emo- 
tional, and  impulsive ;  if  his  pecu- 
liar genius  is  given  to  confounding 
fanciful  speculations  with  soundly- 
reasoned  theories,  and  writing  sen- 
sational-political romance  on  the 
strength  of  crude  judgments,  then 
the  fever  of  flurried  activity  is  apt 
to  become  a  chronic  disease.  His 
articles  want  consistency  and  back- 
bone ;  his  style  becomes  florid,  dif- 
fuse, and  redundant ;  his  sentences 
are  inextricably  en  tangled;  and  there 
is  a  breakdown  in  the  very  grammar. 

VOL.  CXXV. — NO.  DCCLX. 


Authors  of  genius  or  talent 
must  make  a  beginning,  and  though 
there  may  be  the  defects  of  inex- 
perience in  the  first  of  their  work, 
yet  it  is  almost  sure  to  have  the  ines- 
timable charm  of  freshness.  There 
are  novel-writers  and  novel-writers ; 
and  some  who  make  ample  incomes 
by  their  indefatigable  pens  have 
steadily  improved  to  a  certain  point 
with  patience  and  practice.  But 
it  will  be  found,  we  believe,  that 
many  of  our  cleverest  novelists 
have  never  greatly  excelled  their 
maiden  production ;  and  we  can  re- 
call many  an  instance  where  they 
have  never  equalled  it.  They  may 
grow  more  pretentious  and  more 
profound  ;  they  have  developed 
their  ingenuity  and  in  the  techni- 
calities of  their  art,  as  they  have 
advanced  in  their  knowledge  of  men 
and  manners ;  yet  in  becoming  less 
simple,  and  naturally  unaffected, 
they  may  lose  at  least  as  much  as 
they  have  gained.  Then,  as  we  are 
glad  to  know,  there  are  the  ties  of 
gratitude  and  friendship.  The  man 
who  has  received  a  kindly  recogni- 
tion of  his  powers,  at  a  time  when 
he  was  essaying  them  with  natu- 
ral diffidence,  can  hardly  help  re- 
taining some  lifelong  regard  to  wards 
those  who  gave  him  seasonable  en- 
couragement ;  while  the  directors  of 
a  magazine  feel  grateful  in  their 
turn  to  the  talent  that  has  been 
infusing  fresh  blood  in  their  veins. 
Intimacies,  literary  and  social,  are 
founded  on  mutual  esteem ;  and  for 
ourselves,  we  are  glad  to  say  that 
these  literary  friendships,  confirmed 
by  constant  personal  intercourse, 
have  generally  only  terminated  with 
life.  If  such  genial  relations  carry 
their  inevitable  penalty,  it  is  only 
to  say  that  sorrows  are  inseparable 
from  existence.  It  is  sad  enough 
from  time  to  time  to  have  to  de- 
plore those  losses  that  have  fallen 
heavily  of  late  on  the  Magazine 
by  the  deaths  of  so  many  of  its 


233 


Contemporary  Literature  : 


[Feb. 


stanchest  contributors.  Time  may 
be  trusted  in  some  shape  to  fill  the 
blanks ;  while  the  works  of  those 
who  are  gone  will  remain  as  monu- 
ments to  their  memories.  Yet  it  is 
sometimes  difficult  not  to  repine  at 
the  loss  of  the  inestimable  literary 
treasures  that  have  been  laboriously 
accumulated  through  a  lifetime,  and 
which  cannot  be  transmitted  by 
bequest.  We  must  bid  farewell  to 
the  ripe  and  gifted  friend  just  when 
we  feel  most  reluctant  to  spare  him ; 
and  we  are  left  to  lament  the  invalu- 
able store  he  was  turning  to  such 
excellent  purpose. 

We  can  understand  that  there 
are  stronger  reasons  than  there  once 
were  for  bringing  out  a  new  peri- 
odical under  the  patronage  of  well- 
known  names.  It  would  seem 
that  the  ground  is  never  so  fully 
occupied  that  there  is  not  room  for 
a  fresh  success ;  and  yet  the  compe- 
tition is  excessive,  and  the  struggle 
for  existence  must  be  a  hard  one. 
Among  the  crowd  of  familiar  friends 
and  well-established  favourites,  un- 
titled  respectability  might  be  put 
out  of  its  pain  before  it  had  fair  op- 
portunity to  assert  itself.  Whereas 
the  reading  world,  eager  for  novelty 
like  the  citizens  of  Athens,  may  be 
induced  to  prick  its  ears  to  a  pre- 
liminary flourish  of  trumpets.  The 
prospectus  ought  to  go  for  much ;  it 
should  shadow  out,  if  possible,  some 
feature  of  startling  originality,  and, 
at  all  events,  be  a  masterpiece  of 
seductive  promise.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  we  can  seldom  conscientiously 
congratulate  its  composer  either  on 
the  ingenuity  of  novel  resource  or 
on  the  ability  of  the  literary  execu- 
tion. We  have  remarked,  as  a  rule, 
and  it  has  struck  us  as  singular, 
that  the  carte  du  pays  is  apt  to  be 
commonplace.  It  may  possibly 
be  that  the  editor  feels  that  the 
eyes  of  England  and  of  jealous 
rivals  are  upon  him  ;  and  he 
may  be  weighed  down  under  the 
oppression  of  his  literary  respon- 


sibilities. We  have  often  fan- 
cied that  he  might  profitably  take 
a  hint  from  those  City  gentlemen, 
who,  when  they  launched  their 
magnificent  schemes  on  the  Stock 
Exchange,  and  asked  their  credul- 
ous countrymen  for  millions,  used 
to  call  in  the  services  of  a  professed 
financial  artist  to  draw  up  their 
advertisement.  Being  perfectly  dis- 
passionate, and  having  no  stake 
beyond  a  heavy  commission,  the 
charmer  brought  his  tact  and  ex- 
perience to  bear ;  he  did  his  work 
with  an  untrammelled  fancy,  and 
generally  did  it  effectively.  But  if 
the  prospectus  be  bald  or  halting, 
that  is  of  the  less  consequence,  as 
the  promoters  of  the  periodical  have 
surer  cards  to  follow.  They  can 
print,  in  long-drawn  parallel  col- 
umns, the  list  of  their  promised 
supporters.  A  very  imposing  cata- 
logue it  will  be,  and  assorted  with 
extreme  liberality  on  the  most  com- 
prehensive principles.  We  have  been 
adverting  to  City  matters,  and  prais- 
ing Aytoun's  *  Glenmutchkin  Kail- 
way  '  as  a  City  story.  Just  as  tho 
Highland  chiefs,  when  they  "  pit 
their  best  foot  foremost,"  the  Low- 
land landed  gentry,  and  the  "  great 
Dissenting  interest,"  were  impartial- 
ly represented  on  the  Glenmutch- 
kin Board,  that  they  might  invite 
the  confidence  of  various  classes  of 
constituents;  so  the  programme  of 
the  associated  contributors  should 
have  attraction  for  each  sub-section 
of  the  community.  There  are  cab- 
inet ministers  with  the  heaven-given 
mission  of  setting  the  world  to 
rights  on  every  conceivable  point. 
There  are  reformers  whom  an  in- 
scrutable Providence  has  relegated 
to  private  stations,  but  who  raise 
their  voices  all  the  more  vociferous- 
ly, and  are  the  most  enthusiastic 
converts  to  their  own  eloquence. 
There  are  financiers  who  come  near 
to  perfection  as  theorists,  and  statists 
who  can  make  figures  prove  almost 
anything.  There  are  social  econo- 


1879.] 


///.  Magazine-Writers. 


239 


mists  with  hobbies  of  their  own,  war- 
ranted to  relieve  our  civilisation  of 
its  miseries  ;  and  educationists  who 
are  infallible  in  relation  to  school 
boards.  There  are  fussy  historians 
who  mistake  themselves  for  politi- 
cians, and  poetical  philanthropists 
who  pride  themselves  on  being 
practical.  There  are  popular  di- 
vines of  every  creed  and  shade  of 
opinion,  who  find  scarcely  sufficient 
elbow-room  in  their  pulpits ;  and 
there  are  scientific  sceptics  who  ex- 
press a  condescending  regard  for  the 
religion  they  labour  indefatigably  to 
undermine.  There  are  strategists, 
and  travellers,  and  consuls,  and  mis- 
sionaries, with  possibly  a  sprinkling 
of  archbishops,  and  ambassadors, 
and  law  peers, — and  with  all  these 
come  the  professional  gentlemen  of 
the  pen,  who  are  in  the  end  the  real 
backbone  of  the  periodical.  These 
eminent  gentlemen  lend  their  names, 
and  probably  promise  the  contingent 
reversion  of  their  services  ;  though, 
if  they  were  regularly  to  forward 
contributions  to  the  Magazine,  it 
would  have  to  make  its  appearance 
at  least  twice  in  the  week.  It 
settles  down  in  reality  to  a  working 
staff,  that  does  a  full  half  of  the 
writing ;  while  the  rest  of  the  space 
is  devoted  to  sensational  articles  by 
the  brilliant  celebrities  that  may  be 
trusted  to  "  draw." 

We  have  no  desire  to  under- 
estimate the  possible  value  of  these 
articles.  Other  things  being  equal, 
genius  is  always  preferable  to  mere 
clever  mediocrity;  and  there  is  a 
natural  interest  in  the  unreserved 
expression  of  opinion  by  a  man  who 
has  been  helping  to  make  history, 
and  who,  by  his  talent  for  the 
stumper  his  parliamentary  prestige, 
has  been  swaying  great  masses  of 
the  populace.  But  we  cannot  help 
thinking  that  the  thing  is  being 
overdone ;  and  the  men  we  would 
most  willingly  listen  to,  are  the  men 
we  seldom  or  never  hear.  "When 
Sir  Henry  Kawlinson  is  persuaded 


to  give  his  views  on  Central  Asian 
politics,  or  Lord  Stratford  de  -Red- 
cliffe  writes  on  the  affairs  of  the 
East,  every  one  reads,  and  reads 
with  good  reason.  These  men  are 
among  the  greatest  living  authori- 
ties on  subjects  on  which  most  of 
us  are  profoundly  ignorant ;  and 
whether  we  give  our  assent  to  their 
ideas  or  differ  from  them,  we  know 
that  they  are  the  fruit  of  unrivalled 
experience.  Had  Mr  Gladstone's 
temperament  been  more  deliberately 
reflective  and  cautious ;  had  his 
mind  been  cast  in  a  more  philoso- 
phical mould,  we  should  very  gladly 
listen  to  him  on  a  dozen  different 
subjects.  Few  men  are  more  nerv- 
ously eloquent  in  speech ;  few  men 
can  put  a  doubtful  argument  more 
persuasively.  Most  thinkers,  who  in 
the  heat  of  animated  debate  may  say 
considerably  more  than  they  mean, 
become  comparatively  guarded  when 
they  take  up  the  pen.  But  it  is 
highly  characteristic  of  Mr  Glad- 
stone, that  he  is  more  reckless  in 
writing  than  in  speech.  In  the 
House  he  has  acquired  the  practice 
of  a  certain  self-control,  in  the  con- 
viction that  any  sophistry  or  ex- 
aggeration of  statement  must  be 
promptly  exposed  or  corrected.  On 
the  platform,  before  an  assembly  of 
admiring  friends, — still  more  in  the 
pages  of  a  popular  magazine, — he 
shakes  himself  loose  from  all  sense 
of  restraint,  and  gives  himself  up  to 
the  blind  bent  of  his  impulses.  We 
can  hardly  misjudge  him.  For,  in 
the  first  place,  we  know  that,  in  the 
multiplicity  of  his  employments,  it  is 
impossible  that  he  can  do  the  scan- 
tiest justice  to  the  articles  that  he 
turns  out  by  the  bushel  on  the  most 
burning  questions,  domestic  and 
international.  In  the  next  place, 
the  internal  evidence  as  to  the 
haste  with  which  they  are  dashed 
off  is  unmistakable.  Wo  have  al- 
ready alluded  to  unmethodical 
arrangement,  involved  sentences, 
doubtful  English,  and  slipshod 


240 


Contemporary  Literature  : 


[Feb. 


grammar,  although  these  become 
of  comparatively  slight  importance 
in  the  glitter  of  Mr  Gladstone's 
reputation.  Were  the  matter  as 
weighty  as  the  author's  name 
ought  to  infer,  we  should  resign 
ourselves  to  some  additional  trouble 
in  interpreting  him,  or  in  follow- 
ing the  entangled  trains  of  his  rea- 
soning. But  the  fact  is,  that  in 
many  instances  his  articles  are 
merely  the  crude  fancies  of  an  ex- 
ceedingly able  and  gifted  but  excit- 
able man,  who  has  the  dangerous 
knack  of  expressing  most  eloquent 
convictions  on  those  questions  on 
which  he  has  just  altered  his  mind, 
or  to  which  he-  had  flashed  his 
thoughts  the  day  before  yesterday. 
In  his  case  the  evil  begins  to  cure 
itself :  for  when  Sir  Oracle  is  per- 
petually opening  his  mouth,  people 
cease  to  listen ;  and  when  predic- 
tions and  warnings  are  being  con- 
tinually falsified,  few  but  the  most 
fanatical  devotees  to  the  seer  will 
attach  any  serious  importance  to 
them.  It  is,  however,  a  precedent 
which  may  be  followed  with  more 
dangerous  results  by  public  men 
of  inferior  eminence,  but  with  self- 
control  and  more  Machiavellian 
astuteness;  while  the  habit  of  ex- 
pecting notorieties  to  attach  their 
names  to  their  articles  often  leads 
even  presumably  competent  judges 
into  very  ludicrous  blunders,  when 
they  have  not  their  sign-posts  to 
guide  them.  We  could  tell  a 
story  of  a  most  disparaging  notice 
in  a  very  ably  conducted  week- 
ly upon  a  series  of  articles  on 
one  of  our  recent  "  little  wars." 
The  accomplished  critic  took  occa- 
sion to  expose  the  blunders  and 
shortcomings  of  the  writer,  and  was 
especially  severe,  not  so  much  on 
the  strategy  of  the  expedition  as 
on  the  writer's  narrative  of  it.  Pos- 
sibly he  might  have  seen  reason  to 
modify  his  remarks  had  he  been 
aware  that  the  author  he  criticised 
so  cavalierly  was  really  himself  the 


successful    leader    of    the    expedi- 
tion. 

The  casting  about  for  distin- 
guished names  in  all  quarters  has 
another  consequence.  Since  these 
gentlemen  hold  most  contradictory 
opinions,  they  must  have  an  almost 
absolute  latitude  permitted  them; 
and  while  the  editor  in  great  mea- 
sure relieves  himself  from  respon- 
sibility, he  is  proportionately  de- 
prived of  control.  There  can  be  no 
question  that  his  teams  are  power- 
ful and  showy,  but  they  are  "  strag- 
gling all  over  the  place;"  and  while 
his  leaders  are  heading  in  one  direc- 
tion, his  wheelers  are  backing  in 
another.  So  long  as  such  reputa- 
tion as  he  has  is  likely  to  circu- 
late his  article,  each  clever  mono- 
maniac has  carte  blanche  for  the 
ventilation  of  his  peculiar  ideas. 
If  he  advocated  them  in  a  periodi- 
cal that  was  notoriously  of  his  own 
way  of  thinking,  it  would  be  well 
and  good.  Standing  on  the  safe 
foundations  of  the  English  Con- 
stitution, we  should  not  be  sorry 
that  even  the  advanced  socialists 
had  their  organs ;  and  short  of 
preaching  assassination,  or  actual 
sedition,  we  should  leave  their  edi- 
tors undisturbed  in  Leicester  Square. 
But  it  seems  to  us  that  an  ingeni- 
ous theorist  may  do  very  consider- 
able mischief  by  being  permitted  to 
pass  himself  into  the  company  of 
calm  and  judicious  thinkers.  We 
fancy  we  know  something  of  the 
mass  of  omnivorous  readers,  and  we 
have  reason  to  doubt  how  far  their 
acumen  maybe  trusted  to  distinguish 
between  what  is  good  and  evil.  At 
best,  many  of  them  will  skim  the  ar- 
ticles superficially,  and  be  lightly 
impressed  by  plausible  speculations 
adroitly  veiled  in  seductive  sophis- 
tries. A  paradox  which  they  fail 
to  comprehend,  and  are  quite  in- 
competent to  scrutinise,  has  an  in- 
expressible charm  for  them.  While, 
on  the  other  hand,  there  are  fan- 
atics on  certain  social  and  political 


1879.] 


///.  Magazine  Writers. 


241 


questions  that  must  largely  concern 
the  national  future,  who  have  no 
scruples  as  to  means  which  will  be 
justified  by  the  end,  and  who  know 
at  least  as  well  as  we  the  tempera- 
ment of  the  people  they  are  writing 
for.  It  is  their  immediate  object  to 
make  proselytes  at  any  price ;  and 
their  personal  vanity  is  interested 
besides  in  obtaining  a  respectful 
hearing.  These  shrewd  apostles  of 
some  new  and  startling  revelation 
have  practised  the  art  of  making 
the  worse  seem  the  better  reason; 
and  in  the  easy  flow  of  their  vigorous 
language,  can  make  specious  fallacies 
pass  for  sterling  truth.  Probably 
the  editor  may  have  some  secret 
sympathy  with  them  ;  at  all  events 
he  appreciates  the  talent  which 
ought  to  shed  a  lustre  on  his  pages ; 
or  it  is  possible  that  personally  he 
may  disagree  with  them  entirely. 
In  any  case,  he  must  wait  till  his 
next  issue  before  applying  to  some 
other  of  his  contributors  for  the  an- 
tidote, and  in  the  meantime  the 
poison  is  diffusing  itself  unchecked, 
and  may  be  inoculating  many  of  his 
lighter-minded  subscribers. 

Perhaps  it  may  be  old-fashioned 
prejudice,  but  our  predilection  for 
the  system  which  bands  contri- 
butors together  on  common  prin- 
ciples has  been  confirmed  by  long 
experience.  It  strikes  us,  more- 
over, that  there  is  much  to  be  said 
for  it  on  common-sense  grounds; 
for  it  should  be  the  object  of  a 
leading  magazine  to  influence  opin- 
ion for  definite  purposes ;  and  not 
merely  to  enlighten  the  public,  but 
to  direct  them.  Surely  that  can  be 
best  done  by  concentrating  and  dis- 
ciplining its  forces,  and  showing  un- 
mistakable colours,  to  which  earnest 
contributors  may  rally.  The  editor 
knows  his  men,  and  may  be  pre- 
sumed to  know  his  business.  He 
respects  their  independence  far  too 
much  to  interfere  gratuitously  on 
points  of  detail,  and  may  consent 
on  minor  points  of  difference  to 


waive  his  own  personal  opinions. 
But  it  is  his  to  see  that  a  certain 
consistency  is  preserved — to  watch, 
above  all,  that  nothing  should  slip 
in  which  shall  essentially  clash 
with  the  consistency  of  the  maga- 
zine. The  principles  of  the  maga- 
zine may  go  to  extremes ;  they  may 
be  stupidly  reactionary  or  extrava- 
gantly radical.  At  all  events,  the 
reading  public,  being  aware  of  their 
general  drift,  are  prepared  to  accept 
them  for  what  they  are  worth,  ac- 
cording as  they  admit  or  reject  the 
arguments ;  while  the  contributors, 
to  all  intents  and  purposes,  are  un- 
fettered. They  are  in  quite  a  dif- 
ferent position  from  the  leader- 
writers  on  the  daily  press,  who  are 
supposed  to  accept  standing  retain- 
ing fees,  to  abdicate  their  individ- 
uality, and  to  argue  to  order ;  or 
who  may  work  in  gangs  of  vari- 
ous political  complexions,  so  that, 
should  the  paper  see  reason  to  shift 
its  ground,  it  can  employ  a  new  but 
conscientious  set  of  day-labourers. 
The  political  contributors  to  a 
magazine  may  either  write  or  leave 
it  alone;  there  need  never  be  a 
lack  of  willing  volunteers  to  fight 
its  battles  on  the  familiar  lines. 
Nor  does  that  homogeneous  system 
imply  any  repression  of  free  discus- 
sion. It  merely  marshals  combat- 
ants on  either  side,  so  as  to  make 
the  most  efficient  use  of  their  ser- 
vices ;  for  periodicals  of  every  shade 
of  opinion  have  a  general  circula- 
tion, and  the  good  old  days  are 
pretty  well  departed,  when  the 
magazine-subscriber  was  wedded  to 
a  single  love,  surrendering  all  right 
of  private  judgment.  Now  the 
stanchest  party  clubs  must  sub- 
scribe impartially  to  all  newspapers 
and  periodicals;  and,  indeed,  it  may 
be  the  manifestos  which  appear  in 
the  enemy's  camp  that  are  read 
with  the  closest  interest  and 
attention. 

What  between  the  claims  of  poli- 
tics and  fiction,  with  those  of  articles 


242 


Contemporary  Literature : 


[Feb. 


on  promiscuous  subjects,  literary  re- 
viewing is  apt  to  go  to  the  wall. 
Nor  do  we  believe  it  to  be  the 
province  of  the  "  Monthlies"  to  un- 
dertake any  methodical  survey  even 
of  the  representative  books  of  the 
day.  That  ought  to  be  left  to  the 
daily  journals,  which  should  treat 
current  literature  as  current  news  ; 
or  to  those  weekly  literary  news- 
papers which  make  reviewing  one 
of  the  chief  reasons  of  their  being. 
To  recognise  and  bring  forward  spe- 
cial merit ;  to  sit  as  judge  in  appeal 
on  the  more  hasty  opinions  of  the 
daily  and  weekly  press ;  and  to  main- 
tain the  higher  and  more  cultivated 
standards  of  literary  judgment, — is 
the  proper  province  of  the  magazine 
reviewer.  But  it  must  be  confessed 
that  in  the  Monthlies  authors  get 
unequal  measure ;  and  there  are  ris- 
ing men  who  may  fairly  complain  of 
being  ignored ;  while  some  rival  of 
similar,  though  inferior,  pretensions, 
has  the  honours  and  the  profit  of 
general  notice.  The  fact  being,  that, 
so  far  as  authors  are  concerned,  it 
is  very  much  matter  of  luck,  and 
partly  matter  of  fashion.  The  name 
of  the  lion  of  a  London  season  is 
naturally  in  people's  mouths ;  there 
is  a  run  on  his  book  at  the  circu-' 
lating  libraries ;  he  has  the  art  of 
making  a  thrilling  narrative  of 
adventurous  travel  or  exploration : 
he  has  unearthed  a  race  of  anthro- 
pophagi in  primeval  forests,  or  has 
stumbled  over  a  buried  city  or  the 
traces  of  the  lost  tribes ;  or  he  may 
have  broached  some  new  and  start- 
ling revelation,  social,  political,  or 
religious,  and  be  making  a  host  of 
admiring  proselytes.  His  book,  for 
one  cause  or  another,  recommends 
itself  to  the  handling  of  some  clever 
contributor,  who  sees  in  it  the  ma- 
terials for  an  article  which  shall  be 
vigorous  or  original.  Several  writ- 
ers are  struck  by  the  idea:  two 
or  three  interesting  papers  make 
their  appearance  simultaneously, 
and  others  follow  suit  in  due  course. 


The  subject  of  their  praises  has 
cause  for  congratulation  ;  and  if  he 
has  been  brought  so  conspicuously 
before  the  public,  he  may  have  de- 
served it  by  superior  literary  talent 
and  the  graceful  charm  of  his  style. 
Yet  we  cannot  withhold  a  certain 
sympathy  from  the  meritorious  but 
more  matter-of-fact  explorer — from 
the  laborious  scholar  or  the  indefat- 
igable archaeologist — who  sees  the 
book  comparatively  neglected,  on 
which  he  had  hoped  to  rest  a  re- 
putation. The  most  enthusiastic 
pursuit  of  one's  favourite  researches 
must  be  sweetened  by  the  gratifica- 
tion of  your  legitimate  vanity.  At 
the  same  time,  these  hazards  of  the 
lottery  are  natural,  and  nobody  need 
have  reasonable  ground  of  complaint. 
Perhaps  the  fairest  way  to  do  equal 
justice  between  the  readers  of  maga- 
zines and  the  writers  who  deserve 
to  be  specially  introduced  to  them, 
is  to  group  a  cluster  of  representa- 
tive books  in  a  series  of  articles  at 
irregular  intervals.  The  reviewer 
goes  to  work  on  miscellaneous  ma- 
terials, that  supply  all  the  demands 
of  novelty  and  variety.  He  can 
hardly  betake  himself  to  a  more  fas- 
cinating task  than  the  sitting  down 
to  a  well-spread  library  table,  and 
picking  and  choosing  among  the 
volumes  within  reach  of  his  hand. 
Here  a  biography,  there  a  book  of 
travels  :  and  when  he  has  fagged 
his  brain  with  some  thoughtful 
political  essays,  he  relaxes  and  in- 
spirits himself  with  a  brilliant 
novel.  We  give  him  credit  for 
cultivated  and  sympathetic  hu- 
manity, and,  as  a  rule,  he  will 
far  rather  praise  than  condemn. 
Yet  every  now  and  then  he  may 
feel  irresistibly  impelled  to  become 
prosecutor  and  executioner,  as  well 
as  judge,  when  he  dips  his  pen 
in  gall,  with  the  consciousness  of 
an  imperative  duty.  For  there  is 
a  pretentious  combination  of  dul- 
ness,  egotism,  and  self -assurance, 
which  clearly  deserves  exemplary 


1879.] 


777.  Magazine-  Writers. 


243 


chastisement ;  and  then  the  most 
lenient  and  kindly-disposed  of  crit- 
ics must  have  a  satisfaction  in  lay- 
ing on  the  knout.  Nor  can  we 
deny  that  there  is  a  certain  temp- 
tation to  it,  always  assuming  that 
you  have  fair  and  honourable  ex- 
cuse. For  a  scarifying  article  is 
sure  to  find  admirers,  and  the  most 
benevolent  of  mortals  will  enjoy 
it  with  a  chuckle,  if  the  severity 
is  relieved  by  genuine  wit,  and  if 
the  writer  has  shown  cause  for  his 
strictures  ;  although  rude  invective 
and  unsupported  abuse,  should 
the}'-  have  passed  the  supervision  of 
an  incompetent  editor,  will  in- 
fallibly miss  their  mark  and  recoil 
on  the  coarse  assailant. 

Magazine  poetry  is  scarcely  made 
so  much  of  now  as  it  used  to  be 
some  half  a  century  ago.  Then,  in 
the  days  of  the  "  Drawing- Room 
Annuals,"  the  "Literary  Souvenirs," 
and  the  "  Books  of  Beauty,"  these 
ventures  were  often  launched  by 
poets  themselves  on  their  promo- 
tion. Naturally  they  exerted  their 
best  talent,  and  tried  to  turn  out  a 
copy  of  verses  which  should  be  the 
chief  attraction  of  each  of  their 
issues ;  while  the  jealousy  that  is 
supposed  to  be  characteristic  of  the 
poetic  temperament  was  kept  in 
check  by  prudential  considerations. 
When  each  annual  was  running  a 
neck-and-neck  race  with  its  neigh- 
bour, no  practical  editor  could  pos- 
sibly afford  to  reject  the  effusions 
of  rival  children  of  the  Muses.  We 
do  not  say  that  the  verses  in  those 
annuals  were  pitched  on  a  very 
exalted  key.  They  were  sweet 
rather  than  sublime,  and  neat 
rather  than  thoughtful.  But  they 
were  often  melodious  and  graceful 
of  their  kind,  and  fairly  satisfied 
the  taste  of  the  times.  And  now 
and  again  one  of  the  heaven-born 
bards  might  be  prevailed  upon  to 
air  his  pinions  in  their  pages. 
In  the  lives  of  Scott  and  Byron, 
Campbell,  Moore,  and  Southey,  we 


have  repeated  application  for  elee- 
mosynary contributions,  although, 
indeed,  they  were  eleemosynary 
only  in  the  sense  that  they  were 
prayed  for  in  the  humblest  and 
most  flattering  terms.  For  the 
proposal  was  generally  coupled  with 
the  offer  of  a  tempting  douceur;  and 
sometimes  the  remuneration  was 
exceedingly  handsome,  even  con- 
sidering the  reputation  of  the  inr 
mortal  who  earned  it.  Nowadays? 
tastes  seem  to  have  altered;  and 
magazine  poetry  is  rather  a  drug 
than  otherwise.  Poets  who  look 
either  to  the  main  chance  or  to 
immortality,  or  to  both,  appear  to 
aim  at  more  ambitious  work,  and 
to  prefer  to  publish  independently. 
At  the  same  time,  we  should  cer- 
tainly be  the  last  to  say  that  the 
poetry  of  fugitive  pieces  is  a  lost 
art ;  and  from  the  humorous  verses 
of  the  late  Lord  Neaves  to  the 
vigorous  translations  of  Mr  Theo- 
dore Martin,  and  the  inspirations  of 
some  of  our  anonymous  friends,  our 
pages  have  been  graced  by  a  succes- 
sion of  pieces  which  have  well  de- 
served collection  and  republication. 
Of  course  the  modern  magazine 
must  have  been  developed  sooner 
or  later  in  its  present  shape,  in  a 
world  of  busy  brains  and  fertile 
fancies.  But  assuredly  the  man 
who  first  originated  it  must  be  re- 
garded in  the  light  of  a  public 
benefactor,  inasmuch  as  he  took  the 
first  great  strides  towards  perfection, 
and  made  the  pleasure  of  genera- 
tions that  have  since  passed  away. 
Nothing  is  more  astonishing  than 
the  vitality  of  many  a  half-forgotten 
acquaintance,  except,  perhaps,  the 
multiplication  of  new  favourites  in 
the  face  of  most  animated  competi- 
tion. Those  who  have  given  any 
thought  to  the  matter,  will  be  re- 
minded at  once  of  several  of  our 
contemporaries  which  continue  to 
make  their  appearance  under  the  dis- 
couragement of  comparative  neglect. 
You  see  them  entered  on  the  lists 


244 


Contemporary  Literature : 


[Feb. 


at  the  libraries.  They  have  been 
falling  steadily  upon  evil  times,  and 
we  have  been  conscious  of  a  grow- 
ing tendency  to  dulness.  As  a 
rule,  in  point  of  the  quantity  of 
the  contents,  their  friends  have  no 
reason  to  complain.  But  they  are 
become  the  refuge  of  archaeologists 
and  antiquaries  of  extraordinary 
erudition  on  special  topics,  who, 
like  Mr  Jonathan  Oldbuck,  may 
knock  in  vain  at  door  after  door 
in  Paternoster  Row.  You  are 
somewhat  overdone  with  exhaus- 
tive essays,  on  round  towers  and 
kitchen-middens.  You  have  tech- 
nical treatises  on  scientific  gun- 
nery, and  elaborate  lucubrations  on 
disestablishment  or  on  education 
boards.  Such  subjects  by  them- 
selves would  swamp  anything.  But 
from  time  to  time  you  come  upon 
articles  that  would  prove  attractive 
anywhere,  or  on  a  novel  by  some 
writer  of  undoubted  reputation.  We 
believe  the  presence  of  the  former 
may  frequently  be  attributed  to 
that  encouragement  of  unknown 
talent  we  have  adverted  to,  as  be- 
ing the  salt  and  salvation  of  judi- 
ciously -  managed  periodicals.  As 
for  the  novels  that  seem  some- 
what misplaced,  we  have  another 
theory.  They  are  often  by  veter- 
ans who  have  been  staling  with 
familiarity,  and  falling  out  of 
fashion.  The  names  of  the  writ- 
ers are  become  a  drug  with  sen- 
sational editors  and  their  pa- 
trons, and  they  have  lost  much 
of  their  pristine  freshness.  But 
on  the  other  hand,  they  have  liter- 
ary skill  and  experience ;  and  now 
and  then,  by  some  happy  thought, 
or  in  an  effort  to  regain  the  ground 
they  have  been  losing,  they  achieve 
what  may  pass  for  an  actual  tri- 
umph. While,  though  the  scale  of 
pay  must  necessarily  be  regulated 
by  the  circulation,  yet  occasionally 
in  the  scramble  for  magazine  publi- 
city, an  arrangement  may  be  made 


with  some  novelist  of  mark  who 
has  been  crushed  aside  in  a  block 
on  the  more  popular  serials. 

If  there  have  been  occasional 
deaths,  they  have  been  far  more 
than  compensated  by  the  birth- 
rate. We  may  suspect  that  some 
of  these  young  and  seemingly 
flourishing  debutants  are  tending 
already  towards  premature  dissolu- 
tion; but  there  are  others  which, 
as  we  have  reason  to  believe, 
are  assuring  their  projectors  a 
competency.  There  as  elsewhere, 
those  who  have  sown  liberally  are 
most  likely  to  reap  harvests  in  pro- 
portion. We  should  say  that  the 
birth  of  most  of  these  magazines 
has  been  in  this  wise :  A  ready 
novel-writer  has  hit  the  public 
taste,  and  has  possibly  struck  out 
something  of  a  new  idea  in  fiction. 
For  a  time  he  or  she — for  in  many 
instances  those  writers  have  been 
ladies — has  been  content  to  look 
about  for  outlets  in  the  older-estab- 
lished serials.  Sooner  or  later, 
however,  thanks  to  his  extraor- 
dinary productiveness,  and  in  a 
measure  to  some  marked  peculiarity 
in  his  style,  the  author  is  brought 
to  a  check.  Unless  each  of  his 
stories  is  ushered  in  through  the 
pages  of  a  magazine,  it  seems  to 
him  that  they  have  scarcely  been 
creditably  introduced;  and,  more- 
over, he  expects  a  double  profit. 
So  it  occurs  to  him  that  lie  may  do 
better  to  become  his  own  publisher, 
and  he  either  risks  his  savings  in 
his  new  speculation,  or  looks  about 
for  partners  with  capital.  He  may 
or  may  not  have  overestimated  his 
personal  credit.  But  apparently 
the  odds  are  in  favour  of  his 
fairly  floating  his  venture  ;  and  for 
a  time,  at  least,  he  goes  on  sailing  in 
halcyon  weather.  In  the  exhilara- 
tion of  a  fresh  and  promising  start, 
he  redoubles  his  feats  of  address 
and  agility.  One  novel  follows 
fast  on  another;  sometimes  a -couple 


1379.' 


///.  Magazine- Writers. 


245 


of  them  are  being  driven  abreast ; 
his  brain  is  seething  with  tempting 
conceptions;  and  unless  he  is  to  sink 
before  he  has  well  cleared  the  har- 
bour, he  must  have  the  art  of  keeping 
up  a  monthly  sensation.  In  some 
degree  he  must  sacrifice  the  whole 
to  the  parts.  But  by  an  exertion 
of  ingenuity,  each  successive  issue 
is  made  to  contain  some  striking  or 
startling  scene :  dramatic  incident 
and  episodes  are  equally  distributed ; 
and  purchasers  who  fancy  his  style 
get  full  value  for  their  shillings. 
He  has  his  sect  of  literary  crafts- 
men who  model  themselves  after 
him,  imitating  his  foibles  as  closely 
as  his  merits ;  and  as  he  naturally 
has  a  liking  for  those  who  flatter 
him  with  such  unmistakable  sincer- 
ity, his  staff  is  very  apt  to  be  over- 
charged with  them.  Charles  Dick- 
ens, with  his  followers,  is  a  striking 
instance  of  that.  With  those  who 
formed  themselves  upon  his  books, 
while  thqy  had  little  or  none  of 
his  genius,  the  pathos  which 
often  took  the  form  of  affectation 
with  himself,  degenerated  into 
morbid  and  unhealthy  sentimental- 
ity. Without  his  sense  of  humour, 
they  caught  something  of  his  trick 
of  humorous  expression ;  and  they 
exaggerated  his  mannerisms  till 
their  own  became  intolerable.  But 
as  Dickens  was  a  real  and  original 
genius,  he  exercised  an  influence 
which  lives,  and  is  likely  to  live, 
although  it  led  to  a  violent  re- 
action by  way  of  protest.  Thus 
the  glorifiers  of  the  dogma  of  the 
Utopian  Christmas-tide,  with  mistle- 
toe, and  inince-pies  and  turkeys  rain- 
ing, manna-like,  from  heaven,  with 
the  flood-gates  of  mercy  and  phil- 
anthropy unlocked,  and  fountains 
of  charity  flowing  from  the  rock, 
have  created  the  school  of  cynics 
and  positivists,  who  chiefly  insist 
on  the  melancholy  coincidence  of 
Christmas-bills,  bankruptcies,  snow- 
storms, and  starvation.  The  indi- 


vidualities of  smaller  men  are  cir- 
cumscribed by  their  own  publica- 
tions ;  but  in  these  it  generally 
continues  to  assert  itself  till  there 
are  visible  signs  of  the  public  hav- 
ing had  enough,  when  they  slow- 
ly expire  of  inanition  or  pass  into 
other  hands. 

Fiction  is  the  staple  of  those  most 
frivolous  of  serials ;  but  the  fiction 
must  be  freely  eked,  out  with  what 
is  commonly  known  as  "  padding." 
That  is  very  much  of  the  same  gen- 
eral character,  and  is  intended  to 
combine  instruction  with  entertain- 
ment—  the  entertainment  largely 
predominating.  Stage  reminiscences 
are  made  a  speciality  in  some  quar- 
ters, with  the  stories  and  scandals 
of  the  green-room,  and  the  successes 
of  transcendent  geniuses,  amid  thun- 
der-showers of  bouquets  and  hurri- 
canes of  applause.  There  are  pic- 
turesque sketches  from  the  by-ways 
of  history,  and  the  cabinets  and 
back  -  staircases  of  palaces.  Frag- 
ments from  the  biographies  of  ad- 
venturers are  much  in  favour, — of 
men  of  fashion,  and  elegant  roues, 
and  brilliant  causeurs  and  raconteurs. 
Thanks  to  the  scissors  and  paste, 
the  scraps  and  cuttings,  helped  out 
here  and  there  with  a  lively  fancy, 
one  might  amass  a  second  -  hand 
literature  of  the  Horace  Walpoles, 
the  Selwyns,  the  Boswells ;  the 
Mirabeaus,  the  Talleyrands,  the 
Montronds — for  the  gay  society  of 
the  golden  ages  of  the  French  capital 
presents  subjects  of  never-failing 
interest.  The  clubs  and  the  older 
gaming-houses  —  Crockford's,  Fras- 
cati's,  and  the  tripots  of  the  Palais 
Royal — have  been  done  again  and 
again ;  with  the  historical  coffee- 
houses in  the  city,  and  the  chefs 
and  the  restaurants  of  Paris.  There 
are  novel  speculations  on  such  in- 
scrutable mysteries  as  the  identity 
of  Junius  or  the  Man  with  the  Iron 
Mask.  Necessarily  that  class  of  art- 
icle can  hardly  show  great  original- 


246 


Contemporary  Literature  : 


[Feb, 


ity ;  but  the  papers  may  be  tolerably 
readable,  and  they  have  their  uses. 
They  impart  a  good  deal  of  that 
miscellaneous  information  which  is 
serviceable  to  those  shallow  talkers 
and  the  indolent  members  of  soci- 
ety, who  are  too  apathetic  to  study 
for  themselves,  and  who  would  as 
soon  read  the  Fathers  as  solid  his- 
tory ;  while,  at  all  events,  the  stories 
and  the  jests  which  they  borrow 
can  never  stale  with  the  most  con- 
stant repetition. 

Then  the  pencil  is  called  into 
requisition  with  the  pen,  and  many 
of  these  magazines  are  profusely 
illustrated.  We  suppose  there  are 
people  who  admire  the  illustrations  ; 
but  it  must  be  confessed  that 
in  the  generality  of  instances  the 
quality  is  decidedly  inferior  to  the 
quantity,  and  the  artist  comes  short 
of  the  author.  It  always  strikes 
us  that  the  conceptions  are  stereo- 
typed ;  in  any  case  they  are  monot- 
onously artificial,  and  the  writer  of 
the  story  must  often  be  mortified 
and  disappointed  by  the  pictorial 
interpretation  of  his  cherished 
ideas.  A  man  whose  character 
should  have  decided  individuality, 
conies  out  as  a  very  commonplace 
exquisite,  in  correctly -cut  clothes, 
which  remind  one  of  those  master- 
pieces that  adorn  the  pamphlets  of 
advertising  tailors ;  while  a  great- 
souled  woman  who  has  poisoned  her 
mother,  and  been  the  victim  of  a 
passionate  attachment  for  her  grand- 
nephew,  blazes  out  in  the  convention- 
al beauty  of  the  salons,  and  wears 
their  simpering  smiles.  It  must  be 
owned  that  the  hack-artist  is  sorely 
put  to  it ;  and  as  he  is  inadequately 
paid  for  any  original  exercise  of 
the  imagination,  we  may  excuse 
him  if  he  falls  back  upon  servile 
reproductions.  Yet  those  illus- 
trations may  have  some  permanent 
value,  and  we  can  conceive  their 
supplying  serviceable  materials  for 
the  social  historians  of  future  genera- 


tions. Look  back  now  on  the  very 
best  of  them,  by  artists  who,  like 
the  late  Mr  Walker,  have  taken  the 
highest  rank  among  painters  in 
water-colours,  and  what  chiefly  im- 
presses one  is  a  sense  of  the  ludi- 
crous— thanks  to  the  quick  revol- 
utions in  the  fashions.  We  mar- 
vel now  at  those  costumes  of  the 
Regency,  which  are  scarcely  to  be 
distinguished  from  Gilray's  carica- 
tures, with  waists  barely  reach- 
ing to  the  armpits,  and  their  im- 
posing superstructures  of  elabo- 
rately-powdered hair.  And  so  our 
grandchildren,  when  grown  up  to 
man's  estate,  will  laugh  heartily  at 
the  severity  of  the  Grecian  skirt 
replacing  the  balloon-like  inflation 
of  the  crinoline ;  and  it  is  to  be 
hoped  that,  in  the  complacency  of 
a  superior  morality,  they  will  be 
shocked  by  the  cut  of  those  de- 
colletee  dresses  which  show  beauty 
unadorned  save  for  its  jewellery. 

Perhaps  we  might  give  the  palm 
for  illustrations  to  the  so-called 
religious  magazines.  The  most 
popular  of  them  must  have  an  im- 
mense circulation,  and  appear  to  have 
no  lack  of  ingenious  contributors. 
They  are  conducted  with  enterprise, 
and — although  we  should  be  unwil- 
ling to  question  the  single-minded- 
ness  of  their  proprietors — with  a 
conspicuous  share  of  the  wisdom  of 
the  serpent.  We  cannot  say  that  we 
care  much  for  the  imitations  of  the 
religious  art  of  the  middle  ages — for 
representations  of  Jael  driving  the 
nail  into  Sisera,  or  for  groups  of  the 
home-sick  Hebrews  in  flowing  vest- 
ments twanging  their  melancholy 
harps  by  the  waters  of  Babylon; 
nor  yet  for  the  pictorial  illustra- 
tions to  their  fiction,  which  are 
simple  reproductions  of  most  world- 
ly life,  and  the  too  familiar  style  of 
secular  contemporaries.  But  their 
views  of  rural  nature,  to  use  a 
common  phrase,  are  very  often 
"wonderfully  good  for  the  money;" 


1879.] 


///.  Magazine-Writers. 


247 


and  you  may  come  on  a  series  of 
most  effective  little  woodcuts,  illus- 
trating some  "bits"  in  our  home 
landscape,  or  the  quaint  archaeology 
of  historical  cities.  As  for  the 
selection  and  arrangement  of  the 
contents,  we  repeat  that  they  seem 
to  be  governed  in  many  instances 
by  shrewd  trading  principles.  Our 
pious  Scotch  folks,  in  particular,  are 
being  educated  to  a  latitude  of 
Sunday  reading  which  would  have 
shocked  the  last  generation  of  Sab- 
batarians. The  latter  might  have 
denounced  the  new  system  as  a 
jesuitically  subtle  device  of  the 
Enemy.  It  is  a  perversion  and 
almost  a  prostitution  of  the  proverb 
of  "  Tell  me  the  company  you  keep, 
and  I  will  tell  you  what  you  are ; " 
and  many  a  profane  narrative  walks 
in  unquestioned  on  the  first  day  of 
the  week  because  it  comes  locked 
arm  in  arm  with  a  homily  or  an 
edifying  dissertation  on  the  para- 
bles. For  there  is  no  possibility  of 
denying  that  the  contents  are  most 
curiously  mixed.  The  predominat- 
ing tone  has  a  savour  of  sanctity. 
You  have  a  series  of  papers  on 
practical  religion  by  some  scholar 
and  divine  of  unimpeachable  or- 
thodoxy. You  have  analytical  crit- 
icism on  the  text  of  the  sacred 
writings,  with  an  occasional  argu- 
ment for  their  historical  authority. 
You  have  hymns  and  sacred  songs 
that  are  more  or  less  sweet  and 
harmonious.  You  have  notes  of 
philanthropical  missionary  labour 
in  the  rookeries  and  back  slums 
of  our  great  cities,  with  reports 
of  the  progress  in  the  conver- 
sion of  the  Jews,  and  turning 
pagan  slave  -  hunters  in  Central 
Africa  into  law-abiding  Christian 
agriculturists.  All  that  is  highly 
consistent  and  praiseworthy.  But 
we  doubt  whether  boys,  like  the 
"  Whaup  "  and  his  brothers,  in  Mr 


Black's  novel,  'A  Daughter  of  Heth,' 
would  welcome  the  Sabbath  periodi- 
cal as  a  Sabbath  blessing,  were  it  not 
for  those  fascinating  pictures  which 
unfold  before  their  enraptured  eyes 
a  panorama  9f  worldly  possibilities 
that  read  to  them  like  the  'Arabian 
Nights.'  We  do  not  say  that  these 
novels  are  not  generally  unobjection- 
able in  their  tone.  Their  authors 
know  their  business  too  well  not 
to  avoid  the  worse  than  ambigu- 
ous episodes  which  may  land  their 
heroes  and  heroines  in  the  divorce 
courts.  They  make  their  person- 
ages as  guarded  in  behaviour  as  in 
speech  ;  they  would  shrink  from 
depicting  an  elopement,  and  hesi- 
tate even  over  a  stolen  kiss.  But 
after  all,  the  writers  are  precisely 
the  same  people  who  are  in  the 
habit  of  contributing  to  'Tyburnia' 
or  the  'Holborn.'  And  although 
their  principles  on  the  whole  may  be 
trustworthy,  yet  we  doubt  whether, 
in  the  idea  of  the  more  careful 
parents  of  the  rising  generation, 
a  complete  edition  of  their  works 
would  altogether  conduce  to  edifica- 
tion. We  are  no  hyper-rigid  moral- 
ists ourselves,  believing  that  harm- 
less fiction  can  seldom  be  unrea- 
sonable. But  we  are  bound  to  call 
attention  to  the  fact,  that  in  this 
new  propaganda,  the  reputation  of 
the  editor  cuts  both  ways.  He 
must  always  be  a  man  highly  con- 
sidered by  the  religious  world ; 
often  he  is  a  divine  of  undoubted 
piety  and  learning,  though  belong- 
ing to  one  of  the  broader  schools 
of  theology.  But  while  his  name 
should  be  a  guarantee  for  sound 
morality,  it  must  serve,  at  the  same 
time,  as  a  passe-partout  for  anything 
to  which  he  gives  his  imprimatur  ; 
and  we  suspect  that  it  blinds  many 
worthy  people  to  the  snares  that  are 
being  spread  for  their  strait-laced 
simplicity. 


248 


Mr  Gladstone  and  the  Next  Election. 


[Feb~ 


MR   GLADSTONE  AND   THE   NEXT   ELECTION. 


THE  renewed  activity  in  the  Lib- 
eral camp  plainly  shows  that  an 
urgent  necessity  for  doing  some- 
thing has  come  home  to  the  Oppo- 
sition. The  times  are  bad,  and  the 
Eastern  Question  has  begun  a  new 
chapter  of  its  history.  The  Berlin 
Settlement  is  being  successfully  car- 
ried out,  and  promises  to  endure. 
The  memory  of  the  past  is  growing 
a  little  dim;  the  future  is  neces- 
sarily obscure.  The  former  offers  a 
fine  field  for  ingenious  and  romantic 
disquisition ;  the  latter  for  dark  and 
dismal  prophecy. 

The  future  attacks  from  the  Op- 
position will  accordingly  be  deliv- 
ered from  a  different  stand-point 
from  the  past.  We  shall  hear  no 
more  of  an  unprincipled  Ministry 
trying  to  drag  the  country  into  war 
against  Russia,  or  of  an  inhuman 
Ministry  refusing  joint  action  with 
Russia.  No ;  the  cry  for  the  future 
will  be  that  a  little  statesmanship 
would  have  prevented  the  late  war 
altogether;  and  that  a  more  reso- 
lute and  courageous  policy  would 
have  wrested  from  Russia  even 
the  slight  territorial  advantages 
which  were  finally,  with  the  sanc- 
tion of  Europe,  conceded  to  the 
victor.  "  It  is  not,"  says  Sir  Wil- 
liam Harcourt  at  Oxford,  "  that  they 
have  opposed  the  ambition  of  Rus- 
sia, but  that  they  have  opposed  it 
in  the  wrong  way,  with  the  wrong 
weapons,  and  that  they  have  played 
the  game,  and  secured  the  success 
of  Russia."  In  other  words,  the 
end  and  aim  of  their  policy  were 
always  right — to  oppose  the  ambi- 
tion of  Russia.  But  they  played 
their  game  badly,  because  they 
lacked  "a  little  sagacity — a  little 
forethought — a  little  courage."  It 
is  not,  however,  of  Sir  William 
Harcou-rt's  speech  that  we  care  to 


write.  It  is  for  him  to  explain 
how  it  is  that  a  Ministry  with 
such  sound  aims  but  such  unskil- 
ful conduct,  attained  to  such  com- 
plete supremacy  in  England  and 
in  Europe  as  to  be  held  even  by 
himself  solely  responsible  for  the 
Berlin  Settlement;  and  how  it 
is  that  the  Opposition  have  been 
so  completely  misunderstood,  both 
at  home  and  abroad,  as  to  their  real 
aims,  whilst  denouncing  the  pro- 
tection of  British  interests,  and  ap- 
plauding the  humane  and  beneficent 
deeds  of  Russia.  The  result  of  the 
North  Norfolk  election,  which  the 
Liberal  party  had  deliberately  made 
to  turn  upon  these  very  question?, 
is  a  pretty  conclusive  rejoinder  to 
Sir  William  Harcourt's  eloquence, 
and  to  the  more  forcible  than  ac- 
curate arguments  by  which  Mr 
Forster  sought  to  sway  the  minds 
of  the  constituency. 

It  is  not  given  to  every  man  to 
bend  the  bow  of  Achilles,  and  Sir 
William  Harcourt's  oration,  how- 
ever brilliant,  is  but  a  feeble  at- 
tempt to  follow  in  Mr  Gladstone's 
wake.  That  distinguished  states- 
man writes  and  speaks  with  such 
extreme  volubility  that  three-fourths 
of  what  he  says  are  consigned  to 
speedy  oblivion.  But  a  recent  article 
of  his  in  the  '  Nineteenth  Century  ' 
has  attracted  considerable  notice, 
and  is  so  evidently  intended  to  be- 
gin a  new  chapter  of  political  dis- 
cussion, that  we  make  no  apology 
for  inviting  our  readers'  attention 
to  it  in  detail.  The  object  is  to 
show,  in  a  much  more  complete  and 
masterly  way  than  Sir  William  Har- 
court is  capable  of,  that  Mr  Glad- 
stone and  his  followers  have  been 
and  are  the  true  foes  of  Russia ;  the 
Ministry  its  real  friends — blind  in- 
stinct and  base  calculations  of  party 


1879." 


Mr  Gladstone  and  the  Next  Election. 


219 


profit  being  somewhat  inconsistent- 
ly assigned  as  the  propelling  mo- 
tives of  their  policy.  That  is  the  real 
drift  and  avowed  object  of  Mr  Glad- 
stone's article  upon  the  "  Friends 
and  Foes  of  Eussia." 

The  bare  statement  of  this  object 
is  enough  to  take  one's  breath  away, 
remembering  the  various  episodes 
of  the  last  three  years.  But  when 
a  statesman  of  Mr  Gladstone's  emi- 
nence comes  forward  to  challenge 
public  opinion  on  an  issue  of  such 
importance,  and  is  hailed  by  his 
supporters  with  an  enthusiastic  but 
not  very  discriminating  approval, 
it  becomes  necessary  to  examine 
this  novel  thesis  and  the  grounds 
upon  which  it  is  put  forward.  If 
our  readers  will  follow  us  through 
that  examination, -we  will  show  them 
that  the  whole  article  is  one  tissue  of 
extravagant  inconsistencies  from  the 
beginning  to  the  end.  Sir  W.  Har- 
court  has  missed  its  mark  altogether. 
There  is  not  a  word  in  it  about 
curbing  or  opposing  Russian  ambi- 
tion, or  defending  British  interests. 
But  both  Mr  Gladstone  and  Sir  W. 
Harcourt  are  agreed  upon  this,  that 
nothing  which  the  Ministry  has 
done  was  or  could  have  been  right. 

Who  have  been  and  are  the  real 
friends,  or  the  sturdy  opponents,  of 
Russia  1 — that  is  to  be  the  question 
of  the  future,  and  is  propounded  as 
the  Berlin  Settlement  draws  to  a 
completion.  Let  us,  however,  look 
back  for  a  moment.  By  that  settle- 
ment, and  by  the  Anglo-Turkish 
Convention,  the  Ministry  have,  with 
a  view  to  restrain  Russian  aggression, 
reconstituted  the  Ottoman  empire  ; 
they  have  placed  Austria  between 
Russia  and  Constantinople,  they 
have  maintained  the  commercial 
freedom  of  the  Straits  and  the  Black 
Sea,  and  prepared  for  the  defence  of 
the  Asiatic  frontier.  The  military 
measures  necessitated  by  the  recent 
conduct  of  Russia  in  Affghanistan 
and  its  consequences,  are  also  in 


process  of  execution.  The  empire 
has  been  and  is  being  rendered 
secure,  in  spite  of  all  that  Russia 
has  done  or  may  hereafter  be  cap- 
able of  doing. 

During  the  progress  of  that  task, 
a  large  section  of  the  Liberal  party, 
fully  one -half,  has  been  avowedly 
and  angrily  on  the  side  of  Russia. 
It  hounded  her  on  to  a  war  of. 
aggression.  It  called  for  an  open 
infraction  of  the  treaties  which 
guarded  South-eastern  Europe.  It 
demanded  joint  action  with  Russia, 
so  .as  to  break  the  neck  of  Turkish 
power  on  the  Bosphorus.  Though 
it  waged  the  Crimean  war  to 
ward  off  contingent  peril  to  Con- 
stantinople and  the  Bosphorus,  it 
viewed  the  actual  advance  of  the 
Russians  to  Tchataldja  with  satis- 
faction. It  refused  the  vote  of 
credit  whilst  the  armies  of  the  Czar 
were  at  the  gates  of  the  Turkish 
capital.  It  denounced  the  calling 
out  of  the  Reserves,  and  indeed 
every  kind  of  preparation,  naval  or 
military.  The  persistent  cry  was, 
Only  look  at  the  strong  humanity 
of  the  Czar  and  the  noble  sympa- 
thies of  his  subjects.  Let  us  emu* 
late  their  good  deeds,  and  join  in 
emancipating  the  subject-races  of 
the  Turk — in  other  words,  in  in- 
flicting upon  them  all  the  havoc, 
misery,  and  carnage  of  war,  with  a 
view  to  those  reforms  of  adminis- 
tration which  all  desire,  but  which 
can  only  be  worked  out  by  patience 
and  peaceful  exertion. 

Months  and  years  roll  on,  and  in 
spite  of  this  wayward  faction,  the 
Ministry  is  stoutly  supported ;  and 
without  firing  a  single  shot,  by  the 
mere  force  of  tenacious  resolution 
triumphing  over  adverse  circum- 
stances, it  compels  the  Czar  on 
certain  terms,  not  of  vital  import- 
ance, to  submit  his  projected  treaty 
to  a  European  Congress,  and  accept 
at  its  hands  a  settlement  satisfac- 
tory to  Great  Britain  and  to  Europe, 


250 


Mr  Gladstone  and  the  Next  Election. 


[Feb. 


by  which  a  large  portionof  the  stipu- 
lated jura  victorls  was  abandoned. 
Again  the  months  roll  by,  and 
from  all  hands — from  Constanti- 
nople, from  Berlin,  from  Vienna, 
and  from  St  Petersburg — comes 
the  gratifying  intelligence  that 
this  settlement,  one  of  the  greatest 
triumphs  of  peaceful  diplomacy  ever 
effected  by  this  country,  is  being 
continuously  and  successfully  carried 
out  "to  the  letter  and  the  com- 
plete spirit."  Public  opinion  at  the 
time,  posterity  in  the  end,  will 
applaud  that  achievement  of  the 
British  Ministry  as  one  of  the  grand- 
est ever  effected  by  the  power  and 
justice  of  England.  But  in  the  va- 
rious eddies  which  impede  the  reg- 
ular flow  of  public  opinion,  though 
they  fail  to  stem  or  divert  it,  it  is 
thought  that  dissatisfaction  is  dis- 
cernible. The  times  are  hard,  the 
bill  will  have  to  be  paid,  the  coun- 
try is  fast  being  delivered  from  the 
strain  which  Eussia  has  so  long 
inflicted  upon  it;  with  a  sense  of 
deliverance  comes  a  certain  loosen- 
ing of  the  obligation  to  support 
the  Ministry,  and  a  disposition  to 
unfurl  again  the  flag  of  Opposition, 
provided  that  the  leaders  will  under- 
take to  guard  the  country  against  the 
world- wide  machinations  of  its  rival. 
According  to  this  view,  the  pro- 
mised success  of  the  Berlin  Settle- 
ment offers  a  new  point  of  depart- 
ure in  home  party  politics,  and 
brings  with  it  a  new  chapter  of 

Eolitical  discussion.  It  is  calcu- 
ited  that  the  patient  who  clung  to 
his  doctor  will  on  recovery  be  alien- 
ated by  the  sight  of  the  bill,  and 
by  suggestions  that  his  ailment  was 
exaggerated,  and  might  have  been 
prevented ;  that  the  suitor  who  has 
won  his  case  will  find  that  he  has 
still  some  costs  to  pay,  and  suspect 
that  litigation  might  have  been 
avoided.  It  will,  we  believe,  be 
difficult  to  bamboozle  the  public  in 
that  way  ;  and  the  more  active  sec- 


tion of  the  Liberal  party  will  be 
somewhat  hampered  in  the  attempt 
by  their  past  speeches  and  pamph- 
lets. But  that  the  endeavour  will 
be  made  is  obvious.  The  recovered 
patient,  the  successful  suitor,  will 
be  asked,  bill  in  hand,  Is  this  the 
way  in  which  he  wishes  his  affairs 
to  be  directed  ?  And  in  order  that 
the  question  may  be  put  by  those 
who  will,  notwithstanding  what  has 
passed,  undertake  in  future  to  con- 
sult his  interests,  and  guarantee 
him  against  a  recurrence  of  disaster, 
a  change  of  front  must  be  speedily 
executed ;  and  for  the  way  to  do  so 
— unblushingly,  and  with  consum- 
mate adroitness — commend  us  to 
this  article  of  Mr  Gladstone's  on  the 
"  Friends  and  Foes  of  Eussia." 

The  scope  of  this  remarkable 
manifesto,  in  which  Mr  Gladstone 
has  exerted  all  his  energy  and  all 
his  ingenuity  to  effect  a  reunion  of 
his  own  party,  and  provide  a  net 
wide  enough  to  catch  all  malcon- 
tents (from  whatever  cause)  with 
the  Administration,  is  as  follows  : 
He  describes  the  Liberal  party  as 
the  real  enemy  of  Eussia,  and  the 
"  British  Tories"  as  its  traditional 
friends;  and  for  this  purpose  no 
words  are  dark  enough  wherewith 
to  paint  the  horrors  of  "Eussian- 
ism."  His  next  point  is,  that  the 
"relation  between  Eussia  and  the 
Liberals  of  this  country"  during 
the  past  three  years  was  purely 
exceptional — due  to  the  circum- 
stance that  Eussia  in  that  period 
laid  aside  her  Eussianism,  and 
"achieved  by  her  unaided  efforts 
a  work  of  liberation;"  and  for  this 
purpose  no  words  are  bright  enough 
to  paint  the  virtues  of  Czar  and 
people,  and  even  of  individuals 
belonging  to  that  dangerous  class 
called  "society."  His  third  point 
is,  that  "the  temporary  defection 
of  the  Tories  from  the  Eussian 
camp  "  during  the  last  three  years, 
and  their  standing  hostility,  crossed 


1879.] 


Mr  Gladstone  and  the  Next  Election. 


251 


and  streaked  by  veins  of  peculiar 
intimacy,  has,  notwithstanding  the 
skill  and  daring  with  which  they 
have  played  their  game  with  a  view 
to  politics  at  home,  conferred  on 
Russia  advantages  which  the  policy 
of  Liberalism  would  have  kept 
wholly  out  of  her  reach.  His 
fourth  point  is,  that  the  Ministry 
has  truckled  to  Russia.  It  allowed 
the  cession  of  Kars,  Batoum,  and 
Bessarabia,  for  which  Mr  Gladstone 
presumably  would  have  gone  to 
war;  for  it  is  well  known  that 
the  cession  could  not  have  been 
prevented  without  war.  Further 
than  that,  the  submission  of  the 
Ministry  to  Russia  in  the  case  of 
their  AfFghan  embassy  was  undue 
and  humiliating,  not  to  be  matched 
in  our  modern  history ;  and  appar- 
ently our  warlike  ex-Premier  would 
have  avenged  it  in  blood.  His  fifth 
point  is  that  the  Ministry,  however 
much  they  truckle  to  Russia,  have 
at  all  events  declared  war  on  the 
Parliament  and  the  Constitution  of 
their  own  country. 

This  is  a  bold  and  daring  mani- 
festo. It  is  evidently  published 
with  a  view  to  the  elections,  and  it 
propounds  as  the  great  question 
which  the  people  must  then  answer, 
wliether  the  present  mode  is  the 
mode  in  which  they  wish  the  country 
to  be  governed.  Mr  Gladstone  may 
possibly,  as  he  reviews  his  own 
antecedents  during  the  last  three 
years,  have  some  twinges  of  con- 
science whether  he  is  the  man 
to  assail  the  Ministry  from  the 
platform  of  anti-Russianism.  He, 
at  all  events,  sees,  or  thinks  he 
sees,  that  the  hour  at  least  has 
come  when  the  attempt  should  be 
made.  The  strain  of  immediate 
danger  is  over;  the  enthusiasm 
for  the  Minister  perhaps  will  cool 
when  he  is  no  longer  a  political 
necessity;  and  while  peace  has  been 
preserved  and  the  empire  secured, 
the  discontents  of  the  past,  the  pres- 


ent, and  the  future,  may  now  be 
dexterously  rallied  to  a  general 
attack.  "  The  special  aim,"  Mr 
Gladstone  says,  "  of  Russian  sympa- 
thies, has  been  not  wholly  but  for 
the  most  part  attained."  A  new  era 
of  discussion  has  commenced.  "  The 
alliance  between  Russia  and  the 
great  cause  of  deliverance  is  no 
longer  the  salient  and  determining 
point  of  the  Eastern  Question." 
Public  danger  has  glided  into  the 
past,  and  the  time  has  arrived  when 
the  reckless  assertions  of  Opposition 
will  no  longer  be  scanned  with  a 
sense  of  present  peril,  but  with  the 
prejudices  born  of  five  years'  suc- 
cessful tenure  of  power. 

Yet  there  are  difficulties  in  the 
way  of  Mr  Gladstone's  crusade 
which  might  well  daunt  a  man  less 
confident  in  his  use  of  tongue  and 
pen.  He  actually  undertakes  to 
pose  before  the  British  public,  after 
all  he  has  said  and  done  during  the 
last  three  years,  as  the  unflinching 
representative  of  its  traditional  en- 
mity to  Russia,  the  man  who  would 
have  compelled  fulfilment  of  all  its 
humanitarian  pretexts,  anc}  would 
have  sternly  refused  to  her  one  iota 
of  territorial  aggrandisement  or  po- 
litical advantage.  The  British  pub- 
lic has  been  occasionally  befooled, 
but  never  so  grossly  as  Mr  Glad- 
stone now  seems  willing  to  gull  it. 
Mr  Gladstone's  antecedents  in  refer- 
ence to  this  question  are  all  known. 
In  1854  he  joined  in  plunging 
this  country  into  war,  and  has 
never  since  been  able  to  explain 
the  reason — the  Emperor  Nicholas's 
object  then  being  precisely  the  same 
as  Prince  Gortsehakoft's  object  in 
1876.  It  is  true  that  he  starved 
the  war  which  he  began,  and  in  the 
midst  of  "  horrible  and  heartrend- 
ing "  disaster,  fled  from  the  Cabinet. 
The  next  step  was  to  disavow  its 
objects,  and  clamour  for  peace,  in  a 
manner  which,  in  the  Prince  Con- 
sort's language,  "rendered  all  chance 


252 


Mr  Gladstone  and  the  Next  Election. 


[Feb. 


of  obtaining  an  honourable  peace 
without  great  sacrifice  of  blood  and 
treasure  impossible,  by  giving  new 
hopes  and  spirit  to  the  enemy." 
Consistently  with  this  conduct, 
which  drew  down  upon  him  the 
severe  rebuke  of  Lord  Palmerston, 
this  traditional  foe  to  Russia  has 
incessantly,  during  the  last  three 
years,  laboured  with  all  his  might  to 
enervate  the  mind  of  this  country 
during  one  of  the  most  critical 
situations  in  which  it  has  ever 
been  placed.  It  is  not  merely 
that  he  hounded  Russia  on  to  war 
with  Turkey,  and  by  his  inflam- 
matory action,  both  in  England 
and  Russia,  played  into  the  hands 
of  those  "  dangerous  classes  "  whose 
lust  for  war  he  now  denounces,  but 
whose  action  he  helped  to  render 
irrepressible.  It  is  not  merely  that 
at  every  stage  in  the  progress  of 
the  war  he  sided  with  Russia,  de- 
nounced conditional  neutrality,  and 
laughed  to  scorn  the  notion  of  any 
British  interests  being  involved, 
though  twenty  years  ago  he  had 
poured  out  blood  and  treasure  to 
prevent  even  the  approach  of  danger. 
But  at  the .  critical  moment,  with 
the  Russians  at  the  gates  of  Con- 
stantinople, and  on  the  shores  of 
the  Bosphorus,  and  on  the  lines  of 
Bulair,  he  refused  the  vote  of 
credit,  and  denounced  preparations 
of  self-defence.  The  same  man 
who  ran  away  from  disaster  before 
Sebastopol,  who  surrendered  the 
Black  Sea  clause  of  the  Treaty  of 
Paris,  after  whining  to  Prince  Bis- 
marck before  the  gates  of  Paris  about 
"  future  complications,"  actually 
argued  in  the  House  of  Commons 
against  a  limitation  of  the  Russian 
demands ;  declared  at  Oxford  that 
the  Russians  were  working  a  great 
deliverance  ;  and  plainly  hinted  that 
he  with  their  aid,  and  they  with  his, 
had  overruled  the  policy  of  the 
English  Cabinet.  He  denounced  the 
advance  of  the  English  fleet,  and 


deprecated  the  remotest  association 
of  friendly  discussion  with  Russia 
with  the  rumour  of  arms.  In  his 
anxiety  to  rely  on  that  moral  in- 
fluence which  consists  with  an 
unusual  promptitude  in  showing 
your  heels  to  an  adversary,  he  well- 
nigh  roused  the  war  passions  of 
this  country  to  an  ungovernable 
pitch. 

Such  is  the  man  who  now  desires 
to  pose  before  the  country  as  the 
traditional  foe  to  Russia,  prepared 
to  argue  that  a  lofty  disregard  for 
British  interests  is  the  only  way 
to  insure  "the  fairest  prospects  of 
humanity ; "  that  the  great  inter- 
national settlement  of  the  South- 
east was  not  worth  preserving,  in 
comparison  with  the  accomplish- 
ment of  the  Czar's  beneficent  de- 
signs ;  that  the  Treaty  of  Berlin 
was  worthless,  as  regards  Great 
Britain,  when  compared  with  the 
cession  of  Kars,  Batoum,  and  Bes- 
sarabia. 

With  such  a  leader,  and  such  an 
opportunity,  let  us  examine  more 
closely  the  nature  of  the  attempt, 
and  the  process  by  which  anti- 
Russianism  is  combined  with  severe 
condemnation  of  the  Ministry;  ap- 
plause of  Russian  aggression,  with 
censure  of  the  slightest  British  con- 
cession ',  and  the  admitted  improve- 
ment in  the  condition  of  the  subject- 
races  under  the  Treaty  of  Berlin, 
with  Tory  resistance  to  the  progress 
of  freedom. 

The  first  discussion  is  in  refer- 
ence to  the  horrors  of  Russianism. 
Before  Russia  "  emerged  from  her 
despotic  institutions" — a  circum- 
stance in  her  history  to  which  no 
date  is  or  can  be  assigned — she  was 
the  head  of  European  Toryism  ;  and 
"  except  in  cases  of  pure  exception, 
she  has  uniformly  and  habitually 
ranged  in  European  politics  with 
the  antagonists  of  freedom."  The 
chain  of  evil  tradition,  he  says,  has 
never  been  broken  by  a  personal 


Mr  Gladstone  and  the  Next  Election. 


1379.] 


change  in  the  occupancy  of  the 
throne,  but  it  has  secured  the  sym- 
pathy of  Toryism.  To  illustrate  this 
preternatural  and  wholly  depraved 
passion  for  Eussianism  which  dis- 
tinguishes the  Tory  party,  our 
readers  will  he  glad  to  learn  that 
"  nothing  can  he  more  to  the  point " 
than  Lord  Beaconsfield's  proposal 
in  1870,  that  Russia  and  England 
should  come  to  an  understanding  so 
as  to  restore  peace  and  avert  the 
horrors  of  war  between  France  and 
Germany.  If  that  suggestion  is 
the  strongest  proof  which  Mr  Glad- 
stone can  adduce  of  Tory  sympathy 
with  the  vices  of  Russianism,  and 
its  readiness  to  co-operate  with  her 
in  every  evil  design,  we  might  help 
him  to  a  still  more  striking  instance. 
In  1875,  when  another  Franco- 
German  war  was  imminent  —  but 
when,  fortunately  for  the  interests 
of  European  peace,  Mr  Disraeli,  and 
not  Mr  Gladstone,  was  at  the  head 
of  the  English  Government  —  a 
Russian  understanding  was  not 
merely  suggested,  but  actually  ar- 
rived at  and  carried  into  effect. 
The  consequence  was  that  peace 
was  preserved,  England  and  Russia 
sharing  in  the  credit  —  the  one 
silently  and  unobtrusively,  the 
other  noisily,  with  a  view  to  in- 
crease of  prestige,  and  with  short- 
sighted disregard  of  German  sus- 
ceptibilities. 

But  how  comes  it  that  a  Power 
which  is  the  habitual  antagonist  of 
freedom,  and  with  which  it  is  an 
act  of  political  depravity  even  on 
the  part  of  Tories  in  the  least  de- 
gree to  sympathise,  became,  all  of 
a  sudden,  contrary  to  its  usual  in- 
stincts, the  disinterested  champion 
of  freedom  against  oppression,  the 
great  liberator  of  foreign  races  and 
nations'?  In  his  invective  against 
the  quondam  ally  of  Toryism,  it 
was  necessary  to  hedge  a  little,  re- 
membering the  recent  ally  of  Liber- 
alism; and  accordingly,  Mr  Glad- 

VOL.  CXXV. NO.  DCCLX. 


253 


stone  provided  for  himself  two  loop- 
holes of  escape — one  a  mysterious 
reference  to  Russian  emergence  from 
despotic  institutions,  the  other  a 
dry  hint  at  some  few  cases  of  pure 
exception  to  the  general  course  of 
Russian  policy  and  history.  Let 
us  examine  these  loopholes  by  the 
light  of  considerations  drawn  from 
within  the  four  corners  of  Mr  Glad- 
stone's article.  The  theory  (if  it 
is  seriously  urged)  that  Russia  has 
emerged  from  despotic  institutions, 
and  is  therefore  entitled  to  the  allegi- 
ance of  the  free,  won't  hold  good  for 
a  single  moment.  In  the  first  place, 
no  one  ever  heard  of  it  before.  In 
the  second  place,  Mr  Gladstone 
neither  says  when  nor  how  it  oc- 
curred ;  and  if  he  is  satisfied  with, 
the  degree  of  this  emergence,  his 
evidence  would  be,  ipso  facto, 
stamped  as  that  of  a  reprobate  Tory 
of  the  darkest  type,  and  therefore 
inadmissible.  In  the  third  place, 
he  complains  that  even  down  to 
the  Treaty  of  Berlin  "it  was  left 
to  the  despot  to  perform  the  duty 
of  the  free"  (p.  172);  her  "return 
to  her  old  vocation  in  European  pol- 
itics "  is  still  imminent  (p.  174) ;  it 
is  a  crying  grievance  that  she  has 
replaced  Bessarabia  under  despotic 
institutions  (p.  176);  she  still  acts 
with  "gross  and  tyrannous  ingrati- 
tude," and  enters  into  conspiiacies 
against  freedom  (p.  178).  ]t  is 
clear,  therefore,  that  on  Mr  Glad- 
stone's own  showing,  Russia  has 
not  yet  turned  over  a  new  leaf  in 
the  history  of  her  national  life.  The 
sow  that  was  washed  for  the  pur- 
poses of  Liberalism  is  still  found 
wallowing  in  the  mire;  the  old 
Adam  of  despotism  is  too  strong  for 
the  new-born  champion  of  freedom. 
Then,  was  her  recent  champion- 
ship all  that  is  good  and  great,  and 
virtuous  and  free,  a  "pure  excep- 
tion "  in  her  general  course  of  polit- 
ical conduct  ?  If  so,  what  were  its 
distinguishing  characteristics  ?  why 


254 


Mr  Gladstone  and  the  Next  Election. 


[Feb. 


was  England  suddenly  to  place  in 
her  unbounded  confidence,  and  in 
full  assurance  of  the  rectitude  of 
her  intentions,  join  in  rolling  up 
the  Treaty  of  Paris,  and  the  Otto- 
man empire  along  with  it  1  This 
habitual  antagonist  of  freedom 
waged  war,  according  to  Mr  Glad- 
stone, to  confer  freedom  and  lib- 
erate from  oppression  ;  and  that 
sacred  cause  insured  to  her  the 
sympathies  of  British  Liberals. 
Austria,  we  are  told  (see  p.  192), 
"  unlike  .Russia,  has  perhaps  never 
once  been  led  astray  by  any  accident 
into  sympathy  with  external  free- 
dom." It  would  seem  from  this 
that  the  "  pure  exception "  was 
after  all  only  an  accident,  which 
justified — having  regard  to  all  the 
antecedents — a  certain  amount  of 
care  and  circumspection  on  the 
part  of  those  who  had  to  deal  with 
it ;  more  particularly  as  at  the  out- 
set Eussia  was  in  close  alliance  with 
this  very  Austria  and  Germany  to 
the  exclusion  of  England.  In  pro- 
portion as  the  alleged  exception  runs 
counter,  on  Mr  Gladstone's  own 
showing,  to  Russia's  past  history,  a 
portion  of  her  present  conduct,  and 
to  her  probable  future,  it  was  in- 
cumbent on  him  to  prove  his  case. 
He  defends  the  alliance  of  the  three 
Emperors,  and  calls  it  a  European 
concert.  Till  England  interfered 
and  broke  it  up,  Eussia,  with  the 
countenance  of  Austria,  was  diffus- 
ing all  around  her  the  blessings  of 
freedom.  To  remove  all  suspicion 
of  improbability,  he  appeals  to  the 
Czar,  and  says  that  his  emancipation 
of  the  serfs  was  a  triumph  of  peace- 
ful legislation;  that  his  assurances 
about  Khiva  implied  an  honourable 
anxiety  for  the  friendship  of  Eng- 
land; that  his  resort  to  force,  in 
violation  of  those  assurances,  had 
"  every  appearance  of  reason  and 
justice."  As  is  the  Czar,  so  are  the 
people.  But  the  spirit  of  aggres- 
sion, he  admits,  animates  the  oli- 


garchic, diplomatic,  and  military 
class,  which  stands  between  the 
Czar  and  his  people,  and  works 
day  and  night  for  its  own  ends, 
which  are  dangerous  as  regards  the 
rights  of  other  countries  and  the 
peace  of  the  world.  This  scarcely 
raises  a  presumption  in  favour  of 
Eussian  aggression  being  in  this 
instance,  contrary  to  all  past  ex- 
perience, humane  and  generous. 
Twenty  years  ago  she  admittedly 
"  struggled  for  the  power  of  arbi- 
trary interference,  and  not  for  the 
relief  of  the  oppressed."  "What 
was  there  in  the  recent  proceedings 
to  distinguish  them  from  her  usual 
and  well-known  course  of  intrigue, 
pretexts  of  oppression,  conquest, 
annexation  1  The  only  answer  ap- 
parently is  that,  "in  1876,  she 
was  content  to  work  as  a  member 
of  the  European  family,  in  strict 
concert  with  its  other  members," 
and  that  owing  to  England  she 
was  left  to  act  alone.  That  is  to 
say,  she  was  quite  willing  to  act 
with  Europe  till  Europe  disap- 
proved invasion  and  violence  ;  and 
then  she  acted  in  spite  of  Europe, 
and  in  opposition  to  Europe.  More- 
over, until  England  interfered  — 
France  being  temporarily  effaced 
and  Germany  quiescent — she  was 
acting  chiefly  in  concert  with  Aus- 
tria, who  is  never,  he  says,  by  any 
accident  on  the  side  of  freedom. 
From  first  to  last — from  the  encour- 
agement given  to  Bosnian  revolt 
and  Servian  invasion,  down  to  the 
peace  of  San  Stefano — there  was 
not  a  step  taken  which  was  not  in 
violation  of  treaties  which  she  was 
bound  to  respect.  Under  the  in- 
fluence of  England,  the  European 
concert  was  preserved  as  regards  all 
peaceable  intervention ;  the  Eng- 
lish Government  even  sanctioned 
the  protocols  of  the  Constantinople 
Conference.  Eussia  and  Turkey 
stepped  outside  the  European  con- 
cert to  fight  out  the  war  which 


1879.] 


Mr  Gladstone  and  the  Next  Election. 


255 


Russia  had  rendered  inevitable. 
The  subject-races  were  the  pretext 
and  the  sufferers.  For  England  to 
have  joined  with  Russia,  as  Mr 
Gladstone  wanted,  would  have  been 
to  convulse  the  world. 

The  "  pure  exception,"  however, 
arose  in  this  instance  because  "  the 
sympathies  of  religion  and  race 
traversed  the  ordinary  action  of 
the  instincts  of  power."  But 
those  sympathies,  unluckily  for  the 
argument,  existed  as  strongly  at 
the  time  of  the  Crimean  war  as 
now.  Mr  Gladstone's  unfortunate 
antecedents  compel  him  to  uphold 
the  national  indignation  at  that 
Russian  aggression  as  "  noble ; "  for 
in  resistance  to  such  an  outrage 
"  there  was  little  to  stir  up  the 
baser  elements  of  our  nature/'  In 
either  case,  apparently,  the  British 
interests  involved  were  phantom 
interests,  no  less  fictitious  than 
obtrusive.  But  in  the  one  case 
there  was  the  arbitrary  and  over- 
bearing temper  of  Nicholas,  and  in 
the  other  the  strong  humanity  of 
Alexander;  and  Mr  Gladstone  ap- 
parently believes  that  English  blood 
and  treasure  might  be  lavishly  poured 
forth ,  first  on  one  side,  and  then  on  the 
other,  without  the  slightest  regard, 
in  either  case,  to  British  interests 
or  the  faith  of  treaties,  but  simply 
on  vague  sentimental  considerations 
founded  on  the  personal  character- 
istics of  the  Czar.  The  fact  is,  that 
no  case  whatever  is  made  out  in 
favour  of  the  "  pure  exception " 
theory.  We  should  never  have 
heard  of  it  but  for  the  necessity, 
which  still  stares  Mr  Gladstone  in 
the  face,  of  endeavouring  to  justify 
his  Bulgarian  agitation  before  his 
party,  his  country,  and  posterity, 
and  in  spite  of  every  sentiment 
which  on  the  face  of  this  article 
should  animate  an  English  states- 
man in  his  dealings  with  Russia. 

The  great  indictment  against  the 
Tory  party  is,  that  in  the  recent 


controversy  they  throughout  pre- 
ferred phantom  and  incomprehen- 
sible British  interests,  to  helping 
Russia  in  her  accidental  and  purely 
exceptional  zeal  in  furthering  the 
work  of  liberation  and  the  cause  of 
the  oppressed.  "  Only  foul  waters," 
he  says,  "  could  flow  from  a  source 
so  polluted."  Let  us  therefore  ex- 
amine these  foul  waters  with  the 
aid  of  Mr  Gladstone's  article.  They 
will  be  found  to  be  pure  and  bright 
when  the  object  is  to  depict  the 
benefits  which  flow  from  Russian 
chivalry  and  zeal  for  freedom  ; 
black  when  they  are  befouled  by 
the  pernicious  influences  which 
were  born  of  attention  to  British 
interests.  Standing  on  the  vantage- 
ground  of  Russian  zeal  for  human 
happiness  and  freedom,  especially 
on  the  borders  of  her  empire  and 
amongst  the  subjects  of  a  neigh- 
bouring sovereign,  he  looks  back 
upon  the  past.  In  his  melancholy 
retrospect  there  is  no  action  of 
Russia  which  the  English  Govern- 
ment has  resisted  which  was  not  dis- 
interested and  noble ;  and  wherever 
concession  was  made,  even  that  was 
not  right,  for  it  was  by  no  means  in 
furtherance  of  Russian  beneficence, 
still  less  because  equivalents — with- 
out war,  and  with  due  regard  to 
British  interests — were  found  else- 
where ;  but  it  was  concession  found- 
ed on  a  base  "conspiracy  with  her 
against  freedom." 

It  seems  so  utterly  incredible 
that  an  English  statesman  should 
write  in  this  way — one  who  has  ac- 
tually held  the  office  of  Prime  Min- 
ister, and  who  has  joined  with 
Lord  Palmerston  and  other  states- 
men of  the  highest  eminence  in 
declaring  war  against  this  very 
Power  to  repel  its  traditional  de- 
signs on  precisely  the  same  theatre 
of  action — that  having  drawn  atten- 
tion to  it,  we  must  lay  before  our 
readers  a  sample  of  his  accusations. 
They  relate  to  British  action  in 


256 


Mr  Gladstone  and  the  Next  Election. 


[FeK 


reference  to  Russia  during  the  pro- 
gress of  the  recent  controversy, 
and  to  British  action  in  negotiating 
the  Treaty  of  Berlin.  The  general 
result  is  that  "  British  Tories " 
resisted,  for  their  own  party  pur- 
poses and  gain,  a  great  work  of  de- 
liverance, offering  to  the  accidental 
and  purely  exceptional  humanity 
of  its  author  an  unprincipled  resist- 
ance, now  and  then  streaked  with 
a  dangerous  intimacy  whenever 
Russia,  forgetful  of  her  high  mis- 
sion, was  willing  to  conspire  with 
them  against  the  cause  of  freedom, 
which  she  had  so  recently,  and  in 
a  manner  so  contrary  to  all  her 
instincts  and  antecedents,  made  her 
own. 

According  to  this  jaundiced  view 
of  public  affairs,  the  motives  of  her 
Majesty's  Ministers  were  as  base  as 
their  conduct  was  inhuman.  They 
assumed  the  mask  of  nationality  as 
a  mere  "  trick  of  party."  They 
did  so  in  order  to  disintegrate 
the  ranks  of  their  opponents,  by 
"  filching  and  appropriating  the 
national  credit ; "  and  this  is  re- 
presented as  a  safe  calculation. 
Besides  the  desire  of  disintegrating 
the  Liberal  ranks,  they  wished  to 
discredit  the  cause  of  freedom  and 
humanity  in  the  East.  No  sooner 
did  Russia  stand  in  a  sympathetic 
relation  to  that  cause,  than  her 
Majesty's  Ministers  immediately 
discovered  that  she  was  the  best 
"  phlogistic  "  they  could  find,  so  as 
to  enable  them  to  execute  their 
profitable  trick.  Accordingly  they 
at  once  threw  the  Christian  cause 
into  the  hands  of  Russia,  their  fol- 
lowers raising  no  objection — (for 
when  did  Tories  ever  speak  a  word 
for  freedom?) — and  then,  because 
the  hands  were  Russian,  they  re- 
viled all  who  supported  them  as 
"  in  some  special  and  guilty  sense 
the  friends  of  Russia.  "  The  great 
Russian  bogie  was  purchased,  and  ex- 
hibited at  every  fair  in  the  country." 


This  will  not  strike  our  readers 
as  very  felicitous  or  finished  invec- 
tive ;  it  is  that  coarse  type  of  abuse 
which  might  be  relegated  to  some  of 
the  lower  emissaries  of  a  Birming- 
ham caucus,  rather  than  deliberate- 
ly written  by  a  statesman  of  the 
highest  eminence  in  a  high-class 
periodical. 

The  Christian  cause  having  thus 
been  designedly  thrown  into  Rus- 
sian hands,  in  order  that  the  British 
Tories  might  execute  their  profitable 
trick  of  party  in  assuming  the  mask 
of  nationality,  how  did  the  Chris- 
tian cause  fare?  Russia  struggled 
for  the  relief  of  the  oppressed ;  she 
sought  to  act  in  strict  concert  with 
Europe.  England  broke  up  that 
concert,  "  baffled  and  befooled  every 
joint  movement,"  forced  the  "des- 
pot "  to  act  alone  in  performing  the 
duty  of  the  free.  Liberalism,  of 
course,  could  not  join  in  such  an 
unprincipled  game  as  that,  nor  de- 
sire that  the  subject-races  of  Turkey 
should  remain  debased  by  servitude. 
It  must  be  satisfactory,  therefore, 
to  all  true  patriots  to  learn,  that 
although  Russia  was  forced  by  Brit- 
ish Tories  to  resort  to  "arms  and 
blood,"  yet  thanks  to  the  wise 
sympathy  and  aid  of  Liberalism, 
she  did  eventually  attain  the  end 
of  all  her  sympathies.  Still  the 
success  was  not  wholly  without 
alloy ;  for  Tory  friendship  is  so 
managed  as  to  injure  friends,  and 
Tory  enmity  serves  the  purposes  of 
its  foes.  And  as  Russian  enthu- 
siasm for  freedom,  notwithstanding 
Mr  Gladstone's  evident  sympathy 
with  it,  is  still  a  thing  of  a  very 
fluctuating  character,  with  a  con- 
stant tendency  to  relapse  into  a 
taste  for  oppression  and  despotism, 
Toryism  had  a  fine  scope  for  its 
energies,  and  so  conducted  itself  as 
to  play  into  Russia's  hands  wherever 
she  was  Freedom's  enemy,  "  in  order 
that  she  might  be  made  to  lose 
where  she  was  Freedom's  friend." 


1879.] 


Mr  Gladstone  and  the  Next  Election. 


257 


The  manner  in  which  Mr  Glad- 
stone manages  this  part  of  his  case 
is  the  least  adroit  of  his  whole 
article.  "We  have  noticed  several 
imminent  falls  whilst  he  was  trav- 
ersing a  different  end  of  the  polit- 
ical tight-rope.  It  was  no  easy 
matter  so  to  demonstrate  this  "pure 
exception"  as  to  account  for  the 
traditional  opponent  of  Eussia  be- 
coming, during  an  interval  of  three 
years,  her  wayward  and  uncompro- 
mising friend,  prepared  to  sacrifice 
to  that  friendship,  regardless  of 
Crimean  memories,  all  British  in- 
terests of  whatsoever  kind,  and  to 
welcome  the  Cossack  in  Constantin- 
ople and  on  the  Bosphorus.  The 
difficulty  is  increased  tenfold  when 
it  appears  that  the  "pure  exception" 
itself  must,  after  all  this  uncom- 
promising conduct,  he  fenced  and 
guarded  with  counter -exceptions, 
during  which  Toryism  relapsed  into 
its  depraved  friendship  and  peculiar 
intimacy,  but  Liberalism  did  not 
resume  its  sturdy  and  indignant 
enmity.  The  outcome  of  Eussia's 
beneficent  efforts  was,  it  seems,  a 
mixture  of  good  and  evil,  during 
which  Toryism  resisted  the  good, but 
willingly  gave  place  to  the  evil ;  but 
Liberalism,  we  fear,  on  its  own  show- 
ing, deliberately  befriended  both. 

Let  us  follow  Mr  Gladstone  a 
little  more  closely  along  his  very 
tortuous  and  intricate  path  through 
that  maze  of  complicated  difficulties 
to  which  his  argument  and  his  pas- 
sions have  brought  him.  The  first 
endeavour  is  to  place  before  the 
reader  in  glowing  colours  the  phil- 
anthropic triumphs  of  Eussia,  in 
spite  of  all  the  efforts  of  those  who 
"  are  at  once  the  opponents  of  reform 
at  home,  and  the  main  disturbers  of 
the  general  peace."  And  accord- 
ingly we  read  as  follows  :  "  The 
Slavonic  provinces  of  Turkey  are 
now,  through  the  efforts  and  sacri- 
fices of  a  single  nation,  independent, 
like  Servia  and  Montenegro ;  or  tri- 


butary, like  Bulgaria ;  or  at  the 
very  least  autonomous,  with  a  more 
ambiguous  freedom,  like  Eastern 
Eoumelia.  The  work  of  deliver- 
ance has  been  in  the  main  accom- 
plished. .  .  .  Lands  and  races 
which  England  refused  to  liberate 
are  free."  During  all  the  time 
that  the  accomplishment  of  this 
special  purpose  was  being  effected — 
while  Eussia  wras,  contrary  to  her 
wont,  breaking  chains  instead  of 
forging  them — British  Tory  ism,  with 
a  certainty  of  instinct,  entered  the 
lists  against  her;  brought  phantom 
interests  of  England  into  the  field  ; 
and  under  this  double  influence  of 
hostility  to  freedom,  and  of  a  pro- 
fitable party  manoeuvre,  attained  to 
a  high  degree  of  patriotic  violence. 
The  Tories  "undertook  for  this  oc- 
casion the  role  of  enemies  of  Eus- 
sia." They  accordingly  affronted 
her  Government  and  estranged  her 
people.  They  excited  amongst  the 
people  of  this  country  "  a  fierce 
and  almost  savage  antipathy,"  ex- 
ceeding that  which  obtained  "  dur- 
ing the  Crimean  war  itself."  This 
is  what  they  did.  "  They  limited 
the  belligerent  rights  of  the  Eussian 
State  by  marking  off  Egypt  as  a 
land  consecrated  to  British  interests, 
which  was  to  make  war  against 
Eussia,  but  upon  which  she  might 
not  make  war  in  return."  Then 
there  was  the  Eussian  promise  not 
to  invade  Constantinople, — a  pro- 
mise which  Mr  Gladstone  seems  to 
regard  in  the  same  light  as  the  pro- 
mises about  Khiva — viz.,  as  evinc- 
ing an  honourable  anxiety  to  se- 
cure the  friendship  of  England. 
Possibly  the  Ministry  regarded  the 
Czar's  hope  of  fulfilling  it  in  the 
same  light  as  Mr  Gladstone,  after 
the  event,  regarded  the  Khiva  pro- 
mise—  viz.,  as  "an  over-sanguine 
expectation."  Had  the  Eussians 
broken  their  promise  and  resorted 
to  forcible  invasion,  we  know 
exactly  what  Mr  Gladstone  would 


258 


Mr  Gladstone  and  the  Next  Election. 


[Feb. 


have  thought  of  it.  He'  would 
have  protested,  as  in  the  Khiva 
case,  against  treating,  "  as  an  act 
of  bad  faith,  a  resort  to  force 
which  has  every  appearance  of 
reason  and  of  justice."  He  ac- 
cordingly denounces  the  Ministry 
for  answering  that  promise  not  to 
invade  Constantinople  "  by  sending 
a  fleet  into  its  neighbourhood." 
The  Ministry  flourished  in  the  face 
of  the  Czar  "  the  menace  of  their 
Indian  troops  at  Malta," — a  mislead- 
ing stratagem,  intended  "  to  inspire 
the  perfectly  untrue  belief  that  our 
Indian  army  could  be  withdrawn 
from  India,"  to  strengthen  them  in 
giving  effect  "  to  their  Turkish  and 
anti-Liberal  propensities  at  Berlin, 
which  they  embellished  with  the 
misused  name  of  British  interests." 
The  effect  of  all  this  hostili ty  was, 
however,  quite  powerless  to  arrest 
the  onward  course  of  Russian  suc- 
cesses. Not  merely  did  the  cause 
of  humanity  and  freedom  flourish, 
as  stated  above,  but  Russia  also 
obtained  for  herself  Kars,  Batoum, 
and  Bessarabia.  Not  a  word  is  stat- 
ed as  to  Russia  being  compelled  to 
quit  Constantinople,  the  Bosphorus, 
the  Dardanelles,  and  the  ^Egean, 
and  retire  behind  the  Balkans.  Of 
all  that,  Mr  Gladstone's  article,  and 
Liberal  criticism  generally,  is  silent 
as  the  grave.  The  circumstance  that 
war  was  avoided  in  spite  of  a 
more  "  savage  antipathy  "  than  that 
which  drove  Mr  Gladstone  head- 
long and  with  unreflecting  ardour 
into  the  Crimean  struggle,  and  a 
successful  Russian  aggression  rolled 
back  without  firing  a  shot,  but  at 
the  cost  of  Kars,  Batoum,  and 
Bessarabia,  more  than  balanced  by 
concessions  to  Austria  and  England, 
is  passed  over  without  a  word.  The 
cession  is  traced,  notwithstanding 
the  hatred  and  hostility  imputed,  to 
"  acts  of  association  so  close  and 
suspicious,  that  nothing  less  than 
a  large  unexhausted  stock  of  re- 


putation as  good  Russia  -  haters 
could  have  made  it  safe  to  venture 
on  them."  The  result,  as  we  must 
remind  our  readers,  of  this  suspicious 
act  of  association,  was  that  Russia, 
for  the  advantage  of  being  allowed  to 
retain  this  infinitesimal  residue  of 
her  conquests,  which  neither  policy 
nor  justice  required  us  to  wrench 
from  her  by  force,  consented  publicly 
to  re-enter  the  European  concert, 
submit  the  Treaty  of  San  Stefano 
to  a  Congress,  and  abide  by  its  de- 
cisions. On  Mr  Gladstone's  own 
admission,  in  a  many-headed  ne- 
gotiation the  Government  "must 
give  here  that  it  may  take  there." 
Yet  he  considers  it  part  of  an 
honest  criticism  to  preserve  abso- 
lute silence  as  to  all  the  sacrifices 
peacefully  imposed  upon  a  victori- 
ous nation,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
to  inveigh  against  the  cession  of 
Kars,  Batoum,  and  Bessarabia,  and 
to  impute  in  the  latter  case,  that 
"  the  cause  of  liberty  was  abandoned 
in  Roumania,  in  order  that  it  might 
be  defeated  in  South  Bulgaria." 
The  imputation  is  so  grossly  impro- 
bable, impossible,  and  untrue,  that 
to  indulge  in  it  was  a  piece  of  flip- 
pancy which  stamps  the  whole  in- 
dictment as  absurd.  Every  one 
knows  that  Roumania  was  the  ally 
or  tool  of  Russia  in  her  unprincipled 
aggression;  that  she  went  to  war 
with  her  suzerain  without  being 
able  even  to  allege  a  grievance. 
That  the  aggressors  quarrelled  after 
the  victory  was  won,  and  that  Rou- 
mania in  that  quarrel  went  to  the 
wall,  was  only  what  might  have 
been  expected.  England  had  no- 
thing to  do  with  the  cession  of 
Bessarabia,  except  to  say  that  under 
all  the  circumstances  she  could  not, 
whilst  Germany  and  Austria  looked 
on,  be  expected  to  struggle  against 
it ;  more  particularly  as  the  terri- 
tories which  war  had  thrown  under 
the  grasp  of  Russia,  and  which  had 
to  be  rescued  from  her  clutches,  were 


1879.' 


Mr  Gladstone  and  the  Next  Election. 


259 


already  vast  enough,  and  were  the 
seat  of  much  wider  and  more  imme- 
diate British  interests.  Accord- 
ingly, the  English  Ministers  gave 
Eussia  to  understand  that  if  she 
entered  Congress,  adequate  con- 
cessions, regardless  of  Bessarabia, 
would  be  accepted  in  the  interests 
of  the  general  peace.  Yet  Mr 
Gladstone  is  not  above  resorting  to 
the  thin,  transparent  pretext  for 
opposition,  which  is  involved  in  their 
acquiescing  in  Russia  retaining  the 
little  fishes,  whilst  the  whale  was 
rescued  from  her  grasp.  In  order 
to  ground  a  political  attack  on  this 
transaction,  worse  inconsistencies 
than  those  which  we  have  already 
noticed  are  called  into  play.  The 
disinterested  champion  of  freedom 
and  humanity  has  to  be  represented 
as  "the  enemy  of  freedom  among  the 
Eoumanians,  where  freedom  clashed 
with  her  own  territorial  aggrandise- 
ment." And  where,  on  the  face  of 
the  globe,  does  not  freedom  clash 
with  Russian  territorial  aggrandise- 
ment? But  for  Mr  Gladstone's 
agitation  in  1876,  the  British  Gov- 
ernment would  have  been  able  to 
prevent  aggression,  and  then  Bes- 
sarabia would  have  remained  free. 
It  is  precisely  because  that  Govern- 
ment is  the  enemy  of  Russian  ter- 
ritorial aggrandisement  that  it  is 
the  true  friend  of  freedom.  It  is 
because  Mr  Gladstone  is  the  partisan 
of  Russia,  for  factious  purposes  at 
home,  that  he  has  been  the  most 
dangerous  foe  to  the  freedom,  the 
prosperity,  and  happiness  of  the 
subject-races  that  they  possess  in 
the  whole  of  the  British  domin- 
ions. Thus  it  appears  that  al- 
though Russia  was  the  enemy  of 
freedom  in  Roumania,  at  least  she 
was  its  friend  in  South  Bulgaria 
— or  East  Roumelia,  as  it  is  now 
called.  But  British  Toryism  is  op- 
posed to  freedom  everywhere  and 
anywhere ;  and  consequently  not 
merely  did  it  connive  at  the  aban- 


donment of  liberty  in  Roumania, 
but  stipulated  that  as  the  price  of 
doing  so,  and  "as  an  equivalent 
to  us,  the  cause  of  liberty  might 
be  defeated  in  South  Bulgaria." 
And  then  follows  an  invective 
against  the  fatal  results  of  this 
piece  of  gratuitous  Tory  mischief. 
Liberty  has  been  triumphed  over, 
not  Russia ;  she  is  only  wounded  in 
the  best  of  her  desires  and  sym- 
pathies. "  On  the  scene  of  the 
chief  Bulgarian  horrors,  Slav  libera- 
tion has  been  hemmed  in — has  been 
mutilated."  Russian  humanity  was 
wounded ;  we  defeated  her  in  what 
she  sought  on  behalf  of  oppressed 
and  suffering  humanity.  We  have 
established  sharp  contrasts  between 
brethren  who  dwell  on  the  two 
sides  of  the  Balkans.  On  the 
one  side  is  a  Bulgaria  substantially 
free  —  thanks  to  Russia;  on  the 
other  side  is  a  Bulgaria  "  pining 
in  servitude"  —  thanks  to  British 
Toryism.  Alas  that  it  should  be 
so  !  But  let  not  the  British  Tory, 
with  his  depraved  political  tastes, 
his  hatred  of  liberty,  and  his  love 
of  oppression  and  tyranny,  plume 
himself  too  hastily  on  the  work  of 
his  hands.  We  advise  him  to  turn 
to  the  provisions  of  the  Treaty  of 
Berlin  before  he  indulges  in  self- 
congratulation.  Or  he  may  await 
the  results  of  the  International  Com- 
mission. If,  however,  his  patience 
fails  him,  he  may  at  least  turn  back 
to  p.  169  of  Mr  Gladstone's  article, 
where  he  will  read,  when  the  ob- 
ject is  to  applaud  the  triumph  of 
Russian  humanity,  that  so  far  is 
East  Roumelia  or  South  Bulgaria 
from  "  pining  in  servitude  "  (owing 
to  the  triumphs  gained  by  the  armies 
of  the  Czar  over  British  Toryism), 
that  all  the  Slavonic  provinces 
of  Turkey  are  "independent,  like 
Servia  and  Montenegro ;  tributary, 
like  Bulgaria ;  or  at  the  very  least 
autonomous,  with  a  more  ambig- 
uous freedom,  like  Eastern  Rou- 


260 


Mr  Gladstone  and  the  Next  Election, 


[Feb. 


melia.  The  work  of  deliverance 
has  been  in  the  main  accom- 
plished." Then  spreading  his 
wings  for  the  highest  flight  per- 
mitted to  fine  writing,  he  piously 
exclaims  :  "  The  cause  has  now  been 
pleaded,  the  great  Judge  has 
pronounced  His  sentence;  and  lands 
and  races  which  England  refused 
to  liberate  are  free."  What  a  de- 
scent from  this  magniloquent  out- 
burst to  the  vulgar  accusation  that 
Eastern  Roumelia  is  still  "pining 
in  servitude  "  because  British  Tories 
befriended  Eussian  enmity  to  free- 
dom in  Roumania,  and  required  as 
an  equivalent  that  the  cause  of  op- 
pression should  flourish  in  Eastern 
Roumelia  !  In  one  or  other  of  these 
statements  Mr  Gladstone  must  in- 
deed have  been,  as  Horace  delicately 
puts  it,  splendide  mendax.  If  Mr 
Gladstone  is  sincere  in  thanking 
Heaven  that,  Tories  notwithstand- 
ing, East  Roumelia  is  free,  he  is 
not  stating  his  honest  convictions 
when  he  declares  that  East  Rou- 
melia is  "  pining  in  servitude."  "We 
submit  that  one  and  the  same  trans- 
action cannot  be  in  one  and  the 
same  article  piously  referred  to  the 
will  and  glory  of  the  "  great 
Judge,"  and  shortly  afterwards  be 
factiously  turned  to  the  discredit 
and  disgrace  of  British  Toryism. 

Another  branch  of  Mr  Gladstone's 
article  relates  to  the  Affghan  busi- 
ness. This,  at  all  events,  stands 
clear  of  Russian  "  thrill  of  genuine 
emotion  on  behalf  of  their  enslaved 
and  suffering  brethren,"  and  even  of 
Tory  enmity  to  freedom.  The  ques- 
tions which  are  discussed  are  the 
relative  conduct  of  the  Indian  Gov- 
ernment— acting  at  the  impulse  and 
under  the  direction  of  her  Majesty's 
Government — on  the  one  hand,  and 
of  a  half-insane  and  savage  barbarian 
on  the  other  hand.  Need  we  say 
that  the  contrast  is  wholly  to  the 
advantage  of  the  latter?  He  is 
absolutely  and  entirely  in  the  right, 


and  the  conduct  of  the  former  ex- 
hibits "  a  pitiless  display  of  might 
against  right."  Further,  the  only 
explanation  of  the  Government 
(which  for  years  has  been  denounced 
for  its  warlike  spirit)  abstaining 
from  hostilities  against  Russia  in 
Asia  as  well  as  in  Europe  is,  that 
the  genuine  bully  knows  well  how 
to  crouch  before  his  equal,  and  in 
this  case  has  so  managed  whatever 
resistance  he  offers,  as  to  humble 
Great  Britain  before  Russia.  It  is 
an  odd  picture  which  Mr  Gladstone 
draws.  Down  to  1876  all  went 
smoothly.  Then  came  Lord  North- 
brook's  departure  from  India,  the 
transfer  of  Indian  troops  to  Malta, 
and  in  consequence  the  direction 
of  Russian  troops  in  Asia,  in  order 
"  to  act  on  the  timid  susceptibilities 
of  the  British  Government,  so  as  to 
draw  it  into  some  false  step."  In 
the  very  next  sentence  it  appears 
that  not  much  adroitness  was  re- 
quired to  draw  a  Tory  Government 
(which  is  both  warlike  and  timid) 
into  some  false  step.  Russia  might 
have  spared  herself  any  trouble  on 
that  head.  Eor  we  read,  "  The  In- 
dian Government,  impelled  from 
home,  had,  ever  since  the  year  1876, 
been  preparing  combustible  material 
to  which  Russia  might  at  pleasure 
apply  the  match."  The  "  singular 
perversity "  to  which  that  course  of 
conduct  is  ascribed  is  surely  suffi- 
cient explanation  without  intruding 
into  the  discussion  some  event  which 
happened  in  1878,  and  some  "  false 
step"  which  it  required  all  the  art  of 
guileless  Russia  to  induce. 

What  with  perversity,  and  what 
with  timid  susceptibilities  on  the 
part  of  the  British  Government,  the 
Ameer  of  Afighanistan  had  a  fine 
time  of  it.  "  During  more  than 
two  years  he  was  made  the  butt 
of  a  series  of  measures  alternating 
between  cajolery  and  intimidation." 
He  was  not,  however,  entirely  with- 
out blame ;  for  he  was  like  "  a  spoiled 


1879.] 


Mr  Gladstone  and  the  Next  Election. 


261 


child,"  rendered  grasping  by  a  sense 
of  our  jealousy  of  his  independence, 
making  grievances  against  us  more 
or  less,  but  without  any  hostility  or 
"  any  attempt  to  make  a  market  of 
his  complaints."  He  wanted  "  to 
get  as  much  as  he  could  out  of  our 
good-nature,  and  to  lay  greater  bur- 
dens on  the  willing  horse."  But  on 
one  point  he  stood  firm,  and  Mr 
Gladstone  applauds  and  approves 
his  resolution.  He  would  not  ad- 
mit British  officers  as  Residents  into 
his  dominions ;  nor  would  he  allow 
to  enter  his  territories  "the  sub- 
jects of  a  Power  which  had  cruelly 
and  wantonly  devastated  the  country 
within  the  memory  of  many  living 
Affghans." 

It  would  be  lost  labour,  after  all 
that  has  been  said  in  Parliament 
and  the  press,  to  discuss  the  real 
relations  of  the  Ameer  to  the  Indian 
Government.  It  sufficiently  ap- 
pears, on  Mr  Gladstone's  own  show- 
ing, that  what  the  spoiled  child 
really  wanted  was  an  unconditional 
guarantee  of  his  throne,  his  dynasty, 
and  his  territory.  Such  a  guaran- 
tee neither  Lord  Lytton  nor  any  of 
the  previous  Viceroys,  who  were  all 
"  fast  friends  "  of  the  Ameer,  would 
give.  The  difference  between  Lord 
Lytton  and  his  predecessors  was, 
that  the  latter  allowed  the  spoiled 
child  to  hug  his  grievances,  and 
carry  on  his  intrigues  with  General 
Kauffmann,  while  the  former  took 
an  early  opportunity  of  coming  to  a 
definite  understanding,  thinking  it 
rank  folly  to  keep  up  the  illusion  of 
possessing  an  influence  which  Rus- 
sia and  all  c6ncerned  knew  did  not 
exist,  but  which  at  the  same  time 
cast  upon  us  responsibility  for  the 
Ameer's  conduct.  The  time  had 
come  when  it  must  be  clearly  as- 
certained whether  the  Ameer  was 
friend  or  foe — whether  he  was  to 
be  allowed,  in  contravention  of  his 
treaty  with  us,  and  what  he  knew 
to  be  our  rights  and  his  duties,  to 


intrigue  with  General  Kauffmann, 
and  ostentatiously  admit  Russian 
envoys  where  he  excluded  British 
representatives.  It  was  evident 
that  no  arrangement  was  possible 
with  the  Ameer.  He  had  gone 
too  far  in  his  intrigues  with  Russia 
for  that  to  be  possible.  So  he  was 
told  that  unless  he  admitted  British 
officers,  and  enabled  England  to 
afford  him  the  protection  he  for- 
merly solicited,  he  must  stand 
alone,  and  no  longer  invoke  the  as- 
surances of  former  Viceroys.  This 
Mr  Gladstone  calls  applying  to  him 
an  instrument  of  torture,  and  ac- 
tually stigmatises  as  effrontery  on 
our  part  the  objection  to  a  Russian 
envoy  being  admitted  while  that  of 
England  was  excluded.  The  Ameer 
could  not,  he  says,  bid  defiance  to 
Russia  whilst  our  support  was  with- 
drawn. So  he  represents  the  Ameer 
as  cowering  and  crouching  before 
England,  and  England  crouching 
before  Russia,  but  prepared  to 
apply  the  knife  of  a  vivisector 
to  the  spoiled  child  who  had 
affronted  it,  and  who  now,  "  hope- 
less and  helpless,  stood  utterly 
aghast."  Really  this  is  a  very 
pretty  picture  all  the  way  round  ! 
What  there  is  in  it  to  correspond 
to  the  reality  need  not  be  discussed. 
The  English  army,  contrary  to  every 
prophecy  of  the  Liberals,  has  sig- 
nally triumphed ;  the  Ameer  has  fled 
from  his  dominions;  his  people  have 
emancipated  themselves  from  his 
tyranny;  and  the  ex-despot  has  given 
out  that  a  Congress  of  Powers,  to  be 
held  at  St  Petersburg,  shall  adjudi- 
cate upon  his  case.  It  is  unfortunate 
for  him  that  he  cannot  refer  it  to 
the  final  arbitrament  of  Mr  Glad- 
stone. He  need  not  then  have  feared, 
under  the  circumstances,  a  repetition 
of  the  Seistan  arbitration. 

Mr  Gladstone,  in  this  case,  re- 
serves all  his  hostility  for  Russia,  to 
whom  Lord  Beaconsfield's  Govern- 
ment have  exhibited  an  undue  and 


262 


Mr  Gladstone  and  the  Next  Election. 


[Feb. 


humiliating  submission,  and  for 
whom  they  have  "  laid  open,  as  far 
as  policy  could  lay  it  open,  the  way 
through  Afghanistan  to  our  Eastern 
possessions."  We  believe  that  Eng- 
lish public  opinion  is  far  too  well 
informed  to  be  quite  so  easily  mis- 
led. Affghanistan  has  been  rapidly 
brought  "within  a  steadily  narrow- 
ing circle  between  two  great  mili- 
tary empires;"  Shere  Ali  cannot 
be  allowed,  even  if  he  were  able,  to 
play  off  one  against  the  other  for 
his  own  advantage;  British  Resi- 
dents  on  the  frontier  are  a  neces- 
sary measure  of  precaution ;  and 
as  against  a  hostile  Power  on  the 
north-west  boundary,  the  frontier 
line  must  be  rectified.  "A  mountain- 
chain,"  as  Lord  Napier  of  Magdala 
says,  "  that  can  be  pierced  in  many 
places,  is  no  security  if  you  hide 
behind  it.  India  has  been  often 
entered  through  her  mountain-bar- 
rier, which  was  never  defended. 
India  waited  to  fight  the  battle  in 
her  own  plains,  and  invariably  lost 
it."  The  possibility  of  Eussian  hos- 
tility, which  may  be  quite  as  effec- 
tive through  intrigue  as  through 
actual  invasion,  is  not  denied  even 
by  Mr  Gladstone.  "  It  was  natural 
enough,"  he  says,  "  that  Russia 
should  prepare  to  threaten  British 
India  through  Affghanistan."  Polit- 
ical not  less  than  military  designs 
may  dictate  that  step ;  and  whether 
a  British  Government  is  engaged 
in  counteracting  Russian  policy  in 
Europe,  or  is  subject  to  all  those 
"timid  susceptibilities"  to  which 
Mr  Gladstone  refers,  the  security 
of  India  requires  that  her  frontier 
should  be  rendered  as  safe  as  an 
impregnable  frontier  can  make  it. 
British  Residents  on  Affghan  bor- 
ders, and  the  occupation  of  strategic 
positions  beyond  the  present  fron- 
tier, have  become  a  political  neces- 
sity, alike  for  the  safety  of  India, 
and  in  order  to  exclude  Russian 
influence  and  intrigue  from  the  pro- 


tected territory  of  AfFghanistan. 
The  Government  have  pursued  a 
course  which  was  inevitable,  and 
their  success  has  been  rapid  and 
complete. 

The  next  subject  which  is  sub- 
mitted for  the  indignant  censure  of 
the  electors  at  the  next  dissolution 
is  the  war  which  the  Ministry  are 
said  to  have  made  on  the  Parlia- 
ment and  the  Constitution  of  the 
country.  On  this  topic  Mr  Glad- 
stone surely  ought  to  have  been  freed 
from  all  embarrassment.  Hitherto 
there  has  been  a  quagmire  of  diffi- 
culties, along  which  we  feel  that 
only  a  practised  traveller  could 
pick  his  way  with  safety.  How 
the  traditional  friends  of  Russia  be- 
came transformed  into  its  uncompro- 
mising foes ;  how  at  the  same  time 
Russianism  dropped  its  horrors,  and 
was  transformed  into  the  chival- 
rous liberator  from  oppression  and 
champion  of  freedom ;  how  this 
sudden  and  complete  transforma- 
tion was  itself  only  a  pure  but  acci- 
dental exception  to  its  general  his- 
tory; how  the  pure  exception  was 
itself  disfigured  by  relapses  into  the 
normal  and  natural  state  peculiar  to 
Russianism ;  and  how,  during  these 
relapses,  the  new-born  foes  of 
Russia  exchanged  their  enmity  for 
peculiar  intimacy  and  base  con- 
spiracy,— are  subjects  which  have 
already  been  treated  with  great 
bitterness  and  a  happy  disregard 
of  consistency.  But  we  now  enter 
upon  a  less  complicated  discussion. 
It  is  not  surprising  that  the  same 
men  who  are  the  unswerving  an- 
tagonists of  freedom  all  over  the 
world — whose  traditional  friendship 
for  Russia  is  exchanged  for  savage 
antipathy  the  moment  she  appears 
before  the  world  as  the  friend  of 
the  oppressed — should  also  be  the 
sturdy  opponents,  or  at  least  the 
secret  conspirators,  against  parlia- 
mentary government  at  home.  Ac- 
cordingly, we  read  of  a  war  "  that 


1879.] 


Mr  Gladstone  and  the  Next  Election. 


263 


has  not  been  proclaimed,  indeed, 
but  established  in  this  country — 
the  silent  but  active  war  against 
parliamentary  government."  Here, 
at  least,  we  have  reached  an  ac- 
cusation which  is  capable  of  being 
stated  plainly,  and  in  reference  to 
which  there  are  none  of  the  dif- 
ficulties that  occasioned  the  self- 
contradictions  and  inconsistencies 
in  which  the  earlier  part  of  this 
manifesto  abounded. 

Yet,  to  our  astonishment,  in  the 
very  next  sentence  the  accusation 
is  completely  displaced,  and  it  ap- 
pears that  so  far  from  the  Minis- 
try having  any  occasion  to  make 
war  upon  parliamentary  govern- 
ment, that  form  of  government  is 
allowed  to  be  the  most  effective  and 
convenient  instrument,  ready  to 
its  hands,  which  it  could  possibly 
have  desired.  On  the  first  blush  of 
it,  a  Government  which  calls  Par- 
liament together  in  the  middle  of 
January,  and  then  again  in  the  mid- 
dle of  December  of  the  same  year  • 
which  evidently  relies  on  parlia- 
mentary discussion  as  the  best  anti- 
dote to  reckless  agitation ;  and  which 
is  accustomed  to  see  its  opponents 
alter  their  language,  withdraw  their 
amendments,  and  retire  from  suc- 
cessive divisions,  vanquished  by  in- 
creasing majorities, — so  far  from 
declaring  war  on  parliamentary 
government,  finds,  and  shows  that 
it  finds,  its  chief  support  in  parlia- 
mentary co-operation  and  assistance. 
Translated  into  Gladstonian  lan- 
guage, this  combined  action  of 
Ministry  and  Parliament  —  which 
the  English  Constitution  contem- 
plates, and  was  expressly  framed  to 
secure — is  thus  described  :  "  The 
majority  of  the  present  House  of 
Commons  has  on  more  than  one 
occasion  indicated  its  readiness  to 
offer  up,  at  the  shrine  of  the  Gov- 
ernment which  it  sustains,  the  most 
essential  rights  and  privileges  of  the 
people."  What  occasion  is  there 


for  war  against  parliamentary  gov- 
ernment on  the  part  of  a  Cabinet, 
all  whose  acts,  however  distasteful 
to  Mr  Gladstone,  "have  been  ac- 
cepted in  Parliament  with  greedy 
approval  ? "  No  doubt  the  long  and 
difficult  diplomacy  of  the  Govern- 
ment has  been  conducted,  as  upon 
all  former  occasions,  in  secret.  No 
doubt  the  treaty-making  and  the 
war- making  power  of  the  executive 
has  been  exercised,  as  on  all  for- 
mer occasions,  without  the  previous 
knowledge  and  consent  of  Parlia- 
ment, but,  at  the  same  time,  in  the 
full  assurance  that  Parliament  would 
afterwards  approve  it,  and  with  the 
very  earliest  demand  for  parliamen- 
tary approval  and  support,  which 
have  been  granted  by  increasing 
majorities.  It  is  the  height  of 
inconsistency  to  represent  Parlia- 
ment as  the  enthusiastic  accomplice 
of  the  Government,  displaying  an 
eagerness  to  be  immolated  which 
even  an  Ameer  of  Affghanistan 
failed  to  show,  foregoing  their  con- 
trol over  war-making  and  treaty- 
making  powers,  their  taxing  privi- 
lege, their  legislative  power, — and 
at  the  same  time  to  represent  the 
Ministry  as  veiling  their  conduct 
"  under  the  cloak  of  deliberate  and 
careful  secrecy,  with  the  evident  in- 
tention, and  even  with  elaborate 
contrivance,  to  exclude  the  Parlia- 
ment and  the  nation  from  all  influ- 
ence upon  the  results."  Why  that 
intention,  and  why  that  contriv- 
ance, when  in  the  next  page  evi- 
dence is  offered  of  the  "  reciprocal 
confidence  "  which  the  Government 
reposes  in  the  docility  of  the  ma- 
jority? The  whole  indictment  is 
one  tissue  of  absurd  inconsistency. 
Confidence  in  a  man's  docility  ex- 
cludes altogether  the  notion  of  its 
being  necessary  to  overreach  him  by 
contrivance,  elaborate  or  otherwise. 
War  upon  parliamentary  govern- 
ment by  a  Ministry,  all  whose  acts  are 
accepted  with  "  greedy  approval," 


264 


Mr  Gladstone  and  the  Next  Election. 


[Feb. 


who  are  upheld  by  an  amount  of 
parliamentary  support  which  does 
not  fall  short  of  parliamentary  self- 
immolation,  is  a  charge  which  is  on 
the  face  of  it  ridiculous.  There  are 
surely  the  most  obvious  reasons  for 
secrecy  and  contrivance  on  the  part 
of  the  English  Government,  to  be 
drawn  from  the  recent  condition  of 
political  affairs  both  in  Europe  and 
in  Asia.  If  the  Ministers,  in  their 
difficult  task  of  baffling  Russian  ag- 
gression in  one  quarter  of  the  globe 
and  Russian  intrigue  in  another, 
had  shrunk  from  acting  with  secrecy 
and  promptitude,  had  prated  about 
future  complications,  and  receded 
from  every  difficulty  till  it  grew  to 
a  mountain  on  their  hands,  they 
would  most  assuredly  not  have 
been  rewarded  at  the  hands  of  a 
patriotic  Parliament  with  steadily- 
increasing  majorities.  It  is  a  new 
doctrine  to  lay  down  that  Parlia- 
ment has  a  right  to  share  in  the 
responsibility  of  the  Executive. 
Parliament  has  a  right  to  have 
public  affairs  conducted  by  those 
in  whom  it  places  confidence,  itself 
to  stand  free  of  all  responsibility 
and  complicity,  so  as  to  be  abso- 
lutely unfettered  when  the  con- 
stitutional opportunity  arises  of 
pronouncing  judgment  on  the  con- 
duct of  a  Ministry.  It  is  Mr 
Gladstone  who  in  reality  has  been 
the  foe  to  parliamentary  govern- 
ment. Instead  of  being  content 
with  the  discharge  of  his  constitu- 
tional duties  as  leader  of  Opposi- 
tion, he  must  needs  abandon  that 
position,  and  assume  the  part  of 
leader  of  a  powerful  agitation  out 
of  doors,  intended  to  coerce  both 
Ministry  and  Parliament.  When 
that  scheme  signally  failed,  the 
result  inevitably  followed  that  he 
lost  all  influence  whatever  over 
the  course  of  Parliament,  and  has 
never  ceased  from  vilifying  and 
denouncing  it.  He  sought  to  re- 
fuse the  vote  of  credit,  declaring 


that  no  British  interests  were  at 
stake,  and  no  preparations  needful. 
The  House  of  Commons  flung 
Mr  Forster's  amendment  to  the 
winds,  and  rallied  round  the  Min- 
isters as  the  only  possible  leaders 
of  their  country.  Parliament  has 
steadily  overruled  Mr  Gladstone's 
attempts  to  dictate  the  foreign  policy 
of  the  Cabinet,  and  has  confined 
him,  so  far  as  his  action  in  the 
House  was  concerned,  against  his 
will,  to  the  strictly  constitutional 
task  of  criticising  and  condemning 
it.  He  will  shortly  have  the  privi- 
lege of  appealing  from  the  verdict 
of  Parliament  to  the  verdict  of 
the  constituencies.  He  will  appear 
before  them  as  a  man,  all  whose 
actions  and  policy  in  reference  to 
this  Eastern  Question  have  been  re- 
peatedly and  decisively  condemned 
by  the  present  House  of  Com- 
mons. The  relations  between  the 
House  and  the  Ministry  have  been, 
as  he  himself  says,  those  of  "re- 
ciprocal confidence."  The  relations 
between  himself  and  the  House 
have  been  those  of  marked  enmity 
and  antagonism.  According  to 
this  article  in  the '  Nineteenth  Cen- 
tury,' the  friends  and  foes  of  par- 
liamentary government  are  as  diffi- 
cult to  distinguish  as  the  friends 
and  foes  of  Russia.  The  laborious 
efforts  which  Mr  Gladstone  makes 
to  put  the  best  face  upon  it  in  his 
appeal  to  the  electors,  are  as  un- 
successful as  they  are  painful,  in 
the  one  case  as  in  the  other.  The 
leader  of  the  Bulgarian  agitation 
can  hardly  hope  to  be  recognised 
when  he  attempts  to  play  the  part 
of  the  traditional  foe  to  Russia,  and 
the  uncompromising  friend  of  that 
parliamentary  government  which  has 
so  signally  defeated  all  his  efforts 
and  manosuvres.  Considering  the 
unprecedented  character  of  the 
Opposition  which  they  have  had 
to  deal  with  —  an  Opposition 
which  has  not  contented  itself 


Mr  Gladstone  and  the  Next  Election. 


1879.] 


with  criticising,  but  has  endea- 
voured to  thwart  and  embarrass 
the  foreign  policy  of  their  coun- 
try—  reasonable  men  will  place 
a  different  construction  upon  the 
silence  and  self-restraint  which  have 
marked  the  conduct  of  the  Minis- 
ters. They  have  relied,  as  they 
were  constitutionally  entitled  to 
do,  on  the  support  of  Parliament ; 
and  with  the  unstinted  confidence 
reposed  in  them,  they  have  been 
able  to  vanquish  difficulties  which 
faction  at  home  did  its  best  to  in- 
crease. 

The  progress  of  the  settlement 
made  at  Berlin  is  so  completely  satis- 
factory that  little  doubt  remains  of  a 
durable  and  lasting  peace  amongst 
the  Great  Powers ;  of  better  govern- 
ment within  the  European  dominions 
of  the  Sultan,  as  prescribed  and 
guaranteed  by  the  treaty —  and 
within  the  Asiatic  dominions,  as 
stipulated  for  and  controlled  by 
Great  Britain.  The  great  Eastern 
Question  is  in  all  probability  settled 
for  the  lifetime  of  this  generation ; 
and  if  the  British  Government  re- 
mains in  the  hands  of  firm  and 
capable  men,  probably  for  a  much 
longer  period.  Those  who  have 
supported  and  those  who  have 
opposed  the  Administration  which 
has  so  triumphantly  and  peacefully 
vindicated  the  interests,  the  honour, 
and  the  policy  of  England  in  the 
East,  will  very  shortly  have  to  sub- 
mit their  conduct  for  the  approval  of 
the  constituencies.  The  supporters 
of  Lord  Beaconsfield  claim  for  him, 
that  with  patience  and  tenacity  of 
purpose  he  upheld  the  great  inter- 
national charter  of  South-east  Eur- 
ope which  was  settled  in  1856,  and 
confirmed  by  Mr  Gladstone's  Gov- 
ernment in  1871.  Maintaining  a 
watchful,  armed,  and  conditional 
neutrality  during  a  sanguinary  strug- 
gle in  territories  which  are  the  seat 
of  many  British  interests  of  vital 
importance  to  the  empire,  he  never- 


265 


theless  compelled  the  victorious 
aggressor,  at  the  cost  of  not  dis- 
puting some  trifling  cessions,  to 
join  in  reconstructing  the  Paris 
Treaty  on  the  same  lines  as  before, 
with  additional  guarantees  for  its 
permanence,  and  greater  security  for 
the  internal  tranquillity  and  good 
government  of  the  Ottoman  empire. 
The  triumphs  so  won  have  added 
a  new  and  glorious  chapter  to  the 
history  of  England,  have  gratified 
the  Powers  of  Europe,  and  restored 
England  to  her  old  ascendancy. 
Peace  with  honour  has  been  pre- 
served, because  difficulties  of  no  or- 
dinary magnitude  have  been  firmly 
met  and  patiently  overcome. 

On  the  other  hand  are  the  sup- 
porters of  Mr  Gladstone ;  for  he 
remains,  from  his  long  pre-eminence 
and  his  superiority  of  energy  and 
talent,  the  central  figure  of  the 
Opposition,  though  he  has  for  four 
years  ceased  to  be  its  leader  and 
representative.  Their  wayward  op- 
position to  the  Government  was 
combined  with  an  outspoken  and 
active  encouragement  to  Russia  in 
her  violent  and  aggressive  course.  As 
was  said  at  the  time,  they  forced  the 
hand  of  diplomacy,  they  stimulated 
the  war  party  of  Russia  till  it  was 
beyond  the  control  of  the  Czar. 
They  combined  a  fanatical  hatred 
of  the  Turk  with  a  blind  party  ani- 
mosity towards  the  English  Min- 
istry ;  and  impelled  by  this  twofold 
passion,  they  gloated  over  every 
Russian  victory,  and  vehemently 
denied  the  existence  of  every  Brit- 
ish interest.  Perish  India  !  they 
exclaimed  ;  perish  every  interest  of 
England  in  the  Straits,  at  Constan- 
tinople, in  Egypt,  along  the  highway 
to  Persia  and  the  Persian  Gulf! 
perish  every  tradition  of  the  For- 
eign Office  !  They  denounced  con- 
ditional neutrality,  they  refused  the 
vote  of  credit,  they  opposed  all 
warlike  preparations,  they  protest- 
ed against  the  Treaty  of  San  Stefano 


266 


Mr  Gladstone  and  the  Next  Election. 


being  submitted  to  the  Congress, 
and  accused  the  Ministry  of  being 
influenced  by  an  unworthy  desire 
of  a  mere  diplomatic  triumph.  Not 
merely  has  their  conduct  been  con- 
demned by  increasing  majorities  in 
Parliament,  and  repudiated  by  the 
Liberals  of  every  foreign  country, 
but  two  decisive  events  must  fix 
the  attention  of  the  future  historian 
as  containing  a  complete  exposure 
of  the  hollowness  and  falsity  of 
this  pro-Russian  enthusiasm  which 
Mr  Gladstone  and  his  followers 
mistook  for  legitimate  opposition. 
The  Aylesbury  speech  of  Septem- 
ber 1876  rolled  back  and  destroyed 
their  agitation,  though  not  before 
.it  had  disastrously  misled  pub- 
lic opinion  abroad.  Mr  Forster's 
amendment  to  the  vote  of  credit 
was  abandoned  in  a  panic,  which 
revealed  to  the  Liberal  party  the 
falsity  of  their  position,  and  render- 
ed the  Government  the  undisputed 
master  of  the  situation.  It  is  im- 
possible for  any  political  movement 
to  receive  a  more  crushing  exposure 
of  its  absolute  insincerity  and  worth- 
lessness  than  the  movement  initiat- 
ed, with  unreflecting  passion,  by  Mr 
Gladstone's  Bulgarian  agitation,  ex- 
perienced on  those  two  occasions. 
The  men  who  were  then  tried  and 
found  wanting  in  patriotism  and 
public  spirit  will  exercise  their  in- 
genuity in  vain  to  escape  the  cen- 
sure of  history.  The  Tory  Ministry 
and  the  Tory  party  have  at  least 
established  themselves  as  the  true 
guardians  of  British  honour  and 
the  British  empire,  whenever  diffi- 
culties arise  which  must  be  met  and 
overcome. 

We  will  briefly  recapitulate  the 
glaring  inconsistencies  which  befall 
even  the  ablest  endeavour  to  recon- 
cile the  conduct  of  Mr  Gladstone  and 
his  followers  with  that  subordina- 
tion of  party  to  patriotism  which 
hitherto  has  regulated  the  move- 
ments of  Opposition  on  questions  of 


[Feb. 

foreign  policy.  At  the  outset,  joint 
action  with  Russia  was  demanded, 
in  order  to  extinguish  Turkish 
authority  in  three  important  pro- 
vinces, and  rescue  the  Christian 
population  from  Turkish  misgovern- 
ment.  At  the  close,  to  abstain  from 
resisting  the  cession  of  Kars,Batoum, 
and  Bessarabia,  is  a  stain  upon  our 
honour  —  an  anti-national  course; 
while  to  stipulate  for  good  govern- 
ment in  Asia  Minor,  and  the  right 
of  supervision  in  return  for  protec- 
tion, is  an  act  of  insanity.  To 
oppose  Russian  aggression,  or  even 
to  prepare  for  intervention  in  case 
British  interests  are  infringed,  is  to 
drag  the  country  into  an  unjust  and 
unnecessary — or,  to  use  the  favourite 
term,  an  unholy — war.  When  the 
flood  of  successful  aggression  has 
spent  itself,  and  it  remains  for 
Europe  to  roll  it  back  as  she  can, 
it  is  a  violation  of  our  traditions, 
and  a  stain  upon  our  honour,  to 
allow  Russia  to  retain  even  a  trifling 
residue  of  her  conquests.  That  she 
has  been  thrust  back  again  behind 
the  Balkans  is  nothing ;  for  it  is 
"  with  the  direct  assistance  of  the 
British  Government"  that  she  is 
again  a  River  State.  This  from  the 
men  who  refused- the  vote  of  credit, 
and  denounced  hostile  preparations 
when  Russia  was  on  the  Bosphorus 
and  at  the  gates  of  Constantinople, 
and  had  concluded  a  treaty  by  which 
she  practically  absorbed  the  larger 
portion  of  the  European  dominions 
of  the  Sultan !  That  under  such 
circumstances  the  victor  has  been 
made  to  disgorge  his  conquests  is 
nothing  ;  that  he  should  retain  the 
slightest  residue  of  them  is  a  high 
crime  in  the  eyes  of  the  warlike 
statesman  who  publicly  argued  that 
Russia's  demands  after  her  victory 
must  not  be  limited  to  declarations 
made  before  the  war.  To  defend 
the  integrity  of  the  Sultan's  dom- 
inions was  at  one  time  denounced 
as  a  war  for  the  protection  of  Sodom, 


1879.] 


Mr  Gladstone  and  the  Next  Election. 


267 


to  furnish  our  ally  with  the  victims 
of  his  hideous  lusts.  To  consent  to 
the  slightest  dismemberment  of  that 
empire  after  a  disastrous  war,  even 
though  it  be  accompanied  by  firmer 
guarantees  for  the  internal  tranquil- 
lity and  outward  security  of  the 
remainder,  is  equally  outrageous. 
The  Treaty  of  Paris,  to  which  the 
Ministers  tenaciously  adhered,  was 
ridiculed  and  denounced  as  obsolete. 
The  settlement  at  Berlin  is  now 
decried  as  having  robbed  us  of  all 
those  advantages  which  we  gained 
in  1856,  because  in  the  general  re- 
modelling occasioned  by  the  war 
some  modification  was  inevitable  in 
the  interests  of  the  general  peace. 
At  one  time  the  British  Govern- 
ment is  recklessly  goading  on  the 
country  to  war ;  at  another  it 
truckles  to  Eussia ;  its  timidity  in 
regard  to  the  Affghan  Mission 
knows  no  limit.  At  one  time 
Russia  is  the  disinterested  cham- 
pion of  the  oppressed ;  at  another 
she  is  a  conspirator  against  free- 
dom. The  condition  of  East  Rou- 
melia  verifies  both  charges;  for  it 
is  capable  of  being  represented  as 
substantially  free  for  the  one  pur- 
pose, and  as  "pining  in  servitude'7 
for  the  other. 

The  mere  statement  of  these  in- 
consistencies is  sufficient  to  convict 
the  authors  of  them  of  insincerity 
and  of  the  most  reckless  disregard 
of  the  public  interests.  And  how 
do  they  come  to  be  involved  in 
them]  By  the  attempt,  as  im- 
possible of  execution  as  it  is  wild 
and  improbable  in  conception,  to 
represent  a  small  body  of  noblemen 
and  gentlemen  who  form  the  Cabi- 
net of  the  Queen  as  engaged  through- 
out those  long  and  arduous  transac- 
tions in  tricking  public  opinion 
under  the  mask  of  nationality,  with 
a  calculating  eye  to  party  profit1? 
When  that  taunt  has  served  its  turn, 
another  appears ;  and  the  mere  fact 
that  the  new  imputation  displaces 


and  excludes  the  other  is  apparently 
no  objection  to  it.  It  is,  that  since 
the  peace  of  1815  the  depraved 
sympathies  of  British  Toryism  have 
steadily  gravitated  to  the  side  of 
Russia,  except  on  those  rare  occa- 
sions when  Russia  is  on  the  side  of 
Liberalism,  when,  with  equal  cer- 
tainty of  instinct,  British  Toryism 
has  entered  the  lists  against  her. 
Blind  instincts  of  this  kind  are  in- 
compatible with  the  Mephistophel- 
ian  calculations  of  party  trickery.  To 
trace  the  alternations  of  Russia  be- 
tween good  and  evil,  and  the  cor- 
responding machinations  of  the 
English  Ministers,  now  wounding 
Russia  "  in  the  best  of  her  desires 
and  sympathies,"  now  promoting 
Russian  aggrandisement ; — at  one 
time  balking  and  defeating  her  in 
what  she  sought  on  behalf  of  oppres- 
sed and  suffering  humanity,  at  an- 
other time  effectually  helping  her  to 
wound  our  own  pride  and  honour, — 
to  trace  all  this  is  to  Mr  Gladstone 
a  labour  of  love.  The  impossible 
picture  is  presented  to  us  of  the 
traditionary  friends  of  Russia  blind- 
ly, but  with  a  keen  eye  to  party 
profit,  engaged  in  the  most  crooked 
interlacing  of  enmity  and  friend- 
ship with  Russia,  according  as  she 
defends  the  cause  of  freedom  or 
oppression ;  whilst  her  traditionary 
foes,  the  single-minded  and  virtuous 
followers  of  Mr  Gladstone,  support 
and  applaud  every  aggressive  act, 
oppose  and  bitterly  condemn  every 
attempt  at  opposition  to  her,  but 
rail  at  her  retention  of  the  smallest 
fruits  of  her  victory.  The  whole  of 
this  extraordinary  episode  in  the 
history  of  Opposition  dealings  with 
foreign  policy,  as  well  as  the  yet 
more  extraordinary  mode  in  which 
it  is  attempted  to  be  justified,  be- 
tray considerable  contempt  for  Eng- 
lish public  opinion.  It  is  impos- 
sible to  suppose  that  the  sturdy 
honesty  and  straightforwardness  of 
English  constituencies  can  be  sue- 


268 


Mr  Gladstone  and  the  Next  Election.  [Feb.  1879. 


cess  fully  cajoled  by  these  tortuous 
explanations.  Many  were  heard  to 
argue  that  the  Government  ought 
to  have  dissolved  immediately  after 
the  Treaty  of  Berlin,  so  as  to  allow 
the  nation  to  express  at  the  polling- 
booths  its  triumphant  satisfaction 
with  the  settlement  then  made — its 
pride  at  the  accomplishment  of  peace 
with  honour.  We  cannot  think  that 
such  a  course  would  have  corres- 
ponded to  the  dignity  of  the  Gov- 
ernment. It  would  have  been  at 
the  best  a  mere  servile  imitation  of 
the  attempt  to  snatch  a  favourable 
verdict  from  the  constituencies 
which  in  1874  covered  Mr  Glad- 
stone with  defeat,  mortification,  and 
discredit.  It  is  a  far  wiser  and 
more  manly  course  to  guide  the 
country  safely  through  all  the  diffi- 
culties of  carrying  into  effect  the 
Berlin  Settlement,'and  of  that  adjust- 
ment of  our  Affghan  relations  which 
the  later  development  of  the  East- 
ern Question  showed  to  be  inevit- 
able, and  then  to  await  the  national 
decision,  confident  that,  in  an  age 


of  free  discussion,  misrepresenta- 
tion, calumny,  and  factious  extra- 
vagance cannot  ultimately  prevail. 
To  have  maintained  the  interna- 
tional character  of  the  settlement 
of  the  Ottoman  empire  ;  to  have  vin- 
dicated European  treaties  and  Bri- 
tish interests  against  the  utmost 
efforts  of  Russia ;  to  have  compelled 
the  victorious  aggressor  to  re-enter 
a  European  Congress,  and  to  sub- 
mit to  a  European  remodelling  of 
an  empire  which  he  had  overthrown ; 
and  to  have  at  the  same  time  pre- 
served peace  abroad,  and  command- 
ed general  confidence  at  home, — are 
achievements  of  the  very  highest 
order,  rarely  paralleled  in  English 
history,  and  which  England  will 
not  speedily  forget.  The  policy  so 
pursued  will  be  the  guide  of  the 
future ;  and  the  new  charter  of  South- 
east Europe  will  be  maintained 
long  after  the  miserable  detractions 
of  the  last  three  years  have  been 
forgotten,  and  their  authors  allowed 
perhaps  to  redeem  them  by  plead- 
ing their  previous  reputations. 


Printed  by  William  Blackwood  <L 


BLACKWOOD'S 
EDINBUKGH    MAGAZINE. 


No.  DCCLXI. 


MARCH   1879. 


VOL.  CXXV. 


PICKING  UP  THE  PIECES  :   A   COMEDY. 

It  is  morning  in  MRS  MELTON'S  apartment  in  Florence.  All  the  furni- 
ture is  gathered  into  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  -covered  with  a 
sheet.  MRS  MELTON  is  a  widow  and  no  longer  young.  LORD  DAW- 
LISH,  who  comes  to  call,  has  also  forgotten  his  youth. 


Dawlish.  Good  morning,  Mrs 

Melton.  I  hope Holloa !  There 

is  nobody  here.  What  is  all  this 
about  1 

(After  some  consideration  he  pro- 
ceeds to  investigate  the  extraordinary 
erection  with  the  point  of  his  stick. 
After  convincing  himself  of  its  na- 
ture he  lifts  a  side  of  the  sheet,  pulls 
out  an  easy-chair,  inspects  it,  and 
finally  sits  on  it.) 

She  is  an  extraordinary  woman. 
I  don't  know  why  I  like  her.  I 
don't  know  why  she  likes  me.  I 
suppose  that  she  does  like  me.  If 
not,  what  a  bore  I  must  be  !  I  come 
here  every  day — and  stay.  I  sus- 
pect that  I  am  an  awful  fellow  to 
stay.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  go  now. 
This  furniture  trophy  don't  look  like 
being  at  home  to  callers.  But  per- 
haps she  is  out :  and  then  I  can  go 
on  sitting  here.  I  must  sit  some- 
where. May  I  smoke  ?  I  daresay : 
thank  ye,  I  will.  Smoke  ?  Smoke. 
There  is  a  proverb  about  smoke.  I 
wonder  how  I  came  to  know  so 

VOL.  CXXV. — NO.  DCCLXI. 


many  proverbs.  I  don't  know  much. 
"  There  is  no  smoke  without  fire." 
Yes,  that's  it.  There  is  uncommon 
little  fire  in  a  cigarette.  Little  fire 
and  much  smoke.  Yes,  that's  like 

this I  mean Let  me — 

what  d'ye  call  it? — review  my  posi- 
tion. Here  I  sit.  Here  I  sit  every 
day.  That  is,  smoke,  I  suppose — 
plenty  of  smoke.  Is  there  any  fire  1 
That  is  the  question.  I  wish  people 
would  mind  their  own  business.  It 
is  trouble  enough  to  mind  one's  own 
business,  I  should  think.  But  yet 
there  are  people — there's  that  Flit- 
terly,  for  instance — damned  little 
snob.  Flitterly  makes  it  the  busi- 
ness of  his  life  to  go  about  saying 
that  I  am  going  to  be  married;  and 
all  because  here  is  a  woman  who  is 
not  such  an  intolerable  bore  as — as 
other  people.  Flitterly  is  the  sort 
of  man  who  says  that  there  is  no 
smoke  without  fire.  What  is  this  1 
That  is  what  I  want  to  know.  Is 
this  business  of  mine  all  smoke,  all 
cigarette  and  soda,  or  —  confound 
s 


270 


Picking  up  the  Pieces :  a  Comedy. 


[March 


Flitterly  !  I  wonder  if  I  ought  to 
pull  his  nose.  I  am  afraid  that 
that  sort  of  thing  is  out  of  date. 
I  don't  think  I  could  pull  a  nose, 
unless  somehody  showed  me  how. 
Perhaps  if  somehody  held  him 
steady,  I  might.  I  don't  think  I 
could  do  it.  He  has  got  such  a 
ridiculous  little  nose.  I  wonder  if 
I  ought  to  give  up  coming  here.  I 
don't  know  where  I  should  go  to. 
I  wonder  if  I  am  bound  in  honour, 
and  all  that.  Perhaps  that  is  out 
of  date  too.  I  sometimes  think  that 
I  am  out  of  date  myself.  (After 
this  he  fishes  under  the  sheet  with 
his  stick,  and  brings  to  light  a  photo- 
graph-book, which  he  studies  as  he 
continues  to  meditate.) 

I  wonder  if  she  would  take  me 
if  I  asked  her.  I  don't  believe  she 
would  :  she  is  a  most  extraordinary 
woman.  Who  is  this,  I  wonder  ?  I 
never  saw  this  book  before.  I  sup- 
pose that  this  is  the  sort  of  man 
women  admire.  He  would  know 
how  to  pull  a  nose.  I  daresay  he 
has  pulled  lots  of  noses  in  his  day. 
Does  it  for  exercise.  Suburban 
cad.  A  kind  of  little  Tooting  lady- 
killer.  I  wonder  she  puts  such  a 
fellow  in  her  book.  Why,  here  he 
is  again,  twice  as  big  and  fiercer. 
Here  is  another  —  and  another. 
Hang  him,  he  is  all  over  the  book. 

(He  pitches  the  book  under  the 
sheet.  Then  MRS  MELTON  comes  in 
wearing  a  large  apron,  and  armed 
with  duster  and  feather-brush.) 

Mrs  Melton.  Lord  Dawlish ! 
What  are  you  doing  here1? 

D.  Nothing. 

Mrs  M.  How  well  you  do  it ! 

D.  Thank  you. 

Mrs  M.  But  you  are  doing  some- 
thing :  you  are  smoking. 

D.  Am  1 1     I  beg  your  pardon. 

Mrs  M.  And  you  shall  do  more  : 
you  shall  help  me.  I  have  been  up 
to  my  eyes  in  work  since  seven 
o'clock. 

D.  Seven  !  Why  don't  you  make 
somebody  else  do  it  ? 


Mrs  M.  Because  I  do  it  so  well. 
I  have  a  genius  for  dusting,  and 
Italian  servants  have  not.  In  this 
old  city  they  have  an  unfeigned 
respect  for  the  dust  of  ages. 

D.  Have  they  1  How  funny  ! 
But  they  might  help  you,  I  should 
think.  Where  are  they?  There 
was  nobody  to  let  me  in.  Where 
are  your  servants  ? 

Mrs  M.  Gone. 

D.  Gone! 

Mrs  M.  Gone  and  left  me  free. 
I  packed  them  all  off — man  and 
maid,  bag  and  baggage. 

D.  Bat  who  will  look  after  you  1 

Mrs  M.  I.  I  am  fully  equal  to 
the  task.  But  come,  be  useful. 
You  shall  help  me  to  rearrange  the 
furniture. 

D.  Help!     I! 

Mrs  M.  Yes,  help!  You!  lam 
not  quite  sure  that  you  can't. 

(As  he  proceeds  to  brush  the  back 
of  a  chair  with  a  feather-brush,  it 
occurs  to  him  to  apologise  for  his 
intrusion.) 

D.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  apologise 
for  coming  so  early.  Somehow  I 
found  myself  in  the  Palazzo — and 
the  door  of  your  apartments  was 
open,  and  so  I  came  in.  I  took  the 
liberty  of  an  old  friend. 

Mrs  M.  I  believe  we  have  been 
acquainted  for  at  least  a  month. 

D.  Only  a  month  !  It  is  not 
possible.  It  must  be  more  than  a 
month. 

Mrs  M.  Apparently  our  precious 
friendship  has  not  made  the  time 
pass  quickly. 

D.  No.  I  mean  that  it  never 
does  pass  quickly. 

Mrs  M.  Work,  work,  work  !  It's 
work  that  makes  the  day  go  quick. 
I  am  busy  from  morning  till  night, 
and  time  flies  with  me. 

D.  Then  you  shorten  your  life. 

Mrs  M.  And  keep  it  bright. 
Better  one  hour  of  life  than  a  cen- 
tury of  existence  !  Dear,  dear  ! 
how  did  my  best  photograph-book 
get  knocked  down  here? 


1879.] 


Picking  up  the  Pieces :  a  Comedy. 


271 


D.  I  am  afraid  that  that  was  my 
awkwardness.  I  was  looking  at  it, 
and  it — it  went  down  there. 

Mrs  M.  Don't  let  it  break  from 
you  again.  Here,  take  it,  and  sit 
down  and  be  good.  You  have  no 
genius  for  dusting. 

D.  Nobody  ever  called  me  a  ge- 
nius. I  have  been  called  all  sorts 
of  names ;  but  nobody  ever  went 
so  far  as  to  call  me  a  genius. 

Mrs  M.  And  yet  you  ain't  stu- 
pid. I  always  maintain  that  you 
are  not  really  stupid. 

D.  Ain't  I?  Thank  you.  Who 
is  this  man — this  fine-looking  man 
with  the  frown  and  whiskers  1 

Mrs  M.  He  is  handsome,  isn't 
he? 

D.  I  don't  know.  I  am  not  a 
judge  of  male  beauty. 

Mrs  M.  Men  never  admire  each 
other.  They  are  too  envious  and 
too  vain. 

D.  Are  they  1  And  women  1 
"What  are  women  ? 

Mrs  M.  What  are  women  1 
What  are  they  not?  Oh  for  one 
word  to  comprehend  the  sex  !  Wo- 
men are  —  yes,  women  are  wo- 
manly. 

D.  That  sounds  true.  And 
women  are  effeminate. 

Mrs  M.  Only  females  are  effem- 
inate. 

D.  Oh !  I  wonder  what  that 
means. 

Mrs  M.  But  John  is  handsome. 
Ask  any  woman. 

D.  John! 

Mrs  M.  Yes,  that's  John — my 
cousin. 

D.  I  hate  cousins.  They  are  so 
familiar  and  so  personal. 

Mrs  M.  I  like  them.  They  are 
so — so 

D.  Cousinly. 

Mrs  M.  Precisely. 

D.  Cousins  are  cousinly.  Does 
he  dye  his  whiskers  1 

Mrs  M.  Dye  !  Never.  He  has 
too  much  to  do.  John  is  a  great 
man — a  man  of  will,  a  man  of 


force,  a  man  of  iron.  That's  what 
I  call  a  man. 

D.  Do  you  ?  I  don't  call  an  iron 
man  a  man. 

Mrs  M.  He  is  the  first  of  Ameri- 
can engineers. 

D.  A  Yankee  stoker. 

Mrs  M.  Dear  John  !  He  is  a 
good  fellow.  He  gave  me  that  lit- 
tle jar  by  your  hand. 

D.  Dear  John  is  not  a  judge  of 
china.  I  always  hated  that  little 
jar.  I  shall  break  it  some  day. 

Mrs  M.  If  you  do,  I'll  never 
speak  to  you  again. 

D.  Please  do.  Tell  me  some 
more  about  John.  Has  not  he  got 
a  fault,  not  even  a  little  one  1 

Mrs  M.  He  has  the  fault  of  all 
men — vanity.  He  knows  that  he  is 
handsome. 

D.  I  thought  he  dyed  his  whis- 
kers. 

Mrs  M.  He  does  not  dye  his 
whiskers. 

D.  You  seem  very  keen  about 
the  whiskers.  Here  they  are  in  all 
sizes,  and  from  all  over  the  world — 
carte  -de-  visite  whiskers,  cabinet 
whiskers,  Rembrandt  -  effect  whis- 
kers, whiskers  from  Naples,  from 
New  York,  from  Baker  Street.  You 
must  like  them  very  much. 

Mrs  M.  I  like  the  man.  I  like 
self-respect,  bravery,  and  persever- 
ance. I  like  honest  work.  Oh, 
Lord  Dawlish,  what  a  shame  it  is 
that  you  don't  do  something  ! 

D.  Do  something?  I?  I  do  do 
something.  I — well,  I  go  about. 

Mrs  M.  Oh  !  you  go  about. 

D.  Yes — with  a  dog  in  England ; 
without  a  dog  abroad. 

Mrs  M.  Oh  !  abroad  without  a 
dog.  I  regret  that  I  shall  never 
have  the  pleasure  of  receiving  the 
cur. 

D.  The  cur's  a  collie. 

Mrs  M.  And  so  you  think  that 
man  fulfils  his  destiny  by  going 
about. 

D.  Somebody  must  go  about,  you 
know. 


979, 


Picking  up  the  Pieces :  a  Comedy. 


[March 


Mrs  M.  Yes,  a  squirrel  in  a  cage. 
What  you  want  is  work.  You 
ought  to  take  a  line. 

D.  Go  fishing? 

Mrs  M.  Be  serious,  and  listen  to 
ine.  Here  you  are  in  Florence. 

D.  I  believe  I  am. 

Mrs  M.  You  are  in  the  midst  of 
priceless  treasures.  The  finest  works 
of  art  are  all  around  you. 

D.  I  believe  they  are. 

Mrs  M.  Take  a  line :  take  up 
something,  for  instance  the  Greek 
statues. 

D.  Ain't  I  rather  old  to  play  wi^i 
marbles  1 

Mrs  M.  Not  a  bit.  Nobody  is 
old  who  isn't  old  on  purpose.  Com- 
pare, classify,  and  make  a  book,  or 
even  a  pamphlet. 

D.  I  hate  pamphlets.  They  are 
always  coming  by  the  post. 

Mrs  M.  I  suppose  it's  not  the 
thing  for  a  man  in  your  position  to 
turn  author. 

D.  I  don't  think  I  ever  did  hear 
of  one  of  our  lot  writing  books. 
But  that  don't  much  matter.  I 
should  like  to  take  a  line,  or  a 
course,  or  a — I  took  a  course  of 
waters  once  at  Homburg,  or  Kissiii- 
gen,  or  somewhere  ;  but  they  came 
to  an  end,  like  other  things. 

Mrs  M.  Lord  Dawlish,  are  you 
joking  1 

D.  No. 

Mrs  M.  Then  be  serious  :  take 
up  a  subject ;  set  to  work ;  produce 
your  pamphlet— at  least  a  pamphlet. 
It  might  grow  into  a  book. 

D.  Heaven  forbid  !  I  could  not 
do  it. 

Mrs  M.  "Why  not? 

D.  Writing  a  book  is  so  infernally 
public.  I  should  be  talked  about. 

Mrs  M.  How  dreadful!  The 
owl,  who  is  modest  withal,  and 
shrinks  from  notoriety,  remains  at 
home  until  sunset. 

D.  You  called  me  a  squirrel  be- 
fore. Are  you  going  through  all 
the  zoological  what-d'ye-call-'em  ? 


Mrs  M.  Perhaps  even  I  shall  be 
talked  about  before  long. 

D.  I  should  not  wonder  if  you 
were. 

Mrs  M.  Yes,  even  I,  humble  in- 
dividual as  I  am,  may  perhaps  be 
talked  about  when  I  set  up  my 
studio. 

D.  Your  what? 

Mrs  M.  My  studio.  Yes,  I've 
quite  made  up  my  mind.  There 
are  many  worse  painters  in  Florence 
than  myself.  I  mean  to  be  a  real 
painter,  and  no  longer  play  with 
colour. 

D.  And  sell  your  pictures  ? 

Mrs  M.  For  the  largest  possible 
prices. 

D.  Is  not  that  an  odd  sort  of 
thing  for  a  lady? 

Mrs  M.  No.  We  have  changed 
all  that.  Many  women  paint  now- 
adays. 

D.  T  have  heard  so. 

Mrs  M.  I  believe  that  you  are 
making  jokes  this  morning. 

D.  I  don't  think  so.  I  don't  like 
jokes  ;  they  are  very  fatiguing.  It's 
John's  fault. 

Mrs  M.  What's  John's  fault  ? 

D.  No  man  likes  to  have  another 
crammed  down  his  throat — unless 
he  is  a  confounded  cannibal. 

Mrs  M.  Very  well.  I  will  refrain 
from  cramming  anybody  down  your 
throat.  But  I  won't  let  you  off.  I 
feel  that  I  have  a  mission. 

D.  Good  heavens ! 

Mrs  M.  I  have  a  mission  to  re- 
form you. 

D.  Please  don't  do  it. 

Mrs  M.  I  must.  Why  don't  you 
do  your  proper  work  1  Why  not  go 
back  to  England  and  take  care  of 
your  property  ? 

D.  Because  my  agent  takes  care 
of  it  so  much  better  than  I  could. 
I  inherited  my  place,  and  I  can't 
get  rid  of  it.  But,  luckily,  land 
can't  follow  me  about.  That  is 
why  I  come  abroad. 

Mrs  M.  Without  the  dog. 


1879.] 


Picking  up  the  Pieces  :  a  Comedy. 


273 


D.  He  stays  with  the  land.  He 
likes  it.  He  hates  travelling. 

Mrs  M.  So  would  you  if  you 
travelled  in  a  dog-box. 

D.  I  wish  you  would  not  talk 
about  me.  I  am  so  tired  of  myself. 

Mrs  M.  But  you  interest  me. 

D.  Thank  you.  That  is  grati- 
fying. Don't  let  us  pursue  the 
subject  further. 

Mrs  M.  I  must.  It's  my  mission. 
I  picture  the  pleasures  of  an  Eng- 
lish country  life.  You  build  cot- 
tages ;  you  drain  fields  ;  you  carry 
flannel  to  the  old  women. 

D.  No  ;  I  could  not  do  it.  I 
don't  think  I  could  carry  flannel 
to  an  old  woman. 

Mrs  M.  So  much  for  duties. 
Then  for  amusement.  Are  you 
fond  of  shooting? 

D.  Pheasants  are  all  so  much 
alike.  I  gave  up  sheeting  when 
my  sister  took  to  it. 

Mrs  M.  Your  sister ! 

D.  She  is  a  keen  sportsman — aw- 
fully keen.  I  went  out  with  her 
once.  I  feel  them  still  sometimes 
in  my  back  when  it's  cold  weather. 

Mrs  M.  You  like  hunting  better  ? 
In  this  country  they  shoot  the  fox. 

D.  Do  they  1  That  must  be  curi- 
ous. I  wonder  if  I  could  bring  my- 
self to  try  that.  I  almost  think 
that 

Mrs  M.  Go  home  and  hunt. 

D.  I  have  given  up  hunting. 
Rather  rough  on  Teddie,  don't  you 
think  1 

Mrs  M.  Who's  Teddie  ? 

D.  Don't  you  know  Teddie  ? 

Mrs  M.  Is  he  the  dog  1 

D.  No;  he  is  my  brother.  I 
thought  that  everybody  knew  Ted- 
die.  Teddie  knows  everybody. 
Teddie  likes  me  to  hunt.  He  is 
always  bothering  me  to  buy  horses 
— with  tricks.  Or  to  go  by  excur- 
sion trains.  Or  to  shoot  lions  in 
Abyssinia.  He  is  an  awfully  ambi- 
tious fellow,  Teddie.  Don't  you 
think  we  might  change  the  subject  1 


Mrs  M.  Not  yet.  I  have  not 
done  my  duty  yet.  Politics  !  Oh  for 
political  influence !  Oh  for  power  ! 
Why,  you  must  be — of  course  you 
are  a — thingummy  what's-his-name. 

D.  Very  likely,  if  you  say  so. 

Mrs  M.  An  hereditary  legislator. 
Think  of  that.  Think  of  your  in- 
fluence in  the  country;  of  the  power 
you  might  wield.  Go  in  for  politics. 

D.  Well,  you  know,  I — I  inherit- 
ed my  politics  with  my  place,  and  I 
can't  get  rid  of  them.  But  Teddie 
does  them  for  me.  He  was  always 
rather  a  muff,  Teddie  was ;  and  so 
they  put  him  into  politics. 

Mrs  M.  Are  there  muffs  in  your 
family?  But  don't  interrupt  me. 
I  must  have  the  last  word.  Any- 
thing else  I  will  give  up,  but  the 
last  word — never.  In  your  position 
you  must  sway  something.  If  you 
won't  sway  the  country,  sway  the 
county;  if  you  won't  sway  the 
county,  sway  a  vestry,  a  workhouse, 
a  something,  or  anything.  Only  do 
something.  You  would  be  a  great 
deal  happier,  and  —  I  don't  know 
why  I  should  be  afraid  to  say — a 
great  deal  better,  if  you  would  only 
do  something. 

D.  You  forget  that  I  am  delicate. 
The  doctors  say  I  am  delicate,  and 
that  is  why  I  come  abroad.  I  do 
wish  you  would  change  the  subject. 
It  is  a  delicate  subject,  you  know. 

Mrs  M.  Again  !  You  have  only 
one  malady — idleness. 

D.  No,  no,  no  !    All  the  doctors. 

Mrs  M.  Quacks ! 

D.  As  you  please.  But  I  have 
not  the  rude  health  of  some  strong- 
minded  women. 

Mrs  M.  Nor  I  the  rude  manners 
of  some  weak-minded  men.  But  I 
beg  your  pardon  ;  /  won't  be  rude. 

D.  Was  I  rude  ?  I  am  awfully 
sorry.  I  beg  your  pardon.  But  I 
am  so  tired  of  myself. 

Mrs  M.  Then  work — work  and 
be  cured.  Do  something — anything. 
A  stitch  in  time  saves  nine. 


274 


Picking  up  the  Pieces :  a  Comedy. 


[March 


D.  Oh,  if  you  come  to  proverbs 
— Look  "before  you  leap. 

Mrs  M.  Procrastination  is  the 
thief  of  time. 

D.  More  haste  less '  speed.  If 
one  does  nothing,  at  least  one  does 
no  harm. 

Mrs  M.  Nor  does  a  stuffed  poo- 
dle. 

D.  Another  beast !  I  have  been 
a  squirrel  and  an  owl.  And  after 
all,  I  did  not  come  here  to  talk 
about  myself,  nor  poodles. 

Mrs  M.  Did  you  come  to  speak 
of  the  weather  1 

D.  I  wanted  to  speak  about  you. 

Mrs  M.  About  me !  Here's  a 
turning  of  the  tables. 

D.  May  I? 

Mrs  M.  If  you  have  energy  for 
so  lively  a  topic. 

D.  May  I  speak  plainly,  as  an 
old  friend  1 

Mrs  M.-Aa  a  month-old  friend. 
Speak  plainly  by  all  means.  I've  a 
passion  for  plain  speaking. 

D.  It  is  an  uncommonly  dis- 
agreeable subject. 

Mrs  M.  Thank  you.  You  were 
going  to  talk  about  me. 

D.  I  don't  mean  that ;  of  course 
not.  It  does  not  matter  whether  I 
talk  about  you  or  not.  But  there 
are  other  people  here  who  talk 
about  you. 

Mrs  M.  Talk  about  me  1  What 
do  they  say  ? 

D.  They  say  things  I  don't  like ; 
so  I  thought  that  I 

Mrs  M.  Thank  you,  Lord  Daw- 
lish ;  but  I  can  take  very  good  care 
of  myself. 

D.  Very  well. 

Mrs  M.  "Why  should  I  care  what 
this  Anglo-Florentine  Society  say  of 
me  ?  It  doesn't  hurt  me ;  I  don't 
care  what  they  say  of  me  j  I  am 

entirely  indifferent ;  I  am Oh, 

do  not  stand  there  like  a  stick,  but 
tell  me  what  these  people  say  about 
me. 

D.  I — I— —     It  is  so  awkward 


for  me  to  tell  you.  You  know  Flit- 
terly? 

Mrs  M.  Flitterly  !      A  sparrow  ! 

D.  Oh,  he  is  a  sparrow  !  What 
is  to  be  done  to  the  sparrow  1 

Mrs  M.  Nothing.  He  is  beneath 
punishment — beneath  contempt.  A 

little  chattering,  intrusive,  cruel 

I  suppose  it  would  not  do  for  me 
to  horsewhip  Flitterly  1 

D.  It  would  be  better  for  me  to 
do  that.  I  thought  of  pulling  his 
nose  :  it  is  a  little  one ;  but  I  might 
do  it  with  time.  I  think  I  should 
enjoy  it. 

Mrs  M.  It's  too  bad !  It's  too 
bad  that  a  woman  of  my  age  should 
not  be  safe  from  these  wretches — 
from  the  tongues  of  these  malicious 
chatterers.  The  cowards,  to  attack 
a  woman ! 

D.  I  was  afraid  that  you  would 
feel  it. 

MrsM.  I  don't  feel  it.  Why 
should  I?  Why  should  I  feel  it  1 
But,  good  gracious !  is  the  man 
going  to  stand  there  all  day,  and 
never  tell  me  what  this — what  that 
— that — pha  !  what  he  says  of  me  1 

D.  I  don't  like  to  tell  you. 

Mrs  M.  Do  you  take  me  for  a 
fool,  Lord  Dawlish  1 

D.  No  ;  for  a  woman. 

Mrs  M.  What  does  he  say  ? 

D.  If  you  will  know,  you  must. 
He  says — he  says  that  you  and  I 
are  going  to  be  married. 

Mrs  M.  Married  !  You  and  I ! 
Well,  at  least  he  might  have  in- 
vented something  less  preposterous. 

D.  Preposterous  ! 

Mrs  M.  You  and  I  ! 

D.  I  don't  see  anything  pre- 
posterous in  it.  Why  should  not 
you  and  I  be  married  ?  By  George, 
I  have  made  an  offer  ! 

Mrs  M.  Are  you  mad1?  You 
say 

D.  Oh,  I  don't  want  to  hurry 
you.  Don't  speak  in  a  hurry. 
Think  it  over  •  think  it  over.  Take 
time. 


1879.] 


Picking  up  the  Pieces  :  a  Comedy. 


275 


Mrs  M.  But  do  you  mean 

D.  Oh,  please,  don't  hurry.  Think 
it  over.  Any  time  will  do. 

Mrs  M.  Will  it  1 

D.  I  am  not  clever,  nor  interest- 
ing ;  but  if  you  don't  mind  me,  I 
will  do  anything  I  can.  You  shall 
have  any  sort  of  society  you  like  : 
fast  or  slow ;  literary  or  swell ;  or 
anything.  Of  course  there  would  be 
plenty  of  money,  and  jewels,  and 
cooks,  and  all  that.  You  can  have 
gowns,  and  cheque-books,  and  pin- 
money,  and 

Mrs  M.  And  find  my  own  wash- 
ing and  beer.  Lord  Dawlish,  are 
you  offering  me  a  situation  1 

D.  Yes — no — I  mean  that  I 

Mrs  M.  A  thousand  thanks.  The 
wages  are  most  tempting;  but  I 
have  no  thought  of  leaving  my 
present  place. 

D.  I  fear  that  I  have  been  offen- 
sive. I  beg  your  pardon.  I  had 
better  go.  Good  morning,  Mrs 
Melton. 

Mrs  M.  Good-bye,  Lord  Dawlish. 

(So  he  goes  out ;  straightway  her 
mood  changes,  and  she  idshes  him 
lack  again.) 

Mrs  M.  (sola).  He  will  never 
come  back.  I  can't  let  him  go  for 
ever.  I  can't  afford  to  lose  a  friend 
who  makes  me  laugh  so  much. 
Flitterly  may  say  what  he  likes — 
a  goose  !  a  sparrow  !  a  grasshopper  ! 
I  shall  call  him  back. 

(So  she  calls  to  him  down  the 
stair ;  then  from  the  -windoiv ;  and 
as  she  calls  from  the  window,  he 
comes  in  at  the  door,  watches  her 
awhile,  then  speaks.) 

D.  Did  you  call  me,  Mrs  Mel- 
ton? 

Mrs  M.  Is  the  man  deaf?  I  have 
been  screaming  like  a  peacock  ;  and 
all  for  your  sake — all  because  I 
didn't  want  you  to  go  away  angry. 

D.  I  thought  it  was  you  who 
were  angry. 

Mrs  M.  No,  it  was  you. 

D.  Very  well. 


Mrs  M.  You  must  drop  the  pre- 
posterous subject  for  ever ;  and  we 
will  be  good  friends,  as  we  were  be- 
fore. Sit  down  and  be  friendly. 

D.  Thank  you.  That  is  capital. 
We  will  be  as  we  were  before — as 
we  were  before. 

Mrs  M.  You  are  sure  you  can 
bear  the  disappointment? 

D.  Oh  yes.  We  will  be  friends, 
as  we  were.  That  is  much  better. 

Mrs  M.  Lord  Dawlish,  you  are 
simply  delicious  ! 

D.  Am  I  ?  Thank  you.  And  I 
may  come  and  sit  here  sometimes  1 

Mrs  M.  In  spite  of  Flitterly. 

D.  Flitterly,  be 

Mrs  M.  Yes,  by  all  means. 

(Then  he  meditates,  and  after  due 
deliberation  speaks.) 

D.  I  should  like  to  ask  you 
something,  Mrs  Melton — something 
personal, 

Mrs  M.  Ask  what  you  like,  and 
I  will  answer  if  I  choose. 

D.  May  I  ask  as  a  friend — only 
as  a  friend,  you  know — if  you  are 
quite  determined  never  to  marry 
again  ?  I  know  that  it  is  no  busi- 
ness of  mine  ;  but  I  can't  help 
being  curious  about  you.  I  don't 
think  I  am  curious  about  anything 
else.  But  you  are  such  an  extra- 
ordinary woman. 

Mrs  M.  Extraordinary  because  I 
have  refused  to  be  Lady  Dawlish. 
It  is  strange,  very.  Oh,  don't  be 
alarmed;  I  have  refused.  But  it 
is  strange.  I  am  a  woman,  and  I 
refused  rank  and  wealth.  Wealth 
means  gowns  and  cooks  from  Paris, 
a  brougham  and  a  victoria,  a  step- 
per, a  tiger,  and  a  pug  :  rank  means 
walking  out  before  other  women, 
and  the  envy  of  all  my  sex.  I  am 
a  woman,  and  I  refuse  these  luxu- 
ries. You  were  mad  when  you 
offered  them. 

D.  I  don't  think  that  I  could  be 
mad. 

Mrs  M.  Not  another  word  upon 
the  subject. 


276 


Picking  up  the  Pieces :  a  Comedy. 


[March 


D.  But  won't  you  satisfy  my 
curiosity  1 

Mrs  M.  I  never  knew  you  so 
persistent. 

D.  I  never  was  before. 

Mrs  M.  Such  ardent  curiosity, 
such  desperate  perseverance,  deserve 
to  be  rewarded.  I  have  nothing  to 
do  for  the  moment,  and  there  is 
one  luxury  which  no  woman  can 
forego — the  luxury  of  talking  about 
herself.  You  needn't  listen  if  the 
effort  is  too  great :  I  address  the 
chair,  or  the  universe.  You  will 
hardly  believe  it  of  me  ;  but  I  cher- 
ish a  sentiment.  There !  Years 
and  years  ago  —  how  many,  I  am 
woman  enough  not  to  specify — I 
lived  with  an  aunt  in  Paris ;  you 
hate  cousins,  I  am  not  in  love  with 
aunts  :  however,  she  was  my  only 
relation ;  there  was  no  choice,  and 
there  I  lived  with  her  in  Paris, 
and  was  finished ;  there  was  noth- 
ing to  finish,  for  I  knew  nothing. 
Well,  it  was  there,  in  Paris — I  was 
quite  a  child — it  was  there  that  I 
one  day  met  a  boy  scarcely  older 
than  myself.  I  am  in  love  with 
him  still.  Quite  idyllic,  isn't  it  1 

D.  Very  likely.    In  Paris?    Paris. 

Mrs  M.  There  never  was  any  one 
in  the  world  like  him — so  brave,  so 
good,  so  boyish  :  he  rejoiced  in  life, 
certain  of  pleasure  and  purposing 
noble  work. 

D.  (aside).  Cousin  John!  Cousin 
John,  of  course.  Confound  Cousin 
John ! 

Mrs  M.  He  fell  in  love  with  me 
at  once,  almost  before  I  had  fallen 
in  love  with  him.  We  were  both 
so  absurdly  shy,  so  silly,  and  so 
young.  I  can  see  him  blush  now, 
and  I  could  blush  then.  But  I 
shall  be  sentimental  in  a  minute  : 
this  is  egregious  folly;  of  course 
it  is  folly,  and  it  was  folly  ;  of 
course  it  was  merely  childish  fancy, 
boy-anct-girl  sentiment,  calf-love ; 
of  course  a  week's  absence  would 
put  an  end  to  it  ;  and  of  course  I 


love  him  still.  But  forgive  me, 
Lord  Dawlish.  Why  should  I 
bother  you  with  this  worn-out  com- 
monplace romance  1 

D.  I  like  it.  It  interests  me. 
Go  on,  if  it  does  not  bore  you.  It 
reminds  me  of  something — of  some- 
thing which  I  had  better  forget. 

Mrs  M.  You  shall  hear  the  rest : 
there  isn't  much.  He  was  taken 
away,  and — I  suppose  forgot  me. 
I  came  out  in  Paris,  went  every- 
where, was  vastly  gay,  and  ter- 
ribly unhapp3T.  My  aunt  was 
youngish,  and  good-looking — in  a 
way;  she  was  dying  to  be  rid  of 
me,  and  I  knew  it ;  and  so  things 
were  very  uncomfortable  at  home, 
until — until  I  married.  Oh,  I  told 
him  the  truth,  the  whole  truth :  I 
told  him  that  the  love  of  my  life 
had  gone  by.  I  am  glad  I  told  him 
the  truth. 

D.  An  American,  was  he  not  1 

Mrs  M.  Yes.  I  was  grateful  to 
him,  and  proud  of  him.  He  was 
so  good  and  true.  But  he  made 
light  of  my  story.  He  thought,  like 
the  rest,  that  it  was  a  mere  girlish 
fancy;  that  I  should  soon  forget; 

that There,  you  have  my  story ! 

Touching,  isn't  it  1 

D.  It  is  most  extraordinary. 

Mrs  M.  What  is  most  extraor- 
dinary ? 

D.  Your  story  is  like  my  story. 

Mrs  M.  It's  everybody's  story. 
It's  common  as  the  whooping- 
cough,  and  dull  as  the  mumps. 
But  come,  give  me  the  details  of 
your  case. 

D.  The  details  !  If  I  can  re- 
member them. 

Mrs  M.  If  you  can  remember  ! 
Who  would  be  a  man  1 

D.  It  was  in  Paris 

Mrs  M.  In  Paris  ] 

D.  It  is  just  like  your  story. 
Suppose  that  we  take  it  as  told. 

Mrs  M.  Go  on.     I  must  hear  it. 

D.  I  was  sent  to  Paris  when  I 
was  a  boy,  with  a  bear -leader. 


1879.] 


Picking  up  the  Pieces :  a  Comedy. 


277 


There  I  saw  a  girl — a  little  bread- 
and-butter  miss, — and — and  I  got 
fond  of  her — awfully  fond  of  her. 
She  was  the  dearest,  little  girl — the 
best  little  thing.  She  was  like — 
like 

Mrs  M.  Go  on.  What  hap- 
pened 1 

D.  Nothing. 

Mrs  M.  Nothing  !  Nonsense  ! 
Something  always  happens. 

D.  Nothing  came  of  it.  They 
said  boy  and  girl,  and  calf-love, 
and  all  that,  like  the  people  in  your 
story :  and  they  packed  me  off  to 
England. 

Mrs  M.  "Why  did  you  go  ? 

D.  I  always  was  a  fool.  They 
said  that  it  would  try  the  strength 
of  her  feelings;  that,  if  we  were 
both  of  the  same  mind  when  I  had 
got  my  degree,  the  thing  should  be. 

Mrs  M.  And  you  never  wrote  ? 

D.  No. 

Mrs  M.  Nor  did  he — never  one 
line. 

D.  They  said  she  wished  me  not 
to  write. 

Mrs  M.  How  likely !  These 
men,  these  men !  They  never 
know  what  letters  are  to  women. 
What  was  the  end  ? 

D.  The  usual  thing.  As  soon  as 
my  degree  was  all  right  I  made  for 
Paris.  She  was  gone. 

Mrs  M.  My  poor  friend !  She 
was  dead. 

D.  Married. 

Mrs  M.  Married !  how  could  she 

D.  It  is  very  like  your  story, 
ain't  it1?  Only  in  my  story  the 
parties  were  not  American. 

Mrs  M.  American !  What  do 
you  mean  ?  I  wasn't  an  American 
till  I  married  one,  and  Tom 

D.  Then  it  wasn't  cousin  John  1 

Mrs  M.  John !  No,  no,  no  ! 
Lord  Dawlish  !  Lord  Dawlish  ! 
what  is  your  family  name? 

D.  My  family  name?  What  on 
earth,  my  dear  Mrs  Melton 


Mrs  M.  Quick,  quick  !  What  is 
it? 

D.  Why — er — why — Dashleigh, 
of  course. 

Mrs  M.  And  you  are  Tom  Dash- 
leigh ? 

(As  she  looks  at  him,  the  truth 
dawns  071  him.) 

D.  And  you  are  little  Kitty 
Gray? 

Mrs  M.  Oh  my  bright  boy-lover, 
you  are  lost  now  indeed. 

D.  I  think  I  have  got  a  chill. 

( When  they  have  sat  a  little  while 
in  silence,  she  jumps  up.) 

Mrs  M.  No  more  sentiment,  no 
more  folly  !  Away  with  sentiment 
for  ever  !  The  boy  and  girl  lovers 
are  dead  long  ago  ;  and  we  old  folk 
who  know  the  world  may  strew 
flowers  on  their  grave  and  be  gone. 
Look  up,  old  friend,  look  up. 

D.  Yet  you  are  you,  and  I — I 
suppose  that  I  am  I. 

Mrs  M.  Young  fools !  young 
fools !  why  should  we  pity  them, 
we  wise  old  folk  who  know  the 
world  ?  Love  is  but — is  but 

(And  she  dashes  into  music  at 
the  piano :  soon  her  hands  begin  to 
fail,  and  she  stoops  over  them  to 
hide  her  eyes  ;  then  she  jumps  up  in 
tears,  and  moving  knocks  over  the 
little  jar  which  was  cousin  John's 
gift.  He  would  pick  it  up,  but  she 
stops  him.) 

No,  no  :  let  it  lie  there. 

D.  Shan't  I  pick  up  the  pieces  ? 

Mrs  M.  Let  them  lie  there.  One 
can  never  pick  up  the  pieces. 

D.  Why  not?  I  don't  think  I 
understand.  But  I  can't  bear  to 
see  you  cry.  I  thought  that  you 
could  not  cry ;  that  you  were  too 
clever  and  strong-minded  to  cry. 
Look  here  !  You  might  have  made 
something  of  me  once.  Is  it  too 
late,  Mrs  Melton  ? 

Mrs  M.  The  jar  is  broken. 

D.  Is  it  too  late,  Kitty  ? 

Mrs  M.  Let  us  pick  up  the  pieces 
together. 


278 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XII. 


[March 


JOHN     CALDIGATE. — PART    XII. 


CHAPTER   XLVI. BURNING   WORDS. 


"  No  power  at  all ;  none  what- 
ever," the  banker  said,  when  he 
was  next  compelled  to  carry  on  the 
conversation.  This  was  immedi- 
ately upon  his  return  home  from 
Cambridge,  for  his  wife  never  al- 
lowed the  subject  to  be  forgotten 
or  set  aside.  Every  afternoon  and 
every  evening  it  was  being  discussed 
at  all  hours  not  devoted  to  prayers, 
and  every  morning  it  was  renewed 
at  the  breakfast-table. 

"  That  comes  from  Kobert."  Mr 
Bolton  was  not  able  to  deny  the 
assertion.  "What  does  he  mean 
by  'no  power']" 

"  We  can't  make  her  do  it.  The 
magistrates  can't  interfere." 

"  Magistrates  !  Has  it  been  by 
the  interference  of  magistrates  that 
men  have  succeeded  in  doing  great 
things'?  Was  it  by  order  from 
the  magistrates  that  the  lessons  of 
Christ  have  been  taught  over  all  the 
world]  Is  there  no  such  thing  as 
persuasion]  Has  truth  no  power? 
Is  she  more  deaf  to  argument  and 
eloquence  than  another  ] " 

"  She  is  very  deaf,  I  think,"  said 
the  father,  doubting  his  own  elo- 
quence. 

"  It  is  because  no  one  has  endea- 
voured to  awaken  her  by  burning 
words  to  a  true  sense  of  her  situa- 
tion." When  she  said  this  she 
must  surely  have  forgotten  much 
that  had  occurred  during  those 
weary  hours  which  had  been  passed 
by  her  and  her  daughter  outside 
there  in  the  hall.  "  No  power  ! " 
she  repeated.  "It  is  the  answer 
always  made  by  those  who  are  too 
sleepy  to  do  the  Lord's  work.  It 
was  because  men  said  that  they  had 
no  power  that  the  grain  fell  upon 
stony  places,  where  they  had  not 


much  earth.  It  is  that  aversion  to 
face  difficulties  which  causes  the 
broad  path  to  be  crowded  with 
victims.  I,  at  any  rate,  will  go. 
I  may  have  no  power,  but  I  will 
make  the  attempt." 

Soon  after  that  she  did  make  the 
attempt.  Mr  Bolton,  though  he 
was  assured  by  Robert  that  such  an 
attempt  would  produce  no  result, 
could  not  interfere  to  prevent  it. 
Had  he  been  far  stronger  than  he 
was  in  his  own  house,  he  could 
hardly  have  forbidden  the  mother 
to  visit  the  daughter.  Hester  had 
sent  word  to  say  that  she  did  not 
wish  to  see  even  her  mother.  But 
this  had  been  immediately  after  the 
verdict,  when  she  was  crushed  and 
almost  annihilated  by  her  misery. 
Some  weeks  had  now  passed  by, 
and  it  could  not  be  that  she  would 
refuse  to  admit  the  visitor,  when 
such  a  visitor  knocked  at  her  door. 
They  had  loved  each  other  as  mo- 
thers and  daughters  do  love  when 
there  is  no  rival  in  the  affection, — 
when  each  has  no  one  else  to  love. 
There  never  had  been  a  more  obedi- 
ent child,  or  a  more  loving  parent. 
Much,  no  doubt,  had  happened  since 
to  estrange  the  daughter  from  the 
mother.  A  husband  had  been  given 
to  her  who  was  more  to  her  than 
any  parent, — as  a  husband  should 
be.  And  then  there  had  been  that 
terrible  opposition,  that  struggle, 
that  battle  in  the  hall.  But  the 
mother's  love  had  never  waned  be- 
cause of  that.  She  was  sure  that 
her  child  would  not  refuse  to  see 
her. 

So  the  fly  was  ordered  to  take 
her  out  to  Folking,  and  on  the 
morning  fixed  she  dressed  herself 
in  her  blackest  black.  She  always 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate.—Part  XII. 


279 


wore  brown  or  "black, — brown  being 
the  colour  suitable  for  the  sober  and 
sad  domesticities  of  her  week-days, 
which  on  ceremonies  and  Sabbath 
was  changed  for  a  more  solemn 
black.  But  in  her  wardrobe  there 
were  two  such  gowns,  one  of  which 
was  apparently  blacker  than  the 
other,  nearer  to  a  guise  of  widow- 
hood,— more  fit,  at  any  rate,  for  gen- 
eral funereal  obsequies.  There  are 
women  who  seem  always  to  be  bury- 
ing some  one ;  and  Mrs  Bolton,  as 
she  went  forth  to  visit  her  daughter, 
was  fit  to  bury  any  one  short  of  her 
husband. 

It  was  a  hot  day  in  August,  and 
the  fly  travelled  along  the  dusty 
road  very  slowly.  She  had  intend- 
ed to  reach  Folking  at  twelve,  so 
that  her  interview  might  be  over 
and  that  she  might  return  without 
the  need  of  eating.  There  is  always 
some  idea  of  festivity  connected 
with  food  eaten  at  a  friend's  table, 
and  she  did  not  wish  to  be  festive. 
She  was,  too,  most  unwilling  to 
partake  of  John  Caldigate's  bread. 
But  she  did  not  reach  the  house  till 
one,  and  when  she  knocked  at  the 
door  Hester's  modest  lunch  was 
about  to  be  put  upon  the  table. 

There  was  considerable  confusion 
when  the  servant  saw  Mrs  Bolton 
standing  in  the  doorway.  It  was 
quite  understood  by  every  one  at 
Eolking  that  for  the  present  there 
was  to  be  no  intercourse  between 
the  Boltons  and  the  Caldigates.  It 
was  understood  that  there  should 
be  no  visitors  of  any  kind  at  Folk- 
ing,  and  it  had  been  thought  that 
Mr  Smirkie  had  forced  an  entrance 
in  an  impertinent  manner.  But 
yet  it  was  not  possible  to  send  Mrs 
Bolton  from  her  own  daughter's 
door  with  a  mere  "  not  at  home." 
Of  course  she  was  shown  in, — and 
was  taken  to  the  parlour,  in  which 
the  lunch  was  prepared,  while  word 
was  taken  up  to  Hester  announcing 
that  her  mother  was  there. 


Mr  Caldigate  was  in  the  house, 
— in  his  own  book-room,  as  it  used 
to  be  called, — and  Hester  went  to 
him  first.  "Mamma  is  here, — in 
the  dining-room." 

"  Your  mother  !  " 

"  I  long  to  see  mamma." 

"  Of  course  you  do." 

"But  she  will  want  me  to  go 
away  with  her." 

"  She  cannot  take  you  unless  you 
choose  to  go." 

"  But  she  will  speak  of  nothing 
else.  I  know  it.  I  wish  she  had 
not  come." 

"  Surely,  Hester,  you  can  make 
her  understand  that  your  mind  is 
made  up." 

"  Yes,  I  shall  do  that ;  I  must 
do  that.  But,  father,  it  will  be 
very  painful.  You  do  not  know 
what  things  she  can  say.  It  nearly 
killed  me  when  I  was  at  the  Grange. 
You  will  not  see  her,  I  suppose  ? " 

"If  you  wish  it,  I  will.  She 
will  not  care  to  see  me ;  and  as 
things  are  at  present,  what  room  is 
there  for  friendship  ? " 

"  You  will  come  if  I  send  for 
you?" 

"  Certainly.  If  you  send  for  me 
I  will  come  at  once." 

Then  she  crept  slowly  out  of  the 
room,  and  very  slowly  and  very  si- 
lently made  her  way  to  the  parlour- 
door.  Though  she  was  of  a  strong 
nature,  unusually  strong  of  will 
and  fixed  of  purpose,  now  her  heart 
misgave  her.  That  terrible  struggle, 
with  all  its  incidents  of  weariness 
and  agony,  was  present  to  her  mind. 
Her  mother  could  not  turn  the  lock 
on  her  now ;  but,  as  she  had  said, 
it  would  be  very  dreadful.  Her 
mother  would  say  words  to  her 
which  would  go  through  her  like 
swords.  Then  she  opened  the  door, 
and  for  a  moment  there  was  the 
sweetness  of  an  embrace.  There 
was  a  prolonged  tenderness  in  the 
kiss  which,  even  to  Mrs  Bolton, 
had  a  charm  for  the  moment  to 


280 


John  Caldigate.—Part  XII. 


[March 


soften  her  spirit.  "  Oh,  mamma ! 
my  own  mamma  ! " 

«  My  child!" 

"  Yes,  mamma ; — every  day  when 
I  pray  for  you  I  tell  myself  that  I 
am  still  your  child, — I  do." 

"  My  only  one  !  my  only  one  ! — 
all  that  I  have  !  "  Then  again  they 
were  in  each  other's  arms.  Yet, 
when  they  had  last  met,  one  had 
been  the  jailer,  and  the  other  the 
prisoner;  and  they  had  fought  it 
out  between  them  with  a  deter- 
mined obstinacy  which  at  moments 
had  almost  amounted  to  hatred. 
But  now  the  very  memory  of  these 
sad  hours  increased  their  tender- 
ness. "  Hester,  through  it  all,  do 
you  not  know  that  my  heart  yearns 
for  you  day  and  night  1 — that  in  my 
prayers  I  am  always  remembering 
you  1  that  my  dreams  are  happy 
because  you  are  with  me  ?  that  I 
am  ever  longing  for  you  as  Ruth 
longed  for  Naomi  1  I  am  as  Rachel 
weeping  for  her  children,  who  would 
not  be  comforted  because  they  are 
not.  Day  and  night  my  heart- 
strings are  torn  asunder  because 
my  eyes  behold  you  not." 

It  was  true, — and  the  daughter 
knew  it  to  be  true.  But  what  could 
be  done?  There  had  grown  up 
something  for  her,  holier,  greater, 
more  absorbing  even  than  a  mo- 
ther's love.  Happily  for  most 
young  wives,  though  the  new  tie 
may  surmount  the  old  one,  it  does 
not  crush  it  or  smother  it.  The  mo- 
ther retains  a  diminished  hold,  and 
knowing  what  nature  has  intended, 
is  content.  She,  too,  with  some 
subsidiary  worship,  kneels  at  the 
new  altar,  and  all  is  well.  But 
here,  though  there  was  abundant 
love,  there  was  no  sympathy.  The 
cause  of  discord  was  ever  present  to 
them  both.  Unless  John  Caldigate 
was  acknowledged  to  be  a  fitting 
husband,  not  even  the  mother 
could  be  received  with  a  full  wel- 
come. And  unless  John  Caldi- 


gate were  repudiated,  not  even  the 
daughter  could  be  accepted  as  alto- 
gether pure.  Parental  and  filial  feel- 
ings sufficed  for  nothing  between 
them  beyond  the  ecstasy  of  a  caress. 

As  Hester  was  standing  mute, 
still  holding  her  mother's  hand,  the 
servant  came  to  the  door,  and  asked 
whether  she  would  have  her  lunch. 

"  You  will  stay  and  eat  with  me, 
mamma  ?  But  you  will  come  up  to 
my  room  first." 

"  I  will  go  up  to  your  room, 
Hester." 

"  Then  we  will  have  our  lunch," 
Hester  said,  turning  to  the  servant. 
So  the  two  went  together  to  the 
upper  chamber,  and  in  a  moment 
the  mother  had  fetched  her  baby, 
and  placed  it  in  her  mother's  arms. 

"  I  wish  he  were  at  the  Grange," 
said  Mrs  Bolton.  Then  Hester 
shook  her  head;  but  feeling  the 
security  of  her  position,  left  the 
baby  with  its  grandmother.  "  I 
wish  he  were  at  the  Grange.  It 
is  the  only  fitting  home  for  him 
at  present." 

"  No,  mamma  ;  that  cannot  be." 

"  It  should  be  so,  Hester ;  it 
should  be  so." 

"  Pray  do  not  speak  of  it,  dear 
mamma." 

"  Have  I  not  come  here  on  pur- 
pose that  I  might  speak  of  it? 
Sweet  as  it  is  to  me  to  have  you 
in  my  arms,  do  you  not  know  that 
I  have  come  for  that  purpose, — 
for  that  only?" 

"  It  cannot  be  so." 

"  I  will  not  take  such  an  answer, 
Hester.  I  am  not  here  to  speak  of 
pleasure  or  delights, — not  to  speak 
of  sweet  companionship,  or  even  of 
a  return  to  that  more  godly  life 
which,  I  think,  you  would  find  in 
your  father's  house.  Had  not  this 
ruin  come,  unhappy  though  I  might 
have  been,  and  distrustful,  I  should 
not  have  interfered.  Those  whom 
God  has  joined  together,  let  not  man 
put  asunder." 


1879.] 


John  Cdldigate. — Part  XII. 


281 


"  It  is  what  I  say  to  myself  every 
hour.  God  has  joined  us,  and  no 
man,  no  number  of  men,  shall  put 
us  asunder." 

"But,  my  own  darling,  —  God 
has  not  joined  you !  When  that  man 
pretended  to  be  joined  to  you,  he 
had  a  wife  then  living, — still  living." 

"No." 

"  "Will  you  set  up  your  own  opin- 
ion against  evidence  which  the  jury 
has  believed,  which  the  judge  has 
believed,  which  all  the  world  has 
believed?" 

"Ye?,  I  will/'  said  Hester,  the 
whole  nature  of  whose  face  was  now 
altered,  and  who  looked  as  she  did 
when  sitting  in  the  hall-chair  at 
Puritan  Grange, — "  I  will.  Though 
I  were  almost  to  know  that  he  had 
been  false,  I  should  still  believe 
him  to  be  true." 

"  I  cannot  understand  that,  Hes- 
ter." 

"But  I  know  him  to  be  true, 
—  quite  true,"  she  said,  wishing 
to  erase  the  feeling  which  her 
unguarded  admission  had  made. 
"  Not  to  believe  him  to  have  been 
true  would  be  death  to  me  ;  and 
for  my  boy's  sake,  I  would  wish  to 
live.  But  I  have  no  doubt,  and  I 
will  listen  to  no  one, — not  even  to 
you,  when  you  tell  me  that  God  did 
not  join  us  together." 

"  You  cannot  go  behind  the  law, 
Hester.  As  a  citizen,  you  must 
obey  the  law." 

"  I  will  live  here, — as  a  citizen, 
— till  he  has  been  restored  to  me." 

"  But  he  will  not  then  be  your 
husband.  People  will  not  call  you 
by  his  name.  He  cannot  have  two 
wives.  She  will  be  his  wife.  Oh, 
Hester,  have  you  thought  of  it  ? " 

"  I  have  thought  of  it,"  she  said, 
raising  her  face,  looking  upwards 
through  the  open  window,  out  away 
towards  the  heavens,  and  pressing 
her  foot  firmly  upon  the  floor.  "  I 
have  thought  of  it, — very  much  ; 
and  I  have  asked — the  Lord — for 


counsel.  And  He  has  given  it  me. 
He  has  told  me  what  to  believe, 
what  to  know,  and  how  to  live.  I 
will  never  again  lie  with  my  head 
upon  his  bosom  unless  all  that  be 
altered.  But  I  will  serve  him  as 
his  wife,  and  obey  him;  and  if  I  can 
I  will  comfort  him.  I  will  never 
desert  him.  And  not  all  the  laws 
that  were  ever  made,  nor  all  the 
judges  that  ever  sat  in  judgment, 
shall  make  me  call  myself  by  an- 
other name  than  his." 

The  mother  had  come  there  to 
speak  burning  words,  and  she  had 
in  some  sort  prepared  them;  but 
now  she  found  herself  almost 
silenced  by  the  energy  of  her 
daughter.  And  when  her  girl  told 
her  that  she  had  applied  to  her 
God  for  counsel,  and  that  the  Lord 
had  answered  her  prayers  —  that 
the  Lord  had  directed  her  as  to  her 
future  life, — then  the  mother  hard- 
ly knew  how  to  mount  to  higher 
ground,  so  as  to  seem  to  speak 
from  a  more  exalted  eminence. 
And  yet  she  was  not  at  all 
convinced.  That  the  Lord  should 
give  bad  counsel  she  knew  to  be 
impossible.  That  the  Lord  would 
certainly  give  good  counsel  to  such 
a  suppliant,  if  asked  aright,  she  was 
quite  sure.  But  they  who  send 
others  to  the  throne  of  heaven  for 
direct  advice  are  apt  to  think  that 
the  asking  will  not  be  done  aright 
unless  it  be  done  with  their  spirit 
and  their  bias, — with  the  spirit  and 
bias  which  they  feel  when  they 
recommend  the  operation.  No 
one  has  ever  thought  that  direct 
advice  from  the  Lord  was  sufficient 
authority  for  the  doing  of  that  of 
which  he  himself  disapproved.  It 
was  Mrs  Bolton's  daily  custom  to 
kneel  herself  and  ask  for  such 
counsel,  and  to  enjoin  such  ask- 
ing upon  all  those  who  were  subject 
to  her  influence.  But  had  she 
been  assured  by  some  young  lady 
to  whom  she  had  recommended 


282 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XII. 


[March 


the  practice  that  heavenly  warrant 
had  thus  been  secured  for  halls 
and  theatres,  she  would  not  have 
scrupled  to  declare  that  the  Lord 
had  certainly  not  been  asked  aright. 
She  was  equally  certain  of  some 
defalcation  now.  She  did  not 
doubt  that  Hester  had  done  as  she 
had  said.  That  the  prayer  had 
been  put  up  with  energetic  fervour, 
she  was  sure.  But  energetic  fervour 
in  prayer  was,  she  thought,  of  no  use, 
• — nay,  was  likely  to  be  most  dan- 
gerous, when  used  in  furtherance  of 
human  prepossessions  and  desires. 
Had  Hester  said  her  prayers  with 
a  proper  feeling  of  self-negation, — 
in  that  religious  spirit  which  teaches 
the  poor  mortal  here  on  earth  to 
know  that  darkness  and  gloom  are 
safer  than  mirth  and  comfort, — then 
the  Lord  would  have  told  her  to 
leave  Folking,  to  go  back  to  Puritan 
Grange,  and  to  consent  once  more 
to  be  called  Hester  Bolton.  This 
other  counsel  had  not  come  from 
the  Lord,  —  had  come  only  from 
Hester's  own  polluted  heart.  But 
she  was  not  at  the  moment  armed 
with  words  sufficiently  strong  to 
explain  all  this. 

"Hester,"  she  said,  "does  not 
all  this  mean  that  your  own  proud 
spirit  is  to  have  a  stronger  dominion 
over  you  than  the  experience  and 
wisdom  of  all  your  friends'?" 

"Perhaps  it  does.  But,  at  any 
rate,  my  proud  spirit  will  retain  its 
pride." 

"  You  will  be  obstinate  ?" 

"  Certainly  I  will.  Nothing  on 
earth  shall  make  me  leave  this 
house  till  I  am  told  by  its  owner 
to  go." 

"Who  is  its  owner?  Old  Mr 
Caldigate  is  its  owner." 

"  I  hardly  know.  Though  John 
has  explained  it  again  and  again, 
I  am  so  bad  at  such  things  that  I 
am  not  sure.  But  I  can  do  what 
I  please  with  it.  I  am  the  mistress 
here.  As  you  say  that  the  Grange 


is  your  house,  I  can  say  that  this 
is  mine.  It  is  the  abode  appointed 
for  me,  and  here  I  will  abide." 

"Then,  Hester,  I  can  only  tell 
you  that  you  are  sinning.  It  is  a 
heavy,  grievous,  and  most  obvious 
sin." 

"  Dear  mother, — dear  mamma ;  I 
knew  how  it  would  be  if  you  came. 
It  is  useless  for  me  to  say  more. 
Were  I  to  go  away,  that  to  me 
would  be  the  sin.  Why  should 
we  discuss  it  any  more  ?  There 
comes  a  time  to  all  of  us  when  we 
must  act  on  our  own  responsibil- 
ity. My  husband  is  in  prison,  and 
cannot  personally  direct  me.  No 
doubt  I  could  go,  were  I  so  pleased. 
His  father  would  not  hinder  me, 
though  he  is  most  unwilling  that 
I  should  go.  I  must  judge  a  little 
for  myself.  But  I  have  his  judg- 
ment to  fall  back  upon.  He  told 
me  to  stay,  and  I  shall  stay." 

Then  there  was  a  pause,  during 
which  Mrs  Bolton  was  thinking  of 
her  burning  words, — was  remember- 
ing the  scorn  with  which  she  had 
treated  her  husband  when  he  told 
her  that  they  had  "no  power." 
She  had  endeavoured  herself  not 
to  be  sleepy  in  doing  the  Lord's 
work.  But  her  seed,  too,  had 
fallen  upon  stony  places.  She  was 
powerless  to  do,  or  even  to  say, 
anything  further.  "Then  I  may 
go,"  she  muttered. 

"You  will  come  and  eat  with 
me,  mamma." 

"  JSTo,  my  dear, — no." 

"You  do  not  wish  that  there 
should  be  a  quarrel?" 

"There  is  very  much,  Hester, 
that  I  do  not  wish.  I  have  long 
ceased  to  trust  much  to  any  wishes. 
There  is  a  great  gulf  between  us, 
and  I  will  not  attempt  to  bridge 
it  by  the  hollow  pretence  of  sit- 
ting at  table  with  you.  I  will 
still  pray  that  you  may  be  restored 
to  me."  Then  she  went  to  the 
door. 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate.—Part  XII. 


283 


"Mamma,  you  will  kiss  me  be- 
fore you  go." 

"I  will  cover  you  with  kisses 
when  you  return  to  your  own 
home."  But  in  spite  of  this,  Hes- 
ter went  down  with  her  into  the 
hall,  holding  by  her  raiment;  and 
as  Mrs  Eolton  got  into  the  fly,  she 
did  succeed  in  kissing  her  mother's 
hand. 

"  She  has  gone,"  said  Hester, 
going  to  her  father-in-law's  room. 
"  Though  I  was  so  glad  to  see  her, 
I  wish  she  had  not  come.  When 
people  think  so  very,  very  differ- 
ently on  a  matter  which  is  so  very, 
very  important,  it  is  better  that 
they  should  not  meet,  let  them 
love  each  other  ever  so." 

As  far  as  Hester  and  Mr  Caldi- 
gate  were  concerned,  the  visit  had 
in  truth  been  made  without  much 
inconvenience.  There  had  been  no 
absolute  violence, — no  repetition  of 
such  outward  quarrelling  as  had 
made  those  two  days  at  the  Grange 
so  memorable.  There  was  almost 
a  feeling  of  relief  in  Hester's  bosom 


when  her  mother  was  driven  away 
after  that  successful  grasp  at  the 
parting  hand.  Though  they  had 
differed  much,  they  had  not  hated 
each  other  during  that  last  half- 
hour.  Hester  had  been  charged  with 
sin ; — which,  however,  had  been  a 
matter  of  course.  But  in  Mrs 
Bolton's  heart  there  was  a  feeling 
which  made  her  return  home  very 
uncomfortable.  Having  twitted 
her  husband  with  his  lack  of  power, 
she  had  been  altogether  powerless 
herself;  and  now  she  was  driven 
to  confess  to  herself  that  no  further 
step  could  be  taken.  "  She  is 
obstinate,"  she  said  to  her  hus- 
band,— "stiff-necked  in  her  sin,  as 
are  all  determined  sinners.  I  can 
say  no  more  to  her.  It  may  be 
that  the  Lord  will  soften  her 
heart  when  her  sorrows  have 
endured  yet  for  a  time."  But  she 
said  no  more  of  burning  words, 
or  of  eloquence,  or  of  the  slack- 
ness of  the  work  of  those  who 
work  as  though  they  were  not  in 
earnest. 


CHAPTER  XLV1I. CURLYDOWN  AND  BAGWAX. 


There  had  been  a  sort  of  pledge 
given  at  the  trial  by  Sir  John 
Joram  that  the  matter  of  the  en- 
velope should  be  further  investi- 
gated. He  had  complained  in  his 
defence  that  the  trial  had  been 
hurried  on,  —  that  time  had  not 
been  allowed  for  full  inquiries,  see- 
ing that  the  character  of  the  deed 
by  which  his  client  had  been  put 
in  jeopardy  depended  upon  what 
had  been  done  on  the  other  side  of 
the  globe.  "  This  crime,"  he  had 
said,  "  if  it  be  a  crime,  was  no  doubt 
committed  in  the  parish  church  of 
Utterden  in  the  early  part  of  last 
year;  but  all  the  evidence  which 
has  been  used  or  which  could  be 
used  to  prove  it  to  have  been  a 
crime,  has  reference  to  things  done 


long  ago,  and  far  away.  Time  has 
not  been  allowed  us  for  rebutting 
this  evidence  by  counter-evidence." 
And  yet  much  time  had  been 
allowed.  The  trial  had  been  post- 
poned from  the  spring  to  the 
summer  assizes ;  and  then  the  of- 
fence was  one  which,  from  its  very 
nature,  required  speedy  notice.  The 
Boltons,  who  became  the  instigators 
of  the  prosecution,  demanded  that 
the  ill-used  woman  should  be  re- 
lieved as  quickly  as  possible  from 
her  degradation.  There  had  been  a 
general  feeling  that  the  trial  should 
not  be  thrown  over  to  another 
year ;  and,  as  we  are  aware,  it  had 
been  brought  to  judgment,  and  the 
convicted  criminal  was  in  jail. 
But  Sir  John  still  persevered,  and 


284 


John  Cdldigate. — Part  XII. 


[March 


to  this  perseverance  he  had  been 
instigated  very  much  by  a  certain 
clerk  in  the  post-office. 

Two  post-office  clerks  had  been 
used  as  witnesses  at  the  trial,  of 
whom  the  elder,  Mr  Curly  down, 
had  been  by  no  means  a  constant 
or  an  energetic  witness.  A  witness, 
when  he  is  brought  up  for  the 
defence,  should  not  be  too  scrupu- 
lous, or  he  will  be  worse  than  use- 
less. In  a  matter  of  fact  a  man  can 
only  say  what  he  saw,  or  tell  what 
he  heard,  or  declare  what  he  knew. 
He  should  at  least  do  no  more. 
Though  it  be  to  save  his  father,  he 
should  not  commit  perjury.  But 
when  it  comes  to  opinion,  if  a  man 
allows  himself  to  waver,  he  will  be 
taken  as  thinking  the  very  opposite 
of  what  he  does  think.  Such  had 
been  the  case  with  Mr  Curly  down. 
He  had  intended  to  be  very  correct. 
He  had  believed  that  the  impres- 
sion of  the  Sydney  stamp  was  on 
the  whole  adverse  to  the  idea  that 
it  had  been  obtained  in  the  proper 
way;  and  yet  he  had,  when  cross- 
examined,  acknowledged  that  it 
might  very  probably  have  been 
obtained  in  the  proper  way.  It 
certainly  had  not  been  "  smudged  " 
at  all,  and  such  impressions  gener- 
ally did  become  "smudged."  But 
then  he  was  made  to  say  also  that 
impressions  very  often  did  not 
become  smudged.  And  as  to  the 
word  "  Nobble  "  which  should  have 
been  stamped  upon  the  envelope, 
he  thought  that  in  such  a  case  its 
absence  was  very  suspicious ;  but 
still  he  was  brought  to  acknowledge 
that  post  -  masters  in  provincial 
offices  far  away  from  inspection, 
frequently  omit  that  part  of  their 
duty.  All  this  had  tended  to  rob 
the  envelope  of  those  attributes  of 
deceit  and  conspiracy  which  Sir 
John  Joram  attributed  to  it,  and 
had  justified  the  judge  in  his 
opinion  that  Mr  Curly  down's  evi- 
dence had  told  them  little  or  no- 


thing. But  even  Mr  Curlydown 
had  found  more  favour  with  the 
judge  than  Samuel  Bagwax,  the 
junior  of  the  two  post-office  wit- 
nesses. Samuel  Bagwax  had  per- 
haps been  a  little  too  energetic. 
He  had  made  the  case  his  own,  and 
was  quite  sure  that  the  envelope 
had  been  tampered  with.  I  think 
that  the  counsel  for  the  Crown 
pressed  his  witness  unfairly  when 
he  asked  Mr  Bagwax  whether  he 
was  absolutely  certain  that  an  en- 
velope with  such  an  impression 
could  not  have  passed  through  the 
post-office  in  the  ordinary  course  of 
business.  "Nothing is  impossible," 
Mr  Bagwax  had  replied.  "Is  it 
not  very  much  within  the  sphere  of 
possibility  ? "  the  learned  gentleman 
had  asked.  The  phrase  was  mis- 
leading, and  Mr  Bagwax  was  in- 
duced to  say  that  it  might  be  so. 
But  still  his  assurance  would  pro- 
bably have  had  weight  with  the 
jury  but  for  the  overstrained  honesty 
of  his  companion.  The  judge  had 
admonished  the  jury  that  in  refer- 
ence to  such  a  point  they  should 
use  their  own  common-sense  rather 
than  the  opinion  of  such  a  man  as 
Mr  Bagwax.  A  man  of  ordinary 
common-sense  would  know  how  the 
mark  made  by  a  die  on  a  letter 
would  be  affected  by  the  sort  of 
manipulation  to  which  the  letter 
bearing  it  would  be  subjected; — 
and  so  on.  From  all  which  it  came 
to  pass  that  the  judge  was  under- 
stood to  have  declared  that  that 
special  envelope  might  very  well 
have  passed  in  ordinary  course 
through  the  Sydney  post-office. 

But  Samuel  Bagwax  was  not  a 
man  to  be  put  down  by  the  in- 
justice of  lawyers.  He  knew  him- 
self to  have  been  ill  treated.  He 
was  confident  that  no  man  alive 
was  more  competent  than  himself 
to  form  an  opinion  on  such  a  sub- 
ject; and  he  was  sure,  quite  sure, — 
perhaps  a  little  too  sure,  —  that 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate.— Part  XII. 


285 


there  had  been  some  dishonesty 
with  that  envelope.  And  thus  he 
became  a  strong  partisan  of  John 
Caldigate  and  of  Mrs  John  Caldigate. 
If  there  had  been  tampering  with 
that  envelope,  then  the  whole  thing 
was  fraudulent,  false,  and  the  out- 
come of  a  base  conspiracy.  Many 
points  were  present  to  his  mind 
which  the  lawyers  between  them 
would  not  allow  him  to  explain 
properly  to  a  jury.  When  had  that 
die  been  cut,  by  which  so  perfect  an 
impression  had  been  formed  ?  If  it 
could  be  proved  that  it  had  been 
cut  since  the  date  it  bore,  then  of 
course  the  envelope  would  be  fraud- 
ulent. But  it  was  only  in  Sydney 
that  this  could  be  ascertained.  He 
was  sure  that  a  week's  ordinary  use 
would  have  made  the  impression 
less  perfect.  Some  letters  must  of 
course  be  subjected  to  new  dies, 
and  this  letter  might  in  due  course 
have  been  so  subjected.  But  it  was 
more  probable  that  a  new  stamp 
should  have  been  selected  for  a 
surreptitious  purpose.  All  this 
could  be  ascertained  by  the  book 
of  daily  impressions  kept  in  the 
Sydney  post-office ; — but  there  had 
not  been  time  to  get  this  evidence 
from  Sydney  since  this  question  of 
the  impression  had  been  ventilated. 
It  was  he  who  had  first  given  im- 
portance to  the  envelope ;  and  being 
a  resolute  and  almost  heroic  man, 
he  was  determined  that  no  injustice 
on  the  part  of  a  Crown  prosecutor, 
no  darkness  in  a  judge's  mind,  no 
want  of  intelligence  in  a  jury, 
should  rob  him  of  the  delight  of 
showing  how  important  to  the 
world  was  a  proper  understanding 
of  post-office  details.  He  still 
thought  that  that  envelope  might 
be  made  to  prove  a  conspiracy  on 
the  part  of  Crinkett  and  the  others, 
and  he  succeeded  in  getting  Sir 
John  Joram  to  share  that  belief. 

The  envelope  itself  was  still  pre- 
served among  the  sacred  archives 

VOL.  CXXV. — NO.  DCCLXI. 


of  the  trial.  That  had  not  been 
bodily  confided  to  Samuel  Bagwax. 
But  various  photographs  had  been 
made  of  the  document,  which  no 
doubt  reproduced  exactly  every  let- 
ter, every  mark,  and  every  line 
which  was  to  be  seen  upon  it  by 
the  closest  inspection.  There  was 
the  direction,  which  was  admitted 
to  be  in  Caldigate's  handwriting, — 
the  postage-stamp,  with  its  obliterat- 
ing lines, — and  the  impression  of  the 
Sydney  post-mark.  That  was  nearly 
all.  The  paper  of  the  envelope  had 
no  water-marks.  Bagwax  thought 
that  if  he  could  get  hold  of  the  en- 
velope itself  something  might  be 
done  even  with  that :  but  here  Sir 
John  could  not  go  along  with  him, 
as  it  had  been  fully  acknowledged 
that  the  envelope  had  passed  from 
the  possession  of  Caldigate  into  the 
hands  of  the  woman  bearing  the 
written  address.  If  anything  could 
be  done,  it  must  be  done  by  the 
post-marks, — and  those  post-marks 
Bagwax  studied  morning,  noon, 
and  night. 

It  had  now  been  decided  that 
Bagwax  was  to  be  sent  out  to  Syd- 
ney at  the  expense  of  the  Caldi- 
gates.  There  had  been  difficulty  as 
to  leave  of  absence  for  such  a  pur- 
pose. The  man  having  been  con- 
victed, the  postmaster-general  was 
bound  to  regard  him  as  guilty, 
and  hesitated  to  allow  a  clerk  to  be 
absent  so  long  on  behalf  of  a  man 
who  was  already  in  prison.  But 
the  Secretary  of  State  overruled 
this  scruple,  and  the  leave  was  to 
be  given.  Bagwax  was  elate, — first 
and  chiefly  because  he  trusted  that  Jie 
would  become  the  means  of  putting 
right  a  foul  and  cruel  wrong.  For 
in  these  days  Bagwax  almost  wept 
over  the  hardships  inflicted  on  that 
poor  lady  at  Folking.  But  he  was 
elated  also  by  the  prospect  of  his 
travels,  and  by  the  godsend  of  a  six 
months'  leave  of  absence.  He  was  a 
little  proud,  too,  of  having  had  this 


286 


John  Caldigate.—Part  XII. 


[March 


personal  attention  paid  to  him  by 
the  Secretary  of  State.  All  this  was 
very  gratifying.  But  that  which 
gratified  him  was  not  so  charming 
to  his  brother  clerks.  They  had 
never  enjoyed  the  privilege  of  leav- 
ing that  weary  office  for  six  months. 
They  were  not  allowed  to  occupy 
themselves  in  contemplating  an  en- 
velope. They  were  never  specially 
mentioned  by  the  Secretary  of  State. 
Of  course  there  was  a  little  envy, 
and  a  somewhat  general  feeling  that 
Bagwax,  having  got  to  the  weak 
side  of  Sir  John  Joram,  was  suc- 
ceeding in  having  himself  sent  out 
as  a  first-class  overland  passenger  to 
Sydney,  merely  as  a  job.  Paris  to 
be  seen,  and  the  tunnel,  and  the 
railways  through  Italy,  and  the 
Suez  Canal, — all  these  places,  not 
delightful  to  the  wives  of  Indian 
officers  coming  home  or  going  out, 
were  an  Elysium  to  the  post-office 
mind.  His  expenses  to  be  paid  for 
six  months  on  the  most  gentleman- 
like footing,  and  his  salary  going  on 
all  the  time !  Official  human  na- 
ture, good  as  it  generally  is,  cannot 
learn  that  such  glories  are  to  be 
showered  on  one  not  specially  de- 
serving head  without  something 
akin  to  enmity.  The  general  idea, 
therefore,  in  the  office,  was  that  Bag- 
wax  would  do  no  good  in  Sydney, 
that  others  would  have  been  better 
than  Bagwax, — in  fact,  that  of  all 
the  clerks  in  all  the  departments, 
Bagwax  was  the  very  last  man  who 
ought  to  have  been  selected  for  an 
enterprise  demanding  secrecy,  dis- 
cretion, and  some  judicial  severity. 
Curlydown  and  Bagwax  occupied 
the  same  room  at  the  office  in  St 
Martin's-le-Grand ;  and  there  it  was 
their  fate  in  life  to  arrange,  inspect, 
and  generally  attend  to  those  ap- 
parently unintelligible  hieroglyphics 
with  which  the  outside  coverings  of 
our  correspondence  are  generally  be- 
daubed. Curlydown's  hair  had  fall- 
en from  his  head,  and  his  face  had 


become  puckered  with  wrinkles, 
through  anxiety  to  make  these  mark- 
ings legible  and  intelligible.  The 
popular  newspaper,  the  popular  mem- 
ber of  Parliament,  and  the  popular 
novelist, — the  name  of  Charles  Dick- 
ens will  of  course  present  itself  to 
the  reader  who  remembers  the  Cir- 
cumlocution office, — have  had  it  im- 
pressed on  their  several  minds,' — 
and  have  endeavoured  to  impress 
the  same  idea  on  the  minds  of  the 
public  generally, — that  the  normal 
Government  clerk  is  quite  indiffer- 
ent to  his  work.  No  greater  mis- 
take was  ever  made,  or  one  showing 
less  observation  of  human  nature. 
It  is  the  nature  of  a  man  to  appre- 
ciate his  own  work.  The  felon 
who  is  made  simply  to  move  shot, 
perishes  because  he  knows  his  work 
is  without  aim.  The  fault  lies  on 
the  other  side.  The  policeman  is 
ambitious  of  arresting  everybody. 
The  lawyer  would  rather  make  your 
will  for  you  gratis  than  let  you  make 
your  own.  The  General  can  believe 
in  nothing  but  in  well  -  trained 
troops.  Curlydown  would  willing- 
ly have  expended  the  whole  net 
revenue  of  the  post-office, — and  his 
own, — in  improving  the  machinery 
for  stamping  letters.  But  he  had 
hardly  succeeded  in  life.  He  had 
done  his  duty,  and  was  respected 
by  all.  He  lived  comfortably  in 
a  suburban  cottage  with  a  garden, 
having  some  private  means,  and 
had  brought  up  a  happy  family  in 
prosperity ; — but  he  had  done  noth- 
ing new.  Bagwax,  who  was  twenty 
years  his  junior,  had  with  manifest 
effects,  added  a  happy  drop,  of  tur- 
pentine to  the  stamping-oil, — and  in 
doing  so  had  broken  Curlydown's 
heart.  The  "Bagwax  Stamping 
Mixture"  had  absolutely  achieved 
a  name,  which  was  printed  on  the 
official  list  of  stores.  Curlydown's 
mind  was  vacillating  between  the 
New  River  and  a  pension, — between 
death  in  the  breach  and  acknow- 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate.—Part  XII. 


287 


ledged  defeat, — when  a  new  interest 
was  lent  to  his  life  by  the  Caldigate 
envelope.  It  was  he  who  had  been 
first  sent  by  the  postmaster-general 
to  Sir  John  Joram's  chambers.  But 
the  matter  had  become  too  large  for 
himself  alone,  and  in  an  ill-fated 
hour  Bagwax  had  been  consulted. 
Now  Bagwax  was  to  be  sent  to  Syd- 
ney,— almost  with  the  appointments 
of  a  lawyer ! 

They  still  occupied  the  same 
room, — a  fact  which  infinitely  in- 
creased the  torments  of  Curlydown's 
position.  They  ought  to  have  been 
moved  very  far  asunder.  Curly- 
down  was  still  engaged  in  the  rou- 
tine ordinary  work  of  the  day, 
seeing  that  the  proper  changes 
were  made  in  all  the  stamps  used 
during  the  various  hours  —  assur- 
ing himself  that  the  crosses  '  and 
letters  and  figures  upon  which  so 
much  of  the  civilisation  of  Europe 
depended,  were  properly  altered  and 
arranged.  And  it  may  well  be  that 
his  own  labours  were  made  heavier 
by  the  devotion  of  his  colleagues  to 
other  matters.  And  yet  from  time 
to  time  Bagwax  would  ask  him 
questions,  never  indeed  taking  his 
advice,  but  still  demanding  his  as- 
sistance. Curlydown  was  not  nat- 
urally a  man  of  ill-temper  or  of  an 
angry  heart.  But  there  were  mo- 
ments in  which  he  could  hardly  ab- 
stain from  expressing  himself  with 
animosity. 

On  a  certain  morning  in  August 
Bagwax  was  seated  at  his  table, 
which  as  usual  was  laden  with  the 
envelopes  of  many  letters.  There 
were  some  hundreds  before  him, 
the  marks  on  which  he  was  perusing 
with  a  strong  magnifying-glass.  It 
had  been  arranged  that  he  was  to 
start  on  his  great  journey  in  the 
first  week  in  September,  and  he  em- 
ployed his  time  before  he  went  in 
scanning  all  the  envelopes  bearing 
the  Sydney  post -mark  which  he 
had  been  able  to  procure  in  Eng- 


land. He  spent  the  entire  day  with 
a  magnifying-glass  in  his  hand; — 
but  as  Curlydown  was  also  always 
armed  in  the  same  fashion,  that  was 
not  peculiar.  They  did  much  of 
their  work  with  such  tools. 

The  date  on  the  envelope, — the 
date  conveyed  by  the  impression, 
to  which  so  much  attention  had 
been  given, — was  10th  May  1873. 
Bagwax  had  succeeded  in  getting 
covers  bearing  dates  very  close  to 
that.  The  7th  of  May  had  been 
among  his  treasures  for  some  time, 
and  now  he  had  acquired  an  entire 
letter,  envelope  and  all,  which  bore 
the  Sydney  impression  of  the  13th 
May.  This  was  a  great  triumph. 
"  I  have  brought  it  within  a  week," 
he  said  to  Curlydown,  bending 
down  over  his  glass,  and  inspecting 
at  the  same  time  the  two  dates. 

"  What's  the  good  of  that  1 "  ask- 
ed Curlydown,  as  he  passed  rapidly 
under  his  own  glass  the  stamps 
which  it  was  his  duty  to  inspect 
from  day  to  day. 

"All  the  good  in  the  world/' 
said  Bagwax,  brandishing  his  own 
magnifier  with  energy.  "It  is  al- 
most conclusive."  Now  the  argu- 
ment with  Bagwax  was  this, — that 
if  he  found  in  the  Sydney  post- 
marks of  7th  May,  and  in  those  of 
13th  May,  the  same  deviations  or 
bruises  in  the  die,  those  deviations 
must  have  existed  also  on  the  days 
between  these  two  dates; — and  as 
the  impression  before  him  was  quite 
perfect,  without  any  such  devia- 
tion, did  it  not  follow  that  it  must 
have  been  obtained  in  some  manner 
outside  the  ordinary  course  of  busi- 
ness? 

"  There  are  a  dozen  stamps  in 
use  at  the  Sydney  office,"  said 
Curlydown. 

"  Perhaps  so ;  or,  at  any  rate, 
three  or  four.  But  I  can  trace  as 
well  as  possible  the  times  at  which 
new  stamps  were  supplied.  Look 
here."  Then  he  threw  himself  over 


288 


John  Galdigate. — Part  XII. 


[March. 


the  multitude  of  envelopes,  all  of 
which  had  been  carefully  arranged 
as  to  dates,  and  began  to  point  out 
the  periods.  "  Here,  you  see,  in 
1873,  there  is  nothing  that  quite 
tallies  with  the  Caldigate  letter.  I 
have  measured  them  to  the  twenti- 
eth part  of  an  inch,  and  I  am  sure 
that  early  in  May  '73  there  was  not 
a  stamp  in  use  in  the  Sydney  office 
which  could  have  made  that  im- 
pression. I  have  eighteen  Mays 
'73,  and  not  one  of  them  could 
have  been  made  by  the  stamp  that 
did  this."  As  he  spoke  thus,  he 
rapped  his  finger  down  on  the  copy 
of  the  sacred  envelope  which  he  was 


using. 


Is  not  that  conclusive  ? " 


"  If  it  was  not  conclusive  to  keep 
a  man  from  going  to  prison,"  said 
Curly  down,  remembering  the  failure 
of  his  own  examination,  "  it  will  not 
be  conclusive  to  get  him  out  again." 

"There  I  differ.  No  doubt 
further  evidence  is  necessary,  and 
therefore  I  must  go  to  Sydney." 

"If  it  is  conclusive,  I  don't  see 
why  you  should  go  to  Sydney  at 
all.  If  your  proof  is  so  perfect, 
why  should  that  fellow  be  kept  in 
prison  while  you  are  running  about 
the  world  ? " 

This  idea  had  also  occurred  to 
Eagwax,  and  he  had  thought 
whether  it  would  be  possible  for 
him  to  be  magnanimous  enough  to 
perfect  his  proof  in  England,  so  as 
to  get  a  pardon  from  the  Secretary 
of  State  at  once,  to  his  own  mani- 
fest injury.  "  What  would  sat- 
isfy you  and  me,"  said  Bagwax, 
"  wouldn't  satisfy  the  ignorant."  To 
the  conductor  of  an  omnibus  on  the 
Surrey  side  of  the  river,  the  man  who 
does  not  know. what  "The  Castle" 
means  is  ignorant.  The  outsider 
who  is  in  a  mist  as  to  the  "previous 
question,"  or  "  the  order  of  the  day," 
is  ignorant  to  the  member  of  Par- 
liament. To  have  no  definite  date 
conveyed  by  the  term  "  Rogation 
Sunday"  is  to  the  clerical  mind 


gross  ignorance.  The  horsey  man 
thinks  you  have  been  in  bed  all 
your  life  if  the  "  near  side  "  is  not 
as  descriptive  to  you  as  "  the  left 
hand."  To  Bagwax  and  Curlydown, 
not  to  distinguish  post-marks  was  to 
be  ignorant.  "  I  fear  it  wouldn't 
satisfy  the  ignorant,"  said  Bagwax, 
thinking  of  his  projected  journey 
to  Sydney. 

"  Proof  is  proof,"  said  Curly- 
down.  "  I  don't  think  you'll  ever 
get  him  out.  The  time  has  gone  by. 
But  you  may  do  just  as  much  here 
as  there." 

"  I'm  sure  we  shall  get  him  out. 
I'll  never  rest  in  my  bed  till  we  have 
got  him  out." 

"  Mr  Justice  Bramber  won't  mind 
whether  you  rest  in  your  bed  or  not, 
— nor  yet  the  Secretary  of  State." 

"Sir  John  Joram "  began 

Bagwax.  In  these  discussions  Sir 
John  Joram  was  always  his  main 
staff. 

"Sir  John  Joram  has  got  other 
fish  to  fry  before  this  time.  It's  a  mar- 
vel to  me,  Bagwax,  that  they  should 
give  way  to  all  this  nonsense.  If 
anything  could  be  done,  it  could  be 
done  in  half  the  time, — and  if  any- 
thing could  be  done,  it  could  be 
done  here.  By  the  time  you're 
back  from  Sydney,  Caldigate's  time 
will  be  half  out.  "Why  don't  you 
let  Sir  John  see  your  proof?  You 
don't  want  to  lose  your  trip,  I  sup- 
pose." 

Caldigate  was  languishing  in  pri- 
son, and  that  poor,  nameless  lady 
was  separated  from  her  husband, 
and  he  had  the  proof  lying  there  on 
the  table  before  him,  —  sufficient 
proof,  as  he  did  in  his  heart  be- 
lieve !  But  how  often  does  it  fall 
to  the  lot  of  a  post-office  clerk,  to  be 
taken  round  the  world  free  of  ex- 
pense? The  way  Curlydown  put 
it  was  ill-natured  and  full  of  envy. 
Bagwax  was  well  aware  that  Curly- 
down  was  instigated  solely  by  envy. 
But  still,  these  were  his  own  con- 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XII. 


289 


victions, — and  Bagwax  was  in  truth 
a  soft-hearted,  conscientious  man. 

"  I  do  think  it  ought  to  be  enough 
for  any  Secretary  of  State/'  said  he, 
"  and  I'll  go  to  Sir  John  Joram  to- 
morrow. Of  course,  I  should  like 
to  see  the  world; — who  wouldn't? 


But  I'd  rather  be  the  means  of  re- 
storing that  fellow  to  his  poor  wife, 
than  be  sent  to  all  the  four  quarters 
of  the  globe  with  a  guinea  a- day  for 
personal  expenses."  In  this  way 
he  nobly  made  up  his  mind  to  go 
at  once  to  Sir  John  Joram. 


CHAPTER   XLVITI. — SIR   JOHN   JORASl's   CHAMBERS. 


Mr  Curlydown's  insinuations  had 
been  very  cruel,  but  also  very  power- 
ful. Bagwax,  as  he  considered  the 
matter  that  night  in  his  bed,  did 
conscientiously  think  that  a  dis- 
creet and  humane  Secretary  of 
State  would  let  the  unfortunate 
husband  out  of  prison  on  the  evi- 
dence which  he  (Bagwax)  had 
already  collected.  My  readers  will 
not  perhaps  agree  with  him.  The 
finding  of  a  jury  and  the  sentence 
of  a  judge  must  be  regarded  seri- 
ously by  Secretaries  of  State,  and 
it  is  probable  that  Bagwax's  theory 
would  not  make  itself  clear  to  that 
great  functionary.  A  good  many 
"ifs"  were  necessary.  If  the  woman 
claiming  Caldigate  as  her  husband 
would  swear  falsely  to  anything  in 
that  matter,  then  she  would  swear 
falsely  to  everything.  If  this  en- 
velope had  never  passed  through 
the  Sydney  post-office,  then  she 
would  have  sworn  falsely  about 
the  letter, — and  therefore  her  evi- 
dence would  have  been  altogether 
false.  If  this  post-mark  had  not 
been  made  in  the  due  course  of 
business,  and  on  the  date  as  now 
seen,  then  the  envelope  had  not 
passed  regularly  through  the  Syd- 
ney office.  So  far  it  was  all  clear 
to  the  mind  of  Bagwax,  and  almost 
clear  that  the  post-mark  could  not 
have  been  made  on  the  date  it  bore. 
The  result  for  which  he  was  striv- 
ing with  true  faith  had  taken  such 
a  hold  of  his  mind, — he  was  so  ad- 
verse to  the  Smith-Crinkett  interest, 
and  so  generously  anxious  for  John 


Caldigate  and  the  poor  lady  at  Folk- 
ing,  that  he  could  not  see  obstacles ; 
— he  could  not  even  clearly  see  the 
very  obstacles  which  made  his  own 
going  to  Sydney  seem  to  others  to 
be  necessary.  And  yet  he  longed 
to  go  to  Sydney  with  all  his  heart. 
He  would  be  almost  broken-hearted 
if  he  were  robbed  of  that  delight. 

In  this  frame  of  mind  he  packed 
all  his  envelopes  carefully  into  a 
large  hand-bag,  and  started  in  a 
cab  for  Sir  John  Joram' s  chambers. 
"  Where  are  you  going  with  them 
now  ? "  Curlydown  asked,  somewhat 
disdainfully,  just  as  Bagwax  was 
starting.  Curlydown  had  taken 
upon  himself  of  late  to  ridicule  the 
envelopes,  and  had  become  almost 
an  anti-Caldigatite.  Bagwax  vouch- 
safed to  make  him  no  reply.  On 
the  previous  afternoon  he  had  de- 
clared his  purpose  of  going  at  once 
to  Sir  John,  and  had  written,  as 
Curlydown  well  knew,  a  letter  to 
Sir  John's  clerk  to  make  an  appoint- 
ment. Sir  John  was  known  to  be 
in  town  though  it  was  the  end  of 
August,  being  a  laborious  man  who 
contented  himself  with  a  little  par- 
tridge-shooting by  way  of  holiday. 
It  had  been  understood  that  he  was 
to  see  Bagwax  before  his  departure. 
All  this  had  been  known  to  Curly- 
down,  and  the  question  had  been 
asked  only  to  exasperate.  There 
was  a  sarcasm  in  the  "  now  "  which 
determined  Bagwax  to  start  with- 
out a  word  of  reply. 

As  he  went  down  to  the  Temple 
in  the  cab  he  turned  over  in  his 


290 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XII. 


[March 


mind  a  great  question  which  often 
troubles  many  of  us.  How  far  was 
he  bound  to  sacrifice  himself  for  the 
benefit  of  others?  He  had  done 
his  duty  zealously  in  this  matter, 
and  now  was  under  orders  to  con- 
tinue the  work  in  a  manner  which 
opened  up  to  him  a  whole  paradise  of 
happiness.  How  grand  was  this  op- 
portunity of  seeing  something  of  the 
world  beyond  St  Martin's-le-Grand  ! 
And  then  the  pecuniary  gain  would 
be  so  great !  Hitherto  he  had  re- 
ceived no  pay  for  what  he  had  done. 
He  was  a  simple  post-office  clerk, 
and  was  paid  for  his  time  by  the 
Crown, — very  moderately.  On  this 
projected  journey  all  his  expenses 
would  be  paid  for  him,  and  still  he 
would  have  his  salary.  Sir  John 
Joram  had  declared  the  journey  to 
be  quite  necessary.  The  Secretary 
of  State  had  probably  not  occupied 
his  mind  much  with  the  matter; 
but  in  the  mind  of  Bagwax  there 
was  a  fixed  idea  that  the  Secretary 
thought  of  little  else,  and  that  the 
Secretary  had  declared  that  his 
hands  were  tied  till  Bagwax  should 
have  been  to  Sydney.  But  his 
conscience  told  him  that  the  jour- 
ney was  not  necessary,  and  that 
the  delay  would  be  cruel.  In  that 
cab  Bagwax  made  up  his  mind  that 
he  would  do  his  duty  like  an  honest 
man. 

•Sir  John's  chambers  in  Pump 
Court  were  gloomy  without,  though 
commodious  and  ample  within.  Bag- 
wax  was  now  well  known  to  the 
clerk,  and  was  received  almost  as  a 
friend.  "  I  think  I've  got  it  all  as 
clear  as  running  water,  Mr  Jones," 
he  said,  feeling  no  doubt  that  Sir 
John's  clerk,  Mr  Jones,  must  have 
that  interest  in  the  case  which  per- 
vaded his  own  mind. 

"  That  will  be  a  good  thing  for  the 
gentleman  in  prison,  Mr  Bagwax." 

"And  for  the  lady;  poor  lady! 
I  don't  know  whether  I  don't  think 
almost  more  of  her  than  of  him." 


Mr  Jones  was  returning  to  his  work 
having  sent  in  word  to  Sir  John  of 
this  visitor's  arrival.  But  Bagwax 
was  too  full  of  his  subject,  and  of 
his  own  honesty,  for  that.  "  I  don't 
think  that  I  need  go  out  after  all, 
Mr  Jones." 

"Oh,  indeed!" 

"  Of  course  it  will  be  a  great  sell 
for  me." 

"Will  it,  now?" 

"Sydney,  I  am  told,  is  an  Ely- 
sium upon  earth." 

"It's  much  the  same  as  Botany 
Bay ;  isn't  it  ?  "  asked  Jones. 

"  Oh,  not  at  all ;  quite  a  different 
place.  I  was  reading  a  book  the 
other  day  which  said  that  Sydney 
harbour  is  the  most  beautiful  thing 
God  ever  made  on  the  face  of  the 
globe." 

"I  know  there  used  to  be  con- 
victs there,"  said  Mr  Jones,  very 
positively. 

"  Perhaps  they  had  a  few  once, 
but  never  many.  They  have  oranges 
there,  and  a  Parliament  almost  as 
good  as  our  own,  and  a  beautiful 
new  post-office.  But  I  shan't  have 
to  go,  Mr  Jones.  Of  course,  a  man 
has  to  do  his  duty." 

"  Some  do,  and  more  don't. 
That's  as  far  as  I  see,  Mr  Bagwax." 

"I'm  all  for  Nelson's  motto, 
Mr  Jones, — '  England  expects  that 
every  man  this  day  shall  do  his 
duty.' "  In  repeating  these  memor- 
able words  Bagwax  raised  his  voice. 

"Sir  John  don't  like  to  hear 
anything  through  the  partition,  Mr 


"I  beg  pardon.  But  whenever 
I  think  of  that  glorious  observa- 
tion I  am  apt  to  become  a  little 
excited.  It'll  go  a  long  way,  Mr 
Jones,  in  keeping  a  man  straight 
if  he'll  only  say  it  to  himself  often 
enough." 

"  But  not  to  roar  it  out  in  an 
eminent  barrister's  chambers.  He 
didn't  hear  you,  I  daresay;  only  I 
thought  I'd  just  caution  you." 


1879.] 


John  Galdigate. — Part  XII. 


291 


"  Quite  right,  Mr  Jones.  Now 
I  mean  to  do  mine.  I  think  we 
can  get  the  party  out  of  prison 
without  any  journey  to  Sydney  at 
all ;  and  I'm  not  going  to  stand  in 
the  way  of  it.  I  have  devoted  my- 
self to  this  case,  and  I'm  not  going 
to  let  my  own  interest  stand  in  the 
way.  Mr  Jones,  let  a  man  be  ever 
so  humble,  England  does  expect 
—that  he'll  do  his  duty." 

"  Ey  George,  he'll  hear  you,  Mr 
Bag  wax  ! — he  will  indeed."  But 
at  that  moment  Sir  John's  bell  was 
rung,  and  Bagwax  was  summoned 
into  the  great  man's  room.  Sir 
John  was  sitting  at  a  large  office- 
table  so  completely  covered  with 
papers  that  a  whole  chaos  of  legal 
atoms  seemed  to  have  been  de- 
posited there  by  the  fortuitous 
operation  of  ages.  Bagwax,  who 
had  his  large  bag  in  his  hand, 
looked  forlornly  round  the  room 
for  some  freer  and  more  fitting 
board  on  which  he  might  ex- 
pose his  documents.  But  there 
was  none.  There  were  bookshelves 
filled  with  books,  and  a  large  sofa 
which  was  covered  also  with  papers, 
and  another  table  laden  with  what 
seemed  to  be  a  concrete  chaos, — 
whereas  ^the  chaos  in  front  of  Sir 
John  was  a  chaos  in  solution.  Sir 
John  liked  Bagwax,  though  he  was 
generally  opposed  to  zealous  co- 
operators.  There  was  in  the  man 
a  mixture  of  intelligence  and  ab- 
surdity, of  real  feeling  and  affec- 
tation, of  genuine  humility  as  to 
himself  personally  and  of  thorough 
confidence  in  himself  post-officially, 
which  had  gratified  Sir  John ;  and 
Sir  John  had  been  quite  sure  that 
the  post-office  clerk  had  intended 
to  speak  the  absolute  truth,  with 
an  honest,  manly  conviction  in  the 
innocence  of  his  client,  and  in  the 
guilt  of  the  witnesses  on  the  other 
side.  He  was  therefore  well  dis- 
posed towards  Bagwax.  "Well, 
Mr  Bagwax,"  he  said ;  "  so  I  under- 


stand you  have  got  a  little  further 
in  the  matter  since  I  saw  you  last." 

"A  good  deal  further,  Sir  John." 

"  As  how  1  Perhaps  you  can  ex- 
plain it  shortly." 

This  was  troublesome.  Bagwax 
did  not  think  that  he  could  explain 
the  matter  very  shortly.  He  could 
not  explain  the  matter  at  all  without 
showing  his  envelopes ;  and  how  was 
he  to  show  them  in  the  present  con- 
dition of  that  room?  He  immedi- 
ately dived  into  his  bag  and  brought 
forth  the  first  bundle  of  envelopes. 
"Perhaps,  Sir  John,  I  had  better 
put  them  out  upon  the  floor,"  he 
said. 

"Must  I  see  all  those?" 

There  were  many  more  bundles 
within,  which  Bagwax  was  anxious 
that  the  barrister  should  examine 
minutely.  "It  is  very  important, 
Sir  John.  It  is  indeed.  It  is  real- 
ly altogether  a  case  of  post-marks, — 
altogether.  We  have  never  in  our 
branch  had  anything  so  interesting 
before.  If  we  can  show  that  that 
envelope  certainly  was  not  stamped 
with  that  post-mark  in  the  Sydney 
post-office  on  the  10th  May  1873, 
then  we  shall  get  him  out, — shan't 
we?" 

"It  will  be  very  material,  Mr 
Bagwax,"  said  Sir  John,  cautiously. 

"  They  will  all  have  sworn  falsely, 
and  then  somebody  must  have  ob- 
tained the  post-mark  surreptitiously. 
There  must  have  been  a  regular 
plant.  The  stamp  must  have  been 
made  up  and  dated  on  purpose, — 
so  as  to  give  a  false  date.  Some 
official  in  the  Sydney  post-office 
must  have  been  employed." 
-  "  That's  what  we  want  you  to 
find  out  over  there,"  said  Sir  John, 
who  was  not  quite  so  zealous,  per- 
haps not  quite  so  conscientious,  as 
his  more  humble  assistant,  —  and 
whose  mind  was  more  occupied  with 
other  matters.  "  You'll  find  out  all 
that  at  Sydney." 

The  temptation  was   very  great. 


292 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XII. 


[March 


Sir  John  wanted  him  to  go, — told 
him  that  he  ought  to  go  !  Sir  John 
was  the  man  responsible  for  the 
whole  matter.  He,  Bagwax,  had 
done  his  best.  Could  it  be  right 
for  him  to  provoke  Sir  John  by 
contesting  the  matter, — contesting 
it  so  much  to  bis  own  disadvan- 
tage? Had  he  not  done  enough 
for  honesty  1  —  enough  to  satisfy 
even  that  grand  idea  of  duty  1  As 
he  turned  the  bundle  of  documents 
round  in  his  hand,  he  made  up  his 
mind  that  he  had  not  done  enough. 
There  was  a  little  gurgle  in  his 
throat,  almost  a  tear  in  his  eye,  as 
he  replied,  "  I  don't  think  I  should 
be  wanted  to  go  if  you  would  look 
at  these  envelopes." 

Sir  John  understood  it  all  at 
once, — and  there  was  much  to  un- 
derstand. He  knew  how  anxious 
the  man  was  to  go  on  this  projected 
journey,  and  he  perceived  the  cause 
which  was  inducing  him  to  sur- 
render his  own  interests.  He  re- 
membered that  the  journey  must  be 
made  at  a  great  expense  to  his  own 
client.  He  ran  over  the  case  in  his 
mind,  and  acknowledged  to  himself 
that  conclusive  evidence, — evidence 
that  should  be  quite  conclusive, — 
of  fraud  as  to  the  envelope,  might 
possibly  suffice  to  release  his  client 
at  once  from  prison.  He  told  him- 
self also  that  he  could  not  dare  to 
express  an  opinion  on  the  matter 
himself  without  a  close  inspection 
of  those  post-marks, — that  a  close 
inspection  might  probably  take  two 
hours,  and  that  the  two  hours 
would  finally  have  to  be  abstracted 
from  the  already  curtailed  period 
of  his  nightly  slumbers.  Then  he 
thought  of  the  state  of  his  tables, 
and  of  the  difficulties  as  to  space. 
Perhaps  that  idea  was  the  one 
strongest  in  his  mind  against  the 
examination. 

But  then  what  a  hero  was  Bag- 
wax  !  What  self-abnegation  was 
there  !  Should  he  be  less  ready  to 


devote  himself  to  his  client, — he, 
who  was  paid  for  his  work, — than 
this  post-office  clerk,  who  was  as 
pure  in  his  honesty  as  he  was  zealous 
in  the  cause  ?  "  There  are  a  great 
many  of  them,  I  suppose  1 "  he  said, 
almost  whining. 

"A  good  many,  Sir  John." 
"  Have  at  it ! "  said  the  Queen's 
Counsel  and  late  Attorney-General, 
springing  up  from  his  chair.  Bag- 
wax  almost  jumped  out  of  the  way, 
so  startled  was  he  by  the  quick  and 
sudden  movement.  Sir  John  rang 
his  bell ;  but  not  waiting  for  the 
clerk,  began  to  hurl  the  chaos  in 
solution  on  to  the  top  of  the  con- 
crete chaos.  Bagwax  naturally  at- 
tempted to  assist  him.  "  For  G — 's 
sake,  don't  you  touch  them ! " 
said  Sir  John,  as  though  avenging 
himself  by  a  touch  of  scorn  for  the 
evil  thing  which  was  being  done  to 
him.  Then  Jones  hurried  into  the 
room,  and  with  more  careful  hands 
assisted  his  master,  trying  to  pre- 
serve some  order  with  the  disturbed 
papers.  In  this  way  the  large  office- 
table  was  within  three  minutes 
made  clear  for  the  Bagwaxian  strat- 
egy. Mr  Jones  declared  afterwards 
that  it  was  seven  years  since  he  had 
seen  the  entire  top  of  that  table. 
"Now  go  ahead!"  said  Sir  John, 
who  seemed,  during  the  operation, 
to  have  lost  something  of  his  ordi- 
nary dignity. 

Bagwax,  who  since  that  little 
check  had  been  standing  perfectly 
still,  with  his  open  bag  in  his  hands, 
at  once  began  his  work.  The  plain 
before  him  was  immense,  and  he 
was  able  to  marshal  all  his  forces. 
In  the  centre,  and  nearest  to  Sir 
John,  as  he  sat  in  his  usual  chair, 
were  exposed  all  the  Mays  '73.  For 
it  was  thus  that  he  denominated 
the  envelopes  with  which  he  was  so 
familiar.  There  were  71's  and  72's, 
and  74's  and  75's.  But  the  73's 
were  all  arranged  in  months,  and 
then  in  days.  He  began  by  ex- 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate.—Part  XII. 


293 


plaining  that  he  had  obtained  all 
these  envelopes  "  promiscuously," 
as  he  said.  There  had  been  no 
selection,  none  had  been  rejected. 
Then  courteously  handing  his  offi- 
cial magnifying-glass  to  the  barrister, 
he  invited  him  to  inspect  them  all 
generally, — to  make,  as  it  were,  a 
first  cursory  inspection, — so  that  he 
might  see  that  there  was  not  one 
perfect  impression,  perfect  as  that 
impression  on  the  Caldigate  enve- 
lope was  perfect.  "  Not  one,"  said 
Bagwax,  beating  his  bosom  in 
triumph. 

"That  seems  perfect,"  said  Sir 
John,  pointing  with  the  glass  to  a 
selected  specimen. 

"Your  eyes  are  very  good,  Sir 
John,  —  very  good  indeed.  You 
have  found  the  cleanest  and  truest 
of  the  whole  lot.  But  if  you'll 
examine  the  tail  of  the  Y,  you'll 
see  it's  been  rubbed  a  little.  And 
then  if  you'll  follow  with  your  eye 
the  circular  line  which  makes  up 
the  round  of  the  post-mark,  you'll 
find  a  dent  on  the  outside  bar.  I 
go  more  on  the  dents  in  those  bars, 
Sir  John,  than  I  do  on  the  figures. 
All  the  bars  are  dented  more  or 
less, — particularly  the  Mays  73. 
They  don't  remain  quite  true,  Sir 
John, — not  after  a  day's  fair  use. 
They've  taken  a  new  stamp  out  of 
the  store  to  do  the  Caldigate  en- 
velope. They  couldn't  get  at  the 
stamps  in  use.  That's  how  it  has 
been." 

Sir  John  listened  in  silence  as 
he  continued  to  examine  one  en- 
velope after  another  through  the 
glass.  "JSTow,  Sir  John,  if  we 
come  to  the  Mays  '73,  we  shall  find 
that  just  about  that  time  there  has 
been  no  new  stamp  brought  into 
use.  There  isn't  one,  either,  othat 
has  exactly  the  Caldigate  breadth. 
I've  brought  a  rule  by  which  you 
can  get  to  the  fiftieth  of  an  inch." 
Here  Bagwax  brought  out  a  little 
ivory  instrument  marked  all  over 


with  figures.  "  Of  course  they're 
intended  to  be  of  the  same  pattern. 
But  gradually,  very  gradually,  the 
circle  has  always  become  smaller. 
Isn't  that  conclusive?  The  Cal- 
digate impression  is  a  little,  very 
little, — ever  so  little, — but  a  little 
smaller  than  any  of  the  Mays  '73. 
Isn't  that  conclusive?" 

"  If  I  understand  it,  Mr  Bagwax, 
you  don't  pretend  to  say  that  you 
have  got  impressions  of  all  the 
stamps  which  may  have  been  in 
use  in  the  Sydney  office  at  that 
time  1  But  in  Sydney,  if  I  under- 
stand the  matter  rightly,  they  keep 
daily  impressions  of  all  the  stamps 
in  a  book." 

"  Just  so — just  so,  Sir  John,"  said 
Bagwax,  feeling  that  every  word 
spoken  to  the  lawyer  renewed  his 
own  hopes  of  going  out  to  Sydney, — 
but  feeling  also  that  Sir  John  would 
be  wrong,  very  wrong,  if  he  subject- 
ed his  client  to  so  unnecessarily 
prolonged  a  detention  in  the  Cam- 
bridge county  prison.  "They  do 
keep  a  book  which  would  be  quite 
conclusive.  I  could  have  the  pages 
photographed." 

"Would  not  that  be  best?  and 
you  might  'probably  find  out  who 
it  was  who  gave  this  fraudulent 
aid." 

"I  could  find  out  everything," 
said  Bagwax,  energetically ;  "  but 


"But  what?" 

"  It  is  all  found  out  there.  It  is 
indeed,  Sir  John.  If  I  could  get 
you  to  go  along  with  me,  you  would 
see  that  that  letter  couldn't  have 
gone  through  the  Sydney  post  - 
office." 

"  I  think  I  do  see  it.  But  it  is 
so  difficult,  Mr  Bagwax,  to  make 
others  see  things." 

"And  if  it  didn't, — and  it  never 
did ; — but  if  it  didn't,  why  did  they 
say  it  did  ?  Why  did  they  swear  it 
did?  Isn't  that  enough  to  make 
any  Secretary  let  him  go  ? " 


294 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XII. 


[March 


The  energy,  the  zeal,  the  true 
faith  of  the  man,  were  admirable. 
Sir  John  was  half  disposed  to  rise 
from  his  seat  to  embrace  the  man, 
and  hail  him  as  his  brother,  — 
only  that  had  he  done  so  he  would 
have  made  himself  as  ridiculous 
as  Bag  wax.  Zeal  is  always  ridi- 
culous. "  I  think  I  see  it  all,"  he 
said. 

"And  won't  they  let  the  man 
go?" 

"There  were  four  persons  who 
swore  positively  that  they  were 
present  at  the  marriage,  one  of 
them  being  the  woman  who  is  said 
to  have  been  married.  That  is 
direct  evidence.  With  all  our 
search,  we  have  hitherto  found  no 
one  to  give  us  any  direct  evidence 
to  rebut  this.  Then  they  brought 
forward  to  corroborate  these  state- 
ments, a  certain  amount  of  circum- 
stantial evidence, — and  among  other 
things  this  letter." 

"The  Caldigate  envelope,"  said 
Bagwax,  eagerly. 

"  What  you  call  the  Caldigate 
envelope.  It  was  unnecessary,  per- 
haps ;  and,  if  fraudulent,  certainly 
foolish.  They  would  have  had 
their  verdict  without  it." 

"  But  they  did  it,"  said  Bagwax, 
in  a  tone  of  triumph. 

"It  is  a  pity,  Mr  Bagwax,  you 
were  nob  brought  up  to  our  pro- 
fession. You  would  have  made 
a  great  lawyer." 

"  Oh,  Sir  John  ! " 

"Yes,  they  did  it.  And  if  it 
can  be  proved  that  they  have  done 
it  fraudulently,  no  doubt  that  fraud 
will  stain  their  direct  evidence. 
But  we  have  to  remember  that  the 
verdict  has  been  already  obtained. 


We  are  not  struggling  now  with  a 
jury,  but  with  an  impassive  emblem 
of  sovereign  justice." 

"And  therefore  the  real  facts 
will  go  the  further,  Sir  John." 

"  Well  argued,  Mr  Bagwax, — ad- 
mirably well  argued.  If  you  should 
ever  be  called,  I  hope  I  may  not 
have  you  against  me  very  often. 
But  I  will  think  of  it  all.  You  can 
take  the  envelopes  away  with  you, 
because  you  have  impressed  me 
vividly  with  all  that  they  can  tell 
me.  My  present  impression  is,  that 
you  had  better  take  the  journey. 
But  within  the  next  few  days  I  will 
give  a  little  more  thought  to  it,  and 
you  shall  hear  from  me."  Then 
he  put  out  his  hand,  which  was 
a  courtesy  Mr  Bagwax  had  never 
before  enjoyed.  "  You  may  be- 
lieve me,  Mr  Bagwax,  when  I  say 
that  I  have  come  across  many  re- 
markable men  in  many  cases  which 
have  fallen  into  my  hands, — but 
that  I  have  rarely  encountered  a 
man  whom  I  have  more  thoroughly 
respected  than  I  do  you." 

Mr  Bagwax  went  away  to  his 
own  lodging  exulting, — but  more 
than  ever  resolved  that  the  journey 
to  Sydney  was  unnecessary.  As 
usual,  he  spent  a  large  portion  of 
that  afternoon  in  contemplating  the 
envelopes;  and  then,  as  he  was 
doing  so,  another  idea  struck  him, 
—  an  idea  which  made  him  tear 
his  hairs  with  disgust  because  it 
had  not  occurred  to  him  before. 
There  was  now  opened  to  him  a 
new  scope  of  inquiry,  an  altogether 
different  matter  of  evidence.  But 
the  idea  was  by  far  too  important 
to  be  brought  in  and  explained  at 
the  fag-end  of  a  chapter. 


CHAPTER   XLIX. ALL   THE   SHANDS. 


There  had  been  something  almost 
approaching  to  exultation  at  Bab- 
ington  when  the  tidings  of  Caldi- 
gate's  alleged  Australian  wife  were 


first  heard  there.  As  the  anger  had 
been  great  that  Julia  should  be  re- 
jected, so  had  the  family  congratu- 
lation been  almost  triumphant  when 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XII. 


295 


the  danger  which  had  "been  escaped 
was  appreciated.  There  had  been 
something  of  the  same  feeling  at 
Pollington  among  the  Shands, — 
who  had  no  doubt  allowed  them- 
selves to  think  that  Maria  had  been 
ill  treated  by  John  Caldigate.  He 
ought  to  have  married  Maria, — at 
least  such  was  the  opinion  of  the 
ladies  of  the  family,  who  were  greatly 
impressed  with  the  importance  of  the 
little  book  which  had  been  carried 
away.  But  in  regard  to  the  Aus- 
tralian marriage,  they  had  differed 
among  themselves.  That  Maria 
should  have  escaped  the  terrible 
doom  which  had  befallen  Mrs  Bol- 
ton's  daughter,  was,  of  course,  a 
source  of  comfort.  But  Maria  her- 
self would  never  believe  the  evil 
story.  John  Caldigate  had  not 

been, well,    perhaps   not  quite 

true  to  her.  So  much  she  acknow- 
ledged gently  with  the  germ  of  a 
tear  in  her  eye.  But  she  was  quite 
sure  that  he  would  not  have  married 
Hester  Bolton  while  another  wife 
was  living  in  Australia.  She  arose 
almost  to  enthusiasm  as  she  vindi- 
cated his  character  from  so  base  a 
stain.  He  had  been,  perhaps,  a 
little  unstable  in  his  affections, — as 
men  are  so  commonly.  But  not 
even  when  the  jury  found  their 
verdict,  could  she  be  got  to  believe 
that  the  John  Caldigate  whom  she 
had  known  would  have  betrayed 
a  girl  whom  he  loved  as  he  was 
supposed  to  have  betrayed  Hester 
Bolton.  The  mother  and  sisters, 
who  knew  the  softness  of  .Maria's 
disposition, — and  who  had  been 
more  angry  than  their  sister  with  the 
man  who  had  been  wicked  enough 
to  carry  away  Thomson's  '  Seasons' 
in  his  portmanteau  without  marry- 
ing the  girl  who  had  put  it  there, 
— would  not  agree  to  this.  The 
verdict,  at  any  rate,  was  a  verdict. 
John  Caldigate  was  in  prison.  The 
poor  young  woman  with  her  infant 
was  a  nameless,  unfortunate  crea- 
ture. All  this  might  have  happened 


to  their  Maria.  lt  I  should  always 
have  believed  him  innocent,"  said 
Maria,  wiping  away  the  germ  of 
the  tear  with  her  knuckle. 

The  matter  was  very  often  dis- 
cussed in  the  doctor's  house  at 
Pollington, — as  it  was,  indeed,  by 
the  public  generally,  and  especially 
in  the  eastern  counties.  But  in 
this  house  there  was  a  double  in- 
terest attached  to  it.  In  the  first 
place,  there  was  Maria's  escape, — 
which  the  younger  girls  were  accus- 
tomed to  talk  of  as  having  been 
"almost  miraculous;"  and  then 
there  was  Dick's  absolute  disappear- 
ance. It  had  been  declared  at  the 
trial,  on  behalf  of  Caldigate,  that 
if  Dick  could  have  been  put  into 
the  witness-box,  he  would  have  been 
able  to  swear  that  there  had  been 
no  such  marriage  ceremony  as  that 
which  the  four  witnesses  had  ela- 
borately described.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  woman  and  Crinkett  had 
sworn  boldly  that  Dick  Shand, 
though  not  present  at  the  marriage, 
had  been  well  aware  that  it  had 
taken  place ;  and  that  Dick,  could 
his  evidence  have  been  secured, 
would  certainly  have  been  a  witness 
on  their  side.  He  had  been  out- 
side the  tent, — so  said  the  woman, 
— when  the  marriage  was  being  per- 
formed, and  had  refused  to  enter, 
by  way  of  showing  his  continued 
hostility  to  an  arrangement  which 
he  had  always  opposed.  But 
when  the  woman  said  this,  it  was 
known  that  Dick  Shand  would  not 
appear,  and  the  opinion  was  general 
that  Dick  had  died  in  his  poverty 
and  distress.  Men  who  sink  to  be 
shepherds  in  Australia  because  they 
are  noted  drunkards,  generally  do 
die.  The  constrained  abstinence  of 
perhaps  six  months  in  the  wilder- 
ness is  agonising  at  first,  and  nearly 
fatal.  Then  the  poor  wretch  rushes 
to  the  joys  of  an  orgy  with  ten  or 
fifteen  pounds  in  his  pocket ;  and 
the  stuff  which  is  given  to  him  as 
brandy  soon  puts  an  end  to  his 


296 


John  Caldigate.—Part  XII. 


[March 


sufferings.  There  was  but  little 
doubt  that  such  had  been  the  fate 
of  Dick, — unless,  perhaps,  in  the 
bosom  of  Maria  and  of  his  mother. 

It  was  known  too  at  Pollington, 
as  well  as  elsewhere,  in  the  month 
of  August,  that  efforts  were  still  to 
be  made  with  the  view  of  upsetting 
the  verdict.  Something  had  crept 
out  to  the  public  as  to  the  researches 
made  by  Bagwax,  and  allusions  had 
been  frequent  as  to  the  unfortunate 
absence  of  Dick  Shand.  The  bet- 
ting, had  there  been  betting,  would 
no  doubt  have  been  in  favour  of  the 
verdict.  The  four  witnesses  had 
told  their  tale  in  a  straightforward 
way;  and  though  they  were,  from 
their  characters,  not  entitled  to 
perfect  credit,  still  their  evidence 
had  in  no  wise  been  shaken.  They 
were  mean,  dishonest  folk,  no  doubt. 
They  had  taken  Caldigate's  money, 
and  had  still  gone  on  with  the  pro- 
secution. Even  if  there  had  been 
some  sort  of  a  marriage,  the  woman 
should  have  taken  herself  off  when 
she  had  received  her  money,  and 
left  poor  Hester  to  enjoy  her  happi- 
ness, her  husband,  and  her  home  at 
Bolton.  That  was  the  general  feel- 
ing. But  it  was  hardly  thought 
that  Bagwax,  with  his  envelope, 
would  prevail  over  Judge  Bramber 
in  the  mind  of  the  Secretary  of 
State.  Probably  there  had  been 
a  marriage.  But  it  was  singular 
that  the  two  men  who  could  have 
given  unimpeachable  evidence  on 
the  matter  should  both  have  van- 
ished out  of  the  world;  Allan,  the 
minister,  —  and  Dick  Shand,  the 
miner  and  shepherd. 

"  What  will  she  do  when  he 
comes  out?"  Maria  asked.  Mrs 
Kewble,  —  Harriet,  —  the  curate's 
wife,  was  there.  Mr  Eewble,  as 
curate,  found  it  convenient  to 
make  frequent  visits  to  his  father- 
in-law's  house.  And  Mrs  Posttle- 
thwaite, — Matilda, — was  with  them, 
as  Mr  Posttlethwaite's  business  in 


the  soap  line  caused  him  to  live  at 
Pollington.  And  there  were  two 
unmarried  sisters,  Fanny  and  Jane. 
Mrs  Rewble  was  by  this  time  quite 
the  matron,  and  Mrs  Posttlethwaite 
was  also  the  happy  mother  of  chil- 
dren. But  Maria  was  still  Maria. 
Fanny  already  had  a  string  to  her 
bow, — and  Jane  was  expectant  of 
many  strings. 

"  She  ought  to  go  back  to  her 
father  and  mother,  of  course,"  said 
Mrs  Rewble,  indignantly. 

"  I  know  I  wouldn't,"  said  Jane. 

"  You  know  nothing  about  it, 
miss,  and  you  ought  not  to  speak  of 
such  a  thing,"  said  the  curate's  wife. 
Jane  at  this  made  a  grimace  which 
was  intended  to  be  seen  only  by 
her  sister  Fanny. 

"It  is  very  hard  that  two  lov- 
ing hearts  should  be  divided,"  said 
Maria. 

"I  never  thought  so  much  of 
John  Caldigate  as  you  did,"  said 
Mrs  Posttlethwaite.  "He  seems  to 
have  been  able  to  love  a  good  many 
young  women  all  at  the  same  time." 

"  It's  like  tasting  a  lot  of  cheeses, 
till  you  get  the  one  that  suits  you," 
said  Jane.  This  offended  the  elder 
sister  so  grievously  that  she  de- 
clared she  did  not  know  what  their 
mother  was  about,  to  allow  such 
liberty  to  the  girls,  and  then  sug- 
gested that  the  conversation  should 
be  changed. 

"  I'm  sure  I  did  not  say  anything 
wrong,"  said  Jane,  "  and  I  suppose 
it  is  like  that.  A  gentleman  has 
to  find  out  whom  he  likes  best. 
And  as  he  liked  Miss  Bolton  best, 
I  think  it's  a  thousand  pities  they 
should  be  parted." 

"  Ten  thousand  pities  ! "  said 
Maria,  enthusiastically. 

"  Particularly  as  there  is  a  baby," 
said  Jane, — upon  which  Mrs  Rewble 
was  again  very  angry. 

"If  Dick  were  to  come  home, 
he'd  clear  it  all  up  at  once,"  said 
Mrs  Posttlethwaite. 


1879.' 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XII. 


297 


"  Dick  will  never  come  home," 
said  Matilda,  mournfully. 

"  Never  ! "  said  Mrs  Rewble.  "  I 
am  afraid  that  he  has  expiated  all 
his  indiscretions.  It  should  make 
us  who  were  born  girls  thankful 
that  we  have  not  been  subjected  to 
the  same  temptations." 

"  I  should  like  to  be  a  man  all 
the  same,"  said  Jane. 

"  You  do  not  at  all  know  what 
you  are  saying,"  replied  the  moni- 
tor. "  How  little  have  you  real- 
ised what  poor  Dick  must  have 
suffered  !  I  wonder  when  they  are 
going  to  let  us  have  tea.  I'm  al- 
most famished."  Mrs  Eewble  was 
known  in  the  family  for  having  a 
good  appetite.  They  were  sitting 
at  this  moment  round  a  table  on 
the  lawn,  at  which  they  intended 
to  partake  of  their  evening  meal. 
The  doctor  might  or  might  not  join 
them.  Mrs  Shand,  who  did  not  like 
the  open  air,  would  have  hers  sent 
to  her  in  the  drawing-room.  Mr 
Rewble  would  certainly  be  there. 
Mr  Posttlethwaite,  who  had  been 
home  to  his  dinner,  had  gone  back 
to  the  soap-works.  "Don't  you 
think,  Jane,  if  you  were  to  go  in, 
you  could  hurry  them  1 "  Then 
Jane  went  in  and  hurried  the  ser- 
vant. 

"There's  a  strange  man  with 
papa,"  said  Jane,  as  she  returned. 

"There  are  always  strange  men 
with  papa,"  said  Fanny.  "  I  dare- 
say he  has  come  to  have  his  tooth 
out."  For  the  doctor's  practice  was 
altogether  general.  From  a  baby 
to  a  back-tooth,  he  attended  to 
everything  now,  as  he  had  done 
forty  years  ago. 

"  But  this  man  isn't  like  a 
patient.  The  door  was  half  open, 
and  I  saw  papa  holding  him  by 
both  hands." 

"  A  lunatic  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs 
Rewble,  thinking  that  Mr  Rewble 
ought  to  be  sent  at  once  to  her 
father's  assistance. 


"  He  was  quite  quiet,  and  just 
for  a  moment  I  could  see  papa's 
face.  It  wasn't  a  patient  at  all. 
Oh,  Maria ! " 

"What  is  it,  child  1"  asked  Mrs 
Rewble. 

"  I  do  believe  that  Dick  has  come 
back." 

They  all  jumped  up  from  their 
seats  suddenly.  Then  Mrs  Rewble 
reseated  herself.  "Jane  is  such  a 
fool ! "  she  said. 

"I  do  believe  it,"  said  Jane. 
"  He  had  yellow  trousers  on,  as  if 
he  had  come  from  a  long  way  off. 
And  I'm  sure  papa  was  very  glad, 
— why  should  he  take  both  his 
hands  1" 

"  I  feel  as  though  my  legs  were 
sinking  under  me,"  said  Maria. 

"I  don't  think  it  possible  for  a 
moment,"  said  Mrs  Rewble.  "  Ma- 
ria, you  are  so  romantic !  You 
would  believe  anything." 

"  It  is  possible,"  said  Mrs  Post- 
tlethwaite. 

"  If  you  will  remain  heife,  I  will 
go  into  the  house  and  inquire," 
said  Mrs  Rewble.  But  it  did  not 
suit  the  others  to  remain  there.  For 
a  moment  the  suggestion  had  been 
so  awful  that  they  had  not  dared 
to  stir ;  but  when  the  elder  sister 
slowly  moved  towards  the  door 
which  led  into  the  house  from  the 
garden,  they  all  followed  her.  Then 
suddenly  they  heard  a  scream,  which 
they  knew  to  come  from  their 
mother.  "  I  believe  it  is  Dick," 
said  Mrs  Rewble,  standing  in  the 
doorway  so  as  to  detain  the  others. 
"  What  ought  we  to  do?" 

"  Let  me  go  in,"  said  Jane,  im- 
petuously. "He  is  my  brother." 

Maria  was  already  dissolved  in 
tears.  Mrs  Posttlethwaite  was  struck 
dumb  by  the  awfulness  of  the  oc- 
casion, and  clung  fast  to  her  sister 
Matilda. 

"It  will  be  like  one  from  the 
grave,"  said  Mrs  Rewble,  solemnly. 

"  Let  me  go  in,"  repeated  Jane, 


298 


John  Galdigate.—Part  XII. 


[March 


impetuously.  Then  she  pushed 
by  her  sisters,  and  was  the  first  to 
enter  the  house.  They  all  followed 
her  into  the  hall,  and  there  they 
found  their  mother  supported  in 
the  arms  of  the  man  who  wore  the 
yellow  trousers.  Dick  Shand  had 
in  truth  returned  to  his  father's 
house. 

The  first  thing  to  do  with  a  re- 
turned prodigal  is  to  kiss  him,  and 
the  next  to  feed  him ;  and  therefore 
Dick  was  led  away  at  once  to  the 
table  on  the  lawn.  But  he  gave 
no  sign  of  requiring  the  immediate 
slaughter  of  a  fatted  calf.  Though 
he  had  not  exactly  the  appearance 
of  a  well-to-do  English  gentleman, 
he  did  not  seem  to  be  in  want. 
The  yellow  trousers  were  of  strong 
material,  and  in  good  order,  made 
of  that  colour  for  colonial  use,  pro- 
bably with  the  idea  of  expressing 
some  contempt  for  the  dingy  hues 
which  prevail  among  the  legs  of 
men  at  home.  He  wore  a  very 
large  checked  waistcoat,  and  a  stout 
square  coat  of  the  same  material. 
There  was  no  look  of  poverty,  and 
no  doubt  he  had  that  day  eaten  a 
substantial  dinner  ;  but  the  anxious 
mother  was  desirous  of  feeding  him 
immediately,  and  whispered  to  Jane 
some  instructions  as  to  cold  beef, 
which  was  to  be  added  to  the  tea 
and  toast. 

As  they  examined  him,  holding 
him  by  the  arms  and  hands,  and 
gazing  up  into  his  face,  the  same 
idea  occurred  to  all  of  them.  Though 
they  knew  him  very  well  now,  they 
would  hardly  have  known  him  had 
they  met  him  suddenly  in  the 
streets.  He  seemed  to  have  grown 
fifteen  years  older  during  the  seven 
years  of  his  absence.  His  face  had 
become  thin  and  long  and  almost 
hollow.  His  beard  went  all  round 
under  his  chin,  and  was  clipped 
into  the  appearance  of  a  stiff  thick 
hedge — equally  thick,  and  equally 
broad,  and  equally  protrusive  at  all 


parts.  And  within  this  enclosure 
it  was  shorn.  But  his  mouth  had 
sunk  in,  and  his  eyes.  In  colour 
he  was  almost  darker  than  brown. 
You  would  have  said  that  his  skin 
had  been  tanned  black,  but  for  the 
infusion  of  red  across  it  here  and 
there.  He  seemed  to  be  in  good 
present  health,  but  certainly  bore 
the  traces  of  many  hardships. 
"And  here  you  are  all  just  as  I 
left  you,"  he  said,  counting  up  his 
sisters. 

"  Not  exactly,"  said  Mrs  Rewble, 
remembering  her  family.  "  And 
Matilda  has  got  two." 

"  Not  husbands,  I  hope,"  said 
Dick. 

"  Oh,  Dick,  that  is  so  like  you  ! " 
said  Jane,  getting  up  and  kissing 
him  again  in  her  delight.  Then 
Mr  Rewble  came  forward,  and  the 
brothers-in-law  renewed  their  old 
acquaintance. 

"  It  seems  just  like  the  other 
day,"  said  Dick,  looking  round 
upon  the  rose-bushes. 

"  Oh  my  boy  !  my  darling,  dar- 
ling boy!"  said  the  mother,  who 
had  hurried  up-stairs  for  her  shawl, 
conscious  of  her  rheumatism  even 
amidst  the  excitement  of  her  son's 
return.  "  Oh,  Dick,  this  is  the  hap- 
piest day  of  all  my  life  !  Wouldn't 
you  like  something  better  than 
tea?"  This  she  said  with  many 
memories  and  many  thoughts  ;  but 
still,  with  a  mother's  love,  unable 
to  refrain  from  offering  what  she 
thought  her  son  would  wish  to 
have. 

"  There  ain't  anything  better," 
said  Dick,  very  solemnly. 

"  Nothing  half  so  good  to  my 
thinking,"  said  Mrs  Rewble,  ima- 
gining that  by  a  word  in  season  she 
might  help  the  good  work. 

The  mother's  eyes  were  filled 
with  tears,  but  she  did  not  dare  to 
speak  a  word.  Then  there  was  a 
silence  for  a  few  moments.  "  Tell 
us  all  about  it,  Dick,"  said  the 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XII. 


299 


father.  "  There's  whisky  inside  if 
you  like  it."  Dick  shook  his  head 
solemnly, — but,  as  they  all  thought, 
with  a  certain  air  of  regret.  "  Tell 
us  what  you  have  to  say,"  repeated 
the  doctor. 

"  I'm  sworn  off  these  two  years."- 

"  Touched  nothing  for  two 
years  1 "  said  the  mother  exultingly, 
with  her  arms  and  shawl  again 
round  her  son's  neck. 

"  A  teetotaller  ? "  said  Maria. 

"  Anything  you  like  to  call  it"1; 
only,  what  a  gentleman's  habits  are 
in  that  respect  needn't  be  made  the 
subject  of  general  remark."  It  was 
evident  he  was  a  little  sore,  and 
Jane  therefore  offered  him  a  dish 
full  of  gooseberries.  He  took  the 
plate  in  his  hand  and  ate  them 
assiduously  for  a  while  in  silence, 
as  though  unconscious  of  what  he 
was  doing.  "  You  know  all  about 
it  now,  don't  you  ? " 

"  Oh  my  dearest  boy ! "  ejaculated 
the  mother. 

"You  didn't  get  better  goose- 
berries than  those  on  your  travels," 
said  the  doctor,  calling  him  back  to 
the  condition  of  the  world  around 
him. 

Then  he  told  them  of  his  adven- 
tures. For  two  terrible  years  he 
had  been  a  shepherd  on  different 
sheep-runs  up  in  Queensland.  Then 
he  had  found  employment  on  a 
sugar  plantation,  and  had  super- 
intended the  work  of  a  gang  of 
South  Sea  Islanders,  —  Canakers 
they  are  called, — men  who  are 
brought  into  the  colony  from  the 
islands  of  the  Pacific, — and  who 
return  thence  to  their  homes  gener- 
ally every  three  years,  much  to  the 
regret  of  their  employers.  In  the 
transit  of  these  men  agents  are  em- 
ployed, and  to  this  service  Dick 
had,  after  a  term,  found  himself 
promoted.  Then  it  had  come  to 
pass  that  he  had  remained  for  a 
period  on  one  of  these  islands,  with 
the  view  of  persuading  the  men  to 


emigrate  and  re-emigrate ;  and  had 
thus  been  resident  among  them  for 
more  than  a  couple  of  years.  They 
had  used  him  well,  and  he  had  liked 
the  islands, — having  lived  in  one  of 
them  without  seeing  another  Euro- 
pean for  many  months.  Then  the 
payments  which  had  from  time  to 
time  been  made  to  him  by  the 
Queensland  planters  were  stopped, 
and  his  business,  such  as  it  had 
been,  came  to  an  end.  He  had 
found  himself  with  just  sufficient 
money  to  bring  him  home ;  and 
here  he  was. 

"  My  boy,  my  darling  boy  ! " 
exclaimed  his  mother  again,  as 
though  all  their  joint  troubles  were 
now  over. 

The  doctor  remembered  the  adage 
of  the  rolling  stone,  and  felt  that 
the  return  of  a  son  at  the  age  of 
thirty,  without  any  means  of  main- 
taining himself,  was  hardly  an  un- 
alloyed blessing.  He  was  not  the 
man  to  turn  a  son  out  of  doors. 
He  had  always  broadened  his  back 
to  bear  the  full  burden  of  his  large 
family.  But  even  at  this  moment 
he  was  a  little  melancholy  as  he 
thought  of  the  difficulty  of  finding 
employment  for  the  wearer  of  those 
yellow  trousers.  How  was  it  pos- 
sible that  a  man  should  continue  to 
live  an  altogether  idle  life  at  Pol- 
lington  and  still  remain  a  tee- 
totaller 1  "  Have  you  any  plans  I 
can  help  you  in  now  1 "  he  asked. 

"  Of  course  he'll  remain  at  home 
for  a  while  before  he  thinks  of  any- 
thing," said  the  mother. 

"I  suppose  I  must  look  about 
me,"  said  Dick.  "  By  the  by,  what 
has  become  of  John  Caldigate?" 

They  all  at  once  gazed  at  each 
other.  It  could  hardly  be  that  he 
did  not  in  truth  know  what  had 
become  of  John  Caldigate. 

"Haven't  you  heard?"  asked 
Maria, 

"  Of  course  he  has  heard,"  said 
Mrs  Rewble. 


300 


John  Galdigate. — Part  XII. 


[March 


"You  must  have  heard,"  said  the 
mother. 

"  I  don't  in  the  least  know  what 
you  are  talking  about.  I  have 
heard  nothing  at  all." 

In  very  truth  he  had  heard  noth- 
ing of  his  old  friend, — not  even 
that  he  had  returned  to  England. 
Then  by  degrees  the  whole  story 
was  told  to  him.  "I  know  that 
he  was  putting  a  lot  of  money 
together,"  said  Dick,  enviously. 
"  Married  Hester  Bolton1?  I  thought 
he  would  !  Bigamy  !  Euphemia 
Smith  !  Married  before  !  Certainly 
not  at  the  diggings." 


"  He  wasn't  married  up  at 
Ahalala  ? "  asked  the  doctor. 

"To  Euphemia  Smith?  I  was 
there  when  they  quarrelled,  and 
when  she  went  into  partnership 
with  Crinkett.  I  am  sure  there 
was  no  such  marriage.  John  Caldi- 
gate  in  prison  for  bigamy?  And 
he  paid  them  twenty  thousand 
pounds  ?  The  more  fool  he  !  " 

"They  all  say  that." 

"  But  it's  an  infernal  plant.  As 
sure  as  my  name  is  Richard  Shand 
John  Caldigate  never  married  that 
woman." 


CHAPTER   L. AGAIN    AT    SIR   JOHN'S    CHAMBERS. 


And  this  was  the  man  as  to  whom 
it  had  been  acknowledged  that  his 
evidence,  if  it  could  be  obtained, 
would  be  final.  The  return  of 
Dick  himself  was  to  the  Shands 
an  affair  so  much  more  momentous 
than  the  release  of  John  Caldigate 
from  prison,  that  for  some  hours  or 
so  the  latter  subject  was  allowed  to 
pass  out  of  sight.  The  mother  got 
him  up-stairs  and  asked  after  his 
linen,  — vain  inquiry, — and  arranged 
for  his  bed,  turning  all  the  little 
Rewbles  into  one  small  room.  In 
the  long-run,  grandmothers  are 
more  tender  to  their  grandchildren 
than  their  own  offspring.  But  at 
this  moment  Dick  was  predomi- 
nant. How  grand  a  thing  to  have 
her  son  returned  to  her,  and  such 
a  son, — a  teetotaller  of  two  years' 
growth,  who  had  seen  all  the  world 
of  the  Pacific  Ocean  !  As  he  could 
not  take  whisky-and-water,  would 
he  like  ginger-beer  before  he  went 
to  bed, — or  arrowroot?  Dick  de- 
cided in  favour  of  ginger-beer,  and 
consented  to  be  embraced  again. 

It  was,  I  think,  to  Maria's  credit 
that  she  was  the  first  to  bring  back 
the  conversation  to  John  Caldigate's 
marriage.  "Was  she  a  very  hor- 


rible woman  ? "  Maria  asked,  refer- 
ring to  Euphemia  Smith. 

"  There  were  a  good  many  of  'em 
out  there,  greedy  after  gold,"  said 
Dick  ;  "  but  she  beat  'em  all ;  and 
she  was  awfully  clever." 

"  In  what  way,  Dick  ? "  asked 
Mrs  Rewble.  "  Because  she  does 
not  seem  to  me  to  have  done  very 
well  with  herself." 

"  She  knew  more  about  shares 
than  any  man  of  them  all.  But  I 
think  she  just  drank  a  little.  It 
was  that  which  disgusted  Caldi- 
gate." 

"  He  had  been  very  fond  of  her?" 
suggested  Maria. 

"  I  never  knew  a  man  so  taken 
with  a  woman."  Maria  blushed, 
and  Mrs  Rewble  looked  round  at 
her  younger  sisters  as  though  desir- 
ous that  they  should  be  sent  to  bed. 
"  All  that  began  on  board  the  ship. 
Then  he  was  fool  enough  to  run  after 
her  down  to  Sydney ;  and  of  course 
she  followed  him  up  to  the  mines." 

"  I  don't  know"  why,  of  course," 
said  Mrs  Posttlethwaite,  defending 
her  sex  generally. 

"Well,  she  did.  And  he  was 
going  to  marry  her.  He  did  mean 
to  marry  her  ; — there's  no  doubt  of 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate.— Part  XII. 


301 


that.     But  it  was  a  queer  kind  of 
life  we  lived  up  there." 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  the  doctor. 
Mrs  Rewble  again  looked  at  the 
girls  and  then  at  her  mother ;  but 
Mrs  Shand  was  older  and  less  timid 
than  her  married  daughter.  Mrs 
Eewble  when  a  girl  herself  had 
never  been  sent  away,  and  was 
now  a  pattern  of  female  discretion. 

"And  she,"  continued  Dick,  " as 
soon  as  she  had  begun  to  finger  the 
scrip,  thought  of  nothing  but  gold. 
She  did  not  care  much  for  mar- 
riage just  then,  because  she  fancied 
the  stuff  wouldn't  belong  to  her- 
self. She  became  largely  concerned 
in  the  <01d-Stick-in-the-Mud.'  That 
was  Crinkett's  concern,  and  there 
•were  times  at  which  I  thought  she 
would  marry  him.  Then  Caldigate 
got  rid  of  her  altogether.  That  was 
before  I  went  away." 

"He  never  married  her?"  asked 
the  doctor. 

"  He  certainly  hadn't  married 
her  when  I  left  Nobble  in  June 
73." 

"  You  can  swear  to  that,  Dick  1 " 

"  Certainly  I  can.  I  was  with 
him  every  day.  But  there  wasn't 
any  one  round  there  who  didn't 
know  how  it  was.  Crinkett  himself 
knew  it." 

"  Crinkett  is  one  of  the  gang 
against  him." 

"  And  there  was  a  man  named 
Adamson.  Adamson  knew." 

"  He's  another  of  the  conspira- 
tors," said  the  doctor. 

"  They  won't  dare  to  say  before 
me,"  declared  Dick,  stoutly,  "  that 
Mrs  Smith  and  John  Caldigate  had 
become  man  and  wife  before  June 
'73.  And  they  hated  one  another 
so  much  then,  that  it  is  impossible 

ley   should    have   come    together 
jince.     I  can  swear  they  were  not 
larried  up  to  June  '73." 

"  You'll  have  to  swear  it,"  said 
the  doctor,  "  and  that  with  as  little 
delay  as  possible." 

VOL.  CXXV. NO.  DCCLXI. 


All  this  took  place  towards  the 
end  of  August,  about  live  weeks 
after  the  trial,  and  a  day  or  two 
subsequent  to  the  interview  be- 
tween Bagwax  and  the  Attorney- 
General.  Bagwax  was  now  vehe- 
mently prosecuting  his  inquiries  as 
to  that  other  idea  which  had  struck 
him,  and  was  at  this  very  moment 
glowing  with  the  anticipation  of 
success,  and  at  the  same  time 
broken-hearted  with  the  conviction 
that  he  never  would  see  the  pleas- 
ant things  of  New  South  Wales. 

On  the  next  morning,  under  the 
auspices  of  his  father,  Dick  Shand 
wrote  the  following  letter  to  Mr 
Seely,  the  attorney. 

"  POLLING-TON,  30th  August  187-. 

"Sin,—  I  think  it  right  to  tell 
you  that  I  reached  my  father's 
house  in  this  town  late  yesterday 
evening.  'I  have  come  direct  from 
one  of  the  South  Sea  Islands  via 
Honolulu  and  San  Francisco,  and 
have  not  yet  been  in  England  forty- 
eight  hours.  I  am  an  old  friend  of 
Mr  John  Caldigate,  and  went  with 
him  from  England  to  the  gold-dig- 
gings in  New  South  Wales.  My 
name  will  be  known  to  you,  as  I 
am  now  aware  that  it  was  fre- 
quently mentioned  in  the  course 
of  the  late  trial.  It  will  probably 
seem  odd  to  you  that  I  had  never 
even  heard  of  the  trial  till  I  reach- 
ed my  father's  house  last  night.  I 
did  not  know  that  Caldigate  had 
married  Miss  Bolton,  nor  that 
Euphemia  Smith  had  claimed  him 
as  her  husband. 

"  I  am  able  and  willing  to  swear 
that  they  had  not  become  man  and 
wife  up  to  June  1873,  and  that 
no  one  at  Ahalala  or  Nobble  con- 
ceived them  to  be  man  and  wife. 
Of  course,  they  had  lived  together. 
But  everybody  knew  all  about  it. 
Some  time  before  June, — early,  I 
should  say,  in  that  autumn, — there 
had  been  a  quarrel.  I  am  sure 
u 


302 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XII. 


[March 


they  were  at  daggers  drawn  with 
each  other  all  that  April  and  May 
in  respect  to  certain  mining  shares, 
as  to  which  Euphemia  Smith  be- 
haved very  badly.  I  don't  think  it 
possible  that  they  should  ever  have 
come  together  again;  but  in  May 
'73, — which  is  the  date  I  have 
heard  named, — they  certainly  were 
not  man  and  wife. 

"  I  have  thought  it  right  to  in- 
form you  of  this  immediately  on  my 
return,  —  and  am  your  obedient 
servant,  EICHARD  SHAND." 

Mr  Seely,  when  he  received  this 
letter,  found  it  to  be  his  duty  to 
take  it  at  once  to  Sir  John  Joram, 
up  in  London.  He  did  not  believe 
Dick  Shand.  But  then  he  had  put 
no  trust  in  Bagwax,  and  had  been 
from  the  first  convinced,  in  his  own 
mind,  that  Caldigate  had  married 
the  woman.  As  soon  as  it  was 
known  to  him  that  his  client  had 
paid  twenty  thousand  pounds  to 
Crinkett  and  the  woman,  he  was 
quite  sure  of  the  guilt  of  his  client. 
He  had  done  the  best  for  Caldigate 
at  the  trial,  as  he  would  have  done 
for  any  other  client;  but  he  had 
never  felt  any  of  that  enthusiasm 
which  had  instigated  Sir  John. 
Now  that  Caldigate  was  in  prison, 
Mr  Seely  thought  that  he  might  as 
well  be  left  there  quietly,  trusting 
to  the  verdict,  trusting  to  Judge 
Bramber,  and  trusting  still  more 
strongly  on  his  own  early  impres- 
sions. This  letter  from  Dick, — 
whom  he  knew  to  have  been  a 
ruined  drunkard,  a  disgrace  to  his 
family,  and  an  outcast  from  society, 
— was  to  his  thinking  just  such  a 
letter  as  would  be  got  up  in  such  a 
case,  in  the  futile  hope  of  securing 
the  succour  of  a  Secretary  of  State. 
He  was  sure  that  no  Secretary  of 
State  would  pay  the  slightest  atten- 
tion to  such  a  letter.  But  still  it 
would  be  necessary  that  he  should, 
show  it  to  Sir  John ;  and  as  a  trip 


to  London  was  not  disagreeable  to 
his  professional  mind,  he  started 
with  it  on  the  very  day  of  its 
receipt. 

"  Of  course  we  must  have  his 
deposition  on  oath,"  said  Sir  John. 

"You  think  it  will  be  worth 
while?" 

"Certainly.  I  am  more  con- 
vinced than  ever  that  there  was 
no  marriage.  That  post-office  clerk 
has  been  with  me, — Bagwax, — and 
has  altogether  convinced  me." 

"  I  didn't  think  so  much  of  Bag- 
wax,  Sir  John." 

"I  daresay  not,  Mr  Seely; — an 
absurdly  energetic  man,  —  one  of 
those  who  destroy  by  their  over- 
zeal  all  the  credit  which  their  truth 
and  energy  ought  to  produce.  But 
he  has,  I  think,  convinced  me  that 
that  letter  could  not  have  passed 
through  the  Sydney  post-office  in 
May  73." 

"If  so,  Sir  John,  even  that  is 
not  much,  —  towards  upsetting  a 
verdict. 

"  A  good  deal,  I  think,  when 
the  character  of  the  persons  are 
considered.  1STow  comes  this  man, 
whom  we  all  should  have  believed, 
had  he  been  present,  and  tells  this 
story.  You  had  better  get  hold 
of  him  and  bring  him  to  me,  Mr 
Seely." 

Then  Mr  Seely  hung  up  his  hat 
in  London  for  three  or  four  days, 
and  sent  to  Pollington  for  Dick 
Shand.  Dick  Shand  obeyed  the 
order,  and  both  of  them  waited 
together  upon  Sir  John.  "You 
have  come  back  at  a  very  critical 
point  of  time  for  your  friend,"  said 
the  barrister. 

Dick  had  laid  aside  the  coat  and 
waistcoat  with  the  broad  checks, 
and  the  yellow  trousers,  and  had 
made  himself  look  as  much  like  an 
English  gentleman  as  the  assistance 
of  a  ready -made -clothes  shop  at 
Pollington  would  permit.  But  still 
he  did  not  quite  look  like  a  man 


1879.' 


John  Caldigate.— Part  XII. 


303 


who  had  spent  three  years  at  Cam- 
bridge. His  experiences  among  the 
gold-diggings,  then  his  period  of 
maddening  desolation  as  a  Queens- 
land shepherd,  and  after  that  his 
life  among  the  savages  in  a  South 
Sea  island,  had  done  much  to 
change  him.  Sir  John  and  Mr 
Seely  together  almost  oppressed 
him.  But  still  he  was  minded  to 
speak  up  for  his  friend.  Caldigate 
had,  upon  the  whole,  been  very 
good  to  him,  and  Dick  was  honest. 
"He  has  been  badly  used  any 
way,"  he  said. 

"You  have  had  no  intercourse 
with  any  of  his  friends  since  you 
have  been  home,  1  think  1 "  This 
question  Sir  John  asked  because 
Mr  Seely  had  suggested  that  this 
appearance  of  the  man  at  this 
special  moment  might  not  improb- 
ably be  what  he  called  "a  plant." 

"  I  have  had  no  intercourse  with 
anybody,  sir.  I  came  here  last 
Friday,  and  I  hadn't  spoken  a 
word  to  anybody  before  that.  I 
didn't  know  that  Caldigate  had 
been  in  trouble  at  all.  My  people 
at  Pollington  were  the  first  to  tell 
me  about  it." 

"  Then  you  wrote  to  Mr  Seely  1 
You  had  heard  of  Mr  Seely  ? ;; 

"  The  governor,  —  that's  my 
father, — he  had  heard  of  Mr  Seely. 
I  wrote  first  as  he  told  me.  They 
knew  all  about  it  at  Pollington  as 
well  as  you  do." 

"  You  were  surprised,  then,  when 
you  heard  the  story  1 " 

"Knocked  off  my  pins,  sir.  I 
never  was  so  much  taken  aback 
in  my  life.  To  be  told  that  John 
Caldigate  had  married  Euphemia 
Smith  after  all  that  I  had  seen, — 
and  that  he  had  been  married  to 
her  in  May  '73  !  I  knew,  of  course, 
that  it  was  all  a  got -up  thing. 
And  he's  in  prison?" 

"  He  is  in  prison,  certainly." 

"  For  bigamy  7 " 

"  Indeed  he  is,  Mr  Shand." 


"  And  how  about  his  real  wife  1 " 

"His  real  wife,  as  you  call 
her " 

"  She  is,  as  sure  as  my  name  is 
Eichard  Shand." 

"  It  is  on  behalf  of  that  lady  that 
we  are  almost  more  anxious  than 
for  Mr  Caldigate  himself.  In  this 
matter  she  has  been  perfectly  inno- 
cent ;  and  whoever  may  have  been 
the  culprit, — or  culprits, — she  has 
been  cruelly  ill-used." 

"  She'll  have  her  husband  back 
again,  of  course,"  said  Dick. 

"  That  will  depend  in  part  upon 
what  faith  the  judge  who  tried  the 
case  may  place  in  your  story.  Your 
deposition  shall  be  taken,  and  it 
will  be  my  duty  to  submit  it  to  the 
Secretary  of  State.  He  will  pro- 
bably be  actuated  by  the  weight 
which  this  further  evidence  will 
have  upon  the  judge  whq  heard  the 
former  evidence.  You  will  under- 
stand, Mr  Shand,  that  your  word 
will  be  opposed  to  the  words  of 
four  other  persons." 

"Four  perjured  scoundrels,"  said 
Dick,  with  energy. 

"  Just  so,— if  your  story  be  true." 

"  It  is  true,  sir,"  said  Dick,  with 
much  anger  in  his  tone. 

"  I  hope  so, — with  all  my  heart. 
You  are  on  the  same  side  with  us, 
you  know.  I  only  want  to  make 
you  understand  how  much  ground 
there  may  be  for  doubt.  It  is  not 
easy  to  upset  a  verdict.  And,  I  fear, 
many  righteous  verdicts  would  be 
upset  if  the  testimony  of  one  man 
could  do  it.  Perhaps  you  will  be 
able  to  prove  that  you  only  arrived 
at  Liverpool  on  Saturday  night." 

"  Certainly  I  can." 

"  You  cannot  prove  that  you  had 
not  heard  of  the  case  before." 

"  Certainly  I  can.  I  can  swear  it." 
Sir  John  smiled.  "  They  all  knew 
that  at  Pollington.  They  told  me 
of  it.  The  governor  told  me  about 
Mr  Seely,  and  made  me  write  the 
letter." 


304 


John  Caldigate.—Part  XII. 


[March 


"  That  would  be  evidence,"  said 
Sir  John. 

"Heavens  on  earth  !  I  tell  you 
I  was  struck  all  on  a  heap  when  I 
heard  it,  just  as  much  as  if  they  had 
said  he'd  been  hung  for  murder. 
You  put  Crinkett  and  me  together 
and  then  you'll  know.  I  suppose 
you  think  somebody's  paying  me  for 
this, — that  I've  got  a  regular  tip." 

"  Not  at  all,  Mr  Shand.  And  I 
quite  understand  that  it  should  be 
difficultforyoutounderstand.  When 
a  man  sees  a  thing  clearly  himself, 
he  cannot  always  realise  the  fact 
that  others  do  not  see  it  also.  I 
think  I  perceive  what  you  have  to 
tell  us,  and  we  are  very  much  obliged 
to  you  for  coming  forward  so  imme- 
diately. Perhaps  you  would  not 
mind  sitting  in  the  other  room  for 
five  minutes  while  I  say  a  word 
to  Mr  Seely." 

"  I  can  go  away  altogether." 

"  Mr  Seely  will  be  glad  to  see 
you  again  with  reference  to  the  de- 
position you  will  have  to  make. 
You  shall  not  be  kept  waiting  long." 
Then  Dick  returned,  with  a  sore 
heart,  feeling  half  inclined  to  blaze 
out  in  wrath  against  the  great 
advocate.  He  had  come  forward 
to  tell  a  plain  story,  having  nothing 
to  gain,  paying  his  railway  fare  and 
other  expenses  out  of  his  own,  or 
rather  out  of  his  father's  pocket, 
and  was  told  he  would  not  be 
believed !  It  is  always  hard  to 
make  an  honest  witness  understand 
that  it  may  be  the  duty  of  others 
to  believe  him  to  be  a  liar,  and 
Dick  Shand  did  not  understand  it 
now. 

"  There  was  no  Australian  mar- 
riage," Sir  John  said,  as  soon  as 
he  was  alone  with  Mr  Seely. 

"You  think  not?" 

"  My  mind  is  clear  about  it. 
We  must  get  that  man  out,  if  it  be 
only  for  the  sake  of  the  lady." 

"It  is  so  very  easy,  Sir  John, 
to  have  a  story  like  that  made  up." 


"  I  have  had  to  do  with  a  good 
many  made-up  stories,  Mr  Seely; — 
and  with  a  good  many  true  stories." 

"  Of  course,  Sir  John  ;  —no  man 
with  more." 

"  He  might  be  a  party  to  making 
up  a  story.  There  is  nothing  that 
I  have  seen  in  him  to  make  me 
sure  that  he  could  not  come  for- 
ward with  a  determined  perjury. 
I  shouldn't  think  it,  but  it  would 
be  possible.  But  his  father  and 
mother  and  sisters  wouldn't  join 
him."  Dick  had  told  the  story  of 
the  meeting  on  the  lawn  at  great 
length.  "  And  had  it  been  a  plot, 
he  couldn't  have  imposed  upon 
them.  He  wouldn't  have  brought 
them  into  it.  And  who  would  have 
got  at  him  to  arrange  the  plot1?" 

"  Old  Caldigate." 

Sir  John  shook  his  head. 
"  Neither  old  Caldigate  nor  young 
Caldigate  knew  anything  of  that 
kind  of  work.  And  then  his  story 
tallies  altogether  with  my  hero  Bag- 
wax.  Of  Bagwax  I  am  quite  sure. 
And  as  Shand  corroborates  Bag- 
wax,  I  am  nearly  sure  of  him  also. 
You  must  take  his  deposition,  and 
let  me  have  it.  It  should  be  rather 
full,  as  it  may  be  necessary  to  hear 
the  depositions  also  of  the  doctor 
and  his  wife.  We  shall  have  to 
get  him  out." 

"  You  know  best.  Sir  John." 

"  We  shall  have  to  get  him  out, 
Mr  Seely,  I  think/^said  Sir  John, 
rising  from  his  chair.  Then  Mr 
Seely  took  his  leave,  as  was  intended. 

Mr  Seely  was  not  at  all  con- 
cerned. He  was  quite  willing  that 
John  Caldigate  should  be  released 
from  prison,  and  that  the  Austra- 
lian marriage  should  be  so  put  out 
of  general  credit  in  England  as  to 
allow  the  young  people  to  live  in 
comfort  at  Folking  as  man  and 
wife.  But  he  liked  to  feel  that  he 
knew  better  himself.  He  would 
have  been  quite  content  that  Mrs 
John  Caldigate  should  be  Mrs  John 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XII. 


305 


Caldigate  to  all  the  world, — that  all 
the  world  should  be  imposed  on, — 
so  that  lie  was  made  subject  to 
no  imposition.  In  this  matter,  Sir 
John  appeared  to  him  to  be  no 
wider  awake  than  a  mere  layman. 
It  was  clear  to  Mr  Seely  that  Dick 
Shand's  story  was  "  got  up," — and 
very  well  got  up.  He  had  no  pang 
of  conscience  as  to  using  it.  But 
when  it  came  to  believing  it,  that 
was  quite  another  thing.  The  man 
turning  up  exactly  at  the  moment ! 
And  such  a  man !  And  then  his 
pretending  never  to  have  heard  of 
a  case  so  famous  !  Never  to  have 
heard  this  story  of  his  most  inti- 
mate friend  !  And  then  his  notori- 
ous poverty  !  Old  Caldigate  would 
of  course  be  able  to  buy  such  a 
man.  And  then  Sir  John's  fatuity 
as  to  Bag  wax  !  He  could  hardly 
bring  himself  to  believe  that  Sir 
John  was  quite  in  earnest.  But  he 
was  well  aware  that  Sir  John  would 
know, — no  one  better, — by  what 
arguments  such  a  verdict  as  had 
been  given  might  be  practically  set 
aside.  The  verdict  would  remain. 
But  a  pardon,  if  a  pardon  could  be 
got  from,  the  Secretary  of  State, 
would  make  the  condition  of  the 
husband  and  wife  the  same  as 
though  there  had  been  no  verdict. 
The  indignities  which  they  had 
already  suffered,  would  simply  pro- 
duce for  them  the  affectionate  com- 
mendation of  all  England.  Mr 
Seely  felt  all  that,  and  was  not  at 
all  averse  to  a  pardon.  He  was  not 
at  all  disposed  to  be  severe  on  old 
Caldigate  senior,  if,  as  he  thought, 


Caldigate  senior  had  bribed  this 
convenient  new  witness.  But  it  was 
too  much  to  expect  that  he  should 
believe  it  all  himself. 

"You  must  come  with  me,  Mr 
Shand,"  he  said,  "and  we  must 
take  your  story  down  in  writing. 
Then  you  must  swear  to  it  before 
a  magistrate." 

"  All  right,  Mr  Seely." 

"  We  must  be  very  particular, 
you  know." 

"I  needn't  be  particular  at  all; 
— and  as  to  what  Sir  John  Jorani 
said,  I  felt  half  inclined  to  punch 
his  head." 

"  That  wouldn't  have  helped  us," 

"  It  was  only  that  I  thought  of 
Caldigate  in  prison  that  I  didn't 
do  it.  Because  I  have  been  roam- 
ing about  the  world,  not  always 
quite  as  well  off  as  himself,  he  tells 
me  that  he  doesn't  believe  my 
word." 

"  I  don't  think  he  said  that," 

"  He  didn't  quite  dare  ;  but  what 
he  said  was  as  bad.  He  told  me 
that  some  one  else  wouldn't  believe 
it.  I  don't  quite  understand  what 
it  is  they're  not  to  believe.  All  I 
say  is,  that  they  two  were  not  mar- 
ried in  May  73." 

"  But  about  your  never  having 
heard  of  the  case  till  you  got  home  ?" 

"  I  never  had  heard  a  word  about 
it.  One  would  think  that  I  had 
done  something  wrong  in  coming 
forward  to  tell  what  I  know."  The 
deposition,  however,  was  drawn  out 
in  due  form,  at  considerable  length, 
and  was  properly  attested  before 
one  of  the  London  magistrates. 


306 


A  Scots  Bishop. 


[March. 


A     SCOTS     BISHOP. 


THE  most  attractive  phase  in  the 
history  of  every  religious  denomina- 
tion is  the  season  of  its  adversity. 
No  doubt  a  Church  feels  a  justifi- 
able pride  when  it  can  point  to 
annual  reports  of  nourishing  pro- 
gress, to  increasing  rolls  of  member- 
ship, to  swelling  subscriptions  and 
endowments,  to  extensive  mission- 
ary operations  at  home,  and  to  im- 
posing efforts  among  the  heathen 
abroad.  But  this  prosperity  is  sel- 
dom compatible  with  picturesque- 
ness.  If  Churches,  like  corpora- 
tions, do  not  grow  bloated  as  they 
wax  rich,  the  world  is  apt  to 
qualify  its  acknowledgment  of  their 
success  by  the  imputation  of  vul- 
garity. The  simple,  self-denying, 
humble  spirit  of  the  Great  Founder 
of  Christianity  is  not  so  apparent, 
or  perhaps  the  world  is  not  so 
forcibly  compelled  to  recognise  it,  as 
when  its  testimony  bears  the  serl 
of  stripes  or  imprisonment.  When 
loaves  and  fishes  are  largely  agoing, 
doubts  of  the  disinterestedness  of 
*the  clergy  are  mooted,  which  have 
no  place  at  a  time  when  there  is 
nothing  to  gain  but  much  to  lose 
by  following  the  sacred  calling. 
And  however  zealous  priests  may 
be  in  the  days  of  the  Church's 
success,  however  disposed  to  emu- 
late the  deeds  of  confessors  and 
martyrs,  the  world  is  apt  to  think 
that  the  extreme  virtues  which 
lighted  up  the  darker  and  more 
troublous  periods  are  out  of  place 
and  gratuitous  when  flputed  in  the 
face  of  a  generation  that  sees  little 
need  for  their  exercise. 

The  story  of  the  Episcopal  Church 
of  Scotland,  from  its  disestablish- 
ment at  the  Revolution  until  its  re- 
conciliation with  the  house  of  Han- 
over, towards  the  end  of  the  last 
century,  has  all  the  picturesqueness 


that  an  unbroken  course  of  misfor- 
tune can  lend  to  it;  and  the  interest 
which  attaches  to  its  struggles  is  all 
the  stronger  that  its  bishops  and 
priests  have  never  affected  to  regard 
themselves  as  martyrs,  but  suffered 
in  silence,  and  meekly  submitted  to 
each  fresh  chastisement  as  it  was 
laid  upon  them.  Its  devotion  to 
the  house  of  Stuart  was  at  once  its 
glory  and  its  bane.  Long  after 
every  other  body  of  men  in  Great 
Britain  had  given  up  all  hopes  of  a 
Jacobite  restoration  —  when  even 
the  survivors  of  the  'Eorty-five  had 
begun  reluctantly  to  admit  that 
Charles  Edward  would  never  re- 
place George  III.  upon  the  throne 
of  Great  Britain,  —  the  Chevalier 
was  prayed  for  as  king  by  the  little 
flocks  meeting  in  quiet  corners  to 
hear  the  service  read  by  some  non- 
ju-ring  priest,  who  did  his  office 
at  the  risk  of  imprisonment,  or 
even  banishment  to  the  colonies,  to 
reward  his  pains.  This  fidelity 
was  all  the  more  admirable  that 
their  Jacobitism  was  the  only  bar- 
rier to  their  toleration  and  even  pro- 
tection by  Government.  We  have 
many  instances  in  history  where 
kings  have  sacrificed  their  fortunes 
for  the  cause  of  the  Church.  The 
Scots  Episcopalian  Bishops  and 
Presbyters  present  the  only  case 
that  occurs  to  us  where  the  Church 
has  deliberately  sacrificed  its  own 
interests  to  those  of  the  Crown;  and 
this  political  loyalty,  maintained  in 
the  face  of  so  many  obstacles,  and 
in  spite  of  so  many  temptations  to 
another  allegiance,  was  only  equalled 
by  the  apostolic  simplicity,  the 
earnestness,  and  the  charity  of  the 
Episcopal  clergy.  The  lives  of  such 
bishops  as  Low  and  Jolly  and  Gleig 
obliterate  centuries,  and  carry  us 
back  for  parallels  to  the  days  of  the 


1879.] 


A  Scots  Bishop. 


307 


primitive  Church;  so  that  Bishop 
Home  of  Norwich  paid  them  no 
strained  compliment  when  he  said 
that  if  St  Paul  were  to  return  to 
earth  again,  he  would  seek  the  com- 
munion of  the  Scottish  Episcopali- 
ans as  nearest  akin  to  "  the  people 
he  had  been  used  to." 

Not  long  after  the  Revolution, 
Dundee,  in  one  of  his  letters,  jest- 
ingly complains  that  the  Scottish 
prelates  were  "  now  become  the  Kirk 
invisible."  The  disestablishment 
of  Episcopacy  had  completely  cut 
away  their  resources;  their  steady 
refusal  to  deviate  from  their  allegi- 
ance to  King  James  deprived  them 
of  any  claim  on  the  consideration  of 
Government;  and  the  newly  estab- 
lished Presbyterian  Church  was 
naturally  careful  to  evict  them  from 
any  benefices  or  temporalities  that 
they  had  not  already  relinquished. 
Whig  mobs,  seizing  the  unsettled 
state  of  the  country  as  an  oppor- 
tunity for  rioting,  found  the  Epis- 
copal clergy  convenient  and  safe 
victims,  and  "  rabbled  "  them  wher- 
ever the  authorities  were  weak  or 
winked  at  their  conduct.  The 
noteworthy  feature  in  the  course 
followed  by  the  Episcopalian  party 
was  its  passive  submission  to  all 
the  hardships  both  of  the  law  and 
of  popular  persecution.  Such  meek- 
ness had  hitherto  been  unknown  in 
Scottish  ecclesiastical  revolutions. 
The  Covenanters  had  never  hesitat- 
ed to  "  take  the  bent "  when  Prel- 
acy seemed  likely  to  get  the  upper 
hand ;  while  the  Cameronians  were 
ready  to  have  recourse  to  "  the 
sword  of  the  Lord  and  of  Gideon  " 
rather  than  accept  the  "Black  In- 
dulgence "  at  the  hands  of  their 
enemies.  And  this  forbearance  was 
not  altogether  due  to  a  sense  of 
weakness;  for  had  the  Episcopal 
Church  raised  a  cry  of  being  per- 
secuted, and  invoked  its  supporters 
to  come  to  its  aid,  it  could  have 
seriously  disturbed  the  peace  of  the 


country.  North  of  the  Tay  the 
Episcopalians  were  undoubtedly  the 
dominant  party,  and  the  Roman 
Catholic  chiefs  were  inclined  to 
champion  their  cause  as  bound  up 
with  that  of  the  exiled  family.  We 
can  now  appreciate  the  more  Chris- 
tian, as  well  as  prudent,  course  which 
the  prelates  and  clergy  adopted,  de- 
veloping as  it  did  so  richly  among 
them  the  higher  qualities  of  Christi- 
anity; but  their  humility  was  very 
frequently  interpreted  by  their  op- 
ponents as  pusillanimity,  and  was 
made  a  ground  of  reproach  by  the 
Presbyterians.  We  can  hardly 
blame  the  Government  for  the  strict 
measures  that  it  adopted  against  a 
body  of  its  subjects  who  refused  to 
acknowledge  existing  authority,  any 
more  than  we  can  blame  the  bishops 
for  not  departing  from  the  allegi- 
ance that  they  believed  to  have  the 
only  lawful  claim  upon  them.  The 
times  were  out  of  joint,  and  refused 
to  be  set  right  by  either  Church  or 
State.  Of  the  activity  of  the  Epis- 
copal clergy  in  behalf  of  the  house 
of  Stuart  there  can  be  no  doubt ; 
and  that  its  fruits  were  not  more 
apparent  is  simply  a  proof  of  their 
disorganised  condition  and  want  of 
popular  influence.  The  Primus  of 
the  Scottish  Church  was  invariably 
one  of  the  body  who  officially  rep- 
resented the  Chevalier's  interests  in 
Scotland,  and  the  exile's  authority 
was  the  only  secular  influence  which 
the  Episcopal  College  acknowledged. 
The  insurrections  in  the  'Fifteen  and 
the  'Eorty-five  brought  the  position 
of  the  Scottish  non- jurors  promi- 
nently under  the  notice  of  the  Gov- 
ernment ;  and  those  measures  of  re- 
lief that  they  had  secured  under  the 
sympathetic  rule  of  Queen  Anne 
were  forfeited.  The  proscription 
which  followed  these  attempts  gave 
the  Whig  rabble  scope  for  per- 
secution which  it  was  not  slow 
to  embrace.  Much  of  the  ill-usage 
heaped  upon  the  clergy  was  of  a 


303 


A  Scots  Bishop. 


[March 


very  petty  character ;  but  many  of 
them  were  subjected  to  real  suffer- 
ings for  discharging  their  sacred 
duties.  A  very  common  experience 
was  that  of  worthy  Mr  Kubrick, 
the  Baron  of  Bradwardine's  chap- 
lain, "  when  a  Whiggish  mob  de- 
stroyed his  meeting-house,  tore  his 
surplice,  and  plundered  his  dwell- 
ing-house of  four  silver  spoons,  in- 
tromitting  also  with  his  mart  and 
his  meal-ark,  and  with  two  barrels, 
one  of  single  and  one  of  double  ale, 
besides  three  bottles  of  brandy." 
But  this  treatment  at  the  hands  of 
the  rabble  was  tolerant  compared 
\vith  the  severity  of  the  enact- 
ments which  the  Government  passed 
against  the  exercise  of  Episcopal 
forms  of  worship.  Not  only  did 
the  Royal  troops  pull  down  the 
non-juring  meeting-houses  wher- 
ever they  found  them  after  the 
rebellions,  but  in  some  cases  they 
appear  to  have  compelled  the  un- 
fortunate prelatists  to  destroy  their 
own  churches,  as  at  Peterhead  after 
the  rising  of  the  'Fifteen.  Local 
magistracies,  anxious  to  curry  favour 
with  Government,  aided  the  military 
authorities  in  their  quest  for  non- 
jurors,  and  made  a  merit  of  inflict- 
ing severe  penalties  upon  all  priests 
who  fell  into  their  hands.  The 
letters  of  many  of  the  English  offi- 
cers employed  in  Scotland  between 
1715  and  1745  express  disgust  at 
the  extreme  measures  which  they 
were  forced  to  employ  against  the 
Church  to  which  their  own  sym- 
pathies belonged.  The  late  Charles 
Kirkpatrick  Sharpe  had  a  story  of 
an  indignant  response  made  by  the 
Colonel  of  Lord  Ancrum's  regiment 
when  quartered  in  Aberdeen  after 
the  'Fifteen.  A  gentleman,  a  mem- 
ber of  a  well-known  Whig  family 
in  Buchan,  had  given  information 
against  his  uncle,  a  non-juring 
presbyter,  to  whose  property  he 
was  next  heir.  The  clergyman 
was  speedily  arrested;  and  some 


days  after,  the  informant,  it  is  to 
be  hoped  from  feelings  of  com- 
punction, went  to  the  commandant 
to  inquire  what  was  likely  to  befall 
his  relative.  "  Why,  sir,  he'll  be 
hanged,  and  you'll  be  damned," 
said  the  officer,  turning  contemp- 
tuously on  his  heel.  After  1745, 
when  the  Episcopal  clergy  had  to 
bear  the  full  brunt  of  the  Govern- 
ment's enmity,  the  severities  to 
which  they  were  subjected  reached 
the  point  of  persecution.  The 
stern  example  made  of  the  Scottish 
nobility  and  gentry  who  had  been 
taken  in  arms  against  the  Govern- 
ment, deterred  others  who  had  pre- 
viously protected  the  Episcopal 
clergy  from  showing  them  any  fur- 
ther countenance.  The  penal  laws 
against  the  assembly  of  more  than 
five  persons,  or  four  and  a  family, 
from  meeting  together  at  a  non- 
juring  service,  came  within  a  little 
of  extirpating  the  Scottish  Epis- 
copal Church;  and  but  for  the 
faithfulness  of  its  bishops  and 
clergy,  the  uncomplaining  meek- 
ness with  which  they  submitted 
to  their  stripes,  and  the  bright 
testimony  which  they  bore  to  the 
spirit  of  Christianity,  the  disesta- 
blished Church  would  probably 
have  ceased  to  have  a  separate 
existence,  and  Episcopacy  in  Scot- 
land have  been  merged  into  the 
conforming  English  congregations. 

The  troubles  which  Skinner,  the 
Aberdeenshire  non-juror,  and  the 
author  of  "  Tullochgorum,"  went 
through  after  the  suppression  of 
the  last  Jacobite  rebellion,  afford  a 
good  example  of  the  sufferings  which 
the  Episcopal  clergy  had  to  bear 
about  this  time.  Cumberland's  sol- 
diers burnt  his  little  chapel  at  Long- 
side,  and  for  years  he  celebrated 
divine  service  at  an  open  window 
in  his  own  cottage,  his  little  flock 
kneeling  devoutly  on  the  grass 
sward  outside ;  and  although  Skin- 
ner was  no  Jacobite,  and  had,  in- 


1879.] 


A  Scots  Bishop. 


309 


deed,  incurred  the  anger  of  his 
bishop  by  agreeing  to  the  command 
of  Government  to  register  his  letter 
of  orders,  he  was  seized  and  cast 
into  jail  because  his  out-of-door 
flock  had  exceeded  the  statutory 
number.  Skinner  suffered  six 
months'  confinement  in  Aberdeen 
prison  as  late  as  1753;  and  about 
the  same  time  a  large  proportion  of 
the  northern  presbyters  were  in 
bonds.  Mr  Walker,  whose  me- 
moir of  Bishop  Gleig  we  shall 
presently  notice,  tells  us  how  three 
Kincardineshire  clergymen  were  all 
confined  in  one  cell  of  the  Stone- 
haven  tolbooth  during  the  winter 
of  1748-49,  and  how  they  managed 
to  baptise  children,  and  to  comfort 
their  flocks  over  the  prison  walls. 

"  The  fishermen's  wives  from  Skate- 
raw  might  be  seen  trudging  along  the 
beach  with  their  unbaptised  infants  in 
their  creels  wading  at  the  '"Water 
Yett/  the  combined  streams  of  the 
Carron  and  the  Cowie,  which  could 
only  be  clone  at  the  influx  of  the  sea  ; 
then  clambering  over  rugged  rocks  till 
they  reached  the  back  stairs  of  the 
tolbooth,  where  they  watched  a  favour- 
able opportunity  for  drawing  near  to 
their  pastor's  cell,  and  securing  the 
bestowal  of  the  baptismal  blessing. 
After  divine  service  on  week-days,  Mr 
Troup  (one  of  the  imprisoned  three) 
entertained  the  audience  on  the  bag- 
pipes with  the  spirit-stirring  Jacobite 
tunes  that  more  than  any  other  cause 
kept  up  the  national  feeling  in  favour 
of  the  just  hereditary  line  of  our 
natural  sovereigns." — Life  of  Bishop 
Jolly,  p.  19. 

This  combination  of  the  bagpipes 
and  the  Prayer-book  was  very  char- 
acteristic of  the  Scottish  Episco- 
pacy of  the  period.  Its  distinc- 
tive foundation  was  quite  as  much 
political  as  religious,  and  allegi- 
ance towards  the  king  de  jure  held 
a  place  in  the  minds  of  the  pre- 
latic  clergy  scarcely  second  to 
their  reverence  for  apostolic  order 
and  liturgical  forms.  And  in  fact 


we  cannot  disguise  the  truth  that 
their  persecution  was  more  a  polit- 
ical than  a  religious  punishment. 

The  mission  of  the  Episcopal 
Church  in  Scotland  was  at  this 
time  involved  in  the  deepest  gloom. 
The  overthrow  of  Jacobitism  at 
Culloden  had  been  so  complete,  and 
the  news  from  the  Chevalier's  court 
was  so  disheartening,  that  no  rea- 
sonable hope  remained  of  the  resto- 
ration of  the  Stuarts ;  and  it  could 
expect  no  toleration  from  a  king 
whom  it  regarded  as  a  usurper,  and 
for  whose  rule  it  obstinately  refused 
to  pray.  And  yet  in  this  proscribed 
and  persecuted  condition,  impover- 
ished, without  supporters  who  could 
provide  even  a  decent  maintenance 
for  the  support  of  the  clergy,  and 
with  no  means  of  giving  its  priests  a 
distinctive  theological  training,  the 
Episcopal  Church  of  Scotland  be- 
came the  nursery  of  an  order  of  pre- 
lates who,  by  a  rare  combination  of 
piety,  learning,  administrative  abil- 
ity, and  apostolic  poverty,  realise 
more  fully  the  primitive  model  of  a 
bishop  than  any  other  group  of 
prelates,  whether  Eoman  or  Angli- 
can, with  whose  history  we  are  ac- 
quainted. Among  these,  the  archaic 
saintliness  of  Jolly,  the  far-seeing 
ability  of  the  Skinners,  and  the 
culture  and  energy  of  Gleig,  are  al- 
most the  only  lights  on  the  rough 
path  of  the  afflicted  Church. 

George  Gleig,  presbyter  of  Pit- 
tenweem  at  the  time  when  the  for- 
tunes of  Episcopacy  stood  at  their 
very  lowest  ebb ;  Bishop  of  Brechin 
at  the  period  when  the  Church, 
finally  disassociated  from  the  cause 
of  the  Stuarts,  became  a  legal  and 
tolerated  body;  and  Primus  of  the 
Scottish  Episcopal  Church  when  it 
was  just  launching  out  on  that  race 
of  wide  and  extending  usefulness 
which  it  is  now  running, — is  one  of 
the  most  central  figures  among  re- 
formed Scottish  prelates.  He  was 
the  last  Jacobite  Primus  of  Scot- 


310 


A  Scots  Bishop. 


[March 


land,  and  the  first,  we  believe,  who 
had  taken  the  oaths  to  the  house 
of  Hanover  on  his  episcopal  con- 
secration. He  was  one  of  its  last 
surviving  prelates  who  had  been 
trained  in  the  hard  school  of  the 
penal  laws,  and  who  had  profited 
by  the  stern  lessons  which  he  had 
learned  there.  It  was  his  for- 
tune to  see  his  beloved  Church 
emerge  from  obloquy  and  insigni- 
ficance to  a  position  of  honour  and 
importance  from  which  it  could 
look  back  with  satisfaction  to  its 
past  trials ;  and  he  could  cheer 
himself  with  the  reflection  that  his 
own  efforts  had,  with  the  blessing 
of  Providence,  contributed  largely 
towards  this  happy  change.  Bishop 
Gleig,  then,  is  a  prominent  link  be- 
tween the  old  and  thenew — between 
the  picturesque  old  non-juring  Epis- 
copacy of  the  last  days  of  Jacobit- 
ism  and  of  the  Prelacy  of  the  present 
day,  which  claims  all  the  dignity  of 
a  "  sister  Church"  with  the  Angli- 
can communion,  which  has  sent  its 
orders  far  and  wide  over  the  great 
continent  of  America,  and  which 
has  a  very  potential  voice  in  all 
those  proposals  for  the  reunion  of 
Catholic  Christendom  that  it  has 
become  the  fashion  of  late  years  to 
put  forward.  It  would  have  taken 
a  very  commonplace  man  indeed  to 
have  occupied  this  position  with- 
out leaving  behind  him  something 
worthy  of  record ;  and  when  a  man 
of  the  parts  and  scholarship  of 
Bishop  Gleig  filled  it,  we  are  con- 
fident that  the  records  of  the  Scot- 
tish primacy  must  bear  the  impress 
of  strong  individuality,  and  of  a 
firm  but  liberal  mind.  A  memoir 
of  such  a  man  is  due  both  to  his 
Church  and  to  the  world,  and  / 'ante 
des  mieux  we  are  glad  to  have  the 
serviceable  little  monograph*  which 
the  Rev.  Mr  Walker,  the  biographer 
of  Bishop  Jolly,  has  written.  Mr 
"Walker  has  carefully  gathered  to- 


gether and  published  all  the  details 
of  Bishop  Gleig's  life,  has  faithfully 
sketched  the  part  which  he  took  in 
the  reconstitution  of  the  Church, 
and  has  given  us  a  just  and  appre- 
ciative estimate  of  his  character  as 
a  man  and  of  his  work  as  a  prelate. 
"We  have  read  his  book  with  in- 
terest ;  and  if  we  are  rather  disap- 
pointed that  the  ex-Chaplain-Gen- 
eral  did  not  himself  give  his  father's 
memoirs  to  the  world,  we  ought  not 
on  that  account  to  be  the  more  dis- 
posed to  undervalue  Mr  Walker's 
exertions,  the  unpretending  char- 
acter of  which  at  once  conciliates  the 
reader's  confidence  and  regard. 

Gleig  was  by  birth  a  "  man  of  the 
Mearns,"  a  county  which  the  influ- 
ence of  the  Marischal  family  had 
deeply  involved  in  the  troubles  of 
the  'Fifteen.  His  grandfather  had 
been  "  out "  in  that  insurrection,  and 
had  evaded  the  penalties  by  the  not 
unfrequent  expedient  of  changing  his 
name.  Glegg  was  altered  to  Gleig, 
and  no  one  answering  to  the  former 
designation  was  forthcoming  in  an- 
swer to  King  George's  summons. 
The  experience  of  the  'Fifteen,  and 
the  heavy  calamities  which  it  had 
brought  upon  so  many  families  of 
the  Mearns,  kept  Gleig's  -father, 
though  a  keen  Jacobite,  from  join- 
ing the  insurgents.  The  Gleig 
family  seem  to  have  been  in  com- 
fortable circumstances  for  Kincar- 
dineshire  tenant-farmers;  and  the 
future  Bishop  had  such  a  careful 
education  as  the  parish  school  and 
the  King's  College  of  Aberdeen 
could  afford.  His  university  career 
had  been  so  successful  that  an  Aber- 
deen chair  would  have  been  within 
his  reach  could  he  have  submitted  to 
the  oaths,  and  to  the  subscription  to 
the  Confession  of  Faith;  but  though 
such  a  position  would  have  been 
one  of  luxury  and  ease  compared 
with  the  penury  and  privations  of 
an  Episcopal  presbyter,  he  did  not 


*  Life  of  Bishop  Gleig.     By  the  Rev.  W.  Walker.     Edinburgh  :  Douglas. 


1879.] 


A  Scots 


shrink  from  embracing  the  latter 
career.  He  had  already  laid  the 
foundation  of  an  intricate  acquain- 
tance with  moral  and  physical 
science  at  the  university ;  and 
when  he  left  it,  he  gave  up  his  time 
to  theology,  especially  to  patristic 
literature.  There  was  no  regular 
professional  training  for  candidates 
for  Episcopal  ordination  in  Scot- 
land in  those  days.  They  were  left 
to  read  for  themselves;  and  there 
do  not  appear  to  have  been  any  def- 
inite standards  set  for  their  guid- 
ance. A  result  of  this  was,  that 
very  irregular  and  latitudinarian 
views  often  prevailed  in  the  Scot- 
tish priesthood  ;  while  in  Aberdeen- 
shire  and  the  Mearns,  a  by  no  means 
inconsiderable  number  of  Episco- 
palians believed  in  the  extraordi- 
nary delusions  of  Antoinette  Bou- 
rignon,*  the  Flemish  enthusiast  of 
the  seventeenth  century.  We  are 
not  clearly  told  with  whom  Gleig 
prosecuted  his  theological  studies, 
or  whether  he  had  the  advantage 
of  any  assistance  in  preparing  for 
ordination,  but  his  works  show  him 
to  have  mastered  the  great  con- 
troversies of  the  Christian  Church, 
and  that  too  from  a  stand -point 
which,  even  in  these  days  of  more 
strictly  defined  dogma,  the  Church 
would  accept  as  orthodox. 

Pittenweem  and  Crail,  on  the 
Eifeshire  coast  of  the  Eirth  of 
Eorth,  was  Gleig's  first  charge  in 
1773,  and  it  seems  to  have  been  a 
fairly  comfortable  one,  as  Episcopal 
livings  then  were.  The  fury  with 
which  the  working  of  the  penal 
laws  had  been  inaugurated  was 
past,  but  the  legal  disabilities 
that  still  remained  were  suffi- 


311 


ciently  serious.  King  George's 
soldiers  had  burned  the  chapel  in 
1746,  and  at  both  Crail  and  Pitten- 
weem Gleig  had  to  hold  divine 
service  in  a  barn,  or  some  other 
available  building.  His  salary 
was  better  than  most  of  his  con- 
temporaries, and  yet  could  seldom 
have  exceeded  £40  a -year.  The 
Kelly  and  Balcarres  families  be- 
longed to  his  congregations,  and  so 
he  had  social  advantages  that  were 
denied  to  a  great  many  of  his 
brethren.  It  was  at  this  time  that 
his  strong  literary  bent,  of  which  he 
seems  to  have  been  early  conscious, 
began  to  show  itself  in  contribu- 
tions to  the  *  Monthly  Eeview,' 
chiefly  on  subjects  of  philosophical 
and  literary  criticism.  He  of  course 
had  his  share  in  the  revival  of  letters 
which  was  taking  place  in  Scotland 
at  the  time ;  and  cut  off  as  he  was 
in  a  great  measure  by  his  profession 
and  politics  from  the  literary  circles 
in  the  Scottish  capital,  it  was  only 
natural  that  he  should  prefer  to  form 
a  connection  that  would  bring  him- 
self before  an  English  audience  rather 
than  one  of  his  own  countrymen. 
And  as  Mr  Walker  very  shrewdly 
points  out,  Gleig  was  thus  doing 
a  service  both  to  Scottish  literature 
and  to  his  own  Church,  by  showing 
that  the  penal  laws  had  not  entirely 
crushed  out  its  culture.  The  f  Gentle- 
man's Magazine,'  the  'British  Critic,' 
and  afterwards  the  '  Anti- Jacobin,' 
were  all  periodicals  with  which  the 
Presbyter  of  Pittenweem  had  a  con- 
nection. In  the  first  of  these  he 
defended  the  consecration  by  the 
Scots  bishops  of  Dr  Seabury,  through 
whom  the  Episcopal  Church  in 
America  derives  its  orders,  and  thus 


*  Ministers  of  the  Church  of  Scotland  are  still  called  upon  at  their  ordination  to 
repudiate  a  belief  in  Bourignianism,  which  the  majority  of  them  are  easily  able  to  do, 
from  their  ignorance  of  its  derivation  and  tenets.  But  Bourignianism  was  a  heresy 
of  some  consequence  in  the  seventeenth  century.  Its  founder  professed  to  be  under 
the  immediate  inspiration  of  the  Deity,  and  she  asserted  that  for  every  fresh  conver- 
sion to  her  views,  she  underwent  the  physical  pains  of  child-birth.  As  the  number 
of  converts  which  she  personally  made  in  Scotland,  as  well  as  on  the  Continent,  was 
very  considerable,  she  must  have  had  rather  a  trying  time  of  it. 


312 


A  Scots  Bishop. 


[March 


earned  the  flattering  commendation 
of  the  editor.  The  magazine  hon- 
oraria would  prove  an  opportune 
"  eke"  to  the  Pittenweeni  offertories, 
and  would  put  him  in  a  position  to 
extend  those  benevolences  towards 
his  poorer  parishioners  which  are 
always  expected  from  a  minister, 
however  inadequate  his  means.  And 
he  seems  to  have  left  a  lasting  popu- 
larity among  his  people ;  for  his  son, 
the  ex-Chaplain-General,  says  that, 
long  years  after,  "  I  was  taken  as 
a  child,  early  in  the  century,  to 
Crail  for  sea-bathing,  and  remem- 
ber the  heartiness  with  which  they 
all  received  and  greeted  at  their 
houses  their  former  pastor." 

Gleig's  talents  and  public  vindi- 
cation of  Scottish  Episcopacy  natu- 
rally soon  marked  him  out  for  such 
promotion  as  the  Church  could  con- 
fer ;  and  when  he  was  only  a  year 
or  two  over  thirty,  the  Punkeld 
clergy  chose  him  for  their  diocesan. 
A  Scottish  bishopric  was  not  then 
the  dignified  and  envied  position 
that  it  has  since  become,  nor  does 
it  appear  to  have  been  an  object 
of  great  ambition  to  the  Scottish 
clergy.  These  were  the  days  before 
equal  dividends  and  bishops'  palaces 
were  dreamt  of,  when  Oxford  saw 
no  comeliness  in  a  Scotch  mitre, 
and  when  the  rewards  within  the 
Church  were  so  pitiful  that  it  was 
not  held  worth  the  while  to  deprive 
the  hard-working  Scottish  presby- 
ters of  them.  The  Scottish  bishop's 
palace  was  then  in  many  cases  a 
cottage  scarcely  superior  to  the 
homes  of  his  neighbours  the  peas- 
antry ;  and  differing  from  these  only 
in  the  feature  that  every  available 
space  was  generally  over  -  crowded 
with  books.  Such  were  the  man- 
sions occupied  by  Bishops  Jolly 
and  Low,  the  former  of  whom  dis- 
pensed with  a  servant,  and  employed 
only  the  attendance  of  a  mason's 
wife,  "who  came  every  morning, 
opened  his  door,  made  his  fire, 


arranged  his  bed,  and  did  any  other 
menial  services  he  required.  He 
prepared  his  own  breakfast,  and 
then  was  left  alone  till  dinner-time, 
when  the  woman  was  again  seen 
coming  down  the  street,  carrying  a 
very  small  pot  in  her  hand,  with  a 
wooden  cover  on  it,  and  something 
else  beneath  her  apron,  which  was 
the  whole  preparation  for  the  Bish- 
op's dinner."  There  was  a  deal  of 
trouble  attached  to  the  office  in  con- 
sequence of  the  irregular  diocesan 
arrangements  of  the  Church,  and  also 
of  the  too  frequent  want  of  unanim- 
ity between  the  College  of  Bishops 
and  the  work  ing  clergy.  When  Gleig 
was  unanimously  elected  Bishop  of 
Dunkeld  in  1786,  his  modestly 
expressed  wish  to  be  spared  the 
dignity  was  backed  up  by  the 
opposition  which  was  made  to 
him  personally  in  another  quarter. 
Bishop  John  Skinner  of  Aberdeen, 
son  of  the  persecuted  author  of 
"  Tullochgorum,"  was  then  laying 
the  foundation  of  that  influence  in 
the  Episcopal  Church  which  his 
family  maintained  for  nearly  half 
a  century;  and  he  had  unfortun- 
ately taken  offence  at  some  remarks 
which  Gleig  had  made  in  an  article 
in  the  '  Gentleman's  Magazine ' — 
chiefly  critical  strictures  on  the 
Bishop's  sermon  on  the  occasion  of 
Dr  Seabury's  consecration.  Gleig, 
on  hearing  of  Dr  Skinner's  opposi- 
tion, withdrew  from  the  office,  "  to 
prevent  disturbance  on  my  account 
in  this  miserable  and  afflicted 
Church."  The  difference  that  then 
arose  between  Gleig  and  Skinner 
retarded  the  elevation  of  the  former 
to  the  Episcopate  for  two-and-twenty 
years ;  but  it  secured  for  the  Epis- 
copal Church  a  sound  and  able 
champion  against  the  personal  rule 
of  Skinner,  whose  clear  head  and 
strong  judgment  were  too  apt  to 
override  the  counsel  of  his  col- 
leagues, and  to  ignore  the  views 
of  the  general  body  of  the  clergy. 


1879.]  A  Scots 

Both  Bishop  Skinner  and  Mr  Gleig 
had  been  working,  each  in  his  own 
fashion,  to  obtain  a  repeal  of  the 
penal  laws ;  and  when  the  attempt 
made  by  the  Episcopal  College  to 
secure  relief  without  binding  them- 
selves to  pray  for  the  King  by 
name  failed,  as  it  was  bound  to  do, 
the  Skinners  threw  the  blame  upon 
Gleig,  who,  they  said,  had  sacrificed 
a  bishop  of  his  own  Church  on  the 
altar  of  Canterbury.  In  this  trans- 
action Gleig  seems  to  have  had 
reason  entirely  on  his  side.  Al- 
though much  more  closely  con- 
nected by  family  associations  with 
the  cause  of  the  Stuarts  than  the 
Skinners  were,  he  had  convinced 
himself  how  hopeless  it  was  to 
struggle  against  the  growing  popu- 
larity of  the  reigning  family.  His 
literary  efforts  had  made  Gleig 
known  to  the  English  prelates,  and 
they  were  prepared  to  co-operate 
with  him  in  obtaining  the  relief  of 
the  Scottish  Episcopalians  upon 
their  recognition  of  the  house  of 
Hanover  as  a  first  step  on  their  side. 
The  concessions  which  would  have 
been  secured  under  Gleig's  measure, 
were  far  more  liberal  than  the  Scot- 
tish bishops  afterwards  succeeded  in 
obtaining ;  and  though  there  can  be 
no  doubt  that  Gleig's  draft  bill  was 
the  scheme  most  calculated  to  serve 
the  Church,  we  can  hardly,  at  this 
distance  of  time,  bring  ourselves  to 
regret  that  the  Scottish  Episcopa- 
lians did  not  depart  from  their  pic- 
turesque fidelity  to  the  Stuarts  so 
long  as  the  Chevalier  still  remained 
to  inherit  the  divine  right  to  the 
throne  of  Britain. 

The  Chevalier's  death  brought 
the  first  real  measure  of  relief  to 
the  non-jurors,  freeing  them  from 
an  impracticable  allegiance,  and  re- 
moving the  main  barrier  between 
them  and  their  fellow-subjects. 
Charles  Edward  died  in  1788, 
exactly  a  century  after  his  luckless 
grandfather  had  lost  his  crown. 


313 


Gleig  by  this  time  was  settled  in 
Stirling — a  more  prosperous  charge 
than  Pittenweem;  for  with  the 
fruits  of  his  literary  work  to  add 
to  his  salary,  he  was  able  to  marry 
the  youngest  daughter  of  Mr  Hamil- 
ton of  Kilbrackmont,  who  had  been 
among  his  Fifeshire  parishioners. 
Here  it  fell  to  the  lot  of  Mr  Gleig 
to  introduce  into  the  service  the 
prayers  for  the  Eoyal  family,  which 
were  so  distasteful  to  the  survivors 
of  Culloden.  The  clergy,  as  a  body, 
readily  took  this  step;  but  many 
of  the  laity  felt  their  stomachs  rise 
at  hearing  the  Elector  of  Hanover 
prayed  for  as  their  "  Most  Gracious 
Sovereign  Lord,  King  George."  At 
the  outset  numbers  left  the  churches 
in  disgust ;  others  remained,  and 
expressed  dissent  from  the  prayer 
by  ominous  coughing,  or  by  con- 
temptuously blowing  their  noses. 
"  Ladies  slammed  their  prayer-books 
and  yawned  audibly  at  the  prayer 
for  King  George." 

"  When  King  George  was  first  pray- 
ed for  by  name  in  Meiklefolla  church, 
Charles  Halket  of  Inveramsay  sprung 
to  his  feet,  vowed  he  would  never 
pray  for  '  that  Hanoverian  villain,' 
and  instantly  left  the  church,  which 
he  did  not  re-enter  for  twenty  years. 
A  Mr  Rogers  of  St  Andrew's,  Aber- 
deen, said  Bishop  Skinner  might 
'  pray  the  cknees  aff  his  breeks '  before 
he  would  join  him  in  praying  for  King 
George." — Bishop  Jolly,  p.  41,  note. 

We  do  not  hear  of  any  disturb- 
ances in  the  Stirling  congregation, 
and  the  tact  of  the  incumbent  had 
probably  been  successfully  applied 
to  the  removal  of  prejudices;  for 
Gleig  appears  to  have,  long  before 
this,  sunk  his  Jacobite  predilections 
in  a  loyal  desire  to  reconcile  his 
Church  with  the  reigning  dynasty. 
A  few  ultra-Jacobites,  like  Oliphant 
of  Gask,  might  still  hold  by  Henry 
IX.,  who,  "  were  he  even  a  Mahum- 
etan  or  a  Turkish  priest,"  was  still 
the  legitimate  heir  to  a  throne;  but 


314 


A  Scots  Bishop. 


[March 


all  sensible  men  saw  that  a  Roman 
cardinal  would  never  reign  over 
Britain.  Besides,  George  III.  was 
showing  himself  a  good  Churchman 
and  a  sound  Tory ;  and  these  virtues 
were  fast  effacing  all  disagreeable 
recollections  of  the  two  preceding 
reigns. 

With  the  introduction  of  King 
George's  name  into  the  Scottish  lit- 
urgy, the  most  picturesque,  if  the 
most  painful,  period  of  the  Church's 
history  comes  to  an  end.  Its  task 
was  now  to  organise  an  administra- 
tion for  itself,  to  provide  churches 
and  funds,  and  to  retrieve  the  posi- 
tion and  influence  that  it  had  sacri- 
ficed for  the  sake  of  the  house  of 
Stuart.  It  is  with  Mr  Gleig,  and 
not  with  the  history  of  the  Episco- 
pal Church,  that  we  are  now  con- 
cerned ;  and  we  shall  only  refer  to 
the  latter  in  so  far  as  it  connects 
itself  with  the  subject  of  this 
paper. 

The  difference  between  Bishop 
Skinner,  who  had  now  succeeded 
to  the  primacy  of  the  Church,  and 
Gleig,  was  probably  a  reason  why 
the  latter,  during  his  incumbency 
at  Stirling,  took  very  little  part  in 
the  public  councils  of  the  Episco- 
palians that  followed  the  removal 
of  the  penal  laws.  His  chief  am- 
bition at  this  time  seems  to  have 
been  to  discharge  the  duties  of  a 
zealous  parish  priest,  and  to  add  to 
the  reputation  he  had  already  won 
as  a  man  of  letters. 

His  labours  were  signally  success- 
ful in  gathering  round  him  a  large 
congregation,  for  whom  he  succeed- 
ed in  raising  a  church  capable  of 
containing  200  worshippers.  His 
sermons  must  have  been  far  above 
the  average  of  those  delivered  from 
Episcopalian  pulpits  about  this  time 
—  that  of  the  Cowgate  in  Edin- 
burgh, which  was  then  filled  by 
the  elder  Alison,  of  course,  ex- 
cepted  ;  for  when  republished,  they 
attracted  the  favourable  notice  of 


the  English  reviewers,  and  in  par- 
ticular, of  the  '  Anti- Jacobin,'  who 
characterises    Gleig   as  "  the   most 
learned  and  correct  of  the  Scotch 
literati"  —  no    slight    compliment 
when  it  is  remembered  that  Robert- 
son and  Dugald  Stewart  were  then 
his  contemporaries.     He  had  formed 
a  close  connection  with  the  'Encyclo- 
pedia Britannica,'  the  second  edition 
of  which  was  then  in  course  of  pre- 
paration •  and  from  being  its  prime 
adviser  on  theology  and  metaphys- 
ics, he  ultimately  stepped  into  the 
editorship,  and  completed  the  work. 
He  was  also  a  contributor  to  the 
'  British    Critic '  .  and    the    '  Anti- 
Jacobin,'   and   was    regarded   as   a 
leading  man  in  the  world  of  English 
letters ;  for  he  does  not  appear  to 
have  sought  to  make  a  place  for  him- 
self nearer  home.     Distinctions  and 
more  substantial  rewards  followed  ; 
and  though  he  had  been  denied  a 
seat  in  the  College  of  Bishops,  Dr 
Gleig  was  in  himself  a  power  in  the 
Scottish  Episcopal  Church,   which 
the  Primus  would  not'bend  himself 
to  conciliate,  and  which  he  could 
not  venture  openly  to  defy.     The 
strong  character  of  Primus  Skinner, 
and   the  jealousy  with   which   he 
guarded  the  Episcopal  College  from 
the  admission  of  any  member  who 
might  go  into  opposition  to  his  own 
policy,   had  created  dissatisfaction 
among  a  large  number  of  presbyters, 
especially   those   of    the    southern 
dioceses ;  and  these  looked  to  Dr 
Gleig  as  the  champion  of  their  party. 
His   connection   with   the   reviews 
made  him  rather  an  object  of  dread 
to  his  opponents,  and  though  they 
could  keep  him  out  of  the  Episcopal 
College,  they  could  not  keep  him 
from  criticising  its  doings  in  journals 
circulating  among  English  Church- 
men, before  whom  Scottish  bishops 
were  naturally  anxious  that   their 
doings  should  be  represented  in  the 
best  light.     It  cannot,  however,  be 
said  that  Dr  Gleig  abused  his  power; 


1879.] 


A  Scots  Bishop. 


315 


for  when  he  found  that  his  connec- 
tion with  the  '  Anti- Jacobin '  was 
implicating  him  in  all  its  reflections 
upon  Scottish  Episcopacy,  he  form- 
ally closed  his  connection  with  that 
periodical.  "  This  "  (his  alliance 
with  the  '  An  ti- Jacobin')  "procured 
to  me  so  much  coldness  from  differ- 
ent  persons  whose  friendship  I  had 
long  enjoyed  and  highly  valued,  and 
was  attended  with  other  disagree- 
able circumstances  of  more  import- 
ance, that  I  found  myself  under  the 
necessity  of  withdrawing  my  regu- 
lar contributions  from  the  'Anti- 
Jacobin,'  and  circulating  among  my 
friends  an  assurance  that  I  had  done 
so."  This  step  involved  consider- 
able self-denial,  for  the  'Anti- Jaco- 
bin '  was  then  in  the  zenith  of  its 
popularity,  and  a  power  in  the  press 
of  the  day. 

The  persistent  exclusion  of  a 
clergyman  of  Dr  Gleig's  position 
and  abilities  from  the  Episcopate 
in  course  came  to  be  a  scandal  in 
the  Church.  Twice  after  his  first 
election  did  majorities  of  the  See 
of  Dunkeld  choose  him  for  their 
bishop,  and  as  often  was  their  choice 
overruled  by  the  influence  of  the 
Primus.  We  would  be  loath  to 
charge  so  exemplary  a  prelate  as 
Primus  Skinner  with  being  influ- 
enced by  personal  rancour,  but  he 
appears  to  have  had  a  remarkable 
aptitude  for  reconciling  his  antipa- 
thies to  Gleig  with  his  duty  to  the 
Church.  Dr  Gleig  seems  to  have 
accepted  his  rejections  by  the  Epis- 
copal College  with  entire  indiffer- 
ence, feeling,  doubtless,  that  the 
general  recognition  which  his  abili- 
ties were  receiving  from  every  other 
quarter  would  not  be  affected  by 
the  conduct  of  the  Scottish  Episco- 
pal bench.  On  the  occasion  of  his 
second  election  to  the  bishopric  of 
Dunkeld,  in  1792,  he  does  appear 
to  have  felt  some  resentment  at  the 
illegal  conduct  of  the  College  in 
transferring  the  votes  recorded  for 


him  to  its  own  nominee,  a  young 
and  untried  man  who  had  barely 
reached  the  canonical  age.  On  this " 
occasion  he  recorded  a  resolution 
that  he  would  never  allow  himself 
to  be  subjected  to  similar  insult.  In 
course  of  time,  however,  it  became 
felt,  by  all  who  had  the  interests  of 
the  Church  at  heart,  that  it  was  im- 
peratively necessary  to  promote  Dr 
Gleig's  election  to  a  bishopric  for 
the  credit  of  the  Episcopal  College 
itself.  He  was  proposed  for  the 
diocese  of  Edinburgh  by  Dr  Sand- 
ford,  who  was  himself  elected  as  a 
means  of  drawing  the  English  and 
Scottish  Episcopalians  more  closely 
together,  much  to  Dr  Gleig's  own 
satisfaction.  On  the  third  occasion 
when  the  Dunkeld  presbyters  made 
choice  of  him  as  their  diocesan  in 
1808,  Dr  Gleig  actively  co-operated 
with  the  efforts  of  the  Primus  to 
upset  the  election,  in  order  to  secure 
the  see  for  his  young  friend  Mr 
Torry,  in  whose  advancement  he 
seems  to  have  taken  an  earnest  in- 
terest. Mr  Torry  was  naturally 
unwilling  to  accept  office  to  the 
prejudice  of  his  friend  and  in 
opposition  to  the  choice  of  the 
majority  of  the  presbyters,  and  Dr 
Gleig  himself  had  to  use  his  in- 
fluence to  get  him  to  consent  to 
being  elected. 

"  Be  assured,  my  dear  sir,"  writes 
Dr  Gleig  to  him,  "  that  it  will  give  me 
unfeigned  pleasure  to  see  you  Bishop 
of  Dunkeld;  and  let  not  something  like 
a  preference  given  by  the  clergy  to  me 
prejudice  you  against  accepting  of  an 
office  of  which  Mr  Skinner  assures  me 
that  all  acknowledge  you  worthy,  at 
the  very  instant  that  three  of  them 
voted  for  me.  This  is  not  a  time  for 
standing  on  punctilio  or  delicacy  of 
feeling ;  and  the  clergy  of  Dunkeld 
are  the  more  excusable  for  betraying  a 
partiality  for  me  from  their  know- 
ledge of  the  manner  in  which  I  was 
formerly  treated  when  elected  to  that 
see,  and  when  I  could  have  been  of 
infinitely  greater  use  to  the  Church 
there  than  I  could  now  be  as  a  bishop." 


316 


A  Scots  Bishop. 


[March 


Hardly,  however,  had  the  Dun- 
keld  election  been  settled,  when 
Dr  Gleig  received  the  news  that 
the  Brechin  presbyters  had  unani- 
mously chosen  him  as  coadjutor  to 
their  aged  bishop;  and  this  time 
the  Primus  did  not  venture  to 
thwart  the  election  of  the  clergy. 

But  though  Primus  Skinner 
could  not  go  the  length  of  keeping 
Gleig  out  of  the  Episcopate,  he  in- 
sisted on  him  submitting  to  a  test 
which  had  never  before  been  for- 
mally demanded  of  a  Scottish 
bishop,  and  which  the  Primus 
probably  hoped  Gleig  would  re- 
sist, and  thus  give  him  an  oppor- 
tunity of  cancelling  the  election  for 
his  contumacy.  The  test  incident 
led  to  a  very  pretty  passage  of  arms 
between  the  Primus  and  the  Bishop- 
designate,  in  which  certainly  Bishop 
Skinner  did  not  get  the  best  of  it. 
The  Episcopal  Church  of  Scotland 
possesses  two  communion  offices — 
one  the  well-known  form  of  the 
common  Prayer-book,  and  the  other 
the  Scottish  office,  based  mainly  on 
King  Charles's  Prayer-book,  and 
finally  settled  by  the  non-juring 
bishops  in  the  first  half  of  the 
eighteenth  century.  Except  in  so  far 
as  the  Scottish  office  keeps  up  the 
communion  of  saints  by  a  "remem- 
brance of  the  faithful  departed," 
there  is  practically  not  much  differ- 
ence between  the  two ;  although  cus- 
tom and  prejudice  have  contrived 
to  extract  theological  odium  out  of 
the  respective  merits  of  the  Scot- 
tish and  Anglican  "  uses."  Gleig 
was  the  only  presbyter  in  his  dio- 
cese who  used  the  Scottish  office ; 
and  this  fact  might  have  been  ac- 
cepted as  sufficient  warranty  for 
the  absence  of  any  prejudice  on  his 
part  against  it.  Bishop  Skinner 
broached  the  subject  in  what  he 
evidently  considered  a  very  diplo- 
matic letter,  dwelling  on  his  desire 
for  "  the  preservation  of  what  was 


pure  and  primitive  "  in  the  Church, 
and  laying  down  a  declaration,which 
Dr  Gleig  was  required  to  sign  as  a 
condition  of  the  ratification  of  his 
election  by  the  Episcopal  College. 
Probably  the  Bishop  thought  that 
Dr  Gleig  would  be  afraid  of  run- 
ning counter  to  the  sympathies  of 
his  Anglican  friends  by  a  public 
declaration  in  favour  of  the  Scottish 
office ;  but  the  Primus  speedily 
found  that,  for  once,  he  had  met 
his  match.  Dr  Gleig  was  quite 
ready  to  sign  the  declaration  re- 
quired "  whether  he  was  promoted 
to  the  Episcopal  bench  or  not;" 
but  he  could  not  let  slip  the  oppor- 
tunity to  read  a  severe  lecture  to 
his  opponent.  "  I  trust,"  he  said, 
"  that  I  shall  be  left  at  liberty  to 
recommend  the  office  by  those  means 
in  my  power  which  appear  to  my 
own  judgment  best  adapted  to  the 
end  intended.  Controversy  does 
not  appear  to  me  well  adapted  to 
this  end,  unless  it  be  managed  with 
great  delicacy  indeed.  .  .  .  Public 
controversy  I  will  never  directly 
employ,  nor  will  I  encourage  it  in 
others."  Bishop  Skinner  accepted 
this  implied  rebuke,  and  Gleig  was 
duly  consecrated  Bishop  of  Brechin. 
When  he  was  installed  in  the  see, 
he  found  evidence  of  his  own  elec- 
tion to  the  bishopric  of  Brechin 
many  years  before, — the  news  of 
which  had  been  so  sedulously  con- 
cealed— in  all  probability  by  the 
Episcopal  College  —  that  he  had 
never  even  heard  a  rumour  of  the 
event. 

To  trace  the  course  of  Bishop 
Gleig's  Episcopate  would  be  to  write 
a  history  of  the  Episcopal  Church 
of  Scotland  from  1811  to  1840. 
He  entered  the  Episcopal  College 
at  a  more  advanced  age,  and  with  a 
more  matured  experience  than  Scot- 
tish bishops  of  that  day  were  usu- 
ally possessed  of.  He  commanded 
the  confidence  of  both  the  Scottish 


1879.' 


A  Scots  Bishop. 


317 


and  the  Anglican  parties  in  the 
Church,  and  successfully  used  his 
influence  to  adjust  the  balance  and 
reconcile  differences  between  the 
two.  His  broad  mind  showed  him 
the  way  to  surmount  obstacles  that 
had  seemed  insuperable  to  the  nar- 
rower experience  of  the  Northern 
bishops.  He  found  the  Church 
still  suffering  from  the  effects  of  its 
former  position  of  discord  with 
society  and  with  law,  and  it  was 
his  strenuous  effort  to  bring  it  into 
harmony  with  the  best  objects  of 
both.  It  was  mainly  due  .to  his 
efforts  that  the  present  firm  alliance 
between  the  sister  Churches  was 
made  and  cemented,  and  that  the 
rights  of  Scottish  bishops  obtained 
due  recognition  from  the  English 
metropolitans.  His  charges  breathe 
a  spirit  that  is  at  once  catholic  and 
broad ;  and  while  he  is  ever  toler- 
ant of  individual  convictions,  he  is 
extremely  liberal  in  the  permissive 
scope  which  he  gives  to  his  clergy. 
Wherever  party  spirit  approaches 
him,  he  invariably  seeks  to  meet  it 
half-way,  and  to  sacrifice  his  per- 
sonal views  so  far  as  these  may  not 
be  fettered  by  principle.  Such  a 
spirit  speedily  bore  fruit  in  the 
councils  of  the  Church.  The  great 
body  of  clergy  were  with  him  in 
his  proposals  for  reform ;  even  the 
Rev.  John  Skinner  of  Eorfar,  the 
son  of  the  Primus,  hastened  to  give 
Bishop  Gleig  his  warm  support, 
and  strove  to  influence  his  father  to 
co-operation.  But  though  all  the 
world  was  subdued,  "  the  stub- 
born mind  of  Cato"  remained  un- 
shaken. The  old  Primus  thus  tes- 
tily writes  in  answer  to  his  son's 
well-meaning  counsel : — 

"  I  must  decline  all  further  discus- 
sion of  this  subject  unless  it  come  from 
another  quarter.  You  have  a  bishop 
of  your  own,  .  .  .  and  you  would 
need  to  be  cautious  in  appealing  to 
me,  as  able,  in  my  official  capacity,  to 

VOL.  CXXV. — NO.  DCCLXI. 


'  bring  the  matter  to  an  issue  ; '  but 
you  thereby  confirm  a  jealousy,  per- 
haps already  excited,  that  another  is, 
in  fact,  the  senior  prelate,  and  that  I 
am  only  the  late  venerable  Scottish 
Primus,  Bishop  Skinner  ! " 

In  fact,  the  Primus  could  not  fail 
to  see  that  the  Bishop  of  Brechin 
had  entirely  overlapped  his  influ- 
ence in  the  Church.  He  yielded 
so  far,  however,  as  to  call  a  synod, 
in  which  Bishop  Gleig  succeeded  in 
giving  effect  to  his  desire  for  uni- 
formity, and  in  securing  to  the  body 
of  the  clergy  the  right  of  making 
the  laws  of  the  Church,  which  the 
Episcopal  College  had  so  long  de- 
nied them. 

In  his  own  see  his  efforts  to  im- 
prove the  clerical  standard  were 
unremitting,  especially  to  secure  a 
reading  and  thinking  clergy.  Many 
of  the  oldest  presbyters  were  ap- 
parently men  of  mediocre  educa- 
tion and  of  narrow  prejudices,  and, 
as  such,  unable  to  hold  their  own 
when  brought  into  rivalry  with  Eng- 
lish Episcopalian  priests.  "  Good 
men  of  decent  manners  and  respect- 
able talents "  were  the  class  that 
Bishop  Gleig  sought  for  ordination. 
One  unfortunate  incumbent,  with 
whom  the  Bishop  had  a  good  deal 
of  trouble,  was  a  very  bad  reader, 
and  Dr  Gleig  earnestly  urged  on 
him  the  propriety  of  taking  lessons. 
"  But  from  whom  shall  I  take  les- 
sons, sir1?"  asked  the  presbyter. 
"  From  anybody,  sir,"  was  the 
Bishop's  curt  rejoinder.  His  advice 
to  his  clergy  about  reading  the 
books  which  he  had  exerted  him- 
self to  procure  for  the  diocesan 
library  was  characterised  by  much 
liberality  and  sound  sense.  "I 
begin,"  he  says,  "with  telling  you 
that  there  is  not  one  of  the  volumes 
which  you  will  receive  that  does 
not  contain  something  that  is  ex- 
ceptionable, as  well  as  much  that 
is  excellent ;  but  every  one  of  them 
x 


318 


A  Scots  Bishop. 


[March. 


is  calculated  to  compel  the  serious 
and  attentive  reader  to  think  for 
himself;  and  it  is  such  reading 
only  as  produces  this  effect  that  is 
really  valuable.  Clergymen  who 
wish  to  improve  their  knowledge  in 
divinity  do  not  read  one  or  two 
approved  works  with  the  view  of 
committing  their  contents  to  mem- 
ory, as  a  child  commits  to  memory 
the  contents  of  the  Catechism.  It 
is  the  business  of  those  who  are  to 
be  the  teachers  of  others  to  prove 
all  things,  that  they  may  hold  fast 
that  which  they  really  know  to  be 
good,  and  not  to  adopt  as  good, 
and  without  examination,  the 
opinions  of  a  mere  man,  however 
eminent  either  for  natural  talents 
or  acquired  knowledge,  for  the 
Scriptures  alone  are  entitled  to 
implicit  confidence." 

Bishop  Gleig's  accession  to  the 
primacy  on  the  Episcopal  bench 
can  scarcely  be  said  to  have 
strengthened  his  influence  or  raised 
his  standing,  for  even  before  Primus 
Skinner's  death  his  voice  had  been 
the  ruling  oracle  in  the  Church's 
counsels.  Bishop  Skinner's  death, 
however,  removed  from  the  Church 
the  last  shackles  of  provincialism, 
and  in  a  great  measure  changed  the 
position  of  Primus  Gleig  from  a  sed- 
ulous promoter  of  liberal  reforms  to 
a  judicious  guardian  of  the  Church's 
conservative  character,  lest,  the 
brake  being  removed,  the  coach 
might  run  too  fast  down  hill.  It 
was  not  unnatural  that  so  strong- 
minded  an  administrator  as  Bishop 
Gleig  should  fall  into  the  same  mis- 
take as  he  had  combated  against  on 
the  part  of  the  last  Primus — the  as- 
sumption of  a  greater  personal  respon- 
sibility in  the  government  of  the 
Church  than  was  strictly  warranted 
by  his  theoretical  position  in  the 
Scottish  college  as  "  Primus  inter 
pares"  His  word,  however,  was  so 
much  law  with  his  colleagues  that 


he  was  perfectly  safe  in  anticipating 
their  concurrence ;  and  his  policy 
was  attended  with  this  benefit  to 
the  Church,  that  during  his  prim- 
acy the  conduct  of  Church  affairs, 
especially  the  filling  up  of  charges 
and  dioceses,  was  managed  apart 
from  the  influences  of  cliques  and 
family  parties,  which  had  been  so 
manifestly  exercised  in  an  earlier 
period.  The  long-standing  jealousy 
between  North  and  South  was  im- 
perceptibly effaced  under  Bishop 
Gleig's  prudent  management;  and 
he  left  the  Church,  which  he  had 
found  full  of  local  divisions  and 
factions,  a  solid  and  harmonious 
body.  The  present  generation 
knows  the  Episcopal  Church  of 
Scotland  as  a  flourishing  and  in- 
fluential body  that  has  surmounted 
all  the  prejudices  that  were  origi- 
nally directed  against  its  position, 
and  that  has  attained  an  authority 
in  Anglican  Christendom  far  out  of 
proportion  to  its  revenues  and  num- 
bers. If  we  come  to  closely  trace 
the  steps  by  which  the  Scottish 
Episcopal  Church  has  attained  this 
eminence,  we  shall  find  that  most 
of  them  were  taken  under  Bishop 
Gleig's  guidance,  and  that  a  very 
large  measure  of  its  popularity  and 
prosperity  in  the  present  day  is 
the  direct  fruit  of  his  prevision. 

During  Dr  Gleig's  primacy  the 
King's  visit  to  Scotland  took  place, 
and  the  interesting  episode  of  the 
presentation  of  an  address  by  the 
bishops  occurred.  The  chief  anxi- 
ety that  troubled  the  College  turn- 
ed upon  Bishop  Jolly's  wig.  This 
"  property  "  seems  to  have  been  an 
integral  part  of  the  College  of  Bis- 
hops; and  though  the  Primus  and 
his  colleagues  doubted  its  effect 
upon  the  emotions  of  royalty,  they 
hesitated  to  suggest  that  it  might 
be  altered  or  dispensed  with.  In 
1811  this  wig  had  been  described 
by  a  visitor  to  the  Bishop  as  "in- 


1879.] 


A  Scots  Bishop. 


319 


deed  something  remarkable.  It  was 
of  a  snow-white  colour,  and  stood 
out  behind  his  head  in  enormous 
curls  of  six  or  eight  inches  in  depth." 
It  was  a  favourite  object  of  admira- 
tion to  the  boys  of  Fraserburgh,  to 
whom,  when  he  heard  them  com- 
menting on  his  "terrible  wig,"  the 
good  Bishop  replied,  "I'm  not  a 
terrible  Whig,  boys,  but  a  good  old 
Tory."  And  so  Bishop  Jolly,  wig 
and  all,  waited  upon  the  King,  who 
was  much  struck  by  his  vener- 
able appearance.  An  address  com- 
posed by  the  Primus  was  presented 
to  his  Majesty ;  and  the  last  link 
between  the  Church  and  its  ancient 
allegiance  was  now  severed  by  its 
personal  homage  to  the  house  of 
Hanover. 

With  all  his  episcopal  activity, 
Dr  Gleig  never  laid  aside  his  early 
literary  tastes.  His  pen  was  never 
idle ;  and  if  it  was  not  employed  in 
the  affairs  of  his  diocese  in  charges, 
or  in  papers  connected  with  the 
interests  of  the  Church,  it  was  at 
work  for  the  publishers.  An  edi- 
tion of  l  Stackhouse's  History  of  the 
Bible,'  and  a  work  on  theology  in  a 
series  of  letters  from  a  bishop  to  his 
son  preparing  for  holy  orders,  are 
among  the  most  considerable  works 
which  he  produced  during  his  later 
years.  His  strong  literary  predilec- 
tions must  have  been  greatly  grati- 
fied by  the  mark  which  his  son, 
now  the  ex-Chaplain-General,  was 
making  by  his  novels  and  historical 
works.  In  that  son  '  Maga '  takes 
a  pride  in  owning  her  oldest  living 
contributor,  the  last  of  that  goodly 
band,  who,  knit  together  by  the 
common  bond  of  talent  and  Toryism, 
twined  green  laurels  around  her 
still  young  brows.  Mr  Gleig  had 
left  the  army,  after  seeing  a  good 
deal  of  active  service,  and  taken 
orders  in  the  Church,  much  to  his 
father's  satisfaction.  His  story  of 
the  '  Subaltern  '  appeared  in  '  Black- 


wood'  as  early  as  1824-25,  and 
showed  all  the  signs  of  that  liter- 
ary talent  to  which  the  readers  of 
4  Maga '  have  been  so  frequently 
indebted  for  over  half  a  century. 
The  old  Bishop  was  much  aided  by 
his  son's  assistance  in  Church  affairs 
during  the  last  years  of  his  life; 
and  he  would  have  had  a  difficulty 
in  finding  a  more  judicious  adviser. 

Bishop  Gleig  continued  to  live 
at  Stirling  all  his  life,  and  never 
resided  within  his  own  diocese — a 
custom  which,  strange  to  say,  was 
the  general  practice  of  the  Scot- 
tish bishops  down  to  the  middle 
of  the  present  century.  "  His 
house,"  says  his  son,  "  was  a  very 
comfortable,  unpretending  edifice, 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  and 
commanded  from  the  windows  in 
the  rear  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
views  in  Scotland — the  valley  of 
the  Forth,  with  the  ruins  of  Cam- 
buskenneth  Abbey,  and  the  Ochils, 
Lomond,  and  Touch  hills  bounding 
it  on  every  side.  Here  he  lived  a 
simple,  earnest,  useful  life,  respect- 
ed by  his  Church,  by  society,  and 
by  the  people  who  came  in  contact 
with  him.  Here  also  he  dispensed 
with  a  free  hand  a  modest  and  simple 
hospitality, in whichall who  obtained 
access  to  it  were  delighted  to  par- 
ticipate, for  his  conversational  pow- 
ers were  not  inferior  to  his  literary 
abilities  ;  and  as  a  teller  of  stories, 
of  which  he  seemed  to  possess  no 
end,  he  had  few  equals."  A  good 
many  of  those  which  Dean  Eamsay 
collected  and  published  he  learned 
from  Bishop  Gleig;  and  many  more 
well  deserved  to  be  had  in  remem- 
brance. Unfortunately,  however, 
these  things,  if  not  noted  down  when 
fresh,  soon  pass  out  of  men's  memo 
ries;  but  one  which  thoroughly  up- 
set the  gravity  of  an  archiepiscopal 
dinner-table  we  happen  to  recollect. 

The   Bishop  visited   London  in 
the    spring    of    1811,    and   dined, 


320 


A  Scots  Bislwp. 


[March. 


among  other  places,  at  Lambeth 
Palace  with  Archbishop  Manners 
Sutton.  The  company  and  con- 
versation were  alike  decorous,  till 
the  subject  of  dilapidations  was 
broached,  and  the  liability  of  the 
English  clergy  to  build  and  keep 
in  repair  their  parsonages,  and  of 
rectors  to  deal  in  like  manner  with 
the  chancels  of  their  churches,  was 
dealt  upon.  One  of  the  party, 
an  English  dignitary,  had  travelled 
in  Scotland  the  previous  summer, 
and  was  eloquent  on  the  good  old 
Scottish  custom  which  devolves 
these  burdens  upon  the  heritors. 
He  referred  especially  to  a  partic- 
ular parish,  of  which  we  have  for- 
gotten the  name,  but  in  which,  not 
the  manse  only,  but  the  church 
also,  had  been  entirely  rebuilt  at 
the  expense  of  the  laird.  "  Oh," 
observed  Bishop  Gleig,  "I  know 
that  parish  well,  and  I  will  tell 
you  how  it  comes  to  be  so  well  pro- 
vided with  both  kirk  and  manse. 
When  I  was  a  lad,  the  laird,  who 
happened  to  be  Lord  Advocate  at 
the  time,  was  likewise  the  patron. 
He  took  little  interest  in  either 
kirk  or  manse  till  the  old  minister 
fell  sick  and  died,  when,  within 
an  hour  of  the  event,  his  servant, 
whose  name  was  Hugh,  opened  the 
library  door  and  told  him  that  the 
schoolmaster  requested  an  audience. 
The  school  master,  a  'sticket  stibbler,' 
as  most  Scottish  parish  schoolmas- 
ters were  in  those  days,  had  the 
reputation  of  being  more  of  a  wag 
than  a  scholar;  and  the  Lord  Advo- 
cate, himself  a  humorist,  desired 
the  dominie  to  be  shown  up.  The 
dominie  entered  the  great  man's 
room,  whom  he  found  sitting  at  a 
writing-table  with  papers  and  books 
before  him.  <  Well,  Mr  M'Gowan, 
what  is  your  business  with  me?' 
'  My  lord,  I  just  called  to  ask  your 
lordship  wad  gie  me  the  kirk.' 
'  You,  Mr  M'Gowan  !  why,  they  tell 


me  you  are  but  a  poor  scholar.  Can 
you  read  Latin  V  '  O  ay,  my  lord, 
just  as  well  as  your  lordship  can 
read  Hebrew.'  '  Let's  see,'  replied 
the  Lord  Advocate,  opening  at  the 
same  time  a  Latin  grammar  which 
happened  to  be  beside  him  ;  '  read 
these  two  lines  and  give  me  the 
English  for  them.'  The  lines  ran 
thus  : — 

'  En,  ecce,  hie,  primum  quartimi  quin- 

tumve  requirunt, — 
Heu  petit  et  quintum,  velut  0,  hei 

vseque  dativum.' 

The  dominie  glanced  them  through, 
and  without  a  moment's  hesitation 
gave  this  rendering  :  '  En,  ecce,  hie, 
primum,' — '  You  see,  my  lord,  I'm 
the  first ; '  '  quartum  quintumve 
requirunt,' — *  there  will  be  four  or 
five  seeking  it ; '  '  heu  petit  et 
quintum,' — '  Hugh  asks  500  marks 
for  his  good  word ; '  '  velut  O,' 
— 'like  a  cipher  as  he  is;'  'hei 
va3que  dativum,' — '  but  wae  worth 
me  if  I  gie  it  to  him.'  The  Lord 
Advocate  was  so  tickled  with  the 
schoolmaster's  ready  wit,  that  lie 
not  only  gave  him  the  living,  but 
rebuilt  both  manse  and  kirk." 

Sunday  with  the  Bishop  was 
always  a  feast-day.  He  made  a 
point  of  having  four  or  five  mem- 
bers of  his  congregation — poor,  but 
gentle,  to  dine  with  him  on  that 
day.  A  half-pay  lieutenant ;  a  re- 
duced militia  officer,  who  eked  out 
his  small  means  by  giving  lessons 
in  French;  a  couple  of  maiden 
ladies  who  made  a  scanty  living 
by  selling  tea;  and  others  of  the 
same  grade.  Before  these  he  would 
pour  out  his  stores  of  humour  and 
general  talk  as  freely  as  when  Dr 
Parr  and  Mr  Kicardo,  the  political 
economist,  were  his  guests.  He 
took  great  delight,  also,  in  seeing 
young  people  happy;  nor  can  we 
doubt  that  many,  now  grey-headed 
men  and  women,  still  look  back 


1879.] 


A  Scots  Bislwp. 


321 


with  pleasure  on  the  little  unpre- 
tending dances  in  which  they  took 
part  under  his  roof,  while  the 
venerable  man  sat  and  smiled  upon 
them  for  an  hour  before  retiring  to 
his  study,  and  leaving  them  to  the 
care  of  his  faithful  housekeeper 
and  step  -  daughter,  Miss  Fulton. 
In  the  account  which  his  son 
gives  of  his  last  days  we  have 
beautifully  portrayed  the  closing 
scene  of  a  well -spent  life,  ripe 
with  years  and  honours ;  and  a  sim- 
ple yet  dignified  dissolution  as  fit- 
ly closes  the  career  of  a  Christian 
bishop. 

"  The  reverence  which  the  people 
paid  to  the  old  man  was  very  touching. 
A  large  stone  was  placed  on  the  foot- 
path of  the  road  which  leads  from 
the  old  Stirling  Bridge  to  the  village 
of  Causeyhead.  It  was  about  half  a 
mile,  or  perhaps  a  little  more,  from 
his  house.  He  used  to  rest  upon  it 
before  returning.  It  was  called  the 
Bishop's  Stone ;  and  if  it  be  still  in  ex- 
istence, it  retains,  I  have  no  doubt,  the 
same  name.  By-and-by  strength  fail- 
ed him  even  for  this,  and  for  a  year  or 
so  his  only  movement  was  from  his 
bedroom  to  his  study — the  one  adjoin- 
ing the  other.  Darkness  set  in  upon 
him  rapidly  after  this ;  and  it  is  sad  to 
look  back  upon,  that  though  he  knew 


me  at  first  on  my  arrival,  lie  soon  be- 
gan to  talk  to  me  about  myself  as  if  I 
had  been  a  stranger,  and  often  with 
the  humour  which  seemed  never  to 
leave  him  to  the  last.  Even  then, 
however,  the  spirit  of  devotion  never 
left  him.  Often  on  going  into  his 
room  I  found  him  on  his  knees,  and  as 
he  was  very  deaf,  I  was  obliged  to  touch 
him  on  the  shoulder  before  he  could 
be  made  aware  that  any  one  was  near 
him.  On  such  occasions  the  look 
which  he  turned  upon  me  was  invari- 
ably that  of  one  lifted  above  the  things 
of  the  earth.  I  shall  never  forget  the 
expression — it  was  so  holy,  and  yet  so 
bright  and  cheerful.  I  was  not  with 
him  when  he  died.  The  last  attack  of 
illness  did  its  work  very  speedily ;  but 
Miss  Fulton  told  me  that  he  slept 
his  life  away  as  quietly  as  an  infant 


It  is  characteristic  of  the  unob- 
trusive work  of  the  Scottish  Epis- 
copal Church,  that  lives  like  those 
of  Gleig  and  Jolly — lives  which  are 
capable  of  imparting  a  deep  lesson 
to  a  world  that  is  not  overburden- 
ed with  earnestness  and  sincerity 
— should  for  the  most  part  be  hid 
within  its  own  annals.  Lives  so 
simple  and  unpretentious,  so  full  of 
lofty  feeling  and  humble  ambitions, 
have  found  a  congenial  chronicler 
in  Mr  Walker. 


322 


Contemporary  Literature  : 


[March 


CONTEMPORARY    LITERATURE. 


IV.   NOVELISTS. 


As  knowledge  is  increased,  books 
are  multiplied,  but  nothing  in  the 
way  of  books  has  been  multiplied 
so  fast  as  the  Novel.  In  most 
branches  of  literature,  the  author  is 
presumed  to  have  had  certain  ad- 
vantages of  literary  training.  He 
has  gone  in  for  some  kind  of  special 
self-culture  :  he  has  given  thought 
and  attention  to  a  particular  subject 
— probably  before  venturing  upon 
a  regular  work,  he  has  tried  his 
pinions  in  preliminary  flights.  The 
only  ordinary  exceptions  are  in  the 
cases  of  travellers  and  explorers,  and 
with  these  the  intrinsic  interest  of 
the  matter  may  supply  deficiencies 
of  literary  skill.  But  the  novel- 
writer  seems  to  be  on  a  different 
footing  altogether,  and  to  belong  by 
right  of  his  vocation  to  an  excep- 
tional order  of  genius.  Like  the 
poet,  he  is  born,  not  made.  And 
when  we  say  "he,"  of  course  we 
merely  make  conventional  use  of 
the  masculine  pronoun ;  for  in  re- 
ality, in  the  miscellaneous  hosts  of 
the  novel-writers,  the  fair  sex  very 
largely  predominates.  There  are 
many  reasons  why  ladies  should  be 
more  addicted  to  novel- writing  than 
men.  In  the  first  place,  they  have 
far  more  leisure  and  fewer  ways 
of  disposing  of  it  to  their  satisfac- 
tion. When  the  husband  is  hard 
at  work,  the  wife  may  be  occupied 
with  those  cares  of  the  household 
which  engross  her  thoughts,  to  the 
exclusion  of  lighter  subjects,  even 
when  she  is  not  actually  bustling 
about  her  business.  But  then,  on 
the  other  hand,  she  may  have  an 
easy  income,  plenty  of  servants, 
and  no  children,  and  be  sorely  put 
to  it  to  kill  the  time.  Or  she  may 
have  a  praiseworthy  wish  to  take 


her  share ,of  the  family  labour,  and 
turn  to  some  profitable  account 
such  talents  as  Providence  has 
bestowed  on  her.  "While  young 
ladies  who  have  no  particular  re- 
sponsibilities, who  have  no  need  to 
toil,  and  who  think  of  the  sewing- 
machine  as  little  as  of  the  spinning- 
wheel  that  was  the  resource  of  their 
respectable  great-grandmothers,  have 
few  of  those  outlets  for  their  en- 
ergies which  fall  to  their  more 
fortunate  brothers.  They  can't 
well  carry  a  gun ;  and  they  have 
neither  nerve  nor  inclination  for 
the  hunting- field,  even  supposing 
there  are  horses  in  the  stables,  and 
that  their  lines  have  fallen  in  a 
hunting  county.  They  cannot  be 
off  to  Norway  at  a  moment's  notice, 
or  go  climbing  unprotected  in  the 
High  Alps,  or  make  pilgrimages  to 
the  temples  of  the  Nile,  or  the  holy 
places  in  Palestine.  They  have  not 
even  the  resources  of  the  club,  with 
its  gossip,  and  scandal,  and  glasses 
of  sherry.  The  rubber,  which  gives 
occupation  to  the  memory  and  in- 
tellectual powers,  and  may  realise 
a  modest  competency  to  a  quick  and 
thoughtful  practitioner,  has  never, 
somehow,  been  much  of  a  feminine 
pursuit,  save  with  dowagers  given 
to  revoking  or  sharp  practice. 
Croquet  in  the  long-run  gets  to  be 
a  weariness  of  the  soul ;  dances, 
picnics,  and  lawn-tennis  are  the 
ephemeral  enjoyments  of  their  sea- 
sons. Ennui  asserts  its  sway,  and 
existence  threatens  to  become  in- 
supportable. There  is  the  grand 
alternative  of  matrimony,  of  course  ; 
but  marriages  are  matters  in  which 
two  must  be  concerned ;  and  the 
lady  may  be  fastidious,  or  possibly 
unattractive.  In  these  cases  one  of 


1879.] 


IV.  Novelists. 


323 


two  things  happens.  Either  she  is 
naturally  unintellectual  or  indolent, 
and  abandons  herself  to  the  lot  of 
looking  out,  like  Sister  Anne,  for 
the  husband  who  may  come  to  the 
rescue ;  or  what  seems  to  happen 
at  least  as  frequently  nowadays, 
she  decides  upon  novel- writing  by 
way  of  distraction. 

That  notion  does  not  so  readily 
occur  to  a  man.  He  is  a  grosser 
and  more  practically-minded  being, 
setting  altogether  aside  the  open- 
ings for  his  superfluous  activity.  If 
there  be  romance  in  his  composi- 
tion, it  is  apt  to  lie  latent ;  and  he 
is  rather  ashamed  of  it  than  other- 
wise. Should  his  thoughts  be 
lightly  turning  to  love,  he  proceeds 
forthwith  to  translate  them  into 
action,  opening  a  safety-valve  for 
his  sentiment  in  the  shape  of  a  vio- 
lent flirtation.  He  is  too  egotisti- 
cal to  be  highly  imaginative,  or  to 
be  able  to  throw  himself  into  the 
places  of  other  people  and  con- 
found his  distinctive  individuality 
in  theirs.  In  fact,  the  youth  who 
betakes  himself  to  poetry  or  novel- 
writing,  is  likely  to  have  a  strong 
dash  of  the  feminine  in  him.  He 
wears  his  hair  long,  taking  exquis- 
ite care  of  it  in  its  studied  disorder ; 
he  is  in  the  habit  of  eschewing 
the  shooting-coat  for  the  frock-coat : 
and  in  that  it  must  be  confessed 
that  he  shows  his  appreciation  of 
the  suitable  and  of  the  essential 
elements  of  the  art  of  dress.  For 
lie  shrinks  with  womanly  sensi- 
tiveness from  the  rougher  masculine 
nature  ;  he  is  scared  by  the  stories 
which  enliven  the  smoking-room, 
and  which  bring  a  blush  to  the 
sallow  pallor  of  his  cheek  though 
there  may  really  be  no  great  harm 
in  them.  He  is  afraid  of  damp  feet, 
and  of  being  scratched  by  the  bram- 
bles in  the  covers  ;  while,  as  for 
flying  an  ox-fence  or  swishing 
through  a  bullfinch,  the  bare  notion 
of  such  a  break-neck  piece  of  auda- 


city sends  his  heart  shrinking  into 
his  boots.  Yet  he  makes  himself  a 
nuisance  in  drawing-rooms  at  un- 
seasonable hours,  where  he  gives 
himself  effeminate  airs  of  intel- 
lectual superiority ;  so  it  is  a  god- 
send to  all  parties  concerned  when 
the  dreams  of  a  literary  vocation 
dawn  upon  him,  and  he  secludes 
himself  to  scribble  in  his  private 
apartment.  It  is  true  that  his  re- 
treat may  be  but  the  beginning  of 
his  troubles.  For,  knowing  nothing 
more  of  him  than  those  obvious 
characteristics  we  have  described, 
we  are  ready  to  lay  any  odds  in 
reason  that  his  maiden  efforts  will 
be  returned  on  his  hands.  The 
public  is  not  likely  to  suffer  in  any 
case;  for  even  if  he  pay  for  the 
honours  of  publication,  people  are 
not  bound  to  read  him.  But  it 
may  be  hoped,  for  his  own  sake, 
that  he  will  reconsider  his  ways, 
and  settle  into  as  useful  a  member 
of  society  as  the  constitution  of  his 
mind  and  body  will  permit. 

With  his  sister  or  cousin  it  is 
very  different.  Unless  she  be  a 
phenomenally  prosaic  young  female, 
from  her  babyhood  she  has  been 
living  in  ideal  worlds  and  peopling 
them  with  all  kinds  of  happy 
fancies.  She  was  acting  fiction  in 
embryo  when  she  first  played  with 
her  doll,  and  lavished  her  maternal 
tenderness  over  the  damage  she 
had  done  to  its  features.  And 
since  she  played  the  severe  but 
affectionate  mother  she  has  been 
imagining  herself  the  loving  and 
self-sacrificing  wife.  Many  a  youth 
has  been  made  the  imaginary  hero 
of  a  domestic  existence  of  which  he 
never  dreamed;  even  middle-aged 
warriors  and  politicians  of  com- 
manding reputation  and  distin- 
guished manners  have  been  ideal- 
ised and  worshipped  with  an  admir- 
ing devotion ;  for  young  girls  feel  a 
strange  attraction  to  their  seniors 
of  the  other  sex.  Possibly  if  she 


324 


Contemporary  Literature : 


[March 


has  been  brought  up  under  the  ma- 
ternal wing,  or  has  passed  from  the 
nursery  into  the  care  of  unsympa- 
thetic governesses,  those  instinc- 
tive tendencies  may  have  been  kept 
in  check.  But  in  the  congenial 
atmosphere  of  the  young  ladies' 
school,  they  blossom  and  bloom 
into  tropical  luxuriance.  What 
loving  and  longing  hearts  have 
been  indissolubly  linked  together, 
on  the  common  ground  of  mutual 
epanchement  and  confidences !  What 
lasting  friendships  have  been 
formed  for  consolation  in  the  chill- 
ing atmosphere  of  an  unkindly 
world  !  These  friendships  may 
have  already  begun  to  be  loosened, 
as  the  fair  pensionnaires  budded  to- 
wards womanhood,  and  began  to 
draw  admiring  glances  ;  and  envy, 
jealousy,  and  many  an  unchristian 
passion  may  have  forced  their  way 
into  that  once  hallowed  Eden.  But 
on  the  other  hand,  the  education  of 
the  passions  advanced  with  experi- 
ence, as  they  lavished  their  treasures 
on  more  natural  objects.  And  there 
may  have  been  plucking  of  forbid- 
den fruit  from  the  tree  of  the  know- 
ledge of  good  and  evil.  The  studies 
of  the  young  sentimentalists  were 
by  no  means  confined  to  such 
books  as  would  be  recommended 
by  a  modern  Mrs  Chapone.  There 
was  many  a  novel  read  on  the  sly, 
that  was  all  the  more  delightful  for 
the  sin  and  the  secrecy ;  at  all  events 
the  family  tables  at  home  were 
heaped  with  the  latest  volumes 
from  Mudie.  We  can  easily  pic- 
ture the  particular  books  that  helped 
to  form  the  "  mind  "  of  the  future 
author.  One  and  all  might  have 
taken  for  their  motto,  "  Love  shall 
still  be  lord  of  all."  Those  that 
taught  the  sordid  maxims  of 
worldly  wisdom,  and  preached  the 
solid  advantages  of  suitable  con- 
nections and  settlements,  were  still 
at  a  discount  in  these  unsophisti- 
cated days.  The  diamonds  and  the 


carriages  were  to  come  in  due  time, 
but  rather  as  the  gifts  of  the  good 
fairies,  or  as  the  rewards  of  a  relent- 
ing destiny,  towards  the  end  of  the 
third  volume.  There  was  pretty 
sure  to  be  a  period  of  sore  probation 
first,  when  the  course  of  affection 
ran  turbid  and  troubled ;  when  un- 
natural parents  threw  unexampled 
obstacles  in  the  way  of  the  union 
of  clinging  hearts ;  when  the  hero- 
ine would  struggle  out  of  the  depths 
of  despair  to  soar  to  sublime  heights 
of  self-sacrifice.  And  a  very  pretty 
training  it  was,  if  not  for  the  chron- 
icles of  actual  lives,  at  all  events 
for  perpetuating  the  literature  of  a 
school. 

Of  course  the  newly-emancipated 
school-girl  has  not  the  faintest  idea 
of  turning  to  authorship,  further, 
at  least,  than  in  some  occasional  son- 
net, when  the  thought,  though  it 
be  mawkish  in  the  extreme,  is  de- 
cidedly sweeter  than  the  metre.  In 
the  meantime,  in  a  variety  of  agree- 
able distractions,  she  is  progressing 
unconsciously  with  her  preparatory 
studies.  In  such  society  as  is 
brought  within  her  reach,  at  dances 
and  dinners  and  other  vanities,  she 
acquires  all  the  practical  knowledge 
of  life  that  is  to  leaven  a  mass  of 
crude  unrealities.  When  she  is  not 
playing  some  quiet  little  game  her- 
self— trifling  over  a  passing  flirta- 
tion, giving  shy  encouragement  to 
aspirants,  or  holding  unwelcome 
admirers  at  arm's -length, — she  is 
looking  on  and  marking  the  game 
of  others.  Should  her  mind  be 
brighter  and  more  attractive  than 
her  person — should  it  be  her  fate 
to  be  shelved  as  a  wall-flower  in  the 
ball-room,  and  be  left  out  of  the 
nicest  sets  at  lawn-tennis — we  may 
be  sure  that  her  eyes  will  be  all  the 
sharper.  Where  there  is  no  genuine 
talent  for  literary  work,  it  is  the 
confirmed  spinster  of  a  certain  age 
who  is  likely  to  be  most  fairly  suc- 
cessful. And  perhaps  household 


1879.]  IV.  Novelets. 

anxieties  may  be  blessings  to  her 
in  disguise,  enabling  her  to  extend 
the  range  and  depth  of  her  observa- 
tions. In  the  place  of  those  social 
frivolities  and  flirtations,  which  she 
might  have  studied  almost  as  use- 
fully as  her  favourite  books,  she 
learns  something  of  poverty  and  its 
practical  effects.  She  can  describe 
from  the  very  life  how  a  careful 
"  house  -mother  "  may  manage  to 
grapple  with  narrow  means ;  how 
a  care-worn  face  may  wear  a  smile 
in  the  most  trying  circumstances, 
showing  a  heroism  that  is  all 
the  greater  because  it  is  entire- 
ly unpretending  and  unconscious. 
She  may  remark  the  influences  of 
troubles  upon  different  natures ;  and 
if  she  has  the  sentiment  either  of 
humour  or  of  pathos,  she  will  find 
materials  enough  for  the  display  of 
one  and  the  other.  Though  she 
has  seen  scarcely  anything  of  the 
greater  world  that  lies  beyond 
the  tiny  garden-plot  of  a  semi- 
detached villa,  yet  she  may  have 
assisted  at  scenes  of  distress  and 
suffering,  brought  comfort  to  the 
pillow  of  the  sick,  and  sat  by  the 
deathbeds  of  the  dying. 

With  all  that,  however,  and  at 
the  very  best,  the  range  of  her 
actual  knowledge  must  necessarily 
be  extremely  limited ;  and  it  is  there 
that  she  must  be  at  an  inevitable 
disadvantage  with  the  man  whose 
talents  are  in  no  respect  superior  to 
her  own.  We  are  not  "talking,  of 
course,  of  those  women  of  extra- 
ordinary genius,  who  should  be 
even  more  highly  placed  than  they 
are,  were  we  to  remember  that 
with  them  intuitive  perceptions 
seem  to  have  superseded  the  neces- 
sity for  ordinary  knowledge.  She 
has  not  gone  wandering  in  male 
costume  like  a  George  Sand,  through 
the  back  streets  of  a  great  capital, 
risking  herself  in  hazardous  ad- 
ventures— partly  from  the  love  of 
them,  partly  from  a  perilous  en- 


325 


thusiasm  for  her  art.  She  has  not 
even  enjoyed  the  sesthetical  advan- 
tage of  coming  in  contact  with  those 
odd  and  disreputable  members  of 
society  whom  every  man  must  mix 
with  more  or  less.  She  has  not 
fagged  or  fought  at  some  public 
school ;  she  has  not  outrun  the 
constable  at  college,  making  the 
acquaintance  of  dons  and  duns 
and  usurers ;  nor  has  she  had  the 
picturesque  training  of  the  mess  and 
the  ante -room,  knocking  around 
the  world  in  British  garrisons, 
anywhere  between  St  Helena  and 
the  Himalayas.  Yet  she  cannot 
altogether  confine  herself  to  a  gyn- 
o?,cia  in  her  books ;  nor  can  she 
keep  her  readers  entirely  in  the 
company  of  parsons,  prudes,  and 
the  unimpeachably  respectable.  But 
if  she  goes  far  beyond,  she  must 
create  her  pictures  for  the  most 
part  in  the  dimness  of  her  inner 
consciousness ;  or  if  she  should  be 
better  informed  than  we  are  willing 
to  believe,  her  delicacy  binds  her  to 
a  double  measure  of  reserve,  unless, 
indeed,  she  have  the  shameless  as- 
surance to  unsex  herself.  Still  the 
most  pure-minded  and  innocently 
ignorant  of  women  must  provide 
her  readers  with  excitement  in 
some  shape.  Suicides,  mysterious 
disappearances,  and  murders,  are 
permissible  business  enough — and, 
of  course,  we  have  a  fair  sprinkling 
of  these  ;  but  then  they  have  been 
done  and  overdone  ad  nauseam, 
by  the  professed  mistresses  of  the 
knack.  So  the  novice  can  hardly 
help  falling  back  on  mental  agonies, 
and  "  worms  i'  the  bud,"  and  the  phil- 
osophy of  the  passions  in  their  most 
tempestuous  moods.  For  these,  as 
we  may  well  trust,  she  has  to  draw 
exclusively  on  her  imagination. 
Even  for  the  fashionable  matron, 
writing  in  her  Belgravian  boudoir, 
it  is  not  easy  to  strike  effects  out 
of  the  storms  in  the  saucer,  which 
are  the  most  she  personally  knows 


326 


Contemporary  Literature  : 


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anything  about ;  and  after  she  has 
tried  her  best  to  magnify  them,  they 
are  more  akin  to  the  extravagant 
than  the  sublime.  In  virtue  of  her 
matronly  position  she  may  drag  us 
into  the  divorce  courts,  although 
these  have  ceased  to  awaken  our 
jaded  interest  except  when  some 
ingeniously  licentious  Frenchman 
undertakes  to  get  up  the  cases.  But 
the  girl,  or  the  prudish  elderly 
maiden,  should  dispense  with  even 
such  threadbare  materials  as  these  ; 
and  with  the  best  intentions,  and  a 
respectable  style,  she  can  hardly 
escape  being  insipid  or  ridiculous. 
And  we  concede  her  a  very  great 
deal  when  we  concede  a  respectable 
style.  For,  as  a  rule,  it  would 
appear  that  English  composition 
can  be  no  part  of  the  higher  fem- 
inine education.  We  might  be 
grateful  for  the  delightful  confusion 
of  metaphors  that  often  force  a 
smile  with  their  wild  incongruities ; 
for  the  neat  misapplication  of  epi- 
thets having  their  origin  in  the 
unknown  classical  tongues ;  for  the 
introduction  of  hackneyed  scraps 
from  the  French,  wrought  in,  if  we 
may  borrow  one  of  them,  a  tort 
et  a  tr avers.  But  it  is  less  easy  to 
tolerate  the  invertebrate  sentences 
which  are  wanting  so  often  either 
in  the  head  or  the  tail :  for  the 
blunders  in  spelling,  the  confusion 
in  grammar,  and  the  gross  solecisms 
in  the  commonest  English.  These 
last,  indeed,  are  painfully  signifi- 
cant of  the  rapid  progress  of  the 
mania  for  novel  -  writing,  which 
must  long  ago  have  made  its  way 
even  below  the  middle  strata  of  the 
middle  classes.  At  least  it  would 
be  difficult  otherwise  to  account  for 
the  repulsive  coarseness  of  style, 
and  the  grosser  vulgarity  of  thought, 
which  would  shock  any  woman  with 
the  slightest  pretensions  to  refine- 
ment, though  they  are  quite  what 
we  should  expect  of  a  respectable 
lady's-maid. 


What  is  an  excusable  fault  in  an 
inexperienced  woman — her  real  of- 
fence being  her  writing  at  all — be- 
comes in  a  man  a  positive  crime, 
only  to  be  extenuated  by  his  youth 
and  his  verdancy.  He  is  not  re- 
duced to  choose  between  crossing 
his  hands  or  taking  a  place  as  a 
lady  -  help,  or  as  a  governess  to 
fractious  children,  or  as  companion 
to  some  cross-grained  old  harridan 
who  shares  her  affections  between 
herself  and  her  money.  He  has 
plenty  of  honest  occupations  open  to 
him.  He  may  fall  back  on  the  pul- 
pit if  he  has  no  talent  for  the  bar, 
and  cut  a  very  respectable  figure  as 
a  curate :  he  can  always  try  his  luck 
in  the  colonies,  or  offer  for  a  keep- 
er's place,  or  practise  his  penman- 
ship as  a  clerk  in  the  city.  At  the 
worst  he  can  fall  back  upon  stone- 
breaking  or  oakum-picking.  What 
reason  in  the  world  has  he,  we  in- 
dignantly demand,  to  imagine  that 
he  has  the  makings  in  him  of  a 
Bulwer  or  a  Thackeray  ?  We  admit 
there  is  a  good  deal  in  the  old  say- 
ing, that  if  a  man  tries  for  a  silken 
gown  he  may  hope  to  snatch  a  sleeve 
of  it.  But  we  altogether  dispute 
the  right  of  any  man  to  scramble 
for  what  is  hopelessly  above  his 
reach,  when  he  proposes  to  make 
use  of  the  public  as  his  stepping- 
stones.  He  ought  to  learn  some- 
thing of  himself  before  he  professes 
to  entertain  other  people ;  and  as 
we  have  remarked  already,  the  pri- 
mary purpose  of  the  novel  is  amuse- 
ment most  charily  blended  with 
instruction.  We  hold  fast  to  that 
sound  doctrine.  We  are  less  gratified 
than  provoked  even  by  the  most 
brilliant  originality,  when  it  puts 
a  strain  on  our  faculties  in  place  of 
relaxing  them.  And  what  shall  we 
say,  then,  of  the  self-confident  novice 
who  insists  on  trying  "  his  prentice 
hand  "  at  subtle  psychological  analy- 
sis, or  who  undertakes  to  instruct  us 
in  the  silliest  platitudes  ?  Only  that, 


1879.] 


IV.  Novelists. 


327 


upon  the  whole,  we  like  him  better, 
— at  all  events  we  dislike  him  rather 
less, — than  his  brother,  who  falls 
into  the  fashion  of  the  ladies,  and 
without  the  excuse  of  their  senti- 
mental illusions,  discourses  of  the 
love  of  which  he  knows  nothing. 
It  is  not  "  sweet  Anne  Page,"  but 
"  a  great  lubberly  boy,"  who  goes 
blundering  about  with  his  clumsy 
imagination  on  the  ground  which 
is  closed  to  him  like  Paradise  to 
the  Peri.  What  he  may  come  to 
be  we  know  not.  He  may  school 
himself  into  the  art  of  gracefully 
languishing  like  a  Petrarch,  and 
learn  to  sigh  his  soul  out  in  mov- 
ing serenades  beneath  the  balcony 
of  his  mistress.  He  may  become  a 
worthy  fellow,  with  earnest  passions, 
who  lays  siege  in  the  intervals  of 
his  business  to  some  heart  that  is 
worth  the  winning;  who  will  marry, 
and  make  satisfactory  settlements, 
and  become  a  highly  respectable 
husband  and  father.  In  the  mean- 
time, with  his  shallow  inexperience 
and  self-conceit,  he  makes  himself 
a  most  intolerable  nuisance.  The 
only  thing  he  succeeds  in  is  in 
painting  his  own  portrait :  and  that, 
as  we  need  hardly  say,  he  does  with 
engaging  unconsciousness.  In  each 
of  his  chapters  we  recognise  him 
as  he  is,  overdressed  or  slovenly 
dressed  as  it  may  happen,  but  in 
either  case  most  embarrassed  in 
feminine  society.  When  he  heaves 
his  sighs,  they  are  visibly  pumped 
up ;  and  when  he  makes  a  con- 
torted effort  to  be  pathetic,  he  loses 
himself  in  unintelligible  bathos. 
It  is  not  worth  while  breaking 
butterflies  on  the  wheel,  or  we 
might  carry  our  remarks  on  him 
into  more  detail.  If  he  be  of 
humble  connections,  and  hopes  to 
get  a  living  by  his  pen,  the  sharp 
disillusioning  may  come  to  him 
before  much  harm  is  done,  and 
he  may  turn  to  some  respectable 
trade,  or  to  travelling  the  coun- 


try as  a  bagman.  The  worst  that 
can  usually  happen  to  anybody 
who  reads  him,  is  to  break  down  at 
the  beginning  of  one  of  his  stories. 
But  sometimes — and  we  fancy  that 
some  glaring  examples  will  suggest 
themselves — he  becomes  our  special 
aversion  for  a  couple  of  seasons  or 
so.  JSTot  that  we  do  not  personally 
shun  him  and  all  his  works,  but 
because  as  it  wearied  the  Athenians 
to  hear  Aristides  called  "  the  good," 
so  it  disgusts  us  with  infinitely  more 
reason  to  see  him  advertised  and 
puffed.  He  swaggers  into  the  novel 
market  on  the  strength  of  a  well- 
sounding  title.  He  may  call  himself  a 
foreign  prince,  or  be  a  genuine  scion 
of  native  nobility.  He  is  happy  in  a 
publisher  who  hopes  much  from  his 
quality,  and  cares  comparatively 
little  for  the  quality  of  his  work. 
The  name  in  itself  should  be  a 
sufficient  guarantee  for  the  intimacy 
of  the  illustrious  author  with  the 
great  world  he  was  born  in.  The 
oracle  is  worked  industriously.  The 
courtly  journals  stand  by  their 
order,  and  are  lavish  of  praise  more 
or  less  fulsome.  Now  and  then 
a  well-arranged  dinner  -  party  may 
win  over  a  critic  of  a  better  class. 
There  may  be  something  really  to 
be  said  for  the  author  by  a  dexter- 
ous advocate.  He  may  be  an  un- 
blushing plagiarist,  with  an  in- 
genuity that  defies  detection,  if  it 
does  not  elude  it;  and  there  are 
scenes  and  passages  in  .his  books 
that  may  be  quoted  with  discrimi- 
nating approval.  If  we  are  to  be- 
lieve the  inscriptions  on  his  title- 
pages,  he  passes  quickly  into  a 
second  or  a  third  edition ;  and  in- 
deed we  see  little  reason  to  doubt 
them,  for  his  name  acquires  a  cer- 
tain market  value,  and  he  is  en- 
couraged to  publish  again  and 
again. 

We  need  hardly  say  that  if  our 
remarks  on  beginners  in  the  novel 
business  seem  to  be  severe,  we  mean 


328 


Contemporary  Literature : 


[March 


the  application  of  them  to  be  con- 
fined to  those  who  have  palpably 
mistaken  their  vocation.  Many  a 
man  may  honestly  try  and  honour- 
ably fail;  and  the  capable  critic 
will  be  lenient  to  conscientious  and 
intelligent  work,  even  though  it 
appear,  as  Artemus  Ward  observed 
of  Shakespeare,  when  imagining 
him  a  correspondent  of  the  New 
York  dailies,  that  the  writer  "  lacks 
the  rakesit  fancy  and  immagina- 
shun." 

In  our  opinion,  we  should  say 
that  if  the  young  novel-writer  were 
wise,  he  would  rely,  in  the  first 
instance,  almost  entirely  on  his  own 
knowledge  of  life.  It  need  not  and 
cannot  be  extensive ;  but  it  is  trust- 
worthy so  far  as  it  goes.  Frank  auto- 
biography can  hardly  fail  to  be  in- 
teresting, however  uneventful  in  its 
incidents.  We  have  pointed  out 
already  that  the  male  sex  has  "a 
pull "  in  that  respect.  The  aspiring 
novelist  must  have  fair  powers  of 
observation  ;  but  a  very  moderate 
exercise  of  them  should  have  pro- 
vided him  with  some  slender  reper- 
toire of  characters.  He  must  blend 
a  proportion  of  sentiment  with  his 
action  ;  but  for  that,  again,  he  may, 
in  great  measure,  have  recourse  to 
himself.  If  he  have  the  courage  to 
be  candid ;  if  he  have  any  habit  of 
self-examination,  and  the  patience 
to  probe  his  own  nature,  and  to 
plumb  the  depths  of  his  feelings,  he 
may  easily  succeed  without  any  com- 
promising indiscretions  in  making 
his  hero  natural  enough  for  any 
ordinary  purpose.  His  women  he 
will  find  more  embarrassing,  and  in 
them  he  is  almost  certain  to  break 
down.  That,  however,  need  in  no 
way  dishearten  him ;  for  a  perfect 
novel  is  absolutely  phenomenal, 
and  even  Sir  Walter  Scott,  in  the 
flush  of  his  fame,  made  lay  figures 
of  the  Misses  Bradwardine  and 
Mannering.  If  he  stick  to  his 
sisters  he  may  avoid  caricature ;  or 


if  he  has  been  precocious  in  his 
affections  like  the  author  of  '  Don 
Juan/  make  excellent  use  of  flirta- 
tions of  his  own.  As  for  his,  other 
men,  he  can  hardly  be  at  any  great 
loss,  if  he  cast  about  among  his 
familiar  cronies  and  his  college 
companions.  It  should  be  easy  to 
blacken  one  or  two  into  rascals,  or 
whiten  them  into  saints,  while  keep- 
ing the  rest  as  respectable  mediocri- 
ties ;  though,  on  the  whole,  unless 
his  genius  be  unmistakably  of  the 
lurid  order,  he  will  do  well  to  avoid 
exaggeration  in  the  beginning.  So 
far  as  our  observation  goes,  the  secret 
of  a  first  success  lies  in  limiting  the 
number  of  the  characters,  simplify- 
ing the  plot,  and  laying  the  scenes 
of  it  as  nearly  as  possible  in  the 
present  year,  or,  at  all  events,  in 
the  present  decade.  Simplification 
assists  you  in  dispensing  with  the 
skill  which  can  only  come  from 
practice  or  intuitive  talent.  And 
nineteen  readers  in  twenty  are  far 
more  interested  in  the  frailties  of 
their  next-door  neighbours  than  in 
ingenious  historical  romance,  or  the 
most  brilliantly  fanciful  pictures 
from  the  antipodes. 

We  have  remarked  elsewhere 
that  many  clever  writers  have  never 
surpassed  their  maiden  novels ;  and 
on  the  principles  we  have  ventured 
to  lay  down,  that  seems  to  stand 
to  reason.  On  first  taking  pen  in 
hand,  nine  men  in  ten  are  cramped 
by  timidity.  They  have  the  terror 
of  the  critics  before  their  eyes  ;  un- 
consciously they  criticise  them- 
selves, and  are  apt  to  reject  what  is 
excellent.  If  their  imaginations 
are  really  free  and  fertile,  they  are 
troubled  over  the  embarrassment  of 
choice  between  the  clashing  ideas 
that  jostle  on  them.  There  the 
veteran  has  the  advantage  of  quick 
decision.  He  knows  that  what  he 
may  reject  for  the  moment  will 
come  in  usefully  later ;  and  at  all 
events,  that  he  will  lose  more  in 


1879.]  IV.  Novelists. 


329 


elan  than  lie  is  likely  to  gain  by 
painstaking  selection.  But  then 
the  debutant,  on  the  other  hand,  has 
the  amplest  elbow-room.  Whatever 
he  may  choose  to  say  or  do,  he 
cannot  possibly  be  borrowing  from 
himself;  and  if  he  only  write 
naturally  when  he  has  once  decided 
on  his  lines,  he  can  hardly,  at  all 
events,  be  lacking  in  freshness.  His 
first  book  may  prove  little  more 
than  that  he  will  do  well  to  try 
again,  and  may  perhaps  turn  into  a 
novel-writer.  Nor  need  he  be  dis- 
couraged if  his  second  attempt  be 
comparatively  unsuccessful.  It  can 
hardly  have  the  freshness  of  his 
first,  and  must  necessarily  be  a  more 
crucial  test  of  his  abilities.  He  has 
to  call  more  on  his  imagination  to 
help  out  realism,  and  must  begin  to 
exercise  himself  in  the  artifices  that 
are  become  a  habit  with  the  veteran. 
He  wants  the  easy  confidence  that 
goes  for  so  much ;  and  may  be 
over-regardful  of  the  strictures  that 
have  been  passed  upon  him.  We 
are  very  far  from  asserting  that  the 
novice  may  not  get  valuable  hints 
from  his  critics ;  but  he  will  never 
achieve  anything  considerable  if, 
in  the  last  resort,  he  do  not  refer 
everything  to  his  private  judgment, 
and  only  endeavour  to  profit  by  the 
advice  he  sees  reason  to  assent  to. 
We  remember  a  story  in  one  of  the 
books  of  our  childhood,  where  an 
old  man,  driving  a  donkey  over  a 
bridge,  brings  the  beast  by  which 
he  gets  his  living  to  a  miserable 
end,  by  listening  to  the  conflicting 
advice  of  the  passengers.  So  it  may 
well  be  with  the  novice  bewildered 
among  the  critics.  More  than  once 
we  have  taken  the  pains  to  select 
conflicting  extracts  from  various 
reviews,  all  ostensibly  of  nearly 
equal  authority,  arranging  them 
antagonistically  in  parallel  columns, 
and  we  may  safely  say,  that  we 
have  seldom  read  anything  at  once 
more  confusing  and  more  entertain- 


ing. We  can  recall  more  than  one 
of  the  most  popular  novel-writers  of 
our  day — men  who  seem  to  go  to 
work  with  the  method  of  machin- 
ery, and  who  may  be  confidently 
counted  upon  for  three  or  four 
books  in  the  year — who  either  began 
with  a  dash  and  then  comparatively 
broke  down,  or  who  wrought  them- 
selves up,  by  slow  and  fluctuating 
degrees,  to  the  fame  and  the  comfort- 
able incomes  they  are  enjoying.  Many 
of  their  worst  novels  have  still  a  cir- 
culation in  yellow  covers,  partly  be- 
cause a  well-established  name  will 
sell  anything,  and  partly  because  the 
authors,  having  the  root  of  the  mat- 
ter in  them,  showed  something  of 
their  cleverness  even  in  their  faults. 
But  under  a  series  of  disappoint- 
ments and  mortifications,  they 
might  easily  have  ceased  to  per- 
severe, and  both  they  and  the  pub- 
lic that  makes  the  fortunes  of  its 
favourites  would  have  equally  had 
cause  to  regret  the  decision. 

Next  to  the  indispensable  imagi- 
nation and  literary  talent,  the  most 
helpful  qualities  are  versatility  and 
tact.  There  are  men  whose  names 
will  occur  to  everybody,  who  have 
lost  reputation  prematurely,  because 
they  are  fast  fixed  in  a  groove.  Their 
books  had  once  an  amazing  circu- 
lation, commanded  high  prices,  and 
were  scattered  broadcast  in  a  suc- 
cession of  cheap  editions.  They 
were  rapaciously  pirated  in  the 
United  States,  and  translated  into 
most  of  the  languages  of  the  Con- 
tinent. Proprietors  of  pushing 
magazines  thought  it  worth  while 
to  treat  with  them,  even  on  the 
terms  of  losing  money  on  each  par- 
ticular bargain.  In  some  respects 
they  may  be  said  to  have  been  Eng- 
lish Gaboriaus.  Working  back- 
wards, as  we  may  presume  from  their 
carefully  planned  denouements,  they 
put  together  most  cleverly  intricate 
puzzles,  like  those  ingenious  com- 
plications of  ivory -carving  which 


330 


Contemporary  Literature : 


[March 


are  turned  out  by  the  patient 
Chinese.  Pulling  them  to  pieces 
when  once  you  had  the  clue,  you 
fancied  you  could  detect  the  trick 
of  their  construction,  although  you 
could  not  help  admiring  its  clever- 
ness. But  these  feats  of  art  and 
skill  are  not  to  be  multiplied  in- 
definitely; and  yet,  though  each 
subsequent  repetition  of  them  has 
been  falling  flatter  and  flatter,  it 
never  appears  to  occur  to  the  authors 
that  it  would  be  well  were  they  to 
change  their  vein.  Like  the  ang- 
ler who  keeps  casting  his  fly  in  the 
pool  where  he  has  been  excited  by 
killing  a  good -sized  fish,  they  re- 
turn time  after  time  to  their  premiere 
amours,  though  the  public  have 
ceased  to  rise,  and  each  fresh  cast 
is  a  fresh  disappointment.  Even 
Gaboriau,  who  was  a  master  in 
his  particular  craft,  was  often  hard 
put  to  it  latterly.  At  the  best  of 
times — in  his  *  Crime  d'Orcival ' 
and  'L'affaire  Lerouge' — he  had  to 
spin  out  his  volumes  to  the  indis- 
pensable length,  by  dragging  you 
through  long  episodical  digressions  ; 
while,  subsequently,  he  wandered 
away  more  and  more  from  his 
criminal  courts  and  the  Rue 
Jerusalem  and  its  detectives,  into 
the  commonplace  world  of  dissi- 
pated Paris. 

Talking  of  mannerism  of  plot  nat- 
urally leads  on  to  mannerism  of 
style.  Almost  every  man  has  his 
tricks  of  writing,  which  are  apt 
to  grow  upon  him  unconsciously. 
Sometimes  they  are  so  insignificant 
as  to  be  almost  unobjectionable ; 
and  yet  they  jar  on  the  ear  of  the 
sensitive  reader.  As  almost  every- 
body must  plead  guilty,  more  or 
less,  we  have  the  less  hesitation  in 
alluding  to  these,  even  at  the  risk 
of  laying  ourselves  open  to  retort. 
They  may  be  merely  the  unneces- 
sary repetition  of  some  conjunction 
which  seems  to  lift  the  writer  more 
comfortably  across  the  rift  which 


yawns  between  a  couple  of  his 
periods.  What  strikes  one  more, 
of  course,  is  the  reiteration  of  some 
epithet  or  qualifying  adverb,  which 
will  invariably  force  itself  to  the 
front  when  the  pen  hesitates  and 
pauses.  For  the  use  of  words  of 
the  kind  becomes  wellnigh  me- 
chanical ;  actually  they  may  serve 
their  purpose  at  least  as  well  as 
any  other  :  and  yet,  we  believe  that 
the  most  careless  of  readers  come  to 
recognise  them  with  a  sense  of  irri- 
tation. What  is  more  strange,  is  the 
affection  which  writers  who  should 
be  excellent  judges  of  style,  and 
who  have  had  an  infinite  variety  of 
literary  practice,  take  for  certain 
phrases  and  turns  of  speech  which, 
to  say  the  least  of  them,  are  singu- 
larly ungraceful.  It  would  be  in 
vain  for  these  eminent  gentlemen 
to  make  any  attempt  at  concealing 
their  identity;  and  we  would  under- 
take to  draw  up  from  memory  a 
catalogue  of  words  and  phrases 
which  should  reveal  the  workman- 
ship of  any  one  of  them — unless, 
indeed,  they  had  been  put  on  their 
guard,  and  had  cut  their  work  to 
pieces  in  the  revising.  For  it  is 
wonderful  how  some  favourite 
phrase  comes  to  fall  naturally  into 
its  place  in  a  sentence  :  if  you  stop 
to  change  it,  you  check  the  flow  of 
thought,  and  are,  after  all,  but  in- 
differently satisfied  with  its  substi- 
tute. Should  any  one  care  for  illus- 
trations upon  the  abuse  of  manner- 
ism, we  cannot  do  better  than  refer 
him  to  Thackeray's  *  Novels  by 
Eminent  Hands,'  or  to  some  of  the 
parodies  and  extravaganzas  by  the 
American  humorists,  though  these 
are  wanting  in  Thackeray's  more 
delicate  discrimination. 

Mere  crotchets  in  expression  are 
comparative  trifles,  and  injure  the 
writer  more  than  anybody  else. 
What  is  infinitely  more  offensive 
are  those  stock-epithets  which  ha- 
bitually do  duty  in  the  eloquent 


1879.] 


IV.  Novelists. 


331 


descriptions  of  the  "brilliant  melo- 
dramatics  of  the  sensational  school. 
These  writers  are  for  the  most  part 
feminine,  and  their  pens  go  dashing 
along  with  true  feminine  volubility. 
How  well  we  know  what  we  have 
to  look  for ;  and  how  easy  it  seems 
to  be  to  catch  the  knack  of  the 
style  !  We  have  the  weird  beauty 
of  waning  moonlight;  the  sinister 
glare  of  glittering  eyes;  the  lus- 
trous effulgence  of  tawny  locks ; 
the  firm,  square-set  jaws,  eloquent 
of  indomitable  resolutions;  the 
sunny  smiles ;  the  long  shapely 
hands ;  the  fairy  feet ;  the  fiendish 
scowls; — and  all  the  rest  of  it,  ad 
nauseam.  Would  that  such  "  high 
falutin' "  were  confined  to  the  lan- 
guage, but  we  shall  have  something 
to  say  by -and -by  of  the  matter, 
of  the  sensational  novel.  In  the 
meantime  we  may  advert  for  a  mo- 
ment to  the  mannerism  of  pictur- 
esque description.  We  need  hardly 
say  that  it  is  a  fault,  if  fault  it  be, 
of  a  very  different  kind.  But  as 
there  are  artists  who  stick  from  first 
to  last  to  storms  breaking  over  High- 
land hills,  to  Sussex  harvest-fields 
and  Surrey  woodlands ;  so  there  are 
authors  who  will  repaint  the  identi- 
cal scenery  till,  grand  or  beautiful 
as  it  is,  we  begin  to  be  wearied. 
We  are  reminded  of  Mr  Peck- 
sniff's elevations  of  Salisbury  Cath- 
edral, taken  from  every  point  of  the 
compass.  We  are  thinking  at  the 
moment  of  Mr  William  Black ;  and 
we  have  the  less  hesitation  in  men- 
tioning him,  as  we  should  suppose 
that  few  men  have  less  need  to  be 
monotonous.  His  *  Adventures  of 
a  Phaeton'  embraced  an  infinite 
variety  of  English  landscapes  ;  and 
the  Downs  near  Leatherhead,  and 
the  lanes  around  Dorking,  were 
touched  to  the  full  as  lightly  and 
gracefully  as  the  caves  of  Staffa  or 
the  whirlpool  of  Corryvreckan. 
But  Mr  Black  will  go  back  to  the 
hills  of  Skye  and  the  Sound  of  Mull 


as  regularly  as  the  sportsmen  who 
have  rented  their  shootings  there. 
The  spirit  of  the  Hebridean  minstrel 
inspires  his  pen,  and  his  feelings 
find  appropriate  expression  in  the 
delicate  beauty  and  richness  of  his 
imagery.  But  the  very  beauty 
appears  to  argue  a  barrenness  which 
we  cannot  readily  believe  in  ;  so 
we  resent  having  '  The  Princess  of 
Thule '  repeat  herself  in '  Macleod  of 
Dare.'  Those  who  are  the  warmest 
admirers  of  Mr  Black,  must  have 
had  almost  enough  of  "  the  misty 
hills  of  Skye ; "  of  Colonsay  in  tem- 
pest, and  Jura  in  gloom,  and  Coll 
and  Eigg  and  Tiree  in  all  the  tints 
of  the  rainbow. 

Next  to  novels  of  a  manner  come 
the  novels  with  a  purpose ;  and  the 
novelist  who  writes  with  a  purpose 
must  always  be  in  some  degree  self- 
sacrificing.  At  best  he  is  more  or  less 
tied  down  to  preaching  or  pamphlet- 
eering ;  and  though  genius  may  gild 
the  pill,  there  is  a  sense  of  effort  in 
swallowing  it.  When  an  earnest 
man  takes  to  teaching  through 
novels,  he  must  almost  inevitably  go 
to  extremes,  which  are  injurious  to 
the  principles  of  his  art.  He  over- 
colours  or  distorts  his  characters, 
deepens  his  contrasts  of  light  and 
shade ;  nay,  he  will  sometimes  be 
tempted  to  embody  a  disquisition  in 
his  story  that  he  may  force  it  down 
the  throats  of  his  reluctant  readers. 
Dickens  did  some  public  good  in 
that  way,  nor,  perhaps,  did  his  repu- 
tation suffer  much  by  his  philan- 
thropy ;  but  it  is  not  every  novelist 
who  is  a  Dickens.  His  satirical 
side-hits  in  the  *  Pickwick  Papers ' 
come  in  admirably ;  but  the  '  Pick- 
wick Papers'  were  merely  linked 
together  by  the  loosest  of  plots. 
The  workhouse  system  and  the 
police  courts  in  '  Oliver  Twist ' — 
Doctors'  Commons  in  'David  Cop- 
perfield' — the  Court  of  Chancery 
and  the  detectives  in '  Bleak  House  ' 
—  stage  plagiarisms  in  '  Nicholas 


332 


Contemporary  Literature : 


[March 


Nickleby ' — the  Circumlocution  Of- 
fice in  'Little  Don-it,' — were  de- 
cidedly drags  on  these  stories. 
Dotheboys  Hall  and  Mr  Wackford 
Squeers  were  exceptions  that  proved 
the  general  rule.  It  is  another 
thing  when  satire  in  fiction  takes 
a  wider  range,  and  embraces  the 
humorous  eccentricities  of  a  nation, 
or  even  of  some  great  section  of 
society.  Whether  the  strictures  on 
American  institutions  in  'Martin 
Chuzzlewit '  were  fair  or  not,  they 
fell  in  with  the  scheme  of  the 
book — they  brought  out  in  relief 
the  traits  of  the  characters  ;  and 
the  author  so  thoroughly  succeeded 
in  his  aim,  that  everybody  laughed, 
and  laughed  heartily.  Thus  no 
living  writer  has  used  the  novelist's 
art  and  gifts  with  more  practical 
purpose  than  Mr  Charles  Eeade. 
He  has  shown  up  trades-unions, 
and  prisons,  and  private  madhouses, 
and  more  things  of  the  kind  than 
we  can  well  remember.  We  have 
always  thought  his  '  Never  too  Late 
to  Mend '  one  of  the  most  spirited 
and  touching  stories  that  has  ap- 
peared in  our  own  times ;  though 
for  imaginative  power  and  perfec- 
tion of  literary  workmanship,  we 
prefer  the  '  Cloister  on  the  Hearth.' 
But  even  those  who  admire  Mr 
Eeade  as  we  do  must  admit  that 
the  horrors  and  portraits  in  '  Never 
too  Late  to  Mend '  were  more 
sensational  than  realistic.  And 
whether  the  cold-blooded  atrocity 
of  the  Jacks-in-office  be  admissible 
or  founded  upon  facts,  it  is  certain 
that  the  tortures  inflicted  on  the 
prisoners  betray  us  into  a  senti- 
mental sympathy  with  crime,  and 
a  dangerous  oblivion  of  criminal 
antecedents.  We  believe  that  few 
counsel  get  up  their  cases  more 
carefully  than  Mr  Reade;  but  if 
men  of  undeniable  genius  handi- 
cap themselves  heavily  in  promot- 
ing social  reforms  through  the 
medium  of  brilliant  romance,  the 


audacity  of  their  duller  imitators 
must  incur  its  inevitable  penalty. 
How  well  we  know  the  impulsive 
Church  controversialists,  who  under- 
take the  propagation  of  their  pecu- 
liar tenets — who  preach  up  or  cry 
down  ritualistic  observances — who 
introduce  their  model  parsons  and 
their  amiable  ladies  bountiful,  that 
circulate  through  the  cottages  with 
tea  and  tracts,  and  are  always  say- 
ing words  in  season  or  out  of 
season.  The  absurdity  of  such 
stories  from  the  practical  point  of 
view  is  that,  in  their  prolixity  and 
shallow  sectarianism,  they  defeat 
their  own  ends,  and  are  only  read 
by  the  people  who  are  already 
converted  to  their  principles.  Those 
who  differ  shrink  from  them  as 
Satan  from  holy  water;  while  it 
needs  neither  their  prejudices  nor 
their  bigotry  to  make  them  in- 
tolerably dull  to  anybody  who  reads 
with  the  idea  of  being  amused. 
Almost  more  detestable  is  the 
political  monomaniac  who  fancies 
himself  a  rising  Disraeli;  and  the 
occasional  jeu  d 'esprit  of  some  better 
man,  who  has  thrown  it  off  in  the 
vigour  of  his  political  enthusiasm, 
is  giving  those  ponderous  triflers 
perpetual  encouragement. 

On  the  whole,  if  we  were  driven 
to  choose  and  to  read,  we  should 
decidedly  prefer  the  modern  sensa- 
tional school.  There  at  least  you 
have  brightness,  and,  occasionally, 
fun ;  and  at  one  time  it  could 
boast  a  certain  originality.  It  was 
rather  a  happy  thought,  and  liter- 
ally produced  an  agreeably  shud- 
dering "sensation"  when  it  was 
suggested  that  in  the  sylph -like 
form  of  a  shrinking  maiden  or  a 
blushing  bride,  there  might  lurk 
the  passions  and  the  callous  cruelty 
of  a  Brinvilliers.  We  ha'd  half 
forgotten  the  Acqua  Toffana,  as  the 
chemists  have  lost  the/secret  of  it ; 
and  here  was  something  as  deadly 
being  infused  into  claret  -  glasses 


1879.]  IV.  Novelists. 


333 


or  handed  round  in  teacups  by 
respectable  footmen.  Eyes  that 
beamed  upon  you  with  angelic 
softness  the  one  moment,  were 
shooting  glances  of  concentrated 
venom  the  next,  or  gazing  in  seeth- 
ing malignancy  with  the  stony  stare 
of  the  basilisk.  Murder  stalked 
with  stealthy  tread  up  the  back 
staircases  of  the  most  highly- 
rented  houses  ;  bravoes,  disguised 
in  powdered  hair  and  gorgeous  liv- 
eries, draw  their  chairs  sociably 
to  the  tables  in  servants'  halls ; 
mothers  made  away  with  their 
children  as  if  they  were  ordering 
the  execution  of  a  litter  of  puppies. 
Had  all  that  been  bluntly  told, 
it  would  have  sounded  unnatural 
and  extravagant  in  a  police  report. 
But  writers  like  Miss  Braddon  had 
undoubtedly  the  talent  of  mixing  it 
up  with  the  realistic,  so  as  to  throw 
an  air  of  possibility  over  the  whole. 
You  might  have  been  slow  to  give 
Lady  Audley  credit  for  the  vice 
which  belied  her  beautiful  face ; 
but  any  scene  appeared  dramati- 
cally conceivable,  when  you  had 
been  made  so  thoroughly  at  home 
in  the  surroundings.  It  was  your 
own  fault  if  you  did  not  feel  like 
one  of  the  family  in  the  mansion 
in  Park  Lane,  or  the  banker's  villa 
at  Twickenham.  You  had  been  im- 
pressed by  the  chaste  colours  of  the 
walls,  and  admired  the  rich  texture 
of  the  tapestries.  You  might  make 
a  shrewd  guess  at  the  price  of  the 
table-cover,  and  you  were  familiar 
with  the  quaint  patterns  on  the 
breakfast  china.  You  know  the 
rare  exotics  on  the  lawn  rather 
better  than  the  gardener ;  and  had 
revelled  in  all  the  effects  of  sun- 
light and  moonshine,  to  which  that 
hard-headed  Scotchman  was  serene- 
ly indifferent. 

But  as  bold  conceptions  of  this 
sort  began  with  a  climax,  it  was 
difficult,  otf  rather  impossible,  to 
cap  them.  No  doubt  there  were 

VOL.  CXXV. NO.  DCCLXI. 


creditable  efforts  of  audacity  in  a 
milder  if  not  a  less  improbable 
shape.  As  when  Mrs  Henry 
Wood,  in  her  '  East  Lynn,'  brought 
back  an  erring  wife  to  the  roof- 
tree  of  her  injured  husband,  and 
made  her  tend  their  cherished  chil- 
dren as  governess,  avoiding  recog- 
nition behind  a  pair  of  spectacles. 
Such  brilliant  fancies,  however, 
could  not  come  every  day  to 
everybody;  and  accordingly,  both 
the  originators  of  the  sensational 
"dodge,"  and  their  indefatigable 
imitators,  were  hard  put  to  it  to 
keep  up  the  excitement.  After  mak- 
ing their  heroines  wade  through  gore 
in  their  swan's-down  slippers,  they 
took  to  refining  upon  breaches  of 
the  moral  law,  and  more  especially  of 
the  seventh  commandment.  There, 
however,  our  Englishwomen  are  at  a 
sad  disadvantage,  and  greatly  to  be 
pitied  they  are.  They  must  deny 
themselves  the  unfettered  licence 
of  the  French  romance ;  and  even 
when  they  dare  to  borrow  some 
refinement  of  depravity,  they  must 
tone  it  down  to  the  English  taste. 
With  the  most  praiseworthy  ambi- 
tion, if  they  are  to  sell  their  books, 
or  obtain  admission  for  their  stories 
into  decent  magazines,  they  can 
hardly  write  up  to  the  disclosures 
of  the  divorce  trials.  The  natural 
alternative  is  to  launch  out  in 
the  luxurious,  to  elaborate  mar- 
vellous types  of  hopelessly  demora- 
lised sensuality,  and  to  shadow  out 
dim  possibilities  of  guilt  which 
may  take  shape  in  the  fancies  of 
their  more  imaginative  readers. 
There  is  nothing  the  middle  and 
the  lower  middle  classes  care  for 
more  than  to  be  introduced  to  those 
unfamiliar  splendours  which  Pro- 
vidence has  placed  beyond  their 
reach,  and,  necessarily,  they  can 
never  be  very  critical  as  to  the 
beings  who  people  these  dazzling 
realms  of  mystery.  No  one  knew 
that  better  than  Eugene  Sue, 
y 


334 


Contemporary  Literature : 


[March 


sternest  of  all  stern  republicans, 
who,  writing  in  the  scented  atmo- 
sphere of  his  cabinet,  secured  for 
his  books  an  enormous  sale  by 
his  glowing  pictures  of  the  luxury 
he  branded.  "  Ouida,"  who  has  a 
good  deal  of  the  French  "  genius  " 
in  her,  may  be  said  to  have  set 
Englishwomen  the  example  in  that 
respect.  She  gave  us  her  delicate 
Life-Guardsmen,  who,  like  Rudolf 
in  the  '  Mysteries  of  Paris,'  had  the 
pluck  of  the  bull -dog  with  the 
strength  of  the  elephant.  They 
could  sit  up  the  best  part  of  the 
night  over  cigars  and  Cura9oa 
punch,  gambling  on  credit  for 
fabulous  stakes,  and  rise  "  fresh  as 
paint"  to  go  on  duty  in  the  morning. 
They  walked  the  streets  and  went 
their  nightly  rounds,  as  the  em- 
bodiment of  hyper  -  melodramatic 
action.  For  while  their  aristocratic 
superciliousness  provoked  the  quar- 
rel which  the  weakness  of  their 
physique  seemed  to  make  a  fore- 
gone conclusion,  in  reality  they 
had  muscles  of  steel,  set  in  motion 
bv  the  agility  of  the  catamount. 
They  had  been  trained  in  the 
boxing  schools  under  the  most 
scientific  professors,  and  being  in 
tiptop  condition,  notwithstanding 
their  debauches,  they  could  knock 
the  heaviest  of  roughs  out  of  time 
in  the  course  of  half-a-dozen  of 
rounds.  Nay,  they  always  escaped 
those  honourable  scars  which  would 
scarcely  have  set  them  off  in  the 
boudoirs  they  frequented.  Nor  were 
the  resources  of  their  mental  nature 
less  marvellous.  Brainless  sybarites 
as  they  might  appear  to  the  super- 
ficial observer,  with  soul  and  body 
deteriorating  apace  like  those  of 
the  confirmed  opium-smoker,  they 
could  be  reckoned  upon  at  a 
moment's  notice  for  a  manly  deci- 
sion in  the  most  momentous  ques- 
tion, or  for  a  heroic  deed  of  superb 
self-sacrifice.  For  they  had  a  code 
of  honour  and  virtue  of  their  own, 


though  it  was  a  code  that  clashed 
with  the  old-fashioned  decalogue; 
and  if  they  swindled  a  friend  or 
seduced  his  wife,  they  would  al- 
ways back  his  bills  to  any  amount, 
or  give  him  a  meeting  at  the  cer- 
tainty of  social  extinction  with  the 
chances  of  capital  punishment 
thrown  in. 

There  was  a  touch  of  genius  in  the 
audacity  that  first  played  fast  and 
loose  with  the  confiding  innocence 
and  ignorance  of  the  million.  Of 
genius,  we  say,  because  these  scenes 
and  persons,  being  as  far-fetched 
as  fanciful,  must  have  been  in- 
vented at  no  small  expenditure  of 
imagination.  In  incidents  and  ima- 
gery the  books  reminded  one  of  a 
grotesque  English  adaptation  of  the 
*  Arabian  Nights.'  And  if  we  have 
expatiated  on  them  at  some  length, 
it  is  simply  because  the  mischief 
they  must  answer  for  is  likely  to 
survive  the  unnatural  excitement 
and  the  extreme  absurdity  which 
were  their  redeeming  virtues.  It  is 
hard  now  to  get  up  either  a  laugh 
or  a  shudder  at  the  Antinous-like 
Guardsman  or  the  feline  adventur- 
ess, though  the  hectic  cheek  be  more 
haggard  than  ever,  and  the  eyes 
may  burn  with  sevenfold  intensity 
of  lustre.  But  the  fact  remains,  as 
Thackeray  says  of  one  of  his  own 
burlesques,  that  though  much  of  it 
all  is  absolutely  unintelligible  to  us, 
"yet  for  the  life  of  us  we  cannot 
help  thinking  that  it  is  mighty 
pretty  writing."  The  uneducated 
and  thoughtless  who  have  neither 
knowledge  nor  discrimination  of 
taste,  no  doubt  feel  unmitigated 
admiration  for  those  eloquent  rhap- 
sodies of  lurid  description.  Foolish 
lads  and  girls  fancy  they  have  a  re- 
flection of  high  society  in  the  most 
ludicrously  distorted  pictures  and 
caricatures;  virtue  and  vice  are 
habitually  confounded ;  and  notions 
that  might  have  been  borrowed  from 
the  melodramas  of  the  transpontine 


1879.] 


IV.  Novelists. 


335 


theatres,  are  developed  and  even  tra- 
vestied in  those  sensational  novels. 
Stories  written  for  the  gratification 
of  the  ordinary  subscribers  to  Mr 
Mudie,  are  passed  on  in  due  course 
to  be  devoured  by  the  milliners'  ap- 
prentices and  lawyers'  clerks.  There 
seems  no  reason  why  the  young 
woman  who  admires  her  beaute  du 
diable  daily  in  the  looking-glass, 
should  not  make  the  acquaintance 
of  one  of  these  noblemen  or  million- 
aires, who  can  raise  her  to  the 
position  her  charms  would  adorn. 
Whether  she  may  have  to  make 
away  with  him  afterwards  or  no  is  a 
question  she  may  postpone  for  the 
present ;  at  all  events,  she  has  suffi- 
cient self-respect  to  feel  sure  that 
she  will  prove  equal  to  that  or  any 
other  emergency :  while  the  clerk 
who  has  been  plunging  for  sovereigns 
at  Kingsbury  or  Hampton,  finds  a 
store  of  ready  precedents  at  his 
fingers'  ends  for  forging  cheques 
or  embezzling  cash.  Felonies  of 
the  kind,  when  extenuated  by  cir- 
cumstances, are  amiable  weaknesses 
of  the  most  respectable  men ;  and 
if  he  has  lingering  scruples  as  to 
their  strict  propriety,  he  is  taught 
that  he  need  only  make  restitution 
by  way  of  thanks-offering  when  his 
grand  coup  has  answered  its  purpose. 
These  stories  are  circulated  or  imi- 
tated in  the  columns  of  the  "  penny 
dreadfuls  ; "  and  just  notions  they 
must  give  of  the  rich  and  the  well- 
born to  the  intelligent  artisan  relax- 
ing from  his  labour.  The  dema- 
gogues who  get  a  living  by  stir- 
ring strife  between  classes,  and  by 
preaching  the  socialism  or  commun- 
ism by  which  they  profit,  have  only 
to  point  to  '  The  Aristocrat,  by  One 
of  Themselves.'  Taking  for  a  text 
the  novel  Miss  Tompkins  has  com- 
posed in  the  back  parlour  of  the 
semi-detached  villa  at  Brixton,  they 
exclaim,  in  the  triumph  of  irresist- 
ible logic  :  "  You  maintain  that 
the  infamous  aristocracy  may  have 


good  about  it  after  all.  Only  read 
this  here  novel.  It  is  evidently 
written  by  one  of  their  '  ornaments' 
— by  a  woman  born  in  the  purple, 
as  they  call  it,  who  drops  into  the 
Queen's  palace,  and  dines  every  day 
with  dukes  and  duchesses.  And 
just  see  what  she  has  got  to  say 
about  them.  Would  you  marry  a 
wife  who  had  been  brought  up  like 
Lady  Esmeralda  there  1  Or  would 
you  care  to  give  your  hand,  as  an 
honest  man,  to  that  swindler  and 
debauchee  the  Earl  of  Diddleham  1 
You  see  that  they  are  not  only 
effete  but  rotten  to  the  core ;  they 
batten  on  the  sweat  and  blood  of 
the  people.  Depend  upon  it,  the 
only  things  to  agitate  for  are  aboli- 
tion and  confiscation ;  and  if  we 
don't  send  these  curled  heads  of 

theirs  to  the   guillotine,  by  

sir,  they  may  be  grateful  to  the 
clemency  of  the  people  !  "  The 
chances  being  that  Miss  Tompkins 
has  never  even  had  a  peer  pointed 
out  to  her.  But  is  it  wonderful  if 
the  agitator's  invective  seems  justi- 
fiable and  his  reasoning  wellnigh 
unanswerable?  And  need  we  be 
surprised  if  the  impressible  me- 
chanic is  persuaded  that  the  shame- 
less immorality  of  the  upper  orders 
cries  aloud  for  condign  punishment 
like  that  which  drew  destruction  on 
the  cities  of  the  Plain  ? 

It  is  refreshing  to  turn  from  the 
sensational  novel,  or  from  those 
novels  of  society  that  are  as  frivo- 
lous though  more  harmless,  to  the 
works  of  the  gifted  and  powerful 
writers  who  redeem  the  profession 
from  discredit  and  disgrace.  We 
have  lost  Lord  Lytton,  and  Dick- 
ens, and  Thackeray.  But  in  George 
Eliot  we  have  a  novelist  who  has 
brought  her  art  to  a  perfection  that 
has  been  attained  by  very  few  of 
her  predecessors.  We  know  that 
there  are  differences  of  opinion  as 
to  her  later  works.  Differences  so 
far,  that  the  admirers  of  her  earlier 


336 


Contemporary  Literature : 


[March 


books  —  of  those  '  Scenes  of  Cleri- 
cal Life'  we  have  alluded  to  —  of 
*  Adam  Bede,'  and  '  Silas  Marner,' 
and  '  The  Mill  on  the  Moss,'  were 
so  charmed  with  their  vivid  pic- 
tures of  everyday  English  life,  that 
they  could  have  been  well  content 
had  she  gone  on  repeating  them; 
for  the  simple  reason  that  the 
novels  we  have  referred  to  are 
literally  nature  itself — nature  in 
ordinary  thought  and  everyday 
though  original  types — nature  in 
the  most  graphic  reproductions  of 
all  that  is  poetic  in  our  modern 
prose — nature  in  their  simple  pathos 
and  quaint  humour  and  drollery — 
nature  in  the  varied  tints  of  the 
rustic  landscape,  touched  as  lightly 
as  sharply  by  the  hand  of  an  artist 
who  has  transferred  her  soul  into 
the  scenes  she  depicts.  They  are 
natural  even  in  their  most  striking 
originality;  and  though  the  traits 
of  the  lonely  misanthropic  weaver, 
or  the  cross-grained  old  squire,  come 
with  all  the  force  of  a  novel  crea- 
tion, yet  our  experience  yields  fall 
conviction  to  their  most  grotesquely 
marked  individualities.  In  short, 
all  through  these  earlier  books, 
genius  and  penetration,  the  shrewd- 
est observation,  and  the  broadest 
sympathies,  have  been  at  work  in 
the  common  work-a-day  world.  We 
are  delighted  with  the  truths  and 
beauties  put  in  fresher  and  more 
attractive  aspects,  which  fail  to  im- 
press mere  superficial  observers. 
Her  t  Romola '  stands  by  itself  as 
perhaps  the  most  forcibly  sugges- 
tive representation  of  the  active 
and  intellectual  life  of  the  Italy  of 
the  middle  ages  that  is  to  be  met 
with  either  in  romance  or  history. 
In  *  Middlemarch '  and  '  Daniel 
Deronda,'  on  the  other  hand,  we 
have  a  far  higher  and  wider  exercise 
of  extraordinary  creative  power. 
The  sense  of  truth  is  as  strong  as 
ever,  but  the  world  we  are  intro- 
duced to  is  infinitely  more  ideal. 


We  should  say  that  in  the  rich 
luxuriance  of  her  imagination,  in 
the  intense  and  permanent  realism 
with  which  her  inspirations  are 
borne  in  upon  herself,  George  Eliot 
has  excelled  any  writer  we  are  ac- 
quainted with.  She  has  a  super- 
abundance of  the  versatility  we 
have  noted  as  indispensable  to  the 
habitual  writer  of  fiction ;  but  her 
versatility  takes  the  most  unex- 
pected forms,  and  rises  to  an  alto- 
gether exceptional  pitch,  disporting 
itself  in  the  pride  of  its  vigour  in 
the  spheres  of  intellectual  fancy. 
Like  Shakespeare,  she  throws  her- 
self into  her  characters  from  the 
highest  to  the  humblest ;  she 
breathes  and  thinks  even  in  the 
lofty  individualities  which  she  has 
conjured  out  of  the  depths  of  her 
dramatic  genius;  so  that  we  are  more 
forcibly  impressed  perhaps  by  a 
Deronda  or  a  Mordecai,  than  by 
Aunt  Glegg  or  Mrs  Poyser.  The 
analysis  of  the  human  heart  and  of 
character  is  as  subtly  exhaustive 
in  the  one  as  in  the  other;  but  in  the 
later  books,  in  the  shape  of  a  story 
that  sustains  the  interest  through- 
out, you  are  put  through  a  course 
of  practical  philosophy.  New  ideas 
and  possibilities  are  perpetually 
dawning  on  you ;  and  your  faculties 
are  kept  on  the  stretch  by  a  double 
interest,  while  the  intellect  is  at 
once  enlightened  and  exercised.  The 
polish  of  the  style  is  almost  incom- 
parably brilliant;  pregnant  thoughts 
are  condensed  into  pointed  sen- 
tences. Epigram  follows  epigram  : 
a  world  of  shrewd  wisdom  is  em- 
bodied in  some  sententious  apo- 
thegm :  a  whole  revelation  of  char- 
acter is  touched  oif  in  a  single 
trait.  A  writer  like  George  Eliot 
is  something  more  than  a  model 
and  a  beacon-light :  she  is  a  living 
protest  against  the  tendency  to 
deterioration  of  modern  literature, 
under  the  growing  pressure  of  the 
age  and  the  inducements  to  careless 


1879.]  IV.  Novelists. 


337 


workmanship.  Putting  profundity 
of  thought  and  deliberation  of  com- 
position out  of  the  question,  each 
story  in  its  minutest  details  bears  the 
traces  of  the  most  elaborate  care, 
while  the  English  is  as  invariably 
faultless  as  it  is  eloquent. 

Our  friend  Mrs  Oliphant  is  an- 
other of  the  authors  who  are  the 
salt  of  the  contemporary  generation 
of  novelists.  Indefatigably  as  she 
has  exercised  her  ready  powers, 
her  work  has  never  shown  signs  of 
slovenliness.  Although  she  has 
varied  her  subjects  almost  indefi- 
nitely, she  has  never  been  tempted 
into  extravagant  sensationalism,  nor 
has  she  invented  a  scene  or  written 
a  page  which  could  lay  itself  open 
to  the  censure  of  the  most  punctili- 
ous of  moralists.  And  for  a  woman 
of  the  world,  who  is  fully  alive  to 
its  follies — for  a  practical  novelist, 
who  knows  better  than  most  people 
what  is  likely  to  gratify  the  fashion 
of  the  day  —  that  is  exceedingly 
high  praise.  It  may  be.  true  that 
Mrs  Oliphant  has  had  little  induce- 
ment to  offend,  thanks  to  the  won- 
derful fertility  of  her  imagination. 
She  is  one  of  the  few  and  very  for- 
tunate writers  who  will  evidently 
keep  all  her  freshness  to  the  last. 
In  her  *  Mrs  Margaret  Maitland  of 
Sunny  side,' — in  her  'Adam  Graeme 
of  Mossgrey,' — we  had  something 
in  the  character  of  George  Eliot's 
'Adam  Bede ' — save  that  we  had 
rural  Scotland  for  rural  England. 
The  books  were  written  with  a  lov- 
ing truthfulness,  which  evidently 
revived  the  happiest  memories  of 
childhood.  For  that  very  reason, 
they  might  well  have  been  the 
author's  best.  But  Mrs  Oliphant, 
like  George  Eliot,  has  gone  on 
educating  herself  and  cultivating 
her  gifts  with  increasing  experi- 
ence. 'Mrs  Margaret  Maitland' 
was  delightful  in  its  quaint  simpli- 
city ;  but  in  *  The  Minister's  Wife,' 
which  was  published  very  many 


years  later,  we  had  all  the  bright 
simplicity  of  its  predecessor,  with  a 
far  deeper  tinge  of  thought.  Apart 
altogether  from  its  impressive  situ- 
ations— from  scenes  that  might  have 
been  harrowing  had  they  been  dic- 
tated by  inferior  taste  —  we  had 
those  admirable  reflections  of  the 
fervid  Celtic  temperament,  and  of 
earnest  Scottish  religious  life,  which 
were  given  in  the  story  of  the  re- 
vival in  the  remote  Highland  par- 
ish. Encouraged  by  the  success  of 
'  The  Minister's  Wife,'  an  ordinary 
writer  might  have  been  tempted  to 
a  vein  where  the  genuine  metal 
must  have  been  quickly  exhausted. 
But  Mrs  Oliphant  had  the  tact  and 
intelligence  to  draw  upon  other  re- 
sources. She  turned  her  humour 
again  towards  the  English  Church, 
and  the  sober  vulgarities  of  the 
Dissenting  communion,  which  she 
had  already  hit  off  to  admiration 
in  her  '  Chronicles  of  Carlingford.' 
Since  '  The  Minister's  Wife '  we 
have  had  'Phoebe  Junior,'  which 
took  us  back  among  acquaintances 
we  had  never  forgotten ;  and  '  Val- 
entine, and  his  Brother '  in  a  very 
different  style,  and  a  dozen  or  more 
of  admirable  promiscuous  stories, 
which  our  readers  will  remember  at 
least  as  well  as  we.  Nor  among 
lady  authors  must  we  forget  Miss 
Thackeray,  whose  bright  and  grace- 
ful books  may  be  quoted  in  proof  of 
hereditary  genius,  though  she  has 
neither  her  father's  power  of  satire 
nor  his  inclination  to  it.  Nothing 
can  be  purer  than  her  thought, 
or  more  finished  than  her  style. 
Some  of  her  pictures  of  Norman  life 
in  particular,  both  in  landscape  and 
figure  painting,  show  wonderful  feli- 
city of  touch,  with  warm  delicacy  of 
colouring ;  and  something  of  simi- 
lar praise  we  may  bestow  on  the 
ingenious  author  of  '  Vera  '  and  the 
'  Hotel  du  Petit  St  Jean/ 

We  have  no  idea  of  making  a 
catalogue  of  the  novelists  who  show 


338 


Contemporary  Literature : 


[March 


what  novel-making  ought  to  be ; 
and  even  when  we  single  out  some 
half-dozen  of  names,  we  admit  there 
is  a  wide  diversity  of  tastes.  But 
as  we  may  appear  to  have  been 
somewhat  sweeping  in  depreciatory 
general  criticism,  some  of  the  bril- 
liant and  thoughtful  artists,  who 
prove  the  rule  by  exception,  deserve 
a  passing  notice.  No  one  is  more 
original  than  Mr  Blackmore.  His 
'  Lorna  Doone  '  is  one  of  the  stories 
that  gain  and  grow  on  you  by  re- 
peated reading.  It  is  a  perfect 
handbook  to  some  of  the  most  pic- 
turesque districts  of  Devonshire, 
and  a  storehouse  of  legendary  and 
archaeological  information.  Yet 
that  is  perhaps  among  its  lesser 
merits.  For  no  living  novelist  is 
more  master  of  the  art  of  introduc- 
ing one  to  the  innermost  intimacy 
of  his  personages.  Our  liking  for 
John  Ridd  changes,  like  that  of 
Lorna,  into  affection  and  esteem, 
as  we  learn  to  appreciate  the  strik- 
ing and  straightforward  qualities  of 
that  sturdy  representative  of  the 
English  yeomanry.  Nor  is  Lorna 
herself  less  of  a  reality  to  us ;  while 
the  casual  references  to  such  per- 
sonages as  the  savage  Chancellor 
bring  out  the  man  to  the  life  in 
his  coarseness  and  moral  deformity. 
So  in  the  '  Maid  of  Sker,'  and  in 
'Alice  Lorraine.'  The  writer  is  in 
love  with  each  feature  of  the  land- 
scapes among  the  cliffs  on  the  coast 
of  Devon,  and  in  the  pastoral  soli- 
tudes of  the  South  Downs ;  while 
he  has  an  instinct  for  the  judicious 
introduction  of  such  telling  though 
truculent  eccentricities  as  his  Ensor 
Doone  or  his  Parson  Chowne.  He 
has  the  talent  of  using  his  reading 
without  being  pedantic,  and  he 
beats  sensational  drivellers  out  of 
the  field  with  thrilling  fiction  that 
is  founded  upon  fact.  We  have 
already  made  allusion  to  Mr  Black  ; 
although,  as  we  have  said,  he  might 
have  done  more  to  fulfil  his  promise, 


had  he  shown  more  of  the  ready 
versatility  to  which  we  attach  such 
importance.  The  same  remark  will 
apply  to  Mr  Hardy,  though  the 
two  have  very  little  in  common. 
Mr  Hardy  is  an  original  thinker 
and  writer,  although  less  original 
than  he  appears  at  first  sight.  His 
1  Pair  of  Blue  Eyes,'  and  '  Under 
the  Greenwood  Tree,'  prepared  the 
way  for  his  decided  success  in  his 
'  Far  from  the  Madding  Crowd.' 
But  he  hardly  improves  with  ac- 
quaintance as  we  should  have  hoped, 
and  his  excessive  mannerisms  be- 
come irksome.  In  the  best  things 
that  give  their  flavour  to  his  suc- 
cessive books,  you  recognise  some 
familiar  idea  that  you  can  trace 
back  to  himself.  The  'Return  of 
the  Native,'  which  he  published 
the  other  day,  might  have  been  a 
clever  parody  of  the  other  novels 
we  have  named.  In  the  idea  and 
the  development  of  the  plot,  as  in 
the  style  of  the  writing — from  the 
first  page  to  the  last,  there  is  a 
labouring  after  originality  which 
has  rather  the  air  of  affectation. 
He  •  never  serves  himself  with  a 
plain  phrase,  if  he  can  find  any- 
thing more  far-fetched  ;  and  even 
those  humorous  peasants  who  used 
sometimes  to  remind  us  of  Shake- 
speare's gravediggers  and  Dogberrys 
begin  to  talk  like  books — that  is 
to  say,  like  Mr  Hardy's  books. 
We  can  hardly  doubt  that  it  would 
be  well  for  his  fame  were  he  to 
strike  out  more  boldly  in  fresh 
directions  \  but  at  all  events  he 
deserves  credit  for  taking  a  line  of 
his  own,  and  bestowing  all  reason- 
able pains  on  his  execution.  Of  Mr 
Trollope  and  Mr  Reade  we  have 
spoken  already.  The  former  has 
made  himself  a  household  word, 
and  may  be  said  to  be  more  dis- 
tinctly the  family  novelist  than  any 
man  who  has  gone  before  him.  It 
would  be  an  obvious  truism  to  re- 
mark that  he  is  not  always  equal 


1879.] 


IV.  Novelists. 


339 


to  himself.  That  is  one  of  the 
inevitable  drawbacks  on  his  extra- 
ordinary facility  of  production.  But 
notwithstanding  occasional  fluctua- 
tions, he  loses  no  ground  on  the 
whole ;  and  should  one  of  his  books 
cause  some  disappointment,  we  are 
pretty  sure  to  be  as  agreeably  sur- 
prised in  the  next.  We  may  remark 
that,  artistically,  he  sometimes  does 
himself  injustice  by  writing  under 
the  obligation  of  bringing  his  work 
to  the  regulation  length.  For  ex- 
ample, were  it  not  for  the  by-play 
among  his  Desmoulins  and  his 
Dobbs  Broughtons,  we  should  say 
that  his  *  Last  Chronicles  of  Barset ' 
would  have  been  the  best  book  he 
has  ever  written.  But  when  every- 
thing we  can  allege  has  been  said 
in  disfavour  of  him,  there  is  no 
novelist  who  could  less  easily  be 
spared,  nor  is  there  any  one  ready 
to  step  into  his  place  as  the  con- 
fidant of  well-regulated  love-affairs 
and  the  realistic  painter  of  middle- 
class  life.  Nor  can  many  writers 
hope  for  more  sincere  mourners  than 
poor  Major  Whyte  Melville.  In 
his  '  Gladiators  '  he  showed  himself 
admirably  capable  of  higher  work 
than  he  generally  aimed  at ;  and 
we  have  often  regretted  that  he  was 
not  tempted  to  repeat  one  experi- 
ment that  had  proved  singularly 
successful,  in  spite  of  the  difficul- 
ties he  chose  to  grapple  with.  In  his 
'  Interpreter '  we  have  some  of  the 
most  dashing  sketches  of  irregular 
campaigning  that  we  remember ; 
while  in  his  'Holmby  House '  we  had 
brilliant  pictures  of  the  Cavaliers 
and  Roundheads  of  our  own  civil 
wars.  Perhaps  it  was  but  natural 
that  he  should  keep  to  a  line  where 
he  found  himself  placed  in  the  first 
flight  without  an  effort ;  and  as  the 
scholarly  and  gentlemanlike  nov- 
elist of  society,  he  has  assuredly 
never  been  excelled.  His  'Kate 
Coventry,'  his  'Digby  Grand,'  &c., 
became  at  once  the  delight  of  innu- 


merable readers,  who  were  taken  by 
their  truthfulness  as  much  as  their 
extreme  vivacity ;  and  yet  his  post- 
humous '  Black  but  Comely  '  loses 
little  in  comparison  with  them. 
His  inimitable  sporting  scenes,  writ- 
ten in  the  fulness  of  knowledge  and 
keen  enthusiasm,  had  the  rare  merit 
of  being  free  from  the  faintest  trace 
of  vulgarity  \  while  in  fire  and  spirit 
they  left  nothing  to  desire.  The 
run  in  '  Kate  Coventry '  may  rank 
with  that  immortalised  by  "  .Nim- 
rod  "  in  the  '  Quarterly,'  and  it 
would  be  difficult  to  give  it  higher 
praise  •  while  in  his  voluminous 
works  there  is  nothing  more  brill- 
iant than  Mr  Sawyer's  hunting  ad- 
ventures in  'Market  Harborough,' 
although  he  threw  them  off  as  un- 
considered  trifles  in  a  single  unpre- 
tentious volume. 

We  dare  say  little  of  two  special 
friends  of  our  own,  since  all  their 
novels  have  appeared  in  this  Maga- 
zine. It  is  the  simple  truth  that 
it  would  be  hard  to  equal  and  im- 
possible to  surpass  Colonel  Ches- 
ney's  scenes  of  Indian  warfare  dur- 
ing the  Mutiny,  in  his  '  Dilemma ; ' 
and  that  we  know  nothing  much 
more  effectively  pathetic  in  fiction, 
nor  more  suggestive  of  the  vanity 
of  human  ambitions,  than  his  heart- 
moving  scene  in  the  '  True  Re- 
former,' where  the  autobiographer 
comes  home  from  his  great  success 
in  the  House  to  the  deathbed  of  the 
wife  he  has  loved  but  neglected. 
While  Colonel  Lockhart,  in  a  series 
of  ever-improving  stories,  brought 
out  after  ripe  and  deliberate  re- 
flection, with  a  great  deal  of 
the  family  humour  and  all  the 
knowledge  of  a  finished  man  of 
the  world,  shows  a  rare  gift  of 
"  fetching  his  public,"  by  the  sym- 
pathetic delicacy  of  his  delightful 
love-making.  Nor  can  we  pass  Mr 
James  Payn  over  in  silence,  who 
writes  almost  as  easily  and  as  in- 
defatigably  as  any  one,  but  who, 


340 


Contemporary  Literature  : 


[March 


possibly,  is  less  widely  popular 
than  he  deserves  to  be.  He  made 
a  mark  at  once  with  his  first  novel, 
'  Lost  Sir  Massingberd ; '  and  the 
two  of  his  stories  that  have  appear- 
ed most  recently,  show  no  diminu- 
tion either  of  ready  resource  or 
animation.  '  By  Proxy '  is  admir- 
ably dramatic  ;  and  if  Mr  Payn  has 
never  travelled  in  China,  the  real- 
ism is  all  the  more  creditable  to 
his  fancy  ;  while  '  Not  so  Black  as 
we  are  Painted,'  in  a  very  different 
style,  is  full  of  very  good  things, 
and  dashes  of  genuine  drollery. 

"We  must  add  to  our  list  the 
names  of  Mr  Francillon  and  Mr 
Hamilton  Aide ;  and  with  one 
more  passing  notice,  we  are  done. 
We  take  Mr  George  MacDonald 
as  the  most  conspicuous  repre- 
sentative of  the  religious  novelist, 
who  makes  up  for  tolerant  lati- 
tude of  opinion  by  seriousness  of 
convictions  and  purpose.  We  con- 
fess that  we  do  not  fancy  either  the 
school  or  the  style.  JEsthetically 
speaking,  making  religious  discus- 
sion the  substance  of  a  story,  is 
almost  assuring  its  failure.  You 
are  always  digressing  into  specula- 
tion on  dogmas,  and  turning  chapter 
after  chapter  into  devotional  dis- 
courses ;  while  the  action  is  pro- 
vokingly  kept  in  suspense.  The 
characters  having  a  single  domin- 
ating idea,  which  they  rightly  re- 
gard as  of  absorbing  importance, 
are  naturally  disposed  to  prose  over 
it  till  they  are  apt  to  become  intol- 
erable bores.  It  is  true  that  the 
practical  outcome  of  their  peculiar 
opinions,  and  the  line  of  conduct 
they  adopt  from  motives  the  most 
conscientious  and  praiseworthy,  is 
often  bold  and  original  enough. 
So  Mr  MacDonald  has  an  abund- 
ance of  the  perfervid  imagination 
of  the  Highlander;  but  it  general- 
ly shows  itself  in  speculation  and 
transcendental  poetry  :  and  in  the 
ordinary  business  of  the  novelist's 


art,  he  is  most  happy  where  he  has 
been  personally  at  home.  He  never 
wrote  anything  more  lifelike  than 
'Alec  Forbes  of  Howglen;'  and  its 
earlier  chapters  are  the  most  attrac- 
tive, where  he  is  following  the  for- 
tunes of  the  Scotch  schoolboy  from 
the  parish  school  to  Aberdeen  col- 
lege. 

The  profession  of  the  novel- 
writer  is  said  to  be  not  what  it 
once  was.  The  trade,  like  most 
others,  has  been  overstocked ;  and 
the  profits  have  been  declining 
accordingly,  so  far  as  the  publication 
in  book-form  is  concerned.  As  to  the 
overstocking,  there  can  be  no  ques- 
tion ;  and  we  do  not  see  that  time 
is  likely  to  bring  a  remedy  to  that. 
The  frenzy  for  scribbling  shows  every 
sign  of  spreading ;  and  so  long  as 
the  profit  is  not  merely  a  secondary 
consideration,  but  authors  are  actu- 
ally willing  to  pay  for  the  honours 
of  print,  so  long  will  they  find 
publishers,  and  probably  readers. 
But  we  believe  that  brighter  days 
are  in  store  for  the  craftsmen  who 
unite  skill  to  talent;  and  indeed 
the  revolution  in  that  direction  is 
already  in  progress.  We  have  ad- 
verted to  the  strange  changes  that 
have  come  about  since  the  mere 
fact  of  putting  his  name  to  a  novel 
was  decidedly  a  feather  in  a  man's 
cap,  and  the  novelists  of  any  note 
might  be  almost  reckoned  upon  the 
fingers.  Then  a  clever  book  was 
sure  of  an  extensive  sale  :  the  last 
work  of  a  man  of  mark  and  ability 
served  as  an  advertisement  of  the 
next;  and  as  reviews  were  com- 
paratively few  and  far  between,  a 
laudatory  article  in  the  leading  jour- 
nal was  in  itself  an  encouragement 
to  a  second  edition.  Now  praise 
has  become  cheap  as  novels  have 
become  common.  Hardly  anybody 
dreams  of  buying  the  three  volumes; 
the  circulating  libraries  are  chary 
of  their  orders,  passing  a  single 
copy  through  any  number  of  hands ; 


1879.] 


IV.  Novelists. 


341 


and  the  tardy  approbation  of  the 
critics  gives  but  slight  impulse  to 
the  sale.  So  far  as  the  best  men 
are  concerned,  the  misfortune  is 
that  they  are  habitually  undersold. 
If  no  novels  were  brought  out  but 
those  that  were  likely  to  pay  their 
way  handsomely,  their  writers  might 
command  the  markets  and  make 
their  terms  for  reasonable  remuner- 
ation. Were  only  some  score  or  so 
of  books  published  in  the  season, 
librarians  who  had  boxes  to  fill 
would  be  found  to  give  their  orders 
accordingly.  As  it  is,  they  have 
any  number  of  books,  in  every  gra- 
dation of  quality,  to  choose  from  ; 
and  "  lots  "  may  always  be  picked 
up  on  exceedingly  easy  terms. 
There  are  publishers  who  do  a  reg- 
ular trade  in  what  may  be  fairly 
called  rubbish,  and  it  is  there 
that  the  multiplication  of  inferior 
writers  becomes  most  noxious  to 
the  profession  as  an  art.  The 
aspirant  to  literary  honours  comes 
to  drive  a  bargain,  which  may  be 
arranged  in  different  ways.  If  he 
is  unknown,  and  seems  unlikely 
to  make  many  acquaintances,  he 
may  actually  have  to  put  his 
hand  in  his  purse  or  set  his  name 
to  a  guarantee.  The  novel  comes 
to  the  birth  in  due  course,  and  he 
has  a  foretaste  of  the  proud  joys 
of  paternity.  There  are  the  three 
tangible  volumes,  their  binding  re- 
splendent in  blue  and  gold.  The 
practised  eye,  with  a  glance  inside, 
"  samples  "  them  off  with  intuitive 
appreciation.  The  first  impression 
may  be  of  wide  margins  and  scant- 
ily filled  pages,  and  is  probably 
confirmed  by  the  vacuity  and  shal- 
lowness  of  which  these  are  the  vis- 
ible types.  It  is  the  immortal  old 
story  of  sentiment  and  love,  spun 
out  to  the  very  extremity  of  atten- 
uation. The  sparkle  is  all  spangle 
and  tinsel ;  the  interest  is  hammer- 
ed out  like  goldbeaters'  leaf.  But 
after  all,  it  is  a  novel  in  form,  and 


will  have  its  place  in  the  library 
catalogues.  Habitual  and  hardened 
novel-readers  who  write  for  books 
are  often  hard  driven  to  make  a 
selection,  and  are  caught  by  a  well- 
sounding  title,  or  even  attracted  by 
the  promise  of  a  novice's  name.  In 
no  case  does  the  librarian  under- 
take to  supply  exactly  what  his 
customers  ask  for ;  and  his  boxes 
must  be  made  up  with  a  proportion 
of  padding.  Subscribers  write  time 
after  time  for  some  particular  book. 
Time  after  time,  they  have  what 
they  don't  want  sent  in  place  of  it, 
till  they  give  the  attempt  up  in 
despair.  So  the  items  of  FalstafFs 
hostel-bill  are  reversed.  There  is 
an  intolerable  quantity  of  insipid 
and  unwholesome  bread  to  a  modi- 
cum of  sound  and  stimulating  sack ; 
and  the  demand  for  clever  novels  is 
kept  down  by  the  mass  of  trash 
that  is  being  shot  out  upon  the 
book-market.  The  material  loss  is 
caused  in  this  way.  The  libraries 
have  but  a  certain  sum  at  their 
command,  which  they  are  bound  to 
distribute  among  various  publishers ; 
and  however  small  the  number  of 
copies  may  be  which  they  take  of 
a  bad  book,  they  have  the  less  to 
spend — should  there  be  many  books 
— upon  the  good  ones. 

If  the  professional  novelist  lived 
by  the  actual  sale  of  his  books,  he 
would  speedily  cut  the  profession 
in  disgust ;  and  it  is  a  curious  spec- 
ulation whether  the  strike  of  the 
skilled  might  starve  the  public  and 
the  librarians  into  more  discrimin- 
ating patronage.  But  luckily,  both 
for  the  novelist  and  his  readers, 
there  are  other  channels  open  to 
him — and  channels  that  are  multi- 
plying and  widening.  If  he  pass 
his  story  through  a  leading  maga- 
zine, its  fortune  is  half  made  in  ad- 
vance; and  in  respect  to  its  future 
he  is  comparatively  on  velvet.  He 
gets  a  handsome  price  for  each  in- 
stalment; nor  does  the  circulation 


342 


Contemporary  Literature: 


[March 


in  serial  form  injure  its  subsequent 
publication  :  indeed  we  have  been 
informed  by  experts  who  ought  to 
know,  that,  according  to  their  ex- 
perience, it  rather  improves  it.  And 
the  magazines  that  rely  chiefly  on 
their  fiction  are  multiplying  like- 
wise, although  scarcely  in  propor- 
tion to  the  increase  of  novel- writing; 
while  there  are  illustrated  papers  that 
publish  serials,  and  weekly  literary 
and  social  papers  which  are  borrow- 
ing leaves  from  the  books  of  the 
French  feuilletons.  Some  of  these 
pay  well;  others  very  indifferently; 
but,  at  all  events,  the  man  who  has 
been  aiming  high  has  the  certainty 
of  hedging  against  an  absolute  mis- 
carriage. 

The  medium  of  magazine-publi- 
cation is  an  unspeakable  boon  to 
authors,  for  genius  must  live  some- 
how, and  is  dependent  on  its  com- 
forts if  not  on  luxury.  Even  a 
writer  who  throws  himself  heartily 
into  his  parts,  need  not  go  in  for 
the  Persicos  apparatus  of  a  Balzac, 
who  inspired  himself  for  describing 
the  artistic  sensuality  of  a  "  Bal- 
thasar  Claes,"  by  heaping  his  apart- 
ments with  the  most  costly  "  pro- 
perties "  of  Flemish  laces  and  sculp- 
tures. But  like  Balzac  he  must 
have  his  coffee  and  other  stimulants, 
though  he  may  refrain  from  carry- 
ing indulgence  in  them  to  excess ; 
and  like  Dumas  the  elder  he  must 
mingle  in  society,  although  he  may 
care  less  to  sparkle  in  it  than 
the  all  -  accomplished  author  of 
'  Monte  Christo.'  It  demands  the 
strength  of  youth  and  no  ordinary 
resolution  to  write  even  the  matter- 
of-fact  history  of  a  Joseph  Sell 
when  you  are  starving  upon  crusts 
and  water  in  a  garret — see  Sorrow's 
confessions  in  his  'Romany  Rye.' 
The  easy  play  of  the  imagination 
depends  on  external  conditions ; 
and  the  sacred  fire  burns  low  if 
body  or  mind  is  exhausted.  To 
get  up  his  facts  a  man  must  go 


abroad ;  he  must  pay  for  his  cabs 
and  his  kid  gloves  :  and  it  will  be 
money  well  spent  if  he  makes  oc- 
casional return  for  the  hospitalities 
he  receives.  To  do  fair  justice  to 
himself  and  his  subject,  he  should 
be  free  from  debt,  and,  if  possible, 
from  cares.  Unless  he  has  a  Bal- 
zac's rare  power  of  abstraction,  we 
can  hardly  conceive  the  flow  of 
thought  going  in  concert  with  the 
rattle  of  duns  on  his  door-knocker ; 
and  there  is  inconsistency  in  realis- 
ing a  touching  love-scene  while  a 
nurseryful  of  children  are  clamour- 
ing for  bread.  So  genius  must,  of 
course,  make  money  as  it  can ;  and 
not  only  be  thankful,  but  be  a 
gainer  in  all  respects.  Yet  un- 
questionably the  very  general  prac- 
tice of  serial -writing  is  in  some 
ways  unfavourable  to  the  better 
style  of  art.  When  Dickens  was 
at  the  height  of  his  fame,  and  his 
green  covers  in  the  flush  of  their 
popularity ;  when  he  used  to  ride 
out  to  Hampstead  or  Richmond, 
with  his  confidant  Mr  Forster,  that 
he  might  lighten  suspense  as  much 
as  possible  till  he  had  heard  the 
results  of  the  sales,  readers  of  the 
Life  will  remember  with  what 
thought  he  prepared  each  separate 
instalment  for  isolated  effect.  The 
temptation  to  do  so  is  exceedingly 
strong,  for  the  public  is  short- 
sighted and  peremptory  in  its  judg- 
ment ;  tameness  is  the  one  un- 
pardonable sin  ;  and  it  will  seldom 
possess  its  soul  in  patience,  because 
it  may  hope  for  brighter  things  in 
our  next.  There  are  magazines 
and  magazines,  as  we  have  reason 
to  know.  There  are  editors  who 
rest  on  their  reputation,  and  can 
afford  to  stand  on  it;  who  pre- 
fer a  consecutive  and  finished  piece 
of  work  to  the  garish  patchwork  of 
forced  sensation.  But  there  are 
editors,  again,  who  will  have  a  suc- 
cession of  striking  effects,  like  the 
tableaux  that  succeed  each  other  on 


1879.] 


IV.  Novelists. 


343 


the  stage,  or  the  shifting  scenes  of 
a  panorama.  How  is  it  possible 
to  be  fairly  true  to  nature1?  how, 
indeed,  can  one  avoid  the  wildest 
incongruities,  if  you  have  to  scatter 
your  murders  and  suicides  at  short 
intervals  of  a  chapter  or  two  1  Even 
in  the  purely  sensational  point  of 
view,  you  discount  the  possibilities 
of  an  effective  climax.  Yet,  on  the 
other  hand,  what  in  most  cases  be- 
comes an  abuse  may  possibly  prove 
serviceable  to  certain  authors.  For 
the  sense  that  each  separate  instal- 
ment is  so  far  complete  in  itself 
may  act  as  an  antidote  to  listless- 
ness  and  dulness.  And  should  the 
story  be  dragging,  the  monthly  cri- 
tiques bring  the  vanity  of  authorship 
up  to  the  mark  again. 

Then  the  author  may  arrange  for 
simultaneous  publication  in  some  of 
the  foreign  magazines.  The  pirates 
of  the  United  States  are  anticipated 
by  the  forwarding  of  early  proof- 
sheets,  which  is  altogether  without 
prejudice  to  the  popular  writer  reap- 
ing the  barren  glories  of  a  cheap 
notoriety  by  being  set  in  circulation 
through  the  cars  and  at  the  book- 
stalls in  stitched  covers,  priced  at  a 
few  cents.  He  makes  his  bargain  in 
the  meantime  for  some  solid  pud- 
ding. There  is,  of  course,  a  very 
probable  hitch ;  and  the  chances 
are  that  neither  *  Harper's'  nor  '  The 
Atlantic '  manage  to  make  an  open- 
ing for  the  English  celebrity  at  the 
moment  that  suits  his  English  pub- 
lishers. But  failing  that,  or  failing 
a  well-paying  magazine  anywhere, 
there  are  other  resources  that  begin 
to  open  to  him.  There  is  an  im- 
mense demand  for  fiction  in  the 
flourishing  Australasian  colonies ; 
and  they  are  scarcely  so  successful 
in  raising  native  novelists  as  in  other 
classes  of  valuable  stock.  Besides, 
the  range  of  colonial  observation  is 
circumscribed,  and  squatters  and 
merchants  there  know  enough  of 
the  gold-diggings,  the  export  trade, 


the  bushrangers,  and  the  cattle-runs. 
They  have  cravings  for  the  romance 
of  the  Old  "World,  and  enlighten- 
ment as  to  fashionable  and  political 
society.  So  it  is  no  wonder  that  their 
enterprising  newspaper  proprietors 
have  been  tightening  up  their  loosely 
printed  columns  of  advertisements, 
and  making  room  for  novels  "  by 
eminent  hands."  In  place  of 
relying  on  the  bursts  of  criminal 
and  political  sensation  that  come  to 
them  spasmodically  by  the  European 
mails,  they  find  it  pays  them  to 
supply  it  daily  or  weekly,  and  they 
pay  in  return  exceedingly  well. 
So  very  general  has  this  duplex 
system  become,  that  a  certain  pro- 
lific novelist  assures  us,  not  only 
that  he  has  never  published  a  story 
except  as  a  serial  in  the  first  in- 
stance, but  that  he  has  never  pub- 
lished one  which  has  not  appeared 
simultaneously  at  least  in  one  col- 
ony or  foreign  settlement,  while  the 
majority  have  done  so  in  three  or 
four,  including,  in  one  very  recent 
case,  even  Yokohama :  while  an- 
other popular  writer  is  accustomed 
to  gauge  civilisation  in  foreign 
parts  by  the  test,  "  Do  they  or  do 
they  not  take  my  serial  novels'?" 
and  we  are  sorry  to  say  that  that 
flourishing  colony,  New  Zealand, 
stands  lowest  in  the  scale  when 
judged  by  this  standard.  Partly 
for  similar  reasons,  this  example 
is  being  followed  by  the  periodi- 
cal press  in  England.  A  group 
of  country  papers  clubbed  to- 
gether, transact  their  business  in 
the  novel-market  through  a  central 
agency  that  places  itself  directly  in 
communication  with  the  author. 
They  can  afford  to  offer  him  liberal 
terms,  and  weekly  proofs  are  cir- 
culated among  the  subscribers.  The 
people  who  buy  are,  for  the  most 
part,  of  the  class  who  have  few 
dealings  with  the  circulating  libra- 
ries, and  rarely,  indeed,  read  any- 
thing in  the  shape  of  a  printed 


344 


Contemporary  Literature. 


[March 


book.  But,  on  the  other  hand, 
they  are  precisely  the  class  who 
like  to  have  good  value  for  their 
pennies,  and  who  conscientiously 
spell  through  each  line  in  a  page 
from  the  first  column  to  the  last. 
We  can  conceive  what  a  refresh- 
ment to  them  an  exciting  story  is, 
as  a  change  from  the  advertisements 
of  the  antibilious  pills  and  Mr 
Thorley's  food  for  fattening  cattle. 
No  doubt  that  taste  will  spread,  while 
editors  can  afford  to  become  pro- 
portionately enterprising  in  grati- 
fying it.  In  the  meantime,  as  we 
happen  to  know,  one  of  those  pop- 
ular novelists  we  have  just  been 
mentioning,  had  the  offer  of  selling 
his  last  book  to  the  Association 
for  an  exceedingly  handsome  sum. 
Nay,  to  prove  how  far  the  system 
is  capable  of  being  worked,  we  may 
mention  that  the  '  Pickwick  Papers ' 
have  recently  been  republished  in  a 
cheap  Sheffield  journal.  Thrown 
in  for  a  penny  with  the  miscella- 
neous matter,  and  read  aloud  in  the 
family  circle,  they  anticipate  the 
schoolmaster  in  the  lowest  depths 


of  the  humblest  social  strata ;  and 
immigrants  from  the  wilds  of  Kerry 
and  Connemara  are  making  the  ac- 
quaintance of  Mr  Winkle  and  Mr 
Samuel  Weller.  We  question  whe- 
ther these  uneducated  intelligences 
may  not  be  as  capable  critics  as 
many  of  their  betters :  they  are  at 
least  as  likely  to  prefer  the  freshness 
of  nature  to  the  artificial  essences 
of  the  boudoirs  and  of  the  perfumers. 
And  writers  of  merit  may  avail 
themselves  of  opening  fields  which 
are  practically  closed  to  the  senti- 
mentalists and  false  sensationalists. 
But  though  Baron  Tauchnitz  pays 
English  authors  liberally,  the  in- 
come derived  from  absolutely  foreign 
sources — that  is,  in  the  way  of  trans- 
lation— is  but  small.  The  French 
praise  and  higgle,  and  do  not  gen- 
erally avail  themselves  of  British 
talent  till  the  term  of  international 
copyright  has  expired,  when  they 
can  translate  the  work  for  nothing  ; 
and  the  same,  though  perhaps  in 
a  less  degree,  may  be  said  of  the 
Germans. 


1879.] 


The  Great  Unloaded. 


345 


THE    GREAT    UNLOADED. 


HE  called  himself  the  Keverend 
James  Johnstone,  M.A.  There  are 
some  grounds  for  believing  that  his 
Christian  name  was  James ;  on  the 
other  hand,  there  are  the  strongest 
grounds  for  doubting  whether  his 
surname  was  Johnstone.  It  matters 
not ;  he  lives  in  my  memory  as 
"The  Great  Unloaded." 

My  eldest  brother  Tom  has  a 
property  in  Scotland  called  Bog- 
more,  not  of  great  extent,  but  with 
very  good  mixed  shooting.  Person- 
ally he  never  cared  much  for  shoot- 
ing ;  and  when  he  took  actively  to 
politics  a  few  years  ago,  he  practi- 
cally handed  over  the  charge  of  the 
game  to  his  younger  brothers.  I 
usually  appeared  at  Bogmore  in  the 
end  of  July  or  beginning  of  August, 
and  remained  until  the  middle  of 
October.  But  in  187—  I  spent 
the  whole  of  August  on  the  Con- 
tinent, and  the  first  fortnight  in 
September  with  a  friend  in  Eng- 
land, and  so  did  not  reach  Bogmore 
Castle  until  the  17th  or  18th  of 
September. 

I  arrived  in  time  for  a  late  din- 
ner. On  entering  the  drawing-room 
I  found  that  its  sole  occupant  was 
a  man  who  was  standing  at  one 
of  the  windows.  The  evening  was 
dark,  and  I  could  only  see  that  he 
was  tall  and  bulky.  He  turned  to- 
wards me,  and  I  bowed,  and  said 
something  about  just  arriving  in 
time  for  dinner. 

"  Mr  Francis  Douglas,  I  feel  sure 
by  the  voice,"  said  the  unknown. 
"  How  like  your  good  brother's  it 
is  ! "  and  he  wrung  me  warmly  by 
the  hand. 

Further  conversation  was  pre- 
vented by  the  arrival  of  the  rest  of 
the  party,  and  in  a  few  minutes  we 
were  in  the  dining  -  room.  "  Mr 
Johnstane,"  said  my  brother,  and 


the  unknown  waved  a  hand  over 
his  glasses,  muttered  some  words 
inaudibly,  and  we  all  sat  down. 

It  was  plain  from  the  outset  that 
dinner  was  a  serious  thing  with  Mr 
Johnstone.  He  adjusted  his  nap- 
kin as  a  man  who  has  a  long  cold 
drive  before  him  adjusts  his  rug, 
and  at  once  possessing  himself  of 
the  nearest  menu,  read  it  diligently 
from  beginning  to  end.  After  a 
minute's  anxious  reflection  he  raised 
his  head,  and  then  for  the  first  time 
I  had  an  opportunity  of  examining 
his  face.  It  was  massive  and  well 
shaped,  and  of  a  uniform  red,  with 
the  exception  of  the  brow.  The 
eyebrows  were  shaggy,  and  the 
eyes,  so  far  as  visible  (for  he  wore 
enormous  spectacles),  were  large  and 
brown.  He  was  clean  shaven ;  the 
lower  part  of  the  face  was  broad  and 
somewhat  sensual,  but  when  he 
smiled  his  expression  was  very  win- 
ning. He  appeared  to  be  between 
forty  and  fifty  years  of  age.  He 
conversed  little  during  dinner,  and 
ate  almost  incessantly,  but  with 
great  discrimination.  Once  I  saw 
an  expression  of  reproachful  regret 
come  over  his  face,  like  a  cloud 
over  a  frosty  sun,  when,  after  ac- 
cepting and  beginning  operations  on 
some  grouse,  he  perceived  that  there 
was  also  woodcock.  He  murmured 
"  tut,  tut ! "  softly,  looked  again  at 
the  menu  (in  which  woodcock  did 
not  appear),  and  glanced  reproach- 
fully at  my  sister-in-law  ere  he  re- 
sumed his  grouse. 

Dinner  over,  on  the  motion  of 
Mr  Johnstone,  instead  of  joining 
the  ladies  we  adjourned  to  the 
billiard-room,  where  I  was  formally 
introduced  to  him.  In  the  course 
of  conversation  I  mentioned  that  I 
had  been  at  Trinity  College,  Cam- 
bridge. 


346 


The  Great  Unloaded. 


[March 


"  Why,  you're  a  Cambridge  man, 
Johnstone,  are  you  not  1 "  said  Tom. 

"  Ah  !  those  Trinity  swells  know 
nothing  of  poor  little  Corpus,  I 
suppose." 

I  was  forced  to  admit  that  I  did 
not  know  a  single  man  in  Corpus, 
whereupon  he  began  to  enlarge 
upon  his  university  exploits.  By 
his  own  account  he  must  have  been 
in  the  university  eleven,  and  one 
of  the  best  racket  and  tennis 
players  of  his  day.  He  spoke  by 
name  of  several  dons,  whom  I 
knew,  and  asked  if  they  still  kept 
up  their  tennis.  That  he  could 
play  billiards  I  was  left  in  no 
doubt,  as,  during  our  conversation, 
he  gave  me  30  in  100,  and  beat  me 
easily. 

"  Do  you  shoot,  Mr  Johnstone  ? " 
I  inquired,  to  exhaust  the  list  of 
his  accomplishments. 

"Ah!  there,"  he  said,  laying 
down  his  cue,  "  you  boys  have  the 
pull  of  the  old  man.  I  love  it,  but 
I  can't  do  it.  Never  can  get  my 
gun  off  in  time ;  and  if  I  could, 
there's  usually  nothing  in  it.  I'm 
a  heavy  man,  and  slow  at  my 
fences ;  I  draw  my  cartridges  and 
forget  to  replace  them.  But,  Doug- 
las, I  must  be  off,  or  Linton  and 
John  will  be  dragging  the  Tay  for 
me."  And  with  these  words  he 
took  his  leave. 

"  And  now,  Tom,"  I  said,  "who 
is  your  friend? " 

Tom  thereupon  made  a  some- 
what disjointed  statement  to  the 
following  effect:  He  first  met  Mr 
Johnstone  in  the  beginning  of  Au- 
gust at  a  table  d'hote  luncheon  in 

the  hotel  of  S ,  a  neighbouring 

village  which  is  rapidly  being  con- 
verted into  a  fashionable  summer 
resort.  Mr  Johnstone,  in  the  course 
of  conversation,  explained  that  he 
was  in  holy  orders,  with  a  living  in 
the  south  of  England  (the  name  of 
which  was  never  revealed);  and  that, 
following  high  academic  example, 


he  had  come  into  the  wilds  for  the 
purpose  of  coaching  or  grinding  one 
young  gentleman  (who  sat  next 
him)  for  his  matriculation  at  Cam- 
bridge in  the  following  October. 
He  told  Tom  that  this  young  fel- 
low's name  was  George  Linton, 
and  that  he  had  a  considerable 
fortune,  and  was  extremely  well 
connected,  so  highly  and  irregular- 
ly, indeed,  that  he  (Mr  Johnstone) 
dared  not  whisper  the  quarter. 
Mr  Johnstone  further  stated  that 
he  was  in  search  of  suitable  lodg- 
ings, but  could  find  none  in  the 
overcrowded  village.  Now  it  so 
happened  that  at  this  time  there 
was  standing  empty  a  cottage  be- 
longing to  Tom  called  "  The  Nest." 
It  had  until  recently  been  always 
occupied  by  a  watcher ;  but  its  last 
occupant  having  watched  the  game 
more  on  his  own  account  than  that 
of  his  master,  was  in  respect  there- 
of dismissed  ;  and  Tom,  who  was 
very  dilatory,  had  not  filled  up  his 
place.  Before  the  end  of  luncheon 
"  The  Nest"  was  let  for  an  indefinite 
number  of  weeks  to  Mr  Johnstone 
and  his  "  beloved  charge,"  as  he 
was  pleased  to  call  him.  How  the 
watcher's  place  was  filled  the  sequel 
will  show. 

On  cross-examination  Tom  ad- 
mitted that  he  had  seen  a  good 
deal  of  his  tenants  since  the  begin- 
ning of  their  lease ;  that  he  had 
given  young  Linton  (who  did  not 
care  for  shooting)  unlimited  per- 
mission to  fish  both  for  salmon  and 
trout ;  and  that,  in  addition  to  fre- 
quently asking  Johnstone  to  shoot, 
he  had  given  him  leave  to  roam  at 
large,  with  or  without  his  gun  (his 
"  toy  "  he  called  it — it  was  as  large 
as  a  howitzer),  over  the  moor  ad- 
joining "  The  Nest."  At  this  state- 
ment I,  as  head-keeper  in  vacation, 
gave  a  whistle  of  dismay. 

"  You  need  not  be  alarmed,"  said 
Tom,  "  he  can't  hit  a  haystack.  As 
he  said  himself  when  he  asked 


1879.] 


The  Great  Unloaded. 


347 


leave,  '  My  toy  is  company  to  me, 
and  can't  hurt  a  living  thing.' 
Poor  old  Johnstone !  you  would 
have  laughed  if  you  had  seen  him 
yesterday,  with  his  gun  at  half-cock 
and  unloaded,  hanging  on  to  a  bird 
till  it  went  leisurely  out  of  sight. 
But  you  can  judge  for  yourself  to- 
morrow; I  asked  him  to  come  and 
go  out  with  you." 

And  come  he  did,  and  again  and 
yet  again ;  and  proved  himself  to 
be  first-rate  company,  but  the  worst 
of  shots.  He  perpetually  drew  his 
cartridges,  and  forgot  to  replace 
them.  It  was  this  ridiculous  habit 
which  earned  for  him  the  title  of 
''The  Great  Unloaded.''  But  he  was 
quite  safe  ;  not  merely  owing  to  the 
frequent  absence  of  cartridges,  but 
in  the  management  of  his  gun. 
And  so  September  rolled  away,  and 
October  came  in.  By  this  time  Mr 
Johnstone  had  become  universally 
popular,  except  in  one  quarter — the 
Episcopalian  clergyman  of  the  place. 
This  gentleman  tried  again  and 
again,  but  without  success,  to  in- 
duce Mr  Johnstone  to  take  or  assist 
him  in  his  services.  Mr  Johnstone 
said  that  he  made  it  an  invariable 
rule  to  refuse  such  requests,  and 
that  his  holiday  would  be  no  holi- 
day if  he  once  gave  in. 

With  this  exception  there  were 
no  bounds  to  his  popularity.  The 
young  fellows  liked  him  because  he 
made  them  laugh.  He  had  been 
educated,  I  cannot  doubt,  at  an 
English  public  school,  and  one  of 
the  great  English  universities ;  and 
he  had  accordingly  a  fund  of  expe- 
riences to  relate.  He  had  a  way  of 
interlarding  his  conversation  with 
quaint  words  and  phrases  that 
was  very  taking;  and,  but  for 
his  cloth,  he  would  doubtless 
have  been  a  perfect  mint  of  strange 
oaths.  Then  his  laugh,  especially 
at  his  own  jokes,  was  most  infec- 
tious— a  rich  gurgling  laugh  ex- 
pressive of  deep  enjoyment,  and 


accompanied  by  a  quivering  of  the 
whole  frame. 

By  the  ladies  he  was  equally 
beloved ;  partly  on  account  of  his 
prowess  at  lawn-tennis,  and  partly 
(this  was  an  instance  of  the  converse 
of  courting  the  child  for  the  sake  of 
the  nurse)  for  the  sake  of  his  "  be- 
loved charge,"  who  was  currently 
believed  to  be  a  nobleman  in  dis- 
guise or  temporary  disgrace. 

To  Tom  he  had  become  indispen- 
sable. He  was  a  good  talker,  and, 
when  it  suited  him,  a  better  lis- 
tener. He  allowed  Tom  to  hold 
forth  to  him  for  hours  upon  his 
hobby  for  the  time — politics,  agri- 
culture, the  relations  of  capital  and 
labour,  or  whatever  it  might  be ; 
and  just  spoke  enough  to  show 
that  he  was  listening  intelligently. 
These  conversations  were  utter  de- 
struction to  shooting,  as  not  a  biid 
within  earshot  would  sit ;  but  then 
neither  Tom  nor  his  tenant  cared 
much  for  shooting. 

While  the  return  of  October 
brings  in  pheasant-shooting,  it  sends 
undergraduates  (and  their  coaches) 
back  to  their  labours  ;  so,  to  accom- 
modate Mr  Johnstone,  Tom  good- 
naturedly  agreed  to  shoot  his  best 
coverts  in  the  second  week  of  Oc- 
tober. The  autumn  shooting  at 
Bogmore  is  of  a  most  enjoyable 
kind.  The  bags  are  not  enormous, 
but  there  is  a  chance  of  getting  all 
kinds  of  game,  including  black- 
game,  woodcock  (which  breed  there), 
and  occasionally  roe. 

On  the  10th  of  October  "The 
Great  Unloaded  "arrived  punctually, 
accompanied  by  his  man  John  (sur- 
name unknown),  his  "  toy,"  and  a 
sack  of  cartridges,  loaded,  it  may 
be  here  mentioned,  with  sawdust- 
powder.  This  same  sawdust-pow- 
der, which  was  at  that  time  on  its 
probation,  Mr  Johnstone  preferred 
to  the  powder  of  commerce,  because 
(as  he  explained)  it  caused  less  con- 
cussion and  less  smoke,  and  also 


348 


The  Great  Unloaded. 


[March 


(as  he  did  not  explain,  hut  as  I  now 
believe)  "because  it  made  less  noise. 
The  heat  hefore  lunch  was  one  of 
the  hest  in  the  day's  work;  and 
special  pains  were  taken  to  post  the 
hest  guns  in  the  hest  places — and, 
of  necessity,  the  had  shots  in  the 
worst.  Mr  Johnstone,  accordingly, 
was  relegated  to  a  spot  of  great 
natural  beauty,  which  was  usually 
un profaned  by  a  shot.  He  was  not 
told  this,  so  he  went  to  his  post 
blithely.  To  punish  us  for  thus 
grossly  deceiving  a  good  man,  no 
sooner  were  the  beaters  well  off, 
than  it  was  seen  that,  contrary  to 
their  usual  custom,  the  inhabitants 
of  the  wood,  both  furred  and  feath- 
ered, were,  with  one  accord,  nock- 
ing to  "  The  Great  Unloaded's  "  cor- 
ner. It  was  necessary  to  reinforce 
him  at  once. 

"Kun,  Frank,"  shouted  Tom — 
"  run  on  to  the  gate  and  head 
them !  they  are  breaking  away  in 
scores.  Poor  old  Johnstone  is  being 
mobbed."  Would  that  I  had  left 
him  to  his  fate ;  he  could  have  en- 
dured it.  I  at  once  hurried  up  the 
hill  to  the  rescue,  only  to  find  that 
reinforcements  were  neither  desired 
nor  required.  Tom  might  have 
"  stowed  "  his  pity ;  poor  old  John- 
stone  was  doing  pretty  well  in  his 
painful  position. 

As  I  rapidly  approached  the 
scene  of  the  reverend  gentleman's 
labours,  I  heard  the  incessant  re- 
port of  the  sawdust-cartridges  ;  and 
on  coming  within  twenty  or  twenty- 
five  yards  of  the  spot,  a  remarkable 
sight  met  my  view.  "  The  Great 
Unloaded  "  was  transformed :  he  was 
spectacled  and  unloaded  no  longer ; 
as  he  would  have  said  himself, 
"  Spectacles  wos  out,  cartridges  wos 
in  !  "  He  stood  with  his  back  to- 
wards me,  at  one  side  of  a  ride, 
with  his  great  eyes,  unobscured  by 
glasses,  raking  the  covert  opposite. 
The  ground  around  was  strewn 
with  game.  Just  as  I  arrived  a 


cock-pheasant  came  rocketing  over 
his  head;  he  took  it  as  it  came, 
dropped  it  neatly  at  his  feet,  and 
reloaded  in  an  instant.  I  was  about 
to  compliment  him  on  his  success, 
when  to  my  astonishment  his  man 
John,  who  had  picked  up  the  bird, 
proceeded  to  put  it  into  an  enor- 
mous inside  pocket  in  his  coat. 
His  master  at  once  objected  to  this, 
but  not  on  the  ground  I  should 
have  expected  and  hoped.  "  Not 
him,  John — not  him ;  how  often 
must  I  remind  you,  he's  as  tough 
as  old  boots  ?  No,  no ;  give  Mr 
Douglas  his  dues.  Oh,  the  florid 
taste  of  the  uneducated  and  unre- 
fined !  Ha  !  my  young  and  artless 
maiden,  my  white-fleshed  darling  !" 
— and  oh,  shame !  down  came  a 
young  hen-pheasant — "  this  is  sad ; 
here  to-day,  in  the  pot  to-morrow  : 
pouch  her,  John ;  she's  worth  ten  of 
her  worthy  old  sire." 

And  so  he  ran  on,  speaking  partly 
to  himself  and  partly  to  John,  and 
killing  everything  that  showed  it- 
self with  rapidity  and  accuracy. 
No  protracted  aim,  no  empty  bar- 
rels here.  After  killing  a  pheasant 
and  an  old  blackcock  right  and  left, 
he  exclaimed — 

"  James  !  James  ! "  (this  is  my 
authority  for  believing  his  name  to 
be  James)  "  this  is  imprudent !  but 
I  must  let  out  to-day.  Nothing 
more  in  your  line,  thank  you.  Mon- 
sieur le  vieux  Alphonse  may  proceed 
to  the  bosom  of  his  family." 

The  last  remark  was  addressed  to 
an  old  hare  which  had  hobbled  on 
to  the  ride,  and  sat  up  listening. 
At  this  point  a  cry  of  "  woodcock  " 
arose.  If  Mr  Johnstone  was  excit- 
ed before,  he  was  electrified  now. 
He  waited  with  admirable  patience 
while  the  graceful  bird  wound  its 
way  through  the  tops  of  the  young 
trees ;  but  as  it  darted  across  the 
ride,  he  dropped  it  tenderly  on  the 
turf.  The  sawdust  seemed  scarcely 
to  whisper  as  it  slew  the  delicate 


1879.] 


The  Great  Unloaded. 


349 


morsel.  John  stepped  forward  to 
pick  it  up.  "  John  !  John  !  leave 
that  bird  alone  ;  lay  not  your  sacri- 
legious hand  upon  it." 

He  then  advanced,  picked  it  up, 
stroked  its  feathers  admiringly,  and 
(oh,  wonder !)  carefully  deposited  it 
in  one  of  his  pockets,  apostrophis- 
ing it  thus,  as  he  did  so  :  "  You 
feathered  joy,  you  condensed  plea- 
sures of  the  table,  so  succulent 
yet  so  portable,  so  young  yet  so 
thoughtful,  flying  from  the  rash 
ignorance  of  youth  to  the  experi- 
enced palate  of  age  ! " 

Cries  of  "  woodcock  "  again. 

"Oh,  James,  this  is  too  —  too 
much  ! " 

Down  came  the  bird  ;  and  it  was 
picked  up,  stroked,  patted,  apostro- 
phised, and  pouched  in  the  same 
way  as  its  deceased  relative.  Mr 
Johnstone  then  extended  the  fin- 
gers of  his  left  hand,  and  thereon 
with  the  forefinger  of  his  right  hand 
impressively  counted  four.  I  now 
believe  that  the  true  meaning  of 
this  operation  was  that  the  reverend 
rascal  had  that  day  shot  and  pock- 
eted four  woodcock.  Suddenly 
there  came  a  wild  cry  of  "  roe  to 
the  left ; "  Johnstone  with  the  ra- 
pidity of  lightning  changed  his  cart- 
ridges and  tore  off  in  that  direction. 

I  stood  speechless  with  astonish- 
ment ;  by  degrees  my  bewilderment 
yielded  to  indignation,  and  that 
again,  as  I  took  in  the  true  mean- 
ing of  the  scene,  to  a  feeling  of 
intense  amusement.  Neither  John- 
stone  nor  John  had  observed  me — 
they  were  too  much  occupied — so 
I  cautiously  withdrew  and  returned 
to  my  old  post.  The  beat  was  soon 
over,  and  lunch  appeared,  and  with 
it  Mr  Johnstone,  spectacled  once 
more  and  radiant  from  exertion  and 
triumph.  He  had  slain  the  roe;  the 
news  did  not  now  much  surprise  me. 

"  A  game-bag  for  Mr  Johnstone," 
cried  Tom ;  and  Johnstone  lowered 
himself  on  to  it  with  a  restful  sigh, 

VOL.  CXXV. — NO.  DCCLXI. 


taking  care,  I  observed,  not  to  sit 
down  on  the  pockets  which  con- 
tained his  spoil. 

"  Well,  how  did  the  '  toy  '  work 
to-day,  your  Reverence?  There 
were  not  many  pauses  in  its  dis- 
course," said  Tom. 

"I  blush,"  said  Mr  Johnstone, 
"  from  the  novelty  of  the  situation; 
a  few  thoughtless  birds  and  beasts 
have  positively  come  against  my 
gun  and  hurt  themselves." 

"Did  you  see  any  woodcock  1" 

"You  make  me  blush  again, 
Douglas,  but  from  another  cause ; 
I  admit  with  shame  that  I  not  only 
saw  but  fired  at/owr." 

This  was  indeed  playing  with 
fire ;  but  I  think  that,  notwithstand- 
ing his  reckless  effrontery,  I  should 
have  spared  him,  had  he  not  grat- 
uitously attacked  me  at  random 
upon  a  sore  subject. 

"By  the  way,  Master  Frank," 
(how  familiar  he  had  become !)  "were 
you  the  inhuman  monster  who  shot 
off  an  old  cock's  tail]  He  wob- 
bled past  me,  and  he  looked  so 
miserable  without  his  rudder,  that 
I  put  him  out  of  pain." 

Now  I  had  had  a  snap  shot  at 
a  cock-pheasant,  and  I  had  shot  off 
his  tail ;  but  I  hoped  to  escape 
exposure,  and  this  was  too  much 
for  my  temper. 

"  It's  a  pity  you  killed  him,"  I 
said  ;  ".he's  not  worth  picking  up 
— he's  as  tough  as  old  boots." 

At  the  moment  I  used  these 
suggestive  words,  Mr  Johnstone's 
mouth  was  full  of  something  good. 
He  looked  reflectively  at  me,  and 
swallowed  his  morsel  very  deliber- 
at3ly  before  he  replied. 

"Well,  that  is  the  strangest  rea- 
son for  not  shooting  a  bird  I  ever 
heard  ;  how  far  does  your  prejudice 
extend,  Frank]" 

"  I  draw  the  line  at  woodcock." 

"At  woodcock,  you  young  sy- 
barite !  why,  I  don't  believe  you 
know  what  trail  is." 


350 


The  Great  Unloaded. 


[March 


"As  I  was  saying,  Mr  Johnstone, 
I  draw  the  line  at  woodcock.  They 
are  such  feathered  joys,  so  succulent 
yet  so  portable " 

Mr  Johnstone  here  dropped  his 
plate  and  started  to  his  feet.  "What 
had  happened  1  Mr  Johnstone  had, 
he  said,  been  sitting  unawares  on 
an  ant's  nest.  He  shook  himself, 
flicked  himself,  and  mopped  himself 
all  over;  and  then,  shifting  his 
game-bag  nearer  Tom,  plunged  into 
a  political  discussion  which  lasted 
until  lunch  was  over.  His  were 
"  fast  colours,"  and  as  he  could  not 
blush,  so  was  he  incapable  of  turn- 
ing white  or  green.  He  showed 
no  further  signs  of  agitation  or  dis- 
comfiture. 

No  sooner  had  I  allowed  the  un- 
mistakable word  "succulent"  to  es- 
cape me  than  I  repented ;  I  had  (as 
I  still  have)  a  sneaking  liking  for 
"  The  Great  Unloaded,"  and  from 
that  moment  I  determined  to  screen 
him  if  I  could.  Nothing  worth  re- 
cording occurred  during  the  after- 
noon ;  and  as  the  last  beat  finished 
near  "  The  Nest,"  we  bade  Mr  John- 
stone  good  night  there.  A  long  good 
night,  as  I  have  not  seen  him  since. 

I  was  not  much  surprised  when, 
next  morning,  Tom  received  a  note 
from  "  The  Nest "  to  the  following 
effect: — 

MY  DEAR  DOUGLAS, — By  the  time 
this  reaches  you  I  shall  be  in  Edin- 
burgh on  my  way  south.  That  dis- 
obliging ass  Vickers  has  telegraphed 
to  say  that  he  cannot  take  my  duty 
next  Sunday.  So  "  cedant  arma 
togce"  down  with  the  gun,  on  with 
the  surplice.  My  affections  re- 
main with  you  and  your  birds  and 
bunnies.  With  many  thanks  for  a 
most  enjoyable  summer  from  my 
beloved  charge  and  myself,  I  re- 
main yours  faithfully, 

JAMES  JOHNSTONE. 

P.S. — Remember  me  kindly  to 
Frank. 


He  was  much  lamented  by  the 
whole  party,  including  myself;  and 
his  sudden  departure  cast  a  gloom 
over  the  day's  sport,  although  per- 
haps more  of  the  game  shot  was 
picJced  up  than  on  the  day  before. 

I  frequently  found  myself  during 
and  since  that  day  trying  to  form  a 
dispassionate  estimate  of  this  great 
man's  character.  I  firmly  rejected 
the  idea  that  he  had  acted  from  any 
criminal  motive.  Indeed  it  would 
not  have  been  easy  to  frame  a 
charge  against  him.  He  was  nei- 
ther trespasser  nor  poacher ;  he  had 
Tom's  express  permission  to  walk 
over  his  ground  and  shoot  his  game 
if  he  could.  And  as  to  his  appro- 
priation of  the  game  when  shot — 
why,  from  a  legal  point  of  view, 
the  birds  were,  strictly  speaking, 
his  by  right  of  capture,  not  Tom's. 
Turning  then  with  relief  from  the 
at  first  sight  criminal  aspect  of  the 
case,  what  remained  ?  I  could  not 
disguise  from  myself  that  there  was 
a  pretty  perceptible  dash  of  moral 
obliquity  in  the  conduct  of  "The 
Great  Unloaded."  He  had  beyond 
doubt  pretended  that  he  could  not 
shoot,  while  he  could  shoot  like  a 
Walsingham.  What  was  the  motive 
for  this  duplicity  1  At  one  time  I 
was  afraid  I  should  have  to  answer 
this  question  in  a  way  very  dis- 
creditable to  my  reverend  friend. 
In  the  course  of  a  cautious  investi- 
gation which  I  instituted,  I  ascer- 
tained from  the  station-master  at 
S that  packages  labelled  "  per- 
ishable "  were  frequently  despatched 
southwards  by  Mr  Johnstone  dur- 
ing his  tenancy  of  "  The  Nest."  Mr 
Johnstone  had  been  good  enough 
to  explain  that  these  mysterious 
consignments  were  Scotch  delicacies 
for  the  consumption  of  his  aged 
mother.  There  was  no  further  evi- 
dence of  their  contents  ;  and  of  this 
at  least  I  felt  sure,  that  if  they  did 
contain  game,  no  "  feathered  joys  " 
found  their  way  into  the  London 


The  Great  Unloaded. 


1879.] 

market  or  into  the  mouth  of  the 
dowager  Mrs  Johnstone.  And  this 
leads  me  to  the  only  conclusion  for 
which  there  seems  to  be  some  solid 
foundation,— namely,  that  even  if 
profit  formed  a  factor  in  Mr  John- 
stone'slittle  game,  his  leading  motive 
was  to  provide  constant  material 
for  the  pleasures  of  the  table  in 
which  his  soul  delighted.  And  was 
he  to  be  severely  condemned  for 
this?  Suppose,  reader,  that  you 
shot  a  woodcock  unobserved ;  what 
would  you  do1?  Tell  about  it,  no 
doubt,  and  to  every  one  you  saw. 
Moved  thereto  by  honesty  un- 
adorned 1  Has  not  vanity  a  little 
to  do  with  it  ?  To  test  the  matter, 
say,  did  you  ever  shoot  one,  and 
allow  it  to  be  supposed  for  one 
moment  that  any  one  else  shot  it  1 
Probably  not.  It  comes,  then,  to 
this — which  is  the  meaner  vice, 
vanity  or  greed1?  But  perhaps  I 
am  rather  a  partial  advocate;  or 
perhaps,  after  all,  the  fault  lay  in 
the  woodcock  being  so  portable. 

In  the  course  of  my  investiga- 
tion I  made  a  few  inquiries  in  other 
quarters  concerning  "  The  Great  Un- 
loaded's "  mode  of  life  during  his 
tenancy  of  "  The  Nest ; "  but  little 
transpired  that  did  not  redound  to 
his  credit.  His  rent  and  his  trades- 
men's bills  were  paid  in  full  through 


351 


a  local  solicitor.  It  may  be  men- 
tioned parenthetically  that  while 
his  grocer's  bill  for  sauces  and  con- 
diments was  considerable  and  con- 
stant, his  butcher's  bill  was  small 
and  intermittent,  especially  from 
and  after  the  12th  of  August.  I 
tried  to  draw  his  late  cook,  a  re- 
markably shrewd  old  Scotchwoman ; 
but  her  deafness  when  I  trenched 
on  delicate  ground  was  that  of  the 
nether  millstone.  I  honour  her  for 
her  loyalty,  and  I  only  trust  that  she 
was  not  under  the  spell  of  a  more 
tender  passion.  She  and  her  master 
had  been  thrown  much  together,  as 
he  spent  a  large  portion  of  each  day 
in  the  kitchen ;  and  to  see  much 
of  Mr  Johnstone  was  to  love  him. 
Fortunately  love  and  admiration  of 
a  worthy  object  bring  their  reward 
with  them.  So  great  was  Mr  John- 
stone's  fame  as  a  good  liver,  that 
Kitty  M'Isaac  has  ever  since  com- 
manded her  own  price  as  a  cook. 

But  was  he  the  Reverend  James 
Johnstone,  M.A.,  of  Corpus  College, 
Cambridge?  Surely  this  admitted 
of  easy  ascertainment.  Well,  I 
have  not  examined  the  books  of 
Corpus  or  the  clergy  list,  and  I 
cannot  tell.  But  if  that  name  is 
to  be  found  therein,  I  think  I  can 
safely  say  to  its  lawful  owner,  non 
de  tefabula  narratur. 


352 


Climate  in  the  Levant. 


[March 


CLIMATE    IN    THE    LEVANT. 


IN  the  month  of  July  last,  Europe 
was  surprised  by  the  announcement 
that  Cyprus  had  been  handed  over 
by  the  Sultan,  to  be  administered 
by  the  English  Government ;  and 
the  news  had  hardly  been  published 
when  questions  were  asked,  by  mem- 
bers of  the  Opposition  in  Parlia- 
ment, regarding  the  alleged  un- 
healthy climate  of  the  island.  Such 
questions  were  not  easily  answered. 
Our  information  with  regard  to  the 
Levant  is  at  present  most  imper- 
fect ;  and  as  no  scientific  data  re- 
garding the  country  were  available, 
the  Government  could  not  be  ex- 
pected to  give  more  than  a  very 
general  reply. 

Luckily  for  the  Opposition — 
though  unfortunately  for  many 
gallant  men  in  the  fine  regiments 
ordered  to  Cyprus — the  course  of 
political  events  necessitated  that 
the  occupation  of  the  island  should 
be  undertaken  at  the  commencement 
of  the  most  unhealthy  period  of  the 
year  j  and  our  troops  were  conse- 
quently quartered  in  the  plains 
and  lower  hills  during  four  of  the 
hottest  months,  and  were  at  first 
but  ill  provided  with  evenT  the 
necessaries  of  healthy  life.  It  can- 
not be  doubted  that  much  of  the 
sickness  which  resulted  was  due  to 
the  general  want  of  experience,  and 
to  the  neglect  of  certain  precautions 
well  known  to  those  familiar  with 
the  Levantine  climate.  We  in  fact 
paid  dearly  at  first  for  experience 
by  which  no  doubt  we  shall  profit, 
if,  at  any  future  time,  it  should 
again  become  necessary  to  mass 
English  regiments  in  Cyprus. 

A  simple  instance  of  the  im- 
prudences committed  may  be  quoted 
from  the  letters  of  one  of  the  news- 
paper correspondents.  Shortly  after 
his  arrival  he  writes  enthusiastically 


to  describe  the  cool  retreat,  in  a 
garden  beside  a  channel  of  running 
water,  where  he  had  set  his  tent. 
Any  one  who  had  lived  long  in 
Syria  or  Cyprus  would  have  an- 
ticipated the  result,  for  in  the  next 
letter  the  correspondent  informs  us 
that  he  is  suffering  from  fever.  Had 
he  taken  up  his  abode  in  a  stony 
field  or  on  a  dusty  roadside,  his 
quarters  would  no  doubt  have  been 
hot  and  uncomfortable,  but  they 
would  have  been  far  safer  for  health 
than  a  spot  shut  out  from  the  wind 
and  situated  close  to  water. 

The  season  of  the  year  and  the 
inexperience  of  our  troops  were 
circumstances  which  combined  in  a 
most  remarkable  manner  to  lend  a 
semblance  of  truth  to  the  idea  that 
the  climate  of  Cyprus  was  so  pestif- 
erous as  to  make  it  impossible  for 
Englishmen  to  inhabit  the  island. 
Thus  the  outcry  grew  louder  as  the 
season  became  more  unhealthy,  and 
it  was  announced  by  the  opponents 
of  the  Government  that  our  newly- 
acquired  possession  would  have  to 
be  abandoned. 

It  may  be  remarked,  in  passing, 
that  a  similar  argument  would  de- 
prive us  of  many  an  important 
station  now  held  by  England  for 
centuries.  If  Cyprus  is  to  be  sur- 
rendered because  it  is  unhealthy, 
why  not  Malta  with  its  well-known 
ague,  or  Gibraltar  because  of  the 
rock  -  fever  1  still  more,  Jamaica, 
where  the  fearful  yellow  fever  is 
always  to  be  dreaded;  or  even  India, 
from  which  hundreds  of  our  fellow- 
countrymen  return  every  year  in- 
valided by  climate  alone  1 

This  is  not  the  spirit  which  has 
made  England  great.  It  is  not  the 
spirit  which  brought  our  Ashantee 
war  —  a  combat  against  climate 
rather  than  against  any  human 


1879.] 


Climate  in  the  Levant. 


353 


enemy — to  a  successful  issue.  The 
very  obstinacy  of  Englishmen — 
which  makes  it  so  difficult  to  induce 
them  to  observe  such  precautions  as 
are  necessitated  by  trying  climates 
— may  perhaps  be  regarded  as  only 
a  sign  of  the  indomitable  will  that 
has  made  us  masters  of  so  great  a 
portion  of  the  world.  Nevertheless, 
he  who  enters  into  a  struggle  with 
climate,  refusing  to  submit  to  any 
restraint  to  which  he  is  unaccus- 
tomed in  our  own  country,  has 
challenged  an  enemy  whose  strength 
he  little  knows,  and  by  whom  he  is 
certain  finally  to  be  overcome. 

The  geographical  position  of  Cy- 
prus is  one  of  so  great  political 
importance,  that,  were  the  climate 
far  more  unhealthy  than  it  is  in 
reality,  it  might  still  be  our  duty  to 
hold  the  island.  It  is  "a  strong 
place  of  arms"  commanding  the 
Mediterranean  adit  to  the  valley  of 
the  Euphrates,  and  situated  close 
to  that  position  in  Syria  which 
covers  the  Suez  Canal :  it  is  a 
vantage-ground  where,  behind  our 
own  frontier,  we  might,  in  preparing 
for  war,  mass  our  troops  and  collect 
our  stores  at  a  short  distance  from 
the  front,  as  is  rendered  necessary 
by  the  rapidity  of  modern  strategi- 
cal movements.  This  is  the  value 
of  Cyprus  to  England ;  and  the  ques- 
tion which  should  be  now  asked 
is  not,  "Is  the  island  sufficiently 
healthy  to  make  it  a  charming  resi- 
dence or  a  favourite  station  ? " — but 
rather,  "What  are  the  means  by 
which  the  climate,  if  it  is  in  reality 
bad,  may  be  improved]  and  what 
are  the  precautions  to  be  observed 
by  our  troops  in  order  to  secure  the 
least  possible  amount  of  sickness  in 
quarters  ? " 

It  is  not,  however,  with  Cyprus 
alone  that  we  may  perhaps  be  ulti- 
mately concerned.  Cyprus  is  in- 
deed the  base ;  but  if  it  has  any 
value,  it  is  because  operations  on 
the  mainland  may  at  some  future 


time  become  necessary  for  the  pro- 
tection of  our  roads  to  India.  We 
may  therefore  well  extend  the  in- 
quiry further,  and  seek  to  become 
better  acquainted  with  the  climate 
of  the  Levant  as  a  whole,  more  es- 
pecially with  that  of  Syria,  from 
the  Gulf  of  Alexandretta  as  far  as 
the  sandy  shores  of  Gaza,  to  which 
the  Cyprian  climate  appears,  so  far 
as  has  been  ascertained,  to  present 
a  very  close  similarity. 

A  certain  amount  of  definite 
scientific  information  has  already 
been  collected  which  will  aid  us 
in  this  inquiry.  For  ten  years  a 
series  of  meteorological  observations 
have  been  kept  by  H.M.'s  Consul- 
General  at  Beirut,  and  at  'Aleih  in 
the  Lebanon.  At  Jerusalem,  Gaza, 
Jaffa,  and  Nazareth,  observatories 
have  been  in  existence  for  some 
time.  General  remarks  on  the  cli- 
mate of  portions  of  Northern  Syria 
have  been  sent  in  by  our  consuls, 
and  are  to  be  found  in  their  reports. 
A  regular  series  of  observations 
have  been  made  by  the  English 
Survey  party  in  all  parts  of  South- 
ern Syria,  including  the  Jordan 
valley,  the  climate  of  which  may 
well  be  expected  to  prove  extraor- 
dinary. The  general  result  both  of 
these  observations  and  of  personal 
experience  will  be  here  given  as 
briefly  as  possible,  in  order  that  a 
correct  estimate  may  be  deduced  of 
the  character  of  the  climate  with 
which  we  have  to  deal,  and  a  clear 
idea  formed  of  the  necessary  pre- 
cautions and  possible  improvements 
required  to  make  the  Levant  habit- 
able for  Englishmen. 

The  climate  of  Syria  and  of  Cy- 
prus is  remarkable  both  for  the 
sudden  local  contrasts  which  it  pre- 
sents, and  for  the  regular  recurrence 
of  its  annual  changes. 

In  the  short  distance  of  150  miles, 
we  find,  in  the  Jordan  valley,  a 
climate  ranging  from  the  polar  to 
the  tropical — a  flora  including  the 


354 


Climate  in  the  Levant. 


Arctic  shrubs  of  Hermon  and  the 
African  flowers  of  Jericho.  Near  the 
Dead  Sea  the  humming-birds  may 
be  seen  flattering  gaily  in  January; 
while,  almost  in  sight,  is  a  mountain 
on  which  the  Syrian  bears  are  roll- 
ing in  the  snow. 

The  rugged  block  of  Mount  Casius 
divides,  in  a  similar  manner,  the 
pestilent  swamps  of  Alexandretta 
from  the  healthy  bay  of  Seleucia  ; 
and  the  fever-stricken  marshes  of 
Acre  are  close  to  the  healthy  slopes 
of  Carmel. 

But  while  the  climate  differs  thus 
suddenly  in  neighbouring  localities, 
it  cannot  be  called  variable,  because 
the  recurrence  of  the  change  in  its 
seasons  is  almost  monotonous  in 
regularity.  The  spring  showers 
having  fallen,  the  sky  becomes  clear ; 
and  it  remains  clear  for  six  months 
— a  deep,  hard  blue,  scarcely  ever 
relieved  by  a  cloud,  and  only  dead- 
ening to  an  iron-grey  when  the 
wind  blows  from  the  desert,  until 
in  autumn  the  land  and  its  inhabi- 
tants seem  only  to  subsist  in  ex- 
pectation of  the  rain. 

Another  important  feature  of 
Levantine  climate  is  the  compara- 
tively moderate  temperature  during 
the  summer,  and  the  refreshing 
difference  between  day  and  night. 
In  addition  to  this  advantage,  the 
climate  is  rendered  more  healthy 
and  agreeable  by  the  fact  that  the 
prevailing  winds,  throughout  the 
greater  part  of  the  year,  blow  from 
the  south-west  and  west.  The 
great  heat  in  the  interior  of  the 
country,  where  the  Syrian  desert  ex- 
tends eastwards  towards  Euphrates, 
is  no  doubt  the  cause  of  this  phe- 
nomenon. The  result  is,  that  a  fresh 
sea-breeze  rises  as  soon  as  the  in- 
terior country  becomes  heated  by 
the  sun,  and  blows  steadily  all  day, 
dying  away  in  the  cool  of  the  after- 
noon. 

A  few  notes  on  the  temperature 
of  various  places  in  Syria  will  serve 


[March 

to  give  some  idea  of  the  general 
character  of  the  climate.  Jerusalem, 
for  instance,  2500  feet  above  the 
sea,  has  a  mean  temperature  of 
about  57°  Fahr.  throughout  the 
year.  Jerusalem  is  situated  in 
latitude  31°  47',  but  the  mean  tem- 
perature is  equal  to  that  of  Barce- 
lona in  latitude  41°  23';  while  the 
mean  temperature  at  Cairo  is  65°, 
at  Baghdad  66°,  and  at  Catania, 
in  latitude  37°  28',  not  less  than 
61°  Fahr.  Nor  is  the  climate  of 
the  Holy  City,  as  compared  with 
other  parts  of  Syria,  remarkably 
temperate.  In  the  Lebanon  and 
Anti-Lebanon,  3000  or  4000  feet 
above  the  sea,  the  summer  heat 
is  much  less;  and  at  'Aleib,  2700 
feet  above  Beirut,  a  temperature  of 
86°  is  considered  unusually  hot. 
Hermon  and  the  higher  parts  of 
Lebanon  are  often  covered  with 
snow  throughout  the  year,  and 
even  in  August  the  temperature 
on  the  lower  spurs  is  cool  and  re- 
freshing. In  the  plains  the  heat 
is  of  course  greater,  but  the  mean 
temperature  at  Beirut  does  not  ex- 
ceed 85°  during  the  hottest  month 
—  August;  and  95°  is  generally 
about  the  highest  temperature  in 
the  shade  at  noon  in  summer. 

The  heat  is  but  little  felt  so  long 
as  the  west  breeze  blows.  "When, 
however,  the  east  wind  prevails, 
the  temperature  in  the  plains  in- 
creases suddenly  to  100°  or  105°. 
In  May  1873,  the  thermometer 
stood  at  118°  for  three  days  in  the 
observatory  at  Gaza;  and  this  ex- 
ceptional heat  was  experienced 
throughout  Syria,  materially  dam- 
aging the  harvests,  and  destroying 
the  silk  crop  at  Beirut.  Such  a 
heat  is,  however,  quite  phenomenal; 
and  the  highest  reading  of  the  ther- 
mometer in  the  plains,  even  with 
east  wind,  is  very  rarely  above  105° 
Fahr.  In  Cyprus  the  temperature 
in  the  bell-tents  during  last  July 
rose  to  120°,  which  represents  pro- 


1879.] 


bably  110°  in  a  proper  observatory. 
This  extreme  heat  was  experienced, 
however,  in  the  plains  near  Larnaka. 

The  diurnal  range  of  temperature 
at  Jaffa  has  been  found,  by  long- 
continued  observations,  to  vary  from 
11°  to  17°  Eahr.  The  hottest  time 
of  day  is  always  from  about  1  P.M. 
to  3  P.M.,  and  the  reading  in  the 
sun's  rays  (with  a  black-bulb  ther- 
mometer) then  rises  to  over  170° 
Fahr.  By  night  the  temperature 
falls  rapidly;  and  even  in  August  it 
is  rarely  above  64°,  unless  the  east 
wind  is  blowing,  giving  a  difference 
of  no  less  than  30°  between  noon 
and  midnight.  In  the  plains  and 
along  the  sea-coast,  the  lowest  tem- 
perature recoided  is  about  36°,  and 
even  in  the  severest  winter  frost  is 
never  experienced.  Thus  the  climate 
is  suitable  for  the  growth  of  palms 
and  other  trees  liable  to  be  affected 
by  frost ;  while  in  the  hills,  even  at 
an  elevation  of  only  2000  feet,  they 
will  not  thrive.  In  the  mountains 
the  winter  temperature  is  much 
lower,  and  frost  is  commonly  ex- 
perienced;  thus  in  the  hills  the 
vine  flourishes  much  better  than  in 
the  plains.  In  Lebanon  and  the 
higher  ranges,  snow  falls  thickly 
throughout  the  winter,  and  the  cold 
by  night  is  considerable  even  in 
summer. 

The  refreshing  coolness  of  "the 
Levantine  nights  is  accompanied 
generally  by  a  fall  of  dew  much 
heavier  than  occurs  even  in  the 
height  of  our  English  summer.  In 
Cyprus  also  this  heavy  dew  is  ex- 
perienced, and  a  good  deal  of  the 
fever  of  last  year  was  no  doubt  due 
to  chills  resulting  from  the  damp- 
ness by  night.  Even  the  heavy, 
double  Egyptian  tents,  commonly 
used  by  residents  in  the  Levant, 
do  not  form  a  sufficient  protection 
against  the  dew,  which  drips  from 
the  ropes  in  the  morning  and  pene- 
trates through  the  roof,  making 
every  article  of  clothing  or  bedding 


Climate  in  the  Levant. 


355 


quite  damp.  It  is  evident  that  the 
single  bell-tents,  unfortunately  pro- 
vided for  our  troops,  must  have 
been  quite  as  unfitted  to  keep  out 
the  dew  at  night  as  they  were  to 
keep  out  the  heat  by  day.  A  bell- 
tent,  in  fact,  is  about  as  suitable  in 
the  East  as  a  tail-coat  or  a  tall  hat ; 
and  our  commissariat  may  justly  be 
blamed  for  not  having  made  bet- 
ter provision  for  the  wants  of  the 
troops,  in  a  country  which  should 
have  been  treated  as  if  possessing 
an  Indian  climate. 

The  monthly  range  of  tempera- 
ture in  the  Levant  requires  a  pass- 
ing notice,  as  connected  with  the 
question  of  the  comparative  salu- 
brity of  various  seasons.  The 
coldest  month  is  January ;  and  the 
heat  increases  steadily  until  August, 
a  sensible  difference  generally  oc- 
curring in  the  end  of  July.  In  the 
commencement  of  September  the 
power  of  the  sun  begins  to  decrease, 
and  the  temperature  falls  with  equal 
regularity  to  the  minimum.  In  Oc- 
tober the  nights  in  the  hills  begin 
to  become  chilly ;  and  this,  as  will 
be  explained  immediately,  is  the 
most  dangerous  month  in  the  year. 

The  rainfall  of  Syria  has  been 
roughly  computed,  from  a  variety 
of  observations,  to  average  about 
18  or  20  inches  in  the  year,  the 
rain  falling  for  about  sixty  days. 
Thunderstorms  are  comparatively 
rare,  and  occur  only  between  the 
months  of  September  and  March. 
There  is,  however,  a  great  difference 
with  respect  to  the  amount  of  rain 
in  different  years ;  and  the  country 
throughout  is  subject  to  periodical 
droughts,  such  as  occurred  lately 
in  Cyprus  during  three  successive 
seasons,  causing  an  extensive  emi- 
gration of  the  native  population. 

The  general  result  of  the  obser- 
vations above  noticed  tends  to  give 
an  impression  which  is  in  reality 
more  favourable  than  the  climate 
warrants.  A  country  where  the 


356 


Climate  in  the  Levant. 


[March 


sea-breeze  blows  daily,  where  the 
nights  are  cool,  and  the  summer 
heat  by  day  not  generally  higher 
than  95°,  might  at  first  be  con- 
sidered to  possess  unexpected  ad- 
vantages compared  to  other  Eastern 
or  Mediterranean  districts.  A  de- 
scription of  the  general  course  of 
the  seasons  will  serve,  however,  to 
show  how  trying  the  climate  realJy 
is  to  Europeans. 

Soon  after  the  vernal  equinox 
the  last  April  showers  fall,  and  the 
dry  season  commences.  At  this 
period  the  country  is  seen  at  its 
best.  The  green  corn,  already 
tinged  with  yellow,  covers  the 
plains,  and  the  flowers  are  in  their 
full  beauty.  The  huge  dark  leaves 
of  the  mallows — which  form  a 
staple  article  of  food  for  the  poorest 
class — cover  the  crumbling  ruins 
of  former  cities.  The  delicate  pink 
phlox  grows  in  large  beds  on  the 
hill-slopes,  and  the  white  cyclamen 
hides  in  the  shady  hollows.  The 
variety  and  richness  of  the  colour- 
ing in  uncultivated  districts  have 
been  noticed  by  every  traveller  who 
has  written  on  the  country  ;  and 
those  who  merely  vi>it  Syria  or  Cy- 
prus during  the  tourist  season  must 
carry  away  a  very  unreal  impression 
of  the  usual  aspect  of  the  land. 

Easter-time  is  also  the  healthiest 
period  of  the  year,  and  hence  it 
results  that  the  proportion  of  travel- 
lers who  suffer  from  fever  is  com- 
paratively very  small. 

The  increasing  power  of  the  sun 
soon  kills  the  flowers,  and  withers 
the  delicate  spring  colouring.  By 
the  beginning  of  May  the  grey 
hills  and  brown  plains  have  as- 
sumed their  summer  aspect,  dry 
and  scorched,  without  a  blade  of 
green  grass  or  a  single  blossom. 
In  many  districts  the  corn  has 
already  been  reaped,  and  only  the 
white  stubble  remains ;  while  the 
thistles  and  thorns  which  sprout  so 
rankly  are  shrivelled  by  the  heat, 


and  form  sometimes  almost  impas- 
sable obstacles. 

About  the  middle  of  May  the 
east  wind — called  skerk  in  Syria, 
and  hhamsm  in  Egypt — begins  to 
blow,  generally  for  three  days  at  a 
time.  The  wet-bulb  thermometer 
often  shows  a  difference  of  22°  with 
the  dry-bulb  during  the  prevalence 
of  this  wind  ;  and  the  extreme  dry- 
ness  of  the  air  is  shown  by  the  con- 
traction of  such  substances,  for  in- 
stance, as  vellum  book- covers,  which 
are  often  curled  backwards,  as  if 
they  had  been  placed  before  a  hot 
fire. 

The  wind  is  not  generally  very 
strong,  but  blows  in  puffs  or  squalls, 
which  strike  the  face  like  the  heat 
from  a  furnace  when  its  door  is 
opened.  !Nor  is  it  .the  heat  and 
dryness  alone  which  make  the  east 
wind  so  trying.  It  has  been  proved 
by  careful  experiments  that,  while 
it  prevails,  the  air  is  almost  entirely 
destitute  of  ozone.  The  ozone  papers 
refuse  to  give  even  the  least  tinge 
of  colour  until  the  sea-breeze  sets  in 
again,  when  in  less  than  half  an  hour 
they  become  dyed  a  deep  purple. 

The  ozone — the  most  invigorat- 
ing ingredient  in  the  air — being 
absent,  man  and  beast  alike  are 
stricken  with  a  feeling  of  lassitude, 
and  of  incapacity  for  active  exertion. 
When  the  east  wind  is  strong,  the 
sense  of  thirst  is  tormenting,  as  the 
lips  and  palate  become  parched. 
It  is,  however,  extremely  danger- 
ous to  imbibe  large  quantities  of 
any  liquid,  as  a  kind  of  ulcerated 
sore  throat  is  often  the  immediate 
result  of  excessive  drinking.  Ani- 
mals are  sometimes  killed  by  the  east 
wind,  and  cases  of  heat-apoplexy 
among  the  inhabitants  of  the  plains 
are  frequent. 

With  the  month  of  May  this  try- 
ing season  terminates ;  and  although 
the  heat  is  greater  in  June  and  July, 
these  months  are  nevertheless  as 
healthy  as  is  any  part  of  the  year. 


1879.] 

The  west  wind  blows  steadily,  and 
the  dew  at  night  is  accompanied  by 
a  refreshing  coolness.  Thus  mid- 
summer is  by  far  the  best  period 
for  any  active  outdoor  operations, 
and  might  safely  be  recommended 
as  the  right  time  for  moving  troops, 
or  for  conducting  field  operations. 

A  peculiarity  of  the  season  is  the 
occurrence  almost  every  year  of  one 
heavy  shower  of  rain  in  the  early 
part  of  June,  which  does  not,  how- 
ever, generally  last  for  more  than 
an  hour  or  so. 

In  the  month  of  August  the 
maximum  temperature  is  attained, 
and  the  east  wind  begins  to  blow 
again  —  occurring  frequently  also 
throughout  September.  The  most 
remarkable  feature  of  this  season  is 
the  appearance  of  small  whirlwinds, 
raising  long  columns  of  dust  and 
chaff,  and  travelling  slowly  over  the 
country.  These  whirlwinds  often 
precede  a  change  in  the  direction  of 
the  wind.  They  sometimes  possess 
great  force;  and  it  is  said  that  the  sun- 
helmets  of  the  English  soldiers — to 
say  nothing  of  the  official  papers  of 
the  officers — were  often  carried  up 
to  a  great  height  in  the  sand-columns 
which  swept  through  our  camps. 
In  the  desolate  regions  south  of 
Damascus,  columns  of  great  size 
may  be  seen  from  a  long  distance 
swirling  slowly  across  the  land ; 
and  by  the  natives  they  are  believed 
to  be  the  visible  bodies  of  malignant 
demons  prowling  about  the  coun- 
try. Their  action  is  limited  to  a 
very  small  area,  and  it  is  possible 
to  stand  within  a  foot  or  two  of 
the  column  without  experiencing 
a  breath  of  air,  though  the  loud 
churning  noise  may  be  distinctly 
heard. 

In  September  the  sickly  season 
begins,  and  in  October  cases  of 
fever  become  frequent.  The  latter 
month  is  peculiarly  dangerous,  from 
the  sudden  alternations  of  tempera- 
ture. The  power  of  the  sun  on  the 


Climate  in  the  Levant. 


357 


baking  soil  is  still  very  great,  but 
the  wind  is  cool,  and  the  nights  in 
the  hills  are  very  cold.  Chills  are 
therefore  very  frequently  caught, 
and  result  immediately  in  fever  and 
ague.  Dysentery  is  also  common 
at  this  period;  and  the  fruit -season 
being  at  its  height,  an  additional 
source  of  sickness  is  found  in  greedy 
eating  of  grapes,  melons,  or  prickly 
pears.  It  is  to  be  feared  that  the 
temptations  of  the  delicious  fruit  of 
the  Levant  will  always  be  a  source 
of  much  trouble  to  our  military 
doctors,  who  will  find  it  very  hard 
to  persuade  the  men  to  abstain 
from  such  a  cheap  and  easily- ob- 
tained luxury.  Even  the  natives 
of  Syria  are  most  imprudent  in  this 
respect,  and  severe  visitations  of 
fever  have  been  traced  to  the  eating 
of  the  prickly  pears,  which  form 
hedges  round  many  of  the  Syrian 
villages. 

Early  in  October  the  autumn 
equinoctial  gales  visit  the  country, 
and  generally  prove  much  more 
violent  than  those  of  the  spring. 
Torrents  of  rain  fall  for  two  or 
three  days ;  and  in  a  wet  year  set- 
tled weather  cannot  be  expected 
for  the  rest  of  the  autumn. 

The  extreme  clearness  of  the  air 
after  the  first  rains  is  one  of  the 
most  remarkable  features  of  the  au- 
tumn season.  Distances  appear  to 
the  eye  to  be  suddenly  halved,  the 
most  minute  objects  stand  promi- 
nently out,  and  the  profile  of  the 
hills  is  clearly  cut  against  the  sky. 
The  face  of  the  country  is  rapidly 
changed — the  grass  begins  to  give 
a  faint  tinge  of  green  to  the  hill- 
slopes,  and  splendid  masses  of  cum- 
ulus cloud  are  piled  up  on  the  hor- 
izon, giving  a  varied  play  of  light 
and  shade,  which  is  truly  charming 
to  the  eye  tired  with  the  monoton- 
ous glare  of  the  cloudless  summer 
sky.  At  this  time  the  birds  of 
passage  appear  in  large  flocks — lap- 
wings and  bustards,  woodcocks  and 


358 


Climate  in  the  Levant. 


quails ;  the  lesser  birds  also  gather 
round  the  springs,  and  the  calling 
of  the  red-legged  partridges  is  heard 
wherever  cover  can  be  found. 

This  season,  which  appears  so 
charming  and  refreshing  after  the 
long  summer,  is,  however,  the  most 
deadly  and  treacherous  of  all.  The 
traveller  who  visits  Syria  after  the 
first  rains  have  fallen,  cannot  be  too 
cautious.  It  is  almost  impossible 
at  this  time  of  year  to  sleep  even 
for  a  night  in  the  plains,  without 
suffering  from  fever.  The  hills  are 
the  only  safe  part  of  the  country ; 
and  even  there  it  is  important  to 
keep  in  the  driest  parts,  and  to 
avoid  the  neighbourhood  of  water. 
The  miasma  from  the  reeking  ground 
is  drawn  out  by  the  sun's  rays ;  and 
the  damp  soil  is  turned  up  by  the 
plough  as  soon  as  the  first  showers 
have  softened  the  baking  ground. 
The  fevers  of  the  country  increase 
in  virulence  throughout  the  month 
of  November  ;  and  in  some  years  it 
is  stated  that  the  population  of  vil- 
lages in  the  plains  is  not  only  decim- 
ated, but  even  reduced  by  one  half, 
so  fatal  is  the  malady  among  the 
peasantry. 

As  the  heat  decreases  and  the 
soil  gets  thoroughly  soaked  with 
rain,  the  climate  gradually  grows 
more  healthy.  In  December  and 
January  the  fever  becomes  less  vir- 
ulent, though  many  cases  of  simple 
ague  occur,  brought  on  by  exposure 
and  damp ;  for  ague  in  the  Levant 
takes  the  place  of  rheumatism  or 
catarrh  in  the  West. 

In  January  and  February  snow 
falls  frequently  on  the  hills  above 
a  level  of  about  2000  feet.  Hail- 
storms also  often  occur,  and  the 
rains  during  these  months  are  very 
heavy.  The  ground  is  swamped  by 
the  water,  and  becomes  impassable 
in  the  plains ;  bogs  and  quagmires 
are  formed  wherever  the  natural 
drainage  is  deficient,  and  the  low- 
lying  grounds  are  flooded. 


[March 

In  many  of  the  valleys  the  corn 
is  often  entirely  ruined  by  the  ab- 
sence of  any  system  of  irrigation ; 
and  the  plentiful  rainfall  which,  if 
properly  stored,  would  suffice  for 
the  whole  summer,  becomes,  in  the 
present  neglected  condition  of  the 
country,  only  a  curse  to  the  land. 

The  rainy  season  continues  until 
the  vernal  equinox,  but  the  storms 
decrease  in  severity  throughout 
February  and  March.  In  1874, 
however,  the  whole  of  the  hills  of 
Palestine  were  white  with  snow  in 
April.  Seven  heavy  falls  occurred 
in  Jerusalem  that  year ;  and  Mount 
Salmon,  near  Nablus,  retained  its 
white  veil  for  many  days.  Easter 
falling  early,  the  tourists  at  the 
Holy  City  experienced  the  unex- 
pected and  unpleasant  surprise  of 
sitting  in  their  tents,  in  summer 
costume,  amid  the  snow,  at  a  season 
when  mild  and  sunny  weather  was 
to  be  expected.  Such  a  year  is, 
however,  exceptional  in  the  Levant. 

We  have  now  traced  the  prin- 
cipal features  of  climatic  change 
throughout  the  course  of  the  year 
— from  the  healthy  spring  to  the 
dry  hot  summer,  the  deadly  au- 
tumn, and  the  cold  winter.  Our 
attention  may  next  be  directed  to 
the  common  diseases  of  the  coun- 
try, and  to  their  apparent  causes. 

The  most  usual  diseases  in  the 
Levant  are  dysentery,  fever,  oph- 
thalmia, and  disorders  of  the  liver 
and  spleen.  Dysentery  is  perhaps 
the  most  dangerous  of  all,  and,  as 
before  stated,  prevails  commonly  in 
the  autumn.  The  native  remedy 
is  simple,  consisting  of  lemon-juice 
squeezed  into  coffee,  and  is  said  to 
be  sometimes  very  effective.  The 
native  dress,  however,  affords  the 
best  preventive  ;  for  the  broad, 
thick  shawl,  worn  round  the  loins 
by  men  and  women  alike,  keeps  the 
stomach  warm,  and  prevents  those 
chills  which  are  one  of  the  main 
causes  of  dysentery. 


1879.] 


Climate  in  the  Levant. 


359 


It  may  be  remarked,  with  regard 
to  the  native  costume,  that  however 
undesirable  it  might  be  for  a  domi- 
nant race  to  assume  the  dress  of  a 
nation  which  it  governs,  there  are 
yet  certain  peculiarities  of  costume 
which  originate  in  the  requirements 
of  climate,  and  which  may  be 
adopted  with  advantage.  The 
waistband  is  not  the  only  article 
of  dress  which  recommends  itself 
as  being  suitable  to  the  climate. 
The  flowing  robes  and  loose  white 
cloaks  worn  in  summer  are  more 
effectual  in  keeping  out  the  suii 
than  are  our  own  tight-fitting  gar- 
ments ;  and  the  native  head-dresses 
deserve  special  mention  as  forming 
the  best  protection  possible  against 
sunstroke. 

The  stagnation  of  the  blood, 
which  produces  sunstroke,  may  oc- 
cur in  any  part  of  the  body,  and 
sometimes  attacks  the  knees,  when 
exposed  with  a  tight-fitting  cover- 
ing, especially  in  riding.  The  nape 
of  the  neck  is,  however,  the  most 
dangerous  spot,  and  all  Eastern 
head-dresses  cover  it.  In  Morocco 
the  natives  will,  however,  face  a 
fierce  summer  sun  with  only  a  grass 
fillet  round  their  temples,  the  top 
of  the  head  being  exposed.  This 
fillet  is  bound  tightly,  and  passes 
over  the  base  of  the  skull  at  the 
back.  In  the  same  way  the  Syrian 
head-dress,  called  kujeyeh,  which  is 
worn  by  Christians,  by  horsemen, 
by  the  Bedouin,  and  by  the  native 
regiments — in  fact,  by  all  who  are 
most  exposed  to  the  sun — consists 
of  a  shawl  bound  round  the  tem- 
ples by  a  fillet.  A  felt  cap  is  often 
worn  under  the  shawl,  but  the  main 
object  of  the  head-dress  is  to  cover 
the  nape  of  the  neck,  and  to  give  a 
tight  ligature  round  the  head.  The 
action  of  this  fillet  can  only  be 
properly  accounted  for  by  a  physi- 
cian. The  fact  remains,  that  it 
forms  a  most  efficient  protection 
against  sunstroke.  The  sun -hel- 


met worn  by  our  troops  does  indeed 
shade  the  neck,  but  it  does  not 
bind  the  head.  The  adoption  of 
the  kufeyeh  might  prove  a  valuable 
precaution  against  the  sun ;  and  as 
a  military  dress,  it  has  a  very  smart 
appearance  when  employed  by  the 
Turkish  troops.  The  turban  could 
hardly  be  adopted  by  Christians  in 
the  Levant,  as  the  prejudices  of 
Moslems,  who  regard  it  as  a  dress 
distinctive  of  the  faithful,  would  be 
aroused.  The  kufeyeh  possesses  the 
additional  recommendation,  that  it 
is  already  the  Christian  and  mili- 
tary costume  of  the  country. 

Ophthalmia  is  a  disease  not  pecu- 
liar to  the  Levant.  In  Egypt  it  is 
still  more  common,  and  in  India 
our  countrymen  also  suffer  from  it. 
In  Syria  the  chalk  districts  are 
those  where  it  prevails  most,  for 
the  glare  of  the  white  rock  is  very 
trying  to  the  sight.  It  is  said  that 
the  use  of  kohel  to  the  eyes  is  one 
of  the  best  preservatives  against 
this  painful  disease.  Ophthalmia 
is  unfortunately  very  catching,  but 
care  and  cleanliness  will  do  much 
to  prevent  its  becoming  dangerous, 
and  the  use  of  nitrate  of  silver  in 
severe  cases  has  a  very  salutary 
result. 

Last,  but  not  least,  comes  the 
question  of  fever,  concerning  which 
so  much  has  latterly  been  said. 
The  following  remarks  may  perhaps 
prove  of  value,  in  pointing  out  the 
real  causes  of  the  disease,  and  the 
necessary  remedies  and  precautions. 

The  Levantine  fever  is  of  two 
kinds,  intermittent  and  remittent ; 
but  the  cause  appears  to  be  the 
same  in  both  cases  —  namely,  an 
affection  of  the  liver,  due  princi- 
pally to  bad  water. 

The  intermittent  fever  or  ague, 
though  very  weakening  and  trying, 
is  not,  as  a  rule,  dangerous  to  life. 
It  takes  the  place  in  the  East  of 
an  influenza  cold,  and  is  generally 
brought  on  by  overwork,  chills, 


360 


Climate  in  the  Levant. 


over-exposure,  worry,  or  any  cause 
which  lowers  the  natural  energy. 
The  poison  may  lie  unsuspected  in 
the  system  for  months,  and  only 
show  itself  after  removing  to  a 
healthy  district.  It  is,  however, 
generally  acknowledged  by  the  na- 
tives, that  bad  water  is  the  original 
cause  of  the  fever. 

Ague  commences  with  bad  head- 
ache, hot  and  cold  fits,  and  thirst. 
After  a  shorter  or  longer  period, 
perspiration  sets  in,  and  the  fever 
entirely  disappears.  The  patient 
feels  relieved,  and,  though  weak, 
still  quite  well.  It  is  then  that 
rest  and  nourishment  with  quinine 
are  required ;  for  the  fit  is  certain  to 
return,  and  if  no  precautions  have 
been  taken,  the  violence  of  the  fever 
in  the  second  attack  will  increase. 

The  intermittent  fever  is  easily 
treated,  though  it  usually  leaves 
behind  an  affection  of  the  liver 
which  may  last  for  a  lifetime.  The 
patient  is,  however,  always  more 
subject  to  attacks  than  before. 

There  is  a  curious  symptom  which 
sometimes  accompanies,  and  some- 
times takes  the  place  of,  the  fever. 
This  is  the  ulcer  known  as  Habb  el 
HaleUyeh,  "  the  Aleppo  button  ; " 
also  called  Habb  es  Senneh,  "the 
boil  of  a  year,"  because  it  generally 
lasts  for  the  best  part  of  a  year. 

This  curious  ulcer  is  universally 
supposed  to  be  the  result  of  drink- 
ing unhealthy  water. 

The  climate  of  Aleppo  is  cool — in 
fact,  cold,  for  the  orange-tree  will 
not  grow  there ;  but  still  this  plague 
is  most  frequent  in  that  part  of 
Syria.  In  the  Lebanon  also,  it 
commonly  appears,  and  throughout 
Syria  cases  occur.  If  the  ulcer 
dries  up,  the  patient  gets  fever.  If 
it  runs  its  course,  he  generally 
escapes.  The  "Aleppo  button"  ap- 
pears, in  fact,  to  be  a  natural  outlet 
for  the  fever-poison  from  the  system. 

Fever,  as  above  said,,  is  ascribed 
to  the  drinking  of  certain  springs ; 


[March 

and  those  sources  which  are  sup- 
posed— or  rather,  which  have  by 
experience  been  proved — to  be  the 
most  dangerous,  are  carefully  avoid- 
ed by  the  natives,  although  they 
are  often  clear  and  tempting,  while 
the  springs  in  use  are  perhaps  mud- 
dy and  brackish.  A  careful  analy- 
sis of  the  water  might  perhaps 
throw  light  on  the  origin  of  the 
disease;  meantime  a  fact  reported 
from  Cyprus  tends  to  confirm  the 
native  belief,  for  it  is  stated  that 
the  only  body  of  men  who  entirely 
escaped  fever  last  year  was  a  party 
supplied  with  water  from  the  fleet. 

Hitherto  we  have  been  consider- 
ing the  less  dangerous  intermittent 
fever ;  but  the  disease  which  at- 
tacked our  troops  in  Cyprus  was 
the  more  virulent  remittent  fever 
called  Safra  ("  yellow  "),  which  is 
accompanied  with  vomiting  and 
typhoid  symptoms.  This  malady 
requires  far  greater  care  and  medical 
skill  to  combat  it ;  for  the  oppor- 
tunity for  administering  quinine, 
which  occurs  between  the  fits  of 
the  ague,  does  not  arise  in  the  re- 
mittent fever. 

It  appears  to  have  been  clearly 
shown  that  this  fever  is  due  to  mi- 
asma, produced  by  the  stagnation 
of  water  in  the  soil.  Throughout 
Syria  the  driest  districts  are  always 
the  most  healthy.  The  Sinaitic 
desert  has  a  climate  almost  entirely 
free  from  fever,  while  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  the  marshes  is  the 
most  sickly  part  of  the  Syrian 
coast.  In  autumn  a  great  deal  of 
sickness  is  caused  by  ploughing, 
the  miasma  being  thus  enabled  to 
escape  from  the  ground,  which  is 
already  made  damp  by  the  rains. 
In  Cyprus,  the  necessary  turning  of 
the  soil  in  the  various  camps  may 
probably  have  increased  the  un- 
healthy condition  of  their  neigh- 
bourhood. 

It  was  proved  in  one  instance, 
at  Cyprus,  that  the  fever  was  pro- 


1879.] 


Climate  in  the  Levant. 


361 


duced  by  the  leakage  of  an  aque- 
duct which  formed  a  small  marsh 
close  to  the  camp  of  the  Royal 
Artillery,  who  had  at  one  time  about 
fifty  per  cent  of  sick.  The  regiment 
next  in  order  suffered  less ;  while  a 
third  regiment,  at  a  greater  distance 
from  the  water,  was  hardly  affected 
at  all. 

The  question  of  reclaiming  the 
marshes  on  the  mainland  is,  there- 
fore, one  of  the  greatest  importance. 
In  first  dealing  with  the  country, 
all  those  districts  where  miasma  is 
to  be  feared  should  be  most  care- 
fully avoided ;  and  this  is  not  diffi- 
cult, for  the  effects  of  the  malaria 
seem  to  be  restricted  to  within  a 
very  small  distance  of  the  marshes. 

The  swamps  are  of  two  kinds : 
first,  those  along  the  coast ;  second- 
ly, those  inland.  The  latter  are  due 
to  the  existence  of  sinks  without 
any  natural  outlet.  These  are  very 
common  in  the  Lebanon,  and  ap- 
pear often  to  be  volcanic  craters. 
On  the  northern  slopes  of  Hermon 
such  a  sink  occurs ;  and  the  whole 
of  the  little  plain  is  every  year  sud- 
denly flooded  by  water  issuing  from 
the  foot  of  the  hills.  The  lake 
subsides  during  the  summer,  and 
a*  pestilential  marsh  remains.  To 
drain  these  sinks  would  be  an  en- 
gineering task  of  considerable  diffi- 
culty, as  they  are  generally  quite 
surrounded  with  hills.  The  area  is 
not,  however,  usually  very  large; 
and  the  evil  effect  of  the  miasma, 
as  before  stated,  is  quite  local. 

The  maritime  marshes  would  per- 
haps be  more  easily  treated ;  for  we 
may,  in  many  cases,  follow  out  the 
designs  of  the  greatest  engineering 
nation  of  antiquity,  and  treat  the 
swamps  as  the  Romans  formerly 
treated  them. 

The  most  notoriously  unhealthy 
place  on  the  coast  is  the  Bay  of 
Iskanderun,  or  Alexandretta,  and 
there  is  no  part  of  the  shore  which 
is  so  marshy.  The  remarks  made 


by  Vice-Consul  Barker,  in  his  re- 
port in  1872,  as  to  the  Euphrates 
Yalley  Railway,  which  it  is  pro- 
posed should  start  from  this  fever- 
stricken  port,  are  well  worthy  of 
attention. 

The  malignant  character  of  the 
local  fever  he  attributes  to  the  stag- 
nation of  the  air  over  the  marshes. 
The  high  green  hills  of  Mount 
Rhossus  on  the  south,  and  the 
Alma  Dagh  (Mount  Amanus)  on 
the  north  and  east,  shut  out  every 
breath  of  air.  The  temperature 
night  and  day  varies  only  from  80° 
to  90°  Fahr.  ;  and  the  miasma, 
sucked  out  of  the  marshes  by  the 
sun,  hangs  in  the  stagnant  air,  form- 
ing a  mist  in  the  morning  and 
evening. 

"I  have  known,"  he  says,  "in 
one  month  of  August,  eight  English 
travellers  who  did  not  survive  their 
having  slept  one  or  two  nights  in 
passing  through  Iskanderun.  .  .  . 
Some  Europeans  of  peculiar  con- 
stitution resist  the  first  brunt  of  the 
fever,  but  only  to  keep  it  hanging 
about  them  until  next  summer 
carries  them  off.  Very  few  can 
stand  more  than  two  years  without 
being  obliged  to  leave  for  change 
of  air,  which  it  is  said,  however, 
is  more  dangerous  than  remaining. 
.  .  .  The  fluctuating  native  pop- 
ulation, principally  indigenous,  of 
Iskanderun,  resist  the  fever;  but 
they  all  have  running  sores  in  their 
legs,  which  dry  up  from  time  to 
time,  and  then  the  fever  breaks 
forth  afresh.  The  lungs  of  those 
born  there  resist  the  mortuary 
effect,  but  I  have  seen  infants  at 
the  breast  with  open  sores  in  their 
legs."  It  may  be  noted,  in  passing, 
that  the  ulcers  thus  described  re- 
semble the  "Aleppo  button  "  already 
noticed. 

Were  this  the  only  disadvantage 


which    Alexandretta 


possesses, 


if 


considered  as  the  terminus  of  the 
railway  of  India,  it  could  not  but 


362 


Climate  in  the  Levant. 


be  regarded  in  itself  as  a  very  great 
objection.  When,  however,  we 
consider  that  the  direct  route 
through  Aleppo  leads  to  a  healthy 
and  safe  port  at  the  mouth  of  the 
Orontes,  twenty -five  miles  south 
of  Alexandretta ;  that  this  route 
to  the  harbour  of  Seleucia  (Su- 
weidiyeh)  is  shorter  than  that  to 
Alexandretta ;  that  it  follows  the 
course  of  the  river,  while  that  to 
Alexandretta  first  runs  round  the 
great  swamp  north  of  Antioch,  and 
then  crosses  the  difficult  pass  of 
Beilan  (Pylae  Syrise),  2000  feet  high, 
—  it  seems  curious  that  the  more 
northern  of  the  two  termini  should 
find  any  favour  in  the  eyes  of  unpre- 
judiced writers.  In  the  one  case  we 
have  a  healthy  harbour,  in  a  charm- 
ing situation  at  a  river-mouth,  in 
a  plain  dotted  with  gardens  of  mul- 
berries and  pomegranates,  and  a 
route  ascending  by  easy  gradients 
up  a  healthy  valley ;  in  the  other 
we  find  a  harbour  rendered  danger- 
ous by  the  violence  of  the  raggiya 
wind,  blowing  in  winter  in  sudden 
squalls  through  the  mountains, 
and  a  town  lying  among  pestilent 
marshes — while  the  proposed  line 
must  either  run,  like  a  "  fell "  rail- 
way, over  the  pass,  to  descend 
again  to  an  inland  swamp,  or  will 
necessitate  a  tunnel  scarcely  less 
costly  than  that,  under  Mont 
Cenis. 

To  return,  however,  to  the  ques- 
tion of  the  Alexandretta  marshes. 
The  swamps  extend  along  the  bay 
for  30  miles,  and  have  an  area  of 
about  100  square  miles.  They 
occupy  a  flat  plain  between  the 
high  hills  and  the  sand-dunes  along 
the  shore,  and  they  are  formed  by 
the  damming  up  of  the  water  de- 
scending from  the  mountains,  which 
sinks  into  the  loamy  soil  behind 
the  dunes.  The  maritime  plains  of 
the  Syrian  coast  possess  throughout 
the  same  character.  The  plains  of 
Sharon  and  of  Acre  are,  in  the  same 


[March 

way,  the  result  of  the  denudation  of 
the  hills,  and  of  the  heaping  up  of 
sand  blown  inland  from  the  shores. 
At  Acre  and  in  Sharon,  swamps 
are  formed  in  the  same  manner,  at 
a  level  very  little  above  that  of  the 
sea,  and  they  are  annually  flooded 
by  the  torrents  from  the  hills. 

The  question  of  draining  these 
marshes  is  not  so  easy  as  has  some- 
times been  assumed.  In  the  case 
of  the  plain  of  Sharon,  it  is  perhaps 
less  difficult,  because  the  plain  is 
wider,  and  the  fall  which  can  be 
obtained  for  the  water  is  greater. 

In  this  instance  the  Eoman  works 
still  remain.  The  area  of  one  of 
the  Sharon  swamps  was  restricted 
by  a  wall  built  from  the  hills  to 
the  shore,  and  carefully  cemented 
inside.  The  bar  of  soft  sandy  rock 
was  then  cut  through  in  various 
places,  and  the  streams  which  now 
form  the  swamps  were  allowed  to 
drain  into  the  sea.  These  works 
have  become  ruined,  the  channels 
have  been  filled  up,  and  the  marshes 
have  re-formed. 

At  Alexandretta,  however,  the 
difficulty  is  greater.  The  hills  ap- 
proach within  four  miles  of  the 
shore;  they  are  steep  and  lofty, 
and  cut  up  with  many  water- 
courses. The  marsh  is  nearly  on 
a  level  with  the  sea;  and,  in  fact, 
it  is  said  by  one  writer  to  be  below 
sea-level.  Were  this  the  case,  we 
might  hope  to  let  the  sea  in  and 
destroy  the  marsh ;  but  it  seems 
probable  that  the  real  level  is  above 
that  of  the  sea. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  we 
should  have  to  provide,  not  only 
for  draining  the  existing  marsh,  but 
for  carrying  away  the  water  from 
the  hills  as  it  descends  every  winter, 
— and  this  supposes  very  extensive 
irrigatory  works. 

An  engineer  who  has  already 
written  on  the  question  appears 
to  have  lost  sight  of  this  fact.  He 
proposes  to  drive  iron  pipes  through 


1879.] 

the  great  sand-dunes,  and  so  tap 
the  water  within,  the  pipes  being 
"  raised  considerably  above  the 
sandy  bottom "  of  the  sea,  into 
which  they  discharge. 

The  very  gradual  slope  of  the 
shore  and  the  low  level  of  the 
marshes  would,  however,  render 
such  drainage  almost  impossible ; 
and  the  tubes  would  probably  be 
destroyed  by  the  violent  storms 
which  have  already  formed  the 
dunes,  and  which  sometimes  com- 
pletely alter  the  soundings  of  the 
sea-bottom  near  shore  in  a  single 
night. 

The  evil  must  be  tapped  at  the 
root.  The  cultivation  of  the  hills, 
and  the  utilisation  of  the  water 
now  allowed  to  run  to  waste  down 
the  valleys,  would  render  it  in  time 
far  easier  to  deal  with  the  marsh ; 
but  in  the  meanwhile,  many  valu- 
able lives  might  be  sacrificed  in  the 
attempt  to  render  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Alexandretta  healthy,  and 
sacrificed  to  very  little  purpose  — 
for  the  port,  as  above  noticed,  is 
not  the  natural  terminus  for  the 
Euphrates  Valley  Railway,  which 
should  follow  the  valley  of  the 
Orontes,  to  the  Bay  of  Seleucia,  on 
the  other  side  of  Mount  Rhossus. 

The  peculiar  malignity  of  the 
fever  at  Alexandretta  is  attributed 
to  the  stagnation  of  the  air.  The 
sea-breeze,  which  forms  one  of  the 
most  attractive  features  of  Syrian 
climate,  is  never  felt  there.  The 
importance  of  obtaining  a  free  ac- 
cess of  wholesome  air  cannot  be 
over-estimated.  Even  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  marshes  is  less  danger- 
ous when  the  sea-breeze  blows  away 
the  miasma.  The  villages  in  Syria 
are  perched  on  heights  which  catch 
the  least  breath  of  air,  and  are  thus 
rendered  not  only  cooler  but  more 
healthy.  In  the  choice  of  camps, 
the  greatest  care  should  be  taken 
to  select  spots  thus  open  to  the 
wind.  " 


Climate  in  the  Levant. 


363 


The  preceding  description  of  Le- 
vantine climate  would  be  of  little 
value  by  itself ;  it  is  because  a  true 
idea  of  the  climate  may  lead  to  the 
suggestion  of  precautions  necessary 
to  be  observed,  and  of  improvements 
which  may  gradually  be  made,  that 
the  results  of  experience  are  useful. 
We  may  therefore  now  briefly  con- 
sider the  rules  which  should  be 
observed  by  those  whose  lot  is  cast 
at  any  time  in  Cyprus  or  Syria. 

The  first  and  most  important  pre- 
caution is  to  keep  dry.  The  healthi- 
ness of  any  district  in  the  Levant 
has  been  shown  to  be  proportion- 
ate to  its  dryness.  The  tempting 
neighbourhood  of  streams,  and  gar- 
dens irrigated  by  open  channels  of 
water,  are  to  be  carefully  avoided, 
and  open  ground  at  some  distance 
from  any  spring  should  be  selected. 
It  seems  also  that  it  is  not  safe  to 
conduct  water  to  a  camp  through 
pipes,  or  by  an  aqueduct,  unless  it 
can  be  so  arranged  that  no  overflow 
or  pool  of  stagnant  water  can  by 
any  chance  be  formed.  It  would 
be  far  safer  to  organise  a  service  of 
mules  or  donkeys  to  bring  in  the 
water  in  earthen  jars  from  some 
little  distance. 

The  danger  of  camping  near 
water  is  perfectly  well  understood 
by  the  Bedouin,  whose  tents  are 
never  placed  close  to  the  springs. 
The  Arab  women  bring  water  into 
camp,  sometimes  from  a  distance  of 
over  a  mile,  either  on  donkeys,  or 
often  in  goat-skins  on  their  own 
backs.  The  reason  given  by  the 
Arabs  is,  that  fever  is  to  be  feared 
near  the  springs. 

The  extreme  dryness  of  the  Syrian 
climate  is  an  advantage  of  which 
the  most  should  be  made.  Sanitary 
arrangements  are  much  facilitated 
thereby ;  and  cities  exist  in  the 
Levant  without  drains,  because  of 
the  power  of  the  sun  in  burning  up 
offensive  matter.  The  presence  of 
stagnant  water  counteracts  this  ad- 


364 


Climate  in  the  Levant. 


vantage,  and  will  at  once  convert  a 
healthy  camp  into  a  fever  centre. 

The  second  precaution  concerns 
the  choice  and  use  of  water.  A 
source  having  been  selected  which 
is  not  condemned  by  the  natives, 
a  second  safeguard  may  be  obtained 
by  distilling  the  water  before  use. 
Filtering  does  not  appear  to  have 
the  required  effect,  and  the  pocket- 
filter  (such  as  was  supplied  to  our 
troops  in  Ashantee)  is  at  best  but  a 
clever  toy,  not  likely  to  be  used  by 
a  man  whose  thirst  is  scarcely  ap- 
peased by  a  bucketful.  It  must  be 
put  beyond  the  soldier's  power,  as 
far  as  possible,  to  drink  bad  water. 
Boiling  has  a  good  effect,  but  dis- 
tillation has  been  found  to  be  a  per- 
fectly successful  cure  for  infected 
water.  It  is  true  that  the  taste  of 
distilled  water  is  flat,  but  this  can 
be  remedied  in  many  ways;  and 
the  use  of  barley  or  rice  in  the 
water  (as  drunk  by  the  smiths  in 
our  arsenals)  is  to  be  recommended, 
as  tending  to  allay  the  thirst  after 
drinking  a  lesser  quantity.  Lemon- 
ade and  cold  tea  are  also  valuable 
beverages  for  preserving  the  healthy 
condition  of  the  liver,  and  thus 
preventing  fever.  Generally  speak- 
ing, the  less  that  a  man  drinks  the 
better  he  will  be.  The  soldier  who 
is  constantly  drinking  in  the  heat 
of  the  day  will  soon  fall  ill ;  and 
the  man  who  persists  in  drinking 
spirits  or  beer,  and  who  is  at  the 
same  time  exposed  to  the  heat  of 
the  sun,  has  but  a  short  time  to 
live  in  the  Levant. 

It  is  said  that  whitewashing  the 
interiors  of  vessels  in  which  the 
water  is  distilled  corrects  the  flat- 
ness of  taste.  The  experiment  could 
easily  be  tried,  and  in  permanent 
quarters  there  should  be  very  little 
difficulty  in  supplying  wholesome 
water  to  the  troops.  This  precau- 
tion alone  would  probably  make  a 
marked  difference  in  the  healthiness 
of  the  various  stations. 


[March 


The  third  requisite  for  camps  is 
an  exposure  to  the  western  breeze. 

Stations  chosen  in  sheltered  posi- 
tions will  never  be  healthy  in  sum- 
mer; and  it  would  be  preferable 
to  stand  the  full  force  of  the  winter 
storms,  rather  than  to  choose  a  lo- 
cality where  the  air  stagnates  as  it 
does  at  Alexandretta. 

The  fourth  precaution,  and  one 
of  no  little  importance,  is,  that  none 
of  the  men  should  be  allowed  to 
sleep  on  or  close  to  the  ground. 
The  miasma  creeps  along  the  sur- 
face, and  it  is  said  that  a  difference 
of  six  inches  in  level  will  some- 
times make  the  difference  between 
health  and  disease.  It  is  not  diffi- 
cult to  make  the  proper  arrange- 
ments. In  tents,  the  hammocks 
may  be  suspended  from  the  poles  ; 
in  huts,  the  beds  can  be  erected,  like 
berths  in  a  ship,  against  the  walls. 
But  even  if  it  necessitated  more 
cumbrous  arrangements,  it  is  of  the 
utmost  importance  that  the  men 
should  sleep  at  least  a  foot  from  the 
ground,  and  that  the  tents  should 
be  provided  with  ground-sheets. 

The  fifth  precaution  concerns  the 
dress  of  the  men.  In  Cyprus,  chol- 
era-belts were  ordered  to  be  worn ; 
but  the  article  so  called  is  one  of 
the  most  unsatisfactory  productions 
in  existence.  It  is  a  belt  of  flannel, 
buttoned  over  the  abdomen.  The 
buttons  are  always  coming  off,  and 
the  flannel  shrinks  so  as  to  make 
the  belt  quite  useless.  A  simple 
roll  of  flannel  is  better,  and  the 
native  shawl  is  still  more  effective. 
The  Turkish  troops  wear  a  uniform 
waistcoat,  with  an  open  jacket,  and 
a  broad  red  sash  wound  round  be- 
neath the  jacket.  Such  a  costume 
has  a  comfortable  and  by  no  means 
unmilitary  appearance ;  and  when, 
in  addition,  the  kufeyeh  is  worn  on 
the  head,  the  soldier  may  be  said 
to  possess  a  costume  suitable  to 
the  climate,  and  securing  the  best 
chances  of  health  for  the  wearer. 


1879.] 


Climate  in  the  Levant. 


365 


The  sixth  point  regards  the  food 
of  the  troops.  It  will  always  be 
difficult  to  prevent  the  men  from 
over-eating  and  over- drink  ing.  The 
toughness  of  the  peasant  constitu- 
tion in  the  Levant  is  due  to  the 
abstemiousness  of  the  natives.  They 
drink  only  coffee,  lemonade,  and 
water ;  they  live  almost  entirely  on 
vegetables  and  oil.  The  constitu- 
tion of  Englishmen  requires  a  meat 
diet,  and  it  would  be  impossible  to 
imitate  the  natives  altogether.  A 
large  quantity  of  vegetable  food  is, 
however,  a  requisite  for  health;  and 
such  a  vegetable  as  the  tomato  is 
the  best  diet  for  preserving  the 
healthy  action  of  the  liver.  Onions 
are  also  said  to  be  preservatives 
against  fever;  and  fruit  eaten  in 
moderation  at  maturity  is  also 
wholesome,  though  the  sweet  mel- 
ons and  the  prickly  pears  are  con- 
sidered very  injurious  by  the  na- 
tives. 

The  seventh  and  last  precaution 
which  should  be  observed  when 
possible  is,  that  the  reliefs  should 
reach  the  country  in  spring,  and 
that  the  troops  withdrawn  should 
be  sent  to  a  healthy  and  temperate 
climate.  The  men  arriving  in  spring 
will  have  at  least  four  healthy 
months  in  which  to  become  accli- 
matised and  acquainted  with  th'e 
habits  necessitated  by  the  country. 
They  will  thus  be  better  fitted  to 
undergo  the  trials  of  the  unhealthy 
autumn ;  and  the  increase  of  tem- 
perature, which  has  been  shown  to 
be  regular  from  January  to  Septem- 
ber, will  come  on  them  gradually. 
The  troops  retired  should  not  be 
sent  to  any  of  our  Mediterranean 
stations,  where  heat  and  fever 
would  be  again  encountered,  nor 
should  they  be  quartered  in  a  very 
cold  country.  Many  will  have 
brought  away  the  fever-poison  in 
their  systems,  and  sudden  chills  in 
a  bracing  climate  will  inevitably 
result  in  the  reappearance  of  the 

VOL.  CXXV. — NO.  DCCLXI. 


Levantine  disease.  Many  officers 
have  suffered  more  since  leaving 
Cyprus  than  they  ever  did  in  the 
island ;  and,  as  above  stated,  the  same 
return  of  fever  is  equally  dreaded 
by  those  who  leave  Alexandretta. 

By  observing  the  above  precau- 
tions, the  health  of  troops  or  resi- 
dents in  the  Levant  might  be  pre- 
served to  a  very  great  extent  with- 
out any  radical  alteration  in  the 
climate  itself.  With  time,  how- 
ever, improvements  might  be  in- 
troduced which  would  ^affect  the 
salubrity  of  the  country.  Changes 
must  have  occurred  for  the  worse 
in  the  climate  of  Palestine,  or  the 
ancient  historian  would  not  have 
described  the  plains  of  Jericho — 
now  pestilent  in  autumn  from  the 
stagnant  water — as  a  region  "fit 
for  the  gods."  In  the  time  of 
Josephus  these  plains  were  care- 
fully cultivated,  and  the  water  from 
the  springs  was  carried  away  in 
aqueducts  to  irrigate  the  palm 
groves.  The  palms  disappeared 
about  the  twelfth  century,  and  the 
climate  began  probably  to  be  un- 
healthy from  that  period. 

The  first  requisite  for  the  country 
is  the  construction  of  roads.  If  our 
troops  in  Cyprus  could  have  been 
quartered  on  the  slopes  of  Olympus, 
at  a  height  of  3000  or  4000  feet 
above  the  sea,  we  should  perhaps 
have  heard  little  of  sickness  among 
them.  It  would,  however,  have 
been  impracticable,  in  the  present 
condition  of  Cyprus,  to  feed  there 
at  such  a  distance  from  the  coast. 
Good  roads,  and  the  introduction 
of  wheeled  transport,  would  facili- 
tate the  communications  from  the 
mountains  to  the  sea,  and  make  it 
possible  to  quarter  the  troops  in 
stations  far  more  healthy  than  the 
plains  of  Larnaka.  In  Syria,  too, 
the  country  would  also  require  to 
be  opened  up ;  and  the  stations 
which  would  prove  most  healthy 
are  on  Lebanon  or  the  mountains 
2  A 


336 


Q limits  in  the  Levant. 


[March 


of  Galilee,  4000  feet  or  more  above 
the  sea.  Eoads  are  the  first  requi- 
sites for  the  improvement  of  the 
country  from  a  sanitary  point  of 
view. 

The  next  public  works  would  be 
connected  with  irrigation.  The 
swamps  must  be  drained,  the  water 
now  running  to  waste  must  be  used 
for  cultivation,  and  the  plentiful 
rainfall  would  give  a  supply  of 
water  which,  if  stored,  would  be 
sufficient  to  preclude  any  danger 
of  drought. 

The  soil  of  the  hills  is  now  an- 
nually washed  down  in  large  quan- 
tities to  the  plains,  and  the  old 
system  of  terracing  has  been  allowed 
to  fall  into  ruin.  Cultivation  once 
re  -  established  in  the  mountains, 
and  the  rain  now  pouring  off  the 
rocky  slopes  being  utilised  for  irri- 
gation or  collected  in  cisterns,  the 
flooding  of  the  plains  would  be  to  a 
great  extent  prevented,  and  their 
drainage  might  be  more  easily 
effected.  The  climate  would  thus 
be  materially  improved,  by  the  car- 
rying off  of  water  now  allowed  to 
stagnate. 

The  old  system  of  water-storage, 
now  neglected,  might  very  easily 
be  renewed :  magnificent  cisterns 
cut  in  rock,  or  formed  like  the  In- 
dian tanks  by  damming  up  the 
mouths  of  valleys,  exist  in  every 
part  of  the  country.  These  cisterns 
should  be  cleared  of  the  rubbish 
now  choking  them,  and  should  be 
re-cemented  inside.  They  might 
then  hold  as  much  water  as  would 
at  first  be  required. 

Fine  aqueducts  are  found  in 
every  part  of  Syria,  and,  like  the 
cisterns  and  reservoirs,  have  been 
allowed  to  fall  into  ruins.  At  a 
trifling  expense  these  works,  which 
appear  generally  to  have  been 
engineered  by  the  Romans,  might 
also  be  restored. 

The  draining  of  the  marshes 
would  be  another  step  in  advance, 


and  would  materially  improve  the 
climate.  When  Ibrahim  Pasha,  the 
Egyptian,  was  in  possession  of  Alex- 
andretta,  he  commenced  the  work 
of  drainage  in  its  pestilent  swamp. 
The  system  which  he  employed  was 
imperfect,  but  a  marked  improve- 
ment in  the  healthiness  of  the 
place  was  the  immediate  result. 
The  canal  which  he  constructed 
has  been  allowed  by  the  Turks  to 
become  choked,  and  is  now  useless. 
This  was,  however,  a  good  instance 
of  the  improvements  which  might 
be  effected,  even  in  a  short  period, 
by  an  energetic  Government. 

The  last  question  connected  with 
the  improvement  of  the  climate  is 
that  of  planting  trees.  Much  is 
expected  to  result  in  Cyprus  from 
this  change ;  but  the  alteration 
effected  would  only  be  very  grad- 
ual, and  it  would  be  many  years 
before  a  visible  change  would  be 
made. 

It  is  very  usual,  in  speaking  of 
Syria,  to  assume  that  a  great  altera- 
tion has  occurred  in  the  amount  of 
forest-growth.  We  have  not,  how- 
ever, any  very  good  authority  for 
such  a  supposition.  The  depth  of 
the  soil  on  the  mountains  may  per- 
haps at  one  time  have  been  greater, 
but  even  the  most  rocky  hills  are 
still  covered  with  dense  thickets, 
and  woods  of  small  oaks.  On  Leb- 
anon there  are  still  forests  of  cedar, 
as  yet  scarcely  visited  by  the  tra- 
veller, and  pine-woods  cover  Mount 
Rhossus,  while  oaks  abound  in  Low- 
er Galilee.  The  country  has  never- 
theless, to  the  eye,  a  barren  and 
desolate  appearance,  from,  the  con- 
stant outcrop  of  bare  rock ;  and  in 
the  districts  where  the  white  por- 
ous chalk  allows  the  water  to  sink 
down  to  the  lower  strata,  forests 
probably  never  have  existed,  and 
never  will  exist. 

The  trees  of  the  country  are  oak, 
terebinth,  olive,  and  fig  :  beside  the 
rivers  in  Northern  Syria  the  poplar 


1879.] 


Climate  in  the  Levant. 


367 


flourishes  in  thick  groves.  The 
mastic  forms  a  dense  copse,  cover- 
ing the  lower  hills,  and  some  spe- 
cies of  oaks  also  grow  as  low  bushes. 
Palms  are  found  principally  along 
the  coast,  where  frost  is  not  to  be 
feared,  and  where  they  find  the 
conjunction  of  sand  and  fresh  water 
in  which  they  flourish  best. 

It  is  evident,  therefore,  that  a 
great  amount  of  vegetation  already 
exists,  and  the  first  requisite  is  the 
enactment  and  strict  enforcement 
of  forest  laws.  This  step  has  al- 
ready been  taken  in  Cyprus  by  Sir 
Garnet  Wolseley,  and  may  prove 
all  that  is  required  to  restore  the 
na.tural  growth  of  the  island.  Coal 
being  rare  and  costly  in  the  Levant, 
the  unprotected  forests  have  been 
in  some  cases  quite  destroyed,  by 
indiscriminate  felling  of  the  trees 
for  fuel.  The  most  wanton  waste 
is  also  made  :  trees  are  mutilated  or 
burnt  down ;  the  roots  are  chopped 
from  the  living  trunk,  or  the  bran- 
ches are  broken  off.  It  would, 
however,  be  necessary  at  first  to 
allow  a  certain  amount  of  felling, 
under  proper  regulations ;  for  unless 
coal  -  mines  were  opened  —  which 
does  not  seem  very  probable,  as  the 
geological  formations  of  the  country 
belong  to  the  cretaceous  epoch — 
the  winter  supply  of  fuel  must  still 
be  derived  from  the  woods. 

The  question  of  introducing  trees 
not  indigenous  to  the  country  is  one 
which  requires  experiments  to  settle. 
The  choice  of  such  trees  must  be 
carefully  made,  but  there  can  be  no 
doubt  that  the  climate  of  a  country 
is  rapidly  affected  by  the  increase 
of  vegetation.  To  this  fact  the 
island  of  Jamaica  bears  witness ;  for 
the  rapid  spread  of  the  mango — 
which  is  not  indigenous — has  in 
less  than  a  century  greatly  changed 
the  character  of  the  climate.  The 
leaves  of  trees,  especially  of  those 
which  grow  rapidly,  consume  the 
miasma  from  the  air ;  and  the 


growth  of  the  blue  gum-tree  (Euca- 
lyptus globulus\  which  is  so  amaz- 
ingly rapid,  is  said  materially  to  im- 
prove the  climate  of  any  country 
where  malaria  exists. 

The  recent  project  for  reclaiming 
the  Maremma,  near  Eome,  by  plant- 
ing this  tree,  shows  the  esteem  in 
which  it  is  held  by  many  authori- 
ties. It  is,  however,  not  suited  for 
any  district  where  frost  occurs, 
though  it  might  possibly  flourish 
in  the  Levantine  plains.  Almost 
any  tree  which  grows  as  quickly  as 
the  Eucalyptus  will  produce  similar 
changes ;  and  it  is  even  said  that 
the  sun  -  flower  is  a  preservative 
against  fever  if  grown  in  gardens 
round  a  house. 

It  must  not,  however,  be  for- 
gotten that  the  growth  of  trees 
renders  the  climate  damper,  that 
dry  heat  is  more  easily  borne  than 
damp  heat,  and  that  the  healthiness 
of  districts  in  the  Levant  is  pro- 
portionate to  their  dryness.  It  may 
then,  perhaps,  be  still  considered 
an  open  question  whether  the  sal- 
ubrity of  the  climate  would  be 
increased  by  an  increase  in  the 
wooding. 

What  then,  we  may  ask,  in  con- 
cluding this  paper,  is  the  general 
result  of  our  inquiry?  It  appears 
to  be  this  :  that  the  unhealthiness 
of  the  climate  has  been  over-esti- 
mated, and  that  Cyprus,  far  from 
being  the  fever-den  which  our  Radi- 
cal anti-patriots  would  make  it  ap- 
pear, is  probably  not  more  unhealthy 
at  the  worst  than  Malta  or  Gibraltar. 
The  visitation  of  sickness  from  which 
our  men  suffered  was  due  to  a  great 
extent  to  their  own  ignorance  of 
the  climate  and  of  the  necessary 
precautions  to  be  observed,  and 
also  to  the  necessity  of  quartering 
them  in  the  unhealthy  plains  dur- 
ing the  most  sickly  and  trying  sea- 
son of  the  year. 

It  appears,  further,  that  the  Lev- 
antine climate  possesses  three  great 


368 


Odillon  Barrot  in  1848. 


[March 


advantages  over  that  of  many  of 
our  foreign  stations.  First,  the 
cool  west  breeze  blowing  from  the 
sea;  secondly,  the  dewy  and  re- 
freshing nights ;  thirdly,  the  natu- 
ral dryness  of  the  climate.  It  ap- 
pears, further,  that  this  climate  is 
capable  of  improvement,  by  the 
effect  produced  by  irrigation  works, 
and  probably  also  by  the  encourage- 
ment of  the  natural  vegetation,  and 
the  introduction  of  trees  suited  to 
the  country. 

Meantime  the  precautions  which 
should  be  observed  by  those  visiting 
the  Levant  are,  to  avoid  the  marshy 
districts,  to  be  very  careful  as  to  the 
water  drunk,  and  to  adopt  a  costume 
suitable  to  the  season  and  country. 
All  these  points  were  neglected  by 
those  who  first  visited  Cyprus,  and 
the  natural  result  was  a  severe  visi- 
tation of  fever. 

Such,  impartially  stated,  is  pro- 
bably the  truth  regarding  what  has 
so  unjustly  been  termed  the  "  Cy- 
prus fiasco."  Our  troops  were  sent 
out  totally  without  experience,  at  a 


trying  season,  to  hold  a  country 
which  may  prove  one  of  our  most 
important  possessions,  from  a  polit- 
ical point  of  view.  They  suffered 
and  gained  experience  for  the  bene- 
fit of  those  who  may  follow  them. 
It  is  idle  to  judge  of  the  Cyprian 
climate  from  the  experience  of  the 
past  year,  except  in  so  far  as  we 
then  became  acquainted  with  its 
worst  features ;  and  it  is  unjust  to 
cry  down  one  of  the  most  important 
successes  of  our  Eastern  policy,  be- 
cause two  English  regiments  were 
severe  sufferers  in  carrying  out  the 
duty  of  first  occupying  the  island. 
Time  and  experience  will  work 
wonders  in  the  improvement  of 
Cyprus ;  and  it  will  surely  never 
be  said  that  England,  who  has 
spread  her  colonies  over  the  whole 
world,  has  penetrated  the  Indian 
jungle  and  the  African  swamps, 
finds  herself  unable  to  cope  with 
the  difficulties  and  annoyances  of 
the  Levantine  climate,  or  with  the 
unhealthy  autumn  in  the  plains  of 
Larnaka. 


ODILLON    BAKROT    IN    184S. 

[!N  preparing  to  review*  that  portion  of  Mr  Senior's ( Conversations '  which 
bore  (by  anticipation)  upon  the  troubles  of  the  British  and  Ottoman  em- 
pires, we  found  ourselves  arrested  in  the  performance  of  our  duty  towards 
the  East  by  an  irresistible  temptation  to  listen  to  M.  Thiers  whilst  describ- 
ing the  part  he  took  during  several  critical  hours  in  the  throes  of  the  "  July 
monarchy."  In  vain  we  reminded  our  solemn  selves  that  we  must  get  on 
with  our  task,  and  that  the  exit  of  poor  Louis  Philippe  in  the  February  of 
1848  had  nothing  on  earth  to  do  with  the  Balkan  Peninsula.  There  was  a 
fascination  in  the  account  Thiers  gave  us  of  his  previous  mental  attitude ; 
his  mandate  to  the  Tuileries ;  his  perils ;  his  goings  and  comings  in  the 
midst  of  the  barricades ;  his  demeanour  and  counsels  to  the  bewildered 
king ;  his  recognition  of  the  sound  of  the  women — queen  and  all — in  the 
adjoining  room;  his  transformation  from  only  a  statesman  to  a  commander 
preparing  for  battle;  his  words  to  General  Bugeaud;  his  sudden  Napoleonic 


*  See  "Foreign  Opinion  on  England  in  the  East,"  Maga,   vol.  cxxiii.,  p.   734, 
June  1878. 


1879.]  Odillon  Barrot  in  1848.  369 

inquiry,  asking  how  many  rounds  of  cartridges  the  monarchy  could  com- 
mand in  this  its  hour  of  trial;  the  appalling  answer  he  received  j  his  reso- 
lute measures  ;  and  then  "  the  rising,  rising  tide ;" — so  that  never  did  our 
interest  cease,  nor  even  indeed  our  alarm,  till  we  saw  the  narrator  safe  home. 

Eut  the  record  of  what  Thiers  said  had  a  separate  hold  upon  the 
reader's  attention ;  for,  interspersed  with  his  narrative,  he  mingled  some 
fine,  subtle  criticism  upon  the  other  Prime  Minister  of  the  night-time — 
that  is,  upon  Odillon  Barrot ;  and,  upon  the  whole,  it  seemed  to  us  that, 
considering  who  the  narrator  was,  and  how  cardinal  were  those  eventful 
hours,  the  Publishers  of  Mr  Senior's  '  Conversations '  had  a  gem,  unique 
of  its  kind,  which  could  never  be  perfectly  matched. 

But  Fortune — the  Fortune  of  Maga — comes  to  chide  us  for  distrusting 
her  power  to  find  an  historic  gem  that  shall  rival  the  one  left  by  Thiers  j 
and  now  brings  us,  from  the  desk  of  Mr  Senior,  this  new  treasure-trove 
— a  narrative  of  the  same  pregnant  hours,  and  furnished  by  him  whom 
we  called  "  the  other  Prime  Minister  of  the  night-time  " — that  is,  by 
Odillon  Barrot  himself.  Nor  is  even  this  all  we  gain ;  for — as  though  to 
enforce  a  fair  weighing  in  those  eternal  scales  which  Justice  holds  up  for 
our  use — the  keen,  searching  criticism  of  Odillon  Barrot  by  Thiers,  is  re- 
ciprocated by  a  no  less  keen  and  no  less  searching  criticism  of  Thiers  by 
Odillon  Barrot.  The  only  disagreement  between  the  two  stories  is  that 
Thiers  says  that  it  was  by  Bugeaud  that  he  was  prevented  from  accom- 
panying Barrot  in  his  expedition  to  the  barricades. 

Mrs  Simpson,  Mr  Senior's  daughter,  writes  to  us :  "  After  our  visit 
to  Yal  Eicher  in  1860,  my  father  and  I  spent  a  few  days  with  M. 
Duvergier  de  Hauranne,  at  his  chateau  of  Hery,  near  Bourges.  A  very 
distinguished  circle  was  assembled  there ;  and  among  the  many  interest- 
ing conversations  which  are  recorded  in  Mr  Senior's  unpublished  jour- 
nal, I  have  selected  the  following  account,  by  Odillon  Barrot,  of  his 
share  in  the  events  of  February  1848." — ED.] 


EXTRACT    PROM    MR  SENIOR'S   JOURNAL. 

HERY,  Sept.  23,  1860.  Barrot.    After    the    king,   while 

"We  had  a  large  dinner  -  party :  submitting  to  reform,  had  refused, 

among  them,  M.  and  Madame  Benoit  us  a  dissolution,  and  retreated  from 

d'Azy.     She  is  one  of  the  few  very  his  Cabinet  into  the  room  contain- 

handsome  women  whom  I  have  seen  ing  his  unofficial  advisers,  shutting 

in  France.    It  was  the  first  fine  warm  the  door  in  Thiers's  face,  we  thought 

evening  since  we  reached  He"ry.  it  necessary  to  send  to  the  barri- 

After  coffee,  Odillon  Barrot,  who  cades  to  announce  the  creation  of  a 

is  an  habitual  smoker,  took  me  into  reforming  ministry, 

the  veranda,  and  spent  an  hour  and  I  offered  to  go,  and  Thiers  wished 

a  half  and  three  cigars  in  relating  to  go  with  me. 

to  me  his  share  in  the  events  of  the  Senior.  It  was  a  service  of  dan- 

24th  of  February.  ger.     Had  he  nerve  enough  for  it? 


370 


Odillon  Barrot  in  1848. 


Barrot.  Sometimes  in  moments 
of  great  danger  il  se  trouble.  His 
vivid  imagination  presents  to  him 
too  many  objects  at  once.  He  does 
not  know  which  to  select  as  princi- 
pally to  be  pursued,  or  principally 
to  be  avoided.  He  sees  too  much. 
Duller  men  see  only  one  thing  at  a 
time,  and  are  calm.  This  has  made 
his  courage  doubted.  Eut  what  he 
wants  is  not  courage,  but  rapid  de- 
cision. He  is  morally  brave.  He  is 
always  ready  to  expose  himself  to 
danger,  if  he  thinks  that  the  objects 
to  be  attained  are  worth  the  risk. 

In  this  case,  I  thought  that,  as 
far  as  he  was  concerned,  they  were 
not,  so  I  begged  him  to  remain  in 
the  chateau. 

We  were  joined,  as  we  went 
out,  by  Horace  Vernet,  in  his  uni- 
form as  colonel  of  a  regiment  of 
National  Guards. 

At  the  first  barricade,  which 
was  in  the  Eue  de  1'Echelle,  we 
were  well  received.  I  told  them 
that  Thiers  and  I  were  ministers, 
that  reform  was  granted,  and  that 
the  barricades  were  now  useless. 
They  cried  "  Vive  Barrot  I  Vive  la 
Reforme  !  "  and  pulled  down  the  bar- 
ricades. So  it  was  till  we  got  to 
the  Boulevards.  There  the  people 
were  less  satisfied ;  they  cried 
out,  "  On  te  trompe,  Barrot  !  On  te 
trompe  !  II  n'y  aura  pas  de  re- 
forme  avec  Bugeaud  I "  Still  they 
quitted  the  barricades.  Further  on 
we  met  some  of  the  troops.  The 
people  had  got  among  them,  had 
given  them  wine,  and  in  some  cases 
had  got  hold  of  their  arms.  Fur- 
ther still,  we  met  the  fourgons  of 
the  artillery,  which  had  been  sent 
with  ammunition  from  Vincennes, 
and  were  now  being  plundered  by 
the  mob,  while  the  troops  looked 
on,  and  the  officers  turned  away 
their  heads.  Further  still,  a  little 
beyond  the  Porte  St  Denys,  we 
found  an  enormous  barricade,  cross- 
ing the  whole  Boulevard.  The  men 


[March 

behind  it  were  silent.  I  told  them 
my  story.  I  read  to  them  the 
manifesto  which  we  had  drawn  up, 
and  I  begged  them  to  pull  down 
the  barricade. 

They  would  not  answer  me. 

I  did  not  think  it  advisable  to 
leave  them  in  my  rear,  so  I  turned 
back.  I  was  too  exhausted  to  walk. 
Some  of  the  mob  put  me  on  a  horse 
and  supported  me.  As  I  returned 
along  the  Boulevards,  the  barricades 
were  all  down,  the  only  cry  was 
"  Vive  la  Reforme  !  "  There  was  no 
anarchical  or  even  republican  man- 
ifestation. As  we  reached  the  Place 
de  la  Madeleine,  there  was  a  sudden 


cry 


:  A  ux  Tuileries  !  Aux  Tuileries  !  " 


I  wish  to  God  that  I  had  gone  with 
them.  The  mob  that  surrounded 
me  was  monarchical.  They  wished 
only  for  reform,  and  they  had  got 
it.  They  would  have  filled  all  the 
avenues  to  the  chateau  and  to  the 
Palais  Bourbon,  and  have  prevent- 
ed the  subsequent  attacks  on  each. 
But  I  undervalued  the  danger.  The 
members  of  the  secret  societies,  the 
Rouges,  had  not  yet  shown  them- 
selves. I  did  not  suspect  that  they 
were  ready,  and  that  within  an  hour 
they  would  rush  from  their  ambus- 
cade. When  I  recollected  what 
were  the  terms  on  which  I  had 
parted  from  the  king,  the  words, 
"You  shall  have  no  dissolution,"  still 
ringing  in  my  ears,  it  seemed  to  me 
that  if,  two  hours  afterwards,  I  re- 
turned to  him  at  the  head  of  100,000 
emeutiers — and  there  were  not  less 
in  my  suite — I  should  return  rather 
as  a  revolutionary  dictator  than  as 
a  constitutional  minister.  So  I  ex- 
plained to  my  followers  that  I  was 
really  too  exhausted  to  remain  with 
them  any  longer,  that  they  must 
lead  my  horse  to  my  house  in  the 
Rue  la  Ferme  des  Mathurins,  and 
let  me  get  half  an  hour's  rest.  They 
took  me  home,  carried  me  up-stairs, 
and  laid  me  on  a  bed.  But  in  a 
few  minutes  messengers  came  from 


1879.] 


Odillon  Barrot  in  1848. 


371 


the  Hotel  of  the  Interior  to  say  that 
my  presence  was  necessary  there  to 
dictate  the  telegrams  which  were  to 
be  sent  to  the  provinces.  They 
were  known  to  be  in  great  excite- 
ment, and  it  was  feared  that  armed 
bodies  might  march  on  Paris,  if  they 
were  not  stopped  by  news  of  the 
appointment  of  a  reforming  minis- 
try. I  went  thither  in  my  carriage, 
for  I  could  not  walk  or  ride.  The 
Pont  de  la  Concorde  was  filled  by  a 
dense  mass,  which  opened  to  let  me 
through,  with  cries  of  "  Vive  Bar- 
rot  !  Vive  la  Reforms  !  " 

I  spent  about  half  an  hour  dic- 
tating messages,  and  then  proceeded 
to  join  my  colleagues  at  the  Tuil- 
eries.  I  tried  to  get  into  the  Car- 
rousel under  the  arch,  but  instead 
of  the  troops  whom  I  had  left  there, 
it  was  filled  by  a  mob,  and  I  saw 
the  rear  of  the  soldiers  marching 
out  under  the  Tour  de  1'Horloge. 

Then  I  was  told  the  news. 
That  the  king  had  named  me  Presi- 
dent of  the  Council ;  that  he  had 
abdicated,  having  appointed  the 
Duchess  of  Orleans  regent ;  that 
she  had  been  sending  everywhere 
in  search  of  me,  and  that  I  should 
find  her  in  her  pavilion,  at  the  end 
of  the  Terrace  du  Bord  de  1'Eau.  It 
was  a  sort  of  summer-house,  built 
for  her  by  the  king,  on  the  spot  now 
occupied  by  the  Orangery.  I  went 
thither  as  fast  as  the  crowd  would 
permit  me,  and  searched  it  all  over 
in  vain.  This  lost  me  twenty 
minutes.  At  last  I  was  told  that 
she  was  gone  to  the  Chamber  of 
Deputies. 

I  followed   her   thither,   and  as 


I  was  entering  I  was  pulled  aside 
by  some  of  the  revolutionary  party, 
who  told  me  that  a  provisional  gov- 
ernment was  to  be  proposed,  and 
urged  me  to  be  its  president. 

I  refused,  of  course,  with  the 
utmost  indignation,  and  found  the 
Duchess,*  pale  but  composed,  with 
her  sons  and  her  brother-in-law,  the 
Dae  de  Nemours,  sitting  at  the  foot 
of  the  Tribune.  A  mob  had  entered 
the  Chamber,  but  seemed  rather 
curious  than  revolutionary. 

M.  Dupin  had  announced  the 
abdication,  and  the  regency  of  the 
Duchess. 

M.  Marie  had  objected  that  by 
law  the  regency  belonged  to  the 
Due  de  Nemours,  and  proposed 
a  provisional  government,  under 
whose  direction  the  question  as  to 
the  person  of  the  regent  should  be 
settled. 

I  said  a  few  words,  in  which  I 
assumed  the  regency  of  the  Duch- 
ess, and  asked  the  support  of  the 
Chamber  to  a  Liberal  ministry. 

She  herself  rose  once  or  twice 
to  speak,  but  was  very  unwisely 
and  very  unfortunately  held  down 
by  those  around  her. 

At  length  Lamartine  got  into 
the  Tribune.  I  had  no  doubt  that 
he  would  move  the  immediate  re- 
cognition of  the  Duchess  as  regent, 
and  that  I  should  be  able  to  accom- 
pany her  to  the  Hotel  de  Ville.t 

To  my  astonishment,  and  to 
that  of  the  Assembly,  he  declared 
that  the  days  of  monarchy  were 
over ;  that  a  solid  basis  of  govern- 
ment must  be  sought  in  the  lowest 
depths  of  society ;  and  that  a  pro- 


*  If  either  Thiers  or  Barrot  had  been  told  beforehand  that  the  Duchess  was  pro- 
ceeding to  the  Chambers,  the  whole  course  of  history  might  have  been  altered,  as 
they  would  have  accompanied  and  supported  her  (see  'Conversations,'  p.  20). — 
M.  C.  M.  S. 

f  In  a  letter  to  Mr  Senior,  published  in  the  Journals  kept  in  France  and  Italy, 
vol.  i.  p.  214,  M.  de  Tocqueville  says:  "Even  on  the  24th  Febiuary  the  monarchy 
might  have  been  saved  by  the  proclamation  of  the  provisional  government,  and  if 
the  retreat  of  the  Duchess  could  have  been  retarded  an  hour."  M.  de  Tocqueville 
expresses  in  the  same  letter  his  astonishment  at  Lamartine's  behaviour.— M.  C.  M.  S. 


372 


Odillon  Barrot  in  1848. 


[March 


visional  government  must  be  form- 
ed, to  act  until  the  people  had  ex- 
pressed its  will. 

A  different  mob — the  mob  of 
the  secret  societies,  armed  and  furi- 
ous from  the  sack  of  the  Tuileries — 
now  rushed  into  the  Chamber. 

It  yelled  out  its  acceptance  of 
Lamartine's  proposal.  The  Duchess 
and  her  party  were  forced  to  leave 
the  Chamber.  Larochejaquelin, 
with  the  perverse  folly  of  a  true 
Legitimist,  cried  out,  that  as  the 
people  had  declared  its  will,  the 
powers  of  the  Chamber  were  at  an 
end.  The  deputies,  some  frightened, 
some  astounded,  broke  up. 

The  provisional  government  was 
proclaimed  from  the  Tribune,  and 
enthroned  itself  in  the  Hotel  de 
Ville. 

I  accompanied  the  Duchess  to 
the  Invalides. 

"  How  unfortunate  it  is,"  I  said 
to  her,  "  that  I  did  not  find  you  in 
the  pavilion !  If  we  had  reached 
the  Chamber  half  an  hour  sooner, 
you  would  have  been  proclaimed  as 
regent  before  the  revolutionary  mob 
arrived,  and  carried  to  the  Hotel  de 
Ville." 

"  Alas  !  "  she  answered,  "  I  was 
sitting  quietly  in  my  own  apartment. 
Nobody  came  to  me,  nobody  advised 
me,  until  I  was  told  to  go  to  the 
Chamber." 

We,  the  friends  of  reform,  have 
been  accused  of  creating  the  Revo- 
lution of  1848.  It  was  created  by 
the  enemies  of  reform. 

They  taunted  us  with  the  ab- 
sence of  any  popular  demonstration 


in  favour  of  it.  The  reform  ban- 
quets were  our  answer  to  that  taunt. 
At  every  banquet  which  I  attended, 
and  I  presided  at  twenty  or  thirty, 
I  required  that  the  first  toast  should 
be  the  King,  and  the  second  the 
Constitution.  When  we  found  that 
the  minds  of  the  people  were  be- 
coming dangerously  excited,  we 
gave  them  up. 

The  king  rubbed  his  hands,  and 
said  to  Duchatel,  "  I  always  told 
you  that  this  agitation  would  come 
to  nothing." 

He  ought  to  have  known  that 
a  great  party  does  not  abandon  a 
powerful  political  engine  without 
good  reason.  He  ought  to  have 
known  that  our  sudden  furling  of 
our  sails  was  a  proof  that  we  felt 
the  approach  of  a  storm. 

Senior.  Guizot  thinks  that  on 
the  24th  of  February  the  king  lost 
his  head. 

Barrot.  It  is  true.  A  man  who 
has  lived  for  years  in  a  dark  room, 
who  has  systematically  prevented 
any  light  from  penetrating  to  him, 
is  dazzled  as  soon  as  his  shutters 
are  broken  open.  He  chose  to  say 
that  his  pays  legal  was  France. 
He  allowed  no  one  to  suggest  to 
him  any  doubts  as  to  the  safety  of 
a  system  which  consisted  in  the 
purchase  by  the  deputies  of  a  ma- 
jority of  the  electors,  and  in  the 
purchase  by  the  king  of  a  majority 
of  the  deputies. 

When  that  system  broke  in  his 
hands,  he  was  a  magician  deprived 
of  his  wand. 

K  W.  SENIOR. 


1879.]  The  Two  Lights.  373 


THE    TWO    LIGHTS. 

"  '  When  Tin  a  man! '  is  the  poetry  of  youth.     '  When  I  was  young/' 
is  the  poetry  of  old  age." 

"  WHEN  I'm  a  man,"  the  stripling  cries, 

And  strives  the  coming  years  to  scan — 
"Ah,  then  I  shall  be  strong  and  wise, 
When  I'm  a  man  ! " 

""When  I  was  young,"  the  old  man  sighs, 

"  Bravely  the  lark  and  linnet  sung 
Their  carol  under  sunny  skies, 
When  I  was  young ! " 

"  When  I'm  a  man,  I  shall  be  free 

To  guard  the  right,  the  truth  uphold." 
"  When  I  was  young  I  bent  no  knee 
To  power  or  gold." 

"  Then  shall  I  satisfy  my  soul 

With  yonder  prize,  when  I'm  a  man." 
"  Too  late  I  found  how  vain  the  goal 
To  which  I  ran." 

"  When  I'm  a  man  these  idle  toys 

Aside  for  ever  shall  be  flung." 

"  There  was  no  poison  in  my  joys 

When  I  was  young." 

The  boy's  bright  dream  is  all  before, 
The  man's  romance  lies  far  behind. 
Had  we  the  present  and  no  more, 
Fate  were  unkind. 

But,  brother,  toiling  in  the  night, 

Still  count  yourself  not  all  unblest 
If  in  the  east  there  gleams  a  light, 
Or  in  the  west. 


374  Bitter-Sweet.  [March 


BITTER-SWEET. 

I  am  building  o'er  buried  pleasures 

A  cairn  that  shall  mark  their  bed ; 
I  am  telling  the  tale  of  treasures 

That  have  turned  from  fine  gold  to  lead ; 
I  am  tuning  my  lute  to  measures — 
Dear  measures  ! — whose  soul  is  fled. 
Bitter-sweet  in  the  sad  December 

The  remembrance  of  May,  Juliette  ! 
Say,  love,  do  you  dare  to  remember? 
Sweet  love,  can  you  bear  to  forget  ? 

I  am  straying  by  sullen  rivers 

That  prattle  no  more  of  spring — 
By  glades  where  no  sunbeam  quivers — 

In  woods  where  no  linnets  sing, 
But  only  the  cypress  shivers, 

Brushed  by  the  night-bird's  wing. 
And  yet  would  I  fain  remember 

That  once  it  was  May,  Juliette ! 
"Not  even  the  sad  December 
Can  force  us  to  quite  forget. 

O'er  this  cairn  shall  I  cease  to  ponder, 

And  scatter  it  stone  from  stone? 
Shall  I  break,  ere  I  grow  yet  fonder, 

This  lute  with  its  mocking  tone1? 
And  shall  I  no  longer  wander 

In  woods  whence  the  birds  are  flown  ? 
Ah  !  bitter-sweet  in  December 

The  remembrance  of  May,  Juliette ! 
Say,  love,  do  you  dare  to  remember? 
Sweet  love,  can  you  bear  to  forget? 


1879.]  Amari  Aliquid.  375 


AMARI     ALIQUID. 

If  ever  at  the  fount  of  joy 

Poor  mortal  stoops  to  fill  his  cup, 
Still  welling  fresh  to  his  annoy 

A  bitter  something  bubbles  up. 
So  one  sang  sadly  long  ago — 

Sang  how  the  fairest  flowers  amid, 
E'en  where  the  springs  of  pleasure  flo\\r, 

"  Surgit  amari  aliquid." 

And  echoing  down  the  vaults  of  time 

The  warning  sounds  for  me  and  you 
In  Latin  verse,  in  English  rhyme : 

'Twas  true  of  old,  to-day  'tis  true. 
Ah,  brother !  have  you  not  full  oft 

Found,  even  as  the  Roman  did, 
That  in  life's  most  delicious  draught 

"  Surgit  amari  aliquid  "  1 

You  run  the  race,  the  battle  fight, 

And,  eager,  seize  at  last  the  prize  : 
The  nectar  in  its  goblet  bright 

Is  yours  to  drain  'neath  beauty's  eyes. 
Yet  are  these  honours  out  of  date — 

They  would  not  come  when  they  were  bid  : 
The  longed-for  draught  is  all  too  late — 

"  Surgit  amari  aliquid." 

Or,  haply,  in  the  cruel  strife 

You  foully  thrust  a  brother  down, 
And  with  his  broken  heart,  or  life, 

Purchased  your  bauble  of  a  crown. 
Wear  it;  but  of  remorseful  thought 

In  vain  you  struggle  to  be  rid. 
The  triumph  is  too  dearly  bought — 

"  Surgit  amari  aliquid." 

And  so  the  cup  is  turned  to  gall, 

The  fount  polluted  at  its  source — 
Envenomed  and  embittered  all 

By  dull  regret  or  keen  remorse. 
"Well  hast  thou  said,  0  godless  sage  ! 

From  thee  not  all  the  truth  was  hid, 
Though  ever  on  thy  mighty  page 

"  Surgit  amari  aliquid." 

GORDON  GUN, 


376 


The  Zulu  War. 


[March 


THE    ZULU    WAR. 


THE  success,  exceeding  our  most 
sanguine  expectations,  which  has 
attended  our  arms  in  Asia,  has  been 
cruelly  dashed  by  a  serious  catas- 
trophe to  our  troops  in  South 
Africa.  A  large  body  of  soldiers, 
numbering  nearly  six  hundred  offi- 
cers and  men,  has  been  completely 
annihilated,  almost  before  a  blow 
had  been  struck  on  our  side,  and 
before  we  were  even  able  to  realise 
that  hostilities  had  actually  begun. 
Scarcely  less  than  the  national 
sorrow  for  the  loss  of  our  brave 
soldiers  is  the  feeling  of  regret  that 
the  colours  of  one  of  her  Majesty's 
regiments  should  have  fallen  into 
the  hands  of  the  enemy.  Seldom 
have  British  susceptibilities  sus- 
tained such  a  shock.  We  must 
go  back  to  the  days  of  the  first 
Affghan  war  for  any  parallel  to  the 
feelings  which  this  disaster  has  in- 
spired in  the  country;  and  even 
then  we  doubt  whether  our  prestige 
was  felt  to  have  suffered  such  an 
indignity  as  it  has  now  sustained 
at  the  hands  of  a  horde  of  savages. 
In  the  face  of  such  a  calamity, 
party  feelings  can  have  no  place. 
Between  Liberal  and  Conservative 
there  can  be  no  difference  of 
opinion  as  to  the  urgent  necessity 
for  now  pushing  this  Zulu  war  to 
a  speedy  end.  Exemplary  punish- 
ment for  the  king  w4io  has  dared 
to  defy  British  power,  to  break  the 
peace  of  South  Africa,  and  to  drag 
his  wretched  vassals  into  a  contest 
where  they  must  necessarily  be  the 
losers,  is  an  object  that  supersedes 
all  other  considerations.  When 
our  soldiers  have  retrieved  their 
recent  misfortune,  it  will  be  quite 
time  to  wrangle  over  the  political 
objects  of  the  expedition,  and  the 
means  to  be  adopted  for  pacify- 
ing the  Zulu  country.  We  must 


postpone  to  the  same  event  the 
very  desirable  inquiries  that  will 
doubtless  be  made  into  the  un- 
accountable way  in  which  the 
troops  had  been  surrounded  and 
decoyed  from  their  position.  All 
these  and  other  subjects  will  claim 
attention  in  due  course.  At  present 
we  can  have  no  thought  and  no 
desire  but  how  most  speedily  and 
effectually  we  can  avenge  the 
slaughter  of  our  countrymen. 

For  more  than  two  years  now, 
amid  the  disturbance  of  Eastern 
Europe  and  the  dangers  threaten- 
ing our  empire  in  Asia,  we  have 
been  conscious  of  coming  troubles 
in  our  South  African  colonies.  The 
fact  that  trouble  is  a  chronic  con- 
dition of  these  possessions,  that  one 
native  difficulty  is  no  sooner  settled 
than  another  comes  up  for  disposal, 
and  that  more  or  less  fighting  is 
always  going  on  along  our  various 
African  frontiers,  has  not  on  this 
occasion  prevented  us  from  seeing 
that  a  difficulty  of  more  than  usual 
magnitude  was  confronting  her  Ma- 
jesty's High  Commissioner  at  the 
Cape.  All  through  the  past  year 
we  have  had  unmistakable  warn- 
ings of  a  coming  collision  with  the 
Zulu  kingdom,  and  ample  proof 
that  the  commencement  of  hostili- 
ties was  merely  a  matter  of  time, 
and  we  may  say  of  convenience,  to 
both  sides.  We  knew  enough  of 
the  Zulu  character,  and  of  the  dis- 
position of  the  Zulu  king,  to  be 
aware  that  no  pacific  counsels  would 
allay  the  war-fever  which  had  seized 
on  Cety wayo  and  his  followers.  We 
knew  of  how  little  avail  it  is  to 
urge  prudential  considerations  on 
savages,  who  do  not  count  the  cost, 
in  comparison  with  the  gratifica- 
tion of  their  tribal  pride,  or  their 
desire  to  distinguish  themselves  in 


1879.] 


TJie  Zulu  War. 


377 


war.  And  we  knew  beyond  all 
question  that  Cetywayo  would  have 
war  with  some  one,  and  at  all 
hazards,  whatever  force  he  en- 
gaged, or  upon  whatever  quarrel 
he  fought. 

On  our  own  side  we  have  been  clear- 
ly sensible  that  the  military  power  of 
the  Zulu  nation  was  rapidly  becom- 
ing dangerous  to  the  colonists,  as 
well  as  obstructive  to  the  consoli- 
dation of  our  South  African  inter- 
ests. In  Natal  on  the  one  side, 
and  in  our  new  territory  the  Trans- 
vaal on  the  other,  the  strength  of 
the  Zulu  king  was  a  standing  men- 
ace to  progress  and  prosperity. 
What  good  was  there  in  opening 
up  farms,  in  building  houses,  or  in 
buying  herds,  with  a  not  remote  pros- 
pect of  Cetywayo  sweeping  across 
the  country  like  a  destroying  angel, 
burning,  slaying,  and  pillaging 
wherever  he  went  ?  How  was  cap- 
ital to  be  invested,  enterprise  to  be 
encouraged,  with  such  a  cause  of 
terror  constantly  in  the  background  1 
Writing  in  the  columns  of  this 
magazine  in  the  summer  of  last 
year,*  a  distinguished  British  officer, 
who  had  had  unusual  opportunities 
of  personally  acquainting  himself 
with  this  subject,  spoke  of  the  Zulu 
frontier  as  "  that  mine  which  may 
at  any  moment  be  sprung,  bringing 
ruin  and  devastation  to  all  within 
its  reach."  For  the  last  eighteen 
months  Sir  Bartle  Frere,  her  Ma- 
jesty's High  Commissioner  in  South 
.Africa,  has  been  face  to  face  with 
this  difficulty,  and  no  exercise  of 
human  ingenuity  could  have  de- 
vised an  escape  that  would  be  at 
once  peaceful  and  productive  of 
permanent  security.  We  have  re- 
cently seen  how  difficult  it  is  to 
exert  a  pacific  influence  over  Powers 
with  more  pretensions  to  civilisa- 
tion when  blood  is  up  and  arms  in 
the  hand,  to  be  very  sanguine  about 


the  success  of  diplomatic  negotia- 
tions with  such  a  sovereign  as  Ce- 
tywayo. With  the  Zulu  savage  no 
arguments  have  force  save  those 
that  are  backed  up  by  a  pistol;  and 
we  can  never  have  any  security 
against  his  nation  until  it  has  tried 
its  strength  with  the  British  power, 
and  has  learned  such  a  lesson  in 
the  contest  as  will  serve  to  impress 
it  with  the  advantages  of  peace  for 
the  present  generation.  And  it  will 
be  the  fault  of  our  Government  if 
the  Zulu  power  should  ever  be  al- 
lowed to  reconstruct  itself  so  as  to 
cause  anxiety  to  our  colonists,  or 
to  necessitate  further  expenditure 
of  British  men  or  money  to  keep 
it  within  safe  bounds. 

To  break  the  military  power  of 
the  Zulu  nation,  to  save  our  colon- 
ists from  apprehensions  which  have 
been  paralysing  all  efforts  at  advance- 
ment, and  to  transform  the  Zulus 
from  the  slaves  of  a  despot  who  has 
shown  himself  both  tyrannical  and 
cruel,  and  as  reckless  of  the  lives  as 
of  the  rights  of  his  subjects,  to  a 
law  -  protected  and  a  law-abiding 
people,  is  the  task  which  has  de- 
volved upon  us  in  South  Africa, 
and  to  perform  which  our  troops 
have  now  crossed  the  Tugela.  This, 
broadly  speaking,  is  the  cause  and 
object  of  the  war.  There  are,  of 
course,  a  number  of  events  which 
have  served  as  stepping-stones  for 
the  two  parties  taking  up  their 
present  position ;  but  we  hold  these 
to  be  of  but  secondary  consequence 
compared  with  the  evident  antagon- 
ism which  was  bound  to  find  some 
outlet  sooner  or  later  on  Cetywayo' s 
side.  On  our  part,  the  main  point 
to  be  secured  was,  that  the  collision 
with  the  Zulus  should  take  place 
at  a  time  when  we  should  be  in  a 
position  to  strike  with  effect,  and 
with  such  a  force  as  would  reduce 
to  a  minimum  the  miseries  which 


"  The  South  African  Question."    Maga,  vol.  cxxiv.  (July  1878). 


378 


TJie  Zulu  War.  [March 


the  Zulus  would  necessarily  suffer 
in  the  struggle.  This  Sir  Bartle 
Frere-  seems  to  have  thought  that 
he  had  provided  for.  He  and 
Lord  Chelmsford  got  together  on 
the  Zulu  frontier  such  an  army  as, 
in  the  expectation  of  all  the  colonial 
authorities,  was  sufficient  to  speedily 
reduce  the  Zulu  country.  It  was 
looked  upon  as  a  fortunate  circum- 
stance that  the  war  should  be  un- 
dertaken at  a  time  when  the  atten- 
tion of  her  Majesty's  Government 
was  less  distracted  than  it  had  been 
for  some  time  back  by  more  pressing 
anxieties  nearer  home.  And  though 
the  first  step  has  proved  a  false  one, 
we  cannot  permit  ourselves  to  doubt 
that  we  shall  speedily  effect  the  set- 
tlement of  what  has  been  the  most 
serious  difficulty  of  South  African 
administration,  and  that  with  the 
subjection  of  the  Zulus,  and  the 
submission  of  Secocoeni,  which  has 
also  to  be  secured,  we  shall  have 
placed  the  native  question  upon  a 
firmer  basis,  and  reached  the  end  of 
those  little  wars,  which  so  unsettle 
the  minds  of  our  colonists,  impede 
their  prosperity,  and  burden  the 
revenues  of  the  mother  country 
with  expenses,  from  which  at  best  we 
only  derive  benefit  at  second-hand. 
The  ostensible  causes  of  quarrel 
with  Cetywayo,  though  of  second- 
ary importance  to  the  issues  which 
we  have  indicated  above,  are  still 
of  sufficient  interest,  both  as  indi- 
cating the  justice  of  our  present 
course  of  action,  and  as  showing 
how  essential  it  is  for  the  colonial 
population  to  be  freed  from  the  ever- 
increasing  danger  of  a  Zulu  out- 
break, to  deserve  brief  recapitula- 
tion. We  need  not  go  into  the 
general  details  of  South  African 
native  policy,  which  not  many 
months  ago  were  explained  with 
great  minuteness  in  the  columns  of 
this  magazine.*  We  shall  confine 


ourselves  on  the  present  occasion  to 
the  Zulu  question  and  to  those  is- 
sues which  more  immediately  spring 
from  it,  as  affecting  both  our  duty 
towards  the  colonies  in  their  pres- 
ent straits,  and  the  future  tenden- 
cies of  South  African  policy. 

At  the  outset,  we  are  bound  to 
remark  that  the  present  Zulu  panic 
contrasts  rather  sharply  with  the 
blind  confidence  in  Cetywayo  which 
the  Natal  Government,  until  quite 
a  recent  period,  entertained.  This 
confidence  appears  to  have  been 
based  upon  a  belief  that  the  Gov- 
ernment, through  its  Secretary  for 
Native  Affairs,  could  always  in- 
fluence Cetywayo  in  the  direction 
of  its  own  wishes.  Sir  Theo- 
philus  Shepstone's  great  abilities, 
his  unequalled  knowledge  of  the 
Zulu  character,  his  personal  kind- 
nesses towards  Cetywayo,  and  the 
great  respect  which  the  Zulu  king 
professed  for  him,  went  a  long 
way  to  justify  this  reliance.  But 
personal  influence  can  at  best  only 
count  for  so  much,  even  when 
we  have  more  responsible  parties 
to  deal  with  than  savages.  We 
have  no  reason  to  suppose  that  our 
interests  suffered  in  the  hands  of 
Sir  Theophilus  Shepstone,  but  it 
was  unquestionably  an  error  to 
trust  so  much  to  individual  author- 
ity. The  whole  course  of  British 
policy  towards  the  Zulus  seems  to 
have  been  made  to  depend  entirely 
upon  Sir  Theophilus  Shepstone's 
personal  influence  ;  and  the  system 
by  which  Cetywayo  was  at  once  kept 
in  check  and  in  humour  was  so 
much  his  own,  that  no  other  per- 
son has  since  been  able  to  work  it. 
In  the  present  condition  of  the  Zulu 
question  there  is,  of  course,  a  strong 
temptation  to  suppose  that  the 
Shepstone  policy  has  broken  down, 
and  that  this  failure  has  naturally 
brought  us  into  hostile  relations 


*  "  The  South  African  Question."     Maga,  vol.  cxxiv.  p.  97  (July  1878). 


1879.]  The  Zulu  War. 


379 


with  Cetywayo.  Until  our  recent 
dealings  with  the  Zulu  king  have 
been  more  closely  inquired  into,  it 
would  be  rash  to  return  such  a  ver- 
dict upon  Sir  Theophilus  Shep- 
stone's  policy  towards  the  Zulus.  In 
the  meantime,  we  may  point  to  the 
fact,  which  may  or  may  not  be  of 
significance,  that  for  the  statesman 
who  of  all  others  was  presumed  to 
be  the  highest  authority  on  Zulu- 
land  and  the  Zulus,  Sir  Theophilus 
has  kept  himself  much  in  the  back- 
ground during  the  present  trouble. 

Apart  from  all  the  late  disputes 
which  have  culminated  in  the 
present  war,  the  fact  is  to  be 
borne  in  mind,  that  Cetywayo's 
power  had  become  dangerous  to  our 
colonies,  and  that  a  Kafir  king, 
when  he  finds  himself  at  the  head 
of  warriors,  is  never  satisfied  until 
he  has  tried  his  strength.  Our 
career  in  South  Africa  has  furnished 
us  with  many  instances  of  this. 
We  have  never  yet  found  the  Ka- 
firs yield  to  any  argument  but 
physical  force ;  and  as  soon  as  that 
was  withdrawn,  they  have  always 
seemed  to  feel  that  their  obligations 
were  removed  at  the  same  time. 
We  have  never  yet  had  the  experi- 
ence that  favours  or  protection  con- 
stituted any  claim  of  gratitude  at 
their  hands,  unless  we  were  in  a 
position  to  make  good  our  demands 
by  the  strong  arm.  In  the  case  of 
Cetywayo,  we  are  conscious  of  hav- 
ing deserved  a  better  return  for  our 
benefits  than  his  present  outbreak. 
The  Natal  Government  made  him 
its  special  protege,  espoused  his 
interests  in  his  differences  with  his 
neighbours,  and  generally  contrib- 
uted to  the  establishment  of  that 
power  which  we  now  find  it  neces- 
sary to  break.  When  he  came  to 
the  throne,  the  Government  extend- 
ed a  formal  recognition  to  him  that, 
we  believe,  had  not  been  previously 
shown  to  any  South  African  poten- 
tate. Mr  Shepstone,  with  a  mili- 


tary escort,  went  into  Zululand, 
and  bore  the  principal  part  in  the 
coronation  ceremonials  of  the  new 
king.  Whatever  anxieties  the  col- 
onists may  have  felt — and  the  dread 
of  native  outbreaks  is  never  long 
absent  from  the  Natal  settler — the 
Durban  Government  appears  to  have 
had  implicit  confidence  in  its  own 
ability  to  influence  Cetywayo.  We 
even,  it  is  to  be  feared,  encouraged 
him  at  the  outset  in  the  formation 
of  that  military  force  which  has 
been  the  source  of  so  much  calamity 
both  to  him  and  to  ourselves.  It  is 
alleged  that  the  Zulu  army,  and 
its  threatening  aspect  towards  the 
Boers,  was  turned  to  political  ac- 
count when  reasons  were  wanted  to 
justify  annexation  in  the  Transvaal; 
and  if  there  is  any  foundation  for 
this  statement,  we  cannot  be  insen- 
sible to  some  appearance  of  retribu- 
tion in  our  present  difficulties. 

With  the  annexation  of  the 
Transvaal,  we  took  the  place  of  the 
Boers  as  Cetywayo's  chief  enemies, 
and  succeeded  to  the  feud  at  which 
he  had  for  so  long  held  the  Dutch 
republicans.  The  Zulus  have  for 
a  good  many  years  back  complained 
of  Boer  encroachments,  probably 
with  more  or  less  of  just  grounds ; 
and  they  succeeded  to  some  extent 
in  interesting  the  Natal  Govern- 
ment in  their  grievances.  That 
Cetywayo  refrained  from  forcibly 
asserting  his  territorial  rights  on 
the  Transvaal  side,  was  due  to  the 
counsels  of  the  Natal  Government 
and  its  Secretary  for  Native  Affairs, 
who  seem  to  have  put  off  the  Zulu 
king  with  vague  and  indefinite 
promises  of  seeing  him  righted  on 
a  future  occasion.  The  Home 
Government,  when  the  subject  was 
brought  to  its  notice,  expressed  an 
opinion  adverse  to  interfering  in 
territorial  disputes  between  Cety- 
wayo and  the  Boers.  The  general 
conclusion,  however,  that  we  come 
to  from  the  published  despatches 


380' 


The  Zulu  War.  [March 


is,  that  Mr  Shepstone  had  encour- 
aged Cetywayo  to  hope  that  his 
good  offices  would  be  exerted  in 
effecting  an  arrangement  favourable 
to  Zulu  interests,  and  that  some 
such  inducement  had  been  held  out 
to  him  to  keep  him  back  from  war. 
On  the  annexation  of  the  Trans- 
vaal, however,  Cetywayo  fancied 
that  his  hopes  were  farther  than 
ever  from  being  realised,  and  that 
the  British  were  preparing  to  estab- 
lish such  legal  title  as  would  justify 
them  in  retaining  possession  of  the 
tracts  in  dispute.  This  was  a  terri- 
tory lying  on  the  western  border  of 
Zululand,  between  the  Buffalo  and 
the  Pongolo,  upon  which  the  Trans- 
vaal farmers  had  been  allowed  to 
graze  their  herds,  and  which  they 
alleged  had  been  formally  granted 
to  them  by  the  Zulu  king.  Soon 
after  annexation,  Cetywayo  occu- 
pied a  portion  of  the  contested 
country,  building  on  it  a  wattled 
kraal  in  token  of  his  sovereignty ; 
and  wasted  the  farms  round  about, 
killing  numbers  of  persons,  and 
driving  off  their  cattle.  At  this 
time  we  had  sufficient  provocation 
to  have  justified  those  extreme 
measures  which  we  have  now  been 
compelled  to  have  recourse  to ;  but 
an  attempt  was  made,  instead,  to 
effect  a  peaceful  settlement  of  Cety- 
wayo's grievances,  so  that  no  reflec- 
tion of  injustice  might  rest  upon 
our  policy. 

In  October  1877  a  meeting  was 
arranged  between  Sir  Theophilus 
Shepstone  and  Cetywayo's  envoys, 
for  the  discussion  of  the  frontier 
difficulty,  and  to  settle  if  possible 
some  means  of  mutual  reconcilia- 
tion. Sir  Theophilus  had  never 
before  found  the  Zulu  king  intrac- 
table, but  on  this  occasion  Cety- 
wayo's conduct  in  the  preliminary 
negotiations  forbade  all  hope  of 
any  accommodation  on  his  side. 
The  language  used  by  the  Zulu 
chiefs  towards  the  Shepstones  is 


said,  on  good  authority,  to  have 
been  most  uncompromising  :  in  the 
discussion  on  the  disputed  terri- 
tory a  chief  is  reported  to  have 
grossly  insulted  Sir  Theophilus  with 
menacing  gestures;  and  the  only 
terms  that  the  Zulus  would  accept 
were  the  absolute  and  immediate 
cession  of  the  whole  country  claim- 
ed by  them.  Sir  Theophilus  broke 
up  the  negotiations,  and  returned 
to  Natal  in  disgust ;  and  from  this 
time  there  appears  to  have  been 
very  little  hope  of  persuading  Cety- 
wayo to  come  to  a  peaceable  under- 
standing. The  king  himself,  how- 
ever, again  made  overtures  for  arbi- 
tration to  the  Natal  Government — 
but,  chiefly  for  the  sake  of  gain- 
ing time  and  of  delaying  the  retri- 
bution which  he  could  not  fail  to 
see  must  speedily  overtake  him  for 
the  numerous  acts  of  violence  com- 
mitted by  his  followers  in  British 
territory,  for  his  frequent  raids 
upon  our  borders,  and  for  the  re- 
peated insults  with  which  all  the 
warnings  addressed  to  him  by  the 
colonial  authorities  were  treated. 
That  he  had  no  intention  of  main- 
taining a  peaceful  attitude,  or  of 
containing  himself  within  his  own 
boundaries,  the  boasts  of  his  tribe, 
and  the  threats  thrown  out  to  Brit- 
ish traders  in  Zululand,  afford  un- 
mistakable proof. 

We  may  claim  some  merit  for 
Sir  Bartle  Frere  and  his  advisers, 
on  the  ground  that  though  serious 
causes  of  complaint  against  Cety- 
wayo were  pending,  and  though 
fresh  sources  of  grievance  were  con- 
stantly accumulating,  the  Govern- 
ment at  once  yielded  to  Cetywayo's 
request  to  appoint  a  Commission  to 
settle  the  boundary  difficulty.  In 
this  task  they  received  little  cordi- 
ality or  assistance  from  the  Zulus 
The  Zulus  tendered  no  evidence  of 
their  own  claims,  and  merely  con- 
fined themselves  to  denying  the 
assertions  made  by  the  Transvaal 


1879.] 


The  Zulu  War. 


381 


colonists,  that  Cetywayo  had  ceded 
to  them  the  country  between  the 
Buffalo  and  the  Pongolo.  The 
Commission  gave  a  decision  gener- 
ally in  favour  of  the  Zulu  sove- 
reignty ;  and  this  cause  of  dif- 
ference, which  Cetywayo  has  for 
some  time  back  alleged  to  be  the 
only  impediment  to  his  friendship 
with  the  British,  was  removed  in 
a  manner  that  sets  forth  clearly 
the  justice  and  liberality  of  our 
policy  in  South  Africa.  In  Decem- 
ber last  this  award  was  communi- 
cated to  Cetywayo.  The  territory 
declared  to  belong  to  Zululand  was 
to  be  at  once  marked  off  and  made 
over ;  and  the  only  reservation  was 
the  saving  of  the  rights  of  bond  fide 
British  settlers,  which  our  Govern- 
ment was  of  course  bound  to  pro- 
tect from  sustaining  injury  through 
the  transfer.  But  while  we  were 
thus  doing  all  in  our  power  to  give 
Cetywayo  his  due,  we  were,  on  the 
other  hand,  vainly  striving  to  in- 
duce him  to  redress  our  grievances 
against  the  Zulu  State ;  and  to  re- 
move the  manifest  danger  arising 
from  the  maintenance  of  an  extra- 
vagant military  force,  for  which  he 
had  no  employment,  and  for  the 
sustenance  of  which  he  had  no  ade- 
quate means. 

Before  specifying  the  several  out- 
rages which  have  precipitated  the 
quarrel  between  us  and  the  Zulus,  it 
may  be  well  to  say  a  few  words  about 
the  boasted  military  organisation  of 
Cetywayo's  warriors.  The  Zulu  na- 
tion is  of  comparatively  recent  im- 
portance in  South-eastern  Africa, 
having  been  raised  from  a  small 
tribe  tributary  to  the  Umtetwas, 
by  the  ambition  and  military  talents 
of  the  bloodthirsty  Chakka,  to  be 
one  of  the  greatest  powers  with 
which  the  Dutch  "  voortrekkers  " 
or  pioneers  came  into  contact.  Un- 
der Chakka  the  Zulus  overran  Natal 
and  the  Transvaal,  making  them- 
selves dreaded  all  the  way  from  Dela- 

VOL.  CXXV. NO.  DCCLXI. 


goa  Bay  to  the  frontiers  of  the  Cape 
Colony.  The  massacre  of  the  Dutch 
emigrants  by  Chakka's  brother  and 
successor,  Dingaan — still  commem- 
orated in  the  town  of  "  Weenen  " — 
made  the  Zulu  name  a  terror  to  the 
colonists,  which  even  the  increasing 
strength  of  our  Natal  settlers,  and 
their  greater  familiarity  with  Zulu 
warfare,  have  perhaps,  even  at  this 
period,  not  wholly  removed.  The 
successors  of  Chakka  and  Dingaan, 
however,  were  not  able  to  maintain 
the  same  wide  sway.  The  British 
crept  in  upon  them  from  Natal,  and 
the  Boers  from  the  western  side  of 
their  country.  Other  tribes  which 
had  been  content  to  fight  under  the 
Zulu  banner  when  it  led  to  certain 
victory  and  plunder,  fell  off  and 
became  independent ;  new  chiefs, 
like  Moselkatze,  were  eclipsing 
the  Zulu  glories ;  and  when  the 
present  king,  Cetywayo,  succeeded 
his  father  Panda  as  king  of  the 
Zulus  in  1872,  he  mainly  owed  his 
position  to  British  recognition,  and 
to  the  zeal  with  which  Mr  Shep- 
stone  used  his  influence  in  getting 
the  chiefs  of  his  country  to  accept 
his  rule.  We  seem  to  have  had 
some  view  in  those  days  of  making 
Zululand  a  "  model  Kafir  kingdom," 
— a  dream  that,  like  most  others  of 
the  same  kind,  generally  changes 
to  a  reality  of  disappointment  and 
difficulty.  The  good  resolutions 
which  Cetywayo  made  at  his  instal- 
lation were  speedily  belied  by  his 
turbulent  conduct  towards  other 
tribes,  his  cruel  and  tyrannical  treat- 
ment of  his  subjects,  and  his  evi- 
dent ambition  to  make  a  name  for 
himself  in  war.  When  he  found 
that  the  British  Government  were 
naturally  disposed  to  discourage  his 
bellicose  disposition,  he  bitterly 
complained  that  we  were  infringing 
his  dignity,  because  we  would  not 
allow  him  "  to  wash  his  spears " 
in  the  blood  of  his  enemies,  as 
became  a  sovereign  of  his  dig- 
2  B 


382 


nity  and  nation.  He  turned  all 
his  able-bodied  subjects  into  sol- 
diers, forbidding  them  to  marry  un- 
til they  had  "washed  their  spears," 
and  bound  down  his  whole  tribes- 
men to  his  will  by  laws  of  a  most 
oppressive  and  despotic  character. 
As  his  military  power  increased,  his 
arrogance  and  pretensions  naturally 
grew  in  the  same  proportion.  He 
was  constantly  reviving  claims  to 
all  the  countries  which  the  Zulus 
had  ever  raided  over;  and  if  the 
area  of  Chakka's  incursions  be  taken 
into  account,  this  title  would,  if 
admitted,  have  placed  him  in  pos- 
session of  most  ample  boundaries. 
To  maintain  a  force  of  from  30,000 
to  40,000  fighting  men  was  no 
easy  matter;  to  provide  work  for 
them  was  still  more  difficult ;  and 
Cetywayo  must  have  found  himself 
placed  in  serious  straits  by  his  policy, 
which  impoverished  his  country 
and  discontented  his  people.  There 
was  naturally  a  large  war  party ; 
while  a  smaller  number,  comprising, 
however,  some  of  the  king's  nearer 
relations,  have  counselled  him  to 
give  up  his  mad  schemes  and  yield 
to  the  wishes  of  the  British.  Un- 
fortunately, Cetywayo  soon  allowed 
himself  to  get  into  such  a  position 
that  it  would  almost  have  cost  him 
his  kingdom  to  retrace  his  steps. 
His  military  power  had  become 
scarcely  less  dangerous  to  himself 
than  to  his  neighbours,  and  to  have 
disappointed  the  expectations  of  his 
warriors  would  have  been  to  run  a 
considerable  risk  of  having  to  deal 
with  a  revolution  in  his  own  coun- 
try. Moreover,  the  little  wars  that 
within  the  last  few  years  we  have 
been  waging  in  other  parts  of  South 
Africa,  have  naturally  had  an  un- 
settling influence  on  a  horde  of 
armed  savages  standing  by  looking 
for  an  enemy ;  and  we  regret  to  say 
that  in  none  of  these  cases  has  the 
punishment  which  we  inflicted  been 
either  so  prompt  or  so  signal  as  to  be 


Hie  Zulu  War.  [March 

likely  to  produce  any  very  deterrent 
effect  upon  the  Zulus.  In  these 
troubles  Cetywayo  took  a  keen  in- 
terest. He  has  sent  encouraging 
messages  to  several  chiefs  who  were 
in  arms  against  the  British.  He 
egged  on  Secocoeni  against  the 
Boers  of  the  Transvaal,  and  latterly 
against  our  own  Government.  He 
had  become  a  source  of  danger,  not 
merely  to  his  own  neighbours,  but 
to  the  whole  of  the  discontented 
races  in  South  -  east  Africa,  who 
were  in  danger  of  being  misled 
by  his  emissaries.  He  expelled 
missionaries  from  his  country  be- 
cause they  saw  and  bore  testimony 
to  his  cruel  treatment  of  his  sub- 
jects, and  endeavoured  to  take  the 
part  of  those  miserable  wretches. 
Sir  Bartle  Frere  tells  us  that  the 
British  Government  has  again  and 
again  had  to  check  his  purposes 
of  aggression  against  unoffending 
tribes.  "  Cetywayo  has,  at  the  same 
time,  formally  and  repeatedly  re- 
quested the  consent  of  the  British 
Government  to  wars  of  aggression, 
which  he  proposed,  not  for  any  pur- 
pose of  self-defence,  but  simply  to 
initiate  his  young  soldiers  in  blood- 
shed, and  to  provide  a  system  of 
unprovoked  territorial  aggression 
by  the  Zulus,  which  had  for  many 
years  been  laid  aside." 

We  come  now  to  the  casus  belli — 
the  quarrels  which  led  to  the  recent 
ultimatum,  and  to  the  expedition 
into  the  Zulu  country.  The  sketch 
we  have  given  above  of  Cetywayo 
and  his  position  will  enable  our 
readers  to  understand  how  these 
matters,  not  in  themselves  offences 
of  the  highest  magnitude,  should 
have  come  to  be  regarded  as  affording 
a  legitimate  and  necessary  basis  for 
hostilities.  Foremost  among  these 
come  violations  of  British  territory, 
and  raids  into  the  domains  of  tribes 
with  whom  we  were  in  friendship, 
and  who  naturally  looked  to  us  for 
protection.  Another  complaint  was, 


1879.] 


The  Zulu  War. 


383 


that   two   Zulu   women   had   been 
forcibly  carried  away  from  British 
territory  and  put  to  death  by  ston- 
ing.    The  offender  in  those  cases 
was  the  chief  Sirayo,  and  Cetywayo 
met  the  demand  for  satisfaction  by 
an  inadequate  offer  of  compensation. 
A  number  of  assaults  upon  British 
subjects  in  British  territories  during 
the  past  year  was  also  added  to  the 
charge,  and  more  or  less  satisfaction 
demanded  in  compensation.     In  all 
these    cases    friendly   efforts   were 
made   to   induce  Cetywayo   to  do 
justice,    but    in   no   instance   with 
success.     His  replies  to  our  repre- 
sentations are  a  good  illustration  of 
his  character,  being  sometimes  in- 
solent, sometimes  conciliatory,  but 
always  evasive.     The  Natal  settlers 
who  neighboured  the  Zulu  country 
appear    to    have    known    all    the 
time  that  Cetywayo  would  not  come 
into  the  views  of  the  British  au- 
thorities, but  would  keep  playing 
with  their  demands  so  long  as  their 
patience  lasted.     Even  after  he  was 
aware  that  the  award  had  been  given 
in  his  favour  in  his  claims  on  the 
Transvaal  frontier,  his  hostility  to 
the   British   appeared    to   increase 
rather   than  diminish.     Threats  of 
coming  war  were  openly  uttered  by 
the  Zulus ;  and  curiously  enough,  a 
favourite  boast  of  Cetywayo's  war- 
riors was,  that  as  the  Queen  of  Eng- 
land had  been  obliged  to  send  for 
"  coolie   soldiers "    from    India   to 
enable  her  to  hold  her  own  at  home, 
her  troops   would    never    be   able 
to  withstand  the  Zulus  in  Africa. 
Traders  have  testified,  too,  that  hopes 
of  coming  plunder  from  British  ter- 
ritories, and  from  the  countries  of 
tribes  friendly  to  us,  have  been  in- 
dulged in  to  an  extravagant  extent 
in    Zululand   during   the   past   six 
months,  and  have  been  held  out  by 
Cetywayo  himself  to  keep  his  men 
in  humour,  and  reconcile  them  to 
the  harshness  of  his  system. 

It  is  important  to  note,  that  while 


all  through  the  past  autumn  the 
South  African  authorities  have  seen 
that  a  Zulu  war  could  not  be  post- 
poned, her  Majesty's  Government 
was  doing  its  best  to  urge  upon  Sir 
Bartle  Erere  the  necessity  for  "  exer- 
cising prudence,"  and  "  by  meeting 
the  Zulus  in  a  spirit  of  forbearance 
and  reasonable  compromise,  to  avert 
the  very  serious  evil  of  a  war  with 
Cetywayo."  This  was  in  October 
last ;  and  again,  on  21st  November 
Sir  M.  Hicks  Beach,  in  acceding  to 
reiterated  urgent  demands  for  rein- 
forcements, writes  as  follows : — 

"  It  is  my  duty  to  impress  upon 
you  that,  in  supplying  these  reinforce- 
ments, it  is  the  desire  of  her  Majesty's 
Government  not  to  furnish  means  of  a 
campaign  of  invasion  or  conquest,  but 
to  afford  such  protection  as  may  be 
necessary  at  this  juncture  to  the  lives 
and  property  of  the  colonists.  Though 
the  present  aspect  of  affairs  is  menacing 
in  a  high  degree,  I  can  by  no  means 
arrive  at  the  conclusion  that  war  with 
the  Zulus  should  be  unavoidable  ;  and 
1  am  confident  that  you  [Sir  Bartle 
Frere],  in  concert  with  Sir  H.  Bulwer, 
will  use  every  effort  to  overcome  the 
existing  difficulties  by  judgment  and 
forbearance,  and  to  avoid  an  evil  so 
much  to  be  deprecated  as  a  Zulu  war." 

Anything  less  like  a  "lust  for 
aggression"  and  "imperialist  ten- 
dencies "  than  the  opinions  and  in- 
structions sent  by  the  Cabinet  to 
the  Cape  it  would  be  difficult  to 
imagine.  The  Government  consci- 
entiously acted  on  the  old  adage, 
lt  Si  vis  pacem,  para  belhim."  It 
provided  for  the  safety  of  our  colon- 
ists, while  it  impressed  on  the  High 
Commissioner  the  necessity  for  do- 
ing all  that  could  be  done,  with 
justice  to  our  South  African  sub- 
jects and  to  the  dignity  of  the 
British  Government,  to  avoid  hos- 
tilities with  Cetywayo.  In  consid- 
ering whether  Sir  Bartle  Frere  acted 
up  to  the  "  spirit  of  forbearance  and 
reasonable  compromise"  prescribed 
to  him  by  the  Secretary  of  State, 


384 


The  Zulu  War. 


[March 


there  are  several  points  to  be  taken 
into  account  by  critics  who  are  re- 
moved from  the  scene  of  action. 
It  must  be  remembered  that  Cety- 
wayo  is  not  the  only  intractable 
chief  with  whom  the  South  African 
Governments  have  to  deal ;  that 
others  are  standing  by  watching  the 
quarrel  between  the  British  and  the 
Zulus  with  keen  interest ;  and  that 
any  signs  of  weakness  or  hesitancy 
upon  our  part  would  simply  be  to 
bring  a  swarm  of  hornets  upon  us 
from  every  troubled  point  on  the 
British  border.  "We  must  remember, 
too,  that  to  have  given  Cetywayo  his 
due  without  exacting  from  him  our 
own  in  return,  would  have  at  once 
been  interpreted  by  the  king  him- 
self as  a  sign  of  fear,  and  would 
have  precipitated  his  invasion  of  our 
colonies.  Sir  Bartle  Frere  appears 
to  have  avoided  all  menace  and 
threats  in  his  negotiations  with 
Cetywayo ;  and  we  may  infer  from 
the  name  which  the  Kafirs  have 
given  him,  "  the  dog  that  bites  be- 
fore he  barks,"  that  he  has  made 
use  of  no  bluster  or  effort  at  coercion 
to  influence  Cetywayo's  choice  be- 
tween peace  and  war. 

On  the  llth  December,  British 
Commissioners  met  Cetywayo's  re- 
presentatives on  the  Natal  side  of 
the  Tugela,  and  delivered  to  the 
latter  the  text  of  the  Transvaal 
award,  fixing  the  line  of  boundary 
as  running  from  the  junction  of  the 
Buffalo  and  Blood  rivers,  along  the 
latter  to  its  source  in  the  Magidela 
mountains,  and  thence  direct  to  a 
round  hill  between  the  two  main 
sources  of  the  Pongolo  river  in  the 
Drachensberg.  The  Zulu  envoys 
received  this  part  of  the  communi- 
cation with  lively  satisfaction,  and 
did  not  conceal  that  they  had  been 
dealt  with  more  liberally  than  they 
had  expected.  But  as  the  High 
Commissioner's  message  went  on  to 
recite  the  offences  committed  by 
Cetywayo  against  British  territory, 


to  lay  down  the  terms  at  which 
these  were  to  be  condoned,  and  to 
insist  upon  the  king  fulfilling  those 
promises  of  good  government  which 
he  had  made  to  Sir  Theophilus 
Shepstone  at  his  coronation,  the 
Zulus  became  visibly  disconcerted, 
and  did  not  scruple  to  admit  that 
they  had  little  hope  of  securing 
their  master's  compliance.  Twenty 
days  were  given  to  Cetywayo  to 
give  up  the  men  who  had  carried 
off  the  Zulu  women  from  our  terri- 
tory, and  to  pay  a  fine  of  500  head 
of  cattle  for  the  same  offence  ;  and 
also  to  pay  a  fine  of  100  head  of 
cattle  for  an  outrage  on  two  of  our 
surveyors.  Cetywayo  was  also  re- 
quired to  surrender  Umbiline,  a 
Swasi  refugee,  who  was  harbouring 
with  the  Zulu  king,  and  who  had 
led  numerous  raids  into  our  terri- 
tory, killing  many  persons,  and  car- 
rying off  women  and  children  and 
much  booty.  A  strong  recom- 
mendation to  disband  the  Zulu 
army,  and  to  remove  the  restric- 
tions on  marriage  which  were  op- 
erating so  oppressively  upon  the 
people,  was  also  given;  and  that 
the  king  might  have  an  assurance 
of  the  interest  of  the  British  Gov- 
ernment in  the  proper  management 
of  his  territories,  as  well  as  a  secu- 
rity against  annoyance  from  other 
tribes,  a  British  officer  was  to  reside 
in  Zululand  or  on  its  border,  "  who 
will  be  the  eyes  and  ears  and  mouth 
of  the  British  Government  towards 
the  Zulu  king  and  the  great  coun- 
cil of  the  nation."  Some  journals 
have  ma.de  the  mistake,  in  criti- 
cising the  terms  of  the  ultimatum, 
of  supposing  that  Cetywayo  had 
only  twenty  days  to  accept  or  de- 
cline all  these  conditions,  and  have 
talked  as  if  we  were  going  to  war 
because  he  refused  to  have  a  British 
resident  forced  upon  them.  This  is 
not  the  case.  The  twenty  days  had 
reference  solely  to  the  delivery  of 
the  Sirayo  raiders  and  the  payment 


1879.]  The  Zulu  War. 

of  the  600  head  of  cattle  imposed 
as  penalties.  No  specified  period 
was  laid  down  for  carrying  out  the 
other  wishes  of  the  High  Commis- 
sioner ;  and  had  Cetywayo  agreed 
to  these  very  moderate  demands, 
we  cannot  doubt  that  ample  consi- 
deration would  have  been  shown 
him  both  as  to  the  time  and  the 
manner  of  reforming  his  administra- 
tion. The  ultimatum  was  a  simple 
and  certain  test  of  his  disposition 
to  choose  between  peace  and  war, 
and  his  treatment  of  it  at  once  dis- 
pelled any  doubts  that  might  have 
still  existed  regarding  his  real  in- 
tentions. 

Assured  as  Sir  Bartle  Frere  and 
Lord  Chelmsford  both  were  that 
there  was  no  escape  from  a  Zulu 
war,  the  question  arises  whether 
their  military  preparations  were  on 
a  scale  sufficiently  ample  for  meet- 
ing Cetywayo  and  his  40,000  Zulus. 
Since  the  disaster  near  Rorke's 
Drift  there  has  naturally  been  a 
feeling  that  we  ought  to  have  taken 
the  field  with  more  men  and  with  a 
force  of  regular  cavalry.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  preparations  were 
considered  quite  sufficient  for  over- 
running the  Zulu  country  by  all 
the  colonial  authorities  who  have 
had  experience  of  South  African 
warfare.  Lord  Chelmsford  appa- 
rently did  not  consider  himself  jus- 
tified in  formally  asking  the  War 
Office  for  a  regiment  of  cavalry, 
although  he  pointed  out  that  dra- 
goons would  be  of  immense  advari- 
take.  Sir  Bartle  Frere,  in  recom- 
mending that  cavalry  should  be 
sent  out  to  the  Cape,  seems  to  have 
had  as  much  in  view  the  political 
effect  of  such  a  force  on  the  natives 
generally  as  their  special  need  in 
the  Zulu  campaign.  The  startling 
effect  which  the  appearance  of  the 
7th  Dragoon  Guards  produced  upon 
the  Boers  at  Zwart  Kopjies  in  1845 
is  still  an  African  tradition ;  and 
there  can  be  no  doubt  that  a  cavalry 


385 


regiment  would  have  been  of  the 
utmost  service,  as  well  as  of  im- 
mense moral  advantage,  to  us  in 
the  campaign.  But  on  the  other 
hand,  we  must  not  too  rashly  con- 
demn the  scruples  of  Lord  Chelms- 
ford to  bring  British  cavalry  into 
a  region  where  the  "horse-sick- 
ness "  of  the  country  may  play  such 
terrible  havoc.  In  the  Secocoeni  and 
other  campaigns,  we  have  lately  had 
fatal  experience  of  the  imprudence 
of  using  "unsalted"  horses — that  is, 
cattle  which  have  not  already  been 
seasoned  by  an  attack  of  the  disease. 
Those  who  desire  more  information 
upon  this  subject  will  find  their 
curiosity  fully  satisfied  in  a  recent 
book,  which  will  be  read  with  great 
interest  at  the  present  moment — 
'The  Transvaal  of  To-day'— by 
Mr  Aylward,  who  commanded  the 
Boer  forces  against  Secocoeni  dur- 
ing the  last  years  of  the  Repub- 
lic's existence,  and  whose  book  con- 
tains a  valuable  amount  of  informa- 
tion on  Zulu  and  Kafir  warfare. 
From  the  1st  September  to  25th 
May  the  climate  of  the  Bushveld, 
or  low  country,  under  which  classi- 
fication falls  a  considerable  tract  of 
the  Zulu  territory,  where  our  troops 
may  have  to  operate,  is  fraught 
with  danger  both  to  men  and  horses, 
especially  the  latter.  To  guard 
against  "  horse  -sickness,"  Mr  Ayl- 
ward recommends  travellers  and 
troops 

"  Never  to  permit  their  horses  to  bite 
grass  or  drink  water  until  the  morning 
mists,  haze,  or  miasma,  with  which  the 
low  grounds  are  frequently  covered, 
should  have  been  first  entirely  dissi- 
pated, leaving  the  veld  dry.  The 
horses  consequently  should  be  fed  at 
night,  and  only  allowed  to  graze  at 
will  during  the  later  and  warmer  parts 
of  each  day.  This  will  be  best  effected 
by  the  English  sportsman  bringing  pro- 
per nose-bags  and  head- stalls  with  him, 
by  the  use  of  which,  with  great  care 
and  attention,  I  have  seen  delicate 
and  valuable  animals  preserved,  where 


386 


there  were  no  stables,  during  very  bad 
seasons.  It  is  the  general  opinion  that 
the  poison  causing  the  fever  is  to  be 
found  in  the  dew.  It  is  certain  that 


The  Zulu  War.  [March 

force  at  command  to  deter  the  other 
tribes  from  plucking  up  courage  to 
attack  us,  than  that  we  have  great 


J.VHAJ.V*.      -HA       UJ.J.1^      VL VTT  •  JLU      AO       Wwl.  UGUU       l/lld  \J  "I  n  11*  f»          1 

horses  eating  dew-wet  grasses  during     h°Pes  ot  cavalry  being  of  the  first 

ji •  _i_i i  _          i       •  •    •»  i  o  ooiofo  v»  f*f\      4-/-\      11 «      •i-*\        -fi  .rw'U  4- -T  •*-*  .rs        4  "1 ,  ,^ 


assistance   to   us   in    fighting    the 
"rocks    and    caves   of    Zululand." 


the    sickly  season  almost    invariably 

die.    This  is  so  firmly  believed  that 

I   have  known  both  Dutchmen  and     The   most  reasonable  regret   to  be 

Englishmen  to  wash  carefully  every     indulged  in  at  the  present  moment 

blade  of  grass  or  sheaf  of  oats  coming     - 


from  the  damp  air  before  it  was  ad- 
mitted into  their  stables  ;  and  I  must 
certainly  say  that  this  safeguard  has 
been  followed  by  good  results. 

"  That  there  is  something  in  the  dew 
and  miasma  theory  can  be  readily 
gathered  from  this  fact :  '  imported 
horses,'  when  properly  stabled,  and  not 
allowed  out  except  during  the  later 
and  warmer  hours  of  the  day,  seem 
very  frequently  to  escape  the  disease 
altogether  ;  but  to  an  imported  animal 
so  kept,  one  single  night's  absence  from 
shelter  during  the  unhealthy  time  will 
always  prove  fatal.  So  much  for  un- 
salted  horses.  With  regard  to  the 
f  salted '  ones,  or  those  presumed  to 
have  passed  through  the  sickness,  I 
can  speak  with  considerable  certainty, 
as  I  have  had  in  my  charge  at  various 
times  large  troops  of  these  animals, 
amongst  which  were  some  of  great 
value." 

We  must  exercise  some  caution, 
therefore,  in  concluding  that  Lord 


is,  that  a  regiment  which  would 
have  been  so  useful  to  us  at  the 
present  moment  as  the  Cape  Mount- 
ed Rifles,  should  have  been  dis- 
banded by  Mr  Cardwell,  to  carry 
out  a  policy  which  seemed  selfish 
to  the  colonists,  and  from  which 
the  imperial  Government  cannot 
be  said  to  have  derived  any  econo- 
mical advantages  in  the  long-run. 

The  advance  of  the  British  into 
Zululand  certainly  took  place  under 
most  favourable  auspices.  There 
had  been  plenty  of  time  to  make 
preparations ;  the  force  was  a  larger 
and  better  equipped  body  of  troops 
than  we  had  ever  previously  put 
in  the  field  in  South  Africa; 
the  provision  for  transport  and  for 
the  preservation  of  communications 
was  declared  by  the  military  and 
colonial  authorities  to  be  all  that 
could  be  desired.  The  colonial 


Chelmsford  was   insensible  to   the    journals  prophesied  a  possibility  of 


advantages  of  employing  regular 
cavalry  in  the  expedition.  Dra- 
goons without  horses  are  the  most 
useless  of  all  troops;  and  had  a 
regiment  been  hastily  despatched 
before  the  necessity  for  its  presence 
was  demonstrated,  there  would  in 
all  probability  have  been  an  out- 
cry on  the  other  side,  had  the 
cavalry  suffered  from  horse-sickness, 
and  the  movements  of  the  troops 
been  impeded  in  consequence.  The 
recent  disaster  in  Zululand  does  not 
appear  to  have  been  altogether  ow- 
ing to  a  want  of  cavalry;  and  if  the 
promptitude  with  which  the  Govern- 
ment is  now  hurrying  out  horse  to 
the  seat  of  war  is  reassuring,  it  is 
rather  because  the  colonial  author- 
ities want  an  impressive  military 


hard  fighting,  but  the  certainty  of 
an  early  victory.  We  knew  that 
the  Zulus  far  outnumbered  the 
expeditionary  force ;  but  any  mis- 
givings that  were  expressed  on  that 
account,  seemed  more  than  counter- 
balanced by  the  assurance  that  the 
Zulus  would  never  meet  us  en  masse. 
On  this  point  we  must  wait  the 
issue  of  the  contest,  by  which  Lord 
Chelmsford's  arrangements  will  be 
more  fairly  judged,  rather  than  by 
any  criticisms  which  we  might  be 
hastily  tempted  to  put  forth  at 
present.  Success  in  war  will  con- 
done any  blunder ;  while  the  most 
carefully  laid  plans,  the  most  cau- 
tiously matured  tactics,  never  come 
through  the  ordeal  of  failure  with 
credit. 


1879.] 


The  Zulu  War. 


387 


The  advance  into  Zululand  was 
made  by  four  columns,  acting  simul- 
taneously upon  a  concerted  plan  of 
operations.  From  the  Natal  frontier 
three  forces  crossed  the  Tugela  and 
Buffalo  rivers,  while  a  fourth  ad- 
vanced from  the  Transvaal  border, 
crossing  the  Blood  Eiver,  and 
keeping  its  base  on  the  town  of 
Utrecht.  Colonel  Pearson,  with 
2200  Europeans  and  2000  natives, 
crossed  the  Tugela  at  Fort  "Wil- 
liamson, not  far  above  the  mouth 
of  the  river,  and  was  to  advance 
by  the  coast-road  into  the  heart 
of  the  country.  The  two  centre 
columns,  the  right  under  Colonel 
Durnford,  and  the  left  under 
Colonel  Glyn,  crossed  the  Tugela 
at  Krantz  Kop  and  Eorke's  Drift 
respectively,  and  having  rendez- 
voused in  front  of  the  latter  place, 
were  to  advance  by  the  principal 
road  through  Zululand  towards  the 
capital,  which  lies  from  Eorke's 
Drift  in  a  north-easterly  direction. 
At  a  point  fifteen  miles  south  of 
Ulundi,  Cetywayo's  principal  kraal, 
the  main  body  of  the  army  was  to 
be  joined  by  Colonel  Pearson's 
column.  An  attack  was  then  to 
be  made  on  Cetywayo's  kraal  from 
the  front,  while  the  Utrecht  column 
under  Colonel  Wood  was  at  the 
same  time  to  take  the  Zulus  on 
their  western  flank.  Such,  roughly 
described,  appears  to  have  been  Lord 
Chelmsford's  proposed  strategy;  and 
it  corresponds  in  the  main  with  the 
course  suggested  in  his  memoran- 
dum, dated  September  14,  1878, 
read  by  Lord  Cadogan  in  the  House 
of  Lords.  Lord  Chelmsford's  scheme 
also  made  arrangements  for  guard- 
ing the  extensive  Natal  frontier,  as 
well  as  that  of  the  Transvaal,  from 
Zulu  incursions  while  our  troops 
were  engaged  in  the  interior  of  the 
country. 

The  fullest  accounts  that  can  be 
put  together  regarding  the  disaster 
to  the  centre  column  are  as  yet 


sadly  defective,  and  suggest  a  num- 
ber of  difficulties  that  we  must 
trust  to  further  information  for  re- 
moving. We  know,  however,  that 
our  right  and  left  centres  got  safely 
across  the  frontier,  and  carried  out 
their  proposed  junction  in  front  of 
Eorke's  Drift.  They  had  appa- 
rently information  of  the  presence 
of  a  large  Zulu  army  in  front,  but 
do  not  seem  to  have  had  cause 
for  apprehending  an  attack  on  the 
rear.  A  force  consisting  of  five 
companies  of  the  1st  battalion  of 
the  24th  Eegiment,  and  a  company 
of  the  2d  battalion,  with  2  guns, 
2  rocket  -  tubes,  104  mounted  co- 
lonials, and  800  natives,  were  left 
behind  to  guard  the  camp,  which 
contained  a  valuable  convoy  of  sup- 
plies, while  Lord  Chelmsford  with 
the  rest  of  his  force  advanced  to 
clear  the  way.  This  was  on  the 
morning  of  the  22d  January.  Lord 
Chelmsford,  it  would  seem,  speedily 
found  himself  engaged  with  the 
enemy  in  the  wooded  and  broken 
country  in  front.  According  to 
Lord  Chelmsford's  own  account, 
which  at  present  we  are  in  justice 
bound  to  lay  most  stress  upon,  "the 
Zulus  came  down  in  overwhelming 
numbers  "  upon  the  camp,  destroyed 
the  great  body  of  our  troops,  about 
600,  and  apparently  captured  the 
whole  of  the  valuable  stores  of  pro- 
vision and  ammunition  upon  which 
our  further  advance  must  have 
mainly  depended.  Our  men  must 
have  made  a  desperate  defence,  for 
the  Zulu  loss  is  set  down  at  5000, 
or  nearly  ten  times  that  of  ours. 
Such  a  disaster,  so  unexpected,  so 
inexplicable,  at  once  raises  a  feeling 
that  "some  one  had  blundered;" 
and  the  hurried  language  in  which 
the  Commander-in-chief  announces 
the  event,  gives  a  double  force  to 
the  suspicion.  Lord  Chelmsford's 
words  are :  "It  would  seem  that 
the  troops  were  enticed  away  from 
their  camp,  as  the  action  occurred 


388 


The  Zulu  War. 


[March 


about  one  mile  and  a  quarter  outside 
it."  We  must  point  out,  however, 
that  this  mistake,  if  it  was  really 
made,  could  not  have  been  the  whole 
extent  of  the  error,  for  the  Zulus 
must  in  some  way  or  other  have  been 
allowed  to  turn  the  flank  of  the  main 
body  before  they  could  have  fallen 
upon  the  camp  behind.  From  In- 
sandusana,  or  Isandula,  where  the 
disaster  took  place,  to  the  point 
where  Lord  Chelmsford  had  been 
engaged  in  the  front  with  the 
Zulus,  was  a  distance  of  not  more 
than  twelve  miles;  and  some  ex- 
planation would  seem  to  be  required 
of  how  so  large  a  body  of  men 
could  be  so  utterly  destroyed,  and 
a  booty  so  cumbersome  and  valu- 
able carried  off,  without  apparently 
any  diversion  having  been  made  by 
the  main  column  in  its  favour,  until 
it  was  too  late  to  be  of  any  use. 
The  official  accounts  bear  out  the 
opinion  that  the  troops  must  have 
moved  from  the  camp  to  attack  the 
Zulus,  probably  on  finding  their  com- 
munications with  the  main  body  cut 
off ;  and  that  they  were  surrounded 
and  cut  down  in  the  forest,  which 
would  be  of  the  utmost  assistance 
to  the  attacking  Zulus.  In  justice 
both  to  the  dead  and  the  living,  a 
more  detailed  and  calmer  examina- 
tion must  be  made  of  the  alleged 
breach  of  orders,  as  well  as  of  the 
position  chosen  for  the  camp,  than 
the  hasty,  and  doubtless  passionate, 
conclusions  which  the  last  Cape 
mails  brought  home.  When  Lord 
Chelmsford  arrived  on  the  scene 
of  action,  all  was  over — the  camp 
plundered,  and  its  defenders  slain. 
Without  provisions,  means  of  trans- 
port, and  ammunition,  it  was  of 
course  impossible  for  him  to  pro- 
ceed ;  and  the  latest  accounts  repre- 
sent him  as  having  recrossed  the 
Tugela  and  returned  to  Helpma- 
kaar,  which  had  been  the  base  of 
the  left -centre  column  before  it 
passed  the  river.  Here  every  pre- 


paration was  being  actively  pushed 
on  for  another  start,  and  we  trust 
that  before  this  time  the  centre  of 
our  army  has  retrieved  the  unfor- 
tunate commencement  of  the  cam- 
paign. 

It  is  with  very  mixed  feelings 
that  we  hear  of  the  gallant  advance 
of  the  other  two  columns  from  the 
Lower  Tugela  and  from  Utrecht 
into  the  Zulu  country.  If  we  were 
certain  that  they  could  succeed  in 
effecting  a  junction  and  in  destroying 
Cety  wayo's  kraal  by  themselves,  we 
should  feel  that  they  had  more  than 
redeemed  the  misfortune  of  the 
central  column.  We  have  a  suf- 
ficiently high  opinion  of  British 
troops  to  hope  that  such  a  possi- 
bility is  not  too  far-fetched  to  be 
gloriously  realised.  Colonel  Pear- 
son appears  to  have  made  excellent 
progress  since  crossing  the  Lower 
Tugela  Drift.  At  the  Eiver  Inyoni, 
the  first  stream  of  considerable  size 
after  passing  the  frontier,  Colonel 
Pearson  was  opposed  by  a  force  of 
4000  Zulus,  whom  he  drove  off 
after  an  hour's  fighting,  with  con- 
siderable loss.  By  the  23d  January, 
the  same  day  as  Lord  Chelms- 
ford had  to  retire,  Pearson's  force 
had  reached  Ekhowa,  an  import- 
ant point  on  the  road  to  Ulundi, 
about  25  miles  from  the  Tugela. 
The  Naval  Brigade  accompanying 
this  column  has  rendered  capi- 
tal service,  and  is  evidently  des- 
tined to  be  of  great  use  in  the 
campaign.  Ekhowa  has  been  strong- 
ly fortified,  and  Colonel  Pearson, 
by  the  latest  accounts,  was  looking 
carefully  after  his  communications. 
There  is  every  reason  to  expect  that 
a  portion  of  the  Zulu  force  which 
had  opposed  Lord  Chelmsford  will 
now  be  directed  against  our  right 
wing;  and  the  more  the  celerity 
with  which  the  centre  can  again 
resume  operations,  the  greater  the 
chances  of  Colonel  Pearson  being 
able  to  continue  his  advance  must 


1879.]  The  Zulu  War. 


389 


be.  The  latest  news  represent  the 
Zulus  as  concentrating  round  Pear- 
son's position,  so  that  sharp  righting 
may  be  expected  from  the  direction 
of  Ekhowa.  The  Transvaal  column, 
under  Colonel  Wood,  engaged  the 
enemy  on  24th  January,  two  days 
after  the  mishap  at  Rorke's  Drift, 
and  scattered  a  force  of  4000  Zulus 
with  only  a  trifling  loss  on  our  side; 
but  he  subsequently  appears  to 
have  fallen  back  on  Utrecht,  pro- 
bably in  obedience  to  orders  from 
headquarters.  Of  the  encounters 
with  the  enemy  which  are  reported 
from  Rorke's  Drift  subsequent  to  the 
disaster  at  Insandusana,  we  cannot 
say  much,  except  that  they  afford 
us  a  reassurance  that  we  are  still 
holding  that  position,  and  that  the 
falling  back  of  the  force  on  Help- 
makaar  has  not  so  damped  the  spir- 
its of  the  troops  that  they  are  afraid 
to  encounter  a  vastly  superior  force 
of  the  enemy.  If  we  can  hold  the 
Zulus  so  well  at  bay  with  so  small 
a  force  and  such  insufficient  protec- 
tion as  Rorke's  Drift  affords,  there 
is  good  hope  that  we  shall  find  our- 
selves more  than  a  match  for  them 
when  Lord  Chelmsford's  columns 
again  take  the  field. 

So  far  as  the  meagre  and  gen- 
erally conflicting  reports  show,  the 
above  is  the  position  in  which  our 
troops,  whether  in  Zululand  or  on 
the  border,  are  now  placed.  The 
situation  is  full  of  anxiety,  but 
by  no  means  desperate.  We  have 
every  confidence  that  we  shall  be 
able  to  confine  the  Zulus  within 
their  own  territory,  where  Colonels 
Pearson  and  Wood  will,  we  hope, 
presently  find  them  occupation.  On 
the  vigour  and  decision  which  Lord 
Chelmsford  displays  in  getting  the 
centre  columns  again  in  motion, 
must  depend  not  only  his  own  rep- 
utation, but  the  issue  of  the  war. 
His  position  at  present  is  surround- 
ed with  difficulties  into  which  we 
can  all  fully  enter.  On  the  one 


hand,  he  must  be  naturally  anxious 
that  the  other  two  columns  should 
be  allowed  to  advance,  so  that  his 
own  disaster  might  not  have  the 
appearance  of  having  given  a  gen- 
eral check  to  the  whole  expedition; 
while,  on  the  other,  he  cannot  be 
free  from  a  feeling  of  uneasiness  as 
to  their  ability  to  hold  their  ground 
in  the  heart  of  Zululand  without 
the  immediate  support  of  the  cen- 
tre columns.  There  will  be  also 
a  strong  temptation  to  hold  back 
until  the  reinforcements  from  Eng- 
land arrive  to  strengthen  the  army ; 
but  there  is  also  the  danger  that 
the  Zulus  might  gather  both  cour- 
age and  strength  from  such  delay, 
as  well  as  that  other  discontented 
tribes  might  grasp  at  the  idea  that 
the  British  power  had  received  a 
decided  check.  These  are  difficul- 
ties amid  which  Lord  Chelmsford 
must  make  up  his  mind.  He  is  in 
a  great  measure  free  from  the  tele- 
graphic control  which  restricts  so 
seriously  the  liberty  of  most  com- 
manders-in-chief  nowadays  in  the 
field,  while  it  can  hardly  be  said 
to  lessen  their  responsibilities.  It 
has  often  been  said  that  it  is  a 
higher  test  of  generalship  to  re- 
trieve a  disaster  than  to  follow  up 
an  advantage. 

But  though  we  cannot  permit 
ourselves  to  look  for  any  alter- 
native except  a  successful  termi- 
nation to  the  war,  we  have  been 
brought  face  to  face  with  possibi- 
lities which  compel  us  to  wait  the 
final  issue  with  anxiety.  We  have 
a  powerful  enemy  to  conquer  and  a 
difficult  country  to  overrun.  Fatal 
experience  has  told  us  that  bush- 
fighting  always  costs  us  more  men 
than  do  pitched  battles ;  and  the 
country  by  which  Cetywayo's  forces 
are  covered  will  give  them  many 
opportunities  of  harassing  us  with 
impunity.  Mr  Aylward,  from 
whose  book,  *  The  Transvaal  of  To- 
day,' we  have  already  quoted,  gives 


390 


The  Zulu  War.  [March 


some  very  striking  pictures  of  the 
disadvantages  which  European 
troops  labour  under  when  fighting 
a  savage  foe,  who  can  turn  every 
rock,  every  tree,  and  every  cave  into 
a  point  of  attack  for  his  enemy  and 
of  shelter  for  himself.  Along  roads 
which  defy  ordinary  means  of  trans- 
port, a  force  may  march  through  the 
very  heart  of  a  Zulu  or  Kafir  army 
without  seeing  a  foe  until  the  signal 
for  attack  has  been  given.  If  any- 
thing could  damp  the  spirit  of  the 
British  soldier,  it  would  be  having  to 
thus  fight  an  unseen  enemy;  and 
that  our  men  have  behaved  with 
such  admirable  bravery  and  patience 
in  other  African  wars  and  in  New 
Zealand,  is  even  a  higher  compli- 
ment to  the  army  than  steadiness  in 
open  campaigns,  where  the  soldier  is 
more  of  a  machine  and  less  thrown 
upon  his  own  wits  than  in  such 
expeditions  as  that  to  the  north  of 
the  Tugela.  In  the  present  war  the 
opening  disaster  at  Eorke's  Drift 
has  given  the  army  a  motive  for 
stern  and  decisive  action  which  will 
carry  it  through  all  dangers  and 
fatigue  until  the  slight  we  have 
sustained  has  been  more  than 
avenged  in  the  overthrow  of  the 
savage  power  that  has  forced  us 
into  hostilities.  "We  trust,  before 
many  mails  arrive  from  the  Cape,  to 
hear  that  Cetywayo  has  learned 
to  estimate  the  danger  of  provok- 
ing British  hostility,  and  that  the 
Zulu  power  has  been  so  thoroughly 
broken  as  to  have  finally  ceased  to 
be  a  source  of  fear  to  our  colon- 
ists and  native  neighbours  in  South 
Africa. 

But  though  the  subjection  of  the 
Zulus  is  the  first  and  most  im- 
portant matter  in  hand,  it  forms 
only  a  part  of  a  very  difficult  sub- 
ject that  demands  serious  atten- 
tion, and  that  will  not  be  easily 
settled  to  the  satisfaction  of  both 
the  Home  Government  and  the 
colonies.  We  must,  by  some  means 


or  other,  put  an  end  to  the  inter- 
minable series  of  little  wars  that 
are  the  great  barrier  to  the  pro- 
gress of  the  South  African  colonies, 
and  that  always  end  by  causing 
trouble  to  the  imperial  Parliament 
and  expense  to  the  imperial  Trea- 
sury. Even  if  we  had  no  past 
experience  to  fall  back  upon  in 
confirmation  of  our  views,  the  pres- 
ent condition  of  affairs  in  South 
Africa  justifies  the  opinion  that  we 
have  been  going  upon  an  unsound 
system,  or  rather  on  no  system  at 
all,  in  the  management  of  native 
affairs.  When  we  have  checked  a 
native  tribe,  we  have  seldom  set 
ourselves  seriously  to  the  task  of 
consolidating  it  into  the  general 
body  of  our  subjects,  but  have 
rather  allowed  it  to  remain  apart 
under  its  hereditary  chiefs,  to  be  a 
source  of  disquiet,  and  perhaps  an- 
noyance, at  some  time  when  we 
were  ill  prepared  to  have  it  upon  our 
hands.  When  we  have  punished 
them,  it  has  been  more  in  the  spirit  of 
a  schoolmaster  chastising  a  naughty 
child  than  of  a  Government  whose 
mission  was  to  extend  order  and 
civilisation  along  its  confines.  We 
have  had  too  much  of  the  free-and- 
easy  spirit  of  Sir  Harry  Smith  in 
our  policy,  whose  counsel  to  the 
native  chiefs  was :  "  Keep  the  peace; 
attend  to  your  missionaries :  then 
your  cattle  will  get  fat,  and  you 
will  get  to  heaven."  Mistaken 
leniency  has  in  more  than  one  case 
offered  premiums  to  rebellion  and 
to  encroachments  on  British  terri- 
tory ;  and  the  political  disputes  of 
the  white  races  have  not  unfre- 
quently  been  forwarded  by  intri- 
guing with  the  black  tribes.  The 
present  Zulu  difficulty  will  have 
failed  to  teach  us  our  duty  to  our 
South  African  colonies,  unless  we 
effect  far  more  secure  arrangements 
for  their  safety  all  along  our  fron- 
tiers than  have  hitherto  been  car- 
ried out.  The  disarmament  of  all 


1879.] 


The  Zulu  War. 


391 


the  native  tribes  who  come  under 
our  protectorate  is  a  duty  that 
can  no  longer  be  shirked  ;  and  the 
illicit  trade  in  selling  arms  to  the 
savages,  which  has  been  so  unblush- 
ingly  carried  on  in  all  our  South 
African  colonies,  and  which  has 
contributed  so  much  to  render  our 
position  insecure  at  the  present 
time,  ought  to  be  stamped  out  by 
all  the  power  of  the  local  Govern- 
ments. Great  complaints  have  been 
made  regarding  the  trade  in  arms 
which  the  Portuguese  settlement  of 
Lorenzo  Marquez,  on  Delagoa  Bay, 
has  been  driving  with  the  Zulus,  the 
Swasis,  and  other  savage  nations  5 
but  it  is  more  than  probable  that 
much  of  the  outcry  has  been  raised 
to  divert  blame  from  parties  nearer 
home  who  were  much  more  deeply 
implicated.  To  deprive  the  natives 
of  such  temptations  to  mischief  as 
arms  afford,  must  be  one  of  the  first 
steps  towards  the  end  of  our  South 
African  troubles.  Another  is  a 
better  delimitation  of  our  borders, 
so  that  the  unfortunate  territorial 
disputes  which  are  constantly  crop- 
ping up  may  be  put  an  end  to,  and 
the  natives  taught  to  seek  for  justice 
in  our  High  Courts,  instead  of  taking 
it  at  their  own  hands  upon  the  life 
and  property  of  their  nearest  white 
neighbours.  It  is,  no  doubt,  a  serious 
task  to  break  powerful  tribes  from 
savagery  to  a  settled  and  law-abid- 
ing life;  but  we  can  no  more  shrink 
from  the  task  than  we  can  contract 
the  limits  of  our  colonisation.  Both 
in  Natal  and  in  the  Cape  Colony 
the  natives  who  have  settled  on 
the  "reserves"  or  " locations"  have 
made  great  progress  in  civilisation, 
have  acquired  and  set  store  by  the 
rights  of  citizens,  and  have  in  a 
great  number  of  cases  shown  anxiety 
to  educate  their  children.  Wher- 
ever we  have  supplanted  the  power 
of  the  chief  by  that  of  the  resident 
magistrate,  all  goes  well ;  it  is  only 
where  the  tribal  feelings  and  the 


claims  of  chiefship  are  allowed  to 
maintain  their  influence  that  we 
fail  to  make  the  natives  peaceable. 
This  native  problem  is  undoubtedly 
the  great  question  of  the  future  in 
South  Africa ;  and  we  cannot  trust 
to  having  it  settled  by  time,  as  in 
other  parts  of  the  world.  While 
the  Australian  aborigines,  the  Ma- 
ories  in  New  Zealand,  and  the 
Indians  in  America  are  dying  out 
under  white  civilisation,  the  black 
races  in  our  African  colonies  are 
increasing  rapidly,  and  at  a  far 
higher  ratio  than  is  known  among 
the  wild  tribes,  where  war  and 
starvation  exercise  of  course  a  con- 
siderable check  upon  population. 

The  Boers,  on  the  whole,  have 
given  us  scarcely  less  trouble  than 
the  blacks,  and  have  been  even 
more  obstinate  to  deal  with.  Their 
bigoted  aversion  to  British  rule,  and 
propensity  for  "  trekking,"  have  in 
most  cases  been  the  cause  of  our 
being  compelled  to  extend  our 
frontier  far  beyond  the  limits 
which  our  own  colonisation  de- 
manded. They  encroached  upon 
native  territories;  and  when  they 
had  drawn  down  upon  themselves 
the  wrath  of  the  chiefs,  their  weak- 
ness commonly  compelled  British 
interference  in  the  interests  of  the 
general  peace  of  the  country.  There 
is  no  question  but  the  present  war 
in  Zululand,  as  well  as  that  against 
Secocoeni,  are  largely  due  to  the 
Boer  encroachments,  and  have  come 
to  us  as  a  damnosa  hcereditas  with 
the  Transvaal.  We  do  not  mean 
that  the  annexation  of  the  Trans- 
vaal has  of  itself  embroiled  us  with 
either  Secocoeni  or  Cetywayo;  for 
even  though  we  had  allowed  that 
State  to  retain  its  independence, 
we  should  have  been  compelled  to 
have  fought  both,  to  keep  them 
from  overrunning  the  Transvaal  and 
slaughtering  its  farmers,  who  ap- 
parently found  it  difficult  to  hold 
their  ground  against  even  the  less 


392 


powerful  of  the  two  chiefs  when  act- 
ing by  himself.  With  the  annexa- 
tion of  the  Transvaal,  we  trust  that 
there  will  be  an  end  of  the  stub- 
born spirit  of  resistance  to  British 
rule  which  has  worked  so  strongly 
against  the  unification  of  colonial 
interests;  and  that  our  new  subjects 
will  at  last  recognise  the  necessity 
for  loyally  aiding  her  Majesty's 
Government  in  giving  to  all  the 
races  in  South  Africa  under  its 
sway  a  more  assured  protection, 
and  a  better  meed  of  prosperity, 
than  the  divisions  of  the  country 
have  ever  yet  permitted  them  to 
enjoy. 

The  general  subject  of  the  de- 
fence of  our  South  African  colonies 
is  one  that  must  inevitably  come  up 
for  discussion,  as  soon  as  events  in 
Zululand  permit  us  to  look  a  little 
ahead.  In  this  respect,  we  are 
forced  to  the  conclusion  that  the 
South  African  Governments  have 
not  realised  their  duty.  They  have 
contented  themselves  with  apply- 
ing temporary  checks,  and  have 
trusted  to  the  intervention  of  the 
Crown  whenever  affairs  became  too 
critical  to  be  dealt  with  by  colonial 
resources.  We  need  not  say  that 
such  a  policy  is  not  likely  to  earn 
commendation  from  the  British  tax- 
payer at  the  present  moment.  The 
claims  of  the  colonies  on  the  mo- 
ther-country have  always  had  due 
weight  given  to  them  in  these 
pages  ;  and  we  have  steadily  main- 
tained that  it  was  our  duty  to  sup- 
ply means  of  defence  to  every  cor- 
ner of  the  empire  which  was  not 
able  to  protect  itself.  We  have 
always  held  that  the  abolition  of 
the  Cape  Mounted  Eifles  and  other 
colonial  corps  by  Mr  Gladstone's 
Government,  was  an  unwise  and 
reprehensible  measure,  the  evil  ef- 
fects of  which  are  bitterly  realised 
in  South  Africa  at  the  present 
time.  But  with  all  our  sympathies 
in  favour  of  colonial  claims  on 


Tlie  Zulu  War.  [March 

the  Home  Government  for  military 
assistance,  we  cannot  deny  the  fact 
that  the  South  African  colonies 
have  leant  too  heavily  upon  the 
Crown  in  this  matter.  The  pre- 
sent is  not  a  fitting  time  to  re- 
capitulate the  way  in  which  the 
African  legislatures  have  evaded 
the  question  of  colonial  defence — 
have  bandied  about  from  one  to 
another  the  duty  of  providing  for 
the  protection  of  the  borders — have 
sought  to  tide  over  difficulties  by 
police,  levies,  "  commandoes,"  and 
other  makeshifts — and  have  almost 
invariably  ended  by  falling  back  on 
the  imperial  Government.  Most  of 
all  the  African  "  little  wars  "  could 
have  been  checked  at  the  outset 
by  the  colonies  themselves,  at 
comparatively  little  outlay,  com- 
pared with  the  expenditure  that 
must  be  incurred  when  impe- 
rial troops  are  put  into  the  field. 
The  cost  to  the  mother-country  of 
the  Zulu  campaign,  apart  from  the 
sacrifice  of  British  soldiers  which 
has  actually  taken  place  and  is  still 
to  follow,  will  inspire  us  with  a 
more  lively  interest  in  South  Afri- 
can confederation  and  inter- colonial 
defence  than  the  home  public  have 
hitherto  shown,  and  ought  to  give 
a  powerful  impetus  towards  a  satis- 
factory settlement  of  these  much- 
debated  matters. 

The  temper  of  the  country  on 
the  Zulu  war  has  expressed  itself, 
both  inside  and  out  of  Parlia- 
ment, in  favour  of  the  course 
which  Government  has  pursued. 
The  despatches  already  published 
make  clear  that  Government  had 
no  wish  to  wage  war  with  Cety- 
wayo,  and  no  object  to  forward  by 
such  a  step ;  but  yielded  because 
it  felt  bound  to  defer  to  the  repre- 
sentations of  imminent  danger  which 
came  to  it  from  all  classes,  and  from 
every  quarter  of  South  Africa  ;  and 
to  the  assurances  which  it  received 
that  we  had  no  alternative  but  to 


1879.] 


The  Zulu  War. 


393 


choose  between  fighting  the  Zulus 
in  their  own  country,  and  allowing 
them  to  overrun  and  devastate  our 
colonies,  and  to  bring  the  horrors  of 
war  into  the  homesteads  of  our  set- 
tlers. No  Government  could  have 
turned  a  deaf  ear  to  such  warnings 
as  Sir  Bartle  Frere  and  the  colonial 
authorities  sent  home  towards  the 
end  of  last  year.  And  when  it  be- 
came evident  that  war  could  not  be 
evaded,  it  was  nothing  more  than  the 
duty  of  Government  to  the  country 
to  insist  that  Lord  Chelmsford  should 
limit  his  military  establishment  to 
the  force  absolutely  necessary  to 
effect  his  object.  Between  a  general 
asking  for  troops  in  war  time,  and 
a  nation  grumbling  over  unneces- 
sary military  expenditure,  a  Govern- 
ment has  to  hit  a  very  fine  mean  if 
it  is  to  please  all  parties.  Until  the 
disaster  at  Insandusana  the  force 
under  Lord  Chelmsford  was  looked 
upon  as  amply  sufficient  for  reduc- 
ing Cetywayo ;  and  the  Govern- 
ment was  considered  by  the  colonial 
press  to  have  behaved  with  great 
liberality  in  the  matter  of  troops. 
Since  the  news  of  Lord  Chelms- 
ford's  check,  the  zeal  with  which 
every  department  of  the  Government 
has  thrown  itself  into  the  task  of  ex- 
pediting the  despatch  of  reinforce- 
ments for  Natal  speaks  for  itself. 
The  task  of  Government  is  now 
rather  to  oppose  itself  to  any  panic 
which  may  break  out,  than  to  stim- 
ulate the  public  interest  in  its  ex- 
ertions to  aid  our  army.  We  must 
look  upon  the  Insandusana  disaster 
as  one  of  those  catastrophes  which, 
like  the  loss  of  the  Eurydice,  or  the 
explosion  on  board  the  Thunderer, 
fall  outside  the  boundary  of  the 
keenest  human  prevision.  It  is  a 
sad  calamity,  but  we  cannot  afford 
to  lose  our  heads  over  it. 

"With  such  insufficient  informa- 
tion as  we  possess  upon  the  most 
material  points  of  the  situation,  the 
Zulu  war  is  not  yet  ripe  for  parlia- 


mentary discussion.  The  references 
in  both  Houses  to  African  affairs, 
show  that  upon  the  merits  of  the 
questions  involved  parties  have  yet 
to  make  up  their  minds.  Mr  W. 
H.  Smith's  powerful  speech  at 
Westminster,  two  days  before  Par- 
liament opened,  was  the  first  public 
intimation  of  the  spirit  in  which 
the  Government  had  received  the 
news  of  Lord  Chelmsford' s  reverse ; 
and  it  at  once  gave  a  tone  to  the 
feelings  of  the  country,  and  paved 
the  way  for  the  Ministerial  state- 
ments in  both  Houses.  The  line 
taken  up  by  Earl  Granville  does 
not  indicate  that  the  Liberal  party 
have  formed  any  decided  opinions 
as  to  what  course  they  are  to  pur- 
sue. He  carped  at  Sir  Bartle 
Frere's  principles,  which  he  said 
were  "  suspicious  of  any  weakness  in 
any  line  of  defence,  and  not  averse 
to  immediate  and  energetic  meas- 
ures, not  excluding  war,  to  avoid 
possible  future  dangers."  Such 
criticism,  if  not  very  generous,  is 
not  very  damaging ;  and  if  Earl 
Granville  feels  that  his  duty  to  the 
Constitution  requires  him  to  malign 
an  officer  who  is  too  far  removed, 
and  too  hard  pressed  to  have  an 
opportunity  of  defending  himself, 
we  see  no  reason  to  stand  in  his 
way.  Sir  Bartle  Frere's  conduct  of 
South  African  affairs  will  no  doubt 
be  keenly  canvassed  afterwards,  but 
we  cannot  admit  that  her  Majesty's 
Government  are  reflected  upon  when 
the  Opposition  choose  to  make  him 
the  subject  of  an  attack.  Lord 
Carnarvon,  who  has  no  disposition 
at  present  to  justify  the  measures  of 
Government,  confessed  that  his  ex- 
periences at  the  Colonial  Office  had 
convinced  him  of  the  justice  of  the 
Zulu  war  ;  while  Lord  Kimberley, 
who  had  also  much  official  acquaint- 
ance with  Zulu  matters,  seemed  to 
think  that  we  should  have  made 
war  upon  them  long  ago.  In  the 
Commons,  Colonel  Mure  has  evinc- 


394 


ed  an  interest  ia  the  Zulus  expli- 
cable only  by  the  instability  of  his 
seat  for  Renfrewshire ;  while  Sir 
Charles  Dilke  contributed  to  the 
discussion  a  version  of  the  difficulty, 
distorted  by  even  more  than  his 
usual  inaccuracy  and  extravagances. 
But  the  member  for  Chelsea  is 
apparently  acting  for  himself,  and 
without  any  definite  support  from 
the  leaders  of  the  Liberal  party. 
The  Opposition  as  a  body  are  still, 
we  believe,  sufficiently  alive  to 
their  duty  to  the  country  in  this 
crisis  to  refrain  from  any  criticism 
that  might  obstruct  the  measures  of 
Government  for  carrying  through 
the  Zulu  war ;  and  it  must  feel,  be- 
sides, the  hazard  of  committing  it- 
self to  any  particular  line  of  censure 
until  more  definite  information  re- 
garding the  Zulu  question,  and  the 
mode  in  which  it  has  been  dealt 
with  by  the  colonial  authorities, 
has  been  given  to  the  public. 

Perhaps  the  most  notable  fact  in 
connection  with  the  home  aspects 
of  the  Zulu  expedition,  is  the  extra- 
ordinary reticence  which  Mr  Glad- 
stone has  shown  regarding  it.  A 
whole  fortnight  has  elapsed  since 
the  news  of  the  Insandusana  affair 
reached  England,  and  up  to  the 
time  of  our  going  to  press  the  ex- 
Premier  had  not  uttered  a  word  or 
written  a  post-card  that  could  give 
the  slightest  clue  to  the  view  he 
meant  to  take  of  the  disaster.  This 
silence  is  so  unwonted  as  to  make 
us  much  more  uneasy  than  if  Mr 


The  Zulu  War.  [March  1879. 

Gladstone  had  thrown  himself  into 
the  breach  in  half-a-dozen  monthlies 
and  double  that  number  of  speeches. 
In  his  case  we  have  no  reason  to 
suppose  that  want  of  information 
has  retarded  his  making  up  his 
mind  as  to  the  criminality  of  the 
Government,  and  its  direct  respon- 
sibility for  a  war  which  it  has 
waged  for  purely  selfish  motives, 
and  with  the  base  view  of  influenc- 
ing the  constituencies  at  the  coming 
elections.  Whether  he  will  go  fur- 
ther, and  recognise  in  Cety wayo  the 
"  Divine  Figure  of  the  South/'  the 
noble  savage  whose  cause  is  the 
cause  of  liberty  and  benevolence, 
unjustly  assailed  by  the  unscrupu- 
lous Tory  Ministry — the  possessor 
of  all  those  personal  virtues  which 
are  so  conspicuously  missing  in  the 
characters  of  the  Prime  Minister 
and  other  members  of  the  Cabinet, 
— we  scarcely  care  to  predict.  Mr 
Gladstone  is  presently  posing  before 
the  public  as  the  candidate  for  a 
Scotch  constituency  which  demands 
more  moderate  views  than  the  ex- 
Premier  has  been  in  the  habit  of 
advancing  for  some  time  back  ;  and 
he  may  very  naturally  dread  the 
risk  of  offending  the  tastes  of  his 
future  supporters  by  launching  out 
into  a  wild  course  of  agitation  such 
as  he  embarked  upon  two  years  ago. 
Whether  or  not  his  impetuosity  of 
temper  has  been  sufficiently  subordi- 
nated to  these  prudential  considera- 
tions, will  most  likely  be  seen  in  the 
coming  discussions  in  Parliament. 


Printed  ly  William  Black  wood  &  Sons. 


BLACKWOOD'S 
EDINBURGH    MAGAZINE. 


No.  DCCLXTI. 


APEIL   1879. 


VOL.  CXXY. 


REATA;  OK,  WHAT'S  IN  A  NAME. — PART  i. 

CHAPTER    I.— CAFE    SCHAUM. 


"  Ist's  noch  der  alte,  unversohnte  Hass 
Den  ihr  mit  herbringt  ? " 

— Braut  von  Messina. 


Do  you  know  the  Cafe*  Schaum  in 
Vienna  1  The  chances  are  you  do 
not ;  and  yet  it  is  a  place  of  some 
note  in  its  own  particular  way. 
Not  that  it  can  compete  with  the 
many  brilliant  establishments  of  its 
kind  which  have  sprung  up  here  of 
late  years — establishments  furnished 
with  every  luxury  in  the  shape  of 
lofty  rooms,  exquisite  furniture  and 
decorations,  and  all  the  hundred 
and  one  items  of  a  paraphernalia 
which  our  grandfathers  never  dreamt 
of,  but  which  their  degenerate  de- 
scendants consider  mere  necessaries 
of  life.  No ;  in  the  Cafe"  Schaum 
there  is  not  much  to  dazzle  a  stran- 
ger :  most  such  would  probably 
linger  by  the  more  attractive  houses 
of  this  kind  which  abound  in  the 
pleasure-loving  capital,  instead  of 
following  me  into  the  somewhat 
dingy,  though  thoroughly  respect- 
able, rooms  in  which  this  story 
opens. 

The  Cafe"  Schaum  need  fear  no 
rivalry,  for  it  has  an  original,  almost 

VOL.   CXXV. — NO.  DCCLXII. 


an  historical  character  —  although, 
like  most  historical  monuments,  it 
is  beginning  to  show  signs  of  decay. 
For  the  first  half  of  this  century  it 
was  the  military  Cafe"  par  excellence 
—  the  chief  resort  of  every  one 
belonging  to,  or  interested  in,  the 
Austrian  military  service.  In  those 
days  you  would  have  been  sure  to 
find  a  room  filled  two  thirds  with 
officers  and  one-third  with  civilians; 
now  that  is  all  modified,  and  there 
are  as  many  black  coats  as  uniforms 
among  the  frequenters  of  the  time- 
honoured  Cafe.  But  although  the 
original  character  is  modified,  it  is 
not  effaced  ;  old  warriors  go  there 
from  the  force  of  habit,  and  young 
ones  following  tradition.  No  mem- 
ber of  the  fair  sex  ever  sets  foot 
within  these  walls.  I  will  not, 
however,  commit  myself  by  assert- 
ing that  the  absence  of  gossip  and 
scandal  is  as  complete  as  the  exclu- 
sion of  all  daughters  of  Eve  would 
seem  to  vouch  for. 

The  last  fifty  years  have  made 
2  c 


396 


Reata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  1. 


[April 


little  change  in  the  appearance  of 
the  Cafe"  Schaum ;  and  it  is  prob- 
able that  were  the  ghost  of  Rad- 
etzky,  or  any  of  his  contemporaries 
who  served  his  Majesty  the  Em- 
peror of  Austria  half  a  century  ago, 
to  rise  from  his  grave  and  stalk  in 
here,  he  would  find  himself  quite 
at  home  in  the  familiar  old  place. 
If,  however,  he  lent  an  ear  (can 
ghosts  hear,  by  the  way?)  to  the 
talk  going  on,  the  ancien-regime 
soldier  would  soon  perceive  how 
busy  the  world  has  been  all  these 
years,  while  he  has  been  lying  stark 
and  stiff  "with  his  martial  cloak 
around  him,"  and  to  what  a  very 
different  state  of  things  he  has  sud- 
denly awoke. 

But  it  is  not  with  ghosts  we  have 
to  do  at  present  (though  I  must  con- 
fess to  a  weakness  for  them) ;  and  if 
on  this  spring  day  of  1872  any  of 
the  said  individuals  are  afloat,  they 
remain  invisible  to  the  naked  eye. 

It  is  afternoon,  and  dozens  of 
solitary  men  are  reading  their 
papers;  groups  of  two  and  three 
or  more  men  together,  occupy  the 
little  marble  tables  that  are  dotted 
about  the  room.  These  groups  are 
various.  Group  Number  One  con- 
sists of  a  stout,  bald  captain,  in 
infantry  uniform,  and  of  a  small, 
fair  dragoon  major,  whose  best  point 
is  decidedly  his  long  fluffy  whiskers. 
Group  Number  Two  is  more  exten- 
sive, and  somewhat  juvenile,  em- 
bracing several  rather  green-looking 
cadets,  a  few  subalterns,  and  a  tall, 
young  civilian,  who  is  smoking  his 
cigar  with  an  ostentatiously  blase 
air.  Group  Number  Three  is  of  a 
graver  character :  a  couple  of  old 
gentlemen  —  one  with  blue  spec- 
tacles, the  other  with  a  troublesome 
cough,  and  a  colonel  of  the  Lancers, 
who  is  treating  his  former  comrades 
to  a  minute  account  of  the  state  of 
his  regiment.  Group  Number  Four 
— well,  we  will  not  go  further  than 
Group  Number  Four,  for  you  are 


requested  to  pause  here  and  take  a 
better  look.  Two  men  are  sitting 
at  this  table,  and  of  these  two  men 
you  are  going  to  hear  more.  Among 
the  many  groups  that  are  scattered 
about  the  coffee-room,  there  is  only 
this  one  to  which  your  attention 
is  seriously  called.  The  others — 
civilians  or  officers,  old  pensioners, 
and  green  cadets — may  be  as  inter- 
esting in  their  way  too ;  some  of 
them  for  their  histories  that  are  past, 
others  for  their  histories  that  are 
to  come.  Every  one  of  the  green 
cadets  may  be  going  to  act  a  part 
in  some  thrilling  adventure  of  love 
or  bra  very  \  and  each  one  of  the 
elders,  even  the  stout,  bald  captain, 
whose  face  seems  so  utterly  devoid 
of  any  expression,  may  have  had 
some  passages  of  interest,  ay,  of 
poetry,  perhaps,  in  his  past :  but  it 
is  not  with  them  we  have  to  do ; 
it  is  only  at  Group  Number  Four 
that  you  are  asked  to  pause  and 
look  again. 

The  two  men  that  are  sitting  at 
this  table  are  both  young,  both  well 
grown,  and  one  of  them  is  strikingly 
handsome — brothers,  as  their  like- 
ness tells  at  once. 

The  eldest  looks  a  couple  of  years 
over  thirty,  whereas  in  reality  he  is 
a  couple  of  years  under.  His  sun- 
burnt complexion  adds  to  his  age 
in  appearance, — also  his  heavy  eye- 
brows, the  feature  which  strikes 
attention  first.  He  is  not  to  be 
called  handsome  exactly,  with  hair 
of  a  medium  brown,  and  grey  eyes, 
which  look  self-reliant  and  a  little 
severe.  A  powerfully-built,  grandly- 
formed  man — broad-shouldered  and 
tall.  He  is  in  plain  clothes ;  but 
something  in  the  bearing  of  his 
stalwart  figure  tells  that  he  too,  at 
no  very  distant  period,  has  worn 
the  hussar  uniform,  which  becomes 
his  younger  brother  so  well. 

The  hussar  is  of  much  the  same 
height,  but  more  slender  of  figure, 
and  more  regular-featured.  If  the 


1879.] 


Reata  ;  or,  Whafs  in  a  Name. — Part  I. 


397 


other  brother  looks  older  than  his 
age,  this  one  looks  younger ;  there 
is  only  a  year  between  them  in 
reality,  but  to  look  at  the  younger 
you  would  take  him  to  be  three  or 
four  and  twenty.  The  eyebrows 
here  are  not  bushy,  but  finely 
marked ;  the  eyes  of  a  very  dark 
blue;  the  complexion  less  tanned 
with  sun;  the  hair  several  shades 
lighter :  altogether,  he  is  a  man  to 
whom  nature  has  given  more  than 
the  average  share  of  good  looks. 
To  say  that  a  man  has  regular 
features  and  dark- blue  eyes,  is  not 
necessarily  to  pay  him  a  great  com- 
pliment ;  for  he  may  have  all  this 
and  more,  and  yet  remain  a  barber's 
block.  But  this  is  not  the  case 
here.  This  man  has  both  vivacity 
and  intelligence,  and  a  certain  high 
polish  and  fascination  of  manner 
which  are  even  better  gifts  than  his 
face  and  his  figure. 

At  first  sight  the  resemblance 
between  the  two  brothers  would 
strike  you  forcibly,  but  after  an 
hour  in  their  society  you  would 
have  found  it  difficult  to  define 
what  made  them  appear  alike  at 
first.  It  was  only  that  indescrib- 
able air  de  f ami  lie  which  is  so 
puzzling  sometimes. 

The  conversations  going  on  in 
the  coffee-room  are  as  various  as 
the  groups. 

"  Have  you  heard,"  the  bald  cap- 
tain is  saying,  "that  the  96th  Regi- 
ment is  likely  to  be  ordered  off  to 
Bohemia,  to  replace  the  42d,  which, 
it  seems,  has  made  the  place  too  hot 
to  hold  it?" 

"  No,  indeed,"  replies,  very  em- 
phatically, the  small  fair  dragoon 
major  with  the  fluffy  whiskers — 
"  no,  indeed,"  repeats  he  in  his  thin 
pipy  voice ;  "  you  must  be  mis- 
taken, for  I  have  been  positively 
assured  that  the  69th  Regiment  is 
the  one  destined;  and  I  assure 
you,"  he  continues,  in  a  slightly 
piqued  tone,  as  the  bald  captain 


makes  a  gesture  of  incredulity,  "  I 
have  very  good  authorities  for  this 
assertion,  although  I  am  not  at 
liberty  to  mention  my  source." 

"  That  is  precisely  the  case  with 
me,"  anwers  the  captain,  with  a 
solemn  shake  of  the  head, — and 
both  these  worthies  hereupon  drop 
the  subject  and  relapse  into  silence ; 
while  each,  from  the  expression  of 
concentrated  mystery  on  his  face, 
tries  to  give  the  other  the  impres- 
sion that  he  has  got  his  informa- 
tion first-hand  from  the  Minister  of 
War  at  least,  if  not  from  his  Ma- 
jesty himself. 

"  And  so  old  Tortenfish  is  going 
to  make  a  fool  of  himself  in  his  old 
days,  and  marry  little  JFraultin 
Korn,  who  has  nothing  but  her 
pretty  face  (she  certainly  is  con- 
foundedly pretty),"  the  blase  young 
man  is  remarking. 

"  What  fools  our  elders  are  ! " 
says  some  one  else,  complacently ; 
"  to  let  one's  self  be  caught  in  that 
manner  !  Nothing  short  of  a  title 
and  three  hundred  thousand  florins 
would  induce  ine  to  sell  my  liberty." 

"  Then  I  fancy  you  will  have  to 
pass  your  life  in  single  blessedness, " 
suggests  another. 

11  Well,  I  rather  think  so  myself; 
and  to  tell  the  truth,  I  have  no  great 
opinion  of  matrimony,  and  I  think 
that  wives  are  apt  to  turn  out  fail- 
ures." 

"  I  killed  twenty-seven  of  them 
last  year,"  comes,  in  a  mournful 
tone,  from  the  Lancer  colonel :  "  it 
was  a  heavy  blow,  and  has  been 
difficult  to  recover  from." 

"Is  the  old  savage  a  Turk  in 
disguise,  do  you  think,  Arnold?" 
whispered  the  younger  of  the  two 
brothers,  whose  name  was  Otto. 

The  next  minute,  however,  cleared 
the  gallant  colonel's  character,  as  in 
the  course  of  conversation  the  words 
"  glanders,"  "  expense  of  burning," 
"saddlery,"  &c.,  explain  the  nature 
of  his  bereavement.  From  this  de- 


398 


Reata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  I. 


[April 


pressing  subject,  the  colonel  goes  on 
to  expatiate  upon  the  various  mis- 
eries of  military  men's  lives  in  gen- 
eral, and  of  cavalry  colonels  in  par- 
ticular, winding  up  by  assuring  his 
audience  that  had  he  a  sixpence  to 
bless  himself  with,  he  would  cut 
the  whole  concern. 

"Upon  my  word,  Arnold,  the  old 
fellow  is  not  wrong  there/'  says 
Otto,  laying  aside  his  cigar ;  "  and 
if  my  expedition  turns  out  success- 
ful, I  shall  look  sharp  about  turn- 
ing my  back  on  the  military  career, 
and  leave  my  country  to  defend 
itself  as  best  it  can  without  my 
valuable  assistance." 

"  But,  Otto,  not  longer  than  two 
years  ago  you  would  not  let  your- 
self be  persuaded  to  exchange  the 
life  of  a  soldier  for  another." 

"But  that  was  quite  another 
thing,"  returns  Otto  hastily,  with 
some  visible  confusion.  "Of  course 
I  have  got  no  taste  for  vegetating 
in  that  humdrum  manner  in  the 
country ;  besides,  you  know  that  I 
have  not  got  your  practical  nature, 
and  should  never  have  managed  to 
make  the  ends  meet  in  the  wonder- 
ful way  you  do.  My  leaving  my 
career  at  that  time  would  have  been 
a  useless  sacrifice.  But  you  would 
surely  not  expect  a  man  with  half  a 
million  in  his  pocket  to  go  on  wear- 
ing out  his  energies  in  the  ungrateful 
task  of  pounding  recruits  and  horses 
into  shape,  and  not  being  able  to 
take  the  slightest  liberty  with  his 
time  without  getting  into  hot  wa- 
ter ?  Surely  you  agree  with  me  1 " 

"  Oh  yes,  I  agree.  But  first 
make  sure  of  your  half-million." 

"  Don't  croak ;  I  am  in  high 
spirits,"  says  the  other,  unrepressed. 
"  My — I  mean  our  prospects  are  in 
a  brilliant  state.  An  old  lady  liv- 
ing in  the  middle  of  prairies,  with 
several  millions — what  is  more  nat- 
ural than  that  she  should  give  some 
of  her  superfluous  cash  to  her  pro- 
mising nephews  ? " 


Arnold  suggested  that  the  old 
lady  was  not  a  fixture  in  the  prai- 
ries, and  might  take  herself  and  her 
riches  somewhere  else ;  "  and  be- 
sides," he  added,  "she  may  prefer 
keeping  them  to  herself." 

"  Oh,  trust  me  for  that ;  she 
would  need  to  be  made  of  flint  if 
she  does  not  soften  in  face  of  all 
the  tender  reminiscences  I  come 
armed  with — letters  and  rose-leaves 
and  locks  of  hair." 

"What  is  that  about  locks  of 
hair?"  exclaimed  a  cheerful  voice 
close  at  hand. 

Arnold  gave  Otto  a  warning 
look,  and  in  the  next  moment  they 
were  greeting  two  fellow-officers  of 
Otto's  who  had  come  to  Vienna 
for  their  Easter  Feiertdge. 

A  dark  flush  crossed  Otto's  face 
as  he  rose  to  welcome  his  captain 
and  the  young  lieutenant.  That 
the  meeting  was  not  an  altogether 
pleasant  one  could  be  gathered  from 
the  studious  civility  with  which  he 
made  room  at  the  table  for  his 
senior  officer,  while  greeting  Lieu- 
tenant Langenfeld  with  the  careless 
intimacy  usual  among  good  com- 
rades. 

Lieutenant  Langenfeld  does  not 
need  much  description — he  was  one 
of  the  regular  types  of  his  class : 
every  one  acquainted  with  Austrian 
cavalry  officers  as  they  used  to  be, 
will  know  what  I  mean.  Over 
the  middle  height,  rather  slender, 
and  fairly  good-looking  ;  a  dash  of 
dandyism  in  his  appearance ;  and 
in  his  walk  that  indescribable  some- 
thing which  is  elegantly  termed 
"  cavalry  limp."  Besides  these  gen- 
eral characteristics,  Lieutenant  Lan- 
genfeld had  some  peculiar  to  him- 
self. Providence  had  not  overbur- 
dened him  with  brains,  but  had  in 
return  furnished  him  with  an  inex- 
haustible fund  of  high  spirits.  In- 
deed there  had  only  been  one  occa- 
sion, his  comrades  declared,  on 
which  he  had  been  seen  in  a  de- 


1879.] 


Reata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  I. 


399 


pressed  state  of  mind  :  this  was 
when  a  duel,  in  which  he  was  to 
have  been  engaged,  was  nipped  in 
the  bud  by  his  opponent  apologis- 
ing at  the  last  moment. 

"Kather  hard  lines,"  he  was 
heard  to  exclaim  despondently  to 
a  sympathising  listener,  "  having 
one's  fun  cut  up  in  this  way.  Why, 
I  have  not  had  a  duel  for  a  year, 
not  since  Kraputchek  trod  on  my 
terrier's  tail;  have  been  thinking 
of  nothing  else  since  yesterday; 
and  now  the  wretch  must  needs 
apologise.  Enough  to  make  a  man 
hang  himself ! " 

It  was  said,  however,  that  two 
days  after,  he  found  consolation  by 
getting  into  some  scrape  in  com- 
pany with  his  late  adversary — the 
two  having  sworn  eternal  friend- 
ship. 

"Now  for  the  locks  of  hair!" 
exclaimed  the  lieutenant  cheerfully, 
as  he  took  a  place  at  the  table.  "  Is 
it  a  flaxen  curl  of  the  fair  Halka 
which  you  are  taking  as  a  talisman 
on  your  journey  1 " 

"No,  not  that,"  replied  Otto, 
glancing  sharply  at  the  captain, 
who,  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  was 
regarding  him  with  inquisitive 
amusement.  "  I  had  not  the  hon- 
our of  taking  leave  of  the  Countess ; 
my  departure  was  so  sudden,  and  I 
had  so  much  to  do  before  starting, 
and — the  roads  were  in  such  a  bad 
state,"  continued  Otto,  blundering 
on,  and  forgetting  in  his  confusion 
that  this  enumeration  of  excellent 
reasons  was  only  weakening  the 
effect  he  wished  to  produce. 

"All  right,  my  dear  fellow,"  said 
the  captain,  with  a  short  laugh, 
drawling  his  words  out  impercepti- 
bly. He  had  not  removed  his  eyes 
from  Otto's  face  while  the  other 
was  stammering  his  disconnected 
explanation.  "  You  need  not  give 
yourself  so  much  trouble  to  explain 
what  is  quite  natural.  I  found  the 
roads  perfectly  passable  a  fortnight 


ago  when  I  called  there,  and  the 
Countess  was  in  wonderful  looks ; 
but  I  think  you  were  quite  right  in 
going  off  without  any  special  adieux, 
— quite  right,"  he  repeated,  at  last 
withdrawing  his  eyes  from  Otto, 
and  casting  a  seemingly  careless 
glance  into  the  mirror  opposite, 
where  his  own  half-reclining  figure 
stood  out  as  the  principal  object  in 
the  foreground.  Tall,  broad,  and 
black-haired,  he  did  not  make  a  bad 
picture  in  the  glass.  A  fine  man, 
a  very  fine  man,  almost  too  fine  a 
man  for  a  very  refined  taste.  Nei- 
ther colouring  nor  material  had  been 
spared  in  his  construction;  there 
was  enough  and  over  of  both.  No 
one,  after  a  passing  glance,  could 
have  entertained  a  doubt  that  this 
was  a  man  well  to  do  in  the  world 
— a  man  who  had  seldom  been  de- 
nied the  gratification  of  a  desire — 
a  man  who  never  could  have  been 
hungry  in  his  life,  and  who  looked  as 
if  he  never  would  be  hungry.  He 
walked,  ate,  and  slept  in  an  essen- 
tially well-to-do,  rich  manner,  never 
for  a  moment  forgetting  that  he  was 
rich,  and  never  letting  any  one  else 
forget  it. 

Looking  at  the  two  reflections 
near  each  other  in  the  glass,. that  of 
Otto  appeared  almost  pale  and  weak 
beside  the  captain ;  and  yet  no 
woman  in  her  senses  would  hesitate 
for  a  moment  between  the  two — 
for  while  that  high-bred  profile  and 
intense  blue  eyes  could  hardly  fail 
to  captivate  any  woman's  imagina- 
tion, the  coarser  beauty  of  the  other 
appealed  only  to  the  senses.  Beau- 
tiful he  was,  but  not  a  type  of 
manly  beauty.  You  could  not  call 
him  more  than  a  beautiful  animal. 

"  Ha  !  "  said  Captain  Kreislich, 
turning  from  the  glass  with  a  slight 
movement  of  interest;  for  beside 
the  reflection  of  his  own  features 
he  had  caught  sight  of  Otto's  face 
darkened  with  the  rage  which  his 
last  words  had  awakened. 


400 


Reata  ;  or,  Whafs  in  a  Name. — Part  I. 


[April 


"What  do  you  mean?"  Otto 
began,  making  a  movement  as  if  to 
rise  to  his  feet,  his  voice  shaking 
with  ill-suppressed  fury. 

"  Nonsense,  Otto  ! "  interrupted 
Arnold  quickly,  giving  his  brother 
a  glance  which  did  not  fail  in  its 
effect;  for  Otto,  with  an  evident 
effort,  leant  back  and  was  silent. 

"  Nonsense  ! "  echoed  Langen- 
feld,  bursting  into  the  conversation. 
"Of  course,  Bodenbach,  if  you 
choose  to  go  off  rushing  to  such 
an  unheard-of  place  as  Mexico, 
without  the  usual  ceremonies  of 
leave-taking,  and  without  any  ex- 
planations, people  will  explain  for 
themselves;  and  you  have  only 
yourself  to  thank  if  the  explana- 
tions are  wrong." 

"  And  pray,  what  sort  of  motives 
have  people  been  kind  enough  to 
invent  for  me?" 

"Oh,  all  sorts  of  things ;  you 
know  the  usual  Jews  and  debts  and 
difficulties.  Of  course,"  he  went 
on,  seeing  a  cloud  on  Otto's  face, 
"I  flatly  contradicted  this  report, 
and  invariably  declared  that  you 
were  going  to  Mexico  to  take  pos- 
session of  an  immense  fortune, 
although  some  inquiring  spirits 
suggested  that  in  this  case  Arnold, 
being  unfettered  by  military  duties, 
would  be  the  most  likely  man  for 
the  expedition." 

Langenfeld  watched  the  effect  of 
these  words  on  his  comrade,  for  he 
was  indeed  dying  with  curiosity  as 
to  the  object  of  this  voyage ;  and 
had  the  others  not  been  present,  it 
is  probable  he  would  have  taxed 
his  friend  point  -  blank  with  the 
question.  He  was  puzzled  now. 
Otto  certainly  had  winced  at  the 
beginning  of  the  conversation ;  but 
again,  at  reference  to  the  fortune, 
he  had  cast  a  glance  that  looked 
very  like  triumph  at  the  captain 
opposite. 

The  captain  was  sitting  up  in  his 
chair  now  with  evidences  of  interest 


in  his  face.  The  conversation  was 
promising  some  excitement.  He 
drew  a  little  nearer  to  the  table, 
and  when  he  spoke  this  time  he 
did  not  drawl. 

"  Mexico  !  ah  yes,  Mexico  is  a 
long  way  off ;  not  a  country  I 
should  care  to  visit  myself.  Do 
you  intend  remaining  there  ? " 

"I  daresay  you  would  like  it  if 
I  did,"  muttered  Otto  between  his 
teeth;  but  aloud  he  only  said,  "I 
don't  know  what  my  plans  will  be 
— they  are  not  settled  yet." 

"  Perhaps  you  mean  to  go  into 
the  Mexican  army,"  put  in  Langen- 
feld. "  Wouldn't  I  like  to  be  in 
your  place  !  Lots  of  big  game  to 
kill :  buffaloes,  and  crocodiles,  and 
brigands,  and  so  on  in  charming 
variety.  Surely  you  will  not  be 
fool  enough  to  return  to  riding- 
schools  and  recruits  after  that ! " 

Arnold  here  interrupted.  "We 
are  not  at  liberty  to  satisfy  your 
curiosity.  You  are  quite  right, 
however,  in  contradicting  any  re- 
port of  my  brother  being  obliged 
to  leave  Austria.  It  is  merely  a 
family  matter :  he  is  going  by  his 
own  choice,  and  will,  I  trust,  soon 
be  back  again." 

Langenfeld,  who  was  rather  in  awe 
of  Arnold,  immediately  changed  the 
subject. 

"By  the  by,  Bodenbach,"  he 
said,  presently,  "  are  you  really 
going  to  take  that  entertaining 
creature  Piotr  with  you?  He  is 
the  very  last  article  I  should  dream 
of  dragging  to  Mexico.  Why,  you 
will  have  to  publish  a  volume  of 
anecdotes  on  your  return." 

"Yes,  Piotr  is  going,"  said  Ar- 
nold; "not  that  he  will  be  very 
useful,  but  at  any  rate  he  will  do 
for  companionship." 

"  Perhaps,"  suggested  Langen- 
feld, with  a  grin,  "  we  shall,  a 
few  months  hence,  be  surprised  by 
seeing  Piotr  walking  in  on  one  leg, 
and  incoherently  breaking  to  us  the 


1879.] 


Reata;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  I. 


401 


pleasant  news  that  he  has  lost  the 
urn  containing  his  master's  remains 
en  route;  you,  Bodenbach,  having 
managed  to  get  yourself  scalped  by 
the  Red  Indians  for  the  sake  of  the 
nuggets  with  which  you  were  laden. 
Oho  !  I  am  getting  on  to  forbidden 
ground  again :  let  us  talk  of  some- 
thing else.  Let  me  see;  what  is 
a  safe  subject  1  "  with  a  desperate 
glance  round  the  room. 

"The  weather,"  suggested  Ar- 
nold, decidedly  ;  "  tell  us  what 
it  was  like  in  Poland." 

"  The  weather !  that's  just  it ;  a 
capital  subject.  You  ought  to  be 
surprised  to  see  me  here  alive ;  I 
don't  yet  understand  how  I  escap- 
ed being  drowned  in  the  mud. 
And  the  expense  of  the  thing  too  ! 
I  ruined  my  best  uniform- coat  the 
last  time  I  rode  out  to  Snyhin- 
ice,  and  I  have  been  petitioning 
the  captain  to  buy  stilts  for  the 
squadron ;  but  he  won't  listen  to 
reason." 

"Wouldn't  the  stilts  come  more 
expensive  in  the  end  ? "  asked  Ar- 
nold. 

"Not  near  as  expensive  as  the 
quantity  of  boots  they  destroy  ; 
but  a  propos  de  bottes,"  exclaimed 
he,  breaking  off  with  a  sudden  re- 
collection and  turning  to  Otto, 
""have  you  been  to  the  Wieden  to 
see  '  Drei  Paar  Schuhe  '  ?  Not !  " 


he  went  on  excitedly,  as  Otto  shook 
his  head.  "  Surely,  my  dear  fellow, 
you  do  not  contemplate  leaving 
Europe  without  repairing  that  de- 
ficiency ?  and  I  must  absolutely 
drag  you  there  to-night.  It  will 
be  the  fourth  time  I  hear  it,  and  I 
assure  you  Geistinger  excels  herself. 
Of  course  Arnold  will  not  leave  us 
in  the  lurch." 

"  I  have  just  taken  a  box  for  this 
evening,"  interposed  Captain  Kreis- 
lich,  relapsing  into  his  habitual 
drawl,  and  turning  more  especially 
to  Otto  with  an  air  of  patronage 
which  called  back  the  frown  on  his 
face.  "If  any  of  you  choose  to 

avail  yourself  of  it "  but  his 

phrase  was  cut  short. 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  interrupted 
Otto,  "but  I  never  go  into  a  box 
when  I  can  help  it ;  I  should  be 
sorry  to  trouble  you :  I  infinitely 
prefer  the  pit.  Langenfeld,  I  am 
with  you." 

"  Just  as  you  please,"  returned 
the  captain.  And  as  the  little 
circle  was  broken  up  and  the  men 
rose  to  go  their  different  ways,  a 
bystander  would  needs  have  been 
blind  not  to  see  that  those  two, 
who  parted  so  civilly  and  seeming- 
ly so  coolly,  were  deadly  enemies, 
and  that  the  glance  with  which 
they  measured  each  other  was  a 
glance  of  hatred. 


CHAPTER   II. A   FAMILY    TREE. 


Said  Gama :  '  We  remember  love  ourselves 
In  our  sweet  youth.' " 

—TENNYSON:  The  Princess. 


Paragraph  reprinted  from  a  Mexi- 
can paper : — 

"  The  rich  Mr  Maximilian  Bod  en, 
who  died  lately  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  the  town  of  G ,  at  the 

age  of  seventy -four,  is,  it  is  under- 
stood, really  called  Bodenbach,  and 
is  nearly  related  to  the  baronial 


family  of  that  name  in  Austria. 
This  gentleman  had  curtailed  his 
name  in  the  aforesaid  fashion,  pre- 
vious to  the  making  of  his  large 
fortune,  amounting  to  several  mill- 
ions, which  he  has  bequeathed  to 
his  only  daughter,  Miss  Olivia 
Bod  en,  or  rather  Baroness  Olivia 
Bodenbach." 


402 


Reata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  I. 


[April 


Not  being  fond  of  needless  mys- 
teries, I  will  now  explain  the  con- 
nection of  this  paragraph  with  my 
story,  as  well  as  whatever  may 
require  elucidation  in  the  foregoing 
chapter. 

Baron  Walther  Bodenbach,  father 
of  Arnold  and  Otto,  was  a  gentle- 
man of  good  old  German  family, 
though  of  much-dilapidated  fortunes. 
His  ancestors  had  been  possessed  of 
considerable  property  ;  but  thanks 
to  gambling  and  bad  management, 
this  had  dwindled  down  by  degrees. 
The  grandfather  of  the  present  pro- 
prietor, old  Baron  Arnold  Boden- 
bach, had  still  further  hastened  the 
downfall  of  his  estate,  by  departing 
from  the  hitherto  prevalent  rule  in 
the  family,  of  leaving  the  property 
to  the  eldest,  and  by  dividing  it  be- 
tween his  two  sons,  Felix  and  Max 
— the  former  of  whom  was  the  father 
of  the  present  Baron  Walther. 

The  younger  one,  Max,  handsome 
and  dissipated,  had  made  short 
work  of  the  paternal  acres.  He 
had  married  when  a  very  young 
man ;  his  wife  died  after  four  years  ; 
and  by  the  time  he  got  his  portion 
he  was  already  deeply  in  debt.  For 
some  years  he  struggled  on ;  but 
day  by  day  saw  his  patrimony  slip- 
ping from  him,  until  finally,  in 
1838,  he  found  himself  obliged  to 
make  a  rapid  retreat  into  another 
hemisphere,  leaving  a  considerable 
amount  of  unpaid  debts  behind 
him.  His  elder  brother  Felix  had 
a  son,  Walther  (born  1814),  and 
he  himself  a  daughter,  Olivia,  five 
years  younger  than  her  cousin ;  and 
for  some  time  the  notion  had  been 
entertained  of  reuniting  the  family 
property  in  their  persons.  The 
young  people  themselves  had  taken 
very  kindly  to  this  notion,  and 
some  tender  passages  had  passed 
between  them.  It  was  therefore  a 
great  blow  to  them,  when  one  day 
Felix,  having  discovered  the  state 
of  his  brother's  affairs,  peremptorily 


ordered  his  son  to  think  no  more  of 
the  match.  Walther,  although  very 
much  attached  to  the  fair  Olivia, 
was  of  a  weak,  yielding  disposition, 
and  allowed  himself  to  be  persuaded 
that  his  duty  to  the  Bodenbach 
name  demanded  that  he  should  re- 
trieve their  fortunes  by  a  wealthy 
marriage,  instead  of  uniting  himself 
to  the  daughter  of  his  spendthrift 
uncle. 

The  brothers  parted,  therefore, 
with  some  coolness,  as  Max  would 
have  preferred  pursuing  his  new  for- 
tunes unencumbered  by  his  daugh- 
ter, whom  he  would  have  gladly 
made  over  to  his  nephew.  Felix 
was  obdurate  in  opposing  this  :  but 
this  did  not  prevent  him  from  sat- 
isfying to  the  best  of  his  power 
his  brother's  creditors;  he  would  suf- 
fer no  stain  to  rest  on  the  family 
name. 

Max  was  soon  lost  sight  of  by 
his  relations,  and  in  1844  a  vague 
report  of  his  death  had  reached 
Europe. 

Walther,  according  to  his  father's 
wishes,  married  in  1842  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  rich  banker. 

It  was  not  without  a  pang  that 
Felix  had  consented  and  even  urged 
his  son  to  this  marriage;  for  hither- 
to the  Bodenbachs  had  prided  them- 
selves much  on  their  purity  of  blood, 
and  there  had  been  no  instance  of 
any  one  of  them  taking  a  bourgeois 
wife. 

A  word  here  about  the  difference 
in  the  system  of  nobility  in  Eng- 
land and  in  Germany.  In  England 
the  line  of  demarcation  as  to  the  un- 
titled  aristocracy  is  often  puzzling. 
Unless  you  have  the  family  tree  of 
every  individual  you  meet  at  your 
fingers'  ends,  you  have  no  direct 
means  of  ascertaining  whether,  for 
instance,  a  Mr  Campbell  whom  you 
come  across  is  the  great-grandson 
of  a  blacksmith  or  of  the  Duke  of 
Argyll.  Our  system  of  gradual 
descent  always  seems  to  me  like 


1879.] 


Reata  ;  or.  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  I. 


103 


weaning  from  the  title  by  degrees,  as 
if  the  shock  of  coming  down  all  at 

once  to  plain  Mr might  be  too 

much  for  ducal  constitutions. 

Again,  in  England  you  talk  about 
the  aristocracy  and  the  gentry,  thus 
putting  the  untitled  gentry  on  a 
lower  level,  though  they  may  have 
just  as  good  blood  in  their  veins. 

In  Germany  this  is  all  different ; 
you  have  only  to  look  at  a  man's 
calling-card  in  order  to  know  what 
he  is,  and  no  mistake  is  possible. 
Either  he  has  a  title  or  the  prefix  of 
von  attached  to  his  name,  and  then 
he  is  adelig  (of  noble  birth) ;  or  he 
has  not,  and  in  that  case  he  belongs 
to  the  Burger  or  bourgeois  class. 

Nowadays  nobility,  like  every- 
thing else,  has  got  cheap.  Any- 
body, for  instance,  having  served 
for  thirty  years  in  the  Austrian 
army,  can  buy  his  von  for  a  round 
sum  of  money.  Many  do  not  do 
this,  of  course,  preferring  the  money 
to  the  von;  and  so  it  comes  that 
they  can  go  about  boasting  that  it 
was  not  worth  their  while  to  pick 
up  the  crown  with  five  points,* 
which  might  have  been  theirs  for 
the  stooping  (and  the  money). 
Rich  bankers  also,  and  rich  men 
in  general,  are  often  invested  with 
the  rank  of  nobility  :  but  this  bank- 
er in  particular,  Baron  Walther's 
father-in-law,  had  not  been  raised 
from  his  original  class  ;  and  thus, 
in  order  to  retrieve  the  family  for- 
tunes, Walther  was  the  first  Boden- 
bach  who  married  beneath  himself. 

But  even  a  banker  for  a  father- 
in-law  is  not  always  a  safeguard 
against  poverty;  it  did  not  prove 
so,  at  any  rate,  in  this  case.  The 
bank  failed,  and  Baroness  Boden- 
bach's  fortune  perished  with  the 
rest.  So,  by  the  time  his  sons  were 
grown  up,  Walther  was  a  very  poor 
man  indeed,  possessing  only  a  small 


estate  of  the  name  of  Steinbuhl, 
together  with  a  farm  in  Styria,  and 
barely  sufficient  means  to  keep  this 
up  with  tolerable  comfort.  Baron- 
ess Bodenbach  had  died  of  consump- 
tion when  her  youngest  child,  Ga- 
brielle,  was  two  years  old. 

In  1870,  two  years  before  this 
story  opens,  Baron  Walther's  health 
was  so  evidently  failing,  that  it  be- 
came clear  he  could  no  longer  man- 
age even  the  small  property  by 
himself,  and  required  the  help  of 
one  of  his  sons.  Both  of  these 
were  in  the  Austrian  army,  serv- 
ing in  cavalry  regiments.  His  first 
thought  had  been  to  withdraw  his 
younger  son  from  the  service  :  Otto 
was  by  no  means  a  very  hard-work- 
ing soldier;  while  Arnold,  having 
just  attained  his  captaincy,  after 
a  brilliantly  sustained  examination, 
seemed  on  the  way  to  make  a  ca- 
reer, which  the  father  was  unwilling 
to  disturb.  However,  le  pere  pro- 
pose et  le  fils  dispose,  as  is  too  often 
in  these  days.  When  the  proposi- 
tion was  laid  before  Otto,  he  chose 
to  consider  himself  ill-used,  and 
could  not  be  persuaded  to  meet  his 
father's  wishes.  From  the  way  in 
which  he  resented  the  idea,  one 
would  have  supposed  that  in  him 
slumbered  the  spirit  of  a  Napoleon, 
destined  one  day  to  save  his  coun- 
try, and  that  it  would  have  been  a 
positive  injury  to  the  nation  to 
withdraw  him  from  the  martial 
ranks.  Not  that  Otto  was  passion- 
ately attached  to  the  military  career, 
the  hardships  and  deprivations  of 
which,  in  his  mind,  greatly  out- 
weighed the  glory ;  but  he  foresaw 
that  the  change  would  in  no  way 
bring  him  advantage,  and  would  be 
less  congenial  to  his  tastes  than  even 
his  present  occupation.  But  Otto 
did  not  intend  to  pass  his  life  this 
way ;  his  great  scheme  was  to  marry 


*  The  lowest  order  of  nobility  in  Germany  and  Austria  have  in  their  arms  a  crown 
with  five  points  ;  a  baron  has  s'even,  and  a  count  nine  points. 


404 


Reata  ;  or,  Wliatfs  in  a  Name. — Part  I. 


[April 


richly,  and  then  throw  off  his  mili- 
tary fetters  and  live  at  his  ease. 
He  would  have  no  fortune  of  his 
own ;  but  with  his  share  of  good 
looks,  the  fulfilment  of  his  hopes 
did  not  seem  unlikely. 

Otto  proving  intractable,  then, 
Arnold  had  to  throw  up,  for  a  time 
at  least,  his  profession.  He  left 
the  army,  keeping  only  his  title  of 
captain,  and  the  right  to  re-enter 
at  any  future  period  or  in  case  of 
war. 

Such  was  the  state  of  things  in 
the  autumn  of  1871,  when  one  day, 
as  Baron  Walther  was  breakfasting 
with  his  daughter  Gabrielle,  Arnold, 
who  had  ridden  over  to  the  neigh- 
bouring town  early  that  morning, 
entered  in  a  rather  more  excited 
manner  than  was  his  wont. 

"Good  morning,  father.  How 
are  you,  Gabrielle  1 " 

"What  is  the  news'?"  inquired 
the  old  man ;  "  you  look  as  if 
something  particular  had  occurred." 

"  Here  is  something  that  will 
make  you  stare,"  said  Arnold,  draw- 
ing a  newspaper  from  his  pocket 
and  unfolding  it.  He  pointed  to 
the  paragraph  which  has  been 
quoted  at  the  beginning  of  this 
chapter.  The  paper  was  an  obscure 
local  one,  and  the  paragraph  in 
question  was  reprinted  from  a  Mexi- 
can journal. 

"What  do  you  make  of  it? 
Surely  it  can  be  no  other  than  your 
uncle  Max?  the  age  tallies  exactly." 

Apparently  the  old  Baron  could 
not  make  much  of  it :  he  got 
flurried,  and  stared  at  the  paper  in 
bewilderment  — his  mind  utterly 
confused  by  this  new  idea  being 
suddenly  brought  before  him. 

"  Do  not  speak  so  quick,  Arnold. 
Dear  me  !  surely  uncle  Max  is  not 
dead  again?  Why,  then,  he  must 
be  alive,  after  all.  Let  me  see — no  ; 
can't  you  help  me  to  understand  it 
all?" 

Gabrielle,   who  had  only  under- 


stood that  somebody  was  dead,  here 
began  to  cry,  according  to  her  in- 
variable habit,  when  anything  out 
of  the  common  occurred. 

"Don't  be  silly,  Gabrielle;  there 
is  nothing  to  cry  about,"  said 
Arnold,  impatiently.  Then  to  his 
father  :  "  I  don't  think  it  is  very 
difficult  to  understand  ;  uncle  Max 
is  dead,  quite  dead,"  he  added,  em- 
phatically ;  "  but  he  only  died  a 
few  months  ago,  instead  of  thirty 
years  ago,  as  we  have  always  sup- 
posed on  very  insufficient  grounds  ; 
and  he  has  left  all  his  money  to  his 
daughter." 

"But  he  never  had  any  money. 
I  don't  think  it  can  be  him,  after 
all.  Are  you  certain  it  is  him, 
Arnold  ? " 

"  No,  I  am  not  certain,  of  course 
— it  is  only  a  conjecture ;  but  it 
seems  to  me  not  unlikely.  Uncle 
Max  would  not  be  the  first  person, 
besides,  who  has  made  a  fortune  for 
himself;  although  I  have  no  doubt 
the  reports  are  exaggerated." 

"  So  he  has  made  a  fortune,  then  ; 
and  you  say  he  has  left  it  to  his 
daughter  ? "  * 

"  The  paper  says  so,  at  least. 
You  must  remember  her,  of  course. 
How  old  can  she  be  now,  I  won- 
der?" 

"  Dear  me  !  Why,  that  is  Li  via. 
Of  course,  of  course.  Much  about 
Gabrielle's  age,  I  should  think. 
Not  exactly  that  either,"  he  added, 
mournfully;  "for  that  was  thirty- 
two  years  ago,  and  I  suppose  she 
has  got  older." 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Arnold, 
drily. 

"  And  she  has  remained  unmar- 
ried. I  wonder  why,  and  whether 
she  ever  thinks  of  old  times.  So 
she  is  rich  too,"  the  old  man  went 
on,  having  finally  mastered  the 
subject. 

"  Who  is  rich  ? "  asked  Gabrielle, 
drying  her  tears.  "  I  don't  under- 
stand what  it  is  all  about." 


1879.] 


Reata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  I. 


405 


"The  daughter  of  grandpapa's 
brother  Max,"  began  Arnold,  but 
his  father  interrupted  him. 

"No,  no,  that  is  not  the  way. 
You  will  never  make  her  under- 
stand. I  will  make  it  out  on  paper 
for  her." 

"  There  is  nothing  to  make  out 
that  I  can  see  ;  the  matter  is  as 
simple  as  possible." 

The  old  Baron,  however,  was 
persistent;  and  as  Gabrielle  had 
certainly  not  understood  her  bro- 
ther's explanation,  Baron  Walther 
got  a  large  sheet  of  paper,  on  which 


he  made  out  the  thing  for  his  own 
satisfaction,  as  well  as  for  his 
daughter's  enlightenment. 

"  How  far  back  shall  I  go,  Ar- 
nold? I  think,  to  make  it  quite 
clear,  it  would  be  best  to  begin 
with  my  grandfather's  great-grand- 
father, who  was  born  in  1660." 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  no.  father ! 
If  you  will  make  out  this  family 
tree,  better  begin  with  your  grand- 
father ;  the  estate  was  never  divided 
till  then." 

Here  is  the  result  of  the  Baron's 
work : — 


ARNOLD, 
died  1830. 


FELIX, 

born  1789  ;  married  1813  ; 
died  1844. 


WALTHER, 

born  1814  ;  married  1842 
(to  GABRIELLE  HOFFMANN). 


MAX, 

born  1797;  married  1818 

(to  ANNA,  COUNTESS  LEERODT)  ; 

died  1871. 

OLIVIA, 
born  1819. 


ARNOLD, 
born  1845. 


OTTO, 
born  1846. 


GABRIELLE, 
bom  1856. 


For  the  next  few  days  nothing 
was  talked  of  but  this  wonderful 
news.  It  was  viewed  in  every 
possible  light,  and  worn  almost 
threadbare  with  constant  discussion. 
The  Baron  employed  himself  in 
hunting  up  from  drawers  and  boxes 
a  miscellaneous  collection  of  objects, 
which  had  once  been  the  property 
of  his  fair  cousin  Olivia, — a  white 
kid  glove  ;  a  packet  of  dead  rose- 
leaves;  a  roll  of  music  (old  songs 
of  hers) ;  and,  finally,  a  chalk-sketch, 
very  much  out  of  drawing,  repre- 
senting a  young  lady,  very  much 
out  of  date,  with  a  wasp-like  waist, 
smooth  bands  of  hair  that  shone 
like  a  mirror,  a  pair  of  black  arched 
eyebrows,  and  a  self-satisfied  simp  T 
on  her  face.  These  several  treas- 


ures he  displayed  to  his  son,  and 
assured  him,  at  great  length,  that 
he  had  never  known  a  moment's 
peace  or  happiness  since  he  parted 
from  his  cousin.  Arnold  thought 
to  himself  that  his  father  seemed  to 
have  got  on  wonderfully  well  with- 
out peace  or  happiness;  but  he 
humoured  the  old  man's  fancies, 
and  tried  to  listen  to  his  long- 
winded  stories. 

In  the  meantime,  however,  his 
own  thoughts  were  taking  a  more 
practical  turn.  This  strange  piece 
of  news,  which  had  come  to  them 
in  a  roundabout  way  through  the 
p  pers,  njight,  of  course,  prove  to- 
be  without  foundation;  but  there 
were  as  many  possibilities  in  its- 
favour  as  against  it :  at  any  rate,  it 


406 


Reata;  or,  Whafs  in  a  Name. — Part  I. 


[April 


was  a  chance  not  to  be  lost,  and  cer- 
tainly it  was  worth  while  sounding. 

This  uncle  of  theirs,  who,  as  it 
now  seemed,  had  died  rich,  had 
been  under  considerable  obligations 
to  their  grandfather,  who  had  im- 
poverished himself  by  his  generosity. 
It  was  therefore  not  improbable  that 
his  daughter,  being  wealthy  and 
unmarried,  and  having  perhaps  also 
some  tender  recollections  of  her 
cousin  Walther,  might  be  disposed 
to  make  up  for  these  losses.  The 
sum  lent  was  in  itself  not  a  large 
one,  but  in  their  position  a  great 
object;  and  Arnold  felt  it  to  be 
his  duty  not  to  let  this  unlooked- 
for  chance  escape.  He  proposed  to 
his  father  to  write  at  once  to  Olivia, 
and  honestly  lay  the  state  of  the 
case  before  her.  There  were  no 
means,  of  course,  of  proving  the 
debt  legally ;  but  it  was  to  be  sup- 
posed that  she  would  naturally  be 
willing  to  pay  it  without  any  such 
proofs.  But  here  Arnold  met  with 
an  unlooked  -  for  obstacle  in  his 
father's  exaggerated  sense  of  deli- 
cacy. Nothing  on  earth  would 
induce  the  Baron  to  write  such  a 
letter  to  his  cousin. 

"  It  would  never  do,  Arnold,"  he 
exclaimed  one  day  when  his  son 
was  pressing  him  hard  on  this 
point — "it  would  really  never  do. 
Just  consider  the  delicate  position 
I  am  in  towards  her  !  Any  young 
girl  in  her  place  would  feel  hurt  at 
being  asked  for  money  by  one  who 
once  aspired  to  her  hand." 

"  But,  father,  it  would  surely  be 
madness  to  let  this  false  delicacy 
interfere  with  your  asking  for  what, 
after  all,  is  your  right.  Think  over 
it ;  there  are  three  of  us  to  be  pro- 
vided for.  Otto  and  I  can  manage 
for  ourselves ;  but  Gabrielle  ! " 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure ;  poor  little 
•Gabrielle,"  answered  the  father ; 
"  but  then  just  fancy,  for  instance, 
if  any  fellow  who  had  wanted  to 
inarry  Gabrielle  twenty  years  ago 


were  to  write  her  a  begging  letter 
now  !  How  dreadful  it  would  be  ! 
What  would  the  poor  child  do  1 " 

"Begin  to  cry,  of  course,"  un- 
hesitatingly replied  Arnold,  "  if 
such  a  curious  event  were  to  occur  ; 
but  then  everybody  does  not  go  in 
for  tears  as  plentifully  as  she  does. 
Let  us  hope  that  my  aunt  Olivia 
has  more  strength  of  mind." 

"  Of  course  she  has.  Olivia  is 
very  brave — yes,  very  brave  indeed 
for  a  girl ;  and  when  you  consider 
that  she  is  only  eighteen.  I  re- 
member  " 

"  But  I  don't  consider  her  to  be 
only  eighteen,"  almost  shouted  Ar- 
nold into  his  father's  ear ;  "  she  is 
fifty-two  if  she  is  a  day." 

"  Yes,  yes,  to  be  sure ;  I  was 
only  forgetting.  I  see  now.  What 
a  pity,  to  be  sure !  But  I  wish, 
Arnold,  you  would  not  speak  so 
loud — it  confuses  one  so." 

After  having,  with  immense  diffi- 
culty, wrung  an  unwilling  consent 
from  his  father,  Arnold  sat  down 
and  penned  the  following  epistle : — 

"  MY  DEAR  AUNT  "  (I  suppose  I 
must  address  her  as  aunt ;  it  would 
hardly  do  to  begin  cousining  an  old 
lady), — "  I  hope  I  am  not  presum- 
ing too  much  upon  the  interest 
which,  I  trust,  you  still  feel  for 
your  only  remaining  relations,  in 
addressing  you  thus.  My  signa- 
ture will  convey  no  recollection  to 
your  mind,  as  I  was  not  born  till 
eight  years  after  you  had  left  this 
country;  and  as  you  have  probably 
never  heard  of  my  existence,  I  must 
introduce  myself  to  you  as  Arnold 
Bodenbach,  your  nephew,  or,  more 
properly  speaking,  first  cousin  once 
removed,  eldest  son  of  Baron  Wal- 
ther Bodenbach,  whose  name  you 
surely  will  not  have  forgotten.  It 
was  only  last  week,  through  a 
chance,  that  we  became  acquainted 
with  the  fact  that  our  father's  uncle, 
Maximilian,  whom  we  had  believed 


1879.] 


Reata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  I. 


407 


dead  since  1844,  had  lived  till 
within  the  last  six  months,  and 
had  died  possessed  of  considerable 
fortune.  It  is  many  years  now 
since  these  two  branches  of  the 
family  have  been  estranged  and 
lost  sight  of  each  other ;  but  there 
is  no  reason  why  this  should  con- 
tinue, and  I  venture  to  hope  that 
you  are  as  ready  as  we  are  to  renew 
our  connection. 

"  I  will  not  beat  about  the  bush, 
nor  pretend  that  my  motive  in  ad- 
dressing you  is  other  than  an  in- 
terested one.  You,  who  of  course 
remember  the  unfortunate  circum- 
stances attending  on  your  departure 
from  Europe,  thirty-two  years  ago, 
may  perhaps  have  heard  that  my 
grandfather,  wishing  to  screen  the 
family  name,  advanced  a  sum  of 
five  thousand  florins,  all  he  could 
afford,  to  satisfy  the  most  press- 
ing amongst  his  brother's  creditors. 
Neither  his  son  nor  his  grandchil- 
dren have  ever  repented  this  step, 
having  always  regarded  it  as  a  mat- 
ter of  course,  which  admitted  of  no 
choice,  and  that  in  a  question  of 
this  kind,  between  money  and  the 
honour  of  a  family  name,  the  former 
must  be  unhesitatingly  sacrificed. 
The  idea  that  either  your  father  or 
his  descendants  might  ever  be  able 
to  repay  the  sum  alluded  to,  had 
never  entered  into  our  calculations  ; 
and  I  need  hardly  say  that  the  sub- 
ject would  never  have  been  broach- 
ed, on  our  side  at  least,  had  we  not 
thus  accidentally  ascertained  that 
you  were  probably  in  a  position  to 
repay,  without  inconvenience,  a  sum 
which,  though  trifling  in  itself,  is,  I 
am  not  ashamed  to  say,  of  immense 
importance  to  us. 

"  Since  you  left  Europe,  fortune, 
which  seems  to  have  favoured  you, 
has  turned  her  back  on  my  father. 
It  is  doubtful  whether  we  shall  be 
able  to  retain  the  only  remnant  of 
our  family  estate,  small  as  it  is. 
My  brother  Otto  and  I  are  serving 


in  the  Austrian  cavalry,  and  will 
always  be  able  to  carve  out  some 
sort  of  a  future  for  ourselves.  It 
is  principally  for  the  sake  of  my 
father,  whose  health  has  long  been 
failing,  and  for  that  of  my  sister 
Gabrielle,  that  I  am  obliged  to  ad- 
dress you  on  this  subject.  My 
father  was  very  unwilling  that  you 
should  be  importuned  about  this ; 
doubtless  the  former  relations  in 
which  he  stood  to  you  make  him 
feel  an  excess  of  delicacy  about  this 
matter.  I  hope  you  will  agree  with 
me  that  honesty  is  the  best  policy 
in  these  cases,  and  not  resent  my 
plain  speaking. 

"  If  chance  or  inclination  should 
bring  you  to  Europe,  you  will  be- 
lieve, I  hope,  that  we  will  all  be 
ready  to  welcome  you  as'  our  near- 
est relative. 

"  Allow  me  to  sign  myself  your  af- 
fectionate though  unknown  nephew, 
"ARNOLD  VON  BODENBACH." 

"  That  will  never  do,  Arnold  ;  it 
is  far  too  dry  and  stiff,"  exclaimed 
the  old  Baron,  after  reading  the  let- 
ter, which  his  son  handed  him  for 
perusal ;  "  you  should  have  said 
more  about  affection,  and  that  I 
remember  her  so  handsome;  and 
you  might  have  mentioned  the 
chalk  -  drawing.  Why,  this  is  a 
mere  business  letter." 

"  That  is  exactly  what  I  meant 
it  to  be,"  replied  Arnold.  "  If  she 
is  a  woman  of  sense,  she  will  not 
think  the  worse  of  me  because  I  do 
not  feign  an  affection  which  I  can- 
not possibly  feel  for  an  unknown 
person." 

So  Arnold,  deaf  to  his  father's 
remonstrances,  folded  and  sealed 
his  letter,  addressing  it  to  Miss 
Boden,  alias  Baroness  Olivia  von 
Bodenbach,  under  cover  to  the  ma- 
gistrate of  the  town  of  G ;  and 

ordering  his  horse,  he  set  off  to 
register  and  despatch  the  writing 
with  his  own  hands. 


408 


Reata;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  I. 


[April 


CHAPTER    III. "UNCLES    IN    AMERICA. 


The  important  news  had  of  course 
"been  duly  communicated  to  Otto ; 
bat  he  did  not  seem  disposed  to  lay- 
much  stress  upon  it,  declaring  in  a 
<blase  manner  that  every  one  knew 
what  "  uncles  in  America  "  meant. 
For  once  in  a  way,  however,  this 
much-discredited  and  usually-dis-be- 
lieved-in  relative  proved  better  than 
his  reputation,  for  in  course  of  time 
the  following  eagerly-looked-for  an- 
swer to  Arnold's  letter  arrived  : — 

"  MY  DEAR  NEPHEW, — How  time 
flies,  to  be  sure  ! "  ("  Eather  a 
flippant  beginning,"  interpolated 
Arnold,  who  was  reading  aloud). 
"  Thirty  -  six  years  since  I  left 
Europe  !  quite  an  eternity,  —  it  is 
so  easy  to  lose  count.  My  delight 
was  great  at  rinding  that  I  have 
two  nephews  and  a  niece,  dating 
since  my  departure  from  Austria. 
I  shall  only  be  too  delighted  to  be 
as  good  and  as  useful  an  aunt  to 
them  as  I  can. 

"  I  believe  people  have  talked  a 
good  deal  of  rubbish  about  my  for- 
tune, but  there  is  some  truth  at  the 
bottom ;  for  I  really  have  got  a 
great  deal  of  money — more  than  I 
know  what  to  do  with.  The  worst 
is,  that  I  cannot  do  exactly  what  I 
like  with  it. 

"  But  you  are  not  to  suppose  that 
my  father  was  utterly  oblivious  of 
his  obligations  towards  his  brother. 
Before  his  death  (in  July  last)  he 
desired  me  to  make  inquiries  about 
his  brother's  descendants,  and  laid 
me  under  the  obligation  of  repaying 
the  sum  which,  he  had  reason  to 
suppose,  had  been  advanced  by  his 
brother. 

"  The  bulk  of  his  fortune  he  has 
left  to  me,  his  only  daughter ;  but 
a  certain  portion  he  has  disposed  of 
otherwise, — but  into  this  I  do  not 
wish  to  enter  at  present. 


"As  to  my  father's  last  wishes, 
you  have  made  my  task  easier  by 
giving  me  the  clue  to  your  exact 
whereabouts,  which  was  amissing. 
I  have  already  taken  steps  to  have 
the  sum  in  question,  as  well  as  the 
compound  interest,  repaid  through 
my  bankers. 

"  This  is  all  the  business  part  of 
my  letter,  I  think.  I  hope  I  have 
expressed  myself  clearly. 

"  I  am  very  anxious  to  make  the 
acquaintance  of  my  nephews  and 
niece ;  could  not  something  be 
managed  1  At  my  age,  you  would 
surely  not  expect  me  to  cross  the 
ocean  in  order  to  visit  you;  but 
you,  who  are,  I  hope,  strong  young 
men,  would  perhaps  manage,  at  least 
one  of  you,  to  come  over  and  pay  a 
visit  to  your  poor  old  aunt. 

"  Of  course  you  will  understand 
that  I  could  not  suffer  you  on  that 
account  to  incur  any  expense.  If 
you  put  yourself  out  to  humour  the 
whim  of  an  old  woman,  you  must 
at  least  allow  me  to  do  that  much. 

"  I  will  not  touch  upon  the  pain- 
ful circumstances  of  my  departure 
from  Europe;  and  I  can  fully  under- 
stand the  reasons  which  kept  your 
father  silent  at  present.  To  me  it 
is  still  more  impossible  to  allude  to 
that  time. 

"  Good  -  bye  now,  my  dearest 
nephews,  not  forgetting  my  niece 
Gabrielle.  Please  think  over  my 
plan,  and  let  me  hear  soon  from 
you. — Your  affectionate  old  aunt, 
"  OLIVIA  BODENBACH. 

"  P.S. — I  am  so  glad  you  are 
both  soldiers ;  I  have  a  passion  for 
uniforms,  especially  cavalry." 

A  joyful  family  scene  followed 
the  reading  of  this  letter. 

"  There,  that  is  what  I  call  sat- 
isfactory," said  Arnold,  laying  it 


1879.] 


Reata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  I. 


409 


down  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  Gabri- 
elle  clapped  her  hands  and  danced 
about.  The  old  Baron  positively 
had  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"  Give  me  the  letter,  Arnold. 
Are  you  sure  there  are  no  more 
messages  in  it  1  She  surely  might 
have  said  more  about  old  times." 

"Well,  father,  you  could  hardly 
expect  her  to  begin  about  that  her- 
self," said  his  son,  laughing,  "  es- 
pecially as  you  had  shirked  writing 
to  her." 

"  Yes,  yes ;  that  is  true.  I  must 
write  now.  But  let  me  see  the  let- 
ter." Then,  as  his  son  handed  it  to 
him,  "  Dear  me  !  I  shouldn't  have 
recognised  her  handwriting.  I  sup- 
pose she  has  got  out  of  the  habit  of 
writing  in  Mexico." 

"  The  only  objection  I  see  to  the 
whole  business,"  said  Arnold,  "is, 
that  it  seems  too  good  to  be  true ; 
it  has  all  gone  as  smoothly  as  a 
fairy  tale.  I  hope  there  is  not  a 
screw  loose  somewhere;  although, 
again,  I  don't  see  how  that  can  well 
be.  Is  it  not  rather  odd,  by  the 
by,  that  an  old  lady  of  her  age 
should  be  so  enthusiastic  about 
cavalry  officers?" 

"  Not  at  all,  not  at  all,  I  assure 
you.  Dear  Olivia  always  was  so  af- 
fectionate. Of  course  she  is  think- 
ing of  the  time  when  she  saw  me 
as  a  dragoon." 

The  old  man  was  now  as  eager 
as  he  had  before  been  unwilling  to 
write,  and  spent  the  whole  forenoon 
in  covering  numberless  sheets  of 
paper  with  beginnings,  so  that  by 
dinner-time  the  paper-basket  was 
heaped  with  these  unsuccessful  at- 
tempts. By  evening,  however,  he 
had  succeeded  in  producing  the  fol- 
lowing composition : — 

"  MY     DEARLY  -  BELOVED     COUSIN 

OLIVIA, — I  can  no  longer  resist  the 
impulse  of  my  heart,  which  forces 
me  to  address  these  words  to  you. 
Believe  me,  it  was  not  coldness 


which  kept  me  silent  before ;  but 
how  could  I  tell  whether  your  heart 
had  been  as  constant  in  its  affec- 
tion as  mine  has  been,  or  whether, 
perhaps,  some  newer  image  had  not 
replaced  the  dream  of  your  youth  1 
But  no  !  How  could  I  for  a  mo- 
ment do  my  Olivia  such  injustice  ! 

"  In  your  declining  to  allude  to 
the  past,  I  have  the  best  proof  that 
your  feelings  are  unchanged.  Of 
course  you  could  not  discuss  this 
delicate  subject  with  a  third  per- 
son ;  in  this  I  only  recognise  your 
usual  tact. 

"  I  need  not  tell  you  that  life, 
since  your  departure,  has  been  to 
me  but  a  dreary  blank.  Fate  has 
been  very  cruel  to  us;  and  never 
can  I  forget  that  you  ought  to  have 
been  the  mother  of  my  children. 

"  Nevertheless,  I  entreat  you,  in 
memory  of  old  times,  to  regard 
them  with  maternal  affection.  It 
is  just  like  your  kindness,  wanting 
to  see  your  nephews.  I  wonder 
whether  you  will  trace  any  resem- 
blance to  their  unfortunate  father  ? 
I  am  sure  I  would  not  find  you 
changed  since  we  last  parted"  (he 
was  going  to  have  said,  "  that  my 
sons  will  not  find  you  changed," 
but  corrected  this  in  time),  "  could 
I  have  the  happiness  to  see  you 
now." 

"  I  cannot  let  both  my  sons 
leave  me  at  once ;  so  I  shall  send 
my  eldest,  Arnold,  who  is  at  pres- 
ent free  from  military  duties.  Otto 
will  perhaps,  at  some  future  period, 
have  the  pleasure  of  being  intro- 
duced to  his  aunt. 

"  He  might  start  in  April ;  but 
we  will  wait  to  see  whether  this 
time  suits  you. 

"So,  dearest  Olivia,  I  will  end 
these  lines  here  ;  my  hand  is  shak- 
ing so,  that  I  cannot  trust  myself 
further. — Believe  me  to  be,  ever 
your  most  truly  faithful  and  loving 
cousin, 

"  WALTHER  VON  BODENBACH. 


410 


Reata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  I. 


[April 


"  P.S. — Do  you  remember  the 
25th  of  June  1837?" 

To  this  Arnold  added  a  few  lines 
thanking  his  aunt  for  the  speedy 
remittance  of  the  five  thousand 
florins,  and  expressing  his  pleasure 
at  the  prospect  of  his  visit  to 
Mexico. 

And  in  truth  Arnold  was  really 
looking  forward  to  this  unexpected 
change  in*  his  monotonous  life.  He 
always  had  had  a  longing  for  travel, 
without  the  opportunity,  or  even 
the  prospect,  of  gratifying  this  taste. 
Lately,  too,  he  had  been  working 
pretty  hard,  his  father  not  being 
able  to  afford  an  overseer.  His  de- 
parture was  fixed  for  April,  that 
being  the  time  when  he  could  best 
be  spared ;  and  he  only  waited  for 
his  aunt's  final  answer  before  com- 
pleting his  preparations.  But  his 
pleasant  anticipations  were  not  des- 
tined to  be  realised. 

Otto  had  naturally  been  kept  au 
/ait  of  the  Mexican  correspondence. 
Since  his  first  disparaging  remarks, 
he  had  passed  over  the  subject 
in  contemptuous  silence.  Arnold, 
therefore,  was  not  a  little  surprised, 
one  day  towards  the  end  of  Feb- 
ruary, on  receiving  the  following 
telegram  from  his  brother : — 

"  Must  see  you  about  plans.  Im- 
plore you  to  take  no  steps  about 
Mexico  till  then.  Shall  arrive  on 
Tuesday.  OTTO." 

"Now,  Otto,  what  is  this  all 
about  ?  Your  telegram  nearly 
frightened  my  father  into  a  fit.  I 
had  the  greatest  difficulty  in  pacify- 
ing him.  He  would  insist  that  you 
were  coming  home  because  you  were 
dangerously  ill.  Would  not  a  letter 
have  done  as  well  3 " 

It  was  Tuesday,  and  the  two 
brothers  were  driving  in  the  dog- 
cart from  the  station  towards  home. 

"  Well,  the  fact  is,"  began  Otto, 


plunging  headlong  into  the  subject, 
but  nevertheless  looking  rather  em- 
barrassed, "  I  am  in  a  dreadful  fix, 
and  you  are  the  only  person  who 
can  help  me  out  of  it." 

Arnold  did  not  look  much  aston- 
ished at  this  beginning. 

"I  half  expected  something  of 
this  sort,  Otto;  but  I  don't  see 
how  I  in  particular  should  be  able 
to  help  you  out  of  any  fix.  Come, 
let's  hear — out  with  it." 

"  Promise  me  first  that  you  will 
never  breathe  a  word  to  my  father 
about  it." 

"I  suppose  it  is  imprudent,  but 
I  promise." 

"  Now,"  said  Otto,  "  I  suppose  I 
had  better  go  at  it  at  once  ;  I  must 
get  it  over  before  I  reach  home. 
The  long  and  the  short  of  it  is  that 
I  am  in  debt,  and  tolerably  much 
so  too." 

The  elder  brother  did  not  answer 
at  once,  and  his  expression  remained 
unchanged. 

"What  is  the  amount,  Otto? 
Better  make  a  clean  breast  of  it  at 
once." 

"  Oh,  up  to  my  ears,  and  over 
them  too." 

"  Well,  but  that  is  not  very  ex- 
plicit. Cannot  you  tell  me  some- 
thing clearer  1 " 

"If  you  must  know  it,  between 
two  and  three  thousand  florins," 
replied  Otto,  ruefully;  "rather 
nearer  the  three,  in  fact." 

Here  Arnold's  expression  did 
change ;  he  gave  a  long  whistle, 
and  then  said — 

"  Nearly  three  thousand  florins  ! 
How  have  you  managed  that,  Otto  1 
If  you  had  been  living  in  Vienna  it 
would  be  more  comprehensible  ;  but 
in  that  out-of-the-way  hole,  Ezeszo"- 
16V " 

"  It  is  not  my  fault,"  said  Otto, 
doggedly. 

"  Whose  fault,  then  1 "  with  a  lit- 
tle impatience. 

"  Whose    but    that    hound's  ! " 


1879.] 


Reata;  or.  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  I. 


411 


burst  out  Otto,  with  a  violent 
gesture  and  a  gleam  of  suppressed 
hatred  in  his  eyes. 

"  Kreislich,  I  .suppose  you  mean, " 
completed  Arnold  calmly,  instantly 
recognising  Otto's  captain  under  that 
opprobrious  designation.  "  Come, 
Otto,  be  reasonable.  You  hate  the 
man,  I  know.  I  don't  care  for  him 
myself;  but  as  for  ascribing  all  the 
evils  of  your  life  to  him,  that  is 
nonsense." 

"  Of  course  I  hate  the  man," 
muttered  Otto,  drawing  a  deep 
hard  breath.  "But  do  you  call  it 
nonsense  entrapping  a  fellow  into 
making  ducks  and  drakes  of  his 
hardly-earned  pay  at  macao  ? " 

"  Entrapping  ? "  repeated  Arnold. 

"  Yes.  Do  you  think  I  could 
stand  by  quietly  while  that  great 
brute  is  openly  boasting  of  his  for- 
tune— openly  complaining  that  he 
cannot  find  a  second  man  in  the 
regiment  who  can  afford  to  gamble 
with  him,  and  making  covert  hits 
at  my  inability  to  do  so?  Yes, 
mine  in  particular, — it  was  me  he 
aimed  at.  He  is  my  evil  genius ; 
he  was  so,  that  time  five  years  ago, 
and  he  is  now, — always  in  my 
path." 

"  And  was  that  enough  to  entrap 
you  into  spending  money  which  you 
actually  did  not  possess  ?  "  Ar- 
nold's tone  was  singularly  dry  as 
he  spoke. 

"Oh,  it's  all  very  well  for  a  cold- 
blooded fellow  like  you  to  talk. 
I  have  got  into  the  scrape,  and  the 
question  is  how  to  get  out  of  it. 
Of  course  I  could  not  sleep  a  night 
in  his  debt — I  paid  him  within  an 
hour  of  the  loss,  but  I  had  to  raise 
the  money  at  fifty  per  cent  from  the 
Jews." 

"  Why  did  you  not  tell  me 
sooner  ? " 

"  Oh,  I  always  hoped  it  would 
come  right  somehow  —  Countess 
Halka,  for  instance;  but  things 
have  got  to  such  a  crisis  now,  that 

VOL.  GXXV. — NO.     DCCLXIl. 


I  positively  don't  know  what  to 
do.  The  old  Hebrew  (I  wish  he 
were  at  the  bottom  of  the  Eed 
Sea)  who  advanced  me  the  money, 
has  my  written  word  of  honour 
that  in  five  months'  time  I  will 
have  it  paid;  and  should  I  not 
be  able  to  do  so,  you  know  what 
that  means — court-martial,  kicked 
out  of  the  service,  and  all  the  rest 
of  the  delightful  process,"  he  con- 
cluded, grimly. 

Arnold  looked  very  grave. 

"  A  pity  you  did  not  consider 
these  pleasant  consequences  sooner." 

"  Oh,  of  course ;  everybody  al- 
ways says  that  afterwards.  For 
heaven's  sake,  don't  moralise,  but 
help  me  to  get  out  of  the  scrape ! " 

"Well,  but  what  do  you  want 
me  to  do  ?  Do  you  suppose  I  have 
got  three  thousand  florins  in  my 
pocket?  You  know  that  uncle 
Max's  debt  is  all  gone  to  pay  off 
those  mortgages." 

Otto  moved  uneasily  on  his  seat, 
and  answered  his  brother's  question 
by  another. 

"  Tell  me,  Arnold,  are  you  so 
very  much  set  upon  this  Mexican 
expedition  ? "  Arnold  was  silent 
for  a  minute ;  he  began  to  perceive 
the  direction  his  brother's  thoughts 
were  taking. 

"I  suppose  you  mean  that  you 
would  like  to  go  in  my  place ;  is  that 
it,  Otto  ?  " 

"Well,"  answered  the  other, 
with  increasing  embarrassment, 
"  that  is  about  it ;  but  of  course  I 
should  never  dream  of  going  if  you 
cared  at  all  about  the  matter." 

"  I  certainly  am  very  anxious  to 
go,  and  have  been  looking  forward 
to  it  ever  since  the  matter  was 
broached  ;  besides,  I  cannot  see 
why  this  would  necessarily  better 
your  condition.  Any  money  which 
aunt  Olivia  may  be  disposed  to 
give  us,  will  most  likely  not  be  till 
after  her  death  ;  and  if  .uncle  Max 
has  left  us  anything,  it  will  come 


412 


Reata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  I. 


[April 


to  you  just  the  same.  In  any  case, 
you  know  surely  that  I  would  do 
my  best  for  you." 

"  Of  course  I  know  that ;  but 
then,  you  know,  it  is  never  the 
same  thing.  Everybody  has  not 
got  the  knack  of  persuading,  and  I 
have  often  been  told  that  I  can 
always  manage  to  get  round  people." 

"  In  plain  language,  then,  you 
do  not  consider  my  fascinations 
equal  to  the  task,"  laughed  the 
elder  brother;  "  eh,  Otto?" 

"  I  wish  you  would  not  always 
interpret  my  ideas  so  unpleasantly  ; 
but  you  see,  you  are  rather  reserved 
and  grave,  and  all  that  style  of 
thing,  and  I  don't  think  old  ladies 
like  that." 

"  No,  nor  young  ones  either," 
replied  Arnold,  highly  amused. 
He  was  perfectly  aware  that  in 
society  his  brother  always  outshone 
him,  and  never  failed  to  enlist  on 
his  side  the  sympathies  of  the  fair 
sex;  but  this  knowledge  troubled 
him  little. 

Next  day  Arnold  announced  brief- 
ly to  his  father  that  Otto  was  go- 
ing in  his  place  to  Mexico  ;  and  the 
old  Baron,  who  was  easily  satisfied, 
asked  no  inconvenient  questions. 

Immediately  after  this  decision 
Otto's  spirits  rose  wonderfully  ;  his 


thoughts  ran  without  interruption 
on  the  brilliant  future  that  was  to 
be  his,  when  he  should  return  rich 
from  Mexico  and  marry  Countess 
Halka.  He  went  back  to  his  regi- 
ment buoyant  with  hope,  and 
scarcely  able  to  await  the  reply 
which  was  finally  to  decide  the  date 
of  his  departure. 

Everything  went  smoothly  after 
this ;  the  expected  reply  came,  and 
was  as  satisfactory  as  ever  reply 
was. 

"I  shall  be  delighted,"  wrote 
aunt  Olivia,  "  to  see  whichever  of  my 
nephews  chooses  to  come,  and  can 
assure  him  that  he  will  find  no 
cause  to  regret  having  done  so." 
.  Further  on,  in  alluding  to  what 
Baron  Walther  had  said  about  her- 
self, she  wrote :  "  I  was  deeply 
touched  at  what  you  said  in  your 
letter  about  old  times. 

"  I  will  do  my  best  to  be  a 
mother  to  your  children,  if  they 
will  accept  me  as  such.  I  am  look- 
ing forward  very  eagerly  to  the  visit 
in  store  for  me ;  it  will  be  a  delight- 
ful break  in  my  monotonous  life — 
for  I  always  live  very  quietly, 
alone  with  my  companion." 

The  letter  concluded  with  many 
affectionate  protestations,  and  all 
the  directions  necessary. 


CHAPTER    IV. — -PIOTR. 


Otto  awoke  late  on  the  first  morn- 
ing of  his  voyage ;  the  breakfast- 
hour  was  past,  and  he  sat  down  to 
a  solitary  meal  in  the  cabin.  He 
had  meant  to  be  up  in  time  to  see 
the  last  of  land ;  but  before  he  had 
opened  his  eyes,  the  last  of  land 
had  been  seen,  and  the  horizon 
was  nothing  but  a  mass  of  glitter- 
ing, dancing  green  wavelets. 

"Please,  Herr  Oberlieutenant,  I 
have  made  the  tea,"  said  his  ser- 
vant, approaching  with  the  teapot. 

"  Confoundedly  weak  it  looks  !  " 


exclaimed  Otto,  as  he  poured  out  a 
little. 

"No,  please,  Herr  Oberlieuten- 
ant, it  is  not  weak,  but  only  the 
cabin  is  too  light;  that  makes  it 
look  weak." 

"  Don't  talk  rubbish,  but  go  and 
fetch  more  tea." 

"  Please,  Herr  Oberlieutenant, 
there  isn't  any  more;  I  put  it  all 
in." 

"The  whole  pound  -  packet  I 
brought  with  me,  do  you  mean, 
you  ass?"  asked  Otto,  aghast. 


1879.] 


Reata  ;  or,  Wkat's  in  a  Name. — Part  I. 


413 


"  Oh  no,  please,  it  was  not  nearly 
a  pound,  not  even  an  ounce.  It  was 
that  little  parcel  in  pink  paper  and 
with  a  blue  ribbon  round  it." 

"  Pink  paper  and  a  blue  ribbon  !  " 
cried  Otto,  horrified,  rising  to  his 
feet  with  a  bound  and  tearing  the 
teapot  out  of  Piotr's  hand,  which 
made  the  servant  fairly  lose  his 
balance. 

One  or  two  gentlemen  who  were 
reading  papers  at  the  other  end  of 
the  cabin  looked  up  in  surprise. 

"  Why,  those  are  the  dead  rose- 
leaves  my  father  is  sending  to  aunt 
Olivia  !  What  have  you  done,  you 
thundering  idiot  1 " 

It  was  too  true ;  Piotr  had  made 
tea  with  the  rose-leaves.  No  won- 
der it  was  weak. 

"  Please,  Herr  Oberlieutenant,  I 
thought  it  didn't  look  like  tea  ;  but 
you  told  me  to  look  in  your  port- 
manteau. " 

"But  I  didn't  tell  you  to  put 
the  whole  contents  of  my  portman- 
teau into  the  teapot,"  growled  his 
master.  "  You  have  got  me  into  a 
nice  scrape,  with  your  stupidity. 
Go  and  make  some  proper  tea  at 
once,  and  don't  put  in  my  tooth- 
powder  or  my  soap  this  time,  by 
way  of  variety." 

So  .lie  slight  description  of  Piotr 
may  here  not  be  amiss.  He  was 
Otto's  Polish  soldier  -  servant,  or, 
more  properly  speaking,  unsoldier- 
servant,  having  been  appointed  to 
the  post  of  his  Barsch  or  valet 
when  a  raw  recruit.  Otto  had 
formerly  served  in  a  Polish  lancer 
regiment,  and  when  transferred  to 
the  hussars,  had  imported  this  valu- 
able domestic,  whom  he  had  got 
used  to,  in  spite  of  his  peculiarities. 
That  Piotr  had  never  served,  was 
evident  to  the  most  casual  observer, 
so  completely  was  his  way  of  bal- 
ancing himself  from  one  leg  to  the 
other,  as  well  as  the  ingenious  ob- 
jections he  was  fond  of  raising  to 
every  order,  at  variance  with  the 


discipline  of  military  drilling.  Ot- 
to, however,  declared  that  no  amount 
of  drilling  would  ever  have  made 
him  stand  on  both  legs  at  once, 
like  other  mortals;  but  attributed 
this,  and  many  peculiarities,  to  his 
hopeless  indecision  of  character. 

Piotr  certainly  did  not  seem  the 
sort  of  servant  to  take  with  one  to 
Mexico,  especially  as,  on  the  small- 
est provocation,  his  presence  of 
mind  was  apt  to  forsake  him  en- 
tirely. Arnold  had  at  first  strongly 
dissuaded  his  brother  from  doing 
so,  principally  on  account  of  the 
unnecessary  expense.  But  Otto 
had  a  notion  that  it  looked  better 
to  be  travelling  with  a  servant,  and 
might  make  a  difference  in  the  eyes 
of  his  old  relative ;  besides,  he  was 
fond  of  his  comfort 

Poitr  was  about  twenty-three  at 
this  time.  In  appearance  he  was 
fair,  slight,  had  wandering  blue 
eyes,  with  a  somewhat  vacant  ex- 
pression. When  going  in  or  out  of 
a  room,  he  invariably  gave  one  the- 
impression,  somehow,  that  only  t  he- 
merest  chance  enabled  him  to  hit 
off  the  door,  and  that  he  might  just 
as  well  have  gone  clean  through  the 
window  or  bang  against  the  wall. 
His  two  great  characteristics  were 
— always  to  carry  twice  as  much  as 
he  could  manage  comfortably,  and 
his  dislike  to  obey  any  order  on  the 
spot.  He  would  always  look  round 
for  something  else  to  do  first.  This 
last  eccentricity  seemed  to  arise  from 
a  confused  idea  that  by  this  method 
he  was  economising  time. 

We  are  not  going  to  inflict  upon 
the  reader  a  minute  account  of 
Otto's  first  day  on  board  ship,  or 
of  any  of  the  other  days ;  nor  to 
weary  him  with  a  catalogue  of  the 
passengers  —  of  the  young  ladies 
whom  he  flirted  with  (for  of  course 
there  were  young  ladies,  and  of 
course  he  did  flirt  with  some  of 
them) — of  the  old  ladies  whom  he 
did  not  flirt  with  —  of  the  men 


414 


Reata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  I. 


[April 


whom  he  smoked  and  chatted  with; 
nor  yet  with  a  description  of  the 
conversations  at  meals,  or  a  list  of 
the  dishes  which  either  agreed  or 
disagreed  with  the  partakers,  ac- 
cording to  their  seafaring  capa- 
bilities, and  to  the  state  of  the 
weather. 

On  the  third  day  of  the  voyage 
the  weather  became  unfavourable 
to  most  inexperienced  travellers. 
Comfort  was  banished  from  the 
deck,  where  Otto  was  smoking  his 
afternoon  cigar;  and  in  a  state  of 
some  irritation  he  made  his  way 
down-stairs,  only  to  find  that  he  had 
come  from  Charybdis  to  Scylla. 

He  passed  on  towards  his  own 
cabin,  attracted  by  a  monotonous 
droning  sound  which  seemed  to  be 
issuing  from  it.  As  he  entered  the 
little  washing  -  place  outside  the 
cabin,  he  stumbled  over  something 
on  the  ground,  and  the  monotonous 
sound  came  to  an  abrupt  conclu- 
sion. On  examination,  the  object 
on  the  ground  proved  to  be  a  pair 
of  legs,  which  Otto  recognised  as 
belonging  to  his  servant.  He  pulled 
aside  the  curtain  which  partially 
screened  the  place,  and  there  lay 
Piotr  at  full  length,  his  head  rest- 
ing on  a  carpet-bag.  He  was  the . 
author  of  the  dismal  sound — name- 
ly, a  E-uthenian  hymn,  which  he 
was  singing  by  way  of  a  prepara- 
tion to  his,  as  he  thought,  rapidly 
approaching  end. 

"  What,  in  the  name  of  all  that 
is  wonderful,  is  this  about?"  ex- 
claimed Otto,  stopping  short  in  sur- 
prise. "  Why  are  you  sprawling 
here  like  a  starfish,  you  great  hulk- 
ing donkey  1 " 

11  Thank  you,  Herr  Oberlieuten- 
ant,"  began  Piotr,  in  a  shaking 
voice ;  "  you  have  been  a  kind 
master  to  me,  and  I  am  sorry  to 
leave  you." 

"  To  leave  me  !  Where  the  dick- 
ens are  you  go  Ing 'to,  you  extraor- 
dinary ass?" 


"  To  heaven,  I  hope  ! "  returned 
Piotr,  solemnly,  "  if  God  will  have 
mercy  on  my  sins." 

"Oh,  that  is  all,  is  it?"  said 
Otto,  in  a  tone  of  immense  relief, 
as  the  state  of  the  case  dawned 
upon  him.  "  I  thought  there  was 
something  really  the  matter  with 
you.  You  have  made  so  many  false 
starts  in  that  direction  already  since 
I  have  known  you,  that  I  hardly 
think  you  are  in  any  immediate 
danger  of  getting  there.  There 
now,  get  up  this  minute,  and  if 
you  really  are  squeamish,  go  away 
to  your  berth ;  but  don't  lie  sprawl- 
ing here  like  a  living  man -trap 
which  unwary  travellers  must  fall 
into.  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to 
manage  for  myself  to-night." 

Otto  did  manage  for  himself  that 
night,  and  several  other  nights,  be- 
fore Piotr  perfectly  recovered  the 
balance  of  his  legs  and  of  his 
spirits.  After  that  the  voyage  was 
prosperous.  The  days  passed  for 
Otto  pleasantly  enough,  between 
the  young  ladies  before  alluded  to 
and  his  Virginia  cigars.  He  had 
nothing  to  complain  of;  even  the 
loss  of  aunt  Olivia's  rose-leaves  was 
remedied  by  the  kindness  of  a  blue- 
eyed  damsel,  who  bestowed  upon 
him  the  centre  rose  of  her  bouquet, 
no  doubt  fondly  believing  that  the 
precious  flower  was  destined  to 
hold  in  future  a  tender  place  about 
his  person.  Whether  Otto  had 
given  grounds  for  this  belief,  I 
really  cannot  say. 

As  they  neared  the  end  of  the 
voyage,  the  weather  became  magni- 
ficent. Sea  and  sky  began  to  as- 
sume that  deep  blue  peculiar  to  the 
tropical  regions ;  the  pale  uncertain 
stars  of  our  climes  had  turned  into 
large,  glowing  orbs. 

Within  four  weeks  of  his  depart- 
ure, Otto,  after  turning  his  back  on 
Vera  Cruz,  found  himself  jolting 
along  bad  Mexican  roads,  the  dis- 
comfort of  this  mode  of  locomo- 


1879.] 


Reata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  I. 


415 


tion  amply  balanced  by  the  delight 
and  novelty  of  the  tropical  scenery 
around  him.  Next  day  he  aban- 
doned the  main  road  and  the  dili- 
gence, exchanging  it  for  a  light 
primitive  vehicle  which  had  been 
sent  to  meet  him. 

They  drove  off  on  a  rough  track, 
leading  in  the  direction  of  the 
mountains.  The  country,  as  they 
proceeded  further  into  it,  did  not 
belie  its  promise  of  beauty.  At 
every  turn  the  scenery  appeared 
more  wildly  romantic,  the  vegeta- 
tion increased  in  luxuriance  and 
tropical  splendour.  After  the  burn- 
ing heat  of  the  day,  the  coolness  of 
the  evening  was  delightfully  refresh- 
ing ;  and  Otto  found  his  drive  most 
enjoyable,  until  the  sudden  fall  of 
darkness  hid  from  him  the  varied 
panorama. 

Having  now  nothing  more  to 
look  at,  he  had  ample  time  to  turn 
his  thoughts  towards  the  termi- 
nation of  his  journey,  which  was 
now  so  near  at  hand ;  to  conjure 
up  in  his  mind  images  of  his 
unknown  relative,  and  speculate 
upon  their  approaching  meeting. 
For  the  first  time  he  began  now  to 
wonder  what  sort  of  a  person  his 
aunt  was,  and  how  he  was  to  greet 
her. 

"I  hope  it  is  all  right,"  he  re- 
flected. "  This  must  surely  be  the 
place.  I  must  try  and  find  out 
from  the  driver  something  about 


the  old  lady  that  may  give  me  my 
cue  in  addressing  her." 

Otto  accordingly  attempted  some 
conversation  with  the  man ;  but 
he  proved  unapproachable,  speaking 
only  some  bad  Spanish  and  the 
dialect  of  the  country. 

"I  see  there  is  nothing  to  be 
done  in  this  direction,"  thought 
Otto,  with  a  sigh;  "but  I  shall 
soon  see  for  myself,  for  we  cannot 
be  far  off  now.  Arnold  did  say 
once  that  he  thought  there  might 
be  a  screw  loose  somewhere. 
What  if  the  old  lady  is  a  myth, 
after  all,  and  I  have  come  on  a 
fool's  errand?" 

The  vehicle  now  turned  aside 
into  a  smaller  branch -road,  which 
seemed,  as  far  as  he  could  judge 
from  the  decreased  jolting,  to  be 
rather  better  kept. 

He  saw  lights  glimmering  through 
the  trees,  and  in  another  minute 
they  had  drawn  up  before  a  house, 
the  shape  of  which  he  could  only 
dimly  discern. 

A  dog  rushed  out  barking,  and 
an  old  woman  came  forward  with 
a  lantern.  Otto  jumped  off  the 
vehicle,  a  little  stiff  with  his  long 
drive ;  and  leaving  Piotr  to  collect 
his  luggage  as  best  he  could,  he 
stepped  into  the  house,  through 
the  low  veranda  which  jutted  out, 
looking  about  him  curiously  in  the 
dark,  and  saying  to  himself,  men- 
tally, "  Now  for  aunt  Olivia  !  " 


CHAPTER   V. AUXT    OLIVIA. 


If  there  was  a  screw  loose,  it 
certainly  was  not  visible  anywhere. 

Otto  was  shown  into  a  large, 
roomy  apartment,  furnished  with 
the  utmost  simplicity,  but  with 
evidence  of  good  taste :  the  floor 
covered  with  matting;  the  walls 
and  ceiling  whitewashed ;  the  fur- 
niture, principally  low  couches  and 
ottomans,  all  uniformly  draped 


with  a  broadly -striped  red-and- 
white  linen.  Curtains  of  the 
same  hung  over  the  windows, 
or  rather  the  doors ;  for  all  the 
windows  in  this  room  went  down 
to  the  ground  and  opened  on 
to  the  veranda  outside.  A  hang- 
ing-lamp threw  a  moderate  light 
over  these  objects;  so  that,  al- 
though coming  from  utter  dark- 


416 


Reata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  I. 


[April 


ness,    Otto    was   not   dazzled,    and 
could  take  in  the  room  at  a  glance. 

Another  light,  a  small  reading- 
lamp,  stood  on  a  low  table  at  the 
further  end,  placed  conveniently 
beside  an  arm  -  chair ;  this  arm- 
chair occupied  by  an  old  lady. 

As  Otto  entered,  she  rose  slowly 
to  her  feet,  and  advanced  a  step  or 
two  to  meet  him. 

"My  aunt  Olivia,  I  presume," 
said  Otto,  hurrying  forward,  and 
taking  the  old  lady's  hand,  which 
he  raised  to  his  lips.  "  I  am  very 
glad  to  make  your  acquaintance  ;  I 
have  heard  so  much  about  you 
from  my  father." 

"Then  you  are  Otto,  are  you 
not  ? "  she  replied,  in  a  slightly 
flurried  manner ;  "  it  is  very  good 
of  you  to  come  such  a  distance  to 
see  us." 

("What  the  dickens  does  she 
mean  by  its?"  thought  Otto; 
"  does  she  speak  in  the  plural,  like 
royalty?")  He  answered  aloud, 
"Not  at  all,  aunt  Olivia;  it  is 
great  kindness  on  your  part  having 
given  your  nephews  such  a  warm 
invitation." 

By  this  time  Otto  was  seated, 
and  had  leisure  to  observe  the 
old  lady ;  for  old  she  was,  de- 
cidedly old — far  more  so  than  he 
had  ever  been  led  to  expect. 
"  Why,  she  looks  nearer  sixty  than 
fifty,"  reflected  Otto. 

She  was  above  middle  height, 
and  sparely  built;  a  very  decided 
stoop  in  walking  took  off  some- 
thing from  her  stature.  Her  hair 
was  quite  grey,  but  almost  entirely 
covered  by  a  muslin  cap  decorat- 
ed with  large  frills  and  tied  un- 
der her  chin.  The  colour  of  her 
complexion  inclined  to  yellow; 
a  slightly  receding  forehead,  and 
large,  mild  grey  eyes,  gave  her  a 
very  benevolent  though  somewhat 
weak-minded  expression.  Of  the 
eyebrows,  which  his  father  had 
described  in  glowing  terms,  there 


was  not  much  trace  left ;  but  per- 
haps, to  make  up  for  this,  there 
was  an  unmistakable  dark  shade 
over  her  upper  lip,  which  con- 
trasted most  comically  with  the 
lackadaisical  look  pervading  the 
rest  of  her  person.  Her  dress  con- 
sisted of  a  black  gown,  of  some 
thin,  shabby  material,  which,  on 
very  close  inspection,  showed  her 
bony  shoulders  and  arms  through. 
To  remedy  this,  perhaps,  she  wore 
an  enormous  black-and-white  cash- 
mere shawl,  draped  loosely  round 
her  spare  person,  and  supposed  to 
be  kept  together  by  a  large  silver 
brooch  of  oriental  workmanship, 
made  in  the  shape  of  a  crescent. 
The  brooch,  however,  did  not  seem 
equal  to  fulfilling  its  purpose ; 
apparently  it  was  of  a  weak,  un- 
decided nature,  for  it  never  kept 
closed  for  more  than  a  minute  at  a 
time.  Already,  on  advancing  to 
meet  Otto,  the  faithless  crescent 
had  given  way ;  and  aunt  Olivia , 
who  was  flurried,  got  still  further 
embarrassed  by  this  trifling  acci- 
dent. 

"Oh,  of  course,"  she  said,  in 
answer  to  Otto.  "I  am  always 
delighted  to  see  any  one  who  is 

related  to "  here  she  paused  in 

visible  embarrassment. 

Otto  noticed  a  rustle  in  the  por- 
tikre  curtains  which  veiled  the  en- 
trance of  the  next  room,  and  al- 
most thought  that  he  heard  a 
slight  cough  behind  them. 

"  No,  I  did  not  mean  that,"  she 
corrected;  "but,  of  course,  I  have 
heard  so  much  about  you  from — 
from  —  everybody,  and  it  is  only 

natural  for  me   to "   here   the 

old  lady  looked  helplessly  round, 
and  Otto  thought  to  himself, 
"  What  a  rum  old  girl  she  is  !  She 
almost  seems  to  be  begging  my 
pardon  for  taking  an  interest  in 
me ;  and  how  agitated  she  gets  at 
any  allusion  to  my  father  ! " 

Suddenly  his  attention  was  again 


1879.] 


Reata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  I. 


417 


attracted  by  a  movement  of  the  cur- 
tain. He  felt  certain  that  some- 
body was  watching  him  from  be- 
hind it;  he  could  even  see  the 
grasp  of  a  hand  among  the  folds. 
The  idea  of  being  watched  is  never 
a  pleasant  one,  and  Otto  began  to 
feel  strangely  uneasy.  It  was  a 
relief  when  the  maid-servant  came 
in  and  announced  supper ;  and 
rising  with  alacrity,  he  offered  his 
arm  to  aunt  Olivia,  and  as  he  did 
so  he  fancied  that  he  heard  light 
footsteps  receding  from  the  cur- 
tain. 

"I  daresay  you  are  quite  ready 
for  your  food,  after  your  long  drive. 
Are  you  not  famished1?  And  I 
have  not  yet  introduced  you  to 
the  other  lady  who  —  lives  with 
me." 

Just  as  they  approached  the 
curtain  which  divided  the  two 
rooms,  the  unlucky  shawl  came 
down  again,  and  the  old  lady 
stumbled  over  it  and  got  flurried. 

"I  shall  be  delighted  to  make 
her  acquaintance,"  said  Otto  aloud, 
while  carefully  picking  up  the 
shawl.  What  he  said  to  himself 
was,  "  Hang  it !  I  had  quite  for- 
gotten that  there  was  a  second  old 
hag  in  the  house." 

He  pushed  the  curtain  aside,  and 
they  entered  the  adjoining  room, 
where  supper  was  laid.  A  large 
urn  steamed  away  on  a  side-table, 
and  bending  over  it,  with  her  back 
towards  them  as  they  entered,  was 
the  slight  figure  of  a  lady,  also  in 
black.  This  could  not  be  the 
companion,  surely,  for  she  looked 
quite  young.  Even  before  she  had 
turned,  Otto  was  struck  with  a 
certain  grace  in  the  attitude  of  the 
bending  figure. 

She  did  not  look  round  as  they 
entered  ;  rather  she  seemed  to  bend 
a  shade  lower  over  her  urn. 

"  Reata,  my  dear,  allow  me  to  in- 
troduce to  you  Baron  Otto  Boden- 
bach,  my — nephew;  this  is  Frau- 


lein  Eeata,  my — companion."  She 
certainly  seemed  to  find  a  difficulty 
in  finishing  her  phrases. 

The  young  girl  turned  quickly 
round  and  gave  Otto  a  hasty  little 
bow  and  a  furtive  glance,  and  then 
returned  to  her  occupation  of  mak- 
ing tea,  without  a  word. 

That  one  moment  was  to  Otto 
a  revelation ;  a  sudden  vision  of 
beauty  had  been  before  him.  He 
had  met  the  gaze  of  a  pair  of  mag- 
nificent eyes — dark,  deep  eyes,  that 
were  yet  not  black.  He  was  posi- 
tively startled  out  of  his  presence 
of  mind,  so  different  was  she  from 
what  he  had  expected,  so  far  more 
lovely  than  any  woman  he  had  ever 
known.  His  usual  readiness  of 
speech  deserted  him  for  a  moment, 
and  feeling  that  if  he  spoke  he 
would  probably  betray  his  astonish- 
ment, he  wisely  remained  silent 
and  took  his  place  at  the  table. 
There  was  a  substantial  supper  laid 
out  there,  and  Otto  felt  inclined  to 
do  justice  to  it. 

Fraulein  Reata  left  the  urn  sud- 
denly and  took  her  place. 

"Reata,  my  dear,  will  you  give 
us  some  tea?  Baron  Bodenbach — 
Otto,  I  mean — will  be  quite  ready 
for  it  after  his  long  drive." 

Reata  poured  out  the  tea  silently, 
and  handed  a  cup  each  to  aunt 
Olivia  and  to  Otto. 

He  had  a  good  view  of  her  now, 
sitting  directly  under  the  lamp. 
The  bright  colour  in  her  cheeks, 
which  his  first  glance  had  shown 
him,  had  faded  —  indeed  her  face 
was  almost  pale  when  in  repose ;  a 
delicate,  creamy  skin,  which  varied 
every  moment  in  complexion  — 
showing  a  hundred  .changes  and 
tints,  crimsoning  and  whitening 
with  every  movement,  almost  with 
every  breath  she  drew.  Eyebrows 
and  eyelashes  were  quite  black ;  the 
hair  only  a  shade  lighter  —  the 
very  darkest  brown — and  hung  in 
two  thick  plaits  till  far  past  her 


418 


Reata;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  I. 


[April 


waist.  Nose  and  mouth  were  ex- 
quisitely shaped;  the  latter,  per- 
haps, too  firmly  set — without,  how- 
ever, any  of  that  squareness  of  jaw 
which  is  so  ugly  in  a  woman. 
Whatever  there  was  of  determina- 
tion about  the  lower  part  of  the 
face,  was  contradicted  by  the  won- 
derful softness  of  the  eyes — those 
wondrous  eyes,  which  in  their  dark 
shades  and  golden  lights,  and  their 
milky,  blue -white  tint,  reminded 
one  of  the  rich,  melting  colour  of  an 
onyx ;  but  even  these  eyes,  one  fan- 
cied, could  look  fierce,  if  roused. 

If  a  sculptor  could  have  found 
one  or  two  small  imperfections  in 
her  features,  there  were  certainly 
none  to  be  found  in  her  figure ;  a 
little  above  middle  height,  per- 
fectly proportioned  in  every  way — 
it  delighted  the  eye  to  rest  upon 
such  faultless  lines. 

During  the  greatest  part  of  their 
meal  the  young  lady  maintained  an 
unbroken  silence :  only,  now  and 
then,  Otto  caught  her  dark  eyes 
fixed  on  his  face  with  a  scrutinising 
gaze ;  and  each  time  she  turned 
away  her  head  and  looked  confused. 

"  Those  were  the  eyes  that  watch- 
ed me  through  the  curtain,"  reflect- 
ed Otto;  "  no  wonder  I  felt  uncom- 
fortable under  their  gaze.  I  wish 
she  would  speak  !  " 

"It  is  such  a  relief  to  my  mind 
that  you  have  arrived  safe,"  the 
old  lady  said.  "I  have  been  all 
day  in  a  state  of  alarm,  for  fear 
that  something  should  happen  to 
you." 

"Why,  what  could  happen  to 
me,  beyond  the  vehicle  upsetting  ? " 
asked  Otto.  "  I  must  confess  that 
I  did  expect  that  once  or  twice." 

"  Oh,  I  daresay ;  but  nobody 
thinks  anything  of  that  here  :  it 
would  need  to  be  a  much  graver 
occurrence  to  deserve  the  name  of 
accident." 

"What  sort  of  horrors  have  I 
escaped,  then?  I  should  like  to 


know,  in  order  to  estimate  exactly 
how  much  gratitude  I  owe  Provi- 
dence." 

"  Being  cut  up  into  small  pieces, 
salted,  and  put  into  a  barrel,  and 
perhaps  eaten  as  pickled  pork,"  put 
in  Fraulein  Reata,  speaking  very- 
quick.  This  was  her  first  attempt 
at  conversation. 

"It  sounds  rather  formidable, 
certainly,"  answered  Otto,  bewil- 
dered by  this  unexpected  address. 
"  Why,  what  would  have  been  the 
inducement  ? " 

"Do  you  think  I  am  inventing 
stories  to  frighten  you?"  returned 
Reata,  colouring  and  speaking  eager- 
ly, almost  rather  angrily.  "I  tell 
you  it  is  quite  true." 

"  I  am  ready  to  believe  anythingr 
I  am  sure,"  said  Otto,  beginning  to 
feel  amused;  "but  you  will  find  it 
rather  difficult  to  convince  me  that 
I  have  been  cut  up  and  salted ;  at 
least,  if  such  is  the  case,  the  results 
are  rather  pleasant  than  otherwise." 

"  I  didn't  say  you  had  been,  but 
that  you  might  have  been,  and  I 
daresay  you  still  will  be." 

("What  an  odd  girl!"  Otto 
thought  to  himself;  "and  how 
fierce  her  eyes  can  look  ! ")  "  But 
will  you  please  enlighten  me,"  he 
continued,  "as  to  who  and  where 
my  would-be  murderers  are  ? " 

"  Have  you  never  heard  of  the 
robbers  who  infest  this  part  of  the 
country  ?  Last  year  they  disposed 
of  a  rich  merchant  in  that  way." 

"  Oh  dear,  yes ! "  put  in  aunt 
Olivia;  "I  remember  how  fright- 
ened we  all  were !  I  am  sure  I 
couldn't  sleep  a  wink  until  we  heard 
that  the  head  of  the  band  was 
taken." 

"But  they  let  him  out  again  very 
soon,"  completed  Reata;  "so  that 
he  is  still  at  liberty  to  pursue  his 
system  of  pickling." 

"  Let  him  out  again?"  asked  Otto, 
in  surprise ;  "  you  don't  mean  to 
say  thatTthey  were  fools  enough  to 


1379.] 


Reata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  1. 


419 


let  such  a  bloodthirsty  wretch  slip 
through  their  fingers  ? " 

"  There  were  extenuating  cir- 
cumstances found,"  replied  Eeata, 
gravely. 

"  What,  in  heaven's  name,  could 
extenuate  such  a  crime]"  Otto 
cried,  excitedly  ;  "  cutting  a  fellow- 
being  up  into  pieces !  "Was  the 
man  insane,  or  did  he  do  it  in  his 
sleep,  or  did  he  not  do  it  at  all  ?  or 
whaU" 

"  No,  those  were  not  the  reasons," 
Eeata  returned,  still  demurely ; 
"but,  you  see  —  the  pieces  were 
very  small." 

Otto  looked  at  her  in  astonish- 
ment :  her  tone  had  been  quite 
serious;  but  a  slight  twitching  in 
the  corners  of  her  mouth  betrayed 
her. 

"  Oh,  Eeata,  my  dear,  how  can 
you  talk  such  nonsense  !  "  exclaimed 
the  old  lady.  "The  fact  is,"  she 
said,  turning  to  Otto,  "  that  it 
would  not  have  been  safe  to  hang 
him ;  the  whole  band  would  have 
been  drawn  upon  those  who  ex- 
ecuted this  act.  In  this  way,  at 
least,  they  saved  their  own  lives. 
Justice  is  very  far  back  in  this 
country." 

"But  you  must  live  in  continual 
fear  of  your  lives.  Does  any  one 
ever  reach  the  natural  term  of  exist- 
ence in  these  parts  1 " 

"  Oh,  but  we  are  insured,"  prompt- 
ly replied  Eeata.  Then,  seeing 
Otto's  surprised  look,  she  went  on 
to  explain  that  it  was  customary  to 
pay  a  certain  yearly  tribute  to  the 
brigands,  who  only  exact  this  from 
well-to-do  people;  and  that  there- 
fore nobody  need  be  murdered  un- 
less they  liked,  and  the  poor  were 
quite  safe  from  the  robbers. 

"Your  precious  life  was  not  in 
any  real  danger,"  she  concluded; 
"for,  of  course,  they  would  have 
recognised  the  servant  and  horses. 
I  did  not  feel  in  the  least  alarmed 
about  you;  it  was  only  that  absurd, 


dear  old  Gi I  mean  your  aunt, 

who  worked  herself  up  into  a  state 
of  misery." 

"Of  course  I  know  I  have  no 
claim  on  your  interest,"  was  the 
answer,  in  a  tone  of  slight  pique. 
Somehow  it  mortified  him  to  think 
that  those  onyx-coloured  eyes  had 
not  looked  out  anxiously  for  his  safe 
arrival.  "  I  am  quite  contented 
if  my  aunt  Olivia"  (here  a  slight 
bow  towards  the  old  lady)  "is 
good  enough  to  care  about  my 
welfare." 

He  had  spoken  gravely  and  rather 
pompously,  but  the  effect  of  his 
words  on  Eeata  was  very  different 
from  what  he  expected.  She  tried 
to  make  an  answer,  but  apparently 
failed ;  and  partially  hiding  her  face 
in  her  handkerchief,  she  rose  abrupt- 
ly from  her  place,  seized  the  teapot, 
and  turned  towards  the  side-table, 
where  she  bent  over  the  urn.  Otto 
would  have  sworn  that  she  was 
laughing,  from  the  movement  of  her 
shoulders,  and  from  a  slight  chok- 
ing sound  which  she  could  not  en- 
tirely suppress. 

What  a  strange  girl  she  was  !  and 
what  had  there  been  to  provoke  her 
merriment  1  Otto  felt  almost  some 
resentment  against  her, — he  could 
not  explain  why. 

After  a  minute  she  turned  round 
and  said,  "  Will  you  have  another 
cup  of  tea,  Baron  Bodenbach  ? " 

She  was  now  looking  quite  grave; 
her  eyes  bent  down  demurely,  no 
signs  of  merriment  remaining. 

A  few  minutes  later  Eeata  rose 
suddenly  and  said,  "Now,  we  are 
all  going  to  bed." 

Having  the  matter  decided  for 
them  in  this  peremptory  fashion, 
Otto  and  aunt  Olivia  followed  Eeata 
submissively. 

The  room  which  Otto  was  shown 
into  as  his  bed-room  was  small,  and 
very  simply  furnished;  it  looked 
cool  and  comfortable.  His  bed  was 
unlike  any  he  had  ever  before  seen,. 


420 


Reata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  I. 


[April 


consisting  of  broad,  flat  leather 
straps,  tightly  stretched  on  a  wooden 
framework,  and  covered  with  a  thin 
linen  sheet.  This  is  the  sort  of 
mattress  most  in  use  in  Mexico,  the 
climate  rendering  an  ordinary  mat- 
tress unbearable. 

"  Good  night,"  said  the  old  lady, 
extending  her  hand  to  Otto. 

"Good  night,  my  dear  aunt," 
he  replied,  kissing  her  hand. 

Eeata  also  had  partially  extended 
hers  towards  him,  but  suddenly 
drew  it  back ;  and  as  if  to  make 
amends  for  her  empressement,  she 
quickly  put  both  her  hands  be- 
hind her  back,  and  said  hurriedly 
and  demurely,  "  Good  night,  Baron 
Bodenbach." 

Otto  opened  the  door  for  the 
ladies  to  pass,  and  for  the  fourth 
time  that  evening  picked  up  his 
aunt's  cashmere  shawl,  which,  dur- 
ing the  last  two  minutes,  had  been 
gradually  slipping  down. 

When  left  alone  for  the  night, 
he  could  not  prevent  his  thoughts 
from  running  continually  on  the 
beautiful  Reata.  It  was  not  mere- 
ly that  her  beauty  had  made  a  deep 
impression  on  him,  as  it  certainly 
had;  but  there  was  something 
strange  and  not  altogether  pleasant 
in  the  manner  in  which  she  dom- 
ineered over  her  mistress.  Aunt 
Olivia  seemed  entirely  in  the  girl's 


power,  and,  oddly  enough,  she  did 
not  seem  to  mind  it. 

"  She  must  be  trying  to  wheedle 
the  old  lady  out  of  her  money,  and 
that  is  what  made  her  manner  so 
short  to  me.  However,  she  shows 
her  game  so  plainly  that  I  am  on 
my  guard,  and  shall  take  care  of 
my  own  interests.  She  certainly 
is  a  marvellously  beautiful  crea- 
ture ;  and  if  she  had  to  do  with  an 
old  gentleman,  instead  of  an  old 
lady,  my  chances  would  be  much 
worse  than  they  are.  What  an  odd 
name  '  Reata '  is  !  I  have  never 
seen  such  splendid  eyes — think  I 
prefer  blue  ones."  Here  Otto  fell 


This  had  been  an  exciting  day 
for  him,  and  his  slumbers  were 
profound  that  night. 

Reata,  in  spite  of  the  announce- 
ment of  her  resolution  of  going  at 
once  to  bed,  sat  up  for  some  time 
longer  in  the  old  lady's  room,  both 
talking  earnestly  with  lowered 
voices. 

"It  has  always  been  that  way 
with  you  since  you  were  a  baby," 
sighed  the  old  lady,  when  Reata  at 
last  rose  to  go. 

"  And  it  will  probably  always  be 
like  that  with  me  till  the  end  of 
time,"  laughed  Reata,  as  she  kissed 
the  old  lady  and  was  off  to  her  own 
room. 


CHAPTER   VI. — DEAD   KOSE-LEAVES. 

"  Round  her  eyes  her  tresses  fell, 
Which  were  blackest  none  could  tell ; 
But  long  lashes  veiled  the  light, 
That  had  else  been  all  too  bright. 
And  her  hat  with  shady  brim, 
Made  her  tressy  forehead  dim. " 

—THOMAS  HOOD. 

"  Come  along,  my  own  precious  stump   of  a   tail  ?      Give   a   paw, 

Camel !      Why   are   you  behaving  white   Puppy,   and  I  will  take  it 

in  such  a   ridiculous  manner,  my  off;  and   the   bright  Puppy   must 

priceless    Porcupine?      Oh,    I   see,  give   a   paw   too.     Now   it    is   all 

you  have  got  a  cactus-leaf  sticking  right  again,  my  old  Camel,   is   it 

to  your  tail !     Had  it  hurt  its  little  not  1     And    we   will   have   a   nice 


1879.1 


Reata  ;  or.  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  /. 


421 


walk  together.  Come  along,  Ficha, 
F'icha,  Ficha?" 

This  dialogue,  or  rather  mono- 
logue, was  the  first  thing  that 
greeted  Otto's  ears  on  awaking 
next  morning.  His  bed  was  near 
the  window,  which  to  all  intents 
and  purposes  was  open,  having 
only  a  close  wire  network  stretched 
across  it.  Raising  himself  on  his 
elbow,  he  pulled  aside  a  piece  of 
the  linen  blind  and  peeped  out. 
It  was  broad  daylight,  although 
still  very  early.  He  uttered  an 
exclamation  of  admiring  surprise 
at  the  magnificent  view  unrolled 
before  him.  The  house  stood  on 
some  slightly  rising  ground  within 
the  forest,  the  trees  in  front  severed 
by  a  deep,  cool  glade,  through 
which  a  glimpse  of  a  splendidly 
smooth  plain  caught  the  eye  —  a 
strong  contrast  between  the  dark 
shadows  of  the  trees  and  the 
unbroken  sunshine  on  the  level 
ground  beyond.  At  one  side,  and 
at  the  back  of  the  house,  the  forest 
was  dense,  and  stretched  away  for 
several  miles. 

After  casting  a  hasty  glance  of 
admiration  over  the  scenery,  Otto 
looked  round  to  find  out  whose 
voice  he  had  heard  talking  in  that 
strange  manner,  and  what  animals 
might  be  his  or  her  companions. 
He  was  only  just  in  time  to  see 
Eeata  run  out  of  the  veranda  and 
disappear  under  the  trees.  Of  all 
the  animals  she  had  enumerated, 
there  was  only  visible  a  rather  long- 
haired insignificant  white  terrier, 
which  followed  closely  at  her  heels. 
She  looked  surpassingly  lovely  (at 
least  Otto  thought  so)  in  her  white 
dress,  plain  black  sash,  and  broad 
leaf-hat.  He  followed  her  with  his 
eyes  as  long  as  he  could  perceive  a 
glimmer  of  white  amongst  the  trees, 
admiring  her  light,  springing  step, 
and  the  perfection  of  grace  in  every 
movement. 

Before  this  he  had  been  anxious 


to  examine  the  house  and  its  sur- 
roundings, which  looked  so  invit- 
ingly picturesque  from  here ;  and 
the  vision  which  he  had  seen  was 
an  additional  inducement  to  make 
haste  with  his  toilet.  He  strolled 
out  of  the  house  to  view  the  sur- 
roundings. The  building  was  long 
and  low,  with  a  shady  veranda, 
overhung  by  creepers,  running 
round  the  four  sides.  All  the 
windows  opened  on  to  it  like  doors, 
and  thus  a  perpetual  state  of  ven- 
tilation was  entertained  within  the 
rooms.  At  a  little  distance  from 
the  back  of  the  house  were  grouped 
several  small  outbuildings,  appa- 
rently inhabited  by  farm-servants. 
Further  to  the  left  there  was  a 
clearing  in  the  trees ;  and  here, 
in  an  enclosed  space,  ten  or  eleven 
horses  were  grazing  or  lying  in  the 
shade.  This  sight  rejoiced  Otto's 
heart.  He  looked  nearer,  and  was 
rejoiced  further ;  for  at  the  far  end 
of  the  paddock  he  caught  sight  of  a 
roan,  which  even  at  this  distance 
promised  well — conspicuously  su- 
perior to  its  companions  in  the 
paddock. 

As  he  walked  back  to  the  house, 
Otto  glanced  about  him  and  peered 
into  the  gloom  of  the  trees,  to  see 
if  he  could  not  discover  any  signs 
of  the  white  dress  which  he  had 
seen  disappear  into  the  forest — but 
in  vain ;  he  saw  no  white  flutter, 
and  entered  the  house  in  quest  of 
breakfast — for  the  morning  air  had 
given  him  a  prodigious  appetite — 
and  in  pleasing  anticipation  of 
having  his  coffee  poured  out  for 
him  by  the  same  fair  hand  which 
had  given  him  his  tea  last  night. 
However,  he  had  to  content  him- 
self with  aunt  Olivia's  services. 
Eeata  had  not  returned  from  her 
morning's  wandering. 

"  Yes,  it  is  a  lovely  spot,"  the 
old  lady  said,  in  answer  to  his 
loudly-expressed  admiration  of  the 
scenery.  "  We  will  take  you  out 


422 


Reata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  L 


[April 


for  a  walk  to-night ;  it  is  too  hot  in 
the  day-hours.  Eeata  has  explored 
most  of  the  forest ;  she  will  be  our 
guide.  Where  can  she  be  straying 
again  ?  "  she  continued,  anxiously. 
"  That  foolish  girl  always  will  stay 
out  so  long,  and  comes  back  heated 
and  tired." 

"Shall  I  go  and  look  for  her?" 
asked  Otto,  rising  with  wonderful 
alacrity. 

"  But  I  don't  know  where  she  is ; 
she  has  got  all  sorts  of  mysterious 
haunts  in  the  forest,  which  even  I 
am  not  acquainted  with.  I  assure 
you  it  would  be  no  good  whatever," 
she  continued,  seeing  in  Otto's  face 
that  he  had  not  yet  relinquished 
his  intention :  "  you  have  got  no 
idea  how  confusing  the  forests  here 
are ;  you  would  certainly  be  lost. 
Reata  has  a  wonderful  gift  of  never 
losing  her  way  in  the  most  tangled 
wood,  but  you  are  a  stranger ;  and 
we  don't  even  know  in  what  direc- 
tion she  went  off." 

"  Oh,  but  I  know  exactly ;  I 
watched — -at  least,  I  saw  her  going 
off." 

But  search  was  unnecessary,  for 
at  that  moment  a  white  form  ran 
past  the  window,  and  Eeata  called 
in  as  she  passed,  "  Wait  for  me ; 
Mcha  and  I  are  quite  ready  for  our 
breakfast." 

Otto's  face  perhaps  betrayed  some 
of  the  astonishment  he  felt  at  the 
companion's  sans  gene  manner,  for 
the  old  lady  said  hastily,  "You 
must  not  be  surprised  at  the  dear 
child's  way  of  talking.  She  is  so 
full  of  life,  and  we  have  lived  so 
long  together,  that  I  have  come  to 
consider  her  quite  as  a  daughter." 

"  Yes,"  mused  Otto,  inwardly, 
with  a  passing  feeling  of  curiosity, 
"  she  could  not  talk  with  more 
affection  if  she  were  the  girl's 
mother  herself." 

"  She  has  been  long  with  you, 
then?"  he  asked,  suddenly. 

"  Oh  yes ;  ever  since — that  is  to 


say,  for  several  years,"  replied  the 
old  lady,  getting  flurried  and  inco- 
herent. 

"  Is  Fraulein  Eeata  a  Mexican  ? " 

"  A  Mexican  ?  Oh  no — at  least, 
yes  ;  there  is  a  mixture  of  blood  in 
her.  Her  mother  was  a  Mexican  r 
the  daughter  of  a  dispossessed 
chief."  The  old  lady  was  speaking 
in  broken  phrases,  and  had  half 
turned  her  head  away. 

"And  who  was  her  father?  A 
German,  I  suppose,  from  her  speak- 
ing that  language  so  perfectly." 

"  Yes — at  least,  no.  I  am  not 
sure.  Eeata  had  German  instruc- 
tors, but  Spanish  is  her  real  mother 
tongue.  Ah,  there  she  comes  ! " 
in  a  tone  of  unmistakable  relief. 

"  You  have  no  idea  how  delight- 
ful it  was  in  the  forest  ! "  said 
Eeata,  having  embraced  the  old 
lady  effusively  and  bestowed  a 
rather  stiff  little  bow  upon  Otto ; 
"the  cactuses  are  all  out." 

"I  hope  you  will  allow  me  to 
accompany  you  to-night,"  said  Otto  ; 
"  my  aunt  has  promised  that  I  shall 
have  a  walk  in  the  forest,  and  I  am 
looking  forward  to  it  very  much." 

"Oh  yes,  it  will  be  capital  fun  ; 
do  come,"  she  answered  delighted- 
ly. "  I  will  show  you  all  sorts  of 
interesting  things  ;  there  is  a  beauti- 
ful snake's  nest  in  the  long  grass, 
and  I  saw  two  or  three  of  those 
large  abispas,  which  I  have  been 
looking  for  so  long." 

"  What  sort  of  animals  are 
those  ? " 

"  They  are  a  large,  what  you 
Europeans  would  call  an  enormous, 
insect,  about  the  size  of  a  small 
humming  -  bird  ;  their  bodies  are 
bright  red,  and  covered  with  long 
hairs ;  and  if  they  sting  you,  you 
swell  up  to  twice  your  natural  size. 
One  of  them  nearly  settled  on  the 
White  Puppy's  head,  but  luckily  I 
despatched  it  with  my  fan.  It 
would  have  been  dreadful  certainly 
if  poor  Ficha  had  come  home  swol- 


1879.] 


Reata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  I. 


423 


len  to  the  size  of  a  Newfoundland 
dog." 

"  But  are  you  not  afraid  of  being 
stung  yourself  1 " 

"  Oh  dear,  no  !  "  and  she  looked 
at  him  in  astonishment ;  "  what 
good  would  it  do  to  be  afraid?" 

"  I  suppose  you  are  insured 
against  reptiles  and  insects,  as  well 
as  against  the  brigands,"  said  Otto, 
laughing. 

"  But,  Reata,  my  dear,  I  always 
told  you  it  was  not  safe  to  walk 
about  so  much  alone,"  put  in  the 
old  lady,  plaintively.  "  I  have 
told  her  so  often  that  it  is  danger- 
ous," she  continued,  appealing  to 
Otto. 

"  Nonsense,  you  dear  old  thing  ! " 
interrupted  Reata  ;  "  you  know  we 
have  fought  out  that  point  before ; 
it  is  no  use  beginning  over  again. 
Those  animals  won't  do  me  much 
harm ;  beasts  are  always  fond  of 
me." 

"  Have  you  not  got  a  collection 
of  animals  somewhere  about  the 
house?"  inquired  Otto.  "This 
morning  at  an  early  hour  I  heard 
you  apostrophising  various  species 
of  quadrupeds ;  but  when  I  looked 
out,  I  could  see  nothing  but  a  small 
terrier." 

"  Of  course,"  answered  Reata,  after 
a  passing  look  of  surprise,  "  I  have 
got  a  whole  menagerie;  you  shall 
have  the  honour  of  an  introduction 
when  I  go  to  feed  them." 

"Come  and  see  my  wild  ani- 
mals," she  said,  as  they  rose  from 
the  breakfast-table. 

She  led  the  way  to  the  veranda, 
and  called  out,  "  Ficha,  Ficha, 
Ficha?  White  Pappy,  Bright 
Pappy!" 

The  insignificant  terrier  appeared 
at  full  gallop  from  some  back,  pro- 
bably culinary,  regions. 

"  Here,  Baron  Bodenbach,"  said 
Reata,  seizing  Ficha  by  the  front 
paws,  and  making  the  animal  stand 
on  its  hind -legs,  much  as  one 


teaches  a  child  to  walk.  "  Here  is 
the  precious  Camel,  alias  White 
Puppy,  alias  Bright  Puppy,  alias 
Porcupine,  alias  Blossom,  alias 
Griffin."  At  each  title  Ficha  was 
made  to  bow  low.  "  Now,  what  do 
you  think  of  them  ?  Are  they  not 
fine  animals  ? " 

"  Well,  this  is  rather  a  come- 
down," answered  Otto,  a  little  rue- 
fully, "  after  expecting  to  see  drome- 
daries, and  camels,  and  elephants, 
and  giraffes." 

"  There  is  a  giraffe  on  the  pre- 
mises," she  interrupted  him,  "  but 
I  don't  think  it  would  do  to  intro- 
duce you  yet." 

"  I  shall  be  less  sanguine  about 
the  introduction  this  time.  Judg- 
ing from  the  experience  I  have  just 
had,  I  suppose  the  animal  will  be 
anything  except  a  giraffe,  probably 
something  microscopically  small." 

Reata  laughed — a  long,  rippling 
laugh.  She  did  not  laugh  often 
with  her  voice,  oftener  with  her 
eyes.  In  spite  of  her  high  spirits, 
she  was  not  given  to  those  frequent 
peals  of  merriment  which  young 
ladies,  both  in  and  out  of  novels, 
are  so  fond  of  indulging  in. 

When  she  had  recovered  her 
gravity  she  said,  "  The  giraffe  is  a 
full-grown  specimen;  but  really  I 
am  quite  grieved  at  your  failing  to 
appreciate  the  valuable  qualities  of 
my  beloved  Ficha." 

"  But  what  on  earth  induced  you 
to  overburden  this  small  quadruped 
with  so  many  names,  to  which  it 
can  lay  no  possible  claim  ? " 

u  I  assure  you  it  has  the  spirit  of 
at  least  half-a-dozen  animals  com- 
bined in  one.  Just  look  at  it  now, 
with  its  back  humped  in  that  fash- 
ion ;  isn't  it  the  image  of  a  camel  ? 
How  can  you  call  it  anything 
else?" 

"  You  must  allow,  however,  that 
there  was  some  excuse  for  my  not 
understanding  your  language." 

"  Yes,  perhaps  a  little ;  but  you 


424 


Reata;  or,  Whafs  in  a  Name. — Part  7. 


[April 


will  understand  Efcha  and  me 
better  when  you  have  seen  more  of 
us." 

"  I  hope  that  will  be  as  much  as 
possible.  I  am  to  be  allowed  to 
accompany  you  to  your  forest,  am 
I  not?" 

"  Oh  yes ;  Ffcha  and  I  will  take 
you  to  the  forest — won't  we,  Por- 
cupine?" apostrophising  the  now 
sleeping  dog.  "  And  we  will  show 
you  all  the  treasures  it  contains." 

"  But  as  yet,  you  have  offered  me 
nothing  but  snakes'  nests  and  sting- 
ing insects ;  has  your  forest  got 
nothing  pleasanter  to  produce,  Frau- 
lein  Reata?"  • 

"  Pleasanter  !  why,  there  are  all 
sorts  of  luxuries;  humming-birds, 
and  ferns,  and  mosses,  and  cactuses, 
and  large  pools  of  water  with  flow- 
ers floating  on  them,  and  creepers, 
and  long  grass.  My  forest  is  ex- 
actly like  an  enchanted  wood  in  a 
fairy  tale." 

"  And  she  looks  exactly  like  an 
enchanted  princess  in  a  fairy  tale," 
Otto  thought,  as  he  watched  her 
admiringly. 

Reata  had  grown  more  excited  as 
she  proceeded  with  her  description; 
her  cheeks  glowed,  as  she  strove  to 
impart  some  of  her  enthusiasm  to 
her  companion.  It  was  a  distinc- 
tive feature  in  her  character  that 
she  could  not  talk  on  any  subject, 
however  trifling  in  itself,  without 
putting  her  whole  soul  into  the 
matter.  To  her  it  was  an  impos- 
sibility to  discuss  anything  with 
languor  or  indifference ;  if  she  felt 
no  interest  in  the  topic,  she  would 
feign  none,  and  simply  be  silent. 
What  Otto  had  last  night  mistaken 
for  ferocity,  was  only  this  natural 
vigour  of  thought  and  speech,  which 
then  was  new  to  him,  but  which  he 
now  began  to  understand  better. 

"  I  am  losing  all  my  time,"  Reata 
said,  abruptly ;  "I  have  got  a 
great  deal  to  do,  and  I  am  sure 
you  have.  Hadn't  you  better  go 


to  your  room?  You  must  have 
letters  to  write,  or  something  to 
do ;  and  besides,  I  fancy  that  your 
servant  is  in  want  of  advice,  for  in 
passing  down  the  passage  I  saw 
him  arranging  your  boots  neatly  in- 
side the  shower-bath.  I  did  not 
venture  to  interfere,  for  I  don't 
know  your  habits  well  enough ; 
damp  chaussure  might  be  your 
weakness  ? " 

"  No,  it  certainly  is  not :  thank 
you  for  the  information ; "  and  Otto 
went  off  to  his  room  to  control 
Piotr's  movements. 

Later  in  the  afternoon  he  had 
some  more  conversation  with  the 
old  lady,  and  learnt  several  particu- 
lars about  their  habits  and  mode  of 
life  here.  The  information  gained 
resulted  in  the  following  particu- 
lars :  This  country  place,  or  haei- 
enda,  though  it  had  long  been  the 
property  of  Maximilian  Bodenbach, 
had  been  little  inhabited  by  him. 
Maximilian  had  led  a  secluded  life 
in  his  last  years,  and  kept  his  estab- 
lishment on  the  smallest  footing, 
disliking  many  servants  about  the 
house.  Since  his  death  the  estab- 
lishment had  not  been  reorganised  ; 
the  servants  brought  to  this  haci- 
enda consisted  only  of  one  indoor 
maid-servant,  and  the  three  or  four 
stable  -  servants  requisite  for  the 
attendance  of  the  carriage  -  horses, 
which  in  that  part  of  the  country 
were  a  positive  necessity. 

It  did  not  surprise  Otto  that  his 
aunt  should  in  her  conversation  be 
continually  recurring  to  Reata  — 
dwelling  on  the  subject  with  great 
fondness  and  affection,  and  seem- 
ingly anxious  to  know  whether  the 
girl's  abrupt  manner  at  times  had 
not  impressed  Otto  unfavourably. 
He  was  more  than  ever  confirmed  in 
the  belief  that  his  aunt  intended 
to  provide  generously  for  her  com- 
panion ;  but,  strange  to  say,  the 
feeling  of  resentment  against  Reata, 
which  this  idea  had  inspired  him 


1879.] 


Reata;  or,  Whafs  in  a  Name. — -Part  I. 


425 


with  last  night,  had  completely 
vanished :  there  could  be  no  bet- 
ter way  of  employing  money,  he 
thought,  than  by  bestowing  it  on 
such  a  perfect  being. 

Then  they  went  on  to  talk  of  his 
relations :  the  old  lady  inquired  very 
kindly  after  Arnold  and  Gabrielle, 
and  showed  interest  in  Otto's  ac- 
count. At  the  mention  of  Baron 
Bodenbach,  however,  or  at  any  al- 
lusion to  former  times,  she  became 
at  once  flurried  in  the  same  un- 
accountable manner  Otto  had  no- 
ticed last  night ;  and  when  at  last 
he  rose,  saying  that  he  would  fetch 
his  father's  letter  and  the  little 
packet  he  had  been  intrusted  with, 
her  distress  became  apparently  in- 
surmountable, and  she  entreated 
him  to  put  it  off  till  later. 

"  My  eyes  are  so  weak,"  she  said, 
"  I  could  not  read  it  by  myself ; 
indeed  I  think  it  would  be  better  if 
you  give  it  me  after  dinner,  when 
Reata  is  with  me — she  always  reads 
my  letters  aloud." 

"  Very  well,  my  dear  aunt ;  just 
as  you  like,"  and  Otto  reseated  him- 
self, but  had  to  rise  again  at  once, 
as  dinner  was  announced  to  be  ready 
by  Reata  putting  her  head  in  at  the 
door  and  saying,  "  La  comida  es  en 
la  mesa.1' 

"  Here  is  the  letter,  aunt  Olivia," 
he  said,  after  dinner,  returning  from 
his  room.  "  I  was  also  to  give  you 
this  small  packet  from  my  father. 
I  daresay  you  know  what  it  con- 
tains." 

"  Of  course  she  does ;  she  has 
been  thinking  of  nothing  else," 
answered  Reata,  promptly.  "  Please 
give  me  the  letter  and  the  packet, 
Baron  Bodenbach ;  I  will  read  it 
first,  and  dole  out  as  much  as  I  con- 
sider to  be  good  for  the  dear  old 
thing's  constitution.  Oh  no,  don't 
go  away,"  as  Otto  made  a  movement 
towards  effacing  himself,  thinking 
that  his  presence  might  be  un- 
desirable. "  I  assure  you  she  does 


not  mind  it  in  the  least.     Sit  down 
there  and  listen." 

As  the  old  lady  made  no  objec- 
tions to  this  rather  odd  arrange- 
ment beyond  a  resigned  sigh,  Reata 
sat  down  with  the  packet  of  rose- 
leaves  on  her  lap,  and  began  read- 
ing the  letter. 

"'My  well-beloved  Cousin  Oli- 
via ! '  Reata  glanced  significantly 
at  the  old  lady,  who  gave  a  sort  of 
gasp  and  blushed  painfully.  "  '  You 
will  get  these  lines  from  the  hand 
of  my  son,  who,  more  fortunate 
than  myself,  will  soon  have  the 
happiness  of  beholding  again  your 
dear  face,  and  imprinting  a  filial 
kiss  on  your  small,  white  hand.' " 
Here  the  old  lady  made  a  desperate 
effort  to  hide  both  her  hands  under 
her  shawl.  Reata  frowned  and 
went  on: — 

"  '  I  think  you  cannot  fail  to  re- 
cognise in  Otto's  face  the  same  blue 
eyes  which  thirty -two  years  ago 
gazed  at  you  with  such  adoring  ad- 
miration. He  is  considered  to  be 
very  like  me,  especially  in  profile.'  " 

"  Baron  Bodenbach,"  Reata  said, 
laying  down  the  letter  for  a  minute, 
"  please  put  yourself  in  profile,  and 
put  on  an  expression  of  adoring 
admiration." 

"Whom  am  I  to  adore?"  he 
asked,  looking  straight  at  Reata. 

"Your  aunt,  of  course.  No,  that 
will  not  do  at  all,"  as  Otto  dis- 
torted his  features  into  what  he  con- 
sidered to  be  the  right  expression, 
but  which  in  reality  was  nothing 
but  a  hideous  grimace.  "  I  don't 
think  you  remind  your  aunt  at  all 
of  what  your  father  was  like  ;  now, 
does  he  1 " 

"  Now,  Reata,  my  dear,  how  can 
you  torment  me  so  !  you  know  how 
bad  my  memory  is." 

But  Reata  only  shook  her  head 
and  proceeded : — 

"  *  I  have  intrusted  him  with  a 
precious  packet,  which  he  is  to  give 
into  your  hands ;  it  is  the  dried 


426 


Reata;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  I. 


[April 


rose-leaves  which  you  gave  me  on 
the  25th  of  June  1837.  Of  course 
you  remember  that  day,  although 
you  would  not  allude  to  it  in  a 
former  letter.  Do  you  remember 
the  moonlight,  and  the  waterfall, 
and  the  nightingale?  You  threw 
one  rose  into  the  rushing  waters 
and  gave  me  the  other  to  keep.' " 

"  How  dreadfully  frivolous !"  said 
Reata,  gravely  shaking  her  head. 
"  I  had  no  notion  that  you  had 
gone  through  such  romantic  epi- 
sodes. She  does  not  look  like  it ; 
does  she,  Baron  Bodenbach  ?  "  Then 
as  the  old  lady  endeavoured  to 
speak,  "  No,  no,  don't  excuse  your- 
self ;  I  know  exactly  what  you  were 
going  to  say,  and  I  make  every  al- 
lowance for  your  youth  and  foolish- 
ness. There  is  more  about  the  roses 
coming." 

"  '  Oar  lives  have  been  parted  like 
those  two  flowers — one  swallowed 
up  in  the  foaming  torrent  of  life, 
the  other  shrivelled  and  dried.' " 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  Reata,  look- 
ing critically  at  the  old  lady ;  "  are 
you  the  shrivelled  and  dried  one,  or 
have  you  been  swallowed  up  in 
a  foaming  torrent?  I  can't  quite 
make  out.  There  now,"  tossing  the 
letter  across — "there  is  lots  more 
in  the  same  style ;  you  had  better 
finish  it,  while  I  examine  these 
precious  petals.  Of  course  you  will 
recognise  them  at  once.  Tell  me, 
first,  what  colour  are  they?  Was 
the  rose  of  a  deep  blushing  red,  or 
white  as  the  driven  snow?  You 
surely  can't  have  forgotten." 

"  But,  Reata,  my  dear,"  began 
aunt  Olivia,  in  painful  embarrass- 
ment, "  my  memory  is  so  bad,  how 
can  I?" 

"Yes,  you  can,  you  must,"  an- 
swered her  questioner.  "  Now  let 
us  hear,  was  it  white  or  red  ? " 

"Red,  I  think,  my  dear,"  she 
answered,  convulsively,  holding  her 
handkerchief  before  her  face. 

"Wrong!"  was  the  triumphant 


rejoinder,  as  opening  the  packet 
she  disclosed  the  remains  of  a  yel- 
low rose.  "  How  strange,"  she  con- 
tinued, examining  them  more  close- 
ly, "that  they  should  have  kept 
their  colour  for  thirty-five  years  ! 
they  look  as  if  they  had  been  ga- 
thered a  month  ago.  Is  it  not 
extraordinary,  Baron  Bodenbach?" 
glancing  up  at  Otto. 

"Very  odd,  certainly,"  he  re- 
turned, hurriedly.  "  How  confound- 
edly sharp  that  girl  is ! "  he  mut- 
tered to  himself;  "and  how  odd 
her  manner  in  this  whole  business 
is  !  and  yet  my  aunt  does  not  re- 
sent it." 

"  Your  father  must  have  pre- 
served them  very  carefully,"  went 
on  Reata.  "  I  am  afraid  he  is  very 
poetical.  I  hope  you  do  not  take 
after  him  mentally  as  well  as  out- 
wardly. Are  you  really  so  very  like 
him?" 

"  I  must  appeal  to  my  aunt  for 
that  particular,"  said  Otto,  looking 
towards  the  old  lady,  who  immed- 
iately turned  to  the  window  and 
appeared  absorbed  in  the  decipher- 
ing of  the  letter. 

"  There  is  a  strong  family  like- 
ness, I  believe,"  went  on  Otto,  dis- 
cussing his  personal  appearance 
with  confident  coolness;  "but  the 
resemblance  is  much  more  marked 
between  my  uncle  Max  and  myself. 
I  am  said  to  be  very  like  him." 

"Are  you?"  looking  across  at 
him  with  some  curiosity.  "  I  should 
not  have  thought  so ;  but  then  you 
are  taller,  of  course — that  makes 
a  difference,"  she  added,  inadvert- 
ently. 

"Taller!"  repeated  Otto,  with  a 
shade  of  surprise  in  his  tone  and 
look.  "  I  always  believed  that  my 
uncle  Max  had  been  remarkably 
tall." 

"  I  don't  think  he  was,"  she  said, 
speaking  quicker ;  "  you  must  be 
mistaken." 

"But  I  can't  be  mistaken,"  he 


1879.] 


Reata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  I. 


427 


continued,  with  increased  surprise. 
"  I  remember  now  quite  well  that 
we  have  got  the  mark  of  his  height 
cut  into  one  of  the  door-posts  at 
Steinbiihl;  it  is  just  Arnold's  height 
too,  but  I  am  a  little  under  it." 

Reata  was  bending  over  the 
packet  of  dead  rose-leaves,  stuffing 
them  back  into  their  paper  rather 
roughly. 

"  Well,  perhaps  I  am  wrong," 
she  said,  without  looking  up;  "but 
I  did  not  know  Mr  Boden  at  all  ;  I 
only  saw  him  once,  and  he  was  not 
standing  then." 

"  How  strange !  I  thought  you 
had  known  him  quite  well  for  sev- 
eral years." 

"  I  hardly  knew  him,"  she  re- 
peated. 

"  But  have  you  not  been  living 
with  my  aunt "  he  began. 

"  Never  mind  about  that,"  she 
said  impatiently,  with  heightened 
colour. 

"  But  I  should  like  to  clear  up 
the  matter  about  my  uncle  Max's 
height,"  he  persisted,  half  in  amuse- 
ment, half  in  curiosity.  "  Perhaps 
my  aunt  will  be  kind  enough  to 
pronounce  her  verdict  as  to  the 
difference  of  height  between  me 
and  my  uncle," — and  as  he  spoke 
Otto  rose,  and  turning  towards  aunt 
Olivia,  stood  waiting  for  her  deci- 
sion. 

To  his  surprise  he  perceived  that 
the  embarrassment  on  Reata' s  face 
was  reflected  on  his  aunt's  counte- 
nance with  double  force.  Was  she, 
too,  as  ignorant  as  Reata  on  the  sub- 
ject of  Maximilian's  length  of  limbs? 

Taking  refuge  in  the  depth  of 
her  pocket-handkerchief,  she  mut- 
tered something  about  "  old  age  " 
and  "  effect  of  climate,"  and  turned 
away  abruptly. 

"Don't  ask  her  those  sort  of 
questions,"  Reata  said  in  a  hurried 
whisper  to  Otto,  bending  nearer 
towards  him,  but  not  looking  at 
him  ;  "  your  aunt  did  not — did  not 

VOL.  CXXV. NO.  DCCLXII. 


live  latterly  with  her  —  with  her 
father— with  Mr  Boden." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  was  not 
aware,"  said  Otto,  feeling  that  he 
had  stumbled  upon  an  agitating 
subject. 

"  Now  come  to  our  hour  of  peace," 
said  Reata,  turning  off  the  matter. 
"  Have  you  ever  been  in  a  ham- 
mock 1 " 

"  Yes ;  at  least  I  have  fallen  out 
of  one.  I  bought  a  twine  ham- 
mock last  year  at  Vienna.  You 
were  supposed  to  fasten  it  to  a  table 
and  chair.  I  did  so,  and  brought 
down  both  the  table  and  chair,  and 
nearly  broke  my  backbone." 

"  There  is  no  danger  of  that  here," 
said  Reata,  leading  the  way  to  the 
part  of  the  veranda  which  lay  on 
the  shady  side  of  the  house,  facing 
the  forest.  "  Look  how  strong  they 
are  !  They  are  made  by  the  natives 
here,  who  fabricate  them  out  of 
twisted  grasses." 

While  she  was  talking,  Reata 
had  established  herself  in  her 
swinging  couch  —  Otto  admiring 
the  graceful  ease  with  which  she 
went  through  this  rather  difficult 
evolution.  It  was  now  his  turn, 
and  after  some  awkward  attempts, 
he  found  himself  safely  landed  in 
his  net. 

The  air  was  luxurious  and  soft, 
and  he  closed  his  eyes  to  enjoy  it 
more  thoroughly.  In  a  minute  he 
was  roused  by  Reata  speaking. 

"  Baron  Bodenbach,  your  aunt 
is  dying  to  hear  all  about  your 
family." 

"But,  Reata,  my  pet,  he  has 
been  talking  to  me  about  them 
all,"  said  the  sleepy  voice  of  aunt 
Olivia. 

"But  there  must  be  more  to 
tell;  tell  us  all  about  your  sister. 
I  am  so  fond  of  sisters ;  I  wish  I 
had  one  !  Is  she  dark  or  fair  ? " 

"Fair." 

"How  old?" 

"  Sixteen." 

2  E 


428 


Reata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  I. 


[April 


"That  is  ever  so  much  younger 
than  I  am.  By  the  by,  Baron 
Bodenbach,  how  old  are  you  ?  We 
were  disputing  this  morning  about 
your  age." 

Not  since  Otto  had  attained  to 
man's  years  had  this  question  been 
put  to  him  with  such  point-blank 
directness.  He  was  startled,  but 
more  amused,  and  answered  the 
truth — namely,  that  he  was  twenty- 
six. 

He  would  have  liked  to  put  the 
same  question  to  Reata.  He  had 
been  puzzled  what  age  to  assign  to 
her;  for  although  developed  into 
perfect  womanhood,  there  was  at 
times  a  strong  dash  of  childish  care- 
lessness about  her  talk  and  man- 
ner. While  Otto  was  debating  the 
question  in  his  mind,  Reata  vol- 
untarily supplied  the  desired  in- 
formation. 

"Then  you  are  just  five  years 
older  than  I  am ;  I  was  twenty- one 
last  June." 

Reata  was  so  perfectly  unconven- 
tional in  her  ideas,  that  the  thought 
of  making  a  mystery  of  her  age 
would  never  have  occurred  to  her. 
She  had  no  experience  of  society, 
and  had  read  no  novels.  How 
could  she  know  that  a  young  lady's 
age  is  the  one  point  on  which  she 
is  allowed  —  nay,  expected — to  be 
silent  and  deceitful  1 

"  Baron  Bodenbach,  I  think  you 
are  falling  asleep,"  remarked  Reata, 
after  a  pause,  filled  only  by  the 
humming  sounds  of  insects,  which 
the  air  wafted  across  from  the  forest. 

"  Oh  no,  not  at  all ;  how  could 


I?"  he  exclaimed,  with  the  in- 
stinctive indignation  which  such 
an  imputation  never  fails  to  rouse 
in  us. 

"  It  is  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of ; 
we  always  take  a  siesta  after  dinner." 

"  Really  !  how  kind  of  you  ! "  he 
said,  relapsing  into  drowsiness.  Not 
even  for  the  pleasure  of  conversing 
with  Reata  could  he  keep  himself 
awake  any  longer.  From  under  his 
half-closed  eyelids  he  could  see  very 
little  of  her  now :  she  had  drawn 
up  the  sides  of  her  hammock  so  as 
to  hide  her  person  entirely ;  and 
all  now  left  visible  was  one  hand, 
which  held  the  edges  of  the  net 
together.  Although  half  plunged  in 
slumber,  Otto  noticed  how  beauti- 
fully shaped  that  hand  was,  not 
quite  as  white  and  small  as  those 
of  his  sister  Gabrielle,  but  with  so 
much  character  and  ableness  in  its 
lines. 

"  I  see  you  are  on  the  verge  of 
going  off,  and  I  will  leave  you  in 
peace  directly;  but  you  must  first 
answer  some  more  questions  about 
your  sister.  Does  she  draw?  Is 
she  fond  of  riding?  and  how  tall 
is  she?" 

The  voice  coming  from  the  closed 
hammock  sounded  like  that  of  some 
tormenting  spirit. 

Otto  made  one  more  effort,  and 
answered  in  an  indistinct  voice, 
"  Immensely ! " 

"Immensely  tall,  or  immensely 
fond  of  riding?"  Reata  persisted, 
— but  "answer  there  came  none," 
for  Otto  had  sunk  into  a  delicious 
state  of  oblivion. 


1879. 


My  Latest  Experience. 


429 


MY    LATEST    EXPERIENCE. 


THERE  is  no  fact  more  freely  as- 
sented to  than  this,  that  no  one 
knows  to-day  what  he  or  she  may 
have  to  do  to-morrow.  All  know 
how  our  most  carefully  combined 
plans  are  violently  dislocated  by 
some  unexpected  circumstance. 

When  I  last  left  England  it  was 
without  the  least  idea  that,  before 
I  returned  to  it,  I  should  have  to 
increase  my  already  pretty  large 
acquaintance  with  les  eaux,  and 
myself  undergo  another  "cure "in 
person. 

Our  compatriots  nowadays  un- 
derstand, nearly  as  well  as  foreign- 
ers, that  the  "cure "in  this  sense 
is  not  at  all  the  equivalent  of  the 
English  words  "cure"  and  "cured," 
but  represents  only  the  course  of 
treatment  which  the  patient  passes 
through  for  a  longer  or  shorter 
period,  according  to  the  orders  of 
that  particular  Physician  of  the 
Bath  who  is  their  chosen  autocrat 
for  the  time  being. 

In  former  times  I  had  gone  one 
of  a  family- party — as  such  enjoying 
or  suffering  together  the  small  in- 
cidents of  our  journeys,  according 
as  ease  or  discomfort  predominated ; 
turning  the  disagreeables  into  sub- 
jects for  amusement  by  the  mere 
force  of  meeting  them  in  such  com- 
panionship. When,  therefore,  on 
this  occasion  I  was  ordered  a  course 
of  waters,  the  contrast  of  the  pres- 
ent loneliness,  added  to  my  distrust 
of  such  treatments,  which  I  had 
learned  to  be  as  powerful  for  evil  as 
for  good,  combined  to  strengthen 
my  refusal  to  obey  the  order. 

Yain,  however,  was  my  resist- 
ance : 

"  There  is  no  armour  against  Fate." 

A   second    opinion   was   called   in 
which  corroborated  the  first;    and 


most  unwillingly  and  gloomily,  in 
a  tempest  of  wind  and  rain,  I  left 
Normandy  to  begin  the  first  stage 
of  my  journey  to  the  place  of  my 
destination,  Enghien-les-Bains. 

On  arriving  there,  however,  its 
fairness  was  at  once  a  reproach  to 
such  unwillingness  and  a  comfort 
to  beauty-loving  eyes.     No  prettier 
country  can  be  found ;  no  element 
of  mere  prettiness  is  wanting.     For 
grandeur  and  sublimity  you   must 
go  a  good  deal   farther;    but   the 
smiling    scenery   of    Enghien    has 
its   own   charm.     The   transparent 
brightness  of  the  air  and  vividness 
of  colouring  are  characteristics  of  the 
climate   of  Paris,   its   near   neigh- 
bour.    The   lake,    with   its   shores 
thickly  —  far    too    thickly  —  sown 
with  houses,  some  of  them  in  very 
bad  taste ;  the  splendid  abundance 
of  the  vegetation,  whether  reflect- 
ed in  the  clear  waters  or  shading 
every   road   from  the  hot  sun,   or 
circling   every  habitation   and   en- 
riching    every    garden    with    fine 
trees ;    the    slopes    rising    to    the 
north-west  covered  with  numerous 
bright  little  villages  or  small  towns, 
seemingly  dropped  down  by  happy 
accident    among    the    woods    that 
clothe  them;  the  picturesque  and 
historical   town   of    Montmorency, 
with  its  old  church  crowning  the 
summit  of  the  green  hillocks; — all 
these  combine  to  form  a  landscape 
which  must  call  forth  admiration, 
and  which,  as  a  fact,  has  been  sung 
by  the  poets,  and   reproduced  by 
many  of  the  distinguished  artists, 
of  France.      All   that   nature   has 
done  here  is  admirable ;  but  it  may 
be  confessed  that  Enghien  itself  de- 
tracted from  that  feeling  by  being 
just  a  little  too  pare,  too  frise,  if 
the  word  may  be  allowed, — a  little 
Cockneyfied;    an  impression    pro- 


430 


My  Latest  Experience. 


[April 


duced  chiefly,  it  seemed  to  me,  by 
the  fantastical  architecture  of  cer- 
tain villas  and  kiosques,  not  a  few 
of  which  were  actual  eyesores ;  and 
even  those  houses  which  do  not 
come  under  this  condemnation  were 
so  much  too  numerous  on  the  shores 
of  the  lake  as  to  inspire  strong  de- 
sires to  have  the  half  of  them 
levelled  and  carted  away,  and  the 
charming  lake  itself  left  to  com- 
parative solitude.  This  piece  of 
water  is,  for  a  watering-place,  of  a 
respectable  size, — 620,000  metres, 
as  we  are  carefully  informed,  and  is 
fed,  among  other  sources,  by  the 
small  streams  of  Soisy,  of  Eaux- 
bonnes,  and  of  Ermont,  all  rippling 
on  to  join  it.  Eishing  seemed  a 
most  popular  amusement, — men, 
women,  and  children  passing  ap- 
parently the  whole  day  in  that  in- 
comprehensible "sport."  Go  out 
when  you  would — from  early  morn- 
ing to  dusky  evening — you  found 
the  same  solitary  anglers,  and  fam- 
ily or  friendly  groups,  still  fishing. 
A  real  amusement  at  Enghien 
are  the  drives  and  walks  to  num- 
berless places  of  historical  interest, 
and  most  of  them  of  natural  beauty. 
St  Gratien,  now  the  property  of  the 
kindly  Princesse  Matilde,  speaks 
also  of  Marechal  Catinat ;  and 
Epinay  tells  of  the  king  familiar 
to  the  songs  of  our  childhood,  "  le 
bon  Eoi  Dagobert."  It  was  prob- 
ably there,  at  his  castle  of  Epinay, 
that  the  well-known  conversations 
took  place  between  his  Majesty  and 
the  good  St  Eloi.  Argenteuil,  with 
its  priory  of  A.  D.  656,  and  its 
memories  of  Charlemagne  and  of 
the  Empress  Irene,  whose  precious 
gift  of  "the  coat  without  seam, 
woven  from  the  top  throughout," 
found  a  home  there.  It  was  en- 
closed in  a  box  of  ivory,  as  became 
so  valued  a  relic,  and  duly  trans- 
mitted by  Charlemagne  to  his 
daughter,  Abbess  of  Argenteuil. 


Here  also  Heloise  took  refuge  be- 
fore she  was  driven  thence  to  the 
Paraclete.  These,  and  a  dozen 
other  towns  and  villages,  make 
pleasant  points  for  a  drive  or  a 
walk,  and  draw  one  forth  daily, 
attracting  some  at  least  of  the 
bathers  over  and  over  again. 

My  favourite  walk  was  to  Mont- 
morency  :  and  Sunday  after  Sunday 
— being  the  only  afternoon  in  the 
whole  seven  which  the  iron  laws  of 
the  bains  left  free  from  water  dis- 
cipline of  one  kind  or  another — did 
I  ascend  the  hill  to  join  in  the 
vesper  service  in  its  Gothic  church; 
from  which  service  attention  would 
sometimes  Hag,  and  be  replaced  by 
fancy,  wandering  among  the  world- 
famous  members  of  that  great  race 
which  shared  its  name.  Thoughts 
came  of  Mathieu  First  and  his  first 
wife,  English  Aline :  and  of  his 
second  marriage  with  the  widowed 
Queen  Consort  of  Louis  le  Gros ; 
and  how,  during  the  minority  of 
his  royal  step-son,  Mathieu  became 
confessedly  "la  vaillante  espe"e  du 
royaulme."  They  would  even  go 
farther  back,  and  dream  of  the 
misty  times  when  the  rather  doubt- 
ful Prankish  chief,  Lisoie,  received 
holy  baptism  with  Clovis ;  or  dim- 
mer still,  to  those  of  the  conversion 
by  St  Denis,  to  the  Christian  faith, 
of  the  Gallo-Roman  patrician  Lis- 
bius.  After  which  mental  excur- 
sions, I  woke  to  find  it  was  high 
time  to  pray  my  concluding  prayer 
and  quit  the  church,  already  long 
ago  emptied  of  its  normal  congre- 
gation, and  left  only  to  a  few  linger- 
ing worshippers. 

But  some  days  before  I  was  at 
liberty  to  enjoy  any  day-dreams,  I 
had  begun  the  "  peine  forte  et  dure  " 
of  my  "  cure."  The  first  day  of  my 
arrival — that  arrival  having  been 
early  in  the  morning — was  allowed 
to  me  by  my  medical  autocrat  to 
house  myself,  to  make  acquaintance 


1879." 


Mij  Latest  Experience. 


431 


with  the  place,  and,  generally,  to 
make  myself  as  much  at  home  as 
the  nature  of  things  allowed,  in 
preparation  for  my  course  of  waters. 
Next  morning  my  work  "began 
with  a  very  early  visit  to  my  doctor, 
who  was,  moreover,  the  medecin 
en  chef,  the  superintendent  officer 
of  the  entire  establishment.  This 
first  visit  was  a  long  one,  as  my 
whole  "  case  "  had  to  be  gone  into 
and  studied :  the  result  of  this  study 
was,  that  I  was  to  take  the  waters 
in  •  every  possible  way — in  drinks, 
in  baths,  in  simple  inhalations, — 
in  short,  in  all  the  ways  invented 
for  the  administration  of  the  same. 
Not  one  was  to  be  omitted,  except 
douches ;  and  I  was  at  once  to  be- 
gin the  course  then  and  there.  A 
packet  of  tickets  was  put  into  my 
hands,  representing  a  subscription 
for  the  course ;  and  on  the  strength 
of  one  out  of  the  packet,  before  eight 
o'clock  I  was  shown  into  a  cabinet 
de  toilette  to  commence  operations. 
It  was  sufficiently  large  to  amply 
accommodate  myself  and  my  ser- 
vant, and  was  fitted  up  with  a  couple 
of  chairs,  a  table,  a  large  glass,  and 
pegs  for  hanging  up  the  discarded 
clothes.  This  closet  opened  into 
another,  which  was  the  cabinet  de 
bain  proper;  and  here,  again,  no 
comfort  or  convenience  was  ne- 
glected. A  good  -  sized  window 
opened  to  regulate  the  retention  or 
expulsion  of  the  steam :  a  wooden 
board  at  the  side  of  the  bath  facili- 
tated entrance  and  exit,  and  pre- 
vented the  contact  of  the  bare  feet 
with  the  stone  floor.  The  baths 
themselves  were  large  and  roomy, 
each  one  provided  with  a  thermom- 
eter, and  turncocks  for  adding  hot 
and  cold  water  at  will,  so  as  to 
keep  the  temperature  to  the  exact 
degree  ordered  by  your  prescrip- 
tion. Each  bath  is  also  provided 
with  a  wooden  tray  or  desk  on 
which  to  deposit  your  books  or 


newspaper  or  work,'— whatsoever, 
in  short,  you  take  with  you  to  while 
away  the  thirty  to  forty-five  minutes 
allotted  to  your  immersion.  Bell- 
ropes  are  also  placed  within  hand- 
reach,  to  summon  the  immediate 
attendance  of  a  trained  bath -ser- 
vant, in  case  any  feeling  of  indis- 
position, or  any  other  cause,  make 
their  instant  presence  desirable.  In 
my  wide  experience  of  Continental 
water  -  cures  I  have  come  on  no 
establishment  so  thoroughly  well 
arranged;  although  at  all  of  them 
the  general  features  have  a  common 
resemblance,  at  none  had  I  yet 
found  the  details  so  well  carried 
out. 

Strangely  enough,  however,  I 
found  that,  in  the  long-run,  no 
part  of  my  treatment  fatigued  me 
so  much  as  this  pleasant  half-hour 
of  idleness  in  agreeably  warm 
water;  and  that  whereas,  in  the 
far  different  experiences  to  which 
the  afternoon  introduced  me,  I 
in  time  gradually  lengthened  the 
period  of  undergoing  the  remedy 
from  twenty-five  to  fifty  minutes — 
as  regarded  this  quite  agreeable  one, 
I  was  forced,  on  the  contrary,  to 
shorten  the  duration  as  the  weeks 
passed  on. 

Needless  to  dwell  on  the  mere 
drinking  process.  Most  people  know, 
either  personally  or  by  witnessing 
the  imbibings  of  other  sufferers,  its 
unending  nature.  Glasses  of  water 
before  the  bath,  glasses  of  water  after 
the  bath;  glasses  of  water  before  the 
walk  (and  you  are  ordered  to  take 
two  or  three  walks  per  diem),  glasses 
of  water  after  the  walk ;  glasses  of 
water  at  a  certain  time  before 
meals,  glasses  of  water  at  a  cer- 
tain time  after  meals.  All  this  is 
as  at  every  other  Bath  everywhere. 

And  so  also  are  the  pretty  gar- 
dens, here  glorified  by  the  poetic 
style  of  jar  din  des  roses,  the  daily 
music  of  good  bands,  the  balls,  the 


432 


My  Latest  Experience. 


[April 


concerts,  the  plays,  in  which  act 
Pauis  artistes  ;  all  and  sundry  amuse- 
ments inseparable  from  the  genius 
of  the  place. 

The  point  in  which  I  found  what 
to  me  was  an  entire  novelty  was 
my  afternoon's  discipline,  my  first 
experience  of  the  salles  d'inhala- 
tions  pulverisees. 

The  preparatory  toilet  was  in 
itself  rather  alaxming,  as  well  as 
surprising.  Later  on  in  my  course, 
when  I  had  become  accustomed  and 
acclimated  to  all  things  connected 
therewith,  I  was  able  to  laugh  and 
to  wish  fervently  for  a  photographer 
to  make  "  a  counterfeit  present- 
ment" of  me  in  this  costume,  in 
which  it  would  surely  have  puzzled 
even  a  detective  to  recognise  me ; 
but  on  the  first  two  or  three  occa- 
sions I  was  too  much  occupied  with 
the  operation  itself  to  spend  time 
in  vague  speculations. 

Two  strong  handsome  young 
women  were  the  presiding  spirits 
of  this  branch  of  the  work.  One 
of  these  advanced  to  meet  me  and 
helped  me  to  take  off  my  bonnet 
and  cloak,  after  which  she  proceed- 
ed to  "  kilt  my  coats ; "  and  my 
skirts  having  been  strongly  pinned 
up,  she  put  on  me,  first,  a  large, 
thick,  bath  towel,  shawl- wise ;  sec- 
ondly, a  peignoir,  enveloping  me 
from  head  to  foot;  and,  thirdly, 
over  this  a  huge  coat  of  thick, 
black,  shiny  macintosh,  such  as  the 
remise  coachmen  in  Paris  wear  in 
very  wet  weather,  still  bigger  and 
longer  than  this  peignoir,  in  which 
garment  I  finally  disappeared,  leav- 
ing visible  a  mere  mass  of  some- 
thing dark  and  shapeless.  Stagger- 
ing under  the  weight  of  this  unac- 
customed load,  I  sank  on  a  chair 
behind  me.  "  C'est  bien  cela, 
madame,"  said  my  attendant,  and 
gently  taking  hold  of  my  feet,  she, 
without  removing  any  part  of  my 
own  chaussure,  put  on  over  it  large, 


long,  thick,  grey  worsted  stockings, 
and  then  India-rubber  overshoes 
over  all.  (I  may  add  that,  in  con- 
sequence of  my  severe  sufferings 
from  cold  on  my  first  attempt,  two 
pairs  of  goloshes  and  a  second 
warm  shawl  were  ever  afterwards 
put  on  me.)  Finally,  I  was  adorned 
with  an  ordinary  oilskin  bathing-cap, 
drawn  well  down  to  my  eyebrows. 
In  this  garb  I  staggered  along, 
powerfully  supported  by  the  baig- 
neuse,  from  the  robing-room  to  the 
salle.  On  her  opening  the  door  and 
shutting  it  behind  us,  my  feeling 
was  one  of  boundless  astonishment : 
was  it  possible  that  I  was  to  go  in 
there  ?  Stay  in  there  ?  Surely  the 
result  must  be  to  kill,  not  cure. 
Eecalling  the  hundred  injunctions 
I  had  received  from  many  physi- 
cians to  avoid  carefully  every  kind 
of  damp,  I  stood  quite  still  at  .the 
door,  making  no  attempt  to  ad- 
vance in  that  watery  atmosphere. 
"  Venez,  madame,  ne  craignez  rien," 
loudly  called  out  my  baigneuse  ; 
and  indeed  nothing  but  very  loud 
speaking  could  be  heard  in  that 
bewildering  place.  A  noise  as  of 
rushing  waters,  as  of  the  heaviest 
rain,  as  of  a  thunder  -  shower  or 
waterfall,  drowned  all  minor  sounds, 
and  was  at  once  explained  by  the 
fact  that  such  heaviest  downpour 
was  in  very  deed  raining  down 
upon  us  from  end  to  end,  and  in 
every  inch  of  the  room.  So  thick 
was  the  descending  water,  and  the 
ascending  jets  of  the  same,  rising 
from  forty-two  machines  arranged 
for  inhalation  all  over  the  salle,  that 
the  atmosphere  was  as  dense  as  that 
of  a  London  fog.  Nothing  what- 
ever could  be  distinctly  seen;  but 
many  dim  spectres,  in  shape  and 
garb  like  to  my  own,  might  be 
guessed  at,  looming  darkly  and 
vaguely  in  the  murky  gloom, 
moving  about  ceaselessly  up  and 
down,  up  and  down,  in  this  mys- 


1879.] 


My  Latest  Experience. 


433 


terious  water  realm.  I  felt  horror- 
stricken. 

Silently  and  very  unwillingly  I 
yielded  to  the  pull  of  my  guide's 
stout  arm,  who  shouted  to  me  en- 
couragingly, that  she  would  select 
a  nice,  mild  appareil  for  my  in- 
augural seance.  Accordingly,  after 
having  tested  with  her  hand  the 
force  of  several  jets,  she  drew  a  high 
wooden  stool  to  the  narrow  stone 
table,  which  traversed  the  entire 
salle,  and  was  fitted  with  nearly 
three  dozen  of  these  appareils,  the 
remainder  being  fixed  along  the 
walls,  from  each  of  which  the 
pulverised  water  is  thrown  up  in 
strong  jets. 

This  narrow,  long,  stone  table 
is  a  very  ugly-looking  table,  if,  in- 
deed, it  may  be  called  a  table  at  all. 
It  is  stained  unpleasantly  with  the 
mineral  water  which  so  ceaselessly 
plays  over  it.  It  is  scooped  out  in 
the  middle  to  allow  the  overflow  to 
sink  there,  and  be  caried  off  by 
channels  made  and  provided  for 
that  purpose.  Along  the  edges  are 
placed  the  upright  pipes,  from 
about  six  to  ten  inches  in  height, 
through  which  shoots  up  the  sul- 
phur stream,  broken  and  pulverised 
into  fine  though  strong  jets,  like 
to  the  jets  d'eaux  of  an  ordinary 
fountain  in  full  play;  and  these 
ascending  streams  are  inhaled  by 
the  patients.  The  spectacle  is  half 
grotesque,  half  sad  :  in  itself  gro- 
tesque— in  its  association  with  so 
many  forms  of  suffering  humanity 
sad  enough. 

Opposite  to  the  jet  of  her  choice, 
the  baigneuse  mounted  me  on  the 
tall  stool,  tucked  my  strange  gar- 
ments about  me,  so  as  to  fully  pro- 
tect my  own  from  any  contact  with 
the  streams  above  and  below  me, 
on  my  right  hand  and  on  my  left ; 
directed  me  to  aid  the  circulation  of 
the  chilled  blood  by  little  walks 
now  and  again,  comme  ces  dames, 


as  she  boldly  styled  the  mournful 
procession  of  the  vaguely  seen, 
bulky  ghosts ;  and,  with  a  cheery 
smile,  promising  to  come  and  fetch 
me  when  my  time  was  up,  she  left 
me.  Involuntarily  I  made  a  clutch 
to  detain  her,  but  feeling  ashamed 
of  the  act  I  drew  back  my  arm,  and 
bent  my  head  as  I  was  directed  to 
do  over  the  appareil  allotted  to 
me,  for  the  pulverised  waters  to 
enter  the  throat  and  nostrils,  and 
to  thoroughly  and  ceaselessly  re- 
ceive the  full  force  of  the  play  of 
the  fountain  all  over  the  face  and 
throat. 

This  occupation  still  left  my 
thoughts  free  to  work.  I  looked 
straight  across  to  my  opposite 
neighbour,  similarly  employed  to 
myself;  and  though  not  divided  by 
two  feet  of  width  of  table,  between 
the  thick -falling  waters  and  my 
near-sight,  I  could  not  in  the  least 
make  out  what  she  was  like.  She  ? 
— was  it  a  woman  at  all  ?  It  might 
have  been  anything  in  that  dis- 
guising garb  and  atmosphere.  I 
looked  to  right  and  left  of  me ; 
everywhere  were  the  same  dark 
shapeless  forms,  bent  over  the  two- 
and- forty  appareils  inhaling  the 
water;  and,  as  it  so  chanced  this 
day — not  always,  as  I  afterwards 
learned — in  dumb  silence.  I  also 
afterwards  learned  that  the  force  of 
water  was  not  always  so  strong  as 
on  my  first  introduction  to  it.  It 
seems  strange  now  to  remember, 
comparing  first  days  with  later  ones, 
that  I  had,  myself,  occasionally  to 
complain  of  want  of  force. 

But  no  such  complaint  was  pos- 
sible on  that  first  day.  It  poured, 
it  roared,  it  deafened  me  ;  it  chilled 
me,  chilliest  of  mortals,  to  the  very 
marrow — for  you  understand  that 
it  was  cold  water.  My  teeth  chat- 
tered, my  blood  froze;  I  felt  my- 
self turning  to  ice,  and  my  head 
growing  very  dizzy  meanwhile. 


434 


My  Latest  Experience. 


[April 


Now  was  the  moment,  if  ever,  to 
assist  the  circulation  "  by  taking  a 
little  walk, — like  those  ladies."  I 
raised  my  head  preparatory  to  doing 
so,  and  gazed  on  them  again. 
Ladies?  Women?  Those  phan- 
toms seen,  —  no,  not  seen,  just 
guessed  at,  as  I  said,  —  moving 
through  the  heavy,  blinding  va- 
pours. Join  them  ?  What  were 
they?  Not  mere  living  human 
beings  surely  ?  And  what  was  this 
awful  place  I  had  got  to  ?  I  thought 
of  the  Third  Circle  of  the  "  Infer- 
no," whereof  the  miserable  denizens 
are  beaten  down  by  the  perpetual 
rain,  "everlasting,  heavy,  cursed, 
cold,"  pelted  with  hailstones,  sleet, 
and  snow.  Or,  farther,  deeper, 
more  hopeless  still,  was  it  Cocytus, 
the  Lake  of  Eternal  Ice,  into  which 
I  had  penetrated  by  some  fearful 
mischance  ? 

Whatever  it  was,  it  plainly  dis- 
agreed violently  with  me.  Every 
moment  I  felt  more  and  more  ill ; 
and  to  avoid  an  otherwise  inevit- 
able catastrophe,  I,  with  much  diffi- 
culty, got  off  from  my  perch,  and 
stumbled  to  and  through  the  door- 
way, where,  fortunately,  I  met  my 
baigneuse  coming  in  with  another 
victim.  "  Tiens,  tiens  !  "  cried  she, 
rushing  to  support  me,  "madame 
se  trouve  mal ; "  and  got  me  along 
the  passages  to  the  robing-room, 
where  I  was  most  carefully  tended. 
Divers  restoratives  were  pressed  on 
me,  and  I  was  long  and  vigorously 
rubbed  to  restore  circulation  and 
warmth  to  the  frozen  limbs.  Thus 
my  first  trial  of  this  part  of  my 
"  cure  "  was  a  distinct  failure.  It 
was  long  ere  feeling  came  back  to 
the  numbed  members,  and  the  teeth 
ceased  chattering. 

When  they  did  cease,  and  speech 
became  possible,  I  protested  against 
any  further  attempts  in  that  line 
on  my  part.  Very  urgently  was 
I  coaxed  to  try  again  next  day. 


"  Ladies  were  often  ill  the  first  time ; 
tres  -  impressionn^es,  quelque  fois, 
pas  autant  que  madame,  c'est  vrai, 
mais,  .  .  .  enfin.  .  . "  I  sternly  refu- 
sed to  repeat  the  experiment.  Again 
and  again  was  I  implored  to  rescind 
my  determination,  and  again  and 
again  I  declared  I  would  hold  to  it. 

But  who  can  resist  the  force  of 
persistent  coaxing?  Overcome  by 
their  entreaties,  at  last  I  consented 
to  put  the  matter  into  the  hands  of 
the  doctor,  and  to  abide  by  his  de- 
cision. 

As  soon  as  I  was  able  to  move, 
I  went  away  down  to  the  doctor's 
consulting-room.  He  seemed  very 
much  surprised  at  the  violent  re- 
sults of  the  seance,  the  low  pulse 
and  low  temperature  still  continu- 
ing, and  reserved  his  decision  till 
next  morning,  when  I  was  again  to 
present  myself  for  judgment. 

When  next  morning  came,  how- 
ever, and  the  cross-questioning  was 
over,  he  smiled  reassuringly,  all  ap- 
peared to  be  quite  right  then,  and 
it  was  his  opinion  that  I  should  try 
again  that  day.  I  was  directed  to 
keep  up  my  courage.  I  was  to 
"  penser  a  des  choses  agreables  et 
bonnes ;  reciter  le  chapelet,"  <fcc., 
&c.  In  addition  to  these  moral 
helps,  I  was  likewise  to  have  on 
extra  wraps — the  second  shawl  and 
second  pair  of  goloshes,  before  allud- 
ed to — and  I  was  to  be  inspected 
from  time  to  time  and  carefully 
watched  by  my  baigneuse. 

I  decided  on  submission  and  im- 
plicit obedience,  and  to  try  it  again, 
quand  meme;  and  I  was,  in  the 
result,  rewarded  for  the  same.  Eor 
the  encouragement  of  any  possible 
fellow-sufferers,  I  am  able  to  record 
that  my  second  trial,  thanks  chiefly 
to  my  increased  wrappings,  was 
much  more  bearable,  much  more 
successful  than  my  first;  and  my 
third  was  still  an  improvement  on 
my  second. 


1879.] 


My  Latest  Experience. 


435 


Will  it  be  believed  that,  by  force 
of  habit,  by  dint  of  daily  repetition, 
by  lengthening  the  duration  of  my 
seance  each  time,  I  grew — 

1  st,  Indifferent  to  its  terrors  ; 

2d,  Eather  partial  to  the  opera- 
tion ; 

3d,  Epicurean  in  its  working  and 
application  ? 

This  result  must  certainly  have 
been  owing  to  the  unmistakable 
benefit  I  felt  from  it  for  the  sev- 
eral hours  immediately  succeeding 
the  seance,  after  my  first  few  pain- 
ful attempts.  Can  it  be  credited 
that  I  was  soon  to  be  seen  slipping 
and  stumbling  along  the  watery 
floor,  at  the  imminent  risk  of  fall- 
ing down  every  step  I  took  (for,  as 
may  be  imagined,  walking  under 
that  load  of  wrappings,  and  in  such 
multiplied  chaiissures,  pair  over 
pair,  was  a  difficult  and  dangerous 
proceeding),  myself  testing  and 
choosing  my  own  jet  d'eau,  and, 
turning  away  from  the  weaker  and 
milder  ones,  deliberately  seeking 
and  selecting  the  most  powerful  I 
could  find?  Yet  to  this  stage  of 
perfection  did  I  arrive  in  the  end. 

I  never  quite  got  over  my  horror 
of  the  sombre  phantoms  dimly  seen 
in  the  murky  darkness  of  the  water- 
fog,  wandering  in  gloomy  procession 
along  the  salle.  To  the  last  they 
had  an  eerie  look.  I  sat,  therefore, 
bravely,  glued,  I  may  say,  to  my 
appareil ;  or  at  least  only  rising 
to  exchange  it  for  a  more  power- 
ful one,  if  such  chanced  to  at- 
tract me  in  another  part, — a  line 
of  conduct  which  excited  the  appro- 
bation and  admiration  of  the  baig- 
neuses,  of  whom  I  was  for  the  time, 
as  it  were,  the  show-pupil.  "  Ee- 
gardez  done,  madame  !  Personne, 
pas  une,  ne  fait  aussi  consciencieuse- 
ment  sa  cure !  Et  elle  e"tait  si  malade 
k  premiere  fois !  Elle  est  d'un 
courage  ! "  Eecalling  the  notable 
failure  of  my  first  attempt,  duly 


confessed,  I  allow  myself  the  proud 
satisfaction  of  recording  this  com- 
pensating eulogium. 

Fellow-patients  occasionally  took 
talking  fits,  and  then  they  chattered 
like  parrots.  They  might,  if  so  in- 
clined, have  exchanged  any  amount 
of  secrets,  for,  except  to  those  ad- 
dressed in  closest  contact,  the  noisy 
waters  prevented  the  hearing  of  any 
words.  Occasionally,  those  next  to 
me  on  either  side  ventured  on  saying 
little  nothings  on  the  outskirts  of 
conversation;  but  my  sad-hearted- 
ness  gave  them  little  encouragement 
to  proceed  farther,  and  silence  soon 
again  reigned  between  us ;  and  the 
"  cure  "  went  on  uninterruptedly. 

One  little  pathetic  dialogue,  how- 
ever, impressed  me,  and  remains 
in  my  memory.  A  coarse-looking 
woman  (somehow  they  nearly  all 
looked  coarse  and  common,  the 
effect,  perhaps,  partly,  of  the  ugly 
garb),  touched  my  arm,  and  said 
questioningly,  "This  is  your  first 
season  at  these  waters,  madame  1" 
And  after  my  answer,  and  a  few 
further  observations  from  her,  I  re- 
joined, "  It  is  not,  then,  your  first  ? " 
"  It  is  my  fifteenth  year,"  'said  she. 
"They  do  not  cure  you  of  your 
illness?  Why,  then,  do  you  thus 
return  to  them  again  and  again  ? " 
"  Cure  me  ?  no  :  that  is  impossible. 
I  cannot  be  cured,  for  my  illness  is 
an  incurable  one ;  but  these  waters 
hold  it  in  check,  and  retard  the 
inevitable  end — death."  It  seemed 
to  me  a  brave  fight  for  life;  but 
perhaps  that  'life  was  precious  to 
some  loving  hearts,  and  so  worth 
fighting  for.  And  certainly  a  month 
at  pretty  Enghien  was  no  such  un- 
pleasant prescription,  especially  if 
she  had  any  dear  friends  with  her. 

These  healing  waters,  which  ame- 
liorate where  they  cannot  cure  dis- 
ease, and  retard  where  they  cannot 
avert  the  fatal  conclusion,  are  in- 
deed extremely  powerful.  Many 


436 


My  Latest  Experience. 


[April 


Parisians  are  in  complete  ignorance 
of  the  existence  at  their  very  gates 
of  so  mighty  a  curative  agent.  It 
seems  so  inevitable  to  disbelieve  in 
remedies  close  at  hand,  and  to  put 
one's  faith  in  those  far  off,  and 
difficult  of  attainment, — just  as  we 
are  apt  to  neglect  to  see  famous 
sights  at  our  own  doors,  which 
foreigners  come  from  a  distance  to 
inspect.  The  undeniable  proof  of 
analysis,  however,  establishes  be- 
yond cavil  the  great  strength  of 
these  waters,  and  therefore  their 
sanitary  superiority  over  the  far- 
famed  springs  of  the  Pyrenees.  "We 
find  in  the  '  Etudes  Medicales  sur 
les  eaux  Min^rales  d'Enghien  les 
Bains'  of  Dr  Salles-Giron,  which 
good  patients  may  perhaps  think 
themselves  bound  to  read,  that  the 
sulphur  contained  in  these  waters 
is  as 

74  as  against  3|  in  those  of  Luchon  ; 

7k          ii         2          ii  Bareges ;  and 

!Eaux  Bonnes 
and  of  St 
Sauveur. 

These  figures  are  certainly  of  the 
category  of  those  of  which  it  is 
proverbially  said,  "  Us  ont  aussi  leur 
eloquence : "  and  they  are  an  irre- 
futable argument  in  favour  of  the 
medical  and  curative  value  of  these 
springs.  The  amount  of  supply  is 
likewise  very  great — about  100,000 
litres  in  the  twenty-four  hours. 
They  are  employed  in  very  many 
kinds  of  illnesses,  differing  widely 
from  each  other,  and,  of  course, 
should  be  taken  and  used,  whether 
inwardly  or  outwardly,  under  med- 
ical prescription  and  supervision; 
which  is  a  matter  as  to  which  Eng- 
lish people  are  not  always  particu- 
lar, and  the  neglect  of  which  pre- 
caution I  have  seen  lead  to  very 
grave  results  at  more  than  one  of 
the  mineral  bathing-places. 

I  myself  experienced  a  very  com- 
mon effect  of  these,  as  of  other 


mineral  waters — namely,  an  exacer- 
bation of  my  bad  symptoms  to  such 
a  degree  as  to  make  me  fear  a  serious 
illness.  This  effect,  however,  should 
neither  frighten  nor  discourage  the 
patient.  The  proceedings  should 
still  continue  under  the  physician's 
care  and  orders,  be  it  well  under- 
stood ;  without  this  precaution, 
mineral  waters  are  always  a  perilous 
remedy.  Another  incident  of  my 
course  was  the  unpleasant  effect  of 
the  waters  on  the  nails  of  the  fin- 
gers, to  which  they  temporarily  im- 
parted a  look  the  reverse  of  nice — 
as  if  the  nail-brush  had  not  been 
duly  used  :  it  all  passes  away  at 
the  end  of  the  "  cure,"  and  some 
people  escape  it  altogether. 

The  grand  salon,  where  you  sim- 
ply breathe  the  air  impregnated  with 
sulphur  from  the  waters  of  the 
large  central  fountain  which  deco- 
rates it,  is  the  rendezvous  of  the 
patients  and  their  friends ;  it  is 
there  you  wait  your  time  for  your 
bath,  and  it  is  there  that  you  rest 
after  it :  this  resting  after  bathing, 
inhaling,  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  is 
de  rigueur.  It  is  a  very  large  and 
handsome  hall,  adorned  with  an 
abundance  of  beautiful  flowers, 
plants,  and  shrubs :  they  had  among 
others  some  fine  oriental  palms  and 
plantains.  It  is  furnished  with 
comfortable  seats  and  lounges,  sofas, 
and  arm-chairs  of  all  makes.  There 
are  tables  whereon  are  spread  a 
multiplicity  of  newspapers  of  all 
shades  of  political  opinion :  there 
you  find  the  chronicles  of  fashion- 
able life — and,  as  is  but  right,  of 
bathing  life  also;  leaders  and  let- 
ters from  all  the  watering-places  of 
the  Continent.  Other  tables  are 
furnished  with  writing-materials, 
which  appear  to  be  much  approved 
of  and  used.  There  is  a  bookstall, 
where  you  can  buy  books  and 
music,  photographs  of  the  place  and 
neighbourhood,  nay,  you  may  even 


1879.] 


My  Latest  Experience. 


437 


purchase  perfumery  and  bonbons. 
Briefly,  here  are  pleasant  arrange- 
ments to  enable  patients  and  visitors 
to  spend  their  whole  day  comforta- 
bly therein;  reading,  writing,  work- 
ing, talking,  as  inclination  leads 
them.  And  these  opportunities  are 
duly  appreciated,  and  are  very  gen- 
erally and  largely  profited  by. 

At  the  hotel  to  which  I  was  re- 
commended as  being  the  best  at  the 
place,  which  I  believe,  on  the  whole, 
it  decidedly  was,  there  existed  this 
disadvantage — for  it  is  one  in  this 
kind  of  interlude  of  life — of  having 
no  table  d'hote ;  and  though,  it  ap- 
pears, my  hotel  was  once  upon  a 
time  famed  for  its  good  cuisine,  in 
my  own  experiences  that  important 
department  was  very  bad ;  evident- 
ly there  had  been  a  great  falling  off 
since  the  days  of  its  former  renown. 
There  are,  however,  one  or  two 
hotels  said  to  give  very  good  din- 
ners at  their  tables  d'hotes  ;  and  they 
are  resorted  to  for  dining  purposes 
by  settlers  from  other  hotels,  with- 
out at  all  interfering  with  their  tak- 
ing up  their  abode  at  those  others,  or 
anywhere  they  please,  in  lodgings, 
or  how  they  choose.  The  Hotel  de 
Bellevue,  which,  from  its  situation 
just  facing  the  lake,  is  quite  worthy 
of  its  name,  used  habitually  to  hang 
out,  on  its  gates,  placards  with  ap- 
petising menus  with  which  to  at- 
tract guests,  whether  in  parties  or 
solitary  ones ;  and  to  judge  from 
the  attentive  readers  constantly 
grouped  before  them,  these  menus 
did  in  fact  prove  themselves  to 
be  very  attractive  literature :  both 
sexes,  and  all  ages,  studied  them 
with  the  attention  befitting  the 
subject. 

There  were  some  divisions  of  the 
etablissement  into  which  I  never 
penetrated,  experimentally,  my  case 
not  requiring  those  particular  ex- 
hibitions,— namely,  the  galerie  des 
douches.  Here  there  were  numer- 


ous sorts  and  kinds  of  administra- 
tion of  remedial  measures.  There 
were  the  douches  ascendantes,  hot 
and  cold,  with  sulphur  water,  or 
with  ordinary  water,  according  to 
need ;  there  were  douches  with 
one  great  jet  of  water,  and  douches 
with  many  jets  ;  douches  vertical, 
oblique,  horizontal ;  douches  with 
large  volumes  of  water,  and  others 
in  small  fine  rain  ;  there  were 
douches  a  VEcossaise — anglice,  show- 
er-baths. And  besides  all  these, 
there  were  vapour-baths ;  dry  va- 
pour-baths, which  sounds  rather  in- 
comprehensible— and  damp  vapour- 
baths,  which  are  quite  intelligible. 
There  are  also  cabinets  for  aro- 
matic fumigation ;  and  others  for 
the  rubbings  and  kneadings  of  the 
body  and  limbs  after  the  Eastern 
manner.  Even  all  this  does  not 
exhaust  the  list ;  there  are  still 
other — and  yet  other — modifications 
of  these  remedies,  other  applications 
of  these  waters,  but  they  do  not 
enter  into  the  category  of  my  per- 
sonal experiences. 

It  is  the  only  ville  d'eux  at  which 
I  ever  stayed  without  making  any 
of  those  acquaintanceships  which 
are  generally,  even  when  pleasant 
ones,  as  temporary  as  our  connec- 
tion with  the  place ;  but  which  do 
sometimes  grow  into  strong  and 
lasting  friendships ;  more,  even  than 
that — which  have  sometimes  been 
known  to  blossom  into  the  nearest 
and  dearest  of  human  ties,  as  some 
of  us  can  tell.  But  here,  during 
the  month  of  my  stay,  there  was 
nothing  to  lead  one  to  wish  to  have 
the  slightest  courtesy  acquaintance 
with  any  one  of  the  crowd  that  still 
pervaded  the  place. 

To  me,  living  in  sad  seclusion,  it 
could  make  no  difference ',  but  it 
was  a  distinctive  detail.  Whether 
it  was  that,  in  consequence  of  the 
lateness  of  the  season,  visitors  of 
the  higher  ranks  had  left ;  or  whe- 


438 


My  Latest  Experience. 


.[April 


ther,  in  consequence  of  the  month 
being  the  chief  one  dedicated  to  the 
holiday- making  of  the  petite  bour- 
geoisie ;  or  whether,  in  any  and 
every  month,  the  close  neighbour- 
hood of  Paris  —  so  favourable  to 
overlooking  their  business  there,  al- 
most as  completely  as  if  they  had 
continued  in  the  capital  —  would 
make  it  always  their  favourite  re- 
sort ; — from  whatever  cause,  the  re- 
sult was,  that  the  large  majority  of 
the  bathers  bore  the  stamp  of  a  class 
where  intellect  and  refinement  were 
conspicuous  by  their  absence,  and 
vulgarity  disagreeably  prominent. 
The  place  was  swamped  by  German 
Jews,  or  by  Germans  simply,  whose 
thick  Teutonic  accents  were  abun- 
dantly audible.  A  lady  who  lived 
at  Montmorency  told  me  that  a 
considerable  proportion  of  the  neigh- 
bouring houses,  whether  town  or 
country  residences,  owned  Germans 
as  their  masters. 

No  doubt  the  residents  of  good 
names  and  families  living  in  the 
other  houses  and  chateaux  of  this 
closely  populous  neighbourhood  can 
command  excellent  society,  either 
amongst  themselves  or  from  Paris ; 
but  the  great  majority  of  the  bathers 
present  there  towards  the  end  of  last 
autumn  could  never  come  under  that 
category. 

This  vicinity  to  Paris  was  one  of 
the  consolations  for  my  exile  sug- 
gested to  me,  tenderly  and  coaxingly. 
"You  will  be  able  to  run  in  con- 
stantly, and  go  to  the  china-shop?, 
and  to  the  Louvre."  Vain  hope, 
and  deceptive  comfort !  No  tyranny 
is  greater  than  that  of  les  eaux ;  it 
claims  and  keeps  your  whole  time 
and  attention.  Never  once  was  I 
able  to  "run  in,"  on  pleasure  bent. 
Twice  indeed  I  did  have  to  go  into 
town  on  grim  business,  — to  my 
banker  and  to  my  dentist ;  and  on 
one  of  these  occasions  I  did  success- 
fully struggle  to  drag  in  some  of 


a  pleasanter  kind.  But  I  had  to 
hurry  back  to  be  in  time  for  my 
afternoon  performances,  from  noon 
to  three  o'clock  being  the  limits  of 
my  leave  of  absence,  including  in 
that  the  short  railway  journey  to 
and  fro.  And  it  was  not  always 
that  I  could  command  that  time. 
Far  from  it :  I  had  to  manoeuvre, 
and  calculate,  and  combine.  Being 
at  the  Baths,  it  was  plainly  best 
to  give  all  due  time  and  attention 
to  the  momentous  work  of  the 
"cure;"  and,  as  my  handsome 
bathing-women  attested  enthusias- 
tically, I  did  "seriously  incline" 
to  do  so. 

But  how  long,  how  very  long, 
that  month  was !  how  slowly  the 
lonely  days  passed  on !  Every  even- 
ing my  faithful  housekeeper  and  I 
thankfully  repeated  to  each  other, 
"  One  day  more  is  over."  Sundays, 
as  marking  the  end  of  a  whole  week, 
were  our  pleasantest  days.  Great 
as  was  the  difference  between  them 
and  our  home  Sundays,  well  filled 
as  the  latter  are  with  divine  services 
from  morning  to  night,  so  poorly 
compensated  here  in  the  alien  rites, 
— which  last,  however,  were  very 
far  from  being  destitute  of  comfort 
and  power, — let  me  not  be  ungrate- 
ful to  them.  Still,  nevertheless, 
allowing  for  every  shortcoming,  the 
Sundays  brought  much  gratification 
with  them.  For  one  thing,  they, 
as  I  said,  clearly  marked  that  our 
work  was  drawing  to  an  end ;  and 
for  another,  I,  as  above  stated,  could 
and  did  enjoy  church  worship,  even 
in  alien  tongue  :  church  music,  and 
church  feeling,  and  all  this,  was  un- 
deniably comforting.  Thirdly  and 
lastly,  on  Sunday  afternoons  I  was 
a  free  agent.  I  could  take  long 
walks  in  that  lovely  country,  un- 
checked by  constant  looking  at  our 
watches,  as  on  week-days,  to  see  if 
les  eaux,  in  some  shape  or  other,  did 
not  demand  our  instant  turning 


1879.] 


My  Latest  Experience. 


439 


back ;  and  this  sensation  of  freedom 
was  for  the  time  quite  new,  and 
very  pleasurable. 

Still,  here  again,  custom  brought 
its  conquering  power.  By  the  time 
my  month  of  penance  had  really 
elapsed,  and  I  had  undergone  my 
last  drink,  my  last  bath,  my  last 
freezing  inhalation  pulverisee,  it  al- 
most seemed  as  if  I  never  could 
have  lived  any  other  life — as  if  my 
whole  previous  existence  must  have 
been  spent  in  drinking,  in  bathing, 
and  in  inhaling  the  sulphur  waters 
of  bowery  Enghien. 

For  all  that,  it  was  with  feelings 
of  vivid  gladness  that  I  went  through 
all  these  performances  for  the  last 
time,  and  took  leave  of  my  doctor. 
Still  more  gladly,  very  early  on  the 
finest  of  autumn  mornings,  we  took 
the  train  to  Paris,  the  first  step  of 
our  homeward  voyage,  talking  over 
this  experiment  and  the  disagreeable 
prospect  of  its  possible  repetition 
which  the  imperative  commands  of 
my  physician  ordered  to  be  tried, 
da  capo,  next  fall. 

Here,  then,  ends  the  first  "fytte" 
of  my  late  "  cure,"  one  differing  so 
greatly  in  all  its  accompaniments 
from  any  of  my  former  ones.  For- 
merly, closely  surrounded  by  the 
happy  atmosphere  of  youth,  hope, 


joy,  affection ;  now,  the  dreary  iso- 
lation which  is  my  present  portion 
must  needs  surely  have  checked 
and  thwarted  the  full  beneficial 
effects  of  the  waters,  so  that  I  am 
quite  prepared  to  lay  any  failure  in 
their  action  at  my  own  door,  and 
also  on  the  long-standing  malady, 
which  is,  besides,  very  obstinate  in 
its  nature,  therefore  more  likely  to 
require  several  seasons  rather  than 
one  in  order  to  produce  anything 
like  real  recovery.  But  I  quite 
believe  in  the  ultimate  good  results 
of  these  and  other  powerful  mineral 
waters,  when  they  do  agree  with  the 
sufferer,  and  specially  when  circum- 
stances allow  of  their  being  perse- 
veringly  used. 

For  mere  amusement,  holiday- 
makers  might  do  worse  than  to 
take  Enghien  as  their  headquarters 
for  a  few  days.  They  could  make 
excursions  hence  to  so  many  points 
of  interest ;  they  could,  in  the  pride 
of  health,  make  merry  at  the  disci- 
pline undergone  by  us  poor  bathers; 
and  especially,  they  might,  in  very 
deed,  enjoy  the  lure  fallaciously, 
though  most  innocently  so,  held 
out  to  me  of  "  running  into"  Paris, 
to  search  through  beguiling  china- 
shops,  and  to  pass  hours  of  delight 
in  the  Louvre. 


440 


John  Caldigate.— Part  XI U. 


[April 


JOHN    CALDIGATE. — PART    XIII. 


CHAPTER  LI. DICK  SHAND  GOES  TO  CAMBRIDGESHIRE. 


THE  news  of  Shand's  return  was 
soon  common  in  Cambridge.  The 
tidings,  of  course,  were  told  to 
Mr  Caldigate,  and  were  then  made 
known  by  him  to  Hester.  The  old 
man,  though  he  turned  the  mat- 
ter much  in  his  mind, — doubting 
whether  the  hopes  thus  raised  would 
not  add  to  Hester's  sorrow  should 
they  not  ultimately  be  realised, — 
decided  that  he  could  not  keep  her 
in  the  dark.  Her  belief  could  not 
be  changed  by  any  statement  which 
Shand  might  make.  Her  faith  was 
so  strong  that  no  evidence  could 
shake  it, — or  confirm  it.  But  there 
would,  no  doubt,  arise  in  her  mind 
a  hope  of  liberation  if  any  new  evi- 
dence against  the  Australian  mar- 
riage were  to  reach  her ;  which 
hope  might  so  probably  be  delu- 
sive !  But  he  knew  her  to  be 
strong  to  endure  as  well  as  strong 
to  hope,  and  therefore  he  told  her 
at  once.  Then  Mr  Seely  returned 
to  Cambridge,  and  all  the  facts  of 
Shand's  deposition  were  made  known 
at  Folking.  "That  will  get  him 
out  at  once,  of  course,"  said  Hester, 
triumphantly,  as  soon  as  she  heard 
it.  But  the  squire  was  older  and 
more  cautious,  and  still  doubted. 
He  explained  that  Dick  Shand  was 
not  a  man  who  by  his  simple  word 
would  certainly  convince  a  Secretary 
of  State;  —  that  deceit  might  be 
suspected ; — that  a  fraudulent  plot 
would  be  possible;  and  that  very 
much  care  was  necessary  before  a 
convicted  prisoner  would  be  re- 
leased. 

"  I  am  quite  sure,  from  Mr  Seely's 
manner,  that  he  thinks  I  have 
bribed  the  young  man,"  said  Cal- 
digate. 

"You!" 


"Yes,— I.  These  are  the  ideas 
which  naturally  come  into  people's 
heads.  I  am  not  in  the  least  angry 
with  Mr  Seely,  and  feel  that  it  is 
only  too  likely  that  the  Secretary 
of  State  and  the  judge  will  think 
the  same.  If  I  were  Secretary  of 
State  I  should  have  to  think  so." 

"I  couldn't  suspect  people  like 
that." 

"And  therefore,    my  dear,    you 
are  hardly  fit  to   be  Secretary  of 
State.     We  must  not  be  too  san- 
.guine.     That  is  all." 

But  Hester  was  very  sanguine. 
When  it  was  fully  known  that  Dick 
had  written  to  Mr  Seely  immediate- 
ly on  his  arrival  at  Pollington,  and 
that  he  had  shown  himself  to  be 
a  warm  partisan  in  the  Caldigate 
interests,  she  could  not  rest  till  she 
saw  him  herself,  and  persuaded  Mr 
Caldigate  to  invite  him  down  to 
Folking.  To  Folking  therefore  he 
went,  with  the  full  intention  of  de- 
claring John  Caldigate's  innocence, 
not  only  there,  but  all  through  Cam- 
bridgeshire. The  Boltons,  of  whom 
he  had  now  heard  something,  should 
be  made  to  know  what  an  honest 
man  had  to  say  on  the  subject, — an 
honest  man,  and  who  was  really  on 
the  spot  at  the  time.  To  Dick's 
mind  it  was  marvellous  that  the 
Boltons  should  have  been  anxious 
to  secure  a  verdict  against  Caldigate, 
— which  verdict  was  also  against 
their  own  daughter  and  their  own 
sister.  Being  quite  sure  himself 
that  Caldigate  was  innocent,  he 
could  not  understand  the  condition 
of  feeling  which  would  be  produced 
by  an  equally  strong  conviction  of 
his  guilt.  Nor  was  his  mind,  pro- 
bably, imbued  with  much  of  that 
religious  scruple  which  made  the 


1879.] 


John  Galdigate. — Part  XIII. 


441 


idea  of  a  feigned  marriage  so  insup- 
portable to  all  Hester's  relations. 
Nor  was  lie  aware  that  when  a  man 
has  taken  a  preconception  home  to 
himself,  and  fastened  it  and  fixed  it, 
as  it  we're,  into  his  bosom,  he  cannot 
easily  dispel  it, — even  though  per- 
sonal interest  should  be  on  the  side 
of  such  expulsion.  It  had  become 
a  settled  belief  with  the  Boltons 
that  John  Caldigate  was  a  bigamist, 
which  belief  had  certainly  been 
strengthened  by  the  pertinacious 
hostility  of  Hester's  mother.  Dick 
had  heard  something  of  all  this, 
and  thought  that  he  would  be  able 
to  open  their  eyes. 

When  he  arrived  at  Folking  he 
was  received  with  open  arms.  Sir 
John  Jorarn  had  not  quite  liked 
him,  because  his  manner  had  been 
rough.  Mr  Seely  had  regarded  him 
from  the  first  as  a  ruined  man,  and 
therefore  a  willing  perjurer.  Even 
at  Pollington  his  "  bush  "  manners 
had  been  a  little  distasteful  to  all 
except  his  mother.  Mr  Caldigate 
felt  some  difficulty  in  making  con- 
versation with  him.  But  to  Hester 
he  was  as  an  angel  from  heaven. 
She  was  never  tired  of  hearing  from 
him  every  detail  as  to  her  husband's 
life  at  Ahalala  and  Nobble, — partic- 
ularly as  to  his  life  after  Euphemia 
Smith  had  taken  herself  to  those 
parts  and  had  quarrelled  with  him. 
The  fact  of  the  early  infatuation 
had  been  acknowledged  on  all  sides. 
Hester  was  able  to  refer  to  that  as 
a  mother,  boasting  of  her  child's 
health,  may  refer  to  the  measles, — 
which  have  been  bad  and  are  past 
and  gone.  Euphemia  Smith  had 
been  her  husband's  measles.  Men 
generally  have  the  measles.  That 
was  a  thing  so  completely  acknow- 
ledged, that  it  was  not  now  the 
source  of  discomfort.  And  the  dis- 
ease had  been  very  bad  with  him. 
So  bad  that  he  had  talked  of 
marriage, — had  promised  marriage. 
Crafty  women  do  get  hold  of  inno- 


cent men,  and  drive  them  some- 
times into  perdition, — often  to  the 
brink  of  perdition.  That  was  Hes- 
ter's theory  as  to  her  husband.  He 
had  been  on  the  brink,  but  had  been 
wise  in  time.  That  was  her  creed, 
and  as  it  was  supported  by  Dick, 
she  found  no  fault  with  Dick's 
manner, — not  even  with  the  yellow 
trousers  which  were  brought  into 
use  at  Eolking. 

"You  were  with  him  on  that 
very  day,"  she  said.  This  referred 
to  the  day  in  April  on  which  it  had 
been  sworn  that  the  marriage  was 
solemnised. 

"  I  was  with  him  every  day  about 
that  time.  I  can't  say  about  par- 
ticular days.  The  truth  is, — I  don't 
mind  telling  you,  Mrs  Caldigate, — 
I  was  drinking  a  good  deal  just 
then."  His  present  state  of  absti- 
nence had  of  course  become  known 
at  Folking,  not  without  the  expres- 
sion of  much  marvel  on  the  part  of 
the  old  squire  as  to  the  quantity  of 
tea  which  their  visitor  was  able  to 
swallow.  And  as  this  abstinence 
had  of  course  been  admired,  Dick 
had  fallen  into  a  way  of  confessing 
his  past  backslidings  to  a  pretty, 
sympathetic,  friendly  woman,  who 
was  willing  to  believe  all  that  he 
said,  and  to  make  much  of  him. 

"But  I  suppose "  Then  she 

hesitated ;  and  Dick  understood  the 
hesitation. 

"I  was  never  so  bad,"  said  he, 
"  but  what  I  knew  very  well  what 
was  going  on.  I  don't  believe 
Caldigate  and  Mrs  Smith  even  so 
much  as  spoke  to  each  other  all 
that  month.  She  had  had  a  won- 
derful turn  of  luck." 

"  In  getting  gold  %  " 

"  She  had  bought  and  sold  shares 
till  she  was  supposed  to  have  made 
a  pot  of  money.  People  up  there 
got  an  idea  that  she  was  one  of  the 
lucky  ones, — and  it  did  seem  so. 
Then  she  got  it  into  her  head  that 
she  didn't  want  Caldigate  to  know 


442 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XI II. 


[April 


about  her  money,  and  he  was  down- 
right sick  of  her.  She  had  been 
good-looking  at  one  time,  Mrs 
Caldigate." 

"I  daresay.  Most  of  them  are 
so,  I  suppose." 

"And  clever.  She'd  talk  the 
hind-legs  off  a  dog,  as  we  used  to 
say  out  there." 

"  You  had  very  odd  sayings,  Mr 
Shand." 

"  Indeed  we  had.  But  when  she 
got  in  that  way  about  her  money, 
and  then  took  to  drinking  brandy, 
Caldigate  was  only  too  glad  to  be 
rid  of  her.  Crinkett  believed  in 
her  because  she  had  such  run  of 
luck.  She  held  a  lot  of  his  shares, 
— shares  that  used  to  be  his.  So 
they  got  together,  and  she  left  Aha- 
lala  and  went  .to  Polyeuka  Hall. 
I  remember  it  all  as  if  it  were 
yesterday.  "When  I  broke  away 
from  Caldigate  in  June,  and  went 
to  Queensland,  they  hadn't  seen 
each  other  for  two  months.  And 
as  for  having  been  married ; — you 
might  as  well  tell  me  that  I  had 
married  her  ! " 

If  Mr  Caldigate  had  ever  allowed 
a  shade  of  doubt  to  cross  his  mind 
as  to  his  son's  story,  Dick  Shand's 
further  story  removed  it.  The 
future  of  the  life  which  was  led  at 
Ahalala  and  Nobble  was  painted 
for  him  clearly,  so  that  he  could 
see,  or  fancy  that  he  saw,  what  the 
condition  of  things  had  been.  And 
this  increased  faith  trickled  through 
to  others.  Mr  Bromley,  who  had 
always  believed,  believed  more 
firmly  than  before,  and  sent  tidings 
of  his  belief  to  Plum-cum-Pippins, 
and  thence  to  Babington.  Mr  Holt, 
the  farmer,  became  more  than  ever 
energetic,  and  in  a  loud  voice  at 
a  Cambridge  market  ordinary,  de- 
clared the  ill-usage  done  to  Caldi- 
gate and  his  young  wife.  It  had 
been  said  over  and  over  again  at  the 
trial  that  Dick  Shand's  evidence 
was  the  one  thing  wanted,  and  here 


was  Dick  Shand  to  give  his  evi- 
dence. Then  the  belief  gained 
ground  in  Cambridge;  and  with  the 
belief  there  arose  a  feeling  as  to  the 
egregious  wrong  which  was  being 
done. 

But  the  Boltons  were  still  assured. 
None  of  them  had  at  least  as  yet 
given  any  sign  of  yielding.  Eobert 
Bolton  knew  very  well  that  Shand 
was  at  Folking,  but  had  not  asked 
to  see  him.  He  and  Mr  Seely  were 
on  different  sides,  and  could  not 
discuss  the  matter ;  but  their  ideas 
were  the  same.  It  was  incredible 
to  Eobert  that  Dick  Shand  should 
appear  just  at  this  moment,  unless 
as  part  of  an  arranged  plan.  He 
could  not  read  the  whole  plot;  but 
was  sure  that  there  was  a  plot.  It 
was  held  in  his  mind  as  a  certain 
fact  that  John  Caldigate  would  not 
have  paid  away  that  large  sum  of 
money  had  he  not  thought  that  by 
doing  so  he  was  buying  off  Crin- 
kett and  the  other  witnesses.  Of 
course  there  had  been  a  marriage  in 
Australia,  and  therefore  the  arrival 
of  Dick  Shand  was  to  him  only  a 
lifting  of  the  curtain  for  another 
act  of  the  play.  An  attempt  was 
to  be  made  to  get  Caldigate  out  of 
prison,  which  attempt  it  was  his 
duty  to  oppose.  Caldigate  had,  he 
thought,  deceived  and  inflicted  a 
terrible  stain  on  his  family ;  and 
therefore  Caldigate  was  an  enemy 
upon  whom  it  behoved  him  to  be 
revenged.  This  feeling  was  the 
stronger  in  his  bosom,  because 
Caldigate  had  been  brought  into 
the  family  by  him. 

But  when  Dick  Shand  called 
upon  him  at  his  office,  he  would 
not  deny  himself.  "  I  have  been 
told  by  some  people  that,  as  I  am 
here  in  the  neighbourhood,  I  ou^nt 
to  come  and  speak  to  you,"  said 
Dick.  The  "some  people"  had 
been,  in  the  first  instance,  Mr  Ralph 
Holt,  the  farmer.  But  Dick  had 
discussed  the  matter  with  Mr 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XI II. 


443 


Bromley,  and  Mr  Bromley  had 
thought  that  Shand's  story  should 
be  told  direct  to  Hester's  brother. 

"If  you  have  anything  to  say, 
Mr  Shand,  I  am  ready  to  hear  it." 

"All  this  about  a  marriage  at 
Ahalala  between  John  Caldigate 
and  Mrs  Smith  is  a  got-up  plan, 
Mr  Bolton." 

"  The  jury  did  not  seem  to  think 
so,  Mr  Shand." 

"  I  wasn't  here  then  to  let  them 
know  the  truth."  Eobert  Bolton 
raised  his  eyebrows,  marvelling  at 
the  simplicity  of  the  man  who 
could  fancy  that  his  single  word 
would  be  able  to  weigh  down  the 
weight  of  evidence  which  had  suf- 
ficed to  persuade  twelve  men  and 
such  a  judge  as  Judge  Bramber. 
"  I  was  with  Caldigate  all  the  time, 
and  I'm  sure  of  what  I'm  saying. 
The  two  weren't  on  speaking  terms 
when  they  were  said  to  be  married." 

"Of  course,  Mr  Shand,  as  you 
have  come  to  me,  I  will  hear  what 
you  may  have  to  say.  But  what  is 
the  use  of  it  1  The  man  has  been 
tried  and  found  guilty." 

"  They  can  let  him  out  again  if 
he's  innocent." 

"  The  Queen  can  pardon  him,  no 
doubt ; — but  even  the  Queen  cannot 
quash  the  conviction.  The  evi- 
dence was  as  clear  as  noonday.  The 
judge  a-nd  the  jury  and  the  public 
were  all  in  one  mind." 

"  But  I  wasn't  here  then,"  said 
Dick  Shand,  with  perfect  confi- 
dence. Robert  Bolton  could  only 
look  at  him  and  raise  his  eyebrows. 
He  could  not  tell  him  to  his  face 
that  no  unprejudiced  person  would 
believe  the  evidence  of  such  a  wit- 
ness. "  He's  your  brother-in-law," 
said  Dick,  "and  I  supposed  you'd 
be  glad  to  know  that  he  was  in- 
nocent." 

"I  can't  go  into  that  question, 

Mr  Shand.     As  I  believe  him  to 

"  have  been  guilty  of  as  wicked  a 

crime  as  any  man  can  well  commit, 

VOL.  CXXV. — NO.  DCCLXII. 


I  cannot  concern  myself  in  asking 
for  a  pardon  for  him.  My  own 
impression  is  that  he  should  have 
been  sent  to  penal  servitude." 

"  By  George  !  "  exclaimed  Dick, 
"  I  tell  you  that  it  is  all  a  lie  from 
beginning  to  end." 

"  I  fear  we  cannot  do  any  good 
by  talking  about  it,  Mr  Shand." 

"  By  George  !  "  Dick  hitched 
up  his  yellow  trousers  as  though  he 
were  preparing  for  a  fight.  He  wore 
his  yellow  trousers  without  braces, 
and  in  all  moments  of  energy 
hitched  them  up. 

"  If  you  please  I  will  say  good 
morning  to  you." 

"  By  George  !  when  I  tell  you 
that  I  was  there  all  the  time,  and 
that  Caldigate  never  spoke  to  the 
woman,  or  so  much  as  saw  her  all 
that  month,  and  that  therefore  your 
own  sister  is  in  honest  truth  Cal- 
digate's  wife,  you  won't  listen  to 
me !  Do  you  mean  to  say  that 
I'm  lying?" 

"  Mr  Shand,  I  must  ask  you  to 
leave  my  office." 

"  By  George  !  I  wish  I  had  you, 
Mr  Bolton,  out  at  Ahalala,  where 
there  are  not  quite  so  many  police- 
men as  there  are  here  at  Cam- 
bridge." 

"  I  shall  have  to  send  for  one  of 
them  if  you  don't  go  away,  Mr 
Shand." 

"  Here's  a  man  who,  even  for  the 
sake  of  his  own  sister,  won't  hear 
the  truth,  just  because  he  hates  his 
sister's  husband  !  What  have  I  got 
to  get  by  lying  ? " 

"  That  I  cannot  tell."  Bolton,  as 
he  said  this,  prepared  himself  for 
a  sudden  attack ;  but  Shand  had 
sense  enough  to  know  that  he  would 
injure  the  cause  in  which  he  was 
interested,  as  well  as  himself,  by  any 
exhibition  of  violence,  and  therefore 
left  the  office. 

"  No,"  said  Mr  Bromley,  when  all 
this  was  told  him ;  "he  is  not  a 
cruel  man,  nor  dishonest,  nor  even 
2  F 


444 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XIII. 


[April 


untrue  to  his  sister.  But  having 
quite  made  up  his  mind  that  Caldi- 
gate  had  been  married  in  Australia, 
he  cannot  release  himself  from  the 
idea.  And,  as  he  thinks  so,  he  feels 
it  to  be  his  duty  to  keep  his  sister 
and  Caldigate  apart." 

"But  why  does  he  not  believe 
me  *( "  demanded  Dick. 

"  In  answer  to  that,  I  can  only 
say  that  I  do  believe  you." 

Then  there  came  a  request  from 
Babington  that  Dick  Shand  would 
go  over  to  them  there  for  a  day. 
At  Babington  opinion  was  divided. 
Aunt  Polly  and  her  eldest  daughter, 
and  with  them  Mr  Smirkie,  still 
thought  that  John  Caldigate  was  a 
wicked  bigamist;  but  the  squire 
and  the  rest  of  the  family  had 
gradually  gone  over  to  the  other 
side.  The  squire  had  never  been 
hot  against  the  offender,  having 
been  one  of  those  who  fancied  that 
a  marriage  at  a  very  out-of-the-way 
place  such  as  Ahalala  did  not  sig- 
nify much.  And  now  when  he 
heard  of  Dick  Shand's  return  and 
proffered  evidence,  he  declared  that 
Dick  Shand  having  been  born  a 
gentleman,  though  he  had  been  ever 
so  much  a  sinner,  and  ever  so  much 
a  drunkard,  was  entitled  to  credence 
before  a  host  of  Crinketts.  But 
with  aunt  Polly  and  Julia  there 
remained  the  sense  of  the  old  injury, 
robbing  Shand  of  all  his  attributes 
of  birth,  and  endowing  even  Crinkett 
with  truth.  Then  there  had  been 
a  few  words,  and  the  squire  had 
asserted  himself,  and  insisted  upon 
asking  Shand  to  Babington. 

"Did  you  ever  see  such  trou- 
sers'?" said  Julia  to  her  mother. 
"I  would  not  believe  him  on  his 
oath." 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  Mr  Smirkie, 
who  of  the  three  was  by  far  the 
most  vehement  in  his  adherence  to 
the  verdict.  "  The  man  is  a  noto- 
rious drunkard.  And  he  has  that 
look  of  wildness  which  bad  charac- 


ters always  bring  with  them  from 
the  colonies." 

"He  didn't  drink  anything  but 
water  at  lunch,"  said  one  of  the 
younger  girls. 

"They  never  do  when  they're 
eating,"  said  Mr  Smirkie.  For  the 
great  teetotal  triumph  had  not  as 
yet  been  made  known  to  the  fam- 
ily at  Babington.  "These  regular 
drunkards  take  it  at  all  times  by 
themselves,  in  their  own  rooms. 
He  has  delirium  tremens  in  his  face. 
I  don't  believe  a  word  that  he 


He  certainly  does  wear  the 
oddest  trousers  I  ever  saw,"  said 
aunt  Polly. 

At  the  same  time  Dick  himself 
was  closeted  with  the  squire,  and 
was  convincing  him  that  there  had 
been  no  Australian  marriage  at  all. 
"  They  didn't  jump  over  a  broom- 
stick, or  anything  of  that  kind?'' 
asked  the  squire,  intending  to  be 
jocose. 

"  They  did  nothing  at  all,"  said 
Dick,  who  had  worked  himself  up 
to  a  state  of  great  earnestness. 
"Caldigate  wouldn't  as  much  as 
look  at  her  at  that  time ; — and  then 
to  come  home  here  and  find  him 
in  prison  because  he  had  married 
her !  How  any  one  should  have 
believed  it!" 

"They  did  believe  it.  The  wo- 
men here  believe  it  now,  as  you 
perceive." 

"  It's  an  awful  shame,  Mr  Babing- 
ton. Think  of  her,  Mr  Babington. 
It's  harder  on  her  even  than  him, 
for  he  was, — well,  fond  of  the  wo- 
man once." 

"It  is  hard.  But  we  must  do 
what  we  can  to  get  him  out.  I'll 
write  to  our  member.  Sir  George 
supports  the  Government,  and  I'll 
get  him  to  see  the  Secretary.  It  is 
hard  upon  a  young  fellow  just  when 
he  has  got  married  and  come  into  a 
nice  property." 

"And  her,  Mr  Babington !" 


1879.] 


Jolm  Caldigate.—Part  XIII. 


445 


"Very  bad,  indeed.  I'll  see  Sir 
George  myself.  The  odd  part  of  it 
is,  the  Boltons  are  all  against  him. 
Old  Bolton  never  quite  liked  the 
marriage,  and  his  wife  is  a  regular 
tartar." 

Thus  the  squire  was  gained,  and 
the  younger  daughter.  Eut  Mr 
Smirkie  was  as  obdurate  as  ever. 
Something  of  his  ground  was  cut 
from  under  his  feet  when  Dick's 
new  and  peculiar  habits  were  ob- 
served at  dinner.  Mr  Smirkie  did 
indeed  cling  to  his  doctrine  that 
your  real  drunkard  never  drinks  at 
his  meals;  but  when  Dick,  on  being 
pressed  in  regard  to  wine,  apologised 
by  saying  that  he  had  become  so 
used  to  tea  in  the  colonies  as  not 
to  be  able  to  take  anything  else  at 
dinner,  the  peculiarity  was  discussed 
till  he  was  driven  to  own  that  he 
had  drunk  nothing  stronger  for  the 
last  two  years.  Then  it  became 
plain  that  delirium  tremens  was  not 
written  on  his  face  quite  so  plainly 
as  Mr  Smirkie  had  at  first  thought, 
and  there  was  nothing  left  but  his 
trousers  to  condemn  him.  But  Mr 
Smirkie  was  still  confident.  "  I 
don't  think  you  can  go  beyond  the 


verdict,"  he  said.  "There  maybe 
a  pardon,  of  course; — though  I  shall 
never  believe  it  till  I  see  it.  But 
though  there  were  twenty  pardons 
she  ought  not  to  go  back  to  him. 
The  pardon  does  not  alter  the  crime, 
— and  whether  he  was  married  in 
Australia,  or  whether  he  was  not, 
she  ought  to  think  that  he  was, 
because  the  jury  has  said  so.  If 
she  had  any  feeling  of  feminine 
propriety  she  would  shut  herself  up 
and  call  herself  Miss  Bolton." 

"  I  don't  agree  with  you  in  the 
least,"  said  the  squire ;  "  and  I  hope 
I  may  live  to  see  a  dozen  little 
Caldigates  running  about  on  that 
lawn." 

And  there  were  a  few  words  up- 
stairs on  the  subject  between  Mr 
Smirkie  and  his  wife, — for  even  Mrs 
Smirkie  and  aunt  Polly  at  last  sub- 
mitted themselves  to  Dick's  energy. 
"Indeed,  then,  if  he  comes  out," 
said  the  wife,  "  I  shall  be  very  glad 
to  see  him  at  Plum-cum-Pippins." 
This  was  said  in  a  voice  which  did 
not  admit  of  contradiction,  and  was 
evidence  at  any  rate  that  Dick's 
visit  to  Babington  had  been  success- 
ful in  spite  of  the  yellow  trousers. 


CHAPTER   LII. — THE   FORTUNES    OF   BAGWAX. 


An  altogether  new  idea  had  oc- 
curred to  Bagwax  as  he  sat  in  his 
office  after  his  interview  with  Sir 
John  Joram ; — and  it  was  an  idea 
of  such  a  nature  that  he  thought 
he  saw  his  way  quite  plain  to 
a  complete  manifestation  of  the 
innocence  of  Caldigate,  to  a  cer- 
tainty of  a  pardon,  and  to  an  im- 
mediate end  of  the  whole  com- 
plication. By  a  sudden  glance  at 
the  evidence  his  eye  had  caught 
an  object  which  in  all  his  glances 
he  had  never  before  observed.  Then 
at  once  he  went  to  work,  and  find- 
ing that  certain  little  marks  were 
distinctly  legible,  he  became  on  a 


sudden  violently  hot, — so  that  the 
sweat  broke  out  on  his  forehead. 
Here  was  the  whole  thing  disclosed 
at  once, — disclosed  to  all  the  world 
if  he  chose  to  disclose  it.  But  if 
he  did  so,  then  there  could  not  be 
any  need  for  that  journey  to  Syd- 
ney, which  Sir  John  still  thought 
to  be  expedient.  And  this  thing 
which  he  had  now  seen  was  not 
one  within  his  own  branch  of  work, 
— was  not  a  matter  with  which  he 
was  bound  to  be  conversant.  Some- 
body else  ought  to  have  found  it 
out.  His  own  knowledge  was 
purely  accidental.  There  would 
be  no  disgrace  to  him  in  not  find- 


446 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XIII. 


[April 


ing  it  out.  Bat  lie  had  found  it 
out. 

Bagwax  was  a  man  who,  in  his 
official  zeal  and  official  capacity,  had 
exercised  his  intellect  far  beyond 
the  matters  to  which  he  was  bound 
to  apply  himself  in  the  mere  per- 
formance of  his  duties.  Post-marks 
were  his  business ;  and  had  he 
given  all  his  mind  to  post-marks,  he 
would  have  sufficiently  carried  out 
that  great  doctrine  of  doing  the 
duty  which  England  expects  from 
every  man.  But  he  had  travelled 
beyond  post-marks,  and  had  looked 
into  many  things.  Among  other 
matters  he  had  looked  into  penny 
stamps,  twopenny  stamps,  and  other 
stamps.  In  post-office  phraseology 
there  is  sometimes  a  confusion  be- 
cause the  affixed  effigy  of  her 
Majesty's  head,  which  represents 
the  postage  paid,'  is  called  a  stamp, 
and  the  post-marks  or  impressions 
indicating  the  names  of  towns  are 
also  called  stamps.  Those  post- 
marks or  impressions  had  been  the 
work  of  Bag  wax's  life ;  but  his  zeal, 
his  joy  in  his  office,  and  the  gen- 
eral energy  of  his  disposition,  had 
opened  up  to  him  also  all  the  mys- 
teries of  the  queen's  -  heads.  That 
stamp,  that  effigy,  that  twopenny 
queen's-head,  which  by  its  presence 
on  the  corner  of  the  envelope  pur- 
ported to  have  been  the  price  of 
conveying  the  letter  from  Sydney 
to  Nobble,  on  10th  May  1873,  had 
certainly  been  manufactured  and 
sent  out  to  the  colony  since  that 
date! 

There  are  signs  invisible  to  ordi- 
nary eyes  which  are  plain  as  the 
sun  at  noonday  to  the  initiated. 
It  is  so  in  all  arts,  in  all  sciences. 
Bagwax  was  at  once  sure  of  his 
fact.  To  his  instructed  gaze  the 
little  receipt  for  twopence  was  as 
clearly  dated  as  though  the  figures 
were  written  on  it.  And  yet  he 
had  never  looked  at  it  before.  In 
the  absorbing  interest  which  the 


post-mark  had  created, — that  fraud- 
ulent post -mark,  as  it  certainly 
was, — he  had  never  condescended 
to  examine  the  postage-stamp.  But 
now  he  saw  and  was  certain. 

If  it  was  so, — and  he  had  no 
doubt, — then  would  Caldigate  sure- 
ly be  released.  It  is  hoped  that 
the  reader  will  follow  the  mind  of 
Bagwax,  which  was  in  this  matter 
very  clear.  This  envelope  had  been 
brought  up  at  the  trial  as  evidence 
that,  on  a  certain  day,  Caldigate  had 
written  to  the  woman  as  his  wife, 
and  had  sent  the  letter  through  the 
post-office,  For  such  sending  the 
postage-stamp  was  necessary.  The 
postage-stamp  had  certainly  been 
put  on  when  the  envelope  was  pre- 
pared for  its  intended  purpose.  But 
if  it  could  be  proved  by  the  stamp 
itself  that  it  had  not  been  in  exist- 
ence on  the  date  impressed  on  the 
envelope,  then  the  fraud  would  be 
quite  apparent.  And  if  there  had 
been  such  fraud,  then  would  the  tes- 
timony of  all  those  four  witnesses  be 
crushed  into  arrant  perjury.  They 
had  produced  the  fraudulent  docu- 
ment, and  by  it  would  be  thoroughly 
condemned.  There  could  be  no  ne- 
cessity for  a  journey  to  Sydney. 

As  it  all  became  clear  to  his 
mind,  he  thumped  his  table  partly 
in  triumph,  —  partly  in  despair. 
"  What's  the  matter  with  you 
now1?"  said  Mr  Curlydown.  It 
was  a  quarter  past  four,  and  Curly- 
down  had  not  completed  his  daily 
inspections.  Had  Bagwax  been 
doing  his  proper  share  of  work, 
Curlydown  would  have  already 
washed  his  hands  and  changed  his 
coat,  and  have  been  ready  to  start 
for  the  4.30  train.  As  it  was,  he 
had  an  hour  of  labour  before  him, 
and  would  be  unable  to  count  the 
plums  upon  his  wall,  as  was  Usual 
with  him  before  dinner. 

"  It  becomes  more  wonderful 
every  day,"  said  Bagwax,  solemnly, 
— almost  awfully. 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate.—Part  XIII. 


447 


"  It  is  very  wonderful  to  me  that 
a  man  should  be  able  to  sit  so  many 
hours  looking  at  one  dirty  bit  of 
paper." 

"  Every  moment  that  I  pass  with 
that  envelope  before  my  eyes  I  see 
the  innocent  husband  in  jail,  and 
the  poor  afflicted  wife  weeping  in 
her  solitude." 

"  You'll  be  going  on  to  the  stage, 
Bagwax,  before  this  is  done." 

"  I  have  sometimes  thought  that 
it  was  the  career  for  which  I  was 
best  adapted.  But,  as  to  the  en- 
velope, the  facts  are  now  certain." 

"  Any  new  facts  ? "  asked  Curly- 
down.  But  he  asked  the  question 
in  a  jeering  tone,  not  at  all  as 
though  desiring  confidence  or  offer- 
ing sympathy. 

"Yes,"  replied  Bagwax,  slowly. 
"  The  facts  are  certainly  new,— and 
most  convincing ;  but  as  you  have 
not  given  attention  to  the  particular 
branch  concerned,  there  can  be  no 
good  in  my  mentioning  them.  You 
would  not  understand  me."  It  was 
thus  that  he  revenged  himself  on 
Curlydown.  Then  there  was  again 
silence  between  them  for  a  quarter 
of  an  hour,  during  which  Curly- 
down  was  hurrying  through  his 
work,  and  Bagwax  was  meditating 
whether  it  was  certainly  his  duty  to 
make  known  the  facts  as  to  the 
postage-stamp.  "You  are  so  un- 
kind," said  Bagwax  at  last,  in  a 
tone  of  injured  friendship,  burning 
to  tell  his  new  discovery. 

"  You  have  got  it  all  your  way," 
said  Curlydown,  without  lifting  his 
head.  "  And  then,  as  you  said  just 
now, — I  don't  understand." 

"  I'd  tell  you  everything  if  you'd 
only  be  a  little  less  hard." 

Curlydown  was  envious.  He  had, 
of  course,  been  told  of  the  civil 
things  which  Sir  John  Joram  had 
said ;  and  though  he  did  not  quite 
believe  all,  he  was  convinced  that 
Bagwax  was  supposed  to  have  dis- 
tinguished himself.  If  there  was 


anything  to  be  known  he  would 
like  to  know  it.  Nor  was  he  natu- 
rally quarrelsome.  Bagwax  was  his 
old  friend.  "  I  don't  mean  to  be 
hard,"  he  said.  "Of  course  one 
does  feel  one's  self  fretted  when 
one  has  been  obliged  to  miss  two 
trains." 

"  Can  I  lend  a  hand  *( "  said  Bag- 
wax. 

"It  doesn't  signify  now.  I  can't 
catch  anything  before  the  5.20. 
One  does  expect  to  get  away  a  little 
earlier  than  that  on  a  Saturday. 
"What  is  it  that  you've  found  out  ? " 

"Do  you  really  care  to  know ? " 

"  Of  course  I  do, — if  it's  anything 
in  earnest.  I  took  quite  as  much 
interest  as  you  in  the  matter  when 
we  were  down  at  Cambridge." 

"  You  see  that  postage-stamp  ? " 
Bagwax  stretched  out  the  envelope, 
— or  rather  the  photograph  of  the 
envelope,  for  it  was  no  more.  But 
the  Queen's  head,  with  all  its  oblit- 
erating smudges,  and  all  its  marks 
and  peculiarities,  was  to  be  seen 
quite  as  plainly  as  on  the  original, 
which  was  tied  up  carefully  among 
the  archives  of  the  trial.  "You 
see  that  postage-stamp  1 "  Curly- 
down  took  his  glass,  and  looked  at 
the  document,  and  declared  that  he 
saw  the  postage-stamp  very  plainly. 
"  But  it  does  not  tell  you  anything 
particular  1 " 

"  Nothing  very  particular — at  the 
first  glance,"  said  Curlydown,  gaz- 
ing through  the  glass  with  all  his 
eyes. 

"  Look  again." 

"I  see  that  they  obliterate  out 
there  with  a  kind  of  star." 

"  That  has  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

"  The  bunch  of  hair  at  the  back 
of  the  head  isn't  quite  like  our 
bunch  of  hair." 

"Just  the  same  ; — taken  from 
the  same  die,"  said  Bagwax. 

"  The  little  holes  for  dividing  the 
stamps  are  bigger." 

"  It  isn't  that." 


448 


John  Caldigate.—Part  XIII. 


[April 


Then  what  the  d- 


is  it  ?  " 


"  There  are  letters  at  every  cor- 
ner," said  Bagwax. 

"That's  of  course/'  said  Curly- 
down. 

"Can  you  read  those  letters?" 
Curly  down  owned  that  he  never 
had  quite  understood  what  those 
letters  meant.  "  Those  two  P's  in 
the  two  bottom  corners  tell  me 
that  that  stamp  wasn't  printed  be- 
fore '74.  It  was  all  explained  to  me 
not  long  ago.  Now  the  post-mark 
is  dated  73."  There  was  an  air  of 
triumph  about  Bagwax  as  he  said 
this  which  almost  drove  Curlydown 
back  to  hostility.  But  he  checked 
himself,  merely  shaking  his  head, 
and  continued  to  look  at  the  stamp. 
"What  do  you  think  of  that?" 
asked  Bagwax. 

"  You'd  have  to  prove  it." 

"Of  course  I  should.  But  the 
stamps  are  made  here  and  are  sent 
out  to  the  colony.  I  shall  see 
Smithers  at  the  stamp  -  office  to- 
morrow, of  course."  Mr  Smithers 
was  a  gentleman  concerned  in  the 
manufacture  of  stamps.  "  But  I 
know  my  facts.  I  am  as  well  aware 
of  the  meaning  of  those  letters  as 
though  I  had  made  postage-stamps 
niy  own  peculiar  duty.  Now  what 
ought  I  to  do  ? " 

"You  wouldn't  have  to  go,  I 
suppose." 

"  Not  a  foot." 

"And  yet  it  ought  to  be  found 
out  how  that  date  got  there."  And 
Curlydown  put  his  finger  upon  the 
impression — 10th  May  1873. 

"  Not  a  doubt  about  it.  I  should 
do  a  deal  of  good  by  going  if  they'd 
give  me  proper  authority  to  over- 
haul everything  in  the  office  out 
there.  They  had  the  letter  stamped 
fraudulently ;  —  fraudulently,  Mr 
Curlydown !  Perhaps  if  I  stayed 
at  home  to  give  evidence,  they'd 
send  you  to  Sydney  to  find  all  that 
out." 

There  was  a  courtesy  in  this  sug- 


gestion which  induced  Curlydown 
to  ask  his  junior  to  come  down  and 
take  pot  -  luck  at  Apricot  Villa. 
Bagwax  was  delighted,  for  his  heart 
had  been  sore  at  the  coolness  which 
had  grown  up  between  him  and  the 
man  under  whose  wing  he  had 
worked  for  so  many  years.  He  had 
been  devoted  to  Curlydown  till 
growing  ambition  had  taught  him 
to  think  himself  able  to  strike  out 
a  line  for  himself.  Mr  Curlydown 
had  two  daughters,  of  whom  the 
younger,  Jemima,  had  found  much 
favour  in  the  eyes  of  Bagwax.  But 
since  the  jealousy  had  sprung  up 
between  the  two  men  he  had  never 
seen  Jemima,  nor  tasted  the  fruits 
of  Curlydown's  garden.  Mrs  Curly- 
down,  who  approved  of  Bagwax, 
had  been  angry,  and  Jemima  her- 
self had  become  sullen  and  unlov- 
ing to  her  father.  On  that  very 
morning  Mrs  Curlydown  had  de- 
clared that  she  hated  quarrels  like 
poison.  "So  do  I,  mamma,"  said 
Jemima,  breaking  her  silence  em- 
phatically. "  Not  that  Mr  Bagwax 
is  anything  to  anybody." 

"  That  does  look  like  something," 
said  Curlydown,  whispering  to  his 
friend  in  the  railway  carriage.  They 
were  sitting  opposite  to  each  other, 
with  their  knees  together, — and  were 
of  course  discussing  the  envelope. 

"  It  is  everything.  When  they 
were  making  up  their  case  in  Aus- 
tralia, and  when  the  woman  brought 
out  the  cover  with  his  writing  upon 
it,  with  the  very  name,  Mrs  Caldi- 
gate,  written  by  himself, — Crinkett 
wasn't  contented  with  that.  So 
they  put  their  heads  together,  and 
said  that  if  the  letter  could  be  got 
to  look  like  a  posted  letter, — a  let- 
ter sent  regularly  by  the  post, — 
that  would  be  real  evidence.  The 
idea  wasn't  bad." 

"  Nothing  has  ever  been  consid- 
ered better  evidence  than  post- 
marks," said  Curlydown,  with  au^ 
thority. 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate.—Part  XIII. 


449 


"  It  was  a  good  idea.  Then  they 
had  to  get  a  postage-stamp.  They 
little  knew  how  they  might  put 
their  foot  into  it  there.  And  they 
got  hold  of  some  young  man  at  the 
post-office  who  knew  how  to  fix  a 
date-stamp  with  a  past  date.  How 
these  things  become  clear  when  one 
looks  at  them  long  enough  ! " 

"  Only  one  has  to  have  an  eye  in 
one's  head.'; 

"  Yes,"  said  Bagwax,  as  modestly 
as  he  could  at  such  a  moment.  "A 
fellow  has  to  have  his  wits  about 
him  before  he  can  do  anything  out 
of  the  common  way  in  any  line. 
You'd  tell  Sir  John  everything  at 
once; — wouldn't  you?"  Curlydown 
raised  his  hat  and  scratched  his 
head.  "Duty  first,  you  know, — 
duty  first,"  said  Bagwax. 

"In  a  man's  own  line, — yes," 
said  Curlydown.  "  Somebody  else 
ought  to  have  found  that  out. 
That's  not  post-office.  It's  stamps 
and  taxes.  It's  very  hard  that  a 
man  should  have  to  cut  the  nose 
off  his  own  face  by  knowing  more 
than  he  need  know." 

"  Duty  !  duty  ! "  said  Bagwax, 
as  he  opened  the  carriage-door  and 
jumped  out  on  to  the  platform. 

When  he  got  up  to  the  cottage, 
Mrs  Curlydown  assured  him  that 
it  was  quite  a  cure  for  sore  eyes  to 
see  him.  Sophia,  the  elder  of  the 
two  daughters  at  home,  told  him 
that  he  was  a  false  truant;  and 
Jemima  surmised  that  the  great  at- 
tractions of  the  London  season  had 
prevented  him  from  coming  down 
to  Enfield.  "It  isn't  that,  in- 
deed," he  said.  "I  am  always 
delighted  in  running  down.  But 
the  Caldigate  affair  has  been  so 
important !" 

"  You  mean  the  trial,"  said  Mrs 
Curlydown.  "But  the  man  has 
been  in  prison  ever  so  long." 

"  Unjustly  !     Most  unjustly  ! " 

"  Is  it  so,  really  1 "  asked  Jemima. 
"  And  the  poor  young  bride  ? " 


"  Not  so  much  of  a  bride,"  said 
Sophia.  "  She's  got  one,  I  know." 

"  And  papa  says  you're  to  go  out 
to  Botany  Bay,"  said  Jemima.  "It'll 
be  years  and  years  before  you  are 
back  again."  Then  he  explained  it 
was  not  Botany  Bay,  and  he  would 
be  back  in  six  months.  And,  after 
all,  he  wasn't  going  at  all.  "  Well, 
I  declare,  if  papa  isn't  down  the 
walk  already  !  "  said  Jemima,  look- 
ing out  of  the  window. 

"I  don't  think  I  shall  go  at  all," 
said  Bagwax  in  a  melancholy  tone 
as  he  went  up-stairs  to  wash  his 
hands. 

The  dinner  was  very  pleasant; 
and  as  Curlydown  and  his  guest 
drank  their  bottle  of  port  together 
at  the  open  window,  it  was  defi- 
nitely settled  that  Bagwax  should 
reveal  the  mystery  of  the  postage- 
stamp  to  Sir  John  Joram  at  once. 
"I  should  have  it  like  a  lump  of 
lead  on  my  conscience  all  the  time 
I  was  on  the  deep,"  said  Bagwax, 
solemnly. 

"  Conscience  is  conscience,  to  be 
sure,"  said  Curlydown. 

"  I  don't  think  that  I'm  given  to 
bo  afraid,"  said  Bagwax.  "  The 
ocean,  if  I  know  myself,  would  have 
no  terrors  for  me ; — not  if  I  was 
doing  my  duty.  But  I  should  hear 
the  ship's  sides  cracking  with  every 
blast  if  that  secret  were  lodged 
within  my  breast." 

"  Take  another  glass  of  port,  old 
boy." 

Bagwax  did  take  another  glass, 
finishing  the  bottle,  and  continued. 
''Farewell  to  those  smiling  shores. 
Farewell,  Sydney,  and  all  her 
charms.  Farewell  to  her  orange 
groves,  her  blue  mountains,  and  her 
rich  gold-fields." 

"Take  a  drop  of  whitewash  to 
wind  up,  and  then  we'll  join  the 
ladies."  Curlydown  was  a  strictly 
hospitable  man,  and  in  his  own 
house  would  not  appear  to  take 
amiss  anything  his  guest  might  say. 


450 


John  Caldigate.—Part  XIII. 


[April 


But  when  Bagwax  became  too 
poetical  over  his  wine,  Curly  down 
waxed  impatient.  Bagwax  took 
his  drop  of  whitewash,  and  then 
hurried  on  to  the  lawn  to  join 
Jemima. 

"  And  you  really  are  not  going  to 
those  distant  parts  1 " 

"  No,"  said  Bagwax,  with  all  that 
melancholy  which  wine  and  love 
combined  with  sorrow  can  produce. 
"  That  dream  is  over." 

"  I  am  so  glad." 

"Why  should  you  be  glad? 
Why  should  a  resolve  which  it 
almost  breaks  my  heart  to  make  be 
a  source  of  joy  to  you?" 

"  Of  course  you  would  have  noth- 
ing to  regret  at  leaving,  Mr  Bag- 
wax." 

"Very  much, — if  I  were  going 
for  ever.  No;  I  could  never  do 
that,  unless  I  were  to  take  some 
dear  one  with  me.  But,  as  I  said, 
that  dream  is  over.  It  has  ever 
been  my  desire  to  see  foreign 
climes,  and  the  chance  so  seldom 
comes  in  a  man's  way." 

"You've  been  to  Ostend,  I  know, 
Mr  Bagwax." 

"  Oh  yes,  and  to  Boulogne,"  said 
Bagwax,  proudly.  "  But  the  desire 
of  travel  grows  with  the  thing  it 
feeds  on.  I  long  to  overcome  great 
distances, — to  feel  that  I  have  put 
illimitable  space  behind  me.  To 
set  my  foot  on  shores  divided  from 
these  by  the  thickness  of  all  the 
earth  would  give  me  a  sense  of 
grandeur  which  I — which, — which, 
— would  be  magnificent." 

"  I  suppose  that  is  natural  in  a 
man." 

"In  some  men,"  said  Bagwax, 
not  liking  to  be  told  that  his  heroic 
instincts  were  shared  by  all  his 
brethren. 

"  But  women,  of  course,  think  of 
the  dangers.  Suppose  you  were  to 
be  cast  away!" 

"What  matter?  With  a  father 
of  a  family,  of  course,  it  would  be 


different.  But  a  lone  man  should 
never  think  of  such  things."  Jemi- 
ma shook  her  head  and  walked  si- 
lently by  his  side.  "  If  I  had  some 
dear  one  who  cared  for  me  I  suppose 
it  would  be  different  with  me." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Jemima. 
"  Gentlemen  like  to  amuse  them- 
selves sometimes,  but  it  doesn't 
often  go  very  deep." 

"Things  always  go  deep  with 
me,"  said  Bagwax.  "  I  panted  for 
that  journey  to  the  antipodes; — 
panted  for  it !  Now  that  it  is  over, 
perhaps  some  day  I  may  tell  you 
under  what  circumstances  it  has  been 
relinquished.  In  the  meantime  my 
mind  passes  to  other  things ; — or 
perhaps  I  should  say  my  heart — 
Jemima  ! "  Then  Bagwax  stopped 
on  the  path* 

"  Go  on,  Mr  Bagwax.  Papa  will 
be  looking  at  you." 

"Jemima,"  he  said,  "will  you 
recompense  me  by  your  love  for 
what  I  have  lost  on  the  other  side 
of  the  globe  ? "  She  recompensed 
him, -and  he  was  happy. 

The  future  father  and  son-in-law 
sat  and  discussed  their  joint  affairs 
for  an  hour  after  the  ladies  had  re- 
tired. As  to  Jemima  and  his  love, 
Bagwax  was  allowed  to  be  alto- 
gether triumphant.  Mrs  Curly- 
down  kissed  him,  and  he  kissed 
Sophia,  That  was  in  public. 
What  passed  between  him  and 
Jemima  no  human  eye  saw.  The 
old  post  -  office  clerk  took  the 
younger  one  to  his  heart,  and  de- 
clared that  he  was  perfectly  satisfied 
with  his  girl's  choice.  "I've  al- 
ways known  that  you  were  steady," 
he  said,  "and  that's  what  I  look 
to.  She  has  had  her  admirers,  and 
perhaps  might  have  looked  higher ; 
but  what's  rank  or  money  if  a 
man's  fond  of  pleasure?"  But  when 
that  was  settled  they  returned  again 
to  the  Caldigate  envelope.  Curly- 
down  was  not  quite  so  sure  as  to 
that  question  of  duty.  The  pro- 


1879.] 


John  Cdldigate. — Part  XIIL 


451 


posed  journey  to  Sydney,  with,  a 
pound  a-day  allowed  for  expenses, 
and  the  traveller's  salary  going  on 
all  the  time,  would  put  a  nice  sum 
of  ready-money  into  Bagwax's  pock- 
et. "  It  wouldn't  be  less  than  two 
hundred  towards  furnishing,  my 
boy,"  said  Curlydown.  "You'll  want 
it.  And  as  for  the  delay,  what's 
six  months  ?  Girls  like  to  have  a 
little  time  to  boast  about  it." 

But  Bagwax  had  made  up  his 
mind,  and  nothing  would  shake 
him.  "  If  they'll  let  me  go  out  all 
the  same,  to  set  matters  right,  of 
course  I'd  take  the  job.  I  should 
think  it  a  duty,  and  would  bear 
the  delay  as  well  as  I  could.  If 
Jemima  thought  it  right  I'm  sure 
she  wouldn't  complain.  But  since 


I  saw  that  letter  on  that  stamp  my 
conscience  has  told  me  that  I  must 
reveal  it  all.  It  might  be  me  as 
was  in  prison,  and  Jemima  who 
was  told  that  I  had  a  wife  in 
Australia.  Since  I've  looked  at  it 
in  that  light  I've  been  more  deter- 
mined than  ever  to  go  to  Sir  John 
Joram's  chambers  to-morrow.  Good 
night,  Mr  Curlydown.  I  am  very 
glad  you  asked  me  down  to  the 
cottage  to-day;  more  glad  than 
anything." 

At  half-past  eleven,  by  the  last 
train,  Bagwax  returned  to  town, 
and  spent  the  night  with  mingled 
dreams,  in  which  Sydney,  Jemima, 
and  the  envelope  were  all  in  their 
turns  eluding  him,  and  all  in  their 
turns  within  his  grasp. 


CHAPTER   LIII. — SIR   JOHN   BACKS   HIS   OPINION. 


"Well,  Mr  Bagwax,  I'm  glad 
that  it's  only  one  envelope  this 
time."  This  was  said  by  Sir  John 
Joram  to  the  honest  and  energetic 
post-office  clerk  on  the  morning  of 
Wednesday  the  3d  September,  when 
the  lawyer  would  have  been  among 
the  partridges  down  in  Suffolk  but 
for  the  vicissitudes  of  John  Caldi- 
gate's  case.  It  was  hard  upon  Sir 
John,  and  went  something  against 
the  grain  with  him.  He  was  past 
the  time  of  life  at  which  men  are 
enthusiastic  as  to  the  wrongs  of 
others, — as  was  Bagwax ;  and  had, 
in  truth,  much  less  to  gain  from  the 
cause,  or  to  expect,  than  Bagwax. 
He  thought  that  the  pertinacity  of 
Bagwax,  and  the  coming  of  Dick 
Shand  at  the  moment  of  his  holi- 
days, were  circumstances  which  jus- 
tified the  use  of  a  little  internal 
strong  language, — such  as  he  had  oc- 
casionally used  externally  before  he 
had  become  Attorney- General.  In 

fact  he  had damned  Dick  Shand 

and  Bagwax,  and  in  doing  so  had 
considered  that  Jones  his  clerk  was 


internal.  "  I  wish  he  had  gone  to 
Sydney  a  month  ago,"  he  said  to 
Jones.  But  when  Jones  suggest- 
ed that  Bagwax  might  be  sent  to 
Sydney  without  further  trouble, 
Sir  John's  conscience  pricked  him. 
Not  to  be  able  to  shoot  a  Suffolk 
partridge  on  the  1st  of  September 
was  very  cruel,  but  to  be  detained 
wrongfully  in  Cambridge  jail  was 
worse ;  and  he  was  of  opinion  that 
such  cruelty  had  been  inflicted  on 
Caldigate.  On  the  Saturday  Dick 
Shand  had  been  with  him.  He 
had  remained  in  town  on  the  Mon- 
day and  Tuesday  by  agreement  with 
Mr  Seely.  Early  on  the  Tuesday 
intimation  was  given  to  him  that 
Bagwax  would  come  on  the  Wed- 
nesday with  further  evidence, — with 
evidence  which  should  be  positive- 
ly conclusive.  Bagwax  had,  in  the 
meantime,  been  with  his  friend 
Smithers  at  the  stamp-office,  and 
was  now  fully  prepared.  By  the 
help  of  Smithers  he  had  arrived  at 
the  fact  that  the  postage-stamp  had 
certainly  been  fabricated  in  1874, 


452 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XIII. 


[April 


some  months  after  trie  date  im- 
printed on  the  cover  of  the  letter 
to  which  it  was  affixed. 

"  No,  Sir  John ; — only  one  this 
time.  We  needn't  move  anything." 
All  the  chaos  had  been  restored  to 
its  normal  place,  and  looked  as 
though  it  had  never  been  moved 
since  it  was  collected. 

"And  we  can  prove  that  this 
queen's-head  did  not  exist  until  1st 
January  1874?" 

"  Here's  the  deposition,"  said 
Bagwax,  who,  by  his  frequent  in- 
tercourse with  Mr  Jones,  had  be- 
come almost  as  good  as  a  lawyer 
himself, — "at  least,  it  isn't  a  de- 
position, of  course, — because  it's 
not  sworn." 

"A  statement  of  what  can  be 
proved  on  oath." 

"  Just  that,  Sir  John.  It's  Mr 
Smithers  !  Mr  Smithers  has  been 
at  the  work  for  the  last  twenty 
years.  I  knew  it  just  as  well  as  he 
from  the  first,  because  I  attend  to 
these  sort  of  things ;  but  I  thought 
it  best  to  go  to  the  fountain-head." 

"  Quite  right." 

"  Sir  John  will  want  to  hear  it 
from  the  fountain-head,  I  said  to 
myself;  and  therefore  I  went  to 
Smithers.  Smithers  is  perhaps  a 
little  conceited,  but  his  word  is — 
gospel.  In  a  matter  of  postage- 
stamps  Smithers  is  gospel." 

Then  Sir  John  read  the  state- 
ment ;  and  though  he  may  not  have 
taken  it  for  gospel,  still  to  him  it 
was  credible.  "  It  seems  clear,"  he 
said. 

"  Clear  as  the  running  stream," 
said  Bagwax. 

"  I  should  like  to  have  all  that 
gang  up  for  perjury,  Mr  Bagwax." 

"So  should  I,  Sir  John;  —  so 
should  I.  When  I  think  of  that 
poor  dear  lady  and  her  infant  babe 
without  a  name,  and  that  young 
father  torn  from  his  paternal  acres 
and  cast  into  a  vile  prison,  my 
blood  boils  within  my  veins,  and 


all  my  passion  to  see  foreign  climes 
fades  into  the  distance." 

"No  foreign  climes  now,  Mr 
Bagwax." 

"  I  suppose  not,  Sir  John,"  said 
the  hero,  mournfully. 

"Not  if  this  be  true." 

"  It's  gospel,  Sir  John ; — gospel. 
They  might  send  me  out  to  set  that 
office  to  rights.  Things  must  be 
very  wrong  when  they  could  get 
hold  of  a  date-stamp  and  use  it  in 
that  way.  There  must  be  one  of 
the  gang  in  the  office." 

"  A  bribe  did  it,  I  should  say." 

"  I  could  find  it  out,  Sir  John. 
Let  me  alone  for  that.  You  could 
say  that  you  have  found  me — quick- 
like,  in  this  matter ; — couldn't  you, 
Sir  John  1 "  Bagwax  was  truly 
happy  in  the  love  of  Jemima  Curly- 
down  ;  but  that  idea  of  earning  two 
hundred  pounds  for  furniture,  and 
of  seeing  distant  climes  at  the  same 
time,  had  taken  a  strong  hold  of 
his  imagination. 

"I  am  afraid  I  should  have  no 
voice  in  the  matter, — unless  with 
the  view  of  getting  evidence." 

"  And  we've  got  that ; — haven't 
we,  Sir  John?" 

"  I  think  so." 

"Duty,  Sir  John,  duty!"  said 
Bagwax,  almost  sobbing  through 
his  triumph. 

"That's  it,  Mr  Bagwax."  Sir 
John  too  had  given  up  his  par- 
tridges,— for  a  day  or  two. 

"And  that  gentleman  will  now 
be  restored  to  his  wife  1 " 

"It  isn't  for  me  to  say.  As 
you  and  I  have  been  engaged  on 

the  same  side "  To  be  told  that 

he  had  been  on  the  same  side  with 
the  late  Attorney- General,  was  al- 
most compensation  to  Bagwax  for 
the  loss  of  his  journey.  "As  you 
and  I  have  been  on  the  same  side, 
I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  I 
think  that  he  ought  to  be  released. 
The  matter  remains  with  the  Sec- 
retary of  State,  who  will  probably 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate.— Part  XIII. 


453 


be  guided  by  the  judge  who  tried 
the  case." 

"  A  stern  man,  Sir  John." 

"  Not  soft-hearted,  Mr  Bagwax, — 
but  as  conscientious  a  man  as  you'll 
be  able  to  put  your  hand  upon. 
The  young  wife  with  her  nameless 
baby  won't  move  him  at  all.  But 
were  he  moved  by  such  considera- 
tion, he  would  be  so  far  unfit  for 
his  office." 

"  Mercy  is  divine,"  said  Bagwax. 

"  And  therefore  unfit  to  be  used 
by  a  merely  human  judge.  You 
know,  I  suppose,  that  Richard 
Shand  has  come  home  1 " 

"No!" 

"  Indeed  he  has,  and  was  with 
me  a  day  or  two  since." 

"Can  he  say  anything ?"  Bag- 
wax  was  not  rejoiced  at  Dick's  op- 
portune return.  He  thoroughly 
wished  that  Caldigate  should  be 
liberated,  but  he  wished  himself  to 
monopolise  the  glory  of  the  work. 

"  He  says  a  great  deal.  He  has 
sworn  point-blank  that  there  was 
no  such  marriage  at  the  time  named. 
He  and  Caldigate  were  living  to- 
gether then,  and  for  some  weeks 
afterwards,  and  the  woman  was 
never  near  them  during  the  time." 

"  To  think  of  his  coming  just 
now ! " 

"It  wiU  be  a  great  help,  Mr 
Bagwax ;  but  it  wouldn't  be  enough 
alone.  He  might  possibly — tell  an 
untruth." 

"  Perjury  on  the  other  side,  as  it 
were." 

"Just  that.  But  this  little  queen's- 
head  here  can't  be  untrue." 

"  No,  Sir  John,  no  ;  that  can't 
be,"  said  Bagwax,  comforted;  "and 
the  dated  impression  can't  lie  either. 
The  envelope  is  what'll  do  it  after 
all." 

"  I  hope  so.  You  and  Mr  Jones 
will  prepare  the  statement  for  the 
Secretary  of  State,  arid  I  will  send 
it  myself."  With  that  Mr  Bagwax 
took  his  leave,  and  remained  closeted 


with  Mr  Jones  for  much  of  the  re- 
mainder of  the  day. 

The  moment  Sir  John  was  alone 
he  wrote  an  almost  angry  note  to 
his  friend  Honybun,  in  conjunc- 
tion with  whom  and  another  mem- 
ber of  Parliament  he  had  the  shoot- 
ing in  Suffolk.  Honybun,  who  was 
also  a  lawyer,  though  less  success- 
ful than  his  friend,  was  a  much 
better  shot,  and  was  already  taking 
the  cream  off  the  milk  of  the  shoot- 
ing. "  I  cannot  conceive/'  he  said 
at  the  end  of  his  letter,  "  that,  after 
all  my  experience,  I  should  have 
put  myself  so  much  out  of  my  way 
to  serve  a  client.  A  man  should  do 
what  he's  paid  to  do,  and  what  it  is 
presumed  that  he  will  do,  and  noth- 
ing more.  But  here  I  have  been 
instigated  by  an  insane  ambition  to 
emulate  the  good-natured  zeal  of  a 
fellow  who  is  absolutely  willing  to 
sacrifice  himself  for  the  good  of  a 
stranger."  Then  he  went  on  to  say 
that  he  could  not  leave  London  till 
the  Friday. 

On  the  Thursday  morning  he  put 
all  the  details  together,  and  himself 
drew  out  a  paper  for  the  perusal  of 
the  Secretary  of  State.  As  he  looked 
at  the  matter  all  round,  it  seemed 
to  him  that  the  question  was  so 
clear  that  even  Judge  Bramber 
could  not  hesitate.  The  evidence 
of  Dick  Shand  was  quite  conclus- 
ive,— if  credible.  It  was  open,  of 
course,  to  strong  doubt,  in  that  it 
could  not  be  sifted  by  cross-exami- 
nation. Alone,  it  certainly  would 
not  have  sufficed  to  extort  a  pardon 
from  any  Secretary  of  State, — as  any 
Secretary  of  State  would  have  been 
alive  to  the  fact  that  Dick  might 
have  been  suborned.  Dick's  life 
had  not  been  such  that  his  single 
word  would  have  been  regarded  as 
certainly  true.  But  in  corrobora- 
tion  it  was  worth  much.  And  then 
if  the  Secretary  or  the  judge  could 
be  got  to  go  into  that  very  compli- 
cated question  of  the  dated  stamp, 


45  4 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XIII. 


[April 


it  would,  Sir  John  thought,  become 
evident  to  him  that  the  impression 
had  not  been  made  at  the  time  in- 
dicated. This  had  gradually  been 
borne  in  upon  Sir  John's  mind,  till 
he  was  almost  as  confident  in  his 
facts  as  Bagwax  himself.  But  this 
operation  had  required  much  time 
and  much  attention.  Would  the 
Secretary,  or  would  the  judge, 
clear  his  table,  and  give  himself 
time  to  inspect  and  to  measure  two 
or  three  hundred  post-marks  ?  The 
date  of  the  fabrication  of  the  post- 
age-stamp would  of  course  require 
to  be  verified  by  official  report ; — 
but  if  the  facts  as  stated  by  Bag- 
wax  were  thus  confirmed,  then  the 
fraudulent  nature  of  the  envelope 
would  be  put  beyond  doubt.  It 
would  be  so  manifest  that  this  mor- 
sel of  evidence  had  been  falsely 
concocted,  that  no  clear-headed  man, 
let  his  prepossessions  be  what  they 
might,  could  doubt  it.  Judge 
Bramber.  would  no  doubt  begin  to 
sift  the  case  with  a  strong  bias  in 
favour  of  the  jury.  It  was  for  a 
jury  to  ascertain  the  facts  j  and  in 
this  case  the  jury  had  done  so.  In 
his  opinion, — in  Judge  Bramber's 
opinion,  as  the  judge  had  often 
declared  it, — a  judge  should  not  be 
required  to  determine  facts.  A  new 
trial,  were  that  possible,  would  be 
the  proper  remedy,  if  remedy  were 
wanted ;  but  as  that  was  impossible, 
he  would  be  driven  to  investigate 
such  new  evidence  as  was  brought 
before  him,  and  to  pronounce  what 
would,  in  truth,  be  another  verdict. 
All  this  was  clear  to  Sir  John  ;  and 
he  told  himself  that  even  Judge 
Bramber  would  not  be  able  to  deny 
that  false  evidence  had  been  sub- 
mitted to  the  jury. 

Sir  John,  as  he  occupied  his 
mind  with  the  matter  on  the  Thurs- 
day morning,  did  wake  himself  up  to 
some  generous  energy  on  his  client's 
behalf, — so  that  in  sending  the  writ- 
ten statements  of  the  case  to  the 


Home  Secretary,  he  himself  wrote 
a  short  but  strongly  -  worded  note. 
"  As  it  is  quite  manifest,"  he  said, 
"  that  a  certain  amount  of  false  and 
fraudulent  circumstantial  evidence 
has  been  brought  into  court  by  the 
witnesses  who  proved  the  alleged 
marriage,  and  as  direct  evidence  has 
now  come  to  hand  on  the  other  side 
which  is  very  clear,  and  as  far  as 
we  know  trustworthy,  I  feel  myself 
justified  in  demanding  her  Majesty's 
pardon  for  my  client." 

On  the  next  day  he  went  down 
to  Birdseye  Lodge,  near  Ipswich, 
and  was  quite  enthusiastic  on  the 
matter  with  his  friend  Honybun. 
"  I  never  knew  Bramber  go  beyond 
a  jury  in  my  life,"  said  Honybun. 

"  He'll  have  to  do  it  now.  They 
can't  keep  him  in  prison  when  they 
find  that  the  chief  witness  was 
manifestly  perjured.  The  woman 
swore  on  her  oath  that  the  letter 
reached  her  by  post  in  May  1873. 
It  certainly  did  not  do  so.  The 
cover,  as  we  see  it,  has  been  fabri- 
cated since  that  date." 

"  I  never  thought  the  cover  went 
for  much,"  said  Honybun. 

"  For  very  little, — for  nothing  at 
all  perhaps, — till  proved  to  be  fraud- 
ulent. If  they  had  left  the  letter 
alone  their  case  would  have  been 
strong  enough  for  a  conviction.  As 
it  was,  they  were  fools  enough  to 
go  into  a  business  of  this  sort ;  but 
they  have  done  so,  and  as  they 
have  been  found  out,  the  false- 
hood which  has  been  detected  covers 
every  word  of  their  spoken  evidence 
with  suspicion.  It  will  be  like 
losing  so  much  of  his  heart's  blood, 
but  the  old  fellow  will  have  to  give 
way." 

"He  never  gave  way  in  his 
life." 

"We'll  make  him  begin." 

"  I'll  bet  you  a  pony  he  don't." 

"  I'll  take  the  bet,"  said  the  late 
Attorney-General.  But  as  he  did 
so,  he  looked  round  to  see  that  not 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XIII. 


455 


even  a  gamekeeper  was  near  enough 
to  hear  him. 

On  that  Friday  Bagwax  was  in  a 
very  melancholy  state  of  mind  at 
his  office,  in  spite  of  the  brilliancy 
of  his  prospects  with  Miss  Curly- 
down.  "I'll  just  come  back  to  my 
old  work,"  he  said  to  his  future 
father-in-law.  "There's  nothing 
else  for  me  to  do." 

This  was  all  as  it  should  be,  and 
would  have  been  regarded  a  day  or 
two  ago  by  Curlydown  as  simple 
justice.  There  had  been  quite 
enough  of  that  pottering  over  an 
old  envelope,  to  the  manifest  incon- 
venience of  himself  and  others. 
But  now  the  matter  was  altered. 
His  was  a  paternal  and  an  affec- 
tionate heart,  and  he  saw  very 
plainly  the  pecuniary  advantage 
of  a  journey  to  Sydney.  And  he 
knew  too  that,  in  official  life  as  well 
as  elsewhere,  to  those  who  have 
more  is  given.  Now  that  Bagwax 
was  to  him  in  the  light  of  a  son,  he 
wished  Bagwax  to  rise  in  the  world. 
"  I  wouldn't  give  it  up/'  said  he. 

"  But  what  would  you  do  1 " 

"  I'd  stick  to  it  like  wax  till  they 
did  something  for  me." 

"There's  nothing  to  stick  to." 

"I'd  take  it  for  granted  I  was 
going  at  once  to  Sydney.  I'd  get 
my  outfit,  and,  by  George !  I'd  take 
my  place." 

"I've  told  Sir  John  I  wasn't 
going ;  and  he  said  it  wasn't  neces- 
sary." As  Bagwax  told  his  sad  tale 
he  almost  wept 

"  I  wouldn't  mind  that.  I'd  have 
it  out  of  them  somehow.  Why  is 
he  to  have  all  the  pay  1  No  doubt 
it's  been  hundreds  to  him ;  and 
you've  done  the  work  and  got  no- 
thing." 

"  When  I  asked  him  to  get  me 
sent,  he  said  he'd  no  power; — not 
now  it's  all  so  plain."  He  turned 
his  face  down  towards  the  desk  to 
hide  the  tear  that  now  was,  in  truth, 
running  down  his  face.  "But  duty !" 


he  said,  looking  up  again.  "Duty ! 

England  expects .  D it, 

who's  going  to  whimper?  When 
I  lay  my  head  on  my  pillow  at  night 
and  think  that  I,  I,  Thomas  Bag- 
wax,  have  restored  that  nameless 
one  to  her  babe  and  her  lord,  I 
shall  sleep  even  though  that  pillow 
be  no  better  than  a  hard  bolster." 

"Jemima  will  look  after  that," 
said  the  father,  laughing.  "But 
still  I  wouldn't  give  it  up.  Never 
give  a  chance  up, — they  come  so 
seldom.  I'll  tell  you  what  I  should 
do ; — I  should  apply  to  the  Secre- 
tary for  leave  to  go  to  Sydney  at 
once." 

"At  my  own  expense?"  said  Bag- 
wax,  horrified. 

"Certainly  not; — but  that  you 
might  have  an  opportunity  of  inves- 
tigating all  this  for  the  public  ser- 
vice. It'll  get  referred  round  in  some 
way  to  the  Secretary  of  State,  who 
can't  but  say  all  that  you've  done. 
When  it  gets  out  of  a  man's  own 
office  he  don't  so  much  miitd  doing 
a  little  job.  It  sounds  good-natured. 
And  then  if  they  don't  do  anything 
for  you,  you'll  get  a  grievance.  Next 
to  a  sum  of  money  down,  a  griev- 
ance is  the  best  thing  you  can  have. 
A  man  who  can  stick  to  a  grievance 
year  after  year  will  always  make 
money  of  it  at  last." 

On  the  Saturday,  Bagwax  went 
down  to  Apricot  Lodge,  having 
been  invited  to  stay  with  his  be- 
loved till  the  Monday.  In  the 
smiles  of  his  beloved  he  did  find 
much  consolation,  especially  as  it 
•had  already  been  assured  to  him 
that  sixty  pounds  a-year  would  be 
settled  on  Jemima  on  and  from,  her 
wedding-day.  And  then  they  made 
very  much  of  him.  "  You  do  love 
me," Tom;  don't  you  ? "  said  Jemima. 
They  were  sitting  on  camp-stools 
behind  the  grotto,  and  Bagwax 
answered  by  pressing  the  loved 
one's  waist.  "Better  than  going 
to  Sydney,  Tom, — don't  you  ? " 


456 


John  Caldigate.—Part  XIII. 


[April 


"  It  is  so  very  different,"  said 
Bagwax, — which  was  true. 

"  If  you  don't  like  me  better 
than  anything  else  in  all  the  world, 
however  different,  I  will  never 
stand  at  the  altar  with  you."  And 
she  moved  her  camp-stool  perhaps 
an  inch  away. 

"  In  the  way  of  loving,  of  course 
I  do." 

"  Then  why  do  you  grieve  when 
you've  got  what  you  like  best  1 " 

"  You  don't  understand,  Jemima, 
what  a  spirit  of  adventure  means." 

"  I  think  I  do,  or  I  shouldn't  be 
going  to  marry  you.  That's  quite 
as  great  an  adventure  as  a  journey 
to  Sydney.  You  ought  to  be  very 
glad  to  get  off,  now  you're  going  to 
settle  down  as  a  married  man." 

"Think what  two  hundred  pounds 
would  be,  Jemima ; — in  the  way  of 
furniture." 

"That's  papa's  putting  in,  I 
know.  I  hate  all  that  hankering 
after  filthy  lucre.  You  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  wanting  to  go  so  far 
away  just  when  you're  engaged. 
You  wouldn't  care  about  leaving 
me,  I  suppose  ; — not  the  least." 

"I  should  always  be  thinking 
of  you." 


"  Yes,  you  would  !  But  suppose 
I  wasn't  thinking  of  you.  Suppose 
I  took  to  thinking  of  somebody  else. 
How  would  it  be  then  ?  " 

"You  wouldn't  do  that,  Jemi- 
ma." 

"  You  ought  to  know  when  you're 
well  off,  Tom."  By  this  time  he 
had  recovered  the  inch  and  per- 
haps a  little  more.  "You  ought  to 
feel  that  you've  plenty  to  console 
you." 

"  So  I  do.  Duty  !  duty  !  Eng- 
land expects  that  every  man " 

"  That's  your  idea  of  consolation, 
is  it?"  and  away  went  the  camp- 
stool  half  a  yard. 

"  You  believe  in  duty,  don't  you, 
Jemima  ? " 

"In  a  husband's  duty  to  his 
wife,  I  do  ; — and  in  a  young  man's 
duty  to  his  sweetheart." 

"And  in  a  father's  to  his  chil- 
dren." 

"That's  as  may  be,"  said  she, 
getting  up  and  walking  away  into 
the  kitchen-garden.  He  of  course 
accompanied  her,  and  before  they 
got  to  the  house  had  promised  her 
not  to  sigh  for  the  delights  of  Syd- 
ney, nor  for  the  perils  of  adventure 
any  more. 


CHAPTER  LIV. — JUDGE   BRAMBER. 


A  Secretary  of  State  who  has  to 
look  after  the  police  "and  the  magis- 
trates, to  answer  questions  in  the 
House  of  Commons,  and  occasionally 
to  make  a  telling  speech  in  defence 
of  his  colleagues,  and,  in  addition 
to  this,  is  expected  to  perform  the 
duties  of  a  practical  court  of  appeal 
in  criminal  cases,  must  have  some- 
thing to  do.  To  have  to  decide 
whether  or  no  some  poor  wretch 
shall  be  hanged,  when,  in  spite  of 
the  clearest  evidence,  humanitarian 
petitions  by  the  dozen  overwhelm 
him  with  claims  for  mercy,  must 
be  a  terrible  responsibility.  "  !Nb, 


your  Majesty,  I  think  we  won't 
hang  him.  I  think  we'll  send  him 
to  penal  servitude  for  life; — if  your 
Majesty  pleases."  That  is  so  easy, 
and  would  be  so  pleasant.  Why 
should  any  one  grumble  at  so  right 
royal  a  decision  ?  But  there  are 
the  newspapers,  always  so  prone  to 
complain ; — and  the  Secretary  has  to 
acknowledge  that  he  must  be  strong 
enough  to  hang  his  culprits  in  spite 
of  petitions,  or  else  he  must  give 
up  that  office.  But  when  the  evi- 
dence is  not  clear  the  case  is  twice 
more  difficult.  The  jury  have 
found  their  verdict,  and  the  law 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XIII. 


457 


intends  that  the  verdict  of  a  jury 
shall  be  conclusive.  When  a  man 
has  been  declared  to  be  guilty  by 
twelve  of  his  countrymen, — he  is 
guilty,  let  the  facts  have  been  what 
they  may,  and  let  the  twelve  have 
been  ever  so  much  in  error.  Ma- 
jesty, however,  can  pardon  guilt, 
and  hence  arises  some  awkward 
remedy  for  the  mistakes  of  jurymen. 
But  as  unassisted  Majesty  cannot 
itself  investigate  all  things, — is  not, 
in  fact,  in  this  country  supposed  to 
perform  any  duties  of  that  sort, — a 
Secretary  of  State  is  invested  with 
the  privilege  of  what  is  called  mercy. 
It  is  justice  rather  that  is  wanted. 
If  Bagwax  were  in  the  right  about 
that  envelope, — and  the  reader  will 
by  this  time  think  that  he  was 
right;  and  if  Dick  Shand  had 
sworn  truly, — then  certainly  our 
friend  John  Caldigate  was  not  in 
want  of  mercy.  It  was  instant 
justice  that  he  required, — with 
such  compensation  as  might  come 
to  him  from  the  indignant  sym- 
pathy of  all  good  men. 

I  remember  to  have  seen  a  man 
at  Bermuda  whose  fate  was  peculiar. 
He  was  sleek,  fat,  and  apparently 
comfortable,  mixing  pills  when  I  saw 
him,  he  himself  a  convict  and  admin- 
istering to  the  wants  of  his  brother 
convicts.  He  remonstrated  with  me 
on  the  hardness  of  his  position. 
"  Either  I  did  do  it,  or  I  didn't," 
he  said.  "  It  was  because  they 
thought  I  didn't  that  they  sent  me 
here.  And  if  I  didn't,  what  right 
had  they  to  keep  me  here  at  all  1 " 
I  passed  on  in  silence,  not  daring 
to  argue  the  matter  with  the  man 
in  face  of  the  warder.  But  the  man 
was  right.  He  had  murdered  his 
wife; — so  at  least  the. jury  had  said, 
— and  had  been  sentenced  to  be 
hanged.  He  had  taken  the  poor 
woman  into  a  little  island,  and 
while  she  was  bathing  had  drowned 
her.  Her  screams  had  been  heard 
on  the  mainland,  and  the  jury  had 


found  the  evidence  sufficient.  Some 
newspaper  had  thought  the  reverse, 
and  had  mooted  the  question ; — was 
not  the  distance  too  great  for  such 
screams  to  have  been  heard,  or,  at 
any  rate,  understood  ?  So  the  man 
was  again  brought  to  trial  in  the 
Court  of  the  Home  Office,  and  was, 
— not  pardoned,  but  sent  to  grow 
fat  and  make  pills  at  Bermuda.  He 
had,  or  he  had  not,  murdered  his 
wife.  If  he  did  the  deed  he  should 
have  been  hanged  ; — and  if  not,  he 
should  not  have  been  forced  to 
make  extorted  pills. 

What  was  a  Secretary  of  State  to 
do  in  such  a  case  1  No  doubt  he 
believed  that  the  wretch  had  mur- 
dered his  wife.  No  doubt  the  judge 
believed  it.  All  the  world  believed 
it.  But  the  newspaper  was  prob- 
ably right  in  saying  that  the  evi- 
dence was  hardly  conclusive, — pro- 
bably right  because  it  produced  its 
desired  effect.  If  the  argument  had 
been  successfully  used  with  the 
jury,  the  jury  would  have  acquitted 
the  man.  Then  surely  the  Secre- 
tary of  State  should  have  sent  him 
out  as  though  acquitted ;  and,  not 
daring  to  hang  him,  should  have 
treated  him  as  innocent.  Another 
trial  was,  in  truth,  demanded. 

And  so  it  was  in  Caldigate's  case. 
The  Secretary  of  State,  getting  up 
early  in  the  morning  after  a  re- 
markable speech,  in  which  he  vin- 
dicated his  Ministry  from  the 
attacks  of  all  Europe,  did  read  all 
the  papers,  and  took  home  to  him- 
self the  great  Bagwaxian  theory. 
He  mastered  Dick's  evidence ;  — 
and  managed  to  master  something 
also  as  to  Dick's  character.  He 
quite  understood  the  argument  as 
to  the  postage  -  stamps,  —  which 
went  further  with  him  than  the 
other  arguments.  And  he  under- 
stood the  perplexity  of  his  own 
position.  If  Bagwax  was  right,  not 
a  moment  should  be  lost  in  releas- 
ing the  ill-used  man.  To  think  of 


458 


John  Caldigate.—Part  XIII. 


[April 


pardon,  to  mention  pardon,  would 
be  an  insult.  Instant  justice,  with 
infinite  regrets  that  the  injuries  in- 
flicted admitted  of  no  compensation, 
— that,  and  that  only,  was  impres- 
sively demanded.  How  grossly 
would  that  man  have  been  ill-used  ! 
— how  cruelly  would  that  woman 
have  been  injured!  But  then,  again, 
— if  Bagwax  was  wrong ; — if  the 
cunning  fraud  had  been  concocted 
over  here  and  not  in  Sydney; — if 
the  plot  had  been  made,  not  to  in- 
carcerate an  innocent  man,  but  to 
liberate  a  guilty  man,  then  how  un- 
fit would  he  show  himself  for  his 
position  were  he  to  be  taken  in  by 
such  guile  !  What  crime  could  be 
worse  than  that  committed  by  Caldi- 
gate  against  the  young  lady  he  had 
betrayed,  if  Caldigate  were  guilty  1 
Upon  the  whole,  he  thought  it  would 
be  safer  to  trust  to  the  jury;  but 
comforted  himself  by  the  reflection 
that  he  could  for  a  while  transfer 
the  responsibility.  It  would  per- 
haps be  expedient  to  transfer  it 
altogether.  So  he  sent  all  the  papers 
on  to  Judge  Bramber. 

Judge  Bramber  was  a  great  man. 
Never  popular,  he  had  been  wise 
enough  to  disregard  popularity.  He 
had  forced  himself  into  practice,  in 
opposition  to  the  attorneys,  by  in- 
dustry and  perspicuity.  He  had 
attended  exclusively  to  his  profes- 
sion, never  having  attempted  to  set 
his  foot  on  the  quicker  stepping- 
stones  of  political  life.  It  was  said 
of  him  that  no  one  knew  whether 
he  called  himself  Liberal  or  Con- 
servative. At  fifty-five  he  was  put 
upon  the  bench,  simply  because  he 
was  supposed  to  possess  a  judicial 
mind.  Here  he  amply  justified 
that  opinion, — but  not  without  the 
sneer  and  ill  words  of  many.  He 
was  now  seventy,  and  it  was  de- 
clared that  years  had  had  no  effect 
on  him.  He  was  supposed  to  be 
absolutely  merciless, — as  hard  as  a 
nether  millstone ;  a  judge  who  could 


put  on  the  black  cap  without  a 
feeling  of  inward  disgust.  But  it 
may  be  surmised  that  they  who 
said  so  knew  nothing  of  him, — for 
he  was  a  man  not  apt  to  betray  the 
secrets  of  his  inner  life.  He  was 
noted  for  his  reverence  for  a  jury, 
and  for  his  silence  on  the  bench. 
The  older  he  grew  the  shorter  be- 
came his  charges ;  nor  were  there 
wanting  those  who  declared  that 
his  conduct  in  this  respect  was  in- 
tended as  a  reproach  to  some  who 
were  desirous  of  adorning  the  bench 
by  their  eloquence.  To  sit  there 
listening  to  everything,  and  sub- 
ordinating himself  to  others  till  his 
interposition  was  necessary,  was  his 
idea  of  a  judge's  duty.  But  when 
the  law  had  declared  itself,  he  was 
always  strong  in  supporting  the  law. 
A  man  condemned  for  murder  ought 
to  be  hanged, — so  thought  Judge 
Bramber, — and  not  released,  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  phantasy  of  phil- 
anthropists. Such  were  the  require- 
ments of  the  law.  If  the  law  were 
cruel,  let  the  legislators  look  to 
that.  He  was  once  heard  to  con- 
fess that  the  position  of  a  judge 
who  had  condemned  an  innocent 
man  might  be  hard  to  bear;  but, 
he  added,  that  a  country  would  be 
unfortunate  which  did  not  possess 
judges  capable  of  bearing  even  that 
sorrow.  In  his  heart  he  disapprov- 
ed of  the  attribute  of  mercy  as  be- 
longing to  the  Crown.  It  was  op- 
posed to  his  idea  of  English  law,  and 
apt  to  do  harm  rather  than  good. 

He  had  -been  quite  convinced  of 
Caldigate's  guilt, — not  only  by  the 
direct  evidence,  but  by  the  con- 
current circumstances.  To  his 
thinking,  it  was  not  in  human 
nature  that  a  man  should  pay  such 
a  sum  as  twenty  thousand  pounds 
to  such  people  as  Crinkett  and  Eu- 
phemia  Smith, — a  sum  of  money 
which  was  not  due  either  legally  or 
morally, — except  with  an  improper 
object.  I  have  said  that  he  was  a 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XIII. 


459 


great  man ;  but  lie  did  not  rise  to 
any  appreciation  of  the  motives 
which  had  unquestionably  operated 
with  Caldigate.  Had  Caldigate 
been  quite  assured,  when  he  paid 
the  money,  that  his  enemies  would 
remain  and  bear  witness  against 
him,  still  he  would  have  paid  it. 
In  that  matter  he  had  endeavoured 
to  act  as  he  would  have  acted  had 
the  circumstances  of  the  mining 
transaction  been  made  known  to 
him  when  no  threat  was  hanging 
over  his  head.  But  all  that  Judge 
Bramber  did  not  understand.  He 
understood,  however,  quite  clearly, 
that  under  no  circumstances  should 
money  have  been  paid  by  an  accused 
person  to  witnesses  while  that  per- 
son's guilt  and  innocence  were  in 
question.  In  his  summing-up  he 
had  simply  told  the  jury  to  consider 
the  matter ; — but  he  had  so  spoken 
the  word  as  to  make  the  jury  fully 
perceive  what  had  been  the  result 
of  his  own  consideration. 

And  then  Caldigate  and  the 
woman  had  lived  together,  and  a 
distinct  and  repeated  promise  of 
marriage  had  been  acknowledged. 
It  was  acknowledged  that  the  man 
had  given  his  name  to  the  woman, 
so  far  as  himself  to  write  it.  What- 
ever might  be  the  facts  as  to  the 
post-mark  and  postage -stamp,  the 
words  "  Mrs  Caldigate  "  had  been 
written  by  the  man  now  in  prison. 

Four  persons  had  given  direct 
evidence ;  and  in  opposition  to  them 
there  had  been  nothing.  Till  Dick 
Shand  had  come,  no  voice  had  been 
brought  forward  to  throw  even  a 
doubt  upon  the  marriage.  That 
two  false  witnesses  should  adhere 
well  together  in  a  story  was  uncom- 
mon ;  that  three  should  do  so,  most 
rare ;  with  four  it  would  be  almost 
a  miracle.  But  these  four  had  ad- 
hered. They  were  people,  probably, 
of  bad  character, — whose  lives  had 
perhaps  been  lawless.  But  if  so,  it 
would  have  been  so  much  easier  to 

VOL.  CXXV. NO.  DCCLXII. 


prove  them  false  if  they  were  false. 
Thus  Judge  Bramber,  when  he 
passed  sentence  on  Caldigate,  had 
not  in  the  least  doubted  that  the 
verdict  was  a  true  verdict. 

And  now  the  case  was  sent  to 
him  for  reconsideration.  He  hated 
such  reconsiderations.  He  first  read 
Sir  John  Joram's  letter,  and  declar- 
ed to  himself  that  it  was  unfit  to 
have  come  from  any  one  calling  him- 
self a  lawyer.  There  was  an  enthu- 
siasm about  it  altogether  beneath  a 
great  advocate, — certainly  beneath 
any  forensic  advocate  employed 
otherwise  than  in  addressing  a  jury. 
He,  Judge  Bramber,  had  never 
himself  talked  of  "  demanding "  a 
verdict  even  from  a  jury.  He  had 
only  endeavoured  to  win  it.  But 
that  a  man  who  had  been  Attorney- 
General, — who  had  been  the  head 
of  the  bar, — should  thus  write  to  a 
Secretary  of  State,  was  to  him  dis- 
gusting. To-  his  thinking,  a  great 
lawyer,  even  a  good  lawyer,  should 
be  incapable  of  enthusiasm  as  to 
any  case  in  which  he  was  employed. 
The  ignorant  childish  world  outside 
would  indulge  in  zeal  and  hot  feel- 
ings ;  but  for  an  advocate  to  do  so 
was  to  show  that  he  was  no  lawyer, 
— that  he  was  no  better  than  the  out- 
side world.  Even  spoken  eloquence 
was,  in  his  mind,  almost  beneath  a 
lawyer, — studied  eloquence  certain- 
ly was  so.  But  such  written  words 
as  these  disgusted  him.  And  then 
he  came  across  allusions  to  the  con- 
dition of  the  poor  lady  at  Folking. 
What  could  the  condition  of  the  lady 
at  Folking  have  to  do  with  the  mat- 
ter 1  Though  the  poor  lady  at  Folk- 
ing should  die  in  her  sorrow,  that 
could  not  alter  the  facts  as  they  had 
occurred  in  Australia  !  It  was  not 
for  him,  or  for  the  Secretary  of 
State,  to  endeavour  to  make  things 
pleasant  all  round  here  in  England. 
It  had  been  the  jury's  duty  to  find 
out  whether  that  crime  had  been 
committed,  and  his  duty  to  see  that 
2  a 


460 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XIII. 


[April 


all  due  facilities  were  given  to  the 
jury.  It  had  been  Sir  John  Joram's 
duty  to  make  out  what  best  case 
he  could  for  his  client, — and  then 
to  rest  contented.  Had  all  things 
been  as  they  should  be,  the  Secre- 
tary of  State  would  have  had  no 
duty  at  all  in  the  matter.  It  was 
in  this  frame  of  mind  that  Judge 
Bramber  applied  himself  to  the 
consideration  of  the  case.  No 
juster  man  ever  lived ; — and  yet  in 
his  mind  there  was  a  bias  against 
the  prisoner. 

Nevertheless  he  went  to  his  work 
with  great  patience,  and  a  resolve  to 
sift  everything  that  was  to  be  sifted. 
The  Secretary  of  State  had  done  no 
more  than  his  required  duty  in 
sending  the  case  to  him,  and  he 
would  now  do  his.  He  took  the 
counter-evidence  as  it  came  in  the 
papers.  In  order  that  the  two 
Bagwaxian  theories,  each  founded 
on  the  same  small  document,  might 
be  expounded,  one  consecutively 
after  the  other,  Dick  Shand  and 
his  deposition  were  produced  first. 
The  judge  declared  to  himself  that 
Dick's  single  oath,  which  could  not 
now  be  tested  by  cross-examination, 
amounted  to  nothing.  He  had  been 
a  drunkard  and  a  pauper, — had  de- 
scended to  the  lowest  occupation 
which  the  country  afforded,  and 
had  more  than  once  nearly  died 
from  delirium  tremens.  He  had 
then  come  home  penniless,  and  had 
— produced  his  story.  If  such  evi- 
dence could  avail  to  rescue  a  pri- 
soner from  his  sentence,  and  to  up- 
set a  verdict,  what  verdict  or  what 
sentence  could  stand  1  Poor  Dick's 
sworn  testimony,  in  Judge  Bram- 
ber's  mind,  told  rather  against  Cal- 
digate than  for  him. 

Then  came  the  post-marks, — as 
to  which  the  Bagwaxian  theory  was 
quite  distinct  from  that  as  to  the 
postage  -  stamp.  Here  the  judge 
found  the  facts  to  be  somewhat 
complicated  and  mazy.  It  was  long 


before  he  could  understand  the  full 
purport  of  the  argument  used,  and 
even  at  last  he  hardly  understood 
the  whole  of  it.  But  he  could  see 
nothing  in  it  to  justify  him  in  upset- 
ting the  verdict ; — nothing  even  to 
convince  him  that  the  envelope  had 
been  fraudulently  handled.  There 
was  no  evidence  that  such  a  dated 
stamp  had  not  been  in  use  at  Syd- 
ney on  the  day  named.  Copies 
from  the  records  kept  daily  at  Syd- 
ney,— photographed  copies, — should 
have  been  submitted  before  that 
argument  had  been  used. 

But  when  it  came  to  the  postage- 
stamp,  then  he  told  himself  very 
quickly  that  the  envelope  had  been 
fraudulently  handled.  The  evidence 
as  to  the  date  of  the  manufacture  of 
the  stamp  was  conclusive.  It  could 
not  have  served  to  pay  the  postage 
on  a  letter  from  Sydney  to  Nobble 
in  May  1873,  seeing  that  it  had 
not  then  been  in  existence.  And 
thus  any  necessity  there  might 
otherwise  have  been  for  further 
inquiry  as  to  the  post- marks  was 
dissipated.  The  envelope  was  a  de- 
clared fraud,  and  the  fraud  required 
no  further  proof.  That  morsel  of 
evidence  had  been  fabricated,  and 
laid,  at  any  rate,  one  of  the  wit- 
nesses in  the  last  trial  open  to  a 
charge  of  perjury.  So  resolving, 
Judge  Bramber  pushed  the  papers 
away  from  him,  and  began  to  think 
the  case  over  in  his  mind. 

There  was  certainly  something  in 
the  entire  case  as  it  now  stood  to 
excuse  Sir  John.  That  was  the 
first  line  which  his  thoughts  took. 
An  advocate  having  clearly  seen  into 
a  morsel  of  evidence  on  the  side 
opposed  to  him,  and  having  proved 
to  himself  beyond  all  doubt  that  it 
was  maliciously  false,  must  be  held 
to  be  justified  in  holding  more  than  a 
mere  advocate's  conviction  as  to  the 
innocence  of  his  client.  Sir  John 
had  of  course  felt  that  a  foul  plot 
had  been  contrived.  A  foul  plot  no 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XIII. 


461 


doubt  had  been  contrived.  Had  the 
discovery  taken  place  before  the  case 
had  been  submitted  to  the  jury,  the 
detection  of  that  plot  would  doubt- 
less have  saved  the  prisoner,  whether 
guilty  or  innocent.  So  much  Judge 
Bramber  admitted. 

But  should  it  necessarily  serve 
to  save  him  now?  Before  a  jury 
it  would  have  saved  him,  whether 
guilty  or  innocent.  But  the  law 
had  got  hold  of  him,  and  had  made 
him  guilty,  and  the  law  need  not 
now  subject  itself  to  the  normal 
human  weakness  of  a  jury.  The 
case  was  now  in  his  hands, — in  his, 
and  those  of  the  Secretary,  and  there 
need  be  no  weakness.  If  the  man 
was  innocent,  in  God's  name  let  him 
go; — though,  as  the  judge  observed 
to  himself,  he  had  deserved  all  he 
had  got  for  his  folly  and  vice. 
But  this  discovered  plot  by  no 
means  proved  the  man's  innocence. 
It  only  proved  the  determination  of 
certain  persons  to  secure  his  convic- 
tion, whether  by  foul  means  or  fair. 
Then  he  recapitulated  to  himself 
various  cases  in  which  he  had  known 
false  evidence  to  have  been  added 
to  true,  with  the  object  of  convinc- 
ing a  jury  as  to  a  real  fact. 

It  might  well  be  that  this  gang 
of  ruffians, — for  it  was  manifest  that 
there  had  been  such  a  gang, — find- 
ing the  envelope  addressed  by  the 
man  to  his  wife,  had  fraudulently, 
— and  as  foolishly  as  fraudulently, 
— endeavoured  to  bolster  up  their 
case  by  the  postage-stamp  and  the 
post -mark.  Looking  back  at  all 
the  facts,  remembering  that  fatal 
twenty  thousand  pounds,  remem- 
bering that  though  the  post-marks 
were  forged  on  that  envelope  the 
writing  was  true,  remembering  the 
acknowledged  promise  and  the  com- 
bined testimony  of  the  four  persons, 
— he  was  inclined  to  think  that  some- 
thing of  the  kind  had  been  done  in 
this  case.  If  it  were  so,  though  he 
would  fain  see  the  perpetrators  of 


that  fraud  on  their  trial  for  perjury, 
their  fraud  in  no  way  diminished 
Caldigate's  guilt.  That  a  guilty 
man  should  escape  out  of  the 
hands  of  justice  by  any  fraud  was 
wormwood  to  Judge  Bramber.  Cal- 
digate was  guilty.  The  jury  had 
found  him  so.  Could  he  take  upon 
himself  to  say  that  the  finding  of 
the  jury  was  wrong  because  the 
prosecuting  party  had  concocted  a 
fraud  which  had  not  been  found 
out  before  the  verdict  was  given? 
Sir  John  Joram,  whom  he  had 
known  almost  as  a  boy,  had  "de- 
manded "  the  release  of  his  client. 
The  word  stuck  in  Judge  Bramber's 
throat.  The  word  had  been  inju- 
dicious. The  more  he  thought  of 
the  word  the  more  he  thought  that 
the  verdict  had  been  a  true  verdict, 
in  spite  of  the  fraud.  A  very  hon- 
est man  was  Judge  Bramber  j— but 
human. 

He  almost  made  up  his  mind, — 
but  then  was  obliged  to  confess  to 
himself  that  he  had  not  quite  done 
so.  "  It  taints  the  entire  evidence 
with  perjury,"  Sir  John  had  said. 
The  woman's  evidence  was  abso- 
lutely so  tainted, — was  defiled  with 
perjury.  And  the  man  Crinkett 
had  been  so  near  the  woman  that  it 
was  impossible  to  disconnect  them. 
Who  had  concocted  the  fraud  1  The 
woman  could  hardly  have  done  so 
without  the  man's  connivance.  It 
took  him  all  the  morning  to  think 
the  matter  out,  and  then  he  had  not 
made  up  his  mind.  To  reverse  the 
verdict  would  certainly  be  a  thorn 
in  his  side, — a  pernicious  thorn, — 
but  one  wliich,  if  necessary,  he 
would  endure.  Thorns,  however, 
such  as  these  are  very  persuasive. 

At  last  he  determined  to  have 
inquiry  made  as  to  the  woman  by 
the  police.  She  had  laid  herself 
open  to  an  indictment  for  perjury, 
and  in  making  inquiry  on  that  head 
something  further  might  probably 
be  learned. 


462 


Hamlet. 


[April 


HAMLET. 


IT  is  common  to  say  that  no  actor 
upon  the  English  stage,  who  has 
any  ambition  or  love  for  his  pro- 
fession, can  die  happy  without  hav- 
ing once  at  least  attempted  to  re- 
present Hamlet.  It  is  the  part 
which  inspires  the  most  imperfect, 
and  leads  on  the  most  experienced 
in  never-failing  pursuit  of  an  excel- 
lence to  come — a  laurel  always  there 
for  the  winning.  It  is,  we  are  also 
told  by  those  who  know  the  stage 
well,  although  one  of  the  most 
difficult  of  all  the  creations  of 
poetry,  the  one  also  in  which  abso- 
lute failure  is  less  common  than  in 
any  other.  No  one,  perhaps,  of  all 
its  many  representatives  has  given 
us  a  complete  impersonation  of  the 
strange  and  wonderful  being  whom 
we  never  completely  understand, 
whom  we  discuss  and  quarrel  over 
all  our  lives,  but  whom,  at  least,  we 
know,  as  we  know  few  other  of  our 
lifelong  friends ;  while  at  the  same 
time,  every  one  who  has  attempted 
the  part  has  got  some  hold  on  human- 
ity through  those  words,  which  the 
merest  mouther  of  phrases  cannot 
spoil,  and  that  most  touching  and 
terrible  position  which,  even  when 
we  do  not  understand  it,  we  feel, 
moving  us  to  the  bottom  of  our 
hearts.  Whether  it  is  a  doctrinaire 
who  is  upon  the  stage,  grafting  his 
own  philosophies  upon  the  poet's 
creation,  or  an  ambitious  mime  who 
attempts  it  only  as  the  part  which 
pays  best  when  successful,  our  own 
ideal  of  the  noble  Dane,  and  inti- 
mate acquaintance  with  his  real 
being,  save  his  representative  from 
entire  failure.  He  is  more  to  us 
than  any  actor;  and  it  is  scarcely 
going  too  far  to  say  that,  as  each 
new  attempt  is  made,  the  universal 
curiosity  and  interest  it  excites  are 
drawn  forth  at  least  quite  as  much 


by  the  hope  that  now  at  last  we 
may  know  our  Hamlet  better,  as  by 
the  lighter  and  more  superficial 
eagerness  to  see  how  the  actor  ac- 
quits himself  in  a  great  part.  No 
other  tragic  creation,  however  great, 
has  the  same  hold  upon  us.  Othello 
is  noble  and  terrible  in  his  mingled 
strength  and  weakness,  and  Lear 
tears  our  hearts  asunder  with  a 
passion  of  painful  and  tragic  de- 
light ;  but  Hamlet  stands  to  us  in 
a  far  closer  relation — he  is  a  part 
of  our  intellectual  training,  of  our 
higher  being,  of  all  the  mysteries 
that  move  within  us,  and  so  often 
burst  into  unconscious  expression 
in  his  very  words.  How  it  should 
be  so  we  cannot  tell — for  it  is  im- 
possible to  conceive  a  type  less  like 
the  ordinary  estimate  of  English 
character ;  yet  we  feel  assured  the 
reader  will  agree  with  us  when  we 
say,  that  no  other  creation  of  poetry 
has  ever  seized  hold  upon  and 
entered  into  the  soul  of  the  nation 
with  such  complete  and  perfect 
sovereignty.  No  hero  of  history- 
no  brave  and  resolute  Englishman 
— no  King  Hal,  gay  in  his  excesses, 
noble  in  his  transformation,  the  very 
type  of  Anglo  -  Saxon  manliness 
— comes  within  a  thousand  miles 
of  that  mystic  traveller  between 
life  and  death,  that  impersonation  of 
all  the  doubts  and  questionings  of 
humanity,  in  the  heart  of  a  people 
which  has  no  turn  for  philosophy,  a 
race  prompt  and  ready,  and  more 
apt  at  blows  than  words.  Earely 
has  there  happened  in  the  mental 
history  of  a  country  so  rare  a  phe- 
nomenon. And  we  know  no  par- 
allel to  it  in  any  other  national 
experience,  unless  it  were  in  Spain, 
where,  however,  the  long  lean  figure 
of  that  forlorn  and  last  knight- 
errant  has  too  much  humour  in  the 


1879.] 


Hamlet. 


463 


atmosphere  that  surrounds  it,  and 
too  much  mixture  of  the  ludicrous, 
to  hold  the  same  position.  The 
German  Faust  makes  no  such  uni- 
versal claim  upon  the  sympathies, 
and  the  French  Alceste  is  but  a 
weakened  shadow  of  Hamlet;  while 
in  all  these  great  conceptions  there 
is  something  which  chimes  in  with 
the  national  temper  of  the  race 
that  has  produced  them.  The 
Spaniard's  hyper-chivalry,  the  Ger- 
man's wild  yet  carnal  mysticism, 
the  Frenchman's  bitter  distinctness 
of  perception  and  cynic-sentimental 
tendency,  are  all  more  or  less  em- 
bodied in  these  central  figures  of 
their  literature.  But  that  we,  who 
pride  ourselves  upon  our  national 
energy  and  practical  character,  and 
whose  faith  it  is  that  "  if  it  were 
done  when  'tis  done,  then  'twere 
well  it  were  done  quickly," — that 
we  should  have  selected  Hamlet  from 
among  all  the  poetical  creations  in 
which  we  are  so  rich,  as  the  object 
of  our  unanimous  interest,  is  one  of 
the  strangest  facts  in  literary  his- 
tory. It  would  be  incredible,  were 
it  not  absolutely  true. 

This  reign  of  Hamlet  over  the 
English  imagination  comes  from 
time  to  time  to  a  sudden  climax, 
by  means  of  some  new  or  powerful 
actor  ;  and  we  are  at  present  in  the 
midst  of  one  of  those  high  tides  of 
popular  interest.  Mr  Irving  is  do- 
ing what  all  his  great  predecessors 
on  the  stage  have  done,  with  vary- 
ing power  and  success;  and  as  it 
is  now  a  long  time  since  any  actor 
has  attempted  perseveringly  to  win 
this  crown  of  reputation,  the  effort 
is  all  the  more  interesting.  The 
last  attempt  of  the  kind,  and  indeed 
the  only  one  which  comes  within 
our  own  experience  of  the  stage, 
was  that  made  by  Fechter  more 
than  a  dozen  years  ago.  We  do 
not  ourselves  sympathise  with  the 
feeling  which  makes  some  people 
refuse  their  suffrage  to  an  admirable 


and  accomplished  actor,  because  his 
English  was  somewhat  defective. 
This  is  one  of  the  criticisms  which 
are  becoming  more  and  more  gen- 
eral among  us,  and  which  dwell 
upon  external  and  minute  detail,  in 
entire  indifference  to  the  spirit  and 
soul  of  the  performance.  Fechter 
has  fallen  out  of  fashion.  Perhaps 
he  never  did  secure  the  critics  so 
completely  on  his  side  as  he  did  the 
simple  multitudes  who  used  to  hang 
on  his  lips ;  but  at  all  events  it  re- 
quires courage  now  to  produce  his 
name,  in  face  of  the  superciliously 
indulgent  smile  with  which  it  is  re- 
ceived by  those  who  are  supposed 
to  know.  Fechter's  Hamlet,  how- 
ever, was,  we  are  bold  to  say,  the 
most  interesting  piece  of  acting 
which  we  have  ever  seen ;  and  his 
English  can  hardly  be  said  to  have 
been  more  defective  than  that  which 
Mr  Irving  has  managed  to  make  the 
public  accept  as  a  possible  render- 
ing of  Shakespeare's  noble  tongue. 
But  few  things  could  be  more 
unlike  than  the  breadth  and  ease 
of  the  great  French  actor's  treat- 
ment, and  the  laborious  and  in- 
finitely painstaking  effort  of  the 
Hamlet  who  is  at  present  in  posses- 
sion of  the  stage.  It  is  impossible, 
we  suppose,  without  some  touch  of 
genius,  to  have  attained  the  mastery 
over  the  public  which  Mr  Irving 
undoubtedly  possesses.  In  this  age 
of  burlesques  and  dramatic  folly, 
he  has  gained  the  complete  and  ab- 
sorbed attention,  night  after  night, 
of  a  large  and  highly  -  cultivated 
audience,  and  succeeded  in  moving 
society  in  London  to  an  almost 
universal  interest  in  every  new  at- 
tempt he  makes — which  is  no  small 
triumph.  Our  own  opinion,  how- 
ever, is,  that  this  remarkable  actor 
has  attained  his  successes  more  by 
sheer  force  of  character  than  by 
genius.  He  has  conquered  the 
public  by  his  bow  and  his  spear 
— by  means  of  the  intense  feel- 


Hamlet.  [April 


ing  and  concentrated  energy  of 
mind  with  which,  it  is  evident, 
he  approaches  his  work — labouring 
at  it  like  an  athlete  of  Michael 
Angelo,  with  every  muscle  start- 
ing and  every  sinew  strung  to  its 
utmost  tension.  He  is  in  such 
deadly  earnest  in  everything  he 
does  that  we  can  scarcely  refuse  our 
interest  to  the  effort  which  costs  so 
much.  And  as  difficulty  overcome 
is  universally  recognised  as  a  very 
high  attraction  to  human  curiosity 
and  interest,  there  must  always  be 
a  large  section  of  mankind  to  whom 
the  sight  of  the  struggle  by  which 
that  difficulty  is  overcome  will 
always  be  more  impressive  and 
affecting  than  the  success  which 
looks  easy,  the  calm  mastery  of  the 
greater  artist  who  fights  and  strains 
too  in  his  time,  but  that  not  in, 
but  out  of,  sight  of  the  gazing 
crowd.  This  is  not  Mr  Irving's 
way :  he  takes  the  public  into  his 
confidence,  and  shows  them  the 
beads  of  toil  upon  his  forehead,  the 
quiver  in  his  limbs  of  muscular 
and  nervous  as  well  as  mental  ex- 
ertion. It  is  something  like  a 
gladiator  that  we  have  before  us, 
"  taking  arms  " — as  says  our  Shake- 
speare, with  that  confusion  of 
metaphor  at  which  we  laugh  ten- 
derly, liking  him  the  better,  su- 
preme master,  for  the  slip  that 
proves  him  human — "  against  a  sea 
of  troubles,"  facing  all  the  wild 
beasts  of  difficulty,  and  rending  his 
way  to  the  prize  which  the  excited 
spectators  accord  him,  almost  more 
for  the  pluck  and  force  and  energy 
with  which  he  has  toiled  for  it, 
than  for  the  excellence  of  the  per- 
formance. The  people  who  crowd 
the  Lyceum  every  night  have  thus, 
if  not  a  first-rate  representation  of 
Hamlet,  yet  a  very  interesting  and 
even  exciting  spectacle  set  before 
them  —  the  sight  of  an  able  and 
eccentric  mind  full  of  contortions, 
yet  also  of  strength,  struggling  with 


all  the  power  nature  has  given  it, 
upward  to  the  platform  of, genius, 
with  every  faculty  strained,  and  its 
whole  being  quivering  in  the  effort. 
There  are  those  who  mount  to  that 
platform  lightly,  by  grace  of  na- 
ture, or  seem  to  do  so ;  but  these, 
if  finer  and  higher,  are  perhaps 
in  reality  less  interesting  than  the 
indomitable  fighter  who  struggles 
upward  to  it,  his  teeth  set,  his 
shoulders  squared,  his  every  limb 
in  energetic  action.  Mr  Irving  in 
this  point  of  view  presents  a  spec- 
tacle to  gods  and  men  of  which  it  is 
difficult  to  exaggerate  the  interest. 
He  has  almost  every  quality  which 
should  interest  the  lookers-on — a 
fine  and  generous  aim,  a  high  cour- 
age, and  the  most  determined  ten- 
acity of  purpose.  If  he  cannot  scale 
these  heights,  we  may  be  sure  he 
will  die  half-way,  always  fighting 
upwards,  never  giving  in.  He  is 
in  a  hundred  perils  every  day,  and 
nothing  daunts  him,  —  perils  of 
nature,  perils  of  excessive  friend- 
ship, perils  of  success — sometimes 
the  worst  of  all.  Yet  every  step 
he  has  made,  even  when  we  can- 
not admire  it,  we  are  obliged  to 
recognise  as  an  honest  endeav- 
our towards  that  which  is  best 
and  highest.  So  far  as  can  be 
judged  from  without,  never  man 
was  more  perfectly  sincere  or  stren- 
uous in  his  determination  to  do 
well.  It  is  more  than  an  artistic 
effort,  it  is  a  moral  conflict  with  ad- 
verse powers  of  nature  in  which  he 
is  engaged ;  and  if  he  fails  in  the 
end,  his  failure  will  be  from  no 
fault  of  his,  no  want  of  zeal  or  con- 
science or  energy  in  the  man.  One 
does  not  generally  use  such  words 
in  respect  to  an  actor's  study  of  his 
part;  but  it  is  the  highest  testi- 
monial that  can  be  given  to  Mr 
Irving  to  say  that  we  are  obliged 
to  employ  them  after  witnessing  his 
evening's  work. 

Notwithstanding  what  has  been 


1879.' 


Hamlet. 


465 


said  of  the  unanimity  of  English, 
feeling  in  respect  to  Hamlet,  there 
is,  perhaps,  no  dramatic  creation  in 
the  world  about  which  there  has 
been  so  much  difference  of  opinion. 
.Naturally  the  great  mass  of  readers 
and  spectators  make  no  attempt  to 
analyse  it  at  all.  The  greatness  of 
the  mind  presented  before  them, 
the  consciousness  of  a  human  being 
most  real  and  tangible,  though 
looming  over  them  with  a  confused 
greatness  which  they  can  appreciate 
without  being  able  to  understand 
it,  is  enough  to  satisfy  all  their 
intellectual  requirements ;  though 
even  in  this  widest  circle,  the  ques- 
tion whether  Hamlet's  madness  was 
assumed  or  real  will  arouse  a  cer- 
tain intellectual  interest.  But  above 
the  first  level  of  the  admiring  and 
uncritical  public  there  are  many 
circles  of  critics,  each  of  which  has 
its  spoken  or  unspoken  creed  in  re- 
gard to  Shakespeare's  great  creation. 
There  is  scarcely  a  drawing-room 
party  among  the  educated  classes  in 
which,  were  the  question  mooted, 
there  would  not  be  found  warm 
partisans  on  both  sides  of  the  ques- 
tion, and  inquirers  with  ideas  of 
their  own  as  to  the  real  cause  of 
that  vacillation,  which  is  the  most 
obvious  feature  in  the  character  to 
the  ordinary  observer.  We  might 
perhaps  ask,  though  without  any 
possibility  of  reply,  whether  the 
poet  himself  had  any  intention  of 
making  this  mystery  clear  to  us; 
or  whether,  indeed,  it  was  within 
the  range  of  his  genius  to  fathom 
altogether  the  great  and  mysterious 
being — greater  and  more  wonderful 
by  far  than  the  Warwickshire  yeo- 
man's son,  the  playwright  of  the 
Globe — whom  he  put  miraculously 
into  the  world  to  live  there  for  ever, 
outlasting  a  hundred  generations  of 
men.  This,  however,  is  a  view 
which  critics  never,  and  the  hum- 
ble reader  very  rarely,  consent  to 
take.  That  mystic  independence  of 


its  creator  which  belongs  to  a  great 
poetical  conception  of  character,  re- 
flecting, perhaps,  more  truly  than 
anything  else  can,  our  own  mortal 
independence  (so  far  at  least  as  con- 
sciousness goes)  of  our  Maker,  and 
power  to  contradict,  and,  as  much  as 
in  us  lies  thwart,  His  purposes,  is 
incredible  to  most  people.  To  our 
own  thinking  it  is  plain  enough  that 
a  dramatic  conception  of  the  highest 
order  does  follow  a  law  of  its  own 
being  which  is  not,  as  we  think, 
entirely  under  the  control  of  its 
originator.  "  I  did  not  do  it;  they 
did  it  themselves,"  Thackeray  (we 
think)  is  reported  to  have  said  of 
some  of  his  heroes  and  heroines 
whose  proceedings  did  not  please 
the  world;  and  the  merest  dabbler 
in  fiction  must  be  aware  of  a  curi- 
ous current  of  influence  not  origi- 
nated by  him  which  sweeps  the 
personages  of  his  story  here  and 
there,  following  some  necessity  of 
their  nature  which  he  may  not  even 
comprehend,  and  which  does  not 
agree  with  his  plan  for  them.  We 
do  not  mean  to  imply  an  opinion 
that  Hamlet  escaped  from  the  con- 
trol of  the  poet  to  whom  he  owes 
his  birth ;  but  only  that  so  great  a 
creation  might  well  have,  like  an 
actual  being,  many  doubtful  and 
unresolved  points  in  him,  over 
which  spectators  might  discuss, 
without  any  absolute  certainty, 
even  on  the  part  of  his  maker,  as 
to  which  party  was  in  the  right. 
To  ourselves  Hamlet  is  the  greatest 
instance  of  that  disenchantment 
which  is,  of  all  the  miseries  in  the 
world,  the  one  most  crushing  and 
most  general.  Disenchantment — 
disillusionment  —  that  opening  of 
the  eyes  to  see  a  world  altogether 
different  from  the  world  we  have 
observed,  which  is  about  the  bitter- 
est pang  of  which  the  soul  is  cap- 
able. It  is  the  burden  more  or  less 
of  all  the  world's  worst  complaints. 
The  common  mass  of  us  encounter  it 


466 


in  detail,  and  have  happily  managed 
to  weave  some  new  veil  over  the 
painful  reality  in  one  region  before 
we  are  caught  in  another,  and  ob- 
liged to  look  on  and  see  the  veils  of 
imagination  stripped  from  the  facts 
of  life.  And  no  one  can  bear  to 
dwell  upon  this  unveiling.  It 
brings  madness  or  it  brings  death ; 
or  in  the  case  of  a  noble  mind  too 
great  for  such  brief  and  vulgar  con- 
clusion, it  evolves  a  Hamlet — a  man 
standing  among  the  wrecks  of  life 
so  deeply  amazed,  so  confounded 
and  heart-struck,  that  his  trouble 
paralyses  him,  and  nothing  seems 
worth  doing  of  all  that  might  be 
done.  Such  a  one  in  real  life,  we 
may  perhaps  say,  was  Leopardi, 
though  without  that  spring  of 
sweeter  nature  in  him  which  kept 
Hamlet  in  being.  In  the  case  of 
the  real  man,  we  do  not  know  what 
it  was  which  turned  all  the  milk 
to  gall,  and  brought  the  spirit  face 
to  face  with  a  universe  of  hideous 
folly  and  falsehood,  instead  of  that 
world  all  dressed  in  smiles  and 
sweetness  in  which  he  had  taken 
delusive  delight.  The  worst  and 
most  dismal  depth  of  the  philo- 
sophical despair  which  is  called 
pessimism,  was  the  natural  issue 
with  the  Italian  of  that  poisoning 
of  all  happier  impulse.  What  it 
was  in  the  royal  Dane  we  all  know. 
Hamlet  is  greater,  larger  than  Leo- 
pardi ;  his  nature  would,  we  cannot 
doubt,  have  righted  itself  one  time 
or  other,  had  it  not  been  so  preci- 
pitately cut  short :  but  there  is  a 
certain  illumination  in  the  contrast 
yet  resemblance.  The  terrible  gulf, 
unlighted  by  any  star,  into  which 
Leopardi  plunged  at  the  moment 
of  which  all  his  poems  are  full, 
the  point  of  life  at  which  he  awak- 
ened, and  at  which,  as  he  tells  us, 
the  supreme  delusion  of  his  first 
happier  impressions  became  ap- 
parent to  him  —  has  a  profound 
blackness  of  despair  in  it  which 


Hamlet.  \   [April 

is  less  within  the  range  of  our 
sympathies  than  the  confused  and 
gloomy  world,  still  in  the  throes 
of  earthquake,  amid  which  Hamlet 
stands,  sick  at  heart,  gazing  with 
eyes  of  wild  dismay  at  the  sanctities 
which  fall  in  succession  into  the 
dust  one  after  another,  leaving  him 
ever  more  and  more  haggard  and 
bereaved.  His  father's  death  to  be 
revenged,  and  all  that  "cursed  spite" 
to  be  set  right,  are  rather  living  in- 
fluences than  otherwise  to  his  soul, 
bewildered  with  loss,  and  sick  and 
hopeless  in  the  downfall  of  every- 
thing that  is  sweet  and  fair  around. 
These  motives  keep  up  a  struggle 
within  him,  and  in  reality  prevent 
the  gloomy  waves  from  closing  over 
his  head ;  but  yet  have  not  acquired 
the  consistency  of  force  necessary 
to  drive  him  back  into  living,  and 
into  so  much  hope  as  would  alone 
make  living  possible.  His  vacil- 
lation is  but  the  struggle  of  that 
wholesome  and  righteous  passion 
against  the  inertness  of  despair, 
the  cui  bono  of  his  disenchanted 
existence.  He  tries  to  rouse  him- 
self, but  in  vain.  What  were 
the  good  1  If  Claudius  were  slain, 
would  that  restore  honour  and 
purity  to  the  desecrated  house? 
could  anything  remake  that  pol- 
luted mother  into  the  type  of  holy 
womanhood  above  corruption  1  He 
tries  to  work  himself  up  to  the 
point  of  action,  but  there  is  no 
hope  in  him  to  give  vigour  to  his 
arm.  Something  of  the  old  energy 
bursts  out  in  fits  and  starts,  but  is 
paralysed  by  this  supreme  sickness 
of  heart  and  failure  of  all  possibili- 
ties of  restoration.  What  Hamlet 
wants  is  more  than  a  vengeance  :  it 
is  a  re-creation.  Nothing  short  of 
the  undoing  of  all  the  monstrous 
evil  which  has  killed  his  soul  in 
him,  is  worth  his  living  for.  Mend- 
ing is  futile,  the  harm  is  too  funda- 
mental, the  misery  too  complete. 
Revenge  would  be  a  momentary  sat- 


1879.] 


Hamlet. 


467 


isfaction,  would  give  him  ease,  as 
when  a  wounded  man  tears  off  his 
bandages;  but  what  more  could 
revenge  do  for  Hamlet?  Eestore 
to  him  his  world  of  youth,  his 
trust  in  those  around  him,  his  be- 
lief that  one  is  pure  and  another 
true,  his  spotless  mother,  his  inno- 
cent love,  his  loyal  friends'? — ah 
no  !  not  one  of  them.  And  there- 
fore, now  with  flashes  of  wild  scorn, 
now  with  utterances  of  deepest  sad- 
ness, he  stands  "  hesitating,"  as  we 
say,  before  the  vengeance  which 
will,  he  sees,  be  but  a  deception 
like  all  the  rest,  and  make  no  real 
difference.  Leopardi,  the  gloomy 
shadow  of  an  actual  Hamlet,  had  no 
possibility  even  of  a  stroke  for  life 
in  the  shape  of  a  revenge,  no  palp- 
able wrong  which  he  could  identify, 
nor  practical  blow  that  would  help 
him  a  little,  or  which  he  could  even 
pretend  might  help  him.  There- 
fore the  nobility  of  a  struggle  is 
wanting  in  him.  More  grandly, 
on  nobler  lines,  and  with  a  more 
majestic  modelling,  the  poet  has 
worked  out  his  fatally  illuminated, 
disenchanted,  disappointed,  heroic 
soul.  Let  shallow  Laertes  storm  for 
his  vengeance,  but  in  the  profound 
depths  of  Hamlet's  nature  there  is 
no  more  room  for  delusion.  As 
Macbeth  murdered  sleep,  so  has 
villany  murdered  truth,  the  soul  of 
the  world  ;  but  that  last  and  awful 
murder  is  not  to  be  made  up  for 
by  the  death  of  the  villain.  That 
is  trivial,  a  nothing,  a  momentary 
anodyne,  a  little  salve  put  to  the 
burning  of  the  heart-deep  wound  : 
but  no  remedy;  for  remedy  is  be- 
yond possibility,  beyond  even  hope. 
This  in  our  opinion  is  the  interpre- 
tation of  Hamlet,  so  far  as  his  great 
and  noble  manhood  is  capable  of  a 
set  interpretation.  All  through  the 
darkness  that  has  closed  round  him 
there  strike  flickerings  of  a  former 
light,  which  show  the  real  nature, 
instinct  with  grace  and  sweetness, 


of  his  character.  When  he  is  first 
presented  to  us,  his  "  inky  cloak  "  is 
not  more  new  to  him  than  is  the 
gloom  ^that  envelops  his  life.  This 
gloom  dates  back  but  these  two 
little  months — not  two  :  nay,  per- 
haps not  more  than  half  that 
period:  since  the  secret  horrors  that 
lie  beneath  the  surface  of  common 
living  first  burst  upon  him — not  in 
his  father's  death,  a  natural  sorrow, 
but  in  the  monstrous  inconstancy 
and  wantonness  of  his  mother.  Be- 
fore that  unparalleled  revelation  of 
evil  came,  what  had  Prince  Hamlet 
been? 

"  The  glass  of  fashion  and  the  mould  of 

form  : 
The    expectancy  and    rose    of  the    fair 

state  :  "— 

the  very  hope  and  flower  of  noble 
youth  in  Denmark.  It  is  easy  to 
collect  the  traces  of  that  light  and 
sweet  existence  after  it  is  past.  The 
warmth  of  his  faith  in  the  one  last 
prop  that  remains  to  him,  his  faith- 
ful Horatio,  is  at  the  first  moment 
scarcely  less  ready  and  genial  than  his 
salutation  of  the  other  friends  who 
are  not  true  :  "  Good  lads,  how  do  ye 
both  ? "  he  cries,  with  happy  frank- 
ness, to  Rosencrantz  and  Guilden- 
stern,  before  he  has  seen  the  treach- 
ery in  their  faces ;  and  when  he  has 
begun  to  suspect  that  treachery,  with 
what  pathos  of  recollection  does  he 
remind  them  of  the  time  in  which 
there  was  no  suspicion,  adjuring 
them  "by  the  rights  of  our  fellow- 
ship, by  the  consonancy  of  our 
youth,  by  the  obligation  of  our 
ever-preserved  love "  !  This  is  no 
melancholy  philosopher  above  the 
range  of  the  young  cavaliers,  the  sol- 
diers and  scholars  of  Wittenberg; 
but  a  true  comrade  —  one  whose 
superior  rank  made  him  only  more 
generous  in  his  brotherhood,  more 
dependent  upon  their  affection. 
And  it  is  by  means  of  the  happy 
likings  of  his  youth  that  almost  all 


468 


Hamlet.  [Apiil 


the  macliinery  of  the  drama  is  con- 
structed. The  players  are  brought 
to  him  naturally,  as  to  the  source  of 
patronage  and  favour.  They  had 
been  of  his  retinue  before,  and  he 
knows  each  one,  and  has  a  gracious 
word  for  the  hobbledehoy  who 
plays  the  women's  parts,  as  well  as 
for  the  leader  of  the  troupe,  whose 
emotion  at  his  own  performance 
fills  the  prince  with  a  sad  yet  not 
unamused  wonder.  If  he  had  not 
been  their  constant  patron,  and 
known  their  capacity  of  old,  the 
expedient  of  the  play  could  not 
have  come  in.  And  the  very  cli- 
max of  the  tragedy  is  procured  by 
similar  means.  Even  in  the  midst 
of  his  great  gloom  and  overthrow, 
Hamlet  is  still  capable  of  being 
piqued  by  the  brag  of  Laertes'  pro- 
ficiency in  fencing,  which  proves 
that  such  an  accomplishment  was 
of  price  with  him.  But  for  this 
there  would  have  been  no  appro- 
priateness in  the  king's  wager  on 
Ids  head.  It  is  "  a  very  riband  in 
the  cap  of  youth,"  part  of  "the 
light  and  careless  living"  of  the 
blooming  season.  Strange  words  to 
be  applied  to  Hamlet !  yet  so  true 
that  the  skill  of  a  rival  has  still 
sufficient  force  to  kindle  the  half- 
quenched  fire  of  youthful  emulation 
in  him,  notwithstanding  all  his  bur- 
dens. Last  of  all,  there  is  the  trifling 
of  early  love — less  love  than  fancy — 
shaped  upon  the  fantastic  models  of 
the  reigning  fashion,  which  Hamlet 
had  not  been  too  serious  to  play 
with,  like  his  contemporaries.  The 
letter  which  Polonius  reads  to  the 
king  and  queen  is  such  a  letter  as 
Sir  Percie  Shafton  might  have 
written,  the  lightest  traffic  of  love- 
making,  half  sport,  half  earnest, — 
all  youthful  extravagance  and  com- 
pliment. "  To  my  soul's  idol,  the 
beautified  Ophelia," — "an  ill  phrase, 
a  very  vile  phrase,"  as  Polonius 
justly  adds.  This  gay  essay  of  gal- 
lantry is  precisely  what  Laertes 


calls  it  in  his  early  advice  to  his 
sister,  "  a  fashion  and  a  toy  in 
blood ; "  it  is  nothing  more  than 
"  the  trifling  of  his  favour."  "  Per- 
haps he  loves  you  now,"  the  pru- 
dent brother  says ;  but  it  is  the 
light  fancy  of  youth,  the  inclination 
of  nature  in  its  crescent,  not  any 
guarantee  for  what  may  be  when 
"the  inward  service  of  the  mind 
and  soul"  has  attained  its  full 
width  and  growth.  Still  more  de- 
cided upon  this  point  is  Polonius. 
"  For  Lord  Hamlet,  believe  so  much 
in  him  that  he  is  young,"  says  the 
wary  old  chamberlain.  He  has 
been  a  dangerous  young  gallant,  a 
noble  prince  full  of  all  the  charms 
and  entertainments  of  his  age ;  sur- 
rounded by  gay  comrades,  soldier 
and  courtier  and  scholar ;  ready  for 
every  fresh  amusement,  to  hear 
everything  new  the  players  have  on 
hand,  to  try  his  skill  against  whoever 
offers,  to  wear  a  fair  lady's  favour 
in  his  cap.  Such  has  been  the 
golden  youth  of  the  Prince  of  Den- 
mark :  until  suddenly,  all  at  once, 
as  at  the  crack  of  doom,  the  mask 
has  broken  off  the  fair  face  of  the 
world,  and  Hamlet  has  made  the  ir- 
redeemable discovery  that  nothing 
is  as  it  seems. 

It  might  be  too  long  to  attempt 
to  show  how  the  foundations  of  the 
world  were  more  entirely  broken 
up  by  the  special  guise  in  which 
this  calamity  overtook  him,  than 
they  could  have  been  to  Hamlet  in 
any  other.  There  is  indeed  scarcely 
any  way  in  which  the  whole  keynote 
of  nature  could  have  been  changed 
to  him  except  this.  It  could  be  done 
to  Othello  by  the  supposed  falsehood 
of  the  woman  in  whom  his  life  had 
reblossomed,  who  was  his  consola- 
tion for  all  the  labours  of  existence ; 
but  no  falsehood  of  love  could  have 
struck  to  despair  the  young  man 
only  lightly  stepping  within  the 
primrose  path  of  dalliance,  and 
capable  of  no  tragic  passion  there. 


1879.] 


Hamlet. 


469 


Where  lie  could  be  struck  was  in 
the  very  fountain  of  his  life — his 
mother.  The  most  degraded  mind 
finds  a  certain  refuge  there.  A 
woman  by  very  right  of  maternity 
is  lifted  out  of  the  impurities  and 
suspicions  which  may  assail  even 
those  who  are  "  as  chaste  as  ice,  as 
pure  as  snow."  She  has  a  shield 
cast  before  her  to  quench  all  evil 
thoughts.  If  truth  fails  everywhere 
else,  yet  in  her  there  is  the  source, 
the  springs  of  unpolluted  life,  the 
fountain  of  honour,  the  one  original 
type  of  faithful  affection  which  can- 
not be  doubted,  even  if  heaven  and 
earth  were  melting  and  dissolving. 
While  that  foundation  stands  fast, 
the  world  must  still  stand ;  it  can- 
not fall  into  irremediable  ruin  and 
destruction.  When  Hamlet  first 
comes  before  us  in  "  the  customary 
suit  of  sober  black/'  which  is  in 
itself  a  protestation  against  that 
unnatural  marriage,  this  entire  re- 
volution of  heaven  and  earth  has 
happened  to  him.  He  is  dragged 
in  the  train  of  the  pageant,  wit- 
nessing his  mother's  re-enthrone- 
ment, looking  on  at  all  the  endear- 
ments of  her  monstrous  bridehood, 
sick  with  disgust  and  misery,  un- 
able to  turn  his  back  upon  it  all,  or 
save  himself  from  the  dishonour 
that  invades  his  own  veins  from 
hers.  "  Fie  on't!  0  fie  ! "  he  cries, 
with  a  loathing  which  involves  all 
the  world,  and  even  himself,  in  its 
sick  horror.  The  earth  is 

"  An  unweeded  garden, 
That  grows  to  seed;    things  rank,   and 

gross  in  nature, 
Possess  it  merely." 

Foulness  is  everywhere.  Oh  that 
he  could  but  melt  and  dissolve 
away — that  it  could  be  permitted  to 
him  to  be  no  longer,  to  get  done 
with  the  very  consciousness  of  liv- 
ing. "  Heaven  and  earth  ! "  he 
cries,  in  the  impatience  of  his 
wretchedness,  "  must  I  remem- 
ber]"— 


"Within  a  month,— 
Let  me  not  think  on't.  —  Frailty,   thy 

name  is  woman  ! 
A  little  month ;  or  ere  those  shoes  were 

old, 
With  which  she  follow'd  my  poor  father's 

body, 
Like  Niobe,  all  tears  ; — why  she,   even 

she, — 
0  God !  a  beast,  that  wants  discourse  of 

reason, 
Would  have  mourned  longer." 

This  horrible  revelation  of  evil 
in  the  place  where  it  should  have 
been  least  suspected,  this  certainty 
which  nothing  can  change  or  ex- 
cuse or  atone  for,  is  the  founda- 
tion of  all  that  follows.  The 
murder  is  less,  not  more  than  this. 
It  may  be  proved,  it  may  be  re- 
venged, and  in  any  case  it  gives  a 
feverish  energy  to  the  sufferer,  an 
escape  for  the  moment  from  a  deep- 
er bitterness  still;  but  even  were 
it  disproved  or  were  it  avenged,  it 
would  change  nothing.  The  worst 
that  can  happen  has  happened;  that 
first  discovery  which  makes  every 
other  possible  has  been  made.  How 
it  is  gradually  supplemented  by 
other  treacheries,  and  how  the  noble 
victim  finds  himself  surrounded  by 
every  cheat  that  is  most  appalling 
to  his  nature,  all  chiming  in,  with 
one  baseness  after  another,  is  in  our 
judgment  the  real  argument  of  the 
tragedy — ending  as  it  does  in  an 
imbroglio  of  heaped  falsehood  upon 
falsehood,  confusion  of  murderous 
lie  on  lie,  which  leads  to  the  only 
end  that  is  possible — an  end  of  uni- 
versal slaughter,  embodying  at  once 
the  utter  success  and  failure  of  multi- 
plied treachery,  not  capable  of  stop- 
ping when  it  would.  The  murder  is 
brought  into  the  foreground,  arrest- 
ing the  attention  of  the  spectator, 
holding  the  chief  place  for  a  time, 
then  utterly  disappearing  during  the 
last  act  as  if  it  had  not  been — be- 
cause it  is,  in  fact,  not  the  central 
strain  of  the  drama  at  all,  but  only 
a  tremendous  complication  giving 
life  and  temporary  vigour  to  the 


470 


Hamlet.  [April 


hero's    terrible    illumination     and 
despair. 

Let  us  endeavour  to  trace  this 
under-swell  of  dark  and  accumu- 
lating misery  through  the  play. 
Hamlet  is,  in  fact,  roused  into 
heroic  action  whenever  the  question 
of  his  father's  murder  is  really 
before  him :  he  vacillates  about 
his  vengeance;  but  in  the  great 
scenes  with  the  ghost,  the  arrange- 
ments for  the  players,  and  also  the 
interview  with  his  mother,  there 
is  neither  hesitation  nor  weakness 
about  him.  It  is  when  outside  the 
range  of  that  inspiring  excitement 
that  the  darker  misery  seizes  pos- 
session of  his  soul;  and  this  we 
think  we  shall  be  able  to  show. 
As  for  the  madness  which  he  has 
declared  it  to  be  his  intention  to 
simulate,  we  see  very  little  of  that 
on  the  stage  or  in  the  text.  We 
are  left  to  infer  that  he  must 
have  carried  out  his  own  sugges- 
tions of  policy  ("  I  perchance  here- 
after may  think  meet  to  put  an 
antic  disposition  on "),  by  the  fact 
that  immediately  after  the  scene 
with  the  ghost  (in  which  there  is 
certainly  no  madness)  we  plunge 
almost  at  once  into  the  talk  of  the 
court  about  "Lord  Hamlet's  lun- 
acy." This  appears  to  have  devel- 
oped so  gradually,  as  to  have  left  the 
king  and  queen  time  to  send  to  Wit- 
tenberg for  Eosencrantz  and  Guild- 
enstern ;  but  the  only  evidence  we 
have  of  it  is  the  report  which  the 
frightened  Ophelia  brings  to  her 
father  of  the  strange  visit  the 
prince  has  paid  her  as  she  was 
"  sewing  in  her  closet."  Ophelia, 
to  judge  by  the  admonitions  of  her 
relatives,  had  not  been  by  any 
means  disinclined  to  admit  the 
wooing  of  Hamlet.  "  You  have 
of  your  audience  been  most  free 
and  bounteous,"  says  her  father — 
a  prudent  man  though  an  ambi- 
tious : — 


"From  this  time 
Be    somewhat  scanter  of   your  maiden 

presence ; 

Set  your  entreatment  at  a  higher  rate 
Than  a  command  to  parley." 

The  simple  and  submissive  girl, 
most  shallow  of  all  Shakespeare's 
women  —  who  is,  throughout  her 
brief  career  before  us,  entirely  un- 
conscious, it  is  evident,  of  any 
claim  of  loyalty  in  love,  and  who 
thinks  a  great  deal  more  of  her 
father's  approbation  than  of  what 
is  due  to  Hamlet — gives  us  in  real- 
ity the  only  thing  that  approaches 
to  evidence  of  madness  on  his  part. 
"  0  my  lord,  my  lord,  I  have  been 
so  affrighted  ! "  she  cries,  rushing 
with  a  child's  simple  impulse  to 
her  father. 

"Lord  Hamlet, — with  his  doublet  all 

unbrac'd ; 
No  hat  upon  his  head ;  his   stockings 

foul  ;d, 

Ungarter'd,  and  down-gyved  to  his  ankle ; 
Pale  as  his  shirt ;  his  knees  knocking 

each  other, 

And  with  a  look  so  piteous  in  purport, 
As  if  he  had  been  loosed  out  of  hell, 
To  speak  of  horrors, — he  comes  before  me. 
Pol.  Mad  for  thy  love  ? 
Oph.  My  lord,  I  do  not  know ; 
But,  truly,  I  do  fear  it. 
Pol.  What  said  he? 
Oph.  He  took  me  by  the  wrist,  and 

held  me  hard: 

Then  goes  he  to  the  length  of  all  his  arm  ; 
And,  with  his  other  hand  thus  o'er  his 

brow, 

He  falls  to  such  perusal  of  my  face, 
As  he  would  draw  it.    Long  stay'd  he  so  ; 
At  last, — a  little  shaking  of  mine  arm, 
And  thrice  his  head  thus  waving  up  and 

down, — 

He  raised  a  sigh  so  piteous  and  profound, 
As  it  did  seem  to  shatter  all  his  bulk, 
And  end  his  being :  that  done,  he  lets 

me  go; 
And,  with  his  head   over  his  shoulder 

turn'd, 
He  seem'd  to  find  his  way  without  his 

eyes ; 
For  out  o'  doors  he  went  without  their 

help, 
And,  to  the  last,  bended  their  light  on 

me." 

Curiously  enough,  this  is  the  only 
single  bit  of  evidence  in  the  whole 


1879.]  Hamlet. 


471 


play  which,  we  venture  to  say, 
would  be  received  by  any  court  as 
proof  of  Hamlet's  madness.  His 
own  light  and  bitter  "chaff"  with 
Polonius  would  take  in  no  lawyer. 
Whether  it  might  be  that  in  the 
interval  which  takes  place  behind 
the  scenes,  Hamlet  had  perceived 
that  the  sweet,  childish  nature  of 
Ophelia  had  been  taken  possession 
of  by  the  old  courtier,  and  that  she 
was  a  real,  if  innocent,  snare  for  him, 
it  is  hard  to  tell ;  but  it  is  scarcely 
possible  for  the  reader  to  imagine 
a  delusion  more  absurd  than  that 
the  great  and  princely  Hamlet  had 
gone  mad  for  the  love  of  Ophelia. 
Though  her  pretty  simplicity  and 
hapless  fate  give  a  factitious  interest 
to  her,  it  is  manifest  that  this  soft 
submissive  creature,  playing  into 
her  father's  hands  as  she  does,  is  in 
no  way  a  possible  mate  for  Hamlet ; 
neither  does  he  say  a  word  which 
would  justify  us  in  thinking  that 
any  serious  passion  for  her  increased 
the  confusion  of  pain  and  misery  in 
his  mind.  Perhaps  that  long  per- 
usal of  her  face,  of  which  she  tells 
her  father,  was  the  regretful,  tender 
leave-taking  of  the  man  from  whom 
all  toys  and  fashions  of  the  blood 
had  fallen  away,  who  could  write 
sonnets  no  longer,  nOr  rhymes  to  his 
lady's  eyebrow.  Anyhow,  the  fact 
remains  that  during  the  time  which 
elapsed  between  Hamlet's  resolution 
to  "  put  an  antic  disposition  on," 
and  the  arrival  of  Rosencrantz  and 
Guildenstern  at  the  request  of  the 
king,  the  events  upon  which  the 
notion  of  Hamlet's  madness  has 
been  built  had  taken  place,  and 
that  all  we  know  of  them  is  this 
report  of  Ophelia's.  He  has,  it 
would  appear,  "borne  himself 
strange  and  odd,"  as  he  said  he 
would  do,  and  Polonius  has.  found 
out  the  reason  on  his  side,  and 
Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstern  have 
been  sent  for  to  do  it  on  theirs. 


When  Hamlet  appears  to  us  again,  he 
is  mocking  Polonius  with  wild  talk 
— talk  so  full  of  meaning  and  mis- 
chief, that  even  the  old  chamberlain 
with  his  foregone  conclusion  in  his 
head,  is  fain  to  give  vent  to  the 
confession,  "though  this  be  mad- 
ness, yet  there's  method  in't." 
This  transparent  assumption  of 
folly  blows  off  the  moment  he  sees 
the  new-comers,  whom  he  meets  at 
first  with  the  frankest  pleasure. 
"  Sure  I  am,  there  are  not  two  men 
living  to  whom  he  more  adheres," 
the  queen  has  said ;  and  the  recep- 
tion which  Hamlet  gives  them  fully 
carries  out  his  mother's  description. 
Eut  either  there  is  something  in 
their  air  which  prompts  suspicion, 
or  the  new-born  doubts  in  his  mind 
make  him  question  closely,  "  What 
make  you  at  Elsinore  1 "  Alas  !  the 
generous  and  truthful  Hamlet  has 
now  got  that  light  of  bitter  illumi- 
nation in  his  eyes  which  sees  through 
all  disguises.  In  a  little  keen 
quick  play  of  persistent  question 
and  unwilling  reply,  he  has  got  the 
secret  of  their  mission.  He  accepts 
that  too  :  his  friends  have  fallen 
away  from  him,  and  turned  into 
spies  and*  emissaries  of  his  foe.  The 
rest  of  the  interview  with  these 
false  friends  is  wrought  with  the 
most  marvellous  skill :  the  sup- 
pressed passion  in  it  mingled  with 
that  levity  of  the  sick  heart  which 
is  more  sad  than  despair.  At  first 
he  seems  to  make  almost  an  appeal 
to  their  sympathies,  when  he  tells 
them  how  he  has  "  lost  all  my 
mirth,  foregone  all  custom  of  exer- 
cises ; "  but  seeing  this  does  not 
move  one  spark  of  the  old  fellow- 
feeling  within  them,  Hamlet  accepts 
the  position,  this  time  with  a  smile 
of  bitter  yet  tranquil  understand- 
ing. That  which  would  have  been 
so  great  an  evil,  so  miserable  a  dis- 
aster before — what  is  it  now  but  a 
faint  echo  of  the  downfall  already 


472 


Hamlet. 


[April 


accomplished  1  Fate  having  already 
done  her  worst,  this  bitterness  the 
more  but  chimes  in  like  an  antici- 
pated refrain.  Yet  the  pain  of  it 
tells  even  in  the  greater  anguish, 
and  rises  to  a  climax  of  indignant 
remonstrance  when,  after  the  hypo- 
critical appeal  his  false  friends  make 
to  his  old  affection,  Hamlet,  scorn- 
ing to  give  them  more  distinct  reply, 
takes  the  "  recorder  "  from  the  hands 
of  the  player  and  offers  it  first  to 
one,  then  to  the  other.  "  Will  you 
play  upon  this  pipe  1 "  he  says ;  "  'tis 
as  easy  as  lying :  govern  these 
ventages  with  your  ringers  and 
thumb,  give  it  breath  with  your 
mouth,  and  it  will  discourse  most 
eloquent  music."  "  Why,  look 
you,  now,"  he  adds,  "how  un- 
worthy a  thing  you  make  of  me  ! 
You  would  play  upon  me ;  you 
would  seem  to  know  my  stops ; 
you  would  pluck  out  the  heart  of 
my  mystery.  .  .  .  'Sblood,  do 
you  think  I  am  easier  to  be  played 
on  than  a  pipe?"  Mr  Irving  in 
a  fury — quite  out  of  character,  we 
think,  with  the  concentrated  scorn 
and  pain,  the  pang  yet  smile  of  the 
outburst  which  is  far  too  sad  for 
passion — breaks  violently'across  his 
knee  the  "little  organ,"  which 
appears  to  those  shallow  deceivers 
so  much  more  difficult  to  under- 
stand than  Hamlet's  great  heart 
and  nature.  But  passion  or  vio- 
lence is  not  in  the  contrast  between 
the  simple  pipe  and  the  man's  soul. 
It  leaves  them  confounded,  poor 
creatures  as  they  are — yet  still  not 
altogether  sure,  so  great  is  the  for- 
bearance of  his  protest,  notwith- 
standing the  reluctant  contempt  in 
it — that  they  may  not  yet  deceive 
him  again,  and  get  the  better  of 
him,  and  worm  their  way  into  his 
secret.  In  no  part  of  the  play  is 
his  attitude  more  noble — high  as  the 
heavens  above  the  falsehood  which 
is  wringing  his  very  heart,  yet 
deeply,  profoundly  conscious  of  it — 


than  in  those  scenes.  His  first  dis- 
enchantment has  been  so  complete, 
and  has  cut  the  ground  so  entirely 
from  under  his  feet,  that  this  is  no 
new  revelation  to  him.  He  bears 
it  even,  standing  there  alone,  on  so 
much  solid  ground  as  his  feet  can 
cover,  no  more,  with  a  smile — but 
the  smile  is  one  of  utter  and  in- 
expressible pain. 

There  remains  but  one  thing  in 
which  Hamlet  might  still  find  a 
shred  of  truth  and  faithfulness. 
According  to  our  opinion  Ophelia 
has  always  been  too  slight  and 
small  a  creature  to  have  much  hold 
upon  such  a  spirit — and  his  per- 
petual gibes  and  flouts  at  Polonius, 
specially  on  the  subject  of  his 
daughter,  would  be  cruel,  had  he 
not  an  idea  that  some  plot  or 
other  in  respect  to  his  daughter 
was  brewing  in  the  old  courtier's 
mind ;  but  when  the  deepest  mus- 
ings of  his  sadness  are  disturbed  by 
the  entrance  of  that  last  and  cruellest 
spy  upon  him,  Hamlet  does  not 
seem  at  first  to  contemplate  the  pos- 
sibility that  Ophelia  too  might  be  in 
the  plot  against  him.  Her  evidently 
concerted  appearance  at  that  mo- 
ment, a  calculated  chance  to  secure 
the  prince's  attention,  rouses  him 
from  thoughts  so  different  that 
he  perceives  her  with  a  passing 
impatience.  And  it  is  hard  to 
believe  that  even  Ophelia  is  con- 
scious of  the  full  meaning  of  the 
snare  which  she  is  made  to  set. 
Something  of  simplicity,  something 
of  stupidity,  is  in  the  device — which 
is  probably  all  her  own,  and  unsug- 
gested  by  the  other  conspirators — 
of  bringing  Hamlet's  love -tokens 
to  restore  to  him  at  such  a  mo- 
ment and  under  such  circumstances. 
Though  she  thinks  he  is  mad  of 
love  for  herself,  and  though  she 
knows  that  her  father  and  the  king 
are  lying  in  watch  to  listen,  she 
tempts  her  crazed  lover,  as  she 
imagines,  to  betray  his  most  secret 


1879.] 


Hamlet. 


473 


feeling?,  by  those  soft  reproaches, 
which  at  another  place  and  time 
would  have  been  so  affecting — ap- 
peals to  his  tenderest  recollections, 
and  pathetic  protest  against  his 
abandonment  of  her.  A  woman 
forsaken  could  not  do  more  iu  a 
supreme  effort  to  reclaim  the  heart 
that  has  strayed  from  her.  Her 
faltering  reference  to  the  "  words  of 
so  sweet  breath  composed  as  made 
the  things  more  rich,"  the  faint  and 
plaintive  indignation  of  her  conclu- 
sion, "Rich  gifts  wax  poor,  when 
givers  prove  unkind,"  would  be  ex- 
quisitely touching  did  we  not  know 
of  those  spies  behind  the  arras. 
They  are  exquisitely  touching,  we 
believe,  to  the  great  part  of  the 
public,  who,  soft-hearted  to  the  soft 
Ophelia,  forget  that  this  whole 
meeting  is  a  plot,  and  that  she  has 
contrived,  in  her  simplicity,  a  still 
more  delicate  refinement  of  the 
snare,  by  thus  throwing  upon  him 
the  sudden  shadow  of  the  past. 
For  a  moment  Hamlet  seems  to 
pause.  "  I  humbly  thank  you, 
well,  well,  well,"  he  says,  in  answer 
to  her  question,  with  something  in 
his  tone  of  fear,  lest  this  softness 
should  melt  him,  and  his  steps  be 
tempted  into  a  way  less  rude  and 
terrible  than  that  which  lies  before 
him.  But  when  the  meaning  of  the 
whole  situation  suddenly  flashes 
upon  him — when  his  rapid  glance 
detects  the  listeners  at  one  side, 
while  the  seeming-simple  maiden 
falters  forth  her  reproaches  on 
the  other  —  a  blaze  of  sudden 
scorn  and  wrath  suddenly  illumi- 
nates the  scene.  A  stab  delivered 
by  so  soft  a  hand  cuts  to  the  heart. 
She  too,  suborned  by  his  enemies, 
made  into  a  trap  for  him,  endea- 
vouring to  seduce  him  to  a  self- 
betrayal  more  intimate,  more  sacred, 
than  any  that  his  false  friends 
could  hope  to  attain  !  The  pang  is 
so  keen  that  Hamlet  is  cruel  and 
terrible  to  the  soft  and  shrinking 


creature.  He  rails  at  her  as  if  she 
were  a  wanton,  and  crushes  her 
under  his  contempt.  "  Go  thy 
ways  to  a  nunnery — to  a  nunnery 
— go  !;>  he  cries,  with,  for  the  first 
time,  a  shrill  tone  of  anger  in  his 
voice.  She  to  whose  orisons  he 
commends  himself  one  moment,  is 
denounced  the  next  in  terms  as 
harsh  and  disdainful  as  were  ever 
used  to  the  most  abandoned  sin- 
ner. His  words  beat  her  down 
like  a  hailstorm  on  a  flower.  He 
has  no  pity — no  mercy.  That  com- 
bination of  the  last  appeal  to  his 
tenderness  with  the  concealed  and 
cruel  plot  against  him  betrays 
Hamlet  to  an  outburst  which  under 
less  provocation  would  be  unmanly. 
He  insults  the  woman  who  has 
made  a  snare  for  him  out  of  her 
own  very  tenderness.  The  ex- 
quisite art  which  keeps  up  our 
sympathy  for  the  bewildered  and 
crushed  Ophelia,  notwithstanding 
what  would  be  the  baseness  of  her 
disloyalty  were  she  sufficiently  ele- 
vated in  character  to  understand 
the  treacherous  part  she  is  playing, 
is  wonderful.  It  leaves  a  haze  of 
mortal  uncertainty  about  her  char- 
acter altogether,  such  as  veils  the 
actual  being  of  our  contemporaries, 
and  leaves  us  at  liberty  to  think 
better  or  worse  of  them  according 
to  the  point  of  view  from  which 
we  see-  them, — a  licence  which  has 
secured  for  Ophelia  a  place  among 
Shakespeare's  heroines  which  does 
not  seem  to  be  justified  by  any- 
thing but  the  prettiness  and  pathos 
of  her  mad  scenes.  Her  submissive 
obedience  to  every  impulse  from  her 
father  scarcely  balances  her  absolute 
want  of  perception  of  any  truth 
or  delicacy  which  she  owes  to 
Hamlet,  for  whose  betrayal  she  al- 
lows herself,  without  apparent  re- 
sistance, to  be  made  the  decoy. 

Thus  the  last  blow  that  Fortune 
can  now  strike  at  him  has  fallen — 
his  friends  have  abandoned  him  ; 


474 


Hamlet.  [April 


his  simple  love,  the  innocent  crea- 
ture in  whom,  if  no  lofty  passion 
was  possible,  there  still  seemed 
every  commendation  to  sweet  do- 
mestic trust  and  truth,  has  done  her 
best  to  betray  him.  What  remains 
for  this  man  to  whom  all  the  world 
has  turned  traitor,  under  whose  feet 
the  solid  soil  has  crumbled,  who 
sees  nothing  but  yawning  ruin 
round  him,  abysses  of  darkness, 
bottomless  pits  of  falsehood,  wher- 
ever he  may  turn  ? 

This,  it  seems  to  us,  is  the  deep- 
est and  chief  strain  in  the  tragedy. 
The  murder  and  the  vengeance  he 
would  take  for  it,  would  his  sick 
heart  leave  him  enough  possibil- 
ity of  living  to  give  the  necessary 
standing-ground  for  the  blow — form 
the  sole  source  of  energy  and  life 
which  he  retains.  That  cruel  and 
monstrous  wrong,  for  which  he  can 
yet  get  some  amends,  rouses  him 
from  the  deadly  collapse  of  every 
hope  and  wish  which  he  cannot 
escape,  which  nothing  in  heaven  or 
earth  can  remedy.  The  passion  of 
the  great  scene  with  the  ghost 
brings  before  us  another  Hamlet, 
a  heroic  figure,  altogether  awakened 
out  of  the  sick  and  miserable  mus- 
ing, the  impotent  still  anger  and  pain 
of  his  previous  appearance.  "  Re- 
member theeT'  he  cries;  "  ay,  thou 
poor  ghost,  while  memory  holds  a 
seat  in  this  distracted  globe." 
And  the  wild  humour  of  his  ex- 
citement as  he  makes  his  com- 
panions .swear  to  secrecy,  is  not 
more  unlike  the  bitter  satire  of 
hopeless  despondency  with  which 
in  a  previous  scene  he  explains  his 
mother's  marriage  as  "  thrift,  thrift, 
pure  thrift" — than  is  the  roused 
and  passionate  fervour  of  his  action 
from  the  apathy  of  spectatorship  in 
which  we  have  seen  him  plunged 
from  the  first.  Again,  the  gleam 
of  revival  which  occurs  when  the 
playerV  present  themselves,  and 
he  •perceives  a  ready  means  in  his 


hand  of  convicting  the  criminal, 
confirming  the  apparition,  and  strik- 
ing a  first  and  subtle  blow,  once 
more  restores  force  and  life  to  Ham- 
let. There  is  no  vacillation  in  his 
measures  then.  How  prompt,  how 
ready,  how  practical  are  all  his  com- 
binations !  Once  more  he  is  de- 
livered from  the  deadly  influence 
of  that  eating  falsehood,  and  truth 
becomes  possible. 

"  I  have  heard 

That  guilty  creatures  sitting  at  a  play, 
Have  by  the  very  cunning  of  the  scene 
Been  struck  so  to  the  soul,  that  presently 
They  have  proclaim'd  their  malefactions. 
For  murder,  though  it  have  no  tongue, 

will  speak 
With  most  miraculous  organ." 

After  the  terrible  success  of  this 
experiment,  we  are  not  left  time  to 
see  any  further  faltering  of  purpose. 
The  events  follow  in  breathless 
succession.  The  great  scene  with 
his  mother  and  the  killing  of  Po- 
lonius  take  place  the  same  evening 
— and  that  very  night  or  the  morn- 
ing immediately  succeeding,  without 
pause  or  delay,  he  is  swept  away 
to  England  on  the  expedition  from 
which  the  king  hopes  he  may  never 
return.  The  "  vacillation "  with 
which  Hamlet  is  continually  cre- 
dited, and  of  which  so  much  has 
been  said,  is  all  confined  to  the  un- 
told period  between  the  appearance 
of  the  ghost  and  the  point  at  which 
the  story  resumes,  with  the  treach- 
eries of  Rosencrantz  and  Guilden- 
stern,  and  of  Ophelia.  After  he  has 
made  sure  by  the  trial  to  which  he 
subjects  his  uncle  at  the  play,  of  the 
guilt  of  the  king,  Hamlet,  save  at 
the  moment  when  he  surprises  the 
criminal  on  his  knees,  and  decides 
not  to  kill  him,  has  no  further 
opportunity  for  vacillation.  And 
here  the  sustained  action  of  the  tra- 
gedy may  be  said  to  end.  The  last 
act  is  a  bewildering  postscript,  in 
which  all  the  mysteries  of  the  pre- 
vious close  and  elaborate  piece  of 


1879.] 


Hamlet. 


475 


tragedy  are  swept  up.  It  might  be 
almost  a  new  play,  so  different  is  it 
— or  the  beginning  of  a  continua- 
tion which  shows  us  all  the  former 
occurrences  thrown  into  distance 
and  perspective.  Of  the  original 
actors  none  remain  except  Kamlet 
himself,  the  king  and  queen,  and 
the  two  lay  figures  of  Horatio  and 
Laertes.  Ophelia  is  gone,  all  her 
simplicities  and  artless  treachery 
ended  in  a  pretty  foolish  madness 
as  much  unlike  the  "  lunacy  of  the 
Lord  Hamlet "  as  can  be  conceived ; 
and  old  Polonius,  wagging  his  wise 
old  head  in  shallow  sagacity ;  and 
the  young  court  friends,  who  cannot 
understand  their  princely  compan- 
ion, but  can  betray  him — all  are 
swept  away.  And  with  them  has 
gone  Hamlet's  despair,  and  his  plan 
of  vengeance,  and  all  those  obstinate 
questionings  with  which  he  has  en- 
deavoured to  blow  aside  the  veil  of 
human  uncertainty.  We  tread  new 
ground,  and  enter  a  new  contracted, 
less  impassioned  world. 

All  this  time,  though  we  have 
discussed  Hamlet  much,  we  have 
given  but  little  attention  to  Mr 
Irving,  though  it  is  his  performance 
which  has  furnished  the  text  of  the 
disquisition.  Notwithstanding  the 
very  serious  and  conscientious  per- 
formance he  gives  us,  it  is  very 
difficult  to  judge  what  is  the  con- 
ception he  has  formed  of  the  char- 
acter of  Hamlet.  He  would  seem 
rather  to  have  studied  the  drama 
scene  by  scene,  endeavouring  with 
all  his  powers  to  give  what  seems  to 
him  an  adequate  representation  of 
each,  than  to  have  addressed  himself 
to  the  character  as  a  whole.  And 
though  there  are  general  criticisms 
of  the  superficial  kind  to  be  ad- 
dressed to  him,  such  as  the  very 
natural  and  reasonable  objection  to 
the  language  he  speaks,  which  cer- 
tainly is  quite  as  imperfect  English 
as  that  which  any  foreigner  may 
have  made  use  of — we  are  prevent- 

VOL.  CXXV. — NO.  DCCLXII. 


ed  by  our  inability  to  discriminate 
what  his  idea  is,  from  finding  any 
fault  with  that  idea.  He  wants 
humour  so  entirely,  that  the  wild 
pathetic  gleams  of  diversion  which 
light  up  the  gloom  are  lost  to  his 
audience ;  and  the  laugh  which 
breaks  in  at  the  most  bitter  mo- 
ments— that  laugh  which  is  full  of 
tears,  yet  is  nevertheless  instinct 
with  a  wildly  humorous  perception 
of  things  ludicrous  and  incongru- 
ous— loses  all  its  distinctive  char- 
acter, and  becomes  a  mere  hyster- 
ical symbol  of  excessive  emotion, 
no  more  expressive  than  a  shriek. 
And  he  wants  the  flexibility,  the 
ready  change  from  one  mood  to 
another,  the  rapidity  of  transition 
which  bewilders  Hamlet's  common- 
place companions.  The  broken 
jest,  so  strangely  natural,  yet  to  the 
vulgar  eye  so  unsuited  to  the  occa- 
sion, with  which  he  hails  the  inter- 
ruptions of  the  ghost — his  fantastic 
fooling  of  Polonius — even  the  light- 
er touches  between  deadly  jest  and 
earnest  with  which  his  interview 
with  Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstern 
is  full — are  all  beyond  Mr  Irving's 
power.  And  the  wild  outburst  of 
tragic  gaiety  into  which  he  breaks 
when  the  assembly  is  broken  up 
after  the  play,  becomes  mere  mad 
bellowing  and  screaming  in  Mr 
Irving's  hands,  without  any  sugges- 
tion of  that  wavering  of  the  mind 
at  the  very  summit  of  tragic  satis- 
faction, consternation,  and  horror, 
frantic  with  meaning,  yet  a  world 
apart  from  madness,  which  is  per- 
haps the  furthest  step  humanity 
can  take  into  what  is  expressible 
and  capable  of  being  put  into 
words :  it  is  a  step  beyond  the 
actor's  powers.  To  embody  the 
vicissitudes,  the  extremes,  the 
heights  and  depths  of  this  most 
wonderful  of  poetical  creations,  who 
could  be  sufficient  who  did  not  to 
some  degree  share  Hamlet's  nature, 
his  iarge  eyesight,  his  c 

2  H 


476 


sion  of  small  and  great,  his  suscep- 
tibility to  every  breath  that  flits 
across  the  mental  horizon?  This 
last  quality  apparently  Mr  Irving 
does  not  perceive  at  all ;  for  we  are 
sure  that  if  he  perceived  it  he 
would  devote  himself  to  a  study  of 
all  the  ripplings  of  sensitive  faces, 
all  the  transitions  of  changeable 
minds.  His  own  countenance  is  at 
times  finely  expressive,  but  it  has 
not  been  made  for  the  flickerings 
of  a  mind  at  once  spontaneous  and 
complex.  Its  force  is  single,  uni, 
not  mingled  but  of  one  colour. 
Hamlet  is  too  great  to  be  called 
versatile,  a  word  reserved  by  us 
for  the  use  of  characters  of  slighter 
mould ;  but  there  is  all  the  gamut 
in  him,  and  no  difficulty  in  going 
at  once  from  the  height  to  the 
depth  of  the  moral  scale.  But  Mr 
Irving  possesses  no  such  varied 
power  of  expression ;  and  this  must 
always  be  fatally  in  his  way  when 
it  is  necessary  to  attempt  those 
shades  of  meaning  which  are  in- 
finite, and  which  vary  with  every 
breath. 

As  an  instance,  however,  of  what 
seems  to  us  complete  misconception 
more  serious  than  simple  failure, 
we  may  instance  the  scene  with 
Ophelia,  which  no  doubt  is  one  of 
the  most  difficult  in  the  play.  It 
is  hard  in  any  case  (notwith- 
standing that  the  doctrine  is  pop- 
ular) to  give  a  persistent  tone  of 
superiority  to  a  man's  intercourse 
with  a  woman  without  offending 
the  finer  perceptions  as  well  as  the 
wholesome  prejudices  of  the  audi- 
ence, which  naturally  range  them- 
selves on  the  woman's  side;  and  it  is 
still  more  difficult  to  show  the  turn 
of  sentiment,  and  justify  Hamlet's 
wild  and  sudden  onslaught  upon  so 
soft  and  shrinking  a  nature.  Mr 
Irving  avoids  this  by  turning  the 
scene  into  one  of  the  most  impas- 
sioned and  frantic  love  —  love  of 
gesture  and  attitude,  since  he  can- 


Hamlet.  [April 

not  change  the  words,  which  are  as 
unlike  love-making  as  ever  were  put 
on  paper.     His  Hamlet  can  scarce- 
ly restrain  himself  from   clasping 
Ophelia  to  his  heart,  his  arms  are 
all    but   closed    around    her,    and 
when  he  turns  himself  away  it  is 
but   to   turn    back,   drawn    by  an 
attraction  which  it  takes  not  only 
all  his  power  of  resolution  but  all 
his  muscular  force  to  resist.     Those 
embracings  of  the  air,  those  futile 
snatchings  and  withdrawals,  are  sup- 
posed to  be  proofs  of  a  violent  and 
passionate  love,  restrained  or  broken 
either  by  madness  or  by  misery — 
Mr  Irving  does  not  clearly  give  us 
to  understand  which — but  certainly 
belonging  at  least  to  a  most  robust 
sentiment,  for  even  the  sight  of  the 
half  -  concealed    spectators,    about 
whose  presence  it  is  impossible  he 
can  deceive  himself,  makes  no  dif- 
ference  to   him;  and   he   goes   on 
with  those  wild  half-embraces  and 
the  strangest  pantomimic  struggle 
of  passion  after  he  knows  of  the 
plot  and  treachery,  making  an  ex- 
hibition of  his  feelings  under  the 
very  noses  of  the  watchers.     From 
whence  Mr  Irving  can  have  taken 
this  extraordinary  conception  it  is 
impossible   to   tell.     It   is  contra- 
dicted   not    only    by   every   word 
Hamlet  says,  but  by  the  verdict  of 
the  spies  after.     "  Love  !  his  affec- 
tions do  not  that  way  tend,"  says 
the  king,  more  clear-sighted  than 
Mr   Irving;    though,   indeed,   had 
Mr  Irving  been  Hamlet  (as,  thank 
heaven  !  he  is  not),  Polonius  must 
have  remained  master  of  the  field, 
since  nothing  could  justify  his  mad 
behaviour   but    the    old   courtier's 
theory.      There   are   many  jarring 
notes  in  the  performance,  but  none 
so  entirely  false  as  this. 

On  the  equally  delicate  ground 
where  Hamlet  is  confronted  by  the 
other  treachery  in  the  persons  of 
Guildenstern  and  Eosencrantz,  Mr 
Irving  is  much  more  happy.  Though 


1879.] 


Hamlet. 


477 


he  is  incapable  of  the  light  banter 
which  conceals  so  much  tragic  feel- 
ing, his  intercourse  with  them  is  well 
done  throughout,  though  somewhat 
extreme  in  gravity.  The  search- 
ing look,  which  is  the  first  evidence 
of  his  doubts,  follows  very  quickly 
upon  his  cordial  recognition  of  his 
fellow-students  ;  and  the  manner  in 
which  he  penetrates  through  their 
shifting  and  paltry  defences  is  fine 
in  its  reality  and  concentrated  ob- 
servation— a  study  as  successful  as 
the  encounter  with  Ophelia  is  false. 
In  the  one  case  he  has  caught  the 
true  tone  of  the  character,  in  the 
other  goes  wilfully  against  it,  and 
against  every  indication  of  the  text. 
The  fine  scene  with  the  recorder,  to 
which  we  have  already  referred,  is 
somewhat  spoiled  by  the  violence 
with  which  he  breaks,  when  he  has 
served  his  purpose,  the  pipe  which 
has  proved  so  powerful  an  illustra- 
tion of  his  meaning ;  but  this  is  a  de- 
tail which  may  easily  be  pardoned, 
all  the  rest  being  so  satisfactory. 
By  the  way,  the  introduction  of  the 
recorder,  not  only  in  Mr  Irving's 
arrangement,  but  in  every  other  we 
have  seen,  is  singularly  artificial. 
Hamlet  has  demanded  "  some  music 
— the  recorders,"  in  his  wild  exul- 
tation at  the  end  of  the  play-scene, 
meaning  evidently  a  performance 
of  music  to  soothe  or  inspire  his 
excited  fancy,  or  to  take  the  place 
of  the  entertainment  so  summarily 
interrupted.  The  recorder,  how- 
ever, is  brought  to  him  as  if  he 
had  asked  for  it  simply  to  give 
the  courtiers  their  lesson,  the  idea 
of  music  to  be  performed  before 
him  failing  altogether.  Mr  Irving's 
careful  zeal  for  all  these  matters 
might  well  be  exerted  on  this  point 
to  make  the  introduction  of  the  in- 
strument more  natural. 

That  he  does  not  think  any  detail 
trivial  is  apparent  from  his  notes  in 
a  contemporary,  the  last  of  which  is 
occupied  with  a  defence  of  his  own 


practice  in  withdrawing  the  two 
portraits  of  traditionary  use,  which 
have  hitherto  figured  in  the  queen's 
chamber,  and  afforded  a  visible  text 
for  Hamlet's  speech — "  Look  here, 
upon  this  picture,  and  on  this."  Mr 
Irving's  crotchet  on  this  point  is 
really  unimportant ;  though  it  is 
somewhat  confusing,  we  think,  to 
the  spectator,  to  have  so  distinct  an 
allusion  without  any  visible  ground 
for  it ;  and  the  suggestion  he  makes, 
that  the  stage  has  four  walls,  and 
that  the  portraits  may  be  supposed 
to  be  hanging  upon  that  which  "is 
only  theoretical " — which,  in  reality, 
is  the  theatre,  with  all  its  crowding 
faces — is  somewhat  ludicrous.  The 
absence  of  the  portraits,  or  of  the 
miniatures  which  sometimes  do  duty 
for  them,  weakens  the  force  of  the 
speech,  in  so  far  as  any  failure  of 
external  accessories  can  weaken  it, 
which  is  a  trivial  quantity.  But 
this  accessory  to  which  the  text 
seems  to  point  is,  on  the  whole, 
more  important  than  the  chamber- 
candle  which  Hamlet,  with  real  at- 
tention, lights  and  hands  to  his 
mother  at  the  conclusion  of  the  in- 
terview, neglecting,  however,  as  we 
cannot  but  feel,  to  remind  her  of 
the  night-gear,  evidently  airing  at 
the  fire,  which  gives  truth  and  local 
colour  to  the  room ;  though,  after 
all,  it  is  not  the  queen's  bedroom, 
but  only  some  boudoir  apparte- 
nant,  or  there  would  be  no  need  for 
the  chamber  -  candle  at  all.  The 
scene  which  takes  place  in  this 
room  is  strangely  lopped  and  cut ; 
something  it  may  be  necessary  to 
omit  in  deference  to  modern  modes- 
ties, but  these  are  somewhat  too 
much  regarded  in  a  scene  of  passion 
so  intense.  And  the  sudden  vehe- 
mence of  Hamlet's  action,  when  the 
voice  behind  the  arras  rouses  him 
into  wild  rapidity  of  impulse,  leav- 
ing no  time  for  thought,  loses  all 
its  force  in  Mr  Irving's  treatment. 
He  lifts  the  arras  before  he  strikes, 


478 


making  any  doubt  about  the  per- 
son of  the  victim  impossible,  and 
taking  the  meaning  out  of  his  own 
question,  "Is  it  the  king?"  It 
•  must  be  remembered  that  he  has 
come  there  still  breathless  with  the 
wild  emotion  of  the  play-scene ; 
that  he  has  passed,  on  his  way, 
through  the  oratory  where  the  king 
is  praying,  and  has  spared  him ; 
and  that  the  transport  of  sudden 
passion  with  which  he  rushes  at 
the  concealed  spectator  is  a  pay- 
ment of  long  arrears  to  the  arch- 
enemy, who  had  already  used  this 
same  mean  device  to  surprise  his 
thoughts.  We  cannot  tell  why  Mr 
Irving  should  have  cut  out  two 
lines  of  the  words  addressed  to  the 
dead  Polonius,  which  are  far  from 
unnecessary : — 

"  Thou  wretched,  rash,  intruding  fool, 
farewell ! 

I  took  thee  for  thy  better;  take  thy  for- 
tune ; 

Thou  find 'st  to  be  too  busy  is  some  danger" — 

is  what  Shakespeare  wrote ;  but 
Mr  Irving  omits  the  italics,  leaving 
the  victim  without  even  so  much 
disdainful  regret  as  this. 

Altogether  ludicrous,  too,  is  the 
appearance  of  the  ghost  in  this  very 
important  scene.  The  convolutions 
of  the  queen's  night-drapery,  which, 
so  far  as  she  is  concerned,  occupy  the 
most  prominent  place  in  the  scene, 
billowing  hither  and  thither  as  she 
is  affected  by  Hamlet's  vitupera- 
tions, had,  we  confess,  so  occupied 
our  mind,  that  when,  with  a  rush, 
a  venerable  gentleman  in  familiar 
domestic  costume  came  on  the 
stage,  shaking  it  with  substantial 
footsteps,  the  idea  of  the  ghost  did 
not  present  itself  at  all  to  our  dull 
imagination  ;  and  it  was  impossible 
to  avoid  the  natural  idea  that  the 
lady's  husband,  hearing  an  unac- 
countable commotion  in  the  next 
room,  had  jumped  out  of  bed, 
seized  his  dressing  -  gown,  and 
rushed  in  to  see  what  was  the 


Hamlet.  [April 

matter.  The  combination  of  this 
and  the  chamber  -  candle  which 
Hamlet  lights  so  carefully,  and  the 
night-gown  airing  at  the  fire,  is 
most  unfortunate.  These  acces- 
sories are  a  great  deal  more  prosaic 
than  the  introduction  of  pictures 
would  be ;  and  we  cannot  but 
wonder  that  the  actor  who  leaves 
so  much  to  imagination  at  one 
moment,  should  leave  so  little  to 
it  at  another. 

There  are  many  omissions,  too, 
which  seem  distinct  faults  in  the  re- 
presentation, diminishing  its  effect 
— as,  for  instance,  at  the  end  of 
the  play-scene,  where  the  alarmed 
phrases  exchanged  by  the  spectators 
occupy  the  moment  necessary  to 
show  us  the  king's  perturbation, 
before  the  whole  train  suddenly 
rushes  away,  and  everything  is 
over.  Here  is  the  version  of  Shake- 
speare : — 

"  Ham.  He  poisons  him  i'  the  garden 
for's  estate.  His  name's  Gonzago  :  the 
story  is  extant,  and  writ  in  choice  Italian. 
You  shall  see  anon  how  the  murderer  gets 
the  love  of  Gonzago's  wife. 

Oph.  The  king  rises. 

Ham.  What!  frighted  with  false  fire  ? 

Queen.  How  fares  my  lord? 

Pol.  Give  o'er  the  play. 

King.  Give  me  some  light : — away  ! 

AIL  Lights,  lights,  lights  ! " 

Mr  Irving  leaves  out  all  that  we 
have  put  in  italics,  thus  gaining 
nothing  in  point  of  time,  and  en- 
tirely missing  the  confused  con- 
sciousness of  the  spectators,  which 
helps  the  effect  of  the  scene  so 
greatly.  As  it  is  now  being  repre- 
sented, the  king's  exclamation,  and 
the  echoing  cry  of  the  courtiers  for 
lights,  are  all  that  is  interposed 
between  the  sudden  flight  of  the 
court  and  Hamlet's  explanation  of 
the  argument  of  the  play.  His 
own  outcry,  "  What !  frighted  with 
false  fire  1 "  is  transposed,  and  comes 
after  the  precipitate  withdrawal  of 
the  royal  party.  Thus  the  effect  of 
three  independent  witnesses  to  the 


1879.] 


Hamlet. 


479 


king's  conviction  and  remorse,  each 
breaking  in  spontaneously,  with  a 
rising  excitement  which  makes  the 
rush  of  the  departure  infinitely  more 
telling  and  lifelike,  is  entirely  lost. 
And  no  counterbalancing  advantage 
is  gained  by  the  omission  of  these 
few  but  pregnant  phrases,  which  do 
not  delay  but  only  elucidate  the 
action.  We  cannot  understand, 
either,  why  of  Hamlet's  wild  dog- 
gerel the  verse  which  is  universally 
known  and  full  of  meaning,  should 
be  omitted,  while  the  second  mad 
rhyme  is  retained  : 

"  Why,  let  the  stricken  deer  go  weep, 
The  hart  ungalled  play," 

is  as  fit  an  expression  of  the  wild 
feeling  of  the  moment  as  could  be 
found  •  whereas  the  jingle  that  is 
retained  is  a  mere  maddening  clat- 
ter of  words,  expressive  enough  of 
the  frantic  levity  of  passion  when 
taken  in  conjunction  with  the  other, 
but  far  less  worthy  of  preservation 
than  the  other.  We  fail  also  to 
perceive  any  reason  for  leaving  out 
one  of  the  best-known  lines  in  the 
Ghost's  address  to  Hamlet,  "Un- 
housel'd,  disappointed,  unanel'd." 
Perhaps  there  is  no  single  line  in 
the  whole  play  the  omission  of 
which  would  so  strike  the  most 
careless  listener.  It  is  like  leaving 
out  a  bar  in  a  strain  of  music,  and 
withdraws  our  mind  from  the  rest 
of  the  speech  into  involuntary  in- 
vestigation of  the  mystery  of  this 
incomprehensible  "  cut."  Why,  ex- 
cept to  make  us  stumble  and  dis- 
tract our  attention,  should  this  have 
been  left  out  1 

The  omission  of  the  scene  in  the 
oratory,  the  king's  prayer  and  Ham- 
let's fierce  and  momentary  self- dis- 
cussion thereanent,  is  perhaps  less 
to  be  complained  of.  We  sincerely 
sympathise  with  Mr  Irving  in  the 
grievous  disappointments  he  must 
encounter  in  the  persons  of  his 
kings.  The  Shakespearian  monarch 


is  a  being  by  himself;  and  how  to 
get  him  to  look — not  like  a  king, 
but — like  anything  better  than  a 
hobby-horse,  must  be  a  labour  of 
Hercules  such  as  only  managers 
fully  appreciate.  It  is  much  better 
to  leave  the  scene  out  altogether 
than  to  associate  only  ludicrous 
ideas  with  it.  A  gentleman  whose 
chief  thought  when  he  kneels  is 
about  the  knees  of  his  "  tights." 
and  who  goes  on  serenely  saying 
his  prayers  while  the  avenger  rants 
and  waves  a  torch  within  a  foot  of 
him,  is  better  left  out  when  he  can 
be  left  out.  Indeed  their  majesties 
of  Denmark  at  the  Lyceum  must 
be  almost  as  great  an  exercise  to  Mr 
Irving's  soul  as  were  their  originals 
to  Hamlet.  The  swing  of  their  re- 
spective mantles,  especially  that  fine 
wave  of  white  silk  lining  from  the 
monarch's  shoulder,  is  the  chief  point 
that  strikes  us.  As  for  the  queen, 
the  manner  in  which  her  majesty 
swathes  herself  in  her  red  and  yellow 
night-gown  during  the  exciting  scene 
in  her  chamber,  making  its  billows 
and  puffings  do  duty  for  the  emo- 
tion she  shows  but  little  trace  of 
otherwise,  is  probably  due  to  some 
archaeological  instructions  previous- 
ly administered  by  Hamlet,  rather 
than  to  any  inspiration  of  her  own. 
We  cannot,  however,  pass  over  the 
personnel  of  the  drama  without  say- 
ing something  of  Miss  Ellen  Terry's 
Ophelia.  No  Ophelia  of  our  time 
has  given  to  the  character  so  grace- 
ful a  presence.  The  very  excellence 
of  the  actress,  however,  makes  more 
apparent  the  insignificance  of  the 
part  allotted  to  her.  Nothing  can 
make  the  submissive  little  daughter 
of  Polonius  a  great  poetical  heroine. 
All  the  prejudices  of  the  audience 
are  in  her  favour,  and  we  have 
grown  up  with  the  idea  that  she 
ranks  among  the  Juliets  and  Rosa- 
linds ;  and,  unfortunately,  it  has 
been  very  easy  on  most  occasions 
to  assure  ourselves  that  our  disap- 


480 


pointment  arose  solely  from  the  in- 
capacity of  the  actresses  to  whom 
(a  necessity  for  a  singing  voice  be- 
ing in  itself  a  limitation  to  the 
number  of  Ophelias  possible)  the 
part  was  intrusted.  But  now  that 
we  have  a  representative  to  whom 
no  exception  can  be  made,  this 
delusion  fails  us.  Even  Miss  Terry 
cannot  give  more  than  the  mildest 
interest  to  the  character.  What 
she  can  do  she  does ;  though  even 
the  sweet  and  animated  archness 
of  her  countenance,  though  capa- 
ble of  touching  pathos,  would  be 
more  adapted  for  a  Rosalind  full  of 
life  and  action,  than  for  the  plain- 
tive weakness  of  Ophelia. 

The  last  act  of  "  Hamlet "  remains 
to  ourselves  a  mystery.  We  can- 
not attempt  to  discuss  what  we  so 
little  understand.  Had  not  Shake- 
speare been  writing  plays  for  an 
audience  to  which  an  orthodox 
ending  was  necessary  —  had  not 
even  the  supreme  creator  laboured 
under  that  necessity  for  a  third 
volume  with  which  critics  upbraid 
the  smaller  artists  of  fiction — it  is 
likely  enough  that  he  would  have 
left  this  tale  unfinished,  as  it  is  at 
the  end  of  the  fourth  act.  There 
is  no  end  practicable  for  such  a 
hero.  Death  indeed  cuts  the  thread 
artificially  both  in  real  life  and 
poetry  ;  but  it  is  an  artificial  end- 
ing, however  it  comes  about,  and, 
so  far  as  we  are  concerned,  solves 
110  problem,  though  we  make  bold 
to  believe  that  it  explains  every- 
thing to  the  person  chiefly  con- 
cerned. In  the  fifth  act  all  is 
changed.  That  former  world  has 
rolled  away  with  all  its  passions 
and  pains.  Hamlet,  having  de- 
livered himself  by  the  promptest 
energetic  action,  in  an  emergency 
which  is  straightforward  and  with- 
out complications,  comes  back  with  a 
languor  and  exhaustion  about  him 
which  contrasts  strangely  with  the 
intensity  of  all  his  previous  eino- 


Hamlet.  [April 

tions.  Contemplative  as  ever,  there 
is  no  longer  any  strain  of  mystic 
anguish  in  his  musings.  Unac- 
countably, yet  most  evidently,  the 
greatness  of  his  suffering  has  dis- 
solved away.  He  walks  into  the 
scene  like  a  man  recovered  from  an 
illness  —  like  one  who  has  been 
dreaming  and  is  awake,  a  sadder 
and  a  wiser  man  than  he  was  only 
yesternight.  His  speculations  in 
the  churchyard  are  all  in  a  lower 
key.  Instead  of  those  sublime 
questionings  of  earth  and  heaven 
which  formed  the  burden  of  all  his 
thoughts — instead  of  the  passion 
of  disenchantment  and  cruel  con- 
sciousness of  treachery  and  false- 
hood—  the  flight  of  his  subdued 
fancy  goes  no  higher  than  the  base 
uses  to  which  the  dust  of  humanity 
may  return.  True,  he  starts  into 
spasmodic  excitement  when  roused 
by  the  ranting  of  Laertes  over  his 
sister's  grave,  and  meets  him  with 
an  outburst  of  responsive  ranting, 
in  which  there  is  a  gleam  of  his  old 
wild  humour,  though  subdued  like 
himself  to  a  lower  tone.  "  The 
bravery  of  his  grief  did  put  me  into 
a  towering  passion,"  he  exclaims 
afterwards  to  Horatio ;  and  his 
sudden  irritation  and  outdoing  of 
the  swagger  of  his  natural  opponent 
is  the  thing  most  like  the  Hamlet 
of  old  in  the  whole  postscriptal  epi- 
sode. So  also  in  a  mild  degree  is 
the  scene  with  the  young  euphuist 
Osric,  where  prince  and  courtier 
give  us  a  dialogue  in  the  manner 
of  Lyly,  according  to  the  fashion 
of  Elizabeth's  time  rather  than 
Hamlet's,  wonderfully  reduced  and 
tamed  from  the  wild  and  brilliant 
play  of  the  prince  with  Polonius  in 
the  previous  acts.  Throughout  the 
growing  rapidity  of  action  with 
which  all  things  tend  towards  the 
catastrophe,  Hamlet  bears  himself 
with  noble  and  unsuspicious  dig- 
nity ;  while  the  last  murderous  net- 
work of  deceit,  which  is  compass- 


1879.]  Ilamltt. 

ing  his  death,  closes  round  him. 
The  hand  of  fate  is  upon  him,  his 
insight  is  clouded  with  a  great 
weariness,  his  deep  soul  subdued. 
It  does  not  occur  to  him  apparently 
to  ask  why  this  wager  of  the  king's, 
or  for  what  purpose  he,  of  all  men 
in  the  world,  is  backed  up  and  set 
forth  as  his  champion  by  his  nat- 
ural enemy.  He  walks  this  time 
calmly,  with  melancholy  grace,  into 
the  snare. 

Thus  Hamlet  dies,  as  he  has 
suffered,  by  fraud.  Treachery  has 
tracked  him  from  the  beginning  of 
the  great  and  melancholy  story. 
It  has  broken  his  heart,  it  has 
untwisted  for  him  all  the  ties  of 
nature,  it  has  made  love  and  friend- 
ship into  delusions,  and  life  itself 
a  troubled  dream.  What  is  the 
secret  of  the  subdued  dead  hush 
and  calm  with  which  he  comes 
before  us  in  the  end?  Is  it  mere 
weariness,  exhaustion  of  all  possi- 
bility of  action,  the  sense  that 
nothing  more  remains  worth  strug- 
gling for  —  for  even  his  revenge, 
the  one  object  which  had  kept 
the  channels  of  life  clear,  has  dis- 
appeared in  the  last  chapter  ?  Who 
can  tell  1  only  at  the  very  end  does 
a  gleam  of  the  old  passion  flash 
in  his  face,  as  he  at  last  accom- 
plishes that  vengeance,  and  sends 
his  enemy  before  him  into  the  land 
of  retribution.  So  far  as  our  theory 
goes,  the  last  act  is  in  fact  the 


481 


return  of  the  poet  to  his  real  theme. 
His  hero  has  been  wrecked  through- 
out by  treachery.  The  higher  be- 
trayals that  affected  his  heart  and 
soul  wrun£  Hamlet's  being,  and 
transformed  the  world  to  him  :  but 
the  meaner  tricks  that  assailed  his 
life  were  1oo  low  for  his  suspicion. 
How  was  he,  so  noble,  so  unfor- 
tunate, measuring  his  soul  against 
the  horrible  forces  of  falsehood,  the 
spiritual  wickedness  in  high  places, 
to  come  down  from  that  impas- 
sioned and  despairing  contest,  to 
think  of  poison,  or  take  precau- 
tions against  it?  Thus  the  traitor 
got  the  better  of  him,  and  death 
triumphed  at  the  last. 

There  is  nothing  to  object  to  in 
Mr  Irving's  performance  of  this  last 
portion  of  the  play.  It  suits  him 
better  than  all  that  has  gone  before. 
The  anachronism  which  we  believe 
experts  find  in  the  exhibition  of 
a  modern  scientific  manner  of  fenc- 
ing, which  could  not  have  existed 
in  the  vague  traditionary  days  of 
Hamlet  the  Dane,  is  but  a  trifling 
and  scholarly  grievance,  and  there 
is  no  complication  of  passions  to 
carry  these  scenes  beyond  the  actor's 
range.  If  he  would  dispense  with 
the  ludicrous  head-dress  which  is 
half  like  Mephistopheles  and  half 
like  a  gipsy  woman,  we  should 
feel  that  Mr  Irving's  churchyard 
scene  was  as  satisfactory  a  render- 
ing as  we  are  likely  to  attain. 


482 


Contemporary  Literature : 


[April 


CONTEMPORARY     LITERATURE. 


V.    BIOGRAPHY,  TRAVEL,  AND   SPORT. 


NOTHING  is  more  fascinating  than 
good  biography,  and  assuredly  it  is 
the  more  precious  for  its  rarity. 
The  books  we  really  love,  the  books 
that  make  the  illustrious  dead  our 
friends  and  companions,  and  which 
may  be  carried  about  with  one  like 
the  Bible  or  Shakespeare,  may  al- 
most be  counted  on  the  fingers. 
That  is  at  first  blush  the  more  sur- 
prising, since  it  seems  there  should 
be  no  very  insuperable  difficulty  in 
writing  an  excellent  life.  Fidelity 
of  portraiture,  sympathy,  and  tact, 
with  a  discriminating  use  of  ample 
materials,  ought  surely  to  be  suffi- 
cient to  assure  success.  As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  it  evidently  is  not  so. 
Clever  and  congenial  biographers 
take  up  the  pen  to  turn  out  the 
volumes  which  are  read  or  merely 
glanced  through  and  laid  aside. 
Perhaps,  when  we  say  "  volumes," 
we  have  gone  some  way  towards 
the  explanation.  For  there  can  be 
no  question  that  the  most  common 
defects  of  biography  are  useless  re- 
petition and  provoking  redundancy. 
The  more  earnestly  the  biographer 
throws  himself  into  his  task,  the 
more  indispensable  does  each  trivial 
detail  appear  to  him.  In  working 
out  the  features  and  the  figure  of 
his  subject,  he  is  slow  to  reject  any- 
thing as  inconsequent  or  insignifi- 
cant. Then  he  is  in  even  a  worse 
position  than  the  editor  of  a  daily 
newspaper.  He  should  make  up 
his  mind  to  seem  ungracious  and 
ungrateful.  He  must  say  "No" 
civilly  to  people  who  have  been 
doing  him  a  kindness,  when  he 
declines  to  make  use  of  the  valued 
matter  they  have  placed  at  his  dis- 
posal as  the  greatest  of  favours.  He 
has  been  indefatigably  collecting  a 


mass  of  voluminous  correspondence 
from  a  great  variety  of  quarters; 
yet  many  of  the  letters,  when  they 
come  to  be  read,  are  either  unim- 
portant or  really  reproductions  of 
each  other.  He  gets  into  the  way 
of  going  about  his  labours  like  the 
watchmaker,  who  works  with  a 
powerful  magnifying  -  glass  in  his 
eye.  In  the  assiduous  attention 
he  bestows  on  each  step  in  the 
career,  he  is  apt  to  lose  all  sense 
of  proportion ;  while  in  the  un- 
conscious exercise  of  their  natural 
critical  powers,  his  readers  be- 
come unpleasantly  alive  to  the 
results. 

We  need  hardly  say  that  our 
complaints  of  the  average  quality 
of  biography  do  not  extend  to 
the  quantity  of  these  publications. 
There  is  no  lack  of  the  "  Lives," 
bad,  fair,  and  indifferent,  of  big  and 
little  men.  Not  a  few  of  these  we 
may  owe  to  selfish  motives;  but 
for  the  most  of  them  we  are  un- 
doubtedly indebted  to  love,  grati- 
tude, or  friendship.  Now  and  then 
the  office  of  elegist  or  literary  ex- 
ecutor may  well  excite  an  eager 
rivalry  among  those  who  can  put 
forward  any  reasonable  pretensions 
to  it.  .  There  are  splendid  examples 
of  reputations  made  vicariously  by 
laying  hold  of  the  mantle  of  some 
illustrious  man.  Boswell's  '  John- 
son '  is  an  instance  which  must  of 
course  occur  to  everybody.  His  is 
a  book  that  stands  alone  and  unap- 
proached.  We  subscribe  to  what 
Macaulay  wrote  in  his  essay,  that 
"  Eclipse  is  first,  and  the  rest  no- 
where ; "  although  we  can  by  no 
means  agree  with  the  brilliant  essay- 
ist in  his  contemptuously  depreci- 
atory estimate  of  the  biographer. 


1879.] 


V.  Biography,  Travel,  and  Sport. 


483 


That  Boswell's  fortunate  weaknesses 
went  far  to  insure  him  his  aston- 
ishing triumph  is  not  to  be  denied 
for  a  moment.  It  is  seldom,  in- 
deed, that  one  finds  in  an  educated 
man  of  the  world,  who  was  indis- 
putably possessed  of  ordinary  in- 
telligence, so  ludicrous  a  mixture  of 
shrewdness  and  simplicity;  such  a 
naive  indifference  to  mortifying  re- 
buffs, and  so  complacent  a  superi- 
ority to  humiliating  self -exposure. 
It  is  rarer  still  to  find  an  apprecia- 
tive enthusiast,  who,  rather  than 
not  show  the  powers  of  his  idol 
at  their  best,  will  set  himself  up  to 
be  shot  at  with  poisoned  arrows. 
But  those  who,  going  on  the  esti- 
mate of  Macaulay,  should  try  to 
rival  the  achievement  of  Boswell 
by  simply  putting  self-respect  and 
self-esteem  in  their  pocket,  and  let- 
ting one  form  of  vanity  swallow  all 
the  rest,  may  find  themselves  far 
astray  in  their  expectations.  Bos- 
well  can  have  been  by  no  means  the 
nonentity  it  has  pleased  Macaulay 
to  represent  him.  Far  better  judges 
have  differed  entirely  from  the  bril- 
liant Whig  partisan  when  he  de- 
clares that  no  one  of  Boswell's  per- 
sonal remarks  would  bear  repetition 
for  its  own  sake.  Independently 
of  the  culture  and  various  informa- 
tion they  show,  many  of  them  strike 
us  as  extremely  incisive  —  for  in 
thought  as  well  as  in  style  he  had 
borrowed  much  from  his  model. 
Not  unfrequently  the  remarks  are 
epigrammatic,  and  almost  invaria- 
bly they  are  ingeniously  suggestive. 
If  Boswell  was  no  great  lawyer, 
he  had  a  genius  for  one  important 
branch  of  the  profession.  He  was 
a  master  of  insidious  examination 
and  cross-examination.  He  made 
it  his  business  and  study  to  "  draw  " 
the  sparkling  and  bitter  conversa- 
tionalist, till  he  had  acquired  an 
intuitive  perception  of  how  to  set 
about  it,  ready  as  he  was  to  risk 
the  hug  of  the  bear.  The  direct 


evidences  of  his  talents  must  be 
matter  of  opinion,  and  each  reader 
can  form  an  independent  judgment 
on  them.  But  there  is  no  gainsay- 
ing the  indirect  testimony  to  his 
merits  in  the  illustrious  company 
he  habitually  kept.  It  is  unfair, 
and  opposed  to  all  probability,  to 
suppose  that  the  most  refined  in- 
tellectual society  of  the  day  merely 
tolerated  the  shadow  of  Johnson  as 
their  butt.  Men  like  Burke  and 
Reynolds,  who,  as  Johnson  would 
have  said,  had  no  great  "  gust "  for 
humour,  do  not  drag  a  "sot  and 
idiot"  about  with  them  to  quiet 
little  dinners,  with  the  simple  no- 
tion of  amusing  themselves  by 
his  follies.  We  never  hear  that 
Foote  formed  one  at  their  parties, 
though  he  was  courted  by  such 
spirituel  roues  as  the  Delavals. 
But  the  most  conclusive  testimony 
to  Boswell's  powers  is  the  pleasure 
Johnson  took  in  his  company. 
Johnson  no  doubt  loved  flattery ; 
but  he  was  ruffled  by  praise  indis- 
creetly administered,  and  was  the 
last  man  in  the  world  to  tolerate 
the  intimacy  of  a  bore.  He  was 
certainly  no  hypocrite ;  and,  set- 
ting aside  innumerable  passages  in 
his  letters,  he  gave  the  most  un- 
mistakable proof  of  his  considera- 
tion for  Boswell,  when  he  chose 
him  for  his  companion  in  the  tour 
to  the  Hebrides,  and  encouraged 
him  in  the  intention  of  writing  his 
life.  If  Boswell's  'Johnson'  be 
the  life  of  lives,  we  may  be  sure 
that  no  ordinary  literary  skill,  dis- 
guised under  great  apparent  sim- 
plicity, must  have  gone  to  the  com- 
position, with  much  of  the  talent 
for  biography  that  can  only  be 
a  natural  gift.  But  when  all  has 
been  said  in  the  author's  favour 
that  can  be  said,  aspirants  should 
remember  that  he  has  been  living 
in  literature  as  the  object  of  a  for- 
tunate accident  and  a  still  more 
happy  conjunction.  He  suited 


484 


Contemporary  Literature : 


[April 


Johnson,  dissimilar  as  they  were, 
and  the  mind  and  qualities  of  the 
one  man  became  the  complements 
of  those  of  the  other.  While  if 
Johnson  had  followed  up  the  fa- 
mous snub  at  Cave's  ;  if  he  had  not 
taken  a  capricious  fancy  to  the  raw 
importation  from  the  country  he 
professed  to  detest,  the  Scotch  ad- 
vocate might  have  travelled  to  Cor- 
sica, strutted  at  the  carnival  at 
Stratford-on-Avon,  and  dined  and 
drunk  port  with  the  wits,  but  he 
would  never  have  emerged  from 
obscurity  in  the  remarkable  book 
which  claims  more  than  a  passing 
notice  in  any  article  on  biography. 

But  if  vanity  and  ambition  have 
inspired  many  indifferent  bio- 
graphies, the  partiality  of  love  or 
friendship  has  to  answer  for  many 
more.  We  are  all  familiar  with 
the  emotional  mourners  who  will 
obtrude  the  heartfelt  expressions  of 
their  grief  and  affection  into  the 
brief  obituary  notice  in  the  news- 
paper, which  is  paid  at  so  many 
shillings  the  line.  So  there  are 
sorrowing  widows  and  admiring  in- 
timates who  seem  to  consider  an 
elaborate  memoir  of  the  departed 
as  much  de  rigueur  as  the  tomb- 
stone that  is  to  commemorate  his 
gifts  and  his  virtues.  Very  pos- 
sibly he  may  have  done  something 
considerable  for  himself.  Probably 
he  was  a  most  respectable  member 
of  society,  and  benefited  his  fellow- 
creatures  in  some  shape  or  other. 
He  has  died  in  the  fulness  of 
years  and  regard ;  or  a  promising 
career  has  been  prematurely  cut 
short  before  it  had  well  begun,  or 
just  as  it  seemed  approaching  frui- 
tion. In  the  latter  case  especially, 
the  biographical  tribute  becomes  a 
sacred  duty.  The  literary  legatee 
feels  himself  bound  to  turn  archi- 
tect, completing  and  embellishing 
in  the  realms  of  fancy  the  edifice 
that  in  actual  fact  had  barely  risen 
above  the  foundations.  He  has 


accepted  the  duties  that  are  pressed 
upon  him  with  reluctance,  real  or 
feigned ;  though  in  his  innermost 
heart  he  has  hardly  a  doubt  that 
he  will  discharge  them  something 
more  than  satisfactorily.  Writing 
a  life  seems  so  exceedingly  easy ; 
indeed,  undertaking  it  involves  a 
certain  self-sacrifice,  seeing  that  it 
scarcely  gives  sufficient  scope  for 
the  play  of  original  genius.  If  re- 
gard or  ambition  did  not  sweeten 
the  labour,  and  if  the  biographer 
did  not  show  himself  so  confident 
in  that  genius  of  his,  we  should  be 
inclined  to  feel  sincere  sympathy 
for  him.  For  working  out  the 
most  brilliant  memoir  must  in- 
volve an  inordinate  amount  of 
wearisome  drudgery,  while  it  lays 
the  writer  under  an  infinity  of 
trifling  obligations  to  people  who 
are  ready  enough  to  remind  him  of 
them.  Even  if  you  employ  a  staff 
of  secretaries  and  amanuenses,  your 
own  gifts  of  selection  must  be  sorely 
taxed.  If  the  object  of  your  hero- 
worship  was  a  busy  man,  the  chances 
are  that  he  wrote  a  villanous  hand. 
As  he  should  have  had  time  to 
make  a  certain  reputation,  the  odds 
are  that  he  died  in  ripe  maturity. 
So  you  have  masses  of  crabbed 
manuscript  consigned  to  you,  in 
boxes  and  packets,  and  by  single 
communications  ;  and  the  earlier 
of  these  letters  have  been  penned 
on  old-fashioned  paper,  in  ink  that 
has  been  fading  with  time  and 
damp.  These  date,  moreover,  from 
the  days  of  prohibitory  postage,  and 
are  written  in  the  most  minute  of 
hands,  and  crossed  and  recrossed 
to  the  edge  of  the  seal.  If  the 
talent  of  the  departed  lay  in  senti- 
mental verse,  or  if  he  were  a  re- 
forming or  philosophical  genius  in 
embryo,  of  course  they  are  mag- 
niloquently  diffuse ;  and  though 
you  hardly  dare  reprint  his  rhap- 
sodies in  replica,  you  are  loath  to 
waste  any  of  the  flowers  of  his 


1879.] 


V.  Biography,  Travel,  and  Sport. 


485 


eloquence.  Most  of  us  have  been 
committed  to  some  unpleasant  piece 
of  business  wheie  we  have  had  to 
rake  among  the  melancholy  ashes 
of  the  past,  undoing  the  moth-eaten 
tape  that  ties  up  the  mildewed 
packets.  Imagine  having  to  pursue 
such  a  task  indefinitely,  with  no 
particular  point  to  aim  at,  but 
vaguely  searching  for  appropriate 
matter.  As  it  seems  to  us,  only 
the  most  plodding  and  patient- 
minded  of  men  would  be  content 
to  persevere  with  unabated  appli- 
cation '}  and  it  is  comparatively 
seldom  that  acute  and  imperturb- 
able patience  is  united  to  real 
literary  ability.  Should  you  hap- 
pen to  be  blessed  with  a  retent- 
ive memory,  perhaps  it  may  prove 
wisest  in  the  end  to  trust  to  it  in. 
great  measure ;  though  in  that  case, 
undoubtedly,  the  probabilities  are 
that  you  do  very  partial  justice  to 
the  subject.  Otherwise,  with  a 
view  to  comprehensive  reference, 
you.  must  make  a  careful  precis  of 
your  researches  as  you  go  along,  and 
that  infers  some  deficiency  in  those 
faculties  of  memory  and  concen- 
tration which  are  essential  to  really 
superior  work.  Or  else  you  must 
decide  to  print  wholesale,  making 
very  perfunctory  attempts  at  selec- 
tion. The  relatives  who  see  your 
manuscript  or  revise  your  book  in 
the  proof,  are  sure  to  look  lenient- 
ly on  that  latter  fault.  Nothing, 
they  think,  is  too  insignificant  to  be 
recorded  of  a  man  so  essentially 
superior  and  remarkable.  And  the 
result  is  a  mass  of  ill -arranged 
matter,  where  the  currants  and 
spice  bear  no  proportion  to  ingre- 
dients that  are  unpalatable  and  un- 
pleasantly indigestible. 

Turning  to  Mrs  Glass's  cookery- 
book  for  another  metaphor,  you 
must  catch  your  hare  before  you 
cook  him.  The  first  condition  of 
a  good  book  is  a  suitable  subject. 
It  by  no  means  follows  that,  because 


a  man  has  made  his  way  to  pro- 
minent places  —  because  he  has 
played  a  conspicuous  part  in  public 
affairs  —  because  he  has  been  a 
shining  light  in  the  churches,  and 
the  most  soul-stirring  of  pulpit 
orators — because  he  has  held  high 
commands  in  wars  that  have  re- 
modelled the  map  of  the  world — 
that  his  life  must  necessarily  be 
worth  the  writing.  A  man  may 
have  high  talents  of  a  certain  or- 
der, though  he  is  no  more  than  a 
fair  representative  of  a  class,  and 
has  never  gone  far  beyond  the 
commonplace.  The  test  of  a  suc- 
cessful biography  is  the  pleasure 
one  takes  in  reading  it;  and  to 
give  it  point  and  piquancy,  the 
eminent  subject  must  have  shown 
some  originality  of  genius  or 
character.  No  doubt,  a  distin- 
guished statesman  or  general  must 
have  been  concerned  in  much 
that  deserves  to  be  recorded.  But 
there  the  personal  may  be  merged 
in  the  abstract,  as  biography  drifts 
into  history,  which  is  a  differ- 
ent department  altogether :  and 
not  a  few  of  those  biographies 
which  have  become  standard  au- 
thorities, are  in  reality  history  in 
a  flimsy  disguise.  We  miss  those 
little  personal  traits  which  reflect 
the  distinctive  lights  of  a  marked 
individuality ;  and  although  the 
biographer  turned  historian  may 
possibly  have  overlooked  these, 
the  presumption  is  that  they  had 
scarcely  an  existence.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  life  of  some  very 
obscure  individual  may  supply  ad- 
mirable matter  for  the  reality  of 
romance.  Thus,  in  singling  out 
those  self-reliant  individuals  who 
have  raised  themselves  to  distinction 
by  self-help,  Dr  Smiles  has  hit  on 
a  most  happy  vein.  Who  can  fail 
to  follow  with  the  closest  interest 
the  achievements  of  those  adven- 
turous engineering  knight-errants, 
who  vanquished  by  the  vigorous 


486 


Contemporary  Literature  : 


[April 


efforts  of  their  brains  the  material 
obstacles  which  had  been  baffling 
our  progress?  Nor  is  it  merely 
in  the  story  of  their  most  cele- 
brated feats  that  the  Stephen- 
sons  or  Ark wrights  or  Brunels 
impress  us.  Their  whole  experi- 
ences from  their  parish  school-days, 
were  a  battle  that  ended  in  the  tri- 
umph of  faith.  In  the  face  of  dis- 
couragements and  difficulties,  they 
are  carried  along  by  the  natural 
bent  that  is  absolutely  irresistible ; 
and  often,  fortunately  for  society, 
beyond  either  reason  or  control. 
Edward,  the  Banffshire  naturalist 
— Dick,  the  Caithness-shire  geolo- 
gist, could  hardly  have  imagined 
in  their  wildest  dreams  that  Mr 
Mudie  would  have  been  circulat- 
ing their  memoirs  by  thousands. 
Yet  for  once  the  readers  of  the 
fashionable  world  have  been  just 
as  well  as  generous  in  apprecia- 
tion; for  the  lives  of  the  humble 
shoemaker  and  baker  are  pregnant 
with  lessons  and  their  practical  il- 
lustrations. 

We  assume  that  the  biographer 
has  some  power  of  the  pen,  though 
the  rule  that  we  take  for  granted 
has  many  exceptions.  But  un- 
doubtedly the  first  of  his  qualifica- 
tions should  be  tact,  for  without 
that  all  the  rest  must  be  compara- 
tively worthless.  He  should  show 
his  tact,  in  the  first  place,  in  de- 
ciding whether  the  life  be  worth 
writing  or  not.  He  must  next 
exhibit  it  in  the  method  of  his 
scheme,  and  in  his  notions  of  lit- 
erary perspective  and  proportion. 
Many  a  life  that  has  proved  intol- 
erably dull,  might  well  have  repaid 
perusal  had  it  taken  the  shape 
of  slightly-linked  fragments  j  each 
fragment  embracing  some  episode 
of  the  career.  First  impressions  in 
making  acquaintance  with  a  man  go 
for  a  great  deal.  Many  a  life  has 
been  hastily  thrown  aside  because 
we  were  bored  by  the  hero  in  his 


school  and  college  days.  It  may 
be  true  that  the  child  is  the  father 
of  the  man ;  yet  we  do  not  care  to 
be  personally  introduced  to  the 
parent  of  each  new  acquaintance 
who  promises  to  interest  us.  When 
the  man  has  developed  into  an 
illustrious  character,  the  child  has 
often  been  an  insufferable  prig, 
who  must  have  made  itself  a  nui- 
sance to  the  friends  of  the  family. 
We  may  pity  those  unfortunates 
who  could  scarcely  help  themselves ; 
but  it  is  hard  upon  us  half  a  cen- 
tury later  to  have  more  than  some 
faint  indication  of  the  little  stu- 
dent's precocious  tastes.  Macaulay 
sneers  at  Warren  Hastings'  habit 
of  appearing  morning  after  morning 
at  the  breakfast-table  at  Daylesford 
with  the  sonnet  that  was  served 
with  the  eggs  and  rolls.  But  on  the 
whole,  we  should  rather  have  put 
up  with  the  sonnets  of  the  ex- 
Governor  -  General  of  Hindostan 
than  with  the  sermons,  essays,  and 
political  disquisitions  in  which  the 
juvenile  Macaulay  showed  such 
appalling  fertility  in  the  heavy 
dissenting  atmosphere  of  his  Clap- 
ham  forcing-house.  We  admit  that 
the  interesting  life  by  his  nephew 
would  have  been  altogether  incom- 
plete without  a  reference  to  these ; 
and  we  merely  take  the  book  as  an 
illustration  of  disproportion  because 
it  is  in  many  respects  admirable, 
and  was  universally  read.  Yet, 
though  Mr  Trevelyan,  in  the  opinion 
of  some  people,  may  not  have  been 
unduly  prolix,  for  ourselves  we 
might  possibly  have  stopped  short 
on  the  threshold  of  his  volumes, 
had  we  not  been  assured  of  the 
interest  that  must  await  us  far- 
ther on. 

Then  tact  is  essential  in  collecting 
as  well  as  in  selecting.  If  the  im- 
portance of  your  undertaking  be 
sufficient  to  justify  it,  possibly  the 
most  comfortable  way  of  collecting 
is  by  public  advertisement.  You 


1879.] 


V.  Biography,  Travel,  and  Sport. 


487 


intimate  a  desire  that  any  corre- 
spondents of  the  deceased  may  for- 
ward communications  or  letters — to 
be  returned  —  to  the  care  of  the 
publishers.  In  the  case  of  those 
who  respond,  you  are  only  laid  un- 
der a  general  obligation,  and  need 
make  as  little  use  as  you  please 
of  the  communication  intrusted  to 
your  care.  The  objection  to  this 
plan  appears  to  be,  that  it  can  but 
partially  answer  the  purpose.  Busy 
men  may  neither  see  nor  heed  the 
advertisement.  And  then  there  is 
the  numerous  class  of  dilettante 
litterateurs,  who  will  only  do  a 
favour  of  the  kind  on  urgent  per- 
sonal entreaty ;  and  possibly,  like 
the  modest  Mr  Jonathan  Oldbuck, 
in  the  expectation  that  it  will  be 
publicly  acknowledged  in  some 
shape.  When  your  store  is  amassed, 
as  we  have  remarked  already,  your 
literary  discretion  is  merely  begin- 
ning to  be  tried.  You  have  to  face 
the  invidious  task  of  rejection,  unless 
you  mean  consciously  to  mar  your 
work  and  do  injustice  to  the  repu- 
tation you  are  responsible  for.  You 
find  that  your  correspondent,  the 
fussy  dilettante,  has  been  cackling 
over  illusory  treasures.  You  can 
make  nothing  of  the  packet  of  brief 
dinner  invitations  ;  or  the  note  pay- 
ing a  civil  compliment  to  the  poem 
in  manuscript  that  was  promptly 
sent  back.  You  give  offence  in 
other  quarters  with  better  reason. 
You  cannot  reproduce  indefinitely 
very  similar  ideas;  and  there  are 
passages  and  personalities  in  really 
suggestive  letters  which  you  are 
bound  in  common  prudence  to  sup- 
press. All  that,  however,  is  mat- 
ter of  personal  feeling  and  sacrifice. 
You  must  make  up  your  mind  to 
make  a  certain  number  of  enemies, 
and  to  brazen  out  a  good  deal  of 
obloquy  and  abuse.  After  all,  your 
rejected  correspondents  cannot  cher- 
ish their  malice  for  ever;  nor  are 
you  likely  to  trouble  them  soon 


again  for  another  magnum  opus. 
But  when  your  materials  have  been 
sifted,  and  when  what  is  worthless 
has  been  refused,  you  enter  on  the 
more  delicate  and  critical  stage  of 
dealing  with  them  as  between  your- 
self and  your  public.  You  must 
keep  the  fear  of  being  wearisome  per- 
petually before  your  eyes,  and  resign 
yourself  to  retrenching  mercilessly 
on  what  at  first  sight  seemed  worthy 
of  preservation.  No  matter  how 
full  of  interest  a  life  may  have 
been,  the  public  will  not  tolerate 
more  than  a  reasonable  amount  of 
it ;  and  it  should  be  your  study  to 
bring  out  in  striking  ^relief  those 
features  which  gave  your  subject 
his  special  claims  to  notoriety.  It 
may  have  been  lucky  perhaps  for 
Boswell,  though  of  course  he  de- 
plored it,  that  he  should  have 
made  the  acquaintance  of  his  hero 
so  late  in  life.  Otherwise,  though 
it  is  difficult  indeed  to  believe, 
those  delightful  volumes  of  his 
might  have  been  multiplied  dis- 
agreeably. 

Judicious  glimpses  at  the  do- 
mestic interior  are  indispensable ; 
but  unless,  perhaps,  in  the  case  of 
a  woman  who  has  been  throwing 
lustre  on  her  times,  without  hav- 
ing recognised  any  "special  mis- 
sion" that  way,  it  seems  to  us  that 
those  glimpses  should  be  indulged 
in  with  extreme  discretion.  Much 
of  course  depends  upon  the  man. 
We  should  never  have  loved  either 
Scott  or  Southey  half  so  much,  had 
we  not  seen  them  sitting  among  their 
books  or  breaking  loose  upon  their 
afternoon  rambles,  surrounded  by 
the  children  they  encouraged  to  be 
their  playmates.  The  children  who 
had  the  run  of  the  inner  book-room 
at  Abbotsford,  and  kept  possession 
of  the  little  tenement  at  Keswick, 
became  a  part  of  the  professional 
life  of  their  parents.  But  that 
kind  of  domestic  revelation  may  be 
very  easily  overdone ;  as  when  a 


488 


Contemporary  Literature- : 


[April 


widow  or  daughter  writes  the  life 
of  the  husband  or  father  whose  loss 
has  left  a  grievous  chasm  in  her 
existence.  Then  we  have  her — and 
very  naturally,  should  she  once  have 
decided  to  make  the  public  her 
confidants — always  twining  herself 
round  the  memory  of  the  lost  one, 
and  recalling  the  thousand  un sugges- 
tive trifles  which  have  a  living  and 
touching  interest  for  herself;  while 
an  enthusiastic  friend,  though  with 
less  excuse,  is  apt  to  fall  into  a  sim- 
ilar error. 

That  leads  one  naturally  to  the 
cardinal  virtue  of  self-suppression, 
which,  after  all,  is  only  another  form 
of  tact.  If  you  are  bent  on  killing 
two  birds  with  one  stone — if  you 
hope  to  immortalise  yourself  in 
commemorating  your  friend — there 
is  no  more  to  be  said  save  that 
doubtless  you  will  go  far  towards 
defeating  your  own  purpose  ;  for 
a  book  can  hardly  fail  to  be  poor 
when  half  the  contents  are  either 
indifferent  to  the  reader  or  objection- 
able. But  a  man's  unconscious  van- 
ity may  innocently  enough  cast  a 
heavy  shadow  over  his  hero  ;  or  the 
writer  may  honestly  multiply  use- 
ful details,  which  as  matter  of  self- 
regard  he  had  better  have  restricted. 
If  he  be  a  Boswell  or  choose  to  play 
the  Boswell,  there  is  no  great  harm 
in  that ;  but  Boswells,  as  we  have 
observed,  are  almost  as  rare  as 
phoenixes.  More  often  we  have 
something  in  the  style  of  Foster's 
'Life  of  Dickens,'  though  the  author 
will  almost  necessarily  have  been 
less  fortunate  in  a  subject.  Mr 
Foster,  in  writing  a  most  entertaining 
narrative,  said  nothing,  of  course, 
that  was  not  strictly  true,  nor  per- 
haps did  he  exaggerate  either  his 
intimacy  or  the  influence  he  exer- 
cised on  his  friend.  But  though 
the  delicate  flatteries  he  published, 
and  the  details  he  gave,  may  have 
added  life  and  colour  to  the  story 
he  was  writing,  they  threw  Dickens 


himself  into  the  background ;  and  at 
all  events,  so  far  as  its  author  was 
concerned,  the  impression  of  the 
book  was  decidedly  unpleasing. 

There  is  one  kind  of  memoir  in 
which  the  writer  must  come  to  the 
front,  and  that  is  autobiography. 
If  undertaken  in  a  spirit  of  absolute 
candour  and  simplicity,  nothing 
may  be  made  more  instructive  and 
entertaining.  Nor  does  it  follow 
by  any  means  that  the  autobiogra- 
pher  need  be  one  of  those  men 
whose  name  has  been  much  in  the 
mouth  of  the  world.  On  the  con- 
trary, in  our  opinion,  the  best  of 
our  autobiographies  are  those  that 
have  chiefly  a  domestic  or  personal 
interest.  They  should  be  the  hon- 
est confessions  of  a  nature  that  has 
the  power  of  self-analysis ;  and  no- 
body but  the  individual  himself 
can  make  the  disclosures  which 
give  such  a  history  completeness. 
No  incident  can  then  be  too  insig- 
nificant, provided  it  have  some  dis- 
tinct bearing  on  the  end  in  view. 
The  author  must  necessarily  have  a 
retentive  memory,  and  he  should 
have  a  natural  instinct  of  self- 
observation.  For  in  telling  his 
plain  unvarnished  tale,  he  reveals 
himself  more  or  less  consciously ; 
and  if  he  have  the  knack  of -pic- 
turesque narrative,  it  is  so  much 
the  better ;  while  literary  experience 
may  be  a  positive  snare.  It  may 
tempt  him  into  the  laying  himself 
out  for  effect,  which  will  almost 
inevitably  defeat  its  purpose — into 
giving  an  air  of  artifice  and  senti- 
ment to  the  confessions  that  should 
be  unmistakably  genuine.  Some  of 
the  most  satisfactory  autobiogra- 
phies we  are  acquainted  with,  have 
been  written  by  women.  Women, 
and  especially  French  women,  are 
more  emotional  and  impressionable 
than  the  rougher  sex.  When  they 
are  warmed  to  their  work,  they  have 
less  hesitation  in  unbosoming  them- 
selves unreservedly  in  the  public 


1879.] 


V.  Biography,  Travel,  and  Sport. 


489 


confessional :  nor  are  they  embar- 
rassed by  false  shame  or  overstrained 
sensitiveness,  when  they  are  im- 
pelled to  lay  bare  their  innermost 
feelings.  But  if  a  public  man  be- 
comes his  own  historiographer,  it 
is  an  incessant  effort  to  be  either 
straightforward  or  dispassionate. 
He  places  himself  involuntarily  on 
his  defence,  and  is  vindicating  his 
reputation  with  his  contemporaries 
and  posterity.  Naturally  he  cannot 
be  over  scrupulous  in  putting  his 
conduct  in  the  most  favourable 
light :  he  launches  cross  indict- 
ments against  the  opponents  who 
have  impeached  it ;  and  even  if  in 
his  own  judgment  he  be  punctil- 
iously conscientious,  his  conscience 
may  have  been  warped  by  the 
habit  of  self-deception. 

"What  comes  very  near  to  actual 
autobiography,   and   may   be   even 
more  strikingly  indicative  of  char- 
acter, is  the  publication  of  copious 
correspondence,  either  by  itself  or 
slightly  connected  by  a  commentary. 
The  Duke  of  Wellington  was  a  man 
of  few  words,  and  the  Wellington 
despatches  are  models  of  terse  nar- 
rative and  pointed  English.     The 
writer,  though  he  only  alludes  to 
himself  incidentally,  necessarily  fills 
a  great  space  in  them,  since  he  was 
making  the  war  history  he  describes 
so  lucidly.  Yet  with  hardly  a  single 
directly  personal  touch,  how  forcibly 
and  graphically  we  have  the  hero 
presented  to  us  !     Or  take  a  genius 
of  a  very  different  order,  who  wrote 
with  a  different   purpose,    and   in 
very    different    stvle.      We     have 
lately  had  a  voluminous  collection 
of  the  letters  of  Honore"  de  Balzac. 
The  most  important  of  these  were 
addressed  to  two  ladies — to  the  sis- 
ter whom  he  had  always  made  his 
cojifidante,  and  to  the  Russian  bar- 
oness whom  he  afterwards  married. 
We  do  not  know  if  he  had  any  idea 
that  they  might  ultimately  be  pub- 
lished.    Nor  if  he  had,  do  we  ima- 


gine that  it  would  have  made  any 
great  difference ;  for  a  Frenchman 
whose  soul  is  steeped  in  romance  is 
likely  to  be  transcendently  feminine 
in  his  emotional  candour.     At  all 
events,  that  lifelong  series  of  letters 
makes  up  the  most  vividly  descrip- 
tive of  autobiographies.     We  know 
the  novel-writer,  with  his  bursts  of 
sustained  industry,  when  the  fancy 
was  working  at  high-pressure  pace  ; 
with  his  trials,  his  triumphs,  his  ec- 
centricities, and  his  extravagances,  as 
if  we  had  lived  in  his  intimacy  all  his 
days.    It  is  not  only  that  we  hear  the 
duns  knocking  at  his  door,  and  see 
them  assembled  to  lay  siege  to  his 
ante-room,  while  he  was  feverishly 
toiling  against  time,  filliping  him- 
self by  perpetual  doses  of  coffee  in 
the  sumptuous  apartments  they  had 
furnished  on  credit.    But  he  reveals 
all   the   caprices   of    his   changing 
moods ;    he   shows   himself  in  his 
alternations  of  excitement  and  de- 
pression; he  has  no  conception  of 
drawing  a  veil  over  the  failings  and 
sensibility   he   is  inclined  to  take 
pride  in  ;  he  returns  time  after  time 
to   his  literary   feuds   and   resent- 
ments, as  he  is  inexhaustible  in  his 
abuse   of  the  pettifogging  lawyers 
who  strewed  thorns  among  the  rose- 
leaves   on   which   he   would    have 
loved   to   repose.      He    cannot   be 
said  to  exhibit  himself  to  advantage, 
and  yet  somehow  we  like  him.    Not 
certainly  on  account  of  his  genius, 
for  that  was  decidedly  of  the  cyni- 
cal cast  that  repels  affection  though 
it  compels  admiration.    We  believe 
we  take  to  him  chiefly  because  he 
is  so   entirely   without  reserve  for 
us.     In   ordinary  biographies   you 
feel  that  much  may  be  kept  back, 
and  suspicion  suggests  or  exagger- 
ates  the    concealments ;    while,    if 
a  man  be  entirely  outspoken,  and 
seems  to  take  your  sympathy  with 
him  as  a  matter  of  course,  we  give 
him  more  than  due  credit  for  his 
amiable  qualities.     Unhappily,  it  is 


490 


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[April 


seldom  we  have  such  elaborate  self- 
portraiture  nowadays,  seeing  that 
painstaking  letter- writing  is  become 
a  fashion  of  the  past,  and  it  is  only 
one  of  the  indefatigable  French 
romance- writers  like  Balzac,  Sand, 
or  Duinas,  who  can  spare  time  and 
thought  for  it  from  their  multifari- 
ous avocations. 

We  are  disposed  to  wonder  at 
the  courage  or  rashness  of  those 
who  write  the  biographies  of  living 
men.  The  work  can  be  but  an  un- 
satisfactory instalment  at  the  best ; 
and  it  is  impossible  to  overrate  its 
delicacy  or  difficulty.  It  must  tend 
to  be  either  a  libel  or  unmitigated 
eulogy,  though  much  more  often  it 
is  the  latter.  When  an  enemy 
undertakes  it — and  we  have  seen 
an  instance  of  that  lately  in  me- 
moirs of  the  Premier — he  must  judge 
his  subject  solely  by  public  appear- 
ances. He  can  have  no  access  to 
those  materials  for  the  vie  intime 
which  can  alone  give  truthful  colour 
to  the  portrait.  Besides,  he  holds  a 
brief  for  the  prosecution  ;  he  has  to 
vindicate  the  prejudices  which  warp 
his  judgment,  and  he  lays  himself 
out  to  invent  misconstruction  of 
motives,  if  not  for  actual  misrepre- 
sentations. While  the  partial  friend 
or  enthusiastic  devotee  can  scarcely 
steer  clear  of  indiscriminate  puffing. 
Whatever  he  may  do  for  the  repu- 
tation of  his  subject,  he  can  hardly 
fail  to  injure  his  own.  As  his 
readers  are  disposed  to  set  him 
down  as  either  a  dupe  or  a  shame- 
less panegyrist,  he  pays  the  penalty 
of  having  thrust  himself  into  a  false 
position.  If  he  has  really  much  that 
is  new  and  original  to  tell,  it  will 
be  assumed  that  he  has  had  direct 
encouragement  to  undertake  the 
task.  Few  men  are  cast  in  such  a 
mould,  or  occupy  a  position  so  un- 
mistakably independent,  that  they 
can  dare  in  such  embarrassing  cir- 
cumstances to  show  the  serene  im- 
partiality of  the  judge.  If  they 


have  gone  for  their  information 
to  the  fountainhead,  they  have, 
in  fact,  committed  themselves 
to  a  tacit  arrangement  by  which 
they  undertake  to  be  nothing 
but  laudatory.  Should  they  in- 
sinuate blame,  it  is  in  such  soft- 
ened terms  that  they  almost  turn 
condemnation  into  compliments. 
And  even  when  the  writer  can 
honestly  be  lavish  of  his  praise,  he 
must  feel  that-  his  praises  sound 
unbecoming.  In  short,  as  it  seems 
to  us,  it  is  work  that  can  scarcely 
be  undertaken  by  any  man  of  sensi- 
tive feeling.. 

Yet  in  more  ways  than  one  the 
production  of  a  good  biography  is 
a  most  praiseworthy  ambition,  for 
no  one  is  a  greater  benefactor  alike 
to  literature  and  posterity  than  the 
man  who  has  achieved  it.  In  spite 
of  his  amiable  superstition  and  his 
tedious  digressions,  Plutarch  is  still 
a  standard  classic.  Nor  is  there 
anything  on  which  the  popularity 
of  ancient  and  modern  historians 
like  Tacitus  or  Clarendon,  is  more 
solidly  established  than  their  strik- 
ing contemporary  portraits.  The 
sketch  of  Catiline  is  perhaps  the 
most  impressive  part  of  Sallust's 
history  of  the  famous  conspiracy. 
What  would  we  give  now  for  the 
most  meagre  memoir  of  Shakespeare, 
were  it  only  authoritative  1  and  had 
he  found  his  Boswell  or  Lockhart, 
we  might  have  had  a  book  that 
would  have  gone  down  to  posterity 
with  his  poems.  So  much  is  that 
the  case,  that  one  of  the  most  fa- 
vourite modern  forms  of  biography 
consists  in  ransacking  the  authori- 
ties of  the  remote  past,  and  piecing 
together  such  disjointed  materials 
as  they  can  supply.  That  must  be 
more  or  less  like  reconstructing  the 
mastodon  from  the  traces  he  has 
left  on  the  primeval  rocks.  Learned 
Germans,  distinguished  members  of 
the  French  Academy,  deeply-read 
professors  in  the  English  universi- 


1879.] 


F.  Biography,  Travel,  and 


491 


ties,  have  betaken  themselves  to 
rewriting  the  lives  of  illustrious 
Greeks  and  Eomans.  They  have 
done  most  creditable  work,  we  con- 
fess ;  and  yet,  however  acutely  logi- 
cal the  treatment  may  be,  we  have 
the  impression  that  we  are  being 
beguiled  into  historical  romance 
where  the  actual  has  been  ingeni- 
ously merged  in  the  ideal.  In  lives 
that  came  nearer  to  our  own  times, 
that  impression  naturally  diminishes ; 
and  we  grant  that  there  is  more 
satisfactory  reason  for  writing  them. 
The  discoveries  of  gossipy  State- 
papers  all  the  world  over — notably 
those  in  the  archives  of  Simancas, 
and  the  official  correspondence  of 
accomplished  Venetian  emissaries — 
have  thrown  floods  of  unexpected 
light  on  some  of  the  most  remark- 
able personages  of  the  middle  ages. 
There  is  an  odd  fashion  too  in 
those  subjects,  and  certain  pictur- 
esque people  and  periods  seem  to 
have  an  irresistible  fascination  for 
literary  men.  Paradoxical  conclu- 
sions, that  are  due  in  a  great  degree 
to  the  author's  ingenuity,  have  of 
course  their  charm;  and  we  can 
understand  the  taste  that  finds 
delight  in  whitewashing  the  most 
doubtful  or  disreputable  figures  in 
history.  But  the  fact  of  some  impres- 
sive character  having  already  been 
repeatedly  appropriated,  appears 
to  be  a  challenge  to  other  artists 
to  take  him  in  hand  ;  and  thus,  for 
example,  we  see  a  religious  reformer 
like  Savonarola,  or  such  a  subtle 
thinker  as  his  contemporary  Machia- 
velli,  receiving,  noteworthy  as  they 
undoubtedly  were,  more  than  their 
fair  share  of  attention. 

Next  to  Boswell's  Johnson,  to 
our  mind  the  most  enjoyable  life  in 
the  language,  is  Lockhart's  Scott. 
And  a  model  biography  it  is  for 
the  practical  purpose  of  example, 
since  no  one  who  can  avail  himself 
of  somewhat  similar  advantages  need 
despair  of  producing  a  creditable 

VOL.  CXXV. — NO.  DCCLXII. 


imitation.  As  we  have  remarked 
already,  the  secret  of  Boswell's  suc- 
cess in  some  degree  defies  and  eludes 
detection;  while  some  of  the  con- 
ditions to  which  it  is  most  obvi- 
ously due  are  such  as  few  men 
would  care  to  accept.  They  would 
object  to  discarding  delicacy  and 
reserve,  and  to  pursuing  their  pur- 
pose with  a  sublime  indifference  as 
to  whether  or  not  they  made  them- 
selves the  laughing-stock  of  their 
readers.  But  Lockhart  produced 
his  fascinating  work  simply  by 
writing  a  straightforward  narrative. 
He  was  entirely  outspoken  as  to  the 
private  life  of  his  illustrious  sub- 
ject, except  in  so  far  as  disclosures 
of  family  secrets  were  necessarily 
limited  by  good  taste  and  good 
feeling.  As  we  are  taught  to  ad- 
mire Sir  "Walter's  genius  in  the 
critical  appreciation  of  his  works, 
we  learn  to  love  the  man  in  his 
domestic  intercourse.  What  can  be 
pleasanter,  for  instance,  than  the 
picture  of  the  lion  taking  refuge 
from  the  houseful  of  guests  his 
hospitality  had  gathered  into  Ab- 
botsford,  at  his  favourite  daughter's 
quiet  breakfast  -  table  under  the 
trees  in  the  little  garden  at  Huntly 
Burn.  We  learn  to  love  him  in 
his  friendship  for  his  pets,  for  it 
was  friendship  at  least  as  much  as 
fondness  ;  and  they  and  their  master 
thoroughly  understood  each  other. 
Lockhart,  with  the  true  feeling  of 
an  artist,  has  painted  Scott  among 
his  dogs  as  Eaeburn  did.  We  know 
them  all,  from  Camp,  whose  death 
made  him  excuse  himself  from  a 
dinner-party  on  account  of  the  loss 
of  a  much-loved  friend — from  Mai- 
da  sitting  solemnly  at  his  elbow  in 
his  study,  or  stalking  gravely  by 
his  master's  side,  while  the  rest  of 
the  pack  were  gambolling  ahead  of 
them — down  to  "  the  shamefaced 
little  terrier,"  who  would  hide  him- 
self at  a  word  of  reproof,  and  who 
could  only  be  lured  out  of  his  se- 
2  i 


492 


Contemporary  Literature : 


[April 


elusion  by  the  irresistible  sound  of 
the  meat-chopper  at  the  dinner-hour. 
To  be  sure  no  biographer  could 
have  been  more  fortunate  in  a  sub- 
ject. The  life  of  Scott  from  first 
to  last  was  overcharged  with  diver- 
sified elements  of  romance.  His 
lines  were  cast  in  the  land  of  the 
Border,  where  every  hamlet  and 
peel-tower  had  its  legend,  and  each 
stream  and  dale  their  ballads. 
There  was  an  extraordinary  blend- 
ing of  the  picturesque  with  the 
practical  as  the  lawyer  turned  into 
the  poet  and  novelist ;  and  the  pen 
of  the  wizard  in  an  evil  hour  took 
to  backing  the  bills  that  landed 
him  in  insolvency.  Seldom  has 
there  been  a  more  strangely  check- 
ered career,  or  a  losing  campaign 
more  gallantly  fought  out  after  the 
flush  of  an  unexampled  series  of  tri- 
umphs. Almost  unprecedented  pro- 
sperity had  ended  in  what  might  have 
been  the  blackest  eclipse,  but  for  the 
manly  nature  that  shone  brightest 
at  the  last  through  the  clouds  that 
would  have  depressed  any  ordinary 
fortitude.  Never  was  there  stronger 
temptation  to  indiscriminate  hero- 
worship,  for  Lockhart  was  the  friend 
and  confidant  of  his  father-in-law, 
and  had  watched  him  with  ever- 
growing admiration  through  his 
changing  fortunes.  No  man  was 
better  fitted  to  appreciate  that  rare 
versatility  of  literary  genius  than 
one  who  had  himself  been  a  suc- 
cessful romance- writer,  and  who  was 
a  critic  by  temperament  as  well  as 
habit.  Perhaps  it  was  partly  owing 
to  that  critical  temperament,  with 
the  practice  of  self-control  which  it 
inferred,  that  the  biographer  proved 
equal  to  his  splendid  opportuni- 
ties. Partly  because,  setting  the 
obligations  of  honesty  aside,  he 
felt  that  all  he  could  tell  of  his 
father-in-law  would  only  redound 
to  Scott's  honour  in  the  end.  But 
the  result  has  been  that  we  have  a 
Life  in  many  volumes  which  for 


once  we  would  very  willingly  have 
longer,  and  for  once  in  a  way,  if 
there  be  a  fault  in  the  book,  it  is 
the  excessive  self-effacement  of  the 
accomplished  author.  Had  he  told 
all,  which  of  course  he  could  not 
do,  we  believe  it  would  appear  that 
his  counsels  to  Scott  had  been  in- 
valuable. 

Since  Scott  wrote  the  '  Napoleon,' 
which  hardly  did  justice  either  to 
the  emperor  or  to  the  author,  good 
lives  of  soldiers  have  been  scarce — 
although  by  the  way,  in  that  connec- 
tion, we  may  refer  to  the  Count  de 
Sejur's  admirable  memoir  of  his 
master  which  came  out  a  few  years 
ago.  "Wellington  and  the  heroes 
of  the  Peninsula  had  been  disposed 
of;  and  there  were  few  opportuni- 
ties for  soldiers  distinguishing  them- 
selves in  the  comparatively  peaceful 
times  that  followed.  In  India  and 
the  Crimea,  though  we  do  not  for- 
get dashing  leaders  like  the  Napiers, 
and  many  distinguished  generals  of 
division,  no  really  great  commander 
can  be  said  to  have  come  to  the 
front ;  and  the  lives  of  officers  in 
subordinate  positions  usually  supply 
incidents  that  are  too  episodical. 
Besides,  the  memoir  of  a  distin- 
guished soldier  must  have  mainly 
a  strategical  interest,  and  the  most 
accomplished  literary  artist  will  find 
his  talent  taxed  to  the  utmost  if 
his  book  is  to  be  made  attractive 
to  the  general  public.  No  doubt 
the  authoritative  life  of  Von  Moltke 
will  be  a  most  valuable  work,  yet 
we  may  surmise  that  it  will  be 
heavy  reading.  Moreover,  the  pre- 
sent fashion  of  war  correspondence 
unpleasantly  anticipates  the  mili- 
tary memoir  writer.  He  must  go 
for  his  most  exciting  materials  to 
republications  that  are  universal- 
ly accessible,  though,  after  having 
been  read,  they  may  have  been  half 
forgotten  in  the  newer  interest  of 
fresher  sensations  ;  while  most  men 
will  be  inclined  to  renounce  in  de- 


1879.' 


V.  Biography,  Travel,  and  Sport. 


493 


spair  the  hope  of  improving  on  the 
picturesqueness  of  the  best  of  these 
narratives. 

It  mnst  be  much  the  same  in  the 
case  of  statesmen.  Formerly,  when 
there  were  meagre  Parliamentary 
reports, — when  the  Premier  was  a 
despot  like  Walpole  or  Chatham, 
and  the  administration  arbitrary  so 
long  as  he  held  office, — there  was 
much  that  was  interesting  to  be 
told,  much  that  was  mysterious  to 
be  explained,  when  a  biographer 
found  himself  in  a  position  to  make 
confidences.  Now  it  is  compara- 
tively rarely  that  we  have  to  wait 
for  the  demise  of  the  principal 
actors  in  them  to  learn  the  exact 
truth  as  to  important  transactions. 
Each  successive  step  is  submitted 
to  the  most  searching  scrutiny. 
Energetic  or  fussy  members  ask 
questions  and  raise  debates.  Min- 
isters are  forced  to  stand  on  their 
defence  against  attacks  and  insidious 
suggestions  that  cannot  well  be 
left  unanswered.  The  debates  are 
thrashed  out  in  exhaustive  leaders, 
while  correspondents  and  consuls 
abroad  are  contributing  to  the  liter- 
ature of  foreign  questions.  There 
is  a  serial  publication  of  blue-books 
which  are  systematically  condensed 
for  the  information  of  the  public. 
No  Minister  dare  refuse  the  publi- 
cation of  a  State  -  paper  :  at  the 
most,  he  can  only  take  the  responsi- 
bility of  deferring  it.  Now  and 
then  a  man's  lips  may  be  sealed  by 
a  punctilious  sense  of  honour,  or  by 
circumstances  which  he  can  hardly 
command,  as  to  some  Cabinet  de- 
cision or  piece  of  diplomacy  in 
which  he  played  a  conspicuous 
part.  But  with  the  lapse  of  time, 
people  have  ceased  to  feel  con- 
cerned in  that ;  and  even  when 
attention  has  been  subsequently 
called  to  it  in  some  keen  political 
critique,  it  only  awakens  a  languid 
interest.  We  are  far  from  saying 
that  the  average  talent  of  our 


statesmen  has  declined,  though  the 
glare  of  publicity  that  exposes  their 
shortcomings  seems  to  give  greater 
point  every  day  to  the  famous 
dictum  of  Oxenstiern.  But  there 
can  be  no  question  that  writing 
their  lives  in  detail  is  coming  more 
and  more  to  have  much  in  common 
with  the  philosophical  revision  of 
ancient  history. 

Even  with  the  lawyers,  things 
have  changed  for  the  worse.  There 
used  to  be  fine  scope  for  forcible 
writing  in  a  brilliant  forensic 
career,  when  beginning  with  some 
unlocked  -  for  exhibition  of  elo- 
quence j  with  the  lucky  hit  of  a 
junior  stepping  into  the  place  of  an 
absent  leader,  it  led  him  through 
professional  and  political  intrigues 
and  many  a  hotly  contested  elec- 
tion, to  land  him  in  the  Chief 
Justiceship  or  on  the  woolsack. 
At  present  the  course  of  the  pro- 
fession is  more  prosaic.  The  young 
barrister's  best  chance  at  his  start 
is  a  paying  family  connection,  or 
marriage  with  a  lady  who  brings 
clients  as  her  dowry.  He  climbs  the 
ladder  by  slow  degrees,  and  it  is 
seldom  he  clears  the  first  rounds  at 
a  spring.  The  ballot  and  the  new 
election  laws  have  done  away  with 
the  romance  of  the  hustings:  and 
even  the  humours  of  the  circuits 
seem  to  have  been  dying  out  with 
the  old  habits  of  sociable  convivi- 
ality. "We  fear  we  shall  never  again 
have  such  a  book  as  Twiss's  '  Life 
of  Lord  Eldon ; '  nor  need  future 
Lord  Chancellors  fear  a  new  series 
of  a  Lord  Campbell's  '  Lives,'  which 
shall  "  add  a  fresh  horror  to  death." 

Perhaps  in  the  general  decadence 
of  the  art,  the  lives  of  divines  are 
the  sole  exception;  and  that  is 
chiefly  because  they  are  so  seldom 
liberally  catholic  either  in  their 
spirit  or  their  interest.  A  man 
who  has  made  a  name  as  a  pulpit- 
orator,  or  who  has  played  a  leading 
part  in  the  affairs  of  some  Church 


494 


Contemporary  Literature  : 


[April 


or  sect,  has  his  personal  following 
of  devoted  worshippers.  In  nine 
cases  out  of  ten  the  life  has  been 
written  by  some  faithful  follower 
who  has  clung  to  him  like  Elisha 
to  Elijah.  The  biography  becomes 
the  faithful  reflection  of  its  subject's 
views  and  convictions.  We  can 
hardly  say  that  his  prejudices  are 
treated  with  tenderness;  for  they 
are  adopted,  defended,  and  devel- 
oped. The  people  who  make  a 
rush  on  the  first  edition  know  ex- 
actly what  they  have  to  expect,  and 
there  is  little  chance  of  their  being 
disgusted  or  disappointed,  since 
the  name  and  familiar  opinions 
of  the  author  guarantee  the  tone. 
The  bitterness  of  conflicting  creeds 
is  proverbial ;  and  it  is  too  seldom 
that  a  writer  seizes  on  the  grand 
opportunity  of  soaring  superior  to 
the  narrow  prepossessions  of  sec- 
tarianism, into  the  untroubled  at- 
mosphere of  the  Christian  religion. 
Yet  though  a  sectarian  memoir 
must  be  one-sided  and  narrow- 
minded,  it  need  by  no  means  of 
necessity  be  a  literary  blunder. 
•On  the  contrary,  earnest  partisan- 
ship may  be  an  antidote  to  dul- 
ness ;  bitterness  of  feeling  gives  it 
a  certain  piquancy  ;  and  the  invec- 
tive that  is  inspired  by  honest  self- 
satisfaction  may  lend  animation  and 
vigour  to  the  style.  The  pious  men 
who  are  most  likely  to  be  treated 
catholically,  and  to  be  made  beacons 
for  the  devout  of  future  generations, 
are  those  whose  influence  has  ex- 
tended beyond  their  communions, 
and  whose  intellect  has  been  ex- 
panded by  circumstances  or  in  the 
turmoil  of  religious  convictions.  As 
in  the  case  of  Chalmers,  for  ex- 
ample, when  he  won  the  respect 
of  the  world  for  the  breadth  of  his 
labours  and  the  liberality  of  his 
opinions,  until  he  broke  down  in 
the  melancholy  struggle  which  led 
to  the  disruption  of  Christian  unity 
and  kindly  feeling  in  the  Scotch 


Church;  or  of  Dr  Newman,  when, 
in  the  height  of  his  reputation  as 
logician  and  controversialist,  he 
passed  over  from  Oxford  to  Eome ; 
or,  above  all,  of  the  self-denying 
pioneers  of  missionary  enterprise 
like  Xavier  or  Martyn,  Livingstone 
or  Wilson. 

We  may  dismiss  the  subject  of 
contemporary  biography  with  the 
briefest  notice  of  some  of  the  works 
that  happen  to  have  appeared  very 
recently,  though  any  attempt  at  a 
comprehensive  survey  is  far  beyond 
the  compass  of  our  article.  And 
we  may  go  back  to  the  published 
volumes  of  the  Prince  Consort's 
life,  as  the  work  is  still  uncom- 
pleted. By  the  consent  of  the 
critics,  Mr  Theodore  Martin  has 
fully  justified  the  confidence  which 
intrusted  to  him  a  task  in  which 
her  Majesty  is  so  nearly  and  dearly 
interested.  The  Prince's  peculiarly 
difficult  position  had  made  him 
enemies ;  and  excited  jealousies 
which  generated  prejudices  and 
misrepresentations.  The  "  fierce 
light  that  beats  upon  a  throne " 
is  a  very  deceptive  figure  of  speech ; 
for  the  fitful  flashes  that  come 
quicker  in  times  of  political  excite- 
ment are  apt  to  give  false  ideas  of 
facts ;  while  the  shining  qualities 
of  the  occupant  are  lost  in  the 
dazzle,  and  unobtrusive  family  vir- 
tues may  escape  notice  altogether. 
In  doing  justice  to  the  memory  of 
her  husband,  by  publishing  his 
memoirs  with  almost  absolute  un- 
reserve, her  Majesty  exercised  a 
wise  discretion.  In  unbosoming 
herself  as  to  the  loss  she  had  sus- 
tained, she  made  the  nation  doubly 
sympathetic  in  her  sorrow ;  and 
in  these  times,  when  thrones  are 
shaking  abroad,  and  experience  is 
demonstrating  the  instability  of 
republican  institutions,  it  is  almost 
impossible  to  overrate  the  value  of 
such  a  book.  The  Life  is  full  of 
those  high  lessons  which  it  should 


1879.] 


V.  Biography,  Travel,  and  Sport. 


495 


be  the  chief  purpose  of  biography 
to  convey.  There  are  no  symptoms 
in  it  of  fulsome  praise,  and  yet  we 
may  add  that  there  is  nothing 
which  does  not  redound  to  the 
honour  of  its  subject.  The  family 
details  that  are  given  so  frankly 
and  naturally,  have  of  course  a  very 
exceptional  interest.  And  it  pre- 
sents a  remarkable  example  of  ver- 
satile energy  and  keen  political  in- 
sight united  to  most  extraordinary 
self-restraint.  For  once  the  poli- 
tical chapters  of  a  biography  have 
a  double  interest.  For,  emanating 
from  the  most  unexceptionable  in- 
formation, they  clear  up  much  that 
had  been  hitherto  obscure  in  the 
most  momentous  events  of  recent 
history ;  while  they  show  all  her 
Majesty  owed  to  her  husband,  and 
with  what  indefatigable  intelligence 
he  had  laboured  in  the  interests  of 
the  adopted  country,  that  too  often 
repaid  him  with  perverse  misrepre- 
sentation. 

Among  the  latest  publications  on 
our  table,  we  find  a  miscellany  of 
subjects  and  styles  —  the  Life  of 
Bismarck,-  by  Busch ;  of  Machia- 
velli,  by  Villari;  of  Madame  de 
Bunsen,  by  Mr  Augustus  Hare ;  of 
George  Moore,by  Smiles;  of  Dr  Hook, 
by  his  son-in-law ;  of  Sydney  Do- 
bell.  We  may  say  that  we  have 
already  passed  them  indirectly  in 
review.  Herr  Busch  illustrates  all 
the  indiscretions  of  the  life  of  a  very 
great  man,  written  by  an  obsequious 
dependant.  There  are  many  amus- 
ing personal  touches,  no  doubt;  but 
as  biography,  it  is  valueless,  because 
it  is  entirely  in  rose-colour.  The 
writer's  ideas  are  the  reflection  of 
those  of  his  idol,  as  lizards  take 
their  tints  from  the  rocks  they 
crawl  on.  Besides,  the  Prince's 
biography  runs  into  history,  and 
the  history  is  too  evidently  "  in- 
spired." Machiavelli,  so  far  as  the 
subject  has  yet  been  carried,  is 
handled  with  highly  creditable  im- 


partiality ;  but  the  book  is  in  great 
measure  a  historical  essay,  where 
facts  are  supplemented  by  ingen- 
ious theories,  which,  though  plaus- 
ible, are  seldom  solidly  established. 
Madame  de  Bunsen's  Memoirs  are 
excellent  in  their  way,  and  we  fancy 
it  will  prove  to  be  one  of  the  books 
that  you  may  care  to  dip  into  again 
and  again.  A  charming  and  highly 
accomplished  woman,  who  lived  in 
the  highest  society  in  Europe,  and 
whose  places  of  residence  made  her 
as  familiar  with  the  associations  of 
the  past  as  with  the  intellectual 
activity  of  this  age  of  progress, 
gives  the  exhaustive  diary  of  an 
eventful  life  in  a  series  of  delightful 
letters.  But  here,  too,  we  are  bound 
to  add,  that  the  book  would  have 
been  the  better  for  judicious  re- 
trenchment j  and  in  particular,  our 
remarks  as  to  hesitating  on  the 
threshold,  will  apply  to  the  minute 
analysis  of  the  lady's  pedigree.  The 
same  apparently  inevitable  criti- 
cism will  apply  to  George  Moore 
and  Sydney  Dobell,  though  both 
are  well  worth  reading,  and  the 
former  especially.  We  hardly  know 
how  we  came  to  overlook  it  in  our 
observations  on  Dr  Smiles.  For  it 
shows  the  author  at  his  best  in  his 
nervous  though  somewhat  homely 
style ;  and  in  his  intuitive  percep- 
tion of  the  striking  traits  that  may 
best  serve  to  illustrate  the  man  he 
is  describing.  Not  that  George 
Moore  is  made  by  any  means  ideally 
attractive.  There  can  hardly  be  a 
greater  contrast  between  the  active 
career  of  the  pushing  commercial 
traveller  and  tradesman,  who,  turn- 
ing into  the  generous  and  religious 
philanthropist,  made  friends  as  fast 
as  he  made  a  fortune,  and  whose 
power  of  activity  seemed  to  be  mul- 
tiplied with  the  number  of  objects 
he  took  in  hand ;  and  the  life  of 
the  dreamy  poet  and  thinker,  whose 
best  efforts  were  baffled  by  misfor- 
tunes, and  by  the  maladies  to  which 


496 


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[April 


he  prematurely  succumbed.  Yet 
though  comparison  must  be  unfair 
when  the  objects  of  it  are  so  op- 
posed, we  do  not  know  that  Do- 
bell's  memoir  is  not  the  more  in- 
structive of  the  two.  For  it  is 
harder  to  keep  up  heart  and  faith 
against  ever  renewed  disappoint- 
ment and  bodily  anguish;  harder 
to  keep  the  freshness  of  your  kind- 
ly sympathies  unimpaired,  than  to 
carry  the  full  cup  with  a  steady 
hand  when  prosperity  and  the  world 
are  conspiring  to  spoil  you. 

Johnson  on  one  occasion  re- 
marked that  no  writers  were  more 
defective  than  writers  of  travels. 
As  we  have  the  highest  respect  for 
his  critical  judgment,  we  conclude 
that  things  have  greatly  changed 
since  his  time.  If  there  has  been 
a  decline  in  biography  lately,  and 
if  its  prospects  can  hardly  be  said  to 
be  encouraging,  works  of  travels  are 
becoming  more  valuable.  ISTo  doubt 
they  are  not  always  so  exciting  as 
they  once  were,  and  there  is  less  of 
the  sensational  in  them  than  there 
used  to  be,  when  the  daring  adven- 
turer could  throw  the  reins  to  his  im- 
agination, and  revel  in  the  wonders 
he  professed  to  relate,  being  well 
assured  that  nobody  could  contradict 
him.  These  were  happy  days  when 
the  narrator  had  no  fear  of  the  critics ; 
when  there  were  no  learned  geogra- 
phical societies  to  sift  his  statements 
and  dispute  his  conclusions;  and 
when  the  public  were  willing  to 
swallow  everything,  from  magnetic 
mountains  and  ape-headed  anthro- 
pophagi down  to  phoenixes  and 
fiery  flying-serpents.  It  is  hard  to 
measure  the  splendid  possibilities 
of  the  boundless  fields  of  un- 
travelled  mystery,  when  grave  men 
made  pilgrimages  to  empires  and 
potentates  that  had  never  ex- 
isted save  in  the  realms  of  fable. 
Even  when  the  world  had  grown 
more  enlightened,  travellers  still 
had  magnificent  opportunities.  Go 


where  they  would  beyond  the  fron- 
tiers of  civilisation,  and  out  of  the 
frequented  tracts  of  commerce,  they 
could  never  fall  on  what  was  flat 
and  unprofitable.  Fresh  discoveries 
rewarded  each  feat  of  enterprise ; 
for  each  step  they  made  in  advance 
lay  through  unknown  or  forgotten 
countries.  If  the  risks  they  ran 
were  great,  the  rewards  were  pro- 
portionate. No  one  but  the  hardi- 
est of  enthusiasts  would  dream  of 
hazarding  himself  in  such  work; 
and  we  can  fancy  the  thrill  of 
delight  that  made  him  forget  his 
sufferings,  when  he  saw  the  giant 
columns  of  Baalbec  or  Palmyra 
crimsoned  by  the  gorgeous  desert 
sunset;  when  he  stumbled  into 
such  a  secluded  valley  as  Petra, 
where  the  rock-hewn  tombs  and 
temples  rose,  tier  over  tier,  in  the 
pristine  freshness  of  the  rose-tinted 
granite ;  or  when  he  identified  the 
site  of  some  seat  of  world-renowned 
empire,  marked  by  its  shapeless 
masses  of  crumbled  mud-brick  and 
its  mounds  of  shivered  and  sun- 
bleached  pottery.  And  there  were 
incidents  enough  in  all  conscience 
to  enliven  the  narrative.  When 
these  travellers  observed  the  man- 
ners and  customs  of  sullen  fanatics 
and  savage  tribes,  they  had  every- 
where to  run  the  gauntlet  of  aggres- 
sive suspicion.  As  our  village  boys 
or  roughs  of  the  cities  would  mob  a 
Chinaman  in  calico  and  pigtail,  they 
were  hooted  and  hounded  through 
the  villages  where  they  sought  a 
supper  and  a  couch.  Explorers 
in  Africa  nowadays  have  their 
troubles  and  dangers,  as  we  know. 
But  they  generally  go  attended  by 
the  formidable  escort  that  enables 
them  to  fight  a  battle  on  occasion  ; 
and  they  carry  ample  means  of 
buying  provisions,  or  bartering  for 
them,  though  the  natives  must 
sometimes  be  forced  to  deal.  Those 
famous  Scotch  pioneers,  Bruce  and 
Mungo  Park,  were  beggars  to  all 


1879.] 


V.  Biography,  Travel,  and  Sport. 


497 


intents  and  purposes.  They  had 
to  pray  for  the  daily  dole  that  was 
to  keep  body  and  soul  together ; 
they  humbly  acknowledged  such 
hospitality  as  was  offered  them ; 
and  were  grateful  for  the  cup  of 
cold  water  that  was  bestowed  by 
feminine  charity.  Necessarily  their 
surveying  work  was  roughly  done ; 
they  had  to  make  their  hurried 
observations  by  stealth,  and  put 
their  questions  at  the  peril  of  their 
lives.  In  that  respect  they  much 
resembled  those  daring  Indian  pun- 
dits, who  have  been  sent  by  Mont- 
gomery and  other  of  our  frontier 
officials  on  scientific  tours  through 
Thibet  and  the  Himalaya.  Making 
any  regular  notes  was  generally 
out  of  the  question ;  and  when  we 
consider  the  manner  of  men  they 
were,  and  the  circumstances  under 
which  they  had  to  rely  on  the 
memory,  we  may  give  them  no 
little  credit  for  their  literary  work- 
manship. 

Now  all  that  is  changed.  There 
are  barbarous  districts,  and  even  in- 
dependent semi-civilised  states,  of 
which  our  knowledge  is  still  of  the 
vaguest;  and  till  the  other  day 
there  were  thick  clouds  of  uncer- 
tainty hanging  over  the  sources  of 
such  rivers  as  the  Nile  and  the 
Congo.  But  on  the  whole  the  pro- 
gress that  has  been  made  is  marvel- 
lous ;  nor  are  there  many  corners  of 
the  habitable  globe  into  which 
civilisation  has  not  pushed  its  re- 
searches. Thus,  Eussia  and  Eng- 
land, respectively  advancing  from 
the  shores  of  the  Caspian  and  the 
mouths  of  the  Ganges,  have  met 
among  the  robber  races  of  Central 
Asia.  The  American  farmers  and 
miners,  pushing  across  through  the 
wilderness  on  their  march  to  the 
California  coast,  have  reclaimed  the 
magnificent  hunting-grounds  of  the 
West,  nearly  extirpating  the  Eed 
Indian  in  the  process.  Railway 
companies  are  projecting  Grand 


Trunk  lines  through  the  pampas 
and  forests  of  Southern  America; 
and  we  have  either  formed  colonies 
or  established  consuls  in  Austral- 
asia and  the  island  groups  of  the 
South  Seas ;  while  Central  Africa 
is  no  longer  marked  "  unexplored  " 
in  the  atlases,  and  believed  to  be 
an  inhospitable  waste  of  sand,  like 
the  Kali-hari  desert  or  the  Great 
Sahara. 

There  can  be  few  grand  sensa- 
tions in  store  for  us,  since  the 
comprehensive  course  of  a  general 
survey  has  dashed  off  the  great 
contours  of  the  globe,  and  all  that  is 
left  for  us  now  is  to  map  out  the 
world  in  detail.  But  after  all,  the 
blanks  in  the  details  are  innumer- 
able ;  they  excite  an  increasing  and 
more  intelligent  interest,  and  there 
are  abundance  of  capable  men  who 
are  eagerly  volunteering  to  gratify 
that.  There  are  men  of  wealth  and 
culture  and  leisure  to  whom  travel 
is  an  indispensable  distraction. 
There  are  merchants  whose  enter- 
prise carries  them  along  little-trod- 
den trade  routes  into  remote  and 
hitherto  inaccessible  localities ;  there 
are  consular  and  mercantile  agents 
who  interest  themselves  profession- 
ally in  the  people  among  whom 
their  lot  has  been  cast.  They  kill 
the  leisure  that  would  otherwise 
hang  heavy  on  their  hands  by  a 
course  of  intelligent  study  and 
observation :  and  they  strive  to 
occupy  their  holidays  profitably  in 
expeditions  that  may  do  them  credit 
by  extending  discoveries.  The 
"  grand  tour  "  round  Europe  is  long 
ago  gone  out  of  date.  One  can 
easily  knock  it  off  by  instalments  in 
the  Easter  recess,  or  in  some  part 
of  the  summer  season  that  comes  in 
between  the  intervals  of  shooting. 
Men  think  nothing  of  putting  a 
girdle  round  the  world,  though 
they  may  not  quite  accomplish  it 
in  forty  days,  like  the  hero  of  the 
piece  at  the  Porte  St  Martin ;  and 


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[April 


even  ladies  like  Mrs  Brassey,  in 
well-appointed  yachts,  perform  feats 
of  circumnavigation  that,  in  point 
of  time  and  distance,  throw  the 
life-labours  of  Cook  and  Wallis 
into  the  shade. 

While,  of  course,  more  serious 
enterprise  with  definite  objects  is 
being  developed  in  proportion. 
Those  inquisitive  geographical  bo- 
dies, though  they  may  put  a  curb 
on  the  exuberance  of  the  explorer's 
fancy,  serve  a  very  useful  purpose 
after  all.  International  emulation 
is  stimulated,  and  scientific  explora- 
tion is  systematically  organised  and 
generously  rewarded  with  fame  and 
medals.  Intelligent  curiosity,  even 
more  than  philanthropy,  has  been 
opening  up  new  destinies  for  Africa, 
while  it  promises  to  rescue  the  mis- 
erable African  tribes  from  the  con- 
sequences of  their  own  blood-feuds 
and  avarice.  Though  we  must  not,  in 
referring  to  African  discovery,  over- 
look the  invaluable  services  of  the 
missionaries,  with  men  like  Mofiat 
and  Livingstone  at  their  head.  Nor 
have  Germany  and  France  been 
behindhand  in  the  work ;  although 
the  favourite  fields  of  operations  of 
their  emissaries  have  rather  lain  in 
the  north  and  north-west.  But  it 
is  bare  justice  to  say  that  it  is  to  a 
brilliant  group  of  English  travellers 
that  Africa  and  geography  are  most 
largely  indebted.  It  would  be  diffi- 
cult to  exaggerate  the  qualities  of 
the  men  who  have  repeatedly  pene- 
trated to  the  heart  of  the  dark  con- 
tinent, or  forced  their  way  through 
its  dangers  in  various  directions. 
They  were  greatly  helped,  no  doubt, 
by  the  funds  and  appliances  which 
awakened  interest  placed  at  their 
disposal.  But  each  one  of  them 
might  have  rivalled  the  most  scan- 
tily equipped  of  their  predecessors 
in  fertility  of  resource  as  in  reso- 
lute endurance.  In  some  respects, 
indeed,  the  modern  African  traveller 
has  more  formidable  difficulties  to 


contend  with,  though  they  are  diffi- 
culties of  a  different  kind.  Bruce 
or  Park,  Denham  or  Clapperton, 
had  to  carry  his  life  in  his  hand, 
having  made  up  his  mind  that 
he  might  probably  lose  it.  Hav- 
ing deliberately  counted  the  cost 
before,  they  had  only  themselves  to 
be  answerable  for;  and,  next  to 
their  courage  and  presence  of  mind, 
they  had  to  trust  in  great  measure 
to  the  chapter  of  accidents.  Sub- 
mission in  one  shape  or  another  was 
their  sole  resource,  and  they  had  to 
do  their  best  to  slip  through  the 
fingers  of  the  savages.  But  the 
modern  adventurer  should  be  a  gen- 
eral and  a  diplomat.  He  conducts 
an  expedition  of  enterprise  that 
resembles  on  a  small  scale  the  dash- 
ing invasion  of  a  Cortes  or  Pizarro ; 
the  difference  being  that,  in  place  of 
being  at  the  head  of  an  iron  soldiery 
who  will  follow  his  lead  in  the  last 
extremity,  he  has  to  make  his  way 
with  troops  and  a  bodyguard  who 
are  but  semi-barbarous  volunteers. 
He  has  to  keep  them  from  flight  or 
mutiny,  in  the  face  of  threats,  ter- 
rors, and  intrigues ;  and  must  buy 
and  negotiate  the  right  of  passage 
through  the  territories  of  the  grasp- 
ing petty  despots,  with  whom 
he  may  not  improbably  come  to 
blows. 

Hence  the  story  of  his  perils  and 
adventures  must  have  a  many-sided 
interest,  and  its  incidents  may  often 
really  resolve  themselves  into  the 
higher  order  of  biography.  We  see 
a  rare  combination  of  extraordinary 
qualities  in  habitual  exercise :  we 
follow  the  workings  of  a  quick  and 
far-reaching  intellect,  suggesting  to 
itself  those  solutions  of  standing 
geographical  problems  which  are  to 
guide  the  future  course  of  the  ex- 
pedition :  giving  careful  thought  to 
political  considerations  :  coming  to 
.prompt  decisions  in  critical  emer- 
gencies :  and  showing  itself,  through 
months  of  incessant  strain,  ready  to 


1879.] 


V.  Biography,  Travel,  and  Sport. 


499 


respond  to  an  urgent  call  at  any 
moment.  Though  health  may  re- 
lax in  an  enervating  climate,  or  be 
broken  by  prolonged  anxiety  and 
want,  the  spirit  is  still  resolute  and 
vigorous  ;  and,  whatever  may  be  his 
reasonable  apprehensions  of  the  fu- 
ture, the  leader  must  still  show  a  smil- 
ing face  to  his  disheartened  party. 
While  all  the  time  he  is  writing  up 
the  diary,  which  not  only  notes  each 
incident  of  the  march  and  camp,  but 
is  exhaustive  in  the  special  infor- 
mation he  came  in  search  of.  The 
memory  cannot  be  relied  upon  for 
the  work  of  months  and  years,  and 
his  object  is  precision,  so  far  as  it  is 
attainable.  The  chapters  that  form 
a  condensed  encyclopedia  in  geogra- 
phy and  hydrography,  soil,  climate, 
politics,  and  ethnological  character- 
istics, are  illustrated  by  sketches  and 
skeleton  -  maps.  These  invaluable 
literary  treasures  run  even  more 
risks  than  their  owner.  They  may 
sink  in  the  swamping  of  a  canoe, 
when  he  may  swim  and  save  him- 
self ;  or  they  may  be  burned  in  a  fire 
in  the  camp,  for  he  cannot  carry 
them  about  on  his  person  ;  or 
they  may  be  captured  in  a  sudden 
attack,  or  abandoned  by  a  run- 
away porter  in  the  jungle.  Should 
they  survive  to  be  delivered  to  an 
English  publisher,  they  generally 
well  repay  the  trouble  that  has  been 
bestowed  on  them,  though  our  care- 
less ingratitude  seldom  appreciates 
that.  Considering  the  qualities  that 
have  recommended  the  writer  for 
his  work,  we  expect  to  find  them 
full  of  valuable  information.  Yet 
taking  into  account  the  circum- 
stances under  which  they  were 
originally  compiled,  and  the  drudg- 
ery that  necessarily  goes  to  recast- 
ing them,  we  should  not  be  sur- 
prised to  find  them  rather  heavy 
reading.  The  life  that  was  stirring 
enough  to  those  who  led  it  might 
easily  be  made  very  dull  in  the 
narration  :  one  night- alarm,  or  am- 


bush, or  skirmish  with  savages,  very 
much  resembles  another.  Our  sen- 
sibility is  blunted,  after  a  time,  to 
the  record  of  dreary  periods  of  star- 
vation, broken  by  an  occasional 
feast;  and  scientific  observations 
•and  speculations  are  apt,  at  the 
best,  to  be  dry.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  and  it  strikes  us  as  a  somewhat 
extraordinary  phenomenon,  the  lit- 
erary workmanship  of  these  volumes 
of  African  travel  has  almost  invari- 
ably left  little  or  nothing  to  desire. 
The  thrilling  vicissitudes  of  most 
dangerous  adventures  are  recounted 
with  equal  modesty  and  spirit ;  a 
succession  of  episodes  of  thrilling 
romance  are  agreeably  varied  by 
their  distinctive  features;  and  if 
there  must  unavoidably  be  a  con- 
siderable amount  of  repetition,  the 
inevitable  ennui  of  it  is  reduced  to 
a  minimum.  Not  unfrequently  the 
excitement  is  "  piled  so  high  "  that 
were  not  its  truth  confirmed  by  the 
results  of  the  achievement,  we 
should  find  it  very  hard  to  believe. 
Occasionally  even  the  scientific 
chapters  have  the  charm  of  fairy 
tales.  Incidentally  we  have  vivid 
descriptions  of  scenery,  which  give 
as  clear  an  idea  of  the  landscapes 
and  their  vegetation  as  the  photo- 
graphs or  sketches  by  which  they 
are  illustrated.  To  beguile  the 
tedium  of  the  monotonous  march, 
we  have  now  and  then  some  excit- 
ing narrative  of  sport :  though,  ex- 
cept in  Baker's  books  on  the  Nile 
tributaries,  the  sport,  for  the  most 
part,  takes  the  character  of  "  pot- 
hunting."  While,  if  the  proper 
study  of  mankind  be  man,  the 
writers  have  industriously  availed 
themselves  of  their  ample  oppor- 
tunities in  that  department.  In 
those  long  tedious  marches,  in  the 
still  more  heartbreaking  halts,  they 
must  be  always  studying  the  pecu- 
liar idiosyncrasies  of  their  followers. 
The  "  wily  savage  "  is  always  will- 
ing to  shirk;  lying  is  the  virtue 


500 


Contemporary  Literature : 


[April 


that  is  held  in  highest  esteem  by 
him ;  and  an  air  of  dull  or  brutal 
stolidity  may  conceal  the  art  of  an 
accomplished  actor.  Many  of  those 
pictures  of  the  native,  by  "  one  who 
knows  him,"  are  admirably  sugges- 
tive or  extremely  humorous.  At 
one  time  it  used  to  be  held  as  an 
axiom,  that  the  man  of  action  was 
seldom  likely  to  be  much  of  a  pro- 
ficient in  literary  composition.  Lat- 
terly we  have  seen  occasion  to  be- 
lieve that  the  rule  is  precisely  the 
reverse.  It  would  appear  that  the 
capacity  for  sustained  mental  and 
physical  activity  implies  correspond- 
ing literary  power  ;  that  decision  of 
character  and  fertility  of  resource 
translate  themselves  into  versatile 
freshness  of  thought  and  vigorous 
treatment  in  spirited  diction.  We 
have  listened  to  eminent  travellers 
who  have  spent  long  years  away 
from  civilisation,  who  sometimes, 
for  example,  like  Gifford  Palgrave 
among  the  Arabs,  have  almost  had 
the  opportunity  of  forgetting  their 
native  tongue,  and  who  have  come 
home  to  address  a  critical  assem- 
blage at  the  Geographical  Society 
in  well-chosen  language  with  per- 
fect self-composure.  What  is  more 
remarkable,  perhaps,  some  of  the 
men  who  stammer  through  the 
formal  acknowledgment  of  their 
health  at  a  public  dinner,  become 
eloquent  in  an  entire  absence  of 
self-consciousness  when  they  speak 
at  length  on  the  labours  they  have 
delighted  in.  And  so  it  would  ap- 
pear, that  when  they  sit  down  to 
write  in  their  studies  they  still 
answer  to  the  spur  of  the  peculiar 
temperament  that  animated  and 
sustained  them  in  their  hazardous 
adventures. 

Had  the  books  they  have  written 
been  dull,  they  would  scarcely  have 
been  read  except  by  savants.  As  it 
is,  the  libraries  order  them  by  thou- 
sands; the  first  editions  are  ex- 
hausted before  they  are  well  issued, 


and  the  ingenious  writers  of  romance 
may  envy  the  more  popular  actors 
of  it.     Who  is  not  become  familiar 
with  African  customs  and  scenery, 
from  the  Cataracts  on  the  Nile  to 
the  Falls  on  the  Zambesi,  from  the 
white-washed  frontages  of  Zanzibar 
to  the  palms  of  S.  Paul  de  Loanda  1 
We  are  acquainted  with  the  whole 
trying   process   of  bargaining   and 
recruiting;  of  collecting  the  bales 
of  cloth,  the  coils  of  wire,  and  the 
packages  of  beads.     We  know  only 
too  well  the   Arab   slave  -  traders, 
with  caravans  where  the  groans  of 
the   victims   make    chorus   to   the 
crack  of  the  lash  and  clink  of  the 
manacles;  where  the  camp-followers 
are  the  jackals  and  the  flights  of 
vultures,  and  where  the  tracks  are 
marked  by  bleaching  skeletons.   We 
are  made  to  enter  into  the  feelings 
of  Burton   and  Speke  and  Grant, 
where  they  came  unexpectedly  upon 
magnificent   highland    scenery    on 
what  had  been  supposed  to  be  bar- 
ren sands;  or  launched  their  craft 
upon    inland    seas    calmly    repos- 
ing under  feathering  woods  when 
they  are  not  lashed  into  turmoil  by 
storms  from  the  mountains.     We 
learn   to  draw  shrewd   deductions 
from  the  slopes  of  the  watersheds ; 
and  in  anxious  suspense  as  to  pos- 
sible  disappointment,  we   identify 
the  outflows  of  infant  streams  with 
those  sources  that  have  been   the 
standing  problem  of  men  of  science. 
Or  we  commit  ourselves  with  Cam- 
eron  and  Stanley  to  the  tranquil 
bosom  of  some  "  abounding  river," 
that  will   tumble   later  down   the 
sides  of  the  tableland  in  cataracts 
and  swirling  whirlpools ;  and  specu- 
lation slowly  changes  to  conviction 
as  we  mark  the  affluence  of  mighty 
tributaries,  since  that  growing  vol- 
ume of  water  can  only  carry  us  to  our 
foregone  conclusion.     Without  dis- 
cussing the  nicer  questions  of  hu- 
manity or  necessity,  nothing  can  be 
more  dramatic  than  the  accounts  of 


1879.] 


F.  Biography,  Travel,  and  Sport. 


501 


the  hotly  contested  advance,  when 
the  parties  are  dwindling  with  death 
and  disease,  as  day  after  day  they 
drew  nearer  to  their  goal,  only  to 
force  their  way  through  fresh  arrays 
of  combatants.  But  the  tales  of 
bloodshed,  sickness,  and  suffering 
are  varied  with  lighter  and  livelier 
episodes,  which  show  that  the  most 
anxious  life  has  its  contrasts.  As 
when  they  find  hospitality  and  tem- 
porary repose  with  some  gentler 
savage  who  welcomes  the  strangers, 
and  only  fleeces  them  moderately. 
When  Baker  finds  himself  on  the 
banks  of  the  Blue  Nile,  camping 
in  a  delicious  climate,  in  the  happy 
hunting-grounds  that  might  have 
gladdened  the  soul  of  a  Harris  or 
Gordon  Gumming.  When  sitting 
in'  his  tent-door,  like  the  patri- 
archs, of  a  summer  evening,  he  sees 
the  herds  of  stately  elephants  and 
camelopards  cropping  the  droop- 
ing foliage  in  the  forest  glades. 
Where  the  rhinoceros  stands 
scratching  his  horny  hide  against 
the  stem  of  some  venerable  thorn ; 
and  the  herds  of  antelopes  are 
sporting  under  the  mimosa  groves 
or  coming  down  in  herds  to  drink 
at  the  water. 

Since  Vambe'ry  wrote  the  won- 
derful account  of  his  travels  in  dis- 
guise, there  have  been  many  excel- 
lent books  on  Central  Asia ;  though, 
as  we  have  already  remarked,  it  is 
being  opened  up  to  Europeans  by 
the  steady  advance  of  Russian  an- 
nexation. But  there  are  still  high- 
land states  to  the  north  of  our 
Indian  mountain  boundary  which 
offer  all  the  temptation  of  being 
practically  inaccessible  ;  while  even 
those  of  them  that  indirectly  ac- 
knowledge our  influence  have  in- 
ducements enough  in  dangers  as 
in  sport  to  invite  the  enterprise  of 
travelling  knight-errants.  Though 
we  have  already  noticed  at  some 
length  in  our  pages  Mr  Andrew 
Wilson's  'Abode  of  Snow,'  it  is 


well  worth  recalling,  for  we  have 
rarely  read  anything  more  exciting. 
It  was  a  novelty  in  mountaineering 
for  a  sick  man  to  be  carried  in  lit- 
ters and  local  cliaises-a-porteurs  over 
the  passes  that  are  the  drain-pipes 
of  the  "  Eoof  of  the  World."  To 
cross  those  fragile  swinging  bridges 
shockingly  out  of  repair,  might 
test  the  nerve  of  a  Leotard ;  or  to 
ride  the  unwieldly  yak  along  the 
dizzy  ledges  that  slope  over  crum- 
bling slate  downwards  towards 
bottomless  abysses.  Shaw  and 
Forsyth  and  Gordon  have  depicted 
the  dangers  of  the  storm-beaten 
trade  routes  that  lead  through  snow- 
covered  summits  to  the  back-of-the- 
world  dominions  of  the  late  Atalik 
Ghazi,  whose  death  is  likely  to  be 
lamented  by  commerce.  And  to 
come  back  under  the  guns  of  our 
English  garrisons,  into  quieter  and 
more  settled  districts,  among  the 
many  works  that  are  always  appear- 
ing, we  may  call  attention  to  '  Sport 
and  Work  on  the  Nepaul  Frontier.' 
Although  unpretending,  it  is  singu- 
larly exhaustive  and  very  pleasantly 
diversified.  The  writer  tells  us  all 
about  the  indigo-planting  in  Behar, 
in  which  he  was  professionally  em- 
ployed for  many  years  \  and  while 
instructing  his  readers,  he  interests 
them  in  a  pursuit  which  demands 
extraordinary  and  unremitting  at- 
tention. At  the  same  time,  he 
sagely  takes  it  for  granted  that  they 
are  as  ignorant  as  most  people  of 
Indian  life ;  and  merely  communi- 
cating his  information  incidentally, 
he  contrives  to  throw  an  infinity  of 
light  on  it.  While  he  shows,  at  the 
same  time,  what  diversified  enjoy- 
ment may  be  found  by  a  healthy 
and  active  man  who  depends  on 
exercise,  and  delights  in  sport,  in  a 
life  that  would  otherwise  be  intense- 
ly depressing. 

But  it  would  be  difficult  indeed 
to  name  a  country  that  has  not  been 
lately  "  done  "  more  or  less  satisfac- 


502 


Contemporary  Literature : 


[April 


torily.  Not  excepting  even  the 
daring  exploits  of  the  first  hardy 
Arctic  explorers,  in  the  wooden  craft 
of  a  score  or  two  of  tons,  that  would 
have  cracked  like  walnut  shells  to 
the  squeeze  of  the  ice-floes,  we  have 
no  more  thrilling  narratives  of  hair- 
breadth escapes  than  those  by  Sir 
George  Nares  and  Captain  Mark- 
ham.  While  the  science  of  which 
our  early  navigators  knew  no  more 
than  sufficed  to  read  the  signs  of 
the  weather,  plays  an  important  part 
in  these,  as  in  the  various  "  logs  " 
of  the  Challenger,  which  Sir 
George  Nares  formerly  commanded. 
And  to  go  back  from  the  frozen 
latitudes  to  the  tropics,  we  have  had 
'  Burmah '  by  General  Fytche,  who 
was  long  our  Eesident  there.  We 
have  had  books  on  Siam  and  Cochin 
China,  by  consuls  and  shrewd 
merchants,  who  have  told  us  all 
about  the  once  jealous  courts  of  the 
White  Elephant,  and  who  have 
visited  those  wonderful  temples  in 
the  jungles  that  have  failed  to  com- 
memorate long- forgotten  dynasties. 
Naturalists,  like  Wallace  in  the 
Spice  Islands  and  Malay  Peninsula, 
or  like  Bates  on  the  Amazon,  have 
investigated  the  fauna  of  tropical 
forests,  undeterred  by  malaria  and 
those  insect  pests  which  indeed 
were  among  the  agreeable  pains 
of  their  wanderings.  It  must  be 
some  satisfaction  to  revenge  one's 
self  for  a  bite  by  transfixing  the 
fly  for  the  edification  of  entomolo- 
gists. We  have  had  more  than  one 
fascinating  volume  on  the  South  Seas, 
and  notably  on  the  Hawaian  Archi- 
pelago, which  seems  the  nearest 
approach  to  a  sensual  paradise,  in 
spite  of  its  volcanoes  and  its  colonies 
of  lepers.  There  has  been  nothing 
more  thrilling  than  the  narratives 
of  the  survivors  of  those  forlorn 
hopes  in  the  interior  of  Australia, 
who  groped  their  way  through  the 
desolation  of  the  waterless  waste, 
turning  back  again  and  again  to 


some  scanty  spring,  and  barely  sus- 
taining life  by  the  slaughter  of  the 
starving  camels.  All  the  states  of 
South  America,  with  their  earth- 
quakes and  revolutions,  have  been 
repeatedly  described  in  the  minutest 
detail ;  and  if  Peruvian  and  Venez- 
uelan bondholders,  shareholders  in 
Brazilian  railways  and  mines;  in- 
tending emigrants  to  the  cattle-rear- 
ing pampas ;  and  gentlemen  who, 
like  the  Frenchman  lately  deceased, 
dream  of  cutting  out  a  kingdom  in 
Patagonia,  do  not  have  the  requi- 
site information  at  their  finger-ends, 
it  is  no  fault  of  the  great  corporation 
of  travellers.  Independently  of  any 
intrinsic  interest,  there  are  few  of 
these  books  that  are  not  more  than 
readable ;  and  in  many  of  them  the 
mere  literary  style  would  do  credit 
to  any  man  who  had  made  a  busi- 
ness of  authorship.  And  one  new 
and  agreeable  feature  to  be  re- 
marked in  them  is  the  profusion 
and  excellence  of  the  illustrations. 
Cities  and  their  modern  architecture, 
ruins  and  scenery,  are  reproduced 
from  photographs  or  capital  sketches. 
While  almost  invariably  the  authors 
show  their  good  sense  by  putting 
themselves  in  the  hands  of  some  very 
capable  map-maker.  And  apropos  to 
careful  description  and  exact  map- 
making,  Conder's  *  Tent-Life  in  Pal- 
estine' deserves  a  special  notice.  The 
scientific  survey  of  the  Holy  Land 
was  an  undertaking  worthy  of  the 
English  nation,  and  Captain  Con- 
der's volumes  will  be  read  with  the 
warmest  interest  by  the  many  who 
sympathise  in  the  new  crusade.  He 
has  cleared  up  many  a  doubtful 
point }  conclusively  settled  many  a 
contested  site ;  confirmed,  or  logi- 
cally refuted,  many  an  ingenious 
suggestion  ;  while  he  has  given  us 
what  will  be  indispensable  as  a 
work  of  reference  to  the  critical 
student  of  biblical  history. 

We   could   run   through   a  long 
catalogue  of  entertaining  travels — 


1879. 


V.  Biography,  Travel,  and 


503 


not  forgetting  Mr  Aylward's  book  on 
the  Transvaal,  full  of  practical  hints 
and  valuable  information  for  the 
soldiers  who  are  campaigning  in  Zu- 
luland — which  might  equally  over- 
tax our  memory  and  space.  But  we 
cannot  dismiss  the  subject  without 
some  allusion  to  the  travellers  who 
are  rather  tourists.  Among  them  we 
suppose  we  must  include,  though 
they  may  take  it  as  an  insult,  the 
gentlemen  who  hurry  round  the 
globe  in  a  single  protracted  holi- 
day expedition.  Baron  Hiibner, 
the  Austrian  minister,  and  author 
of  the  'Life  of  Pope  Sixtus  V.,' 
the  French  Count  Roger  deBeauvoir, 
who  made  his  voyages  as  companion 
of  one  of  the  Orleans  princes,  are 
among  the  most  cultivated  and  in- 
telligent representatives  of  the  class. 
When  we  say  that  they  made  the 
tour  of  the  world,  we  mean  of  course 
that  they  did  it  by  leaps  and 
bounds,  yet  they  have  missed  few 
of  the  chief  objects  of  interest. 
The  rapidity  of  their  panoramic 
Survey  is  favourable  to  hitting  off 
its  salient  features.  They  contrast 
the  jealously  exclusive  civilisation 
of  China  with  revolutionary  socie- 
ties like  that  of  Japan  and  the  go- 
ahead  democracy  of  our  American 
cousins.  Steaming  along  the  grand 
waterways  of  commerce,  they  break 
the  journey  at  the  chief  commer- 
cial centres.  Generally,  with  their 
rank  or  recognised  position,  they 
carry  their  own  introductions  along 
with  them,  and  mix  as  men  of  an- 
other world  with  the  people  who 
are  best  fitted  to  enlighten  them. 
The  modern  tourist  of  any  preten- 
sions has  opportunities  that  were 
seldom  within  the  reach  of  his  pre- 
cursors. Either  he  is  socially  a 
personage,  or  he  has  an  engagement 
with  some  great  organ  of  the  press. 
In  any  case  it  is  known  that  he 
goes  about  taking  notes,  and  the 
probabilities  are  that  he  thinks  of 
publishing.  And  as  all  communi- 


ties wish  to  be  well  spoken  of  now- 
adays ;  as  every  State  must  con- 
template borrowing,  and  is  jealous 
of  consideration  in  proportion  to  its 
shortcomings, — they  are  desirous  of 
exhibiting  themselves  to  the  best 
advantage.  So  all  doors  fly  open 
before  the  traveller;  carriages  and 
special  trains  are  placed  at  his  dis- 
posal ;  high  officials  insist  on  acting 
as  cicerones ;  and  debates  in  repre- 
sentative chambers  are  got  up  for 
his  special  edification.  Possibly 
all  that  sweeping  and  garnishing 
may  throw  some  dust  in  the  sharp- 
est eyes ;  but  keen  observers  like 
Mr  Trollope  or  Mr  Brassey,  for  ex- 
ample, are  not  very  easily  blinded, 
and,  on  the  whole,  the  world  de- 
cidedly gains  by  the  new  system  of 
dispassionate  supervision  and  pub- 
licity. 

From  travels  we  may  naturally 
pass  to  sport,  since  so  many  of  our 
travellers  are  enthusiastic  sportsmen. 
And  sport  generally  includes  natural 
history,  for  most  of  the  gentlemen 
who  penetrate  into  the  wilds  with 
waggons  or  a  flying  camp-train, 
come  back  with  the  trophies  they 
know  how  to  classify.  Never  are 
they  happier  than  on  the  rare  oc- 
casions when  they  have  added  a 
new  variety  to  the  species  in  our 
museums  or  zoological  gardens. 
Sporting  books  are  become  more 
pleasant  reading,  thanks  to  the  re- 
cent improvements  in  arms  and  am- 
munition. A  certain  amount  of 
suffering  there  must  be ;  and  as 
pheasants  fly  away  with  pellets  in 
their  bodies,  so  the  greater  game 
must  often  go  off  with  the  deadly 
ball  festering  in  their  vitals  or 
dragging  a  shattered  limb  behind. 
But  we  never  hear  now  of  the  crack 
shot,  galloping  behind  the  shoulder 
of  the  camelopard,  loading  and 
firing  again  till  the  agony  of  the 
animal  is  ended ;  nor  of  elephants 
turning  to  bay  and  charging  again, 
till  they  drop  at  last  to  the  slow 


504 


Contemporary  Literature : 


[April 


bombardment.  A  rifle  nearly  as 
ponderous  as  a  small  field -piece 
sends  the  explosive  bullet  straight 
to  the  mark,  and  concussion  with 
the  shivered  bone  explodes  the  pro- 
jectile on  the  instant.  While  as 
mere  sportsmen  have  to  go  further 
afield,  they  are  bound  to  become 
more  and  more  of  geographers. 
Officers  and  civilians,  when  lucky 
enough  to  obtain  leave  from  depart- 
ments morbidly  apprehensive  of  in- 
ternational difficulties,  explore  the 
glaciers  and  snow-heaped  valleys  in 
the  wildest  recesses  of  the  Himal- 
aya and  the  Hindoo  Koosh.  The 
elephant  hunter,  who  used  to  find 
magnificent  shooting  on  the  Limpo- 
po, has  to  penetrate  to  the  Zambesi, 
and  even  beyond  it.  While  in  the 
great  West  of  America,  the  buffalo 
— or  bison — has  been  wellnigh  ex- 
terminated ;  and  you  must  seek  him 
to  the  south  on  the  New  Mexican 
frontier,  or  to  the  northward  in  his 
circumscribed  range  on  the  Yellow- 
stone, or  in  scattered  herds  in  the 
valley  of  the  Saskatchewan.  Owing 
to  that  indiscriminate  slaughter, 
and  to  the  rapid  extinction  of  the 
Eed  men,  who  used  to  feed  their 
squaws  and  papooses  by  the  chase, 
we  fear  we  have  seen  nearly  the 
last  of  that  library  of  prairie 
and  Rocky  Mountain  adventure 
to  which  Catlin  and  Washington 
Irving  and  Ruxton  contributed. 
Yet  within  the  last  few  years  we 
have  had  two  books  at  least  which 
are  by  no  means  unworthy  of  their 
more  famous  predecessors.  Colonel 
Dodge's  'Hunting-Grounds  of  the 
Great  West '  and  Major  Campion's 
1  On  the  Frontier '  may  probably 
be  among  the  latest  of  the  standard 
authorities  on  American  hunting  as 
it  used  to  be,  and  on  the  habits  of 
"  the  skulking  savage."  Major  Cam- 
pion, by-the-by,  published  a  second 
book  the  other  day,  which  for  de- 
cided originality  deserves  some  no- 
tice under  the  head  of  travels.  So  far 


as  we  know,  he  was  the  first  foreign- 
er who  undertook  a  regular  walking 
tour  in  Spain,  everybody  else  hav- 
ing acted  on  the  dogma  of  Ford, 
that  the  caballero  must  take  his 
horse  as  a  guarantee  of  respecta- 
bility, even  if  he  preferred  to  have 
the  animal  led  behind  him. 

As  hazards  have  diminished  with 
improvements  in  firearms,  shooting 
in  the  forest  and  jungle  is  less  risky 
than  formerly,  and  consequently 
sporting  narratives  are  less  excit- 
ing. Moreover,  narrow  "  shaves  " 
and  "  squeaks "  and  ventures  at 
close  quarters,  merging  on  the  fool- 
hardy, have  been  so  often  described, 
that  they  have  naturally  been  losing 
much  of  their  zest.  Time  after 
time,  in  the  fancy  if  not  in  the 
flesh,  we  have  dodged  the  charge 
of  the  infuriated  elephant,  or  caught 
the  twinkling  bloodshot  eye  of  the 
wounded  rhinoceros.  We  have 
learned  by  too  manifold  experience 
how  hard  it  is  to  double  through 
thorny  scrub  when  your  pursuer  is 
crashing  behind  you  by  sheer 
weight;  and  when  you  are  saved 
by  Providence  or  some  lucky  acci- 
dent as  you  are  almost  within  reach 
of  the  tusks  or  the  horn.  Time 
after  time  we  have  crouched  along 
the  tangled  jungle-path  in  quest  of 
the  lurking  tiger,  looking  for  the 
sinister  gleam  of  his  eyeballs  in  the 
noonday  shadows;  or  have  sat  watch- 
ing for  a  night-shot  at  the  terrible 
man-eater,  with  the  mangled  corpse 
of  his  victim  for  a  lure.  There  is 
novelty,  and  consequently  more  ex- 
citement, in  the  newfangled  break- 
neck mountaineering,  when  we  go 
scrambling  along  the  precipices  or 
scaling  the  heights,  whence  we  can 
drop  down  on  the  "  bighorn "  of 
the  Rocky  Mountains,  or  his  cousin 
the  wild  goat  of  Kashmir  and  Thi- 
bet. Nor  need  one  travel  to  the 
other  side  of  the  world  to  indulge 
in  that  kind  of  sport ;  and  in  the 
way  of  European  adventure,  Mr 


1879.] 


V.  Biography,  Travel,  and  Sport. 


505 


Baillie  Grohman's  book  on  the  '  Ty- 
rol and  the  Tyrolese  '  will  be  found 
almost  as  pleasant  reading  as  Boner's 
more  famous  '  Chamois-hunting  in 
Bavaria.'  The  story  of  the  stiff 
mountain  expeditions  where  he 
carried  a  rifle  in  place  of  an  alpen- 
stock, is  told  with  great  spirit  and 
vivacity;  and  he  does  justice  to  the 
foresters  or  freiscliiitze  who  shared 
his  bivouacs  in  the  alpine  huts  or 
the  cover  of  the  pine-woods,  with- 
out losing  sight  of  those  inconsis- 
tencies in  their  character  that  are 
more  picturesque  than  engaging. 
For  in  the  hills  that  look  down 
upon  railways  and  hotels  that  are 
patronised  by  the  troops  of  peaceful 
tourists,  men  still  stalk  and  shoot 
each  other  without  the  smallest 
hesitation ;  while  their  contests  of 
strength  and  pluck  at  convivial 
meetings  in  the  village  wirthhausen 
are  habitually  marked  by  brutal 
ferocity. 

Books  of  sport  and  natural  his- 
tory in  the  British  Islands  have 
never  been  so  numerous  as  we 
might  have  expected.  Perhaps 
because  the  few  that  are  most 
popular  are  so  excellent  that  they 
hold  their  own  against  competition, 
and  reduce  ordinary  writers  to 
despair.  Half  the  world  nowadays 
are  keen  shots,  and  a  fair  sprinkling 
of  sportsmen  may  be  said  to  be 
scientific  observers.  So  everything 
is  in  the  manner  of  telling  the 
thrice-told  story,  and  of  describing 
those  incidents  that  are  familiar  to 
everybody.  You  can  hardly  say 
where  the  happy  knack  lies.  Yet 
you  acknowledge  it  in  the  language 
which,  though  natural  and  un- 
studied, conveys  the  most  pleasing 
and  vivid  impressions.  Natural 
history  has  made  considerable  pro- 
gress since  "White  observed  the 
feathered  inhabitants  of  Selborne 
Hanger,  and  "Waterton  turned  his 
gardens  into  a  sanctuary ;  yet 
new  editions  of  their  works  are  per- 


petually appearing,  and  each  issue 
has  as  hearty  a  welcome  as  its  pre- 
decessors. It  would  seem  as  if 
men  like  these,  if  once  they  are 
induced  to  take  pen  in  hand,  must 
communicate  in  their  original  fresh- 
ness their  own  heartfelt  impressions. 
We  know  that  the  author  of  '  The 
Wild  Sports  of  the  Highlands,'  and 
the  *  Notes  of  a  Naturalist  in  Moray- 
shire,'  was  only  reluctantly  per- 
suaded to  publish  by  the  per- 
suasions of  his  friend  Mr  Cosmo 
Innes;  and  how  many  of  us  have 
good  reason  to  be  grateful  for  the 
success  of  his  trial  article  in  the 
'  Quarterly/  As,  not  very  long 
ago,  we  noticed  at  length  the  latest 
edition  of  '  The  Moor  and  the  Loch,' 
we  need  not  do  more  than  refer  to 
it  now  as  a  fascinating  encyclo- 
pedia of  that  wide  range  of  High- 
land and  Lowland  sports  which  have 
been  the  lifelong  delight  of  its 
veteran  author.  And  in  these  days 
when  the  rents  of  forests  and  moors 
have  been  running  to  figures  almost 
prohibitory  to  any  but  millionaires, 
it  is  something  to  "  get  a  wrinkle  " 
about  inexpensive  shooting.  The 
gentleman  who  writes  under  the 
noms  de  plume  of  "  Snapshot "  and 
"Wild  Fowler,"  has  collected  a 
variety  of  scattered  articles  into 
six  volumes  in  three  successive 
series,  which  supply  an  infinity  of 
useful  and  practical  information. 
They  are  pleasantly  written,  if  oc- 
casionally monotonous.  He  tells 
how,  by  simply  crossing  the  Chan- 
nel, the  sportsman,  at  a  very  mode- 
rate outlay,  may  find  himself  com- 
paratively in  clover.  It  appears 
that  in  Belgium,  notwithstanding 
the  predominance  of  the  class  of 
small  peasant-proprietors,  there  is 
good  varied  shooting  to  be  rented 
very  cheaply  by  a  man  who  knows 
how  to  set  about  it.  The  writer 
has  found  enjoyable  quarters  in  the 
beautiful  woodlands  of  Alsace  and 
Lorraine;  while  if  you  can  only 


506 


Contemporary  Literature. 


[April 


spare  time  for  a  short  excursion, 
there  are  communes  in  the  French 
departments  of  the  north  and  west 
which  will  repay  a  flying  visit. 
The  bags  of  duck  that  may  be  made 
by  ambush  -  shooting  in  Holland 
sound  almost  fabulous.  But  if  you 
can  make  yourself  happy  among 
wild-fowl  and  divers,  and  do  not 
object  to  some  exposure  and  "rough- 
ing it,"  there  is  a  great  deal  to  be 
done  in  the  free  shooting-grounds 
that  extend  along  our  English 
shores,  between  the  sea-line  and 
the  cultivated  country.  Near  our 
tidal  harbours,  and  the  termini  of 
the  great  coast  railways,  you  may 
shoot  away  a  heavy  bag  of  cartridges 
in  the  course  of  a  good  day's  walk. 
The  tidal  estuaries  of  the  little 
rivers,  and  the  swamps  overflowed 
by  the  spring-tides,  are  all  fre- 
quented in  the  season  by  great 
flights  of  birds.  Stepping  softly 
over  shingle  and  sea-weed;  care- 
fully approaching  the  winding 
creeks  and  their  tributaries;  slip- 
ping alone  under  cover  of  the 
embankments  and  sea-walls, — you 
may  shoot  successively  at  herons 
and  curlews,  plover,  duck,  snipe, 
sandpiper,  and  swarms  of  oxbirds, 
greenshanks,  and  redshanks. 

But  by  far  the  most  accomplished 
rural  enthusiast  who  has  written 
of  late  years,  is  the  anonymous 
author  of  'The  Gamekeeper  at 
Home,'  and  'Wild  Life  in  a 
Southern  County,'  which  appeared 
originally  in  the  '  Pall  Mall  Gazette.' 
He  is  one  of  the  men  you  cannot 
help  liking,  just  as  he  loves  the 
wild  creatures  of  all  kinds,  among 
whom  he  has  evidently  lived  from 
his  childhood.  Like  our  old  friend 
the  incumbent  of  Selborne,  nothing 
has  escaped  his  notice.  He  has  the 


eye  of  an  artist  for  the  beauties  of 
nature,  for  the  shifting  sky-eflects 
of  our  variable  climate,  and  the 
venerable  churches,  manor-houses, 
and  farms.  He  has  been  a  familiar 
and  welcome  guest  in  the  home- 
steads and  cottages,  where  his  quick 
observation  catches  each  detail, 
from  the  bulging  lines  of  the  gables 
and  the  walls  without,  to  the  old 
gun  hanging  over  the  mantel-shelf 
within  doors,  or  the  flitches  suspend- 
ed in  the  smoke  of  the  capacious 
chimney-place.  He  has  the  art  of 
drawing  out  the  inmates,  and  get- 
ting at  their  innermost  thoughts,  with 
their  quaint  fancies  and  prejudices, 
and  their  lingering  remains  of  super- 
stition. He  does  the  geography 
and  hydrography  of  the  parishes 
and  chalk -downs,  with  a  careful 
exactness  of  touch  that  would  do 
credit  to  the  Ordnance  Survey. 
And  as  for  the  birds  that  people 
the  overgrown  masses  of  ivy,  the 
clustering  creepers  on  the  crumbling 
brick -walls,  the  fruit-trees  in  the 
old-fashioned  orchards,  the  copses, 
the  hedgerows,  and  the  rushes  and 
sedges  that  fringe  the  brooks  and 
half -choke  the  pools, — he  knows 
every  one  of  them  by  sight  and 
note,  and  can  not  only  describe 
their  intimate  habits,  but  seems  to 
penetrate  into  their  individual  idio- 
syncrasies. He  should  be  presi- 
dent of  a  staff  college  for  game- 
keepers and  foresters;  and  the 
severest  stricture  we  can  pass  on  his 
books  is,  that  they  might  be  adopted 
as  manuals  by  intelligent  young 
poachers,  were  poachers  as  a  rule 
addicted  to  literature.  In  fact,  we 
are  rather  sorry  to  say  that  the  new 
series  of  articles  he  has  commenced 
are  actually  entitled  '  The  Amateur 
Poacher.' 


1879.] 


The  Country  in  1849  and  1879. 


507 


THE    COUNTRY   IN    1849    AND    1879. 


THE  country  has  fallen  upon  hard 
times  :  and  the  hardship  is  felt 
all  the  more  owing  to  the  remark- 
ably prosperous  epoch  through 
which  we  have  recently  passed. 
There  is  much  ground  for  believing 
that  during  the  last  few  years  we 
have  passed  from  one  cycle  of 
events  into  another  and  less  for- 
tunate one  ;  that  the  change  has 
operated  upon  all  countries  with 
nearly  equal  severity,  and  that,  in 
the  main,  it  is  due  to  influences  be- 
yond the  control  of  human  will  or 
the  action  of  Governments.  The 
present  collapse  of  our  national 
trade  has  been  attended  by  circum- 
stances which  conclusively  prove 
that  the  previous  prosperity  was 
not  due  to  those  changes  in  our 
commercial  legislation  to  which  it 
has  been  the  fashion  of  Liberal 
politicians  and  doctrinaires  vaunt- 
in  gly  to  attribute  it.  The  world  at 
large  shared  equally  in  the  gold- 
en prosperity,  and  our  commercial 
legislation  has  not  prevented  this 
country  from  experiencing  the  pre- 
sent reverse  of  fortune  as  much,  if 
not  more,  than  any  other  part  of 
the  world. 

The  contrast  between  the  present 
hard  times  and  .  the  immediately 
previous  period  is  very  striking. 
We  need  not  cumber  our  pages 
with  official  statistics  to  show  -the 
vast  progress  in  material  prosperity 
which  our  country  made  during  the 
quarter  of  a  century  subsequent  to 
1849.  We  need  not  quote  the 
statistics  of  our  exports  and  imports, 
— the  increased  production  of  coal 
and  iron,  the  twin  pillars  of  our 
national  strength, — the  growth  of 
railways  and  shipping,  or  the  mar- 
vellous increase  of  national  wealth 
shown  by  the  income  -  tax  re- 

VOL.  CXXV. — NO.  DCCLXII. 


turns.  The  tide  of  prosperity 
which  set  in  as  soon  as  the  first 
half  of  the  century  was  past,  made 
itself  felt  in  household  life  as  much 
as  in  the  national  finances.  Many 
a  parent,  in  that  recent  time,  must 
have  told  his  sons  that  they  might 
well  be  thankful  for  the  altered 
circumstances  of  life,  and  that  they 
had  not  to  live  and  work  under  the 
stern  conditions  which  were  familiar 
to  their  fathers.  From  nine  in  the 
morning  to  eight  at  night  was  the 
ordinary  business  hours  of  the  mid- 
dle classes,  as  employers  or  heads  of 
offices, — which,  after  deducting  the 
dining  hours,  was  as  long  as  the 
common  day-labourer  nowaday  ex- 
pects. Although  it  was  then  usual 
to  make  some  curtailment  of  work- 
ing-hours at  the  end  of  the  week, 
the  Saturday  "  half-holiday "  was 
unknown,  and  came  as  a  conse- 
quence of  the  subsequent  prosperity. 
Incomes  and  the  scale  of  living,  too, 
such  as  prevailed  in  the  period 
antecedent  to  1850,  became  anti- 
quated and  regarded  with  contempt 
in  the  golden  period  which  so  sud- 
denly followed.  The  new  time 
brought  with  it  colossal  business 
and  large  fortunes,  because  steam- 
navigation  and  railways  had  opened 
up  the  world  and  vastly  enlarged 
every  man's  sphere  of  enterprise. 
And  most  of  all,  it  was  an  epoch 
of  speculation,  because  the  oppor- 
tunities of  money-making  were  so 
vast.  The  surplus  wealth  realised, 
and  seeking  profitable  investment, 
was  so  large,  that  bold  and  clever 
speculators,  especially  of  the  "fin- 
ancing" class,  had  almost  untold, 
and  certainly  unprecedentedly  large, 
sums  of  money  temporarily  at  their 
command ;  and  they  made  the  most 
— too  often,  as  regards  the  investors, 
2  K 


508 


The  Country  in  1849  and  1879. 


[April 


the  worst — of  their  gigantic  oppor- 
tunities. But,  striking  as  were  the 
colossal  fortunes  thus  built  up  in  a 
day — most  of  which  have  perished 
as  rapidly  as  Jonah's  gourd  under 
the  altered  circumstances  of  the 
time,  and  still  more  under  the  pres- 
sure of  the  courts  of  law,  compelling 
a  disgorging  of  ill-gotten  gains — 
these,  after  all,  were  but  the  froth 
and  spray  of  the  solid  accumulation 
of  wealth  which  pervaded  the  com- 
munity. The  honest  masses  bene- 
fited as  well  as  the  clever  rogues, 
and  the  scale  of  living  among  all 
classes,  and  the  sphere  of  material 
comfort  and  enjoyment,  became 
larger  than  probably  ever  before 
happened  in  the  history  of  mankind. 

That  "good  time" — to  use  the 
simple  American  phrase — is  wholly 
past ;  at  all  events  for  the  present. 
Indeed  it  has  become  a  reasonable 
question  whether  the  community 
may  not  have  to  return  to  the 
hard-working  habits  which  were 
common  and  indispensable  in  the 
youth  of  the  generation  which  is 
now  passing  into  the  grave.  Not, 
we  trust,  that  the  circumstances  of 
life  will  retrograde,  but  that  all 
classes  will  have  to  work  much 
harder  than  they  have  been  doing 
if  the  established  scale  of  comforts 
is  to  be  maintained. 

But  before  considering  this  ques- 
tion, and  the  character  and  import 
of  the  present  depression  of  trade 
regarded  from  a  commercial  and 
national  point  of  view,  we  must 
glance  at  the  matter  as  it  is  pro- 
fessedly viewed  and  turned  to  ac- 
count by  a  section  of  our  political 
classes — as  an  engine  in  the  cease- 
less war  of  parties.  If  the  Liberals 
as  a  party  are  to  be  believed,  the 
origin  of  the  present  decline  of  the 
national  prosperity  is  exceedingly 
simple,  and  so  easily  susceptible  of 
remedy  that  the  only  matter  of 
surprise  is  that  the  nation  should 


have  so  steadily  refused  to  listen 
to  the  panacea  so  highly  recom- 
mended and  so  urgently  pressed 
upon  them  by  their  Liberal  advisers. 
The  evil,  say  the  Liberals,  is  entirely 
owing  to  the  present  Government 
being  in  office.  "  Turn  out  the 
Government  "  —  which  means  put 
the  Liberals  in  office — "  and  all  will 
be  well,  and  Trade  will  be  as  flourish- 
ing as  ever."  Against  an  unques- 
tioning acceptance  of  this  view  of 
the  matter,  there  is  the  very  obvious 
consideration  that  the  advice  is  not 
disinterested,  and  that  the  Liberals, 
to  say  the  least,  have  never  shown 
themselves  more  indifferent  to  the 
sweets  of  office  than  their  rivals. 
Moreover,  although  the  public  has 
rather  a  short  memory,  there  is  a 
tolerably  numerous  section  of  the 
community  who  can  remember  hav- 
ing- lived  under  far  worse  times 
than  the  present,  under  not  merely 
one  Liberal  Ministry  but  a  succes- 
sion of  them ;  and  when,  so  far 
from  that  fact  bringing  any  allevia- 
tion, the  taxes  and  Ministerial  Bud- 
gets were  perpetually  going  wrong, 
and  it  became  a  by-word  that  "  the 
Whigs  were  bad  financiers." 

Mr  Gladstone,  of  course,  has 
taken  the  lead  in  raising  this  absurd 
complaint  against  the  Government. 
It  is  true  the  force  of  the  com- 
plaint is  considerably  weakened  by 
the  fact  that  he  mixes  it  up  with 
a  score  of  others  which  his  fervid 
ingenuity  has  invented.  He  is  quite 
ready,  without  being  invoked  like 
the  prophet  of  old,  to  curse  his 
Tory  enemies  from  Dan  to  Beer- 
sheba.  But  as  a  vast  majority  of 
the  nation  refuse  to  accept  his 
strange  doctrine  that  Lord  Beacons- 
field's  Government  is  ruining  the 
empire  and  degrading  Old  England 
in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  they  may 
likewise  be  sceptical  of  Mr  Glad- 
stone's notion  that  the  cause  of  the 
commercial  depression  is  the  exist- 


1879.] 


The  Country  in  1849  and  1879. 


509 


ence  of  a  Conservative  Government. 
So  powerful  is  the  spirit  of  party 
that  even  Lord  Hartington  stoops 
to  folly  like  this,  and  in  his  speech 
at  Liverpool  he  actually  took  credit 
for  his  moderation  in  not  laying  the 
whole  causes  of  the  depression  of 
trade  upon  the  shoulders  of  the  Gov- 
ernment :  "  I  am  not  going  to  say 
that  this  is  all  owing  to  the  action 
of  the  Government,  or  that  it  is 
wholly  the  fault  of  the  Government 
that  distress  and  depression  of  trade 
really  exist ;  but  you  must  not  sup- 
pose that  the  Government  have 
nothing  to  do  with  this  state  of 
things."  When  charges  of  this  kind 
are  advanced  by  the  official  leaders, 
it  is  only  natural  that  the  smaller 
grade  of  Liberal  politicians  re-echo 
the  cry, — reminding  us  of  the  similar 
absurdity  satirised  in  the  opening 
piece  of  the  '  Rejected  Addresses  : ' 

"Who  makes  the  price  of   bread  and 

Luddites  rise  ? 
Who  fills  the  butchers'  shops  with  large 

blue  flies  ? " 

the  answer  now  as  then,  being 
"  the  Tories." 

All  this  is  really  a  very  old  story 
— a  stale  trick  of  politicians  out  of 
office.  As  David  Hume  shrewdly 
observed  more  than  a  century  ago, 
"The  apprehension  about  a  bad 
state  of  trade  discovers  itself  when- 
ever one  is  out  of  humour  with  the 
Ministry,  or  is  in  low  spirits."  But 
a  peculiar  aspect  of  the  case  at 
present  is  the  double  voice  which 
proceeds  from  the  camp  of  the 
political  complainers.  The  Liberals 
have  one  voice  for  the  platform, 
and  another  for  the  lecture  -  hall. 
Mr  Mundella,  who  inveighs  to  his 
Sheffield  constituents  against  the 
badness  of  trade  as  a  consequence 
of  the  Ministerial  policy,  eulogises 
our  present  commercial  and  manu- 
facturing position  before  the  Statis- 
tical Society,  and  repels  all  adverse 
statements  as  mere  fictions  of  Pro- 


tectionists. Indeed  he  maintains 
that  all  that  is  wanted  to  uphold 
our  industrial  supremacy  is  for 
other  countries  to  maintain  their 
Protectionist  tariffs  against  us. 
Judging  by  present  appearances,  Mr 
Mundella  may  be  fully  content ;  for 
his  only  ground  of  apprehension — 
viz.,  that  other  countries  should 
follow  our  example  in  adopting 
Free  Trade  —  shows  no  signs  of 
being  realised.  Mr  Shaw  Lefevre, 
again,  takes  up  the  same  line  in 
still  more  roseate  spirit.  In  his 
inaugural  address  to  the  Statistical 
Society,  he  gave  a  positively  charm- 
ing picture  of  the  present  depres- 
sion of  trade.  There  is  abundance 
and  plenty  in  the  land,  he  says  ;  so 
that  although  wages  are  nominally 
low,  they  are  really  high,  or  at  least 
quite  satisfactory.  The  falling-off 
in  our  exports  and  imports  "  merely 
shows/'  he  says,  "  that  there  is  a 
great  falling-off  in  the  investment 
of  our  capital  and  savings  abroad ; " 
and  he  adds,  very  justly  in  our 
opinion,  that  it  would  be  much 
better  if  our  spare  capital  were 
henceforth  invested  at  home  —  as 
"  in  land-improvement " — than  in 
foreign  countries.  The  effects  of 
our  bad  harvests,  he  further  says, 
"are  already  past"  —  an  opinion 
which  we  regret  to  say  we  cannot 
hold,  because  the  losses  which  our 
farmers  have  sustained  during  the 
three  bad  years,  which  Mr  Caird 
estimates  at  about  £200,000,000 
in  crops  alone,  cannot  be  wiped 
out  in  a  few  months.  Again,  he 
dwells  upon  "  the  advantages  of 
periods  of  depression,  to  which 
the  present  is  not  any  exception, 
—  even  to  the  trades  immediate- 
ly concerned  " — that  is,  suffering. 
Such  periods,  he  says,  promote  in- 
vention and  economy :  they  also 
"compel  the  break-up  of  a  great 
deal  of  obsolete  machinery,"  and  at 
the  same  time  clear  out  all  the 


510 


The  Country  in  1849  and  1879. 


[April 


rotten  or  too  speculative  firms. 
"  It  is  notorious,"  he  says,  "  that 
the  firms  which  succumb  at  such 
times  are,  with  very  rare  excep- 
tions, deserving  of  their  fate;  and 
there  is  no  reason  to  believe  that 
the  process  of  clearance  of  unsound 
traders  has  as  yet  been  carried  too 
far."  This  is  a  very  cheerful  view 
of  the  matter,  and  it  has  often 
been  heard  before  during  commer- 
cial crises,  either  from  non-commer- 
cial men  or  large  capitalists,  who 
like  to  see  their  rivals  swept  away  : 
but  the  opinion  is  both  harsh  and 
unjust.  No  doubt  the  rotten  firms 
fall  first,  but  many  an  honest  trader 
falls  likewise,  simply  because  his 
capital,  fully  sufficient  for  ordinary 
trading,  cannot  bear  the  loss  of  suc- 
cessive years  of  no  profits. 

The  thirty  years  which  separate 
us  from  1849  have  included,  and 
have  in  great  part  been  occupied 
by,  the  most  remarkable  epoch  of 
material  prosperity  which  the  world 
has  hitherto  witnessed.  Every 
civilised  country  —  self  -  isolated 
China  alone  excepted — has  shared 
in  this  prosperity.  The  grand  fea- 
ture, and  cause,  of  that  widespread 
prosperity  has  been  the  marvellous 
expansion  of  industrial  and  com- 
mercial energy,  which  has  shown 
itself  most  strikingly  in  the  growth 
of  International  trade.  And  the 
three  prime  factors  in  this  indus- 
trial movement  have  been  gold, 
railways,  and  steam  -  navigation. 
These  combined  agencies  have  vast- 
ly widened  every  man's,  and  every 
nation's,  sphere  of  action, — bring- 
ing distant  countries  into  close 
contact,  and  thereby  opening  new 
markets  for  goods,  and  consequent- 
ly giving  both  labour  and  capital  a 
new  motive  for  energetic  employ- 
ment. But  for  the  new  gold-mines, 
this  vast  expansion  of  international 
trade  would  have  been  impossible. 
The  new  supply  of  specie  was  in- 


dispensable to  meet  the  enormous 
investments  of  capital,  and  the  vast 
trade-balances  between  country  and 
country,  and  most  of  all  with  India; 
and  but  for  them,  an  exorbitant 
Bank  -  rate  would  speedily  have, 
checked  the  growth  of  foreign  trade, 
from  which  the  whole  world  has  so 
greatly  benefited.  The  vast  bene- 
fits to  mankind  from  the  California 
and  Australia  mines,  it  is  needless 
for  us  to  do  more  than  allude  to  ; 
for  they  were  clearly  perceived  and 
described  in  anticipation  in  the 
pages  of  the  Magazine  at  the  very 
outset,  by  the  late  Sir  Archibald 
Alison,  at  a  time  when  all  the  lead- 
ing authorities  in  political  economy 
(strangely,  as  it  must  now  appear) 
foreboded  nothing  but  evil  from  the 
discovery  of  those  new  stores  of  the 
precious  metal.  The  beneficial  in- 
fluence of  the  new  mines  upon  the 
commerce  of  the  world  is  now  fully 
recognised, — so  much  that  the  mere 
decline  in  their  productiveness  has 
recently  begun  to  excite  serious  ap- 
prehensions, and  (over-hastily)  to 
be  invoked  as  one  of  the  causes  of 
the  present  depression  of  trade. 

A  glance  at  the  facts  of  the  case 
will  suffice  to  show  that  the  recent 
remarkable  outburst  of  trade  and 
prosperity  has  been  owing,  not  to 
causes  (whether  legislative  or  other- 
wise) peculiar  to  our  own  country 
or  to  any  other.  Great  as  has  been 
the  expansion  of  British  trade,  the 
increase  in  the  other  leading  coun- 
tries of  the  world  has  been  still 
greater.  Between  1850  and  1873, 
British  trade  (taking  imports  and 
exports  together)  rose  from  186  to 
570  millions  sterling — that  is,  has 
trebled ;  but  that  of  France  rose 
from  74  to  291  millions,  or  became 
fourfold  ;  and  that  of  the  United 
States  from  60  to  235  millions,  or 
likewise  quadrupled, — as  the  trade 
of  India  has  also  done.  Thus, 
rapid  as  the  increase  of  British 


1879.] 


The  Country  in  1849  and  1879. 


511 


trade  has  been,  it  has  been  greatly 
surpassed  by  each  of  these  other 
chief  countries  of  the  world.  This, 
too,  has  happened  despite  the 
superior  good  fortune  enjoyed  by 
this  country.  It  is  to  be  remem- 
bered that,  during  the  period  in 
question,  France  was  prostrated  by 
the  German  invasion  and  the  enor- 
mous war  -  indemnity  exacted  by 
the  victors;  while  the  United  States 
suffered  from  the  dire  Civil  War, 
which  caused  its  trade  greatly  to 
retrograde  during  its  continuance. 
Indeed  it  was  not  until  1869  that 
the  trade  of  the  United  States 
began  to  expand  above  the  limits 
which  it  had  reached  in  1860. 

This  general  expansion  of  inter- 
national commerce  has  been  steadily 
in  progress  throughout  the  whole 
period  of  remarkable  prosperity — 
viz.,  since  1850.  Nevertheless,  in 
the  face  of  those  facts,  Liberal  poli- 
ticians have  persistently  referred  to 
the  growth  of  British  trade  as  a 
peculiar  consequence  of  our  adop- 
tion of  Free  Trade  !  There  could  not 
be  a  more  preposterous  pretension, 
— seeing  that  the  most  strictly  Pro- 
tectionist countries  have  progressed 
much  more  rapidly  than  our  coun- 
try has  done.  As  even  Mr  Fawcett 
admits,  it  is  such  procedure — such 
a  gross  exaggeration  of  the  ad- 
vantages of  Free  Trade — that  has 
produced  the  present  discontent 
with  our  commercial  legislation. 
Believing  in  the  appeal  to  results, 
so  confidently  made  by  the  Liberal 
chiefs  and  doctrinaires,  even  a  por- 
tion of  their  own  followers,  the 
manufacturers  and  traders,  now 
quote  the  superior  commercial  pro- 
gress of  Protectionist  countries,  like 
France  and  the  United  States,  as  a 
proof  that  Free  Trade  is  a  mistake. 
Every  thoughtful  man  knows  that 
the  question  between  Free  Trade  and 
Protection  is  not  to  be  determined 
by  such  facts,  important  though 


they  be.  Indeed  there  is  a  fun- 
damental mistake  underlying  the 
whole  case.  Just  as,  according  to 
the  old  saying,  a  shoemaker  thinks 
"there  is  nothing  like  leather," 
so  politicians  are  prone  to  imagine 
that  "  there  is  nothing  like  legisla- 
tion." The  progress  of  every  coun- 
try depends  upon  far  more  powerful 
agencies  than  those  of  fiscal  laws. 
The  experience  of  the  last  thirty 
years — more  strikingly,  perhaps,  but 
in  perfect  accord  with  still  older  ex- 
perience— shows  that  nations,  and 
even  the  whole  world,  may  pass 
from  severe  adversity  to  glowing 
prosperity  and  back  again  into  very 
hard  times,  wholly  irrespective  of 
the  widely  various  or  directly  con- 
trary legislation  of  the  several  coun- 
tries so  affected. 

Seldom  has  so  untoward  a  change 
as  the  present  long-continued  de- 
pression of  trade  come  upon  us,  and 
more  or  less  upon  the  world  at  large, 
so  unexpectedly,  and  from  influ- 
ences which  at  the  outset  appeared 
vague  if  not  inscrutable.  Prolonged 
experience,  however,  has  cleared 
away  all  uncertainty  on  the  sub- 
ject. It  is  now  manifest  that  the 
change  has  been  owing  to  the  indus- 
trial enterprise  and  the  production 
of  manufactured  goods  having  tem- 
porarily outstripped  the  require- 
ments of  the  world,  and  to  the 
occurrence  in  our  own  country  of 
two  untoward  events  entirely  ex- 
traneous to  trade.  As  regards 
"  over  -  production,"  it  is  unfortu- 
nately true  that  there  are  millions 
of  people  both  in  this  and  in  other 
countries  whose  wants  for  clothing 
and  other  manufactured  articles  are 
most  inadequately  supplied ;  but 
these  wants  cannot  make  them- 
selves felt  by  what  is  technically 
called  an  "  effective  demand," — 
those  millions  of  people  cannot 
offer  a  remunerative  price  for  the 
goods  which  they  so  much  want, — 


512 


The  Country  in  1849  and  1879. 


[April 


in  short,  they  cannot  buy.  In  like 
manner,  every  country,  even  our 
own,  would  still  be  the  better  for 
more  railways;  but  the  want  for 
such  works,  or  the  wealth  of  the 
country  which  needs  them,  is  not 
great  enough  to  pay  a  remunera- 
tive price  for  their  construction.  It 
is  in  this  sense  of  the  word  that 
there  has  been  over-production. 
The  maximum  limits  of  Consump- 
tion— using  the  word  in  its  widest 
meaning  —  were  reached  or  some- 
what exceeded  in  1873.  But  such 
an  event,  of  itself,  did  not  neces- 
sarily entail  a  great  reaction  and 
long -continued  depression.  Had 
the  facts  of  the  case  been  observed 
at  the  outset,  all  that  was  needed 
was,  hardly  to  curtail,  but  simply 
not  to  further  extend  the  enginery 
of  production,  and  the  ever-grow- 
ing requirements  of  mankind  would 
have  sufficed  to  maintain  prices  at 
an  ordinary  level.  But  the  large 
profits  made  in  1872-73,  at  the 
very  time  when  the  limits  of  con- 
sumption had  been  reached,  im- 
pelled our  manufacturing  classes, 
the  coal  and  iron  trades  included,  to 
extend  their  operations,  investing 
a  vast  amount  of  capital  in  new 
works  and  factories.  This  capital 
has  yielded,  and  still  yields,  no 
profits  or  interest :  for  the  present, 
the  effect  is  the  same  as  if  it 
were  lost.  Two  other  great  losses 
of  wealth  have  contemporaneously 
befallen  the  country,  and  unfortu- 
nately of  a  far  more  severe  kind, 
because  absolute  and  irrecoverable. 
The  first  of  these  was  the  collapse 
of  the  Foreign  Loans  in  1874-75, 
whereby  a  large  portion  (not  exactly 
determinable)  of  the  reserve-wealth 
of  the  community  was  swept  away. 
And  secondly,  and  most  severe  of 
all,  there  was  the  great  loss  occasion- 
ed by  the  succession  of  bad  harvests 
in  1875-76-77.  The  Foreign  Loan 
mania  was  almost  an  exact  repe- 


tition of  an  old  disaster.  Our 
people  had  made  large  profits  in 
the  immediately  preceding  years ; 
foreign  Governments,  or  speculators 
in  their  name  —  Turkey,  Egypt, 
Peru,  even  desolated  Paraguay — 
took  advantage  of  the  general  hope- 
fulness and  plethora  of  wealth  to 
ask  for  Loans,  offering  very  high 
interest ;  and  the  British  public 
rushed  into  the  snare,  just  as  they 
had  done  exactly  fifty  years  before  ! 
Now,  as  in  1825-26,  these  Foreign 
Loans  failed, — making  a  serious  in- 
road upon  the  reserve-wealth  of  our 
people. 

Any  one — even  the  most  bigoted 
and  credulous  of  political  partisans, 
who  is  ready  to  attribute  every 
change  for  good  or  evil  in  the 
fortunes  of  the  nation  to  the  mere 
existence  of  a  Whig  or  Tory  Minis- 
try— any  one  who  reads  the  history 
of  this  country,  or  of  any  other  of 
which  we  have  a  record  of  some- 
thing more  than  mere  wars  and 
dynastic  changes,  cannot  fail  to 
observe  the  synchronism  of  good 
or  bad  harvests  with  good  or  evil 
times  in  the  entire  condition  of  the 
nation,  in  its  sentiments  and  poli- 
tics as  well  as  in  its  social  and 
material  wellbeing.  Turn  over  the 
pages  of  British  history  since  the 
beginning  of  the  present  century,  and 
it  will  be  seen  that  general  suffering 
and  political  discontent  and  agita- 
tion always  have  attended  a  succes- 
sion of  bad  harvests,  while  political 
content  and  general  prosperity  have 
gone  hand-in-hand  with  a  series  of 
abundant  crops.  Compared  with 
these  events  of  Providence,  the 
greatest  triumphs  of  legislation  are 
dwarfed.  "The  stars  in  their 
courses  " — the  cycle  of  the  seasons, 
of  which  we  now  begin  to  have 
clear  but  still  only  partial  glimpses 
— dominate  the  wellbeing  of  the 
nations  far  beyond  forms  of  gov- 
ernment, imperial  edicts  or  Acts  of 


1879.] 


The  Country  in  1849  and  1879. 


513 


Parliament.*  Reform  Bills  and  fis- 
cal improvements  are  good  in  their 
way, — they  are  the  most  we  can  do; 
but  as  regards  the  comforts  and 
wellbeiug  of  the  community,  and 
of  each  home  and  family  in  the 
land,  the  best  measures  of  legis- 
lation cannot  compare  with  good 
harvests,  the  gift  of  the  seasons. 
In  like  manner,  the  discovery  of 
the  gold-mines,  the  accidental  un- 
veiling of  the  hidden  treasures  of 
the  earth,  did  more  to  produce  the 
remarkable  prosperity  which  the 
present  generation  has  enjoyed  than 
the  wisest  contemporaneous  gov- 
ernment or  legislation  of  mankind, 
— as  is  manifest  from  the  fact  that, 
however  various  the  forms  of  gov- 
ernment or  the  kinds  of  legislation, 
all  countries  have  benefited  nearly 
alike,  and  especially  those  which, 
like  India,  France,  and  the  United 
States,  have  lived  under  political 
conditions  and  commercial  legisla- 
tion entirely  different  from  our  own. 
The  goodness  or  badness  of  the 
seasons  similarly  affects  the  condi- 
tion of  nations  in  a  manner  which 
it  is  impossible  for  the  wisest 
human  action  either  to  create  or 
to  efface. 

In  this  respect,  the  experience  of 
the  last  few  years  has  taught  us 
anew  a  lesson  which  had  wellnigh 
become  forgotten.  Since  the  dearth 
which  attended,  and  far  more  than 
arguments  contributed  to  produce, 
the  abolition  of  the  Corn  Laws,  this 
country  until  recently  has  been 
happily  free  from  any  series  of  bad 
seasons ;  and  it  became  a  matter  of 


general  belief  that  the  evil  arising 
from  this  source  had  been  obviated 
by  the  free  importation  of  the  chief 
article  of  food.  Our  people  have 
had  the  great  blessing  of  cheap 
bread,  even  when  the  harvest  was 
bad.  And  again  and  again  have 
we  seen  it  vauntingly  remarked  in 
the  newspapers,  and  sometimes  by 
leading  politicians,  that  bad  har- 
vests did  not  matter  now  that  the 
harvests  of  all  the  rest  of  the  world 
were  ready  to  be  poured  into  our 
ports  and  markets.  At  the  present 
time  this  abundance  of  supply  is 
more  striking  than  ever;  because 
the  recent  extension  of  railways 
and  swift-sailing  iron  steam-ships 
now  bring  to  us  the  harvests  of 
regions  previously  entirely  inac- 
cessible,— opening  up  the  inland 
wheat  -  growing  steppes  of  Eussia, 
and  bringing  cheaply  to  Liver- 
pool the  fine  wheat  which  not  six 
weeks  before  had  been  standing 
like  golden  wealth  in  the  broad 
valleys  of  California.  Wheat  for 
some  months  past  has  been  selling 
in  England  at  only  twenty  shillings 
the  sack  :  and  thus,  so  far  as  shown 
by  the  price  of  food,  our  country 
was  never  in  a  more  fortunate  con- 
dition. But  the  loss  produced  by 
bad  agricultural  seasons  is  as  heavy 
now  as  it  was  before  the  Corn  Laws 
were  abolished.  The  burden  of 
loss  is  shifted, — that  is  all.  It  now 
falls  wholly  upon  the  agricultural 
class,  instead  of  being  shared  by, 
and  falling  chiefly  upon,  the  rest  of 
the  community.  The  country  still 
suffers,  to  an  equal  extent  as  before, 


*  Apart  from  less  permanent  effects,  good  or  bad  agricultural  seasons  greatly 
affect  the  growth  of  population,  as  Mr  T.  Doubleday  has  shown.  Also  in  an  article 
in  the  '  Edinburgh  Review '  (1829)  we  found  the  following  contrast  drawn :  The 
year  1801  was  a  season  of  extreme  scarcity, — the  number  of  births  registered  in 
England  and  Wales  was  237,000,  and  the  number  of  registered  burials  was  204,000. 
On  the  other  hand,  1804  was  a  year  of  plenty,  and  there  were  so  many  as  294,000 
registered  births,  and  only  181,000  registered  burials.  Thus  in  the  good  season 
there  were  57,000  more  births  and  23,000  fewer  deaths  compared  with  the  bad 
season,  making  a  difference  of  80,000  in  the  numbers  of  the  people. 


5H 


The  Country  in  1849  and  1879. 


[April 


from  the  loss ;  and  although  its  in- 
cidence be  primarily  restricted  to  a 
single  class,  the  impoverishment  of 
that  class  reacts  upon  the  entire 
community.  A  fact  so  obvious  as 
this  ought  never  to  have  been  for- 
gotten, and  under  the  pressure  of 
adversity  it  is  being  acknowledged 
anew.*  How  serious  the  loss  has 
been,  from  the  bad  harvests  of 
1875-76-77,  is  readily  calculable. 
Mr  Caird,  the  recognised  authority 
upon  the  subject,  estimates  that  the 
produce  of  the  crops  in  an  ordinary 
year  amounts  to  £260,000,000; 
and  in  a  good  year  the  amount 
must  rise  to  fully  £300,000,000 — 
indeed,  thirty  years  ago,  the  latter 
sum  was  taken  as  the  value  of 
merely  an  ordinary  harvest.  Thus, 
at  the  lowest  estimate,  the  produce 
of  our  crops  alone  greatly  exceeds 
in  value  the  entire  Export  trade  of 
the  kingdom,  including  coal  and 
iron,  as  well  as  all  kinds  of  manu- 
factured goods.  And  besides  this, 
there  is  the  value  of  our  flocks  of 
sheep  and  herds  of  cattle.  Dur- 
ing the  three  bad  years  through 
which  we  have  recently  passed,  Mr 
Caird  estimates  that  the  crops  have 
yielded  only  about  75  per  cent  of 
the  ordinary  produce,  —  a  loss  of 
£200,000,000  during  the  three 
years.  In  fact  the  result  has  been 
the  same  as  if  out  of  four  years 
there  had  been  only  three  harvests. 
The  animal  produce  of  the  farm 
likewise  declined  seriously  during 
these  three  years ;  the  number  of 
our  cattle  having  decreased  by  half 
a  million,  and  of  our  sheep  by  up- 
wards of  two  millions. 

The  agricultural  class  is  still  by 
far  the  largest  section  of  the  nation, 
both  in  numbers  and  in  the  value 
of  its  produce ;  and  the  impoverish- 
ment of  so  great  a  class  must  de- 


press the  fortunes  of  the  entire 
community.  The  very  cheapness 
of  food,  which  veils  this  loss  from 
the  ordinary  observer,  is  a  sign  and 
proof  of  the  diminished  wealth  of 
the  farmers ;  because  it  shows  that, 
while  losing  three-fourths  of  an  en- 
tire harvest  during  the  three  years 
(equal  to  upwards  of  £200,000,000 
at  ordinary  prices)  the  price  which 
they  have  obtained  for  their  pro- 
duce has  been  even  lower  than 
usual.  It  is  needless  to  say  that 
the  evil  results  of  an  inclement  sea- 
son upon  the  farmer  are  now  wholly 
unmitigated.  His  expenditure  is 
as  large  in  a  bad  season  as  in 
a  good  one,  although  the  pro- 
duce of  his  labour  and  expenditure 
are  seriously  diminished.  Indeed 
the  costs  of  farming  are  actually 
larger  in  a  bad  season  than  in  a 
good  one;  because  of  the  extra 
weeding  and  tending  of  the  soil, 
and  still  more  owing  to  the  pro- 
tracted labours  of  harvesting  dur- 
ing a  bad  season,  which  in  this 
country  always  means  a  wet  one. 

It  is  obvious  that  this  serious, 
and,  in  many  cases,  total  loss  of  in- 
come of  the  agricultural  class,  must 
have  greatly  injured  the  Home  mar- 
ket for  manufactured  goods  and 
commodities  of  all  kinds.  The 
farmers  have  not  their  ordinary 
means  of  purchase.  And  if  we  add 
to  the  200  millions  and  more  lost 
by  the  agricultural  class,  the  large 
sum  lost  by  the  wealthy  and  in- 
vesting class  by  the  failure  of  the 
Foreign  Loans,  which  may  be  safely 
taken  at  100  millions,  it  is  easy  to 
see  how  serious  must  have  been 
the  consequent  depression  in  the 
home  market,  of  the  purchas- 
ing power  of  the  nation  at  large. 
Either  the  home  market  must  have 
been  depressed  by  a  diminished  ex- 


*  See  Paper  on  "  The  Recent  Fall  of  Prices,"  read  by  Mr  Giffen  before  the  Statis- 
tical Society  in  January. 


1879.] 


The  Country  in  1849  and  1879. 


515 


penditure  to  the  extent  of  about 
.£300,000,000,  or  else  the  commu- 
nity must,  proportionately,  have 
been  consuming  a  portion  of  their 
reserve  -  wealth.  That  this  latter 
process  has  been  in  operation  to 
a  considerable  extent,  we  see  too 
much  reason  to  believe  ;  and  in  so 
far  as  this  has  occurred,  the  pur- 
chasing power  of  the  nation  must 
be  proportionately  diminished  for 
some  time  to  come.  We  can  even 
trace  the  effect  of  the  recent  loss  of 
wealth  in  a  somewhat  curious  man- 
ner, in  the  present  condition  of  the 
Export  trade.  Since  1873,  the  value 
of  our  exports  has  declined  to  the 
extent  of  60  millions — having  fallen 
from  255  to  195  millions  :  never- 
theless a  report  issued  by  the  Stat- 
istical Department  of  the  Board  of 
Trade  states  that,  if  allowance  be 
made  for  the  fall  of  prices  which 
has  occurred  in  the  interval,  it  will 
appear  that  the  quantity  of  our  ex- 
ports is  almost  as  large  as  it  was  at 
the  maximum  point  in  1873.  So 
far  as  this  view  of  the  case  is  cor- 
rect, it  shows  that  our  manufactur- 
ing classes,  tbe  coal  and  iron  trades 
included,  now  find  themselves  com- 
pelled to  send  abroad  a  large  por- 
tion of  their  produce  which  usually 
they  find  a  market  for  at  home.  It 
is  manifest  that  our  manufacturing 
classes  have  curtailed  their  produc- 
tion ;  for,  were  it  not  so,  there 
would  not  have  been  the  closing  of 
mills  and  coal-pits,  blowing  out  of 
iron  furnaces,  and  general  lack  of 
employment  among  the  working 
classes.  If,  then,  the  quantity  of 
exported  goods  be  as  great  as  in 
1873,  it  shows  that  goods  are  now 
being  largely  exported  simply  be- 
cause a  market  for  them  cannot  be 
found  as  usual  at  home.  Nor  does 
this  export  take  place  merely  be- 
cause the  ordinary  prices  cannot  be 
obtained  in  the  home  market,  but 
because  the  purchasing  power  of 


the  community  is  so  much  reduced 
that  the  goods  cannot  be  so  disposed 
of  even  at  a  reduction  of  20  or  25 
per  cent, — which  is  the  estimated 
reduction  in  the  "  declared  value  " 
of  our  exports  made  in  this  Board 
of  Trade  report,  and  which  is  re- 
quired to  justify  the  view  of  the 
case  therein  expressed.  This  is  a 
striking  proof  of  the  value  and  in- 
fluence of  the  home  market,  which 
is  immensely  superior  to  all  the 
foreign  markets  put  together.  In- 
deed, as  we  have  shown,  the  agri- 
cultural crops  by  themselves  still 
greatly  exceed  in  value  the  whole 
exports  of  the  kingdom.  Accord- 
ingly, the  prosperity  of  our  Foreign 
Trade,  important  though  it  be,  is 
trifling  compared  to  the  prosperity 
of  our  home  trade.  It  is  an  im- 
portant supplement  to  it,  and  also 
an  indispensable  one.  A  large 
foreign  trade  has  become  a  natural 
and  necessary  condition  of  our  na- 
tional life.  It  is  alike  the  cause 
and  the  consequence  of  our  popula- 
tion being  far  more  numerous  than 
the  food-producing  powers  of  the 
soil  can  support.  We  no  longer 
live  by  the  productive  surface,  but 
also  by  the  subterranean  treasures 
of  our  country.  Our  stores  of  coal 
and  iron  give  employment,  directly 
or  indirectly,  to  millions  of  our 
people  beyond  those  which  can  be 
employed  upon  the  soil ;  and  in 
turn,  it  is  those  minerals,  and  the 
manufactures  which  they  so  greatly 
promote,  which,  being  exported, 
supply  this  extra  population  with 
food,  while  also  bringing  back 
those  commodities  of  comfort  and 
luxury  which  our  wealth  enables 
the  community  to  procure. 

It  is  this  condition  of  our  country, 
this  excess  of  population  compared 
with  our  power  of  producing  food 
—  a  condition  which  has  been 
steadily  growing — which  has  made 
the  free  import  of  food  a  matter 


516 


The  Country  in  1849  and  1879. 


[April 


now  beyond  argument.  A  country 
like  France  or  the  United  States, 
•which,  is  so  favoured  by  soil  and 
climate  that  its  people  can  fully 
supply  themselves  with  food  while 
largely  engaging  in  manufacturing 
industries,  may  do  as  it  pleases  : 
it  may  scout  the  theories  and 
maxims  which  are  held  conclusive 
in  favour  of  Free  Trade  by  English 
politicians.  But  for  our  country, 
Free  Trade  has  now  become  indis- 
pensable, irrespective  of  the  wisest 
doctrines  of  political  economists. 
In  this  respect,  and  for  illustration, 
we  might  liken  it  to  the  question 
of  Parliamentary  Eeform  —  which 
means,  and  has  been,  a  continuous 
lowering  of  the  franchise.  No  im- 
partial and  competent  thinker  will 
say  that  the  grand  British  Empire 
is  more  wisely  and  efficiently  gov- 
erned, as  a  whole,  in  consequence 
of  the  masses  taking  a  direct  part 
in  the  government.*  But  the 
change  has  been  inevitable  —  that 
is  the  prime  fact :  and  also  it  has 
been  attended  by  a  political  con- 
tentment at  home  without  which 
the  wisest  administration  of  the 
empire  would  have  been  robbed  of 
its  natural  benefits.  "Whatever  else 
Free  Trade  in  corn  has  done,  like 
our  Eeform  Bills  it  has  "  sweetened 
the  breath  of  society,"  and  given  us 
the  inestimable  boon  of  domestic 
contentment.  As  the  late  Sir 
Archibald  Alison  pointed  out,  the 
complaints  of  the  working  classes 
during  hard  times  are  no  longer 
directed  against  the  Government 


or  Constitution, — as  used  to  be  the 
case,  under  the  influence  of  political 
agitators  of  the  Liberal  party.  Cap- 
italists and  employers  of  the  Liberal 
school  can  no  longer  beguile  their 
operatives  by  telling  them  that  low 
wages  are  all  owing  to  Government, 
and  that  they  would  always  give 
high  wages  if  Parliament  would 
only  give  them  freedom  of  trade. 
The  working  classes  now  realise  the 
position :  it  is  a  question  between 
employers  and  employed,  between 
capital  and  labour.  During  the 
last  thirty  years,  "Strikes"  have 
taken  the  place  of  mutinous  dis- 
turbances, and  Trades-unions  have 
displaced  Chartist  Leagues.  The 
strife  is  still  unfortunate,  often 
deplorable :  but  at  least  the  true 
issue  has  come  clearly  into  view ; 
and  the  working  classes  now  know 
that  wages  and  employment  are 
matters  beyond  the  power  of  any 
Government  in  this  country,  and 
the  discontent  which  at  times  is 
inevitable  among  them  no  longer 
disturbs  the  public  administration 
and  the  fabric  of  government. 

Unfortunately,  the  ignorance  and 
bigoted  selfishness  of  the  working 
classes — not  all  of  them,  we  are 
glad  to  say,  but  a  very  large  por- 
tion of  them — although  no  longer 
a  cause  of  political  disturbance,  are 
now  proving  suicidal  for  themselves, 
and  a  serious  peril  to  our  industrial 
commonwealth.  Every  class  is  jus- 
tified in  looking  after  its  own  in- 
terests. Trades-unions  and  strikes 
are  perfectly  legitimate  combina- 


*  According  to  Lord  Dufferin,  a  shrewd  and  highly  competent  observer,  the  ex- 
perience of  manhood  suffrage  is  bringing  that  system  into  disrepute  both  in  Canada 
and  the  United  States.  At  the  banquet  recently  given  in  his  honour  by  the  Reform 
Club,  the  ex-Governor-General  of  Canada  said,  that  if  any  Liberals  went  to  Canada, 
"  I  think  it  right  to  warn  them  that  they  will  have  to  accustom  their  ears  to  some 
very  strenuous  cries  for  the  protection  of  native  industries ;  that  many  of  those  native 
institutions  to  which  I  have  referred  as  constituting  the  polity  of  Canada  are  very 
severely  criticised,  and  that  some  of  them  at  least  run  the  risk  of  being  abolished ; 
and  that  there  seems  to  pervade  the  entire  continent  of  America  very  grave  misgivings 
as  to  the  utility  of  universal  suffrage." 


1879.] 


TJie  Country  In  1849  and  1879. 


517 


tionsj  but,  like  everything  else, 
they  may  be  carried  to  a  calami- 
tous extent.  At  present,  they  seri- 
ously aggravate  the  depression  of 
trade,  and  tend  to  make  it  perma- 
nent, while  proving  fatal  to  the 
very  class  which  employs  them. 
The  working  classes,  or  a  large  sec- 
tion of  them,  require  the  most  earn- 
est words  of  warning  which  can  be 
addressed  to  them.  With  their 
strikes,  their  shortened  hours  of 
labour,  their  diminished  pride  and 
conscientiousness  in  their  work,  and 
their  want  of  education  to  see  be- 
yond immediate  to  future  profits 
and  employment,  they  are  ruining 
the  commercial  eminence  of  the 
country,  and  killing  their  own  pros- 
perity. This  truth  and  warning  to 
the  working  classes  have  been  for- 
cibly expressed,  in  a  letter  which 
has  gone  the  round  of  the  news- 
papers, by  Mr  John  Burns,  the 
great  Glasgow  shipowner.  While 
sympathising  with  the  efforts  made 
to  relieve  the  distress  prevailing  in 
his  own  city  as  well  as  elsewhere, 
Mr  Burns  points  out  that  no  eleemo- 
synary machinery,  whether  private 
or  public,  could  long  make  head 
against  a  loss  of  hold  upon  the 
markets  of  the  world ;  and  he  im- 
plores the  working  classes  to  lay  to 
heart  what  he  has  just  witnessed 
on  board  a  steamship,  the  Gallia, 
now  apparently  being  fitted  out  on 
the  Clyde.  The  entire  pannelling 
of  this  new  vessel  has  been  done 
by  Japanese  carpenters  ;  the  iron 
fittings  came  from  abroad ;  and 
Belgian  artificers,  "last  Saturday," 
were  laying  the  wooden  parquetry 
on  the  floors  of  the  saloon  and 
cabins.  At  one  o'clock  on  that  day 
the  local  workmen  all  streamed  out 
of  the  ship,  for  the  half-holiday 
which  they  have  got  during  the 
recent  years  of  high  prosperity; 
whereas  the  Belgians  begged  to  be 
allowed  to  stay  until  dark  and 


finish  their  work — asking  no  extra 
pay  for  overtime,  but  simply  wish- 
ing to  make  a  good  and  speedy  job 
of  their  task,  and  to  earn  the  char- 
acter of  faithful  hands.  Mr  Burns 
naturally  asks  how  the  hard-and- 
fast  limit  of  fifty-one  hours  in  the 
week,  laid  down  by  the  local  trades- 
unions,  can  face  honest  competition 
like  this,  which  in  a  thousand  other 
cases  is  pushing  into  all  the  gaps 
voluntarily  made  in  our  trades  by 
the  working  classes  themselves. 
"  The  ignorant  blindness  of  British 
labourers,"  says  Mr  Burns,  "  is  nuts 
for  the  foreigner  to  crack,  and  is  ruin- 
ing our  country  and  our  countrymen. 
The  demands  of  our  workmen  are 
fast  becoming  so  unreasonable  as  to 
put  it  beyond  the  power  of  employers 
to  accede  to  them ;  and,  unless  with 
the  aid  of  foreign  workmen  unfet- 
tered by  trades-unionism,  or  other- 
wise, there  can  be  obtained  a  fair 
day's  work  for  a  fair  day's  pay,  Brit- 
ish capitalists  will  simply  have  to 
abandon  the  development  of  com- 
mercial industries  for  sheer  lack  of 
ability  to  conduct  them  profitably. 
Here  we  are,  in  a  time  of  languish- 
ing trade,  and  spring  coming  on, 
with  our  working  men  throwing 
down  their  tools  at  five  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon  and  one  o'clock  on 
Saturdays,  when  I  and  hundreds  of 
men  are  in  the  thick  of  our  work, 
and  could  never  pretend  to  compete 
with  the  world,  if  we  were  to  be 
circumvented  by  mechanically  lim- 
ited hours  of  labour."  Comment- 
ing upon  this  letter,  in  a  very 
able  article,  the  '  Daily  Telegraph ' 
says  : — 

"  There  is  no  branch  of  industry 
in  which  the  foreigner  does  not  at 
present  struggle  to  supplant  the  Brit- 
ish workman.  We  take  up  a  trade 
journal,  and,  opening  it  at  hazard, 
we  find  that  American  and  German 
pencil-cases  are  competing  success- 
fully with  local  goods  in  Birniing- 


518 


The  Country  in  1849  and  1879. 


[April 


ham  ;  that  Japan  is  sending  excellent 
and  cheap  boots,  made  of  American 
leather  ;  that  the  high-class  glass  trade 
is  rapidly  going  to  France  ;  that  steel 
rails  from  Philadelphia  are  undersell- 
ing those  of  the  North  ;  that  in  the 
paper,  carpentering,  loek-smithery,  and 
even  cloth  and  calico  markets,  English- 
made  articles  are  being  thrust  every 
day  aside  by  Belgian,  Norwegian,  and 
American  commodities.  Look  where 
we  will,  the  industrial  products  of  the 
foreigner  threaten  our  own  more  and 
more  keenly  every  year,  not  merely  by 
qualities  of  taste,  skill,  and  material, 
but  by  that  cheapness  of  manufacture 
which  comes  from  longer  hours,  lower 
wages,  and  greater  frugality  and  tem- 
perance. Side  by  side  with  these 
alarming  manifestations,  what  do  we 
behold  in  the  centres  of  British  indus- 
try ?  Everywhere  strikes,  strikes, 
strikes  ;  linen -hands  at  Forfar,  car- 
penters at  Dover,  shipbuilders  at  Jar- 
row-on- Tyne,  stone-masons  at  Ashton, 
tailors  in  the  Potteries,  joiners  at  Dur- 
ham, mill-hands  at  Blackburn,  dock 
porters  at  Liverpool ;  but  all  with  what 
consequence  ?  Invariably,  and  whether 
the  men  win  or  lose  their  fight,  with 
the  consequences  of  driving  fresh  nails 
into  the  coffin  of  British  supremacy  in 
trade." 

Our  working  classes  must  remem- 
ber that  "unrestricted competition" 
is  a  system  of  the  widest  applica- 
tion ;  Free  Trade  includes  the  im- 
portation of  Labour  as  well  as  of 
merchandise;  and  "buying  in  the 
cheapest  market"  applies  to  Wages 
as  well  as  to  Prices.  Already  there* 
is  a  large  influx  of  foreigners,  in  our 
counting-rooms  as  well  as  in  the 
labour-market.  But  it  will  be  a 
sorry  day  for  England  if,  through 
the  ignorant  selfishness  of  our  work- 
ing classes,  our  labour-market  be- 
comes stocked  with  foreigners, — as 
befell  Italy  under  the  Emperors, 
when  cheap  foreign  labour  displaced 
not  only  the  old  tillers  of  the  soil, 
but  the  artisans  in  almost  every 
branch  of  industry. 

Such,  then,  is  the  condition  of 


affairs  under  the  present  depression 
of  trade.  The  causes  of  the  de- 
pression have  been  due,  first,  to  a 
cause  beyond  human  control — viz., 
three  bad  seasons  in  succession ; 
secondly,  to  a  reckless  trust,  born 
of  a  greed  for  large  gains,  in  the 
solvency  and  good  faith  of  vari- 
ous foreign  States ;  and  thirdly, 
to  over-production  on  the  part  of 
our  manufacturing  industries, — yet 
which  over-production  would  not 
have  been  serious  in  its  effects  but 
for  the  loss  of  wealth  and  depres- 
sion of  the  Home  trade  produced 
by  the  two  other  causes — viz.,  the 
bad  harvests  and  the  failure  of  the 
Foreign  Loans.  For  the  future,  we 
think,  the  position  is  full  of  hope. 
A  repetition  of  the  Foreign  Loan 
mania  is  impossible  for  many  years 
to  come.  Secondly,  bad  harvests 
alternate  with  good  ones,  apparently 
in  cycles;  and  the  likelihood  is, 
that  the  ensuing  seasons  will  be 
favourable,  and  we  trust  will  reim- 
burse the  great  agricultural  class 
for  a  large  part  of  its  recent  losses. 
The  third  cause  of  the  depression, 
and  the  one  to  which  public  at- 
tention has  been  too  exclusively 
directed — namely,  the  over-produc- 
tion of  our  manufacturing  classes, 
and  the  temporary  reaching  of  the 
limits  of  consumption — has  likewise 
a  hopeful  side ;  especially  owing  to 
the  vast  stock  of  industrial  plant  of 
all  kinds  now  existing  in  the  king- 
dom, ready  to  come  into  play  when 
the  present  crisis  is  past.  As  already 
said,  the  mere  reaching  of  the  limits 
of  consumption  in  1873  need  not 
have  occasioned  any  disaster;  it 
was  the  great  contemporaneous 
extension  of  manufacturing  and  in- 
dustrial plant,  and  of  shipping  for 
the  conveyance  of  the  products  of 
the  new  factories,  mines,  and  iron- 
works, which  produced  the  greater 
part  of  the  disaster,  —  the  capital 
invested  in  these  new  works  being 


1879.] 


The  Country  in  1849  and  1879. 


519 


temporarily  lost,  because  yielding 
no  interest  or  profit.  But  the  con- 
suming power  of  the  world  is  cer- 
tain to  progress  anew,  producing 
a  revival  and  further  expansion  of 
trade ;  and  when  this  stage  comes, 
there  will  be  ample  and  profitable 
employment  for  all  the  industrial 
plant,  so  prematurely  erected  under 
the  elation  of  1872-73. 

How  soon  this  change  will  come, 
or  how  long  it  may  be  of  coming,  we 
do  not  assume  to  predict.  But,  as 
Lord  Beaconsfield  has  said,  the  fact 
that  trade  is  reviving  in  the  United 
States  renders  it  probable  that  a 
similar  revival  will  soon  follow  in 
this  country.  Moreover,  let  us  take 
comfort  in  remembering  how  sudden 
was  the  change  from  severe  depres- 
sion in  1869  to  the  golden  years 
which  immediately  followed.  In 
the  spring  of  1870,  the  depression 
was  so  severe  that  the  necessity  for 
a  system  of  State-aided  emigration 
was  brought  before  Parliament,  to- 
gether with  other  motions  in  con- 
nection with  the  distress  of  the 
working  classes  ;  yet  before,  that 
year  came  to  a  close  trade  was  al- 
ready on  its  progress  to  that  mar- 
vellous expansion  which,  with  its 
extraordinary  rise  of  wages,  for 
three  years  filled  to  overflowing  the 
exchequer  of  the  Gladstone  Govern- 
ment. It  is  almost  too  absurd  to 
ask  if  that  remarkable  outburst  of 
commercial  prosperity  was  due  to 
the  Ministry  then  in  office,  or  if 
the  present  depression  be  owing  to 
mere  Ministerial  changes;  but  if 
any  one  imagines  that  commercial 
prosperity  or  adversity  is  to  be 
credited  or  debited  to  the  Ministry 
which  happens  to  be  in  office,  it 
will  widen  such  a  person's  under- 
standing of  the  case  to  bear  in  mind 
that  a  Liberal  Ministry  has  been  in 
office  during  every  one  of  the  great 
Commercial  Crises  within  the  last 
fifty  years, — in  fact,  on  every  such 


disastrous  occasion  since  that  of 
1826.  The  country  was  under  a 
Liberal  Ministry  during  the  crises 
of  1837  and  1839  ;  a  Liberal  Min- 
istry was  in  office,  and  Free  Trade  in 
operation,  during  the  crisis  of  1847, 
— again  in  1857, — again  in  1866, — 
and  again  in  1873,  when  the  crisis  in 
November  of  that  year  commenced 
the  depression  from  which  the 
country  has  not  yet  recovered. 
And  immediately  after  each  of  the 
three  last  of  those  commercial  dis- 
asters—viz., in  1858,  in  1866,  and 
in  1874 — the  Conservative  party 
came  into  power,  and  succeeded  to 
the  legacy  of  disaster  left  to  them 
by  their  Liberal  predecessors. 

The  present  depression  of  trade 
will  be  remembered  in  the  future 
not  so  much  from  its  severity  as 
from  its  long  continuance.  It  has 
come  upon  us  stealthily  and  slowly. 
Every  one  expected  it  would  soon 
pass  off,  and,  so  believing,  no  one 
was  willing  to  reduce  his  trading 
operations  or  his  personal  expendi- 
ture in  accordance  with  his  actual 
circumstances,  —  hoping  that  the 
golden  stream  of  trade  would  soon 
be  in  full  flow  again.  In  December 
last,  however,  the  alarm  began ; 
some  London  newspapers  for  a 
week  or  two  published  the  news  of 
the  day  in  regard  to  strikes,  pauper- 
ism, and  lack  of  employment,  under 
the  heading  of  "  The  National  Dis- 
tress." Charity  at  once  put  its 
beneficent  organisations  at  work : 
but  no  sooner  were  such  investiga- 
tions instituted  than  it  appeared 
that  the  belief  in  the  distress  was 
immensely  exaggerated.  The  Char- 
ity Organisation  Society  found  that, 
except  to  a  small  extent  at  the  East 
End,  there  was  no  unusual  dis- 
tress in  the  metropolis.  And, 
generally,  it  was  found  that  the 
exceptional  distress  was  occasioned 
mainly  by  the  many  weeks  of  con- 
tinuous frost,  which  entirely  stopped 


520 


The  Country  in  1849  and  1879. 


[April 


numerous  branches  of  outdoor  la- 
bour. Indeed  we  believe  it  is  the  fact 
that  the  special  sufferers  from  the 
present  crisis  have  been  the  middle 
classes, — upon  whom,  owing  to  loss 
of  trading  and  of  farming  profits, 
the  collapse  of  the  Foreign  Loans, 
and  the  widespread  ruin  occasioned 
by  the  great  bank  failures,  the  re- 
cent hard  times  have  fallen  heavily. 
At  the  same  time,  a  loss  of  employ- 
ment to  the  working  classes  is  a 
more  disastrous  affair  than  a  large 
reduction  of  wealth  (we  do  not 
mean  a  total  loss  of  fortune,  such 
as  has  befallen  so  many  families  in 
Scotland)  to  the  middle  classes ; 
for  in  the  latter  case  it  means  only 
a  reduction  in  the  comforts  of  life, 
whereas  in  the  former  it  means 
actual  starvation. 

It  appears  from  the  official  re- 
turns that  the  number  of  persons 
in  receipt  of  public  relief,  both  in- 
door and  outdoor,  in  the  closing 
quarter  of  last  year,  was  20,000 
more  than  during  the  similar  period 
of  1877;  but  the  proportion  is  still 
only  27.5  out  of  each  1000  persons 
in  the  kingdom ;  whereas  in  the  last 
quarter  of  1870  the  proportion  was 
as  high  as  42.4  in  the  thousand. 
It  cannot,  however,  be  concluded 
from  this  fact  that  the  want  of  em- 
ployment at  present  compared  with 
1870  is  so  much  less  as  these  figures 
would  imply,  because  the  working 
classes  have  largely  added  to  their 
reserves  in  the  interval.  They  have 
not  wasted  all  the  fruits  of  their 
high  wages  in  1872-74  ;  and 
thereby  they  can  longer  withstand 
a  loss  of  employment  without  com- 
ing upon  the  poor's-roll.  Indeed, 
the  most  comforting  fact  under 
the  present  depression  of  trade  is, 
that  the  savings  of  the  working 
classes  as  a  whole  are  still  going  on ; 
for  it  appears  from  the  savings 
banks'  returns  that  in  the  months 
of  January  and  February  of  the 


present  year  the  deposits  in  these 
banks  have  been  fully  one-third 
larger  than  the  withdrawals. 

It  is  the  contrast  with  the  re- 
cent brilliant  commercial  prosperity 
which  makes  the  present  depression 
of  trade  appear  exceptionally  severe. 
During  the  winter  of  1869-70,  the 
condition  of  the  working  classes 
was  worse  than  it  is  at  present, — 
not  in  Scotland,  which  now  suffers 
heavily,  but  certainly  in  the  rest  of 
the  kingdom.  The  extraordinary 
outburst  of  prosperity  in  1872- 
73,  the  most  remarkable  which 
this  country  ever  witnessed,  makes 
the  present  gloom  appear  darker 
than  it  really  is.  It  is  now  pretty 
generally  recognised  (as  Alison  in 
these  pages  maintained  at  the  out- 
set) that  our  own  country  and  the 
world  at  large  has  been  passing 
through  an  epoch  of  exceptional 
prosperity, — produced  not  by  legis- 
lation peculiar  to  the  British  Isles, 
but  owing  to  influences  operating 
beneficially  upon  the  world  at  large, 
— notably  by  the  new  gold-mines. 
These  mines  are  now  on  the  de- 
cline, while  the  industrial  agencies 
to  which  the  new  gold  gave  free 
scope  appear  for  the  time  to  have 
accomplished  their  utmost,  having 
temporarily  outstripped  the  limits 
of  consumption.  But  the  high  level 
of  material  comfort  which  has  thus 
been  attained  is  not  likely  to  be 
lost,  although  at  present  we  must 
work  harder  than  of  late  to  main- 
tain it.  Probably  a  new  epoch  of 
prosperity  will  be  marked  by  the  in- 
troduction of  new  industrial  agencies, 
as  the  last  was :  and  any  one  who 
considers  the  manifold  inventions 
now  at  work  in  the  laboratory,  or 
tentatively  on  a  larger  scale,  will 
not  despair  of  a  further  derelop- 
ment  of  industry  and  commerce  as 
remarkable  as  that  through  which 
the  present  generation  has  passed. 

How  much  this  country  has  ad- 


1879.] 


The  Country  in  1849  and  1879. 


521 


vanced,  both  in  material  prosperity 
and  in  political  contentment,  during 
the  present  generation,  may  be  readi- 
ly shown  by  looking  back  upon  the 
condition  of  the  country  thirty 
years  ago,  or  down  to  the  close  of 
1851,  at  which  time  the  new  gold- 
mines began  to  quicken  industry, 
and  to  start  all  countries  upon  a  re- 
markable career  of  prosperity.  If, 
in  making  this  retrospect,  we  intro- 
duce a  tinge  of  party  politics,  it  is 
only  because  of  the  foolishness,  or 
else  malignity,  of  the  Liberal  lead- 
ers at  the  present  moment,  who  as- 
sume to  attribute  the  present  com- 
mercial depression  to  the  fact  of 
their  no  longer  being  in  office. 
"Well,  take  the  twenty  years  ending 
in  1851,  throughout  which  time  the 
country  was  under  a  succession  of 
Liberal  Ministries,  except  during 
the  only  three  good  years  of  the 
period,  when  the  Conservatives  were 
in  office.  Yet  in  those  three  years, 
1843-45,  however  wise  might  be  the 
fiscal  improvements  of  Sir  R.  Peel, 
the  prosperity  was  really  owing  to 
a  succession  of  fine  harvests,  and 
the  accession  of  gold  from  the  new 
Russian  mines  into  the  Bank  of 
England,  whereby  credit  was  greatly 
increased,  and  trade  was  promoted 
by  an  unusually  large  supply  of 
money.  The  gold  in  the  Bank  of 
England  rose  to  16  millions,  or 
three  times  as  much  as  previously ; 
while  Consols  rose  above  par,  for 
the  first  time  on  record,  standing  at 
101 J.  Excepting  this  transient 
prosperity,  when  the  Liberals  were 
out  of  office,  the  whole  twenty  years 
subsequent  to  the  first  Reform  Bill 
were  marked  by  commercial  adver- 
sity and  bitter  political  discontent. 
The  Reform  Bill  utterly  failed  to 
improve  the  condition  of  the  coun- 
try, because  it  could  not  possibly 
remove  the  general  suffering.  The 
agricultural  classes  suffered  quite  as 
much  as  the  others ;  rick-burning 


and  other  forms  of  incendiarism 
were  widely  prevalent,  owing  to  the 
savage  discontent  arising  from  the 
poverty  of  the  labourers;  while 
the  farmers  themselves  suffered  so 
severely  that,  as  Mr  Fawcett  records, 
no  less  than  five  Commissions  upon 
the  Agricultural  Distress  had  been 
appointed  by  the  Government  be- 
tween 1815  and  1841. 

At  the  end  of  the  ten  years  of 
Whig  rule,  the  condition  of  the 
country  was  thus  described  by  a 
contemporary  observer :  and  if  the 
picture  be  somewhat  overcoloured, 
it  was,  at  all  events,  painted  by  an 
ardent  Liberal,  and  has  been  en- 
dorsed as  correct  by  so  stanch  a 
Liberal  of  the  present  day  as  Mr 
Fawcett : — 

"  The  distress  had  now  so  deepened 
in  the  manufacturing  districts  as  to 
render  it  clearly  inevitable  that  many 
must  die,  and  a  multitude  lowered  to 
a  state  of  sickness  and  irritability  from 
want  of  food;  while  there  seemed  no 
chance  of  any  member  of  the  manufac- 
turing classes  coming  out  of  the  strug- 
gle at  last  with  a  vestige  of  property 
wherewith  to  begin  the  world  again. 
The  pressure  had  long  extended  beyond 
the  interests  first  affected  ;  and  when 
the  new  Ministry  came  into  power, 
there  seemed  to  be  no  class  that  was 
not  threatened  with  ruin.  In  Carlisle, 
the  Committee  of  Inquiry  reported 
that  a  fourth  of  the  population  was  in 
a  state  bordering  on  starvation, — actu- 
ally certain  to  die  of  famine,  unless  re- 
lieved by  extraordinary  exertions.  In 
the  woollen  districts  of  Wiltshire,  the 
allowance  to  the  independent  labour- 
er was  not  two-thirds  of  the  minimum 
in  the  workhouse.  ...  In  Stock- 
port,  more  than  half  the  master  spin- 
ners had  failed  before  the  close  of 
1842  ;  dwelling-houses,  to  the  number 
of  2000,  were  shut  up  ;  and  the  occu- 
piers of  many  hundreds  were  unable 
to  pay  rates  at  all.  Five  thousand 
persons  were  walking  the  streets  in 
compulsory  idleness  ;  and  the  Burnley 
Guardians  wrote  to  the  Secretary  of 
State  that  the  distress  was  far  beyond 
their  management ;  so  that  a  Govern- 


522 


The  Country  in  1849  and  1879. 


[April 


ment  Commission  and  Government 
funds  were  sent  down  without  delay." 
—  Miss  Martineau's  History  of  the 
Peace,  vol.  ii.  pp.  520,  521. 

Next  let  us  take  the  years  1847- 
51,  when  the  Liberals  were  again 
in  office.  By  this  time  Free  Trade 
had  been  completely  established, 
but  national  distress  was  again  in 
full  force.  All  the  manufacturing 
towns  were  in  a  state  of  the  deep- 
est prostration.  The  destitution 
and  disturbances  which  at  that  time 
prevailed  in  Glasgow  cannot  fail 
to  be  remembered  by  many  of  our 
Scottish  readers,  and  it  has  been 
graphically  described  by  Alison, 
who  had  the  best  means  of  observ- 
ing the  calamity.  In  striking  con- 
trast with  the  present  depression 
of  trade,  which  has  hardly  affected 
the  revenues  of  the  railway  com- 
panies,* the  railway  traffic  declined 
to  an  enormous  extent.  The  traffic 
returns,  which  in  1845  had  amount- 
ed to  £2640  per  mile,  sank  in  1849 
to  £1780, — a  decline  which,  as  the 
'  Times '  remarked,  was  "  alarming, 
and  which  looks  like  a  sinking  to 
zero."  "Crime,  that  sure  index  to 
straitened  circumstances  among  the 
working  classes,"  says  Alison,  "in- 
creased so  rapidly  between  1845 
and  1848,  that  it  had  advanced  in 
that  short  period  above  70  per  cent : 
it  had  swelled  from  44,000  com- 
mittals to  74,000."  Happily  there 
is  no  such  increase  observable  at 
present.  But  the  most  striking  of 
all  symptoms  of  the  national  distress 
at  that  time  was  the  decrease  which 


took  place  in  the  population.  In 
the  five  years  from  1847  to  1851, 
the  numbers  of  the  population  fell 
short  by  nearly  a  million,  certainly 
by  860,000  of  what  they  would 
have  been  under  ordinary  circum- 
stances. This  decline  of  the  growth 
of  our  population,  the  most  remark- 
able upon  record,  was  owing,  as 
need  hardly  be  said,  partly  to  actual 
deaths  from  famine,  especially  in 
Ireland,  and  partly  to  emigration. 
The  emigration  in  those  years  was 
produced  entirely  by  famine  and 
dearth  of  employment,  and  was  thus 
quite  different  in  character  from  the 
emigration  which  occurred  in  1852- 
54,  in  connection  with  the  new 
gold-mines.  Nevertheless,  despite 
this  great  weeding  out  of  the  poorer 
and  feebler  classes,  pauperism  ex- 
isted in  most  appalling  proportions. 

"In  the  quarters  ending  July  1847 
and  1848,  the  poor  relieved  in  Eng- 
land and  Wales  amounted  to  the 
enormous  number  of  1,721,350  and 
1,876,541,  respectively, — of  whom  no 
less  than  480,584  in  the  former  year, 
and  577,445  in  the  latter,  were  able- 
bodied.  In  Scotland,  the  paupers 
relieved,  including  casual  poor,  rose 
to  204,416  in  1848,  while  in  Ireland 
the  number  relieved  in  that  year" 
[helped  by  the  loan  of  £8,000,000  from 
the  Government],  "  was  2,177,651. 
Thus  in  the  two  islands  the  number 
relieved  in  one  year  was  4,258,609, 
being  above  one  in  seven  of  the  entire 
population."  t 

Such,  then,  was  the  condition  of 
the  country  under  and  after  twenty 
years  of  almost  unbroken  Liberal 


*  The  '  Financier '  (March.  17)  states  that  until  the  last  three  months  of  1879  there 
had  been  no  absolute  decrease  of  railway  receipts  at  all, — the  falling-off  up  to  that 
date  having  been  only  in  the  rate  of  increase.     Taking  the  seventeen  chief  railway 
companies  of  the  kingdom,  the  '  Financier '  states  their  receipts  as  follows  : — 
Gross  receipts  for  second  half  of  1879,    .....      £7,220,966 
,,  „  1878, 7,487,339 


Decrease,     ....... 

t  Alison's  History  of  Europe,  1815-52,  chap.  63,  §  22. 


£266,373 
=  3.5  per  cent. 


1879.] 


The  Country  in  1849  and  1879. 


523 


administration ;  and  it  was  only 
during  that  break,  when  Peel  was 
in  office,  that  any  gleam  of  sunshine 
lighted  up  the  abiding  gloom.  In 
vain  did  the  Whigs  or  Liberals 
struggle  against  the  adverse  current 
of  events.  Chartism  or  "veiled 
rebellion  "  in  one  form  or  other  was 
rampant  throughout  the  whole 
period.  The  Ministerial  Budgets, 
too,  were  perpetually  breaking  down 
tinder  deficits,  and  poor  Sir  Charles 
Wood  became  famous  for  his 
budgets  (in  Mr  Disraeli's  words) 
"  withdrawn,  and  rewithdrawn,  and 
withdrawn  again."  During  that 
time,  too,  the  country  was  actually 
helpless  against  an  enemy.  No 
fortifications,  no  militia,  no  volun- 
teers, no  Channel  Fleet !  As  for 
an  army, — "  I  tell  you,"  said  the 
Duke  of  Wellington  in  the  spring 
of  1852,  "for  the  last  ten  years 
you  have  not  had  more  men  in  your 
armies  than  were  sufficient  to  re- 
lieve your  sentries  in  the  different 
parts  of  the  world."  And  when  the 
Conservatives  took  office  in  that 
year,  Lord  Hardinge  has  stated  that 
he  found  only  forty  guns  in  the 
United  Kingdom  capable  of  service, 
and  that  most  of  these  would  have 
gone  to  pieces  the  fir§t  time  they 
got  into  a  clay-field  ! 

Long  continued  as  the  present 
depression  of  trade  has  been,  and 
widespread  as  have  recently  been 
the  losses  of  fortune  to  individuals, 
the  condition  of  the  country  can- 
not be  compared  with  what  it  was 
thirty  years  ago,  except  by  way  of 
contrast.  The  Age  of  Gold  has  left 
a  legacy  of  wealth.  The  condition 


of  all  classes  has  been  raised  in  the 
interval  to  a  higher  level.  It  is 
the  labouring  or  wage-receiving  class 
which  always  suffers  more  directly 
and  immediately  from  an  adverse 
change  in  the  national  fortunes, 
because  that  class  lives  compara- 
tively from  hand  to  mouth.  But 
in  this  respect,  which  is  their 
weakest  point,  the  working  classes 
have  improved  greatly  during  the 
present  generation.  Whether  we 
look  at  their  dwellings  (bad  as  too 
many  of  them  still  are),  or  their 
furniture,  or  their  food,  this  favour- 
able change  is  manifest.  The  large 
consumption  of  butcher  -  meat  of 
itself  indicates  the  higher  scale  of 
living  and  comfort, — amounting  as 
it  does  (exclusive  of  poultry  and 
game)  to  fully  33 J  million  hundred- 
weights per  annum,  or  nearly  five 
ounces  of  butcher- meat  per  day  for 
every  man,  woman,  and  child  in  the 
kingdom.*  The  working  classes, 
too,  as  already  said,  have  now  no 
small  amount  of  reserves  against 
bad  times,  as  shown  by  the  facts 
that  the  deposits  in  the  savings 
banks  amount  to  no  less  than 
.£75,000,000.  Taking  all  these 
things  together,  there  is  manifestly 
a  far  wider  interval  than  before  be- 
tween loss  of  employment  and  the 
poorhouse. 

As  regards  the  middle  or  trading 
classes — upon  whom,  we  believe, 
the  present  depression  has  fallen 
most  heavily — it  must  be  remem- 
bered that  for  wellnigh  a  quarter 
of  a  century  after  1851,  they  have, 
to  use  a  common  phrase,  been 
"  coining  money."  Their  gains 


*  "In  1875  the  inhabitants  of  the  United  Kingdom  consumed  1,186,641  cwt.  of 
beef  from  imported  live  cattle  ;  454,007  cwt.  of  mutton  from  imported  live  sheep ; 
71,927  cwt.  of  pork  from  imported  live  swine  ;  3,114,809  cwt.  of  imported  dead  meat 
—  i.e.,  bacon,  pork,  hams,  cured  beef,  &c.  ;  15,820,006  cwt.  of  home-grazed  beef; 
8,701,451  cwt.  of  home-raised  mutton  ;  and  4,348,944  cwt.  of  home-bred  pork :  the 
total  consumption  of  meat  (exclusive  of  poultry,  game,  and  other  meat  not  classified 
with  butcher's  meat)  in  the  United  Kingdom  being  33,697,785  cwt."— Mr  Walford's 
Paper  on  Famines,  read  before  the  Statistical  Society  in  February. 

VOL.  CXXV. NO.  DCCLXII.  2  L 


524 


The  Country  in  1849  and  1879. 


[April  1879. 


have  been  unprecedented ly  great. 
Indeed  the  realised  wealth  of  the 
kingdom  during  the  twenty  years 
between  1855  and  1875  is  shown, 
upon  official  statistics,  to  have  in- 
creased by  the  almost  incredible 
sum  of  £2,400,000,000.  Unfortu- 
nately, but  like  every  other  benefi- 
cial change,  this  prosperity  has  had 
its  drawbacks.  The  love  of  ease 
and  self-indulgence  has  mightily 
increased,  while  the  desire  to  make 
wealth  has  grown  in  many  quar- 
ters to  a  raging  passion.  And 
thus  passionately  thirsting  for 
money,  while  averse  to  hard  work, 
and  equally  averse  to  the  sole  other 
means  of  wealth-making — viz.,  per- 
sonal economy — a  large  section  of 
the  public,  alike  in  trade  and 
through  the  Stock  Exchange,  have 
rushed  into  perilous  ventures,  and 
have  prosecuted  them  to  an  un- 
paralleled extent  by  roguery  and 
fraud,  utterly  heedless  and  un- 
scrupulous as  to  the  amount  of  ruin 
which  they  were  inflicting  upon 
others.  Also,  along  with  a  most 


beneficial  period  of  prosperity,  there 
have  been  great  luxury  and  enor- 
mous waste.  If  the  present  depres- 
sion should  cure  those  evils,  it  will 
leave  behind  it  no  permanent  cause 
for  regret.  It  will  remove  a  can- 
cer which  has  been  eating  the 
heart  out  of  our  people,  and  will 
prepare  the  nation  to  benefit  to  the 
full  from  that  revival  of  trade  and 
return  of  prosperity  which,  we 
trust,  cannot  be  far  distant.  Never 
was  the  country  in  a  better  condi- 
tion to  take  advantage  of  new  op- 
portunities, for  never  before  were 
the  costly  machinery  and  appli- 
ances of  trade  and  production  so 
abundant  and  ready  to  come  into 
play.  Without  a  shilling  of  further 
expenditure,  we  are  ready  for  a  vast 
increase  both  of  trade  and  produc- 
tion ;  and  if  in  the  interval  we  re- 
learn  the  old  virtues  of  honesty  and 
economy,  the  new  epoch  may  be 
as  bright  and  prosperous  as  any 
part  of  the  golden  period  through 
which  our  country  has  passed  since 
the  dark  days  of  1849. 


Printed  ly  William  Blackivood  A  Son.*. 


BLACKWOOD'S 
EDINBURGH    MAGAZINE. 


STo.  DCCLXIII. 


MAY    1879. 


VOL.  CXXV. 


KEATA;    OR,  WHAT'S  IN  A  NAME. — PART  n. 

CHAPTER  VII. — LOVE  AT  FIRST  SIGHT  ? 
"  From  that  very  hour  he  loved.' 


THERE  are  few  sensations  as 
strange  and  delightful,  and  few 
feelings  of  surprise  as  pleasurable, 
as  those  we  experience  in  finding 
ourselves  for  the  first  time  in  life 
within  the  precincts  of  a  tropical 
forest. 

Eeata  had  by  no  means  exagger- 
ated when  she  said  that  this  for- 
est looked  like  an  enchanted  wood 
in  a  fairy  tale.  At  every  step 
fresh  beauties  disclosed  themselves. 
Gigantic,  broad  -  leaved  trees  bent 
their  heavy  lower  branches  down  to 
the  ground,  and  these  had  taken 
root  again,  and  formed  verdant 
bowers.  Where  many  of  these 
stood  close  together,  the  bowers 
joined  into  natural  arcades  j  and 
under  their  green  shade  a  man 
could  walk  for  some  minutes  up- 
right. Protected  by  this  leafy 
roof  from  the  sun's  devouring  rays, 
the  ground  was  clothed  in  these 
spots  with  a  thick,  tender  covering 
of  green, — a  velvet  carpet,  more 
perfect  than  our  most  carefully 
tended  lawns ;  elastic  and  soft,  re- 

VOL.  CXXV. — NO.  DCCLXIII. 


— ROGERS'S  Italy. 

taining  no  impression,  and  giving 
back  no  sound.  In  the  close  parts 
of  the  forest,  where  palm  and  cocoa- 
nut  trees  stood  crowded  together, 
everything  was  one  mass  of  un- 
broken green ;  but  what  variety  in 
this  sameness  !  Here  the  emerald 
green  of  the  sward,  and  hanging 
over  it — nay,  on  to  it— masses  of 
dark  leaves.  Large  cushions  of 
moss,  in  all  manner  of  strange  and 
eccentric  shapes — like  huge  otto- 
mans and  footstools,  into  which 
you  sank  as  into  deep-piled  velvet 
couches :  furniture  made  by  fairy 
hands,  you  would  guess  them  to 
be  j  and  yet  nothing  but  blocks  of 
stone  which  nature  has  seized  upon, 
and  covered  with  large  mosses  and 
little  ferns  more  than  a  foot  deep. 
So  compact  and  springy  is  the 
covering,  that  in  plunging  your 
hand  into  its  depths,  you  could 
barely  touch  with  your  fingers  the 
hard  stone  beneath. 

From  the  crevices  of  larger  rocks, 
deemed  too  unwieldly  to  serve  as 
furniture,  sprang  enormous  tufts  of 

2M 


526 


Reata  ;  or,  Wliat's  in  a  Name. — Part  II. 


ferns,  standing  out  boldly  from 
their  nooks,  and  tossed  by  the 
slightest  breath  of  air,  like  plumes 
in  the  wind.  Creepers  of  all  de- 
scriptions, some  with  narrow-point- 
ed leaves,  others  with  broad,  dark 
ones,  twined  round  every  trunk, 
and  hung  in  luxuriant  profusion 
from  every  branch. 

Sounds  of  animal  life  enlivened 
this  lovely  solitude, — cries  of  ani- 
mals, songs  of  birds,  humming 
buzz  of  insects ;  and  now  and  then 
a  rustle  and  a  gliding  movement  in 
the  grass  would  remind  you  of  the 
presence  of  reptiles.  Close  at  hand, 
the  weak  chirp  of  a  grasshopper ; 
further  on,  the  shrill  chattering  of 
parrots ;  and  in  the  far  distance, 
the  soft  cooing  of  a  wood- pigeon 
came  from  the  depth  of  the  forest. 
A  palm  tree,  stretched  on  the  ground 
by  a  recent  gale,  had  become  the 
stage  on  which  a  family  of  young 
monkeys  were  going  through  a 
series  of  acrobatic  feats — swinging 
from  branch  to  branch,  and  vent- 
ing their  delight  by  incomprehen- 
sible and  unmelodious  sounds.  At 
the  sight  of  the  party  they  scam- 
pered off  to  some  high  place  of 
refuge. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  my 
forest  1 "  asked  Eeata,  turning  to 
Otto,  who  had  hitherto  proceeded 
silently,  lost  in  admiration  of  the 
gorgeous  display  around  him. 

"  It  surpasses  my  most  sanguine 
expectations ;  only  I  have  seen  no 
flowers  yet,  and  you  promised  me 
so  many." 

"Ah,  wait  a  little,"  she  answered, 
mysteriously ;  "  you  are  not  going 
to  be  disappointed.  I  never  make 
false  promises.  You  can  walk  a 
little  further,  can't  you,  dear  old 
thing  ? "  to  the  old  lady,  who  was 
stepping  along  cautiously,  avoiding 
contact  with  anything  that  might 
possibly  conceal  a  snake. 

"  Yes,  dearest,  I  hope  so.  I  am 
beginning  to  think  that  you  were 


[May 
leave 


right  about   wanting  me   to 
my  shawl   at    home ;  it  is 
catching  in  the  branches  and  get- 
ting under  my  feet." 

Otto  hastened  to  disembarrass 
his  aunt  from  the  cumbrous  gar- 
ment, and  with  the  help  of  his  arm 
she  managed  to  make  an  easier 
progress  now. 

"  There  are  some  flowers  to  begin 
with,"  said  Eeata,  presently,  point- 
ing to  a  place  among  the  trees 
where  a  pool  of  clear  water  lay 
framed  in  mossy  stones,  and  float- 
ing on  its  surface  were  some  green 
water-plants  with  white  cups.  "  I 
have  called  it  the  Monkey's  Mirror, 
it  is  so  exactly  like  a  looking-glass. 
That  big  rock  alongside  is  the 
Headless  Horseman.  But  come  on 
further;  it  is  near  the  Giant's 
Umbrella  that  the  best  flowers  are." 

"  Eeata,  my  pet,  if  you  are  going 
any  further,  I  think  I  must  sit 
down,"  and  poor  aunt  Olivia  came 
to  a  standstill. 

"  Of  course,  I  was  quite  forget- 
ting," and  Eeata  stopped  also. 

"Where    will     my     Ancient 

where  will  you  sit?"  she  said, 
casting  her  eyes  about  for  a  con- 
venient resting  -  place.  This  was 
discovered  close  at  hand,  in  a 
broad  flat  stump,  which,  covered 
with  the  famous  cashmere  shawl, 
made  a  passable  seat.  When  the 
two  had  walked  a  short  distance, 
the  trees  seemed  to  be  lightening, 
and  Otto  thought  they  must  be 
coming  to  the  end  of  the  wood. 

"  Oh  no,  we  are  in  the  very 
heart  of  it,"  Eeata  said,  in  answer 
to  a  question  of  his  ;  "  but  we  are 
just  coming  to  a  clearing,  the 
Turkey's  Ball-room;  we  will  be 
there  in  a  moment." 

A  few  more  steps,  and  they  were 
standing  at  the  edge  of  a  space, 
almost  circular  in  shape,  and  unen- 
cumbered by  trees. 

Otto  had  been  so  occupied  with 
choosing  his  footing  on  the  narrow 


1879.' 


Reata;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  IT. 


527 


tangled  path,  they  had  been  follow- 
ing, that  he  had  scarcely  glanced 
ahead  for  the  last  minute  or  two, 
and  was  quite  unprepared  for  the 
burst  of  gorgeous  colouring  which 
met  his  eyes.  It  was  one  mass  of 
flowers.  The  ground  was  strewn 
with  them  —  calceolarias,  scarlet 
bells,  tiger-lilies,  vetches,  set  off  by 
feathery  or  bladed  grasses.  Bright- 
coloured  butterflies  floated  and  hov- 
ered in  the  air;  large  pale-green  ones, 
with  the  light  shining  through  their 
half  -  transparent  wings,  hung  in 
clusters  on  the  branches. 

At  the  further  end  stood  a 
curiously- shaped  old  fig-tree,  which 
proved  to  be  the  afore  -  named 
"  Giant's  Umbrella,"  and  around 
it  some  cactus-bushes  in  full  flower 
clustered  in  a  luxuriant  tangle. 

"  I  should  like  to  make  a  study 
of  that  fig-tree,"  said  Otto,  after 
having  fully  satisfied  Eeata  with 
his  admiration  of  the  spot. 

"  Do  you  mean  paint  it  1 "  she 
asked.  "  Can  you  paint  ?  " 

"  A  little  ;  I  am  very  fond  of  it, 
and  this  tropical  vegetation  will 
be  quite  a  new  field  for  me." 

While  they  made  their  way  over 
the  meadow  through  the  knee-deep 
grass,  Eeata  stooped  at  every  mo- 
ment to  gather  some  flower,  and 
kept  putting  them  into  her  com- 
panion's hand  ;  so  that  by  the  time 
they  reached  the  fig-tree,  they  both 
of  them  had  as  much  as  they  could 
carry. 

"Now  for  some  cactuses,  and 
then  I  shall  have  a  grand  sorting, 
and  throw  away  what  is  not  worth 
keeping.  Of  course  I  have  for- 
gotten to  bring  a  basket,  but  I 
daresay  you  have  got  a  pen- 
knife?" 

She  had  sat  down  for  a  moment 
to  take  breath  and  disembarrass 
herself  of  her  flowery  burden  •  now 
she  sprang  up  and  stretched  to 
reach  down  a  thorny  branch  laden 
with  cactus  -  blossoms.  Her  hat 


fell  back  with  the  movement ;  and 
there  she  stood  on  tiptoe  in  her 
white  dress,  her  delicate  fingers 
grasping  the  prickly  stalk  and 
dragging  it  down  till  the  red 
flowers  touched  her  hair,  her  up- 
turned face  flushed  by  the  exertion, 
her  figure  displayed  to  perfection, 
while,  with  laughing  eyes,  she 
called  Otto  to  her  rescue. 

"Baron  Bodenbach,"  she  said, 
impatiently,  "  don't  you  hear  ? 
You  are  to  help  me.  What  are 
you  staring  at  ?  What  is  the 
matter  with  you?" 

Ah!  what  indeed  was  the  matter 
with  him?  His  presence  of  mii.d 
seemed  to  have  forsaken  him ;  even 
his  intelligence  and  good-breeding. 
Instead  of  springing  to  the  lady's 
rescue,  as  was  to  be  expected,  he 
stood — I  grieve  to  record  it — open- 
mouthed,  devouring  with  his  eyes 
the  loveliest  picture  he  had  seen  in 
his  life. 

The  sound  of  Eeata's  voice  re- 
called him  to  a  sense  of  his  duty, 
and  he  came  forward  to  disentangle 
her  dress  and  hair,  and  to  secure 
the  prize  for  which  she  had  striven 
so  hard. 

With  what  care  he  touched  her 
silky  plaits — handling  them  almost 
with  reverence  ! 

"Thank  you  for  your  tardy  help 
— better  late  than  never,"  and  she 
sat  down  and  began  sorting  her 
flowers.  "  You  can  help  me  now, 
Baron  Bodenbach — for  I  shall  never 
be  able  to  tie  up  all  these  myself," 
indicating  to  Otto,  by  a  movement, 
that  he  was  to  sit  down  too. 

"  Are  you  really  going  to  attempt 
to  take  all  this  home  with  you?" 
he  asked,  glancing  rather  anxi- 
ously at  the  many  -  coloured  pile, 
from  which  Eeata  was  extracting 
flowers  and  arranging  them  into 
bunches. 

"  Yes — at  least  nearly  all ;  it  is 
quite  simple,  I  assure  you.  You 
will  carry  all  the  thick  prickly 


528 


Reata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  II. 


[M»jr 


flowers — cactuses,  and  so  on — for  I 
have  scratched  my  fingers  quite 
enough  for  one  day;  and  I  will 
take  all  the  smooth  comfortable 
ones.  Of  course  you  don't  mind 
pricking  your  fingers  1"  she  added, 
as  an  after-thought. 

"  Oh  no,  not  at  all,"  he  replied, 
enthusiastically,  and  would  have 
liked  to  add  something  about  any 
pain  coming  through  her  being  a 
pleasure,  but  wisely  refrained. 

"Now  give  me  that  bunch  of 
golden  -  brown  calceolarias  ;  don't 
they  look  lovely  beside  these  pale- 
blue  vetches  1  I  think  I  shall  have 
them  for  the  drawing-room,  and  the 
cactuses  for  the  dining-room." 

"  And  what  are  you  going  to  do 
with  all  the  others'? — these  trumpet- 
flowers,  for  instance,  and  all  these 
azaleas  1  They  surely  deserve  a 
place  somewhere." 

"  They  will  all  get  places.  I  am 
going  to  arrange  the  whole  house 
with  flowers ;  that  is  always  what 
I  do  when  I  have  such  a  splendid 
supply :  every  jug  and  cup  in  the 
house  will  have  to  be  pressed  into 
the  service." 

They  sat  silent  for  a  few  minutes, 
— she  intent  upon  her  flowers,  and 
he  watching  her  at  work,  as  she 
made  up  bundles,  which  she  tied 
with  long  pliable  grass-blades — se- 
lecting some  flowers  and  rejecting 
others,  with  the  energy  and  decision 
which  marked  all  her  actions. 

"You  are  very  fond  of  flowers, 
are  you  not1?"  remarked  Otto,  at 
last,  more  for  .the  sake  of  hearing 
her  voice  again  than  for  any  other 
reason,  as  he  deemed  the  question 
superfluous. 

"  You  are  very  fond  of  people, 
are  you  not1?"  she  answered,  after  a 
second's  pause,  without  lifting  her 
eyes,  and  exactly  imitating  the  tone 
of  his  question. 

"Of  people?"  repeated  he,  slight- 
ly taken  aback ;  "  why,  what  has 
that  got  to  do  with  my  question1? 


Of  course  I  like  amiable  and  agree- 
able people." 

"  And  I  like  amiable  and  agree- 
able flowers,"  returned  Eeata,  with 
such  perfect  gravity,  that  Otto 
could  not  refrain  from  laughing. 

"You  do  not  understand  me," 
she  said,  colouring  impatiently  ; 
"  can't  you  see  that  there  is  as 
much  difference  in  them  as  in 
people,  and  that  it  is  nonsense  to 
talk  of  liking  or  disliking  them  in 
a  body,  or  of  caring  about  them  at 
all  times'?  There  are  some  day& 
when  I  wouldn't  have  a  flower 
in  my  room  for  worlds, — it  would 
disturb  me ;  just  as  one  does  not 
always  want  society.  Each  flower 
has  got  its  own  character  and  its 
own  history,  just  as  much  as  we 
have ;  and  of  course  I  only  select 
the  flowers  that  are  sympathetic  to 
me.  Just  look  at  this  little  pink 
cactus,  for  instance;  did  you  ever 
see  such  a  silly,  vacant  expression'?" 
tearing  it  to  pieces  as  she  spoke ; 
"while  its  twin -sister  here  is  as 
intelligent  as  possible." 

"And  do  you  analyse  the  ex- 
pression of  each  flower  before  it  is 
deemed  worthy  of  joining  in  the 
decorations  ?  It  would  be  rather 
a  lengthy  business,  I  think." 

"But  one  sees  that  at  a  glance 
— one  feels  it  instinctively.  Don't 
you  see  now  that  this  large  white 
daisy  is  in  excellent  spirits'?  it  is 
laughing." 

"  How  do  you  make  that  out  1 " 
Otto  asked,  staring  hard  at  the 
flower  she  held  out  towards 
him.  "I  confess  I  don't  see  any- 
thing." 

"But  you  must  see,"  with  a 
gesture  of  impatience.  "And  then 
look  at  this  poor  purple  campan- 
illa  :  what  a  melancholy  expression 
it  has !  it  is  evidently  dying  of  a 
broken  heart.  I  am  afraid  it  is  in 
love  with  a  star;  and  it  goes  on 
waiting  hour  after  hour,  hoping 
that  the  star  will  come  down  to  it : 


1879." 


Reata;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  II. 


529 


but  that  hour  will  never  come,  and 
it  would  have  died  of  grief  if  it 
had  not  been  gathered.  I  am  go- 
ing to  take  it  home  to  try  and 
cheer  it  up  a  little." 

"  What  wild  fancies  this  girl 
has  ! "  Otto  thought,  as  he  listen- 
ed. "  They  would  sound  mad  com- 
ing from  any  one  else  ;  but  some- 
how they  fit  her  quite  naturally." 

"And  what  about  those  pretty 
little  pink-tinged  convolvuluses  1  " 
he  asked  ;  "  don't  they  look  as 
innocent  as  doves  ] " 

"  Yes,  they  do  ;  but  they  are  the 
vilest,  most  deceitful  little  wretches 
on  earth.  I  only  brought  them 
here  to  wring  their  necks,"  suiting 
the  action  to  the  word. 

"  Why,  what  have  they  done  ?  " 

"They  go  creeping  up  to  other 
plants  nobler  than  themselves,  and 
coax  them  till  they  allow  them- 
selves to  be  twined  round  and 
round,  and  then  they  strangle  their 
benefactors,  and  go  on  smiling  the 
whole  time  in  that  innocent,  child- 
like manner.  I  could  forgive  them 
anything  but  their  falseness,"  and 
Reata  crushed  up  a  lot  of  the  little 
flowers  in  her  hand  and  flung  them 
from  her  with  a  disdainful  move- 
ment. 

"  Are  you,  then,  such  an  enemy 
of  deceit1?" 

"  Of.  course,"  she  answered,  with 
a  passing  shade  of  confusion ;  then 
rapidly,  as  if  to  change  the  subject, 
"  Do  you  see  those  scarlet  bells 
there  1  They  are  the  greatest  furies 
I  know :  at  this  moment  they  are 
literally  shaking  with  passion  j  I 
don't  know  exactly  what  it  is  about, 
but  I  suspect  it  is  jealousy,  because 
that  nearest  cluster  of  vetches  has 
got  a  butterfly  hovering  over  it, 
while  they  have  none.  Of  course 
it  is  not  right  of  them  to  show  their 
feelings  so  openly;  but  still,  it  is 
better  to  be  honest,  and  I  rather 
like  their  spirit." 

"  You  should  study  botany,"  said 


Otto,  "as  you  have  so  much  op- 
portunity of  observing  plants,  and 
take  such  an  interest  in  them." 

"  I  tried  to  do  so  once,  but  I  shall 
never  try  again.  I  hate  botany. 
What  is  the  good  of  having  a  set 
of  rules  which  divide  flowers  off 
into  classes,  and  teach  one  how  to 
analyse  them  1  I  shouldn't  care  for 
a  flower  a  bit  better  for  knowing 
how  it  is  constructed.  Only  fancy, 
on  the  very  first  page,  the  book  told 
me  to  cut  up  an  anemone.  I  couldn't 
do  it — it  went  to  my  heart  ;  so  I 
cut  up  the  book  instead  and  threw 
it  into  the  kitchen-fire.  Now  I  have 
made  a  botany  of  my  own,  and  have 
divided  off  flowers  into  far  more 
satisfactory  classes.  There  is  a 
sentimental  class,  a  fierce  class,  a 
silly  class ;  then  there  is  a  silly- 
sentimental,  a  fierce -sentimental, 
and  so  on." 

"  I  wonder  you  have  not  got 
tired  of  them  :  you  must  know  all 
the  kinds  by  heart,  surely,  having 
lived  all  your  life  in  this  country." 

"  But  I  have  not  lived  all  my 
life  in  this  part  of  the  country.  I 
came  here  only  a  few  weeks  ago  ; 
and  most  of  the  flowers  were  quite 
new  to  me  then.  There  is  such  a 
variety  of  them  here,  because  it  lies 
so  high  up  in  the  hills  :  down  in 
the  plains  there  are  hardly  any." 

"  How  does  it  come  that  my  aunt 
never  visited  this  place  before  ?  It 
is  surely  not  a  new  acquisition." 

"  Oh  dear,  no,  it  has  been  in  the 
family  for  ever  so  long  ;  only  Mr 
Boden  would  never  stay  here.  He 
was  a  great  invalid  during  his  last 

years,  and  always  lived  at near 

the  sea ;  he  fancied  that  no  other 
air  would  suit  him." 

"  My  aunt  seems  very  much  at- 
tached to  you,"  he  remarked,  pres- 
ently. 

"  Oh  yes,  we  are  very  good 
friends."- 

"  I  suppose,"  she  continued, 
speaking  rather  hurriedly,  "  you  are 


530 


Heat  a;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  II. 


[May 


surprised  at  your  aunt  having  a 
young  girl  for  her  companion;  but, 
I  assure  you,  it  works  very  well, 
and  is  far  better  for  her  than  if  she 
had  somebody  of  her  own  age.  I 
help  to  keep  her  alive,  and  cheer 
her  up  :  it  is  just  on  the  same 
principle  that  one  selects  a  staid 
elderly  person  to  take  care  of  a  lively 
young  girl.  You  surely  don't  find 
anything  odd  in  the  arrangement?" 
she  concluded,  anxiously  scanning 
Chto's  face. 

Otto  had  thought  the  arrange- 
ment very  odd  at  first ;  but  even 
afier  these  few  hours,  he  had  had 
opportunity  of  observing  Keata's 
energetic  management  of  all  the 
household  matters — taking,  in  fact, 
all  the  trouble  off  the  old  lady's 
hands  :  and  therefore  he  answered 
now,  "  Oh  no,  not  at  all,  I  assure 
you ;  it  is  an  excellent  arrange- 
ment, I  think." 

Had  Otto  been  in  a  cooler  state 
of  mind,  he  could  not  have  failed  to 
notice  the  evident  nervousness  in 
R  Data's  voice  and  manner :  as  it 
was,  these  symptoms  passed  un- 
observed. 

"Now  I  have  finished,"  she  ex- 
claimed, springing  up,  and  shaking 
from  her  dress  all  the  loose  leaves 
and  fragments  of  stalks  which  clung 
to  it. 

"  And  what  is  to  become  of  these 
poor  rejected  ones  ?  "  he  asked ;  "  do 
none  of  them  deserve  a  place  ? " 

"  Why,  there  is  that  poor  laugh- 
ing daisy,"  she  said,  stooping  to  pick 
it  up.  "  I  have  thrown  it  away  by 
mistake.  There,  you  can  stick  it  in 
your  button-hole,  if  you  are  par- 
ticularly anxious  to  save  its  life  ; 
and  here  is  one  just  like  it  for 
F/cha's  collar." 

There  was  nothing  very  flatter- 
ing in  the  way  the  flower  was  be- 
stowed, yet  Otto  took  it  from  her 
eagerly. 

"  I  shall  keep  it  as  a  remembrance 
of  my  first  Mexican  walk,"  he  said, 


half  to  himself,  while  he  secured 
the  daisy. 

"  It  will  be  dark  in  five  minutes," 
said  Reata ;  "  we  must  be  off — we 
have  been  too  long  already." 

He  followed  her  along  the  path, 
which  in  the  growing  darkness 
offered  a  very  precarious  footing. 

"  I  think  I  see  the  black-and- 
white  shawl  through  the  trees," 
said  he,  after  some  silence ;  "  we 
must  be  close  to  where  my  aunt 
is  now." 

"  Yes,  it  is  the  Ancient By 

the  by,  Baron  Bodenbach,"  and 
Reata  stopped  short  on.  the  path, 
"  I  must  say  something  to  you  be- 
fore we  go  on." 

"  Can't  you  tell  it  me  as  we  pro- 
ceed, Fraulein  Reata ;  it  is  really 
getting  so  dark  that  I  fear  we  shall 
lose  our  way." 

"  Leave  me  to  take  care  of  that ; 
but  I  must  absolutely  speak  to  you 
before  we  go  on  another  step.  It 

is — it  is I  have  been  wanting 

all  day  to  ask  you,  would  you  mind 
if  I  go  on  calling  the  old  lady,  your 
aunt,  as  I  have  been  used  to  do  ? 
I  tried  leaving  it  off,  as  I  thought 
you  might  dislike  it ;  but  the  effort 
is  too  great,  and  will  probably  un- 
dermine my  constitution  if  I  con- 
tinue it  longer." 

"Anything  rather  than  that. 
Let  us  hear  what  is  this  title  which 
is  to  cause  me  so  much  surprise  ! " 

"  Well,  I  have  been  accustomed," 
began  Reata,  nervously,  "  to  call  her 
_the " 

"  The  what  ?  I  assure  you  I  am 
nerved  for  anything." 

"  The  Ancient  Giraffe,"  said  Reata, 
hanging  her  head  a  little,  while  the 
words  came  out  like  a  rocket. 

"Is  that  all?"  and  Otto  burst 
into  a  hearty  laugh.  "  Well,  if  she 
is  able  to  bear  it,  there  is  no  reason 
why  I  should  not  do  so." 

"  You  see,"  said  Reata,  apologet- 
ically, "she  is  very  tall,  and  has 
rather  a  long  neck,  it  has  always 


1879.] 


Reata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  II. 


531 


struck  me ;  and  I  have  often  got 
into  a  disgrace  for  saying  it." 

"It  was  perhaps  rather  an  odd 
way,"  began  Otto. 

"  And  so  you  really  won't  mind 
it?"  she  burst  in.  "I  can't  tell 
you  what  a  relief  it  is !  It  isn't 
so  very  dreadful,  after  all,  is  it1?  I 
am  sure  you  must  often  have  heard 
young  ladies  in  Europe  calling  their 
friends  by  similar  names.  Now 
haven't  you  1 "  she  asked,  anxiously. 

"  I  can't  exactly  call  to  mind  an 
instance  in  point,"  and  Otto  smiled 
to  himself  as  he  tried  to  fancy  Coun- 
tess Halka  or  Hermine  Schweren- 
dorf  calling  anybody  an  "Ancient 
Giraffe  : "  "  but  never  mind  ;  this 
is  not  Europe." 

They  were  now  close  to  aunt 
Olivia's  tree-stump. 

"  Here  we  are,  Ancient  Giraffe  !  " 
called  out  Reata,  running  on  to- 
wards her ;  "  I  hope  you  have  not 
been  eaten  up  ! " 

"But,  my  dear,  where  have  you 
been  all  this  time  ? "  began  the  old 
lady,  almost  crying  with  agitation. 

It  had  indeed  grown  quite  dark 
now ;  they  could  not  see  each  other's 
faces.  The  trunks  could  but  dimly 
be  discerned  around ;  the  fantasti- 
cally-twisted branches  appeared  like 
spectres  through  the  gloom ;  the 
sounds  of  animal  life  (the  night 
sounds,  for  in  the  tropics  there  are 
day  and  night  sounds)  were  strange 
and  plaintive  amid  the  rustle  of  the 
leaves. 

To  Otto  it  seemed  a  mystery  how 
they  were  ever  to  get  out  of  the 
wood ;  but  Reata  was  perfectly  at 
her  ease  on  the  subject.  She  de- 
clined his  offer  of  going  on  in  front 
to  fray  the  passage. 

"  No,  thank  you ;  you  would  be 
of  no  use  whatever.  I  shall  take 
the  lead.  Close  behind  me  the 
Giraffe  must  walk,  and  then  you 
as  rear-guard;  and  perhaps,  if  you 
don't  mind,  you  will  carry  the 
Porcupine." 


"The  Porcupine,  Eraulein  Eeata?" 

"  Yes,  Ficha,  of  course." 

"  Oh,  anything — I  will  do  any- 
thing," acquiesced  Otto,  recklessly. 
"  Come  along,  White  Puppy,  valu- 
able Dromedary,  or  whatever  your 
name  is  !  But,  Fraulein  Reata,  I 
cannot  let  you  goon  in  advance " 

"Please  be  quiet,  Baron  Boden- 
bach,  and  do  as  I  tell  you ;  it  is 
your  only  chance  of  getting  home 
to-night.  And  remember,  both  of 
you,  that  if  you  step  lightly  and 
quickly,  there  will  be  less  chance 
of  being  bitten  by  snakes.  Of 
course,  the  coralillos  are  sometimes 
twisted  round  the  branches,  and 
will  sting  from  above;  but  one 
must  just  take  one's  chance  of  that. 
Now  let  us  start ;  remember  never 
to  lose  sight  of  me,  and  to  follow 
me  as  closely  as  you  can." 

"Where  would  I  not  follow  her 
to  1 "  Otto  vaguely  interrogated  him- 
self. Her  admirable  coolness  en- 
tranced him.  They  were  in  no  real 
danger,  of  course,  except  the  usual 
risk  of  snakes ;  but  yet  their  posi- 
tion, together  with  the  phantom- 
like  forms  and  sounds  around  them, 
was  enough  to  shake  the  nerve  of 
any  woman. 

As  for  the  old  lady,  she  was  so 
completely  upset,  that  being  already 
on  the  point  of  tears,  the  cry  of  a  fox 
close  at  hand  set  her  off  into  a  fit  of 
sobbing. 

"  I  cannot  let  you  cry  now,  An- 
cient Giraffe,"  said  Reata,  imperi- 
ously;  "you  had  better  give  your 
shawl  to  Baron  Bodenbach  to  carry, 
or  else  I  cannot  guarantee  for  your 
getting  out  of  the  forest  safe.  And, 
Baron  Bodenbach,  do  not  let  your 
aunt  stop  for  a  minute." 

They  began  their  march ;  their 
only  light  the  fireflies,  which  dart- 
ed to  and  fro  across  their  path — for 
stars  or  moonlight  could  not  pene- 
trate here.  Once  they  caught  sight 
of  two  shining  emerald  eyes  on  a 
branch  close  to  them,  so  close  that 


532 


Reata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name.  — Part  II. 


[May 


a  sound  of  breathing  reached  their 
ears ;  but  although  the  old  lady 
nearly  fainted  with  terror,  nothing 
came  of  it. 

A  minute  later  there  was  a  strong 
flapping  sound  on  ahead,  close  to 
where  Eeata  was,  and  Otto  was  on 
the  point  of  rushing  to  her  rescue. 

"  Don't  come ;  it  is  only  a  guaja- 
lote,  a  wild  turkey,"  she  called  out 
to  him,  "  which  I  have  frightened 
up  from  the  grass." 

"How  is  it  that  there  is  cattle 
about  here1?"  Otto  asked,  presently ; 
"  I  can  hear  the  lowing  of  the  oxen. 
Perhaps  we  have  missed  our  way." 

"  We  are  all  right,';  she  answer- 
ed, without  turning  her  head  ;  "it 
is  the  call  of  the  night-heron  which 
you  mistake." 

Now  they  proceeded  in  silence ; 
Keata's  white  dress  gleamed  through 
the  shade  like  a  guiding  beacon. 
On  she  walked,  never  hesitating  for 
a  moment  as  to  the  path ;  now  push- 
ing aside  a  heavy  curtain  of  creepers, 
no  w  breaking  through  small  branches, 
scrambling  over  a  fallen  trunk,  or 
calling  out  to  them  to  take  care  of 
this  stone  or«  the  straggling  root  of 
some  tree. 

Eich  exotic  perfumes  filled  the 
air  and  made  it  heavy ;  they  seemed 
to  have  gone  to  Otto's  head,  for  he 
was  walking  as  in  a  trance,  not  look- 
ing where  he  stepped,  but  keeping 
his  eyes  fixed  on  that  white  form  in 
advance.  A  delicious  intoxication 
had  seized  on  all  his  senses;  he 
felt  as  if  he  could  have  followed 
her  for  ever. 

Poor  Otto !  He  is  as  yet  un- 
conscious of  what  has  befallen  him. 
That  night  in  the  Mexican  forest  is 
the  beginning  of  a  new  era  in  his 
existence.  Till  now  he  has  lived 
without  object  or  aim ;  but  to-day 
he  has  tasted  Love,  and  everything 
will  seem  precious  or  worthless  to 
him,  according  to  whether  it  is  or  is 
not  connected  with  Eeata. 

But  why  pity  him  1    He  is  happy 


without  knowing  the  cause  of  it ; 
and  perhaps  his  very  unconscious- 
ness is  part  of  his  bjiss.  Next 
morning  he  will  awake  with  an  un- 
defined thrill  of  delight  at  his  heart 
— a  sense  that  something  new  has 
happened  to  him;  and  yet  not  new 
either,  for  it  belongs  to  the  charac- 
ter of  Love  to  fancy  that  its  object 
has  never  been  unknown.  The 
lover  can  hardly  realise  that  the 
time  ever  existed  before  he  set  eyes 
on  the  one  he  adores.  "  How  could 
I  be  fool  enough  to  imagine  that 
life  had  any  interest,  or  the  world 
any  beauty,  before  knowing  her1? 
Why  have  I  wasted  so  many  pre- 
cious years  of  my  life,  which  ought 
to  have  been  spent  in  adoring? 
Why  did  I  not  feel,  why  did  I  not 
guess,  that  such  an  angel  existed  1 " 
Such  are  the  passionate  though 
rather  illogical  questions  which 
many  a  lover  addresses  to  himself, 
after  beholding  or  recognising  for 
the  first  time  the  real  object  of  his 
affections. 

But  Otto  has  not  yet  reached 
that  point;  he  is  still  at  the  first 
supremely  peaceful  stage,  when  he 
looks  neither  into  the  past  nor  the 
future,  but  is  content  in  the  con- 
sciousness that  the  present  moment 
is  one  of  unquestioned  happiness. 

Has  it  been  love  at  first  sight 
in  his  case?  Probably  Otto,  even 
after  his  eyes  are  opened  to  his 
state,  will  never  be  able  to  answer 
this  question — never  be  able  to  ren- 
der himself  account  of  the  exact  mo- 
ment when  the  enthralment  began. 

He  has  loved  before — frequently, 
in  fact,  and  hotly  at  the  moment ; 
but  beside  the  passion  which  pos- 
sesses him  now,  the  memory  of 
those  affections  is  pale  and  weak, 
or  they  would  appear  pale  and 
weak  if  he  could  bethink  himself 
of  them  now — if  all  else  were  not 
swallowed  up  in  the  burning  light 
of  this  new  love,  of  this  love  which 
is  the  truest  one  of  his  life. 


1879." 


Reata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  II. 


533 


But  the  walk  through  the  forest  from  the  black  shadows  into  the 
came  to  an  end  at  last.  Otto  could  starlight,  and  Reata  said,  "  We  are 
not  forbear  a  sigh  as  they  emerged  at  home." 


CHAPTER  VIII. — CROAKING. 


"Guarda  che  bianca  Luna, 
Guarda  che  notte  azzurra, 
Un  aura  non  sussurra, 
Non  treniula  uno  stel." 

— Camonc. 


The  hot  June  sun  was  sending 
its  rays  through  the  green  shutters 
of  the  little  study  at  Steinbiihl. 
They  lighted  up  a  room  not  devoid 
of  comfort,  but  with  the  stamp  of 
shabbiness  on  every  detail.  Baron 
Bodenbach  and  his  eldest  son  were 
engaged  in  conversation.  The  old 
man  was  in  an  easy -chair,  and 
Arnold  at  the  writing-table,  where 
he  had  been  looking  over  accounts  ; 
but  now  he  had  pushed  away  the 
books  and  was  listening  to  his 
father. 

"  Take  my  advice,  Arnold,  and 
do  it  at  once.  Why  not  do  it 
this  week  while  she  is  here  1  Sum- 
mer is  the  best  time  for  these 
things ;  it  was  just  in  June  that 
I  proposed  to  my  dear  cousin 
Olivia." 

"I  don't  see  that  summer  or 
winter  has  anything  to  do  with  the 
matter  ;  but  I  do  think  the  whole 
business  would  be  premature  at 
present." 

"  But,  my  dear  Arnold,  what 
can  your  objections  be?  She  is 
a  handsome  girl,  and  a  good  girl ; 
her  family  is  irreproachable,  and 
she  "has  sufficient  fortune  to  make 
her  a  fair  match  for  any  one." 

"  Oh,  of  course,"  Arnold  inter- 
rupted, "if  I  ever  marry,  I  will 
marry  Hermine — it  would  be  im- 
possible for  me  to  think  of  any  one 
else ;  but  as  she  is  barely  eighteen, 
it  is  as  well,  I  think,  to  give  her  a 
little  more  time  to  see  the  world 
in  before  she  is  tied  down  to  our 
humble  fortunes." 


Baron  Bodenbach  sighed,  but 
still  returned  to  the  charge. 

"  You  forget  the  principal  thing ; 
you  forget  what  a  difference  her 
fortune  would  make  to  us.  It  is 
very  hard,  struggling  on  as  we  are 
doing,  Arnold ;  and  it  would  be  so 
easy  for  you  to  make  it  different." 

Arnold  left  the  writing  -  table, 
and  began  pacing  the  room ;  after 
the  fourth  turn  he  stopped  before 
his  father's  chair  and  spoke — 

"Yes,  father,  it  is  hard;  I  know 
it,  and "  —  with  a  short  sigh — 
"none  better  than  I;  but" — here 
he  broke  off  and  walked  towards 
the  window,  and  only  when  he 
had  reached  it  he  finished  his  sen- 
tence— "but  I  would 'hate  owing 
anything  to  anybody." 

His  father  looked  greatly  dis- 
tressed. "  So  that  is  your  real 
objection,  Arnold;  I  thought  it 
was  not  only  Hermine's  age.  Your 
sentiments  are  quite  the  right 
thing,  I  am  sure ;  it  is  best  never 
to  owe  anything." 

The  Baron  apparently  did  not 
know  how  to  proceed  with  his 
phrase ;  he  shifted  his  position  in 
the  easy -chair  once  or  twice,  and 
looked  anxiously  at  his  son,  wait- 
ing for  him  to  speak.  But  Arnold 
was  standing  at  the  window,  with 
his  hands  behind  his  back,  and  his 
nose  rather  high  up  in  the  air — 
intent,  it  seemed,  upon  getting  a 
favourable  view  of  the  trees  out- 
side through  the  bars  of  the  lattice 
shutters. 

"  But  surely  it  always  was  a  half- 


534 


Reata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  II. 


[May 


arranged  matter  between  us,"  the 
father  began,  almost  timidly,  after 
a  pause,  "that  you  and  Hermine 
should  marry  some  day ;  and 
what  is  the  good  of  putting  it  off 
longer  1" 

"Oh  yes,  it  always  was  an  ar- 
ranged matter,"  was  the  answer, 
given  rather  absently ;  "  but  then  " 
— relinquishing  his  study  of  the 
trees,  and  turning  away  from  the 
window — "I  think  there  is  some 
good  in  putting  it  off  longer.  We 
have  every  hope  now  that  our  for- 
tunes are  going  to  undergo  some 
sort  of  an  improvement ;  by  next 
year  we  may  be  in  a  different  posi- 
tion from  what  we  are  in  now,  and 
I  should  then  be  able  to  offer  Her- 
mine something  of  what  she  will 
bring  me." 

"  But  will  you  not  change  your 
mind,  Arnold,  before  that  time? 
You  know  how  I  have  set  my 
heart  on  your  marrying  Hermine, 
and  young  people  are  sometimes 
so  apt  to  do  that." 

"No  fear,  father,"  laughed  Ar- 
nold ;  "  you  know  I  have  a  whole- 
some dread  of  womankind  in  gen- 
eral. Hermine  is  the  only  woman 
I  could  ever  think  of  as  my 
wife/' 

"But  if  you  are  so  fond  of 
her "  the  Baron  was  begin- 
ning ;  but  his  son  continued  with- 
out heeding — 

"A  few  years  ago,  when  I  was 
still  serving,  nothing  would  have 
induced  me  to  take  such  a  step — 
to  any  aspiring  soldier  matrimony 
is,  in  my  eyes,  no  less  than  ruin ; 
but  having  now  given  up  the  career, 
it  has  become  practicable  for  me; 
and — in  short,  my  mind  is  made 
up  on  the  subject." 

"Are  you  quite  sure?"  his  father 
persisted,  seemingly  unable  to  give 
up  pressing  the  point. 

"  I  am  perfectly  certain,"  Arnold 
replied,  drawing  up  his  figure  with 
a  slight  degree  of  haughtiness — a 


somewhat  frequent  habit  with  him. 
"  I  think,  father,  that  I  do  not 
often  change  my  mind  when  it  has 
been  made  up." 

"  Of  course,  of  course  not ;  I  am 
quite  aware  of  that, — you  are  quite 
right,  I  am  sure :  but  just  for  my 
peace  of  mind,  Arnold,  if  nothing 
goes  wrong,  next  summer,  next 
June,  let  us  say  —  I  could  not 
think  of  binding  you  by  any  pro- 
mise, Arnold,  my  dear  boy — but 
will  you  speak  to  Hermine  next 
June?" 

At  this  moment  light  footsteps 
were  heard  coming  rapidly  along 
the  passage  towards  the  room. 

"  We  need  not  speak  on  this  sub- 
ject again,"  said  Arnold,  quickly ; 
"  but  if  you  wish  it,  it  shall  be 
next  June." 

The  door  flew  open,  and  Gab- 
rielle,  with  her  Italian  greyhound 
racing  at  her  heels,  rushed  in 
breathless. 

"A  letter  from  Otto  —  a  letter 
from  Otto  !  and  it  is  for  you, 
Arnold  ! "  she  screamed  at  the  pitch 
of  her  voice,  while  waving  the  paper 
wildly  above  her  head.  She  had 
been  watching  at  the  drawing-room 
window,  as  she  had  been  doing 
every  day  lately ;  and  the  moment 
she  caught  sight,  through  the  trees, 
of  the  lad  who  served  them  as 
letter- bearer,  had  rushed  out  into 
the  hot  sun,  and  returned  a  minute 
later,  breathless  and  panting,  but 
triumphantly  clasping  the  precious 
envelope. 

"There  now,  you  foolish  child," 
said  Arnold,  taking  the  letter  from 
her,  while  he  looked  severely  at 
her  flushed  cheeks  and  dilated  eyes, 
"you  have  run  out  without  your 
hat  or  parasol,  and  have  knocked 
yourself  up  for  to-day.  In  an  hour 
Hermine  will  be  here,  and  you 
won't  be  fit  to  go  out  walking  with 
her;  you  had  better  go  and  lie 
down  at  once." 

"Oh  no,  Arnold,"  she  implored 


1879. 


Reata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  II. 


535 


— and  the  corners  of  her  mouth 
began  going  down  ominously — "  I 
can't  lie  down  till  I  have  heard 
what  there  is  in  the  letter ;  don't 
make  me — please,  don't  make  me  ! " 

"  You  are  rather  hard  upon  her, 
I  think,  Arnold,"  put  in  the  old 
Baron,  who  had  laid  aside  his 
cigar  with  trembling  hands,  and 
was  sitting  up  in  an  attitude  of 
eager  expectation;  "let  her  hear 
what  Otto  says  first." 

"  Very  well,  let  her  stay,"  Arnold 
assented,  rather  ungraciously,  while 
he  opened  the  letter. 

It  was  written  in  good  spirits, 
but  it  was  not  long.  Otto  gave 
a  brief  account  of  his  arrival  and 
reception,  and  then  passed  on  to 
a  slight  description  of  aunt  Olivia : 
"  In  appearance  my  aunt  is  con- 
siderably older  than  I  was  led  to 
expect — nearer  sixty  than  fifty,  I 
should  have  guessed;  but  climate, 
I  suppose,  has  something  to  do 
with  that.  Although  I  looked  out 
sharp,  there  were  no  traces  of  beauty 
which  I  could  for  the  life  of  me 
make  out ;  and  as  for  the  much- 
vaunted  eyebrows,  they  have,  I 
fear,  been  transferred,  and  now 
occupy  a  lower  position  on  her 
face  —  above  the  upper  lip,  in 
fact." 

Further  on  he  wrote  :  "  My 
aunt  appears  very  much  agitated 
at  any  reference  to  my  father.  Of 
course,  not  a  word  about  business 
has  passed  yet  between  us;  that 
is  to  be  left  for  later,  I  suppose. 
She  does  not  look  as  if  she  were 
going  to  be  difficult  to  tackle  ;  and 
I  flatter  myself  that  I  shall  be  able 
to  talk  her  over  to  my  own  views. 
My  only  fear  is  that  her  com- 
panion, who  seems  to  have  an  un- 
due share  of  influence  over  her, 
may  try  to  wheedle  her  out  of  her 
fortune — that  is,  a  good  slice  of  it. 
If  so,  it  is  lucky  I  came  out  here 
to  represent  our  interests." 

Most  of  the  letter  Arnold  read 


aloucl,  only  now  and  then  judi- 
ciously skipping  some  phrase  or 
expression. 

"  Dear  Otto  ! "  exclaimed  the 
delighted  father;  "what  a  satis- 
factory letter !  It  is  the  longest 
I  have  ever  known  him  to  write — 
he  must  be  in  such  good  spirits, 
dear  boy  ! " 

"Well,  I  trust  it  will  all  turn 
out  well,"  said  Arnold,  calmly,  as 
he  folded  up  the  letter;  "things 
seem  to  be  going  smooth,  at  any 
rate." 

"  Smooth !  I  think  they  are 
going  brilliantly." 

"Can't  see  anything  particularly 
brilliant  as  yet,"  laughed  Arnold^ 
"  except  that  they  have  given  him 
food  and  lodging.  "Well,  we  will 
see." 

The  Baron,  however,  persevered 
in  his  sanguine  mood.  Everything 
was  going  brilliantly,  according  to 
his  ideas.  He  saw,  in  his  mind, 
splendid  prospects  unrolling  them- 
selves for  his  children.  Till  now 
their  future  had  been  an  anxious 
thing.  From  their  father  they 
would'  have  next  to  no  fortune. 
Arnold  would  manage  for  himself, 
but  Gabrielle  could  not ;  and  Otto 
would  probably  not  manage  either, 
to  judge  from  the  way  in  which 
he  had  hitherto  conducted  his  ex- 
penditure. On  two  or  three  occa- 
sions already,  the  Baron  had  found 
himself  obliged  to  put  himself  to 
positive  inconvenience  in  order  to 
satisfy  his  younger  son's  creditors. 
The  income,  as  it  was,  was  slender 
enough  to  cover  wants ;  and  the 
payment  of  these  bills  had  more 
than  once  occasioned  privation  of 
comforts,  sometimes  even  of  neces- 
sities, at  Steinbiihl.  In  fact,  Otto 
had  always  been  the  chief  anxiety. 
He  was  so  impressionable,  so  sus- 
C3ptible  to  many  things  —  to  a 
pretty  face,  for  instance  —  that 
there  would  always  be  some  danger 
of  a  sudden,  undesirable  attach- 


536 


Reata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name.— Part  II. 


[May 


inent  springing  up,  which  might 
entangle  him  against  his  will  in  a 
mesalliance,  arid  thus  destroy  his 
best  chance  of  gaming  a  comfort- 
able independence.  For  although 
nobody  as  much  as  Otto  so  truly 
appreciated  and  coveted  that  com- 
fortable independence,  and  although 
to  make  a  rich  marriage  (as  has 
been  said  before)  was  his  chief 
object  and  aim,  still  there  was  no 
answering  for  what  he  might  not 
do  under  the  influence  of  passion, 
and  how  far  he  might  not  lose 
sight,  for  the  moment  at  least,  of 
the  more  important  point. 

His  father  never  would  feel  quite 
at  rest  till  Otto  was  fairly  settled 
down  in  matrimonial  life ;  and 
therefore  the  Baron  had  been 
greatly  pleased  on  hearing  of  his 
son's  attentions  to  a  Polish  heiress, 
Comtesse  Halka  Przeszechowska. 
It  might  have  been  supposed  that 
the  personal  experiences  which  the 
old  man  had  undergone  should  have 
cooled  his  faith  in  any  mariaye  de 
convenance ;  but  it  was  not  so,  and 
in  spite  of  his  fancied  lifelong  attach- 
ment to  his  cousin,  he  was  eager  to 
make  one  of  his  sons,  at  least,  fol- 
low his  example  by  marrying  an 
heiress. 

Whether  Otto's  suit  with  the 
Polish  Comtesse  would  have  pros- 
pered ultimately,  was  doubtful.  It 
could  hardly  have  -been  expected 
that  the  girl's  parents  would  be 
very  willing  to  give  her  to  a  man 
so  utterly  without  fortune  as  was 
Otto.  The  old  Baron's  hopes  would 
have  been  still  fainter  if  he  had 
known  what  a  dangerous  rival  Otto 
had  in  his  captain.  Now,  however, 
this  was  different;  or  at  least  the 
old  Baron,  busying  himself  in 
thought  with  the  matter,  decided 
that  it  would  be  all  different — that 
uncle  Max's  will  or  cousin  Olivia's 
generosity  would  provide  for  them 
all  brilliantly,  and  that,  therefore, 
Otto  would  be  in  a  position  in 


which  his  hopes  with  regard  to 
Comtesse  Halka  would  be  almost 
sure  of  fulfilment. 

As  for  Arnold,  there  never  had 
for  him  been  any  danger  of  the 
sort  before  mentioned.  He  was 
far  better  able  to  take  care  of  him- 
self than  his  brother ;  and  being 
so  thoroughly,  even  exaggeratedly, 
aristocratic  in  his  notions,  there  was 
no  fear  of  his  ever  lowering  himself 
by  a  foolish  marriage.  It  has  been 
said  before,  that  Arnold  had  noth- 
ing of  what  is  called  "a  ladies' 
man,"  and  never  was  a  favourite  in 
women's  society.  From  his  own 
choice  he  never  began  conversation 
with  a  lady,  and  if  forced  into  it 
by  circumstances,  was  sure  to  start 
wrong  topics ;  never  paid  any  com- 
pliments or  noticed  a  woman's  dress ; 
usually  forgot  to  pick  up  fans  or 
handkerchiefs,  drape  cloaks  round 
fair  shoulders,  or  any  of  the  hun- 
dred and  one  little  attentions  which 
ladies  think  they  are  entitled  to  ex- 
pect from  gentlemen. 

And  this  did  not  come  in  the 
least  degree  from  shyness ;  but 
simply  because  he  did  not  know 
how  to  talk  to  women,  and  did  not 
care  to  acquire  the  art. 

The  only  girl  besides  his  sister 
with  whom  he  was  on  intimate 
terms  was  Hermine  Schwerendorf, 
the  guest  whom  they  expected  to- 
day. 

The  Schwerendorfs  were  of  an  old 
aristocracy,  possessed  of  a  small 
estate,  and  a  fortune  which,  al- 
though not  much  larger  than  what 
the  Bodenbach's  had,  still  enabled 
the  two  old  people  and  their  one 
daughter,  Hermine,  to  live  in  a 
far  more  comfortable  style  than 
these  neighbours  of  theirs.  The  in- 
timacy between  the  two  families  had 
sprung  up  thirty  years  ago,  when 
the  Schwerendorfs  had  come  to  that 
part  of  the  country  and  settled  down. 
The  Bodenbachs  were  then  enjoy- 
ing their  temporary  return  of  pros- 


1879.] 


Reata  ;  or,  Whafs  in  a  Name. — Part  II. 


537 


perity,  immediatety  after  Baron 
Walther  had  married  his  rich  wife. 
Since  then,  their  fortunes  had 
rapidly  declined,  while  the  posi- 
tion of  the  newly -settled  family 
had  remained  unchanged.  But 
their  relations  to  each  other  under- 
went no  difference.  The  Schweren- 
dorfs  still  continued  to  look  up  to 
their  friends  in  the  same  way  they 
had  done  when  the  Bodenbach 
name  was  the  great  name  in  the 
country.  A  constant  intercourse 
was  kept  up  between  them ;  the 
young  people  had  played  together 
as  children,  and  called  each  other 
by  their  Christian  names.  The  old 
summer  -  house  at  Steinbiihl  had 
been  the  scene  of  many  of  their 
exploits ;  sometimes  it  was  a  for- 
tress which  Arnold  defended  against 
Otto — sometimes  it  was  a  settler's 
hut  or  a  royal  palace,  as  the  occa- 
sion demanded.  These  were  but 
children's  games,  but  many  a  life's 
romance  has  grown  out  of  slenderer 
materials.  And  it  was  so  with 
Hermine.  Imperceptibly  to  her- 
self and  others,  Arnold  became  the 
one  hero  of  her  life.  To  her  he 
was  the  im personification  of  every- 
thing good  and  great  and  noble. 
All  this  strengthened  and  took 
shape  as  Hermine  grew  up.  It 
coloured  her  whole  existence,  and 
became  part  of  her  being.  In  the 
same  way,  as  she  could  not  remem- 
ber any  past  in  which  Arnold  had 
had  no  part,  she  never  realised  that 
there  might  be  a  possible  future 
away  from  him.  Not  being  of  an 
imaginative  disposition,  she  did 
not,  as  many  other  girls  in  her 
place  would  have  done,  weave  this 
romance  of  hers  into  brilliant  air- 
castles,  and  paint  out  the  years  to 
come  in  all  their  details;  but 
merely,  when  she  did  look  into  the 
future,  she  always  thought  of  her- 
self as  Arnold's  wife — and  felt  in- 
tensely though  calmly  happy  at  the 
thought  that  it  was  to  be  so. 


In  the  girl's  simplicity  and  single- 
ness of  character,  the  thought  never 
once  crossed  her  mind  that  this 
merging  of  her  whole  being  into 
one  idea,  this  utter  reliance  on  one 
person,  might  prove  dangerous  to 
her  peace.  Fortunately  there  seemed 
to  be  little  ground  to  fear  the  dis- 
appointment of  her  hopes,  for  the 
same  idea  had  long  been  entertained 
by  both  families.  Nothing  definite 
had  ever  been  said  on  either  side, 
and  it  was  only  to-day  that  Baron 
Bodenbach  had  distinctly  spoken  to 
his  son  on  the  subject ;  but  there 
existed  a  passive  sort  of  half-under- 
standing about  the  matter — just  so 
much,  namely,  that  no  member  of 
the  two  families  would  have  been 
in  the  slightest  degree  surprised  any 
day  by  the  announcement  that  Ar- 
nold and  Hermine  were  engaged, 
whereas  the  astonishment  would 
have  been  great  on  hearing  that 
either  of  the  two  was  about  to  form 
another  union.  Arnold  himself 
seemed  in  no  way  averse  to  the 
idea. 

It  was  a  lovely  June  evening, 
that  day  of  Hermine's  visit  to  Stein- 
biihl. The  heat  had  been  intense ; 
and  it  was  not  till  after  their  even- 
ing meal  that  the  three  young  people 
strolled  out  to  enjoy  the  softness  of 
the  night  air  and  the  delicious  frag- 
rance of  the  new-mown  hay.  The 
moon  had  completed  her  second 
quarter,  and,  standing  out  from  a 
cloudless  sky,  made  everything  as 
light  as  day,  and  far  more  beautiful. 
It  lent  a  touch  almost  of  statelines& 
to  the  old  -  fashioned  house  :  the 
pointed  red  roof  with  the  gable- 
windows  looked  almost  grand  from 
the  end  of  the  short,  straight  avenue 
which  led  from  the  house  to  the 
highroad  ;  while  the  crazy  weather- 
cock, which  stands  in  such  need  of 
a  new  coat  of  paint,  and  is  so  little 
likely  ever  to  get  it,  might  be  taken 
for  a  gallant  pennon  waving  on  the 
summit.  The  indescribable  air  of 


-538 


Reata;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  II. 


[May 


money-want,  the  many  little  defects 
of  repair,  which  the  cruel  hard  sun 
shows  up  so  pitilessly  by  day,  are 
treated  with  far  more  tenderness 
by  the  gentle  rays  of  the  moon. 

While  the  sun,  with  stern  justice, 
brings  out  the  beautiful  as  well  as 
the  unbeautiful,  and  puts  them  be- 
fore our  eyes  with  equal  distinct- 
ness ;  the  moon,  like  a  tender 
mother,  throws  a  veil  over  imper- 
fections, and  adds  the  charm  of 
mystery  to  what  is  already  beauti- 
ful. There  is  deceit  in  this ;  but 
it  is  meant  kindly  to  us,  I  think. 

Who  would  guess  by  this  silvery 
light  that  hardly  one  of  the  bas- 
tions that  support  the  stone  wall  of 
the  garden  is  quite  whole,  or  that 
most  of  the  red  tiles  on  the  top  are 
chipped  or  put  out  of  place ;  that 
the  once  green  shutters  of  the  win- 
dows are  in  a  state  bordering  on 
dilapidation;  that  the  woodwork 
of  the  balcony  shows  on  close  in- 
spection strong  signs  of  incipient 
decay?  But  here  it  is  not  the 
moonlight  alone  which  has  glossed 
over  defects,  for  a  close  covering  of 
Canadian  vine,  that  most  beautiful 
of  tropical  creepers  which  have 
taken  root  in  our  soil,  has  drawn  its 
curtains  tightly  round  the  frail 
columns,  making  it  look  like  a  huge 
wren's  nest;  green  in  summer, 
dazzlingly  scarlet  in  autumn,  and  at 
this  moment  almost  black,  for  the 
moonlight  has  no  colours  —  only 
black  and  white. 

To  the  right  of  the  little  avenue, 
the  lawn  is  bordered  by  a  narrow 
stream.  A  quiet,  placid,  to  all 
appearances  a  well-behaved  little 
stream;  but  in  reality  its  course, 
from  want  of  proper  control,  has 
become  as  unruly  as  that  of  many 
a  wilder  -  looking  water.  It  has 
stepped  out  of  its  boundaries,  and 
encroached  on  the  grass  of  the 
lawn,  which  under  its  influence  has 


gradually  lost  its  firm  elasticity  and 
become  soft  and  spongy.  In  fact, 
the  wayward  rivulet  has  created 
quite  a  little  marsh  around  it,  where 
reeds  and  bulrushes  have  sprung 
up  in  place  of  the  short  tufts  of 
sward  which  once  covered  the 
ground.  At  one  spot,  in  the  very 
heart  of  the  marsh,  where  the  tall- 
est reeds  stand,  the  water  has 
formed  for  itself  a  deep  round  hole, 
where  it  seems  to  lie  and  sulk  like 
a  spoilt  child  hiding  its  face,  out  of 
reach  of  anything  less  airy  than 
a  dragon-fly  or  a  -gnat.  But  the 
moon  has  found  out  the  secret 
haunt,  and  likes  to  throw  her 
brightest  beams  into  the  very  depth 
of  the  pool,  forcing  the  dark  water 
to  smile ;  and  the  stalks  of  the 
reeds  look  black  by  contrast. 

There  is  movement  and  sound 
among  the  rushes  and  in  the  water 
— little  splashes  and  rustlings ; 
and  if  you  look  narrowly,  you  will 
see  many  little  dark  objects,  with- 
out any  definite  shape,  lying  immov- 
able on  the  surface  of  the  pool. 
Look  more  narrowly  still,  and  each 
of  the  shapeless  objects  will  stare 
at  you  with  idiotic  goggling  eyes, — 
countless  frogs  floating  lazily  in 
their  native  element,  and  recruiting 
strength  for  their  daily  concert. 

Across  the  avenue,  at  the  other 
side,  and  out  of  reach  of  the  mis- 
chievous stream,  the  lawn  presents 
a  better  figure.  Even  here  though, 
it  cannot  be  called  lawn — being  a 
cross-breed  between  a  hayfield  and 
an  orchard.  Some  tardy  MaiMfers  * 
are  buzzing  about,  round  and  round 
the  plum  and  apple  trees,  foolishly 
surprised  at  finding  no  blossoms. 
They  feel  out  of  place,  for  they 
have  miscalculated  their  time  by 
three  or  four  weeks,  and  find,  on 
unfolding  their  brown  wings  in  the 
world,  that  they  are  old-fashioned 
already,  and  that  butterflies  and 


Cockchafer. 


1879.] 


Reata ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  II. 


539 


ladybirds  are  the  queens  of  the  day. 
Mingled  with  the  fruit-trees,  and 
sometimes  piled  against  them,  are 
small  cocks  of  freshly-cut  hay,  not 
unlike  big  button-mushrooms,  both 
in  shape  and  colour,  for  they  are 
far  whiter  now  than  by  day.  Each 
little  cock  has  a  big  black  shadow 
beside  it,  much  more  conspicuous 
than  itself.  The  array  of  shadows 
is  almost  monotonous  in  its  unifor- 
mity :  but  stay — here  is  an  excep- 
tion ;  one  of  the  little  cocks  at  the 
extreme  end  of  the  field  has  got 
more  shadow  than  it  would  seem 
entitled  to.  The  rounded  outline 
is  broken  by  irregular  shapes,  which 
seem  less  impassable  than  their 
surroundings.  Subdued  voices  en- 
liven the  stillness  of  the  night,  and 
the  faint  odour  of  a  cigar  mingles 
with  the  perfume  of  the  hay. 

Gabrielle  had  made  herself  a 
comfortable  seat  on  the  top  of  the 
cock,  and  was  lazily  pulling  at  the 
hay,  with  apparently  no  more  ob- 
ject than  that  of  extracting  all  the 
withered  daisies  and  buttercups 
which  she  could  find.  Beside  her, 
on  the  edge  of  her  dress,  her  Italian 
greyhound  couched  in  an  attitude 
of  graceful  discomfort  —  its  long 
nose,  more  preternaturally  long 
than  usual,  sinking  drowsily  down 
upon  its  outstretched  paws. 

"  How  delightful  it  is  to  have 
Hermine  here,  isn't  it,  Arnold?" 
said  Gabrielle,  who  was  chiefly 
carrying  on  the  conversation.  "If 
only  Otto  were  with  us  also,  it 
would  be  quite  perfect.  What  is 
he  doing  now,  I  wonder?  What 
do  you  think  he  is  doing,  Ar- 
nold ? " 

The  cigar-puffs  went  on  steadily, 
and  no  answer  seemed  forthcoming 
to  this  sapient  question.  Gabrielle 
had  some  persistency  in  her,  and 
attempted  to  rouse  her  brother's 
attention  by  pricking  the  back  of 
his  neck  with  a  long  stiff  grass- 
stalk.  This  produced  some  effect. 


"  I  wonder  you  don't  ask  me 
what  I  think  all  Otto's  brother 
officers,  from  the  colonel  down- 
wards, are  doing  at  this  moment ! " 
he  exclaimed,  impatiently;  "my 
chances  of  knowing  would  be  just 
as  good  in  one  case  as  in  the 
other." 

Arnold  was  lying  in  a  posture  of 
oriental  ease,  stretched  almost  at 
full  length  on  the  grass.  Perhaps 
it  was  only  the  deceitful  moonlight 
which  made  it  appear  as  if  he  were 
lying  at  the  feet  of  Hermine.  Her- 
inine,  with  her  back  against  the 
haycock,  and  her  head  thrown 
back  upon  it,  was  occupied  in  doing 
nothing. 

The  moonlight  is  full  upon  her 
face,  and  here  also  its  touch  has  been 
favourable ;  for,  'seen  at  this  mo- 
ment, her  fine  features  in  strong  re- 
lief, the  colour  in  her  cheek  soft- 
ened to  a  delicate  tint,  and  the 
strange  light  glancing  along  the 
coils  of  her  heavy  flaxen  plaits,  she 
looks  positively  beautiful ;  whereas 
by  daylight  she  has  never  been 
called  more  uthan  a  handsome  girl. 
For  a  very  fastidious  taste,  the 
lines  about  the  mouth  and  chin  are 
too  heavy,  the  ripe  scarlet  lips  a 
trifle  too  full,  the  blue  eyes  some- 
what monotonous  in  their  unvary- 
ing sweetness  of  expression.  Her 
height  is  a  trying  one  for  a  woman  ; 
but  she  carries  herself  well,  if  with 
rather  too  much  stateliness.  In 
short,  the  tout  ensemble  of  her 
appearance  has  something  rather 
too  ponderous  for  a  girl,  but  which 
in  a  young  matron  would  be  quite 
in  place,  and  almost  perfection  for 
the  model  of  some  ancient  German 
heroine. 

"  I  wish  you  were  not  so  silent 
to-night,  Arnold,"  Gabrielle  began 
again  in  a  minute.  "I  wish  you 
would  talk.  Was  there  nothing 
more  in  Otto's  letter?  Why  does 
he  not  say  how  many  rooms  there 
are  in  aunt  Olivia's  house?  Or 


540 


Reata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  II. 


[May 


what  the  companion  is  like, — whe- 
ther she  is  young  or  old  1 " 

"What  can  it  matter,"  retorted 
Arnold,  making  a  change  in  his  ori- 
ental position,  "whether  there  are 
half-a-dozen  or  two  dozen  rooms  in 
the  house1?  or  whether  the  com- 
panion is  thirty  or  fifty  1 " 

"I  suppose  she  was  not  worth 
describing,"  Hermine  put  in,  mildly. 

There  was  silence  now  for  some 
minutes.  Gabrielle,  the  chief  talker, 
being  subdued  by  the  want  of  favour 
with  which  her  topics  of  conversa- 
tion had  been  received,  waited  for 
some  one  else  to  start  a  subject. 

No  one  seemed  inclined  to  do 
so — that  is,  no  one  but  the  frogs  at 
the  other  side  of  the  avenue.  A 
solitary  croak  was  heard  across  from 
the  marsh;  and  another  followed, 
and  again  another,  until  the  croak- 
ing voices,  answering  each  other, 
were  joined  in  a  monotonous,  over- 
powering concert.  Not  such  an  un- 
ruly concert  either,  as  might  be 
supposed  ;  for  the  pauses  and  be- 
ginnings are  evidently  regulated  by 
some  means  or  other.  I  have 
wondered  sometimes  what  these 
means  are ;  whether  it  is  some 
mysterious  instinct  which  sways 
the  amphibious  chorus,  or  whether 
they  follow  the  lead  of  some  one 
amongst  them,  who  acts  as  band- 
master to  the  rest. 

"  There  are  those  horrid  frogs 
again ! "  burst  out  Gabrielle,  for- 
getting her  resolutions  of  silence  ; 
"  wouldn't  Otto  be  savage  if  he 
were  here  !  Do  you  remember,  Her- 
mine, how  he  used  to  throw  stones 
at  them  to  make  them  be  quiet  1 " 

"  Poor  frogs  !  I  always  was  sorry 
for  them  ;  I  find  nothing  disagree- 
able in  the  sound.  On  the  contrary, 
I  never  fall  asleep  so  pleasantly  as 
when  listening  to  them." 

"  Oh,  how  can  you,  Hermine  ! " 
shrieked  Gabrielle,  with  horror ; 
"  fancy  listening  to  frogs  !  I 
always  shut  my  window  quite 


tight,  so  as  not  to  hear  their  vicious 
croaking  voices ;  and  sometimes  I 
have  to  put  wadding  in  my  ears,  or 
I  go  on  hearing  the  sound  even 
after  I  am  asleep,  and  they  haunt 
me  all  night." 

"  Now,  Gabrielle  dear,  are  you 
not  exaggerating  a  little1?"  put  in 
her  friend,  soothingly.  "  How  can 
you  get  so  excited  about  such  a 
trifle  1 " — for  in  truth  Gabrielle  had 
worked  herself  up  into  a  state  on 
the  subject  of  her  fancied  enemies. 
"  I  cannot  help  liking  the  frogs,  for 
they  remind  me  of  dear  Steinbuhl; 
and  I  always  miss  them,  even  at 
home." 

"I  -have  no  particular  objection 
to  the  animals,"  observed  Arnold, 
"as  long  as  they  remain  in  their 
proper  place  ;  but  we  certainly  had 
too  much  of  their  society  that  time 
ten  years,  ago,  when  Otto  and  I 
tried  to  drain  the  lawn,  and  only 
succeeded  in  swamping  the  cellar." 

"And  how  angry  Otto  was  with 
me,"  said  Gabrielle,  "because  T 
screamed  when  I  met  a  frog  on  the 
staircase  !  He  said  it  was  ungrate- 
ful of  me  to  east  up  the  frogs  in  his 
face,  after  he  had  taken  all  that 
trouble  to  rid  the  neighbourhood  of 
the  marsh." 

"  Yes,"  rejoined  Arnold ;  "  to 
this  day  Otto  cannot  bear  being 
laughed  at  about  the  matter.  He 
offered  to  repeat  the  experiment  at 
the  time,  but  the  joint  entreaties  of 
the  whole  family  prevailed  upon 
him  to  relinquish  his  project." 

A  pause,  broken  only  by  the 
croak,  croak,  croak  of  the  frogs 
yonder. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Gabrielle  at 
last,  "  what  we  will  be  doing  next 
June  *?  whether  we  will  all  sit  to- 
gether on  the  same  haycock,  as  we 
are  doing  to-night,  and  Otto  with 
us?  Do  you  think  so,  Arnold1?" 

"Do  I  think  the  haycock  will 
be  the  same?  Couldn't  you  have 
answered  that  question  without  re- 


1379.] 


Reata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  II. 


541 


ference  to  me  1  I  daresay  we  will 
be  sitting  on  some  haycock  or  other 
next  June,  and  find  it  quite  as 
pleasant  as  we  are  doing  now,"  he 
concluded,  with  an  odd  smile  lurk- 
ing about  the  corners  of  his  mouth. 
He  was  thinking  of  the  half-promise 
he  had  given  his  father,  and  in- 
stinctively his  eyes  sought  Her- 
mine's.  Some  foreshadowing  of  the 
truth  she  must  have  read  in  his,  for 
she  looked  away  from  him,  and,  as 
far  as  the  moonlight  would  let  one 
see,  her  colour  deepened. 

Next  June  !  How  long  the  time 
would  seem  till  the  summer  came  ! 
.and  yet  how  it  made  her  heart  beat 
to  think  of  what  it  must  bring  for 
her !  With  one  of  the  heart's 
strange  contradictions,  she  felt  re- 
lieved that  her  happiness  should  be 
postponed;  it  would  have  seemed 


too  overwhelming  had  she  stood  on 
its  brink. 

The  white  mist  was  rising  higher 
over  the  marsh,  and  Gabrielle  shiv- 
ered. Arnold  started,  and  rose  to 
his  feet.  He  too  had  been  thinking 
of  next  June,  and  had  forgotten  how 
bad  for  Gabrielle  the  night  air  was. 

That  night,  when  Hermine  was 
in  her  room,  she  stood  for  long  lean- 
ing out  of  the  window  into  the  full 
moonshine — watching  the  shadows 
which  fell  across  the  avenue,  and 
listening  to  the  dull  croaking  which 
she  said  she  liked,  and  which  had 
never '  sounded  to  her  so  melodious 
as  to-night. 

Her  window  was  left  open,  and 
in  falling  asleep  at  last,  the  only 
sound  which  the  night  air  carried 
up  to  her  was  still  the  same  mono- 
tonous croak,  croak,  croak. 


CHAPTER    IX. "  DER    HANDSCHUH. 


"  Herr  Ritter,  ist  eure  Lie!/  so  heiss, 
Wie  ihr  mir's  schwort  zu  jeder  Stund, 
Ei,  so  hebt  mir  den  Handschuh  auf ! " 

— SCHILLER. 


Croak,  croak,  croak  it  sounded 
in  at  the  open  window,  through 
which  the  morning  sun  was  begin- 
ning to  send  its  warm  rays. 

Reata  awoke  with  a  start,  and 
rubbed  her  eyes  violently.  It  was 
long  past  her  time  of  rising,  and 
there  was  no  disguising  the  fact 
that  she  had  overslept  herself — a 
thing  of  most  rare  occurrence. 

Past  eight  o'clock  actually,  the 
hour  when  she  usually  was  on  her 
return  from  her  morning's  walk 
in  the  forest !  It  was  provoking 
to  have  missed  it  to-day.  She  sat 
up  in  bed  and  looked  towards  the 
window  :  on  the  broad  low  sill  a 
large  green  tree-frog  was  squatting, 
giving  forth  at  intervals  the  boom- 
ing croak  which  had  roused  her 
from  her  slumber. 

Ficha  on  the  veranda  outside, 
with  one  paw  delicately  raised,  and 

VOL.  CXXV. NO.  DCCLXIII. 


her  upper  lip  drawn  up  ever  so 
slightly,  was  regarding  the  intruder 
with  an  air  of  profound  but  silent 
disgust.  To  bark  at  such  a  low 
animal  would  have  been  far  beneath 
her  dignity. 

"That  means  rain,"  said  Eeata, 
referring  to  the  frog,  not  to  Ficha, 
as  she  hastily  rose  and  rapidly  got 
through  her  toilet. 

Otto  had  been  watching  the 
house  impatiently  for  the  last  two 
hours ;  but  now,  fairly  wearied  out 
with  waiting,  he  resolutely  turned 
away  and  bent  his  steps  in  the 
direction  of  the  farm-buildings. 

"  I  must  have  a  look  at  that  roan 
again,"  he  said  to  himself — at  the 
same  time,  however,  glancing  back 
over  his  shoulder,  to  see  if  nobody 
was  yet  forthcoming. 

" Holloa!  what's  this?"  as  his 
attention  was  arrested  by  the  sight 
2  N 


542 


Reata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name.  — Part  II. 


[May 


of  a  freshly-painted  yellow  gig  (I 
don't  think  it  was  exactly  a  gig 
either,  in  the  correct  sense  of  the 
word;  but  it  was  more  like  a  gig 
than  anything  else),  evidently  just 
arrived,  for  the  tall  white  mare  was 
steaming  hot. 

Otto  put  up  his  hand  to  shade 
his  eyes  from  the  sun  and  obtain  a 
better  view  of  this  strange  vehicle ; 
but  at  the  same  moment  he  became 
aware  of  a  nearer  object,  a  man  in 
a  yellow  nankeen  suit,  walking 
briskly  towards  him.  The  colour 
alone  would  have  made  Otto  in- 
stinctively connect  the  man  with 
the  gig,  had  not  the  fact  of  the 
rarity  of  such  apparitions  pointed 
to  the  same  conclusion.  For  ten 
days  Otto  had  not  seen  a  new  face 
— for  it  was  ten  days  now  since  his 
arrival  here,  —  and  with  a  slight 
movement  of  something  like  excite- 
ment, he  unconsciously  quickened 
his  step  to  meet  this  fellow-creature. 
Human  nature  has  its  demands; 
and  any  man,  even  a  man  in  love, 
will  gladly  hail  the  first  face  he 
sees,  after  having  been  debarred 
from  society  for  any  length  of  time. 

In  Mexico,  ceremony  is  easily 
dispensed  with,  and  the  two  men 
had  soon  exchanged  greetings. 

The  wearer  of  the  yellow  nan- 
keen suit  was  short  and  broad  of 
stature ;  he  was  one  of  those  pain- 
fully fresh- coloured  men  often  met 
with  in  our  countries,  but  seldom 
in  the  tropics.  Such  men  have 
usually  got  thick  lips  and  bushy 
hair, — and  here  was  no  exception 
to  the  rule ;  for  the  crop  of  closely- 
cut  curls,  which  burst  from  under 
the  brim  of  his  wide  straw  hat,  was 
dense  enough  to  serve  for  founda- 
tion to  some  sorts  of  fancy-work : 
with  a  sharp  pair  of  scissors,  end- 
less patterns  could  have  been  traced 
on  it,  like  on  raised  velvet. 

In  age,  the  new-comer  presented 
an  appearance  of  about  thirty-five. 
The  first  thing  which  attracted 


attention  about  him  was  the  general 
air  of  self-satisfaction  which  per- 
vaded his  whole  person.  Moreover, 
there  was  a  very  perceptible  dash 
of  the  Hebrew  about  him  ;  and  the 
name  of  Herr  Emanuel  Fadenhecht, 
under  which  he  introduced  himself, 
served  to  give  colouring  to  this 
suggestion.  This  man  informed 
Otto,  further,  that  he  was  the 
junior  partner  of  the  attorney  at 

E ,  who  was  Miss  Bodenbach's 

banker  and  man  of  business. 

The  mention  of  business  made 
Otto  prick  up  his  ears.  "Come, 
this  is  just  the  sort  of  gushing 
fellow  I  want,"  he  thought ;  "  with 
a  little  skilful  pumping,  I  shall 
extract  lots  of  information  from 
him." 

After  the  unavoidable  prelimin- 
aries of  conversation,  Otto  made 
the  first  step  towards  pumping,  by 
saying,  in  a  studiously  careless 
tone,  "You  have  come,  I  presume, 
on  a  summons  from  Miss  Boden- 
bach?" 

"  Oh  yes,  just  so — on  a  sum- 
mons :  it  is  the  fourth  time  within 
the  last  two  months ;  that  makes  an 
average  of  once  a-fortnight.  Not 
so  bad,  is  it  ? "  and  Mr  Fadenhecht 
rubbed  his  hands  and  laughed,  in 
what  he  considered  to  be  a  pleas- 
ant manner. 

"Miss  Bodenbach  keeps  your  time 
well  employed  then,  it  seems  1"  Otto 
remarked,  carefully  removing  every 
particle  of  curiosity  from  his  voice. 

"Yes,  well  employed — well  em- 
ployed, that's  the  word  for  it," 
said  the  attorney,  shutting  one  eye, 
and  with  the  other  throwing  a 
sidelong  glance  on  his  companion. 

"  Have  you  any  notion  what  your 
mission  is  to-day  ? " 

"What  my  mission  is  to-day1? 
Oh  no,  not  the  slightest  notion — 
not  the  slightest  notion.  In  fact, 
I  may  say,  no  more  notion  than — 
than  you  have  ! "  and  Mr  Faden- 
hecht rubbed  his  hands  with  greater 


1879.] 


Reata;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  II. 


543 


force,  and  shook  all  over  with  the 
merriment  called  forth  by  his  joke. 

"  Is  the  animal  laughing  at  me, 
I  wonder1?"  was  Otto's  inward  re- 
flection, as  he  struggled  hard  to 
master  his  disgust.  It  would  not 
do  to  quarrel  with  the  man  yet ; 
he  might  still  prove  useful. 

The  other  went  on  talking  :  "  No, 
just  so,  not  the  slightest  notion; 
but  I  have  a  shrewd  suspicion  that 
it  is  something  of  importance." 

"  Beallyr  put  in  Otto,  languidly. 

"Yes,  just  so,  of  importance; 
maybe  of  great  importance.  My 
principal  would  have  come  himself 
if  it  had  been  possible  ;  but  then,  it 
was  not  possible.  In  fact,  I  may 
say,  it  was  impossible.  My  principal 
is  at  this  moment  on  his  back  with 
gout  in  his  right  leg" — here  Herr 
Emanuel,  by  way  of  greater  clear- 
ness, slapped  his  corresponding  limb 
in  a  way  which  made  Otto  shudder. 
"  He  suffers  acutely  from  gout.  In 
fact,  I  may  say " 

"Oh  yes,  I  suppose  he  does," 
broke  in  Otto,  for  they  were  getting 
near  the  house  now ;  "  and  so  you 
have  come  in  his  place  1 " 

"In  his  place,  yes,  just  so.  And 
I  have  a  notion  that  I  won't  fill 
his  place  so  badly  either.  It  is 
not  the  first  time,"  the  attorney 
went  on,  giving  his  not  over-white 
collar  a  pull  up  with  a  movement 
of  intense  complacency,  "  that  such 
missions  have  been  intrusted  to  me ; 
and  I  may  say  that  they  were  always 
accomplished  to  everybody's  satis- 
faction. Ladies,  you  know  " — here 
he  again  shut  one  eye,  and  this  time 
winked  with  the  other  —  "always 
prefer  a  young  man  to  an  old  one, 
even  in  matters  of  business.  Now 
I  could  tell  you  a  case,  two  years 
ago " 

"Look  here,  you'll  tell  me  all 
about  that  afterwards,"  interrupted 
Otto,  with  rather  more  warmth  than 
was  quite  consistent  with  his  role 
of  ennuye.  Then,  relapsing  into 


indifference,  "  There  won't  be  time 
for  it  now,  you  see :  we  will  have 
to  join  the  ladies  in  a  minute;  it 
must  be  quite  breakfast- time." 

Otto  tried  hard  to  get  up  an 
artificial  yawn,  and  then  to  stifle  it 
skilfully,  as  he  proceeded,  "What 
splendid  country  there  is  about 
here  !  I  have  not  begun  to  weary 
of  it  yet,  in  spite  of  not  having 
stirred  from  the  spot  for  ten  days." 

"  Oh  no,  not  begun  to  weary  of  it 
yet;  just  so,  I  quite  understand," 
with  a  knowing  look  and  a  smile, 
which  made  all  Otto's  blood  boil; 
but  hastily  stifling  his  indignation, 
for  the  moments  were  precious,  he 
remarked  that  the  establishment 
here  could  surely  not  be  an  expen- 
sive one  to  keep  up. 

"Expensive?  oh  dear,  no,  no 
such  thing.  I  admire  your  per- 
ception— ha,  ha,  ha  !  Rich  people 
have  got  their  cranks,  you  know, 
sometimes.  Yes,  I  may  say  their 
cranks,  in  different  ways.  Like  to 
save  their  money  in  order  to  hoard 
it  for  their  special  whims  and  hob- 
bies. Now  there  was  an  old  gentle- 
man"— Herr  Emanuel  threw  one 
more  sidelong  glance  on  his  com- 
panion, who  was  biting  his  lips  in 
silent  irritation — "an  old  gentleman 

who  died  two  years  ago  near , 

and  for  the  last  third  of  his  life  had 
been  living  at  the  rate  of  four  hun- 
dred dollars  per  annum.  Well,  he 
was  found  to  be  worth  a  hundred 
and  eighty  thousand  dollars — a  hun- 
dred and  eigh-ty  thou-sand  dollars, 
I  tell  you ;  and  he  left  every  penny 
of  it,  I  may  say,  to — ha,  ha,  ha  ! — 
to  the  Government,  for  the  purpose 
of  having  lightning-conductors  put 
on  all  the  public  edifices ;  and  the 
best  of  it  was,  that  they  all  had 
lightning  -  conductors  already,  ha, 
ha  !  Yes,  they  all  have  their  whims, 
young  and  old,  I  say,  and  more  es- 
pecially if  they  belong  to  the  fair 
sex — ha,  ha,  ha  !  " 

They  were  just  outside  the  ver- 


544 


Reata;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  II. 


anda  now,  and  Otto,  feeling  that  he 
could  not  prolong  the  conversation 
without  losing  his  temper,  made  a 
move  to  go  in,  by  saying,  "You 
must  be  ready  for  your  breakfast 
after  your  long  drive,  and  my  aunt 
will  be  wondering  what  has  become 
of  me." 

Mr  Fadenhecht  turned  towards 
Otto  and  looked  at  him  full  for  a 
moment. 

"Ah  yes,  your  aunt ;  you  call  her 
your  aunt,  just  so." 

"  Well,  perhaps  not  exactly  aunt, 
if  you  take  the  matter  quite  cor- 
rectly— rather  first  cousin  once  re- 
moved; but  as  she  belongs  to 
another  generation,  it  is  the  most 
natural  to  call  her  aunt.  -  The  re- 
lationship is  rather  complicated  ;  I 
don't  exactly  know  what  to  call 
it." 

He  was  conscious  of  having 
spoken  with  an  assumption  of  dig- 
nity; but  it  failed  to  impress  the 
auditor. 

"  Ah  yes,  just  so,  I  quite  under- 
stand," Mr  Fadenhecht  went  on, 
speaking  half  to  himself,  while  a 
smile  of  amusement  played  upon 
his  unhandsome  features.  "  The 
relationship  is  complicated,  very 
complicated;  relationships  usually 
are.  Relationships  have  got  their 
conveniences  and  their  ^conven- 
iences, and  sometimes  they  turn 
out  not  to  be  relationships  at  all ; 
^convenient  would  it  not  be,  eh? 
If  you  take  the  matter  quite  cor- 
rectly— ha,  ha,  ha  !  —  your  aunt, 
just  so.  I  can't  make  out,  by  the 
by,  how  your  aunt  can  live  so 
quietly  here  alone  —  quite  out  of 
the  world,  I  may  say;  and  with 
the  exception  of  stray  nephews 
who " 

"  But  my  aunt  is  not  quite  alone 
at  any  time,"  Otto  broke  in,  almost 
hotly;  "she  has  always  got  her 

companion,   Miss — Miss "   and 

here  suddenly  he  paused ;  and  it 
flashed  upon  his  mind  that  he  had 


been  ten  days  in  the  house,  and  did 
not  know  Reata's  family  name.  No, 
he  did  not  know  her  name.  He 
had  been  in  love  with  her  for  ten 
whole  days,  and  knew  nothing  more 
but  that  she  was  called  Reata.  That 
one  word  had  contained  so  much 
for  him  that  he  had  not  thought  of 
asking  more,  and  nobody  had  volun- 
teered the  information. 

"  Her  companion  ?  Oh  yes  " — 
and  Otto  felt  as  if  he  could  have 
kicked  the  man  for  his  odious  affec- 
tation of  forgetfulness — "your  aunt's 
companion,  just  so ;  but  then,  I  al- 
ways think  that  you  get  very  little 
companionship  from  companions. 
Ha,  ha,  ha  !  Not  bad,  that." 

"  What  is  her  name — her  family 
name,  I  mean  1 "  asked  Otto,  speak- 
ing very  quickly;  for  they  were 
already  in  the  passage. 

"  Her  name  ?  The  name  of  your 
aunt's  companion  ?  Why,  don't  you 
know  it1?  She  has  got  a  German 
name.  Her  mother " 

"Oh  yes ;  I  know  all  about  her 
family,"  interrupted  the  other,  ha- 
stily, dreading  to  hear  another  ac- 
count of  the  dispossessed  Indian 
chieftain  ;  "  but  I  don't  know  her 
name."  And  he  had  not  finished 
saying  it  when  the  absurdity  of 
the  idea  struck  him. 

"  What  a  hurry  you  are  in  to 
hear  the  name  of  your  aunt's  com- 
panion ! "  answered  the  other,  with 
exasperating  slowness.  "She  has 
got  a  German  name,  I  tell  you. 
Yes,  a  German  name ;  just  so.  I 
only  heard  it  for  the  first  time  my- 
self a  few  months  ago,  and  it  was  by 
the  merest  chance — by  an  unfore- 
seen chance,  I  may  say." 

"What  is  her  name?  Quick  !  " 
Otto  had  his  hand  on  the  door- 
handle. 

"Just  so ;  I  am  coming  to  that." 

"Her  name?"  said  Otto  imperi- 
ously. 

"  Lackenegg." 

They  were  almost  in  the  room 


1879." 


Reata  ;  or,  Wliafs  in  a  Name. — Part  II. 


545 


before  the  last  word  was  said,  and 
Reata,  who  was  making  coffee  at 
the  other  end,  might  have  heard 
it ;  for  Otto  distinctly  saw  her  give 
a  start  as  she  turned  round  and 
caught  sight  of  his  companion.  In 
coming  towards  them  she  looked 
pale,  almost  frightened,  and  glanced 
nervously  from  one  to  the  other. 
Without  giving  any  one  time  to 
speak,  she  greeted  the  attorney 
with  what  Otto  considered  to  be 
superfluous  politeness. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr  Faden- 
hecht  ?  I  am  afraid  you  have  had 
a  very  hot  drive.  We  hardly  ex- 
pected you  so  early.  And  so  Mr 
Le-Vendeur  was  not  able  to  come. 
Poor  dear  old  man  !  I  suppose  it 
is  the  gout  again?  You  must  tell 
him  how  sorry  we  are." 

While  she  rattled  on  with  un- 
wonted volubility,  Reata  kept  her 
eyes  fixed  full  on  the  attorney's 
face,  with  a  look  half  questioning, 
half  commanding.  Of  Otto  she 
had  taken  no  notice  whatever  as 
yet ;  and  this  he  felt  to  be  strange, 
for  her  greetings  to  him  of  late  had 
been  very  friendly — sometimes  he 
had  ventured  to  hope  almost  more 
than  friendly.  While  speaking, 
she  had  been  nervously  fumbling 
in  her  pocket,  and  now  abruptly 
broke  off  her  phrase  with,  '« I  must 
have  left  my  keys  on  the  veranda. 
Baron  Bodenbach, — no,  not  you, 
Mr  Fadenhecht,"  as  Herr  Emanuel, 
who  as  yet  had  been  able  to  do 
nothing  beyond  bowing  and  rub- 
bing his  hands,  was  about  to  make 
a  polite  rush  —  "you  are  to  stay 
here.  I  am  sure  Baron  Bodenbach 
will  be  so  kind." 

This  said  with  increasing  nervous- 
ness; and  Otto  noticed  that  she  had 
grown  very  red,  and  was  squeezing 
up  little  bread-pellets  between  her 
fingers.  "You  will  find  them  in 
the  big  hammock,  I  think,  or,  if 
not,  in  Ficha's  basket.  Do  go 
quick;  for  I  want  to  make  tea," 


she  called  after  him,  as  Otto  almost 
reluctantly  left  the  room. 

He  was  surprised  and  hurt  by 
her  manner  and  her  evident  wish 
to  get  rid  of  him.  "  What  on  earth 
has  come  over  her,  I  wonder  ? "  he 
reflected,  bitterly.  "  She  is  quite 
changed  since  last  night.  Make 
tea,  indeed  !  Pshaw  !  " 

In  order  to  get  to  the  ham- 
mocks he  had  to  pass  the  window, 
and  in  passing  just  caught  a  glimpse 
of  Reata  standing  near  Mr  Faden- 
hecht, and  talking  to  him  with 
great  earnestness,  but  evidently 
with  lowered  voice,  for  fear  of  be- 
ing overheard.  Even  had  it  not 
been  so,  Otto  was  a  gentleman,  and 
could  not  have  spied  on  her  ac- 
tions. So,  turning  his  back  upon 
them  with  a  feeling  of  disgust,  he 
strode  off  towards  the  end  of  the 
veranda.  Mechanically  he  turned 
out  the  hammock  and  Ficha's  bas- 
ket, but  found  no  keys.  The  win- 
dow had  to  be  repassed ;  and  this 
time  he  kept  his  back  towards  it  as 
much  as  possible,  and  resolutely 
looked  away.  But  the  sound  of 
Reata's  voice,  which  reached  his 
ears,  made  his  spirit  fume  within 
him. 

"What  can  she  have  to  say  to 
that  low  cad  ?  Something  I  am 
not  to  hear.  I  am  sure  I  have  no 
wish  to  do  so.  Sending  me  to  look 
for  keys,  like"  a  baby,  just  to  keep 
me  quiet  !  Why  couldn't  she  speak 
out,  and  say  that  she  had  confi- 
dences to  make  to  this  fellow  ?  Of 
course  I  can  respect  her  secrets — 
haven't  the  slightest  curiosity  on 
the  subject ;  wonder  what  it  was, 
though." 

He  felt  put  out,  snubbed,  gene- 
rally ill-used;  and  what  added  to 
his  irritation  was  the  inward  con- 
sciousness that  the  process  of 
"  pumping "  Herr  Emanuel,  from 
which  he  had  hoped  such  great 
things,  had  turned  out  a  most  de- 
plorable failure.  In  spite  of  his 


546 


jReata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  II. 


[May 


unrestrained  manner  and  seeming- 
ly random  mode  of  conversation, 
that  offensive  but  acute  individual 
had  managed  to  answer  all  Otto's 
questions,  and  to  respond  to  all  his 
suggestions,  without  letting  him 
gain  a  single  point  of  information. 

Otto  decided  that  he  was  far  too 
furious  to  go  back  to  breakfast ;  he 
would  leave  them  plenty  of  time 
for  their  secrets,  and  smoke  a  cigar 
out  here  alone.  He  repeated 
"alone"  several  times  to  himself, 
as  if  enjoying  the  dismal  sound  of 
the  word.  By  the  time  the  cigar 
was  lit  the  pangs  of  hunger  began 
to  assert  themselves,  and  it  is 
doubtful  how  long  his  resolution 
would  have  held  out  if  he  had  not 
at  that  moment  encountered  aunt 
Olivia  ;  and  unable  to  explain 
satisfactorily  the  reason  of  his  soli- 
tary grandeur,  he  accompanied  her 
back  into  the  house  and  the  break- 
fast-room. 

Reata  and  the  attorney  were  in 
much  the  same  positions  as  he  had 
left  them  in — she  pouring  out  coffee 
at  the  table,  and  he  planted  with 
his  back  towards  the  window,  rub- 
bing his  hands  with  irrepressible 
glee. 

"  I  wish  he  would  rub  the  skin 
off  them  ! "  thought  Otto,  amiably, 
as  he  took  his  place  at  the  table, 
and  noticed  with  inward  disquietude 
Reata's  heightened  colour. 

"Your  humble  servant,  Miss 
Bodenbach,"  said  Mr  Fadenhecht, 
advancing  towards  the  old  lady, 
speaking  with  disjointed  slowness, 
and  in  a  tone  of  most  profound  re- 
spect, which  Otto  at  once  set  down 
as  servile  cringiness;  "I  hope  I 
have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  in 
good  health." 

Not  a  word  was  said  about  the 
keys ;  Reata  did  not  inquire,  and 
evidently  did  not  expect  to  get 
them :  and  Otto's  temper  was  not 
improved  when,  after  a  moment,  he 
discovered  that  they  were  sticking 


in  the  tea-caddy,  and  must  have 
been  there  safely  before  he  went  on 
his  fruitless  hunt. 

His  aunt's  presence  he  felt  to  be 
a  relief;  and  during  the  rest  of 
breakfast  he  devoted  his  conversa- 
tion, such  as  it  was,  chiefly  to  her. 

Reata,  on  the  contrary,  having 
recovered  her  equanimity,  showed 
an  unusual  amount  of  high  spirits, 
and  went  011  talking  with  almost 
feverish  gaiety  to  Mr  Fadenhecht, 
whose  humour  waxed  more  radiant 
every  moment,  while  the  friction 
of  his  hands  grew  proportionately 
more  violent. 

In  spite  of  the  icy  answers, 
barely  civil  sometimes,  which  was 
all  Otto  vouchsafed  to  give,  he 
carried  on  the  conversation  across 
the  table  with  imperturbable  bland- 
ness  ;  and  further,  to  Otto's  infinite 
disgust,  took  to  calling  him  "my 
dear  Baron." 

"Only  fancy  my  having  over- 
slept myself  to-day  ! "  said  Reata, 
when  breakfast  was  nearly  over. 
"  Just  to-day  of  all  days  !  " 

"Why just  to-day?"  Otto  could 
not  forbear  inquiring. 

She  had  caught  herself  up  in 
her  phrase,  and  now  answered  im- 
patiently, "  Never  mind,  it  is  noth- 
ing that  need  concern  you.  My  over- 
sleeping was  on  a  grand  scale  too," 
she  went  on,  quickly,  "  for  it  was 
past  eight  o'clock  when  I  awoke." 

"  Yes,  it  was  quite  that,"  said 
Otto,  eagerly.  "  I  thought  you 
must  be  ill  when  you  had  not 
appeared  for  two  hours  after  your 
usual  time;  and  Ficha  seemed  to 
think  the  same,  for  no  supplica- 
tions or  arguments  would  induce 
her  to  abandon  her  guard  in  front 
of  your  window  and  come  out 
walking  with  me." 

"Ah,  you  don't  know  the  Blos- 
som's character,  or  you  would  not 
have  wasted  your  eloquence  in  that 
way  ! " 

"  Two   hours  is  a  long  time   to 


1879.] 


Reata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  II. 


547 


wait,  my  dear  Baron,  is  it  not1?" 
remarked  Mr  Fadenhecht,  insinuat- 
ingly. 

,  "  It  depends  what  you  are  wait- 
ing for,"  was  Otto's  answer ;  and 
then  in  the  next  minute  Mr  Faden- 
hecht,  after  indulging  in  one  more 
wink,  and  muttering,  "  Ah  yes, 
what  you  are  waiting  for,  just  so," 
with  an  air  of  intense  delight,  got 
up,  and  declared  himself  at  the 
ladies'  service,  mentioning  at  the 
same  time  that  he  would  have  to 
be  off  in  an  hour. 

Otto  left  the  room,  saying  some- 
thing about  not  wishing  to  disturb 
them,  but  half  expecting  to  be 
called  back  and  invited  to  assist 
at  the  conference.  No  such  sum- 
mons came,  however ;  and  betaking 
himself  to  the  room  which  served 
as  sitting-room,  he  threw  himself 
luxuriously  on  to  an  ottoman,  and 
prepared  to  wile  away  the  time  by 
smoking.  Having  smoked  for  three 
minutes  he  began  to  find  the  time 
heavy,  and  stretching  his  hand 
towards  the  little  bookcase  beside 
him,  he  pulled  out  a  book,  bound 
in  green  leather  —  a  worn,  faded 
volume,  which  had  once  been  hand- 
some. '  Schiller's  Balladen '  was 
printed  both  on  the  cover  and  title- 
page.  On  the  fly-leaf  there  was, 
besides,  written  in  a  well-known 
hand,  "  To  my  dearest,  beloved 
cousin  Olivia,  from  her  loving 
cousin  Walter  Bodenbacli.  June 
1836." 

Thirty-six  years  ago  !  There  is 
something  strange  in  seeing  a  hand- 
writing so  intimately  familiar  dated 
so  far  back,  before  we  were  born 
or  thought  of. 

"  Beloved — loving,"  mused  Otto, 
inwardly;  and  somehow  the  idea 
of  his  old  father's  attachment  did 
not  seem  to  him  half  as  absurd  as 
it  had  done  three  weeks  ago. 

He  skimmed  through  the  pages  : 
Kampf  mit  dem  Drachen,  Tauclier, 
Alpenj tiger,  Ritter  Toggenburg, — 


here  the  page  opened  more  easily, 
for  there  was  a  dried  flower,  a  little 
sprig  of  lilac,  keeping  the  place  as 
book-mark,  as  old  as  the  book,  and 
without  a  particle  of  colour  or  scent 
remaining  about  it;  only  on  the 
page  opposite  it  had  left  a  deep 
purplish  -  green  stain,  which  ren- 
dered the  first  verse  almost  illegible, 
and  penetrated  through  the  next 
few  leaves. 

He  had  not  read  the  ballad  for 
years — not  since  he  was  a  school- 
boy; and  it  seemed  to  him  as  if 
he  were  reading  it  for  the  first  time, 
so  different  was  the  meaning  it  con- 
veyed. 

The  opening  of  the  breakfast- 
room  door  aroused  his  attention, 
and  this  sound  was  immediately 
followed  by  the  departure  of  Mr 
Fadenhecht  from  the  house.  In 
the  next  second  Reata  entered  the 
room,  and  began  giving  vent  to 
her  relief. 

"  Thank  heaven,  that  odious  man 
is  gone  ! "  she  exclaimed,  sitting 
down  on  a  low  stool  near  the  win- 
dow. "I  usually  lose  my  temper 
with  him,  but  this  time  I  think  I 
managed  pretty  well." 

"Yes,  I  think  so,"  said  Otto, 
with  a  shade  of  stiffness  in  his 
voice,  at  the  same  time  flinging 
down  the  open  volume  of  Schiller, 
face  downwards,  on  the  table  beside 
him. 

"What  have  you  got  hold  of 
there  ? "  she  said,  taking  it  up. 
"  Schiller  ! "  looking  at  him  with 
an  odd  sparkle  in  her  eyes.  "  Have 
you  been  admiring  the  illustrations  ? 
It  is  a  very  precious  volume,  you 
know." 

"  I  suppose  it  is,"  he  answered, 
not  quite  knowing  in  what  sense 
this  was  meant. 

"  You  must  not  fling  it  down  in 
that  way,"  went  on  Reata,  with 
the  air  of  admonishing  a  child ; 
"the  Ancient  Giraffe  dotes  upon 
the  book." 


548 


Reata  ;  or,  Wliat's  in  a  Name. — Part  II. 


[May 


"  So  I  should  guess,  from  the 
inscription  on  the  fly-leaf.  I  think 
I  have  heard  of  this  book  before. 
I  fancy  it  was  one  of  the  things 
which  my  father  sent  messages 
about." 

"  Oh,  I  daresay,"  answered  Reata, 
as  she  turned  over  the  pages.  "  Your 
father  gave  you  a  great  many  mes- 
sages for  your  aunt,  did  he  not  1 " 

"  Yes,  a  good  many." 

"It  has  been  a  lifelong  attach- 
ment, then1?"  asked  Eeata,  turning 
over  another  page,  "  on  his  side  ?  " 

"  On  both  sides,  apparently," 
laughed  Otto,  lightly. 

"  Ah  !  you  think  so  1 "  She 
looked  up  with  that  same  odd 
sparkle  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  only  judge  from  appear- 
ances." 

"  Appearances  are  very  deceitful 
— very,"  and  she  shook  her  head 
mysteriously. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  he  asked, 
in  utter  bewilderment.  "  You  have 
just  been  telling  me  that  she  dotes 
upon  this  book." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mean  anything  -} 
I  was  only  thinking  how  delusive 
our  hopes  sometimes  are." 

"For  instance,  those  which  my 
father  has  been  cherishing  ? " 

"  For  instance,  those  which  your, 
father  has  been  cherishing." 

"  On  the  subject  of  my  aunt's 
constancy  1 " 

"  On  the  subject  of  your  aunt's 
constancy." 

"  Well,  his  delusion  need  not  be 
disturbed.  In  the  eyes  of  the 
world  she  has  been  constant,  since 
she  has  remained  single  all  her  life." 

Reata  raised  her  head  again 
quickly,  and  laughed.  "  Oh  no, 
there  is  nothing  to  prevent  him — 
let  him  remain  deluded." 

"  You  persist  in  talking  of  de- 
lusions 1 " 

"I  persist." 

4 'But  how  can  that  be  V 


"  Don't  ask  any  more  questions  ; 
it  is  not  a  proper  subject  for  dis- 
cussion,"— she  put  her  finger  on  her 
lips.  "  I  have  told  you  too  much 
already." 

"  Then  I  suppose  the  evidence 
of  that  dried  lilac  is  not  to  be 
trusted  ? " 

"  So  that  is  what  you  call  lilac," 
she  said,  putting  down  the  book 
on  her  knee  and  examining  the 
bleached  flower.  "  I  should  like 
to  see  a  fresh  lilac  growing." 

"  Would  you  ?  We  have  got 
lots  of  them  at  Steinbuhl,"  and 
Otto  thought  how  much  he  should 
enjoy  showing  them  to  her. 

"What  a  stain  this  one  h as- 
made  !  Look,  it  has  gone  right 
through  and  made  the  Hitter's 
beard  purple  !  What  a  figure  he 
looks  ! "  she  went  on,  holding  up, 
for  Otto's  criticism,  the  representa- 
tion of  a  distressingly  meagre 
elderly  hermit,  sitting  on  a  bench  r 
the  height  of  which  had  been  con- 
siderably overcalculated,  even  for 
his  lengthy  lower  limbs,  for  they 
hung  down  limply,  terminating  in 
a  pair  of  ponderous  extremities, 
very  like  the  weights  of  a  kitchen 
clock.  His  half -opened  mouth 
seemed  in  immediate  expectation 
of  the  so  greatly-wanted  nourish- 
ment, but  in  reality  was  meant  to 
express  admiration  and  rapturous 
attention  in  the  movements  of  a 
plain-faced  nun  who  was  simper- 
ing at  him  from  behind  an  iron 
grating. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  anything  half 
as  frightful  1 "  Reata  continued, 
rubbing  the  knight's  face  with  her 
pocket-handkerchief.  "Beards  are 
things  I  have  got  no  patience  with." 
"  They  are  very  harmless,  surely," 
— and  Otto  instinctively  put  up 
his  hand,  and  stroked  his  beard  of 
six  weeks'  growth.  "  Why  should 
men  not  wear  them  if  it  happens 
to  suit  them?" 


1879.] 


Reata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  II. 


549 


"Why  should  they  wear  them, 
rather  ?  "  she  returned,  indignantly. 
"  Why  should  not  women  always 
go  about  with  veils  over  their  faces, 
if  it  suits  them  ?  A  man  can  be 
anything  under  his  beard ;  and  any- 
body can  be  good  -  looking  when 
planted-out  in  that  manner.  I  am 
bound  to  confess,  though,  that  even 
that  has  not  saved  the  Eitter.  You 
were  reading  the  ballad,  were  you 
not  1  How  far  had  you  got  ?  " 

Otto  said  he  had  got  to  the  pas- 
sage where  the  Bitter  is  described 
as  covering  his  noble  limbs  with 
hairy  garments. 

"  I  will  finish  it  for  you ;  may  1 1 
I  am  particularly  fond  of  reading 
aloud : — 

"  '  Blickte  nach  dem  Kloster  driiben, 

Blickte  stundenlang 
Nach  dem  Fenster  seiner  Lieben, 

Bis  das  Fenster  klang, 
Bis  die  Liebliche  sich  zeigte, 

Bis  das  theure  Bild 
Sich  ins  Thai  herunter  neigte, 

Euliig,  engelmild.' 

"  There  now  !  "  Reata  exclaimed, 
breaking  off  abruptly;  "that  is 
what  always  makes  me  angry." 

"Angry  at  what?"  asked  Otto, 
in  some  astonishment. 

"  Why,  at  this  way  of  going  on, 
making  eyes  at  a  man  for  half  a 
lifetime.  Why  could  she  not  know 
her  own  mind  from  the  beginning, 
and  marry  him  instead  of  going 
into  the  convent?" 

"  But  if  she  did  not  care  for 
the  man  It "  Otto  ventured  to  sug- 


"  Then  she  should  have  asked  her 
lady-superioress  to  give  her  another 
room  at  the  back  of  the  convent, 
from  which  the  Bitter  could  not 
have  seen  her.  Fancy  letting  that 
scarecrow  of  a  man  goggle  up  at 
her  window  day  after  day  !  What 
a  bad  example  for  the  younger 
nuns ! " 

Otto  burst  out  laughing. 


"You  are  rather  hard  on  the 
poet,  I  think,  Fraulein  Reata;  ap- 
parently he  is  not  a  favourite  of 
yours." 

Reata  looked  at  him  warningly. 

"  Please  take  care,  Baron  Boden- 
bach,  or  you  will  be  asking  me 
whether  I  like  Schiller,  in  the  same 
way  you  asked  me  whether  I  liked 
flowers;  and  I  will  have  to  give 
you  the  same  answer.  You  might 
as  well  ask  me  whether  I  like  you.. 
]S"ow  you  have  said  a  great  many 
stupid  things,  and  some  rather  good 
ones.  Some  of  Schiller's  poems  I 
cannot  endure ;  while  others  I  could 
read  every  day  of  my  life,  and  never 
tire  of.  Look,  here  on  the  next 
page  is  one  of  my  favourite  ones, 
'  Der  Handschuh,'" —  and  Reata 
began  reading  in  her  clear  vibrat- 
ing voice. 

She  read  this  far  differently,  for 
she  was  reading  con  amore;  it  was 
with  passion  almost  that  she  gave 
the  last  verse — 

"  Aber  mit  zartlicliem  Liebesblick — 
Er  verheisst  ihm  sein  nab.es  Gliick — 
Empfangt  ihn  Fraulein  Kunigunde. 
Und  er  wirft  ilir  den  Handschuh  ins 

Gesicht : 

'  Den  Dank,  Dame,  begelir'  ichnicht ! ' 
Und  verlasst  sie  zur  selben  Stunde." 

"It  is  splendid ! "  said  Otto, 
when  she  had  done ;  "  but  in  this 
instance  you  have  decidedly  more 
right  to  disapprove  of  the  lady's 
conduct  than  you  had  in  the  last." 

"  But  I  do  not  disapprove  of  it," 
replied  Reata,  closing  up  the  book 
with  a  bang,  her  cheeks  still  glow- 
ing with  the  excitement  of  reading  ; 
"  I  quite  enter  into  her  sentiments." 

"  You  don't  mean  that  seriously, 
do  you  ? " 

"  I  wish  you  would  remember, 
Baron  Bodenbach,  that  I  always 
mean  everything  seriously.  I  do 
quite  agree  with  Fraulein  Kuni- 
gunde. How  is  an  unfortunate 


550 


Reata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  II. 


[May 


woman  to  know  what  a  man's  love 
is  worth,  unless  she  has  tested  it  ? " 

"  But  she  need  not  test  it  in 
such  a  violent  manner.  Supposing 
he  had  lost  his  life  in  the  experi- 
ment, what,  then,  would  have  been 
her  feelings  1 " 

"  Oh,  in  that  case  she  would 
have  bewailed  him  all  her  life,  and 
deluged  his  grave  with  tears;  at 
least  not  exactly  grave,  for  I  sup- 
pose the  poor  man  would  not  have 
had  one  if  he  had  been  eaten  up — 
but  something  equivalent.  Surely 
that  would  have  been  reward 
enough  for  him." 

"  Rather  a  sorry  sort  of  reward," 
remarked  Otto,  sotto  voce;  then 
aloud,  "but  surely  you  would  not 
be  as  cruel  as  Kunigunde  ? " 

"  Why  should  you  call  it  cruel  1 
After  all,  she  was  risking  her  own 
happiness  as  much  as  his  life.  All 
tests  are  fair  in  love.  Do  you  not 
think  so  ? " 

"  Yes ;  all  tests  are  fair  in  love/' 
acquiesced  Otto,  a  little  dreamily, 
feeling  at  that  moment  ready  to 
subscribe  to  any  sentiments,  how- 
ever extravagant,  as  long  as  they 
fell  from  her  lips ;  and  as  he 
watched  her  face,  the  thought 


crossed  his  mind,  that  with  her 
uncontrolled  spirit  and  her  strange 
bringing-up  she  was  not  a  wonmn 
to  be  turned  easily  from  her  end, 
no  matter  what  the  means  might 
be. 

"  Then  I  suppose  you  think  the 
Knight  Delorges  an  unmannered 
ruffian  for  throwing  the  glove  in  her 
face  and  leaving  her  1 " 

"  No,  not  exactly  that  either," 
she  said,  reflectively.  "  I  am  not 
angry  with  him.  It  was  not  his 
fault  if  the  trial  was  too  great  for 
his  affection  —  but  I  pity  him. 
Now  I  must  go  to  the  Giraffe  "- 
she  interrupted  herself  suddenly — 
"  we  have  got  letters  to  write,  and 
I  find  that  I  am  getting  into  a  habit 
of  wasting  half  my  day  in  talking 
to  you." 

She  passed  him  and  left  the 
room,  and  as  her  quick  step  went 
down  the  passage,  he  could  still 
hear  her  declaiming  to  herself — 

' '  Herr  Ritter,  ist  eure  Lieb'  so  heiss, 
Wie  ihr  mir's  schwort  zu  jeder  Stund, 
Ei,  so  hebt  mir  den  Handschuh  auf  ! " 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  could  have 
fetched  the  glove  for  her,"  said 
Otto  to  himself. 


1879.] 


Some  Aspects  of  the  Present  French  Republic. 


551 


SOME   ASPECTS    OF   THE   PRESENT    FRENCH    REPUBLIC. 


LARGELY  as  the  various  recent 
Governments  of  France  have  been 
abused  during  their  brief  lifetimes, 
it  has  never  been  till  after  their 
decease  that  the  true,  full,  thorough 
vastness  of  the  hate  provoked  by 
each  of  them  has  been  clearly  demon- 
strated. The  alluring  but  puzzling 
principle  that  "  no  man  should  be 
called  happy  till  he  dies,"  is  mani- 
festly inapplicable  to  them,  for  they 
have  all  passed  through  such  a  ter- 
ribly bad  time  after  death,  that  if 
any  one  of  them  was  ever  really 
"happy"  at  all,  it  could,  clearly, 
have  only  been  while  it  was  still 
alive.  Judging  from  this  frequent- 
ly renewed  experience,  we  may 
fairly  take  it  as  probable  that  the 
actual  Republic  offers  an  infinitely 
less  unattractive  picture  at  this 
moment  than  it  can  possibly  present 
after  it  has  been  destroyed.  Con- 
sequently, as  the  duration  of  its 
existence  is  eminently  uncertain,  as 
it  may,  perhaps,  like  some  of  its 
predecessors,  grow  uglier  with  years, 
and  as  we  may  feel  unhesitatingly 
confident  that  it  will  become  abso- 
lutely hideous  in  the  eyes  of  the 
French  themselves  directly  it  has  a 
successor,  there  is  every  advantage 
in  contemplating  it  while  it  still 
breathes,  acts,  and  is.  It  has  not  yet 
had  time  to  become  much  disfigured 
by  age,  excesses,  or  disease,  and  is  pro- 
bably as  little  ugly  just  now  as  it  is 
ever  likely  to  be ;  indeed,  for  any- 
thing we  know  to  the  contrary,  this 
is  perhaps  the  precise  moment  of 
its  extremest  loveliness,  the  exact 
instant  at  which  it  is  looking  its 
utmost  best,  at  which  it  will  be 
most  courteous  and  most  flattering 
to  it  to  sketch  its  portrait.  So  as, 
for  those  reasons,  we  are  sure  we 
cannot  be  unjust  to  it  in  noting  its 
features  and  expression  now,  let 


us  see  what  it  looks  like  to  us. 
We  will  be  generous  enough  to  give 
the  front  place  to  what  can  be  said 
against  it ;  the  arguments  in  its 
favour — which  we  will  carefully 
enumerate — will  produce  more  effect 
if  they  are  brought  forward  last. 

Without  counting  the  smaller  in- 
dictments, four  principal  accusa- 
tions are  laid  by  a  good  many  of 
the  French  at  the  door  of  their  pre- 
sent Republic  :  they  reproach  it  for 
its  origin,  for  its  Radical  tendencies, 
for  the  persistent  mediocrity  of  its 
representatives,  for  its  want  of  ex- 
ternal dignity.  Let  us  look  at  these 
charges  successively. 

First,  as  to  its  birth — about 
which  many  nasty  things  have  been 
said.  It  is  true  that  there  was  a 
good  deal  of  apparent  irregularity 
around  its  cradle;  it  is  true  that 
the  child  saw  the  light  in  the  gutter, 
in  the  midst  of  riot  and  violence, 
and  that  its  father  was  never  identi- 
fied. But,  after  all,  those  facts  sup- 
ply no  conclusive  proof  that  its 
parents  were  not  reputable  persons, 
with  an  avowable  position  in  the 
world.  Its  mother,  at  all  events,  was 
perfectly  well  known;  she  was  one 
of  those  stern  females  whose  rugged 
virtue  crushes  all  imputation,  the 
whisper  of  whose  name  suffices  alone 
to  silence  scandal.  Her  resolute 
uncompromising  morality  bestowed 
unquestionable  legitimacy  on  her 
offspring ;  she  was  exactly  the  sort 
of  progenitor  required  for  a  Repub- 
lic ;  she  was — Necessity. 

But  though  it  is  just  to  cordially 
acknowledge  that  the  babe  was  born 
of  what  looks  like  an  unimpeachable 
stock,  it  is  not  possible  to  deny  that 
its  early  advantages  all  ended  there, 
and  that  the  other  beginnings  of  its 
existence  were  singularly  unsatisfac- 
tory. As  soon  as  its  rigid  mother  had 


552 


Some  Aspects  of  the  Present  French  Republic. 


[M..y 


performed  the  dry  duty  of  "  recog- 
nising "  it,  according  to  French  law, 
she  seemed  to  immediately  forget 
it.  So,  as  the  poor  creature  had  no 
other  relative — not  even  an  aunt — 
it  was  left  to  run  about  the  streets, 
with  no  schooling,  no  manners,  and 
scarcely  any  clothes.  It  was  indeed 
so  utterly  neglected,  that  it  was  posi- 
tively not  baptised  till  it  was  more 
than  four  years  old  !  It  never  pos- 
sessed a  name  that  it  could  legally  call 
its  own  during  the  entire  period  be- 
tween its  birth,  on  4th  September 
1870,  and  its  formal  registration  as 
a  French  citizen  on  25th  February 
1875.  It  was,  in  fact,  throughout 
that  time  an  outcast,  just  as  Moses, 
Eomulus,  and  Cyrus  had  been  in 
their  childhood  ;  and  it  had  count- 
less enemies  who  tried  with  all  their 
might  to  murder  it.  It  stuck  to 
life,  however,  and  at  last  its  mother, 
having  vainly  sought  to  discover 
any  other  heir  that  she  could  set  in 
its  place,  began  to  feel  a  call  to 
behave  maternally,  for  the  moment 
at  least,  towards  the  young  vaga- 
bond. So  she  picked  it  up  out  of 
the  misery  in  which  she  had  left  it 
at  its  birth,  washed  it,  put  clean 
clothes  upon  it,  made  it  as  smart  as 
her  means  allowed,  had  it  christen- 
ed, began  its  education,  and  did  in 
a  rough,  half -unwilling  fashion, 
what  she  could  to  give  it  a  chance 
of  making  its  way. 

But  though,  at  that  date,  the 
child  became  responsible  and  began 
to  count  in  life, — though  its  charac- 
ter and  its  features  grew  into  form, 
the  change  in  its  position  did  not 
immediately  render  its  existence 
much  more  secure  than  it  was  be- 
fore. The  attempts  to  assassinate 
it  were  not  abandoned ;  on  the  con- 
trary, they  became  more  resolute 
than  ever  :  they  culminated  on  the 
16th  May  1877  in  the  outburst  of 
the  most  desperate  conspiracy  which 
our  generation  has  witnessed.  The 
plot  failed,  but  its  promoters  suc- 


ceeded in  getting  the  young  Re- 
public into  their  hands  for  six 
months,  and  they  pummelled  it 
while  they  held  its  head  under  their 
arm  with  a  ferocity  which  would, 
assuredly,  have  terminated  the  days 
of  any  less  vigorously  healthy  vic- 
tim. At  last,  on  30th  January  of 
the  present  year,  it  seemed  to  have 
really  reached  a  temporary  resting- 
place,  for  on  that  day  the  care  of 
its  interests  was  officially  trans- 
ferred to  a  guardian  who  was  sup- 
posed to  possess  all  the  qualities 
required  to  successfully  bring  up  a 
young  Republic.  Yet  this  was 
only  another  deception,  for  a  fresh 
class  of  troubles  then  got  in  the  way 
of  the  poor  worried  stripling;  its 
own  supporters  began  to  squabble 
between  themselves  and  to  pile  up 
their  quarrels  on  the  back  of  their 
already  overloaded  protege.  Its 
situation  at  that  moment  was  de- 
nned by  the  phrase — "  Les  perils 
sont  termines,  les  difficult^  com- 
men§ent." 

Yet,  though  it  has  never  ceased 
to  be  exposed  to  trials,  inside  and 
outside,  and  though,  at  this  mo- 
ment, its  "  difficulties  "  seem  to  be 
increasing,  the  Republic  was  incon- 
testably  converted,  by  the  Constitu- 
tion of  25th  February  1875,  from  a 
vagrant  into  a  government.  It  has 
been,  since  that  date,  a  thing,  a 
reality,  an  etre  moral.  The  sin  of 
its  birth,  if  the  sin  had  really  ex- 
isted, was  condoned.  But  then  it 
was,  three  years  ago,  that  the  Radi- 
cals began  to  talk  a  shade  more 
loudly,  to  attract  attention  to 
themselves  and  their  projects,  and 
to  rouse  up  the  feeling  that  the 
Republic  would  fall  some  day  into 
their  hands,  become  their  exclusive 
property,  and  grow  into  a  danger 
for  the  land.  This  notion  did  not 
seem  at  first,  however,  to  be  justi- 
fied by  events.  It  is  only  this  year 
that  the  action  of  the  Radicals  has 
given  a  serious  confirmation  to  it. 


1879.] 


Some  Aspects  of  the  Present  French  Republic. 


553 


In  1875  the  young  Republic  be- 
haved delightfully  ;  it  kept  its 
more  dangerous  acquaintances  at  a 
distance;  it  rid  itself  of  many  of 
its  precious  practices ;  it  shook  off 
the  nostalgic  de  la  boue,  and  be- 
came, if  not  a  graceful  member  of  the 
family  of  governments,  at  all  events 
a  rough  and  ready  sort  of  holder  of 
the  situation  to  which,  in  the  ab- 
sence of  competitors,  it  had  been 
forcedly  promoted.  The  world  re- 
cognised that,  with  the  singular 
capacity  of  adaptation  which  is 
special  to  the  French,  the  new  in- 
stitution did,  for  a  time  at  least, 
present  a  reassuring  aspect ;  that  it 
took  its  place,  without  much  awk- 
wardness or  timidity,  amongst  its 
fellows ;  that  it  pleasantly  invited 
the  rest  of  the  earth  to  come  to  see 
it  at  the  Champ  de  Mars ;  that, 
later  on,  it  occupied  an  arm-chair  at 
Berlin,  calmly,  as  if  it  had  never 
played  at  pitch  and  toss  in  the 
mud — as  if  it  had  never  done  any- 
thing else  in  its  life  but  sit  majes- 
tically at  congresses ;  that  it  cer- 
tainly made  friends,  and  that — as 
certainly — it  discouraged  enemies. 
It  acted  in  all  this  with  undeniable 
cleverness,  and  it  attained  a  more 
rapid  and  a  more  real  success — so 
far  as  appearances  were  concerned 
— than  is  usually  achieved  by  a 
parvenu. 

The  new-comer  ceased,  therefore, 
to  be  a  simple  adventurer.  It  was 
no  longer  a  casual  product  of  a 
passing  need ;  it  got  into  the  groove 
of  life ;  it  grew  into  an  acknow- 
ledged force  ;  and — especially,  par- 
ticularly, and  above  all — it  asserted 
itself,  in  its  young  vigour,  as  the 
freshest  thing  in  governments,  as 
the  sole  remedy  (so  far  as  political 
therapeutics  have  yet  been  carried) 
for  the  social  maladies  of  our  time. 
The  more  earnest  of  its  supporters 
implored  us  to  regard  it  as  a  salu- 
tary, lenitive,  depuratory  elixir; 
they  assured  us,  with  an  intensity 


of  earnestness  which  made  them 
almost  look  as  if  they  really 
believed  what  they  said,  that  we 
had  before  us  at  last  the  means  of 
solving,  to  everybody's  satisfaction 
(notably  to  their  own),  all  the  class 
problems  that  worry  statesmen ;  and 
that  if  only,  in  each  country,  the 
people  could  acquire  and  exercise 
the  right  of  governing  itself,  with- 
out interference  from  monarchs 
or  upper  strata,  the  earth  would 
immediately  become  a  happy  fold, 
in  which  all  enmities  would  dis- 
appear, in  which  the  lion  would  lie 
down  with  the  lamb,  in  which  all 
would  be  delight  and  tenderness — 
because  the  sovereign  people  would 
be  content.  These  picturesque  col- 
ourings bestowed  upon  the  French 
Republic  a  particular  character,  and 
excited  in  beholders  an  interest  and 
a  curiosity  which  the  operations 
of  older  and  more  familiar  under- 
takings no  longer  provoked.  The 
world  would,  indeed,  have  had 
cause  to  thank  the  Republic  if  it 
could  have  brought  about  a  state 
in  which  the  jaguar  of  democracy 
would  whisper  sweet  nothings  to 
the  antelope  of  aristocracy, — in 
which  the  rabbit  of  labour  would 
toy  gleefully  with  the  boa -con- 
strictor of  capital, — in  which  the 
little  negro  of  poverty  would  seek 
sweet  slumber  in  the  embrace  of 
the  shark  of  property.  If  only  we 
Europeans  could  have  felt  sure  that 
all  these  beautiful  spectacles  would 
be  a  necessary  consequence  of  a 
universal  application  of  the  Re- 
public, if  only  we  had  been  quite 
certain  that  we  should  contemplate 
them  in  all  their  loveliness  as  soon 
as  "  the  United  States  of  Europe  " 
had  been  set  up,  it  is  probable  that 
most  of  us  would  have  immediately 
petitioned  our  respective  Parliaments 
for  a  modification  of  the  local  Con- 
stitution. It  is  true  that,  so  far  as 
actual  information  goes,  there  would 
always  remain  one  exception  in  this 


554 


Some  Aspects  of  the  Present  French  Republic, 


[May 


charming  brotherhood  of  foes ;  it  is 
presumable  that  even  the  Eepublic 
would  be  unable  to  induce  the  pert 
sparrow  of  free -thought  to  nestle 
between  the  claws  of  the  vulture 
of  Vaticanism,  and  that,  all-healing 
and  all-propitiating  as  democracy  is 
said  to  be,  its  adherents  would  con- 
tinue all  the  same  to  indignantly 
exclaim,  "Le  clericalisme,  voila 
1'ennemi ! "  But,  even  with  this 
restriction,  the  sketch  of  the  poten- 
tialities of  the  Eepublic  was  so 
pretty  to  look  at  that  it  really  was 
a  lamentable  pity  that  other  people 
were  unable  to  recognise  in  it  a  cor- 
rect portrait.  It  did  present,  it  is 
true,  a  vague,  faint  resemblance  to 
certain  points  and  features  of  the 
position  in  which  the  young  Re- 
public had  placed  itself,  and  it  is 
honest  to  avow  and  proclaim  that 
the  picture  was  not  exclusively  com- 
posed of  pure  imagination.  It  did 
seem  to  be  a  fact,  judging  from  the 
experience  obtained,  that  the  French 
were  quieter  under  this  Eepublic 
than  they  had  been  under  any  of 
their  preceding  forms  of  govern- 
ment. It  did  seem  to  be  a  fact 
that  Socialism  had  almost  disap- 
peared, so  far,  at  least,  as  any 
public  advocacy  of  it  was  con- 
cerned. It  did  seem  to  be  a  fact 
that,  generally,  the  disturbing 
classes  were  less  inclined  to  dis- 
turb, and  that  the  satisfaction 
which  had  been  given  to  the  de- 
mocratic party  by  the  suppression 
of  Monarchy  had  materially  dimin- 
ished the  tendency  of  that  party  to 
get  up  revolutions.  So  far,  and 
within  those  clearly-defined  limits, 
the  Eepublic  had  manifestly  acted 
as  a  soother,  and  everybody  might 
admit  without  hesitation  that  the 
democrats  (who  had  gained  by  it) 
were  justified  in  depicting  it  as  an 
admirable  institution  in  which — so 
long  as  they  did  not  quarrel  too 
violently  between  themselves — they 
had  found  an  unwonted  peace  and 


a  satisfaction  of  the  earlier  portion 
of  their  longings.  But  at  that 
point  resemblance  stopped  and  in- 
vention began — all  because  of  the 
Eadicals. 

It  can  scarcely  be  denied  that 
that  there  are  in  France  some  per- 
sons who  are  not  Eadicals,  who 
have  indeed  a  considerable  horror 
of  Eadicals,  and  to  whom  the 
notion  of  lying  down  with  them 
as  a  united,  happy  family  has 
always  been  particularly  repul- 
sive. These  persons  have  not  pro- 
fited (as  the  Eadicals  have  done 
already,  and  evidently  hope  to  do 
much  more)  by  the  establishment 
of  the  Eepublic.  They  have  endured 
it,  more  or  less  impatiently,  because, 
for  the  moment,  they  cannot  get 
away  from  it ;  but  there  is  no  pres- 
ent probability  that  they  are  likely 
to  regard  it  as  the  universal  curer. 
They  say  that  the  democratic  pic- 
ture exhibits  it  in  a  fancy  dress 
which  neither  belongs  to  it  nor  fits 
it;  that  it  is  not  a  doctor,  but  a 
quack ;  and  that,  even  if  it  were  a 
doctor,  they  would  not  follow  its  pre- 
scriptions. To  them  the  Eepublic  is 
not,  as  M.  Thiers  called  it,  "Le  gouv- 
ernement  qui  nous  divise  le  moins," 
it  is  simply  a  momentarily  inevi- 
table evil  from  which  they  long  to 
escape.  To  the  eyes  of  the  Eadi- 
cals, on  the  contrary,  it  possesses 
all  the  virtues.  They  speak  of  it  as 
Plato  did  of  Love,  as  "  the  wonder 
of  the  wise,  the  amazement  of  the 
gods;  desired  by  those  who  have 
no  part  in  it,  and  precious  to  those 
who  have  the  better  part  in  it." 
And  it  is  precisely  because  they 
have  "  the  better  part  in  it "  that 
they  invite  the  world  to  share  it 
with  them — on  condition  of  con- 
tinuing to  do  as  they  like  in  it. 

Now  the  world,  taken  generally, 
has  not  yet  seemed  disposed  to  ac- 
cept the  invitation.  It  has  said  that 
Eepublics,  like  many  other  things, 
are  dependent  for  their  value  on 


1879.] 


Some  Asrjects  of  the  Present  French  Republic. 


555 


the  point  of  view  from  which 
they  are  contemplated ;  and  that 
their  worth  is  not,  as  the  Radicals 
beg  us  to  believe,  inherent,  inborn, 
and  intrinsic,  but  is  merely  relative 
and  subjective.  So  the  world,  ex- 
ercising its  judgment,  has  hesitated 
to  attach  too  high  a  price  to  the 
Republic,  because  it  has  mistrusted 
its  tendencies,  and  has  had  scant  con- 
fidence in  its  future.  The  world  im- 
agines, especially  since  last  Febru- 
ary, that  this  French  sample  of  a 
Republic  is  not  independent,  that 
Radicalism  is  seizing  hold  of  it  as  a 
tool,  and  that,  instead  of  preserving 
its  original  attitude  of  neutrality 
amongst  all  parties,  it  is  becoming 
the  slave  of  one  single  party,  and 
that  one  the  most  dangerous  of  all. 
Of  course  this  view  may  be  errone- 
ous ;  of  course  events  may  prove 
that  Radicals  are  the  most  magnani- 
mous and  the  most  generous  of 
men,  that  they  have  never  cast  one 
passing  glance  towards  the  thought 
of  using  the  Republic  for  them- 
selves alone,  and  that  their  ab- 
sorbing longing  is  to  share  it  self- 
denyingly  with  all  the  rest  of  the 
nation.  But,  erroneous  or  not,  the 
view  is  largely  held ;  and  though  it 
is  altogether  manifest  that,  as  M. 
Littre  says,  "  the  Republic  has  at 
its  disposal  two  forms  of  action 
— Opportunism  or  Radicalism,"  it 
would  be  difficult  to  efface  the  pre- 
valent impression  that  in  the  latter, 
not  in  the  former,  lies  the  inevi- 
table procedure  of  the  future.  Of 
course  it  is  not  impossible  that  the 
Republic  may  march  on  carefully, 
warily,  slowly;  awaiting  events — 
not  anticipating  them ;  evading  diffi- 
culties— not  inflaming  them ;  profit- 
ing by  occasions  —  not  provoking 
them ;  conciliating  antagonisms  — 
not  stimulating  them;  striving  to  be- 
lie its  ugly  reputation — not  confirm- 
ing that  reputation  by  conduct 
which  would  render  it  more  ugly 
still.  But  it  is  equally  possible  that 


it  may  dash  straight  at  its  utmost 
ends,  with  its  fingers  clutched,  its 
arms  outstretched,  and  a  howl  on 
its  lips,  regardless  of  peace,  policy, 
or  prudence,  and  animated  only  by 
the  lust  of  instant  possession.  Of 
course  it  is  possible  that  the  Re- 
public may  remain  ihe  RepuUique 
Conservatrice  of  M.  Thiers,  but  it 
is  equally  possible  that  it  may  be- 
come the  Republique  Socidle  et  De- 
mocratique  of  the  Intransigeants. 
And  most  people  expect  that  it  will 
be  the  latter. 

And,  honestly,  most  people  have 
some  reason  for  the  fear.  If  this 
Republic  is  an  object  of  suspicion 
and  doubt,  if  it  has  to  fight  its  way 
against  scepticism  and  prejudice, 
whose  fault  is  that  ?  It  is  not  sus- 
pected simply  because  it  is  a  Re- 
public, for  there  are  in  the  world 
republics  which  are  esteemed  and 
trusted.  It  is  suspected  for  motives 
which  are  special,  not  general. 
The  antecedents  of  the  French 
branch  of  its  family,  and  its  own 
recent  conduct,  have  been  the  main 
sources  of  the  mistrust  which  sur- 
rounds it.  Its  partisans  know  this 
so  well  that  they  never  attempt  to 
protect  themselves  by  any  vindica- 
tion of  principles ;  they  carefully 
limit  their  defence  to  protestations 
that  they  in  no  way  intend  to  imi- 
tate the  faults  and  the  crimes  of 
their  predecessors — to  perpetually 
renewed  assertions  that  the  accusa- 
tions which  are  advanced  against 
their  present  attitude  are  unfounded 
and  unfair,  and  to  reiterated  decla- 
rations that  Radicalism  is  the  very 
last  thought  in  their  heads.  Yet 
nobody  believes  them. 

If  the  Republican  party  were 
suddenly  to  become  composed  ex- 
clusively of  ordinary  Republicans — 
that  is  to  say,  if  all  its  members 
were  to  turn  moderate  in  the  meas- 
ures which  they  propose ;  if  the 
party  contained  no  Radicals  at  all, 
— ah,  then,  we  should  see  an  instant 


556 


Some  Aspects  of  the  Present  French  Republic, 


[May 


change  in  the  opinion  of  the  world. 
But  it  is  not  to  be  expected  that 
Radicals  will  render  to  the  Repub- 
lic the  immense  service  of  aban- 
doning it ;  never  will  they  become 
Imperialists  or  Legitimists ;  their 
sole  chance  of  power  is  to  keep  out 
emperors  and  kings.  So  they  take 
the  Republic  under  their  particular 
protection,  and  damage  it  accord- 
ingly. Abstractedly,  there  is  no 
reason  whatever  why  a  Republic 
without  Radicals  should  not  be  a 
very  excellent  form  of  government 
— for  those  who  like  it ;  it  is  the 
Radical  connection  alone  which  be- 
spatters and  begrimes  it,  This  fact 
seems  self-evident,  yet  the  Radicals 
do  not  perceive  it ;  so  blind,  indeed, 
are  they  to  it  that  they  evidently 
consider  they  are  bestowing  addi- 
tional beauty  on  the  Republic  by 
their  fashion  of  dressing  it.  Down 
to  the  end  of  last  year  they  were 
relatively  quiet ;  it  is  since  January, 
since  the  senatorial  elections  and 
the  nomination  of  the  new  Presi- 
dent of  the  Republic,  that  they 
have  come  blusteringly  to  the  front. 
They  have  proclaimed  since  then 
that  because  France  has  shown  her- 
self, for  the  moment,  to  be  unmis- 
takably Republican,  the  time  has 
therefore  come  for  the  adoption  of 
Radical  measures.  For  them  Re- 
publicanism and  Radicalism  ought 
to  be  synonymous,  and  they  have 
gone  to  work  with  a  rush  to  prove 
that  they  really  have  become  so. 
They  have  carried  an  amnesty  for 
the  Commune;  they  are  proposing 
the  suppression  of  the  greater  part 
of  the  schools  kept  by  the  religious 
orders  ;  they  are  talking  of  suspend- 
ing the  irremovability  of  the  judges. 
Some  of  them  are  suggesting  that 
all  public  functionaries  whatever, 
including  cabmen,  stockbrokers, 
judges,  officers  of  the  army  and 
navy,  policemen,  prefects,  and  pro- 
fessors, shall  be  chosen  by  election, 
and  shall  only  remain  in  office  so 
long  as  universal  suffrage  may  please 


to  leave  them  there.  A  good  many 
of  them  call  urgently  for  the  sup- 
pression of  jails,  standing  armies, 
marriages,  titles,  and  priests. 

Now  schemes  of  this  sort  frighten 
fathers  of  families,  and  incline  mo- 
thers to  shrink  rather  nervously 
from  the  people  who  advocate 
them.  So  the  Radicals,  afflicted 
at  being  shrunk  from,  and  seeking 
hungrily  for  unsuspecting  friends 
arid  voters,  assert  of  course  that  if 
ever  innocence  was  persecuted  theirs 
is,  and  implore  the  population  to 
regard  them  merely  as  cautious  and 
most  trustworthy  Liberals  with 
nothing  subversive  about  them. 
But  somehow,  in  spite  of  their  pro- 
testations, they  do  not  manage  to 
inspire  confidence;  and  since  they 
laid  hold  of  the  young  Republic, 
such  good  repute  as  was  beginning 
to  grow  up  around  it,  is  sensibly 
diminishing.  Of  course  this  is 
rather  hard  on  the  Republic ;  but 
it  will  not  get  much  sympathy  in 
its  sorrows.  It  will  simply  be  told 
to  keep  better  company,  if  it  can — 
or  else  to  take  the  consequences. 

The  strange  mediocrity  of  the 
representatives  of  the  Republic 
comes  next  in  the  list  of  the  re- 
proaches addressed  to  it.  With 
the  exception  of  Gambetta,  not  one 
single  man  of  real  political  capacity 
has  brought  himself  to  the  front 
since  1870.  An  institution  which 
professes  to  appeal  to  all  the  talents 
— which  declares  not  only  that  it 
excludes  nobody  from  its  ranks,  but 
which  entreats  the  whole  thirty- 
six  millions  of  French  people  to 
rush  into  them — has  discovered  just 
one  recruit  of  ability.  Some  of  its 
public  men  are  violent  and  some 
are  quiet ;  some  of  them  are  labori- 
ous and  some  are  indolent ;  some  of 
them  are  ambitious  and  some  are 
indifferent;  most  of  them  are  re- 
spectable ;  but  not  one  of  them — 
excepting  Gambetta — is  a  states- 
man. Never  was  there  a  more 
tempting  opportunity,  yet  there  is 


1879.] 


Some  Aspects  of  the  Present  French  Republic. 


557 


no  one  to  profit  by  it ;  never  was 
there  a  surer  chance  of  place  and 
fame,  yet  no  one  seizes  it.  Gam- 
betta  is  the  holder  of  an  unassailed 
monopoly.  And  the  situation  is 
getting  worse  rather  than  better; 
the  candidates  for  office  seem  to  be 
growing  less  and  less  able  in  pro- 
portion as  they  become  more  and 
more  numerous.  So  evident  is  this, 
that  when,  last  February,  M.  Lepere 
was  made  Minister  of  the  Interior 
in  the  place  of  M.  de  Marcere,  one 
of  the  most  influential  members  of 
the  Left  observed,  with  a  sigh, 
"Nous  descendons  1'echelle  des 
mediocrites  ;  Lepere  est  un  sous- 
de  Marcere,  et  de  Marcere  etait 
deja  un  sous  -  Ministre  de  1'Inte- 
rieur."  Of  course  they  all  have 
the  best  intentions  ;  of  course  they 
are  all  excellent  husbands  and 
fathers  :  but  their  very  goodness  is 
an  additional  weakness,  for  it  in- 
disposes them  to  turn  resolutely 
against  their  Radical  colleagues, 
who,  though  only  a  minority,  are 
now  struggling  to  take  the  lead 
amongst  them. 

Now,  what  is  the  reason  of  this 
mediocrity  1  How  is  it  that  Gam- 
betta  stands  out  alone,  above  and 
beyond  the  crowd,  as  single  in  his 
force  as  a  ship  is  single  on  the  sea, 
so  strong  and  vast  in  comparison 
with  all  his  neighbours  that  they 
look  like  flies  on  the  flanks  of  an 
elephant  ?  Why  is  this  Republic 
so  utterly  poor  in  men  that  it  can- 
not even  be  suspected  of  possessing 
unrewarded  talents,  that  it  cannot 
even  be  said  of  any  one  of  its 
agents,  as  it  was  of  Monseigneur 
Dupanloup,  that  he  is  "un  de  ces 
passants  remarquables  qui  n'arri- 
ventpas1?"  The  Republic  has  plenty 
of  members  "  qui  n'arrivent  pas," 
but  why  does  it  not  produce  even 
some  "passants  remarquables  ? " 

The  answers  to  these  questions 
are  not  difficult  to  find,  and  they 
are  all  of  the  same  kind.  Nature 

VOL.  CXXV. — NO.  DCCLXIII. 


proceeds  in  everything  by  compen- 
sation. Great  men,  like  rain,  in- 
surance risks,  or  crops,  are  mere 
matters  of  average.  When  the 
supply  of  genius  has  been  exces- 
sive for  a  'while,  it  stops ;  nature 
takes  a  rest,  as  a  calm  comes  after 
a  storm.  France  is  now  passing 
through  a  period  of  general  re- 
pose in  intellectual  productivity. 
It  is  not  only  in  politics  that  she  is 
childless ;  she  has,  at  this  present 
time,  neither  a  great  soldier,  nor  a 
great  artist,  nor  a  great  writer,  nor 
a  great  thinker.  Just  as  Prussia  is 
in  an  epoch  of  puissant  generative- 
ness,  so  is  France  enduring  a  term 
of  impotence.  It  is  not  the  Re- 
public which  has  paralysed  her 
procreation  of  real  men  •  the  ster- 
ility which  now  weighs  upon  ner 
was  perceptible  before  1870,  before 
1848,  and  almost  before  1830.  It 
is  a  reaction  from  the  superb  fertil- 
ity of  the  Revolutionary  and  Na- 
poleonic times  ;  it  is  the  exhaustion 
consequent  upon  over-fecundity  ;  it 
is  the  halt  of  nature  after  an  effort. 
France  stood  high  in  men  some 
eighty  years  ago;  she  stands  low 
now.  The  present  Republic  is  not 
responsible  for  that ;  but  it  suffers 
vastly  by  it,  and  is  told  with  scorn, 
every  day,  that  the  one  outcome  of 
its  brain  is — Gambetta. 

Now  Gambetta  is,  undeniably,  a 
great  man ;  great  in  himself,  but 
great  especially  because  he  has  no 
rivals.  It  is  true  also  that  he  is 
not  a  Radical  —  now.  It  is  true 
that  he  proclaims  himself  to  be 
an  "  Opportunist ; "  that,  compared 
with  a  Radical,  an  "Opportunist "  is 
a  sort  of  Conservative;  and  that, 
consequently,  he  may  be  regarded 
as  representing  the  double  force 
of  intellect  and  of  prudence  com- 
bined. Yet,  great  as  he  is,  he  can 
scarcely  be  considered  as  sufficing, 
in  his  person  alone,  to  constitute 
the  whole  associated  capacity  of 
a  party  which  claims  to  govern 
2  o 


558 


Some  Aspects  of  the  Present  French  Republic. 


[Mry 


France.  The  Republic,  in  his 
hands,  is  "a  one-horse  concern" 
— he  is  first,  and  the  rest  nowhere. 
And  though  that  may  be  a  very- 
satisfactory  position  for  Gambetta, 
it  is  certain  that  neither  the  Repub- 
lic nor  the  country  is  gaining  by 
it.  However,  there  is  no  present 
prospect  of  any  change  in  it;  no 
coming  man  is  visible ;  even  the 
"  young  man  from  the  country," 
who  has  occasionally  aroused  illu- 
sory hopes  in  England,  is  un dis- 
coverable in  France.  The  Republic 
has  to  get .  on  with  what  she  has — 
she  must  choose  between  nothing- 
ness and  Gambetta.  Under  such 
conditions,  it  is  not  improbable  that 
the  dictatorship  of  Tours  will  some 
day  be  re-established  in  Paris.  But, 
whatever  be  the  result,  the  cause 
remains  :  the  Republic  has  no  men. 
All  the  worse  for  the  Republic. 

Finally,  the  Republic  has  to  con- 
tend against  its  own  insufficiency 
of  dignity  in  bearing,  in  manners, 
in  ceremonial.  "  Spartan  simpli- 
city" does  not  fit  in  at  all,  either 
with  life  in  Paris,  or  with  the 
habits  of  the  French,  or  with  their 
notions  of  a  strong  government. 
And  when  "Spartan  simplicity" 
is  accompanied  by  a  good  deal 
of  roughness  and  ugliness,  it  be- 
comes still  less  suited  to  its  place. 
To  assert  that  the  Republic  is  pro- 
spectively  dangerous,  is  not  more 
damaging  to  it  in  certain  French 
eyes,  than  to  say  that  it  is  immedi- 
ately vulgar;  and  vulgar  it  unfor- 
tunately is  in  many  of  its  smaller 
doings.  A  functionary  who  cleans 
his  nails  with  a  penknife  in  public 
may  possibly  be  an  ardent  patriot 
and  an  able  servant  of  his  country, 
but  his  ways  bestow  no  grandeur 
on  his  office.  And  there  is  more  in 
the  matter  than  accidental  nails  and 
penknives  ;  there  is  incontestably, 
under  this  Republic,  a  rather  gen- 
eral absence  of  some  of  the  personal 
forms  and  usages  to  which  educated 
Europe  is  accustomed.  The  Repub- 


lic is  not  fortunate  in  possessing 
so  many  adherents  who  roar  and 
roll  about  as  if  they  were  buffaloes 
or  bulls  of  Bashan.  The  rapid  sub- 
stitution of  the  nouvelles  couches 
for  the  former  "  governing  classes  " 
is  in  no  way  adding  to  the  external 
charm  of  the  French  commonwealth ; 
and  however  little  importance  cer- 
tain Republicans  may  be  disposed 
to  attach  to  grace,  to  good  taste,  and 
to  mere  details  of  behaviour,  of 
demeanour,  and  of  refinement,  it  is 
not  possible  to  deny  that  the  state- 
liness,  the  majesty,  and  the  lustre 
of  a  government,  and  of  the  insti- 
tutions which  it  represents,  are  in 
some  degree  dependent  precisely  on 
those  very  details.  Democracy  may 
become  altogether  fascinating  in 
time,  but  it  is  not  so  yet ;  we  are 
still  beholding  it  in  an  unpolished 
phase.  And,  honestly  as  we  may 
struggle  against  our  own  prejudices, 
generously  as  we  may  make  allow- 
ances for  the  uncultured  and  the 
untrained,  we  cannot  help  observing 
the  fact  that  this  Republic  is  some- 
times somewhat  uncouth  and  rude, 
and  that  the  accusations  made 
against  it,  in  that  sense,  by  its 
French  opponents,  are  thoroughly 
well  founded.  The  Republic  may 
imagine,  perhaps,  that  it  does  not 
suffer  any  political  injury  from  this 
cause ;  but  foreign  lookers-on  can 
see  that  its  exterior  dignity  is  im- 
paired by  it,  both  at  home  and 
abroad,  and  that  a  little  more  pomp 
at  the  Ely  see,  and  a  little  less 
roughness  at  Versailles,  would  as- 
sist the  Government  to  obtain  a 
prestige  which  it  has  never  yet 
won,  and  which  the  French,  above 
all  people  in  the  world,  will  never 
forgive  their  Government  for  not 
acquiring. 

And  that  is  about  all  that  can  be 
seriously  urged  against  the  Republic. 
It  has  been  thrust  down  the  throats 
of  the  people  whether  they  liked  it 
or  not.  It  seems  to  be  drifting  into 
the  hands  of  destructive  Radicals. 


1879.' 


Some  Aspects  of  the  Present  French  Republic. 


559 


It  cannot  show  two  men  of  talent. 
It  is  abundantly  bad  -  mannered. 
Well,  after  all,  worse  charges  than 
these  have  been  poured  out  against 
other  Governments  that  France  has 
had,  and  in  balance  with  them  must 
be  set  forth  the  considerations  that 
are  advanced  by  the  other  side.  Let 
us  now  turn  our  ears  that  way  and 
listen  to  what  is  said  in  support  of 
the  Eepublic. 

At  the  general  election  of  October 
1877,  about  three-fifths  of  the  suf- 
frages polled  were  in  favour  of  the 
Eepublican  candidates  ;  and  when, 
three  months  ago,  the  partial  re- 
newal of  the  Senate  was  effected, 
about  five-sixths  of  the  electors  voted 
in  the  same  direction.  The  country 
has  consequently  expressed,  in  its 
two  most  recent  manifestations  of 
opinion,  a  distinct  wish  to  retain 
the  Republic.  Here  lies  the  first 
and  the  strongest  argument  in  its 
favour.  It  is  able  to  declare  with 
truth,  that,  for  the  moment,  the 
majority  of  French  people  want  it, 
are  content  with  it,  and  desire  noth- 
ing but  it.  That  a  large  minority 
of  the  same  people  do  not  want 
it,  are  not  content  with  it,  and  do 
desire  something  else,  is  a  detail  of 
no  value  in  its  eyes,  the  function  of 
minorities  being  to  support  the  will 
of  others,  particularly  in  Republics, 
as  we  see  gloriously  demonstrated 
in  the  United  States.  And  really, 
in  cases  where  a  nation  is  divided 
against  itself  as  to  the  choice  of  a 
form  of  government,  it  is  difficult 
to  see  how  any  government  what- 
ever can  be  maintained  unless  the 
majority  is  to  have  its  own  way 
about  it.  Besides,  in  France  just 
now,  the  minority  is  not  only  a 
minority,  but  is — to  weaken  it  still 
further  towards  the  majority — made 
up  of  the  advocates  of  three  con- 
flicting opinions.  So  the  Republic 
is  justified  in  asserting,  not  only 
that  the  greater  part  of  the  popula- 
tion is  with  it,  but  also  that  the 
lesser  part,  which  is  against  it,  is 


itself  divided  into  elements  each  one 
of  which  is  as  hostile  to  the  others 
as  it  is  to  the  Republic.  Now  this 
is  undeniably  a  strong  position ;  and 
as  long  as  it  lasts,  the  Republic  has 
the  best  of  all  good  rights  to  declare 
that  it  is  a  more  national  govern- 
ment than  any  other  that  can  be 
set  up  in  opposition  to  it,  and  that 
it  faithfully  represents  the  larger 
portion  of  the  popular  will. 

An  argument  such  as  this  needs 
no  development ;  it  is  conclusive 
as  it  stands.  Even  if  the  Republic 
were  the  worst  of  Governments, 
even  if  the  dangers  which  it  may 
possibly  entail  were  graver  than 
they  yet  look  to  be  in  the  present 
case,  all  that  would  not  suffice  to 
authorise  foreign  spectators  to  call 
for  its  suppression  so  long  as  the 
French  themselves — who,  when  they 
have  had  enough  of  it,  can  upset  it 
by  their  own  votes — continue  to 
support  it.  If  they  choose  to  retain 
it  we  have  no  right  to  object. 

But  still  there  is,  all  the  same, 
something  more  to  be  said.  It  can- 
not be  denied  that  the  present  pref- 
erence for  it  is  based  on  something 
more  than  a  careless  unreasoning 
acceptance  of  what  is,  simply  be- 
cause it  is ;  on  something  more  than 
a  mere  shrinking  from  change,  be- 
cause change  may  do  more  harm 
than  good  ;  or  something  more  than 
a  recognition  of  the  beggarly  help- 
lessness, just  now,  of  all  chances  of 
anything  else.  It  stands,  more 
solidly,  on  an  evident  conviction 
that,  with  the  past  experience  and 
under  the  present  circumstances  of 
the  country,  the  Republic  is,  after 
all,  and  in  most  ways,  more  advan- 
tageous to  it  than  any  form  of  mon- 
archy would  be.  The  majority  of 
the  nation  really  want  the  Republic 
— for  the  moment,  not  only  because 
there  is,  practically,  nothing  else  for 
them  to  take,  but  also  because,  by 
the  force  of  events,  they  have  be- 
come convinced  that  they  positively 
gain  by  the  adoption  of  a  Republic. 


560 


Some  Aspects  of  the  Present  French  Republic. 


[May 


How  they  gain  is  a  separate  mat- 
ter ;  we  shall  see  that  next.  That 
they  really  believe  they  gain  is  be- 
yond doubt ;  they  are  maintaining 
the  Eepublic  because  they  think 
it  does  them  good. 

We  get  on,  next,  to  the  causes 
of  this  belief.  And  here  we  may 
leave  aside  the  notion  that  Repub- 
lican institutions  are  the  only  ones 
worthy  of  free  men.  We  may  put 
out  of  the  account  all  the  swagger 
about  the  dignity  of  self-govern- 
ment, and  all  the  twaddle  about 
"  immortal  principles.  "  We  can 
well  afford  to  exclude  big  talk  of 
this  sort,  because  we  recognise  the 
existence  of  a  solid  material  proof 
that  the  Eepublic  has  done  good. 
It  has  brought  more  quiet  into 
France  than  was  discoverable  there 
under  any  anterior  regime.  And  in 
that  single  fact  lies  a  grander  and  a 
more  unanswerable  testimony  in  its 
favour  than  all  the  theories  and  all 
the  dreams  of  '89,  piled  up  together, 
could  anyhow  supply.  A  passing 
allusion  has  been  already  made  to 
this  element  of  the  question,  but 
now  we  have  got  it  in  its  proper 
place  and  can  give  to  it  the  atten- 
tion which  it  merits. 

On  the  appearance  of  the  Eepub- 
lic in  1870,  the  Eadicals  all  over 
France  felt  like  Sindbad  when  he 
had  shaken  the  old  man  off  his 
shoulders.  After  being  oppressed 
by  a  master  for  eighteen  years,- they 
suddenly  found  themselves  without 
any  master  at  all.  And  this  inrush- 
ing  freedom  burst  upon  them  at 
a  moment  of  intense  political  ex- 
citement, in  the  midst  of  war  and 
of  passionate  emotions.  The  Com- 
mune of  Paris  and  the  disorders  of 
Lyons  and  Marseilles  were  the  out- 
come of  this  situation.  They  came 
and  went ;  and  with  them  ended 
rioting.  The  Monarchists  endea- 
voured afterwards  to  upset  the 
Eepublic,  but  its  own  supporters 
have  ceased  entirely,  since  1871,  to 
try  to  revolutionise  it.  The  conse- 


quence is,  that  as  the  Eepublicaiis, 
and  the  Eepublicans  alone,  kept 
up  political  agitation  in  France  in 
former  times — as  they  used  to  be 
the  exclusive  promoters  of  emeutes 
and  barricades — as  they  have  now  ob- 
tained their  ends  and  have  nothing 
more  to  win  by  force,  it  follows, 
naturally  enough,  that  (unless  the 
Conservatives  take  to  street  fighting) 
we  are  not  likely  to  see  any  more 
insurrections  in  France,  so  long  as 
the  Eepublic  lasts.  Even  the  most 
advanced  of  the  Eadicals  have  no 
motive  just  now  for  resorting  to  arms. 
They  proclaim,  indeed,  that  their 
present  objects  are  to  act  by  public 
opinion  and  not  by  cartridges — to 
get  the  country  with  them  by  de- 
grees, and  then  to  "  legalise  Eadi- 
calism  by  legislation  "  —  to  carry 
their  measures  by  votes,  and  not  by 
battle.  Whether  they  will  go  back 
again  to  guns  hereafter  when  they 
have  found  out  that  public  opinion 
is  not  to  be  gained  over  by  their 
blandishments,  remains  to  be  seen. 
All  that  we  can  consider  to-day  is 
the  condition  of  to-day;  and  it  is  a 
condition  of  deeper  public  tranquil- 
lity than  France  has  known  for  a 
century.  It  can  no  longer  be  pre- 
tended that  "  if  France  is  content 
Europe  is  calm  : "  but  it  is  mani- 
festly more  true  than  ever  that 
when  French  Eepublicans  are  con- 
tent France  is  calm.  They  alone 
constitute  an  eruptive  force ;  but 
now  that  all  the  vents  are  open 
before  them,  they  have  nothing  to 
explode. 

The  minority,  of  course,  is  any- 
thing but  calm  ;  it  subsists  in  a 
state  of  permanent  indignation. 
But  what  does  that  matter?  The 
minority  is  the  most  divided,  the 
least  intelligent,  the  most  helpless, 
of  parties.  It  is  so  resolutely  fool- 
ish, so  wilfully  powerless,  that  no- 
body outside  its  own  ranks  particu- 
larly cares  whether  it  is  content  or 
not.  How  is  it  possible  to  keep 
up  interest  in  the  fate  of  so-called 


1879." 


Some  Aspects  of  the  Present  French  Republic. 


561 


Conservatives,  who  lie   down   and 
shriek  and  let  themselves  be  tram- 
pled on  1     There  is  not  now  in  the 
whole   world   a   political  spectacle 
more    saddening  than   that   which 
is    offered   by  the   non-Republican 
groups  in  France.     Those  who  live 
amongst  them — those  who  listen  to 
the  unproductive  bitterness  of  their 
daily  talk,  and  watch  the  unfruitful 
indolence  of  their  daily  occupations 
— can  alone  measure  either  the  in- 
tensity of  their  rage  or  the  utter- 
ness  of  their  abdication.    They  have 
given  up  all   pretence   of  combat, 
and  are  looking  on  at  the  Republic 
with  spiteful  inertness,  just  as  the 
unoccupied  soldier  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets  looks  on  at  the  Prus- 
sians in  the  picture  of  the  Derniere 
Cartouche.    If  ever  people  deserved 
their   fate    these    French    Conser- 
vatives do ;  for,  though  they  howl 
at  it,  they  sit  down  under  it  and 
bear  it,  without  making  an  effort  to 
change  it.    Of  course  their  situation 
is  difficult ;    but  it  is  in  no  way 
hopeless.     Some  day  their  turn  will 
•come   again :   meanwhile   they   are 
not  making  the  slightest  attempt  to 
hurry  it  on.     The  varied  and  ener- 
getic  forms   of  action    which   the 
English  so    unceasingly  employ  in 
order  to  maintain  their  local  influ- 
ence and  position  are  all  unknown 
to    them.       They   call    the    others 
canaille  all  day  long,  and  then  go 
to  dinner  with  the   sweet   convic- 
tion  that   by  doing   so  they  have 
performed  their  entire  duty  to  God 
and  man,  and  that  there  is  abso- 
lutely nothing   more   for   them   to 
attempt.     Their   chiefs  did  try,  it 
is  true,  the  mad  adventure  of  the 
16th  May;  but  even  then  the  Con- 
servative masses  did  not  rush  out 
of  their  apathy  and  grapple;  that 
impotent    absurdity    only    proved 
once  more  how  unfit  the    French 
-Conservatives    have  become  either 
to  think  or  to  act. 

So  the  majority  has  everything  its 
own  way,  and  can  fairly  claim  to 


be  doing  good  to  France  by  the  in- 
ternal peace  which  it  has  produced. 
It  is  true  that  it  is  itself  split  up 
into  groups,  but  the  divergences 
between  those  groups  are  not  yet 
marked  enough  to  weaken  the  gen- 
eral cohesion  or  the  general  calm. 
In  numbers,  in  reason,  in  vigour,  in 
the  results  they  have  induced,  the 
Republicans  are  the  masters  ;  their 
assertion  that  they  have  quieted 
France  is  founded  on  those  four 
floors ;  and  their  force  rests  not  only 
on  the  power  of  their  own  party,  but 
also  on  the  weakness  of  their  adver- 
saries. The  tranquillity  which  they 
have  engendered  is  a  product  of  the 
same  two  causes. 

Furthermore,  this  improvement 
in  the  general  position  of  the  coun- 
try is  not  limited  to  the  interior. 
France  has  also  gained  largely  abroad 
in  strength,  in  influence,  in  honour  ; 
and  from  that  fact  springs  the  third 
argument  invoked  by  the  Repub- 
licans in  favour  of  the  Republic. 
During  the  last  eight  years  the  for- 
eign relations  of  France  have  tra- 
versed three  distinct  epochs — under 
the  successive  direction  of  Thiers, 
Decazes,  and  Waddington.  The 
first  epoch  was  passed  in  getting  rid 
of  Germany ;  the  second  in  prevent- 
ing Germany  from  coming  back  ;  it 
has  only  been  during  the  third 
period  that  France  has  been  free 
enough  to  hold  her  head  up.  M. 
Thiers  was  "  the  liberator  of  the 
territory  ;  "  circumstances  prevented 
him  from  being  anything  else  or 
more.  When  the  Duke  Decazes  took 
the  Affaires  Etrangeres,  the  Germans 
were  all  gone  ;  the  question  was  no 
longer  how  to  turn  them  out,  but 
how  to  keep  them  from  returning. 
For  this  task  the  Duke  possessed 
the  rarest  qualifications  ;  his  supple- 
ness, his  inventivity,  his  faculty  of 
resource,  are  altogether  special  to 
himself ;  no  other  living  diplomatist 
can  be  compared  to  him  in  the  pro- 
perty of  twisting  out  of  a  difficulty. 
Even  his  enemies  (and  he  has  made 


562 


Some  Aspects  of  the  Present  French  Republic. 


[May 


more  of  them  than  most  men  are 
able  to  create)  admit  that  his  mind 
is  fertile  and  adroit.     The  services 
which  he  rendered  will,  in  all  pro- 
bability, never  be  rightly  known, 
for  the   story   of  the   perpetually- 
renewed  difficulties  between  Berlin 
and   Paris  with  which  he  had  to 
deal,  is  not  likely  to  be  told  either 
by  himself  or  by  anybody  else  j  but 
the  few  who  are  acquainted  with 
the  truth  will  always  proclaim  that 
the  Duke  Decazes,  by  sheer  dexter- 
ity, saved   France   ten  times  over 
from  the  bitterest  humiliations.   He 
acted  throughout  his  four  years  of 
office  with  combined  prudence  and 
address  ;  he  kept  his  country  out  of 
messes  with  the  rarest  success.    But 
he  did  absolutely  nothing  to  lift  her 
up  in  the  world.     He  left  her  in 
November  1877  exactly  where  he 
found  her  in  October   1873 — low 
down     amongst     her    neighbours. 
Then  appeared  M.  Waddington,  and 
with  him  came  what  the   French 
call  a  changement  a  vue.     France 
rose    instantly ;     Germany   smiled 
graciously  at  her  j  England  became 
as  civil  to  her  as  she  ever  is  to  any- 
body (which  is  not  saying  much) ; 
all  the  world  grew  suddenly  polite 
to    her.      Why?      Simply   because 
M.    Waddington,  speaking   in   the 
name  of  the  consolidated  Eepublic, 
inaugurated  a  policy  of  simplicity. 
He  had  none  of  the  cleverness  of 
his  predecessor,  and  he  possessed  no 
diplomatic  training,  but  he  brought 
with  him  to  the  Quai  d'Orsay  a  per- 
sonal  reputation    of    honesty   and 
straightforwardness  which  instantly 
gained  confidence  for  him  through- 
out Europe.    The  Duke  Decazes  had 
vainly  struggled  to  bring  about  an 
alliance  bet  ween  France  and  Eussia, 
and    had   thereby   sorely   offended 
Germany.     M.  Waddington,  on  the 
contrary,  turned  his  back  on  Eussia 
and  held  out  his  hand  to  England, 
the  one  Power  with  which  France 
can  permit  herself  to  coquet  with- 
out  arousing   irritation   at   Berlin. 


He  did  more ;  he  said  to  his  friends, 
"If  I  do  not  represent  an  alliance 
with  England,  I  represent  nothing." 
The  fruits  of  this  new  attitude 
ripened  so  fast,  that  the  Eepublic 
has  already  begun  to  eat  them  with 
pride  and  appetite.  M.  Waddiugton 
has  set  before  it  a  repast  of  which  it 
had  not  seen  the  like  before,  so  it 
is  of  course  recompensing  him  by 
scheming  to  turn  him  out. 

Gratitude,  however,  has  nothing 
to  do  with  the  facts  of  the  case. 
The  Eepublic  is  at  this  moment 
partially  trusted  and  temporarily 
believed  in  by  Europe  j  and  as  that 
is  a  situation  in  which  the  Empire 
never  once  found  itself  during  its 
eighteen  years  of  existence,  the  Ee- 
publicans  have  a  fair  right  to  argue 
that  their  Government  is  now  bet- 
ter liked  in  Europe  than  the  Empire 
ever  was.  And  they  go  further  still. 
Not  only  do  they  assert  that  the  Ee- 
public has  positively  attained  this 
most  unexpected  position,  but  they 
add,  with  a  confidence  in  themselves 
which  other  people  may  perhaps  re- 
gard as  slightly  exaggerated,  that 
the  Eepublic  will  necessarily  remain 
in  that  position.  They  say  this  be- 
cause they  imagine  they  have  just 
discovered  a  new  system  of  medica- 
tion for  their  dealings  with  other 
countries.  They  are  so  struck  by 
what  seems  to  be  at  this  instant 
the  result  of  the  union  of  honesty 
and  Eepublicanism,  that  they  are 
applying  it  with  the  tingling  ea- 
gerness of  inventors.  They  are 
appointing  honest  Eepublicans  as 
ambassadors  all  over  Europe ;  they 
are  writing  Eepublican  articles  in 
praise  of  honesty;  they  are  making 
speeches  to  prove  that  honesty  and 
Eepublicanism  are  synonymous. 
And  all  this  because  Waddington 
the  Honest  has  reigned  for  a  while 
at  the  Quai  d'Orsay  !  As  he  is  the 
first  Englishman  who  has  been  a 
Minister  in  France,  we  may  perhaps 
be  allowed  to  feel  pleased  at  the 
sight. 


1879.] 


Some  Aspects  of  the  Present  French  Republic. 


563 


This  is  not  quite  all,  however. 
There  is  something  more  than  a 
mere  sudden  love  of  truth  and  sin- 
cerity in  the  recent  protestations  of 
the  French  Republicans,  that  they 
have  laid  their  hands  on  a  success 
and  are  going  to  stick  to  it.  There 
is  a  policy  behind  it, —  a  policy 
which  the  one  real  man  in  France 
—  Gambetta  —  approves,  supports, 
and  will  set  to  work  when  his  own 
turn  comes  to  rule.  That  policy  is 
warm  friendship  towards  England, 
courteous  cordiality  towards  Ger- 
many, liberal  tariffs,  and  resolute 
opposition  to  the  Roman  Curia. 
Those  four  conditions  sum  up  the 
principles  of  action  outside  France, 
which  the  future  Dictator,  M.  Gam- 
betta, will  apply  (unless  he  alters 
his  mind);  and — with  the  excep- 
tion of  the  last  one — they  are  wise 
enough,  and  practical  enough,  to 
justify  the  hope  of  the  Eepublic- 
ans that,  so  long  as  they  maintain 
them,  they  will  preserve  agreeable 
relations  with  their  neighbours. 
Bat  the  fourth  condition  is  a  pro- 
duct of  passion,  not  of  policy.  The 
establishment  of  the  Kulturkampf 
in  France  would  inevitably  alienate 
from  the  Republic  a  large  number 
of  the  moderate  Republicans.  In 
the  savageness  of  their  hate  against 
Clericalism  the  Gambettists  are  for- 
getting that  the  majority  of  French 
electors  are,  at  the  bottom  of  their 
hearts,  Catholics.  They  may  be 
indifferent  to  Catholic  forms,  they 
may  be  irritated  against  priests ; 
but  they  will  never  consent  to  any 
interference  with  freedom  of  wor- 
ship. The  elections  would  change 
their  present  colour,  and  would  be- 
come Conservative,  if  any  future 
Minister  should  commit  the  folly 
which  is  implied  in  the  fourth 
article  of  the  programme  of  foreign 
policy  which  is  attributed  to  M. 
Gambetta. 

But  that  folly  would  produce  its 
effects  in  France  itself ;  the  position 
of  the  Republic  abroad  would  not 


be  affected  by  it.  Consequently, 
as  regards  relations  with  other 
Governments,  the  promised  pro- 
gramme may  be  considered  as  offer- 
ing fair  promise  of  duration  for 
the  position  into  which  France  has 
now  climbed,  and  as  justifying  the 
prophecies  which  are  based  upon 
it.  But  will  it  be  maintained  un- 
changed? Can  anything  be  main- 
tained unchanged  in  France  ? 

Lastly,  the  friends  of  the  Repub- 
lic assert  that  it  has  shed  over 
France  a  liberty  which  has  hitherto 
been  unknown  there,  and  which 
would  be  unattainable  under  any 
other  form  of  government.  They 
pretend  that  it  alone  can  establish 
freedom,  because  it  alone  has  no 
object  in  suppressing  it.  Now  we 
have  not  urged  any  strong  objec- 
tions to  the  various  merits  which 
we  have  thus  far  set  forth  as  claimed 
by  the  Republicans  —  on  the  con- 
trary, we  have  recognised  their 
general  truth  and  value ;  but,  this 
time,  there  are  protests  to  be  made. 
That  the  Republic  should  profess 
to  hold  a  monopoly  of  some  parti- 
cular virtue  is  natural  enough,  for 
each  of  the  various  Governments 
which  preceded  it  did  exactly  the 
same.  The  First  Empire  bragged 
of  its  glory,  the  Restoration  of  its 
dignity,  Orleanism  of  its  constitu- 
tionality, and  the  Second  Empire  of 
its  prosperity.  So  this  present  ar- 
rangement vaunts  its  liberty.  But 
liberty  is  a  result  more  difficult  to 
realise  than  either  prosperity,  or  con- 
stitutionality, or  dignity,  or  glory  ; 
it  is  indeed,  of  all  political  condi- 
tions, the  least  easy  to  attain.  It 
has,  however,  the  seductive  quality 
of  allowing  itself  to  be  talked  about 
with  delightful  facility.  Regarded 
as  a  subject  for  speech-making,  as 
a  text  for  proclamations,  as  a  basis 
for  programmes  and  platforms,  it 
offers  all  the  enticements,  all  the 
flexibilities,  and  all  the  capabilities ; 
it  is  only  when  it  has  to  be  set  into 
the  shape  of  an  applied  fact  that  its 


564 


Some  Aspects  of  the  Present  French  Republic. 


[May 


inherent  intricacy  comes  out.  For- 
getting the  almost  insurmountable 
obstacles  which  attend  its  fulfil- 
ment, lured  on  by  its  superb  name, 
and  by  the  temptation  which  that 
name  offers  to  all  popular  Govern- 
ments, the  Republicans  took  it  up 
as  if  they  had  invented  it,  and,  of 
course,  destroyed  it  the  moment 
they  pretended  to  apply  it.  Their 
conception  of  liberty  is  a  very  old 
one;  there  is  absolutely  nothing  new 
about  it.  The  formula,  "  I  permit 
you  to  do  what  I  like,"  was  not 
first  imagined  by  them,  but  it  is 
being  rather  vigorously  worked  out 
by  them,  and  that  is  why  they  are 
not  perhaps  quite  accurate  in  pro- 
claiming that  they  have  bestowed 
on  France  true  freedom. 

Like  most  other  masters,  the  Re- 
public  imposes  its  own  will;  and  the 
moment  anybody  enforces  a  will, 
somebody  else  must  give  in  to  that 
will.  Here  again,  however,  we  have 
a  very  old  notion  before  us  :  it  was 
long  ago  found  out  that  the  great- 
est possible  liberty  is  only  a  di- 
minution of  slavery ;  but  still,  if  the 
Republic  imposed  its  will  equally 
upon  all  Frenchmen,  the  diminu- 
tion of  slavery,  which  it  would 
call  liberty,  would  be  a  verity 
as  between  each  citizen  and  the 
Government.  It  is  because  that 
will  is  being  enforced  unequally 
on  the  people  —  because  some  of 
them  are  being  treated  more  harshly 
than  others — that  the  pretension 
of  the  Republic  to  be  a  distributor 
of  liberty  is  a  sham  and  a  deceit. 
Paley  has  said  somewhere  that 
"  doing  what  we  like  is  natural 
liberty;  and  doing  it  within  limits 
which  prevent  it  from  causing  any 
damage  to  others  is  civil  liberty." 
Now  this  Republic  (like  a  good 
many  other  Governments)  does  not 
hesitate  at  damage ;  it  proclaims 
that  certain  of  its  subjects  —  the 
active  Catholics — ought  to  be  made 
to  suffer  in  their  civil  rights,  be- 
cause they  are  supposed  to  be  its 


enemies.  With  this  object  its  sup- 
porters have  been  suggesting  more 
or  less  seriously  for  some  time  past 
that  a  variety  of  offensive  measures 
should  be  adopted  against  these 
Catholics  ;  and  at  last  the  Govern- 
ment itself  has  come  forward  with 
the  proposal  that  the  members  of 
most  of  the  religious  orders,  whose 
special  function  is  to  teach,  shall 
be  prohibited  from  teaching.  Now 
the  persons  affected  by  this  pro- 
posal are  French  citizens,  and, 
whatever  be  the  objections  to  their 
opinions  or  their  views — whatever 
be  the  dislike  provoked  by  their 
persons  or  their  ways,  —  they  are 
entitled,  if  there  be  any  liberty  at 
all,  to  precisely  the  same  rights 
and  faculties  as  any  one  else  in 
the  land.  But  the  Republicans  say 
that  these  men  shall  no  longer 
possess  these  rights ;  they  intend, 
if  they  can,  to  take  away  from  them 
the  faculty  of  keeping  schools, 
which  is  accorded  to  everybody 
else.  The  noble  principle  that 
"  liberty  is  the  power  of  doing 
anything  which  does  not  prevent 
others  from  being  free"  is  not 
applied  by  them ;  on  the  contrary, 
their  notion  of  liberty  is,  that  the 
majority  has  the  right  to  prevent 
certain  members  of  the  minority 
from  being  free.  They  imitate  the 
Empire  by  attacking  the  liberty  of 
their  adversaries, — they  refuse  to 
employ  toleration  to  protect  the 
intolerant ;  they  reject  it  as  "  the 
sole  known  remedy  for  diversity 
of  opinion;"  they  forget  that,  as 
Napoleon  said,  "fanaticism  is  al- 
ways produced  by  persecution  ;  " 
and  they  persecute.  But  yet  they 
coolly  assure  us  that  they  have  in- 
stituted liberty  in  France. 

To  answer  all  this  by  the  argu- 
ment that  one  swallow  does  not 
make  summer,  that  one  example  of 
persecution  does  not  lift  up  persecu- 
tion to  the  height  of  an  adopted 
principle  of  action,  is  to  make  no 
answer  whatever.  People  who  pro- 


1879.' 


Some  Aspects  of  the  Present  French  Republic. 


565 


fess  to  have  introduced  liberty  into 
their  country  have  no  right  to  perse- 
cute at  all ;  if  they  do  so  even  once 
— once  only — they  forfeit  all  right 
to  talk  of  liberty.  The  form  and 
the  objects  of  the  persecution  lie 
outside  the  question;  to-day  priests 
and  monks  are  the  victims ;  to- 
morrow it  may  be  generals  and  stay- 
makers  ;  the  day  after  to-morrow  it 
may  be  wet-nurses  and  bankers  :  all 
that  has  nothing  to  do  with  the 
unvarying  truth  that  civil  liberty 
does  not  and  cannot  exist  unless  it 
is  equal  for  all,  and  that  the  crea- 
tion of  one  single  exception  in  its 
application  destroys  the  entire  fa- 
bric. Just  as  religion  consists  in 
resignation,  so  does  liberty  consist 
in  equality  ;  the  slightest  difference 
in  its  application  puts  an  end  to  it. 
When,  therefore,  the  Kepublicans 
imagine  that,  while  they  chuckle 
about  liberty,  they  can  simultan- 
eously bestow  it  on  their  friends 
and  withdraw  it  from  their  foes, 
they  perpetrate  one  of  those  grot- 
esque lies  which  sometimes  render 
an  otherwise  good  cause  both  ridic- 
ulous and  false.  So  far  from  being 
a  merit  of  the  Eepublic,  this  pre- 
tended exercise  of  liberty  is  a  stum- 
bling-block in  its  road,  for  the 
shouting  about  it  only  serves  to 
attract  attention  to  the  fact  that 
true  liberty  is  just  as  absent  under 
the  present  Government  as  it  was 
under  the  Empire.  Even  if  the 
proposed  measures  are  not  voted  by 
the  Chambers,  that  result  will  not 
affect  the  question.  The  Cabinet 
has  officially  asked  the  Parliament 
to  enact  laws  of  exception  and  pre- 
scription; and,  whatever  be  the  fate 
of  the  proposal,  the  phenomenon 
will  remain  that  such  laws  were 
considered  to  be  legitimate  under 
a  Eepublic  by  a  Ministry  which 
represents  the  relatively  moderate 
elements  of  its  party.  For  these 
reasons  liberty  must  be  struck  out 
of  the  list  of  the  advantages  offered 
to  France  by  its  actual  regime. 


And  there  are  no  other  advan- 
tages to  be  computed.  There  ends 
the  catalogue.  But,  before  we  try 
to  strike  a  balance  between  the  two 
sides  of  the  evidence,  and  to  see 
which  way  the  scales  incline,  there 
is  one  other  element  of  the  question 
at  which  it  is  essential  to  cast  a 
glance.  That  element  does  not  yet 
form  a  recognised  part  of  the  consid- 
erations put  forward  by  the  French 
themselves  for  or  against  their  Ee- 
public, but  a  good  many  of  them  are 
beginning  to  feel  anxiously  over  it, 
and  it  is  particularly  striking  to 
such  foreigners  as  happen  to  look 
closely  at  the  present  condition 
of  France.  Indeed  it  is  natural 
that  foreigners  should  observe  it, 
for  the  moment,  more  attentively 
than  the  French  do,  for  the  reason 
that  it  is  social,  not  political ;  and 
that  in  times  of  excitement  the  in- 
habitants of  a  country  are  usually  so 
absorbed  by  the  noisy  public  acci- 
dents which  are  occurring  every  day, 
that  they  have  no  time  to  think 
of  any  comparatively  unapparent 
movements  which  may  be  at  work 
more  or  less  silently  around  them. 
Foreigners,  on  the  other  hand,  are 
naturally  somewhat  indifferent  to 
political  agitations  which  have  no 
direct  action  upon  their  own  lives, 
and  incline  to  turn  their  watch- 
fulness towards  questions  which 
have  something  in  common  with 
the  thoughts  that  interest  them  at 
home,  towards  class  influences  and 
social  forces,  towards  the  nature  of 
the  relationship  between  the  various 
strata  of  the  nation,  towards  all  that 
constitutes  the  internal  life  of  a 
country.  And  when  foreigners  do 
look  in  these  directions,  they  see 
more  clearly  perhaps  than  the 
French  themselves,  how  grave  the 
situation  of  the  upper  classes  has 
become.  The  Eepublic  has  wrought 
a  change  so  great  in  their  position 
and  their  prospects  that  no  other 
consequence  yet  produced  by  the 
new  Government  can  be  compared 


566 


Some  Aspects  of  the  Present  French  Republic. 


[May 


with  it.  The  nouvelles  couches  have 
dashed  to  the  front,  and  have  not 
only  seized  rights  and  power  and 
station,  but,  in  addition,  have  posi- 
tively suppressed  society.  In  the 
sudden  destruction  of  all  social  dom- 
ination lies  the  remaining  element 
of  the  case  which  we  have  still  to 
look  at. 

During  the  last  eight  years  the 
upper  classes  of  France  have  pro- 
gressively and  unceasingly  lost 
place — not  only  political  place,  but 
social  place  as  well.  Partly  by 
their  own  abdication,  partly  by  the 
indifference  of  the  nation,  partly 
by  the  thrusting  of  the  new  candi- 
dates for  authority,  their  situation 
has  been  rapidly  sapped,  and  is 
now  demolished.  And  this  result 
has  been  brought  about  since  1871. 
It  is  true  that  one  section  of  society 
— that  one  which  includes  the  Le- 
gitimist families  —  had  withdrawn 
after  1830  from  contact  with  either 
the  Court,  or  the  official  world,  or 
the  public  life  of  the  country  :  but 
that  section  was  a  small  one ;  it  was 
limited  in  all  its  aspects — in  num- 
bers, in  credit,  in  strength.  "What 
is  happening  now  presents  another 
character,  for  the  actual  movement 
is  not  circumscribed,  it  is  general; 
it  does  not  touch  one  opinion  alone, 
it  affects  almost  the  whole  of  that 
portion  of  the  population  which  is 
generically  described  by  the  deno- 
mination of  "society."  The  Ee- 
public  and  "society"  have  turned 
their  backs  on  each  other  with 
mutual  suspicion  and  contempt. 
So  far  they  have  both  behaved 
alike  ;  but  there,  alas  !  ends  all 
resemblance  between  the  forms  of 
action  which  they  adopt.  The  Re- 
public is  trying  energetically  to 
show  France  by  every  means  at  its 
disposal  that  it  can  do  without  the 
classes  which  compose  society ;  that 
those  classes  are  of  no  use  to  it;  that 
they  are  unproductive  and  untrust- 
worthy ;  and  that  the  best  thing  the 
nation  can  do  is  to  forget  their 


presence,  and  to  march  on  as  if 
they  did  not  exist.  Society,  on 
the  contrary,  is,  as  was  said  just 
now,  sitting  idle  in  the  sulks  ;  it  is 
not  making  the  faintest  effort  to 
retain  its  ground.  Each  year  that 
passes  still  further  weakens  its  con- 
nection with  the  country.  Yet 
society  is  composed  essentially  of 
what  used  to  be  called,  in  France 
as  elsewhere,  the  governing  classes. 
So  that  the  disappearance  of  society 
as  the  expression  of  a  recognised 
public  and  national  force,  implies 
necessarily  the  simultaneous  ex- 
tinction of  the  political  chieftain- 
ship which,  when  there  was  a  soci- 
ety in  France,  was  supposed  to  be 
the  proudest  birthright  and  highest 
function  of  its  members.  And  there 
precisely  lies  the  explanation  of  the 
motives  which  are  prompting  the 
Eepublic  to  make  such  bitter  war 
against  society.  The  nouvelles  cou- 
ches have  detected  with  alacrity,  and 
have  measured  with  precision,  the 
vast  advantage  that  would  accrue 
to  their  cause  from  the  disorganisa- 
tion of  the  hostile  camp  which  hith- 
erto has  been  occupied  by  society, 
and  has  supplied  leaders  for  France. 
So  they  invested  it,  besieged  it,  cut 
off  its  water  and  provisions,  and 
have  now  forced  its  garrison  to 
retreat  defeated.  But  they  never 
would  have  succeeded  in  attaining 
this  result,  or,  at  all  events,  they 
would  not  have  attained  it  so  ra- 
pidly, if  the  garrison  had  defended 
itself :  its  own  negligence,  its  own 
cowardice,  quite  as  much  as  the 
skill  of  the  enemy,  have  reduced  it 
to  its  present  vanquished  condition. 
Society  has  ceased  to  be  all  that  it 
once  was  :  it  is  no  longer  an  acknow- 
ledged sovereign  ;  it  is  no  longer  a 
dominating  force ;  it  is  no  longer  a 
productive  union ;  it  is  no  longer  a 
fecundating  agency ;  it  is  no  longer 
a  representative  principle ;  it  is  no 
longer  a  source,  an  origin,  a  creator  : 
all  these  attributes  have  passed  from 
its  hands.  The  Eepublic  has  dwin- 


1879. 


Some  Aspects  of  the  Present  French  Republic. 


567 


died  it  to  a  mere  series  of  personal  as- 
sociations without  any  constitutive 
object  or  general  bond  :  its  national 
brilliancy  had  already  vanished ;  its 
national  usefulness  is  gone  now. 

But  the  nouvelles  couches  have 
been  too  clever,  thus  far,  to  try  to 
build  it  up  again  for  their  own  use. 
They  have  destroyed  it;  they  are 
satisfied  for  the  moment.  Society 
is  now  out  of  their  way,  and  they 
show  no  signs  of  any  wish  to  put 
themselves  into  its  place.  Some  few 
of  them,  it  is  true,  are  beginning  to 
appear  occasionally  in  official  draw- 
ing-rooms; but  they  do  not  quite 
seem  to  be  in  their  element  there. 
And  furthermore,  they  must  neces- 
sarily feel  that  it  would  be  absurd 
for  them  to  establish  salons  after 
demonstrating  so  clearly  to  the 
French  people  that  salons  are  quite 
useless.  Besides  which,  salons  can 
scarcely  be  composed  of  men  alone 
— women,  too,  are  wanted  in  them  ; 
and,  judging  from  what  is  to  be 
now  contemplated  in  Paris,  the 
Eepublic  is  not  wealthy  in  the  lat- 
ter product.  So,  for  all  these  rea- 
sons, the  gap  dug  out  by  the  retire- 
ment of  what  used  to  be  society 
will  probably  continue  unfilled  un- 
til the  turn  of  society  comes  round 
again  hereafter.  We  need  not  fear 
that  it  is  abolished  for  ever — it  is 
too  hard-lived  for  that;  but  it  is 
humiliating  for  its  friends  to  have 
to  stand  by  and  look  on  at  its  pre- 
sent ridiculous  discomfiture.  The 
Government  of  the  country  has 
been  snatched  clean  away  from  the 
well-born,  the  well -thinking,  and 
the  well-dressed;  a  social  organi- 
sation which  Europe  conceived  to 
be  almost  an  inherent  part  of  the 
usages,  the  sympathies,  and  the  pre- 
judices of  France,  has  been  blown 
into  shreds  by  a  storm ;  the  ele- 
gance, the  refinement,  the  bright- 
ness, which  were  once  supposed  t  > 
be  amongst  the  highest  of  French 
qualities,  have  lost  their  potency — 
democracy  has  swept  them  out  of 


sight.  Common  people,  with  no 
names  and  with  badly-constructed 
coats,  have  proved  that  France  can 
do  without  the  upper  classes.  This 
is  clearly  a  case  in  which  a  Califor- 
nian  would  exclaim  "  Thunder  ! " 
So  houses  are  shut  up,  and  pleas- 
antnesses fade,  and  once -laughing 
women  pout,  and  there  are  no 
echoes  of  talk,  and  tongues  are 
rusting.  Society  is  becoming  a 
forgotten  idea ;  the  functions  which 
it  once  discharged  in  France,  and 
the  might  it  once  wielded  therer 
are  more  forgotten  still.  And  all 
this  has  been  brought  about  by 
the  swelling  upwards  of  democracy. 
Never  was  the  request  "  Ote-toi  de 
la  que  je  m'y  mette"  more  vig- 
orously expressed  or  more  feebly 
resisted.  Decidedly  the  Eepublic 
is  a  great  worker  amongst  men. 

And  now  let  us  cast  up  the  cal- 
culations we  have  been  making,  and 
see,  if  we  can,  how  our  total  come& 
out. 

Here  is  an  institution  which  pro- 
fesses to  show  the  world  what 
France  now  is  and  wants.  Well, 
our  impression  of  it  is,  that  if  this 
is  really  what  France  wants,  she  has 
come  down  to  the  level  of  the  United 
States.  Other  and  higher  results  are 
to  be  got  out  of  national  life  than 
those  which  this  Eepublic  is  evolv- 
ing. We  have  endeavoured  to  show 
impartially  what  its  operations  arer 
and  nobody  can  pretend  that,  taken 
as  a  whole,  they  are  of  an  elevated 
or  elevating  order.  The  Eepub- 
lic keeps  down  barricades  because 
it  contents  the  very  people  who 
habitually  compose  those  construc- 
tions. It  is  backed  up  by  a  majority 
of  the  population.  It  has  amended 
recently  the  feeling  with  which 
France  is  regarded  beyond  her  fron- 
tier. But  it  no  more  practises 
liberty  than  Louis  XIV.  did ;  on 
the  contrary,  it  seems  to  be  drifting 
towards  the  tyrannies  of  Eadicalism. 
It  has  produced  but  one  single  Ee- 
publican  who  is  worthy  of  a  place 


568 


Some  Aspects  of  the  Present  French  Republic. 


Play 


in  history ;  and  it  is  suffocating  the 
grace,  the  brilliancy,  and  the  charm 
which  once  were  counted  amongst 
the  glories  of  France.  Yet  it  is 
not  a  bad  specimen  of  a  Republic 
— as  Republics  go.  That  a  good 
many  of  the  French  like  it  is  un- 
deniable. 

What  are  their  prospects  of  keep- 
ing it  ? 

Prophesying  is  a  risky  process 
in  France,  for  the  odds  there  are 
always  against  probabilities  and  in 
favour  of  impossibilities.  But,  even 
after  allowing  largely  for  the  latter, 
there  is  no  great  danger  in  express- 
ing the  opinion  that  the  Republic 
looks  like  lasting.  Let  us  suppose 
the  very  worst  that  can  happen  to 
it.  Let  us  conceive  that  it  commits 
follies  enough  to  disgust  all  France. 
Let  us  imagine  that  the  Radicals  get 
hold  of  power,  and  that  they  pro- 
ceed to  suppress  God  by  a  proclama- 
tion, and  marriage  by  a  law ;  that 
they  render  all  public  functions 
elective ;  that  they  make  taxes  pay- 
able by  the  rich  alone,  in  proportion 
to  their  riches  ;  that  they  convert 
the  army  into  a  national  guard ;  and 
that,  generally,  they  enforce  abun- 
dantly the  "  subversive  measures  " 
which  the  Conservatives  assure  us 
are  impending.  What  then?  Will 
all  that  be  capable  of  killing  the 
Republic  and  of  putting  a  monarchy 
into  its  place  I 

No — unless,  indeed,  those  impos- 
sibilities, to  which  we  have  just  al- 
luded, behave  as  they  did  on  the 
18th  Brumaire.  Unless  a  soldier 
upsets  the  Republic  by  force,  even 
its  own  worst  madnesses  cannot  be 
expected  to  have  strength  enough 
to  stifle  it.  The  country  may  get 
frightened ;  it  may  turn  right  round 
and  vote  for  the  other  side;  the  Re- 
publicans may  find  themselves  in  a 
minority  in  the  Chamber;  Broglie 
and  Fourtou  may  perhaps  become 
Ministers  once  more; — but,  unless 
a  general  succeeds  in  a  pronuncia- 
mento,  all  that  will  leave  the  Re- 


public where  it  is,  for  the  reason 
that,  even  if  these  odd  things  hap- 
pened, no  one  would  agree  with 
any  one  else  as  to  what  should  be 
put  in  its  place.  It  would  cast 
aside  the  Radicals  (who,  presum- 
ably, would  then  incline  to  barri- 
cades again) ;  it  would  become  gen- 
tle and  well-behaved ;  it  would  beg 
everybody's  pardon,  and  promise 
never  to  do  it  any  more ; — but  it 
would  remain  the  Republic,  and 
Gambetta  would  perhaps  become 
dictator,  as  chief  of  the  Conserva- 
tives and  saviour  of  society,  and 
would  represent  the  monarch  that 
the  Monarchists  could  not  persuade 
each  other  to  appoint. 

And  really  this  is  not  a  too  fan- 
tastic dream.  It  may  all  come  true. 
It  is  just  as  likely  as  anything  else, 
and  more  likely  than  most  other 
things.  And  though,  as  has  been 
already  said,  its  very  likelihood  is 
an  argument  against  its  fulfilment, 
it  may  be  that — to  complete  the 
catalogue  of  surprises  —  France  is 
about  to  astonish  the  world  by  act- 
ing for  once  in  simple  conformity 
with  probabilities.  Besides,  what 
is  there  athwart  HI  It  is  easy  to 
assert  that  this  Republic  cannot 
last ;  that  the  French  have  only 
accepted  it  from  necessity,  and 
have  no  sympathy  for  it ;  that  it  is 
a  mere  superficial  Government;  that 
it  has  scarcely  any  roots  in  the  deep 
earth,  and  that  its  main  holdings 
are  on  the  surface.  All  that  may 
be  absolutely  true ;  and  it  may  be 
equally  true  that,  if  there  were  but 
one  pretender  to  the  throne,  he 
would  long  ago  have  put  on  his 
crown.  But,  however  true  it  be, 
it  only  proves  more  and  more  dis- 
tinctly how  difficult  it  is  to  put 
another  system  into  the  place  of  the 
present  one.  Things  will  forcedly 
go  on  as  they  are  (unless  a  soldier 
smashes  them)  from  sheer  impossi- 
bility of  selecting  anything  else. 
In  the  multitude  of  pretenders  there 
is  Republic. 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate. — Part 


569- 


JOHN    CALDIGATE. — PART    XIV. 


CHAPTER    LV. HOW    THE    CONSPIRATORS    THROVE. 


THERE  had  been  some  indiscre- 
tion among  Caldigate's  friends,  from 
which  it  resulted  that,  while  Judge 
Bramber  was  considering  the  matter, 
and  before  the  police  intelligence  of 
Scotland  Yard  even  had  stirred  itself 
in  obedience  to  the  judge's  orders, 
nearly  all  the  circumstances  which 
had  been  submitted  to  the  judge 
had  become  public.  Shand  knew 
all  that  Bagwax  had  done.  Bagwax 
was  acquainted  with  the  whole  of 
Dick's  evidence.  And  Hester  down 
at  Folking  understood  perfectly 
what  had  been  revealed  by  each  of 
those  enthusiastic  allies.  Dick,  as 
we  know,  had  been  staying  at  Folk- 
ing,  and  had  made  his  presence 
notable  throughout  the  county.  He 
had  succeeded  in  convincing  uncle 
Babington,  and  had  been  judged  to 
be  a  false  witness  by  all  the  Bol- 
tons.  In  that  there  had  perhaps 
been  no  great  indiscretion.  But 
when  Bagwax  opened  a  correspond- 
ence with  Mrs  John  Caldigate  and 
explained  to  her  at  great  length  all 
the  circumstances  of  the  post-mark 
and  the  postage-stamps,  and  when 
at  her  instance  he  got  a  day's  holi- 
day and  rushed  down  to  Folking, 
then,  as  he  felt  himself,  he  was 
doing  that  of  which  Sir  John  Joram 
and  Mr  Jones  would  not  approve. 
But  he  could  not  restrain  himself. 
And  why  should  he  restrain  himself 
when  he  had  lost  all  hope  of  his 
journey  to  Sydney1?  When  the 
prospect  of  that  delight  no  longer 
illumined  his  days,  why  should  he 
not  enjoy  the  other  delight  of  com- 
municating his  tidings, — his  own 
discoveries, — to  the  afflicted  lady1? 
Unless  he  did  so  it  would  appear 
to  her  that  Joram  had  done  it  all, 
and  there  would  be  no  reward, — 


absolutely  none  !  So  he  told  his 
tale, — at  first  by  letter  and  then 
with  his  own  natural  eloquence. 
"  Yes,  Mrs  Caldigate  j  the  post-marks 
are  difficult.  It  takes  a  lifetime  of 
study  to  understand  all  the  ins  and 
outs  of  post-marks.  To  me  it  is  A 
B  C  of  course.  When  I  had  spent 
a  week  or  two  looking  into  it  I  was 
sure  that  impression  had  never  been 
made  in  the  way  of  business/'  Bag- 
wax  was  sitting  out  on  the  lawn  at 
Folking,  and  the  bereaved  wife, 
dressed  in  black,  was  near  him,  hold- 
ing in  her  hand  one  of  the  photo- 
graphed copies  of  the  envelope. 
"It's  A  B  C  to  me;  but  I  don't 
wonder  you  shouldn^t  see  it." 

"I  think  I  do  see  a  good  deal," 
said  Hester. 

"But  any  babe  may  understand 
that,"  said  Bagwax, pressing  forward 
and  putting  his  forefinger  on  the 
obliteration  of  the  postage-stamp. 
"You  see  the  date  in  the  post- 
mark." 

"  I  know  the  date  very  well." 

"  We've  had  it  proved  that  on  the 
date  given  there  this  identical  post- 
age-stamp had  not  yet  been  manu- 
factured. The  Secretary  of  State 
can't  get  over  that.  I'll  defy  him." 

"  Why  don't  they  release  him  at 
once,  then?" 

"Between  you  and  me,  Mrs  Cal- 
digate, I  think  it's  Judge  Bramber." 

"  He  can't  want  to  injure  an  in- 
nocent man." 

"  From  what  I've  heard  Sir  John 
say  I  fancy  he  doesn't  like  to  have 
the  verdict  upset.  But  they  must 
do  it.  I'll  defy  them  to  get  over 
that."  And  again  he  tapped  the 
queen's  head.  Then  he  told  the 
story  of  his  love  for  Jemima,  and 
of  his  engagement.  Of  course  he 


570 


John  Caldigate.—Part  XIV. 


[May 


was  praised  and  petted, — as  indeed 
he  deserved ;  and  thus,  though  the 
house  at  Folking  was  a  sad  house; 
he  enjoyed  himself, — as  men  do 
when  much  is  made  of  them  by 
pretty  women. 

But  the  result  of  all  this  was 
that  every  detail  of  the  story  be- 
came known  to  the  public,  and  was 
quite  common  down  at  Cambridge. 
The  old  squire  was  urgent  with 
Mr  Seely,  asking  why  it  was  that 
when  those  things  were  known  an 
instant  order  had  not  come  from 
the  Secretary  of  State  for  the 
liberation  of  his  son.  Mr  Seely 
had  not  been  altogether  pleased  at 
the  way  in  which  Sir  John  had 
gone  to  work,  and  was  still  con- 
vinced of  the  guilt  of  his  own  client. 
His  answer  was  therefore  unsatis- 
factory, and  the  old  squire  proclaim- 
ed his  intention  of  proceeding  him- 
self to  London  and  demanding  an 
interview  with  the  Secretary  of 
State.  Then  the  Cambridge  news- 
papers took  up  the  subject, — gen- 
erally in  the  Caldigate  interest, — 
and  from  thence  the  matter  was 
transferred  to  the  metropolitan  col- 
umns,— which,  with  one  exception, 
were  strong  in  favour  of  such  a 
reversal  of  the  verdict  as  could 
be  effected  by  a  pardon  from  the 
Queen.  The  one  exception  was 
very  pellucid,  very  unanswerable, 
and  very  cold-blooded.  It  might 
have  been  written  by  Judge  Bram- 
ber  himself,  but  that  Judge  Bramber 
would  sooner  have  cut  his  hand  off 
than  have  defiled  it  by  making 
public  aught  that  had  come  before 
him  judicially  or  officially.  But  all 
Judge  Bramber's  arguments  were 
there  set  forth.  Dick  wished  his 
father  at  once  to  proceed  against 
the  paper  for  libel  because  the 
paper  said  that  his  word  could  not 
be  taken 'for  much.  The  post-mark 
theory  was  exposed  to  derision. 
There  was  no  doubt  much  in  the 
postage-stamp,  but  not  enough  to 


upset  the  overwhelming  weight  of 
evidence  by  which  the  verdict  had 
been  obtained.  And  so  the  case 
became  really  public,  and  the  news- 
papers were  bought  and  read  with 
the  avidity  which  marks  those  fes- 
tive periods  in  which  some  popular 
criminal  is  being  discussed  at  every 
breakfast- table. 

Much  of  this  had  occurred  before 
the  intelligence  of  Scotland  Yard 
had  been  set  to  work  in  obedience 
to  Judge  Bramber.  The  papers 
had  been  a  day  or  two  in  the  Home 
Office,  and  three  or  four  days  in  the 
judge's  hands  before  he  could  look 
at  them.  To  Hester  and  the  old 
squire  at  Folking  the  incarceration 
of  that  injured  darling  was  the  one 
thing  in  all  the  world  which  now 
required  attention.  To  redress  that 
terrible  grievance,  j  udges,  secretaries, 
thrones,  and  parliaments,  should 
have  left  their  wonted  tracks  and 
thought  of  nothing  till  it  had  been 
accomplished.  But  Judge  Bramber, 
in  the  performance  of  his  duties, 
was  never  hurried ;  and  at  the 
Home  Office  a  delay  but  of  three  or 
four  days  amounted  to  official  haste. 
Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  all  that 
Bagwax  had  done  and  all  that 
Shand  had  said  were  known  to  the 
public  at  large  before  the  intelli- 
gence of  Scotland  Yard  was  at 
work, — before  anybody  had  as  yet 
done  anything. 

Among  the  public  were  Euphemia 
Smith  and  Mr  Crinkett, — Adamson 
also,  and  Anna  Young,  the  other 
witness.  Since  the  trial,  this  con- 
fraternity had  not  passed  an  alto- 
gether fraternal  life.  When  the 
money  had  been  paid,  the  woman 
had  insisted  on  having  the  half. 
She,  indeed,  had  carried  the  cheque 
for  the  amount  away  from  the 
Jericho  Coffee-house.  It  had  been 
given  into  her  hands  and  those  of 
Crinkett  conjointly,  and  she  had 
secured  the  document.  The  amount 
was  payable  to  their  joint  order, 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XIV. 


571 


and  each  had  felt  that  it  would  be 
better  to  divide  the  spoil  in  peace. 
Crinkett  had  taken  his  half  with 
many  grumblings,  because  he  had, 
in  truth,  arranged  the  matter  and 
hitherto  paid  the  expenses.  Then 
the  woman  had  wished  to  start  at 
once  for  Australia,  taking  the  other 
female  with  her.  But  to  this  Crin- 
kett had  objected.  They  would 
certainly,  he  said,  be  arrested  for 
breaking  their  bail  at  whatever  port 
they  might  reach, — and  why  should 
they  go,  seeing  that  the  money  had 
been  paid  to  them  on  the  distinct 
understanding  that  they  were  not 
pledged  to  abandon  the  prosecu- 
tion 1  Most  unwillingly  the  woman 
remained ; — but  did  so  fearing  lest 
worse  evil  might  betide  her.  Then 
there  had  arisen  quarrels  about  the 
money  between  the  two  females, 
and  between  Crinkett  and  Adam- 
son.  It  was  in  vain  that  Crinkett 
showed  that,  were  he  to  share  with 
Adamson,  there  would  be  very  little 
of  the  plunder  left  to  him.  Adam- 
son  demanded  a  quarter  of  the 
whole,  short  of  a  quarter  of  the 
expenses,  declaring  that  were  it 
not  paid  to  him,  he  would  divulge 
everything  to  the  police.  The 
woman,  who  had  got  her  money 
in  her  hand,  and  who  was,  in 
truth,  spending  it  very  quickly, 
would  give  back  nothing  for  ex- 
penses, unless  her  expenses  in  Eng- 
land also  were  considered.  Nor 
would  she  give  a  shilling  to  Anna 
Young,  beyond  an  allowance  of  <£2 
a- week,  till,  as  she  said,  they  were 
both  back  in  the  colony  again. 
But  Anna  Young  did  not  wish  to 
go  back  to  the  colony.  And  so 
they  quarrelled  till  the  trial  came 
and  was  over. 

The  verdict  had  been  given  on 
the  20th  July,  and  it  was  about 
the  middle  of  September  when  the 
newspapers  made  public  all  that 
Shand  and  Bagwax  between  them 
had  said  and  done.  At  that  time  the 


four  conspirators  were  still  in  Eng- 
land. The  two  men  were  living  a 
wretched  life  in  London,  and  the 
women  were  probably  not  less 
wretched  at  Brighton.  Mrs  Smith, 
when  she  learned  that  Dick  Shand 
was  alive  and  in  England,  immedi- 
ately understood  her  danger, — un- 
derstood her  danger,  but  did  not 
at  all  measure  4he  security  which 
might  come  to  her  from  the  nature 
of  Dick's  character.  She  would 
have  flown  instantly  without  a 
word  to  any  one,  but  that  the 
other  woman  watched  her  day  and 
night.  They  did  not  live  under 
the  same  roof,  nor  in  similar  style. 
Euphemia  Smith  wore  silk,  and 
endeavoured  to  make  the  best  of 
what  female  charms  her  ill  mode  of 
life  had  left  to  her;  while  Young 
was  content  with  poor  apparel  and 
poor  living, - — but  spent  her  time  in 
keeping  guard  on  the  other.  The 
woman  in  silk  knew  that  were  she 
to  leave  her  lodgings  for  half  a 
day  without  the  knowledge  of  the 
woman  in  calico,  the  woman  in 
calico  would  at  once  reveal  every- 
thing to  the  police.  But  when  she 
understood  the  point  which  had 
been  raised  and  made  as  to  the 
post-mark, — which  she  did  under- 
stand thoroughly, — then  she  com- 
prehended also  her  own  jeopardy, 
and  hurried  up  to  London  to  see 
Crinkett.  And  she  settled  matters 
with  Young.  If  Young  would  go 
back  with  her  to  Australia,  every- 
thing there  should  be  made  pleas- 
ant. Terms  were  made  at  the 
Brighton  station.  Anna  Young 
was  to  receive  two  thousand  pounds 
in  London,  and  would  then  remain 
as  companion  with  her  old  mistress. 
In  London  there  was  a  close  con- 
ference, at  first  between  the  two 
principals  only.  Crinkett  thought 
that  he  was  comparatively  safe.  He 
had  sworn  to  nothing  about  the 
letter  ;  and  though  he  himself  had 
prepared  the  envelope,  110  proof  of 


572 


John  Odldigate. — Part  XIV. 


[May 


his  handiwork  was  forthcoming  that 
he  had  done  so.  But  he  was  quite 
ready  to  start  again  to  some  distant 
portion  of  the  earth's  surface, — to 
almost  any  distant  portion  of  the 
earth's  surface, — if  she  would  con- 
sent to  a  joining  of  purses.  "  And 
who  is  to  keep  the  joint  purse  ? " 
asked  Mrs  Smith,  not  without  a 
touch  of  grand  irony. 

"Me,  of  course,"  said  Crinkett. 
"A  man  always  must  have  the 
money." 

"  I'd  sooner  have  fourteen  years 
for  perjury,  like  the  Claimant,"  said 
Mrs  Smith,  with  a  grand  resolve 
that,  come  what  might,  she  would 
stick  to  her  own  money. 

But  at  last  it  was  decided.  Adam- 
son  would  not  stir  a  step,  but  con- 
sented to  remain  with  two  thousand 
pounds,  which  Crinkett  was  com- 
pelled to  pay  him.  Crinkett  handed 
him  the  money  within  the  precincts 
of  one  of  the  city  banks  not  an 
hour  before  the  sailing  of  the  Julius 
Vogel  from  the  London  Docks  for 
Auckland  in  New  Zealand.  At 
that  moment  both  the  women  were 
on  board  the  Julius  Vogel,  and  the 
gang  was  so  far  safe.  Crinkett  was 
there  in  time,  and  they  were  carried 
safely  down  the  river.  New  Zealand 
had  been  chosen  because  there  they 
would  be  further  from  their  perse- 
cutors than  at  any  other  spot  they 
could  reach.  And  the  journey 
would  occupy  long,  and  they  were 
pervaded  by  an  idea  that  as  they 
had  been  hitherto  brought  in  ques- 
tion as  to  no  crime,  the  officers  of 
justice  would  hardly  bring  them 
back  from  so  great  a  distance. 

The  Julius  Vogel  touched  at  Ply- 
mouth on  her  outward  voyage.  How 
terribly  inconvenient  must  be  this 
habit  of  touching  to  passengers  go- 
ing from  home,  such  as  Euphemia 
Smith  and  Thomas  Crinkett !  And 
the  wretched  vessel,  which  had 
made  a  quick  passage  round  from 
the  Thames,  lay  two  days  and  two 


nights  at  Dartmouth,  before  it  went 
on  to  Plymouth.  Our  friends,  of 
course,  did  not  go  on  shore.  Our 
friends,  who  were  known  as  Mr 
Catley  and  his  two  widowed  sisters, 
Mrs  Salmon  and  Mrs  York,  kept 
themselves  very  quiet,  and  were 
altogether  well-behaved.  But  the 
women  could  not  restrain  some 
manifestation  of  their  impatience. 
Why  did  not  the  vessel  start? 
Why  were  they  to  be  delayed? 
Then  the  captain  made  known  to 
them  that  the  time  for  starting  had 
not  yet  come.  Three  o'clock  on  that 
day  was  the  time  fixed  for  starting. 
As  the  slow  moments  wore  them- 
selves away,  the  women  trembled, 
huddled  together  on  the  poop  of 
the  vessel ;  while  Crinkett,  never 
letting  the  pipe  out  of  his  mouth, 
stood  leaning  against  the  taffrail, 
looking  towards  the  port,  gazing 
across  the  waters  to  see  whether 
anything  was  coming  towards  the 
ship  which  might  bode  evil  to 
his  journey.  Then  there  came  the 
bustle  preparatory  to  starting,  and 
Crinkett  thought  that  he  was  free, 
at  any  rate,  for  that  journey.  But 
such  bustle  spreads  itself  over  many 
minutes.  Quarter  of  an  hour  suc- 
ceeded quarter  of  an  hour,  and  still 
they  were  not  off.  The  last  pas- 
senger came  on  board,  and  yet  they 
were  not  off.  Then  Crinkett  with 
his  sharp  eyes  saw  another  boat 
pushed  off  from  the  shore,  and 
heard  a  voice  declare  that  the 
Julius  Vogel  had  received  a  signal 
not  to  start.  Then  Crinkett  knew 
that  a  time  of  desperate  trouble  had 
come  upon  him,  and  he  bethought 
himself  what  he  would  do.  Were 
he  to  jump  overboard,  they  would 
simply  pick  him  up.  Nor  was  he 
quite  sure  that  he  wished  to  die. 
The  money  which  he  had  kept  had 
not  been  obtained  fraudulently,  and 
would  be  left  to  him,  he  thought, 
after  that  term  of  imprisonment 
which  it  might  be  his  fate  to  en- 


1879.] 


John  Galdigate.—Part  XI V. 


573 


dure.  But  then,  again,  it  might 
be  that  no  such  fate  was  in  store 
for  him.  He  had  sworn  only  to 
the  marriage  and  not  to  the  letter. 
It  might  still  be  possible  that 
he  should  be  acquitted,  while  the 
woman  was  condemned.  So  he 
stood  perfectly  still,  and  said  not 
a  word  to  either  of  his  companions 
as  to  the  boat  which  was  coming. 
He  could  soon  see  two  men  in  the 
guise  of  policemen,  and  another 
who  was  certainly  a  policeman, 
though  not  in  that  guise.  He 
stood  there  very  quiet,  and  deter- 
mined that  he  would  tell  his  own 
name  and  those  of  the  two  women 
at  the  first  question  that  was  asked 
him.  On  the  day  but  one  follow- 
ing, Crinkett  and  Euphemia  Smith 
were  committed  in  London  to  take 
their  trial  for  perjury. 

Adamson,  when  he  had  read  the 
reports  in  the  newspapers,  and  had 
learned  that  the  postage-stamp  had 
been  detected,  and  that  Shand  was 
at  home,  also  looked  about  him  a 
little.  He  talked  over  the  matter 
at  great  length  with  Crinkett,  but 
he  did  not  tell  Crinkett  all  his  own 
ideas.  Some  of  them  he  did  make 
known  to  Crinkett.  He  would  not 
himself  go  to  the  colonies  with 
Crinkett,  nor  would  he  let  Crinkett 
go  till  some  share  of  the  plunder 
had  been  made  over  to  him.  This, 
after  many  words,  had  been  fixed 
at  two  thousand  pounds;  and  the 
money,  as  we  have  seen,  had  been 
paid.  Crinkett  had  been  careful 
to  make  the  payment  at  as  late  a 
moment  as  possible.  He  had  paid 
the  amount, — very  much  to  his 
own  regret  when  he  saw  that  boat 
coming, — because  he  was  quite  sure 
that  Adamson  would  at  once  have 
denounced  him  to  the  police,  had 
he  not  done  so.  Adamson  might 
denounce  him  in  spite  of  the  pay- 
ment ; — but  the  payment  appeared 
to  him  to  be  his  best  chance. 
When  he  saw  the  boat  coming,  he 

VOL.  CXXV. NO.  DCCLXIII. 


knew  that  he  had  simply  thrown 
away  his  two  thousand  pounds. 

In  truth,  he  had  simply  thrown 
it  away.  There  is  no  comfort  in 
having  kept  one's  word  honestly, 
when  one  would  fain  have  broken 
it  dishonestly.  Adamson,  with  the 
large  roll  of  bank-notes  still  in  his 
pocket,  had  gone  at  once  to  Scot- 
land Yard  and  told  his  story.  At 
that  time  all  the  details  had  been 
sent  by  the  judge  to  the  police-office, 
and  it  was  understood  that  a  great 
inquiry  was  to  be  made.  In  the 
first  place,  Crinkett  and  Euphemia 
Smith  were  wanted.  Adamson  soon 
made  his  bargain.  He  could  tell 
something,  —  could  certainly  tell 
where  Crinkett  and  the  women 
were  to  be  found ;  but  he  must  be 
assured  that  any  little  peccadillo 
of  which  he  himself  might  have 
been  guilty,  would  be  overlooked. 
The  peccadillo  on  his  part  had  been 
very  small,  but  he  must  be  assured. 
Then  he  was  assured,  and  told  the 
police  at  once  that  they  could  stop 
the  two  travellers  at  Plymouth. 

And  of  course  he  told  more  than 
that.  There  had  been  no  marriage, 
— no  real  marriage.  He  had  been 
induced  to  swear  that  there  had 
been  a  marriage,  because  he  had 
regarded  the  promise  and  the  co- 
habitation as  making  a  marriage, — 
"  in  heaven."  So  he  had  expressed 
himself,  and  so  excused  himself. 
But  now  his  eyes  had  been  opened 
to  the  error  of  his  ways,  and  he 
was  free  to  acknowledge  that  he 
had  committed  perjury.  There  had 
been  no  marriage ; — certainly  none 
at  all.  He  made  his  deposition, 
and  bound  himself  down,  and  sub- 
mitted to  live  under  the  surveillance 
of  the  police  till  the  affair  should  be 
settled.  Then  he  would  be  able  to 
go  where  he  listed,  with  two  thou- 
sand pounds  in  his  pocket.  He 
was  a  humble,  silent,  and  generally 
obedient  man,  but  in  this  affair  he 
had  managed  to  thrive  better  than 
2  p 


574 


John  Caldigate.— Part  XI V. 


[M,y 


any  of  the  others.  Anna  Young 
was  afterwards  allowed  to  fill  the 
same  position ;  but  she  failed  in 
getting  any  of  the  money.  While  the 
women  were  in  London  together, 
and  as  they  were  starting,  Euphemia 
Smith  had  been  too  strong  for  her 


companion.  She  had  declared  that 
she  would  not  pay  the  money  till 
they  were  afloat,  and  then  that  she 
would  not  pay  it  till  they  had  left 
Plymouth.  When  the  police  came 
on  board  the  Julius  Vogel,  Anna 
Young  had  as  yet  received  nothing. 


CHAPTER   LVI. THE   BOLTONS   ARE    VERY    FIRM. 


While  all  this  was  going  on,  as 
the  general  opinion  in  favour  of 
Caldigate  was  becoming  stronger 
every  day,  when  even  Judge  Bram- 
ber  had  begun  to  doubt,  the  feeling 
which  had  always  prevailed  at  Puri- 
tan Grange  was  growing  in  intensity 
and  converting  itself  from  a  convic- 
tion into  a  passion.  That  the  wick- 
ed bigamist  had  falsely  and  fraud- 
ulently robbed  her  of  her  daughter 
was  a  religion  to  Mrs  Bolton ; — and, 
as  the  matter  had  proceeded,  the  old 
banker  had  become  ever  more  and 
more  submissive  to  his  wife's  feel- 
ings. All  the  Cambridge  Boltons 
were  in  accord  on  this  subject, — 
who  had  never  before  been  in  ac- 
cord on  any  subject.  Robert  Bol- 
ton, who  understood  thoroughly 
each  point  as  it  was  raised  on 
behalf  of  Caldigate,  was  quite  sure 
that  the  old  squire  was  spending 
his  money  freely,  his  own  money 
and  his  son's,  with  the  view  of  get- 
ting the  verdict  set  aside.  What 
was  so  clear  as  that  Dick  Shand 
and  Bagwax,  and  probably  also 
Smithers  from  the  Stamps  and 
Taxes,  were  all  in  the  pay  of  old 
Caldigate  %  At  this  time  the  de- 
fection of  Adamson  was  not  known 
to  him,  but  he  did  know  that  a 
strong  case  was  being  made  with 
the  Secretary  of  State.  "If  it 
costs  me  all  I  have  in  the  world 
I  will  expose  them,"  he  said  up 
in  London  to  his  brother  William, 
the  London  barrister. 

The  barrister  was  not  quite  in 
accord  with  the  other  Boltons.  He 


also  had  been  disposed  to  think  that 
Dick  Shand  and  Bagwax  might  have 
been  bribed  by  the  squire.  It  was 
at  any  rate  possible.  And  the  twenty 
thousand  pounds  paid  to  the  accus- 
ing witnesses  had  always  stuck  in 
his  throat  when  he  had  endeavoured 
to  believe  that  Caldigate  might  be 
innocent.  It  seemed  to  him  still 
that  the  balance  of  evidence  was 
against  the  man  who  had  taken 
his  sister  away  from  her  home. 
But  he  was  willing  to  leave  that 
to  the  Secretary  of  State  and  to 
the  judge.  He  did  not  see  why 
his  sister  should  not  have  her  hus- 
band and  be  restored  to  the  world, 
— if  Judge  Bramber  should  at  last 
decide  that  so  it  ought  to  be.  "N"o 
money  could  bribe  Judge  Bramber. 
No  undue  persuasion  could  weaken 
him.  If  that  Ehadamanthus  should 
at  last  say  that  the  verdict  had  been 
a  wrong  verdict,  then, — for  pity's 
sake,  for  love's  sake,  in  the  name 
of  humanity,  and  for  the  sake  of 
all  Boltons  present  and  to  come, — 
let  the  man  be  considered  innocent. 
But  Robert  Bolton  was  more  in- 
tent on  his  purpose,  and  was  a  man 
of  stronger  passion.  Perhaps  some 
real  religious  scruple  told  him  that 
a  woman  should  not  live  with  a 
man  who  was  not  her  true  husband, 
— let  any  judge  say  what  he  might. 
But  hatred,  probably,  had  more  to 
do  with  it  than  religion.  It  was 
he  who  had  first  favoured  Caldi- 
gate's  claim  on  Hester's  hand,  and 
he  who  had  been  most  grievously 
deceived.  From  the  moment  in 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate.—Part  XIV. 


575 


which  the  conviction  had  come 
upon  him  that  Caldigate  had  even 
promised  his  hand  in  marriage  to 
Euphemia  Smith,  he  had  become 
Caldigate's  enemy,  —  his  bitter 
enemy ;  and  now  he  could  not 
endure  the  thought  that  he  should 
be  called  upon  again  to  receive  Cal- 
digate as  his  brother-in-law.  Caldi- 
gate's guilt  was  an  idea  fixed  in  his 
mind  which  no  Secretary  of  State, 
no  Judge  Bramber,  no  brother  could 
expel. 

And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  there 
were  hard  words  between  him  and 
his  brother.  "  You  are  wrong,"  said 
William. 

"  How  wrong  1  You  cannot  say 
that  you  believe  him  to  be  inno- 
cent."' 

"  If  he  receives  the  Queen's  pardon 
he  is  to  be  considered  as  innocent." 

"  Even  though  you  should  know 
him  to  have  been  guilty  ? " 

« Well,  —  yes,"  said  William, 
slowly,  and  perhaps  indiscreetly. 
"  It  is  a  matter  in  which  a  man's 
guilt  or  innocence  must  be  held  to 
depend  upon  what  persons  in  due 
authority  have  declared.  As  he 
is  now  guilty  of  bigamy  in  conse- 
quence of  the  verdict,  even  though 
he  should  never  have  committed 
the  offence,  so  should  he  be  pre- 
sumed to  be  innocent,  when  that 
verdict  has  been  set  aside  by  the 
Queen's  pardon  on  the  advice  of 
her  proper  officers, — even  though 
he  committed  the  offence." 

"  You  would  have  your  sister 
live  with  a  man  who  has  another 
wife  alive?  It  comes  to  that." 

"  For  all  legal  purposes  he  would 
have  no  other  wife  alive." 

"  The  children  would  be  illegiti- 
mate." 

"  There  you  are  decidedly  wrong," 
said  the  barrister.  "The  children 
would  be  legitimate.  Even  at  this 
moment,  without  any  pardon,  the 
child  could  claim  and  would  enter 
in  upon  his  inheritance." 


"  The  next  of  kin  would  claim," 
said  the  attorney. 

"  The  burden  of  proving  the  for- 
mer marriage  would  then  be  on 
him,"  said  the  barrister. 

"  The  verdict  would  be  evidence," 
said  the  attorney. 

"Certainly,"  said  the  barrister; 
"  but  such  evidence  would  not  be 
worth  a  straw  after  a  Queen's  par- 
don, given  on  the  advice  of  the 
judge  who  had  tried  the  former 
case.  As  yet  we  know  not  what 
the  judge  may  say, — we  do  not 
know  the  facts  as  they  have  been 
expounded  to  him.  But  if  Caldi- 
gate be  regarded  as  innocent  by 
the  world  at  large,  it  will  be  our 
duty  so  to  regard  him." 

"  I  will  never  look  on  him  as 
Hester's  husband,"  said  the  at- 
torney. 

"  I  and  Fanny  have  already  made 
up  our  minds  that  we  would  at  once 
ask  them  to  come  to  us  for  a  month," 
said  the  barrister. 

"  Nothing  on  earth  will  induce 
me  to  speak  to  him,"  said  the 
attorney. 

"  Then  you  will  be  very  cruel 
to  Hester,"  said  the  barrister. 

"  It  is  dreadful  to  me,"  said  the 
attorney,  "that  you  should  care  so 
little  for  your  sister's  reputation." 
And  so  they  quarrelled.  Robert, 
leaving  the  house  in  great  dudgeon, 
went  down  on  the  following  morn- 
ing to  Cambridge. 

At  Puritan  Grange  the  matter 
was  argued  rather  by  rules  of  reli- 
gion than  of  law ;  but  as  the  rules 
of  law  were  made  by  those  inter- 
ested to  fit  themselves  to  expe- 
diency, so  were  the  rules  of  reli- 
gion fitted  to  prejudice.  No  hatred 
could  be  more  bitter  than  that 
which  Mrs  Bolton  felt  for  the  man 
whom  she  would  permit  no  one 
to  call  her  son-in-law.  Something 
as  to  the  postage -stamp  and  the 
post-marks  was  told  her;  but  with 
a  woman's  indomitable  obstinacy 


576 


John  Caldigate.— Part  XIV. 


[May 


she  closed  her  mind  against  all 
that,  —  as  indeed  did  also  the 
banker.  "Is  her  position  in  the 
world  to  depend  upon  a  postage- 
stamp?"  said  the  banker,  intend- 
ing to  support  his  wife.  Then 
she  arose  in  her  wrath,  and  was 
very  eloquent.  "Her  position  in 
the  world  !  "  she  said.  "  What 
does  it  matter  ?  It  is  her  soul ! 
Though  all  men  and  all  women 
should  call  her  a  castaway,  it  would 
be  nothing  if  the  Lord  knew  her 
to  be  guiltless.  But  she  will  be 
living  as  an  adulteress  with  an 
adulterer.  The  law  has  told  her 
that  it  is  so.  She  will  feel  every 
day  and  every  night  that  she  is  a 
transgressor,  and  will  vainly  seek 
consolation  by  telling  herself  that 
men  have  pardoned  that  which 
God  has  condemned."  And  again 
she  broke  forth  :  "  The  Queen's  par- 
don !  What  right  has  the  Queen 
to  pardon  an  adulterer  who  has 
crept  into  the  bosom  of  a  family 
and  destroyed  all  that  he  found 
there1?  What  sense  of  justice  can 
any  queen  have  in  her  bosom  who 
will  send  such  a  one  back,  to  heap 
sin  upon  sin,  to  fasten  the  bonds 
of  iniquity  on  the  soul  of  my 
child1?"  Postage-stamps  and  post- 
marks and  an  old  envelope !  The 
triviality  of  the  things  as  compared 
with  the  importance  of  everlasting 
life  made  her  feel  that  they  were 
unworthy  to  be  even  noticed.  It 
did  not  occur  to  her  that  the  pres- 
ence of  a  bodkin  might  be  ample 
evidence  of  murder.  Post-marks 
indeed, — when  her  daughter's  ever- 
lasting life  was  the  matter  in  ques- 
tion !  Then  they  told  her  of  Dick 
Shand.  -  She,  too,  had  heard  of 
Dick  Shand.  He  had  been  a 
gambler.  So  she  said, — without 
much  truth.  He  was  known  for  a 
drunkard,  a  spendthrift,  a  penniless 
idle  ne'er-do-well  who  had  wan- 
dered back  home  without  clothes 
to  his  back ; — which  was  certainly 


untrue,  as  the  yellow  trousers  had 
been  bought  at  San  Francisco ; — 
and  now  she  was  told  that  the 
hated  miscreant  was  to  be  released 
from  prison  because  such  a  one  as 
this  was  ready  to  take  an  oath  ! 
She  had  a  knack  of  looking  on 
such  men, — ne'er-do-wells  like  Dick 
Shand  and  Caldigate, — as  human 
beings  who  had,  as  it  were,  lost 
their  souls  before  death,  so  that  it 
was  useless  to  think  of  them  other- 
wise than  as  already  damned.  That 
Caldigate  should  become  a  good, 
honest,  loving  husband,  or  Dick 
Shand  a  truth  -  speaking  witness, 
was  to  her  thinking  much  more 
improbable  than  that  a  camel  should 
go  through  the  eye  of  a  needle. 
She  would  press  her  lips  together 
and  grind  her  teeth  and  shake  her 
head  when  any  one  about  her  spoke 
of  a  doubt.  The  man  was  in  prison, 
at  any  rate,  for  two  years, — locked  up 
safe  for  so  much  time,  as  it  might 
be  a  wild  beast  which  with  infinite 
trouble  had  been  caged.  And  now 
they  were  talking  of  undoing  the 
bars  and  allowing  the  monster  to 
gorge  himself  again  with  his  prey  ! 

"If  the  Queen  were  told  the 
truth  she  would  never  do  it,"  she 
said  to  her  amazed  husband.  "  The 
Queen  is  a  mother  and  a  woman 
who  kneels  in  prayer  before  her 
Maker.  Something  should  be  done, 
so  that  the  truth  may  be  made 
known  to  her." 

To  illuminate  all  the  darkness 
which  was  betrayed  by  this  appeal 
to  him  was  altogether  beyond  Mr 
Bolton's  power.  He  appreciated 
the  depth  of  the  darkness.  He 
knew,  for  instance,  that  the  Queen 
herself  would  in  such  a  matter  act 
so  simply  in  accordance  with  the 
advice  of  some  one  else,  that  the 
pardon,  if  given,  would  not  in  the 
least  depend  on  her  Majesty's  senti- 
ments. To  call  it  the  Queen's  par- 
don was  a  simple  figure  of  speech. 
This  was  manifest  to  him,  and  he 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XI V. 


577 


was  driven  to  endeavour  to  make 
it  manifest  to  her.  She  spoke  of 
a  petition  to  be  sent  direct  to  the 
Queen,  and  insinuated  that  Bobert 
Bolton,  if  he  were  anything  like  a 
real  brother,  would  force  himself 
into  her  Majesty's  presence.  "  It 
isn't  the  Queen,"  said  her  hus- 
band. 

"  It  is  the  Queen.  Mercy  is  the 
prerogative  of  the  Crown.  Even  I 
know  as  much  as  that.  And  she 
is  to  be  made  to  believe  that  this 
is  mercy ! " 

"Her  Majesty  does  what  her 
Ministers  tell  her." 

"  But  she  wouldn't  if  she  was 
told  the  truth.  I  do  not  for  a  mo- 
ment believe  that  she  would  allow 
such  a  man  as  that  to  be  let  loose 
about  the  world  like  a  roaring  lion 
if  she  knew  all  that  you  and  I 
know.  Mercy  indeed!" 

"It  won't  be  meant  for  mercy, 
my  dear." 

"  What  then  ?  Do  you  not  know 
that  the  man  has  another  wife  alive, 
— a  wife  much  more  suited  to  him 
than  our  poor  darling?  Nobody 
would  hear  my  voice  while  there 
was  yet  time.  And  so  my  child, 
my  only  one,  was  taken  away  from 
me  by  her  own  father  and  her  own 
brothers,  and  no  one  now  will  exert 
himself  to  bring  her  back  to  her 
home  ! "  The  poor  old  man  had 
had  but  little  comfort  in  his  home 
since  his  daughter's  marriage,  and 
was  now  more  miserable  than  ever. 

Then  there  came  a  letter  from 
Hester  to  her  mother.  Since  Mrs 
Bolton's  last  visit  to  Folking  there 
had  been  some  correspondence 
maintained.  A  few  letters  had 
passed,  very  sad  on  each  side,  in 
which  the  daughter  had  assured 
the  mother  of  her  undying  love, 
and  in  which  the  mother  had  de- 
clared that  day  and  night  she 
prayed  for  her  child.  But  of  Cal- 
digate, neither  on  one  side  nor  on 
the  other  had  mention  been  made. 


Now  Hester,  who  was  full  of  hope, 
and  sick  with  hope  deferred,  en- 
deavoured to  convince  her  mother 
that  the  entire  charge  against  her 
husband  had  been  proved  by  new 
evidence  to  be  false.  She  recapit- 
ulated all  the  little  details  with 
which  the  diligent  reader  must  by 
this  time  be  too  well  acquainted. 
She  made  quite  clear,  as  she 
thought,  the  infamous  plot  by 
which  the  envelope  had  been  made 
to  give  false  evidence,  and  she 
added  the  assurance  that  certainly 
before  long  her  dear,  dearest,  ill-used 
husband  would  be  restored  to  her. 
Then  she  went  on  to  implore  her 
mother's  renewed  affection  both 
for  herself  and  him  and  her  boy, 
promising  that  bygones  should  all 
be  bygones;  and  then  she  ended 
by  declaring  that  though  the  return 
of  her  husband  would  make  her 
very  happy,  she  could  not  be  alto- 
gether happy  unless  her  parents 
also  should  be  restored  to  her. 

To  this  there  came  a  crushing 
answer,  as  follows  : — • 

"PURITAN  GRANGE,  28th  September. 

"DEAREST  HESTER, — It  was  unnec- 
essary that  you  should  ask  for  a  re- 
newal of  your  mother's  love.  There 
has  never  been  a  moment  in  which 
she  has  not  loved  you, — more  dear- 
ly, I  fear,  than  one  human  creature 
should  ever  love  another.  When 
I  was  strongest  in  opposing  you,  I 
did  so  from  love.  When  I  watched 
you  in  the  hall  all  those  hours,  en- 
deavouring to  save  you  from  further 
contact  with  the  man  who  had  in- 
jured you,  I  did  it  from  love.  You 
need  not  doubt  my  love. 

"  But  as  to  all  the  rest,  I  cannot 
agree  to  a  word  that  you  say.  They 
are  plotting  with  false  evidence  to 
rescue  the  man  from  prison.  I  will 
not  give  way  to  it  when  my  soul 
tells  me  that  it  is  untrue.  As  your 
mother,  I  can  only  implore  you  to 
come  back  to  me,  and  to  save  your- 


578 


John  Caldigate.—Part  XIV. 


[May 


self  from  the  further  evil  which  is 
coming  upon  you.  It  may  be  that 
he  will  be  enabled  to  escape,  and 
then  you  will  again  have  to  live 
with  a  husband  that  is  no  husband, 
— unless  you  will  listen  to  your 
mother's  words. 

"  You  are  thinking  of  the  good 
things  of  this  world, — of  a  home 
with  all  luxuries  and  ease,  and  of 
triumph  over  those  who,  for  the 
good  of  your  soul,  have  hitherto 
marred  your  worldly  joys.  Is  it 
thus  that  you  hope  to  win  that 
crown  of  everlasting  life  which  you 
have  been  taught  to  regard  as  the 
one  thing  worthy  of  a  Christian's 
struggles  ?  Is  it  not  true  that,  since 
that  wretched  day  on  which  you 
were  taken  away  from  me,  you  have 
allowed  your  mind  to  pass  from 
thoughts  of  eternity  to  longings 
after  vain  joys  in  this  bitter,  fruit- 
less vale  of  tears'?  If  that  be  so, 
can  he  who  has  so  encouraged  you 
have  been  good  to  you  ?  Do  you 
remember  David's  words ;  l  Some 
trust  in  chariots,  and  some  in  horses; 
but  we  will  remember  the  name  of 
the  Lord  our  God"?  And  then, 
again :  '  They  are  brought  down 
and  fallen  j  but  we  are  risen  and 
stand  upright.'  Ask  yourself  whe- 
ther you  have  stood  upright  or  have 
fallen,  since  you  left  your  father's 
house;  whether  you  have  trusted 
in  the  Lord  your  God,  or  in  horses 
and  chariots, — that  is,  in  the  vain 
comforts  of  an  easy  life  1  If  it  be 
so,  can  it  be  for  your  good  that 
you  have  left  your  father's  house  1 
And  should  you  not  accept  this 
scourge  that  has  fallen  upon  you  as 
a  healing  balm  from  the  hands  of 
the  Lord  ? 

"  My  child,  I  have  no  other  an- 
swer to  send  you.  That  I  love  you 
till  my  very  bowels  yearn  after  you 
is  most  true.  But  I  cannot  profess 
to  believe  a  lie,  or  declare  that  to 
be  good  which  I  know  to  be  evil. 

"May  the  Lord  bless  you,  and 


turn  your  feet  aright,  and  restore 
you  to  your  loving  mother. 

"  MAEY  BOLTON." 

When  Hester  read  this  she  was 
almost  crushed.  The  delay  since 
the  new  tidings  had  come  to  her 
had  not,  in  truth,  been  very  great. 
It  was  not  yet  quite  a  month  since 
Shand  had  been  at  Folking,  and  a 
shorter  period  since  the  discoveries 
of  Bagwax  had  been  explained  to 
her.  But  the  days  seemed  to  her 
to  be  very  long ;  and  day  after  day 
she  thought  that  on  that  day  at 
least  the  news  of  his  promised  re- 
lease would  be  brought  to  her.  And 
now,  instead  of  these  news,  there 
came  this  letter  from  her  mother, 
harder  almost  in  its  words  than 
any  words  which  had  hitherto  been 
either  written  or  spoken  in  the 
matter.  Even  when  all  the  world 
should  have  declared  him  innocent, 
— when  the  Queen,  and  the  great 
officer  of  State,  and  that  stern  judge, 
should  have  said  that  he  was  inno- 
cent,— even  then  her  cruel  mother 
would  refuse  to  receive  him  !  She 
had  been  invited  to  ask  herself  cer- 
tain questions  as  to  the  state  of  her 
soul,  and  as  to  the  teaching  she  had 
received  since  her  marriage.  The 
subject  is  one  on  which  there  is  no 
possible  means  of  convergence  be- 
tween persons  who  have  learned  to 
differ.  Her  mother's  allusions  to 
chariots  and  horses  was  to  her  the 
enthusiasm  of  a  fanatic.  No  doubt, 
teaching  had  come  to  her  from  her 
husband,  but  it  had  come  at  the 
period  of  life  at  which  such  lessons 
are  easily  learned.  "Brought  down 
and  fallen ! "  she  said  to  herself. 
"  Yes,  we  are  all  brought  down  and 
fallen  ; " — for  she  had  not  at  all  dis- 
carded the  principles  of  her  religious 
faith ; — <:  but  a  woman  will  hardly 
raise  herself  by  being  untrue  to  her 
husband."  She,  too,  yearned  for  her 
mother ;  —  but  there  was  never  a 
moment's  doubt  in  her  mind  to 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate.— Part  XIV. 


579 


which  she  would  cling  if  at  last  it 
should  become  necessary  that  one 
should  be  cast  off. 

Mrs  Bolton,  when  the  letter  had 
been  despatched,  sat  brooding  over 
it  in  deep  regret  mixed  with  deeper 
anger.  She  was  preparing  for  her- 
self an  awful  tragedy.  She  must 


be  severed  for  ever  from  her  daugh- 
ter, and  so  severed  with  the  opinion 
of  all  her  neighbours  against  her ! 
But  what  was  all  that  if  she  had 
done  right  ?  Or  of  what  service  to 
her  would  be  the  contrary  if  she 
were  herself  to  think,  —  nay,  to 
know, — that  she  had  done  wrong? 


CHAPTER    LV1I. SQUIRE    CALD1GATE    AT    THE   HOME    OFFICE. 


When  October  came  no  informa- 
tion from  the  Secretary  of  State's 
office  had  yet  reached  Folking,  and 
the  two  inhabitants  there  were  be- 
coming almost  despondent  as  well 
as  impatient.  There  was  nobody 
with  whom  they  could  communicate. 
Sir  John  Joram  had  been  obliged 
to  answer  a  letter  from  the  squire 
by  saying  that,  as  soon  as  there  was 
anything  to  tell  the  tidings  would 
assuredly  be  communicated  to  him 
from  the  Home  Office.  The  letter 
had  seemed  to  be  cold  and  almost 
uncivil ;  but  Sir  John  had  in  truth 
said  all  that  he  could  say.  To  raise 
hopes  which,  after  all,  might  be 
fallacious,  would  have  been,  on  his 
part,  a  great  fault.  Nor,  in  spite  of 
his  bet,  was  he  very  sanguine,  shar- 
ing his  friend  Honybun's  opinion 
as  to  Judge  Bramber's  obstinacy. 
And  there  was  a  correspondence 
between  the  elder  Caldigate  and 
the  Home  Office,  in  which  the 
letters  from  the  squire  were  long 
and  well  argued,  whereas  the  re- 
plies, which  always  came  by  return 
of  post,  were  short  and  altogether 
formal.  Some  assistant  under-sec- 
retary  would  sign  his  name  at  the 
end  of  three  lines,  in  which  the 
correspondent  was  informed  that  as 
soon  as  the  matter  was  settled  the 
result  would  be  communicated. 

Who  does  not  know  the  sense  of 
aggravated  injustice  which  comes 
upon  a  sufferer  when  redress  for  an 
acknowledged  evil  is  delayed  1  The 
wronged  one  feels  that  the  whole 


world  must  be  out  of  joint  in  that 
all  the  world  does  not  rise  up  in 
indignation.  So  it  was  with  the 
old  squire,  who  watched  Hester's 
cheek  becoming  paler  day  by  day, 
and  who  knew  by  her  silence  that 
the  strong  hopes  which  in  his  pres- 
ence had  been  almost  convictions 
were  gradually  giving  way  to  a  new 
despair.  Then  he  would  abuse  the 
Secretary  of  State,  say  hard  things 
of  the  Queen,  express  his  scorn  as 
to  the  fatuous  absurdities  of  the 
English  law,  and  would  make  her 
understand  by  his  anger  that  he 
also  was  losing  hope. 

During  these  days  preparations 
were  being  made  for  the  committal 
of  Crinkett  and  Euphemia  Smith, 
nor  would  Judge  Bramber  report  to 
the  Secretary  till  he  was  convinced 
that  there  was  sufficient  evidence 
for  their  prosecution.  It  was  not 
much  to  him  that  Caldigate  should 
spend  another  week  in  prison.  The 
condition  of  Hester  did  not  even 
come  beneath  his  ken.  When  he 
found  allusion  to  it  in  the  papers 
before  him,  he  treated  it  as  matter 
which  should  not  have  been  ad- 
duced,— in  bringing  which  under 
his  notice  there  had  been  something 
akin  to  contempt  of  court,  as  though 
an  endeavour  had  been  made  to  talk 
him  over  in  private.  He  knew  his 
own  character,  and  was  indignant 
that  such  an  argument  should  have 
been  used  with  himself.  He  was 
perhaps  a  little  more  slow, — some- 
thing was  added  to  his  deliberation, 


580 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XIV ~ 


[May 


— because  he  was  told  that  a  young 
wife  and  an  infant  child  were  anx- 
iously expecting  the  liberation  of 
the  husband  and  father.  It  was 
not  as  yet  clear  to  Judge  Bramber 
that  the  woman  had  any  such  hus- 
band, or  that  the  child  could  claim 
his  father. 

At  this  crisis,  when  the  first  week 
in  October  had  dragged  itself  tedi- 
ously along,  Mr  Caldigate,  in  a  fit 
which  was  half  rage  and  half  moodi- 
ness,  took  himself  off  to  London. 
He  did  not  tell  Hester  that  he  was 
going  till  the  morning  on  which  he 
started,  and  then  simply  assured 
her  that  she  should  hear  from  him 
by  every  post  till  he  returned. 

"You  will  tell  me  the  truth, 
father." 

"If  I  know  it  myself,  I  will  tell 
you." 

"But  you  will  conceal  nothing?" 

"No, — I  will  conceal  nothing. 
If  I  find  that  they  are  all  utterly 
unjust,  altogether  hard  -  hearted, 
absolutely  indifferent  to  the  wrong 
they  have  done,  I  will  tell  you  even 
that."  And  thus  he  went. 

He  had  hardly  any  fixed  purpose 
in  going.  He  knew  that  Sir  John 
Joram  was  not  in  London,  and  that 
if  he  were  in  town  he  ought  not  to 
be  made  subject  to  visits  on  behalf 
of  clients.  To  call  upon  any  judge 
in  such  a  matter  would  be  altogether 
out  of  place,  but  to  call  upon  such 
a  judge  as  Judge  Bramber,  would  be 
very  vain  indeed.  He  had  in  his 
head  some  hazy  idea  of  forcing  an 
answer  from  the  officials  in  Down- 
ing Street ;  but  in  his  heart  he  did 
not  believe  that  he  should  be  able 
to  get  beyond  the  messengers.  He 
was  one  of  a  class,  not  very  small 
in  numbers,  who,  from  cultivating 
within  their  bosom  a  certain  ten- 
dency towards  suspicion,  have  come 
to  think  that  all  Government  ser- 
vants are  idle,  dilatory,  supercilious, 
and  incompetent.  That  some  of 
these  faults  may  have  existed  among 


those  who  took  wages  from  the 
Crown  in  the  time  of  George  III.,. 
is  perhaps  true.  And  the  memory 
of  those  times  has  kept  alive  the 
accusation.  The  vitality  of  these 
prejudices  calls  to  mind  the  story 
of  the  Nottinghamshire  farmer 
who,  when  told  of  the  return  of 
Charles  II.,  asked  what  had  become 
of  Charles  I.  Naseby,  Worcester, 
and  the  fatal  day  at  Whitehall  had 
not  yet  reached  him.  Tidings  of 
these  things  had  only  been  ap- 
proaching him  during  these  twelve- 
years.  The  true  character  of  the 
Civil  Service  is  only  now  approach- 
ing the  intelligence  of  those  wha 
are  still  shaking  their  heads  over 
the  delinquencies  of  the  last  century. 
But  old  Mr  Caldigate  was  a  man 
peculiarly  susceptible  to  such  hard 
judgments.  From  the  crown  down 
to  the  black  helmet  worn  by  the 
policeman  who  was  occasionally  to 
be  seen  on  Folking  causeway,  he 
thought  that  all  such  headpieces 
were  coverings  for  malpractices. 
The  bishop's  wig  had,  he  thought,, 
disappeared  as  being  too  ridiculous 
for  the  times ;  but  even  for  the 
judge's  wig  he  had  no  respect. 
Judge  Bramber  was  to  him  simply 
pretentious,  and  a  Secretary  of  State 
no  better  than  any  other  man.  In 
this  frame  of  mind  how  was  it 
probable  that  he  should  do  any 
good  at  the  Home  Office? 

But  in  this  frame  of  mind  he 
wsnt  to  the  Home  Office,  and  asked 
boldly  for  the  great  man.  It  was 
then  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
and  neither  had  the  great  man,  nor 
even  any  of  the  deputy  great  men, 
as  yet  made  their  appearance. 
Mr  Caldigate  of  course  fell  back 
upon  his  old  opinion  as  to  public 
functionaries,  and,  mentally,  ap- 
plied opprobrious  epithets  to  men 
who,  taking  the  public  pay,  could 
not  be  at  their  posts  an  hour  before 
mid-day.  He  was  not  aware  that 
the  great  man  and  the  first  deputy 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate.—Part  XIV. 


581 


great  man  were  sitting  in  the  House 
of  Commons  at  2  A.M.  on  that 
morning,  and  that  the  office  gen- 
erally was  driven  by  the  necessity 
of  things  to  accommodate  itself  to 
Parliamentary  exigencies. 

Then  he  was  asked  his  business. 
How  could  he  explain  to  a  mes- 
senger that  his  son  had  been  un- 
justly convicted  of  bigamy  and  was 
now  in  prison  as  a  criminal  1  So 
he  left  his  card  and  said  that  he 
would  call  again  at  two. 

At  that  hour  precisely  he  ap- 
peared again  and  was  told  that  the 
great  man  himself  could  not  see 
him.  Then  he  nearly  boiled  over 
in  his  wrath,  while  the  messenger, 
with  all  possible  courtesy,  went  on 
to  explain  that  one  of  the  deputies 
was  ready  to  receive  him.  The 
deputy  was  the  Honourable  Sep- 
timus Brown,  of  whom  it  may  be 
said  that  the  Home  Office  was  so 
proud  that  it  considered  itself  to  be 
superior  to  all  other  public  offices 
whatever  simply  because  it  pos- 
sessed Brown.  He  had  been  there 
for  forty  years,  and  for  many  ses- 
sions past  had  been  the  salvation 
of  Parliamentary  secretaries  and 
under-secretaries.  He  was  the  uncle 
of  an  earl,  and  the  brother-in-law 
of  a  duke  and  a  marquis.  Not  to 
know  Brown  was,  at  the  West  End, 
simply  to  be  unknown.  Brooke's 
was  proud  of  him ;  and  without  him 
the  "Travellers"  would  not  have 
been  such  a  Travellers  as  it  is. 
But  Mr  Caldigate,  when  he  was 
told  that  Mr  Brown  would  see  him, 
almost  left  the  lobby  in  instant 
disgust.  When  he  asked  who  was 
Mr  Brown,  there  came  a  muttered 
reply  in  which  "  permanent  "  was 
the  only  word  audible  to  him.  He 
felt  that  were  he  to  go  away  in 
dudgeon  simply  because  Brown 
was  the  name  of  the  man  whom  he 
was  called  upon  to  see,  he  would 
put  himself  in  the  wrong.  He 
would  by  so  doing  close  his  own 


mouth  against  complaint,  which, 
to  Mr  Caldigate,  would  indeed  have 
been  a  cutting  of  his  own  nose  off 
his  own  face.  With  a  scowl,  there- 
fore, he  consented  to  be  taken  away 
to  Mr  Brown. 

He  was,  in  the  first  place,  some- 
what scared  by  the  room  into  which 
he  was  shown,  which  was  very  large 
and  very  high.  There  were  two 
clerks  with  Mr  Brown,  who  van- 
ished, however,  as  soon  as  the 
squire  entered  the  room.  It  seemed 
that  Mr  Brown  was  certainly  of 
some  standing  in  the  office,  or  he 
would  not  have  had  two  arm-chairs 
and  a  sofa  in  his  room.  Mr  Caldi- 
gate, when  he  first  consented  to  see 
Mr  Brown,  had  expected  to  be  led 
into  an  uncarpeted  chamber  where 
there  would  have  been  half-a-dozen 
other  clerks. 

"  I  have  your  card,  Mr  Caldi- 
gate," said  the  official.  "  No  doubt 
you  have  called  in  reference  to- 
your  son." 

The  squire  had  determined  to  be 
very  indignant,  —  very  indignant 
even  with  the  Secretary  of  State 
himself,  to  whose  indifference  he 
attributed  the  delay  which  had 
occurred  ; — but  almost  more  than 
indignant  when  he  found  that  he 
was  to  be  fobbed  off  with  Mr 
Brown.  But  there  was  something 
in  the  gentleman's  voice  which 
checked  his  indignation.  There 
was  something  in  Mr  Brown's  eyer 
a  mixture  of  good  -  humour  and 
authority,  which  made  him  feel 
that  he  ought  not  to  be  angry  with 
the  gentleman  till  he  was  quite 
sure  of  the  occasion.  Mr  Brown 
was  a  handsome  hale  old  man  with 
grey  whiskers  and  greyish  hair, 
with  a  well -formed  nose  and  a 
broad  forehead,  carefully  dressed 
with  a  light  waistcoat  and  a  checked 
linen  cravat,  wearing  a  dark-blue 
frock-coat,  and  very  well  made  boots, 
— an  old  man,  certainly,  but  who 
looked  as  though  old  age  must 


582 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XIV. 


[May 


naturally  be  the  happiest  time  of 
life.  When  a  man's  digestion  is 
thoroughly  good  and  his  pockets 
adequately  filled,  it  probably  is  so. 
Such  were  the  circumstances  of  Mr 
Brown,  who,  as  the  squire  looked 
at  him,  seemed  to  partake  more 
of  the  nature  of  his  nephew  and 
brother-in-law  than  of  the  Browns 
generally. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Mr  Caldigate ; 
"  I  have  called  about  my  son,  who, 
I  think  I  may  undertake  to  say, 
has  been  wrongly  condemned, 
and  is  now  wrongly  retained  in 
prison." 

"  You  beg  all  the  questions,  Mr 
Caldigate,"  said  the  permanent  un- 
der-secretary,  with  a  smile. 

"  I  maintain  that  what  you  call 
the  questions  are  now  so  clearly 
proved  as  not  to  admit  of  con- 
troversy. No  one  can  deny  that  a 
conspiracy  was  got  up  against  my 
son." 

"  I  shall  not  deny  it,  certainly, 
Mr  Caldigate.  But  in  truth  I 
know  very  little  or  nothing  about 
it."  The  squire,  who  had  been 
seated,  rose  from  his  chair, — as  in 
wrath, — about  to  pour  forth  his  in- 
dignation. Why  was  he  treated  in 
this  way, — he  who  was  there  on  a 
subject  of  such  tragic  interest  to 
him  ?  When  all  the  prospects,  re- 
putation, and  condition  of  his  son 
were  at  stake,  he  was  referred  to 
a  gentleman  who  began  by  telling 
him  that  he  knew  nothing  about 
the  matter  !  "  If  you  will  sit  down 
for  a  moment,  Mr  Caldigate,  I  will 
explain  all  that  can  be  explained," 
said  Mr  Brown,  who  was  weather- 
wise  in  such  matters,  and  had  seen 
the  signs  of  a  coming  storm. 

"  Certainly  I  will  sit  down." 

"  In  such  cases  as  this  the  Secre- 
tary of  State  never  sees  those  who 
are  interested.  It  is  not  right  that 
he  should  do  so." 

"  There  might  ba  somebody  to 
do  so." 


"But  not  somebody  who  has 
been  concerned  in  the  inquiry.  The 
Secretary  of  State,  if  he  saw  you, 
could  only  refuse  to  impart  to 
you  any  portion  of  the  information 
which  he  himself  may  possess,  be- 
cause it  cannot  be  right  that  he 
should  give  an  opinion  in  the  mat- 
ter while  he  himself  is  in  doubt. 
You  may  be  sure  that  he  will  open 
his  mouth  to  no  one  except  to  those 
from  whom  he  may  seek  assistance, 
till  he  has  been  enabled  to  advise 
her  Majesty  that  her  Majesty's 
pardon  should  be  given  or  refused." 

"  When  will  that  be  ? " 

"  I  am  afraid  that  I  cannot  name 
a  day.  You,  Mr  Caldigate  are,  I 
know,  a  gentleman  of  position  in 
your  county  and  a  magistrate.  Can- 
not you  understand  how  minutely 
facts  must  be  investigated  when  a 
Minister  of  the  Crown  is  called 
upon  to  accept  the  responsibility 
of  either  upsetting  or  confirming 
the  verdict  of  a  jury?" 

"The  facts  are  as  clear  as  day- 
light." 

"If  they  be  so,  your  son  will 
soon  be  a  free  man." 

"  If  you  could  feel  what  his  wife 
suffers  in  the  meantime  ! " 

"  Though  I  did  feel  it,— though 
we  all  felt  it ;  as  probably  we  do, 
for  though  we  be  officials  still  we 
are  men,  —  how  should  that  help 
us?  You  would  not  have  a  man 
pardoned  because  his  wife  suffers  ! " 

"  Knowing  how  she  suffered,  I 
do  not  think  I  should  let  much 
grass  grow  under  my  feet  while  I 
was  making  the  inquiry." 

"  I  hope  there  is  no  such  grass 
grows  here.  The  truth  is,  Mr 
Caldigate,  that,  as  a  rule,  no  person 
coming  here  on  such  an  errand  as 
yours  is  received  at  all.  The  Sec- 
retary of  State  cannot,  either  in 
his  own  person  or  in  that  of  those 
who  are  under  him,  put  himself  in 
communication  with  the  friends  of 
individuals  who  are  under  sentence. 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate.—Part  XIV. 


583 


I  am  sure  that  you,  as  a  man  con- 
versant with  the  laws,  must  see  the 
propriety  of  such  a  rule." 

"  I  think  I  have  a  right  to  express 
my  natural  anxiety." 

"  I  will  not  deny  it.  The  post 
is  open  to  you,  and  though  I  fear 
that  our  replies  may  not  be  con- 
sidered altogether  satisfactory,  we 
do  give  our  full  attention  to  the 
letters  we  receive.  When  I  heard 
that  you  had  been  here,  and  had 
expressed  an  intention  of  returning, 
from  respect  to  yourself  personally 
I  desired  that  you  might  be  shown 
into  my  room.  But  I  could  not 
have  done  that  had  it  not  been  that 
I  myself  have  not  been  concerned 
in  this  matter."  Then  he  got  up 
from  his  seat,  and  Mr  Caldigate 
found  himself  compelled  to  leave 
the  room  with  thanks  rather  than 
with  indignation. 

He  walked  out  of  the  big  build- 
ing into  Downing  Street,  and  down 
the  steps  into  the  park.  And  go- 
ing into  the  gardens,  he  wandered 
about  them  for  more  than  an  hour, 
sometimes  walking  slowly  along  the 
water-side,  and  then  seating  himself 
for  a  while  on  one  of  the  benches. 
What  must  he  say  to  Hester  in  the 
letter  which  he  must  write  as  soon 
as  he  was  back  at  his  hotel  1  He 
tried  to  sift  some  wheat  out  of  what 
he  was  pleased  to  call  the  chaff  of 
Mr  Brown's  courtesy.  Was  there 
not  some  indication  to  be  found  in 
it  of  what  the  result  might  be  ?  If 
there  were  any  such  indication,  it 
was,  he  thought,  certainly  adverse 
to  his  son.  In  whose  bosom  might 
be  the  ultimate  decision, — whether 
in  that  of  the  Secretary,  or  the 
judge,  or  of  some  experienced  clerk 
in  the  Secretary's  office, — it  was 
manifest  that  the  facts  which  had 
now  been  proven  to  the  world  at 
large  for  many  days,  had  none  of 
the  effects  on  that  bosom  which 
they  had  on  his  own.  Could  it  be 
that  Shand  was  false,  that  Bagwax 


was  false,  that  the  postage  -  stamp 
was  false, — and  that  he  only  be- 
lieved them  to  be  true1?  Was  it 
possible  that  after  all  his  son  had 
married  the  woman  1  He  crept 
back  to  his  hotel  in  Jermyn  Street, 
and  there  he  wrote  his  letter. 

"  I  think  I  shall  be  home  to- 
morrow, but  I  will  not  say  so  for 
certain.  I  have  been  at  the  Home 
Office,  but  they  would  tell  me  no- 
thing. A  man  was  very  civil  to  me, 
but  explained  that  he  was  civil 
only  because  he  knew  nothing 
about  the  case.  I  think  I  shall 
call  on  Mr  Bagwax  at  the  Post-office 
to  morrow,  and  after  that  return 
to  Folking.  Send  in  for  the  day- 
mail  letters,  and  then  you  will  hear 
from  me  again  if  I  mean  to  stay." 

At  ten  o'clock  on  the  following 
day  he  was  at  the  Post-office,  and 
there  he  found  Bagwax  prepared  to 
take  his  seat  exactly  at  that  hour. 
Thereupon  he  resolved,  with  true 
radical  impetuosity,  that  Bagwax 
was  a  much  better  public  servant 
than  Mr  Brown.  "  Well,  Mr  Cal- 
digate,— so  we've  got  it  all  clear  at 
last,"  said  Bagwax. 

There  was  a  triumph  in  the  tone 
of  the  clerk's  voice  which  was  not 
intelligible  to  the  despondent  old 
squire.  "  It  is  not  at  all  clear  to 
me,"  he  said. 

"  Of  course  you've  heard  ? " 

"  Heard  what  ?  I  know  all  about 
the  postage-stamp,  of  course." 

"If  Secretaries  of  State  and 
judges  of  the  Court  of  Queen's 
Bench  only  had  their  wits  about 
them,  the  postage  stamp  ought  to 
have  been  quite  sufficient,"  said 
Bagwax,  sententiously. 

"What  more  is  there?" 

"For  the  sake  of  letting  the 
world  know  what  can  be  done  in 
our  department,  it  is  a  pity  that 
there  should  be  anything  more." 

"  But  there  is  something.  For 
God's  sake  tell  me,  Mr  Bagwax." 

"  You   haven't   heard  that  they 


584 


John  Caldigate.—Part  XIV. 


[May 


caught  Crinkett  just  as  he  was 
leaving  Plymouth  1 " 

"Not  a  word." 

"  And  the  woman.  They've  got 
the  lot  of  'em,  Mr  Caldigate. 
Adamson  and  the  other  woman 
have  agreed  to  give  evidence,  and 
are  to  be  let  go." 

"  When  did  you  hear  it  1 " 

«  Well,— it  is  in  the  '  Daily  Tell- 
tale.' But  I  knew  it  last  night, — 
from  a  particular  source.  I  have 
been  a  good  deal  thrown  in  with 
Scotland  Yard  since  this  began, 
Mr  Caldigate,  and  of  course  I  hear 
things."  Then  it  occurred  to  the 
squire  that  perhaps  he  had  flown  a 
little  too  high  in  going  at  once  to 
the  Home  Office.  They  might  have 


told  him  more,  perhaps,  in  Scotland 
Yard.  "  But  it's  all  true.  The  de- 
positions have  already  been  made. 
Adamson  and  Young  have  sworn 
that  they  were  present  at  no  mar- 
riage. Crinkett,  they  say,  means 
to  plead  guilty;  but  the  woman 
sticks  to  it  like  wax." 

The  squire  had  written  a  letter 
by  the  day-mail  to  say  that  he 
would  remain  in  London  that  fur- 
ther day.  He  now  wrote  again,  at 
the  Post-office,  telling  Hester  ail- 
that  Bagwax  had  told  him,  and  de- 
claring his  purpose  of  going  at  once 
to  Scotland  Yard. 

If  this  story  were  true,  then 
certainly  his  son  would  soon  be 
liberated. 


CHAPTER   LVIII. MR    SMIRKIE    IS    ILL-USED. 


It  was  on  Tuesday,  October  28th, 
that  Mr  Caldigate  made  his  visit 
to  the  Home  Office,  and  on  the 
Thursday  he  returned  to  Cambridge. 
On  the  platform  whom  should  he 
meet  but  his  brother-in-law  Squire 
Babington,  who  had  come  into  Cam- 
bridge that  morning  intent  on  hear- 
ing something  further  about  his 
nephew.  He,  too,  had  read  a  para- 
graph in  his  newspaper,  '  The  Snap- 
per,' as  to  Crinkett  and  Euphemia 
Smith. 

"Thomas  Crinkett,  and  Euphemia 
Smith,  who  gave  evidence  against 
Mr  John  Caldigate  in  the  well- 
known  trial  at  the  last  Cambridge 
assizes,  have  been  arrested  at  Ply- 
mouth just  as  they  were  about  to 
leave  the  country  for  New  Zealand. 
These  are  the  persons  to  whom  it 
was  proved  that  Caldigate  had  paid 
the  enormous  sum  of  twenty  thou- 
sand pounds  a  few  days  before  the 
trial.  It  is  alleged  that  they  are  to 
be  indicted  for  perjury.  If  this  be 
true,  it  implies  the  innocence  of  Mr 
Caldigate,  who,  as  our  readers  will 
remember,  was  convicted  of  bigamy. 


There  will  be  much  in  the  whole 
case  for  Mr  Caldigate  to  regret,  but 
nothing  so  much  as  the  loss  of  that 
very  serious  sum  of  money.  It 
would  be  idle  to  deny  that  it  was 
regarded  by  the  jury,  and  the  judge, 
and  the  public  as  a  bribe  to  the 
witnesses.  Why  it  should  have 
been  paid  will  now  probably  re- 
main for  ever  a  mystery." 

The  squire  read  this  over  three 
times  before  he  quite  understood 
the  gist  of  it,  and  at  last  perceived, 
— or  thought  that  he  perceived, — 
that  if  this  were  true  the  innocence 
of  his  nephew  was  incontestable. 
But  Julia,  who  seemed  to  prefer 
the  paternal  mansion  at  Babington 
to  her  own  peculiar  comforts  and 
privileges  at  Plum  -  cum  -  Pippins, 
declared  that  she  didn't  believe  a 
word  of  it ;  and  aunt  Polly,  whose 
animosity  to  her  nephew  had  some- 
what subsided,  was  not  quite  in- 
clined to  accept  the  statement  at 
once.  Aunt  Polly  expressed  an 
opinion  that  newspapers  were  only 
born  to  lie,  but  added  that  had  she 
seen  the  news  anywhere  else  she 


1879. 


John  Caldigate.— Part  XIV. 


585 


would  not  have  been  a  bit  surprised. 
The  squire  was  prepared  to  swear 
by  the  tidings.  If  such  a  thing 
was  not  to  be  put  into  a  newspaper, 
where  was  it  to  be  put?  Aunt 
Polly  could  not  answer  this  ques- 
tion, but  assisted  in  persuading  her 
husband  to  go  into  Cambridge  for 
further  information. 

"I  hope  this  is  true,"  said  the 
Suffolk  squire,  tendering  his  hand 
cordially  to  his  brother-in-law.  He 
was  a  man  who  could  throw  all  his 
heart  into  an  internecine  quarrel  on 
a  Monday  and  forget  the  circum- 
stance altogether  on  the  Tuesday. 

"  Of  what  are  you  speaking  ?  " 
asked  the  Squire  of  Folking,  with 
his  usual  placid  look,  partly  in- 
different and  partly  sarcastic,  cover- 
ing so  much  contempt  of  which  the 
squire  from  Suffolk  was  able  to 
read  nothing  at  all. 

"About  the  man  and  the  woman, 
the  witnesses  who  are  to  be  put  in 
prison  at  Plymouth,  and  who  now 
say  just  the  contrary  to  what  they 
said  before." 

"  I  do  not  think  that  can  be  true," 
said  Mr  Caldigate. 

"  Then  you  haven't  seen  the 
'Snapper?'"  asked  Mr  Babington, 
dragging  the  paper  out  of  his 
pocket.  "Look  at  that." 

They  were  now  in  a  cab  together, 
going  towards  the  town,  and  Mr 
Caldigate  did  not  find  it  convenient 
to  read  the  paragraph.  But  of 
course  he  knew  the  contents.  "  It 
is  quite  true,"  ha  said,  "that  the 
persons  you  allude  to  have  been 
arrested,  and  that  they  are  up  in 
London.  They  will,  I  presume,  be 
tried  for  perjury." 

"It  is  true?" 

11  There  is  no  doubt  of  it." 

"And  the  party  are  splitting 
against  each  other?"  asked  Mr 
Babington,  eagerly. 

"  Two  of  them  have  already 
sworn  that  what  they  swore  before 
was  false." 


"Then  why  don't  they  let  him 
out?" 

"Why  not,  indeed?"  said  Mr 
Caldigate. 

"  I  should  have  thought  they 
wouldn't  have  lost  a  moment  in 
such  a  case.  They've  got  one  of  the 
best  fellows  in  the  world  at  the 
Home  Office.  His  name  is  Brown. 
If  you  could  have  seen  Brown  I'm 
sure  he  wouldn't  have  let  them 
delay  a  minute.  The  Home  Office 
has  the  reputation  of  being  so  very 
quick." 

In  answer  to  this  the  Squire  of 
Folking  only  shook  his  head.  He 
would  not  even  condescend  to  say 
that  he  had  seen  Brown,  and  cer- 
tainly not  to  explain  that  Brown 
had  seemed  to  him  to  be  the  most 
absurdly  cautious  and  courteously 
dilatory  man  that  he  had  ever  met 
in  his  life.  In  Trumpington  Street 
they  parted,  Mr  Caldigate  proceed- 
ing at  once  to  Folking,  and  Mr  Bab- 
ington going  to  the  office  of  Mr 
Seely  the  attorney.  "  He'll  -be  out 
in  a  day  or  two,"  said  the  man  of 
Suffolk,  again  shaking  his  brother- 
in-Jaw's  hand;  "and  do  you  tell 
him  from  me  that  I  hope  it  won't 
be  long  before  we  see  him  at  Bab- 
ington. I've  been  true  to  him  al- 
most from  the  first,  and  his  aunt 
has  come  over  now.  There  is  no 
one  against  him  but  Julia,  and  these 
are  things  of  course  which  young 
women  won't  forget." 

Mr  Caldigate  almost  became  ge- 
nial as  he  accepted  this  assurance, 
telling  himself  that  his  brother  ma- 
gistrate was  as  honest  as  he  was  silly. 

Mr  Babington,  who  was  well 
known,  in  Cambridge,  asked  many 
questions  of  many  persons.  From 
Mr  Seely  he  heard  but  little.  Mr 
Seely  had  heard  of  the  arrest  made 
at  Plymouth,  but  did  not  quite  know 
what  to  think  about  it.  If  it  was 
all  square,  then  he  supposed  his 
client  must  after  all  be  innocent. 
But  this  went  altogether  against 


586 


John  Caldigate.—Part  XIV. 


[May 


the  grain  with  Mr  Seely.  "If  it 
be  so,  Mr  Babington,"  he  said,  "I 
shall  always  think  the  paying  away 
of  that  twenty  thousand  pounds 
the  greatest  miracle  I  ever  came 
across."  .Nevertheless,  Mr  Seely 
did  believe  that  the  two  witnesses 
had  been  arrested  on  a  charge  of 
perjury. 

The  squire  then  went  to  the 
governor  of  the  jail,  who  had  been 
connected  with  him  many  years  as 
a  county  magistrate.  The  governor 
had  heard  nothing,  received  no  in- 
formation as  to  his  prisoner  from 
any  one  in  authority ;  but  quite 
believed  the  story  as  to  Crinkett 
and  the  woman.  "  Perhaps  you  had 
better  not  see  him,  Mr  Babington," 
said  the  governor,  "as  he  has  heard 
nothing  as  yet  of  all  this.  It  would 
not  be  right  to  tell  him  till  we 
know  what  it  will  come  to."  As- 
senting to  this,  Mr  Babington  took 
his  leave  with  the  conviction  on 
his  mind  that  the  governor  was 
quite  prepared  to  receive  an  order 
for  the  liberation  of  his  prisoner. 

He  did  not  dare  to  go  to  Eobert 
Bolton's  office,  but  he  did  call  at  the 
bank.  "We  have  heard  nothing 
about  it,  Mr  Babington,"  said  the 
old  clerk  over  the  counter.  But 
then  the  old  clerk  added  in  a  whis- 
per, "None  of  the  family  take  to 
the  news,  sir;  but  everybody  else 
seems  to  think  there  is  a  great 
deal  in  it.  If  he  didn't  marry 
her  I  suppose  he  ought  to  be  let 
out." 

"  I  should  think  he  ought,"  said 
the  squire,  indignantly,  as  he  left 
the  bank. 

Thus  fortified  by  what  he  con- 
sidered to  be  the  general  voice  of 
Cambridge,  he  returned  the  same 
evening  to  Babington.  Cambridge, 
including  Mr  Caldigate,  had  been 
unanimous  in  believing  the  report. 
And  if  the  report  were  true,  then, 
certainly,  was  his  nephew  innocent. 
As  he  thought  of  this,  some  appro- 


priate idea  of  the  injustice  of  the 
evil  done  to  the  man  and  to  the 
man's  wife  came  upon  him.  If 
such  were  the  treatment  to  which 
he  and  she  had  been  subjected, — if. 
he,  innocent,  had  been  torn  away 
from  her  and  sent  to  the  common 
jail,  and  if  she,  certainly  innocent, 
had  been  wrongly  deprived  for  a 
time  of  the  name  which  he  had 
honestly  given  her, — then  would  it 
not  have  been  right  to  open  to  her 
the  hearts  and  the  doors  at  Babing- 
ton during  the  period  of  her  great 
distress  ?  As  he  thought  of  this  he 
was  so  melted  by  ruth  that  a  tear 
came  into  each  of  his  old  eyes. 
Then  he  remembered  the  attempt 
which  had  been  made  to  catch  this 
man  for  Julia, — as  to  which  he  cer- 
tainly had  been  innocent, — and  his 
daughter's  continued  wrath.  That 
a  woman  should  be  wrathful  in 
such  a  matter  was  natural  to  him. 
He  conceived  that  it  behoved  a 
woman  to  be  weak,  irascible,  affec- 
tionate, irrational,  and  soft-hearted. 
When  Julia  would  be  loud  in  con- 
demnation of  her  cousin,  and  would 
pretend  to  commiserate  the  woes 
of  the  poor  wife  who  had  been  left 
in  Australia,  though  he  knew  the 
source  of  these  feelings,  he  could 
not  be  in  the  least  angry  with  her* 
But  that  was  not  at  all  the  state  of 
his  mind  in  reference  to  his  son-in- 
law  Augustus  Smirkie.  Sometimes, 
as  he  had  heard  Mr  Smirkie  inveigh 
against  the  enormity  of  bigamy  and 
of  this  bigamist  in  particular,  he  had 
determined  that  some  "odd-come- 
shortly,"  as  he  would  call  it,  he 
would  give  the  vicar  of  Plum-cum- 
Pippins  a  moral  pat  on  the  head 
which  should  silence  him  for  a  time. 
At  the  present  moment  when  he  got 
into  his  carriage  at  the  station  to  be 
taken  home,  he  was  not  sure  whether 
or  no  he  should  find  the  vicar  at 
Babington.  Since  their  marriage, 
Mr  Smirkie  had  spent  much  of  his 
time  at  Babington,  and  seemed  to 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate.—Part  XIV. 


587 


like  the  Babington  claret.  He 
would  come  about  the  middle  of  the 
week  and  return  on  the  Saturday 
evening,  in  a  manner  which  the 
squire  could  hardly  reconcile  with 
all  that  he  had  heard  as  to  Mr 
Smirkie's  exemplary  conduct  in  his 
own  parish.  The  squire  was  hos- 
pitality itself,  and  certainly  would 
never  have  said  a  word  to  make  his 
house  other  than  pleasant  to  his 
own  girl's  husband.  But  a  host 
expects  that  his  corns  should  be 
respected,  whereas  Mr  Sniirkie  was 
always  treading  on  Mr  Babington's 
toes.  Hints  had  been  given  to  him 
as  to  his  personal  conduct  which  he 
did  not  take  altogether  in  good  part. 
His  absence  from  afternoon  service 
had  been  alluded  to,  and  it  had 
been  suggested  to  him  that  he  ought 
sometimes  to  be  more  careful  as  to 
his  language.  He  was  not,  there- 
fore, ill-disposed  to  resent  on  the 
part  of  Mr  Smirkie  the  spirit  of 
persecution  with  which  that  gentle- 
man seemed  to  regard  his  nephew. 
"  Is  Mr  Smirkie  in  the  house  1"  he 
asked  the  coachman.  "He  came 
by  the  3.40,  as  usual,"  said  the 
man.  It  was  very  much  "as  usual," 
thought  the  squire. 

"  There  isn't  a  doubt  about  it," 
said  the  squire  to  his  wife  as  he 
was  dressing.  "The  poor  fellow 
is  as  innocent  as  you." 

"He  can't  be, — innocent,"  said 
aunt  Polly. 

"  If  he  never  married  the  woman 
whom  they  say  he  married  he  can't 
be  guilty." 

"  I  dont  know  about  that,  my 
dear." 

"  He  either  did  marry  her  or  he 
didn't,  I  suppose." 

"  I  dorit  say  he  married  her,  but, 
— he  did  worse." 

"  No,  he  didn't,"  said  the  squire. 

"  That  may  be  your  way  of  think- 
ing of  it.  According  to  my  idea  of 
what  is  right  and  what  is  wrong, 
he  did  a  great  deal  worse." 


"But  if  he  didn't  marry  that 
woman  he  didn't  commit  bigamy 
when  he  married  this  one,"  argued 
he,  energetically. 

"  Still  he  may  have  deserved  all 
he  got." 

"  No,  he  mayn't.  You  wouldn't 
punish  a  man  for  murder  because 
he  doesn't  pay  his  debts." 

"  I  won't  have  it  that  he's  inno- 
cent," said  Mrs  Babington. 

"  Who  the  devil  is,  if  you  come 
to  that  1 " 

"  You  are  not,  or  you  wouldn't 
talk  in  that  way.  I'm  not  saying 
anything  now  against  John.  If  he 
didn't  marry  the  woman  I  suppose 
they'll  let  him  out  of  prison,  and  I 
for  one  shall  be  willing  to  take  him 
by  the  hand ;  but  to  say  he's  inno- 
cent is  what  I  won't  put  up  with  !  " 

"  He  has  sown  his  wild  oats,  and 
he's  none  the  worse  for  that.  He's 
as  good  as  the  rest  of  us,  I  dare- 
say." 

"Speak  for  yourself,"  said  the 
wife.  "  I  don't  suppose  you  mean 
to  tell  me  that  in  the  eyes  of  the 
Creator  he  is  as  good  a  man  as 
Augustus." 

"  Augustus  be ."  The  word 

was  spoken  with  great  energy.  Mrs 
Babington  at  the  moment  was  em- 
ployed in  sewing  a  button  on  the 
wristband  of  her  husband's  shirt, 
and  in  the  start  which  she  gave 
stuck  the  needle  into  his  arm. 

"  Humphrey  !  "  exclaimed  the 
agitated  lady. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  not  his," 
said  the  squire,  rubbing  the  wound. 
"  If  he  says  a  word  more  about  John 
Caldigate  in  my  presence,  I  shall 
tell  him  what  I  think  about  it.  He 
has  got  his  wife,  and  that  ought  to 
be  enough  for  him." 

After  that  they  went  down-stairs 
and  dinner  was  at  once  announced. 
There  was  Mr  Smirkie  to  give  an 
arm  to  his  mother-in-law.  The 
squire  took  his  married  daughter 
while  the  other  two  followed.  As 


388 


John  Cdldigate. — Part  XIV. 


[May 


they  crossed  the  hall  Julia  whispered 
her  cousin's  name,  but  her  father 
bade  her  be  silent  for  the  present. 
"I  was  sure  it  was  not  true,"  said 
Mrs  Smirkie. 

"  Then  you're  quite  wrong,"  said 
the  squire,  "  for  it's  as  true  as  the 
Gospel."  Then  there  were  no  more 
said  about  John  Caldigate  till  the 
servants  had  left  the  room. 

Mr  Smirkie's  general  apprecia- 
tion of  the  good  things  provided, 
did  not  on  this  occasion  give  the 
owner  of  them  that  gratification 
which  a  host  should  feel  in  the 
pleasures  of  his  guests.  He  ate  a 
very  good  dinner  and  took  his 
wine  with  a  full  appreciation  of  its 
merits.  Such  an  appetite  on  the 
part  of  his  friends  was  generally 
much  esteemed  by  the  Squire  of 
Babington,  who  was  apt  to  press 
the  bottle  upon  those  who  sat  with 
him,  in  the  old-fashioned  manner. 
At  the  present  moment  he  eyed  his 
son-in-law's  enjoyments  with  a  feel- 
ing akin  to  disappointment.  There 
was  a  habit  at  Babington  with  the 
ladies  of  sitting  with  the  squire 
when  he  was  the  only  man  present 
till  he  had  finished  his  wine,  and, 
at  Mrs  Smirkie's  instance,  this 
custom  was  continued  when  she 
and  her  husband  were  at  the  house. 
Fires  had  been  commenced,  and 
when  the  'dinner-things  had  been 
taken  away  they  clustered  round 
the  hearth.  The  squire  himself  sat 
silent  in  his  place,  out  of  humour, 
knowing  that  the  peculiar  subject 
would  be  introduced,  and  deter- 
mined to  make  himself  disagree- 
able. 

"Papa,  won't  you  bring  your 
chair  round  ?"  said  one  of  the  girls 
who  was  next  to  him.  Where- 
upon he  did  move  his  chair  an 
inch  or  two. 

"Did  you  hear  anything  about 
John?"  said  the  other  unmarried 
sister.  . 

"  Yes,  I  heard  about  him.     You 


can't  help  hearing  about  him  in 
Cambridge  now.  All  the  world  is 
talking  about  him." 

"  And  what  does  all  the  world 
say?"  asked  Julia,  flippantly.  To 
this  question  her  father  at  first 
made  no  answer.  "  Whatever  the 
world  may  say,  I  cannot  alter  my 
opinion, "  continued  J ulia.  ' '  I  shall 
never  be  able  to  look  upon  John 
Caldigate  and  Hester  Bolton  as 
man  and  wife  in  the  sight  of  God." 

"  I  might  just  as  well  take  upon 
myself  to  say  that  I  didn't  look 
upon  you  and  Smirkie  as  man  and 
wife  in  the  sight  of  God." 

"  Papa  !  "  screamed  the  married 
daughter. 

"  Sir  !  "  ejaculated  the  married 
son-in-law". 

"  My  dear,  that  is  a  strange  thing 
to  say  of  your  own  child,"  whis- 
pered the  mother. 

"  Most  strange  !  "  said  Julia,  lift- 
ing both  her  hands  up  in  an  agony. 

"  But  it's  true,"  roared  the  squire. 
"  She  says  that,  let  the  law  say 
what  it  may,  these  people  are  not 
to  be  regarded  as  man  and  wife," 

"  Not  by  me,"  said  Julia. 

"  Who  are  you  that  you  are  to  set 
up  a  tribunal  of  your  own  ?  And 
if  you  judge  of  another  couple  in 
that  way,  why  isn't  some  one  to 
judge  of  you  after  the  same 
fashion?" 

"  There  is  the  verdict,"  said  Mr 
Smirkie.  "No  verdict  has  pro- 
nounced me  a  bigamist." 

"But  it  might  for  anything  I 
know,"  said  the  squire,  angrily. 
"  Some  woman  might  come  up  in 
Plum-cuni-Pippins  and  say  you  had 
married  her  before  your  first  wife." 

"Papa,  you  are  very  disagree- 
able," said  Julia. 

"  Why  shouldn't  there  be  a  wicked 
lie  told  in  one  place  as  well  as  in 
another  1  There  has  been  a  wicked 
lie  told  here ;  and  when  the  lie  is 
proved  to  have  been  a  lie,  as  plain 
as  the  nose  on  your  face,  he  is  to 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XIV. 


589 


tell  me  that  lie  won't  believe  the 
young  folk  to  be  man  and  wife 
because  of  an  untrue  verdict !  I 
say  they  are  man  and  wife  ; — as 
good  a  man  and  wife  as  you  and 
he ; — and  let  me  see  who'll  refuse 
to  meet  them  as  such  in  my 
house ! " 

Mr  Smirkie  had  not,  in  truth, 
made  the  offensive  remark.  It  had 
been  made  by  Mrs  Sinirkie.  But 
it  had  suited  the  squire  to  attribute 
it  to  the  clergyman.  Mr  Smirkie 
was  now  put  upon  his  mettle,  and 
was  obliged  either  to  agree  or  to  dis- 
agree. He  would  have  preferred 
the  former,  had  he  not  been  some- 
what in  awe  of  his  wife.  As  it 
was,  he  fell  back  upon  the  indis- 
creet assertion  which  his  father-in- 
law  had  made  some  time  back. 
"  I,  at  any  rate,  sir,  have  not  had 
a  verdict  against  me." 

"  What  does  that  signify  1 " 
"  A    great    deal,  I    should   say. 
A  verdict,  no  doubt,  is  human,  and 
therefore  may  be  wrong." 
"  So  is  a  marriage  human." 
"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir; — a  mar- 
riage is  divine." 

"  Not  if  it  isn't  a  marriage.  Your 
marriage  in  our  church  wouldn't 
have  been  divine  if  you'd  had 
another  wife  alive." 


"  Papa,  I  wish  you  wouldn't." 

"  But  I  shall.  I've  got  to  ham- 
mer it  into  his  head  somehow." 

Mr  Smirkie  drew  himself  up  and 
grinned  bravely.  But  the  squire 
did  not  care  for  his  frowns.  That 
last  backhander  at  the  claret-jug 
had  determined  him.  "  John  Cal- 
digate's  marriage  with  his  wife  was 
not  in  the  least  interfered  with  by 
the  verdict." 

"  It  took  away  the  lady's  name 
from  her  at  once,"  said  the  indig- 
nant clergyman. 

"  That's  just  what  it  didn't  do," 
said  the  squire,  rising  from  his  chair  j 
— "  of  itself  it  didn't  affect  her  name 
at  all.  And  now  that  it  is  shown 
to  have  been  a  mistaken  verdict,  it 
doesn't  affect  her  position.  The 
long  and  the  short  of  it  is  this, 
that  anybody  who  doesn't  like  to 
meet  him  und  his  wife  as  honoured 
guests  in  my  house  had  better  stay 
away.  Do  you  hear  that,  Julia  1 " 
Then  without  waiting  for  an  answer 
he  walked  out  before  them  all  into 
the  drawing-room,  and  not  another 
word  was  said  that  night  about  the 
matter.  Mr  Smirkie,  indeed,  did 
not  utter  a  word  on  any  subject, 
till  at  an  early  hour  he  wished 
them  all  good-night  with  dignified 
composure. 


CHAPTER   LIX. HOW    THE    BIG   WIGS    DOUBTED. 


"  It's  what  I  call  an  awful 
shame."  Mr  Holt  and  parson 
Bromley  were  standing  together  on 
the  Causeway  at  Folking,  and  the 
former  was  speaking.  The  subject 
under  discussion  was,  of  course,  the 
continued  detention  of  John  Cal- 
digate in  the  county  prison. 

"  I  cannot  at  all  understand  it," 
said  Mr  Bromley. 

"There's  no  understanding  no- 
thing about  it,  sir.  Every  man, 
woman,  and  child  in  the  county 
knows  as  there  wasn't  no  other 

VOL.  CXXV. — NO.  DCOLXIII. 


marriage,  and  yet  they  won't  let  un 
out.  It's  sheer  spite,  because  he 
wouldn't  vote  for  their  man  last 
'lection." 

"I  hardly  think  that,  Mr  Holt." 
"I'm  as  sure  of  it  as  I  stands 
here,"  said  Mr  Holt,  slapping  his 
thigh.  "What  else  'd  they  keep 
un  in  for?  It's  just  like  their 
ways." 

Mr  Holt  was  one  of  a  rare  class, 

being  a  liberal  farmer, — a  Liberal, 

that  is,  in  politics ;  as  was  also  Mr 

Bromley,  a  Liberal  among  parsons, — 

2Q 


590 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XIV. 


[May 


rara  avis.  The  Caldigates  had  al- 
ways been  Liberal,  and  Mr  Holt  had 
been  brought  up  to  agree  with  his 
landlord.  He  was  now  beyond 
measure  acerbated,  because  John 
Caldigate  had  not  been  as  yet  de- 
clared innocent  on  evidence  which 
was  altogether  conclusive  to  him- 
self. The  Conservatives  were  now 
in  power,  and  nothing  seemed  so 
natural  to  Mr  Holt  as  that  the 
Home  Secretary  should  keep  his 
landlord  in  jail  because  the  Caldi- 
gates were  Liberals.  Mr  Bromley 
could  not  quite  agree  to  this,  but 
he  also  was  of  opinion  that  a  great 
injustice  was  being  done.  He  was 
in  the  habit  of  seeing  the  young 
wife  almost  daily,  and  knew  the 
havoc  which  hope  turned  into  de- 
spair was  making  with  her.  An- 
other week  had  now  gone  by  since 
the  old  squire  had  been  up  in  town, 
and  nothing  yet  had  been  heard 
from  the  Secretary  of  State.  All 
the  world  knew  that  Crinkett  and 
Euphemia  Smith  were  in  custody, 
and  still  no  tidings  came, — yet  the 
husband,  convicted  on  the  evidence 
of  these  perjurers,  was  detained  in 
prison ! 

Hope  deferred  maketh  the  heart 
sick,  and  Hester's  heart  was  very 
sick  within  her.  "Why  do  they 
not  tell  us  something  1 "  she  said, 
when  her  father-in-law  vainly  en- 
deavoured to  comfort  her.  "Why 
not,  indeed?  He  could  only  say 
hard  things  of  the  whole  system 
under  which  the  perpetration  of  so 
great  a  cruelty  was  possible,  and 
reiterate  his  opinion  that,  in  spite 
of  that  system,  they  must,  before 
long,  let  his  son  go  free. 

The  delay,  in  truth,  was  not  at 
the  Home  Office.  Judge  Bramber 
could  not  as  yet  quite  make  up  his 
mind.  It  is  hoped  that  the  reader 
has  made  up  his,  but  the  reader 
knows  somewhat  more  than  the 
judge  knew.  Crinkett  had  con- 
fessed nothing, — though  a  rumour 


had  got  abroad  that  he  intended 
to  plead  guilty.  Euphemia  Smith 
was  constant  in  her  assertion  to  all 
those  who  came  near  her,  that  she 
had  positively  been  married  to  the 
man  at  Ahalala.  Adainson  and 
Anna  Young  were  ready  now  to 
swear  that  all  which  they  had 
sworn  before  was  false ;  but  it  was 
known  to  the  police  that  they  had 
quarrelled  bitterly  as  to  the  divi- 
sion of  the  spoil  ever  since  the 
money  had  been  paid  to  the  ring- 
leaders. It  was  known  that  Anna 
Young  had  succeeded  in  getting 
nothing  from  the  other  woman, 
and  that  the  man  had  unwillingly 
accepted  his  small  share,  fear- 
ing that  otherwise  he  might  get 
nothing.  They  were  not  trust- 
worthy witnesses,  and  it  was  very 
doubtful  whether  the  other  two 
could  be  convicted  on  their  evi- 
dence. The  judge,  as  he  turned  it 
all  over  in  his  mind,  was  by  no 
means  sure  that  the  verdict  was  a 
mistaken  verdict.  It  was  at  any 
rate  a  verdict.  It  was  a  decision 
constitutionally  arrived  at  from  a 
jury.  This  sending  back  of  the 
matter  to  him  hardly  was  consti- 
tutional. 

It  was  abhorrent  to  his  nature, 
—  not  that  a  guilty  man  should 
escape,  which  he  knew  to  be  an  affair 
occurring  every  day, — but  that  a 
guilty  man,  who  had  been  found  to 
be  guilty,  should  creep  back  through 
the  meshes  of  the  law.  He  knew 
how  many  chances  were  given  by 
the  practice  of  British  courts  to  an 
offender  on  his  trial,  and  he  was 
quite  in  favour  of  those  chances. 
He  would  be  urgent  in  telling  a 
jury  to  give  the  prisoner  the  benefit 
of  a  doubt.  But  when  the  trans- 
gressor, with  all  those  loopholes 
stopped,  stood  before  him  convicted, 
then  he  felt  a  delight  in  the  tight- 
ness of  the  grip  with  which  he  held 
the  wretch,  and  would  tell  himself 
that  the  world  in  which  he  lived 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XIV. 


591 


was  not  as  yet  all  astray,  in  that  a 
guilty  man  could  still  be  made  to 
endure  the  proper  reward  of  his 
guilt. 

It  was  with  him  as  when  a 
hunter  has  hunted  a  fox  after  the 
approved  laws  of  venery.  There 
have  been  a  dozen  ways  of  killing 
the  animal  of  which  he  has  scorned 
to  avail  himself.  He  has  been  care- 
ful to  let  him  break  from  his  covert, 
regarding  all  who  would  stop  him 
as  enemies  to  himself.  It  has  been 
a  point  of  honour  with  him  that 
the  animal  should  suffer  no  undue 
impediment.  Any  ill  -  treatment 
shown  to  the  favoured  one  in  his 
course,  is  an  injury  done  to  the 
hunter  himself.  Let  no  man  head 
the  fox,  let  no  man  strive  to  drive 
him  back  upon  the  hounds.  Let 
all  be  done  by  hunting  law, — in  ac- 
cordance with  those  laws  which 
give  so  many  chances  of  escape. 
But  when  the  hounds  have  run  into 
their  quarry,  not  all  the  eloquence 
of  all  the  gods  should  serve  to  save 
that  doomed  one's  life. 

So  it  was  with  Judge  Bramber 
and  a  convicted  prisoner.  He 
would  give  the  man  the  full  bene- 
fit of  every  quibble  of  the  law  till 
he  was  convicted.  He  would  be 
severe  on  witnesses,  harsh  to  the 
police,  apparently  a  very  friend  to 
the  man  standing  at  the  bar, — till 
the  time  came  for  him  to  array  the 
evidence  before  the  jury.  Then 
he  was  inexorable ;  and  when  the 
verdict  had  been  once  pronounced, 
the  prisoner  was  but  as  a  fox  about 
to  be  thrown  to  the  hounds. 

And  now  there  was  a  demand 
that  this  particular  fox  should  be 
put  back  into  his  covert  !  The 
Secretary  of  State  could  put  him 
back,  if  he  thought  fit.  But  in 
these  matters  there  was  so  often  a 
touch  of  cowardice.  Why  did  not 
the  Secretary  do  it  without  asking 
him  ?  There  had  arisen  no  question 
of  law.  There  was  no  question  as  to 


the  propriety  of  the  verdict  as  found 
upon  the  evidence  given  at  the 
trial.  The  doubt  which  had  arisen 
since  had  come  from  further  evidence, 
of  which  the  Secretary  was  as  well 
able  to  judge  as  he.  No  doubt  the 
case  was  difficult.  There  had  been 
gross  misdoing  on  both  sides.  But 
if  Caldigate  had  not  married  the 
woman,  why  had  he  paid  twenty 
thousands'?  Why  had  he  written 
those  words  on  the  envelope? 
There  was  doubt  enough  now,  but 
the  time  for  giving  the  prisoner  the 
benefit  of  the  doubt  was  gone.  The 
fox  had  been  fairly  hunted,  and 
Judge  Bramber  thought  that  he 
had  better  die. 

But  he  hesitated ; — and  while  he 
was  hesitating  there  came  to  him  a 
little  reminder,  a  most  gentle  hint, 
in  the  shape  of  a  note  from  the 
Secretary  of  State's  private  secre- 
tary. The  old  squire's  visit  to  the 
office  had  not  seemed  to  himself  to 
be  satisfactory,  but  he  had  made 
a  friend  for  himself  in  Mr  Brown. 
Mr  Brown  looked  into  the  matter, 
and  was  of  opinion  that  it  would 
be  well  to  pardon  the  young  man. 
Even  though  there  had  been  some 
jumping  over  a  broomstick  at  Aha- 
lala,  why  should  things  not  be  made 
comfortable  here  at  home  ?  What 
harm  would  a  pardon  do  to  any 
one;  whereas  there  were  so  many 
whom  it  would  make  happy  ?  So 
he  asked  the  Secretary  whether  that 
wasn't  a  hard  case  of  young  Caldi- 
gate. The  Secretary  whispered  that 
it  was  in  Bramber's  hands ;  upon 
which  Mr  Brown  observed  that, 
if  so,  it  was  certainly  hard.  But 
the  conversation  was  not  altogether 
thrown  away,  for  on  that  after- 
noon the  private  secretary  wrote 
his  note. 

Judge  Bramber  when  he  received 
the  note  immediately  burned  it, — 
and  this  he  did  with  considerable 
energy  of  action.  If  they  would 
send  him  such  cases  as  that,  what 


592 


John  Caldig ate. —Part  XIV. 


[May 


right  had  they  to  remind  him  of 
his  duty?  He  was  not  going  to 
allow  any  private  secretary,  or  any 
Secretary  of  State,  to  hurry  him  ! 
There  was  no  life  or  death  in  this 
matter.  Of  what  importance  was 
it  that  so  manifest  an  evil-doer  as 
this  young  Caldigate  should  remain 
in  prison  a  day  or  two  more, — a 
man  who  had  attempted  to  bribe 
four  witnesses  by  twenty  thousand 
pounds  1  It  was  an  additional  evil 
that  such  a  one  should  have  such 
a  sum  for  such  a  purpose.  But  still 
he  felt  that  there  was  a  duty  thrown 
upon  him ;  and  he  sat  down  with 
all  the  papers  before  him,  determined 
to  make  up  his  mind  before  he  rose 
from  his  chair. 

He  did  make  up  his  mind,  but 
did  so  at  last  by  referring  back  the 
responsibility  to  the  Secretary  of 
State.  "  The  question  is  one  alto- 
gether of  evidence,"  he  said,  "  and 
not  of  law.  Any  clear-headed  man 
is  as  able  to  reach  a  true  decision 
as  am  I.  It  is  such  a  question  as 
should  be  left  to  a  jury, — and  would 
justify  a  trial  on  appeal  if  that  were 
practicable.  It  would  be  well  that 
the  case  should  stand  over  till 
Thomas  Crinkett  and  Euphemia 
Smith  shall  have  been  tried  for 
perjury,  which,  as  I  understand,  will 
take  place  at  the  next  winter  assizes. 
If  the  Secretary  of  State  think 
that  the  delay  would  be  too  long, 
I  would  humbly  suggest  that  he 
should  take  her  Majesty's  pleasure 
in  accordance  with  his  own  opinion 
as  to  the  evidence." 

When  that  document  was  read 
at  the  Home  Office  by  the  few  who 
were  privileged  to  read  it,  they 
knew  that  Judge  Bramber  had  been 
in  a  very  ill  humour.  But  there 
was  no  help  for  that.  The  judge 
had  been  asked  for  advice  and  had 
refused  to  give  it  \  or  had  advised,  — 
if  his  remark  on  that  subject  was  to 
be  taken  for  advice, — that  the  con- 
sideration of  the  matter  should  be 


postponed  for  another  three  months. 
The  case,  if  there  was  any  case  in 
favour  of  the  prisoner,  was  not  one 
for  pardon  but  for  such  redress  as 
might  now  be  given  for  a  most  gross 
injustice.  The  man  had  been  put 
to  very  great  expense,  and  had  been 
already  in  prison  for  ten  or  eleven 
weeks,  and  his  further  detention 
would  be  held  to  have  been  very 
cruel  if  it  should  appear  at  last  that 
the  verdict  had  been  wrong.  The 
public  press  was  already  using 
strong  language  on  the  subject,  and 
the  Secretary  of  State  was  not  in- 
different to  the  public  press.  Judge 
Bramber  thoroughly  despised  the 
press, — though  he  would  have  been 
very  angry  if  his  '  Times '  had  not 
been  ready  for  him  at  breakfast 
every  morning.  And  two  or  three 
questions  had  already  been  asked 
in  the  House  of  Commons.  The 
Secretary  of  State,  with  that  habit- 
ual strategy,  without  which  any 
Secretary  of  State  must  be  held  to 
be  unfit  for  the  position  which  he 
holds,  contrived  to  answer  the  ques- 
tions so  as  to  show  that,  while  the 
gentlemen  who  asked  them  were 
the  most  indiscreet  of  individuals, 
he  was  the  most  discreet  of  Secre- 
taries. And  he  did  this,  though  he 
was  strongly  of  opinion  that  Judge 
Bramber's  delay  was  unjustifiable. 
But  what  would  be  thought  of  a 
Secretary  of  State  who  would  im- 
pute blame  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons to  one  of  the  judges  of  the 
land  before  public  opinion  had  ex- 
pressed itself  so  strongly  on  the 
matter  as  to  make  such  expression 
indispensable?  He  did  not  think 
that  he  was  in  the  least  untrue  in 
throwing  blame  back  upon  the  ques- 
tioners, and  in  implying  that  on  the 
side  of  the  Crown  there  had  been 
no  undue  delay,  though,  at  the  mo- 
ment, he  was  inwardly  provoked  at 
the  dilatoriness  of  the  judge. 

Public    opinion   was    expressing 
itself  very   strongly  in   the   press. 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate. — Fart  XI V. 


593 


'  The  Daily  Tell-Tale '  had  a  beau- 
tifully sensational  article,  written  by 
their  very  best  artist.  The  whole 
picture  was  drawn  with  a  cunning 
hand.  The  young  wife  in  her  lonely 
house  down  in  Cambridge,  which 
the  artist  not  inaptly  called  The 
Moated  Grange  !  The  noble,  inno- 
cent, high-souled  husband,  eating 
his  heart  out  within  the  bars  of  a 
county  prison,  and  with  very  little 
else  to  eat !  The  indignant  father, 
driven  almost  to  madness  by  the 
wrongs  done  to  his  son  and  heir ! 
Had  the  son  not  been  an  heir  this 
point  would  have  been  much,  less 
touching.  And  then  the  old  evi- 
dence was  dissected,  and  the  new 
evidence  against  the  new  culprits 
explained.  In  regard  to  the  new 
culprits,  the  writer  was  very  loud 
in  expressing  his  purpose  to  say  not 
a  word  against  persons  who  were 
still  to  be  tried; — but  immediately 
upon  that  he  went  on  and  said  a 
great  many  words  against  them. 
Assuming  all  that  was  said  about 
them  to  be  true,  he  asked  whether 
the  country  would  for  a  moment 
endure  the  idea  that  a  man  in  Mr 
Caldigate's  position  should  be  kept 
in  prison  on  the  evidence  of  such 
miscreants.  When  he  came  to  Bag- 
wax  and  the  post -marks,  he  ex- 
plained the  whole  matter  with 
almost  more  than  accuracy.  He 
showed  that  the  impression  could 
not  possibly  have  been  made  till 
after  the  date  it  conveyed.  He  fell 
into  some  little  error  as  to  the 
fabrication  of  the  postage  -  stamp 
in  the  colony,  not  having  quite 
seized  Bagwax's  great  point.  But 
it  was  a  most  telling  article.  And 
the  writer,  as  he  turned  it  off  at 
his  club,  and  sent  it  down  to  the 
office  of  the  paper,  was  ready  to 
bet  a  five -pound  note  that  Caldi- 
gate would  be  out  before  a  week 
was  over.  The  Secretary  of  State 
saw  the  article,  and  acknowledged 
its  power.  And  then  even  the 


'  Slipper '  turned  round  and  cau- 
tiously expressed  an  opinion  that 
the  time  had  come  for  mercy. 

There  could  be  no  doubt  that 
public  opinion  was  running  very 
high  in  Caldigate's  favour,  and  that 
the  case  had  become  thoroughly  pop- 
ular. People  were  again  beginning 
to  give  dinner-parties  in  London, 
and  at  every  party  the  matter  was 
discussed.  It  was  a  peculiarly  in- 
teresting case  because  the  man  had 
thrown  away  so  large  a  sum  of 
money  !  People  like  to  have  a  nut 
to  crack  which  is  "  uncrackable," — 
a  Gordian  knot  to  undo  which  can- 
not even  be  cut.  Nobody  could 
understand  the.  twenty  thousand 
pounds.  Would  any  man  pay  such 
a  sum  with  the  object  of  buying  off 
false  witnesses, — and  do  it  in  such 
a  manner  that  all  the  facts  must  be 
brought  to  light  when  he  was  tried1? 
It  was  said  here  and  there  that  he 
had  paid  the  money  because  he 
owed  it;— but  then  it  had  been 
shown  so  cleanly  that  he  had  not 
owed  any  one  a  penny !  Never- 
theless the  men  were  all  certain 
that  he  was  not  guilty,  and  the 
ladies  thought  that  whether  he  were 
guilty  or  not  did  not  matter  much. 
He  certainly  ought  to  be  released 
from  prison. 

But  yet  the  Secretary  doubted. 
In  that  unspoken  but  heartfelt  ac- 
cusation of  cowardice  which  the 
judge  had  made  against  the  great 
officer  of  State  there  had  been  some 
truth.  How  would  it  be  if  it  should 
be  made  to  appear  at  the  approach- 
ing trial  that  the  two  reprobates, 
who  had  turned  Queen's  evidence 
against  their  associates,  were  to 
break  down  altogether  in  their  as- 
sertions 1  It  might  possibly  then 
become  quite  apparent  that  Caldi- 
gate had  married  the  woman,  and 
had  committed  bigamy,  when  he 
would  already  have  been  pardoned 
for  the  last  three  months  !  The 
pardon  in  that  case  would  not  do 


594 


John  Caldigate. — Part  XIV. 


[May 


away  with  the  verdict, — and  the 
pardoned  man  would  be  a  convicted 
bigamist.  What,  then,  would  be 
the  condition  of  his  wife  and  child  1 
If  subsequent  question  should  arise 
as  to  the  boy's  legitimacy,  as  might 
so  probably  be  the  case,  in  what 
light  would  he  appear,  he  who  had 
taken  upon  himself,  on  his  own 
responsibility,  to  extort  from  her 
Majesty  a  pardon  in  opposition  to 
a  righteous  and  just  verdict, — in 
opposition  to  the  judge  who  had 
tried  the  case  1  He  had  been  angry 
with  Judge  Bramber  for  not  decid- 
ing, and  was  now  frightened  at  the 
necessity  of  deciding  himself. 

In  this  emergency  he  sent  for  the 
gentleman  who  had  managed  the 
prosecution  on  the  part  of  the 
Crown,  and  asked  him  to  read  up 
the  case  again.  "  I  never  was  con- 
vinced of  the  prisoner's  guilt,"  said 
the  barrister. 
"  "No!" 

"It  was  one  of  those  cases  in 
which  we  cannot  be  convinced. 
The  strongest  point  against  him  was 
the  payment  of  the  money.  It  is 
possible  that  he  paid  it  from  a 
Quixotic  feeling  of  honour." 

"To  false  witnesses,  and  that 
before  the  trial ! "  said  the  Secre- 
tary. 

"And  there  may  have  been  a 
hope  that,  in  spite  of  what  he  said 


himself  as  to  their  staying,  they 
would  take  themselves  off  when 
they  had  got  the  money.  In  that 
way  he  may  have  persuaded  himself 
that,  as  an  honest  man,  he  ought  to 
make  the  payment.  Then  as  to  the 
witnesses,  there  can  be  little  doubt 
that  they  were  willing  to  lie.  Even 
if  their  main  story  were  true,  they 
were  lying  as  to  details." 

"  Then  you  would  advise  a  par- 
don?" 

"  I  think  so,"  said  the  barrister, 
who  was  not  responsible  for  his 
advice. 

"  Without  waiting  for  the  other 
trial?" 

"  If  the  perjury'be  then  proved, — 
or  even  so  nearly  proved  as  to 
satisfy  the  outside  world,  —  the 
man's  detention  will  be  thought  to 
have  been  a  hardship."  The  Secre- 
tary of  State  thanked  the  barrister 
and  let  him  go.  He  then  went 
down  to  the  House,  and  amidst  the 
turmoil  of  a  strong  party  conflict  at 
last  made  up  his  mind.  It  was  un- 
just that  such  responsibility  should 
be  thrown  upon  any  one  person. 
There  ought  to  be  some  Court  of 
Appeal  for  such  cases.  He  was  sure 
of  that  now.  But  at  last  he  made 
up  his  mind.  Early  on  the  next 
morning  »the  Queen  should  be  ad- 
vised to  allow  John  Caldigate  to 
go  free. 


1879.]          The  Pathans  of  the  North-west  Frontier  of  India.  595 


THE  PATHANS   OF  THE   NORTH-WEST  FKONTIER  OF  INDIA. 

[SINCE  we  received  the  MS.  of  this  paper  we  have  met  with  the  follow- 
ing paragraph  about  the  writer  in  the  Indian  correspondence  of  the 
'  Times.'— ED.  B.  M. 

"  Scott's  guard  of  twenty  men  from  the  24th  Punjab  Infantry  were 
suddenly  attacked  by  more  than  100  Afridis,  who  fired  from  the  sur- 
rounding hills  under  cover  of  trees  and  rocks.  One  man  being  severely 
wounded,  Scott  went  to  his  assistance,  and,  telling  him  to  throw  his 
arms  round  his  neck,  prepared  to  carry  him  off.  The  man,  with  a  devo- 
tion not  uncommon  among  the  Sepoys,  declined  the  proffered  assistance, 
and  urged  Scott  to  save  himself.  Scott  refused  to  abandon  him,  and 
took  him  on  his  shoulders.  The  altercation,  however,  caused  a  fatal 
delay.  Scott  ran  back  towards  his  party  with  the  wounded  man  on 
his  shoulders,  but  in  his  haste  stumbled  and  fell.  Before  he  could  rise 
the  Afridis  were  upon  him,  and  with  gleaming  knives  slashed  and  cut  up 
the  wounded  man.  But,  though  unable  to  save  him,  the  gallant  surveyor 
did  not  desert  the  Sepoy.  With  his  revolver  he  killed  one  assailant  and 
wounded  another,  keeping  them  all  at  bay  till,  reinforced  by  some  of  his 
escort,  he  drove  them  back  to  seek  shelter  behind  the  rocks.  One  Sepoy 
described  Scott's  appearance  as  demoniac  when,  his  helmet  having  fallen 
off,  with  bare  head,  and  beard,  face,  and  clothes  covered  with  blood  from 
the  wounded  man,  he  stood  over  the  body,  pointing  his  revolver  at  the 
Afridis,  and  calling  to  his  escort  to  shoot  them  down.  Had  this  brave 
man  been  a  soldier,  the  Victoria  Cross  would  probably  have  been  awarded 
him  in  recognition  of  his  gallantry.  No  doubt  in  some  form  or  other 
Scott's  soldierly  merit  will  be  recognised.  He  fought  his  way  back  suc- 
cessfully to  Michni,  losing  three  killed  and  four  wounded,  he  himself 
escaping  unhurt."] 

THE  proposed  rectification  of  our  Pukhtans,  who  speak  Pukhto,  ex- 
north-western  frontier  of  India,  if  tends  from  Gilghit,  the  north- 
carried  out  in  its  integrity,  will  western  portion  of  the  dominions 
bring  under  British  jurisdiction  a  of  H.H.  the  Maharajah  of  Jummoo 
large  and  very  powerful  section  of  and  Cashmere,  in  lat.  35°  30',  long, 
the  Pathan  or  Affghan  border  tribes,  74°  30',  in  a  curve  about  100  miles 
who  inhabit  the  wild  mountain  in  diameter,  running  west  and 
tracts  that  have  hitherto  shut  in  south  to  the  neighbourhood  of 
the  Indian  empire  from  the  semi-  Bunnoo  or  Edwardesabad,  about 
civilised  countries  and  khanates  of  lat.  33°,  long.  70°  30'  (where  they 
Central  Asia — a  borderland  of  un-  are  succeeded  on  the  border  by  the 
quiet,  where  "  there  is  no  king,  and  Belooch  tribes),  including  the  Brit- 
every  man  does  that  which  is  right  ish  districts  of  Hazara,  Peshawar, 
in  his  own  eyes  " — controlled  only  Kohat,  and  Bunnoo — the  former  cis- 
by  the  fear  of  bloody  recompense,  Indus,  the  other  three  trans-Indus 
influenced  rather  than  bound  in  districts. 

social  customs  by  the  laws  of  the  The    Pathans    inhabiting    these 

Koran.  districts    were    partly    subjugated 

The  country  of  the  Pathans  or  by   the    Sikhs,    and    came    under 


596 


The  Pathans  of  the  North-west  Frontier  of  India. 


[May 


British  sway  with  the  rest  of  the 
Punjab  when  that  province  was 
annexed  at  the  close  of  the  second 
Sikh  war.  Each  of  these  districts 
contains  hills  and  plains ;  the  in- 
habitants are  of  the  same  great 
family,  speak  the  same  language, 
and  have  the  same  characteristics  as 
the  still  independent  tribes  beyond 
our  frontier.  More  or  less  gradually 
they  have  accepted  the  peaceful  order 
of  things  inaugurated  under  the  new 
regime;  and  the  number  of  riots, 
assassinations,  and  other  savage 
crimes  which  long  disgraced  them, 
and  still  disgrace  the  independent 
country,  have  decreased,  till  now 
their  inhabitants  are  almost  as 
peaceful  and  orderly  as  the  subject- 
races  in  any  other  part  of  India, 
which  fact  might  be  taken  as  "  a 
promise  of  good  things  to  come  " 
for  the  portions  that  may  now  be 
included  in  the  empire. 

Much  has  been  written  for  and 
against  the  theory  that  the  Pathan 
clans  are  the  descendants  of  the 
lost  tribes  of  Israel.  However  this 
may  be,  when  asked  whence  they 
have  come  originally,  the  Mool- 
lahs  (priests)  point  north-west- 
ward, sometimes  adding  "  Khoor- 
asan."  All  agree  that  their  first 
representatives  came  down  with 
Timoor  Lung  (Tamerlane)  or  some 
other  Central  Asian  conqueror  as 
mercenaries.  Wave  on  wave  fol- 
lowed the  first  irruption,  till  the  for- 
mer inhabitants  and  their  "  Toork  " 
rulers  were  either  driven  southward, 
destroyed,  or  amalgamated  with  the 
new-comers.  They  claim  to  have 
occupied  these  hills  for  from  ten  to 
fourteen  generations  now. 

Different  powerful  leaders  seem 
to  have  occupied  particular  sections 
of  the  hills,  and  formed  with  their 
immediate  following  the  nuclei  of 
the  present  larger  tribal  divisions, 
distinguished  by  a  common  name 
from  the  other  great  tribes. 

Such  are  the  Oorakzais,  who  in- 


habit the  country  lying  north  of 
the  Koorum  Valley,  north-west  of 
Kohat ;  the  Afreedees,  in  whose 
lands  lie  both  the  Kohat  and  Khy- 
ber  Passes ;  the  Mohmunds,  on 
either  side  the  Cabul  or  Nagomau 
river  for  about  fifty  miles  of  its 
course  above  its  exit  into  the  Pesh- 
awar Valley  at  Fort  Michni,  and 
also  in  a  portion  of  that  valley; 
the  Khaleels,  in  the  Peshawar 
Valley;  the Khuttults  round  Kohat; 
the  Eusufzai,  inhabiting  the  Swat 
and  neighbouring  valleys  and  Brit- 
ish Eusufzai ;  the  Taunawali  Swatis 
and  others,  in  Hazara.  Lying 
amongst  these  are  various  smaller 
tribes,  distinct  from  them,  but 
generally  throwing  in  their  lot 
with  one  or  other  of  their  power- 
ful neighbours  in  times  of  unusual 
excitement. 

As  years  rolled  on,  these  large 
tribes  were  broken  up  into  smaller 
clans  and  sections,  each  following 
the  leadership  of  some  son  or 
brother  of  the  first  chieftain,  and 
their  children  again  subdividing 
the  heritage  in  the  same  way,  till 
now  each  tribe  is  subdivided  into 
numerous  Khels  or  Zais,  the  sub- 
division still  going  on  till  each 
lesser  valley,  each  collection  of 
hamlets — nay,  each  hamlet — boasts 
its  one,  two,  or  more  Malliks  or 
Khans,  each  of  whom  commands 
a  small  party  of  adherents  and 
retainers,  and  between  whom  and 
his  rivals — generally  his  brothers, 
half-brothers,  or  cousins — constant 
causes  of  strife  and  bloodshed 
crop  up.  The  principal  causes 
of  quarrel  are,  in  the  words  of 
their  own  proverb,  ground,  gold, 
and  women.  Luckily,  owing  to 
their  strict  adherence  to  the  letter 
of  their  law  in  this  respect,  wine  is 
not  added  to  the  list.  The  first 
cause  of  domestic  or  social  strife  is 
often  puerile  in  the  extreme.  In 
a  moment  of  anger  one  man  calls 
another  "Kaffir" — that  is,  infidel 


1879.] 


The  Pathans  of  the  North-west  Frontier  of  India. 


597 


— and  is  either  cut  down  on  the 
spot,  or  subsequently  stalked  and 
knifed  or  shot.  There  is  no  court 
of  law  to  appeal  to ;  the  murderer 
has  no  qualms  of  conscience;  but 
it  is  a  recognised  custom  amongst 
them  that  any  relative  of  a  mur- 
dered man  is  at  liberty  to  murder 
any  relative  of  the  murderer  he  can 
lay  hands  on.  This  done,  it  must 
in  its  turn  be  revenged ;  so  the 
ball  rolls  on,  till  at  times  whole 
tribes  become  implicated.  Mercy 
is  neither  asked  nor  given.  There 
are,  indeed,  places  of  refuge  where 
a  hasty  murderer  may  escape  for  a 
time  the  vengeance  of  the  avenger 
of  blood — some  shrine,  some  tem- 
ple, at  times  the  tower  of  a  neigh- 
bouring chief.  We  may  be  excused 
for  adding  a  well -known  tale  of 
the  border  here,  more  characteristic 
and  explanatory  than  description, 
however  vivid,  can  portray. 

A  debtor  proceeding  to  Peshawar 
with  some  articles  for  sale,  met  a 
creditor  who  demanded  the  settle- 
ment of  his  long  -  overdue  loan. 
Payment  was  promised  after  the 
sale  of  the  goods,  now  on  their 
way  to  market.  The  creditor  de- 
manded security,  but  was  told  he 
must  trust  the  word  of  the  debtor, 
who  had  nothing  to  give  in  pledge. 
"  Give  me  this  as  security,"  said 
the  creditor,  placing  his  hand  on 
the  debtor's  long  knife,  stuck  as 
usual  in  his  girdle  or  kummerbund 
— a  deadly  insult.  "  Take  it,"  said 
the  debtor,  stabbing  the  other  on 
the  spot.  He  then  fled,  followed 
by  relatives  of  the  deceased.  Ap- 
proaching a  tower,  the  pursued 
sought  "refuge  in  Allah's  name." 
Having  inquired  from  the  murderer 
whom  he  had  killed,  the  chieftain 
of  the  tower  replied,  "You  have 
killed  my  own  brother ;  but  having 
asked  refuge  in  God's  name,  in  His 
name  I  give  it."  Forthwith  the 
pursued  was  drawn  up  into  the 
tower  and  the  pursuers  sternly  for- 


bidden to  approach.  These  having 
left  the  scene,  the  chieftain  then 
gave  the  refugee  half  an  hour's 
grace,  swearing  by  Allah  to  slay 
him  if  after  that  he  should  be 
seized.  The  refugee  made  good  use 
of  the  half-hour,  and  escaped  for 
that  occasion  at  least. 

I  have  said  ground  is  a  fruitful 
source  of  quarrel.  A  piece  of  waste 
land  lying  long  uncultivated — say 
between  two  small  branches  of 
some  water-course  which  has  been 
the  recognised  boundary  between 
neighbouring  tribes  or  hamlets — 
is  eyed  by  some  impecunious  culti- 
vator, who  forthwith  proceeds  with 
a  couple  of  bullocks  and  a  plough 
to  break  up  the  soil.  Some  neigh- 
bour from  the  opposite  side,  seeing 
him,  disputes  the  slice  of  earth, 
warns  the  other  off,  and  adds  a 
musket- shot  to  enforce  his  argu- 
ment. This  is  probably  returned, 
and  perhaps  blood  shed.  The  mat- 
ter is  now  taken  up  by  friends  of 
the  rival  claimants,  and  this  leads 
to  more  bloodshedding,  needing  re- 
venge. The  circle  of  strife  increases, 
rival  villages  or  Khans  take  opposite 
sides,  and  soon  the  entire  valley  is 
a  scene  of  strife.  For  a  time  the 
parties  will  content  themselves  with 
firing  at  any  one  seen  on  the  disputed 
ground ;  but  later  on,  raids  are  organ- 
ised on  either  side,  cattle  lifted,  ham- 
lets and  crops  burned;  retaliation 
follows,  till  at  length  a  sharp  sword- 
in-hand  conflict  brings  matters  to 
a  climax.  By  this  time  both  par- 
ties are  probably  tired  of  the  con- 
test, and  are  glad  of  some  pretext  to 
come  to  terms.  There  is  no  one  of 
sufficient  power  to  compel  a  cessa- 
tion, no  central  authority  to  appeal 
to ;  but  here  religious  influence 
steps  in  for  good.  Some  neighbour- 
ing shrine  holds  a  noted  recluse, 
or  in  a  neighbouring  temple  there 
is  some  learned  Moollah.  This  per- 
sonage is  appealed  to ;  and  if,  as  is 
generally  the  case,  he  fails  to  satisfy 


598 


The  Pathans  of  the  North-west  Frontier  of  India. 


[May 


the  parties,  he  summons  all  sur- 
rounding holy  men,  who  in  their 
turn  summon  the  JirgaJi,  or  council 
of  elders  and  chiefs  of  the  opposing 
clans,  and  a  settlement  is  effected — 
one  party  paying  a  certain  sum  or 
giving  a  dinner  in  exchange  for  the 
land,  or  it  is  made  neutral,  and 
neither  must  approach  it. 

We  have  said  above  that  the  in- 
habitants of  the  British  districts 
of  Hazara,  Peshawar,  Kohat,  and 
Bunnoo  are  Pathans  of  the  same 
great  family  as  their  still  indepen- 
dent brelhren.  The  conquest  of 
these  districts  was  not  easily,  and 
never  thoroughly,  accomplished  by 
the  Sikhs.  The  rule  of  the  Khalsa 
was  one  of  terror.  Religious  fan- 
aticism added  to  the  natural  and 
political  hatred  of  the  antagonistic 
races.  Mercy  was  an  unknown 
word. 

The  system  of  collecting  revenue 
might  be  classed  as  military  extor- 
tion, not  only  in  the  frontier  tracts, 
but  throughout  the  dominions  of 
the  great  Maharajah.  The  Punjab 
was  divided  into  Sirdarees.  Each 
Sirdar  kept  his  own  army  and 
ruled  his  district  in  his  own  way. 
When  in  want  of  funds  the  Ma- 
harajah paid  a  friendly  visit,  accom- 
panied by  a  large  body  of  troops,  to 
the  various  Sirdars,  and  received 
from  each  a  nuzzer,  or  present  of  so 
many  thousand  rupees.  The  Sirdars 
paid  like  friendly  visits  to  their 
subordinates ;  these  squeezed  the 
headmen  of  villages,  who  got  what 
they  could  from  the  landholders, 
the  landholders  from  the  house- 
holders, &c.  In  the  frontier  dis- 
tricts, at  least,  this  forcible  collec- 
tion of  revenue  was  never  submitted 
to  while  opposition  was  possible. 

The  Sirdars  first  overran  the 
districts  with  large  armies,  and 
after  sharp  fighting,  placed  than- 
nahs  and  other  fortified  posts  at 
various  salient  points.  So  long  as 
the  army  remained  in  the  neigh- 


bourhood all  was  quiet ;  but  so  soon 
as  the  Sirdar  was  called  away  to 
suppress  revolt  in  other  directions, 
or  oppose  political  intrigues  at 
headquarters,  the  Pathan  chieftains 
would  fly  to  the  hills,  collect  their 
retainers  and  dependants,  and  burst 
into  the  plains,  spread  fire  and 
sword,  and  hem  in  and  cut  to  pieces 
the  Sikh  detachments  scattered  over 
the  country,  after  inflicting  horrible 
insults  and  tortures  upon  them. 
The  depredations  would  then  be 
carried  into  neighbouring  tracts, 
and  the  revolt  daily  gather  strength 
— cattle,  grain,  girls,  all  that  came 
to  hand,  would  be  carried  off.  The 
Sirdar  would  hastily  settle  his  other 
quarrels,  receive  reinforcements  from 
Lahore,  and  hurry  back  to  attack 
the  insurgents. 

Then  would  commence  a  system 
of  reprisals.  Bands  of  marauders 
or  beaten  insurgents  would  be  sur- 
rounded and  compelled  to  surren- 
der. Several  would  be  hanged  or 
blown  from  guns ;  the  chiefs  and 
men  of  influence  would  be  crucified, 
flayed  or  burnt  alive,  buried  alive 
to  the  neck  and  their  heads  used  as 
targets.  Whole  villages  would  be 
given  to  the  flames,  males  murder- 
ed, females  outraged,  children  car- 
ried off  as  hostages  for  future  good 
behaviour.  For  months  this  terri- 
ble state  of  things  would  continue. 
Every  night  the  Pathans  would 
shoot  sentries,  cut  up  convoys,  tor- 
ture and  mutilate  prisoners,  till  one 
or  both  sides  were  nearly  starved 
out ;  then  a  compromise  would  be 
effected,  and  matters  settle  down 
till  the  Sirdar  was  again  called  else- 
where. How  long  this  would  have 
continued  it  is  hard  to  say,  had  not 
the  advent  of  British  officers  on  the 
scene  after  the  first  Sikh  war  put 
an  end  to  it.  These  came  into  the 
frontier  tracts  not  as  conquerors 
with  horrible  injuries  to  avenge, 
but  as  peacemakers  and  the  incar- 
nation of  law  and  justice  and  mercy; 


1879.] 


The  Pathans  of  the  North-west  Frontier  of  India. 


599 


further,  almost  as  co-religionists, 
for  as  such  they  were  then  looked 
on  by  the  Mohammedans  who  had 
so  long  been  persecuted  by  the  to 
them  idolatrous  Sikh.  War  and 
bloodshed  were  prevented  and  re- 
volt severely  punished  on  the  one 
hand,  while  complete  toleration  of 
the  rites  of  the  Moslem  creed  was 
permitted  on  the  other ;  and  the 
ears  of  the  Pathans  were  once  again 
gratified  by  the  long-forbidden  call 
to  prayers  in  the  Musjids.  At  the 
conclusion  of  the  first  Sikh  war, 
men  like  Edwardes,  Lawrence,  Mac- 
keson,  and  Abbott,  were  sent  to 
settle  the  hitherto  unruly  border 
districts  in  the  name  of  the  young 
Maharajah  Dhuleep  Singh.  Herbert 
Edwardes's  ' Two  Years  in  the  Pun- 
jaub'  gives  a  vivid  picture  of  the  mul- 
tifarious and  onerous  duties  these 
officers  had  to  perform,  holding  the 
burning  censers  between  the  liv- 
ing and  the  dead  that  the  fearful 
plague  of  hatred  and  murder  and 
cruelty  might  be  stayed.  So  much 
were  these  officers  respected  and 
beloved  by  the  Pathans,  that  when 
Dewan  Moolraj  of  Mooltan  raised 
the  standard  of  revolt  and  the  Sikh 
troops  attempted  to  seize  and  mur- 
der the  British  officers,  Lawrence 
was  saved  by  the  Khyberees,  Ed- 
wardes led  an  army  of  Affghans 
to  besiege  Mooltan,  and  the  chiefs 
of  Hazara  aided  "Kaka  (uncle) 
Abbott"  to  turn  out  the  Sikh 
troops  from  that  neighbourhood. 
They  welcomed  the  British  Eaj, 
and  gladly  became  subjects  of  the 
new  government.  Nor  has  their 
loyalty  ever  wavered ;  while,  on 
the  other  hand,  levies  raised  in 
the  border  villages  have  done  much 
good  service  in  the  frontier  wars, 
and  heartily  aided  in  repelling 
the  invasions  of  their  independent 
brethren. 

In  our  present  Affghan  expedi- 
tion we  come  neither  as  peace- 
makers nor  yet  as  conquerors,  and 


very  careful  handling  is  needed 
to  steer  clear  of  the  troubles  that 
might  arise  from  a  single  false  move. 
Many  of  the  frontier  chiefs  round  the 
Khyber  have  joined  us,  and,  from 
a  shrewd  knowledge  of  their  best 
interests  if  not  from  affection,  they 
will  endeavour  to  keep  the  peace. 
But  there  are  various  sources  of  dis- 
cord. I  have  said  a  murderer  has  no 
qualms  of  conscience;  this  is  espe- 
cially so  if  the  murdered  man  is  an 
idolater,  or  even  a  Christian  who  is 
shot  with  little  more  feelings  of  com- 
punction than  an  idolater,  and  an 
idolater  with  no  more  compunction 
than  a  bear  or  a  tiger.  The  slaugh- 
ter of  an  infidel,  be  he  Christian 
or  Hindoo,  constitutes  a  sure  claim 
to  the  Moslem  paradise  and  to  the 
dignity  of  Ghazi.  Besides,  as  the 
Christian  and  the  Feringhee  con- 
queror are  identical,  the  shooting 
of  a  white  man  is  looked  on  as 
a  deed  of  daring  valour  though 
done  in  the  most  cowardly  manner 
from  behind  a  rock.  The  chief  of 
a  clan  may  offer  safe-conduct  and 
heartily  mean  to  abide  by  his  word 
to  a  European,  but  he  always  has  an 
enemy  ready  to  bring  him  into  dis- 
grace with  our  authorities — some 
brother  or  cousin  who  wishes  to 
succeed  him  in  the  headship  of  the 
clan  or  in  his  place  of  honour  in  our 
durbars — or  some  outlaw  or  refugee 
from  British  territory,  some  deserter 
with  bitter  feelings  of  personal  ha- 
tred against  all  Europeans.  Await- 
ing an  opportunity  of  revenge,  this 
man  may  at  an  unguarded  moment 
work  the  mischief  that  the  Khan  has 
done  his  utmost  to  avert ;  and  so 
given  are  the  Pathans  to  lying  and 
treachery  in  the  smallest  concerns 
of  life,  that  it  is  hard  to  discover 
whether  the  murder  has  been  com- 
mitted at  the  instigation  of  the 
man  who  promised  safe-conduct  or 
not.  Hence  the  refusal  of  our 
Government  to  sanction  individual 
enterprise  across  the  border. 


600 


The  PatTians  of  the  North-west  Frontier  of  India. 


[May 


Of  all  the  border  tribes  the 
Afreedee  has  ever  been  the  most 
treacherous  and  troublesome  —  if 
not  the  boldest,  one  of  the  most 
powerful  in  point  of  numbers,  and, 
owing  to  its  locality,  the  most  im- 
portant at  the  present  juncture. 

Eunning  due  east  from  the  moun- 
tains round  Cabul  city  is  a  long 
range  known  as  the  "  Safed  Koh," 
or  White  Mountain,  dividing  the 
valley  of  the  Cabul  river  from  the 
Koorum  Valley,  its  summits  rising 
to  an  elevation  of  12,000  and  14,000 
feet  above  the  sea-level  till  it  reaches 
long.  79°  30',  when  the  crest  falls 
to  8000  feet,  and  spurs  are  thrown 
out  eastward  towards  Koh  at  and 
Peshawar  and  the  Cabul  river — 
one  range  or  spur  continuing  un- 
broken to  the  Indus  opposite  At- 
tok,  and  dividing  the  Peshawar 
from  the  Kohat  Valley.  Among 
the  rugged,  rocky  slopes  of  these 
mountains,  and  in  the  intervening 
valleys,  live  the  Afreedees,  the 
Oorakzais,  and  north  of  the  Khyber 
a  section  of  the  Mohmunds.  The 
valleys  occupied  by  the  Afreedees 
are  known  respectively  as  Maidan 
and  Bara,  Bazar,  and  Khyber,  run- 
ning in  parallel  lines  almost  due 
east  and  west.  Maidan  and  Bara 
have  not  yet  been  visited  by  our 
troops,  and  few  Europeans  have 
had  even  a  glance  into  them.  Tirah 
comprises  Maidan,  and  Oorakzai 
Bezoti. 

The  streamlets  which  spring 
from  the  mountain  -  sides  at  the 
west  ends  of  the  valleys  gradually 
increase  in  breadth  and  volume, 
and  combining  soon  form  broad 
streams,  sometimes  dry  and  pebbly, 
the  water  sinking  to  several  feet 
below  the  surface ;  at  others  rocky, 
and  filled  with  beautifully  clear 
water.  In  the  upper  portions 
these  flow  through  open  undulating 
ground,  sometimes  three  to  four 
miles  in  breadth,  grass-covered  or 
cultivated  with  wheat  and  barley, 


broken  here  and  there  by  low  hills, 
round  whose  bases  generally  cluster 
the  towers  and  homesteads  of  the 
inhabitants.  Other  towers  stand 
as  sentinels  guarding  the  cave- 
dwellings  which  honeycomb  the 
high  steep  banks  of  the  water- 
courses. Closing  in  the  valleys 
are  rugged  mountain-slopes,  whose 
crests  rise  to  6000  and  7000  feet 
above  sea-level,  the  average  height 
of  the  valleys  being  from  3,000  to 
4000  feet.  Sometimes  these  slopes 
are  grass-covered  and  well  wooded 
with  stunted  oaks  and  the  wild 
olive ;  others  rise  in  rugged,  grand, 
scarped,  fantastically- shaped  rocky 
masses,  which  form  a  refuge  for  the 
wild  goat  and  the  marlchar,  but 
which  offer  little  shelter  to  man 
and  his  flocks  and  herds.  As  the 
streams  flow  eastward  towards  the 
plains,  the  wooded  or  rocky  moun- 
tain -  slopes  approach  each  other 
more  and  more  nearly,  till  at  length 
the  valley  has  become  a  rugged 
ravine  difficult  to  force,  and  still 
more  difficult  to  hold — the  central 
stream  often  a  rushing  torrent 
hemmed  in  between  precipitous 
rocky  banks.  Here  and  there,  in- 
deed, the  hills  recede,  leaving  a 
narrow  margin  on  the  banks  of  the 
stream,  where  rich  crops  of  rice 
are  produced.  This  is  especially 
so  in  the  Oorakzai  Tirah,  where 
the  rice  cultivation  is  so  extensive 
that  during  the  hot  months  fever 
is  very  prevalent,  as  in  all  rice- 
producing  valleys ;  and  mosquitoes 
abound.  Here  and  there  a  few 
fruit-trees,  walnuts,  and  pears  and 
peaches,  and  the  vine,  cluster  round 
the  homesteads,  but  scarcely  in 
sufficient  quantity  for  the  valleys 
to  be  called  fruitful. 

Like  other  tribes,  the  Afreedees 
are  subdivided  into  various  clans 
and  sections.  The  principal  of  these 
are  the  Malekdeenkhel,  Sepahis, 
Kukikhel,  Kumberkhel,  and  Zak- 
hakhel  in  the  valleys  named  above ; 


1879.]          The  Patlians  of  the  North-west  Frontier  of  India. 


601 


and  the  Adamkhel,  divided  into  four 
smaller  sections — of  which  the  Jow- 
aki  is  one — in  the  hills  round  the 
Kohat  Pass.  Although  the  various 
clans  have  their  own  special  chiefs 
and  Jirgahs,  or  councils,  and  are 
often  at  war  one  with  another,  they 
claim  a  common  right  to  the  soil  of 
all  the  lands  of  the  various  sections, 
though  that  right  is  now  confined 
to  a  right  of  way  through  each 
other's  valleys,  and  an  equal  distri- 
bution of  the  profits  accruing  from 
the  toll  levied  on  the  trade  passing 
through  the  Khyber  and  Kohat 
Passes.  It  appears  to  have  been 
long  the  custom  amongst  them,  in 
exercise  of  their  rights,  to  inter- 
change the  locations  of  the  various 
sections  every  ten  years ;  but  this 
has  gradually  ceased,  each  now  oc- 
cupying certain  limits  continually. 
At  the  final  distribution  the  Zakha- 
khels  appear  to  have  appropriated 
a  strip  running  north  and  south 
from  the  Khyber  to  Tirah ;  the 
other  sections  obtaining  one  strip 
to  the  westward  of  the  Zakhakhels, 
and  another  eastward,  touching  on 
British  territory.  The  first  are  ele- 
vated and  form  the  summer  resid- 
ence of  the  inhabitants — the  greater 
number  of  them  migrating  with  their 
families  and  flocks  to  the  lower 
lands  in  the  winter.  Twice  a-year 
they  must  pass  through  the  Zakha- 
khel  lands,  who  thus  have  a  strong 
hold  on  them.  Of  all  the  sections 
the  Zakhakhel  are  the  most  noted 
for  their  thieving  and  marauding 
propensities  ;  and  every  frontier  war 
has  found  them  prepared  to  supply 
a  contingent  to  the  tribe  threatened 
by  our  troops,  for  a  consideration  in 
money,  arms,  or  cattle. 

The  four  large  sections  of  the 
Adamkhel  long  divided  between 
them  the  proceeds  of  the  traffic 
through  the  Kohat  Pass,  as  well  as 
the  12,000  rupees  yearly  paid  to 
them  by  the  British  Government 
for  the  free  use  of  that  pass ;  the 


other  sections  dividing  the  pro- 
ceeds of  the  Khyber  Pass  trade. 
The  money  so  obtained  has  indeed 
been  the  chief  source  of  their 
wealth,  a  sum  being  paid  for  each 
camel-load  of  merchandise  in  return 
for  a  safe-conduct  through  the  pass. 
The  rest  of  their  riches  consists 
of  flocks  and  herds — the  soil  of 
their  valleys  and  the  rugged  slopes 
of  their  mountains  being  too  poor 
to  produce  even  sufficient  for  their 
wants.  Another  source  of  income 
since  the  annexation  of  the  Punjab 
has  been  the  large  sale  of  firewood 
and  grass  in  the  cantonments. 

Through  the  Kohat  Pass  the 
chief  article  of  traffic  is  salt,  brought 
from  the  mines  of  Bahadarkhel, 
between  Kohat  and  Bunnoo. 
Through  the  Khyber  runs  most  of 
the  trade  between  Cabul  and  In- 
dia :  from  the  former  country  dried 
fruits,  silk,  a  warm  cloth  made  from 
camels'  hair  called  Burruk ;  tobacco 
from  Bokhara;  and  some  hides  and 
furs  from  Russian  Asia.  These  are 
brought  down  on  droves  of  hardy 
camels,  which  cross  with  ease  the 
most  difficult  mountain-roads,  where 
Indian  camels  would  flounder  about 
in  all  directions ;  not  led  in  single 
file  with  strings  through  their 
noses,  but  driven  in  crowds  like 
sheep  or  cattle. 

On  the  outbreak  of  present  hos- 
tilities with  Cabul,  the  passage- 
money  was  one  of  the  first  subjects 
broached  by  the  Afreedees,  and  it 
seems  an  agreement  was  entered  into 
between  them  and  our  authorities,  by 
which  they  agreed  not  to  molest  our 
convoys,  or  interfere  with  the  pas- 
sage of  our  troops  through  the  pass  ; 
we  on  our  part  stipulating  to  guaran- 
tee the  payment  in  full  of  their  tolls, 
which  was,  we  understand,  settled 
by  our  paying  to  the  Afreedees  the 
entire  sum  claimed — put  at  a  figure 
approaching  124,000  rupees  a-year. 
The  camel-drivers  have  since  been 
of  great  service  to  us  in  carrying 


602 


Th,e  Patlians  of  the  North-west  Frontier  of  India. 


[May 


our  commissariat  stores  from  Jum- 
rood  to  Jelalabad,  doing  the  ninety 
miles  in  four  days,  receiving  one 
rupee  per  maund  (80  Ib.)  carried 
through.  The  unequal  distribution 
of  the  money  by  the  Afreedees 
among  themselves  at  first  led  to 
much  trouble ;  but  this  has,  we  be- 
lieve, been  since  rectified. 

The  Afreedees  have  never  sub- 
mitted to  a  conqueror.  To  the 
Ameer  of  Cabul  they  have  permit- 
ted a  kind  of  suzerainty  over  them, 
their  chiefs  paying  occasional  re- 
spectful visits  to  the  Ameer,  receiv- 
ing from  him  Jchilluts,  arms,  and 
sometimes  money,  in  return  for 
which  they  considered  themselves 
bound  to  supply  a  certain  number 
of  men  in  time  of  war.  This  did 
not,  however,  prevent  them  demand- 
ing payment  from  him  for  the  safe- 
conduct  through  the  Khyber  of  the 
mountain-battery  which  our  Govern- 
ment presented  to  him  some  years 
back.  They  resented  bitterly  the 
occupation  of  Fort  Ali  Musjid  by 
his  troops  two  years  ago,  when  his 
relations  with  us  were  strained  and 
it  was  evident  that  ere  long  we 
would  come  to  blows.  This  indeed 
was  one  of  the  chief  reasons  for  the 
complacency  with  which  the  Afree- 
dees, especially  those  in  the  Khyber, 
looked  on  our  advance.  The  Path- 
ans  had  no  love  for  us,  nor  any  de- 
sire for  our  occupation ;  but,  fully 
convinced  that  our  stay  would  be 
limited,  they  were  quite  content  to 
see  us  clear  the  pass  of  the  Ameer's 
troops. 

Other  causes,  too,  were  not  want- 
ing. The  principal  Zakhakhel  chief 
of  the  Khyber  was  at  deadly  feud 
with  the  chiefs  of  Bara  and  Bazar. 
The  two  latter  joined  the  Ameer; 
the  first  of  course  joined  us,  and 
received  the  subsidy  for  the  pass. 
This  was  naturally  resented  by  the 
partisans  of  the  others ;  and  when 
these  found  leisure  from  the  work 
of  plundering  the  Ameer's  troops 


flying  from  Ali  Musjid,  they  being 
joined  by  a  few  deserters  from  our 
native  regiments,  and  outlaws  of 
the  border,  commenced  a  series  of 
attacks  on  our  convoys,  pickets,  and 
sentries,  which  resulted  in  the  burn- 
ing of  some  of  their  villages,  the 
two  invasions  of  the  Bazar  Valley, 
and  the  blowing  up  of  their  towers ; 
after  which  their  grievances  were 
attended  to  and  arranged. 

These  towers  are  structures  about 
30  feet  high,  and  the  same  in 
diameter.  The  first  10  feet  are  of 
solid  stone  structure ;  the  upper 
hollow,  and  capable  of  holding 
fifteen  or  twenty  men;  the  whole 
loopholed  and  roofed  in  ;  above  the 
roof  is  a  look-out  balcony.  The 
only  entrance  is  a  small  doorway 
above  the  stone  substructure,  ap- 
proached either  by  a  ladder  or  a 
single  piece  of  rope,  which,  when 
the  tower  is  occupied,  is  drawn  up. 
Scattered  round  the  towers  are 
the  huts  or  cave  -  dwellings  of 
the  people.  The  huts,  surround- 
ed generally  by  low  earthen  walls, 
resemble  those  all  over  upper 
India  —  earthen  walls  and  flat 
mud  -  covered  roofs  some  20  feet 
long,  10  or  12  broad,  and  6  high. 
Sometimes  they  are  longer,  and 
divided  into  apartments,  in  one  of 
which  the  cows  and  buffaloes  are 
housed,  though  quite  as  often  they 
occupy  the  same  apartment  as  their 
owners.  Their  portion  is  generally 
anything  but  clean ;  the  portion 
occupied  by  the  family  is  swept 
out  daily  by  the  women,  who,  as  a 
rule,  do  not  only  all  domestic  work, 
but  a  good  portion  of  outside  duty 
also.  The  only  furniture  consists 
of  two  or  three  small  bedsteads 
covered  with  string,  on  which  lie 
tumbled  some  dirty  quilts  or  blan- 
kets ;  in  one  corner  some  seed- 
cases  covered  with  a  coating  of 
mud,  containing  the  grain  for  daily 
use  and  for  the  next  sowing-sea- 
son ;  a  small  stool  or  two,  and  some 


1879.]          The  Pathans  of  the  North-ivest  Frontier  of  India. 


603 


spinning-wheels,  at  which  the  wo- 
men sit  when  at  leisure,  which  is 
seldom ;  a  few  ghurras,  earthen 
vessels,  holding  water  or  butter- 
milk, and  used  as  cooking-pots.  In 
one  corner,  or  in  the  centre  of  the 
room,  lies  a  heap  of  ashes  or  a 
wood-fire,  on  which  the  cooking  is 
done,  the  smoke  of  which,  having 
no  outlets,  blackens  walls  and  raf- 
ters, on  which  hang  the  warlike 
implements  of  the  lords  of  the 
mansion.  These  consist  of  a  match- 
lock or  flint-lock  musket  —  lately 
superseded  in  many  Afreedee  homes 
by  the  Enfield,  snatched  from  the 
Ameer's  panic-stricken  infantry  fly- 
ing from  Ali  Musjid — a  horn  of 
powder,  a  bag  of  bullets,  an  old 
pistol  or  two,  and  the  long  knife, 
used  as  sword  and  dagger  of  some 
tribes,  or  the  sword  and  shield  of 
others.  All  these  are  worn  by  the 
men,  not  only  when  on  the  war- 
path, but  almost  invariably — even 
when  ploughing  in  their  fields. 
Add  to  this  a  sheepskin  bag  con- 
taining about  20  Ib.  of  flour,  in 
which  are  imbedded  some  pieces  of 
salt  and  goor  (molasses),  and  the 
Pathan  is  equipped  for  a  week's 
campaign. 

His  clothing  consists  of  a  loose 
pair  of  trousers,  a  long  coat  or 
chapkan,  a  skull-cap  on  his  shaven 
head,  a  waistband,  and  a  turban — 
the  latter  often  used  as  a  sheet  for 
clothing  at  night.  The  turban  is 
generally  fringed  with  gay  colours ; 
otherwise  his  entire  clothing  is  dyed 
a  deep  indigo-blue,  or  of  the  dust- 
colour  called  Wiaki.  On  his  feet  are 
sandals,  either  of  barely  tanned 
leather,  or  made  from  grass  or  the 
leaves  of  a  dwarf  palm.  But  he 
is  able  to  go  about  even  amongst 
sharp  rocks  with  bare  feet.  Their 
heads  are  shaven,  and  the  ends  of 
the  moustache  cut  close  to  the 
upper  lip,  the  beard  and  whiskers 
allowed  to  grow.  The  dress  of  the 
women  consists  of  very  loose  trous- 


ers, a  jacket  and  sheet  thrown  over 
head  and  shoulders,  all  dyed  blue. 
The  men  do  the  ploughing,  reap- 
ing, and,  when  unable  to  secure 
the  services  of  Cabuli  coolies,  the 
building.  They  also  cut  the  fire- 
wood for  daily  use  and  for  sale,  but 
never  carry  it.  It  is  taken  to  the 
villages  or  to  market  on  donkeys, 
mules,  or  bullocks,  driven  by  boys, 
guarded  by  a  man  or  two ;  or  car- 
ried on  their  heads  by  the  women 
and  girls.  These  also  cut  and  carry 
in  grass  for  sale  and  for  the  cattle, 
climbing  over  most  dangerous  pre- 
cipices to  secure  it.  The  cattle, 
sheep,  and  goats  are  taken  out  to 
graze  by  the  boys. 

The  Pathan,  in  fact,  is  essentially 
lazy,  except  in  war  and  the  chase. 
He  will  not  do  a  hand's  turn  more 
than  he  is  compelled.  He  loves, 
of  all  things,  to  sit  before  the  mus- 
jid  or  the  hoojra  (guest  -  house) 
and  gossip,  bragging  (especially  the 
Afreedee)  of  his  prowess,  and  the 
impenetrability  of  his  mountain 
fastnesses  while  he  is  alive.  The 
men  do  indeed  generally  build 
their  own  towers,  and  in  charac- 
teristic fashion.  The  Khan  sum- 
mons his  retainers  and  neighbours 
to  the  work.  When  all  are  col- 
lected, after  much  talking  and  eat- 
ing the  work  is  begun;  at  noon 
they  eat  and  smoke  and  talk  — 
always  talk — then  build  again  to 
sundown;  then  set  to  eating  and 
talking  again.  The  Khan  feeds  all 
who  are  engaged  in  the  work  till  it 
is  finished,  when  he  gives  a  grand 
feast,  adding  perhaps  a  few  sheep ; 
so  that,  one  way  and  another,  each 
tower  costs  between  two  and  three 
hundred  rupees. 

When  not  fighting  or  hunting, 
the  Pathan  goes  about  with  bent 
head,  in  long  slouching  strides, 
fancying  himself  a  wonderful  being. 

Although  his  conversation  at 
times  turns  on  history  (if  it  can  be 
called  such),  politics,  and  religion, 


604 


The  Pathans  oj-  the  North-ivest  Frontier  of  India. 


[May 


the  Pathan  is  excessively  ignorant. 
A  few  youths  learn  to  read  the 
Koran,  and  recite  long  passages 
from  it,  and  sometimes  from  other 
Eastern  writings  ;  but  these  at 
once  set  up  as  Moollahs  or  priests. 
There  is  no  hierarchy  or  regular 
priesthood.  Every  man  who  can  read 
the  Koran  is  considered  capable  of 
leading  the  prayers  in  the  musjids, 
and  even  of  becoming  a  regular 
priest,  though  these  places  are 
generally  reserved  for  the  Syuds — 
descended  or  supposed  to  be  de- 
scended from  the  Prophet,  or  at 
least  from  the  family  of  the  Ko- 
reish,  who  take  the  place  of  the 
Levites  among  the  Jews.  The 
great  bulk  of  the  Pathans  are  of  the 
orthodox  or  Sunni  sect — the  same 
as  the  Turks,  Arabians,  and  most 
Indian  Mohammedans,  in  distinc- 
tion from  the  Shiahs — chiefly  Per- 
sians— and  the  Wahabis,  a  compar- 
atively new  sect,  who  may  be 
looked  on  as  the  Covenanters  of  the 
Moslem  world  for  fanaticism,  who, 
however,  refuse  allbelief  in  prophets, 
angels,  saints,  shrines,  &c.,  and  con- 
sider themselves  bound  to  struggle 
against  all  earthly  sovereigns  who 
are  not  of  their  own  sect.  These 
are  looked  on  as  dangerous  heretics 
by  the  orthodox.  Though  a  fanatic 
in  religion,  the  Pathan  has  but  a 
poor  knowledge  of  what  his  religion 
is.  He  repeats  the  cry  that  "  God 
is  God,  and  Mahomed  is  His  pro- 
phet," with  great  earnestness.  He 
gives  tithes  to  the  priest.  He  keeps 
the  stated  fasts  of  the  Moharram — 
not  even  smoking  from  sunrise  to 
sunset  during  the  thirty  days,  mak- 
ing up  for  his  daily  abstinence  by 
indulging  more  than  usual  in  food 
and  tobacco  at  night.  He  will  not 
mention  the  name  pig,  nor  drink 
wine.  His  laws  of  inheritance  are 
those  propounded  to  him  by  his 
priest  from  the  Koran.  But  except 
the  Moollahs — some  of  whom  are 
learned  in  religious  polemics — none 


can  read  or  write,  and  they  have  no 
general  knowledge.  Strict  deists  in 
theory,  and  taught  by  the  first  prin- 
ciples of  their  creed  to  abhor  any- 
thing likely  to  detract  from  the 
oneness  of  deity,  they  are,  like  all 
mountaineers,  very  superstitious. 

The  divs,  djinns,  and  fairies  of 
all  Mohammedan  literature  are  of 
course  objects  of  faith,  though  not 
of  sight.  Their  superstitious  fancies 
content  themselves  with  the  invo- 
cation of  saints,  pilgrimages  to  ziar- 
ats  or  shrines,  or  takias — the  former 
being  the  burial-places,  the  latter 
resting-spots  in  their  wanderings — 
of  holy  men.  Here  prayers  are 
offered  to  God,  and  the  intercession 
of  saints  requested  for  their  prayers, 
the  objects  of  which  are  invariably 
material,  not  spiritual — the  request 
for  a  son,  cure  from  illness,  death 
of  enemies,  riches  for  themselves, 
never  an  increase  of  purity,  or  holi- 
ness, or  help  in  a  heavenward  path. 
For,  unlike  the  trembling  Chris- 
tian, with  a  morbid  idea  of  his  ex- 
treme sinfulness,  taught  to  think 
that  heaven  is  to  be  the  reward  of 
a  few  chosen  ones,  and  begging  to 
be  included,  the  Pathan  looks  on 
himself  as  secure  for  all  eternity 
because  he  is  a  Mohammedan.  In 
controversy  recognising  some  inter- 
mediate state  akin  to  the  purgatory 
of  the  early  Churches — where  pun- 
ishment for  offences  against  other 
Mohammedans  is  meted  out  —  he 
yet  feels  individually  secure.  Re- 
pentance, redemption,  purity,  hu- 
mility, the  great  watchwords  of 
the  Christian,  are  unknown  to  the 
Pathan  either  in  precept  or  practice. 
Miracles  performed  at  shrines  are 
commonly  reported  and  believed 
amongst  them,  always  as  frivolous 
and  useless  to  mankind  as  most 
modern  instances  of  these  imposi- 
tions. 

In  the  heart  of  Peshawar — per- 
haps the  vilest  city  in  Asia — has 
long  been  established  a  Christian 


1879.]          The  Patlians  of  the  North-west  Frontier  of  India. 


605 


mission,  whose  members  have  gained 
a  hold  on  the  affections  of  the  bru- 
tal mob  around  them  by  their  de- 
votion to  the  sick  in  times  of  chol- 
era and  other  pestilence.  But  they 
make  few  converts.  When  they 
do  so,  however,  it  is  generally  from 
among  the  more  intelligent  classes 
— men  who  have  gone  through  the 
usual  phases  of  thought ;  first,  from 
Mohammedanism  to  simpler  deism 
(that  is,  rejecting  shrines,  miracles, 
&c. ) ;  then  atheism,  or  something 
like  it;  next  Christianity,  the  last 
phase  being  long  delayed.  During 
the  intermediate  stages  they  are 
very  candid  and  open  in  their  opin- 
ions, contemptuous  in  their  references 
to  the  superstitions  around  them. 
A  story  is  told  of  one  of  these  men 
in  his  transition  stage.  Crossing 
the  Indus  with  a  boat-load  of  others 
at  Attok  during  the  monsoon,  a 
storm  burst  011  them.  The  others 
cried  to  various  saints  for  help. 
"  What  is  the  good  of  calling  on 
dead  saints?"  said  our  friend.  "Why 
not  call  on  me,  who  am  a  living 
Syud,  or  on  some  living  man  who 
might  hear  you  1 "  Saying  this,  he 
turned  towards  Eusufzai,  and  hor- 
rified his  listeners  by  shouting  louder 
than  all  the  rest,  "  0  Lumsden 
Sahib  Bahadar,  save  me !  0 
Lumsden  Sahib  Bahadar,  save  me  ! " 
We  are  not  sure  if  the  man  eventu- 
ally turned  Christian,  but  think  he 
did. 

In  our  native  armies  the  Sikh, 
Rajput,  Poorbia,  and  even  the 
Goorkha,  can  generally  read  and 
write  a  little  when  they  join,  but 
not  the  Pathan .  The  latter  are,  h  ow- 
ever,  very  quick  learners,  once  they 
begin.  We  certainly  get  the  finest 
of  their  youth  in  our  armies,  and 
get  them  young  and  healthy.  They 
soon  form  excellent  soldiers,  and 
even  fair  scholars.  Their  military 
air  sits  well  on  their  stalwart  frames. 
They  serve  with  enthusiasm,  though 
prone  soon  to  become  discontented; 

VOL.  CXXV. — NO.  DCCLXIII. 


and  revengeful  crimes  are  often 
committed  by  them.  They  easily 
take  offence,  and  are  very  ready  to 
quarrel  and  fight.  The  conspiracy 
amongst  a  few  of  them  with  General 
Robert's  Koorum  column,  the  de- 
sertion of  a  few  of  them  from  Sir 
Samuel  Browne's  Jelalabad  force, 
are  apt  to  raise  the  question  of  the 
advisability  of  using  them  on  the 
border — some  even  going  so  far  as  to 
talk  of  excluding  all  Pathans  from 
campaigns  within  their  own  country. 
This  opinion  is  unjust  to  the  great 
body,  not  only  of  the  Pathans  of 
Eusufzai,  Hazara,  &c.,  who  have  no 
sympathy  with  the  Afreedees,  but 
also  with  reference  to  the  Afreedee 
sepoy  himself.  There  have  indeed 
been  desertions,  chiefly  from  among 
the  Zakhakhels ;  and  the  deserters 
have  perhaps  done  us  more  mis- 
chief than  all  others  of  the  tribe 
put  together.  But  a  sepoy  in  the 
ranks  would  without  hesitation 
shoot  down  a  deserter  of  his  own 
clan  if  he  had  a  chance;  and  even,  if 
need  be,  fire  on  his  own  homestead. 
We  think,  on  examination,  that  these 
deserters  might  all  be  classed  under 
the  following  heads,  not  one  for 
political  or  patriotic  reasons  :  Those 
who  were  afraid  of  losing  their  share 
of  "pass"  money  paid  by  us;  those 
who  could  not  resist  the  temptation 
of  joining  in  the  plunder  of  the 
Ameer's  flying  army;  those  who 
had  some  personal  grievance,  real  or 
imaginary,  with  their  commissioned 
or  non-commissioned  native  officers, 
or  who  had  been  disappointed  in 
hopes  of  speedy  promotion;  some 
few  from  a  knowledge  that  with  a 
gctod  rifle  and  seventy  rounds  of  am- 
njniition  in  hand  they  had  the  op- 
portunity of  becoming  men  of  note 
in  their  clan,  instead  of  being  private 
soldiers  for  years  to  come.  Soldier- 
ing in  a  regular  army,  being  well 
disciplined,  brings  out  the  best 
points  of  the  Pathan — enlarges  his 
ideas,  increases  his  knowledge,  im- 

2R 


606 


The  Pathans  of  the  North-west  Frontier  of  India. 


[May 


poses  self-restraint ;  while  the  pen- 
sions paid  regularly  to  those  who 
have  served  long  in  our  ranks  has 
begun  a  more  friendly  feeling  to- 
wards us  in  their  country.  The  pen- 
sioners being  richer  than  their  neigh- 
bours, obtain  an  influence  generally 
used  for  good.  They  have  often 
aided  largely  in  bringing  their  tribes 
to  terms  after  a  conflict  with  our 
troops  or  before  an  expected  one. 
This,  unfortunately,  can  only  be  said 
of  the  higher  class  of  pensioners. 
The  greater  number,  on  returning 
to  their  villages  flushed  with  their 
re-obtained  freedom,  often  burst  into 
wild  excesses  and  return  with  fresh 
vigour  to  their  old  restless  style  of 
life.  They  find  a  long  list  of  scores 
awaiting  settlement,  and  till  this 
is  done  they  can  hardly  look  their 
friends  in  the  face.  Some,  debauched 
by  the  life  in  garrison  towns,  bring 
their  knowledge  of  vice  there  gained 
to  their  aid,  and  often  the  last  state 
of  that  man  is  worse  than  the  first. 
Though  a  keen  hand  at  a  bargain, 
and  very  avaricious — buying  and 
selling  cattle,  sheep,  fowls,  wood, 
and  grass  —  he  yet  draws  a  line 
somewhere;  he  will  not  lend  money 
on  usury  nor  keep  a  shop  —  the 
former  being  forbidden  by  the 
Koran,  the  latter  being  considered 
derogatory.  The  callings  of  bankers 
and  shopkeepers  are  taken  up  by 
the  ubiquitous  Bunya  —  called  in 
the  Punjab  Kuthrie,  among  the 
Pathans  simply  Hindoo  or  Hindko. 
Each  hamlet  has  its  own  bunya, 
who  lives  with  his  family — abiding 
by  the  simple  rites  of  his  father's 
creed,  offering  his  prayers  daily  be- 
fore his  lamp  or  some  other  repre- 
sentative of  the  household  god  of 
his  ancestors ;  unmolesting,  and 
generally  unmolested ;  utterly  callous 
to  the  fierce  party  strifes  of  the 
people  among  whom  his  fate  has 
placed  him ;  buying  up  their  ghee, 
wool,  goats'  hair,  and  selling  to 
them  or  exchanging  for  these  articles 


salt,  tobacco,  indigo,  and  other 
household  commodities — with  don- 
key or  mule  loads  of  these  he  goes 
unarmed  to  the  farthest  nooks, 
the  most  wild  and  secluded  glens, 
sleeping  at  night  under  some  giant 
tree  or  massive  rock,  drinking  of 
the  clear  springs  of  water  round 
him,  and  eating  his  chappaties  con- 
tentedly; neither  marrying  the 
daughters  of  the  Moslem  nor  giving 
his  daughters  to  them;  lending 
money  at  fabulous  rates  of  interest 
to  impecunious  chiefs,  to  enaBle 
them  to  squander  largely  at  their 
marriage  festivals,  or  in  keeping  up 
the  village  hoojras,  guest-houses, 
where  wayfarers  of  the  faithful  can 
claim,  and  without  question  obtain, 
food  and  lodging  for  the  night  free 
of  cost,  giving  to  the  villagers  in 
exchange  such  scraps  of  news  or 
tales  as  they  have  been  able  to  pick 
up  in  their  wanderings,  inventing 
miracles  and  wonders  when  their 
stock  of  facts  is  falling  short. 

Ignorant  as  are  the  men,  the  wo- 
men are  if  possible  more  so.  Looked 
on  as  useful  servants  and  necessary 
mothers  of  sons,  they  seldom  join 
the  evening  prayers,  though  I  have 
seen  some  doing  so — never  instruct- 
ed in  anything  by  the  men.  Per- 
mitted by  their  creed  to  have  four 
wives,  few  but  the  chiefs  can  afford 
this  luxury,  as  they  have  to  pay 
a  pretty  heavy  sum  to  the  girl's 
father  for  her.  A  second  or  third 
wife  is  seldom  taken  by  the  poorer 
amongst  them,  unless  no  son  has 
been  born  in  the  house.  As  in  all 
Mohammedan  countries,  the  half- 
brothers  generally  detest  each  other, 
and  the  division  of  the  patrimony 
after  the  father's  death  causes  many 
quarrels  and  much  bloodshedding. 

Not  seldom  feuds  are  caused  by 
a  father  betrothing  a  girl  to  one 
suitor  and  taking  the  money  for 
her,  and  afterwards  making  her 
over  to  a  second  for  a  larger  sum. 
Girls  are  generally  married  before 


1879.]          The  Pathans  of  the  North-west  Frontier  of  India. 


607 


the  age  of  twelve;  and  this,  together 
with  the  hard  life  of  labour,  prob- 
ably accounts  for  their  ageing  and 
losing  all  pretence  to  beauty  before 
thirty.  Adultery  is  never  forgiven. 
The  Pathan  has  no  respect  and  little 
affection  for  his  wife ;  but  honour, 
or  rather  self-esteem,  is  of  more  im- 
portance, and  an  elopement  is  soon- 
er or  later  followed  by  the  murder 
of  the  couple :  yet  elopements  and 
abductions  are  common. 

Though  overbearing  and  exact- 
ing, and  not  slow  at  cruelly  striking 
a  woman,  a  Pathan  seldom  kills  one 
except  in  a  fit  of  jealousy.  Yet  it 
is  not  surprising  that  among  people 
so  little  restrained,  brutal  murders  of 
wives,  and  even  of  children,  do  occur. 
A  noted  freebooter,  who  for  many 
years  kept  the  border  of  Bonair  in 
a  ferment  by  his  raids,  had  once  been 
a  village  lumberdar  or  revenue-col- 
lector for  Government.  Eeturning 
from  the  fields  one  evening  tired 
and  sulky,  he  asked  his  wife  for  a 
cup  of  milk  while  she  was  engaged 
in  nursing  her  baby.  She  replied 
that  so  soon  as  she  could  remove 
the  child  she  would  attend  to  his 
wants.  Snatching  the  infant  from 
her  arms  he  dashed  its  head  against 
the  wall,  saying  her  duty  was  to 
attend  to  him  first.  He  had  of  course 
to  fly  across  the  border.  Gathering 
a  party  of  desperadoes  round  him, 
he  used  to  go  in  disguise  to  some 
village  in  the  plains,  watch  an  op- 
portunity, cause  an  alarm  at  one 
end  of  the  village,  while  he  snatched 
some  rich,  bunya's  child  from  its 
house  at  the  other,  and  made  off. 
The  bereaved  parents  would  shortly 
after  be  informed  that  on  deposit- 
ing a  sum  of  money  at  a  certain 
spot  the  child  would  be  restored. 
He  kept  this  up  for  some  years, 
but  at  length  paid  with  his  life  for 
his  villanies. 

On  the  approach  of  Englishmen, 
or  of  any  man  of  rank  likely  to 
have  the  power  of  abduction  in 


their  eyes,  the  women  are  hustled 
out  of  sight,  but  otherwise  they 
are  free  to  roam  unveiled.  A  few 
of  the  richer  ones,  however,  affect 
the  purdah  —  that  is,  keep  their 
wives  closely  confined.  Where  they 
have  long  been  in  contact  with  Eng- 
lishmen, however,  the  fear  of  out- 
rage has  died  out,  and  no  restraints 
are  imposed  ;  but  the  women  must 
not  be  seen  by  the  husband  in  con- 
versation with  other  men. 

The  villages  in  Swat  Hazara  and 
other  districts  are  often  very  large  ; 
but  in  the  Afreedee  country  proper, 
the  huts  are  in  a  very  small  propor- 
tion to  the  inhabitants,  most  of 
whom  live  in  caves,  either  among 
the  rocks  at  mountain  bases  or  on 
the  banks  of  streams.  These  latter, 
originally  hollows  scooped  out  in 
the  concrete  by  the  action  of  water, 
have  been  enlarged  sometimes  to  a 
horizontal  depth  of  30  feet  and 
more,  proportionately  wide,  and  6 
or  8  feet  high,  sometimes  divided 
into  compartments  for  the  cattle  or 
separate  families.  Here  they  stow 
away  firewood,  grass,  and  grain. 
Their  cattle  cannot  easily  be  carried 
off  by  marauding  parties  at  night. 
They  can  leave  the  caves  during 
the  summer  months  for  the  winter 
residence,  and  vice  versa,  without 
fear  of  finding  them  a  mass  of  dust 
and  ashes  on  their  return,  as  too 
often  is  the  case  with  huts ;  and 
while  in  occupation,  a  few  towers 
can  defend  great  bodies  of  them. 
Another  reason  for  the  small  num- 
ber of  huts  is  the  great  want  of 
timber  in  these  valleys.  There  is 
not  a  single  pine-tree  of  any  species 
in  the  Khyber,  nor,  as  far  as  is 
yet  known,  in  any  other  of  the 
Afreedee  valleys  :  no  timber  of  any 
kind.  The  only  trees  worthy  of 
the  name  are  stunted  oaks,  the  wild 
olive,  and  the  acacia.  The  "  Safed- 
Koh  "  is  covered  with  magnificent 
pines ;  but  there  are  no  wheeled 
conveyances,  and  no  roads  for  them. 


608 


The  Pathans  of  the  North-west  Frontier  of  India. 


[May 


Nor  is  there  sufficient  water-carriage 
anywhere;  for  though  the  central 
streams  drain  large  areas,  the  water, 
as  I  have  said  before,  often  disappears 
under  the  bed  of  the  water-course, 
leaving  that  dry  and  pebbly.  During 
the  monsoon  the  streams  become 
torrents  for  a  few  hours  at  a  time ; 
but  in  condition  they  are  equally 
unfitted  for  navigation  of  any  kind. 

The  cultivation  of  the  soil  is  in 
the  most  primitive  state,  the  yoke 
of  lean  oxen  dragging  a  primitive 
plough,  which  scratches  two-inch- 
deep  furrows  in  the  soil.  No  at- 
tempt is  made  at  manuring.  When 
ground  is  impoverished,  it  is  allowed 
to  lie  fallow  for  some  years.  The 
rice  cultivation,  of  course,  needs 
more  care ;  and  no  little  ingenuity 
is  at  times  exercised  in  conducting 
water  to  the  desired  locality. 

The  food  of  the  Pathan  consists 
of  the  usual  chappati  or  hand-made 
cake  of  plain  flour,  baked  in  the 
ashes  or  in  a  small  oven  at  the 
door  of  the  hut,  some  salt  and 
ghee  or  clarified  butter,  and  mutton. 
Meat  of  all  kinds  is  eaten  when 
procurable.  A  broken  -  legged  or 
sickly  bullock,  if  its  throat  can  be 
cut  with  the  usual  prayer  before 
its  last  gasp,  or  a  stolen  camel, 
often  adds  to  the  larder. 

The  chief  pleasure  of  the  Pathan 
is  found  in  fighting.  It  is  aston- 
ishing how  rapidly  the  clansmen 
gather.  All  may  be  perfectly  quiet 
in  the  villages;  no  sign  of  strife. 
Towards  dusk  a  beacon-fire  blazes 
up  on  some  prominent  hill-top,  and 
shots  are  heard.  These  are  re- 
sponded to  from  the  towers.  In- 
stantly every  man  snatches  up  his 
arms  and  his  bag  of  flour,  and 
hastens  to  the  rendezvous ;  from 
thence  to  the  scene  of  action.  Two 
or  three  days  are  sufficient  to  gather 
thousands,  all  ready  for  a  week's 
campaign  at  least.  The  cattle  are 
driven  by  the  boys;  the  women 
carry  off  the  children  and  house- 


hold goods  to  the  nearest  retreats 
in  the  hills.  No  luggage  animals, 
no  transport  or  commissariat  offi- 
cers, required.  Each  man  carries 
his  own  food  and  ammunition,  and 
at  night  wraps  himself  in  his  tur- 
ban, or  a  spare  sheet  or  blanket, 
and  rolls  close  to  the  huge  fires,  or 
takes  shelter  under  rock  or  tree,  if 
not  engaged  from  sunset  to  near 
sunrise  in  harassing  the  foe.  If 
the  affair  is  likely  to  last  long,  when 
there  is  more  than  one  brother  in 
the  house,  one  goes  out  for  a  week, 
the  other  being  ready  to  take  his 
place  next  week;  the  same  with 
father  and  son  :  or  in  cases  of  great 
emergency,  all  the  able-bodied  men 
join  the  chief,  and  the  Davids  of 
the  family  are  sent  in  due  time  to 
inquire  after  their  welfare,  taking 
with  them  a  fresh  supply  of  ata 
(flour),  and  perhaps  a  few  cheeses, 
not  forgetting  a  gift  for  the  Khan, 
as  in  the  days  of  Jesse  and  Saul. 

The  scenes  at  night  round  the 
Pathan  watch  -  fires  are  weirdly 
picturesque,  even  among  the  rag- 
ged treeless  mountains  of  the 
Afreedees ;  still  more  so  among  the 
pine-clad  slopes,  backed  with  the 
eternal  snows,  in  Swat  and  upper 
Hazara.  On  arriving  at  the  bivouacr 
a  sheet  is  laid  under  some  giant 
tree  for  the  chief ;  round  him  gather 
the  clansmen.  Some  roll  together 
huge  logs,  which  soon  form  blazing 
masses  of  flame,  rising  high  among 
the  stately  trunks  of  the  pine-trees  ; 
some  bring  water  to  wash  their  feet ; 
others  knead  dough  into  thick  cakes 
and  bake  them  on  the  ashes ;  while 
others  search  out  the  flocks  of  the 
nearest  goojtirs,  the  more  gentle 
shepherds  of  the  mountains,  and 
secure  a  few  goats  or  sheep  and 
ghurras  of  butter-milk.  The  ani- 
mals are  soon  hullaVd  (throats  cut), 
with  the  usual  prayer  to  Allah,, 
hacked  into  small  pieces,  these 
pieces  skewered  in  rows  on  the  iron 
ramrods  of  the  muskets  and  held 


1879.]  The  Patlians  of  the  North-west  Frontier  of  India. 


609 


in  the  flames  till  partly  scorched. 
Then  the  pieces  are  torn  off  by 
ready  fingers  and  greedily  eaten  in 
company  with  huge  pieces  of  chap- 
pati,  the  whole  washed  down  with 
great  gulps  of  water  or  butter- milk. 
The  meal  done,  the  men  circle  round 
their  fires,  tell  tales  of  murder  or 
the  chase,  pass  the  hookah  round 
and  round,  and  smoke  and  talk  till 
far  into  the  night.  Or  at  times  the 
war  drums  and  pipes  strike  up 
noisily  some  wild  chant.  A  party 
draw  their  swords  and  take  up  their 
shields,  circle  round  the  fires,  and 
to  the  beat  of  drum  step  in  unison 
right  and  left,  forward  and  back- 
ward, flashing  the  swords  in  the 
firelight,  and  strike  their  neighbours' 
shields.  The  music  quickens  j  the 
dancers,  gradually  worked  into 
phrenzy,  scream  and  shout,  leap  and 
circle  like  teetotums,  round  and 
round,  wilder,  swifter ;  the  echoes 
of  the  revels  ring  through  the 
forests,  the  very  trees  seem  to  join 
the  wild  orgie,  —  till  at  length, 
wearied  with  their  circling,  the  dan- 
cers with  a  long  wild  howl  sink 
exhausted  on  the  ground.  Sentries 
are  placed,  quietness  and  darkness 
gather  round,  till  at  length  no 
sound  strikes  the  ear  but  the  gentle 
•" hoot-hoot"  of  the  owl,  or  some 
distant  howl  of  a  wolf  or  jackal.  At 
early  dawn  they  are  up,  and  after  a 
frugal  meal  are  again  on  the  march ; 
or  already  the  flames  of  some  sur- 
prised hamlet  rise  in  the  air, 
mingled  with  "  Allah,  Allah!"  of 
the  contending  parties. 

Some  thirty  times  have  British 
troops  been  compelled  to  cross  the 
frontiers  to  punish  now  one  tribe, 
now  another,  for  their  depredations. 
Occasionally  a  little  tact  might  have 
prevented  bloodshed.  But  more 
often  military  expeditions  have  not 
been  resorted  to  by  the  authorities 
till  every  effort  short  of  an  attack 
in  force  has  been  made  to  bring 
the  tribes  to  reason.  The  long  for- 


bearance of  our  Government  has 
generally  been  taken  as  a  sign  of 
weakness;  and  sooner  or  later  it 
has  been  found  necessary  to  send 
out  the  troops  before  matters  could 
be  satisfactorily  arranged. 

The  first  punishment  for  a  raid 
usually  adopted  is  the  blockade 
— that  is,  small  bodies  of  troops, 
police,  or  levies  have  been  station- 
ed along  the  frontier  opposite  the 
offending  tribe,  whose  members  are 
forbidden  to  enter  British  territory. 
All  trade  with  the  tribe  has  been 
put  a  stop  to,  in  the  hope  that  the 
inconveniences  and  loss  resulting 
therefrom  might  induce  them  to 
seek  a  reconciliation.  But  as  a 
rule,  while  on  one  side  we  close 
their  trade  routes,  the  other  three 
sides  are  open  to  them.  They  can 
continue  to  buy  and  sell  as  usual, 
either  by  intermediate  transactions 
with  their  next-door  neighbours  or 
by  individuals  assuming  for  the 
time  being  the  name  of  some  ad- 
joining tribe. 

When  this  has  failed,  as  is  too 
often  the  case,  a  short  military  ex- 
pedition through  the  country  of  the 
tribe  has  to  be  made — a  raid,  in 
fact.  Villages  and  crops  are  burnt, 
cattle  sometimes  taken,  and  per- 
haps a  few  prisoners,  and  the  troops 
march  back  again.  But  these  have 
generally  been  failures.  So  long  as 
the  troops  advance  the  Pathans 
retreat,  merely  firing  from  advanta- 
geous points  at  the  column  or  skir- 
mishing parties.  But  as  soon  as  a 
retreat  is  begun,  every  man  who 
can  carry  a  musket  follows  the 
retiring  column,  and  harasses  it 
till  it  has  left  the  flaming  villages 
far  behind — our  loss  being  gener- 
ally much  greater  than  that  of  the 
enemy ;  and  our  prestige  for  a  time 
falls  visibly.  Our  system  of  raid- 
ing has  indeed  been  very  successful, 
especially  of  late  under  the  manage- 
ment of  Major  Cavagnari.  When 
some  one  particular  hamlet  has 


610 


The  Pathans  of  the  North-west  Frontier  of  India. 


[May 


offended,  or  when  the  walls  of 
some  small  village  within  a  few 
hours'  march  of  our  border  have 
sheltered  some  noted  outlaw,  and 
permitted  him  to  commit  depre- 
dations in  British  villages,  having 
this  friendly  refuge  to  fly  to  when 
pursued  —  then  indeed,  on  some 
half-dozen  occasions,  Cavagnari  has 
suddenly  appeared  in  the  quarters 
of  the  nearest  regiment,  generally 
the  Guide  Corps ;  has  started  at 
dusk  with  a  few  hundred  cavalry 
or  infantry  ;  marched  across  coun- 
try and  into  the  hills  all  night ; 
at  early  dawn  reached  and  sur- 
rounded the  village.  At  daybreak, 
a  summons  for  the  surrender  of  the 
criminal  has  been  sent  in.  The 
Pathans  woke  up  to  find  themselves 
entrapped,  cried  for  pardon,  agreed 
to  all  demands,  gave  up  the  de- 
linquent, and  accompanied  the 
return  march  of  the  troops  till 
British  territory  had  again  been 
entered.  These  little  raids  have 
been  successful,  but  seldom  the 
larger  ones.  A  last  resort  has 
been,  as  in  the  Jowaki  expedition, 
to  collect  a  large  force  opposite 
the  offending  tribe  —  a  force  able 
to  meet  all  possible  opposition, 
well  supplied  with  guns,  ammu- 
nition, and  commissariat;  and  bit 
by  bit  the  country  has  been  occu- 
pied and  held — till  the  tribe,  thor- 
oughly humbled,  came  to  terms. 
The  Jowaki  expedition  was  a  suc- 
cessful affair  of  this  stamp.  The 
country  was  occupied  or  repeatedly 
overrun  from  November  to  March  : 
then  the  Jowakis  agreed  to  our 
modified  terms.  On  one  point, 
indeed,  they  hung  out  to  the  last, 
preferring  rather  to  abandon  their 
country,  from  which  they  had  been 
driven,  than  give  up  the  criminals 


we  demanded,  who  had  taken  refuge 
with  them. 

An  advance  into  a  Path  an  valley 
will  never  succeed  in  humbling  the 
tribe,  unless  the  troops  can  remain 
there  as  long  as  they  please.  If  it 
should  be  necessary  to  coerce  the 
tribes  who  will  become  our  subjects 
on  the  advancement  of  our  frontier, 
some  such  system  must  be  adopted  ; 
and  as  there  are  great  facilities  for 
its  being  done  thoroughly,  there  is 
no  reason  why  it  should  not  be 
done  if  required.  For  instance,  the 
Khyber  can  at  any  time  be  occu- 
pied. It  is  now  in  our  hands,  and 
might  easily  remain  so,  and  with 
advantage.  In  its  western  portion, 
which  is  4000  feet  in  elevation,  a 
good  cantonment  could  be  formed 
to  replace  Peshawar.  From  Khyber 
to  Bazar  is  only  a  few  hours'  jour- 
ney. To  reduce  Bara,  and  subse- 
quently Tirah,  to  subjection,  a  large 
force  could  be  collected  in  Bazar, 
say  7000  men,  with  three  months' 
provisions.  When  all  was  ready, 
the  Bara  Jirgahs  might  be  sum- 
moned. If  they  refused  to  come, 
5000  men  could  be  advanced  in 
three  or  four  columns  over  the 
few  miles  lying  between  Bazar  and 
the  crest  of  the  range,  shutting  in 
Bara.  Here  the  troops  would  be 
in  an  impregnable  position,  and 
the  Bara  villages  at  their  mercy. 
If  necessary,  more  provisions  could 
be  sent  up ;  then  an  advance  made 
into  Maidan  or  upper  Afreedee 
Tirah;  from  thence  into  the  Oorakzai 
Tirah.  The  great  point  would  be 
first  to  place  the  troops  on  crests 
of  ranges  or  in  open  valleys  where 
the  enemy  could  not  attack  them 
without  heavy  loss ;  then  to  keep 
them  there  till  the  Jirgah  sub- 
mitted. 


1879.] 


The  Life  of  the  Prince  Consort. 


611 


THE    LIFE    OF    THE    PRINCE    CONSORT. 


THE  extension  of  the  '  Life  of 
the  Prince  Consort '  beyond  the 
three  volumes  in  which  Mr  Theo- 
dore Martin  had  originally  intended 
to  include  the  work,  scarcely  requires 
an  explanation,  and  certainly  stands 
in  no  need  of  an  apology.  We  can 
easily  understand  how  a  life  so 
many-sided  —  so  full  of  high  pur- 
poses, so  eventful  in  wide-reaching 
results — must  unfold  itself  to  the 
earnest  biographer;  and  how  the 
canvas,  which  had  at  first  seemed 
ample  enough,  must  be  enlarged 
and  enlarged  again  to  allow  the 
portrait  to  be  of  life-size.  It  was 
characteristic  of  the  Prince  Consort 
to  find  in  each  succeeding  year  a 
wider  scope  for  his  maturing  ex- 
perience and  increasing  influence; 
to  strike  out  new  ways  of  making 
himself  useful  to  the  country,  and 
of  lightening  the  burden  and  re- 
sponsibilities of  the  Crown.  "With 
each  year,  therefore,  the  biographer 
finds  more  to  record  —  more  that 
cannot  be  hurried  over  without  a 
sacrifice  of  completeness,  or  omitted 
except  at  the  risk  of  offering  an 
imperfect  presentation  of  that  won- 
derful aptitude  for  business  which, 
to  the  public,  was  one  of  the  most 
recognisable  features  in  the  Prince's 
character.  It  is  with  "  a  crowded 
hour  of  glorious  life  "  that  the 
Prince  Consort's  biographer  has  to 
deal,  and  we  feel  that  the  story 
must  come  too  soon  to  an  end 
even  when  the  most  has  been 
made  of  it.  But  two  years  now 
remain  to  be  gone  over,  and  we 
are  pleased  to  dwell  all  the  more 
minutely  upon  the  period  before 
us,  in  which  we  see  the  Prince 
crowned  with  the  fruits  of  mental 
vigour  and  physical  energy — pos- 


sessed of  the  confidence  of  the 
country,  which  he  had  struggled 
so  hard  against  prejudice  to  secure, 
and  blessed  with  the  affection  of 
wife  and  children,  of  which  no  con- 
sort had  ever  proved  himself  to  be 
more  worthy.  But  even  in  the 
portion  of  the  memoir  before  us,  we 
seem  to  see  warnings  that  the  strain 
of  work  was  telling  upon  an  over- 
taxed constitution ;  and  the  occa- 
sional references  which  the  Prince's 
correspondence  makes  at  this  time 
to  stomachic  ailments  and  nervous 
sufferings,  although  doubtless  men- 
tioned with  little  concern,  read  to 
us  as  the  omens  of  the  coming  end. 
It  is  seldom  that  a  book  has  run 
to  the  same  length  as  the  '  Life  of 
the  Prince  Consort,'  in  which  the 
reader  has  been  so  little  conscious  of 
the  author's  effort.  So  completely 
has  Mr  Martin  surrendered  himself 
to  his  subject,  so  naturally  have  the 
Prince's  life  and  character  been 
made  to  develop  themselves  in  his 
hands,  that  throughout  the  first 
three  volumes  our  interest  in  the 
narrative  has  never  been'  so  long 
suspended  as  to  leave  us  an  oppor- 
tunity of  looking  at  the  author.  It 
is  perhaps  the  highest  compliment 
that  we  can  pay  to  his  work  when 
we  say  that  Mr  Martin  has  in  a 
great  measure  conquered  the  gossip- 
ing curiosity  that  attaches  to  the 
preparation  of  such  a  memoir  as 
that  of  the  Prince  Consort,  and  has 
concentrated  our  whole  attention 
on  the  subject.  The  high  aus- 
pices under  which  the  book  was 
written,  and  the  affectionate  so- 
licitude for  a  husband's  memory 
which  its  primary  object  was  to  sa- 
tisfy, were  sure  to  challenge  doubts 
as  to  the  unity  of  the  authorship. 


The  Life  of  H.K.H.    the   Prince   Consort. 
London  :  Smith,  Elder,  &  Co.     1879. 


By  Theodore  Martin.      Vol.    IV. 


612 


The  Life  of  the  Prince  Consort. 


[May 


It  is  a  book  in  which  every  reader 
would  be  tempted  to  seek  for  views 
that  would  carry  with  them  a 
higher  authority  than  a  biographer's 
conclusions,  however  weighty  these 
might  be  of  themselves,  and  to  make 
out  a  source  of  inspiration  in  the 
background  regulating  the  flow  of 
opinion  through  all  the  course  of 
the  narrative.  The  skilful  use  which 
Mr  Martin  has  made  of  his  mate- 
rials has  in  a  great  measure  fore- 
stalled such  inquiry.  The  freedom 
with  which  he  has  been  permitted 
to  quote  from  the  Queen's  diaries, 
keeps  her  Majesty's  opinions  suffi- 
ciently before  us  without  impairing 
our  consciousness  of  the  biographer's 
responsibility.  In  the  volume  now 
issued  we  seem  to  have  more  posi- 
tive assertions  of  the  author's  indi- 
viduality than  in  any  of  those  that 
preceded  it.  Whether  it  is  that 
he  is  warming  to  his  work,  or  that 
he  is  feeling  firmer  ground  beneath 
his  feet,  he  shows  less  hesitation 
in  adding  his  encomium  to  those 
events  in  the  Prince's  career  which 
have  aroused  his  admiration,  as  well 
as  less  reticence  in  passing  frank 
opinions  upon  politics  and  public 
men.  The  widening  area  in  the 
present  part  of  the  work,  and  the 
broad  issues  of  European  policy  that 
fall  within  its  scope,  make  the  duties 
of  the  biographer  alternate  with 
those  of  the  historian,  and  bring 
the  narrator  into  much  clearer  relief 
than  he  stands  in  the  memoir  parts 
of  the  book,  where  he  is  naturally 
overshadowed  by  his  subject. 

The  interest  of  the  present  vol- 
ume centres  more  than  ever  in  the 
character  of  the  Prince  Consort,  and 
in  the  family  life  of  the  Court. 
In  the  third  volume,  his  biogra- 
pher had  successfully  brought  him 
through  the  stormy  events  of  the 
Crimean  war ;  had  vindicated  him 
from  the  "  obloquy  and  misrepre- 
sentation which  the  Prince  during 
that  period  was  compelled  to  under- 
go in  silence ; "  and  had  shown  him 


to  the  public  as  the  laborious  and 
devoted  adviser  of  the  Crown,  as  the 
jealous  guardian  of  the  honour  of 
Britain,  and  as  labouring  night  and 
day  to  lighten  the  load  of  royalty 
upon  his  Wife.  There  was  little  in 
the  picture  to  give  a  point  to  polit- 
ical rancour,  and  yet  there  were 
those  who  could  not  let  the  occasion 
slip  of  turning  the  retrospect  of  the 
Prince's  position  to  the  account  of 
party  feeling.  We  now  enter  upon 
years  tinged  with  less  bitterness, 
when  the  Prince's  public  virtues 
were  better  understood  and  conse- 
quently more  appreciated,  and  when 
his  more  clearly  defined  position  as 
Prince  Consort  gave  him  a  recog- 
nised influence  at  home  and  abroad. 
We  rise  above  the  wretched  party 
cabals  into  which  the  Crown  was 
in  a  great  measure  dragged  during 
the  Crimean  period,  and  in  which 
it  was  almost  impossible  for  any 
section  of  the  Constitution  to  take  a 
creditable  part.  We  are  now  better 
able  to  fix  our  minds,  undistracted 
by  jarring  influences,  upon  the  de- 
velopment of  the  Prince's  character, 
and  to  mark  the  ever-broadening 
scope  that  it  presents  as  we  trace 
its  onward  progress ;  and  we  can 
more  clearly  realise  the  difficulties 
of  the  biographer  when  he  pictures 
himself  in  the  position  of  "one  who, 
in  climbing  some  great  mountain, 
finds  steep  emerging  upon  steep  be- 
fore him,  when  he  thinks  he  has 
neared  and  even  gained  the  sum- 
mit." 

Mr  Martin  has  unquestionably 
made  the  Prince  Consort  much 
better  understood;  he  has  placed 
his  sterling  virtues  and  exemplary 
life  before  us  in  that  bright  light 
in  which  we  would  all  have  the 
husband  of  our  Sovereign  to  stand  : 
but  while  he  has  fixed  the  Prince's 
reputation  on  an  unchallengeable 
basis,  it  is  still  doubtful  whether 
that  position  will  exhibit  him  in 
the  light  of  a  popular  hero.  We 
have  no  reason  to  suppose  that  the 


1879.] 


TJie  Life  of  the  Prince  Consort. 


613 


biographer  has  played  the  part  of  a 
panegyrist — in  fact  we  know  that 
he  has  meted  out  no  more  than 
sober  justice  to  the  Prince's  lofty 
character;  and  yet  our  feelings 
hardly  yield  that  spontaneous  re- 
sponse that  might  be  looked  for. 
How  is  this  1  If  we  venture  on  a 
reply,  our  answer  must  be  more  to 
our  own  disadvantage  than  to  that 
of  either  the  Prince  Consort  or  of 
his  biographer.  That  side  of  the 
Prince's  life  which  is  turned  to- 
wards the  public  is  so  free  from  the 
ordinary  weaknesses  of  humanity,  so 
uncheckered  by  any  of  the  frailties 
that  we  are  accustomed  to  meet 
with  in  the  best  of  men,  that  the 
world,  as  it  were,  feels  rebuked  in 
his  presence.  The  unswerving  per- 
sistence in  the  path  of  duty,  the 
unbending  rectitude  of  purpose  that 
ruled  his  whole  conduct — to  both 
of  which  Mr  Martin  has  done  no 
more  than  strict  justice — seem  in  a 
manner  to  oppress  us.  The  rulers 
whom  the  world  love  best  are  gen- 
erally those  whom  it  has  forgiven 
the  most ;  and  it  is  quite  conceiv- 
able that  the  Prince's  memory  would 
have  been  dearer  to  the  nation,  had 
there  been  a  lighter  side  to  his 
character  by  which  the  popular 
imagination  could  have  more  readily 
taken  hold.  Even  a  biographer  is 
at  a  disadvantage  in  dealing  with  a 
life  of  which  the  plain  record  must 
necessarily  bear  the  appearance  of 
a  eulogium  ;  where  he  has  no  gene- 
rous errors  to  apologise  for,  not  even 
failings  leaning  to  virtue's  side  for 
which  he  must  ask  the  public's 
indulgence. 

"While  the  Prince  lived,  he  com- 
manded intense  respect,  and  no 
small  measure  of  admiration  among 
her  Majesty's  subjects;  but  it  would 
be  flattery  to  say  that  he  ever  ex- 
cited much  of  what  is  called  popular 
enthusiasm  for  himself,  or  divided 
with  his  Wife  any  great  share  of 
that  warm  liking  which  has  always 
been  felt  towards  the  Queen's  per- 


son. That  the  Prince  had  all  the 
qualities  which  are  calculated  to 
attract  warm  affection,  these  vol- 
umes afford  ample  evidence  ;  and 
in  his  devoted  love  for  wife  and 
children,  his  tenderness  towards  his 
relations,  his  loyalty  to  his  early 
friendships,  and  in  his  praise- 
worthy but  somewhat  unpictur- 
esque  attachment  to  Baron  Stock- 
mar,  we  are  sensible  of  a  nature 
that  might  have  struck  the  highest 
chords  of  popular  enthusiasm.  Of 
this  we  become  more  and  more  con- 
vinced as  Mr  Martin's  work  pro- 
gresses. It  was  consistent,  however, 
with  the  Prince's  magnanimity — 
with  that  self-suppression  which  is 
so  well  brought  out  in  this  me- 
moir— to  wish  to  stand  as  little  as 
he  could  between  the  throne  and 
the  people.  We  can  easily  suppose, 
then,  that  the  Prince  felt  the  duty 
of  sacrificing  a  share  of  the  popu- 
larity that  a  little  effort  on  his  part 
would  have  secured,  rather  than 
attract  towards  his  own  person  any 
portion  of  that  national  affection 
which  was  due  to  the  Queen.  This, 
it  seems  to  us,  suggests  an  ex- 
planation which  sets  much  of  the 
Prince's  public  career  in  a  clearer 
and  more  intelligible  light  than 
we  have  hitherto  been  accustomed 
to  view  it  in,  and  which  worthily 
completes  the  picture  which  is  now 
set  before  us. 

The  subjects  embraced  in  the 
new  volume  of  the  Prince  Con- 
sort's life  can  scarcely  stir  so  much 
party  controversy  as  the  Crimean 
portion  of  the  memoirs  gave  rise  to. 
The  chief  political  events  which  it 
comprises  are  the  Franco -Russian 
intrigues  which  landed  Napoleon 
III.  in  the  Italian  war ;  the  Sepoy 
Mutiny,  and  the  transference  of  the 
government  of  India  from  the  Com- 
pany to  the  Crown;  the  peace  of 
Villafranca  and  rise  of  the  house 
of  Savoy ;  and  the  accession  of  the 
now  Emperor  William  to  the  Re- 
gency of  Prussia,  In  domestic 


614 


The  Life  of  the  Prince  Consort. 


[May 


policy,  the  volume  covers  the  defeat 
of  Lord  Palmerston's  Ministry  on 
the  Conspiracy  Bill,  and  the  short- 
lived Derby  Administration ;  the 
measures  connected  with  the  re- 
organisation of  India ;  and  the  re- 
newal of  the  agitation  for  Parlia- 
mentary reform.  In  the  domestic 
life  of  the  Court,  we  come  to  the 
private  visit  of  the  Emperor  Na- 
poleon to  Osborne,  the  marriage  of 
the  Princess  Royal,  and  the  Royal 
visit  to  Cherbourg ;  and  the  volume 
closes  with  the  end  of  1859,  the 
last  entry  quoted  from  the  Prince's 
diary  being  "  We  danced  in  the 
New  Year."  The  period  thus  em- 
braced is  one  of  the  busiest  and 
most  eventful  in  the  Prince's  life, 
when  he  had  successfully  placed 
himself  above  calumny  at  home,  and 
had  made  his  influence  appreciated 
abroad,  when  his  efforts  to  leaven 
the  national  culture  with  art  and 
liberal  science  had  begun  to  be 
duly  prized,  and  when  every  measure 
of  philanthropy  and  enlightenment 
was  turning  towards  him  as  its 
natural  promoter.  A  busy  time 
for  the  Prince,  as  Mr  Martin's  pages 
testify,  carrying  with  it  a  strain 
both  mental  and  physical  that  must 
soon  have  told;  carrying  with  it 
also  many  anxious  thoughts,  that 
we  now  learn  for  the  first  time,  but 
sweetened  by  a  domestic  felicity 
that  did  not  fail  to  give  him  good 
heart  for  the  work. 

The  conclusion  of  the  Crimean 
war  was  succeeded  by  good  prospects 
of  peace  in  Europe,  darkened  only 
by  the  restless  spirit  which  Russia 
displayed  in  executing  the  Treaty 
of  Paris,  and  by  the  petty  obstruc- 
tions which  she  was  constantly 
seeking  to  throw  in  its  way.  The 
tactics  employed  by  the  Czar's  Gov- 
ernment were  as  nearly  as  possible 
those  which  it  has  repeated  in  the 
carrying  out  of  the  Berlin  Treaty. 
Mr  Martin's  account  of  the  position 
of  Russia  is  as  applicable  to  her 


conduct  at  the  present  time  as  to 
her  position  after  the  Crimean  war. 

"  Russia  made  no  secret,"  he  says, 
"  that  if  she  acquiesced  in  her  present 
defeat,  she  did  so  only  in  the  hope  of 
renewing  her  inroads  on  the  Ottoman 
empire,  when  her  forces  were  suffi- 
ciently recruited  to  enable  her  to  make 
a  dead  letter  of  the  Treaty  of  Paris. 
Much  might  have  happened  in  Europe 
before  that  time  to  make  the  same 
combination  of  the  Western  Powers 
impossible,  before  which  she  had  for 
the  time  been  compelled  to  succumb. 
She  might  count  on  the  miserable 
Government  of  Turkey  to  falsify  the 
promises  of  reform  which  were  de- 
manded from  it  when  that  treaty  was 
concluded,  .and  to  be,  as  it  had  always 
been,  the  tool  of  the  vile  intrigue  of 
which  Constantinople  was  the  centre. 
If  only  the  European  Powers  should 
relapse  into  easy  indifference  as  to  the 
fulfilment  by  the  Porte  of  its  pledges 
to  turn  over  a  new  leaf,  and  to  take 
measures  for  the  welfare  of  the  races 
under  its  rule,  and  for  a  sound  admin- 
istration of  its  finances,  it  would  never 
be  difficult  to  bring  up  the  Eastern 
Question  at  some  convenient  season 
when  impatient  disgust  at  a  misrule 
and  at  an  inveteracy  of  corruption 
which  no  warnings  from  within  or 
from  without  could  arrest,  might 
have  detached  from  the  Ottoman  Gov- 
ernment the  sympathy  of  every  other 
European  Power." 

The  keen  penetration  of  the  St 
Petersburg  Government  soon  saw  a 
prospect  of  the  Emperor  Napoleon's 
aims  being  made  subservient  to  its 
interests  by  skillfully  planned  ad- 
vances —  "  bo  us  procedes"  The 
peace  had  left  those  sanguine  hopes 
of  a  rearrangement  of  the  European 
treaties  with  which  the  Emperor 
had  embarked  on  the  war  with 
Russia  ungratified,  and  the  military 
prestige  which  Erance  had  gained  in 
the  Crimea,  was  only  fanning  his 
desire  for  an  enlargement  of  frontier. 
To  open  the  Emperor's  eyes  to  the 
insidiousness  of  Russia's  motives, 
and  to  keep  him  true  to  the  inter- 
ests of  the  Anglo-French  alliance, 


1879.] 


The  Life  of  the  Prince  Consort. 


615 


became  incumbent  on  the  British 
Government ;  and  the  high  regard 
which  Napoleon  entertained  for  the 
Prince's  good  opinion,  gave  the 
latter  grounds  for  hoping  that  he 
would  he  able  to  intervene  before 
France  was  enmeshed  in  the  web 
of  Russian  diplomacy.  "Writing  in 
April  1857,  to  announce  the  birth 
of  the  Princess  Beatrice,  the  Prince 
cautions  the  Emperor  against  the 
the  effects  which  the  proposed  visit 
of  the  Grand  Duke  Constantine 
to  the  Tuileries  might  have  on 
the  mind  of  Europe,  if  not  on  his 
own  plans.  Napoleon,  however, 
was  not  above  being  flattered  by 
advances  from  the  most  conserva- 
tive Government  in  Europe,  which 
had  hitherto  treated  his  own  position 
with  undisguised  disdain,  and  had 
refused  to  look  upon  himself  person- 
ally as  belonging  to  the  brotherhood 
of  European  sovereigns.  The  hopes 
of  rearrangement  of  territory,  which 
Eussia  was  not  slow  to  hold  out, 
were  a  temptation  that  the  nephew 
of  Buonaparte  could  scarcely  be  ex- 
pected to  resist.  He  would  have 
preferred  Austria  for  an  ally ;  but 
Austria  then,  as  now,  was  signally 
loyal  to  the  Treaty,  and  determined 
to  maintain  the  integrity  of  Tur- 
key within  the  prescribed  limits. 
Napoleon's  mortification  at  the  atti- 
tude of  Austria  was  an  additional 
incitement  to  respond  to  Russia's 
overtures;  and  the  train  was  thus 
laid  which  was  soon  destined  to 
explode  in  another  European  war. 
It  was  with  the  utmost  caution, 
however,  that  Russia  moved,  and 
with  a  due  regard  to  the  state  of 
public  feeling  in  England.  Mr  Mar- 
tin has  deservedly  emphasised  a 
letter  from  Lord  Clarendon  to  the 
Prince,  remarking  upon  a  rapid 
change  which  had  come  over  the 
tone  of  the  Czar's  Government  to- 
wards Great  Britain  about  this  time. 
"From  the  moment"  writes  Lord 
Clarendon,  apropos  of  this  new-born 


civility,  "that  the  result  of  the  elec- 
tions was  known  at  St  Petersburg, 
the  change  in  Russian  policy  became 
apparent,  and  hence  respect  and  def- 
erence were  shown  towards  us." 
Electors  would  do  well  to  note  the 
precedent  at  a  time  when  it  is  as 
incumbent  upon  England  to  have  a 
Ministry  that  will  show  a  firm  front 
towards  Russia,  as  it  was  in  1857, 
when  Lord  Palmerston  was  sent 
back  to  Parliament  at  the  head  of 
a  large  majority,  chiefly,  says  Mr 
Martin,  "  because  in  the  recent 
struggle  with  Russia,  while  others 
had  lost  heart,  and  had  frequently 
shown  more  sympathy  with  the 
nation's  adversaries  than  with  the 
nation  itself,  he  had  never  wavered." 
But  while  the  temper  of  England 
thus  compelled  Russia  to  go  more 
warily  to  work,  she  was  not  the  less 
intermitting  in  her  exertions  that 
she  kept  closer  in  the  background 
herself  and  allowed  Napoleon  to 
become  the  scapegoat  in  the  eyes 
of  European  opinion. 

The  difference  in  character  of  the 
Emperor  and  the  Prince  Consort 
stands  out  very  clearly  in  the  pres- 
ent volume,  the  one  serving  as  an 
admirable  foil  to  the  other.  The 
Prince,  while  he  seems  to  have  had 
a  sincere  personal  liking  for  the 
Emperor,  perfectly  understood  his 
temperament  and  position.  He 
knew  that  Napoleon  was  naturally 
insincere,  and  made  still  more  so 
by  the  force  of  his  situation.  With 
a  more  secure  hold  upon  France, 
and  a  juster  title  to  reign  over  it, 
the  Emperor  would  probably  have 
been  a  better  man  and  a  better 
ruler;  but  the  uncertainties  amid 
which  his  life  had  been  spent,  had 
destroyed  whatever  element  of  cau- 
tion had  been  originally  in  his  char- 
acter, as  well  as  that  regard  for  the 
higher  political  honour  which  alone 
could  have  made  him  a  reliable  ally. 
Napoleon,  on  his  side,  seems  to  have 
been  sincere,  at  least,  in  his  regard 


TJie  Life  of  the  Prince  Consort 


[May 


for  the  Prince  ;  to  have  valued  his 
political  counsels,  though  he  would 
not,  or  could  not,  follow  them  •  and 
to  have  estimated  at  its  true  value 
the  advantage  of  England's  friend- 
ship to  his  own  position.  When  the 
•condemnations  of  the  English  press 
on  the  Franco- Eussian  intrigues  be- 
gan to  make  him  uneasy,  he  anxi- 
ously sought  a  private  interview 
with  the  Queen  in  the  summer  of 
1858,  "to  eclairer  his  own  ideas," 
and  to  remove  the  "  dissidences  et 
mesintelligences"  arising  from  his 
course  of  conduct.  Of  the  re- 
markable interview  which  follow- 
ed, the  Prince  has  left  a  formal 
memorandum,  now  given  in  full, 
from  which  it  would  almost  have 
been  possible  to  forecast  the  fate 
of  the  Second  Empire.  The  start- 
ing-point was  the  settlement  of  the 
Danubian  principalities,  of  which 
the  Emperor  strongly  advocated  the 
Eussian  project  of  a  union  under 
one  head,  and  urged  the  feeling 
of  the  people  in  its  favour,  as  well 
as  the  corrupt  proceedings  by  which 
he  alleged  that  the  Poite  had  sought 
to  thwart  the  measure.  The  Prince 
met  these  arguments  by  the  home 
question — to  which  he  begged  "  an 
open  and  honest  answer  " — 

"  Do  you  really  care  for  the  contin- 
uance of  the  integrity  of  the  Turkish 
Empire  ?  This,  with  us,  is  a  principle 
for  which  we  have  entered  into  the 
French  alliance,  for  which  we  have 
made  endless  sacrifices  in  blood  and 
treasure,  and  which  we  are  determined 
to  maintain  with  all  the  energy  we 
possess. 

"The  Emperor  said  he  would  be 
open  and  honest.  If  I  asked  him  as 
a,  private  individual,  he  did  not  care 
for  it,  and  could  not  muster  up  any 
sympathy  for  such  a  sorry  set  as  the 
Turks. 

"I  interrupted — that  I  thought  as 
much.  'But,'  he  added,  'if  you  ask 
me  as  a  homme  politique,  Jest  une  autre 


The   real   object  underlying  the 


Emperor's  policy  was  soon  after- 
wards tabled,  the  revision  of  the 
Treaties  of  1815,  which  were  bad, 
he  said,  and  "remained  as  a  me- 
morial of  the  union  of  Europe 
against  France."  He  had  now  given 
up  the  idea  of  touching  them,  he  pro- 
fessed, but  still  he  adhered  to  his 
conviction  that  the  peace  of  Europe 
could  never  be  lasting  so  long  as  it 
had  these  treaties  for  a  basis.  The 
ablest  arguments  which  the  Prince 
could  offer  against  so  dangerous  a 
measure,  the  most  striking  warnings 
which  he  could  cite  from  the  his- 
tory of  Europe,  failed  to  touch  the 
feeling  which  the  Emperor  had  upon 
this  subject — and  the  "Osborne 
compromise,"  as  his  biographer  calls 
it,  really  turned  out  to  have  been  no 
compromise  at  all ;  and  the  half- 
assent  which  the  Emperor  gave  to 
the  Prince's  views  was  somewhat 
too  hastily  mistaken  for  agreement. 
It  seems  to  have  been  a  fixed  idea 
of  the  Prince  that  the  Emperor's 
chief  misfortune  was  the  want  of 
reliable  advisers,  from  which  the 
Second  Empire  certainly  suffered 
all  along.  And  his  parting  advice 
took  the  form  of  a  platitude,  the 
truth  of  which  Mr  Martin  rather 
too  hastily  endorses,  that  "  no  mon- 
arch had  been  great  without  having 
a  great  minister."  The  experience 
of  history,  as  we  read  it,  points  to 
a  conclusion  that  is  almost  exactly 
opposite. 

Of  the  frequent  intimacies  inter- 
changed between  the  Imperial  and 
Eoyal  families  during  the  three 
years  1857-59,  we  have  now  a  full 
record.  In  August  1857,  the  Queen 
and  Prince  Consort,  with  six  of 
the  Eoyal  children,  paid  a  private 
visit  to  the  port  of  Cherbourg,  the 
rapid  completion  of  the  fortifica- 
tions of  which,  commenced  in  the 
time  of  Louis  XIV.,  were  causing 
very  natural  misgivings  in  England, 
and  making  us  anxious  for  a  counter- 
poise of  some  kind  on  our  own  coast 


1879.] 


The  Life  of  the  Prince  Consort. 


617 


of  the  Channel.  The  Koyal  family 
were  received  with  great  cordiality 
by  the  garrison  and  town,  and  ex- 
cited much  enthusiasm  among  the 
Norman  peasants  as  they  drove  about 
the  environs.  The  Queen's  diary 
gives  some  charming  descriptions  of 
these  drives,  which  we  would  gladly 
have  quoted  had  space  allowed.  In 
August  of  the  following  year  the 
Royal  party  were  again  present  at 
the  fetes  on  the  opening  of  the  great 
arsenal  at  Cherbourg  —  one  of  the 
most  splendid  of  the  many  gorgeous 
pageants  which  now  form  the  hap- 
piest memories  of  the  Empire.  The 
meeting  was  anxiously  watched. 
France  had  already  taken  up  an 
attitude  decidedly  hostile,  and  was 
encouraging  the  Italian  patriots  as 
well  as  urging  on  the  Sardinian  Gov- 
ernment. The  greater  portion  of  the 
English  press  was  very  severe  on  the 
Emperor's  policy,  and  her  Majesty's 
Ministers  had  not  dissembled  their 
distrust  of  the  devious  course  which 
he  was  pursuing.  All  these  circum- 
stances produced  no  small  amount 
of  awkwardness,  especially  when 
taken  in  connection  with  the  fact 
that  the  English  Crown  must  have 
felt  somewhat  in  the  position  of 
"  holding  a  candle  to  the  devil "  by 
aiding  in  the  inauguration  of  a  work 
that  might  prove  a  serious  menace 
to  our  own  interests.  Both  the 
Emperor  and  the  Queen  were  quite 
alive  to  the  significance  which 
Europe  would  attach  to  the  meet- 
ing, and  both  had  good  reasons  for 
guarding  their  utterance.  The 
Eoyal  party  were  to  dine  with  the 
Emperor  on  board  the  Bretagne ; 
and  the  Queen's  diary  records  that 
"  we  were  both  made  very  nervous 
by  my  poor  Albert  having  to  make 
a  speech  at  this  dinner  in  answer 
to  one  which  the  Emperor  was  go- 
ing to  make,  and  having  to  compose 
it."  The  Emperor,  on  his  part,  was 
equally  anxious. 

"The   Emperor  was    not    in   good 


spirits,"  writes  the  Queen,  "and  seemed 
sensitive  about  all  that  has  been  said 
of  him  in  England  and  elsewhere.  At 
length,  dinner  over,  came  the  terrible 
moment  of  the  speeches.  The  Emperor 
made  an  admirable  one,  in  a  powerful 
voice,  proposing  my  health  and  those 
of  Albert  and  ihefamille  Royale;  then, 
after  the  band  had  played,  came  the 
dreadful  moment  for  my  dear  husband, 
which  was  terrible  to  me,  and  which  I 
should  never  wish  to  go  through  again. 
He  did  it  very  well,  though  he  hesi- 
tated once.  I  sat  shaking,  with  my 
eyes  clouds  sur  la  table.  However,  the 
speech  did  very  well.  This  over,  we 
got  up,  and  the  Emperor  in  the  cabin 
shook  Albert  by  the  hand,  and  we  all 
talked  of  the  terrible  emotion  which 
we  had  undergone,  the  Emperor  him- 
self having  '  changed  colour,'  and  the 
Empress  having  also  been  very  ner- 
vous." 

The  Prince  in  his  journal  records 
his  consciousness  of  tl  a  change  in 
the  Emperor,  which  even  his  per- 
sonal esteem  for  his  visitors  could 
not  get  the  better  of."  He  had  al- 
ready secretly  committed  himself  to 
Cavour  in  the  compact  of  Plom- 
bieres,  and  had  placed  himself 
thoroughly  in  the  power  of  that 
far-seeing  statesman.  The  agree- 
ment then  concluded  was,  that 
Erance  was  to  unite  with  Sardinia 
against  Austria,  and  to  establish  a 
kingdom  of  Northern  Italy,  receiv- 
ing as  her  reward  the  cession  of  Sa- 
voy and  Nice.  The  Prince  Consort 
clearly  discerned  the  different  mo- 
tives by  which  the  Emperor  was 
influenced,  and  could  distinguish 
between  what  came  of  his  own  rest- 
less propensity  for  altering  frontiers,, 
and  what  he  was  urged  into  by  his 
Northern  ally.  "  I  still  think  the 
people  of  Paris  will  shrink  from  a 
collision,"  writes  the  Prince  to  Baron 
Stockmar  some  months  before  the 
war  broke  out.  "  The  Russians,  of 
course,  are  'at  the  bottom  of  the 
whole  thing ; '  they  would  be  able, 
without  any  outlay  on  their  part,  to 
avenge  themselves  on  Austria,  and 


G18 


The  Life  of  the  Prince  Consort. 


[May 


in  case  of  things  going  wrong,  they 
could  leave  Napoleon  in  the  lurch, 
let  themselves  be  bought  off  by  Aus- 
tria at  the  price  of  Turkish  territory, 
and  so  be  ampty  compensated  for 
all  the  mishaps  of  the  last  war. 
Their  game  is  simple  and  cleverly 
played,  but  it  ought  to  be  seen 
through  in  Paris  without  any  great 
perspicacity." 

The  Emperor's  career  from  this 
time  to  Sedan  forms  a  most  striking 
commentary  on  the  lesson  which 
the  Prince  had  read  him  on  the 
sanctity  of  treaties  during  his  visit 
to  Osborne.  As  the  Prince  had 
•cautioned  him,  no  one  could  foresee 
where  the  tampering  with  a  treaty 
would  end.  The  Emperor's  dis- 
loyalty to  the  Treaty  of  Paris  placed 
him  in  hostility  to  Austria,  and  made 
him  play  the  games  respectively  of 
Eussia  and  Sardinia,  and  he  thus 
became  inextricably  involved  in  the 
most  tortuous  webs  of  European 
intrigue,  from  which  he  was  only 
to  be  cut  out  by  the  sword  of  the 
German  Emperor.  The  Prince  had 
spoken  with  a  frankness  that  is  sel- 
dom permitted  in  diplomacy,  and 
which  the  Emperor  seemed  to  bear 
well.  More  than  that,  the  Em- 
peror evidently  entertained  for  the 
Prince  that  confidence  which  we  so 
often  see  men  whose  own  disposition 
is  utterly  insincere  yield  towards 
those  in  whom  they  recognise  and 
respect  a  superior  moral  nature. 
The  Prince,  however,  never  seems 
to  have  been  led  away  by  the  com- 
plaisance with  which  Napoleon 
accepted  his  counsels;  for,  as  Mr 
Martin  says,  "  without  sincerity, 
absolute  sincerity  in  word  and  in 
act,  no  man,  and  especially  no  sov- 
ereign, could  ever  hope  to  command 
the  esteem  or  confidence  of  the 
Prince  Consort." 

Throughout  the  Italian  complica- 
tion the  Prince  Consort  maintained 
an  attitude  of  strict  impartiality, 
that  in  a  great  measure  saved  us 


from  being  dragged  into  the  con- 
troversy. He  was  no  admirer  of 
Austrian  rule  in  Italy,  but  he  was 
well  assured  that  France  was  not 
the  proper  deliverer  for  an  enslaved 
nation,  and  that  the  liberation  of 
the  Italians  was  a  secondary  object 
to  the  promotion  of  the  Emperor's 
own  aims.  The  national  feeling  in 
Italy  at  that  time  only  went  the 
length  of  revolution,  and  could  not 
concentrate  itself  on  the  establish- 
ment of  an  independent  government ; 
while  the  extreme  views  of  the  pop- 
ular leaders  forbade  the  supposition 
that  adequate  security  for  the  peace 
of  Europe  could  result  from  their 
plans  being  crowned  with  success. 
In  England  there  was  a  strong 
feeling  upon  the  subject.  Lord 
Palmerston  was  at  the  outset  "  out 
and  out  Napoleonide"  as  the  Prince 
puts  it",  and  if  left  to  himself  would 
have  committed  the  country  to  an 
active  partisanship  of  the  Franco- 
Sardinian  alliance.  The  influence 
of  the  Crown,  however,  was  actively 
exerted  in  keeping  England  out  of 
the  embroglio  ;  and  when  Lord  Pal- 
merston, disgusted  beyond  measure 
at  the  use  to  which  the  Emperor 
had  turned  his  victories,  showed  a 
disposition  to  go  to  the  opposite 
extreme,  and  quarrel  with  France 
for  the  readiness  with  which  she 
had  come  to  favourable  terms  with 
Austria  at  Yillafranca,  for  the  estab- 
lishment of  an  Italian  confedera- 
tion, with  the  Pope  at  its  head,  we 
find  the  same  wise  counsels  pre- 
vailing. The  Cabinet  was  disposed 
to  go  into  Congress,  but  the  strong 
arguments  advanced  by  the  Court 
happily  availed  to  preserve  our 
neutral  position  intact.  "  The  whole 
scheme,"  wrote  the  Queen  to  Lord 
John  Russell,  "  is  the  often  attempt- 
ed one,  that  England  should  tak^ 
the  chestnuts  out  of  the  fire,  and  as- 
sume the  responsibility  of  drawing 
the  Emperor  Napoleon  from  his 
engagements  to  Austria  and  the 


1879.] 


The  Life  of  the  Prince  Consort. 


G19 


Pope,  whatever  they  may  be,  and 
of  making  proposals  which,  if  they 
lead  to  war,  we  should  be  in  honour 
bound  to  support  by  arms." 

We  have  dwelt  at  some  length 
upon  the  Prince's  relations  with  the 
French  Emperor,  as  set  forth  in  Mr 
Martin's  fourth  volume,  as  in  these 
his  statesmanship  appears  to  have 
been  put  to  a  higher  test  than  in 
any  other  portion  of  his  public  life. 
His  biographer  does  not  obtrude 
the  Prince's  influence  upon  us, 
but  allows  us  to  judge  for  our- 
selves from  his  letters  and  journals 
of  the  high-minded  view  which  he 
took  of  the  duty  of  England  with 
regard  to  the  Napoleonic  ideas. 
His  allegiance  towards  the  public 
law  of  Europe  never  for  a  min- 
ute wavered,  even  in  the  face  of 
manifest  temptations ;  and  while 
his  sympathies  were  entirely  with 
the  relief  of  oppressed  national- 
ities, and  with  the  extension  of 
constitutional  liberty,  he  steadily 
set  himself  against  being  carried 
away  either  by  popular  impulse  or 
by  the  still  more  dangerous  insinua- 
tions of  statecraft.  We  need  not 
ask  to  what  degree  his  influence 
reached  in  maintaining  the  prestige 
which  the  Crown  held  in  the  coun- 
cils of  Europe  at  this  juncture. 
The  success  which  attended  our 
policy  at  this  period  leaves  no 
ground  for  carping  at  the  extra- 
constitutional  advice  which  piloted 
us  through  a  crisis  that,  under  rasher 
treatment,  might  readily  have  been 
made  a  European  one.  There  was 
not  a  little  of  resemblance  between 
the  difficulties  which  confronted 
the  British  Government  at  that  time 
and  those  which  we  had  to  deal 
with  before  the  Treaty  of  Berlin ; 
and  now,  as  then,  we  seem  to  see 
the  same  regard  for  public  law,  the 
same  determination  to  abstain  from 
playing  the  game  of  any  particular 
Power,  actuating  our  policies  to- 
wards a  successful  issue. 


The  Indian  Mutiny  and  the  trans- 
fer of  the  government  to  the  Crown 
occupy  a  considerable  portion  of  the 
present  volume.  Apart  from  the 
natural  jealousy  with  which  the 
Court  viewed  the  Company's  gov- 
ernment, the  Prince's  journals  show 
a  quick  perception  of  the  difficulties 
with  which  we  had  to  deal.  No 
one  will  quarrel  now  with  the  gen- 
erous views  which  the  Queen  and 
Prince  took  of  Lord  Canning's  crit- 
ical position,  or  find  fault  with  her 
letters,  which,  like  her  more  recent 
telegram  to  Lord  Chelmsford,  show 
that  the  sympathy  of  a  Sovereign 
when  her  servants  are  in  peril  is 
not  to  be  tied  down  by  parliament- 
ary red  tape.  When  the  existence 
of  the  Mutiny  stood  fairly  revealed, 
the  Queen  pressed  upon  the  Gov- 
ernment "  the  necessity  of  taking  a 
comprehensive  view  of  our  military 
position,  instead  of  going  on  with- 
out a  plan,  living  from  hand  to 
mouth,"  with  such  force,  that  Lord 
Palmerston  told  her  it  was  fortunate 
for  those  who  held  different  views 
that  her  Majesty  was  not  in  the 
House  of  Commons,  for  they  would 
have  had  to  encounter  a  formidable 
antagonist  in  argument.  The  Court 
had  no  great  faith  in  the  capacity 
of  the  Liberal  Cabinet  for  dealing 
with  such  a  crisis  ;  and  the  Prince, 
writing  to  Baron  Stockmar,  remarks 
that  "  our  Ministry  is,  however,  by 
no  means  up  to  the  mark,  as  lit- 
tle as  it  was  in  the  last  war,  and 
after  that  experience,  still  more  to 
blame."  It  was  a  difficult  task  to 
get  the  Palmerston  Ministry  to 
estimate  the  military  force  of  the 
country  at  its  true  weakness,  and 
to  provide  not  only  for  strengthen- 
ing our  troops  in  the  field  in  India, 
but  also  for  maintaining  our  home 
garrisons  at  a  time  when  the  atten- 
tion of  Europe  was  peculiarly  liable 
to  be  attracted  towards  their  de- 
fenceless condition.  "  The  Govern- 
ment," writes  the  Prince,  "  behaves 


620 


The  Life  of  the  Prince  Consort. 


[May 


just  as  it  did  in  the  Crimean  cam- 
paign ;  is  ready  to  let  our  poor  little 
army  be  wasted  away,  and  to  make 
fine  grandiose  speeches,  but  does 
not  move  one  step  towards  seeing 
that  the  lamp  is  fed  with  oil — con- 
sequently it  must  go  out  suddenly 
with  a  stench."  Though  never 
doubting  our  ultimate  success  in 
putting  down  the  rebellion,  the 
Court  suffered  acutely  during  the 
long  summer  of  1857,  when  each 
mail  from  India  brought  gloomier 
tidings  than  its  predecessor,  until 
the  news  of  the  fall  of  Delhi  afforded 
the  first  sense  of  relief.  "  Tortured 
by  events  in  India,  which  are  truly 
frightful,"  is  the  description  which 
the  Prince  gives  of  their  feelings. 
Their  apprehensions  must  have  been 
all  the  more  quickened  by  some- 
thing like  a  suspicion  that  Russia 
was  not  altogether  innocent  in  our 
Indian  troubles ;  for  among  the 
Prince's  papers  is  the  assurance 
given  by  Prince  Gortschakoff  on 
25th  September  to  "  a  very  distin- 
guished person,"  "  Nous  ne  sommes 
pour  rien  dans  les  malheurs  des  In- 
des" — a  statement  which,  says  the 
very  distinguished  person,  "  shows 
that  they  are."  This  inference  ac- 
quires considerable  force  from  the 
seditious  papers  produced  at  the 
trial  of  the  ex- King  of  Delhi,  in 
which  hopes  of  support  and  sym- 
pathy from  the  Russ  were  freely 
held  out  to  encourage  the  disaffect- 
ed. The  Court  was  naturally  pre- 
pared to  hear  little  good  of  the 
Company's  institutions,  and  in  the 
discussions  which  ensued,  was  dis- 
posed to  favour  any  projects  that 
would  obliterate  the  landmarks  of 
the  moribund  Government.  In 
framing  the  measure  which  was 
subsequently  submitted  to  Parlia- 
ment, Lord  Palmerston  "courted  the 
opinion  of  the  Prince  on  many 
points  of  detail,  and  he  was  not 
backward  in  acknowledging  the  ad- 
vantage which  it  derived  from  the 


Prince's  suggestions."  But  before 
the  Liberal  Ministry  had  made 
much  head,  it  was  turned  out  of 
office  on  the  Conspiracy  Bill,  and  a 
new  India  Bill  was  brought  forward 
by  Lord  Derby's  Cabinet.  The  sys- 
tem of  "double  government"  was 
what  English  politicians  had  been 
strongest  in  their  condemnation  of 
in  the  Company's  rule ;  and  both 
the  Liberal  and  Conservative  meas- 
ures unconsciously  proposed  to  ag- 
gravate the  very  evil  which  they 
were  expected  to  obviate.  The  im- 
possibility of  Britain  exercising  the 
empire  of  India  without  a  double 
government  of  some  kind  was  fully 
manifest ;  and  we  would  hesitate, 
after  close  on  twenty  years'  expe- 
rience of  the  new  system,  to  say 
that  either  India  or  the  Crown 
has  derived  substantial  benefit  from 
the  substitution  of  the  India  Coun- 
cil for  the  Court  of  Directors  and 
Board  of  Control.  It  is  curious  to 
go  back  to  the  India  debates  of 
1858  and  find  there  the  germs  of 
recent  party  contests  that  have  since 
cropped  up  under  very  different 
auspices.  Even  in  1858  Lord  Bea- 
consfield  could  see  in  the  future  an 
Empress  of  India.  Writing  to  the 
Queen,  Mr  Disraeli,  then  Chancellor 
of  the  Exchequer,  says  of  the  India 
Bill :  "It  is  only  the  ante-chamber 
of  an  imperial  palace,  and  your 
Majesty  would  do  well  to  consider 
the  steps  which  are  now  necessary 
to  influence  the  opinions  and  affect 
the  imaginations  of  the  Indian 
populations. .  The  name  of  your 
Majesty  ought  to  be  impressed  up- 
on their  daily  life."  On  the  same 
page  we  find  allusion  made  to  a 
project  of  Mr  Gladstone,  which, 
had  it  been  carried  into  effect, 
would  have  prevented  our  bring- 
ing Indian  troops  to  Europe,  and 
might  have  seriously  impaired  our 
position  at  the  most  critical  junc- 
ture of  the  late  Russo-Turkish  dif- 
ficulty : — 


1679.] 


The  Life  of  the  Prince  Consort, 


621 


"  One  of  these"  (the  Liberal  amend- 
ments) "  was  a  clause  proposed  by  Mr 
Gladstone  which,  in  its  original  form, 
would  have  deprived  the  Crown  of  the 
power  to  use  the  Indian  forces  in  war, 
"*  except  for  repelling  actual  invasion 
of  her  Majesty's  Indian  possessions  or 
under  other  sudden  and  urgent  neces- 
sity without  consent  of  Parliament,' 
thus  depriving  the  Crown  of  one  of  its 
undoubted  prerogatives.  The  objec- 
tion to  the  clause  on  this  ground  was, 
curiously  enough,  strongly  urged  by 
several  speakers  among  the  advanced 
Liberals,  but  without  effect.  On  hav- 
ing his  attention  called  to  it  by  the 
Queen,  Lord  Derby  felt  the  gravity  of 
the  oversight,  and  the  clause"  (the 
S5th  of  the  India  Bill,  21  &  22  Vic- 
toria, cap.  106)  "  was  amended  by  pro- 
viding that,  except  for  the  purposes 
above-mentioned,  the  revenues  of  India 
should  not  be  applied,  without  the  con- 
sent of  Parliament,  to  defray  the  ex- 
pense of  military  operations  beyond 
the  external  frontier  of  our  Indian 
possessions.  By  this,  the  prerogative 
of  the  Crown  and  the  control  of  Parlia- 
ment were  both  saved." 

We  had  always  understood  that 
the  Queen  herself  was  responsible 
for  the  Indian  proclamation  which 
announced  her  assumption  of  sover- 
eignty, and  which  has  since  been 
to  India  almost  all  that  Magna 
Charta  was  to  the  English  people 
— the  sacred  guarantee  of  their 
rights  and  liberties  as  subjects  of 
the  British  Crown.  We  now,  for 
the  first  time,  learn  the  history  of 
this  famous  document.  A  draft  was 
sent  to  the  Queen,  then  on  a  visit 
to  her  daughter  at  Babelsberg, 
which  did  not  seem,  to  her  worthy, 
either  in  letter  or  spirit,  of  so  im- 
portant a  manifesto.  "  It  cannot 
possibly  remain  in  its  present 
shape,"  was  the  Prince's  opinion ; 
and  it  was  sent  back  to  Lord  Derby 
to  be  recast,  with  the  intimation 
that  "  the  Queen  would  be  glad  if 
Lord  Derby  would  write  it  himself 
in  his  excellent  language."  This 
Lord  Derby  now  did ;  but  the 
famous  toleration  clauses,  as  well 

VOL.  CXXV. — NO.  DCCLXIII. 


as  the  concluding  invocation,  were 
directly  inspired  by  the  Queen.  In 
the  settlement  of  the  Indian  army 
question,  the  Prince  Consort  was 
less  fortunate  in  the  exercise  of 
his  influence.  The  Mutiny  had 
excited  in  his  mind  a  prejudice 
against  the  whole  military  system 
of  the  Company,  while  his  know- 
ledge of  the  Indian  army  organisa- 
tion was  not  sufficiently  minute  to 
enable  him  to  distinguish  between 
what  could  be  made  conducive  to 
the  strength,  and  what  had  proved 
to  be  a  weakness,  of  the  Govern- 
ment. His  views  were  naturally 
supported  by  the  counsels  of  some 
of  the  most  experienced  of  the 
Queen's  military  advisers ;  but 
time  has  emphatically  pronounced 
against  the  policy  which  broke  up 
the  grand  old  European  regiments 
of  the  Company,  and  saddled  the 
three  Presidencies,  each  with  an 
army  of  field-officers,  who  burden 
the  military  revenue  without  bene- 
fiting the  service.  It  is  true,  the 
Company's  army  had  proved  in- 
capable of  the  strain  to  which  it 
was  subjected ;  but  what  force 
would  not  have  succumbed  to 
treason  moving  stealthily  in  its 
ranks?  We  have  just  reason  to 
be  proud  of  our  Indian  troops,  but 
we  pray  Heaven  the  efficiency  of 
our  present  organisation  may  never 
be  tested  by  the  same  fiery  ordeal 
as  that  which  the  Company's  army 
went  through  in  '57. 

We  have  already  alluded  to  the 
sympathy  which  both  the  Queen 
and  the  Prince  Consort  showed  for 
the  difficult  position  in  which  Lord 
Canning  was  placed.  The  interest 
taken  by  the  Court  in  the  other 
officials  who  were  engaged  in  the 
Mutiny  was  not  less  marked.  There 
is  a  delightful  letter  from  the  Queen 
to  Sir  Colin  Campbell  after  the 
relief  of  Lucknow,  every  line  of 
which  shows  how  warmly  her  heart 
was  with  the  gallant  struggles  of 
2s 


622 


The  Life  of  the  Prince  Consort. 


[May 


her  soldiers.  "  But  Sir  Colin  must 
bear  one  reproof  from  his  Queen/' 
she  writes,  "  and  that  is,  that  he 
exposes  himself  too  much.  His 
life  is  most  precious ;  and  she  in- 
treats  that  he  will  neither  put  him- 
self where  his  noble  spirit  would 
urge  him.  to  be — foremost  in  danger 
— nor  fatigue  himself  so  as  to  in- 
jure his  health.  In  this  anxious 
wish  the  Prince  most  earnestly 
joins."  Nothing  is  more  note- 
worthy in  the  present  volume  than 
the  hearty  appreciation  which  good 
service  always  meets  with  from  the 
Crown,  or  the  consideration  which  it 
has  shown  for  its  officers  in  times  of 
difficulty  or  failure.  Throughout 
the  Indian  Mutiny  there  was  a 
large  party  disposed  to  make  Lord 
Canning  a  scapegoat,  and  clamour- 
ing for  his  removal ;  and  it  ought  to 
be  a  comfort  to  all  administrators 
who  are  placed  in  similarly  trying 
circumstances  to  know  that  they  have 
at  least  a  sovereign  who  is  sure  to 
sympathise  with  their  situation,  in- 
stead of  offering  them  up  a  sacrifice 
to  popular  frenzy  or  party  necessities. 

The  same  appreciation  of  good 
service  which  the  Prince  Consort 
showed  for  the  public  officers  of  the 
Crown  was  also  observable  in  his 
regard  for  the  domestics  who  had 
been  attached  to  him  from  his 
earlier  days.  While  the  Queen 
and  Prince  were  at  Diisseldorf,  on 
their  way  to  visit  the  Princess 
Royal  at  Berlin,  they  received  the 
news  of  the  death  of  an  old  domes- 
tic. The  extract  from  the  Queen's 
diary  which  describes  this  incident 
is  one  of  the  prettiest  passages  in 
the  present  volume. 

"  While  I  was  dressing,  Albert  came 
in,  quite  pale,  with  a  telegram,  saying, 
'  My  poor  Cart  is  dead  ! '  ('  Mein  armer 
Cart  ist  gestorben  ! ')  "  [Cart  had  been 
Prince  Albert's  valet  for  twenty-nine 
years.]  "I  turn  sick  now  (14th 
August)  in  writing  it.  ...  He 
died  suddenly  on  Saturday  at  Merges, 
of  angina  pectoris.  I  burst  into  tears. 
All  day  long  the  tears  would  rush 


every  moment  to  my  eyes,  and  this 
dreadful  reality  came  to  throw  a  gloom 
over  the  long-wished-for  day  of  'meet- 
ing with  our  dear  child.  Cart  was 
with  Albert  from  his  seventh  year. 
He  was  invaluable  ;  well  -  educated, 
thoroughly  trustworthy,  devoted  to 
the  Prince,  the  best  of  nurses,  superior 
in  every  sense  of  the  word,  a  proud, 
independent  Swiss,  who  was  quite  un 
homme  de  confiance,  peculiar,  but  ex- 
tremely careful,  and  who  might  be 
trusted  in  anything.  He  wrote  well, 
and  copied  much  for  us.  He  was  the 
only  link  my  loved  one  had  about  him 
which  connected  him  with  his  child- 
hood, the  only  one  with  whom  he 
could  talk  over  old  times.  I  cannot 
think  of  my  dear  husband  without 
Cart !  He  seemed  part  of  himself  ! 
We  were  so  thankful  for  and  proud  of 
this  faithful  old  servant ;  he  was  such 
a  comfort  to  us,  and  now  he  is  gone  ! 
A  sad  breakfast  we  had  indeed,  Albert 
felt  the  loss  so  much,  and  we  had  to 
choke  our  grief  down  all  day." 

His  early  friends  and  the  associa- 
tions of  his  earlier  years  kept  a 
much  firmer  hold  on  the  Prince 
Consort  than  such  feelings  generally 
take  of  masculine  minds.  His  cor- 
respondence with  Baron  Stockmar 
fills  as  large  a  space  in  the  present 
volume  as  in  those  that  preceded 
it.  Whether  it  is  the  prejudice 
that  naturally  attaches  to  the  posi- 
tion of  the  "  political  confessor,"  as 
Mr  Martin  very  properly  designates 
the  Baron,  or  whether  it  is  the  fact 
that  we  are  conscious  throughout  of 
the  Prince  rendering  homage  to  an 
intellect  very  much  beneath  his 
own,  Baron  Stockmar's  frequent 
appearances  operate  rather  as  a 
drag  upon  our  interest.  We  can 
easily  understand  how  the  Prince 
Consort,  taken  away  from  his  tutor 
at  a  time  when  his  reverence  for  his 
knowledge  and  judgment  was  as  yet 
unshaken  by  experience,  would  still 
continue  to  look  upon  the  Baron's 
utterances  as  oracular ;  whereas,  had 
he  been  more  in  Stockmar's  com- 
pany in  later  years,  he  could  hard- 
ly fail  to  have  been  desillusionne. 

Of  much  more  genuine  interest 


1879.] 


The  Life  of  the  Prince  Consort. 


623 


than  the  political  portions  of  the 
memoir  are  the  domestic  pictures  in 
which  this  volume  is  very  rich,  and 
which  stand  out  in  tender  relief 
amid  the  stern  politics  of  Continen- 
tal Europe,  and  the  gloomy  tales  of 
mutiny  and  massacre  from  India. 
The  marriage  of  the  Princess  Royal 
was  the  great  event  in  the  inner 
life  of  the  Queen  and  Prince  Con- 
sort embraced  in  this  period ;  and 
its  story  runs  through  the  volume 
with  almost  an  idyllic  tender- 
ness. A  first  marriage  in  a  fam- 
ily— the  first  surrender  of  a  child 
to  other  ties  and  other  affections — 
seldom  fails  to  quicken  paternal 
love ;  and  in  the  case  of  the  Princess 
Royal,  the  Queen  and  Prince  were 
keenly  sensible  of  the  sacrifice  they 
were  making  to  secure  her  happi- 
ness. In  no  part  of  Mr  Martin's 
work  do  we  find  our  sympathies 
aroused  more  warmly,  our  feelings 
brought  more  into  unison  with 
those  of  the  Royal  family,  than  in 
these  chapters;  for  was  not  the 
Princess  Royal  also  the  daughter  of 
England1?  Excellent  as  the  ulti- 
mate prospects  of  the  Prussian 
alliance  unquestionably  were,  it 
was  not  without  present  anxieties. 
The  Prince  of  Prussia  was  as  yet 
standing  aloof  from  power,  and 
viewed  by  the  King  and  his  Minis- 
ters with  something  of  the  jealousy 
that  always  attaches  to  the  position 
of  an  heir  -  apparent.  Several  of 
Frederick  William's  prominent  ad- 
visers were  by  no  means  enthu- 
siastic in  favour  of  an  English 
Princess;  and  the  King  himself  had 
little  sympathy  with  those  ideas 
of  constitutional  government  with 
which  in  Germany  the  Prince  Con- 
sort was  very  clearly  identified. 
The  Prince  Consort  was  quite  con- 
scious that  his  daughter  would  have 
to  depend  in  a  great  measure  upon 
her  own  qualities  to  conciliate  the 
affection  of  the  German  people,  and 
he  applied  himself  with  a  loving 
devotion  to  fit  her  for  the  task. 


He  superintended  special  studies 
designed  to  give  her  a  grasp  of 
political  knowledge,  and  to  fit  her 
for  taking  part  in  the  public  life  to 
which  her  husband  was  one  day 
destined  to  be  called.  Very  touch- 
ing is  the  account  of  the  last  days 
of  her  maiden  life  spent  by  the 
Princess  Royal  at  Balmoral : — 

"'Vicky/  the  Prince  wrote  to  the 
Dowager  Duchess  of  Coburg,  'suffers 
under  the  feeling  that  every  spot  she 
visits  she  has  to  greet  for  the  last  time 
as  home.  As  I  look  on,  the  Johanna 
sagt  euch  Lebewohl  I  of  the  "  Maid  of 
Orleans"  comes  frequently  into  my 
mind.  It  has  been  my  lot  to  go 
through  the  same  experiences.'" 

The  Queen's  feelings  were  also 
severely  strained  as  the  time  ap- 
proached for  parting  with  her 
daughter.  On  the  day  before  the 
Court  left  Windsor  Castle  for  the 
wedding  at  St  James's  Palace,  the 
Queen's  diary  has  the  following 
entry :  "  Went  to  look  at  the  rooms 
prepared  for  Vicky's  honeymoon. 
Very  pretty.  It  quite  agitated  me 
to  look  at  them.  .  .  .  Poor,  poor 
child  !  We  took  a  short  walk  with 
Vicky,  who  was  dreadfully  upset 
at  this  real  break  in  her  life — the 
real  separation  from  her  childhood  ! 
She  slept  for  the  last  time  in  the 
same  room  with  Alice.  .  .  .  Now 
all  this  is  cut  off." 

The  entries  in  the  Queen's  diaries 
during  the  bridal  week  are  so  full 
of  true  womanly  feeling,  so  expres- 
sive of  a  loving  mother,  that  we 
would  like  to  reproduce  the  chap- 
ter at  length,  and  we  feel  that  we 
are  doing  but  scant  justice  to  all 
parties  by  the  meagre  extracts  that 
are  all  our  limits  will  allow  us  to 
quote.  On  Monday,  January  25, 
1858,  the  Queen  writes  : — 

The  second  most  eventful  day  in 
my  life  as  regards  feelings.  I  felt  as 
if  I  were  being  married  over  again 
myself,  only  much  more  nervous,  for 
I  had  not  that  blessed  feeling  which  1 
had  then,  which  raises  and  supports 
one,  of  giving  myself  up  for  life  to  him 


624 


The  Lije  of  the  Prince  Consort. 


[May 


whom  I  loved  and  worshipped — then 
and  ever  !  .  .  .  Got  up,  and  while 
dressing  dearest  Vicky  came  to  see  me, 
looking  well  and  composed,  and  in  a 
fine  quiet  frame  of  mind.  She  had 
slept  more  soundly  and  better  than 
before.  This  relieved  me  greatly.  .  .  " 

The  marriage  went  off  under  the 
brightest  auspices,  unobscured  by 
any  of  the  clouds  that  have  hung 
over  subsequent  royal  bridals.  The 
Queen,  though  excited  while  the 
royal  group  was  being  photographed 
— "  I  trembled  so,  my  likeness  has 
come  out  indistinct" — was  deeply 
impressed  by  the  pageant.  "  The 
effect  was  very  solemn  and  impres- 
sive as  we  passed  through  the 
rooms,  down  the  staircase,  and 
across  a  covered-in  court." 

"  Then  came  the  bride's  procession, 
and  our  darling  Flower  looked  very 
touching  and  lovely,  with  such  an 
innocent,  confident,  and  serious  ex- 
pression, her  veil  hanging  back  over 
her  shoulders,  walking  between  her 
beloved  father  and  dearest  uncle  Leo- 
pold, who  had  been  at  her  christening 
and  confirmation,  and  was  himself  the 
widower  of  Princess  Charlotte,  heiress 
to  the  throne  of  this  country,  Albert's 
and  my  uncle,  mamma's  brother,  one  of 
the  wisest  kings  in  Europe.  My  last  fear 
of  being  overcome  vanished  on  seeing 
Vicky's  quiet,  calm,  and  composed 
manner.  It  was  beautiful  to  see  her 
kneeling  with  Fritz,  their  hands  joined 
and  the  train  borne  by  the  eight  young 
ladies,  who  looked  like  a  cloud  of 
maidens  hovering  round  her,  as  they 
knelt  near  her.  Dearest  Albert  took 
her  by  the  hand  to  give  her  away, — 
my  beloved  Albert  (who,  I  saw,  felt  so 
strongly),  which  reminded  me  vividly 
of  having  in  the  same  way  proudly, 
tenderly,  confidently,  most  lovingly, 
knelt  by  him  on  this  very  same  spot, 
and  having  our  hands  joined  there." 

True  motherly  instinct  speaks 
here  in  every  line,  and  Mr  Martin 
has  done  well  to  make  so  liberal 
a  use  of  the  Queen's  journals 
at  this  interesting  juncture.  The 
Prince's  feelings  are  not  less  ten- 
derly recorded.  "I  do  not  trust 


myself  to  speak  of  Tuesday,"  he 
writes,  "on  which  day  we  are  to 
lose  her,"  the  day  which  the  Queen 
said  "  hangs  like  a  storm  above  us." 
The  parting,  however,  came  and 
went — bitter  enough,  no  doubt,  but 
still  supportable,  as  all  such  partings 
are  ;  and  presently  the  news  from 
Germany  of  the  enthusiastic  recep- 
tion which  the  newly-married  couple 
met  with,  all  along  their  route  to 
Berlin,  afforded  great  consolation. 
Prince  Frederick  William  was  able 
to  telegraph  a  few  days  after  their 
arrival  at  their  new  home,  "The 
whole  royal  family  is  delighted 
with  my  wife."  The  Princess's 
success  in  the  by  no  means  easy 
atmosphere  of  the  Berlin  Court 
was  remarkably  rapid,  and  her  in- 
tellectual qualities,  not  less  than 
her  amiability,  conciliated  general  re- 
gard, and  elicited  tributes  in  every 
direction,  which  her  father's  care  has 
lovingly  preserved.  The  Princess 
Eoyal  now  took  her  place  among 
those  correspondents  to  whom  the 
Prince  could  most  open  his  mind. 
His  anxiety  for  her  public  appear- 
ances, for  the  impression  which  she 
was  to  make  upon  people,  not  less 
than  for  the  happiness  of  her  domes- 
tic life,  partook  almost  of  woman- 
ly gentleness.  He  sets  himself  to 
guide  her  thoughts  away  from  the 
old  home-life  to  her  new  duties,  to 
warning  her  against  the  lassitude 
and  weariness  which  might  be  ex- 
pected to  follow  the  marriage  ex- 
citement and  festivities,  and  cau- 
tions her  about  the  necessity  for 
apportioning  time,  without  which 
she  would  never  succeed  in  ful- 
filling the  expectations  that  would 
be  entertained,  of  her.  Here  is  a 
piece  of  sound  advice,  by  which 
other  brides  as  well  as  princesses 
might  profit,  and  at  which  few  hus- 
bands, even  those  who  relish  least 
a  father  -  in  -  law's  advices,  will 
cavil : — 

"I  am  delighted  to  see,  by  your 


1879.] 


The  Life  of  the  Prince  Consort. 


625 


letter  of  the  24th,  that  you  deliberate 
greatly  upon  your  budget,  and  I  will 
be  most  happy  to  look  through  it  if 
you  will  send  it  to  me ;  this  is  the 
only  way  to  have  a  clear  idea  to  one's 
self  of  what  one  has,  spends,  and  ought 
to  spend.  As  this  is  a  business  of 
which  I  have  had  long  and  frequent 
experience,  1  will  give  you  one  rule 
for  your  guidance  in  it — viz.,  to  set 
apart  a  considerable  balance  pour 
rimprevu.  This  gentleman  is  the  cost- 
liest of  guests  in  life,  and  we  shall 
look  very  blank  if  we  have  nothing 
to  set  before  him.  .  .  .  Fate,  accident, 
time,  and  the  world,  care  very  little 
for  ( a  previous  estimate,'  but  ask 
for  their  due  with  rude  impetuosity. 
Later  retrenchments  to  meet  them  do 
not  answer,  because  the  demands  of 
ordinary  life  have  shaped  themselves 
a  good  deal  according  to  the  estimates, 
and  have  thus  acquired  a  legitimate 
power." 

He  also  exerted  himself  to  guide 
her  reading,  and  recommended  to 
her  the  books  which  had  given  him- 
self the  most  satisfaction.  Among 
Kingsley's  works,  the  '  Saint's  Tra- 
gedy '  particularly  impressed  him  ; 
and  he  writes  at  length  to  the 
Princess  Eoyal,  pointing  out  the 
beautiful  inner  meaning  that  under- 
lay the  story  of  Elizabeth  the  Saint. 
1  Barchester  Towers  '  was  another 
book  that  the  Prince  read  about 
this  time. 

"  All  novels  of  character,"  says  the 
biographer,  "  had  for  him  an  irresis- 
tible charm  ;  and  none,  therefore,  took 
a  greater  hold  upon  his  imagination 
and  memory  than  the  early  master- 
pieces of  George  Eliot,  with  which  he 
became  acquainted  a  few  months  after 
this  time.  He  revelled  in  her  hu- 
mour, and  the  sayings  of  Mrs  Poyser 
especially  were  often  on  his  lips,  and 
quoted  with  an  aptness  which  brought 
out  their  significance  with  added  force. 
So  highly  did  he  think  of  'Adam 
Bede'  that  he  sent  a  copy  of  it  to 
Baron  Stockmar  soon  after  it  was 
published.  '  It  will  amuse  you,'  he 
said  in  the  letter  sending  it, '  by  the 
fulness  and  variety  of  its  studies  of 
human  character.  By  this  study,  your 


favourite  one/  he  added,  '  I  find  my- 
self every  day  more  and  more  at- 
tracted.' " 

We  have  already  drawn  too  much 
from  Mr  Martin's  present  volume 
to  be  able  to  dwell  on  the  visit 
which  the  Queen  and  Prince  paid 
to  the  Princess  Eoyal  at  her  pretty 
home  of  Babelsberg,  near  Potsdam, 
or  to  extract  from  their  journals  an 
account  of  the  joyous  reunion  which 
then  took  place,  the  sights  which 
they  saw  together,  and  the  gratify- 
ing instances  which  they  everywhere 
witnessed  of  the  attachment  that 
their  daughter  was  inspiring.  Nor 
would  the  reader  thank  us  to  return 
to  internal  politics,  or  to  the  Prince's 
views  of  Lord  Ellenborough's  un- 
ruly conduct,  Lord  Clanricarde's  in- 
capacity, or  the  rivalry  between 
Lord  Palmerston  and  Lord  John 
Eussell  for  the  premiership.  Even 
the  Prince's  philanthropic  works, 
his  soldiers'  libraries,  his  plans  for 
the  promotion  of  art  and  education, 
his  presidency  of  the  British  Asso- 
ciation— all  fall  flat  upon  us  com- 
pared with  the  charming  and  natu- 
ral pictures  of  family  life  with 
which  we  have  just  been  dealing. 
These,  and  the  intercourse  with 
the  French  Emperor,  mainly  divide 
our  interest  in  the  present  volume. 

We  can  sincerely  congratulate 
Mr  Martin  on  having  carried  his 
difficult  task  another  step  nearer  to 
a  successful  end.  His  work  is  one 
that  will  serve  as  a  model  for  the 
Court  biographer,  while  the  tastes 
which  at  present  govern  English 
literature  maintain  their  ascend- 
ancy. He  has  swayed  to  neither 
the  side  of  adulation  nor  of  detrac- 
tion, nor  has  he  shrunk  from  adding 
his  honest  encomium  where  it  was 
due  through  fear  of  being  called 
a  flatterer.  Among  the  many  me- 
morials by  which  the  Prince  Con- 
sort is  kept  in  remembrance  amongst 
us,  there  will  be  none  more  worthy 
than  this  memoir. 


626 


The  Policy  of  the  Budget. 


[May 


THE  POLICY  OF  THE  BUDGET. 


THE  country  does  not  like  heroic 
Budgets,  unless  it  be  in  heroic 
times  ;  nor  does  it  approve  of  reck- 
less financial  jugglery,  like  that 
whereby  Mr  Lowe  made  a  large 
surplus  by  collecting  five  quarters' 
payment  of  the  Income-tax  in  a 
single  year.  In  the  judgment  of 
City  men  and  of  nine- tenths  of  the 
community,  the  prime  qualities  of 
a  good  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer 
are  sound  common  -  sense,  and  a 
steady  resolution  not  to  enfeeble  the 
policy  of  the  Cabinet  for  the  sake 
of  his  own  departmental  popularity ; 
and  these  are  valuable  qualitiesin  any 
Minister.  The  time  has  long  gone 
by  since  William  Pitt,  acting  alike 
as  Premier  and  as  Chancellor  of 
the  Exchequer,  laid  the  foundations 
of  our  far-reaching  colonial  empire, 
— employing  the  British  fleet  during 
the  great  war  in  acquiring  colonies 
and  settlements  for  the  British 
Crown,  including  the  Cape  of  Good 
Hope  and  the  rich  sugar-islands  of 
the  Antilles, — at  the  same  time 
binding  them  to  the  parent  State 
by  ties  of  common  interest,  in  the 
shape  of  the  "differential  duties," 
whereby  these  widespread  settle- 
ments or  dependencies  opened  their 
ports  to  British  manufactures,  while 
we  opened  ours  to  their  valuable  pro- 
duce. That  system,  which  was  an 
imperial  British  Zollverein,  has  long 
passed  away,  crumbled  into  the  dust 
under  "Eree  Trade;"  and  now, 
while  all  of  these  colonies  remain, 
in  grander  growth  than  ever,  every 
one  of  them  which  is  strong  enough 
to  do  so  shuts  its  ports  against  our 
manufactures,  and  treats  us  just  as 
we  treat  them — viz.,  as  parts  of  the 
world  at  large. 

Since  that  change  was  accom- 
plished, the  sphere  of  the  Chancellor 
of  the  Exchequer's  operations  is 
entirely  restricted  to  domestic  mat- 


ters. He  has  to  keep  square  the 
national  balance-sheet,  without  any 
policy  towards  foreign  countries  or 
our  own  colonies  and  settlements. 
When  more  money  is  needed,  he 
has  to  say  upon  what  tax  or  taxes 
the  increase  ought  to  be  laid;  when 
the  Budget  is  overflowing,  he  has 
the  agreeable  task  of  choosing  as  to 
which  part  of  our  taxation  is  to  be 
reduced.  This  latter  and  agreeable 
condition  of  affairs  has  been  pre- 
dominant during  the  last  quarter  of 
a  century ;  yet  it  is  marvellous  to 
remember  how  many  a  fierce  battle 
has  been  fought  in  Parliament  even 
over  such  reductions  !  Whether  a 
halfpenny  should  be  taken  off  paper 
or  a  penny  taken  off  sugar, — such- 
like questions  have  been  debated 
and  contested  with  as  much  acri- 
mony as  if  the  imperial  fortunes  of 
the  country  were  at  stake,  and  at 
times  when  the  growth  of  the  rev- 
enue was  such  that  the  question 
was  merely  which  of  these  reduc- 
tions should  be  taken  off  first.  No 
more  striking  proof  than  these 
Budget  fights  could  be  given  of  the 
rampant  state  of  purely  party  spirit 
among  us — of  the  excited  war  be- 
tween the  "ins  and  the  outs." 
And  this  year  will  be  marked 
by  another  Budget  fight,  which 
doubtless  will  have  come  to  an  end 
before  these  pages  are  published. 
It  has  been  cynically  said  that  "  the 
duty  of  her  Majesty's  Opposition  is 
to  oppose ; "  and  in  this  case  there 
can  be  no  doubt  as  to  what  the 
Opposition  have  to  complain  of. 
They  would  like  the  Government 
to  make  itself  unpopular  by  impos- 
ing additional  taxation ;  and,  hap- 
pily for  themselves  and  the  nation, 
the  Government  find  it  quite  un- 
necessary so  to  do.  The  Op- 
position, of  course,  must  be  wary 
in  their  tactics.  The  unpopularity 


1879.] 


The  Policy  of  the  Budget. 


627 


which  they  desire  to  cast  upon  the 
Government  would  attach  to  them- 
selves were  they  to  tahle  a  resolu- 
tion demanding  that  a  penny  should 
be  added  to  the  Income-tax  or  six- 
pence to  the  duty  on  tea.  But  in 
vehement  hut  vague  terms  they  will 
assert  that  the  Government  is  de- 
stroying the  national  credit  and  im- 
perilling the  national  fortunes.  The 
country,  however,  will  look  on  very 
placidly.  People  do  not  see  why 
they  should  pay  more  taxes  unless 
more  money  is  obviously  wanted ; 
and  at  the  worst,  they  know  that 
even  if  the  Ministerial  estimates  he 
wrong  by  a  million  sterling,  a  penny 
on  the  Income-tax  next  year  would 
much  more  than  cover  the  deficit. 
Why  should  they  be  called  upon 
to  pay  more  taxation  speculatively, 
when,  at  the  worst,  the  balance  can 
be  made  straight  a  year  hence? 
Such  must  be  the  sentiment  even 
of  those  persons  —  and  doubtless 
they  are  many — who  have  not  ex- 
amined the  national  balance-sheet ; 
but,  as  we  shall  show,  so  far  from 
the  national  finances  having  been 
impaired  under  the  present  Govern- 
ment— so  far  from  a  deficit  having 
grown  up  during  the  current  and 
two  past  years — considerably  more 
debt  has  been  paid  off  than  has  been 
incurred.  The  national  finances 
will  actually  be  in  a  much  better 
state  at  the  end  of  the  present  year 
than  when  the  so-called  deficit  be- 
gan, by  the  Vote  of  Credit  for  six 
millions,  in  the  financial  year 
1877-78. 

"  Cowardice "  is  the  charge 
brought  against  the  Government 
for  their  present  Budget.  They 
are  accused  of  political  poltroonery 
and  popularity-seeking  because  they 
have  not  augmented  the  revenue. . 
Yet  it  has  been  the  very  courage 
and  patriotic  firmness  of  the  Govern- 
ment in  their  past  dealings  with  the 
national  finances  that  enables  them 
to  tide  over  the  present  difficulty 
without  augmenting  the  revenue  at 


a  time  when  any  addition  to  the 
taxation  would  be  severely  felt. 
The  Government  are  now  reaping 
the  just  reward  of  their  courage  in 
the  past.  Hardly  had  Sir  Stafford 
Northcote  become  firmly  seated  as 
Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  than 
he  turned  his  attention  to  the 
National  Debt,  and  revived,  in 
hardly  altered  form,  the  Sinking 
Fund  as  established  by  Pitt, — 
which  is  really  the  only  shape  in 
which  a  systematic  reduction  of  the 
National  Debt  can  be  effected. 
What  brought  the  old  Sinking 
Fund  into  discredit  was  the  un- 
broken extraordinary  expenditure 
for  the  war  with  France,  which 
immediately  followed  Mr  Pitt's 
patriotic  scheme  ;  and  undoubtedly 
the  Sinking  Fund  can  only  operate 
beneficially  when  there  is  no  long- 
continued  extraordinary  expendi- 
ture. Looking  back  upon  the  period 
of  golden  prosperity  now  past,  but 
which  the  country  enjoyed  for  full 
twenty  years,  one  cannot  but  regret 
that  the  Liberal  Ministries,  then  in 
office,  did  not  revive  the  Sinking 
Fund  during  that  singularly  pros- 
perous epoch,  instead  of  seeking 
popularity  by  dispensing  surpluses 
to  a  generation  that  could  have 
well  afforded  to  devote  the  yearly 
increment  of  the  revenue  to  a  re- 
duction of  the  permanent  Debt. 
Under  far  less  favourable  circum- 
stances a  Conservative  Government 
has  patriotically  re-established  the 
Sinking  Fund  as  part  of  the  annual 
Budget ;  and  they  can  now  appeal 
to  the  results  of  that  policy  in  any 
discussion  or  review  of  the  present 
financial  condition  of  the  country. 
This  was  one  act  of  courage,  of 
which  they  are  now  fairly  reaping 
the  benefit. 

A  year  ago  they  displayed  similar 
courage  in  dealing  with  the  annual 
Eevenue.  It  was  indispensable  to 
withstand  the  tide  of  Muscovite 
conquest  in  Turkey,  and  the  Gov- 
ernment certainly  showed  no  "  cow- 


628 


The  Policy  of  the  Budget. 


[May 


ardice  "  in  appealing  to  the  country 
on  the  subject  by  a  bold  increase  of 
the  taxation.  The  Vote  of  Credit 
for  six  millions  represented  the  sum. 
then  required  for  extraordinary  ex- 
penditure. Eussia  was  at  the  very 
gates  of  Constantinople, — an  unex- 
pected peril,  which  it  was  impossi- 
ble to  foresee,  or  financially  prepare 
for,  until  it  actually  occurred  in  the 
closing  weeks  of  the  year  1877-78  ; 
therefore,  for  that  year,  they  had  to 
meet  the  danger  by  a  vote  of  credit. 
But  was  there  any  cowardice  on 
their  part  when  the  next  Budget 
was  brought  forward?  The  whole 
sum  expected  to  be  required  was 
£6,000,000  (the  whole  actual  ex- 
penditure has  been  only  a  trifle 
more),  yet  the  Government  laid  on 
new  taxation  to  the  extent  of  no 
less  than  £4,350,000  !  The  two- 
pence added  to  the  Income-tax  was 
estimated  to  produce  (and  has  pro- 
duced) at  the  rate  of  £3,600,000; 
and  the  increase  of  the  tobacco  duty 
was  expected  to  yield  £750,000, 
although  it  has  barely  yielded 
£500,000.  Thus,  taken  at  the 
lowest,  the  Government  a  year  ago 
met  an  exceptional  expenditure  of 
£6,000,000,  by  increasing  the  an- 
nual revenue  by  fully  £4,000,000. 
Surely  there  was  no  want  of  cour- 
age then  !  Indeed,  the  addition 
thus  made  to  the  taxation  of  the 
kingdom  was  so  large,  compared  to 
the  exceptional  expenditure  which 
had  to  be  met,  that  it  might,  arid 
doubtless  would,  have  been  justly 
objected  to,  but  for  the  possibility, 
then  apparent  to  all  thinking  men, 
that  the  six  millions  might  require 
to  be  largely  added  to.  As  we  re- 
marked at  the  time,  the  Government 
were  "  preparing  for  the  worst." 
They  did  not  court  popularity  by 
shirking  their  responsibility  as  lead- 
ers of  the  nation.  They  manfully 
faced  the  extraordinary  expenditure 
to  the  fullest  extent.  And  in  this 
case  the  classic  adage,  which  Lord 
Beaconsfield  has  taken  as  his  motto 


— Fortuna  favet  fortibus — has  stood 
his  Cabinet  in  good  stead.  The 
possible  danger  and  expenditure 
which  they  prepared  for  did  not 
come — the  six  millions  were  enough 
for  their  purpose — but  new  and  un- 
foreseeable troubles  and  expenditure 
have  arisen  in  an  unexpected  quarter : 
and  the  Affghan  and  Zulu  wars  have 
unfortunately  succeeded  to  the  dan- 
ger which  we  had  to  face  from  Eus- 
sian  ambition. 

This  exceptional  or  "extraordi- 
nary" expenditure,  which  extends 
over  the  current  and  two  past  years, 
is  stated  by  the  Chancellor  of  the 
Exchequer  as  follows  :  In  connec- 
tion with  the  Eusso-Turkish  war, 
£6,125,000;  for  the  Transkei  war 
with  the  Kaffirs,  which  began  in 
August  1877,  £592,000;  for  the 
Zulu  war,  £1,559,000  already  ex- 
pended, and  a  further  sum,  roughly 
estimated  at  £1,300,000,  requisite 
to  bring  that  war  to  a  successful 
close, — making  a  total  extraordinary 
expenditure  throughout  these  three 
years  of  nine  and  a  half  millions 
sterling.  As  to  the  necessity  for 
this  expenditure  there  is  no  ques- 
tion. The  country  is  unanimous  on 
the  subject.  Nor  is  any  part  of  this 
expenditure  objected  to  by  the  Op- 
position. But  the  manner  in  which 
the  unliquidated  portion  of  this  ex- 
traordinary expenditure  is  to  be 
paid  off,  and  the  policy  involved  in 
the  Ministerial  plan,  give  to  the 
present  Budget  its  characteristic 
features  :  and  it  is  to  this  point  that 
we  shall  chiefly  direct  our  remarks. 

But,  first,  we  must  briefly  show 
the  state  of  the  Ordinary  expendi- 
ture and  revenue.  The  figures  for 
the  past  year  prove  once  more  the 
unusual  accuracy  with  which  Sir 
Stafford  Northcote  frames  his  Bud- 
get estimates.  Excluding  the  to- 
bacco-duty, the  taxes  in  the  aggre- 
gate have  somewhat  exceeded  the 
estimate  made  of  their  productive- 
ness ;  but,  owing  to  the  tobacco- 
duty  having  fallen  greatly  short  of 


1879.] 


The  Policy  of  the  Budget. 


629- 


the  estimate,  there  is  a  slight  short- 
coming in  the  total  actual  re- 
ceipts, which  have  amounted:  to 
£83,116,000,  or  £114,000  less  than 
the  estimate  made  in  April  1878. 
For  the  current  year,  the  taxation 
remaining  unaltered,  the  revenue  is 
estimated  at  £83,055,000  ;  and  the 
Ordinary  expenditure  is  fixed  at 
£81,153,573  :  so  that,  under  ordi- 
nary circumstances,  there  would  be 
a  surplus  of  nearly  two  millions. 
As  regards  this  part  of  the  case —  viz., 
the  amount  of  revenue  and  of  Or- 
dinary expenditure  for  the  present 
year — it  cannot  be  doubted  that  the 
estimates  of  the  Chancellor  of  the 
Exchequer  are  very  prudent  and 
cautious.  From  the  figures  above 
given,  it  may  be  thought  that  the 
estimated  diminution  in  the  produc- 
tiveness of  the  taxes,  owing  to  the 
unfortunate  depression  of  trade,  is 
only  £96,000;  but  the  diminution 
allowed  for  is  really  much  greater. 
Last  year  only  five-sixths  of  the  ad- 
dition made  to  the  Income-tax  could 
be  collected— viz.,  £3,000,000,  out 
of  the  £3,600,000  ;  whereas  the 
entire  addition  comes  into  opera- 
tion this  year, — making  an  addi- 
tion to  the  produce  of  the  taxes  to 
the  extent  of  £600,000  as  estimated 
a  year  ago,  but  which  the  Chan- 
cellor of  the  Exchequer  now  esti- 
mates at  £520,000.  This  sum  has 
to  be  added  to  the  £96,000  by 
which  the  Revenue  this  year  is 
estimated  to  fall  short  of  its  pro- 
duce last  year  :  so  that  the  diminu- 
tion in  the  produce  of  the  taxes 
allowed  for  by  the  Chancellor  of 
the  Exchequer  is  really  £616,000. 
Such  an  estimate  of  the  Revenue  is 
certainly  a  very  moderate  one,  even 
if  the  present  depression  of  trade 
should  continue  throughout  the  year. 
The  estimate  of  the  Ordinary  expen- 
diture is  equally  safe.  It  must  be 
remembered  that  a  year  ago  an  un- 
usually large  addition  (£1,700,000) 
was  made  to  the  Ordinary  expendi- 
ture of  the  State  :  partly  for  the 


sake  of  putting  the  Army  and  Navy 
on  a  more  efficient  footing,  but 
chiefly  to  meet  new  charges  for 
the  Civil  Service,  the  department 
which  is  the  main  source  of  increase 
in  the  national  expenditure.  In- 
cluding the  increase  for  this  depart- 
ment made  last  year  (£800,000),  the 
charges  for  the  Civil  Service  have 
risen  no  less  than  £3, 375, 000  above 
what  they  were  in  1874 ;  and  there 
is  a  further  increase  this  year  to  the 
extent  of  £110,000.  Considering 
these  large  additions  recently  made, 
it  may  fairly  be  assumed  that  the 
Ordinary  expenditure  has  reached 
its  full  limits  for  some  time  to 
come.  Taking  all  the  circum- 
stances into  account,  the  Budget 
estimates  of  this  year,  both  for  the 
revenue  and  for  the  Ordinary  expen- 
diture, may  be  safely  relied  upon  ; 
and  they  show,  apart  from  the  ex- 
traordinary expenditure,  a  sure  sur- 
plus of  nearly  two  millions — the 
exact  sum,  as  estimated,  being 
£1,900,000. 

This  surplus  may  safely  be  reck- 
oned upon  to  cover  the  "  extraor- 
dinary" expenditure  of  the  present 
year, — which  is  required  for  settling 
matters  with  King  Cetewayo,  and 
bringing  the  Zulu  war  to  a  success- 
ful conclusion.  How  far  it  will  do 
more  than  this  cannot  be  determined 
with  any  certainty.  The  Chancellor 
of  the  Exchequer  conjectures  that 
£1,300,000  of  further  expenditure 
this  year  will  suffice  for  the  Zulu 
war ;  in  which  case  there  will  be 
£600,000  available  for  paying  a 
portion  of  the  existing  deficit,  or 
unliquidated  part  of  the  past  extra- 
ordinary expenditure.  Anyhow, 
the  present  year's  extraordinary 
expenditure  will  be  fully  covered 
by  the  produce  of  the  taxes.  There 
is  no  question  as  to  not  meeting 
the  entire  expenditure,  both  ordi- 
nary and  extraordinary,  for  the 
current  year  :  these,  we  repeat,  will 
be  paid  out  of  current  revenue,  be- 
sides leaving  a  surplus  of  some 


630 


'The  Policy  of  the  Budget. 


[May 


kind,  whether  it  be  £600,000  or 
mt.  The  sole  point  at  issue,  then 
— and  the  all-important  one  as  re- 
gards the  present  Budget — relates 
to  the  paying-off  of  the  outstanding 
or  still  unliquidated  portion  of  the 
extraordinary  expenditure  incurred 
in  the  two  previous  years. 

In  considering  this  question,  it 
must  be  borne  in  mind  that  this 
extraordinary  expenditure,  although 
belonging  to  two  years,  under  any 
circumstances  could  only  have  been 
paid  off,  or  defrayed  by  taxation, 
daring  the  year  just  closed.  Three 
and  a-half  millions  were  required 
unexpectedly,  and  had  to  be  spent 
suddenly,  in  connection  with  the 
Russo-Turkish  war,  at  the  very 
close  of  the  year  1877-78,  for  which 
no  preparation  could  possibly  have 
been  made  by  taxation  ;  yet  against 
this  extraordinary  expenditure  there 
was  £860,000,  which  would  other- 
wise have  been  a  surplus,  really  re- 
ducing the  uncovered  portion  of  this 
expenditure  on  31st  March  1878  to 
£2,640,000.*  Accordingly,  nothing 
can  be  said  against  the  first  year 
of  this  extraordinary  expenditure — 
viz.,  1877-78.  Last  year,  instead  of 
starting  with  a  surplus  of  £860,000, 
as  would  have  been  the  case  but 
for  the  extraordinary  expenditure, 
began  with  the  above-mentioned 
deficit,  together  with  a  known  ex- 
penditure for  the  remainder  of  the 
six  millions  requisite  for  opposing 
Russia — i.e.,  2  J  millions  (but  which 
proved  to  be  £2,625,000), — making 
the  foreseeable  extraordinary  liabili- 
ties for  the  year  as  nearly  as  may 
be,  £5,150,000.  This  is  the  most 
unfavourable  shape  for  the  Gov- 
ernment in  which  the  case  can 
possibly  be  stated  :  for,  as  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  instead  of  the  whole 


remainder  (2|  millions)  of  the  Vote 
of  Credit  being  included  in  the 
year's  estimates,  it  was  thought 
that  £1,500,000  would  be  the  out- 
side extraordinary  expenditure. 
But,  as  above  stated,  the  total  ex- 
penditure "in  connection  with  the 
Russo  -  Turkish  war"  slightly  ex- 
ceeded the  original  estimate  as 
represented  by  the  Vote  of  Credit ; 
and  we  do  not  see  that  the  Govern- 
ment were  justified  in  framing  a 
lower  estimate  for  this  expenditure 
in  their  last  year's  Budget.  But, 
even  trying  the  Budget  of  1878-79 
by  this  severest  test, — even  suppos- 
ing that  it  had  been  framed  to  meet 
an  extraordinary  expenditure  of 
fully  a  million  more  than  was  -ac- 
tually estimated — that  is,  inclusive 
of  the  deficit  on  the  previous  year, 
£5,150,000, — the  financial  prepara- 
tions of  the  Government  did  not 
err  on  the  side  of  inadequacy. 
They  imposed  additional  taxation, 
estimated  to  produce  within  the 
year  £3,750,000  (and  which  ac- 
tually yielded  about  £3,770,000 1), 
and  which  in  the  subsequent  years 
would  produce  about  £600,000 
more.  This  cannot  be  said  to  have 
been  an  inadequate  preparation  for 
the  extraordinary  expenditure  as 
then  known  or  foreseeable ;  nor  did 
even  the  most  captious  critic  of  the 
Budget  last  year  regard  the  Minis- 
terial preparations  as  inadequate. 
Unfortunately,  the  financial  arrange- 
ments of  the  Government  were  in- 
terrupted and  temporarily  upset  by 
the  Transkei  and  Zulu  wars,  necessi- 
tating a  further  extraordinary  ex- 
penditure of  3  J  millions,  of  which 
sum  £2,150,000  have  been  already 
spent.  In  this  way  the  deficit  has 
been  raised  to  five  millions,  while 
its  liquidation  during  the  current 


*  The  sum  borrowed,  by  the  issue  of  Exchequer  bills,  at  the  close  of  1877-78  was 
£2,750,000,  but  £110,000  in  cash  was  carried  forward  to  the  credit  of  the  ensuing 
year. 

t  The  taxes,  as  they  stood  on  31st  March  1878,  were  estimated  by  the  Chancellor 
of  the  Exchequer  to  yield  £79,460,000  :  the  revenue  during  the  past  year  was  esti- 
mated to  yield  £83,230,000,  or  £3,770,000  as  the  produce  of  the  additional  taxation. 


1879.] 


The  Policy  of  the  Budget. 


631 


year  is  obstructed  by  the  £1,300,000 
which  has  still  to  be  expended  in 
bringing  King  Cetewayo  to  terms. 

The  existing  deficit  of  five  mil- 
lions has  been  temporarily  met  by 
an  issue  of  Exchequer  bonds  to 
that  amount  j  and  as  no  one  desires 
that  this  sum  should  be  funded, 
or  added  to  the  National  Debt,  the 
question  is,  How,  or  at  what  time, 
is  it  best  for  the  interests  of  the 
country  that  these  Exchequer  bonds 
should  be  paid  off1?  Upon  this 
point  the  Chancellor  of  the  Ex- 
chequer expressed  his  general  views 
as  follows  : — 

"  I  hold  that  the  true  principle  of 
finance  is,  that  you  ought  in  ordinary 
years  to  maintain  a  good  surplus  of 
revenue  over  expenditure  —  sufficient 
not  only  to  provide  for  the  expendi- 
ture, but  also  to  leave  a  margin  for  the 
reduction  of  the  National  Debt.  I  hold 
that  you  ought  to  make  your  taxation 
as  little  fluctuating  as  3*011  possibly 
can  ;  that  you  ought  not  to  be  in  a 
hurry,  when  you  get  an  accidental  sur- 
plus, to  give  it  away  ;  and  that  when 
you  have  an  accidental  deficit,  you 
ought  not  to  be  in  a  hurry  to  put  it 
on  taxation.  I  think  that  frequent 
fluctuations  in  our  small  number  of 
taxes  is  very  much  to  be  deprecated. 
We  must  always  bear  in  mind  that  the 
finance  of  this  country  now  depends 
upon  a  very  small  number  of  sources 
of  revenue,  and  that  it  is  not  convenient 
or  safe  either  to  give  away  revenue  or 
to  be  continually  putting  up  and  down 
those  taxes  which  we  have  still  in  use. 

.  .  Adding  to  our  articles  of  con- 
sumption, if  it  is  only  done  for  a  short 
time — say  for  a  year  or  two — deranges 
trade  and  causes  agitation  and  a  great 
deal  of  disturbance  without  any  ade- 
quate result.  When  you  see  that  your 
revenue  is  permanently  too  low  for 
your  permanent  expenditure,  it  is 
comparatively  easy  to  add  duties  which 
will  have  to  be  kept  on,  and  to  which 
trade  will  accommodate  itself.  But 
when  you  have  to  provide  for  only 
one  or  two  years,  I  think  that  would 
be  inconvenient." 

Acting  upon  these  principles  or 
considerations,  the  Chancellor  of 
the  Exchequer  declines  to  add  to 


the  taxation,  and  prefers  to  leave 
the  deficit  to  be  gradually,  but 
promptly,  cleared  off  by  the  pro- 
duce of  the  taxes  now  in  force,  and 
which,  so  far  as  can  be  foreseen, 
will  suffice  to  pay  off  £600,000 
during  the  current  year,  despite 
the  extraordinary  expenditure  of 
£1,300,000  for  bringing  the  Zulu 
war  to*  a  conclusion. 

As  a  general  proposition,  the 
principle  laid  down  by  the  Chan- 
cellor of  the  Exchequer  in  the 
above  -  quoted  sentences  cannot  be 
objected  to  —  namely,  that  extra- 
ordinary expenditure  should  be 
treated  as  such,  and  not  necessarily 
wiped  off  by  an  immediate  imposi- 
son  of  more  taxation,  at  the  cost  of 
seriously  and  needlessly  disturbing 
our  fiscal  system.  But  the  question 
is,  Is  this  principle  applicable  to  the 
present  case?  In  considering  this 
matter,  we  must  take  into  account 
the  condition  of  the  country,  and 
also  the  state  of  the  national  fin- 
ances. Under  the  present  lament- 
able depression  of  trade,  all  parties 
must  be  agreed  that  it  would  be 
highly  injudicious  and  unstatesman- 
like  to  impose  fresh  taxation,  ex- 
cept under  the  pressure  of  actual 
necessity.  And  when  we  turn  to 
the  other  element  for  consideration 
— viz.,  the  state  of  the  national  fin- 
ances, it  certainly  appears  to  us 
that  no  such  necessity  exists.  The 
existing  revenue,  under  the  most 
cautious  estimate,  exceeds  the  Or- 
dinary expenditure  by  nearly  two 
millions, — which  will  yield  a  sur- 
plus to  this  amount  as  soon  as  the 
present  extraordinary  expenditure 
terminates  (which  it  will  do  during 
the  current  year),  whereby  the  de- 
ficit of  five  millions  will  soon  be 
extinguished.  Indeed,  as  already 
stated,  some  portion  of  the  deficit 
will  be  paid  off  in  this  manner  even 
during  the  current  year. 

But  this  is  only  one-half  of  the 
case  in  favour  of  the  Chancellor  of 
the  Exchequer's  proposals.  Besides 


632 


The  Polinj  of  the  Budget. 


[May 


the  favourable  condition  of  the 
Revenue,  the  Sinking  Fund  must 
likewise  be  taken  into  account. 
Contemporaneously  with  the  ex- 
traordinary expenditure,  which  has 
occasioned  a  certain  amount  of 
borrowing,  the  Sinking  Fund  has 
been  largely  reducing  the  funded 
portion,  or  main  body,  of  the  Na- 
tional Debt.  During  the  ,  three 
years  over  which  the  extraordinary 
expenditure  extends,  the  Funded 
Debt  has  been  reduced  as  follows  : 
At  the  beginning  of  the  year  1877-78 
the  Funded  Debt  and  Annuities 
stood  at  £761,930,913;  on  31st 
March  last  it  stood  at  £752,180,246, 
—  a  reduction  of  9J  millions. 
Against  this  has  to  be  set  the  in- 
crease which  has  contemporaneously 
occurred  in  the  Unfunded  portion 
of  the  Debt,  in  which  the  Ex- 
chequer bonds  are  included.  Two 
years  ago  (on  31st  March  1877) 
the  Unfunded  Debt  stood  at 
£13,943,800,  at  present  it  stands 
at  £25,870,100,— showing  ari  in- 
crease of  £11,926,300.  Of  this 
increase,  however,  £2,565,816  last 
year,  and  £3,975,064  in  1877-78, 
represents  loans  made  to  local 
bodies  for  public  works,  on  which 
interest  is  paid  to  the  Government, 
and  which  constitute  no  real  part 
of  the  National  Debt.  The  real 
increase,  therefore,  in  the  Unfunded 
Debt  is  £5,405,530  :  deducting 
which  sum  from  the  amount  of  the 
Funded  Debt  paid  off  by  the  Sink- 
ing Fund,  we  find  a  nett  reduction 
of  the  National  Debt,  during  these 
two  past  years  of  extraordinary  ex- 
penditure, of  £3,347,000.  Further, 
during  the  present  year,  according  to 
the  estimates  of  the  Chancellor  of  the 
Exchequer,  the  surplus  (£1,900,000) 
will  suffice  to  complete  the  extraor- 
dinary expenditure,  and  pay  off 
some  £600,000  of  the  Exchequer 
bonds  besides.  But  even  say  that 
the  revenue  this  year  will  simply 
cover  the  whole  expenditure,  it 


must  be  remembered  that  upwards 
of  five  millions  of  debt  will  be  paid 
off  by  the  Sinking  Fund.  And 
thus,  during  these  three  years  of 
extraordinary  expenditure  ending 
on  31st  March  next,  the  debt  of 
the  country  as  a  whole  will  have 
been  reduced  by  about  £8,500,000. 
In  short,  while  meeting  the  entire 
cost  of  our  wars  and  military  pre- 
parations, the  Government  has  also 
made  a  very  considerable  reduction 
of  the  National  Debt;  and  the  exist- 
ing revenue-deficit  of  five  millions 
is  no  addition  to  the  Debt  at  all, 
but  only  a  deduction  from  a  larger 
sum  simultaneously  paid  off. 

It  is  worth  noticing  the  circum- 
stances under  which  this  so-called 
deficit  has  arisen.  Alike  in  the 
present  and  in  the  two  previous 
Budgets,  the  Government  provided 
taxation  considerably  in  excess  of 
the  entire  known  or  anticipated 
expenditure  for  the  ensuing  year. 
The  deficit  has  arisen  solely  from 
unforeseeable  events ;  and  the  anti- 
cipated surpluses  in  each  year  have 
largely  met  a  very  large  portion  of 
this  extraordinary  and  unforeseen 
expenditure.  Inl877-78,£860,000 
were  available  from  the  taxation  for 
the  extraordinary  expenditure  of 
that  year ;  last  year,  fully  two 
millions  (the  excess  of  the  revenue 
over  the  Ordinary  expenditure)  were 
provided  from  taxation  for  a  like 
purpose ;  and  in  the  present  year, 
£1,900,000  from  the  taxation  will 
be  disposed  of  in  the  same  manner. 
Thus,  unforeseeable  at  the  outset  of 
each  year  as  the  whole  or  greater 
part  of  this  extraordinary  expen- 
diture has  been,  no  less  than  4f 
millions  of  it  will  have  been  paid 
out  of  taxation  before  the  present 
financial  year  terminates.  Add  to 
these  4J  millions  the  nett  reduc- 
tion of  the  Debt  contemporaneous- 
ly effected  by  the  Sinking  Fund, 
amounting  to  about  8J  millions,  and 
it  will  be  seen  that  the  entire  extra- 


1879.' 


The  Policy  of  the  Budget. 


633 


ordinary  expenditure  during  the 
current  and  two  past  years,  which 
will  amount  to  9J  millions,  is  de- 
frayed out  of  contemporaneous  tax- 
ation, and  some  3  J  millions  besides. 
This,  in  substance,  is  the  true  posi- 
tion of  the  matter,  and  it  shows 
how  well  the  national  credit,  and 
the  state  of  the  finances,  have  been 
attended  to  by  the  present  Govern- 
ment. 

The  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer 
has  acted  wisely  and  ably,  and  his 
Budget  stands  upon  sure  and  strong 
grounds. 

The  "  via  media "  by  which  he 
proposes  to  deal  with  the  Deficit 
is  entirely  in  accordance  with  the 
plan  which  he  propounded  a  year 
ago,  and  to  which  no  one  at  that 
time  took  objection.  If  this  via 
media  be  objected  to — if  the  Deficit 
were  not  allowed  to  be  extinguished 
gradually  by  means  of  safe  surpluses 
from  the  present  taxation — what  are 
the  alternatives  1  To  impose  fresh 
taxation  for  this  purpose,  at  a  time 
when  the  ordinary  revenue  is  two 
millions  in  excess  of  the  Ordinary 
expenditure,  would  surely  be  a  most 
needless,  and,  in  the  circumstances 
of  the  country,  a  most  objectionable 
disturbance  of  our  fiscal  system; 
and  in  two  or  three  years  hence 
would  produce  a  large  surplus  which 
would  much  better  have  remained 
in  the  pockets  of  the  people.  And 
why,  also,  this  haste  and  irritating 
disturbance  of  the  taxation  at  a 
time  when,  apart  from  the  excess 
of  revenue  over  Ordinary  expendi- 
ture, the  Sinking  Fund  is  in  opera- 
tion, making  each  year  an  important 
reduction  of  the  debt  of  the  country  3 
An  increase  of  taxation  under  such 
circumstances  would  really  be  pre- 
posterous, and,  however  much  the 
Opposition  may  inveigh  against  the 
Ministerial  plan  in  general  terms, 
we  shall  be  astonished  if  any  mem- 
ber venture  to  propose  any  addition 
to  the  present  taxes. 


The  other  alternative  is  to  sus- 
pend the  Sinking  Fund.  No  one 
questions  that  there  is  no  good  in 
paying  off  debt  with  one  hand  while 
contracting  an  equal  amount  of  debt 
with  the  other;  and,  as  we  have 
already  said,  it  is  vain  to  uphold  a 
Sinking  Fund  under  a  long  con- 
tinuance of  extraordinary  expendi- 
ture. But  shall  we  abandon  the 
Sinking  Fund  merely  to  meet  an 
expenditure  which  will  terminate 
during  the  current  year  1  After 
having  established,  and  been  proud 
of  establishing,  this  machinery  for 
systematically  reducing  the  Na- 
tional Debt,  are  we  to  fling  it  away 
on  the  first  slight  provocation,  al- 
most as  pettishly  as  a  child  flings 
away  a  toy  1  "We  do  not  for  a 
moment  believe  that  Parliament 
will  listen  to  such  a  proposal.  Let 
circumstances  of  commensurate  mag- 
nitude arise,  and  we  shall  acquiesce 
at  once  in  a  suspension  of  the  Sink- 
ing Fund ;  but  we  cannot  see  that 
any  such  circumstances  at  present 
exist,  and  we  think  that  the  aban- 
donment of  the  recently  established 
Sinking  Fund  would  be  not  only  a 
mistake,  but  a  most  grievous  error. 
Were  we  to  part  with  it  upon  such 
slight  provocation,  under  what  pos- 
sible circumstances  could  we  hope 
to  see  it  re-established  1 

Hitherto  we  have  made  no  men- 
tion of  the  temporary  Loan  of  two 
millions,  without  interest,  to  the 
Indian  Government.  The  Loan  is 
to  be  repaid  in  small  instal- 
ments spread  over  seven  years, 
or  at  the  rate  of  about  £300,000 
per  annum,  beginning  next  year. 
In  some  quarters  it  is  maintained 
that  this  Loan  ought  to  be  treated 
as  part  of  the  actual  Government 
expenditure,  and  therefore  added  to 
the  Deficit.  But  the  very  form  of 
the  Loan  shows  that  it  is  designed 
for  some  unusual  purpose  ;  and  that 
purpose  is,  to  lessen  the  grievous 
annual  loss  to  the  Indian  Govern- 


634 


The  Policy  of  the  Budget. 


[May 


merit  owing  to  the  fall  in  the  value 
of  silver.  The  Indian  Government 
is  always  largely  indebted  to  the 
Home  Government  for  stores  and 
services,  called  the  "Home  Charges," 
and  which  vary  in  amount  from  ten 
to  sixteen  millions.  Our  Govern- 
ment pays  for  these  charges  in  the 
first  instance,  and  then  repays  itself 
by  drawing  bills  upon  India.  These 
bills,  or  "  Council  Drafts,"  are  pay- 
able in  silver,  and  therefore  are 
equivalent  to  silver ;  so  that,  when 
offered  for  sale  in  the  market,  they 
have  the  same  effect  as  if  ten  or  six- 
teen millions  of  silver  were  yearly 
added  to  the  world's  stock  of  that 
metal.  In  this  way,  and  chiefly 
from  this  cause,  the  value  of  silver 
compared  to  gold  has  greatly  fallen 
of  late  years, — producing  a  heavy 
loss  to  the  Indian  Government  with- 
out the  slightest  advantage  to  the 
Home  Government.  This  disastrous 
state  of  matters  will  be  remedied 
in  proportion  as  the  amount  of  the 
Council  Drafts  is  reduced,  and  this 
loan  of  £2,000,000  will,  of  course, 
lessen  the  issue  of  these  drafts  to  a 
like  amount.  The  remedial  effect, 
it  is  true,  will  be  small ;  but  it  is 
all  that  can  be  done  at  present,  and 
it  is  worth  doing.  To  treat  the 
sum  thus  temporarily  lent  to  India 
as  actual  expenditure  is,  per  se,  pre- 
posterous. But  it  is  maintained  in 
some  quarters  that  this  loan  will 
never  be  repaid,  and  is  not  really 
meant  to  be  repaid ;  and  that  it  is 
neither  more  nor  less  than  a  portion 
of  the  costs  of  the  ^ffghan  war, 
which  ought  properly  to  be  borne 
by  this  country  ;  and  that  this  view 
of  the  matter  will  be  acknowledged 
by  the  Government  as  soon  as  it  is 
convenient  for  them  to  do  so.  That 
this  may  be  the  issue  we  shall  not 
question;  but  undoubtedly  this  is 
not  the  character  of  the  transaction 
with  which  we  have  to  deal,  as  pre- 
sented in  the  Budget.  Moreover, 


even  if  this  loan  be  ultimately  con- 
verted into  a  payment  to  India  (as 
we  think  it  justly  may),  this  will 
not  be  done  until  the  accounts  of 
the  Affghan  campaign  are  settled, 
nor,  as  is  admitted  even  by  the  ad- 
verse critics,  until  this  country  has 
recovered  from  the  present  highly 
exceptional  commercial  depression. 

Such,  then,  are  the  salient  fea- 
tures and  characteristic  principle  of 
the  present  Budget.  It  has  un- 
doubtedly been  received  with  a  feel- 
ing of  relief  and  satisfaction  by  the 
public;  but  it  cannot  be  expected  to 
satisfy  the  Opposition,  who  wished 
to  see  the  Government  make  it- 
self unpopular  by  imposing  fresh 
taxation,  or  those  journals  which 
had  confidently  assumed  that  addi- 
tional taxation  was  inevitable.  In 
some  quarters  it  was  maintained  that 
the  Income-tax  must  be  increased 
— in  others  the  spirit-duties  ;  while 
the  mercantile  community  fixed 
upon  tea  as  the  commodity  which 
the  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer 
would  favour  with  his  attention, 
and  accordingly  large  quantities 
of  tea  were  "  rushed  through " 
the  Custom-house  in  the  closing 
days  of  the  financial  year.  The  pub- 
lic are  now  well  pleased  to  find  not 
only  that  the  Chancellor  of  the  Ex- 
chequer proposes  no  increase  of  the 
taxation,  but  that  there  is  not  the 
least  necessity  for  so  doing.  Judg- 
ing from  existing  circumstances — 
which  is  all  that  a  Chancellor  of 
the  Exchequer  can  do — the  financial 
arrangements  for  the  current  year 
are  perfectly  adequate;  while,  should 
new  events  unhappily  occur  to  pro- 
long the  extraordinary  expenditure, 
we  have  a  grand  reserve  in  hand  in 
the  Sinking  Fund,  a  suspension  of 
which  would  at  once  add  fully  five 
millions  annually  to  our  disposable 
revenue.  The  country  may  be  well 
content  with  such  a  position  of  the 
national  finances. 


1879. 


Public  Affairs. 


625 


PUBLIC    AFFAIRS. 


SOME  recent  criticism  on  public 
affairs  has  expressed  the  opinion, 
that  at  no  time  during  the  present 
century  has  this  country  had  to 
contend  against  such  a  combination 
of  troubles  as  the  last  year  or  two 
have  let  loose.  There  is  doubtless 
some  exaggeration  in  that  view ;  but, 
at  all  events,  the  strain  upon  this 
country,  both  at  home  and  abroad, 
has  been  remarkably  severe.  There 
are,  however,  indications  that  that 
strain  is  passing  away ;  and  beyond 
that  source  of  congratulation,  it  is 
also  extremely  satisfactory  to  note 
with  what  resolve  and  self-restraint 
it  has  been  endured,  and  with  what 
skill  and  good  fortune  the  far  greater 
strain  of  European  war,  or  of  pro- 
longed complication,  has  been,  and 
is  being,  avoided.  Since  the  trou- 
bles in  Bosnia  and  Herzegovina 
began,  there  has  been  a  war  in  Eu- 
rope of  no  ordinary  magnitude ; 
there  has  been  the  imminent  dan- 
ger of  our  being  drawn  into  the 
struggle,  and  the  necessity  of  adopt- 
ing vigorous  measures  to  insist  on 
the  adequate  protection  of  our  own 
interests  in  the  resettlement  of  the 
East ;  there  have  been  two  w%rs  in 
South  Africa,  another  in  Afghan- 
istan, and  a  fourth  threatened  in 
British  Burmah.  At  home  we  have 
had  a  succession  of  bad  harvests,  a 
winter  of  unprecedented  length  and 
severity,  prolonged  depression  of 
trade  and  agriculture,  an  enormous 
fall  in  the  price  of  silver,  banking 
disasters,  commercial  failures,  and 
generally  reduced  profits.  The  ac- 
counts which  reach  us  from  America 
point  to  reviving  business,  and  pos- 
sibly we  may  have  seen  the  worst. 
It  seems  to  us  that,  notwithstand- 
ing this  catalogue  of  evils,  we  may 
easily  exaggerate  the  gloom  of  the 
past  few  years,  and  that  it  is  right 


to  bear  in  mind,  and  to  invite 
foreign  nations  to  observe,  that  as 
far  as  our  home  condition  is  con- 
cerned, pauperism  has  not  increased, 
while  savings-bank  deposits  have; 
though  foreign  trade  has  declined 
in  profits,  its  volume  has  not  con- 
tracted ;  and  that,  as  far  as  the 
strain  upon  the  national  resources 
is  concerned,  though  the  public 
revenue  no  longer  advances  by 
leaps  and  bounds,  an  additional 
twopence  to  the  Income-tax  will, 
it  is  calculated,  in  four  years  de- 
fray all  the  extraordinary  expen- 
diture incurred  in  a  series  of  wars 
and  during  an  almost  unprece- 
dented strain  in  our  foreign  rela- 
tions. Though  there  has  been  re- 
cently a  diminution  of  the  national 
wealth,  owing  to  bad  harvests  and 
other  causes,  the  total  increase 
during  the  last  twenty  years  has 
been  enormous ;  and  the  capacity 
of  this  country  in  wealth,  in  men, 
and  in  the  material  of  war  to 
endure  a  European  struggle,  has 
been  immensely  increased  since  the 
days  of  the  Crimean  expedition. 

It  is  worth  while  to  fix  our  at- 
tention occasionally  on  the  brighter 
side  of  the  picture,  more  especially 
when  we  recollect  that  the  national 
honour,  England's  place  in  Europe 
and  the  civilised  world,  are  staked 
on  the  due  execution  of  the  Treaty 
of  Berlin.  The  whole  circum- 
stances under  which  that  treaty 
was  concluded,  and  war  avoided, 
forbid  any  wavering  in  our  resolu- 
tion to  have  it  duly  carried  out 
and  faithfully  performed.  We  pass 
over  all  the  intricate  details  con- 
nected with  the  establishment  of 
the  new  administration  in  the 
European  provinces,  and  the  reform 
of  the  old  administration  of  the 
Asiatic  provinces.  Neither  is  it 


636 


Public  Affairs. 


[May 


necessary  to  consider  the  position 
of  Cyprus,  and  the  prospects  in 
store  for  us  there.  Those  are  not 
the  subjects  which  immediately 
press  upon  public  attention.  The 
questions  which  disturb  the  Cabinets 
of  Europe  and  affect  the  success  of 
the  recent  treaty  are  frontier  ques- 
tions. Are  the  Eussians  to  with- 
draw behind  the  Balkans,  and  is 
Eastern  Roumelia  in  consequence  to 
be  pacified  by  a  mixed  occupation, 
or  by  some  scheme  of  provisional 
government  1  And,  turning  to  the 
south,  is  Turkey  to  concede  to  the 
Greeks  the  boundary  line  recom- 
mended, but  by  no  means  decreed, 
by  the  Congress  1 

The  correspondence  of  last  Janu- 
ary between  Prince  G-ortschakoff 
and  Lord  Salisbury  showed  that 
considerable  firmness  has  been 
necessary  to  insure  the  due  execu- 
tion of  the  treaty  as  regards  the 
division  between  the  two  Bulgarias, 
— in  other  words,  the  establishment 
of  the  line  of  the  Balkans  as  the 
northern  frontier  of  the  Sultan's 
dominions.  During  the  occupation, 
Russian  action  has  been  directed  to 
persuade  the  inhabitants  of  Eastern 
Roumelia  that  they  may  successfully 
resist  the  decision  of  the  Congress. 
They  have  been  placed  under  the 
'Governor-general  of  Bulgaria;  a  tem- 
porary union  of  administration  has 
been  effected;  the  militias  of  the  two 
Provinces  hive  been  indiscrimin- 
ately mixed  up.  Everything  was 
done  to  impede  the  execution  of 
the  treaty  by  making  its  arrange- 
ments an  abrupt  and  complete 
transition  from  one  system  to 
another.  That  the  forces  at  work 
to  destroy  this  essential  condition 
of  the  treaty  have  been  consider- 
able, admits  of  no  doubt  whatever. 
But  it  is  equally  clear  that  the 
known  determination  of  the  British 
Cabinet  to  have  this  frontier  re- 
served to  the  Turkish  empire, 
has  rallied  to  the  defence  of  the 
treaty  influences  of  superior  weight. 


Whether  the  mixed  occupation  is 
eventually  rendered  necessary,  or 
whether  the  Turkish  hostility  to  it 
necessitates  some  other  arrangement, 
the  necessity  which  is  imposed  upon 
Russia,  however  reluctant  she  may 
be,  to  submit  to  the  terms  of  the 
settlement  under  which  she  retires 
behind  the  Balkans,  is  clearly  estab- 
lished. If  the  Turkish  proposal 
to  appoint  a  Bulgarian  Prince  of 
East  Roumelia  is  sufficient  to  re- 
move all  difficulties,  and  to  inspire 
Russian  confidence  in  a  peaceful 
issue,  it  is  very  evident  that  the 
advisers  of  the  Czar  are  at  present 
averse  from  creating  any  new  con- 
vulsions. They  are,  moreover,  dimin- 
ishing their  army  of  occupation, 
and  taking  steps  to  effect  the  com- 
plete withdrawal  of  their  forces. 
The  Powers  are  evidently  resolved 
that  that  withdrawal  shall  be  car- 
ried into  effect ;  and  whatever  may 
be  the  cause, — whether  it  is  that 
Russia  is  too  exhausted  for  a  fresh 
struggle,  or  that  the  forces  prepared 
to  insist  on  the  due  fulfilment  of 
treaty  obligations  are  known  to  be 
overwhelming, — it  is  clear  that  the 
peace  of  Europe  will  not  be  again 
disturbed.  It  is  some  guarantee  of 
the  durability  of  recent  arrange- 
ments that  the  determination  to 
carry  them  out  is  so  general  and 
persistent.  The  greater  the  reluct- 
ance exhibited  by  the  Russians,  the 
greater  is  the  triumph  achieved  by 
the  united  will  and  voice  of  Europe. 
The  history  of  the  last  twelve 
months  is  the  history  of  a  pro- 
longed, patient,  and  determined  vin- 
dication of  the  authority  of  Europe. 
The  moral  effect  of  the  Great 
Powers  uniting  to  take  the  settle- 
ment of  the  East  out  of  the 
hands  of  the  belligerents,  and  to 
establish  an  international  jurisdic- 
tion over  its  terms,  cannot  fail  to 
be  of  the  highest  political  impor- 
tance; and  we  hope  that  the 
steadiness  with  which  their  pur- 
pose has  been  effected,  will  prove  a 


1879.] 


Public  Affairs. 


637 


guarantee  of  its  permanent  triumph. 
It  is  by  force  of  that  union  that 
the  future  tranquillity  of  Europe 
will  be  preserved  and  the  binding 
force  of  treaties  maintained.  It  is 
an  assertion  which  will  never  be 
forgotten  that  the  ultimate  fate  of 
the  Ottoman  dominions  is  a  Euro- 
pean and  not  a  Russian  question. 
In  its  final  determination  this 
country  can  always  secure,  if  its  af- 
fairs are  properly  conducted,  a  voice 
potential  and  decisive.  It  is  like 
revisiting  a  forgotten  past  to  recall 
that  only  a  few  years  ago  the  or- 
ganised impotence  of  Europe  was 
a  byword  and  a  reproach  amongst 
nations.  The  Powers  seemed  to 
fold  their  hands  whilst  spoliation, 
violence,  and  oppression  were  en- 
acted before  their  eyes.  The  result 
of  recent  sanguinary  wars  in  Europe 
may,  on  the  whole,  have  been  bene- 
ficial; but  that  does  not  redeem 
from  discredit  the  helplessness  which 
permitted  them.  The  revival  of 
public  law  and  international  author- 
ity has  been  due  to  the  resolution 
of  Great  Britain.  England  has  in 
the  last  four  years  not  merely  for- 
bidden a  renewal  of  the  Eranco- 
G-erman  war  •  she  has  confined  the 
Russo-Turkish  struggle  within  rea- 
sonable limits,  and  enabled  Europe 
to  assert  an  authoritative  jurisdic- 
tion over  the  causes  and  territories 
in  dispute  sufficient  to  render  a 
further  appeal  to  arms  impossible 
and  absurd.  The  reappearance  of 
England  on  the  stage  of  European 
events  was  hailed  by  every  Power 
in  Europe  except  Russia  with  exul- 
tation ;  and  it  has  been  satisfactory 
to  observe  that  besides  the  energetic 
vindication  of  our  own  interests,  the 
result  of  English  action  and  energy 
has  been  to  revive  confidence  abroad 
and  restore  a  sense  of  public  right. 

The  conclusion  of  the  definitive 
treaty  between  Russia  and  Turkey, 
the  gradual  withdrawal  of  the  Rus- 
sian forces,  and  the  retirement  of  the 

VOL.  CXXV. NO.  DCCLXIII. 


British  fleet  from  the  Sea  of  Mar- 
mora, mark  the  steady  progress 
which  has  been  made  in  the  ex- 
ecution of  the  Treaty  of  Berlin. 
The  conclusion  of  the  treaty  was, 
in  fact,  the  final  settlement  of  peace 
between  the  Russian  and  Turkish 
empires,  and  marks  the  point  at 
which  the  renewal  of  hostilities 
would  seem  no  longer  to  be  even 
within  the  contemplation  of  the 
belligerents.  As  it  occurred  after 
the  somewhat  recriminatory  expla- 
nations between  Prince  Gortschakoff 
and  Lord  Salisbury  in  reference  to 
the  intermediate  arrangements  in 
Roumelia,  it  at  least  inspires  the  con- 
fident hope  that  whatever  difficulties 
may  yet  be  raised,  however  much 
they  may  be  exaggerated  by  our 
home  politicians,  they  will  not  in 
reality  be  of  a  character  to  jeopar- 
dise the  continuance  of  peace. 
Those,  for  example,  which  relate 
to  the  internal  pacification  of  the 
evacuated  province  must  have 
been  in  view  at  the  time  the 
definitive  treaty  was  signed,  and 
the  complete  execution  of  the  Ber- 
lin Settlement  must  have  been  at 
the  time  intended  by  both  the 
signatories.  Had  it  been  other 
wise,  Russia  would  not,  by  conclud- 
ing the  definitive  peace,  have  her- 
self completed  her  obligation  to 
withdraw  her  armies.  In  fact, 
that  withdrawal  began  the  moment 
the  documents  were  signed,  and 
before  the  treaty  was  ratified. 
Russia  seemed  eager  to  escape  from 
a  position  which  was  both  embar- 
rassing and  ruinously  expensive ; 
and  it  would  seem  in  the  highest 
degree  improbable  that  an  arrange- 
ment which  has  proceeded  so  far 
towards  completion  should  even 
now,  at  the  eleventh  hour,  break 
down.  The  political  task  remains 
of  creating  and  organising  a  new 
State.  The  difficulties  of  that  task, 
we  all  know,  have  not  been  smooth- 
ed by  the  Russian  occupation.  The 
2  T 


638 


Public  Affairs. 


[May 


Liberal  opposition  at  home,  some  of 
the  inhabitants  of  the  new  State, 
the  influence,  perhaps  the  intrigues, 
of  Kussia,  favour  the  union  of  the 
two  Bulgarias,  instead  of  that  sever- 
ance  which   was   decreed    by   the 
Congress.       No     doubt    the    task 
which  remains  to  be  accomplished 
is  difficult  and  delicate  in  the  ex- 
treme.    Whatever  configuration  or 
delimitation  of  these  provinces  had 
been   hit  upon,  there  would   neces- 
sarily have  been  the  objection  that 
it  was  arbitrary  and   involved  all 
kinds  of  anomalies.    It  is,  of  course, 
a   fairly   debatable   point  whether 
the  one  which  was  actually  chosen 
was  the  best  which  was  possible. 
But   the    argument   in   its  favour 
is  the  overwhelming  one  that  all 
the   statesmen   of  Europe   deemed 
it   practicable    and    desirable,    and 
agreed  to  accept  it  as  the  solution  of 
a  gigantic  international   difficulty. 
Protests  may  be  raised  over  incon- 
veniences and  difficulties;  perhaps 
inequalities     and    injustices    may 
from   time   to   time   occur   in   the 
course  of  executing  this  deliberate 
project  of  united  Europe.     It  may 
even  be  argued,  possibly  with  suc- 
cess,   that  the    new   arrangement, 
though  set  off  and  adorned  by  the 
sensational  assembling  of  Bulgarian 
notables,  was  not  the  best  possible 
for   either   the  Bulgarians   or   the 
Turks,  for  England  or  for  Europe. 
But  the  one  unanswerable  argument 
is,  that  this  project  satisfied  the  ne- 
cessities of  the  occasion,  and  has  the 
sanction  of  united  Europe ;  while 
any  and  every  alternative  proposal, 
not  supported  by  the  like  sanction, 
reopens  the  whole  controversy  and 
excites  fresh  discord  at  a  moment 
when  the  whole  world  is  bent  on 
peace   if  possible.     Really,    when 
one  considers  how,  not  merely  Brit- 
ish honour,  but  the  peace  of  Europe, 
is  bound  up  in  the  due  execution 
of  the  Berlin  Treaty,  it  is  impossi- 
ble to  believe  that  any  responsible 
statesman  or  any  capable  politician 


would  hesitate  to  support  the  Gov- 
ernment   in    insisting    upon   that 
treaty   being  carried  out    "  to  the 
letter   and    the    complete    spirit." 
No  one  blames  the  Opposition  for 
bringing  to  bear  on  the  Treaty  of 
Berlin  the  whole  artillery  of  hostile 
criticism.    But  now  that  the  treaty 
is  made,  and  the  honour  of  England 
and  the  peace  of  Europe  bound  up 
in  its  successful  execution,  to  gloat 
over  its  difficulties  and  foment  dis- 
satisfaction with  its  provisions  are 
-inadmissible  expedients  in  honour- 
able party  warfare.      It  may  tend 
to  improve  Sir  William  Harcourt's 
political   position    in   the   eyes   of 
provincial  Liberals   to   indulge  in 
all  those  crackling  fireworks  of  epi- 
gram and  alliteration,  by  which  he 
effects  nothing  but  a  bad  imitation 
of  Mr  Disraeli.     The  phrases  of  the 
latter    statesman   have    sometimes 
stirred  the  whole  country  ;  those  of 
the  former  are  as  plentiful  as  goose- 
berries,  and  frequently  betray,   as 
Lord  John  Manners  puts  it  in  the 
House  of  Commons,  "  that   he  is 
speaking  of  subjects  of  which  he 
shows    that   he    knows    nothing." 
We  recommend  him  to  follow  Mr 
Gladstone's   most   recent  example, 
who   thus    explains,    in  a   manner 
most    honourable    to   himself,    his 
recent  silence  on  political  questions. 
"  For  my  part,"  said  he  in  the  de- 
bate  on    Mr   Cartwright's   motion 
relating  to  Greece,  "  I  have  been 
desirous    during    these    last    few 
months  to  avoid  saying  anything 
which   would    interfere    with   the 
fairest  and  best  chances  that  the 
provisions  of  the  Treaty  of  Berlin 
might  have  of  taking  full  effect." 

It  is  certainly  not  very  wonder- 
ful that  the  boundary  question 
between  Greece  and  Turkey  is  not 
yet  settled.  On  that  subject  the 
Congress  came  to  no  decision,  but 
merely  at  the  instance  of  France 
formulated  certain  "  recommenda- 
tory intimations."  Every  one  re- 
collects what  a  monstrous  hurry 


1879." 


Public  Affair** 


639 


Greece  was  in.  Before  the  ink  was 
dry  with  which  the  treaty  was 
written,  the  Greek  Cabinet  put 
forward  its  demands,  and  called 
for  the  mediation  of  the  Powers 
almost  as  soon  as  the  treaty  was 
ratified.  But  Greece  "  can  afford 
to  wait."  There  are,  as  Lord 
Beaconsfield  said,  four  or  five  ques- 
tions as  regards  boundaries  still 
under  discussion ;  and  that  in 
which  Greece  is  interested  is  not 
the  most  urgent.  The  settlement 
of  one  will  probably  forward  the 
settlement  of  the  other,  and  the 
Greeks  must  exercise  that  patience 
which  the  exigencies  of  the  Powers, 
to  whom  she  ought  to  be  grateful, 
require.  Her  claims  very  early  re- 
ceived attention,  and  the  Ministers 
say  that  they  have  frequently  been 
under  discussion.  "  I  myself,"  said 
Lord  Beaconsfield,  "  do  not  take 
at  all  a  gloomy  view  of  the  subject. 
I  think  there  are  modes  by  which 
a  fair  adjustment  may  be  made,  by 
which  Greece  may  obtain  that  to 
which  in  all  the  circumstances  she 
is  entitled,  and  which  the  Porte 
may  grant  without  any  feeling  of 
humiliation  on  its  part,  or  without 
consenting  to  a  settlement  injuri- 
ous to  the  interests  of  Turkey." 
And  we  have  it  from  the  Chancellor 
of  the  Exchequer  and  Lord  John 
Manners  on  a  later  occasion,  that 
negotiations  are  still  going  on  be- 
tween this  country  and  those  most 
interested  in  the  question  of  the 
new  Greek  frontier ;  and  that  so  far 
from  this  country  being  denounced 
in  relation  thereto,  as  Sir  William 
Harcourt  says,  in  Paris,  and  op- 
posed by  all  the  Governments  of 
Europe,  we  are  in  reality  acting  in 
cordial  concurrence  and  concert  with 
the  great  Powers  of  Europe. 

On  the  whole,  it  must  be  con- 
ceded that  since  we  referred  to  the 
execution  of  this  treaty  last  Decem- 
ber, it  has  made  steady  and  satis- 
factory progress.  It  is  a  work 
which  bids  fair  to  last.  The  provi- 


sions of  the  treaty  were  not  framed 
with  a  view  to  patch  up  and  put 
out  of  sight  a  struggle  which  it  was 
inconvenient  to  continue.     The  ob- 
ject was  to  reconcile  the  conflict- 
ing pretensions  of  the  Powers  by 
a  permanent   arrangement,  and   to 
secure  its   continuance   by  an   im- 
proved administration   of  "the  sub- 
ject provinces.      It  will  undoubt- 
edly be  a   great   point  gained   for 
tne  peace  of  Europe  and   for  the 
interests  of  this  country  if  the  Euro- 
pean provinces    of  Turkey  should 
turn  out  to  be,  as  the  result  of  this 
treaty,  under  the  ultimate  and  effec- 
tive  control    of  Europe,   protected 
alike  from  Turkish  maladministra- 
tion and  Russian  aggression.     The 
introduction  of  Austria  more  nearly 
on   the   scene,    the    disposition   of 
Germany  to  support  her  just  pre- 
tensions, and  the  union  which  exists 
between  this  country  and  France, 
all  point  in  that  direction.     But  as 
regards  the  Asiatic  provinces,  their 
fate,  like  that  of  many  other  terri- 
tories in  the  remoter  East,  will  de- 
pend upon  the  future  career  of  that 
rivalry  between  England  and  Eussia 
which  all  competent  observers  ad- 
mit, but  of  the  true  character  of 
which,  and  of  the  true  character  of 
the  political  duties  thereby  imposed 
upon  us,  it  is  so  necessary  to  form  a 
sober  and  prudent  estimate.     Public 
attention  has  been  thoroughly  arous- 
ed of  late  to  the  progress  of  Eussia 
in  Central  Asia,  and  to  the  consid- 
eration of  the  line  of  action  which 
is  in  consequence  forced  upon  this 
country  as  the  rulers  of  India.     In 
the  discussion,  now  fully  opened,  of 
a  problem  so  vast,  we  may  expect  to 
meet  with  the  enunciation  of  ex- 
treme opinions  on  both  sides.     Our 
own  view  is,  that  it  is  well  worthy 
of  the  utmost  attention,  and  that 
its  practical  solution  will  in  future 
years  test  the  capacity,  the  firmness, 
and  the  statesmanlike  prudence  and 
moderation  of  the  English  people. 
The  temper  which  ridicules  all  in- 


640 


Public  Affairs. 


[May 


terest  in  the  subject  as  "  Mervous- 
ness,"  is  as  unreasonable  as  the  an- 
xiety which  takes  alarm  whenever 
Russia  builds  a  railway  to  Orenburg 
or  mobilises  a  force  on  the  Attrek. 

The  considerations  which  recent 
events  both  in  the  East  and  in 
South  Africa  have  forced  upon  us 
of  immediate  practical  importance 
are  these :  First,  we  insist,  as  a 
matter  of  overwhelming  import- 
ance to  the  public  safety,  con- 
sidering its  enormous  interests  in 
every  quarter  of  the  world,  that  the 
discipline  of  empire  shall  be  main- 
tained ;  and  that  whatever  may  be 
his  views  of  policy,  no  dependent 
governor,  whether  he  rules  over 
India  or  South  Africa,  shall  be 
allowed,  in  the  absence  of  urgent 
necessity,  to  force  the  hand  of  the 
Government  at  home,  and  precipitate 
decisions  which  ought  to  be  con- 
trolled by  the  exigencies  of  a  world- 
wide rule.  It  is  essential  to  the 
maintenance  of  a  vast  and  compli- 
cated rule,  that  discipline  should 
be  maintained  and  observed,  and 
that  the  responsibility  of  the  Home 
Government  should  be  one  and  in- 
divisible. And  next,  with  regard 
to  that  which  is  the  most  urgent 
of  all  imperial  questions — viz.,  our 
relations  to  Eussia  in  the  East — 
the  object  should  be  to  decide  what 
is  the  ultimate  goal  of  our  policy, 
and  the  ultimate  extent  of  our 
defensive  operations,  and  to  what 
extent  does  necessity  for  the  time 
being  compel  us  to  advance  towards 
it.  Our  empire  in  the  East  is  large 
enough  to  satisfy  the  utmost  crav- 
ing of  imperial  ambition.  We  do 
not  want  to  embark  in  any  race  of 
conquest  with  Eussia.  Our  earth- 
hunger,  at  all  events,  if  we  ever  had 
it,  is  satisfied.  What  we  want  is 
to  take  up  from  time  to  time  the 
best  line  of  defence  which  is  avail- 
able, and  also  to  prevent  any  dom- 
inant position  of  offence,  which  may 
prove  in  the  hands  of  an  enemy  a 
standing  menace,  falling  into  the 


possession  of  Eussia.  We  are  the 
conservative  and  not  the  aggressive 
Power  in  the  East;  and  while  we 
should  condemn  that  supineness 
and  inaction  which  would  bring 
India  into  peril,  we  should  equally 
disapprove  precipitate  and  hasty 
measures,  or  in  fact  any  forward 
movement  not  shown  to  be  neces- 
sary for  ultimate  purpose  of  defence. 
The  outcry  against  the  Affghan 
policy  of  the  Government  has 
entirely  died  away.  It  is  satis- 
factory to  note  that  Lord  Lytton 
has  been  completely  under  the  con- 
trol of  the  Cabinet,  and  that  from 
first  to  last — from  the  first  decision 
to  come  to  an  understanding  as  to 
Shere  Ali's  conduct,  down  to  the 
declaration  of  war,  and  thence  to  a 
decision  whether  or  not  a  march  on 
Cabul  is  to  take  place — the  Home 
Government  is  directly  responsible 
for  every  step  which  has  been  taken. 
The  Duke  of  Argyll  himself  admits 
that  in  his  recent  book.  The  dis- 
cipline of  the  empire  has  at  all 
events  been  maintained  in  the  East. 
The  only  question  which  remains  is 
upon  what  terms  peace  should  be 
concluded.  As  to  the  policy  of  the 
war,  even  the  Duke  of  Argyll  ad- 
mits the  necessity  of  excluding 
Eussian  influence,  the  existence  of 
the  late  Shere  Ali's  enmity,  the 
impossibility  of  acquiescing  in  the 
Eussian  mission  to  Cabul.  The 
results  of  the  war  hitherto  have 
been,  that  Eussia  has  withdrawn 
from  Cabul  and  abandoned  Shere 
Ali  to  his  fate,  after  having  em- 
broiled him  with  his  former  ally. 
The  moral  effect  throughout  Central 
Asia  of  British  power  to  suppress 
and  chastise  hostility,  as  compared 
with  the  meanness  of  Eussian 
treachery  and  desertion,  will  no 
doubt  be  considerable.  It  is  not 
merely  that  Affghan  hostility  has 
been  crushed  and  a  scientific  frontier 
secured,  but  Eussia  has  visibly  re- 
coiled. The  moral  triumph,  there- 
fore, is  considerable;  and  as  regards 


1879.] 


Public  Affairs. 


641 


the  more  tangible  results  of  the 
war,  the  Prime  Minister  stated  at 
the  beginning  of  the  session,  and 
Sir  Stafford  Northcote  reiterated  it 
before  the  adjournment,  that  the 
object  with  which  the  expedition 
was  undertaken  had  been  practically 
achieved.  An  advance  on  Cabul, 
therefore,  is  not  contemplated,  un- 
less Yakoob  Khan  or  the  march  of 
events  forces  it  upon  us  as  a  strategic 
necessity.  We  have  taken  posses- 
sion of  the  three  passes  which  hold 
the  keys  of  the  western  frontier  of 
India.  It  is  no  longer  necessary  to 
await  an  invasion  in  the  plains  of 
India,  where  history  does  not  attest 
that  the  chances  are  in  favour  of 
successful  resistance.  We  occupy 
a  position  now  which  commands 
Candahar,  the  pass  in  its  rear, 
and  the  road  along  which  invasion 
from  Herat  and  the  northern  pro- 
vinces of  Persia  would  proceed. 
We  also  hold  the  Khyber  Pass; 
and  we  have  provided  against  the 
possibility  of  a  more  northern  in- 
vasion from  the  line  of  Turkestan 
and  the  regions  where  General 
Kauffmann  maintains  his  fussy  dis- 
play of  power,  by  holding  Jellala- 
bad  and  the  upper  end  of  the 
Kurrum  Valley.  The  exact  line 
of  frontier,  whether  it  is  to  include 
Candahar  and  Jellalabad,  or  to  be 
drawn  so  as  to  fall  short  of  either  or 
both  of  those  strongholds,  must  be 
left  to  military  authorities  to  decide. 
The  important  point  to  be  noticed 
is,  that  not  merely  will  there  be 
communications  with  the  North- 
west Provinces  through  the  passes, 
but  that  a  short  road  from  England 
and  Bombay  will  also  have  been 
secured.  A  line  of  railway  from 
Sommeeanee  Bay,  from  a  point  near 
to  Kurrachee,  to  Quettah  and  Khe- 
lat,  and  even  beyond  it,  would 
bring  the  strongholds  which  form 
the  defence  of  India  into  direct  and 
speedy  communication  with  home. 


Such  a  railway,  which  is  in  course 
of  construction,  will  have  com- 
mercial as  well  as  strategic  uses, 
and  may  tend  to  develop  trade  alike 
with  Affghanistan  and  Central  Asia. 

It  seems  to  us  that  the  frontier 
now  taken  up  should  be  limited 
to  what  is  absolutely  necessary  for 
present  purposes,  and  that  as  re- 
gards the  future,  nothing  further  is 
required  than  to  station  British 
officers  with  sufficient  strength  for 
the  purposes  of  observation  and 
influence  at  Cabul  and  Herat.  We 
must  take  care  to  be  forewarned, 
and  rest  content,  for  the  present, 
that  that  is  in  itself  to  be  fore- 
armed. It  is  needless  and  quite 
useless  to  advance  to  meet  imag- 
inary dangers,  which  a  thousand 
chances  may  intervene  to  remove. 
We  have  plenty  to  do  within  the 
range  of  our  Indian  empire ;  and 
as  long  as  we  render  its  frontier 
secure  with  posts  of  observation 
thrown  well  out  in  advance,  we 
shall  probably  have  done  all  that 
this  generation  will  be  required  to 
do,  and  shall  also  have  discharged 
our  duty  to  those  who  will  come 
after  us.  The  tendency  of  men  on 
the  spot,  as  well  as  of  specialists 
who  derive  a  bias  from  the  ex- 
clusive consideration  of  a  .  single 
subject,  however  vast,  is  to  magnify 
the  importance  of  their  own  particu- 
lar views.  We  owe  them  all  grati- 
tude for  their  efforts  to  awaken  and 
direct  public  attention  to  a  subject 
of  momentous  interest ;  but  we  are 
not  all  required  to  yield  an  un- 
hesitating assent  to  views  which 
common-sense  tells  us  are  extrava- 
gant and  disproportioned. 

For  instance,  two  bulky  volumes 
have  been  recently  sent  to  us  writ- 
ten by  Mr  Demetrius  Charles  Boul- 
ger.*  They  contain  a  quantity  of 
information  which  has  been  care- 
fully compiled,  and,  what  is  more 
to  the  purpose,  thoroughly  digested, 


England  and  Kussia  in  Central  Asia.     London  :  W.  H.  Allen  &  Co. 


642 


'Public  Affairs. 


[May 


and  presented  to  the  reader  in  a  very 
interesting  manner,  for  the  purpose 
of  vigorously  enforcing  a  policy 
which  apparently  aims  at  nothing 
less  than  rolling  Eussia  backwards 
to  the  Caucasus,  and  beyond  the  Ox- 
usj  and  as  a  means  to  that  end,  to 
seize  Herat,  arm  the  Turcomans, 
and  practically  administer  the  em- 
pire of  Persia. 

It  would  seem  to  us,  on  the  first 
blush  of  it,  that  the  continent  of 
Asia  is  large  enough  to  hold  both 
Eussia  and  England,  and  that  there 
is  ample  room  for  both  empires  to 
pursue  their  destiny  and  accomplish 
whatever  mission  of  civilisation  each 
has  in  view.  But  there  is  evidently 
a  small  but  decided  school  of  opinion 
which  believes  that  Eussia  proposes 
to  herself  no  other  object  than  the 
invasion  of  India,  and  that  Eng- 
land's duty  to  herself  requires  her 
to  thwart  and  countermine  every 
step  of  her  progress.  The  argument 
is  pressed  home  that  now  is  our 
time,  that  Eussia  shrinks  from  the 
contest,  that  we  are  strong  enough 
to  solve  the  Central  Asian  question 
wholly  in  our  own  favour,  and  that 
the  time  is  ripe  for  "those  bold 
measures  from  which  timid  spirits 
would  shrink."  We  are  ready  to 
believe  that  in  view  of  possible 
complications  in  Europe,  if  with  no 
other  view,  the  frontiers  of  India 
should  be  rendered  as  secure  as 
military  science  can  make  them. 
It  is  of  the  utmost  importance  that 
our  rule  in  India  should  be  consoli- 
dated and  secured  from  the  perni- 
cious influence  of  Eussian  missions 
and  intrigues ;  but  between  that 
view  and  the  theory  that  the  keys 
of  India  lie  scattered  all  over  West- 
ern and  Central  Asia,  from  Teheran 
to  Candahar,  and  from  Orenburg  to 
Balkh,  there  is  an  infinite  distance. 
Even  the  most  alarmist  view,  if  we 
may  trust  Mr  Boulger's  representa- 
tion of  it,  admits  that  if  eventually 
we  hold  the  Hindoo  Koosh  and  a 
line  of  fortresses  from  Herat  to 


Eaizabad,  we  should  have  a  per- 
fect frontier,  strong  in  every  es- 
sential demanded  by  military  stra- 
tegy. Thirty  thousand  troops,  one 
third  of  them  British,  will,  it  is  ad- 
mitted, be  all  that  is  necessary  to 
garrison  these  strongholds  against 
the  most  desperate  attempts  that 
Eussia  would  be  able  to  make  for 
the  next  century. 

Under  those  circumstances,  what 
necessity  is  there  for  rushing  upon 
those  bold  measures  from  which 
timid  spirits  would  shrink1?  The 
steps  already  taken  are  sufficient  to 
concentrate  English  power  on  the 
further  side  of  the  mountains,  and 
to  make  the  sea  the  base  of  opera- 
tions. That  gives  us  quite  suffi- 
cient start  for  the  present;  and  if 
we  keep  our  eyes  open  and  a  proper 
outlook,  it  will  be  quite  impossible 
for  us  to  be  taken  off  our  guard  by 
the  utmost  efforts  of  Eussia.  We 
presume  that  no  English  Ministry 
would  dream  of  allowing  Herat  to 
be  taken  by  a  Eussian  coup  de  main; 
and  Lord  Derby  himself,  if  we  re- 
member right,  emphatically  warned 
the  Eussian  Government  that  we 
should  not  view  with  indifference 
any  aggression  upon  Merv.  Eecent 
events,  even  if  pledges  are  of  no 
avail,  will  suffice  to  put  Affghanis- 
tan  outside  the  sphere  of  Eussian 
influence  for  many  a  year  to  come. 
Then  what  are  the  ultimate  designs 
and  dangers  which  a  future  genera- 
tion may  have  to  deal  with,  and  the 
existence  of  which  it  is  our  duty 
as  trustees  for  posterity  to  bear  in 
mind  1  The  questions  are,  How 
many  troops  will  Eussia  be  able  to 
move  across  the  Oxus  and  by  the 
Caspian  to  Attrek1?  and  what  re- 
serves will  be  supplied  by  the  armies 
of  the  Caucasus  and  of  Orenburg? 
These  questions  are  discussed  in 
considerable  detail  in  Mr  Boulger's 
book,  and,  we  have  no  doubt,  with 
as  accurate  information  as  can  be 
obtained.  But  the  result  is,  that 
at  the  present  time  the  offensive 


1879.] 


Public  Affairs. 


643 


power  of  Russia  across  the  Oxus  is 
limited  to  the  force  which  General 
Kauffmann  could  assemble,  and 
which  is  barely  one-fifth  of  what 
would  be  necessary  before  an  inva- 
sion of  India  could  be  dreamed  of. 
It  is  only  by  a  supreme  effort,  by 
the  lavish  expenditure  of  millions, 
and  after  six  months'  delay,  that 
this  force  could  even  be  doubled 
from  Europe.  There  remains,  how- 
ever, the  line  of  march  from  the 
Caspian.  The  army  of  trans -Cas- 
piariia  is  but  an  advanced  section 
of  the  army  of  the  Caucasus,  which, 
after  many  reverses  at  the  hands  of 
raw  Turkish  levies,  recently  conquer- 
ed Armenia  and  took  Kars  and  Erze- 
roum.  The  possession  of  the  Armen- 
ian trilateral  of  Kars,  Ardahan,  and 
Batoum,  sets  free  a  force  of  50,000 
of  these  men,  which  might  be  easily 
doubled  by  reinforcements.  The 
means  of  transporting  it  across  the 
Caspian  exist,  and  from  thence  there 
is  an  actual  road  straight  to  Can- 
dahar  through  the  fertile  districts 
of  Northern  Persia  and  Western 
Afghanistan.  The  danger  to  India 
therefore,  in  this  direction,  along  a 
road  at  the  base  of  which  stands 
the  army  of  the  Caucasus— 200,000 
men — and  behind  which  stands  the 
European  army,  is  far  greater  than 
that  from  General  Kautfman,  who, 
since  the  annexation  of  Khiva,  is 
exposed  to  England's  watchfulness. 
No  doubt  it  is  of  this  route  to  India 
that  Lord  Beaconsfield  was  thinking 
when,  in  his  speech  at  the  Mansion 
House  last  November,  he  used  these 
words : — 

"  I  do  not  wish,  my  Lord  Mayor,  in 
making  these  remarks  [i.e.,  in  showing 
that  a  scientific  frontier  on  the  north- 
west would  remove  all  anxiety  in  that 
quarter],  that  you  should  understand 
that  her  Majesty's  Government  are  of 
opinion  that  an  invasion  of  India  is 
impossible  or  impracticable.  On  the 
contrary,  if  Asia  Minor  and  the  Eu- 
phrates were  in  the  possession  of  a 
very  weak  or  very  powerful  State,  it 
would  be  by  no  means  impossible  for 


an  adequate  army  to  march  through 
the  passes  of  Asia  Minor  and  through 
Persia,  and  absolutely  menace  the  do- 
minions of  the  Queen  ;  but  her  Ma- 
jesty's Government  have  contemplated 
such  a  result,  and  we  have  provided 
means  to  prevent  its  occurrence  by 
our  connection  with  Turkey  and  our 
occupation  of  the  island  of  Cyprus." 

It  seems  to  us  that  our  precau- 
tionary measures  are  keeping  pace 
with  such  increased  opportunities 
as  the  recent  war  has  brought 
to  Russia.  If  the  annexation  of 
the  Armenian  fortresses  and  of  the 
harbour  of  Batoum,  together  with 
such  railway  as  may  be  constructed 
from  Batoum,  sets  free  a  considerable 
army,  improves  the  communications 
with  Southern  Russia,  places  a 
fresh  line  of  advance  on  Teheran 
and  Herat  at  the  disposal  of  Russia, 
and  even  tightens  the  hold  of  Rus- 
sia on  the  northern  provinces  of 
Persia,  still  we  at  the  same  time 
have  not  been  idle.  British  power 
can  much  more  readily  operate  at 
the  western  end  of  this  line  of  ad- 
vance since  the  Treaty  of  Berlin 
than  it  could  before,  while  our  po- 
sition immediately  to  the  west  of 
the  Indus  has  been  immeasurably 
strengthened.  Besides,  unless  Rus- 
sia is  allowed  to  capture  Herat,  it 
will  be  difficult  for  her  completely 
to  dominate  over  Persia ;  and  an 
invasion  of  India  may  be  taken  on 
the  authority  of  Sir  Henry  Raw- 
linson  himself  to  be  impossible  if 
Persia  were  hostile.  We  do  not 
believe  that  any  forward  move- 
ment on  our  part  will  be  necessi- 
tated for  some  time  to  come ;  and 
that  if  Russia  understands  that  an 
advance  on  Merv  will  be  followed 
by  an  occupation  of  Herat,  any  col- 
lision between  the  two  empires  in 
the  East  may,  with  ordinary  watch- 
fulness, be  indefinitely  postponed. 
There  is  an  interesting  article  from 
the  *  Journal  des  Debats,'  reprinted 
as  an  appendix  to  one  of  Mr  Boul- 
ger's  volumes,  which  gives  us  a 


644 


Public  Affairs. 


[May 


French  military  opinion  as  to  the 
impossibility  of  a  Kussian  invasion 
of  India.  It  credits  Russia  with 
280,000  men  and  488  field-guns  as 
the  total  of  its  Asiatic  strength  from 
the  Caucasus  to  Tashkent.  It  con- 
siders that  the  army  of  the  Cau- 
casus would  be  sufficiently  employ- 
ed in  case  of  war  with  England  in 
watching  the  eastern  coasts  of  the 
Black  Sea  and  the  Turkish  frontier 
in  Asia,  and  in  encountering  any  of- 
fensive operations  on  the  part  of  Eng- 
land coming  from  the  Persian  Gulf. 
Thirty  thousand  men  are  all  that 
would  at  the  present  time  be  avail- 
able, even  on  paper,  for  an  army  of  in- 
vasion; and  these,  it  is  shown,  would 
take  seven  months,  in  a  favourable 
season,  and  with  the  Asiatic  pop- 
ulations, contrary  to  all  expecta- 
tion, remaining  quiet,  to  assemble 
on  the  Indian  frontiers.  Any  force 
required  beyond  these  30,000  would 
have  to  be  brought  from  Europe,  at 
enormous  sacrifice,  and  by  incredi- 
ble effort.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
British  army  will  be  on  its  own 
ground,  with  abundance  of  supplies 
and  war  material,  in  a  territory 
which  is  naturally  fortified  and  dif- 
ficult to  assail.  Reinforcements 
could  be  landed  at  Sommeeanee  Bay 
fresh  from  England  in  fewer  weeks 
than  Russia  would  require  months  to 
transport  her  forces.  "In  fine,"  it 
concludes,  from  a  close  examination 
of  the  military  resources  of  British 
India,  "  at  the  end  of  two  months 
from  the  declaration  of  war,  when  the 
Russians  are  only  still  carrying  out 
the  first  movements  of  concentration, 
the  English  will  have  65,000  good 
troops  and  inexhaustible  supplies 
at  the  frontier,  supported  by  two 
lines  of  railway ; "  and  we  may  now 
add,  with  the  sea  as  the  base  of 
their  operations. 

Under  these  circumstances,  we 
consider  that  the  Ministry  are  right 
in  preventing  a  march  on  Cabul,  if 
possible,  and  in  resting  contented 
with  the  results  of  the  war  as  at  pre- 


sent achieved.  Affghanistan  should 
be  reconstituted  as  an  independent 
State,  and,  taught  by  experience, 
will  no  doubt  understand  that 
henceforth  it  must  regard  itself  as 
the  ally  of  Great  Britain,  who 
will  not  tolerate  the  interference 
of  Russia  in  regions  which  border 
upon  her  own  frontiers.  For 
the  rest,  the  policy  laid  down  in 
Lord  Salisbury's  despatches  of  1875 
will  suffice  for  the  present,  and  se- 
cure to  us  positions  of  advantage 
for  the  purposes  of  observation  and 
influence.  The  rivalry  between 
Russia  and  England  in  the  East  is 
no  doubt  a  subject  which  requires 
the  watchful  attention  of  this  coun- 
try ;  but  for  the  present  it  yields 
in  interest  and  importance  to  the 
more  urgent  duties  of  developing 
and  husbanding  the  resources  of 
the  great  empire  over  which  we 
have  obtained  the  mastery.  All 
authorities  agree  that  the  finances 
of  that  empire  —  what  with  the 
heavy  fall  of  silver,  the  cost  of 
public  works,  and  the  past  and 
anticipated  effects  of  famines — are 
strained  to  the  utmost.  Yet  a  com- 
parison between  the  rule  of  the 
British  and  of  the  Russians,  so  far 
as  it  can  be  instituted,  is  very  much 
in  our  favour.  According  to  Mr 
Schuyler's  '  Turkestan/  General 
Kauffmann's  government  —  what 
with  its  peculations,  its  neglect 
of  public  works,  of  commerce,  of 
finance,  and  of  education — can  lay 
no  claims  to  having  carried  out 
that  civilising  mission  which  has  so 
often  been  declared  to  be  Russia's 
peculiar  duty  in  Central  Asia.  The 
government,  however,  secures  tran- 
quillity, and  improves  roads  and 
bridges ;  and  although  it  is  denied 
that  there  has  been  any  increase  of 
trade  between  Russia  and  Central 
Asia,  it  is  probable  that  that  will 
ensue,  unless  the  inhabitants,  in 
addition  to  being  neglected,  are  ac- 
tually oppressed  and  disheartened. 
The  great  difference  between  Brit- 


1879.] 


Public  A/airs. 


645 


ish  and  Russian  military  adminis- 
tration is,  that  there  is  no  native 
army  at  all  in  Central  Asia.  If 
natives  desire  to  become  Russian 
soldiers,  they  must  join  Russian 
regiments  and  become  Russian  in- 
dividuals. Although  in  this  way 
the  valuable  fighting  material  in 
Central  Asia  is  to  some  extent 
neglected,  on  the  other  hand  Russia 
has  the  immense  advantage  of  be- 
ing freed  from  all  fear  of  mutiny  in 
her  ranks.  And  moreover,  with  the 
exception  of  Bokhara,  she  has  swept 
away  all  semi  -  independent  poten- 
tates within  her  frontier. 

The  English  position  in  India  is 
very  different.  Our  total  military 
strength  in  that  empire  is  no  doubt 
extremely  formidable ;  although,  for 
prudential  considerations,  the  native 
force  is  not  so  fully  equipped  as  the 
European.  It  is,  moreover,  under- 
officered  in  view  of  a  European 
enemy.  Its  efficiency,  however, 
has  been  amply  proved  by  its 
subjugation  of  India,  and  by  its' 
services  in  border  wars.  It  has  met 
and  vanquished  Mahratta,  Sikh, 
Affghan,  Belooch,  and  Goorkha. 
Our  weakest  point,  however,  from  a 
military,  and  also  from  a  financial, 
point  of  view,  is  that,  as  the 
'  Times,'  and  '  Standard/  and  Mr 
Boulger,  have  recently  urged  on 
public  attention,  this  powerful  ar- 
my has  very  heavy  duties  to  per- 
form in  watching  our  independent 
feudatories,  and  preventing  their 
hostilities.  Both  Scindiah.  and  the 
Nizam  possess  more  numerous 
armies,  both  in  men  and  horses, 
than  those  which  are  employed  in 
controlling  them.  The  larger 
native  States,  including  Nepaul, 
have  their  own  cannon  -  foundries 
and  arm-factories.  So  long,  there- 
fore, as  these  great  territorial  armies 
exist,  it  will  be  impossible  to  weaken 
the  garrison  of  Central  India  and  of 
the  Gangetic  valley.  In  fact,  the 
defending  force  which  could  be 
collected  on  the  Indian  frontier 


from  the  armies  of  the  Punjaub, 
Bombay,  and  Madras,  is  limited  to 
an  estimate  of  60,000  men  or  there- 
abouts, solely  on  account  of  the 
heavy  garrison-duties  which  these 
large  armies  of  independent  feu- 
datories necessitate,  and  of  the 
elements  of  danger  which,  they 
create.  The  time  has  come,  in  the 
stage  of  international  rivalry  in  the 
East,  of  financial  pressure,  of  in- 
ternal administration,  when  these 
armies  should  be  abolished.  They 
are  not  part  of  the  defences  of 
India;  they  are  a  huge  drain  upon 
its  wealth.  They  are  useless  for 
maintaining  the  authority  of  the 
sovereign  and  the  laws.  Together 
they  are  half  as  large  again  as  the 
Anglo-Indian  army,  and  they  are 
supported  by  the  taxes  levied  by 
native  princes  on  forty  millions  of 
people.  One  great  step  in  the 
direction  of  making  India  safe  from 
external  attack,  as  well  as  from 
financial  collapse,  is  to  abolish  these 
native  armies,  and  to  decree  that  all 
cannon-foundries  and  arm-factories 
should  be  destroyed.  Until  that 
is  done,  India  is  only  half  con- 
quered, and  British  power  in  India 
is  pro  tanto  weaker  than  that  of 
Russia  in  Central  Asia. 

England  is  making  enormous 
efforts  to  educate  its  great  depen- 
dency, and  in  encouraging  without 
controlling  the  impulses  of  the  na- 
tives towards  knowledge  of  all  kinds, 
political  and  educational.  Such  a 
policy  is  both  generous  and  great ; 
but  for  its  security  it  requires  the 
total  disbandment  of  the  native 
armies,  and  the  destruction  of  fac- 
tories and  foundries.  The  reduc- 
tion of  them  is  of  no  avail;  for  any 
chief  can  defeat  the  object  in  view, 
as  Scindiah  notoriously  does,  by 
passing  the  whole  of  his  people 
through  the  ranks.  What  with 
their  growth  in  power,  what  with 
the  increasing  influence  of  Russia, 
and  what  with  the  growing  inse- 
curity of  Indian  finance,  the  reduc- 


646 


Public  Affairs. 


[May 


tion  of  the  power  of  these  indepen- 
dent feudatories  is  becoming  essen- 
tial to  the  maintenance  of  our  posi- 
tion in  India.  A  scientific  frontier 
is  no  doubt  very  important,  but  the 
perils  of  maintaining  our  authority 
in  a  half-conquered  country  ought 
not  to  be  overlooked.  We  may 
take  it  that  the  difficulties  in  the 
way  of  combined  action  on  the  part 
of  these  feudatories  will  diminish 
as  time  and  increased  knowledge 
mitigate  their  sense  of  mutual 
hostility  and  distrust.  The  Indian 
empire  can  never  be  considered  to 
be  consolidated  and  secure  until  its 
conquest  is  completed.  The  dan- 
gers to  be  faced  are  evidently  in- 
creasing;  and  the  prospect  of  our 
having  to  contend  for  supremacy 
within  the  limits  of  the  empire 
is,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  quite  as 
imminent  as  that  of  having  forcibly 
to  defend  its  possession  against  an 
external  foe.  As  regards  the  latter, 
everything  is  being  done  that  ought 
to  be  done ;  and  we  hope  that  mea- 
sures of  internal  consolidation  will 
follow.  It  must  be  noted,  that  be- 
sides the  operations  for  strength- 
ening the  land  frontiers,  the  sea 
defences  have  also  been  rendered 
more  secure.  Kurrachee,  as  the 
point  which  covers  our  sea  base  of 
operations  on  the  south-west  fron- 
tier, and  the  harbour  of  Bombay, 
are  now  well  protected  with  bat- 
teries and  turret-ships.  It  may  also 
be  said  of  Calcutta,  Rangoon,  and 
Madras,  that  their  safety  has  been 
secured  against  any  hostile  opera- 
tions which  come  within  the  range 
of  ordinary  possibility. 

Even  a  slight  sketch  of  the  pro- 
blems and  difficulties  which  de- 
mand the  attention  of  this  country, 
from  the  Adriatic  to  the  Indus, 
growing'out  of  the  enormous  inter- 
ests which  we  possess  in  the  East, 
is  sufficient  to  show  the  infinite 
importance  of  duly  maintaining  the 
discipline  of  the  public  service.  It 
seems  to  us  that,  from  the  point 


of  view  of  the  public  safety,  the. 
events  which  have  recently  occurred 
in  South  Africa  must  be  judged, 
not  so  much  in  reference  to  con- 
siderations of  local  policy  as  of 
their  bearing  upon  the  fate  and 
fortunes  of  the  whole  British  em- 
pire. At  a  time  when  the  Treaty  of 
Berlin  was  still  only  in  process  of 
execution — when,  at  any  moment, 
difficulties  might  easily  have  been 
raised  in  regard  to  its  intricate  and 
even  irritating  details — difficulties 
which  even  the  Czar's  known  de- 
termination to  maintain  peace  might 
have  been  unequal  to  removing — at 
a  time,  also,  when  we  are  still  in- 
volved in  a  war  with  AfFghanistan, 
which  may,  no  doubt,  be  on  the 
point  of  completion,  but  which  may 
yet  entail  fresh  efforts  and  sacri- 
fices,— Sir  Bartle  Erere  chose,  on 
his  own  responsibility,  and  con- 
trary to  the  plain  words,  as  well  as 
the  spirit,  of  his  most  recent  in- 
structions, to  involve  us  in  a  war, 
the  first  beginnings  of  which  have 
been  clouded  by  serious  disaster. 
No  doubt  the  High  Commissioner 
had  exceptionally  large  powers — 
and  even  without  them  there  must 
be  allowed  to  every  colonial  gover- 
nor, placed  in  circumstances  of  dif- 
ficulty and  danger,  a  large  authority 
and  a  large  discretion.  But  the 
upshot  of  the  South  African  im- 
broglio is  this :  That  Sir  Bartle 
Frere  absolutely  failed  to  make  out 
any  case  whatever  of  that  urgent 
necessity  which  must  be  the  sole 
justification  for  any  colonial  gover- 
nor taking  upon  himself  the  respon- 
sibilities which  the  High  Commis- 
sioner unfortunately  assumed.  Eur- 
ther  than  that,  the  policy  of  going 
to  war  at  all,  and  the  objects  in 
view,  are  involved  in  so  much 
doubt  and  uncertainty,  that  the 
advisers  of  the  Crown  have  repudi- 
ated all  responsibility  for  it.  We 
therefore  are  placed  in  a  predica- 
ment which  is  most  embarrassing 
and  vexatious — viz.,  that  of  having 


1879.] 


Public  Affairs. 


647 


to  wage,  at  a  most  inopportune  mo- 
ment, at  the  bidding  of  a  colonial 
authority,  for  purposes  which  the 
Home  Government  do  not  sanction, 
a  war  which  is  sure  to  be  costly, 
and  which  has  proved,  and  may 
hereafter  prove,  to  be  disastrous. 
There  is  no  advantage  to  be  gained 
from  recrimination  or  censure ;  but 
it  is  worth  while  to  weigh  the  exact 
position  in  which  we  have  been 
placed,  and  to  call  for  the  necessary 
measures  to  prevent  its  recurrence 
by  discouraging  to  the  utmost  any 
repetition  elsewhere  of  the  head- 
strong and  precipitate  measures 
which  we  have  recently  witnessed, 
to  our  dismay,  in  Southern  Africa. 
The  public  dangers  resulting  from 
insubordination  on  the  part  of 
colonial  governors  in  regard  to 
matters  of  this  momentous  import- 
ance are  so  enormous,  that  we  are 
entitled  to  be  absolutely  guaranteed 
against  their  recurrence.  Whether 
a  strong  censure,  coupled  with  the 
establishment  of  telegraphic  com- 
munication with  Natal,  are  suffi- 
cient for  that  purpose,  remains  to  be 
seen.  It  may  well  be  that  Sir  Bartle 
Frere  cannot  be  spared  from  his 
post,  and  that  he  is  by  far  the  most 
efficient  statesman  to  cope  with  the 
difficulties  of  a  situation  which  he 
has  certainly  done  something  to 
aggravate.  But  that  affords  to  the 
English  public  only  a  limited  satis- 
faction. We  desire  to  be  satisfied 
that  the  policy  hereafter  to  be  pur- 
sued shall  be  absolutely  under  the 
control  of  the  advisers  of  the  Crown, 
subject  to  their  responsibility  to 
Parliament  and  public  opinion  at 
home.  Whether  we  look  at  the 
subject  from  the  point  of  view  of 
public  danger,  or  of  Ministerial  re- 
sponsibility, or  of  parliamentary 
authority,  it  is  perfectly  intolerable 
that  the  issues  of  peace  and  war, 
and  questions  of  grave  policy, 
should  be  capable  of  being  wrested 
from  the  hands  of  the  Cabinet  by 
its  subordinate  functionaries,  how- 


ever experienced  or  however  able. 
The  Ministers  have  probably  judged 
rightly  in  deciding  to  retain  Sir 
Bartle  Frere's  services  ;  but  what  is 
of  far  greater  importance  is,  that 
precautions  should  be  taken  for 
retaining  in  their  own  hands  the 
ultimate  decision  as  to  the  terms  of 
peace  and  the  policy  henceforth  to 
be  pursued.  It  seems  pretty  clear 
that  Sir  Bartle  Frere  will  be  satis- 
fied with  nothing  short  of  the  com- 
plete subjugation  of  Cetewayo.  It 
is  equally  clear,  from  the  debates 
in  both  Houses  of  Parliament,  and 
especially  from  Lord  Beaconsfield's 
speech,  that  the  policy  of  the  Gov- 
ernment is  by  no  means  so  extreme. 
The  question  is  not,  which  of  them 
is  right  in  the  interests  of  South 
Africa,  but  which  policy  is  best 
suited  to  the  present  exigencies  and 
permanent  interests  of  the  British 
empire.  Sir  Bartle  Frere  cannot 
be  allowed  a  second  time  to  force 
the  hand  of  the  Home  Government, 
and  to  take  his  own  course  freed 
from  all  control.  If  he  is — if  the 
course  which  this  imbroglio  takes 
shows  that  the  Cabinet  have  failed 
to  re-establish  an  authority  which 
has  once  been  defied  with  compar- 
ative impunity  to  their  rebellious 
subordinate,  but  with  grave  disaster 
to  the  empire — the  result  will  be  ex- 
tremely damaging  alike  to  the  for- 
tunes and  to  the  reputation  of  Lord 
Beaconsfield  and  his  Government. 

In  the  division  in  the  House  of 
Commons  on  this  subject,  the  Gov- 
ernment only  obtained  its  bare 
party  majority.  It  is  obvious  that 
the  House  took  a  serious  view  of 
the  position  of  affairs,  though  as  far 
as  the  business  has  at  present  ad- 
vanced it  was  not  disposed  to  blame 
the  Ministry.  But  it  needs  only  to 
recall  the  Ministerial  case  as  it  was 
submitted  to  Parliament — viz.,  that 
as  to  the  war  itself,  it  had  been  un- 
dertaken against  their  orders ;  and 
as  regards  its  policy,  that  was  Sir 
Bartle  Frere's  affair,  for  which  they 


648 


Public  Affairs. 


[May 


were  not  responsible,  and  in  refer- 
ence to  which  they  would  not  pro- 
nounce a  final  opinion — to  see  that 
such  a  case  may  be  presented  once, 
but  that  it  cannot  be  repeated  with- 
out shaking  to  its  foundations  the 
authority  of  the  Cabinet.  In  short, 
the  position  is  this :  Sir  Bartle 
Frere  is  alone  responsible  for  this 
war ;  the  Cabinet  have,  without 
approving  it,  decided  to  retain  him 
in  power ;  Parliament  has  approved 
that  course,  but  it  is  an  implied 
condition  of  that  approval  that 
Ministerial  responsibility  should  be 
resumed,  and  that  the  future  course 
of  South  African  affairs  should  be 
shown  to  be  taken  under  the  control 
and  on  the  responsibility  of  the  ad- 
visers of  the  Crown. 

No  one  could  have  read  Sir 
Bartle  Frere's  despatches  without 
seeing  that  there  was  a  tone  of 
excitement  and  exaggeration  about 
them  which  showed  that  the  balance 
of  his  mind  and  judgment  was  dis- 
turbed. No  one  can  have  considered 
the  events  of  the  war  by  the  light 
of  its  avowed  policy  without  seeing 
that  its  necessity  is  quite  disproved, 
and  its  prudence  far  too  doubtful  to 
have  justified  in  the  smallest  degree 
the  High  Commissioner's  assump- 
tion of  all  responsibility.  It  was  a 
war  of  invasion  for  purposes  of  de- 
fence and  with  a  view  to  security. 
The  defence  of  Eorke's  Drift  and  of 
Ekowe  showed  that  we  could  repel 
attack  \  and  if  the  Zulu  victory  at 
Isandlana  did  not  prompt  Cetewayo 
to  advance,  it  does  not  seem  very 
probable  that  a  policy  of  aggression 
has  been  imminent.  The  war  is 
not  blamed  on  account  of  its  dis- 
asters. What  we  say  is,  that  for 
purposes  of  defence  we  have  been 
sufficiently  strong  to  hold  our  own 
after  they  occurred,  and  therefore 
were  presumably  still  more  so  before 
we  were  weakened  by  them.  And 
that  is  quite  sufficient  to  dispose  of 
the  whole  matter,  so  far  as  it  is  a 
question  of  urgent  necessity. 


As  regards  policy,  we  look  to  her 
Majesty's  Government  and  not  to 
Sir  Bartle  Frere.  For  that  purpose 
we  will  briefly  refer  to  the  debate 
in  the  House  of  Lords  on  March 
25th,  and  what  do  we  find  1  Lord 
Cranbrook  said  that  he  felt  strongly 
that  the  ultimatum  ought  to  have 
been  submitted  to  her  Majesty's 
Government ;  and  he  added  that 
the  terms  of  it  were  such,  that  had 
it  been  so  submitted  it  would  have 
been  in  some  respects  modified. 
His  opinion  was,  that  everything 
should  have  been  done  to  come  to 
terms,  everything  should  have  been 
tried  to  avoid  war  if  practicable, 
and  that  not  till  the  colony  was 
actually  threatened  was  it  necessary 
to  take  active  operations  against 
Cetewayo.  "  This  country  is  well 
able  to  take  care  of  itself ;  but  the 
Government  at  home  have  a  right 
to  expect  that  they  who  have  an 
eye  over  every  part  of  the  world 
should  have  the  privilege  and 
power  of  deciding  upon  measures 
which  are  vital  to  any  one  of  the 
colonies. " 

Lord  Salisbury  distinctly  pointed 
out  that  the  Government  had  ex- 
pressed no  opinion  upon  the  policy 
of  Sir  Bartle  Frere.  "  They  do  not 
think  that  the  very  crisis  of  a  diffi- 
cult and  dangerous  war  is  the  mo- 
ment for  expressing  such  an  opin- 
ion." In  fact,  the  only  question 
which  either  House  of  Parliament 
considered  was,  whether  Sir  Bartle 
Frere  deserved  to  be  censured ;  and 
if  so,  whether  he  ought  not  to  have 
been  recalled.  Lord  Salisbury  spoke 
out  plainly  as  to  the  temptation  to 
which  colonial  governors  are  ex- 
posed of  considering  only  the  par- 
ticular country  with  which  they 
have  to  deal,  and  not  sufficiently 
remembering  the  circumstances  of 
the  empire  at  large.  It  was  ab- 
solutely necessary,  he  exclaimed, 
that  this  lesson  should  be  read, 
"  That  her  Majesty's  advisers,  and 
they  only,  should  decide  the  grave 


1879.] 


Public  Affairs. 


649 


issues  of  peace  and  war ; "  and  he 
continued,  "  We  have  confined  our 
censure  or  our  blame  to  one  parti- 
cular point,  which  it  is  essential 
to  notice  in  order  to  maintain  the 
discipline  of  the  public  servants  of 
the  entire  empire,  but  we  have  no 
desire  to  express  any  opinion  at 
present  upon  the  grave  issues  of 
policy  which  his  conduct  raises." 
He,  too,  objected  to  recall  Sir  Bartle 
Frere  as  contrary  to  the  public 
interests.  He  had  mastered  the 
details  of  a  difficult  question.  He 
knew  the  circumstances  which  led 
to  the  war,  and  the  best  way  of 
overcoming  the  forces  of  the  Zulu 
king.  He  had  succeeded  probably, 
beyond  any  other  governor,  in  win- 
ning to  himself  the  affection  of  the 
inhabitants  both  in  Cape  Colony  and 
in  Natal,  whose  apathy  or  discon- 
tent must  not  be  rashly  encountered. 
Lord  Beaconsfield  also  condemned 
Sir  Bartle  Frere's  conduct,  and  even 
let  fall  the  word  "  disgrace  "  in  ref- 
erence to  his  position.  He  referred 
partly  to  Sir  Bartle  Frere's  past 
services,  but  chiefly  to  his  present 
qualifications,  as  a  reason  for  not 
recalling  him.  "  We  had  but  one 
object  in  view,  and  that  was  to  take 
care  that  at  this  most  critical  period 
the  affairs  of  her  Majesty  in  South 
Africa  should  be  directed  by  one 
not  only  qualified  to  direct  them, 
but  who  was  superior  to  any  other 
individual  whom  we  could  have 
selected  for  that  purpose."  Lord 
Beaconsfield  also  expressed  no  opin- 
ion upon  the  policy  of  the  ultima- 
tum. He,  however,  in  general 
terms,  emphatically  pledged  himself 
to  a  policy  of  confederation  as  op- 
posed to  a  policy  of  annexation. 
He  alluded  to  the  difficulties  of 
concluding  a  lasting  peace  with  the 
Zulu  king,  but  at  the  same  time 
he  contemplated  the  necessity  of 
eventually  entering  into  some  ar- 
rangement, and  of  taking  our  chance 
as  to  the  extent  to  which  it  would 
be  observed. 


We  can  hardly  suppose  that  Lord 
Beaconsfield  has  viewed  Sir  Bartle 
Frere's  conduct  with  any  satisfac- 
tion, or  that  he  will  allow  the 
authority  of  his  Government  a 
second  time  to  be  set  on  one  side. 
We  did  not  observe  in  his  speech 
any  disposition  to  soften  or  explain 
away  the  offence  which  had  been 
committed,  and  he  was  careful  to 
put  the  retention  of  the  High  Com- 
missioner entirely  upon  grounds  of 
public  interest,  which  would,  of 
course,  fail  to  support  the  condona- 
tion of  a  second  offence.  The  speech 
of  the  Colonial  Secretary  on  a  later 
occasion  was  not  equally  satisfac- 
tory. In  his  anxiety  to  defend  the 
retention  of  Sir  Bartle  Frere  after 
the  censure  to  which  he  had  been 
subjected,  he  fell  into  the  error  of 
minimising  and  explaining  away 
the  censure — a  circumstance  which 
somewhat  unaccountably  escaped 
notice  in  the  debate.  Sir  Michael 
Hicks  Beach  undoubtedly  approved 
of  the  censure  which  he  had  been 
the  instrument  of  conveying.  He 
repeated  several  times,  in  the  course 
of  his  speech,  that  it  was  not  till 
December  19th,  when  the  Govern- 
ment received  Sir  Bartle  Frere's 
despatch  stating  the  demands 
which  had  been  made  upon  Cete- 
wayo,  that  they  had  any  reason  to 
anticipate  an  aggressive  policy. 
That  policy  had  been  adopted  with- 
out first  consulting  the  Govern- 
ment, which  entirely  declined  to 
justify  the  policy  of  the  ultimatum. 
He  went  on,  however,  not  merely 
to  say  "  that  there  was  a  great  deal 
to  be  said  on  the  part  of  Sir  Bartle 
Frere,"  but  also  to  deny  that  there 
had  been  any  unprecedented  cen- 
sure. So  far  from  being  unpre- 
cedented, he  maintained  that  it  was 
a  very  slight  reproof  indeed  com- 
pared with  what  had  formerly 
occurred,  when  a  censure  ten  times 
exceeding  the  present  one  in  severity 
had  been  awarded  by  the  Colonial 
Office  to  the  governor  of  a  colony 


650 


Public  Affairs. 


[May 


for  acting  contrary  to  instructions. 
We  must  add,  however,  that  Sir 
Michael  Hicks  Beach  officially  de- 
clared in  his  place  in  Parliament 
that  he  joined  fully  in  the  regret 
which  Sir  Charles  Dilke  asked  the 
House  of  Commons  to  express, 
"that  the  ultimatum,  which  was 
calculated  to  produce  immediate 
war,  should  have  been  presented  to 
the  Zulu  king  without  authority 
from  the  responsible  advisers  of  the 
Crown."  And  under  all  the  circum- 
stances it  may  fairly  be  hoped  that 
both  Parliament  and  the  public 
have  taken  a  sufficiently  serious 
view  of  the  case  to  insure  that  the 
terms  of  peace  and  the  course  of 
the  war  will  not  be  allowed  to  slip 
out  of  the  control  of  the  Home 
Government,  and  to  counteract  any 
tendency  on  the  part  of  colonial 
governors  to  undertake  responsibil- 
ities better  suited  to  a  KaufFmann 
in  Central  Asia  than  to  a  colonial 
governor  representing  the  Crown 
of  England,  charged  with  the  main- 
tenance of  its  honour  and  interests, 
but  bound  by  his  office  to  obey  its 
responsible  advisers.  Englishmen 
would  certainly,  as  Lord  Salis- 
bury said,  never  tolerate  want  of 
courage  and  enterprise  on  the  part 
of  any  statesman  placed  in  Sir 
Bartle  Erere's  position ;  but  they 
are  impatient  of  insubordination, 
and  jealous  of  all  attempts  to  break 
loose  from  the  discipline  of  the  pub- 
lic service,  and  virtually  to  set  up  an 
uncontrolled  authority. 

It  is  too  early  to  express  any 
opinion  as  to  the  terms  of  peace 
which  ought  to  be  regarded  as  suf- 
ficient. "With  regard  to  the  gen- 
eral policy  to  be  kept  in  view, 
"each  colony,"  says  Lord  Carnar- 
von, "has  its  own  difficulties  and 
its  own  problems  to  solve ;  but  the 
difficulties  and  problems  of  South 
Africa  are  the  hardest  of  all.  They 
hardly  exist  in  any  other  colony ; 
they  certainly  do  not  exist  in  com- 
bination in  any  colony."  He  re- 


ferred, in  the  first  place,  to  the  vast 
native  population,  in  all  its  stages 
from  semi- civilisation  down  to  bar- 
barism, with  which  we  have  to 
deal ;  to  the  inexhaustible  swarm 
of  warlike  native  tribes  pouring 
down  from  the  north;  the  temp- 
tation which  exists  of  slavery,  re- 
quiring all  the  vigour  of  English 
authority  to  put  it  down ;  and  to 
the  antagonism  of  race  in  the  Dutch 
and  English  nationalities.  While 
arguing  that  it  was  our  duty  in 
every  way  to  conciliate  the  Dutch 
population,  he  insisted  upon  the 
necessity  of  a  uniform  native  policy 
as  "a  means  of  avoiding  the  recur- 
rence of  these  miserable  wars.  In 
other  words,  the  ex-Minister  sup- 
ports Lord  Beaconsfield's  policy  of 
confederation,  and  is  not  desirous 
of  further  annexation.  Whatever 
may  have  been  the  policy  of  annex- 
ing the  Transvaal,  Englishmen  do 
not  desire  any  increase  of  territory 
in  South  Africa ;  and  they  are  im- 
patient of  the  sacrifices  entailed  by 
these  perpetually  recurring  South 
African  wars.  No  doubt  the  naval 
and  military  station  of  Cape  Town 
is  of  enormous  importance  to  us ; 
and,  independently  of  that,  we 
cannot  recede — we  cannot  bestow 
responsible  government  and  then 
take  it  away  again.  But  our  colonial 
governors  must  endeavour  to  find  out 
some  peaceable  modus  vivendi  with 
the  independent  rulers  of  neigh- 
bouring territories ;  otherwise  we 
shall  be  burdened  with  territory 
which  no  one  wants,  and  with  sub- 
jects whom  it  will  be  most  costly 
to  govern.  If  that  result  is  to  be 
avoided,  the  authority  of  the  Co- 
lonial Office  at  home  must  be  up- 
held, the  subordination  of  all  gov- 
ernors and  high  commissioners 
abroad,  however  skilled  in  the  com- 
plicated affairs  of  their  colonies, 
duly  maintained.  No  one  desires 
that  Sir  Bartle  Frere's  services 
should  be  lost  at  this  crisis,  which 
he  has  mainly  helped  to  produce ; 


1879.] 


Public  A/airs. 


651 


and  it  is  obvious  that,  unless  re- 
called, lie  cannot,  under  such  cir- 
cumstances, in  honour  run  away 
from  his  post.  If  he  will  consent 
to  subordinate  his  views  of  policy 
to  those  of  the  Cabinet,  all  accounts 
agree  that  he  is  the  fittest  man  to 
be  intrusted  with  authority.  Lord 
Carnarvon,  as  well  as  the  Ministers, 
bore  the  highest  testimony  to  his 
character  and  capacity.  His  career 
in  India  was  frequently  referred  to 
in  the  debate,  and  the  Colonial  Sec- 
retary justified  the  confidence  of  the 
Government  by  reference  to  his  ser- 
vices at  the  Cape.  As  we  join  so 
thoroughly  in  the  condemnation  of 
his  arbitrary  declaration  of  war,  we 
may  conclude  by  doing  justice  to 
his  services,  which  have  been  so 
effective  in  bringing  about  the  co- 
operation of  the  colonists,  so  impor- 
tant at  this  conjuncture.  Though 
self-government  had  been  granted 
to  the  Cape  Colony,  without  impos- 
ing at  the  same  time  the  duty  of 
self-defence,  Sir  Bartle  Frere  never- 
theless guided  that  colony  into  those 
very  measures,  which  had  been  too 
long  delayed,  and  did  so  against  the 
powerful  influence  of  the  Ministry 
whom  he  found  in  office.  His  in- 
fluence availed  for  the  establishment 
of  a  yeomanry  force,  a  force  of  vol- 
unteers, and  of  Cape  Mounted  Eifle- 
men  ;  for  the  regulation  of  the  pos- 
session of  arms  by  the  natives  ;  for 
the  appropriation  of  men  and  money 
towards  suppressing  rebellion  and 
carrying  on  their  border  wars.  He 
also  induced  them  to  denude  them- 
selves of  her  Majesty's  troops,  in 
order  that  those  troops  might  be 
sent  to  the  defence  of  Natal — and 
that  at  a  moment  when,  owing  to 
the  disaster  that  had  occurred,  the 
Cape  Colony  itself  must  necessarily 
have  been  in  the  most  serious  dan- 
ger from  the  native  population 
within  its  borders.  Such  was  the 
list  of  recent  services  to  which  the 
Secretary  of  State  referred.  They 
are  borne  out  by  Lord  Carnarvon's 


emphatic  testimony,  and  justify  the 
declaration  of  the  ex-Minister  :  "  I 
know  of  no  other  man  who  can 
make  his  way  through  the  tangled 
labyrinth  of  South  African  politics, 
and  who  has  so  good  a  chance  as  he 
has  of  solving  matters  in  a  satisfac- 
tory way,  either  for  South  Africa  or 
for  his  country."  Such  is  the  man 
who  is  now  face  to  face  with  a  con- 
siderable crisis  in  South  African 
affairs  !  He  is  a  statesman  whom 
it  is  to  the  interest  of  this  country 
to  keep  in  office;  but  one  with 
whom  we  should  readily  part,  rather 
than  permit  the  discipline  of  the 
public  service  to  be  impaired,  or 
the  grave  issues  of  peace  and  war 
and  of  the  general  course  of  pol- 
icy to  be  wrested  from  the  hands 
of  the  responsible  advisers  of  the 
Crown. 

Our  view,  then,  of  the  general 
aspect  of  public  affairs  as  regards 
the  external  relations  of  Great 
Britain,  is  that  we  are  gradually 
and  steadily  emerging  with  credit 
and  success  from  a  position  which 
has  been  one  of  considerable  per- 
plexity and  danger.  The  tawdry 
rhetoric  of  Sir  William  Harcourt 
to  his  "  brother  Yorkshiremen " 
fails  to  shake  this  view.  The  care- 
less jubilation  of  his  speech  at 
Sheffield  was  ridiculously  incon- 
sistent with  any  sincere  conviction 
of  "  danger,  debt,  disaster,  distrust, 
disquiet,  and  distress  "  forming  the 
exclusive  characteristics  of  our 
present  position.  In  spite  of  all 
the  serious — nay,  overwhelming — 
difficulties  which  have  enveloped 
Europe  as  well  as  ourselves  in  re- 
cent years,  even  one  of  the  ablest 
of  Opposition  orators  can  conjure 
up  no  feeling  of  gloom  which  joy 
over  the  successful  birth  of  an 
epigram  or  a  joke  does  not  visibly 
dispel.  The  conduct  of  affairs  has 
been  so  managed  as  absolutely  to 
disarm  the  Opposition.  Anybody 
ean  make  a  forcible  speech  to  a 
provincial  audience,  who  are  per- 


652 


Public  Affairs. 


[May  1879. 


fectly  satisfied  so  long  as  a  loud 
voice  and  a  confident  utterance 
arrest  their  attention.  But  in 
Parliament,  in  presence  of  those 
whom  they  criticise,  the  leaders  of 
Opposition  have  little  spirit  for 
either  speech  or  division.  They 
tone  down  the  one,  and  run  away 
from  the  other.  According  to  Sir 
William  Har court,  the  Chancellor 
of  the  Exchequer  is  himself  the 
explanation  of  that  remarkable 
phenomenon.  "  His  amiability 
dulls  opposition  as  a  feather-bed 
smothers  a  cannon  -  ball."  Public 
affairs  cannot  be  clouded  over  to 
any  alarming  extent  with  "  danger, 
debt,  disaster,  distrust,  disquiet, 
and  distress  "  when  the  champions 
of  an  oppressed  public,  the  tribunes 
who  rage  over  the  grievances  of  the 
people,  are  tongue-tied  and  mes- 
merised by  a  little  amiability.  If 
we  cannot  at  present  exclaim,  Happy 
the  country  whose  annals  are  dull ! 
we  may  at  least,  on  their  own 
showing,  congratulate  the  leaders 
of  Opposition  that  their  energy  of 
criticism  is  easily  dulled,  that  their 
indignation  is  extremely  evanescent, 
and  that,  so  far  from  being  sin- 
cerely dissatisfied  with  the  position 
of  affairs,  they  cannot  conceal  the 
enthusiasm  of  delight  with  which 
a  happy  jingle  of  alliteration  and  a 
crackling  shower  of  epigrams  fill 
their  patriotic  bosoms.  The  key- 
note of  Mr  Bright's  oration  at  Bir- 
mingham was  that  our  trade  with 
India  was  only  24  millions,  and 
the  profit  9 \  per  cent !  He  abso- 
lutely admitted  that,  by  that  hori- 
zon, his  views  of  our  interests 
and  duties  in  the  Eastern  Question 
are  bounded;  and  he  considered 


that  a  Ministry  which  regarded 
those  interests  and -duties  with  any 
different  sense  of  responsibility 
might  be  left  to  the  retribution 
which  awaited  them.  There  was  a 
tone  about  both  speeches  of  exces- 
sive confidence  in  the  result  of  the 
next  general  election.  "We  have 
been  used  to  that  display  of  exult- 
ing confidence  on  the  eve  of  every 
debate  and  division  for  the  last 
three  years,  but  at  the  critical 
moment  the  attack  has  been  tamed, 
and  the  division  if  possible  avoided. 
The  Conservatives  have  no  reason 
to  fear  a  dissolution.  No  doubt, 
when  the  difficulties  of  the  Eastern 
Question  have  been  thoroughly  sur- 
mounted, and  the  Berlin  Treaty 
completely  executed,  the  present 
Parliament  will  be  approaching  the 
natural  term  of  its  existence.  We 
hope  and  believe  that  long  before 
that  time  arrives  the  troubles  in 
Affghanistan  and  South  Africa  will 
also  have  ceased,  and  that  reviving 
trade  will  have  restored  the  buoy- 
ancy of  the  public  revenue.  But 
however  that  may  be,  the  confidence 
of  the  public  in  the  Government  is 
clearly  unabated,  and,  relatively  to 
the  Liberal  party,  the  Ministry  is 
far  stronger  in  the  sixth  year  of 
its  existence  than  it  was  at  its  first 
formation.  The  conviction  was 
growing  upon  the  country  that  in 
times  of  very  considerable  difficulty 
and  danger  its  affairs  have  been 
successfully  conducted,  and  that 
the  somewhat  extravagant  vitupera- 
tion which  is  out  of  doors  directed 
against  it  lacks  that  consistency 
and  soundness  which  would  justify 
its  repetition  within  the  walls  of 
Parliament. 


Printed  l>y  William  Blackwood  &  Son?. 


BLACKWOOD'S 
EDINBUKUH    MAGAZINE. 


No.  DCCLXIY. 


JUNE   1879. 


VOL.  CXXV. 


EEATA;  OR,  WHAT'S  IN  A  NAME. — PART  in. 

CHAPTER   X. — THE    "  MONKEY'S   MIEEOE." 

Careless  of  beauty,  she  was  beauty's  self. 


"  CONFOUND  it !  it's  enough  to 
drive  a  fellow  distracted,  trying  to 
get  the  effect  of  those  lights  through 
the  tree -stems.  Before  you  have 
time  to  put  in  a  wash  of  yellow, 
the  sky  has  turned  orange,  and  pur- 
ple, and  green,  all  in  a  minute  — 
and  your  chance  ie  gone." 

They  were  sitting  in  the  forest, 
—they  two  alone,  Otto  and  Eeata 
— and  Otto  was  putting  in  the  last 
touches  to  a  sketch  he  had  worked 
at  for  some  days,  the  glorious  tints 
of  a  tropical  sunset  showing  through 
the  foliage  and  trunks  around. 

"  Don't  do  anything  more  to  that 
grass,"  said  Eeata,  who  was  watch- 
ing his  progress  eagerly ;  "  you 
have  made  it  nearly  too  long  al- 
ready, and  I  shall  be  tempted  to 
mow  it  down  the  way  I  shaved 
Eitter  Toggenburg  this  morning." 

Something  in  this  last  phrase  had 
given  Otto's  thoughts  another  turn  ; 
so  after  a  minute's  silence  he  said, 
with  what  seemed  to  Eeata  an  ab- 
rupt transition,  "By  the  way,  I  want- 
ed to  ask,  is  there  any  place  about 
here  where  you  can  get  things'?" 

VOL.   CXXV. — NO.  DCCLXIV. 


"  Get  things  ! "  Eeata  echoed,  in 
genuine  surprise;  "can't  you  put 
your  query  into  a  more  definite 
shape "?  What  do  you  mean  by  get, 
and  what  do  you  mean  by  things  ? 
Do  you  mean  buying,  stealing,  or 
finding?  and  is  it  articles  of  food, 
dress,  or  ornament  that  you  require? " 

"  Not  exactly  any  of  these,"  said 
Otto,  with  rather  an  awkward 
laugh j  "and  I  fully  intend  to 
come  by  my  purchases  honestly." 

"Then  you  mean  to  buy  some- 
thing," interposed  Eeata ;  "  there 
is  one  point  settled  at  least.  But 
under  what  head  does  the  article 
come  ? " 

"Well,  gentlemen's  things,  you 
know,"  explained  Otto,  vaguely. 

"  Then  I  suppose  you  mean  some 
especially  horrible  kind  of  tobacco, 
which  you  can't  get  on  without  any 
longer,  and  the  want  of  which  has 
been  making  you  silent  and  absent 
for  the  last  few  days." 

"  Have  I  been  silent  and  ab- 
sent ? "  he  inquired,  looking  to- 
wards her,  where  she  was  sitting ; 
but  he  could  only  see  the  lower 
2  u 


654 


Reata;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  III. 


[June 


portion  of  her  face,  for  she  had 
taken  Ficha  on  her  lap,  and  was 
bending  over  her,  engrossed  in 
plaiting  up  the  woolly  hair  with 
fine  grasses — a  proceeding  which 
bade  fair  to  convert  the  patient 
animal,  ere  long,  into  a  sort  of 
vegetable  hedgehog. 

"  No,  it  has  nothing  to  do  with 
smoking ;  my  wishes  at  this  mo- 
ment lie  more  in  the  direction  of 
knives  than  of  tobacco." 

"  Knives  !  Good  gracious  !  what 
do  you  want  knives  for  1  Are  you 
expecting  a  hand-to-hand  fight  with 
the  brigands  1  or  are  you  not  satis- 
fied with  the  cutlery  provided  in 
the  house  ?  or  what  1  Do  please 
come  to  the  point  about  this  mys- 
terious purchase  of  yours,  which 
belongs  neither  to  food,  dress,  nor 
ornament,  but  comes  under  the 
head  of  knives." 

"  Well,  in  plain  language,  I  want 
a  razor." 

Eeata  clapped  her  hands. 

"  A  razor  !  Then  you  are  going 
to  cut  off  your  beard.  I  am  de- 
lighted !  Just  the  other  day  I  was 
wondering  what  your  expression 
really  is  like.  When  will  you  get 
it  1  To-morrow  ?  Please  do." 

"  Where  will  I  get  it,  is  more  the 
question.  Is  there  no  place  nearer 

than  E where  such  an  article 

can  be  procured  1 " 

The  fact  was,  that  the  casual 
remark  about  beards  which  Reata 
had  made  that  morning,  a  propos 
of  Bitter  Toggenburg,  had  made  a 
deeper  impression  on  Otto's  mind 
than  he  would  have  liked  to  ac- 
knowledge. The  very  first  thing 
he  had  done,  on  reaching  his  room, 
had  been  to  scrutinise  his  face  in 
the  glass;  and  the  conclusion  he 
came  to  was,  that  his  beard  must 
be  got  rid  of  at  once.  But  then, 
as  he  turned  instinctively  to  his 
dressing-case,  a  weighty  objection 
presented  itself — he  had  no  razors. 
Only  now  he  remembered  the  fact 


that  an  untimely  lurch  of  the  vessel 
had,  in  the  early  part  of  the  voyage, 
sent  his  razor -case  flying  out  of 
Piotr's  hand  overboard,  where  with 
a  minute  splash  it  had  sunk  under 
the  green  surface,  and  probably  now 
lay  reposing  at  the  bottom  of  the 
ocean,  encrusted  with  corals  and 
pearls,  or  buried  in  deep  sea- weed. 

The  most  exasperating  thing 
about  the  matter  was,  that  Otto 
was  perfectly  aware  that  his  fea- 
tures did  not  need  any  of  that  igno- 
minious "  planting  -  out "  to  which 
Reata  had  referred  with  such  scorn, 
"A  man  may  be  anything  under 
his  beard,"  she  had  said.  "I 
wonder  if  she  thinks  I  have  got  a 
jawbone  like  a  gorilla ;  and  if  Piotr 
hadn't  been  such  a  precipitate  ass, 
I  could  have  had  my  beard  off  now, 
in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye." 

However,  regretting  was  no  good, 
nor  swearing  either,  although  Otto 
indulged  in  some  tolerably  vigorous 
language  on  the  subject.  For  a 
moment  he  speculated  wildly  on 
the  possibility  of  making  his  pen- 
knife fulfil  the  office  of  a  razor, 
but  wisely  abandoned  the  idea  as 
unfeasible.  He  vowed,  however, 
that  by  fair  means  or  foul  he  would 
have  a  razor  before  many  days  were 
past. 

"  Any  place  nearer  than  E V 

Reata  rejoined,  in  answer  to  his 
question;  "well,  there  is  no  very 
civilised  place.  Up  the  hills  there 
is  no  village  nearer  than  thirty 
miles ;  but  to  the  east,  over  the 
plateau,  there  is  a  small  village 
at  fifteen  miles'  distance,  and  it 
may  possibly  possess  a  razor  or  two, 
although  I  have  no  good  grounds 
for  believing  so." 

"  A  small  village  at  fifteen  miles' 
distance,  which  may  possibly  pos- 
sess a  razor  or  two,"  repeated  Otto, 
reflectively;  "  why,  we  are  more  out 
of  the  world  even  than  I  thought. 
Can  you  give  me  no  more  encourage- 
ment than  that,  Fraulein  Reata  ? " 


1879.] 


Reata ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  III. 


655 


"  Yes,  now  I  remember,  there  is 
a  shop  in  the  village ;  I  noticed 
hammocks  and  sausages  hanging 
outside.  I  advise  you  to  try,  at 
least ;  it  is  your  best  chance  of 
getting  shaved." 

"  I  am  quite  willing  to  try ;'  but 
not  being  an  aerial  being,  there  is 
some  difficulty  about  reaching  the 
place.  It  is  out  of  walking  dis- 
tance ;  how  about  driving  1  Would 
my  aunt  consider  it  too  far  for  her 
vehicle  to  go?" 

"  Driving  !  You  don't  know 
what  you  are  talking  about ;  no 
wheeled  vehicle  would  ever  get 
there  whole.  A  great  part  of  the 
way  lies  along  a  narrow  path  through 
the  thick  wood." 

"Then  there  is  nothing  for  it 
but  patience  and  resignation.  I 
suppose  riding " 

"  Eiding  !  yes,  that  is  the  very 
thing,"  she  cried. 

"  But  won't  my  aunt "  Otto 

put  in,  rather  dubiously. 

"  Your  aunt  1  The  Giraffe  1 
What  possible  objection  could  she 
have?  Of  course  you  shall  ride, 
and  I  shall  go  with  you  to  show 
you  the  way,"  continued  Eeata, 
with  perfect  simplicity.  "I  have 
not  had  a  ride  since  you  came,  for 
I  never  had  any  one  to  go  with  me  \ 
and  the  Giraffe  did  not  approve  of 
my  scouring  the  country  alone." 

"  But  will  she  approve  of  this 
plan?"  he  inquired,  still  doubt- 
fully. 

"  What  is  the  use  of  asking  so 
many  questions?  Of  course  she 
will  approve.  Oh,  it  will  be  de- 
lightful !  And  we  must  go  to-mor- 
row, for  the  weather  will  not  hold 
out  much  longer  like  this.  There 
was  a  frog  croaking  at  my  window 
this  morning,  and  that  is  the  surest 
sign  of  rain  here ;  but  you  had 
better  not  mention  the  frog  at  all 
to  the  Giraffe,  it  might  make  her 
nervous." 

"  I  will  not  be  fool  enough  to 


mention  the  frog.  But  how  about 
a  side-saddle  ?  Is  there  one  here  ? " 

"Certainly  there  is  not." 

"  Can  you  manage  without  one  ?" 

"  Of  course.  I  don't  need  pom- 
mels to  keep  my  balance ;  any 
saddle  will  do  for  me.  I  never  rode 
any  other  way  as  a  child.  For  the 
matter  of  that,  I  haven't  got  a  rid- 
ing-skirt either;  but  I  will  make 
the  Giraffe  give  me  her  shawl — 
that  will  have  to  do." 

Now  that  his  first  scruples  were 
at  rest,  Otto  was  transported  into 
the  seventh  heaven  of  happiness  at 
the  prospect  of  a  long  ride  with  her, 
and  with  her  alone.  An  eager  con- 
versation on  the  subject  ensued, 
and  he  speedily  came  to  the  con- 
clusion that  it  was  a  most  fortunate 
chance  which  had  caused  Piotr  to 
drop  his  razors  overboard 

In  talking,  he  took  up  his  sketch- 
book again  and  began  making  a 
rough  study  of  some  broad-leaved 
creepers  which"  hung  down  over  the 
branches  of  a  plantain  close  at  hand. 
Soon  he  discovered  that  the  creep- 
ers were  not  the  real  object  of  his 
study — that,  in  fact,  they  were  only 
serving  as  a  background  to  a  sketch 
of  Reata's  head.  The  brim  of  her 
hat  was  inconveniently  broad,  and 
hampered  his  view  of  her  face ;  and 
besides,  unaware  as  she  was  of  his 
intentions,  she  was  not  by  any 
means  immovable. 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  Fraulein 
Reata,"  he  exclaimed,  involuntar- 
ily, as  she  turned  right  round  in 
her  position  in  order  to  watch  a 
humming-bird  on  a  bush  behind 
her,  "  do  not  turn  your  head  in 
that  manner !  I  was  just  getting 
it  right." 

"  Why  should  I  not  turn  my 
own  head,  if  I  choose  ? "  she  began, 
in  surprise ;  then,  as  he  pointed  to 
his  sketch-book,  "you  are  paint- 
ing me?  taking  my  portrait?  But 
I  thought  you  were  doing  the 
creepers." 


656 


Reata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  III. 


[June 


"  I  thought  so  too,"  said  Qtto, 
penitently ;  "  but  I  may  go  on  with 
this,  may  I  not  ? " 

"  Well,  I  suppose  you  had  better; 
but  I  can't  promise  to  sit  very  still." 

There  was  a  pause,  broken  pres- 
ently by  Eeata  :  "  Why  did  you  say 
this  morning  that  you  will  have  to 
be  leaving  soon  1  You  never  said  a 
word  of  that  before." 

"  My  leave  will  soon  be  expired," 
he  answered,  with  a  sigh.  "  I  had 
not  realised  it  before  ;  I  can't  be 
very  long  here." 

"  But  you  have  only  been  ten 
days." 

"  Is  it  only  ten  days  1 "  he  replied, 
pausing  for  a  moment  in  his  work. 
"What  a  lot  of  things  happen  in 
ten  days  ! " 

"  I  can't  remember  anything  par- 
ticular having  happened.  Every- 
thing, on  the  contrary,  has  gone 
very  smoothly  —  much  smoother 
than  I  thought  it  would." 

"People  can  get  very  well  ac- 
quainted in  ten  days,  I  think,"  he 
said ;  "  it  seems  to  me  that  I  have 
known  you  all  my  life." 

"  What  nonsense  you  talk  !  You 
don't  know  me  a  bit;  you  don't 
know  anything  about  me — not  even 
my  name." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  know  that ;  I  found 
it  out  to-day,"  he  exclaimed  trium- 
phantly, looking  up  at  her.  She 
raised  her  head  very  quickly,  and — 
was  it  his  fancy? — she  seemed  to 
have  grown  a  shade  paler,  and  in 
her  eyes  there  was  the  same  fright- 
ened look  he  had  seen  there  in  the 
morning. 

"  You  know  my  name  1 "  she 
said,  in  a  half-alarmed,  half-defiant 
tone. 

"Yes,  indeed  I  do.  Why  should 
it  surprise  you  so  ?  It  seems  to  me 
more  extraordinary  that  I  should 
have  been  so  long  ignorant 'Of  it." 

"Tell  it  me,  then  !  "  she  com- 
manded, with  her  eyes  still  upon 
him. 


"Fraulein  Lackenegg." 

Greatly  to  Otto's  surprise,  and 
rather  to  his  discomfiture,  Reata 
broke  into  one  of  her  rare  thrilling 
laughs. 

"  Well,  perhaps  I  did  not  catch 
it  quite  correctly,"  he  said,  in  a 
slightly  huffed  voice ;  "  I  only  heard 
it  in  a  hurry.  It  may  be  Tacken,- 
egg,  or  Sackenegg,  or  Backenegg ; 
but  I  am  sure  that  is  the  sound  of 
the  name." 

At  each  attempt  Eeata  only 
laughed  the  more.  "  No,  no,  it  is 
all  right,"  she  managed  to  say  at 
last,  recovering  her  gravity ;  "  the 
first  name  was  right,  and  I  really 
am  very  sorry  for  having  laughed. 
I  must  beg  your  pardon ;  but  you 
said  it  in  such  a  comical  manner." 

The  tears  of  laughter  were  in  her 
eyes  still  as  she  looked  at  him  across 
the  grassy  space  which  divided  them, 
with  half-clasped  hands,  and  a  deep 
colour  in  her  cheek,  brought  there 
by  her  earnestness.  How  could  he 
not  forgive  her ! 

Otto  felt  foolish,  and  did  not 
know  what  answer  to  make. 

"  Oh,  I  am  a  fool ! "  he  exclaimed, 
with  extraordinary  energy.  "Of 
course  it  is  my  fault;  I  always 
make  a  mess  of  names." 

"  Well,  how  do  you  like  my  name, 
now  that  you  have  heard  it  1 "  she 
asked,  speaking  quite  gravely,  and 
bending  down  over  Ficha  to  give 
the  finishing  touches  to  her  herbal 
decorations. 

"I  like  your  Christian  name 
better,"  he  answered,  in  a  low  voice; 
"it  is  the  loveliest  I  have  ever 
heard." 

"Is  it  really?"  she  asked,  with 
true  pleasure  in  her  voice.  "  I  am 
glad  you  like  it;  I  am  fond  of  it 
myself, — it  was  also  my  mother's." 

"Then  I  suppose  it  is  a  true 
Mexican  name,  for  I  have  never 
heard  it  before." 

"  No,  I  daresay  not  —  it  is  not 
very  common.  It  is  not  likely  that 


1879.] 


Reata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  III. 


657 


you  should  come  across  a  second 
Reata." 

"  No,  most  decidedly  not ;  I  know 
I  never  shall,"  he  said,  with  a  de- 
gree of  assurance  which  surprised 
her  much. 

"  And  do  you  know  what  it  sig- 
nifies 1" 

"  Your  name  1  Something  de- 
lightful, I  am  sure." 

"  Nothing  very  delightful ;  noth- 
ing about  flowers,  or  birds,  or  but- 
terflies, as  perhaps  you  supposed." 

"Nothing  very  horrible  then,  I 
hope.  It  couldn't  be ;  it  is  not  in 
the  nature  of  things." 

"Do  you  know  what  a  lazo* 
is?" 

"  Of  course  I  do ;  a  thing  you 
catch  wild  buffaloes  with,  and  an- 
telopes also.  I  have  seen  it  on 
pictures  dozens  of  times." 

"  What  sort  of  pictures  ?" 

"  Oh,  a  lot  of  men  in  fantastic 
costumes,  prancing  about  on  horses, 
and  throwing  elegant  little  nooses 
at  gracefully  ambling  antelopes." 

Reata  opened  her  eyes  in  sur- 
prise, and  laughed.  "Now,  list- 
en; I  am  going  to  tell  you  what 
they  really  are.  In  reality  there 
are  two  sorts  of  lazos.  What  is 
usually  called  lazo  is  twisted  out 
of  hemp  or  threads  of  aloe.  The 
Mexicans  use  it  only  for  amuse- 
ment; and  please  remember  that 
they  do  not  catch  wild  buffaloes 
with  it.  The  true  Mexican  lazo 
is  twisted  out  of  leather  thongs ;  it 
is  no  plaything,  but  a  terrible  arm." 

"  And  which  kind  are  you  1  The 
plaything,  or  the  terrible  arm  1 " 

"Oh,  I  am  the  dreadful  one,  of 
course;  couldn't  you  have  guessed 
that  ?  Reata  is  exclusively  the  name 
for  the  great  leather  lazo.  I  assure 
you,  it  is  no  joke  for  a  buffalo  to  be 
caught  with  one  of  them." 

"Do,  Fraulein  Keata,  try  and 
keep  quiet  for  five  minutes  more," 


Otto  interrupted.  "  I  am  just  put- 
ting in  the  shades  of  your  hair;  and 
if  you  keep  shaking  it  back  in  that 
way " 

"  By  the  by,  how  is  my  portrait 
getting  on?  I  had  forgotten  all 
about  it." 

"Not  very  well,  I  am  afraid; 
that  is  to  say,  not  to  my  satisfaction. 
You  are  as  difficult  to  do  as  the 
sunset  sky;  always  changing." 

"  Why  1  Because  I  turn  orange, 
and  green,  and  purple,  all  in  a 
minute  ? " 

"  No.  Because  you  turn  crimson 
and  white,  all  in  a  minute." 

"  Would  you  put  your  hat  a  trifle 
back?"  he  said,  a  minute  later; 
"your  eyebrows  are  so  much  in 
shade  that  I  cannot  make  them 
out." 

She  pushed  up  her  leaf-hat  with- 
out raising  her  eyes.  "I  suppose 
there  will  be  no  difficulty  in  paint- 
ing them ;  they  will  hardly  be  get- 
ting pointed,  and  square,  and  arched, 
all  in  a  minute." 

"No,  but  I  have  got  them  too 
arched  here;  they  look  more  like 
Gabrielle's  eyebrows  than  yours." 

"  By  the  by,  haven't  all  members 
of  your  family  got  very  fine  eye- 
brows? I  have  been  told  so." 

"  I  believe  they  are  considered  to 
be  rather  good,"  answered  Otto  con- 
fidently, wondering  within  himself 
whether  Reata  had  noticed  how 
well-marked  his  own  were.  "Ar- 
nold has  got  a  most  tremendous 
pair,  almost  too  thick  and  bushy, 
they  give  him  such  a  severe 
look." 

"  Olivia  Bodenbach  had  beauti- 
ful eyebrows,  I  believe,"  remarked 
Reata,  while  idly  passing  her  fin- 
gers through  Ficha's  hair. 

"So  I  heard  from  my  father; 
but  she  seems  to  have  got  rid  of 
them  somehow.  How  has  that 
happened  ? " 


Lasso. 


658 


Reata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  III. 


[June 


"  Got  rid  of  them  ! "  Eeata  was 
beginning  in  surprise.  "  Good 
heavens,  what  have  I  done  !  "  she 
exclaimed,  with  sudden  vehemence, 
seizing  up  Fiona  at  the  same  mo- 
ment, and  burying  her  face  in  the 
fluffy  coat. 

"  Fraulein  Eeata,  what  has  hap- 
pened]" asked  Otto,  in  alarm.  "I 
don't  think  she  can  be  much  hurt. 
I  did  not  hear  her  squeal.  Shall 
I  come  and  see  1 "  half  rising  as  he 
spoke. 

"No,  no,  please  don't,"  she  re- 
plied, lifting  her  face.  "It  was 
very  foolish  of  me ;  it  was  only 
that  I  got  a  fright  for  a  minute." 

"I  didn't  know  that  you  were 
so  nervous ;  you  don't  often  start 
like  that." 

"No,  I  don't  often.  It  is  all 
right  now ;  please  don't  bother  me 
about  it.  Go  on  with  your  painting." 

Otto  obeyed. 

"  Do  you  believe  in  family  like- 
nesses 1 "  Reata  asked,  a  minute 
later,  after  a  pause  of  reflective 
silence. 

"  Of  course  I  do.  I  am  an  in- 
stance of  it  myself." 

"Ah  yes,  to  be  sure." 

"My  family  are  remarkable  for 
their  resemblance  to  each  other — 
as  a  rule." 

"  Why  do  you  say  as  a  rule  ?  " 

"  Because  there  are  exceptions." 

"Tell  me  one." 

"  My  aunt,  for  instance." 

"  Yes,  the  likeness  between  you 
and  her  is  not  striking,  certainly." 

"I  hardly  think  it  is"  — and 
Otto  smiled  quietly  to  himself  as 
he  mentally  compared  aunt  Olivia's 
homely  and  ill- cut  features  with  the 
cast  of  his  own  faultless  profile. 

"  Some  relations  are  very  unlike 
each  other — near  relations  too,—  so 
unlike,  that  you  would  never  guess 
them  to  be  connected,"  remarked 
Eeata,  while  a  curious  smile  lurked 
about  the  corners  of  her  mouth, 
and  she  bent  once  more  over  Ffcha, 


putting  some  of  the  grass-stalks  to 
rights,  and  passing  her  fingers  ca- 
ressingly over  the  white  silky  ears. 

"  There,  White  Puppy,  you  may 
go!" 

"  So  that  is  the  result  of  your 
evening's  work,"  said  Otto,  laugh- 
ing, as  he  watched  the  released  and 
highly-decorated  animal  stretching 
its  legs  complacently. 

"  Yes ;  and  now  show  me  the 
result  of  yours,"  and  she  put  out 
her  hand.  "  Don't  get  up ;  just 
throw  it  over  here,  and  I  will 
examine  it  while  you  are  putting 
up  your  colours." 

He  tossed  the  book,  so  that  it 
fell  by  her  side. 

"  You  have  not  done  that  very 
cleverly;  it  has  got  closed,  and  I 
shall  have  to  hunt  for  myself.  I 
am  not  quite  sure  whether  I  shall 
know  my  face  on  paper.  This  is 
Steinbiihl,  I  know,  and  that  Ham- 
burg, and — I  hope  this  is  not  me 
— a  woman  with  a  large  frilled  cap. 
You  may  have  been  making  a 
caricature  of  me  the  whole  time. 
It  was  foolish  of  me  to  trust  you. 
Ah,  how  lovely  ! "  she  exclaimed, 
as  she  turned  over  another  page, 
and  she  gave  an  involuntary  start. 
"  Who  is  it,  Baron  Bodenbach  1  " 
as  she  saw  him  smiling ;  "  is  it,  can 
it  be  meant  for  me  1  Ah,"  she 
went  on,  with  a  shade  of  disap- 
pointment in  her  voice,  "  I  see  you 
have  not  been  doing  my  portrait  at 
all !  You  have  made  an  ideal  head 
out  of  it,  and  only  used  my  features 
as  a  foundation." 

The  page  she  had  opened  showed 
a  sketch  of  her  head,  against  the 
background  of  dark  leaves.  Fault- 
less it  certainly  was  not ;  but  there 
was  character  and  life  in  the  features 
— a  suggestion  of  great  beauty,  if 
not  the  perfect  rendering  of  it. 
Otto  had  succeeded  in  giving  the 
expression — that  is,  one  of  the 
hundred  expressions  of  the  lovely 
face  before  him. 


1879.] 


Reata  ;  or.  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  III. 


659 


11  It  is  as  like  as  I  can  make  it," 
he  replied,  with  a  sigh. 

"  Nonsense  !  "  she  said,  impa- 
tiently. "  Of  course,  I  know  that 
I  am  fairly  good-looking  ;  but  this 
is  quite  another  thing." 

To  this  he  made  no  answer. 

"Don't  you  think  I  am  fairly 
good-looking? "  she  said  again,  with 
a  little  stamp  of  her  foot. 

She  looked  up  for  his  answer, 
openly,  innocently,  without  a  shade 
of  affectation  or  coquetry,  but  per- 
haps with  just  a  passing  feeling  of 
childish  vanity.  And  then  she  met 
his  gaze  of  ardent,  undisguised  ad- 
miration, fixed  full  upon  her  ;  and 
all  at  once  she  understood. 

Her  eyes  fell  before  his  with  a 
consciousness  he  had  never  seen 
there  before.  The  crimson  tide  rose 
and  rushed  over  neck,  cheek,  and 
forehead,  suffusing  the  delicate 
skin  with  colour  up  to  the  very  hair- 
roots.  She  put  up  her  hand  to  her 
face,  as  if  to  check  the  tell-tale  red  ; 
and  in  the  next  moment,  before  he 
had  time  to  speak  or  know  what 
she  was  doing,  she  had  risen  to  her 
feet,  and  was  gone  past  him  into.the 
forest — flying  as  if  from  a  danger. 

Otto  began  several  exclamations, 
and  did  not  finish  any,  as  he  sat 
staring  in  amazement  ;  but  the  trees 
hid  her  in  a  moment.  He  could 
only  hear  the  fast  receding  bark  of 
Ficha,  who,  wildly  excited  at  this 
unexpected  move  of  her  mistress's, 
had  given  chase,  evidently  thinking 
that  something  out  of  the  common 
was  in  the  wind. 

Eeata  fled  through  the  forest, 
hardly  knowing  why  or  from  what 
she  was  running,  and  with  no  other 
object  than  that  of  getting  to  the 
house  quickly,  and  shutting  herself 
up  in  her  room. 

She  ran  till  she  was  breathless ; 
and  then,  as  her  pace  slackened, 
an  idea  seemed  to  strike  her,  for 
she  turned  rapidly  aside  and  went 
still  deeper  into  the  depth  of  the 


trees.  She  had  a  distinct  object  in 
view  now;  she  wanted  to  reach 
the  pool  which  she  called  the 
"  Monkey's  Mirror." 

On  the  moss  beside  it  she  knelt 
down  and  looked  with  eager  eyes 
into  its  cool  depths.  Together  with 
branches  and  flowers,  it  sent  back 
to  her  her  warm,  bright  beauty  in 
all  its  radiance;  and  for  the  first 
time  she  saw  herself  with  different 
eyes. 

"  Yes,  it  is  the  same  face  as  in 
the  picture,"  she  murmured,  bend- 
ing down  very  low  over  the  glassy, 
unruffled  surface.  "  I  am  beauti- 
ful !  How  could  I  not  see  it  be- 
fore !  I  read  it  so  clearly  in  his 
eyes  when  he  looked  at  me  now  " — 
and  at  the  very  recollection,  alone 
as  she  was  in  the  forest,  the  blood 
shot  to  her  cheek  again. 

She  put  up  her  hands,  an£  began 
hurriedly  undoing  her  plaits,  first 
one  and  then  the  other,  and  shook 
down  the  waves  of  dark  hair  over 
her  shoulders ;  and  then  she  bent 
forward  again,  till  the  dusky  fringes 
trailed  in  the  water,  smiling  at  her 
own  image,  almost  laughing  with 
pleasure  as  she  drank  in  each 
separate  line  of  feature  and  form. 

With  the  instinct  just  born  with- 
in her,  she  pushed  up  her  sleeve, 
and  gazed  with  loving  vanity  at  the 
perfectly-shaped  round  white  arm, 
wondering  whether  most  women 
had  round  white  arms  like  that. 

"Yes,  I  am  beautiful,"  she  re- 
peated, with  an  almost  defiant  in- 
flection of  her  voice,  as  she  met  the 
gaze  of  another  pair  of  eyes,  belong- 
ing to  a  hideous  animal  of  the  liz- 
ard tribe,  speaking  as  if  daring  it  to 
contradict  her  assertion.  The  ani- 
mal, squatting  on  a  stone  alongside, 
had  been  eyeing  her  proceedings 
with  a  mistrustful  look.  Apparently 
it  lacked  inclination  or  courage  to 
accept  the  challenge;  for,  turning 
tail,  it  scuttled  away  in  the  grass  in 
a  crestfallen  manner. 


660 


Reata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  III. 


[June 


There  are  few  women  who  reach 
the  age  of  twenty-one  without  dis- 
covering the  full  worth  of  whatever 
charms  they  may  happen  to  possess. 
On  most,  the  sense  of  it  grows 
gradually,  in  proportion  to  the  en- 
couragement their  vanity  receives 
from  their  outer  world.  On  some 
few  it  comes  as  a  revelation — like 
a  lightning-flash,  which  shows  them 
their  power.  Of  these,  again,  some 
have  gained  their  beauty  by  degrees, 
unconsciously  to  themselves  and 
perhaps  unnoticed  by  others ;  while 
some  women,  who  have  always  been 
in  possession  of  perfect  loveliness, 
are  in  ignorance  of  the  truth — and 
this  not  through  defect  of  intellect, 
but  merely  through  the  force  of  cir- 
cumstances. The  mere  habit  of  the 
thing,  the  bare  fact  of  daily  behold- 
ing in  the  glass  the  same  outlines 
of  beauty,  will  cause  people  of  a 
certain  character  to  undervalue  or 
ignore  their  gifts. 

Such  was  Reata's  case.  She  had 
spoken  perfect  truth  when  she  said 
that  she  considered  herself  to  be 
fairly  good-looking. 

Most  undoubtedly  she  would 
have  discovered  her  advantages 
sooner  had  she  mixed  in  society  ; 
but  from  her  great  isolation,  and 
even  more  peculiar  circumstances 
of  her  life,  she  had  never  been  in 
the  position  either  to  test  her  pow- 
er over  men,  or  to  gauge  her  fair- 
ness against  that  of  other  women. 
I  will  not  attempt  to  affirm  that 
Reata  was  more  innocent  of  the 
germs  of  vanity  than  the  greatest 
part  of  her  f ellow- sisters ;  but  as 
yet  these  germs  had  lain  dormant, 
and  it  remained  to  be  seen  what 
effect  this  new  element  would  have 
on  her  life — whether  the  knowledge 
to  which  her  eyes  had  been  opened 
would  brush  the  first  bloom  of 
freshness  off  her  heart. 

Her  perceptions,  once  awakened, 
were  keen ;  and  now  that  her  mind 
was  turned  upon  this  subject,  it 


travelled  with  extraordinary  rapid- 
ity. That  one  unguarded  look  of 
Otto's  had  told  her  much.  Till 
that  moment,  from  the  very  con- 
sciousness of  his  own  weakness,  he 
had  been  more  prudent  than  was 
his  wont,  and  had  kept  his  secret 
unbetrayed.  Of  course  there  had 
been  moments  in  the  last  ten  days 
when  any  one  less  novice  than  this 
girl  was  would  have  guessed  at  his 
feelings  ;  but  to  her  those  moments 
had  told  nothing.  The  thing  was 
so  new,  so  totally  unexampled  in 
her  experience,  that  no  perplexing 
thought  had  ever  risen  within  her. 

She  had  fondled  her  newly-found 
beauty  as  a  child  does  a  plaything ; 
and  now  she  sat  quite  still,  slowly 
putting  back  her  hair  into  its 
tresses.  Meanwhile  her  thoughts 
were  busily  following  up  one  train. 
Otto's  admiration  was  manifest; 
but  then — what  more? 

She  had  never  read  a  novel; 
and  all  her  idea  of  love  was  gathered 
from  a  very  limited  selection  of  old- 
fashioned  German  poetry.  What 
was  the  expression  in  his  eyes 
which  had  so  startled  her  1  Did  all 
men  always  look  at  pretty  women 
in  that  way  ?  Or  was  it,  perhaps, 
what  was  called  Love  1  Did  Hitters 
Delorges  and  Toggenburg  look  re- 
spectively at  Kunigunde  and  the 
nameless  nun  in  that  fashion  1 
"And  did  they  feel  as  frightened 
as  I  did,  and  run  away  and  make 
fools  of  themselves  in  the  same 
way,  I  wonder  ? "  she  pursued  her 
meditations. 

She  had  done  plaiting  up  her  hair, 
and,  with  her  hands  in  her  lap,  sat, 
her  eyes  still  on  the  pool,  though 
now  it  was  too  dark  to  see  any 
reflection. 

Yes,  she  thought  she  could  under- 
stand his  look  now.  "And  I?" 
she  questioned  herself,  with  sud- 
den curiosity.  In  words  there  came 
no  reply ;  but  for  long  she  remained 
sitting,  immovable  as  she  was,  still 


1879.] 


Reata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  III. 


661 


looking  at  the  shadowy  pool,  as  if 
expecting  to  read  her  answer  there. 
How  long  she  would  have  re- 
mained thus  I  do  not  know ;  but  a 
gentle  weight  on  her  sleeve  roused 
her — something  between  a  scratch 


and  a  pull.  Ficha,  one  fore-paw 
extended,  was  gazing  with  intense 
pathos  into  her  mistress's  face — with 
eyes  that  said,  as  plainly  as  eyes 
could  say, 

"  COME  HOME  !  " 


CHAPTER   XI. ALARMED. 


No  insurmountable  objections 
having  been  raised  by  aunt  Olivia, 
and  the  frog  having  been  success- 
fully hushed  up,  Reata  and  Otto, 
soon  after  sunrise,  started  on  their 
expedition.  They  rode  in  silence 
for  some  time, — Reata  apparently 
intent  upon  guiding  her  steed 
among  the  scraggy  brushwood  of 
the  bank,  which  sloped  down  on 
to  the  plain ;  Otto  in  his  mind 
attempting  to  analyse  the  change 
that  had  come  over  Reata  since  last 
night.  It  was  nothing  very  pal- 
pable or  definite ;  but  still  there 
was  a  change,  and  a  change  which 
he  was  puzzled  to  define.  In  some 
measure  he  connected  it  with  the 
way  she  had  so  suddenly  left  him 
in  the  forest  yesterday :  but  his 
mind  was  not  clear  on  this  point ; 
he  was  not  able  to  follow  all  the 
workings  which  hers  had  under- 
gone. That  she  had  been  startled, 
he  could  not  fail  to  perceive ;  and 
in  the  first  moment  of  his  aston- 
ishment accused  himself  of  having 
offended,  or  in  some  way  hurt,  her 
feelings.  But  her  manner  when 
they  met  at  once  convinced  him 
that  this  was  not  the  case.  There 
was  no  shade  of  coldness  in  it ;  but 
rather  it  was  a  change  from  gay  to 
grave,  from  unrestraint  to  reserve. 
On  meeting  him  in  the  breakfast- 
room  she  had  proffered  her  hand 
with  a  certain  timidity  quite  new 
in  her.  They  had  not  been  alone 
yet  since ;  but  even  had  they  so 
been,  Otto  would  have  forborne 
questioning  her  on  the  subject. 
He  confessed  to  himself  that  he 


did  not  know  what  to  make  of 
it,  but  likewise  acknowledged  that 
he  would  probably  make  something 
bad  of  it  if  he  attempted  to  meddle. 

Yesterday  Reata  had  been  all 
eagerness  about  this  ride,  which 
she  herself  had  planned.  To-day 
there  was  a  sort  of  shrinking,  al- 
though no  reluctance,  in  her  way  of 
alluding  to  it.  She  seemed  content 
to  take  no  more  than  a  passive  part, 
leaving  all  arrangements  to  him,  as 
if  glad  of  his  guidance ;  and  this 
laying-off  of  her  usual  independence 
was  in  Otto's  eyes  an  additional 
charm. 

Reata's  horse,  which  had  been 
selected  from  the  horse  -  paddock 
more  with  a  view  to  use  than  to 
beauty,  was  a  heavily  but  well 
built  animal,  answering  to  the  name 
of  Solomon — in  height  fifteen-two, 
with  legs  like  pillars,  looking  up  to 
any  amount  of  work,  but  not  over- 
eager  for  it. 

Neither  horse  nor  dress  was  cal- 
culated to  show  her  off  to  particular 
advantage ;  for  it  would  be  useless 
to  assert  that  aunt  Olivia's  cashmere 
shawl,  which  had  been  converted 
into  an  impromptu  riding-skirt,  had 
anything  very  fascinating  about  it 
when  viewed  in  that  capacity.  For- 
tunately, however,  Reata's  looks  did 
not  depend  upon  dress. 

The  roan  mare  which  Otto  rode' 
was,  as  he  himself  had  seen  at  the 
first  glance,  by  far  the  most  val- 
uable amongst  Miss  Bodenbach's 
horses.  He  had  kept  his  eye  upon 
her  ever  since,  and  never  passed  the 
paddock  or  stables  without  casting 


6G2 


Reata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  III. 


[June 


an  admiring  look  at  his  favourite. 
Maraquita  was  rather  above  the 
usual  height  of  the  true  Mexican 
breed,  to  which  she  belonged ;  per- 
fect in  temperament  and  paces,  and 
beautiful  in  build, — the  very  ideal 
of  a  soldier's  charger.  Miss  Boden- 
bach  had  had  the  horse  only  for  a 
few  months  in  her  possession  ;  and 
judging  from  what  he  had  seen  of 
his  aunt's  knowledge  of  horse-flesh, 
Otto  doubted  not  that  it  was  the 
merest  chance  which  had  brought 
such  an  irreproachable  animal  into 
her  possession. 

A  small  imp-like  being,  in  wide 
linen  trousers,  perched  on  the  bare 
back  of  a  gaunt  chestnut,  brought 
up  the  rear,  acting  as  groom  and 
provision-carrier  to  the  party.  A 
more  ludicrous  pair  could  hardly 
have  been  found.  It  would  have 
been  difficult  to  form  a  correct  con- 
jecture as  to  what  the  boy's  age 
might  be ;  for  while  in  stature  he 
looked  about  ten,  his  wizened  fea- 
tures gave  him  the  appearance  of  at 
least  another  ten  years,  and  there 
was  a  set  look  about  his  short  frame. 

Don  Ramirez,  his  steed,  being 
conspicuous  in  many  ways,  de- 
serves more  than  a  passing  notice. 
A  gaunt,  ungainly  chestnut,  stand- 
ing full  seventeen  hands ;  three  im- 
mense white  stockings,  and  a  large 
white  lantern  on  his  face.  A  flav- 
our of  thorough- breeding  pervaded 
his  bony  frame,  and  something  in 
his  appearance  suggested  broken- 
down  gentility,  if  not  fallen  gran- 
deur. From  what  particular  point 
of  grandeur  he  had  fallen  was  un- 
known, for  nobody  on  record  had 
ever  seen  him  look  otherwise ;  and 
there  was  a  tradition  extant,  that 
even  in  Don  Ramirez's  best  days  a 
close  observer  could  easily  count  his 
ribs.  The  pompous  name  of  Don 
Eamirez  was  his  original  appella- 
tion •  but  Reata  had  caused  it  to  be 
changed  into  the  more  vulgar  title 
of  "  the  Bony  One/'  and  as  such  he 


was  generally  known.  There  was 
a  certain  dignity  about  him,  a  rem- 
nant of  better  days;  and  the  free 
and  easy  comportment  which  the 
boy  Ortega  invariably  indulged  in 
when  on  his  back  seemed  to  offend 
his  finer  senses.  Rarely  did  Ortega 
persevere  for  more  than  three  min- 
utes in  the  position  which  rational 
beings  adopt  on  horseback.  When 
Reata's  back  was  safely  turned  he 
would  rapidly  make  a  change  of 
posture,  and  seek  to  ease  his  limbs 
either  by  kneeling,  sitting  sideways, 
or  with  his  face  towards  Don  Ra- 
mirez's tail;  or  if  he  thought  the 
moment  particularly  favourable, 
would  rise  to  his  feet  and  perform 
the  semblance  of  a  war-dance. 

After  a  quarter  of  an  hour  of  care- 
ful stepping  they  emerged  on  to  flat 
ground,  and  setting  their  horses' 
heads  right  across  the  plain,  began 
a  brisk  trot,  which  brought  them 
well  out  into  the  open.  Otto,  see- 
ing that  there  was  no  danger  of 
Reata  losing  her  seat  with  Solo- 
mon's smooth  swinging  paces,  pro- 
posed a  canter,  which  she  eagerly 
acquiesced  in. 

The  cool  breeze  which  tempered 
the  heat  to-day  made  the  forenoon 
especially  agreeable  for  riding,  and 
the  clouds  which  lightly  veiled  the 
sun,  although  they  robbed  the  plain 
of  its  usual  brilliancy  of  aspect,  were 
far  pleasanter  than  the  scorching 
rays. 

Away  the  cavalcade  bore :  the 
roan  mare  leading,  snorting,  and 
passionately  tossing  her  head ;  Solo- 
mon plunging  on  half  a  length  be- 
hind ;  the  rear  brought  up  by  "  the 
Bony  One,"  his  head  very  high  up  ; 
while  Ortega,  balancing  the  pro- 
vision-basket with  great  nicety  on 
his  head,  further  diversified  the  as- 
pect of  the  party  by  swinging  his 
two  arms  alternately  round  in  their 
sockets,  like  a  windmill  suddenly 
gone  mad. 

On  they  sped,  over  the  unbroken 


1879.] 


Reata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  III. 


663 


level  of  the  prairie  grass,  most  glori- 
ous expanse  of  riding  -  ground  — 
smooth  and  elastic,  free  of  deceit- 
ful molehills,  and  innocent  of  those 
little  patches  of  swamp  which  some- 
times neutralise  the  finest  stretches 
of  land.  To  the  right,  the  line  of 
bank  and  wood;  a  mass  of  low 
shrubs  piled  at  the  foot;  little 
bushes  with  dense  dull  grey  foli- 
age, the  leaves  hard  and  stiff; 
higher  up  the  groups  of  agaves  and 
cactuses,  their  outline  broken  here 
and  there  sharply  by  the  lofty  head 
of  a  palm-tree.  Across  the  plain, 
to  the  left,  the  same  thing  repeated, 
only  seen  more  diml}r,  topped  by 
the  blueness  of  the  hills ;  and  at 
the  far,  far  end,  straight  in  front, 
the  same  green  and  faint  blue  lines 
just  visible,  with  the  clouds  hover- 
ing above. 

Whatever  shade  of  constraint 
Eeata  had  felt  at  first,  vanished 
during  that  gallop ;  and  when  at 
length  they  drew  up,  and  allowed 
the  steaming  horses  to  recover 
breath,  it  was  with  all  her  usual 
outspoken  frankness  of  manner  that 
she  exclaimed,  "Was  not  that 
heavenly !  I  don't  think  I  have 
enjoyed  anything  so  much  for 


ages ! " 


The  discovery  of  her  own  beauty, 
which  last  night  had  so  startled  her, 
was  forgotten  now ;  or  rather  she 
had  accepted  it  as  a  fact,  and  with 
wonderful  rapidity  got  accustomed 
to  the  idea.  Hers  was  not  the  sort 
of  nature  on  which  such  a  discovery 
would  act  oppressively,  or  tend  to 
make  self-conscious  for  any  length 
of  time.  She  bore  her  honours 
lightly,  gracefully,  as  if  she  had 
known  them  for  years  ;  and  al- 
though, like  a  true  woman,  she  re- 
joiced with  all  her  heart  at  her 
treasure,  she  did  not  turn  her 
thoughts  to  considering  the  best 
means  of  drawing  profit  from  it. 

As  she  slackened  reins,  and  pat- 
ted her  horse's  neck  approvingly, 


Eeata  cast  a  stolen  glance  at  Otto. 
Never  had  he  appeared  before  her 
to  such  advantage;  never  before 
had  she  been  so  struck  with  his 
good  looks  and  graceful  figure. 
"  Of  course  that  conies  from  his 
being  a  cavalry  soldier,"  she  decid- 
ed in  her  mind  ;  "  a  cavalry  soldier 
must  always  look  better  on  horse- 
back than  off." 

And  she  really  believed  this  as 
she  said  it  to  herself.  It  never 
once  occurred  to  her,  that  had  she 
passed  the  day  with  him  as  usual 
in  the  house,  or  iti  the  forest,  this 
day  would  not  have  been  quite  as 
other  days — that  she  would  have 
looked  at  him  with  a  new  attention,, 
and  considered  him  in  a  different 
light.  She  was  aware  of  a  change 
in  herself  since  yesterday,  but  she 
was  not  aware  of  all  its  effects. 

In  her  eyes  Otto's  riding  was  the 
very  ideal  of  the  noble  art.  Mexi- 
cans belong  to  the  wildest  riders 
under  the  sun  ;  they  are  positively 
heedless  of  danger.  Eeata,  with 
Mexican  blood  in  her  veins,  would 
have  scorned  the  idea  of  a  man 
who  showed  anything  but  the  most 
reckless  coolness  on  horseback. 

If  Eeata's  thoughts  were  at  this 
moment  tinged  with  a  feeling  of 
admiration  she  had  never  been 
aware  of  before,  Otto's  were  just 
then  little  short  of  adoration.  He 
had  many  times  heard  of  the  great 
prowess  of  the  fair  Mexicans  as 
riders,  but  he  had  never  believed  it 
possible  that  a  woman  riding  a 
lady's  seat  on  a  man's  hunting- 
saddle,  and  not  in  the  constant 
habit  of  it,  could  maintain  herself 
with  such  faultless  equilibrium  dur- 
ing a  hard  gallop  of  ten  minutes. 
(Eeata  was  riding,  as  all  Mexican 
women  do,  on  the  right-hand  side 
of  the  horse.) 

They  had  another  long  canter 
after  that ;  for  it  was  necessary  to 
gain  ground  while  they  could,  as 
their  way  later  lay  along  a  steep 


664 


Reata  ;  or,  What' s  in  a  Name. — Part  III. 


[June 


path  in  the  hills.  "When  they 
drew  rein  this  time,  the  green  and 
blue  lines  which  hounded  the  ex- 
tremity of  the  plain  were  much 
nearer.  Palm-trees  and  plantains 
detached  themselves  singly  or  in 
groups  from  the  darker  "background, 
and  the  low  prickly  masses  of  the 
Syngenists  could  he  distinguished 
like  a  bulwark  at  the  foot.  On  all 
sides  the  fantastic  cactuses  waved 
their  spiny  arms  high  up  in  the 
air.  Sometimes  they  were  mon- 
strous boas,  reared  a  hundred  feet 
from  the  ground;  at  other  times 
they  crawled  and  twisted  like  brist- 
ly reptiles  on  the  earth  :  the  dead 
and  the  living  growing  together  in 
one  inseparable  mass ;  the  living 
green,  juicy,  and  vigorous  —  the 
dead  white,  dry,  and  rustling, 
thrusting  in  their  withered  skele- 
tons between  the  ranks  of  their 
successors. 

Abreast  of  the  riders,  peacefully 
grazing  or  lying  on  the  grass,  was  a 
herd  of  white  horses;  their  colour 
throughout  uniform,  modified  only 
by  age,  and  descending  from  the 
dead  white  of  the  aged  animals  to 
the  grey  shading  on  the  coats  of 
the  frisky  foals,  who  gamboled 
about  at  their  ease  by  the  side 
of  the  mothers,  and  under  their 
parent's  watchful  eye.  Otto  was  in- 
terested by  the  sight,  and  drew 
nearer  for  a  closer  view.  The  riding 
horses  neighed  frantically,  and  the 
greys  answered  in  a  chorus.  Some 
of  the  youngest  and  most  foolish 
amongst  the  foals  came  trotting  up, 
followed  at  a  distance  by  their  more 
prudent  but  anxious  mothers,  and 
with  elongated  neck  and  glistening 
eyes  snuffed  and  flared  inquisitive- 
ly at  the  strangers.  On  Ortega's 
spirits,  the  spectacle  of  the  horses 
had  the  effect  of  a  strong  and 
sudden  stimulant.  His  ideas  of 
the  dignity  of  a  groom's  deport- 
ment when  accompanying  a  lady 
and  gentleman  on  horseback,  vague 


and  undefined  as  they  had  been  be- 
fore, entirely  collapsed  now.  He 
got  to  his  feet,  to  Don  Ramirez's 
openly- expressed  indignation,  and 
hallooed  loudly  to  the  herders  — 
they  answering  with  a  peculiar  wild 
cry,  used  as  a  signal  on  the  plains. 
Reata's  vehement  remonstrances, 
given  in  Spanish,  were  insufficient 
to  calm  him  down,  and  it  needed  a 
few  strong  German  phrases  from 
Otto,  which,  although  incompre- 
hensible, acted  as  a  sedative.  He 
caught  up  the  spirit  of  the  thing, 
if  not  the  letter,  and  humbly  ex- 
plained that  the  horse -shepherds 
were  his  amigos  intimos.  When 
they  had  trotted  clear  of  the  greys, 
they  looked  back  and  saw  the  little 
foals  kick  up  their  heels  and  go 
careering  back  to  their  mothers' 
sides,  where  they  stood  with  ears 
erect,  watching  with  quivering  ex- 
citement the  progress  of  the  riders 
— a  mixture  of  youthful  frivolity 
and  filial  obedience. 

The  site  of  S was  unprepos- 
sessing in  the  extreme.  It  was  a 
wonder  how,  in  a  picturesque  coun- 
try, it  had  managed  to  get  itself 
built  in  such  an  unpicturesque 
spot :  the  houses  all  crowded  up 
near  together,  leaning  totteringly 
against  each  other,  as  if  for  sup- 
port; and  the  bare  hillside,  with  the 
oxen  grazing  on  it,  rising  steep  above 
the  roofs.  Vegetation  was  dwarfed 
and  scanty;  the  luxuriant  trees  and 
juicy  herbage  of  the  forest  had  re- 
tired here,  and  made  way  to  an 
arid,  stony  ground,  not  unlike  the 
grand  desolation  of  the  Karst.  The 
shallow  valley,  which  lay  so  high 
up  in  the  hills,  was  open  to  the 
cold  sweep  of  the  north  and  east 
winds,  which,  meeting  with  no  op- 
position, blew  mercilessly  over  the 
palm-covered  huts. 

Ortega  was  sent  on  to  recon- 
noitre ;  and  by  the  time  they  got 
up  to  him,  the  whole  population 
had  collected,  and  formed  a  dense 


1879/ 


Reata  ;  or,  Wharfs  in  a  Name. — Part  III. 


665' 


circle  round  "  the  Bony  One."  Or- 
tega was  carrying  on  conversation 
with  everybody  at  once,  and  the 
result  was  a  shrill  and  deafening 
noise ;  but  at  the  sight  of  two  new 
and  greater  objects  of  interest,  sud- 
den silence  came  over  the  multi- 
tude. Every  tongue  was  hushed, 
and  all  eyes  fixed  with  awe  and 
admiration  on  the  ponderous  folds 
of  aunt  Olivia's  cashmere  shawl. 
Never  before  had  riding-habit  been 
crowned  with  such  success.  It 
was,  in  half-audible  whispers,  pro- 
nounced to  be  of  a  regal  splendour, 
and  worthy  of  a  queen.  Reata,  being 
well  used  to  the  habits  of  her  coun- 
try-people, took  both  the  curiosity 
and  the  admiration  with  perfect 
composure,  and  with  Otto's  aid 
dismounted.  Solomon's  reins  were 
thrown  to  Ortega  ;  and  Reata  say- 
ing something  in  an  imperative 
tone  in  Spanish,  to  the  effect  that 
somebody  was  to  hold  the  third 
horse,  there  was  a  wild  rush  of  all 
the  male  members  of  the  commu- 
nity, which  ended  in  the  roan  be- 
ing fought  for  by  half-a-dozen  pairs 
of  brawny  arms.  The  excitement 
threatened  to  terminate  in  a  regular 
fight,  as  the  slightest  cause  will  pro- 
voke in  Mexico ;  but  some  expres- 
sive motions  of  Otto's  riding-whip 
caused  most  of  the  combatants  to 
retire.  A  tall  swarthy  fellow,  with 
a  battered  straw  hat,  a  dark  red 
scarf  round  his  waist,  and  an  evil- 
looking  scowl  on  his  face,  who  had 
been  among  the  hottest  of  the 
candidates,  stepped  back,  muttering 
some  fearful-sounding  Spanish  oaths 
between  his  teeth,  and  throwing  an 
enraged  glance  at  the  lad  who  had 
got  possession  of  the  reins  and  a 
vindictive  one  at  Otto. 

Whenever    a    rare    chance    did 

bring  a  stranger  to  S ,  it  could 

only  be  with  the  object  of  visiting 
the  shop.  The  inhabitants  well 
knew  this ;  and  instinctively  they 
now  led  the  way  towards  their 


proudest  building — the  tienda  of 
the  place.  Senor  Ambrosino,  the 
apothecary,  landlord,  cook,  barber, 

and  general  dealer  of  S ,  being 

already  forewarned  of  what  was  in 
store  for  him,  stood  at  the  door  of 
his  house,  bowing  to  the  ground,, 
and  repeating  protestations  of  re- 
spect and  of  his  willingness  ta 
perform  any  service  that  could  be 
named. 

"  Does  el  suo  Senorio  wish  to  be- 
bled,  bacios  la  manos  de  Vd  to  dine, 
or  to  have  his  hair  cut  ? "  he  began,, 
in  the  most  affable  manner;  "or 
does  the  Senorita  desire  to  see  my 
silk  handkerchiefs  or  Guayaquil 
hats,  servidor  de  Vd?  I  have  some 
excellent — bacios  la  manos  de  Vd — 
mescal  in  bottles,  and  some  first- 
rate  fresh  leeches  which  could  be 
applied  in  a  moment,  servidor  de 
Vd ;  no  trouble,  and  moderate 
charge, — or  if  that  does  not  suit, 
will  el  suo  Senorio  name  whatever 
article  is  required?" 

Without  many  preliminaries  the 
errand  was  explained ;  but  at  the 
mention  of  razors,  Senor  Ambros- 
ino's  face  clouded  over. 

"  Caramba  !  "  he  exclaimed, 
adopting  an  attitude  of  theatri- 
cal despair,  "  how  unfortunate  !  If 
you  had  asked  me  for  fever-pills  or 
mantillas  (such  splendid  ones  as  I 
have,  embroidered  with  parrots  and 
palm-trees  ! )  —  if  you  had  called 
upon  me  to  draw  a  tooth  or  boil 
you  a  mango,  I  should  have  re- 
joiced in  the  happiness  of  serving 
you.  But  a  razor ! — one  of  the 
only  two  011  which  I  subsist  as  a 
barber  ! — impossible  ! "  and  digging 
his  hands  deep  down  into  the  pockets 
of  his  linen  trousers,  the  worthy 
shopman  planted  his  back  against 
the  wall  in  dejected  resignation. 

"  Then  we  may  as  well  go  home 
again,  I  suppose,"  said  Otto,  turn- 
ing to  Reata  and  speaking  with  a 
bad  assumption  of  indifference. 

"  Nonsense  ! "  she  replied,  coolly ; 


Reata  ;  or,  Wharfs  in  a  Name. — Part  III. 


[June 


"  don't  you  see  that  he  is  dying  to 
sell  you  a  razor  1 " 

"  But  if  he  denies  having  any  for 
sale?"  asked  Otto,  unable  to  per- 
ceive any  signs  of  this  ardent  wish. 

"  If  el  suo  Senorio  will  be  so  kind 
as  to  take  place,"  began  Ambrosino, 
in  a  depressed  tone  of  voice,  "  I 
will  be  happy  to  take  off  his  beard, 
or  his  hair,  or  both,  in  a  minute, 
bacios  la  manos  de  Vd :  no  trouble, 
and  moderate  charge." 

This  obliging  offer  being  declined 
most  decidedly,  Senor  Ambrosino's 
spirits  sank  to  a  point  which  was 
almost  melancholy. 

"If  that  does  not  suit,  then  I 
am  at  a  loss  how  to  oblige  el  suo 
Senorio;  I,  Ambrosino,  who  have 
never  been  at  a  loss  before  —  not 
even  when  I  was  asked  to  make  a 
peruke  out  of  a  buffalo's  tail.  Such 
a  splendid  peruke  as  it  was  !  But 
sell  a  razor !  my  only  means  of 
living !  take  the  bread  out  of  my 
own  -mouth  ! — impossible  !  " 

"  How  much  will  you  take  for 
it?"  was  the  only  rejoinder  Eeata 
made. 

"Sixty  pesetas"  replied  Sefior 
Ambrosino,  with  a  lugubrious  sigh. 

"Give  him  thirty/'  said  Eeata 
in  German  to  Otto,  leaning  back 
on  her  bench. 

Senor  Ambrosino  looked  at  the 
money,  which  Otto  tossed  on  to  the 
rough-hewn  table  serving  as  counter, 
with  a  funereal  air,  but  without  a 
word.  The  thirty  pesetas  once  dis- 
tinctly before  his  eyes,  the  elas- 
ticity of  his  spirits  returned,  as  if 
by  magic.  He  produced  a  broken 
box,  containing  two  razors,  from 
which  he  carefully  selected  the 
worst ;  and  with  immense  courtesy 
of  speech,  and  salutations  worthy 
of  an  ambassador,  he  handed  it  over 
to  Otto. 

Outside  the  door,  under  a  little 
morsel  of  projecting  roof,  there 


was  a  rickety  table  and  a  couple 
of  stools;  and  here,  in  sight  of 
the  admiring  inhabitants,  the  provi- 
sion-basket was  opened,  and  they 
ate  their  frugal  repast.  It  was  like 
a  dinner  in  a  play.  Every  action 
and  movement  could  not  have  been 
considered  with  more  attention  had 
they  been  actors  on  the  stage ;  and 
certainly  every  morsel  which  they 
carried  to  their  mouths  would  not 
have  been  followed  with  such  deep 
and  breathless  attention. 

"  Madre  de  Dios,  what  a  fringe ! " 
exclaimed  a  fine -looking  woman, 
who  had  pushed  boldly  to  the  very 
front  of  the  row,  pointing  to  the 
shawl,  which  Reata  had  flung  over 
the  palisade.  "  It  is  twisted  as 
thick  as  young  coralillos"  * 

"  Caramba  I  yes,  a  splendid  gar- 
ment ! "  echoed  a  repulsive  old 
crone,  bent  double  over  her  stick. 
"  Fine  taste  the  Senorita  has,  ver- 
daderamente.  A  handsome  shawl 
she  has  chosen,  and  a  still  hand- 
somer esposo,^  hi,  hi,  hi !  They 
make  a  fine  couple.  Where  did 
she  pick  him  up,  I  wonder.  She 
must  have  been  clever  about  it, 
for  by  his  white  skin  he  is  no 
Mexican,  hi,  hi,  hi ! "  she  tittered 
shrilly.  And  the  girls  alongside 
began  pushing  each  other  and 
giggling,  while  some  of  the  men 
laughed  loud  and  coarsely. 

The  last  speakers  had  been  so 
near  that  Eeata's  quick  ears  had 
caught  every  word.  She  grew  scar- 
let, and  bit  her  lip;  and,  with  a 
nervous  dread  of  what  the  effect 
might  be  on  Otto,  she  glanced 
instinctively  at  him  His  uncon- 
cerned expression  reminded  her  re- 
assuringly that  the  remarks,  made 
in  Spanish,  had  been  to  him  un- 
intelligible. Nevertheless  she  felt 
that  her  position  was  getting  awk- 
ward. Not  a  moment  longer  would 
she  stay  there.  All  her  innocent 


*  The  coral-coloured  snake. 


t  Husband. 


1879.] 


Reata  ;  or,  Whafs  in  a  Name. — Part  III. 


667 


pleasure  in  the  expedition  was 
gone.  It  was  the  first  time  that 
she  was  brought  in  face  of  the  un- 
pleasant consequences  which  the 
slightest  imprudence  is  attended 
with  in  this  world;  and  she  con- 
demned her  conduct  bitterly,  as 
unpardonably  foolish.  Her  own 
simplicity  provoked  her;  it  was 
nothing  less  than  inconceivable 
idiotcy,  she  thought.  How  could 
she  have  been  so  simple  as  to  go 
on  an  expedition  of  this  sort,  a 
long  day's  ride  alone  with  Otto, 
alone  with  any  man?  It  was  in 
her  nature  to  rush  to  extreme  con- 
clusions ;  and  at  this  moment  she 
doubted  not  that  Otto  must  think 
her  either  very  stupid  or  else  very 
light-headed. 

Being  thoroughly  put  out  with 
herself,  she,  woman -like,  vented 
her  humour  upon  the  man  who  was 
unwittingly  the  cause  of  her  em- 
barrassment. 

"I  don't  know  why  we  are  sit- 
ting so  long  here  ! "  she  exclaimed, 
rising  so  abruptly  as  to  upset  the 
three-legged  stool  she  had  been 
sitting  on.  "  I  am  not  in  the  least 
hungry ;  it  is  enough  to  take  away 
one's  appetite,  to  be  stared  at  like 
wild  beasts  at  a  show.  If  you  are 
done,  Baron  Bodenbach,  I  think  we 
had  better  be  going." 

"I  am  quite  ready,"  answered 
Otto,  saying  what  was  not  true; 
for  he  had  not  half  satisfied  the 
fine  appetite  engendered  by  his  ride. 

In  reply  to  Senor  Ambrosino's 
flowery  sentences,  his  profound 
reverences,  and  humble  cravings 
for  further  ilustre  favor,  Reata  only 
deigned  to  give  a  short  adios  and  a 
very  slight  nod ;  and  then,  having 
settled  her  shawl  again,  she  walked 
quickly  up  the  street,  and  called 
peremptorily  to  Ortega  to  lead  up 
the  horses.  She  had  not  minded 
the  crowd  before ;  but  now  the 
sight  of  all  those  faces  around  was 
hateful.  She  felt  their  eyes  fast- 


ened on  her  with  gaping  curiosity  ; 
and  in  the  front  row  she  caught 
sight  of  the  odious  crooked  hag 
talking  in  eager  whispers  to  the 
women  near  her.  There  was  al- 
most reluctance  in  the  way  she 
allowed  Otto  to  help  her  into  the 
saddle ;  gladly  would  she  have  dis- 
pensed with  his  assistance  entirely, 
had  she  been  able  to  do  without  it. 
As  it  was,  her  nerves  were  off  their 
usual  balance;  she  slipped  back 
the  first  time  almost  into  his  arms, 
which  put  the  climax  to  her  ill- 
humour  and  to  the  interest  of  the 
crowd.  Once  safely  in  the  saddle, 
she  did  not  wait  a  second,  but 
started  off  briskly,  scattering  the 
urchins,  who  had  been  unprepared 
for  such  a  hasty  exit,  and  leaving 
Otto  to  follow  as  best  he  could. 

A  universal  cheer,  half  ironical, 
half  encouraging,  followed  the  party; 
and  then  in  the  next  minute  they 
were  out  of  hearing — alone  in  the 
silent  valley. 

Within  the  last  hour  the  sky  had 
grown  leaden  and  heavy;  but  not 
a  breath  was  stirring  the  air.  The 
bad  weather  was  coming,  with  less 
warning  than  it  usually  gave.  They 
might  not  reach  home  dry. 

Otto  said  as  much  to  Eeata,  when 
he  was  by  her  side,  and  also  that  it 
would  be  advisable,  bad  as  the  road 
was,  to  keep  on  trotting,  if  she  did 
not  think  that  the  fatigue  would  be 
too  great  for  her.  He  had  been  no 
less  surprised  at  her  sudden  depar- 
ture than  the  inhabitants  of  S , 

and  putting  spurs  to  Maraquita, 
had  soon  overtaken  Solomon  with 
his  steady  but  ponderous  gait. 

"  Yes ;  we  had  decidedly  better 
push  on,"  Reata  said,  in  answer  to 
his  apprehensions  about  the  weather. 
"  I  wish  we  were  at  home  again !  I 
ain  sick  of  the  whole  concern.  It 
was  very  foolish  of  us  to  start  on 
this  expedition,  when  we  knew 
that  the  rain  could  not  be  far  off." 
"But  surely  we  cannot  lay  the 


668 


Reata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  III. 


[June 


whole  blame  on  our  imprudence? 
This  change  has  come  with  unex- 
pected suddenness.  You  said  yes- 
terday that  the  clouds  gather  for 
two  days,  as  a  rule,  before  the  wet 
sets  in." 

"  Did  1 1  Then  I  have  got  wiser 
since  yesterday,"  was  her  reply, 
given  almost  sharply.  "At  any 
rate,  there  is  no  use  disputing ;  let 
us  get  on,  for  heaven's  sake !  Or- 
tega, I  insist  on  your  sitting  quietly, 
not  dangling  your  legs  like  that 
round  '  the  Bony  One's 7  neck ;  do 
you  hear  ?  And  see  that  you  keep 
close  behind  us." 

"  Are  you  sure  that  trotting  will 
not  tire  you  too  much?"  Otto  asked, 
anxiously.  ' '  The  path  is  very  rough , 
and  you  will  be  dreadfully  shaken." 

"  But  you  have  just  said  that  it 
is  our  best  course,  and  you  knew 
that  the  path  was  rough ;  and  be- 
sides," she  added  coldly,  "you  need 
not  be  disquieted  on  my  account ;  I 
am  not  likely  to  get  tired  on  horse- 
back." 

They  proceeded  at  a  steady  pace 
along  the  track,  intent  on  picking 
their  way  over  the  broken  ground ; 
and  silent,  not  only  on  this  account, 
but  because  Otto,  finding  that  all 
his  attempts  at  conversation  had 
failed  most  deplorably,  had  given 
them  up. 

Their  path  led  them  first  down 
the  treeless  hollow,  then  into  the 
shadow  of  the  forest,  where  they 
had  to  ride  single  file — Otto  at  the 
head  and  "  the  Bony  One  "  bring- 
ing up  the  rear.  For  a  full  hour 
the  road  remained  the  same,  requir- 
ing attention  at  every  step,  and 
necessitating  a  sharp  look-out  a- 
head,  in  order  to  avoid  holes  and 
the  numberless  tree -roots  which 
straggled  across  at  every  moment. 

It  was  a  monotonous  part  of  the 
forest,  with  none  of  the  mixed 
character  which  tropical  forests 
usually  present.  Cotton-trees  were 
here  the  exclusive  tenants  of  the 


ground  j  the  riders  had  but  an  end- 
less vista  of  thin  stems  standing 
straight  and  stiff,  stretching  away 
on  all  sides.  High  above  them,  in 
the  crown  of  branches  at  the  sum- 
mit, there  was  the  unbroken  buzz- 
ing sound  of  the  wild  bees,  hum- 
ming softly  over  their  nests.  But 
even  this  was  monotonous ;  and 
down  below  there  was  nothing  to 
break  the  quiet,  save  when  a  ripe 
fruit  came  down  with  a  thump  on 
the  hard  sward. 

In  spite  of  her  proud  protesta- 
tions, Keata,  before  they  had  gone 
far,  began  to  acknowledge  to  herself 
that  she  had  overtaxed  her  strength. 
Not  having  felt  the  slightest  fatigue 
in  the  morning,  she  thought  that 
she  never  would  get  tired.  But 
galloping  over  an  even  plain,  and 
this  sort  of  continued  jogging,  to- 
gether with  the  strain  laid  upon 
the  attention,  was  a  very  different 
thing.  She  thought  with  dread  of 
the  way  still  before  her;  for  al- 
though now  close  upon  the  end 
of  the  forest,  yet  there  was  a  long 
expanse  of  marsh  t  between  them 
and  the  plain,  and  to  circumvent  it 
would  take  as  long  as  the  way  they 
had  come.  But  the  thought  of  ac- 
knowledging her  fatigue,  and  thus 
gaining  the  rest  she  longed  for,  she 
repudiated  with  scorn.  It  was  not 
only  that  she  prided  herself  on  her 
untiring  strength  in  equestrian  ex- 
ercise, but  how  could  she  now  de- 
mean herself  before  the  man  whose 
anxiety  on  her  account  she  had 
treated  so  disparagingly? 

At  last  the  cotton-trees  were  left 
in  the  rear,  and  now  there  lay  be- 
fore them  a  clear  space  which  they 
would  have  to  cross  before  entering 
on  the  path  among  the  tall  bushes 
to  the  left — the  only  practicable 
road  to  the  plain. 

As  soon  as  they  were  out  of  the 
shadow  of  the  trees,  they  perceived 
the  figure  of  a  man  sitting  at  the 
foot  of  a  wild-pear  bush.  He  raised 


1879." 


Reata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  III. 


669 


his  head  at  the  sound  of  their 
horses'  hoofs,  and  while  they  ap- 
proached kept  his  eyes  fixed  on 
them  with  an  intent  stare. 

He  had  a  heavy  red  sash  tied 
round  his  waist,  and  an  evil  scowl 
on  his  face ;  and,  moreover,  there 
was  something  stuck  in  his  waist- 
band— something  that  had  not  been 
there  before,  when  they  had  seen 
this  man  in  the  village — something 
that  shone  like  well-polished  metal. 
When  they  had  got  a  dozen  paces 
nearer,  Otto  saw  that  it  was  a  pair 
of  pistols. 

The  man  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on 
them  as  they  passed  him  close,  and 
when  they  looked  back  at  him  he 
was  still  in  the  same  position — still 
bending  forward  eagerly,  with  his 
face  towards  them. 

"  I  did  not  notice  before  that 
that  fellow  carried  pistols,"  Otto 
remarked,  when  the  bushes  had 
hidden  the  man  from  view. 

"I  know  he  had  none,"  she 
answered. 

"  Upon  my  word,  it  looks  almost 
as  if  he  had  been  waiting  for  us," 
said  Otto,  laughing,  but  with  a 
shade  of  real  anxiety  in  his  tone ; 
then,  as  he  suddenly  perceived  the 
paleness  of  her  face,  and  attributing 
it  to  her  nervousness,  "there  is  not 
the  slightest  cause  for  alarm,  Frau- 
lein  Eeata.  Although  we  have  not 
got  any  arms  with  us,  remember 
that  we  are  mounted,  and  that 
scoundrel  is  on  foot.  It  is  quite 
impossible  that  he  should  overtake 
us." 

"  I  am  not  afraid,"  she  answered, 
throwing  back  her  head  haughtily ; 
"but  for  the  matter  of  that,  the 
man  could  very  easily  overtake  us 
by  cutting  through  the  marsh ;  it 
will  not  bear  a  horse's  weight,  but 
it  will  a  man's.  There  is  no  diffi- 
culty in  the  way  of  his  shooting  us, 
that  I  can  see." 

"  He  shall  not  touch  a  hair  of 
your  head  while  I  have  breath  re- 

VOL.  CXXV. — NO.  DCCLXIV. 


maining!"  Otto  exclaimed,  excit- 
edly. 

"If  we  are  both  to  be  shot, 
which  seems  to  me  highly  improb- 
able," she  replied,  in  the  spirit  of 
contradiction  which,  with  her,  was 
the  usual  form  of  ill-humour,  "  it  is 
no  matter  which  of  us  is  first." 

Otto  again  relapsed  into  dis- 
couraged silence. 

Would  the  path  ever  come  to 
an  end  1  Reata  asked  herself  every 
minute.  Each  pace  made  her  feel 
more  faint  and  giddy.  It  was  three 
in  the  afternoon,  and  breakfast  had 
in  reality  been  her  only  meal  that 
day.  She  was  glad  that  Otto  was 
on  in  front,  for  he  could  not  see  how 
pale  her  cheeks  were  getting,  nor 
how  convulsively  she  was  clutching 
on  to  the  saddle  to  steady  herself. 
The  shawl  seemed  to  be  dragging 
down  her  legs  like  lead ;  the  bushes 
and  stones  were  dancing -before  her 
eyes  in  an  endless  monotony.  The 
little  white  lilies  that  grew  thickly 
between  the  tufts  of  rank  marsh- 
grass,  and  which  she  had  thought  so 
pretty  in  the  morning,  now  seemed 
to  her  ghastly  and  shapeless. 

Well  she  knew  that  with  a  single 
word  she  could  put  an  end  to  all 
this  misery,  but  her  foolish  pride 
would  not  let  her  speak ;  and  be- 
sides, she  shrank  with  morbid  dread 
from  anything  that  might  prolong 
this  tete-a-tete,  which  she  so  much 
wished  over.  No  :  she  would  man- 
age to  hold  out,  she  thought ;  and 
then,  in  the  next  minute,  she  called 
out  faintly  to  Otto  to  say  that  she 
wanted  a  rest ;  but  she  said  "  Baron 
Bodenbach ;'  in  such  a  low  voice 
that  he  did  not  hear,  and  kept 
steadily  on.  She  almost  felt  glad 
that  he  hadn't  heard  her;  but 
when,  a  few  minutes  later,  they 
had  got  to  the  end  of  the  marsh, 
almost  on  to  the  edge  of  the  plain, 
and  Otto  turned  round  towards  her, 
her  last  resolution  gave  way,  and 
she  slid  off  her  horse  and  stood 
2  x 


670 


Reata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  III. 


[June 


beside  it,  looking  as  if  she  would 
faint. 

He  was  by  her  side  in  an  instant, 
with  a  face  almost  as  white  as  her 
own. 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  are  you  ill  1 
What  has  happened  1 "  and,  half 
timidly,  he  put  out  his  arm  as  if 
to  support  her;  but  she  frowned, 
and  drew  back  a  step. 

"  No,  no,  please  don't,"  she  said, 
speaking  with  a  mixture  of  alarm 
and  haughtiness ;  "I  am  quite  well, 
only  tired.  I  shall  rest  a  minute, 
and  I — I  should  like  some  water." 

"  You  shall  have  some  directly," 
he  answered,  confidently,  although 
he  had  no  reason  to  suppose  that 
there  was  a  drop  of  water  within 
three  miles — the  water  in  the  marsh 
being  fetid  and undrinkable.  "But 
oh,  Fraulein  Eeata,  why  did  you 
not  speak  before  1  It  has  been  too 
much  for  you.  What  a  brute  I 
was  not  to  guess  that  !  If  you  can 
only  reach  that  bank  over  there, 
there  is  a  dry  sheltered  spot  where 
you  can  rest." 

Eeata  shook  her  head  in  reply ; 
but  she  was  forced  to  take  his 
proffered  arm  for  support,  which 
she  did  with  the  less  reluctance  as 
a  vague  conviction  rose  in  her  mind 
tha't  if  she  did  faint  he  would 
carry  her,  and  that  would  be  much 
worse. 

With  a  sigh  of  relief  she  sank 
down  on  to  the  soft  cushion  of 
grass,  and  leant  back  against  the 
little  piece  of  steep  bank,  which 
to  her  seemed  more  delicious  than 
any  arm-chair  she  had  ever  sat  in. 

By  wonderful  good-luck  it  ap- 
peared that  there  was,  at  a  short 
distance — not  more  than  a  few  hun- 
dred paces,  in  fact — a  draw-well; 
one  of  those  used  to  water  the  herds 
of  horses  that  inhabit  the  plateaux. 
Ortega  was  despatched  with  a  flask 
to  be  filled;  and  meanwhile  Otto 
made  fast  the  horses  to  the  stoutest 
bushes  he  could  find,  and  Eeata  sat 


quite  still,  with  half- closed  eyes, 
enjoying  the  feeling  of  entire  re- 
pose and  the  sudden  quiet  which 
had  come  over  her.  And  yet  she 
could  not  quite  do  away  with  the 
anger  she  felt  against  herself  and 
against  Otto — an  anger  that  sprang 
from  alarm.  Her  mind  was  full  of 
contradictions  at  this  moment ;  she 
felt  provoked  and  grateful,  annoyed 
and  relieved,  all  at  once.  On  the 
whole,  annoyance  had  the  upper 
hand;  and  she  replied  to  Otto's 
inquiries  in  the  same  cool  tone  she 
had  used  towards  him  during  the 
last  two  hours.  It  seemed  almost 
as  if  she  wanted  to  make  up  for 
the  weakness  which  had  forced  her 
to  lean  on  him,  by  the  repelling  ici- 
ness  of  her  manner.  The  change, 
inexplicable  as  it  was  to  him, 
wounded  him  deeply.  Think  as 
he  vmight,  he  was  not  able  to  call 
to  mind  a  single  circumstance,  even 
the  slightest,  by  which  he  could 
have  given  her  cause  for  offence. 
Even  granted  that  her  humour  was 
variable,  and  that  over-fatigue  was 
telling  on  it,  still  he  thought  that 
some  deeper  ground  must  be  under- 
lying. Could  it  be  that  she  had 
guessed  his  feelings,  and  wanted  to 
crush  his  hopes  at  once  1  Or  had 
she  taken  a  sudden  violent  hatred 
to  him  1  What  would  he  not  give 
if  only  she  would  speak  to  him  as 
she  had  spoken  yesterday — as  she 
had  spoken  during  the  last  ten  days  ! 

"  I  wish  I  had  gone  for  the  water 
myself,"  he  said,  after  some  silence. 
"  That  boy  is  sure  to  take  his  time 
about  it," 

"  You  couldn't  have  gone  faster 
than  Ortega,  and  probably  you  would 
not  have  known  how  to  draw  the 
water." 

"  I  should  have  managed  some- 
how," said  Otto,  colouring  slightly, 
with  a  foolish  feeling  of  mortifica- 
tion. "  I  am  not  as  awkward  as  it 
seems  I  appear.  But  I  wish  you 
would  be  persuaded  to  drink  a  little 


1879.] 


Eeata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  111. 


671 


wine.  I  am  sure  it  would  revive 
you." 

"  No,  thank  you,"  she  answered, 
shortly. 

"  It  may  be  ten  minutes  before 
the  water  conies " 

"  Well,  I  can  wait  for  it ;  and 
besides,  I  feel  a  great  deal  better 
now.  Are  you  quite  sure  that  the 
horses  are  safely  fastened  1  It 
would  not  do  to  have  one  of  them 
escaping." 

Otto,  for  answer,  bent  aside  the 
twigs  of  the  bushes  to  the  right, 
and  disclosed  a  partial  view  of  the 
horses,  in  reality  not  more  than  a 
dozen  yards  from  them,  although 
hidden  by  the  dense  foliage.  Solo- 
mon, who  was  the  nearest,  had  not 
lost  a  single  instant  in  stretching 
his  ponderous  limbs  on  the  grass, 
and  was  enjoying  the  unexpected 
rest.  Maraquita,  alongside,  stood 
erect,  looking  over  her  shoulder, 
and,  with  ears  bent  forward  and 
dilated  nostrils,  appeared  to  be 
straining  to  catch  some  distant 
sound,  or  snuffing  something  in 
the  air  far  off.  "The  Bony  One," 
forming  the  outpost,  was  making 
better  use  of  his  opportunities,  in- 
dulging in  a  hearty  meal  on  all  the 
branches  within  his  reach. 

"  Apparently  you  have  little  con- 
fidence in  my  arrangements,  Frau- 
lein  Eeata,"  said  Otto,  half  re- 
proachfully, as  he  let  the  twigs  fall 
back  into  their  place.  "Do  you  not 
think  that  a  cavalry  soldier  ought 
at  least  to  be  able  to  encamp  his 
horses  safely  ?  " 

"  How  can  I  have  confidence, 
when  I  have  had  so  little  experience 
in  the  efficiency  of  your  arrange- 
ments?" she  answered,  trying  to 
speak  lightly;  but  even  in  speak- 
ing she  regretted  her  words. 

Otto  was  sitting  at  a  few  paces 
from  her,  diligently  digging  the 
head  of  his  riding -whip  into  the 
ground  alongside  of  him.  He 
looked  up  at  her  quickly  as  she 


spoke,  and  then  continued  his  dig- 
ging, as  he  said,  in  a  voice  much 
graver  than  was  his  wont,  "  How 
long,  then,  do  you  require  to  know 
a  person  before  you  feel  confidence 
in  him  ? " 

"  What  is  the  use  of  asking  such 
pointless  questions  1 "  she  said,  pet- 
tishly. "  Of  course  there  are  some 
people  in  whom  one  never  can  feel 
confidence,  while  others  one  would 
trust  at  once." 

There  was  a  pause.  Otto  had 
not  raised  his  eyes  again,  but  sat 
scooping  away  as  before,  making  a 
deep  hole  in  the  ground.  At  last, 
in  a  very  low  tone  —  so  low  that 
she  only  just  caught  the  words — 
he  said,  "  I  wonder  to  which  of 
these  two  classes  I  belong ! " 

It  could  hardly  have  been  in- 
tended for  her  ears ;  and  so  there 
was  no  answer  needed,  which  was 
fortunate,  as  just  at  that  moment 
Eeata  felt  unable  to  say  a  word. 
The  air  seemed  suddenly  to  have 
become  stifling.  "  It  must  be  the 
rain  in  the  atmosphere  which  makes 
it  so  heavy  and  choking,"  she 
thought,  although  she  could  not 
remember  ever  having  experienced 
this  precise  sensation  before.  Some- 
thing, she  knew  not  exactly  what, 
was  going  to  happen ;  and  she  sat 
still,  not  daring  to  move  or  hardly 
to  breathe,  in  the  fear  of  hastening 
what  was  to  come.  And  yet  an 
almost  hysterical  desire  overpowered 
her  to  make  some  movement  or  say 
some  word  which  would  break  the 
spell.  Her  heart  was  beating  fast 
and  hot  with  dread  of  what  Otto's 
next  words  might  be. 

In  her  leaning  posture,  from 
under  her  half-closed  eyelids,  she 
could  just  see  the  profile  of  his 
handsome  features  clearly  defined 
against  the  background  of  leaden 
sky.  Dark  masses  of  clouds  were 
towering  in  all  directions;  they 
lowered  sullenly,  and  hovered  with 
threatening  weight  over  the  line  of 


672 


Reata;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  III. 


[June 


hills  opposite.  There  was  nothing 
wanted  but  a  breath  of  air  to  com- 
plete the  bursting  of  the  storm. 
As  yet,  a  deadly  stillness  lay  on  all 
nature — it,  too,  seemed  spellbound, 
unable  to  find  voice  or  breath. 
Far  up  above  their  heads,  two 


black  specks  were  floating,  the  only 
moving  objects  in  this  vast  calm. 
Larger  and  larger  they  grew  in  de- 
scending •  and  now  they  could  hear 
faintly  the  sharp  eagle-cry,  as  the 
great  birds  balanced  in  mid-air,  to 
espy  the  bearings  to  their  rocky  nest. 


CHAPTER   XII. LOSS    AND    GAIN. 


"  In  Love,  if  Love  be  Love,  if  Love  be  ours, 
Faith  and  unfaith  can  ne'er  be  equal  powers  : 
Unfaith  iu  aught  is  want  of  faith  in  all." 

— VIVIEN'S  Song. 


Something  came  fluttering  down 
through  the  air — an  eagle's  feather. 
Reata's  eyes  followed  it,  and  in  so 
doing  she  caught  sight  of  Ortega 
coming  towards  them  running. 
He  was  running  very  fast,  and 
seemed  to  be  calling  out  some- 
thing; but  the  distance  made  it 
unintelligible. 

While  she  was  still  looking  at 
him,  there  was  a  slight  noise  near 
them — a  crash  of  branches — the 
hasty  stamp  and  snort  of  horses, 
and  then  the  thunder  of  galloping 
hoofs. 

"  The  horses  are  running  away  ! " 
cried  Eeata,  springing  to  her  feet ; 
and  as  she  said  the  words,  there 
shot  past  the  opening  in  the  bushes, 
not  six  paces  from  them,  a  man  on 
horseback,  mounted  on  Don  Ram- 
irez, dragging  by  her  reins  the  mare 
Maraquita  —  both  horses  plunging 
fearfully. 

It  was  all  the  work  of  less  than 
half  a  minute.  In  the  next,  Otto 
rushed  forward  to  where  the  soli- 
tary Solomon,  now  at  last  startled 
out  of  his  usual  composure,  stood 
pawing  the  ground  and  making 
furious  efforts  to  get  his  head  free. 
With  one  tremendous  tug,  which 
tore  down  half  a  branch,  and  with 
the  help  of  Ortega — who  had  now 
come  up  breathless — Otto  loosened 
the  reins.  His  foot  was  in  the  stir- 
rup, when  he  was  stopped,  held  back 
by  Reata's  hand  on  his  arm. 


"  Don't,  don't  go  after  him  !  He 
has  got  pistols ;  did  you  not  see  1 
You  will  be  shot.  Don't  go,  Otto, 
for  my  sake  ! " 

She  was  clinging  on  to  his  arm  ; 
and,  by  the  nervous  clutch  of  her 
fingers,  he  could  feel  the  convulsive 
trembling  that  ran  through  her 
frame.  Every  trace  of  colour  had 
fled  from  her  face  ;  all  her  life 
seemed  gone  to  her  eyes — those 
wonderful  dark  eyes,  which  even 
in  the  calmest  repose  were  enthral- 
ling, which  only  wanted  the  touch 
of  passion  to  make  their  beauty 
irresistible. 

There  was  passion  in  them  now 
— a  sudden  revelation  of  passion, 
both  in  her  eyes  and  in  her  voice. 
Well  she  knew  that  a  Mexican 
would  not  think  twice  about  shoot- 
ing his  pursuer ;  but  it  could  not  be 
fear  for  the  safety  of  a  mere  friend 
which  thus  transformed  her  in  a 
minute.  She  had  never  looked, 
never  spoken,  like  this  before. 

"  For  your  sake,  Reata  !  Say 
that  again ! "  cried  Otto,  in  a  glad 
voice.  The  happiness  painted  on 
his  face,  as  he  turned  back  towards 
her,  almost  frightened  Reata.  The 
crisis  was  coming  now ;  and  she 
had  brought  it  on  herself. 

With  a  sudden  step  backwards 
she  dropped  his  arm,  and  stood 
trembling  afresh  ;  but  now  with 
fright  at  what  she  had  done. 

Meanwhile    Ortega,   taking    the 


1879.] 


Reata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  III. 


673 


law  into  his  own  hands,  had 
mounted,  and  was  gone  in  pursuit. 

"  Reata  !  darling  Eeata  !  "  cried 
Otto,  as  he  seized  both  her  passive, 
unresisting  hands  in  his  firm  grasp. 
At  the  touch  of  her  fingers,  horse- 
stealer  and  horses,  the  need  of  the 
moment,  vanished  from  before  his 
mental  vision,  as  things  that  had 
never  been.  "  "What  would  I  not  do 
for  your  sake,  and  for  your  love  !  " 

The  colour  had  come  back  to  her 
cheeks  with  a  rush ;  she  felt  it 
welling  up  from  her  heart,  as  it 
had  come  upon  her  in  the  forest 
yesterday.  Her  hands  no  longer 
remained  passive ;  she  struggled  to 
release  them,  so  as  to  hide  her  face 
and  shut  out  that  burning  eager 
gaze  which  sought  to  meet  hers. 

She  drooped  her  head,  she  turned 
it  aside  ;  but  still  she  had  not 
spoken. 

"  Will  you  not  say  that  you  love 
me  1 "  he  asked,  speaking  low,  and 
gently  drawing  her  towards  him. 
"  Will  you  not  make  me  the  happi- 
est man  on  earth  by  one  word,  one 
little  word  1  I  cannot  live  without 
yaur  love.  Reata,  can  you  say  you 
love  me  ? " 

There  was  passion,  truth,  happi- 
ness in  his  voice ;  there  was  every- 
thing but  doubt.  Indeed,  why 
should  it  be  1  Socially  speaking, 
all  the  balance  was  in  his  favour ; 
but  never  having  loved  a  woman  as 
truly  as  the  one  who  stood  before 
him  now,  he  came  very  near  to 
undervaluing  his  own  advantages 
—  as  near  as  was  in  his  nature  ; 
and  had  not  that  look  of  hers  been 
so  betraying,  he  might  still  have 
doubted. 

Could  she  say  that  she  loved 
him  ?  The  answer,  which  last  night 
had  floated  so  dim  and  unformed 
in  her  mind,  was  now  clear.  She 
felt  sure  that  she  loved  him;  but 
she  did  not  know  how  to  say  it. 
A  confused  idea,  perhaps  connected 
with  the  marriage  service,  came  into 


her  mind,  that  it  was  necessary,  on 
such  occasions,  to  pronounce  dis- 
tinctly the  monosyllable  expected 
of  her ;  but  speech  seemed  to  have 
forsaken  her  for  ever.  She  cleared 
her  throat,  and  tried  to  speak ;  the 
word  would  not  come — and  instead, 
her  lips  trembled  into  a  conscious, 
happy  smile. 

It  was  answer  enough  for  Otto. 
He  dropped  her  tightly  -  clasped 
hands,  only  to  put  his  arms  round 
her  shrinking  figure  and  draw  her 
close  to  himself. 

The  rising  wind,  which  swept 
softly  but  with  growing  breath  over 
the  withered  grass,  stirred  her  hair 
and  cooled  her  hot  cheeks. 

Far  away  the  eagles  had  soared 
by  this  time;  slowly  and  calmly, 
with  outspread  wings,  they  were 
dropping  into  their  nest,  as  if 
thankful  to  be  at  home  again. 

Reata  allowed  herself  to  be 
drawn  into  those  strong  arms, 
which  held  her  with  such  a  gentle 
touch ;  and  giving  up  all  resist- 
ance, she  let  her  head  sink  on 
his  shoulder.  This  way,  at  least, 
she  could  hide  her  burning  face 
from  the  light  of  day. 

"  My  beloved,  my  beautiful 
Reata ! "  murmured  Otto,  bending 
over  her,  speaking  in  an  intoxicat- 
ed, intoxicating  whisper.  He  did 
that  sort  of  thing  so  well ;  he  had 
done  it  so  often  before — but  never 
as  truly,  never  as  passionately,  as 
now. 

Every  worldly  consideration  was 
swept  away ;  the  rich  marriage 
which  was  to  bring  him  a  comfort- 
able independence,  the  charms  of 
riches,  Comtesse  Halka,  the  wishes 
of  his  family — they  all  melted  be- 
fore the  liquid  softness  of  Reata's 
eyes. 

They  stood  there,  these  two 
happy  beings,  or  these  two  young 
fools,  whichever  you  choose  to  call 
them,  in  the  quickly  gathering 
darkness  of  the  approaching  storm, 


674 


Reata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  III. 


[June 


knowing  and  feeling  nothing  out- 
side their  circle  of  happiness;  un- 
conscious that  the  ever-blackening 
clouds  had  sunk  and  covered  the 
blue  hills  opposite,  and  that  the 
wind,  till  then  stealing  noiselessly 
along,  its  progress  marked  only  by 
the  bending  blades  and  quivering 
leaves,  had  gained  a  voice — a  low 
wail  in  the  distance,  a  sharp  rust- 
ling in  the  bushes  close  at  hand ; 
unconscious  also  that  they  were 
miles  from  home,  and  bereft  of  the 
means  of  getting  there. 

A  loud  neigh  close  at  hand  re- 
called them  from  their  brief  trance. 
Eeata  started,  and  looked  up  for 
the  first  time  again  ;  and  Otto 
gathered  his  senses  together,  and 
remembered  where  they  were. 

Far  off  on  the  plain  two  figures 
were  disappearing.  Don  Eamirez, 
urged  on  by  the  horse-stealer's  piti- 
less spurs,  stretched  his  bony  legs 
over  the  plain ;  fifty  paces  behind, 
Ortega  pressing  Solomon  to  the 
pursuit,  but  with  every  stride  los- 
ing on  the  chestnut's  pace.  Mara- 
quita, before  they  had  got  half  that 
distance,  had  reared  straight  up  and 
broken  away;  and  after  careering 
over  the  grass  wildly  for  some  min- 
utes, came  galloping  back  towards 
her  post,  where  she  stood  still  at  a 
little  distance,  shaking  her  mane 
in  the  triumph  of  escape — every 
muscle  quivering  under  her  glossy 
skin. 

A  little  coaxing  and  a  bunch  of 
grass  held  out  towards  her  were 
enough  to  quiet  her.  She  came  up 
with  coquettish,  hesitating  step, 
and  allowed  Otto  to  take  her  reins 
and  make  them  fast  to  a  branch. 

Heavy  drops  of  rain  were  begin- 
ning to  fall,  pattering  on  to  the 
broad-leaved  plants,  and  thickening 
every  moment. 

Otto,  now  fairly  aroused  to  the 
gravity  of  the  situation,  was  at  his 
wits'  end  as  to  what  he  should  do. 

"How  angry  my  aunt  will  be 


with  me  !  She  will  think  it  is  all 
my  fault." 

"I  will  make  it  all  right  with 
her ;  and,  after  all,  it  is  only  '  the 
Bony  One '  that  is  lost.  How  good 
of  Maraquita  to  come  back  !  There 
is  a  farmhouse  not  half  an  hour's 
ride  from  here,  if  we  could  only 
reach  it ;  but  how  ?  " 

"I  suppose  Maraquita  could  hard- 
ly be  expected  to  carry  us  both  ? " 
Otto  put  in. 

"If  Solomon  had  returned,"  he 
added  more  seriously,  "the  matter 
would  have  been  simplified.  You 
could  have  gone  on  alone ;  but  as 
it  is,  there  is  nothing  for  it  but  to 
set  out  on  foot,  leading  Maraquita." 

"  Oh,  but  I  could  easily  ride 
Maraquita,"  she  interrupted ;  "  only 
— only — I  should  not  like  leaving 
you  alone,  Baron  Bodenbach." 

Otto  turned  towards  her  with  a 
reproachful  look  in  his  fine  eyes. 
"Why  don't  you  call  me  as  you 
did  before?" 

"Did  II  Oh,  but  that  was 
different.  I  can't  do  it  again.  I 
don't  think  I  shall  ever  be  able  to 
do  it  again." 

"Then  I  don't  think  I  shall  ever 
be  able  to  let  go  your  hands  till 
you  do  so ;  and  we  shall  have  to 
stand  here  all  night,  and  will  be 
soaked  through.  Say,  'I  do  not 
want  to  leave  you,  Otto.' " 

Otto  usually  got  what  he  wanted 
from  women  when  he  asked  for  it 
in  that  tone  and  with  that  look; 
and,  of  course,  he  got  what  he 
wanted  now. 

Heavier  and  heavier  were  the 
rain -drops  falling,  driven  by  the 
fitful  gusts  of  wind,  whose  plain- 
tive, distant  wail  had  changed  into 
an  angry  howl.  There  was  no  time 
to  be  lost.  Otto  dreaded  the  notion 
of  letting  Reata  go  on  alone  on  the 
mare,  but  it  was  the  less  of  two 
evils.  He  was  compelled  to  trust 
to  her  courage  and  power  of  keep- 
ing her  seat.  Even  by  the  time  he 


1879.] 


Reata  ;  or,  Whafs  in  a  Name. — Part  III. 


675 


had  settled  her  in  the  saddle  her 
thin  dress  was  wet  through. 

"Good-bye,"  she  said,  timidly, 
putting  her  hand  in  his,  and  look- 
ing at  him  as  if  they  were  going 
to  be  parted  for  weeks,  instead  of 
for  an  hour.  "  You  cannot  mistake 
the  way  if  you  follow  the  edge  of 
the  forest." 

He  let  go  her  hand  and  gave  the 
mare  her  head.  Maraquita  went  off 
with  a  bound ;  but  Otto,  following 
her  with  his  heart  in  his  eyes,  saw 
her  fall  into  a  settled  gallop,  which 
put  his  worst  anxieties  at  rest. 

The  blood  was  coursing  so  hotly 
through  his  veins  that  he  felt  no 
chill  from  the  rain  that  was  soak- 
ing through  his  light  summer- coat. 
As  long  as  the  blinding  drops  would 
allow  him,  he  kept  his  eyes  on 
Maraquita's  lessening  figure;  but 
soon  she  was  lost  sight  of,  and, 
heading  the  wind,  he  set  off  in  the 
direction  of  the  farmhouse. 

In  the  morning  they  had  cut 
right  across  the  plain,  but  now  he 
had  to  skirt  the  bushes  to  the  left 
in  order  to  gain  their  place  of  refuge. 

It  was  fortunate  that  the  way 
was  so  unmistakably  simple;  for 
Otto,  paying  no  heed  to  his  steps, 
pressed  on  mechanically,  living  over 
in  thought  the  bliss  which  the  last 
half-hour  had  created  for  him  on 
earth.  He  called  himself  a  man 
blessed  among  a  thousand  for  gain- 
ing such  a  prize, — :for  being  the 
first  who  had  awakened  that  pure 
and  untouched  affection.  How 
quickly  the  happiness  of  his  life 
had  sprung  up  !  It  had  grown  up 
with  such  a  rapid  growth  that  he 
scarce  noticed  it  till  it  had  taken 
root  in  his  soul  and  entwined  his 
every  thought.  Not  three  weeks 
ago  he  did  not  know  her,  did  not 
guess  that  she  existed,  and  now  she 
was  his  own;  she  had  given  herself 
to  him  with  that  complete  unre- 
serve of  action  which  was  her  great 
characteristic. 


Never  had  he  dreamt  of  such 
unmixed  happiness  as  what  he  felt 
when  he  held  Reata  in  his  arms. 
He  began  recalling  every  fleeting 
expression  in  her  eyes,  every  word, 
every  movement.  With  what  divine 
grace  she  had  shrunk,  and  yet  yield- 
ed, as  he  drew  her  towards  him  ! 
Her  very  silence,  not  hesitating, 
but  timid,  was  eloquence  to  him. 

However  hotly  the  blood  is  cours- 
ing through  a  man's  veins,  a  strong 
pour  of  rain  and  a  cutting  blast  will 
in  the  end  damp  and  chill  him.  A 
loose  bunch  of  leaves,  torn  off  and 
carried  by  the  wind,  flew  straight 
into  Otto's  face,  and  their  dripping 
wetness  roused  him  a  little  from  his 
dreams,  and  made  him  feel  more 
aware  of  the  wind  and  weather 
against  which  he  was  struggling. 

It  was  not  late,  but  darkness 
was  gathering  over  all  the  country 
around — not  the  darkness  of  night, 
but  of  a  fearful  storm. 

The  worst  was  yet  to  come ;  for 
though  the  water  had  not  ceased 
raining  down  a  second,  there  were 
heavier  clouds  still  to  break — clouds 
which  came  rushing  before  the 
wind,  banded  together  in  compact 
black  masses,  all  towards  one  point, 
uniting  their  forces  for  a  grand  ex- 
plosion. 

Had  it  not  been  that  he  was 
walking  in  the  shelter  of  the  bushes, 
Otto  could  not  have  kept  his  foot- 
ing in  the  face  of  the  blast  which 
came  sweeping  over  the  plain,  bend- 
ing the  pliable  branches  down  to 
the  ground,  snapping  off  the  little 
brittle  ends  of  twigs  which  resist- 
ed its  breath.  'Midst  its  howling, 
now  grown  hollow  and  fearful,  and 
scarcely  distinguishable  from  it,  was 
another  sound  —  the  long  -  drawn 
howling  of  the  prairie  wolves,  at 
all  times  striking  the  stranger's  ear 
with  dismay,  and  which  the  mighty 
gale  now  bore  upon  its  wings,  and 
made  fantastically  weird. 

Otto    shivered    as    he    threw  a 


676 


Reata  ;  or,  What's  in  a  Name. — Part  III. 


[June 


glance  across  the  wide  lonely  ex- 
panse to  his  right  —  he  the  only 
human  being  for  far  around.  Pres- 
ently he  started ;  for  he  seemed  to 
see  through  the  gloom  an  army  of 
spectres  flying  towards  him.  Were 
those  not  their  ghastly  helmets  and 
pennons  he  could  discern  1  No  ;  it 
was  only  the  herd  of  white  horses 
they  had  passed  in  the  morning, 
— like  him,  seeking  to  escape  the 
storm.  He  could  see  their  manes 
flying  as  they  rushed  past  him,  the 
herders  at  the  head,  and  the  foals 
running  wildly  at  the  side. 

Would  Reata  be  under  shelter 
yet  1  he  asked  himself,  as  his  teeth" 
began  to  chatter  with  cold ;  and  at 
the  thought  of  her  he  quickened 
his  pace,  thinking  more  of  the 
happiness  of  meeting  than  of  the 
urgency  of  getting  under  roof. 

During  a  temporary  lull  in  the 
storm  his  mind  returned  instinc- 
tively to  the  delightful  occupation 
of  castle-building.  But  no  joy  in 
this  world  is  without  alloy ;  and  in 
painting  his  future  happiness  with 
Reata  the  inconvenient  question 
suddenly  obtruded  itself  on  his 
mind,  "  What  are  we  to  live  upon?" 

"  Upon  love,"  he  probably  would 
have  answered  had  he  been  five 
years  younger  ;  but  Otto,  although 
he  was  madly  in  love  —  although 
just  now  he  had  been  losing  sight 
of  everything  but  his  love — was  no 
fool.  He  had  seen  too  much  of  the 
struggles  of  poverty  in  his  own 
family — he  had  felt  (and  this  was 
more  important)  too  much  of  the 
sting  of  poverty  in  his  own  person 
— to  forget  its  existence  for  long. 

Suddenly  now,  as  he  struggled 
against  the  wind,  with  the  rain- 
drops beating  in  his  face,  he  real- 
ised all  at  once  that  the  step  he  had 
taken  overturned,  with  one  blow, 
the  plans  he  had  so  carefully  laid 
out  for  the  future.  He  had  always 
said  that  his  marriage  should  better 
his  fortunes.  In  taking  a  wife  he 


would  have  done  with  scrimping 
and  poverty. 

Up  to  this  moment,  even  since 
aware  of  his  love,  he  had  never  been 
distinct  with  himself  as  to  what  he 
meant  to  do.  The  slight  twinge 
which  damped  his  enthusiastic  joy, 
although  it  was  not  regret — it  could 
not  be  regret  —  yet  savoured  of 
something  like  disappointment  at 
the  downfall  of  all  the  hopes  he 
had  hitherto  cherished;  for,  after 
all,  Otto  was  but  human. 

He  had  nothing  beyond  his  pay, 
not  to  speak  of  his  debts ;  and 
Reata  could  have  no  money  of  her 
own.  Of  course  there  was  still 
uncle  Max's  will  to  look  to ;  and  if 
that  failed,  of  course  aunt  Olivia 
could  make  everything  easy,  if  she 
chose.  Simultaneously  came  the 
thought,  "How  will  she  take  the 
news  1  Reata  is  a  wonderful  favour- 
ite; but  old  ladies  are  cranky.  I 
think  it  will  be  better,  decidedly 
better,  to  be  on  the  safe  side,  and 
not  say  anything  for  the  present, 
until  I  can  see  how  the  ground  lies. 
It  would  not  be  fair  towards  my 
darling  Reata  to  run  the  risk  of 
losing  anything  that  might  come  to 
me  from  my  aunt.  I  must  talk  it 
over  with  Reata,  and  try  to  make 
her  understand  our  position.  Of 
course  she  knows  nothing  about  the 
value  of  money  yet ; — how  should 
she  1  she  has  never  had  any  in  her 
hands.  But  supposing  she  should 
not  want  to  keep  a  secret  from  the 
old  lady,  if  she  should  exert  that 
will  of  hers  ?  But  no,  there  is  no- 
fear  of  that."  And  Otto,  alone  as 
he  was  in  the  darkness,  smiled  at 
the  recollection  of  her  soft  confid- 
ing look.  How  easily  she  had 
given  way  to  the  first  thing  he 
had  asked  of  her ! 

Yes, — his  Reata  was  an  angel,, 
a  priceless  gem ;  and  everything 
would  be  right  somehow,  Otto- 
murmured  to  himself,  incoherently. 
When  would  he  see  her  again  1 


1879.] 


Reata  ;  or,  Wliatfs  in  a  Name. — Part  III. 


G7T 


Would  he  ever  reach  that  con- 
founded farmhouse1? 

He  had  soon  talked  himself  back 
into  a  glow  of  delight;  but  far 
down  in  the  depths  of  his  soul  there 
was  a  faint  feeling  of  unrest.  A 
chord  had  been  touched  which 
would  not  cease  to  vibrate,  and 
every  now  and  then  jarred  on  the 
sweet  music  of  his  love.  It  was 
as  if  the  first  little  cloud,  weak 
and  fleecy,  but  still  a  cloud,  had 
risen  on  the  spotless  heaven  of  his 
happiness. 

That  confounded  farmhouse  was 
reached  at  last,  but  not  till  after 
what  seemed  to  Otto  an  eternity. 

A  low  broad -roofed  building, 
standing  within  a  rough  palisade. 
Otto  saw  a  light  gleaming  through 
the  half -open  door — heard  a  wild 
confused  barking,  as  a  cascade  of 
dogs  came  rushing  out ;  and  then, 
as  he  stepped  in,  there  was  a  de- 
lightful sensation  of  sudden  warmth 
and  shelter  from  the  stormy  ele- 
ments. 

Reata  was  sitting  before  a  great 
roaring  fire,  in  the  place  of  honour, 
the  farmer's  family  grouped  round 
her  in  attitudes  of  picturesque 
reverence.  She  started  up  with  a 
cry  of  delight ;  and  the  first  glance 
of  her  eyes  swept  all  worldly  con- 
siderations out  of  Otto's  head. 

The  dogs — great  shaggy  starved- 
looking  beasts,  with  a  wolfish  taint 
about  them — came  in  snarling  at 
his  heels. 

"  Down,  all  of  you  ! "  said  Reata, 
addressing  them  in  Spanish. 
"Come  here  directly,  Reganon. 
You  know  you  are  the  worst  dog. 
The  others  are  bad  enough ;  but 
you  are  far  the  worst.  You  are  to 
sit  down  here  near  me.  Couch,  sir  ! " 

"Is  that  meant  for  me  also?" 
asked  Otto,  suiting  the  action  to  the 
word,  and  looking  up  from  his  sit- 
ting posture  into  her  face. 


"  Oh,  how  cold  you  are,  and  how 
wet ! "  she  said,  laying  her  hand 
lightly  on  his  sleeve,  clammy  and 
drenched  with  moisture.  "And 
you  are  shivering  too." 

He  could  feel  the  warmth  of  her 
little  hand  on  his  arm,  and  longed 
to  seize  it,  and  hold  it  as  he  had 
held  it  once  to-day.  But  the  con- 
ventional uses  of  society  will  keep 
their  sway  even  in  a  Mexican  farm- 
house ;  and,  with  half-a-dozen  faces 
turned  towards  them,  Otto  had  to- 
control  his  impulses,  and  content 
himself  with  peaceful  adoration. 

The  storm  reached  its  climax 
with  a  burst  of  tremendous  power, 
which  dwarfed  all  its  previous  fury 
into  insignificance.  As  the  stu- 
pendous blast  swept  with  ruthless 
ferocity  over  the  roof,  and  amidst 
the  hell  of  sounds,  the  heavy  crash 
of  a  forest-tree  was  heard  hard  by 
the  door.  A  powerful  tree  it  must 
have  been,  by  the  way  the  ground 
trembled  beneath  its  descending 
weight. 

All  within  the  hut  were  wrapt  in 
breathless  fear.  The  old  Mexican 
farmer  crossed  himself,  and  drew 
his  grandchildren  towards  him; 
the  woman  fell  on  her  knees,  and 
prayed  aloud ;  one  of  the  girls  put 
her  apron  up  to  her  eyes,  and  sob- 
bed ;  Reata  slipped  her  fingers  into 
Otto's,  drawing  a  little  closer  to 
him;  and  the  worst  of  the  three 
bad  dogs  glared  with  his  yellow 
eyes,  and  gave  forth  a  low  deep 
growl. 

"Don't  be  frightened,  my  dar- 
ling, you  are  with"  me,"  said  Otto, 
with  a  lover's  proud  protection, 
when  the  deafening  roar  would 
let  him  speak.  "You  need  never 
fear  a  storm  again ;  for  I  shall 
always  be  near  you — we  shall  al- 
ways be  together." 

And  her  eyes  answered  him — 
"  Always  together  ! " 


678 


Contemporary  Literature  : 


[June 


CONTEMPORARY     LITERATURE. 


VI.    FRENCH    NOVELS. 


THERE  can  be  no  question  that 
the  French  have  a  talent  for  novel- 
writing.  With  much  in  him  that  is 
eminently  practical,  when  it  comes 
to  matters  of  hard,  prosaic  business, 
the  Frenchman  is  theoretically  and 
superficially  romantic.  In  spirit 
and  temperament  he  is  emotional, 
and  his  feelings  are  lightly  stirred 
to  ebullition.  He  may  profess  him- 
self a  freethinker  and  esprit  fort, 
yet  en  revanche  he  carries  a  religion 
of  his  own  into  the  domestic  rela- 
tions. He  may  be  an  indifferent 
son  or  worse,  yet  he  is  eloquent  of 
ecstatic  adoration  of  his  mother; 
and  in  talking  of  "  that  saint,"  es- 
pecially if  he  have  buried  her,  his 
eyes  will  overflow  at  a  moment's 
notice.  So  comprehensive  is  the 
sympathy  between  mother  and  child, 
that  he  will  reckon  on  it  with  pleas- 
ant confidence  in  those  unconse- 
crated  affairs  of  the  heart,  as  to 
which  an  Englishman  is  discreetly 
reserved.  He  may  be  close  in  his 
everyday  money  dealings,  and  in 
the  habit  of  practising  somewhat 
shabby  economics;  yet  if  he  can 
pose  as  the  victim  of  a  grand  pas- 
sion, he  will  take  a  positive  pleas- 
ure in  launching  into  follies.  He 
may  have  a  superfluity  of  volatile 
sentimentality,  but  he  has  no  false 
shame ;  and  his  everyday  manners 
are  ostentatiously  symptomatic  of 
that.  While  an  Englishman  nods  a 
cool  good-bye  to  a  friend,  or  parts 
with  a  quiet  grasp  of  the  hand,  Al- 
phonse  throws  himself  into  the  arms 
of  Adolphe,  presses  him  to  his  em- 
broidered shirt-front,  and,  finally, 
embraces  him  on  either  cheek.  So 
it  is  in  public  business  or  in  politics, 
where  his  first  thought  is  generally 
for  effect,  and  he  is  perpetually 


translating  romance  into  action. 
Like  Jules  Favre  at  Ferrie'res,  weep- 
ing over  the  misfortunes  and  hu- 
miliations of  his  country ;  uttering 
the  noble  sentiments  of  a  Demos- 
thenes or  a  Cato ;  practising  the 
tones  and  gestures  he  had  patriotic- 
ally studied  beforehand ;  and  even, 
according  to  the  German  gossip, 
artificially  blanching  his  features 
like  early  asparagus,  or  some  actor 
of  the  Porte  St  Martin,  with  the 
notion  of  touching  the  iron  Chancel- 
lor. In  short,  the  Frenchman  has 
instinctive  aptitudes  for  the  dra- 
matic, and  an  uncontrollable  bent 
towards  high-flown  pathos.  He  is 
ready  to  strike  an  attitude  at  a 
moment's  notice,  and  to  figure  with 
dignified  self-respect  and  aplomb 
in  scenes  that  might  strike  us 
as  ludicrously  compromising.  But 
though  that  mobility  of  character 
has  its  ridiculous  side  in  the  eyes 
of  people  who  are  naturally  colder 
and  more  phlegmatic,  undoubtedly 
it  serves  him  well  when  he  betakes 
himself  to  the  literature  of  the 
fancy.  The  imaginative  faculties, 
which  are  perpetually  in  play,  need 
regulation  and  control  rather  than 
stimulating.  The  quick  conception 
conjures  up  the  effects  which  must 
be  laboriously  wrought  out  by  dull- 
er imaginations  ;  and  he  sees  and 
avoids  those  difficulties  in  the  plot 
which  inferior  ingenuity  might 
find,  insurmountable.  He  can  throw 
himself  with  slight  preparation 
into  roles  that  seem  foreign  to 
his  own ;  and  though  in  feminine 
parts  he  may  be  somewhat  artificial, 
yet  he  can  give  the  impression  all 
the  same  of  being  fairly  at  home  in 
them.  While  the  prosaic  element 
that  underlies  his  versatility  is 


1879.] 

powerful  enough  to  contrast  with 
his  poetry  and  correct  it.  He  has 
practical  ambitions  of  one  kind  or 
another,  which  he  follows  with  all 
the  candour  of  self-interest  or  self- 
ishness, so  that  we  are  likely  to  find 
in  his  literary  labours  a  judicious 
blending  of  the  real  with  the  ideal. 
In  the  drama  the  superiority  of  the 
French  is  of  course  incontestable ; 
and  our  English  play-wrights  have 
recognised  it  by  adapting  or  ap- 
propriating wholesale.  In  fiction, 
notwithstanding  our  remarks  as  to 
the  Frenchman's  natural  aptitudes, 
we  must  admit  that  there  is  more 
room  for  differences  of  opinion.  In- 
deed the  two  schools  are  so  broadly 
opposed  that  it  is  difficult  to  insti- 
tute satisfactory  comparisons  be- 
tween them  ;  and  though  individual 
English  writers  may  be  largely  in- 
debted to  the  French  for  the  refine- 
ments that  make  the  chief  charm  of 
their  works,  yet  for  obvious  reasons 
our  duller  novelists  dare  hardly 
copy  closely.  In  the  infancy  of  the 
art  there  can  be  little  doubt  that 
English  authors  had  it  all  their  own 
way ;  and  though  we  may  possibly 
be  blinded  by  national  prejudice, 
we  believe  we  may  claim  the  great- 
est names  in  fiction.  Nothing  could 
be  more  tedious  or  more  false  to 
nature  than  the  French  romantic 
pastorals  of  the  sixteenth  and 
seventeenth  centuries,  except  those 
interminable  romances  by  Scudery 
and  others,  which  had  so  great  a 
vogue  in  the  literary  circles  of  their 
time ;  or  the  insipid  licentiousness 
of  the  younger  Crebillon.  Voltaire 
had  to  thank  his  residence  in  Eng- 
land, and  the  influence  of  English 
companionships,  with  his  studies 
in  English  literature,  for  the  most 
telling  of  those  inimitable  romances, 
whose  brevity  is  at  once  their 
beauty  and  their  blemish.  While 
1  Gil  Bias'  will  be  read  to  all  eternity, 
because  Le  Sage,  like  Fielding, 
painted  human  nature  precisely  as  it 


VI.  French  Novels. 


679 


was,  and  always  must  be.  Our  most 
illustrious  novelists  are  illustrious 
indeed.  We  confess  we  have  never 
appreciated  Richardson ;  everybody 
must  agree  with  Johnson,  that  if 
you  read  him  simply  for  the  story 
you  would  hang  yourself  j  and  we 
have  always  far  preferred  to  his 
'Pamela'  Fielding's  admirable  satire 
on  it  in  '  Joseph  Andrews.'  But 
Fielding  and  Smollett  ;  Scott, 
Thackeray,  and  Dickens ;  Lord 
Lytton  and  George  Eliot,  with 
others  we  might  possibly  add  to  the 
list,  are  wellnigh  unapproachable  in 
their  different  lines.  Yet  with  us 
the  art  of  the  novel-writer  has  been 
on  the  whole  declining,  though  there 
are  living  writers  who  keep  alive  the 
best  traditions  of  the  craft.  In  fact 
the  race  of  novel-scribblers  has  been 
multiplying  so  rapidly  that  almost 
necessarily  the  average  of  the  exe- 
cution has  been  lowered,  since  the 
general  scramble  and  rush  have  tend- 
ed inevitably  to  crude  conceptions 
and  hasty  workmanship.  With  the 
French,  it  has  been  rather  the  re- 
verse ;  and  while  the  races  of  their 
dramatists,  historians,  and  poets 
have  been  dying  out,  their  romance- 
writing,  in  spite  of  its  offences 
against  morals,  has  rather  advanced 
than  declined. 

That  is  partly,  perhaps,  though 
it  may  sound  paradoxical,  because 
novel -reading  is  far  less  universal 
among  the  French  than  with  us. 
The  Stage  in  France  has  excep- 
tional encouragement.  The  leading 
metropolitan  houses  are  subsidised 
by  the  State  with  the  general  assent 
or  approval  of  the  nation.  Each  lit- 
tle town  has  its  little  theatre ;  at  all 
events  it  is  visited  by  some  strolling 
company,  and  all  the  world  flocks 
to  the  performances.  Most  French- 
men have  something  of  the  mak- 
ings of  an  actor  in  them  •  and  each 
Frenchman  and  Frenchwoman  is  a 
fairly  capable  critic.  A  successful 
play  makes  its  author's  reputation 


680 


Contemporary  Literature : 


[June 


at  once,  to  say  nothing  of  filling 
his  pockets  ;  and  as  the  people  in- 
sist upon  novelties  in  some  shape, 
there  must  be  a  constant  supply  of 
some  kind  of  pieces.  But  the 
French  are  not  a  reading  people. 
There  is  no  place  among  them  for 
the  circulating  library  system,  and 
poverty-stricken  novels  by  anony- 
mous writers  would  fall  still-born 
from  the  press,  if  they  found  a  pub- 
lisher. A  certain  number  of  better- 
educated  people  buy  those  paper- 
stitched  books  at  three  francs  and 
a  half,  which  quickly,  when  they 
have  any  success,  run  through 
many  successive  editions.  But  in 
times  of  trouble  and  political  agi- 
tation, the  novel  -  market  may  be 
absolutely  stagnant — a  thing  which 
is  altogether  inconceivable  in  Eng- 
land. Not  that  the  French  can 
dispense  with  amusement,  even  in 
the  depths  of  national  sorrow  and 
humiliation ;  only  they  prefer  to 
seek  the  indispensable  distraction 
in  entertainments  which  are  at 
once  more  exciting  and  congenial. 
Thus  there  was  literally  nothing 
new  to  be  bought  in  the  way  of  a 
novel  during  the  days  of  the  Ger- 
man invasion  and  the  Commune,  or 
for  the  year  or  two  that  succeeded. 
Yet  we  remember  on  the  occasion 
of  a  visit  to  Paris,  arriving  the  day 
after  the  German  evacuation,  when 
we  asked  if  any  places  of  amuse- 
ment were  open,  several  of  the 
lighter  theatres  had  recommenced 
the  usual  performances,  and  we  ap- 
plied for  a  fauteuil  at  the  Bouffes 
Parisiennes.  The  pretty  little  comic 
theatre  was  so  crowded  that  we 
had  to  make  interest  for  a  chair  at 
one  of  the  side-doors ;  the  audience 
were  shrieking  over  the  humours 
of  Desire,  and  no  one  was  more 
jovially  interested  than  the  officers 
in  uniform  in  the  gallery.  The 
trait  seems  to  us  to  be  strikingly 
characteristic.  The  nation,  amid 
its  calamities  and  pecuniary  straits, 


was  so  indifferent  even  to  the 
lightest  novel-reading,  that  it  ceas- 
ed to  spend  money  in  books,  al- 
though rushing  in  crowds  to  fill 
the  theatres.  But  in  calmer  times 
there  is  a  select  and  comparatively 
discriminating  circle  of  readers. 
When  minds  are  easy  and  money 
tolerably  plentiful,  there  are  many 
people  who  make  a  point  of  buy- 
ing the  latest  publication  that  is 
vouched  for  by  the  name  of  some 
writer  of  repute ;  recommended  by 
their  favourite  journals  or  the 
'Eevue  des  Deux  Mondes/  and  dis- 
played in  the  book-shops  and  on 
the  stalls  at  the  railway  stations. 
Every  writer  must  make  a  begin- 
ning, or  an  author  sometimes, 
though  rarely,  may  write  anony- 
mously; but  it  may  generally  be 
taken  for  granted  that  he  has  shown 
some  signs  of  talent.  Before  he 
has  been  encouraged  to  publish  in 
form,  he  has  probably  tried  his 
powers  in  some  feuilleton  in  a  pro- 
vincial newspaper,  or  attained  a 
certain  credit  for  cleverness  in  the 
society  of  some  cafe- coterie.  At  all 
events  the  ordeal,  with  the  odds 
against  succeeding  in  it,  exclude 
many  who  with  us  would  hurry 
into  type ;  and  the  Frenchmen,  we 
believe,  are  practical  enough  never 
to  pay  for  the  privilege  of  publish- 
ing. While  in  France  the  rougher 
sex  has  pretty  much  kept  the  field 
to  itself.  There  has  been  only  one 
George  Sand,  though  we  do  not 
forget  Mrs  Craven.  Indeed,  setting 
the  restraints  of  delicacy  aside,  the 
ladies  would  be  more  at  a  disad- 
vantage there  than  with  us.  The 
stars  of  the  demi-monde  seldom 
shine,  even  in  penmanship  and 
orthography ;  while  ladies  of  more 
decent  life  and  reputation  dare 
scarcely  pretend  to  the  indispen- 
sable intimacy  with  the  details  sca- 
breux  of  the  vie  de  garcon ;  with 
the  interiors  of  cabinets  in  res- 
taurants in  the  boulevards;  with 


1879.] 


VI.  French  Novels. 


681 


parties  of  baccarat  in  the  Cercles 
or  the  Chaussee  d' Antin ;  with  the 
flirtations  in  the  side-scenes,  doubles 
entendres  of  the  slip?,  and  the 
humours  of  the  Casinos  and  the 
Bals  de  1' Opera. 

This  selection  of  what  in  a  certain 
sense  is  the  fittest,  has  helped  to 
maintain  the  average  workmanship 
of  the  French  novel;  but  if  it  is 
become  far  more  agreeable  reading 
in  the  last  generation  or  two,  there 
are  very  evident  reasons  for  that. 
The  novels  by  the  old  masters  were 
altogether  artificial.  Not  only  were 
they  prolix  and  intolerably  monot- 
onous, but  they  transported  one 
into  worlds  as  surprising  and  un- 
familiar as  those  in  which  Jules 
Verne  has  sought  his  sensations ; 
or  at  all  events,  they  idealised  our 
actual  world  beyond  possibility  of 
recognition.  To  do  them  justice, 
with  such  notorious  exceptions  as 
Crebillon  and  Le  Clos,  PreVot  and 
Lou  vet,  they  are  for  the  most  part 
moral  enough.  They  are  in  the 
habit,  indeed,  of  exaggerating  the 
virtues  of  their  heroes  beyond  all 
the  limits  of  the  credible ;  although 
their  authors  might  have  been 
dancing  attendance  in  the  ante- 
chambers of  Versailles,  when  the 
king  attended  the  lever  of  his  mis- 
tress in  state,  and  when  retreats 
like  the  Parc-aux-Cerfs  were  among 
the  cherished  institutions  of  the 
monarchy.  Even  when  professing 
to  study  Arcadian  simplicity,  they 
still  exaggerated  sentiment,  and  re- 
fined on  the  refinements  of  nature. 
It  is  the  accomplished  Bernardin 
de  Saint  Pierre  who  may  be  said 
to  have  inaugurated  the  period  of 
transition  ;•  and  he  had  the  courage 
to  break  away  from  the  confirmed 
traditions.  He  had  the  soul  of  a 
poet  and  the  inspirations  of  an 
artist,  and  was  an  adept  in  the 
art  that  succeeds  in  concealing  art. 
As  you  breathe  the  balmy  languor 
of  the  tropics,  you  abandon  your- 


self to  the  seductions  of  his  glowing 
style  and  the  impassioned  graces 
of  his  luxuriant  fancy.  Should 
you  give  yourself  over  unreflect- 
ingly to  the  spirit  of  the  story, 
there  is  no  arriere-pensee  of  dis- 
cordant impressions  ;  and  the  proof 
is,  that  when  the  book  has  delight- 
ed you  in  boyhood,  you  never  lose 
your  feelings  of  affectionate  regard 
for  it.  Yet  we  suspect  that  were 
you  first  to  make  acquaintance  with 
it  in  later  life,  when  experience 
has  made  a  man  colder  and  more 
critical,  the  sense  of  the  ascendancy 
of  the  theatrical  element  would  re- 
press the  reader's  warm  enthusiasm 
and  work  against  the  spells  of  the 
writer.  We  may  believe  in  the 
luxuriance  of  that  tropical  scenery, 
glancing  in  all  the  hues  of  the  rain- 
bow under  the  most  brilliant  sun- 
shine ;  but  the  story,  with  its  sen- 
timent, would  seem  an  idyl  of  the 
imagination  which  could  never  have 
had  its  counterpart  in  actual  life. 
It  might  strike  us,  we  fancy,  like 
a  picture  by  a  clever  French  artist, 
which  we  remember  admiring  in 
the  Salon,  and  at  the  Vienna  Exhi- 
bition. As  a  picture,  nothing  could 
be  more  prettily  conceived ;  the 
drowned  Virginia  was  peacefully 
reposing  on  the  shingle,  between 
the  wavelets  that  were  gently  lap- 
ping against  the  beach,  and  the 
picturesque  precipices  in  the  back- 
ground. But  though  the  body 
must  have  been  tossed  upon  the 
surge  through  the  storrn,  the  cling- 
ing draperies  were  decently  dis- 
posed ;  there  was  neither  bruise  nor 
scratch  on  the  angelic  features ;  and 
hair  and  neck  ornaments  were  artis- 
tically arranged  in  the  studied  negli- 
gence of  a  careless  slumber. 

But  the  modern  French  novel, 
since  the  time  of  Saint  Pierre,  has 
been  becoming  more  and  more 
characterised  by  an  intensity  of 
realism.  We  do  not  say  that  thero 
is  not  often  to  the  full  as  much 


682 


Contemporary  Literature : 


[June- 


false  sentiment  as  ever;  and  we 
have  mad  and  spasmodic  fantasias 
of  the  passions,  played  out  with 
eccentric  variations  on  the  whole 
gamut  of  the  sensibilities.  But 
even  the  writers  who  most  freely 
indulge  in  those  liberties  have  gen- 
erally taken  their  stand  on  some 
basis  of  the  positive.  What  we  have 
rather  to  complain  of  is,  that  the 
most  popular  authors  show  a  mor- 
bid inclination  for  what  is  harrow- 
ing or  repulsive ;  or  they  seek  novel 
sensations  in  those  perversions  of 
depravity  over  which  consideration 
for  humanity  would  desire  to  draw  a 
veil.  The  sins  and  the  sorrows  of 
feeble  nature  must  always  play  a 
conspicuous  part  in  the  highest  fic- 
tion, where  the  author  is  searching 
out  the  depths  of  the  heart ;  but 
grace  should  be  the  handmaid  of 
artistic  genius  ;  and  the  born  artist 
will  show  the  delicacy  of  his  power 
by  idealising  operations  in  moral 
chirurgery.  Following  the  down- 
ward career  of  some  unfortunate 
victim  may  lead  a  man  incidentally 
to  the  Morgue;  but  we  cannot  un- 
derstand making  the  Morgue  his 
haunt  of  predilection,  or  voluptuous- 
ly breathing  the  atmosphere  of  that 
chamber  of  the  dead,  when  all  the 
world  lies  open  before  you,  with  its 
scenes  of  peace  and  beauty  and  in- 
nocence. 

Some  of  the  most  realistic  of 
these  writers,  notably  M.  Zola,  have 
affected  to  defend  themselves  on 
high  moral  grounds.  £Text  to  the 
duty,  conscientiously  discharged,  of 
depicting  life  as  they  find  it,  it  is 
their  purpose  to  deter  from  the  prac- 
tice of  vice,  by  painting  its  horrors 
and  its  baleful  consequences.  That 
argument  may  be  good  to  a  certain 
extent ;  but  it  cannot  be  stretched 
to  cover  the  point  in  question.  We 
can  understand  the  Spartan  fathers 
making  a  show  of  the  drunken 
Helot ;  we  can  understand  the  ra- 
ther disgusting  series  of  drawings 


of  "The  Bottle,"  which  George 
Cruikshank  etched,  as  the  advocate 
of  total  abstinence.  Drunkenness, 
or  excess  in  strong  liquors,  is  ac- 
knowledged one  of  the  crying  evils 
of  the  age,  and  all  weapons  are 
good  by  which  such  social  perils 
may  be  combated.  But  nothing 
but  unmitigated  mischief  can  be 
done  by  even  faintly  indicating  to 
innocence  and  inexperience  the  cor- 
ruptions which  are  happily  alto- 
gether exceptional.  The  real  aim 
of  these  self-styled  moralists  is  to 
excite  sensation  of  the  most  im- 
moral kind;  or  to  show  their  per- 
verted ingenuity  in  interesting  the 
jaded  voluptuary ;  and  nothing 
proved  that  more  than  some  of  the 
novels  which  were  the  first  to  ap- 
pear after  the  fall  of  the  Empire, 
As  we  remarked,  there  was  an  in- 
terval during  the  war,  and  after- 
wards, when  novels  were  at  a  dis- 
count, since  nobody  cared  to  buy. 
Then  came  the  revival,  and  such  a 
revival !  The  fashion  of  the  day 
had  taken  a  turn  towards  the  ascet- 
icism of  republican  manners,  and 
France,  purified  by  prolonged  suf- 
fering, was  to  enter  on  the  grand 
task  of  regeneration.  Certain  clever 
novel-writers,  who  had  been  con- 
demned to  forced  inactivity,  saw 
their  opportunity,  and  hastened  to 
avail  themselves  of  it.  Nothing 
could  be  more  transparent  than  the 
hypocrisy  of  their  brief  prefaces, 
which  were  the  only  really  moral 
portion  of  their  books.  Recognising 
their  grave  responsibilities  as  cen- 
sors, and  protesting  the  single- 
minded  purity  of  their  intentions, 
they  proceeded  to  reproduce  the 
society  of  Imperial  Paris  for  the 
purpose  of  denouncing  and  satiris- 
ing it.  That  society,  no  doubt,  was 
sufficiently  frivolous,  sensual,  and 
dissipated.  But  those  writers  were 
not  content  with  reviving  it  as  it  had 
appeared  to  the  people  who  casually 
mixed  in  it :  they  were  not  even 


VI.  French  Novell 


1879.] 

satisfied  with  painting  sin  as  they 
saw  it  on  the  surface,  and  dealing 
with  the  sinners  in  vague  general- 
ities. They  gave  their  imaginations 
loose  rein,  letting  them  revel  in  ex- 
ceptional horrors  and  absurdities  ; 
and  presenting  social  and  political 
notorieties  under  the  flimsiest  dis- 
guises, they  misrepresented  their 
sufficiently  discreditable  biographies 
with  circumstantial  and  pointed  ma- 
lignity. It  is  difficult  to  imagine 
a  fouler  prostitution  of  talent  than 
the  invention  of  atrocities  that  are 
to  be  scathed  with  your  satire.  We 
entirely  agree  with  the  dictum  of 
a  shrewd  contemporary  French  cri- 
tic— "that  the  aim  of  the  romance- 
writer  ought  to  be  to  present  the 
agreeable  or  existing  spectacle  of 
the  passions  or  humours  of  the  world 
at  large ;  but  that  he  should  take 
care  at  the  same  time  that  the  pic- 
ture of  passion  is  never  more  cor- 
rupting than  the  passion  itself." 
And  the  remark  was  elicited  by 
the  reluctant  confession,  that  that 
rule  is  more  honoured  among  his 
countrymen  in  the  breach  than  in 
the  observance. 

For  there  is  no  denying,  we  fear, 
that  the  trail  of  the  serpent  is  over 
most  of  the  recent  French  novels  of 
any  mark.  Occasionally,  indeed,  it 
shows  itself  but  faintly ;  and  then, 
nevertheless,  it  may  make  an  excep- 
tionally disagreeable  impression,  be- 
cause it  seems  almost  gratuitously 
out  of  place.  It  would  appear  that 
the  writers  who  are  most  habitually 
pure  feel  bound  by  self-respect  to 
show,  on  occasion,  that  they  do  not 
write  purely  from  lack  of  knowledge, 
and  that  they  are  as  much  men  of 
this  wicked  world  as  their  more 
audacious  neighbours.  Nor  is  crown- 
ing by  the  Academy  a  guarantee  of 
virtue,  though  it  is  a  recognition  of 
talent  that  the  author  may  be  proud 
of,  and  assures  his  book  a  lucrative 
circulation.  All  it  absolutely  im- 
plies, from  the  moral  point  of  view, 


683 


is  that  the  novel  is  not  flagrantly 
scandalous  ;  and  so  far  as  that  goes, 
the  name  of  any  author  of  note  is 
generally  a  sufficient  indication  of 
the  tone  of  his  stories.  Now  and 
then  a  Theophile  Gautier  may  for- 
get himself  in  such  a  brilliant  jeu 
des  sens  as  his  '  Mademoiselle  de 
Maupin ; '  but  the  French  novelist, 
as  a  rule,  takes  a  line  and  sticks  to 
it,  carefully  developing  by  practice 
and  thought  what  he  believes  to  be 
his  peculiar  talent.  And  whatever 
may  be  the  moral  blemishes  of  the 
French  novel — though  they  may  be 
often  false  to  art  by  being  false  to 
nature,  notwithstanding  the  illu- 
sion of  their  superficial  realism, 
there  can  be  no  question  of  their 
average  superiority  to  our  own  in 
care  of  construction  and  delicacy  of 
finish.  The  modern  French  novel- 
ist, as  a  rule,  does  not  stretch  his 
story  on  a  Procrustean  bed,  racking 
it  out  to  twice  its  natural  length, 
and  thereby  enfeebling  it  propor- 
tionately. He  publishes  in  a  single 
manageable  volume,  which  may  be 
in  type  that  is  large  or  small  a  dis- 
cretion. Not  only  is  he  not  ob- 
liged to  hustle  in  characters,  for  the 
mere  sake  of  filling  his  canvas,  but 
he  is  naturally  inclined  to  limit 
their  number.  In  place  of  digressing 
into  superfluous  episodes  and  side- 
scenes  for  the  sake  of  spinning  out 
the  volumes  to  regulation  length, 
he  is  almost  bound  over  to  condense 
and  concentrate.  Thus  there  is 
no  temptation  to  distract  attention 
from  the  hero,  who  presents  himself 
naturally  in  the  opening  chapter, 
and  falls  as  naturally  into  the  cen- 
tral place ;  while  the  other  people 
group  themselves  modestly  behind 
him.  Consequently  the  plot  is 
simple  where  there  is  a  plot ;  and 
where  there  is  no  plot,  in  the  great 
majority  of  cases  we  have  a  consist- 
ent study  of  a  selected  type.  Each 
separate  chapter  shows  evidences 
of  care  and  patience.  The  writer 


•684 


Contemporary  Literature  : 


[June 


seems  to  have  more  or  less  identified 
himself  with  the  individuality  he  has 
imagined;  and  no  doubt  that  has 
been  the  case.  Nineteen  novels  out 
of  twenty  in  England  are  the  careless 
distractions  of  leisure  time  by  men 
or  women  who  are  working  up  waste 
materials.  In  France  it  would 
appear  to  be  just  the  opposite. 
Thoughtful  students  of  the  art  take 
to  novel  -  writing  as  a  business. 
They  practise  the  business  on  ac- 
knowledged principles,  and  accord- 
ing to  certain  recognised  traditions, 
though  they  may  lay  themselves 
out  to  hit  the  fashions  of  the  times, 
like  the  fashionable  jewellers  and 
dressmakers.  So  that  the  story,  as 
it  slowly  takes  form  in  their  minds, 
is  wrought  in  harmony  throughout 
with  its  original  conception.  There 
may  occasionally  be  distinguished 
•exceptions,  but  they  only  prove  the 
general  rule.  Thus  Zola  is  said  to 
give  his  mornings  to  his  novels,  while 
he  devotes  the  afternoons  to  jour- 
nalism ;  and  Claretie,  who  is  as 
much  of  a  press  man  as  a  novelist, 
mars  excellent  work  that  might  be 
better  still,  by  the  inconsistencies, 
•oversights,  and  pieces  of  sloven- 
liness that  may  be  attributed  to 
the  distracting  variety  of  his  occu- 
pations. 

Then,  as  the  French  novelists  are 
Parisian  almost  to  a  man,  their 
novels  are  monotonously  Parisian 
in  their  tone,  as  they  are  thoroughly 
French  in  their  spirit.  The  system 
-of  centralisation  that  has  been  grow- 
ing and  strengthening  has  been  at- 
tracting the  intellect  and  ambition 
of  the  country  to  its  heart.  It  is  in 
the  Paris  of  the  present  republic  as 
in  the  Paris  of  the  monarchies  and 
the  Empire,  that  fame,  honours,  and 
places  are  to  be  won ;  and  where 
the  only  life  is  to  be  lived  that  a 
Frenchman  thinks  worth  the  living. 
The  ornaments  of  the  literary  as  of 
the  political  coteries  are  either  Par- 
isians bom  or  bred  ;  or  they  are 


young  provincials,  who  have  found 
their  way  to  the  capital  when  the 
mind  and  senses  are  most  impres- 
sionable. Many  of  these  clever 
youths  have  seen  nothing  of  "  soci- 
ety "  till  they  have  taken  their  line 
and  made  their  name.  Too  many 
of  them  decline  to  be  bored  by  either 
respectability  or  an  observance  of 
conventionalities  ;  even  if  they  had 
admission  to  the  drawing-rooms  they 
would  rarely  avail  themselves  of  it, 
except  for  the  sake  of  the  social 
flattery  implied  ;  and  they  take  their 
only  notions  of  women  from  the 
ladies  of  a  certain  class.  If  they 
are  "  devouring "  a  modest  patri- 
mony or  making  an  income  by  their 
ready  pens,  they  spend  it  in  the 
dissipation  of  a  vie  orageuse.  So 
we  have  fancies  inspired  by  the 
champagne  of  noisy  suppers  towards 
the  small  hours ;  and  moral  reflec- 
tions suggested  by  absinthe,  in  the 
gloomy  reaction  following  on  de- 
bauch. In  the  scenes  from  the  life 
of  some  petit  creve  or  lorette,  you 
have  the  Boulevards  and  the  Bois 
de  Boulogne  ;  the  supper  at  the 
Maison  Doree,  the  breakfast  at  the 
Cafe  Eiche ;  the  frenzied  pool  at 
lansquenet  or  baccarat;  the  flirta- 
tions at  the  fancy  balls  of  the 
opera ;  the  humours  of  the  foyers, 
the  journal  offices,  and  the  cafes, 
— described  with  a  liveliness  that 
leaves  little  to  desire,  if  the  accom- 
plished author  have  the  necessary 
verve.  But  those  views  of  life  are 
all  upon  the  surface,  and  they  are 
as  absolutely  wanting  in  breadth  as 
in  variety.  The  writer  takes  his 
colours  from  the  people  he  associates 
with  ;  and  these  are  either  too  busy 
to  think,  or  else  they  are  morbidly 
disillusioned.  They  talk  a  jargon 
of  their  world,  and  try  to  act  in  con- 
formity ;  the  philosophy  they  pro- 
fess to  practise  is  shallow  hypocrisy 
and  transparent  self-deception;  if 
there  is  anything  of  which  they  are 
heartily  ashamed,  it  is  the  betrayal 


1879.] 


of  some  sign  of  genuine  feeling. 
The  writer  who  nurses  his  brain  on 
absinthe  and  cognac,  knows  little  of 
the  finer  emotions  of  our  nature; 
and  yet,  to  do  justice  to  his  philo- 
sophical omniscience,  he  may  feel 
bound  to  imagine  and  analyse  these. 
Then  imagination  must  take  the 
place  of  reproduction,  and  the  real- 
istic shades  harshly  into  the  ideal. 
We  have  chapters  where  we  are  in 
the  full  rattle  of  coupes,  the  jingling 
of  glasses  and  the  clink  of  napol- 
eons ;  and  we  have  others  alternat- 
ing with  them,  where  some  stage- 
struck  hero  is  meditating  his  amorous 
misadventures  or  bonnes  fortunes ; 
contemplating  suicide  in  a  melodra- 
matic paroxysm  of  despair,  or  indulg- 
ing in  raptures  of  serene  self-gratu- 
lation.  And  these  stories,  though 
extravagant  in  their  representations 
of  the  feelings,  may  be  real  to  an 
extreme  in  their  action  and  in  their 
framework;  yet,  as  we  said  before, 
in  construction  and  execution  they 
may  command  the  approval  of  the 
most  fastidious  of  critics.  While,  as 
we  need  hardly  add,  there  are  authors 
hors  de  ligne,  whose  genius  and  pro- 
found acquaintance  with  mankimi 
are  not  circumscribed  by  the  octroi 
of  Paris. 

Where  painstaking  writers  of 
something  more  than  respectable 
mediocrity  often  show  themselves 
at  their  best,  is  in  the  special  know- 
ledge they  are  apt  to  be  ashamed  of. 
The  provincial  who  has  gone  to 
school  in  the  cafes  of  the  capital, 
was  born  and  brought  up  in  very 
different  circumstances.  He  remem- 
bers the  farm-steading  in  Normandy 
or  La  Beauce,  he  remembers  the 
stern  solitudes  of  the  Landes  or  the 
Breton  heaths,  the  snows  and  the 
pine-forests  of  the  Pyrenees  or  the 
Jura,  the  grey  olive-groves  of  Pro- 
vence, and  the  sunny  vineyards  of 
the  Gironde.  He  recalls  the  dull 
provincial  town  where  he  went  to 
college ;  where  the  maire  was  a  per- 

VOL.  CXXV. — NO.  DCCLXIV. 


VI.  French  Novels. 


685 


son  age  and  the  sous-prefet  a  demi- 
god, and  where  a  Sunday  on  the 
promenade  or  a  chasse  in  the  envir- 
ons seemed  the  summit  of  human 
felicity.  Probably  he  had  been  in 
love  in  good  earnest  in  these  days; 
and  the  remembrance  of  that  first 
freshness  of  passion  comes  keenly 
back  to  him,  like  the  breath  of  the 
spring.  It  is  somewhat  humiliat- 
ing, no  doubt,  the  having  to  revive 
those  rustic  memories,  the  more  so 
that  the  world  and  your  jealous 
friends  are  likely  to  identify  you 
with  the  incidents  of  your  romance. 
But  after  all,  necessity  exacts  orig- 
inality, and  a  vein  of  veracity  means 
money  and  gratifying  consideration ; 
and  then  there  is  honourable  pre- 
cedent for  his  condescension.  Did 
not  Balzac  include  the  vie  de  pro- 
vince in  the  innumerable  volumes  of 
the  'Com&iie  HumaineT  With 
some  simple  study  of  a  quiet  human 
life,  we  have  charming  sketches  of 
picturesque  nature,  that  might  have 
come  from  the  brush  of  a  Corot  or 
a  Jules  Breton.  More  generally, 
however,  the  nature  in  the  French 
novel  reminds  one  rather  of  the 
stage-painter  than  the  lover  of  the 
country ;  and  there  they  fall  far 
short  of  the  average  of  second-class 
English  work.  Many  of  our  indif- 
ferent English  novels  have  been 
written  in  quiet  parsonages  and 
country-houses,  and  the  most  pleas- 
ing parts  of  them  are  those  in  which 
the  author  describes  the  fields  that 
he  wanders  in  or  the  garden  he 
loves.  Besides,  every  Englishman 
in  easy  circumstances  makes  a  point 
of  taking  his  annual  holiday,  and 
passes  it  in  the  Alps,  by  the  sea, 
or  in  the  Highlands.  While  the 
Frenchman,  or  the  Parisian  at  least, 
is  content,  like  Paul  de  Kock,  to 
adore  the  coteaux  of  the  Seine  or  the 
woods  of  the  banlieue.  Exceedingly 
pretty  in  their  way,  no  doubt ;  but 
where  the  turf  is  strewed  with 
orange-peel  and  the  fragments  of 
2  Y 


686 


Contemporary  Literature  : 


[June 


brioches;  where  you  gallop  on  don- 
keys as  on  Hampstead  Heath  ;  and 
where  the  notes  of  the  singing-birds 
are  lost  in  the  shrieks  from  some 
boisterous  French  counterpart  of 
kiss-in-the-ring.  The  Cockney  artists 
have  their  colony  at  Fontainebleau  ; 
and  it  would  be  well  if  their  brothers 
the  novelists  had  some  suburban 
school  of  the  kind.  But  not  to 
mention  George  Sand  for  the  pre- 
sent, who  sunned  herself  in  the 
beauties  of  nature  with  the  genuine 
transports  of  sympathetic  apprecia- 
tion, there  are  always  a  few  delight- 
ful exceptions ;  for  the  French  artist, 
when  he  cares  for  the  country  at  all, 
can  paint  it  with  a  rare  refinement 
of  grace.  There  is  Gabriel  Ferry, 
who  is  the  traveller  of  romance  \ 
there  is  Edmund  About,  who  showed 
his  cosmopolitan  versatility  in  mak- 
ing Hymettus  and  the  Eoman  Cam- 
pagna  as  real  to  his  countrymen  as 
their  Mont  Yalerien  or  the  Plain  of 
St  Denis ;  there  was  Dumas,  whose 
lively  '  Impressions  de  Voyage '  are 
as  likely  to  live  as  anything  he  has 
written,  but  who,  unfortunately, 
with  his  vivid  power  of  imagination, 
is  never  absolutely  to  be  trusted. 
They  say  that,  having  described  his 
scenes  in  the  '  Peninsula  of  Sinai ' 
at  second  hand  from  the  notes  of  a 
friend,  he  was  so  captivated  by  the 
seductions  of  his  fanciful  sketches, 
as  to  decide  at  once  on  a  visit  to  the 
convent.  There  are  MM.  Erckmann- 
Chatrian,  in  such  a  book  especially 
as  their  *  Maison  Forestiere  ; '  there 
is  Sandeau,  to  whom  we  have  al- 
ready made  allusion ;  and  last, 
though  not  least,  there  is  Andr6 
Theuriet.  M.  Theuriet,  although 
much  admired  in  France — and  that 
says  something  for  the  good  taste 
and  discrimination  of  his  country- 
men— is,  we  fancy,  but  little  read 
in  England.  Yet,  putting  the  ex- 
quisite finish  of  his  simple  subjects 
out  of  the  question,  no  one  is  a  more 
fascinating  guide  and  companion  to 


the  nooks  and  sequestered  valleys 
in  the  French  woodlands.  We 
know  nothing  more  pleasing  than  the 
bits  in  his  '  Ray monde,'  beginning 
with  the  episode  of  the  mushroom- 
hunter  among  his  mushrooms ;  and 
there  are  things  that  are  scarcely  in- 
ferior in  his  latest  story. 

France  was  the  natural  birthplace 
of  the  sensational  novel,  and  the 
sensational  novel  as  naturally  asso- 
ciates itself  with  the  names  and 
fame  of  Sue  and  Dumas.  What- 
ever their  faults,  these  writers  ex- 
ercised an  extraordinary  fascination, 
abroad  as  well  as  at  home,  and 
their  works  lost  little  or  nothing 
in  the  translation.  We  should  be 
ungrateful  if  we  did  not  acknow- 
ledge the  debt  we  owed  them,  for 
awakening  in  us  the  keenest  inter- 
est and  sentiment  in  days  when  the 
mind  is  most  impressionable.  We 
did  not  read  Sue  for  his  political 
and  social  theories,  nor  Balzac  for 
his  psychological  analysis.  We  saw 
no  glaring  improbabilities  in  the 
achievements  of  Dumas'  '  Three 
Musqueteers ; '  though  we  did  re- 
sent the  table  of  proportion  which 
made  a  musqueteer  equal  to  two  of 
the  Cardinal's  guards,  and  a  Car- 
dinal's guardsman  to  two  English- 
men. We  preferred  such  a  soul- 
thrilling  story  as  the  '  History  of 
the  Thirteen,'  to  '  Balthasar  Claes ' 
or  the  '  Peau  de  Chagrin ; '  but  we 
devoured  very  indiscriminately  all 
the  great  French  romances  of  the 
day ;  and  thousands  and  tens  of 
thousands  of  our  youthful  country- 
men paid  a  similarly  practical  tri- 
bute to  the  powers  of  the  French- 
men who  undoubtedly  for  a  time 
filled  the  foremost  places  in  the 
ranks  of  the  novelist's  guild  in 
Europe.  Eugene  Sue  had  seen 
something  of  the  world  before 
he  settled  to  literature  and  took 
up  his  residence  in  Paris.  He 
began  life  as  an  army  surgeon, 
and  subsequently  he  served  in  the 


1879.] 


navy.  He  broke  ground  with  the 
sea  pieces,  which  gave  good  promise 
of  his  future  career ;  but  he  made  a 
positive  furor  by  his  publication  of 
the  '  Mysteries  of  Paris,'  which  had 
been  honoured  with  an  introduc- 
tion through  the  columns  of  the 
'  Debats ' — to  be  followed  by  the 
'  Wandering  Jew '  and  '  Martin  the 
Foundling.'  Sue  possessed,  in  ex- 
aggeration and  excess,  the  most 
conspicuous  qualities  we  have  at- 
tributed to  the  French  novelists. 
His  imagination  was  rather  inflamed 
than  merely  warm.  In  the  resolu- 
tion with  which  he  laid  his  hands 
upon  social  sores  he  anticipated  the 
harsh  realism  of  Zola.  His  con- 
struction was  a  triumph  of  intricate 
ingenuity ;  and  he  never  contented 
himself  with  a  mere  handful  of 
characters,  who  might  be  managed 
and  manoeuvred  with  comparative 
ease.  On  the  contrary,  he  worked 
his  involved  machinery  by  a  com- 
plication— by  wheels  within  wheels ; 
and  his  characters  were  multiplied 
beyond  all  precedent.  The  action 
of  his  novels  is  as  violent  as  it  is 
sustained  ;  yet  the  interest  is  sel- 
dom suffered  to  flag.  He  is  always 
extravagant,  and  often  absurdly  so ; 
and  yet — thanks  to  the  pace  at 
which  he  hurries  his  readers  along 
—he  has  the  knack  of  imprinting  a 
certain  vraisemblance  on  everything. 
Not  unfrequently,  as  with  Victor 
Hugo,  the  grandiose  with  Sue  is 
confounded  with  the  ludicrous, — as 
where,  in  that  wonderful  prologue 
to  the  '  Wandering  Jew,'  the  male 
and  female  pilgrims  of  misery  part 
on  the  confines  of  the  opposite  con- 
tinents, and,  nodding  their  leave- 
taking  across  the  frozen  straits,  turn 
on  their  heels  respectively,  and  stride 
away  over  the  snow- fields.  It  is 
easy  enough  to  put  that  hyper- 
dramatic  incident  in  a  ridiculous 
light ;  and  yet  it  is  more  than  an 
effort  to  laugh  when  you  are  read- 
ing it.  And  so  it  is  in  some 


VI.  French  Novels. 


687 


degree  with  the  adventures  of  Ru- 
dolph  and  his  faithful  Murphy  in 
the  '  Mysteries  of  Paris.'  For  a 
man  who  knows  anything  prac- 
tically of  the  science  of  the  ring, 
and  of  the  indispensable  handicap- 
ping of  light  weights  and  heavy 
weights,  it  is  impossible  to  believe 
that  his  slightly-made  Serene  High- 
ness could  knock  the  formidable 
Maitre  d'Ecole  out  of  time  with  a 
couple  of  well-planted  blows.  Nor 
do  we  believe  it  j  and  yet  somehow 
we  follow  the  adventures  of  Ru- 
dolph with  the  lively  curiosity  that 
conies  of  a  faith  in  him,  though  im- 
probabilities are  heightened  by  his 
habit  of  intoxicating  himself  on 
the  vitriolised  alcohol  of  the  most 
poverty-stricken  cabarets.  Sue  un- 
derstood the  practice  of  contrast, 
though  he  exaggerated  in  that  as  in 
everything  else.  As  Rudolph  would 
leave  his  princely  residence  in  dis- 
guise to  hazard  himself  in  the  mod- 
ern Gours  des  Miracles,  so  we  are 
hurried  from  the  dens  of  burglars 
and  the  homes  of  the  deserving 
poor  to  petites  maisons  and  halls  of 
dazzling  light,  hung  with  the  rarest 
paintings  and  richest  tapestries,  and 
deadened  to  the  footfall  by  the  soft- 
est carpets.  Dramatic  suggestions 
naturally  arose  out  of  such  violently 
impressive  situations.  Vice  could 
work  its  criminal  will,  while  inno- 
cence and  virtue  were  bribed  or  co- 
erced. Then  these  social  inequali- 
ties lent  themselves  naturally  to  the 
socialist  teachings  of  his  later  years ; 
and  the  fortunate  proprietor  of  a 
magnificent  chateau  expatiated,  with 
the  eloquence  of  honest  indignation, 
on  the  atrocious  disparities  of  class 
and  caste.  Sue  had  his  reward  in 
his  lifetime  in  the  shape  of  money 
and  fame;  and  though  his  novels 
have  almost  ceased  to  be  read,  his 
influence  survives,  and,  as  we  fear, 
is  likely  to  live. 

Dumas  was  a  more  remarkable 
man    than    Sue, — with    his   inex- 


688 


Contemporary  Literature : 


[June 


haustible  and  insatiable  capacity  for 
work,  and  an  imagination  that  was 
unflagging  within  certain  limits.  He 
was  happy  in  the  combination,  so 
rare  in  a  Frenchman,  of  an  iron 
frame  and  excellent  health,  with  as 
strong  literary  inspiration  and  an 
equally  robust  fancy.  If  he  was 
vain  to  simplicity,  and  provoked 
ridicule  and  rebuffs,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed that  he  had  some  reason  for 
vanity  ;  and  it  was  on  the  principle 
of  I'audace,  et  toujours  de  Vaudace, 
that  he  made  hosts  of  friends  in 
high  places,  and  a  really  remark- 
able position.  As  his  witty  son 
undutifully  observed  of  him,  he 
was  capable  of  getting  up  behind 
his  own  carriage,  that  he  might 
make  society  believe  that  he  kept 
a  black  footman.  He  was  the 
typical  Frenchman  in  many  re- 
spects, and  above  all,  the  typical 
French  romance  -  writer.  He  had 
actually  a  vast  store  of  miscellaneous 
and  desultory  reading  of  the  lighter 
kind ;  he  mingled  freely  in  society 
with  all  manner  of  men  and  women  j 
he  had  a  good  though  singularly 
unreliable  memory,  which  he  pro- 
fessed to  trust  on  all  occasions. 
Nothing  is  more  naively  character- 
istic of  the  man  than  a  confession 
he  makes,  involuntarily,  in  the 
amusing  little  volume  he  entitles 
*  Mes  Betes.'  He  is  explaining  and 
justifying  his  marvellous  facility  of 
production.  He  attributes  it  to  the 
fact  that  he  never  forgets  anything, 
and  need  waste  none  of  his  precious 
time  in  hunting  through  his  book- 
shelves. And  by  way  of  illustra- 
tion, in  the  next  two  or  three  pages 
he  makes  several  most  flagrant  his- 
torical blunders.  That  gives  one 
the  measure  of  his  accuracy  in  the 
series  of  historical  romances  from 
which  so  many  people  have  taken 
all  they  know  of  French  history  in 
the  days  of  the  League  and  the 
Fronde.  Yet  if  the  narrative  is  a 
wonderful  travesty  of  actual  events 


— if  the  portraits  of  Yalois  and 
Guises  are  as  false  to  the  originals 
as  the  Louis  XT.  of  Scott  and  Vic- 
tor Hugo  is  faithful — the  scenes  are 
none  the  less  vividly  dramatic ; 
while  the  conversation  or  the  gossip 
amuses  us  just  as  much  as  if  they 
did  not  abound  in  errors  and  ana- 
chronisms. His  *  Monte  Christo' 
had  all  the  gorgeous  extravagance 
of  an  Eastern  tale,  though  the  scenes 
passed  in  the  latitudes  of  Paris  and 
the  Mediterranean  ;  and  we  may 
see  how  the  ideas  grew  in  the  con- 
ception, although,  characteristically, 
the  author  never  had  patience  to 
go  back  to  correct  his  discrepancies 
in  proportion.  The  treasure  of  the 
Roman  cardinals  that  was  concealed 
in  the  cavern,  though  enough  to 
tempt  the  cupidity  of  a  mediaeval 
pope,  would  never  have  sufficed  to 
the  magnificent  adventurer  through 
more  than  some  half-dozen  years. 
Yet,  after  lavishing  gold  and  price- 
less gems  by  the  handful,  when  we 
take  leave  of  Monte  Christo  at  last, 
he  is  still  many  times  a  French 
millionaire ;  and  the  probabilities 
otherwise  have  been  so  well  pre- 
served, that,  as  in  the  case  of 
Eugene  Sue,  we  have  never  thought 
of  criticising. 

But  one  of  Dumas'  most  original 
ideas  took  an  eminently  practical 
direction.  His  unprecedented  en- 
ergy and  power  of  work  made  him 
absolutely  insatiable  in  producing. 
So  he  showed  speculative  inven- 
tion as  well  as  rare  originality  in 
constituting  himself  the  director 
of  a  literary  workshop  on  a  very 
extensive  scale.  Other  authors, 
like  MM.  Erckmann-Chatrian,  have 
gone  into  literary  partnership,  and 
a  curious  puzzle  it  is  as  to  how 
they  distribute  their  responsibility. 
But  it  was  reserved  for  Dumas 
to  engage  a  staff  of  capable  yet 
retiring  collator  ateurs,  as  other 
men  employ  clerks  and  amanuen- 
ses. His  vanity,  sensitive  as  it  was, 


1879.] 


VI.  French  Novels. 


689 


stooped  to  his  standing  sponsor  to 
the  inferior  workmanship  of  M. 
Auguste  Macquet  et  Cie-  The 
books  might  be  of  unequal  merit 
— some  of  them  were  drawn  out  to 
unmistakable  dulness  —  yet  none 
were  so  poor  as  to  be  positively 
discreditable.  And  the  strange 
thing  was,  that  they  took  their 
colour  from  the  mind  of  the  mas- 
ter, as  they  closely  indicated  his 
characteristic  style.  While  to  this 
day,  notwithstanding  the  disclos- 
ures of  the  lawsuits  that  gratified 
the  jealousy  of  his  enemies  and 
rivals,  we  are  left  in  very  consider- 
able doubt  as  to  the  parts  under- 
taken by  the  different  performers. 

It  was  a  notion  that  could  never 
have  occurred  to  Victor  Hugo.  No 
French  author  lends  himself  so 
easily  to  parody;  and  a  page  or 
two  of  high-flown  phrases,  where 
the  sense  is  altogether  lost  in  the 
sound,  may  provoke  a  smile  as  a 
clever  imitation.  But  though  Hugo 
is  always  reminding  us  of  the  line, 
that  "  Great  wits  are  sure  to  mad- 
ness near  allied,"  he  really  is  a  great 
wit,  a  profound  thinker,  a  magnifi- 
cent writer,  and,  above  all,  an  ex- 
traordinary dramatic  genius.  Al- 
though, latterly,  there  is  almost  as 
much  that  is  absurd  in  what  he  has 
written  as  in  what  he  has  said,  there 
is  nothing  about  him  that  is  mean 
or  little.  He  has  the  conscience 
and  enthusiasm  of  his  art  as  of  his 
political  convictions.  And  we  could 
as  soon  conceive  some  grand  sculp- 
tor leaving  the  noble  figure  his 
genius  has  blocked  out  to  be  fin- 
ished by  the  clumsy  hands  of  his 
apprentices,  as  Hugo  handing  over 
his  ideas  to  the  manipulation  of  his 
most  sympathetic  disciples.  He  at 
least,  among  contemporary  French- 
men, rises  to  the  ideal  of  the  loftiest 
conceptions,  and  yet  his  noblest 
characters  are  strictly  conceivable. 
Take,  for  example,  the  trio  in  the 
tale  of  the  '  Quatre-vingt-treize" — 


Lantenac,  Gauvain,  and  the  stern 
republican  Ciraourdain,  who  sits 
calmly  discoursing,  on  the  eve  of 
the  execution,  with  the  beloved 
pupil  he  has  condemned  to  the 
guillotine.  In  romance  as  in  the  dra- 
ma, Hugo  sways  the  feelings  with 
the  strength  and  confidence  of  a 
giant,  exulting  in  his  intellectual 
superiority.  It  is  true  that  he  not 
unfrequently  overtasks  himself — 
sometimes  his  scenes  are  too  thrill- 
ingly  terrible — sometimes  they  bor- 
der on  the  repulsive,  and  very  fre- 
quently on  the  grotesque.  Yet  even 
the  grotesque,  in  the  hands  of  Hugo, 
may  be  made,  as  we  have  seen,  ex- 
tremely pathetic ;  and  the  pathos 
is  artistically  heightened  by  some 
striking  effect  of  contrast.  The 
Quasimodo  in  his  '  Notre  Dame '  is 
a  soulless  and  deformed  monster, 
who  resents  the  outrages  of  a  brutal 
age  by  regarding  all  men,  save  one, 
with  intense  malignity.  His  dis- 
torted features  and  deformed  body 
provoke  laughter,  and  consequently 
insult,  so  naturally,  that,  by  merely 
showing  his  hideous  face  in  a  win- 
dow-frame, he  wins  the  honours  of 
the  Pope  aux  fous.  Yet  what  can 
be  more  moving  than  when,  bound 
hand  and  foot  in  the  pillory,  the 
helpless  mute  rolls  his  solitary  eye 
in  search  of  some  sympathy  among 
the  jeering  mob  ?  or  the  change 
that  works  itself  in  his  dull  feelings 
when  the  graceful  Esmeralda  comes 
to  quench  his  thirst  with  the  water 
she  raises  to  his  blackened  lips? 
Hugo  is  essentially  French  in  his 
follies  as  well  as  his  powers ;  his 
political  dreams  are  as  wild  as  they 
might  be  dangerous  :  yet  he  is  an 
honour  to  his  country,  not  only  by 
his  genius,  but  by  the  habitual  con- 
secration of  his  wonderful  gifts  to 
what  he  honestly  believes  to  be  the 
noblest  purposes. 

Neither  Balzac  nor  Sand  will  be 
soon  replaced.  For  the  former,  it 
is  seldom  in  the  history  of  literature 


690 


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[June 


that  we  can  look  for  so  keen  and 
subtle  an  analyst  of  the  passions, 
frailties,  and  follies  of  humanity. 
In  the  everyday  business  of  life  he 
showed  a  strange  lack  of  common- 
sense  ;  but  fortunately  for  his  con- 
temporaries and  posterity,  he  had 
the  intelligence  to  recognise  his 
vocation.  What  a  range  of  varied 
and  absorbing  interest — of  searching 
and  suggestive  philosophical  specu- 
lation— of  shrewd  incisive  satirical 
observation — would  have  been  lost 
to  the  world  if  the  eccentric  author 
of  the  '  Comedie  Humaine '  had  been 
forced  to  take  his  place  among  the 
notaries  he  found  reason  so  heartily 
to  detest !  The  originality  of  his 
manner  of  regarding  men  was  as 
great  as  the  spasmodic  elan  of  his 
energy  was  tremendous,  when  his 
necessities  felt  the  spur,  and  his 
fancies  fell  in  with  his  necessi- 
ties. Balzac  dashed  off  his  books 
by  inspiration,  if  ever 'novelist  did. 
What  varied  profundity  of  original 
thought,  what  delicate  refinements 
of  mental  analysis,  often  go  to  a  sin- 
gle chapter  !  The  arrangement  of 
ideas  is  as  lucid  as  the  language  is 
precise  and  vigorous.  Yet  we  know 
that  when  Balzac  locked  his  door 
for  more  than  a  round  of  the  clock, 
filliping  the  nerves  and  flagging 
brain  with  immoderate  doses  of 
the  strongest  coffee,  the  pen  must 
have  been  flying  over  the  paper. 
His  vast  reserves  of  reflection  and 
observation  placed  themselves  at  his 
disposal  almost  without  an  effort ; 
and  the  characters  were  sketched 
in  faithful  detail  by  the  penetrating 
instinct  whose  perceptions  were  so 
infallible. 

George  Sand  has  been  more 
missed  than  Balzac,  because  she 
could  vary  her  subjects  and  manner 
to  suit  almost  every  taste.  Uni- 
versally read,  she  was  universally 
admired ;  and  she  pleased  the  fasti- 
dious as  she  entertained  the  many. 
An  accomplished  mistress  of  the 


graces  of  style,  her  language  was 
wonderfully  nervous  and  flexible. 
In  her  way  she  was  almost  as  much 
of  the  poet  as  Hugo,  though  her 
poetry  was  lyric  and  idyllic  in 
place  of  epic.  She  could  never 
have  written  so  well  and  so  long 
had  she  not  had  an  individuality 
of  extraordinary  versatility.  In  a 
romance  of  the  passions  like  her 
'  Indiana'  or  her  '  Jacques,'  she  is  as 
thoroughly  at  home  as  Balzac  him- 
self; while  she  throws  herself  into 
the  feminine  parts  with  all  the  sym- 
pathetic ardour  of  a  nature  semi- 
tropical  like  Indiana's.  While  in 
such  a  story  as  the  '  Flaminarande/ 
which  was  her  latest  work,  and  in 
which  she  showed  not  the  faintest 
symptom  of  decline,  she  confines 
herself  severely  to  the  character  of 
the  half-educated  steward,  rejecting 
all  temptations  to  indulge  herself 
in  the  vein  of  her  personality.  For 
once,  though  the  scenes  are  laid  in 
most  romantic  landscapes,  we  have 
none  of  the  inimitable  descriptions- 
in  which  she  delights.  She  merely 
indicates  the  picturesque  surround- 
ings of  the  solitary  castle  in  the 
rocky  wilderness,  leaving  it  to  our 
imagination  to  fill  in  the  rest. 
What  she  could  do  in  the  way  of 
painting,  when  sitting  down  to  a 
favourite  study  she  gave  herself 
over  to  her  bent,  we  see  in  the  '  Pe- 
tite Fadette,'  '  La  Mare  d'  Auteuil,' 
'  Nanette,'  and  a  score  of  similar 
stories.  The  simplest  materials 
served  for  the  tale,  which  owed 
half  its  charm  to  her  affection  for 
the  country.  The  woman  who  had 
wandered  about  the  streets  of  Paris 
in  masculine  attire,  who  had  a  strong 
dash  of  the  city  Bohemian  in  her 
nature;  who  loved  in  after-life  to 
fill  her  salons  with  all  who  were 
most  famous  in  literature  and  the 
arts,  was  never  so  happy  as  when 
living  in  villeggiatura  among  the 
fields  and  the  woodlands  she  had 
loved  from  childhood.  The  old 


1879.] 


mill  with  its  lichen-grown  gables 
and  venerable  wheel ;  the  pool 
among  flags  and  sedges,  sleeping 
under  the  shadows  of  the  alders  ; 
the  brook  tumbling  down  in  tiny 
cascades  and  breaking  over  the 
moss-covered  boulders  ;  nay,  the 
tame  stretch  of  low-lying  meadow- 
land,  with  its  sluices  and  clumps 
of  formal  poplars, — all  stand  out  in 
her  pages,  like  landscapes  by  Ruys- 
dael  or  Hobbema.  And  we  believe 
that  these  simple  though  exquisitely 
finished  pictures  will  survive,  with 
a  peasant  or  two  and  a  village 
maiden  for  the  figures  in  their 
foregrounds,  when  more  pretentious 
works,  that  nevertheless  deserved 
their  success,  have  been  forgotten 
with  the  books  that  have  been  hon- 
oured by  the  Academy. 

Among  the  most  prolific  of  the 
novelists  who  have  died  no  long 
time  ago, — hardly  excepting  Dumas, 
Balzac,  or  Sand, — and  who  have 
been  largely  read  by  our  middle- 
aged  contemporaries,  is  our  old  ac- 
quaintance Paul  de  Kock.  Paul  de 
Kock  had  a  bad  name  for  his  immo- 
rality, and  doubtless  in  a  measure 
he  deserved  it.  It  is  certain  that 
if  an  expurgated  edition  of  his  vol- 
uminous works  were  collected  for 
English  family  reading,  it  would 
shrink  into  comparatively  modest 
proportions.  But  Paul,  with  all  his 
faults  and  freedoms,  did  very  little 
harm,  and  certainly  he  afforded  a 
great  deal  of  amusement.  He  was 
guilty  of  none  of  those  insidious 
attacks  on  morality  which  have  been 
the  specialite  of  some  of  his  most 
notorious  successors.  He  never 
tasked  the  resources  of  a  depraved 
imagination  in  refining  on  those 
sins  which  scandalise  even  sinners. 
He  never  wrapped  up  in  fervid 
and  graceful  language  those  subtle 
and  foul  suggestions  that  work  in 
the  system  like  slow  poison.  He 
was  really  the  honest  bourgeois 
which  M.  Zola  gives  himself  out 


VI.  French  Novels. 


691 


to  be.  He  boldly  advertised  his 
wares  for  what  they  were,  and 
manufactured  and  multiplied  them 
according  to  sample.  He  sold 
a  somewhat  coarse  and  strong- 
flavoured  article,  but  at  least  he 
guaranteed  it  from  unsuspected 
adulteration.  He  painted  the  old 
Paris  of  the  bourgeoisie  and  the 
students  just  as  it  was.  If  there 
was  anything  in  the  pictures  to 
scandalise  one,  so  much  the  worse 
for  Paris,  and  honi  soil  qui  mal  y 
voit.  The  young  and  sprightly 
wives  of  elderly  husbands  immersed 
in  their  commerce,  the  susceptible 
daughters  of  officers  and  rentiers  in 
retreat,  were  not  so  particular  in 
their  conduct  as  they  might  be. 
The  students  and  gay  young  men 
about  town  were  decidedly  loose  in 
their  walk  and  conversation;  and 
the  grisettes  keeping  house  in  their 
garrets,  away  from  the  maternal  eye, 
behaved  according  to  their  tastes 
and  kind.  Paul  never  stopped  to 
pick  his  own  phrases,  and  he  frankly 
called  a  spade  a  spade.  In  short, 
he  took  his  society  as  he  saw  it 
under  his  eye ;  dwelt  for  choice 
on  the  lighter  and  sunnier  side, 
and  laughed  and  joked  through  the 
life  he  enjoyed  so  heartily.  In  all 
his  works  you  see  the  signs  of  his 
jovial  temper  and  admirable  diges- 
tion. He  tells  a  capital  story  him- 
self of  his  breakfasting  on  one 
occasion  with  Dumas  the  younger  j 
when  the  rising  author  of  the  'Dame 
aux  Camellias'  gave  himself  the  con- 
descending airs  of  the  fashionable 
petit  maitre.  Dumas  was  pretend- 
ing then  to  live  on  air,  and  trifled 
delicately  with  one  or  two  of  the 
lighter  dishes.  De  Kock,  on  the 
contrary,  who  saw  through  his  man, 
devoured  everything,  even  surpass- 
ing the  performances  of  the  pater- 
nal Dumas ;  and  finally  scandalised 
his  young  acquaintance  by  calling 
for  a  second  portion  of  plum- 
pudding  au  rlium.  And  all  his 


692 


Contemporary  Literature : 


[June 


favourite  heroes  have  the  same 
powerful  digestion  and  the  same 
capacity  for  hearty  enjoyment. 
There  is  a  superabundance  of  vi- 
tality and  vivacity  in  his  writings. 
When  he  takes  his  grisettes  and 
their  lovers  out  for  a  holiday,  he 
enters  into  their  pleasures  heart 
and  soul.  Yet  Paul  de  Kock, 
though  somewhat  coarse  in  the 
fibre,  with  literary  tastes  that  were 
far  from  refined,  was  evidently  cap- 
able of  higher  things  ;  and  the 
most  boisterous  of  his  books  are 
often  redeemed  from  triviality 
by  interludes  of  real  beauty  and 
pathos.  He  was  the  countryman 
turned  Parisian,  and  he  held  to  the 
one  existence  and  the  other.  He 
frequented  the  Boulevards,  but  he 
lived  at  Romainville.  As  the  Cock- 
ney artist,  transferring  the  natural 
beauties  of  the  environs  of  a  great 
city  to  his  pages,  peopling  the 
suburban  woods  with  troops  of 
merrymakers  in  the  manner  of  a 
bourgeois  Watteau,  he  has  never 
been  excelled.  Yet  now  and  again 
he  will  give  us  a  powerful  "  bit "  of 
slumbering  beauties  in  the  actual 
country,  with  the  freshness  and 
fidelity  of  a  George  Sand.  Noth- 
ing can  be  more  delicate  than  the 
touches  in  which  he  depicts  the 
repentance  and  expiation  of  some 
woman  who  has  "stooped  to  folly;" 
and  there  are  stories  in  which  he 
describes  a  promising  career  ruined 
by  thoughtless  extravagance  and 
dissipation,  which  are  the  more 
valuable  as  practical  sermons  that 
they  may  have  been  read  by  those 
who  might  possibly  profit  by  them. 
It  is  seldom  that  a  novelist  who 
has  made  a  great  name  decides  to 
retire  upon  his  reputation  in  the 
full  vigour  of  his  powers ;  and  it  is 
seldom  that  a  journalist  who  has 
come  to  the  front  in  fiction  falls 
back  again  upon  journalism  while 
still  in  the  full  flush  of  success. 
Yet  that  has  been  the  case  with 


Edmund  About,  and  very  surprising 
it  seems.  It  is  true  that  he  has 
the  special  talents  of  the  journalist 
—  a  lucid  and  incisive  style  —  a 
keen  vein  of  satire — a  logical  me- 
thod of  marshalling  and  condens- 
ing arguments,  and  the  faculty  in 
apparent  conviction  of  making  the 
worse  seem  the  better  reason.  As 
a  political  pamphleteer  he  stood  un- 
rivalled among  his  contemporaries  ; 
and  the  opening  sentence  of  his 
'  Question  Romaine '  might  in  itself 
have  floated  whole  chapters  of  dul- 
ness.  Had  he  hoped  to  make  jour- 
nalism the  stepping-stone  to  high 
political  place  or  influence,  we  could 
have  understood  him  better.  But 
he  is  lacking  in  the  qualities  that 
make  a  successful  politician,  and  we 
fancy  he  knows  that  as  well  as  any- 
body. The  very  versatility  that 
might  have  multiplied  his  delight- 
ful novels,  portended  his  failure  as 
a  public  man.  While  personally 
it  must  surely  yield  more  lively 
pleasure  to  let  the  fancy  range 
through  the  fields  of  imagination, 
or  to  curb  it  with  the  consciousness 
of  power  in  obedience  to  critical 
instincts.  We  can  conceive  no 
more  satisfying  earthly  enjoyment 
to  a  man  of  esprit  than  exercis- 
ing an  originality  so  inexhaustible 
as  that  of  About,  with  the  sense 
of  a  very  extraordinary  facility  in 
arresting  fugitive  impressions  for 
the  delight  of  your  readers.  His 
fancy  appears  to  be  never  at  fault 
in  evoking  combinations  as  novel 
as  effective ;  and  he  had  the  art  of 
mingling  the  grave  with  the  gay 
with  a  pointed  sarcasm  that  was 
irresistibly  piquant.  '  Tolla '  was 
a  social  satire  on  the  habits  of 
the  long-descended  Roman  nobil- 
ity, as  the  '  Question  Romaine ' 
was  a  satire  on  the  administration 
of  the  popes.  But  the  satire  was 
softened  by  an  engaging  picture  of 
the  simple  heroine,  and  by  admir- 
able sketches  of  the  domestic  life 


1879.] 


VI.  French  Novels. 


693 


in  the  gloomy  interior  of  one  of  the 
poverty  -  stricken  Roman  palaces. 
It  was  relieved  by  brilliant  photo- 
graphs of  the  Campagna  and  Sabine 
hills,  with  shepherds  in  their 
sheepskins,  shaggy  buffaloes,  savage 
hounds,  ruined  aqueducts,  huts  of 
reeds,  vineyards,  oliveyards,  gardens 
of  wild-flowers,  fountains  overgrown 
with  mosses  and  maidenhair,  and 
all  the  rest  of  it.  '  Le  Roi  des 
Montagnes  '  presented  in  a  livelier 
form  the  solid  information  of  'La 
Grece  Contemporaine : '  you  smell 
the  beds  of  the  wild  thyme  on  the 
slopes  of  Hyrnettus ;  you  hear  the 
hum  of  the  bees  as  they  swarm 
round  the  hives  of  the  worthy 
peasant-priest  who  takes  his  tithes 
where  he  finds  them,  even  when 
they  are  paid  by  the  brigands  in 
his  flocks.  The  satire  of  the 
story  may  be  overcharged  ;  yet  if  it 
be  caricature,  the  caricature  is  by 
no  means  extravagant,  when  we 
remember  that  the  leaders  of  Op- 
positions in  the  Greek  Assembly 
have  been  implicated  in  intrigues 
with  the  assassins  of  the  highroads. 
About  is  always  treading  on  the  ex- 
treme of  the  original,  yet  he  has 
seldom  gone  beyond  the  bounds  of 
the  admissible ;  and  his  most  pa- 
thetic or  tragic  plots  are  lightened 
by  something  that  is  laughable. 
As  in  his  'Germaine'  where  the 
murderer  engaged  by  Germaine's 
rival  goes  to  work  and  fails,  because 
the  consumptive  beauty,  under  med- 
ical advice,  has  been  accustoming 
herself  to  the  deadly  poison  he  ad- 
ministers. The  same  idea  appears 
in  '  Monte  Christo,'  where  Noirtier 
prepares  his  granddaughter  Val- 
entine against  the  machinations  of 
her  stepmother,  the  modern  Brin- 
villiers.  But  in  the  scene  by  Du- 
mas, everything  is  sombre;  where- 
as About  so  ludicrously  depicts  the 
disappointment  and  surprise  of  the 
poisoner,  that  we  smile  even  in  the 
midst  of  our  excitement  and  anxiety. 


While  his  humour,  with  its  fine 
irony  and  mockery,  has  one  of  the 
choicest  qualities  of  wit  by  aston- 
ishing us  with  the  most  unexpected 
turns  ;  landing  the  characters  easily 
in  the  most  unlikely  situations, 
in  defiance  of  their  principles,  pre- 
judices, and  convictions.  As  in 
'Trente  et  Quarante;  where  the 
swearing  and  grumbling  veteran 
who  detests  play  as  he  detests  a 
pekin,  finds  himself  the  centre  of 
an  excited  circle  of  gamblers  behind 
an  accumulating  pile  of  gold  and 
bank-notes,  and  in  the  vein  of  luck 
that  is  breaking  the  tables. 

About  writes  like  a  man  of  the 
world,  and  though  he  is  by  no 
means  strait  -  laced  in  his  treat- 
ment of  the  passions,  his  tone  is 
thoroughly  sound  and  manly ; — in 
striking  contrast  to  the  sickly  and 
unwholesome  sentimentality  of  Er- 
nest Feydeau,  whose  '  Fanny  '  made 
so  great  a  sensation  on  its  appear- 
ance. "  A  study,"  the  author  was 
pleased  to  call  it,  and  a  profitable 
study  it  was.  With  an  ingenu- 
ity of  special  pleading  that  might 
have  been  employed  to  better  pur- 
pose, he  invoked  our  sympathies 
for  the  unfortunate  lover  who  saw 
the  lady's  husband  preferred  to 
himself.  Apparently  unconsciously 
on  the  part  of  the  author,  the  hero 
represents  himself  as  contemptible 
a  being  as  can  well  be  conceived. 
Morality  apart,  the  rawest  of  Eng- 
lish novel-writers  must  have  felt  so 
maudlin  and  effeminate  a  charac- 
ter would  never  go  down  with  his 
readers ;  and  had  the  admirer  of 
' Fanny'  been  put  upon  the  stage 
at  any  one  of  our  theatres  in  White- 
chapel  or  the  New  Cut,  he  would 
have  been  hooted  off  by  the  roughs 
of  the  gallery.  It  is  by  no  means 
to  the  credit  of  the  French  that,  in 
spite  of  the  unflattering  portraiture 
of  one  of  the  national  types,  the 
book  obtained  so  striking  a  success. 
But  there  is  no  denying  the  prosti- 


694 


Contemporary  Literature : 


[June 


tuted  art  by  which  the  author  in- 
stiiictively  addresses  himself  to  the 
worst  predilections  of  his  country- 
men; nor  the  audacity  which  haz- 
arded one  scene  in  particular,  pro- 
nounced by  his  admirers  to  be  the 
most  effective  of  all,  which,  to  our 
insular  minds,  is  simply  disgusting. 
Flaubert's  great  masterpiece  ex- 
cited even  more  sensation  than 
Feydeau's  ;  and  it  deserved  to  do 
so.  Flaubert  is  likewise  one  of  the 
apostles  of  the  impure,  but  he  is 
at  the  same  time  among  the  first  of 
social  realists.  He  addresses  him- 
self almost  avowedly  to  the  senses 
and  not  to  the  feelings.  He  treats 
of  love  in  its  physiological  aspects, 
and  indulges  in  the  minutest  anal- 
ysis of  the  grosser  corporeal  sensa- 
tions. In  intelligence  and  accom- 
plishments, as  well  as  literary  skill, 
he  was  no  ordinary  man.  He  had 
read  much  and  even  studied  pro- 
foundly ;  he  had  travelled  far, 
keeping  his  eyes  open,  and  had 
made  some  reputation  in  certain 
branches  of  science.  He  wrote  his 
'  Madame  Bovary '  deliberately  in 
his  maturity ;  and  the  notoriety 
which  carried  him  with  it  into  the 
law-courts,  made  him  a  martyr  in 
a  society  that  was  by  no  means 
fastidious.  In  gratitude  for  foren- 
sic services  rendered,  he  dedicated 
a  new  edition  of  it  to  M.  Marie- 
Antoine'Senard,  who  had  once  been 
president  of  the  National  Assembly, 
and  who  died  bdtonmer  of  the 
Parisian  bar.  The  venerable  advo- 
cate and  politician  seems  to  have 
accepted  the  compliment  as  it  was 
intended.  And  seldom  before,  per- 
haps, has  an  author  concentrated 
such  care  and  thought  on  a  single 
work.  Each  separate  character  is 
wrought  out  with  an  exactness  of 
elaboration  to  which  the  painting 
of  the  Dutch  school  is  sketchy 
and  superficial.  Those  who  fill  the 
humblest  parts,  or  who  are  mere- 
ly introduced  to  be  dismissed,  are 


made  as  much  living  realities  to  us 
as  Madame  Bovary  herself  or  her 
husband  Charles.  Flaubert  goes 
beyond  Balzac  in  the  accumulation 
of  details,  which  often  become  tedi- 
ous, as  they  appear  irrelevant.  Yet 
it  is  clear  in  the  retrospect  that 
the  effects  have  been  foreseen,  and 
we  acknowledge  some  compensation 
in  the  end  in  the  vivid  impressions 
the  author  has  made  on  us.  His 
descriptions  of  inanimate  objects 
are  equally  minute,  from  the  orna- 
ments and  furniture  in  the  rooms 
to  the  stones  in  the  village  house 
fronts,  and  the  very  bushes  in  the 
garden.  He  looks  at  nature  like  a 
land-surveyor,  as  he  inspects  men 
and  women  like  a  surgeon,  without 
a  touch  of  imagination,  not  to  speak 
of  poetry.  In  fact,  he  proposes  to 
set  the  truth  before  everything,  and 
we  presume  he  does  so  to  the  best 
of  his  conviction.  Yet  what  is  the 
result  of  his  varied  experience  and 
very  close  observation  1  "We  have 
always  believed  that  in  the  world 
at  large  there  is  some  preponder- 
ance of  people  who,  on  the  whole, 
seem  agreeable,  and  that  the  worst 
of  our  fellow-creatures  have  their 
redeeming  qualities.  According  to 
M.  Flaubert,  not  a  bit  of  it.  He 
treats  mankind  harshly,  as  Swift 
did,  without  the  excuses  of  a  savage 
temper  fretted  by  baffled  ambitions. 
M.  Flaubert  goes  to  his  work  as 
cruelly  and  imperturbably  as  the 
Scotch  surgeon  in  the  pirate  ship, 
who  is  said  to  have  claimed  a  negro 
as  his  share  of  the  prey,  that  he 
might  practise  on  the  wretch  in  a 
series  of  operations.  He  makes 
everybody  either  repulsive  or  ridi- 
culous. We  say  nothing  of  his 
heroine,  who  is  a  mere  creature  of 
the  senses,  loving  neither  husband, 
nor  lovers,  nor  child;  although  such 
monstrosities  as  Emma  must  be 
rare,  and  we  may  doubt  if  they 
have  ever  existed.  An  ordinary 
writer,  or  we  may  add,  a  genuine 


1879.] 


VI.  French  Novels. 


695 


artist,  would  have  at  least  sought 
to  contrast  Madame  Bovary  with 
softer  and  more  kindly  specimens 
of  her  species.  Nor  had  M.  Flau- 
bert to  seek  far  to  do  that.  Mad- 
ame Bovary's  husband  was  ready  to 
his  hand.  Charles  is  dull,  and  his 
habits  are  ridiculous;  but  he  had 
sterling  qualities,  and  an  attachment 
for  his  wife,  which  might  have 
made  him  an  object  of  sympathy 
or  even  of  affection.  M.  Flaubert 
characteristically  takes  care  that  he 
shall  be  neither;  he  consistently 
pursues  the  same  system  through- 
out ;  so  we  say  advisedly  that  that 
realistic  work  of  his  is  actually 
gross  caricature  and  misrepresenta- 
tion. A  man  who  undertakes  to 
reproduce  human  nature  in  a  com- 
prehensive panorama,  might  as  well 
choose  the  whole  of  his  subjects 
in  Madame  Tussaud's  Chamber  of 
Horrors.  And  if  we  must  give 
Flaubert  credit  for  extreme  care  in 
his  work,  we  have  equal  cause  to 
congratulate  him  on  the  rare  har- 
mony of  his  execution.  For  he 
invariably  expatiates  by  choice  on 
what  is  either  absurd  or  revolting, 
whether  it  is  the  untempting  M. 
Bovary  awaking  of  a  morning 
with  his  ruffled  hair  falling  over 
his  sodden  features  from  under 
his  cotton  nightcap ;  or  Madame 
ending  her  life  in  the  agonies  of 
poisoning,  with  blackened  tongue 
and  distorted  limbs,  and  other  de- 
tails into  which  we  prefer  not  to 
follow  him. 

Adolphe  Belot's  f  Femrne  de  Feu ' 
is  a  romance  of  sensual  passion  like 
'  Madame  Bovary/  though  it  has 
little  of  Gustave  Flaubert's  con- 
summate precision  of  detail.  On 
the  other  hand,  there  is  far  more 
fire  and  entrain,  and  if  the  scen- 
ery shows  less  of  the  photograph, 
it  is  infinitely  more  picturesque. 
Sprightly  cleverness  is  the  charac- 
teristic of  the  book — though  there, 
too,  we  have  a  poisoning  and  h  >rrors 


enough.  The  very  title  is  a  neat 
double  entendre.  The  femme  de  feu 
takes  her  petit  nom  from  a  scene 
where  she  is  seen  bathing  by  star- 
light in  a  thunderstorm,  when  the 
crests  of  the  surge  are  illumined  by 
the  electricity,  and  the  billows  are 
sparkling  as  they  break  around  her. 
The  light-hearted  married  gentle- 
man who  christened  her  so  poetic- 
ally, protests  against  intending  any 
impeachment  on  her  morals.  As  it 
turns  out,  he  might  have  called  her 
so  for  any  other  reason,  without 
]ibelling  her  in  the  slightest  degree. 
The  whole  book  is  consistently 
immoral ;  and  debasing,  besides,  in 
its  tone  and  tendency.  It  is  com- 
monplace so  far,  that  this  femme  de 
feu  captivates  our  old  acquaintance, 
the  grave  and  severe  member  of 
the  French  magistracy  who  goes 
swathed  in  parchments,  and  osten- 
tatiously holds  aloof  from  all  sym- 
pathy with  the  frailties  of  his  fellow- 
mortals.  We  must  grant,  we  sup- 
pose, that  Lucien  d'Aubier  ceases 
to  be  responsible  for  his  actions 
when,  falling  under  the  spells  of 
the  femme  de  feu,  he  is  swept  off 
his  legs  in  a  tornado  of  emotions. 
But  though  a  gentleman  may  be 
hurried  by  passion  into  crime,  he 
must  always  as  to  certain  social  con- 
ventionalities be  controlled  in  some 
degree  by  his  honourable  instincts. 
It  is  difficult  for  an  Englishman  to 
conceive  the  eyarement  which  would 
tempt  a  high-bred  man  of  good 
company  to  make  deliberate  pre- 
parations for  imitating  Peeping 
Tom  of  Coventry ;  and  if  the 
author  forced  him  into  so  false  a 
position,  it  would  be  done  at  all 
events  with  a  protest  and  an  expla- 
nation. It  is  highly  characteristic 
of  M.  Belot  and  his  school,  that  he 
thinks  neither  protest  nor  expla- 
nation necessary.  The  magistrate 
bores  a  trou-  Judas  in  the  partition 
of  a  bathing  cabinet;  and  walks 
out  holding  himself  as  erect  as 


696 


Contemporary  Literature : 


[June 


before.  And  his  stooping  to  that 
is  merely  a  preparation  for  still 
more  disgraceful  compromises  with 
his  conscience  in  the  course  of  his 
married  existence  with  the  femme 
de  feu.  Had  the  scene  been  acted 
at  a  watering-place  on  this  side  of 
the  Channel,  we  should  have  pro- 
nounced the  story  as  incredible  as 
it  is  immoral.  Being  laid  in  the 
latitudes  of  the  bathing  establish- 
ments on  the  Breton  coast,  we  can 
only  say  that  it  is  thoroughly 
French;  and  that  M.  Belot  and 
his  countrymen  seem  entirely  to 
understand  each  other. 

It  is  refreshing  to  turn  from 
Flaubert  and  Belot  to  such  a  writer 
as  Jules  Sandeau.  t Madeline'  is  as 
innocently  charming  as  Madame 
Bovary  is  the  reverse.  It  is  the 
difference  between  the  atmosphere 
of  the  dissecting-room  and  of  prim- 
rose banks  in  the  spring ;  and  the 
French  Academy,  by  the  way,  did 
itself  honour  by  crowning  the 
modest  graces  of  Sandeau's  book. 
M.  Sandeau  shows  no  lack  of  know- 
ledge of  the  world ;  but  he  passes 
lightly  by  the  shadows  on  its  shady 
side,  resting  by  preference  on  sim- 
plicity and  virtue.  Young  Maurice 
de  Valtravers,  to  use  a  vulgar  but 
expressive  phrase,  is  hurrying  post- 
haste to  the  devil.  Wearied  of  the 
dulness  of  the  paternal  chateau, 
he  has  longed  to  wing  a  wider  flight. 
He  soon  succeeds  in  singeing  his  pin- 
ions, and  has  come  crippled  to  the 
ground.  There  seems  no  hope  for 
him :  he  is  the  victim  of  remorse, 
with  neither  courage  nor  energy  left 
to  redeem  the  past  in  the  future  j 
and  he  has  found  at  last  a  miserable 
consolation  in  the  deliberate  reso- 
lution to  commit  suicide.  When 
his  cousin  Madeline,  who  has  loved 
him  in  girlhood,  comes  to  his  sal- 
vation as  a  sister  and  an  angel  of 
mercy,  with  the  rare  sensibility  of 
a  loving  woman,  she  understands 
the  appeals  that  are  most  likely  to 


serve  her.  She  comes  as  a  sup- 
pliant, and  prevails  on  him  at  least 
to  put  off  self-destruction  till  her 
future  is  assured.  It  proves  in  the 
end  that,  by  a  pious  fraud,  she  has 
presented  herself  as  a  beggar  -when 
she  was  really  rich.  That  she 
resigns  herself  to  a  life  of  priva- 
tion, supporting  herself  by  the 
labour  of  her  hands,  is  the  least 
part  of  her  sacrifice.  She  has 
stooped  to  appear  selfish,  in  the 
excess  of  her  generosity.  Maurice 
swears,  grumbles,  and  victimises  him- 
self. But  the  weeds  that  have  been 
flourishing  in  the  vitiated  soil,  die 
down  one  by  one  in  that  heavenly 
atmosphere.  Madeline's  sacrifices 
have  their  reward  in  this  world  as 
in  the  other :  and  she  wins  the 
hand  of  the  cousin,  whom  she  has 
loved  in  her  innermost  heart,  as  the 

Erize  of  her  prayers  and  her  match- 
iss  devotion.  Once  only,  as  it 
appears  to  us,  M.  Sandeau  shows 
the  cloven  foot  unconsciously  and 
inconsistently.  Maurice,  in  his  evil 
self-communings,  reproaches  himself 
with  living  as  a  brother  and  a 
saint  in  the-  society  of  so  young 
and  charming  a  woman.  And  to 
do  him  justice,  he  needs  a  supreme 
effort  of  courage  when  he  decides 
to  approach  his  cousin  with  dis- 
honourable proposals.  Madeline 
receives  him  in  such  a  manner,  that, 
without  her  uttering  a  word  of  re- 
proach, the  offender  never  offends 
again.  But  our  nature  is  not  so 
forgiving  as  hers  :  and  we  think  the 
unpleasant  scene  is  a  blemish  on 
a  work  that  otherwise  comes  very 
near  to  perfection.  For  it  is  not 
on  the  story  alone  that  '  Madeline ' 
repays  perusal ;  and  every  here  and 
there  we  come  upon  a  passage  that 
is  as  pregnant  with  practical  phil- 
osophy as  anything  in  Montaigne 
or  La  Rochefoucauld. 

Charles  de  Bernard  laid  himself 
out  like  Flaubert  to  seek  his  sub- 
jects and  characters  in  exceptional 


1879.] 


types.  But,  unlike  Flaubert,  in 
place  of  painting  en  noir,  Bernard 
loved  to  look  on  the  comic  side  of 
everything  •  and  he  laughs  so  joy- 
ously over  the  eccentricities  of  his 
kind,  that  it  is  difficult  not  to  chime 
into  the  chorus ;  while  Prosper 
Merimee,  with  as  prolific  a  fancy 
as  any  one,  indulged  the  singularity 
he  seemed  so  proud  of,  by  curbing 
its  elans  ostentatiously.  He  studied 
austere  and  extreme  simplicity ;  his 
style  was  as  pure  as  it  was  cold  and 
self-restrained ;  and  his  mirth  has 
always  a  suspicion  of  the  sneer  in 
it.  fee  never  displayed  such  serene 
self-complacency  as  when  he  had 
played  a  successful  practical  joke  in 
one  of  his  inimitable  mystifications. 
Like  Merimee,  with  whom  other- 
wise he  has  hardly  a  point  in  com- 
mon, Jules  Clare  tie,  as  we  have 
said,  has  merely  taken  to  novel- 
writing  among  many  kindred  pur- 
suits. He  interests  himself  in 
politics,  and  writes  daily  leaders 
indefatigably ;  he  is  a  critic  of 
all  tastes,  who  visits  in  turn  the 
theatres,  the  art-galleries,  and  the 
parlours  of  the  publishers.  Conse- 
quently, he  places  himself  at  a  dis- 
advantage with  those  of  his  com- 
petitors who  concentrate  their  minds 
on  the  fiction  of  the  moment,  and 
live  sleeping  and  waking  with  the 
creations  of  their  brain,  till  these 
become  most  vivid  personalities  to 
them.  Claretie's  works  are  ex- 
tremely clever, — in  parts  and  in 
particular  scenes  they  are'  even 
powerful  j  but  the  incidents  are 
wanting  in  continuity  as  the  char- 
acters are  vague  in  their  outlines. 
They  give  one  the  idea,  and  it  is 
probably  not  an  unjust  one,  of 
a  man  who  makes  a  dash  at  his 
brushes  when  he  finds  some  unoccu- 
pied hours;  who  plunges  ahead  in 
a  now  of  ready  improvisation,  till 
the  fancy  flags  for  the  time,  or  he 
is  brought  up  by  some  more  urgent 
engagement.  When  he  returns  to 


VI.  French  Novel?. 


697 


the  work  on  the  next  occasion,  nat- 
urally he  has  to  re-knot  the  threads 
of  his  ideas.  What  goes  far  towards 
confirming  our  theory,  is  the  ex- 
ceptional freedom  from  such  faults 
in  '  Le  Renegat,'  which,  we  believe, 
was  his  last  work  but  one.  In  *  The 
Renegade,'  Claretie  placed  himself 
on  a  terrain  where  he  knew  every 
yard  of  the  ground — that  is  to  say, 
he  was  in  the  very  centre  of  those 
hot  polemics  which  preceded  the 
decline  and  fall  of  the  Empire.  We 
do  not  say  that  Michel  Berthier  was 
intended  for  a  portrait  or  for  a  libel. 
But  such  a  type  of  the  time-server, 
who  was  tempted  to  his  fall  by  the 
talents  on  which  he  had  hoped  to 
trade,  was  by  no  means  uncommon ; 
and  the  siren  who  seduced  him, 
the  veteran  courtier  who  tickled 
him,  the  purse  -  proud  nouveaux- 
riches,  and  the  Republicans  made 
fanatical  by  prosecutions  and  con- 
demnations, were  all  figures  with 
whom  the  author  had  familiarised 
himself,  by  hearsay  if  not  by  actual 
intercourse.  His  very  scenes  may 
have  been  repeatedly  acted,  with  no 
great  differences,  under  his  eyes  i 
although  his  talent  must  have  re- 
moulded and  recast  them  in  novel 
and  more  piquant  shapes.  We  say 
nothing  of  Michel  Berthier's  leave- 
taking  of  his  mistress  Lia,  and  of 
the  tragic  episode  when  the  miser- 
able young  woman  drags  herself 
back  to  die  of  the  poison  under  the 
roof  of  the  man  she  had  adored. 
That  scene,  although  not  unaffect- 
ing,  savours  too  strongly  of  the 
melodramatic ;  and  at  best  it  is 
banal,  to  borrow  a  French  phrase. 
But  there  is  great  power  in  the 
situation  where  the  saintly  Pauline,, 
who  will  retire  into  a  convent  to 
the  despair  of  her  father,  silencer 
the  pleadings  of  the  broken-hearted 
man  by  quoting  those  seductive 
pictures  of  the  cloister-life  which 
had  been  written  by  his  own  too 
eloquent  pen.  Yet,  though  the 


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situation  is  striking,  it  has  its  weak 
point ;  and  it  is  impossible  to  im- 
agine so  careful  a  writer  as  Flaubert 
or  Daudet,  permitting  a  girl,  perfect 
as  Pauline,  to  be  guilty  of  so  cold- 
blooded a  piece  of  cruelty  as  the 
abandonment  of  a  parent  by  his 
only  child  to  mourn  her  memory 
while  she  is  still  alive  to  him. 

It  is  nearly  six  years  since  the 
•death  of  Emile  Gaboriau,  and  no 
one  has  succeeded  as  yet  in  imitat- 
ing him  even  tolerably,  though  he 
had  struck  into  a  line  that  was  as 
profitable  as  it  was  popular.  We  are 
not  inclined  to  overrate  Gaboriau's 
genius,  for  genius  he  had  of  a  certain 
sort.  We  have  said  in  another  ar- 
ticle that  his  system  was  less  difficult 
than  it  seems,  since  he  must  have 
worked  his  puzzles  out  en  revers, — 
putting  them  together  with  an  eye 
to  pulling  them  to  pieces.  But 
his  originality  in  his  own  genre 
is  unquestionable,  though  in  the 
main  conception  of  his  romances 
he  took  Edgar  Poe  for  his  model. 
But  Gaboriau  embellished  and  im- 
proved on  the  workmanship  of  the 
morbid  American.  The  murders 
of  the  Rue  Morgue  and  the  other 
stories  of  the  sort  are  hard  and  dry 
proces-verbals,  where  the  crime  is 
everything,  and  the  people  go  for 
little,  except  in  so  far  as  their  an- 
tecedents enlighten  the  detection. 
With  Gaboriau,  on  the  other  hand, 
we  have  individuality  in  each  char- 
acter, and  animation  as  well  as 
coarser  excitement  in  the  story. 
The  dialogue  is  lively,  and  always 
illustrative.  Perhaps  Gaboriau  has 
had  but  indifferent  justice  done 
to  him,  because  he  betook  himself 
to  a  style  of  romance  which  was 
supposed  to  be  the  speciality  of 
police-reporters  and  penny-a-liners. 
His  readers  were  inclined  to  take 
it  for  granted  that  his  criminals 
were  mere  stage  villains,  and  that 
his  police-agents,  apart  from  their 
infallible  flair,  were  such  puppets 


as  one  sets  in  motion  in  a  melo- 
drama. The  fact  being  that  they 
are  nothing  of  the  kind.  Ex- 
treme pains  have  been  bestowed 
on  the  more  subtle  traits  of  the 
personages  by  which,  while  being 
tracked,  examined  or  tried,  they 
are  compromised,  condemned  or 
acquitted.  Read  Gaboriau  carefully 
as  you  will,  it  is  rarely  indeed  that 
you  find  a  flaw  in  the  meshes  of  the 
intricate  nets  he  has  been  weaving. 
Or,  to  change  the  metaphor,  the 
springs  of  the  complicated  action, 
packed  away  as  they  are,  the  one 
within  the  other,  are  always  work- 
ing in  marvellous  harmony  towards 
the  appointed  end.  The  ingenuity 
of  some  of  his  combinations  and 
suggestions  is  extraordinary;  and 
we  believe  his  works  might  be 
very  profitable  reading  to  public 
prosecutors  as  well  as  intelligent 
detectives.  His  Maitre  Lecoq  and 
his  Pere  Tabouret  have  ideas  which 
would  certainly  not  necessarily  oc- 
cur to  the  most  ruse  practitioner 
of  the  Rue  Jerusalem;  and  they 
do  not  prove  their  astuteness  by  a 
single  happy  thought.  On  the  con- 
trary, the  stuff  of  their  nature  is  that 
of  the  heaven-born  detective,  who 
is  an  observer  from  temperament 
rather  than  from  habit,  and  who 
draws  his  mathematical  deductions 
from  a  comparison  of  the  most 
trivial  signs.  The  proof  that  Ga- 
boriau's books  are  something  more 
than  the  vulgar  f Quillet  on  of  the 
'  Police  News,'  is  that  most  of  them 
will  bear  reading  again,  though  the 
sensations  of  the  denouement  have 
been  anticipated.  In  reading  for 
the  second  time,  we  read  with  a  dif- 
ferent but  a  higher  interest.  Thus  in 
the  'L'affaire  Lerouge,'  for  example, 
there  is  an  admirable  mystification. 
The  respectable  and  admirably  con- 
ducted Noel  Gerdy,  who  has  coolly 
committed  a  brutal  murder,  plays 
the  hypocrite  systematically  to  such 
perfection  that  we  can  understand 


1879.] 


VI.  French  Novels. 


699 


the  famous  amateur  detective  being 
his  familiar  intimate  without  enter- 
taining a  suspicion  as  to  his  nature 
and  habits.  The  disclosure  having 
been  made,  and  Noel  fatally  com- 
promised, the  circumstances  strike 
you  as  carrying  improbability  on 
the  face  of  them ;  so  you  read  again 
and  are  severely  critical  in  the 
expectation  of  catching  M.  Gabo- 
riau  tripping.  And  we  believe,  by 
the  way,  that  in  that  very  novel  we 
have  come  upon  the  only  oversight 
with  which  we  can  reproach  him, 
although  it  is  not  in  the  history  of 
Noel's  intimacy  with  Pere  Tabouret. 
It  is  a  missing  fragment  of  a  foil, 
which  is  one  of  the  most  dead- 
ly pieces  de  conviction  against  the 
innocent  Viscount  de  Commarin ; 
and  the  fragment,  so  far  as  we  can 
remember,  is  never  either  traced  or 
accounted  for.  But  exceptions  of 
this  kind  only  prove  the  rule  ;  and 
when  we  think  how  the  author  has 
varied  and  multiplied  the  startling 
details  in  his  criminal  plots,  we 
must  admit  that  his  fertility  of  in- 
vention is  marvellous.  The  story 
of  the  l  Petit  Vieux  des  Batignolles,' 
the  last  work  he  wrote,  though 
short  and  slight,  was  by  no  means 
the  least  clever.  One  unfortunate 
habit  he  had,  which  may  perhaps 
be  attributed  to  considerations  of 
money.  He  almost  invariably 
lengthened  and  weakened  his  novels 
by  some  long  -  winded  digression, 
which  was  at  least  as  much  episodi- 
cal as  explanatory.  When  the  in- 
terest was  being  driven  along  at 
high-pressure  pace,  he  would  blow 
off  the  steam  all  of  a  sudden,  and 
shunt  his  criminals  and  detectives 
on  to  a  siding,  while,  going  back 
among  his  personages  for  perhaps  a 
generation,  he  tells  us  how  all  the 
circumstances  had  come  about. 

No  less  remarkable  in  his  way 
is  Jules  Verne;  and  the  way  of 
Verne  is  wonderful  indeed.  He 
has  recast  the  modern  novel  in  the 


shape  of  '  The  Fairy  Tales  '  of 
science,  and  combined  scientific 
edification  with  the  maddest  eccen- 
tricity of  excitement.  His,  it  must 
be  allowed,  is  a  very  peculiar  tal- 
ent. It  is  difficult  to  picture  a  man 
of  most  quick  and  lively  imagina- 
tion resigning  himself  to  elaborate 
scientific  and  astronomical  calcula- 
tions; cramming  up  his  facts  and 
figures  from  a  library  of  abstruse 
literature,  and  pausing  in  the  bursts 
of  a  flowing  pen  to  consult  the 
columns  of  statistics  under  his 
elbow.  Thus  these  books  of  Verne 
are  the  strangest  mixture,  upsetting 
all  the  preconceived  notions  of  the 
novel-reader,  and  diverting  him  in 
spite  of  himself  from  his  confirmed 
habits.  We  read  novels,  as  a  rule, 
to  be  amused,  and  nothing  else. 
But  Verne  not  only  undertakes  to 
amuse  us,  but  to  carry  us  up  an 
ascending  scale  of  astounding  sensa- 
tions. It  is  on  condition,  however, 
that  we  consent  to  let  ourselves 
be  educated  on  subjects  we  have 
neglected  with  the  indifference  of 
ignorance.  If  we  skip  the  scien- 
tific dissertations  when  we  come  to 
them,  we  break  the  continuity  that 
gives  interest  to  the  story,  and  the 
ground  goes  gliding  from  beneath 
our  feet  as  much  as  if  the  author 
had  launched  us  on  one  of  his 
flights  among  the  stars.  Now  we 
are  exploring  the  regions  of  space 
at  a  rate  somewhere  between  that 
of  sound  and  electricity ;  now  we 
are  diving  into  the  caverns  of  ocean, 
among  submarine  forests  and  sea- 
monsters.  And,  again,  we  are  at 
a  standstill  in  mazes  of  figures,  or 
picking  our  steps  among  prime- 
val geological  formations ;  and  yet, 
though  we  have  been,  as  it  were, 
brought  back  to  the  lecture-room 
or  the  laboratory,  we  are  still  in  a 
world  of  surprises  and  emotions, 
though  the  surprises  are  of  a  very 
different  kind.  Verne,  of  course, 
with  all  his  skill,  must  abandon 


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the  novelist's  chief  means  of  in- 
fluence. His  books  are  so  far  the 
reverse  of  real  as  to  be  the  very 
quintessence  of  impossible  extrava- 
gance. We  may  bring  ourselves  to 
believe,  for  a  moment,  in  the  mar- 
vels of  an  Aladdin's  cave ;  for  we 
can  hardly  recognise  a  physical 
objection  to  precious  stones  being 
magnified  to  an  indefinite  size. 
Even  the  credibility  of  a  loadstone 
island,  that  draws  the  bolts  out  of 
the  ship's  timbers,  may  seem  a  mere 
question  of  force  and  mass.  But 
the  judgment,  even  under  a  trance, 
refuses  to  expand  to  the  possibil- 
ity of  a  piece  of  ordnance,  of  nine 
hundred  French  feet  in  length,  that 
is  to  shoot  to  the  moon  a  projec- 
tile supposed  to  deliver  a  party  of 
travellers.  As  a  consequence,  the 
writer  sacrifices  the  interest  of  char- 
acter, and  the  analysis  of  conceiv- 
able passions  and  emotions.  A  Bar- 
bicane — an  Ardan — the  explosive 
J.  T.  Maston — are  in  a  category  of 
creations  far  more  fanciful  than  a 
Sindbad  the  Sailor,  or  a  Captain 
Lemuel  Gulliver.  They  are  of  the 
nature  of  the  giants  and  ogres  in 
the  pantomime,  who  figure  on  the 
stage  with  the  columbine  in  petti- 
coats ;  and  these  are  very  evidently 
of  a  different  order  of  beings  from 
the  girl  who  performs  for  a  weekly 
salary.  Yerne  was  wise  in  his  gen- 
eration, in  striking  out  a  line  which 
has  assured  him  both  notoriety  and 
a  handsome  fortune.  It  says  much 
for  his  original  talent  that  he  has 
had  a  remarkable  success  •  and 
though  we  fancy  he  might  have 
made  a  more  lasting  name  in  fic- 
tion, of  a  higher  order  and  more 
enduring,  yet,  probably,  he  has 
never  regretted  his  choice.  Per- 
haps the  most  popular  of  all  his 
stories  is  the  '  Tour  of  the  World,' 
which  was  rational  by  comparison 
to  most  of  the  others.  We  hap- 
pened to  read  it  lately  in  a  twenty- 
fourth  edition;  and  we  are  afraid  to 


say  for  how  many  successive  nights 
the  piece  had  its  run  at  the  Porte 
St  Martin.  But  the  idea  of  mak- 
ing the  round  of  the  globe  in  eighty 
days  was  conceivably  feasible,  if  it 
was  rash  to  bet  on  it.  The  inci- 
dents that  delayed  the  adventurous 
traveller  might  have  happened — 
allowances  made — to  any  man  ;  and 
each  of  the  separate  combinations 
by  which  he  surmounted  them,  goes 
hardly  beyond  the  bounds  of  belief. 
The  real  weakness  of  the  story  is  in 
what  seems  at  first  one  of  its  chief 
attractions.  The  self-contained  Mr 
Phileas  Fogg  is  actually  more  im- 
probable than  Ardan  or  Barbicane. 
The  man  who  could  keep  his  tern-' 
per  unruffled,  his  sleep  unbroken, 
and  his  digestion  unimpaired,  under 
the  most  agitating  disappointments 
and  a  perpetual  strain,  has  nothing 
of  human  nature  as  we  know  it, 
and  must  have  boasted  a  brain  and 
nerves  that  were  independent  of 
physical  laws.  And  yet,  even  in 
this  inhuman  conception,  Yerne 
shows  what  he  might  have  been 
capable  of  had  he  consented  to 
work  under  more  commonplace 
conditions.  For  by  his  disinter- 
ested and  generous  Quixotry  in 
action,  Mr  Fogg  gradually  gains 
upon  us,  till  we  think  that  Mrs 
Aouda  was  to  be  sincerely  con- 
gratulated in  being  united  to  that 
impersonation  of  the  phlegme  Bri- 
tannique. 

Among  the  novelists  who  have 
set  themselves  emulously  to  work 
to  scathe  and  satirise  the  society  of 
the  Empire,  Daudet  and  Zola  take 
the  foremost  places.  Of  the  former, 
we  have  nothing  to  say  here,  except 
incidentally  in  referring  to  Zola, 
since  we  lately  noticed  his  novels  at 
length.  But  there  is  this  obvious  dif- 
ference between  the  men,  that  Dau- 
det has  the  more  refined  perceptions 
of  his  art.  He  does  not  afficlier  like 
Zola,  a  mandat  imperatif  from  his 
conscience  to  go  about  with  the 


1879." 


VI.  French  Novels. 


701 


hook  and  the  basket  of  the  cliiffon- 
nier;  to  turn  over  the  refuse  of  the 
slums  without  any  respect  for  our 
senses ;  and  to  rake  as  a  labour  of 
love  in  the  sediment  of  the  Parisian 
sewerage.  Daudet's  social  pictures 
are  often  cynical  enough;  but  he 
knows  when  to  gazer;  and  he  shows 
self-restraint  in  passing  certain  sub- 
jects over  in  silence.  While  Zola, 
recognising  a  mission  that  has  as- 
suredly never  been  inspired  from 
above,  makes  himself  the  surveyor 
and  reforming  apostle  of  all  that 
is  most  unclean.  We  have  spoken 
of  M.  Zola's  conscience,  because  he 
makes  his  conscience  his  standing 
apology.  When  the  critics  malici- 
ously cast  their  mud  at  the  spotless 
purity  of  his  intentions,  he  throws 
up  his  hands  in  meek  protest.  The 
prophets  have  been  stoned  in  all  the 
ages,  and  virtue  and  duty  will  al- 
ways have  their  martyrs.  His  critics 
will  insist  on  confounding  him  with 
the  shameless  roue  whose  depravity 
takes  delight  in  the  scenes  he  de- 
scribes. How  little  they  know  the 
honest  citizen,  who  is  as  regular  in 
his  habits  as  in  his  hours  of  labour ! 
To  our  mind,  by  no  avowal  could 
he  have  condemned  himself  more 
surely  than  by  that  apology.  We 
are  half  inclined  to  forgive  a  book 
like  '  Faublas,'  or  *  Mademoiselle  de 
Maupin,'  flung  off  with  the  fire  of 
an  ardent  temperament,  full  of  the 
spirits  of  hot-blooded  youth,  and 
with  some  delicacy  of  tone  in  the 
worst  of  its  indecencies.  We  have 
neither  sympathy  nor  toleration  for 
the  cold-blooded  philosopher  who 
shuts  himself  up  in  the  quiet  pri- 
vacy of  his  chamber  to  invent  the 
monstrosities  he  subsequently  di- 
lates upon.  He  harps  upon  the  con- 
science which  we  do  not  believe  in. 
According  to  the  most  far-fetched 
view  of  that  mission  of  his,  he  might 
be  well  content  to  paint  what  he  has 
seen.  Heaven  knows  he  would  find 
no  lack  of  congenial  subjects  in  the 

VOL.  CXXV. — NO.  DCCLXIV. 


quarters  where  he  has  pushed  his  fa- 
vourite researches.  But  such  a  scene 
as  he  has  selected  for  the  climax 
of  the  '  CureV  is  neither  permissible 
by  art  nor  admissible  in  decency. 
What  we  may  say  for  it  is,  that  it 
adds  an  appropriately  finishing  touch 
to  the  singularly  revolting  romance 
of  the  foulest  corruption,  that  he  has 
worked  out  so  industriously  and 
with  such  tender  care.  But  his 
genius  —  for  he  has  genius  —  is 
essentially  grovelling.  The  Cali- 
ban of  contemporary  fiction  never 
puts  out  his  power  so  earnestly  as 
when  he  is  inhaling  some  atmo- 
sphere that  would  be  blighting  to 
refinement.  His  'Assommoir,'  from 
the  first  page  to  the  last,  is  repul- 
sive and  shocking  beyond  descrip- 
tion •  and  yet  there  is  a  sustained 
force  in  the  book  that  makes  it 
difficult  to  fling  it  away.  But  even 
the  elasticity  of  Zola's  principles 
and  conscience  can  hardly  cover  the 
pruriency  of  the  dramatic  incident 
in  the  public  washing-place. 

It  must  be  admitted  that  Zola 
has  in  large  measure  two  of  the 
most  indispensable  qualities  of  the 
successful  novelist.  He  has  su- 
preme self-confidence  and  indefat- 
igable industry.  We  have  under- 
stood, as  we  have  said  before,  that 
he  devotes  the  mornings  to  his 
novels,  and  can  count  invariably 
upon  "  coming  to  time  !  "  That  we 
can  easily  understand.  He  gives  us 
the  idea  of  a  thoroughly  mechanical 
mind  j  and  though  his  scenes  may 
be  profoundly  or  disgustingly  sensa- 
tional, his  style  is  sober,  not  to  say 
tame.  He  lays  himself  out  to  make 
his  impressions  by  reproducing,  in 
sharp  clear  touches,  the  pictures 
that  have  taken  perfect  shape  in 
his  brain.  We  cannot  imagine  his 
changing  his  preconceived  plan  in 
obedience  to  a  happy  impulse ;  and 
he  seldom  or  never  indulges  in  those 
brilliant  flights  that  are  suggested 
to  the  fancy  in  moments  of  inspira- 
2z 


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Contemporary  Literature  : 


[June 


tion.  Indeed,  if  he  were  to  take  to 
lengthening  his  route — if  he  wasted 
time  by  wandering  aside  into  foot- 
paths, he  would  never  arrive  at  his 
journey's  end.  For  he  has  far  to 
go  if  he  is  to  reach  his  destination 
before  time  and  powers  begin  to 
fail.  He  shows  his  self-confidence 
in  the  complacent  assurance  that 
the  public  will  see  him  through  his 
stupendous  task,  and  continue  to 
buy  the  promised  volumes  of  the 
interminable  memoirs  of  the  Rou- 
gon-Macquart  family.  Writers  like 
Mr  Anthony  Trollope  have  kept  us 
in  the  company  of  former  acquaint- 
ances through  several  successive 
novels.  There  is  a  good  deal  to  be 
said  for  the  idea,  and  Mr  Trollope 
has  been  justified  by  its  success. 
You  have  been  gradually  familiarised 
with  the  creations  you  meet  with 
again  and  again ;  and  writers  and 
readers  are  relieved  from  the  neces- 
sity of  following  the  progress  of  each 
study  of  life  from  the  incipient  con- 
ception to  the  finish.  But  M.  Zola 
has  improved,  or  at  least  advanced 
on  that  idea.  It  is  not  the  same 
people  he  presents  to  you  again  and 
again,  but  their  children,  grandchil- 
dren, and  descendants  to  the  third 
and  fourth  generation ;  so  much 
so,  that  to  his  '  Page  d' Amour '  he 
has  prefixed  the  pedigree  of  the 
Rougon  -  Macquarts  :  and  it  was 
high  time  that  he  did  something 
of  the  kind  if  we  were  not  to  get 
muddled  in  his  family  complications. 
Apropos  to  that,  he  announces  that 
twelve  volumes  are  to  appear  in 
addition  to  the  eight  that  have 
already  been  published.  Twenty 
volumes  consecrated  to  those  Rou- 
gon -  Macquarts  !  Should  literary 
industry  go  on  multiplying  at  this 
rate,  we  may  have  some  future  Eng- 
lish author  "borrowing  from  the 
French,"  and  giving  himself  carte- 
Blanche  for  inexhaustible  occupa- 
tion in  a  prospectus  of  '  The  For- 
tunes of  the  Family  of  the  Smiths.' 
The  Smiths  would  serve  for  the 


exhaustive  illustration  of  our  Eng- 
lish life,  as  those  Rougon  -  Mac- 
quarts  for  the  ephemeral  society  of 
the  Empire. 

In  one  respect  M.  Zola's  politi- 
cal portraiture  seems  to  us  to  be 
fairer  than  that  of  Daudet.  Dau- 
det  in  his  'Nabab'  invidiously 
misrepresents.  There  is  no  possi- 
bility of  mistaking  the  intended 
identity  of  some  of  his  leading 
personages,  even  by  those  who 
have  been  merely  in  front  of  the 
scenes.  Yet  he  introduces  scandal- 
ous or  criminal  incidents  in  their 
lives  which  we  have  every  reason 
to  believe  are  purely  apocryphal. 
De  Morny  never  died  under  the 
circumstances  described;  and  the 
relations  and  friends  of  a  famous 
English  doctor  have  still  more 
reason  for  protesting  against  a 
shameful  libel.  Zola  makes  no 
masked  approaches ;  nor  do  we 
suppose  that  he  panders  to  personal 
enmities.  But  he  attacks  the  rep- 
resentatives of  the  system  he  de- 
tests with  a  frankness  that  is  brutal 
in  the  French  sense  of  the  word. 
Son  Excellence,  Eugene  Rougon, 
is  to  be  painted  en  noir  by  a  pub- 
lic prosecutor.  M.  Zola's  readers 
understand  from  the  commencement 
that  he  is  to  be  presented  in  the/ 
most  unfavourable  light.  He  is  one 
of  the  creatures  of  the  order  of  the 
autocratic  revolution,  which  takes 
its  instruments  where  it  finds  them, 
and  only  sees  to  their  being  service- 
able. Failure  is  the  one  fault  that 
cannot  be  forgiven,  as  all  means  of 
succeeding  seem  fair  to  the  parvenu. 
The  peasant-born  adventurer  who 
climbs  the  political  ladder  is  the 
complement  of  the  autocrat  who 
lends  him  a  helping  hand.  His 
Excellency  has  neither  delicacy, 
scruples,  nor  honour.  But  his  con- 
science, like  M.  Zola's,  is  as  robust 
as  his  physique  ;  and  he  carries  the 
craft  of  his  country  breeding  into 
politics,  being  as  much  as  ever 
notre  paysan,  as  Sardou  has  put 


1879.] 

the  peasant  on  the  stage.  When 
he  shows  kindly  feeling,  or  does  a 
liberal  act,  it  is  sure  to  have  been 
prompted  by  personal  vanity ;  he  is 
sensitive  to  the  reputation  he  has 
made  in  his  province ;  he  loves  to 
play  the  role  of  the  parvenu  patron ; 
and  his  passions  are  stirred  into 
seething  ferocity  when  it  is  a  ques- 
tion of  being  balked  or  baffled  by 
a  rival.  Then  there  comes  in  the 
by-play.  As  a  private  individual, 
as  a  notary,  or  a  farmer  in  the 
country,  Rougon  might  have  been 
one  of  the  heroes  of  Flaubert  or 
Belot.  His  nature  is  brutally  sen- 
sual ;  his  capacity  for  enjoyment  is 
as  robust  as  his  constitution  ;  there 
is  nothing  he  would  more  enjoy 
than  playing  the  Don  Juan,  were 
not  his  passions  held  in  check  by 
his  interest  and  ambition.  So  there 
is  nothing  that  does  him  any  great 
injustice  in  the  incident  where  he 
shows  Clorinde  his  favourite  horse. 
We  do  not  suppose  that  it  is  in  any 
degree  founded  upon  fact ;  indeed, 
from  internal  evidence  it  must  be 
imaginary;  and  yetr if  his  Excellency 
were  half  as  black  as  he  is  painted 
elsewhere,  that  touch  of  embellish- 
ment goes  absolutely  for  nothing. 
But  if  we  ask  how  far  such  paint- 
ing is  legitimate,  we  are  brought 
back  again  to  the  point  we  started 
from. 

The  '  Assommoir,'  though  it  is  a 
section  of  the  same  comprehensive 
work,  is  a  book  of  an  altogether 
different  genre.  Reviewing  it  in 
the  ordinary  way  is  altogether  out 
of  the  question ;  and  there  is  much 
in  it  which  eludes  even  criticism 
by  allusion.  This  at  least  one  may 
say  of  it,  that  it  is  a  remarkable 
book  of  its  kind.  The  author  seems 
not  only  to  have  caught  the  secret 
phraseology  of  the  slang  of  the  low- 
est order  of  Parisians,  but  he  has 
lowered  himself  to  their  corruption 
of  thought,  to  say  nothing  of  their 
depraved  perversity  of  conduct.  The 
colouring  of  the  story  is  perfect  in 


VI.  French  Novels. 


703 


its  harmony.  Never  in  any  case 
does  the  novelist  rise  above  the 
vulgar,  even  when  the  better  feel- 
ings of  some  fallen  nature  are 
stirred ;  and  it  is  impossible  to 
imagine  the  depths  to  which  he 
sinks  when  he  is  groping,  as  we 
have  said,  in  the  darkness  of  the 
sewers.  He  interests  us  in  Gervaise, 
that  he  may  steadily  disenchant  us. 
In  place  of  trying  to  idealise  by 
way  of  contrast  and  relief  the 
lingering  traces  of  the  freshness 
she  brought  to  Paris  from  the 
country,  he  demonstrates  her  de- 
scent step  by  step,  with  all  those 
contaminations  to  which  she  is 
exposed.  We  doubt  not  that  the 
talk  of  public  washerwomen  may 
often  be  gross  enough ;  but  how 
can  we  attribute  any  of  the  finer 
feelings  to  a  woman  who  listens  to 
it  indifferently,  if  she  does  not  join 
it?  Gervaise  goes  from  bad  to 
worse  as  she  loses  hope  and  heart ; 
and  idle  habits  grow  upon  her. 
Finally,  she  resigns  herself  to  the 
last  resource  of  a  reckless  woman  in 
desperate  extremity ;  and  Zola  has 
not  the  discretion  to  drop  a  veil 
over  the  last  horrible  incidents  of 
her  miserable  career.  Faithful  to 
his  system  in  completing  the  picture, 
he  does  not  spare  us  a  single  revolt- 
ing detail.  No  doubt  you  cannot 
complain  of  being  surprised,  for  he 
has  been  industriously  working  on 
to  his  terrible  climax.  He  has 
missed  no  opportunity  of  exciting 
disgust,  he  has  neglected  no  occa- 
sion of  turning  everything  to  gross- 
ness  ;  and  you  cannot  say  you  have 
not  had  ample  warning  if  the  end 
seems  somewhat  strong  to  you  after 
all.  We  do  not  know  what  sur- 
prises M.  Zola  may  have  in  store 
for  us  ;  we  cannot  pretend  to  gauge 
the  range  of  his  audacious  inven- 
tion; but  we  do  know  that  he  is 
one  of  the  most  popular  and  suc- 
cessful of  French  novelists,  and  it 
is  not  want  of  sympathetic  encour- 
agement that  will  cripple  him. 


704 


John  Caldigate. — Conclusion. 


[June 


JOHN    CALDIGATE. — CONCLUSION. 


CHAPTER   LX. HOW    MRS    BOLTON    WAS    NEARLY    CONQUERED. 


ONE  morning  about  the  middle 
of  October,  Robert  Bolton  walked 
out  from  Cambridge  to  Puritan 
Grange  with  a  letter  in  his  pocket, — 
a  very  long  and  a  very  serious  letter. 
The  day  was  that  on  which  the 
Secretary  of  State  was  closeted  with 
the  barrister,  and  on  the  evening  of 
which  he  at  length  determined  that 
Caldigate  should  be  allowed  to  go 
free.  There  had,  therefore,  been  no 
pardon  granted, — as  yet.  Bat  in  the 
letter  the  writer  stated  that  such 
pardon  would,  almost  certainly,  be 
awarded. 

It  was  from  William  Bolton,  in 
London,  to  his  brother  the  attorney, 
and  was  written  with  the  view  of 
proving  to  all  the  Boltons  at  Cam- 
bridge, that  it  was  their  duty  to 
acknowledge  Hester  as  the  un- 
doubted wife  of  John  Caldigate  ; 
and  recommended  also  that,  for 
Hester's  sake,  they  should  receive 
him  as  her  husband.  The  letter 
had  been  written  with  very  great 
eare,  and  had  been  powerful  enough 
to  persuade  Robert  Bolton  of  the 
truth  of  the  first  proposition. 

It  was  very  long,  and  as  it  re- 
peated all  the  details  of  the  evi- 
dence for  and  against  the  verdict, 
it  shall  not  be  repeated  here  at  its 
full  length.  Its  intention  was  to 
show  that,  looking  at  probabilities, 
and  judging  from  all  that  was 
known,  there  was  much  more  reason 
to  suppose  that  there  had  been  no 
marriage  at  Ahalala  than  that  there 
had  been  one.  The  writer  acknow- 
ledged that,  while  the  verdict  stood 
confirmed  against  the  man,  Hester's 
family  were  bound  to  regard  it,  and 
to  act  as  though  they  did  not  doubt 
its  justice  ; — but  that  when  that  ver- 
dict should  be  set  aside, — as  far  as 


any  criminal  verdict  can  be  set  aside, 
— by  the  Queen's  pardon,  then  the 
family  would  be  bound  to  suppose 
that  they  who  advised  her  Majesty 
had  exercised  a  sound  discretion. 

"  I  am  sure  you  will  all  agree 
with  me,"  he  said,  "that  no  per- 
sonal feeling  in  regard  to  Caldigate 
should  influence  your  judgment. 
For  myself,  I  like  the  man.  But 
that,  I  think,  has  had  nothing  to 
do  with  my  opinion.  If  it  had 
been  the  case  that,  having  a  wife 
living,  he  had  betrayed  my  sister 
into  all  the  misery  of  a  false 
marriage,  and  had  made  her  the 
mother  of  a  nameless  child,  I  should 
have  felt  myself  bound  to  punish 
him  to  every  extent  within  my 
power.  I  do  not  think  it  un- 
christian to  say  that  in  such  a  case 
I  could  not  have  forgiven  him. 
But  presuming  it  to  be  otherwise, — 
as  we  all  shall  be  bound  to  do  if  he  be 
pardoned, — then,  for  Hester's  sake, 
we  should  receive  the  man  with 
whom  her  lot  in  life  is  so  closely 
connected.  She,  poor  dear,  has 
suffered  enough,  and  should  not  be 
subjected  to  the  further  trouble  of 
our  estrangement. 

"Nor,  if  we  acknowledge  the 
charge  against  him  to  be  untrue, 
is  there  any  reason  for  a  quarrel. 
If  he  has  not  been  bad  to  our 
sister  in  that  matter,  he  has  been 
altogether  good  to  her.  She  has 
for  him  that  devotion  which  is  the 
best  evidence  that  a  marriage  has 
been  well  chosen.  Presuming  him 
to  be  innocent,  we  must  confess,  as 
to  her,  that  she  has  been  simply 
loyal  to  her  husband, — with  such 
loyalty  as  every  married  man  would 
desire.  For  this  she  should  be  re- 
warded rather  than  punished. 


1879.] 


John  Cdldigate. — Conclusion. 


705 


11 1  write  to  you  thinking  that 
in  this  way  I  may  best  reach  my 
father  and  Mrs  Bolton.  I  would 
go  down  and  see  them  did  I  not 
know  that  your  words  would  be 
more  efficacious  with  them  than 
my  own.  And  I  do  it  as  a  duty 
to  my  sister,  which  I  feel  myself 
bound  to  perform.  Pray  forgive 
me  if  I  remind  you  that  in  this 
respect  she  has  a  peculiar  right  to 
a  performance  of  your  duty  in  the 
matter.  You  counselled  and  car- 
ried out  the  marriage, — not  at  all 
unfortunately  if  the  man  be,  as 
I  think,  innocent.  But  you  are 
bound,  at  any  rate,  to  sift  the  evi- 
dence very  closely,  and  not  to  mar 
her  happiness  by  refusing  to  ac- 
knowledge him  if  there  be  reason- 
able ground  for  supposing  the  ver- 
dict to  have  been  incorrect." 

Sift  the  evidence,  indeed  !  Rob- 
ert Bolton  had  done  that  already 
very  closely.  Bagwax  and  the 
stamps  had  not  moved  him,  nor  the 
direct  assurance  of  Dick  Shand. 
But  the  incarceration  by  Govern- 
ment of  Crinkett  and  Euphemia 
Smith  had  shaken  him,  and  the 
fact  that  they  had  endeavoured  to 
escape  the  moment  they  heard  of 
Shand's  arrival.  But  not  the  less 
had  he  hated  Caldigate.  The  feel- 
ing which  had  been  impressed  on 
his  mind  when  the  first  facts  were 
made  known  to  him  remained. 
Caldigate  had  been  engaged  to 
marry  the  woman,  and  had  lived 
with  her,  and  had  addressed  her  as 
his  wife  !  The  man  had  in  a  way 
got  the  better  of  him.  And  then 
the  twenty  thousand  pounds !  And 
then,  again,  Caldigate's  manner  to 
himself!  He  could  not  get  over 
his  personal  aversion,  and  there- 
fore unconsciously  wished  that  his 
brother-in-law  should  be  guilty, — 
wished,  at  any  rate,  that  he  should 
be  kept  in  prison.  Gradually  had 
fallen  upon  him  the  conviction 
that  Caldigate  would  be  pardoned. 


And  then,  of  course,  there  had  come 
much  consideration  as  to  his  sister's 
condition.  He,  too,  was  a  con- 
scientious and  an  affectionate  man. 
He  was  well  aware  of  his  duty  to 
his  sister.  "While  he  was  able  to 
assure  himself  that  Caldigate  was 
not  her  husband,  he  could  satisfy 
himself  by  a  conviction  that  it  was 
his  duty  to  keep  them  apart.  Thus 
he  could  hate  the  man,  advocate 
all  severity  against  the  man,  and 
believe  the  while  that  he  was  doing 
his  duty  to  his  sister  as  an  affec- 
tionate brother.  But  now  there 
was  a  revulsion.  It  was  three 
weeks  since  he  and  his  brother 
had  parted,  not  with  the  kindest 
feelings,  up  in  London,  and  during 
that  time  the  sifting  of  the  evidence 
had  been  going  on  within  his  own 
breast  from  hour  to  hour.  And 
now  this  letter  had  come, — a  letter 
which  he  could  not  put  away  in 
anger,  a  letter  which  he  could  not 
ignore.  To  quarrel  permanently 
with  his  brother  William  was  quite 
out  of  the  question.  He  knew  the 
value  of  such  a  friend  too  well, 
and  had  been  too  often  guided  by 
his  advice.  So  he  sifted  the  evi- 
dence once  again,  and  then  walked 
off  to  Puritan  Grange  with  the 
letter  in  his  pocket. 

In  these  latter  days  old  Mr  Bol- 
ton did  not  go  often  into  Cam- 
bridge. Men  said  that  his  daughter's 
misfortune  had  broken  him  very 
much.  It  was  perhaps  the  violence 
of  his  wife's  religion  rather  than 
the  weight  of  his  daughter's  suf- 
ferings which  cowed  him.  Since 
Hester's  awful  obstinacy  had  be- 
come hopeless  to  Mrs  Bolton,  an 
atmosphere  of  sackcloth  and  ashes 
had  made  itself  more  than  ever 
predominant  at  Puritan  Grange. 
If  any  one  hated  papistry  Mrs 
Bolton  did  so  •  but  from  a  similar 
action  of  religious  fanaticism  she 
had  fallen  into  worse  than  papisti- 
cal self-persecution.  That  men  and 


706 


John  Caldigate. — Conclusion. 


[June 


women  were  all  worms  to  be  trodden 
under  foot,  and  grass  of  the  field 
to  be  thrown  into  the  oven,  was 
borne  in  so  often  on  poor  Mr  Bolton 
that  he  had  not  strength  left  to 
go  to  the  bank.  And  they  were 
nearer  akin  to  worms  and  more 
like  grass  of  the  field  than  ever, 
because  Hester  would  stay  at  Folk- 
ing  instead  of  returning  to  her  own 
home. 

She  was  in  this  frame  of  mind 
when  Eobert  Bolton  was  shown 
into  the  morning  sitting-room.  She 
was  sitting  with  the  Bible  before 
her,  but  with  some  domestic  needle- 
work in  her  lap.  He  was  doing 
nothing, — not  even  having  a  book 
ready  to  his  hand.  Thus  he  would 
sit  the  greater  part  of  the  day,  list- 
ening to  her  when  she  would  read 
to  him,  but  much  preferring  to  be 
left  alone.  His  life  had  been  active 
and  prosperous,  but  the  evening  of 
his  days  was  certainly  not  happy. 

His  son  Eobert  had  been  anxious 
to  discuss  the  matter  with  him  first, 
but  found  himself  unable  to  separ- 
ate them  without  an  amount  of  cere- 
mony which  would  have  filled  her 
with  suspicion.  "I  have  received 
a  letter  this  morning  from  William," 
he  said,  addressing  himself  to  his 
father. 

"  William  Bolton  is,  I  fear,  of  the 
world  worldly,"  said  the  stepmother. 
"  His  words  always  savour  to  me  of 
the  huge  ungodly  city  in  which  he 
dwells." 

But  that  this  was  not  a  time  for 
such  an  exercise  he  would  have  en- 
deavoured to  expose  the  prejudice 
of  the  lady.  As  it  was  he  was  very 
gentle.  "William  is  a  man  who 
understands  his  duty  well,"  he  said. 

"  Many  do  that,  but  few  act  up 
to  their  understanding,"  she  re- 
joined. 

"I  think,  sir,  I  had  better  read 
his  letter  to  you.  It  has  been  writ- 
ten with  that  intention,  and  I  am 
bound  to  let  you  know  the  con- 


tents. Perhaps  Mrs  Bolton  will  let 
me  go  to  the  end  so  that  we  may 
discuss  it  afterwards." 

But  Mrs  Bolton  would  not  let 
him  go  to  the  end.  He  had  not 
probably  expected  such  forbearance. 
At  every  point  as  to  the  evidence 
she  interrupted  him,  striving  to 
show  that  the  arguments  used  were 
of  no  real  weight.  She  was  alto- 
gether irrational,  but  still  she  argued 
her  case  well.  She  withered  Bag- 
wax  and  Dick  with  her  scorn ;  she 
ridiculed  the  quarrels  of  the  male 
and  female  witnesses;  she  reviled  the 
Secretary  of  State,  and  declared  it 
to  be  a  shame  that  the  Queen  should 
have  no  better  advisers.  But  when 
William  Bolton  spoke  of  Hester's 
happiness,  and  of  the  concessions 
which  should  be  made  to  secure  that, 
she  burst  out  into  eloquence.  What 
did  he  know  of  her  happiness  ?  Was 
it  not  manifest  that  he  was  alluding 
to  this  world  without  a  thought  of 
the  next  ?  "  Not  a  reflection  as  to 
her  soul's  welfare  has  once  come 
across  his  mind,"  she  said; — "not 
an  idea  as  to  the  sin  with  which 
her  soul  would  be  laden  were  she  to 
continue  to  live  with  the  man  when 
knowing  that  he  was  not  her  hus- 
band." 

"  She  would  know  nothing  of  the 
kind,"  said  the  attorney. 

"She  ought  to  know  it,"  said 
Mrs  Bolton,  again  begging  the  whole 
question. 

But  he  persevered  as  he  had  re- 
solved to  do  when  he  left  his  house 
upon  this  difficult  mission.  "  I  am 
sure  my  father  will  acknowledge," 
he  said,  "that  however  strong  our 
own  feelings  have  been,  we  should 
bow  to  the  conviction  of  others 
who " 

But  he  was  promulgating  a  doc- 
trine which  her  conscience  required 
her  to  stop  at  once.  "  The  convic- 
tions of  others  shall  never  have 
weight  with  me  when  the  welfare 
of  my  eternal  soul  is  at  stake." 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate. —  Conclusion. 


707 


"  I  am  speaking  of  those  who  have 
had  better  means  of  getting  at  the 
truth  than  have  come  within  our 
reach.  The  Secretary  of  State  can 
have  no  bias  of  his  own  in  the 
matter. " 

"He  is,  I  fear,  a  godless  man, 
living  and  dealing  with  the  godless. 
Did  I  not  hear  the  other  day  that 
the  great  Ministers  of  State  will  not 
even  give  a  moment  to  attend  to  the 
short  meaningless  prayers  which  are 
read  in  the  House  of  Commons  ? " 

"  No  one,"  continued  Eobert  Bol- 
ton,  trying  to  get  away  from  senti- 
ment into  real  argument, — "no  one 
can  have  been  more  intent  on  separ- 
ating them  than  William  was  when 
he  thought  that  the  evidence  was 
against  him.  .  Now  he  thinks  the 
evidence  in  his  favour.  I  know  no 
man  whose  head  is  clearer  than  my 
brother's.  I  am  not  very  fond  of 
John  Caldigate." 

"Nor  am  I,"  said  the  woman,  with 
an  energy  which  betrayed  much  of 
her  true  feeling. 

"  But  if  it  be  the  case  that  they 
are  in  truth  man  and  wife " 

"In  the  sight  of  God  they  are 
not  so,"  she  said. 

"  Then/'  he  continued,  trying  to 
put  aside  her  interruption,  and  to 
go  on  Cwith  the  assertion  he  had 
commenced,  "  it  must  be  our  duty 
to  acknowledge  him  for  her  sake. 
Were  we  not  to  do  so,  we  should 
stand  condemned  in  the  opinion  of 
all  the  world." 

"Who  cares  for  the  opinion  of 
the  world?" 

"And  we  should  destroy  her 
happiness." 

"Her  happiness  here  on  earth! 
What  does  it  matter?  There  is 
no  such  happiness." 

It  was  a  very  hard  fight,  but  per- 
haps not  harder  than  he  had  ex- 
pected. He  had  known  that  she 
would  not  listen  to  reason, — that 
she  would  not  even  attempt  to 
understand  it.  And  he  had  learned 


before  this  how  impregnable  was 
that  will  of  fanaticism  in  which 
she  would  intrench  herself, — how 
improbable  it  was  that  she  would 
capitulate  under  the  force  of  any 
argument.  But  he  thought  it  pos- 
sible that  he  might  move  his  father 
to  assert  himself.  He  was  well 
aware  that,  in  the  midst  of  that 
apparent  lethargy,  his  father's  mind 
was  at  work  with  much  of  its  old 
energy.  He  understood  the  physi- 
cal infirmities  and  religious  vacilla- 
tion which,  combined,  had  brought 
the  old  man  into  his  present  state 
of  apparent  submission.  It  was 
hardly  two  years  since  the  same 
thing  had  been  done  in  regard  to 
Hester's  marriage.  Then  Mr  Bol- 
ton  had  asserted  himself,  and  de- 
clared his  will  in  opposition  to  his 
wife.  There  had  indeed  been  much 
change  in  him  since  that  time,  but 
still  something  of  the  old  fire  re- 
mained. "  I  have  thought  it  to  be 
my  duty,  sir,"  he  said,  "to  make 
known  to  you  William's  opinion 
and  my  own.  I  say  nothing  as  to 
social  intercourse.  That  must  be 
left  to  yourself.  But  if  this  par- 
don be  granted,  you  will,  I  think, 
be  bound  to  acknowledge  John  Cal- 
digate to  be  your  son-in-law." 

"Your   father   agrees  with  me, 
said   Mrs   Bolton,  rising  from  her 
chair,  and  speaking    in   an   angry 
tone. 

"  I  hope  you  both  will  agree  with 
me.  As  soon  as  tidings  of  the  par- 
don reach  you,  you  should,  I  think, 
intimate  to  Hester  that  you  accept 
her  marriage  as  having  been  true  and 
legal.  I  shall  do  so,  even  though 
I  should  never  see  him  in  my  house 
again." 

"You  of  course  will  do  as  you 
please." 

"  And  you,  sir  ?  "  he  said,  appeal- 
ing to  the  old  man. 

"  You  have  no  right  to  dictate  to 
your  father,"  said  the  wife  angrily. 

"He  has  always  encouraged  me' 


708 


John  Caldigate. — Conclusion . 


[June 


to  offer  him  my  advice."  Then  Mr 
Bolton  shuffled  in  his  chair,  as  though 
collecting  himself  for  an  effort, — and 
at  last  sat  up,  with  his  head,  how- 
ever, bent  forward,  and  with  both 
his  arms  resting  on  the  arms  of  his 
chair.  Though  he  looked  to  be  old, 
much  older  than  he  was,  still  there 
was  a  gleam  of  fire  in  his  eye.  He 
was  thin,  almost  emaciated,  and  his 
head  hung  forward  as  though  there 
were  not  strength  left  in  his  spine 
for  him  to  sit  erect,  "  I  hope,  sir, 
you  do  not  think  that  I  have  gone 
beyond  my  duty  in  what  I  have 
said." 

"  She  shall  come  here,"  muttered 
the  old  man. 

"  Certainly,  she  shall,"  said  Mrs 
Bolton,  "  if  she  will.  Do  you  sup- 
pose that  I  do  not  long  to  have  my 
own  child  in  my  arms  1 " 

"  She  shall  come  here,  and  be 
called  by  her  name,"  said  the 
father. 

"  She  shall  be  Hester, — my  own 
Hester,"  said  the  mother,  not  feel- 
ing herself  as  yet  called  upon  to 
contradict  her  husband. 

"  And  John  Caldigate  shall  come," 
he  said. 

"Never!"  exclaimed  Mrs  Bolton. 

"  He  shall  be  asked  to  come.  I 
say  he  shall.  Am  I  to  be  harder 
on  my  own  child  than  are  all  the 
others?  Shall  I  call  her  a  cast- 
away, when  others  say  that  she 
is  an  honest  married  woman?" 

"Who  has  called  her  a  cast- 
away 1 " 

"I  took  the  verdict  of  the  jury, 
though  it  broke  my  heart,"  he  con- 
tinued. "It  broke  my  heart  to  be 
told  that  my  girl  and  her  child  were 
nameless, — but  I  believed  it  because 
the  jury  said  so,  and  because  the 
judge  declared  it.  When  they  tell 
me  the  contrary,  why  shall  I  not 
believe  that  1  I  do  believe  it; — and 
she  shall  come  here,  if  she  will,  and 
he  shall  come."  Then  he  got  up 
and  slowly  moved  out  of  the  room, 


so  that  there  might  be  no  further 
argument  on  the  subject. 

She  had  reseated  herself  with  her 
arms  crossed,  and  there  sat  perfectly 
mute.  Robert  Bolton  stood  up  and 
repeated  all  his  arguments,  appeal- 
ing even  to  her  maternal  love, — but 
she  answered  him  never  a  word.  Sh  e 
had  not  even  yet  succeeded  in  mak- 
ing the  companion  of  her  life  sub- 
missive to  her  !  That  was  the  feel- 
ing which  was  now  uppermost  in 
her  mind.  He  had  said  that 
Caldigate  should  be  asked  to  the 
house,  and  should  be  acknowledged 
throughout  all  Cambridge  as  his 
son-in-law.  And  having  said  it, 
he  would  be  as  good  as  his  word. 
She  was  sure  of  that.  Of  what 
avail  had  been  all  the  labour  of  her 
life  with  such  a  result  1 

"I  hope  you  will  think  that  I 
have  done  no  more  than  my  duty," 
said  Eobert  Bolton,  offering  her  his 
hand.  But  there  she  sat  perfectly 
silent,  with  her  arms  still  folded, 
and  would  take  no  notice  of  him. 
"  Good-bye,"  said  he,  striving  to  put 
something  of  the  softness  of  affec- 
tion into  his  voice.  But  she  would 
not  even  bend  her  head  to  him  \ — 
and  thus  he  left  her. 

She  remained  motionless  for  the 
best  part  of  an  hour.  Then  she  got 
up,  and  according  to  her  daily  cus- 
tom walked  a  certain  number  of 
times  round  the  garden.  Her  mind 
was  so  full  that  she  did  not  as  usual 
observe  every  twig,  almost  every 
leaf,  as  she  passed.  Nor,  now  that 
she  was  alone,  was  that  religious 
bias,  which  had  so  much  to  do  with 
her  daily  life,  very  strong  within 
her.  There  was  no  taint  of  hypo- 
crisy in  her  character ;  but  yet, 
with  the  force  of  human  disappoint- 
ment heavy  upon  her,  her  heart  was 
now  hot  with  human  anger,  and  mu- 
tinous with  human  resolves.  She 
had  proposed  to  herself  to  revenge 
herself  upon  the  men  of  her  hus- 
band's family, — upon  the  men  who 


1879.] 


John  Cdldigate. —  Conclusion. 


709 


had  contrived  that  marriage  for  her 
daughter, — by  devoting  herself  to 
the  care  of  that  daughter  and  her 
nameless  grandson,  and  by  letting 
it  be  known  to  all  that  the  misery 
of  their  condition  would  have  been 
spared  had  her  word  prevailed. 
That  they  should  live  together  a 
stern,  dark,  but  still  sympathetic  life, 
secluded  within  the  high  walls  of 
that  lonely  abode,  and  that  she 
should  thus  be  able  to  prove  how 
right  she  had  been,  how  wicked  and 
calamitous  their  interference  with 


her  child — that  had  been  the  scheme 
of  her  life.  And  now  her  scheme 
was  knocked  on  the  head,  and  Hes- 
ter was  to  become  a  prosperous  or- 
dinary married  woman  amidst  the 
fatness  of  the  land  at  Folking  !  It 
was  all  wormwood  to  her.  But  still, 
as  she  walked,  she  acknowledged 
to  herself,  that  as  that  old  man  had 
said  so, — so  it  must  be.  With  all 
her  labour,  with  all  her  care,  and 
with  all  her  strength,  she  had  not 
succeeded  in  becoming  the  master 
of  that  weak  old  man. 


CHAPTER   LXI. — THE    NEWS    REACHES    CAMBRIDGE. 


The  tidings  of  John  Caldigate's 
pardon  reached  Cambridge  on  the 
Saturday  morning,  and  was  com- 
municated in  various  shapes.  Offi- 
cial letters  from  the  Home  Office 
were  written  to  the  governor  of  the 
jail  and  to  the  sub-sheriff,  to  Mr 
Seely  who  was  still  acting  as  attor- 
ney on  behalf  of  the  prisoner,  and 
to  Caldigate  himself.  The  latter 
was  longer  than  the  others,  and 
contained  a  gracious  expression  of 
her  Majesty's  regret  that  he  as  an 
innocent  person  should  have  been 
subjected  to  imprisonment.  The 
Secretary  of  State  also  was  describ- 
ed as  being  keenly  sensible  of  the 
injustice  which  had  been  perpe- 
trated by  the  unfortunate  and  most 
unusual  circumstances  of  the  case. 
As  the  Home  Office  had  decided 
that  the  man  was  to  be  considered 
innocent,  it  decided  also  on  the  ex- 
pression of  its  opinion  without  a 
shadow  of  remaining  doubt.  And 
the  news  reached  Cambridge  in 
other  ways  by  the  same  post. 
William  Bolton  wrote  both  to  his 
father  and  brother,  and  Mr  Brown 
the  Under-Secretary  sent  a  private 
letter  to  the  old  squire  at  Folking, 
of  which  further  mention  shall  be 
made.  Before  church  time  on  the 
Sunday  morning,  the  fact  that  John 


Caldigate  was  to  be  released,  or 
had  been  released  from  prison,  was 
known  to  all  Cambridge. 

Caldigate  himself  had  borne  his 
imprisonment  on  the  whole  well. 
He  had  complained  but  little  to 
those  around  him,  and  had  at  once 
resolved  to  endure  the  slowly  pass- 
ing two  years  with  silent  fortitude, 
— as  a  brave  man  will  resolve  to 
bear  any  evil  for  which  there  is 
no  remedy.  But  a  more  wretched 
man  than  he  was  after  the  first 
week  of  bitterness  could  hardly  be 
found.  Fortitude  has  no  effect  in 
abating  such  misery  other  than 
what  may  come  from  an  absence  of 
fretful  impatience.  The  man  who 
endures  all  that  the  tormentors  can 
do  to  him  without  a  sign,  simply 
refuses  to  acknowledge  the  agonies 
inflicted.  So  it  was  with  Caldi- 
gate. Though  he  obeyed  with 
placid  readiness  all  the  prison  in- 
structions, and  composed  his  feat- 
ures and  seemed  almost  to  smile 
when  that  which  was  to  be  exacted 
from  him  was  explained,  he  ate  his 
heart  in  dismay  as  he  counted  the 
days,  the  hours,  the  minutes,  and 
then  calculated  the  amount  of 
misery  that  was  in  store  for  him. 
And  there  was  so  much  more  for 
him  to  think  of  than  his  own 


710 


John  Caldigate. — Conclusion. 


[June 


condition.  He  knew,  of  course,  that 
he  was  innocent  of  the  crime  im- 
puted to  him ; — but  would  it  not 
be  the  same  to  his  wife  and  child 
as  though  he  had  been  in  truth 
guilty?  Would  not  his  boy  to 
his  dying  day  be  regarded  as  ille- 
gitimate 1  And  though  he  had  been 
wrongly  condemned,  had  not  all 
this  come  in  truth  from  his  own 
fault  ?  And  when  that  eternity  of 
misery  within  the  prison  walls 
should  have  come  to  an  end, — if 
he  could  live  through  it  so  as  to 
see  the  end  of  it,  —  what  would 
then  be  his  fate,  and  what  his 
duty?  He  had  perfect  trust  in 
his  wife  j  but  who  could  say  what 
two  years  might  do, — two  years 
during  which  she  would  be  sub- 
jected to  the  pressure  of  all  her 
friends?  Where  should  he  find 
her  when  the  months  had  passed  ? 
And  if  she  were  no  longer  at  Folk- 
ing,  would  she  come  back  to  him  ? 
He  was  sure,  nearly  sure,  that  he 
could  not  claim  her  as  his  wife. 
And  were  she  still  minded  to  share 
her  future  lot  with  him,  in  what 
way  should  he  treat  her?  If  that 
horrid  woman  was  his  wife  in  the 
eye  of  the  law,  —  and  he  feared 
though  hardly  knew  that  it  would 
be  so,— then  could  not  that  other 
one,  who  was  to  him  as  a  part  of 
his  own  soul,  be  his  wife  also? 
What,  too,  would  become  of  his 
child,  who,  as  far  as  he  could  see, 
would  not  be  his  child  at  all  in  the 
eye  of  the  law?  Even  while  he 
was  still  a  free  man,  still  uncon- 
demned,  an  effort  had  been  made 
to  rob  him  of  his  wife  and  boy, 
—  an  effort  which  for  a  time  had 
seemed  to  be  successful.  How 
would  Hester  be  able  to  withstand 
such  attempts  when  they  would  be 
justified  by  a  legal  decision  that 
she  was  not  his  wife, — and  could 
not  become  his  wife  while  that 
other  woman  was  alive?  Such 
thoughts  as  these  did  not  tend  to 
relieve  the  weariness  of  hiss  days. 


The  only  person  from  the  out- 
side world  whom  he  was  allowed 
to  see  during  the  three  months  of 
his  incarceration  was  Mr  Seely,  and 
with  him  he  had  two  interviews. 
From  the  time  of  the  verdict  Mr 
Seely  was  still  engaged  in  making 
those  inquiries  as  to  the  evidence  of 
which  we  have  heard  so  much,  and 
though  he  was  altogether  unsym- 
pathetic and  incredulous,  still  he 
did  his  duty.  He  had  told  his 
client  that  these  inquiries  were 
being  made,  and  had,  on  his  second 
visit,  informed  him  of  the  arrival 
of  Dick  Shand.  But  he  had  never 
spoken  with  hope,  and  had  almost 
ridiculed  Bagwax  with  his  postage- 
stamps  and  post -marks.  When 
Caldigate  first  heard  that  Dick  was 
in  England, — for  a  minute  or  two, 
— he  allowed  himself  to  be  full  of 
hope.  But  the  attorney  had  dashed 
his  hopes.  What  was  Shand's 
evidence  against  the  testimony  of 
four  witnesses  who  had  borne  the 
fire  of  cross-examination?  Their 
character  was  not  very  good,  but 
Dick's  was,  if  possible,  worse.  Mr 
Seely  did  not  think  that  Dick's 
word  would  go  for  much.  He 
could  simply  say  that,  as  far  as  he 
knew,  there  had  been  no  marriage. 
And  in  this  Mr  Seely  had  been 
right,  for  Dick's  word  had  not  gone 
for  much.  Then,  when  Crinkett 
and  Mrs  Smith  had  been  arrested, 
no  tidings  had  reached  him  of  that 
further  event.  It  had  been  thought 
best  that  nothing  as  to  that  should 
be  communicated  to  him  till  the 
result  should  be  known. 

Thus  it  had  come  to  pass  that 
when  the  tidings  reached  the  pris- 
on he  was  not  in  a  state  of  expec- 
tation. The  governor  of  the  prison 
knew  what  was  going  on,  and 
had  for  days  been  looking  for  the 
order  of  release.  But  he  had  not 
held  himself  to  be  justified  in 
acquainting  his  prisoner  with  the 
facts.  The  despatches  to  him  and 
to-  Caldigate  from  the  Home  Office 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate. — Conclusion. 


711 


were  marked  immediate,  and  by 
the  courtesy  of  the  postmaster  were 
given  in  at  the  prison  gates  before 
daylight.  Caldigate  was  still  asleep 
when  the  door  of  the  cell  was 
opened  by  the  governor  in  person, 
and  the  communication  was  made 
to  him  as  he  lay  for  the  last  time 
stretched  on  his  prison  pallet. 
"  You  can  get  up  a  free  man,  Mr 
Caldigate,"  said  the  governor,  with 
his  hand  on  his  prisoner's  shoulder. 
"  I  have  here  the  Queen's  pardon. 
It  has  reached  me  this  morning." 
Caldigate  got  up  and  looked  at 
the  man  as  though  he  did  not 
at  first  understand  the  words  that 
had  been  spoken.  "  It  is  true,  Mr 
Caldigate.  Here  is  my  authority, 
— and  this,  no  doubt,  is  a  communi- 
cation of  the  same  nature  to  your- 
self." Then  Caldigate  took  the 
letter,  and,  with  his  mind  still  be- 
wildered, made  himself  acquainted 
with  the  gratifying  fact  that  all 
the  big- wigs  were  very  sorry  for 
the  misfortune  which  had  befallen 
him. 

In  his  state  of  mind,  as  it  then 
was,  he  was  by  no  means  disposed 
to  think  much  of  the  injustice  done 
to  him.  He  had  in  store  for  him, 
for  immediate  use,  a  whole  world 
of  glorious  bliss.  There  was  his 
house,  his  property,  his  farm,  his 
garden,  and  the  free  air.  And 
there  would  be  the  knowledge  of 
all  those  around  him  that  he  had 
not  done  the  treacherous  thing  of 
which  those  wretches  had  accused 
him.  And  added  to  all  this,  and 
above  all  this,  there  would  be  his 
wife  and  his  child !  It  was  odd 
enough  that  a  word  from  the  mouth 
of  an  exalted  Parliamentary  per- 
sonage should  be  able  to  give  him 
back  one  wife  and  release  him  from 
another, — in  opposition  to  the  deci- 
sion of  the  law, — should  avail  to 
restore  to  his  boy  the  name  and 
birthright  of  which  he  had  been 
practically  deprived,  and  should,  by 
a  stroke  of  his  pen,  undo  all  that 


had  been  done  by  the  combined 
efforts  of  jury,  judge,  and  prosecu- 
tor !  But  he  found  that  so  it  was. 
He  was  pardoned,  forsooth,  as 
though  he  were  still  a  guilty  man  ! 
Yet  he  would  have  back  his  wife 
and  child,  and  no  one  could  gain- 
say him. 

"  When  can  I  go  ? "  he  said, 
jumping  from  his  bed. 

"When  you  please; — now,  at 
once.  But  you  had  better  come 
into  the  house  and  breakfast  with 
me  first." 

"If  I  may  I  would  rather  go 
instantly.  Can  you  send  for  a  car- 
riage for  me  ?  "  Then  the  governor 
endeavoured  to  explain  to  him  that 
it  would  be  better  for  his  wife,  and 
more  comfortable  for  everybody 
concerned,  that  she  should  have 
been  enabled  to  expect  him,  if  it 
were  only  for  an  hour  or  two,  be- 
fore his  arrival.  A  communication 
would  doubtless  have  been  made 
from  the  Home  Office  to  some  one 
at  Folking ;  and  as  that  would  be 
sent  out  by  the  foot  -  postman,  it 
would  not  be  received  before  nine 
in  the  morning. 

But  Caldigate  would  not  allow 
himself  to  be  persuaded.  As  for 
eating  before  he  had  seen  the  dear 
ones  at  home,  that  he  declared  to 
be  impossible.  A  vision  of  what 
that  breakfast  might  be  to  him  with 
his  own  wife  at  his  side  came  be- 
fore his  eyes,  and  therefore  a  mes- 
senger was  at  once  sent  for  the 
vehicle. 

But  the  postmaster,  who  from 
the  beginning  had  never  been  a 
believer  in  the  Australian  wife,  and, 
being  a  Liberal,  was  stanch  to  the 
Caldigate  side  of  the  question, 
would  not  allow  the  letter  addres- 
sed to  the  old  squire  to  be  retained 
for  the  slow  operations  of  the  regu- 
lar messenger,  but  sent  it  off  man- 
fully, by  horse  express,  before  the 
dawn  of  day,  so  that  it  reached  the 
old  squire  almost  as  soon  as  the 
other  letters  reached  the  prison. 


712 


John  Caldigate. — Conclusion. 


[June 


The  squire,  who  was  an  early  man, 
was  shaving  himself  when  the  de- 
spatch was  brought  into  his  room 
with  an  intimation  that  the  boy  on 
horseback  wanted  to  know  what  he 
was  to  do  next.  The  boy  of  course 
got  his  breakfast,  and  Mr  Caldigate 
read  his  letter,  which  was  as  fol- 
lows : — 

"HOME  OFFICE,  October  187— 

"  MY  DEAR  SIR, — When  you  did 
me  the  honour  of  calling  upon  me 
here  I  was  able  to  do  no  more 
than  express  my  sympathy  as  to 
the  misfortune  which  had  fallen 
upon  your  family,  and  to  explain 
to  you,  I  fear  not  very  efficiently, 
that  at  that  moment  the  mouths  of 
all  of  us  here  were  stopped  by  official 
prudence  as  to  the  matter  which 
was  naturally  so  near  your  heart. 
I  have  now  the  very  great  pleasure 
of  informing  you  that  the  Secre- 
tary of  State  has  this  morning  re- 
ceived her  Majesty's  command  to 
issue  a  pardon  for  your  son.  The 
official  intimation  will  be  sent  to 
him  and  to  the  county  authorities 
by  this  post,  and  by  the  time  that 
this  reaches  you  he  will  be  a  free 
man. 

"  In  writing  to  you,  I  need  hardly 
explain  that  the  form  of  a  pardon 
from  the  Throne  is  the  only  mode 
allowed  by  the  laws  of  the  country 
for  setting  aside  a  verdict  which  has 
been  found  in  error  upon  false  evi- 
dence. Unfortunately,  perhaps,  we 
have  not  the  means  of  annulling 
a  criminal  conviction  by  a  second 
trial;  and  therefore,  on  such  occa- 
sions as  this, — occasions  which  are 
very  rare, — we  have  but  this  lame 
way  of  redressing  a  great  grievance. 
I  am  happy  to  think  that  in  this 
case  the  future  effect  will  be  as  com- 
plete as  though  the  verdict  had  been 
reversed.  As  to  the  suffering  which 
has  been  already  endured  by  your 
son,  by  his  much-injured  wife,  and 
by  yourself,  I  am  aware  that  no 
redress  can  be  given.  It  is  one  of 


those  cases  in  which  the  honest  and 
good  have  to  endure  a  portion  of 
the  evil  produced  by  the  dishonesty 
of  the  wicked.  I  can  only  add  to 
this  my  best  wishes  for  your  son's 
happiness  on  his  return  to  his  home, 
and  express  a  hope  that  you  will 
understand  that  I  would  most  wil- 
lingly have  made  your  visit  to  the 
Home  Office  more  satisfactory  had 
it  been  within  my  power  to  do  so. — 
Believe  me,  very  faithfully  yours, 
"  SEPTIMUS  BROWN." 

He  had  not  read  this  letter  to  the 
end,  and  had  hardly  washed  the 
soap  from  his  face,  before  he  was  in 
his  daughter-in-law's  room.  She 
was  there  with  her  child,  still  in 
bed,  —  thinking,  thinking,  think- 
ing whether  there  would  ever  come 
an  end  to  her  misery.  "It  has 
come,"  said  the  old  man. 

"What  has  come?"  she  asked, 
jumping  up  with  the  baby  in  her 
arms.  But  she  knew  what  had 
come,  for  he  had  the  letter  open 
in  his  hands. 

"  They  have  pardoned  him.  The 
absurdity  of  the  thing  !  Pardoning 
a  man  whom  they  know  to  be  in- 
nocent, and  to  have  been  injured  ! " 

But  the  "  absurdity  of  the  thing," 
as  the  old  squire  very  naturally 
called  it,  was  nothing  to  her  now. 
He  was  to  come  back  to  her.  She 
would  be  in  his  arms  that  day.  On 
that  very  day  she  would  once  again 
hold  up  her  boy  to  be  kissed  by  his 
father. 

"  Where  is  he  1  When  will  he 
come?  Of  course  I  will  go  to  him  ! 
You  will  make  them  have  the  wag- 
gonnette  at  once ;  will  you  not  ?  I 
will  be  dressed  in  five  minutes  if 
you  will  go.  Of  course  I  will  go 
to  fetch  him." 

But  this  the  squire  would  not 
allow.  The  carriage  should  be  sent, 
of  course,  and  if  it  met  his  son  on 
the  road,  as  was  probable,  there 
would  be  no  harm  done.  But  it 
would  not  be  well  that  the  greeting 


1879.] 


John  Oaldigate. — Conclusion. 


713 


between  the  husband  and  the  wife 
should  be  in  public.  So  he  went 
out  to  order  the  carriage  and  to 
prepare  himself  to  accompany  it, 
leaving  her  to  think  of  her  happi- 
ness and  to  make  herself  ready  for 
the  meeting.  But  when  left  to 
herself  she  could  hardly  compose 
herself  so  as  to  brush  her  hair  and 
give  herself  those  little  graces  which 
should  be  pleasant  to  his  eye.  "Papa 
is  coming/'  she  said  to  her  boy  over 
and  over  again.  "  Papa  is  coming 
back.  Papa  will  be  here ;  your 


own,  own,  own 


Then  she 


threw  aside  the  black  gown,  which 
she  had  worn  since  he  left  her,  and 
chose  for  her  wear  one  which  he 
himself  had  taken  pride  in  buying 
for  her, — the  first  article  of  her  dress 
in  the  choice  of  which  he  had  been 
consulted  as  her  husband;  and  with 
quick  unsteady  hand  she  pulled  out 
some  gay  ribbon  for  her  baby.  Yes ; 
— she  and  her  boy  would  once  again 
be  bright  for  his  sake ; — for  his  sake 
there  should  again  be  gay  ribbons 
and  soft  silks.  "  Papa  is  coming, 
my  own  one;  your  own,  own 
papa  ! "  and  then  she  smothered 
the  child  with  kisses. 

While  they  were  sitting  at  break- 
fast at  Puritan  Grange,  the  same 
news  reached  Mr  and  Mrs  Bolton. 
The  letter  to  the  old  man  from  his 
son  in  town  was  very  short,  merely 
stating  that  the  authorities  at  the 
Home  Office  had  at  last  decided 
that  Caldigate  should  be  released 
from  prison.  The  writer  knew 
that  his  father  would  be  prepared 
for  this  news  by  his  brother ;  and 
that  all  that  could  be  said  in  the 
way  of  argument  had  been  said 
already.  The  letters  which  came 
to  Puritan  Grange  were  few  in 
number,  and  were  generally  ad- 
dressed to  the  lady.  The  banker's 
letters  were  all  received  at  the 
house  of  business  in  the  town. 
"What  is  it]"  asked  the  wife,  as 
soon  as  she  saw  the  long  official 
envelope.  But  he  read  it  to  the 


end  very  slowly  before  he  vouch- 
safed her  any  reply.      "  It  has  to 
do    with    that    wretched    man    in 
prison,"  she  said.     "  What  is  it  ?  " 
"  He  is  in  prison  no  longer." 
"  They  have  let  him  escape  ! " 
"  The  Queen  has  pardoned  him 
because  he  was  not  guilty." 

"  The  Queen  !  As  though  she 
could  know  whether  he  be  guilty 
or  innocent.  What  can  the  Queen 
know  of  the  manner  of  his  life  in 
foreign  parts, — before  he  had  taken 
my  girl  away  from  me  1 " 

"He  never  married  the  woman. 
Let  there  be  no  more  said  about  it. 
He  never  married  her." 

But  Mrs  Bolton,  though  she  was 
not  victorious,  was  not  to  be 
silenced  by  a  single  word.  No 
more  about  it,  indeed !  There 
must  be  very  much  more  about  it. 
"  If  she  was  not  his  wife,  she  was 
worse,"  she  said. 

"  He  has  repented  of  that." 
"  Repented  ! "    she     said,     with 
scorn.     What  very  righteous  per- 
son ever  believed  in  the  repentance 
of  an  enemy  1 

"Why  should  he  not  repent?" 
"  He  has  had  leisure  in  jail." 
"  Let  us  hope  that  he  has  used 
it.     At  any  rate  he  is  her  husband. 
There  are  not  many  days   left   to 
me  here.     Let  me  at  least  see  my 
daughter  during  the  few  that  re- 
main to  me." 

"  Do  I  not  want  to  see  my  own 
child  r* 

"  I  will  see  her  and  her  boy ; — 
and  I  will  have  them  called  by  the 
name  which  is  theirs.  And  he 
shall  come, — if  he  will.  Who  are 
you,  or  who  am  I,  that  we  shall 
throw  in  his  teeth  the  sins  of  his 
youth  ? "  Then  she  became  sullen 
and  there  was  not  a  word  more  said 
between  them  that  morning.  But 
after  breakfast  the  old  gardener  was 
sent  into  town  for  a  fly,  and  Mr 
Bolton  was  taken  to  the  bank. 

"  And  what  are  we  to  do  now  ]  " 
asked  Mrs  Robert  Bolton  of  her 


714 


John  Caldigate. — Conclusion. 


[June 


husband,  when  the  tidings  were 
made  known  to  her  also  at  her 
breakfast- table. 

"  We  must  take  it  as  a  fact  that 
she  is  his  wife." 

"  Of  course,  my  dear.  If  the 
Secretary  of  State  were  to  say  that 
I  was  his  wife,  I  suppose  I  should 
have  to  take  it  as  a  fact." 

"  If  he  said  that  you  were  a  goose 
it  might  be  nearer  the  mark." 

"  Keally !  But  a  goose  must 
know  what  she  is  to  do." 

"  You  must  write  her  a  letter  and 
call  her  Mrs  Caldigate.  That  will 
be  an  acknowledgment." 

"And  what  shall  I  say  to  her?" 

"Ask  her  to  come  here,  if  you 
will." 

"And  him?" 


"And  him.  too.  The  fact  is  we 
have  got  to  swallow  it  all.  I  was 
sure  that  he  had  married  that 
woman,  and  then  of  course  I  wanted 
to  get  Hester  away  from  him.  Now 
I  believe  that  he  never  married  her, 
and  therefore  we  must  make  the 
best  of  him  as  Hester's  husband." 
"  You  used  to  like  him." 
"  Yes; — and  perhaps  I  shall  again. 
But  why  on  earth  did  he  pay  twenty 
thousand  pounds  to  those  mis- 
creants? That  is  what  I  could  not 
get  over.  It  was  that  which  made 
me  sure  he  was  guilty.  It  is  that 
which  still  puzzles  me  so  that  I  can 
hardly  make  up  my  mind  to  be  quite 
sure  that  he  is  innocent.  But  still 
we  have  to  be  sure.  Perhaps  the 
miracle  will  be  explained  some  day." 


CHAPTER   LXII. — JOHN   CALDIGATE*S   RETURN. 


The  carriage  started  with  the  old 
man  in  it  as  soon  as  the  horses 
could  be  harnessed ;  but  on  the 
Folking  causeway  it  met  the  fly 
which  was  bringing  John  Caldigate 
to  his  home, — so  that  the  father 
and  son  greeted  each  other  on  the 
street  amidst  the  eyes  of  the  vil- 
lagers. To  them  it  did  not  much 
matter,  but  the  squire  had  certainly 
been  right  in  saving  Hester  from  so 
public  a  demonstration  of  her  feel- 
ings. The  two  men  said  hardly  a 
word  when  they  met,  but  stood 
there  for  a  moment  grasping  each 
other's  hands.  Then  the  driver  of 
the  fly  was  paid,  and  the  carriage 
was  turned  back  to  the  house.  "  Is 
she  well  ? "  asked  Caldigate. 

"  She  will  be  well  now." 

"Has  she  been  ill?" 

"  She  has  not  been  very  happy, 
John,  while  you  have  been  away 
from  her." 

"And  the  boy?" 

"He  is  all  right.  He  has  been 
spared  the  heart-breaking  knowledge 
of  the  injury  done  to  him.  It  has 
been  very  bad  with  you,  I  suppose." 


"  I  do  not  like  being  in  jail,  sir. 
It  was  the  length  of  the  time  before 
me  that  seemed  to  crush  me.  I 
could  not  bring  myself  to  believe 
that  I  should  live  to  see  the  end 
of  it." 

"The  end  has  come  my  boy," 
said  his  father,  again  taking  him  by 
the  hand,  "  but  the  cruelty  of  the 
thing  remains.  Had  there  been 
another  trial  as  soon  as  the  other 
evidence  was  obtained,  the  struggle 
would  have  kept  your  heart  up.  It- 
is  damnable  that  a  man  in  an  office 
up  in  London  should  have  to  decide 
on  such  a  matter,  and  should  be 
able  to  take  his  own  time  about 
it ! "  The  grievance  was  still  at  the 
old  squire's  heart  in  spite  of  the 
amenity  of  Mr  Brown's  letter ;  but 
John  Caldigate,  who  was  approach- 
ing his  house  and  his  wife,  and 
to  whom,  after  his  imprisonment, 
even  the  flat  fields  and  dikes  were 
beautiful,  did  not  at  the  moment 
much  regard  the  anomaly  of  the 
machinery  by  which  he  had  been 
liberated. 

Hester    in    the    meantime    had 


1879.] 


Joh n  Caldigate. — Conclusion. 


715 


donned  her  silk  dress,  and  had 
tied  the  gay  bow  round  her  baby's 
frock,  who  was  quite  old  enough  to 
be  astonished  and  charmed  by  the 
unusual  finery  in  which  he  was 
apparelled.  Then  she  sat  herself 
at  the  window  of  a  bedroom  which 
looked  out  on  to  the  gravel  sweep, 
with  her  boy  on  her  lap,  and  there 
she  was  determined  to  wait  till  the 
carriage  should  come. 

But  she  had  hardly  seated  herself 
before  she  heard  the  wheels.  "  He 
is  here.  He  is  coming.  There  he 
is  !  "  she  said  to  the  child.  "  Look  ! 
look  !  It  is  papa."  But  she  stood 
back  from  the  window  that  she 
might  not  be  seen.  She  had 
thought  it  out  with  many  fluctua- 
tions as  to  the  very  spot  in  which 
she  would  meet  him.  At  one  mo- 
ment she  had  intended  to  go  down 
to  the  gate,  then  to  the  hall-door, 
and  again  she  had  determined  that 
she  would  wait  for  him  in  the  room 
in  which  his  breakfast  was  prepared 
for  him.  But  she  had  ordered  it 
otherwise  at  last.  When  she  saw 
the  carriage  approaching,  she  re- 
treated back  from  the  window,  so 
that  he  should  not  even  catch  a 
glimpse  of  her;  but  she  had  seen 
him  as  he  sat,  still  holding  his 
father's  hand.  Then  she  ran  back 
to  her  own  chamber  and  gave  her 
orders  as  she  passed  across  the 
passage.  "Go  down,  nurse,  and 
tell  him  that  I  am  here.  Run 
quick,  nurse;  tell  him  to  come  at 
once." 

But  he  needed  no  telling.  Whe- 
ther he  had  divined  her  purpose, 
or  whether  it  was  natural  to  him 
to  fly  like  a  bird  to  his  nest,  he 
rushed  up -stairs  and  was  in  the 
room  almost  before  his  father  had 
left  the  carriage.  She  had  the 
child  in  her  hands  when  she  heard 
him  turn  the  lock  of  the  door;  but 
before  he  entered  the  boy  had  been 
laid  in  his  cradle, — and  then  she 
was  in  his  arms. 

For  the   first   few   minutes   she 


was  quite  collected,  not  saying 
much,  but  answering  his  questions 
by  a  word  or  two.  Oh  yes,  she 
was  well ;  and  baby  was  well, — 
quite  well.  He,  too,  looked  well, 
she  said,  though  there  was  some- 
thing of  sadness  in  his  face.  "  But 
I  will  kiss  that  away, — so  soon,  so 
soon."  She  had  always  expected 
that  he  would  come  back  long,  long 
before  the  time  that  had  been 
named.  She  had  been  sure  of  it, 
she  declared,  because  that  it  was 
impossible  that  so  great  injustice 
should  be  done.  But  the  last  fort- 
night had  been  very  long.  When 
those  wicked  people  had  been  put 
in  prison  she  had  thought  that  then 
surely  he  would  come.  But  now 
he  was  there,  with  his  arms  round 
her,  safe  in  his  own  home,  and 
everything  was  well.  Then  she 
lifted  the  baby  up  to  be  kissed 
again  and  again,  and  began  to 
dance  and  spring  in  her  joy.  Then, 
suddenly,  she  almost  threw  the 
child  into  his  arms,  and  seating 
herself,  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands  and  began  to  sob  with  vio- 
lence. When  he  asked  her,  with 
much  embracing,  to  compose  her- 
self, sitting  close  to  her,  kissing  her 
again  and  again,  she  shook  her  head 
as  it  lay  upon  his  shoulder,  and 
then  burst  out  into  a  fit  of  laughter. 
"What  does  it  matter?"  she  said 
after  a  while,  as  he  knelt  at  her 
knees ;  —  "  what  does  it  matter  ? 
My  boy's  father  has  come  back  to 
him.  My  boy  has  got  his  own 
name,  and  he  is  an  honest  true 
Caldigate;  and  no  one  again  will 
tell  me  that  another  woman  owns 
my  husband,  -my  own  husband,  the 
father  of  my  boy.  It  almost  killed 
me,  John,  when  they  said  that  you 
were  not  mine.  And  yet  I  knew 
that  they  said  it  falsely.  I  never 
doubted  for  a  moment.  I  knew 
that  you  were  my  own,  and  that 
my  boy  had.  a  right  to  his  father's 
name.  But  it  was  hard  to  hear 
them  say  so,  John.  It  was  hard  to 


716 


John  Caldigate. — Conclusio n . 


[June 


bear  when  my  mother  swore  that  it 
was  so  ! ", 

At  last  they  went  down  and 
found  the  old  squire  waiting  for  his 
breakfast.  "  I  should  think,"  said 
he,  "  that  you  would  be  glad  to  see 
a  loaf  of  bread  on  a  clean  board 
again,  and  to  know  that  you  may 
•cut  it  as  you  please.  Did  they  give 
you  enough  where  you  were  1 " 

"I  didn't  think  much  about  it, 
sir." 

"But  you  must  think  about  it 
now,"  said  Hester.  "  To  please  me 
you  must  like  everything;  your 
tea,  and  your  fresh  eggs,  and  the 
butter  and  the  cream.  You  must 
let  yourself  be  spoilt  for  a  time  just 
to  compensate  me  for  your  absence." 

"  You  have  made  yourself  smart 
to  receive  him  at  any  rate,"  said  the 
squire,  who  had  become  thoroughly 
used  to  the  black  gown  which  she 
had  worn  morning,  noon,  and  even- 
ing while  her  husband  was  away. 

"  Why  should  I  not  be  smart," 
she  said,  "  when  my  man  has  come 
to  me  ?  For  whose  eyes  shall  I  put 
on  the  raiment  that  is  his  own  but 
for  his  1  I  was  much  lower  than  a 
widow  in  the  eyes  of  all  men  ;  but 
now  I  have  got  my  husband  back 
again.  And  my  boy  shall  wear  the 
very  best  that  he  has,  so  that  his 
father  may  see  him  smile  at  his 
own  gaudiness.  Yes,  father,  I  may 
be  smart  now.  There  were  mo- 
ments in  which  I  thought  that  I 
might  never  wear  more  the  pretty 
things  which  he  had  given  me." 
Then  she  rose  from  her  seat  again, 
and  hung  on  his  neck,  and  wept 
and  sobbed  till  he  feared  that  her 
heart-strings  would  break  with  joy. 

So  the  morning  passed  away 
among  them  till  about  eleven  o'clock, 
when  the  servant  brought  in  word 
that  Mr  Holt  and  one  or  two  other 
of  the  tenants  wanted  to  see  the 
young  master.  The  squire  had 
been  sitting  alone  in  the  back  room 
so  that  the  husband  and  wife  might 


be  left  together ;  but  he  had  heard 
voices  with  which  he  was  familiar, 
and  he  now  came  through  to  ask 
Hester  whether  the  visitors  should 
be  sent  away  for  the  present.  But 
Hester  would  not  have  turned  a 
dog  from  the  door  which  had  been 
true  to  her  husband  through  his 
troubles.  "Let  them  come,"  she 
said.  "  They  have  been  so  good 
to  me,  John,  through  it  all !  They 
have  always  known  that  baby  was 
a  true  Caldigate." 

Holt  and  the  other  farmers  were 
shown  into  the  room,  and  Holt  as 
a  matter  of  course  became  the 
spokesman.  When  Caldigate  had 
shaken  hands  with  them  all  round, 
each  muttering  his  word  of  wel- 
come, then  Holt  began :  "  We 
wish  you  to  know,  squoire,  that  we, 
none  of  us,  ain't  been  comfortable 
in  our  minds  here  at  Folking  since 
that  crawling  villain  Crinkett  came 
and  showed  himself  at  our  young 
squire's  christening." 

"That  we  ain't,"  said  Timothy 
Purvidge,  another  Netherden  farmer. 

"  I  haven't  had  much  comfort 
since  that  day  myself,  Mr  Pur- 
vidge," said  Caldigate, — "not  till 
this  morning." 

"  Nor  yet  haven't  none  of  us," 
continued  Mr  Holt,  very  impres- 
sively. "We  knowed  as  you  had 
done  all  right.  We  was  as  sure 
as  the  church  tower.  Lord  love 
you,  sir,  when  it  was  between  our 
young  missus, — who'll  excuse  me 
for  noticing  these  bright  colours, 
and  for  saying  how  glad  I  am  to 
see  her  come  out  once  again  as  our 
squire's  wife  should  come  out, — 
between  her  and  that  bedangled 
woman  as  I  seed  in  the  court,  it 
didn't  take  no  one  long  to  know 
what  was  the  truth  ! "  The  elo- 
quence here  was  no  doubt  better 
than  the  argument,  as  Caldigate 
must  have  felt  when  he  remembered 
how  fond  he  had  once  been  of  that 
"  bedangled  woman."  Hester,  who, 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate. — Conclusion. 


717 


though  she  knew  the  whole  story, 
did  not  at  this  moment  join  two 
and  two  together,  thought  that  Mr 
Holt  put  the  case  uncommonly 
well.  "  No  !  we  knew,"  he  con- 
tinued, with  a  wave  of  his  hand. 
"But  the  jury  weren't  Netherden 
men, — nor  yet  Utterden,  Mr  Half- 
acre,"  he  added,  turning  to  a 
tenant  from  the  other  parish. 
"  And  they  couldn't  teU  how  it 
all  was  as  we  could.  And  there 
was  that  judge,  who  would  have 
believed  any  miscreant  as  could  be 
got  anywhere,  to  swear  away  a 
man's  liberty,  —  or  his  wife  and 
family,  which  is  a'most  worse. 
We  saw  how  it  was  to  be  when 
he  first  looked  out  of  his  eye  at  the 
two  post  -  office  gents,  and  others 
who  spoke  up  for  the  young  squoire. 
It  was  to  be  guilty.  "We  know'd 
it.  But  it  didn't  any  way  change 
our  minds.  As  to  Crinkett  and 
Smith  and  them  others,  we  saw 
that  they  were  ruffians.  We  never 
doubted  that.  But  we  saw  as 
there  was  a  bad  time  coming  to 
you,  Mr  John.  Then  we  was  un- 
happy ;  unhappy  along  of  you,  Mr 
John, — but  a'most  worse  as  to  this 
dear  lady  and  the  boy." 

"  My  missus  cried  that  you 
wouldn't  have  believed,"  said  Mr 
Purvidge.  "  <  If  that's  true/  said 
my  missus,  '  she  ain't  nobody  ;  and 
it's  my  belief  she's  as  true  a  wife 
as  ever  stretched  herself  aside 
her  husband.' "  Then  Hester  be- 
thought herself  what  present,  of 
all  presents,  would  be  most  ac- 
ceptable to  Mrs  Purvidge,  who 
was  a  red-faced,  red-armed,  hard- 
working old  woman,  peculiarly 
famous  for  making  cheeses. 

"  We  all  knew  it,"  said  Mr  Holt, 
slapping  his  thigh  with  great 
energy.  "And  now,  in  spite  of 
'em  all,  judge,  jury,  and  lying 
witnesses,  —  the  king  has  got  his 
own  again."  At  this  piece  of 
triumphant  rhetoric  there  was  a 

VOL.    CXXV. — NO.   DCCLXIV. 


cheer  from  all  the  farmers.  "  And 
so  we  have  come  to  wish  you  all 
joy,  and  particularly  you,  ma'am, 
with  your  boy.  Things  have  been 
said  of  you,  ma'am,  hard  to  bear, 
no  doubt.  But  not  a  word  of  the 
kind  at  Folking,  nor  yet  in  Nether- 
den; — nor  yet  at  Utterden,  Mr 
Halfacre.  But  all  this  is  over, 
and  we  do  hope  that  you,  ma'am, 
and  the  young  squoire  11  live  long, 
and  the  young  un  of  all  long 
after  we  are  gone  to  our  rest, — and 
that  you'll  be  as  fond  of  Folking  as 
Folking  is  of  you.  I  can't  say  no 
fairer."  Then  the  tray  was  brought 
in  with  wine,  and  everybody  drank 
everybody's  health,  and  there  was 
another  shaking  of  hands  all  round. 
Mr  Purvidge,  it  was  observed,  drank 
the  health  of  every  separate  member 
of  the  family  in  a  separate  bumper, 
pressing  the  edge  of  the  glass 
securely  to  his  lips,  and  then  send- 
ing the  whole  contents  down  his 
throat  at  one  throw  with  a  chuck 
from  his  little  finger. 

The  two  Caldigates  went  out  to 
see  their  friends  as  far  as  the  gate, 
and  while  they  were  still  within 
the  grounds  there  came  a  merry 
peal  from  the  bells  of  Netherden 
church-tower.  "  I  knew  they'd  be 
at  it,"  said  Mr  Holt. 

"  And  quite  right  too,"  said  Mr 
Halfacre.  "  We'd  rung  over  at 
Utterden,  only  we've  got  nothing 
but  that  little  tinkling  thing  as  is 
more  fitter  to  swing  round  a  bul- 
lock's neck  than  on  a  church-top. " 

"  I  told  'em  as  they  should  have 
beer,"  said  Mr  Brownby,  whose 
house  stood  on  Folking  Causeway, 
"  and  they  shall  have  beer  !  "  Mr 
Brownby  was  a  silent  man,  and 
added  nothing  to  this  one  pertinent 
remark. 

"As  to  beer,"  said  Mr  Halfacre, 
"  we'd  'ave  found  the  beer  at  Utter- 
den. There  wouldn't  have  been 
no  grudging  the  beer,  Mr  Brownby, 
no  more  than  there  is  in  the  lower 
3  A 


718 


John  Caldigate. — Conclusion. 


[June 


parish ;  but  you  can't  get  up  a  peal 
merely  on  beer.  You've  got  to 
have  bells." 

While  they  were  still  standing 
at  the  gate,  Mr  Bromley  the  clergy- 
man joined  them,  and  walked  back 
towards  the  house  with  the  two 
Caldigates.  He,  too,  had  come  to 
offer  his  congratulations,  and  to 
assure  the  released  prisoner  that 
he  never  believed  the  imputed 
guilt.  But  he  would  not  go  into 
the  house,  surmising  that  on  such 
a  day  the  happy  wife  would  not 
care  to  see  many  visitors.  But 
Caldigate  asked  him  to  take  a  turn 
about  the  grounds,  being  anxious  to 
learn  something  from  the  outside 
world.  "  "What  do  they  say  to  it 
all  at  Babington  1 " 

"  I  think  they're  a  little  divided." 

"  My  aunt  has  been  against  me, 
of  course." 

"At  first  she  was,  I  fancy.  It 
was  natural  that  people  should  be- 
lieve till  Shand  came  back." 

"Poor,  dear  old  Dick.  I  must 
look  after  Dick.  What  about 
Julia  ?" 

"  Spretae  injuria  formae  ! "  said  Mr 
Bromley.  "  What  were  you  to  ex- 
pect r 

"  I'll  forgive  her.  And  Mr  Smir- 
kie'? I  don't  think  Smirkie  ever 
looked  on  me  with  favourable  eyes." 

Then  the  clergyman  was  forced 
to  own  that  Smirkie  too  had  been 
among  those  who  had  believed  the 
woman's  story.  "  But  you  have  to 
remember  how  natural  it  is  that  a 
man  should  think  a  verdict  to  be 
right.  In  our  country  a  wrong  ver- 
dict is  an  uncommon  occurrence.  It 
requires  close  personal  acquaintance 
and  much  personal  confidence  to 
justify  a  man  in  supposing  that 
twelve  jurymen  should  come  to  an 
erroneous  decision.  I  thought  that 
they  were  wrong.  But  still  I  knew 
that  I  could  hardly  defend  my  opin- 
ion before  the  outside  world." 

"  It  is  all  true,"  said  Caldigate ; 
"  and  I  have  made  up  my  mind  that 


I  will  be  angry  with  no  one  who 
will  begin  to  believe  me  innocent 
from  this  day." 

His  mind,  however,  was  consider- 
ably exercised  in  regard  to  the  Bol- 
tons,  as  to  whom  he  feared  that  they 
would  not  even  yet  allow  themselves 
to  be  convinced.  For  his  wife's  hap- 
piness their  conversion  was  of  in- 
finitely more  importance  than  that 
of  all  the  outside  world  beyond. 
When  the  gloom  of  the  evening  had 
come,  she  too  came  out  and  walked 
with  him  about  the  garden  and 
grounds  with  the  professed  object 
of  showing  him  whatever  little 
changes  might  have  been  made. 
But  the  conversation  soon  fell  back 
upon  the  last  great  incident  of  their 
joint  lives. 

"But  your  mother  cannot  refuse 
to  believe  what  everybody  now  de- 
clares to  be  true,"  he  argued. 

"  Mamma  is  so  strong  in  her  feel- 
ings." 

"  She  must  know  they  would  not 
have  let  me  out  of  prison  in  opposi- 
tion to  the  verdict  until  they  were 
very  sure  of  what  they  were  doing." 

Then  she  told  him  all  that  had 
occurred  between  her  and  her  moth- 
er since  the  trial, — how  her  mother 
had  come  out  to  Folking  and  had 
implored  her  to  return  to  Chester- 
ton, and  had  then  taken  herself 
away  in  dudgeon  because  she  had 
not  prevailed.  "But  nothing, — 
nothing  would  have  made  me  leave 
the  place,"  she  said,  "after  what 
they  tried  to  do  when  I  was  there 
before.  Except  to  go  to  church, 
I  have  not  onoe  been  outside  the 
gate." 

"  Your  brothers  will  come  round, 
I  suppose.  Robert  has  been  very 
angry  with  me,  I  know.  But  he  is 
a  man  of  the  world  and  a  man  of 
sense." 

"  We  must  take  it  as  it  will  come, 

John.     Of  course  it  would  be  very 

much  to  me  to  have  my  father  and 

mother  restored  to  me.     It  would 

•  be   very  much  to  know  that  my 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate. — Conclusion. 


719 


brothers  were  again  my  friends. 
But  when  I  remember  how  I  pray- 
ed yesterday  but  for  one  thing,  and 
that  now,  to-day,  that  one  thing  has 
come  to  me ; — how  I  have  got  that 
which,  when  I  waked  this  morning, 
seemed  to  me  to  be  all  the  world  to 
me,  the  want  of  which  made  my 
heart  so  sick  that  even  my  baby 
could  not  make  me  glad,  I  feel 
that  nothing  ought  now  to  make  me 
unhappy.  I  have  got  you,  John, 
and  everything  else  is  nothing." 
As  he  stooped  in  the  dark  to  kiss 
her  again  among  the  rose-bushes, 
he  felt  that  it  was  almost  worth 
his  while  to  have  been  in  prison. 

After  dinner  there  came  a  mes- 
sage to  them  across  the  ferry  from 
Mr  Holt.  Would  they  be  so  good 
as  to  walk  down  to  the  edge  of  the 
great  dike,  opposite  to  Twopenny 
Farm,  at  nine  o'clock.  As  a  part 
of  the  message,  Mr  Holt  sent  word 
that  at  that  hour  the  moon  would 
be  rising.  Of  course  they  went 


down  to  the  dike, — Mr  Caldigate, 
John  Caldigate,  and  Hester; — and 
there,  outside  Mr  Holt's  farmyard, 
just  far  enough  to  avoid  danger  to 
the  hay-ricks  and  corn-stacks,  there 
was  blazing  an  enormous  bonfire. 
All  the  rotten  timber  about  the 
place  and  two  or  three  tar -barrels 
had  been  got  together,  and  there 
were  collected  all  the  inhabitants  of 
the  two  parishes.  The  figures  of 
the  boys  and  girls  and  of  the  slow 
rustics  with  their  wives  could  be 
seen  moving  about  indistinctly 
across  the  water  by  the  fluttering 
flame  of  the  bonfire.  And  their 
own  figures,  too,  were  observed  in 
the  moonlight,  and  John  Caldigate 
was  welcomed  back  to  his  home  by 
a  loud  cheer  from  all  his  neighbours. 
"  I- did  not  see  much  of  it  myself," 
Mr  Holt  said  afterwards,  "  because 
me  and  my  missus  was  busy  among 
the  stacks  all  the  time,  looking  after 
the  sparks.  The  bonfire  might  a' 
been  too  big,  you  know." 


CHAPTER   LXIII. — HOW   MRS   BOLTON   WAS   QUITE   CONQUERED. 


Nearly  a  week  passed  over  their 
heads  at  Puritan  Grange  before  any- 
thing further  was  either  done  or 
said,  or  even  written,  as  to  the 
return  of  John  Caldigate  to  his  own 
home  and  to  his  own  wife.  In 
the  meantime,  both  Mrs  Eobert 
and  Mrs  Daniel  had  gone  out  to 
Folking  and  made  visits  of  cere- 
mony,— visits  which  were  intended 
to  signify  their  acknowledgment 
that  Mrs  John  Caldigate  was  Mrs 
John  Caldigate.  With  Mrs  Daniel 
the  matter  was  quite  ceremonious 
and  short.  Mrs  Robert  suggested 
something  as  to  a  visit  into  Cam- 
bridge, saying  that  her  husband 
would  be  delighted  if  Hester  and 
Mr  Caldigate  would  come  and  dine 
and  sleep.  Hester  immediately  felt 
that  something  had  been  gained, 
but  she  declined  the  proposed  visit 
for  the  present.  "We  have  both 


of  us,"  she  said,  "gone  through  so 
much,  that  we  are  not  quite  fit  to 
go  out  anywhere  yet."  Mrs  Robert 
had  hardly  expected  them  to  come, 
but  she  had  observed  her  husband's 
behests.  So  far  there  had  been  a 
family  reconciliation  during  the  first 
few  days  after  the  prisoner's  release ; 
but  no  sign  came  from  Mrs  Bolton ; 
and  Mr  Bolton,  though  he  had 
given  his  orders,  was  not  at  first 
urgent  in  requiring  obedience  to 
them.  Then  she  received  a  letter 
from  Hester. 

"  DEAREST,  DEAREST  MAMMA, — Of 
course  you  know  that  my  darling 
husband  has  come  back  to  me. 
All  I  want  now  to  make  me  quite, 
quite  happy  is  to  have  you  once 
again  as  my  own,  own  mother. 
Will  you  not  send  me  a  line  to  say 
that  it  shall  all  be  as  though  these 


720 


John  Caldigate. — Conclusion. 


[June 


last  long  dreary  months  had  never 
been  ; — so  that  I  may  go  to  you 
and  show  you  my  baby  once  again  1 
And,-  dear  mamma,  say  one  word 
to  me  to  let  me  know  that  you 
know  that  he  is  my  husband.  Tell 
papa  to  say  so  also. — Your  most 
affectionate  daughter, 

"HESTER  CALDIGATE." 

Mrs  Bolton  found  this  letter  on 
the  breakfast  -  table,  lying,  as  was 
usual  with  her  letters,  close  to  her 
plate,  and  she  read  it  without  say- 
ing a  word  to  her  husband.  Then 
she  put  it  in  her  pocket,  and  still 
did  not  say  a  word.  Before  the 
middle  of  the  day  she  had  almost 
made  up  her  mind  that  she  would 
keep  the  letter  entirely  to  herself. 
It  was  well,  she  thought,  that  he 
had  not  seen  it,  and  no  good  could 
be  done  by  showing  it  to  him. 
But  he  had  been  in  the  breakfast- 
parlour  before  her,  had  seen  the 
envelope,  and  had  recognised  the 
handwriting.  They  were  sitting 
together  after  lunch,  and  she  was 
just  about  to  open  the  book  of 
sermons  with  which,  at  that  time, 
she  was  regaling  him,  when  he 
stopped  her  with  a  question. 
"What  did  Hester  say  in  her 
letter?" 

Even  those  who  intend  to  be 
truthful  are  sometimes  surprised 
into  a  lie.  "What  letter?"  she 
said.  But  she  remembered  herself 
at  once,  and  knew  that  she  could 
not  afford  to  be  detected  in  a  false- 
hood. "That  note  from  Hester? 
Yes ; — I  had  a  note  this  morning." 

"  I  know  you  had  a  note.  What 
does  she  say  ? " 

"  She  tells  me  that  he, — he  has 
come  back." 

"  And  what  else  ?  She  was  well 
aware  that  we  knew  that  without 
her  telling  us." 

"  She  wants  to  come  here." 

"Bid  her  come." 

"  Of  course  she  shall  come." 

"  And  him."     To  this  she  made 


no  answer,  except  with  the  muscles 
of  her  face,  which  involuntarily 
showed  her  antagonism  to  the  order 
she  had  received.  "  Bid  her  bring 
her  husband  with  her,"  said  the 
banker. 

"  He  would  not  come, — though 
I  were  to  ask  him." 

"Then  let  it  be  on  his  own 
head." 

"I  will  not  ask  him,"  she  said 
at  last,  looking  away  across  the 
room  at  the  blank  wall.  "  I  will 
not  belie  my  own  heart.  I  do  not 
want  to  see  him  here.  He  has  so 
far  got  the  better  of  me ;  but  I  will 
not  put  my  neck  beneath  his  feet 
for  him  to  tread  on  me." 

Then  there  was  a  pause ; — not 
that  he  intended  to  allow  her  dis- 
obedience to  pass,  but  that  he  was 
driven  to  bethink  himself  how  he 
might  best  oppose  her.  "  Woman," 
he  said,  "  you  can  neither  forgive 
nor  forget." 

"  He  has  got  my  child  from  me, 
— my  only  child." 

"Does  he  persecute  your  child? 
Is  she  not  happy  in  his  love  ? 
Even  if  he  have  trespassed  against 
you,  who  are  you  that  you  should 
not  forgive  a  trespass  ?  I  say  that 
he  shall  be  asked  to  come  here,  that 
men  may  know  that  in  her  own 
father's  house  she  is  regarded  as 
his  true  and  honest  wife." 

"  Men  ! "  she  murmured.  "  That 
men  may  know  ! "  But  she  did 
not  again  tell  him  that  she  would 
not  obey  his  command. 

She  sat  all  the  remainder  of  the 
day  alone  in  her  room,  hardly 
touching  the  work  which  she  had 
beside  her,  not  opening  the  book 
which  lay  by  her  hand  on  the 
table.  She  was  thinking  of  the 
letter  which  she  knew  that  she  must 
write,  but  she  did  not  rise  to  get 
pen  and  ink,  nor  did  she  even 
propose  to  herself  that  the  letter 
should  be  written  then.  Not  a 
word  was  said  about  it  in  the  even- 
ing. On  the  next  morning  the 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate. — Conclusion. 


721 


banker  pronounced  his  intention 
of  going  into  town,  but  before  he 
started  he  referred  to  the  order  he 
had  given.  "  Have  you  written  to 
Hester?"  he  asked.  She  merely 
shook  her  head.  "Then  write 
to-day."  So  saying,  he  tottered 
down  the  steps  with  his  stick  and 
got  into  the  fly. 

About  noon  she  did  get  her 
paper  and  ink,  and  very  slowly 
wrote  her  letter.  Though  her  heart 
was,  in  truth,  yearning  towards  her 
daughter, — though  at  that  moment 
she  could  have  made  any  possible 
sacrifice  for  her  child  had  her  child 
been  apart  from  the  man  she  hated, 
— she  could  not  in  her  sullenness 
force  her  words  into  a  form  of 
affection. 

"DEAR  HESTER,"  she  said,  "of 
course  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  you 
and  your  boy.  On  what  day  would 
it  suit  you  to  come,  and  how  long 
would  you  like  to  stay?  I  fear 
you  will  find  me  and  your  father 
but  dull  companions  after  the  life 
you  are  now  used  to.  If  Mr  Caldi- 
gate  would  like  to  come  with  you, 
your  father  bids  me  say  that  he 
will  be  glad  to  see  him.  —  Your 
loving  mother, 

"MARY  BOLTON." 

She  endeavoured,  in  writing  her 
letter,  to  obey  the  commands  that 
had  been  left  with  her,  but  she 
could  not  go  nearer  to  it  than  this. 
She  could  not  so  far  belie  her  heart 
as  to  tell  her  daughter  that  she 
herself  would  be  glad  to  see  the 
man.  Then  it  took  her  long  to 
write  the  address.  She  did  write 
it  at  last ; 

Mrs  JOHN  CALDIGATE, 
FOLKING. 

But  as  she  wrote  it  she  told  her- 
self that  she  believed  it  to  be  a  lie. 

When  the  letter  reached  Hester 
there  was  a  consultation  over  it,  to 


which  old  Mr  Caldigate  was  ad- 
mitted. It  was  acknowledged  on 
all  sides  that  anything  would  be 
better  than  a  family  quarrel.  The 
spirit  in  which  the  invitation  had 
been  written  was  to  be  found  in 
every  word  of  it.  There  was  not  a 
word  to  show  that  Mrs  Bolton  had 
herself  accepted  the  decision  to 
which  every  one  else  had  come  in 
the  matter ; — everything,  rather,  to 
show  that  she  had  not  done  so. 
But,  as  the  squire  said,  it  does  not 
do  to  inquire  too  closely  into  all 
people's  inner  beliefs.  "  If  every- 
body were  to  say  what  he  thinks 
about  everybody,  nobody  would 
ever  go  to  see  anybody."  It  was 
soon  decided  that  Hester,  with  her 
baby,  should  go  on  an  early  day  to 
Puritan  Grange,  and  should  stay 
there  for  a  couple  of  nights.  But 
there  was  a  difficulty  as  to  Caldi- 
gate himself.  He  was  naturally 
enough  anxious  to  send  Hester 
without  him,  but  she  was  as  anxious 
to  take  him.  "  It  isn't  for  my  own 
sake,"  she  said, — "  because  I  shall 
like  to  have  you  there  with  me.  Of 
course  it  will  be  very  dull  for  you, 
but  it  will  be  so  much  better  that 
we  should  all  be  reconciled,  and 
that  every  one  should  know  that 
we  are  so." 

"  It  would  only  be  a  pretence," 
said  he. 

"People  must  pretend  sometimes, 
John,"  she  answered.  At  last  it 
was  decided  that  he  should  take 
her,  reaching  the  place  about  the 
hour  of  lunch,  so  that  he  might 
again  break  bread  in  her  father's 
house, — that  he  should  then  leave 
her  there,  and  that  at  the  end  of 
the  two  days  she  should  return  to 
Folking. 

On  the  day  named  they  reached 
Puritan  Grange  at  the  hour  fixed. 
Both  Caldigate  and  Hester  were 
very  nervous  as  to  their  reception, 
and  got  out  of  the  carriage  almost 
without  a  word  to  each  other.  The 
old  gardener,  who  had  been  so  busy 


722 


John  Galdigate. — Conclusion. 


[June 


during  Hester's  imprisonment,  was 
there  to  take  the  luggage;  and  Hes- 
ter's maid  carried  the  child  as  Cal- 
digate,  with  his  wife  behind  him, 
walked  up  the  steps  and  rang  the 
bell.  There  was  no  coming  out  to 
meet  them,  no  greeting  them  even 
in  the  hall.  Mr  Bolton  was  per- 
haps too  old  and  too  infirm  for  such 
running  out,  and  it  was  hardly 
within  his  nature  to  do  so.  They 
were  shown  into  the  well-known 
-morning  sitting-room,  and  there 
they  found  Hester's  father  in  his 
chair,  and  Mrs  Bolton  standing  up 
to  receive  them. 

Hester,  after  kissing  her  father, 
threw  herself  into  her  mother's 
arms  before  a  word  had  been  said 
to  Caldigate.  Then  the  banker 
addressed  him  with  a  set  speech, 
which  no  doubt  had  been  prepared 
in  the  old  man's  mind.  "I  am 
very  glad,"  he  said,  "that  you  have 
brought  this  unhappy  matter  to  so 
good  a  conclusion,  Mr  Caldigate." 

"  It  has  been  a  great  trouble, — 
worse  almost  for  Hester  than  for 
me." 

"Yes,  it  has  been  sad  enough 
for  Hester, — and  the  more  so  be- 
cause it  was  natural  that  others 
should  believe  that  which  the  jury 
and  the  judge  declared  to  have 
been  proved.  How  should  any  one 
know  otherwise  ? " 

"Just  so,  Mr  Bolton.  If  they 
will  accept  the  truth  now,  I  shall 
be  satisfied." 

"It  will  come,  but  perhaps  slowly 
to  some  folk.  You  should  in  jus- 
tice remember  that  your  own  early 
follies  have  tended  to  bring  this  all 
about." 

It  was  a  grim  welcome,  and  the 
last  speech  was  one  which  Caldi- 
gate found  it  difficult  to  answer. 
It  was  so  absolutely  true  that  it 
admitted  of  no  answer.  He  thought 
that  it  might  have  been  spared,  and 
shrugged  his  shoulders  as  though 
to  say  that  that  part  of  the  subject 


was  one  which  he  did  not  care  to 
discuss.  Hester  heard  it,  and  quiv- 
ered with  anger  even  in  her  mother's 
arms.  Mrs  Bolton  heard  it,  and 
in  the  midst  of  her  kisses  made  an 
inward  protest  against  the  word 
used.  Follies  indeed  !  Why  had 
he  not  spoken  out  the  truth  as  he 
knew  it,  and  told  the  man  of  his 
vices  ? 

But  it  was  necessary  that  she 
too  should  address  him.  "  I  hope 
I  see  you  quite  well,  Mr  Caldigate," 
she  said,  giving  him  her  hand. 

"  The  prison  has  not  disagreed 
with  me,"  he  said,  with  an  attempt 
at  a  smile,  "  though  it  was  not  an 
agreeable  residence." 

"  If  you  used  your  leisure  there 
to  meditate  on  your  soul's  welfare, 
it  may  have  been  of  service  to  you." 

It  was  very  grim.  But  the  banker 
having  made  his  one  severe  speech, 
became  kind  in  his  manner,  and 
almost  genial.  He  asked  after  his 
son-in-law's  future  intentions,  and 
when  he  was  told  that  they  thought 
of  spending  some  months  abroad  so 
as  to  rid  themselves  in  that  way  of 
the  immediate  record  of  their  past 
misery,  he  was  gracious  enough  to 
express  his  approval  of  the  plan ; 
and  then  when  the  lunch  was  an- 
nounced, and  the  two  ladies  had 
passed  out  of  the  room,  he  said  a 
word  to  his  son-in-law  in  private. 
"As  I  was  convinced,  Mr  Caldi- 
gate, when  I  first  heard  the  evi- 
dence, that  that  other  woman  was 
your  wife,  and  was  therefore  very 
anxious  to  separate  my  daughter 
from  you,  so  am  I  satisfied  now 
that  the  whole  thing  was  a  wicked 
plot." 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  you  say 
that,  sir." 

"  Now,  if  you  please,  we  will  go 
in  to  lunch." 

As  long  as  Caldigate  remained  in 
the  house  Mrs  Bolton  was  almost 
silent.  The  duties  of  a  hostess  she 
performed  in  a  stiff,  ungainly  way. 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate. — Conclusion. 


723 


She  asked  him  whether  he  would 
have  hashed  mutton  or  cold  beef, 
and  allowed  him  to  pour  a  little 
sherry  into  her  wine-glass.  But 
beyond  this  there  was  not  much 
conversation.  Mr  Bolton  had  said 
what  he  had  to  say,  and  sat  lean- 
ing forward  with  his  chin  over  his 
plate  perfectly  silent.  It  is  to  be 
supposed  that  he  had  some  pleasure 
in  having  his  daughter  once  more 
beneath  his  roof,  especially  as  he  had 
implored  his  wife  not  to  deprive 
him  of  that  happiness  during  the 
small  remainder  of  his  days.  But  he 
sat  there  with  no  look  of  joy  upon 
his  face.  That  she  should  be  stern, 
sullen,  and  black-browed  was  to  be 
expected.  She  had  been  compelled 
to  entertain  their  guest;  and  was 
not  at  all  the  woman  to  bear  such 
compulsion  meekly. 

The  hour  at  last  wore  itself  away, 
and  the  carriage  which  was  to  take 
Caldigate  back  to  Folking  was  again 
at  the  door.  It  was  a  Tuesday. 
"  You  will  send  for  me  on  Thurs- 
day," she  said  to  him  in  a  whisper. 

"  Certainly." 

"  Early ;  after  breakfast,  you 
know.  I  suppose  you  will  not 
come  yourself." 

"  Not  here,  I  think.  I  have  done 
all  the  good  that  I  can  do,  and  it  is 
pleasant  to  no  one.  But  you  shall 
pick  me  up  in  the  town.  I  shall 
go  in  and  see  your  brother  Robert." 
Then  he  went,  and  Hester  was  left 
with  her  parents. 

As  she  turned  back  from  the 
hall -door  she  found  her  mother 
standing  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs, 
waiting  for  her.  "  Shall  I  come 
with  you,  mamma1?"  she  said.  Hold- 
ing each  other's  arms  they  went  up, 
and  so  passed  into  Hester's  room, 
where  the  nurse  was  sitting  with 
the  boy.  "  Let  her  go  into  my 
room,"  said  the  elder  lady.  So  the 
nurse  took  the  baby  away,  and  they 
were  alone  together.  "  Oh,  Hester, 
Hester,  my  child  !  "  said  the  mother, 


flinging  her  arms  wildly  round  her 
daughter. 

The  whole  tenor  of  her  face  was 
changed  at  that  moment.  Even  to 
Hester  she  had  been  stern,  forbid- 
ding, and  sullen.  There  had  not 
been  a  gracious  movement  about 
her  lips  or  eyes  since  the  visitors 
had  come.  A  stranger,  could  a  stran- 
ger have  seen  it  all,  would  have  said 
that  the  mother  did  not  love  her 
child,  that  there  was  no  touch  of 
tenderness  about  the  woman's  heart. 
But  now,  when  she  was  alone,  with 
the  one  thing  on  earth  that  was 
dear  to  her,  she  melted  at  once. 
In  a  moment  Hester  found  herself 
seated  on  the  sofa,  with  her  mother 
kneeling  before  her,  sobbing,  and 
burying  her  face  in  the  loved  one's 
lap.  "  You  love  me,  Hester, — still." 

"  Love  you,  mamma  !  You  know 
I  love  you." 

"Not  as  it  used  to  be.  I  am 
nothing  to  you  now.  I  can  do 
nothing  for  you  now.  You  turn 
away  from  me,  because — because — 
because " 

"  I  have  never  turned  away  from 
you,  mamma." 

"  Because  I  could  not  bear  that 
you  should  be  taken  away  from  me 
and  given  to  him." 

"  He  is  good,  mamma.  If  you 
would  only  believe  that  he  is  good  ! " 

"  He  is  not  good.  God  only  is 
good,  my  child." 

"  He  is  good  to  me." 

"Ah,  yes; — he  has  taken  you 
from  me.  When  I  thought  you 
were  coming  back,  in  trouble,  in 
disgrace  from  the  world,  nameless, 
a  poor  injured  thing,  with  your 
nameless  babe,  then  I  comforted 
myself  because  I  thought  that  I 
could  be  all  and  everything  to  you. 
I  would  have  poured  balm  into  the 
hurt  wounds.  I  would  have  prayed 
with  you,  and  you  and  I  would 
have  been  as  one  before  the  Lord." 

"  You  are  not  sorry,  mamma,  that 
I  have  got  my  husband  again  ? " 


724 


John  Cdldigate. — Conclusion. 


[June 


u  Oh,  I  have  tried, — I  have  tried 
not  to  be  sorry." 

"  You  do  not  believe  now  that 
that  woman  was  his  wife  1 " 

Then  the  old  colour  came  back 
upon  her  face,  and  something  of 
the  old  look,  and  the  tenderness 
was  quenched  in  her  eyes,  and  the 
softness  of  her  voice  was  gone.  "  I 
do  not  know,"  she  said. 

"  Mamma,  you  must  know.  Get 
up  and  sit  by  me  till  I  tell  you. 
You  must  teach  yourself  to  know 
this, — to  be  quite  sure  of  it.  You 
must  not  think  that  your  daughter 
is, — is  living  in  adultery  with  the 
husband  of  another  woman.  To 
me  who  knew  him  there  has  never 
been  a  shadow  of  a  doubt,  not  a 
taint  of  fear  to  darken  the  certainty 
of  my  faith.  It  could  not  have 
been  so,  perhaps,  with  you  who 
have  not  known  his  nature.  But 
now,  now,  when  all  of  them,  from 
the  Queen  downwards,  have  de- 
clared that  this  charge  has  been 
a  libel,  when  even  the  miscreants 
themselves  have  told  against  them- 
selves, when  the  very  judge  has 
gone  back  from  the  word  in  which 
he  was  so  confident,  shall  my 
mother, — and  my  mother  only, — 
think  that  I  am  a  wretched,  miser- 
able, nameless  outcast,  with  a  poor 
nameless,  fatherless  baby  ?  I  am 
John  Caldigate's  wife  before  God's 
throne,  and  my  child  is  his  child, 
and  his  lawful  heir,  and  owns  his 
father's  name.  My  husband  is  to 
me  before  all  the  world, — first,  best, 
dearest,  —  my  king,  my  man,  my 


master,  and  my  lover.  Above  all 
things,  he  is  my  husband."  She 
had  got  up,  and  was  standing  be- 
fore her  mother  with  her  arms  fold- 
ed before  her  breast,  and  the  fire 
glanced  from  her  eyes  as  she  spoke. 
"  But,  mamma,  because  I  love  him 
more,  I  do  not  love  you  less." 
"  Oh  yes,  oh  yes ;  so  much  less." 
"  No,  mamma.  It  is  given  to  us, 
of  God,  so  to  love  our  husband  ; 
'  For  the  husband  is  head  of  the 
wife,  even  as  Christ  is  the  head  of 
the  Church.'  You  would  not  have 
me  forget  such  teaching  as  that  ? " 
"  No, — my  child ;  no." 
"  When  I  went  out  and  had  him 
given  to  me  for  my  husband,  of 
course  I  loved  him  best.  The  Lord 
do  so  to  me  and  more  also  if  aught 
but  death  part  him  and  me  !  But 
shall  that  make  my  mother  think 
that  her  girl's  heart  is  turned  away 
from  her?  Mamma,  say  that  he 
is  my  husband."  The  frown  came 
back,  and  the  woman  sat  silent  and 
sullen,  but  there  was  something 
of  vacillating  indecision  in  her  face. 
"  Mamma,"  repeated  Hester,  "  say 
that  he  is  my  husband." 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  the  woman, 
very  slowly. 

"  Mamma,  say  that  it  is  so,  and 
bless  your  child." 

"  God  bless  you,  my  child." 
"  And  you  know  that  it  is  so  1 " 
"Yes."     The   word  was   hardly 
spoken,  but  the  lips  of  the  one  were 
close  to  the  ear  of  the  other,  and 
the  sound  was  heard,  and  the  assent 
was  acknowledged.  | 


CHAPTER   LXIV. — CONCLUSION. 


The  web  of  our  story  has  now  been 
woven,  the  piece  is  finished,  and 
it  is  only  necessary  that  the  loose 
threads  should  be  collected,  so  that 
there  may  be  no  unravelling.  In 
such  chronicles  as  this,  something 
no  doubt  might  be  left  to  the 


imagination  without  serious  injury 
to  the  story  j  but  the  reader,  I 
think,  feels  a  deficiency  when, 
through  tedium  or  coldness,  the 
writer  omits  to  give  all  the  in- 
formation which  he  possesses. 
Among  the  male  personages  of 


1879." 


John  Caldigate. — Conclusion. 


725 


my  story,  Bagwax  should  perhaps 
be  allowed  to  stand  first.  It  was 
his  energy  and  devotion  to  his 
peculiar  duties  which,  after  the 
verdict,  served  to  keep  alive  the 
idea  that  that  verdict  had  been 
unjust.  It  was  through  his  in- 
genuity that  Judge  Bramber  was 
induced  to  refer  the  inquiry  back 
to  Scotland  Yard,  and  in  this  way 
to  prevent  the  escape  of  Crinkett 
and  Euphemia  Smith.  Therefore 
we  will  first  say  a  word  as  to  Bag- 
wax  and  his  history. 

It  was  rumoured  at  the  time  that 
Sir  John  Jorani  and  Mr  Brown, 
having  met  each  other  at  the  club 
after  the  order  for  Caldigate' s  re- 
lease had  been  given,  and  discus- 
sing the  matter  with  great  interest, 
united  in  giving  praise  to  Bagwax. 
Then  Sir  John  told  the  story  of 
those  broken  hopes,  of  the  man's 
desire  to  travel,  and  of  the  faith 
and  honesty  with  which  he  sacri- 
ficed his  own  aspirations  for  the 
good  of  the  poor  lady  whose  hus- 
band had  been  so  cruelly  taken 
away  from  her.  Then, — as  it  was 
said  at  the  time, — an  important 
letter  was  sent  from  the  Home 
Office  to  the  Postmaster -General, 
giving  Mr  Bagwax  much  praise, 
and  suggesting  that  a  very  good 
thing  would  be  done  to  the  colony 
of  New  South  Wales  if  that  in- 
genious and  skilful  master  of  post- 
marks could  be  sent  out  to  Sydney 
with  the  view  of  setting  matters 
straight  in  the  Sydney  office.  * 
There  was  then  much  correspond- 
ence with  the  Colonial  Office, 
which  did  not  at  first  care  very 
much  about  Bagwax;  but  at  last 
the  order  was  given  by  the  Treasury, 
and  Bagwax  went.  There  were 
many  tears  shed  on  the  occasion 
at  Apricot  Villa.  Jemima  Curly- 


down  thought  that  she  also  should 
be  allowed  to  see  Sydney,  and 
was  in  favour  of  an  immediate 
marriage  with  this  object.  But 
Bagwax  felt  that  the  boisterous 
ocean  might  be  unpropitious  to  the 
delights  of  a  honeymoon ;  and  Mr 
Curlydown  reminded  his  daughter 
of  all  the  furniture  which  would 
thus  be  lost.  Bagwax  went  as  a 
gay  bachelor,  and  spent  six  happy 
months  in  the  bright  colony.  He 
did  not  effect  much,  as  the  delin- 
quent who  had  served  Crinkett  in 
his  base  purposes  had  already  been 
detected  and  punished  before  his 
arrival;  but  he  was  treated  with 
extreme  courtesy  by  the  Sydney 
officials,  and  was  able  to  bring 
home  with  him  a  treasure  in  the 
shape  of  a  newly-discovered  man- 
ner of  tying  mail-bags.  So  that 
when  the  'Sydney  Intelligencer' 
boasted  that  the  great  English  pro- 
fessor who  had  come  to  instruct 
them  all  had  gone  home  instructed, 
there  was  some  truth  in  it.  He 
was  married  immediately  after  his 
return,  and  Jemima  his  wife  has 
the  advantage,  in  her  very  pretty 
drawing-room,  of  every  shilling  that 
he  made  by  the  voyage.  My  readers 
will  be  glad  to  hear  that  soon  after- 
wards he  was  appointed  Inspector- 
General  of  Post-marks  to  the  great 
satisfaction  of  all  the  post-office. 

One  of  the  few  things  which 
Caldigate  did  before  he  took  his 
wife  abroad  was  to  "look  after 
Dick  Shand."  It  was  manifest 
to  all  concerned  that  Dick  could 
do  no  good  in  England.  His 
yellow  trousers  and  the  manners 
which  accompanied  them  were  not 
generally  acceptable  in  merchants' 
offices  and  suchlike  places.  He 
knew  nothing  about  English  farm- 
ing, which,  for  those  who  have  not 


*  I  hope  my  friends  in  the  Sydney  post-office  will  take  no  offence  should  this  story 
ever  reach  their  ears.  I  know  how  well  the  duties  are  done  in  that  office,  and, 
between  ourselves,  I  think  that  Mr  Bagwax's  journey  was  quite  unnecessary. 


726 


John  Caldigate. — Conclusion. 


[June 


learned  the  work  early,  is  an  expen- 
sive amusement  rather  than  a  trade 
by  which  bread  can  be  earned. 
There  seemed  to  be  hardly  a  hope 
for  Dick  in  England.  But  he  had 
done  some  good  among  the  South 
Sea  Islanders.  He  knew  their 
ways  and  could  manage  them.  He 
was  sent  out,  therefore,  with  a 
small  capital  to  be  junior  partner 
on  a  sugar  estate  in  Queensland. 
It  need  hardly  be  said  that  the 
small  capital  was  lent  to  him  by 
John  Caldigate.  There  he  took 
steadily  to  work,  and  it  is  hoped 
by  his  friends  that  he  will  soon 
begin  to  repay  the  loan. 

The  uncle,  aunt,  and  cousins  at 
Babington  soon  renewed  their  in- 
timacy with  John  Caldigate,  and 
became  intimate  with  Hester.  The 
old  squire  still  turned  up  his  nose 
at  them,  as  he  had  done  all  his  life, 
calling  them  Boeotians,  and  re- 
minding his  son  that  Suffolk  had 
ever  been  a  silly  country.  But 
the  Babingtons,  one  and  all,  knew 
this,  and  had  no  objection  to  be 
accounted  thick-headed  as  long  as 
they  were  acknowledged  to  be 
prosperous,  happy,  and  comfortable. 
It  had  always  been  considered  at 
Babington  that  young  Caldigate 
was  brighter  and  more  clever  than 
themselves;  and  yet  he  had  been 
popular  with  them  as  a  cousin  of 
whom  they  ought  to  be  proud.  He 
was  soon  restored  to  his  former 
favour,  and  after  his  return  from 
the  Continent  spent  a  fortnight  at 
the  Hall,  with  his  wife,  very  com- 
fortably. Julia,  indeed,  was  not 
there,  nor  Mr  Smirkie.  Among 
all  their  neighbours  and  acquaint- 
ances Mr  Smirkie  was  the  last  to 
drop  the  idea  that  there  must  have 
been  something  in  that  story  of  an 
Australian  marriage.  His  theory 
of  the  law  on  the  subject  was  still 
incorrect.  The  Queen's  pardon,  he 
said,  could  not  do  away  with  the 
verdict,  and  therefore  he  doubted 


whether  the  couple  could  be  re- 
garded as  man  and  wife.  He  was 
very  anxious  that  they  should  be 
married  again,  and  with  great  good- 
nature offered  to  perform  the  cere- 
mony himself  either  at  Plum-cum- 
Pippins  or  even  in  the  drawing- 
room  at  Folking. 

"  Suffolk  to  the  very  backbone  ! " 
was  the  remark  of  the  Cambridge- 
shire squire  when  he  heard  of  this 
very  kind  offer.  But  even  he  at 
last  came  round,  under  his  wife's 
persuasion,  when  he  found  that  the 
paternal  mansion  was  likely  to  be 
shut  against  him  unless  he  yielded. 

Hester's  second  tour  with  her 
husband  was  postponed  for  some 
weeks,  because  it  was  necessary 
that  her  husband  should  appear 
as  a  witness  against  Crinkett  and 
Euphemia  Smith.  They  were  tried 
also  at  Cambridge,  but  not  before 
Judge  Bramber.  The  woman  never 
yielded  an  inch.  "When  she  found 
how  it  was  going  with  her,  she 
made  fast  her  money,  and  with 
infinite  pluck  resolved  that  she 
would  endure  with  patience  what- 
ever might  be  in  store  for  her,  and 
wait  for  better  times.  When  put 
into  the  dock  she  pleaded  not 
guilty  with  a  voice  that  was  aud- 
ible only  to  the  jailer  standing 
beside  her,  an'd  after  that  did  not 
open  her  mouth  during  the  trial. 
Crinkett  made  a  great  effort  to  be 
admitted  as  an  additional  witness 
against  his  comrade,  but,  having 
failed  in  that,  pleaded  guilty  at 
last.  He  felt  that  there  was  no 
hope  for  him  with  such  a  weight  of 
evidence  against  him,  and  calcu- 
lated that  his  punishment  might 
thus  be  lighter,  and  that  he  would 
save  himself  the  cost  of  an  expen- 
sive defence.  In  the  former  hope 
he  was  deceived,  as  the  two  were 
condemned  to  the  same  term  of 
imprisonment.  When  the  woman 
heard  that  she  was  to  be  confined 
for  three  years  with  hard  labour 


1879.] 


John  Caldigate. — Conclusion. 


her  spirit  was  almost  broken.  But 
she  made  no  outward  sign ;  and  as 
she  was  led  away  out  of  the  dock 
she  looked  round  for  Caldigate,  to 
wither  him  with  the  last  glance  of 
her  reproach.  But  Caldigate,  who 
had  not  beheld  her  misery  without 
some  pang  at  his  heart,  had  already 
left  the  court. 

Judge  Bramber  never  opened  his 
mouth  upon  the  matter  to  a  single 
human  being.  He  was  a  man  who, 
in  the  bosom  of  his  family,  did  not 
say  much  about  the  daily  work  of 
his  life,  and  who  had  but  few 
friends  sufficiently  intimate  to  be 
trusted  with  his  judicial  feelings. 
The  Secretary  of  State  was  enabled 
to  triumph  in  the  correctness  of  his 
decision,  but  it  may  be  a  question 
whether  Judge  Bramber  enjoyed 
the  triumph.  The  matter  had  gone 
luckily  for  the  Secretary  ;  but  how 
would  it  have  been  had  Crinkett 
and  the  woman  been  acquitted  1 — 
how  would  it  have  been  had  Caldi- 
gate broken  down  in  his  evidence, 
and  been  forced  to  admit  that  there 
had  been  a  marriage  of  some  kind  1 
No  doubt  the  accusation  had  been 
false.  No  doubt  the  verdict  had 
been  erroneous.  But  the  man  had 
brought  it  upon  himself  by  his  own 
egregious  folly,  and  would  have  had 
no  just  cause  for  complaint  had  he 
been  kept  in  prison  till  the  second 
case  had  been  tried.  It  was  thus 
that  Judge  Bramber  regarded  the 
matter; — but  he  said  not  a  word 
about  it  to  any  one. 

When  the  second  trial  was  over, 
Caldigate  and  his  wife  started  for 
Paris,  but  stayed  a  few  days  on 
their  way  with  William  Bolton  in 
London.  He  and  his  wife  were 
quite  ready  to  receive  Hester  and 
her  husband  with  open  arms.  "  I 
tell  you  fairly,"  said  he  to  Caldi- 
gate, "  that  when  there  was  a  doubt, 
I  thought  it  better  that  you  an  I 
Hester  should  be  apart.  You  would 


have  thought  the  same  had  she 
been  your  sister.  Now  I  am  only 
too  happy  to  congratulate  both  of 
you  that  the  truth  has  been  brought 
to  light." 

On  their  return  Mrs  Eobert  Bol- 
ton was  very  friendly, — and  Robert 
Bolton  himself  was  at  last  brought 
round  to  acknowledge,  that  his  con- 
victions had  been  wrong.  But 
there  was  still  much  that  stuck  in 
his  throat.  "  Why  did  John  Caldi- 
gate pay  twenty  thousand  pounds 
to  those  persons  when  he  knew 
that  they  had  hatched  a  conspiracy 
against  himself?"  This  question 
he  asked  his  brother  William  over 
and  over  again,  and  he  never  could 
be  satisfied  with  any  answer  which 
his  brother  could  give  him. 

Once  he  asked  the  question  of 
Caldigate  himself.  "  Because  I  felt 
that,  in  honour,  I  owed  it  to  them," 
said  Caldigate  ;  "  and  perhaps  a 
little,  too,  because  I  felt  that,  if  they 
took  themselves  off  at  once,  your 
sister  might  be  spared  something  of 
the  pain  which  she  has  suffered." 
But  still  it  was  unintelligible  to 
Robert  Bolton  that  any  man  in  his 
senses  should  give  away  so  large 
a  sum  of  money  with  so  slight  a 
prospect  of  any  substantial  return. 

Hester  often  goes  to  see  her 
mother,  but  Mrs  Bolton  has  never 
again  been  at  Folking,  and  prob- 
ably never  will  again  visit  that 
house.  She  is  a  woman  whose 
heart  is  not  capable  of  many 
changes,  and  who  cannot  readily 
give  herself  to  new  affections.  But 
having  once  owned  that  John  Caldi- 
gate is  her  daughter's  husband,  she 
now  alleges  no  further  doubt  on 
that  matter.  She  writes  the  words 
"Mrs  John  Caldigate"  without  a 
struggle,  and  does  take  delight  in 
her  daughter's  visits. 

When  last  I  heard  from  Folking, 
Mrs  John  Caldigate's  second  boy 
had  just  been  born. 


728 


The  Destruction  of  Szegedin. — Personal  Notes. 


[June 


THE  DESTRUCTION   OF   SZEGEDIN. — PERSONAL  NOTES. 


EARLY  in  March  news  reached 
Buda-Pesth  of  impending  floods  in 
the  Theiss  valley  of  a  serious  and 
exceptional  character.  During  the 
past  winter  more  snow  had  fallen 
all  over  the  country  than  is  gener- 
ally the  case  even  in  Hungary,  while 
at  the  same  time  the  cold  had  been 
less  than  usual.  At  Buda-Pesth, 
though  the  Danube  was  covered 
with  drift-ice,  it  had  never  been 
completely  frozen  over.  We  may 
assume,  therefore,  that  the  snow  lay, 
not  in  its  usual  consolidated  and 
frozen  state,  but  lightly  packed,  so 
.to  speak,  and  ready  to  melt  at  the 
first  thaw.  Unfortunately,  in  Feb- 
ruary a  marked,  and,  for  the  time 
of  the  year,  very  unusual  rise  in 
the  temperature  took  place,  accom- 
panied by  torrents  of  rain.  The 
whole  eastern  bend  of  the  Car- 
pathian horseshoe,  which  is  in  fact 
the  watershed  of  the  Theiss  and 
its  tributaries,  poured  down  its 
thousand  streams  into  the  great 
Hungarian  plain;  and  fears  were 
entertained  of  inundations  as  seri- 
ous as  those  in  the  spring  of  1876, 
when  the  capital  itself  was  threat- 
ened by  the  rise  of  the  Danube. 

During  a  residence  of  five  years 
in  Hungary,  I  have  had  some 
notable  experiences  of  storms  and 
floods.  The  first  phenomenon  of 
the  kind  which  I  witnessed  was 
the  remarkable  storm  of  the  26th 
of  June  1875.  On  that  occasion  a 
waterspout  burst  on  the  mountains 
behind  Buda,  and  together  with 
wind  and  hail  destroyed  a  con- 
siderable amount  of  property  in 
the  town  and  neighbourhood,  caus- 
ing also  the  death  of  nearly  sixty 
people.  The  fury  of  this  storm  was 
far  exceeded  by  the  catastrophe 
which  occurred  on  the  last  night 
of  August  1878,  at  Miskolcz  and 


Erlau,  in  the  north-east  of  Hun- 
gary. 

Buda-Pesth  has  experienced  no 
less  than  fourteen  inundations  in  this 
century ;  the  most  disastrous  being 
that  of  1838,  which  destroyed  some 
four  thousand  houses  and  caused 
great  loss  of  life.  Of  some  incidents 
in  the  alarming  inundation  of  1876 
I  will  speak  later,  merely  observing 
here,  that  though  the  worst  was 
averted,  and  the  capital  escaped 
almost  by  a  miracle,  yet  the  de- 
struction of  property  which  did  take 
place  involved  serious  loss  and  great 
misery.  Something  like  twenty 
thousand  people  were  houseless  and 
homeless  for  several  weeks.  The 
possible  recurrence  of  such  an  event 
must  at  all  times  cause  the  gravest 
anxiety. 

With  full  knowledge  of  the 
dangerous  behaviour  of  these  great 
rivers,  and  the  terrible  havoc  their 
waters  are  capable  of  inflicting,  it 
will  not  be  wondered  at  that  the 
public  mind  became  greatly  excited 
as  each  day  more  and  more  alarm- 
ing news  reached  us  from  the 
Theiss  valley.  It  was  in  this 
condition  of  mind  that  I  left  my 
house  in  the  fortress  of  Buda  on 
Sunday  morning,  the  9th  of  March, 
to  seek  the  latest  intelligence  at  the 
club  in  Pesth.  On  my  way  thither 
I  encountered  Lieutenant  Zubovics, 
whose  name  is  well  known  to  many 
in  England  by  his  swimming  feats 
over  the  Danube,  Thames,  and 
Seine  on  horseback,  and  for  his  ride 
for  a  wager  from  Vienna  to  Paris. 
Lieutenant  Zubovics  at  once  in- 
formed me  that  the  last  news  from 
Szegedin  was  so  alarming  that  he 
had  determined  to  organise  a  volun- 
teer life-saving  corps  to  render  as- 
sistance in  case  of  need ;  and  he  pro- 
posed to  start  that  same  night,  as 


1879.] 


The  Destruction  of  Szegedin. — Personal  Notes. 


729 


no  time  was  to  be  lost.  Having 
enrolled  myself  in  the  corps,  we 
went  down  to  the  lower  quay  in 
search  of  the  captain  of  one  of  the 
Francis  Canal  Towage  Company's 
steamers,  who  had  orders  to  place 
all  the  rowing  boats  he  could  spare 
at  our  disposal.  When  we  found 
the  captain  he  set  to  work  immedi- 
ately to  give  us  every  possible  assist- 
ance \  but  we  were  in  a  difficulty 
about  getting  the  boats  conveyed 
from  the  Danube  to  the  railway 
station,  which  is  a  long  way  from 
the  river.  This  being  Sunday  after- 
noon, everything  was  shut,  and  we 
could  get  no  men,  much  less  obtain 
conveyances  to  transport  the  boats, 
which,  it  may  be  remarked,  were 
heavy  river-boats.  So  in  the  end 
we  gave  orders  for  these  to  follow 
us  by  a  later  train.  As  it  turned 
out,  we  requisitioned  fourteen  of  the 
pleasure-boats  on  the  lake  in  the 
Stadtwaldchen,  which  is  not  far 
from  the  railway  station.  Our  small 
corps  of  six  now  separated,  half 
were  sent  round  the;  town  to  enlist 
friends,  the  others  being  left  to  busy 
themselves  about  the  necessary  pre- 
parations for  getting  together  the 
life-saving  apparatus,  torches,  and 
other  things  requisite  for  the  pos- 
sible emergency.  We  had  settled 
to  meet  at  the  Redoute  by  eight 
that  night  for  final  arrangements 
before  starting  by  the  ten  o'clock 
train  for  Felegyhaza.  By  the  even- 
ing the  volunteer  corps  had  in- 
creased to  fourteen  in  number,  but 
what  with  one  thing  and  another 
we  found  it  difficult  to  get  every- 
thing settled  in  time;  in  fact  we 
only  got  off  by  a  later  train,  and 
did  not  arrive  at  Felegyhaza  before 
eleven  o'clock  on  the  morning  of 
the  10th  of  March. 

We  had,  of  course,  started  from 
Bada-Pesth  in  the  dark,  and  when 
daylight  dawned  we  found  our- 
selves travelling  over  the  vast  plain 
or  alfdld  which  is  the  peculiar 


feature  of  Hungarian  geography. 
Roughly  speaking,  the  plain  is  en- 
closed on  three  sides  by  the  Carpa- 
thian Mountains,  with  the  Danube 
for  a  boundary  on  the  fourth  side. 
In  prehistoric  times,  this  part  of 
the  world  was  far  different  in 
aspect :  what  is  now  the  richest 
grain-producing  district  in  Europer 
was  in  former  times  the  bed  of  an 
inland  sea  or  series  of  great  lakes. 
These  plains,  overspread  by  sand, 
gravel,  and  by  a  kind  of  rich  mud, 
or  by  alluvial  deposits  underlain 
by  fresh-water  limestones,  "  may  be 
considered  as  having  been  formed," 
says  Professor  Hull,  "  beneath  the 
waters  of  a  great  lake  during  differ- 
ent periods  of  repletion  or  partial 
exhaustion,  dating  downwards  from 
the  Miocene  period.  It  is  also 
necessary  to  recall  the  fact  that  the 
only  issue  which  the  Danube  and 
the  tributary  waters  of  all  the  Hun- 
garian rivers  now  find  in  the  mag- 
nificent gorge  of  Kasan,  was  in  the 
prehistoric  period  barred  by  an 
unbroken  mountain- chain.  "The 
waters  seem  to  have  been  pent  up 
several  hundred  feet  above  the 
present  surface,  and  thus  thrown 
back  on  the  plains  of  Hungary." 
M.  Reclus  says,  "Les  de*  file's  par 
lesquels  le  Danube,  grossi  de  la 
Tisza  (Theiss),  de  la  Temes,  et  de  la 
Save,  s'echappe  de  la  plaine  hon- 
groise  a  travers  le  mu  transversal 
des  Carpates,  offrent  un  aspect  des 
plus  grandioses."  Later  on  we  shall 
have  occasion  to  refer  to  this  ques- 
tion of  the  exit  of  the  Hungarian 
waters. 

In  recalling  the  drame  geolo- 
gique,  we  must  take  into  account 
the  interesting  fact  that  the  inland 
sea  or  lake  which  covered  the  Hun- 
garian plain  was  bordered  by  a  chain 
of  active  volcanoes,  vomiting  forth 
masses  of  "trachytic  and  basaltic 
lava  and  tuff."  But  in  the  course 
of  ages  the  volcanic  fires  have  died 
out,  and  the  waters  of  the  lake 


730 


Tlie  Destruction  of  Fzegedin. — Personal  Notes. 


[June 


have  been  drained,  leaving  a  rich 
heritage  to  mankind.  The  bed  of 
the  old  sea  comprises  an  area  of 
37,400  square  miles,  mostly  con- 
sisting of  what  is  called  tiefland 
or  deep  land,  and  so  rich  that  the 
merest  scratchings  of  the  plough 
can,  without  skill  or  labour,  pro- 
duce crops  almost  unequalled  in 
quantity  and  variety  elsewhere. 

The  first  view  of  the  plain  is  de- 
pressing in  the  extreme.  You  be- 
hold a  level,  featureless,  intermin- 
able stretch  of  earth,  with  the 
heavens  above  and  around  you,  like 
the  folds  of  a  vast  tent;  where 
neither  hill  nor  forest  throws  any 
shadow,  and  where  the  pathway  of 
the  sun  is  visible  from  the  rising 
up  to  the  going  down  thereof. 
This  great  plain  has  been  aptly 
called  une  mer  terrestre ;  and 
under  certain  atmospheric  condi- 
tions the  illusion  is  complete.  It 
appears  even  like  the  sea  itself, 
rippled  by  green-wave  furrows,  or 
calmed  into  utter  stillness  by  wide- 
spreading  level  mists  that  meet  the 
sky-line.  Dreary  as  the  plain  may 
seem  to  the  stranger,  it  is  a  place 
beloved  by  the  native  with  an 
attachment  equal  to  the  Switzer's 
love  for  the  Alps.  The  shepherd 
of  the  lonely  pussta  has  no  more 
thought  of  wandering  away  from 
the  dear  familiar  scene  than  has 
the  forest-tree  which  is  rooted  in 
the  earth.  This  district  is  in  fact 
the  cradle  of  the  true  Magyar  race, 
where  are  still  to  be  found  un- 
changed the  language,  customs, 
folk  -  lore,  and  the  traditions  of 
this  singular .  people,  who,  though 
but  a  handful,  have  made  their 
mark  on  history.  "The  Magyar 
shall  never  perish  out  of  the 
world"  is  a  saying  amongst  them. 
It  is  a  striking  fact  that  in  no 
part  of  Europe  is  there  a  stronger 
feeling  evinced  for  territorial  posses- 
sion than  in  Hungary.  The  Hun- 
garian peasant  holds  to  the  land 


as  a  part  and  parcel  of  himself. 
"  Land  is  perpetual  man,"  says  the 
old  Irish  law.  *  A  similar  notion 
is  latent  in  Hungarian  patriotism, 
especially  in  the  case  of  the  pea- 
sant; for  he  believes  in  the  land 
with  something  of  the  old  pagan 
worship.  It  was  owing  to  this 
intense  feeling  for  home,  and  for 
their  own  little  plot  of  ground, 
that  brought  about  some  of  the 
most  touching  scenes  in  the  ter- 
rible catastrophe  which  I  am  about 
to  describe.  Nor  is  this  feeling  for 
the  soil  merely  sentimental;  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  nearly  a  third  of  the 
land  in  the  kingdom  of  Hungary 
is  in  the  possession  of  peasant- 
holders.  It  is  worthy  of  remark 
that  the  purchase  of  land  is  much 
facilitated  for  small  buyers  by  the 
advanced  state  of  the  land-laws  in 
Hungary.  The  transfer  of  land  is 
easy  and  inexpensive,  and  the 
registration  of  titles  to  estates 
has  completely  obtained  in  this 
country. 

In  Prince  Bismarck's  recently 
published  *  Letters,'  he  describes 
travelling  some  twenty  years  ago 
from  Vienna  to  Buda-Pesth,  and 
expresses  his  surprise  at  not  falling 
in  with  a  single  Englishman :  he 
adds  that  the  English,  he  believes, 
have  not  yet  found  out  Hungary. 
During  the  two  decades  which  have 
passed,  we  have,  it  is  true,  become 
more  familiar  with  the  country  of 
the  Magyars;  but  even  now  the 
ordinary  traveller  has  little  more 
knowledge  of  Hungary  than  he  can 
gain  in  a  brief  sojourn  at  the  capital, 
for  he  rarely  penetrates  into  the  in- 
terior. It  is  for  this  reason  I  have 
given  this  slight  sketch  of  the 
dwellers  in  the  Theiss  valley,  who, 
like  their  neighbours  the  Transyl- 
vanians,  may  be  sai$  to  inhabit  an 
odd  corner  of  Europe. 

Though  I  knew  many  parts  of 
the  great  plain  pretty  well,  I  had 
myself  never  visited  Szegedin.  I 


1879.] 


The  Destruction  of  Szegedin. — Personal  Notes. 


731 


had  passed  it  more  than  once  in  the 
railway ;  but  I  really  knew  nothing 
of  the  place  beyond  the  fact  that  it 
was  considered  the  second  city  in 
the  kingdom ;  and  further,  that  the 
inhabitants  bore  an  excellent  char- 
acter for  thrift,  industry,  and  love 
of  progress.  On  this  particular 
morning,  when  travelling  towards 
the  doomed  city,  I  was  glad  to  seek 
information  from  my  companions, 
and  I  learned  that  the  town  con- 
tained over  70,000  inhabitants. 
The  special  industries  of  Szegedin, 
I  was  told,  were  in  connection  with 
soap,  mats,  shoes,  paprika,  and  rope- 
making.  The  flour-mills  had  been 
doing  very  well :  one  flour  company 
of  Szegedin  had  been  paying  over 
20  per  cent  to  its  shareholders  for 
some  years  past.  My  informant 
mentioned  that  the  last  time  he 
had  been  at  the  place  was  in  the 
autumn  of  1876,  when  there  was  a 
very  interesting  exhibition  of  nat- 
ural productions  and  manufactured 
articles.  It  was  one  of  those  small- 
er shows,  which  in  their  local  way 
have  honourably  followed  the  ex- 
ample set  by  the  International  Ex- 
positions. My  friend  went  on  to  say 
that  the  people  of  Szegedin  were 
most  energetic  about  all  educational 
matters.  The  largest  building  in  the 
town  is  the  schoolhouse — a  good 
sign  always.  I  saw  it  later,  an 
imposing  structure  of  four  storeys, 
the  highest  in  the  whole  place;  and, 
as  it  turned  out,  it  was  a  very  ark  of 
refuge  for  the  poor  drowning  people, 
saving  hundreds  of  lives. 

Szegedin,  it  seems,  is  not  without 
some  historical  associations.  In 
the  dreary  time  when  the  Turks 
had  possession  of  a  great  part  of 
Hungary,  £hd  threw  civilisation 
back  at  least  three  centuries,  they 
established  themselves  strongly  at 
Szegedin.  They  built  there  a  con- 
siderable fort,  which  is  a  feature  in 
the  present  town.  The  encroach- 
ment of  the  Theiss  is  shown  by  the 


fact  that  one  of  the  Turkish  towers 
is  now  completely  surrounded  by 
water.  The  Romans,  too,  probably 
had  a  colony  on  the  same  site,  for 
a  great  quantity  of  Roman  remains 
have  been  found  in  the  immediate 
vicinity. 

The  inhabitants  of  Szegedin  are 
principally  Magyars,  but  no  part  of 
Hungary  is  free  from  admixture  of 
other  races ;  and  there  is  a  large 
infusion  of  Servs,  Slavs,  Germans, 
and  Jews.  I  learnt  subsequently 
that  the  numbers  in  the  town  had 
been  increased  within  the  last  week 
by  not  less  than  10,000  souls.  The 
inhabitants  of  the  drowned  villages 
and  outlying  hamlets  had  come  into 
the  town  for  shelter. 

My  friend  mentioned  that  his 
father,  who  had  taken  part  in  the 
war  of  Hungarian  independence, 
had  spent  six  weeks  at  Szegedin  in 
1849,  when  the  Revolutionary  Gov- 
ernment retreated  from  Buda-Pesth 
and  made  this  place  the  seat  of  the 
National  Assembly.  General  Perc- 
zel,  with  60,000  men,  was  stationed 
here,  but  there  was  no  question  of 
making  a  stand  at  Szegedin.  These 
were  the  closing  scenes  of  that  noble 
struggle — the  day  of  Vilagos  was 
nigh  at  hand,  the  saddest  scene  in 
all  the  long  tragedy  of  Hungarian 
history. 

But  no  more  conversation  or  re- 
miniscences now,  for  the  train  has 
arrived  at  the  station  of  Felegyhaza, 
and  we  are  all  up  and  stirring. 
At  this  place  we  found  a  special 
train  waiting  to  convey  ourselves 
and  our  baggage  down  to  the  point 
of  the  railway  where  the  lines  ran 
into  the  water,  some  four  miles 
further  on.  On  leaving  Felegyha- 
za the  floods  were  on  both  sides 
of  the  railway  embankment,  and 
we  soon  came  to  the  spot  where 
the  train  could  go  no  further — in 
fact  the  wheels  of  the  locomotive 
were  already  in  water.  It  was 
"  Water,  water  everywhere  "  —  it 


732 


TJie  Destruction  of  Szegedin. — Personal  Notes. 


[June 


might  have  been  the  old  prehis- 
toric sea  that  we  looked  upon, 
stretching  away  far  as  the  eye  could 
reach.  In  less  than  half  an  hour 
everything  was  ready,  the  boats 
were  afloat,  and  we  were  prepared 
to  start.  It  was  a  curious  sight : 
our  train,  consisting  of  an  engine 
with  half-a-dozen  trucks,  had  been 
run  out  on  the  already  submerged 
strip  of  earth,  and  stood  reflected  in 
the  water ;  the  long  line  of  telegraph- 
poles  marking  the  track  of  railway 
towards  Szegedin  becoming  less  and 
less  distinct.  As  the  crow  flies  the 
town  stood  some  six  miles  off;  but 
it  resembled  a  mirage  rising  from 
the  lake,  rather  than  the  solid 
reality  that  it  then  was.  Before 
we  finally  got  off,  a  good  breeze 
arose,  and  our  boats,  moored  to  the 
embankment,  were  bumped  about 
pretty  freely  by  the  waves.  Having 
manned  seven  of  the  boats  with 
two  men  each,  we  thought  first  of 
proceeding  direct  to  Szegedin,  but 
after  a  short  consultation  we  deter- 
mined to  visit  several  of  the  inun- 
dated villages  to  see  if  we  could 
afford  any  assistance.  Accordingly 
we  rowed  off  in  procession  towards 
a  small  village  which  we  noticed 
to  our  left,  just  visible  above  the 
waste  of  waters.  On  approaching 
we  found  it  was  entirely  at  the 
mercy  of  wind  and  waves ;  the 
ruined  houses  were  breaking  up 
visibly  before  us,  the  rough  wind 
helping  the  destruction.  The  sur- 
face of  the  flood  was  covered  with 
remains  of  roofs,  floors,  and  rafters. 
We  rowed  round  about  with  neces- 
sary caution,  and  at  last  with  some 
difficulty  managed  to  enter  what 
must  have  been  the  principal  street 
of  the  village.  We  passed  by  this 
water-way  between  two  lines  of 
ruin.  Here  and  there  were  por- 
tions of  buildings  which  had  with- 
stood the  flood  more  bravely  than 
the  others ;  here  the  gable-end  of  a 
cottage  with  its  chimney-stack,  and 


there,  higher  than  the  rest,  there 
remained  the  section  of  a  house, 
standing  up  as  it  were  a  witness 
against  the  cruel  flood.  The  waves 
were  beating  at  its  basement,  but 
above  in  the  little  upper  storey  were 
seen  pots  and  pans  still  hanging  on 
hooks  on  the  wall.  I  noticed  also 
some  pictures  of  saints,  and  a  por- 
trait of  poor  Batthianyi,  who  met 
his  cruel  death  at  the  hands  of  the 
Austrians  in  1849.  His  portrait, 
by  the  waj^,  may  be  found  in  nearly 
every  Hungarian  hovel. 

After  giving  a  sharp  look-out  for 
any  poor  soul  in  need  of  help, 
amidst  the  tufts  of  ruin  or  floating 
debris,  we  came  to  the  conclusion, 
or  at  least  we  hoped,  that  the  vil- 
lagers had  saved  themselves  by 
timely  flight ;  for  there  were  no 
living  things  to  be  seen,  except  two 
or  three  cats,  and  a  good  many 
fowls,  on  the  open  rafters  which 
still  spanned  the  waters.  I  counted 
more  than  a  dozen  guinea-fowl  on  a 
hay-rick,  which,  strange  to  say,  had 
resisted  the  waves.  Even  during 
our  short  tour  of  inspection,  the 
wind  had  driven  such  a  mass  of 
wreckage  across  the  way  we  had 
come,  that  it  was  difficult  to  steer 
back  through  the  floating  heaps  of 
furniture,  doors,  window  -  frames, 
and  rafters,  the  latter  sticking  up 
here  and  there  like  dangerous  snags. 
Far  and  near  the  surface  of  the 
water  was  covered  with  hay,  straw, 
and  the  stalks  of  Indian  corn;  utter 
havoc  everywhere. 

After  leaving  this  village,  we 
turned  our  boats  in  the  opposite 
direction.  Crossing  the  railway  em- 
bankment, we  made  for  the  town  of 
Dorozsma,  which  we  knew  was  sub- 
merged. This  was  a  place  of  nearly 
10,000  inhabitants.  We  rowed  for 
more  than  an  hour  before  we  reached 
the  vicinity  of  the  town,  but  we 
were  completely  baffled  in  our  at- 
tempts to  approach  nearer :  a  long 
dike,  now  covered  by  a  few  inches 


1879.] 


The  Destruction  of  Szegedin. — Personal  Notes. 


733 


of  water,  barred  our  entrance.  This 
dike,  we  learned  afterwards,  had 
been  erected  by  the  inhabitants 
during  the  previous  week,  in  order 
to  keep  back  the  encroaching  flood; 
but  two  days  before  our  visit,  the 
waters  had  mastered  their  defence, 
and  poured  over  the  barrier.  After 
running  aground  several  times  on 
this  mud -bank,  we  gave  up  all  at- 
tempts to  get  closer  to  a  group  of 
houses  that  were  still  standing,  and 
made  straight  for  Szegedin. 

We  had  got  out  of  our  course,  so 
we  had  still  a  good  hour's  pull  be- 
fore we  could  reach  our  destination. 
We  were  in  much  doubt  and  anxiety 
as  to  the  state  in  which  we  should 
find  the  town,  for  the  waters  were 
pervading  and  increasing  every- 
where. After  we  had  recrossed  the 
submerged  railway,  we  perceived 
in  the  distance  a  long  black  line 
trending  away  to  the  left,  which 
had  somewhat  the  appearance  of  a 
great  sea-snake  stretched  out  on  the 
waters.  It  soon,  however,  became 
apparent  to  us  that  this  was  a  dike 
— in  short,  the  last  rampart  of  de- 
fence for  unhappy  Szegedin — against 
the  devouring  flood.  In  the  back- 
ground, or  rather  I  should  say  in 
the  rear  of  the  dike, 'were  visible 
the  spires  and  roofs  of  a  large  town. 
At  last,  after  rowing  through  an 
immense  amount  of  floating  debris, 
which  impeded  our  progress  at  every 
moment,  we  arrived  at  the  long  black 
strip  of  earth,  and  found  it  crowded 
with  thousands  of  people  in  a  state 
of  unresting  activity.  Men,  women, 
and  children  were  busied  bring- 
ing up  earth,  as  fast  as  hands  and 
feet  could  work.  We  moored  our 
boats  to  the  long  white  piles  that 
had  been  driven  in  to  strengthen  the 
embankment,  and  stepped  ashore 
with  the  utmost  care,  in  order  not 
to  displace  the  loose  earth  on 
that  weak  and  frail  construction. 
On  landing,  we  found  to  our  as- 
tonishment that  the  fall  on  the  inner 

VOL.  CXXV.— NO.  DCCLXIV. 


side  of  the  dike  was  from  fifteen 
to  twenty  feet ;  and  the  greater  part 
of  Szegedin  itself  was  standing  on 
a  level  as  low,  or  nearly  so.  The 
situation  of  affairs  was  simply  ap- 
palling !  My  first  thought  was  the 
utter  hopelessness  of  keeping  back 
such  a  sea  of  waters  by  this  narrow 
strip  of  earth.  The  wind  had  been 
steadily  rising  since  the  morning, 
and  the  waves  were  already  begin- 
ning to  beat  with  considerable  force 
against  the  outer  side  of  the  dike :  the 
flood,  I  must  observe,  was  already 
five  feet  above  the  original  level  of 
the  railway  embankment.  The  de- 
fence that  the  inhabitants  of  Szege- 
din were  now  making  was,  in  reality, 
a  second  dike,  raised  on  the  sub- 
structure of  the  railway,  extending 
about  four  miles  in  length.  It  was 
touching  in  the  extreme  to  see 
these  hundreds  of  busy  workers ; 
such  a  motley  group  as  are  not  often 
found  side  by  side, — master  and  ser- 
vant, the  well-dressed  citizen,  the 
scantily  -  clothed  Slav,  the  poor 
women,  and  even  the  little  children 
— all  plying  to  and  fro  with  their 
burdens.  The  men  wheeling  loaded 
barrows  up  the  steep  incline,  the 
women  struggling  up  with  their 
market  -  baskets  filled  with  earth; 
the  strong,  the  weak,  all  alike  bent 
on  the  one  object — this  struggle  for 
dear  life  against  those  whelming 
waters.  It  wanted  but  a  few  inches, 
and  the  overmastering  flood  would 
have  its  way ;  still  the  poor  people 
were  not  without  hope.  For  twenty- 
four  hours  the  water  had  not  risen  : 
this  was  a  good  sign,  and  the  brave 
multitude  took  heart  of  grace,  and 
hour  after  hour,  day  and  night,  the 
steady  work  went  on.  I  was  greatly 
impressed  by  the  quietness  and  order 
which  was  maintained  throughout  j 
a  state  of  things  which  reflects 
infinite  credit  on  the  townspeople 
generally. 

It   is    true    that    Szegedin   was 
really  in  a  state  of  siege,  and  the 


734 


The  Destruction  of  Szegedin. — Personal  Notes. 


[June 


inhabitants  under  martial  law.     A 
few  days   previous  to  our  arrival, 
the  danger  of  inundation  had  be- 
come   so     obvious,    that    General 
Pulz,  the  commander  of  the  troops 
stationed  in  the  town,  numbering 
about    two   thousand,   had    issued 
orders  that  all  the  inhabitants  were 
liable  to  be  called  out  to  work  on 
the  dike;   and  the  orders  were  to 
be  obeyed  on  pain  of  death.     Com- 
panies of  soldiers  went  out  from  time 
to  time  and  marshalled  the  towns- 
people in  batches  of  one  hundred 
and  fifty  each,   bringing  whatever 
available    implements    they   might 
have  with  them.    When  they  arrived 
at  the  dike,  they  were  set  to  work  at 
once  on  a  certain  section,  where  they 
remained  for  six  hours  at  a  stretch. 
When  the  time  of  duty  was  over, 
they  received  tickets  from  the  com- 
manding officer,  stating  that  they 
had  done  the  work  required ;  they 
were  then  permitted  to  return  home, 
and  were  not  liable  for  service  again 
for     another    twenty  -  four    hours. 
This  had   gone  on  for  some  days 
before  our  arrival.     I  noticed  that 
some  six  thousand  people  were  thus 
engaged  the  evening  when  I  first 
saw  the    place.     I   walked   nearly 
two   miles  along  the  dike  on  this 
occasion.     Everywhere     the    same 
scene  met  my  eyes :  the  turbulent 
waters  washing    against   the   long 
row  of  white  piles — the  poor  people 
working    and    toiling.     Earnestly, 
almost   silently,   the   steady   work 
went  on,  as  if  they  had  been  part 
of  a  trained  and  disciplined  army. 
I  may  here  remark,  to  the  honour 
and  credit  of  the  people,  that  in 
the  subsequent   disaster,   only  ten 
arrests  were  made  at  Szegedin  dur- 
ing several  days. 

I  must  here  pause  to  explain  that 
the  flood  -  water,  extending  over 
hundreds  of  square  miles,  was  some 
three  feet  above  the  level  of  the 
river  Theiss.  The  dike  keeping 
back  this  vast  mass  of  water  was 


in  the  rear  of  the  town,  the  Theis& 
being  on  the  other  side.  As  yet  the 
flood-waters  had  no  direct  com- 
munication with  the  river.  The 
reason  of  this  is  as  follows  :  The 
Theiss  is  hemmed  in,  higher  up  the 
stream,  by  high  embankments  on 
both  sides.  This  regulation  of  the 
river  I  shall  enlarge  upon  further 
on — we  are  now  simply  occupied 
with  the  bare  facts.  It  was  the 
bursting  of  tone  of  these  embank- 
ments on  the  Szegedin  side  of  the 
river,  about  twenty  miles  further 
up  stream,  that  first  placed  the 
town  in  danger ;  the  waters  thus 
pouring  down  upon  the  lower  level, 
burst  a  second  dam,  situated  eight 
miles  above  the  town.  An  immense 
area  of  country  was  thereby  flooded 
in  an  incredibly  short  space  of 
time,  and  the  irresistible  waters 
now  poured  on  and  on,  till  they 
reached  the  opposing  dike,  which 
was  Szegedin's  last  hope.  The 
gravity  of  the  position  was  only  too 
evident.  I  turned  from  the  busy 
scene  on  the  dike  with  a  heart- 
sinking  sense  of  despair.  Leaving 
our  boats  and  their  contents  under 
the  charge  of  an  officer,  we  hastened 
into  the  town  to  report  our  arrival 
to  the  burghermaster.  We  directed 
our  steps  to  the  town-hall,  a  build- 
ing of  some  architectural  importance. 
A  tower  springs  from  its  centre, 
which  probably  looked  down  upon 
the  Turks  during  their  occupation 
of  the  place.  On  entering,  we  were 
ushered  into  a  fine  old  room  of  con- 
siderable dimensions ;  on  the  walls, 
and  ranged  under  the  black-raftered 
ceiling,  were  hung  a  number  of  silk 
flags,  the  ancient  insignia  of  the 
city's  power  and  dignity.  Here 
Kossuth  uttered  his  last  address  to 
the  National  Assembly  in  1849, 
and  now,  after  a  lapse  of  thirty 
years,  the  aged  patriot  speaks  again 
to  the  townspeople,  though  from 
afar.  He  says  in  his  recent  letter  of 
sympathy  to  the  Emperor — which, 


1879.] 


The  Destruction  of  Szegedin. — Personal  Notes. 


735 


by  the  way,  buries  the  party  ran- 
cour of  a  lifetime — "  Szegedin  must 
live ;  Szegedin  must  not  be  lost/' 

But  I  anticipate.  At  present  the 
aspect  of  this  lofty  council-chamber 
is  sad  and  troubled  enough.  The 
carved  tables  and  the  high-backed 
chairs,  which  were  wont  to  seat 
the  worshipful  burghers,  have  been 
pushed  away,  huddled  together 
without  care,  to  make  room  for 
rows  of  mattresses  for  the  fugitives 
who  had  come  in  from  the  neigh- 
bouring villages. 

We  received  a  hearty  welcome 
from  the  burghermaster,  more  espe- 
cially as  one  of  our  number,  M. 
Gerster,  is  a  director  of  the  Francis 
Canal  Towage  Company,  and  he 
was  no  stranger  in  the  town.  It 
was  by  his  orders  that  the  steam- 
tug  Czongrad  had  been  sent  to 
Szegedin  to  await  our  arrival.  M. 
Gerster  placed  the  steamer  at  the 
disposal  of  the  authorities ;  and 
it  was  after  some  consultation  with 
them  that  we  agreed  to  make  an 
expedition  the  following  morning 
up  the  Theiss  to  render  help  to  a 
party  of  four  hundred  workmen, 
who  were  believed  to  be  isolated 
by  the  waters,  and  in  danger  of 
their  lives.  This  plan  of  course 
depended  on  all  going  on  well 
through  the  night. 

After  the  interview  with  the 
authorities  at  the  Varos-hdz,  I  walked 
about  the  town  for  a  couple  of  hours 
to  take  note  of  the  situation.  In 
the  lower  parts,  the  people  were 
much  occupied  in  plastering  up  the 
house  doors,  or  even  building  them 
in  with  mud  and  bricks.  This  was 
perfectly  useless ;  for  when  the 
water  was  once  in  the  town,  it  was 
forced  up  through  the  drains,  and 
frequently  filled  the  houses  from  in- 
side, and  burst  outwards  from  the 
pressure  of  water.  In  looking  about, 
I  was  very  much  surprised  to  see 
only  three  pontoons  and  two  or  three 
boats  ready  in  case  of  emergency  in 


the  streets.  I  believe  there  were 
others  at  the  railway  station,  but 
certainly  I  saw  only  these  scanty 
preparations  in  the  town  itself.  Be- 
fore turning  into  my  quarters  for  the 
night,  I  walked  out  once  more  to  the 
dike.  It  was  a  very  picturesque 
sight :  hundreds  of  flaring  torches 
and  camp-fires  lit  up  the  edge  of  the 
black  waters ;  the  whole  surface  of 
the  flood  was  restless  and  agitated, 
the  waves  beating  visibly  against 
the  long  line  of  defence.  I  left  the 
scene  with  anxious  forebodings,  fear- 
ing what  might  happen  in  the  night 
— for  the  storm  was  getting  worse, 
and  the  wind  blew  right  on  the  em- 
bankment. 

On  awaking  by  daybreak  the  next 
morning,  it  was  an  intense  relief  to 
find  that  the  storm  had  somewhat 
abated  ;  and  further,  it  was  satisfac- 
tory to  know  that  there  had  been 
no  rise  whatever  in  the  water  during 
this  anxious  night.  After  a  hasty 
breakfast,  we  made  our  way  to  the 
river-side,  and  j  oined  our  good  friend , 
Captain  Hadszy  of  the  Czongrad, 
who  had  already  "steam  up"  and 
everything  prepared  for  our  expe- 
dition. 

Shortly  after  leaving  the  town, 
we  steamed  into  a  wide  expanse  of 
water,  no  land  visible  except  the 
river  dike  on  our  left  :  this  had 
been  cut  some  way  further  up  to 
allow  the  flood  waters — which,  as  I 
have  before  explained,  were  higher 
than  the  river  level — to  escape  into 
the  river,  and  lessen  the  danger  that 
threatened  Szegedin.  This  cutting, 
about  a  hundred  yards  in  length,  pro- 
duced so  strong  a  current  of  influx 
water,  that  we  could  hardly  make  way 
against  it.  It  must  be  evident  that, 
had  the  river  level  only  been,  say, 
a  couple  of  feet  lower,  the  relief  to 
the  flooded  district  would  have  been 
immense.  Unfortunately,  at  its 
debouchure,  the  Theiss  has  a  sand- 
bar which  retards  its  outflow  into 
the  Danube.  It  is  necessary  to 


736 


The  Destruction  of  Szegedin. — Personal  Notes. 


[June 


note  this  fact  for  further  consider- 
ation. Passing  on  our  way,  we 
came  to  the  unfortunate  village  of 
Tap4,  likewise  on  our  left  side. 
This  place  had  over  two  thousand 
inhabitants,  and  was  renowned  for 
its  flourishing  industries.  It  had 
been  completely  submerged.  It  was 
simply  an  obliterated  ruin;  noth- 
ing but  the  church  was  now  stand- 
ing. The  river  embankment  in  front 
of  the  village  was  high,  and  from 
sixty  to  eighty  feet  broad.  Here 
were  collected  a  number  of  the  in- 
habitants— several  hundred  souls ; 
and  there  were  a  good  many  besides 
in  some  barges  moored  to  the  dike 
further  down.  The  poor  creatures 
on  the  dike  were  encamped  with 
such  of  their  household  goods  as 
they  had  been  able  to  save.  The 
scene  was  piteous  in  the  extreme. 
Every  inch  of  this  perilous  ridge 
was  occupied;  some  people  were 
even  standing  half  in  the  water. 
There  were  weeping  mothers  with 
babes  at  the  breast ;  children  of  all 
ages  sobbing  aloud;  sick  people 
placed  carefully  on  tables  to  be 
above  the  reach  of  the  waters ;  and 
all  sorts  of  goods  and  chattels  stack- 
ed in  heaps,  the  last  remnants  of 
many  a  happy  home.  The  barges 
I  have  alluded  to  were  mostly  full 
of  the  aged  and  sick  :  they  held  up 
their  hands  in  gestures  of  despair. 
These  poor  creatures  had  been  sub- 
sisting for  days  on  stale  bread  and 
Indian  corn.  We  took  them  all  the 
fresh  food  we  could  possibly  spare 
from  the  steamer ;  but  we  could  not 
have  taken  a  tithe  of  them  on  board, 
even  had  not  our  duty  obliged  us 
to  go  to  the  rescue  of  others  in  more 
urgent  need. 

We  pursued  our  course  up  the 
river,  and  met  with  the  same  sad 
sight  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach 
— an  islet  of  ruin  here  and  there 
marking  the  site  of  what  was  once 
a  village  or  hamlet.  I  remarked  a 
large  building  sticking  out  of  the 


waters,  many  miles  to  the  left. 
This  turned  out  to  be  the  castle  of 
Count  Pallavicini,  who  owns  1 70,000 
acres  along  the  Theiss  valley. 

It  was  far  on  in  the  afternoon 
before  we  reached  the  island  where 
the  workmen  had  taken  refuge. 
They  were  in  extreme  danger,  for 
the  ground  was  melting  away  vis- 
ibly from  under  them.  We  had  not 
come  a  moment  too  soon.  They 
were  huddled  up  together  with 
their  spades  and  wheelbarrows, 
strong,  stalwart  men,  but  powerless 
as  infants  against  the  all-pervading 
flood.  Poor  fellows,  their  faces 
were  lit  up  with  joy  when  they 
saw  us  come  to  rescue  them.  We 
anchored  as  near  as  possible,  and 
commenced  taking  them  off  as  fast 
as  we  could  with  our  one  boat.  It 
took  some  while  longer  than  I 
should  have  thought,  and  the  set- 
ting sun  warned  us  there  was  no 
time  to  be  lost.  The  sun  went 
down  in  great  beauty,  dipping  into 
the  cruel  waters,  and  throwing  back 
an  effulgent  glow  that  lit  up  that 
scene  of  desolation  with  a  terrible 
loveliness.  When  the  great  red 
ball  had  sunk  beneath  the  sea  of 
trouble,  and  the  last  hues  of  exquis- 
ite colouring  had  faded  from  wave 
and  sky,  I  felt  somehow  that  hope 
itself  had  departed  to  the  under- 
world. The  wind  now  rose  again, 
whistling  drearily,  and  in  the  chill, 
grey  twilight  we  made  our  way 
back  with  all  speed  to  Szegedin. 

It  was  quite  dark  when  we 
reached  the  town :  nothing  re- 
markable had  transpired  in  our  ab 
sence.  The  state  of  affairs  remained 
much  the  same  as  in  the  morning, 
neither  better  nor  worse. 

As  we  had  got  back  rather  late, 
it  was  after  ten  o'clock  before  we 
had  finished  our  supper  at  the  res- 
taurant in  the  town.  Every  time 
the  outer  door  was  opened,  a  gust 
of  wind  shook  the  whole  house — 
the  storm  was  rising  again  worse 


1879.] 


Tlie  Destruction  of  Szegedin. — Personal  Notes. 


737 


than  last  night.  The  misery  we 
had  seen  that  day  made  us  all  very 
silent  and  thoughtful.  The  outlook 
for  the  night,  with  that  dismal 
howling  close  to  our  ears,  was  not 
comforting.  Would  it  be  possible 
to  keep  back  the  flood  yet  another 
twelve  hours,  or  at  least  till  day- 
light dawned? 

For  a  few  seconds  at  a  time  there 
would  be  perfect  stillness,  then  the 
wind  came  down  the  street  with  a 
rush  and  a  roar  that  made  one  start. 
Each  blast  that  blew  was  fiercer  than 
the  previous  one,  and  the  wind  came 
with  fatal  precision  from  the  very 
point  most  dangerous  to  the  safety 
of  our  last  ramparts. 

Some  officers,  who  had  been  on 
the  dike  all  day,  were  seated  at  our 
table.  We  had  spoken  a  few  words 
together,  but  they  could  not  tell  us 
anything  more  than  we  all  knew. 
Suddenly  the  door  was  thrown  open 
— a  soldier,  breathless  with  running, 
entered,  and,  saluting  his  officer, 
cried  out,  "  All  is  over,  the  waters 
are  coming." 

We  rushed  into  the  street,  on 
towards  the  town  -  hall,  but  the 
excitement  was  so  great,  that  it 
was  impossible  to  push  through  the 
crowd  and  effect  an  entrance.  A 
company  of  soldiers  were  guarding 
the  door,  trying  in  vain  to  keep  the 
people  back.  Numbers  were  flying 
from  the  lower  part  of  the  town, 
some  trying  to  drag  their  household 
goods  with  them,  others  terror- 
stricken  seemed  only  to  think  where 
they  might  be  safe,  crowding  where 
there  was  a  crowd. 

Finding  it  was  not  possible  to 
get  into  the  town-hall,  I  thought  I 
would  see  what  was  really  happen- 
ing at  the  dike  ;  and  with  this 
view,  I  turned  towards  the  long 
street  that  leads  to  the  alfold  rail- 
way. The  wind  blew  with  such 
blinding  force  up  the  street  that  I 
had  great  difficulty  in  making  my 
way  against  it. 


When  I  had  got  half-way,  I  met 
an  officer,  whom  I  knew,  coming 
straight  from  the  dike.  He  told 
me  immediately  that  it  was  a  false 
alarm,  and  that,  up  to  that  moment, 
the  rampart  was  intact,  but  how 
long  it  could  be  maintained  in  the 
teeth  of  such  a  storm  he  knew  not. 
As  it  was,  the  waters  splashed  over 
in  some  places  from  the  force  of  the 
wind,  and  the  torches  were  blown 
out ;  so  the  soldiers  and  others  had 
to  work  in  darkness. 

I  walked  back  towards  the  town. 
People  were  rushing  about  in  every 
direction,  and  cries  and  lamenta- 
tions mingled  with  the  whistling 
and  howling  of  the  storm :  it  was 
a  regular  panic.  The  authorities 
had  much  difficulty  in  calming  the 
people,  and  in  making  them  believe 
that  the  report  of  the  breaking  of 
the  dike  was  a  false  alarm. 

It  was  nearly  midnight,  when  I 
threw  myself,  without  undressing, 
on  a  sofa  in  my  room  at  the  hotel. 
I  must  have  dropped  off  to  sleep  at 
once,  for  I  was  not  conscious  of 
anything  till  I  found  myself  awak- 
ened by  the  tolling  of  a  loud  bell. 
I  started  up,  and  then  the  warning 
sound  of  three  successive  cannon- 
shots  gave  the  signal  of  distress.  I 
struck  a  light,  and  just  made  out 
that  it  was  three  o'clock,  when  the 
candle  was  blown  out  by  the  draught, 
the  window-frame  rattled  and  shook 
again ;  so  I  knew  directly  that  the 
wind  had  not  gone  down.  I  got  on 
my  overcoat,  and  was  making  my 
way  out  of  the  hotel,  when  the  gas 
went  out,  and  the  whole  town  was 
in  utter  darkness;  Hurrying  into 
the  street,  I  found  it  filled  with 
people,  flying  in  the  direction  of 
the  river  embankment,,  which  was 
known  to  be  high  and  strong.  By 
this  time  the  storm  had  increased 
to  a  perfect  hurricane,  adding  much 
to  the  general  bewilderment,  for 
the  torches  were  perpetually  blown 
out.  The  townsfolk  seemed  as  un- 


738 


The  Destruction  of  Szegedin. — Personal  Notes. 


[June 


prepared  and  panic-stricken  as  if 
the  catastrophe  had  not  stared  them 
in  the  face  for  days. 

Throughout  the  town  the  church 
bells  were  tolling  the  knell  of  the 
doomed  city;  but  one  could  only 
hear  the  dismal  warning  now  and 
then  when  there  was  a  lull  in  the 
shrieking  storm.  I  was  told  that, 
in  one  quarter  of  the  town,  the 
signals  of  distress  were  never  heard 
at  all,  owing  to  the  noise  and  fury 
of  the  wind.  The  darkness — the 
uncertainty  as  to  where  the  dan- 
ger was  greatest — the  unreasoning 
struggles  of  the  people — all  added 
to  the  dire  confusion  of  this  awful 
night.  I  had  been  running  in  the 
direction  of  the  town -hall,  but 
had  not  gone  far  when  I  was  met 
by  the  oncoming  waters.  I  was 
knee -deep  in  the  flood  at  once  ; 
and  not  daring  to  go  on,  I  turned 
and  fled  with  all  speed  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  river  dike.  It  was  well 
for  me  that  I  had  not  lost  my  bear- 
ings. I  knew  that  if  I  could  gain 
the  river- dike  I  should  be  all  right ; 
for  I  could  communicate  with  my 
friends  on  board  the  steamer. 
Eeaching  the  embankment,  I  found 
it  so  crowded  that  there  was  barely 
standing-room.  I  was  able  to  grope 
my  way  to  the  steamer,  and  when 
on  board  I  found  that  the  captain, 
M.  Gerster,  and  several  of  the  vol- 
unteers, had  at  once  started  with 
boats  on  a  life-saving  expedition. 
There  was  already  water  enough  in 
the  town  to  float  the  boats. 

The  day  never  dawned  upon  a 
sadder  scene  than  that  which  met 
our  eyes  when  the  light  revealed  to 
us  in  its  full  extent  the  calamity 
that  had  overtaken  the  city.  Houses 
were  falling  in  every  direction, — 
the  rising  waters  seemed  to  saw  the 
foundations  from  under  them ;  and 
they  melted  away  in  the  flood,  or 
toppled  over  with  a  crash.  When 
it  was  sufficiently  light,  I  set  off  for 
the  telegraph  office  to  report  events 


to  London.  Fortunately  the  tel- 
egraphic wires  were  in  working 
order  ;  indeed  through  the  whole 
week  there  was  only  one  day  of  in- 
terruption, thanks  to  the  energy  of 
the  officials.  The  office  is  situated 
rather  higher  than  most  of  the  town, 
and  when  I  entered,  the  flood  had 
not  yet  reached  this  level.  I  went 
to  an  upper  room  to  write  my  tele- 
gram, which  occupied  some  time, 
owing  to  irregularities  caused  by 
the  general  confusion  of  everything. 
When  I  came  down-stairs,  with  the 
intention  of  finding  my  way  back 
to  the  steamer,  I  discovered  that 
the  flood  had  overtaken  me,  even 
in  that  short  time,  and  there  was 
already  a  depth  of  three  feet  of 
water  in  the  street.  I  saw  clearly 
that  there  was  no  time  to  be  lost, 
so  I  plunged  in;  but  just  at  that 
moment  a  country  cart  passed  the 
door, — the  poor  horses  were  doing 
their  best  to  keep  their  noses  out  of 
the  water.  I  hailed  the  driver,  and 
offering  him  a  good  "  backsheesh," 
got  him  to  transport  me  to  the 
Hotel  Hungaria,  which,  together 
with  some  half-dozen  neighbouring 
houses,  occupied  the  only  dry  spot 
in  the  whole  town.  I  found  every 
room  and  passage  of  the  inn  crowd- 
ed with  fugitives.  From  thence  I 
made  my  way  again  to  the  river 
embankment,  which  was  but  two 
hundred  yards  from  the  hotel. 
Reaching  the  spot  where  the  Czon- 
grad  was  moored,  I  found  that  my 
gallant  friends  had  already  been 
doing  good  work.  The  captain  and 
his  little  band  had  been  backwards 
and  forwards  into  the  town  taking 
off  the  unfortunate  people  from 
dangerous  places  that  were  cut 
off  by  the  waters.  Men,  women, 
and  children  were  snatched  from 
crumbling  houses,  from  trees,  and 
even  from  lamp -posts,  to  which 
they  had  clung  in  their  desperation. 
Through  the  day  boatful  after  boat- 
ful was  brought  in  safety  to  the 


1879.] 


The  Destruction  of  Szegedln. — Personal  Notes. 


739 


steamer,  till  the  deck  was  crowded 
with  the  fugitives,  and  amongst 
them  seven  children  died  after  be- 
ing received  on  board.  From  want 
of  room  the  bodies  of  the  poor  little 
ones  had  to  be  laid  out  in  the  stoke- 
hole ;  for  even  the  engine-room  was 
crowded  with  our  living  freight.  I 
spoke  with  one  poor  woman  there, 
who  had  had  six  children.  Five 
were  drowned  before  her  eyes ;  the 
youngest  had  now  died  in  her  arms 
from  the  effects  of  exposure.  The 
sights  we  encountered  were  most 
heart-rending. 

In  rowing  in  and  about  the  town 
-on  our  mission  of  rescue,  I  saw 
terrible  scenes,  and  all  the  more 
terrible  because,  in  some  cases,  it 
was  impossible  to  afford  timely 
succour.  In  one  particular  instance, 
I  remarked  a  good-sized  house, — the 
inmates  had  gathered  on  the  roof, 
and  in  the  windows  of  the  loft 
women  were  seen  holding  out  their 
infants  and  imploring  aid.  Before 
-a  boat  could  be  brought  to  the  spot 
the  whole  building  collapsed  with  a 
dreadful  crash,  a  cloud  of  dust  rose 
in  the  air,  and  then  all  was  over — 
the  house  and  its  inmates  had  dis- 
appeared in  the  surging  flood. 
Whole  streets  were  laid  in  ruins ; 
the  place  knows  them  no  more.  In 
the  space  of  two  minutes  I  saw  six 
houses  dissolve  away  in  the  flood. 
I  do  not  know  whether  there  were 
any  people  still  in  them.  I  fear 
that  in  this  large  city  of  70,000, 
indeed  we  may  say  80,000  inhabi- 
tants, there  must  have  been  many 
sick  and  aged  who  were  unhappily 
overlooked  in  the  dreadful  misery 
and  confusion  of  the  time.  It  is 
necessary  to  remark  that  by  far  the 
greater  part  of  the  houses  at  Szege- 
din  was  built  of  sun-dried  bricks, 
having  the  roofs  tiled  with  shingle. 
Good  foundations  even  were  want- 
ing; for  there  is  no  stone  in  the 
great  plain,  and  the  people  build  with 
the  materials  nearest  at  hand  and 


cheapest.  This  will  account  for  the 
rapid  destruction  of  the  dwellings 
in  the  poorer  parts  of  the  town. 
The  task  of  rescue  was  also  rendered 
more  difficult  in  consequence;  for 
when  the  walls  of  a  house  caved  in, 
it  frequently  happened  that  the 
timbers  of  the  arched  roof  broke 
away  outwards,  striking  whatever 
chanced  to  be  near  with  great  force. 
0  ar  boat's  crew  had  several  very  nar- 
row  escapes, — in  fact  the  volunteers 
did  not  get  off  altogether  unscathed. 
As  night  came  on,  the  whole 
scene  was  lit  up  by  a  great  fire  rag- 
ing at  the  match-manufactory.  The 
effect  was  truly  awful.  By  the 
light  of  the  flames  we  visited  the 
embankment.  There  must  have  been 
upwards  of  40,000  people  collected 
there,  in  a  state  of  the  greatest 
misery — in  short,  without  food,  and 
without  covering  save  their  own 
garments.  In  some  places  fires  had 
been  lighted  with  wood  snatched 
from  the  floating  debris,  and  shiver- 
ing groups  of  poor  creatures  were 
gathered  round.  Such  a  scene  of 
desolation,  taken  all  in  all,  has  per- 
haps never  been  equalled.  The  dis- 
tress was  greatly  aggravated  by  the 
pitiless  snow  and  sleet  which  swept 
over  the  homeless  sufferers.  Dur- 
ing the  night  ten  degrees  of  frost 
were  registered  —  a  most  unusual 
thing  at  this  season.  I  have  before 
alluded  to  the  strong  attachment  of 
the  Hungarian  peasant  for  home 
and  familiar  surroundings.  It  is  a 
curious  fact  that,  weeks  after  the 
inundation  of  Szegedin,  the  people 
could  not  be  persuaded  to  leave 
their  miserable  bivouac  on  the  river 
embankment.  It  was  the  spot  of 
dry  earth  nearest  to  their  drowned 
homes ;  and  there,  poor  creatures, 
they  stop,  patiently  waiting  the 
assuaging  of  the  waters.  In  some 
instances  the  people  preferred  to 
perish  with  their  crumbling  houses, 
rather  than  save  themselves  or  be 
saved  by  others.  They  had  lost  all 


740 


The  Destruction  of  Szegedin. — Personal  Notes, 


[June 


that  was  dear  to  them,  and  they  had 
nothing  left  to  live  for. 

On  the  day  following  the  one  of 
the  final  disaster,  I  think  the  gene- 
ral depression  was  greater  than  on 
the  day  itself.  The  extent  of  the 
incalculable  losses,  the  misery  to 
thousands  incurred  thereby,  were 
more  fully  realised.  It  is  useless 
recapitulating  scene  after  scene  of 
trouble  and  distress.  I  might  men- 
tion cases  of  mothers  frozen  to 
death  with  infants  at  the  breast; 
of  women  paralysed  with  terror, 
giving  premature  birth  to  their  un- 
happy offspring  (a  case  of  this  kind 
took  place  on  board  the  ship  Czon- 
grad) ;  but  I  prefer  to  pass  on  from 
the  inevitable  misery  of  the  situa- 
tion, to  remark  on  the  inadequate 
amount  of  help  provided  against 
the  emergency,  which  was  certainly 
not  unforeseen.  One  or  two  episodes 
that  came  under  my  own  observa- 
tion may  serve  to  make  this  clear. 
In  rowing  through  the  town  during 
the  second  day,  we  passed  a  church 
in  the  suburbs  crammed  full  of 
people.  They  called  to  us  piteously 
for  help  ;  they  had  no  food  of  any 
description,  but  we  could  not  per- 
form a  miracle  and  feed  the  multi- 
tude. Their  lives  were  not  in 
danger,  for  the  building  was  of 
stone,  and  most  reluctantly  we 
went  on  our  way.  But  I  grieve  to 
say  it  was  the  third  day  before 
bread  was  brought  to  these  people. 

All  through  there  was  a  scarcity 
of  boats.  And  when  ten  thousand 
loaves  one  day,  and  fifteen  thou- 
sand another,  arrived  from  Buda- 
Pesth,  the  means  of  distributing  the 
food  was  very  inadequate,  owing 
simply  to  there  not  being  enough 
boats.  There  was  gross  neglect 
somewhere,  and  such  neglect  in 
face  of  this  dreadful  disaster  fixes 
a  heavy  responsibility  on  those 
concerned.  I  have  stated  earlier  in 
my  narrative  that  very  little  provi- 
sion had  been  made  beforehand,  in 


respect  to  pontoons  and  boats.  I 
must  remark  that  the  officers  and 
men  of  the  regular  army  cannot  be 
too  much  praised  for  their  unwear- 
ied exertions  in  saving  life  and  pro- 
perty by  night  and  by  day.  The 
pontoon  service,  according  to  my 
humble  judgment,  was  less  well 
managed. 

There  is  much  diversity  of  opin- 
ion about  the  number  of  deaths- 
caused  by  the  disaster  at  Szegedin. 
The  central  authorities  state  that 
the  bodies  recovered  up  to  about 
the  third  week  in  April,  did  not 
reach  one  hundred.  As  an  eye- 
witness of  the  disaster,  and  remain- 
ing after  it  took  place  five  days  on 
the  spot,  I  can  myself  entertain  no 
doubt  that  many  more  than  this 
number  were  drowned  in  the  con- 
fusion of  that  dreadful  night ;  and 
it  was  the  opinion  of  some  of  the 
high  military  officials  that  the  vic- 
tims must  be  counted  by  thousands. 
Before  the  waters  have  been  thor- 
oughly drained  off,  and  the  wreckage 
cleared  away,  it  is  vain  making  any 
computation  one  way  or  another. 
The  houses  were  crushed  in  by  hun- 
dreds, many  of  them  falling  in  such 
a  manner  that  the  roofs  came  down 
intact,  thereby  holding  down  any 
bodies  that  might  be  beneath. 

The  official  statements  that  I 
have  as  yet  seen  do  not  give  any 
account  of  the  mortality  amongst 
the  villages  and  outlying  hamlets. 
I  fear  there  must  have  been  great 
loss  of  human  life  in  the  submerged 
districts,  which  were  hundreds  of 
square  miles  in  extent.  As  a  rule, 
the  only  boats  to  be  found  in  the 
villages  were  of  a  very  primitive 
kind — a  sort  of  " dug-out" — being 
formed  of  the  trunk  of  a  large  treer 
scooped  out,  and  capable  of  holding 
three  people  at  the  most.  One  can 
only  imagine  too  well  that  many 
lonely  farm-houses,  and  even  vil- 
lages, were  surprised  by  the  flood, 
and  that  their  inmates  found  na 


1879.] 


The  Destruction  of  Szegedin. — Personal  Notes. 


741 


means  of  escape  across  fields  and 
roads  suddenly  submerged  to  the 
depth  of  several  feet.  In  the  whole 
district  under  water,  the  population 
was  computed  to  be  not  much  un- 
der 120,000  souls:  practically  the 
greater  number  have  been  rendered 
homeless.  At  Szegedin  some  1500 
people  sought  shelter  in  the  hand- 
some school-house: — which,  being  a 
solid  stone  structure,  defied  the 
waters.  It  will  be  evident  that 
even  in  the  towns,  places  of  refuge 
were  difficult  to  be  found,  for  the 
official  returns  state  that  out  of  "the 
6566  houses  in  Szegedin,  only  331 
remain,  and  many  are  not  habit- 
able." 

A  great  flood  is  indeed  one  of  the 
most  terrible  of  all  disasters.  It  is 
true,  a  fire  leaves  only  the  charred 
embers  of  a  homestead  or  a  town, 
but  when  it  has  burnt  out  the 
active  mischief  is  at  an  end;  a 
hurricane  may  sweep  all  before 
it,  but  when  past,  a  calm  suc- 
ceeds. In  the  case  of  inundation, 
however,  the  trouble  only  passes 
away  with  despairing  slowness. 
Months  must  elapse  before  the 
waters  are  drained  off,  even  with 
the  best  aid  of  steam-pumping  ar- 
rangements. In  the  submerged  dis- 
trict there  can  be  no  harvest  this 
year.  It  will  be  well  if  the  rich 
fields  and  pastures  are  not  covered 
with  sand  and  gravel  for  many  a 
long  year  to  come.  It  is  impossible 
to  arrive  at  any  estimate  at  present 
of  the  loss  incurred  by  the  agricul- 
turist. The  fields  belonging  to  Sze- 
gedin alone  are  said  to  comprise  an 
area  of  315  square  miles.  When 
the  Emperor  visited  the  scene  of 
the  calamity,  the  mayor  addressed 
him,  saying  :  "  Your  Majesty,  we 
have  lost  all  our  fields,  our  goods, 
our  houses, — all  we  have  is  de- 
stroyed." The  havoc  is  indeed 
terrible,  but  it  must  be  hoped  that 
the  "fields"  may  not  be  utterly 
lost ;  the  injury  depends  very  much 


on  whether  the  irruption  of  the 
waters  was  violent  or  otherwise. 

This  question  brings  us  to  a  con- 
sideration of  the  causes  which  in- 
duced the  overflow  of  the  Theiss. 
Before  doing  so,  however,  I  will 
give  a  brief  extract  from  the  official 
report  of  his  Excellency  Count 
Karolyi  to  the  Lord  Mayor  of  Lon- 
don. "The  two  communities  of 
Algyo  and  Tape","  says  the  Austro- 
Hungarian  Ambassador,  "  have  had 
their  whole  territory  overrun  by 
water.  In  Tape  477  houses  fell,  in 
Algyo  425  houses  ;  the  inhabitants, 
to  the  number  of  nearly  six  thou- 
sand at  the  latter  place,  left,  aban- 
doning all  their  property.  8014 
acres  of  land  in  Tape",  and  224*3 
acres  in  Algyo,  are  flooded.  The 
community  of  Dorozsma  had  1820 
houses,  with  9688  inhabitants, 
32,359  acres  of  land.  Only  300 
houses  remained  standing ;  the  rest, 
with  all  provisions  and  stores,  and 
the  largest  part  of  the  fortune  of 
the  inhabitants,  was  destroyed  and 
buried  under  water."  The  statistics 
of  the  destruction  of  houses  at  Sze- 
gedin have  been  already  given. 
Nor  does  the  Theiss  district  alone 
suffer,  the  Koros  and  the  Berettyo 
rivers  had  also  flooded  hundreds  of 
miles  of  country  before  their  waters 
reached  the  Theiss.  In  short,  the 
inundations  in  Hungary  this  year 
have  exceeded  in  extent  anything 
of  the  kind  which  has  occurred  dur- 
ing the  present  century.  In  a 
lesser  degree,  the  trouble  has  not 
been  infrequent  in  past  times ;  and 
a  certain  amount  of  flooding  of  pas- 
ture-lands by  the  river's  side  is 
annual  and  innocuous,  if  not  direct- 
ly beneficial. 

In  considering  the.  behaviour  of 
the  river,  we^must  look  to  its  origin. 
The  Theiss  rises,  as  we  are  aware, 
in  the  Marmoros  mountains,  a  por- 
tion of  the  north-eastern  range  of  the 
Carpathians,  passing  through  some 
of  the  finest  forest  and  rock  scenery 


742 


The  Destruction  of  Szeged  in. — Personal  Notes. 


[June 


in  Europe,  with  the  rapidity  of  a 
true  mountain  torrent ;  it  then  flows 
near  Tokay  into  the  level  plain,  and 
becomes  the  most  sluggish  of  known 
rivers.  Reaching  Szegedin,  it  re- 
ceives, in  the  Maros  river,  the  tribu- 
tary waters  of  a  great  part  of  Tran- 
sylvania, and  finally  flows  into  the 
Danube,  twenty  miles  east  of  Peter- 
wardein. 

Just  when  the  Theiss  becomes 
slow,  it  becomes  mischievous  and 
troublesome.  As  long  ago  as  the 
reign  of  Maria  Theresa  efforts  were 
made  to  cure  its  irregularities.  But 
it  was  under  the  auspices  of  Count 
Szecheneyi  in  1846,  that  the  work 
of  regulating  the  Theiss  was  seri- 
ously commenced.  The  system  gone 
upon  was  firstly  to  endeavour  to 
straighten  the  course  of  the  me- 
andering stream,  whose  turns  and 
twists  may  be  compared  to  the 
wriggling  of  a  snake,  or  endless  re- 
petitions of  the  letter  S  :  the  wind- 
ings alone  spread  over  611  kilo- 
metres. Canals  were  cut  from  one 
bend  to  another — 108  canals  in  all 
— which  reduced  the  windings  by 
no  less  than  480  kilometres.  These 
operations  have  spread  over  a 
number  of  years,  but  it  has  been 
seen  fit  to  discontinue  the  works 
for  the  last  two  or  three  years.  It 
must  be  borne  in  mind  that  the 
regulation  was  commenced  at  the 
upper  reaches  of  the  river—  that  is, 
shortly  after  its  entrance  on  the 
plain.  Now  the  canals  that  were 
cut  were  not  so  deep,  and  not  nearly 
so  wide,  as  the  original  bed  of  the 
stream;  but  the  current  being  led 
off  to  the  shortest  cut,  the  result 
is  that  in  summer  the  old  bed  is 
nearly  dry,  and  as  the  greater  flow 
of  water  brings  down  an  immense 
increase  of  detritus,  these  channels 
get  more  and  more  filled  up.  The 
canals,  however,  are  not  of  suffi- 
cient size  to  keep  in  flood-waters 
in  the  spring  time,  and  to  remedy 
this  difficulty,  strong  dikes  have 


been  constructed  at  enormous  ex- 
pense along  both  banks  of  the 
river.  These  dikes  are  built  right 
up  against  the  summer  or  low- water 
mark ;  the  consequence  is,  that 
when  the  river  rises  there  is  act- 
ually no  room  for  the  water,  and 
the  dikes  are  over -flooded  in  a 
manner  much  more  dangerous  than 
was  the  former  quiet  overflow.  The 
waters  at  times  of  great  rainfall 
burst  through  the  dikes  with  tre- 
mendous force,  and  instantly  flood 
immense  tracts  of  country,  carry- 
ing everything  before  them.  For- 
merly the  waters  flowed  gradually 
over  the  land,  and  as  the  river-level 
fell  so  the  flood  -  waters  receded, 
generally  in  time  for  the  farmer  to 
sow  his  seed.  Now  the  case  is 
quite  different :  when  the  water 
once  breaks  through  the  dikes,  it 
flows  all  over  the  country,  perhaps 
many  miles  down,  in  a  parallel 
direction  to  the  river;  and  as  not 
unfrequently  happens,  the  dikes 
lower  down  remain  firm,  and  the 
flood-water  rises  two  or  three  feet 
above  the  river- level.  This  state  of 
things  naturally  increases  the  danger 
tenfold,  and  was  exactly  what  took 
place  at  Szegedin,  which,-  as  we 
know,  was  drowned  —  not  by  the 
river  itself,  but — by  the  accumulated 
flood-water  behind  the  town.  The 
calamity  has  been  foreseen  by  engin- 
eers of  eminence,  who  have  not 
failed  to  speak  out  on  the  subject. 
Amongst  the  opponents  of  the  pre- 
sent system  of  the  Theiss  regula- 
tion is  Major  Stephanovich :  he 
made  a  statement  five  years  ago, 
before  the  Geographical  Society's 
meeting  at  Vienna,  to  the  effect 
that  it  was  his  opinion  that  "  Sze- 
gedin would  some  day  be  broken 
through  by  the  Theiss." 

In  1865  the  inspector  of  river 
regulation,  M.  Carl  Hevigh,  drew 
attention  to  the  danger.  He  said, 
"If  we  admit  the  possibility  that 
some  time  or  other  the  Theiss  at 


1879.] 


The  Destruction  of  Szegedin. — Personal  Notes. 


743 


its  highest  may  meet  the  Maros  at 
its  highest,  then  one  of  the  most 
populated,  industrious,  flourishing 
cities  of  Hungary  will  be  exposed 
to  dangers  and  catastrophes  which 
those  only  can  understand  who 
know  how  low  three-fourths  of  the 
city  lie,  and  from  what  material 
the  pretty  houses  of  Szegedin  are 
built," 

The  Maros  flows  at  right  angles 
into  the  Theiss  at  Szegedin,  and 
when  at  flood  arrests  the  current  of 
the  other  river,  pushing  it  back, 
and  thereby  greatly  increasing  the 
risk  of  inundation.  It  was  in  view 
of  this  danger  that  the  great  Italian 
engineer  Paleocapa  suggested  that 
a  canal  should  be  constructed  which 
should  direct  the  Maros  into  the 
Theiss  much  lower  down,  thereby 
avoiding  the  dangerous  confluence 
at  Szegedin.  This  was  in  the  year 
1846,  when  the  abolition  of  serfdom 
and  other  sweeping  reforms  were 
agitating  Hungary,  and  possibly 
economic  projects  got  shelved;  or 
perhaps  Szegedin  did  not  wish  to 
turn  a  navigable  river  from  her 
doors.  Be  it  as  it  may,  nothing  was 
done  to  forward  so  commendable  a 
scheme. '  The  proposal  of  securing 
Szegedin  by  the  much  -  talked  -  of 
"ring-dike"  is  considered  "utterly 
futile"  by  Major  Stephanovich,  on 
account  of  the  subterranean  water. 

It  has  recently  been  proposed  by 
Messrs  Stephanovich  and  Hobohm 
to  make  a  canal  in  the  ancient 
course  of  the  Theiss,  at  the  base 
of  the  Transylvanian  Mountains, 
which  should  receive  the  Szamos, 
Kb'rbs,  and  Maros,  and  subsequently 
enter  the  Danube  at  Karas,  between 
the  dunes  of  Deliblat  and  the  com- 
mencement of  the  defile  of  Basias. 
This  system  of  canalisation  would 
have  the  double  object  of  averting 
floods  and  of  directing  water  for 
purposes  of  irrigation  into  dry  dis- 
tricts. 

According  to  received  opinion,  the 


geological  study  of  Hungary  shows, 
that  at  an  epoch  relatively  recent 
the  Theiss  ran  something  like  a 
hundred  kilometres  to  the  east  of 
its  present  bed,  following  the  base 
of  the  Transylvanian  Alps.  But  in 
course  of  time  the  Szamos,  the  three 
Koros  rivers,  and  the  Maros,  all 
coming  in  from  the  east,  worked 
together  to  throw  the  Theiss  west- 
ward, and  the  towns  on  the  western 
bank,  notably  Szegedin  and  Czon- 
grad,  -are  obliged  to  retire  from 
time  to  time  before  the  devouring 
current.  There  are  certain  local 
exceptions  to  the  westerly  tendency 
of  the  Theiss,  such  as  that  caused 
by  the  impulsion  of  the  Danubian 
waters,  which  have  had  the  contrary 
effect,  throwing  that  portion  of  the 
river  in  an  easterly  direction,  as 
the  following  fact  will  prove.  In 
the  time  of  Trajan  and  Diocletian, 
the  Romans  established  fortifica- 
tions against  the  Dacians  on  the 
plain  of  Titel,  which  was  then  on 
the  east  of  the  Theiss ;  the  plain  is 
now  found  on  the  west  side  of  the 
river.  Notwithstanding  local  dif- 
ferences, we  must  accept  the  fact 
that  the  general  displacement  of 
the  Theiss  towards  a  westerly  direc- 
tion is  constant  and  uniform.  This 
is  seen  not  only  in  irruptive  floods 
of  a  violent  character,  as  the  in- 
undations of  this  year,  but  the 
lands  to  the  west  of  this  river  are 
subject  to  the  almost  more  serious 
evil  of  the  oozing  and  leakage  of 
subterranean  waters,  which,  for 
lack  of  channels  to  carry  them  off, 
remain  a  long  while,  to  the  great 
detriment  of  the  farmer. 

To  lessen  this  plague  of  waters 
has  been  the  object  of  the  Theiss 
regulation  works  for  nearly  half-a- 
century ;  and  it  must  be  conceded 
that  near  upon  four  million  acres  of 
fever-breeding,  stagnant  marsh  have 
been  actually  recovered.  Unfortu- 
nately, this  result,  great  as  it  is,  has 
not  been  an  unmitigated  blessing ; 


744 


The  Destruction  of  Szegedin. — Personal  Notes. 


[June 


for  the  more  the  people  of  the  upper 
Theiss  drain  and  embank  their  lands, 
the  more  the  dwellers  in  the  lower 
Theiss  valley  have  to  dread  the  re- 
currence of  disaster.  "  Les  recentes 
inondations  ont  envahi  des  terri- 
toires,  dits  '  de  collines,'  que  n'at- 
teignaient  jamais  les  anciennes  crues. 
.  .  .  Quels  que  soient  done,  aux 
yeux  des  ing&iieurs,  les  merites 
d'exe"cution  pre"sentes  par  les  tra- 
vaux  d'endiguement  de  la  Theiss, 
la  contr^e  tout  entiere  y  a  plus 
perdu  que  gagneV'* 

"  A  great  river  will  have  its  way," 
observed  a  distinguished  geologist 
in  speaking  of  the  recent  floods  ; 
certainly  we  may  take  it  as  an 
axiom  that  you  must  not  interfere 
with  Nature  without  bringing  her 
into  your  councils.  It  would  surely 
assist,  without  thwarting,  the  opera- 
tions of  Nature,  if  care  was  taken  to 
preserve  the  incline  of  the  Theiss 
by  dredging  —  if  the  bar  at  the 
river's  mouth  were  removed — and 
if  the  combined  Hungarian  waters 
were  given  a  readier  outfall  at  the 
Iron  Gates.  Before  enlarging  on 
the  various  "cures"  for  the  evil, 
there  is  something  to  be  said  about 
prevention. 

In  the  economy  of  nature,  forests 
play  an  important  part  in  regulating 
the  rainfall  of  a  country  ;  and  it  is 
well  known  that  the  destruction  of 
forests  has  a  most  injurious  effect 
on  climate.  Professor  Ramsay,  in 
writing  on  the  inundations  of  the 
river  Po  in  1872,  says  :  "  Not  only 
do  wide-spreading  forests  tend  to 
produce  a  moist  atmosphere,  but 
their  shade  prevents  rapid  evapora- 
tion, and  the  roots  of  the  trees 
hinder  the  quick  flow  of  the  surface- 
water  in  the  streams  of  the  wood- 
covered  area.  .  .  .  But  by  foresight 
and  skill  much  may  be  done ;  and 
if  the  great  old  forests  of  the  moun- 


tains were  allowed  to  reassert  them- 
selves, the  recurring  danger  would 
be  in  time  less  than  now.  But  to 
be  even  nearly  safe,  dredging  must, 
if  possible,  be  added  to  embanking, 
so  as  to  keep  the  long  incline  of  the 
river -bottom  at  an  average  level, 
otherwise  the  time  in  the  far  future 
must  come  when  Nature  will  of 
necessity  overcome  even  the  best- 
directed  efforts  of  man." 

The  destruction  of  forests  has 
been  a  crying  evil  in  Hungary  for 
many  years  past.  M.  Keleti,  in  his 
report  "  On  the  State  of  Agriculture 
in  Hungary,"  presented  to  the  Inter- 
national Congress  at  Paris  in  1878, 
says,  in  speaking  of  certain  districts, 
that  they  would  still  be  fertile  if 
the  inexcusable  imprudence  of  cut- 
ting down  forests  had  not  been 
committed — "  an  irrational  proceed- 
ing," he  adds,  "which  has  exposed 
some  parts  of  the  land  to  the  risk  of 
being  carried  away  by  the  waters." 

Every  traveller  in  Hungary  who 
has  recorded  his  impressions,  has 
loudly  proclaimed  against  the  ruth- 
less waste  of  the  forests.  Paget, 
Boner,  and  more  recently  Crosse, 
have  one  and  all  dwelt  largely  on 
this  important  subject.  Mr  Boner 
says:  "The  Wallachs  find  it  too 
much  trouble  to  fell  the  trees  they 
destroy  systematically :  one  year  the 
bark  is  stripped  off,  the.  wood  dries, 
and  the  year  after  it  is  fired.  .  .  . 
In  1862,  near  Toplitza,  23,000  joch 
of  forests  were  burned  by  the  peas- 
antry. If  this  goes  on,  a  time  will 
come  when  the  dearth  of  wood  will 
make  itself  felt." 

Travelling  in  Hungary  in  1876, 
Mr  Crosse  says  :  "  It  is  impossible 
to  travel  twenty  miles  in  the  Car- 
pathians without  encountering  the 
terrible  ravages  committed  by  the 
lawless  Wallachs  on  the  beautiful 
woods  that  adorn  the  sides  of  the 


*  Geographic, 
p.  316. 


L'Europe    Centrale,   par  M.  Reclus.      Paris,  1878.      Part  in., 


1879.] 


The  Destruction  of  Szegedin. — Personal  Notes. 


'45 


mountains.  .  .  .  The  great  pro- 
portion of  the  forest  land  "belongs  to 
the  State,  hence  the  supervision  is 
less  keen,  and  the  depredations  more 
readily  winked  at." 

While  wringing  our  hands  over 
the  floods,  it  may  -sound  almost 
paradoxical  to  say  that  Hungary's 
greatest  trouble  is  want  of  water; 
and  here  again  is  proof  that  the 
normal  condition  of  the  rainfall 
should  not  be  disturbed  by  un- 
duly interfering  with  the  forests. 
"Drought  is  the  great  enemy  of 
agriculture  in  Hungary,"  says  M. 
Keleti.  The  rich  soil  of  the  great 
plain,  which  yields  such  marvellous 
crops  of  wheat,  hemp,  colza,  Indian 
corn,  tobacco,  and  rice  in  ordinary 
seasons,  is  subject  occasionally  to 
such  terrible  drought,  that  the 
harvest  disappears  under  one's  feet. 
In  1863  there  was  a  dry  season, 
which  caused  a  loss  to  the  country 
of  126  millions  of  florins,  and  re- 
duced the  cattle  stock  to  such  a 
degree  that  it  has  not  yet  recovered. 
Some  other  causes,  it  is  true,  have 
helped  to  bring  about  the  decrease 
of  horned  cattle,  a  state  of  things 
greatly  deplored  by  all  sound  agri- 
culturists; but  there  remains  the 
fact  of  the  fearful  ravages  com- 
mitted by  the  dry  season  of  1863. 
It  is  reckoned  that  on  an  average 
there  is  one  dry  year  in  every  ten. 

To  face  this  difficulty,  the  ques- 
tion of  irrigation  is  now  seriously 
attracting  attention  in  Hungary.  It 
is  a  work  twice  blessed,  because  it 
relieves  the  flooded  seasons  of  their 
surplus  waters,  to  store  them  for 
needful  times  of  drought.  The 
favourable  results  to  be  derived 
from  irrigation  in  the  fertile  soil 
of  Hungary  almost  exceed  belief. 
In  a  visit  of  inspection  through 
the  Baos  country,  in  Lower  Hun- 
gary, last  autumn,  I  gathered  vari- 
ous statistics,  which  went  to  prove 
that  the  man  who  irrigates  his  land 
gains  from  80  to  100  per  cent  over 


his  neighbour  who  neglects  this  ob- 
vious duty. 

General  Tiirr,  speaking  on  "  Can- 
alisation and  Irrigation"  at  Buda- 
Pesth,  in  April  of  last  year,  says  : 
"The  irrigation  as  used  by  the 
Bulgarian  gardeners  is  worth  notice. 
They  are  clever  enough  to  draw  out 
of  an  acre  a  revenue  of  from  400  to 
5  00.  florins.  .  .  .  A  man  named 
Szernzo,  who  owns  land  near  the 
Francis  Canal,  now  receives  a  rental 
of  80  to  120  florins  per  acre  from 
Bulgarians,  whereas  formerly  he  re- 
ceived only  10  florins  per  acre." 
The  Bulgarians,  it  must  be  observed, 
are  the  market-gardeners  of  Hun- 
gary. In  the  suburbs  of  almost 
every  town  colonies  of  these  people 
have  established  themselves,  espe- 
cially where  there  is  a  river  or  a 
canal;  and  by  the  aid  of  a  very 
simple  mechanism  of  their  own  in- 
vention, they  elevate  the  water,  and 
throw  it  over  the  ground,  produc- 
ing thereby  enormous  crops  of  vege- 
tables. 

These  economic  results  are  apart 
from  the  special  question  before  us. 
With  regard  to  future  inundations 
of  the  Hungarian  rivers,  I  fear  the 
"forecast"  is  by  no  means  reassuring. 
Engineers  have  stated  most  empha- 
tically that  Buda-Pesth  itself  is  en- 
dangered by  the  present  system  of 
rectifying  the  Danube  just  above 
and  below  Pesth.  M.  Revy,  in  his 
"  Report  on  the  Danube  at  Buda- 
Pesth,"  mentions  that  the  river  has 
in  fact  divided  itself  into  branches 
forming  the  Csepel  island  below 
the  capital,  for  "profound  hydrau- 
lic reasons,"  affecting  the  "settled 
regime' of  the  river ; "  and  to  cut  off 
a  branch  like  that  of  the  Soroksar — 
which  forms  one  arm  of  the  Danube 
round  this  island — is  to  disturb  the 
"natural equilibrium."  He  goes  on 
to  say,  that  "  to  change  the  river's 
former  regime  in  this  reach  of  its 
course  may  involve  ultimate  con- 
sequences that  nobody  can  foretell. 


746 


The  Destruction  of  Szeged  in. — Personal  Notes. 


[June 


The  Danube  misses  her  former  chan- 
nel of  the  Soroksar  more  and  more. 
.  .  .  What  else  is  the  embank- 
ment of  the  Soroksar  than  the  artifi- 
cial blocking  of  that  branch,  which 
permanently  and  annually  antici- 
pates the  most  unfortunate  event 
which  possibly  might  happen  once 
in  a  generation  ? " 

M.  Pulsky,  in  his  recent  pam- 
phlet "  The  Crisis,"  has  also  called 
attention  to  the  present  system  of 
regulation,  which  "fails  utterly  in 
preserving  the  capital  from  the  dan- 
ger of  inundation,  which  threatens 
it  every  year." 

The  danger  is  always,  or  nearly 
always,  imminent  in  the  spring, 
when  the  ice  breaks  up  on  the 
Danube.  Any  impediment  to  the 
onward  flow  of  the  stream  by  the 
blocking  of  ice-drifts  has  the  effect 
of  increasing  tenfold  the  chance  of 
inundation.  I  will  now  draw  at- 
tention to  what  happened  in  1876. 
The  following  extract  from  Mr 
Crosse's  work  on  Hungary,*  in 
which  he  describes  the  scene,  will 
give  some  idea  of  how  narrowly 
Pesth  escaped  the  fate  which  has 
befallen  Szegedin  : — 

"  There  was  a  peculiarity  in  the  thaw 
of  this  spring  (1876)  which  told  tre- 
mendously against  us.  It  came  west- 
ward— viz.,  down  stream,  instead  of 
up  stream,  as  it  usually  does.  This 
state  of  things  greatly  increased  the 
chances  of  flood  in  the  middle  Danube, 
as  the  descending  volume  of  water  and 
ice-blocks  found  the  lower  part  of  the 
river  still  frozen  and  inert.  .  .  . 
It  seems  that  at  Eresi,  a  few  miles  be- 
low Buda- Pesth,  where  the  water  is  shal- 
low, the  ice  had  formed  into  a  compact 
mass  for  the  space  of  six  miles,  and  at 
this  point  the  down-drifting  ice-blocks 
got  regularly  stacked,  rising  higher  and 
higher,  till  the  whole  vast  volume  of 
water  was  bayed  back  upon  the  twin 
cities  of  Buda  and  Pesth,  the  latter 
place  being  specially  endangered  by 


its  site  on  the  edge  of  the  great  plain. 
.  .  .  The  only  news  of  the  morning 
(25th  February)  was  a  despairing  tele- 
gram from  Eresi  that  the  barrier  of  ice 
there  was  immovable :  this  meant 
there  was  no  release  for  the  pent-up 
waters  in  the  ordinary  course.  The 
accumulated  flood  must  swamp  the 
capital,  and  that  soon.  .  .  .  We 
never  quitted  the  Corso,  though  this 
was  the  third  night  we  had  not  taken 
off  our  clothes  ;  it  was  impossible  to 
think  of  rest  now.  The  gravest  anxiety 
was  visible  on  the  face  of  every  soul  of 
that  vast  multitude.  ...  I  think 
it  must  have  been  ten  o'clock  when 
the  fortress  on  the  Blocksberg  again 
belched  forth  its  terrible  sound  of 
warning.  This  time  there  were  six 
shots  fired ;  this  was  the  signal  of 
'  Pesth  in  danger.'  .  .  .  I  heard 
distinctly  above  the  murmur  of  voices 
the  town  clocks  strike  twelve.  Just 
afterwards  a  man  running  at  full  speed 
broke  through  the  crowd,  shouting  as 
he  went,  f  The  water  is  falling  ! ' 
Thank  God  !  he  spoke  words  of  truth. 
.  .  .  It  was  a  generally-expressed 
opinion  that  something  must  have 
happened  further  down  the  river  to  re- 
lieve the  pent-up  waters.  Very  shortly 
official  news  arrived,  and  spread  like 
wildfire,  that  the  Danube  had  made  a 
way  for  itself  right  across  the  island 
of  Csepel  into  the  Soroksar  arm  of  the 
river.  .  .  .  The  Danube,  in  reas- 
serting its  right  of  way  to  the  sear 
caused  a  terrible  calamity  to  the  vil- 
lages on  the  Csepel  island,  but  thereby 
Hungary's  capital  was  saved." 

After  the  fate  of  Szegedin,  the 
warning  conveyed  by  this  incident 
at  Buda-Pesth  in  1876  is  surely  not 
to  be  disregarded.  Plans  of  river 
regulations,  which,  however  benefi- 
cial they  may  be  locally,  are  yet 
not  conceived  on  general  principles, 
or  with  reference  to  the  whole 
river-system  of  the  country,  must  be 
looked  upon  with  jealous  suspicion. 
It  is  a  question  for  the  engineers  to 
decide  whether  the  best  relief  for 
the  flooded  rivers  of  Hungary  may 


*  Bound  about  the  Carpathians.     By  Andrew  F.  Crosse. 
Sons,  Edinburgh  and  London  :  1878. 


William  Black  wood  & 


1879.] 


The  Destruction  of  Szegedin. — Personal  Notes. 


747 


not  be  obtained  by  deepening  and 
generally  improving  the  channel  of 
the  Danube  at  the  Iron  Gates.  In 
the  opinion  of  persons  qualified  to 
speak,  it  is  the  only  efficacious  means 
of  relieving  both  the  Theiss  and  the 
Danube.  It  is  no  new  project.  In 
the  Treaty  of  Paris,  in  1856,  it  was 
stipulated  that  Austria  should  be  em- 
powered to  remove  these  obstacles  to 
the  free  navigation  of  the  Danube. 
The  question  was  again  brought  for- 
ward at  the  Conference  in  London 
in  1871.  A  plan,  forming  the  basis 
of  operations,  was  drawn  up  by  the 
American  engineer,  M'Alpin,  with 
the  assistance  of  Austrian  and  Hun- 
garian engineers,  whereby  it  was 
proposed  to  blast  the  rocks,  and  so 
form  a  navigable  channel  through 
the  defile  of  Kasan.  A  commission 
sat  at  Orsova,  and  perhaps  is  still 
sitting,  for  the  works  of  peace  in- 
cubate but  slowly.  Little  or  no- 
thing has  been  done  since  the  time 
of  Trajan  to  improve  this  important 
water-way — the  natural  road  for  the 
commerce  of  half  the  continent — 
and  now^we  are  well  on  in  the  nine- 
teenth century  !  A  great  flood, 
working  dire  destruction,  may  act 
usefully  as  a  stimulant  to  the  me- 
mory. 

Postscript. — Since  writing  the 
above,  an  interesting  pamphlet, 
"  Ueber  die  TJrsachen  der  Katas- 
trophe  von  Szegedin,"  has  reached 
my  hands.  It  is  >written  by  Major 
Stephanovich,  whose  name  I  have 
already  quoted.  The  opinion  of 
this  distinguished  engineer  is,  that 


the  main  cause  of  the  Szegedin 
disaster  must  be  attributed  to  the  de- 
ficient channel  for  the  outfall  of  the 
Danube  waters  at  the  Iron  Gates. 
He  asserts  most  emphatically  that 
"not  only  the  wellbeing,  but  the 
existence  even  of  Hungary,  is  con- 
cerned in  removing  the  obstructions 
in  the  defile  of  Plocsa  and  Kasan." 

In  reference  to  the  special  dis- 
aster of  this  spring  in  the  Theiss 
valley,  the  writer  remarks  that  the 
causes  may  be  distinctly  traced  back 
to  last  autumn,  when  there  was  an 
excessive  rainfall  in  the  countries 
drained  by  the  Save  and  the  Drave. 
These  rivers  were  in  a  state  of 
overflow,  and  the  channel  of  the 
Danube  below  Belgrade  became 
surcharged,  and  remained  in  this 
condition  the  whole  winter;  and 
therefore  the  Theiss  was  unable  to 
rid  itself  of  its  superfluous  waters, 
which  were,  in  fact,  bayed  back  by 
the  Danube.  January  of  this  year 
found  the  Theiss  abnormally  high, 
instead  of  being  at  its  lowest  level, 
usual  at  that  season.  In  this  con- 
dition of  things  the  early  thaw,  as 
we  know,  melted  the  Carpathian 
snows,  and  the  flood-waters  came 
down  to  find  the  river-bed  already 
choked. 

Major  Stephanovich  does  not 
mention  it,  but  I  believe  it  is  a  fact 
that  the  Danube  has  so  strong  an  ef- 
fect on  the  Theiss,  that  high  water 
on  the  Danube  causes  a  reflux  on 
the  current  of  its  tributary  as  far 
up  as  Szegedin  itself,  a  distance  of 
one  hundred  and  thirty-three  kilo- 
metres. 


748 


The  Death  of  Major  Wigram  Battye. 


[June 


THE  DEATH  OF  MAJOK  WIGKAM  BATTYE. 

[The  following  extract  from  a  private  letter,  the  writer  of  which  little 
thought  it'  would  ever  appear  in  these  pages,  has  been  kindly  sent  to 
us  from  India.  It  is  interesting,  partly  as  a  spirited  description,  by  an 
eye-witness,  of  a  recent  Indian  battle-piece,  but  more  especially  in 
connection  with  an  event  which  his  country  will  long  deplore,  namely, 
the  fall  of  the  gallant  Major  Wigram  Battye  of  the  Guides,  on  April  2d, 
in  Afghanistan. — ED.  B.  M.] 


"  FATIHABAD,  April  8, 1879. 
"  MY  DEAR  COLONEL,  — ... 
We  had  reached  this  place  only 
the  day  before,  and  General  Gough 
was  congratulating  himself  on  the 
number  of  Khans  who  had  come 
in  to  him,  and  upon  the  able  way 
in  which,  for  a  novice,  he  performed 
the  part  of  a  political,  when  the 
signallers  notified  from  a  hill  close 
to  camp  that  large  bodies  of  men 
were  collecting  on  some  knolls  about 
three  miles  distant.  Hamilton  of 
the  Guides'  Cavalry  was  ordered 
to  reconnoitre  with  fifty  men,  .  .  . 
and  found  the  report  quite  true, 
and  estimated  the  numbers  at  four 
thousand.  They  seemed  to  be  going 
through  some  evolutions,  but  were 
not  advancing  upon  our  camp.  We 
saw  three  or  four  white  standards, 
and  a  smaller  number  of  red  ones. 
There  could  be  no  doubt  regarding 
their  intentions.  Rather  than  wait 
for  a  night  attack,  it  was  decided 
to  take  the  initiative,  and  attack 
them  at  once.  Cavalry  and  horse- 
artillery  led  the  way.  The  in- 
fantry was  left  to  keep  up  as  best 
they  could.  This  was  .  .  .  and 
nearly  resulted  in  disaster  later  on. 
At  the  end  of  about  three  miles, 
we  came  upon  a  wide  stony  plateau, 
having  a  dry  river-course  on  each 
side,  and  ending,  at  its  far  end,  in 
a  ridge  of  low  hills,  on  the  tops  of 
which  were  the  enemy, 'intrenched 
behind  sangahs  (stone-walls).  They 
did  not  fire  on  us  until  within 


800  yards.  At  this  distance  the 
four  guns  were  brought  into  action. 
.  .  .  The  enemy  then  changed 
their  formation  into  a  wide  single 
line  of  men,  extending  along  the 
entire  ridge  of  hills  in  front  of  us, 
and  dipping  on  each  side  into  the 
nullahs  on  our  flanks.  Seeing  that 
the  guns  did  them  little  damage,'they 
came  down  the  front  of  their  raised 
position  on  to  the  plateau,  and 
poured  in  a  brisk  fire  at  500  yards. 
As  men  and  horses  were  beginning 
to  drop,  and  as  we  had  no  infantry, 
the  guns  were  ordered  to  retire;  and 
a  troop  was  dismounted  to  cover 
their  retreat.  While  this  was  being 
done,  shots  began  to  come  from  the 
nullah  on  our  left  flank,  only  a 
hundred  yards  from  the  guns.  The 
position  was  now  critical.  They 
were  outflanking  us  on  both  sides, 
in  a  horse-shoe  line ;  and  the  guns 
were  in  extreme  danger,  unless,  of 
course,  the  alternative  were  adopted 
of  galloping  them  off  the  ground, 
leaving  the  wounded  to  the  tender 
mercies  of  the  Pathans.  .  .  .  Then 
was  heard  a  sound  as  welcome  as 
the  (apocryphal)  'Campbells  are 
coming '  was  to  the  Lucknow  gar- 
rison. Our  infantry  had  doubled 
up  for  nearly  a  mile  ;  and  the  rattle 
of  their  Martinis  was  the  finest 
music  I  have  ever  heard.  They 
were  on  our  left  only,  and  drove  in 
the  enemy's  right.  The  Guides' 
Cavalry  then  went  forward  at  a  trot 
against  the  enemy's  left.  This  grew 


1879.] 


The  Death  of  Major  Wif/ram  Battye. 


749 


into  a  gallop.  The  Sikhs  gave  that 
peculiar  cry  of  theirs  (you  must 
have  heard  it),  like  the  moan  of  a 
high  wind ;  and  in  a  few  minutes 
the  plain  was  strewn  with  200 
bodies.  I  ...  heard  a  shout — 
1  Batty  e  Sahib  rnara  gay&  ! '  ( Batty  e 
is  killed)  and  about  60  yards  from 
where  I  was,  found  poor  Battye 
dead.  Death  must  have  been  in- 
stantaneous after  the  second  shot ; 
for  the  ball  had  gone  through  his 
heart.  His  face  was  pale,  but  its 
expression  had  nothing  of  pain  in 
it.  He  lived  only  for  his  profes- 
sion ;  and  nothing  can  be  more  fit- 
ting than  to  die  also  for  what  we 
have  lived  for.  There  were  many 
incidents  that  day,  but  none  so 


affecting  as  that  when  we  returned 
to  camp.  Battye's  body  had  been 
sent  in,  of  course,  at  once.  The  men 
stood  in  groups  round  his  tent,  many 
of  them  crying  like  children — men 
who  had  not  hesitated  to  risk  their 
lives.  They  said  little  ;  but  I  over- 
heard one  remark  :  '  Why  were  we 
not  all  killed  instead  of  him  1  for 
there  are  thousands  like  us,  but  not 
in  all  the  world  such  another  as  he/  * 
Our  own  loss  was  28  wounded,  and 
4  killed.  .  .  .  This  has  effectually 
cowed  this  tribe  (Hugianis).  We 
went  out,  two  days  after,  to  blow 
up  their  towers  and  burn  their  vil- 
lages, but  they  never  put  in  an  ap- 
pearance. The  road  is  now  open  to 
Gandamak." 


*  In  the  Indian  correspondence  of  the  '  Times '  of  May  5th  we  come  upon  the  fol- 
lowing touching  paragraph  :  "There  is  a  very  sacred  spot  at  Jellalabad  where  rest 
some  of  the  victims  of  the  late  sad  disaster  in  the  Cabul  river,  and  especially  the 
remains  of  Wigram  Battye,  a  hero  whose  praises  fill  every  mouth.  I  lately  overtook 
a  Sepoy  of  the  Guides  proceeding  to  the  grave  to  water  the  flowers  with  which  the 
affection  of  his  devoted  comrades  and  soldiers  has  embellished  it.  '  The  whole  regi- 
ment,' said  he,  in  his  simple  Punjab  language,  'weeps  for  Battye;  the  regiment 
would  have  died  to  a  man  rather  than  that  harm  should  befall  Battye.'  " 


VOL.  CXXV.— NO.  DCCLXIV. 


3  C 


750 


Bank  Failures  and  their  Remedies. 


[June 


BANK    FAILURES    AND     THEIR    REMEDIES. 


THE  calamitous  bank  failures  which 
occurred  in  October  last,  both  in 
Scotland  and  in  England,  produced 
an  agitation  of  the  public  mind  en- 
tirely unprecedented  of  its  kind : 
and  the  natural  outcome  and  sequel 
of  this  widespread  alarm  is  the  new 
Banking  and  Joint-stock  Companies 
Bill.  No  one  can  question  that 
ample  grounds  existed  for  the  pub- 
lic apprehension.  Scotland  at  this 
moment  remains  strewn  with  wreck- 
ed fortunes  from  the  fall  of  the  City 
of  Glasgow  Bank ;  and  England,  al- 
though in  a  lesser  degree,  has  simi- 
larly experienced  how  terrible  are 
the  disasters  that  may  be  produced 
by  the  failure  of  joint-stock  banking. 
Even  if  the  failure  of  the  City  of 
Glasgow  Bank  had  stood  alone,  its 
consequences  have  been  so  appal- 
ling as  to  justify  widespread  alarm. 
No  one  dreamed  that  such  an  amount 
of  mismanagement  and  persistent 
fraud  was  within  the  pale  of  actual 
possibility ;  while  the  magnitude  of 
the  ruin  and  suffering  so  produced 
could  not  fail  to  strike  dismay 
throughout  the  community  at  large. 
Unlike  ordinary  commercial  disas- 
ters, the  ruin  in  this  case  has  for  the 
most  part  been  complete  and  irre- 
mediable. The  consequences,  in 
their  worst  features,  remain  as  severe 
as  at  the  first.  The  suffering  and 
misery  so  produced  are  like  un- 
stanchable  wounds,  bleeding  to-day 
as  they  did  six  months  ago.  The 
signs  of  it  meet  us  in  the  streets ; 
they  still  stand  like  spectres  at  our 
doors. 

The  failure  of  the  Western  Bank 
in  1857  was  a  severe  calamity  for 
Scotland  •  but  the  fall  of  the  City 
of  Glasgow  Bank  has  written  its 
tale  so  deeply  in  the  hearts'-blood 
of  thousands  that  it  must  figure  as 
a  dismal  chapter  in  every  history  of 


our  country.  A  bank  intrusted 
with  eight  millions  of  deposits, 
having  nearly  seven-score  branches, 
a  paid-up  capital  of  a  million,  and 
with  1292  shareholders,  suddenly 
fell  into  ruins,  owing  upwards  of 
six  millions  of  money,  and  leaving 
its  shareholders  liable,  jointly  and 
severally,  for  this  enormous  debt. 
The  depositors  of  these  eight  mill- 
ions suddenly  found  the  doors  of 
the  bank  shut,  and  the  whole  of 
their  money  locked  up  :  a  hardship 
and  trading-difficulty  all  the  more 
severe  owing  to  the  majority  of  the 
depositors  being  poor  people,  un- 
able to  obtain  credit — no  less  than 
43,000  out  of  the  59,000  depositors 
holding  less  than  .£100  each.  Then 
there  was  the  closing  of  the  branch- 
establishments,  133  in  number, 
whereby  some  three  or  four  hun- 
dred managers  and  clerks  were, 
without  a  moment's  warning,  thrown 
out  of  employ,  and  at  a  time  when 
a  great  commercial  depression  made 
employment  almost  unprocurable. 
Yet,  severe  as  these  consequences 
were,  they  were  hardly  thought  of 
amidst  the  utter  impoverishment 
which  befell  the  shareholders  of 
the  fallen  establishment.  Ruin 
was  suddenly  thrown  broadcast 
over  Scotland.  The  blow  fell  espe- 
cially upon  the  savings  of  the  na- 
tion— upon  the  self-denying  class 
who  were  laying-by  for  old  age  and 
young  families,  and  upon  those  for 
whom  these  savings  had  been  made. 
Many  a  manse  in  our  quiet  glens 
now  sees  Destitution  at  its  door, 
brought  thither  by  the  very  means 
which  to  human  eye  appeared  best 
adapted  for  warding  it  off.  Many 
a  widow  living  quietly  and  thriftily 
with  her  children  in  a  "  flat "  in 
Edinburgh  or  Glasgow  now  finds  the 
means  of  livelihood  wrenched  from 


1879.] 


Bank  Failures  and  their  Remedies. 


751 


her  grasp  —  her  humble  furniture 
seized,  and  hardly  a  roof  left  over 
the  heads  of  herself  and  orphans. 
The  cup  of  bitterness  has  had  to 
be  drunk  to  the  dregs  by  many  in 
England  as  well  as  in  the  northern 
part  of  the  kingdom  :  but  even  the 
worst  of  the  English  bank  failures 
has  been,  we  might  almost  say  triv- 
ial compared  to  what  has  befallen 
Scotland.  The  appalling  misery 
produced,  and  the  intensely  piti- 
able character  of  the  calamity,  was 
strikingly  shown  by  the  case  of  the 
five  elderly  sisters,  told  at  the  time 
by  the  Eev.  Dr  Smith  of  Edin- 
burgh :  "Never  to  the  day  of  my 
death,"  he  said,  "  shall  I  forget  the 
time  I  first  saw  them.  It  was  nine 
days  after  this  bank  failure.  Never 
a  meal  had  been  cooked  in  that 
house,  —  their  clothes  had  never 
been  taken  off  their  backs,  and 
they  had  never  laid  themselves 
down  in  bed ;  but  they  had  sat 
there  together,  bewildered  and 
amazed,  vainly  hoping  that  some- 
how the  good  God  would  come  to 
take  them  away  from  the  evil  that 
was  to  come."  "Where  are  these 
helpless  sufferers  now,  and  how 
and  where  are  hundreds  of  others 
equally  submerged  by  that  destroy- 
ing deluge  1  And  how  do  the  au- 
thors of  all  this  suffering  bear  to 
think  of  their  victims,  many  of 
whom  would  be  only  too  glad  to 
recover  their  means  of  livelihood 
by  becoming  prisoners  for  eight  or 
sixteen  months  1  It  is  a  light  choice 
between  that  and  a  life-imprison- 
ment in  the  workhouse  !  or  than  a 
pinching  penury  and  ragged  scram- 
ble amid  cold  and  hunger  and  the 
woful  frailties  of  age  to  obtain  the 
rude  necessaries  of  mere  animal  life. 
The  banks  of  Scotland,  unlike 
those  of  England,  are  few  in  num- 
ber, and  accordingly  or  proportion- 
ately are  large  and  wealthy  estab- 
lishments ;  and  their  stock  has  for 
generations  been  regarded  as  the 


safest  and  most  suitable  kind  of 
investment  for  the  money  of  all 
classes.  The  shares  of  the  English 
joint-stock  banks  are  chiefly,  and 
in  many  cases  almost  exclusively, 
held  by  the  mercantile  classes ;  but 
in  Scotland,  bank  shares  are  most 
numerously  held  by  the  non- trad  ing 
classes.  Our  Scots  banks,  in  fact, 
are  national  institutions,  of  which 
the  people  are  proud,  and  which  all 
classes  have  trusted  ;  and  especially 
have  they  been  trusted  with  the  re- 
serve wealth,  be  it  great  or  small, 
of  the  non-trading  portion  of  the 
community.  They  have  been  the  de- 
positories of  the  moneys  laboriously 
saved  and  laid-up  for  old  age,  arid 
for  families  otherwise  helpless  when 
the  bread-winner  is  removed — for 
dependent  sisters,  the  widow,  and 
the  orphan.  It  is  upon  these  de- 
pendent classes  that  the  failure  of 
the  City  of  Glasgow  Bank  has  fallen 
most  heavily,  certainly  most  pain- 
fully. The  entire  loss  of  the  shares, 
of  the  money  invested  in  purchasing 
them,  must  of  itself  have  brought 
impoverishment  upon  a  large  num- 
ber of  the  shareholders,  who  have 
been  dependent  for  their  income 
upon  the  dividends,  and  for  their 
wealth,  however  small,  upon  the 
value  of  the  shares.  Yet  the  loss 
of  this  million  of  bank  capital  has 
proved  but  a  small  part  of  the 
calamity :  for,  besides  this  large 
sum,  five  millions  and  more  have 
likewise  been  lost :  and  thus,  besides 
the  total  loss  of  their  own  money, 
the  shareholders  are  required  to 
make  good  another  sum  more  than 
five  times  as  large, — money  intrust- 
ed to  the  Bank's  keeping  by  the 
public,  and  which  has  been  squan- 
dered by  the  directors. 

And  where  has  all  this  money 
gone  to  ?  What  has  become  of  the  six 
millions  and  more,  which  have  been 
as  hopelessly  lost  as  if  they  had  been 
dropped  into  the  deepest  depths  of 
the  Atlantic  ?  Here  again  there  is 


752 


Bank  Failures  and  their  Remedies. 


not  an  atom  of  consolation  to  be 
found.  Had  the  money  been  spent, 
however  badly,  in  this  country, 
among  our  own  people,  there  would 
have  been  this  comfort  at  least,  that 
what  some  of  us  lost  others  got. 
This  would  have  been  no  compen- 
sation to  the  rightful  owners,  but 
still  the  money  would  not  have 
been  lost  to  the  country.  By  far 
the  greater  portion  of  the  2f  mil- 
lions sterling  lost  by  the  Western 
Bank  went  in  this  way  —  to  the 
Macdonalds,  and  Monteiths,  and 
other  reckless  firms  at  home.  But 
the  six  millions  lost  by  the  City  of 
Glasgow  Bank  have  gone  to  the 
four  winds  of  heaven — to  all  parts 
of  the  world  except  Scotland.  Cap- 
ital equivalent  to  many  tons' 
weight  of  gold  has  been  shot 
away  to  Canada,  the  United  States, 
India,  Australia,  and  New  Zealand 
— to  bolster  up  American  railways, 
rotten  mercantile  firms  in  Bombay, 
and  land  -  companies  at  the  anti- 
podes. It  is  a  financial  disaster  to 
Scotland  unprecedented  save  by  the 
unfortunate  Darien  Scheme.  But 
that  was  a  noble  enterprise,  which 
failed  only  because  it  came  too 
soon ;  nor  even  on  that  account,  but 
for  the  hostility  of  the  Dutch  and 
Spaniards,  aided  or  connived  at 
by  our  new  Dutch  king,  William 
III.  Scotsmen  are  not  ashamed 
of  that  enterprise,  fearfully  disas- 
trous though  it  proved.  It  would 
have  planted  a  New  Caledonia  upon 
the  Isthmus  of  the  New  World, — 
the  gateway  between  the  two  great 
oceans  of  the  world,  across  which 
the  commerce  of  the  nations  has  at 
length  begun  now  to  flow,  and  where 
the  old  Darieri  Scheme  will  ere  long 
be  carried  out,  no  longer  by  little 
Scotland,  but  by  a  concurrence  of  the 
leading  commercial  Powers  of  the 
world.  But  it  is  derogatory  to  that 
bold-hearted  and  far-seeing  national 
venture  even  to  name  it  in  connec- 
tion with  the  corruption,  selfish- 


[June 

ness,  and  folly  of  this  fallen  Bank 
in  Glasgow. 

It  is  really  appalling  to  think  of 
the  smallness  and  narrowness  of  the 
cause,  and  the  meanness  of  the 
agents,  of  the  present  national  dis- 
aster. Half-  a  -  dozen  individuals, 
not  one  of  them  of  any  mark  in  the 
country — hardly  even  of  any  mark 
in  their  own  city  or  circle — seated 
in  a  Bank  Board-room  in  Glasgow, 
have  spread  havoc,  ruin,  and  broken 
hearts  through  a  whole  country. 
The  disparity  betwixt  the  magni- 
tude of  the  disaster  and  the  mean- 
ness of  the  agents  is  as  striking  as 
if  a  nest  of  moles  or  rats  had  under- 
mined and  brought  to  the  ground 
a  stately  palace  or  impregnable  fort- 
ress. We  wish  we  could  say  no 
more  than  this.  But,  as  now  prov- 
ed in  the  courts  of  justice,  while 
working  like  moles  in  the  dark, 
these  human  agents  of  destruction 
all  of  them  permitted,  and  some 
of  them  deliberately  perpetrated, 
a  long-continued  system  of  fraud 
and  deception,  altogether  unparal- 
leled in  the  extent  of  its  disastrous 
results. 

Never  before  has  any  bank  in  the 
United  Kingdom  failed  for  so  vast 
a  sum  of  indebtedness ;  and  never 
before  has  there  been  such  an 
amount  of  deliberate  deception  and 
long-continued  falsification  of  ac- 
counts. Six  millions  of  money 
lost  by  a  bank  which  held  little 
more  than  eight  millions  of  depos- 
its! This  mushroom  bank,  truly, 
has  had  a  career  as  remarkable  as 
— of  late  years  at  least — it  has  been 
infamous.  The  City  of  Glasgow 
Bank  was  the  youngest  of  all  our 
Scotch  banks  —  dating  only  from 
1839.  But  it  pushed  its  business 
with  remarkable  energy.  Its 
branches,  133  in  all,  out -num- 
bered those  of  any  other  of  its 
older  rivals.  It  carried  its  opera- 
tions into  every  part  of  Scotland, 
gathering  a  rich  harvest  of  many 


1879.] 


small  savings  in  every  town  and 
village.  And  it  is  only  justice  to 
its  numerous  agents  to  say  that 
these  branches  were  honestly  and 
ably  managed ;  and  to  no  indi- 
viduals in  the  country  did  the 
news  of  the  fall  of  the  Bank 
occasion  more  astonishment  than 
to  the  managers  of  its  own  branches. 
The  Bank's  reputation,  although 
never  equalling  that  of  our  old 
banks,  stood  high.  To  all  appear- 
ance, it  was  in  the  highest  degree 
successful  and  flourishing.  Year 
by  year  it  paid  splendid  dividends ; 
and  the  price  of  its  shares  was 
almost  equal  to  those  of  the  Bank 
of  England  itself.  We  now  know 
that  this  price  was  fictitious;  we 
now  know  that,  to  force  up  and 
maintain  the  shares  at  this  very 
high  price,  the  directors  actually 
employed  £200,000  (one -fifth  of 
the  subscribed  capital  of  the  Bank) 
in  buying  up  the  Bank's  shares 
whenever  any  of  them  were  for 
sale;  while  they  kept  the  dividends 
in  proper  ratio  to  the  price  by  the 
simple  process  of  paying  whatever 
dividends  they  pleased  —  pa}7 ing 
them  first  out  of  the  capital,  and, 
when  that  was  gone,  out  of  the 
deposits  !  No  wonder,  then,  that 
the  Bank  appeared  to  be  flourishing, 
and  that  it  was  well  trusted  by  the 
public.  While  paying  dividends 
steadily  rising  in  amount  till  they 
reached  12  per  cent,  the  price  of 
its  £100  stock  was  in  1875  £228, 
in  1876  the  same,  and  in  1878  no 
less  than  £243.  Over  how  many 
years  this  course  of  deception  was 
practised,  has  not  even  now  been 
ascertained ;  but,  considering  the 
determined  facts,  it  is  no  incredible 
supposition  that  the  Bank  was  un- 
sound even  twenty  years  ago,  and 
that  it  was  a  fearfully  misplaced 
mercy  which  allowed  it  to  reopen 
its  doors  anew  after  its  collapse  in 
1857.  But  in  the  latter  years  at 
least,  the  fraud  and  mendacity  of 


Bank  Failures  and  their  Remedies. 


753 


its  directors  were  almost  beyond 
belief.  At  the  annual  meeting  in 
July  last,  the  Directors'  Report 
gave  a  most  flourishing  account  of 
the  year's  business  and  of  the  posi- 
tion of  the  Bank.  The  shareholders 
were  assured  that  the  directors  had 
managed  the  business  so  well  that, 
despite  the  universal  depression  of 
trade,  the  Bank  had  made  a  net 
profit  during  the  year  of  £125,000, 
and  that  it  had  a  surplus  of 
£1,700,000  over  its  liabilities.  In 
other  words,  the  shareholders  were 
assured  that,  if  the  Bank  were 
wound  up  there  and  then,  although, 
a  most  profitable  12-per-cent-paying 
business  would  be  stopped,  there 
would  be  £700,000  to  divide 
among  the  shareholders,  besides  the 
return  of  the  million  of  subscribed 
capital.  The  directors  even  went 
through  the  farce  of  "  carrying  for- 
ward "  a  portion  of  their  last  year's 
"profits,"  and  of  "writing  off"  a 
small  sum  lost  by  a  defalcation  in 
the  Isle  of  Man  ! 

Within  less  than  four  months 
afterwards,  the  Bank  closed  its 
doors — not  only  utterly  insolvent, 
but  without  any  remaining  money 
of  any  kind  upon  which  the  direc- 
tors could  lay  their  ruthless  hands. 
There  was  no  panic  or  crisis  in  the 
commercial  world,  such  as  usually 
precedes  bank  failures,  and  which 
often  are  so  severe  as  to  imperil  the 
position  even  of  the  soundest  of 
these  establishments.  There  was 
no  run  on  the  Bank  :  the  hapless 
depositors  went  on  paying  in  their 
money  as  usual  up  to  the  very  hour 
of  closing.  The  Bank  fell  like  a 
castle  of  cards,  and  yet  without 
a  breath  blowing  against  it.  Not 
merely  had  all  its  capital  been  lost, 
years  ago,  but  almost  every  shilling 
of  the  deposits  at  the  head  office 
had  been  paid  away.  The  directors 
had  discounted  and  re-discounted, 
manufacturing  paper  securities  to 
the  utmost  possible  extent ;  and  at 


754 


Bank  Failures  and  their  Remedies. 


[June 


last,  when  some  of  their  bills  or 
acceptances  were  returned  from 
London,  the  Bank  was  so  utterly 
empty  either  of  money  or  money's 
worth,  that  the  directors  themselves 
had  to  hang  up  the  placard  on  the 
doors  announcing  the  fall.  The 
collapse  was  so  unexpected  that  at 
first  people  talked  of  setting  the 
Bank  agoing  again  !  Vain  hope  ! 
— so  terribly  undeceived.  We  need 
not  revive,  the  memories  of  that 
appalling  time,  nor  narrate  the 
stages  by  which  hope  passed  into 
utter  despair.  But  to  complete 
our  statement  of  the  facts,  we 
may  add  that,  when  the  Bank's 
coffers  were  examined,  not  even 
the  gold  which  the  Bank  was 
required  by  law  to  hold  in  con- 
nection with  its  note  -  circulation, 
was  forthcoming.  As  the  City  of 
Glasgow  Bank  was  established  only 
six  years  before  the  Scottish  Bank 
Act  of  1845,  its  "authorised  "  note- 
circulation  (i.e.,  the  amount  of  notes 
which  it  was  allowed  to  issue  with- 
out holding  gold  for  them)  was  only 
£72,921 ;  but,  for  some  years  past, 
its  actual  note-issues  have  amount- 
ed to  about  £800,000,  for  which 
it  ought  to  have  kept  upwards  of 
£700,000  in  gold;  whereas  it  is 
now  apparent,  not  only  from  the 
emptiness  of  its  coffers  when  it 
closed,  but  from  the  private  or  in- 
terlined entries  in  the  Bank's  books, 
that  no  such  sum,  nor  anything 
approaching  to  it,  had  been  kept  in 
hand  at  all. 

Momentous  and  historically  in- 
teresting as  are  the  circumstances 
of  the  fall  of  this  great  Bank,  we 
here  recapitulate  them  because  they 
exhibit  in  the  completest  and  most 
striking  form  all  the  perils  which 
can  possibly  attend  banking.  Ima- 
gination itself  could  not  conceive 
any  worse  case;  indeed,  imagina- 
tion, in  the  form  of  public  expecta- 
tion, at  first  refused  to  realise  the 
truth.  But  here,  in  this  single 


case,  the  public  have  clearly  before 
them  all  the  perils  and  disasters, 
against  the  occurrence  of  which  in 
the  future  they  now,  most  naturally, 
desire  to  guard  themselves. 

The  vast  possibilities  of  loss  con- 
nected with  banking  arise  from  the 
fact  of  its  trading  mainly  with  other 
people's  money,  only  a  very  small 
part  of  which  is  called  for  at  any 
given  time.  A  good-going  bank  is 
constantly  receiving  money  from 
year  to  year,  and  even  from  day 
to  day,  which  fraudulent  directors 
can  employ  to  cover  their  con- 
temporaneous losses.  It  is  the 
normal  condition  of  banks  that 
the  deposits  steadily  augment,  in- 
creasing with  the  growing  wealth  of 
the  country.  For  example,  in  1867 
the  deposits  of  the  City  of  Glasgow 
Bank  were  £5,300,000  ;  when  it 
stopped  they  were  £8,300,000, — 
an  increase  of  upwards  of  £270,000 
per  annum  throughout  these  eleven 
years.  In  other  words,  every  work- 
ing day,  despite  the  money  paid  out 
to  depositors,  nearly  £1000  was 
added  to  the  money  intrusted  to  its 
keeping.  Thus  the  Bank  could 
actually  make  losses  to  the  amount 
of  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  million 
a-year,  after  its  own  capital  was 
gone,  and  still  have  money  enough 
in  hand  to  meet  the  ordinary 
demands  upon  it.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  the  loss  of  the  City  of 
Glasgow  Bank  has  been  on  a 
somewhat  greater  scale  even  than 
this, — the  loss  being  at  the  rate 
of  £300,000  a-year  since  1857. 
In  this  way,  then — owing  to  the 
constant  increase  of  the  deposits — 
an  insolvent  bank  may  hold  on  its 
course  for  years,  and  until,  as  in 
the  case  of  the  Glasgow  Bank,  nearly 
the  whole  mass  of  the  deposits  has 
been  swept  away,  leaving  the  share- 
holders to  make  good  the  amount 
if  they  can. 

Now,  then,  what  is  to  be  done? 
All  the  remedial  proposals  which 


Bank  Failures  and  their  Remedies. 


1879.] 


Lave  been  made,  or  which  possibly 
can  be  made,  resolve  themselves 
under  two  heads  :  either  to  put  new 
restrictions  upon  the  banks'  power 
of  dealing  with  the  money  intrust- 
ed to  their  keeping,  or  to  relax  the 
liability  of  the  bank  proprietors  in 
connection  with  this  money.  Nei- 
ther of  these  proposals  is  desirable 
in  itself;  both  of  them  are  attended 
by  evils;  and  whether  or  not  they 
should  be  adopted  turns  entirely 
upon  the  question,  not  very  readily 
determinable,  whether  the  benefits 
to  be  so  obtained  are  in  excess  of 
the  evils  or  disadvantages  which 
must  accompany  them.  To  restrict 
the  opportunities  for  evil  in  bank- 
ing is  also  to  restrict  its  benefits ; 
and  to  make  banking  safe  for  the 
shareholders,  by  diminishing  their 
liabilities,  is  to  make  it  anything 
but  safe  for  the  public. 

Hitherto,  and  naturally,  when 
any  serious  bank  failures  have  oc- 
curred, the  first  thought  has  been 
given  to  the  interests  of  the  public. 
The  desire  has  been  to  protect  the 
depositors,  who  have  intrusted  their 
money  to  the  banks.  On  the 
present  occasion,  however,  the  case 
has  been  quite  otherwise.  The  sym- 
pathies of  the  public  have  been 
profoundly  affected  by  the  deplor- 
able sufferings  which  have  overtaken 
the  proprietors  of  the  fallen  banks  : 
and  under  this  temporary  emotion, 
although  produced  by  a  wholly  ex- 
ceptional disaster,  there  has  arisen 
a  desire  to  relieve  bank  proprietors 
from  a  portion  of  their  liability  to 
repay  the  money  intrusted  to  their 
keeping.  What  the  public  desires 
is  always  regarded  as  a  good  thing ; 
and  when  that  desire  has  been 
given  effect  to  by  an  Act  of  Par- 
liament, people  cease  to  consider 
whether  it  is  good  or  bad :  but  we 
are  not  convinced  that  the  present 
desire  for  relaxing  the  liability  of 
bank  proprietors  is  widely  enter- 
tained, and  we  should  be  sorry  to 


755 


see  any  change  made  in  our  bank- 
ing system,  especially  in  our  Scots 
system,  except  after  very  careful 
consideration.  It  is  natural  that 
banks  should  take  advantage  of  the 
present  state  of  popular  feeling  in 
order  to  reduce  their  own  liabilities 
to  the  public  ;  and  certainly  it  has 
been  the  banks,  chiefly  some  of  the 
London  banks,  who  have  urged  the 
Government  to  make  a  legislative 
change  in  this  direction. 

So  far  as  regards  the  general 
public,  or  their  mouthpieces  the 
newspapers,  there  has  been  no 
definite  suggestion  of  remedies. 
While  the  desire  that  "  something 
should  be  done"  was  generally 
expressed,  there  was  not  any  con- 
currence of  opinion  as  to  what 
ought  to  be  done ;  and  we  incline 
to  think  that  the  public  desire  was 
rather  a  mere  outcome  of  the  sym- 
pathy for  the  suffering  bank  share- 
holders than  any  deliberate  or  re- 
cognised wish  that  the  liability  of 
banking  companies  should  be  re- 
duced, and  "limited"  like  ordinary 
joint-stock  undertakings.  Be  this 
as  it  may,  undoubtedly  the  Govern- 
ment was  expected  to  "do  some- 
thing :  "  and  immediately  after  the 
reassembling  of  Parliament  in  Feb- 
ruary, the  Chancellor  of  the  Ex- 
chequer gave  notice  of  his  intention 
to  bring  in  a  Bill  relating  to  joint- 
stock  banks.  The  public  have  now 
to  say  whether  they  have  got  what 
they  wanted  :  and  in  determining 
this  point,  they  will  have  to  make 
up  their  mind — which  we  suspect 
they  have  not  hitherto  done — as  to 
what  they  really  do  want. 

The  new  Bill  is  a  very  moderate 
one.  In  introducing  it,  the  Chan- 
cellor of  the  Exchequer  wisely  de- 
precated "  panic  legislation  : "  and 
a  consideration  of  the  Bill  suggests 
that,  of  his  own  judgment,  he 
would  have  preferred  to  do  nothing 
at  all ;  but,  since  the  Government 
was  expected  to  "  do  something,"  he 


756 


Bank  Failures  and  their  Remedies. 


has  complied  with  the  public  desire 
in  the  most  moderate  manner  pos- 
sible. We  are  doubtful  whether  the 
Bill  will  do  any  good  •  but  whether 
its  principle  (viz.,  of  reducing  the 
liability  of  banks  to  repay  their 
depositors)  be  right  or  wrong,  its 
provisions  at  least  are  harmless. 

It  is  true  that  the  Bill,  as  origin- 
ally framed,  contains  a  clause  which 
we  regard  as  positively  objectionable 
in  itself,  and  objectionable  also  as 
regards  the  manner  in  which  it  was 
brought  forward.  We  refer  to  the 
clause  whereby  the  Scots  banks 
which  do  business  in  London  are 
prohibited  from  availing  themselves 
of  the  presumed  benefits  conferred 
by  the  Bill  unless  they  close  their 
London  offices  and  restrict  their 
banking  business  to  Scotland,  or  else 
give  up  their  right  to  issue  notes. 
Five  years  ago,  Mr  Goschen,  as 
spokesman  for  the  London  banks, 
brought  in  a  Bill,  the  sole  object 
of  which  was  to  compel  the  Scots 
banks  to  withdraw  from  London. 
It  was  a  Bill  based  upon  class 
rivalry — framed  expressly  to  give 
a  monopoly  to  the  London  banks, 
antagonistic  to  the  principle  of  fair- 
play  and  competition,  such  as  has 
long  been  established  in  every 
branch  of  industry  in  the  United 
Kingdom, — albeit  banking,  in  some 
important  respects,  is  still  excepted. 
Mr  Goschen's  Bill  fell  dead :  and 
it  seems  strange  that  a  proposal  of 
this  kind  should  be  revived  in  the 
present  Bill.  It  is  true  that,  in 
the  present  Bill,  the  exclusion  of 
the  Scots  banks  from  London  is 
not  proposed  absolutely :  but  the 
wish  to  do  so  is  plainly  there ;  and 
it  indicates  unmistakably  that,  as 
we  have  already  said,  it  is  the  Lon- 
don bankers  who  have  been  the 
Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer's  chief 
advisers,  and  perhaps,  we  may  say, 
the  real  authors  of  the  present  Bill. 
We  can  only  wonder  that  a  states- 
man of  the  sound  judgment  and 


[June 


broad  sympathies  which  distinguish 
the  present  Chancellor  of  the  Ex- 
chequer, should  have  given  any 
countenance  to  a  retrograde  pro- 
posal of  this  kind,  and  should  have 
introduced  it,  as  by  a  side-wind, 
into  a  measure  with  which  it  has 
no  natural  connection. 

The  most  probable  explanation, 
as  seems  to  us,  is  of  a  kind  which 
of  itself  possesses  much  interest  to 
the  banking  community,  and  espe- 
cially to  the  banks  of  Scotland. 
The  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer 
stated  that  ere  long  our  whole 
banking  system  will  have  to  be 
reconsidered;  and  any  one  who 
has  paid  attention  to  the  opinions 
on  this  subject  expressed  by  our 
leading  statesmen  during  the  last 
eight  or  ten  years,  must  be  aware 
that  the  great  change  contemplated 
by  these  authorities  is  to  abolish 
the  existing  bank-notes  altogether, 
and  to  claim  the  "  right  of  issue  " 
for  the  State.  Also,  in  introducing 
the  present  Bill,  the  Chancellor  of 
the  Exchequer  stated  that,  with  a 
view  to  the  larger  measure  which 
was  impending,  it  behoved  him  to 
take  care  lest  he  increased  the  ob- 
stacles in  the  way  of  that  impending 
measure.  All  this  being  interpret- 
ed is,  that  as  the  Scots  banks  must 
be  compensated  for  the  loss  of  their 
note  -  issues  when  the  impending 
change  is  made,  it  is  expedient  to 
deprive  them  in  advance  of  this 
old  and  valuable  privilege  and  pro- 
perty. 

Apart  from  this  foreign,  and  we 
may  say  interpolated,  clause,  the 
purport  of  the  Bill  is  to  promote 
and  facilitate  the  reduction  by 
banks  and  joint-stock  companies  of 
their  existing  liability  to  pay  their 
debts.  The  Bill  professedly  applies 
to  joint-stock  companies  of  all  kinds 
— it  is  "A  Banking  and  Joint-stock 
Companies  Bill ; "  but,  in  effect, 
it  is  designed  specially  for  banks ; 
and  it  proposes  to  enable  these 


1879.] 


Bank  Failures  and  their  Remedies. 


757 


establishments  to  reduce  their  lia- 
bility to  repay  the  money  intrusted 
to  their  keeping,  and  by  trading  in 
which  they  obtain  by  far  the  largest 
amount  of  their  profits.  Now  it 
must  be  remembered  —  surely  it 
cannot  for  a  moment  be  forgotten 
— that  "unlimited  liability,"  the 
duty  to  pay  one's  debts  in  full, 
is  both  ordinary  law  and  common 
justice.  It  is  not  a  peculiar  or 
exceptional  obligation ;  it  is  the 
"  common  law  "  of  this  and  of  every 
civilised  country/  and  indeed  of 
every  part  of  the  world  where  Law 
is  established  and  justice  recognised. 
It  is  the  law  under  which  every  in- 
dividual, trader  or  non-trader,  car- 
ries on  his  business  or  expenditure. 
It  is  the  normal  condition  under 
which  trade,  and  all  private  life, 
goes  on.  The  "limited"  system  is 
of  recent  date ;  and  it  may  be 
granted  that  the  "tendency  of  the 
age "  is  in  favour  of  it,  at  least  as 
regards  commercial  enterprise.  But, 
of  all  trades,  Banking  has  the  least 
claim  to  enjoy  a  limited  liability 
for  its  debts.  It  stands  apart  from 
all  other  trading  business  in  this 
most  important  respect,  that  it 
trades  largely,  indeed  chiefly,  with 
other  people's  money.  The  respon- 
sibilities of  banking  being  greater, 
its  obligations  ought  likewise  to  be 
greater,  —  certainly  not  less  than 
prevails  in  any  kind  of  trade. 
Public  opinion,  of  course,  must  de- 
termine the  matter  :  if  "  limited  " 
banking  is  to  be  the  order  of  the  day, 
so  be  it :  but  no  one  can  dissent  if 
we  say,  as  a  fact,  that  banking  is 
the  last  trade  to  which  the  limited 
system  ought  to  be  applied,  and  in 
regard  to  which  the  application  of 
that  system  should  be  most  jeal- 
ously watched  by  the  community. 
A  vital  element  of  a  bank's  credit 
and  popularity  will  always  consist 
in  the  extent  of  its  liability  to  repay 
its  depositors.  Nevertheless,  when 
we  come  to  examine  this  matter,  it 


will  be  found,  as  a  practical  affair, 
that  a  bank's  liability  to  its  credi- 
tors depends  chiefly  upon  conditions 
quite  irrespective  of  whether  that 
liability  be  limited  or  unlimited  in 
the  eye  of  the  law. 

It  may  surprise  the  public  to 
learn  how  extensively  the  "lim- 
ited" system  prevails  among  the 
banking  companies  of  the  kingdom, 
and  also  that  the  oldest  of  our 
joint-stock  banks,  which  stand  in 
the  first  rank  of  such  establish- 
ments, have  existed  from  the  first 
under  the  limited  system.  It  has 
always  been  commonly  believed 
that  a  fundamental  principle  of 
the  Scottish  banking  system  has 
been  that  of  unlimited  liability — 
that  every  shareholder  is  respon- 
sible for  the  debts  of  the  bank  to 
the  full  extent  of  his  means.  Mr 
Gilbart,  the  highest  authority  of 
his  day  on  banking  subjects,  when 
describing  the  distinctive  features 
of  the  Scots  system  in  his  'Prac- 
tical Treatise  on  Banking,'  stated 
that  "  the  private  fortune  of  every 
partner  is  answerable  for  the  debts 
of  the  bank."  It  has  been  the 
boast  of  Scotland  that  never  yet 
has  the  public,  or  any  single  de- 
positor, lost  a  shilling  by  the  fail- 
ure of  any  of  our  banks ;  and  this 
proud  result  has  certainly  been 
owing  to  the  fact  that  every  Scots 
bank  which  has  failed  has  been 
founded  upon  the  common-law  or 
unlimited  principle  of  liability. 
But  it  now  appears  unquestionable 
that  our  three  "  old  banks  " — name- 
ly, the  Bank  of  Scotland,  the  Royal, 
and  the  British  Linen  Company — 
are  limited  banks  in  the  strictest 
sense  of  the  term.  And  so  also  is 
the  Bank  of  England.  This,  we  re- 
peat, is  quite  contrary  to  the  old  and 
ordinary  belief:  and,  as  a  matter  of 
law,  the  point  has  remained  a  mat- 
ter of  question  almost  up  to  the 
present  time.  The  explanation  is, 
that  these  banks  are  chartered  cor- 


758 


Bank  Failures  and  their  Remedies. 


[June 


porations ;  and  (besides  a  little- 
noticed  statement  upon  the  point 
contained  in  the  Report  of  the 
Parliamentary  Committee  of  both 
Houses  in  1826,  and  repeated  by 
Sir  R.  Peel  in  1844)  in  the  recent 
case  of  "  The  City  of  Glasgow  Bank 
v.  Muir  and  Others,"  it  was  dis- 
tinctly laid  down  by  both  the 
Scots  and  English  Judges  that 
"  a  corporation  is  not  liable  beyond 
the  amount  of  its  own  subscribed 
funds."  This  enunciation  of  the 
law,  it  is  true,  was  made  without 
any  reference  to  the  above-men- 
tioned chartered  banks,  and  simply 
with  reference  to  "  corporations " 
in  general ;  but  it  is  now  beyond 
question  that  the  three  old  Scots 
banks,  in  common  with  the  Bank 
of  England,  are,  as  corporations, 
exempt  from  any  liability  to  their 
creditors  beyond  the  amount  of  their 
subscribed  capital.  This  is  also 
officially  shown  by  a  Government 
return,  just  published,  in  which  the 
banks  of  the  United  Kingdom  are 
classed  under  separate  heads  as 
"limited"  and  "unlimited." 

This  parliamentary  return  is  high- 
ly interesting  in  many  respects.  In 
the  first  place,  it  shows  the  actual 
and  relative  extent  to  which  the 
rival  systems  of  limited  and  un- 
limited liability  prevail  in  our  bank- 
ing system.  Of  the  133  joint-stock 
banks  of  the  kingdom,  80  are  lim- 
ited and  53  are  unlimited.  The 
Limited  banks  show,  in  the  aggre- 
gate, a  "nominal"  or  subscribed 
capital  of  £76,787,326,  a  paid-up 
capital  of  £19,276,292,  and  the 
number  of  shareholders  is  38,818. 
The  Unlimited  banks  show  a  nomi- 
nal capital  of  £66,806,100,  a  paid- 
up  capital  of  £22,671,215,  and  the 
number  of  shareholders  is  51,601. 
Thus  the  number  of  limited  com- 
pared with  unlimited  joint- stock 
banks  is  nearly  as  8  to  5 ;  their 
nominal  capital  is  fully  one-sixth 
more,  while  their  paid-up  capital  is 


somewhat  less  than  that  of  the  un- 
limited banks;  but  the  number  of 
shareholders  in  the  unlimited  banks 
is  nearly  one- third  greater  than  in 
the  limited.  This  latter  fact  shows 
that  whatever  may  be  the  extent  of 
the  present  panic  as  to  the  perils 
of  unlimited  liability  in  banking, 
no  such  apprehension  has  hitherto 
prevailed. 

The  statistics  given  in  this  return 
bring  out  clearly  the  highly  import- 
ant point  which  we  have  already 
stated — namely,  that  the  real  and 
practical  liability  of  a  bank  —  its 
actual  reserve  -  liability  to  pay  its 
debts  —  cannot  be  judged  of  by 
its  legal  title  and  constitution, 
whether  that  be  limited  or  un- 
limited. The  actual  liability  of 
a  limited  bank  is  measurable  by 
the  difference  between  its  paid-up 
and  its  nominal  capital — in  other 
words,  by  the  amount  of  its  capital 
subscribed  but  not  paid-up.  And 
in  some  cases  this  of  itself  amounts, 
as  a  practical  matter,  to  unlimited 
liability.  It  is  rarely  that  any  bank 
fails  for  an  amount  exceeding,  or 
even  equalling,  five  times  its  sub- 
scribed capital :  indeed  we  believe 
the  City  of  Glasgow  Bank  is  the 
only  one  which  has  ever  contracted 
debt  to  this  amount.  And  the  liqui- 
dation of  this  fallen  bank,  as  well  as 
other  experience,  shows  that,  with  the 
exception  of  a  few  millionaires,  the 
shareholders  of  banks  or  other  joint- 
stock  companies  are  utterly  unable  to 
pay  five  or  six  times  the  amount  of 
their  shares,  even  if  they  be  "sold 
up  "  to  the  uttermost  farthing.  A 
"call"  for  five  times  the  amount  of  the 
shares,  with  a  very  few  exceptions, 
sweeps  the  whole  body  of  share- 
holders into  bankruptcy.  Practi- 
cally, therefore,  unlimited  liability 
becomes  a  worthless  guarantee  be- 
yond (say)  five  times  the  amount 
of  the  share-capital  when  fully  paid 
up.  No  doubt  the  list  of  share- 
holders may  comprise  a  millionaire 


1879.] 


Bank  Failures  and  their  Remedies. 


759 


or  two,  whose  vast  wealth  may  suc- 
cessfully be  drawn  upon  to  make 
good  the  remaining  deficit  \  but 
still,  we  repeat,  unlimited  liability 
may  be  regarded  as  worthless  to 
secure  payment  of  debts  exceeding 
five  or  six  times  the  amount  of  the 
capital  actually  paid  up.  Accord- 
ingly, the  credit  of  a  bank,  so  far 
as  the  question  of  legal  liability  is 
concerned,  depends  very  little  upon 
whether  the  bank  is  limited  or 
unlimited,  but  chiefly  upon  the 
proportion  by  which  the  subscribed 
capital  exceeds  the  portion  paid  up. 
An  unlimited  bank,  with  all  its 
capital  paid  up,  really  gives  no 
greater  security  to  the  public  than 
a  limited  bank  in  which  the  sub- 
scribed or  nominal  capital  largely 
exceeds  the  capital  paid  up. 

Now,  even  taking  in  the  aggre- 


gate the  statistics  of  the  limited 
banks  given  in  this  parliamentary 
return,  it  appears  that  only  a  fourth 
part  (19  millions  out  of  76)  of  the 
capital  due  upon  their  shares  has 
been  paid  up ;  so  that  these  banks 
might  lose,  or  incur  debts  to  the 
amount  of,  four  times  the  amount 
of  their  paid-up  or  actual  trading 
capital,  and  yet  the  shareholders 
would  be  liable  to  make  good  the 
entire  sum.  When  such  is  the 
average  "reserve  liability"  (to  use 
the  new  phrase)  of  these  limited 
banks,  it  is  needless  to  say  that 
many  of  them  stand  much  more 
favourably  as  regards  the  security, 
so  far  as  legal  liability  is  concerned, 
which  they  offer  to  the  public.  As 
examples,  selected  somewhat  at  ran- 
dom, of  such  banks,  we  may  men- 
tion the  following  ones  : — 


LIMITED    BANKS. 


Birmingham  Banking  Co. , 
Lancashire  and  Yorkshire  Bank, 
London  and  Provincial  Bank, 
National  Bank  of  New  Zealand 
Union  Bank  of  Birmingham, 
Western  District  Bank,    . 
Anglo-Belgian  Bank, 


Nominal 

Paid-up 

Capital. 

Capital. 

£2,000,000 

£160,000 

1,000,000 

50,000 

1,000,000 

199,465 

2,000,000 

350.000 

1,000,000 

50',050 

700,000 

14,773 

2,000,000 

3,250 

Proportion  of 

Nominal  to 
Paid-up  Capital. 

12J  times. 
20      „ 
5 


20 

46 

600 


Here,  then,  the  reserve-liability 
of  these  limited  banks  ranges  from 
five  up  to  ten,  twenty,  and  even 
forty  times  the  amount  of  the  paid- 
up  capital — that  is,  the  capital  at 
present  actually  invested  in  their 
business.  Thus,  for  all  practical 
purposes,  there  is  no  difference  be- 
tween them  and  unlimited  banks : 
for,  as  already  said,  the  heaviest 
loss  ever  incurred  in  banking  (viz., 
that  of  the  City  of  Glasgow  Bank) 
has  barely  exceeded  six  times  the 
amount  of  its  paid-up  or  invested 
capital ;  and  further,  experience 
shows  that  no  ordinary  body  of 
bank  shareholders  can  meet  so 
heavy  a  liability  without  being 
utterly  ruined.  On  the  other  hand, 


there  are  a  few  limited  banks  whose 
subscribed  capital  is  almost  or 
wholly  paid  up  (like  the  Agra  Bank 
and  Anglo-Egyptian);  and  conse- 
quently these  banks  offer  little  or 
no  reserve-liability,  and  therefore, 
quoad  hoc,  stand  in  a  very  inferior 
position  to  the  unlimited  banks. 

It  is  obvious,  therefore,  that  the 
fact  of  a  bank  being  limited  or  un- 
limited is  no  criterion  whatever  of 
the  security  which  it  offers  to  the 
public,  and  that  nearly  one-half  of 
the  limited  banks  practically  possess 
as  large  a  reserve- liability  as  any 
unlimited  bank  does — being  liable 
for  from  five  to  ten  times  the 
amount  of  capital  invested  in  their 
business.  Moreover,  not  a  few  of 


760 


Bank  Failures  and  their  Remedies. 


the  limited  banks,  and  also  of  the 
unlimited  companies  have  reserve- 
funds,  which  further  strengthen 
their  position.  The  public  must 
look  not  to  the  legal  title  and 
constitution  of  a  bank,  but  to  its 
actual  position  at  any  given  time, 
as  shown  by  the  proportion  which 
its  paid-up  capital  bears  to  its  nom- 
inal capital, — every  limited  bank 
being  liable  to  the  full  amount  of 
this  latter  sum. 

So  much  for  the  question  between 
limited  and  unlimited  banks.  But 
there  is  another  and  wholly  dif- 
ferent element  of  consideration  in 
judging  of  the  security  offered  by 
any  bank.  Not  less,  and  in  some 
cases  much  more,  important  than 
the  credit  which  a  bank  possesses 
from  its  capital  or  reserve-liability, 
is  the  credit  due  to  hereditary  or 
long- established  good  management. 
We  know  no  more  striking  examples 
of  this  latter  and  most  honourable 
kind  of  credit  and  prestige  than 
that  of  the  "  old  banks "  of  Scot- 
land, and  also  the  Bank  of  England. 
In  consequence  of  their  charters,  all 
of  these  banks  are  "limited  :  "  they 
are  not  liable  for  a  shilling  of  debt 
beyond  the  amount  of  their  nominal 
capital ;  while  the  nominal  capital 
has  long  ago  been  fully  paid  up  by 
three  of  these  banks — viz.,  the  Bank 
of  England,  the  Eoyal  Bank  of  Scot- 
land, and  the  British  Linen  Com- 
pany; while,  in  the  case  of  the 
fourth,  viz.  the  Bank  of  Scotland, 
the  nominal  capital  has  been  paid 
up  to  the  extent  of  two-thirds.  Yet 
are  there  any  banks  in  the  kingdom 
which  stand  higher  in  the  confi- 
dence of  the  public  than  these1? 
Not  only  has  their  solvency  been 
maintained  throughout  many  gen- 
erations, but  even  their  credit  has 
remained  unquestioned  during  all 
the  monetary  tempests  which  have 
repeatedly  swept  over  the  kingdom. 
Under  the  absurd  and  pernicious 


[June 


restrictions  imposed  upon  it  by  the 
Act  of  1844,  the  Bank  of  England 
has  thrice  during  the  last  thirty 
years  been  placed  in  artificial  em- 
barrassments, requiring  the  law  to 
be  suspended  in  its  favour,  although 
without  its  credit  being  for  a  mo- 
ment shaken.  But  these  three  "  old 
banks  "  of  Scotland,  fettered  though 
they  have  been  since  1845  by  sim- 
ilar legislation,  have  successfully 
withstood  every  crisis,  from  that  of 
1826  downwards.  They  have  not 
needed  to  ask  for  a  relaxation  of  the 
restrictions  which  an  absurd  legis- 
lation has  imposed  upon  them ; 
and,  it  may  be  added,  had  they 
needed  such  a  relaxation,  it  would 
not  have  been  granted  to  them  ! 

Not  until  after  the  present  Bill 
has  become  law  shall  we  be  able  to 
know  the  extent  to  which  the  (at 
present)  unlimited  banks  intend  to 
avail  themselves  of  its  facilities  for 
"  limitation."  And  it  will  be  an 
important  matter  for  the  public  to 
observe  the  manner  and  extent  to 
which  the  new  facilities  are  em- 
ployed by  the  several  banks.  As 
already  shown,  a  large  number  of 
the  limited  banks  are  at  present 
(and  so  long  as  their  paid-up  capi- 
tal is  kept  at  its  present  proportion 
to  the  nominal  capital)  for  all  prac- 
tical purposes  unlimited.  Apply- 
ing the  same  test  to  the  unlimited 
banks,  it  appears  that,  despite  the 
new  Bill,  many  of  them  will  remain 
practically  unlimited.  Taking  the 
unlimited  banks  in  the  aggregate, 
it  appears  that  only  one-third  (22 
millions  out  of  66)  of  their  nominal 
capital  has  been  paid  up ;  so  that, 
even  if  "  limited  to  the  full  extent," 
they  would  be  liable  for  three  times 
the  amount  of  their  invested  capital. 
With  nearly  one  -  half  of  these 
unlimited  banks,  of  course,  the 
surplus  of  nominal  over  paid  -  up 
capital  is  considerably  larger :  for 
example  : — 


1879.] 


Bank  Failures  and  their  Remedies. 


761 


UNLIMITED   BANKS. 


London  and  Westminster, 
London  Joint- Stock, 
West  Riding  Union,       . 
Capital  and  Counties,     . 


Accordingly,  some  of  the  unlimited 
banks  must  remain,  for  long  (i.e., 
until  in  course  of  time  they  call  up 
their  capital),  practically  unlimited, 
even  were  they  to  become  limited 
in  the  strictest  sense  in  the  eye  of 
the  law,  by  Act  of  Parliament. 
The  new  Bill  does  not  enable  any 
bank  to  reduce  the  amount  of  its 
subscribed  or  nominal  capital,  but 
only  to  limit  its  liability  to  two  or 
more  times  that  amount.  Any 
bank,  however,  without  legislation 
or  any  change  in  its  constitution, 
may  reduce  its  present  reserve- 
liability  by  increasing  its  paid-up 
capital,  while  not  increasing  its  nom- 
inal capital :  so  that  a  bank's  practi- 
cal liability  to  its  depositors  may  be 
varied  from  time  to  time.  Indeed, 
we  cannot  state  too  strongly  that  the 
mere  fact  of  a  bank  being  limited  or 
unlimited,  is  no  criterion  whatever 
as  to  the  actual  liability  which  at- 
taches to  it.  The  public  must  exa- 
mine its  position  at  any  given  time 
for  themselves ;  and  as  regards  the 
present  position  of  the  banks  of  the 
kingdom,  it  is  set  forth  clearly  in 
the  recent  parliamentary  return  al- 
ready referred  to,  where,  for  each 
of  them,  the  nominal  and  paid-up 
capital  is  given. 

Considering  the  facts  now  passed 
in  review,  we  hold,  and  we  think 
it  will  be  admitted,  that  the  proper 
datum  or  basis  in  regulating  the 
reserve-liability  of  banks  is  not 
the  nominal  capital,  but  the  capital 
paid  u}),  actually  invested  in  busi- 
ness, and  which  has  to  be  lost 
before  the  reserve-liability  comes 
into  play.  And  if  legislation  is  to 
deal  afresh  with  the  matter — or 


Nominal 
Capital. 

£10,000,000 
4,000,000 
3,160,600 
2,500,000 

Paid-up 
Capital. 

£2,000,000 
1,200,000 
316,060 
300,000 

Proportion  of 
Nominal  to 
Paid-up  Capital. 

5  times. 
3-^     it 
10       „ 

if,  in  the  face  of  long  experience, 
banking  is  to  be  treated  as  a  trade 
full  of  hazards  and  fraud, — we  hold 
that  the  rule  ought  to  be  that  every 
bank  should  be  liable  for  so  many 
times  the  amount  of  its  paid-up 
capital.  The  public  would  then 
know,  readily  and  exactly,  how 
every  bank  stood  relatively  to  its 
liability  for  its  debts.  The  liability 
would  be  uniform  ;  it  would  also 
be  constant  and  invariable ;  and 
further,  it  would  be  well  known. 
To  do  this,  perhaps,  would  require 
a  general  Banking  Bill.  But  is  the 
panic  really  so  great — are  the  public 
so  afraid  of  a  speedy  recurrence  of 
so  exceptional  a  disaster  as  that 
of  the  fall  of  the  City  of  Glasgow 
Bank, — that  we  should  press  for 
immediate  legislation,  which  must 
be  merely  fractional,  and  totally 
inadequate  as  a  permanent  settle- 
ment 1 

There  is  one  matter  connected 
with  the  new  Banking  Bill  which 
is  hardly  satisfactory.  The  purport 
of  the  Bill  is  to  give  facilities  to 
unlimited  banks  to  become  limited. 
Now  any  banking  or  other  company 
is  at  liberty,  under  the  law  as  it 
stands,  to  reconstitute  itself  under 
conditions  of  limited  liability ;  and 
if  the  object  of  the  present  legisla- 
tion were  simply  to  save  trouble 
and  expense  in  making  jsuch  a 
change,  no  one  could  object.  But 
it  seems  that  what  is  wanted  is  not 
to  save  expense,  but  to  avoid  pub- 
licity. The  Chancellor  of  the  Ex- 
chequer, in  introducing  the  Bill, 
stated  that  the  banking  companies, 
or  at  least  those  at  whose  instance 
he  framed  the  Bill,  were  mortally 


762 


Bank  Failures  and  their  Remedies. 


[June 


afraid  of  the  loss  of  credit  which 
would  befall  them  if  their  change 
from  "unlimited"  to  "limited" 
were  brought  under  the  notice  of 
their  customers  in  the  elaborate 
and  public  manner  requisite  under 
the  law  as  it  stands.  And,  as  the 
Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  said 
frankly,  it  was  to  meet  the  wishes 
or  terrors  of  these  banks,  by  les- 
sening the  publicity  of  the  change, 
that  the  present  Bill  was  intro- 
duced. We  cannot  admire  such 
procedure.  In  practical  result  it 
may  be  harmless,  but  there  is  a 
very  mean  look  about  it.  Indeed 
we  may  go  further,  and  say  that  it 
is  not  fair  to  those  unlimited  banks 
which  choose  to  remain  unlimited 
that  the  change  to  limited  liability 
made  by  others  of  their  number 
should  be  screened  from  public 
notice.  If  there  be  any  virtue  in 
unlimited  liability — as  in  the  ab- 
stract there  undoubtedly  is  —  the 
banks  which  bravely  and  honour- 
ably prefer  to  remain  unlimited, 
acknowledging  the  common  -  law 
liability  to  pay  debts  in  full,  ought 
not  to  lose  any  part  of  the  benefit 
of  their  superior  position  through 
their  more  timid  comrades  obtain- 
ing special  legal  facilities  for  chang- 
ing into  a  lower  grade  "  in  a  quiet 
sort  of  way." 

For  the  present,  at  least,  there 
need  be  no  apprehension  on  the 
part  of  the  public  that  the  banks 
of  the  kingdom  will  restrict  their 
liability  to  their  depositors  to  an 
undue  extent.  Many  of  the  banks, 
whether  limited  or  otherwise  in  the 
eye  of  the  law,  will  continue  to 
offer  to  the  public  ample  security. 
And  their  example  and  competition 
will  prevent  others  from  seeking  to 
enter  upon  an  opposite  course.  It 
is  obvious,  however,  that  this  com- 
petition would  cease,  and  the  public 
would  have  no  choice,  if  all  the 
banks  were  to  combine  and  reduce 
their  liability  to  their  depositors  to 


the  most  limited  extent.  But  in 
such  a  case  the  public  would  have 
to  take  measures  to  protect  their 
rights,  their  money ;  and  the  nat- 
ural result  would  be  to  create  a 
demand  that  the  banks  should  be 
likewise  limited  in  their  employ- 
ment of  the  money  intrusted  to 
their  keeping.  There  would  be  a 
demand  that  every  bank  should 
keep  in  hand  a  Reserve  in  connec- 
tion with  its  Deposits;  such  as  is 
established  by  law  in  the  United 
States,  where  all  the  banks  are 
"  limited,"  and  where  every  bank, 
besides  keeping  a  reserve  for  its 
note-circulation,  has  to  keep  a  re- 
serve in  cash  equal  to  one-fourth 
of  its  deposits.  Such  an  arrange- 
ment seriously  lessens  the  economy 
of  capital  which  it  is  the  special 
object  of  banking  to  effect,  and  we 
trust  it  will  never  need  to  be  intro- 
duced into  this  country.  It  would 
diminish  the  profits  of  bankers,  but 
it  would  likewise  diminish  the  ben- 
efits of  banking  to  the  general  com- 
munity. It  is  to  be  deprecated 
upon  every  ground,  save  that  of 
increased  security  for  deposits  :  and 
we  sincerely  hope,  and  confidently 
believe,  that  our  banks  will  con- 
tinue, whether  by  good  manage- 
ment or  reserve-liability,  to  give 
such  ample  security  to  the  pub- 
lic as  to  render  this,  or  any  such 
like  restriction,  as  unnecessary  as, 
under  ordinary  circumstances,  it  is 
undesirable. 

Calmly  considering  the  whole 
case — bearing  in  mind  that  the  fact 
of  a  bank  being  "  limited  "  does  not 
necessarily,  as  a  practical  matter, 
diminish  the  security  which  is  of- 
fered to  the  public,  nor  the  respon- 
sibility of  the  shareholders  below 
that  of  many  unlimited  banks — 
remembering,  too,  that  good  and 
honest  management  is  an  efficient 
guarantee  of  itself,  —  we  find  it 
difficult  to  admire,  or  even  to 
attach  importance,  to  the  present 


1879.] 


Sank  Failures  and  their  Remedies. 


763 


Bill.  There  would  have  been  no 
such  Bill  but  for  the  fall  of  the 
City  of  Glasgow  Bank :  and  to  legis- 
late for  so  extremely  exceptional 
an  outcome  of  persistent  fraud 
and  wild  mismanagement  is  like 
legislating  for  a  phenomenon  of 
crime  such  as  possibly  may  occur 
once  in  three  hundred  years.  To 
our  eye,  the  word  "  Panic  "  is  writ 
large  across  the  face  of  the  Bill. 
It  is  not  designed  on  behalf  of  the 
creditors  of  banks,  whether  deposi- 
tors or  noteholders :  on  the  con- 
trary, it  diminishes  their  security. 
Its  special  object  is  to  give  increased 
security  to  bank  shares  as  a  form  of 
investment, — and  this  much,  not  as 
regards  the  public  at  large,  but  only 
as  regards  wealthy  individuals,  great 
capitalists — a  class  who,  above  all 
others,  are  best  able  to  look  after 
themselves.  No  doubt  it  is  ad- 
vantageous that  wealthy  persons 
should  be  comprised  among  bank 
shareholders,  as  a  security  to  the 
public;  but  the  advantage  ceases 
in  proportion  as  the  liability  of  the 
bank  is  limited ;  and  in  the  case 
of  a  strictly  limited  bank,  where 
the  shares  are  all  paid  up,  it  mat- 
ters not  a  straw  whether  there  be 
wealthy  men  or  not  in  the  list  of 
partners. 

The  fall  of  the  City  of  Glasgow 
Bank  has  caused  a  "scare"  as  to 
the  risks  of  banking.  So  far  from 
its  being  full  of  perils,  banking  is 
as  safe  a  kind  of  business  as  can 
be  carried  on.  The  money  is  ad- 
vanced for  short  periods,  and  in 
comparatively  small  sums :  it  is 
impossible  that  any  great  and  sud- 
den loss  can  occur  :  there  must  be 
a  persistency  of  bad  management 
in  "  throwing  good  money  after 
bad."  This  rarely  occurs  except 
when,  as  in  the  case  of  the  City 
of  Glasgow  Bank,  the  directors  are 
personally  interested  in  continuing 
those  risky  or  hopeless  advances. 
The  last  five  years,  also,  has  been 


a  period  peculiarly  fraught  with 
temptations  to  this  perilous  course. 
The  collapse  of  trade  came  unex- 
pectedly, and  every  one  has  been 
confidently  expecting  a  speedy  re- 
vival: and  thus  banks  have  been 
tempted  to  continue  their  advances, 
throwing  good  money  after  bad,  in 
the  hope  that  their  customers  would 
soon  be  as  prosperous  again  as 
before.  Yet  how  few  are  the  banks 
which  have  yielded  to  this  tempta- 
tion !  They  may  be  counted  upon 
the  fingers  of  a  single  hand. 

What  is  mor^  such  a  course 
could  not  in  any  c\  <se  have  led  to 
ruin  except  through  ersistent  con- 
cealment and  actual  fr^  d.  A  bank 
cannot  lose  all  its  paid-up  capital 
in  a  few  months ;  and  yet,  until 
the  whole  of  this  large  amount  is 
lost,  and  the  reserve  -  fund  '"also, 
the  question  of  "  limited  "  or  "  un- 
limited" cannot  arise.  Until  this 
large  loss  is  complete,  the  most 
strictly  limited  bank  has  not  the 
smallest  advantage  over  the  most 
unlimited  one.  And  before  this  loss 
is  complete,  nothing  but  the  most 
deliberate  fraud  can  conceal  the  bad 
position  of  the  bank  from  its  share- 
holders. The  law  sternly  forbids 
the  payment  of  dividends  out  of 
capital,  and  the  dividends  must 
disappear  as  soon  as  a  bank  ceases 
to  make  profits ;  and  after  that,  the 
paid-up  capital  must  be  lost  before 
any  question  of  limited  or  unlimit- 
ed liability  can  arise.  Thus,  even 
granting  the  grossest  mismanage- 
ment, apart  from  deliberate  fraud 
on  the  part  of  directors,  the  share- 
holders have  ample  opportunities 
of  seeing  the  coining  danger  and 
stopping  it.  It  was  the  wicked 
course  of  fraud  pursued  by  the 
directors  of  the  Glasgow  Bank,  by 
paying  large  dividends  and  by  buy- 
ing up  the  shares  in  order  to  give 
them  a  fictitious  value  long  after 
the  bank  was  insolvent,  that  lulled 
the  shareholders  to  their  ruin.  It 


764 


Bank  Failures  and  their  Remedies. 


[June 


is  impossible  to  legislate  upon  the 
hypothesis  of  general  fraud.  To 
legislate  either  for  a  trade  or  a 
country  as  if  it  were  a  community 
of  rogues,  would  make  trade  im- 
practicable and  life  intolerable. 
The  law  deters  from  crime,  by 
enacting  penalties,  but  it  cannot 
prevent  its  occurrence. 

But  even  in  the  case  of  fraud,  are 
bank  shareholders  really  so  helpless 
as  seems  to  be  imagined?  Could 
the  fall  of  the  City  of  Glasgow  Bank 
have  happened  as  it  did  if  the  pro- 
prietors had  exercised  "  due  care  and 
diligence,"  such  as  the  law  expects 
and  common-sense  demands  1 

An  audit  is  certainly  no  new  or 
uncommon  thing  in  joint-stock  busi- 
ness; and  an  independent  audit, 
made  by  competent  accountants, 
would  keep  the  shareholders  suf- 
ficiently informed  of  the  position  of 
their  property  so  as  to  keep  them 
free  from  the  risks  of  unlimited,  or 
even  of  "  reserved  "  liability.  That 
is  the  point,  as  regards  the  present 
question.  Absolute  accuracy  is  not 
requisite.  If  the  audits  be  merely 
approximately  correct,  they  will  an- 
swer their  purpose  by  warning  the 
shareholders  of  danger  before  the 
loss  amounts  to  that  of  the  paid-up 
capital.  After  the  scandalous  fail- 
ure of  the  City  of  Glasgow  Bank,  a 
system  of  independent  audit  is  most 
desirable.  Nor  need  the  directors 
of  the  old  banks  consider  such  a 
course  in  any  way  derogatory  to 
their  well-established  honour  and 
reputation.  In  truth  it  has  been 
entirely  owing  to  the  perfectly  un- 
blemished and  unquestioned  honour 
of  the  directors  of  our  old  banks 
that  an  auditing  of  bank  accounts 
has  not  hitherto  been  regularly 
established.  It  is  owing  to  the 
spotless  reputation  of  the  directors 
of  our  old  banks  —  establishments 
all  of  which"  have  stood  the  strain 
of  a  century  and  more — that  the 
public  too  confidently  and  fatally 


trusted  the  new  member  of  their 
community  which  has  so  disgrace- 
fully perished. 

It  is  not  by  making  hundreds  of 
small  losses — by  discounting  as  good 
scores  of  small  bills  that  are  worth- 
less,   and  which  are  found   to   be 
worthless  as  they  fall  due  in  the 
course  of  three  months   or  there- 
abouts— that  banks  come  to  grief. 
It  is  by  making  huge  advances  to  a 
few  firms,  and  in  one  form  or  an- 
other renewing  these   huge  loans, 
that  ruin  overtakes  banking  com- 
panies.      Such    advances   are   not 
proper   banking;    and   an   auditor 
might  justifiably  call  attention  to 
them.     But  the  matter  is  really  far 
simpler  than  this.     Let  an  auditor 
assure  himself  as  to  the  existence 
of  the  capital  and  "  reserves  "  of  a 
bank,  and  it  would  be  impossible 
for  ruin  to  come  suddenly  or  unex- 
pectedly   upon    the    shareholders. 
"  Where  is  your  capital  1 — show  me 
the  cash  and  Government  securities 
which  you  hold  as  reserves  ;  let  me 
see  that  these  correspond  with  your 
published  balance-sheet."      If  the 
capital  is  there,  in  cash  and  consols, 
or   other   first-class  securities,    the 
bank  cannot  possibly  be  in  danger. 
When  one  bank  applies  to  another 
for  assistance,  it  is  by  a  very  brief 
inspection  of  this   kind   that  the 
position  of  the  applicant  bank  is 
determined.     Not  even  fraud  could 
prevent  an  auditor  from  informing 
himself  upon    these    fundamental 
points.     Consols   are   readily   pro- 
ducible, and  so  is  the  coin.     Fraud 
is  necessarily  confined  to  a  few  in- 
dividuals :  no  directors — not  even 
those  of  the  City  of  Glasgow  Bank 
— could  make   their   employes   en- 
gage in  their  fraud  and  deception. 
Moreover,  banking  must  be  sunk 
to  a  low  level  indeed  if  its  manage- 
ment  is  to  be  conducted   on  this 
hypothesis   of  fraud.     It   is   most 
deplorable  that  such  a  view  of  the 
matter    should    even    temporarily 


1879.' 


Bank  Failures  and  their  Remedies. 


765 


prevail.  After  making  every  al- 
lowance for  the  trepidation  occa- 
sioned by  the  fall  of  the  City  of 
Glasgow  Bank,  it  is  a  strange  thing 
if  the  public  of  Scotland  should 
suddenly  abandon  and  reverse  its  old 
faith  in  its  banking  establishments. 
For  our  own  part,  we  cannot  believe 
that  such  is  the  case ;  but  we  think 
the  banks  themselves — those  of  Eng- 
land rather  than  those  in  Scotland 
— are  greatly,  indeed  chiefly,  res- 
ponsible for  the  panic,  by  besieging 
the  Government  with  applications 
to  relieve  them  from  liabilities,  by 
no  means  either  new  or  unusual, 
and  which,  under  simply  good  and 
honest  management,  exist  only  in 
name. 

The  Government  are  proceeding 
very  leisurely  with  the  Bill.  Al- 
though we  are  now  at  the  end  of 
May,  it  has  not  yet  been  brought  to 
a  second  reading  :  that  is  to  say, 
even  its  principle  or  general  object 
has  not  yet  been  submitted  to  the 
House  of  Commons.  "When  presi- 
ding, in  his  usual  excellent  manner, 
at  a  Bankers'  dinner,  the  Chancellor 
of  the  Exchequer  recently  stated 
that  the  Government  are  proceed- 
ing slowly  with  the  Bill  of  delib- 
erate purpose,  in  order  to  let  the 
feeling  of  panic  subside.  And 
when  the  panic  is  over,  we  believe 
that  it  will  be  the  opinion  not  only 
of  the  public,  but  of  a  majority  of 
the  banks  themselves,  that  no  such 
legislation  is  at  present  needed. 
The  public — although  not  all  the 
banks — are  unanimous  in  approving 
the  clause  of  the  Bill  which  makes 
compulsory  upon  the  banks  who 
avail  themselves  of  its  provisions 
a  regular  publication  of  accounts 
in  a  satisfactory  form, — a  system 
which  is  greatly  wanted  in  England 
and  Ireland,  but  which  has  long 
been  established  among  the  banks 
of  Scotland.  But  this  benefit  to 
the  public,  as  already  said,  will  only 
operate  as  regards  the  banks,  com- 

VOL.  CXXV. — NO.  DCCLXIV. 


paratively  few,  which  will  or  can 
avail  themselves  of  the  present  Bill. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  objections 
to,  or  drawbacks  upon  the  Bill  are 
very  considerable,  and  the  require- 
ment for  it  is  small. 

One  can  hardly  fail  to  see  that 
the  present  panic  threatens  to  bring 
about  a  crisis  in  banking  practice 
and  legislation.  The  banks,  in 
alarm,  think  only  of  reducing  their 
liability  to  the  public ;  and  our 
statesmen  and  the  public,  nay, 
the  banks  themselves,  should  keep 
clearly  in  view  towards  what  goal  or 
practical  issue  our  acts  and  desires 
are  now  tending.  Our  banking 
system  as  a  whole  has  given  remark- 
able satisfaction  :  but  its  legislative 
constitution  is  illogical  and  anom- 
alous,—  the  diversities  are  glaring, 
while  the  temptations  to  symmetry 
and  uniformity  are  very  strong,  and 
doubtless  will  ultimately  prevail. 
But  what  is  to  be  our  model  ?  Were 
it  to  be  strictly  limited  liability, 
we  should  infallibly  and  of  neces- 
sity land  in  the  American  system, 
where  the  State  has  to  impose 
stringent  conditions  for  the  security 
of  the  public ;  where  a  hard-and- 
fast  cash -reserve  of  one -fourth  of 
the  deposits  must  be  kept  in  hand, 
however  severe  may  be  the  run  upon 
the  bank  or  the  crisis  which  sweeps 
over  the  country ;  where  the  Gov- 
ernment holds  the  security  for  the 
notes ;  and  where  a  system  of  Gov- 
ernment inspection  is  established 
over  every  bank  in  the  country, — 
where  a  vast  staff  of  Government 
inspectors  or  accountants  is  kept 
up,  whose  duty  it  is  to  overhaul 
all  the  books  of  the  banks,  and  to 
obtain  production  of  the  cash  and 
securities,  at  frequent  times  through- 
out the  year,  without  notice,  and 
on  any  day  they  please.  Such  a 
system  is  the  natural  concomitant 
of  strictly  "limited"  banking.  It 
is  needless  for  our  Ministers  and 
statesmen  to  deprecate  (as  all  of 

3D 


766 


Bank  Failures  and  their  Remedies. 


[June 


them  do)  such  an  extension  of  Gov- 
ernment work  and  responsibilities, 
and  such  State  interference  with 
banking,  unless  they  at  the  same 
time  resolve  to  maintain  British 
banking  on  substantially  its  old 
footing  as  regards  liability.  It  is 
to  be  regretted  that  legislative  lia- 
bility, which  can  only  come  into 
play  in  the  case  of  insolvency, 
should  have  been  raised  by  the 
banks  themselves  into  paramount 
importance,  obscuring  the  guarantee 
from  sound  and  stable  management 
by  which  insolvency  becomes  impos- 
sible in  a  business  like  banking.  But 
this  is  the  special  feature  of  the  pre- 
sent panic ;  and  once  this  "  liability  " 
question  is  made  paramount,  it  may 
lead  us  very  far  away,  if  not  alto- 
gether astray,  from  our  old  moorings. 
When  introducing  this  Bill  the 
Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  made 
a  pointed  reference  to  the  fact  that 
a  general  Banking  Bill  for  the  king- 
dom, a  revision  or  remodelment  of 
our  whole  banking  system,  must 
be  introduced  before  long, — upon 
which  subject  there  seems  to  be 
a  concurrence  of  opinion  among 
some  leading  statesmen  on  both 
sides  of  the  House ;  and  we  think 
it  would  be  no  loss  if  the  present 
fractional  measure  were  withdrawn. 
The  Government  have  acted  wisely 


in  tabling  this  Bill.  There  was  a 
clamour  —  chiefly  on  the  part  of 
some  of  the  unlimited  banks — that 
the  Government  should  do  some- 
thing to  relieve  the  pecuniary  re- 
sponsibility of  their  shareholders ; 
and  in  bringing  forward  this  Bill, 
the  Government  have  given  the 
public  an  opportunity  of  determin- 
ing what  they  actually  desire. 
When  the  question  is  thus  ex- 
pressly put  to  them,  it  appears  that 
a  considerable  number  of  the  joint- 
stock  banks  themselves  do  not  re- 
lish legislation ;  and  when  the  panic 
is  over — is  it  not  already  over? — 
we  think  the  community  at  large 
will  be  of  the  same  opinion.  On 
reflection,  it  cannot  fail  to  be  seen 
that  banking  presents  no  peculiar 
hazards,  and  that,  as  the  history  of 
our  old  Scots  banks  shows,  good 
management  is  far  more  effectual 
for  the  prevention  of  losses  and 
disasters  than  the  most  elaborate 
legislation.  Bank  shareholders,  like 
other  parties,  must  exercise  due  care 
and  judgment ;  but,  despite  the  re- 
cent highly  exceptional  disasters, 
they  may  rest  assured  that  banking 
is  naturally  and  ordinarily  one  of 
the  safest  kinds  of  business, — as 
common  opinion,  and  in  Scotland 
the  universal  opinion,  has  long  held 
it  to  be. 


1879.] 


The  Duke  of  Argyll's  Motion. 


767 


THE    DUKE     OF    ARGYLL'S    MOTION. 


THE  debate  on  the  Duke  of  Ar- 
gyll's motion  was  another  outburst 
of  the  extraordinary  ill  -  feeling 
which  has  resulted  amongst  party 
men  from  the  Eastern  policy  of  the 
Government.  The  Liberal  leaders 
seem  so  wholly  unable  to  preserve 
any  unity  of  action  on  this  subject, 
or  any  consistency  of  speech  in  refer- 
ence to  it,  that  they  must  be  thank- 
ful to  find  that  with  the  gradual 
completion  of  the  Berlin  settlement 
all  political  discussion  upon  that 
policy  is  beginning  to  lose  its  in- 
terest, and  the  subject  itself,  with 
all  its  associations  of  Liberal  failure 
and  Liberal  discredit,  is  rapidly 
receding  into  the  past.  Hardly 
any  one  will  have  cared  to  trouble 
themselves  with  the  Duke  of  Ar- 
gyll's speech,  still  less  with  his  enor- 
mous book.  The  important  points 
in  the  debate  were  the  Ministerial 
declarations  as  to  the  real  position 
of  the  country  when  all  the  trans- 
parent fables  about  English  dis- 
honour, failure,  and  delusions  have 
been  swept  away.  The  vast  ma- 
jorities which  in  Parliament  and 
the  country  have  supported  the 
Government  turn  a  deaf  ear  to  the 
repeated  assurances  that  they  are 
the  victims  of  some  strange  delu- 
sions, and  that  the  whole  of  the 
foreign  policy  which  they  have 
supported  for  the  last  four  years 
is,  if  they  did  but  know  it,  one 
continual  scheme  of  dishonourable 
double-dealing,  short-sighted  dis- 
regard of  their  true  interests,  reck- 
less indifference  to  their  future 
security.  They  put  all  that  on  one 
side,  as  so  much  nonsense  and 
rhodomontade.  The  men  who  utter 
it  are  equally  forgetful  of  their  own 
policy  in  the  days  of  the  Crimean 
war,  and  reckless  of  the  respon- 
sibility which  they  incur  by  en- 


couraging hostility  both  at  home 
and  abroad  to  the  due  execution  of 
engagements  to  which  the  honour 
of  the  country  has  been  solemnly 
pledged.  What  the  people  of  this 
country,  of  all  classes,  are  really 
interested  in  is,  to  ascertain  how 
this  settlement  at  Berlin  is  progress- 
ing towards  completion — whether 
each  item  of  its  stipulations  is 
being  faithfully  performed,  and 
what  risk  there  is  of  their  being 
obliged  to  interfere  by  force  of 
arms  to  compel  its  execution.  The 
invariable  answer  which  any  fair 
observer  of  events  would  return  to 
these  questions  is,  that  slowly  but 
steadily  the  Treaty  is  being  carried 
out ;  and  every  step  in  its  progress 
denotes  a  fresh  triumph  of  European 
law  and  order.  It  is  reserved  for 
English  Liberals,  from  week  to 
week,  to  prophesy  its  failure  and 
gloat  over  its  difficulties.  And  as 
the  end  approaches,  and  the  close 
of  a  scene  of  violence  and  aggression 
is  followed  by  the  peaceful  vindica- 
tion of  the  new  treaty-rights  and 
stipulations,  we  have  the  profound 
discovery  of  the  Duke  of  Argyll 
placed  before  the  country,  that  the 
Treaty  of  Berlin  is,  after  all,  an  im- 
posture— only  a  "  pale  copy  "  of  the 
Treaty  of  San  Stefano;  that  it  ruins 
the  Turkish  empire  and  does  not 
in  the  least  restrain  Russia;  and 
that,  on  the  whole,  his  Grace  is, 
notwithstanding  all  his  vitupera- 
tion, very  well  satisfied  with  it. 

Political  discussion  of  this  kind 
is  at  once  so  ludicrous  and  so  use- 
less, that  we  turn  for  relief  to  the 
speeches  of  the  responsible  Minis- 
ters, to  see  whether  it  is  possible 
to  get  a  clear  view  of  the  position. 
As  for  the  Opposition  leaders,  those 
who  executed  what  is  called  the 
curve  of  1876,  have  gone  on  curv- 


768 


The  Duke  of  Argyll's  Motion. 


[Jane 


ing  ever  since,  and  at  last  have 
constructed  such  a  maze  of  obscu- 
rity and  inconsistency  that  no 
human  being  can  see  his  way 
through  it.  One  part,  for  instance, 
of  the  Duke  of  Argyll's  speech 
consisted  of  angry  invective  against 
the  Ministry  for  permitting  any 
infringement  whatever  of  the  settle- 
ment effected  by  the  Crimean  war. 
How  this  is  to  be  reconciled  with 
the  avowed  desire  for  the  destruc- 
tion of  Turkey,  applause  of  Rus- 
sian aggression  and  Russian  vic- 
tories, denunciation  of  whatever 
English  preparations  were  made, 
reproaches  for  not  placing  blind 
confidence  in  the  Czar's  promises  to 
respect  British  interests, — it  would 
be  tedious  and  perfectly  useless  to 
inquire.  The  discussion,  at  all 
events,  raised  the  important  ques- 
tion how  far  British  interests  have 
been  adequately  protected  in  the  re- 
cent settlement ;  and  though  what 
the  Duke  of  Argyll  may  have  had  to 
say  upon  it  may  have  been  wholly 
inexplicable,  having  regard  to  his 
immediate  antecedents,  it  at  least  af- 
forded an  opportunity  to  the  Minister. 
Upon  this  topic  Lord  Beaconsfield 
appeared  as  the  apologist  for  peace, 
deprecating  the  indignant  censures 
of  the  warlike  and  anti-Russian 
Duke.  It  sounds  like  a  burlesque. 
All  thought  of  preserving  even  the 
semblance  of  consistency  is  so  com- 
pletely abandoned  that  it  really  ex- 
cites no  surprise  when  we  find  the 
same  man  at  one  moment  denounc- 
ing subservience  to  Russia,  and  at 
another  thundering  against  the 
slightest  preparation  to  resist,  and 
enforcing  the  duty  of  confiding  in 
the  promises  of  the  Czar,  and  of 
assisting  in  his  beneficent  work  of 
liberation.  Lord  Beaconsfield  had 
actually  to  explain  to  the  Duke  the 
reasons  for  not  going  to  war  to  pre- 
vent the  taking  of  Batoum.  He 
first  explained  that  we  had  pre- 
vented the  taking  of  Constanti- 


nople ;  and  in  that  task  every  one 
will  recollect  the  Government  had 
the  hearty  abuse  of  all  sound  Lib- 
erals. However,  it  was  done ;  and 
we  also  insisted  upon  the  port  of 
Burgas,  the  finest  port  in  the  whole 
of  the  Black  Sea,  being  restored  to 
Turkey.  And  with  regard  to  Ba- 
toum, the  Treaty  of  Berlin  stipu- 
lated that  it  should  be  free  and 
an  essentially  commercial  port. 
Under  those  circumstances  the 
Minister,  not  being  gifted  with 
all  the  martial  ardour  of  the  Duke 
of  Argyll,  and  thinking  that  Rus- 
sia, with  Turkey  prostrate  at  her 
feet,  and  her  armies  at  the  gates  of 
Constantinople,  had  conceded  all 
that  she  could  reasonably  be  re- 
quired to  concede  in  that  particular 
quarter,  acquiesced.  It  may  be  a 
question  whether  it  was  right  so  to 
do.  We  ourselves  believed  at  the 
time,  and  continue  so  to  think,  that 
it  was  right.  But  that  the  Duke 
of  Argyll  should  consider  that  it 
lies  in  his  mouth  to  raise  the  small- 
est objection,  betrays  a  complete 
insensibility  to  the  consequences  of 
that  conduct  in  which  he  himself 
and  his  most  intimate  allies  have 
for  years  indulged.  He  denounced 
also,  in  the  same  spirit,  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  Danubian  fortresses. 
Did  he  wish  to  hand  them  over  to 
the  Turks'?  He  could  not  have 
intended  that  Russia  should  have 
them,  for  one  of  the  enormities 
about  their  demolition  was  that 
Russia  had  proposed  it,  and  we,  in  a 
spirit  of  weak  compliance,  had  con- 
ceded it.  But  the  Duke  of  Argyll, 
when  in  his  anti-Russian  mood,  will 
not  hear  of  the  Czar  having  any 
claims  whatever  arising  out  of 
his  victories  over  the  Turk.  In 
that  mood  nothing  short  of  the 
statics  quo  ante  bellum  is  for  one 
moment  to  be  accepted.  The 
Ministers  as  practical  men  had  to 
consider  how  far  it  was  absolutely 
necessary  to  insist  upon  cutting 


1879.] 


The  Duke  of  Argyll's  Motion. 


769 


down  those  claim?!,  and  how  far  it 
was  possible  to  find  equivalents  for 
such  as  were  allowed  to  hold  good. 
But  the  Duke  will  not  condescend 
to  discuss  either  the  one  or  the 
other.  The  status  quo  ante  bellum 
as  regards  Russia  must  according 
to  him  be  combined  with  the  total 
destruction  of  the  Turkish  empire 
in  Europe.  What  should  take  the 
place  of  that  empire  does  not  ap- 
pear ;  we  may,  however,  take  it  for 
granted  that  England  is  to  guarantee 
neither  security  nor  reform.  She  is 
to  stand  by  and  applaud  the  liber- 
ation schemes  of  military  despots, 
in  the  happy  confidence  that,  as 
soon  as  she  has  warbled  a  few 
ditties  in  praise  of  freedom  and  the 
rights  of  self-government,  the  Turk 
will  be  ejected  from  Europe,  the 
Cossack  will  return  to  his  lair,  and 
all  will  be  prosperity  and  peace.  It 
is  really  humiliating  that  a  Prime 
Minister  should  be  called  on  to 
answer  in  his  place  in  Parliament 
such  extraordinary  and  fantastic 
criticism.  It  was  actually  com- 
plained, that  by  the  acknowledg- 
ment of  Servian  independence,  a 
great  blow  had  been  struck  against 
Turkish  power.  The  imperturbable 
patience  of  Lord  Beaconsfield  for 
once  failed  him,  and  he  declared 
that  such  a  pretence  as  that  now 
put  forward  was  really  trifling  with 
a  serious  subject. 

The  whole  tone  of  Lord  Beacons- 
field's  speech  was  eminently  satis- 
factory. He  not  merely  vindicated 
the  policy  of  those  arrangements 
which  were  substituted  for  the 
Treaty  of  Berlin,  and  by  which 
limits  were  set  to  Russian  aggran- 
disement, and  at  the  same  time  the 
peace  of  Europe  was  preserved; 
but  he  dealt  with  that  specious 
grievance  that  by  our  conduct  we 
have  necessarily  lost  the  affection 
and  confidence  of  what  were  known 
as  the  subject-races  of  Turkey.  He 
pointed  out  that  it  was  the  British 


Government  which  first  made  pro- 
posals with  regard  to  Bosnia  and 
Herzegovina  which  were  afterwards 
applied  to  Bulgaria.  It  was  the 
British  Government  which  first  laid 
down  the  principle  that  the  chief 
remedy  for  the  grievances  of  the 
subject -populations  was  to  intro- 
duce a  large  system  of  self-govern- 
ment, and  to  apply  the  principle 
of  civil  and  religious  liberty.  Those 
who  have  read  the  provisions  of  the 
Treaty  of  Berlin  know  how  largely 
and  universally  those  principles  of 
the  British  Government  were  en- 
forced and  applied  to  the  emanci- 
pated populations  of  Turkey.  They 
had  been  upheld  at  the  Conference 
at  Constantinople,  and  had  been 
enforced  in  multitudinous  de- 
spatches. The  policy  of  autonomy 
was  one  which  the  Conservative 
party  has  had  consistently  at  heart ; 
and  "  no  Government,"  says  Lord 
Beaconsfield,  "  was  so  ready,  so 
prepared,  or  so  practical  in  its  pro- 
positions by  which  the  welfare  of 
the  subject  -  races  and  a  general 
reform  of  the  administration  of 
Turkey  could  be  effected,  as  was 
the  Government  of  England."  It 
is  satisfactory  to  hear  it  authorita- 
tively stated,  and  no  doubt  it  will 
have  to  be  reiterated  again  and 
again  in  answer  to  Liberal  misre- 
presentations, that  not  merely  is  it 
the  policy  of  England  and  Europe 
to  maintain  the  Sultan's  empire  as 
the  only  barrier  against  a  general 
war,  but  both  at  Berlin  and  Con- 
stantinople, and  throughout  these 
long  negotiations,  in  treaties,  de- 
spatches, and  conventions,  the  Brit- 
ish Government  has  been  consist- 
ently of  opinion  "  that  the  only 
way  to  strengthen  it  was  to  improve 
the  condition  of  its  subjects."  The 
only  difference  between  the  two 
parties  is  that,  while  Liberal  leaders 
have  merely  vomited  sentimentalism, 
the  Government  have  been  energetic 
in  action. 


770 


TJie  Duke  of  Argyll's  Motion. 


[June 


But  setting  aside  that  portion  of 
the  Duke  of  Argyll's  speech  which 
was  so  extravagantly  anti-Eussian 
in  its  tone  and  temper,  what  is  the 
accusation  against  recent  English 
policy  on  which  he  is  prepared  to 
challenge  the  verdict  of  history? 
When  he  is  in  his  anti-Eussian 
mood,  nothing  will  satisfy  him  hut 
a  complete  cancelment  of  the  results 
of  the  war, — an  unreserved  return  to 
the  status  quo  ante  bellum.  When 
he  is  at  the  other  end  of  the  polit- 
ical tight  -  rope,  it  is  a  source  of 
endless  satisfaction  to  him  that  the 
Treaty  of  Berlin  was  nothing  but  a 
"  pale  copy  "  of  the  Treaty  of  San 
Stefano.  But  between  the  Treaty 
of  San  Stefano  and  the  status  quo 
ante  bellum,  the  distance  is  infin- 
ite. While  the  Government  is  de- 
nounced for  allowing  that  status  to 
be  altered  at  all,  even  after  a  vic- 
torious war,  the  Opposition  is  con- 
gratulated that  for  all  practical 
purposes,  the  Treaty  of  San  Stefano 
remains  intact.  We  defy  anybody 
to  reconcile  the  two.  If  the  status 
quo  was  essential,  the  San  Stefano 
peace  was  a  menace  to  Europe.  If 
the  Berlin  Treaty  was  a  mockery 
and  a  delusion  or  deception  because 
it  sanctioned  disastrous  alterations 
in  the  status  quo,  how  on  earth  can 
it  be  a  subject  of  congratulation 
to  anybody  that  it  reproduced  the 
Treaty  of  San  Stefano?  Yet  the 
Duke  takes  up  both  positions  as 
easily  and  comfortably  as  if  they 
were  absolutely  identical.  He  de- 
clares that  the  Turkish  empire  is 
ruined,  and  lies  bleeding  to  death. 
He  rallies  the  Ministry  on  the  enor- 
mous majorities  by  which  they  have 
been  steadily  supported,  and  by 
which  the  Opposition  have  been  as 
steadily  defeated.  The  end  of  it 
all  is,  that  the  Ministers  betray  their 
dissatisfaction  by  their  angry  and 
disappointed  language  and  their 
mortified  tone  ;  while  "  we  can 
afford  to  smile  at  your  victories  and 


to  laugh  at  our  own  defeats."  The 
whole  thing  is  so  utterly  incompre- 
hensible to  us,  that  although  we 
have  read  and  re-read  this  remark- 
able speech  and  the  still  more  re- 
markable volumes  which  the  Duke 
of  Argyll  recently  published,  we 
cannot  for  the  life  of  us  make  out 
what  it  is  that  the  Duke  wants  or 
would  have  wished  to  bring  about. 
The  only  light  in  which  he  presents 
himself  is  this :  As  one  of  the 
authors  of  the  Crimean  war,  he 
denounces  any  infringement  of  the 
settlement  which  ended  that  war; 
as  one  of  the  authors  of  the  Bul- 
garian agitation,  he  desires  that 
Turkish  power  should  be  extin- 
guished by  Eussia.  But  by  what 
conceivable  process  both  wishes  are 
to  be  carried  into  effect  he  never 
explains.  He  leaves  that  as  a  riddle 
for  any  one  and  every  one  to  solve 
in  his  own  way.  The  position  is 
one  of  some  advantage.  It  gives 
an  Opposition  orator  an  anti-Eus- 
sian platform  or  an  anti-Turkish 
platform  according  to  convenience. 
It  gets  rid  of  the  necessity  of  fac- 
ing any  of  the  difficulties  which 
arise,  and  hands  them  over  bodily 
to  the  Government.  It  claims 
credit  for  insisting  upon  peace, 
while  it  demands  that  which  war 
alone  can  give.  It  denounces  pre- 
parations for  defence,  while  it  cen- 
sures the  smallest  concession.  The 
audacity  of  unreasonableness  can  no 
further  go. 

As  we  belong  to  that  class  of 
politicians  who  think  that  a  long 
and  sanguinary  war  cannot  be  suc- 
cessfully waged  without  producing 
some  political  results  in  the  way  of 
redistribution  of  power  and  terri- 
tory, we  thought  that  the  best 
policy  to  pursue  was  to  prevent  the 
war  if  possible,  and  if  that  became 
a  lost  hope,  to  insist  upon  the  terms 
of  peace  being  made  to  accord  with 
our  rights  and  interests,  and  to  effect 
that  object  peacefully  if  possible. 


1879.] 


Hie  Duke  of  Argyll's  Motion. 


771 


We  repudiated  the  San  Stefano 
Treaty  :  first,  because  it  ignored  the 
rights  of  the  signatory  Powers ; 
second,  because  it  placed  Turkey  at 
the  mercy  of  Russia.  ISTo  amount 
of  hostile  criticism  can  get  rid  of 
these  claims  of  the  Government  to 
the  gratitude  of  the  country ;  that 
they  compelled  Russia  to  submit 
her  treaty  to  the  Congress,  to  re- 
model it  in  accordance  with  the 
will  of  Europe,  and  to  carry  into  ef- 
fect the  decisions  arrived  at  by  the 
Powers.  It  was  an  achievement  of 
first-class  magnitude.  It  has  re- 
stored England  to  the  primacy  on 
the  Continent.  It  preserved  peace, 
and  effected  a  settlement  of  the 
south  -  east  of  Europe  which  all 
statesmen  agree  to  uphold,  and 
which  has  every  promise  of  endur- 
ance and  success.  And  when  it  is 
dinned  into  the  ears  of  Parliament 
and  the  country  that  that  settle- 
ment is  nothing  but  a  "  pale  copy  " 
of  the  San  Stefano  peace,  why  is  it 
that  for  months  past  its  failure  has 
been  perpetually  predicted?  Now 
that  these  predictions  have  signally 
failed,  and  even  the  Duke  of  Argyll 
admits  his  belief  that  by  the  3d  of 
August  not  a  single  Russian  soldier 
will  be  on  this  side  of  the  Pruth, 
the  impossibility  of  executing  the 
Treaty  is  dropped,  and  in  lieu  of 
it  the  cry  is  raised  that  the  Treaty 
itself  was  "  one  great  political  im- 
posture." The  Treaty,  it  is  said, 
pretended  to  retain  something  sub- 
stantial of  the  Turkish  empire,  and 
to  resist  any  substantial  gains  of 
Russia ;  and  so  far  as  it  pretended 
to  do  either  the  one  or  the  other,  it 
was  an  imposture.  Eut  why  did 
not  the  Duke  of  Argyll  and  his 
friends  find  this  out  sooner  ?  What 
room  was  there  for  predicting  its 
failure  if  it  played  so  completely 
into  the  hands  of  Russia,  the  only 
Power  likely  to  impede  its  execu- 
tion. Moreover,  the  Treaty  has 
throughout  been  denounced  from  the 


anti-Turkish  platform,  for  the  way 
in  which  it  restored  Turkish  tyran- 
ny, and  confounded  the  liberation 
schemes  of  the  humane  and  benef- 
icent Czar.  If  it  were  only  a  "  pale 
copy "  of  the  San  Stefano  Treaty, 
those  denunciations  were  mere 
waste  of  breath,  and  the  perpetual 
predictions  of  its  failure  were  an 
insult  to  the  understanding  of  Rus- 
sian statesmen. 

We  were  glad  to  observe  that 
Lord  Beaconsfield  publicly  rebuked 
the  manner  in  which  certain  un- 
principled and  reckless  members  of 
the  Opposition  have  endeavoured 
to  impede  the  execution  of  the 
Treaty.  He  excepted  Lord  Gran- 
ville  and  Lord  Hartington  j  "  their 
conduct  has  at  all  times,  and  espe- 
cially at  critical  periods,  been  such 
as  was  to  be  expected  from  gentle- 
men and  distinguished  statesmen 
who  felt  the  responsibilities  of  their 
position."  We  have  no  doubt  that 
if  at  any  future  time  those  states- 
men should  be  weighted  with  the 
conduct  of  affairs  as  arduous  and 
perilous  as  those  of  the  last  four 
years,  the  Conservative  Opposition 
of  the  future  will  display  a  like  for- 
bearance. Politicians  of  less  than 
a  generation's  standing  can  recall 
the  decided  support  which  in  the 
days  of  the  Crimean  war,  and  of 
Alabama  negotiations,  the  Conser- 
vatives gave  to  the  Throne  and 
Government.  Lord  Palmerston  in 
the  one  case,  and  Mr  Gladstone  in 
the  other,  readily  acknowledged  it. 
No  Liberal  Prime  Minister  has  ever 
had  to  rebuke,  in  the  terms  employ- 
ed by  Lord  Beaconsfield,  the  lan- 
guage and  conduct  of  "  distinguish- 
ed members  of  the  Opposition "  in 
reference  to  the  solemn  treaty  en- 
gagements of  the  country.  It  was 
much  to  be  regretted,  he  said,  that 
after  so  solemn  an  act  as  the  Treaty 
of  Berlin  was  executed,  and  when 
united  Europe  had  agreed  to  look 
upon  the  Treaty  as  some  assurance 


772 


The  Duke  of  Argyll's  Motion. 


[June 


for  the  maintenance  of  peace  and 
the  general  welfare  of  the  world, 
those  distinguished  gentlemen 
"  should  not  once,  twice,  or  thrice, 
but  month  after  month  habitually 
declare  to  the  world  that  the  Treaty 
was  a  thing  impracticable,  and  have 
used  such  external  influence  as 
they  might  possess  to  throw  every 
obstacle  and  impediment  in  the  way 
of  carrying  that  Treaty  into  effect." 
Such  conduct  is  doubly  injurious. 
It  not  merely  plays  into  the  hands 
of  the  opponents  of  England,  and 
weakens  the  confidence  of  allies, 
but  it  produces  insecurity  both  at 
home  and  abroad.  Should  these 
statesmen  become  by  any  turn  in 
the  wheel  of  political  fortune,  the 
responsible  Ministers  of  the  Crown, 
they  would  be  called  upon  by  those 
who  do  not  wish  that  the  Treaty 
should  be  fulfilled,  to  give  effect  to 
their  opinions. 

Those  tactics  are  of  course,  from 
the  nature  of  the  case,  ephemeral. 
When  the  Treaty  is  completely  exe- 
cuted, these  predictions  will  be  for- 
gotten. And  the  question  remains, 
Was  it  an  imposture  from  beginning 
to  end?  That  question  must  be 
faced,  however  inconsistent  may  be 
the  position  of  those  who  put  it 
forward.  The  Duke  of  Argyll 
says  that  by  it  Russia  recovered 
the  Bessarabian  provinces  on  the 
Danube,  Kars,  Batoum,  and  a  large 
slice  of  the  Asiatic  provinces  of 
Turkey,  the  cumulative  effect  of 
which  is  to  make  the  will  of  the 
Russian  Government  dominant  over 
all  the  vicinity  of  the  Black  Sea 
and  over  the  population  of  Armenia. 
Turkey,  on  the  other  hand,  has  com- 
pletely lost  her  independence — her 
Danubian  frontier  is  gone,  her  fort- 
resses are  destroyed,  Servia  and 
Roumania  have  the  power  of  en- 
trance into  the  heart  of  her  domin- 
ions, Bulgaria  in  the  possession  of 
Sofia  turns  the  Balkans  on  that 
side,  her  future  is  left  in  complete 


confusion  with  the  most  dangerous 
liabilities  to  Russia  in  respect  of 
its  war  indemnity,  and  the  most 
dangerous  liabilities  to  this  country 
in  respect  of  its  engagements  to  re- 
form. The  Duke  of  Argyll's  remedy 
would  be  to  restore  the  Treaty  of 
Paris,  erasing  from  its  provisions 
the  Turkish  empire  in  Europe, 
substituting  in  its  place  anything 
you  please  to  suggest.  The  fatal 
objection  to  it  is  that  it  would  in- 
volve an  enormous  war,  with  no 
allies  and  with  no  definite  object 
in  view. 

The  Government  view  of  the  case 
evidently  is,  that  the  Treaty  of  Ber- 
lin is  as  satisfactory  a  settlement  as 
could  have  been  substituted  for  the 
Treaty  of  Paris  without  a  general 
war.  Most  people  were  astonished 
that  they  were  able  peacefully  to 
obtain  so  much.  That,  however, 
is  no  vindication  of  the  Treaty,  un- 
less its  provisions  are  adequate  for 
the  purpose  of  effecting  a  settle- 
ment of  the  East,  and  the  main- 
tenance of  British  rights  and  in- 
terests. We  believe  that  they  are 
adequate  for  that  purpose;  and  that, 
being  in  the  nature  of  a  compromise, 
after  years  of  difficulty  and  strife 
we  cannot  possibly  allow  it  to  be 
tampered  with.  Its  provisions 
must  be  carried  out,  or  we  stand 
before  Europe  defied  or  cajoled. 
Then,  as  to  their  adequacy.  We 
have  argued  the  matter  several 
times  in  these  pages.  It  is  a  sub- 
ject which  will  not  lose  its  interest 
till  after  the  next  election ;  and  we 
shall  accordingly  quote,  if  not  the 
words,  at  all  events  the  substance 
of  the  case  as  it  was  presented  by 
Lord  Beaconsfield.  The  electors 
perhaps  may  require  to  be  reminded 
that  at  the  time  of  the  San  Stefano 
Treaty  the  Russian  armies  were  at 
the  gates  of  Constantinople,  occupy- 
ing the  greater  part  of  the  east  and 
north  of  Turkey.  "A  vast  Slav 
State  was  to  stretch  from  the  Dan- 


1879.] 


The  Duke  of  Argyll's  Motion. 


773 


ube  to  the  j^Egean  shores,  extend- 
ing inwards  from  Salonica  to  the 
mountains  of  Albania  —  a  State 
which,  when  formed,  would  have 
crushed  the  Greek  population,  ex- 
terminated the  Mussulmans,  and 
exercised  over  the  celebrated  Straits 
that  have  so  long  been  the  scene  of 
political  interest  the  baneful  influ- 
ence of  the  Slavs."  At  the  instance 
of  England,  and  after  long  resist- 
ance, the  whole  subject  was  sub- 
mitted to  the  jurisdiction  of  a 
European  congress.  That  congress, 
at  the  instance  of  England,  decreed 
the  retirement  of  the  Kussian  forces 
from  Turkey;  and  in  consequence 
they  did  gradually  retire,  quitting 
at  last  Adrianople  and  the  sur- 
rounding district,  and  are  now 
evacuating  Bulgaria  and  Roumelia. 
Bulgaria  becomes  a  vassal  of  the 
Porte,  Eoumelia  one  of  its  depend- 
ent provinces.  Thrace,  Macedonia, 
and  the  littoral  of  the  ^Egean  Sea 
were  restored  to  the  Sultan ;  the 
Slav  principalities  of  Servia  and 
Montenegro  were  restricted  within 
reasonable  limits;  the  disturbed 
districts  of  Bosnia  and  Herzegovina 
were  placed  under  the  administra- 
tion of  Austria,  which  henceforth 
acquires  a  considerable  influence 
in  those  quarters,  and  is  thus 
offered  as  a  barrier  to  Slav  ag- 
gression. The  whole  government 
and  constitution  of  European  Tur- 
key have  undergone  a  change  on 
the  principles  laid  down  by  the 
British  Government.  Therefore,  so 
far  from  the  Berlin  Treaty  being  a 
"  pale  copy  "  of  the  San  Stefano  ar- 
rangement, it  completely  metamor- 
phosed it.  Turkey  has  found,  with 
this  Government,  that  she  cannot 
repeat  the  experiment  of  1854,  and 
drag  us  into  war  at  her  own  time 
and  opportunity.  We  cannot,  every 
twenty  years,  waste  blood  and  treas- 
ure in  that  quarter  of  the  world. 
But  with  a  weak  or  divided  Minis- 
try at  home,  that  is  the  peril  which 


perpetually  awaits  us,  and  which 
overwhelmed  us  under  Lord  Aber- 
deen. The  Duke  of  Argyll's  tone, 
that  Turkey  has  in  us  an  ally  011 
whom  she  cannot  depend,  and  that 
Russia  has  only  to  pursue  her  policy 
of  aggression  and  it  will  be  accepted 
by  the  English  Government,  is  one 
to  which  we  have  grown  accustom- 
ed. Language  more  unbecoming  an 
Englishman,  or  an  English  states- 
man, it  is  impossible  to  conceive. 
Used  by  men  in  office,  it  would 
inevitably  lead  to  war ;  used  by 
influential  statesmen  out  of  office, 
it  is  a  serious  public  difficulty  and 
discredit.  It  has,  however,  been 
very  general  amongst  a  certain  class 
of  Liberals  since  1876.  It  is  to  the 
honour  of  the  Ministry  that  they 
have,  in  spite  of  it,  asserted  the 
control  of  England  over  what  passes 
in  the  East.  They  have  done  so 
thoroughly  and  completely,  and 
they  have  succeeded  without  war. 
It  has  been  a  bloodless  triumph  of 
statesmanship,  achieved  at  trifling 
cost.  Both  in  Europe  and  in  Asia 
the  international  settlement  has 
been  placed  upon  stronger  and 
surer  foundations ;  and  an  endur- 
ing peace  has  been  established, 
with  increased  guarantees  for  its 
continuance,  and  for  the  better 
government  of  the  subject-races. 

With  regard  to  Affghanistau,  it 
is  difficult  to  know  what  is  the 
Duke  of  Argyll's  view.  He  com- 
plains that  the  Mohammedan  agent 
at  Cabul  was  not  trusted ;  that  the 
conferences  between  Sir  L.  Pelly 
and  the  late  IsToor  Mahomed  were 
shameful  and  humiliating  to  Eng- 
land; that  Shere  Ali  rightly  dis- 
trusted the  good  faith  and  sincerity 
of  the  British  Government.  Lord 
Beaconsfield  refused  to  follow  him 
into  his  Affghan  speculations  and 
criticisms.  Yakoob  Khan  was  still 
negotiating  with  the  representatives 
of  the  Government,  and  under  such 
circumstances  the  Duke  of  Argyll's 


774 


The  Duke  of  Argyll  s  Motion. 


[June  1879. 


Affghan  resume  of  his  recent  book 
had  better  have  been  omitted.  It 
scarcely  tends  to  advance  negotia- 
tions, to  stimulate  Yakoob  Khan's 
feelings  of  hostility  by  an  exag- 
gerated description  of  his  fancied 
wrongs.  The  whole  of  the  extra- 
ordinary oration  wound  up  with  a 
compliment  to  the  dignity  of  Lord 
Derby's  policy,  which  he  described 
as  providing  for  British  interests 
and  nothing  else;  the  very  point 
at  which  all  the  invectives  of  the 
last  few  years  have  been  addressed. 
He  then  coupled  that  tribute  of 
admiration  with  a  censure  upon  the 
Government  for  not  trusting  for  the 
protection  of  British  interests  ex- 
clusively to  the  pledges  of  the  Czar, 
and  declared  that  the  effect  of  the 
defensive  preparations  of  the  Gov- 
ernment was  that  they  appeared  to 
be  made  for  the  sole  purpose  of  re- 
sisting the  extension  of  freedom  to 
the  Christians  of  the  east  of  Europe. 
The  speech  was  ill-timed  and  un- 
expected. The  principal  reason  for 
its  delivery  would  seem  to  be  that, 
having  been  absent  in  the  Mediter- 
ranean, materials  had  accumulated ; 
and  two  thick  ponderous  volumes 
which  his  Grace  has  recently  pub- 
lished, have  fallen  somewhat  heavily 
on  the  public.  It  was  desirable  to 
publish  a  short  resume  of  that  labo- 
rious work  in  the  form  of  a  speech. 
The  book  itself  will  never  be  read. 
Life  is  not  long  enough  or  leisured 
enough  for  such  productions  to  win 
success.  Politicians  can  pelt  one 
another  with  speeches,  perhaps  with 
pamphlets,  but  not  to  any  good  pur- 
pose with  octavo  volumes.  It  was 
a  new  feature  in  political  warfare 
to  publish  946  pages  of  invective 
and  detailed  disquisition  on  the 
foreign  policy  of  a  Cabinet.  They 
will  never  be  accepted  as  containing 
a  remotely  probable  version  of  the 


real  relations  and  dealings  of  this 
country  with  either  Eussia  or  Aff- 
ghanistan.  But  we  notice,  at  all 
events,  that  when  the  Duke  was 
explaining  his  position  with  regard 
to  the  Crimean  war,  he  intimated 
that  Eussia's  desire  was  to  consti- 
tute herself  "sole  heir  and  adminis- 
trator of  the  Sick  Man's  possessions 
and  effects ;"  that  the  object  of  the 
allies  was  "that  the  political  destiny 
of  Turkey  was  to  be  matter  of  Euro- 
pean, and  not  specially,  still  less 
exclusively,  of  Eussian  concern ; " 
that  that  object  was  perfectly  consis- 
tent "  with  a  conviction  that  Tur- 
key was  sinking  under  internal  and 
irremediable  causes  of  decay."  Let 
him  apply  his  own  principles  in  1854 
to  the  circumstances  of  1876-79, 
and  then  the  raison  d'etre  of  that 
ponderous  and  intricate  work  would 
vanish.  Let  him  transfer  to  the 
present  day  the  language  which  he 
applies  to  the  diplomatic  position 
in  1854,  and  then  his  massive 
volumes  may  be  put  in  the  fire  as 
a  useless  accumulation  of  irrelevant 
matter.  "The  vices  of  Turkey," 
he  says,  "  were  for  the  moment  out 
of  view.  Her  comparative  helpless- 
ness only  was  apparent,  and  in  that 
helplessness  lay  the  danger  of  Eus- 
sian success  in  establishing  a  domi- 
nion which  Europe  regarded  with 
remarkable  jealousy."  This  danger 
the  Duke  of  Argyll  in  office 
supported,  Lord  Palmerston  in  Op- 
position thwarted,  Lord  Beacons- 
field,  in  his  arduous  and  resolute 
endeavour  to  avert.  That  danger 
will  again  and  again  recur ;  and 
fortunate  will  it  be  for  this  country 
if  those  who  are  called  upon  to 
meet  it  possess  the  skill  and  forti- 
tude of  Lord  Beaconsfield,  instead 
of  the  Duke  of  Argyll's  infirmity  of 
purpose  and  vacillating  sentiment- 
alism. 


INDEX   TO   VOL.    CXXV. 


About,  Edmund,  his  novels,  692. 

Acre,  35,  36. 

Affghan  frontier,  the,  505  et  seq. 

AFFGHAN  WAR  AND  ITS  AUTHORS,  THE, 
112 — LordNorthbrook's  telegram,  ib.  — 
Lord  Cranbrook's  "ninth"  paragraph, 
114 — failure  of  the  Simla  negotiations, 
1 1 6 —  Russian  intrigues  with  the  Ameer, 
119  et  seq. — Lord  Salisbury's  policy, 
122 — Lord  Lytton's  views,  124 — the 
Peshawur  conference,  127 — the  Cham- 
berlain mission,  128-130 — the  vote  of 
censure,  131  et  seq.  —  operations  in 
Affghanistan,  139. 

Affghan  war,  the,  640  et  seq. 

Affghanistan,  Mr  Gladstone's  comments 
on  the  difficulty  in,  260 — the  Duke  of 
Argyll  on,  773. 

Afreedees,  the,  596,  600  et  seq. 

Africa,  South,  the  war  in,  647 — the  ques- 
tion of  its  future  government,  650. 

Agricultural  failures  a  cause  of  commer- 
cial depression,  512. 

"Aleppo  Button,"  the,  360. 

Alexandretta,its  unhealthy  character,  361. 

AMABI  ALIQUID,  BY  GORDON  GUN,  375. 

American  market  for  books,  343. 

American  servants,  183. 

Argenteuil,  430. 

ARGYLL'S  MOTION,  THE  DUKE  OF,  767 
— Liberal  inconsistencies,  ib.  et  seq. — 
Lord  Beaconsfield's  rejoinder,  768  et  seq. 
— the  Duke's  untenable  position,  770 
— Liberal  obstruction  to  the  execution 
of  the  Treaty,  771— Affghanistan,  773. 

Armageddon,  the  battle  of,  a  military 
probability,  37. 

'  Assommoir,'  the,  by  M.  Zola,  703. 

Audit  of  Banks,  764. 

Aylward's  'Transvaal  of  To-day,'  385, 
389,  503. 

Aytoun,  Professor,  his  contributions  to 
'  Blackwood,'  230. 

Balzac's  novels,  689. 

BANK  FAILURES  AND  THEIR  REMEDIES, 
750— Western  Bank  of  Glasgow,  ib.  — 
City  of  Glasgow  failure,  751  et  seq. — 
the  new  Banking  Bill,  755  et  seq.  — 
"  Limited  "  Banking,  757  et  seq. — 
good  management,  760 — conversion  of 
unlimited  into  limited  banks,  761 — 
safety  of  banking  business,  763  — 
audits,  764 — the  Government  and  the 
new  Banking  Bill,  765. 


Batoum,  the  Duke  of  Argyll  on  the  ces- 
sion of,  768. 

BATTYE,  THE  DEATH  OF  MAJOR  WIG- 
RAM,  748. 

Beaconsfield,  Lord,  on  the  South  African 
war,  549— his  early  forecast  of  the  In- 
dian Imperial  title,  620— his  Mansion- 
House  speech,  643  —  his  rejoinder  to 
the  Duke  of  Argyll,  768  et  seq.—  his 
rebuke  to  the  Opposition,  771. 

Belot,  Adolphe,  his  'Femme  de  Feu,' 
695. 

Belus  river,  the,  36. 

Berkeley,  Bishop,  his  character  of  a  ser- 
vant, 178. 

Berlin  Treaty,  the  execution  of,  265,  635 
et  seq. — its  steady  progress,  639 — Lib- 
eral obstruction  of,  771. 

Bernard,  Charles  de,  his  novels,  696. 

BIOGRAPHY,  TRAVEL,  AND  SPORT  :  CON- 
TEMPORARY LITERATURE,  Part  V.,  482 
— Boswell's  'Johnson,'  ib. — catching  a 
subject,  485— Dr  Smiles's  biographies, 
ib.  —  Lockhart's  'Scott,'  491  — Theo- 
dore Martin's  'Prince  Consort,'  494 — 
— TRAVEL,  496  —SPORT,  503  et  ad  fin. 

BISHOP,  A  SCOTS,  306. 

BlTTER-SWEET,  BY  GORDON  GUN,  374. 

Black,  Mr  William  :  his  mannerism  of 
picturesque  description,  331. 

Blackmore,  Mr  R.  D.,  his  novels,  338. 

'  Blackwood's  Magazine,'  225  et  seq. — 
its  founder,  227. 

Boers  of  the  Transvaal,  the,  391. 

Boswell's  '  Johnson,'  483  et  seq. 

Boulger,  Mr  D.  C.,  his  '  England  and 
Russia  in  Central  Asia,'  641. 

Brome,  Jonson's  servant,  175. 

Buda-Pesth,  storm  at,  728— danger  to, 
from  inundation,  746. 

BUDGET,  THE  POLICY  OF  THE,  626— the 
charge  of  "cowardice,"  627 — ordinary 
expenditure  and  revenue,  628 — extra- 
ordinary expenditure,  629— the  Ex- 
chequer bonds,  631 — the  so-called 
deficit,  633 — the  loan  to  the  Indian 
Government,  633. 

Bulgaria,  the  new,  636  et  seq. 

Burmah,  war  in,  threatened,  635. 

Burns,  Mr  John,  his  letter  on  British 
workmen,  517. 

Busch's  '  Life  of  Bismarck,'  495. 

Caird,  Mr,  his  estimate  of  recent  agricul- 
tural losses,  514. 


776 


Index. 


Campbell,  Sir  Colin,  the  Queen's  letter 
to,  622. 

Canning,  Lord,  the  Queen's  sympathy 
with,  621. 

Cape  Mounted  Eifles,  evil  effects  of  their 
abolition,  386. 

CAKMEL,  THE  HAVEN  OF,  35 — capabili- 
ties of  the  roadstead,  36— Haifa,  ib.  et 
seq. — Russian  influence  in  Palestine, 
38 — the  Jewish  immigration  into  Pales- 
tine, ib.  et  seq. — German  colonists,  40 — 
Syrian  Fellahin,  ib.  et  seq. — develop- 
ment of  Palestine,  42. 

Carte,  the  Prince  Consort's  valet,  622. 

Carter,  Mrs,  her  regard  for  servants,  177. 

CATECHISM,  THE  ELECTOR'S,  1. 

Catholics,  opposition  of  the  French  Re- 
public to,  564. 

Cavagnari,  Major,  his  raids  across  the 
frontier,  609. 

Cetywayo,  the  Zulu  king,  377  et  seq. — 
his  military  despotism,  382 — his  offen- 
sive attitude,  383. 

Chakka,  the  Zulu  king,  381. 

Chamberlain,  Sir  Neville,  his  mission  to 
Affghanistan,  128. 

Chelmsford,  Lord,  378  etseq.  — his  advance 
into  Zululand,  387. 

Cherbourg,  Queen  Victoria's  visit  to,  616 
— Imperial  fetes  at,  617. 

Chesney,  Colonel,  his  novels,  339. 

"  City  Articles,"  80  et  seq. 

City  of  Glasgow  Bank,  its  failure,  751  et 
seq. 

Claretie,  Jules,  his  novels,  697. 

CLIMATE  IN  THE  LEVANT,  352. 

Commercial  depression,  the,  507  et  seq. — 
not  due  to  the  present  Government, 
509— its  causes,  512  et  seq. — blindness 
of  the  working  classes,  516  et  seq. 

Conder's  '  Tent  Life  in  Palestine,'  503. 

Conspiracy  Bill,  the,  620. 

Constantine,  the  Grand  Duke,  his  "bons 
proce'de's"  towards  Napoleon  III.,  €14. 

Constitution,  alleged  hostility  of  Minis- 
ters to  the,  203. 

Consumption,  its  maximum  reached  in 
1873,  512. 

CONTEMPORARY  LITERATURE. — II.,  JOUR- 
NALISTS AND  MAGAZINE  WRITERS,  69 — 
III.,  MAGAZINE  WRITERS,  225  — IV., 
NOVELISTS,  322 — V.,  BIOGRAPHY,  TRA- 
VEL, AND  SPORT,  482 — VI.,  FRENCH 
NOVELS,  678. 

COUNTRY  IN  1849  AND  1879,  THE,  507 — 
present  depression,  ib.  —  complaints 
against  the  Government,  508  —  past 
prosperity,  510 — pretensions  of  Free 
Trade,  511  —  causes  of  depression,  ib. 
— agricultural  failures,  512  et  seq. — 
foreign  loans,  514 — what  Free  Trade 
has  really  done,  516 — blindness  of  the 
working  classes,  ib.  et  seq. — signs  of 
revival,  519  —  comparative  prosperity 
under  Conservative  and  Liberal  ad- 


ministrations, 521  —  condition  of  the 
country  still  prosperous,  523. 

Cranbrook,  Lord,  his  Affghan  despatch, 
114  et  seq. — on  the  South  African  ulti- 
matum, 648. 

Crebillon's  novels,  679,  681. 

Credit,  the  vote  of,  628. 

Crosse's  '  Round  about  the  Carpathians  ' 
746. 

Cyprus,  its  acquisition  by  Britain,  352— 
its  climate,  353  et  seq. — wanting  drain- 
age, 361— sanitary  requisitions,  365. 

DAUDET,  THE  NOVELS  OF  ALPHONSE, 
93  - 100  —  healthy  tendencies  of  M. 
Daudet's  books,  94 — his  imitation  of 
Dickens,  95—'  Fromont  Jeune  et  Risler 
Aine,' 96  et  seq.—  the  'Nabob,'  99  et 
seq. — '  Jack,'  105  et  seq. 

Decazes,  the  Due,  561. 

De  Quincey,  Mr,  230. 

Deutsch,  the  late  Emmanuel,  91. 

Dickens,  Charles,  the  purpose  in  his 
novels,  331. 

Dingaan,  the  Zulu  king,  381. 

Distress  in  the  country,  520. 

DOMESTIC  SERVICE,  PRESENT  AND  PAST 
CONDITIONS  OF,  169 — service,  past  and 
present,  ib. — the  taste  for  change,  170 
— advantages  and  disadvantages  of  the 
present  system,  172— literature  of  the 
subject,  173 — servants  in  the  olden 
time,  174  et  seq.  —  servants'  charge  of 
their  masters,  181 — state  of  things  in 
America,  183— "Lady  Helps,"  184. 

Doubleday,  Mr  T.,  on  the  growth  of  pop- 
ulation, 513. 

Dramatic  composition,  superiority  of  the 
French  in,  679. 

Dumas,  M.,  his  novels,  687. 

Eagles,  Mr,  the  'Sketcher,'  236. 

'  East  Lynn,'  333. 

Edwardes's  '  Two  Years  on  the  Punjaub 
Frontier,'  599. 

ELECTOR'S  CATECHISM,  THE,  1. 

Eliot  George,  her  '  Scenes  of  Clerical 
Life,'  232— the  Prince  Consort  on  her 
novels,  625. 

Enghien-les-Bains,  its  baths,  431— an- 
alysis of  its  waters,  436. 

'  England  and  Russia  in  Central  Asia,' 
by  Mr  D.  C.  Boulger,  641. 

Eucalyptus  globulus,  its  sanitary  efficacy, 
367. 

Euphrates  Valley  Railway,  36. 

Exchequer  bonds,  issue  of,  631. 

'Fanny,'  by  Ernest  Feydeau,  693. 

Fatihabad,  action  at,  748  et  seq. 

Fechter,  Mr,  his  "Hamlet,"  463. 

Femme  de  Feu,  the,  by  Adolphe  Belot, 
695. 

Ferguson,  Sir  Samuel,  his  contributions 
to  '  Blackwood,'  236. 

Ferrers,  Lord,  the  pageant  at  his  execu- 
tion, 179. 

Feydeau,  Ernest,  his  novels,  693, 


Index. 


777 


'  Firmilian'  hoax,  the,  230. 

Fitzwilliam,  General,  his  will,  171. 

Flaubert,  M.,  his  novels,  694. 

Foreign  labour,  competition  of,  517  et  scq. 

Foreign  loans,  collapse  of  the,  a  cause  of 
our  commercial  depression,  512. 

Foster's  '  Life  of  Dickens,'  488. 

Francillon,  Mr,  his  novels,  340. 

Free  trade  applied  to  labour,  518 — has  it 
increased  our  commerce  ?  510  et  seq. 

French  novels,  their  bad  name  in  Eng- 
land, 93. 

FRENCH  NOVELS — CONTEMPORARY  LIT- 
ERATURE, VI.,  678— French  talent  for 
novel- writing,  ib. — French  superiority 
in  the  Drama,  679— modern  French 
novels,  681 — their  intense  realism,  ib. 
et  seq. — The  French  novel  is  Parisian, 
684  et  seq.—  Sue,  686— Dumas,  688— 
Victor  Hugo,  689— George  Sand,  690 — 
Paul  de  Kock,  691— Edmund  About, 
692— Ernest  Feydeau,  693- Flaubert, 
694— Belot's  'Femme  de  Feu,'  695— 
Jules  Sandeau,  696— Claretie,  697— 
Gaboriau,  698  —  Jules  Verne,  699  — 
Daudet,  700— Zola,  701. 

FRENCH  EEPUBLIC,  SOME  ASPECTS  OF 
THE  PRESENT,  551— its  origin,  ib. — its 
establishment,  552  et  seq.  —  the  dan- 
gers from  Radicalism,  554  et  seq. — 
mediocrity  of  its  representatives,  556— 
M.  Gambetta,  557 — want  of  dignity, 
558 — wish  of  the  country  to  maintain 
the  Republic,  559 — increased  influence 
abroad,  561— Due  Decazes  and  M. 
"Waddington,  ib.  et  seq. — its  attack  on 
the  Catholics,  564 — decline  of  the  upper 
classes,  566 — chances  of  keeping  the 
Republic,  568. 

French  love  for  effect,  678. 

Frere,  Sir  Bartle,  his  despatches,  648. 

'Friends  and  Foes  of  Russia,'  Mr  Glad- 
stone's, reviewed,  248  et  seq. 

'  Fromont  Jeune  et  Risler  Aine,'  by  Al- 
phonse  Daudet,  reviewed,  96  et  seq. 

Fytche's  'Burmah,'  502. 

Gaboriau,  M.  Emil,  his  novels,  698. 

Gambetta,  M.,  his  position  in  the  French 
Republic,  557  et  seq. 

'  Gamekeeper  at  Home,  The,'  506. 

George  III.,  his  name  introduced  into  the 
Scottish  Liturgy,  315. 

German  colonists  in  Palestine,  39. 

GLADSTONE,  MR,  AND  THE  NEXT  ELEC- 
TION, 248 — a  change  in  the  Opposition's 
stand  -  point,  ib.  —  Mr  Gladstone's 
'  Friends  and  Foes  of  Russia,'  249— 
has  Russia  emerged  from  her  despotic 
institutions?  252  etseq. — Mr  Gladstone's 
indictment  of  the  ministerial  policy, 
255  et  seq.—  the  Affghan  difficulty,  260 
— Ministers  and  the  Constitution,  262 
et  seq.— the  Berlin  Settlement,  265— 
the  position  of  the  Gladstone  party, 
265  ad  fin. 


Gladstone,  Mr,  his  speech  on  Mr  East- 
wick's  motion,  112,  113  et  seq. — his 
"furious  anatomy  of  Blue-books,"  138 
— his  attitude  on  the  Zulu  question, 
394. 

Glass,  the  discovery  of,  36. 

'Gleig,  Life  of  Bishop,'  by  Rev.  W. 
Walker,  reviewed,  310  et  seq. 

Gleig,  ex- Chaplain- General,  319. 

GREAT  UNLOADED,  THE,  345. 

Greece,  her  Turkish  boundary  claims,  639. 

GUN  GORDON  :  THE  Two  LIGHTS,  373 — 
BITTER  -  SWEET,  374  —  AMARI  ALI- 
QUID,  375. 

Haifa,  the  "  Haven  of  Carmel,"  35  et  seq. 

HAMLET,  462— Mr  Irving's  personations, 
463 — differences  of  opinion  about  Ham- 
let's character,  465— Hamlet's  disillu- 
sionment, ib.  et  seq.  — character  of  Oph- 
elia, 470  et  seq. — Mr  Irving's  acting 
criticised,  475  et  seq. — his  crotchets, 
477— Miss  Ellen  Terry's  "Ophelia," 
479. 

Hamley,  General  E.  B.,  his  views  on  the 
Affghan  frontier,  140. 

Harcourt,  Sir  W.,  his  speech  at  Oxford, 
248. 

Hardman,  Frederick,  his  contributions  to 
'  Blackwood, '  235. 

Hardy,  Mr  Thomas,  his  novels,  338. 

HAVEN  OF  CARMEL,  THE,  35. 

HEATHER,  64. 

Herat,  the  possession  of,  643. 

Hermon,  Mount,  36. 

Hindoos  among  the  Pathans,  606. 

Home,  Bishop,  of  Norwich,  his  compli- 
ment to  the  Scottish  Episcopalians, 
307. 

"Horse-sickness,  The,"  in  South  Africa, 
385. 

Hugo,  Victor,  689. 

Hungary,  physical  geography  of,  729 
et  seq. 

Illustrated  magazines,  246. 

Indian  Government,  loan  to,  633. 

Indian  Mutiny  and  the  Crown,  619. 

Indian  Proclamation,  the  Queen's,  621. 

India,  the  English  strength  in,  645. 

Irving,  Mr  Henry,  his  "Hamlet,"  463, 
475  et  seq. 

Isandula  or  Insandusana,  389. 

'Jack,'  by  Alphonse  Daudet,  reviewed, 
105  et  seq. 

'Jamieson,  Anna,  Memoirs  of  the  Life 
of,'  reviewed,  207. 

Jewish  immigration  into  Palestine,  39. 

JOHN  CALDIGATE,  Part  X.,  13— Part  XL, 
141— Part  XII.,  278— Part  XIII.,  440 
—Part  XIV,  569— CONCLUSION,  704. 

Johnson,  Dr,  as  a  master,  177. 

Jolly,  Bishop,  his  mode  of  living,  312 — 
his  wig,  319. 

Jonson's  servant,  Brome,  175. 

JOURNALISTS  AND  MAGAZINE  WRITERS 
—  CONTEMPORARY  LITERATURE,  II., 


778 


Index. 


69— Political  bias,  ib.  et  seq.—11  Society 
Journals,"  75  et  seq. —city  articles, 
80  —  floating  a  newspaper,  85 — start- 
ing magazines,  86  —  multiplication  of 
monthlies,  89 — the  "Quarterlies,"  90. 

Kemble,  Fanny,  her  'Records  of  a  Girl- 
hood,' reviewed,  217— her  d€bwt,  221. 

Kkels,  division  of  the  Pathans  into, 
596. 

Kishon  river,  the,  35  et  seq. 

Kock,  Paul  de,  his  novels,  691. 

Kohat  Pass  trade,  601. 

LADIES,  Two,  206. 

"Lady  Helps,"  184. 

Lady  Novelists,  322  et  seq. 

Lamartine,  M.,  his  revolutionary  speech, 
371. 

Lawrence,  Lord,  his  defence  of  Masterly 
Inactivity,  135. 

Leopardi  compared  with  Hamlet,  466. 

LEVANT,  CLIMATE  IN  THE,  352— the  ac- 
quisition of  Cyprus  ib. — climate,  353 
— temperature  in  Syria,  355  et  seq. — 
diseases,  358 — prospects  of  sanitation, 
360  et  seq. — precautions  to  be  observed, 
363 — sanitary  requisites,  366  et  seq. 

Levantine  fever,  359. 

Lever,  Charles,  his  contributions  to 
'Blackwood,'  224. 

Lewes,  G.  H. ,  his  contributions  to  'Black- 
wood,'  236. 

Liberals,  the,  their  encouragement  of  Rus- 
sia, 249. 

'LIFE  OF  THE  PRINCE  CONSORT,  THE,' 
611. 

Limited  Banks,  their  capital,  759. 

Limited  Liability  in  Banking,  756. 

Lockhart,  Colonel,  his  novels,  339. 

Lockhart,  John  Gibson,  227— his  'Life 
of  Scott,'  491  et  seq. 

Lytton,  Lord,  defended  by  the  Ministry, 
124  — endeavours  to  reclaim  Shere  All 
to  the  British  alliance,  126. 

Lytton  (Bulwer)  Lord,  his  contributions 
to  'Blackwood,'  333  et  seq. 

Macdonald,  George,  his  novels,  340. 

Macpherson,  Mrs  Geraldine,  her  '  Me- 
moirs of  the  Life  of  Anna  Jamieson,' 
reviewed,  207. 

'  Madame  Bovary,'  by  Flaubert,  694. 

Magazine,  starting  a,  86. 

MAGAZINE  WRITERS  :  CONTEMPORARY 
LITERATURE,  III.,  225—'  Blackwood's 
Magazine,'  ib.  et  seq. — its  founder,  227 
— its  contributors,  229— signed  articles, 
238  —  Magazine  reviews,  242  —  the 
younger  Magazines,  244  —  Magazine 
illustrations,  246 — religious  Magazines, 
ib. 

'  Mansie  Wauch,'  by  Delta,  229. 

Maros,  inundations  on  the,  743  et  seq. 

Martin,  Mr  Theodore,  his  '  Life  of  the 
Prince  Consort,'  reviewed,  611. 

Mediocrity  of  the  present  French  Govern- 
ment, 556. 


MEDIUM  OF  LAST  CENTURY,  A,  Part  I., 
43 — Conclusion,  185. 

Mohmunds,  the,  596. 

Montmorency,  429,  530. 

Moore,  George,  his  biography,  485. 

M.  Thiers  and  his  definition  of  the  Re- 
public, 554. 

MY  LATEST  EXPERIENCE,  429 — Enghien- 
les- Bains,  ib.  —  the  baths,  431 — salles 
d 'inhalations  pulve'rise'es,  432  —  the 
waters  of  Enghien,  435  et  seq. — the 
bathers,  438. 

'Nabob,'  the,  by  Alphonse  Daudet,  re- 
viewed, 99  et  seq. 

N£blus  (Shechem),  the  true  capital  of 
Palestine,  37. 

Napoleon  III. — his  intrigues  with  Rus- 
sia, 615 — difference  between,  and  Prince 
Consort,  ib. — interview  at  Osborne,  616 
— his  Sardinian  alliance,  617  et  seq. 

Natal  Government  and  the  Zulus,  the, 
378. 

'Nepaul  Frontier,  Sport  and  Work  on 
the,'  501. 

NEXT  ELECTION,  MR  GLADSTONE  AND 

THE,   248. 

Non- Jurors,  the  Scottish,  313. 

North  brook,  Lord,  his  political  bias' in  the 
Affghan  question,  112  et  seq. — his  mis- 
management of  the  Simla  negotiations, 
117  et  seq. — his  attack  on  the  Affghan 
policy,  135. 

Northcote,  Sir  Stafford,  his  revival  of  the 
Sinking  Fund,  627 — character  of  his 
Budget,  628. 

NORTH-WEST  FRONTIER  OF  INDIA,  THE 
PATHANS  OF  THE,  595. 

Nouvelles  couches,  the,  in  France,  566  et 
seq. 

NOVELISTS  :  CONTEMPORARY  LITERA- 
TURE, IV.,  322— why  ladies  take  to 
novel- writing,  ib.  et  seq. — advice  to 
young  novel-writers,  328  —  maiden 
novels,  329 — mannerisms,  330 — no- 
vels with  a  purpose,  331  —  modern 
sensational  school,  333 — George  Eliot's 
novels,  336— Mrs  Oliphant,  337— the 
religious  novelist,  340  —  the  £  novel- 
market,  341 — novels  in  Magazines,  342 
— the  Colonial  demand  for  novels,  343. 

NOVELS  OF  ALPHONSE  DAUDET,  THE,  93. 

Novels,  the  Prince  Consort  on,  625. 

Novel-writing  as  a  profession,  340  et  seq. 

ODILLON  BARROT  IN  1848,  369. 

Oliphant,  Mrs,  her  contributions  to 
'Blackwood,'236. 

Oliphant  of  Gask  objects  to  pray  for 
King  George,  313. 

Oorakzais,  the,  596. 

"Ophelia,"  the  character  of,  472  et  seq. 

Opposition,  the,  disarnied,  651. 

Opposition  and  the  Budget,  the,  626  et 
seq. 

Orleans,  the  Duchess  of,  at  the  Chamber 
of  Deputies,  371  et  seq. 


Index. 


"  Osborne  Compromise,"  the,  616. 

"  Ouida's  "  novels,  334. 

Palestine,  Russian  influence  in,  38 — Ger- 
man colonisation  of,  39 — possible  de- 
velopment of,  40. 

Palmerston,  Lord,  his  Napoleonide 
views,  618. 

Parisian  character  of  French  novels,  684. 

Parliament  on  the  Zulu  war,  393. 

Parliament :  the  vote  of  censure,  131  et 
seq. 

PATHANS  OF  THE  NORTH-WEST  FRON- 
TIER OF  INDIA,  THE,  595 — the  Path- 
an  country,  ib.  et  seq. — subdivision  of 
clans,  596— quarrels,  597— the  Sikh 
revenue  system,  598 — the  Afreedees, 
600  et  seq. — their  habits,  602 — super- 
stition, 604 — Pathans  in  our  army,  605 
— Pathan  women,  606— raids,  608  et 
seq. — British  reprisals,  610. 

Payn,  Mr  James,  his  novels,  339. 

Pearson,  Colonel — his  advance  into  Zulu- 
land,  389. 

Peiwar  Pass  captured,  139. 

Pelly,  Sir  Lewis,  his  Affghan  mission, 
127. 

Peshawur  Conference,  the,  127. 

PICKING  UP  THE  PIECES  :  A  COMEDY, 
269. 

Poetry,  Magazine,  243. 

POLICY  OF  THE  BUDGET,  THE,  626. 

PRESENT  AND  PAST  CONDITIONS  OF  DO- 
MESTIC SERVICE,  169. 

'  PRINCE  CONSORT,  THE  LIFE  OF  THE,' 
611 — development  of  the  Prince's  char- 
acter, 613— Russia  and  the  Treaty  of 
Paris,  614— the  Prince  and  the  Em- 
peror Napoleon,  615  —  the  fetes  at 
Cherbourg,  617  —  the  Austro  -  Italian 
difficulty,  618  —  the  Indian  Mutiny, 
619  et  seq. — marriage  of  the  Princess 
Royal,  623 — the  Prince  on  novels,  625. 

Princess  Royal,  marriage  of  the,  623  et 
seq. 

Prosperity,  prospects  of  reviving,  523. 

Protection  and  Free  Trade,  512  et  seq. 

PUBLIC  AFFAIRS,  635— the  execution  of 
the  Berlin  Treaty,  636— the  claims  of 
Greece,  638  —  steady  progress  of  the 
Treaty  arrangements,  639 — the  Affghan 
war,  640  et  seq.  —  the  war  in  South 
Africa,  646 — discussions  in  Parliament, 
647  —  the  settlement  of  the  South 
African  problem,  650 — the  Opposition 
disarmed,  651. 

"Quarterlies "  the,  90  et  seq. 

Queen,  the,  her  account  of  the  Princess 
Royal's  marriage,  624. 

Radicalism  and  the  French  Republic,  554 
et  seq. 

Railway  traffic  not  decreased  by  the 
commercial  depression,  522. 

Reade,  Charles,  his  novels  of  purpose, 
332. 

Realism,  intense,  of  French  novelists,  682. 


REATA  ;  OR,  WHAT'S  IN  A  NAME, 
Part  L,  395  — Part  II.,  526  —  Part 
III.,  653. 

'  Records  of  a  Girlhood, '  by  Fanny  Kem- 
ble,  reviewed,  217. 

Religious  Magazines,  246. 

Roberts,  Major-General,  139. 

Rorke's  Drift,  disaster  to  the  British 
near,  387. 

Roumelia,  East,  636. 

Russia,  her  advances  in  Central  Asia,  119 
— intrigues  with  Cabul,  124 — repudi- 
ates understanding  with  Britain  about 
Afghanistan,  125 — her  execution  of  the 
Treaty  of  Paris,  614 — her  policy  in- 
fluenced by  English  elections,  615 — 
her  strength  in  Central  Asia,  643 — 
Mr  Gladstone's  defence  of,  252  et  seq. 

Russian  influence  in  Palestine,  38. 

Ruxton,  George,  his  writings  of  adven- 
ture, 234  et  seq. 

Safed  Koh,  the,  600. 

Salisbury,  Lord,  his  correspondence  with 
Prince  Gortschakoff  on  the  Berlin 
Treaty,  636. 

Salisbury,  Lord,  on  the  South  African 
war,  648. 

Salles  d  inhalations  pulverisees,  432. 

Salon,  the  French,  decline  of  its  influ- 
ence, 567. 

Sand,  George,  her  novels,  690. 

Sandeau,  Jules,  his  novels,  696. 

Sardinia,  her  alliance  with  France  against 
Austria,  617. 

Scots  Banks  and  their  London  agencies, 
756. 

SCOTS  BISHOP,  A,  306— the  Episcopal 
clergy  after  the  Revolution,  307 — per- 
secution of  non-jurors,  308 — George 
Gleig,  309 — his  charge  at  Pittenweem, 
311 — opposition  to  his  election  to  see 
of  Dunkeld,  312 — removal  to  Stirling, 
313— Bishop  of  Brechin,  316— Primus, 
318  —  anecdotal  reminiscences,  320 — 
death,  321. 

Scott,  Michael,  his  sea  romances,  230  et 
seq. 

Scott,  Mr,  of  the  Indian  Survey,  his  gal- 
lant exploit  at  Michni,  595. 

Scott,  Sir  Walter,  his  impetus  to  litera- 
ture, 226— his  'Napoleon, '492. 

Scottish  Episcopacy,  troubles  of,  after 
the  Revolution,  307  et  seq. 

Scudery,  M.,  his  romances,  679. 

Seabury,  Bishop,  his  consecration,  312. 

Seasons,  good  or  bad,  their  influence  on 
population,  513. 

Selwyn,  George,  and  the  waiting-woman, 
174. 

Senior,  Mr  Nassau,  his  conversation  with 
Odillon  Barrot,  369. 

Servants,  past  and  present,  169  et  seq. 

Sharpe,  Charles  Kirkpatrick,  anecdote  of 
a  Scottish  non -juror,  308. 

tone,    Sir    Theophilus,    his     Zulu 


780 


Index. 


policy,  378  et  seq. — his  meeting  with 
Cetywayo's  envoys,  380. 

Shere  Ali  Khan,  Ameer,  his  insulting 
treatment  of  Lord  Northbrook,  118 — 
his  uneasiness  at  the  Russian  advance, 
120. 

Siddons,  Mrs,  in  her  old  age,  218. 

Signed  articles,  238. 

Sikh  treatment  of  the  Pathans,  598. 

Simla  conference,  the,  117  et  seq. 

Sinking  Fund,  the,  revived  by  Sir  Staf- 
ford Northcote,  627. 

Sir  Bartle  Frere,  377  et  seq.— his  ultima- 
tum to  the  Zulus,  384 — attacked  by 
the  Opposition,  393. 

Skinner,  the  Eev.  John,  persecutions  of, 
as  a  non-juror,  309. 

Skinner,  Bishop,  Primus,  his  hostility  to 
Bishop  Gleig,  315. 

Smiles,  Dr,  his  biographies,  486,  495. 

Smith,  William,  author  of  'Thorndale,' 
236. 

"  Society  "  journals,  75  et  seq. 

SOME  ASPECTS  OF  THE  PKESENT  FRENCH 
REPUBLIC,  551. 

South  African  colonies,  their  general  con- 
dition, 390  et  seq. 

Sport,  works  on,  503  et  seq. 

Stephanovich,  Major,  his  remedies  for 
Hungarian  floods,  743,  747. 

Stockmar,  Baron,  the  Prince  Consort's 
attachment  to,  613,  622. 

'  Subaltern,'  the,  229. 

Sue,  M.,  his  novels,  686  et  seq. 

Syria,  remarks  on  the  climate  in,  353 — 
rainfall  of,  355 — requisites  for  improve- 
ment, 365 — planting  of  trees,  366. 

Syrian  Fellahin,  the,  40  et  seq. 

SZEGEDIN,  THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  :  PER- 
SONAL NOTES,  728 — Hungarian  floods, 
ib.  —  visit  to  the  inundations,  732 — 
scene  on  the  embankment,  733 — steam- 
ing through  the  floods,  735 — the  irrup- 
tion of  the  waters,  737 — destruction  of 
Szegedin,  738  et  seq. — causes  of  inun- 
dation, 742 — suggested  remedies,  743 
et  ad  fin. 

Terry,  Miss  Ellen,  her  "Ophelia,"  469 
et  seq. 

THE  Two  LIGHTS,  BY  GORDON  GUN,  373. 

Theiss,  floods  on  the,  735  et  seq.  —at- 
tempts to  curb  it,  742  et  seq. 


Thiers,  M.,  at  the  Barricades,  370. 

'  Tom  Cringle,'  230  et  seq. 

Transvaal,  annexation  of  the,  379. 

'Transvaal  of  To-day,  The,'  385,  389. 

Travel,  works  of,  496  et  seq. 

Trollope,  Mr  Anthony,  his  novels,  338. 

Two  LADIES,  206 — *  Memoirs  of  the  Life 
of  Anna  Jamieson,'  207 — 'Records  of 
a  Girlhood,'  by  Fanny  Kemble,  217. 

Unlimited  Banks,  their  capital,  761. 

Verne,  Jules,  his  novels,  699. 

Verral,  Will— his  '  Cookery  Book,'  180. 

Waddrngton,  M.,  his  position  in  the 
French  Republic,  561. 

Walker,  Rev.  W.,  his  'Life  of  Bishop 
Gleig'  reviewed,  310  et  seq. 

Warren,  Samuel,  his  contributions  to  the 
Magazine,  232. 

Ween  en,  the  massacre  of,  381. 

Western  Bank,  its  failure,  750  et  seq. 

WHAT'S  IN  A  NAME,  RE  AT  A  ;  OR,— Part 
I.,  395— Part  II.,  526— Part  III.,  653. 

Whig  rule,  its  results  during  ten  years 
summed  up  by  Mr  Fawcett,  521. 

White,  the  Rev."  James,  his  contributions 
to  'Blackwood,'  236. 

Whyte  Melville,  the  late  Major,  his  no- 
vels, 339. 

'Wild  Life  in  a  Southern  Country,'  506. 

Williams,  a  critic  in  livery,  177. 

Wilson,  Andrew,  his  'Abode  of  Snow/ 
237. 

Wilson,  Professor,  227  et  seq. 

Wood,  Colonel,  his  operations  in  Zulu- 
land,  389. 

Working  classes,  the,  their  blindness  a 
cause  of  the  commercial  depression,  516 
et  seq. 

Zola,  M.,  his  novels,  682  et  seq. — his 
'Assommoir,'  703.' 

Zululand,  the  British  advance  into,  387. 

ZULU  WAR,  THE,  376 — the  military  power 
of  the  Zulus,  377— the  quarrel  with 
Cetywayo,  378  et  seq. — the  Shepstone 
policy,  380 — the  Zulu  organisation,  381 
— the  ultimatum,  382  —  difficulties  of 
the  campaign,  385 — the  Rorke's  Drift 
disaster,  387— South  African  little  wars, 
390 — the  Boers,  391 — the  discussion  in 
Parliament  on,  392. 

Zwart  Kopjies,  the  Dragoon  Guards  at, 
385. 


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