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MAGAZINE. 


VOL.  CXXVIIL 


JULY—  DECEMBER  1880. 


WILLIAM  BLACKWOOD  &  SONS,  EDINBURGH  ; 

AND 

37  PATERNOSTER  ROW,  LONDON. 


1880. 

All  Rights  of  Translation  and  Republication  reserved. 


BLACKWOOD'S 
EDINBUBGH    MAGAZINE. 


No.  DCCLXXVII. 


JULY   1880. 


VOL.  CXXVIII. 


DR  WORTLE'S  SCHOOL. — PART  in. 


CHAPTER  VII. ROBERT  LEFROY. 


FERDINAND  LEFROY,  the  man  who 
had  in  truth  been  the  woman's  hus- 
band, had,  during  that  one  interview 
which  had  taken  place  between 
him  and  the  man  who  had  married 
his  wife,  on  his  return  to  St  Louis, 
declared  that  her  brother  Robert 
was  dead.  But  so  had  Robert, 
when  Peacocke  encountered  him 
down  in  Texas,  declared  that  Fer- 
dinand was  dead.  But  Peacocke 
knew  that  no  word  of  truth  could 
be  expected  from  the  mouths  of 
either  of  them.  But  seeing  is  be- 
lieving. He  had  seen  Ferdinand 
alive  at  St  Louis  after  his  marriage, 
and  by  seeing  him,  had  been  driv- 
en away  from  his  home,  back  to 
his  old  country.  Now  he  also  saw 
this  other  man,  and  was  aware  that 
his  secret  was  no  longer  in  his 
own  keeping. 

"  Yes,  I  know  you  now.  Why, 
when  I  saw  you  last,  did  you  tell 
me  that  your  brother  was  dead  1 
Why  did  you  bring  so  great  an  in- 
jury on  your  sister-in-law  ?'* 

"  I  never  told  you  anv 
the  kind." 


you  anything  of 


VOL.  CXXVIII. — NO.  DCCLXXVII. 


"As  God  is  above  us  you  told 
me  so." 

"I  don't  know  anything  about 
that,  my  friend.  Maybe  I  was 
cut.  I  used  to  be  drinking  a  good 
deal  them  days.  Maybe  I  didn't 
say  anything  of  the  kind, — only  it 
suited  you  to  go  back  and  tell  her 
so.  Anyways  I  disremember  it 
altogether.  Anyways  he  wasn't 
dead.  And  I  ain't  dead  now." 

"  I  can  see  that." 

"  And  I  ain't  drunk  now.  But  I 
am  not  quite  so  well  off  as  a  fellow 
would  wish  to  be.  Can  you  get 
me  breakfast  1 " 

"  Yes,  I  can  get  you  breakfast," 
he  said,  after  pausing  for  a  while. 
Then  he  rang  the  bell  and  told  the 
girl  to  bring  some  breakfast  for  the 
gentleman  as  soon  as  possible,  into 
the  room  in  which  they  were  sit- 
ting. This  was  in  a  little  library 
in  which  he  was  in  the  habit  of 
studying  and  going  through  lessons 
with  the  boys.  He  had  brought 
the  man  here  so  that  his  wife 
might  not  come  across  him.  As 
soon  as  the  order  was  given,  he 
A 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  III. 


[July 


ran  up-stairs  to  her  room,  to  save 
her  from  coming  down. 

"A  man; — what  man1?"  she 
asked. 

"  Kobert  Lefroy.  I  must  go  to 
him  at  once.  Bear  yourself  well 
and  boldly,  my  darling.  It  is  he, 
certainly.  I  know  nothing  yet  of 
what  he  may  have  to  say,  but  it 
will  be  well  that  you  should  avoid 
him  if  possible.  When  I  have 
heard  anything,  I  will  tell  you  all." 
Then  he  hurried  down  and  found 
the  man  examiningthe  book-shelves. 

"You  have  got  yourself  up 
pretty  tidy  again,  Peacocke,"  said 
Lefroy. 

"Pretty  well." 

"The  old  game,  I  suppose. 
Teaching  the  young  idea.  Is  this 
what  you  call  a  college,  now,  in 
your  country  ? " 

"It  is  a  school." 

"  And  you're  one  of  the  masters." 

"  I  am  the  second  master." 

"  It  ain't  as  good,  I  reckon,  as  the 
Missouri  College." 

"  IVs  not  so  large,  certainly." 

"  What's  the  screw  1 "  he  said. 

"  The  payment,  you  mean.  It 
can  hardly  serve  us  now  to  go  into 
matters  such  as  that.  What  is  it 
that  has  brought  you  here,  Lefroy?" 

"Well,  a  big  ship,  an  uncom- 
monly bad  sort  of  railway  car,  and 
the  ricketiest  little  buggy  that  ever 
a  man  trusted  his  life  to.  Thems 
what's  brought  me  here." 

"  I  suppose  you  have  something 
to  say,  or  you  would  not  have 
come,"  said  Peacocke. 

"  Yes,  I've  a  good  deal  to  say  of 
one  kind  or  another.  But  here's 
the  breakfast,  and  I'm  wellnigh 
starved.  What,  cold  meat !  I'm 
darned  if  I  can  eat  cold  meat. 
Haven't  you  got  anything  hot,  my 
dear?"  Then  it  was  explained  to 
him  that  hot  meat  was  not  to  be 
had,  unless  he  would  choose  to 
wait,  to  have  some  lengthened 
cooking  accomplished.  To  this, 


however,  he  objected,  and  then  the 
girl  left  the  room. 

"  I've  a  good  many  things  to  say  of 
one  kind  or  another,"  he  continued. 
"  It's  difficult  to  say,  Peacocke,  how 
you  and  I  stand  with  each  other." 

"I  do  not  know  that  we  stand 
with  each  other  at  all,  as  you  call 
it." 

"I  mean  as  to  relationship. 
Are  you  my  brother  -  in  -  law,  or 
are  you  not?"  This  was  a  ques- 
tion which  in  very  truth  the  school- 
master found  it  hard  to  answer. 
He  did  not  answer  it  at  all,  but 
remained  silent.  "Are  you  my 
brother-in-law,  or  are  you  not? 
You  call  her  Mrs  Peacocke,  eh  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  call  her  Mrs  Peacocke." 

"And  she  is  here  living  with 
you?" 

"  Yes,  she  is  here." 

"  Had  she  not  better  come  down 
and  see  me  ?  She  is  my  sister-in- 
law,  anyway." 

"No,"  said  Mr  Peacocke;  "I 
think,  on  the  whole,  that  she  had 
better  not  come  down  and  see 
you." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  she 
isn't  my  sister-in-law?  She's  that, 
whatever  else  she  is.  She's  that, 
whatever  name  she  goes  by.  If 
Ferdinand  had  been  ever  so  much 
dead,  and  that  marriage  at  St  Louis 
had  been  ever  so  good,  still  she'd 
been  my  sister-in-law." 

"Not  a  doubt  about  it,"  said 
Mr  Peacocke.  "  But  still,  under  all 
the  circumstances,  she  had  better 
not  see  you." 

"Well,  that's  a  queer  beginning, 
anyway.  But  perhaps  you'll  come 
round  by -and -by.  She  goes  by 
Mrs  Peacocke  ? " 

"She  is  regarded  as  my  wife," 
said  the  husband,  feeling  himself  to 
become  more  and  more  indignant 
at  every  word,  but  knowing  at  the 
same  time  how  necessary  it  was 
that  he  should  keep  his  indignation 
hidden. 


Dr  Worth's  School.— Part  III. 


1880.] 


"Whether  true  or  false?"  asked 
the  brother-in-law. 

"  I  will  answer  no  such  question 
as  that." 

"  You  ain't  very  well  disposed  to 
answer  any  question,  as  far  as  I  can 
see.  But  I  shall  have  to  make 
you  answer  one  or  two  before  I've 
done  with  you.  There's  a  Doctor 
here,  isn't  there,  as  this  school  be- 
longs to  1 " 

"Yes,  there  is.  It  belongs  to 
Dr  Wortle." 

"It's  him  these  boys  are  sent 
to?" 

"  Yes,  he  is  the  master ;  I  am 
only  his  assistant." 

"  It's  him  they  comes  to  for  edu- 
cation, and  morals,  and  religion?" 
"  Quite  so." 

"And  he  knows,  no  doubt,  all 
about  you  and  my  sister-in-law ; — 
how  you  came  and  married  her 
when  she  was  another  man's  wife, 
and  took  her  away  when  you  knew 
as  that  other  man  was  alive  and 
kicking?"  Mr  Peacocke,  when 
these  questions  were  put  to  him, 
remained  silent,  because  literally 
he  did  not  know  how  to  answer 
them.  He  was  quite  prepared  to 
take  his  position  as  he  found  it. 
He  had  told  himself  before  this 
dreadful  man  had  appeared,  that 
the  truth  must  be  made  known  at 
Bowick,  and  that  he  and  his  wife 
must  pack  up  and  flit.  It  was  not 
that  the  man  could  bring  upon  him 
any  greater  evil  than  he  had  an- 
ticipated. But  the  questions  which 
were  asked  him  were  in  themselves 
so  bitter  !  The  man,  no  doubt,  was 
his  wife's  brother-in-law.  He 
could  not  turn  him  out  of  the 
house  as  he  would  a  stranger,  had 
a  stranger  come  there  asking  such 
questions  without  any  claim  of 
family.  Abominable  as  the  man 
was  to  him,  still  he  was  there  with 
a  certain  amount  of  right  upon  his 
side. 

"  I  think,"  said  he,  "that  ques- 


3 


tions  such  as  those  you've  asked 
can  be  of  no  service  to  you.  To 
me  they  are  intended  only  to  be 
injurious." 

"  They're  as  a  preface  to  what  is 
to  come,"  said  Robert  Lefroy,  with 
an  impudent  leer  upon  his  face. 
"  The  questions,  no  doubt,  are  dis- 
agreeable enough.  She  ain't  your 
wife  no  more  than  she's  mine. 
You've  no  business  with  her ;  and 
that  you  knew  when  you  took  her 
away  from  St  Louis.  You  may,  or 
you  mayn't,  have  been  fooled  by 
some  one  down  in  Texas  when  you 
went  back  and  married  her  in  all 
that  hurry.  But  you  knew  whafe 
you  were  doing  well  enough  when 
you  took  her  away.  You  won't  dare 
to  tell  me  that  you  hadn't  seen 
Ferdinand  when  you  two  mizzled 
off  from  the  College?"  Then  he 
paused,  waiting  again  for  a  reply. 

"  As  I  told  you  before,"  he  said, 
"  no  further  conversation  on  the 
subject  can  be  of  avail.  It  does 
not  suit  me  to  be  cross-examined 
as  to  what  I  knew  or  what  I  did 
not  know.  If  you  have  anything 
for  me  to  hear,  you  can  say  it.  If 
you  have  anything  to  tell  to  others, 
go  and  tell  it  to  them." 

"  That's  just  it,"  said  Lefroy. 
"Then  go  and  tell  it." 
"You're  in  a  terrible  hurry, 
Mister  Peacocke.  I  don't  want  to 
drop  in  and  spoil  your  little  game. 
You're  making  money  of  your 
little  game.  I  can  help  you  as  to 
carrying  on  your  little  game,  better 
than  you  do  at  present.  I  don't 
want  to  blow  upon  you.  But  as 
you're  making  money  out  of  it,  I'd 
like  to  make  a  little  too.  I  am 
precious  hard  up, — I  am." 

"  You  will  make  no  money  of 
me,"  said  the  other. 

"  A  little  will  go  a  long  way  with 
me ;  and,  remember,  I  have  got 
tidings  now  which  are  worth  pay- 
ing for." 

"What  tidings?" 


Dr  Worth's  School.— Part  III. 


[July 


"  If  they're  worth  paying  for,  it's 
not  likely  that  you  are  going  to  get 
them  for  nothing." 

"Look  here,  Colonel  Lefroy; 
•whatever  you  may  have  to  say  ahout 
me  will  certainly  not  be  prevented 
by  my  paying  you  money.  Though 
you  might  be  able  to  ruin  me  to- 
morrow I  would  not  give  you  a 
dollar  to  save  myself." 

"  But  her,"  said  Lefroy,  pointing 
as  it  were  up-stairs,  with  his  thumb 
over  his  shoulder. 

"Nor  her,"  said  Peacocke. 

"You  don't  care  very  much 
about  her,  then1?" 

"  How  much  I  may  care  I  shall 
not  trouble  myself  to  explain  to 
you.  I  certainly  shall  not  endeav- 
our to  serve  her  after  that  fashion. 
I  begin  to  understand  why  you  have 
come,  and  can  only  beg  you  to  be- 
lieve that  you  have  come  in  vain." 

Lefroy  turned  to  his  food,  which 
he  had  not  yet  finished,  while  his 
companion  sat  silent  at  the  win- 
dow, trying  to  arrange  in  his  mind 
the  circumstances  of  the  moment 
as  best  he  might.  He  declared  to 
himself  that  had  the  man  come  but 
one  day  later,  his  coming  would 
have  been  matter  of  no  moment. 
The  story,  the  entire  story  would 
then  have  been  told  to  the  Doctor, 
and  the  brother-in-law,  with  all  his 
malice,  could  have  added  nothing 
to  the  truth.  But  now  it  seemed 
as  though  there  would  be  a  race 
which  should  tell  the  story  first. 
Now  the  Doctor  would,  no  doubt, 
be  led  to  feel  that  the  narration 
was  made  because  it  could  no 
longer  be  kept  back.  Should  this 
man  be  with  the  Doctor  first,  and 
should  the  story  be  told  as  he 
would  tell  it,  then  it  would  be  im- 
possible f/»r  Mr  Peacocke,  in  ac- 
knowledging the  truth  of  it  all,  to 
bring  his  friend's  mind  back  to  the 
condition  in  which  it  would  have 
been  had  this  intruder  not  been  in 
the  way.  And  yet  he  could  not 


make  a  race  of  it  with  the  man. 
He  could  not  rush  across,  and  all 
but  out  of  breath  with  his  energy, 
begin  his  narration  while  Lefroy 
was  there  knocking  at  the  door. 
There  would  be  an  absence  of  dig- 
nity in  such  a  mode  of  proceeding, 
which  alone  was  sufficient  to  deter 
him.  He  had  fixed  an  hour  al- 
ready with  the  Doctor.  He  had 
said  that  he  would  be  there  in  the 
house  at  a  certain  time.  Let  the 
man  do  what  he  would,  he  would 
keep  exactly  to  his  purpose,  unless 
the  Doctor  should  seek  an  earlier 
interview.  He  would,  in  no  tittle, 
be  turned  from  his  purpose  by  the 
unfortunate  coming  of  this  wretch- 
ed man.  "  Well  ! "  said  Lefroy, 
as  soon  as  he  had  eaten  his  last 
mouthful. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  say  to  you," 
said  Peacocke. 

"  Nothing  to  say  ? " 

"  Not  a  word." 

"Well,  that's  queer.  I  should 
have  thought  there'd  have  been  a 
many  words.  I've  got  a  lot  to  say 
to  somebody,  and  mean  to  say  it, 
precious  soon  too.  Is  there  any 
ho-tel  here,  where  I  can  put  this 
horse  up?  I  suppose  you  haven't 
got  stables  of  your  own  1  I  won- 
der if  the  Doctor  would  give  me 
accommodation  ? " 

"  I  haven't  got  a  stable,  and  the 
Doctor  certainly  will  not  give  you 
accommodation.  There  is  a  public- 
house  less  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
further  on,  which  no  doubt  your 
driver  knows  very  well.  You  had 
better  go  there  yourself,  because, 
after  what  has  taken  place,  I  am 
bound  to  tell  you  that  you  will 
not  be  admitted  here." 

"Not  admitted?" 

"No.  You  must  leave  this 
house,  and  will  not  be  admitted 
into  it  again  as  long  as  I  live 
in  it." 

"  The  Doctor  will  admit  me." 

"Very  likely.      I,  at  any  rate, 


1880.] 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  III. 


shall  do  nothing  to  dissuade  him. 
If  you  go  down  to  the  road,  jou'll 
see  the  gate  leading  up  to  his 
house.  I  think  you'll  find  that  he 
is  down-stairs  by  this  time." 

"  You  take  it  very  coo],  Pea- 
cocke." 

"I  only  tell  you  the  truth. 
With  you  I  will  have  nothing  more 
to  do.  You  have  a  story  which 
you  wish  to  tell  to  Dr  Wortle. 
Go  and  tell  it  to  him." 

"  I  can  tell  it  to  all  the  world," 
said  Lefroy. 

"  Go  and  tell  it  to  all  the  world." 

"  And  I  ain't  to  see  my  sister  1 " 

"  No ;  you  will  not  see  your 
sister-in-law  here.  "Why  should 
she  wish  to  see  one  who  has  only 
injured  her?" 

"  I  ain't  injured  her ; — at  any 
rate  not  as  yet.  I  ain't  done  no- 
thing;— not  as  yet.  I've  been  as 
dark  as  the  grave; — as  yet.  Let  her 
come  down,  and  you  go  away  for  a 
moment,  and  let  us  see  if  we  can't 
settle  it." 

"  There  is  nothing  for  you  to 
settle.  Nothing  that  you  can  do, 
nothing  that  you  can  say,  will  in- 
fluence either  her  or  me.  If  you 
have  anything  to  tell,  go  and  tell  it." 

"  Why  should  you  smash  up 
everything  in  that  way,  Peacocke  ? 
You're  comfortable  here ;  why  not 
remain  so?  I  don't  want  to  hurt 
you.  I  want  to  help  you  ; — and 
I  can.  Three  hundred  dollars 
wouldn't  be  much  to  you.  You 
were  always  a  fellow  as  had  a  little 
money  by  you." 

"  If  this  box  were  full  of  gold," 
said  the  schoolmaster,  laying  his 
hand  upon  a  black  desk  which 
stood  on  the  table,  "  I  would  not 
give  you  one  cent  to  induce  -you  to 
hold  your  tongue  for  ever.  I  would 
not  condescend  even  to  ask  it  of 
you  as  a  favour.  You  think  that 
you  can  disturb  our  happiness  by 
telling  what  you  know  of  us  to  Dr 
Wortle.  Go  and  try." 


Mr  Peacocke's  manner  was  so 
firm  that  the  other  man  began  to 
doubt  whether  in  truth  he  had  a 
secret  to  tell.  Could  it  be  possible 
that  Dr  Wortle  knew  it  all,  and 
that  the  neighbours  knew  it  all, 
and  that,  in  spite  of  what  had  hap- 
pened, the  position  of  the  man  and 
of  the  woman  was  accepted  among 
them?  They  certainly  were  not 
man  and  wife,  and  yet  they  were 
living  together  as  such.  Could 
such  a  one  as  this  Dr  Wortle  know 
that  it  was  so  ?  He,  when  he  had 
spoken  of  the  purposes  for  which 
the  boys  were  sent  there,  asking 
whether  they  were  not  sent  for 
education,  for  morals  and  religion, 
had  understood  much  of  the  Doc- 
tor's position.  He  had  known  the 
peculiar  value  of  his  secret.  He 
had  been  aware  that  a  schoolmaster 
with  a  wife  to  whom  he  was  not  in 
truth  married  must  be  out  of  place 
in  an  English  seminary  such  as 
this.  But  yet  he  now  began  to 
doubt.  "  I  am  to  be  turned  out, 
then  ? "  he  asked. 

"Yes,  indeed,  Colonel  Lefroy. 
The  sooner  you  go  the  better." 

"  That's  a  pretty  sort  of  welcome 
to  your  wife's  brother-in-law,  who 
has  just  come  over  all  the  way  from 
Mexico  to  see  her." 

"  To  get  what  he  can  out  of  her 
by  his  unwelcome  presence,"  said 
Peacocke.  "  Here  you  can  get  no- 
thing. Go  and  do  your  worst.  If 
you  remain  much  longer  I  shall 
send  for  the  policeman  to  remove 
you." 

"  You  will." 

"  Yes,  I  shall.  My  time  is  not 
my  own,  and  I  cannot  go  over  to 
my  work  leaving  you  in  my  house. 
You  have  nothing  to  get  by  my 
friendship.  Go  and  see  what  you 
can  do  as  my  enemy." 

"  I  will,"  s"aid  the  Colonel,  get- 
ting up  from  his  chair;  "I  will. 
If  I'm  to  be  treated  in  this  way  it 
shall  not  be  for  nothing.  I  have 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  III. 


[July 


offered  you  the  right  hand  of  an 
affectionate  brother-in-law." 
"  Bosh,"  said  Mr  Peacocke. 
"  And  you  tell  me  that  I  am  an 
enemy.  Very  well;  I  will  be  an 
enemy.  I  could  have  put  you  alto- 
gether on  your  legs,  but  I'll  leave 
you  without  an  inch  of  ground 
to  stand  upon.  You  see  if  I 
don't."  Then  he  put  his  hat  on 
his  head,  and  stalked  out  of  the 
house,  down  the  road  towards  the 
gate. 

Mr  Peacocke,  when  he  was  left 
alone,  remained  in  the  room  collect- 
ing his  thoughts,  and  then  went 
up-stairs  to  his  wife. 

'  Has  he  gone  1 "  she  asked. 
'  Yes,  he  has  gone." 
'  And  what  has  he  said  1 " 
1  He  has  asked  for  money, — to 
ho  d  his  tongue." 

'  Have  you  given  him  any  1 " 
'  Not  a  cent.  I  have  given  him 
nothing  but  hard  words.  I  have 
bade  him  go  and  do  his  worst.  To 
be  at  the  mercy  of  such  a  man  as 
that  would  be  worse  for  you  and 
for  me  than  anything  that  fortune 
has  sent  us  even  yet." 

"  Did  he  want  to  see  me? " 


"Yes;  but  I  refused.  Was  it 
not  better?" 

"  Yes ;  certainly,  if  you  think 
so.  What  could  I  have  said  to 
him1?  Certainly  it  was  better.  His 
presence  would  have  half  killed 
me.  But  what  will  he  do,  Henry  1 " 

"  He  will  tell  it  all  to  everybody 
that  he  sees." 

"  Oh,  my  darling  ! " 

"  What  matter  though  he  tells  it 
at  the  town-cross  ?  It  would  have 
been  told  to-day  by  myself." 

"  But  only  to  one." 

"  It  would  have  been  the  same. 
For  any  purpose  of  concealment  it 
would  have  been  the  same.  I  have 
got  to  hate  the  concealment.  What 
have  we  done  but  clung  together  as 
a  man  and  woman  should  who  have 
loved  each  other,  and  have  had  a 
right  to  love  ?  What  have  we  done 
of  which  we  should  be  ashamed  ? 
Let  it  be  told.  Let  it  all  be  known. 
Have  you  not  been  good  and  pure  1 
Have  not  I  been  true  to  you  1  Bear 
up  your  courage,  and  let  the  man 
do  his  worst.  Not  to  save  even 
you  would  I  cringe  before  such  a 
man  as  that.  And  were  I  to  do  so, 
I  should  save  you  from  nothing." 


CHAPTER   VIII. — THE   STORY 


During  the  whole  of  that  morn- 
ing the  Doctor  did  not  come  into 
the  school  The  school  hours  last- 
ed from  half- past  nine  to  twelve, 
during  a  portion  of  which  time  it 
was  his  practice  to  be  there.  But 
sometimes,  on  a  Saturday,  he  would 
be  absent,  when  it  was  understood 
generally  that  he  was  preparing  his 
sermon  for  the  Sunday.  Such,  no 
doubt,  might  be  the  case  now ;  but 
there  was  a  feeling  among  the  boys 
that  he  was  kept  away  by  some 
other  reason.  It  was  known  that 
during  the  hour  of  morning  school 
Mr  Peacocke  had  been  occupied 
with  that  uncouth  stranger,  and 


some  of  the  boys  might  have  ob- 
served that  the  uncouth  stranger 
had  not  taken  himself  altogether 
away  from  the  premises.  There 
was  at  any  rate  a  general  feeling 
that  the  uncouth  stranger  had 
something  to  do  with  the  Doctor's 
absence. 

Mr  Peacocke  did  his  best  to  go 
on  with  the  work  as  though  noth- 
ing had  occurred  to  disturb  the 
usual  tenor  of  his  way,  and  as  far 
as  the  boys  were  aware  he  succeed- 
ed. He  was  just  as  clear  about  his 
Greek  verbs,  just  as  incisive  about 
that  passage  of  Csesar,  as  he  would 
have  been  had  Colonel  Lefroy  re- 


1880.] 


mained  on  the  other  side  of  the 
water.  But  during  the  whole  time 
he  was  exercising  his  mind  in  that 
painful  process  of  thinking  of  two 
things  at  once.  He  was  determined 
that  Caesar  should  be  uppermost; 
but  it  may  be  doubted  whether  he 
succeeded.  At  that  very  moment 
Colonel  Lefroy  might  be  telling  the 
Doctor  that  his  Ella  was  in  truth 
the  wife  of  another  man.  At  that 
moment  the  Doctor  might  be  decid- 
ing in  his  anger  that  the  sinful  and 
deceitful  man  should  no  longer  be 
"  officer  of  his."  The  hour  Avas  too 
important  to  him  to  leave  his  mind 
at  his  own  disposal.  Nevertheless 
he  did  his  best.  "  Clifford,  junior," 
he  said,  "I  shall  never  make  you 
understand  what  Caesar  says  here 
or  elsewhere  if  you  do  not  give 
your  entire  mind  to  Caesar." 

"  I  do  give  my  entire  mind  to 
Caesar,"  said  Clifford,  junior. 

"  Very  well ;  now  go  on  and  try 
again.  But  remember  that  Csesar 
wants  all  your  mind."  As  he  said 
this  he  was  revolving  in  his  own 
mind  how  he  would  face  the  Doc- 
tor when  the  Doctor  should  look  at 
him  in  his  wrath.  If  the  Doctor 
were  in  any  degree  harsh  with  him, 
he  would  hold  his  own  against  the 
Doctor  as  far  as  the  personal  con- 
test might  go.  At  twelve  the  boys 
went  out  for  an  hour  before  their 
dinner,  and  Lord  Carstairs  asked 
him  to  play  a  game  of  rackets. 

"  Not  to-day,  my  Lord,"  he  said. 

"  Is  anything  wrong  with  you  1 " 

"  Yes,  something  is  very  wrong." 
They  had  strolled  out  of  the  build- 
ing, and  were  walking  up  and  down 
the  gravel  terrace  in  front  when  this 
was  said. 

"  I  knew  something  was  wrong, 
because  you  called  me  my  Lord." 

"  Yes,  something  is  so  wrong  as 
to  alter  for  me  all  the  ordinary  ways 
of  my  life.  But  I  wasn't  thinking 
of  it.  It  came  by  accident, — just 
because  I  am  so  troubled." 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  III. 


"What  is  it?" 

"  There  has  been  a  man  here, — a 
man  whom  I  knew  in  America." 

"  An  enemy  1 " 

"  Yes, — an  enemy.  One  who  is 
anxious  to  do  me  all  the  injury  he 
can." 

"  Are  you  in  his  power,  Mr  Pea- 
cocke?" 

"No,  thank  God,  not  that.  I 
am  in  no  man's  power.  He  can- 
not do  me  any  material  harm.  Any- 
thing which  may  happen  would 
have  happened  whether  he  had 
come  or  not.  But  I  am  unhappy." 

"  I  wish  I  knew." 

"  So  do  I, — with  all  my  heart. 
I  wish  you  knew ;  I  wish  you 
knew.  I  would  that  all  the  world 
knew.  But  we  shall  live  through 
it,  no  doubt.  And  if  we  do  not, 
what  matter.  '  Nil  conscire  sibi, — 
nulla  pallescere  culpa.'  That  is  all 
that  is  necessary  to  a  man.  I  have 
done  nothing  of  which  I  repent ; — 
nothing  that  I  would  not  do  again  ; 
nothing  of  which  I  am  ashamed  to 
speak  as  far  as  the  judgment  of 
other  men  is  concerned.  Go,  now. 
They  are  making  up  sides  for 
cricket.  Perhaps  I  can  tell  you 
more  before  the  evening  is  over." 

Both  Mr  and  Mrs  Peacocke  were 
accustomed  to  dine  with  the  boys 
at  one,  when  Carstairs,  being  a 
private  pupil,  only  had  his  lunch. 
But  on  this  occasion  she  did  not 
come  into  the  dining-room.  "I 
don't  think  I  can  to-day,"  she  said, 
when  he  bade  her  to  take  courage, 
and  not  be  altered  more  than  she 
could  help,  in  her  outward  carriage, 
by  the  misery  of  her  present  cir- 
cumstances. "  I  could  not  eat  if  I 
were  there,  and  then  they  would 
look  at  me." 

"  If  it  be  so,  do  not  attempt  it. 
There  is  no  necessity.  What  I 
mean  is,  that  the  less  one  shrinks 
the  less  will  be  the  suffering.  It 
is  the  man  who  shivers  on  the 
brink  that  is  cold,  and  not  he  who 


Dr  Worth's  School.— Part  III. 


plunges  into  the  water.  If  it 
were  over, — if  the  first  brunt  of  it 
were  over,  I  could  find  means  to 
comfort  you." 

He  went  through  the  dinner,  as 
he  had  done  the  Caesar,  eating  the 
roast  mutton  and  the  baked  pota- 
toes, and  the  great  plateful  of  cur- 
rant-pie that  was  brought  to  him. 
He  was  fed  and  nourished,  no  doubt, 
but  it  may  be  doubtful  whether  he 
knew  much  of  the  flavour  of  what 
he  ate.  But  before  the  dinner  was 
quite  ended,  before  he  had  said  the 
grace  which  it  was  always  his  duty 
to  pronounce,  there  came  a  message 
to  him  from  the  rectory.  "The 
Doctor  would  be  glad  to  see  him 
as  soon  as  dinner  was  done.  He 
waited  very  calmly  till  the  proper 
moment  should  come  for  the  grace, 
and  then,  very  calmly,  he  took  his 
way  over  to  the  house.  He  was 
certain  now  that  Lefroy  had  been 
with  the  Doctor,  because  he  was 
sent  for  considerably  before  the 
time  fixed  for  the  interview. 

It  was  his  chief  resolve  to  hold 
his  own  before  the  Doctor.  The 
Doctor,  who  could  read  a  character 
well,  had  so  read  that  of  Mr  Pea- 
cocke's  as  to  have  been  aware  from 
the  first  that  no  censure,  no  fault- 
finding, would  be  possible  if  the 
connection  was  to  be  maintained. 
Other  ushers,  other  curates,  he  had 
occasionally  scolded.  He  had  been 
very  careful  never  even  to  seem  to 
scold  Mr  Peacocke.  Mr  Peacocke 
had  been  aware  of  it  too, — aware 
that  he  could  not  endure  it,  and 
aware  also  that  the  Doctor  avoided 
any  attempt  at  it.  He  had  known 
that,  as  a  consequence  of  this,  he 
was  bound  to  be  more  than  ordi- 
narily prompt  in  the  performance 
of  all  his  duties.  The  man  who  will 
not  endure  censure  has  to  take  care 
that  he  does  not  deserve  it.  Such 
had  been  this  man's  struggle,  and 
it  had  been  altogether  successful. 
Each  of  the  two  understood  the 


[July 


other,  and  each  respected  the  other. 
Now  their  position  must  be  chang- 
ed. It  was  hardly  possible,  Mr 
Peacocke  thought,  as  he  entered 
the  house,  that  he  should  not  be 
rebuked  with  grave  severity,  and 
quite  out  of  the  question  that  he 
should  bear  any  rebuke  at  all. 

The  library  at  the  rectory  was 
a  spacious  and  handsome  room,  in 
the  centre  of  which  stood  a  large 
writing-table,  at  which  the  Doctor 
was  accustomed  to  sit  when  he  was 
at  work,  —  facing  the  door,  with 
a  bow-window  at  his  right  hand. 
But  he  rarely  remained  there  when 
any  one  was  summoned  into  the 
room,  unless  some  one  were  sum- 
moned with  whom  he  meant  to 
deal  in  a  spirit  of  severity.  Mr 
Peacocke  would  be  there  perhaps 
three  or  four  times  a-week,  and  the 
Doctor  would  always  get  up  from 
his  chair  and  stand,  or  seat  himself 
elsewhere  in  the  room,  and  would 
probably  move  about  with  vivacity, 
being  a  fidgety  man  of  quick  mo- 
tions, who  sometimes  seemed  as 
though  he  could  not  hold  his  own 
body  still  for  a  moment.  But  now 
when  Mr  Peacocke  entered  the 
room  he  did  not  leave  his  place  at 
the  table.  "  Would  you  take  a 
chair1?"  he  said;  "there  is  some- 
thing that  we  must  talk  about." 

"  Colonel  Lefroy  has  been  with 
you,  I  take  it." 

"  A  man  calling  himself  by  that 
name  has  been  here.  "Will  you 
not  take  a  chair  ? " 

"  I  do  not  know  that  it  will  be 
necessary.  What  he  has  told  you, 
— what  I  suppose  he  has  told  you, 
— is  true." 

"You  had  better  at  any  rate 
take  a  chair.  I  do  not  believe 
that  what  he  has  told  me  is  true." 

"  But  it  is." 

"  I  do  not  believe  that  what  he 
has  told  me  is  true.  Some  of  it 
cannot,  I  think,  be  true.  Much  of 
it  is  not  so, — unless  I  am  more  de- 


1880.] 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  TIL 


9 


ceived  in  you  than  I  ever  was  in 
any  man.  At  any  rate  sit  down." 
Then  the  schoolmaster  did  sit 
down.  "  He  has  made  you  out  to 
be  a  perjured,  wilful,  cruel  big- 
amist." 

"  I  have  not  been  such,"  said 
Peacocke,  rising  from  his  chair. 

"  One  who  has  been  willing  to 
sacrifice  a  woman  to  his  passion." 

"  No ; — no." 

"  "Who  deceived  her  by  false  wit- 
ness." 

"  Never." 

"And  who  has  now  refused  to 
allow  her  to  see  her  own  husband's 
brother,  lest  she  should  learn  the 
truth." 

"She  is  there, — at  any  rate  for 
you  to  see." 

"Therefore  the  man  is  a  liar. 
A  long  story  has  to  be  told,  as  to 
which  at  present  I  can  only  guess 
what  may  be  the  nature.  I  pre- 
sume the  story  will  be  the  same 
as  that  you  would  have  told  had 
the  man  never  come  here." 

"  Exactly  the  same,  Dr  Wortle." 

"  Therefore  you  will  own  that  I 
am  right  in  asking  you  to  sit  down. 
The  story  may  be  very  long, — that 
i?,  if  you  mean  to  tell  it." 

"  I  do, — and  did.  I  was  wrong 
from  the  first  in  supposing  that  the 
nature  of  my  marriage  need  be  of 
no  concern  to  others,  but  to  her- 
self and  to  me." 

«Yes, — Mr  Peacocke;  yes.  We 
are,  all  of  xis,  joined  together  too 
closely  to  admit  of  isolation  such 
as  that."  There  was  something 
in  this  which  grated  against  the 
schoolmaster's  pride,  though  noth- 
ing had  been  said  as  to  which  he 
did  not  know  that  much  harder 
things  must  meet  his  ears  before 
the  matter  could  be  brought  to  an 
end  between  him  and  the  Doctor. 
The  "Mister"  had  been  prefixed 
to  his  name,  which  had  been 
omitted  for  the  last  three  or  four 
months  in  the  friendly  intercourse 


which  had  taken  place  between 
them; — and  then,  though  it  had 
been  done  in  the  form  of  agree- 
ing with  what  he  himself  had 
said,  the  Doctor  had  made  his  first 
complaint  by  declaring  that  no 
man  had  a  right  to  regard  his  own 
moral  life  as  isolated  from  the  lives 
of  others  around  him.  It  was  as 
much  as  to  declare  at  once  that  he 
had  been  wrong  in  bringing  this 
woman  to  Bowick,  and  calling  her 
Mrs  Peacocke.  He  had  said  as 
much  himself,  but  that  did  not 
make  the  censure  lighter  when  it 
came  to  him  from  the  mouth  of 
the  Doctor.  "  But  come,"  said  the 
Doctor,  getting  up  from  his  seat  at 
the  table,  and  throwing  himself 
into  an  easy-chair,  so  as  to  mitigate 
the  austerity  of  the  position  ;  "  let 
us  hear  the  true  story.  So  big  a 
liar  as  that  American  gentleman 
probably  never  put  his  foot  in  this 
room  before." 

Then  Mr  Peacocke  told  the  story, 
beginning  with  all  those  incidents 
of  the  woman's  life  which  had 
seemed  to  be  so  cruel  both  to  him. 
and  to  others  at  St  Louis  before  he 
had  been  in  any  degree  intimate 
with  her.  Then  came  the  depart- 
ure of  the  two  men,  and  the  neces- 
sity for  pecuniary  assistance,  which 
Mr  Peacocke  now  passed  over 
lightly,  saying  nothing  specially  of 
the  assistance  which  he  himself 
had  rendered.  "  And  she  was  left 
quite  alone  1 "  asked  the  Doctor. 

"  Quite  alone." 

"  And  for  how  long  1 " 

"Eighteen  months  had  passed 
before  we  heard  any  tidings. 
Then  there  came  news  that  Colonel 
Lefroy  was  dead." 

"The  husband?" 

"We  did  not  know  which. 
They  were  both  Colonels." 

"And  then?"  * 

"Did  he  tell  you  that  I  went 
down  into  Mexico  ]" 

"  Never  mind  what  he  told  me. 


10 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  III. 


All  that  he  told  me  were  lies. 
What  you  tell  me  I  shall  believe. 
But  tell  me  everything." 

There  was  a  tone  of  complete 
authority  in  the  Doctor's  voice,  but 
mixed  with  this  there  was  a  kind- 
liness which  made  the  schoolmaster 
determined  that  he  would  tell 
everything  as  far  as  he  knew  how. 
"  When  I  heard  that  one  of  them 
was  dead,  I  went  away  down  to  the 
borders  of  Texas,  in  order  that  I 
might  learn  the  truth." 

"Did  she  know  that  you  were 
going  ? " 

"Yes;— I  told  her  the  day  I 
started." 

"And  you  told  her  why?" 

"  That  I  might  find  out  whether 
her  husband  were  still  alive." 

"But "  The  Doctor  hesi- 
tated as  he  asked  the  next  ques- 
tion. He  knew,  however,  that  it 
had  to  be  asked,  and  went  on  with 
it.  "  Did  she  know  that  you  loved 
her  ? "  To  this  the  other  made  no 
immediate  answer.  The  Doctor 
was  a  man  who,  in  such  a  matter, 
was  intelligent  enough,  and  he 
therefore  put  his  question  in  an- 
other shape.  "  Had  you  told  her 
that  you  loved  her  ? " 

"Never, — while  I  thought  that 
other  man  was  living." 

"  She  must  have  guessed  it,"  said 
the  Doctor. 

"  She  might  guess  what  she 
pleased.  I  told  her  that  I  was 
going,  and  I  went." 

"  And  how  was  it,  then  1 " 

"  I  went,  and  after  a  time  I  came 
across  the  very  man  who  is  here 
now,  this  Robert  Lefroy.  I  met 
him  and  questioned  him,  and  he 
told  me  that  his  brother  had  been 
killed  while  fighting.  It  was  a 
lie." 

"Altogether  a  lie?"  asked  the 
Doctor. 

"  How  altogether  ? " 

"  He  might  have  been  wound- 
ed and  given  over  for  dead.  The 


[July 


brother  might  have  thought  him 
to  be  dead." 

"  I  do  not  think  so.  I  believe  it 
to  have  been  a  plot  in  order  that 
the  man  might  get  rid  of  his  wife. 
But  I  believed  it.  Then  I  went 
back  to  St  Louis, — and  we  were 
married." 

"  You  thought  there  was  no 
obstacle  but  what  you  might  be- 
come man  and  wife  legally  1" 

"  I  thought  she  was  a  widow." 

"  There  was  no  further  delay  1  " 

"  Very  little.  Why  should  there 
have  been  delay  ?  " 

"I  only  ask." 

"  She  had  suffered  enough,  and  I 
had  waited  long  enough." 

"She  owed  you  a  great  deal," 
said  the  Doctor. 

"It  was  not  a  case  of  owing," 
said  Mr  Peacocke.  "At  least  I 
think  not.  I  think  she  had  learnt 
to  love  me  as  I  had  learnt  to  love 
her." 

"And  how  did  it  go  with  you 
then  ? " 

"Very  well, — for  some  months. 
There  was  nothing  to  mar  our  hap- 
piness,— till  one  day  he  came  and 
made  his  way  into  our  presence." 

"  The  husband  ? " 

"  Yes  ;  the  husband,  Ferdinand 
Lefroy,  the  elder  brother; — he  of 
whom  I  had  been  told  that  he  was 
dead.  He  was  there  standing  be- 
fore us,  talking  to  us, — half  drunk, 
but  still  well  knowing  what  he  was 
doing." 

"  Why  had  he  come  ? " 

"  In  want  of  money,  I  suppose, 
— as  this  other  one  has  come  here." 

"  Did  he  ask  for  money  ? " 

"  I  do  not  think  he  did  then, 
though  he  spoke  of  his  poor  condi- 
tion. But  on  the  next  day  he  went 
away.  We  heard  that  he  had  taken 
the  steamer  down  the  river  for  Is  ew 
Orleans.  We  have  never  heard 
more  of  him  from  that  day  to  this." 

"Can  you  imagine  what  caused 
conduct  such  as  that  1 " 


1880.] 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  111. 


11 


"I  think  money  was  given  to 
him  that  night  to  go ;  but  if  so, 
I  do  not  know  by  whom.  I  gave 
him  none.  During  the  next  day  or 
two  I  found  that  many  in  St  Louis 
knew  that  he  had  been  there." 

"  They  knew  then  that  you " 

"  They  knew  that  my  wife  was 
not  my  wife.  That  is  what  you 
mean  to  ask  ]  " 

The  Doctor  nodded  his  head. 

"  Yes,  they  knew  that." 

"  And  what  then  1 " 

"Word  was  brought  to  me  that 
ske  and  I  must  part  if  I  chose  to 
keep  my  place  at  the  College." 

"  That  you  must  disown  her  ? " 

"  The  President  told  me  that  it 
would  be  better  that  she  should  go 
elsewhere.  How  could  I  send  her 
from  me  ? " 

"Xo,  indeed;  —  but  as  to  the 
facts?" 

"  You  know  them  all  pretty 
well  now.  I  could  not  send  her 
from  me.  Xor  could  I  go  and 
leave  her.  Had  we  been  separated 
then,  because  of  the  law  or  because 
of  religion,  the  burden,  the  misery, 
the  desolation,  would  all  have  been 
upon  her." 

"  I  would  have  clung  to  her, 
let  the  law  say  what  it  might," 


said  the  Doctor,  rising  from  his 
chair. 

"  You  would  ?  " 

"  I  would ;— and  I  think  that  I 
could  have  reconciled  it  to  my  God. 
But  I  might  have  been  wrong,"  he 
added  ;  "  I  might  have  been  wrong. 
I  only  say  what  I  should  have  done." 

"It  was  what  I  did." 

"  Exactly ;  exactly.  We  are  both 
sinners.  Both  might  have  been 
wrong.  Then  you  brought  her  over 
here,  and  I  suppose  I  know  the 
rest  1 " 

"You  know  everything  now," 
said  Mr  Peacocke. 

"  And  believe  every  word  I  have 
heard.  Let  me  say  that,  if  that 
may  be  any  consolation  to  you.  Of 
my  friendship  you  may  remain  as- 
sured. Whether  you  can  remain 
here  is  another  question." 

"We  are  prepared  to  go." 

"  You  cannot  expect  that  I  should 
have  thought  it  all  out  during  the 
hearing  of  the  story.  There  is 
much  to  be  considered; — very  much. 
I  can  only  say  this,  as  between 
man  and  man,  that  no  man  ever 
sympathised  with  another  more 
warmly  than  I  do  with  you.  You 
had  better  let  me  have  till  Monday 
to  think  about  it." 


CHAPTER   IX. MRS    WORTLE   AND    MR   PUDDICOMBE. 


In  this  way  nothing  was  said  at 
the  first  telling  of  the  story  to  de- 
cide the  fate  of  the  schoolmaster 
and  of  the  lady  whom  we  shall 
still  call  his  wife.  There  certainly 
had  been  no  horror  displayed  by 
the  Doctor.  "Whether  you  can 
remain  here  is  another  question." 
The  Doctor,  during  the  whole  in- 
terview, had  said  nothing  harder 
than  that.  Mr  Peacocke,  as  he 
left  the  rectory,  did  feel  that  the 
Doctor  had  been  very  good  to 
him.  There  had  not  only  been 
no  horror,  but  an  expression  of 


the  kindest  sympathy.  And  as  to 
the  going,  that  was  left  in  doubt. 
He  himself  felt  that  he  ought  to 
go; — but  it  would  have  been  so 
very  sad  to  have  to  go  without  a 
friend  left  with  whom  he  could 
consult  as  to  his  future  condition  ! 

"  He  has  been  very  kind,  then  ?  " 
said  Mrs  Peacocke  to  her  husband 
when  he  related  to  her  the  particu- 
lars of  the  interview. 

"Very  kind."    ' 

"And  he  did  not  reproach  you? " 

"  Xot  a  word." 

"  Xor  me  ? " 


12 


Dr  Wortle  a  School— Part  III. 


"He  declared  that  had  it  been 
he  who  was  in  question  he  would 
have  clung  to  you  for  ever  and 
ever." 

"Did  he?  Then  will  he  leave 
us  here?" 

"  That  does  not  follow.  I  should 
think  not.  He  will  know  that 
others  must  know  it.  Your  brother- 
in  -  law  will  not  tell  him  only. 
Lefroy,  when  he  finds  that  he  can 
get  no  money  here,  from  sheer  re- 
venge will  tell  the  story  every- 
where. When  he  left  the  rectory, 
he  was  probably  as  angry  with  the 
Doctor  as  he  is  with  me.  He  will 
do  all  the  harm  that  he  can  to  all 
of  us." 

"  We  must  go,  then  1 " 

"  I  should  think  so.  Your  posi- 
tion here  would  be  insupportable 
even  if  it  could  be  permitted.  You 
may  be  sure  of  this ; — everybody 
will  know  it." 

"  What  do  I  care  for  everybody?" 
she  said.  "It  is  not  that  I  am 
ashamed  of  myself." 

"No,  dearest;  nor  am  I, — asham- 
ed of  myself  or  of  you.  But  there 
will  be  bitter  words,  and  bitter 
words  will  produce  bitter  looks  and 
scant  respect.  How  would  it  be 
with  you  if  the  boys  looked  at  you 
as  though  they  thought  ill  of  you  1 " 

"  They  would  not,  —  oh,  they 
would  not ! " 

"Or  the  servants, — if  they  re- 
viled you  ? " 

"  Could  it  come  to  that  ? " 

"  It  must  not  come  to  that.  But 
it  is  as  the  Doctor  said  himself  just 
now; — a  man  cannot  isolate  the 
morals,  the  manners,  the  ways  of 
his  life  from  the  morals  of  others. 
Men,  if  they  live  together,  must 
live  together  by  certain  laws." 

"  Then  there  can  be  no  hope  for 
us." 

"  None  that  I  can  see,  as  far  as 
Bowick  is  concerned.  We  are  too 
closely  joined  in  our  work  with 
other  people.  There  is  not  a  boy 


[July 


here  with  whose  father  and  mother 
and  sisters  we  are  not  more  or  less 
connected.  When  I  was  preaching 
in  the  church,  there  was  not  one  in 
the  parish  with  whom  I  was  not 
connected.  Would  it  do,  do  you 
think,  for  a  priest  to  preach  against 
drunkenness,  whilst  he  himself  was 
a  noted  drunkard  1 " 

"Are  we  like  that?" 

"It  is  not  what  the  drunken 
priest  might  think  of  himself,  but 
what  others  might  think  of  him.  It 
would  not  be  with  us  the  position 
which  we  know  that  we  hold  to- 
gether, but  that  which  others  would 
think  it  to  be.  If  I  were  in  Dr 
Wortle's  case,  and  another  were  to 
me  as  I  am  to  him,  I  should  bid 
him  go." 

"  You  would  turn  him  away  from 
you  ;  him  and  his — wife  1 " 

"I  should.  My  first  duty  would 
be  to  my  parish  and  to  my  school. 
If  I  could  befriend  him  otherwise 
I  would  do  so ; — and  that  is  what 
I  expect  from  Dr  Wortle.  We 
shall  have  to  go,  and  I  shall  be 
forced  to  approve  of  our  dis- 
missal." 

In  this  way  Mr  Peacocke  came 
definitely  and  clearly  to  a  conclu- 
sion in  his  own  mind.  But  it 
was  very  different  with  Dr  Wortle. 
The  story  so  disturbed  him,  that 
during  the  whole  of  that  afternoon 
he  did  not  attempt  to  turn  his 
mind  to  any  other  subject.  He 
even  went  so  far  as  to  send  over  to 
Mr  Puddicombe  and  asked  for  some 
assistance  for  the  afternoon  service 
on  the  following  day.  He  was  too 
unwell,  he  said,  to  preach  himself, 
and  the  one  curate  would  have 
the  two  entire  services  unless 
Mr  Puddicombe  could  help  him. 
Could  Mr  Puddicombe  come  him- 
self and  see  him  on  the  Sunday 
afternoon  ?  This  note  he  sent  away 
by  a  messenger,  who  came  back 
with  a  reply,  saying  that  Mr  Pud- 
dicombe would  himself  preach  in 


1880.] 


Dr  Wortle's  School. — Part  III. 


13 


the  afternoon,  and  would  afterwards 
call  in  at  the  rectory. 

For  an  hour  or  two  before  his 
dinner,  the  Doctor  went  out  on 
horseback,  and  roamed  about  among 
the  lanes,  endeavouring  to  make 
up  his  mind.  He  was  hitherto  al- 
together at  a  loss  as  to  what  he 
should  do  in  this  present  uncom- 
fortable emergency.  He  could  not 
bring  his  conscience  and  his  in- 
clination to  come  square  together. 
And  even  when  he  counselled  him- 
self to  yield  to  his  conscience,  his 
very  conscience,  —  a  second  con- 
science, as  it  were,  —  revolted 
against  the  first.  His  first  con- 
science told  him  that  he  owed 
a  primary  duty  to  his  parish,  a 
second  duty  to  his  school,  and  a 
third  to  his  wife  and  daughter.  In 
the  performance  of  all  these  duties 
he  would  be  bound  to  rid  himself 
of  Mr  Peacocke.  But  then  there 
came  that  other  conscience,  telling 
him  that  the  man  had  been  more 
"  sinned  against  than  sinning," — 
that  common  humanity  required 
him  to  stand  by  a  man  who  had 
suffered  so  much,  and  had  suffered  so 
unworthily.  Then  this  second  con- 
science went  on  to  remind  him  that 
the  man  was  pre-eminently  fit  for 
the  duties  which  he  had  under- 
taken,— that  the  man  was  a  God- 
fearing, moral,  and  especially  in- 
tellectual assistant  in  his  school, — 
that  were  he  to  lose  him  he  could 
not  hope  to  find  any  one  that 
would  be  his  equal,  or  at  all  ap- 
proaching to  him  in  capacity.  This 
second  conscience  went  further,  and 
assured  him  that  the  man's  excel- 
lence as  a  schoolmaster  was  even 
increased  by  the  peculiarity  of  his 
position.  Do  we  not  all  know  that 
if  a  man  be  under  a  cloud  the  very 
cloud  will  make  him  more  attentive 
to  his  duties  than  another?  If  a 
man,  for  the  wages  which  he  re- 
ceives, can  give  to  his  employer 
high  character  as  well  as  work,  he 


will  think  that  he  may  lighten  his 
work  because  of  his  character.  And 
as  to  this  man,  who  was  the  very 
phoenix  of  school  assistants,  there 
would  really  be  nothing  amiss  with 
his  character  if  only  this  piteous 
incident  as  to  his  wife  were  un- 
known. In  this  way  his  second 
conscience  almost  got  the  better  of 
the  first. 

But  then  it  would  be  known. 
It  would  be  impossible  that  it 
should  not  be  known.  He  had 
already  made  up  his  mind  to  tell 
Mr  Puddicombe,  absolutely  not 
daring  to  decide  in  such  an  emer- 
gency without  consulting  some 
friend.  Mr  Puddicombe  would 
hold  his  peace  if  he  were  to  pro- 
mise to  do  so.  Certainly  he  might 
be  trusted  to  do  that.  But  others 
would  know  it  \  the  Bishop  would 
know  it;  Mrs  Stantiloup  would 
know  it.  That  man,  of  course, 
would  take  care  that  all  Broughton, 
with  its  close  full  of  cathedral 
clergymen,  would  know  it.  When 
Mrs  Stantiloup  should  know  it 
there  would  not  be  a  boy's  parent 
through  all  the  school  who  would 
not  know  it.  If  he  kept  the 
man  he  must  keep  him  resolving 
that  all  the  world  should  know 
that  he  kept  him,  that  all  the  world 
should  know  of  what  nature  was 
the  married  life  of  the  assistant  in 
whom  he  trusted.  And  he  must 
be  prepared  to  face  all  the  world, 
confiding  in  the  uprightness  and 
the  humanity  of  his  purpose. 

In  such  case  he  must  say  some- 
thing of  this  kind  to  all  the  world  : 
"  I  know  that  they  are  not  married. 
I  know  that  their  condition  of  life 
is  opposed  to  the  law  of  God  and 
man.  I  know  that  she  bears  a 
name  that  is  not,  in  truth,  her  own  ; 
but  I  think  that  the  circumstances 
in  this  case  are  so*  strange,  so  pe- 
culiar, that  they  excuse  a  disre- 
gard even  of  the  law  of  God  and 
man."  Had  he  courage  enough 


14 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  III. 


for  this  1  And  if  the  courage  were 
there,  was  he  high  enough  and 
powerful  enough  to  carry  out  such 
a  purpose1?  Could  he  beat  down 
the  Mrs  Stantiloups  ?  And,  indeed, 
could  he  beat  down  the  Bishop  and 
the  Bishop's  phalanx; — for  he  knew 
that  the  Bishop  and  the  Bishop's 
phalanx  would  be  against  him1? 
They  could  not  touch  him  in  his 
living,  because  Mr  Peacocke  would 
not  be  concerned  in  the  services  of 
the  church  j  but  would  not  his 
school  melt  away  to  nothing  in 
his  hands,  if  he  were  to  attempt 
to  carry  it  on  after  this  fashion? 
And  then  would  he  not  have  de- 
stroyed himself  without  advantage 
to  the  man  whom  he  was  anxious 
to  assist  ? 

To  only  one  point  did  he  make 
lip  his  mind  certainly  during  that 
ride.  Before  he  slept  that  night 
he  would  tell  the  whole  story  to 
his  wife.  He  had  at  first  thought 
that  he  would  conceal  it  from  her. 
It  was  his  rule  of  life  to  act  so 
entirely  on  his  own  will,  that  he 
rarely  consulted  her  on  matters  of 
any  importance.  As  it  was,  he 
could  not  endure  the  responsibility 
of  acting  by  himself.  People  would 
say  of  him  that  he  had  subjected 
his  wife  to  contamination,  and  had 
done  so  without  giving  her  any 
choice  in  the  matter.  So  he  re- 
solved that  he  would  tell  his  wife. 

"Not  married,"  said  Mrs  Wortle, 
when  she  heard  the  story. 

"  Married ;  yes.  They  were  mar- 
ried. It  was  not  their  fault  that 
the  marriage  was  nothing.  "What 
was  he  to  do  when  he  heard  that 
they  had  been  deceived  in  this 
way  1 " 

"  Not  married  properly  !  Poor 
woman ! " 

"Yes,  indeed.  What  should  I 
have  done  if  such  had  happened  to 
me  when  we  had  been  six  months 
married?" 

"It  couldn't  have  been." 


[July 


"  Why  not  to  you  as  well  as  to 
another  ? " 

"  I  was  only  a  young  girl." 

"  But  if  you  had  been  a  widow  1 " 

"  Don't,  my  dear ;  don't !  It 
wouldn't  have  been  possible." 

"But  you  pity  her?" 

"  Oh  yes." 

"And  you  see  that  a  great  mis- 
fortune has  fallen  upon  her,  which 
she  could  not  help  ?  " 

"  Not  till  she  knew  it,"  said  the 
wife  who  had  been  married  quite 
properly. 

"And  what  then?  What  should 
she  have  done  then  ? " 

"  Gone,"  said  the  wife,  who  had 
no  doubt  as  to  the  comfort,  the 
beauty,  the  perfect  security  of  her 
own  position." 

"Gone?" 

"  Gone  away  at  once." 

"  Whither  should  she  go  ?  Who 
would  have  taken  her  by  the  hand  ? 
Who  would  have  supported  her? 
Would  you  have  had  her  lay  her- 
self down  in  the  first  gutter  and 
die  ? " 

"Better  that  than  what  she  did 
do,"  said  Mrs  Wortle. 

"Then,  by  all  the  faith  I  have 
in  Christ,  I  think  you  are  hard 
upon  her.  Do  you  think  what  it 
is  to  have  to  go  out  and  live  alone  ; 
— to  have  to  look  for  your  bread  in 
desolation  ? " 

"  I  have  never  been  tried,  my 
dear,"  said  she,  clinging  close  to 
him.  "  I  have  never  had  anything 
but  what  was  good." 

"  Ought  we  not  to  be  kind  to 
one  to  whom  Fortune  has  been 
so  unkind  ?  " 

"  If  we  can  do  so  without  sin." 

"  Sin  !  I  despise  the  fear  of  sin 
which  makes  us  think  that  its  con- 
tact will  soil  us.  Her  sin,  if  it  be 
sin,  is  so  near  akin  to  virtue,  that  I 
doubt  whether  we  should  not  learn 
of  her  rather  than  avoid  her." 

"A  woman  should  not  live  with 
a  man  unless  she  be  his  wife."  Mrs 


1880.] 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  III. 


Wortle  said  this  with  more  of  ob- 
stinacy than  he  had  expected. 

"She  was  his  wife,  as  far  as  she 
knew." 

"  But  when  she  knew  that  it  was 
not  so  any  longer, — then  she  should 
have  left  him." 

"And  have  starved?" 

"  I  suppose  she  might  have  taken 
bread  from  him." 

"You  think,  then,  that  she  should 
go  away  from  here  1 " 

"  Do  not  you  think  so  1  "What 
will  Mrs  Stantiloup  say  ?  " 

"  And  I  am  to  turn  them  out  into 
the  cold  because  of  a  virago  such 
as  she  is?  You  would  have  no 
more  charity  than  that  1 " 

"Oh,  Jeffrey!  what  would  the 
Bishop  say  ? " 

"  Cannot  you  get  beyond  Mrs 
Stantiloup  and  beyond  the  Bishop, 
and  think  what  Justice  demands  ? " 

"The  boys  would  all  be  taken 
away.  If  you  had  a  son,  would 
you  send  him  where  there  was  a 

schoolmaster  living,  —  living . 

Oh,  you  wouldn't." 

It  was  very  clear  to  the  Doctor 
that  his  wife's  mind  was  made  up 
on  the  subject ;  and  yet  there  was 
no  softer-hearted  woman  than  Mrs 
Wortle  anywhere  in  the  diocese, 
or  one  less  likely  to  be  severe  upon 
a  neighbour.  Not  only  was  she  a 
kindly,  gentle  woman,  but  she  was 
one  who  had  always  been  willing  to 
take  her  husband's  opinion  on  all 
questions  of  right  and  wrong.  She, 
however,  was  decided  that  they 
must  go. 

On  the  next  morning,  after  ser- 
vice, which  the  schoolmaster  did 
not  attend,  the  Doctor  saw  Mr 
Peacocke,  and  declared  his  inten- 
tion of  telling  the  story  to  Mr  Pud- 
diconibe.  "If  you  bid  me  hold 
my  tongue,"  he  said,  "  I  will  do  so. 
But  it  will  be  better  that  I  should 
consult  another  clergyman.  He  is 
a  man  who  can  keep  a  secret." 
Then  Mr  Peacocke  gave  him  full 


authority  to  tell  everything  to  Mr 
Puddicombe.  He  declared  that  the 
Doctor  might  tell  the  story  to  whom 
he  would.  Everybody  might  know 
it  now.  He  had,  he  said,  quite  made 
up  his  mind  about  that.  What  was 
the  good  of  affecting  secrecy  when 
this  man  Lefroy  was  in  the  coun- 
try? 

In  the  afternoon,  after  service, 
Mr  Puddicombe  came  up  to  the 
house,  and  heard  it  all.  He  was  a 
dry,  thin,  apparently  unsympathetic 
man,  but  just  withal,  and  by  no 
means  given  to  harshness.  He 
could  pardon  whenever  he  could 
bring  himself  to  believe  that  par- 
don would  have  good  results ;  but 
he  would  not  be  driven  by  impulses 
and  softness  of  heart  to  save  the 
faulty  one  from  the  effect  of  his 
fault,  merely  because  that  effect 
would  be  painful.  He  was  a  man 
of  no  great  mental  calibre, — not 
sharp,  and  quick,  and  capable  of 
repartee  as  was  the  Doctor,  but 
rational  in  all  things,  and  always 
guided  by  his  conscience.  "  He 
has  behaved  very  badly  to  you,"  he 
said,  when  he  heard  the  story. 

"  I  do  not  think  so ;  I  have  no 
such  feeling  myself." 

"  He  behaved  very  badly  in 
bringing  her  here  without  telling 
you  all  the  facts.  Considering  the 
position  that  she  was  to  occupy, 
he  must  have  known  that  he  was 
deceiving  you." 

"  I  can  forgive  all  that,"  said  the 
Doctor,  vehemently.  "  As  far  as 
I  myself  am  concerned,  I  forgive 
everything." 

"  You  are  not  entitled  to  do  so." 

"  How — not  entitled  ? " 

"  You  must  pardon  me  if  I  seem 
to  take  a  liberty  in  expressing  my- 
self too  boldly  in  this  matter.  Of 
course  I  should  not  do  so  unless 
you  asked  me."  1 

"  I  want  you  to  speak  freely, — 
all  that  you  think." 

"  In  considering  his  conduct,  we 


1G 


Dr  Worth's  School. — Part  III. 


[July 


have  to  consider  it  all.  First  of 
all  there  came  a  great  and  terri- 
ble misfortune  which  cannot  but 
excite  our  pity.  According  to  his 
own  story,  he  seems,  up  to  that 
time,  to  have  been  affectionate  and 
generous." 

"  I  believe  every  word  of  it," 
said  the  Doctor. 

"Allowing  for  a  man's  natural 
bias  on  his  own  side,  so  do  I.  He 
had  allowed  himself  to  become 
attached  to  another  man's  wife; 
but  we  need  not,  perhaps,  insist 
upon  that."  The  Doctor  moved 
himself  uneasily  in  his  chair,  but 
said  nothing.  "  We  will  grant  that 
he  put  himself  right  by  his  mar- 
riage, though  in  that,  no  doubt, 
there  should  have  been  more  of 
caution.  Then  came  his  great  mis- 
fortune. He  knew  that  his  marriage 
had  been  no  marriage.  He  saw  the 
man  and  had  no  doubt." 

"  Quite  so ;  quite  so,"  said  the 
Doctor,  impatiently. 

"  He  should,  of  course,  have  se- 
parated himself  from  her.  There 
can  be  no  doubt  about  it.  There  is 
no  room  for  any  quibble." 

"  Quibble ! "  said  the  Doctor. 

"  I  mean  that  no  reference  in  our 
own  minds  to  the  pity  of  the  thing, 
to  the  softness  of  the  moment, — 
should  make  us  doubt  about  it. 
Feelings  such  as  these  should  in- 
duce us  to  pardon  sinners,  even  to 
receive  them  back  into  our  friend- 
ship and  respect, — when  they  have 
seen  the  error  of  their  ways  and 
have  repented.'1 

"  You  are  very  hard." 

"  I  hope  not.  At  any  rate  I  can 
only  say  as  I  think.  But,  in  truth, 
in  the  present  emergency  you  have 
nothing  to  do  with  all  that.  If  he 
asked  you  for  counsel  you  might 
give  it  to  him,  but  that  is  not  his 
present  position.  He  has  told  you 
his  story,  not  in  a  spirit  of  repent- 


ance, but  because  such  telling  had 
become  necessary." 

"  He  would  have  told  it  all  the 
same  though  this  man  had  never 
come." 

"  Let  us  grant  that  it  is  so,  there 
still  remains  his  relation  to  you. 
He  came  here  under  false  pretences, 
and  has  done  you  a  serious  injury." 

"  I  think  not,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"Would  you  have  taken  him 
into  your  establishment  had  you 
known  it  all  before  ?  Certainly  not. 
Therefore  I  say  that  he  has  deceived 
you.  I  do  not  advise  you  to  speak 
to  him  with  severity;  but  he  should, 
I  think,  be  made  to  know  that  you 
appreciate  what  he  has  done." 

"  And  you  would  turn  him  off ; — 
send  him  away  at  once,  out  about 
his  business  ? " 

"Certainly  I  would  send  him 
away." 

"  You  think  him  such  a  reprobate 
that  he  should  not  be  allowed  to 
earn  his  bread  anywhere  ? " 

"  I  have  not  said  so.  I  know 
nothing  of  his  means  of  earning  his 
bread.  Men  living  in  sin  earn  their 
bread  constantly.  But  he  certainly 
should  not  be  allowed  to  earn  his 
here." 

"  Not  though  that  man  who  was 
her  husband  should  now  be  dead, 
and  he  should  again  marry, — legally 
marry, — this  woman  to  whom  he 
has  been  so  true  and  loyal?" 

"  As  regards  you  and  your 
school,"  said  Mr  Puddicombe,  "  I 
do  not  think  it  would  alter  his 
position." 

With  this  the  conference  ended, 
and  Mr  Puddicombe  took  his  leave. 
As  he  left  the  house  the  Doctor 
declared  to  himself  that  the  man 
was  a  strait-laced,  fanatical,  hard- 
hearted bigot.  But  though  he  said 
so  to  himself,  he  hardly  thought  so ; 
and  was  aware  that  the  man's  words 
had  had  effect  upon  him. 


1880.] 


Beattie. 


17 


B  E  A  T  T  I  E. 


Ix  the  contrast  between  the  liter- 
ary life  of  the  last  century  and  that 
of  our  own  days,  perhaps  the  most 
striking  feature  is  the  absence  in 
the  former  of  the  spirit  of  provin- 
cialism which  for  good  or  evil  exer- 
cises so  strong  an  influence  on  con- 
temporary destinies.  By  provin- 
cialism, we  mean  the  tendency  to 
judge  culture  and  taste  by  a  refer- 
ence to  some  local  standard,  and  to 
attribute  imperfections  real  or  im- 
aginary to  the  fault  of  locality.  It 
is  natural  that  a  metropolitan  city 
should  become  the  centre  of  a  na- 
tion's higher  refinement,  should  at- 
tract to  itself  the  proper  arbiters  of 
letters  and  arts,  and  should  conse- 
quently claim  to  exercise  a  just 
influence  over  the  other  parts  of 
the  country.  It  is  equally  natural 
that  this  influence,  when  admitted, 
should  be  abused;  and  that  the 
abuse  should  take  the  form  of  that 
affectation  of  superiority  over  less 
advantageously  situated  neighbours 
which  gives  rise  to  the  very  com- 
prehensive term  "  provincialism." 
The  contempt  for  provincials  is  as 
old  as  the  days  when  men  first  be- 
gan to  build  cities  :  the  Athenian 
sneered  at  the  stupid  Boeotian  ;  the 
Romans  imagined  they  saw  their 
own  antithesis  in  the  rudeness  and 
ignorance  of  the  Sabines ;  and  the 
Parisians  of  the  ancieu  regime  as- 
signed the  "provinces"  the  exclu- 
sive right  of  producing  dullards 
and  boors.  But  it  is  only  since  the 
French  Eevolution  that  "provin- 
cialism "  has  assumed  its  present 
significance  and  become  a  powerful 
force.  Metropolitan  cities  are  no 
longer  satisfied  with  claiming  their 
fair  share  of  political  power  and 
social  consequence ;  they  must  have 
all  or  nothing.  They  are  no  longer 
content  to  be  great  nerve-centres  of 

VOL.  CXXVIII. NO.  DCCLXXVIT. 


their  various  bodies  ;  they  must  be 
the  brains  upon  which  all  the  rest 
of  the  nerve-centres  depend.  An 
aid  to  national  power  no  doubt,  but 
aiding  at  the  risk  of  national  par- 
alysis. 

We  see  this  in  our  own  midst, 
and  never  with  more  distinctness 
than  when  we  compare  a  literary 
career  of  the  last  century  with  the 
life  of  a  writer  in  the  present  day. 
The  Provinces,  as  they  are  now 
called,  held  their  own  in  literary 
power  against  the  Metropolis  until 
a  good  many  years  of  the  present 
century  had  sped,  and  not  unfre- 
quently  London  thought  no  shame 
to  yield  the  palm  to  smaller  cities. 
In  Scotland  especially,  at  a  time 
when  literature  as  a  profession  was 
contemned  in  London,  and  Grub 
Street  was  the  proverbial  residence 
of  the  man  of  the  pen,  there  were 
literary  circles  that  commanded  a 
respect  and  exercised  an  influence 
scarcely  conceded  to  the  critics  of 
the  metropolis.  Hardly  any  of  the 
larger  cathedral  cities  in  England, 
and  of  the  university  towns  in 
Scotland,  in  the  last  century,  but 
could  boast  of  their  little  coteries 
of  literati,  and  often  of  names  that 
were  familiar  beyond  the  spoken 
limits  of  the  English  language. 
Every  year  the  independent  liter- 
ary life  of  the  provinces  is  becom- 
ing more  limited  and  more  diffi- 
cult of  maintenance.  The  young 
literary  man  with  his  heart  open  to 
the  inspirations  of  nature,  and  re- 
turning with  love  the  boons  she 
has  bestowed  upon  him,  may  re- 
solve to  keep  aloof  from  Babylon, 
and  to  woo  the  muses  in  that  rural 
angulus  terrarmn  that  is  most 
dear  to  him.  How  many  of  his 
predecessors  in  the  field  of  letters 
or  poesy  have  not  done  the  same  ? 
B 


18 


Beattie.  [July 


Are  there  not  secluded  retreats 
all  over  the  country,  whither  en- 
thusiasts make  pilgrimages,  where 
poets,  historians,  and  novelists  have 
lived  and  worked,  apart  from  the 
turmoil  of  life  and  the  base  strug- 
gle for  gain  1  So  there  are,  and  our 
young  friend  is  loath  to  abandon  the 
idea  that  he  cannot  follow  examples 
commending  themselves  so  much  to 
his  taste.  He  may  struggle  at  first 
against  the  forces  which  he  feels 
drawing  him  towards  London  ;  but 
sooner  or  later  he  finds  himself 
sucked  into  the  literary  maelstrom. 
Whether  it  be  that  he  is  glad  to 
avail  himself  of  the  necessary  ad- 
vantages of  journalism  or  of  fugi- 
tive writing  for  the  serials  until 
fame  makes  him  independent  of 
drudgery,  or  that  success  has 
brought  him  golden  temptations  to 
join  the  battle  which  he  cannot 
withstand  if  he  wishes  to  make 
the  most  of  his  career,  he  must 
in  the  end  yield  to  the  magnet- 
like  attraction  of  the  metropolis. 

In  the  profession  of  letters  as 
followed  in  the  last  century,  there 
is  much  that  is  fascinating,  by  con- 
trast with  present  conditions,  to  the 
writer  of  our  own  day.  Life  went 
slowly  and  noiselessly  on  then  com- 
pared with  the  express  rate  at  which 
we  run  nowadays.  Time  was  not 
a  matter  of  such  moment  then,  we 
would  think,  and  rapidity  of  writ- 
ing must  have  ranked  only  as  one 
of  the  minor  literary  virtues.  Men 
balanced  their  periods  and  pointed 
antitheses,  and  sought  for  similes 
from  the  four  winds  of  heaven ;  and 
it  was  no  work  of  supererogation  to 
rewrite  a  book  if  it  did  not  satisfy 
the  rigid  canons  of  contemporary 
criticism.  With  all  these  addi- 
tional pains  the  old  authors  must 
have  had  plenty  of  leisure,  else  how 
could  they  have  found  time  for  the 
voluminous  and  elaborate  corres- 
pondence in  which  they  engaged? 
In  no  respect  is  the  changed  con- 


dition more  manifest  than  in  that 
of  letters  and  letter- writing.  Bio- 
graphy was  an  easy  task  in  general 
for  writers  of  the  Georgian  era,  for 
men  wrote  their  lives  and  their 
opinions  in  their  daily  correspond- 
ence with  such  fulness  and  elabora- 
tion that  little  more  was  left  for  the 
compilers  of  their  lives  than  to  act 
the  part  of  a  Greek  chorus  as  they 
went  on.  Lives  of  recent  men  of 
letters  show  a  sad  falling  off  both 
in  the  quality  and  in  the  quantity 
of  their  correspondence.  Letters 
now  are  merely  used  as  means  of 
business  communication,  or  as  links 
of  social  intercourse  for  which  the 
writer  feels  inclined  to  be  apologetic 
if  he  allows  himself  to  overrun  the 
statutory  weight  carried  under  a 
penny  postage -stamp.  When  we 
read  the  polished  letters  of  Mrs 
Montague  or  of  Miss  Carter,  which 
— never  intended  to  meet  the  public 
eye  or  to  minister  to  pleasure  other 
than  that  of  the  persons  to  whom 
they  were  severally  addressed — now 
fill  volumes,  we  are  sensible  that  a 
superabundance  of  time  must  have 
been  bestowed  upon  these  composi- 
tions, which  few  people  of  the  pre- 
sent day  could  afford  out  of  their 
limited  leisure.  Perhaps  it  was 
that  there  was  less  public  demand 
for  ingenious  writing  then  than 
there  is  now,  and  that  many  fine 
ideas  and  clever  expressions  must 
have  either  moulded  in  one's  brains, 
or  been  intrusted,  for  fault  of  a  wider 
audience,  to  the  correspondent  who 
was  most  likely  to  appreciate  and  to 
turn  them  over  in  society.  But 
now,  when  everything  worth  bring- 
ing to  market  readily  meets  with 
a  purchaser,  and  only  the  dross  is 
a  drug,  it  would  be  little  short  of 
extravagance  to  waste  our  mercies 
in  such  a  manner.  If  a  good  thing 
does  occur  to  us,  we  straightway 
bethink  ourselves  of  utilising  it  in 
this  magazine  or  that  review,  where 
all  our  friends  can  read  it  for  them- 


1880.]  Beattie. 

selves;  and  as  for  bestowing  style 
and  polish  upon  our  private  cor- 
respondence, we  might  just  as  well 
make  people  a  present  of  the  sum 
which  these  qualities  command  in 
the  columns  of  any  newspaper  that 
has  the  privilege  of  counting  us 
among  its  contributors.  No  ; 
whether  it  be  want  of  leisure,  or 
the  greateY  pressure  of  existence,  we 
miss  the  fine  old  lives  that  were 
lived  in  correspondence,  and  we  can- 
not think  the  world  is  any  gainer 
by  the  blank. 

Letter- writing  was  the  link  that 
in  the  last  century  bound  together 
those  literary  coteries  that  we  would 
now  sneer  at  as  "  provincial,"  and 
in  the  interchange  of  epistles  we 
get  glimpses  of  literary  life  that  are 
as  vistas  of  green  fields  and  fresh 
waters  to  the  writer  of  the  present 
day.  The  cultured  leisure  recog- 
nised as  the  natural  necessity  of 
thought,  the  slow  and  deliberate 
workmanship  by  which  alone  such 
thought  could  be  insured  fitting 
expression,  the  exact  balancing  of 
a  period,  the  close  scansion  of  feet, 
and  the  delicate  ear -ringing  of 
rhymes,  have  to  the  mass  of  writers 
of  the  present  time  the  same  pic- 
turesque and  charming  antiqueness 
that  the  stage  -  coach  has  to  the 
hurried  traveller  who  must  perform 
his  journeys  by  express  train.  We 
flatter  ourselves  that  we  can  do  all 
that  our  predecessors  did  in  much 
less  time  and  with  decidedly  less 
fuss.  This  may  be  true ;  but  still, 
when  we  examine  closely,  we  dis- 
cover that  we  are  in  a  great  measure 
reaping  where  they  have  sowed,  and 
that  our  present  haste  is  largely 
indebted  to  their  leisure.  And 
whatever  we  may  say  when  we  find 
our  pens  in  request,  and  when  study 
is  so  much  time  wasted  that  might 
have  been  given  to  reproductive  writ- 
ing, the  old  ideal  of  the  literary  life 
is  the  only  one  that  will  commend 
itself  to  the  truly  literary  man. 


19 


There  is  no  doubt  a  vast  inspiration 
derivable  from  society,  from  the 
society  of  books  as  well  as  of  men, 
and  from  the  manifold  influences 
which  Art  in  our  day  exercises  upon 
us ;  but  such  can  at  the  best  be  but 
a  shadow  of  the  real  inspiration 
which  Genius  gives,  and  which  we 
so  seldom  meet  with  that  we  rarely 
recognise  it  at  first  sight.  If  we 
accept  Sir  Joshua  &eynolds's  defini- 
tion— and  we  are  not  likely  to  light 
upon  a  better — "  Genius  is  supposed 
to  be  a  power  of  producing  excel- 
lences which  are  out  of  the  reach  of 
the  rules  of  Art :  a  power  which  no 
precepts  can  teach  and  which  no 
industry  can  acquire," — if  that  is 
so,  Genius  must  go  to  Xature  for  its 
nurture;  and  though  it  may  drink 
intoxication  from  what  society  pro- 
vides it  with,  it  can  only  continue 
to  do  so  at  the  risk  of  the  substance 
passing  into  the  shadow.  The  true 
literary  spirit  must  ever  feel  the 
higher  demands  that  Nature  has 
upon  it,  and  must  ever  count  as 
disadvantages  the  barriers  that  sepa- 
rate it  from  her,  even  though  these 
should  be  of  gold. 

"0  how  caust  thou  renounce  the  bound- 
less store 

Of  charms  which  Nature  to  her  votary 
yields ! 

The  warbling  woodland,  the  resounding 
shore, 

The  pomp  of  groves,  and  garniture  of 
fields  : 

All  that  the  genial  ray  of  morning  gilds, 

And  all  that  echoes  to  the  song  of  even  ; 

All  that  the  mountain's  sheltering  bosom 
shields, 

And  all  the  dread  magnificence  of  Heaven: 

0  how  canst  thou  renounce,  and  hope  to 
.  be  forgiven  ! " 

Thus  sang  Beattie,  expressing  with 
as  much  truth  as  poetry  the  aspi- 
rations of  the  purer  minds  of  his 
generation ;  and  it  is  in  a  retrospect 
of  Beattie's  character  that  the  re- 
marks which  we^have  just  made 
have  had  their  origin.  No  life  can 
be  selected  with  more  propriety  as 
typical  of  the  provincial  man  of 


20 


Beattie.  [July 


letters  of  the  last  century,  or  one 
that  will  stand  out  in  clearer  con- 
trast with  literary  careers  nowadays. 
Spending  his  life  in  a  remote  Scotch 
town,  a  region  quite  hyperborean 
to  the  philosophers  of  Fleet  Street 
and  the  Temple,  he  yet  managed  to 
wield  a  literary  power  that  was  as 
readily  acknowledged  in  the  most 
refined  circles  of  the  metropolis  as 
in  his  humble  lecture-room  in  the 
Marischal     College    of    Aberdeen. 
There  he  lived  a  true  artistic  life, 
turning  to  Nature  for  the  strength 
that  he  needed  to  nerve  his  genius, 
and  reposing  himself  in  her  friendly 
arms  when  his  task  was  done.     A 
calm,  placid,  enjoyful  life,   undis- 
turbed  by   all    those   graver   evils 
that  surround  the  literary  struggle 
nowadays,  —  working    under   pres- 
sure whether  of  time  or  of  circum- 
stances ;   putting   forth   work  that 
the  author  feels  to  be  unequal  to 
his  ideals ;  writing  for  the  passing 
crowd  when   he   would   rather  be 
working  for  posterity ;  trifling  when 
he  would  be  serious.     These  are  all 
disadvantages  which  the  successful 
writer  has  to   contend   with;  but 
Beattie  resolutely  refused  to  follow 
up  success  to  the  point  where  such 
perils   begin.     Fame   brought  him 
numerous     temptations    to    better 
his  condition  by  approaching  more 
closely  the  centres  of  literature  and 
taste  ;  but  he  was  not  to  be  turned 
aside  from  the  counsels  he  himself 
had  given  for  the  culture  of  the 
poetical  character.     The  high  priest 
of  Nature  in  his  day,  he  would  not 
be  drawn  away  from  her  altars  for 
a  grosser,  if  more  attractive,  cult. 
Yet  there  was  nothing  misanthropic, 
nothing  selfish  in  his  character,  as 
is  so  often  the  case  when  people 
affect  retirement  because  they  can- 
not tune  their  minds  into  unison 
with  society.     His  letters  through- 
out show  the  delight  with  which  he 
sought   the   fellowship  of  kindred 
genius;  while  the  warm  attachment 


with  which  he  inspired  some  of 
those  whose  friendship  was  most 
courted  by  the  world,  speaks  of 
strong  reciprocal  qualities  on  his 
part. 

We  cannot  apologise  for  this 
paper  on  the  ground  that  Beattie  is 
dropping  out  of  sight  in  English 
poetry.  He  may  not  be  read  so 
extensively  as  those  whom  gilt  and 
French  morocco  enshrine  on  the 
drawing-room  table  as  "popular 
poets;"  nor  may  his  lines  be  con- 
stantly upon  the  tongue  of  that 
portion  of  the  public  which  the 
author  addresses  as  the  "general 
reader,"  whose  range  of  reading,, 
however,  upon  close  examination, 
commonly  turns  out  to  have  been 
very  special.  But  no  critic,  no 
student  of  poetry,  is  ignorant  of 
Beattie's  place  in  the  literature  of 
last  century,  or  insensible  to  the 
influence  which  he  has  continued  to 
exercise  upon  that  of  our  own  day. 
His  place  in  criticism  is  as  clearly 
defined  as  his  place  in  poetry,  al- 
though in  general  it  is  not  so  well 
known ;  and  it  will  the  more  easily 
assist  us  in  our  attempt  to  estimate 
his  poetry  if  we  first  take  into  ac- 
count the  part  which  he  played  in 
framing  the  taste  of  his  time. 

There  is  no  phrase  more  common 
in  the  mouths  of  critics  than  that 
"  the  modern  school  of  criticism 
begins  with  Lessing  and  the  publica- 
tion of  the  '  Laocoon.' "  This  state- 
ment has  so  often  passed  unchal- 
lenged that  people  have  come  to 
accept  it  as  a  historical  fact.  But 
if  we  carefully  sum  up  the  labours 
of  the  Scotch  school  of  critics  from 
Gerard  to  the  elder  Alison,  we  shall 
easily  convince  ourselves  that  we 
had  little  to  learn  from  Lessing  or 
any  other  foreign  authority.  Ger- 
ard's '  Essay  on  Taste,'  published  in 
1759,  struck  the  key-note  of  modern 
criticism  both  here  and  in  France, 
where  it  speedily  went  through  two- 
editions,  and  was  reviewed  by 


1880.]  Beattie. 


21 


Voltaire,  Montesquieu,  and  D'Alem- 
bert.  Then  came  Dr  Campbell  and 
Lord  Kames,  who,  between  them, 
very  nearly  perfected  a  code,  of 
which  all  subsequent  attempts  at 
systematising  the  principles  of  lit- 
erary criticism  can  only  be  called 
expansions.  In  France  the  progress 
of  the  Scotch  school  of  criticism 
excited  so  much  interest  as  to  arouse 
the  jealousy  of  Voltaire,  who  thus 
repays  Lord  Kames's  unfavourable 
estimate  of  the  '  Henriade,'  in  one 
of  his  '  Lettres  a  un  Journaliste ' : — 

"  Permit  me  to  explain  to  you  some 
whimsical  singularities  of  the  '  Ele- 
ments of  Criticism/  by  Lord  Makames, 
a  justice  of  the  peace  in  Scotland. 
That  philosopher  has  a  most  profound 
knowledge  of  nature  and  art,  and  he 
uses  the  utmost  efforts  to  make  the 
rest  of  the  world  as  wise  as  himself. 
He  begins  by  proving  that  we  have 
five  senses  ;  and  that  we  are  less  struck 
by  a  gentle  impression  made  on  our 
eyes  and  ears,  by  colours  and  sounds, 
than  by  a  knock  on  the  head  or  a 
kick  on  the  leg.  Proceeding  from  that 
to  the  rules  of  time  and  space,  M. 
Home  concludes,  with  mathematical 
precision,  that  time  seems  long  to  a 
lady  who  is  about  to  be  married,  and 
short  to  a  man  who  is  going  to  be 
hanged.  M.  Home  applies  doctrines 
•equally  extraordinary  to  every  depart- 
ment of  art.  It  is  a  surprising  effect 
of  the  progress  of  the  human  mind, 
that  we  should  now  receive  from  Scot- 
land rules  for  our  taste  in  all  matters, 
from  an  epic  poem  down  to  a  garden. 
Knowledge  extends  daily,  and  we 
must  not  despair  of  hereafter  obtain- 
ing performances  in  poetry  or  oratory 
from  the  Orkney  Islands.  M.  Home 
always  lays  down  his  opinions  as  a 
law,  and  extends  his  despotic  sway  far 
and  wide.  He  is  a  judge  who  absorbs 
all  appeals." 

Although  it  may  seem  of  the 
nature  of  a  challenge  to  say  so, 
when  we  lay  down  Lord  Kames 


we  find  we  have  little  to  learn  from 
Lessing;  and  there  are  few  prin- 
ciples enunciated  in  the  '  Laocoon  ' 
that  had  not  already  come  under 
the  consideration  of  the  Scotch 
school.  But  Gerard,  Campbell, 
and  Kames  only  put  together  the 
framework  of  criticism;  they  devised 
a  mechanism  complete  indeed,  but 
which  waited  for  a  vital  force  to 
animate  it.  And  here  it  is  that 
Beattie  comes  in.  He  it  was  who 
clothed  the  dry  bones,  and  gave 
them  life  and  grace  and  energy. 
He  it  was  who  supplied  what  had 
been  conspicuously  wanting  in  the 
speculations  of  Gerard,  Campbell, 
and  Lord  Kames — the  poetic  in- 
sight, the  fine  perception  of  Nature 
and  of  its  ideals,  the  elasticity  of 
the  imagination  and  the  reverence 
of  truth.  Blair  duly  profited  by 
Beattie's  labours,  and  if  he  added 
nothing  to  the  previous  store,  his 
graceful  treatment  of  the  researches 
of  his  predecessors  entitles  him  to 
a  place  in  the  Scotch  school.  The 
elder  Alison,*  next  to  Beattie,  in- 
fused genius  and  poetry  into  the 
system,  and  by  brilliancy  of  style 
and  clearness  of  reasoning,  elevated 
it  almost  to  the  rank  of  a  creed. 
If  Beattie  had  held  up  Nature  as 
the  highest  ideal  by  which  taste 
could  be  directed,  Alison  no  less 
successfully  dealt  with  beauty  as 
the  highest  expression  of  Nature 
manifest  to  mortals.  And  last  of 
all,  the  Scotch  school  culminates  in 
Wilson,  who  seems  to  have  united 
in  his  own  person  all  the  powers 
of  his  predecessors,  and  who  put 
their  principles  to  such  a  practical 
test  as  to  lay  every  other  system  of 
criticism  prostrate  in  the  dust  be- 
fore them. 

Wilson  placed  Beattie  far  above 
the   rest  of  the  Scqtch  school  for 


*  Readers  of  '  Mag;i '  will  remember  with  pleasure  that  the  literary  genius  of  the 
Gerards  ami  the  Alisons  has  cropped  up  in  our  own  younger  generation  in  the 
authoresses  of  Reata.'— ED.  B.  M. 


22 


Beattie.  [July 


artistic  penetration  and  true  poetic 
insight ;  and  time  after  time  in  the 
columns  of  '  Maga '  we  find  the 
great  critic  reminding  literature  of 
its  debt  to  the  Aberdeen  professor. 
"Beattie,"  exclaims  North  at  one 
of  the  "Noctes"—  "Beattie  was  a 
delightful  poet,  and,  Mr  Alison  ex- 
cepted,  the  best  writer  on  literature 
and  the  fine  arts  Britain  ever  pro- 
duced, full  of  feeling  and  full  of 
genius."  How  much  of  this  feel- 
ing and  genius  came  purely  from 
natural  endowment,  the  readers  of 
Beattie's  life  must  be  well  aware. 
The  early  education  of  the  future 
arbiter  elegantiamm  was  imparted 
in  a  humble  parish  school  in  Kincar- 
dineshire,  one  of  those  admirable 
institutions  that  were  the  nurseries 
of  so  many  scholars. 

"  Oh  be  his  tomb  as  lead  to  lead 
Upon  their  dull  destroyer's  head  ; 
Here  'MagaV  malison  is  said." 

Thence  to  Marischal  College  in 
Aberdeen,  which,  scanty  as  its  re- 
sources were,  could  at  the  time 
boast  of  Gerard  among  its  pro- 
fessors, and  of  Blatkwell  as  its 
principal — a  learned  old  Grecian, 
whose  remains  show  him  to  have 
been  far  ahead  of  contemporary 
classical  studies  in  Scotland.  After 
some  years  spent  in  teaching  in  the 
country,  his  attainments  secured 
him  the  very  respectable  position 
of  a  mastership  in  the  Aberdeen 
Grammar  School,  a  foundation 
dating  from  the  thirteenth  century. 
He  was  now  brought  in  contact 
with  possibly  the  largest  collection 
of  learned  men  that  ever  were 
gathered  together  in  so  small  a  town. 
Besides  Gerard  and  Blackwell,  there 
were  Campbell,  then  deep  in  his 
'Philosophy  of  Rhetoric;'  Thomas 
Eeid  the  metaphysician,  who  had 
not  yet  gone  to  Glasgow ;  the  famous 
Dr  John  Gregory,  just  then  thinking 
of  bettering  his  fortunes  in  Edin- 
burgh ;  the  two  Skene?,  David  and 


Eobert,  both  naturalists  of  repute  ; 
Trail,  who  aiterwards  became  Bishop 
of  Down  and  Connor ;  and  "  Tul- 
lochgorum  "  Skinner,  then  moving 
about  with  the  circumspection  that 
was  most  conducive  to  the  comfort 
of  a  nonjuring  clergyman.  After 
the  fashion  of  the  day,  these  savants 
must  of  course  have  their  club ; 
and  so  the  Philosophical  Society 
of  Aberdeen  was  founded,  out  of 
which  sprang  directly  such  works 
as  Eeid's  '  Inquiry,'  Campbell's 
'  Bhetoric,'  Gregory's  '  Compara- 
tive View  of  the  State  and  Faculties 
of  Man,'  and  Beattie's  essays  on 
"  Poetry  and  Music  "  and  "  Laugh- 
ter and  Ludicrous  Composition." 
We  shall  therefore,  probably,  not 
be  very  far  wide  of  the  mark 
if  we  regard  the  "  Wise  Club  "  of 
Aberdeen,  as  it  was  called,  as  the 
cradle  of  the  two  Scotch  schools  of 
metaphysics  and  of  criticism.  The 
society  Beattie  was  thus  thrown  into 
was  enough  to  put  any  man  on  his 
mettle  who  was  possessed  of  liter- 
ary tastes.  An  essay  was  read  by 
a  member  at  each  meeting  of  the 
Club,  and  some  question  of  interest 
connected  with  the  literary  and 
philosophical  studies  of  the  day, 
notably  the  philosophy  of  the  senses 
and  the  standards  of  taste,  was  pro- 
posed for  general  discussion.  We 
know  how  keen  an  interest  Beattie 
took  in  these  subjects,  and  how 
great  importance  the  other  members 
attached  to  his  views ;  and  in  this 
little  arena  he  was  all  the  while 
training  himself  in  his  own  fashion 
for  appearing  before  a  wider  audi- 
ence, which  his  elevation  to  the 
chair  of  moral  philosophy  in  suc- 
cession to  Gerard  in  no  long  time 
enabled  him  to  do. 

In  addition  to  good  classical 
scholarship,  in  which  most  of  the 
other  members  of  the  Club  were  at 
least  his  equal,  and  to  his  genius 
and  poetic  tastes,  Beattie  had 
made  himself  acquainted  with  both 


1880." 


Beattie. 


French  and  Italian  literature,  the 
latter  rather  an  unusual  accom- 
plishment at  the  time,  even  among 
men  of  letters,  in  consequence  of 
Addison's  not  very  intelligent  esti- 
mate of  the  Italian  poets,  who  had 
declared  with  Boileau  "  that  one 
verse  in  Virgil  is  worth  all  the  cliii- 
cant  and  tinsel  of  Tasso."  Beattie 
was  not  of  this  opinion;  and  in  his 
lyrical  pieces  we  meet  with  both 
a  full  swell  and  a  delicate  rhythm, 
which  we  do  not  hesitate  to  trace 
to  his  Italian  studies.  In  English 
he  acknowledged  Addison  as  his 
master,  and  took  him  for  his  model, 
or  at  least  imagined  he  did ;  for 
Beattie's  style  is  essentially  his 
own,  and  if  it  wants  the  crispness 
and  homely  Saxon  flow  of  Addison's 
periods,  it  has  perhaps  the  advan- 
tages of  free  and  copious  diction  and 
of  poetic  grace.  For  Addison  and 
the  other  English  essayists  Beattie 
had  always  a  warm  regard  ;  and  when 
the  Edinburgh  edition  of  Addison's 
prose  works  was  published  in  1790, 
it  was  Beattie's  intention  to  preface 
it  by  an  elaborate  critique,  which 
was  not  only  to  be  an  exposition  of 
style,  but  a  protest  against  the  cor- 
ruptions which  rapid  and  slipshod 
writing  was  even  then  introducing 
into  the  language.  His  health  un- 
fortunately prevented  his  carrying 
out  a  resolve  which  would  have 
been  so  serviceable  to  English  liter- 
ature; but  all  through  his  letters 
and  essays  he  never  loses  sight  of 
the  Addisonian  English  as  a  stand- 
ard which  it  was  worth  a  struggle 
to  maintain.  In  a  letter  to  Mr 
Arbuthnot  regarding  the  difficulty 
which  the  succeeding  generation 
of  annotators  professed  to  have  in 
distinguishing  between  the  style 
of  Addison  and  that  of  Steele,  he 
says : — 

"  This  alone  would  satisfy  me  that 
the  annotators  were  no  competent 
judges  either  of  composition  or  of  the 
English  language  ;  which  indeed  ap- 


pears from  the  general  tenor  of  their 
own  style,  which  is  full  of  those  new- 
fangled phrases  and  barbarous  idioms 
that  are  now  so  much  affected  by  those 
who  form  their  style  from  political 
pamphlets  and  those  pretended  speeches 
in  Parliament  that  appear  in  news- 
papers. Should  this  jargon  continue 
to  gain  ground  among  us,  English 
literature  will  go  to  ruin.  During 
the  last  twenty  years,  especially  since 
the  breaking  out  of  the  American  war, 
it  has  made  an  alarming  progress. 
One  does  not  wonder  that  such  a 
fashion  should  be  adopted  by  illiterate 
people,  or  by  those  who  are  not  con- 
versant in  the  best  English  authors ; 
but  it  is  a  shame  to  see  such  a  man  as 
Lord  Hailes  give  way  to  it,  as  he  has 
done  in  some  of  his  latest  publications. 
If  I  live  to  execute  what  I  purpose  on 
the  writings  and  genius  of  Addison,  I 
shall  at  least  enter  my  protest  against 
this  practice,  and  by  exhibiting  a  co- 
pious specimen  of  the  new  phraseology, 
endeavour  to  make  my  reader  set  his 
heart  against  it." 

Though  his  critique  had  been 
written,  it  would  most  likely  have 
only  furnished  a  parallel  to  Mrs 
Partington's  mop;  but  his  wish  to 
stem  the  rising  tide  will  endear  him 
to  all  who  regret  to  see  the  well  of 
English,  once  undefiled,  polluted 
by  foreign  catch- words  and  native 
slang. 

The  sources  of  Beattie's  literary 
influence  are  apparent  on  the  sur- 
face of  his  writings,  both  prose  and 
poetic,  and  may  be  distinguished 
even  by  an  uncritical  eye.  His 
attachment  to  Nature  made  him 
keenly  sensitive  of  her  manifesta- 
tions and  of  the  just  expression 
of  these  by  art,  as  well  as  pain- 
fully conscious  of  any  unworthiness 
or  wrong  done  her.  Nature  is  a 
tribunal  from  which  there  is  no 
appeal ;  and  by  its  closer  or  more 
remote  approach  to  her  standard 
must  all  efforts  al  expression  be 
judged.  "We  have  truth  before  us 
as  a  goal,  and  taste  as  a  guide  on 
our  way.  And  we  must  not  shrink 


24 


Seattle.  [July 


from  or  despise  the  guidance  of 
taste  because  it  may  seem  to  us  at 
times  variable.  "Its  principles," 
says  Beattie,  "are  real  and  perma- 
nent, though  men  may  occasionally 
be  ignorant  of  them.  Very  different 
systems  of  philosophy  have  appear- 
ed; yet  Nature  and  truth  are  al- 
ways the  same.  Fashions  in  dress 
and  furniture  are  perpetually  chang- 
ing ;  and  yet,  in  both,  that  is  often 
allowed  to  be  elegant  which  is  not 
fashionable  —  which  could  not  be 
if  there  were  not  in  both  certain 
principles  of  elegance  which  derive 
their  charm  neither  from  caprice 
nor  from  custom,  but  from  the  very 
nature  of  the  thing."  A  proof  of 
this  is  that  there  are  works  both  of 
literature  and  of  art  that  have  satis- 
fied the  taste  of  all  ages  ;  and  that 
taste  which  is  thus  gratified  we 
may  assume,  therefore,  to  be  both 
natural  and  permanent,  while  dis- 
sent from  it  can  only  spring  from 
ignorant  or  vitiated  views  of  Nature, 
and  must  be  of  merely  temporary 
or  passing  influence — "  Opinionum 
commenta  delet  dies;  natures  judi- 
cia  confirmat."  His  qualities  of 
style  he  drew  directly  from  the 
attributes  of  Nature ;  "  for,"  says 
he,  "  nothing  but  what  is  supposed 
to  be  natural  can  please ;  and  lan- 
guage as  well  as  fable,  imagery,  and 
moral  description,  may  displease  by 
being  unnatural."  But  language 
may  possess  the  rhetorical  qualities 
of  perspicuity,  simplicity,  grace, 
strength,  and  harmony,  and  yet  not 
be  natural ;  for  it  must  be  suited 
to  the  supposed  condition,  circum- 
stances, and  character  of  the  speaker, 
as  well  as  to  the  matter  which  is 
the  subject  of  his  discourse.  This 
is  a  very  simple  canon;  but  it  is 
one  that  supplies  critics  with  a  wide 
and  unfailing  test;  and  all  the  long- 
winded  lectures  on  style  that  we 
daily  and  weekly  read,  set  forth  in 
the  well-worn  argot  of  newspaper 
reviewers,  are  merely  sermons  upon 


Beattie's  text.  And  as  a  style  thus 
regulated  is  capable  of  yielding  the 
highest  literary  pleasure,  so  a  de- 
parture from  it  is  fraught  with  cor- 
responding pain,  whether  the  error 
be  on  the  side  of  monstrosity  or 
meanness.  If  so  genial  a  man  as 
Beattie  ever  lost  his  temper,  it  was 
over  bad  writing;  and  when  we 
consider  how  delicate  was  his  crit- 
ical faculty,  we  can  almost  pardon 
him -his  exasperation  over  such  pas- 
sages as  this  from  Blackmore's 
'  Paraphrase  of  Job  : ' — 

"  I  solemnly  pronounce  that  I  believe 
My  blest  Redeemer  does  for  ever  live. 
When  future  ages  shall  their  circuit  end, 
And  bankrupt  Time  shall  his  last  minute 

spend, 
Then  He  from  heaven  in  triumph  shall 

descend." 

"  How  grovelling,"  cries  Beattie, 
"must  be  the  imagination  of  a  writer 
who,  on  meditating  on  a  passage  so 
sublime,  and  a  subject  so  awful, 
can  bring  himself  to  think  and 
speak  of  bankruptcy !  Such  an 
idea  in  such  a  place  is  contemptible 
without  expression."  The  present 
age,  we  fear,  can  hardly  afford  to 
enter  into  Beattie's  feelings  in  such 
a  matter ;  and  we  fancy  we  see  the 
appreciative  critic  italicising  the 
line  in  question  to  call  attention  to 
the  "  appropriateness  "  of  the  meta- 
phor and  the  "  balance  of  its  mem- 
bers." 

This  stand-point  of  Nature,  upon 
which  Beattie  took  up  his  position, 
was  one  from  which  it  was  particu- 
larly appropriate  for  addressing  the 
age.  Few  epochs  of  English  society 
have  been  more  foolishly  artificial 
than  the  period  from  the  death  of 
Caroline  of  Anspach,  George  II. 's 
consort,  until  the  time  when  the 
disasters  of  the  American  war 
recalled  the  nation  to  sobriety. 
Sterling  English  sense  had  grown 
maudlin  over  echoes  of  the 
'  Nouvelle  Heloise,'  and  affected 
a  Voltairian  indifference  to  reli- 


1880.] 

gions  systems.  The  Chesterfieldian 
code  of  "manners  without  morals" 
was  the  revelation  by  which  society 
was  ruled.  Nor  did  the  Church  do 
much  to  infuse  more  earnest  feelings; 
for  it  took  some  time  to  replace  the 
Hoadleys  of  the  day,  whom  Whig 
unscrupulousness  had  placed  on  the 
bench,  by  a  higher  order  of  prelates. 
A  Christian  poet  like  Gilbert  West 
was  cited  as  "  the  miracle  of  the 
moral  world."  Mrs  Montague,  who 
was  no  austere  judge  of  her  fellow- 
sinners,  avers  that  the  young  ladies 
of  the  day  learned  their  religion 
from  a  dancing-master,  their  senti- 
ment from  a  singer,  and  their  man- 
ners from  the  chambermaid.  In 
short,  in  aping  the  style  of  the  Louis 
Quinze  school,  English  society  had 
caught  its  affectation  without  its 
dignity,  its  looseness  without  its 
wit.  And  what  made  its  weak- 
nesses more  absurd  was  that,  at 
bottom,  it  was  not  nearly  so  wicked 
as  it  wished  to  be  reputed.  Natural 
taste  and  just  criticism  were  both 
at  a  very  low  ebb  :  for  Johnson, 
whose  influence  could  alone  have 
benefited  letters,  had  neutralised 
his  strength  by  his  arrogance  and 
eccentricities.  Perhaps  for  a  healthy 
and  sincere  tone  we  must  turn  to 
the  "  Blue  Stocking "  coteries  that 
gathered  round  Mrs  Montague  and 
a  few  other  ladies  of  taste,  which, 
though  perhaps  liable  to  some  of 
the  sarcasm  attaching  to  the  '  Pr^- 
cieuses  Ridicules,'  present  an  agree- 
able relief  to  the  assumed  hollow- 
ness  and  indifference  of  the  rest 
of  society.  In  Dr  Beattie  Mrs 
Montague  and  the  others  immedi- 
ately greeted  a  natural  ally,  and 
they  readily  accepted  his  standards 
of  criticism,  and  became  the  patron- 
esses of  his  poetry.  Mrs  Montague, 
whose  great  wealth  and  undeniable 
esprit  gave  her  an  authority  in  lit- 
erary circles  which  no  single  wo- 
man could  wield  nowadays,  received 
Beattie  into  the  circle  of  her  inti- 


25 

mate  friendship,  and  did  much  by 
her  feminine  delicacy  and  sympathy 
to  soften  the  cross  in  the  poet's  loss 
springing  from  his  wife's  mental 
affliction.  In  Mrs  Montague's  volu- 
minous correspondence  there  are  no 
letters  more  womanly,  more  full  of 
kindness,  and  less  affected,  than 
those  which  she  addresses  to  Beat- 
tie  in  his  northern  retreat ;  and  the 
interesting  letters  of  the  poet  in 
reply,  give  us  a  more  candid  and 
familiar  insight  into  his  views  on 
letters,  art,  and  philosophy  than  he 
could  trust  himself  to  express  in 
works  intended  to  come  under  the 
public  eye. 

The  incident  which  brought  Beat- 
tie  more  prominently  before  the 
world,  and  which  provided  him 
with  a  foundation  for  building  his 
literary  and  lasting  reputation  up- 
on, was  his  opposition  to  Hume's 
attacks  upon  revealed  religion.  This 
controversy  bulks  largely  in  Beat- 
tie's  life,  and  he  himself  evidently 
considered  that  the  part  which  he 
there  played  would  constitute  his 
chief  claim  upon  the  recollection  of 
posterity.  But  Beattie  had  a  genius 
too  delicate  for  metaphysical  wrang- 
ling, and  he  was  too  sensitive  to 
the  issues  involved,  to  figure  with 
advantage  in  such  a  discussion. 
Hume's  attack  as  well  as  Beattie's 
defence  have  both  passed  into  the 
regions  of  historical  metaphysics, 
and  there  we  are  content  they 
should  remain.  But  as  sceptical 
critics  of  the  present  day  seek  to 
turn  the  share  which  Beattie  took 
in  the  discussion  to  his  prejudice 
both  as  a  poet  and  as  a  critic,  we 
think  it  right  to  quote  from  his  own 
words  the  circumstances  which  led 
him  to  challenge  Mr  Hume's  views : — 

"  In  my  younger  days  I  read  chiefly 
for  the  sake  of  amusetnent,  and  I 
found  myself  best  amused  with  the 
'  classics '  and  what  we  call  the  belles 
lettres.  Metaphysics  I  disliked ;  mathe- 
matics pleased  me  better ;  but  I  found 


26 

my  niind  neither  improved  nor  grati- 
fied by  that  study.  When  Providence 
allotted  me  my  present  station,  it 
became  incumbent  on  me  to  read  what 
had  been  written  on  the  subject  of 
morals  and  human  nature  :  the  works 
of  Locke,  Berkeley,  and  Hume  were 
celebrated  as  masterpieces  in  this 
•way  ;  to  them,  therefore,  I  had  re- 
course. ...  I  found  that  the 
sceptical  philosophy  was  not  what  the 
world  imagined  it  to  be,  nor  what  I, 
following  the  opinion  of  the  world, 
had  hitherto  imagined  it  to  be,  but  a 
frivolous,  though  dangerous,  system 
of  verbal  subtilty,  which  it  required 
neither  genius,  nor  learning,  nor  taste, 
nor  knowledge  of  mankind,  to  be  able 
to  put  together  ;  but  only  a  captious 
temper,  an  irreligious  spirit,  a  moder- 
ate command  of  words,  and  an  extra- 
ordinary degree  of  vanity  and  pre- 
sumption. ...  I  want  to  show 
that  the  same  method  of  reasoning 
which  these  people  have  adopted  in 
their  books,  if  transferred  into  common 
life,  would  show  them  to  be  destitute 
of  common  -  sense ;  that  true  philo- 
sophers follow  a  different  method  of 
reasoning  ;  and  that,  without  follow- 
ing a  different  method,  no  truth  can 
be  discovered.  I  want  to  lay  before 
the  public  in  as  strong  a  light  as 
possible  the  following  dilemma  :  our 
sceptics  either  believe  the  doctrines 
they  publish  or  they  do  not  believe 
them ;  if  they  believe  them  they  are 
fools — if  not,  they  are  a  thousand  times 
worse.  I  want  also  to  fortify  the  minds 
against  this  sceptical  poison,  and  to 
propose  certain  criteria  of  moral  truth, 
by  which  some  of  the  most  dangerous 
sceptical  errors  may  be  detected  and 
guarded  against." 

Thus  conscious  of  his  unfitness 
for  metaphysical  wrangling,  and 
with,  his  heart  set  upon  more 
aesthetic  studies,  Beattie  undertook 
to  answer  Hume,  partly  because 
by  his  literary  position  it  seemed 
specially  incumbent  upon  him  to 
take  up  the  gage,  and  mainly  be- 
cause he  was  urged  into  the  field 
by  the  arguments  of  his  friends.  It 
would  be  idle  now  to  seek  to  decide 
the  measure  of  his  success  or  failure 
in  a  controversy  which  necessarily 


Beattie.  [July 

ended  exactly  where  it  began ;  but 
the  manner  in  which  Beattie  ac- 
quitted himself  procured  him  the 
esteem  of  all  the  orthodox  thinkers 
of  the  day,  as  well  as  the  personal 
friendship  of  some  of  the  most  emi- 
nent prelates  on  the  Episcopal  bench. 
Within  two  years  after  the  ap- 
pearance of  his  'Essay  on  Truth' 
and  the  '  Minstrel,'  Beattie  was  re- 
ceived with  open  arms  in  the 
best  literary  circles  in  London ; 
while  on  his  former  visit  to  town 
ten  years  before,  the  only  intimacy 
he  had  formed  was  with  Mr  Miller, 
his  own  bookseller.  His  biogra- 
pher, Sir  William  Forbes,  thinks 
it  "  without  a  parallel  in  the  annals 
of  literature,"  that  an  author  almost 
totally  a  stranger  in  England  should, 
merely  on  the  reputation  earned  by 
these  two  works,  "  emerge  from  the 
obscurity  of  his  situation  in  a  pro- 
vincial town  in  the  north  of  Scot- 
land into  such  general  and  distin- 
guished celebrity  without  the  aid 
of  party  spirit,  or  political  faction, 
or  any  other  influence  than  what 
arose  from  the  merit  of  these  two 
publications,  which  first  brought 
him  into  notice,  and  his  agreeable 
conversation  and  unassuming  man- 
ners, which  secured  to  him  the 
love  of  all  to  whom  he  became  per- 
sonally known."  He  was  graciously 
received  by  the  King,  who  subse- 
quently conferred  on  him  a  pen- 
sion. Oxford  made  him  a  Doctor 
of  Laws,  at  the  same  time  as  Sir 
Joshua  Eeynolds  received  the  de- 
gree, amid  many  demonstrations  of 
applause ;  and  when  he  went  back 
to  the  North,  besides  Mrs  Montague, 
his  list  of  correspondents  included 
such  names  as  Bishop  Porteous  of 
London;  the  Duchess -Dowager  of 
Portland;  Lord  Lyttleton;  Bishop 
Percy,  of  ballad  fame ;  Sir  Joshua 
Eeynolds ;  Markham,  Bishop  of 
Chester ;  the  Archbishop  of  York, 
who  did  his  best  to  induce  Beattie 
to  enter  holy  orders  ;  Mrs  Delany, 


1880.] 


Beattie, 


27 


and  many  names  of  eminence  both 
in  society  and  literature.  In  Scot- 
land he  was  most  intimate  with 
Sir  William  Forbes  of  Pitsligo— 
in  whom  he  had  a  most  able  and 
disinterested  adviser — Dr  Gregory, 
Dr  Blacklock,  Jane  Maxwell,  the 
witty  and  eccentric  Duchess  of 
Gordon,  and  a  large  and  attached 
circle  of  less  note.  The  subscrip- 
tion list  for  his  '  Essays,'  published 
in  1776,  might  be  taken  as  a  com- 
plete guide  to  the  taste  and  learn- 
ing of  the  time ;  and  we  could 
point  to  no  readier  or  more  prac- 
tical proof  of  the  high  estimation 
in  which  he  was  held  by  his  con- 
temporaries. 

As  an  illustration  of  the  sound- 
ness of  Beattie's  critical  instinct, 
we  may  refer  to  the  part  he  took 
in  the  famous  Ossianic  controversy. 
The  appearance  of  Macpherson's 
'  Ossian '  took  the  world  by  storm ; 
and  though  many  doubted  the  genu- 
ineness of  the  poems,  the  genuine- 
ness of  the  poetry  was  supposed 
unchallengeable.  The  most  extrava- 
gant laudations  were  pronounced 
over  them,  and  their  beauties  were 
gravely  weighed  alongside  those  of 
the  'Iliad'  and  'Paradise  Lost.' 
Poor  Dr  Blair  was  carried  away 
with  the  crowd,  and  wrote  a 
"Critical  Dissertation"  upon  Os- 
sian, which  still  unfortunately  re- 
mains among  his  works  to  qualify 
our  admiration  for  his  penetration. 
Beattie  from  the  first  was  doubtful 
of  the  merits  of  Macpherson's  work, 
apart  altogether  from  his  views 
about  its  authenticity.  The  lam- 
bent glimmer  upon  the  surface  of 
the  poems  did  not  dazzle  his  eyes 
so  that  he  could  not  see  how  arti- 
ficial was  its  structure,  any  more 
than  the  heroic  play  of  words  and 
arms  deceived  him  into  the  belief 
that  a  new  epic  had  been  brought 
to  light.  Applying  his  own  tests, 
he  unhesitatingly  declared  '  Ossian : 
to  be  a  defective  production  : — 


"  If  accurate  delineation  of  charac- 
ter be  allowed  the  highest  species  of 
poetry  (and  this,  I  think,  is  generally 
allowed),  may  I  not  ask,"  says  Beattier 
"  whether  Ossian  is  not  extremely  de- 
fective in  the  highest  species  of  poetry  ? 
.  .  .  Ossian  seems  really  to  have 
very  little  knowledge  of  the  human 
heart ;  his  chief  talent  lies  in  describ- 
ing inanimate  objects,  and  therefore 
he  belongs  (according  to  my  principles) 
not  to  the  highest,  but  to  an  inferior 
order  of  poets." 

So  long  as  he  stood  fast  by  these 
principles,  it  was  not  likely  that 
Beattie  could  be  deceived;  but  it 
must  have  taken  a  good  deal  of 
firmness  to  thus  place  himself  coun- 
ter to  the  almost  unanimous  taste  of 
the  times ;  for  with  the  exception 
of  Dr  Johnson,  whose  known 
prejudices  against  the  Highlanders 
caused  his  opinion  to  be  left  out  of 
count,  most  of  the  critical  author- 
ities of  the  day  went  into  ecstasies 
over  Ossian.  His  friends  were 
anxious,  for  Beattie  was  not  then 
the  authority  that  he  subsequently 
became,  but  he  held  firm  to  his 
opinion. 

"The  particular  beauties  of  this 
wonderful  work,"  he  writes  to  Mr  Ar- 
buthnot,  "  are  irresistibly  striking,  and 
I  flatter  myself  I  am  as  sensible  of 
them  as  another.  But  to  that  part  of 
its  merit  which  exalts  it,  considered  as 
a  whole,  above  the  '  Iliad '  or  '  ^Eneid,' 
and  its  author  above  Homer  or  Virgil, 
I  am  insensible.  Yet  I  understand 
that  of  critics  not  a  few  aver  Ossian  to 
have  been  a  greater  genius  than  either 
of  these  poets.  Yet  a  little  while,  and 
I  doubt  not  the  world  will  be  of  a  dif- 
ferent opinion.  Homer  was  as  much 
admired  about  three  months  ago — I 
speak  not  of  the  present  moment,  for 
Ossian  just  now  is  all  in  all — I  say 
Homer  was  lately  admired  as  much  as 
he  was  three  thousand  years  ago.  Will 
the  admiration  of  our  Highland  bard 
be  as  permanent  ?  And  will  it  be  as 
universal  as  learning  itself  ? " 

There  was  even  a  greater  danger 
of  his  being  misled  by  Sir  William 
Jones's  imitations  of  Eastern  poetry, 


28 


Seattle.  [July 


which,  were  received  with  an  en- 
thusiastic unanimity  of  favour  little 
short  of  that  which  greeted  Ossian. 
The  pseudo-oriental  air,  which  has 
always  a  certain  fascination  about 
it,  deceived  many,  but  could  not 
lead  away  Beattie.  After  pointing 
out  that  imitations  can  never  have 
the  same  literary  value  as  transla- 
tions, as  they  do  not  convey  the 
original  ideas  of  those  whose  pat- 
tern is  copied,  he  expresses  a  sus- 
picion "that  the  descriptions  are 
not  just,"  and  that  "  it  is  not  nature 
which  is  presented,  but  the  dreams 
of  a  man  who  had  never  studied 
nature."  Sir  William  Jones's  poetry 
is  now  wellnigh  lost  sight  of;  but 
any  one  who  will  compare  his  ori- 
ental verses  with  the  severe  but 
faithful  translations  from  the  San- 
scrit which  Dr  John  Muir  has  from 
time  to  time  put  forth,  will  readily 
see  that  Beattie  has  instinctively 
hit  upon  the  true  source  of  their 


His  opinion  of  '  Clarissa,'  in 
which  the  enthusiastic  readers  of 
the  day  would  see  no  defects,  was 
similarly  bold,  and  anticipates  the 
verdict  which  modern  criticism, 
after  a  century's  reflection,  now 
passes  upon  that  novel.  Beattie 
instinctively  probes  all  the  faults 
of  '  Clarissa,'  while  he  readily  dis- 
cerns its  merits,  and  estimates  at 
its  proper  importance  the  place 
which  Richardson  gave  to  human 
nature  and  to  mental  analysis  in 
fiction.  He  notes  the  superfluity 
of  scenes,  the  excessively  paren- 
thetical style,  and  foresees  the  ob- 
jection which  is  most  readily  raised 
to  the  denouement  of  '  Clarissa  '  at 
the  present  day ;  that  Lovelace  is 
really  not  punished  in  falling  in  a 
combat  accounted  honourable,  and 
that  the  immediate  cause  of  his 
death  was  not  his  wickedness,  but 
some  inferiority  to  his  antagonist 
in  the  use  of  the  small-sword.  If 
space  would  permit  us  to  compare 


the  judgments  passed  by  Beattie 
upon  all  the  contemporary  works 
which  have  come  down  to  our  day 
with  the  estimates  of  current  criti- 
cism, we  would  have  no  difficulty 
in  showing  that  the  principles  by 
which  his  opinions  were  guided 
have  had  at  least  the  quality  of 
permanence,  and  have  outlasted  not 
a  few  phases  of  popular  taste.  It 
is  this  that  furnishes  us  with  the 
true  measure  of  a  critic's  ability, 
rather  than  the  coincidence  of  his 
opinions  with  our  own,  which  too 
often  proves  to  be  but  cheap  flat- 
tery. We  do  not  say  a  man  is 
more  likely  to  be  right  because  he 
deliberately  sets  himself  up  against 
the  views  of  his  contemporaries,  but 
he  has  probably  given  the  matter 
more  consideration,  before  taking 
up  so  invidious  a  position,  than  one 
whose  aim  was  merely  to  run  with 
the  stream,  would  take  the  trouble 
to  bestow  upon  it. 

It  was  not  merely  in  literary 
questions  that  Beattie  showed  him- 
self in  advance  of  his  age.  In 
matters  of  art,  in  religious  ques- 
tions, and  in  social  economics,  his 
views  were  such  as  would  readily 
command  a  hearing  in  our  own  day. 
He  was  a  devoted  patron  of  the 
drama,  a  friend  and  admirer  of 
Garrick ;  and  though  it  was  not  so 
long  since  the  Kirk  had  made  an 
example  of  John  Home,  and  had 
"  dealt  "  with  his  fellow  -  offender 
"  Jupiter  "  Carlyle,  for  their  patron- 
age of  the  drama,  Beattie  was  an  avid 
playgoer  whenever  an  opportunity 
presented  itself.  "  I  well  remember, 
and  I  think  I  can  never  forget,  how 
he  [Garrick]  once  affected  me  in 
'  Macbeth,'  and  made  me  almost 
throw  myself  over  the  front  seat 
of  the  two  -  shilling  gallery.  I 
wish  I  had  another  opportunity  of 
risking  my  neck  and  nerves  in  the 
same  cause.  To  fall  by  the  hands 
of  Garrick  and  Shakespeare  would 
ennoble  my  memory  to  all  gene- 


1880.]  Beattie. 


rations."      Although   the   slightest 
savour  of  Popery  was  calculated  to 
cause  the  Presbyterians  of  the  day 
more  alarm  than  even  Shakespeare 
himself  would  occasion,  Beattie  de- 
clares himself  strongly  in  favour  of 
instrumental    music    in    churches, 
and  "  somewhat  more  decorum  and 
solemnity  in  public  worship,"  even 
if  these  had  to  be  borrowed  from 
the   Papists ;    while    he   considers 
Protestant  "nunneries  or  convents 
much  wanted  in  this  country  as  a 
safe  and  creditable  asylum  for  ladies 
of  small  fortunes  and  high  breeding." 
We  have  dwelt  at  such  length 
on  the  critical  side  of  Beattie's  lit- 
erary life,  that  we  have  not  much 
space  left  for  a  retrospect  of  his 
poetry.      As,   however,   it   is    the 
poetical   side   of    his    genius   that 
stands  most  clearly  out  to  the  pre- 
sent generation,  there  is  less  need 
for  treating  it  in  detail.     But  we 
must  observe  that  Beattie  has  suf- 
fered  not  a  little  from  the  selec- 
tions which  his  admirers  generally 
place   before   the   public.      A  few 
picked  stanzas  from  the  "  Minstrel," 
his  "  Hermit,"  and  fragments  of  one 
or  two  of  his  minor  pieces,  are  all 
that  readers  are  asked  to  form  an 
opinion  of  his  genius  upon;    and 
these  selections  are  so  often  quoted, 
that  we  feel  as  if  we  had  blunted 
their  delicate  edge  and  they  had 
become     hackneyed.       There     are 
few  poets  from  whose  works  it  is 
so   difficult   to  pick  samples   with 
either  justice  to  the  poet  or  satis- 
faction to  the  critic.      His  poems 
are  so  finished,   so   dependent  for 
their    beauty   on   their    symmetry 
and  elegance  as  a  whole,  that  to 
select  particular  pieces  from  them 
is  like  breaking  a  china  vase  for 
the  sake  of  a  painting  on  its  side. 
Moreover — although  the  fact  may 
be  held  to  detract  from  the  merits 
of  his  poems — there  is  always  an 
undercurrent    of    continuous    idea 
running   through    his   verse    that, 


when  broken  off,  allows  the  essence 
of  the  poetry  to  escape.    We  should 
bear  in  mind,  too,  that  none  of  our 
great  poets  were  less  self-satisfied 
with  their  own  performances,  and 
more  diffident  of  submitting  -their 
efforts  to  public  criticism.     And  as 
Beattie's   critical    faculties    streng- 
thened,   his    literary    shyness    in- 
creased, and  one  after  another  of 
his   earlier   poems   were    excluded 
from  the  final  editions,  until  he  left 
in  the  end   only  the   "  Minstrel " 
and  half-a-dozen  short  pieces  for  the 
public  to  remember  him  by.     Most 
of  his  editors  have,  however,  very 
pardonably   done   violence    to   his 
modesty,   and   have  printed  many 
of  the  pieces  which  the  poet  himself 
had  rejected  from  his  later  editions. 
The  worst  of  these  are  not  without 
value  to  the  student  of  Beattie,  for 
they  afford  a  clearer  insight  into  the 
poet's  character  than  is  to  be  got  by 
means  of  pieces  in  the  composition 
of  which  he  had  been  at  more  pains 
to   keep   his   individuality   in   the 
background.     Even  his  lines  on  the 
proposal   to   erect   in  Westminster 
Abbey  a  monument  to   Churchill 
—  whose   coarse   attacks  on  Scot- 
land   and    the    Scots   had   elevat- 
ed him  into  the  importance  of  a 
national    enemy  —  though    merely 
railing  in  rhyme  quite  unworthy  of 
Beattie's  genius,  are  of  consequence 
as  showing  what  has  been  frequent- 
ly controverted,  that   Beattie  was 
one   of  Scotland's   national   poets. 
We   owe   to   Professor    Wilson    a 
spirited  vindication  of  the  nation- 
ality of  Beattie's  muse ;  and  it  needs 
but  a  few  references  to  his  works  to 
convince  any  one  that  though  Eng- 
lish verse  was  the  general  form  of 
his   poetry,   his    inspiration    came 
from  sources  as  purely  Scottish  as 
that   of    Scott   or   Burns   himself. 
The  latter  would  not  have  blushed 
to  have  the  authorship  imputed  to 
him  of  so  deliciously  Doric  a  de- 
scription as  this : — 


.30 


-"  Oh  bonny  are  our  greensward  hows, 
Wherethrough  the  birks  the  burnie  rows, 
And  the  bee  bums,  and  the  ox  lows, 

And  saft  winds  rustle, 
And  shepherd  lads  on  sunny  knows 

Blaw  the  blythe  whistle. 

For  Scotland  wants  na  sons  enew 
To  do  her  honour. 

I  here  micht  gie  a  skreed  o'  names 

Dawties  of  Heliconian  dames  ! 

The  foremost  place  Gawin  Douglas  claims, 

That  pawky  priest ; 
And  wha  can  match  the  first  King  James 

For  sang  or  jest  ? 

Montgomery  grave,  and  Ramsay  gay, 
Dunbar,  Scot,  Hawthornden,  and  mae 
Than  I  can  tell ;  for  o'  my  fay 

I  maun  break  aff ; 
'Twould  tak  a  live-lang  simmer  day 

To  name  the  half." 

While  in  the  following  spirited 
stanzas  on  the  birthday  of  Lord 
Hay,  the  heir  of  the  house  of  Errol, 
which  owes  its  nobility  to  the  stand 
made  by  its  peasant  ancestor  when 
'his  countrymen  were  flying  before 
the  Danes  in  the  battle  of  Luncarty, 
we  think  we  can  discern  not  a  little 
of  the  "  light-horseman  "  dash  and 
chivalry  of  Scott : — 

"  For  not  on  beds  of  gaudy  flowers 

Thine  ancestors  reclined, 
When  sloth  dissolves,  and  spleen  de- 
vours 

All  energy  of  mind 
To  hurl  the  dart,  to  ride  the  car, 
To  stem  the  deluges  of  war, 
And  snatch  from  fate  a  sinking  land, 
Trample  th'  invader's  lofty  crest, 
And  from  his  grasp  the  dagger  lorest 
And  desolating  brand. 

Twas  this   that  raised  th'  illustrious 
line 

To  match  the  first  in  fame  ! 
A  thousand  years  have  seen  it  shine 

With  unabated  flame : 
Have  seen  thy  mighty  sires  appear 
Foremost  in  glory's  high  career 
The  pride  and  pattern  of  the  brave  : 
Yet,  pure  from  lust  of  blood  their  fire, 
And  from  ambition's  wild  desire, 
They  triumphed  but  to  save." 

Throughout  the  "Minstrel"  the 
descriptions  are  entirely  drawn  from 
the  scenery  of  the  north-east  coast 
of  Scotland,  and  from  the  vales  and 
glens  that  slope  down  from  the 


Beattie.  [July 


Grampians  to  the  sea.  It  is  a 
peculiarity  of  Beattie's  descriptive 
poetry,  highly  characteristic  of 
genius,  that  he  strikes  a  feeling, 
and  trusts  to  the  associated  images 
rising  of  their  own  accord.  So  sug- 
gestive are  Beattie's  outlines  that 
we  involuntarily  fill  in  the  light  and 
shade  for  ourselves.  Thus,  how 
complete  is  the  picture  which  the 
much  admired  stanza  on  "Ketire- 
ment"  brings  before  our  imagina- 
tion ! — 

"  Thy  shades,  thy  silence  now  be  mine, 

Thy  charms  my  only  theme  ; 
My  haunt  the  hollow  cliff,  whose  piae 

Waves  o'er  the  gloomy  stream, 
Whence  the  scared   owl    on   pinions 


cs  from  the  rustling  boughs, 
And  down  the  lone  vale  sails  away 
To  more  profound  repose." 

The  dark  fir-woods  and  rugged  cliffs 
of  a  glen  in  the  Mearns  rise  up 
around  us  as  we  read.  The  sun, 
already  dipping  behind  the  Angus 
hills,  casts  his  rays  aslant  over  our 
heads,  but  the  light  does  not  reach 
us  in  the  hollow,  while  the  dark 
cliff  that  hangs  over  us  throws  its 
shadow  over  the  darkening  water, 
already  brown  with  Grampian  peat- 
moss, that  sweeps  away  down  to 
the  valley  spreading  out  beneath 
us  in  turns  and  windings,  until 
the  pine-covered  heights  that  shut 
out  the  sea  from  our  view  press 
together  to  grip  it  into  a  gorge, 
where  the  startled  bird  may  rest 
with  confidence  until  night  em- 
boldens it  to  stir  abroad.  Those 
who  have  been  over  Beattie's  haunts 
can  readily  detect  the  local  charm 
of  his  descriptions ;  while  even  those 
who  have  not,  can  draw  from  his 
poems  a  vivid  picture  of  the  country 
where  his  muse  was  nursed.  Ac- 
cording to  Professor  Wilson,  there 
never  was  sketch  more  Scottish 
than  that  presented  in  the  follow- 
ing stanzas : — 

"  Lo  !    where  the    stripling,    wrapt    in 

wonder,  roves 


1880.]  Seattle. 

Beneath  the  precipice  o'erhung  with  pine, 
And  sees,  on  high,  amidst  th'  encircling 

groves, 
From  cliff  to  cliff  the  foaming  torrents 

shine : 
While  waters,  woods,  and  winds  in  concert 

join, 
And  Echo  swells  the  chorus  to  the  skies." 

Wilson  declares  that  "  Beattie  pours 
them  like  a  man  who  had  been  at 
the  Linn  of  Dee." 

The  strength  of  the  "  Minstrel," 
indeed  of  the  most  of  Beattie's 
poems,  lies  in  picturesque  and 
poetic  description.  His  theory  of 
association  kept  him  clear  of  the 
crude  notion  that  in  word-painting, 
as  well  as  in  colour-painting,  the 
first  thing  is  to  catch  the  fancy. 
With  those  who  hold  this  view, 
freshness  and  vividness  are  the  qua- 
lities most  in  request ;  and  we  de- 
rive no  higher  pleasure  from  their 
works  than  the  momentary  gratifi- 
cation that  they  yield  to  the  eye  or 
the  ear.  It  was,  however,  the  higher 
affections  and  their  associations  to 
which  "Beattie  sought  to  address  his 
descriptions  of  Nature.  By  thus 
compelling  the  reader's  co-operation 
in  bringing  about  the  effect  which 
the  poet  wishes  to  produce  on 
his  mind,  a  deeper  and  more  per- 
manent impression  is  secured  than 
when  a  picture  has  been  only,  so 
to  speak,  flashed  across  the  senses. 
This  is  the  marked  difference  be- 
tween Thomson  and  Beattie.  Where 
Thomson  places  before  us  a  com- 
plete picture,  fully  coloured  and 
perfect  down  to  its  minutest  details, 
Beattie  simply  picks  up  the  more 
picturesque  features  in  the  land- 
scape ;  but  these  he  presents  with 
such  force  to  the  imagination  that 
it  involuntarily  fills  up  the  rest  for 
itself.  Beattie  therefore  has  the 
advantage  in  simplicity  over  the 
florid  and  verbose  panorama  of  the 
"  Seasons,"  and  with  much  less 
effort  a  higher  artistic  effect  is 
gained.  We  can  hardly  say  that 
Beattie  was  quite  conscious  of  the 
advantages  of  his  method,  for  he 


31 


accounted  the  close  approach  which 
he  supposed  himself  to  have  made 
to  Thomson  as  the  best  measure  of 
his  success  ;  but  it  was  one  of  these 
cases  where  genius  leads  a  man  un- 
consciously into  the  right  way.  We 
are  sensible  of  the  vigour  and  power 
of  Nature  herself  speaking  to  us 
through  his  lines,  as  when  he  bids 
us 

"Hail  the  morn 
While  warbling  larks  on  russet  pinions 

float, 

Or  seek  at  noon  the  woodland  scene  re- 
mote 

Where  the  grey  linnets  carol  from  the 
hill." 

Ho\v  vast  is  the  canvas  which  the 
imagination  can  fill  up  for  itself 
out  of  the  two  following  stanzas  ! 
How  numerous  are  the  recollections 
awakened,  the  ideas  suggested,  by 
each  feature  in  the  landscape  as  it 
is  put  before  us  ! — 

"  And   oft  he  traced   the    uplands,    to 

survey, 
When  o'er  the  sky  advanced  the  kindling 

dawn, 
The    crimson    cloud,    blue    main,    and 

mountain  grey, 
And  lake  dim -gleaming  on  the  smoky 

lawn  : 

Far  to  the  west  the  long,  long  vale  with- 
drawn. 
Where  twilight    loves    to   linger    for   a 

while  ; 
And  now  he  faintly  kens  the  bounding 

fawn, 

And  villager  abroad  at  early  toil. 
But  lo  !   the  Sun  appears  !  and  heaven, 

earth,  ocean  smile. 

And  oft  the  craggy  cliff  he  loved  to  climb, 
When  all  in  mist  the  world  below  was 

lost. 
What  dreadful  pleasure  !  there  to  stand 

sublime, 

Like  shipwrecked  mariner  on  desert  coast, 
And  view  th'  enormous  waste  of  vapour, 


In  billows  lengthening   to    th'   horizon 

round, 
Now  scooped  in  gulfs,   with   mountains 

now  embossed  ! 
And  hear  the  voice  of  mirth  and  song 

rebound — 
Flocks,  herds,  and  waterfalls  along  the 

hoar  profound !  " 

It  would  be  difficult  in  the  whole 


Beattie.  [July 


range  of  English  poetry  to  find  two 
such  perfect  scenes  presented  with 
less  effort  on  the  part  of  the  artist, 
and  more  satisfaction  to  the  reader's 
imagination.  And  it  will  be  noted 
that  in  both  these  pictures  Beattie 
strikes  at  feelings  that  cannot  fail 
to  arouse  the  most  elevated  associa- 
tions. It  must,  indeed,  be  a  callous 
nature  that  remains  unimpressed 
by  the  influence  which  morning, 
and  Nature  reawakening  amid  her 
own  solitudes,  cast  abroad  ;  or  that 
has  not  drunk  in  loftier  and  purer 
feelings  with  the  returning  light. 
Those  also  who  have  experienced 
the  sensation  of  looking  down  upon 
a  sea  of  vapour,  shutting  them  out 
from  the  world  below,  and  inspiring 
them  with  the  weird  feeling  that 
they  are  cut  off  from  the  rest  of 
humanity,  will  not  fail  to  appreciate 
the  "  dreadful  pleasure  "  of  which 
the  poet  speaks.  And  but  that  we 
are  rapidly  running  to  the  limits 
of  our  space,  we  would  like  to  ex- 
patiate at  length  over  the  other 
exquisite  morning  scenes  which  he 
opens  up  to  his  Minstrel  in  embryo, 
and  which  we  can  only  venture  to 
quote : — 

"As  on  he  wanders  through  the  scenes 

of  morn, 
"Where  the  fresh  flowers  in  living  lustre 

blow, 
Where  thousand  pearls  the  dewy  lawns 

adorn, 
A  thousand  notes  of  joy  in  every  breeze 

are  borne. 

But  who  the  melodies  of  morn  can  tell  ? 
The  wild  brook  babbling  down  the  moun-' 

tain-side  ; 

The  lowing  herd  ;  the  sheepfold's  sim- 
ple bell ; 

The  pipe  of  early  shepherd  dim  descried 
In  the  lone  valley  ;  echoing  far  and  wide 
The  clamorous  horn  along  the  cliffs 

above ; 

The  hollow  murmur  of  the  ocean-tide  ; 
The  hum  of  bees,  the  linnet's  lay  of  love, 
And  the  full  quire  that  wakes  the  univer- 
sal grove. 

The  cottage  curs  at  early  pilgrim  bark ; 

Crowned  with  her  pail  the  tripping  milk- 
maid sings ; 

The  whistling  ploughman  stalks  afield  ; 
and,  hark  ! 


Down   the   rough   slope    the    ponderous 

waggon  rings ; 
Through  rustling  com  the  hare  astonished 

springs  ; 
Slow  tolls  the  village  clock  the  drowsy 

hour; 
The  partridge  bursts  away  on  whirring 

wings ; 
Deep  mourns  the   turtle  in  sequestered 

bower, 
And  shrill  lark  carols  clear  from  her  aerial 

tour." 

One  other  extract,  not  less  per- 
fect, though  drawn  with  easier 
touches,  a  glowing  picture  of  "  even- 
ing "  from  his  fable  of  the  "  Hares," 
and  we  have  done  : — 

1 '  Now  from  the  western  mountain's  brow, 
Compassed  with  clouds  of  various  glow, 
The  sun  a  broader  orb  displays, 
And  shoots  along  his  ruddy  rays. 
The  lawn  assumes  a  fresher  green, 
And  dewdrops  spangle  all  the  scene  ; 
The  balmy  zephyr  breathes  along, 
The  shepherd  sings  his  tender  song, 
With  all  their  lays  the  groves  resound, 
And  falling  waters  murmur  round  ; 
Discord  and  care  were  put  to  flight, 
And  all  was  peace  and  calm  delight." 

Throughout  his  poetry  Beattie 
is  unwavering  in  his  fealty  to  Na- 
ture ;  and  while  his  descriptions  aim 
at  adding  to  her  pleasing  qualities, 
so  as  to  suggest  openings  for  the 
imagination,  he  gives  her  no  alien 
attributes,  no  unworthy  interpreta- 
tions. And  it  is  one  of  the  highest 
tributes  to  Seattle's  genius  that  no 
one  can  read  his  verse  without  find- 
ing one's  perceptions  of  natural 
beauty  enlarged,  and  one's  apprecia- 
tion of  it  deepened,  in  a  remarkable 
degree.  In  fact,  we  might  almost 
say  that  a  transfer  of  taste  takes 
place  from  the  poet  to  the  reader. 
And  his  direct  aim  ever  is  to  impart 
his  own  feelings ;  for  while  we  are 
always  tempted  to  doubt  whether 
the  Thomsonian  poets  really  admired 
Nature  as  much  for  herself  as  for 
the  effect  which,  in  their  hands,  she 
might  be  made  to  produce,  Beattie's 
chief  desire  is  that  all  mankind 
might  share  in  the  pleasure  which 
he  himself  derives  from  the  con- 
templation of  her  perfections. 


1880.]  Beattie. 


It  is  impossible  that  a  great 
poem  could  have  been  based  on  the 
fundamental  idea  of  the  "  Minstrel." 
The  design  was  "  to  trace  the  pro- 
gress of  a  poetical  genius,  born  in  a 
rude  age,  from  the  first  dawnings  of 
fancy  and  reason,  till  that  period  at 
which  he  may  be  supposed  capable 
of  appearing  in  the  world  as  a 
minstrel."  A  theme  so  subjective 
could  only  be  made  of  poetic  in- 
terest by  means  of  very  picturesque 
accessories ;  and  it  is  to  such  de- 
scriptions as  those  which  we  have 
quoted  above  that  the  poem  owes 
what  vitality  it  possesses.  With 
the  furtherance  of  an  idea  so  meta- 
physical, incident  would  of  course 
have  interfered ;  and  so  there  is  little 
or  none  of  it  in  the  poem.  "We 
cannot  follow  Edwin,  the  hunter, 
through  his  experiences  until  the 
heaven -given  genius,  fostered  by 
Nature  and  guided  by  the  wisdom 
of  age,  finds  expression  in  song. 
Xor  do  we  think  that  Beattie  is 
altogether  true  to  nature  when  he 
makes  the  ardent  youth,  full  of 
curiosity  to  fathom  the  ways  of  life, 
urged  on  by  the  promptings  of 
romantic  fancy,  and  with  genius, 
health,  and  imagination  all  propel- 
ling him  forward,  pause  and  turn 
back  on  the  threshold  of  the  world 
because  a  querulous  old  sage,  who 
has  fled  to  the  wilderness  sated 
with  society,  assures  him  that  with- 
in all  is  vanity  and  vexation  of 
spirit.  It  is  not  like  youth  to  ac- 
cept its  experience  thus  at  second- 
hand ;  it  must  pay  its  own  price  for 
the  fruit  of  the  tree  of  knowledge. 
In  Edwin's  case  the  progress  of 
poetry  proceeds  with  a  most  un- 
poetic  smoothness.  He  preserves 
his  genius  unsullied  by  the  con- 
taminations of  the  world,  by  keep- 
ing well  aloof  from  them ;  he  shows 
his  bravery  by  remaining  apart 
from  the  combat.  In  the  feelings 
of  Edwin  we  see  reflected  much 
-of  Beattie's  soul,  and  we  value  the 

VOL.  CXXVIII. — NO.  DCCLXXVII. 


poem  accordingly  as  a  confession 
of  minor  emotions,  but  we  cannot 
accept  it  as  approaching  to  a  fair 
illustration  of  the  growth  of  poetic 
genius.  Passion,  without  which 
there  can  be  no  poetry ;  the  love  of 
woman,  which  first  opens  our  lips  to 
sing, — are  both  wanting  among  the 
components  of  the  poetic  character. 
Yet  when  we  have  carried  fault- 
finding as  far  as  it  will  go,  we  stop 
to  own  that  the  "  Minstrel "  de- 
serves a  high  place  among  the 
classics  of  English  poetry ;  and 
whatever  objections  we  may  take 
to  its  conception  and  structure,  are 
but  slight  blemishes  compared  with 
the  pure  spirit  breathed  from  every 
line,  the  flow  of  natural  beauty,  the 
rich  but  chaste  imagery,  and  the 
lofty  yet  delicate  sentiment  that 
pervades  the  whole.  We  would 
not  lay  over -much  stress  upon 
Lord  Lyttleton's  opinion,  though 
it  was  of  considerable  weight  at 
the  time  ;  but  his  critique  on  the 
"Minstrel"  has  all  the  air  at  least 
of  sincerity,  and  is  so  aptly  ex- 
pressed, that  we  must  quote  it. 
"  I  have  read  the  '  Minstrel '  with 
as  much  rapture,  as  poetry,  in 
her  sweetest,  noblest  charms,  ever 
raised  in  my  mind.  It  seemed  to 
me  that  my  once  beloved  minstrel, 
Thomson,  was  come  down  from 
heaven,  refined  by  the  converse  of 
purer  spirits  than  those  he  lived 
with  here,  to  let  me  hear  him  sing 
again  the  beauties  of  Mature  and 
finest  feelings  of  virtue,  not  with 
human  but  with  angelic  strains," — 
a  dainty  compliment  even  for  the 
days  when  graceful  compliments 
were  cultivated  as  a  fine  art. 

Since  Professor  Wilson,  in  the 
pages  of  '  Maga,'  called  attention  to 
the  similarity  of  ideas  between  the 
'Minstrel"  and  the  "Excursion," 
and  to  the  internal  affinities  of  the 
two  poems,  the  belief  has  generally 
been  accepted  that  Beattie  supplied 
Wordsworth  with  the  suggestion 


34 


Beattie.  [July 


that  gave  birth  to  his  greatest  work. 
And  much  as  we  admire  Words- 
worth, -we  think  not  the  less  of 
the  "  Excursion  "  that  it  traces  its 
origin  to  this  source.  They  both 
fail  mainly  in  the  same  respect — 
the  poetic  treatment  of  a  prosaic 
theme;  while  the  chief  claims  of 
both  upon  the  recollection  consist 
in  their  beautiful  glimpses  of  Na- 
ture at  rest,  and  in  the  vein  of 
pure  and  noble  sentiment  running 
through  them.  If  we  were  to  put 
passages  in  parallels,  we  could  show 
many  identities  of  idea,  and  not  a 
few  coincidences  in  imagery,  be- 
tween the  "Minstrel"  and  the 
"  Excursion ; "  but  we  do  not  look 
upon  this  fact  as  detracting  in  any 
•way  from  "Wordsworth's  genius,  or 
as  in  the  least  attaching  to  him  a 
suspicion  of  plagiarism.  We  are 
rather  pleased  to  recognise  a  com- 
munity of  sentiment  between  two 
of  Nature's  pure  and  simple-minded 
interpreters,  and  to  think  that  Beat- 
tie  should  have  been  thus  far  in- 
strumental in  preparing  the  way 
for  one  who,  with  more  mastery 
over  the  lyre,  was  destined  to  es- 
tablish in  the  eyes  of  the  world 
those  poetic  truths  which  the  elder 
had  only  been  able  to  put  forward 
in  theoretical  form. 

The  coincidence  in  idea  between 
Beattie's  "Judgment  of  Paris" — a 
piece  which  he  excluded  from  the 
later  editions  of  his  poems — and 
Tennyson's  "  (Enone,"  has  hitherto 
escaped  notice,  but  is  not  the  less 
remarkable  on  that  account.  The 
"Judgment  of  Paris"  was  one  of 
Beattie's  earlier  pieces,  written  soon 
after  his  first  journey  to  London, 
and  before  his  powers  were  fully 
known  to  the  public.  His  object 
was  to  draw  a  moral  from  the 
Greek  fable  by  taking  the  three 
goddesses  as  the  personifications  of 
wisdom,  ambition,  and  pleasure, 
very  much  as  Mr  Tennyson  has 
done  in  "  CEnone."  The  poem  was 
a  failure,  being,  as  Sir  William 


Forbes  remarks,  "too  metaphys- 
ical," while  its  beauties  scarcely 
compensated  for  this  defect.  But 
in  his  rendering  of  the  legend, 
Beattie  has  completely  anticipated 
Tennyson,  if  indeed  he  has  not 
suggested  the  whole  poem  of 
"  CEnone."  The  description  of 
the 

"Vale  in  Ida,  lovelier 
Than  all  the  valleys  of  Ionian  hills. 
The  swimming  vapour  slopes  athwart  the 

glen, 
Puts  forth  an  arm ,  and  creeps  from  pine 

to  pine," 

is  to  be  found  in  all  its  details  in 
Beattie,  who  makes  the  deities  ap- 
pear to  Paris,  where, 

"  Far  in  the  depth  of  Ida's  inmost  grove, 

A  scene  for  love  and  solitude  designed, 

Where  flowery  woodbines  wild,  by  Nature 

wove, 
Formed  the  lone  bower,  the  royal  swain 

reclined. 
All  up  the  craggy  cliffs,  that  towered  to 

heaven, 
Green  waved  the  murmuring  pines  on 

every  side, 
Save  where  fair  opening  to  the  beam  of 

even, 

A  dale   sloped  gradual  to  the  valley 
wide. " 

The  similarity  in  the  descent  of 
the  goddesses,  too,  is  noteworthy. 
In  Beattie  the  description  is  more 
elaborate,  as  well  as  more  meretri- 
cious perhaps — 

"When  slowly  floating  down  the  azure 

skies 
A  crimson  cloud  flashed  on  his  startled 

sight ; 

Whose  skirts,  gay-sparkling  with  unnum- 
bered dyes, 
Launched    the    long    billowy    trails    of 

flickering  light. 
That  instant,  hushed  was  all  the  vocal 

grove, 
Hushed  was  the  gale,  and  every  ruder 

sound, 

And  strains  aerial,  warbling  far  above, 
Rung  in  theear  a  magic  peal  profound ; " 

than  Tennyson's — 

"  One  silvery  cloud 

Had  lost  his  way  between  the  piney  sides 
Of  this  long  glen.     Then  to  the  bower 
they  came." 

Much  as  we  admire  the  stately  sim- 


1880.]  Seattle. 

plicity  of  Tennyson's  picture  of 
Pallas,— 

"  Where  she  stood 

Somewhat  apart,  her  clear  and  bared  limbs 
O'erthwarted  with  the  brazen-headed  spear, 
Upon  her  pearly  shoulder  leaning  cold, 
The  while,  above,  her  full  and  earnest  eye 
Over   her  snow-cold   breast  and    angry 

cheek 
Kept  watch  ; " 

we  may  still  compare  it  with  this 
perhaps  more  florid  but  strictly 
Olympian  description, — 

"Milder  the  next  came  on  with  artless 

grace, 
And  on   a  javelin's  quivering  length 

reclined. 
T"  exalt  her  mien  she  bade  no  splendour 

blaze, 
Nor  pomp  of  vesture  fluctuate  on  the 

wind, 

Serene  though  awful  on  her  brow  the  light 
Of  heavenly  wisdom  shone  ;  nor  roved 
her  eyes, 

Or  the  blue  concave  of  th'  involving 
skies"— 

We  think,  moreover,  it  does  not 
require  much  ingenuity  to  find 
the  germ  of  Tennyson's  "  Idalian 
Aphrodite  beautiful"  in  Beattie's 
"  queen  of  melting  joy,  smiling 
supreme  in  unresisted  charms  : " — 

"  Her  eyes  in  liquid  light  luxurious  swim, 

And  languish  with  unutterable  love  : 
Heaven's  warm  bloom  glows  along  each 

brightening  limb, 
Where  fluttering  bland  the  veil's  thin 

mantlings  rove, 

Quick  blushing  as  abashed  she  half  with- 
drew : 
One  hand  a  bough  of  flowering  myrtle 

waved, 

One  graceful  spread,  where,  scarce  con- 
cealed from  view, 

Soft  through  the  parting  robe  her  bosom 
heaved." 

The  resemblance  increases  as  we 
go  on,  until  the  echo  in  "  (Enone  " 
of  the  "  Judgment  of  Paris "  be- 
comes very  distinct  indeed.  By 
both  poets  Here  is  made  to  proffer 
Paris  power,  and  to  dilate  on  the 
future  that  lay  before  him  if  he 
selected  it  in  preference  to  the 
bribes  which  the  other  goddesses 
had  to  give.  In  Tennyson  she  pro- 
mises him  wealth 


"  From  many  a  vale 
And  river-sundered  champaign  clothed 

with  corn, 
Or  labour1 'd  mines  undraindble  of  ore." 

In  Beattie  she  points  the  arbiter 
for  his  reward  to  where 

' '  Toil  decked  with  glittering  domes  yon 

champaign  wide, 

And    wakes    yon    grove  -  embosomed 
lawns  to  joy, 

And  rends  the  rough  ore  from,  tlie  moun- 
tain's side. " 

In  the  speech  of  Pallas,  the  Lau- 
reate has  by  far  the  advantage  of 
Beattie ;  for  while  the  noble  vindi- 
cation of  "self-reverence,  self-know- 
ledge, self-control "  in  the  former  is 
made  to  stand  out  in  power  and 
poetic  contrast  to  the  ambitious 
promptings  of  Here  and  the  vol- 
uptuous allurements  held  out  by 
Aphrodite,  Beattie  makes  Minerva 
preach  a  lengthy  sermon  on  virtue 
and  wisdom,  much  after  the  ad- 
mired model  of  Dr  Blair,  which  by 
its  tediousness  goes  far  to  justify 
Paris  in  passing  over  her  claims. 
In  the  pleadings  of  the  Queen  of 
Love,  also,  there  are  some  fine 
stanzas,  that  go  a  long  way  to  re- 
deem the  poem  from  the  oblivion 
into  which  Beattie  had  relegated  it, 
and  from  which  its  parallelism 
with  the  verses  of  the  Laureate  has 
furnished  us  with  an  excuse  for 
once  more  reclaiming  it.  The  fol- 
lowing description  of  the  haunts  of 
Pleasure,  as  contrasted  with  the 
bloody  and  perilous  paths  of  Ambi- 
tion, and  as  opposed  to  the  austere 
ways  of  Virtue,  will  bear  compari- 
son with  some  of  the  sweetest 
stanzas  in  the  "  Minstrel : " — 

"She  loves  to  wander  on  th'  untrodden 

lawn, 

Or  the  green  bosom  of  reclining  hill, 
Soothed  by  the  careless  warbler  of  the 

dawn, 
Or  the  lone  plaint  of  ever-murmuring 

rill. 

Or  from  the  mountain-glade's  aerial  brow, 
While  to  her  song  a  thousand  echoes 

call, 

Marks  the  wide  woodland  wave  remote 
below, 


36 


Where     shepherds    pipe    unseen    and 
waters  fall. 

The   frolic    Moments,    purple  -  pinioned, 

dance 

Around,  and  scatter  roses  as  they  play  : 
And  the  blithe  Graces  hand  in  hand  ad- 
vance, 
Where  with  her  loved  compeers  she 

deigns  to  stray ; 

Mild  Solitude,  in  veil  of  russet  dye, 
Her  sylvan  spear  with  moss-grown  ivy 

bound ; 

And  Indolence  with  sweetly  languid  eye, 
And  zoneless  robe  tJiat  trails  along  the 
ground." 

Though  there  is  a  music  and 
a  charm  in  "  QEnone,"  due  as 
well  to  the  sweetness  of  Tenny- 
son's verses  as  to  our  sympathy 
with  the  woes  of  the  desert- 
ed maiden,  and  to  the  simple 
plaintiveness  with  which  she  tells 
over  her  sorrows,  we  can  still 
turn  to  the  "  Judgment  of  Paris  " 
without  any  sense  of  great  de- 
scent from  the  poetic  level.  That 
there  is  a  connection  between  the 
two  pieces  is  clear ;  that  "  CEnone  " 
was  suggested  by  the  "Judgment 
of  Paris  "  appears  more  than  prob- 
able :  but  we  must  leave  it  for  stu- 
dents of  Tennyson  to  decide  in 
what  relationship  this  Idyll  stands 
to  the  older  poem.  At  all  events, 
the  Laureate  is  to  be  congratulated 
that  he  has  tided  over  the  "  too 
metaphysical "  difficulty  in  the 
story,  and  made  "  (Euone,"  in  spite 
of  its  strongly  subjective  cast,  one 
of  the  most  popular  poems  in  our 
language. 

We  have  said  that  a  literary 
career  such  as  that  of  Beattie  seems 
strange  and  incomprehensible  to 
writers  of  the  present  day.  From 
the  quiet  seclusion  of  his  northern 
university  he  looked  out  at  the  pro- 
gress of  letters  around,  never  a  silent 
spectator,  often  emerging  to  take 
up  his  share  in  the  work,  but  al- 
ways shrinking  back  into  his  for- 
mer retirement  when  his  task  was 
over.  In  our  day  we  are  apt  to 
think  that,  away  from  the  centres 


Beattie.  [July 

of  taste  and  enlightenment,  the 
range  of  ideas  becomes  more  limit- 
ed, the  intellectual  feelings  pinched, 
for  want  of  suitable  nourishment. 
In  short,  unless  a  man  can  read 
his  '  Times '  wet  from  the  print- 
ing-press, our  theory  is  that  he 
must  necessarily  fall  behind  time 
and  become  "  provincial."  But  we 
are  seriously  inclined  to  question 
whether  one  of  the  greatest  wants 
of  the  day  is  not  more  of  such 
"provincial"  criticism  as  Beattie 
and  his  associates  supplied  to  their 
generation.  In  the  strain  which  is 
generally  put  upon  the  literary  life 
in  our  time,  there  is  far  too  great 
temptation  for  the  formation  of 
rapid  j  udgments ;  and  critics  have 
so  little  faith  in  the  permanency  of 
their  own  opinions,  that  they  do  not 
consider  it  worth  while,  when  there 
are  difficulties  on  both  sides  of  the 
balance,  taking  the  trouble  to  strike 
an  accurate  mean.  And  the  liter- 
ary life  of  our  day  is  so  manifold, 
branching  into  so  many  channels, 
bringing  the  writer  under  the  in- 
fluence of  so  diverse  interests,  and 
into  connection  with  so  many  other 
competitors,  that  the  possibilities 
of  impartial  and  dispassionate  crit- 
icism are  greatly  diminished.  Such 
criticism  as  Beattie's,  were  it  pos- 
sible in  our  day,  coming  from  a 
watchful  spectator,  apart  from  the 
turmoil  of  the  crowd,  to  whom  the 
workers  were  nothing  and  the  work 
everything,  with  time  and  ability 
to  subject  the  efforts  of  his  con- 
temporaries to  tests  as  careful  as  a 
chemical  analysis,  would  really  be 
one  of  the  greatest  boons  that  could 
befall  modern  criticism.  The  pre- 
mium placed  upon  haphazard  writ- 
ing by  an  age  that  forgets  to-day 
everything  that  it  read  yesterday, 
and  that  nightly  clears  its  recollec- 
tion for  the  reception  of  its  next 
day's  views  from  next  morning's 
papers,  is  too  high  not  to  exercise 
a  seriously  prejudicial  effect  upon 
the  literature  of  the  time. 


1880.]  A  Lay  Confessional  37 

A     LAY     CONFESSIONAL. 
(PLENARY  INDULGENCE.) 

THE  Box,  Monday  Evening. 

DEAR  E., — You  are  always  interested  in  studio  life  and  incidents,  and 
as  I  have  no  news  to  tell  you,  instead  of  writing  you  a  letter  I  have 
sketched  an  experience  of  this  morning,  and  thrown  it  into  a  dramatic 
form,  thinking  it  may  amuse  you.  Don't  try  to  guess  the  persons,  and 
do  not  be  deceived  by  its  form  into  supposing  this  to  be  a  play.  It  is  only 
a  series  of  scenes,  without  beginning,  middle,  or  end — with  only  the  unities 
of  time  and  place,  and  perhaps  a  certain  likeness  of  character,  to  recom- 
mend it,  but  making  no  pretence  to  completeness,  and  being  purely  frag- 
mentary and  episodical.  Do  not  be  disappointed  that  it  ends  in  nothing. 
So  many  things  do  in  real  life. — Ever  yours  most  faithfully, 

VICTOR  HELPS. 

Dramatis  Persona?. 

VICTOR  HELPS.  LADY  JANUS. 

LADY  SELINA  MUNDANE.  MARIETTA— a  Model. 

SCENE. — A  painter's  studio.  The  walls  hung  with  old  tapestries,  and  silks, 
and  satin  tissues.  Etageres  covered  with  vases,  Venetian  glasses,  and 
bric-a-brac.  A  broad  faded  satin  couch.  Stuffs  of  every  kind  and 
hue  scattered  about.  A  tall  cheval  mirror.  Tiger-skins  on  the  floor. 
Sketches,  portfolios,  and  half-finished  canvasses.  Victor  is  seated  at 
an  easel  paint  ing  Marietta. 

Victor.   "What  is  that  song  that  thought  of  it  for  years ;  and  now  that 

you  are  singing  to  yourself;  is  it  you  hum  it,  it  seems  to  bring  back 

not  "  La  Donna  Lombarda  "  ?  all  Rome — 

Marietta.  Si,  signore. 

Vic.  Ah  !  I  thought  it  was.   How  "  gon™  Lombarda  perchfc  non  mi  ami  ? 

it  brings  back  the  old  Roman  days  ^t^rT*        !  se  hai  manto'  fal° 
when  I  was  first  beginning  to  paint ! 

Dear  old  Rome  !  how  I  should  like  That's  the  way  it  begins,  isn't  it  \ 

to  see  it  again  !  Mar.  Si,  signore. 

Mar.  E  bella,  ma  bella,  Roma —  Vic.    How   charmingly   simple  ! 

non  e"  vero,  signore  1  how   delightfully  moral !    "  se  hai 

Vic.  Davvero,  I  used  to  like  its  marito,  falo  morir."     It  is  certainly 

very  dirt.     I'm  afraid  it's  been  ter-  a  short  way  of  getting  rid  of  an 

ribly  cleaned  up  since  it  became  the  obstacle  to  one's  happiness, 

capital  of  Italy — eh,  Marietta  1  Mar.    Dunque   le    piace   questa 

Mar.  Che  so  lo  1     Si  dice.  canzone?     You  like-a? 

Vic.    Niccolina   used   always   to  Vic.  Immensamente,  morals  and 

be  singing  the  "  Donna  Lombarda  "  all.     But  speak  English ;  I'm  very 

while  she  sat  to  me.    It  was  a  great  lame  with  my  Italian.     Indeed  I 

favourite   of    hers.       I    have    not  always  was,  and  now  I've  almost 

*  Why,  Lombard  Lady,  do  you  not  love  me  ? 
Because  I've  a  husband. 
If  you've  a  husband,  cause  him  to  die. 


38 


.1  Lay  Confessional. 


[July 


entirely  forgotten  it.  The  Donna 
Lombarda  follows  the  advice  of  her 
lover,  and  kills  her  husband,  does 
she  not? 

Mar.  Ma  non,  signore  !  You  no 
remeaiber.  Her  lover  he  tell  her 
go  down  in  garden,  find-a  serpente ; 
pesta  what  you  call  crush-a  his  head 
for  poison  husband — and  she  go, 
as  he  say,  and  make-a  Bibita  for 
drink-a,  wiz  veleno  of  serpente — 
e  poi  ze  husband  he  come  "tutto 
sudato,"  all  what  you  call  sweaty, 
and  ask-a  drink-a.  She  give-a  driuk- 
a,  e  poi,  la  bambina  in  culla  j  come 
si  dice  bambina  in  culla  1 

Vic.  The  baby  in  the  cradle. 

Mar.  Two,  tree,  four  months  old; 
she  speak-a  and  dice,  "Nonloprende. 
You  no  take-a,  is  poison."  And  he 
no  take-a,  and  he  very  arrabiato ; 
how  you  say,  aingry. 

Vic.  And  then  he  turns  the 
tables  and  kills  her,  I  suppose? 

Mar.  Credo ;  non  mi  remember. 
I  suppose-a.  Perchk  non? 

Vic.  Why  not,  indeed  ?  It's 
quite  primitive  and  natural.  Have 
you  a  husband,  Marietta  ? 

Mar.  Dio  me  ne  guardi. 

Vic.  Perhaps  you  would  treat  him 
in  the  same  manner  if  you  did  not 
like  him  and  he  treated  you  badly. 


Mar.  Oh,  signore  ! 

Vic.  No  !  You're  a  good  girl,  I 
think,  Marietta.  You  would  grin 
and  bear  it,  then,  as  the  saying 
is— eh? 

Mar.  Non  so,  signore. 

Vic.  Sing  me  the  "  Donna  Lom- 
barda," will  you  ? 

(She  sings  it  partly,  and  then 
breaks  ojf,  and  says — ) 

Mar.  I  not  know  the  rest.  Basta 
cosi. 

Vic.  Many  thanks.  What  a  pretty 
air  it  is !  But  you  have  so  many 
pretty  songs  in  Italy ;  so  many 
charming  little  "  saluti "  and  "  ritor- 
nelli,"  as  you  call  them,  I  think. 
Do  you  know  any  of  them  ? 

Mar.  Oh,  tanti. 

Vic.  Sing  me  some,  will  you? 
Stop  a  moment.  Turn  your  head 
a  little  more  towards  me,  and  sit  a 
little  further  back.  That's  right. 
Now  for  the  song. 

Mar.  Me  sing-a  little  canzone 
traduced  in  Angleesh  by  Mossu 
Srnitti,  suo  amico,  quello  lungo, 
colla  barba  rossa. 

Vic.  Who? 

Mar.  Signor  Smitti,  ze  long  man 
wiz  red  beard. 

Vic.  What !  has  Smith  translated 
one?  Oh,  come,  let  me  hear  it. 


(She  sings.) 

Flower  of  the  Bean, 

Oh  the  joys  we  have  known,  oh  the  days  we  have  seen 
When  Love  sang,  the  world  was  so  glad  and  so  green, 

0  flower  of  the  Bean  ! 

Flower  of  the  Brake, 

Life  had  but  one  blossom ;  and  oh,  for  your  sake 
I  plucked  it,  and  gave  it !  now  let  my  heart  break, 

0  flower  of  the  brake  ! 

Flower  of  the  Eose, 

The  rain  ever  rains,  and  the  wind  ever  blows, 
And  life  since  you  left  me  has  nothing  but  woes, 

0  flower  of  the  Eose  ! 

Flower  of  the  Gorse, 

All  the  love  that  I  gave  you  comes  back  like  a  curse 
No  peace  will  be  mine  till  I'm  laid  in  my  hearse, 

0  flower  of  the  Gorse! 


1880.] 


A  Lay  Confessional. 


Vic.  Those  are  very  sad  songs. 

Mar.  Si,  signore,  davvero — sono 
triste,  ma  vere.  Life  is  what  you 
call  trist  sempre, — cioe,  per  noi 
altre  feminine — for  ze  women,  not 
for  ze  men. 

Vic.  Nonsense  ! 

Mar.  Eidete!  You  laugh.  Ep- 
pure,  ze  men  zey  forget  very  easy ; 
ze  women  zey  remember  very  long, 
— zey  suffer — ze  men  laugh. 

Vic.  Pho  !  Marietta — one  would 
think,  from  your  tone,  that  you  had 
been  ill-used  and  jilted  by  some- 
body. 

Mar.  Pazienza,  signore. 

Vic.  Scusa. 

Mar.  Non  c'e  remedio,  signore. 
Sisa. 

Vic.  I  beg  your  pardon.  I'm  so 
sorry.  I  did  not  mean.  Can  I  help 
you? 

Mar.  Grazie.  When  ze  storm 
blows,  ze  ozier  bows — when  he  no 
bow,  he  break.  It  is  useless.  When 
ze  hail  kill  ze  vine -blossoms,  zere 
will  be  no  grapes.  Out  of  a  stone  no- 
body can  squeeze  blood.  Nemmeno 
Sansone — not  even  Samson.  It  is 
no  use  to  cry.  What  was,  was — and 
what  is,  is. 

Vic.  That  is  true  philosophy. 

Mar.  I  not  know  philosophy. 
But  what  I  say  is  true — zat  I  know. 
He  was  bad  man.  He  treat  me 
very  bad.  No  matter.  I  very 
aingry;  zat's  ze  reason  I  cry. 

Vic.  I  daresay  he  was  not 
worthy  of  you. 

Mar.  He  !  no ;  he  no  heart.  He 
sweet  and  grazioso  outside ;  he 
smile-a  and  speak-a  dolce  parole — 
tutto  sugo — all  juice,  as  a  peach-a 
with  a  stone  for  a  heart. 

Vic.  It  was  lucky,  perhaps,  that 
you  did  not  marry  him.  He  might 
have  made  your  life  very  unhappy. 

Mar.  Dat  is  what  I  say.  But 
it  is  of  no  use.  Ma  il  Buon  Dio 
lo  punira.  Ze  good  God  will  pun- 
ish him.  Zat  I  know.  Why  punish 
me,  and  not  him  1  Ma  non.  It  is 


not  so  in  zis  world.  Lascia  and- 
are.  He  no  worth  crying  for.  E 
un  infame ! 

Vic.  Don't  think  of  him  any 
more.  I'm  so  sorry  for  you,  but 
perhaps  it  is  all  best  as  it  is. 

Mar.  He  come  under  my  window. 
He  play  his  mandolina,  and  sing — 

"  -Alia  finestra  affacciati, 
Nenello  di  sto  core. ". 

And  I  was  fool  to  listen,  and  to 
go  to  ze  window  j  and  he  talk  my 
heart  out  of  me  wiz  dolce  parole : 
and  so  it  was.  And  mamma 
disse,  "  Tu  sei  stolta,  Marietta — you 
are  fool ; "  and  I  was  fool.  But  he 
talk-a  so  sweet,  I  no  believe ;  and 
he  promise  so  fair,  and  I  was  ver 
young  :  and  so  it  was.  And  zen  he 
deceive  me,  and  go  way,  and  he 
laugh  at  me ;  and  he  come  no  more 
to  sing  about  my  beautiful  eyes — 
ah  non !  He  sing  to  Nina,  Nina 
la  bella,  ah  lo  credo,  molto  bella, 
because  she  was  rich,  and  had 
belli  coralli,  and  a  dote  of  cinque 
cento  scudi. 

Vic.  Did  she  marry  him  1 
Mar.  She !  ah,  non !  she  laugh 
at  him.  Era  fiera  lei.  She  very 
proud.  "  lo  mi  marito  con  un 
signore,  disse,  non  con  te,  disse — 
bah !  I  marry  a  signore,  not  a 
contadino — bah ! "  E  lui  si  arrabbi6. 
He  was  very  aingry,  and  he  threat- 
en her;  and,  poi  c'era  una  scena, 
e  poi  her  brother  interpose;  and 
Antonio  gli  dava  una  coltellata  he 
stab  her  brother,  but  he  no  kill 
him  j  and  he  was  imprigionata  in  ze 
prison.  And  wen  I  went  to  talk  to 
him  at  the  grillo,  he  menace  me 
and  cry,  "Eri  tu  che  m'  hai  fatto 
tutto.  It  was  thou  that  did  it  all." 
lo  !  who  never  said  a  word.  I  try 
to  disculp  myself,  but  in  vain  •  and 
then  I  cry,  and  he  seream,  "  Vat- 
tene  stolta,  ti  disprezzo ; "  and  I  go 
home  and  have  a  fever.  And  so 
when  I  was  get  well,  zey  tell  me 
Antonio  was  gone  away,  and  no- 


40 


A  Lay  Confessional. 


[July 


body  know  where.  And  I  never  see 
him  after  that,  and  I  not  know 
where  he  is;  and  now  it  is  three 
years.  But  I  am  here  wiz  my 
father,  and  I  make  model  for 
bread ;  and  nobody  I  know  to  speak 
to  me,  and  give  me  consolation. 

Vic.  I  will  write  to  Some,  and 
see  if  I  can  find  out  something 
about  Antonio,  if  you  like,  and  if 
you  will  give  me  his  name  and 
address.  Most  probably  he  went 
there. 

Mar.  Oh,  grazie;  but  I  know 
nothing,  if  he  be  in  Eome  or  other- 
where— ah  non  !  E  inutile.  E  poi 
he  detest  me  ;  e  poi  e  un  cattivo 
uomo  —  a  bad  man.  No :  I  no 
want  to  hear  of  him  no  more. 
Ma  grazie,  sa,  per  la  sua  bonta. 

Vic.  Well,  think  of  it,  Marietta ; 
and  if  I  can  help  you,  I  will,  with 
pleasure.  Think  of  it,  and  let  me 
know. 

Mar.  Grazie. 

( Victor  rises  and  throws  down  his 
palette  and  brushes.) 

Mar.  Ha  finite,  signore  1 

Vic.  Yes;  it  is  impossible  to 
paint  in  this  light.  You  can  go 
now ;  and  come  back  to-morrow  at 
ten — can  you  1 

Mar.  Si,  signore. 

Vic.  And  remember,  if  I  can  do 
anything  for  you,  I  shall  be  glad 
to  do  it. 

Mar.  Grazie :  dunque,  a  suoi  com- 
mandi,  a  rivederla. 

Vic.  A  rivederla. 

(MARIETTA  goes  out.) 

Vic.  (alone).  Poor  Marietta  !  It 
is  always  the  same  old  story.  Who 
is  heart-whole  that  has  any  heart  ? 
Who  that  lives  does  not  suffer1? 
What  skeletons  there  are  in  every 
house  !  We  artists  are  really  al- 
most as  much  confessors  as  clergy- 
men and  doctors  ;  and  I  suppose 
we  make  much  the  same  mess 
in  giving  advice  and  consolation. 
However,  it  is  some  consolation  at 
least  to  empty  one's  heart  at  times, 


if  only  in  words,  into  a  sympathis- 
ing ear. 

What  a  day  !  There  is  positively 
no  light.  The  air  is  so  cold  and 
gnawing  that  it  eats  into  one's  very 
bones;  and  the  wind  moans  through 
the  panes  like  a  despairing  spirit. 
What  shall  I  do?  I  cannot  sit 
here  and  brood  over  my  own 
thoughts.  How  lonely  life  is  ! 

Ah  !  if  I  could  only But 

let  me  not  look  back,  or  I  shall 
grow  melancholy  as  an  owl. 

Shall  I  go  and  see  Clara — Lady 
Janus,  I  mean  1  I  beg  her  pardon. 
No  ;  it's  her  day  of  reception.  I 
shall  be  sure  to  find  her  surrounded 
by  fine  ladies  and  dawdling  men, 
and  I'm  in  no  humour  for  court  in- 
trigue and  scandal  and  chatter. 

Poor  Clara  !  how  she  labours  at 
her  life  like  a  galley-slave  at  his 
oar !  and  does  it  bring  her  all  the 
harvest  of  happiness  she  seeks  ? 
No,  no ;  I  fear  not.  In  her  best 
nature  she  rebels  at  what  her 
worldly  ambition  craves;  and  yet 
her  ambition  is  so  strong  an  in- 
stinct that  it  rules  her  life.  What 
a  strange  double  nature  it  is  !  one 
half  artistic  and  ideal,  one  half 
positive  and  worldly.  Full  of  pas- 
sion, sentiment,  and  tender  feeling, 
and  yet  so  avid  of  social  distinction, 
that  she  is  ready  to  sacrifice  even 
her  happiness  for  it.  Longing  for 
rest,  and  yet  constantly  in  action. 
Well,  as  far  as  her  ambition  is 
concerned,  she  ought  to  be  satisfied; 
and  yet  she  is  not.  No;  for  her 
heart  cries  out  to  be  fed,  and  will 
not  be  contented  with  the  husks  and 
thistles  the  world  offers  her.  She 
is  envied ;  but  those  who  are  en- 
vied are  not  loved,  and  it  is  love 
she  needs  and  craves.  But  with 
love  alone  she  could  never  be  con- 
tented, and  that  was  all  I  had  to 
offer,  and  it  was  useless  to  offer 
that.  Did  I  make  a  mistake  as  far 
as  her  happiness  is  concerned! 
Well,  no.  But  as  far  as  mine  is 


1880.] 


A  Lay  Confessional. 


concerned — ah  !  that  is  another 
question,  which  I  decline  to  answer. 
There  is  no  use  to  regret ;  and  no- 
thing is  so  foolish  as  to  look  back 
and  wish  things  were  other  than 
what  they  are. 

Since  I  can't  paint,  let  us  see 
what  there  is  to  read.  Ah !  here  is 
that  new  volume  of  poems  by 
Ganda.  Let  me  see  what  there 
is  in  it.  A  new  book  has  always 
a  promise  of  something.  First,  a 
little  more  coal  oil  the  fire.  That's 
it.  Now  for  an  hour  of  peace. 

(Throics  himself  in  his  chaise- 
longue,  and  begins  to  cut  the 
pages  ;  reads  at  random — ) 

"  Above  us,  a  passion-flower,  opens  the 

sky, 
And  the  earth  in  its  languor  half  closes 

its  eye  ; 

And  Time  is  a  cloudlet  that  passes  us  by, 
And  Love  is  a  vision,  and  Life  is  a  lie." 

Now,  does  that  mean  anything? 

"  And  Love  is  a  vision,  and  Life  is  a  lie. 
Tum  de  dum,  diddle  dum,  diddle  dum 
die." 

It  is  like  the  jingle  of  a  barrel- 
organ,  but  "  so  full  of  melody,  you 
know,"  everybody  says.  Melody 
indeed!  Twopenny -ha'penny  mel- 
ody, where  the  words  have  run 
away  with  the  sense.  Worte  ohne 
Lieder ;  or  rather,  Wbrte  ohne 
everything. 

(Bell  rings.} 
Who  can  that  be  ? 

(Rises  and  opens  the  door — enter 
LADY  SELIXA  MUNDANE). 

Oh,  Lady  Selina,  is  that  you? 
Pray  come  in. 

Lady  S.  You're  sure  I'm  not 
intruding?  You'ie  sure  I'm  not 
interrupting  one  of  your  moments 
of  inspiration  ? 

Vic.  I  never  have  inspirations. 
I  was  bored  to  death  by  myself. 
Pray  come  in.  It  is  too  dark  to 
work ;  and  besides,  I  am  perfectly 
stupid  to-day. 

Lady  S.  Fie  !  not  stupid  ;  no  one 
would  accuse  you  of  that  but  your- 


self. But  I  am  so  glad  to  find 
you  unoccupied,  for  I  want  to  ask 
your  advice  and  assistance  on  a 
very  important  matter.  Oh,  you 
needn't  look  alarmed ;  it  isn't  any- 
thing very  dreadful.  But  you're 
sure,  you're  really  sure,  that  I'm 
not  breaking  in  upon  one  of  those 
grand  inspirations  1  Oh,  I  know 
you  artists ;  you  always  have  such 
beautiful  ideas  and  imaginationsr 
that  when  we  poor  mortals,  wha 
haven't  any,  you  know,  come  in, 
I  daresay  you  wish  we  were  in 
Jericho,  don't  you,  now— really? 
Oh,  you  needn't  say  you  don't. 

Vie.  But  I  do  say  so.  My 
brain  is  as  empty  as  a  sucked  egg- 
shell, and  a  charming  woman  is- 
always  the  best  of  all  inspirations, 
and  I  am  delighted  to  see  you. 
Pray  take  a  seat,  here  by  the  fire, 
and  tell  me  how  I  can  be  of  any 
service  to  you.  There's  nothing  so 
pleasant  as  to  give  advice.  It's  so 
much  pleasanter  and  easier  than  to 
take  it. 

Lady  S.  "Well,  you  are  the  only 
person  I  know  who  can  really  ad- 
vise me  in  this  matter.  I  know 
you  have  such  wonderfully  good 
taste,  and  such  talent  at  invention, 
that  I  have  ventured  to  come  to 
you ;  for  I  really  don't  know  what 
to  do  by  myself — and  Sir  John 
told  me  he  knew  you'd  help  me  : 
and  you  must  lay  all  the  blame  on 
his  shoulders  if  I've  done  wrong. 

Vic.  I  shall  lay  the  blame  on  no- 
body's shoulders.  It  will  be  a  plea- 
sure to  me  to  assist  you  if  I  can. 

Lady  S.  Oh,  you  can  if  you 
choose.  Well,  it  is  this.  You 
know  I'm  to  have  a  costume-ball 
on  the  18th  (you  got  your  card,  I 
hope,  and  you  mean  to  come,  don't 
you  ?  Oh,  I'm  so  glad  !  I  count  on 
you).  I've  only  a  week  before  me 
now;  and  do  you  know,  I'm  still 
perfectly  undecided  about  my  cos- 
tume. I  can't  make  up  my  mind 
what  would  be  best.  It's  perfectly 


A  Lay  Confessional. 


[July 


dreadful.  I've  talked  it  over  with 
all  my  friends,  and  with  Sir  John, 
and  even  spent  days  in  looking  over 
all  the  books  of  costumes ;  and  this 
morning  Sir  John  said,  "  Why  don't 
you  go  and  ask  Mr  Helps'?  I'm 
sure  he  will  be  able  to  suggest 
something  satisfactory."  And  you 
know  I  jumped  at  this  ;  for  you 
are  so  clever,  I'm  sure  you'll  be 
able  to  tell  me  the  very  thing  I 
ought  to  wear. 

Vic.  Have  you  thought  of  any- 
thing? 

Lady  S.  Oh,  I've  thought  of  so 
many  things,  that  I'm  quite  worn 
out  with  thinking ;  for  as  soon  as 
I've  almost  decided  upon  one  thing, 
somebody  or  other  urges  me  not  to 
have  it,  because  it  will  be  unbecom- 
ing, or  improper,  or  something,  so 
that  I  have  to  give  it  up,  and  I  am 
really  au  lout  de  mes  forces.  First  I 
thought  of  an  Egyptian  dress,  be- 
cause it  would  be  so  strange  and 
odd ;  but  then  I  should  be  obliged  to 
wear  sandals  and  naked  feet,  and 
that  was  objected  to.  And  then 
an  old  Greek  dress  was  proposed; 
but  I'm  afraid  of  that  too — and  then 
there  are  always  the  sandals;  and 
besides,  the  Egyptians  were  really 
too  decollete,  and  so  were  the  Greeks. 
I  wonder  how  they  could  go  so ; 
but  I  suppose  it  was  the  fashion. 
And  then  there  was  the  Marquise 
dress ;  but  that  is  so  hackneyed, 
you  know — one  sees  it  everywhere 
— though  one  must  admit  that  the 
powder  is  very  becoming,  when 
you're  not  really  grey.  And  then 
there  are  the  old  Venetian  dresses. 
They  are  very  rich,  of  course ;  but 
I  don't  know — they  look  so  queer 
and  so  bundled  up,  and  I  am  afraid 
they  would  not  suit  my  style.  And 
then  there  are  the  old  Elizabethan 
dresses,  with  farthingale  and  high 
run0,  and  all  that ;  but  I  think  they 
are  very  ugly, — don't  you?  And 
then  I  thought  of  going  as  Night, 


with  stars  all  about  me,  and  dia- 
monds. My  diamonds  are  really 
fine,  and  I  have  several  stars  that 
I  might  wear  on  my  head.  But  I 
don't  know — what  do  you  think  ? 

Vic.  There  will  be  twenty  Nights 
at  the  least  at  your  ball,  and  your 
dress  would  certainly  not  be  unique, 
as  it  ought  to  be. 

Lady  S.  Yes,  so  I  am  told.  But 
my  diamond  stars  would  come  in 
well,  wouldn't  they1?  But  what 
would  you  propose?  Oh,  do  tell 
me  ! — that's  a  good  man. 

Vie.  It  is  not  so  easy.  Let  me 
think.  Something  oriental  would 
suit  you. 

Lady  S.  Yes;  that  is  what  I 
first  thought — but  what  ? 

Vic.  Suppose  you  went  as  the 
Queen  of  Sheba. 

Lady  S.  Oh  dear  me  !  That  is 
quite  a  new  idea.  But  I  don't 
know  what  her  dress  would  be. 
Would  the  stars  come  in  ? 

Vic.  Perfectly.  You  might  wear 
them  as  a  coronet  round  your  head. 

Lady  S.  Oh,  capital !  capital ! 
What  a  clever  man  you  are  ! 

Vic.  And  then  Sir  John  might 
go  as  Solomon — with  a  long  beard 
and  a  sheik's  robes. 

Lady  S.  Oh,  Sir  John  is  going 
as  Csesar  Borgia.  He  is  decided. 
But  have  you  any  pictures  of  the 
Queen  of  Sheba  ? 

Vic.  I  daresay  I  have.  I  will 
look  over  my  books  and  portfolios, 
and  see  if  I  can  find  anything  :  of 
course  it  must  be  very  rich  and 
oriental,  with  a  long  flowing  veil ; 
and  you  may  arrange  it  with  a  great 
agrafe  of  diamonds ;  and  put  on  all 
the  jewels  you  have.  They  will  all 
come  in.  I  will  make  you  a  sketch, 
and  bring  it  to  you  if  you  like,  and 
explain  it. 

Lady  S.  Oh,  thanks,  so  much, 
you  know.  If  you  only  would  be 
so  kind. 

Vic.  I  will  think  it  out  for  you, 


1880.] 


A  Lay  Confessional. 


43 


and  make  you  a  sketch.  But  how 
goes  on  the  ball  ?  All  the  world  of 
beauty  and  fashion  will  be  there, 
of  course. 

Lady  S.  Oh  yes;  everybody  is 
coming,  I  believe,  except  the 
Cabinet  Ministers,  and  I'm  so 
vexed.  They  say  it  will  not  do 
for  them  to  appear  in  masks  and 
costumes.  It  would  not  be  digni- 
fied, and  would  expose  them  to  all 
sorts  of  satires  and  caricatures  in 
'  Punch,'  and  they  would  never 
hear  the  end  of  it.  But  I  know 
who  put  that  notion  into  their 
heads.  It  was  Lady  Janus.  She  is 
jealous  of  me,  and  wants  to  ruin  my 
ball  if  she  can ;  and  there  is  no  end 
to  the  intrigues  she  has  entered 
into  to  prevent  them  from  coming. 
She  first  convinced  her  husband, 
and  he  and  she  then  convinced 
them  all;  and  it  has  been  done 
purely  to  spite  me.  I'm  sure  I 
should  think  she  might  be  satisfied 
with  what  she  has  got,  without  try- 
ing to  take  everything  from  every- 
body. She  does,  she  really  does,  you 
know.  I  never  saw  such  a  woman. 

Vic.  Oh,  I  think  you  are  quite 
mistaken.  I  will  answer  for  it 
with  my  life  that  she  is  incapable 
of  such  pettiness. 

Lady  S.  Oh,  but  I  know  she 
has.  Everybody  says  she  has,  and 
it's  just  like  her. 

Vic.  Oh  no ;  you  do  her  great 
injustice. 

Lady  S.  Well,  then,  who  could 
have  put  such  a  stupid  idea  into 
their  heads  1 

Vic.  They  themselves,  probably. 

Lady  S.  JS^o  ;  I  cannot  believe 
that.  Why  should  they  not  come 
in  costume  ?  You  can't  imagine 
how  vexed  I  am.  I  went  to  Lady 
Janus  this  morning,  and  I  told  her 
pretty  plainly  what  I  thought,  for 
I  do  consider  it  very  unkind  of  her. 

Vic.  And  what  did  she  say? 
Did  not  she  deny  it? 


Lady  S.  Oh,  of  course.  She  said 
she  had  never  done  anything  of  the 
kind,  and  that  she  was  exceedingly 
interested  that  my  ball  should  be 
a  great  success.  But  she  had  to 
admit  that  she  thought  they  were 
right  not  to  appear  in  costume.  So 
you  see,  after  all,  it  was  owing  to 
her  influence  that  they  have  re- 
fused to  come. 

Vic.  No ;  I  am  sure  you  are  mis- 
taken. If  you  like,  I  will  go  and 
see  her,  and  talk  it  over  with  her. 

Lady  S.  Oh,  do  !  It  would  be 
so  kind.  I  really  do  hope  that  she 
will  not  be  so  disagreeable  as  to  try 
to  do  me  such  an  injury. 

Vic.  Be  sure  of  it,  and  leave  it 
to  me. 

Lady  S.  I'm  so  much  obliged  to 
you  for  all  you  offer  to  do.  (Rising.) 
And  I  will  trust  you  entirely.  But 
I  must  not  keep  you  any  longer 
from  your  beautiful  work ;  and  you 
will  send  me  the  sketch,  won't 
you?  So  here  you  are  among  all 
your  wonderful  creations.  How  I 
envy  you  artists  !  I  should  like  to 
stop  and  spend  hours  in  looking  at 
them;  but  I  suppose  I  must  go 
now.  You  will  let  me  come  back 
again  another  time,  won't  you, 
when  I  shall  not  disturb  you,  to 
admire  your  pictures?  Oh,  you 
artists  !  you  artists  !  what  a  delight- 
ful life  you  lead — without  any  of 
the  vexations  we  have  !  That  is  a 
pretty  piece  of  embroidery — lovely  ! 
Oriental,  isn't  it  ?  And  you've  such 
a  quantity  of  pretty  things — quite 
gems.  I  wish  I  had  time  to  ex- 
amine them.  And  such  ceramics — 
or  keramics  I  believe  they  call  them 
now, — but  why,  I  don't  know. 
What  a  nice  old  chair  !  Where  do 
you  pick  up  such  pretty  things  ? 
So  you  won't  forget  to  send  the 
sketch,  will  you? 

Vic.  Depend  on  me. 

Lady  S.  And  do  persuade  Lady 
Janus  not  to  spoil  my  ball,  and 


A  Lay  Confessional. 


[July 


what  was  I  going  to  say  ?  No  mat- 
ter; I'm  so  much  obliged  to  you. 
Yes— really.  The  Queen  of  Sheba 
— that  does  sound  very  nice,  very 
nice  indeed.  And  we  shall  depend 
on  seeing  you.  Have  you  your 
costume  ?  Titian  ? 

Vic.  Oh  no  ;  that's  a  secret. 

Lady  S.  Oh  dear!  Then  I  must 
not  be  indiscreet.  Well,  good-bye, 
— a  thousand  thanks.  Don't  trouble 
yourself.  What  a  charming  frame  ! 
Good-bye — au  revoir.  I'm  so  busy, 
you  know.  Oh,  there  is  a  perfect 
piece  of  oriental  satin  !  That  would 
come  in  well  for  some  sort  of  cos- 
tume, wouldn't  it?  But  I  shall 
be  tempted  to  carry  away  some  of 
your  treasures  if  I  look  at  them  any 
longer.  Only  think,  after  all  our 
discussions  you  have  hit  off  the 
very  thing.  What  a  clever  man 
you  are  !  The  Queen  of  Sheba  ! 
Oriental — and  my  diamonds  will 
really  come  in  very  well.  Horrid 
day,  isn't  it  ?  It's  really  quite  un- 
bearable. Well,  au  revoir,  and  a 
thousand  thanks,  you  know.  (Goes 
out.) 

Vic.  (alone).  Ouf,  ouf,  ouf !  What 
a  woman  !  What  a  tongue  !  Poor 
Sir  John !  what  must  life  be  with 
her  perpetually  at  one's  side — buz- 
zing all  day  long,  like  a  fly  against 
a  pane  of  glass  !  Poor  Lady  Janus  ! 
how  she  must  have  suffered  under 
that  interview  this  morning  !  But 
one  must  pay  penalties  for  high 
positions.  If  fruit  grows  on  high 
trees,  the  world  will,  of  course, 
throw  stones  at  it. 

Well;  let  me  see  if  I  can  get 
anything  else  out  of  Ganda's  poems. 
He's  an  excellent  fellow,  but  it's  a 
pity  he 

(Bell  rings,  and  VICTOR  goes  to  the 
door.  Enter  LADY  JANUS.) 

Vic.  (surprised).  Lady  Janus  ! 

Lady  J.  Oh,  my  dear  friend, 
let  me  take  refuge  here  with 
you ! 


Vic.  What  is  the  matter?  Has 
anything  happened? 

Lady  J.  Nothing  —  everything. 
Oh,  here  at  least  there  is  peace — 
here  there  is  repose  !  I  am  vexed 
— I  am  tired  to  death  of  life  and 
the  world.  Let  me  stay  here  a  little 
while — will  you?  You  can  go  on 
with  your  work.  I  will  be  quite 
still— that  is,  I  will  try  to  be. 

Vie.  My  dear  Lady  Janus,  what 
can  I  do  for  you  ?  what  has  occur- 
red to  vex  you  ? 

Lady  J.  What  is  always  occur- 
ring. Is  there  anything  new  in  it  ? 
It  is  always  the  same  thing.  The 
tread-wheel  always  goes  round,  and 
I  always  must  keep  it  going.  I  am 
tired  of  life — tired  of  the  world — 
tired  of  myself.  When  will  it  end  ? 
when  shall  I  find  peace  ? 

Vic.  Be  calm,  Clara.  Here,  take 
this  seat.  Let  me  draw  it  near  to 
the  fire.  There.  Pray  be  calm. 
Tears!  why  these  tears? 

Lady  J.  Let  rue  weep.  I  am  ner- 
vous— I  am  over- excited.  Nothing 
particular  has  happened  ;  but  I  must 
cry.  It  helps  me.  You  don't  mind 
it,  do  you?  Forgive  me.  I  have  been 
smiling  so  long  with  that  vapid  smile 
of  pretence,  that  I  am  sick  at  heart. 
It  will  not  do  for  me  to  weep  any- 
where, and  sometimes  I  feel  that  I 
can  resist  no  longer.  Smiles,  smiles 
— compliments,  inanities,  phrases 
— words  that  mean  nothing — lies, 
lies;  it  is  all  lies.  How  long 
shall  I  be  able  to  go  on  thus  ?  Oh, 
here,  at  least,  let  me  break  out,  and 
give  vent  to  all  that  troubles  me 
within.  You  must  not  mind  me. 

Vic.  Weep,  if  it  relieves  you. 
Say  nothing,  or  say  all,  as  you  will. 
Treat  me  as  an  old  friend  who  only 
desires  to  help  you.  Confide  in 
me.  Whatever  you  say,  it  will  be 
as  if  you  said  it  to  no  one  but 
yourself.  I  understand.  I  think 
you  know  you  can  trust  me. 

Lady  J.  Oh  yes,  I  am  sure  of 


1880.] 


A  Lay  Confessional. 


45 


that,  or  I  should  never  have  come. 
But  there  are  times  when  one  can- 
not help  rebelling  against  the  false 
masking  of  life,  and  when  one  must 
break  out  or  die.  0  heaven  !  shall 
I  never  be  able  to  lead  a  tranquil 
life — a  serene  life — a  life  such  as 
you,  for  instance,  can  command,  out- 
side of  all  these  tracasseries — these 
irritations — falsehoods  of  society? 
Society  indeed  !  How  I  hate  the 
very  word !  all  is  so  vile,  so  mean, 
so  selfish.  One  must  coin  one's 
lips  to  pretty  sayings,  and  profess 
so  much  when  one  feels  so  little. 
What  do  I  really  care  for  all  the  am- 
bitions and  vanities  of  the  world? 
What  are  they  worth,  after  all, 
when  one  has  toiled  and  gained 
what  are  called  the  prizes?  One 
cries  after  a  crown,  and  it  makes 
one's  head  ache  to  wear  it.  Why 
must  I  lead  such  a  worthless  life  ? 
I,  who  only  want  peace,  and  long 
days  of  devotion  to  something  ideal 
that  feeds  the  heart.  Oh  to  be 
away  out  of  this, — far,  far  in  some 
secluded  place  with  quiet  —  with 
love — with  happy,  simple  interests ! 

Vic.  I'm  afraid  you  would  tire 
of  that  too,  after  a  time. 

Lady  J.  Oh  no.  How  little  you 
know  me  !  You  think  I  am  ambi- 
tious. Well,  so  I  am ;  but  not  for 
a  public  role.  What  does  it  all 
bring  of  solid  and  real  satisfaction  ? 
Nothing.  What  do  I  care  who  is 
Minister,  and  who  shall  have  this 
post,  and  who  that  ?  What  do  I 
care  to  have  people  bowing  and 
kotooing  before  me,  and  pointing 
me  out,  and  pretending  to  court 
me  —  all  for  what  they  can  get  ? 
There  is  no  real  heart  in  it.  All 
these  intrigues  disgust  me.  I  was 
not  made  for  them. 

Vic.  Ah,  well,  you  strive  to  do 
too  much,  and  you  don't  take  it 
quietly  enough.  Of  course,  there 
are  reactions;  but  you  have  com- 
pensations. You  would  not  be 


happy  if  you  were  utterly  outside 
what  is  called  the  world. 

Lady  J.  Everybody  has  his  say 
against  me.  Try  all  I  can,  I  can 
never  make  things  go  right.  There 
is  always  something  wrong — in  the 
household,  in  politics,  in  society, 
everywhere.  As  soon  as  I  wake 
in  the  morning  it  begins.  I  must 
have  the  cook  in  to  discuss  the 
dinner,  and  I  must  arrange  who 
shall  be  asked.  What  do  I  care 
for  the  dinner,  or  the  people  who 
eat  it  ?  Then  comes  the  butler  for 
this,  and  the  housekeeper  for  that ; 
and  how  would  my  lady  like  this  ? 
and  how  would  my  lady  like  that  ? 
And  when  these  petty  irritations 
and  necessities  of  daily  life  are 
over,  Lady  One  and  Mrs  T'other  are 
waiting  to  see  me ;  and  each  has  her 
little  petition — her  concert,  or  ball, 
or  subscription,  or  something  — 
which  I  must  advise  about  and  help. 
Then  Mrs  Somebody  comes  to  urge 
the  claims  of  her  husband,  or 
brother,  or  cousin  for  some  office. 
Oh,  I  must  do  it.  A  word  from 
me  will  do  everything.  Could  I 
prevail  upon  my  husband  to  in- 
terest himself?  If  I  do  for  one, 
the  other  hates  me.  But  how  can 
I  do  for  everybody  ?  Think  of  it ! 
This  very  morning  Selina  Mun- 
dane rushes  in  upon  me,  and  must 
see  me.  She  has  heard  that  I  have 
been  intriguing  to  prevent  the  Min- 
isters from  going  in  costume  to  her 
costume-ball — all  a  lie,  of  course ; 
and  she  falls  to  weeping  and  sob- 
bing, good  heavens,  as  if  she  had 
lost  a  child !  and  all  because  I 
cannot,  you  know  I  cannot,  urge 
Janus  to  go  in  costume  and  play 
the  buffoon,  and  make  himself  ri- 
diculous before  all  the  wojld,  for 
his  enemies  to  point  at  him  and 
deride  him.  With  all  the  respon- 
sibilities and  cares  of  his  position, 
how  can  he  go  and  play  the  fool 
at  her  ball?  And  all  for  what? 


A  L'l.y  Confessional. 


[July 


Just  because,  in  her  petty  little 
mind,  her  ball  is  the  one  thing  in 
the  world  at  present.  I'm  sure  I 
wish  her  well.  I  hope  it  will  be  a 
great  success.  I  would  do  anything 
I  could  to  help  her,  but  this  I  can- 
not do.  What  would  the  Opposi- 
tion say?  "What  sarcasms,  what 
caricatures,  would  appear  in  the 
papers  !  And  because  I  will  not 
expose  my  husband  to  this,  Selina 
Mundane  comes  and  weeps,  and 
accuses  me,  and  makes  a  great 
scene,  until  I  am  so  worn  out  that 
I  said,  "  Janus,  help  me,  or  I  shall 
go  mad."  Poor  Frederick  !  I  must 
plague  him  too,  and  he  has  now 
more  on  his  shoulders  than  he  can 
bear.  "What  can  he  do,  poor  man, 
if  he  has  all  these  petty  bothers 
in  addition? 

Vic.  Ah  yes.  You  have  too 
many  responsibilities,  and  you  in 
your  good  heart  try  to  do  too  much. 
You  take  things  too  hard. 

Lady  J,  I  suppose  I  do ;  but  I 
was  born  so.  I  Avas  never  meant 
for  such  a  life. 

Vic.  Nobody  could  do  your  du- 
ties better  or  so  well.  You  are 
admirable;  you  are  devoted;  you 
have  the  kindest  heart  and  the 
readiest  hand,  and  a  true  desire 
to  serve  everybody.  But  it  is  im- 
possible to  content  all.  How  you 
manage  to  steer  so  skilfully  through 
all  the  currents  of  society  without 
running  aground  is  a  mystery  to 
me.  Anybody  else  would  make 
shipwreck,  but  I  only  hear  praises 
of  you.  All  lives  have  their  troubles, 
and  we  must  forget  them  if  we 
cannot  avoid  them.  If  you  had 
a  colder  heart  and  a  less  susceptible 
nature  you  would  feel  these  troubles 
less;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  you 
would  lose  the  compensations — for 
instance,  those  of  art. 

Lady  J.  That  is  true.  Think, 
yesterday  morning  Gossoff  came  and 
played  to  me  an  hour ;  and  then 


all  life  seemed  so  light,  the  clouds 
cleared  away,  and  there  was  not  an 
ounce's  weight  on  my  heart.  I  was 
really  carried  away  into  an  ideal 
world,  and  forgot  everything;  and 
then  came  Selina  Mundane  this 
morning  to  spoil  it  all.  Ah,  how 
calm  you  are  here  !  no  noise,  no 
intrigues — all  is  peaceful.  How  I 
envy  you !  There  are  no  Lady 
Selinas  to  vex  you  here. 

Vic.  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon.  She 
wag  here  half  an  hour  ago,  arid  she 
told  me  the  whole  story  of  her  ball, 
and  of  the  Ministers  refusing  to 
come,  all  on  account  of  you.  But 
I  told  her  thut  was  all  folly,  and 
I  promised  her  a  sketch  of  a  cos- 
tume, and  she  went  away  quite 
composed. 

Lady  J.  Really !  She  came  to 
you  !  How  strange  !  "Well,  you 
can  tell  her  when  she  conies  again 
that  I  will  do  anything  for  her, 
except  to  persuade  the  Ministers 
to  go  in  costume. 

Vic.  Ah !  But  don't  let  us  think 
any  more  about  her.  I  merely  meant 
to  say  that  we  artists  too  have  our 
Lady  Selinas,  and  worse.  Don't 
think  it  is  always  easy  and  serene 
even  here.  We  have  our  black 
days  too. 

Lady  J.  Yes,  yes,  doubtless ;  but 
not  like  mine.  You  are  not  a  slave. 
You  can  rave  and  rage  to  your 
heart's  content;  but  I  must  feign 
and  smile  and  play  a  part  always. 

Vic.  It  is  sometimes  amusing  to 
play  a  part — particularly  when  one 
does  it  well,  as  you  do.  It  is  more 
exciting  to  drive  a  skittish  four-in- 
hand  from  a  high  box,  with  the 
world  looking  on  in  admiration, 
than  to  prod  along  a  donkey,  as 
some  are  forced  to  do. 

Lady  J.  Proding  along  a  donkey 
is  sometimes  amusing. 

Vic.  Sometimes,  perhaps,  but 
not  as  a  rule.  I  doubt  if  you 
would  like  it  as  an  occupation.  I 


1880.] 


A  Lay  Confessional. 


47 


admit  that  to  a  nature  like  yours 
the  intrigues  of  politics,  and  the 
exigencies  of  the  world  and  society, 
must  at  times  be  irritating ;  but, 
after  all,  you  would  not  be  quite 
happy  in  exile  from  public  life. 
You  like  the  game  you  play  on  the 
whole,  and  you  play  it  well, — and 
confess,  it  has  its  pleasures. 

Lady  J.  I  will  not  say  that  it 
has  not.  The  sense  of  power  is 
always  pleasant.  It  is  better  to 
drive  than  to  be  driven,  but  the 
cost  of  it  is  very  great ;  and  then, 
to  be  so  misunderstood — to  be  open 
to  such  stabs  in  the  dark — to  be 
exposed  to  such  bitter  and  unfound- 
ed accusations,  after  one  has  done 
one's  best ! 

Vic.  You  should  laugh  at  them. 

Lady  J.  That's  very  easy  to 
say.  The  laughing  would  be  like 
that  of  the  Spartan  boy  with  a 
fox  under  his  arm  biting  him  all 
the  while. 

Vie.  He  liked  it. 

Lady  J.  Did  he? 

Vic.  Yes.  He  was  conquering 
a  difficulty.  He  was  successfully 
playing  a  part.  That  is  always  a 
pleasure. 

Lady  J.  Does  it  pay  for  the  suf- 
fering ? 

Vic.  That  depends  on  the  suf- 
ferer. 

Lady  J.  What  is  the  use  of  life 
except  to  give  us  happiness  ? 

Vic.  "What  is  happiness  1  It  is  a 
mere  matter  of  the  scales,  and  which 
outweighs  the  other.  Of  course, 
there  is  always  something  in  both. 

Lady  J.  And  at  times  you  must 
confess  the  wrong  scale  goes  down, 
as  it  does  with  me  now.  I  dare- 
say it  all  seems  very  despicable  and 
unheroic  to  you,  but  there  are  times 
when  there  is  no  vent  to  accumu- 
lated feelings  but  tears.  It  is  our 
woman's  solace.  I  suppose  you 
never  yield  to  such  weaknesses : 
and  to-day  I  had  to  cry,  and  I  had 


to  pour  out  my  griefs  to  somebody; 
and  so,  as  you  are  an  old  friend, 
I  thought  you  would  forgive  me. 
You  see,  Janus  is  so  different ;  and 
then  I  dislike  so  to  trouble  him, 
poor  man!  He  is  so  calm  of  nature, 
that  he  would  not  understand  it, 
you  know.  He  tries  to  understand 
me,  and  to  help  me ;  but  when  I  get 
into  a  state  of  excitement,  and  want 
sympathy,  to  talk  to  him  is  as  if  a 
furious  wave  in  all  the  turbulence 
of  its  passion  dashed  itself  against 
a  rock.  So  I  came  here. 

Vic.  I  thank  you.  It  was  a 
proof  of  confidence  that  I  deeply 
feel.  You  may  be  sure  of  my  sym- 
pathy. We  have  known  each  other 
a  long  time.  I  know  what  you  feel. 
It  has  been  good  for  you  to  cry  it 
out ;  and  now  it  is  good  for  you  to 
smile.  Never  is  the  sunshine  so 
sweet  as  when  it  breaks  through 
a  cloud. 

Lady  J.  Yes ;  you  know  what  I 
feel,  for  you  are  an  artist.  You  live 
in  another  world,  in  a  little  para- 
dise, it  seems  to  me,  with  ideal 
persons  and  fancies.  You  can 
evoke  the  sunshine,  and  play  with 
the  storm,  for  they  are  not  real  to 
you ;  and  when  real  life  annoys 
you,  you  can  always  retire  into 
your  ideal  world.  But  I  have  no 
such  resource,  no  such  refuge. 
Xot  that  I  am  afraid  to  encounter 
a  real  storm.  No ;  if  it  were  only 
once  in  a  while,  I  could  meet  it, 
and  struggle  with  it,  and  brave  it. 
It  is  not  this,  it  is  the  constant 
irritation,  the  petty  intrigues,  the 
little  rasping  troubles,  that  spoil  life 
by  their  constant  wearing.  Violent 
passion  one  can  pardon,  but  not 
perpetual  nagging.  It  is  like  being 
bitten  to  death  by  vermin,  eaten  by 
ants. 

Vic.  Don't  think  about  it.  As 
for  Lady  Selina,  I  will  see  her,  and 
set  all  that  matter  right ;  and  as  for 
the  rest,  count  upon  my  affection 


48 


A  Lay  Confessional 


[July 


as  much  as  you  will — you  never  will 
count  too  much. 

Lady  J.  Thanks,  thanks  !  You 
have  already  done  me  so  much 
good.  I  have  had  my  cry  out, 
-and  I  am  calmer ;  I  am  quite  calm 
indeed.  How  much  a  little  word 
in  the  right  place  and  time  can  do  ! 
I  am  afraid  I  have  been  very  fool- 
ish. Will  you  forgive  me  1 

Vic.  There  is  nothing  to  forgive. 
There  is  everything  to  be  grateful 
for.  You  have  shown  me  a  confi- 
dence which  tempts  me  almost  to 

No  matter.    (Rites  and  walks 

across  the  studio,  pauses,  and  then 
returns.}  But  it  is  all  over  now. 
Smile — let  me  see  you  smile.  Take 
heart,  if  you  don't  wish  to  see  me 
break  down.  Take  heart;  help  me, 
for  I  too  have  something  to  bear, 
as  you  know.  But  you  see  I  bear 
it.  I  say  nothing. 

Lady  J.  No.  You  have  always 
been  too  kind,  too  good.  You 
have  never  taken  advantage  of  my 
weakness — of  my  folly. 

Vic.  Do  you  remember?  No, 
it's  of  no  use  to  remember ;  though 
it  is  impossible  to  forget,  Clara. 

Lady  J.  Victor ! 

(A  pause. ) 

Vic.  Let  us  say  no  more.  What 
a  gloomy  day  it  is  ! 

Lady  J.  You  have  forgiven  me  ? 
I  thought  you  had  forgiven  me. 

Vic.  There  is  nothing  to  forgive. 
I  was  unfortunate.  That  is  all. 

Lady  J.  Ah,  if  you  only  knew ! 
But  what  is  the  use  of  explanation  ? 
AVe  should  only  make  things  worse. 
How  different  all  might  have  been' 
if,  if — well — if  they  were  not  as 
they  are  ! 

Vic.  You  would  not  have  been 
happier  on  the  whole.  I  am  not 
such  a  fool  as  to  think  that.  I 
should  have  been,  not  you.  If  all 
had  been  different,  I  should  have 
been  —  well  —  different  too.  But 
where  is  the  use  of  regretting? 


There  is  no  reclaiming  the  past : 
when  one's  cup  is  broken,  it  is 
broken ;  when  one's  wine  is  spilt, 
it  is  lost.  Stop  !  let  me  show  you 
two  pictures. 

Lady  J.  Would  it  be  well  for 
me  to  see  them  ? 

Vic.  No ;  on  the  whole,  I  will 
not  show  them  to  you.  They  are 
only  reminiscences. 

Lady  J.  Let  me  see  them. 

Vic.  Not  now ;  another  time. 

Lady  J.  Now,  now. 

Vic.  (goes  and  taJces  out  a  pic- 
ture, and  places  it  on  the  easel). 
There  is  one  picture.  It  is  a 
wood,  as  you  see,  and  a  silent  path- 
way leads  down  among  the  throng- 
ing green  trees.  It  is  morning  in 
June.  Soft  sunlight  and  shadow 
dapple  the  sward,  and  glint  against 
the  smooth  beech-trunks,  catching 
here  and  there  sprays  of  wild  roses 
that  stretch  out  into  the  light.  You 
do  not  .hear  the  birds  singing,  but 
they  are  there;  I  hear  them.  Their 
song  is  of  love.  The  world  has  not 
wandered  that  way;  but  nature  is 
there,  and  love.  Over  that  green 
slope  enamelled  with  flowers  droop 
low  branches,  and  a  little  breeze 
is  stirring  in  the  leaves ;  and  there 
two  figures  are  sitting,  while  a 
stream  babbles  musically  at  their 
feet.  They  do  not  speak ;  only  the 
whispering  voices  of  nature,  and  the 
song  of  birds,  stir  the  dreamy  si- 
lence. But  there,  to  one  at  least  of 
those  figures,  is  the  centre  of  the 
universe.  There  is  hope,  and  the 
divine  dream  of  love,  that  trans- 
figures all  things.  She  is  half 
turned  away.  He  is  gazing  at  her. 
They  are  both  dreaming.  They 
have  been  painting,  but  at  this 
moment  their  brushes  and  colours 
are  dropped  on  the  grass.  There  is 
something  going  to  be  said,  but  it 
is  not  yet  said.  The  whole  world 
is  waiting  for  it.  What  will  he 
say  1  What  will  she  answer  ?  Will 


1880." 


A  Lay  Confessional. 


40 


they  ever  paint  there  again?  All 
this  was  in  the  mind  of  the  artist 
who  painted  it,  but  it  needs  the 
imagination  to  supply  the  great 
voids  of  expression.  .  What  will  be 
the  answer,  think  you  1 

Lady  J.  Ah,  Victor,  you  have 
not  forgiven ! 

Vic.  That  is  one  picture.  Here 
is  the  other — the  pendant.  Would 
you  like  to  see  that  also,  since  you 
have  seen  the  first  1 

Lady  J.  Oh,  the  first  is  enough. 
I  do  not  wish  to  see  the  other. 
Better  let  me  imagine  that. 

Vic.  Yes;  you  must  do  me  the 
favour  to  see  the  pendant.  It  is 
not  without  interest. 

Lady  J.  Show  it  to  me,  then. 
It  is  written,  as  it  seems,  that  I 
must  see  it.  If  it  please  you,  I 
cannot  refuse. 

Vic.  (places  it  on  the  easel). 
There.  The  season  has  changed. 
It  is  late  autumn.  A  drought  is 
over  all.  A  storm  has  passed  that 
way,  and  scattered  the  roses  and 
broken  down  one  of  the  main 
branches  from  the  principal  tree. 
The  stream  has  dried  up,  and  bub- 
bles no  longer ;  the  grass  is  with- 
ered, the  flowers  dead.  The  sun- 
shine is  shrouded  ;  twilight  is  com- 
ing on  ;  and  a  grey,  monotonous  veil 
of  cloud  covers  the  sky.  A  figure 
is  seated  there  alone.  His  head  is 
buried  in  his  hands.  You  cannot 
see  his  face.  A  snake  is  crawling 
through  the  grass  around  that  rock, 
and  lifting  its  quivering  head.  On 
a  dead  branch  a  melancholy  owl  is 
seated  above.  His  plaintive  note 
is  all  that  breaks  the  stillness — the 
lark  and  the  nightingale  have  long 
since  fled.  The  wind  stirs  sadly  in 
the  trees  and  moans  among  the 
dead  leaves.  The  sear  leaves  that 
are  left  on  the  beeches  are  slowly 
dropping.  There  is  a  smell  of 
mouldy  earth  pervading  the  air. 
Over  all  is  a  sense  of  regret — use- 

VOL.  CXXVIII. NO.  DCCLXXVII. 


less  regret  for  what  cannot  be  un- 
done, for  what  is  gone  beyond 
recall  —  useless  but  inevitable  as 
long  as  life  goes  on. 

Lady  J.  Ah  yes !  it  is  inevitable. 

Vic.  Perhaps. 

Lady  J.  How  perhaps?  Is  it 
not  sure  ? 

Vic.  Life  is  what  we  choose  to 
make  of  it ;  we  have  it  always  in 
our  hands  to  shape — it  is  plastic  to 
our  use. 

Lsidy  J.  Perhaps. 

Vic.  How  perhaps  ? 

Lady  J.  No ;  destinies  shape 
themselves.  What  is  past,  indeed, 
we  cannot  recall ;  but  accidents 
mould  events  and  beget  mistakes, 
terrible  mistakes  sometimes,  that 
nothing  can  remedy.  There  is 
much  that  is  only  too  true  in  the 
ancient  idea  of  fate,  against  which 
it  is  useless  to  strive.  What  is 
lost  is  lost.  We  have  to  pay  the 
penalty  of  our  folly,  even  though 
we  could  not  act  otherwise,  con- 
strained by  fate. 

Vic.  We  make  mistakes  with  the 
best  intentions,  and  we  often  shut 
our  ears  to  the  counsels  of  our  better 
genius.  But  there  is  always  one 
thing  left  to  us  at  least,  and  that  is 
to  make  the  best  of  what  remains. 
What  might  have  been,  who  knows? 
All  we  can  say  is,  that  it  is  not. 

Lady  J.  And  if  it  were  ?  If  one 
could  take  all  back  and  begin 
again  ? 

Vic.  New  mistakes — new  blun- 
ders. Who  knows  where  any  path 
leads  until  one  has  trod  it  to  the 
end  ?  In  life,  for  the  most  part, 
we  break  the  deep  and  clear  silences 
of  feeling  with  noise  and  clatter, 
and  call  it  pleasure. 

Lady  J.  Nothing  is  what  it 
ought  to  be — nothing  is  what  we 
wish  it  to  be.  Whatever  we  have 
seems  worthless — whatever  we  de- 
sire seems  precious.  We  lose  our 
way  so  easily  in  the  track  of  life, 
D 


.  A  Lay  Confessional. 


[July 


among  its  tortuous  thickets  ;  and  a 
seductive  path  too  often  leads  us  to 
a  quagmire  or  a  precipice,  and  we 
know  not  the  way  back. 

Vic.  There  is  no  way  back.  The 
path  of  life  closes  up  behind  us,  and 
loses  itself  and  is  obliterated.  There 
is  no  going  back. 

Lady  J.  Save  in  one's  thoughts, 
and  then  nothing  is  so  dear  as 
what  we  have  lost.  What  is  past 
and  lost  has  a  consecration  that 
nothing  we  own  in  the  present  can 
have.  The  present  is  a  hard  fact, 
and  the  past  a  tender  regret.  We 
are  never  satisfied.  Something  has 
gone  or  something  is  to  come  which 
did  or  will  crown  our  life.  We 
struggle  on — we  laugh  and  pretend 
to  be  happy;  but  the  laugh  is  hol- 
low and  the  happiness  a  sham. 
Nothing  is  really  good  but  love 
and  art. 

(Bell  rings — VICTOR  opens — 
enter  Servant.) 

Serv.  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr 
Helps,  but  Lord  Janus  is  below  in 
the  carriage,  and  wishes  to  know 
if  Lady  Janus  is  here,  and  if 
she  would  like  him  to  take  her 
home. 


Lady  J.  Tell  him  I  will  come 
immediately. 

(Exit  Servant.} 

Lady  J.  You  see  here  has  been 
an  oasis  of  ideality ;  now  for  the 
desert  of  reality — for  the  false 
smiles  again,  the  vapid  enjoyment, 
the  intrigues,  the  business  of  life. 
Farewell,  dear  dreamland  —  dear 
land  of  the  impossible !  Fare- 
well, Victor !  It  is  well  that  we 
were  interrupted  as  we  were — all  is 
inevitable.  Let  us  bear  it. 

Vic.  When  will  you  come  again  ? 

Lady  J.  When  life  becomes  in- 
tolerable, and  I  long  for  consola- 
tion, and  can  bear  the  world  no 
longer.  Farewell!  You  have  calmed 
me,  but  you  have  made  me  very 
unhappy  too — unhappy  in  the  good 
sense  of  the  word.  But  it  is  not 
well  for  either  of  us  to  wander  too 
often  into  the  past.  Try  to  think 
well  of  me.  We  have  been  in  an- 
other world,  and,  perhaps,  a  for- 
bidden one ;  but  how  could  we 
help  it  1  Farewell,  dear  friend  ! 
do  not  forget  me,  and,  if  you  can, 
forgive  me. 

(Exit  LADY  JANUS.) 

Vic.  Dear  Clara ! 


1880.] 


Country  Life  in  Portugal. 


COUNTRY  LIFE  IN  PORTUGAL. 


THERE  has  been  some  stagnation 
in  the  book-market  this  season,  and 
we  are  the  more  inclined  to  feel 
grateful  towards  authors  who  have 
come  forward  with  contributions  to 
enliven  the  dulness.  But  Mr  Craw- 
furd,  with  his  '  Portugal  Old  and 
New,'  *  needs  no  stretch  of  kindly 
consideration.  In  this  book  we  have 
at  least  one  volume  of  travel  which  is 
singularly  thoughtful  and  instruc- 
tive. Though  in  speaking  of  his '  Por- 
tugal '  as  a  book  of  travel,  we  may  pos- 
sibly giveasomewhatfalseiinpression 
of  it.  It  is  rather  the  fruit  of  many 
wanderings  through  the  country, 
and  of  the  varied  experiences  and 
information  he  has  accumulated  in 
the  course  of  prolonged  residence. 
It  is  a  kind  of  encyclopaedia  of 
spirited  sketches — historical,  liter- 
ary, and  archaeological ;  political, 
agricultural,  and  social.  It  would 
be  impossible,  in  the  limits  of  one 
short  article,  to  follow  the  writer  to 
any  good  purpose  over  the  compre- 
hensive range  of  subjects  he  has 
himself  been  compelled  to  con- 
dense ;  and  accordingly,  it  is  with 
Portugal  and  the  Portuguese  in  the 
more  picturesque  aspects  of  rural 
scenery  and  manners  that  we  pro- 
pose chiefly  to  concern  ourselves. 

Considering  the  intimate  politi- 
cal relations  we  have  long  main- 
tained with  it,  and  that  the  bar  of 
the  Tagus  and  the  Eock  of  Lisbon 
lie  within  three  and  a  half  days' 
steaming  of  the  Solent,  Portugal  is 
a  country  of  which  we  are  strangely 
ignorant.  Englishmen  generally 
have  a  vague  idea  that  we  carry  on 
a  very  considerable  import  trade  in 
port  wine,  cattle,  and  those  deli- 
cately-flavoured onions  that  come 


in  so  admirably  with  saddle  of  mut- 
ton. Historically,  they  have  heard 
of  the  memorable  earthquake;  of 
the  famous  defence  of  the  Lines  of 
Torres  Vedras,  and  possibly  of  the 
hard-fought  battle  of  Busaco,  and 
the  dashing  passage  of  the  Douro. 
They  may  even  remember  that 
Napier  saved  a  dynasty  as  the 
genius  of  the  great  Duke  assured 
the  independence  of  the  nation. 
And  not  a  few  of  them  have  reason 
to  be  aware  that  the  Portuguese  are 
under  other  obligations  to  us,  be- 
sides those  that  are  more  or  less 
sentimental,  since  of  a  funded  debt 
of  nearly  £80,000,000  a  large  pro- 
portion must  be  held  in  England. 
They  have  heard  something,  besides, 
of  the  beauties  of  Portuguese  scen- 
ery. Byron  sang  the  praises  of 
Cintra — a  spot,  by  the  way,  that 
has  been  extravagantly  overrated, 
where  Beckford,  dreaming  of  Ara- 
bian Nights,  raised  a  palace -villa 
of  rococo  magnificence,  among  the 
cliffs  he  turned  into  terraced  gar- 
dens and  clothed  in  a  blaze  of  rare 
exotics.  Many  a  British  passenger 
outward  -  bound  has  driven  round 
the  parks  and  gardens  of  Lisbon, 
and  climbed  the  streets  to  the 
points  of  view  that  command  the 
course  of  the  yellow  Tagus.  But 
there  our  acquaintance  with  the 
country  ends  ;  and  for  that  it  must 
be  confessed  there  are  plausible 
reasons,  to  some  of  which  Mr 
Crawfurd  adverts.  The  scenery, 
though  often  striking  and  occasion- 
ally singularly  beautiful,  is  seldom 
sublime ;  while  there  are  great 
tracts  of  tame  and  sombre  forest, 
broken  ranges  of  rugged  and  repul- 
sive sierras,  broad  stretches  of  what 


*  Portugal  Old  and  New.     By  Oswald  Crawfurd,  her  Majesty's  Consul  at  Oporto  ; 
Author  of  '  Latouche's  Travels  in  Portugal.'     London  :  C.  Kegan  Paul  &  Co.      1880. 


r,2 


Country  Life  in  Portugal. 


[July 


the  Spaniards  call  dehesas  and  de,- 
ptMados  ;  and  in  Algarve,  the  most 
southerly  province,  bristling  wastes 
of  scrub-covered  sand,  which  give 
one  a  very  tolerable  notion  of  the 
inhospitable  deserts  of  Africa.  The 
climate  in  the  fine  season  is  trying 
to  foreigners  ;  and  the  late  autumn, 
which  is  perhaps  the  most  agreeable 
season  of  the  year,  has  the  evanes- 
cence with  the  beauty  of  the  "Indian 
summer."  The  inns  are  primitive, 
and  scattered  about  at  haphazard; 
the  roads  are  unpleasantly  dusty 
when  it  is  dry,  and  may  be  well- 
nigh  impracticable  when  the  rains 
are  descending  in  a  deluge ;  and  the 
travelling  arrangements  are  such  as 
might  be  expected  in  a  land  whose 
inhabitants  are  the  reverse  of  rest- 
less. Above  all,  there  is  the  difficulty 
of  making  one's  self  understood, 
to  say  nothing  of  conversing  pleas- 
antly and  fluently.  Mr  Crawfurd, 
who  doubtless  knows  the  language 
well,  pronounces  it  one  of  the  most 
difficult  in  Europe ;  nor  do  previous 
acquirements  in  Latin,  French,  &c., 
go  far  towards  even  lifting  you  over 
the  threshold.  All  that  notwith- 
standing, Portugal  is  a  fascinating 
and  interesting  country ;  and  if  the 
tourist  must  make  up  his  mind  to 
discomforts,  and  must  almost  neces- 
sarily resign  himself  to  a  prelimin- 
ary education,  yet  he  will  find  that 
he  has  many  compensating  plea- 
sures, and  that  some  study  of  the 
language  will  be  richly  rewarded. 

It  is  the  tourist  who  is  the 
father  of  the  luxuries  of  travel; 
and  accommodation  grows  up  on 
the  track  of  those  passing  strangers 
who  follow  the  highroads  of  com- 
merce or  pleasure.  But  Portugal, 
as  it  happens,  lies  in  a  corner  of 
the  Peninsula,  and,  except  for  the 
vessels  that  coast  its  seaboard,  on 
the  way  to  nowhere  in  particular. 
Consequently,  the  Portuguese  have 
been  much  left  to  themselves,  save 
by  the  little  colony  of  English 
merchants  who  make  their  living 


or  their  fortunes  out  of  the  vintages 
of  the  Douro.  There  have  been 
times  when  the  forbidding  strength 
of  their  natural  fastnesses  has 
served  the  inhabitants  of  the  hill 
districts  well.  They  held  their 
own  in  the  northern  provinces 
against  the  aggressions  of  the 
Moors,  when  the  waves  of  the 
Saracenic  invasion  were  surging 
over  Spain  to  the  Pyrenees,  as  Mr 
Crawfurd  describes  in  his  opening 
chapter.  And  in  the  wars  of  the 
beginning  of  the  present  century, 
the  flying  detachments  of  invading 
columns  seldom  dared  to  straggle  far 
from  the  main  body.  Napier  gives 
a  most  vivid  picture  of  the  diffi- 
culties of  JunoC's  march  from  Al- 
cantara on  Lisbon  in  1808.  By 
the  by,  and  by  way  of  confirming 
our  assertions  as  to  the  ignorance 
of  the  ordinary  Briton  on  the  sub- 
ject of  Portuguese  geography,  we 
may  quote  Mr  M'Corkindale's  re- 
mark in  Aytoun's  "  Glenmutchkin 
Railway,"  when  suggesting  the 
feasibility  of  an  "Alcantara  Union" 
scheme :  "  Hang  me,"  says  Bob, 
"  if  I  know  whether  Alcantara  is 
in  Spain  or  Portugal !  but  nobody 
else  does."  Begging  pardon  for  the 
parenthesis,  we  return  to  General 
Napier ;  and  what  he  writes  is  this : 
"  Nature  alone  had  opposed  his 
progress ;  but  such  were  the  hard- 
ships his  army  had  endured,  that 
of  a  column  which  had  numbered 
25,000  men,  2000  tired  grenadiers 
only  entered  Lisbon  with  their 
general :  fatigue  and  want  and 
tempests  had  scattered  the  re- 
mainder along  two  hundred  miles 
of  rugged  mountains,  inhabited  by 
a  warlike  and  ferocious  peasantry, 
well  acquainted  with  the  strength 
of  their  fastnesses,  and  proud  of 
many  successful  defences  made  by 
their  forefathers  against  former  in- 
vaders." When  the  country  was 
evacuated  by  the  contending  armies, 
brigandage  sprang  into  a  flourish- 
ing institution.  Disbanded  levies, 


1880.] 


Country  Life  in  Portugal. 


who  had  been  demoralised  and  un- 
fitted for  peaceful  labour,  took 
naturally  to  a  light  and  congenial 
occupation ;  and  after  the  civil 
war,  which  came  to  an  end  with 
the  submission  of  Don  Miguel, 
brigandage  was  more  thriving  than 
ever.  Borrow,  who  made  his  start 
from  Lisbon  on  his  way  to  carry 
the  Bible  into  Spain,  narrates  some 
travelling  experiences  which  were 
more  exciting  than  agreeable.  Per- 
sonally he  escaped  by  the  good 
fortune  which  never  failed  him  ; 
but  everywhere  he  tells  of  armed 
escorts,  of  innkeepers  notoriously  in 
league  with  the  enemy,  and  of  dis- 
tricts in  the  immediate  vicinity  of 
cities  habitually  terrorised  by  the 
robber  bands.  The  mystery  is  how 
the  ruffians  managed  to  get  a  living 
out  of  a  population  at  once  panic- 
stricken  and  poverty-stricken ;  for 
when  wayfarers  ventured  to  stir 
abroad,  they  gathered  in  bodies  for 
mutual  protection.  It  is  certain 
that  any  wealthy  stranger,  com- 
pelled to  book  his  place  beforehand 
by  the  post,  or  to  ride  on  horseback 
by  easy  stages,  would  have  had  his 
approaching  advent  heralded  in  ad- 
vance, and  must  have  regularly  run 
the  gauntlet  of  ambushes.  No 
wonder  that  tourists  were  rare,  and 
that  those  who,  like  Lord  Carnar- 
von, visited  Portugal  even  a  little 
later,  made  a  literary  reputation  on 
the  strength  of  their  daring. 

But  now  all  that  is  entirely 
changed.  Mr  Crawfurd  mentions 
as  a  matter  of  course,  and  in  fa- 
vourable contrast  with  the  adjacent 
Spain,  that  brigandage  has  ceased 
out  of  the  land.  As  for  the  "  fe- 
rocious peasants"  of  Napier,  who 
had  their  bristles  raised  to  resent 
the  Gallic  invasion,  if  they  are  not 
become  positively  refined  in  their 
manners,  at  all  events  they  are  ex- 
ceedingly friendly  to  strangers.  If 
you  are  benighted,  and  gone  astray, 
as  may  well  befall  you,  you  are  sure 
of  getting  shelter  somewhere,  or  of 


being  courteously  directed  on  your 
way  with  no  peremptory  demand 
on  your  purse  or  your  saddle-bags. 
Hospitality,  indeed,  is  a  Portuguese 
virtue,  as  it  is  of  most  simple- 
minded  peoples,  who  live  in  com- 
fort, if  not  in  affluence.  Mr  Craw- 
furd, and  Borrow  too,  recall  grateful 
memories  of  chance  acquaintances 
who  welcomed  them  heartily  to 
their  homes,  placing  the  houses, 
with  their  contents,  absolutely  at 
their  disposal,  and  by  no  means, 
like  the  Spaniards,  as  a  matter  of 
form.  And  it  must  be  no  slight 
ease  to  the  anxious  mind  to  know 
that,  should  the  worst  come  to  the 
worst,  you  may  hope  to  find  a  friend 
in  the  first  human  being  you  meet. 
For  when  travelling  on  horseback, 
as  you  will  naturally  choose  to 
do,  you  may  easily  lose  yourself 
in  a  labyrinth  of  tracks,  when  the 
"highroad"  buries  itself  in  the 
cover  of  the  woodlands  or  strikes 
across  wastes  of  heath  or  sand.  The 
accommodation  of  the  public  convey- 
ances is  simple  purgatory,  where 
you  are  penned  up  in  the  stifling 
interior,  and  dare  hardly  let  down 
the  rickety  glasses  under  pain  of 
being  suffocated  by  the  penetrating 
dust ;  while,  on  the  other  hand, 
there  must  be  times  of  exhilaration 
or  rapture  in  each  day  passed  in 
the  saddle.  The  glare  of  the  noon- 
day sun  may  be  terrible ;  the  after- 
noon atmosphere  may  be  sultry  in 
the  extreme  ;  your  horse  may  hang 
heavy  on  your  tired  bridle-hand, 
and  trip  and  stumble  as  he  drags 
listlessly  along.  But  horse  and 
rider  revive  together  as  they  emerge 
from  close  bedchamber  and  stall  to 
the  crisp  air  of  early  morning ;  as 
they  leave  the  sun -glare  for  the 
forest  shade,  cooled  by  the  rush  of 
the  air  down  the  bed  of  the  torrent 
beside  you ;  or  as  the  freshening 
breeze  springs  up  at  evening,  when 
the  sunset  is  glowing  on  the  dis- 
tant horizon,  and  shimmering  on 
the  pine-tops  in  burnished  gold. 


54 


Country  Life  in  Portugal. 


[July 


And  how  good  a  thing  is  the  mid- 
day siesta !  Not  that  siesta  de- 
scribed by  Mr  Crawfurd,  when  you 
withdraw  into  the  darkness  of  some 
inner  chamber  to  escape  the  intol- 
erable nuisance  of  the  flies,  which 
are  always  most  lively  and  aggres- 
sive in  the  light ;  but  the  repose 
under  the  green  covering  of  the 
branches  when,  after  the  frugal 
mid -day  meal,  the  half -smoked 
cigar  slips  from  your  lips,  and 
when  you  are  lulled  to  sleep  by 
soporifics  in  the  hum  of  the  bees, 
and  the  balmy  fragrance  of  the 
oozing  resin. 

In  the  most  civilised  countries  of 
tourist-haunted  Europe,  the  beggar 
and  the  professional  showman  are 
prominent  figures  in  the  landscapes. 
In  Italy  the  mendicants  swarm  in 
every  gorge,  replacing  the  banditti 
who  have  been  hunted  down  by 
the  lersaglieri.  In  Switzerland 
they  beset  you  at  each  pass  and 
col,  whining  at  your  heels  as  you 
enter  the  villages  and  leave  them. 
Even  in  Germany,  where  "  the  beg- 
ging is  lam  strengsten  verboten,'" 
they  make  silent  appeals  while  the 
carriage  changes  horses,  and  limp 
nimbly  along  at  the  side  by  the 
fore -wheel,  where  they  have  you 
at  an  advantage  when  pulling  up 
a  steep.  In  the  rural  districts  of 
Portugal  there  is  no  nuisance  of  the 
kind.  An  excellent  system  of  vol- 
untary relief  generally  supersedes 
the  hard  imposition  of  our  poor- 
rates  :  the  country  is  decidedly 
under-populated,  and  the  peasants, 
for  the  most  part,  are  well  to  do. 
In  some  provinces  they  are  worse 
off  than  in  others  ;  but  everywhere 
they  are  well  fed  and  comfortably 
clothed ;  while  in  the  more  fertile 
and  populous  parts  of  the  north 
they  may  be  said  to  be  relatively 
rich.  What  should  we  think  of  a 
labourer  in  this  country  whose  wife 
carried  golden  ornaments  on  her 
person  of  a  Sunday  of  the  value  of 
from  £5  to  £20  ]  And  the  good- 


man  himself  has  his  gajfesta  cloth- 
ing, with  buttons  of  silver  on  glossy 
velveteen,  and  rejoices  in  the  dandy- 
ism of  a  spotless  white  shirt-front, 
lighted  up  by  a  gold  stud  in  the 
central  frill.  He  works  hard,  to 
be  sure  :  sometimes  his  toil,  in  the 
long  days  of  midsummer,  will  ex- 
tend to  sixteen  hours;  but  then, 
like  our  own  hard-working  colliers 
and  miners,  he  lives  uncommonly 
well.  He  can  even  afford  to  be 
something  of  an  epicure,  and  he 
rejoices  in  a  variety  of  diet  that 
our  labourers  might  well  envy.  His 
bill  of  fare  includes  beef  and  bacon, 
dried  cod-fish — which  is  the  com- 
mon delicacy  of  all  classes — lard, 
bread,  and  rice,  olives  and  olive- 
oil,  with  a  luxurious  profusion  of 
succulent  vegetables.  He  is  allow- 
ed gourds  and  cabbages  a  discretion, 
nor  can  anything  be  more  suitable 
to  a  sultry  climate.  And,  like  the 
Frenchman,  and  his  nearer  neigh- 
bour the  Spaniard,  he  is  always 
something  of  a  cook.  Not  that  he 
has  studied  refinements  of  cuisine  ; 
but  he  can  dress  the  simple  ingre- 
dients of  his  banquets  in  a  fashion 
that  is  inimitable  so  far  as  it  goes. 
The  belated  wayfarer,  who  is  asked 
to  sit  down  to  the  stew  that  has 
been  slowly  simmering  in  the  pip- 
kin over  the  embers — it  is,  in  fact, 
the  Spanish  olla  podrida  —  has, 
assuredly,  no  reason  to  complain. 
Then  his  wine,  though  it  is  "  green," 
and  potent,  and  heady,  and  only  to 
be  appreciated  by  one  born  to  the 
use  of  it,  is  infinitely  superior  to  the 
adulterated  beer  the  Englishman 
buys  at  the  village  "public."  As 
Mr  Crawfurd  remarks,  "  It  is  meat 
and  drink  to  him ;  and  while  its 
strength  recruits  exhausted  nature, 
its  acidity  is  most  grateful  to  the 
parched  palate." 

The  amateurs  of  strange  super- 
stitions will  find  them  in  abundance 
among  a  race  of  uneducated  rustics 
who  live  much  apart,  and  whose 
minds  are  naturally  tinged  by  the 


1880.] 


Country  Life  in  Portugal. 


sombre  character  of  their  surround- 
ings. The  peasant  who  drives  his 
ox-cart  in  the  dusk  through  the 
gloomy  shadows  of  the  pine-forest ; 
the  shepherd  who  sleeps  among  his 
flocks  in  the  bleak  solitudes  of  the 
mountains, — hear  wild  voices  in  the 
shrieks  and  sighings  of  the  wind, 
and  see  phantoms  in  the  waving  of 
the  boughs,  and  the  dashing  of  the 
waterfalls  down  the  rocks.  The 
belief  in  ghosts  is  very  general ; 
but  the  most  fantastic  of  the  prev- 
alent superstitions  is  that  of  the 
lobis-homem  or  icelirwolf.  It  is 
an  article  of  firm  faith  in  most 
rural  households,  that  there  are 
beings  who  are  doomed,  or  per- 
mitted by  the  powers  of  evil,  to 
transform  themselves  periodically 
into  wolves,  with  the  bloodthirsty 
instincts  of  the  animal.  Introduced 
into  the  service  of  some  unsuspect- 
ing family,  they  have  rare  oppor- 
tunities of  worrying  the  children. 
In  his  former  volume  of  'Travels 
in  Portugal,'  Mr  Crawfurd  gives 
one  most  characteristic  legend  of 
the  kind,  related  to  him  circum- 
stantially by  a  respectable  farmer. 
A  superstition  which  ought  to  be 
more  embarrassing  to  travellers, 
which  is  universal  in  oriental 
countries,  and  which  the  Portu- 
guese may  possibly  have  inherited 
from  the  Moors,  is  that  of  the  ex- 
istence of  hidden  treasures.  Archae- 
ological researches  would  probably 
be  set  down  to  a  hunt  after  buried 
gold,  in  which  the  stranger  was 
guided  by  supernatural  intelligence. 
And  it  must  be  remarked  that  the 
Portuguese  are  confirmed  in  that 
fancy  by  incidents  of  treasure-trove 
from  time  to  time.  It  is  an  un- 
doubted fact  that,  in  the  troubles  of 
the  country,  considerable  quantities 
of  valuables  were  concealed  by  fugi- 
tives who  never  came  back  to  re- 
claim them. 

A  thriving  and  representative 
class  in  Portugal  is  that  of  the 
small  landed  proprietors,  answer- 


ing to  our  yeomen,  and  ranking 
a  degree  or  two  above  the 
labourer.  In  the  length  of  a 
country  which  experiences  almost 
every  variety  of  climate,  from  the 
storm  -  swept  mountain  -  ranges  in 
the  north,  down  to  semi-tropical 
Algarve  on  the  Atlantic,  there 
are  several  different  systems  of 
land  -  tenure,  which  Mr  Crawfurd 
minutely  describes.  Among  the 
most  characteristic  of  these,  as 
he  says,  is  that  of  the  "emphy- 
teutic," under  which  copyholders, 
who  are  virtually  owners  of  the 
land,  sit  permanently  at  fixed  and 
moderate  quit-rents.  The  story  of 
their  tenure  is  a  curious  one — mix- 
ed up  as  it  is  with  the  history  of 
the  country.  Unfortunately  we 
cannot  go  into  it  in  detail;  but 
briefly,  it  is  the  legacy  of  the  pro- 
longed struggle  between  the  great 
land  -  owning  corporations  of  the 
Church  on  the  one  hand,  and  their 
tenants,  backed  up  by  the  Crown,  on 
the  other.  There  was  a  time  when 
those  small  farmers  were  ground 
down  by  extortionate  rack-rents, 
legal  fines,  and  arbitrary  exactions. 
Now  they  have  been  absolutely  re- 
lieved of  the  latter ;  while,  by  the 
steadily  increasing  value  of  the 
holdings,  the  rack-rents  have  been 
reduced  to  moderate  quit  -  rents. 
Take  them  all  in  all,  they  seem 
to  be  as  enviable  a  body  of  men 
as  agriculturists  of  similar  station 
anywhere.  But  assuredly  it  is 
not  their  enterprise  they  have  to 
thank  for  the  easy  circumstances 
that  often  amount  to  opulence. 
With  a  single  exception,  their  sys- 
tem of  farming  has  hardly  altered 
in  any  respect,  since  they  were 
liable,  at  any  moment,  to  be  called 
from  their  labours  to  repel  the  raids 
of  their  fierce  neighbours  beyond 
the  Spanish  frontier.  That  im- 
portant exception  is  the  introduc- 
tion of  maize,  which,  happening  to 
suit  both  the  soil  and  the  climate, 
has  materially  increased  the  value 


Country  Life  in  Portugal. 


[July 


of  their  produce.  As  for  the  im- 
plements of  husbandry  in  common 
use,  there  can  be  nothing  in  the 
country  more  interesting  to  the 
antiquarian  —  not  even  excepting 
the  Roman  remains,  which  have 
here  and  there  rewarded  the  in- 
vestigations of  archaeologists.  In 
fact,  the  ploughs,  harrows,  and  carts, 
have  been  handed  down  almost  un- 
altered from  generation  to  genera- 
tion, since  they  were  brought  from 
Italy  by  the  military  colonists  who 
followed  the  Imperial  eagles.  So, 
by  the  way,  the  grape-growing,  and 
the  making  of  the  wine  beyond  the 
limits  of  the  famous  districts  on  the 
Douro,  are  almost  a  repetition  of  pro- 
cesses in  use  in  Latium  when  Hor- 
ace used  to  amuse  himself  with  his 
Sabine  farming.  The  plough  has 
but  a  single  stilt,  and  neither  coulter 
nor  mould-board. 

"  The  harrow  is  also  of  the  rudest 
construction,  having  fifteen  to  twenty 
teeth  of  iron  or  wood  set  quincunx 
fashion  into  a  strong,  oblong,  square, 
wooden  framework  with  two  cross-bars. 
Eollers  are  unknown  ;  but  as  a  substi- 
tute the  harrow  can  be  reversed  and 
weighted  with  stones,  and  then  drawn 
sledge  wise  over  the  land." 

As  for  the  cart,  it  creaks  and  groans 
on  wheels  of  solid  wood,  without 
either  spoke  or  iron  tire,  which  are 
attached  to  the  axle  that  painfully  re- 
volves with  them.  The  "slow-mov- 
ing wain "  is  dragged  by  sluggish 
oxen,  yoked  by  the  neck,  and  some- 
times by  the  horns. 

The  conspicuous  feature  of  Por- 
tuguese farming  is  the  small  capital 
with  which  it  may  be  profitably 
carried  on.  The  husbandman  dis- 
penses with  drainage,  for  the  soil 
being  light  and  porous,  the  rainfall 
runs  off  only  too  quickly.  Though 
he  raises  cattle,  he  spends  nothing 
on  oilcake — the  animals,  which  are 
stall-fed  for  the  most  part,  seeming 
to  fatten  kindly  upon  straw.  As 
for  the  sheep,  they  are  driven  out 
to  the  hill-pastures ;  and  the  pig, 


though  as  popular  in  the  kitchen 
and  on  the  table,  as  it  is  polite- 
ly ignored  in  respectable  society, 
leaves  much  to  desire  in  point 
of  breeding.  But  if  the  bones  are 
big  and  the  bristles  coarse,  com- 
pared to  our  own  "  Hampshires  " 
and  "  Berkshires,"  that  is  of  the 
less  consequence  that  the  pork  is 
reserved  for  home  consumption. 
When  the  Portuguese  does  spend 
some  money,  it  is  on  indispensable 
irrigation  works,  and  these  are  sim- 
ple. He  leads  the  water  on  to  his 
land  through  adits  driven  into  the 
springs  in  the  hills ;  or  pumps  it  up 
in  the  circle  of  buckets  attached  to 
the  primitive  wheel.  In  most  of 
the  more  level  low-country  districts 
maize  is  the  staple  article  of  growth, 
being  often  mixed  in  the  sowing 
with  some  other  cereal  or  vegetable. 
The  chief  secret  of  the  farmer's 
easy  prosperity  is  in  his  being  able 
to  set  our  rules  of  rotation  at  defi- 
ance. Year  after  year,  in  the  sum- 
mer heats,  the  same  land  may  be 
sown  with  the  remunerative  maize. 
He  manages  this  upon  shallow  soil 
that  is  naturally  the  reverse  of  rich, 
by  the  use  of  two  "  simples,"  to 
borrow  the  phrase  of  the  blacksmith 
who  interviewed  Sir  "Walter  Scott 
when  the  poet  visited  Flodden 
Field;  and  these  simples,  in  his 
case,  are  water  and  home-made  man- 
ure. The  fertilising  effects  of  water 
on  friable  soil  under  a  semi-tropical 
sun  are  extraordinary  (we  have 
seen  flourishing  market-gardens  in 
the  environs  of  Alexandria  on  what 
seemed  to  be  nothing  but  desert 
sand  intermixed  with  the  dust  of 
crumbling  masonry),  and  the  land 
is  enriched  by  a  manner  of  manur- 
ing altogether  peculiar  to  Portugal. 
Mr  Crawfurd  believes  it  "  to  be  the 
solution  of  the  problem  of  the  con- 
tinuous corn-cropping,"  and  thinks 
the  idea  might  possibly  be  turned 
to  some  account  by  our  own  agricul- 
turists. The  straw  is  almost  en- 
tirely used  for  cattle-food.  The 


1880.] 


Country  Life  in  Portugal. 


57 


litter  "  is  supplied  by  dried  gorse, 
heather,  and  the  various  wild  plants, 
such  as  bracken,  cistus,  rock-rose, 
bent-grass,  and  wild  vetches,  which 
usually  grow  in  their  company." 
Most  farmers  have  a  patch  of  wild 
forest-land  in  the  neighbourhood; 
in  other  eases  they  have  rights  of 
cutting.  The  decaying  manure 
made  from  that  litter  is  extra- 
ordinarily potent,  thanks  to  the 
power  of  the  twigs  and  stems  in 
absorbing  gases  and  moisture  ;  while 
the  economy  of  a  plan  is  self-evi- 
dent, by  which  all  the  straw  grown 
on  the  land  is  returned  to  it. 

But  while  everywhere  in  the 
more  carefully  cultivated  districts 
you  come  on  those  snug  peasant 
homesteads,  there  is  no  such  thing 
to  be  seen  as  the  counterpart  of 
the  English  hall  or  manor-house. 
The  Portuguese  gentleman  is  em- 
phatically a  Cockney,  and  a  Cock- 
ney of  limited  education  and  ideas. 
Having  few  mental  resources,  and 
no  special  taste  for  rural  pursuits, 
he  likes  society  in  towns  where  he 
can  take  life  easily  among  his  equals. 
The  great  nobles  who  own  wide 
tracts  of  territory,  which  are  rough- 
ly farmed  either  by  bailiffs  or  by 
tenants  who  go  shares  with  the 
proprietors  in  the  produce,  have 
their  palaces  in  the  capital  or  the 
great  cities.  Moreover,  there  are 
many  mansions  of  no  small  preten- 
sions in  the  provincial  towns  still 
inhabited  by  the  representatives  of 
old  families  in  decay.  The  soldiers 
of  fortune  and  the  successful  adven- 
turers, who  went  to  push  their  for- 
tunes in  the  Brazils  and  the  Indies, 
often  came  back  with  considerable 
wealth.  Being  generally  men  of  hum- 
ble origin,  they  did  not  care  to  repair 
with  their  fortunes  to  Lisbon,  where 
they  would  have  been  eclipsed  and 
looked  down  upon  by  the  ancient  no- 
bility. They  preferred  to  settle  in 
the  smaller  towns,  where  they  might 
become  personages  of  consequence, 
and  where  money  went  a  long  way. 


So  their  descendants  are  still  to  be 
found,  having  taken  rank  with  the 
aristocracy  in  course  of  generations, 
and  forming  so  many  out-of-the- 
world  societies.  Yet  any  change 
from  those  dead-alive  places  is  wel- 
come at  the  dullest  season  of  the 
year,  when  the  towns  become  in- 
tolerably hot ;  and  the  Portuguese 
are  fond  of  playing-  at  farming  in 
their  villegiatura,  when  the  country 
is  most  pleasant  in  late  summer  and 
autumn.  The  life  within  doors  is 
rough  enough,  and,  in  fact,  turns 
into  a  perpetual  picnic,  where  the 
inconveniences  are  faced  with  un- 
failing good-humour.  As  Mr  Craw- 
furd  describes  it,  the  Portuguese 
gentleman's  country-seat  must  be 
much  like  those  villas  in  the  Ap- 
ennines, where  the  bare  bedcham- 
bers open  from  a  bleak  central  hall, 
and  the  scanty  furniture,  though 
solid  in  its  build,  is  nevertheless 
become  rickety  with  the  wear  of 
generations.  But  then,  except  for 
purposes  of  sleeping  and  eating,  one 
is  almost  independent  of  roof  and 
walls.  Are  you  not  beneath  skies 
of  unchanging  serenity  1  while  you 
may  lounge  and  laugh  away  your 
existence  in  sunshine  that  is  tem- 
pered by  the  trellised  shades  of  in- 
tertwining vine-tendrils  and  luxu- 
riant climbing-plants.  Like  Bottom 
and  his  comrades  in  the  "  Midsum- 
mer Night's  Dream,"  you  may  make 
each  green  brake  your  retiring,  if 
not  your  tiring,  room.  Mr  Craw- 
furd  professes  to  avoid  picturesque 
description,  and,  indeed,  he  deals 
in  it  only  too  charily.  So  for  once 
we  extract  one  of  his  very  occasional 
pictures,  painting  the  surroundings 
of  a  villa  of  the  highest  class. 

"As  in  the  case  of  the  smaller 
villas,  the  house  is  connected  with  a 
farm,  and  the  grounds  and  garden 
mingle  in  the  same  pleasant  fashion 
With  the  appurtenances  of  the  farm- 
stead. A  long,  straight,  over-arching 
avenue  of  camellia  and  Seville  orange 
trees  terminates  in  a  broad,  paved 


58 


Country  Life  in  Portugal. 


[July 


threshing-floor.  In  a  little  dell  below 
the  house,  under  a  dense  shadow  of 
fig  and  loquat  trees,  is  the  huge  water- 
wheel  worked  by  six  oxen,  and  raising 
a  little  river  from  the  depths  below. 
The  terraced  fields,  the  orange  and 
olive  groves,  and  the  orchards,  are  all 
surrounded  by  broad  walks,  over- 
shadowed by  a  heavy  pleached  trellis 
supporting  vines,  and  here  in  the  hot- 
test summer  day  is  cool  walking  in 
the  grey  half-shadow  of  the  grapery 
overhead.  Rivulets  of  water  course 
along  in  stone  channels  by  the  side  of 
every  path  and  roadway,  and  the  mur- 
mur of  running  waters  —  a  sound  of 
which  the  ear  never  tires  in  the  South 
— is  heard  everywhere  and  always." 

Those  villas  are  so  many  Gen- 
eralifes  on  a  small  scale, — and  any 
one  who  has  passed  some  days  at 
Grenada  in  the  hot  season,  must 
remember  the  oriental  fascinations 
of  that  delicious  retreat.  Like  the 
Generalife,  the  grander  of  those  Por- 
tuguese Edens  have  their  grounds, 
with  terraces  and  balustraded 
walks,  fish-ponds,  and  falling  foun- 
tains. Acclimatisation  has  been  at 
work  embellishing  the  gardens ;  and 
Mr  Crawfurd  remarks  how  Portugal 
has  been  beautified  by  the  exotics 
imported  from  her  colonies  and 
elsewhere,  which  have  taken  kindly 
to  a  congenial  climate.  None  of 
these  ornamental  importations  have 
the  value  of  the  homely  maize,  but 
they  add  a  rare  glory  to  the  beauti- 
ful landscapes. 

"Camellias  from  Japan  have  long 
been  the  chief  ornament  of  every  gar- 
den, growing  to  the  size  of  apple-trees 
in  England.  The  loquat  from  China 
surpasses,  as  a  giver  of  shade,  the  fig 
itself.  .  .  .  The  gum-trees  of  Aus- 
tralia, and  especially  the  blue -gum 
(Eucalyptus  globulus,  the  fever-tree), 
have  positively  altered  the  aspect  of 
the  more  inhabited  parts  of  the  coun- 
try within  the  last  twenty  years,  so 
that  a  modern  painter,  to  make  a 
characteristic  landscape,  must  needs 
introduce  into  the  picture  this  species 
of  gum-tree,  with  its  slender,  polished 
trunk,  its  upright  branch  -  growth 
against  the  sky-line,  and  its  long 
drooping  leaves,  rich  in  winter  time, 


with  a  mellow  splendour  of  russet  red 
and  yellow. 

"  Again,  there  is  the  Bella  sombra, 
a  large  forest-tree  from  Brazil,  which 
has  taken  most  kindly  to  Portuguese 
soil  and  climate  ;  but  finest  of  the  im- 
ported trees  is  the  great  -  flowered 
magnolia  from  Carolina  and  Central 
America — a  forest  giant  in  its  native 
lands,  and  where  it  finds  a  damp  and 
congenial  soil,  nothing  less  in  si/e  in 
this  country.  The  age  of  the  very 
oldest  magnolia  in  Portugal  cannot 
exceed  a  hundred  and  twenty  years, 
and  yet  already  some  of  them  tower  to 
a  height  exceeding  that  of  the  tallest 
English  oak-tree,  rearing  aloft  huge 
clouds  of  shining,  laurel-like  leafage, 
starred  here  and  there  in  spring  and 
summer  time  with  their  great  white 
and  scented  blossoms." 

So  when  the  Portuguese  go  to  the 
country  in  the  autumn,  they  go  to 
lay  in  health  for  the  rest  of  the 
year.  They  carry  no  books  with 
them  —  indeed  they  have  few  to 
bring — and  the  precarious  arrival 
of  the  post  is  a  matter  of  serene  in- 
difference. They  lounge  away  the 
long  day  out  of  doors,  in  those 
glorious  natural  shrubberies,  in  their 
gardens,  vineyards,  oliveyards,  and 
orangeries.  It  is  a  somewhat  tame 
life,  though  a  healthy  one,  for  its 
pleasures,  such  as  they  are,  are 
strictly  confined  to  the  home-circle. 
It  is  not  the  fashion  to  fill  the 
houses  with  young  men  to  flirt 
and  play  lawn -tennis  with  the 
daughters  of  the  household;  and 
to  bright -eyed  beauties  it  must 
seem  an  abuse  of  the  blessings  of 
Providence  to  sit  alone,  or  in  the 
company  of  father  and  brother, 
in  the  scented  bowers  of  those 
umbrageous  magnolias.  But  there 
are  occasions  when  the  head  of  the 
family  forgathers  with  his  friends 
and  neighbours.  The  Portuguese 
landed  proprietor  is  a  sportsman  in 
his  way,  and  gets  up  battues  in 
the  peculiar  fashion  of  his  country. 
There  are  districts  where  the 
wolves  which  haunt  the  forests  go 
about  on  the  prowl  in  the  winter 


1880." 


Country  Life  in  Portugal. 


r>9 


snows,  and  they  are  excessively  de- 
structive to  the  flocks  in  the  lamb- 
ing season.  They  kill  more  than 
they  carry  away,  and  worry  out  of 
pure  mischief.  And  it  might  be 
well  worth  while  to  get  up  a  grand 
hunt,  such  as  is  common  in  the 
woodlands  of  Brittany,  to  which 
the  whole  country  rallies  en  masse, 
armed  promiscuously  with  anything 
from  rifles  to  horse  -  pistols.  Mr 
Crawfurd  does  not  describe  any- 
thing of  that  kind;  and  his  sporting 
pictures  savour  so  much  of  carica- 
ture, that  he  has  to  make  solemn 
attestation  to  their  general  fidel- 
ity. The  Portuguese  has  excellent 
pointers  of  the  stanch  old  Penin- 
sular breed,  but  he  cares  little  for 
solitary  shooting  over  dogs.  What 
he  likes  is  a  great  sporting  funcion, 
where  at  least  he  is  sure  of  plenty 
of  fun  and  joviality.  "  His  motto, 
if  he  have  one,  is,  the  greatest 
amusement  of  the  greatest  number 
(of  men  and  dogs) ;  .  .  .  and 
to  the  sportsman's  motto  must  be 
added,  with  the  least  possible  ex- 
penditure of  game"  The  covers 
ought  to  be  excellent;  there  is 
every  variety  of  wood  and  under- 
growth ;  but  as,  apparently,  there  is 
no  law  of  trespass,  and  as  any  one 
may  carry  a  gun  who  takes  out  a 
ten-shilling  licence,  naturally  there 
is  no  superabundance  of  game.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  liberality  of 
Portuguese  ideas  makes  anything  a 
prize  that  can  be  brought  to  bag, 
from  a  fox  or  hare  down  to  a  black- 
bird. 

A  dozen  or  so  of  gentlemen  tui'n 
up  at  the  meeting-place.  Half  of 
them  are  equipped  with  firearms — 
generally  the  cheapest  productions 
of  Liege  or  Birmingham ;  the  other 
half  are  provided  with  quarter- 
staves.  The  pack  is  a  more  mixed 
lot  than  the  masters — made  up  of 
"  lurchers,  terriers,  greyhounds,  and 
even  pointers." 

"  In  a  long  and  irregular,  line  we 
range  though  the  great  pine-forests  or 


the  chestnut  woods,  poking  our  sticks 
into  the  matted  gorse  and  cistus, 
banging  the  tree-trunks  with  resound- 
ing blows  that  echo  among  the  hollow 
forest  aisles.  The  dogs  hunt  a  little  ; 
wrangle,  bark,  and  fight  a  good  deal, 
and  would  do  so  still  more  but  for  the 
occasional  flight  in  their  midst  of  a 
well-directed  cow-stick." 

A  special  providence  seems  to 
throw  its  protection  over  the  party, 
otherwise  there  could  hardly  fail  to 
be  an  accident  in  the  heavy  cross- 
firing,  when  anything  happens  to 
be  started  or  flushed.  It  is  true, 
those  incidents  are  rare  enough,  but 
then  they  are  all  the  more  thrill- 
ing when  they  do  happen.  Now 
a  woodcock  will  get  up,  or  an  owl 
that  is  mistaken  for  a  cock.  Now 
it  is  a  fox  that  presents  an  easier 
mark  ;  but  the  most  common  ob- 
jects of  excitement  are  the  rab- 
bits, which  in  size  seem  to  resemble 
the  English  rat.  The  odds  are 
rather  against  the  more  lumbering 
hares  getting  away,  since  they 
have  to  clear  the  jaws  of  the  mon- 
grel pack  that  are  ranging  every- 
where around,  and  may  probably 
be  caught  and  "  chopped  "  in  the 
thickets.  Not  that  it  makes  the 
smallest  difference  to  the  dogs, 
who  are  equally  keen  upon  the 
hares  alive  or  dead.  You  must  be 
quick  indeed  if  you  are  to  secure 
the  unmangled  carcass  of  hare  or 
rabbit  that  has  dropped  to  the 
volleys, — so  much  so,  that  stout 
needles  and  pack-thread  are  a  recog- 
nised part  of  the  sportsman's 
equipment.  The  tattered  fragments 
of  the  game  are  rescued  from  the 
pack  by  a  free  use  of  expostula- 
tions and  quarter-staves ;  and  then 
they  are  cleverly  stitched  to- 
gether and  deposited  in  a  bag 
brought  for  the  purpose.  It  is  a 
primitive  way  of  amusing  one's  self, 
and  scarcely  salon  Jes  regies,  accord- 
ing to  our  English  notions.  But 
foreigners  are  radicals  in  matters 
of  sport ;  and  after  all,  when 
healthful  recreation  is  the  main 


CO 


Country  Life  in  Portugal. 


[July 


object,  there  may  be  more  \vays 
than  one  of  arriving  at  it.  Some 
people  might  say  that  there  was 
more  of  manly  amusement  in  a  long 
day's  ranging  through  the  wild 
forest,  than  in  firing  point-blank 
at  home-bred  hares,  and  potting  the 
simple  hand-fed  pheasants,  -which 
have  been  beguiled  into  a  fond 
faith  in  man's  humanity.  In  Eng- 
land, the  "  big  days  "  usually  come 
off  at  a  season  when  you  may  be 
soaked,  or  chilled  to  the  bone,  as 
you  stand  kicking  your  heels  in 
the  mud  at  the  cover-corners.  In 
Portugal,  you  are  exhilarated  by 
the  buoyant  atmosphere,  and  by 
the  fresh  aromatic  odours  of  the 
flowering  shrubs  that  fill  the  air 
with  balmy  fragrance  as  you  crush 
them  under  your  feet. 

The  chapter  in  which  Mr  Craw- 
furd  sings  the  praises  of  port  will 
have  a  charm  for  many  a  venerable 
bon  vivant.  It  is  a  valuable  con- 
tribution to  the  history  of  a  wine 
which  has  had  extraordinary  ups 
and  downs  in  popular  estimation. 
Among  the  many  extremely  sug- 
gestive points  which  he  makes,  is 
one  relating  to  the  famous  vintage 
of  1820.  A  proof  it  is,  as  he  tells 
the  story,  of  the  short-sighted  vision 
of  the  most  intelligent  experts. 
Growers  and  merchants  hailed  that 
memorable  year  as  one  that  must 
spread  the  reputation  of  their  wares, 
as  it  went  far  towards  making  some 
handsome  fortunes.  Never  had 
they  shipped  more  luscious  wine ; 
and  it  had  all  the  qualities  that 
improve  with  keeping.  It  "  was 
as  sweet  as  syrup,  and  nearly  as 
black  as  ink ;  it  was  full  of  natu- 
rally-formed alcohol,  and  of  all  the 
vinous  constituents,  most  of  them 
far  beyond  the  analysis  of  the 
ablest  chemist,  which  go  to  make 
of  wine  a  liquor  differing  from  all 
other  liquors."  But  its  brilliant 
merits  actually  compromised  the 
growers,  by  introducing  their  best 
customers  to  an  exceptional  standard 


of  excellence.  Thenceforward  would- 
be  connoisseurs  insisted  upon  a 
dark,  sweet,  and  slightly  spirituous 
wine  before  everything ;  and  the 
genuine  vintages  of  the  Douro  are 
ordinarily  of  a  bright  ruby  tint. 
So  the  merchants  had  to  doctor  to 
suit  the  market ;  though  Mr  Craw- 
furd  maintains,  as  a  matter  within 
his  knowledge,  that  the  doctoring 
was  always  done  as  innocuously 
as  possible.  Logwood  was  never 
used,  for  the  simple  reason  that  it 
is  a  dye  that  would  not  answer  the 
purpose.  Dried  elder-berries  were 
employed";  but  the  elder-berry  is 
harmless  ;  and  brandy  was  infused 
more  freely  than  before,  in  order  to 
check  the  fermentation  of  the  must. 
But  those  who  object  to  the  intro- 
duction of  such  foreign  elements  as 
elder-berries,  may  take  comfort  from 
the  information  that  they  are  gone 
out  of  use  with  a  change  in  the 
fashion.  The  traditions  of  the  1820 
wine,  with  its  more  or  less  spurious 
imitations,  have  been  steadily  dying 
out;  and  now  the  public  are  con- 
tent with  port  of  the  natural  garnet 
colour.  And  if  they  do  desire 
to  have  it  darker,  it  is  found 
that,  in  practice  "  there  is  a  much 
cheaper  dye  and  a  far  more  beauti- 
ful one  always  at  hand  in  Portugal ; 
it  is  the  natural  colour  of  the  darker 
varieties  of  the  port- wine  grape." 
In  short,  as  Mr  Crawfurd  sums  up 
— and  we  must  refer  our  readers  to 
his  pages  for  his  full  argument — 
"  port  wine  is  pure,  because  there 
is  nothing  so  cheap  as  port  wine 
itself  to  adulterate  it  with."  We 
can  only  add,  that  we  should  find 
more  satisfaction  in  his  assurances 
had  we  less  belief  in  the  malevo- 
lent ingenuity  of  the  chemical  ex- 
perts of  Cette  and  Hamburg.  The 
wines  that  are  shipped  from  Oporto 
may  be  pure,  but  who  shall  answer 
for  the  ports  of  the  ordinary  dinner- 
table] 

A  word   as  to  Portuguese   inns 
and  we  are  done,  though  perhaps 


1380.] 


Country  Life  in  Portugal. 


61 


they  might  have  been  brought  in 
more  naturally  in  the  prologue  than 
in  the  epilogue.  And  as  to  these,  we 
may  remark,  that  either  they  or 
else  the  opinion  of  the  author  must 
have  changed  considerably  for  the 
better  since  he  wrote  his  '  Travels 
in  Portugal.'  But  from  the  facts 
he  gives,  we  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  even  in  the  small  towns  in  the 
more  out-of-the-way  provinces,  the 
traveller  can  have  no  great  reason 
to  complain.  Even  now  he  tells 
us  that,  comfort,  after  the  ideal 
of  it  which  we  have  come  to  form 
in  England,  is  not  to  be  found  in 
these  inns — the  comfort,  that  is, 
which  consists  in  neatness,  warmth, 
bright  hearths,  plenty  of  carpets 
and  arm-chairs,  soft  beds,  bustling 
waiters,  attentive  porters,  and  smart 
chamber-maids."  But  then,  in  a 
hot  climate,  warmth,  heavy  car- 
pets that  harbour  vermin,  and  soft 
beds  in  which  you  sink  and  swelter, 
are  very  far  from  being  so  desirable 
as  when  you  have  been  shivering  in 
chilly  English  fogs.  After  a  rough 
day  passed  in  the  sunshine  on  horse- 
back, though  a  cushioned  elbow- 
chair  might  be  a  luxury,  it  is  by  no 
means  indispensable.  "With  com- 
parative coolness  under  cover,  you 
can  sleep  soundly  anywhere  ;  and 
the  appetite,  sharpened  by  riding,  is 
independent  of  elaborate  cookery. 
But  really  the  menu  of  a  Portuguese 
bill  of  fare,  which  you  can  command 
at  five  minutes'  notice  anywhere,  is 
by  no  means  unappetising. 

"  First  they  "  (the  travellers)  "  will 
have  soup — a  thin  consommS  of  beef, 
with  rice,  cabbage,  and  probably  peas, 
floating  in  it.  This  is  followed  by  the 
piece  of  beef  and  the  little  piece  of 
bacon  which  have  made  the  soup ;  and 
as  the  soup  is  served  up  very  hot,  so 
is  some  degree  of  variety  skilfully  ob- 
tained by  the  bouilli  always  being  half 
cold.  Then  follow  several  indescrib- 
able stews,  very  good  to  eat,  but  in- 
scrutable as  to  their  ingredients.  After 
this,  when  one  has  ceased  to  expect  it, 


comes  fish  broiled— almost  alwayshake, 
which  in  Portuguese  waters  feeds  on 
sardines,  and  is,  therefore,  a  better  fish 
than  our  British  hake,  which  feeds  less 
daintily ;  then  rice  made  savoury  with 
gravy  and  herbs ;  after  that  come 
beefes— a  dish  fashionable  in  all  parts 
of  Portugal,  and  in  whose  name  the 
Portuguese  desire  to  do  homage  to  our 
great  nation — the  word  being  a  cor- 
ruption of  '  beef-steaks,'  and  the  tiling 
itself  quite  as  unlike  what  it  imitates 
as  its  name.  Then  follow,  in  an  order 
with  which  I  cannot  charge  my  mem- 
ory, sweet  things,  chiefly  made  of  rice  ; 
the  dinner  invariably  ending  with  a 
preserve  of  quince." 

He  must  be  fastidious  indeed 
who  cannot  make  a  tolerable  meal 
off  such  a  variety  of  satisfying  fare  ; 
and  the  traveller  who  is  too  curious 
as  to  the  ingredients  of  his  en- 
trees, has  mistaken  his  vocation, 
and  should  have  stayed  quietly  at 
home.  The  lofty,  bare,  cool  salon 
from  which  the  sun  has  been  exclud- 
ed by  thick  wooden  shutters,  is,  as 
Mr  Crawfurd  observes,  wonderfully 
soothing  to  the  spirits  when  eye 
and  brain  have  been  strained  in 
the  sun-glare;  and  exercise  in  the 
air  is  the  surest  of  soporifics,  even 
when  one  is  condemned  to  lie  down 
on  a  paillasse  of  straw.  It  is  true 
that  Portuguese  sociability  shows 
itself  in  its  most  disagreeable  aspect 
when  a  cheery  society  will  prolong 
their  conversation  through  the 
small  hours  in  a  suite  of  dormi- 
tories that  are  divided  by  the  most 
flimsy  of  screens.  But  mischances 
like  these  may  happen  to  any 
tourist ;  and  when  wandering  in  a 
country  as  interesting  as  Portugal, 
he  must  be  content  to  accept  the 
rough  with  the  smooth.  Upon  the 
whole,  the  latter  decidedly  prepon- 
derates; and  if  he  get  over  the 
initial  difficulty  of  the  language, 
and  provide  himself  with  introduc- 
tions to  the  warm-hearted  native?, 
we  know  not  where,  within  easy 
reach  of  England,  he  could  pass  an 
autumn  holiday  more  profitably. 


G2 


School  and  College. 


[July 


SCHOOL    AND    COLLEGE. 


AT  the  present  moment  when 
so  much  importance  is  given  to 
education,  and  when  the  new-fang- 
led ways  of  school  boards  and  com- 
pulsory instruction  stir  up  so  many 
resistances,  and  originate  so  many 
petty  grievances  throughout  the 
country,  without  yet  having  had 
time  to  show  whether  or  not  their 
real  advantage  is  equal  to  the  mo- 
mentary harm  which  can  some- 
times he  traced  to  them,  it  is  inter- 
esting and  instructive  to  turn  to 
a  much  older  and  long-established 
system — invented  many  hundred 
years  before  the  school  boards,  and 
which  far  more  intimately  concerns 
the  bulk  of,  for  example,  the  read- 
ers of  '  Maga,'  than  any  popular 
system,  the  design  of  which  is  to 
force  the  children  of  the  poor  into 
a  reluctant  acquaintance  with  the 
three  standards,  or  the  three  E's, 
if  the  public  pleases, — the  system 
under  which  boys  are  trained  for 
the  highest  offices  of  the  State,  and 
for  the  functions  of  the  higher  order 
in  the  social  hierarchy  of  England. 
This  system  is  not  new — it  is  not 
a  matter  of  theory,  but  of  fact ;  it 
has  its  history  running  over  hun- 
dreds of  years,  both  for  good  and 
evil.  It  is  like  England  itself,  a 
growth  of  centuries,  and,  like  the 
British  Constitution,  built  upon 
all  kinds  of  expedients  and  com- 
promises. It  has  evolved  itself, 
not  out  of  a  fertile  brain,  but  out 
of  the  slow  progress  of  the  ages, 
changing  reluctantly,  yet  yielding 
a  little  to  every  new  wave  of  moral 
pressure.  Such  a  great  school  as 
Eton,  for  example,  is  an  illustra- 
tion less  of  any  theoretical  system 
than  of  the  manner  in  which  the 
English  mind  resists,  yet  follows, 
the  greater  tide  of  intelligence,  lying 
quiescent  if  not  stagnant  as  long  as 


national  feeling  permits  ;  rarely  tak- 
ing any  lead  in  mental  progress,  but 
yet  never  long  behind  in  any  re- 
volution. The  difference  between 
our  method  of  training  our  own 
sons,  and  those  which  we  think  it 
right  to  adopt  for  the  children  of 
the  people,  is  very  curious.  Eor  the 
latter,  every  new  innovation  is  taken 
into  consideration,  schemes  of  all 
kinds  for  the  forming  of  the  intel- 
ligence, and  for  the  breaking  down 
into  digestible  form  of  the  masses 
of  information  with  which  it  is  the 
mission  of  the  age  to  gorge  its 
young ;  while  for  the  former,  we 
cling  tenaciously  to  the  old  me- 
thods, and  keep  fast  hold  upon  the 
old  lore  with  as  little  admixture 
as  possible.  In  all  this  there  is  a 
perversity  which  is  almost  paradox- 
ical— since,  if  any  system  could 
be  perfected  by  wealth,  by  leisure, 
by  long  assurance  of  superiority 
and  tranquil  possession,  it  ought  to 
be  the  public-school  system  of  Eng- 
land, which  yet  remains,  in  its 
chief  lines,  very  much  what  it  was 
at  the  period  of  its  establishment ; 
whereas  in  the  new  system  of 
popular  primary  instruction,  we 
anxiously  seek  every  modern  im- 
provement, and  study  as  a  duty  the 
best  and  most  improved  methods 
of  conveying  information. 

Let  us  consider,  for  instance, 
what  would  be  the  fate  in  our  new 
schemes  of  such  an  institution  as 
Latin  verse.  After  centuries  of 
examples  to  prove  that  this  ex- 
ercise is  a  torture  to  the  soul  of 
youth,  without  any  compensating 
advantage  save  in  a  very  few  cases, 
Latin  verse  still  holds  its  place  tri- 
umphantly as  part  of  the  work 
of  every  lad  who  goes  through 
a  correct  classical  education.  It 
has  been  fought  over  from  gen- 


1880.] 


School  and  College. 


C3 


eration  to  generation.  Fathers 
and  grandfathers  who  have  heen 
subjected  to  its  laborious  process, 
with,  they  know  best,  how  little 
efficacy,  not  only  permit,  but  pre- 
fer that  their  boys  should  continue 
the  same  exercise  which  had  brought 
themselves  so  much  woe.  But  in 
their  parish  schools  they  would  put 
a  stop  to  any  similar  infliction  with 
indignant  promptitude ;  or  if  they 
stood  for  a  moment  in  doubt  on 
the  subject,  would  be  assailed  with 
correspondence  in  the  newspapers 
full  of  indignation  and  complaint. 
So  it  is  that  while  we  thus  take 
all  the  pains  we  can,  sometimes 
officiously,  fussily,  with  more  zeal 
than  discretion,  for  the  comple- 
tion and  improvement  of  those  pro- 
cesses by  which  the  children  of 
the  people  are  to  be  drilled  into 
the  primary  rules  of  knowledge,  we 
are  as  little  satisfied  as  ever,  and 
as  little  perfect  as  ever  in  the  system 
which  trains  our  own  successors, — 
the  generation  which  is  to  rule  the 
world  after  us,  and  lead  its  thought 
— or  which,  at  least,  we  hope  will 
do  so,  unless  the  revolutionary  prin- 
ciples which  alarm  some  of  us  should 
be  more  swift  in  their  working  than 
any  of  us  divine  or  reckon  upon. 
The  public  schools  have  been  dis- 
cussed lately  in  several  contempo- 
rary publications  with  more  or  less 
censure  and  praise — but  scarcely 
any  of  their  various  critics  have 
expressed  real  satisfaction  with 
them,  or  any  conviction  that  their 
methods  were  of  essential  excellence. 
We  are  told  that  the  boys  lead  a 
happy  life ;  that  those  who  will 
learn  may  learn,  though  those  who 
will  not,  cannot  be  compelled  to  do 
so ;  that,  on  the  whole,  the  work- 
ing is  improved  and  the  standard 
higher  than  might  have  been  ex- 
pected :  but  no  one  ventures  to 
say  that  the  system  is  perfect,  or 
that  the  highest  attainable  level  is 
reached.  We  boast  that  the  new 


patches  which  we  have  put  on  the 
old  garment  show  what  excellent 
stuff  the  old  fabric  was  to  sustain 
these  new  and  alien  incorporations  ; 
and  fling  up  our  caps  and  hurrah 
for  the  old  school  which  has  be- 
come scientific  without  ceasing  to 
be  classical,  and  adopted  the  new 
without  giving  up  the  old.  How  it 
has  mollified  the  Cerberus  of  science 
by  cunning  sops — adding  museums, 
observatories,  nay,  even  workshops, 
without  relinquishing  one  scrap  of 
Latin  composition ;  and  how,  with 
all  its  additions  and  postscripts,  it 
is  still  the  same  place  in  which 
we  defied  all  the  powers  of  peda- 
gogy to  put  more  than  the  small- 
est amount  of  information  —  little 
Latin  and  less  Greek — into  our  own 
brains, — is  a  subject  of  general  tri- 
umph. Commissioners  have  sat  up- 
on the  subject,  and  witnesses  have 
been  examined,  and  reports  written 
— but  at  bottom  we  do  not  believe 
that  there  is  any  real  desire  in  the 
mind  of  the  upper  classes  in  Eng- 
land to  reform  the  constitution  of 
the  public  schools. 

Now  and  then,  however,  a  storm 
rises  in  one  of  our  great  educational 
institutions.  A  small  boy,  who  has 
been  over-disciplined  for  his  good 
by  his  schoolboy  superior,  is  so  lost 
to  all  the  traditions  of  the  school  as 
to  cry  out  lustily  and  rouse  his  pa- 
rents and  the  public ;  or,  at  another 
time,  it  is  a  college  fray,  suddenly 
throwing  open  the  noisy  world  of 
undergraduate  life,  and  calling  the 
attention  of  the  world  to  the  fact 
that  young  men  are  as  silly  as  boys, 
though,  unfortunately,  beyond  the 
reach  of  flogging,  and  put  their 
governors  to  sore  shifts  to  know 
how  to  punish  and  restrain  them. 
These  two  cases  are  yet  fresh  in 
the  public  mind.  The  last  has  not 
yet  ceased  to  be  a  subject  of  lively 
conversation,  though,  happily,  the 
newspapers  have  had  enough  of  it ; 
and  it  is  so  far  more  important  than 


G-t 


School  and  College. 


[July 


the  other,  that  it  has  thrown  the 
most  uncomfortable  light  upon  the 
helplessness  of  university  authori- 
ties, and  the  difficulties  for  which 
they  seem  to  have  found  no  solu- 
tion. The  difficulties  of  the  school 
boards  are  bad  enough.  Whether 
a  child  which  is  doing  essential 
service  to  its  parents  and  family, 
either  by  taking  charge  of  its 
younger  brothers  and  sisters,  or  by 
actually  earning  money  to  aid  the 
family  pittance,  ought  to  be  forcibly 
removed  from  those  high  uses  to  be 
crammed  with  reading  and  'rith- 
metic,  is  a  hard  problem.  But,  at 
all  events,  for  the  moment  it  is 
encountered  with  dauntless  courage 
and  a  high  hand — and  is  solved 
arbitrarily,  whether  for  good  or  evil. 
On  the  higher  levels  we  scarcely 
venture  on  the  same  trenchant  prac- 
tice. Nobody  is  bold  ;  and  when 
matters  are  perhaps  once  in  a  way 
carried  with  a  high  hand,  the  heart 
fails  after  the  hand  has  smitten, 
and  the  sudden  stroke  is  healed 
with  anodyne  plasters  before  it  has 
had  time  to  work. 

Both  school  and  college  are, 
however,  put  unofficially  upon  their 
trial  every  time  that  any  scandal 
occurs  in  either ;  and  the  same 
lines  of  attack  and  of  defence  are 
followed  without  much  result.  We 
do  not  hope  to  be  much  more  suc- 
cessful than  our  neighbours  in  the 
discussion  of  these  questions  ;  and 
yet  there  are  some  practical  lights 
to  be  thrown  on  the  subject  which 
we  think  worth  consideration. 
School  is  the  point  upon  which 
both  attack  and  defence  are  most 
easy,  and  on  that  we  will  limit  our- 
selves to  description,  taking  Eton 
as  the  example  of  the  public 
school.  It  has  .the  advantage  or 
disadvantage  of  being,  in  point  of 
numbers,  the  greatest  of  English 
schools ;  perhaps,  we  may  add,  in 
point  of  social  influence  and  import- 
ance also.  It  is  more  largely  repre- 


sented in  the  ranks  of  the  govern- 
ing classes,  in  Parliament — even  in 
the  successive  Ministries  that  rule 
over  us.  It  has  thus  a  sort  of  secret 
backing-up  of  affectionate  prejudice 
among  those  who  sway  the  minds  of 
the  world.  Its  assailants,  on  the 
other  hand,  are  chiefly  strangers; 
and  the  chorus  of  voices  which  de- 
clare periodically  that  its  standards 
are  low,  and  its  working  indifferent, 
rise  in  most  part  from  critics  inade- 
quately qualified,  without  any  actual 
knowledge  of  the  system  they  con- 
demn. A  great  many  of  them,  as 
is  very  natural,  treat  of  the  Eton  of 
twenty,  nay,  of  fifty  years  ago,  apply- 
ing censures  quite  applicable  then, 
to  the  Eton  of  to-day,  to  which  they 
are  wholly  inapplicable;  for  no  insti- 
tution in  the  kingdom  has  changed 
more  within  these  periods  than  this, 
— headquarters  of  scholastic  conser- 
vatism and  aristocratic  prejudice  as 
it  is.  Within  the  recollection  of 
many  Eton  taught  nothing  but 
classics,  —  and  these  without  any 
special  precautions  taken  that  they 
should  be  taught  well.  The  supply 
of  masters  was  kept  up  by  a  regular 
routine, — successful  enough  on  the 
whole,  though  with  no  more  right 
to  be  successful  than  any  other  kind 
of  hereditary  succession.  Boys  with 
certain  influentialqualifications  were 
entered  upon  the  foundation — "  into 
college,"  according  to  the  ordinary 
term — as  King's  scholars,  receiving 
the  advantage  of  an  almost  gratuit- 
ous education,  without  any  proper 
preliminary  test  of  talent  or  prepar- 
ation. They  passed  on,  in  due  time, 
still  without  any  real  examination, 
to  scholarships  at  King's  College, 
Cambridge ;  then,  after  their  due 
term  of  residence  there,  to  fellow- 
ships in  that  college,  and  thence 
back  again  to  Eton  as  masters, — 
never  perhaps,  during  the  whole 
time,  having  gone  through  any 
searching  process  of  investigation 
into  their  intellectual  claims  to 


1880.] 


School  and  College. 


65 


these  advantages.  This  was  all 
-according  to  the  institution  of  the 
royal  and  saintly  founder, — a  very 
.fit  way  in  his  time,  no  doubt,  of 
.securing  a  proper  supply  of  in- 
structors, and  in  more  modern 
days  a  most  comfortable  system, 
insuring  a  good  career  and  a  tol- 
erable income  to  a  certain  num- 
ber of  privileged  families.  And 
as  King  Henry  knew  nothing  of 
modern  science,  there  was  no  pro- 
vision in  his  school  for  anything 
but  that  study  of  the  dead  tongues 
and  their  literature  which  was  the 
sole  learning  of  his  time.  The  first 
master  who  ever  taught  mathemat- 
ics at  Eton,  or  made  the  schoolboy 
students  of  Ovid  and  Demosthenes 
aware  of  the  existence  of  Euclid, 
was,  or  rather  is,  the  Rev.  Stephen 
Haw  trey,  a  gentleman  still  vigorous 
•enough  to  be  the  popular  head  of  a 
large  school  formed  upon  the  model 
of  Eton,  St  Mark's  School  at  Wind- 
sor, where  an  interesting  experiment 
is  being  tried  as  to  the  possibility 
of  forming  a  new  establishment  on 
the  old  lines,  at  prices  suited  to  the 
requirements  of  parents  not  rich 
enough  to  send  their  sons  to  Eton, 
but  ambitious  of  a  similar  training 
for  them.  Mr  Hawtrey  began  the 
mathematical  school  at  Eton  with 
not  more  than  one  or  two  duly 
qualified  assistant  masters, — sundry 
subordinates  of  quite  inferior  pre- 
tentions  being  kept  on  hand  as 
good  enough  to  convey  the  early 
precepts  of  arithmetic  to  the  youth- 
ful mind.  These  were  the  sole  rep- 
resentatives, along  with  two  masters 
of  modern  languages,  occupying 
then  a  not  very  clearly  defined 
position,  of  all  that  modern  infor- 
mation, science,  aud  culture  have 
done  for  the  world. 

This  is  now  entirely  changed — 
the  mathematical  faculty  has  devel- 
oped naturally  into  science  in  all  its 
most  important  branches,  and  if  it 
does  not  quite  balance  the  classical, 

VOL.  CXXVIII. — NO.  DCCLXXV1I. 


is  almost  threatening  to  do  so.  Men 
of  eminent  reputation  in  most  of 
these  departments  share  in  the 
training  which  still  remains,  in  tl  e 
first  place,  in  the  hands  of  the  clas- 
sical tutors,  now  chosen  on  princi- 
ples very  different  from  those  which 
prevailed  in  the  old  days  when  it 
was  enough  to  be  a  Fellow  of 
King's. 

"  Perhaps  the  greatest  and  most 
important  of  all  the  changes  made 
in  Eton  since  I  first  went  there," 
says  a  recent  scholar,  "is  in  the 
appointment  of  the  masters.  The 
old  system  of  confining  the  Eton 
masterships  to  King's  men  has  en- 
tirely died  out.  A  new  master  oc- 
casionally appears  who  has  gone 
through  the  regular  course,  from 
'  college '  at  Eton  to  a  scholarship, 
and  subsequently  a  fellowship  at 
King's;  but  this  is  no  longer  the 
rule.  Not  only  do  men  appear  who, 
though  old  Etonians,  were  oppidans 
during  their  school  career,  and  have 
graduated  at  different  colleges,  or 
even  at  another  university,  but  men 
who  were  not  at  Eton  at  all,  and 
and  whose  only  claim  is  that  they 
are  the  best  scholars  of  their  day. 
And  these  new  masters,  fresh  from 
the  universities,  do  not,  as  was  the 
custom  when  I  first  went  to  Eton, 
begin  with  the  lower  forms  and  rise 
by  seniority,  by  the  time  the  gloss 
of  their  learning  is  rubbed  off,  to 
the  higher  levels.  They  have  each, 
indeed,  a  division  low  down  in  the 
school,  but  they  also  assist  in  the 
teaching  of  the  boys  at  the  top.  It 
is  an  old  custom  that  every  boy  in 
the  first  three  divisions  (now  in  the 
first  four),  known  under  the  general 
name  of  the  first  hundred,  must 
choose  two  'extra  subjects'  to  be 
studied  at  special  lectures,  besides 
the  ordinary  school-work.  And  it 
has  recently  been  the  rule  to  give 
the  classical  extra  subjects  to 
some  of  these  distinguished  young 
scholars,  so  that  their  scholarship  is 


CG 


School  and  College. 


[July 


made  at  once  of  advantage  to  the 
higher  boys." 

"The  Eton  education  is  now 
much  more  general  than  it  was. 
It  embraces  not  only  classics,  ma- 
thematics, and  foreign  languages, 
but  also  most  of  the  branches  of 
natural  science,  and  even,  since  the 
last  innovation,  practical  mechan- 
ics ;  while  special  prizes  encourage 
the  study  of  history  and  English 
composition.  I  remember,  on  the 
other  hand,  when  even  mathemat- 
ics was  looked  upon  as  an  unim- 
portant part  of  the  education,  and 
French  lessons  were  given  in  a  sort 
of  extra  school  in  the  spare  hours 
of  the  morning,  the  '  shirking '  of 
which  met  with  a  far  less  heavy 
penalty  than  the  missing  of  any 
other  lessons.  So  much,  indeed, 
was  it  considered  an  extra,  that  the 
general  excuse  proffered  by  an  ab- 
sentee was  that  he  had  'forgotten 
it.'  This,  of  course,  is  entirely 
changed  at  present,  and  the  study 
of  French  forms  a  part  of  the  reg- 
ular course  of  lessons  as  important 
as  any  other." 

While  these  changes  have  taken 
place  in  respect  to  masters  and 
systems  of  teaching,  the  tests  to 
which  the  boys  themselves  are 
subjected  have  also  been  made 
much  more  severe.  Formerly,  after 
a  certain  period,  the  examinations, 
never  very  searching,  dropped  alto- 
gether, and  a  tolerably  well  trained 
boy  of  fifteen  or  sixteen,  having 
passed  his  "upper  division  trials," 
might  rise  to  the  head  of  the  school 
without  any  further  competition ; 
while  his  unsuccessful  class-fellow 
on  the  lower  levels,  not  able  to  pass 
that  bridge,  might  vegetate  on  in 
the  inferior  parts  of  the  school,  an 
ignominious  "lower  boy,"  till  a 
formidable  growth  of  whiskers  and 
six  feet  of  stature  compelled  his 
parents  to  withdraw  him.  So  far 
as  the  school  was  concerned,  he 
might  have  remained  a  lower  boy 


till  he  was  forty.  Xow  every  step 
has  to  be  fought  for;  and  if  the 
youth  cannot  pass  a  certain  stand- 
ard at  a  certain  age,  he  has  to  leave 
Eton,  whatever  his  other  qualities 
may  be. 

In  point  of  discipline,  another 
sweeping  change  has  been  made  at 
Eton.  In  the  times  which  we  have 
been  discussing,  the  boarding-houses 
were  of  two  kinds, — masters  and 
dames;  the  latter  a  little  cheaper 
than  the  former.  In  some  of  the 
dames'  houses  the  discipline  might 
be  good,  but  there  was  no  safeguard 
whatever,  nor  any  particular  reason 
why  it  should  be  so.  The  ladies 
appointed  to  these  posts  held  them 
by  interest  alone,  and  required  no 
special  training  or  qualifications  to 
fit  them  for  the  charge,  out  of  school 
hours,  of  some  twenty  or  thirty  bold 
schoolboys  accustomed  to  the  ut- 
most freedom.  These  dames'  houses 
have  been  entirely  swept  away,  with 
one  remarkable  exception.  "Evans's 
still  exists,  mainly,  I  believe,"  says 
our  informant,  "  because  even  the 
present  rage  for  reform  at  Eton 
dares  not  disturb  such  an  old  and 
beloved  institution."  When  women 
do  a  thing  well,  they  generally 
do  it  very  well;  and  there  is  one 
such  popular  house.  But  all  the 
other  "dames"  are  abolished  and 
ended.  The  houses  have  passed  in- 
to the  hands  of  masters — no  longer 
exclusively  classical,  as  in  the  old 
days,  but  not  less  perfectly  trained 
or  qualified  because  their  depart- 
ments are  those  of  modern  sciences 
and  languages.  These  gentlemen 
often  retain  the  title  of  their  pre- 
decessors, and  are  generally  called 
"my  dame"  by  the  matter-of-fact 
schoolboy,  when  they  do  not  hap- 
pen to  be  "  my  tutor  "  as  well. 
But  the  invidious  distinction  be- 
tween the  houses  of  tutors  and 
those  of  dames  exists  no  longer; 
and  the  discipline  and  order  of  the 
respective  houses  are  dependent  up- 


1880.] 


School  and  College. 


C7 


on  the  individual  character  of  the 
house-master  alone. 

The  tie  between  tutor  and  pupil 
at  Eton  is,  however,  a  very  close 
one.  Sometimes  it  is  a  bond  of 
real  affection,  and  always  involves 
constant  intercourse  and  a  great 
amount  of  mutual  knowledge.  All 
the  pupil's  work,  or  nearly  all,  goes 
through  the  tutor's  hands  before  it 
comes  up  to  the  master  under  whom 
the  boy  may  be  placed  in  school ;  all 
the  special  preparations  that  may 
be  necessary  for  any  forthcoming 
examination,  are,  if  not  actually 
superintended,  at  least  arranged  by 
him.  If  the  character  of  a  boy  is 
wanted,  it  is  to  the  tutor  that  the 
reference  is  made;  if  a  complaint 
has  to  be  sent  in  to  the  head-master 
about  a  boy,  his  tutor's  consent 
must  be  first  obtained;  if  a  pupil 
gets  into  any  serious  difficulty,  a 
consultation  with  his  tutor  is  the 
readiest  and  surest  method  of  ob- 
taining assistance.  It  will  be  seen 
from  all  this,  that  the  relations 
between  the  tutor  and  the  pupil 
are  of  the  most  intimate  descrip- 
tion at  Eton.  We  shall  see,  later  on, 
the  different  significance  of  these 
two  correlative  terms  when  the  boy 
is  settled  at  Oxford. 

When  the  tutor  has  no  house, 
many  of  his  duties,  and  much  of 
the  closeness  of  the  connection,  are 
transferred  to  the  house  -  master, 
under  whose  eyes  he  spends  his 
life ;  and  there  are  thus  two  per- 
sons whose  first  professional  object 
it  is  to  keep  him  in  wholesome 
and  beneficial  control.  And  though 
nothing  in  the  world  looks  a  more 
complete  impersonation  of  freedom 
than  this  frank  and  fearless  Eng- 
lish boy,  going  where  he  wills  in 
his  own  smiling  neighbourhood, 
to  be  met  with  upon  the  bright 
reaches  of  the  river,  or  miles  off 
under  the  glorious  trees  of  Windsor 
Park,  or  in  the  winter  running 
with  the  beagles,  or  skating  on  all 


the  frozen  ponds  within  reach,  to 
the  consternation  and  admiration 
of  all  foreign  observers,  without 
the  shadow  of  a  spy  or  a  watcher 
near  him;  yet  this  liberty  is  not 
without  its  bonds.  Three  hours  is 
the  longest  period  a  boy  can  be  free 
from  the  continually  recurring  roll- 
call,  named  "absence"  with  char- 
acteristic incorrectness.  Wherever 
he  may  be,  his  tether  makes  itself 
felt  at  these  moments,  and  he  can 
neither  plan  nor  do  anything  out- 
side of  the  hours  which  are  limited 
by  this  ceremonial.  At  lock-up 
he  has  to  be  indoors,  not  to  issue 
forth  again  save  by  special  permis- 
sion and  under  special  guarantees ; 
in  short,  this  boundless  freedom  is 
so  entirely  regulated  by  the  most 
rigid  law — law  which  has  all  the 
support  of  public  opinion,  is  rarely 
infringed  and  never  rebelled  against 
— that  no  system  of  surveillance 
and  repression  could  be  more  abso- 
lute. When  the  school  goes  astray 
en  masse,  or  rather  when  it  commits 
a  fault  similar  to  that  which  has 
lately  made  "University  College  the 
subject  of  general  discussion,  and 
the  special  culprits  do  not  give 
themselves  up — a  thing  most  rare 
in  schoolboy  experience — a  request 
from  the  head-master  that  the  im- 
position or  poena  demanded  from 
the  entire  school  should  "be  brought 
at  one,"  goes  to  the  very  heart  of 
Eton.  That  means  the  sacrifice  of 
the  best  play  -  hours  of  the  day, 
the  loss  of  the  game,  whatever  it 
may  be,  the  infringement  of  all 
habits  and  liberties.  A  general 
order  to  "come  at  one,"  would 
be  far  more  effectual  than  Dr 
Bradley's  "  sending  down."  It 
would  punish  without  hurting, 
and  it  would  punish  the  offenders 
and  the  offenders'  aiders  and  abet- 
tors, not  their  parents,  who  were 
ignorant  and  innocent  of  the  whole 
matter.  It  is  at  once  a  more  effec- 
tual, a  more  generally  felt,  and  a 


68 


School  and  College. 


[July 


far  more  refined  punishment;  but 
then  it  is  boys,  not  men,  who  are 
to  be  dealt  with — and  in  this,  no 
doubt,  the  whole  harshness  of  the 
problem  lies. 

From  the  dominion  of  all  those 
wholesome  rules,  and  from  a  life 
which  is  so  free  in  appearance, 
but  in  reality  so  carefully  hedged 
and  walled  about,  the  schoolboy  of 
eighteen  or  nineteen  steps  into  the 
very  different  life  of  Oxford,  eman- 
cipated, and  often  lawless  as  it  is, 
without  any  intermediate  passage. 
He  has  looked  forward  to  it  for 
years,  but  it  is  not  always  so  agree- 
able as  he  had  hoped.  Probably,  if 
the  change  took  place  a  year  or  two 
younger,  the  results  would  be  more 
satisfactory.  As  it  is,  the  common- 
place members  of  the  community 
have  the  best  of  it;  and  those  who 
have  attained  distinction  and  emi- 
nence at  school — those  for  whom 
the  university  ought  to  do  most — 
are  the  ones  to  whom  the  transfer  is 
least  satisfactory.  Delightful  as 
university  life  is  universally  sup- 
posed to  be,  this  cannot  but  be 
a  painfully  disenchanting  process 
to  a  clever  boy.  He  is  in  a  differ- 
ent atmosphere  altogether.  The 
little  world  which  has  hitherto  con- 
tained him,  melts  away  into  many 
worlds,  each  one  of  which  is  as 
great  and  important  as  that  which 
once  gave  him  so  much  honour  and 
dignity,  and  made  him  feel  him- 
self, with  all  the  self-importance 
of  youth,  on  a  level  with  the  rulers 
of  society  everywhere.  A  boy  at 
the  head  of  the  school  has  no  supe- 
rior. He  may  regard  with  friendly 
respect  the  university  man  who  has 
preceded  him  by  a  few  years,  and 
so  has  gained  a  step  above  him  in 
literary  honours,  but  he  feels  on  a 
par  with  him  or  with  any  man. 
Even  when  the  Prime  Minister 
pays  a  visit  to  the  school,  the  cap- 
tain of  the  oppidans  will  scarcely 
yield  more  than  that  reverential 


regard  for  a  great  equal  which  im- 
plies the  highest  respect  for  one's 
own  office  and  position.  He  is  QJI 
the  level  of  all  the  potentates,  and 
however  modest  he  may  be,  can- 
not but  be  conscious  of  his  eleva- 
tion. But  the  moment  he  sets  foot 
in  the  university  this  rank  is  over. 
He  falls  from  a  high  level  to  a  low 
one.  He  loses  at  once  the  external 
safeguards  of  rules  and  laws  cun- 
ningly devised  to  restrain  without 
wearing  the  appearance  of  restraint, 
and  the  great  moral  protection  of 
an  elevated  position  on  which  his 
words  and  ways  are  noted  by  an 
inferior  crowd,  ready  to  criticise  or 
to  copy  with  all  the  eagerness  of 
retainers.  All  this  is  gone  from 
him  in  a  moment  when,  from  being 
a  sixth-form  boy,  he  becomes  a  fresh- 
man of  a  college,  holding  the  lowest 
rank  not  only  in  the  university, 
but  in  that  small  part  of  the  uni- 
versity to  which  he  is  specially 
attached.  It  is  impossible  but  that 
this  downfall  must  be — but  it  in- 
creases in  a  large  degree  the  risks 
to  which  the  change  of  rules  and 
loosening  of  bonds  exposes  him. 
He  has  become  insignificant.  It  is 
no  longer  his  to  give  the  tone  to 
his  surroundings,  to  refrain  from 
indulgence  lest  his  juniors  should 
take  advantage  of  his  yielding. 
Nothing  but  the  intoxication  of 
the  newborn  freedom,  of  the  new 
sense  of  manhood,  of  the  sensation 
of  independence  which  fills  the  air, 
would  make  up  to  him  for  his  de- 
scent ;  but  these  influences  do  make 
up  for  it,  and  the  very  loss  he  has 
sustained  often  makes  him  more 
free  to  take  his  own  pleasures,  now 
that  it  is  in  his  power  to  do  so,  with- 
out restraint. 

In  other  countries  the  young 
man,  having  reached  this  stage,  is 
left  to  his  own  devices,  and  made 
the  arbiter  of  his  own  conduct ; 
but  in  Oxford,  along  with  the  new 
endowment  of  freedom,  the  sense 


1880.] 


Schcol  and  College. 


that  there  is  no  longer  any  com- 
pulsion, there  exists  at  the  same 
time  a  system  of  discipline  which 
is  very  elaborate  and  very  cum- 
brous, and  sometimes  very  vexa- 
tious, but  not  a  perfect  or  indeed 
an  effective  system  at  all.  We  re- 
member to  have  heard  a  lady  speak- 
ing of  the  routine  of  her  son's  life 
at  Sandhurst  to  another  whose  sons 
were  at  the  university.  "  He  must 
be  on  parade  every  morning  at 
eight,"  said  the  one.  "  They  ought 
to  be  at  chapel  at  the  same  hour," 
said  the  other.  The  first  speaker 
was  an  acute  and  intelligent  wo- 
man. "  Ah,"  she  said,  "  but  there 
is  a  great  difference  between  ought 
and  must."  This  is  the  difference 
between  school  and  college,  as  well 
as  between  the  rule  of  the  uni- 
versity and  that  which  prevails  in 
the  world  outside.  For  those  who 
think,  as  we  confess  we  ourselves 
do,  that  the  "must"  is  the  most 
prevailing  of  all  rules,  it  will  ap- 
pear a  very  strong  plea  against  the 
university  system  that,  until  the 
very  last  stage  of  resistance  is 
reached,  there  is  no  must  in  it. 
The  authorities  may  remonstrate, 
plead,  argue — they  may  stop  the 
undergraduate's  food,  or  order  him 
to  keep  within  the  college  walls 
after  a  certain  hour — but  they  can- 
not compel  him  to  do  anything, 
except  go  away  from  Oxford.  This 
was  the  curious  dilemma  in  which 
Dr  Bradley  and  his  fellows  found 
themselves  the  other  day.  They 
could  have  "gated"  the  young  men 
in  a  body — a  step  which,  in  all 
probability,  would  have  produced 
so  many  more  noisy  parties  within 
the  college  that  the  unpopular  dons 
would  have  had  a  hard  time  of  it ; 
but  failing  this  mild  measure,  there 
was  nothing  they  could  do  beyond 
the  violent  and  extreme  step  of 
"  sending  them  down."  It  seems 
to  us  that  great  allowances  must  be 
made  in  such  a  case  for  the  con- 


scious impotence  of  perplexed  au- 
thority, knowing  that  there  is  but 
one  penalty  which  it  can  really  ex- 
act. In  face  of  all  that  rebellious 
youth,  what  were  the  dons  to  do  ? 
They  might  have  winked  merci- 
fully, which,  in  most  cases,  is  the 
wisest  thing,  especially  when  there 
is  a  want  of  power  to  punish — but 
it  is  a  thing  which  is  not  always 
possible  to  flesh  and  blood :  and 
that  exasperation  should  now  and 
then  get  the  better  of  prudence  is 
a  necessary  consequence  of  human 
weakness.  But  such  an  act  must,  to 
justify  itself  at  all,  be  thoroughly 
and  sharply  successful.  If  it  fails, 
as  it  has  done  in  this  case,  it  is  a 
great  deal  worse  than  if  it  had 
never  been  attempted.  This,  how- 
ever, is  the  only  real  arrow  in  the 
university  quiver.  In  former  days, 
when  the  word  rustication  was 
used,  it  had  an  ominous  sound, 
enough  to  awe  any  parent's  soul ; 
and  it  was  used  sparingly,  with  a 
due  sense  of  the  awfulness  of  the 
penalty.  But  now  the  name  of  the 
punishment  is  lighter,  and  so  is 
the  estimation  in  which  it  is  held. 
A  "  man  "  is  "  sent  down  "  for  not 
doing  enough  work,  for  neglect- 
ing lectures,  sometimes  for  trivial 
breaches  of  propriety.  "We  remem- 
ber to  have  heard  of  one  youth 
who  was  "  sent  down "  because  he 
could  not  resist  the  temptation  of 
firing  at  a  rook  from  his  window. 
He  ought  not  to  have  fired  at  a 
rook — a  denizen  of  his  college  al- 
most as  respectable  as  any  don ; 
but  if  it  had  been  a  don  he  could 
not  have  received  (from  the  college) 
a  more  severe  punishment.  To  be 
sure,  in  the  latter  case,  the  "  send- 
ing down  "  would  have  been  a  final 
one. 

The  rule  of  Oxford  life  is  a  two- 
fold rule.  There  is  the  authority 
of  the  college,  and  there  is  the 
authority  of  the  university — the 
one  entirely  independent  of  the 


70 


School  and  College, 


[July 


other.  All  the  educational  pro- 
cesses are  in  the  hands  of  the 
former,  though  the  greatest  and 
most  important  prizes  and  dis- 
tinctions are  given  by  the  latter. 
The  relations  between  the  under- 
graduate and  the  authorities  of  his 
college  are  very  different  in  different 
examples.  In  some  colleges  the 
work  is  entirely  done  by  the  younger 
tutors,  while  the  head  looks  on 
serenely,  and  only  condescends  to 
interfere  in  the  affairs  of  the  college 
in  cases  when  an  exceptionally 
troublesome  undergraduate  has  to 
be  publicly  rebuked  or  punished. 
In  other  societies  the  head  is  as 
energetic  as  any  of  the  others,  and 
lets  nothing  go  on  without  his  per- 
sonal superintendence.  Again,  in 
some  places,  attendance  at  lectures, 
and  compliance  with  all  the  tutor's 
wishes,  are  imperative ;  while  in 
others  it  seems  rather  to  be  under- 
stood that  Oxford  is  a  place  where 
a  student  may  work  and  improve 
himself  if  he  feels  so  disposed,  but 
that  to  interfere  or  try  to  coerce  an 
unwilling  pupil,  would  be  officious 
and  ill-bred  in  the  highest  degree. 
The  relations  of  pupil  to  tutor 
afford  the  best  illustration  of  this. 
In  the  so-called  "  reading  "  colleges 
the  tutor  occupies  a  rather  import- 
ant place  in  the  pupil's  life :  he 
has  it  in  his  power  to  be  of  great 
service  to  the  pupil's  studies,  or,  by 
displaying  a  want  of  interest  in  his 
progress,  to  damp  the  ardour  even 
of  an  industriously  disposed  young 
man .  He  can  also  by  his  intercession 
often  save  a  favourite  pupil  from 
the  consequences  of  a  breach  of  dis- 
cipline, or  any  similar  fault;  while, 
by  an  unfavourable  word,  sometimes 
even  by  silence,  he  can  magnify  the 
most  trifling  delinquencies  of  those 
who  have  unfortunately  offended 
him,  till  they  seem  to  be  misdeeds 
of  the  direst  description,  and  de- 
serving of  the  severest  penalties 
that  the  college  can  inflict.  In 


such  cases  as  these  it  is  obviously 
the  interest  of  the  undergraduate 
to  make  a  friend  of  his  tutor.  But 
there  are  many  colleges  in  which 
the  tutor  becomes  almost  a  nonen- 
tity. "We  remember  well  the  amuse- 
ment and  surprise  with  which  wo 
heard  (not  without  much  sense  of 
superiority  in  the  arrangements  of 
our  own  society)  from  an  under- 
graduate of  a  college  not  distin- 
guished for  work,  that  his  connec- 
tion with  his  tutor  was  limited  to 
the  duty  of  calling  upon  him  at  the 
beginning  of  term,  and  going  to  say 
"Good-bye"  to  him  before  leaving 
Oxford  at  the  end  of  it.  It  is  in 
cases  like  this  that  the  greatest 
anomaly  of  the  Oxford  system  ap- 
pears. It  need  hardly  be  said  that 
the  youth  just  mentioned  belonged 
to  that  numerous  class  who  are 
quite  satisfied  if  they  can  get  through 
the  pass-examinations  in  a  reason- 
able time,  and  have  no  thought  of 
honours ;  but  even  for  this  modest 
ambition  a  certain  amount  of  work 
is  required.  Now,  as  the  time  be- 
comes shorter,  and  the  necessity 
for  work  more  urgent,  we  should 
naturally  think  that  our  under- 
graduate would  at  last  have  recourse 
to  the  services  of  his  neglected 
tutor  ;  but  such  is  not  the  habit : 
instead  of  this,  he,  in  the.  elegant 
phraseology  of  the  place,  "  puts  on 
a  coach  " — that  is,  reads  with  some 
man  of  another  college  of  higher 
standing  and  abilities  than  himself 
— generally  a  clever  young  graduate 
who  has  taken  his  honours,  and  is 
now  waiting  in  Oxford  for  a  chance 
of  a  fellowship.  And  perhaps  the 
most  curious  part  of  it  all  is,  that 
the  college  authorities  strongly  en- 
courage this,  and  even  in  the  strict 
colleges  consent  to  waive  some  of 
their  claims  upon  an  undergraduate's 
time,  in  order  that  he  may  be  able 
to  do  more  for  his  unofficial  tutor. 

A  still  more  curious  anomaly — 
or    rather   a    development   of   the 


1880.] 


School  and  College. 


one  just  stated — is,  that  a  young 
man  who  is  not  very  industrious, 
or  doing  badly  in  his  work,  is  often 
"sent  down,"  or  recommended  to 
"  go  down  "  to  "  read."  Sometimes 
an  energetic  undergraduate,  anxious 
to  get  on  with  his  studies,  will  ask 
permission  to  miss  a  term  and  stay 
"  down  "  at  his  home,  or  at  a  pri- 
vate tutor's  "  to  read."  It  is  im- 
.  possible  to  contemplate  such  a  state 
of  affairs  without  amazement.  That 
a  university  so  important  and  in- 
fluential, made  up  of  smaller  cor- 
porations so  learned,  so  wealthy  in 
all  the  appliances  of  learning,  with 
such  a  staff  of  teachers,  and  such  a 
tradition  of  scholarship,  and  with 
so  long  a  history  behind,  and  such 
complete  time  and  leisure  to  have 
tried  and  tested  all  methods,  and 
to  have  chosen  the  best,  should 
thus  confess  its  own  incapacity  to 
manage  any  case  which  is  difficult  or 
troublesome,  is  one  of  the  strangest 
things  to  think  of.  "  Unfortunate- 
ly," says  a  timid  and  gentle  young 
don,  "  we  succeed  best  with  those 
whom  it  is  no  credit  to  us  to  be 
successful  with."  The  fathers  of 
the  young  men  may  on  their  side 
remark  that  private  tutors  or 
"  coaches,"  either  at  the  university 
or  away  from  it,  are  supplements 
which  they  never  took  into  cal- 
culation ;  and  that  if  a  "  coach " 
is  more  effectual  than  a  college,  it 
would  be  better  to  admit  the  fact 
and  save  a  great  deal  of  time  and 
trouble.  This,  however,  of  course, 
refers  to  those  alone  who  consider 
Oxford  from  the  point  of  view  of 
letters  and  instruction :  there  are 
many  to  whom  the  education  of  its 
society,  the  grinding  together  of  the 
young  men  themselves,  and  the 
training  they  give  each  other,  is 
considered  as  the  most  important 
part  of  the  university  system — not 
to  speak  of  the  class  which  considers 
Oxford,  as  it  considers  Eton,  a  sort 
of  royal  road  to  gentility,  and  holds 


that  the  university  gives  the  stamp 
of  gentleman  better  than  any  other 
known  agency.  But  after  all,  edu- 
cation, as  generally  understood,  con- 
sists largely  of  instruction,  and  the 
elaborate  apparatus  of  tutors  and 
lecturers,  and  all  the  state  and 
weight  of  collegiate  institutions, 
are  curiously  out  of  place  if  they 
are  on  one  side  to  afford  merely  a 
dignified  screen  to  the  altogether 
independent  processes  by  which 
their  pupils  train  each  other ;  or, 
on  the  opposite  side,  furnish  but  a 
final  tribunal  to  sanction  the  labours 
of  private  workmen,  possessing  none 
of  their  own  prestige  and  power. 
Of  course  it  is  chiefly  in  difficult 
cases  that  such  means  have  to  be 
resorted  to ;  but  it  is  never  credit- 
able to  any  artificer  that  he  has 
to  hand  over  his  hard  pieces  of 
work,  or  those  which  are  delicate 
and  complicated,  to  other  hands. 
We  have  heard,  without,  however, 
vouching  for  it,  of  a  still  more  ex- 
traordinary transference  of  power, 
in  oases  where  the  private  tutor  is 
the  appointed  dispenser  not  only 
of  instruction  but  of  discipline  and 
punishment.  As  a  rule,  when  a 
youth  is  advised  by  his  college 
authorities  to  go  down  from  the 
university  and  spend  some  time 
with  a  private  tutor,  the  action  is 
supposed  to  be  dictated  by  a  pater- 
nal regard  for  himself,  and  meant 
rather  as  a  kindly  method  of  offer- 
ing him  further  opportunities  of 
study,  than  a  vindictive  way  of  sub- 
jecting him  to  a  more  severe  system 
of  discipline.  Yet,  astonishing  as 
it  may  seem,  this  appears  to  be  occa- 
sionally the  case,  and  a  severe  pun- 
ishment is  disguised  under  the  pre- 
text of  affording  assistance.  The 
idea  of  an  educational  succursale  to 
a  college  is  an  anti-climax  which 
may  be  amusing,  but  that  of  a  col- 
lege penitentiary  can  scarcely  fail  to 
awaken  less  amiable  feelings. 

Lectures  which  hold  so  large  a 


School  and  College. 


[July 


place  in  all  other  university  systems 
except  those  of  England  are  treated 
in  an  almost  equally  anomalous  and 
uncertain  way.  They  are,  if  not  a 
new  thing,  at  least  an  institution 
which  has  but  recently  been  ap- 
proved and  universally  received  as 
part  of  the  college  training.  They 
are  now  prescribed  and  known  as 
part  of  the  regular  work  which  is 
appointed  to  every  undergraduate, 
and  the  neglect  of  them  is  a  matter 
which  involves  various  penalties. 
But  at  the  same  time  they  are  open- 
ly undervalued  by  most  of  the  older 
authorities,  and  feebly  supported  by 
the  younger;  and  it  has  certainly  not 
ceased  to  be  considered  as  quite  a 
legitimate  thing  that  an  undergrad- 
uate should  count  them  as  so  much 
time  lost,  and,  in  short,  as  good  as 
refuse  to  attend  them  at  all.  In 
the  latter  part  of  his  course,  when 
he  is  approaching  the  momentous 
period  of  the  schools,  he  is  almost 
permitted,  in  many  cases,  to  decide 
for  himself  which,  or  how  many  (or 
probably,  rather,  how  few),  he  will 
attend.  We  rather  think  that  if  he 
boldly  makes  a  stand  against  them, 
and  does  not,  as  a  matter  of  prin- 
ciple, pay  any  attention  to  them  at 
all,  the  authorities  themselves,  lit- 
tle assured  of  any  advantage  to  be 
found  in  them,  will  give  in,  and 
allow  the  refusal,  rather  with  ap- 
plause than  blame.  The  recusant 
on  principle,  will  be  justified  and 
encouraged ;  but  the  truant  who 
"  shirks"  or  neglects,  from  no  prin- 
ciple at  all,  is  liable  to  complaint, 
censure,  and  punishment,  for  a  fault 
which  to  the  outside  spectator  is 
the  same  in  both  cases.  This,  too, 
is  certainly  a  very  strange  position 
of  affairs.  Surely  it  might  be  pos- 
sible for  the  colleges  to  come  to  a 
distinct  understanding  on  such  a 
subject.  To  approve  a  bold  youth 
for  refusing  to  attend  a  course  of 
instruction  which  a  weaker  or  more 
timid  one  may  be  actually  "  sent 
down  "  for  neglecting — and  to  pre- 


scribe a  system  one  hour,  and  speak 
of  it  with  disrespect  another — must 
be  a  mistake.  So  far  as  we  can 
judge,  the  current  of  opinion  is 
against  them ;  yet  they  are  an  in- 
variable part  of  the  required  work  ; 
and  while  everything  he  hears  tends 
to  make  the  young  man  think  that 
it  is  a  sign  of  superiority  to  disre- 
gard them,  he  is  at  the  same  time 
subject  to  vexatious  penalties  if  he 
does  so  in  any  but  the  most  defi- 
ant way.  On  this  point,  however, 
it  is  but  fair  to  show  what  can  be 
said  by  a  competent  authority  upon 
the  other  side  : — 

"  About  lectures  it  is  impossible 
to  lay  down  any  universal  principle. 
It  is  an  undoubted  fact  that  there 
are  some  men  endowed  with  a  speci- 
al gift  of  lecturing,  who  in  an  hour 
can  teach  the  student  more  than  he 
would  probably  get  from  private 
reading  in  three  or  four ;  but  it  is 
as  certain  that  men  do  lecture  at 
Oxford  whose  labour  is  only  of  as- 
sistance to  the  undergraduate  in 
that  it  saves  him  the  trouble  of 
looking  up  the  authorities  or  refer- 
ences necessary  for  himself — adoubt- 
ful  favour,  which,  by  diminishing 
the  trouble  of  acquiring  knowledge, 
takes  away  in  the  same  ratio  from 
the  chances  of  retaining  it.  And 
as  there  is  a  difference  in  lecturers, 
so  we  must  draw  a  distinction  be- 
tween two  sorts  of  students.  It 
requires  a  great  power  of  applica- 
tion for  an  undergraduate  to  have 
in  one  morning,  say,  one  lecture  at 
ten  and  another  at  twelve,  without 
losing  anything  by  it.  If  we  sup- 
pose him  to  be  working  pretty  hard 
and  regularly,  he  may  be  ready  to 
begin  at  a  quarter  or  half  past  nine : 
if  he  thinks  it  worth  while  to  begin 
at  all,  he  can  only  settle  down  to 
work  for  about  half  an  hour,  when 
he  has  to  go  off  for  his  first  lec- 
ture. This  over,  he  may,  if  both 
lectures  are  delivered  in  his  own 
college,  manage  to  get  nearly  an 
hour's  reading  before  he  has  to  go  to 


1880.] 


School  and  College. 


73 


the  second,  which  again  brings  him 
to  within  half  an  hour  or  so  of  lunch- 
eon-time. Now  it  is  evident  that 
even  for  a  youth  with  great  power 
of  settling  down  quickly  to  work, 
such  a  cutting-up  of  the  morning 
cannot  but  be  harmful ;  while  to  a 
weak  or  indolent  student,  the  temp- 
tation to  cast  aside  the  short  inter- 
vals as  useless  is  very  strong  and 
very  dangerous.  I  think  that  this 
state  of  affairs — the  division  of  lec- 
turers into  those  who  can  and  those 
who  cannot  produce  an  absolutely 
good  effect  with  their  lectures,  and 
of  students  into  those  who  can  and 
those  who  cannot  attend  them,  with 
all  their  inseparable  inconveniences, 
without  any  palpable  bad  effect — 
may  go  some  way  to  justify  the 
anomaly  complained  of, — viz.,  that 
tutors  recommend  lectures  to  their 
pupils  (which  they  do,  by  the  way, 
invariably  in  proportion  to  what 
they  think  necessary  for  the  particu- 
lar pupil),  while,  at  the  same  time, 
they  speak  in  a  derogatory  man- 
ner of  the  system  as  a  whole,  and 
allow  a  pupil  to  throw  off  its  re- 
straints as  unfitting  his  particular 
case,  if  they  think  him  of  sufficient 
ability  and  understanding  to  be  a 
competent  judge  of  the  question  at 
issue.  Of  course  it  would  be  use- 
less to  deny  that  nearly  all  of  those  to 
whom  this  liberty  of  choice  is  given 
exercise  it  by  reducing  as  much  as 
possible  the  number  of  their  lec- 
tures ;  but  this  is  saying  nothing 
more  than  that  the  abler  under- 
graduates endorse  the  general  opin- 
ion of  the  university.  When,  some 
years  ago,  the  project  was  mooted 
of  diminishing  the  Oxford  vaca- 
tions in  general,  and  abolishing  the 
'long' — at  least  as  at  present  un- 
derstood—  in  particular,  the  dons 
rose  in  arms  against  the  idea.  N"o 
thought  of  their  own  curtailed  holi- 
days and  diminished  freedom  seems 
to  have  swayed  their  minds ;  but 
with  a  generous  and  frank  acknow- 
ledgment of  the  faults  of  the  sys- 


tem upon  which  they  themselves 
had  long  been  acting,  they  ex- 
claimed with  one  voice  that  to 
abolish  the  '  long  '  was  to  abolish 
work.  Oxford  itself,  the  centre  of 
English  education,  is  no  place  for 
work  ;  in  term — that  is  the  period 
set  aside  for  instruction — there  is 
no  time  for  study :  abolish  holidays, 
and  you  abolish  the  only  time  when 
work  is  possible.  The  Oxford  work 
is  not,  cannot  be,  done  at  Oxford ; 
it  is  done  in  country  parsonages,  in 
Highland  lodging-houses,  in  some 
out-of-the-way  corner  of  Wales  or 
Devonshire;  in  fact,  anywhere,  any- 
where, out  of — the  university.  The 
state  of  affairs  in  the  university 
is  perhaps  more  fitly  and  tersely 
described  in  a  remark  made  to  us 
the  other  day  than  it  could  be 
otherwise  done.  The  speaker  was 
a  Chancellor's  prizeman,  and  his 
description  was — 'Here  at  Oxford 
one's  time  is  lectured  away  to  no- 
thing.' " 

These  curious  expedients  to  make 
up  the  deficiencies  of  a  faulty  sys- 
tem, and  an  organisation  not  cal- 
culated, as  it  ought  to  be,  on  the 
most  careful  principles,  to  econo- 
mise the  scholar's  time  and  secure 
his  attention  and  respect — are,  at 
least,  truly  English,  whatever  else 
may  be  said  for  them. 

The  discipline  of  the  college  is 
generally  intrusted  to  one  of  the 
senior  tutors,  who  is  called  the 
dean,  and  the  head  of  the  college 
in  most  cases  only  takes  cognisance 
of  matters  reported  to  him  by  this 
functionary,  though  in  some  colleges 
one  or  two  special  offences,  such  as 
being  out  of  college  after  twelve 
o'clock  at  night,  are  immediately 
subject  to  the  head.  But  in  this, 
as  in  so  many  other  points,  the 
practice  of  the  different  colleges 
varies  so  much,  that  no  account  can 
be  given  of  college  discipline  which 
would  be  universally  true.  The 
chief  points  held  in  common  by  all 
are  the  necessity,  under  different 


School  and  College. 


[July 


penalties,  of  attending  a  certain 
stated  number  of  morning  chapels 
or  "  roll-calls  "  every  week,  and  of 
undergoing  an  examination  of  some 
sort  at  the  end  of  every  term  to  prove 
that  the  time  has  not  been  entirely 
wasted.  With  the  exception  of  these 
rules,  and  that  which  exacts  that  all 
the  members  of  a  college  must  be 
indoors  by  midnight,  the  discipline 
of  the  different  colleges  varies  as 
much  as  the  different  degrees  of 
strictness  with  which  it  is  enforced. 
Besides  the  purely  college  offences 
which  are  implied  in  the  breaking 
of  these  rules,  and  in  the  inatten- 
tion to  work  and  neglect  of  college 
duties,  which  the  stricter  societies 
take  equal  notice  of,  there  is,  of 
course,  the  whole  round  of  youthful 
offences  against  manners  and  morals 
which  have  to  be  guarded  against. 
But  to  keep  in  restraint  the  world 
of  unruly  youth  which  rages 
around  them,  it  must  be  admitted 
that  the  college  authorities  have 
very  little  in  their  power.  If  a 
young  man  is  at  all  determined  in 
his  rebelliousness,  it  is  difficult  to 
see  what  can  be  done  with  him 
except  that  violent  measure  of 
"  sending  down,"  which  Dr  Bradley 
has  for  the  moment  made  somewhat 
ridiculous,  and  which  at  the  best 
is  but  a  sort  of  confession  of  in- 
competency,  and  transference  of 
the  task,  to  which  all  these  digni- 
taries should  surely  be  equal,  to 
other  hands.  The  lighter  penalties, 
the  solemn  interviews  with  the 
superiors,  the  warnings  adminis- 
tered by  an  awful  master,  or  rec- 
tor, or  principal,  are  generally,  we 
fear,  after  the  terrible  moment  is 
over,  regarded  in  the  same  light  as 
those  other  interviews  in  which 
angry  or  grieved  parents  unbosom 
a  world  of  emotion,  which  the  im- 
penitent and  light-hearted  offender 
describes  easily  as  a  "pious  jaw," 
or  by  some  other  equally  graphic 
and  graceless  title.  He  is  "  sworn 


at "  to  the  supposed  satisfaction  of 
the  operator,  and  all  goes  on  as 
before.  After  these  preliminary 
addresses,  the  college  has  the  re- 
source of  "  gating  "  the  offender — 
a  penalty  in  which  there  may  be 
sometimes  a  certain  hardship,  but 
which  otherwise  is  light  enough, 
since  the  culprit  under  sentence 
may  see  his  friends  freely,  entertain 
them,  or  within  the  college  be  en- 
tertained by  them,  and  even  spend 
all  the  day  out  of  doors  if  he  will, 
though  bound  to  re-enter  by  a  cer- 
tain early  hour  in  the  evening. 
But  when  this  resource  is  exhausted, 
there  is  nothing  more  that  the  dons 
can  do  except  to  "  send  down  "  the 
offender,  which,  as  we  have  said,  is 
a  kind  of  confession  of  incapacity. 
If.  he  "  breaks  his  gate,"  and  goes 
out,  or  stays  out  after  the  stipu- 
lated hour,  it  is  flat  rebellion,  and 
they  have  scarcely  an  alternative; 
and  even  if  he  submits  meekly 
enough  to  the  punishment,  but 
does  not  reform  in  other  respects, 
it  becomes  monotonous  to  go  on 
"  gating  "  him,  and  the  college  au- 
thorities are  tempted  to  believe  that 
the  culprit  is  laughing  in  his  sleeve 
at  their  impotent  pretences  at  pun- 
ishment. And  then  is  the  moment 
when  the  young  man  is  "  sent 
down."  It  is  not  always  the  climax 
of  a  series  of  punishments.  Some- 
times it  comes  summarily  upon  a 
young  unfortunate,  whose  case 
seems  naturally  to  call  rather  for 
fatherly  remonstrance  and  persua- 
sion than  punishment.  Sometimes 
an  offender,  who  is  no  worse  or  per- 
haps not  so  bad  as  his  neighbours, 
is  caught  in  a  trap  and  sent  off 
pour  encourager  les  autres.  Some- 
times mere  failure  in  work,  without 
any  moral  or  social  delinquency,  is 
the  cause,  and  the  period  of  exile  may 
be  for  half  a  term  or  a  whole  term, 
or  even  more,  according  to  the  de- 
gree of  guilt.  But  it  has  ceased  to 
be  the  serious  business,  overcloud- 


1880.] 


School  and  College. 


75 


ing  a  young  man's  entire  career,  that 
it  once  was.  Of  course,  in  such  a 
case  as  that  of  the  recent  proceed- 
ings at  Oxford  University  it  is  no 
sort  of  punishment  at  all,  but  only 
a  colossal  frolic — a  very  bad  joke, 
so  far  as  the  unfortunate  parents  are 
concerned,  who  have  to  pay  in  all 
cases ;  but  to  the  young  men  them- 
selves not  at  all  bad  fun,  and  a 
pleasant  variety  upon  the  routine  of 
college  life. 

It  will  be  seen  by  this,  however, 
that  in  the  way  of  discipline  the 
colleges  have  very  little  in  their 
power.  In  old  days,  according  to 
most  of  the  accounts  which  are  left 
to  us,  the  authorities  winked  hard 
at  irregularities  which  they  had  no 
real  power  to  restrain.  But  Oxford 
has  advanced  like  everything  else, 
and  in  some  of  her  corporations, 
at  least,  shows  an  anxious  desire 
to  keep  up  to  the  moving  tide 
of  popular  opinion  outside  of  her 
retired  and  safe  enclosure.  But 
while  much  more  is  required  from 
her — much  more  instruction  and 
discipline,  a  great  deal  more  stern- 
ness than  of  old — her  powers,  in 
respect  at  least  to  the  latter  point, 
are  not  increased.  She  has  more 
teaching  power,  and  that  of  a  much 
more  lively  and  energetic  kind, 
than  of  old,  the  instruction  of  the 
young  men  being  greatly  in  the 
hands  of  other  young  men  not  very 
much  superior  to  themselves  in 
years  or  experience,  and  consequent- 
ly possessing  a  vivacity  and  activity, 
as  well  as  a  readiness  to  adopt  un- 
tried methods — to  be  rash  and  to 
be  timid,  as  older  men  would  have 
less  excuse  for  being — such  as  did 
not  exist  in  former  days.  But  her 
powers  of  discipline  are  not  increas- 
ed. More  is  required — a  supervi- 
sion unthought  of  in  the  easy  days 
of  old — an  amount  of  control  un- 
known in  other  university  systems ; 
but  the  means  of  keeping  up  that 
control  have  not  increased,  and  we 


think  are  scarcely  equal  to  the  task 
in  hand.  The  schoolmaster  has  the 
power,  and  his  subjects  are  boys, 
against  whom  a  great  variety  of  re- 
strictions may  be  brought  to  bear. 
But  the  dons  have  to  deal  with 
men,  or  at  least  with  something 
still  more  difficult, — -'not  yet  old 
enough  for  a  man,  nor  young 
enough  for  a  boy;  as  a  squash  is 
before  'tis  a  peascod,  or  a  codling 
when  'tis  ahncst  an  apple,"  — 
youths  who  have  all  the  preten- 
sions of  men  without  the  experi- 
ence which  stands  in  the  place 
of  sense  with  many,  and  teaches 
even  a  fool  that  certain  things  are 
impossible,  and  not  to  be  attempted. 
The  discipline  enforced  by  the  uni- 
versity authorities,  as  apart  from 
the  college,  presents  two  chief 
points  for  consideration — the  me- 
thod in  which  it  is  managed,  and 
the  character  of  the  penalties  by 
which  it  is  supported.  Everybody 
knows,  at  least  by  name,  the  proc- 
torial system  of  Oxford  government. 
Two  principal  and  four  subordinate 
proctors  are  appointed  every  year, 
whose  chief  duty  is  the  mainten- 
ance of  proper  discipline  outside  the 
colleges — as  the  proctorial  author- 
ity expires  as  soon  as  the  college 
gates  are  entered.  In  pursuance 
of  this  object,  one  or  more  of  the 
proctors  has  to  parade  the  streets  of 
Oxford  every  night,  attended  by 
two  or  three  servants,  arresting 
every  luckless  undergraduate  who 
appears  without  academical  costume, 
or  who  is  indulging  in  the  forbid- 
den pleasures  of  tobacco — searching 
the  hotels  and  billiard-rooms,  and 
otherwise  keeping  watch  against 
any  misdemeanours  on  the  part  of 
members  of  the  university.  This 
can  hardly  be  considered  digni- 
fied pursuit  for  gentlemen  and 
scholars ;  nor  is  the  not  unfre- 
quent  spectacle  of  a  flying  un- 
dergraduate, pursued  through  the 
streets  by  two  or  three  men  of  the 


School  and  College. 


[July 


lowest  class,  while  a  reverend  gen- 
tleman in  gown  and  bands  pants 
after  them  some  little  distance  be- 
hind, exactly  calculated  to  increase 
our  respect  for  one  of  the  highest 
officials  of  the  university. 

But  there  is  another  evil  inherent 
in  the  system  which  is  of  a  more 
positive  description  :  the  proctors 
naturally  conclude  their  rounds  long 
before  the  hour  of  midnight,  at 
which  all  undergraduates  have  to  be 
in  college,  so  that  from  about  10 
to  12  o'clock  their  duties  are  per- 
formed by  the  servants  mentioned 
above,  who  rejoice  in  the  title  of 
"  Bull-dogs," — men  distinguished  in 
no  way  from  the  ordinary  run  of 
persons  hanging  about  the  streets, 
but  with  a  keen  eye  to  mark  any 
disorderly  or  reckless  behaviour,  and 
with  full  authority  to  track  any 
offender  to  his  college  or  lodgings, 
there  to  find  out  his  name,  and  to 
report  him  forthwith  to  the  proctor. 
Such  a  system,  it  is  evident,  is  not 
far  removed  from  regular  methodi- 
cal espionage,  the  thing  of  all  others 
most  odious  to  the  youthful  mind ; 
while  tales  are  spread  abroad  rest- 
ing more  or  less  upon  a  founda- 
tion of  fact,  to  the  effect  that 
now  and  then  the  hateful  idea 
is  carried  out  to  its  fullest  extent, 
and  that  men  in  no  way  officially 
connected  with  the  proctors,  roam 
about  in  the  streets  and  suburbs 
of  Oxford — men  to  whom  most  of 
the  more  conspicuous  members  of 
the  university  are  well  known  by 
sight,  and  who  are  invited  by  pro- 
spects of  reward  to  give  as  much 
information  as  they  can  to  the  au- 
thorities. These  are,  of  course,  but 
the  rumours  which  fly  about  the 
university;  but  there  are  so  many 
independent  stories  told  on  the 
subject,  that  one  is  reminded  of 
the  old  proverb,  "Where  there  is 
smoke,"  &c.,  and  cannot  help  con- 
cluding that  there  must  be  some 
foundation  for  so  many  complaints. 


The  delinquents  thus  detected,  the 
proctor  can  punish  in  various  ways, 
the  most  usual  of  which  are  the 
infliction  of  fines  of  various  mag- 
nitudes— from  five  shillings  to  as 
many  pounds, — application  to  the 
college  authorities  to  "  gate "  the 
offender,  or  "  sending  down  "  for 
a  stated  time  or  altogether.  "We 
have  already  commented  upon  the 
last  two  penalties,  and  called  atten- 
tion to  the  absurdity  of  the  present 
system  of  "  sending  down,"  and  we 
may  here  remark  that  heavy  fines, 
like  it,  come  upon  the  parents  of 
the  delinquents  rather  than  them- 
selves. But  the  point  which  is 
chiefly  to  be  noticed  in  connection 
with  the  proctors  is  the  immense 
irresponsible  power  which  is  given 
to  them  by  the  university  stat- 
utes. These,  which  are  acknow- 
ledged to  be  obsolete  even  by  the 
stanchest  conservatives,  are  yet 
appealed  to  in  support  of  any  ar- 
bitrary or  exceptional  act  on  the 
part  of  the  authorities  ;  for,  after 
prescribing  and  limiting  the  pen- 
alties which  may  be  inflicted  for 
various  offences,  they  conclude  by 
giving  the  Vice  -  Chancellor  and 
proctors  power  to  inflict  any  pen- 
alty at  their  own  discretion  in  any 
case  which  is  not  specially  provided 
for  by  the  previous  statutes,  and 
which  they  may  consider  worthy 
of  punishment.  This  really  amounts 
to  the  same  thing  as  giving  absolute 
irresponsible  power  to  the  proctors ; 
for  the  Vice-Chancellor,  on  the  oc- 
casions upon  which  his  consent  is 
necessary,  can  only  act  upon  the 
report  of  the  case  given  to  him  by 
the  proctors,  and  must,  if  the  sys- 
tem is  to  be  kept  up  at  all,  be  very- 
chary  of  reversing  a  proctor's  deci- 
sion. 

Nor  is  the  man  to  whom  these 
powers  are  intrusted  chosen  in 
any  especial  manner  for  his  fitness 
for  the  post.  The  various  colleges 
are  obliged,  each  in  their  turn,  to 


1880.] 


School  and  College. 


elect  a  proctor  from  among  their 
fellows,  and  it  seldom  occurs  that 
more  than  one  or  two  of  these 
are  willing  to  accept  an  office  so 
disagreeable  in  its  nature,  and  which 
occupies  so  much  of  their  time.  It 
may  thus  happen  that  the  chosen 
proctor  may  be  elected,  not  for  any 
fitness,  real  or  supposed,  for  his 
post,  but  because  there  was  no- 
body else  to  choose.  The  results 
which  may  be  expected,  and  are 
too  frequently  found  to  follow  this 
system  of  election,  are  evident;  for, 
though  Oxford  contains  good  store 
of  excellent  and  learned  men,  the 
number  of  those  who  are  capable 
of  successfully  wielding  unlimited 
power  is  no  larger  there  than  in  the 
rest  of  the  world.  It  results  natu- 
rally from  this  system  that  there  is 
no  real  principle  upon  which  proc- 
torial jurisdiction  is  exercised.  That 
one  proctor  should  differ  in  severity 
from  another  is  not  of  much  con- 
sequence, for  even  in  judicial  cases 
the  same  difference  occurs,  and  a 
criminal  may  have  a  pronounced 
desire  to  be  tried  before  one  judge 
rather  than  another.  But  the  j  udge 
has  but  limited  powers  ;  he  is  tied 
down  by  precedent,  and,  above  all, 
he  gives  sentence  after  the  verdict 
of  a  jury.  The  proctor  is  at  once 
prosecutor,  jury,  and  judge ;  while 
he  may  laugh  to  scorn  any  appeal 
to  a  judgment  delivered  before  by 
a  previous  proctor,  or  even  by  him- 
self. We  remember  a  current  ru- 
mour in  Oxford  about  a  proctor 
who,  previously  clemency  itself, 
suddenly  began,  towards  the  end 
of  his  term  of  office,  to  be  exceeding- 
ly strict,  and  to  exact  in  every  case 
the  highest  possible  penalties.  The 
undergraduate  mind  was  naturally 
highly  exercised  by  this  transfor- 
mation, and  explanation  after  ex- 
planation was  offered,  until  at  last 
one  ingenious  youth  suggested  that, 
on  looking  down  his  accounts,  the 
proctor  had  been  struck  by  the 


paltry  dimensions  of  the  sum  which 
he  had  obtained  for  the  university 
chest,  and  promptly  set  about  col- 
lecting as  much  as.  he  could  pick 
up.  Whether  this  explanation  was 
the  true  one  or  not  can  hardly  be 
known  j  but  the  nitthod,  which 
allows  of  the  possibility  either  of 
the  theory  or  the  course  of  action 
which  called  it  forth,  can  hardly 
be  deemed  worthy  in  either  jus- 
tice or  dignity  of  such  a  great  na- 
tional institution  as  our  university 
system. 

We  have  spoken  of  the  youth  of 
a  great  many  of  the  instructors  of 
this  immense  youthful  community. 
This  is  a  fault  that,  according  to 
the  popular  saying,  is  always  mend- 
ing, and  it  is  already  less  evident 
than  it  was  a  few  years  ago — per- 
haps in  consequence  of  the  re- 
straint imposed  upon  the  filling  up 
of  fellowships  by  the  uncertainty 
at  present  existing  about  those  in- 
stitutions. A  young  don  is,  accord- 
ing to  all  ancient  notions,  a  kind 
of  contradiction  in  terms.  Col- 
lege rulers  used  to  mean — conven- 
tionally always,  and  in  most  in- 
stances really — a  body  of  respect- 
able, not  to  say  antiquated  func- 
tionaries, full  of  learning  it  might 
be,  and  often  of  port  wine,  with  no 
sympathy  with  youth,  yet  a  general 
desire  to  ignore  it  as  much  as  pos- 
sible, shut  their  eyes  when  they 
could,  and  disturb  their  own  learned 
quiet  as  little  as  might  be  compat- 
ible with  a  creditable  existence.  It 
is  a  great  change  to  find  the  grave 
tribunal  of  the  Common  room — 
once  middle-aged,  to  say  the  least, 
and  callous  to  the  errors  of  boy- 
hood, by  reason  of  having  shuffled 
through  so  many  generations  of 
them — turned  into  a  party  of  highly 
cultivated  and  worthy  jesthetical 
young  men, — the  authors  of  delicate 
commentaries  upon  China,  disquisi- 
tions on  Italian  art,  and  research- 
es into  the  history,  scandalous  and 


78 


School  and  College. 


[July 


otherwise,  of  the  Renaissance, — all 
shaped  in  the  most  modern  fash- 
ion, and  babbling  the  jargon  of  the 
advanced.  That  they  should  take 
the  trouble  to  withdraw  themselves 
from  these  elegant  subjects,  in 
order  to  shape  the  morals  or  in- 
fluence the  taste  of  the  horde  of 
schoolboys  who  pour  upon  them 
year  after  year,  would  be  scarcely 
credible,  were  it  not.  for  the  con- 
scientiousness, which  is  a  marked 
characteristic  of  their  minds,  and 
.to.  which  it  would  be  a  mistake 
not  to  do  full  justice.  They  are 
anxiously  conscientious.  More  dear 
than  Greek,  more  delightful  than 
Italian  art,  and  the  fine  questions 
of  social  philosophy,  would  it 
be  to  them  to  acquire  "influ- 
ence," and  to  lead  other  young 
spirits  like  themselves  into  the 
love  of  Botticelli  and  old  Nan- 
kin, as  well  as  of  Sophocles  and 
Theocritus.  And  with  the  increas- 
ing number  of  young  men  who  take 
kindly  to  this  development,  whoo 
are  fond  of  bric-a-brac,  and  devoted 
to  art  manufactures  and  upholstery, 
they  are  in  a  certain  sympathy — 
though  these  tastes  are  not  neces- 
sarily  combined  with  much  Latin 
or  more  Greek.  But  with  the 
ruder  mass  these  delicate  souls  are 
timidP  They  understand  to  a  cer- 
tain degree  the  athlete,  and  tolerate 
him — if  he  is  not  much  good  in 
literature,  he  may  yet  help  to  keep 
the  coSege  high  up  on  the  river,  or 
get  it  a  good  reputation  (in  the 
cricket-field.  But  in  respect  to 
those  fluctuating  spirits  whose  as- 
sistance and  establishment  in  the 
good  way  are  the  great  problem  of 
humanity,  as  well  as  of  education, 
they  are  powerless.  Most  likely 
they  have  never  themselves  felt  the 
sting  of  the  grosser  temptations ; 
they  have  been  studious  from  their 
boyhood;  winners  of  school  dis- 
tinctions and  university  prizes 
from  the  time  they  were  breeched. 


Many  of  them  may  be  said  to  have 
lived  a  semi-professional  life  of  in- 
tellectual emulation  since  the  period 
when  they  won  their  first  scholar- 
ship at  twelve  or  fourteen.  They 
have  been  happily  delivered  from 
the  struggles  of  existence,  swept 
into  the  quiet  bay  of  their  fellow- 
ships, established  in  the'  limited 
yet  complete  and  finished  sphere  of 
the  university,  while  other  young 
men  are  still  uneasily  afloat,  not 
knowing  where  wind  or  tide  may 
carry  them. 

These  young  tutors,  we  repeat, 
are  timid  when  they  come  in 
face  of  the  real  difficulties  of 
their  profession.  They  are  anxious 
to  do  well,  but  they  cannot  tell 
what  to  do.  They  would  be  glad, 
like  St  Paul,  that  the  motley  crowd 
around  them  should  be  almost3  or 
altogether  such  as  they  are,  if  a 
wish  could  make  them  so;  but 
they  do  not  know  how  to  approach 
the  unruly  or  the  careless,  the  youths 
for  whom  a  Greek  chorus  or  an 
Italian  picture  may  have  no 
charm ;  or  even  those,  though  full 
of  intellectual  aptitude,  with  whom 
the  passing  temptations  of  the  mo- 
ment are  too  strong  for  better 
things.  No  problem  within  the 
horizon  of  knowledge  is  so  hard  to 
such  men  as  are  the  other  human 
creatures  about  them,  whom  they 
long  to  influence,  but  do  not  know 
how  to  get  hold  of.  They  complain 
with  as  much  plaintive  incompe- 
tency  as  ignorance  of  the  world, 
and  the  air  of  savoir  faire,  lament- 
ing in  such  words  as  those  we  have 
already  quoted,  over  their  limited 
successes.  The  reader  may  re- 
member a  recent  example  in  the 
letter  of  a  "College  Don"  to  the 
'  Times '  newspaper,  shortly  after  the 
recent  affray  at  University  Col- 
lege, in  which  a  certain  bitterness 
mingledwith  the  despair  of  impo- 
tency.  This  sense  of  powerlessness 
lowers  even  the  intellectual  level. 


1880.] 


School  and  College. 


79 


Sometimes  the  consultations  and 
decisions  of  a  Common  room  thus 
constituted,  sitting  upon  a  young 
offender,  are  for  all  the  world  like 
the  babble  of  a  nunnery  (as  it 
appears  in  its  conventional  aspect 
in  imaginative  literature  j  for  few 
of  us  know  really  what  the  sisters 
would  say)  on  a  novice  who  has 
been  caught  tripping.  Great  lax- 
n-:ss  in  orthodoxy  does  not  make 
any  difference  in  this  particular — 
for  that  is,  fortunately,  at  the  pres- 
ent day,  combined  in  many  cases 
with  the  most  fastidious  code  of 
morals.  "We  have  heard  a  mythi- 
cal story  of  a  gentle  professor  who 
took  to  his  bed  on  hearing  that  one 
of  his  pupils  had  on  some  occasion 
taken  too  much  wine.  Happy 
pupils,  it  may  be  said,  with  so 
spotless  a  guardian  over  them ! 
Happy  professor,  so  little  learned  in 
wickedness !  But  there  is  another 
side  to  the  picture.  The  discipline 
becomes  womanish  in  stead  of  manly 
which  is  thus  exercised ;  and  no  one 
can  be  surprised  that  there  should 
be  more  and  more  frequent  recur- 
rence to  the  expedient  of  "  sending 
down."  The  authorities  of  a  college 
become  thus  like  a  collection  of 
landsmen  upon  a  dangerous  coast, 
looking  wistfully  at  the  struggling 
craft  in  the  offing.  The  harbour 
may  be  hard  to  make,  the  boats  in 
danger,  the  women  and  children 
wild  with  anxiety  upon  the  shore  : 
but  what  can  the  helpless  spectators 
do?  They  have  never  learned  to 
handle  a  lifeboat,  to  manage  sail 
or  oar.  They  can  but  stand  by 
and  look  on,  wishing  mournfully 
for  a  good  deliverance,  and  ready 
to  shake  hands  and  make  friends 
in  cordial  thankfulness  with  every 
crew  that  is  able  to  get  itself  safely 
to  shore. 

It  is  perhaps  a  natural  conse- 
quence that  there  is  very  little  social 
intercourse  between  these  gentle- 
men tand  their  pupils.  The  under- 


graduates who  are  visible  at  their 
tables  occasionally,  are  mostly  those 
to  whom  their  position  has  given  a 
certain  social  prominence — young 
noblemen,  or  the  sons  of  the  very 
wealthy  or  great  j  not,  let  us  do 
the  tutors  justice  to  say,  because 
of  lordolatry — though  that  unques- 
tionably exists  in  no  small  degree 
— but  because  it  is  easier  to  distin- 
guish a  youth  with  a  title,  or  some 
other  equally  unmistakable  sign  01 
social  importance,  whose  recommen- 
dations lie  on  the  surface,  and  can- 
not be  gainsaid.  Some  important 
members  of  Oxford  society  are  said, 
indeed,  to  cultivate  the  young  no- 
bility on  principle,  as  being  more 
likely  to  spread  "a  good  influence" 
than  their  more  lowly  neighbours  ; 
but  it  may  be  fairly  allowed  that 
the  same  intellectual  timidity  which 
makes  them  "successful  in  cases 
where  there  is  no  merit  in  suc- 
ceeding," dictates  this  choice  of 
the  favourites  of  fortune  so  easily 
identified  among  the  crowd. 

Other  influences  of  this  large  in- 
fusion of  youth  into  the  venerable 
institutions  and  governing  classes 
in  Oxford  might  be  easily  found  if 
it  suited  our  subject.  The  young 
dons  are  an  excellent  and  most  high- 
ly cultivated  body,  and  they  are  con- 
scientious and  anxious  to  do  their 
duty.  The  doubt  is  whether  they  are 
not  too  fine  for  their  office,  too  highly 
cultivated  to  exercise  much  sway 
over  the  crowd.  The  periods  in 
which  Greek  was  finest,  and  Art 
highest,  have  not  been  those  which 
have  affected  men  in  general  to  the 
noblest  issues.  And  perhaps  the  sys 
tern  of  perpetual  competition  is  that 
which  has  fostered  most  the  sev- 
erance between  intellectual  culture 
and  the  practical  capabilities.  But 
this  system — of  which  it  is  the  high- 
est use  to  cultivate  prize-winners 
and  gain  scholarships,  is  too  large 
and  too°  doubtful  to  be  entered 
upon  at  the  end  of  an  article.  It 


•80 


The  Lascar  Crew. 


[July 


is,  for  its  proper  ends,  a  good  sys- 
tem enough,  and  it  is  very  effectual 
with  its  predestined  subjects,  born 
to  follow  the  scholastic  course,  and 
with  all  their  tendencies  already 
taking  that  direction ;  but  whether 
it  acts  as  well  upon  others  it  would 
be  difficult  to  pronounce.  There  is 
just  as  much  likelihood,  we  fear,  of 
pushing  a  youth  into  more  wilful 
ways  by  exposing  him  to  the  per- 
petual high  pressure  of  a  so-called 
"reading"  college,  as  there  is  of 
letting  him  fall  back  into  lethargy 
in  the  quietude  of  a  passive  one. 
The  competition  of  the  schools,  and 
the  perpetual  bribery  of  prize  ex- 
aminations, will  influence  one  kind 
of  mind  into  exorbitant  activity, 
while  almost  repelling  and  cer- 
tainly damaging  others.  These  are 
individual  peculiarities  which  are 
too  little  taken  into  consideration. 
We  are  all  ready  to  imagine  at  the 
outset  that  we  or  our  children  will 
carry  off  the  prizes  and  cover  our- 
selves with  distinction.  But  as  the 
disenchanting  process  of  the  years 
goes  on,  and  we  find  our  clever 


schoolboys  dropping  into  ordinary 
young  men,  "finding  their  level"  in 
point  of  talent,  or  losing  their  advan- 
tages in  point  of  industry,  this  con- 
viction has  a  wonderfully  sobering 
effect  upon  our  judgment.  All  dis- 
tinctions are  wise  and  good  so  long 
as  we  gain  them  ;  otherwise,  there 
is  a  great  deal  to  be  said  against 
the  determined  race  for  honours  in 
which  some  young  heads  are  con- 
fused rather  than  stimulated,  and 
many  young  tempers  embittered. 
In  this  point  of  view,  a  "  reading  " 
college  has  its  disadvantages.  The 
nervous  eagerness  of  its  tutors  and 
heads  for  honours,  the  indiffer- 
ence with  which  those  students 
who  are  not  likely  to  add  to  the 
fame  of  the  society  are  treated, 
and  the  kind  of  moral  hotbed  in 
which  those  are  placed  who  are 
likely  to  distinguish — themselves, 
no  doubt,  but  in  the  first  place 
their  college, — does  a  great  deal, 
we  fear,  to  lower  the  ideal  of  uni- 
versity life,  which  almost  all  intel- 
ligent youths  have  in  their  hearts 
before  they  go  to  the  university. 


THE    LASCAK    CREW. 

ADMIRAL  GORE  JONES,  Naval  Commander-in-Chief  of  the  East  India 
Station,  when  presiding  recently  over  a  meeting  at  the  Bombay  Sailors' 
Home,  commented  on  the  practice  of  the  steamship  companies  manning 
their  ships  with  Lascar  crews,  and  he  predicted  that  this  practice  would 
some  day  lead  to  great  disaster. 

1874-1880. 


The  ship  Britannia  sailed  away 
One  stormy  winter,  to  cross  the  Bay, 
"With  a  skipper  bold  and  a  gallant  crew, 
And  the  flag  at  her  mast  of  the  old  True  Blue. 
Her  sails  were  stout,  and  her  spars  were  strong, 
And  she  seemed  to  feel,  as  she  bowled  along, 
That  she  feared  not  the  worst  that  winter  could  do, 
For  her  decks  were  manned  by  a  British  crew. 


1880.]  The  Lascar  Grew.  81 


The  winds  blew  free  and  the  waves  rose  high, 
And  the  lightning  shivered  across  the  sky, 
And  the  good  ship  plunged  in  the  foaming  deep, 
Then  reared  like  a  horse  ere  he  takes  his  leap. 
Oh,  well  for  her  that  the  man  at  the  wheel 
Had  an  iron  hand  and  a  heart  of  steel ! 
Oh,  well  for  her  that  her  skipper  true 
"Would  have  none  on  hoard  but  a  British  crew  ! 

in. 

She  rode  the  waves  and  she  weathered  the  blast, 
Till  she  sailed  into  summer  seas  at  last, 
And  her  flag  aloft  was  yet  proudly  borne, 
Though  her  spars  were  strained  and  her  sails  were  torn. 
Then  those  who  knew  what  the  storm  had  been, 
And  all  that  the  skipper  had  suffered  and  seen, 
Said,  "  Ah,  there's  nothing  that  ship  can't  do, 
As  long  as  she's  manned  by  a  British  crew  ! " 


1880 


'Tis  winter  again,  and  the  ship  must  sail 
Across  the  Bay  in  a  furious  gale  : 
Her  sails  are  stout,  and  her  spars  are  strong, 
And  why  should  she  fear  as  she  bowls  along  ? 
With  her  gallant  crew,  and  her  skipper  bold, 
And  her  flag  that  waves  where  it  waved  of  old, 
Oh  why  should  she  fear  what  the  gale  can  do, 
While  she  carries  on  board  her  British  crew1? 

n. 

Alas  for  the  ship,  and  alas  for  the  flag  ! 
The  old  True  Blue  is  a  pitiful  rag- 
All  ravelled  and  sodden  with  mud  and  dirt 
By  the  hands  that  should  guard  it  from  stain  or  hurt. 
Alas  for  the  ship,  and  the  gallant  men 
Who  could  save  her  now  as  they  saved  her  then  — 
Oh,  well  may  she  fear  what  the  gale  can  do, 
For  her  decks  are  manned  by  a  Lascar  crew  ! 


Alas  for  the  ship,  that  her  pilot's  hand 

Is  shifting  and  weak  as  a  rope  of  sand  ! 

And  alas  for  her,  that  her  captain's  eye 

Is  wicked  and  wild  as  the  stormy  sky  ! 

He  sees  not  the  breakers  which  foam  ahead, 

He  hears  not  the  thunder-clouds'  gathering  tread, 

And  little  he  recks  what  the  gale  can  do — 

But  oh  for  one  hour  of  her  British  crew  ! 

VOL.  CXXVIII.— NO.  DCCLXXVII. 


The  Lews :  its  Salmon  and  Herring. 


[July 


The  waves  will  rise,  and  the  winds  will  blow, 
And  the  Lascars  will  cower  like  rats  below  j 
With  nerveless  fingers  and  craven  heart, 
Under  battened  hatches  they  shiver  and  start : 
The  skipper  is  mad,  and  the  rudder  gone, 
And  the  ship  rushes  on  to  her  doom  alone — 
And  we  know  too  well  what  the  gale  will  do 
To  a  ship  that  is  "manned  by  a  Lascar  crew  ! 


May  1880. 


C. 


THE    LEWS:    ITS    SALMON    AND    HERRING. 


WE  had  shaken  off  the  dust  of 
the  south.  We  had  bidden  "  good- 
bye," for  a  time  at  least,  to  the 
toil  of  London  life.  Once  again 
Inverness,  with  all  its  charms  of 
association,  had  welcomed  us  with 
its  ever  -  refreshing  memories  of 
happy  days  when  railways  were 
yet  unknown.  We  had  tubbed, 
— breakfasted  on  those  succulent 
salmon-steaks,  rolls  and  butter,  un- 
equalled in  our  minds.  We  had 
not  forgotten  to  "visit  MacDoug- 
all's ;  "  neither  had  we  omitted  the 
yet  more  important  duty  of  look- 
ing in  at  Snowie's  and  Macleay's 
for  fresh  tackle.  As  the  afternoon 
train  for  the  Skye  line  moved 
slowly  out, — it  was  heavily  laden 
with  a  large  contingent  of  the  Eoss- 
shire  militia  returning  to  the  west 
coast, — we  sank  back  in  the  com- 
fortable front  coupe,  which  the 
Highland  Eailway  Directors  so 
thoughtfully  provide  for  the  en- 
thusiastic travelling  public,  with 
that  ineffable  sense  of  rest,  comfort, 
and  tranquillity  that  pervades  the 
minds  of  well  -  conditioned  men, 
who,  bound  for  a  short  spell  of 
leave  which  they  believe  they  have 
fully  earned,  have  made  all  possi- 
ble preparations  for  its  thorough 
enjoyment. 


Donuil,  our  head -keeper,  had 
thoughtfully  sent  us  a  telegram, 
done  into  English,  from  Storno- 
way :  "  She  is  full,  and  there  will 
be  grand  sport."  If  he  had  writ- 
ten a  bookful  he  could  not  have 
said  more  to  send  our  spirits  up 
to  effervescing-point.  We  anxious- 
ly watched  the  "  carry  "  as  we  has- 
tened round  the  Beauly  Firth.  The 
clouds  were  moving  to  the  north, 
with  that  look  in  their  ever- varying 
and  beautiful  masses  which  told  us, 
not  unused  to  read  their  signs,  that 
there  was  no  fear,  for  the  present 
at  all  events,  of  that  bete  noire  to 
the  angler,  an  easterly  wind.  With 
the  feelings  of  boys,  young  and 
old,  who  handle  their  guns  on  the 
eve  of  "  the  Twelfth,"  their  hunt- 
ing-crops at  the  end  of  October, 
we  had  kept  out  our  fly-books,  and 
tenderly  handled  the  innocent-look- 
ing means  by  which  we  hoped  to 
wile  the  handsomest  fish  there  is 
into  our  panniers,  one  of  which 
occupied  the  farther  side  of  the 
carriage,  full  to  the  brim  with  all 
that  Morel,  combined  with  expe- 
rience and  anticipation  of  hunger 
and  thirst,  could  suggest.  When 
the  Hampshire  basket-maker  was 
told  to  make  a  pair,  each  to  hold 
twelve  salmon  of  15  Ib.  weight,  he 


1880.] 


The  Lews :  its  Salmon  and  Herring. 


83 


stared,  as  well  he  might ;  yet  they 
both  were  more  than  filled  one  day 
by  one  rod  alone. 

As  we  slowly  climbed  the  steep  as- 
cent, and  looked  up  Strathpeffer  and 
down  upon  Leod  Castle,  we  felt  as 
does  the  lover  of  the  art  when,  set- 
tling in  his  stall  at  Covent  Garden, 
he  knows  that  Patti  is  the  heroine 
of  the  evening.  Scraping,  as  it 
were,  through  the  rocky  gateway 
which  seems  to  bar  the  entrance  to 
the  west,  and  which  reminds  one 
how  Dame  Nature  deigns  at  times  to 
copy  her  own  handiwork — for  this, 
on  an  infinitely  smaller  scale  of 
course,  is  not  unlike  the  Bolan 
Pass — we  [seem  to  glide  with  easier 
respiration  along  the  banks  of  G-arve. 
Lochluichart,  Achanalt,  Auchna- 
shellach,  where  wealth  and  taste 
combine  with  nature — are  they  not 
names  to  call  up  visions  of  scenery 
not  easily  surpassed  in  Bonnie  Scot- 
land? As  we  sweep  along  the 
shores  of  the  sea  -  loch  Carron,  we 
catch  from  the  receding  tide  the 
bracing,  powerful  ozonic  odours  of 
the  fresh  sea-weed,  and  simultane- 
ously we  confess  to  hunger  we  had 
not  known  for  months.  Anxious- 
ly we  looked  to  seaward,  as  the 
rays  of  the  setting  sun  poured  out 
their  wealth  of  gold  on  weather- 
beaten  mountain-tops,  the  heathered 
sides,  the  wooded  glens,  and  white- 
sailed  fishing -boats  darting  here 
and  there  on  the  crisply  -  curling 
wavelets ;  for  the  sun  was  sinking 
fast,  and  we  knew  that  if  we  were 
to  escape  the  loss  of  a  day,  we 
must  get  out  into  the  Minch  before 
night  fell,  as  the  entrance  into 
Strome  is  most  tortuous  and  dan- 
gerous. Yes ;  there  was  the  little 
yacht-like  Glencoe,  which  the  ever- 
obliging  station-master  of  Inver- 
ness had  assured  us  would  wait  for 
our  train  until  the  last  possible 
moment. 

Bundling  our  traps  on  board,  we 
rushed  to  the  telegraph  -  office  to 


announce  our  departure  for  the 
outer  world.  Can  you  conceive 
anything  more  apparently  hopeless 
than  the  attempt  to  penetrate  four 
hundred  hungry  men,  filling,  brim- 
ming over,  and  clustering  round  a 
"  shop  "  some  ten  feet  square,  which 
held  their  hopes  of  food  for  four- 
and-twenty  hours  ?  At  the  farther 
corner  of  this  den  lies  the  telegraphic 
battery;  yet,  thanks  to  the  innate 
courtesy  of  these  kindly  Highland- 
ers, who,  in  all  their  apparent  rough 
and  eager  jostling,  never  lost  their 
tempers  or  uttered  an  unseemly 
word,  we  quickly  wrote  our  mes- 
sages, and  were,  most  thankfully, 
back  again  in  fresher  air  before  the 
warning  sounds  of  the  steamer's 
second  bell  had  bid  us  hasten.  As 
we  steamed  away,  the  falling  shades 
on  the  glass-like  waters,  the  still 
glowing  tops  of  the  higher  bills 
of  Boss  behind  us,  the  dark-rising 
masses  of  the  mountain-ranges  out 
in  Skye,  combined  to  form  such 
pictures  that  even  the  steward's 
welcome  summons  was  for  a  time 
unnoticed.  Have  you  ever  been 

foodless  to  bed  made  the  little  heart 
you  had  left  sink  into  your  boots  ? 
We  found  that  it  was  quite  by  ac- 
cident there  was  anything  to  eat  on 
board.  But,  ye  gods,  how  good 
that  was  !  Such  herrings  ! — not 
thirty  minutes  gone  since  they  had 
said  farewell  to  all  their  kin  — 
smoking  hot  —  as  fresh ;  deftly 
opened  down  the  back ;  laid  by  an 
artist's  hand  upon  the  gridiron,  with 
a  dash  of  oatmeal,  black  and  red 
pepper,  and  a  pinch  of  salt, — their 
like  is  not  yet  known  in  the  land 
of  the  Sassenach.  Top  those  with 
chops,  which  look  like  cutlets,  of 
small  "West  Highland  mutton,  and 
we  think  that  even  the  announce- 
ment that  there  was  no  milk  for  tea 
could  be  received  with  equanimity. 
Our  Russian  experience  had  taught 
us  that  a  squeeze  of  lemon  is  no  mean 


84 


The  Lews :  its  Salmon  and  Hemng. 


[July 


substitute;  and  as  we  sat  in  the 
glass-encased  saloon,  and  watched 
the  phosphorescent  waves  between 
us  and  the  rising  shores  of  Raasay, 
we  felt  that  our  trip  had  indeed 
begun  to  run  in  pleasant  lines. 

With  a  steady,  even  beat,  the 
Glencoe  cleft  her  way ;  and  ere  we 
well  had  slept,  we  found  ourselves 
running  up  the  landlocked  bay  of 
Stornoway.  Filled  with  herring- 
boats  of  various  builds  and  rigs, 
from  the  carvel  craft  of  Banff  to  the 
clinker  lugger  of  the  west,  there 
were  on  board  them  as  many 
types  of  hardy  seamen.  The  dark, 
flashing  -  eyed,  impetuous  Celt  of 
Hebridean  origin  loves  not  the 
more  phlegmatic,  less  attractive 
eastern  Scot — and  he  shows  it,  too, 
at  times ;  but  that  is  only  when  the 
devil,  in  the  shape  of  poisonous 
fire-water,  subverts  his  native  cour- 
teous, peaceful  instincts.  It  was 
cold, — the  coldest  hour  of  all,  that 
just  before  the  dawn.  But  tired, 
sleepy,  shivering,  as  we  stood  upon 
the  quay,  we  determined  to  face  at 
once  the  twenty -mile  drive  across 
the  Lews,  rather  than  endure  the 
horrors  of  a  bed  in  worse  than 
doubtful  quarters.  That  drive ! 
We  had  tasted  the  delights  of  a 
telega  for  a  four  days'  scamper  over 
the  Steppes ;  but  we  had  not  known 
such  agonies  of  sleep  as  those  which 
mocked  us  with  blissful  rest,  as 
when  we  toiled  along  that  weary, 
dreary  road  to  Garrynahine,  behind 
the  wretched  pony  that  was  har- 
nessed to  a  double  dog  -  cart,  in 
which  a  pair  of  spanking  hunters 
might  well  have  earned  their  sum- 
mer oats.  Five  mortal  hours  were 
taken  from  the  day  ere  our  eyes 
were  gladdened  by  the  distant 
whitened  walls  of  Eoag  Lodge. 
With  what  joy  we  slipped  between 
the  daisy-smelling  sheets,  and  kissed 
the  fresh,  white  pillows !  and  in 
another  minute  slept  as  do  indeed 


the  weary — but  only  for  two  hours. 
The  General  was  inexorable.  Break- 
fasting at  eleven,  at  noon  we  started 
for  the  lower  waters.  To  each  of  us 
were  attached  two  gillies  —  men 
who  had  lived  their  lives  with  fish, 
until  they  knew  their  every  phase 
of  mind  or  habit. 

One  of  them,  Donuil  Dubh,  had 
been  some  years  a  trapper  for  the 
Hudson's  Bay  Company  ;  and  as 
his  intelligent  dark  face  lit  up 
while  he  told  us  tales  of  the  "  great 
lone  land,"  he  lead  us  a  practical 
lesson  on  the  possibility  and  bene- 
fit of  travelling  with  a  small  purse 
and  a  large  mind.  His  pay  had 
only  been  one  shilling  a-day,  which 
seemed  munificent  in  comparison 
with  the  then  local  rate  of  sixpence. 
"  Ah  ! "  he  said ;  "  in  those  day?, 
when  there  were  so  many  mouths 
for  the  little  meal  we  had,  it  would 
have  been  a  mercy  if  there  had 
been  a  war  like  the  long  one,  when 
men  went  by  the  hundred  and  few 
came  back."  Now,  out  of  a  popula- 
tion in  the  Lews  of  little  more  than 
25,000,  there  are  nearly  1000  in  the 
Naval  Reserve,  500  in  the  Militia, 
and  100  are  well -drilled  Artillery 
Volunteers ;  besides,  a  certain  num- 
ber 5 early  join  the  regular  ser- 
vices. If  the  right  chord  be  touch- 
ed, they  are  men  who  will  follow 
the  flag,  and  be  proud  to  die  for  it. 

As  we  made  for  the  head  of  the 
river,  our  faces  were  turned  to- 
wards the  south,  and  the  hills  of 
Harris  rose  before  us  in  striking 
contrast  to  the  dwarfed  contour  of 
the  Lews  country.  Peaks  and 
buttresses,  sharp  outlines  and  rug- 
ged crests,  throwing  themselves 
against  the  fleece  -  covered  sky  to 
the  height  of  nearly  three  thousand 
feet,  they  proudly  asserted  them- 
selves in  all  the  beauty  of  their 
form  and  colouring,  tinted  by  the 
varied  hues  of  heather,  grass,  and 
lichen- covered  rocks,  until,  as  our 


1880.] 


The  Lews :  its  Salmon  and  Herring, 


85 


rapid  steps  brought  us  to  a  long 
sheet  of  water,  whose  Scandinavian 
nime  betrays  its  ancient  source,  we 
were  fain  to  halt  and  gaze  upon  the 
beauty  of  the  scene,  so  little  like 
what  we  had  been  taught  to  think 
could  be  looked  for  in  the  Lews. 
True  it  is  that  the  grandeur  of  the 
laadscape  belongs  to  the  southern 
part,  Harris ;  but  her  northern  sister, 
like  many  a  dangerous  siren,  gains 
in  attractiveness  the  more  your 
accustomed  eye  wanders  over  her 
features,  and  finds  with  each  grow- 
ing hour  that  there  is  a  fresh  and 
not  less  potent  charm  than  in  the 
last.  At  least  we  found  it  so ;  and 
when  we  left  the  Lews,  we  looked 
long  and  wistfully  in  her  face,  and 
felt  that,  without  doubt,  she  need 
not  fear  the  closest  scrutiny,  if  it 
last  but  long  enough. 

And  then  we  fished  Lang  Val 
— Scandinavian  to  the  letter,  and 
fall  of  salmon  to  the  smallest  bay, 
thanks  to  the  absence  of  a  net 
from  spawning-bed  to  sea.  Bor- 
dered on  the  south  by  the  Harris 
hills,  to  the  north  it  empties  itself 
by  a  series  of  smaller  lochs  and 
short  streams  into  the  arm  of  the 
sea  from  which  its  wealth  of  salmon 
comes.  To  each  rod  is  assigned  a 
certain  well-defined  and  most  lib- 
eral extent  of  loch  and  stream ;  the 
latter  fished  from  the  bank,— the 
former  by  fair  casting  from  a  Norwe- 
gian skiff,  light,  and  easily  handled 
in  the  strongest  breeze — and  it  can 
blow  great  guns  on  those  stretches 
of  water — by  the  two  expert  gillies, 
who,  as  they  say  themselves,  enjoy 
the  sport  almost  as  much  as  you. 

Quickly  the  rod  is  put  together 
by  the  lissom-fingered  Donuil,  who, 
as  he  hands  it  back,  remarks  that 
its  eighteen  feet  of  seasoned  stuff 
makes  just  the  thing  that's  wanted. 
Much  against  our  prejudices,  he  is 
allowed  to  have  his  way  and  put 
on  a  "bob,"  "a  silver  squire,"  a 


smaller  fly  than  the  "butcher," 
which  goes  upon  the  tail.  Quickly, 
silently,  as  if  of  a  boat's  crew  bent 
on  cutting  out  a  prize  from  under 
a  battery,  the  gillies  bring  the 
skiff  to,  just  below  the  stream  as  it 
enters  the  loch ;  and,  with  a  Gaelic 
benediction  from  them  both,  out 
flies  the  line  across  the  stream,  and 
we  fish  upwards.  "Ah!"  is  the 
united  expression  of  keen  delight 
as  with  a  rush  a  fresh-run  salmon 
flashes  his  silver  side  well  out  of 
the  water  ere  he  sinks  with  the 
deceptive  morsel.  A  click  of  the 
reel,  a  whirr  as  the  line  goes  out, 
and  we  know  that  a  good  fish  is 
fast.  In  an  instant  the  rod  is  bent 
as  he  gets  the  butt  and  the  line — 
taut,  as  it  may  safely  be — cuts  the 
hissing  water  like  a  knife  as  he 
rushes  down  the  loch,  and  takes  out 
forty  yards  of  line.  Turning  like 
a  flash,  he  comes  back  yet  faster, 
hard  at  us ;  and  ere  the  line  can 
well  be  reeled  again,  he  springs 
three  feet  straight  into  the  air. 
For  a  second  the  horrid  thought 
arises  that  he  has  played  a  well- 
known  trick,  and  won  the  game  of 
life  once  more ;  but  as  he  sinks  and 
rushes  off,  our  hearts  beat  freely 
again  as  the  tell-tale  wheel  pays 
out  his  needs.  It  was  a  strategic 
movement  worthy  of  success  ;  but. 
as  in  other  warfare,  failing,  it  in- 
volved a  quicker  probability  of 
defeat— for  while  the  tackle  held, 
we  felt  that  now  the  chances  were 
against  him.  But  a  fresh,  strong 
salmon  of  his  weight  is  not  to  bo 
trifled  with  ;  and  it  was  only  after 
several  determined  rushes  and  salta- 
tory efforts,  which  made  us  tremble 
for  his  capture,  that  he  began  to 
tire,  and  foot  by  foot  he  and  the  boat 
were  cautiously  brought  together. 
At  last,  with  a  sigh  of  mingled  plea- 
sure, relief,  and  regret,  our  first  sal- 
mon of  the  Lews  was  in  the  meshes  of 
DonuiFs  landing-net ;  but  not  one 


77* e  Lews:  its  Salmon  and  Herring. 


[July 


second  too  soon,  for  as  lie  tcok  the 
hook  away,  it  fell  in  two.  "17  Ib. 
if  he  is  an  ounce,"  is  the  verdict, 
proved  by  the  scales  at  the  Lodge. 
Small  in  head,  thick  in  girth,  the 
very  pink  of  condition,  his  glisten- 
ing scales  gave  off  such  hues  of 
purple,  grey,  black,  green,  and  sil- 
ver, that  he  well  deserved  John 
M'lver's  hearty  compliment — "A 
verry  bonnie  fesh."  A  "John 
Scott"  was  now  tried,  and  with 
equal  luck.  "This  is  indeed  the 
happy  fishing  -  ground  of  one's 
youthful  dreams,"  we  think,  as  the 
afternoon  rolls  on  with  varying  but 
most  sporting  success,  resulting  in 
a  total  of  seven  splendid  fish — the 
four  remaining  days  of  that  week 
yielding  five-and-forty  more  to  the 
single  rod. 

Sunday  was  a  day  of  welcome 
rest  to  all,  and  in  the  afternoon  we 
floated  quietly  with  the  tide  to  pay 
a  visit  to  the  far-famed  Druidical 
remains  near  Callernish — perhaps 
the  most  perfect  in  our  Islands.  It 
was  impossible  to  look  at  them  in 
their  gaunt  grim  shapes,  erecting 
their  solemn  and  impressive  heads 
with  an  air  of  impenetrable  silence, 
and  yet  repress  the  futile  wish 
that  they  could  speak  and  tell 
some  of  the  dread  tales  they  might 
unfold;  or  to  control  the  shudder 
with  which  one  looked  down  into 
the  pit,  round  which  the  circle 
runs,  and  thought  of  all  the  human 
blood  poured  out,  and  crying  still 
aloud  in  the  expressive  name  of 
the  adjacent  mound,  from  which 
the  sorrowing  relatives  had  gazed 
in  piteous,  hopeless,  helpless  grief, 
— "the  hill  of  mourning."  From 
this  point,  in  many  directions,  are 
seen  other  Druidical  stones,  but 
none  of  such  imposing  appearance 
or  size  as  these,  some  of  which  are 
said  to  weigh  from  eight  to  ten 
tons,  and  stand  from  15  to  20  feet 
out  of  the  ground. 


Leave,  to  be  enjoyed,  should 
never  be  quaffed  to  the  dregs  ;  and 
on  the  return,  we  found  ourselves 
with  some  hours  to  spare  at  Storno- 
way.  This  time  our  drive  was  at 
a  normal  hour,  and  we  scanned 
the  country  from  the  road  with  a 
wakeful  and  more  lenient  eye,  as 
the  morning  breeze,  hailing  straight 
from  Iceland,  swept  across  the 
heather,  and  tempered  with  its 
crisp  freshness  to  a  delightful 
warmth  the  ardent  sun-rays,  which 
were  fast  filling  with  hope  the 
hearts  of  the  peasant  farmers,  who, 
by  means  of  giant  beds,  like  those 
on  which  asparagus  is  grown,  man- 
age to  raise  good  crops  of  oats,  bar- 
ley, and  potatoes,  in  spite  of  almost 
constant  wet.  Topping  the  last 
hill,  some  four  miles  from  the  end 
of  our  journey,  we  pulled  up  to 
take  a  last  fond  look  of  the  loch- 
covered,  brown- visaged  land  we  had 
so  quickly  learned  to  love ;  and 
then,  turning  to  the  east,  we  drank 
in,  with  the  silence  that  comes 
with  feeling  deeply,  the  wondrous 
beauty  of  the  scene  before  us.  The 
foreground,  grey  massive  rocks,  low 
tumbling  hills  of  heather,  and 
glistening  sheets  of  water;  in  the 
middle  distance  the  Minch,  studded 
with  fair  islands  and  flecked  with 
countless  herring- boats ;  while  far 
beyond  rose  the  fantastic  shapes 
and  imposing  purple  masses  of 
Suilbheinn,  Ben  Mohr,  Ben  Hee, 
and  others,  with  here  and  there  a 
gleaming  patch  or  ridge  of  snow. 

Driving  on,  at  length  we  pass 
the  model  farm  and  entrance-gates  of 
the  late  owner  of  the  island,  whose 
wise  and  kindly  liberal  expenditure 
saved  much  misery,  in  the  famine 
some  thirty  years  ago,  and  brought 
him  well-deserved  honour.  We  saw, 
too,  what  he  had  done  to  foster  the 
growth  of  trees ;  but  the  stunted, 
weather-beaten  aspect  of  the  outer 
ones  shows  how  hard  the  struggle 


1880.] 


The  Lews :  its  Salmon  and  Herring. 


87 


of  life  has  been  for  them,  the 
only  wood  in  all  the  length  and 
breadth  of  the  Lews.  Yet  the 
peat-mosses  show  on  every  side 
the  traces  of  a  once  grand  forest, 
which  the  natives  say  was  destroyed 
by  fire. 

Thanks  to  the  courtesy  of  one 
of  the  fish-curers,  we  were  able  to 
learn  some  details  of  the  herring- 
fishery,  now  in  full  swing.  As  the 
day  wears  on,  the  multitude  of 
boats  make  sail,  and  leave  the  har- 
bour in  magnificent  and  picturesque 
confusion;  and  the  evening  glow  of 
the  setting  sun  lights  up  and  gilds 
the  dark-sailed  luggers  of  the  west, 
and  the  yellow,  white  -  canvassed, 
half-decked  boats  from  the  east  coast, 
as,  guided  by  the  signs  they  watch 
for,  they  gain  the  herring-ground, 
and  shoot  their  miles  on  miles  of 
nets.  With  early  morning  comes 
their  harvest ;  and  then,  sometimes 
gunwale-deep,  they  crowd  all  sail, 
and  hasten  back,  like  swarms  of 
homing  pigeons,  to  the  curers, 
who,  ready  at  all  points,  wait  to 
turn  the  work  of  nature  and  of 
other  men  to  food  and  profit. 
Measured  by  the  cran — a  circular 
tub  holding  from  eight  to  fifteen 
hundred  herring,  according  to  their 
bulk — the  fresh-caught  fish  are  sold 
at  prices  which  vary  like  the  other 
barometers  of  wealth  and  weather. 
In  the  beginning  of  the  season  £6 
a  cran  were  paid.  The  day  before 
we  came,  half -a- crown  per  cran  was 
taken.  And  one  poor  man  with 
sixty  crans,  coming  in  too  late  for 
market,  was  told  they  were  not 
worth  a  shilling.  But,  nothing 
daunted,  he  bought  some  casks  and 
salt,  and  vowed  he  would  not 
throw  away  his  fish  or  labour.  Let 
us  hope  his  self-reliance  would  be 
rewarded.  On  the  other  hand,  by 
means  of  bounty  and  other  arrange- 
ments, each  curer  secures  the  ser- 
vices of  certain  boats,  whose  catch 


he  takes.  A  proportion  is  de- 
spatched at  once,  quite  fresh,  in 
boxes,  by  one  of  the  small  squadron 
of  steamers  waiting  for  hire.  Some 
are  cured  in  brine,  and  casked; 
while  the  rest  are  gutted,  smoked, 
packed  in  box  or  basket  containing 
fifty,  and  find  their  way  quickly  to 
our  breakfast-tables,  under  the  de- 
liciously  suggestive  name  of  "  kip- 
pers." The  curers  of  late  have 
erected  a  number  of  buildings, 
where  companies  of  women  wait 
with  sharpened  knives  the  coming 
herrings.  With  a  slit  down  the 
back,  and  a  turn  of  the  wrist, 
the  fish  is  spread  open  and  ready 
for  the  man  who  hooks  it  on  a  stick 
containing  perhaps  a  score.  These 
sticks  are  ranged  one  above  the 
other  in  the  smoking-chambers,  until 
their  walls  are  covered  with  the 
fish,  heads  up  and  insides  exposed 
to  the  fumes  of  pungent  smoke  pro- 
duced by  fragrant  chips  and  saw- 
dust. For  ten  hours  or  so  they  are 
thus  enclosed,  and  then  are  packed 
and  despatched  at  once  to  market. 
The  Eussian  and  North  German  eat 
their  herrings  raw,  and,  being  dain- 
ty in  that  matter,  take  them  only 
when  they  are  in  their  prime.  But 
competition  has  its  evils  as  well 
as  its  merits  ;  and  it  is  feared,  by 
those  who  look  more  ahead  than 
the  old  established  custom,  that 
the  new  system  will  result  in 
greater  harm  than  is  yet  foreseen 
by  many.  The  herring  are  easily 
frightened ;  and  if  they  are  met  too 
far  from  the  haunts  to  which  they 
come  in  countless  shoals,  the  Loch 
Fyne  experience  may  be  renewed 
on  an  infinitely  greater  scale,  to 
the  ruin,  if  not  starvation,  of  thou- 
sands who  depend  upon  them.  Be- 
sides, the  Continental  markets  get 
glutted  by  cheap,  inferior  early  fish; 
for  the  herring  of  May  is  to  that  of 
June  and  later  months  as  is  the 
stripling  to  the  alderman.  And  we 


88 


The  Lews :  its  Salmon  and  Herring. 


[July 


all  know  how  difficult  it  is  to  raise 
the  price  of  a  depreciated  article. 
It  would  be  well  if  the  Fishery 
Commissioners  were  to  look  to  this 
and  kindred  matters  in  the  herring- 
fishery,  which  should  have  a  regular 
close-time,  say  from  January  to  the 
middle  of  May. 

If  you  have  an  impressionable 
heart,  venture  not  within  a  curing- 
house.  The  work  and  the  weather 
are  warm,  the  clothing  is  light,  and 
the  beauty  of  the  artistes  isrenowned. 
We  heard  it  was  so,  and  proved  it 
with  our  eyes.  With  what  grace 
that  tall,  dark,  Spanish-looking  girl 
has  thrown  her  yellow  kerchief 
across  her  raven  locks  !  With  what 
a  coquettish  smile  she  reminds  you 
that  you  must  pay  your  footing !  and 
as  her  eyes  flash  responsively  to 
y-'>ur  admiring  glance,  you  wonder 
whence  this  damsel  came  to  do  such 
work.  And  yet,  on  turning  round, 
you  see  the  Scandinavian  hair,  eyes, 
and  features,  forming  studies  quite 
as  bewitching  to  the  lover  of  the 
beautiful,  whatever  form  it  takes. 
The  lads  of  the  Lews  are  not  un- 
worthy of  such  mates,  who  come 
from  many  parts,  and  by  their  in- 
dustry add  not  a  little  to  the 
"  tocher  "  which  helps  to  furnish 
boat  and  gear. 

Next  morning,  with  the  rising 
eun,  the  well-named  steamer  the 


Express  started  with  the  mails  for 
Ullapool,  and  we  gladly  seized  the 
chance  to  see  yet  more  of  the  west 
coast.  Truly,  Fortune  favoured  us. 
Such  a  sky,  and  sea,  and  outline 
we  had  not  thought  to  look  upon  on 
this  side  of  the  Levant.  Something 
similar  we  had  gazed  at  with  heart- 
filling  emotion  from  the  extinct 
crater  above  Aloupka,  across  the 
blue  waters  of  the  Black  Sea,  to  the 
gigantic  mountains  of  the  Caucasus. 
But  in  truth  neither  Alps  nor  Hima- 
layas ever  stirred  our  souls  as  did 
that  morning  run  across  the  Mincb. 
From  the  northern  headland  of  Cape 
Wrath  to  the  Argyleshire  hills, 
there  lay  before  us,  in  every  line 
and  shape  of  mountain  grandeur, 
with  all  their  purple  glory  pencilled 
by  the  softest  gold  and  silver  lights, 
the  homes  of  men  the  history  of 
whose  race  is  one  of  war  and  ro- 
mance well  fitting. 

If  you  would  know  the  crowding 
feelings  which  make  us  thank  the 
Creator  of  all  Jthings  for  giving  us 
such  soul-uplifting  pleasure  as  from 
that  glorious  panorama,  go  to  the 
Hebrides,  and  pray  that,  as  you 
pass  the  Summer  Isles,  steam  up 
Loch  Broom,  and  cast  your  anchor, 
you  may  be  favoured  with  such 
weather  as  helped  to  make  our 
trip  one  long  -  continued  song  of 
praise. 


1880.] 


Btisli-Lije  in  Queensland. — Part  VIII. 


89 


BUSH-LIFE   IN   QUEENSLAND. — PART   VIII. 
XXIV.— EVIL   COUNSEL   AND    EVIL   DEEDS — M'DUFF's   DEATH. 


THE  next  day  saw  Yering  de- 
serted of  its  visitors.  Almost  all 
the  station  people  wended  their 
ways  homeward,  and  only  a  few  of 
the  labouring  classes  remained  to 
spend  the  small  remnant  of  money 
which  remained  to  them. 

How  Cane  and  Ralf  staved  off 
the  most  pressing  of  their  credi- 
tors' demands,  they  themselves  only 
knew.  The  horse  had  been  seized 
at  the  instance  of  the  hotel-keeper 
with  whom  they  boarded,  and  they 
had  apparently  nothing  to  go  upon 
except  the  position  of  Half's  father, 
which  procured  for  them  some  credit 
in  the  way  of  food  and  drink.  This 
morning,  they  sat  together  over  a 
bottle  of  brandy,  to  which  both, 
especially  Cane,  had  frequent  re- 
course. 

"Well,"  said  Ralf,  sulkily,  "you 
have  managed  to  get  us  into  a  nice 


"  Shut  up,  you  growling  . 

"  You're  the  biggest  sneak  hi  hever 
corned  hacross.  You  halways  turns 
round  hon  yer  mates  when  things 
don't  go  just  right,"  returned  his 
amiable  friend. 

"  No  wonder  !  "  answered  the  lat- 
ter; "you  make  yourself  out  so 

knowing,  and  you  let  a 

bush -horse  quietly  walk  off  with 
stakes  big  enough  to  put  us  on 
our  legs  again,  without  bets.  I 
wouldn't  have  cared  so  much  if  it 
hadn't  belonged  to  that stuck- 
up  Fitzgerald." 

"  D him  ! "  echoed  the  other. 

"  Hi'd  sooner  hit  'ad  been  'im  than 
that  bother  cussed  pup  whot  hi  saw 
a-lookin'  hafter  'im.  Hi'll  settle 

that 's  'ash  yet,  hif  hi  gets  'alf 

a  slant, — hi  will,  s'elp  me,  for  the 
sake  hof  this  business." 


"  Bosh  !  —  your  always  skyting 
about  what  you'll  do.  What  can 
you  do  now,  when  we  want  some 
good  advice1?  That's  more  to  the 
purpose " 

"Can't  you  get  that  ere  

hold  M'Duff  to  lend  you  some 
cash  ? "  asked  Cane. 

"  He'd  sooner  give  me  his  blood," 
returned  Ralf;  "besides,  this  for- 
gery business  is  blown  all  over  the 
country  by  this  time,  and  people 
will  be  shy  of  taking  his  cheques." 

"  Didn't  yo  say  has  'ow  a  diggin's 
butcher  wos  a  comin'  there  to  buy 
sheep  ? " 

"  By  Jove,"  uttered  Ralf,  a  new 
light  breaking  in  upon  him,  "we 
might  get  any  amount  of  gold,  if 
we  could  lay  our  hands  on  it ! 
Those  fellows  nearly  always  pay  in 
pure  metal." 

"  You  sed  has  'ow  the  hold  boy 
was  agoin'  down  to  Sydney  habout 
them  ere  forged  flimsies.  Hif  we 
could  get  'old  of  'is  valise,  we 
might  put  that  little  business  to 
rights  too ;  burn  them,  hand  square 
hourselves  with  the  gold  for  a  fresh 
start  bin  Sydney." 

"  Right  you  are,"  returned  Ralf, 
admiringly;  "  you  have  got  a  brain. 
I  believe  it's  easy  enough  done." 

"Hof  course  hit  is.  We'll  cut 
away  there.  Hi'll  camp  bin  the 
bush.  You  stay  hup  hat  the  'ouse, 
— find  hout  'is  plans,  and  get  'old  of 
the  valise,  'and  it  hover  to  me,  hand 
hi'll  stow  hit  away  hall  serene." 

Accordingly,  they  both  started  for 
Cambaranga.  Ralf,  who  had  an 
intimate  knowledge  of  the  country 
around  the  station,  pointed  out  a 
place  to  Cane,  in  close  proximity  to 
the  head-station,  where  he  might 
remain  camped  for  some  time  in 


90 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. — Part  VIII. 


[July 


secrecy,  and  then  made  his  own 
way  to  the  house. 

It  was  dark  when  he  arrived. 
Mr  M'Duff  was  at  home,  as  well 
as  a  young  man  who  had  been 
engaged  to  fill  the  position  of 
overseer  vacated  by  old  Graham. 
M'Duff  was  by  no  means  in  a  good 
humour.  Whether  he  suspected 
Ealf  as  the  thief  who  was  preying 
on  what  he  worked  so  hard  for,  and 
loved  so  much,  or  whether  it  was 
that  he  merely  disliked  and  de- 
spised the  character  of  the  young 
man,  was  hard  to  say.  His  manner 
was  more  than  usually  stern  and 
gruff.  The  news  of  old  Graham's 
death  did  not  seem  to  affect  him 
much.  He  knew  his  worth,  and 
appreciated  his  good  qualities ;  but 
he  had  expected  the  catastrophe  so 
long,  that  it  was  by  no  means  a 
shock.  His  mind  was  much  more 
disturbed  about  the  forgeries  which 
had  interfered  with  the  currency  of 
his  cheques ;  and  he  produced  one 
after  another,  which  had  been  sent 
up  for  his  inspection,  until  Half 
saw  all  the  evidences  of  his  crime 
before  him  on  the  table.  If  he 
could  only  get  possession  of  them  ! 

In  the  course  of  the  evening  he 
learnt  that  M'Duff  intended  start- 
ing for  Sydney  next  day,  to  give  per- 
sonal evidence  in  the  affair,  which 
he  was  determined  to  investigate 
thoroughly.  The  butcher  from  the 
gold-fields  had  come,  and  only  left 
that  morning;  therefore  his  gold 
must  still  be  in  the  house. 

If  Ealf  could  only  lay  his  hand  on 
that  valise,  he  would  never  get  into 
such  a  scrape  again, — never,  never ! 

He  could  not  listen  to  what 
M'Duff  said,  so  busy  was  he  plan- 
ning his  measures.  At  last  it  was 
bed-time,  and  all  retired  to  their 
rooms ;  but  Ralf  cannot  sleep, — he 
sits  and  ponders.  After  a  couple 
of  hours'  time,  he  slips  off  his  boots, 
and  makes  his  way  over  to  the 
house  in  which  M'Duff  sleeps. 


The  superintendent's  heavy,  mea- 
sured breathing  is  heard  from  the 
bed.  "Where  can  he  have  put  his 
papers  and  the  gold?  He  intends 
starting  early;  he  has  surely  pack- 
ed his  valise.  It  is  so  dark  he 
knocks  against  a  chair  slightly,  and 
M'DufFs  quick  ear  warns  him.  He 
opens  his  eyes.  "  Who  is  there  ? " 
he  asks,  in  his  stern,  deep  voice. 
Ralf  is  close  to  the  door — he  steps 
out,  and  hastening  over  to  his 
room,  jumps  into  bed,  and  draws 
the  blankets  over  him  as  he  is. 
Presently  he  notices  a  light;  and 
M'Duff  walks  across  the  courtyard, 
comes  straight  to  his  room,  and 
looks  in  through  the  open  door. 
Ralf  is  breathing  hard  in  apparent- 
ly sound  sleep,  and  the  superin- 
tendent goes  away  satisfied  to  the 
other  man's  room,  and  then  walks 
back  to  his  own.  Ralf  dares  not 
try  it  again.  He  lies  for  an  hour 
or  two  revolving  plans,  and  decides 
on  consulting  Cane.  Accordingly, 
he  made  his  way  out  to  the  spot 
where  that  worthy  was  camped.  It 
was  about  half  a  mile  distant,  in 
a  small  patch  of  rocky,  broken 
country,  beside  a  little  spring ;  and 
awakening  him,  he  narrated  what 
he  had  learnt. 

"  Hit's  hall  no use,"  remark- 
ed Cane,  on  learning  full  particulars. 
"The  hold  fellow  'as  got  hevery- 
think  stowed  haway,  so  has  yer 
can't  lays  yer  'ands  hon  it.  I  votes 
we  stick  'im  hup  hon  the  road." 

Ralf  frightened.  "Robbery!" 
he  said. 

"  Robbery  ! "  sneered  the  other, 
mimicking  the  tone.  "  Wot  was 
yer  about  to-night,  eh  ?  Don't  be 

a  fool  now,,  and  spile  hall. 

Find  hout  which  way  he  means  to 
take,  hand  come  'ere  immediately 
hafter,  and  we'll  manage  some'ow. 
Now  get  halong  back  before  ye're 


With  this  they  parted,  and  Ralf 
had  a  good  hour  in  bed  before  day- 


1880.] 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. — Part  VIII. 


light  broke.  M'Duff  was  up  early, 
and  had  his  horse  ready.  Ealf,  to 
blind  him  to  the  real  state  of  affairs, 
pretended  laziness,  and  came  in  late 
to  breakfast,  keeping  his  eyes  and 
ears  open  all  the  time.  M'Duflf 
tells  his  last  night's  adventure,  and 
persists  in  believing  some  one  was 
in  his  room.  The  new  overseer 
laughs  loudly,  much  to  M'Duff's 
disgust,  for  he  is  not  given  to 
creating  false  alarms.  He  informs 


them  that  he  is 


going 


down  the 


"  mailman's  old  track,"  which  will 
save  him  twenty  miles  in  the  jour- 
ney. Ealf  knows  it  well.  It  is  a 
narrow  bridle-path,  leading  partly 
through  thick  scrubby  country,  and 
partly  over  mountains.  Here  and 
there  the  track  is  very  indistinct, 
and  in  some  places  there  is  none. 
It  is  only  known  to  the  older  sta- 
tion hands,  and  is  seldom  traversed 
now,  although  formerly  the  mail- 
man used  it ;  but  his  route  is  now 
changed.  M'Duff  knows  it  well 
also.  It  would  take  him  a  day  and 
a  half  by  the  main  road  to  accom- 
plish what  he  can  do  by  this  path 
in  one.  He  brings  out  his  valise. 
Half  thinks  it  looks  heavy.  M'Duff 
straps  it  on,  and  mounting,  nods  a 
hasty  good-bye,  and  is  off.  Ealf  is 
on  tenter-hooks  to  go  to  Cane,  but 
the  overseer  is  in  the  way.  The 
man  is  polite  to  his  employer's  son, 
and  would  like  to  become  acquaint- 
ed with  him,  and  therefore  delays 
his  business  to  indulge  in  a  chat. 
But  Ealf s  gruff,  uncivil  answers 
drive  him  off;  and  catching  his 
horse,  the  sociable  young  fellow 
goes  away  whistling. 

Ealf  now  gets  his  horse  also,  and 
is  soon  detailing  his  knowledge  to 
Cane,  who,  without  a  word,  straps 
his  few  effects  on  the  horse  which 


;Come  hon,"  he  said.  "Lead 
the  way  hon  to  the  track,  hand 
push  halong,  hif  yer  don't  want  to 
miss  yer  last  chance." 


A  roundabout  way  brought  them 
to  the  "  mailman's  track,"  and  soon 
they  were  cantering  along  it  in  si- 
lence, glancing  eagerly  ahead  of 
them  for  their  prey.  As  they 
hurry  on,  Cane  explains  his  plan 
to  Ealf.  They  were  both  provided 
with  revolvers,  which  many  people 
in  the  Bush  carry.  These  they 
slung  in  their  belts,  to  give  them 
the  appearance  of  Bushrangers, 
while  a  red  handkerchief  apiece, 
in  which  holes  had  been  cut  for 
their  eyes,  was  a  sufficient  disguise. 
Their  clothes  were  in  no  wise  dif- 
ferent from  those  of  fifty  others,  and 
they  feared  not  being  recognised. 
They  hurried  on  faster, — they  are 
now  about  eighteen  miles  from 
home,  and  expect  to  see  the  quarry 
every  minute.  At  last  they  notice 
him  about  a  couple  of  hundred 
yards  ahead,  as  he  leaves  a  small 
open  space  to  enter  some  timber. 

Cane  now  takes  the  lead ;  he 
hunts  now  by  sight.  Making  a 
detour  to  get  in  front,  and  whis- 
pering fiercely  to  Ealf  that,  "should 
he  fail  to  stick  by  him,"  he  "  will 
never  see  another  day's  light,"  he 
rushes  out  on  the  unsuspecting  man. 
"  Bail  up  !  bail  up  ! "  shout  the 
two  red-veiled  attackers,  revolvers 
in  hand,  "  Throw  hup  yer  harms, 
or  hi'll  drop  yer ! "  shouts  Cane, 
intimidatingly. 

But  M'Duff  is  not  to  be  got 
so  easily ;  and  hitting  his  horse 
with  the  spurs,  he  tears  along 
shouting  "  Kever ! "  and  brand- 
ishing his  stout  hunting  -  crop. 
Both  men  gallop  alongside,  threat- 
ening his  life  once  more ;  and  per- 
haps the  determination  of  the  Super 
might  have  caused  them  to  give  up 
the  attempt,  had  not  Ealf  s  hand- 
kerchief fallen  off.  M'Duff  turn- 
ing at  the  time  recognised  him,  and 
uttering  his  name  in  fierce  tone?,  as 
he  struck  about  him  wildly  with 
his  whip,  vowed  that  he  should 
hang  for  the  attempt  on  his  life. 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. — Part  VIII. 


[July 


"  Shoot  him,  Ealf ! "  cries  Cane. 

"  Shoot  the  hold ,  or  he'll  'ave 

yer  blood." 

Ealf's  trembling  fingers  might 
have  obeyed  the  fearful  command, 
when  a  smashing  blow  from  the 
hunting-crop  knocked  the  revolver 
out  of  his  hand,  and  saved  him  the 
commission  of  the  dreadful  crime. 
But  in  the  same  moment  "  crack  " 
goes  one  of  the  chambers  of  Cane's 
six-shooter;  and  he  has  rivalled  his 
great  namesake  and  antitype,  the 
first  murderer. 

The  grim,  money  -  loving  old 
Super — so  firm  and  fair  in  some 
things,  so  heartless  and  lax  in 
others — falls  from  his  saddle.  His 
foot  getting  entangled  in  the  stirrup- 
iron,  the  body  is  dragged  along  by 
the  frantic  horse,  striking  against 
stumps  and  roots,  and  being  kicked 
at  furiously  by  the  animal,  against 
whose  hind-legs  it  is  occasionally 
dashed  with  violence.  The  road  is 
strewn  with  little  articles  belong- 
ing to  the  unfortunate  man.  His 
helmet  lies  at  the  spot  where  the 
shot  was  fired,  his  whip  farther  on, 
then  his  knife  and  matches,  and 
then  some  plugs  of  tobacco ;  a  little 
farther  lies  scattered  some  money, 
then  clots  of  blood, — and  a  mark  of 
the  trailing  body  runs  all  along  the 
road. 

Cane  and  Ealf  were  at  first  se- 
riously alarmed  lest  the  animal 
should  become  maddened  with  fear 
and  make  its  escape,  valise  and  all ; 
but  the  stirrup-leather  comes  off, 
and  the  body  falls  to  the  ground. 
Soon  after,  they  succeed  in  catch- 
ing the  frightened  steed,  and  lead 
him  back  snorting  to  where  its 
master  lies  a  pitiful  sight,  with  his 
grizzly  hair  and  beard,  a  thick  mass 
of  dust  and  blood,  his  face  almost 
undistinguishable  with  bruises. 
Twenty  minutes  before,  he  was 
in  full  vigour,  his  mind  occupied 
with  plans  for  his  earthly  welfare ; 
and  now  his  spirit,  that  "  wander- 


ing fire,"  has  joined  old  Graham's 
in  pioneering  the  "dark,  undis- 
covered shore  "  of  that  black  river 
from  which  no  explorer's  report  has 
ever  been  received. 

With  eager  haste  they  tear  off  the 
valise  and  examine  the  contents. 
They  pull  out  handkerchiefs  and 
collars,  a  couple  of  shirts,  and  some 
other  articles  of  clothing,  a  cheque- 
book, some  papers  (only  accounts). 
"What  !  no  money !  none  of  the 
hated  forged  cheques ! 

"  Examine  his  pockets,"  says 
Cane. 

Ealf  shrinks  from  touching  the 
fearful  thing. 

"  Curse  your  white  liver  !"  snarls 
the  red-handed  man,  fit  for  any 
deed  now,  —  and,  bending  down, 
he  turns  out  pocket  after  pocket. 
Nothing!  (Indeed,  M'Duff  had 
made  up  the  post-bag  before  leav- 
ing, into  which  he  had  put  the 
forged  cheques,  as  well  as  the 
crossed  cheque  which  he  had  re- 
ceived from  the  "diggings"  butch- 
er, and  by  this  time  the  mailman 
was  hastening  with  them  along 
another  road  down  to  town.)  In 
his  rage  he  vents  his  resentment 
by  kicking  the  helpless  clay,  say- 
ing, "  You  put  mo  hout  hall  night 
in  the  Bush  wonst — hit's  your  turn 
now." 

Ealf  is  getting  stupefied ;  he  is 
only  now  waking  up  to  what  has 
occurred. 

"  Come  halong,  you  fool ! "  shouts 
the  chief  villain;  "let's  get  the 
carcass  hout  o'  this  some'ow,  hand 
then  we'll  see  wot's  to  be  done." 

A  couple  of  deep  round  lagoons 
lay  alongside  of  the  track ;  and  half 
carrying,  half  dragging  the  body 
between  them,  they  threw  it  into 
the  black  water  on  the  far  side 
from  the  road.  The  water  splashed 
and  surged  in  widening  circles, 
wetting  their  feet  as  they  stood  on 
the  banks.  What  a  relief  to  get 
rid  of  that  evidence  of  guilt — mo- 


1880.] 


Bash-Life  in  Queensland. — Part  VIII. 


tionless,  inanimate,  but  more  terrible 
than  any  living  witness  !  The  valise 
and  saddle,  weighted  with  stones, 
are  likewise  flung  into  the  pool, 
and  every  evidence  of  the  crime  is 
carefully  hidden  from  sight. 

And  now  Cane,  whose  mind 
seems  to  have  grown  clearer  and 
stronger  with  the  emergency,  gives 
instructions  to  the  trembling  wretch 
beside  him  as  to  what  must  be 
done.  They  had  passed  some  miles 
back  a  small  gunyah  aud  yard  tem- 
porarily occupied  by  a  flock  of 
"  hospital "  sheep,  shepherded  by 
an  old  black  gin. 

Cane,  alive  to  the  urgent  neces- 
sity of  obliterating  all  tracks,  orders 
Half  to  go  to  the  place  and  cause 
the  old  woman,  who  knows  him, 
and  is  likely  to  obey  his  orders 
without  hesitation,  to  drive  her 
sheep  out  here  for  a  night,  and 
camp  near  the  water-hole.  He  is 
aware  that  the  tracks  of  the  sheep 
on  the  road  will  hide  the  footprints 
of  the  galloping  horses  and  the 
trailing  of  the  body,  and  that  as 
they  crowd  round  the  margin  of  the 
lagoon  in  their  anxiety  to  drink, 
all  marks  there  will  be  effaced.  He 
impresses  the  necessity  on  Ralf  of 
getting  home  quickly  and  unob- 
servedly,  and  of  examining  all 
M'Duffs  papers.  He  himself  will 
cross  the  Bush  and  make  for  an- 
other station  at  some  considerable 
distance  off,  so  that  he  may  estab- 
lish an  alibi  if  necessary;  and  in 
two  or  three  days'  time  he  will  re- 
turn to  the  camp  where  he  spent 
the  previous  night.  Ealf  can  meet 
him  there. 

Now  that  M'Duff  is  out  of  the 
road,  Ealf  will  have  charge,  and  can 
easily  put  matters  right  as  regards 
business.  But  first  of  all,  they 
must  set  this  straight. 

After  undergoing  much  advising, 
threatening,  imploring,  and  sneer- 
ing, Ealf  is  ready  to  start.  Cane 
then  parted  with  him,  taking  the 


murdered  man's  horse,  which  he  has 
decided  to  shoot  in  the  first  thick 
scrub  he  comes  to  at  a  sufficient 
distance  from  the  spot. 

Ealf  rode  as  one  in  a  dream.  He 
succeeded  in  finding  the  sheep,  and, 
making  some  excuse,  he  started  the 
half-crazed  old  woman  with  them 
to  the  lagoons.  Then  he  galloped 
home  half  frenzied  with  fear,  his 
mind  dwelling  on  the  tragedy  he 
had  so  lately  borne  a  part  in.  The 
young  overseer  had  not  returned, 
and  Ealf  breathes  more  freely  as 
he  turned  his  horse  into  the  pad- 
dock and  sought  his  room.  There 
was  something  clinging  to  him 
which  he  could  not  shake  off.  Go 
where  he  would,  something  awful 
there  was  at  his  elbow — a  fearful 
load  on  his  soul !  Outwardly  he 
was  the  same  as  this  morning,  but 
inwardly An  indefinable  ter- 
ror haunted  him.  He  threw  him- 
self on  his  bed.  "0  God!  0 
God!  0  God!"  He  started  as 
he  uttered  the  holy  name.  What 
had  he  done  1  The  whiteness  of 
his  soul  had  long,  long  ago  been 
smudged  with  black  dirt;  and  now, 
after  years  of  absence,  on  the  same 
ground  he  had  changed  its  colour 
to  a  brighter  hue,  but  a  darker 
stain.  The  overseer  rode  up  mer- 
rily. A  happy,  careless  lad,  he 
strode  in  with  a  cheery  remark, 
but  suddenly  stopping,  asked  if 
Ealf  was  ill. 

"  Only  a  bad  headache,"  he  was 
answered.  "  I'm  often  like  this." 
He  could  eat  nothing.  That  night, 
when  all  was  silent,  he  stole  over 
to  the  dead  man's  chamber.  How 
he  abhorred  the  cursed  money. 
Sooner  a  thousand  times  over  would 
he  have  appeared  before  the  world 
as  a  defaulter,  or  as  a  thief,  than 
as  he  now  was;  yet  it  must  be 
done.  Each  article  put  him  in 
mind  of  his  victim.  Guiltily  he 
glanced  over  his  shoulder,  fancying 
that  he  heard  stealthy  footsteps,  or 


Busk-Life  in  Queensland.— Part  VIIL 


[July 


that  a  voice  whispered  something 
in  his  ear.  Nothing  could  he  find. 
~No  money — no  cheques  ;  nothing 
of  any  value.  And  the  deed  had 
been  done  uselessly  —  uselessly. 
0  God !  what  is  that  on  the  bed  ? 
An  indistinct  form  shapes  itself. 
He  almost  faints.  Tush  !  it  is  only 
the  washing,  which  the  woman  has 
laid  out  there.  Back  to  his  room, 
where,  amid  incoherent  ravings  and 
agonies  of  mind,  he  passed  the  rest 
of  that  awful  night.  He  wished 
Cane  would  return.  He  wanted 
to  look  once  more  on  the  spot,  to 
eee  that  all  was  right ;  but  he  dared 
not.  What  if  the  old  gin,  with  the 
sharp  eyes  her  race  is  celebrated 
for,  has  detected  the  tracks'?  Her 
instinctive  sagacity  would  enable 
her  to  follow  up  the  clue.  All 
the  day  succeeding,  and  the  night 
which  followed,  and  the  day  after, 
Ealf  remained  in  a  state  of  mind 
bordering  on  insanity.  The  over- 
seer and  woman  in  the  kitchen, 
indeed,  began  to  suspect  that  the 
brandy  which  he  had  procured  from 
M'DufFs  store,  and  which  he  drank 
in  immense  quantities,  was  about 
to  produce  a  fit  of  horrors;  but, 
strange  to  say,  it  had  no  effect 
whatever  on  his  agitated  system. 
The  day  was  now  at  hand  when 
Cane  promised  to  return  to  the  ren- 
dezvous, and  Ealf  counted  every 
minute  until  his  stronger-minded 
associate  should  assist  him  in  bear- 
ing a  share  of  the  oppressing 


That  evening  a  horseman  was 
announced  approaching  ;  and  Ealf, 
concluding  that  Cane  had  changed 
his  intentions,  and  had  decided 
upon  staying  at  the  house,  ran  out 
to  meet  him.  It  was  not  Cane, 
however,  but  Ralf's  father,  Mr  Cos- 


grove,  sen.  He  had,  in  conse- 
quence of  the  unsatisfactory  infor- 
mation which  had  reached  him, 
started  out  from  home  very  sud- 
denly; and  leaving  Euth  in  Syd- 
ney, where  he  had  received  fur- 
ther disquieting  intelligence,  he 
had  continued  his  journey  to  Cam- 
baranga,  to  confer  with  M'Duff 
about  the  very  business  which  was 
taking  the  latter  to  New  South 
Wales,  unknown  to  his  employer 
and  partner. 

The  unexpected  face  fell  cold 
upon  the  guilty  heart;  but  there 
was  something  in  old  associations 
and  blood  which,  notwithstanding 
all,  gave  to  him  some  measure  of 
comfort.  He  felt  a  desire  to  cling 
to  his  father;  he  felt  that  there 
stood  the  only  one  who  would  seek 
to  palliate  his  wickedness,  if  possi- 
ble. His  subdued  and  quiet  man- 
ner, so  different  to  what  his  father 
had  ever  before  noticed  in  him, 
struck  the  elder  Cosgrove  very 
much;  and  he  felt  that  perhaps 
the  young  man  had  seen  the  folly 
of  his  doings,  and  was  about  to 
change. 

He  met  him  with  a  greater  show 
of  affection  than  he  had  bestowed 
on  the  prodigal  for  some  years,  and 
asked  for  M'Duff. 

It  was  well  for  Ealf  that  the 
young  overseer  came  out  just  then 
to  answer  the  question,  for  he  only 
kept  himself  from  falling  by  cling- 
ing to  the  paddock- fence.  Cos- 
grove's  annoyance  at  having  missed 
the  Super  was  expressed  rather 
loudly,  and  the  bustle  of  unsad- 
dling the  horse  served  to  divert 
attention  from  Ealf,  who  managed 
to  get  inside  the  house,  where  he 
fortified  himself  by  drinking  a  large 
quantity  of  brandy. 


1880.] 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. — Part  VIII. 


95 


XXV. — A   FEARFUL   JOURXEY— HIDIXG    GUILT. 


The  activity  and  excitement 
consequent  on  the  arrival  of  Mr 
Cosgrove  relieved  Rrtlf  from  much 
observation,  and  to  a  certain  ex- 
tent relaxed  the  strain  on  his 
mind.  His  father's  conversation, 
however,  was  full  of  poignant  bit- 
terness ;  and  the  arrows  of  remorse 
fell  fast  upon  him  as  the  elder 
Cosgrove  seemed  willing  to  forget 
all  the  old  grievances  and  errors 
of  the  past.  He  would  possibly 
even  have  hushed  up  his  son's 
forging  transactions,  and  paid  his 
debts  once  more,  had  he  made  an 
open  confession,  and  determined  to 
lead  a  new  life ;  but  now  there  was 
an  impassable  gulf  fixed  between 
him  and  ordinary  men. 

The  past  life  was  over.  A  new 
life  had  begun.  Never  again  would 
men  take  him  by  the  hand  and 
welcome  him  to  their  homes. 
Henceforth  he  was  worse  than  a 
pariah — he  was  a  wild  beast.  As 
these  thoughts  kept  crossing  his 
mind,  a  groan,  occasioned  by  his 
mental  distress,  would  now  and 
then  burst  from  him ;  and  at  last, 
excusing  himself  on  the  plea  of 
illness,  he  again  sought  his  room, 
to  pass  another  wretched  night. 

At  breakfast  next  morning  he 
received  a  still  greater  shock,  for 
Mr  Cosgrove,  speaking  of  his  jour- 
ney, incidentally  remarked,  "  By 
the  way,  I  came  along  the  mail- 
man's track  yesterday.  They  want- 
ed to  dissuade  me  doing  so  at  the 
other  end,  for  they  feared  I  could 
not  find  my  way  after  my  long 
absence ;  and  as  I  passed  the  Lilly 
Lagoon,  I  fancied  I  saw  something 
in  the  water  like  a  dead  body." 

"A  dead  body!"  laughed  the 
overseer. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr  Cosgrove.  "I 
did  not  go  close  to  it.  It  was 
something  dead,  I  am  sure." 


Ralf  said  nothing;  he  was  pale 
and  rigid,  his  fingers  stiff  and  cold, 
his  hair  rising  on  his  head,  his 
heart  beating  violently. 

"  It  might  have  been  a  sheep, 
or  a  kangaroo,  or  perhaps  a  calf," 
suggested  the  overseer. 

"  Ah,  yes,"  joined  in  Ealf— "  a 
calf,  no  doubt;  there  are  plenty 
of  wild  cattle  in  the  scrubs  there." 

The  conversation  changed ;  but 
his  nerves  were  wrung  worse  than 
ever. 

Twice  he  went  to  the  rendezvous, 
but  it  was  vacant.  How  he  longed 
for  Cane  !  He  even  prayed  that  he 
might  come.  His  father,  noticing 
his  careworn,  haggard  look,  felt 
alarmed,  and  proposed  sending  for 
a  doctor.  To  this,  however,  Ealf 
vehemently  objected. 

On  going  the  third  time,  about 
sundown,  to  the  meeting-place,  he 
saw  his  brother-in-blood  dismount- 
ing. He  was  much  relieved.  He 
rushed  up,  surprising  Cane  with  the 
fervency  of  his  welcome,  and  made 
him  acquainted  with  the  fact  of 
his  father's  sudden  arrival,  and  his 
having  noticed  the  body.  These 
were  two  pieces  of  intelligence 
which  entirely  took  Cane  by  sur- 
prise; but,  equal  to  the  occasion, 
he  spoke  after  a  few  minutes'  re- 
flection. 

"  Now,  look  'ere :  we  want  to 
get  rid  of  that  carcass — that  is  the 
first  thing  to  be  done ;  hand  hafcer 
that  you  can  gammon  penitent,  tell 
hall  to  the  governor,  and  get  round 
'iin,  hand  you'll  be  has  right  has 
hever.  Ten  to  one  'e'll  give  you 
charge  'ere,  and  cut  'ome  ;  hand, 
my  word,  we'll  commence  then  hon 
a  new  lay.  Hour  luck  his  honly 
just  a-turning." 

"  But  what  shall  we  do  about— 
about  —  I  mean — that  thing  over 
there  ? "  asked  Ralf,  his  voice  sink- 


OG 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. — Part  VIII. 


[July 


ing  to  a' whisper  as  he  pointed  in 
the  direction  of  the  lagoons  on  the 
mailman's  track. 

"  Hit's  nigh  full  moon  to-night," 
returned  Cane.  "  'Ave  yer  got  hany 
quiet  'osses  in  the  paddock  1 " 

"  Yes,"  returned  the  other. 
"Why?" 

"  When  they  hall  goes  to  bed, 
we'll  get  hup  the  'osses,  saddle  a 
couple,  hand  lead  hout  hanother 
with  a  pack-saddle,  fish  the  stiff 
un  hout  o'  the  water,  hand  hump 
'im  hoff  the  road  somewhere,  and 
make  hashes  hof  'im.  There's 
plenty  hof  time  to  get  hack  hafore 
morning.  Now,  cut  haway  hack, 
and  hi'll  he  hup  hat  the  'ouse  by 
the  time  I  thinks  the  rest  'as  turned 
hin.  You  come  hout  when  you 
'ears  me  a- whistling,  hand  we'll  set 
to  work." 

Half  did  as  he  was  bid ;  but  he 
thought  his  father  and  the  overseer 
would  never  leave  off  talking,  so 
anxious  did  he  feel  to  get  away  out 
to  destroy  the  evidence  of  his  crime. 
He  could  not  understand  Cane's 
coolness  and  indifference. 

Just  as  the  rest  were  rising  to 
retire,  he  distinguished  a  long  low 
whistle,  not  far  off.  No  one  noticed 
it  but  himself.  He  gave  his  stained 
hand  in  friendly  clasp  to  the  others, 
and  wished  them  "  good  night." 

Again  the  whistle.  This  time 
he  slipped  out  and  spoke  a  few 
words  to  Cane,  begging  him  to 
wait  a  few  minutes  longer,  until 
all  should  have  time  to  get  asleep. 
About  the  buildings  a  quantity  of 
couch-grass  grew,  which,  although 
short  from  constant  grazing,  still 
afforded  very  sweet  picking  to  the 
horses,  who  were  accustomed  to 
come  up  each  night  for  a  short 
time  and  feed  on  it.  A  number  of 
these  were  now  engaged  cropping 
the  short  feed.  After  about  a 
quarter  of  an  hour's  waiting,  they 
selected  three  suitable  ones,  bridled, 
saddled,  and  led  them  out  of  the 


paddock  at  some  distance  from  the 
house,  through  a  gap  in  the  fence, 
which  a  couple  of  loose  rails  afford- 
ed. Then  mounting,  they  made  the 
best  of  their  way  along  the  track. 

Cane  lit  his  pipe,  and  leading 
Lhe  pack-horse,  followed  the  shiv- 
ering leader  as  if  he  had  been  en- 
gaged in  the  most  ordinary  occupa- 
tion in  life.  Ralf  could  not  speak. 
He  made  his  way,  as  if  under  a 
mesmeric  spell,  towards  the  object 
which  fascinated  his  mind.  He 
felt  that  he  must  look  upon  it  once 
more,  although  he  hated  and  feared 
it.  They  push  along,  cantering 
when  they  can,  for  Cane  perpet- 
ually urges  haste.  Here  it  was 
where  they  saw  him  leave  the 
plain  and  enter  the  timber. 

This  is  the  spot.  As  they  turn 
off  the  road  and  approach  the  banks, 
a  turtle  drops  off  a  branch  of  a  tree 
into  the  water  with  a  splash,  and 
a  mob  of  ducks  fly  up  with  an 
alarming  quacking  noise  and  hur- 
ried flapping.  It  startles  Ralf,  and 
even  Cane  loses  his  equanimity  for 
a  little.  Now  they  look  for  what 
they  know  only  too  well  is  there. 
Where  is  it?  They  walk  side  by 
side  round  the  black  pool,  for  Ralf 
will  not  leave  his  companion's  side 
for  one  instant. 

It  is  not  there.  "  Can  you  see 
the thing?  "  inquires  Cane. 

Ralf  shakes  his  head;  lut  the 
next  minute  he  stands  glaring  fix- 
edly at  something  on  the  dark 
water  half  covered  by  the  broad 
leaves  of  the  lotus. 

"  What  yonder  floats  on  the  rue- 
ful floor?"  Ah,  they  need  EO  one 
to  tell  them  that ! 

"  Don't  be  a  fool  now," 

fiercely  grinds  out  Cane  between 
his  teeth.  "Here,  give  us  a  'old 
o'  that  'ere  long  stick,  till  I  fish  'im 
hout."  They  had  "good  luck  to 
their  fishing  ; "  and  scarcely  know- 
ing what  he  did,  Ralf  assists  in 
dragging  the  stiffened  foim  out  on 


1880.] 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. — Part  VIII. 


the  bank  and  lifting  it  on  to  the 
pack-saddle,  where  they,  or  rather 
Cane,  who  alone  seems  to  have  his 
wits  about  him,  fastened  it  as  best 
he  could. 

A  small  range  of  hills  not  far 
away  rose  on  their  left  hand,  and 
Cane  directed  Ealf  to  lead  the  way 
across  them.  It  was  a  terrible 
journey.  Ealf  feared  to  ride  on, 
and  feared  to  stay.  The  curlew's 
mournful  cry  chilled  his  blood,  and 
the  branches  of  the  trees  he  passed 
seemed  to  clutch  at  him  with  aveng- 
ing hands. 

"  'Old  'ard  a  bit,"  utters  the  man 

of  blood  behind ;  "  the thing's 

a-slippin'  hoff  the  'oss.  Get  hoff 
and  shove  hit  hover  a  bit."  Ealf 
did  as  he  was  bid;  but  in  the  act  of 
lifting  the  cold  wet  burden,  his  face 
comes  in  contact  with  the  weed- 
entangled,  dripping  hair.  H"ot  for 
worlds  would  he  touch  it  again, 
and  Cane  is  obliged  to  dismount 
and  readjust  matters. 

The  dead  man  is  lying  on  his 
back  across  the  pack-saddle,  the 
moonlight  falling  full  on  the  pale 
mangled  features,  one  stiff  right 
arm  pointing  upward  to  the  sky, 
as  if  accusing  his  murderers  before 
Him  who  set  that  silent  light  above 
them  in  the  midnight  heaven.  The 
pack-horse  is  a  bad  leader,  and 
drags  behind,  compelling  them  to 
adopt  a  funeral  pace.  As  they 
cross  the  mountain-ridge,  the  moon 
reveals  to  them  a  stretch  of  broken, 
mountainous,  dark-looking  country, 
through  which  winds  a  tortuous 
line  of  silver  water.  This  place 
is  seldom  traversed,  on  account  of 
the  rocky  soil  and  poor  pasturage. 
They  descend,  and  after  travelling 
a  mile  or  two  into  the  heart  of  it, 
they  come  upon  a  large  fallen  tree, 
whose  limbs  afford  abundance  of 
fuel 

"  It  will  do,"  says  Cane.  "  Get 
hoff  and  gather  some  wood." 

Ealf  sets  to  work  like  a  madman. 

VOL.  CXXVI1I. — NO.  DCCLXXVII. 


Cane  undoes  the  straps,  and  giving 
the  ghastly  pack  a  push,  upsets  it 
on  the  ground,  where  it  falls  on  all- 
fours, —  being  supported  by  the 
drawn  and  stiffened  limbs.  They 
now  cover  it  with  limbs  and  logs 
of  wood.  Hide  it  from  light ;  shut 
it  out  from  view.  They  draw  the 
horses  away ;  and  Cane  at  last, 
striking  a  match,  sets  fire  to  a  pile 
of  dead  leaves.  There  it  burns ; 
now  it  seizes  the  small  stuff,  and 
soon  it  roars  up  in  a  great  blaze. 
He  fires  the  pile  in  several  places. 
The  heat  is  so  great  that  they  are 
forced  to  retire  for  some  time,  dur- 
ing which  the  flames  rise  higher 
and  fiercer.  They  sit  together  at 
the  foot  of  a  large  tree.  Ealfs 
head  is  buried  in  his  hands,  which 
are  resting  on  his  knees ;  while  his 
companion  draws  out  a  short  black 
pipe,  which  he  proceeds  to  light,  as 
he  watches  the  fire,  from  which 
fitful  gleams  fall,  sometimes  upon 
his  dogged  bullet-head  and  heavy 
jowl,  and  sometimes  upon  the 
three  horses,  as  they  stand  tied  up 
close  at  hand. 

At  last  the  flames  sink  lower — the 
small  stuff  is  evidently  consumed — 
and  rudely  pushing  Ealf,  he  orders 
him  to  "  stick  on  some  more." 

As  in  a  dream,  his  nostrils  filled 
with  the  sickening  odour  of  the 
roasting  flesh,  the  wretched  man 
approached  the  fire,  a  bundle  of 
fuel  in  his  arms;  but,  powers  of 
mercy,  what  a  sight  met  his  gaze  ! 
The  body  had  been  turned  by  the 
falling  wood ;  the  sinews  had  con- 
tracted, and  altered  its  position. 

It  was  on  its  knees.  The  hair 
and  beard  were  burnt  away,  as  well 
as  the  lips,  revealing  the  grinning 
teeth.  The  head  had  fallen  back, 
and  the  arm  still  remained  pointing 
to  heaven,  as  if  the  body,  in  the  last 
moments  of  its  existence,  obeyed 
the  latest  desires  of  the  immortal 
spirit  it  had  clothed,  and  implored 
divine  vengeance  for  blood  spilt. 


OS 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. — Part  VI1L 


[July 


His  nerves  could  stand  the  strain 
no  longer,  and  the  criminal  fell  to 
the  ground  in  a  fainting-fit  before 
the  dumb  accuser. 

Cane  sprang  up,  and  dragging 
Ealf  a  little  on  one  side,  muttered 
to  himself — 

"  If  it  wasn't  that  you  might  be 
useful  some  o'  them  days,  I'd  shove 
you  hon  the  coals  halso — ten  to 


one  hif  you  don't  let  heverythink 
hout." 

In  an  hour  or  two  it  was  all  over. 
Charred  bones  alone  remained ;  and 
making  a  huge  fire  above  them, 
which  would  continue  to  burn  for 
some  hours,  they  once  more  retraced 
their  steps  throughthe  dismal  forest, 
arriving  at  Cambaranga  about  half 
an  hour  before  daylight. 


xxvi. — BESSIE'S  MARRIAGE — MUSTERING  FOR  NEW  COUNTRY — 

THE    HON.    MR   DESMARD. 


On  the  return  of  the  Bettyamo 
party  from  Yering,  Bessie's  wedding 
took  place  without  delay.  The 
clergyman  had  accompanied  them 
back,  everything  was  in  readiness, 
and  the  affair  passed  off  quietly. 
There  were  many  present;  but 
most  of  them  came  the  day  before, 
and  left  immediately  after  the  cere- 
mony. Fitzgerald  had  returned 
just  in  time  to  be  present,  and 
rode  over  with  John,  who  acted 
as  groom's  -  man.  Stone  looked 
very  well,  with  his  honest,  manly 
countenance,  and  robust,  athletic 
figure,  beside  merry  -  faced  Bessie, 
whose  eyes  sparkled  like  an  April 
day. 

Phoebe  was  of  course  the  princi- 
pal bride's-maid,  and  felt  much  at 
parting  from  her  only  sister, — the 
playmate  of  her  childish  days,  and 
companion  of  her  more  advanced 
years.  Mr  Gray,  with  his  kind, 
motherly  wife,  went  about  cheerily, 
as  usual,  and  seemed  to  realise  the 
fact  that  a  son  had  at  last  been 
given  to  them ;  and  Mrs  Gray 
especially  appeared  not  a  little 
pleased  as  she  contemplated  her 
daughter's  bearded  protector. 

It  was,  however,  over  at  last. 
Mr  and  Mrs  Stone  took  their  seats 
on  the  buggy — for  the  ceremony 
had  taken  place  in  the  morning 
early — and  bidding  good-bye  to  all, 
started  on  their  wedding -trip  to 


New  South  Wales,  amid  a  shower 
of  old  boots  and  slippers. 

Most  of  the  guests  left  after  lunch, 
among  them  Fitzgerald  and  John, 
the  latter  of  whom  now  had  some 
busy  work  before  him.  The  scene 
they  have  just  witnessed  has  struck 
a  chord  which  kept  vibrating  in 
Fitzgerald's  breast;  and  as  they 
ride  home,  he  made  a  confession 
of  his  adventure  in  Sydney,  and 
of  his  having  at  last  fallen  in  love, 
in  the  most  unexpected  way. 

"Most  romantic,"  replied  John. 
"  I  was  not  aware  that  so  much 
sentiment  existed  in  your  nature." 

"I  daresay  not,"  returned  his 
friend.  "  I  was  not  aware  of  it 
myself.  I  cannot  account  for  it. 
I  know  absolutely  nothing  of  the 
lady.  I  only  saw  her  for  a  few 
minutes,  and  yet  I  cannot  forget 
her.  You  know  how  I  used  to 
laugh  at  spoony  fellows.  "Well,  I 
can  understand  that  now." 

"  But,"  urged  John,  "  you  don't 
know  whether  she  is  engaged  or 
not.  She  may  be  unamiable  — 
stupid." 

"It's  no  use,  "West.  You  may 
be  right,  but  I  feel  drawn  to  her. 
I  believe  in  her.  I  can  read  a 
noble,  constant  faith  in  her  high 
brow  and  steadfast  eyes — truth  and 
reverence  in  the  Madonna-shaped 
head — sensibility  in  the  delicate 
nostril — and  child-like  purity  in 


1880.] 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland.— Part  VI 2 L 


the  beautifully  -  formed  lips  and 
dimpled  chin  ;  while  her  air,  figure, 
and  conversation  bespeak  the  cul- 
tured woman." 

"  Ah  !  it  is  plain  you  are  in  a 
hopeless  way.  Is  it  not  strange," 
he  questioned,  rather  musingly, 
"  that  all  the  charms  and  virtues 
you  describe  with  such  enthusiasm 
have  been  before  your  eyes  for 
many  a  year,  and  that  you  failed 
to  notice  them  when  displayed  to 
you,  and  yet  invest  with  them  a 
perfect  stranger  whose  looks  may 
belie  her  ?  It  is  not  an  uncommon 
circumstance." 

"Whom  do  you  speak  of?"  de- 
manded Fitzgerald. 

"I  mean  Phoebe  Gray." 

"Phoebe  Gray!"  echoed  the 
squatter. 

"  Yes,"  said  West.  "  You  have 
not  mentioned  a  beauty,  or  charm 
of  mind  or  manner,  which  Miss 
Gray  does  not  possess  in  a  large 
degree.  But  it  is  ever  the  same," 
he  continued,  speaking  more  to  him- 
self than  the  other.  "We  rarely 
appreciate  sufficiently  what  we  are 
familiar  with  ;  and  as  frequently  as 
not,  we  go  to  the  opposite  extreme, 
and  overestimate  what  we  do  not 
possess  or  know.  You  seem  to 
have  endowed  this  young  lady  with 
every  virtue  under  the  sun,  after 
an  hour's  conversation." 

"  I  am  sure — that  is,  I  think  she 
has  a  gentle,  charitable  disposition." 

"  So  has  Phoebe  Gray." 

"She  is  refined  in  her  tastes, 
sensible  in  her  conversation,  elegant 
in  her  manners." 

"  Phoebe  Gray  certainly  has  not 
had  the  advantage  of  mixing  much 
with  society  ;  but  as  far  as  manners 
may  be  acquired  without  that,  she 
is  all  you  have  described." 

"  She  is  witty  and  well  read, — 
at  least  I  think  so,  for  she  had  me 
out  of  my  depths  before  I  knew 
where  I  was." 

"  My  dear  Fitz,  go  and  talk  to 


Miss  Gray ;  she  will  open  your 
eyes.  You  are  blind.  She  does  not 
indeed  make  a  parade  of  knowledge, 
but  few  of  her  years  have  read  so 
much  or  thought  so  deeply,  and 
is,  besides,  what  your  town  beauty 
may  not  be — a  clever,  active  little 
house-wife,  with  a  bright  interest 
in  the  everyday  affairs  of  life,  a 
good  devoted  daughter,  and  a  lov- 
ing sister." 

"I  say,  West,"  said  Fitzgerald, 
abruptly  turning  round  on  him, — 
"  I  do  believe  you  are  struck." 

"Yes,  I  am,"  replied  John — 
"  struck  with  admiration  for  her 
good,  endearing  qualities  of  mind 
and  person  ;  but  not  in  love,  if  you 
mean  that.  I  am  not  rich  enough 
to  allow  myself  to  indulge  in  the 
luxury." 

"Well,  never  mind,  old  fellow; 
who  knows  what  the  new  coun- 
try will  do  for  you  ?  You'll  come 
down  a  rich  squatter  before  long." 

This  conversation  awakened  Fitz- 
gerald to  a  sense  of  the  many  excel- 
lences in  Miss  Gray's  character, 
which  he  had  never  before  per- 
ceived ;  and  often  afterwards  he 
thought,  as  he  reflected  on  the 
truth  of  what  John  had  said,  it 
would  be  well  for  him  if  he  could 
love  her ;  but  that,  he  felt,  was  im- 
possible. The  face  with  the  brown 
hair,  and  soft  dark  eyes  with  the 
long  lashes,  haunted  him. 

Next  day  mustering  commenced 
for  the  new  country.  A  mixed 
mob  of  cattle — cows,  steers,  and 
heifers — had  to  be  collected,  to  the 
number  of  one  thousand  head  ;  and 
before  the  ensuing  evening,  the 
usual  sound  of  discontented,  re- 
proachful, remonstrating,  or  angry 
bellows,  came  from  the  yard  in 
which  the  nucleus  of  the  herd 
about  to  be  sent  away  were  con- 
fined. 

The  stocking  of  new  country 
afforded  Fitzgerald  an  opportunity 
of  eliminating  from  the  general 


100 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. — Part  VIII. 


[July 


herd  such  members  of  it  as  were 
troublesome  from  one  cause  or  an- 
other ;  and  all  cattle  whose  favour- 
ite feeding-grounds  marched  on  the 
large  scrubs,  together  with  such  as 
associated  with  the  wild  mobs,  were 
condemned  to  recommence  life  under 
different  auspices.  All  cattle,  more- 
over, which,  from  their  knowledge  of 
the  country,  and  their  wild  nature, 
made  themselves  leaders  of  the  rest, 
were  picked  out  and  brought  home 
to  the  yards.  Thus  his  own  herd 
became  free  of  many  animals  which 
were  an  unceasing  source  of  annoy- 
ance; while  the  long  overland  jour- 
ney, and  the  daily  supervision  exer- 
cised over  them  in  order  to  keep 
them  upon  their  new  pastures,  to- 
gether with  the  change  in  disposi- 
tion which  their  constant  contact 
with  the  men  engaged  in  looking 
after  them  was  sure  to  bring  about, 
could  not  fail  to  be  productive  of 
the  greatest  good  to  the  creatures 
so  culled  out.  Many  there  were 
whose  constitutions  required  change 
of  pasture.  Some  were  lean,  and 
would  never  fatten  upon  the  run 
to  which  they  were  accustomed. 
Others  were  so  fat,  that  calves 
were  not  to  be  looked  for  from 
them ;  while  a  few  were  deter- 
mined rovers  on  neighbouring 
stations. 

Fitzgerald  and  John  had  ridden 
up  to  the  house  after  yarding  their 
first  draft  for  the  north,  and  were 
preparing  to  partake  of  their  even- 
ing meal,  when  the  former,  who 
happened  to  glance  out  of  the 
window  looking  up  the  road,  said 
quickly,  "Come  here,  West;  look 
at  this  fellow  riding  up.  Keep 
back  a  little ;  don't  let  him  ob- 
serve you." 

The  new-comer  was  indeed  an 
object  worthy  of  observation,  and 
both  the  young  men  mentally  ejacu- 
lated the  words,  "New  chum." 

He  was  an  extremely  nice-looking 
young  fellow,  with  a  high-bred,  in- 


telligent face,  shaved,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  a  fair  moustache.  His 
dress  and  horse,  however,  attracted 
attention,  owing  to  the  singularity 
of  both.  The  steed  was  one  whose 
great  age  could  only  be  equalled  by 
his  extreme  leanness.  It  was,  in 
fact,  a  mass  of  bones  and  long  hair, 
but  had  doubtless,  many  years  ago, 
been  of  indisputable  gameness, 
which  was  evinced  by  the  constant 
motion  of  the  pointed  ears  sur- 
mounting the  brave,  wrinkled  old 
head,  and  the  undiminished  fire  of 
the  bold  eyes,  above  which  were 
situated  deep,  cavernous  hollows. 
A  single  tusk  stuck  out,  wild-boar 
fashion,  on  one  side  of  the  withered 
upper  lip,  whose  fallen-in  appear- 
ance betrayed  the  want  of  teeth  in 
the  poor  old  gums.  Still  his  step, 
as  he  bowled  up  to  the  slip-panel, 
was  brisk  and  energetic,  though 
slightly  tottering ;  and  the  stump 
of  his  docked  tail  stood  up  fiercely 
erect,  bristling  with  short  hair. 

The  dress  of  his  rider  betrayed 
something  of  the  romantic  imagina- 
tion which  colours  the  actions  of  so 
many  new  arrivals  from  Europe.  A 
scarlet  shirt  and  Garibaldi  jacket, 
together  with  white  breeches  and 
Napoleon  boots,  and  a  helmet  from 
which  depended  the  gay  ends  of  a 
silken  pugaree,  formed  his  costume. 
His  waist  was  confined  by  a  snake- 
skin  belt  sustaining  innumerable 
square  skin  pouches ;  a  revolver  in 
its  pouch  was  slung  on  the  left  hip, 
while  a  formidable  silver- mounted 
bowie-knife  with  ivory  handle  de- 
pended by  silver  chains  from  the 
other.  In  addition  to  this,  he  car- 
ried in  his  hand  a  very  fine-looking 
fowling-piece. 

"  By  Jove,  old  fellow,"  muttered 
Fitzgerald,  "  you'll  never  be  taken 
alive ! " 

Presently  one  of  the  station  black- 
boys,  who  happened  to  be  loitering 
about,  entered  with  what  perhaps 
had  never  been  seen  on  Ungah- 


1880.] 


Bash-Life  in  Queensland. — Part  VIII. 


101 


run  before — viz.,  a  visiting-card, 
on  which  was  printed,  "The 
Hon.  Adolphus  Maurice  le  Poer 
French  Ffrench  da  la  Chapelle 
Desmard." 

"  Oh,  hold  me  up  ! "  groaned  the 
squatter,  handing  John  the  paste- 
board, and  going  to  the  door,  where, 
in  spite  of  the  grotesque  attire,  he 
could  not  help  being  favourably  im- 
pressed with  his  visitor's  gentle- 
manly bearing. 

The  new  -  comer's  address  was 
likewise  good,  although  somewhat 
marred  by  a  drawling  form  of 
speech. 

"Ah— Mistah  Fitzgewald— ah— 
I  conclude." 

"That  is  my  name,"  said  the 
squatter,  bowing  slightly. 

"Ah  —  I — ah — heeah  you  are 
about  —  ah  —  sending  some  cattle 
northwards,  and — ah — I  came  up — 
ah — to  make  some  inquiries  about 
them.  The  fact  is — ah — I  would 
— ah — very  much  like  to — ah — ac- 
company them." 

"  I  shall  be  most  happy,  Mr 
Desmard,  to  give  you  any  informa- 
tion you  require ;  but  in  the  mean- 
time, please  to  turn  out  your  horse 
and  come  inside.  We  are  just 
about  sitting  down  to  dinner." 

The  young  man  managed  to  un- 
saddle his  old  horse,  though  with 
considerable  awkwardness,  and 
turned  him  into  the  paddock,  strok- 
ing his  hog-maned  neck,  and  pat- 
ting his  lean  sides — the  hair  on 
which,  from  its  length  (the  result 
of  great  poverty),  bore  a  strong  re- 
semblance to  fur — remarking — 

"  Wonderful  cweateah  !  Suh- 
pwisiugly  intelligent !  But — ah — 
I  am  inclined  to  think  him — ah — 
aged." 

"So  am  I,"  returned  his  host, 
smiling. 

"He — ah — requires  no  looking 
after  whatever ;  nevah  stways  ;  al- 
ways chooses  the  wivah-bed,  or  bed 
of  a  cweek — ah — to  pasture  in.  He 


— ah — is  vewy  deah  to  me.  He — 
ah — in  fact,  saved  my  life." 

"  Did  he  indeed  !  "  said  Fitz- 
gerald, looking  at  the  ancient  one 
with  more  respect  than  he  had  at 
first  exhibited.  "Well,  we'll  find 
some  more  tender  grass  for  him 
to-morrow  than  the  paddock  affords ; 
meantime,  bring  your  things  inside." 

This  Mr  Desmard  did,  having 
occasion  to  make  two  journeys  in 
so  doing.  His  valise  was  twice  the 
size  of  an  ordinary  one,  and  many 
articles  hung  to  his  saddle,  after 
the  manner  of  his  tribe.  The  old 
horse  must  indeed  have  been  a 
game  creature  to  struggle  on  under 
so  heavy  a  burden. 

In  the  course  of  dinner — which 
meal  Mr  Desmard  sat  down  to  in 
his  accoutrements,  considerably  to 
the  uneasiness  of  the  other  two, 
who  were  not  at  all  fond  of  being 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  new 
chums'  revolvers — he  gave  them  a 
short  account  of  himself  and  his 
intentions. 

"  My — ah — father  is  Lord  Mart- 
lett.  Perhaps  you  know  the  name." 

Fitzgerald  did  not,  but  John  re- 
cognised it  as  that  of  a  popular, 
though  by  no  means  wealthy,  peer 
in  one  of  the  adjoining  counties  to 
his  own. 

«  Well— ah— when  travelling  by 
wail,  my — ah — father  met  by  acci- 
dent a  gentleman  who — ah — de- 
scwibed  himself  as — ah — Mistah 
Bosterre,  of  Blowaway  Downs,  in 
Queensland ;  and  my — ah — father, 
who  is  not  a  wich  man,  and — ah — 
has  a  numbah  of — ah — childwen 
(I  am  the  third  —  ah  —  son),  was 
delighted  to  heeah  of  an  opening 
in — ah — this  country  for  a  young 
man.  He  —  ah  —  made  some  in- 
quiwies,  and — ah — found  that — ah 
— Mr  Bosterre  was — ah — weally 
the  —  ah  —  man  he  wepwesented 
himself  to  be,  and — ah — had  him 
to  Desmard  Castle,  wheah  he  was 
— ah — vewy  kind  indeed  to  him. 


102 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. — Part  VIII. 


[July 


"  The  end  of  this— ah— was,  that 
Mistah  Bosterre  agweed — ah — to 
give  me — ah — an  appointment  on 
his  estate;  and  —  ah  —  my  father 
agweed  to — ah — pay  him  a  pwe- 
rnium  of  —  ah  —  thwee  hundwed 
pounds  for— ah — the  first  yeah. 

"  I — ah — do  not  know  much  of 
— ah — business,  but  I  thought  it 
would — ah — look  better  were  the 
— ah — money  paid  quarterly  ;  and 
— ah — I  pwoposed  this  to  my — ah 
— father,  who  at  once  agweed,  as 
did  —  ah  —  Mistah  Bosterre,  after 
some — ah — objections. 

"  Well,  when  I  awived  at  Blow- 
away  Downs,  I — ah — weally  did 
not  see  how  I  was  to — ah — make 
any  money. 

"  I  had — ah — to  sit  all  day  with 
— ah — Mrs  Bosterre  in  the — ah — 
parlour,  and  be  introduced  by  her  to 
— ah — her  visitors  as — ah — the  son 
of  her — ah — '  deah  fwiend  Lord 
Martlett;'  or  I  had  to  wide  into 
town  with  —  ah  —  old  Bosterre, 
and  undergo  the  same. 

"It  was  about  this  time  that— ah 
— I  became  possessed  of — ah — my 
horse.  He  is  called  Jacky-Jacky, 
after  a  celebwated  bushwanger  who 
— ah  —  owned  him  about  thirty 
—  ah  —  years  ago ;  and  —  ah  —  al- 
though I  have  been  led  to  doubt 
some — ah — at  least  of  the  state- 
ments which — ah — have  been  made 
to  me,  I  understand — ah — from 
various  quarters,  that — ah — such  is 
weally  the  case." 

"I  quite  believe  it  also,"  said 
Fitzgerald. 

"  Ah,  glad  you  say  so.  Bosterre 
sold  him  to  me.  Well — ah — I 
found  my  first  quarter's  pwemium 
was  —  ah  —  paid,  and  my  second 
was  begun ;  and — ah — I  thought — 
ah — I  would  ask  old  Bosterre  about 
— ah — my  appointment,  and — ah — 
he  quite  agweed  with  me  about  the 
— ah — necessity  for  work,  and — ah 
— brought  me  down  next  morning 
to  the  ram-yard,  and — ah  —  gave 


the  rams  into  my  chahge  to — ah — 
look  after.  The  cweateahs  were 
engaged  in — ah — knocking  their 
heads  together  in — ah — the  most 
painful  way;  and — ah — during  my 
connection  with  them,  which — ah 
— was  only  during  one  day,  I  may 
wemark,  I — ah — found  that — ah — 
they  wesorted  to  it  —  ah  —  as  a 
wecweation  when  not  particularly 
engaged — ah — otherwise. 

"  On  weturning  to  the  house  I — 
ah — awrdored  the  groom  to — ah — 
saddle  Jacky-Jacky,  and  I — ah — 
wode  down  and  took  my  chahge 
away  to  the — ah — woods.  We — 
ah — soon  lost  sight  of — ah — habi- 
tations, and  the  solitude  was  dwed- 
ful.  I  began  to — ah — wemember 
those  unfortunates  of  whom — ah — 
I  had  wead  as  lost — ah — for  ever. 
I  looked  awound;  there  was — ah — 
no  watah.  I  had — ah — nothing  to 
eat.  There  was — ah — no  game  to 
be  seen,  except — ah — a  few  small 
birds  in  the  tops  of — ah — a  vewy 
high  tree;  but  —  ah  —  although  I 
fired  all  my  cahtwidges  except  one — 
ah — at  them,  I — ah — missed  them. 
A  wevolver  is — ah — wather  diffi- 
cult to  manage,  when — ah — shoot- 
ing at — ah — vewy  small  birds,  I 
find." 

"  It  is  indeed,"  agreed  the  other 
two. 

"  I  became  alarmed.  No — ah — 
watah;  no — ah — food.  Only  one 
shot  in  my  wevolver.  I — ah — did 
not  know  where  to  turn.  The  sun 
was  blazing — ah — hot.  Was  I — 
ah — going  to  pewish  alone,  with — 
ah — hungah  and — ah — thirst1?  My 
thwoat  got  parched.  I  felt — ah — 
alweady  the  agonies  of — ah  — 
death.  I  determined  to  —  ah  — 
make  one  attempt  to  —  ah  —  save 
my  life.  I  wesolved  to — ah — kill 
a  ram,  and — ah — dwink  the  blood 
of  the  cweateah.  I  —  ah  —  dis- 
mounted and — ah — tied  up  Jacky- 
Jacky,  and — ah — seeing  one  lying 
down  not  —  ah  —  far  off,  which  I 


1880.] 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland.— Part  VIII. 


103 


had  noticed  in  the  course  of  the — 
ah — morning,  from  the  gweat  size 
of  his — ah — horns,  and  his  vewy 
woolly  body.  I  appwoached  cauti- 
ously, for  I — ah — expected  evewy 
moment  that — ah — he  would  wish 
to  examine  the — ah — stwength  of 
my  head;  but  —  ah  —  he  merely 
wrinkled  his  nose  and — ah — show- 
ed his  teeth.  I — ah — kept  my  eye 
upon  him,  and — ah — I  put  the 
ball  wight  in  the — ah — middle  of  his 
forehead,  upon  which  he — ah — 
turned  over  and — ah — died.  Vewy 
simply,  I  assuah  you.  The  west 
of  my  chahge  —  ah  —  scampered 
away,  but — ah — I  could  not  follow 
them.  I — ah — dwew  my  bowie- 
knife,  and — ah — cutting  off  the 
hideous  cweateah's — ah — head,  I 
commenced  drinking  his  blood ;  but 
— ah — stwange  to  say,  I  did  not 
feel  at  all  thirsty  after  the — ah — 
first  mouthful.  Indeed,  I  became 
— ah — quite  ill,  pwobably  from  the 
— ah — seveah  mental  stwain.  I — 
ah — lay  down  for  some  time  j  and 
as  it — ah — grew  cooler,  I  wesolved 
to  abandon  myself  to — ah — Jacky- 
Jacky's  sagacity,  who — ah — won- 
derful to  relate,  took  me  through 
— ah — paths  known  to  himself,  to 
— ah — the  society  of  my  fellow — 
ah  —  beings.  But  more  singular 
still  was — ah — the  fact,  that  when 
I — ah — got  home,  the  rams  were — 
ah — home  before  me.  And  when 
— ah — I  welated  the  story  of  my — 
ah — pewil  to  Mistah  Bosterre,  he 
was — ah — most  unfeeling. 

"  He  wushed  away  down  to  the — 
ah — yard,  and  on  weturning  he — 
ah — used  the — ah — most  fwightful 
language,  and — ah — said  that  I — 
ah — had  killed  his  imported  Saxon 
ram — ah — Billy — who  was — ah — 
worth  two  hundred — ah — pounds  ; 
and — ah — he  indulged  in — ah — 
so  great  an  amount  of — ah — critical 
licence,  and  —  ah  —  depweciatory 


general  wemark  in  wefereuce  to  all 
— ah — late  awivals,  that  I  felt  my 
— ah — self-wespect  wouldnot  admit 
of  my — ah — continuing  to — ah — 
weside  at  Blowaway  Downs ;  and 
hearing  of  your  —  ah  —  intended 
journey,  I  thought  I  would — ah — 
call  upon  you." 

Bursts  of  laughter  occasionally 
interrupted  the  speaker,  and  as  his 
hearers  looked  at  one  another,  again 
and  again  they  exploded  with  mer- 
riment. 

Neither  liked  Bosterre,  who  was 
a  well-known  character.  Boastful, 
purse-proud,  a  toady,  and  a  knave, 
he  made  a  regular  trade  of  en- 
trapping "new  chums,"  and  get- 
ting premiums  from  them,  to 
suffer  them  to  waste  their  time 
in  idleness,  and  their  means  in 
folly. 

With  regard  to  the  overland  trip, 
Fitzgerald  referred  Desmard  to 
John,  who,  having  taken  rather  a 
fancy  to  the  lad,  agreed  to  his 
forming  one  of  the  travellers,  pro- 
mising him  at  the  same  time  a 
remuneration  equivalent  to  his 
services, — a  proposal  which  much 
delighted  the  new  hand,  who  had 
never  known  how  to  earn  a  shilling 
in  his  life. 

Mustering  now  proceeded  with 
steady  vigour,  and  Desmard  was 
allowed  to  gain  experience  in  tail- 
ing *  those  already  brought  in, 
along  with  two  old  and  experi- 
enced hands,  who  were  much 
amused  with  their  companion's 
eccentricities,  and  who  never  tired 
of  relating  his  peculiar  sayings. 

A  few  evenings  later,  the  news 
of  old  M'Duff's  disappearance  and 
rumoured  murder  struck  astonish- 
ment and  horror  into  the  hearts  of 
all  in  the  district,  which  gradually 
increased  as,  step  by  step,  suspicion 
fell,  and  eventually  fixed  itself 


*  Herding. 


104 


Basil-Life  in  Queensland.— Part  V1IL 


[July 


firmly,  upon  Half  and  Cane.  Many 
there  were  who  remained  incredu- 
lous to  the  last ;  but  on  hearing  the 
report  of  Cane's  having  been  seen 
in  the  neighbourhood,  John  felt  a 
steady  conviction  of  Ms  guilt,  while 
Fitzgerald  was  no  less  sure  of  Kalf 's 
complicity — a  belief  which  was  also 
strongly  shared  in  by  the  stockman, 
Tommy,  who  calmly  remarked  that 
he  knew  "  all  along  Ealf  was  born 
to  be  hanged." 

On  the  morning  of  the  day  after 
the  burning  of  the  body  a  black- 
fellow  came  in  from  the  Bush,  and 
happening  to  see  Ralf  first,  coolly 
addressed  him  with — 

"I  say,  me  been  see- em  two 
fellow  whitefellow  burn-em  'nother 
whitefellow  lasnigh."  * 

"You  see  them?"  utters  Ealf, 
looking  for  nothing  but  immediate 
detection  and  arrest. 

"  Yohi,  me  see  'em;  bail  that  fel- 
low see  me.  Me  sit  down  good 
way;  me  frighten;  by-and-by  me 
track  'em  yarraman,  that  been  come 
up  here."t 

"  Look  here,"  said  Ealf,  quickly, 
"  bail  you  yabber  'nother  white- 
fellow.  Me  want  to  man  'em  that 
one  two  fellow  whitefellow.  By- 
and-by  you  and  me  look  out."  % 

Giving  the  nigger  some  rations 
and  tobacco,  and  enjoining  further 
secrecy,  Ealf  made  for  Cane's  re- 
treat, and  informed  him. 

"You fool,  why  didn't  you 

bring  the   nigger  'ere;   we   might 


'ave  knocked  'im  hover,  hand  made 
haU  safe." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Ealf,  decisively ; 
"  no  more  blood.  By  this  time  all 
his  tribe  know  it.  We  can,  per- 
haps, get  away  now  if  we  start  at 
once ;  but  sooner  than  shed  more 
blood,  I'll  stay  and  give  myself 
up." 

Cane  could  also  see  the  futility 
of  endeavouring  to  hold  out  longer 
against  fate ;  and  that  night,  after 
laying  hands  on  whatever  could  be 
got  of  use  to  them  in  the  house, 
the  two  disappeared,  taking  with 
them  four  of  the  best  horses  in  the 
paddock. 

A  few  days  afterwards,  police 
arrived  from  Yering,  headed  by 
Dowlan,  who  made  himself  very 
active  in  his  investigations. 

It  was  a  simple  matter  to  trace 
the  horse -tracks  from  the  lagoon 
to  the  fire.  Blacks  diving  in  the 
former  brought  up  some  of  the 
dead  man's  effects,  and  the  charred 
bones  at  the  fire  spoke  for  them- 


This,  with  their  flight,  and  the 
statement  of  one  of  the  men,  who 
swore  that  he  saw  Ealf  and  another 
returning  to  the  station  some  days 
previously,  just  before  dawn,  and 
the  testimony  of  the  blackfellow, 
formed  a  chain  of  circumstantial 
evidence  which  left  no  doubt  in 
any  one's  mind  as  to  the  perpetra- 
tors of  the  deed,  and  a  pursuit  after 
them  was  at  once  instituted. 


*  "  I  saw  two  white  men  burning 

+  "Yes  ;  I  saw  them.  They  did  not  see  me;  I  was  a  long  way  off.  I  was  fright- 
ened. Afterwards  I  tracked  their  horses ;  they  came  up  here." 

J  "Look  here,  don't  tell  any  other  white  man;  I  want  to  catch  those  two  white 
men.  By-and-by  you  and  I  will  search  for  them. " 


1880.] 


Wellington  and  Reform. 


105 


WELLINGTON    AND    REFORM. 


THERE  are  some  subjects  which 
popular  opinion  refuses  to  regard  as 
open  to  discussion.  They  have  be- 
come a  part  of  the  dogmatics  of 
our  politics,  and  a  doubt  cast  upon 
their  character  or  utility  at  once 
exposes  the  sceptic  to  a  charge  of 
heterodoxy  which  carries  with  it 
much  more  odium  than  even  in 
its  ecclesiastical  application.  The 
Parliamentary  Eeform  of  1832  and 
Free  Trade  are  the  most  notable 
of  these  questions.  Perhaps  from 
optimism,  more  probably  from  po- 
litical bigotry,  we  have  come  to  re- 
gard these  measures  as  if  it  were 
foolish  or  wicked  to  give  any 
recognition  to  that  other  side 
which  all  public  questions  must 
present.  This  fact  is  strikingly 
demonstrated  by  the  attitude  of 
England  at  the  present  time  to- 
wards those  nations  which  prefer  a 
protective  policy  to  the  principles 
of  free  trade.  We  practically  re- 
fuse to  look  at  the  subject  as  one 
open  to  controversy.  Although  the 
economists  of  Germany  and  Amer- 
ica are  in  no  wise  behind  our  own 
in  clear-headedness,  and  although 
their  ideas  of  trade  legislation  meet 
with  more  general  acceptance 
throughout  the  world  than  even 
those  of  England,  we  insist  upon 
treating  their  views  as  fallacies 
which  do  not  even  require  refuta- 
tion. This  position  of  political  in- 
tolerance is  so  inconsistent  with 
the  liberty  of  thought  which  Brit- 
ain professes  to  allow  in  every 
other  question,  that  it  can  only  be 
excused  by  an  assumption  that  we 
have  become  the  sole  authority  up- 
on economical  truth,  and  that  any 
departure  from  the  standard  we 
have  adopted  must  of  necessity 
end  in  error.  In  short,  our  tone 
towards  the  rest  of  the  world,  with 


regard  to  free  trade,  is  identical 
with  that  employed  by  the  Church 
of  Eome  in  reference  to  religion 
towards  all  other  ecclesiastical  divi- 
sions of  Christianity. 

The  Eeform  BUI  of  1832  has 
likewise  found  a  place  among  our 
political  dogmas.  We  are  required 
not  only  to  accept  it  as  a  fact,  but  as 
the  embodiment  of  a  first  principle 
in  politics.  It  was  oifered  to  the 
nation  as  a  panacea,  and  received 
in  the  spirit  which  prefers  a  nos- 
trum to  the  regular  prescription  of 
the  pharmacopeia.  But  we  know 
that  panaceas  require  to  be  repeat- 
edly applied,  less  on  account  of  the 
necessities  of  the  patient,  than  of 
the  exigencies  of  the  quacksalver. 
Unquestioning  belief  is  the  first 
condition  demanded  in  empirical 
treatment;  and  the  promoters  of 
Parliamentary  Eeform  succeeded 
in  instilling  this  spirit  into  the 
masses.  Looking  back  to  that 
measure  in  the  light  of  the  unmixed 
benefits  which  we  assume  to  have 
flowed  from  it,  we  cannot  bring 
ourselves  to  admit  that  Parliamen- 
tary Eeform  could  ever  have  ap- 
peared in  a  questionable  light  to 
reasonable  and  honest  statesmen". 
Historical  retrospection  can  only 
applaud  the  foresight  of  the  pro- 
moters of  the  Bill,  and  the  narrow- 
ness, to  use  a  very  mild  word,  of 
its  opponents.  We  refuse  to  ac- 
knowledge that  the  Eeformers  of 
1830-32  took  a  leap  in  the  dark 
for  the  sake  of  party  popularity,  or 
that  the  misgivings  of  danger  to 
the  Constitution  entertained  by  the 
Tories  had  any  more  reasonable 
basis  than  mere  party  exclusive- 
ness.  No  one  in  the  present  day 
would  care  to  run  the  risk  of 
being  accounted  singular  or  un- 
sound, by  casting  doubts  upon  the 


106 


Wellington  and  Reform. 


[July 


Reform  measure  of  1832.  On  the 
contrary,  Tories  as  well  as  Whigs 
refer  to  the  change  only  with  ex- 
pressions of  approval,  not  caring 
to  be  banned  by  the  political  an- 
athema maranatha  which  would 
inevitably  be  drawn  down  by  a 
frank  avowal  of  scepticism.  In 
fact,  upon  Reform,  as  upon  Free 
Trade,  average  British  opinion,  so 
liberal  upon  most  other  questions, 
is  intolerant  in  the  extreme.  It 
has  a  fanatical  horror  of  hearing 
the  adverse  side  of  the  subject  de- 
bated, and  is  ready  to  silence  the 
objector  with  the  ex  cathedra  de- 
nunciation, "  He  hath  a  devil." 

Yet,  every  unprejudiced  thinker 
knows  that  what  we  are  in  the 
habit  of  calling  Parliamentary  Re- 
form, and  which,  more  strictly 
speaking,  is  the  extension  of  the 
franchise,  is  a  subject  about  which 
reasonable  doubts  are  perfectly  per- 
missible. Those  who,  like  our- 
selves, opposed  the  Bill,  and  with 
good  reason,  in  1830-32,  and  who 
have  since  loyally  accepted  the 
changes  in  the  Constitution,  may 
still  discriminate  between  what 
we  are  directly  indebted  to  Parlia- 
mentary Reform  for,  and  what  we 
owe  simply  to  the  material  and 
moral  progress  of  the  nation.  We 
have  been  accustomed  to  see  many 
of  the  advantages  attendant  upon 
recent  legislation  attributed  to  the 
abolition  of  rotten  boroughs,  the 
extension  of  the  franchise,  and 
the  representation  in  Parliament  of 
the  great  centres  of  commerce  and 
manufacture,  which  simply  sprang 
from  ordinary  progress,  and  which 
would  have  been  not  less  attain- 
able under  the  old  system.  At  the 
same  time,  we  readily  recognise  that 
benefits  have  accrued  from  the 
adaptation  of  parliamentary  govern- 
ment to  the  expansion  of  the  nation. 
But  we  frankly  confess  our  opinion 
that  the  time  has  not  yet  arrived 
when  a  balance-sheet  can  be  made 
up  of  the  good  and  evil  arising 


from  the  relaxation  of  our  parlia- 
mentary system  in  1832.  Half  a 
century  is  too  short  a  time  on 
which  to  base  a  judgment  of  so 
important  a  change,  especially  as 
the  innovations  are  still  pronounced 
incomplete,  and  as  no  constitutional 
question  of  the  first  importance  has 
come  to  the  surface  during  that 
time.  The  evidence  is  still  imper- 
fect. It  will  be  for  posterity  more 
or  less  remote  to  deliver  the  verdict. 
The  interest  in  the  great  struggle 
that  resulted  in  the  Act  of  1832 
revives  afresh  whenever  a  further 
inroad  upon  the  Constitution,  in 
the  shape  of  an  extension  of 
the  franchise,  becomes  imminent. 
Both  parties  draw  their  precedents 
and  their  arguments  mainly  from 
the  proceedings  of  that  epoch ;  and 
the  solemn  warnings  of  the  con- 
servative Opposition  of  that  day  are 
always  cited  as  an  instance  of  the 
groundlessness  of  all  apprehension 
of  revolutionary  feelings  obtaining 
an  ascendancy  in  consequence  of 
conferring  electoral  power  on  the 
masses.  But  have  these  apprehen- 
sions been  groundless1?  As  we 
have  already  said,  time  only  can 
show.  The  conservative  opposi- 
tion to  the  first  Reform  Bill  has 
generally  suffered  much  from  mis- 
representation. The  dangers  which 
it  foresaw  did  not  lie  in  the  immedi- 
ate present.  It  did  not  dread  that 
a  Reformed  Parliament  would  at 
once  proclaim  a  republic,  or  that 
members  from  Birmingham  and 
Manchester  would,  as  soon  as  they 
got  seats,  move  in  the  Commons  for 
the  abolition  of  the  House  of  Lord?. 
Its  doubts  rather  turned  upon  the 
certainty  that,  if  the  Constitution 
were  once  tampered  with,  the  fran- 
chise must  find  its  final  goal  in  uni- 
versal suffrage ;  and  that  democracy, 
once  given  the  rein,  must  prove 
dangerous  to  the  Crown,  to  the 
Church,  to  property,  and  to  every 
institution  whose  exclusive  char- 
acter might  make  it  an  object  of 


1880.] 


Wellington  and  Reform. 


107 


popular  envy.  The  Reformers  of 
1830-32  stoutly  denied  the  possi- 
bility of  such  a  danger.  We  have 
seen,  however,  that  we  are  further 
than  ever  from,  finality  in  respect 
to  the  franchise — that  the  Church 
has  been  assailed,  and  the  Crown 
encroached  upon ;  and  the  end  is 
not  yet.  The  apprehensions  of  the 
Conservatives  may  turn  out  to  have 
been  vain  in  the  future  ;  the  assur- 
ances of  the  Reformers  have  already 
been  proved  to  be  utterly  fallacious. 
The  new  volume  of  the  Welling- 
ton Despatches,*  together  with  its 
predecessor,  brings  vividly  back  to 
us  the  struggle  over  the  first  instal- 
ment of  Reform.  The  Duke  himself 
was  the  central  figure  of  the  Oppo- 
sition; and  we  do  not  exaggerate 
his  position  when  we  say  that  on 
him  personally  rested  the  hopes  of 
those  who  wished  to  maintain  the 
Constitution  unchanged.  His  posi- 
tion was  one  of  the  utmost  diffi- 
culty ;  but  difficulties  were  what  he 
had  been  accustomed  all  his  life 
to  encounter  and  overcome.  His 
duty  to  the  King,  and  the  loyalty 
which  he  conceived  himself  to  owe 
to  the  Constitution,  were  at  direct 
variance  with  the  course  which 
prudence  would  have  prescribed  to 
him  as  a  statesman.  He  was  placed 
in  opposition  to  at  once  the  major- 
ity of  the  nation  and  the  professed 
wishes  of  the  Crown.  The  situa- 
tion presented  every  temptation  to 
have  recourse  to  the  expedient,  but 
the  Duke  avoided  even  the  sem- 
blance of  expedient  tactics.  His 
letters  show  how  gravely  he  was 
impressed  by  the  importance  of 
the  crisis  through  which  the  nation 
was  passing — how  deeply  he  real- 
ised his  responsibility  to  the  large 
and  influential  party,  whose  trust 
in  seeing  the  Constitution  come 
safely  through  the  ordeal  was 
groiinded  solely  in  himself.  Yet 


he  had  many  advantages  which 
were  denied  to  his  opponents.  To 
him  the  lines  of  duty  were  clearly 
written  out,  while  the  Reformers 
were  swayed  hither  and  thither  by 
the  breath  of  the  populace, — invok- 
ing the  aid  of  democracy  when  out 
of  office,  and  striving  again  to  lay 
it  when  they  came  into  power; 
pressing  upon  Parliament  meas- 
ures which  they  themselves  dread- 
ed to  see  carried  into  execution; 
and  all  the  while  thinking  how 
little  they  might  concede,  and  still 
satisfy  the  people.  Such,  if  we 
analyse  the  convictions  of  Earl  Grey 
and  his  friends,  we  find  to  be  the 
feelings  pervading  the  headquarters 
camp  of  the  Reformers.  The  senti- 
ments and  policy  of  the  Duke  we 
shall  endeavour  to  describe  from 
the  new  volumes  of  his  Despatches. 
His  views  regain  their  original  in- 
terest at  all  times  when  we  are 
brought  face  to  face  with  projects 
of  further  Parliamentary  Reform  ; 
his  example  is  always  one  of  the 
safest  landmarks  that  conservative 
statesmen  can  steer  by  in  critical 
seasons. 

The  death  of  George  IV.  left  the 
Wellington  Ministry  much  weak- 
ened. The  personal  will  of  the  sov- 
ereign no  longer  counterbalanced 
the  outcry  for  Parliamentary  Re- 
form. The  ultra  -  Tories,  irritated 
by  the  Duke's  concession  of  Ca- 
tholic Emancipation,  were  openly 
rebellious,  and  disposed  to  follow 
the  policy  which  in  latter  days  has 
obtained  notoriety  under  the  name 
of  Obstruction.  The  Whigs  in  the 
Upper  House,  knowing  that  their  ac- 
cession to  power  would  entail  upon 
them  the  necessity  of  introducing 
a  Reform  Bill,  were  inclined  to 
shirk  office,  and  took  a  great  deal 
more  credit  for  their  unselfishness 
in  supporting  the  Duke's  Govern- 
ment than  can  now  be  attributed  to 


*  Despatches,  Correspondence,  &c. ,  of  Field  Marshal  Arthur  Duke  of  Wellington,  K.G. 
Edited  by  his  Son,  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  K.G.   Vol.  VIII.   John  Murray,  London. 


108 


Wellington  and  Reform. 


[July 


them.  They  had  hopes  also  of  a 
coalition,  which  the  new  King,  from 
his  friendship  for  Lord  Holland, 
was  known  to  favour.  Such  an 
arrangement  would  have  been  more 
satisfactory  to  the  leaders  of  the 
Opposition  than  a  complete  change 
of  Government,  as  it  would  have 
admitted  them  to  the  sweets  of 
office  without  entailing  a  direct 
responsibility  for  dealing  with  Re- 
form. This  support  of  the  "Whigs 
was,  as  the  Duke  knew,  entirely 
capricious,  and  liable,  whenever  op- 
portunity suited,  to  be  turned  into 
opposition.  The  Duke,  however, 
was  directly  averse  to  including 
Lord  Grey  in  his  Government,  be- 
lieving that  they  "should  lose  in 
respectability  of  character  what 
they  might  gain  in  talent."  He 
was  aware  of  the  strength  of  Earl 
Grey  as  an  opponent,  and  that  he 
could  change  the  character  of  the 
Opposition  in  the  Lords,  which  at 
the  King's  death  was  mainly  per- 
sonal to  the  Duke,  into  a  political 
one.  He  might  have  hazarded  a 
fusion  with  the  liberals  in  the 
Upper  House  had  he  been  pre- 
pared to  coalesce  with  the  Whig 
leaders  in  the  Commons;  but  the 
Duke  declared  that  he  did  not 
think  that  he  "personally  would 
or  ought  to  sit  in  a  Cabinet  again 
as  the  First  Lord  of  the  Treasury 
with  Mr  Huskisson,  Lord  Palmer- 
ston,  or  Mr  Charles  Grant."  The 
Duke  determined  to  trust  to  an  early 
dissolution — a  course  which  neces- 
sarily inflamed  the  energies  of  the 
Opposition,  who  wished  to  have 
fresh  displays  of  zeal  to  parade  be- 
fore the  constituencies.  Lord  Al- 
thorp  divided  the  Lower  House 
twice  on  the  Royal  Message,  and 
his  "watchmen"  in  the  Commons 
were  very  unwilling  to  exercise  the 
forbearance  shown  to  the  Ministry 
in  the  Lords.  The  Duke,  know- 
ing how  much  of  the  hostility  of 
the  Opposition  and  of  the  ultra- 
Tories  was  directed  against  himself 


personally,  would  have  resigned  the 
Premiership  in  favour  of  Sir  Robert 
Peel,  and  thus  allow  of  the  latter 
forming  a  new  Government,  which 
might  have  included  Earl  Grey  and 
other  members  of  the  Whig  party  ; 
but  to  this  Peel  would  not  consent. 
Parliament  was  dissolved  on 
July  24th,  and  next  day  an  event 
took  place  which  speedily  kindled 
the  smouldering  Radicalism  of  the 
manufacturing  towns  into  a  blaze. 
Charles  X.  signed  the  unfortunate 
ordinances  of  St  Cloud,  and  on  the 
following  day  the  Revolution  com- 
menced which  drove  the  Bourbons 
into  final  exile.  Such  an  event 
occurring  on  the  very  eve  of  a 
general  election,  could  not  but 
exercise  a  powerful  influence  upon 
English  Radicalism,  begotten,  as  it 
originally  had  been,  of  the  ideas  of 
the  first  French  Revolution.  The 
liberal  leaders  at  once  caught  up 
the  cry  of  Reform  that  now  was 
raised  with  redoubled  force.  The 
temper  of  the  constituencies  was 
then  in  a  gloomy  mood.  The  coun- 
try was  going  through  a  general  de- 
pression of  industry  and  commerce ; 
and  as  the  popular  mind  seldom 
penetrates  to  the  real  cause  of  such 
a  misfortune,  the  pent-up  discontent 
fastened  upon  Parliamentary  Reform 
as  the  expression  for  its  grievances 
most  ready  to  hand.  The  success 
of  the  French  Revolution  made  the 
Reformers  all  the  more  determined 
in  their  persistence,  and  sweeping 
in  their  demands;  and  the  ease 
with  which  they  had  seen  military 
power  put  under  by  the  mob,  en- 
couraged them  to  look  to  violence 
as  a  means  of  enforcing  their  wish- 
es, and  to  form  associations  which, 
if  not  strictly  illegal,  were  at  least 
dangerous  to  the  peace  of  the  coun- 
try. But  for  the  headstrong  folly 
of  Charles  X.  occurring  between 
the  dissolution  and  the  elections, 
English  Parliamentary  Reform  might 
have  been  staved  off  until  a  riper 
and  more  intelligent  conception  of 


1880.] 


Wellington  and  Reform. 


109 


the  question  had  been  arrived  at, 
and  the  matter  could  have  been 
treated  -with  some  approach  to 
finality,  instead  of  leaving  it  in  a 
half-settled  condition  as  capital  for 
any  party  disposed  to  purchase  the 
popular  vote  by  a  further  extension 
of  the  franchise. 

The  Duke's  views  regarding  Re- 
form were  very  decided  at  the  time 
when  he  dissolved  Parliament. 
He  considered  that,  if  carried,  "  it 
must  occasion  a  total  change  in 
the  whole  system  of  that  society 
called  the  British  empire;"  but 
owned  that  in  meeting  the  ques- 
tion he  felt  no  strength  excepting 
in  his  character  for  plain  manly 
dealing.  The  resistance  to  be  an- 
ticipated from  him  on  the  assem- 
bly of  Parliament,  directed  towards 
him  the  abuse  of  all  the  mob- 
orators  who  were  then  stumping 
the  country;  and  wherever  violence 
was  openly  threatened,  the  Duke 
was  invariably  pointed  to  as  the 
first  object  of  vengeance  for  the 
rabble.  In  November,  a  week  or 
two  after  the  meeting  of  Parlia- 
ment, incendiarism  was  running  riot 
over  all  the  south-eastern  counties ; 
and  committees,  formed  upon  the 
Jacobin  model,  were  sitting  in  the 
metropolis  and  all  the  great  towns, 
consulting  how  the  demands  of  the 
Radicals  could  be  enforced.  We 
find  the  Duke  drafting  a  memor- 
andum for  the  defence  of  Apsley 
House  with  the  precision  and  de- 
liberation which  he  always  carried 
into  the  minutest  details  of  business. 
There  is  a  touch  of  dry  humour  in 
the  order  that,  "  as  soon  as  there 
is  the  appearance  of  a  mob  col- 
lecting there,  somebody  should 
say  that  preparations  are  made  for 
the  defence  of  the  house,  and  that 
the  mob  had  better  go  somewhere 
else"  That  these  precautions  were 
by  no  means  unnecessary,  events 
shortly  afterwards  demonstrated. 


The  immediate  cause  of  this  out- 
burst of  sedition  and  violence  was 
the  Duke's  reply  to  Earl  Grey's  de- 
claration in  favour  of  Reform  on  the 
opening  of  the  new  Parliament.  The 
Whig  leader,  in  demanding  a  moder- 
ate concession  of  Parliamentary  Re- 
form, as  a  means  of  averting  calami- 
ties such  as  had  overtaken  France 
and  the  Netherlands,  took  occasion 
to  describe  himself  as  having  been 
"  a  reformer  all  his  life,"  forgetting, 
perhaps,  the  poor  opinion  of  parlia- 
mentary government  he  had  ex- 
pressed to  Prince  Metternich  after 
the  peace  of  Paris.*  The  Duke  in 
his  reply  not  only  declared  that  no 
measure  of  Parliamentary  Reform 
would  come  from  his  Government, 
but  that  the  extant  system  was  the 
most  perfect  that  could  be  devised 
in  the  circumstances.  "Nay,  I 
will  go  yet  further,"  he  said,  "  and 
say  that  if,  at  this  moment,  I  had 
to  form  a  Legislature  for  any  coun- 
try, particularly  for  one  like  this,  in 
the  possession  of  great  property  of 
various  descriptions,  although,  per- 
haps, I  should  not  form  one  pre- 
cisely such  as  we  have,  I  would 
endeavour  to  produce  something 
which  should  give  the  same  result 
— viz.,  a  representation  of  the  people 
containing  a  large  body  of  the  pro- 
perty of  the  country,  and  in  which 
the  great  landed  proprietors  should 
have  a  preponderating  influence." 
It  was  no  wonder  though,  after  this 
speech,  the  Radical  indignation 
boiled  over,  for  it  hated  the  influ- 
ence of  the  landlords  much  more 
than  it  cared  for  the  possession  of 
the  franchise.  Probably  no  Pre- 
mier's speech  in  modern  times  has 
excited  more  general  and  warm  hos- 
tility. Except  the  Ministerialists 
and  the  Whigs  themselves,  there 
was  scarcely  a  section  of  politicians 
in  the  kingdom  who  did  not  desire 
Reform,  not  perhaps  for  Reform  it- 
self, but  with  some  ulterior  view — 


*  See  Metternich's  Memoirs,  vol.  i.  p.  325. 


110 


Wellington  and  Reform. 


[July 


whether  it  was  the  ultra-Tories,  who 
trusted  to  be  restored  by  the  exten- 
sion of  the  franchise  in  the  counties; 
or  the  Radicals,  who  hoped  that  an 
extended  representation  would  open 
the  way  to  a  destruction  of  preroga- 
tive, privilege,  and  property.  The 
Duke  saw  that  his  Cabinet  must 
fall ;  and  he  accepted  his  defeat 
upon  the  question  of  the  Civil  List 
with  comparative  indifference,  his 
only  regret,  as  he  writes  to  the  Duke 
of  Northumberland,  the  Viceroy  of 
Ireland,  being  that  he  was  under 
the  necessity  of  quitting  the  King's 
Government  in  times  of  such  diffi- 
culty abroad  as  well  as  at  home. 

The  ultra-Tories  shared  for  the 
moment  in  the  triumph  of  the  Op- 
position. They  saw  in  the  Duke's 
fall  the  merited  punishment  of  his 
concessions  to  the  Roman  Catholics, 
and  they  did  not  hesitate  to  point 
to  this  political  retribution.  The 
Duke  seems  to  have  been  stung  out 
of  his  usual  imperturbability  to 
criticism  on  this  occasion ;  for  in 
writing  to  Mr  Mossman,  who  had 
connected  the  two  events,  he  makes 
what  for  him  is  a  close  approach  to 
vindication  of  the  course  he  had 
pursued  towards  the  Catholics.  "We 
shall  quote  his  words,  as  it  will  be 
well  to  remember  them  when  we 
come  to  compare  his  yielding  upon 
this  question  with  his  obduracy  in 
the  matter  of  Reform  : — 

"I  cannot  but  think  that  I  was 
placed  in  a  situation  to  enable  me  to 
know  more  upon  that  subject  then 
than  others  did  ;  and  I  decided  upon 
the  course  which  appeared  to  me  at 
the  time  to  be  attended  by  the  greatest 
benefit  to  the  public.  Many  circum- 
stances which  I  could  not  foresee,  and 
upon  which  I  ought  not  to  have  cal- 
culated, have  tended  to  diminish  the 
benefit  which  the  public  ought  to  have 
derived  from  the  measure,  and  have 
deprived  me  of  a  fair  judgment  upon 
this  case.  But  my  opinion  upon  it 
has  never  altered ;  and  recent  events 
have  tended  to  convince  me,  not  only 
that  what  I  did  was  right,  but  that  if 


the  measure  which  I  proposed  had  not 
been  adopted,  the  country,  divided  in 
opinion  upon  an  important  Irish  ques- 
tion, would,  in  addition  to  its  other 
difficulties,  have  at  this  moment  been 
involved  in  a  civil  contest  in  Ireland." 

Earl  Grey's  Government  did  not 
occupy  a  much  more  enviable  posi- 
tion than  its  predecessor.  It  had 
hoped  for  support  from  the  ultra- 
Tories,  but  only  one  member  of  that 
party  was  found  to  accept  office.  It 
was  pledged  to  a  measure  which 
Earl  Grey  knew  well  could  not  pass 
through  Parliament  without  an  at- 
tack upon  the  integrity  of  the  House 
of  Peers.  At  the  same  time,  the 
executive  government  of  the  Minis- 
try was  much  embarrassed  by  the 
fruit  of  its  own  tactics  when  in  Op- 
position. The  "Whigs  had  encour- 
aged the  formation  of  political  un- 
ions to  press  Reform  upon  the 
country.  They  had  smiled  blandly 
upon  threats  of  violence,  and  had 
gently  deprecated  proposals  to  re- 
sort to  arms.  In  addition  to  the 
discontent  excited  by  the  unions, 
the  Duke,  who  certainly  had  better 
means  of  knowing  than  any  of  the 
Ministers,  asserts  that  disaffection 
was  actively  fomented  by  French 
emissaries — "  the  gentlemen  who  go 
about  in  gigs."  "  I  know,"  he  wrote 
to  Lord  Malmesbury  in  December 
1830,  "that  the  Socidte  Propa- 
gande  at  Paris  had  at  its  command 
very  large  means  from  its  subscrip- 
tions all  over  Europe,  but  particu- 
larly from  the  revolutionary  bankers 
in  France.  A  part  of  these  means 
is,  I  think,  now  applied  to  the  pur- 
pose of  corrupting  and  disturbing 
this  country."  Such  measures  as 
the  Government  were  compelled  to 
take  they  took  unwillingly,  and 
with  an  evident  dread  of  the  effect 
on  their  popularity.  The  Duke, 
although  defeated,  and  enforcing 
moderation  and  forbearance  towards 
the  Ministry  upon  his  colleagues,  was 
yet  the  most  powerful  statesman 
in  the  kingdom.  "  I  am  still,"  he 


1880.] 


Wellington  and  Reform. 


Ill 


writes  to  the  Knight  of  Kerry,  "  at 
the  head  of  the  most  numerous  and 
powerful  party  in  the  State.  In 
truth,  they  cannot  govern  as  Min- 
isters of  a  King  of  England,  and  re- 
deem one  hundred  of  their  pledges." 

The  only  power  of  the  Whigs  lay 
in  the  Commons,  where  there  was  a 
good  working  majority  for  Reform; 
but  this  advantage  was  more  than 
neutralised  by  their  weakness  in  the 
Upper  House,  and  by  the  timid- 
ity of  the  chief  liberal  peers.  The 
great  hopes  of  Earl  Grey  and  his 
friends  rested  upon  the  fears  of  the 
King,  upon  which  they  did  not  hesi- 
tate to  work  freely.  And,  in  fact, 
the  French  Revolution,  and  the 
example  of  Charles  X.,  at  that  time 
seeking  an  asylum  under  British 
protection,  could  not  fail  to  make  a 
deep'  impression  upon  King  William 
IV.  A  patriotic  Ministry  desirous 
of  effecting  its  object  by  honourable 
means,  would  have  felt  bound  to 
set  the  Crown  free  from  even  the 
semblance  of  being  coerced,  and 
would  have  taken  such  adequate 
precautions  for  order  in  the  country 
as  would  have  made  the  King  fully 
sensible  of  his  independence.  But 
Eirl  Grey  unquestionably  operated 
upon  the  King's  fears  of  running 
counter  to  the  outcry  for  Reform,  as 
well  as  on  his  Majesty's  vain  love  of 
popularity.  The  Duke's  correspon- 
dence shows  how  deeply  he  felt  for 
the  position  of  the  King;  but  it  shows 
also  how  loyally  he  accepted  the 
constitutional  objection  to  private 
peers  intruding  themselves  upon 
the  counsels  of  the  sovereign,  al- 
though he  well  knew  that  his 
advice  and  sympathy  would  have 
been  received  at  Court  with  the 
utmost  gratitude. 

Parliament  reopened  in  the  be- 
ginning of  February  1831,  and  the 
Reform  Bill  was  introduced  by 
Lord  John  Russell  on  March  1st. 
The  sweeping  changes  proposed  in 
the  constitution  of  the  Commons, 
the  unlooked-for  concessions  of  the 


franchise,  the  utter  extinction  of 
hereditary  influence  in  the  Lower 
House,  do  not  seem  to  have  struck 
the  Duke  with  that  consternation 
which  for  the  moment  paralysed 
his  party.  He  must  have  been 
well  aware  that  the  circumstances 
of  the  Government  would  compel  it 
to  bid  high.  He  knew  the  dan- 
ger which  the  Ministry  had  itself 
called  into  existence,  by  its  unoffi- 
cial countenance  of  unionism,  and 
that  a  moderate  measure  of  Reform, 
such  as  would  have  satisfied  the 
great  mass  of  Whig  members,  would 
have  ruined  the  Government  with 
the  mob.  The  general  alarm  at 
once  directed  all  eyes  towards  the 
Duke  as  the  only  man  who  could 
possibly  save  the  State  from  the 
impending  revolution ;  and  even 
those  who,  from  personal  motives, 
had  either  opposed  or  lent  a  luke- 
warm support  to  his  Administration, 
now  hastened  to  assure  him  of  their 
warm  co-operation. 

His  Grace's  position  was  further 
strengthened  by  the  return  of  many 
of  the  ultra-Tories  to  their  natural 
allegiance.  Through  the  Rev.  Mr 
Gleig,  the  ex -Chaplain -General  — 
who  was  then  serving  the  cause  of 
the  Constitution  as  ably  with  his 
pen  as  he  had  fought  for  it  bravely 
with  his  sword  in  the  Peninsula 
and  in  America — overtures  of  recon- 
ciliation came  from  Sir  Edward 
Knatchbull,  the  ultra-Tory  leader 
of  the  Lower  House.  The  Duke 
of  Cumberland,  Lord  Eldon,  Lord 
Mansfield,  and  Sir  Charles  Wether- 
ell,  were  now  deeply  anxious  to 
join  the  Duke  in  whatever  course 
he  and  Sir  Robert  Peel  might  see 
fit  to  adopt.  The  Duke  on  the  14 th 
of  March  thus  expressed  his  views 
to  the  Duke  of  Buckingham : — 

"  I  am  convinced,  however,  that  the 
most  parliamentary  and  the  wisest 
mode  of  proceeding  is  to  divide  against 
the  second  reading  of  the  Bill.  It  is 
certainly  true  that  the  terror  in  the 
country  is  very  great.  I  don't  know 


112 


Wellington  and  Reform. 


[July 


of  which  people  are  most  afraid — of 
passing  the  Bill  or  of  opposing  it.  I 
confess  that  I  cannot  believe  that  we 
are  not  strong  enough  to  maintain  the 
laws  and  institutions  of  the  country, 
whatever  they  may  be.  I  am  con- 
vinced that  the  system  of  government 
— or  rather  of  no  government— which 
the  Bill  would  establish,  will,  by  due 
course  of  law,  destroy  the  country  ; 
and  I  am  therefore  for  opposing  the 
Bill  in  the  House  of  Commons  as  well 
as  in  the  House  of  Lords,  without  any 
compromise  of  any  description." 

This  was  the  Duke  of  Welling- 
ton's position;  and  from  a  conserva- 
tive point  of  view,  it  was  an  unas- 
sailable one.  He  had,  however, 
much  to  do  to  confirm  the  doubts 
and  hesitation  of  many  of  his  friends, 
and  to  repress  the  ill-advised  for- 
wardness of  others.  After  the  dis- 
cussion in  the  Commons  had  result- 
ed, on  the  22d  March,  in  a  majority 
of  49  for  the  second  reading,  Lord 
Falmouth,  alarmed  at  the  immin- 
ence of  the  danger,  suggested  that 
an  approach  should  be  made  to  the 
King  by  the  Tory  Peers,  in  the  exer- 
cise of  their  right  to  offer  counsel 
to  the  sovereign ;  but  the  Duke  in 
reply  pointed  out,  from  the  circum- 
stances of  the  King's  situation,  the 
inutility  and  inexpediency  of  such 
a  course. 

It  is  agreed  by  almost  all  author- 
ities of  the  period,  that  had  Sir 
Eobert  Peel  made  one  of  his  great 
speeches  at  the  first  reading,  and 
moved  the  rejection  of  the  Bill, 
Lord  John  Russell's  measures  would 
have  been  thrown  out  at  the  start. 
Whether  or  not  he  was  right  in 
passing  over  the  opportunity,  is  a 
question  that  may  be  fairly  dis- 
cussed. Be  that  as  it  may,  the 
Ministerial  protestations  and  ex- 
planations, together  with  the  ex- 
cited condition  of  the  country,  so 
far  wrought  upon  members  that  the 
second  reading  was  carried  by  the 
narrow  majority  of  one.  General 
Gascoigne's  amendment  against  the 
diminution  of  seats  for  England 


and  Wales,  however,  wrecked  the 
measure  a  few  days  afterwards,  and 
compelled  the  Cabinet  to  dissolve. 
The  excitement  of  the  King,  and 
his  declaration  that  he  would  go  to 
Westminster  in  a  hackney-coach 
rather  than  not  be  present  at  the 
dissolution,  was  felt  by  the  Duke  to 
be  a  fatal  blow  to  a  united  and  vig- 
orous opposition  to  Reform  in  the 
Upper  House.  Many  of  the  Peers 
were  divided  between  approaching 
the  King  and  making  terms  with 
the  Ministry  for  a  less  radical 
change  in  the  representation ;  and 
nothing  but  the  firmness  of  the 
Duke  prevented  them  from  com- 
promising the  consistency  of  the 
majority  of  the  House.  Lord 
Wharncliffe  had  advocated  an  in- 
formal meeting  of  Peers  to  deliber- 
ate on  the  crisis,  and  on  the  means 
of  influencing  the  Crown  not  to 
dissolve  Parliament ;  but  this  step, 
too,  the  Duke  had  opposed,  on  the 
ground  that  more  harm  than  good 
would  be  done  to  the  Peers  in  the 
eyes  of  the  public  in  thus  "  expos- 
ing the  conduct  of  the  King's  ser- 
vants, the  breach  of  the  privileges 
of  the  House  of  Lords  and  of  law, 
and  its  mischievous  consequences 
upon  the  public  interests."  Though 
firm  in  his  opposition  to  the  Bill, 
the  Duke  gave  his  friends  distinctly 
to  understand  that  he  could  be  "no 
party  to  any  violent  or  factious  op- 
position against  any  Government 
named  by  the  King ; "  and  indeed, 
in  the  critical  condition  of  Euro- 
pean affairs,  the  Duke  did  not  scru- 
ple to  place  his  experience  freely 
at  the  service  of  Earl  Grey's  Ad- 
ministration. 

There  can  be  little  question  but 
that  if  the  King  had  sent  for  the 
Duke  of  Wellington  on  the  defeat 
of  the  Ministry,  his  Grace  would 
have  deemed  it  his  duty  to  form  a 
Government,  and  that  the  Reform 
agitation  might  for  a  time  have 
been  staved  off  until  both  Parlia- 
ment and  the  nation  was  in  a  cooler 


1880.] 


Wellington  and  Reform. 


113 


mood  for  discussing  the  measure. 
The  Duke  frankly  declared  that  he 
did  not  believe  "  the  King  of  Eng- 
land has  taken  a  step  so  fatal  to 
his  monarchy  since  the  day  that 
Charles  I.  passed  the  Act  to  de- 
prive himself  of  the  power  of  pro- 
roguing or  dissolving  the  Long 
Parliament,  as  King  William  did 
on  the  22d  of  April  last."  From 
the  elections,  in  the  agitated  and 
lawless  temperament  of  the  masses, 
the  Opposition  could  entertain,  no 
hope,  while  the  attitude  of  the 
King  had  damped  the  spirits  of 
the  Tory  Peers  in  the  Upper  House. 
"We  must  make  a  noise  in  the  House 
of  Lords,  I  believe,"  says  the  Duke. 
"  I  don't  think  we  shall  be  able  to  do 
more,  as  I  understand  the  Govern- 
ment are  about  to  create  numerous 
Peers."  A  reaction  of  the  popular 
mind  was,  of  course,  to  be  antici- 
pated; but  it  seemed  doubtful  if 
it  would  come  in  time  to  be  of 
any  use.  Meantime  the  Whigs 
had  everything  in  their  power 
at  the  hustings.  The  respectable 
classes  were  swayed  by  the  fear 
of  the  mob  and  the  revolutionary 
threats  of  the  unionists.  Prospec- 
tive electors  under  the  Bill  natu- 
rally gave  their  warmest  support. 
Many  of  the  Tory  strongholds 
in  the  counties  were  successfully 
stormed ;  and  Mr  Ellice,  the  Secre- 
tary for  the  Treasury,  bought  up 
pocket-boroughs  wherever  he  could, 
for  assured  supporters  of  the  Bill. 
In  Kent  the  Duke  declares  that 
the  elections  were  decided  by  ter- 
ror ;  and  the  same  might  be  said 
of  most  of  the  counties  adjacent 
to  the  centres  of  Radical  feeling. 
The  result  of  the  elections  only 
increased  the  terror  with  which 
the  influential  section  of  the  coun- 
try regarded  the  impetus  which 
was  being  given  to  democracy,  and 
disgusted  them  with  the  free  use 
which  was  made  of  the  King's 
name  by  the  Ministerial  candidates. 

VOL.  CXXVIII. — NO.  DCCLXXVII. 


Even  a  stanch  Whig  like  Sir 
Dennis  le  Marchant  confesses,  in 
his  '  Memoir  of  Earl  Spencer,'  tV>at 
his  party  "  sullied  their  victory  by 
the  extravagant  use  they  made  of 
the  King's  name — which  was  the 
more  to  be  regretted,  as  without 
this  illegitimate  aid  they  were  sure 
of  a  large  majority."  But  the  ob- 
ject of  Earl  Grey  and  his  friends  in 
dragging  the.  King  into  the  con- 
troversy was  twofold — not  only  to 
influence  the  electors,  but  so  to 
compromise  the  King  as  to  make 
resiling  upon  the  question  of  Reform, 
absolutely  impossible  for  the  Grown. 
AVhen  Parliament  met,  the  Duke 
was  very  determined  about  the 
course  which  he  and  his  follow*  rs 
were  to  follow.  In  spite  of  the 
result  of  the  elections,  he  did  not 
believe  that  the  property  and  in- 
telligence of  the  country  had  any 
real  desire  for  seeing  the  Reform 
Bill  passed ;  while  the  lawless  up- 
heaval of  the  masses  more  and 
more  confirmed  the  worst  anticipa- 
tion which  he  had  formed  of  in- 
trusting them  with  power.  He 
had  no  hope  of  doing  any  good  in 
the  Commons,  and  seems  to  have 
shared  the  cold  indifference  of  Sir 
Robert  Peel,  so  much  complained 
of  by  conservatives,  as  to  the  dis- 
cussions carried  on  there.  In  pro- 
portion to  the  desire  of  the  Ministry 
to  override  all  the  constitutional 
safeguard*,  was  the  Duke's  anxiety 
that  his  opposition  should  be  in  the 
strictest  accordance  with  the  estab- 
lished usages  of  Parliament.  On 
the  22d  September,  the  same  day 
as  the  Bill  passed  the  Commons,  the 
Duke  drafted  a  memorandum, setting 
forth  his  views  at  length  upon  the 
subject.  In  this  he  maintains  that 
the  proper  course  for  the  Lords  to 
follow  was  to  silently  assent  to 
the  first  reading,  and  on  the  second 
reading  to  throw  out  the  Bill  with- 
out entering  into  a  discussion  of 
its  details.  He  repudiates  the 


114 


Wellington  and  Reform. 


[July 


idea  tliat  the  Lords  were  not  en- 
titled to  exercise  their  discretion 
upon  the  subject,  because  no  persons 
in  the  country  were  more  affected  by 
the  measure  than  its  members.  He 
then  proceeds  with  great  spirit  to 
vindicate  the  opposition  which  he 
intended  to  offer. 

"  We  are  told  that  the  people  feel 
a  peculiar  interest  in  this  measure. 
There  may  possibly  be  a  difference  of 
opinion  respecting  the  "degree  of  in- 
terest felt  by  the  people  at  any  parti- 
cular time  upon  the  subject  of  any 
particular  measure.  The  people  of 
this  country,  like  others,  change  their 
minds  ;  and  when  a  new  law  is  pre- 
sented for  consideration,  which,  to  say 
the  least  of  it,  totally  alters  all  the  ex- 
isting political  interests  of  the  country, 
annihilates  one-fourth  of  them,  creates 
one-fourth  entirely  new  interests,  and 
alters  every  existing  interest  in  the 
country,  and  this  at  the  most  critical 
period  of  the  history  of  the  world,  it 
does  become  the  House  of  Lords  to 
consider  the  question  before  they  adopt 
a  scheme  so  wide,  and  which  may  be 
attended  by  such  consequences. 

"But  we  are  told  of  the  consequences 
of  rejecting  this  scheme.  We  are  as- 
sured that  there  will  be  a  revolution 
in  the  country.  Produced  by  what  1 
By  force  and  violence.  I  defy  those 
who  would  use  such  violence.  History 
shows  that  a  great  change  has  never, 
since  the  wars  of  the  Houses  of  York 
and  Lancaster,  been  produced  in  Eng- 
land by  any  authority  but  Parliament. 
No  individuals,  however  numerous  or 
powerful,  have  ever  been  able  success- 
fully to  resist  the  power  of  Parliament. 
We  have  instances,  even  lately,  of  re- 
sistance to  the  law  of  the  largest  masses 
of  men  who  commenced  their  resist- 
ance under  the  most  advantageous  cir- 
cumstances, but  they  soon  found  them- 
selves powerless  against  the  power  of 
the  Government  and  of  the  law  united. 
The  House  of  Lords  may  be  assured, 
therefore,  that  they  can  freely  deliberate 
upon  this  measure,  and  decide  it  ac- 
cording to  the  best  of  their  judgment, 
even  though  the  opinion  of  the  coun- 
try should  be  still  more  in  favour  of 
the  measure  than  any  man  supposes 
it  to  be." 

The  Ministerial  threat  of  creat- 
ing Peers  added  to  the  Duke's  diffi- 


culties. The  conservative  Lords, 
in  their  indignation,  were  eager 
to  devise  schemes  of  remonstrat- 
ing with  the  King,  and  of  coun- 
selling him  as  to  the  injury  which 
such  a  course  would  inflict  upon 
the  freedom  of  the  Upper  House ; 
but  the  Duke,  in  Opposition,  was 
as  scrupulously  jealous  of  the  pre- 
rogative of  the  Crown,  though  ex- 
ercised against  his  own  party,  as 
he  could  have  been  had  he  been 
William  IV.'s  responsible  adviser. 
Writing  to  the  Marquess  of  London- 
derry, he  earnestly  recommends  that 
the  subject  should  not  be  touched 
upon.  He  admitted  the  King's  right 
to  create  Peers,  and  he  knew  that  it 
was  a  right  that  the  House  of  Com- 
mons had  always  contended  against ; 
but  although  the  Whigs  were  flying 
in  the  face  of  all  the  old  traditions 
of  their  party  in  this  instance,  the 
Duke  refused  to  drag  the  Crown 
into  political  controversy  by  seiz- 
ing the  opportunity  which  the  in- 
consistency of  his  opponents  pre- 
sented. A  passage  in  the  same 
letter  shows  how  correctly  the 
Duke  divined  the  character  of  the 
argument  which  Earl  Grey  and  his 
friends  were  bringing  to  bear  upon 
the  King.  "  They  would  say  to  his 
Majesty,"  he  writes  with  reference 
to  the  suggestion  that  the  Lords 
should  complain  of  the  proposed 
addition  to  their  body,  "  this  oli- 
garchy is  too  strong  for  you  and 
your  Government ;  they  will  not 
allow  you  to  make  an  effort  at  least 
to  relieve  yourself  from  their  tyr- 
anny. You  must  make  an  effort, 
or  you  will  lose  your  character  and 
your  popularity.  The  people  will 
not  believe  that  you  are  in  earnest." 
The  Duke's  italics  show  clearly 
that  he  had  correctly  fathomed  the 
weakness  in  the  King  which  the 
Ministry  were  working  upon ;  and 
he  adds — "  Mind,  I  do  not  think 
that  the  Ministry  will  refrain  from 
using  this  language,  whether  the 
motion  be  made  or  not." 


1880.] 


Wellington  and  Reform. 


115 


The  Duke's  great  care  was  to 
keep  the  House  of  Lords  as  quiet 
as  possible  until  the  Bill  came  up  ; 
and  that  was  by  no  means  an  easy 
matter,  for  a  considerable  number 
of  the  Peers  were  disposed  to  yield 
to  the  panic,  and  thus  play  into  the 
enemy's  hands.  Many  of  the  Lords 
had  their  own  ideas  upon  the  pro- 
per course  to  be  followed  in  oppos- 
ing Eeforro,  and  were  disposed  to 
bd  restive  under  the  calm  unvarying 
temper  which  the  Duke  showed 
Among  others,  Lord  Wharncliffe 
was  displaying  a  fussy  nervousness 
which  threatened  once  or  twice  to 
compromise  the  character  of  the 
Opposition.  When  the  second 
reading  was  moved,  Lord  "Wharn- 
cliffe was  intrusted  with  the  motion 
that  the  Bill  should  be  read  that 
day  six  months ;  and  his  amend- 
ment was  carried  by  a  majority  of 
forty -one.  The  line  which  Lord 
Wharncliffe  took  differed  materially 
from  that  on  which  the  Duke's 
opposition  ran,  and  to  his  corre- 
spondents he  was  careful  to  state 
that  Lord  Wharncliffe  "spoke  for 
himself."  The  Duke,  however,  was 
well  satisfied  with  the  debate  and 
its  result,  and  thought  that  the 
Bill  would  in  consequence  lose 
ground." 

"  It  is  doubtless  true,"  he  writes  to 
tlie  Knight  of  Kerry  some  days  after 
the  battle,  "  that  many  still  continue 
to  consider  Reform  necessary,  and  I 
confess  that  I  don't  see  how  we  can 
escape  Reform  in  some  shape  or  other 
it'  the  King  should  live.  In  this  view 
of  the  case,  and  supposing  that  the 
moderate  class  can  get  the  upper  hand, 
the  rejection  of  the  Bill  will  have  a 
good  effect  ;  it  gives  us  time,  at  all 
events.  But  I  must  acknowledge  that 
during  this  time  we  are  governed  by 
the  mob." 

The  Duke,  however,  was  too 
much  of  a  statesman  to  imagine 
that  the  victory  in  the  Lords  would 
be  a  lasting  triumph,  and  he  seems 
to  have  valued  it  most  as  being  an 
indubitable  expression  of  the  un- 


fettered views  of  the  Upper  House. 
He  foresaw  that  some  measure  of 
Reform  would  be  wrested  from  the 
Legislature  and  the  Crown,  and  his 
chief  anxiety  was  that  neither  Le 
nor  his  party  should  be  compro- 
mised by  it.  He  succeeded  in  re- 
straining Lord  Harrowby  from  mov- 
ing a  resolution  pledging  the  House 
to  consider  next  session  some  means 
for  amending  the  representation  ; 
and  he  positively  refused  to  be  in 
any  way  implicated  in  the  steps 
which  Lord  Wharncliffe,  acting  upon 
a  private  appeal  from  Lord  Palmer- 
ston,  was  taking  to  obtain  such 
modifications  of  the  Reform  scheme 
as  would  put  an  end  to  the  dead-lock. 
While  the  Reform  question  was 
being  angrily  debated,  the  coun- 
tenance shown  by  the  Whigs  to 
the  political  associations  and  the 
teachings  of  the  "gentlemen  who 
went  about  the  country  in  gigs" 
were  producing  their  natural  conse- 
quences. The  houses  of  the  Duke 
of  Wellington  and  several  of  his 
friends  were  attacked  by  the  mob  ; 
the  Duke  of  Cumberland  would 
have  been  killed  in  the  Park 
but  for  the  arrival  of  a  police 
force.  Riots  broke  out  in  Derby 
and  Nottingham  ;  and  in  the  end 
of  October  the  Bristol  Radicals 
were  only  prevented  from  burning 
and  sacking  their  town  by  a  strong 
force  of  military.  The  Ministry 
were  very  reluctant  to  recognise  the 
necessity  for  taking  extraordinary 
precautions  for  the  preservation  of 
peace;  and  Lords  Althorp  and  John 
Russell  even  went  the  length  of 
returning  a  courteous  answer  to  an 
address  voted  them  at  a  meeting 
where  threatening  language  to  the 
House  of  Peers  had  been  used.  The 
exigencies  of  the  situation  com- 
pelled the  Duke  to  break  through 
his  indisposition  to  obtrude  himself 
upon  the  King's  counsels.  There 
was  no  one  in  the  country  who 
knew  so  well  the  imminence  of 
revolution,  if  the  mob  were  allowed 


116 


Wellington  and  Reform. 


[July 


to  organise  themselves  unchecked — 
or  the  proper  steps  to  be  taken  for 
maintaining  the  authority  of  law. 
The  unions  were  clamouring  for  the 
assumption  of  arms  and  the  train- 
ing of  the  populace  after  the  man- 
ner of  the  National  Guard  in  France, 
whose  example  in  the  late  Eevolu- 
tion  was  so  encouraging  to  their 
views.  The  Duke  frankly  pointed 
out  the  danger  of  tolerating  such 
propositions  ;  and  the  King  was  so 
much  impressed  by  his  views  that 
he  succeeded  in  getting  the  Minis- 
try, by  no  means  willingly,  to  issue 
a  proclamation  against  the  unions  ; 
and  in  his  reply  to  the  Duke  his 
Majesty  most  heartily  endorsed 
every  opinion  that  his  Grace  had 
expressed.  The  Duke  also  informed 
the  King  of  information  he  had 
received  that  a  contract  had  been 
made  for  the  supply  of  arms  to  the 
Birmingham  union — a  communica- 
tion which  drew  forth  from  Lord 
Grey  a  somewhat  uncourteous  letter, 
requesting  the  Duke,  "if  it  was  in 
his  power,"  to  furnish  him  with 
means  of  verifying  the  statement. 
The  Duke  mentioned  Lord  Stuart 
de  Eothesay,  and  the  names  of  se- 
veral other  creditable  persons,  as  his 
authority  for  stating  that  a  man  of 
thename  of  Riviere,  in  Oxford  Street, 
was  in  treaty  with  the  Birmingham 
Union  for  the  supply  of  six  thou- 
sand stand  of  arms.  Mr  Eiviere 
denied  the  commission  to  the  chief 
of  the  metropolitan  police  ;  and  the 
Government  was  glad  enough  to 
take  his  word,  for  they  had  begun 
to  be  seriously  afraid  of  the  Bir- 
mingham union.  There  is  no  ques- 
tion but  that  they  should  have  pro- 
ceeded against  it.  under  the  royal 
proclamation ;  but  they  resorted, 
instead,  to  the  less  dignified  course 
of  treating  with  the  leaders  through 
Lord  Althorp.  "  His  lordship,"  says 
Sir  Dennis  le  Marchant,  in  his 
'  Memoir,'  "  sent  for  a  young  Bir- 
mingham solicitor  named  Parkes,  of 
whose  character  for  honesty  he  had 


been  assured,  and  asked  him  to 
represent  to  Mr  Attwood  as  from 
himself  the  difficulties  of  the  Gov- 
ernment, and  the  certain  ruin  to 
the  cause  of  Eeforrn  unless  the 
meeting  should  be  put  off.  Mr 
Parkes  executed  his  mission  suc- 
cessfully." 

While  the  Government  was  thus 
confessing  itself  at  the  mercy  of  the 
mob,  the  Duke  and  his  friends 
were  preparing  for  dealing  with 
the  Bill  when  it  came  back  to  the 
Lords,  and  weighing  the  probabil- 
ities which  might  arise  out  of  its 
certain  rejection.  The  decided  ma- 
jority against  Eeform  in  the  Upper 
House  was  a  patent  fact.  Equally 
patent  was  it  that,  except  by  the 
creation  of  Peers — that  is,  by  in- 
fringing on  the  independence  of 
a  branch  of  the  Legislature — the 
Whig  measure  never  would  be 
carried.  Earl  Grey,  indeed,  had 
something  to  hope  for  from  the 
doubts  of  the  waverers  ;  something 
from  the  exercise  of  intimidation 
and  cajolery  upon  individual  Peers, 
to  both  of  which  he  freely  resorted. 
His  conduct  in  compelling  the 
King  to  dismiss  Lord  Howe  from 
the  post  of  Chamberlain  to  the 
Queen  against  the  will  of  her 
Majesty,  was  conclusive  evidence 
that  he  was  prepared  to  follow 
the  former  course ;  while  the  pri- 
vate overtures,  made  to  the  doubts 
of  Lords  Harrowby,  Wharncliffe, 
and  others,  showed  that  he  had  no 
scruples  in  resorting  to  the  latter. 
But  even  Lord  Grey  hesitated  to 
demand  from  the  King  the  creation 
of  a  sufficient  number  of  Peers  to 
carry  the  measure,  and  nothing  but 
the  pressure  exerted  upon  him  by 
the  members  of  the  Cabinet  in  the 
Commons  would  have  brought  him 
to  entertain  such  an  idea.  Indeed, 
his  correspondence  shows  that  if  he 
could  safely  have  done  so  he  would 
rather  have  sacrificed  the  Bill  than 
have  brought  himself  to  tamper 
with  the  independence  of  the  Lords. 


1880. n 


Wellington  and  Reform. 


117 


Lord  Althorp,  however,  was  of  quite 
a  different  way  of  thinking.  In  a 
letter  to  Earl  Grey,  dated  23d  Nov. 
1831,  he  writes:  "I  must  admit 
that  if  it  was  clearly  proved  to  me 
that  a  revolution  would  be  the  con- 
sequence of  not  taking  this  step, 
and  that  not  only  the  House  of 
Lords,  hut  every  other  thing  of 
value  in  the  country,  would  be  over- 
turned, it  would  be  a  very  strong 
thing  to  say  that  it  ought  not  to  be 
taken."  In  fact,  the  Whigs  had  co- 
quetted so  much  with  revolutionary 
feelings,  and  had  flaunted  the  danger 
of  a  popular  rising  so  frequently  in 
the  faces  of  their  opponents,  that 
they  had  at  last  come  to  almost  be- 
lieve in  the  possibilitjr  of  a  revolu- 
tion themselves.  The  Duke  had 
carefully  considered  this  subject, 
and  his  mind  was  quite  at  ease  as 
to  the  power  of  the  State  to  deal 
with  such  an  emergency,  provided 
only  Ministers  did  their  duty.  The 
view  taken  by  Wellington  of  the 
creation  of  Peers  was  a  very  tem- 
perate and  judicial  one.  He  never 
questioned  the  King's  prerogative, 
nor  would  he  allow  its  exercise  to 
"be  impugned  by  his  party.  But 
he  condemned  the  expediency  of 
employing  it  on  this  occasion,  and 
he  protested  against  its  being  used 
to  sap  the  independence  of  the 
House  of  Lords.  What  the  Duke 
insisted  upon  was,  that  every 
"branch  of  a  free  legislature  should 
be  at  liberty  to  form  its  own  judg- 
ment upon  a  question  of  such  vital 
importance  to  the  nation  ;  but,  as 
he  pointed  out  to  Lord  Wharncliffe, 
King,  Lords,  and  Commons  were 
loeing  coerced  upon  the  question  of 
Reform.  The  press,  the  political 
unions,  and  the  mob  were  leading 
the  House  of  Commons — that  again 
was  dictating  to  the  House  of  Lords; 
and  the  responsible  advisers  of  the 
Crown  in  the  latter  House  were 
forcing  the  King,  under  the  ter- 
ror of  popular  commotions  and 
the  loss  of  all  personal  popularity, 


to  assent  to  the  views  of  the  Radi- 
cal 


"  Is  it  not  necessary,"  the  Duke  asks, 
"  for  the  Government  to  place  the  King 
and  Parliament  in  a  situation  of  safety 
and  freedom  to  deliberate,  before  the 
latter  is  called  upon  to  decide  upon 
such  serious  matters  as  the  reform  of 
the  Constitution  1  Ought  not  people 
to  be  informed  that  these  unions,  these 
voluntary  organisations  and  arrays, 
these  armaments  for  the  pretended 
purpose  of  keeping  the  peace,  but  in 
reality  to  control  the  Government  and 
Parliament,  are  illegal,  and  that  his 
Majesty's  Government  have  the  will 
as  well  as  the  power  of  putting  them 
down  ?  That  once  done,  the  reform  of 
Parliament  might  be  considered  with 
honour  and  safety,  if  not  with  advan- 
tage." 

It  ought  to  be  noted  that,  after 
the  first  defeat  of  the  Reform  Bill 
in  the  Lords,  the  Duke  found  rea- 
son to  slightly  modify  his  views 
upon  the  subject  of  Reform.  He 
did  not,  indeed,  abate  his  hostility 
to  all  interference  with  the  constitu- 
tion of  the  Legislature,  or  his  ob- 
jection to  seeing  power  transfeired 
from  the  influential  classes  to  the 
masses ;  but  he  seems  tohavebecome 
convinced  that  the  desire  of  Reform 
had  now  a  wider  and  deeper  hold 
than  he  had  previously  thought,  and 
that  there  was  less  chance  than  he 
had  imagined  of  the  property  and 
intelligence  of  the  country  being 
able  to  exert  an  efficient  reaction. 
He  neither  opposed  nor  condemned 
Lord  Wharncliffe's  negotiations  with 
the  Ministry,  but  he  insisted  that 
it  should  be  clearly  understood 
that  he  himself  had  nothing  to  do 
with  them.  His  Grace,  however, 
was  so  far  from  taking  up  a  posi- 
tion of  impracticability,  that  he 
informed  Lord  Wharncliffe  of  his 
approval  of  the  steps  he  was  taking, 
and  encouraged  him  to  obtain  con- 
cessions from  the  Government,  al- 
though he  was  aware  that  the  ten- 
dency of  such  negotiations  would  be 
to  weaken  the  stand  which  he  felt 


118 


Wellington  and  Reform. 


[July 


it  to  be  his  own  duty  to  make  up- 
on the  question.  The  only  benefit 
•which  the  Duke  had  hoped  from  an 
agreement  or  compromise  between 
Lord  Wharncliffe  and  the  Govern- 
ment was,  that  it  Avould  help  to 
withdraw  the  latter  from  the  influ- 
ence of  the  Radicals  ;  but  anxious 
as  the  Ministry  was  to  escape  from 
the  Eadical  domination,  it  had  not 
the  courage  to  extricate  itself;  and 
it  was  soon  obvious  that  Lord 
Wharncliffe's  efforts  would  effect 
nothing.  This  all  the  more  tend- 
ed to  make  the  Duke  adhere  to  the 
course  which  he  had  originally  in- 
tended to  pursue.  Sir  Robert  Peel 
fully  shared  his  Grace's  views,  and 
replied  to  Lord  Wharncliffe  in  the 
same  terms  as  his  Grace  had  al- 
ready employed. 

Before  Parliament  reassembled 
the  Wharncliffe  negotiations  had 
virtually  fallen  through.  The 
Duke's  position  was  stronger  than 
ever  in  the  estimation  of  all  oppo- 
nents of  the  Bill,  and  the  Govern- 
ment had  added  to  its  difficulties  by 
its  overtures  of  concession.  As  the 
Duke  pointed  out,  they  had  deceived 
the  King  and  the  conservative  pub- 
lic by  pretending  to  put  down  the 
unions,  while  they  were  all  the  time 
quietly  encouraging  their  agitation  ; 
and  they  had  sought  to  deceive  the 
Eadicals  by  effecting  an  arrange- 
ment with  Lords  Wharncliffe  and 
Harrowby.  On  the  eve  of  the  com- 
mencement of  the  winter  session  of 
1831-32,  the  Duke  wrote  thus  em- 
phatically to  the  former  Peer  : — 

"The  question  as  it  now  stands  is 
one  of  degree.  I  should  not  think  so, 
I  confess,  if  the  King  had  not  involved 
himself  in  it ;  for  I  really  believe  that 
if  the  Government  could  carry  their 
Bill  at  present,  it  would  be  against  the 
inclination  of  every  man  of  property 
and  education  in  the  country.  The 
King  has,  however,  pronounced  him- 
self for  Eeform,  and  it  would  not  be 
easy  to  govern  in  his  name  without 
Keform.  But  the  more  gentle  and 
more  gradual  the  reform,  the  better 


for  the  country,  and  the  more  satisfac- 
tory will  it  prove  to  all  those  who 
know  its  interests  and  feel  for  its 
greatness  and  prosperity.  You  say 
that  nobody  has  spoken  one  word  in 
favour  of  the  House  of  Lords.  Did 
you  ever  go  into  a  private  room  where 
anybody  spoke  otherwise  ?  You  for- 
get that  the  King  and  his  Government 
have  been  apparently  in  a  combination 
with  the  mob  for  the  destruction  of 
property.  Who  will  venture  to  state 
his  sentiments  in  public  under  such 
circumstances  ?  Look  about  you  and 
observe  the  state  of  society.  Will 
magistrates  venture  to  do  their  duty  ? 
Will  any  man  put  himself  forward 
upon  any  subject  1  Is  not  every  man 
doubting  whether  the  power  of  go- 
vernment, which  he  is  called  upon  to 
exercise,  may  not  be  in  contravention 
of  the  wishes  of  the  King  and  his 
Ministers,  and  that  he  may  be  left 
unsupported  ?  Under  these  circum- 
stances, it  cannot  be  expected  that 
gentlemen  will  come  forward  to  de- 
clare opinions  which  we  all  know  that 
they  entertain,  but  the  avowal  of 
which  may  expose  them  to  the  risk  of 
being  hunted  even  through  their  own 
parks  and  gardens.  You  say  that  the 
evils  which  I  apprehend  are  remote 
and  contingent :  those  which  you  fear 
are  immediate.  I  positively  deny  the 
existence  of  the  latter.  The  Govern- 
ment has  the  power  of  preventing  them 
or  of  putting  them  down." 

All  through  the  months  of  Jan- 
uary and  February  1832,  while  the 
Bill  was  being  pushed  through  the 
Commons,  the  Peers,  as  individuals, 
were  employed  in  hotly  debating 
what  steps  they  could  take  to  save 
the  swamping  of  their  House  by  the 
creation  of  new  members.  Extreme 
nervousness  was  felt  on  both  sides 
in  expre^  sing  an  open  opinion  upon 
the  question.  Earl  Grey,  knowing 
the  dread  which  many  of  the  Lords 
entertained  of  such  an  addition  to 
their  body,  went  so  far  in  seeking 
to  influence  them  by  this  threat  to 
withdraw  their  opposition,  that  he 
found  himself  committed  to  the  pro- 
posal in  spite  of  his  strong  sense  of 
its  unconstitutional  character.  Lord 
Grey's  difficulty  was  all  the  greater 


1880.] 


Wellington  and  Reform. 


119 


that  he  held  the  King  entirely  in 
his  own  hands,  and  that  it  would 
have  been  impossible  to  have  given 
William  IV.  credit  for  free  action 
in  such  a  matter.  The  King's  de- 
meanour towards  those  of  the  Lords 
who  were  admitted  to  an  audience 
to  present  petitions  from  counties 
against  Eeform  and  the  creation  of 
Peers,  left  no  doubt  that  the  Minis- 
try was  unduly  pressing  him  be- 
yond his  inclinations.  To  the 
Marquess  of  Salisbury,  who  pre- 
sented a  very  moderate  petition,  his 
Majesty  said  he  believed  that  "a 
reform,  and  a  considerable  reform, 
must  take  place,  but  it  was  another 
thing  whether  it  ought  ever  to  have 
gone  so  far"  The  Marquess  Cam- 
den,  who  had  had  an  audience  for 
the  same  purpose,  reported  to  the 
Duke  that  "he  could  only  guess 
that  he  will  not  make  such  creations 
if  he  can  see  his  way  to  uphold 
others  iu  government  who  would 
enable  him  to  resist  it."  All  the 
while  that  the  Ministry  was  press- 
ing the  King's  name  into  the  pro- 
motion of  their  views,  the  Duke 
was  doing  his  utmost  to  save  the 
Crown  from  being  dragged  still 
deeper  in  the  controversy  by  appeals 
from  the  Tory  lords.  The  Duke 
was  pressed  by  many  of  the  Lords 
to  approach  the  King  in  person, 
and  to  offer  him  the  protection  of  a 
new  Ministry  against  the  unconsti- 
tutional demands  of  his  advisers. 
This  he  positively  declined  to  do. 
He  was  equally  positive  in  dissuad- 
ing all  proposals  for  irregular  appeals 
to  the  Crown  by  the  Opposition. 
If  he  failed,  as  he  saw  every  pro- 
spect of  failure,  he  was  resolved  to 
fall  at  least  upon  constitutional 
ground.  He  pointed  out  to  his 
correspondents  that  opposition  to 
the  proposed  attempt  to  break  down 
the  independence  of  the  House 
would  be  set  down  to  the  scoie  of 
resistance  to  Eeform. 

"  1  confess,"  writes  Wellington  to  the 


Marquess  of  Exeter  in  January  1832, 
"that,  injurious  as  I  think  that  this 
supposed  creation  of  Peers  would  be,  I 
cannot  think  it  will  tend  more  im- 
mediately to  the  destruction  of  the 
House  of  Lords  than  carrying  the  Re- 
form Bill.  ...  I  am  inclined  to 
believe,  and  I  shall  certainly  so  act, 
that  it  is  better  to  resist  the  Reform 
Bill,  and  force  the  Government,  if  they 
think  proper,  to  adopt  this,  or  some 
other  coup-tfetat,  to  destroy  the  consti- 
tution of  their  country,  than  for  us, 
the  Peers  of  England,  to  vote  for  that 
which  we  must  know  will  have  that 
effect." 

The  manoeuvring  of  Lords  Har- 
rowby  and  Wharncliffe  detracted 
from  the  constitutional  attitude  of 
the  Tory  Opposition,  but  it  failed 
in  any  way  to  implicate  its  leaders. 
Their  efforts  were  an  irresolute 
attempt  to  adapt  conservative  po- 
litics to  the  crisis,  and  dictated  by 
no  higher  principles  than  those  of 
expediency.  Their  trimming  was 
most  ably  exposed  in  a  letter  by  Mr 
Gleig,  printed  in  the  new  volume 
of  the  Despatches.  After  discuss- 
ing seriatim  all  the  points  of  Lord 
Harrowby's  position,  the  ex-Chap- 
lain-General thus  wound  up  : — 

"  The  real  question  is  thus  reduced 
within  a  very  narrow  compass.  Your 
Lordship  (Harrowby)  says,  and  we  are 
bound  to  believe  you,  that  unless  the 
Ministers  be  assured  of  a  majority  in 
your  House  to  carry  the  second  read- 
ing, they  will  create  any  number  of 
Peers  ;  of  which  the  unavoidable  con- 
sequence must  be  the  destruction  of 
the  House  of  Lords.  The  Minister 
himself  has  repeatedly  stated  that  he  is 
determined  to  carry 'this  Bill,  let  the 
consequences  be  what  they  may.  But 
we  have  your  own  authority  for  saying 
that  this  Bill,  if  passed  into  a  law, 
must  inevitably  destroy  every  institu- 
tion in  the  country,  the  House  of 
Lords  among  the  rest.  What  follows  ? 
Why  this :  that  the  institutions  of  the 
country,  including  the  influence  and 
authority  of  the  House  of  Lords,  are 
doomed  to  destruction  at  all  events. 
Whether  is  it  better  that  the  House 
should  perish  by  the  hand  of  the 
King's  Minister  or  by  its  own  ? " 


120 


Wellington  and  Reform. 


[July 


There  were,  however,  not  a  few 
members  of  the  Lords  who  favoured 
the  old  Koman  idea  of  suicide  being 
preferable  to  being  put  to  death  by 
a  political  opponent ;  and  a  good 
many  shared  Lord  Howe's  feeling, 
"  that  if  it  had  pleased  God  to  send 
us  the  Reform  Bill,  &c.,  through 
the  medium  of  a  Buonaparte,  or 
some  such  other  clever  scoundrel,  I 
should  be  almost  inclined  to  kiss 
the  rod,  and  bear  the  infliction  pa- 
tiently ;  but  to  be  ruined  and  de- 
stroyed by  such  a  set  of  imbeciles 
as  these,  is  enough  to  break  one's 
heart." 

The  Bill  was  read  a  second  time 
in  the  House  of  Lords,  and  car- 
ried on  April  14th,  through  the  aid 
of  the  Harrowby  and  Wharncliffe 
party,  by  a  narrow  majority  of  nine. 
The  Ministry  had  counted  upon 
more  votes,  and  were  much  disheart- 
ened at  the  prospect  before  them  in 
Committee.  It  was  seen  on  all  sides 
that  they  would  be  defeated,  and 
the  Court  appears  to  have  shown 
anxiety  that  AVellington  should  take 
the  opportunity  to  return  to  power. 
The  Earl  of  Munster  wrote  to  the 
Duke  a  hurried  note  two  nights 
after  the  division,  praying  him 
"for  God's  sake  have  Peel  ready." 
The  Duke,  however,  had  mastered 
the  situation.  He  saw  that  matters 
had  gone  too  far  to  be  retrieved. 
The  waverers,  by  enabling  the  Min- 
istry to  carry  the  second  reading, 
had  entirely  altered  the  position  of 
the  House  of  Lords  with  regard  to 
the  Bill,  and  taken  away  their  chief 
ground  for  protesting  against  a  crea- 
tion of  Peers;  for,  as  the  Duke 
argued,  a  creation  to  carry  the  Bill 
after  its  principle  had  been  adopted 
by  a  majority  would  be  a  very  dif- 
ferent thing  from  a  creation  to  force 
the  principle  upon  the  House.  He 
protested  against  the  Harrowby- 
Wharncliffe  section  holding  further 
communications  with  the  Govern- 
ment, and  resolved  to  strike  at  the 
foundations  of  the  Bill  on  the  first 


opportunity  in  Committee.  But  he 
clearly  saw  that  Reform  was,  one 
way  or  other,  to  be  effected;  and 
that  although  he  might  endeavour 
to  form  a  Ministry  on  the  defeat  of 
the  Government,  he  would  not  be 
able  to  stem  the  tide  of  popular  ex- 
citement. Disappointment  and  a 
certainty  that  his  worst  anticipa- 
tions were  bound  to  be  realised, 
were  reducing  his  interest  in  the 
issue  to  a  minimum.  To  Mr  Gleig 
he  writes,  on  28th  April,  "I  am 
out  of  the  whole  affair;"  and  to 
Croker,  on  the  following  day,  he 
says,  "I  will  not  take  the  course 
of  proposing  alterations  to  make 
the  system  worse,  in  my  sense,  than 
it  is.  I  will  try  to  improve  the  Bill, 
in  my  sense,  but  still  protesting 
against  it,  and  intending  to  vote 
against  it  upon  the  third  reading." 

The  crisis  culminated  in  the  de- 
feat of  the  Government  on  Lord 
Lyndhurst's  motion  that  enfranchise- 
ment should  precede  disfranchise- 
ment,  and  in  the  resignation  of  the 
Ministry.  Through  regard  for  the 
Crown,  but  with  little  hope  that  he 
could  be  of  use,  the  Duke  accepted  a 
commission  to  form  a  Ministry.  The 
abuse  which  was  in  consequence 
showered  upon  him  in  the  Commons 
by  Lord  Ebrington  and  Macaulay  on 
the  supposition  that  he  was  about  to 
take  office  to  carry  through  a  mea- 
sure of  reform  was  quite  premature, 
even  if  it  had  not  been  groundless. 
But  the  debate  is  believed  to  have 
alarmed  Peel,  and  thus  to  have  had 
the  effect  of  preventing  the  Duke 
from  forming  an  efficient  Cabinet. 
Earl  Grey  was  again  sent  for,  and 
the  question  of  creating  Peers  was 
hotly  debated.  The  Ministry  pressed 
the  measure  upon  his  Majesty  as  a 
condition  of  their  remaining  with 
him.  Driven  into  a  corner  from 
which  he  could  devise  no  escape, 
the  King  threw  himself  in  despera- 
tion upon  the  generosity  of  the  Tory 
Peers.  The  idea  was  as  bold  as  it 
was  happy,  and  could  hardly  have 


1880.] 


Wellington  and  Reform. 


121 


originated  with  his  Majesty  him- 
self, but  is  rather  to  be  attributed 
to  Sir  Herbert  Taylor,  who  had  dis- 
cussed with  the  Duke  the  possi- 
bility of  the  Tories  extricating  the 
King  by  declaring  their  intention  to 
forbear  from  further  opposition  to 
the  Eeform  Bill.  The  Duke's  valued 
correspondent,  Mr  Gleig,  opposed  as 
he  was  to  the  Bill  in  all  its  aspects, 
had  already  given  his  Grace  the  same 
counsel.  Writing  to  the  Duke  on 
the  16th  May,  Mr  Gleig  said— 

"  I  take  for  granted  that  you  will 
not  mix  yourself  up  further,  in  any 
way,  with  the  measure.  I  am  con- 
vinced, at  least,  that  the  only  hope  for 
the  country  lies  in  this — that  you,  and 
all  who  think  with  you  that  the  mea- 
sure is  ruinous,  absent  yourselves  en- 
tirely from  the  House  of  Lords  till  it 
is  carried.  You  will  thus  take  away 
all  pretext  for  a  creation,  and,  being 
personally  unembarrassed,  you  will  be 
free  to  play  any  game  you  choose,  even 
in  the  new  order  of  things.  What  that 
order  is  to  be,  God  alone  can  tell." 

Both  the  Duke  and  Lord  Lynd- 
hurst  declared  their  intention  as 
individual  Peers  to  take  no  more 
part  in  the  discussion  of  the  Bill ; 
others  followed  their  example ; 
the  Ministry  plucked  up  courage 
to  announce  their  continuance  in 
office ;  and  the  Bill  was  as  good  as 
carried.  It  was  felt,  however,  that 
the  general  secession  of  the  Tory 
Peers  had  shorn  the  proceedings 
in  the  Lords  of  all  their  dignity. 
Even  the  "Whigs  felt  this  deeply ; 
and  when,  at  the  giving  of  the 
Eoyat  assent,  a  paper  was  put  into 
Mr  Courtenay's  hands,  suggesting 
that  instead  of  the  usual  formula, 
"  Le  Eoi  le  veult,"  he  should  pro- 
claim "La  Canaille  le  veult,"  the 
taunt,  indecent  as  it  was,  struck 
home. 

The  Duke's  conduct  in  finally 
withdrawing  from  the  Reform  con- 
troversy naturally  occasioned  much 
criticism,  and  there  were  very  few 
parties  that  could  fully  enter  into 
the  spirit  in  which  he  had  done  so. 


Some  of  the  "  no-surrender"  Tories 
condemned  his  policy  as  weak,  and 
argued  that  the  giving  up  of  oppo- 
sition on  so  vital  a  question  merely 
out  of  consideration  for  the  Crown, 
savoured  of  betraying  one's  trust  as 
a  Peer  of  Parliament.  The  Whigs, 
who  alone  benefited  by  the  Duke's 
secession,  but  who  would  have  pre- 
ferred that  the  Tories  should  have 
stayed  and  wrangled,  and  have  been 
defeated  over  the  Bill  in  the  Lords, 
denounced  as  unconscientious  the 
Duke's  continuance  for  so  long  in 
a  policy  from  which  he  withdrew 
at  last  on  pressure  from  the  Court ; 
and  the  protracting  of  the  Eeform 
struggle  by  an  Opposition  which, 
always  untenable,  had  eventually 
to  be  abandoned.  The  Duke,  how- 
ever, had  not  been  acting  from  either 
impulse  or  coercion.  In  this,  as  in 
all  his  other  actions  with  regard  to 
Eeform,  he  was  actuated  by  clear  and 
unmistakable  notions  of  principle. 
He  did  not  forego  the  fears  which 
he  entertained  of  the  effects  which 
Eeform  would  produce  upon  the 
British  constitution  when  he  yield- 
ed to  the  King's  appeal.  But  he 
saw  clearly  that  if  he  carried  his 
opposition  further,  he  would  add 
to  instead  of  decreasing  the  dan- 
ger. Eeform  would  be  carried  in 
spite  of  all  he  could  do  to  prevent 
it.  It  depended  upon  him  whether, 
in  addition  to  the  House  of  Com- 
mons being  demoralised,  the  char- 
acter of  the  Lords  was  also  to  be 
shaken  by  the  introduction  of  some 
forty  new  Peers.  The  Duke's  re- 
sponsibility as  the  leader  of  the 
Tory  party  had  also  been  materially 
diminished  by  the  conduct  of  the 
waverers  in  aiding  the  Ministry 
to  pass  the  second  reading  of  the 
Bill.  As  he  insists  so  often,  in 
his  correspondence,  the  creation 
of  Peers  to  pass  the  Bill  through 
the  House  after  the  Lords  had 
once  affirmed  the  principle,  was 
a  very  different  thing  from  a  crea- 
tion of  Peers  to  carry  the  second 


122 


Wellington  and  Reform. 


[July 


reading.  Before  the  second  reading 
we  are  justified  in  believing  that  no 
threat  from  the  Ministry,  no  appeal 
from  the  Crown,  would  have  made 
the  Duke  refrain  from  discharging 
his  duty  as  leader  of  the  Opposition. 
To  the  Earl  of  Eldon,  who  had 
made  up  his  mind  to  attend  the 
House  and  oppose  the  Bill  to  the 
end,  the  Duke  made  the  following 
explanation  of  his  motives,  which 
also  sums  up  with  great  clearness 
and  justice  the  principles  hy  which 
he  had  heen  swayed  all  through  the 
Beforru  struggle. 

"  I  have  always  considered  the  Re- 
form Bill  as  fatal  to  the  constitution 
of  the  country.  It  was  a  matter  of 
indifference  whether  the  House  of 
Peers  should  be  first  destroyed  by  the 
creation  of  Peers  to  carry  the  Bill,  or 
should  fall  with  the  other  institutions 
of  the  country.  I  should  have  voted 
against  the  Bill,  were  the  consequences 
what  they  might.  But  when  I  found 
that  the  King  was  conscientiously  dis- 
posed to  avoid  creating  Peers  to  carry 
the  Bill,  that  he  quarrelled  with  his 
Ministers,  and  was  desirous  to  take 
into  his  service  those  who  would  aid 
him  in  protecting  the  established  con- 
stitution of  the  country,  I  considered 
it  my  duty  to  aid  him  as  far  as  was  in 
my  power,  and  to  tell  his  Majesty 
that,  as  an  individual,  I  would  not 
attend  the  farther  discussions  of  the 
Bill,  when  I  found,  upon  making  the 
endeavour,  that  I  could  not  form  a 
Government  for  the  King  capable  of 
carrying  on  his  affairs.  I  have  taken 
this  course  alone  and  for  myself.  It 
is  founded  upon  my  knowledge  of 
what  had  passed  between  the  King 
and  his  Ministers  ;  and  of  his  Ma- 
jesty's intentions,  and  of  the  difficulties 
of  his  position.  I  have  influenced 
none.  I  have  advised  all  who  have 
conversed  with  me  to  take  their  own 
course.  They  must  judge  for  them- 
selves what  they  ought  to  do.  It  is 
my  opinion  that  the  threat  to  create 
Peers  to  carry  a  measure  in  Parlia- 
ment is  as  effectual  an  interference 
with  the  privileges  of  the  House  of 
Peers  as  the  creation  of  the  Peers. 
The  independence  of  the  House  of 
Peers  no  longer  exists.  Those  who 
forced  the  Minister  to  bring  in  and 


carry  the  Reform  Bill  to  the  point  at 
which  we  have  it  at  present,  have  the 
power  to  force  him  to  create  Peers  to 
carry  the  Bill  through  the  House  of 
Lords.  I  did  my  best  to  enable  the 
King  to  resist  the  exercise  of  this 
duress  upon  him.  But  having  failed, 
and  that  transaction  and  my  communi- 
cations with  the  King  having  clearly 
proved  to  me  that  the  King  was  sin- 
cerely desirous,  if  possible,  to  save  the 
House  of  Peers  and  himself  from  the 
ignominy  of  destroying  it,  I  have  con- 
sidered "it  my  duty,  as  an  individual 
Peer,  to  give  the  assistance  in  attain- 
ing his  object  which  my  absence  from 
the  House  in  the  futxire  discussions  of 
the  Bill  can  give  him." 

We  have  said  that  the  time  has 
not  yet  come  when  the  constitu- 
tional benefits  and  disadvantages 
of  the  Reform  Bill  can  be  fairly 
weighed  against  each  other.  It 
initiated  a  change  in  the  character 
of  Parliament  which  as  yet  is  far 
from  being  completed.  Nor  can 
we  yet  venture  to  pronounce  with 
authority  which  of  the  two  leaders, 
Earl  Grey  or  the  Duke  of  Welling- 
ton, was  the  more  correct  in  his  an- 
ticipations of  the  results  which  the 
Reform  Bill  would  bring  about.  We 
can,  however,  judge  of  the  tendency 
of  these  results  so  far  as  they  have 
gone.  Earl  Grey  in  the  Lords,  and 
Lord  Althorp  in  the  Commons,  de- 
clared— the  one,  that  the  Reform 
Bill  in  its  first  and  most  objection- 
able form  was  "  the  most  aristocratic 
measure  that  ever  was  proposed  in 
Parliament ;"  the  other,  that  "it  was 
the  most  aristocratic  measure  ever 
offered  to  the  nation."  The  Duke, 
on  the  other  hand,  maintained  that 
it  would  obliterate  every  landmark 
in  the  constitution  as  it  then  ex- 
isted. Which  of  the  two  predic- 
tions has  been  more  in  course  of 
fulfilment  during  the  past  half- 
century?  Looking  at  Parliament 
at  the  present  moment,  with  its 
brood  of  Bradlaughs  and  O'Don- 
nells,  we  may  ask  whose  antici- 
pations were  the  better  founded  1 
We  have  seen  in  our  day  a  states- 


1880.] 


Wellington  and  Reform. 


123 


man  placed  solely  by  democracy 
at  the  head  of  affairs.  The  Duke 
dreaded  that  the  Church  would 
suffer  in  consequence  of  Reform. 
The  Church  of  Ireland  has  already 
been  cast  away  by  the  State;  the 
other  two  are  threatened  in  their 
turn ;  and  at  the  head  of  the  Govern- 
ment stands  a  Minister  who  owes 
his  return  to  Parliament  mainly  to 
the  hopes  with  which  his  antece- 
dents have  inspired  the  Scotch  dis- 
establishment party.  The  Duke 
feared  that  the  independence  of 
the  House  of  Lords  would  be  im- 
paired by  the  Reform  Bill.  Can  we 
venture  to  say  that  it  possesses  the 
same  influence  that  it  commanded 
before  1832,  or  that  it  presents  the 
importance  in  the  eyes  of  the  nation 
which  a  free  and  separate  branch 
of  the  Legislature  should  have  ?  Is 
the  Crown  as  great  a  "  tower  of 
strength "  to  the  constitution  as  it 
was  before  the  first  Reform  Bill? 
And  if  it  should  happily  prove  to 
be  so,  how  much  is  due  to  its  own 
abstinence  from  politics,  and  how 
much  to  the  forbearance  of  the 
Commons  from  curtailing  its  prerog- 
atives] The  Duke  predicted  that 
there  would  be  an  end  to  property. 
Have  we  not  of  late  years  come 
dangerously  near  to  realising  his 
prediction  ?  We  have  begun  to  set 
up  a  distinction  between  a  man's 
right  to  control  his  acres  and  his 
right  to  dispose  of  the  money  in  his 
pocket,  although  in  the  pre-Reform 
days  it  would  have  been  counted 
dishonesty  and  tyranny  to  interfere 
with  his-  freedom  in  respect  to 
either.  Have  we  not  got  the  Ballot, 
which  the  Duke  prophesied,  and 
the  Whigs  denied,  would  be  the 
result  of  Reform?  And  if  the 
-Duke's  misgivings  have  not  been 
accomplished  in  their  fullest  sens*1, 
we  must  remember  that  the  period 
which  has  elapsed  since  the  Reform 
Bill  has  been  one  of  unusual  tran- 
quillity in  politics  and  of  national 
prosperity — results  which  are  in  no 


way  to  be  attributed  to  that  measure. 
There  has  been  no  great  constitu- 
tional crisis  ;  no  vital  conflict  be- 
tween the  estates  of  the  realm  ;  no 
deadly  antagonism  of  orders  or 
creeds ;  no  dynastic  difficulty  ;  none 
of  those  great  struggles  which  had 
helped  to  mould  the  old  British 
constitution,  to  test  the  qualities  of 
the  system  that  has  supplanted  it. 
If  the  Duke  made  any  mistake  in 
his  calculations,  it  was  in  anticipat- 
ing that  the  Reform  Act  would 
bear  fruit  more  quickly  than  it 
did.  That  it  did  not  immediate- 
ly do  so,  was  owing  chiefly  to 
the  temporary  satisfaction  of  the 
masses  with  their  victory.  They 
knew  the  advantages  which  they 
had  secured ;  and  we  may  perhaps 
say  that  they  used  them  with  more 
moderation  than  they  could  have 
got  credit  for.  Nevertheless  there 
was  a  transference  of  power,  and 
time  only  can  show  whether  that 
power  is  or  is  not  to  be  exercised 
for  the  welfare  of  the  general  liber- 
ties of  the  nation. 

The  new  volumes  of  the  De- 
spatches go  far  to  prove,  at  least, 
that  the  estimate  which  histoiy 
had  formed  of  the  Duke's  opposi- 
tion to  the  Reform  movement  is 
crude  where  it  has  not  been  unjust. 
They  establish  conclusively  that 
his  policy  was  not  one  of  arbitrary 
opposition,  but  based  upon  well- 
founded  calculations.  In  judging 
of  the  Duke's  conduct,  we  must  also 
remember  that  we  ourselves  have 
become  accustomed  to  look  with 
tolerance  upon  ideas  which  his 
age  unanimously  branded  with  poli- 
tical opprobrium.  Our  generation 
returns  avowed  Republicans  to 
Parliament  when  his  would  have 
taken  the  precaution  to  send  them 
to  the  hulks.  Much  as  we  prize 
toleration,  we  prize  principle  more  ; 
and  if  judged  by  that  standard,  the 
Duke's  course  upon  the  Reform 
Bill  may  safely  be  submitted  to 
the  verdict  of  posterity. 


124 


The  Financial  Situation  in  India. 


[July 


THE    FINANCIAL    SITUATION    IN    INDIA. 


BEYOND  a  general  impression  that 
the  Indian  Minister  has  made  a 
tremendous  blunder  in  his  Budget, 
from  under-estimating  the  cost  of 
the  Avar  in  Afghanistan,  the  public 
has  probably  no  very  clear  under- 
standing about  a  matter  which 
nevertheless  has  engaged  an  unusual 
degree  of  interest.  Nor  has  the 
press,  to  which  the  public  naturally 
looks  for  enlightenment,  done  much, 
so  far,  to  elucidate  the  case ;  while 
the  utterances  of  Mr  Laing — who 
puts  himself  as  a  professional  ex- 
pert—  in  the  last  number  of  a 
contemporary,  serve  only  to  mys- 
tify it. 

That  a  great  blunder  has  been 
made  there  is  no  question.  The 
latest  report  of  the  Indian  Govern- 
ment, as  contained  in  the  Blue- Book 
published  at  the  beginning  of  last 
month,  shows  that,  whereas  the  war 
expenditure  of  the  current  year  was 
estimated  in  the  Budget  at  two 
millions,  provision  must  now  be 
made  for  a  sum  of  indefinite  amount, 
which  will  certainly  be  three  times 
as  much,  but  may  very  probably  be 
a  great  deal  more.  This  discovery 
was  made  within  a  few  weeks — we 
might  almost  say  a  few  days — of 
the  publication  of  a  budget  state- 
ment, wherein  the  financial  pros- 
perity of  India  was  proclaimed  in 
terms  which  might  have  appeared 
extravagant  if  applied  to  the  most 
wealthy  country  of  Europe.  Not 
only  were  taxes  to  be  repealed,  and 
duties  taken  off,  while  great  mili- 
tary operations  were  in  progress ; 
the  remarkable  feat  was  to  be 
accomplished  of  paying  for  the 
war  out  of  the  revenues  of  the 
year.  Sir  John  Strachey,  speak- 
ing for  India,  declared  that  either 
to  borrow  for  the  war,  or  to  ob- 
tain assistance  from  England, 


was  alike  to  be  repudiated.  The 
one  course  was  unnecessary,  the 
other  unworthy  of  so  prosperous  a 
country.  Hardly  had  these  glowing 
phrases  been  uttered  than  the  same 
Minister  is  found  beseeching  the 
Secretary  of  State  in  piteous  accents 
to  abate  the  monthly  drawings  for 
the  home  expenses,  which  he 
had  just  before  announced  his 
readiness  to  meet  in  full.  The  lat- 
ter, astonished,  as  well  he  might 
be,  presses  for  explanation;  and 
at  last  the  confession  is  wrung 
from  the  lately  jubilant  Minister 
that  his  estimates  are  all  wrong. 
Not,  however,  that  the  discovery 
was  made  upon  an  examination  of 
the  estimates.  The  disclosure  forced 
itself  upon  attention  by  the  fact 
that  the  frontier  treasuries  were 
being  swept  bare  of  coin,  and  that 
they  could  not  be  replenished  sim- 
ultaneously with  the  payment  of 
the  Secretary  of  State's  drafts. 

A  defence  of  the  Indian  Finance 
Minister's  blunder  has  been  given, 
in  the  same  magazine  which  con- 
tains Mr  Laing's  attack,  by  his  able 
and  distinguished  brother,  General 
Richard  Strachey,  and  as  we  may 
assume  that  it  is  the  best  that  could 
be  put  forward,  an  opinion  may  be 
formed  from  it  of  the  weakness  of 
the  case.  According  to  General 
Strachey,  it  was  no  business  of  the 
finance  department  of  the  Indian 
Government  to  question  the  esti- 
mates for  the  war  expenditure  put 
forward  by  the  military  authorities : 
the  former  had  merely  to  accept  the 
figures  placed  before  it  by  the  military 
department.  Certainly  the  Finance 
Minister,  by  putting  forward,  as  he 
has  done,  the  explanation  of  the 
military  authorities  for  the  mistake, 
thus  virtually  endeavours  to  shift 
the  responsibility  from  himself  to 


1880.] 


The  Financial  Situation  in  India. 


125- 


them,  which,  to  say  the  least,  ap- 
pears somewhat  ungenerous ;  but 
indeed  the  paper  of  the  Military 
Accountant-General,  which  is  print- 
ed in  the  Blue-Book,  furnishes  the 
most  complete  condemnation  of  the 
Finance  Minister's  own  action.  It 
appears  from  this  that  the  Account- 
ant-General  to  the  Indian  Govern- 
ment frames  the  estimate  for  the  War 
Department  by  making  a  compila- 
tion of  the  estimates  rendered  to  him 
by  the  controllers  of  military  ac- 
counts of  the  three  Presidencies — 
altering  them,  however,  before  he 
passes  them  on,  if,  in  his  judgment, 
alteration  is  necessary.  This  proce- 
dure may  be  well  enough  for  deter- 
mining the  ordinary  charges  of  peace- 
time, for  pay  and  so  forth  ;  but  the 
notion  of  looking  to  the  Controller 
at  Madras  to  furnish  an  estimate  of 
any  part  of  the  cost  of  the  war  in 
Afghanistan  is  sufficiently  absurd : 
it  is  as  if  the  traffic  manager  of  a 
railway  were  to  ask  the  auditor  bow- 
many  special  trains  would  be  need- 
ed for  a  race-meeting.  This,  how- 
ever, is  not  the  point  which  now 
particularly  calls  for  notice.  The 
real  question  at  issue  turns  on  the 
date  at  which  these  estimates  were 
supplied  to  the  Finance  Department. 
Throughout  Major  ^ewmarch's 
Memorandum  there  is  a  mysterious 
abstention  from  specifying  any  dates, 
which  is  not  a  little  singular.  But 
in  the  absence  of  any  statement  to 
the  contrary,  it  may  be  taken  for 
granted  that  the  military  estimates 
were  rendered  about  the  usual  time 
— that  is,  at  the  end  of  last  year, 
before  the  remarkable  military  oper- 
ations which  ended  in  General  Eob- 
erts  being  shut  up  for  a  time  in 
Sherpur  cantonments  with  his  com- 
munications cut  off,  and  when  both 
in  India  and  England  there  was  a 
not-unfounded  fear  of  some  catas- 
trophe to  follow.  What  happened 
on  this  we  can  all  remember.  Troops 
were  pushed  up  in  haste  from  all 


parts  of  India,  and  in  a  few  weeks 
the  army  acting  beyond  the  Indus, 
with  its  reserves,  was  nearly  doubled 
in  strength  ;  while  the  country  was 
swept  of  supplies  of  all  sorts,  and 
transport  animals  were  purchased  re- 
gardless of  expense.  All  this  hap- 
pened during  the  period  intervening 
between  the  submission  of  the  mili- 
tary estimates  to  the  Finance  Depart- 
ment, and  the  publication  of  the 
Budget  on  the  24th  of  February. 
This  view  is  borne  out  by  the 
telegram,  Xo.  26,  printed  at  p.  69 
of  the  Blue -Book:  "Since  esti- 
mate was  framed,  we  have  sent  to 
form  reserves,  and  to  accumulate 
immediately  six  months'  supplies 
for  troops  in  field."  Xow  these 
measures  were  certainly  taken  last 
December,  so  that  the  estimate 
must  have  been  framed  still  earlier. 
Sir  John  Strachey,  therefore,  when 
he  made  his  financial  statement,  had 
before  him  the  fact  that  the  army 
in  Afghanistan  had  been  raised  from 
thirty  thousand  to  nearly  sixty  thou- 
sand men,  and  that  an  enormous  ex- 
penditure had  been,  and  was  still  in 
course  of  being,  incurred  to  keep  it 
supplied,  and  to  make  good  the 
tremendous  loss  in  transport  ani- 
mals which  had  occurred  during 
the  previous  campaign.  And  yet 
he  puts  forward  the  estimates  which 
had  been  prepared,  for  a  state  of 
things  entirely  different  from  that 
which  they  contemplated,  and  when 
the  compilers  were  in  complete  ig- 
norance that  all  these  measures  were 
about  to  be  taken ;  and  endorses 
them  with  his  own  warrant  as  to 
their  complete  sufficiency. 

This  we  take  to  be  the  real  expla- 
nation of  the  matter.  The  estimates 
were  prepared  just  at  the  time  when 
General  Roberts  and  his  force  were 
resting  in  false  security  after  having 
occupied  Cabul  with  trifling  resist- 
ance ;  when  it  was  thought  that  all 
fighting  was  over,  and  that  the  army 
would  be  back  in  India  before  the 


126 


The  Financial  Situation  in  India. 


[July 


hot  weather  set  in.  When  Sir  John 
Strachey  made  his  statement,  all 
these  sanguine  hopes  had  been  frus- 
trated, and  the  war  had  entered  on 
a  new  and  much  more  extended 
scale,  while  the  expenditure  was 
increasing  in  a  vastly  greater  ratio, 
the  country  being  exhausted  of  all 
supplies.  Yet  Sir  John  Strachey, 
with  these  facts  confronting  him, 
puts  forward  these  now  worthless 
estimates  as  if  they  had  been  care- 
fully prepared  to  accord  with  the 
then  existing  facts,  and  to  be  ab- 
solutely relied  on. 

When  the  Budget  statement 
reached  England,  great  surprise 
was  felt  by  all  who  took  the 
trouble  to  examine  the  account, 
at  the  extraordinarily  small  amount 
set  down  for  a  war  which  was 
now  demanding  such  extensive 
operations.  It  seemed  inconceiv- 
able that  the  thing  could  be  done 
for  the  sum  named ;  but  when 
Sir  John  said  authoritatively  that, 
on  a  careful  review  of  the  situ- 
ation, the  estimates  would  probably 
prove  to  be  sufficient,  incredulity 
•was  held  for  the  time  in  suspense. 
Had  it  been  known  that  when  he 
said  the  military  estimates  had 
"been  prepared  with  much  care," 
and  "  that  there  is  no  reason  to 
suppose  that  they  err  on  the  side 
of  being  too  low,"  he  was  in  reality 
speaking  of  estimates  which  he 
knew  had  been  prepared  before 
the  events  which  they  were  sup- 
posed to  deal  with,  and  were  based 
on  data  which  had  at  the  time  of 
his  speech  altogether  ceased  to  be 
applicable,  and  that  he  had  suffi- 
cient information  in  his  possession 
to  tell  him,  if  he  had  chosen  to 
think  about  it,  that  the  estimates 
were  absolutely  worthless  for  the 
purpose  for  which  they  had  been 
drawn  up,  the  public  surprise  would 
not  have  been  diminished,  although 
it  would  have  been  of  a  different 
sort. 


It  may  perhaps  be  said  that  the 
military  authorities,  who  must 
equally  have  known  by  the  end 
of  February  the  inadequacy  of 
the  estimates  framed  long  before, 
should  have  themselves  given  a 
warning  on  the  subject.  No  doubt 
they  should,  and  perhaps  they  did. 
It  would  be  interesting  to  know 
indeed  what»  passed  on  the  subject, 
for  the  Accountant- General's  Memo- 
randum, with  all  its  vagueness  as 
to  dates,  reads  very  like  an  effort 
to  screen  his  superiors  ;  but  with  a 
Finance  Minister  so  determined  to 
regard  the  financial  outlook  under  a 
rose-coloured  aspect,  a  suggestion  to 
reconsider  his  figures  would  prob- 
ably not  have  been  well  received. 
Sir  John  Strachey  was  bent  on 
self-deception,  and  to  this  strange 
infatuation  we  must  asciibe  the 
blunder.  The  assumption  that  the 
deception  was  intentional  is  too 
monstrous  to  be  entertained.  Xot 
to  say  that  it  is  wholly  belied  by 
the  antecedents  of  an  honourable 
and  distinguished  public  career,  no 
man  in  his  senses  would  deliber- 
ately purchase  the  ephemeral  credit 
of  a  prosperous  Budget,  with  the 
knowledge  that  the  bubble  was 
about  to  burst  immediately,  and 
that  the  account  would  hardly 
reach  England  before  the  telegram 
announcing  that  it  was  all  wrong. 

One  more  remark  must  be  made 
about  these  estimates.  Sir  John 
Strachey  in  his  financial  statement 
refers  with  satisfaction  to  the  close 
agreement  between  the  estimate  for 
the  year  1878-79,  in  which  the 
first  Cabul  Afghan  campaign  oc- 
curred, and  the  recorded  expendi- 
ture, as  showing  how  carefully 
the  estimate  was  framed.  The  esti- 
mate was  for  £670,000,  and  the 
"net  cost  of  the  war  £676,381," 
which  he  is  certainly  entitled  to 
call  "a  close  approximation."  But 
it  appears  from  the  Accountant-Gen- 
eral's Memorandum,  already  referred 


1880.] 


The  Financial  Situation  in  India. 


127 


to,  that  of  the  net  war  expenditure 
during  the  year  in  question,  no  less 
a  sum  than  £600,000  has  been 
left  outstanding,  under  the  head  of 
advances  recoverable,  unadjusted 
items,  &c.,  "to  be  adjusted  and 
charged  against  the  accounts "  of 
the  following  year.  So  that  this 
"  close  approximation  "  has  been 
arrived  at  by  leaving  out  just  one- 
half  of  the  amount  actually  spent. 
Again,  the  cost  of  the  war  for  the 
year  which  has  just  ended  is  set 
down  as  about  three  and  a  quar- 
ter millions.  But  the  same  Mem- 
orandum shows  that  no  less  than 
a  million  sterling  of  money  ac- 
tually spent  in  that  year  is  to  be 
carried  forward  as  "  unadjusted," 
and  charged  against  the  estimates 
of  the  current  year.  Of  course,  by 
this  extraordinary  method  of  ac- 
counting, all  valid  comparison  be- 
tween estimates  and  accounts  be- 
comes impossible.  You  have  only 
to  delay  the  final  "adjustment"  of 
items  sufficiently  to  make  the  re- 
corded expenditure  what  you  please. 
It  is  not  a  little  curious  to  find  any 
class  of  officials  gravely  comparing 
estimates  with  expenditure  dealt 
with  in  this  fashion,  as  if  money 
spent  on  a  war  or  anything  else 
was  not  the  less  spent  because 
not  "adjusted."  This  must  surely 
be  a  barbarous  relic  of  the  old  cum- 
bersome mercantile  book-keeping  of 
the  East  India  Company,  of  which 
we  thought  all  the  Indian  public 
departments  had  long  ago  been 
purged.  But  it  is  plain  that  the 
Indian  military  accounts  still  stand 
in  need  of  thorough  reform. 

This  mistake,  which  has  unfor- 
tunately brought  discredit  on  the 
whole  Indian  administration  as  well 
as  on  the  person  primarily  respon- 
sible, must  probably  be  ascribed 
to  the  impulsive  character  of  Sir 
John  Strachey,  whose  financial 
career  has  been  distinguished  by  a 
succession  of  alternating  fits  of 


buoyancy  and  despondency,  equal- 
ly unjustified  by  the  conditions  of 
the  case.  In  the  Budget  statement 
of  1878  the  financial  situation 
was  depicted  in  rosy  hues.  The 
finances  were  thoroughly  sound; 
public  works  could  be  pushed  on 
merrily;  there  was  money  for  every- 
thing ;  while  to  provide  against  the 
possible  strain  of  famines  in  the 
future,  a  famine  fund  was  to  be 
created  out  of  the  proceeds  of  extra 
taxation,  which  would  be  applied 
to  create  an  accumulating  surplus 
specially  applicable  to  this  purpose: 
The  question  whether  this  fund  had 
or  had  not  any  specific  existence 
has  been  the  subject  of  a  good  deal 
of  controversy,  but  the  matter  is 
surely  not  open  to  doubt.  A  school- 
boy rattling  his  pocket-money  in 
his  trousers'  pocket  may  say  that 
this  particular  half-crown  was  given 
him  by  his  aunt  Susan,  and  that 
by  his  uncle  Joe ;  but  the  notion 
that  any  particular  part  of  the  rev- 
enues of  a  country  can  be  dis- 
tinguished from  the  remainder,  and 
set  apart  for  a  particular  purpose, 
is  from  the  nature  of  the  case  a  pure 
delusion.  If,  by  means  of  extra 
taxation,  a  surplus  had  been  pro- 
duced, it  might  no  doubt  have  been 
applied  in  prosperous  years  to  the 
extinction  of  debt,  and  so  have  left 
the  Government  in  a  stronger  posi- 
tion to  meet  the  drain  of  bad  years  ; 
but  to  speak  of  such  surpluses  as 
constituting  a  fund  in  the  ordinary 
acceptation  of  the  term  was  surely 
quite  inaccurate.  However,  the  so- 
called  fund  had  but  a  brief  exist- 
ence ;  for  when  the  Budget  of  last 
year  appeared,  the  Finance  Minister 
had  fallen  into  the  depths  of  finan- 
cial despondency.  The  state  of  the 
currency,  and  consequent  loss  by 
exchange,  had  completely  deranged 
the  finances.  There  was  no  money 
for  anything.  Public  works  must 
be  cut  down,  and  the  engineers  dis- 
missed by  hundreds  ;  the  action  of 


128 


The  Financial  Situation  in  India. 


the  famine  fund  was  practically 
suspended,  and  no  one  could  say 
when  it  would  be  set  going  again. 
A  more  lugubrious  financial  utter- 
ance was  never  made :  it  was  not 
wonderful  that  considerable  alarm 
should  have  been  aroused  in  Eng- 
land when  the  responsible  Minister 
thought  so  badly  of  things.  But 
this  year  all  was  changed  again. 
Never  were  the  finances  of  any 
country  so  prosperous  and  all-suffic- 
ing. Although  an  expensive  war 
was  still  in  progress,  this  did  not 
deter  Sir  John  Sfcrachey  from  sac- 
rificing revenue  to  remove  some 
export  duties.  Feats  which  the 
English  Chancellor  of  the  Ex- 
chequer pronounced  impossible  in 
dealing  with  the  Zulu  war,  weie 
quite  possible  for  the  Indian  Fi- 
nancial Minister.  He  scornfully 
rejected  the  idea  of  allowing  Eng- 
land to  pay  any  part  of  the  bill  for 
the  war,  nor  would  he  even  consent 
to  resort  to  the  ordinary  procedure 
of  distributing  the  cost  over  a  series 
of  years.  India  could  pay  its  war 
charges  as  they  occurred  out  of  the 
revenues  of  the  year.  Yet  hardly 
is  the  ink  dry  which  pens  these 
glowing  pictures,  when  the  writer 
rushes  to  the  telegraph  wire  to 
implore  the  Secretary  of  State  to 
save  the  Indian  treasury  from  in- 
solvency by  immediate  reduction 
of  his  bills. 

In  all  this  Sir  John  Strachey 
has  displayed  an  egregious  want  of 
ballast.  Nor  can  he  be  acquitted 
of  extreme  carelessness  in  the  mat- 
ter of  these  military  estimates.  Yet 
we  must  not  therefore  lose  sight  of 
his  distinguished  past  career  in  a 
variety  of  capacities ;  and,  with  all 
abatement  made,  we  may  still  pro- 
nounce him  to  be  the  best  Finance 
Minister  India  has  had,  excepting 
Mr  Wilson,  whose  untimely  death, 
however,  occurred  before  he  had 
time  to  do  more  than  give  promise 
of  performance  to  come ;  while  it 


[July 


must  be  observed  that  Mr  Wilson's 
crude  action  in  levying  crushing 
import  duties  would  probably  not 
have  been  tolerated  at  the  present 
day.  They  proved,  indeed,  so  de- 
structive of  trade,  that  a  notable 
part  of  the  business  of  his  succes- 
sors consisted  in  lowering  them 
again  to  a  reasonable  figure.  His 
income-tax  scheme  also  was  by  no 
means  successful.  That  part  of  it 
which  dealt  with  the  lower  class  of 
incomes  was  found  to  produce  only 
£350,000,  although  levied  from  an 
enormous  number  of  people  with 
infinite  trouble  and  vexation,  while 
the  cost  of  collection  exceeded  30 
per  cent  of  the  proceeds;  and  it 
was  very  properly  repealed  by  his 
successor.  Mr  Laing's  tenure  of 
the  Finance  portfolio  was  mainly 
remarkable  for  his  incapacity  to 
understand  his  own  figures.  To 
him  succeeded  Sir  Charles  Trevel- 
yan,  who  signalised  himself  by  put- 
ting export  duties  on  all  the  main 
staples  of  Indian  trade — a  measure 
which  was  naturally  at  once  disal- 
lowed by  the  Home  Government. 
Mr  Massey,  who  came  next,  did 
not  do  anything,  and  did  not  pro- 
fess to  do  anything,  if  we  except 
the  levy  of  a  licence-tax,  —  which 
was,  in  fact,  a  revived  income-tax 
under  another  name.  He  was  fol- 
lowed by  Sir  Richard  Temple,  a 
Bengal  civilian,  whose  financial  ad- 
ministration is  best  summed  up  in 
a  pamphlet,  prepared  by  himself,  of 
the  so-called  financial  measures  car- 
ried out  in  his  time,  which  appear 
to  have  consisted  mainly  in  certain 
administrative  reorganisations  re- 
sulting in  everybody's  pay  being 
raised  all  round  in  several  branches 
of  the  service,  with  a  sensible  in- 
crease of  the  public  charges.  Sir 
Richard  Temple  is  an  administrator 
of  quite  extraordinary  energy  ;  but 
no  one  would  pretend  to  ascribe  to 
him  any  aptitude  for  finance.  Not 
one  of  these  gentlemen,  in  their 


1880.] 


The  Financial  Situation  in  India. 


129 


handling   of  the   Indian   finances, 
exhibited  the  smallest  originality, 
their  attempts  at  new  taxation  being 
mainly  limited  to  a  mere  slavish  im- 
itation of  the  English  method  of  an 
income-tax, — an  impost  singularly 
inapplicable  to  the  peculiar  condi- 
tions of  the  people  of  India.    Their 
measures,  for  the  most  part,  were 
a  mere  seesaw  of  each  other's  pro- 
ceedings.     If  one  clapped  on  an 
income-tax,  the  next  took  it  off;  if 
one  raised  the  customs  tariff,  the 
nexj^owered  it  again.    The  general 
result  of  the  past  twenty  years  of 
Indian  financial  administration,  since 
the  time  when  it  was  first  placed  in 
charge  of  a  responsible  officer,  has 
been   that,  after  various   ups   and 
downs,   having  necessarily  a  very 
pernicious  effect  on  trade,  the  im- 
port duties  on  most  articles,  which 
before   the   Mutiny  were   five   per 
cent  ad  valorem,  now  stand  at  seven 
and  a  half  per  cent ;  and  that  the 
income-tax,  after  being  put  on  and 
taken  off,  and  rechristened  and  put 
on  again,  now,  under  the  guise  of  a 
licence-tax, produces  a  small  revenue. 
It  is  needless  to  comment  on  the  im- 
propriety of  financial  vacillation  of 
this  sort,  which  violates  one  of  the 
cardinal   maxims   on   the   subject. 
What  we  are  now  more  concerned 
to  point  out  is  the  fact  that  not  one 
of  these   gentlemen   attempted   to 
deal  with  the  standing  opprobrium 
of  Indian  fiscal  administration, — the 
abominable    inland  -  customs    line, 
with  its  monstrous  hedge  guarded 
by  thousands  of  patrols,  and  reach- 
ing for  hundreds   of  miles   across 
India.      It   was   reserved   for    Sir 
John  Strachey  to  sweep  this  away, 
—  a  great    measure,   which,   with 
the  equalisation  of  the  salt-duties 
throughout  India,  constitutes  a  fi- 
nancial reform  of    the    first   class, 
throwing  into  the  shade   all  that 
had  been    done   by   his   predeces- 
sors, and  which  must  remain,  in  the 
view  of  all  fair-minded  men,  a  me- 

VOL.  CXXVIII. — NO.  DCCLXXVII. 


morialof  his  originality  and  energy. 
And  whatever  our  individual  opin- 
ions may  be  of  his  action  in  regard 
to  the  cotton  -  duties,  we  must  at 
least  admit  that,  as  part  of  a  defin- 
itive policy,  adopted  with  a  specific 
aim,  it  should  be  placed  in  a  very 
different  category  from  the  action 
of  his  predecessors  in  office,  playing 
fast  and  loose  with  the  trade  of  the 
country  in  their  feeble  efforts  to 
pick  up  a  little  extra  revenue.  And 
when  people  talk  so  glibly  about 
the  incapacity  of  the  Indian  ser- 
vices for  financial  administration, 
and  cite,  as  a  proof  of  the  assertion, 
that  it  has  never  yet  produced  a 
financier,  how  many  financiers,  it 
may  be  asked,  has  England  and 
English  political  life  produced  1 
During  the  last  hundred  years 
there  have  not  appeared  more 
than  three  or  four  Ministers  who 
have  displayed  any  conspicuous 
talent  for  finance.  If  this  be  the 
case  in  the  much  larger  field  of 
English  public  life,  how  absurd 
to  make  it  a  reproach  that  no 
servant  of  the  Indian  Government 
has  yet  come  to  the  front  in  this 
line,  which  has  only  assumed  any 
importance  during  the  last  twenty 
years  !  The  truth  is,  that  a  genius 
for  finance  is  one  of  the  rarest  forms 
of  genius;  and  it  is  no  more  surpris- 
ing that  India,  any  more  than  Eng- 
land, does  not  produce  a  great  finan- 
cier every  twenty  years,  than  that 
first-rate  generals  are  rare.  It  must 
be  remembered,  too,  that  the  best 
English  financiers  are  not  available 
for  India.  A  statesman  who  has 
any  pretensions  to  become  a  Chan- 
cellor of  the  Exchequer  will  not  be 
tempted  to  go  to  India  by  any  prize 
short  of  the  very  highest.  As  be- 
tween the  most  distinguished  men 
of  the  Indian  service  and  the  sort 
of  men  who  are  usually  available 
from  England,  small  officials  or  dis- 
appointed placemen  who  have  to 
be  provided  for,  the  facts  which 


130 


The  Financial  Situation  in  India. 


we  have  cited  may  at  least  go  some 
way  to  gauging  the  relative  merits 
of  the  two  classes  of  candidates. 

There  remains  to  consider  the 
result  of  this  discovery  of  the 
failure  of  the  Indian  Budget.  The 
public  have  jumped  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  because  a  mistake  has  been 
made  in  the  estimates,  and  it  is 
now  known  that  the  war  will  cost  a 
great  deal  more  than  was  at  first 
stated,  the  Indian  finances  are  in  a 
very  bad  way.  But  such  a  conclu- 
sion is  not  really  justified  by  the 
facts.  The  alarm  has  arisen  from 
the  way  in  which  the  matter  has 
come  under  notice.  If  Sir  John 
Strachey  had  proposed,  in  the 
first  instance,  what  was  the  rational 
course,  that  the  war  should  be  paid 
for  by  a  loan ;  and  if  he  had  fur- 
ther limited  himself  to  taking  a  sum 
on  account,  without  committing 
himself  to  an  opinion  as  to  the  final 
cost  of  the  war, — every  one  would 
have  understood  the  proposal,  and 
acquiesced  in  its  reasonableness. 
The  result  would  have  been — as  in- 
deed the  result  must  be  in  any  case — 
a  permanent  addition  to  the  charges 
on  the  revenues  of  India  for  interest 
on  debt,  an  increase  which,  not  im- 
probably, may  amount  to  as  much  as 
half  a  million  a-year ;  but  we  think 
that  no  one  who  has  watched  the 
course  of  the  Indian  revenues,  and 
their  progressive  improvement,  can 
doubt  their  capacity  under  good 
management  to  meet  it.  The  Mu- 
tiny involved  a  deficit  of  forty-two 
millions,  the  revenue  being  at  that 
time  only  thirty-two  millions  a-year, 
while  it  has  now  risen  to  fifty-eight 
millions.*  At  that  time  so  large 
a  liability  did  indeed  seem  more 
than  India  could  meet ;  but  the 
truth  is  that,  famines  notwithstand- 
ing, India  has  been  steadily  ad- 
vancing in  prosperity,  and  the 


[July 


finances  are  unquestionably  in  a 
sounder  state  now  than  they  were 
before  this  great  burden  of  the 
Mutiny  debt  arose.  And  although 
the  state  of  things  would  no  doubt 
be  still  better  if  this  new  debt  for  the 
Afghan  war  had  not  to  be  incurred, 
yet  the  condition  of  things  is  noth- 
ing like  so  serious  now  as  it  was 
twenty  years  ago,  when  the  diffi- 
culty was  successfully  overcome, 
not  by  any  skilful  manipulation  of 
the  finances,  but  by  the  spontane- 
ous improvement  of  revenue,  re- 
sulting from  the  rapidly  increasing 
prosperity  of  the  country. 

Of  course  there  will  be  found 
just  now  plenty  of  people  to 
take  the  more  desponding  view ; 
and  Mr  Laing  has  come  forward 
on  these  lines  in  the  last  num- 
ber of  the  'Nineteenth  Century/ 
To  those  who  recollect  Mr  Laing's 
career  in  India,  and  the  amuse- 
ment with  which  they  read  the  pub- 
lished correspondence  embodying 
Sir  Charles  Wood's  scornful  expo- 
sure of  the  mistakes  in  his  estimates, 
sent  back  to  India  for  revision — Mr 
Laing's  confession  of  incapacity  to 
see  where  the  mistakes  lay,  and  the 
Secretary  of  State's  sarcastic  re- 
joinder— the  notion  of  Mr  Laing 
posing  as  a  financial  guide  is  suffi- 
ciently absurd ;  and  if  further  evi- 
dence were  needed  of  his  incom- 
petence for  the  task,  it  would  be 
furnished  by  the  article  in  ques- 
tion. Mr  Laing  will  have  it  that  the 
money  spent  on  the  construction  of 
railroads  is  to  be  deemed  part  of  the 
current  expenditure  of  the  year,  and 
included  in  the  Budget,  and  that,  if 
such  expenditure  is  not  covered  by 
traffic  receipts,  there  is  to  that  ex- 
tent a  deficit.  Twenty  millions 
have  been  spent  during  the  last 
five  years  on  railroads  and  other 
productive  works ;  and  if  this  ex- 


*  This  is  after  deducting  the  railway  receipts,  which  are  now  shown  as  revenue, 
the  charge  for  interest  on  the  railway  capital  being  exhibited  in  gross  per  contra. 
The  gross  revenue  thus  shown  in  the  published  accounts  is  sixty-five  millions. 


1880.] 

penditure  be  added  to  that  ex- 
hibited in  the  annual  estimates, 
then  the  equilibrium  which  the 
Indian  Government  claims  to  have 
established  between  expenditure 
and  income  during  this  period  is 
converted  into  an  average  annual 
deficit  of  four  millions.  But  if  this 
view  of  the  case  be  the  correct  one, 
then  Mr  Laing,  by  his  own  figures,  is 
convicted  of  misrepresentation.  He 
talks  of  the  surplus  which  he  man- 
aged to  bring  about  during  his 
tenure  of  office,  omitting  to  take 
any  account  of  the  expenditure  on 
railroads  during  that  time.  This 
amounted,  during  the  two  years  he 
held  office,  to  more  than  thirteen 
millions,  which  did  not  return  a 
penny  as  revenue ;  so  that,  by  his 
own  showing,  the  surplus  he  takes 
credit  for  becomes  an  enormous  de- 
ficit. It  is  true  that  the  railway 
expenditure  in  his  time  was  in- 
curred through  the  agency  of  the 
guaranteed  companies,  whereas  now 
it  is  disbursed  directly  by  the 
Government;  but  even  Mr  Laing 
must  be  aware  that  the  money  was 
every  bit  of  it  as  much  money  spent 
by  the  Government,  and  an  addition 
to  the  Indian  debt,  in  the  one  case 
as  in  the  other.  If,  therefore, 
this  is  a  correct  way  of  looking 
at  the  matter,  Mr  Laing's  com- 
parison between  a  surplus  in  his 
time  and  a  deficit  in  the  pres- 
ent, is  absolutely  fallacious.  But  of 
course  this  way  of  regarding  the 
case  would  be  entirely  inaccurate 
and  misleading.  If  the  accounts  of 
an  English  railway  were  dealt  with 
in  this  fashion,  and  capital  out- 
lay was  mixed  up  with  the  revenue 
account,  and  shown  as  expenditure 
against  the  receipts  of  the  year, 
inextricable  confusion  would  result. 
Such  a  thing  is  never  done ;  and 
the  plan  adopted  by  the  Indian 
Government  in  separating  its  rail- 
road capital  expenditure  from  the 
revenue  or  finance  accounts  of  the 
year,  is  not  only  in  accord  with 


The  Financial  Situation  in  India. 


131 


the  universal  practice  in  dealing 
with  such  undertakings,  but  is  the 
only  plan  compatible  with  common- 
sense. 

It  may,  however,  be  alleged  that 
this  only  holds  good  provided  that 
such  capital  outlay  is  likely  to 
bring  in  a  return  which  ultimately 
will  extinguish  the  charge  for  in- 
terest on  the  capital  sunk.  This  is 
what  Mr  Laing  implies.  An  outlay 
of  about  fourteen  millions  on  State 
railways,  incurred  during  the  past 
five  years,  gave  a  net  return  of 
only  £88,000  a-year.  "  How  then," 
says  he,  "  is  it  possible  to  contend 
that  an  Indian  budget  is  really 
balanced,  while  an  expenditure  of 
millions  on  works  which  give  no 
return  is  treated  as  if  it  had  never 
been  spent,  or  had  been  spent  on 
something  which  would  reproduce 
the  money  1 "  The  expenditure  Mr 
Laing  here  refers  to  appears  to 
have  been  incurred  on  a  number  of 
lines,  many  of  which  are  still  in 
course  of  construction,  while  others 
are  only  partially  opened.  While 
in  this  unfinished  state,  they  do  not, 
of  course,  reproduce  the  money. 
We  may  presume  that  the  London 
and  Brighton  line  did  not  furnish 
any  earnings  before  the  trains  began 
to  run  on  it.  Judged  by  this  stand- 
ard, any  railway  might  be  pro- 
nounced to  be  hopelessly  insolvent 
before  it  was  opened  for  traffic.  -It 
is  impossible,  of  course,  to  prove 
beforehand  that  these  particular 
lines  will  pay ;  the  only  fair  way  of 
dealing  with  the  matter  is  to  con- 
sider the  railway  expenditure  in- 
curred by  the  Government  of  India 
as  a  whole,  and  its  financial  results 
as  a  whole.  Now  this  expenditure, 
up  to  the  end  of  1878-79,  amounted 
to  about  118  millions;  and  although 
a  considerable  part  of  that  expen- 
diture is  still  in  an  unproductive 
form — the  works  on  which  it  has 
been  incurred  being,  as  we  have 
said,  still  more  or  less  incomplete — 
the  charge  for  interest  upon  it  has 


132 


The  Financial  Situation  in  India. 


[July 


been  steadily  diminishing  year  by 
year.  In  1878-79  it  was  only  about 
£300,000 ;  and  it  is  expected  that 
in  the  present  year  it  will,  for  the 
first  time,  be  covered  by  the  earnings 
of  the  lines.  The  point,  therefore, 
has  now  been  reached  when  these 
works  cease  to  be  a  burden  on  the 
finances.  This  great  operation  has 
been  carried  out — and  the  charge  for 
interest  on  it  having  been  defrayed 
year  by  year,  India  has  now  got  its 
railways  free;  and  from  this  time 
forward  a  handsome  net  return  on 
the  outlay  —  after  paying  the  in- 
terest on  the  capital  sunk  —  may 
be  confidently  looked  for.  Never 
has  a  great  policy  been  more  amply 
justified  by  the  results  than  this,  in- 
augurated by  Lord  Dalhousie,  of  a 
State  railway  system  for  India. 

It  may,  however,  be  urged,  that 
whereas  the  trunk  lines  of  railroad 
first  constructed  are  likely  to  pay, 
yet  that  the  best  ground  has  now 
been  taken  up,  and  that  the  same 
return  cannot  be  expected  from  ex- 
tensions and  branch  lines.  But 
then,  as  every  one  knows,  the 
working  of  branch  lines  must  be 
considered  under  two  heads :  the 
direct  return  they  give  on  their 
own  working,  and  the  increased 
traffic  they  bring  to  the  main  line. 
If  the  revenue  account  of  every 
branch  line,  say,  on  the  London 
and  Brighton  system,  were  con- 
sidered as  a  separate  account,  most 
of  them  would  show  up  very  badly; 
but  no  sane  person  would  propose 
such  a  criterion.  Every  railway 
system  must  be  considered  as  a 
whole ;  and  in  India,  particularly, 
the  carrying  powers  of  the  main 
lines  and  the  wants  of  the  country 
can  only  be  utilised  to  the  fullest 
by  the  development  of  feeders. 
The  extension  of  branch  lines 
might,  no  doubt,  be  carried  too 
far,  but  it  might  also  not  be  carried 
far  enough.  Each  case  has  to  be 
dealt  with  on  its  merits  ;  but  cer- 
tainly the  point  at  which  it  would 


be  prudent  to  stop  has  not  yet  been 
reached ;  and  it  is  worth  noting 
that  some  of  the  branch  lines,  even 
while  still  quite  isolated  and  in- 
dependent, have  already  proved 
very  remunerative.  On  the  whole, 
the  position  of  the  Indian  railway 
system  is  thoroughly  sound  and 
hopeful,  and  Mr  Laing  has  suc- 
ceeded in  conveying  a  contrary  im- 
pression only  by  making  a  muddle 
of  what  is  really  a  simple  matter. 
"We  cannot  forbear  from  remarking 
on  the  disingenuous  way  in  which 
he  speaks  of  the  increase  of  the  salt- 
tax  in  Madras  and  Bombay,  omit- 
ting to  mention  that  if  it  has  been 
raised  for  about  50  millions  of 
people,  it  has  been  simultaneously 
lowered  for  130  millions,  and  that 
it  was  only  by  thus  increasing  the 
tax  for  the  minority  that  it  became 
possible  to  carry  out  the  great 
measure  of  abolishing  the  inland- 
customs  line.  Further,  when  Mr 
Laing  puts  himself  forward  as  an 
army  reformer,  and  claims  to  have 
converted  a  deficit  of  six  millions 
into  a  surplus,  by  striking  150,000 
men  off  the  Indian  army,  it  may 
be  as  well  to  point  out  that 
what  really  happened  was  the  re- 
duction and  partial  disbandment  of 
the  army  which  had  been  raised  to 
put  down  the  Mutiny.  One  might 
as  well  call  the  late  Sir  George 
Lewis  an  army  reformer  because  he 
happened  to  be  Chancellor  of  the 
Exchequer  when  the  English  army 
was  brought  back  to  a  peace  estab- 
lishment on  the  termination  of  the 
Crimean  war.  The  Indian  army 
was  reduced  to  a  peace  establish- 
ment in  1861,  at  which  it  has  re- 
mained ever  since.  The  reduction 
having  been  made  once,  there 
was  no  room  for  repeating  the 
operation;  and  a  just  criticism 
which  might  be  made  on  the 
recent  military  operations  is,  not 
that  they  were  undertaken  in 
excessive  strength,  but  that  the 
Indian  Government  plunged  into 


1880.] 


Tlie  Financial  Situation  in  India. 


133 


war  with  an  army  still  on  a  peace 
establishment,  and  without  mak- 
ing any  adequate  arrangements  for 
the  necessary  augmentation  of  the 
rank  and  file,  a  deficiency  in  which 
has  been  throughout  productive 
of  great  embarrassment.  The  real 
cause  for  the  present  costliness 
of  the  Indian  army  is  not  undue 
strength  in  numbers,  but  its  ex- 
tremely expensive  organisation. 
This  organisation,  which  replaced 
the  economical  system  previously 
obtaining,  was  carried  out  in  1861, 
and  the  very  important  effect  which 
it  would  involve  on  the  cost  of  the 
army  in  the  future  might  and 
should  have  been  foreseen.  Here, 
truly,  was  scope  for  the  action  of 
an  intelligent  financier.  The  In- 
dian military  estimates  are  becom- 
ing larger  year  by  year,  mainly  in 
consequence  of  the  enormous  bur- 
den prospectively  created  by  the 
measures  of  1861,  in  the  shape  of 
non-effective  charges  due  to  the 
vicious  system  of  promotion  then 
introduced ;  but  it  does  not  appear 
that  Mr  Laing  uttered  a  word  of 
remonstrance.  The  grave  difficul- 
ties which  now  await  solution, 
arising  out  of  the  costly  organisa- 
tion of  the  Indian  army,  are  a 
legacy  bequeathed  from  the  time 
when  Mr  Laing  was  a  member  of 
the  Indian  Government. 

So  much  for  Mr  Laing.  As  for 
the  general  question  at  issue,  we 
submit  that,  so  far  from  there  being 
reasonable  ground  for  supposing 
that  the  condition  of  India  is  one 
of  decay,  all  the  evidence  points 
the  other  way.  The  increasing 
railway  traffic  and  foreign  trade 
indicate  that  India  is  really  in  a 
flourishing  condition,  notwithstand- 
ing that  the  effects  of  the  famine 
have  not  yet  passed  away,  and  that 
India,  in  common  with  all  parts  of 


the  world,  has  been  suffering  from 
the  general  depression  of  trade.  A 
country  may,  however,  be  prosperous 
while  yet  the  finances  of  its  Govern- 
ment are  in  an  unsound  state.  And 
although  it  may  be  absurd  to  in- 
dulge in  fits  of  hysterics  about  the 
matter,  it  does  not  follow  that 
there  is  no  need  for  vigorous  action. 
The  Indian  finances  during  the 
last  few  years  have  been  subject 
to  several  violent  strains  :  the  suc- 
cessive famines;  the  depreciation 
of  silver;  and  now  a  costly  war. 
That  they  should  have  stood  the 
shock  so  well ;  that  all  these  de- 
mands (the  famines  alone  involved 
a  direct  outlay  of  14|  millions  dur- 
ing the  past  six  years,  besides  a 
great  indirect  expenditure)  should 
have  been  met,  up  to  the  present 
time,  out  of  current  revenue  without 
producing  a  deficit,* — is  remarkable 
evidence  of  the  inherent  soundness 
of  the  financial  situation.  Still  these 
difficulties,  although  they  have  so 
far  been  successfully  overcome,  have 
left  their  mark.  Others  of  a  similar 
kind  may  be  expected  to  occur  in 
the  future ;  while  the  present  war, 
if  borne  by  India,  will  certainly 
involve  a  permanent  burden  in  the 
form  of  interest  for  an  increase  of 
the  public  debt.  Nor  is  it  enough 
that  the  country  should  just  pay  its 
way.  The  principle  which  underlay 
the  proposed  Famine  Insurance 
Fund  —  that  a  surplus  should  be 
provided  in  good  years  wherewith 
to  meet  bad  ones — is  undoubtedly 
one  that  ought  to  be  followed  up. 
To  arrive  at  a  mere  equilibrium 
between  income  and  expenditure 
is  not  sufficient.  The  needs  of  the 
case  will  not  be  satisfactorily  met 
by  less  than  a  substantial  surplus 
in  ordinary  years.  This  can  be 
arrived  at  only  by  increased  taxa- 
tion, or  a  reduction  of  expenditure, 


*  During  the  last  eleven  years  the  revenues  of  India  have  amounted  to  5834  millions 
and  the  expenditure  to  about  a  quarter  of  a  million  less.  This  expenditure  includes 
all  that  incurred  on  public  works  which  are  not  expected  to  prove  remunerative,  as 
well  as  all  charges  for  interest  on  capital  outlay. 


134 


The  Financial  Situation  in  India. 


or  by  a  combination  of  both.  In 
dealing  with  Indian  expenditure 
there  is  abundant  room  for  the 
exercise  of  financial  ability  and 
ingenuity.  The  cost  of  Indian  ad- 
ministration is  unquestionably  sus- 
ceptible of  reduction.  The  army  as 
now  organised  is  on  a  most  expen- 
sive footing,  and  it  will  need  a 
strong  and  persistent  effort  to  carry 
through  the  reforms  recommended 
by  the  Commission  appointed  by 
the  late  Governor  -  General.  The 
tendency  manifested  of  late  years 
to  the  employment  of  Europeans 
in  excess  of  the  real  needs  of  the 
country,  is  another  matter  calling 
for  early  action.  Unless  the  thing 
is  checked  now,  a  serious  financial 
difficulty  is  being  laid  up  for  the 
future. 

A  reform  of  the  kind  here  indi- 
cated, far  from  injuring  the  pros- 
pects and  position  of  the  European 
members  of  the  Indian  services, 
may  by  good  management  be  made 
conducive  to  their  best  interests. 
The  truth  is,  that  the  European 
services  are  now  in  course  of  under- 
going serious  deterioration  as  fields 
of  employment,  by  the  excessive  ad- 
ditions made  to  their  junior  ranks, 
the  effect  of  which  is  to  retard  un- 
duly promotion  to  the  higher  posts. 
By  an  alteration  of  system,  there- 
fore, the  European  services  may 
be  improved,  or  rather  restored  to 
their  old  footing;  while  the  im- 
pending liability  may  be  got  rid 
of  for  increased  pensions  or  other 


[July  1880. 


remedies  for  maintaining  a  proper 
current  of  promotion,  which  other- 
wise will  inevitably  have  to  be  in- 
curred. These  are  merely  some 
among  many  points  demanding  at- 
tention. With  respect  to  the  other 
side  of  the  account — the  revenue, 
and  the  best  way  of  increasing  it — 
what  seems  to  be  needed  is,  not  a 
feeble  imitation  of  English  methods 
applied  to  a  country  for  which  they 
may  be  quite  unsuitable,  but  the 
power  to  grasp  the  peculiar  condi- 
tions of  India,  and  to  wield  them 
for  the  improvement  of  the  finances. 
Sir  John  Strachey's  method  of  deal- 
ing with  the  salt -duties  and  the 
inland-customs  line  is  an  instance 
in  point ;  but  there  remains  abun- 
dant room  for  the  exercise  of  fiscal 
originality.  As  regards  other  mat- 
ters, one  great  administrative  re- 
form, much  called  for,  is  the  clear 
separation  of  the  debt  incurred  for 
public  works  from  the  general  debt 
of  India,  so  that  the  former  may  be 
exhibited,  like  the  capital  of  the 
guaranteed  railways,  altogether  apart 
from  other  liabilities.  The  thing  is 
quite  possible,  and  if  carried  out 
would  put  an  end  to  a  great  deal 
of  foolish  writing  on  the  subject. 
Finally,  the  military  and  other  ac- 
counts have  to  be  reformed.  Here, 
then,  is  abundant  room  for  the  ex- 
ercise of  financial  and  administra- 
tive ability,  without  assuming  that 
the  task  to  be  performed  is  so  grave 
and  difficult  as  the  salvation  of  In- 
dia from  impending  bankruptcy. 


Printed  ly  William  Llackwood  cfc  Sons. 


BLACKWOOD'S 
EDINBUEGH    MAGAZINE. 


No.  DCCLXXVIII.  AUGUST   1880. 


VOL.  CXXVIII. 


A  KEINDEEK  KTDE   THROUGH  LAPLAND. 


THERE  are  few  modes  of  loco- 
motion novel  to  the  literature  of 
the  present  day.  We  have  had 
"Walks"  innumerable  over  many 
continents.  "  Bides  "  on  all  species 
of  animals  from  the  elephant  to  the 
donkey  have  recently  become  the 
rage.  A  volume  is  almost  a  neces- 
sary sequel  to  a  yachting  cruise ; 
and  even  canoeing  has  provided  us 
with  a  small  library  of  its  own. 
If  reindeer  travelling  has  been  less 
fully  described,  it  is  because  it  has 
been  less  generally  resorted  to. 
But  Lapland  no  longer  lies  outside 
the  possibilities  of  the  tourist;  and 
we  have  no  doubt  that  many  readers, 
to  whom  the  experiences  which  we 
are  about  to  record  will  be  fresh, 
may  be  tempted  on  their  own  ac- 
count to  essay  a  tour  by  reindeer 
within  the  Arctic  Circle;  while 
others,  less  ambitious  to  be  thought 
venturesome,  may  be  pleased  to 
have  an  opportunity  of  acquiring 
some  information  at  second  hand 
upon  the  subject. 


At  seven  o'clock  on  the  morning 
of  Sunday,  16th  March  1879,  we 
left  Hammerfest,  the  most  norther- 
ly town  in  the  world,  by  the  little 
steamer  Robert,  bound  for  the  in- 
ner reaches  of  the  beautiful  Alten 
Fjord.  Our  party  consisted  of  four: 
the  amtmand*  of  Finmarken  and 
his  son,  the  forstmester,  and  my- 
self. Our  immediate  destination 
was  Bosekop,  where  we  expected 
to  meet  our  Lapp  guides  with 
their  reindeer,  to  take  us  over  the 
fjeld  to  Vadsoe  on  the  Varanger 
Fjord,  fully  three  hundred  miles 
away. 

The  weather  was  anything  but 
propitious.  Thick,  lowering  clouds 
were  gathering  in  the  south-east, 
and  everything  seemed  to  threaten 
that  in  a  very  short  time  a  severe 
snowstorm  would  fall  upon  us. 
This  in  itself  would  have  been  of 
no  consequence  had  it  not  been 
that  it  would,  firstly,  hinder  us 
from  seeing  the  splendid  rock-for- 
mations of  Alten,  and  secondly, 


*  The  office  of  amtmand  corresponds  to  that  of  high  sheriff  or  lord-lieutenant  in 
this  country,  though  the  functionary  most  nearly  resembling  him  is  the  French 
prtfet. 

VOL.  CXXVIII. — NO.  DCCLXXVIII.  K 


136 


A  Reindeer  Ride  through  Lapland. 


[Aug. 


greatly  impede  our  progress  through 
the  country  later  on. 

For  a  considerable  distance  be- 
yond Hammerfest  the  scenery  is 
very  uniform,  and  not  at  all  strik- 
ing. Black  or  grey  cliffs  rise  pre- 
cipitously from  the  sea,  without  a 
particle  of  visible  vegetation  upon 
them,  and  even  the  very  wildness 
and  desolation  of  the  scene,  though 
at  first  impressive,  ceased  to  have 
novelty,  and  at  length  became 
positively  depressing.  No  number 
of  jagged  peaks  and  curiously  nar- 
row sounds  and  fjords  can  compen- 
sate for  the  absence  of  colour  and 
life  in  the  landscape.  Still  there 
was  much  to  attract  one's  atten- 
tion. In  particular,  the  different 
old  shore-marks  on  the  cliffs  were 
very  interesting.  The  highest  of 
these  was  over  100  feet  above  the 
present  water-level;  and  two  or 
three  other  distinct  lines  just  like 
terraces  were  visible  almost  the 
whole  length  of  the  fjord.  It  is 
still  an  open  question  among  scien- 
tific men  whether  these  ancient  sea- 
margin  marks  have  been  caused  by 
a  sinking  of  the  waters  or  by  an 
upheaval  of  the  land.  To  me  the 
latter  supposition  seemed  the  more 
tenable,  as  the  irregularity  of  the 
lines,  now  dipping  ten  feet,  and 
then  rising  again,  seem  to  point  to 
the  conclusion  that  such  was  their 
origin;  for  had  they  been  caused 
by  the  sea-level  falling,  the  lines 
would  have  been  of  equal  height 
throughout. 

All  observation,  however,  speed- 
ily became  impossible,  aa  the  long- 
threatened  storm  at  last  burst  upon 
us,  and  in  a  short  time  even  the 
coast,  only  a  few  yards  off,  became 
but  a  mere  dim  outline.  The  storm 
continued  till  four  o'clock.  At 
that  hour  we  passed  a  headland 
on  one  side  of  which  all  was  dark 
and  gloomy,  with  snow  falling 
rapidly,  while  on  the  other  side 
the  sun  was  shining  in  all  its 


splendour,  and  not  a  cloud  was 
to  be  seen.  Even  behind,  from 
where  we  had  just  come,  there  was 
not  a  cloud  visible  in  the  sky,  but 
the  snow  lay  like  a  fog-bank  on  the 
sea,  forming  a  wall  fifty  or  sixty 
yards  high,  above  which  the  clear 
sky  was  visible.  The  scene  before 
us  was  lovely.  A  calm  expanse 
of  sunlit  water  with  a  background 
of  wooded  hills  was  gradually  suc- 
ceeded in  the  distance  by  high,  pure 
white  mountains,  still  and  serene. 
The  sun  was  now  sinking,  and  the 
ripples  on  the  surface  of  the  water 
shone  like  molten  gold,  while  the 
white  crests  of  the  hills  assumed  a 
crimson  glow,  contrasting  magnifi- 
cently with  their  snowy  drapery. 
In  spite  of  the  beauty  of  sun, 
mountains,  and  fjord,  however,  we 
could  not  help  feeling  the  severe 
cold,  which  already,  early  in  the 
afternoon,  was  about  20°  to  25°  of 
frost,  though  it  is  true  that  the 
calmness  of  the  air  caused  it  to  be 
much  less  perceptible  than  might 
have  been  expected. 

On  the  quay  at  Bosekop  we 
found  almost  the  whole  population 
waiting  to  receive  us,  and  among 
them  were  our  Lapp  drivers,  who 
had  come  down  from  the  fjeld 
the  previous  evening  to  meet  us. 
They  had  left  their  reindeer  in 
the  wood  close  to  the  town,  as 
these  animals,  being  very  timid, 
do  not  tolerate  the  presence  or 
neighbourhood  of  strange  men  and 
beasts,  and  would  consequently,  if 
kept  in  the  town  itself,  have  become 
utterly  unmanageable.  It  was  im- 
possible to  escape  a  slight  conver- 
sation with  the  Lapps ;  but  this 
being  got  through,  we  found  our 
way  quickly  to  the  hotel,  or  rather 
lodging-house,  where  we  were  to 
spend  a  few  hours  before  starting 
for  the  interior.  This  hotel  was 
a  very  bad  specimen  of  its  kind; 
the  only  commendable  thing  about 
it  was  the  ventilation,  which,  how- 


1880.] 


A  Reindeer  Ride  through  Lapland. 


137 


ever,  was  entirely  uncontrolled, 
for  it  came  chiefly  through  holes 
and  fissures  in  the  plank  -  walls 
of  the  building ;  and  ventilation, 
be  it  ever  so  desirable  and  healthy 
generally,  has  decidedly  its  draw- 
backs at  a  temperature  of  3°  below 
zero  of  Fahr.,  as  the  thermometer 
this  evening  registered. 

In  order  to  pass  the  spare  time 
before  our  departure,  two  of  us  pro- 
cured snow-shoes,  and  set  off  for  a 
walk  to  Bugten,  lying  on  the  other 
side  of  a  pretty  thickly  wooded  and 
high  peninsula  north  of  Bosekop. 
We  covered  the  distance  to  Bugten 
in  a  very  short  time,  and  on  our 
arrival  were  much  struck  by  the 
wonderful  size  and  beauty  of  the 
trees  about  the  place.  Some  Scotch 
firs  we  computed  to  be  fully  sixty 
feet  high ;  while  we  were  told  that 
the  birch  in  some  few  cases  attains 
a  height  of  fifty  feet  in  this  neigh- 
bourhood. Returning  by  another 
road,  we  passed  the  place  of  exe- 
cution of  three  Lapps,  who,  with 
others,  had  been  found  guilty  of  the 
murder  of  several  people  in  Kauto- 
kino  some  years  ago, — in  an  out- 
break of  religious  fanaticism,  it  is 
said ;  but  this,  I  think,  must  have 
been  but  a  pretext.  The  real  object 
must  have  been  plunder,  as  every 
Lapp  I  saw  was  utterly  indif- 
ferent to  religion.  One  of  the 
criminals  pretended  that  his  head 
could  not  be  taken  off;  and,  strange- 
ly enough,  the  executioner  failed 
twice  to  make  any  impression  on 
the  neck  of  the  condemned  man, 
until  the  priest,  who  was  present, 
reminded  him  of  the  ancient  Nor- 
wegian law  which  decrees  that,  if 
an  executioner  fail  three  times,  he 
himself  shall  be  placed  in  the  stead 
of  the  felon.  This  remark  nerving 
the  man,  he  made  a  desperate  effort, 
and  succeeded.  On  the  priest  tell- 
ing another  of  the  fellows  that  he 
had  the  "  brand  of  Cain "  upon 
him,  he  cleverly  retorted  in  the 


words  of  the  text,  "Ah,  the  Lord 
set  a  mark  upon  Cain  lest  any  find- 
ing him  should  kill  him  ! " 

Twice  a-year  a  great  fair  is  held 
in  Bosekop,  at  which  the  Lapps 
obtain  a  good  and  ready  market  for 
their  produce,  consisting  chiefly  of 
reindeer  articles  and  ptarmigan. 
This  market  or  fair  is  largely  at- 
tended by  the  traders  of  the  neigh- 
bouring towns,  and  even  Thrond- 
hjem  firms  send  their  representatives 
to  make  purchases,  and  to  dispose 
of  articles  of  finery  to  the  nomads. 
The  chief  staple  is,  however,  brandy, 
and  the  method  of  dealing  generally 
barter.  The  nomads  are  wonder- 
fully sharp  at  a  bargain,  and  are 
quite  capable  of  taking  charge  of 
their  own  interests.  But  of  them 
more  hereafter. 

It  being  our  last  evening  in  a 
civilised  place  for  some  days  to 
come,  we  spent  it  at  the  hotel,  re- 
tiring to  rest  early,  in  order  to  be 
able  to  rise  in  good  time  on  the 
morrow,  when  our  interesting  jour- 
ney was  to  commence  Our  Lapps 
did  not  fail  to  pay  us  a  visit,  and 
were  not  at  all  backward  in  suggest- 
ing that  a  "tram"  of  jugasta 
(brandy)  would  be  very  agreeable 
in  such  cold  weather. 

At  the  appointed  hour  our  wa- 
pooses  (as  the  Lapp  guides  are 
called)  arrived  with  their  reindeer, 
and  after  getting  Kari  (the  good- 
wife)  to  stuff  our  reindeer  -  skin 
boots  well  with  a  sort  of  dried 
grass,  called  senne,  we  donned 
our  travelling  costumes,  which  I 
must  describe.  You  keep  on  your 
ordinary  habit,  and  over  that  you 
generally  put  a  thick  woollen  jer- 
sey or  Shetland  jacket.  You  next 
put  on  a  pair  of  small  skin-boots, 
and  cover  these  again  with  huge 
Wellingtons,  also  of  reindeer-skin, 
reaching  far  above  the  knee.  These 
being  properly  tied  and  fastened, 
you  attire  yourself  in  the  chief 
garment  of  the  whole,  which  is 


138 


A  Reindeer  Ride  through  Lapland. 


[Aug. 


the  blouse  or  pesTc.  This  is  open 
only  at  the  foot  and  neck,  and 
has  a  very  high  collar.  On  getting 
into  it  you  must  of  course  creep 
from  below,  which  is  decidedly  an 
uncomfortable  and  difficult  opera- 
tion when  you  are  not  accustomed 
to  it;  and  I,  for  my  part,  would 
never  have  succeeded  in  getting 
through,  had  not  some  one  come 
to  my  assistance,  and  discovered 
that  the  neck  was  as  yet  tied, 
thus  effectually  hindering  all  my 
desperate  attempts  to  emerge  into 
the  open  air  again.  On  escaping 
from  my  temporary  confinement,  I 
had  next  to  allow  a  curious-shaped 
bonnet  or  hat  of  cloth,  filled  with 
eider-down,  to  be  put  upon  my 
head ;  and  after  this  it  only  wanted 
the  huge  reindeer-skin  gauntlets  to 
completely  transform  me  into  an 
aborigine  of  the  country.  As  a  re- 
serve we  also  were  provided  with 
a  tippet  or  collar  of  bear -skin, 
which,  however,  would  only  be  of 
service  in  case  a  storm  or  snow- 
fog  should  arise.  Nor  did  we  omit 
to  take  with  us  a  good-sized  flask 
of  cognac,  and  also  a  pair  of  blue- 
spectacles, —  these  latter  for  the 
purpose  of  preserving  our  eyes  from 
the  glare  of  the  snow.  As  may  be 
imagined,  it  is  exceedingly  difficult 
to  move  about  freely  in  this  volu- 
minous costume ;  and  it  was  with 
a  feeling  of  relief  that  we  heard  the 
wapooses  give  the  word  to  take  our 
places  in  our  boat-shaped  sleighs, 
called  poolks.  To  a  stranger  these 
poollfs  at  first  sight  seem  awk- 
ward conveyances.  They  are  con- 
structed without  runners,  and  have 
a  keel  from  3  to  5  inches  wide,  and 
about  1 J  inch  high.  Made  entirely 
of  wood,  pointed  in  front,  and 
gradually  becoming  broader  behind, 
they  are  very  light  and  easily  drawn. 
For  one  who  has  never  sat  in  them 
before,  it  is  almost  impossible  to 
preserve  equilibrium ;  and  the  arms 
have  constant  employment  to  keep 


one  from  upsetting.  M.  Eegnard, 
who  travelled  in  Lapland  towards 
the  end  of  the  seventeenth  century, 


"  A  Lapp  sledge  is  called  a  poolk, 
and  is  elevated  in.  front  to  keep  out 
the  snow.  The  prow  consists  of  one 
plank,  and  the  body  is  composed  of 
several  pieces  sewed  together  with 
strong  reindeer-sinews,  and  without  a 
single  nail.  This  is  joined  to  another 
piece  about  four  fingers  broad,  which 
goes  beyond  the  rest  of  the  structure, 
and  is  exactly  like  the  keel  of  a  ship. 
It  is  on  this  that  the  sledge  runs,  and 
from  its  narrowness  constantly  rolls 
from  side  to  side.  The  traveller  sits 
inside  as  in  a  coffin,  with  the  lower 
part  of  his  body  covered,  and  being 
firmly  tied  there,  with  only  his  hands 
free  in  order  to  hold  the  rein.  He 
must  balance  himself  very  carefully 
lest  he  should  be  killed,  as  the  sledge 
descends  the  steepest  hills  with  hor- 
rible swiftness." 

Though  the  traveller  makes  some 
mistake  with  regard  to  being  tied 
up  in  the  sledge,  he  is  quite  correct 
in  the  latter  part  of  the  quotation, 
as  I  soon  found  before  I  had  pro- 
ceeded many  miles. 

With  the  exception  of  one  of  the 
party,  we  were  all  greenhorns,  and 
were  therefore  not  permitted  to 
drive  alone,  but  were  put  in  "  lead- 
ing-strings." Our  reindeer  was  tied 
to  the  poolTfs  in  front,  while  an- 
other animal  tied  behind  us  acted 
as  a  kind  of  stop,  and  served  also 
to  assist  in  keeping  a  fair  balance. 
It  was,  therefore,  not  exactly  with 
eclat  that  our  cavalcade  of  fifteen 
deer  left  Bosekop,  setting  off  at  a 
hard  gallop  towards  the  wilds  we 
were  to  traverse.  Even  with  our 
balancing  reindeer,  it  was  desper- 
ately difficult  to  keep  from  capsiz- 
ing ;  and  as,  from  the  number  of 
trees  and  stones  in  the  way  at  the 
beginning,  it  was  dangerous  to  put 
out  the  arm,  ihepoolk  was  as  often 
uppermost  as  undermost.  I,  for 
my  part,  caught  myself  inwardly 


1880.] 


A  Reindeer  Ride  through  Lapland. 


139 


cursing  my  folly  in  having  suffered 
myself  to  be  inveigled  into  taking 
part  in  such  a  journey;  and  I  began 
to  heartily  wish  myself  back  in  my 
old  quarters  at  Bosekop.  Some  con- 
solation, however,  there  was  in  the 
fact  that  I  would  be  sure  to  find 
a  surgeon  only  150  miles  further 
on,  which  was  a  guarantee  that 
mortification  of  any  possible  wounds 
would  not  have  had  time  to  set  in 
before  obtaining  medical  aid. 

After  having  driven  pretty  even- 
ly for  about  seven  miles,  we  came 
to  the  limits  of  civilisation  in  the 
shape  of  the  last  hut  between  Bose- 
kop and  Karasjok.  Here  several  of 
us  received  the  information  from 
our  wapoos  that  henceforth  we 
were  to  drive  alone  ;  and  before  we 
were  able  to  protest,  the  single  rein 
was  cast  round  and  round  our  hand, 
and  we  were  left  to  our  fate.  Being 
entirely  ignorant  what  to  do,  I 
trusted  wholly  to  Providence  and 
my  deer,  and  without  daring  to 
tighten  the  rein,  allowed  the  ani- 
mal to  take  its  own  way,  which  it 
did  very  properly  and  calmly. 

The  forstmester  was  not  so  for- 
tunate. He  had  received  a  fast  and 
very  hot-headed  brute,  which,  im- 
mediately on  discovering  that  it 
had  an  extra  load  to  drag,  com- 
menced to  gallop  round  and  round 
in  a  small  circle,  very  soon  up- 
setting the  poolk,  and  leaving  its 
occupant  ignominiously  sprawling 
on  the  snow.  After  a  good  deal 
of  struggling  and  hard  work  he 
regained  his  seat ;  and  as  the  rest 
of  us  had  by  this  time  fairly  start- 
ed and  were  already  some  distance 
off,  the  deer  set  out  to  rejoin  his 
fellows,  and  was  soon  trotting 
quietly  enough  in  the  rear  of  us  all, 
only,  however,  to  repeat  its  cantrips 
several  times  later  on. 

With  the  exception  of  this  little 
contretemps,  the  start  was  success- 
fully accomplished,  and  now  we 
had  time  to  examine  the  country. 


Hitherto,  we  had  driven  through 
a  beautifully  wooded  valley,  evi- 
dently a  former  riparian  lake,  as  the 
shore -marks  on  the  neighbouring 
heights  seemed  to  indicate.  Gradu- 
ally, however,  trees  became  fewer 
and  fewer,  and  soon  in  front  of  us 
and  on  both  sides  we  saw  nothing 
but  a  wild  waste  of  snow,  stretch- 
ing many  miles  away  to  the  south- 
east, in  which  direction  our  course 
lay.  Here  the  glare  of  the  sun  on 
the  snow  rendered  it  necessary  for 
us  to  put  on  our  coloured  spec- 
tacles. Strangely  enough,  though 
the  heat  of  the  sun  seemed  to  be 
considerable,  it  did  not  in  the 
slightest  degree  affect  the  snow. 

Up  to  this  time  the  weather  had 
been  delightful,  and  even  warm — at 
least  so  it  seemed  to  us  ;  while  our 
faces  were  tanned  by  the  sun  much 
more  than  would  have  been  the 
case  in  a  southern  latitude  during 
the  same  space  of  time.  But  now, 
snow-clouds  began  to  gather  on  the 
western  horizon,  and  as  we  acci- 
dentally came  upon  a  patch  of 
ground  where  reindeer  -  moss  (the 
only  food  of  these  animals  in  win- 
ter) abounded,  the  wapooses  thought 
it  best  to  rest  and  feed  a  little 
before  the  threatening  storm  com- 
menced. The  deer  were  then  cast 
loose  and  allowed  to  follow  their 
inclinations.  One  would  think  it 
rather  a  risky  proceeding  to  set 
half-tamed  animals  at  liberty  in  the 
midst  of  such  a  large  tract  of  ground 
as  that  we  now  were  on ;  but  it  is 
very  seldom  that  any  attempt  to  es- 
cape ;  for  their  instinct  would  seem 
to  tell  them,  that  without  man  to 
assist  and  protect  them,  they  would 
speedily  fall  a  prey  to  the  numerous 
wolves  which  infest  Finmarken. 
When  the  time  came  to  resume  our 
journey,  I  felt  curious  to  see  how 
our  Lapps  would  recapture  the 
deer,  which  had  now  strayed  to  a 
considerable  distance.  The  three 
wapooses  walked  in  a  most  non- 


140 


A  Reindeer  Ride  through  Lapland. 


[Aug. 


chalant  manner  slowly  forward  at 
an  angle  to  where  the  deer  were 
quietly  browsing,  and  then  gradu- 
ally working  their  way  round  so  as 
to  get  behind  them,  they  gently 
take  hold  of  any  rein  trailing  on 
the  ground,  and  having  caught  one, 
the  capture  of  the  rest  is  easily 
accomplished.  Each  wapoos  had 
under  his  or  her  charge  five  deer ; 
and  except  on  these  five  animals 
they  did  not  bestow  a  thought, 
leaving  the  others  to  each  capture 
his  own  individual  five  as  best  he 
could.  Even  the  old  wapoos,  Mlas 
by  name,  did  not  offer  to  assist  his 
better  half,  nor  did  she  seem  to 
expect  such  help.  The  animals 
having  been  speedily  got  in  order, 
the  next  thing  was  to  harness  them, 
which  is  done  in  this  fashion : 
The  deer  has  a  skin -collar  round 
its  shoulders,  to  which  is  fastened 
a  long  strap,  also  of  untanned  skin, 
which  going  between  the  legs  of 
the  animal,  is  tied  to  a  ring  at  the 
prow  of  the  poolk.  The  single  rein 
with  which  we  drive  is  made  fast 
to  the  left  side  of  the  head,  and  is 
held  in  the  right  hand.  In  steering, 
you  must,  if  you  wish  to  turn  to 
the  right,  cast  the  rein  over  to  the 
right  shoulder  of  the  animal,  and 
pull  or  rather  tug  a  little.  If  you 
wish  to  go  faster,  you  can  strike 
with  the  rein  on  the  animal's  sides 
and  back ;  though  if  you  have  a 
wild  brute  this  is  rather  dangerous, 
as  it  on  being  struck  becomes  ut- 
terly unmanageable,  and  therefore 
it  is  generally  quite  sufficient  to 
raise  the  left  hand  as  if  for  a  blow, 
which  will  cause  the  deer  to  rush 
off  smartly  enough. 

The  moment  the  foremost  deer 
starts  all  the  others  follow  in  a  long 
line,  winding  in  and  out  according 
as  the  leader's  tracks  go.  All  deer 
cannot  be  induced  to  lead  the  way ; 
in  fact  very  many  are  trained  to 
follow  only,  as  they  then  become 
much  more  easily  managed  as  bag- 


gage-deer. Over  all  Finmarken, 
and  in  fact  all  Lapland,  one  never 
sees  two  deer  harnessed  together  or 
with  proper  gear.  In  this  respect 
the  Samoyedes  are  far  more  prac- 
tical, and  not  only  do  they  bring 
the  animal  to  the  same  state  of 
subjection  as  the  horse  with  us, 
but  they  use  entire  bucks  for  do- 
mestic purposes, — an  unheard-of 
thing  in  Lapland,  where  even  does 
are  considered  as  too  spirited  to  be 
safely  used. 

Bat  to  come  back  from  this  di- 
gression to  our  journey.  To  avoid 
accidents  it  had  been  arranged  that 
the  baggage  -  drivers  should  keep 
the  rear,  and  on  no  account  pass 
those  who,  though  driving  alone, 
were  entirely  inexperienced,  and 
who  therefore,  in  case  of  bad 
weather,  ran  a  certain  amount  of 
risk  of  losing  themselves.  By  this 
time  a  raging  snowstorm  had  com- 
menced, and  the  cold  was  severe, 
the  thermometer  being  only  5°  or 
6°  above  zero.  The  flakes  of  snow 
cut  our  faces  as  if  they  had  been 
needles.  Worst  of  all,  our  cheeks 
took  on  a  coating  of  ice  and  per- 
fectly blinded  most  of  us,  the  hol- 
lows of  our  eyes  being  entirely 
filled  with  frozen  snow.  At  first  I 
attempted  to  pick  this  away,  but 
soon  found  that  that  was  impos- 
sible, as  it  would  not  come  away 
without  the  skin  or  flesh  coming'to. 
In  spite  of  all  my  endeavours  to 
keep  ahead,  every  one  of  the  bag- 
gage-deer and  wapooses  had  now 
passed  me,  and  I  at  last  found  my- 
self in  the  midst  of  a  wild  snow- 
storm, with  daylight  almost  gone, 
alone  and  semi-blind  in  the  centre 
of  a  wide  desert.  All  sorts  of  dis- 
agreeable visions  rose  up  before 
me :  tales  of  the  many  who  had  dis- 
appeared for  ever  on  the  fjeld  ;  of 
others  whose  glistening  bones  were 
discovered  to  view  by  returning 
spring  ;  rumours  of  the  large  hordes 
of  wolves  at  present  in  the  neigh- 


1880.] 


A  Reindeer  Ride  through  Lapland. 


141 


bout-hood  ;  and  lastly,  fear  of  frost- 
bite, all  combined  to  make  me  feel 
very  uncomfortable.  There  was, 
however,  "  balm  in  Gilead,"  and 
noticing  how  contentedly  my  rein- 
deer jogged  along,  following  a  track 
invisible  to  me,  I  felt  somewhat 
reassured.  Still,  during  the  half- 
hour  which  followed,  I  often  almost 
despaired  of  coming  up  with  the 
others  again.  At  last,  however, 
the  welcome  sound  of  a  dog's  bark 
fell  on  my  ear,  my  deer  quickened 
its  steps,  and  in  a  short  time  I  was 
in  the  midst  of  my  friends  at  the 
first  fjeld  -  station,  named  Jotka 
Javre.  My  non-arrival  had  caused 
them  some  anxiety;  for,  as  I  had 
conjectured,  my  absence,  owing  to 
the  darkness  and  snow,  had  not 
been  noticed  until  they  all  arrived 
at  the  station,  and  they  conse- 
quently could  not  know  how  far 
behind  I  might  be.  Had  we  not 
been  so  near  the  fjeld-stue  when 
the  storm  came  on,  the  conse- 
quences to  me  might  have  been 
disastrous.  Naturally,  after  such 
a  long  day's  work,  we  were  very 
hungry,  and  viewed  with  satisfac- 
tion the  preparations  made  for  our 
refreshment.  Never  do  I  remem- 
ber having  partaken  of  food  which 
I  relished  so  well  as  in  that  hum- 
ble stue.  And  then,  what  more 
agreeable  drink  than  hot  steaming 
cognac-toddy  to  serve  as  a  nightcap 
to  the  weary  traveller  before  re- 
tiring to  rest  1  Owing  to  the  cold 
the  cognac  seemed  quite  weak  ;  and 
enormous  quantities  were  consumed 
that  evening,  and  continued  to  be 
consumed  every  evening  during  the 
trip. 

The  station  we  now  found  our- 
selves in  was  a  very  agreeable  and 
cosy  little  place.  Everything  was 
clean  and  nice  ;  our  beds  were 
simply  shelves  covered  with  dry 
birch- sprays,  upon  which  were  laid 
a  reindeer-skin  or  two.  This  formed 
a  comfortable,  though  very  hard 


couch,  which  was  most  assuredly 
very  welcome  after  a  day's  exertions 
in  a  poolk,  where  the  bones  suffer 
so  much  from  the  continual  jolting. 
Well,  to  these  birch  couches  we 
retired  after  our  snug  supper,  well 
tired-out  by  our  drive,  but  not  for- 
getting to  first  take  a  look  at  the 
weather  outside,  so  as  to  have  some 
idea  of  our  next  day's  probable 
trials.  Though  the  snow  was  not 
now  falling  so  thickly,  it  was  still 
with  gloomy  forebodings  that  we 
laid  ourselves  down,  and  were  soon 
in  the  arms  of  "  Nature's  sweet 
restorer,  balmy  sleep."  "While  the 
others  are  sleeping,  it  may  be  inter- 
esting to  tell  a  little  of  the  fjeld- 
stue  and  its  inhabitants. 

Situated  between  two  somewhat 
extensive  lakes,  separated  only  by  a 
very  narrow  strip  of  ground,  this  sta- 
tion is  exactly  thirty  miles  from  the 
nearest  house  on  one  side,  and  fifty- 
six  to  sixty  miles  on  the  other,  the 
country  between  being  untraversed 
by  regular  roads,  so  that  the  dis- 
tance is  much  more  formidable  than 
the  mileage  would  seem  to  indicate. 
Jotka  Javre,  in  common  with  the 
other  fjeld  -  stues,  was  erected  by 
Government  some  years  ago,  and 
the  keeper  is  salaried  by  the  State. 
As  it  is  very  difficult  to  get  the  soil 
to  yield  anything  so  far  north,  the 
keepers  of  such  places  have  much 
difficulty  in  making  both  ends  meet, 
and  they  have  often  to  endure  great 
privations  ;  in  fact,  should  ptarmi- 
gan any  season  fail  to  visit  the 
neighbourhood,  their  existence  be- 
comes very  precarious  indeed.  This 
year  only  six  of  these  birds  had 
been  snared  there,  and  the  family 
had  suffered  in  consequence. 

The  lakes  on  either  side  of  the 
station  are  full  of  pike,  causing,  of 
course,  a  scarcity  of  other  fish  ;  but 
as  the  people  never  eat  pike  (why, 
or  for  what  reason,  I  could  not  make 
out),  their  fishery  is  of  little  value. 
The  salary  of  the  keeper  was  320 


142 


A  Reindeer  Ride  through  Lapland. 


[Aug. 


Jcroners,  or  about  £18  sterling  ;  and 
this,  added  to  the  payments  from 
strangers  or  visitors  on  stray  occa- 
sions, made  up  tlaefjeld-stue  keeper's 
annual  receipts,  out  of  which  he 
had  to  provide  for  a  family  of  a 
wife  and  six  small  children.  With 
tears  in  his  eyes  he  begged  for  a 
rise  of  salary ;  and  the  amtmand 
promising  to  recommend  an  in- 
crease to  Government,  made  the 
poor  fellow  very  happy.  I  had  a 
little  conversation  with  the  man, 
and  heard  from  him,  with  what 
truth  I  know  not,  that  the  climate 
is  annually  becoming  more  severe. 
He  showed  me  patches  of  ground 
on  which  he  alleged  he  formerly 
had  grown  barley  with  consider- 
able success  ;  but  even  potatoes 
would  hardly  grow  on  it  now. 
From  other  sources  I  later  on 
heard  the  same  opinion  expressed ; 
and,  in  fact,  from  my  own  observa- 
tions, I  have  almost  come  to  the 
same  conclusion. 

At  Jotka  Javre  there  was  no 
reindeer-moss,  and  it  was  therefore 
necessary,  in  order  properly  to  pre- 
pare the  deer  for  the  long  distance 
on  the  morrow,  to  take  them  some 
way  off  where  moss  was  plentiful ; 
but  as  it  was  impossible,  owing  to 
the  number  of  wolves  in  the  district, 
to  leave  the  animals  unguarded 
all  night,  the  wapooses  went  out 
and  slept  on  the  snow -covered 
ground  beside  them.  That  the 
wolves  were  in  great  force  was 
evident  from  the  fact  that  a  large 
pack  had  remained  outside  the 
house  for  a  long  time  the  evening 
before  our  arrival.  They  never 
venture  so  near  except  when  in 
great  numbers,  and  when  half  mad 
with  hunger.  Of  course  the  Lapps 
had  to  get  a  good  strengthener  in 
the  shape  of  jugasta,  or  brandy, 
before  leaving,  and  another  to  re- 
cruit their  benumbed  bodies  on 
returning.  "With  regard  to  the 
brandy  they  consume  the  quantity 


is  absolutely  incredible.  A  quart 
daily  is  the  common  amount,  and 
even  this  large  quantum  is  often  ex- 
ceeded under  trying  circumstances. 
However,  if  we  take  into  account 
the  severe  cold  and  the  consequent 
weakness  of  the  spirits,  this  is  by 
no  means  so  astonishing  as  it  would 
seem  at  first  sight. 

We  were  awakened  in  the  morn- 
ing by  our  wapooses  presenting 
themselves  for  their  usual  morning 
dram,  at  the  same  time  hinting  that 
an  early  start  would  be  agreeable. 
Accordingly,  after  swallowing  an 
extempore  and  hasty  breakfast,  and 
donning  our  garments  of  martyr- 
dom, we  set  out  in  the  best  of 
spirits.  Contrary  to  the  most  san- 
guine expectations,  the  weather  was 
delightful.  The  sun,  just  above 
the  horizon,  already  at  that  early 
hour  gladdened  us  by  his  warmth ; 
while  the  stillness  of  the  clear  and 
pure  air  was  exceedingly  pleasant. 
Just  as  we  were  about  to  step  into 
our  poolks,  one  of  our  party  gave 
vent  to  an  exclamation,  and  pointed 
to  the  snow-clad  lake  before  us.  Yes, 
there  far-off  was  a  dark  moving  line 
which,  soon  coming  nearer,  proved 
to  be,  as  of  course  anticipated,  an- 
other raydn,  or  train  of  poolks. 
We  were  all  impatient  to  find  out 
whether  this  raydn  came  from 
Kautokino  or  Karasjok,  and  were 
much  disappointed  to  hear  that  it 
had  started  from  the  former  place. 
Had  it  come  from  Karasjok  we 
would  have  had  a  road  or  track 
(spoor)  to  follow  the  whole  way, 
which  would  greatly  have  lightened 
our  labour.  Even  as  it  was,  we 
had  cause  to  be  grateful  to  the 
Lapp  in  charge  of  the  cortege  for 
setting  out  so  soon,  as  by  following 
his  spoor  which  lay  in  our  direc- 
tion for  more  than  seven  miles,  we 
would  be  saved  much  time  and 
trouble. 

The  Kautokino  Lapp  differs  from 
him  of  Karasjok  considerably.  For 


1880.] 


A  Reindeer  Hide  through  Lapland. 


143 


instance,  the  former  drives  his 
reindeer  with  the  help  of  a  long 
stick,  which  is  never  done  by  one 
from  Karasjok;  the  latter  also  never 
takes  a  dog  with  him  when  on 
business  excursions,  while  the  for- 
mer is  never  without  one. 

But  to  return  to  ourselves.  After 
allowing  the  other  raydn  to  pass, 
we  also  started.  Our  deer  having 
had  a  good  night's  rest  and  plenty 
of  food,  kept  up  a  good  pace,  and 
as  the  state  of  the  snow  was  just 
all  that  could  be  desired,  we  were 
sure  of  a  quick  and  pleasant  day's 
journey.  Our  way  lay  through  a 
long  and  continuous  chain  of  lakes, 
and  was  decidedly  monotonous ; 
not  a  tree,  not  a  bush,  not  a  living 
thing  in  sight  to  relieve  the  dreari- 
ness and  dulness  of  that  endless 
waste.  Far,  far  away  in  the  dis- 
tance, rose  a  low  ridge  of  hills, 
stretching  completely  across  the 
horizon ;  this  range  formed  the 
watershed  of  the  district,  and  we 
had,  consequently,  until  reaching 
it,  almost  entirely  uphill  work,  but 
had,  of  course,  the  satisfaction  of 
knowing  that  we  should  go  quickly 
enough  downhill  after  we  had  once 
attained  the  summit.  Still,  before 
coming  to  the  real  ascent,  we  had 
many  miles  of  lake  to  traverse. 
The  road  across  these  large  waters 
is  marked  out  by  branches  of  birch 
placed  on  the  ice  at  regular  inter- 
vals. The  labour  of  setting  up  these 
way-marks  every  winter  falls  on  the 
occupants  of  the  fjeld-stue,  and  is 
by  no  means  without  its  risks.  For 
example,  as  the  largest  lake  is  seven 
or  eight  miles  long  and  about  the 
same  breadth,  it  is  no  small  matter 
to  be  in  the  middle  of  this  large 
tract  in  a  snow-storm  or  a  fog. 

As  before  mentioned,  the  deer  I 
had  was  a  staid  and  sensible  animal, 
but  withal  too  slow  for  my  taste ; 
and  so,  noticing  that  I  was  gradually 
falling  behind  as  usual,  I  insisted 
on  a  change  at  the  next  stoppage. 


My  wapoos  did  not  like  this,  but 
he  put  on  an  innocent  look  and 
agreed  to  my  wishes.  He  selected 
from  out  of  his  group  of  five  deer 
the  most  quiet-looking  and  solemn, 
and  harnessing  it  delivered  the 
reins  to  me.  Hardly  had  I  seat- 
ed myself  before  the  beast  began 
dancing  about,  now  on  his  fore- 
legs, now  on  his  hind-legs,  some- 
times even  rolling  over  and  over  in 
the  snow.  I  took  in  the  situation. 
In  order  to  "  pay  me  off "  for  occa- 
sioning him  some  trouble  in  chang- 
ing my  deer,  the  tcapoos  had  given 
me  a  wild,  or  at  least  only  a  partly 
trained  animal.  However,  I  would 
not  be  beaten,  and  accordingly  kept 
my  seat,  allowing  the  brute  to  race 
round  and  round  with  me  in  its 
wake.  I  held  on  as  if  "for  dear 
life."  At  last  an  unexpected  thing 
happened  to  me.  My  deer,  sud- 
denly leaving  off  galloping  in  a 
circle,  made  a  dash  for  the  centre 
of  our  cavalcade,  jumping  over  the 
packing  poolks,  and  finally  over  the 
unfortunate  amtmand,  who,  with 
arms  and  legs  outstretched,  gasped 
for  breath  on  coming  from  under 
the  panting  deer.  After  this  esca- 
pade it  was  useless  to  attempt 
managing  it  alone  ;  and  so,  in  spite 
of  my  protestations,  I  was  tied  fast 
to  the  other  poolks  and  was  in  this 
ignominious  fashion  dragged  several 
miles,  decidedly  thankful  when  I 
was  again  allowed  to  get  back  my 
old  steady-going  jog-trot  beast. 

After  six  hours  we  came  to  the 
ruins  of  what  had  formerly  been  a 
fjeld-stue,  having  accomplished  half 
our  day's  distance,  though  by  far 
the  tougher  part  was  that  before  us. 
This  fjeld-stue  Malasjok,  was  sup- 
posed to  be  uninhabited,  but  we 
found  a  Lapp  there  who  had  passed 
the  whole  winter  snaring  ptarmigan, 
of  which  he  had  about  120.  How 
any  mortal  could  exist  in  such  a 
place  without  a  single  companion, 
not  even  a  dog,  throughout  the  long 


144 


A  Reindeer  Ride  through  Lapland. 


[Aug. 


and  dark  winter  months,  is  extraor- 
dinary. Without  any  intellectual 
pursuit  to  occupy  him  indoors,  and 
subsisting  entirely  on  ptarmigan, 
without  even  a  morsel  of  bread 
the  whole  time,  his  life  must  have 
been  frightful;  but  so  little  was  the 
man  removed  from  the  brute  beast, 
that  he  showed  not  the  slightest 
sign  of  pleasure  at  seeing  a  human 
face  again. 

Quickly  getting  ready  a  cold 
lunch  and  swallowing  a  cup  of  hot 
coffee,  we  were  soon  equal  to  at- 
tempting the  remaining  thirty 
miles  before  us.  Strangely  enough 
there  was  a  stream  of  running 
water  close  to  the  hut,  and  we 
were  informed  that  it  never  froze, 
even  in  the  coldest  weather, 
though  the  lake  from  which  it 
flows  is  frozen  seven  months  of 
the  year.  As  there  was  no  rapid 
fall,  this  circumstance  was  in- 
explicable to  us,  the  more  so  as 
the  water  was  not  perceptibly 
warmer  than  the  snow  and  ice 
around  it. 

The  man  who  had  lived  there 
during  the  winter  begged  to  be 
allowed  to  tie  his  poolk  to  one  of 
our  spare  deer  (he  having  none), 
while  he  himself  accompanied  us 
on  snow-shoes ;  and  as  he  seemed  to 
be  very  anxious  to  leave  Malasjok, 
we  consented,  stipulating,  however, 
for  a  payment  of  twelve  ptarmigan. 
Being  uncommonly  thick-headed 
even  for  a  Lapp,  he  took  this  pro- 
posal seriously,  and  was  evidently 
very  much  annoyed  at  what  he 
considered  our  stinginess.  Still 
there  was  nothing  for  him  but  to 
agree  to  this  bargain,  which  he  did 
with  a  very  bad  grace. 

Though  still  early  in  the  day 
the  cold  was  very  severe,  and  it 
was  with  some  misgiving  that  I 
occasionally  touched  my  nose  and 
chin  to  find  out  if  these  were  yet 
intact,  or  if,  as  sometimes  happens, 
they  had,  unknown  to  me,  dropped 


off  by  the  way.  However,  as  yet  no 
such  calamity  occurred.  With  the 
sun  shining  in  cloudless  splendour 
behind  us,  we  now  faced  the  hills, 
and  after  several  hours  of  very, 
rough  work  reached  the  summit. 
It  was  now  afternoon,  and  the  sun 
cast  a  glorious  red  glow  over  the 
whole  fjeld,  causing  it  to  appear  as 
if  dyed  with  blood. 

One  disagreeable  and  curious  re- 
sult of  the  clear  weather  and  strong 
sunshine  was  the  absolute  disap- 
pearance, if  I  may  call  it,  of  per- 
spective. Looking  before  you,  you 
would  perhaps  see  what  seemed  to 
be  a  very  high  hill  looming  a  great 
distance  in  front  of  you,  which, 
however,  in  a  very  short  time, 
turned  out  to  be  a  small  hillock  a 
few  yards  away.  It  was  on  this 
line  of  march  that  we  encountered 
our  first  sharp  descent,  which  I  shall 
here  describe.  We  had  been  going 
slowly  uphill,  when  suddenly  I 
noticed  the  leading  deer  and  poolk 
disappear  as  if  into  a  hole,  the 
same  occurred  to  all  the  others 
before  me,  and,  on  my  turn  com- 
ing, I  held  fast  to  my  place  ex- 
pecting a  pit  or  something  of  that 
sort.  However,  it  was  only  a  mo- 
mentary movement ;  for  before  I 
could  realise  the  situation,  I  found 
myself  flying  downhill,  at  the 
heels  of  my  deer,  at  a  tremendous 
rate ;  and  not  being  accustomed 
to  such  rapid  motion,  I  soon  flew 
out  of  the  pooUc,  and  was  dragged 
on  my  face  down  the  remainder  of 
the  declivity,  with  the  poolk  some- 
times lying  on  me,  and  sometimes 
entangled  about  the  deer's  legs, 
and  without  doubt  both  poolk  and 
deer  entirely  out  of  my  control. 
On  reaching  the  foot  of  the  hill  I 
found  the  others  waiting  for  me, 
and  ascertained  that  I  was  not  the 
only  one  who  had  preferred  to 
change  his  mode  of  travelling  in 
order  to  relieve  the  back  a  little. 
The  others  praised  me  for  having 


1880.] 


A  Reindeer  Ride  through  Lapland. 


145 


kept  a  hold  of  my  brute,  and  for 
not  slipping  the  rein.  I  cannot, 
however,  say  that  this  praise  was 
exactly  deserved,  as  it  certainly 
was  not  my  fault  that  the  knot  by 
which  I  had  fastened  the  rein  to 
my  hand  refused  to  undo  itself. 

After  several  such  episodes  (for 
we  were  now,  as  before  mentioned, 
on  the  downhill  track)  we,  at  eight 
o'clock,  arrived  at  our  resting-place, 
having  travelled  about  sixty  miles 
that  day,  the  way  being  chiefly 
uphill.  Including  stoppages  and 
dinner-time,  this  distance  took  us 
about  thirteen  hours,  which  must 
be  considered  pretty  fair,  if  we  take 
into  consideration  the  travelling  al- 
ready accomplished  by  the  animals. 

The  country  during  the  last  mile 
or  two  had  entirely  changed  its 
aspect,  and  we  were  now  in  the 
midst  of  a  well-wooded  tract,  which 
was  a  welcome  change  after  the 
desert  we  had  just  passed  through. 
Shortly  before  arriving  at  the  sta- 
tion I  felt  a  curious  numb  sensation 
on  my  chin,  and  on  mentioning  this, 
it  was  found,  after  examination,  to 
be  frost-bitten.  Though  but  slight 
it  was  very  disagreeable,  itching 
fearfully  the  whole  night.  I  am 
informed — and  I  up  till  now  experi- 
ence the  truth  of  the  statement — 
that  the  effects  will  continue  for 
many  years,  especially  showing 
themselves  during  every  extreme  of 
heat  or  cold.  Half  an  hour  after 
our  arrival,  the  Lapp  who  had  set 
out  from  Malasjok  on  snow-shoes 
along  with  us,  arrived,  seemingly 
not  at  all  fatigued  by  his  thirty- 
mile  walk. 

Eavna-stuen,  the  station,  was 
kept  by  a  poor  widow,  with  a  large 
young  family,  and  only  200  kroners, 
about  £11,  a-year  of  salary.  She 
did  not  possess  that  virtue  of  vir- 
tues— cleanliness  ;  in  fact,  the  dirt 
and  squalor  of  her  family  and  her 
house  were  such  that  we  could  not 
bring  ourselves  to  allow  her  to  cook 


anything  for  us  :  and  so  we  con- 
tented ourselves  with  our  tinned 
foods  and  a  steaming  glass  of  the 
"  cratur."  The  warmth  within  effec- 
tually kept  away  the  cold  without, 
though  that  was  not  insignificant, 
for  that  evening  there  was  30^° 
Eeaumur  of  frost,  equal  to  from  34° 
to  36°  below  the  zero  of  Fahrenheit ; 
but  a  few  degrees  more  and  the 
mercury  in  the  glass  would  have 
been  frozen. 

As  a  number  of  Lapps  were  at 
the  time  staying  at  Eavna,  we  took 
the  opportunity  of  inspecting  the 
apartment  where  they  all  "  herded  " 
together.  In  a  large  but  rather 
low  room,  with  walls  and  roof  of 
rough-hewn  planks,  and  with  beams 
stretching  from  wall  to  wall  in  every 
direction,  were  assembled  at  least 
twenty-five  persons  of  all  ages  and 
both  sexes.  Most  of  them  had  taken 
off  their  skin  blouses,  and  hung 
them  on  the  rafters  near  a  huge 
wood-fire  fit  to  roast  an  ox  at.  The 
half-stewed  garments  and  the  steam 
from  the  dirty  persons  of  those  in 
front  of  the  fire,  caused  a  most  un- 
savoury odour,  which  tempted  us 
to  make  our  stay  as  short  as  pos- 
sible. All  round  the  apartment, 
except  near  the  door,  were  ranged 
the  sleeping  -  shelves,  the  major 
part  of  which  were  already  occu- 
pied,— men,  women,  and  children, 
all  indiscriminately  mingled  toge- 
ther, not  distinguishable  to  the 
unpractised  eye  the  one  from  the 
other,  and  appearing  like  nothing 
else  than  mere  animated  bundles 
of  fur.  From  the  group  congre- 
gated round  the  fire  no  cheerful 
laugh,  no  buzz  of  conversation,  no 
noisy  merriment,  emanated  —  all 
were  silent  and  still ;  perhaps  they 
did  not  wish  to  disturb  the  sleepers; 
but  judging  from  their  solemn 
and  lugubrious  countenances,  their 
gloominess  seemed  but  too  natural, 
and  very  far  from  assumed  or  con- 
strained. Well,  in  the  joyless  and 


146 


A  Reindeer  Ride  through  Lapland. 


[Aug. 


monotonous  life  those  poor  people 
lead,  it  is  not  surprising  that  all 
innate  merriment  ahout  them  is 
soon  stifled. 

The  close  and  disagreeable  at- 
mosphere soon  drove  us  from  the 
room,  but  it  took  some  time  to  dis- 
pel the  unconquerable  feeling  of 
melancholy  which  the  visit  had 
engendered. 

On  our  reindeer- skin  couches, 
and  covered  with  rugs  and  furs, 
it  was  not  long  before  we  were 
utterly  oblivious  of  all  around  us, 
though  the  dead  silence  outside  was 
occasionally  broken  by  the  stamp 
or  bleat  of  the  deer,  or  the  shrill 
cry  of  their  watchers,  which,  under 
ordinary  circumstances,  could  not 
fail  to  have  aroused  us.  Thus 
passed  gradually  our  second  night 
on  the  fjeld. 

Eefreshed  by  our  healthful  sleep, 
we  walked  out  into  the  beautiful 
morning.  Heedless  of  the  cold,  we 
watched  the  sparkling  ice-crystals 
as  they  floated  like  gossamer  on  the 
rarefied  air,  slowly  covering  us  with 
a  thin  layer  like  sparkling  brilliants. 
In  spite,  however,  of  the  poetry  of 
our  surroundings,  the  lower  nature, 
strong  in  all  of  us,  began  to  assert 
itself,  and  the  welcome  smell  of 
coffee  led  us  into  the  hut,  where 
it  and  hot  rolls  formed,  to  our 
hungry  palates,  an  unsurpassable 
breakfast. 

We  had  now  only  about  thirty 
miles  between  us  and  the  fjeld  town 
we  were  to  visit,  and  as  the  road  lay 
chiefly  downhill,  we  anticipated 
covering  the  distance  in  about  four 
hours.  There  is  little  to  relate  of 
this  day's  journey.  The  weather 
was  cold  but  delightful.  The  fore 
(that  is,  the  state  of  the  way)  was 
all  that  could  be  desired.  A  few 
miles  from  the  station  we  passed 
our  friend  the  Lapp  from  Malasjok, 
who,  in  company  with  the  widow 
from  Ravna,  continued  his  journey 
to  Karasjok  on  snow-shoes. 


The  country  about  us  was  thick- 
ly covered  with  trees,  and  seemed 
likely  to  afford  good  pasturage  in 
summer.  The  forstmester,  how- 
ever, was  much  alarmed  to  observe 
that  a  great  number  of  the  best 
trees  were  dead  or  in  a  state  of  de- 
cay. The  reason  probably  was,  as 
he  stated,  the  excessive  heat  of  the 
previous  summer,  accompanied  by 
a  long-continued  drought ;  on  the 
other  hand,  the  Lapps  maintained 
that  this  general  destruction  of 
timber  arose  from  the  very  low 
temperature  of  the  winter,  which 
here,  as  over  the  rest  of  Europe, 
was  unusually  severe  in  1878-79. 
But  the  forstmester  held  that  the 
effects  of  this  year's  cold  could  not 
already  be  visible,  and  therefore  ad- 
hered to  his  former  opinion.  As 
the  district  over  which  he  presides 
contains  about  200  square  miles 
of  forest,  besides  many  square  miles 
of  scattered  woods,  it  can  easily  be 
imagined  that  the  damage  done  is 
not  inconsiderable. 

But  to  continue.  "We  now  came 
to  the  worst  part  of  the  whole  route 
— viz.,  the  last  few  miles  to  Karas- 
jok. The  road  ran  through  a  thick 
wood  and  had  evidently  been  pretty 
much  used  lately,  for  it  was  fur- 
rowed up  into  deep  holes  here  and 
there,  and  for  the  whole  way  there 
was  at  least  a  poollt  track  visible. 
We  were,  of  course,  going  down- 
hill, and  downhill  we  did  go  at  a 
terrific  pace ;  "  full  gallop"  does  not 
adequately  express  the  speed  !  The 
deer  literally  flew,  and  it  was  no 
easy  job  to  keep  inside  the  poolk, 
it  being  dangerous  to  use  the  arms 
as  balancers  owing  to  the  number 
of  tree -stumps  lying  in  the  path. 
We  were  now  nearing  the  long  and 
very  steep  descent  called  the  "  Kar- 
asjok bakken,"  which  was  the  climax 
of  difficulty  on  the  whole  route. 
After  reaching  the  foot  of  any  de- 
clivity more  than  usually  abrupt, 
I  asked  my  friend,  "  Was  that  the 


1880.] 


A  Reindeer  Ride  through  Lapland. 


147 


Karasjok  hill?"  and  always  got 
the  answer,  "  No ; "  and  the  next 
question  of  course  was  an  anxious 
inquiry,  "  Is  the  Karasjok  hill 
worse  than  the  one  we  have  just 
come  down?"  "When  I  was  told 
that  the  dreaded  place  was  come 
at  last ;  when  I  observed  the  amt- 
mand  and  his  son  leave  their  poollcs 
and  prepare  to  walk  down ;  and 
when,  lastly,  the  wapooses  made 
extraordinary  precautions  with  the 
harness  and  accoutrements  of  their 
beasts, — I  felt  a  somewhat  sinking 
sensation  at  my  heart.  I  must 
admit  that  I  had  a  sort  of  faint 
hope  that  the  wapoos  would  advise 
me  also  to  get  out  and  walk,  which, 
with  seeming  reluctance,  and  with 
many  protestations,  I  would  have 
done  with  secret  joy.  But  no. 
They  had  eventually  overlooked  me 
entirely,  or,  as  I  fondly  flattered 
myself,  thought  me  already  so  good 
at  reindeer-driving  as  to  be  quite 
capable  of  managing  the  descent. 

Holloa  !  The  cortege  already  now 
begins  to  move ;  the  foremost  deer 
disappears  over  the  brow  of  the 
hill,  quickly  followed  by  all  the  rest, 
their  speed  enhanced  by  seeing  the 
figures  of  those  who  had  got  out 
standing  at  the  side  of  the  road. 
My  turn  comes,  and  with  tremend- 
ous velocity  we  sweep  down  the 
hill.  Here  is  no  talk  of  trying  to 
regulate  the  speed.  No.  Speaking 
vulgarly,  you  must  simply  "  go  for 
it."  The  worst  bit  comes.  The 
road  bends  at  a  sharp  angle.  The 
occupant  of  the  poolk  before  me  is 
thrown  out,  and  a  like  fate  seems 
to  threaten  me.  I  hold  on  to  the 
poolk  with  grim  determination,  and 
am  hurled  right  forward,  poolk  and 
all,  as  the  deer  turns  the  corner; 
then,  for  an  instant,  the  poolk  stops, 
only  immediately  to  continue  its 
mad  race  downhill  at  the  heels  of 
the  deer.  Thus  was  passed  the,  in 
Finmarken,  celebrated  "  Karasjok 
bakken."  Though  keeping  up  a 


hard  pace,  all  danger  is  now  past, 
as  the  declivity  leads  straight  down 
to  the  river's  bed ;  and  soon,  with- 
out accident,  we  are  drawn  up  on 
the  frozen  river  a  mile  from  Karas- 
jok, which  place,  all  beflagged  and 
adorned  in  honour  of  the  amt- 
mand's  visit,  we  see  directly  in 
front  of  us.  When  our  less  adven- 
turous companions  come  up  to  us, 
the  word  to  start  is  given,  and  in 
a  short  time  we  find  ourselves  in 
the  midst  of  a  Lapp  crowd,  "  the 
cynosure  of  twice  a  hundred  eyes," 
in  front  of  the  principal  house  in 
the  place — viz.,  that  of  the  resident 
trader.  That  worthy  is  of  course 
there  to  bid  us  welcome,  which  he 
does  with  an  evident  sincerity 
which  promises  well  for  our  inter- 
course with  him  during  our  so- 
journ in  Karasjok.  Assembled  also 
are  the  foged  of  the  district,  the 
lensmand  (doctor),  retstolk  or  offi- 
cial interpreter,  and  the  sexton, 
who,  with  their  families  and  that  of 
the  clergyman,  form  the  civilised 
portion  of  Karasjok  society. 

Hastening  to  disencumber  our- 
selves of  our  heavy  garments,  we  are 
soon  inside  the  comfortable  house, 
and  have  our  bedrooms  assigned  to 
us.  It  can  be  easily  imagined  that 
one  of  the  first  things  we  did  was 
to  have  a  right  good  wash,  after 
which  only  we  felt  ourselves  fit  to 
sit  at  a  civilised  board,  and  discuss 
a  civilised  dinner. 

Karasjok,  on  the  river  Kara,  is  a 
collection  of  wooden  huts,  in  the 
midst  of  which  a  small  church 
raises  its  by  no  means  lofty  spire. 
The  population  is  about  400  or 
500,  and  consists  almost  exclusive- 
ly of  Lapps,  the  exceptions  being 
the  persons  before  mentioned.  At 
this  time  of  the  year  the  usual 
half-yearly  court  is  held  (the  other 
taking  place  about  midsummer), 
and  the  criminal  cases  that  have 
arisen  in  the  interval  are  disposed 
of.  Thus  it  was  we  found  collect- 


148 


A  Reindeer  Ride  through  Lapland. 


[Aug. 


ed  in  the  hamlet  many  (compar- 
atively speaking)  civilised  beings. 
Here  was  the  district  doctor,  whose 
clientele  hardly  equals  the  num- 
ber of  square  miles  under  his  juris- 
diction !  The  foged  of  Tana  (the 
office  of  foged  resembles  close- 
ly that  of  a  sous-prefet),  and  his 
satellite  the  interpreter,  also  for 
the  moment  gladdened  the  place 
by  their  presence.  Both  officials, 
doctor  and  lawyer,  appear  to  thrive 
among  the  populace.  The  former 
has  a  very  profitable  practice,  sell- 
ing, as  he  does,  extremely  large 
quantities  of  "pediculm  destroyer," 
the  fabrication  of  which  can  cost 
him  but  little.  Pediculce  is  a  com- 
mon everyday  thing  with  the  good 
Lapps,  the  majority  of  whom  quiet- 
ly permit  its  molestations  without 
hindrance.  The  foged  administers 
justice  to  the  community,  and  acts 
on  the  principle  that  it  must  be 
done  in  small  quantities.  The 
only  recognised  crime  here  is  rein- 
deer-stealing;  almost  every  other 
departure  from  the  usual  moral 
code — excepting,  of  course,  murder 
— is  quietly  overlooked.  Let  a  pair 
of  Lapps  half  demolish  one  another  : 
why,  the  law  maintains,  and  cor- 
rectly too,  that  they  probably  only 
both  get  a  very  salutary  thrashing, 
and  consequently  no  further  action 
is  necessary.  Let  words  be  uttered 
which  in  this  country  would  bring 
the  perpetrator  within  the  grasp  of 
the  libel  laws,  there  they  are  passed 
over  without  notice ;  for,  knowing 
that  they  are  all  equally  and  alike 
rascals,  what  does  it  signify,  if,  for 
once,  this  knowledge  is  put  into 
words  and  proclaimed  abroad  1  But 
let  an  unfortunate  Lapp  for  one 
moment  forget  the  diiference  be- 
tween meum  and  tuum  as  regards 
reindeer,  and  the  crime  is  visited 
upon  him  with  the  utmost  rigour 
of  the  law. 

One,  however,  can  hardly  wonder 
at  the  enormous  amount   of  deer- 


stealing  that  goes  on,  considering 
that  the  brutes  are  in  a  more  than 
semi-wild  state,  and  have  often  but 
slight  marks  to  distinguish  them 
by.  In  fact  the  reiving  of  deer 
can  be  but  looked  upon  in  the 
same  light  as  smuggling  was  regard- 
ed in  the  old  days,  and  as  poaching 
now  is.  The  ingenuity  expended 
in  the  abduction  of  a  deer  is  often 
worthy  of  a  better  cause,  and  some- 
times borders  on  the  incredible. 
The  quantity  of  reindeer  owned  in 
Karasjok  amounts  to  about  20,000  ; 
and  in  Kautokino  about  30,000  is 
the  figure  given.  Not  many  years 
ago  the  number  was  nearly  double. 
One  old  apoplectic  toper  in  Karas- 
jok  owned  at  least  5000  deer,  which 
represents  a  capital  of  over  £2000 
sterling;  yet  there  seemed  to  be 
but  little  attention  paid  to  him — 
"  toadyism "  having  probably  not 
yet  found  its  way  into  these  regions. 

It  seemed  at  first  strange  to  us 
that  several  of  the  natives  could 
speak  a  little  English,  but  I  found 
out  that  these  had  been  in  London 
in  1870.  These  English-speakers 
were  for  ever  bothering  me  to  give 
them  something  or  other ;  the  art 
of  begging  evidently  having  been 
taught  them  all  too  well  in  the 
London  "Zoo"  where  they  had 
been  exhibited. 

The  present  church  in  Karasjok 
was  erected  in  1807;  but  even  be- 
fore 1750  a  church  had  existed  in 
the  place.  It  is  seated  for  about 
200  persons,  and  is  even  pretty  in- 
side. The  best  seats  are  railed  off 
from  the  body  of  the  church,  and 
are  reserved  for  the  Norsk  portion 
of  the  congregation,  while  the  poor 
Lapps  must  worship  at  a  respectful 
distance. 

On  the  second  day  of  our  stay  in 
Ivarasjok  I  started,  in  company 
with  my  tvapoos,  to  visit  a  reindeer 
by  or  town,  situated  about  five 
or  six  miles  from  Karaejok.  The 
journey  had  to  be  accomplished  on 


1880.] 


A  Reindeer  Ride  through  Lapland. 


149 


snow-shoes.  The  by  lay  up  on 
the  brow  of  a  hill  rising  steeply 
from  the  river,  and  was  made  up  of 
about  600  to  700  reindeer.  The 
place  was  somewhat  difficult  of  ac- 
cess owing  to  the  depth  of  the 
snow ;  but  after  an  hour's  hard 
work  we  found  ourselves  suddenly 
in  the  midst  of  the  deer,  who  lay 
in  holes  in  the  snow,  with  nothing 
but  the  tips  of  their  antlers  visible. 
The  deer  that  had  drawn  me  from 
Bosekop  lay  there  among  the  rest, 
apparently  not  a  whit  the  worse 
for  our  long  trip.  There  were  also 
several  entire  deer,  that  seemed  to 
look  twice  as  majestic  as  the  others; 
and  the  wapoos  cautioned  me  against 
disturbing  or  irritating  these,  for 
were  a  fit  of  rage  to  come  over  them 
they  would  not  hesitate  an  instant 
to  attack  us.  Altogether  the  by 
was  a  curious  and  interesting  sight, 
from  which  I  found  it  difficult  to 
tear  myself  away. 

Of  all  the  bodily  exercises  I  know 
of,  there  is  none  in  my  opinion  that 
can  come  up  to  snow-shoeing,  as  it 
is  done  in  Norway.  Skating  is 
nothing  compared  to  this  sport. 
What  can  equal  the  splendid  sen- 
sation of  flying  across  the  deep 
snow  at  the  rate  of  many  miles 
an  hour,  without  hardly  moving  a 
muscle?  And  then,  going  down- 
hill, staff  in  hand,  no  exertion 
necessary,  other  than  to  keep  the 
balance,  while  gliding  softly  but 
swiftly  onward.  Unlike  the  Can- 
adian snow-shoes,  these  ski  (pro- 
nounced shee)  of  the  Norwegians  are 
often  fully  twelve  feet  long,  curving 
upwards  at  the  prow,  and  are  not 
broader  than  three  to  four  inches. 
Throughout  their  whole  length 
they  are  provided  with  a  groove  for 
the  purpose  of  keeping  them  from 
slipping  when  going  at  an  angle 
downhill.  Although  by  no  means 


slow  when  used  across  level  ground, 
it  is  yet  downhill  that  they  are 
most  effective,  for  their  long  length 
and  their  polished  under-surface  on 
the  frozen  snow  cause  a  speed  more 
like  flying  than  any  other  motion  I 
know  of.  The  inhabitants  of  Tele- 
marken,  in  the  south  of  Norway,  are 
the  most  efficient  ski  runners  ;  and 
at  the  annual  competitions  at  Chris- 
tiania,  generally  bear  off  the  prizes. 
At  the  competition  there  in  1879, 
one  of  these  men  leaped,  according 
to  a  local  newspaper,  a  distance  of 
thirty  Norwegian  alen,  or  fully  sixty 
feet !  Into  this  country  it  will  not 
be  possible  to  introduce  them,  as  of 
course  there  would  be  little  or  no 
opportunity  for  using  them  —  the 
snow  never  lying  long  enough,  or 
becoming  sufficiently  deep.* 

Karasjok,  among  other  things, 
also  contains  a  prison,  which  when 
I  visited  it  was  tenanted  by  two 
poor  deer-stealers,  whose  extradition 
had  been  demanded  by  the  Swed- 
ish authorities.  Though  nominally 
prisoners,  they  seemed  to  do  pretty 
much  as  they  liked,  as  they  left  the 
prison  whenever  they  had  occasion 
to  do  so.  On  my  inquiring  how 
this  state  of  affairs  was  permitted,  I 
was  informed  that  these  men  could 
not  possibly  get  away  from  the 
place  even  if  they  tried,  which  was 
unlikely ;  as,  being  Swedish  Lapps, 
and  without  friends  to  procure  rein- 
deer and  poolk  for  them,  they 
would  have  been  entirely  helpless 
had  they  even  succeeded  in  get- 
ting out  into  the  waste.  I  further 
learned  that  these  two  gentlemen 
were  to  be  our  travelling  compan- 
ions on  the  following  day,  accom- 
panied by  their  keepers,  who  were 
to  deliver  them  to  the  authorities 
further  down  the  river. 

It  was  with  great  regret  that  I 
left  Karasjok,  as  I  had  met  with 


*  Since  the  above  was  written  I  have  worn  my  pair  several  times  in  Britain,  and 
found  them  to  do  very  well,  although  the  snow  was  only  about  two  or  three  inches  deep. 


150 


A  Reindeer  Ride  through  Lapland. 


[Aug. 


much  kindness  from  its  inhabitants. 
Any  information  I  had  desired  had 
always  been  readily  accorded  me ; 
and  on  leaving  the  house  of  good 
Mr  Fandrem,  the  trader,  he  re- 
fused all  remuneration  for  my  board 
and  lodging.  Mr  Fandrem  was  a 
very  interesting  old  man,  and  had 
been  presented  by  the  king  with  a 
gold  medal  "  pour  le  merite  civile." 
His  time  is  divided  between  his 
establishment  at  Karasjok  and  his 
summer  residence  at  Komag  Fjord,  a 
minor  inlet  in  the  great  Alten  Fjord. 
At  the  latter  place  Mr  Chambers, 
of  the  well-known  journal  of  that 
name,  had  once  spent  some  time 
with  him,  and  he  still  looked  back 
to  that  time  with  pleasure. 

From  him  I  got  much  informa- 
tion about  the  social  and  moral  con- 
dition of  the  people,  who,  it  seems, 
must  be  placed  very  low  indeed  in 
the  human  scale.  They  have  no 
recognised  headman  or  chief ;  and 
their  priests  have  also  but  little  in- 
fluence over  them.  This,  however, 
is  not  at  all  strange,  for  these  priests 
are  of  a  different  race,  and  all  feel 
more  or  less  the  habitual  Norwegian 
contempt  for  the  Lapps.  The  clergy 
in  these  regions  always  live  in  hope 
that  their  ministrations  may  speed- 
ily be  rewarded  by  a  living  in  the 
south  of  Norway.  They  conse- 
quently regard  their  stay  in  Fin- 
marken  merely  as  a  temporary 
hardship,  but  in  reality  they  exist 
in  thought  and  sympathy  far  away 
from  the  poor  Lapps.  Of  course 
there  are  exceptions,  but  these  are 
few  and  far  between.  As  a  rule, 
the  clergy  are  represented  in  Fin- 
marken  by  young  inexperienced 
men,  who — perhaps  from  pecuniary 
considerations,  perhaps  with  a  view 
to  serving  their  apprenticeship  in 
their  profession  among  a  people 
whose  powers  of  criticism  are  of 
the  lowest, — consent  to  be,  what 
they  consider,  buried  alive,  until 
the  end  they  have  in  view  be  ac- 


complished. Under  these  circum- 
stances the  relations  between  priest 
and  people  are  very  slender  and 
precarious ;  and  between  want  of 
trust  and  faith  on  one  side,  caused 
by  want  of  sympathy  on  the  other, 
the  Gospel  is  preached  to  unwilling 
ears ;  and  thus,  except  in  name  and 
outwardly,  the  natives  are  as  far 
from  Christianity  as  ever. 

The  moral  condition  of  the  Lapps 
is,  as  before  stated,  very  low.  Con- 
jugal faithfulness  is  known,  but 
left  unpractised ;  and  intercourse 
between  the  sexes  is  on  the  freest 
footing.  This  is,  of  course,  pre- 
judicial to  the  long  continuance  of 
the  Lapp  race,  which,  already  now 
dwindling,  will,  it  is  feared,  before 
many  years  have  rolled  on,  be  a 
thing  of  the  past.  Another  reason 
favouring  the  supposition  that  the 
Lapps  are  doomed  to  early  extinc- 
tion— the  usual  fate  of  nomads,  or 
those  who  try  to  stem  the  great  tide 
of  civilisation — is,  that  the  Qusens, 
or  natives  of  Eussian  Finland,  are 
now  already  supplanting  them  every- 
where. The  Quasns,  who  mainly 
compose  the  population  of  the 
towns  on  the  east  and  north  coasts 
of  Norway,  are  hard-working  and 
more  intelligent,  and  also  much 
better  adapted  for  the  higher 
branches  of  manual  labour  than 
their  Lapp  neighbours,  who  never 
will,  and  never  can,  be  anything 
else  than  nomads.  By  no  means 
unconnected  with  the  decline  of 
the  race,  is  the  failure,  or  rather 
difficulty,  of  obtaining  sufficient 
reindeer  -  moss  during  the  winter 
(Lapp  and  reindeer  are  so  identified 
that  it  is  impossible  to  separate  the 
two).  Formerly  the  deer  were 
marched  into  Russian  territory,  and 
there  suffered  to  feed  at  will ;  but 
the  Russian  nomads,  thinking  their 
rights  violated,  obtained  a  law  for- 
bidding the  crossing  of  the  frontier, 
under  pain  of  destruction  of  the 
herds  transgressing.  And  one  of  the 


1880.] 


A  Reindeer  Ride  through  Lapland. 


151 


first  results  of  this  was,  that  a  sort 
of  reign  of  terror  was  established 
on  the  frontier,  with  mutual  recri- 
mination and  slaughtering  of  herds. 
One  poor  Norsk  Lapp  had  strayed 
inside  the  frontier  a  few  hundred 
yards,  and  was  then  surprised  and 
forced  to  witness  the  slaughter  of 
500  deer — his  all;  and  he  was  thus 
reduced  by  one  fell  stroke  from 
comparative  affluence  to  poverty. 
Many  such  instances  occur  ;  and 
though  it  may  be  apparently  rea- 
sonable and  even  lawful  to  take 
such  stringent  measures,  yet,  tak- 
ing into  account  the  extreme  length 
and  unguardedness  of  the  frontier, 
and  the  consequent  temptation  to 
transgress  which  must  come  to  a 
man  whose  moral  sense,  on  account 
of  his  training,  is  not  of  the  high- 
est, and  who  knows  that  one  thin 
imaginary  line  is  all  that  divides 
him  and  his  hungry  herds  from  the 


richest  pastures, — taking  all  this 
into  account,  one  cannot  help  sym- 
pathising with  the  Norwegians, 
and  feeling  that  the  Russian  law- 
givers might  have  made  some  reg- 
ulation more  suitable  to  the  race 
and  country  for  which  it  was  in- 
tended. 

Thus  it  is  but  too  certain  that 
the  Lapps  are  doomed.  Without 
religion,  without  art,  without  a 
single  higher  or  noble  attribute, 
living  merely  for  the  day,  and  not 
looking  beyond  it,  how  can  they 
long  continue  to  block  the  way  for 
more  able  workers  in  this  earthly 
beehive1?  Further  to  the  north 
they  cannot  get,  and,  therefore, 
silently  and  slowly  they  will  dis- 
appear, and  vanish  for  ever  from 
among  the  peoples  of  the  earth, 
leaving  no  mark  behind  them,  and 
no  sign  to  show  that  they  have 
been. 


II. 


On  a  lovely  morning,  the  22d 
of  March,  we  started  in  excellent 
spirits  and  with  light  hearts  on 
our  expedition  down  the  river  to 
Vadsoe,  or  rather  to  the  last  stop- 
ping-place before  leaving  the  river, 
and  going  overland  to  Vadsoe. 

Our  cavalcade  was  comprised  of 
twenty-two  reindeer,  each  drawing 
his  man;  and  twenty  more  deer  had 
left  early  in  the  morning  with  our 
luggage.  The  twenty-two  poolks 
made  a  goodly  show ;  and  it  was 
thus  with  great  eclat  that  we  set 
forth,  each  and  all  madly  striving 
to  be  first.  Our  deer  were  not 
the  same  as  those  that  had  con- 
veyed us  from  Bosekop;  and  those 
we  now  had  had  not  been  used 
for  many  months,  so  that  they 
were  as  "  fresh  as  paint."  We  all 
rushed  madly  down  the  river,  whose 
broad  bosom  formed  a  splendid 
road  for  us.  Being  as  yet  by  no 

VOL.  CXXVIII.— NO.  DCCLXXVIII. 


means  proficient  at  deer  -  driving, 
I  urged  my  beast  forward  far  too 
strongly  at  the  outset,  with  the 
natural  result  of  rendering  it  slow 
and  spiritless  long  before  any  of 
the  others  showed  even  the  slight- 
est symptom  of  fatigue. 

I  forgot  to  mention  that  the 
beau  elite  of  Karasjok  had  accom- 
panied us  one  Norsk  mile  (seven 
English)  on  our  way  down-stream, 
and  before  leaving  us  we  had,  of 
course,  a  stirrup-cup  from  them. 
The  provider  of  this  (the  deputy 
lensmand,  and  a  Lapp)  produced 
a  bottle,  marked  "fine  old  port," 
with  an  almost  antediluvian  date, 
and  proceeded  forthwith  to  distri- 
bute the  nectar  unsparingly  among 
us  travellers.  Never  shall  I  forget 
that  awful  mixture.  Thinking  to 
escape  a  second  supply,  I  urged 
him  to  fill  the  glass — there  was 
only  one — up  to  the  brim  every 
L 


152 


A  Reindeer  Ride  through  Lapland. 


[Aug. 


time, — but  no  !  He  was  not  going 
to  act  as  a  common  peasant,  but 
would  do  what  Norwegian  etiquette 
demands  —  viz.,  only  fill  it  half 
full;  so  there  was  nothing  left  but 
to  swallow  the  medicinal  decoction 
with  as  good  a  grace  as  possible, 
and  to  pray  for  no  evil  results. 
To  have  refused  to  take  the  wine 
would  have  been  deemed  as  great 
an  affront  to  the  Lapp  as  to  refuse 
bread  and  salt  from  a  Eussian,  or 
betel  from  a  Burmese. 

After  the  departure  of  the  good 
Karasjokians,  we  made  for  terra 
firma,  and  pushed  rapidly  on,  every 
one  exhilarated  by  the  glorious 
sunshine  and  the  magnificent  scen- 
ery around.  At  Karasjok  itself, 
and  for  a  considerable  distance 
down  the  river,  the  terrain  rises  in 
terraces,  very  regularly  and  singu- 
larly formed,  rather  abruptly  from 
the  water's  edge,  and  the  whole 
formation  seems  indubitably  to  in- 
dicate that  the  surface-level  of  the 
river  had,  on  two  or  three  occasions, 
suddenly  been  lowered.  Not  being 
a  geologist,  I  was  unable  to  deter- 
mine the  nature  or  period  of  these 
revolutions ;  but  I  feel  convinced 
that  a  scientific  man  would  find  a 
boundless  field  for  his  researches 
in  that  district  in  the  north  of  Nor- 
way lying  between  Alten  Fjord  and 
the  Tana  river  inclusive. 

The  clean-cut  terraces  were  cov- 
ered with  trees,  chiefly  Coniferse. 
These  had  now  taken  the  place  of 
the  birch  which  almost  entirely 
predominates  on  the  other  side  of 
Karasjok ;  and  though  as  yet  leaf- 
less and  melancholy  -  looking,  the 
pines  produced  a  highly  picturesque 
effect,  with  their  sprays  and  branches 
crested  with  pure  white  snow — such 
white  snow  as  is  never  seen  else- 
where than  in  the  arctic  regions. 
But,  holloa  !  What's  the  matter  ? 
The  foremost  Lapp  suddenly  stops, 
jumps  up  and  puts  his  face  close  to 
the  ground,  examining  something 


very  carefully.  He  calls  the  others 
towards  him,  and  a  short  conversa- 
tion ensues,  the  result  of  which  is 
given  us  by  the  forstmester,  who 
had  also  joined  in  the  "confab." 
It  seemed  that  the  marks  just  dis- 
covered proved  that  not  ten  minutes 
before  our  arrival  a  deer  had  passed 
by  hotly  pursued  by  a  wolf.  That 
the  chase  was  in  its  last  stages  was 
evident  from  the  fact  that  the  deer's 
strides  were  so  short  that  the  wolf 
had  made  use  of  them  to  follow  in 
the  same  footsteps ;  it  was  conse- 
quently calculated  that  by  following 
the  track  for  half  an  hour  or  so  we 
would  be  sure  to  come  up  to  the 
scene  of  slaughter.  Some  eager 
souls  still  hoped  to  be  able  to  save 
the  poor  deer,  and  were  for  starting 
at  once ;  but  the  majority  decided 
that,  as  we  had  a  pretty  long  road  to 
travel  before  reaching  our  night- 
quarters,  it  would  be  necessary  to 
leave  it  to  its  fate,  which  was  ac- 
cordingly done. 

As  formerly  mentioned,  the  wolves 
are  the  great  scourge  of  Fininarken, 
and  great  depredations  are  annually 
committed  by  them,  so  much  so  that 
a  premium  of  20  Ttroners  (or  £1, 
2s.  3d.)  is  set  on  their  head. 

Their  usual  method  of  procuring, 
or  rather  killing,  deer,  is  to  make  a 
rush  into  the  midst  of  a  by,  and 
to  select  an  individual  from  out  of 
the  crowd  in  the  rush  or  stampede 
that  follows.  This  poor  animal, 
once  singled  out,  rarely  if  ever 
escapes,  as  the  relentless  pursuer 
never  swerves,  be  he  left  ever  so 
far  behind  at  the  outset;  and  at 
last,  tired  and  hungry,  the  poor 
creature  sinks  panting  on  the  snow, 
which  very  shortly  after  is  dyed  by 
its  life's  blood.  Sometimes  a  wolf, 
out  of  mere  wantonness,  will  de- 
stroy half  a  herd  without  eating  a 
single  one.  This,  however,  I  sup- 
pose, is  common  to  all  animals  of 
the  canine  race, — as  witness  the 
amount  of  sheep-worrying  in  our 


1880.] 


A  Reindeer  Ride  through  Lapland. 


153 


own  country.  The  premium  of 
20  kroners  is,  in  the  opinion  of  the 
people,  hardly  commensurate  to  the 
risk  and  trouble  of  killing  such  an 
animal.  The  prevailing  wish  is 
that  the  premiums  paid  for  the 
killing  of  other  beasts  and  birds  of 
prey  should  be  lowered,  and  that 
for  wolves  at  least  doubled,  in 
which  case  it  would  pay  to  import 
weapons,  &c.,  to  engage  in  the 
common  cause  against  lupus,  when, 
it  is  confidently  expected,  its  depre- 
dations would  soon  be  reduced  to  a 
bearable  figure. 

Well,  leaving  the  spot  where  a 
tragedy  en  miniature  was  being 
enacted,  we  continued  on  our  way  ; 
and  after  making  a  short  stop  for 
the  purpose  of  feeding  the  deer  and 
of  taking  a  snack  ourselves,  we 
started  again  for  the  river,  passing 
now  and  again  a  few  huts  which 
were  wretched  in  the  extreme. 
The  inhabitants  of  these  mud-pies 
looked  at  us  in  an  apathetic  sort  of 
way  as  we  passed,  and  even  the 
dogs  barked  at  us  in  a  solemn, 
half-hearted  sort  of  style,  sometimes 
not  even  taking  the  least  notice  of 
our  presence. 

The  river  was  reached  after  a 
rather  stiff  hill,  and  the  impetus 
given  us  in  the  descent  took  us  a 
good  bit  out  on  its  surface;  and 
shortly  we  reached  the  spot  where 
we  were  to  pass  the  night, — viz., 
Seilna3s.  There  was  but  one  bed  in 
the  house,  and  much  as  we  would 
have  liked  to  have  slept  in  one,  it 
was  thus  left  without  a  tenant  all 
night,  as  each  of  us,  with  extreme 
politeness,  and  I  may  say  unsel- 
fishness, insisted  that  the  others 
were  more  entitled  to  the  honour 
of — being  done  to  death  by  fleas. 
During  the  night  a  change  took 
place  in  the  weather,  which,  though 
still  fine,  became  suddenly  disagree- 
ably mild.  The  frost,  of  course, 
still  held,  but  there  was  more  of 
the  English  element  in  it, — i.e.,  the 


thermometer  standing  at  15°  to  20° 
Fahr.,  or  something  like  12°  to  17° 
of  frost — a  considerable  difference 
from  the  66°  we  had  so  lately 
experienced.  This  comparative 
warmth  told  upon  our  reindeer  in 
two  ways  :  firstly,  they  stopped 
more  frequently  to  lap  the  snow; 
and  secondly,  the  snow  being  softer, 
did  not  support  them  well,  and  also 
retarded  the  progress  of  the  poolk 
by  adhering  more  easily  to  its  sides. 

At  this  place  the  first  accident 
occurred.  As  usual,  we  all  stood 
each  by  the  side  of  his  conveyance, 
and  then,  when  the  leader  gave  the 
signal,  stepped  back,  and  as  soon 
as  the  deer  began  to  run,  flung  our- 
selves into  the  poolk.  This  per- 
formance is  always  attended  with 
some  difficulty,  not  to  say  danger, 
as  the  animals  being  fresh  and 
lively,  rush  off  the  moment  one  or 
other  makes  the  faintest  move ; 
they  generally,  ab?o,  first  indulge 
in  some  antics  before  they  can  be 
brought  to  go  quietly. 

On  this  occasion  we  had  all 
started  pretty  fairly,  and  had  ob- 
served nothing  particular,  when  our 
attention  was  drawn  to  a  reindeer, 
with  its  empty  poolTc,  going  full 
speed  up  the  river,  while  at  the 
same  time  the  forstmester  was 
noticed  trying  to  support  himself 
against  a  wooden  post,  and  evi- 
dently greatly  hurt.  He  stated 
that,  having  lost  all  control  over 
his  brute,  he  had  been  smashed 
up  against  the  post  while  going  past 
it  at  full  gallop.  He  received  the 
full  force  of  the  blow  upon  his 
chest ;  in  consequence  he  expec- 
torated a  great  quantity  of  blood, 
and  was  unable  to  move  for  several 
hours.  As  for  the  deer  it  was  now 
long  out  of  sight,  closely  followed 
by  a  wapoos,  who  confidently  ex- 
pected to  overtake  it  in  a  very 
short  time  and  bring  it  back  un- 
injured ;  but  after  waiting  an  hour 
or  so,  and  neither  wapoos  nor  deer 


154 


A  Reindeer  Ride  tJirough  Lapland. 


[Aug. 


appearing,  I  lost  patience  and  set 
out  alone,  having  fifteen  miles  to 
travel  to  dinner.  Travelling  alone 
being  rather  tedious,  and  as  nothing 
of  interest  occurred,  I  shall  pass 
that  day  over  altogether.  With 
regard  to  the  forstmester,  he  arrived 
late  at  night.  His  deer  had  been 
captured  fourteen  miles  from  the 
spot  from  where  it  started  :  it  was 
found  in  the  forest,  where  the  poolk 
had  entangled  itself  between  two 
trees,  thus  effectually  making  it  a 
prisoner.  Had  it  got  away  alto- 
gether, both  the  forstmester  and  I 
would  have  been  in  a  nice  dilemma, 
as  all  our  cash  was  placed  in  a  small 
compartment  of  his  poolk.  As  for 
the  deer  it  was  utterly  spoiled,  not 
on  account  of  its  forty-three-mile 
run,  but  because  of  the  speed  kept 
up  the  whole  time. 

"We  were  now  on  Eussian  terri- 
tory, and  spent  the  worst  night 
since  our  arrival  on  the  fjeld.  Ima- 
gine six  grown-up  persons  in  a 
small  room  not  more  than  ten  feet 
by  twelve,  in  which  a  bed,  a  large 
chest  of  drawers,  and  other  articles 
of  furniture,  necessarily  occupied 
most  of  the  space.  Well,  there 
was  nothing  for  it !  Two  of  us 
occupied  the  bed,  while  the  others 
took  up  a  position  and  jostled  each 
other  on  the  floor.  Cramped  and 
chilled,  we  were  all  only  too  glad 
to  leave  Sirma,  as  the  place  is  called, 
as  early  as  possible  next  morning. 

We  now  had  a  long  drive  through 
Russian  territory  (without  pass- 
ports), and  noted  the  hang-dog 
look  of  every  one  with  whom  we 
came  in  contact,  as  well  as  the  ob- 
sequious manner  in  which  they 
saluted  us,  and  at  the  same  time 
asked  for  a  glass  of  vodka. 

The  falls  of  Tana  are  on  this 
day's  route ;  but  we  decided  to 
save  the  corner,  and  cut  straight 
across  the  tongue  of  land  which 
juts  out  into  the  river,  or  rather 
round  which  the  river  makes  a 


bend,  just  at  the  falls.  However, 
these  are  not  of  much  consequence, 
but  are  the  rendezvous  of  large 
quantities  of  the  salmon  with  which 
the  river  abounds.  Our  way  took 
us  down  an  extremely  steep  hill — 
the  worst  we  had  as  yet  encounter- 
ed— as  there  were  two  very  large 
stones  right  in  the  centre  of  the 
descent.  Just  as  we  had  antici- 
pated, the  deer,  taking  fright  at 
the  large  black  rocks  sticking  out  of 
the  snow,  suddenly  swerved  to  the 
side  with  the  result  of  capsizing 
almost  all  of  us,  and  jumbling  us 
up  in  a  terrible  muddle.  Deer 
and  wapoos,  men  and  poolk, — all 
were  wildly  mingled  together. 
Here  a  rein  entangled  round  some 
one's  leg ;  there  a  poolk  I}7 ing  on 
the  top  of  another  poor  individual, 
who,  his  hands  not  being  free, 
could  not  possibly  extricate  himself 
without  assistance.  Add  to  this 
the  darkness,  the  strange  guttural 
oaths  of  the  Lapps,  and  the  grunt 
or  bleat  of  the  deer,  with  now  and 
then  an  execration  in  blunt  Nor- 
wegian, and  you  can  form  a  faint 
idea  of  the  scene.  As  for  me,  never 
before  was  I  in  such  danger,  the 
rein  having  wound  itself  round  and 
round  my  neck,  and  threatening 
every  moment  to  strangle  me  if  the 
deer  should  try  to  break  away. 
Move  I  did  not  dare  to,  as  I  well 
knew  that  the  slightest  tug  at  the 
"ribbon"  would  cause  the  animal  to 
rush  wildly  away,  in  which  case  I 
would  have  been  dragged  down  the 
rest  of  the  hill  by  the  neck  with  a 
result  easily  imagined.  How  we 

fot  clear  I  never  to  this  day  can 
etermine  ;  -but  somehow  or  other 
down  that  hill  we  did  get,  and  after 
half  an  hour's  driving,  found  our- 
selves safe  and  sound  in  the  hos- 
pitable shelter  of  Polmak. 

Polmak  is  the  abode  of  the  river 
opsynsmand  or  superintendent,  and 
lies  on  the  right  bank  of  the 
river  Tana,  which  is  here  joined  by 


1880.] 


A  Reindeer  Ride  through  Lapland. 


155 


the  smaller  Polmak  river.  At  this 
place  we  exchanged  our  deer  for 
small  Finmarken  horses,  the  road 
further  on  being  badly  suited  for 
reindeer.  The  opsynsmand  was 
one  of  the  most  curious  fellows  I 
ever  fell  in  with.  Popularly  sup- 
posed to  have  "  a  bee  in  his  bon- 
net," his  conduct  on  this  occasion 
by  no  means  belied  that  accusation. 
On  the  contrary,  he  seemed  a  much 
fitter  inmate  for  an  asylum  than 
the  occupant  of  a  government  situ- 
ation. As  an  example  of  his  stu- 
pidity or  madness,  I  know  not 
which,  it  will  suffice  to  say  that  he 
solemnly  declared  that  the  water  of 
Polmak  contained  more  strength 
(sic)  than  that  of  Tana,  as  he  found 
he  did  not  require  to  put  so  much 
spirit  in  it  when  brewing  his  usual 
glass  of  toddy.  No  amount  of  rea- 
soning, or  cajoling,  or  threatening 
— ay,  nor  of  ridicule,  that  strong- 
est shaft  of  all — could  drive  this 
idea  out  of  him. 

The  opsynsmand  had,  however, 
at  this  time  committed  a  very  seri- 
ous mistake.  He  had  openly  declar- 
ed his  intention,  by  fair  means  or 
foul,  to  promote  and  further  the 
scheme  of  delivering  over  the  whole 
of  Tana  river  to  the  Russians  ! 
This,  of  course,  amounted  to  high 
treason,  and  as  such  could  not  be 
allowed  to  go  unpunished.  The 
amtmand,  fhefoged,  and  the  forst- 
mester  determined,  therefore,  to 
make  an  example  of  him,  which 
they  allowed  me  to  witness.  After 
retiring  into  a  room  by  themselves, 
the  trio  sent  for  the  unfortunate 
delinquent,  and  on  coming  in  he 
was  politely  requested  to  sit  down 
on  a  chair  that  stood  facing  the 
semicircle,  which  the  three  self- 
appointed  judges  formed.  His 
terror  was  extreme ;  and  when, 
after  an  examination  of  some  length, 
during  which  he  by  turns  denied 
and  admitted  the  allegations,  the 
forstmester  proposed  concilium 


abiunde,  the  poor  fellow  almost 
fainted.  He  was  then  dismissed 
from  his  appointment,  but  was  re- 
constituted pro  tern,  until  another 
official  could  be  appointed  in  his 
stead.  From  these  instances  it 
will  be  seen  how  utterly  devoid  he 
was  of  that  common-sense  and  tact 
so  requisite  to  every  frontier  official. 
With  regard  to  the  idea  of  Rus- 
sianising  the  whole  of  the  Tana 
river,  which  would  have  the  effect 
of  depriving  Norway  of  Vardoe  and 
Vadsoe,  as  well  as  of  the  best  coast 
for  the  great  cod-fisheries,  it  is  by 
no  means  a  new  one.  Russia  has 
always  had  an  eye  on  those  dis- 
tricts, which  would  give  her  an 
open  port  all  the  year  round  in 
these  regions.  It  is,  of  course,  use- 
less to  credit  mere  hearsay  in  such 
affairs ;  but  even  the  amtmand, 
who  was  well  versed  in  such  mat- 
ters, and  who  from  his  high  posi- 
tion was  in  constant  communica- 
tion with  his  Government,  declared 
his  belief  that  the  time  was  not  far 
distant  when  the  whole  of  the  dis- 
trict mentioned  would  be  Russian. 
The  acquisition  of  this  territory 
would  be  of  great  value  to  Russia, 
who  has  not  a  single  open  or  useful 
naval  station  in  all  its  dominions  ; 
while  Vardoe,  oreven  Vadsoe,  though 
now  but  insignificant  fishing  towns, 
could  easily  be  metamorphosed  into 
valuable  ports,  from  which,  at  all 
times  and  seasons,  fleets  and  armies 
might  be  freely  directed  to  any 
quarter.  Besides  the  political  rea- 
sons, there  are  also  powerful  econo- 
mical grounds  to  show  that  the 
district  might  be — and  with  reason 
— coveted  by  Russia.  With  the 
northern  subjects  of  the  Czar  fish 
is  a  staple  article  of  food,  especially 
during  the  long  winter  months. 
The  fisheries  commence  about  the 
end  of  March,  and  last  all  through 
April  and  May  into  June,  and  dur- 
ing these  three  months  at  least  ten 
millions  of  cod-fish  are  taken  and 


156 


A  Reindeer  Ride  through  Lapland. 


[Aug. 


dried.  To  these  fisheries  swarms 
of  Russians  flock  from  Kola,  some 
even  from  Onega,  and  are  hired  at 
nominal  prices  to  assist  in  cutting 
up  and  assorting  the  fish.  They 
obtain  a  wage  of  about  20s.  a-month 
with  free  lodging,  and  as  much  fish 
as  they  like  to  eat.  Of  this  wage 
they  spend  nothing  during  their 
sojourn  in  Norway,  and  yet  are 
able  to  take  home  one  or  more 
barrels  of  fish  with  them  to  their 
homes;  and  on  this  and  on  their 
accumulated  savings  they  and  their 
families  drag  through  the  winter. 
Without  doubt  it  would  be  de- 
cidedly beneficial  to  Eussia  to  get 
these  fisheries  into  her  own  hands  ] 
and,  judging  from  the  usual  Mus- 
covite perseverance  and  unscrupu- 
lousness,  I  fear  that  before  long 
that  event  will  be  a  fait  accompli. 

We  left  Polinak  early  in  the 
morning,  having  paid  off  our  Lapps 
and  reindeer,  and  chartered  a  sleigh 
with  two  ponies  for  each  of  us. 
AVe  had  only  half  an  hour's  drive 
to  the  residence  of  the  Polmak 
lensmand,  where  we  were  to  break- 
fast, and  on  arriving  we  were  mag- 
nificently received.  And  what  a 
breakfast  ! 

The  host  was  the  most  cringing 
sycophant  I  ever  saw,  and  his  set 
smile  and  ready  bow  quite  disgust- 
ed me.  Perhaps  he  was  only  the 
exact  counterpart  of  most  society 
people  at  home,  but  my  long  asso- 
ciation with  natural  beings  (I  mean 
Norwegians  in  general,  not  those 
most  natural  of  beings  the  Lapps) 
had  probably  caused  me  to  see  all 
the  more  readily  the  difference. 
The  breakfast  was  really  sumptu- 
ous ;  in  fact,  I  do  not  think  a 
better  service  of  plate  or  a  greater 
variety  of  dishes  could  be  met 
with  even  in  central  Europe  among 
people  of  his  or  even  of  higher 
station. 

We  finished  up  with  a  dozen  of 
champagne,  and  in  consequence  of 


this  left  the  house  in  a  sadly  mud- 
dled state.  Indeed  I  must  here 
confess  that  the  joint  effects  of  the 
champagne  and  of  the  easy,  rocking 
motion  of  the  sleigh,  was  to  send 
me  into  a  tranquil  sleep,  from 
which  I  did  not  emerge  till  we 
came  in  sight  of  the  sea,  as  repre- 
sented by  the  arm  of  the  Varanger 
Fjord  which  runs  past  Vadsoe  and 
Nyborg.  Its  inmost  part  was 
frozen  over  for  an  extent  of  several 
miles  ;  and  as  the  road  was  bad,  we 
preferred  travelling  on  the  ice,  over 
which  we  went  at  a  rattling  pace. 
Very  shortly  after,  we  turned  in  at 
the  township  of  Nyborg,  having 
now  completely  left  the  wilds  be- 
hind us.  One  of  our  party,  who 
had  travelled  with  a  reindeer,  had 
arrived  half  an  hour  before  us. 

The  road  to  Vadsoe  leads  along 
the  shore  of  Varanger  Fjord,  and  at 
some  places  dangerously  skirts  the 
precipitous  rocks  which  form  the 
shore.  At  such  places  great  cau- 
tion is  necessary,  as  one  false  step 
would  without  doubt  send  men 
and  horses  literally  ad  undas. 
At  Clubben,  one  of  the  most  dan- 
gerous spots  on  the  route,  the  way 
runs  along  a  narrow  platform,  from 
which  the  rocks  above  and  below 
are  almost  perpendicular.  Here  we 
sometimes  felt  ticklish  about  the 
possibility  of  getting  on  ;  but  in 
spite  of  the  difficulties  which  beset 
us,  we  managed  without  accident 
to  arrive  at  Vadsoe,  passing  on  the 
way  several  villages  of  the  sea 
Lapps.  These  sea  Lapps  are  ex- 
tremely miserable-looking  creatures. 
When  a  nomad  Lapp,  or,  as  they 
call  him,  "  fjeld  Lapp,"  loses  all  his 
reindeer,  or  from  other  causes  is 
debarred  from  following  his  usual 
mode  of  life,  he  generally,  but  only 
as  a  last  resource,  settles  down  by 
the  sea-shore  aud  endeavours  there 
to  eke  out  a  miserable  existence 
on  the  spoils  of  the  ocean.  Once  a 
sea  Lapp  he  very  seldom,  if  ever, 


1880.] 


A  Reindeer  Ride  through  Lapland. 


157 


regains  his  former  free  life;  and  his 
children  having  no  other  path  open 
to  them,  are  forced  to  follow  in  his 
footsteps.  Living  in  houses  more 
like  pigsties  than  human  habita- 
tions, and  on  a  diet  of  fish  and 
nothing  else,  their  physique  is 
horrid.  I  saw  several  full-grown 
men  whose  legs  were  as  thin  as 
those  of  children  in  other  coun- 
tries, and  very  few  attain  even  mid- 
dle height.  Their  physiognomy  is 
extremely  ugly,  and  skin  diseases 
seem  very  prevalent  among  them. 
Hardly  a  single  individual,  too,  but 
was  affected  by  some  eye  complaint. 
Of  late  years  the  fishing  in  the 
inner  reaches  of  the  Varanger  Fjord 
has  been  very  unproductive,  in  fact 
almost  entirely  at  a  standstill,  and 
the  misery  of  those  beings  whose 
whole  means  of  sustenance  depend 
on  the  fishing  has  been  extreme. 
The  dress  of  these  people  is  the 
same  as  that  of  the  "  fjeld  Lapps," 
though  here  and  there  garments 
made  of  sheepskins  after  the  Rus- 
sian fashion  may  be  seen.  One  or 
two  individuals  who  were  fortunate 
enough  to  own  a  few  sheep  were 
evidently  considered  by  the  others 
as  very  wealthy,  though  to  me  they 
appeared  not  a  whit  less  poor  or 
wretched  than  the  rest  of  them. 

The  sheep  and  other  domestic 
animals  roam  in  and  out  of  the 
dwellings  at  pleasure,  and  on  the 
whole  lead  as  miserable  a  life  as 
their  owners.  They  are  left  to  shift 
for  their  food,  and  as  a  natural  con- 
sequence they  eat  everything, — they 
are  omnivorous !  Nothing  is  out 
of  their  line.  Many  a  time  I 
caught  myself  inwardly  wondering 
whether  any  amount  of  starvation 
would  cause  me  to  partake  of 
mutton  in  that  neighbourhood,  and 
I  invariably  answered  my  own 
question  in  the  negative.  The  look 
of  the  animals  was  enough  to  send 
all  thoughts  of  dinner  to  the  winds. 
"We  arrived  in  Vadsoe  late  in 


the  afternoon,  and  found  ourselves 
again  within  the  pale  of  civilisa- 
tion. It  is  a  small  town  of  about 
1800  inhabitants,  these  consisting 
chiefly  of  Qusens,  but  at  the  time 
of  my  visit  it  was  computed  that  at 
least  1000  strangers  were  in  the 
town  for  the  purpose  of  partici- 
pating in  the  fishing.  It  was  there- 
fore very  lively  and  noisy.  Yadsoe 
is  built  of  wood,  and  in  rather  a 
straggling  fashion.  Its  chief  trade 
is  in  fish  and  the  products  of  fish, 
such  as  fish  guano  and  cod  oil. 
Within  the  last  few  years  an  in- 
dustry hitherto  unknown  has  sprung 
up  in  the  little  place — viz.,  whale- 
fishing.  This  fishing  is  carried  on 
by  means  of  small  steamers  armed 
with  a  curious  weapon  of  destruc- 
tion called  a  harpoon-gun.  With 
this  gun  the  whales  are  shot  at  from 
the  steamers,  and  by  some  mechan- 
ism or  other  the  harpoon  explodes 
on  entering  the  body  of  the  ceta- 
cean, thereby  causing  instantaneous 
death.  The  carcass  is  then  towed 
into  port,  there  to  be  cut  up  and 
converted  into  oil,  guano,  &c. 
How  immensely  profitable  this  un- 
dertaking must  be  is  shown  from 
the  fact  that  the  Norwegian  Income- 
tax  Commissioners  in  1878  assessed 
the  profits  of  the  whale  factory  at 
£15,000,  being  the  net  gain  ac- 
cruing from  the  capture  of  ninety- 
four  whales  only.  With  results  like 
these,  it  is  very  curious  that  only 
one  company  should  have  engaged 
as  yet  in  the  undertaking,  along 
the  whole  extent  of  that  barren  but 
yet  rich  coast. 

After  leaving  Yadsoe  the  interest 
of  the  trip  ceases,  and  we  fairly 
enter  into  the  beaten  track  of  tour- 
ists and  commercial  travellers. 

Vardoe,  though  but  a  little  town 
of  1200  inhabitants,  can  boast  of 
being  the  most  northerly  fortress  in 
the  world.  It  is  defended  by  about 
twenty  pretty  modern  cannon,  and 
has  a  garrison  of  one  lieutenant, 


158 


A  Reindeer  Ride  through  Lapland. 


[Aug. 


one  sergeant,  a  corporal,  and  ten 
men.  Being  the  centre  of  the  great 
fisheries,  just  then  in  full  swing, 
the  place  swarmed  with  Eussians, 
who  protruded  their  ugly  visages 
everywhere,  jostled  everybody  in 
the  streets,  and,  in  short,  made 
themselves  as  disagreeable  as  they 
possible  could. 

Our  progress  from  Vardoe  onwards 
was  but  slow.  Every  fjord,  every 
creek,  every  inhabited  islet,  de- 
manded a  call,  which,  though  ex- 
tremely tiresome  to  through  passen- 
gers, is  a  great  blessing  to  the  poor 
fishers,  who  would  otherwise  be  en- 
tirely cut  off  from  communication 
with  the  outer  world.  Some  of  the 
scenery  is  very  grand,  especially  at 
the  mouth  of  the  Tana  Fjord,  where 
the  Tana  Horn,  a  high  cone-shaped 
mountain,  lises  majestically  from 
the  sea. 

Precisely  at  midnight  we  doubled 
Nord  Kyn  —  the  most  northerly 
point  on  the  mainland  of  Europe.  It 
was  not  quite  dark,  but  only  gloomy 
enough  to  make  us  feel  more  in- 
tensely the  solemnity  of  the  place 
and  hour.  At  the  base  of  the 
great  rock,  which  from  the  steamer 
seemed  to  erect  itself  perpendi- 
cularly from  the  waves,  twinkled  a 
few  lights.  Even  to  this  barren 
and  dreary  place,  where  not  a  leaf- 
let, not  a  blade  of  grass,  ever  shows 
itself — human  beings  find  it  worth 
their  while  to  come,  to  wrest,  with 
great  danger  and  many  privations, 


a    miserable    livelihood    from   the 
ocean. 

On  the  rocks  which  form  the 
cape,  a  colony  of  sea-birds  have 
taken  up  their  abode ;  but  even 
these,  usually  so  shrill  and  dis- 
cordant, seemed  to  have  sunk  into 
sleep,  and  did  not  break  the  still- 
ness which  prevailed. 

I  was  sorry  not  to  obtain  a  view 
of  the  North  Cape,  though  on  ar- 
riving at  Gjsesvser,  a  fishing-station 
about  half  an  hour's  sail  from  it,  a 
hill-top  was  pointed  out  to  me  as 
the  summit  of  the  land-side  of  the 
cape, — and  with  this  I  was  forced 
to  be  satisfied. 

From  Gjsesvaer  we  steered  through 
innumerable  straits  and  passed  count- 
less islands,  all  more  or  less  wild 
and  rugged,  and  arrived  in  the 
evening  at  Hammerfest,  pretty  well 
pleased  to  be  so  near  home. 

And  here  my  narrative  ends.  A 
few  hours  from  Hammerfest  will 
bring  me  to  Tromsoe — my  tempor- 
ary home.  We  steam  out  into  the 
open  sea,  and  then, — past  Loppen, 
that  wave-beat  isle;  past  Fugled 
(Bird  island),  on  whose  lofty  snow- 
capped summit  the  rude  fishermen 
affirm  that  the  entire  skeleton  of 
a  mighty  whale  lies  bleaching  in 
the  sun ;  *  past  Quanangen  and 
Lyng  Fjord,  where  hundreds  of  the 
living  leviathans  may  be  seen  dis- 
porting themselves — into  the  still 
clear  waters  of  Tromsoe  Sound ; — 
my  journey  is  over. 


*  The  belief  that  the  skeletons  of  whales  are  to  be  found  on  the  summits  of  even 
the  highest  mountains  is  very  general  among  the  common  people  in  the  north  of 
Norway,  and  is  shared  by  many  who  ought  to  be  better  informed  ;  it  is  of  course 
utterly  unfounded  and  ridiculous.  Near  Vardoe  a  place  was  pointed  out  to  me  where 
such  a  skeleton  was  said  to  be,  but  on  ascending  to  the  spot  not  a  vestige  of  such 
a  thing  was  to  be  seen. 


1880.] 


A  Talk  about  Sonnets. 


159 


A   TALK   ABOUT    SONNETS. 


Basil.  What  were  we  to  discuss 
this  evening,  Geoffrey  1 

Geoffrey.  I  am  half  inclined  to 
say,  Nothing.  Let  us  instead 
breathe  the  sweet  scents  of  the 
roses  on  your  terrace,  listen  to  the 
ripple  of  the  lake  which  washes 
against  it  (scarcely  audible,  though, 
in  this  profound  calm),  search  out 
the  dim  forms  of  the  mountains 
opposite  amid  the  folded  mists 
which  are  their  covering  for  to- 
night; and  disturb  neither  the 
Spirit  of  the  Flood  nor  the  Spirit 
of  the  Fell,  by  any  "  rude  invoking 
voice,"  from  the  deep  sleep  into 
which  they  seem  to  have  fallen. 
But  that  is  too  lazy  a  proposition 
to  make  to  your  unconquerable  ac- 
tivity, which  cannot  be  charmed 
into  idleness,  even  by  the  unwont- 
ed warmth  of  this  sultry  summer's 
evening.  And  I  do  remember  what 
we  promised  to  talk  over — though 
the  air  was  brisker  and  the  outline 
clearer  than  now,  when  you  moved, 
and  I  seconded,  the  resolution.  We 
were  to  try  to  settle  by  our  joint 
wisdom,  helped  by  the  fresher  per- 
ceptions of  our  young  friend  here, 
which  are  the  six  grandest  sonnets 
in  the  English  language. 

Henry.  You  must  not  look  for 
much  help  from  me,  I  fear.  In  the 
first  place,  I  am  not  sure  that  I 
know  exactly  what  a  sonnet  is.  It 
is  a  short  poem,  is  it  not? 

Geof.  Yes.  But  every  short  poem 
is  not  a  sonnet ;  though  I  have 
heard  people  who  ought  to  know 
better,  call  lyrics  like  the  "Coro- 
nach" in  the  'Lady  of  the  Lake,' 
sonnets,  —  perhaps  misled  by  the 
circumstance  that  song  and  sonnet 
both  begin  with  an  S. 

Bas.  Most  men  who  have  no 
special  taste  for  poetry  are  content 
with  such  notions  of  it  as  they 


gained  at  college  ;  and,  as  you  and 
I  know,  there  are  no  specimens  of 
the  sonnet  to  be  met  with  in  the 
poets  of  antiquity.  The  late  inven- 
tion of  the  troubadours,  it  is  a  wholly 
modern  style  of  composition. 

Geof.  I  will  tell  you  a  case  in 
point.  When  I  was  a  boy  I  wrote 
a  somewhat  irregular  lyric,  the 
thoughts  expressed  in  which  seemed 
to  me  fine ;  and  I  ventured,  though 
with  some  trepidation,  to  show  it 
to  our  worthy  rector,  who  was  a 
First  Class  man  at  Oxford.  He 
suggested  some  alterations  ;  made 
me  feel,  though  very  kindly,  that 
my  work  was  not  quite  so  perfect 
as  I  had  been  tempted  to  believe ; 
and  then,  quite  unexpectedly,  set 
up  again  the  self-conceit  which  he 
had  been  knocking  down,  by  show- 
ing me  that  at  least  there  was  one 
department  of  literature  about  which 
I  knew  more  than  he  did.  "  With 
a  little  pains  and  polish,  Jeff,  you 
may  make  quite  a  striking  sonnet  of 
it,"  was  the  good  man's  kind  con- 
clusion. So  you  see,  Henry,  that 
if  you  confess  yourself  ignorant  of 
the  nature  of  a  sonnet,  you  are 
ignorant  in  learned  company.  Had 
my  rector  given  a  tithe  of  the  time 
to  Petrarch  or  Milton  which  he  had 
bestowed  on  Virgil  and  Horace,  he 
would  have  seen  that  my  juvenile 
poem  was  as  like  a  sonnet  as  that 
carnation  is  like  a  rose. 

Hen.  His  reverence's  esteemed 
memory  encourages  me  to  ask  you, 
without  too  great  a  shame  at  need- 
ing to  put  the  question,  What  is  a 
sonnet,  then,  exactly? 

Bas.  "  Teach  thy  tongue  to  say, 
'  I  do  not  know,' "  is  one  of  the 
best  sentences  in  the  Talmud.  Tell 
him,  Geoffrey. 

Geof.  A  sonnet  consists  of  four- 
teen lines  of  iambics,  the  first  two 


160 


A  Talk  about  Sonnets. 


quatrains  of  which  would  "be  just 
like  two  stanzas  of  "In  Memo- 
riam,"  provided  that  the  second  of 
these  stanzas  repeated  the  rhymes 
of  the  first,  and  in  exactly  the  same 
order.  Thus,  you  see,  the  first  eight 
lines  of  a  sonnet  can  have  only 
two  rhymes,  each  four  times  re- 
peated ;  and  that  is  one  of  the 
chief  mechanical  difficulties  in  its 
composition.  In  the  remaining  six, 
more  liberty  is  allowed  :  they  may 
either  have  two  rhymes,  each  three 
times  repeated — or  three,  each  em- 
ployed twice ;  only  they  must  be 
interlaced  in  a  manner  satisfactory 
to  the  ear.  One  method,  and  the 
simplest,  is  to  dispose  the  first  four 
in  a  quatrain  of  alternate  rhymes, 
and  the  last  two  as  a  couplet ;  but 
the  other  plan  is  the  more  usual. 
Such  is  the  sonnet's  outward  shape. 

Hen.  Thank  you ;  I  think  I  un- 
derstand. If  only  I  had  one  to 
look  at,  the  whole  thing  would  be 
clear  to  me.  Shall  I  find  one  in 
this  book  1 

Bas.  No.  Besides,  if  you  did,  it 
is  growing  so  dusk  that  it  would 
try  even  your  young  eyes  to  read 
it.  Suppose  I  say  you  one  instead. 

Geof.  Do  not  recite  one  of  the 
great  masters',  which  we  shall  want 
later  on.  Say  us  one  by  some  for- 
gotten author,  which  is  technically 
correct ;  and  which  will  exemplify 
the  rules  I  have  been  giving  with- 
out distracting  our  attention  from 
them  by  any  extraordinary  beauty. 

Bas.  Do  you  think  I  should  have 
wasted  my  time  by  learning  sonnets 
of  that  sort?  And  yet,  stay — I 
have  exactly  what  you  want.  Here 
is  one  by  a  quite  unknown  author, 
cut  to  what  you  call  the  simplest 
pattern,  for  it  closes  with  a  rhymed 
couplet —  » 
"The  casket  rude,  that  held  the  spirit 

kind, 
Despised  on  earth,   shall  turn  again  to 

clay, 

And  all  its  former  features  pass  away, 
The  while  the  spirit  soareth  unconfined  : 


[Aug. 


But,  when  the  Archangel's  blast  shall  stir 
the  wind, 

It  too  shall  rise,  and  seek  the  heavenly 
day, 

Joined  to  its  kindred  soul  to  rest  for  aye, 

Fashioned  as  lovely  as  its  inward  mind. 

But  the  fair  form  whose  habitant  was  sin, 

And  proud  esteem  of  its  own  loveliness, 

Shall  be  transformed  like  to  the  heart 
within, 

As  far  from  beauty  as  from  holiness. 

Then,  since  thy  soul  at  last  shall  mould 
its  dwelling, 

See  that  in  all  things  good  it  be  excel- 
ling." 

Hen.  Thanks,  many.  I  like  the 
idea  expressed  in  those  words ; 
though  I  see  that  this  sonnet  shows 
something  of  a  'prentice  hand. 
"  Loveliness  "  and  "  holiness  " 
ought  not  to  have  been  used  as 
rhymes  to  each  other,  as  their  last 
syllables  are  the  same.  And  it 
seems  a  little  bold  to  talk  of  the 
features  of  a  casket. 

Bas.  I  only  repeated  it  to  help 
out  Geoffrey's  explanation.  It  was 
the  work  of  a  child  of  fourteen. 

Geof.  Did  your  Mary  write  it  ? 

Bas.  Yes.  Now  she  peacefully 
awaits  the  fulfilment  of  its  promise 
beside  the  little  church  in  the  bay. 
She  .was  taken  from  me  when  she 
was  eighteen.  Dear  child !  how 
she  loved  Spenser  and  all  our  great 
poets  !  Had  she  lived,  she  might 
have  written  something  of  her 
own  worth  remembering.  A  happy 
matron,  with  children  of  hers  play- 
ing round  her,  she  might  have  been 
sitting  now  beside  me,  and  helping 
us  in  our  poetic  researches.  Deo 
aliter  visum  est. 

Geof.  She  listens  to  the  angels 
now ;  and  their  discourse  is  better 
than  ours. 

Bas.  You  remember  something, 
I  see,  of  her  unfulfilled  promise. 

Geof.  (aside).  Remember  her  ?  I 
could  sooner  forget  myself.  (Aloud.) 
Let  me  recall  to  your  recollection 
that  I  spent  a  long  vacation  here  the 
summer  before  she  died.  With  you 
and  Mary  I  climbed  many  a  fell, 


1880.] 


A  Talk  about  Sonnets. 


161 


explored  many  a  waterfall,  had 
many  a  delicious  moonlight  row  on 
the  lake.  If  there  is  any  one  in 
the  world,  besides  yourself,  who 
knows  what  you  lost  in  her,  I  am 
the  man. 

Bos.  (Murmurs  half  to  liim- 
self)- 

"  In  the  great  cloister's  stillness  and  se- 
clusion, 

By  guardian  angels  led, 
Safe  from  all  evil,  safe  from  sin's  pollu- 
tion, 
She  lives  whom  we  call  dead. " 

(After  a  pause.)  "We  must  return 
to  our  subject.  I  will  give  you 
a  second  example  of  the  outward 
structure  of  a  sonnet,  in  which  the 
concluding  six  lines  rhyme  after  a 
more  usual  pattern  than  those  in 
my  dear  daughter's.  This  second 
one  is  my  own,  yet  I  can  fearlessly 
bid  you  praise  the  thought  which 
it  strives  to  embody,  since  I  have 
borrowed  it  from  St  Augustine ; 
who,  in  his  great  treatise  on  the 
Trinity,  describes  the  happy  condi- 
tion of  the  humble  believer  in 
Christ,  as  compared  with  the  proud 
Platonic  philosopher,  in  these 
words  :  "  For  what  furthers  it  one, 
exalting  himself,  and  so  ashamed  to 
embark  on  the  Wood,  to  see  from 
afar  his  home  beyond  the  sea  ?  Or 
what  hinders  it  the  humble,  that  at 
so  great  a  distance  he  sees  it  not, 
while  he  is  drawing  nigh  it  on  that 
Wood  whereon  the  other  disdains 
to  be  carried?"  By  the  Wood,  I 
need  not  tell  you,  he  meant  the 
Cross. 

Geof.  Happy  Augustine !  His 
opponents,  then,  only  differed  with 
him  as  to  the  method  of  reaching 
the  "  home  beyond  the  sea."  They 
did  not,  as  ours  do,  deny  that  that 
home  existed  anywhere.  But  let  us 
hear  how  you  versified  the  thought 
— a  poem  in  prose  as  it  stands. 

Bus.  Thus:— 
"  Brother  !  my  seat  is  on  the  mountain 


The  wind  which  bends  thy  mast  but  fans 

my  brow. 
Clear  from  my  watch-tower  lies  to  view 

what  thou 
Dost  strain  thy  gaze  'mid  swelling  seas  to 

spy, — 

The  goodly  land,— the  land  of  liberty 
And  peace,   and  joy — land  sought  with 

prayer  and  vow 

Of  old  by  many  a  voyager,  who  now 
Feeds  on  its  beauty  his  unsated  eye. 
Yet  does  thy  seeming  fragile  bark  prove 

strong 

To  buffet  with  the  waves,  and  day  by  day 
Hold  on  its  course  right  forward  to  the 

shore  : 
What  now  thou  seest  not  thou  shalt  see 

ere  long ; 

Whilst  I,  ah  me  !  see  yet,  but  never  more 
May  hope  to  tread  that  good  land  far 

away. " 

Hen.  Praise  from  me  would  be 
an  impertinence,  whether  directed 
to  yourself  or  to  St  Augustine ; 
otherwise  I  should  say  that  we 
have  here  a  noble  thought  very 
nobly  expressed. 

Bas.  I  must  ascribe  the  latter 
half  of  your  remark  to  the  generous 
enthusiasm  of  youth  ;  but  with  the 
former  I  entirely  agree.  The  dif- 
ference between  barren  contempla- 
tion and  fruitful  action,  the  hopeless 
chasm  (not  to  be  spanned  for  man 
without  divine  aid)  that  separates 
knomng  from  doing,  has  seldom 
been  illuminated  by  a  brighter 
poetic  flash  than  in  Augustine's 
.saying. 

Geof.  I  wonder  that  poets  do  not 
oftener  glean  in  the  rich  field  of 
that  great  Father's  writings.  He, 
like  Plato,  was  of  the  brotherhood, 
although  he  wrote  in  prose. 

Hen.  Do  you  ascribe  to  his 
poetic  temperament  those  wonder- 
ful statements  on  natural  history 
which  occasionally  enliven  his  ser- 
mons] 

Geof.  Give  me  an  instance. 

Hen.  Surely  you  remember  his 
explanation  of  the  deaf  adder  in  the 
Psalm,  which,  he  says,  stops  one 
ear  with  its  tail,  and  the  other  by 
laying  it  against  the  ground  •  and 
thus  disables  itself  from  hearing  the 


162 


A  Talk  about  Sonnets. 


voice  of  the  charmer.  Is  not  that 
an  ingenious  notion?  But  then, 
you  know,  unfortunately,  an  adder 
has  no  ears. 

Bas.  They  hear  quick  enough 
somehow ;  but  I  allow  the  expla- 
nation in  question  to  be  as  improb- 
able as  it  is  needless. 

Geof.  Come,  Henry,  confess. 
Your  reading  has  been  extensive, 
I  know,  for  your  age ;  but  I  doubt 
your  having  had  time  or  inclination 
yet  to  read  St  Augustine's  'Jong 
commentary  on  the  Psalms.  Who 
gave  you  that  precious  piece  of  in- 
formation out  of  it  ? 

Hen.  My  tutor.  He  was  point- 
ing out  to  us  one  day  the  superiority 
of  the  modern  expositors  of  Scrip- 
ture to  the  ancient,  and  he  adduced 
this  as  an  example  of  the  faults  of 
the  latter.  I  remember  thinking  at 
the  time  that  it  did  not  prove  much, 
because  a  man  who  had  had  no 
opportunity  of  getting  up  the  facts 
of  natural  history  correctly,  might 
be  great,  nevertheless,  at  logic. 

Bas.  Give  my  compliments  to 
your  tutor,  and  tell  him  that  you 
will  do  him  credit  some  day.  No 
thanks  to  him,  though — unless  his 
usual  method  of  instruction  is  dif- 
ferent from  the  sample  with  which 
you  have  favoured  us.  A  man  who 
keeps  a  sharp  look-out  for  the  weak 
points  of  his  intellectual  superiors, 
and  who  feels  no  pleasure  in  sur- 
veying and  exhibiting  their  excel- 
lences, is  not  a  teacher  to  whom  I 
should  like  to  intrust  a  grandson  of 
my  own. 

But  we  are  not  getting  on  very 
fast  with  our  supposed  subject. 
The  next  thing  in  order  should 
have  been  an  account  of  the  true 
idea  of  a  sonnet, — the  reason  why 
its  peculiar  structure  is  the  appro- 
priate one. 

Geof.  That  I  take  to  be  the  fol- 
lowing :  A  sonnet  should  consist  of 
a  thought  and  its  consequence, — a 
syllogism,  in  fact,  but  one  more  of 


[Aug. 


the  heart  than  of  the  head.  The 
main  proposition  should  be  the  sub- 
ject of  the  first  eight  lines.  The 
difficulty  raised  by  it  in  the  mind 
should  be  disentangled,  or  the  con- 
sequences naturally  flowing  from  it 
majestically  and  skilfully  drawn 
out,  in  the  concluding  six  ;  so  that 
the  last  line  should  satisfy  mind 
and  ear  alike  with  a  sense  of  a 
completed  harmony  at  once  of  ideas 
and  sounds.  Sometimes,  however, 
the  first  four  lines  will  hold  what 
I  may  call  the  main  proposition, 
which  may  be  followed  by  correl- 
ative statements  extending  to  the 
sonnet's  close. 

Bas.  That  is  the  sonnet  which 
answers  best  to  the  fable  of  the 
sonnet's  origin. 

Geof.  What  is  that? 

Bas.  Upon  a  day  Apollo  met  the 
Muses  and  the  Graces  in  sweet 
sport  mixed  with  earnest.  Memory, 
the  grave  and  noble  mother  of  the 
Muses,  was  present  likewise.  Each 
of  the  fourteen  spoke  a  line  of 
verse.  Apollo  bogan ;  then  each 
of  the  nine  Muses  sang  her  part ; 
then  the  three  Graces  warbled  each 
in  turn  ;  and  finally,  a  low,  sweet 
strain  from  Memory  made  a  har- 
monious close.  This  was  the  first 
sonnet;  and,  mindful  of  its  origin, 
all  true  poets  take  care  to  bid 
Apollo  strike  the  key-note  for  them 
when  they  compose  one,  and  to  let 
Memory  compress  the  pith  and 
marrow  of  the  sonnet  into  its  last 
line. 

Geof.  That  is  a  capital  allegory  : 
I  never  heard  it  before.  Have  you 
extemporised  it  for  our  instruction? 

Bas.  No  ;  yet  I  forget  where  I 
found  it.  It  sounds  like  an  inven- 
tion of  an  Italian  of  the  Eenais- 
sance.  But  you  had  more  to  say 
about  the  sonnet. 

Geof.  Not  much.  I  was  mere- 
ly going  to  add  that  at  other  times 
the  sonnet  seems  to  fall  into  three 
divisions, — a  major,  a  minor,  and 


A  Talk  about  Sonnets. 


1880.] 

a  conclusion.  This  is  the  case  in 
which  it  is  best  ended  by  a  couplet. 

Bas.  My  little  girl's  sonnet  comes 
under  that  definition.  Instinct,  or 
good  examples,  taught  the  child  to 
circumscribe  her  picture  of  the  death 
and  resurrection  of  the  just  within 
the  first  eight  lines,  to  give  the  next 
four  to  the  resurrection  of  the  wick- 
ed, and  to  sum  up  her  simple  moral 
lesson  in  her  closing  couplet.  A  grand 
sonnet,  by  Blanco  "White,  cut  out 
on  a  similar  pattern,  comes  into  my 
mind.  But  we  shall  want  it  later  on. 

Geof.  Your  own  poem  is  a  speci- 
men of  the  sonnet  in  two  divisions. 
Its  first  eight  lines  set  out  the  ap- 
parent superiority  of  the  contempla- 
tive philosopher  to  the  practical 
Christian;  while  its  last  six  skil- 
fully reverse  the  statement,  closing 
with  a1  wail  over  the  sight  that  is 
never  to  become  fruition. 

I  think  my  definition  is  suffi- 
ciently exact  for  our  purpose,  and 
explains  why,  especially  in  son- 
nets moulded  like  yours,  the  first 
eight  lines  are  to  be  so  inti- 
mately connected  by  rhyme.  At 
their  close  there  is  a  sort  of  na- 
tural halting  -  place,  from  whence 
the  mind  surveys  the  ground  al- 
ready traversed,  and  then  turns  to 
the  steps  which  remain  to  be  taken, 
either  by  way  of  natural  conse- 
quence, or  in  unexpected  contra- 
vention of  what  has  gone  before. 

Bas.  One  thing  strikes  me  though, 
and  I  hasten  to  mention  it.  Your 
correct  definition,  with  which  I 
have  no  quarrel  otherwise,  carries 
with  it  one  most  serious  incon- 
venience. It  is  a  fatally  exclusive 
one.  If  we  maintain  it  absolutely, 
we  must  deny  the  name  of  sonnets 
to  some  of  Wordsworth's,  to  all 
Spenser's,  to  Drummond's 

Geof.  Drummond,  if  I  remember 
right,  employs  only  two  rhymes  in 
his  first  eight  lines,  which  is  the 
essential  thing,  though  he  varies 
their  position. 


163 


Bas.  But  what  do  you  say  to 
Shakespeare's?  If  yours  is  the 
description  of  the  only  receipt  for 
a  sonnet,  then  the  name  is  a  mis- 
nomer for  any  of  his.  They  all 
consist,  I  think,  of  three  quatrains 
like  those  in  Gray's  "  Elegy  "  (and 
with  no  more  connection  as  to 
rhyme  than  they  have),  loosely 
bound  up  at  the  end  by  a  single 
couplet.  Can  you  possibly  main- 
tain a  definition  of  the  sonnet  which 
shall  refuse  that  name  to  Shake- 
speare's, and  deny  Wordsworth's 
assertion  that 

"With  this  key 
Shakespeare  unlocked  his  heart "  ? 

Geof.  I  see  the  difficulty, 
will  make  all  the  concessions  that  I 
can.  I  am  ready  to  allow  that  had 
Petrarch  written  in  English,  our 
penury  of  rhymes,  as  compared  with 
the  Italian  plenty,  might — nay,  pro- 
bably would  —  have  led  him  to 
modify  his  strict  system ;  and  that 
thus  the  deviations  of  Spenser  and 
Shakespeare  from  their  model  are 
very  excusable.  I  am  willing,  if 
you  like,  to  make  two  classes  of  the 
English  sonnet ;  the  more  loosely 
organised,  at  the  head  of  which 
must  stand  Shakespeare's— and  the 
more  closely  coherent,  the  type  for 
which  are  Milton's:  but  I  cannot 
possibly  consider  the  first  class, 
whatever  its  merits  may  be,  as 
fulfilling  the  requirements  of  the 
sonnet  in  the  way  in  which  Petrarch 
conceived  them,  and  Milton  and 
Wordsworth  (in  his  happiest  efforts) 
accomplished  them. 

Bas.  Then  you  will  give  your 
vote,  when  we  come  to  select  our 
six,  against  even  one  of  Shake- 
speare's best? 

Geof.  Decidedly.  They  none  of 
them  impress  my  mind  as  do  Mil- 
ton's ;  they  lack  his  stately  gran- 
deur, and  fail  to  give  the  same 
satisfactory  sense  of  perfect  finish. 
They  may  be  perfect  in  their  own 


161 


A  Talk  about  Sonnets. 


[Aug. 


line ;  but  it  is  a  line,  in  point  of  art, 
laid  on  a  lower  level  than  Milton's. 

Bas.  That  may  be  true  ;  but  yet 
— but  yet — what  profound  thoughts 
lurk  in  single  lines  of  Shakespeare's 
sonnets  !  what  a  mysterious  charm 
many  of  them  possess  !  Who,  that 
has  seen  as  many  years  as  I  have, 
can  read  the  one  which  begins, 
'•'Tired  with  all  these,  for  restful 
death  I  cry,"  and  not  own  sorrow- 
fully how  true  is  its  indictment 
against  "  the  world  we  live  in  "  1 

Geof.  Hamlet,  in  his  far-famed 
soliloquy,  says  the  same  things 
better. 

Bas.  Yes  ;  but  without  the  inim- 
itable touch  of  tenderness  at  the 
end.  "What  generous  love,  too, 
though  extravagant  and  unjust  in 
its  generosity,  breathes  in  the  son- 
net which  begins,  "No  longer 
mourn  for  me  when  I  am  dead  "  ! 
What  a  powerful  enchanter's  wand  is 
waved  (though  for  what  a  sorrowful 
purpose  !)  in  the  sonnet  that  opens 
with,  "When  to  the  sessions  of 
sweet  silent  thought"  !  Before  its 
sweet  alliterative  spell,  grave  after 
grave  opens,  and  spectre  after  spectre 
of  cares  and  losses  long  ago  laid  to 
sleep,  comes  forth  to  torment  the 
mind ;  till,  at  its  end — oh,  splen- 
did tribute  to  friendship  ! — the  be- 
loved name,  spoken  in  the  heart, 
not  pronounced  by  the  lips,  puts 
them  all  to  flight.  Think,  too,  of 
that  noble  sonnet  which  tells  us 
that  love  which  can  alter  is  not 
love  at  all,  but  something  else ;  for 
that  real  love 

"  Is  an  ever-fixed  mark, 
That  looks  on  tempests,  and  is  never 

shaken ; 

It  is  a  star  to  every  wandering  bark, 
Whose  worth's  unknown,   although  his 

height  be  taken. 
Love's  not  Time's  fool,  though  rosy  lips 

and  cheeks 
Within    his    bending    sickle's    compass 

come; 
Love  alters  not  with  his  brief  hours  and 

weeks, 
But  bears  it  out  e'en  to  the  edge  of  doom. " 


Hen.  That  is  very  fine. 

Geof.  And  perfectly  true. 

Bas.  Then,  how  well  the  diffi- 
dence of  genius  in  its  hours  of 
despondency  is  expressed  in  the 
sonnet  commencing,  "  If  thou  sur- 
vive my  well-contented  day  "  !  and 
how  well  its  just  self-confidence 
in  another  which  I  will  repeat  to 
you,  for  I  happen  to  remember 
it!— 

"Like  as  the  waves  make  towards  the 

pebbled  shore, 

So  do  our  minutes  hasten  to  their  end  ; 
Each  changing  place  with  that   which 

goes  before, 
In  sequent  toil  all  forwards  do  contend. 

Nativity  once  in  the  main  of  light, 
Crawls    to    maturity,  wherewith    being 

crowned, 

Crooked  eclipses  'gainst  his  glory  fight, 
And  Time  that  gave,  doth  now  his  gift 

confound. 

Time  doth  transfix  the  nourish  set  on 

youth, 

And  delves  the  parallels  in  beauty's  brow ; 
Feeds  on  the  rarities  of  nature's  truth, 
And  nothing  stands  but  for  his  scythe  to 

mow. 

And  yet,  to  times  in  hope,  my  verse  shall 

stand, 
Praising   thy  worth,   despite    his  cruel 

hand." 

Geof.  I  wonder  whether  Brown- 
ing had  the  first  four  lines  of  that 
sonnet  in  mind  when  penning  the 
speech  in  "The  Ring  and  the  Book," 
in  which  the  criminal  on  the  point 
of  execution  consoles  himself  by  the 
reflection  that  all  men  are  like 
waves  hastening  to  break  on  the 
shore  of  death ;  that  the  privilege 
of  the  more  fortunate  is  but  to  ar- 
rive a  little  slower,  of  the  gayest 
only  to  dance  a  little  more  wildly 
in  the  sunshine,  than  the  rest. 
It  is  a  fine  passage ;  but,  I  think, 
scarcely  in  place  in  the  mouth  of 
the  base  man  to  whom  its  writer 
has  given  it. 

Bas.  I  do  not  read  Browning. 
He  speaks  a  language  which  I  have 
never  learned.  The  taste  for  his 


A  Talk  about  Sonnets. 


1880.] 

poems  is  an  acquired  taste,  and  to 
me  they  have  remained  unsavoury 
delicacies. 

Geof.  You  have  missed  some- 
thing, then.  Is  Browning  in  fa- 
vour at  your  university,  Henry  ] 

Hen.  One  of  our  tutors  often 
quotes  him ;  but  any  of  our  men 
who  read  poetry  talk  of  Swinburne 
or  Morris. 

Has.  They  should  be  ashamed  to 
talk  of  Swinburne.  If  I  catch  you 
listening  to  him  I  shall  feel  in- 
clined to  scold  you  as  Virgil  did 
Dante,  when  he  caught  him  heark- 
ening to  the  ignoble  discourse  of 
Sinon  and  Master  Adam,  and  to 
give  his  reason :  "  Che  voler  ci6 
udire  e  bassa  voglia." 

Geof.  I  advise  you  to  stick  to 
Morris.  I  am  fond  of  him  myself. 
He  tells  a  story  something  in 
Chaucer's  way. 

Btis.  Has  he  written  any  son- 
nets] 

Geof.  I  understand  your  rebuke. 
To  show  that  the  fine  one  which 
you  last  repeated  was  not  wholly 
new  to  me,  I  will  make  one  remark 
upon  it,  which  is  this  :  Being  dif- 
ferently organised  to  one  of  Pe- 
trarch's sonnets,  it  does  not  present 
the  same  ebb  of  thought,  after  the 
flood-tide,  that  they  often  do.  Its 
main  idea,  that  of  the  ravages  of 
time, flows  on  uninterrupted  through 
twelve  lines,  to  dash  itself,  as  against 
a  rock,  impregnable  by  the  assaults 
of  ocean,  in  the  closing  couplet, 
which  so  proudly  declares  the  pre- 
rogatives of  imperishable  genius. 
Now  by  this  an  effect  at  once  grand 
and  simple  is  produced.  Never- 
theless, the  more  complex  harmonies 
of  the  Petrarchan  sonnet,  as  devel- 
oped by  our  great  English  masters, 
are  grander  still. 

Bos.  I  say  not  nay.  Yet  let  us 
linger  with  Shakespeare  a  while 
longer.  Which  of  us  can  remem- 
ber another  sonnet  by  him  1 

Hen.  I  think  I  can.     I  learned 


165 


one  at  home  many  years  ago.     It 
is  this  one  : — 

"That  time  of  3' ear  tliou  inay'st  in  me 

behold 
When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few,  do 

hang 
Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against 

the  cold, 
Bare,  mined  choirs,  where  late  the  sweet 

birds  sang. 

In  me  thou  seest  the  twilight  of  such  daj*, 
As  after  sunset  fadeth  in  the  west, 
Which  by-and-by  black  night  doth  take 

away, 
Death's  second  self,  that  seals  up  all  in 

rest. 

In  me  thou  seest  the  glowing  of  such  fire, 
That  on  the  ashes  of  his  youth  doth  lie, 
As  the  deathbed  whereon  it  must  expire, 
Consumed  with  that  which  it  was  nour- 
ished by. 

This  thou  perceiv'st,   which  makes  thy 

love  more  strong, 
To  love  that  well  which  thou  must  leave 

ere  long." 

What  makes  you  smile  ? 

Geof.  I  could  not  help  thinking 
how  very  appropriate  those  lines 
were  to  the  state  of  the  reciter. 
They  must  have  been  even  more  so, 
if  possible,  when  you  first  learned 
them,  as  you  say,  many  years  ago. 
You  repeated  them,  too,  with  such 
feeling.  But  seriously,  it  is  well, 
I  think,  to  hear  them  from  young 
lips,  sitting,  as  we  do,  with  all  the 
flush  of  summer  around  us.  Under 
some  circumstances  they  might  be 
too  sad. 

Bus.  I  cannot  walk  under  our 
lime-tree  avenue  in  November  with- 
out thinking  of  them.  It  is  any- 
thing but  a  "  bare,  ruined  choir  "  at 
present — in  a  week  or  two  its  in- 
cense will  breathe  more  fragrance 
than  any  diffused  by  Eastern  spices ; 
but  when  its  green  has  turned  to 
gold,  and  that  gold  paves  the  floor 
instead  of  enriching  its  roof,  I  see 
in  it  what  Shakespeare  saw — the 
image  of  a  desolated  temple. 

Hen.  The  new  -  made  ruins  of 
his  day  must  have  been  a  sorry 


166 


A  Talk  about  Sonnets. 


sight.  We  see  them  mellowed  by 
the  hand  of  time. 

Bos.  There  are  sadder  ruins  (if 
people  only  had  eyes  to  see  them 
with)  than  even  fallen  church-walls, 
— ruins,  for  which  those  who  will 
have  to  answer  should  strive  to 
place  themselves  in  a  moral  attitude 
corresponding  to  Shakespeare's  pen- 
itent, dying  on  his  bed  of  ashes. 

Hen.  I  wonder  when  Shake- 
speare wrote  that  sonnet?  One 
would  think  at  the  very  end  of  his 
life. 

Geof.  Men  feel  old  at  very  vari- 
ous periods.  Look  at  Coleridge, 
writing  his  pathetic  "Youth  and 
Age  "  before  he  was  forty. 

Hen.  Did  he  really  1  "Why,  you 
would  say  its  writer  must  have  been 
aged  seventy. 

Geof.  Look  at  Charles  V.,  resign- 
ing the  empire,  worn  out  with  age 
and  infirmities,  under  sixty  j  while 
our  statesmen  now  fight  hard  to  gain, 
or  retain,  the  command  of  a  much 
larger  empire  at  seventy  and  up- 
wards ;  and  not  long  ago  our  Premier 
was  over  eighty. 

But  to  return  to  the  sonnet 
which  you  so  well  recited.  You 
there  see,  as  in  the  former  one, 
a  single  idea  prevailing  up  to  the 
final  couplet,  which  contains  its 
consequence.  The  close  of  life  is 
painted  in  three  beautiful  images, 
one  for  each  quatrain,  and  then 
comes  the  moral  which  the  friend 
is  to  draw  from  it. 

Has.  Do  you  notice  how  the  light 
fades  away  through  the  sonnet,  an- 
swerably  to  the  fading  of  life  which 
it  represents  1  In  the  first  four  lines 
you  have  daylight,  although  only 
that  of  an  autumn  afternoon ;  in 
the  next  four  you  have  twilight, 
dying  away  into  the  night  which 
prevails  in  the  last  four,  only  re- 
lieved by  the  red  glow  of  embers, 
the  fire  in  which  will  shortly  be 
extinct. 

Geof.  That,  perhaps,  is  the  reason 


[Aug. 


of  the  perfect  satisfaction  this  son- 
net gives  one.  Its  sombre  tints  are 
in  such  complete  harmony. 

Bas.  Can  either  of  you  repeat  the 
sonnet  which  begins,  "Poor  soul, 
the  centre  of  my  sinful  earth  "  1 

Hen.  I  never  even  heard  of  it : 
my  acquaintance  with  Shakespeare's 
sonnets  is  of  the  slightest. 

Geof.  I  only  remember  its  last 
line,  "  And  death  once  dead,  there's 
no  more  dying  then,"  accurately  ; 
but  I  know  that  it  is  one  of  the 
finest  of  Shakespeare's  sonnets, 
viewed  from  the  spiritual  side. 

Bas.  Yes.  It  gives  one  good 
hope — especially  when  taken  in 
connection  with  the  undesigned 
and  compendious  confessions  of 
faith  in  several  of  the  plays — that 
our  greatest  poet's  "  ruined  choir  " 
was  not  un visited  by  the  seraphim. 
I  wish  I  could  recall  its  words.  As 
I  cannot,  I  will  say  you  the  only 
other  of  Shakespeare's  sonnets  that 
I  remember  just  now.  It  is  the 
pendant  to  one  I  mentioned  before, 
and  contains  four  yet  more  beauti- 
ful lines  than  it  does.  In  that 
sonnet  love  chases  away  sad  mem- 
ories ;  in  this  he  consoles  for 
present  sorrows  : — 

"  When  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and 
men's  eyes, 

I  all  alone  beweep  my  outcast  state, 

And  trouble  deaf  heaven  with  my  boot- 
less cries, 

And  look  upon  myself,  and  curse  my  fate, 

Wishing  me  like  to  one  more  rich  in  hope, 
Featured  like  him,  like  him  with  friends 

possest, 
Desiring  this  man's  art,  and  that  man's 


Yet  in  these  thoughts  myself  almost  de- 
spising, 

Haply  I  think  on  thee— and  then  my 
state, 

Like  to  the  lark  at  break  of  day  arising 

From  sullen  earth,  sings  hymns  at  heav- 
en's gate  : 

For  thy  sweet  love  remembered,   such 

wealth  brings, 
That  then  I  scorn  to  change  my   state 

with  kings. " 


1880.] 


Geqf.  Truly  a  glorious  sunrise 
of  the  soul.  But  oh  the  weakness 
of  human  nature  in  its  best  estate  ! 
Fancy  Shaltespeare  desiring  another 
man's  art,  and  discontented  with 
his  own  vast  possessions  ! 

Bas.  Should  we  not  rather  say, 
Great  is  the  modesty,  marvellous 
the  unconsciousness,  of  the  highest 
genius  1 

But  you  have  indulged  me  long 
enough  in  wandering  among  what 
you  have  seen  fit  to  call  the  more 
loosely  organised  sonnets.  Let  us 
now  proceed  to  select  our  six  best 
from  those  which  present  the  higher 
type.  I  imagine  that  they  will  all 
be  found  in  one  volume,  with 
"  John  Milton  "  on  the  title-page. 

Geof.  Possibly;  but  I  propose, 
if  only  for  variety's  sake,  that  we 
should  first  choose  three  of  his,  and 
then  find  our  remaining  three  else- 
where. 

Bas.  Agreed,  since  you  wish  it. 
Now,  Henry,  which  are  your  two 
favourites  of  Milton's  sonnets'? 

Hen.  The  one  on  his  blindness, 
and  that  on  the  massacre  of  the 
Waldenses.  But  then  I  know  them 
by  heart :  some  of  the  others  I  only 
know  slightly,  if  at  all. 

Geof.  Further  knowledge  will 
scarcely  lead  to  an  altered  choice. 
They  are  two  of  Milton's  very  best. 
What  concentrated  power  there  is 
in  that  on  the  Piedmontese  mar- 
tyrs !  With  what  few  vigorous 
strokes  it  paints  to  us  the  ancient 
faith,  the  simple  life,  the  mountain 
habitation,  the  undeserved  suffer- 
ings, of  those  hapless  confessors 
whose 

"moans 

The  vales  redoubled  to  the  hills,  and  they 
To  heaven  "  ! 

Bas.  Do  you  notice  the  added 
force  given  by  alliteration  to  the 
lines  immediately  preceding,  which 
tell  us  how  the  bloody  persecutors 

"  rolled 

Mother  with  infant  down  the  rocks  "  ? 
VOL.  CXXVIII. NO.  DCCLXXVIII. 


A  Talk  about  Sonnets. 


1G7 


and  the  way  in  which  that  verse 
seems  to  make  us  hear  the  fall  of 
the  victims ;  and  to  hold  our  breath 
with  horror  as  we  watch  them  reach 
their  sad  resting  -  place,  and  lie 
motionless,  shattered  and  dead,  at 
the  foot  of  the  precipice  ? 

Geof.  If  the  expression  in  that 
sonnet  is  the  more  perfect,  the 
thought  expressed  in  the  sonnet  on 
Milton's  blindness  is  the  nobler. 

Bas.  Both  the  sonnets  on  that 
theme  are  very  noble.  The  second 
to  Cyriac  Skinner  has  in  it  a  strain 
of  manly  courage,  which  it  does 
one's  heart  good  to  read  after 
the  unmanly  complainings  of  some 
poets  ;  and  the  one  Henry  mention- 
ed is  better  than  a  sermon  in  the 
clear  insight  which  it  shows  into 
what  serving  God  really  means. 
We  owe  much  to  Milton's  blind- 
ness. I  suppose  it  was  to  some 
extent  the  cause,  instead  of  being 
the  effect,  of  those  grand  visions  to 
which  Gray  ascribes  it.  You  well 
know,  too,  the  pathos  to  which  it 
has  given  rise  in  "  Samson  Agonis- 
tes  "  and  in  "  Paradise  Lost."  Also, 
did  you  ever  reflect  that  it  is  a  blind 
man  who  speaks  in  the  beautiful 
sonnet  on  Milton's  dead  wife  ? 

"  Methought  I  saw  my  late  espoused  saint 

Brought  to  me,  like  Alcestis,  from  the 
grave, 

Whom  Jove's  great  son  to  her  glad 
husband  gave, 

Rescued  from  Death  by  force,  though 

pale  and  faint. 

Mine,  as  whom,  washed  from  spot  of  child- 
bed taint, 

rurification  in  the  Old  Law  did  save, 

And  such,  as  yet  once  more  I  trust  to 
have 

Full  sight  of  her  in  heaven  without 

restraint, 

Came  vested  all  in  white,  pure  as  her 
miiid : 

Her  face  was  veiled  ;  yet,  to  my  fancied 
sight, 

Love,  sweetness,  goodness,  in  her  per- 
son sinned 
So  clear,  as  in  no  face  with  more  delight. 

But  oh  !  as  to  embrace  me  she  inclined, 

I  waked,   she   fled,   and  day  brought 
back  my  night." 


168 


A  Talk  about  Sonnets. 


[Aug. 


You  observe  lie  cannot  even  dream 
of  his  second  wife's  face.  He  was 
blind  when  he  married  her ;  and 
therefore,  when  she  visits  his  slum- 
bers, her  face  is  veiled. 

Geof.  But  so  is  that  of  Alcestis, 
to  whom  he  compares  her,  in  Euri- 
pides. 

Bos.  For  a  different  reason. 
There,  on  the  one  hand,  Admetus 
is  not  to  be  startled  by  the  too 
sudden  revelation  of  his  wife  res- 
cued from  death ;  on  the  other, 
there  is  yet  to  hang  about  the  re- 
stored Alcestis  a  shadow  of  the 
dark  and  sacred  place  whence  she 
has  come — hence  her  total  silence, 
hence  the  veil  which  shrouds  her 
face.  But  Milton,  not  guilty  of  his 
wife's  death  like  the  selfish  Adme- 
tus, looks  forward  in  his  fearless 
innocence  to  a  "  full  sight  of  her  in 
heaven  without"  the  "restraint" 
which  his  blindness  interposed  on 
earth,  and  which  her  veil  perpet- 
uates in  his  dream.  So,  when  his 
Catherine  vanishes,  like  Laura 
from  his  master  Petrarch's  gaze, 
borne  away  on  the  pinions  of  de- 
parting sleep,  it  is  a  double  night 
that  day,  by  a  strange  contradiction, 
brings  back  to  him — the  loss  of  the 
bright  vision  and  the  sense  of  his 
own  sightless  state. 

Hen.  I  am  glad  that  Milton 
loved  the  "Alcestis  : "  it  is  a  very 
favourite  play  of  mine.  I  hope 
you  have  seen  Leighton's  picture  of 
her  as  she  lies  dead  by  the  blue 
/Egean,  among  her  beautiful  living 
handmaids. 

Geof.  With  Hercules  grappling 
with  Death  in  the  background.  It 
is  the  most  charming  English  pic- 
ture I  know  from  a  classic  subject, 
and  deserves  all  that  Browning  has 
said  of  it. 

Bas.  I  should  like  to  see  it. 
Not  "  Alcestis  "  only,  but  all  the  ex- 
tant dramas  of  Euripides  were  dear 
to  Milton.  How  often  we  find  him 
imitating  him  !  He  even  dares, 


with  both  ^Eschylus  and  Sophocles 
claiming  the  title  by  better  right, 
to  style  him  "  sad  Electra's  poet." 
By  the  way,  we  must  have  the 
sonnet  in  which  that  expression 
occurs.  Geoffrey,  will  you  say  it 
to  us  1  and  mind  you  give  "  Col- 
onel "  his  three  syllables  in  full  in 
the  opening  line. 

Geof.  I  will  be  French  for  the 
nonce.  Why  we  English  ever  got 
to  pronounce  it  in  our  present  ab- 
surd way,  I  know  not.  You  see 
that  in  Milton's  day  we  knew 
better  :— 

"Captain,  or  colonel,  or  knight  in  anus, 
Whose   chance   on    these    defenceless 

doors  may  seize, 

If  deed  of  honour  did  thee  ever  please, 
Guard  them,  and  him  within  protect 

from  harms. 
He  can  requite  thee  ;  for  he  knows  the 

charms 
That  call  fame  on  such  gentle  acts  as 

these, 
And  he  can  spread  thy  name  o'er  lands 

and  seas, 
Whatever  clime  the  sun's  bright  circle 

warms. 
Lift  not  thy  spear  against  the  Muse's 

bower  : 
The  great    Emathian    conqueror  bid 

spare 
The  house  of  Pindarus,  when  temple 

and  tower 
Went  to  the  ground  ;  and  the  repeated 

air 

Of  sad  Electra's  poet  had  the  power 
To  save  the  Athenian  walls  from  ruin 

bare. " 

That  seems  to  me  an  absolutely 
perfect  sonnet.  How  well  sense 
and  sound  correspond  throughout 
it !  The  poet's  right  to  be  protect- 
ed, the  duty  and  the  profit  of  guard- 
ing him,  fill  the  first  eight  lines ; 
while  the  two  great  examples  of 
warriors  who  had  acknowledged 
the  claim,  even  allowing  it  to 
extend  to  inanimate  things,  echo 
through  the  two  rhymes,  thrice  re- 
peated, of  the  last  six.  The  under- 
thought  is  the  imperishable  quality 
of  genius  ;  typified  by  the  standing 
of  Pindar's  house  erect  in  the  deso- 
lation, when  the  temples  and  tow- 


1880.] 


A  Talk  about  Sonnets. 


169 


ers  of  Thebes  went  down  before 
the  fierce  assault  of  the  Mace- 
donian king. 

Bos.  You  seem  to  hear  the  crash 
with  which  they  came  down,  in 
Milton's  lines ;  and  the  dead  still- 
ness after,  in  the  pause  which  the 
most  careless  reciter  must  make 
after  telling  us  how  they  "  went  to 
the  ground." 

Hen.  Lysander  must  have  been 
superior  in  poetic  sensibility  to 
most  of  the  Spartans  if  he  really 
spared  the  walls  of  Athens  after 
listening  to  a  Chorus  of  Euripides. 

Bas.  It  is  an  example  of  the 
power  of  what  Plato  meant  by 
music  to  bring  men's  minds  into  a 
justly  tempered  state.  Notice  also 
that  it  was  Euripides,  a  poet  who 
died  somewhat  out  of  favour  with 
the  Athenian  people,  to  whom  they 
owed  this  great  service  ;  and  mark 
the  inference  that  the  benefits  con- 
ferred by  true  genius  survive  all 
discords  of  political  parties  or  re- 
ligious sects.  How  notably  this 
is  exemplified  by  Milton  himself ! 
Both  his  creeds,  religious  and 
political,  differ  widely  from  my 
own ;  yet  it  is  my  own  fault  if  I 
ever  read  him  without  being  the 
better  for  it. 

But  it  is  growing  late  ;  we  must 
come  to  some  conclusion  about  the 
four  sonnets  that  we  have  been  talk- 
ing of.  Which  one  shall  we  leave 
out?  for  we  were  only  to  choose 
three.  Shall  we  omit  that  of  the 
vision,  on  the  ground  of  its  imita- 
tion of  the  Italian  school? 

Geof.  Certainly  not;  for  here  the 
pupil  has  surpassed  his  master. 

Bas.  Then,  shall  we  give  up  the 
pleading  on  behalf  of  the  poet's 
house,  as  on  a  less  high  theme  than 
that  on  the  Vaudois,  and  as  on  a 
less  touching  subject  than  that  on 
the  poet's  own  affliction  ?  For  my 
own  part,  I  think  the  subject  rep- 
resented ought  to  count  for  some- 
thing in  art;  and  that  though  a 


mean  one,  artistically  treated,  should 
be  preferred  to  a  noble  one  not  done 
justice  to,  yet  that  a  grand  theme, 
really  well  handled,  should  (in  spite 
of  inevitable  defects)  be  held  to 
surpass  a  low  one,  even  if  wrought 
to  all  the  perfection  of  which  it  is 
capable.  I  have  no  doubt  that 
Teniers  accomplished  all  he  under- 
took more  completely  than  Ra- 
phael what  he  aimed  at;  but  I 
would  far  rather  possess  a  master- 
piece by  the  latter  than  by  the 
former. 

Geof.  True ;  but  scarcely  rele- 
vant here.  Milton's  danger  and 
his  blindness  were  both  personal 
concerns  —  neither,  in  themselves, 
grand  subjects ;  and  I  can  no  more 
refuse  my  admiration  to  the  poetic 
fervour  which,  treating  of  the  one, 
calls  the  old  Greek  warriors  to  ad- 
monish the  furious  cavalier,  and  the 
old  Greek  poets  to  defend  the  sacred 
head  of  their  worthy  successor,  than 
I  can  to  the  holier  ardour  which, 
reflecting  on  the  other,  unveils  the 
order  of  the  universe  to  us — the 
ministering  angels,  the  obedient 
saints  waiting  patiently,  with  fold- 
ed arms,  till  their  own  time  for 
active  service  shall  arrive. 

Hen.  What  you  have  just  said 
helps  me  out  of  a  difficulty.  I  al- 
ways thought  it  a  little  insincere 
in  Milton  to  speak  of  himself  in 
that  sonnet  as  the  man  of  the 
one  talent  in  the  parable — know- 
ing that,  at  least  in  our  modern 
sense  of  the  word,  his  talents 
were  so  many.  But  may  he  not 
have  taken  "talents"  more  in 
what  I  believe  to  be  their  Scrip- 
tural sense — as  opportunities  for 
serving  God?  Those  might  well 
be  few  to  a  blind  man. 

Bas.  I  think  he  took  talent  in 
the  usual  sense — genius  is  very 
humble :  reconsider  the  context, 
and  you  will  see. 

Speaking  of  our  Lord's  parable?, 
the  reference  to  that  of  the  Talents 


170 


A  Talk  about  Sonnets. 


has  a  fine  effect  in  the  sonnet  on 
the  Blindness;  but  there  is  one 
much  finer  in  another  sonnet  to 
the  Parable  of  the  Ten  Virgins. 

Geof.  Yes ;  I  know  it.  If  the 
first  eight  lines  of  that  sonnet  had 
equalled  its  last  six,  it  would  have 
been  one  of  Milton's  very  best. 
These  lines, — it  is  addressed  to  a 
virtuous  young  lady,  Henry, — are 
as  follows  : — 

"  Thy    care    is    fixed,    and    zealously 
attends 

To  fill  thy  odorous  lamp  with  deeds  of 
light 

And  hope  that  reaps  not  shame.  There- 
fore be  sure 

Thou,   when  the  Bridegroom  with   His 
feastful  friends 

1'asses    to  bliss  at  the    mid-hour   of 
night, 

Hast  gained  thy  entrance,  virgin  wise 
and  pure." 

Bas.  Can  anything  be  finer  1 

Geof.  Am  I  too  fanciful  in  say- 
ing that  Milton  felt,  not  thought, 
that  the  orderly  sequence  of  those 
three  rhymes,  each  responded  to  in 
its  turn  without  variation  of  place 
by  the  three  succeeding,  was  the 
fittest  to  help  us  to  image  to 
ourselves  the  stately  advance  of 
that  grand  bridal  procession  which 
he  here  calls  up  before  our 
minds  ? 

Bas.  I  think  you  are  right — 
especially  in  using  the  word  felt. 
Those  sort  of  correspondences  are  a 
matter  of  instinct,  as  I  believe,  to 
true  poets. 

Geof.  Bat  to  your  question,  Can 
anything  be  finer1?  Perhaps  the 
sonnet  in  memory  of  a  departed 
Christian  friend.  "Will  you  say  it 
to  us,  and  let  us  judge  1 

Bas.  Willingly  :— 

"  When  Faith  and  Love,  which  parted 

from  thee  never, 
Had  ripened   thy  just  soul  to  dwell 

with  God, 
Meekly  thou  didst  resign  this  earthly 

load 
Of  death,  called  life,   which  us  from 

life  doth  sever. 


[Aug. 


Thy  works,  and  alms,  and  all  thy  good 

endeavour, 
Stayed  not  behind,  nor  in  the  grave 

were  trod  ; 
But,  as  Faith  pointed  with  her  golden 

rod, 
Followed  thee  up  to  joy  and  bliss  for 

ever. 
Love  led  them  on ;  and  Faith,  who  knew 

them  best 
Thy  handmaids,   clad  them  o'er  with 

purple  beams 
And  azure  wings,  that  up  they  flew  so 

drest, 
And  spake  the  truth  of  thee  on  glorious 

themes 
Before  the  Judge ;  who  thenceforth  bid 

thee  rest, 
And  drink  thy  fill  of  pure  immortal 

streams." 

Geof.  That  sonnet  always  seems 
to  me  one  of  Milton's  most  perfect. 
How  well  his  more  usual  interlaced 
arrangement  of  his  last  six  Hues 
suits  his  meaning  here  !  And  then 
you  will  not  find  a  single  weak 
place  in  all  the  fourteen,  search 
them  as  you  may.  Thought  and 
expression  are  alike  elevated,  and 
flow  equally  in  one  roll  of  majestic 
harmony  from  the  beginning  to  the 
close.  Then,  too,  it  is  so  clear. 
You  can  take  it  in  at  one  hearing. 
Indeed,  so  you  can  the  Martyrs,  the 
Alcestis  sonnet,  the  sonnet  where 
Euth  rhymes  to  ruth  (a  tiny  blemish, 
I  suppose),  and  that  on  the  assault 
on  the  city.  Now  the  long  paren- 
thesis in  the  sonnet  on  the  Blind- 
ness makes  it  need  a  second  hearing. 

Bas.  It  is  well  worth  one.  Was 
I  far  wrong  when  I  said  that  we 
should  find  the  six  best  sonnets  in 
the  English  language  to  be  Milton's? 
for  the  worst  of  the  half-dozen 
which  we  have  been  talking  about 
will  be  hard  to  match,  let  alone  to 
surpass,  by  a  specimen  culled  from 
any  of  our  other  poets'  pages. 

Geof.  That  may  well  be ;  and  as 
to  settling  which  are  the  three  best 
of  these  six  of  Milton's,  I  think  we 
might  discuss  the  subject  till  mid- 
night, and  yet  remain  uncertain. 
I  incline,  myself,  to  choose  the  one 


1880.] 


A  Talk  about  Sonnets. 


171 


you  have  last  said  to  MS,  the  one 
on  the  assault  of  the  city,  and  the 
one  on  the  slain  Waldenses,  as 
the  three  most  absolutely  perfect ; 
but  a  very  little  arguing  might 
unsettle  me. 

I  must  ask  you  to  leave  the 
question  about  Milton  undeter- 
mined, for  this  is  nearly  the  hour 
at  which  my  nephew  and  his 
friend  were  to  call  and  row  me 
home  across  the  lake.  Till  their 
signal-whistle  sounds  through  the 
darkness,  let  us  try  and  settle  our 
last  three  great  sonnets.  We  must 
give  Wordsworth  a  fair  chance. 

Bas.  Yes ;  his  sonnets  are  good, 
very  good,  but  only  a  few  of  them 
great  enough  to  set  by  Milton's. 

Geof.  How  pretty  his  two  son- 
nets on  Sonnets  are  ! 

Bas.  Yes;  one  of  them  a  little 
irregular,  though,  according  to  your 
strict  canons. 

Geof.  Those  two  fine  sonnets  of 
his  on  London  asleep,  and  on  our 
too  great  separation  from  nature  by 
our  artificial  modern  life — I  mean 
that  which  begins,  "  The  world  is 
too  much  with  us  " — are  perfectly 
regular.  So  is  that  good  sonnet  on 
Milton,  which  has  in  it  these  two 
perfect  lines — 

"  Thy  soul  was  like  a  star,  and  dwelt 

apart : 
Thou   hadst  a  voice  whose   sound   was 

like  the  sea. " 

Bas.  Ditto  the  companion — less 
fine,  but  oftener  quoted — sonnet 
about  "Plain  Living  and  High 
Thinking." 

Geof.  Chiefly  known  for  those 
few  words,  as  is  the  case  with  so 
many  of  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Bas.  Often  with  better  reason. 
They  sometimes  contain  one  gem, 
and  a  good  deal  of  twaddle.  A 
sensible  reader  treasures  the  gem, 
and  forbears  to  treasure  its  en- 
tourage. Now  Wordsworth's  son- 
nets on  the  fall  of  Venice  and 
the  enslavement  of  Switzerland  are 


both  good  throughout ;  but  their 
structure  is  defective,  by  the  Pe- 
trarchan standard,  especially  the 
latter. 

Geof.  I  wonder  why  Wordsworth , 
who  altered  so  many  things  in  his 
poems,  maintained  that  anticipa- 
tion of  the  final  "  heard  by  thee  " 
in  his  eighth  line  of  the  last- 
named.  No  doubt,  for  some  rea- 
son that  seemed  satisfactory  to 
himself. 

Bas.  I  cannot  say  that  I  think 
it  would  satisfy  me  if  I  knew  it. 
I  always,  too,  disapproved  of  "  holy 
glee."  It  is  an  obvious  make-shift 
for  a  rhyme.  But,  as  you  say,  time 
presses.  Give  me  therefore,  re- 
serving more  minute  discussion  for 
some  future  day,  your  own  favour- 
ite sonnet  of  Wordsworth,  and 
then  I  will  give  you  mine — in- 
comparably his  grandest,  as  I 
think. 

Geof.  My  two  favourites,  on. 
what  I  may  call  personal  grounds 
though,  are  that  written  in  the 
Trossachs,  the  autumn  colouring  of 
which  is  so  very  perfect. — and  that 
by  the  sea.  They  have  each  a  slight 
imperfection  of  form,  which  I 
readily  pardon ;  but  which,  if  we 
were  formally  weighing  Words- 
worth's merits,  would  have  to  be 
considered.  I  will  repeat  to  you 
the  latter. 

Bas.  Say  us  both,  please.  I  do 
not  know  the  sonnet  on  the  Tros- 
sachs so  well  as  the  other  :  I  think 
it  is  not  in  my  edition  of  the  poet. 

Geof.  Here  it  is  : — 

"  There's  not  a  nook  within  this  solemn 

Pass 

But  were  an  apt  confessional  for  one 
Taught  by  his  summer  spent,  his  autumn 

gone, 

That  life  is  but  a  tale  of  morning  grass, 
Withered  at  eve.     From  scenes  of  art 

which  chase 
That    thought    away,    turn,    and    with 

watchful  eyes 

Feed  it  'mid  Nature's  old  felicities, 
Rocks,   rivers,  and  smooth   lakes  more 

clear  than  glass 


172 


A  Talk  about  Sonnets. 


Untouched,   unbreathed  upon.      Thrice 

happy  guest, 

I  f  from  a  golden  perch  of  aspen  spray 
(October's  workmanship  to  rival  May) 
The  pensive  warbler  of  the  ruddy 

breast 
That  moral  sweeten  by  a  heaven-taught 

lay, 
Lulling  the  j'ear,  with  all  its  cares,  to 

rest." 

Bas.  Yes,  that  is  lovely.  It 
•would  be  a  pity  to  strike  out  "Na- 
ture's old  felicities,"  for  the  sake 
of  more  largely  completing  your 
rhymes,  would  it  not?  Our  lake 
looked  like  the  three  within  the 
poet's  reach,  this  evening,  clearer 
"  than  glass  untouched,  unbreathed 
upon."  Now  carry  us  to  the  sun- 
set on  the  sea. 

Geof.  Willingly:— 

"It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and 

free  ; 

The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  nun 
Breathless  with  adoration  ;  the  broad 

sun 

Is  sinking  down  in  its  tranquillity  ; 
The  gentleness  of  heaven  is  on  the  sea  : 
Listen  !  the  mighty  being  is  awake, 
And  doth  with    his    eternal    motion 

make 

A  sound  like  thunder — everlastingly. 
Dear    child!    dear    girl!    that    walkest 

with  me  here, 
If  thou  appear  untouched  by  solemn 

thought, 

Thy  nature  is  not  therefore  less  divine : 
Thou  liest  'in  Abraham's  bosom'  all 

the  year ; 
And  worshipp'st  at  the  Temple's  inner 

shrine, 
God  being  with  thee  when  we  know  it 

not." 

Henry.  Do  you  like  "not"  rhym- 
ing with  "  thought  "  1 

Geof.  I  cannot  say  that  I  do. 
But  then  one  cannot  stop  to  think 
about  such  things  after  having 
heard  one  of  the  greatest  of  God's 
works — the  sea — interpreted,  sight, 
sound,  and  all,  in  so  splendid  a 
manner.  It  leaves  one  "  breathless 
with  "  admiration. 

Bas.  How  beautiful,  too,  is  the 
interpretation  of  the  sweet  uncon- 
sciousness of  childhood  !  I  wonder, 
however,  at  Wordsworth's  use  of 


[Aug. 


"  Abraham's  bosom"  as  a  synonym 
for  God's  presence  with  His  little 
ones.  It  is  an  expression  conse- 
crated in  Scripture  to  describe  the 
end,  not  the  beginning — the  rest  of 
the  faithful  departed. 

Hen.  As  far  as  I  understand 
you,  sonnet  four  in  your  list  is  either 
to  be  one  of  the  two  last  said,  or 
one  of  several  mentioned  before, 
but  not  minutely  discussed.  I 
cannot  congratulate  you  on  the 
exactness  of  the  results  attained  by 
your  criticism. 

Geof.  It  is  all  the  fault  of  this 
sultry,  hazy  evening.  What  clear- 
ness of  idea  can  one  attain  at  such 
times  ]  To-morrow,  if  the  wind 
changes,  or  the  first  day  that  the 
west  wind  blows  away  the  vapour, 
and  the  rocks  and  peaks  stand  out 
sharp  against  the  blue  sky,  we  three 
will  scale  our  highest  fell  and  make 
up  our  minds  about  everything. 

Bas.  I  told  you  that  I  had 
made  up  my  mind  about  Words- 
worth's grandest  sonnet — No.  5, 
as  Henry  may  write  it  down  on 
the  minutes  of  this  important  and 
most  conclusive  conference.  It  is 
not  one  of  the  sonnets  thus  far 
referred  to.  Its  structure  is,  I 
think,  the  same  as  the  "Trossachs." 
It  is  the  last  of  the  ecclesiastical 
sonnets — that  on  Monte  Eosa. 

Geof.  I  am  ashamed  to  say  that 
I  do  not  possess  that  little  volume, 
and  so  have  not  read  it  for  years. 
Do  you  know  the  Monte  Eosa 
sonnet  by  heart1? 

Bas.  Yes ;  and  I  have  had  to 
repeat  it  oftener  than  any  of  the 
others,  because  most  people  say 
what  you  say.  Nearly  always,  too, 
I  have  had  to  repeat  it  twice, 
because  the  abundance  of  thought 
in  it  cannot  be  taken  in  at  one 
hearing.  The  Monte  Eosa,  with  its 
pure  virgin  snows,  lit  up  by  the 
heavenly  glory,  is  taken  as  the 
symbol  of  the  Incarnation  in  the 
first  eight  lines ;  then  in  the  last 


1880." 


A  Talk  about  Sonnets. 


173 


six  it  becomes  the  emblem  of  the 
Christian's  progressive  holiness  and 
hope  in  death.  The  transition 
from  one  to  the  other  is  abrupt, 
and  would  constitute  a  defect  in 
the  sonnet,  if  we  did  not  remember 
that  the  poet  trusted  his  readers  to 
supply  the  suppressed  connection 
between  the  two  parts,  —  this, 
namely,  that  the  member  depends 
on  the  Head,  that  man's  life  can 
be  transfigured  by  a  light  from 
heaven  only  because  God  Himself 
has  become  man.  Fine  throughout, 
this  sonnet's  last  three  lines  appear 
to  me  truly  magnificent.  But 
judge  for  yourselves.  It  is  as 
follows  : — 

"  Glory  to  God  !  and  to  that  Power  who 

came 

In  filial  duty,  clothed  with  love  divine, 
Which  made   His  earthly  tabernacle 

shine 
Like  ocean,   burning  with  purpureal 

flame  : 
Or  like  that  Alpine  mount  which  takes 

its  name 
From  roseate  hues ;  far  kenned  at  morn 

and  even, 
In  quiet  times,  and  when  the  storm  is 

driven 
Across    its    nether    region's    stalwart 

frame. 
Earth  prompts,   heaven  urges  —  let  us 

seek  the  light, 

Mindful  of  that  pure  intercourse  begun 
When  first  our  infant  brows  their  lus- 
tre won. 
So,  like  the  mountain,  may  we  glow  more 

bright, 
Through    unimpeded   commerce  with 

the  sun, 
At  the  approach  of  all-involving  night." 

Hen.  What  a  splendid  idea! 
The  glories  of  heaven  caught  and 
reflected  more  clearly  as  death  ap- 
proaches. 

_  Bas.  Yes  ;  here  the  poet  shows 
himself  what  a  poet  ought  always 
to  be — a  divine  interpreter  of  the 
parables  of  nature.  The  Alps  are 
among  the  most  splendid  of  natural 
objects  ;  and  are  fit  symbols,  there- 
fore, for  the  most  ennobling  truth 
revealed  to  man. 

Geof.  I  remember  reading  that 


sonnet  in  bygone  yeais  to  my  dear 
father.  I  recollect,  too,  his  exclama- 
tion, "I  like  it  all  but  the  last 
word.  '  Night '  is  not  like  death  to 
a  Christian.  He  goes  by  it  from 
night  to  day." 

Bas.  That  objection  could  not 
be  maintained.  There  is  a  sense 
in  which  death  is  called  night  to 
all  alike  in  Scripture  :  "The  night 
cometh  when  no  man  can  work."  It 
is  the  cessation  of  all  our  present 
activities,  and  our  rest  after  labour. 
Of  death,  considered  in  those  as- 
pects, even  such  a  night  as  is 
now  settling  down  upon  us  may 
make  a  good  emblem, — warm,  still, 
and  peaceful.  But  depend  upon 
it,  Wordsworth's  "  all  -involving 
night "  was  of  another  sort.  It 
was  a  fit  image  of  death,  considered 
as  the  revealer  as  well  as  the  con- 
cealer,— as  taking  from  us  for  a 
time  the  material  world,  in  order 
to  give  us  in  exchange  the  higher 
world  of  ideas, — as  veiling  from  us 
of  a  truth  the  works  of  creation, 
but  only  that  it  may  unveil  to  us 
their  Creator.  It  was  of  the  kind 
which  indeed  hides  the  sun,  but 
shows  the  stars.  It  was  such  a 
night  as  that  of  which  poor  Blanco 
White  wrote  in  what  I  have  heard 
called  the  finest  sonnet  in  the  Eng- 
lish language — a  sonnet  which,  at  all 
events,  is  among  the  first,  and  which 
I  fearlessly  propose  to  you  to  stand 
by  the  Monte  Eosa  one,  which  I 
see  you  have  admitted  to  be  fifth, 
as  the  sixth  among  the  six  greatest. 

Geof.  I  hear  my  comrades'  signal 
from  the  bay,  so  my  words  must 
be  brief;  for  this  is  not  going  to 
prove  one  of  those  privileged  nights 
on  which  you  can  see  millions  of 
miles  farther  than  you  can  by  day. 
But  you  and  I,  dear  friend,  who 
have  seen  what  we  loved  best  on 
earth  pass  into  that  sacred  twilight 
which  those  better  nights  image  to 
us,  have  an  especial  interest  in  a 
sonnet  which  all  must  own  to  be 


174                                          The  Blackbird.  [Aug. 

first-rate   alike  in  thought   and  in  Bathed  iu  the  rays  of  the  great  setting 

expression.     Wish  me   good-night  r    flame>     . 

by  saying  it  to  me,  and  take  in  Hespceame  Wldl  the  host  of  heaven' 

advance  my  assent  to  your  propo-  And  lo!  Creation  widened  in  man's  view. 

Sltion.  Who  could  have  thought  such  darkness 

fids, lay  concealed, 

Within  thy  beams,   0   sun !   or  who 

"  Mysterious  Night !  when  our  first  pa-  could  find, 

rent  knew  Whilst  fly,  and  leaf,  and  insect  stood 

Thee  from  report  alone,  and  heard  thy  revealed, 

name,  That  to  such  countless  orbs  thou  mad'st 

Did  he  not  tremble   for   this   lovely  us  blind  ? 

frame,  Why  do    we,   then,   shun    death    with 

This  glorious  canopy  of  light  and  blue  ?.  anxious  strife  ? 

Yet    'neath    a    curtain    of    translucent  If  light  can  thus  deceive,  wherefore  not 

dew,  life  ? " 


THE     BLACKBIRD. 

UPON  the  cherry-bough  the  blackbird  sings 

His  careless,  happy  song, 
As  'mid  the  rubied  fruit  he  tilting  swings, 

Heedless  of  Eight  or  Wrong. 

~No  Future  taunts  him  with  its  fears  or  hopes, 

No  cares  his  Present  fret ; 
The  Past  for  him  no  dismal  vista  opes 

Of  useless,  dark  regret. 

Ah  !  how  I  envy  him,  as  there  he  sings 

His  glad  unthinking  strain, 
Untroubled  by  the  sad  imaginings 

That  haunt  man's  plotting  brain  ! 

All  orchards  are  his  home ;  no  work  or  care 

Compels  him  here  to  stay ; 
His  is  the  world — the  breathing,  open  air — 

The  glorious  summer  day. 

Below,  Earth  blossoms  for  him ;  and  above 
Heaven  smiles  in  boundless  blue ; 

Joy  is  in  all  things,  and  the  song  of  Love 
Thrills  his  whole  being  through. 

From  bough  to  bough  its  gay  and  transient  guest 

Is  free  to  come  and  go 
Where'er  the  whim  invites,  where'er  the  best 

Of  juicy  blackhearts  grow. 


1880.]  The  Blackbird.  175 

His  are  these  sunny  sides,  that  through  and  through 

He  stabs  with  his  black  bill ; 
And  his  the  happiness  man  never  knew, 

That  comes  without  our  will. 

Ah  !  we  who  boast  we  are  the  crown  of  thiugs, 

Like  him  are  never  glad  ; 
By  doubts  and  dreams  and  dark  self-questionings 

We  stand  besieged  and  sad. 

What  know  we  of  that  rare  felicity 

The  unconscious  blackbird  knows, . 
That  no  misgiving  spoils  ;  that  frank  and  free 

From  merely  living  grows  1 

Haggard  Eepentance  ever  dogs  our  path ; 

The  foul  fiend  Discontent 
Harries  the  spirit,  and  the  joys  it  hath 

Are  but  a  moment  lent. 

The  riddle  of  our  Life  we  cannot  guess ; 

From  toil  to  toil  we  haste, 
And  in  our  sweetest  joy  some  bitterness 

Of  secret  pain  we  taste. 

Ah  !  for  an  hour  at  least,  when  bold  and  free 

In  being's  pure  delight, 
Loosed  from  the  cares  that  clog  humanity, 

The  soul  might  wing  its  flight. 

Then,  blackbird,  we  might  sing  the  perfect  song 

Of  Life  and  Love  with  thee, 
Where  no  regret  nor  toil,  nor  fear  of  Wrong, 

NOT  doubt  of  Eight  should  be. 

w.  w.  s. 


176 


Hans  Preller :  a  Legend  of  the  Rhine  Falls. 


[Aug. 


HANS   PEELLER:    A   LEGEND   OF   THE  RHINE  FALLS. 


FROM    THE    GERMAN    OF    WILIBALD    ALEXIS. 


LONG  ago,  in  those  dark  and  dis- 
tant ages  before  Switzerland  had 
become  a  republic  or  been  in- 
vaded by  the  British  tourist,  there 
dwelt,  just  at  the  spot  where  the 
Ehine  turns  a  corner  for  the  last 
time,  a  knight,  Hans  Preller  of 
Lauifen — as  honest  a  knight  as  ever 
lived  within  four  walls.  But  he 
was  as  poor  as  he  was  honest.  He 
had  a  true  heart  and  upright  mind, 
with  nothing  to  live  upon.  His 
domain  was  all  rock  or  wood;  there 
were  barely  oats  enough  for  his 
horses;  the  wine  of  the  country 
was  even  sourer  than  it  is  now  ; 
and  the  river  was  as  unnavigable, 
having  chosen,  as  early  as  the  times 
we  speak  of,  to  make  a  fall  of  many 
fathoms  exactly  in  front  of  the 
castle  of  our  knight. 

Hence  it  had  come  to  pass  that 
a  rhyme  had  been  made  upon  him, 
in  the  rude  language  of  that  un- 
polished century,  which  I  blush  to 
repeat,  and  which  I  only  give  to 
my  readers  lest  I  should  be  accused 
of  keeping  back  from  them  a  mon- 
ument of  thought  and  national 
poetry.  This  is  the  couplet  which 
the  street  Arabs  of  that  epoch  used 
to  sing  after  him, — 

"  Hans  Preller  of  Latiffen,  knight, 
Has  nothing  whatever  to  sup  or  bite;" 

which  was  not  strictly  true;  for 
the  Rhine  flowed  by  his  castle,  and 
there  was  nothing  to  hinder  his 
quaffing  as  many  goblets  of  it  as  he 
chose.  He  lived  chiefly  on  his  own 
thoughts,  and  trout,  for  which  he 
would  fish  for  days  together.  Un- 
fortunately, however  pleasant  both 
might  be,  they  were  hardly  nour- 
ishing, and  all  admirers  of  manly 
knighthood  and  old  German  honesty 
had  the  sorrow  of  beholding  one  of 
the  order  lank,  lean,  and  haggard. 


Many  a  time  would  Hans  stand 
upon  his  battlements,  looking  down 
the  Rhine,  with  the  heavily-laden 
vessels  on  its  distant  waters,  and 
the  waggons  of  merchandise  on  its 
highroads,  and  knights  and  horse- 
men lurking  under  lofty  portals, 
ready  to  pounce  down  upon  their 
prey.  Then  a  sharp  stab  of  pain 
would  shoot  throiigh  him;  he 
would  bite  his  nails  ;  and  the  Evil 
One  would  whisper  in  his  ear, 
"Why  doest  thou  not  likewise, 
Hans?" 

Had  not  his  still  leaner  cousin 
been  appointed  a  governor  of  one 
of  those  new  Rhine  castles  by  the 
fat  Bishop  of  Troves'?  And  what 
had  that  worthy  prelate  rejoined 
when  asked  touching  the  salary 
appertaining  to  the  governorship? 
"  My  loyal  vassal,  to  your  left  flows 
the  Rhine ;  to  your  right  lies  the 
road  to  Frankfort ! "  Since  then 
the  lean  cousin  had  grown  nearly 
as  fat  as  his  liege  of  Treves,  and 
had  huge  joints  daily  turning  on 
the  spit  in  his  kitchen,  and  wine 
flowing  faster  into  his  cellar  than 
the  coopers  could  provide  vats  for. 

"  Look  what  they  do  in  Ger- 
many," the  Evil  One  kept  murmur- 
ing ;  "  wilt  thou  not  learn  wisdom 
from  them?" 

But  Hans  was  an  honest  Swiss, 
and  shook  his  head.  A  truth-telling 
chronicler  is  compelled  to  add,  it 
would  have  been  somewhat  diffi- 
cult for  our  knight  to  do  as  they 
did  in  Germany ;  because,  though 
fat  bishops,  castles,  horsemen,  and 
cellars  were  to  be  found  in  Switzer- 
land, as  was  also  the  Rhine,  yet  of 
rich  travellers  there  were  but  few. 
And  though  those  times  were  more 
prodigal  of  miracles  than  ours, 
such  a  miracle  as  a  richly-laden  ves- 
sel attempting  to  pass  the  Falls  of 


1880.] 


Hans  Preller :  a  Legend  of  the  Rhine  Falls. 


177 


Lauffen,*  or  merchandise  for  the 
fairs  taking  the  route  of  Lauffen 
Castle,  could  hardly  he  looked  for. 
Thus  matters  came  to  a  sad  pass 
Avith  Hans  Preller.  Year  by  year 
his  thoughts  grew  more  hitter ;  year 
by  year  the  trout  (so  at  least  his 
stomach  thought)  grew  smaller ; 
and  in  the  ranz  des  vaches  he 
seemed  to  hear  each  morning  and 
evening  the  doleful  refrain  : — 

"Hans  Preller  of  Lauffen,  knight, 
Has  nothing  whatever  to  sup  or  bite." 

When,  one  night,  as  the  moon  was 
shining  full  on  his  solitary  bed,  he 
caught  sight  of  his  shadow — now 
the  mere  ghost  of  a  shadow — re- 
flected on  the  wall,  and  thinking 
of  what  his  shadow  had  once 
been,  he  was  quite  overcome  with 
emotion,  and  wiping  away  a  tear, 
he  exclaimed,  "  Verily,  'tis  the  life 
of  a  dog  that  I  lead  ! " 

Then  stepping  on  to  his  balcony, 
which  looked  over  the  Falls,  he 
began  to  meditate  for  the  last  time. 
His  thoughts,  put  into  the  language 
of  the  nineteenth  century,  were 
somewhat  as  follows  : — 

"What  hoots  it  that  I  am  of 
noble  family,  a  knight,  and  a  free 
Swiss?  What  boots  it  that  I  am  a 
landed  proprietor,  with  hereditary 
right  to  hang,  spit,  and  roast  what 
I  please,  if  I  have  nothing  in  the 
larder,  and  cannot  roast  what  I 
have,  because  it  is  all  water  or 
stone?  What  use  is  my  wood? 
Every  neighbour  has  as  much  as  I. 
And  my  stone  ?  No  one  paves  the 
roads.  And  my  water?  We  are 
not  in  an  African  desert.  What 
good  is  the  daylight  to  me?  The 
sun  only  reveals  my  poverty.  Or 
night?  I  cannot  sleep  away  my 
wants,  because  of  the  bellowing 
waterfall  which  dins  them  in  my 
ears.  And  finally,  what  is  the  use 
of  my  honesty,  of  never  having 
robbed  a  soul,  if  nobody  is  any  the 


wiser,  and  it  does  not  procure  me 
even  an  Order,  let  alone  a  dish  of 
lentils?" 

And  having  thus  meditated  fur 
the  last  time,  he  determined  to  pre- 
cipitate himself  into  the  Khine. 
One  foot  was  already  over  the  bal- 
ustrade, the  other  was  following, 
and  in  another  moment  the  cata- 
ract would  have  seized  him,  and 
it  would  have  been  all  over  with 
Hans  Preller,  when  suddenly  it 
seemed  as  if  Nature  had  made  a 
dead  pause.  The  clouds  stood  still, 
the  tops  of  the  fir-trees  ceased  to 
wave,  the  moonbeams  no  longer 
trembled  on  the  surface  of  the 
water,  the  Rhine  stopped  as  if 
frozen ;  and  Hans  Preller,  arrested 
in  the  act  of  springing  down,  re- 
mained sitting  on  the  extreme  edge 
of  the  balustrade,  holding  on  by 
his  hands.  Just  in  the  same  pos- 
ture as  himself,  there  appeared 
suddenly  a  curious  being  on  the 
brink  of  the  waterfall,  dangling  his 
legs  down  as  he  balanced  himself 
with  his  hands  on  the  crest  of  the 
waves.  The  machinery  of  Nature 
had  only  to  be  set  in  motion  again, 
and  he  would  be  shot  down  quicker 
than  thought  into  the  gulf  into 
which  the  knight  had  been  about  to 
precipitate  himself.  It  would  be  an 
insult  to  Hans  Preller's  understand- 
ing to  suppose  that  he  did  not  at 
once  know  who  the  old  man  was, 
with  the  snow-white  beard  and  the 
little  red  eyes.  It  was  not  the 
Nymph  of  the  Rhine,  or  the  Genius 
of  River  Navigation ;  but  was  no 
other  than  the  Spirit  or  Cobold  of 
the  Falls. 

In  this  there  was  nothing  re- 
markable ;  for  Cobolds  appearing 
to  brave  knights  was  quite  the 
order  of  the  day.  What  was  re- 
markable in  the  phenomenon  was, 
that  the  Rhine  should  cease  to 
flow,  the  water  to  fall,  and  the 
wind  to  blow ;  and  that  it  should 


*  Now  more  commonly  known  as  the  Falls  of  Schaffhausen. 


173 


Hans  P feller :  a  Legend  of  the  Rhine  Falls. 


[Aug. 


be  so  silent  round  about  that  the 
knight  at  Castle  Lauffen,  where  at 
other  times  you  could  only  hear 
the  thunder  of  the  waters,  could 
have  heard  the  mayor  sneeze  across 
from  Schaffhausen.  This  was  re- 
markable, and  pointed  to  some  re- 
versal of  the  order  of  Nature. 

That  the  Spirit  must  have  been  a 
malicious  one  is  to  be  inferred  from 
his  red  eyes ;  and  that  he  had  a 
design  upon  the  soul  of  our  knight, 
we  know  from  the  compact  which, 
before  the  French  Revolution,  was 
still  to  be  read  in  the  original  in  the 
archives  of  Lauffen.  The  learned 
Swiss  Doctors  now  deny  the  obli- 
gation Hans  Preller  entered  into, 
though  they  do  not  deny  the  com- 
pact. But  even  assuming  there  was 
no  design  on  his  soul,  Hans  must 
certainly  have  promised  something 
to  the  demon  in  return  for  such  ex- 
treme exertions  on  his  behalf.  This 
point,  however,  is  involved  in  great 
obscurity ;  and  all  we  know  with 
certainty  is,  that  a  scene  followed 
fearful  to  witness,  and  fraught  with 
great  consequences  for  Hans  Preller. 

The  clouds  moved  once  more ; 
the  pine-trees  waved;  the  Rhine 
flowed  on ;  the  waterfall  roared  ; 
and  a  flock  of  rooks  cawed  over  the 
towers  where  Hans  Preller  stood 
trembling,  as  before  him  appeared 
in  gigantic  form  the  Spectre  of  the 
Rhine.  And  what  increased  the 
fearfulness  of  the  apparition  was, 
that  this  spectre  now  rose  high  as 
a  mountain,  now  shrank  small  as 
a  dwarf;  now  stood  close  behind 
him,  now  swam  on  the  water  and 
let  himself  be  hurled  down  the 
waterfall,  now  cowered  on  a  stone 
in  the  farthest  thicket :  but  every- 
where Hans  Preller  plainly  saw  his 
red  eyes,  his  broad  mouth,  and  the 
smiling  wrinkles  round  it,  and  heard 
the  hoarse  voice  saying — "  This  will 
I  do  for  thee :  I  will  turn  thy 
stone  into  bread,  and  thy  river 
into  wine.  I  will  turn  thy  beetles 
and  chafers  into  horned  cattle,  thy 


midges  into  snipe  and  pheasants, 
thy  nettles  and  thistles  into  cab- 
bages; the  salmon  and  trout  shall 
swim  up  the  waterfall  to  thee,  so 
that  thou  shalt  need  but  to  stretch 
out  thy  hand;  the  moss  on  thy 
roof  shall  become  spinach,  and  thy 
cellar  and  larder  shall  be  always 
full ;  and  thou  shalt  have  roast 
joints  always  turning  on  the  spit." 

"  But  for  how  long?  "  the  knight 
ventured  to  inquire,  retaining  in 
that  fearful  moment  sufficient  pres- 
ence of  mind  to  sound  the  Spirit  on 
the  quality  of  his  gift,  to  be  sure 
that  he  had  got  hold  of  no  ordinary 
devil's  gift  of  glittering  gold  which 
would  speedily  turn  into  chaff. 

"  So  long  as  the  Rhine  falls  over 
these  rocks;  so  long  as  the  snow 
on  the  Jungfrau  sparkles  in  the  sun- 
light; until  the  ice  of  the  glaciers 
all  melts  away,"  the  Spirit  solemnly 
replied. 

"  And  what  do  you  want  in  ex- 
change 1 " 

"Nothing  that  can  be  of  any 
value  to  thee." 

"My  soul?"  cried  Hans  Preller, 
anxiously. 

"  Only  the  Innocence  of  thy  Pos- 
terity," was  the  answer. 

To  such  extremely  fair  conditions 
our  knight  could  offer  no  objections, 
and  any  pricks  of  conscience  he 
might  have  had  were  fully  set  at 
rest  by  the  assurance  of  the  Spirit 
that  his  posterity  should,  neverthe- 
less, remain  honest  Swiss. 

It  was  now  only  a  question  of 
"  How  ? "  Hans  Preller  seemed  to 
think  that  as  soon  as  the  compact 
was  made,  the  stone  on  which  he 
stood  ought  forthwith  to  turn  into 
bread,  the  waterfall  into  Burgundy, 
the  brushwood  on  the  face  of  the 
rocks  into  asparagus,  and  the  whole 
air  be  filled  with  the  aroma  of 
roasted  meats  and  wine.  But  it 
was  not  so.  The  stone  remained 
stone;  the  water,  water;  and  nature, 
nature.  Even  the  rooks  above  the 
tower  did  not  become  pheasants. 


1880.] 


Ham  Prdler :  a  Legend  of  the  Rhine  Falls. 


179 


The    Spirit,    who    had    read    his 
thoughts,  smiled. 

"  A  true  miracle,"  said  he,  "  never 
violates  the  laws  of  nature;  and  all 
that  a  Spirit  who  is  beyond  his 
time  can  do  is  to  advance  or  retard 
that  time.  A  Spirit  quartered  in 
flesh  and  blood  can  do  this  for 
some  ten  years  at  the  outside ; 
whereas  we  who  live  in  the  water 
and  air  can  do  it  for  a  couple  of 
centuries.  Besides,  consider  how 
foolish  it  would  be  if  everything 
thou  possessest  were  all  at  once  to 
be  changed  into  what  I  have  pro- 
mised thee.  For  apart  from  the 
fact  that  I  do  not  know  even  what 
thou  wouldst  do  with  all  the  snipes 
and  cabbages,  the  value  of  gold — 
if  all  thy  stone  were  straightway 
converted  into  it — would  suddenly 
be  depreciated.  Nor  will  I  dwell 
upon  the  certainty  that  thy  be- 
nighted fellow-citizens  would  burn 
thee  as  a  sorcerer.  I  will  only  re- 
mind thee  how  sweet  it  is  to  owe 
that  which  we  possess  to  our  own 
industry,  although  thou  wilt  not 
understand  in  all  its  fulness  the 
pride  which  swells  the  bosom  of 
the  man  who  gains  his  own  live- 
lihood, until  I  have  revealed  my 
secret  to  thee.  This  consists  in 
inoculating  thee,  Hans  Preller,  a 
Knight  of  the  Early  Middle  Ages, 
with  the  views  and  ideas  of  later 
centuries.  In  thy  blindness,  thou 
hast  as  yet  no  suspicion,  my  good 
knight,  of  what  it  is  I  am  giving  to 
thee,  nor  how  lightly  it  is  paid  by 
the  innocence  of  thy  descendants — 
a  quality,  moreover,  that,  in  the 
ages  when  they  will  live,  will  be 
quite  a  superfluity.  But  when  thou 
art  inoculated,  thou  wilt  wonder  at 
my  generosity,  and  wilt  acknow- 
ledge that  all  the  ordinary  devil's 
gifts  of  gold,  silver,  and  jewels,  and 
worldly  pleasures,  are  a  mere  baga- 
telle —  or,  to  use  the  language  of 
our  own  time,  mere  chaff  and 
straw — compared  to  it.  For  even 
that  story  of  King  Midas  is  noth- 


ing to  it.  It  is  true  he  turned 
everything  he  touched  into  gold ; 
but  was  it  money?  Had  it  any 
value  as  currency  ?  And  it  is 
still  a  doubtful  point  whether  he 
could  change  air  and  water  into 
gold,  a  power  which  my  secret  will 
give  you ;  and  it  will  be  gold  that 
is  current  in  every  land.  For  a  time 
will  come  when  the  gold  of  currency 
will  have  much  more  value  than 
even  the  pure  gold  of  King  Midas." 

Thus  spoke  the  Spirit ;  but  what 
further  took  place  is  unknown,  for 
here  the  Chronicles  of  Castle  Lauf- 
fen  are  silent.  Those  of  Schaff- 
hausen  only  announce  parentheti- 
cally, under  date  of  that  year,  that 
in  the  following  night  the  Rhine 
made  a  rumbling  and  thundering  as 
if  the  world  were  coming  to  an  end. 
Strange  lights  and  fearful  forms 
were  seen  hovering  over  the  castle  ; 
and  from  out  of  the  depths  of  the 
deepest  dungeon  issued  groans  of 
pain  as  of  a  world  in  travail.  The 
main  tower  fell  in  with  a  great 
crash ;  and  it  is  supposed  that  the 
philanthropic  Spirit  performed  the 
operation  of  inoculating  Hans  Prel- 
ler with  modern  ideas  that  night — 
an  operation  which  it  may  be  sup- 
posed would  be  somewhat  more  diffi- 
cult and  painful  than  the  analogous 
operation  on  an  infant  in  arm?. 

The  Swiss  Chronicles  forsake  us 
utterly  at  this  point.  It  looks  as 
if  many  pages  had  been  purposely 
torn  out,  and  what  now  follows 
is  taken  from  an  old  Nuremburg 
Chronicle. 

Dreadful  reports  had  spread  far 
and  wide  of  Castle  Lauffen  and  its 
knight;  and  what  enhanced  the 
fearfulness  of  these  reports  was, 
that  no  one  could  make  out  ex- 
actly what  they  were. 

It  was  about  that  time  that  a 
rich  trader  of  Nuremburg,  one  Peter 
the  Sabot-maker — so  called  because 
his  business  consisted  in  selling  Ger- 


180 


Hans  P roller :  a  Legend  of  the  Rhine  Falls. 


[Aug. 


man  wooden  shoes  to  the  Italians — 
was  returning  from  Italy.  Nobody 
crossed  the  Alps  for  pleasure  in 
those  days.  Besides  snow  and 
avalanches,  hunger  and  want,  the 
traveller  was  exposed  to  wolves, 
bears,  and  robbers,  who  fell  upon 
him  in  the  mountain-gorges,  and 
against  whom  he  had  to  defend 
himself  as  best  he  could,  for  rate- 
paying  had  not  then  been  invented 
in  Switzerland.  And  honest  Father 
Sabot-maker  was  right  glad  when  he 
at  last  reached  the  opener  country 
and  more  hospitable  shores  of  the 
Khine  with  a  tolerably  well -filled 
purse.  He  was  a  stout,  florid-com- 
plexioned  man ;  and  he  was  just 
about  to  settle  himself  down  in 
a  shady  spot  and  enjoy  the  cool 
breeze,  which  blew  from  across  the 
Lake  of  Constance  lying  at  his 
feet,  when  he  became  aware  that 
there  stood  close  beside  him,  under 
the  nut-tree,  an  eldeily  gentleman 
of  a  goodly  presence,  and  with  a 
bald  head. 

The  latter  slowly  wiped  his  fore- 
head, drew  a  deep  breath,  and  said, 
"  I  see,  sir,  you  cannot  sufficiently 
devour  this  ravishing  prospect." 

"Thank  you;  but  for  my  part 
I  am  not  hungry,"  replied  Peter. 
4<  But  if  I  can  serve  you  with  a  bit 
of  roast  kid  and  goat's  cheese,  they 
are  at  your  service." 

"  Who  can  think  of  eating,  with 
such  a  spectacle  before  his  eyes  1 " 
said  Hans  Preller,  the  elderly 
gentleman  with  the  bald  head. 

"  I  pray  your  pardon,  good  sir ; 
what  spectacle  is  there  before  our 
eyes  to  hinder  us  from  eating  if  we 
were  hungry  ?  There's  no  Constance 
clown  here,  nor  holy  fathers  to  act 
us  a  play  out  of  the  Holy  Books." 

The  knight  smiled. 

"  Is  that  not  a  grand  spectacle 
down  below  you?"  he  asked. 

"  In  Nuremburg  we  should  call 
that  a  lake." 

Again  the  knight  smiled. 

"  I  mean,"  he  pursued,  "  the  great 


whole  —  Nature — the  landscape — 
the  harmony  in  the  brilliant  colour- 
ing— the  perspective." 

Peter  stared  at  him  with  wide- 
open  eyes. 

"  Pray  excuse  me ;  but  you  speak 
a  language  I  don't  pretend  to  under- 
stand. I  am  quite  content  if  I  can 
muster  enough  Milanese  to  settle 
accounts  with  my  customers." 

"  The  language  I  speak  ought  to 
be  intelligible  all  over  the  world, 
even  if  you  have  not  the  words  at 
your  command.  Does  not  a  certain 
indescribable  feeling  take  posses- 
sion of  you  when  the  air  comes 
gently  sighing  over  the  blossoming 
woods,  and  the  waters  of  the  lake 
reflect  the  deep  blue  of  the  heav- 
ens, and  the  distant  shores  float 
away  in  the  soft  misty  heat  1 " 

"  When  it  is  hot,"  returned  the 
trader,  "it's  very  pleasant  to  feel 
the  wind  blowing  over  the  water." 

"  Well — and  what  did  you  think 
when  you  passed  between  the  snow- 
capped mountains,  by  the  huge 
glaciers,  and  heard  the  avalanches 
thundering  down  the  mountain- 
sides ? " 

"  Thinking  again  !  "  muttered 
Peter.  "But  if  you  absolutely 
wish  to  know,  I  thought  if  all  the 
snow  were  flour,  and  the  glaciers 
sugar,  what  a  happy  land  it  would 
be!" 

"  Hm,  hm  ! "  said  Hans  Preller, 
not  altogether  displeased.  "The 
idea  is  not  so  bad — taken  in  its 
right  sense.  But  did  not  the  tears 
start  to.  your  eyes,  were  you  not 
awed,  and  did  it  not  seem  impossi- 
ble to  find  words  wherein  to  clothe 
the  grandeur  of  your  thoughts  1 " 

"  Why,  no !  As  I  knew  the 
snow  wasn't  to  be  turned  by  wish- 
ing into  flour  or  sugar,  I  made  the 
best  of  my  way  onwards." 

"  You  must  see  the  Falls  of  the 
Ehine  at  Schaffhausen  now.  That 
is  a  sight  to  make  you  pause — to 
astound  you.  There  you  will  find 
the  words  you  lack." 


1880.] 


Hans  Preller :  a  Legend  of  the  Rhine  Falls. 


181 


"Bat  that  would  be  terribly  out 
of  my  road.  Besides,  it  always 
vexed  me,  whenever  I  pass  that 
way,  to  hear  the  river  making  such 
a  noise  for  no  use  on  earth.  To 
think — not,  however,  that  it  con- 
cerns me, — but  to  think  that  ships 
could  sail  the  whole  way  from 
Cologne  to  Constance  and  Lindau, 
and  further,  if  it  were  not  for  that 
foolish  fall  the  river  makes." 

Fire  and  fury  blazed  in  the 
knight's  face  at  these  words.  He 
looked  at  the  trader  as  if  he  would 
devour  him,  and  cried — 

"  What,  you  barbarian  !  would 
you  ruin  my  waterfall  1 "  But 
quickly  recollecting  himself,  he 
added,  "  Every  one  must  serve  an 
apprenticeship  to  wisdom  ;  nobody 
was  ever  born  wise.  But  I  perceive 
in  you  a  real,  earnest  desire  to 
learn  to  appreciate  the  beautiful  in 
Nature.  I  beg  you,  therefore,  to 
come  and  see  me  at  my  castle,  and 
I  can  promise  you  sightseeing  to 
your  heart's  content." 

Peter  politely  declined  the  in- 
vitation ;  but  he  might  as  well  have 
spoken  to  the  winds,  for  Hans 
Preller  took  the  refusal  as  a  mere 
matter  of  form,  which  it  was  quite 
impossible  to  believe  could  be  seri- 
ously meant.  When,  however,  they 
both  rose  at  last,  and  Hans  Preller 
found  that  the  other  really  meant  to 
continue  his  own  road,  a  dark  look 
came  over  his  face,  and  he  said — 

"Nobody  whom  I  have  asked 
has  ever  refused  to  admire  my 
waterfall ;  and,  as  true  as  my  name 
is  Hans  Preller,  nobody  ever  shall. 
So  do  not  persist  in  your  refusal, 
which  would  only  prove  to  me  how 
uncultivated  you  are,  and  would 
put  me  in  the  embarrassing  position 
of  being  obliged  to  force  you  to  do 
what  every  man  of  proper  feeling 
does  of  his  own  accord." 

In  vain  the  sabot-maker  protested 
that  he  was  not  a  man  of  feeling. 
Hans  snapped  his  fingers  :  love  fbr 
his  fellow-beings  forbade  his  be- 


lieving such  a  thing.  But  when 
Peter  actually  began  to  make  pre- 
parations for  his  departure,  in  full 
confidence  that  his  own  fists  and 
those  of  his  two  Nuremburg  ser- 
vants would  suffice  to  ward  off  any 
too  eager  desire  to  instil  a  feeling 
for  Nature  into  him,  he  learned, 
unfortunately,  how  weak  is  all 
strength  that  proceeds  only  from 
ourselves.  Hans  Preller  gave  a 
whistle,  and  from  bush  and  thicket 
there  started  forth  a  host  of  sturdy 
Swiss,  whose  fists  would  have  in- 
stilled feeling  for  everything  ima- 
ginable into  beings  of  a  far  differ- 
ent order  from  our  three  Nureni- 
burgers. 

Peter  was  a  stout  but  irascible 
man.  He  struck  out  right  and  left ; 
but  this  availed  him  little,  and  in  a 
short  time  he,  with  his  two  servants, 
was  transported  in  a  waggon  to 
Castle  Lauffen. 

Hans  Preller  rode  beside  him ; 
and  having  vented  his  anger  in 
some  round  oaths,  which  Peter,  in 
spite  of  his  sad  plight,  paid  back 
with  interest,  he  exclaimed — 

"Is  it  not  a  sin  and  a  shame 
that  it  should  be  necessary  to  con- 
strain a  man  of  your  position  and 
education  after  this  fashion  1 " 

Peter,  though  violent,  was  shrewd. 
He  thought  he  should  get  off  on  the 
cheapest  terms  by  letting  the  fel- 
low have  his  way.  So  he  lay  quite 
still,  and  held  his  tongue  until  they 
reached  the  castle  ;  and  then,  when 
Hans  Preller  politely  invited  him 
to  alight  from  the  waggon,  he  asked 
what  he  was  now  expected  to  do. 

"To  see  my  waterfall  Or  if 
agreeable  to  you,  we  will  first  re- 
store our  forces  with  some  light 
refreshment. " 

Peter  declined  "  the  light  refresh- 
ment," as  a  vague  feeling  told  him 
that  he  would  have  to  pay  for  it, 
and  he  wanted  to  despatch  the 
business  which  there  was  no  get- 
ting out  of  as  speedily  as  possible. 
"Water,"  he  said  to  himself,  "costs 


182 


Hans  Preller :  a  Legetid  of  the  Rhine  Falls. 


[Aug. 


nothing  ; "  and  consoling  himself 
with  this  reflection,  he  advanced 
towards  the  entrance. 

"I  had  almost  forgotten,"  said 
Hans  Preller,  smiling,  as  he  pro- 
ceeded to  open  the  door,  "to  de- 
mand the  trifle  from  you  which, 
according  to  established  custom,  is 
always  paid  in  advance.  You  must 
pay  seven  batzen,*  and  then  you 
can  see  as  much,  and  look  as  long 
as  you  like." 

"Seven  hatzen  !  What  for?" 
cried  the  Nuremburger. 

"For  seeing  the  waterfall,"  re- 
plied the  knight. 

"  Seven  batzen  for  water  1  " 

"  Yes,  my  dear  sir ;  the  water  is 
Nature's  gift,  but  /  have  made  the 
steps  and  galleries.  And  do  you 
suppose  it  costs  me  nothing  to  keep 
them  up?  not  to  speak  of  the  in- 
terest on  the  capital." 

"  I  won't  pay  a  copper  penny," 
exclaimed  Peter. 

"  But  you  will  pay  seven  bat- 
zen," replied  Hans  in  a  friendly 
tone,  and  with  a  smile.  "You 
surely  will  not  refuse ;  you,  a  rich 
merchant  of  the  rich  city  of  Nur- 
emburg,  when  two  poor  starving 
wretches — tailor-apprentices  of  your 
city — have  just  paid  their  batzen 
for  the  magnificent  spectacle  with 
the  greatest  pleasure.  I  was  really 
sorry  to  take  the  poor  devils'  miser- 
able savings ;  still  it  was  a  pleasure 
to  see  the  real  hearty  delight  with 
which  they  gave  them." 

"Holy  St  Siebald!"  cried  the 
sabot-maker.  "  In  Nuremburg  I  can 
see  everything  I  like — pumps  and 
fountains — and  need  not  pay  a  doit. 
And  here,  to  see  a  common  water- 
fall, I  am  to  pay  as  much  as  would 
keep  me  in  wine  for  a  week.  Holy 
St  Siebald !  you  lighted  frozen 
water  as  if  it  were  wood-chips,  that 
the  poor  people  might  warm  them- 
selves by  the  fire,  and  demanded 
nothing  in  return  but  a  '  God  bless 


you.'  And  here  I  am  asked  to  pay 
seven  batzen  for  natural  water  !  " 

"  0  you  incorrigible  shopkeeper- 
soul  !  you  Nuremburg  ginger- 
bread -  maker  !  you  wooden  pup- 
pet !  what  do  you  mean  by  com- 
paring my  great  natural  wonder 
with  such  toy  wonders  as  your 
turner-saint,  a  mere  tyro  and  bun- 
gler in  the  sphere  of  the  marvel- 
lous, fabricated  for  your  poor  under- 
standings ?  If  St  Siebald  had  taken 
a  penny  for  his  burning  ice-chips, 
I  ought  to  demand  a  ton  of  gold  for 
my  waterfall.  Strictly  speaking, 
you  are  not  worthy  to  see  it ;  but 
it  is  not  for  my  sake,  but  for  your 
own,  that  you  shall  see  it,  and  pay 
the  seven  batzen." 

Peter's  face  became  the  colour  of 
a  morella  cherry.  He  rolled  his 
eyes,  clenched  his  fists,  and  ground 
his  teeth  till  his  mouth  foamed. 
He  could  not  speak  for  rage. 

"Will  you?"  asked  the  knight, 
curtly. 

The  sabot-maker  shook  his  head. 
He  was  prepared  for  everything, 
even  for  being  bound  hand  and  foot 
and  dragged  to  the  falls.  He  knew 
what  he  should  do  in  that  case. 
But  no. 

"Far  be  it  from  me,"  said  the 
knight,  calmly,  "  to  compel  any  one 
by  the  use  of  brute  force  to  do  that 
which  he  has  no  inclination  to  do. 
You  must  see  the  waterfall  volun- 
tarily; and  till  you  are  ready,  my 
castle  shall  afford  you  shelter  and 
protection,  and  time  for  meditation." 

No  sooner  said  than  done.  The 
heavy  form  of  the  Nuremburg  sabot- 
dealer  was  packed  as  well  as  it 
would  go  into  a  small  basket,  a 
string  was  placed  in  his  hand, 
a  windlass  whirred,  the  daylight 
turned  into  darkness,  and  a  sudden 
violent  blow  on  the  part  of  his 
body  that  first  reached  the  ground 
told  him  that  he  had  arrived  at  the 
place  appointed  for  his  meditations. 


*  Equivalent  to  about  a  shilling. 


1880.] 


Hans  P reller :  a  Legend  of  the  Rhine  Falls. 


183 


As  soon  as  he  had  unpacked 
himself,  the  hasket  was  drawn  up 
again,  the  trap  shut,  and  Peter  was 
alone  with  his  thoughts  in  the  dun- 
geon of  Castle  Lauffen.  Damp 
straw,  chains,  spiders,  lizards,  and 
salamanders — in  short,  everything 
that  romance  requires  of  a  good 
castle  -  dungeon  was  to  be  found 
here.  On  the  other  hand,  a  hero 
of  romance  would  not  have  thought 
first  of  his  own  fate,  hut  of  that 
of  his  companions  in  misfortune. 
Peter,  however,  I  am  obliged  to 
confess,  gave  no  thought  to  his  fol- 
lowers, but  was  only  exasperated 
that  such  a  fate  should  have  be- 
fallen himself.  He  bit  his  nails, 
struck  the  walls  with  his  fists  till 
the  tears  started  to  his  eyes,  and 
swore  death  and  vengeance.  Such 
an  injury  must  be  punished  by 
king  and  parliament.  Cost  what 
it  might,  he  was  determined  to  sue 
the  knight  before  the  imperial  or 
the  secret  tribunal — whichever  then 
existed. 

He  was  not  a  little  disappointed 
at  finding  that  he  still  had  his 
purse.  If  that  had  been  taken,  he 
should  at  any  rate  have  known  that 
he  had  to  deal  with  an  ordinary, 
straightforward  robber-knight,  in- 
stead of  with  a  soul-destroyer,  who 
demanded  things  from  a  decent 
German  citizen  that  made  one's 
hair  stand  on  end.  Kay,  he  made 
a  solemn  vow  that  he  would  remain 
here  for  the  rest  of  his  natural  life, 
and  moulder  away  alive,  rather 
than  do  what  the  knight  wanted. 
He  did  not,  however,  begin  to 
starve  straightway,  but  prolonged 
his  life  till  the  following  morning 
with  a  piece  of  rye-bread.  The 
water-jug  he  left  untouched,  pre- 
sumably because  he  thought  it  had 
been  filled  from  the  abominated 
waterfall. 

He  found  that  it  is  possible,  if 
not  agreeable,  to  sleep  on  damp 
straw  and  cold  stone  when  anger 

VOL.  CXXVIII. — NO.  DCCLXXVIII. 


has  worn  one  out ;  and  the  ranz  des 
vaches  next  morning  awakened  him 
out  of  a  sound  and  refreshing  slum- 
ber. The  trap-door  above  opened, 
and  Hans  Preller's  face  appeared. 

"Good  morning,  Sir  Sabot- maker; 
how  are  your  feelings  for  nature 
this  morning  1 " 

No  reply. 

"  Well,  well !  I  am  in  no  hurry  ; 
your  mind  will  open  in  time,  as 
many  others'  have  done." 

The  trap  closed.  Night  returned. 
The  toads  and  lizards  hopped  and 
crawled  once  more  around  his  bed. 
The  same  ideas  and  thoughts  visit- 
ed the  worthy  man,  and  he  spent 
this  day  like  the  last,  except  that 
he  found  his  bread  drier,  and  did 
not  disdain  a  draught  of  water 
from  the  jug.  He  reflected  that 
the  poor  water  could  not  help 
tumbling  over  the  rock.  Nature 
had  shown  it  the  way,  and  it  sim- 
ply obeyed. 

But  Peter  the  Sabot-maker  down 
below  little  imagined  what  was 
passing  in  the  knight's  bosom  up 
above — little  imagined  that  Hans 
Preller,  at  liberty,  was  suffering  as 
much  as  he  himself,  immured  in 
the  castle-keep.  For  Hans  Preller 
sat  constantly  for  hours  together  in 
his  leathern  chair,  his  face  between 
his  hands,  groaning — 

"  Why,  why  has  Nature  endowed 
me  with  aesthetic  feelings  which 
she  has  denied  to  so  many  millions, 
or  has  reserved  for  their  posterity  1 
Why  can  I  not  at  once  live  in  that 
enlightened  age,  when  the  English 
will  flock  here  of  their  own  free 
will;  when  Russian  princes  and 
German  students  and  rich  Ameri- 
cans will  come  to  admire;  when  the 
whole  of  Switzerland  will  be  what 
the  Waterfall  of  Lauflen  is  now  1 " 

Peter  had  now  heard  the  morn- 
ing Alpine  horn  seven  times  in  his 
dark  retreat ;  and,  upon  his  host 
opening  the  trap-doorfor  the  seventh 
time,  and  for  the  seventh  time  put- 


184 


Hans  Preller :  a  Legend  of  the  Wane  Falls. 


[Aug. 


ting  the  original  question  to  him, 
he  answered,  without  further  hesi- 
tation, "  Yes." 

Down  whirred  the  basket,  and 
the  cords  creaked  as  he  was  hoisted 
up  again ;  but  the  sabot-maker  re- 
marked that  he  was  a  full  fourth 
lighter  than  he  had  been  seven 
days  before.  Quite  touched,  the 
host  embraced  his  guest.  He  would 
not  hear  of  his  going  in  such  a  con- 
dition to  witness  the  spectacle.  He 
must  first  strengthen  himself;  he 
must  prepare  himself  for  it  with 
some  breakfast  —  almonds  from 
Italy,  raisins,  gingerbread,  and 
dmgees,  and  Schaffhausen  Ehine 
wine  to  boot.  Peter  had  not  tasted 
such  delicacies  for  a  long  while — 
namely,  for  seven  whole  days ;  and 
the  honest  knight  was  so  moved 
that  this  time  he  opened  the  door 
at  once,  and  left  the  payment  till 
afterwards. 

It  is  asserted  by  the  Swiss  that 
the  sabot-maker  now  stood  by  the 
waterfall  with  his  eyes  shut  fast. 
He  heard  the  roar  of  the  water,  and 
even  let  himself  be  splashed  by  it ; 
but  he  refused  to  see  it.  Upon 
this  point,  however,  implicit  reli- 
ance cannot  be  placed  on  the  Swiss. 
For  though,  on  the  one  hand, 
Peter  was  still  in  a  very  exasper- 
ated state  of  mind,  yet,  on  the 
other  —  at  least  so  the  Germans 
contend — it  is  difficult  to  believe 
that  a  Nuremburg  trader  would 
have  given  seven  batzen  without 
seeing  what  he  got  for  it. 

On  leaving,  Peter  opened  his 
purse,  and  produced  seven  batzen. 
Hans  Preller  took  the  money, 
weighed  it  smilingly  in  his  open 
palm,  and  said — 

"  That  is  quite  right,  my  friend, 
so  far  as  you  yourself  are  concerned; 
but  as  a  good  master,  you  will  of 
course  also  pay  for  your  people  1 " 

"  What !  The  fellows  have  pre- 
sumed to  see  the  waterfall  *?  What 
need  had  they  to  see  it  ?  " 

"  Why,  my  good  friend,  my  hon- 


est merchant,"  replied  the  knight, 
"  you  would  not  be  so  proud  as  to 
esteem  your  servants  unworthy  to 
enjoy  that  which  you  have  just  been 
enjoying1?  Nature  is  a  great  pos- 
session, belonging  to  the  whole 
world.  Rich  and  poor,  high  and 
low,  have  an  equal  right  to  it, — 
whence  the  term  '  natural  rights,' 
which,  as  the  learned  will  inform 
you,  are  the  same  amongst  all 
people*,  under  all  skies ;  and  as  I, 
a  free  knight,  have  admitted  you, 
a  mere  burgher,  without  charge, 
surely  you,  as  a  good  Christian,  will 
not  grudge  your  servants  the  same 
pleasure." 

Peter  dived  down  into  his  pock- 
et, but  growled  out  that  he  thought 
servants  ought  to  pay  only  half- 
price.  The  knight  smiled.  "  That 
is  only  the  case,"  he  rejoined, 
"  where  persons  of  rank  give  what 
they  like.  But  here,  in  Switzerland, 
all  men  are  equal — in  paying." 

But  what  was  the  astonishment 
of  the  sabot-maker  when  he  found 
that  he  was  not  to  get  off  with  twice 
seven  batzen  !  For  not  only  had 
his  ungrateful  varlets  been  seized 
with  the  unaccountable  desire  to 
see  the  waterfall  every  day,  but 
they  had  gone  to  see  it  many  times 
each  day ;  and  for  the  amount 
chalked  up  against  them  on  the 
door,  the  rogues  might  have  drunk 
half  the  wine  in  his  cellar  at  Xur- 
emburg. 

The  tears  stood  in  his  eyes ;  but 
he  was  quite  merry,  and  laughed, 
and  now  wanted  to  enjoy  every- 
thing. 

He  let  himself  be  led  down  un- 
der the  falls,  and  then  let  himself 
be  ferried  across  to  see  them  from 
the  other  side.  A  man  was  so 
good  as  to  hold  a  couple  of  pieces 
of  coloured  glass  before  his  eyes, 
and  he  saw  the  Rhine  turn  green, 
and  blue,  and  yellow ;  and  he  gave 
the  man  as  many  batzen  as  he 
asked  for,  and  the  same  to  the 
boatman,  and  to  the  fellow  who 


1880.] 


Hans  Preller :  a  Legend  of  the  Rhine  Falls. 


185 


handed  him  in.  Then  a  poor-box 
was  held  out  to  him,  and  he  grace- 
fully offered  up  what  Hans  Preller 
told  him.  The  cowherd  pulled  off 
his  cap,  and  reminded  him  of  the 
great  service  he  had  performed  for 
him  every  morning ;  and  as  he  did 
not  immediately  seem  to  under- 
stand, the  knight  explained — 

"  That  is  the  happy  child  of 
nature  who  announced  the  sunrise 
to  you  every  morning  with  his 
horn.  You  must  have  slept  through 
it." 

"  But  I  did  not  see  the  sun/'  the 
Nuremburger  indignantly  burst 
forth,  "  and  I  did  not  tell  him  to 
wake  me  when  I  was  asleep." 

"  But  was  it  the  poor  man's 
fault,"  said  the  knight,  "  that  you 
did  not  see  the  sun  1  He  wished 
to  soften  your  heart  by  his  touch- 
ing rural  strains,  and  to  direct 
your  attention  to  a  wonder,  which 
the  unforewarned  mind  is  apt  to 
overlook,  or  set  down  as  common- 
place. Besides,  it  is  a  custom  I 
have  established,  that  all  travellers 
should  be  moved  to  give  some 
trifle  to  the  good-natured,  disinter- 
ested fellow  for  his  obligingness, 
which  springs  from  no  paltry  desire 
for  reward ;  and  I  will  not  have  so 
ancient  and  honourable  a  custom 
fall  into  disuse." 

Having,  with  a  moved  heart, 
paid  the  required  batzeii  for  the 
sun  which  he  had  not  seen,  the 
Nuremburger  thought  he  had  at 
last  discharged  every  obligation ; 
but  imagine  his  surprise  when  Hans 
Preller  produced  a  small  bill  for 
food  and  lodging,  where  it  was 
no  longer  a  question  of  batzen,  but 
of  silver  dollars  and  gold  crown- 
pieces. 

"  What  conveyance  is  this? "  cried 
he.  "  I  know  nothing  about  it. 
So  high  a  fare  would  not  be  de- 
manded from  the  King  of  Bo- 
hemia ! " 

"The  conveyance,  my  friend," 
said  Hans  Preller,  presently,  "is 


the  one  I  had  to  hire  to  conduct 
you  hither,  as,  if  you  remember, 
you  were  not  in  a  state  to  walk. 
And  bear  in  mind,  too,  that  Swit- 
zerland is  not  Bohemia  ;  that  in 
Bohemia  you  have  plains,  whilst 
here  you  have  mountains.  It 
follows  as  a  natural  consequence 
that  carriage-hire  is  more  expen- 
sive; and  you  may  be  thankful 
that  I  was  able  to  get  a  conveyance 
at  all.  Moreover,  I  Lsee  that  my 
clerk  has  not  even  put  down  the 
back-fare,  for  it  is  only  just  that 
you  should  compensate  the  man 
for  the  time  during  which  he 
could  make  nothing.  The  rule  is 
to  pay  a  second  fare,  but  from  you 
we  will  be  content  with  half,  which 
I  beg  you  will  add  to  the  bill." 

At  last  everything  was  settled  in 
the  castle,  and  Peter  the  Sabot- 
maker's  heart  began  to  beat  more 
freely -when  he  heard  the  creaking 
of  the  drawbridge  as  it  was  raised 
behind  him,  although  he  foresaw 
that  he  would  be  expected  to  pay 
escort-money  to  the  knight  for  his 
kindness  in  accompanying  him,  and 
guide-hire  to  the  runner  who  pre- 
ceded them  to  show  the  way — as 
well,  of  course,  as  return-money. 

But  Hans  Preller  was  in  capital 
spirits,  jesting  away  in  that  free, 
outspoken  fashion  peculiar  to  the 
child  of  nature,  which  can  offend 
no  one,  since  it  comes  merely  from 
a  frank,  open-hearted  disposition. 

"  If  you  would  not  mind  mak- 
ing a  slight  detour,"  he  said  at 
length,  as  they  came  to  a  place 
where  the  roads  divided,  "I  can 
show  you  something  eminently  re- 
markable. An  old  fellow-country- 
man of  mine  lives  there.  Many 
years  ago  he  was  in  the  service  of 
a  gentleman  of  rank  in  the  vicinity, 
acting  as  hall-porter ;  and  one  night, 
when  robbers  were  breaking  into 
the  house,  he  fought  so  bravely  for 
his  master,  that  the  whole  world 
rang  with  praises  of  Swiss  fidelity. 
He  has  now,  in  remembrance  of 


186 


Hans  Preller :  a  Legend  oj  the  Rhine  Falls. 


[Aug. 


that  night,  had  a  wounded  lion  cut 
in  the  rock  to  represent  himself, — 
for  he  came  off  a  cripple, —  and  he 
has  built  a  hut  hard  by,  and  is  so 
good  as  to  show  the  lion — that  is, 
himself  —  to  every  stranger  who 
cares  to  see  it;  and,  at  the  same 
time,  he  explains  how  splendidly 
he  fought  that  night.  For  this 
courtesy  it  is  the  custom  to  give 
him  a  small  fee." 

Peter  was  now  in  a  frame  of 
mind  to  believe  and  admire  every- 
thing that  was  demanded  of  him, 
and  he  hastily  plunged  his  hand 
into  his  pocket  without  having  seen 
the  lion  or  the  veteran.  Hans 
Preller  smiled,  and  accepted  the 
money  for  him. 

They  arrived  at  length  at  the 
point  where  they  were  to  separate. 
The  accounts  were  all  settled  ;  they 
had  shaken  hands,  —  when  sud- 
denly the  Nuremburger  remem- 
bered that  he  had  not  paid  any- 
thing for  the  almonds  and  raisins, 
and  the  pint  of  Schaffhausen  wine. 

"  Tell  me,  I  pray  you,"  said  he, 
"what  do  I  owe  you  for  them? 
I  could  never  forgive  myself  if  I 
were  to  remain  in  your  debt." 

At  this  the  knight  became  quite 
wroth. 

"  If  you  were  not  a  dear  friend, 
I  should  answer  your  question  in 
a  different  fashion.  I  am  a  plain 
man  and  an  honourable  Swiss,  and 
I  never  desire  to  be  anything  else  ; 
for  the  Swiss  are  celebrated  through- 
out the  whole  world  for  their  fidel- 
ity, honesty,  and  hospitality.  Shame 
upon  me  if  I  were  to  let  a  guest 
pay  for  what  I  had  set  before  him  ! 
Of  what  you  have  partaken  let 
nothing  more  be  said.  If  I  should 
ever  come  to  Nuremburg  you  will 
do  as  much  for  me.  Farewell !  " 

"If  I  could  but  have  the  chance ! " 
groaned  Peter,  as  soon  as  he  was 
sure  the  knight  was  out  of  earshot. 


He  clutched  his  purse,  and  pressed 
it  closer  to  him — not  for  fear  of  its 
being  stolen,  but  because  it  was 
empty — and  he  set  off  on  his  road 
homewards. 

"  It  is  at  any  rate  a  good  thing, 
master,"  said  one  of  his  servants, 
endeavouring  to  cheer  him  up, 
"that  it  was  no  robber-knight,  as 
I  had  at  first  imagined,  but  a  good, 
honourable  gentleman  ;  and  one  has 
the  comfort  of  knowing  what  one 
has  spent  one's  money  for." 

"We  have  no  record  that  Peter 
the  Sabot-maker's  accounts  of  what 
had  befallen  him  near  Schaffhausen 
in  any  way  increased  the  popular 
superstitions  regarding  Castle  Lauf- 
fen.  What  is  certain  is,  that  he 
recommended  the  very  same  road 
to  other  rich  merchants,  who,  in 
turn,  frightened  no  one  away  by 
the  reports  they  brought  back.  We 
may  assume,  therefore,  that  each 
was  anxious  the  other  should  ex- 
perience what  had  befallen  himself ; 
and  those  who  reaped  the  benefit 
were  Hans  Preller  and  his  descend- 
ants. 

Times  gradually  improved,  and 
in  his  old  age  Hans  Preller  had  the 
satisfaction  of  witnessing  the  free 
advent  of  travellers  eager  to  see  the 
famed  Falls  of  Lauffen.  On  his 
deathbed,  in  a  voice  of  prophetic 
emotion,  he  spoke  to  his  children 
these  words — 

"  Keep  what  Nature  has  given 
you,  and  in  spite  of  all  revolutions 
you  will  be  rich  and  happy." 

His  family  prospered  visibly. 
The  Hans  Prellers*  spread  like 
locusts  over  the  whole  country,  and 
having  dropped  their  title  of  no- 
bility, which  is  hardly  compatible 
with  republican  institutions,  their 
descendants  are  to  be  traced  to  this 
day  in  the  guides  and  hotel-keepers 
of  Switzerland. 


*  The  name  "Preller"  comes  from  "prellen,"  which  signifies  to  "do"  or  "fleece." 


1880.] 


Bush-Life  in 


'.—Part  IX. 


187 


BUSH-LIFE  IN   QUEENSLAND. — PART  IX. 


XXVII. — OVERLAND   WITH    CATTLE — THE   START — THE   STAMPEDE. 


AT  last  the  mustering  \vas  com- 
pleted. The  stores  and  rations 
necessary  for  the  requirements  of 
the  journey,  and  the  supplies  for 
the  new  station  during  the  first  six 
months,  were  all  packed  upon  a 
great  bullock- dray,  to  be  drawn  by 
twelve  huge  oxen.  The  men  had 
been  hired.  They  were  six  in  num- 
ber, of  whom  one  was  a  bullock- 
driver  and  another  a  cook.  Two 
blackboys  were  also  to  be  attached 
to  the  expedition,  thus  making  the 
total  number  ten.  They  were, — 
John,  in  charge ;  Desmard ;  four 
drovers ;  a  bullock-driver ;  a  cook, 
and  two  blackboys. 

As  it  was  highly  necessary  to 
watch  the  cattle  at  night,  the 
party  were  told  off  into  regular 
watches,  with  the  exception  of 
the  bullock-driver  and  cook,  whose 
duties  exempted  them  from  this 
part  of  the  work,  and  of  the  two 
natives,  on  whom  little  or  no  re- 
liance could  be  placed,  the  tempta- 
tion to  sleep  proving  sometimes  too 
strong  for  them.  The  night  was 
thus  divided  into  three  watches  of 
four  hours  each,  each  watch  con- 
sisting of  two  men.  Twenty -two 
horses  had  been  shod,  and  were 
divided  amongst  the  party,  in  the 
proportion  of  one  each  to  the  bul- 
lock-driver and  cook,  two  night- 
horses,  and  two  to  each  of  the  other 
members,  with  two  spare  ones. 

Of  the  two  native  boys  who  were 
anxious  to  follow  John's  fortunes  for 
a  time,  one  was  about  fifteen  years 
of  age,  the  other  about  fourteen. 
The  eldest,  "  Blucher,"  was  rather 
an  uncivilised  lad,  not  having 
been  much  in  contact  with  whites, 
but  of  an  energetic  disposition. 
The  other,  whose  appellation  was 


"  Gunpowder,"  was  a  gentle,  quiet 
boy,  with  a  mild  face,  large  soft 
eyes,  and  curly  hair.  Blucher, 
indeed,  had  only  made  up  his 
mind  to  go  with  the  cattle  a  day 
or  two  before  they  started,  owing 
to  an  altercation  which  had  taken 
place  between  him  and  the  Un- 
gahrun  cook.  Native  boys  em- 
ployed on  a  station  are  almost  al- 
ways fed  by  their  master's  hand, 
or  from  the  kitchen.  The  employer 
cuts  off  a  large  slice  of  bread  and 
beef,  and  pours  out  a  liberal  supply 
of  tea;  and  the  boy  seats  himself 
outside  on  the  ground,  very  much 
more  contented  with  this  meal 
than  if  he  had  had  the  trouble  of 
cooking  it  himself.  This  is  often 
done  to  protect  him  from  the  ra- 
pacity of  his  friends,  with  whom 
he  is  bound  by  his  tribal  laws  to 
divide  his  food,  and  partly  to  save 
the  time  they  invariably  waste  in 
cooking. 

The  blackboys  are  quick  at  appre- 
ciating differences  in  the  social  scale, 
and  a  single  look  enables  them  to 
distinguish  between  a  master  and 
a  mere  whitefellow.  It  pleases 
them  to  have  their  food  from  their 
master.'s  table,  or  cooked  in  the 
kitchen ;  and  as  they  are  through- 
out their  lives  mere  children,  they 
are  much  humoured,  and  their  pre- 
sence tolerated  about  the  head- 
station  buildings. 

The  kitchen  -  woman  on  Un- 
gahrun  had  but  a  short  temper, 
and  the  boys  having  been  brought 
rather  much  forward  during  the 
mustering,  through  which  they  had 
been  of  the  greatest  service,  got  into 
the  habit  of  walking  into  the  kit- 
chen for  the  purpose  of  lighting 
their  pipes  at  the  stove,  notwith- 


188 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. — Part  IX. 


[Aug. 


standing  that  a  large  fire  burnt 
under  a  boiler  outside.  To  their 
minds,  the  fire  inside  the  house 
gave  a  much  sweeter  taste  to  the 
pipe  they  loved. 

Blucher,  as  usual,  had  marched 
into  the  room  on  the  morning  in 
question,  coolly  ignoring  the  re- 
monstrances of  the  irritated  woman, 
when  her  passion  getting  the  better 
of  her,  she  made  a  rush  at  him  with 
the  poker,  which,  perhaps,  she  had 
heated  on  purpose,  and  touched 
him  on  the  bare  leg — for,  like  all 
his  race,  when  not  on  horseback  he 
doffed  his  trousers  and  boots,  and 
wore  nothing  but  a  Crimean  shirt. 
The  pain  of  the  wound  was  as 
nothing  to  the  indignity.  With  a 
bound  he  rushed  into  the  "  Caw- 
bawn  Humpy,"  his  eyes  flashing, 
with  insulted  pride  exclaiming, 
"  Missa  Fitzgell,  White  Mary 
cook'em  me,"  pointing  to  his  leg.* 
nor  could  Fitzgerald's  remonstran- 
ces or  condolences  avail  anything ; 
Blucher  tendered  his  services  to 
John,  who,  finding  that  Fitzgerald 
did  not  object,  exchanged  him  for 
another  boy  whom  he  had  purposed 
taking. 

Blacks  are  excitable  to  the  last 
degree,  extremely  fond  of  change 
and  adventure,  and,  in  their  own 
way,  brave  enough.  Blucher  and 
Gunpowder,  on  the  eve  of  their 
departure  for  a  new  country,  where 
they  would  be  certain  to  come  in 
contact  with  myalls,^  were  looked 
upon  as  embryo  heroes,  and  enter- 
tained their  admiring  tribal  breth- 
ren with  much  boostful  promise 
of  future  daring — indeed,  so  much 
enthusiasm  sprang  up  in  the  tribe, 
that  even  the  grey-headed  old  men 
assailed  John  to  be  allowed  to  ac- 
company him. 

The  day  of  departure  came,  the 
gates  of  the  herding -yard  were 


thrown  open,  and  Fitzgerald  sitting 
on  his  horse  on  one  side,  with  John 
opposite,  counted  out  the  squeezing, 
roaring,  many-coloured  crowd;  and 
the  number  being  ascertained,  a 
start  was  effected.  The  men  mount- 
ed, and  the  overland  journey  to  the 
new  home,  nearly  600  miles  away, 
commenced. 

During  his  stay  on  Ungahrun, 
John  had  made  two  or  three  short 
trips  with  cattle,  and  the  experi- 
ence thus  gained  gave  him  much 
confidence.  His  measures  were  care- 
fully weighed  beforehand;  and  his 
knowing  exactly  how  to  meet  any 
difficulty  which  might  arise,  assisted 
greatly  in  making  matters  smooth 
and  pleasant  for  all  parties.  The 
bullock  -  dray  with  the  cook  had 
started  very  early,  and  the  driver 
was  ordered  to  halt  at  a  certain 
spot  about  13  miles  distant,  where 
John  intended  making  his  first 
camp.  The  usual  travelling  dis- 
tance for  cattle  is  from  7  miles  to 
9  miles  per  day;  but  being  fresh, 
and  not  inclined  to  eat,  they  could 
have  gone  considerably  farther. 
They  march  along  evidently  very 
much  displeased  with  having  their 
long-accustomed  habits  broken  into. 

On  the  run,  when  left  to  them- 
selves, they  feed  the  greater  part  of 
the  night ;  now  they  have  to  learn 
to  sleep  during  the  cool  dewy  dark- 
ness, when  the  grass  is  sweetest, 
and  inarch,  march,  march  during 
the  hot  dusty  day,  picking  up  a 
scanty  meal  by  the  roadside,  off 
what  has  probably  been  walked 
over  by  half-a-dozen  mobs  of  sheep 
and  cattle  within  the  last  fortnight. 
They  dislike  exceedingly  feeding 
on  ground  over  which  sheep  have 
grazed  :  they  cannot  bear  the  smell 
left  behind  them  by  those  animals  ; 
it  disgusts  them ;  besides  which, 
the  sheep  crowd  together  in  great 


*  All  white  -women  are  termed  "  White  Maries 
t  Wild,  uncivilised  aboriginals-- jangalis. 


by  the  natives. 


1880.] 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. — Part  IX. 


189 


numbers,  and  tread  down  and  de- 
stroy more  than  they  eat.  Now 
and  then  a  roar  breaks  from  one  of 
the  exiles,  who  remembers  an  old 
mate  left  behind,  or  perhaps  two 
or  three  grown-up  members  of  her 
family ;  or  some  hobbledehoy  of  a 
steer  cannot  forget  his  mother,  or 
they  think  in  concert  of  the  sweet 
wattle-shaded  gullies  and  rich  pas- 
tures of  Ungahrun,  and  bellow  dis- 
consolately a  bovine  version  of 
"  Home,  sweet  home."  The  men 
are  disposed  in  a  half-circle  behind 
the  cattle,  at  some  distance  from 
one  another.  The  pace  is  very 
slow;  and  although  for  the  first  day 
or  two  they  cannot  well  do  their 
work  on  foot  owing  to  the  unsteadi- 
ness of  the  cattle,  they  allow  full 
rein  to  their  horse?,  who  graze  con- 
tentedly as  they  walk  behind  the 
mob,  managing  to  chew  the  grass 
almost  as  well  with  the  bit  in  their 
mouths  as  without  it. 

The  cattle  will  not  camp  in  the 
middle  of  the  day  yet;  and  the 
men,  who  are  old  drovers,  have 
taken  care  to  provide  some  food 
with  which  they  satisfy  themselves, 
washing  it  down  with  cold  water 
from  the  nearest  water-hole.  About 
four  or  five  o'clock  in  the  evening, 
they  come  in  sight  of  the  camp 
chosen  for  the  night's  resting- 
place.  It  is  a  pretty  timbered 
ridge,  covered  with  green  grass. 
The  bullock- dray  is  drawn  up  at  a 
convenient  spot,  near  which  a  large 
fire  burns,  its  smoke  curling  away 
up  among  the  dark-leaved  trees. 
The  bullock  -  driver  and  cook  are 
busily  engaged  in  erecting  a  couple 
of  tents,  the  smaller  of  which  is  to 
be  occupied  by  John  and  Desmard. 
The  men  are  to  share  the  other,  and 
the  immense  tarpaulin  which  covers 
the  bullock-dray  with  its  load,  and 
extends  on  each  side  of  it  propped 
up  by  forks,  between  them. 

The  deep-sounding  bullock-bells 
jangle  down  in  the  creek,  and  the 


spare  horses  have  been  hobbled  out, 
and  feed  all  round.  It  is  too  early 
as  yet  to  get  into  camp,  for  the 
cattle  have  walked  unceasingly.  In 
a  few  days  they  will  be  glad  to 
graze,  and  then  the  arrival  at  camp 
can  be  timed  properly.  The  feed 
here  is  good,  but  they  will  not  look 
at  it.  They  turn  and  march  home- 
wards in  a  body,  on  being  left  to 
themselves  for  a  moment,  and  are 
continually  brought  back.  A  cooey 
from  the  cook  announces  supper, 
and  half  the  men  start  for  the  camp 
to  make  a  quiet  meal  before  dark. 
This  will  probably  be  the  worst 
night  during  the  whole  journey. 
The  second  half  of  the  party  are 
afterwards  relieved  by  the  first;  and 
as  they  discuss  the  evening  meal, 
they  discuss  also  the  likelihood  of 
a  quiet  camp  or  a  rush  off  it. 

Cattle  are  very  liable  to  be  fright- 
ened off  their  camp  during  the  first 
few  nights  on  the  road ;  and  when 
this  occurs,  a  tremendous  stampede, 
with  serious  consequences  some- 
times, takes  place,  and  ever  after- 
wards the  cattle  are  on  the  watch 
to  make  a  similar  rush.  This  is 
more  particularly  the  case  with  a 
mob  of  strong,  rowdy  bullocks;  arid 
some  breeds  of  cattle  are  naturally 
wilder  than  others,  and  therefore 
more  inclined  to  start. 

The  Ungahrun  herd  had  a  con- 
siderable strain  of  Hereford  blood 
running  through  it,  as  any  one 
might  discover  by  the  numerous 
red  bodies  and  white  faces ;  and  the 
cattle,  although  very  fine  and  large- 
framed,  were  characterised  by  the 
rather  uneasy  nature  of  that  cele- 
brated breed  ;  besides  which,  the 
presence  in  the  mob  of  the  wildest 
animals  on  the  run  and  a  number 
of  scrubbers  might  lead  to  a  stam- 
pede at  any  moment,  and  on  this 
account  great  precaution  and  vigi- 
lance were  maintained. 

Fires  had  been  lighted  at  stated 
distances,  in  a  circle  large  enough  to 


190 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. — Part  IX. 


[Aug. 


permit  the  travelling  herd  to  move 
about  easily  within  it.  Horses  rid- 
den during  the  day  were  exchanged 
for  fresh  ones,  and  the  cattle  were 
slowly  driven  into  the  centre  of  the 
fire -enclosed  ring.  Night  comes 
on,  but  they  think  not  of  lying 
down.  Incessantly  moving,  they 
keep  up  one  continuous  roar,  and 
endeavour  to  walk  off  in  every 
direction.  All  hands  are  busy  keep- 
ing them  back.  The  night  is  very 
dark,  but  one  can  see  the  forms 
moving  out  between  the  fires. 
When  one  goes  another  follows, 
and  so  on  in  a  string.  It  takes 
the  men  all  their  time  to  keep 
them  in. 

West  had  just  made  his  way 
from  one  fire  to  another,  meeting 
Fitzgerald  there,  who  had  come 
from  his  sentry -duty  between  it 
and  the  fire  beyond,  and  they  have 
driven  in  the  cattle  as  they  came ; 
but  looking  back  again,  they  each 
see  the  determined  brutes  stringing 
out  as  fast  as  ever.  They  turn 
their  horses,  and  with  suppressed 
shouts,  force  them  back,  and  re- 
turning, meet  once  more  to  repeat 
the  same  over  again.  Between 
almost  every  fire  the  same  thing 
is  going  on. 

The  night  is  quite  dark ;  the 
uproar  is  tremendous.  One  or  two 
men  have  already  mistaken  their 
comrades'  horses  for  stray  cattle, 
and  have  called  forth  a  volley  of 
curses  by  using  their  whips. 

"Way!"  "Look  back!"  "Head 
on  there  !  "  "  Come  out  o'  that ! " 
"  Way  woh  ! "  "  Look  up  !  "  are 
heard  in  all  directions. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what,  West,"  says 
Fitzgerald,  "you'll  have  to  ring 
them.  Pass  the  word  round  for 
all  hands  to  follow  one  another  in 
a  circle,  at  a  little  distance  apart." 

This  plan  succeeded  admirably. 
No  sooner  does  a  cunning  beast 
try  to  make  its  way  out  after  the 
sentry  has  passed,  than  another 


sentry,  moving  up  in  the  circle, 
observes  it,  and  is  immediately 
followed  by  a  third  and  fourth, 
and  so  on  continually.  The  cattle 
ring  also.  They  at  last  get  tired  of 
the  continual  motion  and  bellow- 
ing, and  some  lie  down,  but  not 
for  long.  They  are  up  again,  and 
the  same  thing  occurs  once  more. 
After  about  four  hours  they  become 
a  little  quieter,  and  half  the  men 
are  despatched  to  the  camp  to  get 
some  sleep,  leaving  the  other  half 
on  duty.  The  watch  who  have 
turned  in  still  keep  their  horses 
tied  up  in  case  of  accident,  and 
their  comrades  on  duty  are  obliged 
to  be  very  active ;  but  a  number  of 
cattle  are  now  lying  down.  About 
half- past  two  in  the  morning  the 
first  watch  is  called,  and  the  rest 
obtain  a  short  repose  until  a  little 
before  daybreak,  when  they  are 
roused  by  the  cook,  who  has  been 
preparing  breakfast  during  the  last 
half- hour. 

After  the  morning  meal,  they 
proceed  to  catch  their  respective 
nags  from  among  the  horses  which 
have  been  brought  up  by  Gun- 
powder, whose  turn  it  is  for  that 
duty,  and  follow  the  cattle,  which 
have  been  making  the  most  vigor- 
ous efforts  to  leave  the  camp  since 
the  rising  of  the  morning  star. 
They  head  them  northwards,  and 
once  more  the  creatures  are  lining 
each  side  of  the  road  in  a  long 
string.  The  rest  of  the  men  hav- 
ing finished  their  meal  and  changed 
their  horses,  follow  them,  leaving 
the  bullock -driver  and  cook  to 
bring  up  the  rear  with  the  baggage, 
and  one  of  the  blackboys  to  follow 
with  the  spare  horses.  The  cattle 
are  inclined  to  feed  this  morning; 
and  about  eleven  o'clock  the  dray 
and  horses  come  up  and  pass  on 
ahead  about  a  mile.  The  cook 
makes  a  fire,  and  has  dinner  ready 
by  the  time  the  cattle  come  up. 
Each  one  fills  the  quart  he  car- 


1880.] 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. — Part  IX. 


191 


ries  at  his  saddle -dee,  and  helps 
himself  to  bread  and  beef;  and 
the  dray  starts  on  ahead  for  the 
appointed  camping  -  place,  arriving 
there  about  half-past  two  or  three, 
when  the  preparations  for  the  even- 
ing meal  are  again  commenced. 
The  cattle  camp  very  much  better 
the  second  night,  and  half  of  the 
men  turn  iu  immediately  after  sup- 
per. In  a  night  or  two  the  ordin- 
ary watch  of  two  men  will  be  quite 
sufficient.  Fitzgerald  takes  leave 
of  the  party  next  morning,  and 
returns,  after  shaking  hands  with 
John  and  cordially  wishing  him 
prosperity.  Desmard  is  also  made 
happy  with  an  assurance  tbat 
Jaeky-Jacky  shall  be  shifted  on 
to  the  tenderest  feed  on  the  whole 
run. 

And  now  John  is  in  sole  charge. 
Upon  him  depends  the  responsi- 
bility of  the  whole  undertaking. 
Desmard's  society  is  a  great  boon 
to  him ;  for  although  he  mixes 
freely  and  converses  familiarly 
with  his  men  to  a  certain  extent, 
the  maintenance  of  authority  de- 
mands that  he  shall  live  apart 
from  them  ;  and  without  the  young 
new  chum  he  woxild  have  been  very 
lonely  in  his  camp.  The  weather 
is  gloriously  fine  as  usual,  and  the 
travelling  is  quite  a  pleasure-trip. 
John  rides  on  ahead,  selects  a  suit- 
able spot  for  a  camp,  examines  the 
watering-places,  and  the  cattle  graze 
leisurely  along. 

Some  of  the  men  walk,  leading 
their  horses,  in  order  to  spare  them 
as  much  as  possible,  the  loosened 
bits  enabling  them  to  browse  as 
they  follow  behind  the  mob.  Here 
a  drover  sits  side-saddle  fashion  for 
the  sake  of  ease,  idly  nicking  at 
the  grass  tussocks  with  his  long 
whip ;  there  one  snatches  a  few 
moments  to  read  a  page  in  a  yellow- 
bound  volume,  lifting  his  head  now 


and  then  to  observe  how  his  charge 
are  getting  on.  The  blackboy 
with  the  cattle  has  fastened  his 
horse's  rein  to  the  stirrup-iron,  and 
allows  him  to  feed  about,  while 
he  moves  from  tree  to  tree,  his 
hand  shading  his  upturned  eyes  as 
he  scrutinises  each  branch  in  his 
search  for  the  tiny  bee  which  manu- 
factures his  adored  chewgah-bag ;  * 
or  with  catlike  stealthiness,  waddy 
in  hand,  cautiously  stalks  the  un- 
suspecting kangaroo -rat  or  bandi- 
coot. 

The  cattle  have  quietly  selected 
their  respective  places  in  the  line 
of  march  ;  a  certain  lot  keep  in  front 
as  leaders,  and  the  wings,  body, 
and  tail  are  each  made  up  of  ani- 
mals who  will  continue  to  occupy 
the  same  position  all  the  way,  un- 
less compelled  by  sickness  to  change 
it.  The  sharp-sighted  experienced 
drivers  already  know  many  of  them 
by  sight  so  accurately,  as  to  be  able 
to  detect  the  absence  from  the  herd 
of  any  portion  of  it.  At  sundown 
they  draw  quietly  on  to  the  camp, 
and  are  soon  lying  down  peace- 
fully, and  the  two  men  appointed 
for  the  first  watch  mount  the  night- 
horses,  and  allow  all  hands  to  get 
to  supper.  At  ten  o'clock  they  call 
West  and  Desmard. 

John  has  taken  the  young  man 
into  the  same  watch  with  himself, 
partly  to  guard  him  against  any 
practical  joking  which  his  sim- 
plicity may  give  rise  to,  and  partly 
to  supply  any  want  of  precaution, 
or  remedy  any  inadvertent  neglect 
occasioned  by  his  inexperience. 

They  come  out  of  the  tent.  All 
is  dark  night.  The  fire  burns 
brightly,  and  throws  a  ruddy  glow 
on  the  white  tent.  The  dim  out- 
line of  the  bullock-dray,  with  its 
tarpaulin-covered  load,  looms  against 
the  dark  background  a  little  way 
off.  The  two  blackboys,  stripped 


*  Sugar-bag — the  native  pigeon-English  word  for  honey. 


192 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland.— Part  IX. 


[Aug. 


naked,  lie  almost  in  the  ashes  of 
the  fire  ;  their  clothes  are  scattered 
about ;  their  new  blankets,  already 
spotted  with  grease,  dirt,  and  ashes, 
are  made  use  of  by  a  couple  of 
dogs  who  belong  to  the  bullock- 
driver.  Buckets,  pots,  and  camp- 
ovens  stand  together  in  a  cluster. 
Everything  is  hushed  and  quiet. 
As  West  and  Desmard  stand  at 
the  fire  filling  their  pipes,  they 
can  detect  dimly  the  extent  of  the 
great  cattle-camp  by  the  reflection 
of  the  various  tires  on  the  tops  of 
the  trees.  How  quiet  the  cattle 
are !  not  a  breath  is  heard.  The 
sound  of  the  large  variously-toned 
bullock  -  bells  comes  melodiously 
from  where  the  workers  are  feed- 
ing half  a  mile  away. 

Now  a  horse's  tread  is  heard,  and 
the  figure  of  a  horse  and  his  rider 
issues  from  the  darkness  into  the 
bright  firelight.  The  man  dis- 
mounts. "  All  quiet  1 "  asks  John. 
"Yes,"  answers  the  watch;  "not 
a  stir  out  of  them  yet."  Another 
watchman  now  rides  up  on  the 
other  side,  his  horse  shying  slightly 
as  he  nears  the  tent,  and  makes  a 
similar  report.  John  and  Desmard 
mount,  and  make  their  way  round 
the  mob  from  fire  to  fire,  until  they 
meet  on  the  other  side.  Some  of 
the  cattle  are  lying  down,  almost  in 
the  path,  and  they  nearly  stumble 
over  them  in  the  darkness. 

"  How — ah  —  vewy  intewesting 
this  is  !  "  remarks  Desmard  ;  "  quite 
—  ah  —  womantic,  keeping  mid- 
night watch.  The  —  ah  —  deah 
cweateahs  seem  to  have — ah — made 
up  their  minds  to  —  ah  —  behave 
themselves." 

"  Yes,"  said  John,  "  for  a  little  ; 
but  in  about  half  an  hour's  time 
you  will  find  that  it  will  take  you 
all  your  time  to  keep  them  in  the 
camp,  and  perhaps  they  may  trouble 
us  for  nearly  an  hour,  but  will  then 
settle  down  and  (unless  disturbed) 
remain  perfectly  quiet  until  morn- 


ing. I  chose  this  watch  on  that 
very  account.  About  eleven  o'clock 
every  night  they  will  rise,  and  move 
in  the  same  manner  all  through  the 
journey." 

"  How — ah — vewy  singulah  ! " 

It  happened  exactly  as  John  had 
said.  One  by  one  the  cattle  rose 
and  stretched  themselves,  until  the 
whole  camp  became  alive  with  a 
moving,  bellowing,  dusky  crowd, 
incessantly  endeavouring  to  straggle 
away.  It  required  much  vigilance 
and  activity  on  the  part  of  both 
West  and  Desmard  to  keep  them 
together,  and  the  latter  proved  him- 
self a  very  efficient  assistant. 

At  last  the  cattle  began  to  settle 
once  more.  One  by  one  they  selected 
new  sleeping-places,  and,  dropping 
first  on  their  knees,  they  lazily  sank 
down  on  the  ground  with  a  flop, 
emitting  a  loud  sigh  of  content  as 
they  did  so. 

John  had  stationed  himself  on 
the  side  of  the  cattle  nearest  home, 
leaving  the  most  easily  guarded  side 
to  Desmard,  and  was  congratulating 
himself  at  hearing  the  welcome  sigh 

heaved  all  around  him  when 

a  sudden  rush — a  whirr — a  tearing, 
crashing,  roaring,  thundering  noise 
was  heard ;  a  confused  whirl  of  dark 
forms  swept  before  him,  and  the 
camp,  so  full  of  life  a  minute  ago, 
is  desolate.  It  was  "a  rush,"  a 
stampede. 

Desperately  he  struck  his  horse 
with  the  spurs,  and  tore  through 
the  darkness  after  the  flying  mob, 
guided  by  the  smashing  roar  ahead 
of  him.  Several  times  he  came 
violently  into  collision  with  sap- 
lings and  branches,  and  at  last,  in 
crossing  a  creek,  he  fell  headlong 
with  his  horse  in  a  water-worn 
gully,  out  of  which  he  managed  to 
extricate  himself,  happily  without 
having  sustained  any  injury.  But 
not  so  with  the  horse — the  creature 
groaned  and  struggled,  but  could 
not  rise. 


1880.] 


Buslt-Life  in  Queensland. — Part  IX. 


193 


Undoing  the  bridle,  John  climbs 
out  again  and  listens.  The  noise 
of  the  retreating  mob  can  still  be 
heard  in  the  distance,  and  he  thinks 
he  can  also  distinguish  shouts. 
Horses  are  grazing  near;  and  hastily 
catching  the  first  he  came  to,  he 
jumped  on  its  back,  and  had  pro- 
ceeded nearly  a  hundred  yards 
before  he  recollected  that  he  had 
forgotten  to  remove  the  hobbles. 

In  remedying  his  mistake,  he  now 
observes  that  the  animal  which  he 
has  chosen  is  the  most  noted  buck- 
jumper  in  the  mob — one  that  few 
would  venture  to  ride  saddled,  but 
not  one  barebacked.  He  does  not 


give  it  a  second  thought,  however, 
so  intent  is  he  on  pursuing  the 
cattle.  He  flies  along,  urging  the 
creature  with  the  hobbles  in  his 
hand.  He  does  not  know  where  he 
is  going,  but  keeps  straight  ahead 
on  chance,  and  at  last  has  the  satis- 
faction of  hearing  the  bellowing 
once  more  in  the  distance.  He 
gallops  up  and  finds  that  one  of  the 
men,  mounted  on  Desmard's  horse, 
has  managed  to  stop  the  break- 
aways. Presently  another  man  and 
Blucher  ride  up.  They  watch  the 
cattle  together  until  morning,  for 
the  animals  are  terrified,  and  ready 
to  stampede  again. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII. — ON   THE   ROAD — ABORIGINAL   INNOCENTS — A   WET   NIGHT 
ON   WATCH — DODGING   COWS. 


By  daylight  the  rest  of  the  men 
came  up,  and  the  cattle  were  driven 
back,  and  once  more  started  along 
the  road.  As  they  returned  to  camp 
broken  saplings  and  branches  attest 
the  force  of  last  night's  flight,  and 
some  of  the  cattle  appear  more  or 
less  disabled.  It  had  been  most 
fortunate  that  they  were  stopped  so 
quickly,  for  in  a  short  time  they 
would  have  split  up  in  many  direc- 
tions, and  the  mustering  of  them 
afresh  would  have  caused  much 
delay. 

At  breakfast  John  asked  Des- 
mard  if  anything  had  occurred  on 
his  side  of  the  camp  to  start  the 
mob. 

« Well— ah— no,"  said  he.  "I 
weally  am  ignorant  of  any  cause. 
Just  —  ah  —  before  they  went  all 
was — ah — quiet.  One — ah — pooh 
cweatah  neah  me  lay  down  and — ah 
— uttered  amost  heart-wending  sigh. 
She — ah — seemed  most — ah — un- 
happy, so  I — ah — dismounted,  and 
— ah — walked  up  to  her,  and — ah 
— she  weally  was  most  ungwateful, 
she — ah — actually  wushed  at  me, 
and — ah — vewy  neahly  caught  me, 


and  then — ah — something  fwight- 
ened  the  rest,  and — ah — some  one 
took  my  horse." 

The  men  roared  while  John  ex- 
plained to  the  well-meaning  cause 
of  the  trouble,  that  the  cattle  being 
totally  unused  to  the  sight  of  a  man 
on  foot  at  night,  his  near  approach 
to  them  had  caused  the  alarm;  and, 
indeed,  quieter  cattle  might  have 
objected  to  his  richly-coloured  gar- 
ments. 

West's  horse  lay  where  he  fell. 
His  neck  was  broken. 

They  are  now  on  the  direct  track 
of  traveDing  mobs  of  cattle  and 
sheep,  on  their  way  to  stock  new 
country.  They  camp  each  night 
where  some  other  mob  have  rested 
the  night  before  them.  The  sta- 
tions they  pass  are  mostly  worked 
by  bachelors.  The  roughness  of 
their  surroundings  indicate  the  want 
of  feminine  influence. 

Blacks  are  being  allowed  in  for 
the  first  time  at  one  station  they 
pass,  and  some  of  the  young  men 
employed  on  it  amuse  themselves  in 
a  good-humoured  way  with  the  un- 
sophisticated aboriginals,  to  whom 


194 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. — Part  IX. 


[Aug. 


everything  is  perfectly  new  and 
strange.  The  natives  especially  ad- 
mire the  short-cropped  hair  of  the 
white  man,  and  make  signs  expres- 
sive of  the  ardent  desire  they  pos- 
sess to  wear  their  own  in  a  similar 
fashion.  They  have  never  seen  a 
pair  of  shears,  and  shriek  with 
childish  joy  on  noting  the  rapid- 
ity with  which  an  amateur  barber, 
holding  his  patient  at  arm's-length, 
crops  his  long  curly  hair  to  the 
bone,  tastefully  leaving  a  high  ridge 
from  the  forehead  to  the  neck,  after 
the  fashion  of  a  cock's-comb.  All 
must  be  shorn  in  turn,  and  ingenu- 
ity is  taxed  to  multiply  new  and 
startling  fashions.  Another  begs 
to  be  allowed  to  fire  off  a  gun, 
and  receives  an  overloaded  one, 
the  result  being  a  sudden  upset, 
and  an  increased  reverence  for  the 
white  man's  strength.  A  bottle  of 
scent  is  held  to  the  nose  of  a  wild- 
looking  fellow,  who  has  just  been 
christened  by  the  name  of  "  Bloody- 
bones,"  of  which  he  is  immensely 
proud.  He  cannot  endure  the  smell, 
and  turns  away,  expressing  his  dis- 
gust by  holding  his  nose  and  imi- 
tating sickness.  One  pertinacious 
blackfellow  insists  upon  being  per- 
mitted to  smoke,  and  is  handed  a 
pipe,  in  which  has  been  artfully 
concealed  below  the  tobacco  a 
thimbleful  of  gunpowder,  occasion- 
ing of  course  an  explosion  as  soon  as 
the  fire  reaches  it,  to  the  surprise  of 
the  savage,  who  thinks  himself  shot. 
Horse  -  exercise  is  also  greatly 
sought  after,  and  one  powerful 
middle-aged  man  entreats  so  per- 
sistently in  his  own  language, 
and  by  signs,  that  the  favour  is 
granted.  An  old  race-horse  with  a 
peculiarly  hard  mouth  and  spirited 
action  is  tied  up  hard  by.  A  bril- 
liant idea  enters  the  head  of  a 
genius  who  is  plagued  beyond  en- 
durance by  the  would-be  cavalier. 
He  unsaddles  "  old  Chorister,"  and 
undoes  the  throat -lash,  so  that 


should  the  horse  get  away  the 
bridle  may  be  easily  rubbed  off  by 
him.  The  grizzly  warrior  is  assisted 
to  mount.  The  reins  are  put  in 
his  hands,  but  he  prefers  clutching 
the  mane.  One — two — three — off ! 
The  old  hurdle-horse  receives  a  cut 
across  the  rump,  and  perhaps  re- 
membering past  triumphs  on  the 
turf,  he  makes  a  start  which  would 
have  done  credit  to  his  most  youth- 
ful days.  Unguided,  he  gets  in 
among  some  broken  gullies,  and 
clears  each  in  gallant  style,  the 
black  man  sitting  like  a  bronze 
statue.  In  an  instant  he  is  out  of 
sight,  leaving  the  tribe  in  a  whirl 
of  admiration  at  his  rapid  disappear- 
ance, and  the  whites  convulsed  with 
laughter  at  the  .old  fellow's  sur- 
prise, and  monkey-like  seat.  By- 
and-by  the  rider  comes  back  on 
foot,  bridle  in  hand,  shaking  his 
head,  and  saying,  "  Tumbel  down." 
He  is  offered  another  mount,  but 
declines  for  the  present. 

Day  after  day  the  routine  of 
work  was  unchanged.  Sometimes 
the  pasture  over  which  they  tra- 
velled was  very  bare,  and  the  water 
bad  and  scarce.  Dead  animals  were 
passed  every  mile  or  two.  Most  of 
the  ordinary  operations  of  life  had 
to  be  got  over  under  difficulties. 
When  the  beef  ran  short,  a  beast 
had  to  be  shot  on  the  camp,  and 
salted  on  the  ground,  its  own  hide 
doing  duty  as  the  salting-table. 

Every  alternate  Sunday,  when  the 
state  of  grass  and  water  permitted, 
the  cattle  were  halted,  and  clothes 
were  washed.  All  hands  had  got 
thoroughly  into  the  work,  and  the 
change  for  the  better  in  Desrnard, 
who  had  discarded  his  gorgeous 
apparel  after  the  night  of  the  rush, 
became  very  marked.  He  grew 
more  useful  and  practical  every  day. 

Sometimes  men  from  the  camps 
ahead  or  behind  stayed  all  night 
at  West's,  when  looking  for  stray 
cattle  or  horses. 


1880.] 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. — Part  IX. 


195 


One  evening  a  blackfellow  rode 
up.  He  wore  neither  hat  nor  boots, 
and  his  wild  look,  and  inability 
to  speak  English,  denoted  that  he 
was  a  myall  of  one  of  the  tribes 
lately  let  in  at  the  stations  they 
had  just  passed,  who  had  been  in- 
duced to  accompany  some  travel- 
ling mob,  the  owner  of  which  had 
not  been  able  to  procure  a  boy 
when  further  south. 

Desmard  happened  to  be  alone  at 
the  camp,  the  rest  being  all  engaged 
elsewhere.  The  grotesque-looking 
savage  jogged  up,  all  legs  and 
wings,  and  dismounting  pointed  to 
his  horse  with  the  words — 

"  Gobble-Gobble " 

"  Gobble — ah— Gobble  ?  "  inter- 
rogated Desmard. 

The  nigger  nodded  his  head  with 
its  shock  of  tangled  curls,  and  grin- 
ned, showing  a  set  of  strong  white 
teeth,  like  a  dog's. 

"  You  are — ah — hungwy,  I  sup- 
pose ] "  said  the  white  man,  pro- 
ducing a  large  plate  full  of  bread 
and  beef,  which  the  sable  stockman 
soon  disposed  of,  and  rising,  once 
more  uttered  the  words — 

"  Gobble  —  Gobble,  Gobble  — 
Gobble " 

"  Gobble  —  ah  —  Gobble  ? "  re- 
peated Desmard,  with  surprise. 

The  blackfellow  nodded. 

Desmard  returned  to  the  dray, 
and  produced  an  additional  supply, 
which  was  also  despatched. 

Once  more  the  savage  grinned 
and  pointed  to  his  horse. 

"  Gobble,  Gobble." 

"Gobble  —  ah  —  Gobble,"  again 
repeated  Desmard  reflectively,  offer- 
ing more  food,  which  the  black- 
fellow  lovingly  looked  at  but  re- 
jected, pointing  to  his  distended 
stomach. 

"  Gobble  —  ah  —  Gobble  —  sin- 
gulah — but  vewy — ah — suggestive. 
I — ah — rejoice  Jacky-Jacky  is  not 
heah." 

The  blackfellow  now  put  his  feet 


together,  and  jumped  about  imitat- 
ing the  action  of  a  hobbled  horse, 
upon  which  light  at  once  dawned 
on  the  Englishman,  who  provid- 
ed the  delighted  myall  with  the 
articles  in  question.  He  had,  it 
turned  out,  been  sent  by  his  mas- 
ter to  look  for  a  stray  horse,  and 
had  been  ordered  to  borrow  hobbles 
at  every  camp  he  stayed  at,  they 
being  scarce  at  his  own. 

Desmard  began  to  acquire  habits 
of  observation  about  this  time,  and 
among  other  things,  by  watching 
the  cook,  he  discovered  the  art 
of  making  a  damper.  This  inter- 
ested him  greatly,  and  he  confessed 
to  the  "  doctor  "  the  ill  success 
of  his  own  first  attempt  in  the 
baking  line,  the  night  before  he 
arrived  at  TJngahrun. 

"I — ah — had  camped  out  for — 
ah — the  first  time,  in  order  to — ah 
— inuah  myself  to — ah — hardship, 
and — ah — wished  to  make  a  damper 
— which  I — ah — heard  was  most — 
ah  —  delicious.  I  —  ah  —  made  a 
large  fire,  and — ah — mixed  up  the 
—  ah  —  flour  with  some  —  ah  — 
watah  in  a  quart-pot,  and — ah — 
after  stirring  it,  I — ah — made  a 
hole  in  the — ah — ashes,  and  I — ah 
— poured  in  the  mixture,  but — ah 
— though  I  was  nearly  blinded,  I 
— ah — covered  it  up,  and — ah — 
waited,  and  —  ah  —  waited,  —  but 
vewy  singulah  to  say,  when  I — ah 
— looked  for  the  damper,  it  was — 
ah — not  there  ;  but  I  see  now  that 
I — ah — went  the  wrong  way  to — 
ah — work." 

.Shortly  after  this  the  travellers 
experienced  a  change  in  the  weather. 
Frequent  thunderstorms  came  on, 
and  lasted  all  night,  occasionally 
continuing  during  the  day  also.  It 
was  a  most  miserable  time.  The 
wretched  cattle  kept  moving  about 
on  the  puddled-up,  muddy  camp, 
bellowing  out  their  discontent,  and 
desire  for  higher  and  drier  quar- 
ters, their  unhappiness  being  only 


196 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. — Part  IX. 


[Aug. 


exceeded  by  that  of  the  drovers. 
The  watch,  clothed  in  oilskins,  or 
with  blankets  tied  round  their 
necks,  splashed  and  bagged  their 
way  around  the  restless  brutes,  who 
constantly  endeavoured  to  steal 
away  on  the  dark  nights,  the  broad 
lightning  glare  alone  revealing  the 
fact  to  the  much  harassed  sentries. 
Unceasingly,  unmercilessly,  down 
poured  the  heavy  rain.  The  men 
on  watch  get  wet  through  almost 
a1;  once,  and  sit  shivering  on  their 
shivering  horses.  Every  five  min- 
utes they  bend  their  legs  to  allow 
the  water  to  run  out  of  their  long 
boots. 

How  they  long  for  the  slow 
hours  to  pass,  so  that  they  may  get 
under  the  shelter  of  the  friendly 
tarpaulin  !  At  last  the  hour  arrives, 
but  there  is  no  time  to  stand  at  the 
fire  as  usual  this  night.  Indeed 
there  is  none  to  stand  by.  It  went 
out  long  ago.  One  of  them  shouts 
out  to  the  next  men  for  duty,  and 
hurries  back  to  assist  in  looking 
after  the  barely  manageable  crowd. 

The  relief  now  turn  out  of 
their  blankets  and  look  outside. 
Everything  black,  a  steady  down- 
pour of  rain.  Everything  dripping, 
— the  very  ground  under  their 
feet  oozes  out  water.  They  light 
their  pipes  hastily,  and  fasten 
their  blankets  around  their  necks. 
Splash, — splash, — splash, — a  horse 
comes  up,  and  one  of  the  watch 
dismounts. 

"  How  are  they  behaving  1 " 

"  Bad.  You've  got  your  work 
before  you,"  answers  the  other. 

"  Whereabout  is  the  camp  ? 
they  seem  to  be  roaring  everywhere. 
I'm  blowed  if  I  can  see  a  yard  in 
front  of  me." 

"  As  soon  as  you  get  clear  of  the 
dray,  stop  a  moment,  and  the  light- 
ning will  show  you." 

No.  2  rides  off,  cursing  the 
day  he  took  to  cattle-droving,  and 
No.  1  turns  in,  dripping  wet, 


boots  and  all,  like  a  trooper's  horse 
(his  other  clothes  were  soaked  the 
day  before).  Still  he  is  under 
cover,  which  he  feels  to  be  a  mercy. 
His  comrade  is  relieved  in  like 
manner,  and  follows  his  example, 
and  before  long  they  are  both  sound 
asleep. 

Daylight  breaks  upon  an  equally 
wretched  state  of  affairs.  The 
blackboys  have  indeed  managed 
to  light  a  fire  in  a  neighbouring 
hollow  tree,  and  the  cook  has  with 
difficulty  boiled  doughboys,  which, 
although  tough  and  indigestible, 
are  nevertheless  hot,  and  are  washed 
down  with  pannikins  of  steaming  tea. 

There  is,  however,  no  time  to 
dry  the  soaking  clothes.  The 
blankets,  wet  and  muddy,  are 
rolled  up  in  a  hasty  bundle  and 
tossed  on  the  dray.  By-and-by, 
when  the  sun  comes  out,  the  blow- 
flies will  deposit  their  disgusting 
eggs  upon  them,  which  the  heat 
will  hatch.  The  trembling  horses, 
whose  hanging  heads  and  drooping 
under-lips  and  ears  bespeak  their 
abject  misery,  are  saddled.  Many 
of  them  suffer  from  bad  saddle- 
galls,  which  are  rendered  excruciat- 
ingly tender  by  the  constant  wet, 
and  in  spite  of  every  care  they 
bend  in  acute  agony  under  the 
weight  of  their  riders  as  they  are 
mounted. 

A  few  cows  have  calved  since 
they  started,  but  the  number  in- 
creases as  the  calving  season  ap- 
proaches, and  causes  much  trouble, 
labour,  and  loss. 

As  it  is  impossible  for  the  young 
things  to  follow  their  mothers,  they 
are  knocked  on  the  head  as  soon  as 
observed,  but  the  mothers  insist 
upon  returning  to  their  dead  off- 
spring. They  are  sent  for  each  day, 
and  are  driven  after  the  advancing 
mob,  merely  to  steal  back  again  on 
the  first  opportunity.  Many  of 
them  make  back,  and  are  recovered 
two  or  three  times  before  they  cease 


1880.] 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. — Part  IX. 


197 


to  think  of  their  young  ones.  Vari- 
ous expedients  are  adopted  to  obvi- 
ate this,  but  all  fail.  An  old  hand, 
however,  whose  life  has  been  spent 
on  the  road,  has  recourse  to  a  plan 
•which  he  confidently  affirms  he 
never  knew  to  fail,  if  properly 
carried  out.  He  watches  until 
a  calf  is  dropped,  and  after  allow- 
ing the  mother  to  lick  it  for  a 
short  time,  causes  her  to  be  driven 
away.  Then  killing  the  little  crea- 
ture, he  skins  it  carefully ;  and 
turning  the  skin  inside  out,  so 
as  to  prevent  it  coming  in  con- 
tact with  anything  which  can  alter 
its  smell,  he  ties  it  behind  his 
saddle. 

On  coming  into  camp  at  night, 
the  skin  is  stuffed  hastily,  and  laid 
at  the  foot  of  a  tree.  The  mother 
is  brought  up  quietly.  She  is 
thinking  of  her  little  one.  She 
sees  the  dummy.  She  stops,  and 
gazes.  "Moo-oo-oo."  She  advan- 
ces :  it  is  like  her  own.  She 
smells  it  :  it  is  the  smell.  She 
licks  it :  it  is  her  very  own.  She 
utters  a  tender  "moo-oo-oo,"  and 
contentedly  stands  guard  over  the 
stuffed  hide,  to  the  intense  satis- 
faction and  joy  of  Blucher  and 
Gunpowder,  upon  whom  most  of 
the  trouble  of  tracking  and  recover- 
ing the  mothers  of  former  calves 
has  fallen. 


"  My  word,"  says  Blucher,  in  an 
ecstasy  of  sly  merriment  to  the  old 
drover,  as  he  watches  the  fond  and 
deceived  parent  lick  the  semblance 
of  her  young  one — "  cawbawn  you 
and  me  gammon  old  woman."* 
And  indeed  it  is  a  blessing  that 
she  stays,  for  the  constant  fetching 
back  of  the  straying  cows  is  telling 
severely  upon  the  jaded  horses. 

The  plan  is  adopted,  and  suc- 
ceeds in  every  case,  saving  a  world 
of  trouble  ;  and  every  night  two  or 
three  cows  may  be  seen  watching 
as  many  calfskins,  while  the  drowsy 
watchman  sits  nodding  on  a  log  by 
the  fire. 

Day  by  day  they  continue  their 
•weary  pilgrimage.  Sometimes  they 
follow  the  banks  of  a  clear  running 
stream,  in  whose  limpid  waters  the 
travel-worn  animals  stand  drinking, 
as  if  they  would  drain  its  foun- 
tains dry.  Sometimes  they  wend 
their  toiling  path  over  rugged 
ranges,  grinding  down  the  shell  of 
their  tired  hoofs  on  the  sharp-cor- 
nered pebbles  and  granite  grit.  At 
times  they  feed  on  the  luscious 
herbage  and  luxuriant  blue-grasses 
of  a  limestone  country,  and  anon 
they  make  the  most  of  the  kangaroo- 
grasses  of  the  poorer  sandy  lands ; 
but  onward  still  they  march  for 
their  new  home  in  the  "never, 
never"  country. 


CHAPTER   XXIX. — FORMING    A    STATION* — TRIALS   AND    TROUBLES 
OF    A   PIONEER. 


About  this  time  John  received  a 
batch  of  letters  from  the  south,  by 
a  gentleman  who  was  travelling  out 
to  a  station  lately  taken  up  by  him, 
and  who  had  kindly  undertaken 
the  duty  of  mailman  en  passant, 
no  postal  arrangement  having  been 
as  yet  made  for  this  unsettled  part 
of  the  country. 


Among  others  is  one  from  Fitz- 
gerald, detailing  various  items  of 
local  news,  intermixed  with  busi- 
ness matters.  Nothing  further  had 
been  heard  of  Ralph  or  his  fellow- 
criminal  Cane,  and  the  pursuit  had 
apparently  been  given  up.  It  was 
conjectured  that  they  would  en- 
deavour to  make  their  way  down 


*  "You  and  I  deceived  the  old  cow  beautifully." 


198 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. — Part  IX. 


[Aug.' 


to  New  South  Wales,  and  perhaps 
join  some  of  the  various  bushrangers 
who  were  infesting  the  gold-fields  of 
that  colony. 

Cosgrove  senior  had  taken  the 
matter  very  much  to  heart,  and 
had  gone  to  Sydney,  after  appoint- 
ing a  new  superintendent  to  man- 
age Cambaranga,  and  it  was  sup- 
posed that  he  would  return  to 
England.  Stone  and  his  father- 
in-law,  Mr  Gray,  had  changed  their 
minds  about  sending  out  stock  to 
the  new  country  at  present,  and 
would  in  all  probability  wait  until 
after  the  wet  season  had  passed 
by.  Stone  and  Bessie  were  enjoy- 
ing the  delights  of  Sydney.  All 
were  well  at  TJngahrun  and  at 
Betyammo. 

In  a  postscript  Fitzgerald  added 
that  his  endeavours  to  find  out  fur- 
ther particulars  about  Miss  Bouverie 
had  proved  unavailing  :  all  he  could 
learn  was  that  she  had  accompanied 
Mr  and  Mrs  Berkeley  to  Melbourne, 
and  no  one  knew  when  they  pur- 
posed returning. 

One  letter,  from  the  smallness  of 
its  size,  escaped  his  notice  until  he 
had  finished  with  the  others.  To 
his  surprise  it  was  addressed  in 
the  handwriting  of  a  lady;  and 
hastily  tearing  it  open  to  learn  the 
signature,  he  was  no  less  surprised 
than  enchanted  to  read  the  words, 
"  Your  affectionate  friend,  Euth." 

She  still  remembered  him,  then ; 
and  with  affection !  He  was  so 
much  pleased  with  the  thought, 
that  some  time  elapsed  before  he 
read  his  much-longed-for  letter.  It 
was  dated  Sydney,  and  commenced 
as  follows : — 

"  MY  DEAR  MR  JOHN, — You  will 
no  doubt  be  surprised  at  receiving 
a  letter  from  me  dated  as  above. 
We  arrived  here  about  a  month 
ago,  and  I  only  discovered  your 
address  within  the  last  few  days 
from  Mr  Cosgrove's  Sydney  agent, 


Mr  Bond,  a  very  nice  man.  I  do 
hope  you  will  answer  this  letter. 
I  am  afraid  you  did  not  receive  the 
letters  which  I  continued  to  write 
to  you  for  some  time  after  your 
departure,  because  I  never  received 
any  in  return." 

[Indeed  Ralph  took  care  that  she 
should  not  do  so ;  for,  hating  the 
intimacy  which  he  saw  existing 
between  John  and  his  half-sister, 
as  he  called  her  —  an  intimacy 
wbich  his  mind  and  habits  ren- 
dered him  utterly  incapable  of  par- 
ticipating in — he  made  it  his  busi- 
ness to  intercept  and  destroy  the 
few  letters  Avhich  John  had  written, 
managing,  at  the  same  time,  to  pos- 
sess himself  of  Ruth's  correspond- 
ence, which  suffered  a  similar  fate.] 

The  letter  went  on  to  say  how 
sorry  she  had  been  to  learn  that  he 
had  left  Mr  Cosgrove's  station,  for 
her  step-father  spoke  of  his  ingrat- 
itude with  much  bitterness;  and 
although  she  could  not  believe  him 
ungrateful,  perhaps,  if  he  made  her 
aware  of  the  circumstances,  she 
might  mediate,  and  put  things 
once  more  in  proper  train. 

She  recalled  the  days  of  their 
past  lives  with  much  affectionate 
remembrance  ;  and  the  whole  letter 
breathed  a  warm  sympathy  which, 
considering  the  length  of  time  that 
had  elapsed  since  they  last  saw 
each  other,  awoke  many  a  cherished 
feeling  in  John's  breast,  and  he 
read  and  re-read  it  until  he  could 
have  repeated  it  word  for  word ; 
and  on  the  very  first  opportunity 
he  wrote  a  long  letter  in  return, 
detailing  all  that  had  happened  to 
him, — how  his  letters  had  remained 
unanswered,  and  how  his  memory 
of  her  was  as  fresh  this  day  as 
when  he  last  saw  her.  He  could 
not  bear  to  mention  Ralfs  name, 
however ;  for  he  knew  that  by 
this  time  she  must  have  learnt  the 
dreadful  story,  which  would  have 


1880.] 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. — Part  IX, 


199 


the  effect  of  publishing  his  crime 
throughout  the  land. 

Desmard  had  also  a  numerous 
hatch  of  letters,  hoth  colonial  and 
English — one  of  the  former  con- 
taining an  advantageous  proposal 
to  join,  in  taking  up  "new  coun- 
try," a  squatter  who  was  under 
an  obligation  to  the  young  man's 
father,  and  who  had  only  lately 
learnt  of  his  being  in  the  colony. 

The  country  about  them  now 
presented  daily  evidences  of  its  un- 
settled state.  The  travellers  pass 
camps  of  sheep  and  cattle  spelling 
on  patches  of  good  grass  to  re- 
cruit, or  waiting  for  supplies  to 
proceed  further.  Every  one  car- 
ried a  revolver  or  carbine.  Stories 
of  attacks  by  blacks  —  many  of 
them  greatly  exaggerated — are  rife  ; 
and  the  talk  is  all  of  taking  up 
and  securing  country.  Humours 
fly  about  fine  tracts  of  hitherto 
unknown  land,  of  immense  areas 
of  downs,  and  splendid  rivers  still 
further  out,  and  so  on.  Empty 
drays  pass  downwards  on  the  road 
to  port  for  supplies.  Occasionally 
a  yellow,  fever-stricken  individual 
pursues  his  way  south  to  recruit, 
or  is  seen  doing  his  "  shivers " 
under  some  bullock -dray  camped 
beside  the  road.  At  length  they 
come  to  the  commencement  of  the 
fine  country  discovered  by  Stone 
and  his  companions,  and  arrive  at 
the  camp  of  Mr  Byng,  the  gentle- 
man who  sold  to  Fitzgerald  the 
tract  of  land  they  intend  settling 
on.  Byng  himself  has  brought  out 
stock,  and  has  settled  on  a  portion 
which  became  his  by  lot.  It  is  the 
very  farthest  spot  of  ground  occu- 
pied by  white  men. 

The  cattle  are  now  halted,  and 
left  nominally  under  the  charge  of 
Desmard;  while  Byng  rides  ahead 
with  John  to  point  out  to  him  the 
country,  and  the  best  road  to  it. 
Blucher  accompanies  them,  and 
much  amuses  his  master  by  the 

VOL.  CXXVIII. — NO.  DCCLXXVIII. 


excessive  sanguinariness  of  his  dis- 
position. They  cross  the  fresh 
tracks  of  blacks  frequently,  and 
each  time  Blucher  begs  that  they 
may  be  attacked.  John,  who  is 
by  no  means  of  a  bloodthirsty 
nature,  and  rather  shudders  at  the 
idea  of  a  possible  encounter  with 
the  savages,  endeavours  to  explain 
that,  when  no  aggression  has  taken 
place,  the  natives  must  be  left 
alone ;  but  Blucher  cannot  see 
things  in  that  light. 

"That  fellow — rogue,  cawbawn 
no  good,"  he  urges. 

"What  for  you  yabber  (talk) 
like  it  that?"  asked  John.  " Bail 
(not)  that  fellow  been  try  to  kill 
you  and  me." 

"Nebber  mind,"  returned  the 
savage  youth,  his  eyes  nearly  start- 
ing out  of  his  head.  "  Come  on  ; 
me  want  to  chewt  (shoot)  him  caw- 
bawn (much)." 

This  amiable  desire  not  being 
gratified,  Blucher  would  fall  back 
sulkily,  evidently  setting  down 
John's  refusal  to  a  dread  of  the 
aboriginals. 

They  pushed  their  way  over  the 
lovely  country  which  Stone  had 
undergone  so  much  to  discover, 
passing  through  part  of  the  run 
about  to  be  stocked  by  him  and  Mr 
Gray ;  and  in  about  seventy  miles 
they  "  made  "  a  mountain,  from  the 
top  of  which  Byng  pointed  out,  in 
a  general  way,  the  boundaries  of 
that  portion  of  the  wilderness  which 
they  had  come  so  far  to  subdue.  It 
was  by  no  means  as  fine  a  country 
as  that  which  they  had  lately  pass- 
ed over,  but  seemed  well  grassed 
and  watered,  and  was  darkly  cloth- 
ed with  heavy  masses  of  timber. 

John's  heart  beat  high  as  he 
silently  gazed  on  the  vast  territory 
over  which  he  was  to  rule  as  abso- 
lute monarch.  The  future  lay  wrap- 
ped in  impenetrable  mystery;  but 
whether  success  or  misfortune  should 
be  the  ultimate  result  of  his  labours, 


200 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. — Part  IX. 


[Aug. 


of  one  thing  he  was  determined — 
no  efforts  on  his  part  should  be 
wanting  to  promote  a  favourable 
termination  to  the  undertaking. 

On  returning  to  camp  the  march 
was  once  more  resumed ;  and  at 
last  our  hero  had  the  satisfaction 
of  knowing  that  his  nomadic  life 
was  at  an  end  for  a  period.  The 
cattle,  although  poor  and  weary, 
had  on  the  whole  made  an  excel- 
lent journey,  and  the  deaths  were 
by  no  means  numerous.  John's 
troubles,  however,  had  only  begun. 
He  had  calculated  on  securing  the 
services  of  some  of  the  men  who 
had  driven  up  the  cattle  in  putting 
up  huts,  making  a  small  yard,  and 
in  looking  after  the  stock.  This  he 
found  them  ready  enough  to  do,  but 
at  such  an  exorbitant  price,  that 
no  arrangement  could  be  come  to. 
They  organised  a  small  trades- 
union  of  their  own,  and  united  in 
making  demands  which  West  felt, 
in  justice  to  his  partner,  he  could 
not  accede  to.  He  offered  higher 
wages  than  were  given  by  any  one 
of  the  squatters  whose  stations  they 
had  passed.  No ;  they  would  accept 
nothing  less  than  what  they  de- 
manded. 

They  were  well  aware  that  he 
was  alone  with  his  two  blackboys — 
for  Desmard  had  announced  his  in- 
tention of  going  south.  The  two 
boys  were  not  to  be  depended  on, 
and  might  bolt  home  to  their  tribe 
the  moment  the  thought  enter- 
ed their  heads.  Upwards  of  a 
thousand  head  of  cattle  had  to  be 
looked  after  on  a  new  run  in  a 
country  infested  by  wild  blacks, 
the  very  smell  of  whom  crossing 
the  animals'  feeding-ground  might 
stampede  them.  The  wet  season 
was  almost  at  hand,  and  a  hundred 
little  things  had  to  be  attended  to, 
the  neglect  of  which  might  result 
in  serious  loss,  and  danger  to  life. 
But  they  stuck  to  their  decision, 
and  rode  off  in  a  body, — for  John 


had  resolved  to  perish  rather  than 
to  submit  to  their  extortionate  de- 
mands. 

In  this  strait  Desmard's  manly 
generous  disposition  showed  itself. 
He  flew  from  one  to  another, 
arguing,  persuading,  and  upbraid- 
ing by  turns,  but  in  vain;  and 
finally,  relinquishing  his  own  in- 
tended journey,  he  made  known 
to  John  his  intention  'of  sticking 
to  him  until  the  end  of  the  wet 
season  should  bring  fresh  men 
in  search  of  employment.  It  was 
useless  that  the  departing  drovers 
reminded  him  that  a  long  stretch 
of  unoccupied  country  lay  between 
him  and  the  nearest  habitation,  and 
that  in  their  company  he  might 
traverse  it  in  safety :  he  merely 
turned  his  back  contemptuously  on 
the  speakers,  muttering  to  himself — 

"  I — ah — would  not  be  seen  in 
— ah — the  company  of — ah — such 
a  set  of  native  dogs." 

So  they  went  away,  and  John 
grasped,  with  gratitude  in  his  heart, 
the  hand  of  the  brave  young  fel- 
low, whose  faithful  honest  help 
was,  notwithstanding  his  inexpe- 
rience, invaluable  at  such  a  time. 

Not  a  moment  could  now  be  lost. 
Everything  depended  on  them- 
selves, for  a  large  river  and  several 
wide  creeks,  which,  in  a  short  time, 
would  be  flowing  deep  and  rapid, 
intervened  between  them  and 
Byng's  station.  The  cattle  were 
turned  loose  on  some  fine  grass  in 
the  space  formed  by  the  junction 
of  two  large  creeks,  and  all  hands 
set  to  work  to  build  a  bark -hut. 
This  had  to  be  done  during  the 
hours  which  could  be  spared  from 
looking  after  the  cattle.  Each 
morning,  by  daylight,  the  horses 
were  brought  up,  and  all  hands 
went  round  the  farthest  tracks  made 
by  the  scattered  herd. 

Desmard  was  on  these  occasions 
always  accompanied  by  one  of  the 
boys,  for  John  feared  that  he 


1880.] 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. — Part  IX. 


201 


might  get  bushed ;  but  he  him- 
self, and  the  other  boy,  went  se- 
parately. 

The  creatures  were  inclined,  on 
the  whole,  to  stay,  and  chose  out 
two  or  three  shady  camps  to  which 
they  nearly  all  resorted,  as  the  sun 
became  strong.  On  these  camps  it 
was  their  custom  to  lie  until  about 
four  in  the  afternoon,  when  they 
would  gradually  draw  off  in  all 
directions,  feeding  through  the  en- 
tire night.  Many  calved  about 
this  time,  and  such  as  did  so 
usually  "took"  to  the  vicinity  of 
the  place  where  the  calves  were 
dropped.  Some  of  the  leaders, 
however,  caused  much  anxiety  and 
trouble,  owing  to  their  determina- 
tion to  make  back  to  Cambaranga, 
and  a  strict  look-out  had  to  be  kept 
that  they  did  not  get  away  un- 
observed. Day  by  day  the  cattle 
on  the  camps  were  gone  through, 
and  absent  ones  noted  and  searched 
for  until  found.  In  this  duty  the 
blackboys  were  simply  invaluable  ; 
and  their  interest  in  the  work,  and 
untiring  skill  in  tracking,  con- 
tributed chiefly  to  the  success 
which  attended  the  pioneers  in 
keeping  the  herd  together.  No 
sooner  did  a  mob  of  cattle  make  a 
start,  than  some  one  in  going  round 
the  "outside  tracks"  was  sure  to 
discover  the  fact,  and  instant  pur- 
suit never  failed  to  result  in  the 
return  of  the  deserters.  The  horses 
gave  less  trouble,  and  contentedly 
stuck  to  a  well-grassed  flat  near  the 
camp. 

The  departure  of  his  men  gave 
John  no  time  to  seek  a  suitable 
situation  for  a  head-station,  and  the 
approaching  wet  weather  warned 
him  to  make  hasty  preparations 
against  it.  His  tents  had  been 
destroyed  by  a  fire  which  took  place 
some  time  before,  during  his  ab- 
sence from  the  camp,  owing  to  the 
carelessness  of  the  cook  in  not 
burning  the  grass  around  his  galley. 


The  tarpaulin  was  needed  for  the 
stores,  and  he  was  therefore  under 
the  necessity  of  building  a  hut. 
Setting  to  work  with  Desmard,  he 
soon  had  the  frame  up,  while  the 
boys  endeavoured  to  cut  bark. 
This  latter  proved  to  be  a  peculiar- 
ly difficult  job,  owing  to  the  season 
of  the  year.  When  the  ground  is 
full  of  moisture,  the  trees  are  also 
full  of  sap,  and  most  kinds  of  bark 
come  off  easily ;  but  in  dry  or 
frosty  weather,  when  the  sap  is  in 
the  ground,  the  very  opposite  is 
the  case.  The  method  of  stripping 
bark  is  as  follows :  A  straight- 
barrelled  trunk  is  selected,  and  a 
ring  cut  round  it  near  the  ground, 
and  another  about  six  feet  higher 
up.  A  long  cut  is  then  made  per- 
pendicularly, joining  the  two  rings, 
and  the  edge  of  it  is  prised  up  with 
the  tomahawk,  until  a  grasp  of  the 
bark  can  be  got  with  the  hand.  If 
inclined  to  come  off,  the  whole 
sheet  strips  with  a  pleasant  tear- 
ing sound,  and  is  laid  flat  on  the 
ground  to  dry,  with  a  log  as  a 
weight  above  it.  In  two  or  three 
days  the  sheet  becomes  somewhat 
contracted  in  size,  but  lighter  and 
tougher,  and  thoroughly  impervious 
to  moisture.  It  is  used  in  many 
ways.  It  makes  a  capital  roof,  and 
for  temporary  walls  of  huts  it  is 
excellent.  Bunks  to  sleep  on, 
tables,  &c.,  are  improvised  from 
it,  and,  on  a  new  station,  nothing 
is  more  useful. 

Owing  to  the  long  dry  season, 
the  boys  found  bark-stripping  ex- 
ceedingly arduous  work,  and  after 
exhausting  all  the  artifices  used  by 
natives  in  the  task,  barely  enough 
was  secured  to  cover  in  the  roof  of 
the  little  hut.  One  gable- end  was 
shut  up  by  a  portion  of  a  partly- 
destroyed  tent,  the  other  by  a  couple 
of  raw  hides  tied  up  across  it.  The 
walls  were  of  saplings,  stuck  into 
the  ground  side  by  side,  and  con- 
fined against  the  wall-plate  by  an- 


202 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. — Part  IX. 


[Aug. 


other  long  straight  sapling.  When 
finished,  the  little  hut  was  cer- 
tainly not  much  to  look  at,  but  the 
builders  congratulated  each  other 
on  having  a  roof  of  some  sort  over 
their  heads  ;  and  in  the  not  im- 
probable event  of  an  attack  by 
blacks,  it  would  prove  a  shelter  in 
some  degree.  With  this  object  in 
view,  and  to  prevent  their  move- 
ments inside  being  detected  through 
the  interstices  of  the  saplings  by 
the  sharp  eyes  of  the  prowling 
savages,  all  the  spare  bags  and 
pieces  of  old  blanketing  which 
could  be  procured  were  fastened 
around  the  walls. 

They  had  barely  completed  this 
apology  for  a  dwelling  when  the 
tropical  rain  commenced,  apparent- 
ly timing  its  arrival  to  a  day. 
Down  it  poured,  in  one  continuous 
deluge,  for  hours.  It  was  almost 
invariably  heralded  by  thunder- 
storms, and  beginning  in  the  after- 
noon, lasted  till  evening.  This 
permitted  them  for  a  couple  of 
weeks  to  make  their  usual  grand 
tour  around  the  cattle,  but  as  the 
rains  extended  their  period  of  dura- 
tion, the  ground  became  exceeding- 
ly boggy,  and  the  cattle  were,  per- 
force, obliged  to  remain  about  the 
sound  sandy  country  on  which  their 
instinct  led  them  to  select  their 
camps. 

During  the  short  intervals  of 
hot,  steaming,  fine  weather,  the 
pioneers  would  endeavour  to  go 
through  the  herd,  but  the  under- 
taking was  toilsome  and  severe. 
Plodding  on  foot  through  the  heavy 
black  soil,  or  soft  boggy  country, 
from  one  hard  sandy  tract  to  an- 
other,— for  in  such  places  aiding 
was  out  of  the  question,  —  they 
would  lead  the  plunging,  sweating 
horses  along  a  few  steps  at  a  time. 
Water  lay  in  great  lagoons  over 
the  surface  of  the  country,  covered 
with  flocks  of  duck  and  ibis.  The 
grass  grew  rank  and  long,  and  sore- 


ly impeded  their  movements.  It 
was,  moreover,  by  no  means  a  pleas- 
ant reflection  that,  should  they, 
when  thus  singly  toiling  through 
these  swampy  bogs,  drop  across  a 
party  of  aboriginals  (than  which 
nothing  was  more  likely),  certain 
death  would  ensue,  bringing  with 
it  disaster  upon  the  rest  of  the 
little  party. 

As  it  was  utterly  impossible  to 
muster  and  make  a  count  of  the 
cattle,  John  was  obliged  to  con- 
tent himself  with  paying  occasional 
visits  to  them ;  but  notwithstand- 
ing that  a  marked  improvement  was 
visible  in  the  condition  of  those  he 
saw,  the  anxiety  told  heavily  upon 
him. 

Apart  from  the  miseries  of  mos- 
quitoes, sand-flies,  and  blight-flies, 
the  little  community  passed  their 
spare  time  pleasantly  together;  and 
Desmard  manufactured  a  chessboard 
of  a  piece  of  bark,  marking  its 
squares  with  charcoal,  and  he  and 
John  fought  many  a  good  fight  on 
it  with  their  primitive  -  looking 
men.  John  also  took  much  pains 
to  instruct  his  friend  in  the  art  of 
cutting  out  and  plaiting  stock-whips 
from  the  salted  hides, — an  accom- 
plishment which  the  latter  picked 
up  rapidly,  besides  acquiring  much 
other  practical  knowledge ;  and  he 
was  afterwards  accustomed  to  say, 
that  the  necessity  for  exertion 
brought  about  during  his  pioneer- 
ing with  John,  and  the  self-reliance 
thus  gained,  had  made  a  different 
man  of  him. 

Game  was  on  the  whole  scarce. 
Plain  turkeys  and  ducks  were 
numerous,  but  the  kangaroos,  &c., 
had  been  kept  under  by  the  aborig- 
inals, whose  old  camps  lay  thick 
around  the  hut.  It  certainly  sur- 
prised the  white  men  that  the  na- 
tives never  made  their  appearance 
Openly.  Sometimes  Blucher  or 
Gunpowder  would  detect  their 
tracks  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the 


1880.] 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. — Part  IX. 


203 


hut,  but  as  yet  they  probably  en- 
tertained a  superstitious  awe  to- 
wards the  owners  of  so  many  huge 
horned  animals. 

The  rain  continued  to  deluge  the 
flat  country  about  the  little  head- 
station,  and  the  creeks  began  to 
overflow  their  banks.  The  wet 
soaked  up  through  the  floor  of 
their  abode.  The  walls  were  cov- 
ered with  a  green  slimy  fur.  Even 
the  inside  of  the  gun  -  barrels, 
cleaned  the  night  before,  took  on 
this  kind  of  rust.  Percussion-caps 
and  priming  had  to  be  renewed 
every  day.  Minor  trials  and  dis- 
comforts were  also  not  wanting. 
The  close,  damp  weather,  causing 
the  flour  to  heat,  bred  in  it  in- 
numerable weevils  ;  and  the  supply 
of  tea  and  sugar  failing  (much 
having  been  destroyed  by  wet),  the 
party  had  to  depend  chiefly  upon 
the  everlasting  salt  junk,  eked  out 
with  what  they  could  shoot.  At 
last  fever  began  to  make  its  un- 
welcome presence,  and  John,  whose 
mind  was  most  harassed,  became 
the  first  victim.  No  proper  medi- 
cine being  to  hand  or  procurable, 
he  accordingly  suffered  much. 

It  was  miserable  at  this  time  to 
look  out  of  doors  at  night.  Far  and 
wide  nothing  could  be  seen  in  the 
bleak  clouded  moonlight  but  water, 
through  which  the  grass  stalks 
reared  their  dismal  heads  in  the 
most  melancholy  manner,  and  a 
dark  mass  of  trees  occupied  the 
background.  The  croak,  croak  of 
the  frogs  was  sometimes  broken  by 
the  distant  bellow  of  a  beast  as  it 
called  to  its  fellows. 

The  occupants  of  this  little  out- 
post of  civilisation  were  indeed 
isolated  from  all  others.  For 
countless  miles  to  the  north  none 
of  their  race  intervened  between 
them  and  the  Indian  Ocean.  To 
the  west  a  still  more  dreary  and 
still  wider  expanse  of  unknown 
territory  ran.  To  the  east,  a  lecTie- 


de-mer  station  or  two  along  the 
coast  alone  broke  the  otherwise  in- 
hospitable character  of  the  shore. 
Southwards,  for  nearly  three  hun- 
dred miles,  the  blacks  were  still 
kept  out  like  wild  beasts;  and  their 
nearest  neighbours,  seventy  miles 
away,  were  not  in  a  much  more 
enviable  plight  than  themselves. 

The  incessant  rains  now  caused 
the  floods  to  increase,  and  gradually 
the  backwater  approached  the  little 
dwelling.  The  bullock -dray  had 
sunk  so  deep  in  the  soft  soil  that 
there  was  no  hope  of  shifting  it 
until  fine  weather  came,  and  in  any 
case  the  working  bullocks  could  not 
have  been  mustered.  Nearer  and 
nearer  rose  the  water.  The  country 
behind  them  for  several  miles  was 
perfectly  level.  Eations  were  stowed 
away  on  the  rafters,  and  preparations 
made  to  strengthen  the  little  hut, 
when  fortunately  the  waters  sub- 
sided. 

Day  by  day  John's  fever  in- 
creased, and  matters  began  to  look 
very  gloomy,  when  a  change  in  the 
weather  took  place.  It  became  pos- 
sible to  move  about,  and  the  cattle 
were  found  to  be  all  right.  One  or 
two  men  pushed  their  way  out  in 
search  of  employment,  and  were  at 
once  engaged.  Medicine  was  pro- 
cured, and  John  speedily  improved 
as  his  spirits  rose.  The  blackboys, 
who  had  undergone  suffering  and 
privation  in  the  most  cheerful  man- 
ner during  the  wet  season,  now 
revelled  in  sunshine,  and  their 
camp-fire  at  night  resounded  with 
hilarious  laughter  or  never-ending 
corroborrees.  The  horses  had  grown 
fat,  notwithstanding  the  attacks  of 
their  dnemies  the  flies,  and  now 
kicked  like  Jeshurun  when  rid- 
den. Numbers  of  young  calves 
could  also  be  seen  in  every  mob  of 
cattle,  necessitating  the  erection  of 
a  branding-yard.  Eations  were  bor- 
rowed, pending  the  arrival  of  sup- 
plies ordered  previously,  and  soon 


204 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. — Part  IX. 


[Aug. 


neighbours  began  to  settle  around, 
and  a  travelling  mob  or  two  passed 
by.  Desmard  took  his  leave  of 
John  with  much  regret  on  both 
sides,  their  acquaintance  having 
ripened  into  firm  friendship,  and 
started  on  his  southern  journey.  A 
proper  site  for  a  head-station  was 
decided  on,  and  before  long  a  small 
though  comfortable  little  cottage 
sheltered  our  hero,  while  a  small 
stock-yard  and  paddock  afforded 
convenience  in  working  the  run. 

About  three  months  after  the 
close  of  the  wet  weather,  Stone 
arrived  on  his  country,  bringing 
with  him  upwards  of  10,000  sheep. 
He  was  accompanied  by  Bessie, 
who  could  not  be  prevailed  upon 
to  stay  behind.  They  travelled 
much  in  the  same  manner  as  did 
John  with  his  cattle,  but  not  hav- 
ing the  same  necessity  for  economy, 
they  were  provided  with  many  little 
luxuries  and  conveniences,  which 
rendered  the  journey  more  endur- 
able. 

The  sheep  camped  in  a  body  at 
night,  and  at  daylight  were  divided 
roughly  into  mobs  of  about  1500, 
which  were  driven  along  the  road 
by  the  shepherds.  Much  annoyance 
was  sometimes  caused  by  the  unac- 
countable stupidity  of  a  few  of  the 
drovers,  who  never  failed  to  take 
the  wrong  road  when  such  an  op- 
portunity presented  itself.  Others 
distinguished  themselves  by  drop- 
ping mobs  of  sheep  in  the  long 
grass,  many  animals  being  thus 
irretrievably  lost.  On  the  whole, 
however,  the  quietness  which  char- 
acterised the  camp  at  night  com- 
pensated for  the  labours  of  the  day. 
Bessie's  light-hearted  gaiety  and  con- 
tinual good-humour  made  all  around 
her  happy,  and  she  bore  the  hard- 
ships of  the  first  few  months  in  her 
new  home  most  uncomplainingly. 
Much  had  to  be  effected.  Yards 


and  huts  had  to  be  built  for  the 
sheep  and  shepherds.  A  head-sta- 
tion had  to  be  erected.  Supplies 
were  wanted,  and  had  to  be  brought 
up,  and  a  paddock  was  also  neces- 
sary. Preparations  for  the  various 
lambings  were  urgent,  and  arrange- 
ments for  shearing  had  to  be  con- 
sidered. It  was  no  easy  time.  A 
scarcity  of  labour  was  constantly 
followed  by  a  demand  for  increased 
wages.  The  positions  of  master 
and  servant  became  often  inverted, 
and  the  latter  sometimes  gratified 
his  malice  by  taking  his  departure 
when  his  services  were  most  re- 
quired. 

John  had  a  busy  time  likewise. 
The  facility  of  moving  about  offered 
to  them  by  the  fine  weather  in- 
duced his  cattle  to  stray.  Hunting- 
parties  of  aboriginals  crossed  their 
feeding  -  grounds,  causing  some  of 
the  mobs  to  start  and  leave  the 
run,  and  occasionally  a  few  spears 
were  thrown  at  the  frightened  ani- 
mals. 

John  would  willingly  have  paid 
several  beasts  yearly  to  the  original 
possessors  of  his  country,  were  it 
possible  by  such  means  to  purchase 
their  goodwill,  for  the  damage  done 
by  a  few  blacks  walking  across  their 
pasture  can  scarcely  be  appreciated 
by  those  who  are  unacquainted  with 
the  natural  habits  of  cattle.  Ne- 
gotiations, however,  would  have 
been  fruitless,  and  watchfulness 
was  his  only  remedy.  A  single 
start  sufficed  to  make  the  creatures 
alarmed  and  suspicious  for  weeks. 
Continually  on  the  look-out  for 
their  enemies,  they  took  fright  and 
rushed  for  miles  without  stopping, 
on  the  occurrence  of  the  slightest 
unaccustomed  noise ;  and  even  the 
smell  of  Gunpowder  or  Blucher, 
when  passing  on  horseback,  was 
sufficient  to  cause  a  mob  to  raise 
their  heads  inquiringly. 


1880.] 


Central  Asia :  the  Meeting-place  of  Empires. 


205 


CENTRAL    ASIA:    THE    MEETING  -  PLACE    OF    EMPIRES. 


CENTRAL  ASIA  is  almost  as  little 
known  to  the  external  world  as 
Central  Africa  is,  while  we  want  to 
know  much  more  about  it.  The 
features,  too,  and  commingled  races 
of  the  former  region,  are  in  many 
respects  much  stranger  and  more 
difficult  to  comprehend  than  those 
of  the  latter.  It  is  easier  to  form 
a  picture  to  the  mind's  eye  of  the 
heart  of  the  "  Dark  Continent,"  with 
its  wide  savannahs  and  marshes, 
its  dense  forests  and  broad  rivers, 
and  its  unorganised  population, 
than  of  the  extraordinary  comming- 
ling of  lofty  mountain-ranges,  vast 
sandy  deserts,  and  scattered  oases 
of  fertility,  with  a  separate  State 
and  population  in  each,  which  are 
to  be  found  in  the  secluded  region 
which  lies  in  the  heart  of  the  con- 
tinent of  Asia  and  Europe. 

This  central  quadrangle  of  the 
Old  World,  which  has  so  long  lain 
beyond  the  pale  of  general  interest 
or  of  civilised  empire — a  J^o  Man's 
Land,  save  in  part  from  the  over- 
flow of  Chinese  power — is  now  be- 
coming the  meeting-place  of  the 
three  greatest  empires  of  the  world 
— greatest,  at  least,  in  population 
and  territory.  Within  the  last  ten 
years  Russia  has  been  advancing  ra- 
pidly into  that  secluded  region ;  she 
now  fills  nearly  the  whole  western 
half  of  it,  coming  in  contact  with 
Chinese  power  in  the  eastern  half ; 
and  ere  long  her  legions  will  have 
crossed  the  Oxus  and  come  within 
sight  of  the  snow-clad  summits  of 
the  Hindoo  Koosh  —  possibly  by 
that  time  sentinelled  by  the  red- 
coats of  England.  Public  attention 
is  turning  to  this  little-known  part 
of  the  world  in  anxious  expectancy ; 
and  we  believe  it  will  not  be  un- 
seasonable if  we  here  sketch  broad- 
ly the  features  of  the  region,  and 


the   important    events    which    are 
there  in  progress. 

Central  Asia — the  region  extend- 
ing eastwards  from  the  Caspian 
sea  to  the  Wall-topped  mountain- 
range  which  forms  the  frontier  of 
China  Proper — has  for  ages  been 
going  from  good  to  bad,  alike  phy- 
sically and  in  the  condition  of  its 
people.  Looking  at  the  present  as- 
pect of  the  region — a  vast  expanse 
of  barren  deserts  interspersed  by 
isolated  oases,  —  it  seems  well- 
nigh  incredible  that  there  was  the 
early  home  of  all  the  leading 
nations  of  the  world;  of  the  Se- 
mitic and  Aryan  races — of  Celt, 
Teuton,  and  Slav,  of  Persians  and 
Hindoos,  of  the  Hebrews  and  As- 
syrians. The  story  of  the  primeval 
migrations  from  that  home  in  Up- 
per Asia  is  only  told  by  glimpses 
in  the  Book  of  Genesis,  in  isolated 
allusions  in  ancient  Hindoo  litera- 
ture, and  also,  it  appears,  in  some 
of  the  recovered  tablets  of  long- 
buried  Nineveh.  In  Semitic  tradi- 
tion the  region  figures  as  the  site  of 
Paradise;  while  the  ancient  Hin- 
doos looked  back  to  it  as  the  land 
of  the  Sages,  and  where  the  Brah- 
manical  tongue  was  spoken  in  its 
greatest  purity.  In  the  second,  but 
still  very  remote  and  dim  stage  of 
history,  we  see  Balkh,  the  chief 
town  of  the  region  and  the  capital 
of  an  Aryan  people,  where  the  flag 
of  the  new  Zoroastrian  religion  first 
waved,  before  the  Persians  came 
down  by  Herat  into  the  Zagros 
mountains,  and  became  the  neigh- 
bours of  the  Semitic  lords  of  the 
Mesopotamian  valley.  Again,  a 
thousand  years  or  more,  and  Alex- 
ander the  Great  led  the  Greeks 
back  to  the  earliest  home  of  their 
race,  and  at  that  time  the  region 
north  of  Persia  and  Afghanistan 


206 


Central  Asia :  the  Meeting-place  of  Empires. 


[Aug. 


was  full  of  walled  towns,  and  was 
still  peopled  by  the  Aryans.  Even 
the  Scyths  to  the  north  of  the 
Jaxartes  (ruled  at  times  by  a 
queen),  who  battled  with  the  Per- 
sian monarchs,  and  who  overran 
south-western  Asia  seven  centuries 
before  Christ,  were  neither  Tartars 
nor  Turcomans,  but  ancestors  of 
some  of  the  populations  of  modern 
Europe. 

When  Upper  Asia  again  became 
visible  to  European  eye,  a  great 
change  had  occurred  in  the  popula- 
tion. Sixteen  centuries  had  elapsed 
since  the  conquests  of  Alexander 
(which  temporarily  established  Eu- 
ropean sway  in  that  region  to  the 
banks  of  the  Jaxarfces),  when  the 
marvellous  journey  of  Marco  Polo 
once  more  revealed  Upper  Asia,  and 
first  brought  into  light  the  grand 
Mongolian  empire  of  China.  In 
the  long  interval,  the  Arabian  con- 
quests had  extinguished  the  Fire- 
temples  of  Zoroaster,  and  established 
Semitic  influence ;  and  then,  first 
the  Turks  and  next  the  Tartars  had 
swept  down  upon  the  scene  from 
the  north-east.  The  old  Aryan 
peoples  had  disappeared, — some  of 
them  having  migrated  into  Europe, 
swelling  the  barbarian  rush  which 
finally  broke  down  the  grand  empire 
of  Eqme  ;  and  the  rule  of  the  Great 
Khan  of  the  Tartars  extended  from 
the  frontiers  of  Poland  to  the  Sea 
of  China.  Despite  the  desolating 
invasion  of  Chengis  Khan  and  the 
ruined  condition  of  once  -  royal 
Balkh,  flourishing  cities  still  abound- 
ed; and  Samarkand,  Bokhara,  Balkh, 
and  other  towns,  joined  in  over- 
land trade  with  the  still  more 
wealthy  cities  of  China,  which 
empire  was  then  .at  the  height  of 
its  material  prosperity.  If  we  look 
at  the- same  region  now — if  we  fol- 
low the  narrative  of  travellers  across 
the  great  plains  through  which  the 
Ox  us  and  Jaxartes  flow,  reaching 
from  the  Caspian  to  the  mountains — 


we  see  a  land  of  desolation,  where 
ruins  are  far  more  numerous  than 
the  living  towns. 

It  has  been  truly  said  that  the 
great  destroyer  of  man's  works  is 
not  Time,  but  the  ruthless  hand  of 
man  himself.  The  wrathful  passage 
of  a  Hoolagoo  or  a  Chenghis,  con- 
signing to  destruction  every  city 
that  offered  opposition, — even  the 
ceaseless  internal  feuds  of  that 
region,  where  deserts  and  oases  are 
intermingled,  so  that  wealth  was 
ever  in  contiguity  to  warlike  and 
covetous  barbarism,  have  undoubt- 
edly done  much  to  destroy  this 
ancient  prosperity.  But  manifest- 
ly, physical  changes  have  been  dis- 
astrously at  work.  Geology  tells 
the  startling  truth,  undreamt  of  a 
lifetime  ago,  that  the  greater  part 
of  what  is  now  land  was  water, 
— that  what  are  now  uplands  or 
mountain  -  tops,  once  lay  at  the 
bottom  of  the  ocean,  —  and  that 
volcanic  action  has  effected  mighty 
changes  upon  the  earth's  surface. 
"We  know  that  the  Mediterranean 
was  at  one  time  a  true  inland  sea, 
severed  alike  from  the  Euxine  and 
the  Atlantic,  before  the  rupture  of 
the  Straits  of  Gibraltar  and  the 
Bosphorus;  while,  on  the  other 
hand,  as  the  line  of  the  natron 
lakes  indicates,  the  Mediterranean 
may  have  been  united  with  the  Red 
Sea,  making  Africa  an  island-conti- 
nent. We  now  know,  also,  that  the 
stony  wastes  of  the  Sahara  are  the 
bottom  of  an  ancient  sea,  which  made 
a  peninsula  of  northern  Africa,  the 
country  of  the  Berbers, — which  old 
sea,  together  with  the  other  of 
which  we  shall  speak  present- 
ly, wellnigh  realised  the  "  ocean- 
stream  "  of  Homer  and  other  early 
Greek  poets.  But  we  are  too 
prone  to  believe  that  such  physical 
changes  were  confined  to  long  ago, 
and  have  played  no  appreciable 
part  within  the  verge  of  human 
history  or  veritable  tradition.  We 


1880.] 


Central  Asia :  the  Meeting-place  of  Empires. 


207 


forget  that,  before  our  own  eyes, 
Greenland  is  rising,  and  within  no 
great  time  has  become  utterly  bar- 
ren in  consequence  of  this  upheaval; 
that  the  old  "Green  Land"  of 
the  early  settlers  is  now  covered 
with  perpetual  snow,  and  the  icy 
glaciers  come  down  to  the  cliffs  on 
the  sea.  We  forget  that  Norway, 
too,  is  undergoing  an  upheaval, 
noticeable  for  several  centuries, — 
a  fact  which  seems  to  show  that 
that  country  was  able  to  maintain 
a  larger  population  in  the  days  of 
the  sea-kings  than  at  present.  Nay, 
more,  the  change,  gradual  though 
it  doubtless  was,  probably  contri- 
buted to  the  ceaseless  efflux  of 
Scandinavian  rovers,  who  for  sev- 
eral centuries  poured  not  only  into 
Britain  and  France,  but  founded 
Norman  settlements  in  Italy  and 
Sicily,  and  sent  fleets  of  the  dragon- 
headed  galleys  into  the  sunny  waters 
of  the  Mediterranean. 

Physical  changes  on  a  great  scale 
have  been  at  work  in  Central  Asia. 
An  old  legend  in  the  Brahmanical 
books  tells  that  the  parents  of  the 
Hindoos  were  forced  to  migrate 
from  Upper  Asia  by  a  fiery  serpent 
and  snow  (of  which  some  writers 
may  find  a  twin  allegory  in  the 
flaming  sword  of  the  archangel 
that  drove  our  first  parents  out  of 
Paradise)  —  indicating  that  there 
was  volcanic  outburst  and  dimin- 
ished temperature,  consequent  upon 
upheaval;  that  the  now  empty 
craters  of  the  region  then  burst 
into  action  —  either  for  the  first 
time,  or,  like  Vesuvius  in  A.D. 
79,  after  an  immemorial  slum- 
ber— with  the  natural  effect  of  an 
upheaval  of  the  region.  Geology, 
too,  shows  that  in  ancient  times 
the  North  Sea  projected  south- 
wards into  the  very  heart  of  the 
Old  World,  extending  along  the 
flanks  of  the  Ural  chain  to  the 
Caucasus  and  the  Persian  mountain- 
range.  The  subsequent  receding  of 


its  waters  could  only  have  been 
owing  to  a  rising,  slow  or  sudden, 
of  the  land,  such  as  would  be  pro- 
duced by  the  agencies  mentioned 
in  the  old  legends.  The  Northern 
Ocean  has  ebbed  back  some  two 
thousand  miles,  leaving  only  its 
deepest  pools  in  the  Caspian  and 
Ural  Lake.  Deprived  of  this  inland 
ocean,  the  region  would  quickly 
lose  teraperateness  of  climate,  and 
also  the  moisture  requisite  for  fer- 
tility. The  climate,  like  that  of 
all  inland  countries,  would  become 
given  to  extremes, — very  cold  in 
winter  and  intensely  hot  in  sum- 
mer— as  it  now  is.  The  grassy  or 
wooded  plains  of  old  times  would 
become  the  waterless  steppes  of  to- 
day. The  cold,  too,  would  lead  to 
the  cutting  down  of  the  forests  for 
fuel — now  so  eagerly  sought  after 
— thereby  still  further  desiccating 
the  country  by  no  longer  attracting 
either  the  dews  or  the  rain,  still 
less  preserving  by  umbrageous  shade 
the  moisture  when  it  happened  to 
fall. 

An  eminent  writer  on  physical 
science  has  remarked  that  the 
formation  of  the  great  deltas  of 
the  world  —  those  of  the  Nile 
and  Mississippi  —  may  be  seen 
perfectly  illustrated  in  miniature  if 
one  watches  the  effects  of  a  heavy 
shower  upon  the  sides  of  our  mac- 
adamised roads,  where  the  sandy 
debris  is  carried  down  to  the  gut- 
ters in  tiny  deltas.  In  like  man- 
ner, but  upon  a  much  larger  scale, 
the  vast  changes  which  have  oc- 
curred in  the  water-system  of  Cen- 
tral Asia  may  be  illustrated  by 
what  daily  meets  the  eye  of  thou- 
sands of  travellers  at  home,  who 
look  at  leisure  on  the  face  of  our 
country  from  a  railway-train.  As 
the  traveller  thus  traverse's  the 
length  or  breadth  of  England,  nu- 
merous small  flats  or  plains  may  be 
seen,  many  of  them  level  as  a  bowl- 
ing-green, varying  in  length  from  a 


208 


Central  Asia :  the  Meeting-place  of  Empires. 


[Aug. 


few  hundred  yards  to  several  miles; 
and  in  each  and  all  of  them  a 
water-course — it  may  be  a  river,  or 
merely  a  ditch  —  will  be  seen  to 
traverse  the  flat;  while  at  the  lower 
end  there  is  always  an  eminence 
— it  may  be  hill  or  mountain,  or 
merely  a  hardly  -  noticeable  rising 
of  the  ground — through  which  the 
water-course  finds  an  outlet.  Each 
of  those  flats  or  plains  has  been 
the  bed  of  a  lake,  where  the  soil 
brought  down  by  the  stream  has 
gradually  raised  the  bottom  to  its 
present  level ;  and  thereafter  the 
stream  has  worn  or  burst  a  passage 
for  its  waters  through  the  obstruct- 
ing heights.  Many  of  our  existing 
lakes  are  evidently  doomed  simi- 
larly to  disappear.  Look  at  the 
upper  end  of  each  of  the  Cumber- 
land lakes, — indeed  of  almost  all 
our  lakes, — and  there  will  be  seen 
a  green  flat  which  has  already  been 
silted  up,  and  then  a  marshy  fringe 
steadily  encroaching  upon  the  wa- 
ters of  the  lake.  Or  look  at  Glencoe, 
and  see  the  process  wellnigh  com- 
plete. In  that  lone  valley  among 
the  Scottish  mountains  there  is 
still  a  small  lake,  which  manifestly 
used  to  be  very  much  larger ;  but 
the  stream  which  passes  through  it 
is  gradually  silting  it  up  with  de- 
scending debris,  and  in  little  more 
than  another  generation  the  lakelet 
will  have  disappeared,  leaving  only 
the  streamlet  cutting  through  a 
green  flat  of  alluvial  soil. 

It  is  this  drying- up  process,  and 
consequent  desiccation  of  the  clim- 
ate, which  has  produced  the  adverse 
physical  changes  in  Central  Asia. 
That  region  as  here  defined — viz., 
reaching  from  the  Caspian  to  the 
mountain-frontier  of  China  Proper 
— is  severed  into  an  eastern  and 
western  part  by  the  "Koof  of  the 
World,"  —  the  broad  and  lofty 
mountain-chain  running  northward 
from  the  Hindoo  Koosh,  and  which 
forms  the  watershed  of  Upper 


Asia ;  from  whence  the  Oxus  and 
Jaxartes  flow  westward  into  the  Aral 
Lake,  while  the  far  vaster  rivers  of 
China  go  eastward  on  their  long 
and  unexplored  courses,  and  after 
traversing  the  Flowery  Land,  fall  by 
many  and  shifting  mouths  into  the 
Pacific.  Beyond,  or  eastward  of 
this  lofty  dividing  mountain-chain 
— called  in  its  southern  part  the 
Bolor-tag  or  plateau  of  Pamir, 
and  in  its  north-eastern  range  the 
Tien  Shan,  or  the  "Heaven-seeking 
Mountains" — lie  the  fertile  plains 
of  Kashgar  and  Yarkand,  while 
Kuldja  is  enfolded  at  the  north- 
eastern part  of  the  Tien  Shan, — 
countries  where  Russia  and  China 
now  meet  as  neighbours,  and  in 
hardly  disguised  feud. 

For  the  present  let  us  confine  our 
view  to  the  western  half  of  Central 
Asia  —  commonly  called  "  Turke- 
stan" or  "Independent  Tartary  " 
— lying  between  the  Roof  of  the 
World  and  the  frontier  of  Europe. 
Here  we  behold  a  vast  expanse  of 
deserts,  interspersed  with  oases,  and 
with  two  great  rivers  flowing  in 
nearly  parallel  north-westerly  courses 
through  the  region,  until  they  both 
fall  into  the  Aral  Lake.  These 
two  great  rivers,  the  Oxus  and 
Jaxartes  (calling  them  by  their 
classical  names,  which  we  believe 
are  more  familiar  to  the  public  than 
their  modern  titles, — viz.,  the  Amu 
Darya  and  the  Sir  Darya),  have 
their  sources  in  the  central  chain  of 
mountains — the  Oxus  in  the  pla- 
teau of  Pamir,  and  the  Jaxartes  in 
the  Tien  Shan  range.  In  the  first 
part  of  their  course,  as  they  leave 
the  mountains,  the  adjoining  coun- 
try is  well  watered,  and  has  many  fer- 
tile valleys  and  little  plains,  where- 
in, on  the  Jaxartes,  stand  Chim- 
kent,  Tashkent,  and  Khocljent ; 
while  on  the  plains  of  the  Oxus 
— chiefly  to  the  south,  between  the 
river  and  the  Hindoo  Koosh — stand 
Kunduz,  Balkh,  and  other  towns — 


1880.] 


Central  Asia :  the  Meeting-place  of  Empires. 


209 


once  the  site  of  flourishing  settle- 
ments and  ancient  civilisation.  Be- 
yond this  upper  part  of  their  course 
the  two  rivers  flow  in  nearly  parallel 
courses  through  arid  deserts, — the 
great  Kizzil  Kum  desert,  about  250 
miles  broad,  covering  the  whole  land 
between  the  two  rivers ;  another 
equally  vast  desert,  the  Kara  Kum, 
extends  southwards  from  the  Oxus ; 
while  the  whole  region  west  of 
the  delta  of  the  Oxus,  and  be- 
tween the  Aral  and  Caspian,  is  like- 
wise desert.  But  there  is  a  third 
river  of  note  in  the  region, — namely, 
the  Zarafshan,  which  descends  from 
a  glacier  in  the  mountains  only  a 
little  to  the  south  of  where  the 
Jaxartes  enters  the  plains.  The 
Zarafshan  flows  due  westward  for 
some  200  miles,  meandering  in  many 
branches,  and  forming  the  oasis 
of  Samarkand  and  Bokhara, — until 
its  waters  are  at  length  swallowed 
up,  just  as  they  make  a  turn  south- 
ward at  Bokhara,  as  if  to  fall  into 
the  Oxus.  This  central  river-course 
is  the  most  extensive  fertile  part  of 
the  whole  region — surpassing  the 
plains  around  Balkh,  and  equalling 
the  fertility  of  the  oasis  of  Khiva, 
where  the  Oxus  scatters  wide  its 
waters  before  it  falls  by  numerous 
courses  into  the  Aral  Lake.  The 
oasis  of  the  Zarafshan  constitutes 
the  chief  portion  of  the  State  of 
Bokhara  (which  also  extends  to 
the  north  bank  of  the  Oxus),  and 
the  famous  old  city  of  Samarkand 
stands  in  the  upper  or  eastern  part 
of  this  fertile  river-course. 

The  readiest  way  to  understand 
the  geography  of  this  western  half 
of  Central  Asia,  lying  between  the 
Eoof  of  the  World  and  the  Euro- 
pean frontier,  is  to  bear  in  mind 
that  originally  the  great  inland  sea 
(of  which  the  Aral  and  the  Caspian 
are  the  relics),  extended  over  the 
whole  region  up  to  the  base  of  the 
broad  and  lofty  mass  of  mountains 
which  bound  it  on  the  east.  Thus 


the  Oxus,  Jaxartes,  and  Zarafshan 
fell  into  the  sea  as  soon  as  they  left 
the  mountain-region ;  and  now  that 
the  sea  has  dried  up,  these  rivers 
have  their  present  course  along  the 
sandy,  stony  bottom  of  the  old  sea, 
— wandering  alone  and  without 
tributaries  through  the  desert  till 
the  two  former  reach  the  Aral 
Lake.  The  Zarafshan  splits  up  into 
many  branches  as  soon  as  it  leaves 
the  mountains,  disappearing  in  the 
sands  after  turning  a  portion  of  the 
old  sea-bottom  into  the  fertile  oasis 
of  Samarkand  and  Bokhara;  but 
the  Oxus  and  Jaxartes  each  flows  in 
a  single  stream — the  latter  until  it 
falls  into  the  Aral  Lake,  and  the 
former  till  within  some  200  miles 
of  its  mouth,  at  which  point  it 
spreads  into  many  streams,  creating 
the  oasis  of  Khiva. 

In  ancient  times,  a  narrow  zone 
of  fertility  extended  westwards  from 
Khiva  to  the  Caspian,  following  the 
course  of  the  Oxus,  which  then 
carried  its  waters  to  the  Caspian 
Sea.  But  some  centuries  ago  the 
Khivans  built  a  great  dam  across 
the  river  at  a  part  where  the  coun- 
try is  so  flat  that  the  waters  may 
travel  either  way,  so  that  the 
Oxus  was  made  to  take  a  bend  due 
northwards  for  a  hundred  miles, 
to  the  Aral  Lake ;  and  its  ol& 
course  westwards  into  the  Caspian, 
still  traceable,  is  marked  by  ruins, 
the  remains  of  an  extinguished 
fertility  and  deserted  population. 

The  Aral  lies  parallel  with  the 
northern  part  of  the  Caspian,  and 
to  the  south  of  the  Aral  lies  the 
oasis  of  Khiva.  The  whole  country 
west  of  the  lake  and  the  oasis,  and 
between  them  and  the  Caspian,  is 
an  almost  impassable  desert ;  which 
also  extends  in  unbroken  course  far 
eastward  from  the  lower  end  of  the 
Caspian,  sweeping  round  by  the 
south  of  Khiva  and  up  the  southern 
bank  of  the  Oxus  almost  as  far  as 
Balkh — and  forming  the  true  geo- 


210 


Central  Asia, :  the  Meeting-place  of  Empires. 


[Aug. 


graphical  boundary  between  Cen- 
tral Asia  and  Persia.  In  the  eastern 
apex  of  this  desert  stands  the  tiny 
oasis  of  Merv, — a  place  now  becom- 
ing familiar  to  English  newspaper 
readers  as  the  goal  to  which  Russia 
is  working  her  way — a  coveted  out- 
post on  the  Affghan  frontier. 

Such,  then,  in  its  broad  physical 
aspects,  is  Central  Asia.  Before 
treating  of  the  new  Powers  that 
are  breaking  into  and  operating  in 
that  vast  region,  let  us  pause  for 
a  moment  to  consider  what  have 
been  the  strange  vicissitudes  and 
fortunes  of  the  peoples  who  in  suc- 
cession have  occupied  this  heart 
of  the  Old  World.  First,  as  to  the 
eventful  effects  of  one  part  of  the 
physical  changes  above  referred  to, 
on  the  colonising  of  Europe  with 
its  present  race  of  nations — a  matter 
hitherto  unnoticed  either  by  his- 
torians or  geographers.  Consider 
the  western  boundaries  of  the  re- 
gion, while  it  was  still  the  mother- 
land both  of  the  Semitic  race  and 
of  the  now  diverse  sections  of  the 
far-spread  Aryans.  Europe,  which 
geographically  is  merely  a  penin- 
sula of  Asia,  was  not  only  the 
Dark  Continent,  but  was  almost, 
if  not  entirely,  insulated  from  Asia. 
The  peoples  in  the  old  home  were 
girdled  in  on  the  west  by  a  great 
gulf  of  the  Northern  Ocean  stretch- 
ing southwards  to  the  Persian 
mountains, — with,  in  the  north,  the 
lofty  Ural  chain  rising  beyond  the 
sea  in  the  dim  land  of  the  setting 
sun.  "When  the  physical  cataclysm 
occurred — by  a  sudden  convulsion, 
according  to  the  ancient  legends, 
and  we  may  still  say  "compara- 
tively suddenly  " — when  the  North 
Sea  ebbed  back,  and  the  Urals  rose 
out  of  dry  land, — even  then  Europe 
was  accessible  only  at  a  few  points. 
Nevertheless,  for  the  first  time  the 
Dark  Continent  of  the  west  was 
opened;  and  rounding  the  shores 
of  the  Sea  of  Azoff,  or  crossing  in 


coracles  the  Bosphorus,  Greek  and 
Eoman,  Celt,  Teuton,  and  Slav 
began  their  migrations  from  the 
old  home  into  Europe,  —  not  as 
races,  but  rather  as  families  or 
small  migrating  bodies,  which  grew 
into  nations  with  the  lapse  of  cen- 
turies. So  slow,  scattered,  and  in- 
terrupted was  this  westward  migra- 
tion, that  a  portion  of  the  great 
Gothic  family  still  lingered  in  the 
Crimea  in  the  days  of  Marco  Polo. 
In  the  time  of  Alexander  the  Great, 
Central  Asia,  westward  of  the  Roof 
of  the  World  (perhaps  even  as  far 
as  the  Desert  of  Gobi),  was  occu- 
pied by  an  Aryan  population.  The 
Macedonian  conqueror  came  in  con- 
tact with  no  strange  races  south  of 
the  Jaxartes,  and  the  Scythians  who 
lived  to  the  north  of  that  river 
were,  as  expressly  recorded,  of  the 
same  race  as  the  European  Scyths 
in  the  valley  of  the  Danube.  There- 
after the  population  of  Central  Asia 
underwent  great  changes.  The 
Turkish  race  from  the  Altai  Moun- 
tains, in  the  north -east,  began  to 
appear  on  the  scene,  with  the 
White  Huns  as  their  vanguard. 
The  Mongolian  power  of  China 
then  became  a  martial  and  con- 
quering empire,  and  in  the  sixth 
and  seventh  centuries  after  Christ 
extended  its  arms  and  sovereignty 
across  Asia  almost  to  the  shores 
of  the  Caspian ;  and  we  have  books 
of  travel  written  by  Chinamen 
who  about  that  time  journeyed  over 
the  whole  breadth  of  Central  Asia, 
traversing  its  numerous  deserts  and 
surmounting  the  Roof  of  the  World 
and  the  Hindoo  Koosh,  and  final- 
ly visiting  India,  and  returning  in 
safety  to  their  own  country.  Such 
a  journey  would  make  the  fame  of 
any  man  at  the  present  day.  But 
the  Turkish  race  gradually  in- 
creased in  the  region,  and  in  the 
eleventh  century  the  Seljooks 
overran  even  south-western  Asia. 
Lastly  came  the  Mongols,  crossing  to 


1880.] 


Central  Asia  :  the  Meeting-place  of  Empires. 


211 


the  Altai  mountain-chain  from  their 
original  home  in  eastern  Siberia, 
on  the  plains  of  the  Amoor  river, 
— conquering  Russia  in  the  west 
and  China  in  the  east,  and  estab- 
lishing a  gigantic  dominion,  ex- 
tending from  the  frontiers  of  Po- 
land to  the  Pacific,  and  also  south- 
wards to  the  Levant  and  the  Persian 
Gulf.  So  complete  was  the  so- 
vereignty of  the  "  Great  Khan," 
and  so  orderly  the  condition  of 
Central  Asia,  that  the  golden  tab- 
let given  by  Kublai  at  Peking 
"franked"  Marco  Polo  throughout 
his  whole  journey  from  China  to 
the  Levant.  Even  in  the  time  of 
the  Polos,  the  old  Aryan  population 
of  Central  Asia  existed  to  a  larger 
extent  than  at  present, — the  Tajiks, 
a  remnant  of  the  old  Persian  race, 
sparsely  scattered  throughout  the 
country  in  the  upper  Oxus  and  in 
some  of  the  trading  towns,  being 
now  the  only  remnant  of  the  ori- 
ginal population. 

Not  only  in  Asia  Minor,  which  of 
old  was  peopled  by  the  "  Yavans," 
or  Hellenic  tribes,  but  throughout 
a  stjll  larger  region  in  Central  Asia, 
the  Aryan  race,  who  in  Europe  have 
become  the  leaders  of  the  world, 
have  been  vanquished  in  their  old 
homes  and  expelled  by  Turks  and 
Tartars  belonging  to  that  Mongo- 
lian race  whom  it  is  now  the  fashion 
of  Europe  to  despise.  It  is  hardly 
an  exaggeration  to  say  that  Europe, 
the  western  peninsula  of  Asia,  be- 
came settled  by  its  Aryan  peoples 
in  much  the  same  way  as  the 
"  ancient  Britons "  and  the  rem- 
nants of  the  earlier  prehistoric 
tribes  are  now  found  in  Wales, 
Cornwall,  Brittany,  and  such  outly- 
ing corners  of  our  continent.  In- 
deed, for  several  centuries  one  en- 
tire half  of  Europe,  lying  eastward 
of  a  line  drawn  from  the  Baltic 
through  Warsaw  and  Vienna  to 
the  head  of  the  Adriatic  Sea,  was 
occupied  by  the  Mongolian  Tartars 


and  Turks  ;  while  the  other  Asiatic 
race,  the  Semites,  ruled  supreme 
over  Spain  and  the  islands  of  the 
Mediterranean,  besides  occupying 
the  whole  of  northern  Africa. 

The  tide  of  conquest  has  now 
wholly  turned.  The  Aryan  races 
of  Europe  are  making  their  way 
back  into  the  old  continent  of  Asia  ; 
and  while  England  has  occupied 
India,  and  fringed  southern  Asia 
with  her  settlements,  Russia  is  rap- 
idly extending  her  dominion  over 
the  northern  and  central  parts  of 
that  continent.  For  many  genera- 
tions past  the  Czars  have  claimed 
dominion  over  Siberia, — the  vast 
semi-arctic  and  thinly-peopled  region 
which  extends  across  the  north  of 
Asia,  from  the  Erozen  Ocean  to  the 
Altai  Mountains,  which  chain,  with 
its  eastern  and  western  prolonga- 
tions, separates  Siberia  from  Cen- 
tral Asia.  But  to  the  south  of  that 
boundary — that  ie,  in  Central  Asia 
— the  progress  of  Russia  has  been 
quite  recent;  indeed,  almost  the 
whole  of  it  has  been  made  during 
the  last  sixteen  years. 

The  Ural  Mountains  form  the 
boundary  of  Siberia  on  the  side  of 
Europe ;  and  the  great  highway 
from  Russia,  following  the  natural 
configuration  of  the  country,  on 
leaving  the  Volga  at  Samara  (an- 
ciently the  seat  of  the  "Golden 
Horde"),  crosses  the  great  plains 
to  Uralsk,  and  thence  eastwards 
along  the  Ural  river  to  Orenburg, 
which  is  situated  at  the  southern 
extremity  of  the  Ural  chain,  and 
from  which  town  the  routes  branch 
northward  into  Siberia,  and  south- 
westwards  into  Central  Asia.  Or- 
enburg was  for  long  the  most  east- 
erly post  of  Russia ;  and,  as  will  be 
shown  by-and-by,  it  was  from  this 
quarter  that  Russia  has  made  her 
great  military  advance  in  recent 
years.  Orenburg  stands  on  the 
Ural  river,  which  thence  runs  due 
westward  for  200  miles  to  Uralsk, 


212 


Central  Asia :  the  Meeting-place  of  Empires. 


[Aug. 


at  which  town,  turning  at  right 
angles,  it  runs  due  south  for  some 
300  miles  to  the  head  of  the  Cas- 
pian Sea,  at  Gurieif.  Thus  the  Ural 
river — from  Orenburg  to  Uralsk, 
and  thence  to  the  Caspian — bounds 
the  north-western  corner  of  Central 
Asia ;  and  the  remainder  and  larger 
part  of  the  western  frontier  of  Cen- 
tral Asia  is  formed  by  the  Caspian 
Sea,  which  (some  750  miles  in 
length)  extends  southwards  to  the 
Persian  mountains. 

On  its  western  or  European 
front  Central  Asia  is  covered  by  a 
bulwark  of  almost  impassable  steppe 
and  desert.  Its  north-western  cor- 
ner— an  almost  quadrangular  space 
300  miles  square,  extending  from 
the  latitude  of  Uralsk,  Orenburg, 
and  Ormsk,  in  the  north,  to  the 
head  of  the  Caspian  and  Aral  seas 
— consists  of  a  waterless  steppe, 
wholly  unfit  for  settled  habitation, 
but  which  in  the  spring  and  early 
summer,  moistened  by  the  melting 
of  the  snow,  furnishes  rich  pastur- 
age for  the  roving  Khirgiz  tribes. 
But  to  the  south  of  this  steppe  a 
vast  sandy  desert  spreads  eastward 
from  the  shores  of  the  Caspian.  At 
its  narrowest  point — between  the 
Caspian  and  the  Aral  seas — this 
desert  averages  nearly  200  miles 
in  breadth ;  while  eastward  of  the 
Aral,  the  desert  begins  again,  and 
extends  for  some  600  miles  up  to 
the  lowlands  at  the  foot  of  the 
Roof  of  the  World.  To  the  south 
of  the  Aral,  between  the  Caspian 
and  the  oasis  of  Khiva,  the  desert 
is  about  350  miles  in  breadth  ;  and 
to  the  south  of  Khiva  again,  the 
Caspian  desert  unites  with  the 
Kara  Kum  (lying  to  the  south  of 
the  Oxus),  extending  inland  in 
an  unbroken  waste  of  sand  beyond 
Merv,  which  is  distant  from  the 
Caspian  nearly  500  miles.  Thus 
the  oasis  of  Khiva,  although  the 
nearest  or  most  westerly  of  all  the 
fertile  and  settled  districts  of  Cen- 


tral Asia,  is  separated  from,  the 
Caspian  by  fully  350  miles  of  pure 
desert — a  physical  obstacle  which 
might  appal  even  a  daring  con- 
queror. 

Thus  shrouded,  as  well  as  pro- 
tected, by  deserts,  Central  Asia  was 
for  long  a  terra  incognita  to  its 
European  neighbours.  The  first 
tidings  of  Khiva  was  obtained  by 
the  Cossack  tribes,  who,  in  one  of 
their  plundering  forays,  captured 
some  Persians,  who  told  them  of 
a  very  rich  and  fertile  state  be- 
yond the  deserts.  Allured  by  the 
prospect  of  rich  booty,  the  Cossack 
horsemen  on  two  or  three  occa- 
sions made  a  long  and  rapid  march 
across  the  deserts  from  the  Cas- 
pian,— and  with  some  success  at 
the  outset ;  but  on  each  occasion 
they  were  overtaken,  when  recross- 
ing  the  deserts  with  their  plunder, 
by  the  Khivan  cavalry,  and  were 
cut  to  pieces. 

Peter  the  Great  was  the  first 
Eussian  monarch  who  cast  a  covet- 
ous eye  upon  Khiva.  Inspired 
by  a  far-reaching  ambition,  and 
possessed  of  extraordinary  politi- 
cal genius,  Peter  gave  his  whole 
thoughts  to  freeing  Eussia  from  the 
physical  fetters  by  which,  in  his 
day,  it  was  isolated  from  the  rest 
of  the  civilised  world.  He  forced 
it  forward  to  the  Baltic  at  St  Peters- 
burg; he  conquered  a  southern 
outlet  for  his  dominions  on  the  Sea 
of  Azoff  and  Euxine,  with  Con- 
stantinople as  the  goal ;  and  in  like 
spirit  he  resolved  to  open  Asia  to 
his  people  and  his  power.  A  Khi- 
van merchant  who  came  to  his 
court  told  him  all  about  Khiva — 
that  fertile  state  beyond  the  de- 
serts,— how  the  sands  of  the  region 
yielded  gold, — and  of  the  mighty 
stream  of  the  Oxus,  which  now 
flowed  into  the  Aral  Sea,  but  for- 
merly had  traversed  the  western 
desert,  and  carried  its  broad  stream 
to  the  Caspian.  Strange  as  it  may 


1880.] 


Central  Asia :  the  Meeting-place  of  Empires. 


213 


seem,  the  dominating  thought  that 
arose  in  the  mind  of  Peter  was, 
"  By  this  route  I  shall  be  able  to 
reach  India  ! "  India  was  then,  as 
long  before,  fabled  for  its  stores  of 
gold  and  silver  and  gems,  for  splen- 
did fertility  and  vast  accumulated 
wealth.  And  to  Peter — as  to  every 
Eussian  of  the  present  day — Cen- 
tral Asia  was  coveted,  not  for  itself, 
but  as  a  highway  to  the  golden 
world  of  India.  Peter  with  his 
own  hand  drew  up  orders  for  estab- 
lishing a  military  post  at  Krasno- 
vodski,  on  the  eastern  shore  of  the 
Caspian,  at  the  point  nearest  to 
Khiva,  and  close  to  the  ancient 
mouth  of  the  river  Oxus.  He  then 
despatched  a  military  expedition 
to  Khiva  under  Prince  Bekovitch 
Tcherkassky, — professedly  on  a  pa- 
cific mission,  but  really  to  conquer 
that  state.  The  desert  was  success- 
fully traversed;  but,  owing  to  in- 
competent generalship,  the  Russian 
troops  were  ultimately  massacred 
by  the  Khivans,  who  employed  the 
same  treachery  which  had  been  de- 
signed against  themselves.* 

This  was  in  1717.  Peter  then 
saw  that  the  physical  obstacles  to 
an  advance  upon  Khiva  in  this 
quarter  could  not  be  successfully 
made  until  the  Turcoman  tribes  of 
the  desert  were  brought  under  Eus- 


sian influence,  so  as  to  facilitate  the 
long  march  through  that  waterless 
and  desolate  region.  A  long  pause 
ensued.  Although  the  Emperor 
Paul  arranged  with  Napoleon  for 
an  expedition  to  India  from  the 
southern  shores  of  the  Caspian,  no 
renewal  of  the  advance  upon  Khiva 
was  made  until  our  own  times. 

When  the  Eussian  Government 
resumed  its  activity  on  its  eastern 
borders,  attention  was  turned  to 
the  northern  part  of  the  Caspian, 
with  the  view  of  traversing  the 
desert  to  the  shores  of  the  Aral 
Sea ;  for  if  this  could  be  accom- 
plished, it  would  be  thereafter  easy 
to  reach  Khiva,  by  marching  south- 
ward along  the  shores  of  the  Aral 
Sea  to  the  mouth  of  the  Oxus,  and 
thence  through  the  delta  of  that  river 
to  Khiva.  This  part  of  the  desert — 
namely,  lying  between  the  Caspian 
and  the  Aral  seas,  and  even  some- 
what further  southward — is  known 
as  the  Urst-Urt  steppe  or  plateau. 
It  must  have  been  an  island  in 
those  primeval  times  when  the 
Caspian  and  Aral  seas  were  part  of 
the  Northern  Ocean.  It  is  bordered 
all  round  by  what  in  India  would 
be  called  Ghauts — a  scarped  cliff 
(known  by  the  name  of  "  the 
Tchink "),  very  steep,  and  rising 
to  the  height  of  some  400  feet. 


*  The  orders  given  to  Prince  Tcherkassky,  in  the  Czar's  own  handwriting,  were  as 
follows  :— 

"  1.  To  construct  a  fort  for  1000  men  at  the  former  mouth  of  the  Oxus. 

"2.  To  ascend  the  old  bed  of  the  river  in  the  character  of  ambassador  to  the  Khan 
of  Khiva,  and  to  ascertain  whether  the  mouths  opening  into  the  Aral  Lake  can  be. 
closed,  and  if  so,  by  what  means,  and  with  what  amount  of  labour. 

"3.  To  examine  the  ground  near  the  existing  dam,  and  to  take  measures  for  erect- 
ing a  fort  there,  and  for  building  a  town. 

"4,  5,  and  6.  To  incline  the  Khan  of  Khiva  to  fidelity  and  submission,  promising 
him  hereditary  possession  and  a  guard  for  his  services." 

The  seventh  clause  of  the  Czar's  order  directed  Prince  Bekovitch  to  ask  the  Khan 
for  vessels,  ' '  and  to  send  a  merchant  in  them  to  India  by  the  Amu-Daria  (Oxus), 
ordering  the  same  to  ascend  the  river  as  far  as  vessels  can  go,  and  from  thence  to 
proceed  to  India,  remarking  the  rivers  and  lakes,  and  describing  the  way  by  land 
and  water,  but  particularly  the  water-way  to  India  by  lake  or  river,  returning  from 
India  the  same  way ;  or,  should  the  merchant  hear  in  India  of  a  still  better  way  to 
the  Caspian  Sea,  to  come  back  by  that,  and  to  describe  it  in  writing. "  The  merchant 
was  to  be  provided  with  letters  to  the  Khans  of  Khiva  and  Bokhara,  and  to  the 
Mogul.  Besides  the  veritable  merchant,  a  naval  officer,  Lieutenant  Kojur,  with  five 
or  more  "  navigators,"  was  to  be  sent  to  India  in  merchant's  attire. 


2U 


Central  Asia :  the  Meeting-place  of  Empires. 


[Aug. 


Count  Borkh  and  other  Russian 
officers  have  at  various  times  made 
expeditions  across  the  plateau ;  a 
line  of  wells  has  been  sunk,  but  as 
these  are  nearly  200  feet  in  depth, 
they  are  difficult  to  work ;  and 
this  part  of  the  desert,  as  well  as 
the  more  southerly  portion  between 
the  Caspian  and  Khiva,  has  proved 
insuperable  as  a  line  of  military 
advance,  except  to  one  of  the  small 
columns  despatched  from  the  Cas- 
pian to  co-operate  against  Khiva  in 
1873. 

This  western  or  Caspian  front  of 
Central  Asia  having  been  found  im- 
penetrable, owing  to  the  broad  zone 
of  deserts  by  which  it  is  covered, 
the  Eussian  Government  and  gene- 
rals have  made  their  great  advance 
from  the  north  (from  their  Siberian 
frontier),  and  mainly  from  the 
north-western  corner  of  Central 
Asia  at  Orenburg.  The  prospect 
which  lay  before  them  was  not 
tempting.  From  Orenburg  east- 
wards, along  the  northern  front  of 
Central  Asia,  bordering  on  Siberia, 
there  was  nothing  but  an  expanse 
of  sandy  wastes  and  sterile  moun- 
tain-ranges (to  this  day  mostly  un- 
explored). The  advance  must  pro- 
ceed south-eastward  by  the  Jaxar- 
tes  river,  along  a  diagonal  line 
through  the  region  from  Oren- 
burg to  Tashkent  and  Khokan 

—  the   latter  place    being  in   the 
heart  of  the  great  mountains,  ad- 
joining the  sources  of  the  Jaxartes. 
And  nearly  a  thousand  miles  must 
be  traversed  from  Orenburg  before 
the  region  of  towns  and  fertility 
could  be  reached,  lying  among  the 
well  -  watered    valleys    and    little 
plains  at  the  western  base  of  the 
central    mountain    region.      From 
Orenburg,    at   a   distance    of    600 
miles,  the  first  point  to  be  reached 
was  the  north  end  of  the  Aral  Sea, 

—  the    intervening   country   being 
an  inhospitable  steppe  only  fit  for 
nomadic   pastoral  life.     For   miles 
around  this  northern  end  of  the 


Aral,  the  soil  is  impregnated  with 
salt, — as  indeed  is  the  case  gener- 
ally around  the  shores  of  this  grad- 
ually -  drying  -  up  sea.  Since  the 
Oxus  was  turned  into  it  three  cen- 
turies ago,  the  southern  end  of  the 
Aral  has  been  silted  up  for  fifty  or 
sixty  miles,  forming  the  marshy 
delta  of  that  river ;  while  the  Jax- 
artes has  been  doing  a  similar  but 
less  extensive  work  at  its  north- 
eastern corner,  and  also  covers  the 
land  far  and  wide  with  its  autumnal 
inundations,  which  become  sheets 
of  ice  during  the  winter  months. 

It  was  here,  at  the  point  where 
the  Jaxartes  river  debouches  into 
the  Aral  Sea,  that  the  Russians 
built  their  military  station  of  Kaza- 
linsk  (commonly  called  Fort  Num- 
ber 1);  but,  although  the  whole 
trade  of  the  country  beyond  passes 
this  way  to  Orenburg,  there  is  only 
a  mere  village,  consisting  chiefly  of 
the  kibitkas  or  tents  of  the  Turco- 
mans. Arrived  at  this  first  halting- 
place,  what  was  the  prospect  which 
lay  before  the  Muscovite  invaders  1 
To  the  south,  covering  the  whole 
region  between  the  course  of  the 
Jaxartes  and  that  of  the  Oxus,  lies 
the  great  Kizzil  Kum,  or  Red  De- 
sert,— from  300  to  400  miles  in 
breadth,  and  spreading  eastwards 
from  the  Aral  Sea  for  some  600 
miles,  up  to  the  watered  district 
adjoining  the  foot  of  the  great  moun- 
tains. From  Kazalinsk,  as  the  crow 
flies,  300  miles  of  desert  have  to  be 
crossed  before  reaching  the  north 
bank  of  the  Oxus  opposite  to 
Khiva,  which  lies  on  the  south 
bank  of  the  Oxus  ;  so  that  Khiva 
was  still  as  inaccessible  from  the 
north  as  it  was  from  the  Caspian. 
But  the  Russians  had  reached  the 
Jaxartes  river,  which  is  navigable 
by  steamers  ;  and  although  deserts 
lie  both  to  the  north  and  to  the 
south  of  that  river,  along  its  course 
the  Russian  legions  could  advance, 
secure  of  that  main  desideratum 
in  those  regions,  a  supply  of  water. 


1880.] 


Central  Asia :  the  Meeting-place  of  Empires. 


215 


Kazalinsk,  in  fact,  was  a  mere 
stepping-stone.  Of  itself  it  was 
worth  nothing.  To  the  600  miles 
of  advance  from  Orenburg,  the 
Eussians  must  add  other  400  miles 
before  they  could  reach  even  the 
frontiers  of  any  settled  or  fertile 
country. 

Let  us  now  look  at  the  steppes 
and  deserts  which,  alike  to  the  east 
and  to  the  west  of  the  Roof  of  the 
World,  cover  nearly  nine-tenths  of 
the  non  -  mountainous  regions  of 
Central  Asia.  The  Steppes — like 
the  district  lying  between  the  north 
ends  of  the  Caspian  and  Aral  and 
the  latitude  of  Uralsk  and  Oren- 
burg (which  may  be  called  the  Si- 
berian frontier)  —  are  covered  by 
some  depth  of  vegetative  soil,  which 
in  spring,  being  moistened  by  the 
melting  snows  of  winter,  produce 
very  rich  pasturage ;  but  which, 
from  want  of  water,  cannot  be  the 
seats  of  a  settled  population.  But 
the  Deserts,  which  are  the  predo- 
minant feature  of  Central  Asia, 
are  not  only  waterless,  but  expanses 
of  arid  sand,  usually  impregnated 
with  salt ;  in  fact,  as  already  said, 
they  are  the  bottom  of  ancient  dried- 
up  seas.  Not  a  tree  is  to  be  seen; 
and  even  the  brushwood,  invalu- 
able as  supplying  fuel  for  the  pass- 
ing traveller,  in  some  places  wholly 
disappears.  In  summer  the  heat 
is  terrific ;  shade  is  nowhere ;  and 
the  sun's  rays  are  reflected  upon  the 
traveller  from  a  glowing  mass  of 
sand,  which  is  lifted  in  suffocating 
clouds  by  every  breath  of  wind.  It 
is  only  at  rare  spots  that  wells  are 
to  be  found,  and  these,  although 
sufficient  for  the  travelling  party  of 
the  merchant  and  for  small  caravans, 
are  of  but  little  use  for  a  military 
expedition  of  any  size.  In  winter, 
the  whole  region  is  covered  with 
snow  for  several  months  as  far  south 
as  Khiva  and  the  line  of  the  Oxus, 
and  to  some  extent  all  the  way 
down  to  northern  Persia  and  Aff- 

VOL.  CXXVIII. — NO.  DCCLXXVIII. 


ghanistan.  And  the  cold  is  as 
intense  and  unendurable  as  is  the 
sun-heat  of  summer — the  least  ex- 
posure of  the  body  being  attended 
with  frost-bite ;  and  to  touch  metal 
with  the  bare  hand  is  to  be  burnt 
as  with  fire. 

Accordingly,  the  obstacles  to  mil- 
itary expeditions  across  these  des- 
erts are  tremendous.  As  yet  the 
Kara  Kum,  lying  south  of  Khiva 
and  of  the  Oxus,  has  not  been 
explored  or  even  penetrated  by  the 
Russians ;  but  to  cross  either  the 
Kizzil  Kum  between  the  Jaxartes 
and  Oxus,  or  the  western  deserts 
between  the  Caspian  and  Khiva, 
occupies  about  a  month.  No  won- 
der, then,  that  5000  fighting  men  is 
about  the  largest  force  which  ever 
undertakes  the  passage  of  any  of 
those  deserts.  The  whole  food- 
supply  for  this  long  period  has  to 
be  carried,  besides  the  munitions 
of  war;  and  for  this  freightage 
10,000  camels  are  not  thought 
more  than  enough  for  a  fighting 
force  of  5000  men.  Thus,  not  to 
speak  of  the  large  body  of  non- 
combatants,  the  conveyance  of 
forage  for  the  camels  and  horses 
of  the  expedition  is  a  serious  en- 
cumbrance of  itself.  As  both  the 
steppes  and  the  deserts  are  water- 
less, the  Russians  have  generally 
preferred  to  make  their  larger  expe- 
ditions across  the  deserts  in  winter, 
when  the  whole  face  of  the  country 
is  covered  with  snow,  from  which 
a  supply  of  water  is  obtained.  If 
in  any  day's  march  the  snowy  cov- 
ering is  likely  to  be  deficient,  the 
snow  is  crushed  into  bags  ;  or  blocks 
of  ice  are  hung  upon  the  camels' 
backs,  and  conveyed  for  the  supply 
either  of  the  caravan  or  military 
expedition.  The  cold  is  so  intense 
even  at  mid-day  that  there  is  no 
fear  of  the  ice  or  snow  melting  by 
the  way. 

It  is  only,  or  best,  by  particu- 
lar instances  that  travelling  under 


216 


Central  Asia :  the  Meeting-place  of  Empires. 


[Aug. 


such  strange  conditions  can  "be 
made  readily  intelligible  to  the 
general  reader.  So  let  us  refer  to 
the  graphic  pages  of  Colonel  Bur- 
naby, who  made  his  "Kide  to 
Khiva  "  in  the  winter-time.  First, 
as  to  the  extraordinary  amount  of 
clothing  indispensably  required  to 
maintain  the  natural  warmth  of 
the  body.  At  Samara,  on  the 
Volga  (where  the  railway,  now 
carried  to  Orenburg,  then  ended), 
he  prepared  himself  for  his  jour- 
ney by  sledge.  In  addition  to  the 
dress  which  he  had  been  wearing, 
and  which  included  some  extra- 
thick  drawers  and  a  pair  of  trous- 
ers which,  in  the  estimation  of  the 
London  tailor,  "  no  cold  could  get 
through  anyhow,"  he  first  put  on 
three  pairs  of  the  thickest  stock- 
ings drawn  up  high  above  the 
knee ;  over  them  a  pair  of  fur- 
lined  low  shoes,  which  in  turn  were 
inserted  into  leather  goloshes  ;  and 
finally  his  limbs  were  encased  in 
a  pair  of  enormous  cloth  boots, 
reaching  up  to  the  thigh.  A  heavy 
flannel  under  -  shirt,  and  a  shirt 
covered  by  a  thick  wadded  waist- 
coat, together  with  a  coat  of  the 
same  kind,  encased  his  body,  which 
finally  was  enveloped  in  a  huge 
fur  pelisse  reaching  to  his  feet. 
His  head  was  protected  with  a  fur 
cap,  and  a  bashlik,  or  cloth  head- 
piece of  a  conical  shape  made  to 
cover  the  cap,  and  having  two 
long  ends  which  tie  round  the 
throat.  "  I  thought  that  I  should 
have  a  good  laugh  at  the  wind, 
no  matter  how  cutting  it  might 
be,"  he  says  ;  "  but  .^Eolus  had  the 
laugh  on  his  side  before  the  jour- 
ney was  over."  ]STo  wonder  that 
when  he  had  to  take  to  horseback, 
in  his  ride  across  the  desert,  he 
found  he  could  hardly  mount. 
And  this  enormous  mass  of  cloth- 
ing he  had  to  wear  both  day  and 
night  for  a  fortnight  as  he  traversed 
at  express  speed  the  Kizzil  Kuni. 
To  take  off  any  part  of  the  dress 


would  have  been  to  risk  frost-bite 
in  its  severest  form.  Once  when 
he  fell  asleep  in  his  sledge,  his 
hands  dropped  out  of  their  warm 
covering,  and  in  a  few  minutes  he 
awoke  in  intense  pain  :  "  it  seemed 
as  if  my  extremities  had  been 
plunged  into  some  corrosive  fluid 
which  was  gradually  eating  the 
flesh  from  my  bones."  The  ordi- 
nary rubbing  with  snow  was  of  no 
avail ;  the  fire  continued  to  spread 
upwards,  but  the  lower  portions  of 
his  arms  became  void  of  sensation  ; 
and  his  arms,  deprived  of  circula- 
tion, hung  as  if  paralysed ;  and  it 
was  only  by  roughest  rubbing  with 
spirits,  till  the  skin  was  broken 
and  peeled  under  the  horny  hands 
of  some  friendly  Cossacks,  that  he 
escaped  the  fate  of  seeing  his  arms 
drop  off  under  the  frost-bite. 

The  load  that  has  to  be  carried 
for  each  traveller  through  these  des- 
erts is  of  the  most  formidable 
amount.  Although  Colonel  Bur- 
naby's  personal  luggage  consisted 
only  of  a  change  of  clothes,  a  few 
instruments,  and  a  gun,  no  fewer  than 
three  camels  and  two  horses  were 
needed  to  carry  the  supplies  for 
himself  and  his  Tartar  servant. 
Provisions  have  to  be  laid  in  for 
the  whole  journey,  —  which  Cap- 
tain Burnaby  rode  in  a  fortnight, 
at  the  rate  of  37  miles  a-day,  but 
which  would  take  a  military  col- 
umn twice  that  time.  Even  fire- 
wood has  to  be  carried  for  part  of 
the  journey.  For  food  the  chief 
supply  was  cabbage- soup  contain- 
ing large  pieces  of  mutton  —  the 
mess  being  frozen  at  once — and  had 
to  be  melted  at  each  resting-place. 
Tea,  drunk  scalding  hot,  is  an  abso- 
lute necessity  when  traversing  the 
steppes  or  deserts  in  winter -time, 
and  is  "  far  superior  in  heat-giving 
properties  to  any  wine  or  spirits." 
"  In  fact,"  says  Burnaby,  "  a  tra- 
veller would  succumb  to  the  cold 
on  the  latter  when  the  former  will 
save  his  life."  Tea  is  also  a  valua- 


1880.] 


Central  Asia :  the  Meeting-place  of  Empires. 


217 


ble  help  against  the  fatal  drowsiness 
engendered  by  great  cold  In  cross- 
ing the  deserts  in  winter,  the  tea  is 
frequently  quite  brackish  owing  to 
the  snow  from  which  it  is  made 
being  intermixed,  however  slightly, 
with  the  salt  -  impregnated  sands. 
In  summer-time  on  the  deserts,  the 
Russian  officers  prefer  to  diet  their 
men  on  tea  and  bread,  rather  than 
on  meat,  which  is  too  heating. 

Here  is  a  scene  in  the  desert, 
just  after  leaving  Kazalinsk,  to 
cross  the  Kizzil  Kum  to  Khiva. 
"  bought  could  be  seen  save  an 
endless  white  expanse.  The  wind 
howled  and  whistled,  billowing  be- 
fore it  great  waves  of  snow.  Our 
eyes  began  to  run,  and  the  eyeballs 
to  ache  :  the  constant  glare  and 
cutting  breeze  half  blinded  us  as 
we  rode.  The  horses  waded  weari- 
ly through  the  piled -up  ridges  of 
snow.  The  poor  beasts  suffered 
like  ourselves :  their  eyes  were 
encrusted  with  frozen  tears ;  and  it 
was  as  much  as  we  could  do  to  urge 
them  forward."  At  times  the 
benumbed  riders  had  to  dismount 
to  wipe  off  the  icicles  which  covered 
and  choked  the  noses  and  mouths 
of  their  steeds. 

The  camel  marches  somewhat 
quicker  by  night  than  by  day ;  and 
the  usual  practice  is  to  halt  for  two 
hours  during  the  day,  to  encamp 
at  sunset,  and  to  resume  the  jour- 
ney at  midnight.  In  this  way  the 
private  traveller  may  traverse  the 
deserts  at  the  rate  of  nearly  40 
miles  a-day,  but  the  journey  is  of 
the  most  fatiguing  kind  :  even  a 
very  strong  man  like  Colonel  Bur- 
naby  could  hardly  keep  awake  on 
his  horse ;  and  on  one  occasion  he 
threw  himself  down  on  the  snow, 
without  tent  or  fire,  and  fell  fast 
asleep  on  the  instant. 

In  some  parts  the  desert  is  broken 
by  ravines,  into  which  the  traveller 
would  fall  if  he  lost  the  track;  and 
the  wide  expanse  is  usually  a  mono- 
tonous level,  where  only  the  prac- 


tised eye  of  the  native  guides  can 
keep  their  way.  It  is  not  surpris- 
ing to  read  that  a  Cossack  expedi- 
tion once  so  entirely  lost  its  way, 
that  instead  of  emerging  from  the 
desert  at  Khiva,  found  itself  upon 
the  inhospitable  shores  of  the  Aral 
Sea,  and  from  sheer  famine  had 
to  give  itself  up  as  slaves  to  the 
Khivans.  But  to  the  Kirghiz  and 
other  nomades  of  the  steppes,  "  the 
Book  of  Nature  is  as  familiar  as 
the  Koran  is  to  the  Moullah.  The 
vision  of  the  Kirghiz  is  very  ex- 
traordinary, and  my  guide  could 
discern  objects  with  the  naked  eye 
which  I  could  hardly  distinguish 
with  the  help  of  my  glasses.  His 
knowledge  of  locality  also  is  very 
remarkable.  Sometimes,  when  no 
track  could  be  seen,  he  would  get 
off  his  horse,  and  search  for  flowers 
or  grass.  If  he  could  find  any, 
he  would  then  be  able  to  judge,  by 
their  appearance,  as  to  the  district 
in  which  we  were." 

It  is  the  more  wonderful  that 
the  guides  never  miss  their  way 
in  those  trackless  wastes  when  so 
much  of  the  journey  is  performed 
at  night.  But  the  sky  is  singularly 
clear.  In  those  waterless  and  hill- 
less  regions  there  are  no  vapours  to 
rise  into  the  atmosphere,  forming 
clouds  or  haze.  This  same  clear- 
ness of  the  sky  which  so  aggravates 
the  sufferings  of  the  traveller  in  the 
summer-time,  when  the  sun  shines 
down  without  a  veil,  and  the  sky 
overhead  glares  and  scorches  like 
molten  brass,  is  of  great  advantage 
to  the  traveller  during  the  long 
nights  of  winter.  The  moon  lights 
up  the  desert  with  unsurpassable 
brightness  and  lustre.  One  even- 
ing the  brushwood  for  the  fire  was 
so  damp,  and  the  acrid  smoke  be- 
came so  intolerable,  that  it  was  bet- 
ter to  face  the  cold  without  cover- 
ing; so  the  top -piece  of  the  tent 
was  removed,  leaving  only  the  sides 
standing.  "It  was  a  glorious  even- 
ing; the  stars,  as  seen  from  the 


218 


Central  Asia :  the  Meeting-place  of  Empires. 


[Aug. 


snow-covered  desert,  were  brighter 
and  more  dazzling  than  any  I  had 
hitherto  witnessed," — albeit  he  had 
sojourned  on  the  deserts  of  Africa. 
"From  time  to  time  some  glitter- 
ing meteor  shot  across  the  heavens. 
A  momentary  track  of  vivid  flame 
traced  out  its  course  through  space. 
Showers  of  orbs  of  falling  fire  flash- 
ed for  one  moment,  and  then  dis- 
appeared. Myriads  of  constella- 
tions and  worlds  above  sparkled 
like  gems  in  a  priceless  diadem.  It 
was  a  magnificent  pyrotechnic  dis- 
play,— Mature  being  the  sole  actor 
in  the  spectacle.  It  was  well  worth 
a  journey  even  to  Central  Asia." 
On  another  occasion,  when  the 
tent  was  struck  at  midnight  to  re- 
sume the  journey,  Colonel  Burnaby 
says :  "  It  was  a  strange  weird 
scene;  the  vast  snow-covered  steppe 
lit  up  as  brightly  as  if  it  were  mid- 
day by  a  thousand  constellations, 
which  reflected  themselves  in  the 
cold  white  sheet  below.  Not  a 
cloud  dimmed  the  majesty  of  the 
heavens  ;  the  wind  had  lulled,  and 
no  sounds  broke  the  stillness  of  the 
night." 

These  sandy  deserts  are  utterly 
uninhabitable ;  and  even  on  the 
pastoral  steppes,  where  the  no- 
madic tribes  move  about  with  their 
flocks  and  herds,  it  is  a  hard  battle 
to  support  life.  These  tribes  never 
think  of  killing  a  sheep  in  the 
summer  months,  in  which  half  of 
the  year  they  live  entirely  upon 
milk  from  their  flocks,  and  upon 
grain  which  they  obtain  in  ex- 
change for  their  live  stock  from  the 
settled  districts.  To  kill  and  eat 
a  sheep  is  an  extravagance  never 
indulged  in  save  during  the  hard 
times  of  winter ;  and  then  it  is  a 
great  event,  to  be  remembered  for 
months.  "  The  road  to  a  Kirghiz's 
heart  lies  through  his  stomach ; " 
and  the  voracious  repasts  occasion- 
ally witnessed  by  Colonel  Burnaby 
recall  to  one's  thoughts  the  early 
times  of  our  race,  when  the  supreme 


object  of  human  life  was  simply  to 
support  existence,  and  when  from 
year's  end  to  year's  end  the  daily 
task  was  a  struggle  for  food — not  for 
"  livelihood  "  as  nowadays,  but  for 
bare  food — without  a  moment's 
time  to  think  of  comforts  of  dress 
or  dwelling,  such  as  even  the  poor- 
est of  our  poor  now  partake  of. 

Such,  then,  are  the  stern  physi- 
cal obstacles  which  Russia  has  had 
to  encounter  in  her  advance  across 
this  region  to  meet  two  other  of 
the  greatest  Powers  of  the  world. 
The  first  military  expedition  in 
Central  Asia  undertaken  by  Russia 
during  the  present  century,  or  in- 
deed since  the  failure  of  Peter  the 
Great's  expedition  against  Khiva, 
was  in  1839.  And  Khiva  was 
again  the  object.  But  this  time 
the  advance  was  made,  not  as  be- 
fore from  the  eastern  shores  of  the 
Caspian,  but  by  a  long  march  from 
the  extreme  north — starting  from 
Orenburg,  and  marching  southwards 
by  the  western  side  of  the  Aral 
Sea.  General  Peroffsky  set  out 
with  4500  fighting  men,  and  22 
pieces  of  artillery,  and,  besides 
horse-transport,  he  took  with  him 
10,000  camels,  with  2000  Kirghiz 
drivers.  But  when  he  got  only 
half-way  to  Khiva,  and  before  the 
main  body  had  even  seen  the  ene- 
my, the  expedition  had  to  retreat, 
—  having  lost  two -thirds  of  the 
troops,  and  9000  camels,  besides 
an  immense  number  of  horses. 

It  was  only  about  sixteen  years 
ago  that  the  real  and  continuous 
advance  of  Russia  began.  By  that 
time  the  head  of  the  Aral  Sea  had 
been  reached,  and  Fort  Kazalinsk 
had  been  erected  at  the  mouth  of 
the  Jaxartes.  And  that  great  and 
navigable  river  opened  a  highway 
through  the  steppes  and  deserts  up 
to  the  distant  states  on  the  low- 
lands at  the  foot  of  the  great  moun- 
tain-range which  divides  Asia  in 
its  central  region.  "  The  Russian 
frontier,"  said  Prince  Gortschakoff 


1880.] 


Central  Asia :  the  Meeting-place  of  Empires. 


219 


in  substance  in  1864,  "cannot  re- 
main where  it  is.  At  present  it 
borders  only  with  lawless  nomadic 
tribes,  with  whom  it  is  impossible 
to  establish  settled  relations.  We 
must  of  necessity  go  on  until  we 
reach  the  settled  states,  with  whom 
we  can  enter  into  peaceful  com- 
mercial relations,  profitable  to  both 
parties.  And  there  and  then  we 
shall  stop."  And  so,  up  the  course 
of  the  Jaxartes  marched  the  Rus- 
sian troops.  But  the  settled  states 
which  they  were  approaching  did 
not  relish  this  invasion  of  a  region 
over  which  their  dominion  then 
extended.  Thus  it  happened  that, 
when  the  Russians  had  advanced 
some  200  miles  up  the  Jaxartes 
river,  they  found  the  Khokandian 
troops  guarding  the  frontier  town 
of  Ak  Mechet.  The  Khokandians 
were  defeated,  and  there  the  Rus- 
sians built  Fort  No.  2,  or  Peroff- 
sky.  Other  200  miles  were  over- 
passed, and  the  town  of  Hazret 
(now  called  Turkistan)  fell  before 
the  Russian  attack.  General  Tcher- 
nayeff  was  now  the  hero  of  the 
advance.  Chimkent  was  captured 
(Nov.  1864)  by  a  further  advance  ; 
and  at  length  the  invaders  drew 
near  to  Tashkent,  the  chief  city  of  the 
khanate,  with  80,000  inhabitants, 
— situated  in  a  valley  adjoining  the 
Upper  Jaxartes,  and  nearly  600 
miles  from  the  Russian  starting- 
point  at  the  mouth  of  that  river. 
Or  if,  more  correctly,  we  date  the 
military  base  of  the  Russian  expe- 
dition at  Orenburg,  the  flourishing 
city  of  Tashkent,  which  they  were 
thus  approaching,  was  distant  from 
that  base  nearly  1200  miles.  Im- 
mediately after  the  capture  of  Chim- 
kent, and  before  the  year  1864  had 
closed,  General  Tchernayeff  ad- 
vanced in  a  reconnoitring  expedi- 
tion towards  Tashkent,  and  finally 
made  a  sudden  assault  upon  that 
city,  in  which  he  was  repulsed. 
Six  months  afterwards  (July  1865) 
he  stormed  the  city  with  a  loss  of 


only  about  a  hundred  in  killed  and 
wounded,  in  which  number  there 
were  no  officers ;  and  Tchernayeff 
became  known  in  the  West  as  the 
"  Conqueror  of  Tashkent." 

Thus,  advancing  in  a  south-east- 
erly course  from  Orenburg,  first  to 
the  Aral  Sea,  'and  thence  up  the 
river  Jaxartes — in  a  diagonal  line 
across  the  western  part  of  Central 
Asia — the  Russians  by  the  end  of 
1865  had  acquired  the  whole  coun- 
try lying  to  the  north  (or  rather 
north-east)  of  the  Jaxartes,  and 
westward  up  to  the  foot  of  the  lofty 
mountain-chain  which  divides  Cen- 
tral Asia.  Pursuing  this  south-east- 
erly line  of  advance,  they  next  came 
upon  the  little  state  of  Khokan, 
near  the  head  of  the  Jaxartes  river, 
and  lying  among  the  highlands  of 
the  great  Dividing  Chain  ;  and  the 
annexation  of  this  remote  corner,  in 
1866,  completed  the  advance  in  this 
direction,  and  carried  the  Russian 
frontier  southwards  to  the  Terek 
Pass  and  the  plateau  of  Pamir 
— overlooking  Kashgar  and  Yar- 
kand  beyond  the  mountains. 
The  Russian  line  of  advance  then 
turned  due  westwards,  bending 
back  in  the  direction  of  Khiva  and 
the  Caspian.  The  annexation  of 
Tashkent  and  Khokan  had  brought 
the  Russians  upon  the  eastern  front 
of  the  large  state  or  khanate  of 
Bokhara.  This  khanate  is  pro- 
tected in  the  north  by  the  Kizzil 
Kum  desert,  which  separates  it  from 
the  lower  course  of  the  Jaxartes 
river.  But  the  Russians  had  passed 
round  this  desert  in  their  south- 
easterly advance,  and  now  came 
upon  the  state  of  Bokhara  from 
the  rear.  The  state  of  Bokhara 
consists  of  the  broad  and  fertile 
oasis  along  the  course  of  the  Zaraf- 
shan  river,  and  the  Russians  were 
now  in  possession  of  the  highlands 
from  which  the  Zarafshan  descends. 
As  the  easiest  'route,  however,  they 
marched  across  the  narrow  desert 
which  separates  the  upper  Jaxartes 


220 


Central  Asia:  the  Meeting-place  of  Empires. 


[Aug. 


from  the  watershed  of  the  Zarafshan, 
and  then  marched  westwards  down 
the  course  of  that  river  to  Samar- 
kand and  Bokhara.  The  Bokhariot 
army  was  scattered  to  the  winds  at 
the  battle  of  Zerabulak  in  July 
1868,  Samarkand  was  occupied, 
and  the  Ameer  of  Bokhara  became 
a  feudatory  of  the  Czar. 

Khiva  alone  remained  indepen- 
dent. But  in  1873  the  command 
was  at  length  given  from  St  Peters- 
burg for  a  combined  attack  against 
this  last  of  the  khanates.  One 
column  was  to  advance  from  Tash- 
kent by  Samarkand  and  Bokhara,  and 
thence  westwards  down  the  right 
bank  of  the  Oxus.  A  second  expe- 
dition was  to  start  from  Kazalinsk 
at  the  mouth  of  the  Jaxartes,  on 
the  north-east  side  of  the  Aral  Sea, 
and  was  to  make  its  way  across  the 
sandy  wastes  of  the  Kizzil  Kum ; 
a  third  expedition  was  to  set 
out  from  Orenburg  across  the  pas- 
toral steppes  to  the  north-western 
corner  of  the  Aral,  and  thence 
march  along  the  western  shores 
of  the  lake  to  the  mouth  of  the 
Oxus,  from  which  point  there  was 
easy  marching  up  that  river  to 
the  city  of  Khiva.  Lastly,  two 
columns  were  to  advance  from  the 
Caspian, — one  from  Krasnovodsk 
across  the  Urst-Urt,  to  join  the 
Orenburg  column  near  the  southern 
end  of  the  Aral  Sea ;  and  the  other, 
and  more  southerly,  from  Chikislar, 
which  had  to  march  north-east- 
wards to  Khiva  through  the  sandy 
wastes.  This  last-named  column, 
under  Colonel  Markosoff,  wholly 
failed,  and  the  entire  force  was 
within  an  ace  of  perishing  from 
heat  and  want  of  water  in  the 
desert.  The  column  from  Kazalinsk, 
in  crossing  the  Kizzil  Kum,  nearly 
shared  the  same  fate,  owing  to  the 
ambition  of  the  commander,  who 
desired  to  take  a  new  route  ;  and  it 
arrived  too  late  at  the  field  of  opera- 
tions. But  the  column  from  Oren- 


burg made  its  long  march  success- 
fully ;  so  also  did  the  column 
from  Krasnovodsk  on  the  Caspian, 
which  joined  the  Orenburg  column 
in  the  delta  of  the  Oxus ;  the 
combined  force  reaching  Khiva 
simultaneously  with  Kauffman's 
column,  which  had  advanced  from 
Tashkent  by  Samarkand  and  Bok- 
hara, and  thence  down  the  south- 
ern bank  of  the  Oxus.  Khiva  fell 
without  a  struggle ;  the  Khan  be- 
came a  feudatory  of  the  Czar  ;  and 
the  Russians  built  the  fort  of  Petro- 
Alexandrovosk  within  his  terri- 
tories, on  the  south  bank  of  the 
Oxus. 

Thus  the  whole  western  half  of 
Central  Asia  —  namely,  from  the 
Caspian  to  the  Eoof  of  the  World — 
is  now  really,  although  not  wholly 
in  name,  under  the  dominion  of  the 
Czar.  All  the  states  have  been 
conquered.  A  quadrangular  moun- 
tain-region, formed  by  the  Eoof  of 
the  World  and  the  lofty  mountain- 
ranges  running  westward  from  it, 
down  which  flow  the  head  waters  of 
the  Oxus,  separates  the  Khokandian 
frontier  of  Russia  from  the  Hin- 
doo Koosh.  Where  these  moun- 
tain-ridges sink  into  the  plains,  a 
straight  and  easy  road  leads  south- 
ward from  Samarkand  across  the 
Oxus  to  the  Bameean  Pass.  But 
westward  from  this  point,  begin- 
ning about  Balkh,  the  Kara  Kum 
desert,  lying  to  the  south  of  the 
Oxus,  extends  all  the  way  to  the 
Caspian,  covering  the  nothern  fron- 
tier of  Persia.  The  Russians  are 
now  working  round  this  desert,  by 
their  expeditions  against  the  Tekke 
Turcomans,  and  will  find  their  best 
road  to  India  up  the  valley  of  the 
Attrek  river.  In  a  second  article 
we  shall  complete  our  description 
of  Central  Asia,  dealing  chiefly 
with  the  eastern  part,  where  the 
Muscovite  and  Mongolian  Empires 
meet  in  rivalry,  and  probably  in 
conflict. 


1380.] 


In  the  Deer-forest :  a  Day  Bewitched. 


221 


IX  THE   DEER-FOREST:   A  DAY  BEWITCHED. 


"Hope  told  a  flattering  tale— Hope  lied.' 


JOURNEY  with  us — in  the  mind 
only — to  the  north  of  Scotland — to 
Eoss-shire.  Survey — with  mental 
eye — the  part  of  that  county  which 
touches  on  the  Sutherland  march, 
and  then  listen  with  sympathetic 
ear  to  such  a  tale  of  shame  and 
woe  as  surely  few  men  have  to  tell; 
— a  story  of  the  hills — not,  be  it 
quickly  understood,  one  of  those 
accounts  often  met  with,  which 
tell,  intermixed  with  description  of 
scenery,  of  how  a  gallant  royal  was 
pursued,  long  unsuccessfully,  per- 
haps, but  never  in  the  end  in  vain. 
There  will  be  no  mention  here  of 
"  purple  moors  "or  "  shaggy  wood." 
We  have  to  relate  plain, unvarnished 
facts,  terribly  true,  with  reference  to 
a  day  which,  beginning  badly,  grew 
worse,  and  ended  in  a  climax  so 
fearful  that  it  has  made  us  old  be- 
fore our  time,  and  which,  when  the 
remembrance  of  it  comes  across  us 
in  the  night,  even  now  causes  us  to 
writhe  in  impotent  vexation  and 
dismay. 

One  morning,  in  the  first  week 
of  October,  two  or  three  years 
ago,  four  men  were  sitting  in  a 
keeper's  house  in  the  north  of 
Eoss-shire  waiting  for  the  dawn, 
in  whom,  as  Hawthorne  says,  we 
shall  be  glad  to  interest  our 
readers.  It  was  very  early,  not 
much  past  five,  and  yet  some  of 
them  had  already  had  a  long  tramp 
— a  dozen  miles ;  while  one,  then 
ruefully  examining  by  the  peat- 
fire  a  blistered  toe,  had  got  over 
more  than  twice  that  distance  since 
he  last  slept.  The  eldest  was  a  man 
of  about  fifty,  with  a  thin,  rather 
anxious  face,  and  the  keen  eyes 
which  those  who  are  constantly  on 
the  look-out  often  have.  He  was 


slightly  built  and  very  active,  with 
well-formed  hands  and  feet  and  an- 
kles, and  altogether  rather  a  refined 
air.  The  second,  a  great,  strong, 
broad-shouldered  fellow,  more  than 
six  feet  high,  with  black  curly 
beard  and  moustache,  and  frank, 
pleasant  face,  also  with  keen  eyes — 
eyes,  we  believe,  which  could  see 
through  a  hundred  yards  of  rock, 
but  which,  at  any  rate,  would  have 
made  short  work  of  such  feeble  ob- 
stacles to  sight  as  Samuel  Weller's 
flight  of  stairs  and  deal  door;  a 
man  who,  to  save  you  the  smallest 
bit  of  trouble,  would  run  down — 
and  up — a  couple  of  thousand  feet 
of  steep  hillside  and  think  nothing 
of  it.  The  third,  quiet  and  silent, 
thoroughly  up  to  his  work  and  pas- 
sionately devoted  to  it,  loving  rather 
to  spend  a  cold  day  creeping  up  to 
his  waist  in  a  burn  after  a  stag  than 
to  kill  half-a-dozen  salmon  or  fifty 
brace  of  grouse,  a  born  deer-stalker, 
and  a  good,  honest,  straightfor- 
ward fellow — as  indeed  were  they 
all.  There  is  no  reason  why  we 
should  not  give  their  names. 
Thomas  Herbert  of  Alladale — poor 
fellow  !  he  will  never  walk  on  the 
hills  again ;  and  two  George  Eosses, 
the  one  of  Deanich,  the  other  of 
Braelangwell.  Of  the  fourth  man 
—  the  wounded  one  —  it  is  not 
here  necessary  to  say  much.  Be- 
fore the  day  is  over,  something 
will  be  learnt  about  him.  The 
three  first  described  were  keepers 
— the  last,  for  the  time  being,  their 
master ;  and  for  the  sake  of  con- 
venience, and  to  avoid  the  constant 
use  of  pronouns,  we  shall  distinguish 
this  latter  by  the  initial  letter  G. 

The  candle,  blown  out,  showed  the 
daybreak  creeping  in ;  and  the  tea 
and  oat-cake  being  finished,  a  move 


222 


In  the  Deer-forest :  a  Day  Bewitched. 


[Aug. 


was  made  outside.  The  men  all 
had  glasses,  two  of  them  rifles  on 
their  shoulders, — a  long  crooked 
stick  being  the  only  weapon  carried 
at  present  by  the  fourth  man. 
They  were  dressed  pretty  much 
alike,  in  knickerbocker  suits  of  dim 
and  faded  material,  —  greys  and 
yellows  being  the  predominating 
shades,  and  all  showing  more  or 
less  signs  of  hard  wear.  Perhaps 
G.  was  the  most  to  be  noticed  in 
this  respect.  He  had,  a  day  or  two 
before,  gone  through  some  rather 
intricate  manoeuvres  on  a  long  slop- 
ing bed  composed  of  mica-schist 
and  granite,  and  had  not  had  time 
since  to  get  into  thorough  repair, 
but  this,  up  in  those  regions,  was 
not  a  matter  of  much  moment. 
They  waded  the  river  which  ran 
within  a  few  yards  of  the  lodge, 
and,  rejoicing  in  the  fresh  cool  feel 
of  the  air,  forerunner  of  a  fine 
autumn  day  in  the  mountains,  went 
a  little  way  up  the  glen,  and  at- 
tacked the  steep  hill  at  the  head  of 
it.  It  was  a  good  stiff  pull,  but  a 
few  weeks'  hard  work  soon  puts  on 
condition,  and  the  blistered  foot, 
helped  by  the  rest,  and  by  the  cool 
water  of  the  river,  went  bravely 
now.  A  heavy,  dense  dew  lay  on 
the  heather ;  the  grouse,  never  shot 
in  that  part  of  the  forest,  were 
crowing  merrily  on  many  hillocks ; 
and  now  and  then,  far  away  above, 
a  hoarse  bellow  was  heard,  sound- 
ing strange  and  weird  in  the  dim 
light,  and  was  taken  up  and  an- 
swered from  the  more  distant  hill- 
side opposite.  After  an  hour's  climb 
the  spy  ing-ground  was  reached,  in  a 
thick  mist  and  heavy  shower,  which, 
however,  soon  cleared  away,  and  the 
rest  of  the  day,  so  far  at  least  as 
the  weather  was  concerned,  was 
favourable. 

As  the  mist  rose,  the  keepers  be- 
gan to  examine  with  their  glasses 
the  two  corries  and  hillside  on  their 
front,  while  the  other  man  lay  com- 
fortably on  his  back,  on  the  driest 


heather  he  could  find,  lazily  smok- 
ing, and  thinking  of  the  pleasant 
prospect  before  him.  Not  of  the 
view,  though  that  was  fair  enough. 
If  he  had  been  up  just  a  little 
higher,  he  could,  by  merely  turn- 
ing his  head,  have  looked  right 
across  Scotland, — at  the  German 
Ocean  on  the  one  side,  and  the 
Atlantic  on  the  other,  with  the 
Summer  Islands  —  dim  specks  in 
the  far  distance, — and  with  a  glass, 
perhaps,  even  seen  the  smoke  of  a 
steamer  creeping  along  the  west 
coast.  He  was  meditating,  how- 
ever, on  the  long  clear  day  before 
him.  He  was  thinking  of  the  good 
chance  he  had  of  killing  two,  or 
perhaps  three  fine  stags ;  and  as  a 
soldier  going  into  battle  might  think 
of  the  Victoria  Cross,  or  a  fisherman 
putting  up  his  rod  of  a  clean  run 
30-pounder,  so  he,  lying  there,  let 
his  imagination  run  riot  on  a  royal 
with  the  roughest  and  blackest  of 
horns.  Deer  had  been  roaring  on 
every  side  as  he  came  up  the  glen 
in  the  night  (the  rutting  season  was 
early  that  year,  and  the  stags  were 
daily  falling  off  in  condition),  and 
once  or  twice  when  passing  some 
sweet  pasture  by  the  river,  he  had 
heard  the  disturbed  splashing  they 
made  as  they  crossed  it  in  alarm. 

And  they  were  soon  found  here 
— half-a-dozen  or  more  lying  far  up 
on  the  hillside  facing  them — but 
as  soon  pronounced  to  be  hinds. 
There  was  a  stag,  however,  near 
at  hand, — a  long  hoarse  roar  be- 
trayed him,  and  by  the  aid  of  a 
glass  he  was  seen  to  be  a  fair  beast, 
but  with  only  one  horn.  He  was 
lying  just  under  the  crown  of  a 
hill  on  the  opposite  side  to  where 
the  hinds  were,  and  it  was  thought 
that  by  coming  carefully  over  this 
hill  it  would  not  be  difficult  to  get  a 
shot  at  him.  It  would  be  necessary 
to  pass  immediately  below  the  deer, 
but  the  wind  was  fair,  and  there  was 
no  danger.  So  they  started,  going 
slowly  and  carefully  at  first  when 


1880.] 


In  the  Deer-forest :  a  Day  Bewitched. 


223 


in  sight,  and  then  at  a  good  pace, 
since  stags  at  this  season  rarely 
remain  long  in  one  place,  especially 
when  they  have  no  hinds  with 
them.  When  passing  underneath 
him,  one  of  the  men  ran  up  to  the 
top  of  the  little  ravine  they  were 
following  to  see  if  all  was  right ; 
and  when  he  looked  over  he  at 
once  slipped  off  the  cover  of  the 
rifle  he  was  carrying,  and  motioned 
eagerly  with  his  hand.  The  stag 
had  shifted  his  ground,  and  was 
coming  right  down  upon  them. 
When  within  120  yards  or  so,  he 
altered  his  course,  giving  a  good 
shoulder-chance  as  he  crossed  their 
line.  No  time  was  to  be  lost.  The 
deer  was  on  the  edge  of  a  hollow, 
and  half-a-dozen  strides  would  take 
him  out  of  sight.  So  sitting  down 
rather  lower  than  he  liked,  not 
very  comfortable,  and  not  quite 
certain  that  the  safety- catches  of 
the  rifle  were  back,  G.  fired.  There 
was  then  no  doubt  about  the  catches; 
they  were  all  right, — so  was  the 
stag.  He  gave  one  of  those  deceiv- 
ing bounds  which  for  a  second  or 
two  often  make  a  man  think  he  has 
hit  when  he  has  missed,  and  dis- 
appeared. None  of  the  men  could 
then  really  say  whether  he  was  got 
or  net ;  but  he  soon  came  in  sight 
again,  going  hard  up  the  opposite 
hill— safe. 

Xot  much  was  said  about  this 
little  incident,  except  the  usual 
consolation — "  Can't  expect  to  kill 
everything  that's  fired  at."  The 
beast,  however,  was  a  good  beast, 
with  a  good  horn,  and  all  secretly 
grudged  his  loss.  Fragrant  smoke 
curled  once  more  into  the  clear  air, 
and  in  a  little  while,  as  the  deer 
had  gone  straight  away,  they  contin- 
ued their  course  along  the  top-ridge 
of  the  great  glen  out  of  which  they 
had  climbed  in  the  morning.  Cau- 
tiously proceeding,  and  carefully  ex- 
amining the  ground,  more  deer  were 
soon  discovered — five-and-twenty  or 
thirty,  feeding  in  a  corrie  far  away 


below  by  the  green  sides  of  a  burn. 
Now  this  corrie  is  a  very  curious 
one.  It  is  very  large,  and  whether 
it  is  owing  to  its  shape  and  the  lie 
of  the  ground,  or  whether,  as  some 
assert,  to  witchcraft,  the  fact  is  well 
known  that  it  is  exceedingly  diffi- 
cult to  make  in  it  a  successful  stalk, 
no  matter  from  what  quarter  the 
wind  may  be  in  above.  G.  had 
had  much  experience  in  such  mat- 
ters, and  knew  quite  well  the  rea- 
son. It  icas  witchcraft.  He  had 
met,  a  day  or  two  before,  while 
driving  up  to  this  forest,  a  pretty 
girl,  and  had  had  good  sport:  on 
another  occasion  he  had  met  an 
ugly  old  woman,  and  done  nothing, 
so  he  might  be  allowed  to  know 
something  about  it.  Besides  he 
had  read  Scrope,  and  knew  all  about 
the  Witch  of  Ben-y-Gloe  and  her 
doings,  and  the  old  woman  who 
used  to  "  louse "  the  strings  of  the 
bag  which  held  the  deer-stalker's 
breeze.  But,  witchcraft  or  not,  it 
was  decided,  after  a  little  hesita- 
tion, to  attempt  the  stalk.  To 
have  sent  men  down  to  drive  the 
corrie  would  have  taken  much  time ; 
and,  as  the  wind  was,  there  was  no 
certainty  of  being  able  to  make  the 
deer  take  the  desired  pass.  They 
began  the  descent,  and,  fortune 
seeming  kind,  were  getting  near 
their  quarry  when  the  first  check 
came.  A  bare  piece  of  ground,  a 
hump  standing  out  slightly  from 
the  sides  of  the  hill,  had  to  be 
crossed,  and  once  over  this  they 
would  be  safe.  Lying  perfectly 
flat  on  their  backs,  with  rucked- 
up  knickerbockers,  and  ever  and 
anon  reminded  of  some  ancient 
bruise,  they  worked  their  way  slow- 
ly down.  Another  fifty  yards  and 

then An  ugly,  ragged-looking 

hind  saw  them.  Eising  quickly, 
she  came  a  few  yards  forward  and 
stared  intently  up.  Some  of  the 
other  deer  rose  too,  but  not  hav- 
ing seen  anything  themselves,  were 
not  much  alarmed.  Perfectly 


224 


In  the  Deer-forest :  a  Day  Bewitched. 


[Aug. 


still  those  four  men  lay  on  that 
hillside ;  as  "  carven  statues " — 
very  dirty  ones — they  lay  there. 
In  what  position  the  hind  caught 
them  in,  in  that  position  must  they 
stay,  if  need  be,  to  the  crack  of 
doom.  The  active  partner  in  the 
bloodthirsty  firm — he  of  the  rifle 
— was  the  worst  off :  not  only  was 
a  choice  collection  of  well-pointed 
heather  "stobs"  exploring  his  frame- 
work in  every  direction,  but  he  felt 
an  acute  attack  of  cramp  coming  on 
in  his  left  leg,  which  was  doubled 
•up  under  him.  No  matter  if  the 
fiercest  cramp  which  ever  assailed 
mortal  body  was  to  attack  him 
with  tenfold  force  in  each  indi- 
vidual limb,  he  knew  well  what 
his  duty  was,  and  was  prepared  to 
do  it, — to  die  if  necessary — even  to 
do  that  quietly, — to  lie  still.  In 
gentle  groans  he  might  vent  his 
anguish,  but  that  was  all.  All 
things,  however,  end,  and  the  hind, 
after  looking  fixedly  up  for  five 
minutes,  turned  away  her  head  as  if 
satisfied.  In  two  seconds  she  swung 
it  back  again.  Is  it  possible  that 
those  dingy- looking,  dirty  objects, 
250  yards  or  so  above  her,  which 
she  had  decided  were  stones,  have 
moved  1  Surely  one  of  them  is  more 
angular  than  before  1  Ah  !  clever, 
keen- eyed  thing,  are  you  so  easily 
deceived  1  The  poor  cramp-stricken 
one  had  ventured  to  move  his  leg, 
and  was  fixed  by  the  stony  glare 
of  the  hind,  with  that  member 
sticking  out  at  a  right  angle.  His 
sufferings  were  now  dreadful.  After 
another  patient  gaze,  however,  she 
went  back,  and  began  feeding,  look- 
ing up  once  or  twice,  but  not  sus- 
picious now.  A  little  law  was  still 
given  her,  and  then  the  remaining 
part  of  the  ridge  got  over,  and 
aching  limbs  stretched  in  safety. 
Out  of  sight  they  could  move 
boldly,  and  in  a  few  moments  G. 
was  lying,  on  his  chest  now,  with 
the  rifle  in  his  hands,  peering  over 
at  the  unconscious  deer  below. 


There  were  several  fair  stags  :  a 
nine  -  pointer,  with  good  though 
rather  light -coloured  horns,  which 
was  a  little  nearer  than  the  others, 
was  to  be  the  first  victim.  The 
single  rifle  was  pushed,  with  a 
bloodthirsty  grin,  near  his  right 
hand,  ready  to  be  used.  Its  con- 
tents were  for  the  thick-set,  peat- 
stained  beast  standing  a  little  to 
the  right.  The  nearest  stag  was 
perhaps  130  yards  away;  but  what 
is  that  to  an  express  with  five 
drams  of  powder  behind  the  bullet  1 
The  position  was  a  good  one.  No 
nasty  bits  of  grass  or  heather  could 
blow  about  in  front  of  the  sight, 
and  the  murderer  only  waited  for 
the  deer  to  rise.  Some  men  don't 
like  this  waiting.  We  think  it 
much  preferable  to  a  hasty  shot : 
lying  for  an  hour  or  more,  as  has 
often  to  be  done,  within  sight  of 
the  deer,  stills  the  heart  which 
may  have  been  beating  pretty  fast 
at  the  first  glimpse — and  so  thought 
our  friend.  He  was  cool  and  com- 
fortable, and  meant  to  make  no 
mistake  this  time.  In  about  twenty 
minutes,  a  nobber,  which  had  been 
driven  out  of  the  herd,  came  slyly 
back,  hoping  not  to  be  noticed. 
The  master  of  the  hinds,  however, 
soon  saw  him,  and  at  once  rose, 
looking  angrily  at  the  small  in- 
truder, and  offering  his  whole  fair 
broadside  to  the  rifle.  The  centre 
of  the  forefinger  was  on  the  trigger, 
there  was  no  pull,  no  jerk,  only  a 
gentle  pressure  —  and  the  bullet 
went  singing  down  to  the  depths 
below,  just  six  inches  too  high.  The 
first  sight  was  for  150  yards  :  this 
had  been  forgotten,  and  a  full  one 
taken,  as  if  it  had  been  a  hundred  : 
hence  this  woe.  The  deer  in  a  con- 
fused mass  cantered  off.  The  stag, 
however,  going  more  slowly,  and 
coming  round  the  hill,  gave  another 
chance  at  about  the  same  distance 
as  before.  The  same  mistake  was 
made,  and  the  second  bullet  went 
to  join  the  first.  Dropping  the 


1880.] 


In  the  Deer-forest :  a  Day  Bewitched. 


225 


empty  rifle  and  catching  up  the 
"Henry,"  a  desperate  attempt  was 
made  to  get  another  shot  as  they 
went  out  at  the  high  pass.  Any 
one  who  is  accustomed  to  moun- 
tain work  knows  the  difficulty  of 
going  at  racing  speed  along  a  very 
steep  hillside  :  where  there  is  grass 
only,  it  may  be  done;  where  there 
is  rank  heather,  with  the  stems 
lying  downwards,  it  is  an  impossi- 
bility. A  fearful  slip  was  made,  a 
wild  attempt  to  recover,  and  then 
rifle  and  man  (the  former  fortun- 
ately on  half-cock)  parted  company 
and  went  down  the  hill.  After 
some  bold  and  graphic  evolutions 
in  the  air,  the  latter  came  to  anchor 
at  a  rock,  and  for  a  little  while  ex- 
perienced that  feeling  of  indiffer- 
ence to  life  which  a  sharp  pain 
sometimes  brings  with  it.  The 
knee-cap  of  a  man,  no  matter  in 
what  state  of  hard  training  his 
leg  may  be  in,  is  a  poor  weapon 
to  assault  a  stone  with. 

Of  course  this  settled  everything 
— failure  number  two,  and  a  bad 
one.  G.  endeavoured  now  to  ex- 
plain the  cause  of  the  mishap  to 
the  keepers.  They  listened,  but 
evidently  without  any  belief  in  the 
story.  If  few  remarks  were  made 
about  the  first  stalk,  fewer  still  were 
made  now.  One  man,  with  a  more 
anxious  expression  on  his  face  than 
usual,  quietly  smoked.  One  George 
does  the  same.  The  other,  not  even 
yet  discouraged,  used  his  glass,  and 
for  a  while  there  was  silence  on 
that  uncanny  hillside. 

"  He  is  a  good  one  too,  a  switch- 
horn,"  very  likely.  He  was  on 
the  top  of  a  stupendous  mountain, 
with  sides  as  steep  as  a  house,  and 
appeared  to  be  about  ten  miles 
away.  The  fourth  man,  not  feel- 
ing quite  sure  that  he  will  not  be 
left  to  perish  on  the  top  of  that 
mountain,  and  also  conscious  of  his 
foot,  now  thinks  it  time  to  speak 
out,  and  does  so.  "  Oh,  I  say,  you 
know,  I  don't  think  it's  any  good 


going  up  there.  I  don't  think  he'll 
wait  for  us."  They  laugh.  Of  course 
he  has  to  go. 

The  great  hill  was  attacked,  and 
much  the  same  manoeuvres  gone 
through  as  before,  diversified  in 
this  case,  however,  by  the  passage 
of  a  marsh,  through  which,  as  the 
deer  was  in  sight,  they  had  to 
crawl  and  wriggle  like  eels,  while 
the  water  ran  into  their  waistcoats, 
and  trickled  pleasantly  down  their 
shirts.  In  long  single  file  they 
go,  as  Red  Indians  do  in  pictures 
when  they  are  going  to  attack 
sleeping  emigrants  by  night — only 
with  more  clothes  on.  The  stag 
was  alone,  and  they  got  safely  above 
him,  and  within  120  yards.  G. 
got  his  favourite  position  this  time 
—  a  sitting  one,  with  legs  well 
downhill,  and  elbows  resting  on 
his  thighs.  Big  and  long-bodied, 
with  stately  head  and  strong  wide- 
spreading  horns,  by  far  the  best 
stag  seen  that  day,  the  switch- 
horn  feeds  unconsciously  below. 
He  icas  a  beauty, — and  the  bullets 
go  with  a  soft  plug  into  the  damp 
sod  —  one  underneath  him,  the 
other  a  little  to  his  right. 

It  would  not  be  fitting  to  write 
down  here  the  exclamations  which 
burst  simultaneously  from  three 
pairs  of  lips,  and — when  the  smoke 
blew  away — from  four.  The  three 
men  talked  rapidly  in  Gaelic;  one 
followed  the  fast  diminishing  stag 
with  his  glass ;  another,  with  agony 
depicted  on  every  line  of  his  face, 
sat  down  and  looked  up  helplessly 
at  this  latter ;  the  third  picked  up 
the  discharged  rifle,  and,  squinting 
down  the  barrels,  seemed  to  be 
endeavouring  to  discover  something 
about  them  which  would  account 
for  such  an  extraordinary  exhibi- 
tion. G.  was  now  very  agitated : 
his  blistered  toe  began  to  hurt  very 
much ;  he  felt,  too,  very  sick ;  his 
cramp  was  coming  back;  and  he 
heartily  wished  himself  at  home, 
in  bed,  anywhere  but  where  he 


226 


In  the  Deer-forest :  a  Day  Bewitched. 


[Aug. 


was.  He  lit  a  pipe;  but  the 
"  York  River "  tasted  nasty,  and 
the  pipe  was  stuffed  up  and  would 
not  draw  properly.  He  poked  up 
a  rush,  but  it  broke  off  inside  the 
stem,  and  stopped  the  whole  per- 
formance. Seeking  consolation,  he 
then  referred  to  a  certain  day,  the 
week  before,  when  he  had  killed 
two  fine  stags  —  the  time  he  met 
the  pretty  witch.  One  man,  who 
was  not  present,  plainly  disbelieved 
the  story ;  the  others,  who  were, 
hinted  —  equally  plainly  —  that  it 
was  a  fluke. 

The  back  of  the  day  was  broken 
now  :  it  was  getting  on ;  and  it  was 
decided,  after  having  lunched,  that 
as  that  part  of  the  ground  was  thor- 
oughly disturbed,  it  was  necessary 
to  cross  over  the  great  ridge  at  their 
back,  and  make  one  more  gigantic 
effort  for  blood — the  fourth. 

So  they  left  this  unlucky  bullet- 
sprinkled  ground,  and  walked  some 
miles  over  the  tops,  mostly  quartz 
and  granite,  with  a  network  of  hea- 
ther-roots, and  nothing  else  but 
roots,  stretched  tightly  over  it, — a 
bare,  useless  district,  tenanted  only 
by  a  few  ptarmigan  and  white  hares. 
In  due  time  the  first  corrie  was 
reached,  a  curious  sort  of  hole  at 
the  side  of  an  immense  rock.  There, 
by  a  stagnant  little  peaty  loch,  were 
some  deer  lying,  hinds  and  stags, 
but  quite  unapproachable  by  stalk- 
ing. They  could  be  driven,  how- 
ever (there  was  a  first-rate  pass  in 
the  corrie,  which  they  would  be 
almost  sure  to  take),  and  one  of  the 
Georges  at  once  volunteered  to  go 
round  by  the  head  of  the  glen,  come 
in  upon  them  from  below,  and  put 
them  up.  This  would  be  nearly  an 
hour's  work ;  so,  when  he  was  gone, 
the  others  went  a  little  lower  down, 
and,  leaving  the  rifles,  took  shelter 
under  a  big  stone,  for  the  wind  was 
blowing  keenly  here,  and  it  was 
cold.  There  G.,  smoking  a  bor- 
rowed pipe,  listened  to  the  story, 
often  heard  before,  of  how,  years 


ago,  a  fox,  hard  pressed  by  the 
hounds,  had  jumped  from  the  top 
of  that  stupendous  rock  on  to  a 
ledge  a  foot  or  two  below,  and  let 
the  dogs,  less  crafty  and  more  ignor- 
ant of  the  ground,  go  over  him  and 
the  frightful  precipice  at  the  same 
time — a  thousand  feet's  sheer  fall. 
Then  the  remaining  George  went  up 
a  little  higher  to  see  if  his  namesake 
was  in  sight.  Whilst  looking  round 
he  saw,  scarcely  half  a  mile  to  their 
right,  another  parcel  of  deer,  and 
amongst  them  a  very  fine  stag. 
They  were  separated  from  the  first 
lot  by  a  high  spur  of  the  mountain ; 
but  it  was  evident  that  when  these 
latter  were  put  up  by  the  driver,  the 
former  would  see  them  on  the  sky- 
line, and  take  the  alarm.  Xo  time 
was  to  be  lost ;  the  last- found  stag 
was  a  much  better  one  than  any 
of  those  by  the  loch,  so  it  was  at 
once  decided  to  sacrifice  them.  One 
of  the  keepers  ran  down  towards 
them,  and,  showing  himself,  put 
them  off  successfully,  sending  them 
right  in  the  teeth  of  the  driver. 
The  other  rigged  out  a  flag,  by 
the  help  of  a  couple  of  pocket- 
handkerchiefs,  as  a  signal.  The 
driver  soon  appeared  in  sight — 
a  tiny  speck,  at  the  turn  of  the 
glen — and  meeting  the  deer,  tried 
to  turn  them  back  —  fortunately 
without  doing  so.  Then  using  his 
glass,  he  saw  and  understood  the  sig- 
nal, and  came  up,  guided  by  them 
as  to  the  road  he  was  to  take. 

So  far  all  had  gone  well.  There 
seemed  a  chance — a  good  chance — 
of  wiping  out  the  disgrace  of  the 
day.  The  head  of  that  stag  would 
go  a  long  way  towards  atoning  for 
the  three  previous  blunders,  and  G. 
vowed  to  himself  that  if  he  could 
carry  it  home  in  the  dog-cart  that 
night,  he  would  be  good  for — an 
indefinite  period.  Such  vows  are 
often  made  at  such  times.  So  far 
all  had  gone  well,  but  now  Hie  ter- 
rible calamity  of  a  day  marked  by 
misfortune  occurred.  What  crime 


1880.] 


In  the  Deer-forest :  a  Day  Bewitched. 


227 


had  that  ingenuous  youth  commit- 
ted, that  he  should  be  visited  by  so 
heavy  a  punishment1?  What  god 
had  he  so  bitterly  offended,  that 
such  a  fiery  bolt  of  indignation 
should  be  hurled  upon  his  head1? 
Surely  the  fates  might  have  been 
satisfied  with  the  woes  they  had 
already  worked. 

The  keeper  was  within  a  dozen 
yards  of  joining  the  party  when  he 
suddenly  sank  gently  on  his  knees, 
at  the  same  time  making  a  warning 
gesture  with  his  hand.  Slowly,  and 
with  stately  step,  a  stag  with  a 
head  of  ten  points  crossed  the  ridge 
on  their  right,  and  stood  carelessly 
looking  about  him  j  ust  below.  Three 
or  four  hinds  and  a  calf  followed ; 
they  were  the  last-found  deer  shift- 
ing the  ground.  The  men  were 
lying  spread-eagled  on  the  hillside, 
bare  except  for  some  heather  and 
withered  grass,  and  the  stag  at 
once  saw  them,  but  he  was  de- 
ceived by  their  perfect  stillness 
(deer's  sight,  though  wonderfully 
acute  in  detecting  movement,  can- 
not be  very  minutely  accurate),  and 
after  a  short,  steady  look  was  satis- 
fied. There  he  stood,  not  one  single 
inch  more  than  fifty  yards  away. 
And  the  rifles  !  0  heavens  !  the 
rifles  !  Ah  me  !  The  covers  which 
held  them  could  be  seen  peeping 
out  from  a  big  stone  about  twenty 
yards  away  ;  and  not  for  the  wealth 
of  Scotland  —  or,  for  the  matter 
of  that,  of  the  universe  —  could 
they  be  reached  unseen.  Words 
are  feeble,  language  utterly  fails, 
to  paint  the  feelings  of  those 
wretched  men.  Interjections,  notes 
of  admiration,  blanks  were  fitter. 
It  was  not  the  least  agony  of  their 
terrible  position  that  they  had  to 
be  silent. 

It  had  been  a  fair  sight  for  a 
gentle  lady,  or  a  still  more  gentle 
vegetarian,  to  look  on.  The  grace- 
ful stag,  whose  ruddy  coat  and 
thick-maned  neck  the  bright  even- 
ing sun  was  lighting  up ;  the 


timid-looking  hinds,  cropping  the 
short  grass,  or  watching  the  calf 
which  now  visited  its  mother,  and 
-now.  ran  madly  round  and  round 
like  a  terrier  just  let  loose,  divid- 
ing its  time  like  a  master-mason 
in  refreshment  and  labour.  If 
hatred,  if  the  hot  blast  of  deeply- 
thought  comminatory  ejaculations 
could  have  slain  them,  they  would 
have  died  a  thousand  times.  Men 
say  that  there  are  now  on  that 
hillside  four  bleached  patches  on 
which  the  heather  never  grows ; 
nay,  that  the  solid  granite  itself 
has  crumbled  away  under  the  in- 
tensity of  unspoken  feelings. 

For  twenty  minutes — for  twenty 
awful  minutes,  did  this  scene  last, 

and  then gaily,  carelessly,  there 

passed  away  down  the  hill  half-a- 
dozen  animals,  which  may  be  safely 
said  to  have  caused  in  that  time  a 
greater  amount  of  concentrated  an- 
guish than  any  equal  number  of 
their  species  since  the  beginning 
of  the  world. 

"Holloa!  what's  the  matter 
now]"  "Oh,  nothing — only  the 
belly-band  broken  and  the  dog-cart 
useless."  Only  eight  miles  extra 
to  walk  home.  It  was  all  in  the 
day's  work.  Tired  and  miserable 
G.  got  there,  and  first  taking  the 
necessary  precaution  of  donning  an 
ulster,  received  the  sympathy  of 
his  host  and  hostess  —  the  only 
consolation  of  the  day.  He  dressed, 
burning  the  sleeve  of  his  dress-coat 
over  the  candle  in  doing  so ;  dined, 
spilling  half  a .  bottle  of  claret  over 
the  rest  of  his  garments ;  and  went 
sadly  to  bed,  to  dream  of  enormous 
corries  and  multitudes  of  deer,  all 
inaccessible,  .except  one  gigantic 
switch,  which,  pinning  him  up 
against  a  rock,  held  him;  while 
the  three  keepers,  armed  each  with 
extra  -  powered,  magnified  gatling- 
guns,  opened  fire  on  him  with  ex- 
plosive bullets  at  distances  varying 
from  fifteen  to  twenty-five  yards. 


228 


Dr  Worth's  School—Part  IV. 


[Aug 


DR   WOKTLE'S    SCHOOL. — PAKT   iv. 


CHAPTER    X. MR    PEACOCKE    GOES. 


THE  Doctor  had  been  all  but 
savage  with  his  wife,  and,  for  the 
moment,  had  hated  Mr  Puddi- 
combe,  but  still  what  they  said  had 
affected  him.  They  were  both  of 
them  quite  clear  that  Mr  Peacocke 
should  be  made  to  go  at  once.  And 
he,  though  he  hated  Mr  Puddi- 
combe  for  his  cold  logic,  could  not 
but  acknowledge  that  all  the  man 
had  said  was  true.  According  to 
the  strict  law  of  right  and  wrong, 
the  two  unfortunates  should  have 
parted  when  they  found  that  they 
were  not  in  truth  married.  And, 
again,  according  to  the  strict  law 
of  right  and  wrong,  Mr  Peacocke 
should  not  have  brought  the  woman 
there,  into  his  school,  as  his  wife. 
There  had  been  deceit.  But  then 
would  not  he,  Dr  Wortle  himself, 
have  been  guilty  of  similar  deceit 
had  it  fallen  upon  him  to  have  to 
defend  a  woman  who  had  been  true 
and  affectionate  to  him  1  Mr  Pud- 
dicombe  would  have  left  the  woman 
to  break  her  heart  and  have  gone 
away  and  done  his  duty  like  a 
Christian,  feeling  no  tugging  at  his 
heart-strings.  It  was  so  that  our 
Doctor  spoke  to  himself  of  his 
counsellor,  sitting  there  alone  in 
his  library. 

During  his  conference  with  Le- 
froy  something  had  been  said  which 
had  impressed  him  suddenly  with 
an  idea.  A  word  had  fallen  from 
the  Colonel,  an  unintended  word, 
by  which  the  Doctor  was  made  to 
believe  that  the  other  Colonel  was 
dead,  at  any  rate  now.  He  had 
cunningly  tried  to  lead  up  to  the 
subject,  but  Eobert  Lefroy  had 
been  on  his  guard  as  soon  as  he  had 
perceived  the  Doctor's  object,  and 
had  drawn  back,  denying  the  truth 


of  the  word  he  had  before  spoken. 
The  Doctor  at  last  asked  him  the 
question  direct.  Lefroy  then  de- 
clared that  his  brother  had  been 
alive  and  well  when  he  left  Texas, 
but  he  did  this  in  such  a  manner 
as  to  strengthen  in  the  Doctor's 
mind  the  impression  that  he  was 
dead.  If  it  were  so,  then  might 
not  all  these  crooked  things  be 
made  straight? 

He  had  thought  it  better  to  raise 
no  false  hopes.  He  had  said  no- 
thing of  this  to  Peacocke  in  discus- 
sing the  story.  He  had  not  even 
hinted  it  to  his  wife  from  whom  it 
might  probably  make  its  way  to 
Mrs  Peacocke.  He  had  suggested 
it  to  Mr  Puddicombe,  —  asking 
whether  there  might  not  be  a  way 
out  of  all  their  difficulties.  Mr 
Puddicombe  had  declared  that 
there  could  be  no  such  way  as  far 
as  the  school  was  concerned.  Let 
them  marry,  and  repent  their  sins, 
and  go  away  from  the  spot  they 
had  contaminated,  and  earn  their 
bread  in  some  place  in  which  there 
need  be  no  longer  additional  sin  in 
concealing  the  story  of  their  past 
life.  That  seemed  to  have  been 
Mr  Puddicombe's  final  judgment. 
But  it  was  altogether  opposed  to 
Dr  Wortle's  feelings. 

When  Mr  Puddicombe  came 
down  from  the  church  to  the  rec- 
tory, Lord  Carstairs  was  walking 
home  after  the  afternoon  service 
with  Miss  Wortle.  It  was  his 
custom  to  go  to  church  with  the 
family,  whereas  the  school  went 
there  under  the  charge  of  one  of  the 
ushers  and  sat  apart  in  a  portion  of 
the  church  appropriated  to  them- 
selves. Mrs  Wortle,  when  she 
found  that  the  Doctor  was  not 


1880.] 


Df  Worth's  School. —Part  IV. 


229 


going  to  the  afternoon  service, 
declined  to  go  herself.  She  was 
thoroughly  disturbed  by  all  these 
bad  tidings,  and  was,  indeed,  very 
little  able  to  say  her  prayers  in  a 
fit  state  of  mind.  She  could  hardly 
keep  herself  still  for  a  moment,  and 
was  as  one  who  thinks  that  the 
crack  of  doom  is  coming  ;— so  terri- 
ble to  her  was  her  vicinity  and  con- 
nection with  this  man,  and  with 
the  woman  who  was  not  his  wife. 
Then,  again,  she  became  flurried 
when  she  found  that  Lord  Carstairs 
and  Mary  would  have  to  walk  alone 
together ;  and  she  made  little  abor- 
tive attempts  to  keep  first  the  one 
and  then  the  other  from  going  to 
church.  Mary  probably  saw  no 
reason  for  staying  away,  while  Lord 
Carstairs  possibly  found  an  addi- 
tional reason  for  going.  Poor  Mrs 
Wortle  had  for  some  weeks  past 
wished  that  the  charming  young 
nobleman  had  been  at  home  with 
his  father  and  mother,  or  anywhere 
but  in  her  house.  It  had  been 
arranged,  however,  that  he  should 
go  in  July  and  not  return  after  the 
summer  holidays.  Under  these 
circumstances,  having  full  confi- 
dence in  her  girl,  she  had  refrained 
from  again  expressing  her  fears  to 
the  Doctor.  But  there  were  fears. 
It  was  evident  to  her,  though  the 
Doctor  seemed  to  see  nothing  of  it, 
that  the  young  lord  was  falling  in 
love.  It  might  be  that  his  youth 
and  natural  bashfulness  would 
come  to  her  aid,  and  that  nothing 
should  be  said  before  that  day  in 
July  which  would  separate  them. 
But  when  it  suddenly  occurred  to 
her  that  they  two  would  walk  to 
and  fro  from  church  together,  there 
was  cause  for  additional  uneasiness. 
If  she  had  heard  their  conversa- 
tion as  they  came  back  she  would 
have  been  in  no  way  disturbed  by 
its  tone  on  the  score  of  the  young 
man's  tenderness  towards  her  daugh- 
ter, but  she  might  perhaps  have 


been  surprised  by  his  vehemence  in 
another  respect.  She  would  have 
been  surprised,  also,  at  finding  how 
much  had  been  said  during  the  last 
twenty-four  hours  by  others  besides 
herself  and  her  husband  about  the 
affairs  of  Mr  and  Mrs  Peacocke. 

"  Do  you  know  what  he  came 
about1?"  asked  Mary.  The  "he" 
had  of  course  been  Eobert  Lefroy. 

"  Not  in  the  least ;  but  he  came 
up  there  looking  so  queer,  as 
though  he  certainly  had  come  about 
something  unpleasant." 

"  And  then  he  was  with  papa 
afterwards,"  said  Mary.  "I  am 
sure  papa  and  mamma  not  coming 
to  church  has  something  to  do  with 
it.  And  Mr  Peacocke  hasn't  been 
to  church  all  day." 

"  Something  has  happened  to 
make  him  very  unhappy,"  said  the 
boy.  "  He  told  me  so  even  before 
this  man  came  here.  I  don't  know 
any  one  whom  I  like  so  much  as 
Mr  Peacocke." 

"I  think  it  is  about  his  wife," 
said  Mary. 

"  How  about  his  wife  1 " 

"  I  don't  know,  but  I  think  it  is. 
She  is  so  very  quiet." 

"  How  quiet,  Miss  Wortle  ? "  he 
asked. 

"  She  never  will  come  in  to  see 
us.  Mamma  has  asked  her  to  din- 
ner and  to  drink  tea  ever  so  often, 
but  she  never  comes.  She  calls 
perhaps  once  in  two  or  three 
months  in  a  formal  way,  and  that 
is  all  we  see  of  her." 

"  Do  you  like  her?'"  he  asked. 

"  How  can  I  say  when  I  so  sel- 
dom see  her  ? " 

"  I  do.  I  like  her  very  much. 
I  go  and  see  her  often ;  and  I'm 
sure  of  this ; — she  is  quite  a  lady. 
Mamma  asked  her  to  go  to  Car- 
stairs  for  the  holidays  because  of 
what  I  said." 

"She  is  not  going?" 

"  No ;  neither  of  them  will  come. 
I  wish  they  would ;  and  oh,  Miss 


230 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  IV. 


Wortle,  I  do  so  wish  you  were  going 
to  be  there  too."  This  is  all  that 
was  said  of  peculiar  tenderness  be- 
tween them  on  that  walk  home. 

Late  in  the  evening,  —  so  late 
that  the  boys  had  already  gone  to 
bed,  —  the  Doctor  sent  again  for 
Mr  Peacocke.  "  I  should  not  have 
troubled  you  to  -  night,"  he  said, 
"  only  that  I  have  heard  something 
from  Pritchett."  Pritchett  was  the 
rectory  gardener  who  had  charge 
also  of  the  school  buildings,  and 
was  a  person  of  authority  in  the 
establishment.  He,  as  well  as  the 
Doctor,  held  Mr  Peacocke  in  great 
respect,  and  would  have  been  al- 
most as  unwilling  as  the  Doctor 
himself  to  tell  stories  to  the  school- 
master's discredit.  "  They  are  say- 
ing down  at  the  Lamb," — the  Lamb 
was  the  Bowick  public -house, — 
"that  Lefroy  told  them  all  yes- 
terday  "  the  Doctor  hesitated 

before  he  could  tell  it. 

"  That  my  wife  is  not  my  wife  ? " 

"  Just  so." 

"  Of  course  I  am  prepared  for  it. 
I  knew  that  it  would  be  so.  Did 
not  you  1 " 

"I  expected  it." 

"  I  was  sure  of  it.  It  may  be 
taken  for  granted  at  once  that  there 
is  no  longer  a  secret  to  keep.  I 
would  wish  you  to  act  just  as 
though  all  the  facts  were  known 
to  the  entire  diocese."  After  this 
there  was  a  pause  during  which 
neither  of  them  spoke  for  a  few 
moments.  The  Doctor  had  not  in- 
tended to  declare  any  purpose  of 
his  own  on  that  occasion,  but  it 
seemed  to  him  now  as  though  he 
were  almost  driven  to  do  so.  Then 
Mr  Peacocke  seeing  the  difficulty 
at  once  relieved  him  from  it.  "I 
am  quite  prepared  to  leave  Bowick," 
he  said,  "  at  once.  I  know  that  it 
must  be  so.  I  have  thought  about 
it,  and  have  perceived  that  there  is 
no  possible  alternative.  I  should 
like  to  consult  with  you  as  to 


[Aug. 


whither  I  had  better  go.  Where 
shall  I  first  take  her?" 

"  Leave  her  here,"  said  the 
Doctor. 

"  Here  !     Where  ? " 

"  Where  she  is,  in-  the  school- 
house.  Xo  one  will  come  to  fill 
your  place  for  a  while." 

"  I  should  have  thought,"  said 
Mr  Peacocke  very  slowly,  "  that 
her  presence,  —  would  have  been 
worse  almost, — than  my  own." 

"  To  me," — said  the  Doctor, — 
"  to  me  she  is  as  pure  as  the  most 
unsullied  matron  in  the  county." 
Upon  this  Mr  Peacocke,  jumping 
from  his  chair,  seized  the  Doctor's 
hand,  but  could  not  speak  for  his 
tears.  Then  he  seated  himself  again, 
turning  his  face  away  towards  the 
wall.  "  To  no  one  could  the  pres- 
ence of  either  of  you  be  an  evil. 
The  evil  is,  if  I  may  say  so,  that 
the  two  of  you  should  be  here  to- 
gether. You  should  be  apart, — 
till  some  better  day  has  come  upon 
you." 

"  What  better  day  can  ever 
come  ? "  said  the  poor  man  through 
his  tears. 

Then  the  Doctor  declared  his 
scheme.  He  told  what  he  thought 
as  to  Ferdinand  Lefroy,  and  his 
reason  for  believing  that  the  man* 
was  dead.  "  I  feel  sure  from  his 
manner  that  his  brother  is  now  dead 
in  truth.  Go  to  him  and  ask  him 
boldly,"  he  said. 

"  But  his  word  would  not  suffice 
for  another  marriage  ceremony." 

To  this  the  Doctor  agreed.  It 
was  not  his  intention,  he  said,  that 
they  should  proceed  on  evidence  as 
slight  as  that.  ]S"o  ; — a  step  must  be 
taken  much  more  serious  in  its  im- 
portance, and  occupying  a  consider- 
able time.  He,  Peacocke,  must  go 
again  to  Missouri  and  find  out  all 
the  truth.  The  Doctor  was  of 
opinion  that  if  this  were  resolved 
upon,  and  that  if  the  whole  truth 
were  at  once  proclaimed,  then  Mr 


1880.] 


D,-  Worth's  School.— Part  IV. 


231 


Peacocke  need  not  hesitate  to  pay 
Eobert  Lefroy  for  any  information 
which  might  assist  him  in  his 
search.  "  While  you  are  gone," 
continued  the  Doctor  almost  wild- 
ly, "  let  bishops  and  Stantiloups  and 
Puddtcombes  say  what  they  may, 
she  shall  remain  here.  To  say  that 
she  will  be  happy  is  of  course  vain. 
There  can  be  no  happiness  for  her 
till  this  has  been  put  right.  But 
she  will  be  safe ;  and  here,  at  my 
hand,  she  will,  I  think,  be  free 
from  insult.  What  better  is  there 
to  be  done?" 

"  There  can  be  nothing  better," 
eaid  Peacocke  drawing  his  breath, 
— as  though  a  gleam  of  light  had 
shone  in  upon  him. 

"  I  had  not  meant  to  have  spoken 
to  you  of  this  till  to-morrow.  -I 
should  not  have  done  so,  but  that 
Pritchett  had  been  with  me.  But 
the  more  I  thought  of  it,  the  more 
sure  I  became  that  you  could  not 
both  remain, — till  something  had 
been  done ;  till  something  had 
been  done." 

"I  was  sure  of  it,  Dr  Wortle." 

"Mr  Puddicombe  saw  that  it 
was  so.  Mr  Puddicombe  is  not  all 
the  world  to  me  by  any  means,  but 
he  is  a  man  of  common-sense.  I 
will  be  frank  with  you.  My  wife 
said  that  it  could  not  be  so." 

"  She  shall  not  stay.  Mrs  Wortle 
shall  not  be  annoyed." 

"  You  don't  see  it  yet,"  said  the 
Doctor.  "Bat  you  do;  I  know 
you  do.  And  she  shall  stay.  The 
house  shall  be  hers,  as  her  resi- 
dence, for  the  next  six  months.  As 
for  money " 

"  I  have  got  what  will  do  for 
that,  I  think." 

"If  she  wants  money  she  shall 
have  what  she  wants.  There  is 
nothing  I  will  not  do  for  you  in 
your  trouble,  —  except  that  you 
may  not  both  be  here  together  till 
I  shall  have  shaken  hands  with  her 
as  Mrs  Peacocke  in  very  truth." 

VOL.  CXXVIII. — NO.  DCCLXXVIII. 


It  was  settled  that  Mr  Peacocke 
should  not  go  again  into  the  school, 
or  Mrs  Peacocke  among  the  boys, 
till  he  should  have  gone  to  America 
and  have  come  back.  It  was  ex- 
plained in  the  school  by  the  Doctor 
early, — for  the  Doctor  must  now 
take  the  morning  school  himself, — 
that  circumstances  of  very  grave 
import  made  it  necessary  that  Mr 
Peacocke  should  start  at  once  for 
America.  That  the  tidings  which 
had  been  published  at  the  Lamb 
should  reach  the  boys,  was  more 
than  probable.  !Nay, — was  it  not 
certain?  It  would  of  course  reach 
all  the  boys'  parents.  There  was 
no  use,  no  service,  in  any  secrecy. 
But  in  speaking  to  the  school  not 
a  word  was  said  of  Mrs  Peacock  e. 
The  Doctor  explained  that  he  him- 
self would  take  the  morning  school, 
and  that  Mr  Rose,  the  mathemati- 
cal master,  would  take  charge  of 
the  school  meals.  Mrs  Cane,  the 
housekeeper,  would  look  to  the 
linen  and  the  bedrooms.  It  was 
made  plain  that  Mrs  Peacocke's 
services  were  not  to  be  required; 
but  her  name  was  not  mentioned, — 
except  that  the  Doctor,  in  order  to 
let  it  be  understood  that  she  was 
net  to  be  banished  from  the  house, 
begged  the  boys  as  a  favour  that 
they  would  not  interrupt  Mrs  Pea- 
cocke's tranquillity  during  Mr  Pea- 
cocke's absence. 

On  the  Tuesday  morning  Mr 
Peacocke  started,  remaining,  how- 
ever, a  couple  of  days  .at  Broughton, 
during  which  the  Doctor  saw  him. 
Lefroy  declared  that  he  knew  noth- 
ing about  his  brother, — whether  he 
were  alive  or  dead.  He  might  be 
dead,  because  he  was  always  in 
trouble,  and  generally  drunk.  Eo- 
bert, on  the  whole,  thought  it  prob- 
able that  he  was  dead,  but  could 
not  be  got  to  say  so.  For  a  thou- 
sand dollars  he  would  go  over  to 
Missouri,  and,  if  necessary,  to  Texas, 
so  as  to  find  the  truth.  He  would 


232 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  IV. 


then  come  back  and  give  undeniable 
evidence.  While  making  this  be- 
nevolent offer,  he  declared,  with  tears 
in  his  eyes,  that  he  had  come  over 
intending  to  be  a  true  brother  to 
his  sister-in-law,  and  had  simply 
been  deterred  from  prosecuting  his 
good  intentions  by  Peacocke's  aus- 
terity. Then  he  swore  a  most  sol- 
emn oath  that  if  he  knew  anything 
about  his  brother  Ferdinand  he 
would  reveal  it.  The  Doctor  and 
Peacocke  agreed  together  that  the 
man's  word  was  worth  nothing;  but 
that  the  man's  services  might  be 
useful  in  enabling  them  to  track 
out  the  truth.  They  were  both 
convinced,  by  words  which  fell 
from  him,  that  Ferdinand  Lefroy 
was  dead ;  but  this  would  be  of 
no  avail  unless  they  could  obtain 
absolute  evidence. 

During  these  two  days  there  were 
various  conversations  at  Broughton 
between  the  Doctor,  Mr  Peacocke, 
and  Lefroy,  in  which  a  plan  of 
action  was  at  length  arranged.  Le- 
froy and  the  schoolmaster  were  to 
proceed  to  America  together,  and 
there  obtain  what  evidence  they 
could  as  to  the  life  or  death  of  the 
elder  brother.  "When  absolute  evi- 
dence had  been  obtained  of  either, 
a  thousand  dollars  was  to  be  handed 
to  Eobert  Lefroy.  But  when  this 
agreement  was  made,  the  man  was 
given  to  understand  that  his  own 
uncorroborated  word  would  go  for 
nothing. 

"  "Who  is  to  say  what  is  evidence, 
and  what  not?"  asked  the  man,  not 
unnaturally. 

"  Mr  Peacocke  must  be  the  judge 
of  that,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"I  ain't  going  to  agree  to  that," 
said  the  other.  "  Though  he  were 
to  see  him  dead,  he  might  swear  he 
hadn't,  and  not  give  me  a  red  cent. 
Why  ain't  I  to  be  a  judge  as  well 
as  he  ? " 

"Because  you' can  trust  him,  and 
he  cannot  in  the  least  trust  you," 


[Aug. 


said  the  Doctor.  "  You  know  well 
enough  that  if  he  were  to  see  your 
brother  alive,  or  to  see  him  dead, 
you  would  get  the  money.  At  any 
rate,  you  have  no  other  way  of  get- 
ting it  but  what  we  propose."  To 
all  this  Robert  Lefroy  at  last  as- 
sented. 

The  prospect  before  Mr  Peacocke 
for  the  next  three  months  was  cer- 
tainly very  sad.  He  was  to  travel 
from  Broughton  to  St  Louis,  and 
possibly  from  thence  down  into  the 
wilds  of  Texas,  in  company  with 
this  man,  whom  he  thoroughly  de- 
spised. Nothing  could  be  more 
abominable  to  him  than  such  an 
association ;  but  there  was  no  other 
way  in  which  the  proposed  plan 
could  be  carried  out.  He  was  to 
pay  Lefroy's  expenses  back  to  his 
own  country,  and  could  only  hope 
to  keep  the  man  true  to  his  purpose 
by  doing  so  from  day  to  day.  Were 
he  to  give  the  man  money,  the  man 
would  at  once  disappear.  Here  in 
England,  and  in  their  passage  across 
the  ocean,  the  man  might,  in  some 
degree,  be  amenable  and  obedient. 
But  there  was  no  knowing  to  what 
he  might  have  recourse  when  he 
should  find  himself  nearer  to  his 
country,  and  should  feel  that  his 
companion  was  distant  from  his  own. 
"  You'll  have  to  keep  a  close  watch 
upon  him,"  whispered  the  Doctor  to 
his  friend.  "I  should  not  advise 
all  this  if  I  did  not  think- you  were 
a  man  of  strong  nerve." 

"  I  am  not  afraid,"  said  the  other  ; 
"  but  I  doubt  whether  he  may  not 
be  too  many  for  me.  At  any  rate, 
I  will  try  it.  You  will  hear  from 
me  as  I  go  on." 

And  so  they  parted  as  dear  friends 
part.  The  Doctor  had,  in  truth, 
taken  the  man  altogether  to  his 
heart  since  all  the  circumstances  of 
the  story  had  come  home  to  him. 
And  it  need  hardly  be  said  that  the 
other  was  aware  how  deep  a  debt  of 
gratitude  he  owed  to  the  protector 


1880.] 


of  his  wife.  Indeed  the  very  money 
that  was  to  be  paid  to  Robert  Le- 
froy,  if  he  earned  it,  was  advanced 
out  of  the  Doctor's  pocket.  Mr 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  IV. 


233 


Peacocke's  means  were  sufficient  for 
the  expenses  of  the  journey,  but  fell 
short  when  these  thousand  dollars 
had  to  be  provided. 


CHAPTER   XI. — THE   BISHOP. 


Mr  Peacocke  had  been  quite 
right  in  saying  that  the  secret 
would  at  once  be  known  through 
the  whole  diocese.  It  certainly 
was  so  before  he  had  been  gone  a 
week ;  and  it  certainly  was  the  case, 
also,  that  the  diocese  generally 
did  not  approve  of  the  Doctor's 
conduct.  The  woman  ought  not 
to  have  been  left  there.  So  said 
the  diocese.  It  was  of  course  the 
case  that  though  the  diocese  knew 
much  it  did  not  know  all.  It  is 
impossible  to  keep  such  a  story 
concealed,  but  it  is  quite  as  im- 
possible to  make  known  all  its  de- 
tails. In  the  eyes  of  the  diocese 
the  woman  was  of  course  the  chief 
sinner,  and  the  chief  sinner  was 
allowed  to  remain  at  the  school ! 
"When  this  assertion  was  made  to 
him  the  Doctor  became  very  angry, 
saying  that  Mrs  Peacocke  did  not 
remain  at  the  school ;  that  accord- 
ing to  the  arrangement  as  at  pres- 
ent made,  Mrs  Peacocke  had  no- 
thing to  do  with  the  school;  that 
the  house  was  his  own,  and  that 
he  might  lend  it  to  whom  he 
pleased.  Was  ho  to  turn  the 
woman  out  houseless,  when  her 
husband  had  gone,  on  such  an 
errand,  on  his  advice?  Of  course 
the  house  was  his  own,  but  as 
clergyman  of  the  parish  he  had  not 
a  right  to  do  what  he  liked  with  it. 
He  had  no  right  to  encourage  evil. 
And  the  man  was  not  the  woman's 
husband.  That  was  just  the  point 
made  by  the  diocese.  And  she 
was  at  the  school, — living  under 
the  same  roof  with  the  boys  !  The 
diocese  was  clearly  of  opinion  that 
all  the  boys  would  be  taken  away. 


The  diocese  spoke  by  the  voice 
of  its  bishop,  as  a  diocese  should 
do.  Shortly  after  Mr  Peacocke's 
departure,  the  Doctor  had  an  inter- 
view with  his  lordship,  and  told 
the  whole  story.  The  doing  this 
went  much  against  the  grain  with 
him,  but  he  hardly  dared  not  to  do 
it.  He  felt  that  he  was  bound  to 
do  it  on  the  part  of  Mrs  Peacocke, 
if  not  on  his  own.  And  then  the 
man,  who  had  now  gone,  though 
he  had  never  been  absolutely  a 
curate,  had  preached  frequently  in 
the  diocese.  He  felt  that  it  would 
not  be  wise  to  abstain  from  telling 
the  bishop. 

The  Bishop  was  a  goodly  man, 
comely  in  his  person,  and  possessed 
of  manners  which  had  made  him 
popular  in  the  world.  He  was  one 
of  those  who  had  done  the  best  he 
could  with  his  talent, not  wrapping  it 
up  in  a  napkin,  but  getting  from  it 
the  best  interest  which  the  world's 
market  could  afford.  But  not  on 
that  account  was  he  other  than  a 
good  man.  To  do  the  best  he 
could  for  himself  and  his  family, 
and  also  to  do  his  duty,  was  the  line 
of  conduct  which  he  pursued.  There 
are  some  who  reverse  this  order,  but 
he  was  not  one  of  them.  He  had 
become  a  scholar  in  his  youth,  not 
from  love  of  scholarship,  but  as  a 
means  to  success.  The  Church  had 
become  his  profession,  and  he  had 
worked  hard  at  his  calling.  He 
had  taught  himself  to  be  courteous 
and  urbane,  because  he  had  been 
clever  enough  to  see  that  courtesy 
and  urbanity  are  agreeable  to  men 
in  high  places.  As  a  bishop  he 
never  spared  himself  the  work 


234 


Dr  Worth's  School.— Part  IV. 


[Aug. 


which  a  bishop  ought  to  do.  He 
answered  letters,  lie  studied  the 
characters  of  the  clergymen  under 
him,  he  was  just  with  his  patron- 
age, he  endeavoured  to  be  effica- 
cious with  his  charges,  he  confirmed 
children  in  cold  weather  as  well  "as 
in  warm,  he  occasionally  preached 
sermons,  and  he  was  beautiful  and 
decorous  in  his  gait  and  manner, 
as  it  behoves  a  clergyman  of  the 
Church  of  England  to  be.  He 
liked  to  be  master ;  but  even  to  be 
master  he  would  not  encounter  the 
abominable  nuisance  of  a  quarrel. 
When  first  coming  to  the  diocese, 
he  had  had  some  little  difficulty 
with  our  Doctor ;  but  the  Bishop 
had  abstained  from  violent  asser- 
tion, and  they  had,  on  the  whole, 
been  friends.  There  was,  however, 
on  the  Bishop's  part,  something  of 
a  feeling  that  the  Doctor  was  the 
bigger  man;  and  it  was  probable 
that,  without  active  malignity,  he 
would  take  advantage  of  any  chance 
which  might  lower  the  Doctor  a 
little,  and  bring  him  more  within 
episcopal  power.  In  some  degree 
he  begrudged  the  Doctor  his  man- 
liness. 

He  listened  with  many  smiles 
and  with  perfect  courtesy  to  the 
story  as  it  was  told  to  him,  and 
was  much  less  severe  on  the  un- 
fortunates than  Mr  Puddicombe 
had  been.  It  was  not  the  wicked- 
ness of  the  two  people  in  living 
together,  or  their  wickedness  in 
keeping  their  secret,  which  oifended 
him  so  much,  as  the  evil  which  they 
were  likely  to  do — and  to  have  done. 
"!No  doubt,"  he  said,  "an  ill-living 
man  may  preach  a  good  sermon, 
perhaps  a  better  one  than  a  pious, 
God-fearing  clergyman,  whose  in- 
tellect may  be  inferior  though  his 
morals  are  much  better ; — but  com- 
ing from  tainted  lips,  the  better 
sermon  will  not  carry  a  blessing 
with  it."  At  this  the  Doctor  shook 
his  head.  "Bringing  a  blessing" 
was  a  phrase  which  the  Doctor 


hated.  He  shook  his  head  not  too 
civilly,  saying  that  he  had  not  in- 
tended to  trouble  his  lordship  on 
so  difficult  a  point  in  ecclesiastical 
morals.  "But  we  cannot  but  re- 
member," said  the  Bishop,  "  that 
he  has  been  preaching  in  your 
parish  church,  and  the  people  will 
know  that  he  has  acted  among 
them  as  a  clergyman." 

' '  I  hope  the  people,  my  lord, 
may  never  have  the  Gospel  preach- 
ed to  them  by  a  worse  man." 

"  I  will  not  judge  him  ;  but  I  do 
think  that  it  has  been  a  misfortune. 
You,  of  course,  were  in  ignorance." 

"  Had  I  known  all  about  it,  I 
should  have  been  very  much  in- 
clined to  do  the  same."  This  was, 
in  fact,  not  true,  and  was  said  sim- 
ply in  a  spirit  of  contradiction. 
The  Bishop  shook  his  head  and 
smiled.  "  My  school  is  a  matter 
of  more  importance,"  said  the  Doc- 
tor. 

"  Hardly,  hardly,  Dr  Wortle." 

"  Of  more  importance  in  this 
way,  that  my  school  may  proba- 
bly be  injured,  whereas  neither  the 
morals  nor  the  faith  of  the  parish- 
ioners will  have  been  hurt." 

"  But  he  has  gone." 

"  He  has  gone ;  —  but  she  re- 
mains." 

"  What ! "  exclaimed  the  Bishop. 

"  He  has  gone,  but  she  remains." 
He  repeated  the  words  very  dis- 
tinctly, with  a  frown  on  his  brow, 
as  though  to  show  that  on  that 
branch  of  the  subject  he  intended 
to  put  up  with  no  opposition — 
hardly  even  with  an  adverse  opinion. 

"  She  had  a  certain  charge,  as  I 
understand, — as  to  the  school." 

"  She  had,  my  lord ;  and  very 
well  she  did  her  work.  I  shall 
have  a  great  loss  in  her, — for  the 
present." 

"But  you  said  she  remained." 

"  I  have  lent  her  the  use  of  the 
house  till  her  husband  shall  come 
back." 

"MrPeacocke,  you  mean,"  said 


1880.] 

the  Bishop,  who  was  unable  not  to 
put  in  a  contradiction  against  the 
untruth  of  the  word  which  had 
been  used. 

"  I  shall  always  regard  them  as 
married." 

"  But  they  are  not." 

"  I  have  lent  her  the  house,  at 
any  rate,  during  his  absence.  I 
could  not  turn  her  into  the  street. 

"  Would  not  a  lodging  here  in 
the  city  have  suited  her  better  ? " 

"  I  thought  not.  People  here 
would  have  refused  to  take  her, — 
because  of  her  story.  The  wife  of 
some  religious  grocer  who  sands  his 
sugar  regularly  would  have  thought 
her  house  contaminated  by  such  an 
inmate." 

"  So  it  would  be,  Doctor,  to  some 
extent."  At  hearing  this  the  Doctor 
made  very  evident  signs  of  discon- 
tent. "  You  cannot  alter  the  ways 
of  the  world  suddenly,  though  by 
example  and  precept  you  may  help 
to  improve  them  slowly.  In  our 
} )  resent  imperfect  condition  of 
moral  culture,  it  is  perhaps  well 
that  the  company  of  the  guilty 
should  be  shunned." 

"Guilty!" 

"  I  am  afraid  that  I  must  say  so. 
The  knowledge  that  such  a  feeling 
exists,  no  doubt  deters  others  from 
guilt.  The  fact  that  wrong-doing 
in  women  is  scorned,  helps  to  main- 
tain the  innocence  of  women.  Is 
it  not  so?" 

"  I  must  hesitate  before  I  trouble 
your  lordship  by  arguing  such 
difficxilt  questions.  I  thought  it 
ri^'ht  to  tell  you  the  facts  after 
what  had  occurred.  He  has  gone. 
She  is  there, — and  there  she  will 
remain  for  the  present.  I  could 
not  turn  her  out.  Thinking  her,  as 
I  do,  worthy  of  my  friendship,  I 
could  not  do  other  than  befriend 
her." 

"  Of  course  you  must  be  the 
judge  yourself." 

"  I  had  to  be  the  judge,  my 
lord." 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  IV. 


235 


"  I  am  afraid  that  the  parents  of 
the  boys  will  not  understand  it." 

"I  also  am  afraid.  It  will  be 
very  hard  to  make  them  understand 
it.  There  will  be  some  who  will 
work  hard  to  make  them  misunder- 
stand it." 

"  I  hope  not  that." 

"  There  will.  I  must  stand  the 
brunt  of  it.  I  have  had  battles 
before  this,  and  had  hoped  that 
now,  when  I  am  getting  old,  they 
might  have  been  at  an  end.  But 
there  is  something  left  of  me,  and 
I  can  fight  still.  At  any  rate,  I 
have  made  up  my  mind  about  this. 
There  she  shall  remain  till  he  comes 
back  to  fetch  her."  And  so  the  in- 
terview was  over,  the  Bishop  feeling 
that  he  had  in  some  slight  degree 
had  the  best  of  it, — and  the  Doctor 
feeling  that  he,  in  some  slight  de- 
gree, had  had  the  worst.  If  possible, 
he  would  not  talk  to  the  Bishop  on 
the  subject  again. 

He  told  Mr  Puddicombe  also. 
"  With  your  generosity  and  kind- 
ness of  heart  I  quite  sympathise," 
said  Mr  Puddicombe,  endeavouring 
to  be  pleasant  in  his  manner. 

"  But  not  with  my  prudence." 

"  Not  with  your  prudence,"  said 
Mr  Puddicombe,  endeavouring  to 
be  true  at  the  same  time. 

But  the  Doctor's  greatest  diffi- 
culty was  with  his  wife,  whose  con- 
duct it  was  necessary  that  he  guide, 
and  whose  feelings  and  conscience 
he  was  most  anxious  to  influence. 
When  she  first  heard  his  decision, 
she  almost  wrung  her  hands  in  de- 
spair. If  the  woman  could  have 
gone  to  America,  and  the  man  have 
remained,  she  would  have  been  satis- 
fied. Anything  wrong  about  a  man 
was  but  of  little  moment, — com- 
paratively so,  even  though  he  were 
a  clergyman;  but  anything  wrong 
about  a  woman, — and  she  so  near 
to  herself  !  Oh  dear !  And  the 
poor  dear  boys, — under  the  same 
roof  with  her !  And  the  boys' 
mammas  !  How  would  she  be  able 


236 


Dr  Worth's  School. — Part  IV. 


to  endure  the  sight  of  that  horrid 
Mrs  Stantiloup ;  —  or  Mrs  Stanti- 
loup's  words,  which  would  certainly 
be  conveyed  to  her  ?  But  there  was 
something  much  worse  for  her  even 
than  all  this.  The  Doctor  insisted 
that  she  should  go  and  call  upon 
the  woman  !  "And  take  Mary1?" 
asked  Mrs  Wortle. 

"What  would  be  the  good  of 
taking  Mary  ]  Who  is  talking  of  a 
child  like  that  1  It  is  for  the  sake 
of  charity, — for  the  dear  love  of 
Christ,  that  I  ask  you  to  do  it. 
Do  you  ever  think  of  Mary  Mag- 
dalene ? " 

"  Oh  yes." 

"  This  is  no  Magdalene.  This  is  a 
woman  led  into  no  faults  by  vicious 
propensities.  Here  is  one  who  has 
been  altogether  unfortunate, — who 
has  been  treated  more  cruelly  than 
any  of  whom  you  have  ever  read." 

'  Why  did  she  not  leave  him  1 " 

'  Because  she  was  a  woman,  with 
a  heart  in  her  bosom." 

'  I  am  to  go  to  her  1 " 

'  I  do  not  order  it ;  I  only  ask 
it.  Such  asking  from  her  hus- 
band was,  she  knew,  very  near 
akin  to  ordering. 

"  What  shall  I  say  to  her?" 

"  Bid  her  keep  up  her  courage 
till  he  shall  return.  If  you  were  all 
alone,  as  she  is,  would  not  you  wish 
that  some  other  woman  should  come 
to  comfort  you  1  Think  of  her  deso- 
lation." 

Mrs  Wortle  did  think  of  it,  and 
after  a  day  or  two  made  up  her  mind 
to  obey  her  husband's  —  request. 
She  made  her  call,  but  very  little 
came  of  it,  except  that  she  promised 
to  come  again.  "  Mrs  Wortle," 
said  the  poor  woman,  "pray  do 
not  let  me  be  a  trouble  to  you.  If 
you  stay  away,  I  shall  quite  under- 
stand that  there  is  sufficient  reason. 
I  know  how  good  your  husband  has 
been  to  us."  Mrs  Wortle  said,  how- 
ever, as  she  took  the  other's  hand, 
that  she  would  come  again  in  a  day 
or  two. 


But  there  were  further  troubles 
in  store  for  Mrs  Wortle.  Before  she 
had  repeated  her  visit  to  Mrs  Pea- 
cocke,  a  lady,  who  lived  about  ten 
miles  off,  the  wife  of  the  rector  of 
Buttercup,  called  upon  her.  This 
was  the  Lady  Margaret  Momson, 
a  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Brigstock, 
who  had,  thirty  years  ago,  married 
a  young  clergyman.  Nevertheless, 
up  to  the  present  day,  she  was 
quite  as  much  the  Earl's  daughter 
as  the  parson's  wife.  She  was  first 
cousin  to  that  Mrs  Stantiloup,  be- 
tween whom  and  the  Doctor  inter- 
necine war  was  always  being  waged ; 
and  she  was  also  aunt  to  a  boy  at 
the  school,  who,  however,  was  in 
no  way  related  to  Mrs  Stantiloup, 
young  Momson  being  the  son  of 
the  parson's  eldest  brother.  Lady 
Margaret  had  never  absolutely  and 
openly  taken  the  part  of  Mrs  Stan- 
tiloup. Had  she  done  so,  a  visit 
even  of  ceremony  would  have  been 
impossible.  But  she  was  supposed 
to  have  Stantiloup  proclivities,  and 
was  not,  therefore,  much  liked  at 
Bowick.  There  had  been  a  ques- 
tion, indeed,  whether  young  Mom- 
son  should  be  received  at  the  school, 
— because  of  the  quasi  connection 
with  the  arch-enemy ;  but  Squire 
Momson  of  Buttercup,  the  boy's 
father,  had  set  that  at  rest  by  burst- 
ing out,  in  the  Doctor's  hearing,  into 
violent  abuse  against  "the  close- 
fisted,  vulgar  old  fagot."  The 
son  of  a  man  imbued  with  such 
proper  feelings  was,  of  course,  ac- 
cepted. 

But  Lady  Margaret  was  curious, 
— especially  at  the  present  time. 
"  What  a  romance  this  is,  Mrs 
Wortle,"  she  said,  "  that  has  gone 
all  through  the  diocese ! "  The 
reader  will  remember  that  Lady 
Margaret  was  also  the  wife  of  a 
clergyman. 

"  You  mean — the  Peacockes  1 " 

"Of  course  I  do." 

"  He  has  gone  away." 

"  We  all  know  that,  of  course; — 


1880.] 


Dr  Worth's  School.— Part  IV. 


237 


to   look  for    her   wife's    husband. 
Good  gracious  me  !  what  a  story !  " 

"They  think  that  he  is— dead 
now." 

"  I  suppose  they  thought  so  be- 
fore," said  Lady  Margaret. 

"  Of  course  they  did." 

"  Though  it  does  seem  that  no 
inquiry  was  made  at  all.  Perhaps 
they  don't  care  about  those  things 
over  there  as  we  do  here.  He 
couldn't  have  cared  very  much, — 
nor  she." 

"The  Doctor  thinks  that  they 
are  very  much  to  be  pitied." 

"  The  Doctor  always  was  a  little 
Quixotic, — eh1?" 

"  I  don't  think  that  at  all,  Lady 
Margaret." 

"I  mean  in  the  way  of  being  so 
very  good-natured  and  kind.  Her 
brother  came  ;— didn't  he  1 " 

"  Her  first  husband's  brother," 
said  Mrs  Wortle,  blushing. 

"  Her  first  husband  ! " 

"  "Well, — you  know  what  I  mean, 
Lady  Margaret." 

"  Yes,  I  know  what  you  mean. 
It  is  so  very  shocking;  isn't  it? 
And  so  the  two  men  have  gone 
off  together  to  look  for  the  third. 
Goodness  me  !  what  a  party  they 
will  be  if  they  meet !  Do  you  think 
they'll  quarrel  ? " 

"  I  don't  know,  Lady  Margaret." 

"  And  that  he  should  be  a  clergy- 
man of  the  Church  of  England ! 
Isn't  it  dreadful?  What  does  the 
Bishop  say?  Has  he  heard  all 
about  it?" 

"  The  Bishop  has  nothing  to  do 
with  it.  Mr  Peacocke  never  held  a 
curacy  in  the  diocese." 

"  But  he  has  preached  here  very 
often, — and  has  taken  her  to  church 
with  him !  I  suppose  the  Bishop 
has  been  told?" 

"  You  may  be  sure  that  he  knows 
it  as  well  as  you." 

"  We  are  so  anxious,  you  know, 
about  clear  little  Gus."  Dear  little 
Gus  was  Augustus  Momson,  the 
lady's  nephew,  who  was  supposed  to 


be  the  worst-behaved,  and  certainly 
the  stupidest  boy  in  the  school. 

"Augustus  will  not  be  hurt,  I 
should  say." 

"Perhaps  not  directly.  But  my 
sister  has,  I  know,  very  strong  opin- 
ions on  such  subjects.  Now  I 
want  to  ask  you  one  thing.  Is  it 
true  that — she — remains  here  ? " 

"  She  is  still  living  in  the  school- 
house." 

"  Is  that  prudent,  Mrs  Wortle?" 

"  If  you  want  to  have  an  opinion 
on  that  subject,  Lady  Margaret,  I 
would  recommend  you  to  ask  the 
Doctor."  By  which  she  meant  to 
assert  that  Lady  Margaret  would 
not,  for  the  life  of  her,  dare  to  ask 
the  Doctor  such  a  question.  "  He 
has  done  what  he  has  thought  best." 

"Most  good-natured  you  mean, 
Mrs  Wortle." 

"  I  mean  what  I  say,  Lady  Mar- 
garet. He  has  done  what  he  has 
thought  best,  looking  at  all  the 
circumstances.  He  thinks  that 
they  are  very  worthy  people,  and 
that  they  have  been  most  cruelly 
ill-used.  He  has  taken  that  into 
consideration.  You  call  it  good- 
nature. Others  perhaps  may  call 
it — charity."  The  wife,  though  she 
at  her  heart  deplored  her  husband's 
action  in  the  matter,  was  not  going 
to  own  to  another  lady  that  he  had 
been  imprudent. 

"I  am  sure,  I  hope  they  will," 
said  Lady  Margaret.  Then  as  she 
was  taking  her  leave,  she  made  a 
suggestion.  "Some  of  the  boys 
will  be  taken  away,  I  suppose. 
The  Doctor  probably  expects  that." 

"  I  don't  know  what  he  expects," 
said  Mrs  Wortle.  "Some  are  al- 
ways going,  and  when  they  go, 
others  come  in  their  places.  As 
for  me,  I  wish  he  gave  the  school 
up  altogether." 

*'  Perhaps  he  means  it,"  said 
Lady  Margaret;  "otherwise,  per- 
haps he  wouldn't  have  been  so 
good-natured."  Then  she  took  her 
departure. 


238 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  IV. 


When  her  visitor  was  gone,  Mrs 
Wortle  was  very  unhappy.  She 
had  been  betrayed  by  her  wrath 
into  expressing  that  wish  as  to  the 
giving  up  of  the  school.  She  knew 
well  that  the  Doctor  had  no  such 
intention.  She  herself  had  more 
than  once  suggested  it  in  her  timid 
way,  but  the  Doctor  had  treated 
her  suggestions  as  being  worth 
nothing.  He  had  his  ideas  about 
Mary,  who  was  undoubtedly  a  very 
pretty  girl.  Mary  might  marry  well, 
and  £20,000  would  probably  assist 
her  in  doing  so. 


[Aug. 


When  he  was  told  of  Lady  Mar- 
garet's hints,  he  said  in  his  wrath 
that  he  would  send  young  Monison 
away  instantly  if  a  word  was  said 
to  him  by  the  boy's  mamma.  "  Of 
course,"  said  he,  "  if  the  lad  turns 
out  a  scapegrace,  as  is  like  enough,  it 
will  be  because  Mrs  Peacocke  had 
two  husbands.  It  is  often  a  ques- 
tion to  me  whether  the  religion  of 
the  world  is  not  more  odious  than 
its  want  of  religion."  To  this  ter- 
rible suggestion  poor  Mrs  Wortle 
did  not  dare  to  make  any  answer 
whatever. 


CHAPTER  XII. — THE   STANTILOUP   CORRESPONDENCE. 


We  will  now  pass  for  a  mo- 
ment out  of  Bowick  parish,  and  go 
over  to  Buttercup.  There,  at  Butter- 
cup Hall,  the  squire's  house,  in 
the  drawing-room,  were  assembled 
Mrs  Momson,  the  squire's  wife ; 
Lady  Margaret  Momson,  the  rector's 
wife;  Mrs  Eolland,  the  wife  of  the 
bishop ;  and  the  Hon.  Mrs  Stan- 
tiloup.  A  party  was  staying  in 
the  house,  collected  for  the  purpose 
of  entertaining  the  Bishop ;  and  it 
would  perhaps  not  have  been  pos- 
sible to  have  got  together  in  the 
diocese  four  ladies  more  likely  to 
be  hard  upon  our  Doctor.  For 
though  Squire  Momson  was  not  very 
fond  of  Mrs  Stantiloup,  and  had 
used  strong  language  respecting  her 
when  he  was  anxious  to  send  his 
boy  to  the  Doctor's  school,  Mrs 
Momson  had  always  been  of  the 
other  party,  and  had  in  fact  ad- 
hered to  Mrs  Stantiloup  from  the 
beginning  of  the  quarrel.  "I  do 
trust,"  said  Mrs  Stantiloup,  "  that 
there  will  be  an  end  to  all  this 
kind  of  thing  now." 

"  Do  you  mean  an  end  to  the 
school  ? "  asked  Lady  Margaret. 

"  I  do  indeed.  I  always  thought 
it  matter  of  great  regret  that  Au- 
gustus should  have  been  sent  there, 
after  the  scandalous  treatment  that 


Bob  received."  Bob  was  the  little 
boy  who  had  drunk  the  champagne 
and  required  the  carriage  exercise. 

"But  I  always  heard  that  the 
school  was  quite  popular,"  said 
Mrs  Eolland. 

"  I  think  you'll  find,"  continued 
Mrs  Stantiloup,  "  that  there  won't 
be  much  left  of  its  popularity  now. 
Keeping  that  abominable  woman 
*under  the  same  roof  with  the  boys ! 
Xo  master  of  a  school  that  wasn't 
absolutely  blown  up  with  pride, 
Avould  have  taken  such  people  as 
those  Peacockes  without  making; 
proper  inquiry.  And  then  to  let 
him  preach  in  the  church  !  I  sup- 
pose Mr  Momson  will  allow  you 
to  send  for  Augustus  at  once1?" 
This  she  said  turning  to  Mrs  Mom- 
son. 

"  Mr  Momson  thinks  so  much 
of  the  Doctor's  scholarship,"  said 
the  mother,  apologetically.  "And 
we  are  so  anxious  that  Gus  should 
do  well  when  he  goes  to  Eton." 

"What  is  Latin  and  Greek  as- 
compared  to  his  soul  ? "  asked  Lady 
Margaret. 

"JS"o,  indeed,"  said  Mrs  Eolland. 
She  had  found  herself  compelled, 
as  wife  of  the  Bishop,  to  assent  to- 
the  self-evident  proposition  which 
had  been  made.  She  was  a  quietr 


1880.] 


silent  little  woman,  whom  the 
Bishop  had  married  in  the  days  of 
his  earliest  preferment,  and  who, 
though  she  was  delighted  to  find 
herself  promoted  to  the  society  of 
the  big  people  in  the  diocese,  had 
never  quite  lifted  herself  up  into 
their  sphere.  Though  she  had  her 
ideas  as  to  what  it  was  to  he  a 
bishop's  wife,  she  had  never  yet 
been  quite  able  to  act  up  to  them. 

"  I  know  that  young  Talbot  is 
to  leave,"  said  Mrs  Stantiloup. 
"  I  wrote  to  Mrs  Talbot  immediate- 
ly when  all  this  occurred,  and  I've 
heard  from  her  cousin  Lady  Grog- 
ram  that  the  boy  is  not  to  go  back 
after  the  holidays."  This  happened 
to  be  altogether  untrue.  What  she 
probably  meant  was,  that  the  boy 
should  not  go  back  if  she  could 
prevent  his  doing  so. 

"I  feel  quite  sure,"  said  Lady 
Margaret,  "  that  Lady  Anne  will 
not  allow  her  boys  to  remain 
when  she  finds  out  what  sort  of 
inmates  the  Doctor  chooses  to  en- 
tertain." The  Lady  Anne  spoken 
of  was  Lady  Anne  Clifford,  the 
widowed  mother  of  two  boys  who 
were  intrusted  to  the  Doctor's 
care. 

"  I  do  hope  you'll  be  firm  about 
Gus,"  said  Mrs  Stantiloup  to  Mrs 
Momson.  "If  we're  not  to  put 
down  this  kind  of  thing,  what  is 
the  good  of  having  any  morals  in 
the  country  at  all  1  We  might  just 
as  well  live  like  pagans,  and  do 
without  marriage  services  at  all,  as 
they  do  in  so  many  parts  of  the 
United  States." 

"  I  wonder  what  the  Bishop 
does  think  about  it  1  "  asked  Mrs 
Momson  of  the  Bishop's  wife. 

"  It  makes  him  very  unhappy  ; 
I  know  that,"  said  Mrs  Eolland. 
"  Of  course  he  cannot  interfere 
about  the  school.  As  for  licensing 
the  gentleman  as  a  curate,  that  was 
of  course  quite  out  of  the  ques- 
tion." 

At  this  moment  Mr  Momson  the 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  IV. 


clergyman,  and  the  Bishop,  came 
into  the  room,  and  were  offered,  aa 
is  usual  on  such  occasions,  cold  tea 
and  the  remains  of  the  buttered 
toast.  The  squire  was  not  there. 
Had  he  been  with  the  other  gentle- 
men, Mrs  Stantiloup,  violent  as  she 
was,  would  probably  have  held  her 
tongue  ;  but  as  he  was  absent,  the 
opportunity  was  not  bad  for  attack- 
ing the  Bishop  on  the  subject  un- 
der discussion.  "  We  were  talking, 
my  lord,  about  the  Bowick  school." 

Now  the  Bishop  was  a  man  who 
could  be  very  confidential  with  one 
lady,  but  was  apt  to  be  guarded 
when  many  are  concerned.  To  any 
one  of  those  present  he  might  have 
said  what  he  thought,  had  no  one 
else  been  there  to  heai%.  That  would 
have  been  the  expression  of  a  pri- 
vate opinion ;  but  to  speak  before 
the  four  would  have  been  tanta- 
mount to  a  public  declaration. 

"About  the  Bowick  school?" 
said  he.  "  I  hope  there  is  noth- 
ing going  wrong  with  the  Bowick 
school." 

"You  must  have  heard  about 
Mr  Peacocke,"  said  Lady  Margaret. 

"  Yes  ;  I  have  certainly  heard  of 
Mr  Peacocke.  He,  I  believe,  has 
left  Dr  Wortle's  seminary." 

"  But  she  remains  ! "  said  Mrs 
Stantiloup,  with  tragic  energy. 

"So  I  understand; — in  the 
house;  but  not  as  part  of  the 
establishment." 

"Does  that  make  so  much  dif- 
ference 1 "  asked  Lady  Margaret. 

"  It  does  make  a  very  great  differ- 
ence," said  Lady  Margaret's  hus- 
band, the  parson,  wishing  to  help 
the  Bishop  in  his  difficulty. 

"  I  don't  see  it  at  all,"  said  Mrs 
Stantiloup.  "  The  man's  spirit 
in  the  matter  is  just  as  manifest 
whether  the  lady  is  or  is  not  al- 
lowed to  look  after  the  boys'  linen. 
In  fact,  I  despise  him  for  making 
the  pretence.  Her  doing  menial 
work  about  the  house  would  injure 
no  one.  It  is  her  presence  th  ere, — 


240 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  IV. 


[Aug. 


the  presence  of  a  woman  who  has 
falsely  pretended  to  be  married, 
when  she  knew  very  well  that  she 
had  no  husband." 

"  "When  she  knew  that  she  had 
two,"  said  Lady  Margaret. 

"  And  fancy,  Lad}r  Margaret, — 
Lady  Bracy  absolutely  asked  her 
to  go  to  Carstairs  !  That  woman 
was  always  infatuated  about  Dr 
Wortle.  What  would  she  have  done 
if  they  had  gone,  and  this  other  man 
had  followed  his  sister-in-law  there. 
But  Lord  and  Lady  Bracy  would 
ask  any  one  to  Carstairs, — just  any 
one  that  they  could  get  hold  of!" 

Mr  Momson  was  one  whose 
obstinacy  was  wont  to  give  way 
when  sufficiently  attacked.  And 
even  he,  after  having  been  for  two 
days  subjected  to  the  eloquence  of 
Mrs  Stantiloup,  acknowledged  that 
the  Doctor  took  a  great  deal  too 
much  upon  himself.  ' '  He  does 
it,"  said  Mrs  Stantiloup,  "just  to 
show  that  there  is  nothing  that  he 
<;an't  bring  parents  to  assent  to. 
Fancy, — a  woman  living  there  as 
housekeeper  with  a  man  as  usher, 
pretending  to  be  husband  and  wife, 
when  they  knew  all  along  that  they 
were  not  married  ! " 

Mr  Momson,  who  didn't  care  a 
straw  about  the  morals  of  the  man 
whose  duty  it  was  to  teach  his 
little  boy  his  Latin  and  grammar, 
or  the  morals  of  the  woman  who 
looked  after  his  little  boy's  waist- 
coats and  trousers,  gave  a  half- 
assenting  grunt.  "And  you  are 
to  pay,"  continued  Mrs  Stantiloup, 
with  considerable  emphasis, — "you 
are  to  pay  two  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds  a-year  for  such  conduct  as 
that ! " 

"  Two  hundred,"  suggested  the 
squire,  who  cared  as  little  for  the 
money  as  he  did  for  the  morals. 

"  Two  hundred  and  fifty, — every 
shilling  of  it,  when  you  consider 
the  extras." 

"There  are  no  extras,  as  far  as 


I  can  see.  But  then  my  boy  is 
strong  and  healthy,  thank  God," 
said  the  squire,  taking  his  oppor- 
tunity of  having  one  fling  at  the 
lady.  But  while  all  this  was  going 
on,  he  did  give  a  half  assent  that 
Gus  should  be  taken  away  at  mid- 
summer, being  partly  moved  there- 
to by  a  letter  from  the  Doctor,  in 
which  he  was  told  that  his  boy  was 
not  doing  any  good  at  the  school. 

It  was  a  week  after  that  that 
Mrs  Stantiloup  wrote  the  follow- 
ing letter  to  her  friend  Lady  Grog- 
ram,  after  she  had  returned  home 
from  Buttercup  Hall.  Lady  Grog- 
ram  Avas  a  great  friend  of  hers,  and 
was  first  cousin  to  that  Mrs  Talbot 
who  had  a  son  at  the  school.  Lady 
Grogram  was  an  old  woman  of 
strong  .mind  but  small  means,  who 
was  supposed  to  be  potential  over 
those  connected  with  her.  Mrs 
Stantiloup  feared  that  she  could  not 
be  efficacious  herself,  either  with 
Mr  or  Mrs  Talbot ;  but  she  hoped 
that  she  might  carry  her  purpose 
through  Lady  Grogram.  It  may  be 
remembered  that  she  had  declared 
at  Buttercup  Hall  that  young  Tal- 
bot was  not  to  go  back  to  Bowick. 
But  this  had  been  a  figure  of  speech, 
as  has  been  already  explained. 

"  MY  DEAR  LADY  GROGRAM, — 
Since  I  got  your  last  letter  I  have 
been  staying  with  the  Momsons  at 
Buttercup.  It  was  awfully  dull. 
He  and  she  are,  I  think,  the  stupid- 
est people  that  ever  I  met.  None 
of  those  Momsons  have  an  idea 
among  them.  They  are  just  as 
heavy  and  inharmonious  as  their 
name.  Lady  Margaret  was  one  of 
the  party.  She  would  have  been 
better,  only  that  our  excellent 
Bishop  Avas  there  too,  and  Lady 
Margaret  thought  it  well  to  show 
off  all  her  graces  before  the  Bishop 
and  the  Bishop's  wife.  I '  never 
saw  such  a  dowdy  in  all  my  life  as 
Mrs  Eolland.  He  is  all  very  well, 


1880.] 


Dr  WortlJs  Schools-Part  IV. 


241 


and  looks  at  any  rate  like  a  gentle- 
man. It  was,  I  take  it,  that  which 
got  him  his  diocese.  They  say  the 
Queen  saw  him  once,  and  was  taken 
by  his  manners. 

"But  I  did  one  good  thing  at 
Buttercup.  I  got  Mr  Momson  to 
promise  that  that  boy  of  his  should 
not  go  back  to  Bowick.  Dr  Wortle 
has  become  quite  intolerable.  I 
think  he  is  determined  to  show 
that  whatever  he  does,  people  shall 
put  up  with  it.  It  is  not  only  the 
most  expensive  establishment  of 
the  kind  in  all  England,  but  also 
the  worst  conducted.  You  know, 
of  course,  how  all  this  matter  about 
that  woman  stands  now.  She  is 
remaining  there  at  Bowick,  abso- 
lutely living  in  the  house,  calling 
herself  Mrs  Peacocke,  while  the  man 
she  was  living  with  has  gone  off 
with  her  brother-in-law  to  look  for 
her  husband  !  Did  you  ever  hear 
of  such  a  niess  as  that  1 

"And  the  Doctor  expects  that 
fathers  and  mothers  will  still  send 
their  boys  to  such  a  place  as  that  1 
I  am  very  much  mistaken  if  he  will 
not  find  it  altogether  deserted  before 
Christmas.  Lord  Carstairs  is  al- 
ready gone."  [This  was  at  any  rate 
disingenuous,  as  she  had  been  very 
severe  when  at  Buttercup  on  all  the 
Carstairs  family  because  of  their 
declared  and  perverse  friendship  for 
the  Doctor.]  "  Mr  Momson,  though 
he  is  quite  incapable  of  seeing  the 
meaning  of  anything,  has  deter- 
mined to  take  his  boy  away.  She 
may  thank  me  at  any  rate  for  that. 
I  have  heard  that  Lady  Anne  Clif- 
ford's two  boys  will  both  leave."  [In 
one  sense  she  had  heard  it,  because 
the  suggestion  had  been  made  by 
herself  at  Buttercup.]  "  I  do  hope 
that  Mr  Talbot's  dear  little  boy  will 
not  be  allowed  to  return  to  such 
contamination  as  that !  Fancy, — 
the  man  and  the  woman  living  there 
in  that  way  together ;  and  the 
Doctor  keeping  the  woman  on  after 


he  knew  it  all  !  It  is  really  so 
horrible  that  one  doesn't  know  how 
to  talk  about  it.  When  the  Bishop 
was  at  Buttercup  I  really  felt  almost 
obliged  to  be  silent. 

"I  know  very  well  that  Mrs 
Talbot  is  always  ready  to  take  your 
advice.  As  for  him,  men  very  often 
do  not  think  so  much  about  these 
things  as  they  ought.  But  he  will 
not  like  his  boy  to  be  nearly  the 
only  one  left  at  the  school.  I  have 
not  heard  of  one  who  is  to  remain 
for  certain.  How  can  it  be  possible 
that  any  boy  who  has  a  mother 
should  be  allowed  to  remain  there  ? 

"Do  think  of  this,  and  do  your 
best.  I  need  not  tell  you  that 
nothing  ought  to  be  so  dear  to  us 
as  a  high  tone  of  morals. — Most 
sincerely  yours, 

"  JULIANA  STANTILOUP." 

We  need  not  pursue  this  letter 
further  than  to  say  that  when  it 
reached  Mr  Talbot's  hands,  which 
it  did  through  his  wife,  he  spoke  of 
Mrs  Stantiloup  in  language  which 
shocked  his  wife  considerably, 
though  she  was  not  altogether  un- 
accustomed to  strong  language  on 
his  part.  Mr  Talbot  and  the  Doctor 
had  been  at  school  together,  and  at 
Oxford,  and  were  friends. 

I  will  give  now  a  letter  that  was 
written  by  the  Doctor  to  Mr  Mom- 
son  in  answer  to  one  in  which  that 
gentleman  signified  his  intention  of 
taking  little  Gus  away  from  the 
school. 

"Mv  DEAR  MR  MOMSON, — After 
what  you  have  said,  of  course  I 
shall  not  expect  your  boy  back 
after  the  holidays.  Tell  his  mamma, 
with  my  compliments,  that  he  shall 
take  all  his  things  home  with  him. 
As  a  rule  I  do  charge  for  a  quarter 
in  advance  when  a  boy  is  taken 
away  suddenly,  Avithout  notice,  and 
apparently  without  cause.  But  I 
shall  not  do  so  at  the  present  ino- 


242 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  IV. 


[Aug. 


nient  either  to  you  or  to  any  parent 
who  may  withdraw  his  son.  A 
circumstance  has  happened  which, 
though  it  cannot  impair  the  utility 
of  my  school,  and  ought  not  to  in- 
jure its  character,  may  still  be  held 
as  giving  offence  to  certain  persons. 
I  will  not  be  driven  to  alter  my 
conduct  by  what  I  believe  to  be 
foolish  misconception  on  their  part. 
But  they  have  a  right  to  their  own 
opinions,  and  I  will  not  mulct  them 
because  of  their  conscientious  con- 
victions.— Yours  faithfully, 

"JEFFREY  WORTLE." 

"If  yoa  come  across  any  friend 
who  has  a  boy  here,  you  are  per- 
fectly at  liberty  to  show  him  or  her 
this  letter." 

The  defection  of  the  Momsons 
wounded  the  Doctor,  no  doubt. 
He  was  aware  that  Mrs  Stantiloup 
had  been  at  Buttercup  and  that  the 
Bishop  also  had  been  there — and 
he  could  put  two  and  two  together; 
but  it  hurt  him  to  think  that  one 
so  "stanch"  though  so  "stupid" 
as  Mrs  Momson,  should  be  turned 
from  her  purpose  by  such  a  woman 
as  Mrs  Stantiloup.  And  he  got 
other  letters  on  the  subject.  Here 
is  one  from  Lady  Anne  Clifford  : — 

"DEAR  DOCTOR, — You  know  how 
safe  I  think  my  dear  boys  are  with 
you,  and  how  much  obliged  I  am 
both  to  you  and  your  wife  for  all 
your  kindness.  But  people  are 
saying  things  to  me  about  one  of 
the  masters  at  your  school  and  his 
wife.  Is  there  any  reason  why  I 
should  be  afraid?  You  will  see 
how  thoroughly  I  trust  you  when 
I  ask  you  the  question. — Yours 
very  sincerely, 

"  ANNE  CLIFFORD." 

Now  Lady  Anne  Clifford  was  a 
sweet,  confiding,  affectionate,  but 
not  very  wise  woman.  In  a  letter, 


written  not  many  days  before  to- 
Mary  Wortle,  who  had  on  one 
occasion  been  staying  with  her,  she 
said  that  she  was  at  that  time  in 
the  same  house  with  the  Bishop 
and  Mrs  Holland.  Of  course  the 
Doctor  knew  again  how  to  put  two 
and  two  together. 

Then  there  came  a  letter  from 
Mr  Talbot- 

"DEAR  WORTLE,  —  So  you  are 
boiling  for  yourself  another  pot  of 
hot  water.  I  never  saw  such  a 
fellow  as  you  are  for  troubles  !  Old 
Mother  Ship  ton  has  been  writing 
such  a  letter  to  our  old  woman,  and 
explaining  that  no  boy's  soul  would 
any  longer  be  worth  looking  after 
if  he  be  left  in  your  hands.  Don't 
you  go  and  get  me  into  a  scrape 
more  than  you  can  help  ;  but  you 
may  be  quite  sure  of  this,  that  if 
I  had  as  many  sons  as  Priam  I 
should  send  them  all  to  you; — 
only  I  think  that  the  cheques 
would  be  very  long  in  coming. — 
Yours  always, 

"JOHN  TALBOT." 

The  Doctor  answered  this  at 
greater  length  than  he  had  done  in 
writing  to  Mr  Momson,  who  was 
not  specially  his  friend. 

"MY  DEAR  TALBOT, — You  may 
be  quite  sure  that  I  shall  not  re- 
peat to  any  one  what  you  have  told 
me  of  Mother  Shipton.  I  knew, 
however,  pretty  well  what  she  was 
doing,  and  what  I  had  to  expect 
from  her.  It  is  astonishing  to  me 
that  such  a  woman  should  still 
have  the  power  of  persuading  any 
one, — astonishing,  also,  that  any 
human  being  should  continue  to 
hate  as  she  hates  me.  She  has 
often  tried  to  do  me  an  injury,  but 
she  has  never  succeeded  yet.  At 
any  rate  she  will  not  bend  me. 
Though  my  school  should  be  broken 
up  to  -  morrow,  which  I  do  not 


1880.] 


think  probable,  I  should  still  have 
enough  to  live  upon,  —  which  is 
more,  by  all  accounts,  than  her 
unfortunate  husband  can  say  for 
himself. 

"  The  facts  are  these.  More  than 
twelve  months  ago  I  got  an  assist- 
ant named  Peacocke,  a  clergyman, 
an  Oxford  man,  and  formerly  a 
Fellow  of  Trinity; — a  man  quite 
superior  to  anything  I  have  a  right 
to  expect  in  my  school.  He  had 
gone  as  a  classical  professor  to  a 
college  in  the  United  States  ; — a 
rash  thing  to  do,  no  doubt ; — and 
had  there  married  a  widow,  which 
was  rasher  still.  The  lady  came 
here  with  him  and  undertook  the 
charge  of  the  schoolhouse, — with  a 
separate  salary ;  and  an  admirable 
person  in  the  place  she  was.  Then 
it  turned  out,  as  no  doubt  you  have 
heard,  that  her  former  husband  was 
alive  when  they  were  married. 
They  ought  probably  to  have  sepa- 
rated, but  they  didn't.  They  came 
here  instead,  and  here  they  were 
followed  by  the  brother  of  the 
husband, — who  I  take  it  is  now 
dead,  though  of  that  we  know 
nothing  certain. 

"That  he  should  have  told  me 
his  position  is  more  than  any  man 
has  a  right  to  expect  from  another. 
Fortune  had  been  most  unkind  to 
him,  and  for  her  sake  he  was  bound 
to  do  the  best  that  he  could  with 
himself.  I  cannot  bring  myself  to 
be  angry  with  him,  though  I  can- 
not defend  him  by  strict  laws  of 
right  and  wrong.  I  have  advised 
him  to  go  back  to  America  and 
find  out  if  the  man  be  in  truth 
dead.  If  so,  let  him  come  back 
and  marry  the  woman  again  before 
all  the  world.  I  shall  be  ready  to 
marry  them,  and  to  ask  him  and 
her  to  my  house  afterwards. 

"In  the  meantime  what  was  to 
become  of  her]  'Let  her  go  into 
lodgings,'  said  the  Bishop.  G:>  to 
lodgings  at  Broughton  !  You  kn:>w 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  IV. 


243 


what  sort  of  lodgings  she  would 
get  there  among  psalm  -  singing 
greengrocers  who  would  tell  her  of 
her  misfortune  every  day  of  her 
life !  I  would  not  subject  her  to 
the  misery  of  going  and  seeking  for 
a  home.  I  told  him,  when  I  per- 
suaded him  to  go,  that  she  should 
have  the  rooms  they  were  then  occu- 
pying while  he  was  away.  In  set- 
tling this,  of  course,  I'had  to  make 
arrangements  for  doing  in  our  own 
establishment  the  work  which  had 
lately  fallen  to  her  share.  I  men- 
tion this  for  the  sake  of  explaining 
that  she  has  got  nothing  to  do  with 
the  school.  No  doubt  the  boys 
are  under  the  same  roof  with  her. 
Will  your  boy's  morals  be  the 
worse?  It  seems  that  Gustavus 
Momson's  will.  You  know  the 
father ;  do  you  not  ?  I  wonder 
whether  anything  will  ever  affect 
his  morals? 

"Now  I  have  told  you  every- 
thing. Not  that  I  have  doubted 
you ;  but,  as  you  have  been  told  so 
much,  I  have  thought  it  well  that 
you  should  have  the  whole  story 
from  myself.  What  effect  it  may 
have  upon  the  school  I  do  not 
know.  The  only  boy  of  whose 
secession  I  have  yet  heard  is  young 
Momson.  But  probably  there  will 
be  others.  Four  new  boys  were 
to  have  come,  but  I  have  already 
heard  from  the  father  of  one  that 
he  has  changed  his  mind.  I  think 
I  can  trace  an  acquaintance  between 
him  and  Mother  Shipton.  If  the 
body  of  the  school  should  leave  ins 
I  will  let  you  know  at  once,  as  you 
might  not  like  to  leave  your  boy 
under  such  circumstances. 

"  You  may  be  sure  of  this,  that 
here  the  lady  remains  until  her 
husband  returns.  I  am  not  goiii^ 
to  ba  turned  from  my  purpose  at 
this  time  of  day  by  anything  that 
Mother  Shipton  may  say  or  do. — 
Yours  always, 

"JEFFREY  WORTLE." 


244 


Irish  Distress  and  its  Origin. 


[Aug. 


IEISH     DISTRESS     AND     ITS     ORIGIN. 


EDMUND  SPENSER,  describing  the 
state  of  Ireland  three  hundred 
years  ago,  says: — 

"  There  have  been  divers  good 
plots  devised  and  wise  counsels  cast 
already  about  the  reformation  of  that 
realm ;  but  they  say  it  is  the  fatal 
destiny  of  that  land  that  no  purposes 
whatsoever  are  meant  for  her  good, 
will  prosper,  or  take  good  effect,  which, 
whether  it  proceed  from  the  very 
Genius  of  the  soil,  or  infhience  of  the 
stars,  or  that  Almighty  God  hath  not 
yet  appointed  the  time  for  her  refor- 
mation, or  that  He  reserveth  her  in 
this  unquiet  state  still  for  some  secret 
scourge,  which  shall  by  her  come  unto 
England,  it  is  hard  to  be  known,  but 
yet  much  to  be  feared." 

The  description  of  Ireland  given 
by  Spenser  has  held  good  down  to 
the  present  day.  That  country  has 
been  a  rankling  thorn  in  the  flesh 
of  every  British  Government,  and 
the  lapse  of  time  shows  no  sign  of 
amendment.  Within  the  last  thirty 
years  there  have  been  some  short 
intervals  of  comparative  prosperity, 
but  these  have  been  varied  by 
periods  of  turmoil  and  agitation ; 
and  even  in  the  most  prosperous 
times  there  has  been  a  constant 
risk  of  distress  in  the  poorer  dis- 
tricts of  the  country,  from  failures 
of  crops,  especially  of  the  potato. 

Much  of  this  state  of  matters 
is  due  to  the  low  social  condition 
of  the  bulk  of  the  Irish  people, 
and  so  long  as  it  remains  in  that 
state  amelioration  is  hopeless.  For 
ages  the  people  have  depended 
for  subsistence  chiefly  upon  the 
potato,  and  notwithstanding  the 
many  warnings  they  have  had  of 
the  folly  of  so  doing,  they  have  not 
abated  their  confidence  in  a  crop 
which  has  repeatedly  failed,  leaving 
them  helpless.  The  potato  crop 
failed  in  1823,  in  1837,  in  1840; 


and  then  we  come  to  the  great  fail- 
ure of  1846  and  1847,  when,  ac- 
cording to  the  late  Earl  Russell,  "  a 
famine  of  the  thirteenth  fell  upon 
the  population  of  the  nineteenth 
century."  The  efforts  which  were 
made  at  that  time  by  public  and 
private  beneficence  to  relieve  the 
distress  were  unparalleled  for  their 
magnitude.  Parliament  voted  over 
seven  millions  sterling  for  public 
works,  labour  rates,  and  temporary 
relief;  but  this  assistance  is  now 
ignored,  and  even  occasionally  de- 
nied, by  the  Home  Rule  organs  and 
orators  of  the  present  day,  although 
it  is  a  historical  fact. 

Iii  1850  the  country  began  to 
improve,  and  in  many  respects  it 
materially  advanced  in  prosperity 
until  1860,  when  three  consecutive 
wet  seasons  set  in,  terminating  in 
1863,  which  entailed  much  loss  to 
all  classes  of  farmers,  and  consider- 
able privations  in  the  case  of  the 
peasant  landholders  and  labourers. 
It  has  been  calculated  that  the  loss 
on  live-stock  alone  during  the  years 
named  amounted  to  over  five  mil- 
lions sterling,  even  at  the  low  scale 
of  prices  used  at  that  time  by  the 
Registrar-General.  The  crops  of  all 
kinds  were  deficient ;  potatoes  were 
small  in  size,  and  much  affected  by 
disease ;  a  large  proportion  of  the 
hay  crop  was  unfit  for  use;  and 
what  added  much  to  the  privations 
endured  by  the  people,  was  a  fuel 
famine,  the  wet  weather  rendering 
it  impossible  to  have  a  supply  of 
turf.  Many  landlords  made  abate- 
ments of  rents,  varying  from  15 
to  30  per  cent ;  and  in  various 
instances  they  also  imported  coals, 
which  they  either  sold  at  a  low 
price  to  their  tenants,  or  gave  as 
a  free  gift. 

The  results  of  the  wet  summer 


1880.] 


Distress  and  its  Origin. 


245 


and  early  part  of  the  autumn  of 
1879  were  simply  a  repetition  of 
those  which  occurred  from  I860  to 
1863,  with  this  difference,  that 
the  crops  of  1879  were  ultimately 
saved  in  tolerably  fair  condition, 
owing  to  the  continuance  of  re- 
markably fine  weather  for  several 
weeks  during  the  months  of  October 
and  November.  It  is  not  denied 
that  the  crops  of  1879  were  below 
an  average  in  point  of  yield;  but 
it  was  subsequently  proved  that  the 
loss  was  not  so  great  as  the  hastily 
collected  statistics,  published  last 
winter  by  the  Eegistrar  -  General, 
appeared  to  show. 

The  unfavourable  weather  of  last 
year  has  been  followed  by  results 
differing  from  those  which  attended 
any  previous  failure  of  the  crops 
in  Ireland.  It  has  been  made 
the  groundwork  of  a  political  and 
social  agitation  of  the  worst  kind. 
The  Irish  peasantry,  especially  in 
the  west  and  south-west,  were  in  a 
much  worse  plight  in  18G1  and 
1862  than  they  have  been  in  dur- 
ing the  last  six  months ;  but  their 
condition  at  that  time  caused  no  ex- 
citement, and,  we  may  even  say,  that 
very  little  sympathy  existed  amongst 
those  who  were  not  directly  affected 
by  the  unfortunate  condition  of  the 
people.  But  eighteen  years  ago 
there  was  no  one  to  make  the  mis- 
fortunes of  the  people  a  stalking- 
horse  for  the  advancement  of  poli- 
tical and  seditious  projects.  Mr 
Parnell  was  at  that  time  a  school- 
boy, and  Home  Eule  had  not  be- 
come even  a  dream  of  any  of  those 
visionary  schemers  who  delight  in 

?osing  before   the   public   gaze  as 
rish  patriots. 

In  the  interval,  Mr  Parnell  came 
to  the  front  as  the  political  leader 
of  a  party  professing  intense  hatred 
to  the  British  Government  and  the 
maintenance  of  the  Union,  and  re- 
solved, also,  to  overturn  all  existing 
laws  affecting  the  relations  between 


landlord  and  tenant  in  Ireland. 
Meetings  were  got  up  last  year  in 
those  parts  of  the  country  where 
the  people  were  supposed  to  be  in 
favour  of  such  views,  and  principles 
verging  upon  extreme  Communism 
were  broadly  advocated  by  Mr 
Parnell  and  his  supporters,  lay  and 
clerical.  That  gentleman  could 
thank  God  for  the  torrents  of  rain 
which  fell  at  the  time  when  several 
of  those  meetings  were  held,  beat- 
ing the  crops  into  the  ground,  and 
destroying  the  hopes  of  the  farmers ; 
and  these  calamities  were  blas- 
phemously asserted  by  Mr  Parnell 
to  afford  proof  that  Heaven  was 
fighting  on  their  side.  His  con- 
stant advice  to  farmers  was,  Pay  no 
rent,  but  keep  a  firm  grip  of  the 
land,  no  matter  what  the  law  might 
say  or  do  to  the  contrary.  This 
advice  was  very  palatable  to  the 
bulk  of  his  hearers;  and  the  result 
is,  that  certain  parts  of  the  west  of 
Ireland,  particularly  the  counties  o*f 
Mayo  and  Galway,  have  been  the 
scenes  of  wild  outrages,  and  even  of 
murders.  Men  who  paid  their  rents 
have  been  taken  out  of  their  huts 
at  night  and  roasted  over  a  fire,  or 
"carded"  until  their  bodies  were 
rendered  a  mass  of  red  flesh.  In 
other  instances  cattle  and  horses 
have  been  hamstrung,  and  sheep 
driven  into  the  sea.  In  short,  the 
people  of  Connaught  have  shown 
that  they  are  still  the  "  savage  na- 
tion" depicted  by  the  poet  Spenser. 
But  what  could  be  expected  from 
poor,  ignorant,  excitable  people, 
when  an  Irish  M.P. — Mr  Biggar — 
had  the  audacity  to  attempt  to  ex- 
cuse in  the  House  of  Commons  the 
assassination  of  Irish  landlords ! 

The  anti-rent  agitation  has  also 
spread  to  other  parts  where  the 
people  have  usually  been  peaceable 
and  orderly.  On  the  13th  of  July, 
Mr  Justice  Lawson,  addressing  the 
grand  jury  of  the  county  of  Kerry, 
said — 


240 


Irish  Distress  and  its  Origin. 


[Aug. 


"  I  am  sorry  to  see  that  the  picture 
presented,  especially  at  the  north  end 
of  the  county,  is  that  of  a  determined 
and  organised  opposition  to  the  pay- 
ment of  rent,  and  to  the  carrying 
out  of  the  process  of  the  law,  which 
state  of  things,  if  allowed  to  go  on  un- 
checked, must  lead,  I  should  say,  to 
the  breaking  up  of  all  the  bonds  of 
civilised  society." 

The  agitators  resolved  to  make 
capital  of  any  distress  which  might 
exist  in  the  west,  from  the  failure 
of  crops  or  other  causes.  With 
this  view  a  "Special  Commission- 
er" was  despatched  from  the  office 
of  the  'Dublin  Freeman's  Journal,' 
and  the  nature  of  his  instructions 
soon  became  manifest  from  the 
highly  sensational  style  of  his  re- 
ports. Reporters  from  other  jour- 
nals, metropolitan  as  well  as  Irish, 
followed  in  the  steps  of  the  '  Free- 
man's '  correspondent;  and  although 
their  reports  were  couched  in  much 
more  moderate  terms,  still  it  was 
evident  that  the  writers  were 
much  impressed  by  the  miserable 
condition  of  the  people.  No  sur- 
prise need  be  felt  that  such  was 
the  case.  Gentlemen  accustomed 
to  the  comforts,  conveniencies,  and 
decencies  of  civilised  life,  suddenly 
found  themselves  transported  into 
a  district  where  such  things  were 
utterly  unknown.  There  could  not 
be  a  greater  difference  between  life 
in  London  as  compared  with  life  in 
Zululand,  than  between  the  Lon- 
doners and  the  Connaughtmen. 
The  parties  were  at  opposite  poles 
of  the  social  scale.  But  the  people 
of  Connaught  had  not  temporarily 
sunk  into  the  abject  condition  in 
which  the  reporters  found  them. 
It  was  their  normal  state,  affected, 
no  doubt,  by  temporary  causes, 
but  still  the  state  in  which  they 
had  been  born  and  reared.  The 
cabin  or  hut  of  a  Connaughtman 
has  from  time  immemorial  been 
one  of  the  most  wretched  kinds 


of  habitation  on  the  face  of  this 
globe.  It  is  impossible  to  ima- 
gine a  worse.  Daniel  O'Connell 
described  the  condition  of  the 
Irish  peasantry  in  the  following 
terms : — 

"The  state  of  the  lower  orders  in 
Ireland  is  such,  that  it  is  astonishing 
to  me  how  they  preserve  health,  and, 
above  all,  how  they  retain  cheerfulness 
under  the  total  privation  of  anything 
like  comfort,  and  the  existence  of 
a  state  of  things  that  the  inferior 
animals  would  scarcely  endure,  and 
which  they  do  not  endure  in  this 
country  [England].  Their  houses  are 
not  even  called  houses,  and  they  ought 
not  to  be ;  they  are  called  cabins. 
They  are  built  of  mud,  and  partly  with 
thatch,  and  partly  with  a  surface  which 
they  call  scraws,  but  which  is  utterly 
insufficient  to  keep  out  the  rain.  In 
these  abodes  there  is  nothing  that  can 
be  called  furniture  ;  it  is  a  luxury  to 
have  a  box  to  put  anything  into  ;  it 
is  a  luxury  to  have  what  they  call  a 
dresser  for  laying  a  plate  upon.  They 
generally  have  little  beyond  a  cast- 
metal  pot,  a  milk-tub,  which  they  call 
a  keeler,  over  which  they  put  a  wicker 
basket,  in  order  to  throw  the  potatoes, 
water  and  all,  into  the  basket,  that  the 
water  should  run  into  their  keeler. 
[The  seats  are  usually  large  stones,  or 
short  pieces  of  wood  resting  upon 
stones.]  The  entire  family  sleep  in  the 
same  apartment  [and  occasionally  more 
than  one  family],  they  call  it  a  room : 
they  have  seldom  any  bedsteads  ;  and 
as  to  coverings  for  their  beds,  they 
have  nothing  but  straw,  and  very  few 
blankets.  In  general,  they  sleep  in 
their  clothes ;  there  is  not  one  in  ten 
who  has  a  blanket.  [Pigs  and  poul- 
try, and  sometimes  a  cow  or  calf  or 
goat,  rest  at  night  in  the  same  apart- 
ment with  the  family.]  Their  diet 
is  equally  wretched.  It  consists, 
except  on  the  sea-coast,  of  potatoes 
and  water  during  the  greater  part  of 
the  year,  and  of  potatoes  and  sour- 
milk  during  the  remainder."  ;<**«_MJ 

Since  O'Conn  ell's  time,  many 
landed  proprietors  have  done  much 
to  improve  the  cabins  on  their 
estates,  and  in  various  instances 


1880.] 


Irish  Distress  and  its  Origin. 


247 


have  erected  cottages  of  a  superior 
class,  which  some  of  the  people 
do  not  seem  to  appreciate ;  but 
in  the  majority  of  cases,  the  dwell- 
ings, especially  in  the  far  west, 
remain  in  the  condition  so  graphi- 
cally described  by  O'Connell.  Of 
late  years,  so  long  as  the  people 
had  credit  with  the  country  shop- 
keepers, their  diet  was  improved, 
and  they  have  used  flour  to  a  large 
extent.  They  did  not  consider 
oatmeal  good  enough ;  and  coming 
down,  as  they  think,  to  Indian 
meal,  has  of  late  been  one  of  their 
greatest  hardships. 

The  effects  of  a  partial  failure  of 
the  crops  last  year  in  the  west  of 
Ireland,  were  increased  to  a  great 
extent  by  the  want  of  employment 
for  the  thousands  of  labourers  who 
annually  migrate  to  England  and 
Scotland  in  search  of  work.  It  is 
remarkable  the  change  which  has 
taken  place,  especially  in  the  cloth- 
ing of  the  Connaught  peasantry,  in 
consequence  of  this  annual  migra- 
tion. At  one  time  they  were  very 
badly  dressed,  and  chiefly  in  home- 
made coarse  frieze ;  now  they  wear 
the  substantial  and  familiar  garb  of 
the  English  navvy,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  some  of  the  old  men  ;  and 
instead  of  carrying  their  possessions 
tied  up  in  a  handkerchief,  we  have 
frequently  seen  them  passing  through 
Dublin  carrying  carpet-bags.  The 
bundle  in  the  red  handkerchief  is 
still,  however,  a  distinguishing  mark 
of  the  Connaughtman  en  route  for 
England. 

The  extreme  depression  in  trade 
which  existed  in  1879  in  the  man- 
ufacturing and  mining  districts  of 
Great  Britain,  precluded  any  neces- 
sity for  extraneous  labour;  whilst  the 
lateness  of  the  harvest,  and  the  in- 
creased use  of  machinery,  rendered 
farmers  averse  to  engage  the  ser- 
vices of  the  swarms  of  Irish  labourers 
which  crossed  the  Channel.  This 
annual  migration  has  been  carried  on 

VOL.  CXXVIII. — NO.  DCCLXXY1II. 


to  an  extent  of  which  few  are  aware, 
and  we  therefore  gladly  avail  our- 
selves of  certain  statistical  facts 
which  Dr  W.  K  Hancock  has  pub- 
lished on  the  subject : — 

"  So  far  back  as  1841,"  says  Dr  Han- 
cock, "  that  accomplished  statistician, 
the  late  Sir  Thomas  Lurcom,  had  the 
number  of  deck-passengers  to  England 
ascertained,  and  in  that  summer  it  was 
57,651 ;  of  these  25,118  came  from 
Connaught,  10,450  from  the  county  of 
Mayo.  The  statistics  of  migratory 
labourers,  though  collected  in  a  less 
perfect  form,  from  1851  till  a  few  years 
since,  were  never  compiled  or  pub- 
lished ;  so  it  has  been  found  necessary 
to  resort  to  private  information.  With 
the  development  of  railways  and  pro- 
gress of  education,  the  number  of 
labourers  migrating  increased.  The 
25,000  from  Connaught  rose  to  35,000 
a  few  years  since,  and  those  from  Mayo 
from  10,000  to  20,000  in  1878.  Last 
year  [1879]  the  Mayo  men  fell  to 
15,000  ;  there  was  a  further  fall  of 
2000  from  the  rest  of  Connaught,  or 
7000  men  whose  English  employment 
was  stopped  in  1879.  This,  at  £14, 10s. 
a  man,  to  cover  wages  usually  brought 
home,  and  cost  of  food  and  clothes 
in  England,  represents,  for  7000  men, 
£100,000  less  English  wages  earned 
by  them  this  year  than  last  year.  Then 
the  20,000  who  went  from  Connaught 
this  year  brought  home  less  wages. 
At  the  same  rate  as  above  stated,  their 
English  wages  would  be  £300,000. 
According  to  one  estimate  they  lost 
this  year  a  third,  or  £100,000  ;  accord- 
ing to  another  two-thirds,  or  £200,000. 
If  we  take  a  half,  £150,000,  and  add 
it  to  the  £100,000  lost  by  the  7000 
men  that  did  not  go  over  to  England 
at  all,  we  get  a  loss  to  Connaught  from 
this  single  source  in  this  year  [1879]  cf 
a  quarter  of  a  million  of  money,  or 
£250,000." 

This  loss  was  a  serious  matter  to 
the  people  of  Connaught,  for  it  not 
only  deprived  them  of  the  means 
of  paying  their  rents,  but  it  also 
rendered  them  unable  to  wipe  off 
any  portion  of  the  debts  they  had 
incurred  to  shopkeepers,  who  had 
sold  them  food  on  the  faith  of  being 


248 


Irish  Distress  and  its  Origin. 


[Aug. 


paid,  as  usual,  out  of  their  earnings 
in  England.  Loss  of  credit  was 
not  confined  to  the  class  who  de- 
pended chiefly  on  English  earnings. 
Those  small  farmers  who  remained 
at  home  were  also  involved  with 
the  shopkeepers  who  had  press- 
ed their  wares  upon  the  people 
in  previous  years,  when  cattle  sold 
readily  at  good  prices,  giving  their 
customers  almost  unlimited  credit. 
They  had  also  dealt  largely  in 
accommodation  bills  with  banks 
and  usurers,  and  were  overloaded 
with  debts.  It  may  be  thought 
strange  that  people  of  that  class 
were  allowed  to  run  so  deeply  into 
debt;  but  in  the  first  place,  and 
especially  in  their  dealings  with 
banks,  they  conducted  their  trans- 
actions with  a  wonderful  amount 
of  cunning  secrecy ;  and  next,  the 
Land  Act  had  given  a  certain 
value  to  their  holdings,  which  shop- 
keepers and  others  regarded  as 
affording  ample  security  for  their 
advances.  It  was  calculated  that 
even  if  a  tenant  were  ejected,  he 
would  be  awarded  an  amount  of 
compensation  sufficient  to  repay  his 
creditors,  although  it  would  leave 
the  debtor  in  a  fit  state  for  the 
workhouse.  Indebtedness  is  the 
normal  condition  of  the  Connaught 
peasant.  Even  in  the  best  times 
he  obtains  seed-oats  or  seed-pota- 
toes from  the  shopkeepers  on  credit, 
who  seldom  charge  less  than  fifty 
per  cent  profit  for  the  accommo- 
dation ;  artificial  manures,  grossly 
adulterated  by  the  retailers,  are 
supplied  on  similar  terms  ;  and  the 
poor,  shiftless  peasant  feeds  his 
family  for  a  good  part  of  the  year 
upon  credit.  From  the  first  day 
he  earns  a  penny  until  his  death,  he 
is  the  bond-slave  of  the  shopkeeper 
or  the  usurer, — usually  one  and  the 
same  individual ;  and  the  legiti- 
mate claims  of  his  landlord  are 
insignificant  compared  with  those 
of  his  other  creditors.  His  land- 


lord usually  gives  him  ample  time, 
but  the  shopkeepers  and  usurers 
have  no  bowels  of  mercy. 

Newspaper  correspondents  who 
visited  the  west  of  Ireland  last 
winter,  had,  of  course,  to  depend 
very  much  for  information  upon 
the  people  with  whom  they  came 
into  contact,  and,  from  ignorance  of 
the  people  and  their  ways,  they  were 
unable  to  sift  the  evidence  brought 
before  them  so  as  to  detect  wilful  im- 
posture or  interested  exaggeration. 
Those  who  know  how  difficult  it  is 
to  get  the  truth  out  of  a  Connaught 
peasant,  when  he  is  determined  to 
withhold  it,  can  easily  understand 
how  gentlemen  who  were  total 
strangers  to  the  country  and  to  the 
people  were  misled.  We  are  not 
vilifying  the  character  of  the  Con- 
naught  peasantry  when  we  allude 
to  their  inclination  to  deceive.  The 
judges  of  assize  have,  over  and  over 
again,  referred  in  strong  language 
to  the  gross  perjury  which  has  been 
committed  by  witnesses,  in  cases 
tried  by  them,  and  have  frequently 
expressed  their  opinion  that  it  was 
impossible  to  believe  any  of  them. 
Such  a  trivial  matter,  therefore,  as 
deceiving  a  newspaper  correspon- 
dent, was  regarded  as  of  little  con- 
sequence, or  rather  that  it  was  jus- 
tifiable and  necessary,  as  it  might 
be  the  means  of  conferring  upon 
themselves  some  direct  pecuniary 
advantages. 

One  of  the  dodges  practised  upon 
reporters  was  to  show  them  a  small 
heap  of  potatoes  in  a  corner  of  the 
cabin,  and  to  state  that  the  heap 
constituted  the  sole  means  of  sub- 
sistence for  the  inmates  for  several 
months.  This  alleged  fact  was  duly 
recorded,  and  much  sympathy  ex- 
pressed for  the  people  who  were 
patiently  waiting  for  the  period 
when  their  limited  stores  of  food 
would  become  exhausted,  and  ab- 
solute starvation  would  stare  them 
in  the  face.  It  was  not  known 


1880.] 


Irish  Distress  and  its  Origin. 


249 


that  the  heap  of  potatoes,  like  the 
gammon  of  bacon  which  Goldsmith 
speaks  of,  was  merely  kept  for  show, 
and  that  the  bulk  from  which  it 
was  taken  was  snugly  hid  in  a  hole 
in  the  field,  beyond  the  reach  of 
any  prying  Sassenach.  As  soon  as 
seeds  were  supplied,  through  the 
agency  of  the  Duchess  of  Marl- 
borough's  Committee,  and  of  Major 
Nolan's  Seed  Act,  the  hidden  stores 
were  brought  to  light,  and  not  only 
were  the  local  markets  fairly  sup- 
plied, but  a  considerable  export 
trade  in  potatoes  sprang  up,  very- 
much  to  the  surprise  of  every  one. 
The  '  Irish  Times,'  a  respectable 
Dublin  daily  paper,  not  given  to 
sensationalism,  stated,  in  its  issue 
of  March  23d,  that 

"almost  every  steamer  leaving  Dub- 
lin for  England  takes  large  quantities 
of  Irish  seed-potatoes  nightly  for  agri- 
cultural districts  in  Lancashire  and 
Yorkshire  ;  but  up  to  the  present  time 
the  largest  weights  of  these  esculents 
have  been  despatched  to  Wales,  the 
London  and  North -Western  line  to 
Holy  head  taking  as  much  as  sixty  to 
eighty  tons  daily.  In  addition  to  the 
steamers,  return  colliers  are  being 
largely  employed  in  this  traffic  ;  and 
while,  of  course,  a  great  deal  of  this 
seed  reaches  the  Liftey  from  Minister 
counties,  it  is  a  notewortliy  fact,  in  this 
period  of  distress  in  the  west  of  Ireland, 
that  by  far  the  largest  quantities  of  seed- 
tubers  shipped  from  Dublin  for  Eng- 
land, and  occasionally  for  Scotland, 
come  direct  from  Connaught  counties, 
and  especially  from  the  districts  of 
Castlerea,  Castlebar,  Claremorris,  and 
other  Mayo  and  Galway  neighbourhoods, 
where  the  suffering  is  said  to  be  keen." 

This  statement  was  never  denied, 
nor  was  any  attempt  made  to  ex- 
plain the  circumstances  by  the 
famine  -  mongering  section  of  the 
Irish  press. 

When  the  late  Government  saw 
that  the  peasantry  of  the  west  of 
Ireland  were  in  a  worse  plight  than 
usual,  from  the  partial  failure  of 
their  crops,  and  the  loss  of  earnings 


in  England,  steps  were  taken  to 
meet  any  serious  pressure  on  the 
rates  that  might  arise  in  some 
localities  from  these  causes.  The 
rules  for  granting  outdoor  relief 
were  relaxed,  and  money  -was  ad- 
vanced to  landlords  and  local 
authorities  for  relief-works,  the 
money  required  being  supplied 
from  the  surplus  fund  of  the  Irish 
Church.  Landlords,  especially  the 
owners  of  property  in  the  west  of 
Ireland,  have  availed  themselves  to 
a  large  extent  of  the  facilities  af- 
forded for  obtaining  loans  for  im- 
proving purposes,  there  being,  up 
to  1st  July,  2466  applicants  for 
loans  amounting  to  £1,531,380. 
The  extension  of  outdoor  relief 
•was  imprudent,  as  it  opened  the 
door  to  imposition.  Except  in 
the  case  of,  at  most,  three  or  four 
unions,  the  ordinary  resources  of 
the  poor-law  were  quite  sufficient 
to  meet  any  demand  which  might 
be  made  upon  them.  !N"o  work- 
house in  Ireland  has  been  full — 
whereas,  in  1846,  extra  accommo- 
dation had  to  be  provided.  Her 
Grace  the  Duchess  of  Marlborough, 
with  that  kindness  and  -warmth 
of  feeling  which  distinguished  her 
character,  organised  and  personally 
superintended  a  relief  fund ;  whilst 
the  Lord  Mayor  of  Dublin,  being 
apparently  unwilling  that  his  fel- 
low-countrymen should  receive  help 
from  the  hands  of  the  wife  of  an 
English  Lord-Lieutenant,  started  a 
"Mansion  House  Fund"  for  the 
same  purpose.  Liberal  contribu- 
tions also  came  in  from  America, 
which  were  specially  dealt  with. 
These  contributions,  up  to  the  be- 
ginning of  July,  were  as  follows : — 

Duchess  of  Marl- 
borough's  Fund,  £133,757  0  0 

Mansion  -  House 

Fund,  .  .  173,124  0  0 

Voted  by  Domin- 
ion of  Canada,  20,000  0  0 

Mr  Gordon  Ben- 


250 


Irish  Distress  and  its  Origin. 


[Aug. 


nett's  subscrip- 
tion, .  .  20.000  0  0 

'New  York  Her- 
ald '  Fund,  .  60,000  0  0 

Baroness  Burdett 
Coutts,  .  .  5,000  0  0 


£41 1,881     0    0 

The  Land  League  also  received 
contributions  from  America,  but 
we  have  not  seen  any  statement  of 
the  amounts,  or  of  the  manner  in 
which  the  money  was  expended. 
Very  large  sums  of  money  also 
reached  Ireland,  in  the  shape  of 
remittances  from  Irish  men  and 
women  settled  in  America,  who 
sent  help  to  their  friends  at  home. 

The  distribution  of  the  relief 
funds  was  left  to  the  local  com- 
mittees, and  in  many  instances 
these  committees  gave  relief  to  per- 
sons who  were  not  entitled  to  it. 
Professor  Baldwin,  Assistant  Agri- 
cultural Commissioner,  who  is  not 
likely  to  be  suspected  of  exaggera- 
tion, has  stated,  through  the  press, 
that  he  has  met  with  cases  in  which 
relief  was  given  to  persons  who  had 
money  in  the  banks.  That  such  is 
very  likely  to  have  been  the  case 
has  been  shown  by  a  return  re- 
cently laid  before  the  House  of 
Commons  by  the  Postmaster- Gen- 
eral, which  proved  that  the  deposits 
in  the  post-office  savings  banks,  in 
what  are  called  "the  distressed  dis- 
tricts," had  increased  to,  the  extent 
of  £26,000  since  the  period  when 
"  the  distress  "  was  alleged  to  have 
commenced.  And  even  that  in- 
crease does  not  represent  the  actual 
state  of  the  case.  The  Irish  peas- 
ant is  a  secretive  animal,  and  hides 
his  money  in  the  thatch  of  his  cabin, 
or  some  other  place  known  only 
to  himself.  He  goes  about  like 
a  beggar-man;  and  it  is  not  until 
money  is  required  to  buy  a  farm  or 
portion  a  daughter  that  one  obtains 
some  idea  of  the  amount  of  wealth 
possessed  by  persons  who  would 


never  be  supposed  to  be  worth  a 
shilling.  With  regard  to  the  im- 
proper distribution  of  relief,  we 
have  ourselves  witnessed  some  glar- 
ing instances ;  and  when  we  have 
pointed  out  those  cases  to  some  of 
the  members  of  relief  committees, 
we  have  been  told  that  they  were 
quite  aware  of  the  imposition,  but 
that  if  they  objected,  their  lives 
would  not  be  worth  a  day's  pur- 
chase. 

At  the  time  when  the  reporters 
of  certain  journals  were  piling  up 
the  agony  in  their  exaggerated  de- 
scriptions of  the  state  of  the  coun- 
try, a  visit  was  paid  to  the  worst 
parts  of  western  Connaught  by  the 
Eev.  James  Nugent — better  known 
as  "Father  Nugent" — of  Liver- 
pool, accompanied  by  another  gen- 
tleman, also  from  the  same  place. 
Father  Nugent  and  his  colleague 
were  specially  appointed  by  cer- 
tain philanthropic  persons  in  Eng- 
land to  visit  Connaught,  inquire 
into  the  actual  condition  of  the 
people,  and  suggest  such  means  as 
they  might  then  consider  best 
adapted,  not  merely  to  afford  tem- 
porary relief,  but  also  to  put  the 
people  in  a  way  to  provide  for  them- 
selves in  the  future.  The  report 
made  by  Father  Nugent  and  his  col- 
league was  a  remarkable  document. 
They  stated  that  they  had  inter- 
views with  the  members  of  central 
local  committees — with  clergymen, 
Catholic  and  Protestant  —  with 
medical  officers,  police  sergeants, 
officer?,  landlords,  tenants,  gentry, 
and  tradespeople ;  and  they  also 
visited  schools  and  convents,  and 
used  every  means  of  obtaining  in- 
formation, which  was  in  all  cases 
frankly  and  freely  given. 

They  found  that  the  distress  had 
been  much  exaggerated ;  that,  with 
the  exception  of  isolated  cases, 
there  was  no  destitution;  that  the 
supply  of  fuel  was  more  abundant 
than  they  had  been  led  to  expect; 


1880.] 


Irish  Distress  and  its  Origin. 


251 


that  the  people  looked  remarkably 
healthy ;  and  that  in  most  places 
there  was  not  more,  and  in  some 
cases  less,  sickness  than  usual. 
They  found  that  cases  of  imposition 
were  by  no  means  rare  ;  and  that 
gratuitous  relief  had  been  found 
utterly  demoralising  to  the  people. 
They  found  that  the  people,  espe- 
cially the  children,  were  chiefly  in 
want  of  clothing ;  and  stated  that 
help  to  supply  that  deficiency  was 
needed.  Want  of  proper  clothing, 
especially  for  children,  is  by  no 
means  a  new  feature  in  Connaught; 
but  the  deficiency  pointed  out  by 
Father  Nugent  was  subsequently 
fully  met  by  the  Duchess  of  Marl- 
borough's  Committee,  and  from 
other  sources. 

No  greater  exposure  could  be 
given  than  Father  Nugent's  re- 
port of  the  enormous  sham  which 
had  been  perpetrated  upon  the 
public,  chiefly  for  political  purposes 
of  the  worst  description.  There  is 
no  doubt  there  were  isolated  cases 
of  hardship,  principally  in  remote 
parts  and  in  the  outlying  islands 
on  the  west  coast,  but  the  country 
in  general  was  not  in  the  state 
of  universal  destitution  which  in- 
terested parties  had  represented  it 
to  be.  The  country  shopkeepers 
have,  however,  made  a  good  thing 
of  the  cry  of  distress  and  the 
funds  provided  for  relief.  They 
supply  meal  or  groceries  on  the 
orders  of  the  local  committees,  and 
thus  many  of  them  have  been  do- 
ing a  ready -money  business  to  a 
much  greater  extent  than  they  had 
ever  experienced  when  times  were 
good. 

The  collection  and  distribution 
of  relief  funds  stimulated  the  cry 
of  distress.  The  average  Irish 
peasant  does  not  like  to  work  if 
he  can  get  his  necessities  supplied 
without  doing  so ;  and  when  it 
was  known  that  money  was  to  be 
had  for  the  asking,  there  was  no 


lack  of  applicants.  There  are  too 
many  persons  in  Ireland  who  re- 
gard public  money  as  a  fit  subject 
for  plunder.  This  principle  was 
extensively  and  unblushingly  car- 
ried out  in  the  distribution  of  re- 
lief in  1846  and  1847  j  and  the 
experience  of  the  past  half-year 
has  shown  that  some  people,  even 
of  a  class  above  the  peasantry,  have 
still  a  strong  inclination  to  benefit 
themselves  at  the  expense  of  the 
Government  or  of  charitable  indi- 
viduals. Of  course,  such  persons 
were  always  ready  to  join  in  the 
cry  of  "  distress,"  for  they  found  it 
profitable  to  do  so. 

In  describing  the  causes  of  the 
chronic  poverty  which  exists  in  the 
west,  Father  Nugent,  after  refer- 
ring to  bad  harvests,  depreciated 
value  of  live-stock,  and  want  of 
employment  in  Great  Britain,  as 
merely  temporary  in  their  influ- 
ence, proceeds  to  say  : — 

"There  exists  a  system  so  rotten 
that  recurrences  of  distress  are  inevit- 
able so  long  as  that  system  lasts.  The 
population  in  places  is  far  too  dense 
to  be  supported  on  the  poor  patches  of 
boggy  land  interspersed  with  rocks 
and  stones.  There  are  large  districts 
where  the  average  holdings  are  three 
to  five  acres  of  the  poorest  land  im- 
aginable ;  and  as  every  cabin  on  such 
holdings  seems  to  swarm  with  children, 
it  is  below  the  mark  to  put  the  average 
of  mouths  to  be  fed  from  the  produce 
at  six ;  and,  in  fact,  they  could  not 
exist  were  it  not  for  the  money  earned 
by  the  father  and  sons  in  this  country 
[England]  and  Scotland  at  harvest. 
Last  year  this  source  of  income  almost 
entirely  failed  them.  It  is  all  very 
well  for  agitators  to  abuse  landlords 
and  land -laws,  but  if  the  land  was 
given  to  the  people  for  nothing,  they 
would  be  in  a  worse  plight  ere  long, 
because  a  check  on  the  subdivision  of 
their  holdings,  which  the  landlords 
now  exercise,  would  be  withdrawn. 
In  many  of  the  poorer  districts  a  man 
when  asked  how  much  land  he  holds, 
says  £2,  10s.  or  £3  worth.  How  much 
further  from  the  brink  of  starvation 


252 


Irish  Distress  and  its  Origin. 


[Aug. 


would  the  abolition  of  that  rent  place 
him  ?  The  foundation  of  any  im- 
provement in  the  condition  of  such  a 
population  lies  in  emigration,  which 
would  benefit  those  who  left  the 
country  and  those  who  remained ;  and 
the  latter  would  be  greatly  benefited 
by  the  development  of  the  sea-fish- 
eries, to  which  end  the  proposed  piers 
are  essential." 

At  a  subsequent  period,  Father 
Nugent,  having  collected  funds  in 
England  for  the  purpose,  sent  fifty 
families  from  Gal  way  to  Minnesota, 
by  one  of  the  Allan  line  of  steam- 
ers which  was  specially  chartered 
for  the  purpose.  But  emigration 
has  been  denounced  by  the  so- 
called  "  National  "  papers,  which 
describe  the  removal  of  the  pau- 
pers of  the  west  from  their  barren 
bogs  to  a  land  of  plenty  as  be- 
ing a  cruel  step.  The  great  cause 
of  this  opposition  to  emigration  is 
that,  with  the  removal  of  the  pau- 
per land-holders,  the  power  of  the 
"patriots"  for  mischief  will  be 
taken  away.  The  small-farm  sys- 
tem which  prevails  in  the  west 
must  be  abandoned.  It  is  utterly 
unsuited  to  the  requirements  of  the 
age ;  and  no  farm  should  be  less  in 
size  than  sufficient  to  keep  a  pair  of 
horses  in  constant  work  throughout 
the  year— or,  say,  from  thirty  to 
forty  acres  of  strictly  arable  land. 
Irish  farm-horses,  it  must  be  re- 
membered, are,  in  general,  mere 
weeds,  and  being,  moreover,  badly 
fed,  are  not  able  to  cultivate  the 
same  number  of  acres  that  a  pair  of 
Scotch  horses  would  do  easily. 

In  consequence  of  the  state- 
ments which  appeared  in  certain 
journals,  to  the  effect  that  the  peo- 
ple would  be  compelled  to  use  their 
seed-potatoes  and  seed-oats  as  food 
— although  the  contrary  proved  to 
be  the  case  —  it  was  resolved  by 
the  Duchess  of  Marlborough's  Com- 
mittee to  supply  seed  as  far  as 
the  funds  would  permit.  Major 
Nolan  also  brought  in  a  Bill  to 


enable  Poor  Law  Guardians  to  bor- 
row money  for  the  purpose  of  pro- 
curing seed  -  potatoes,  which  was 
passed  with  the  sanction  of  the  late 
Government,  and  many  landlords 
imported  large  quantities  of  Scotch 
Champion  potatoes,  which  they 
distributed  amongst  their  tenantry. 
The  introduction  of  fresh  seed  was 
in  itself  a  wise  measure,  for  the 
Irish  small  farmers  never  think  of 
changing  their  seed,  which  renders 
their  crops  weak  and  inferior,  and 
liable  to  disease.  The  seed  so  ob- 
tained was  of  course  largely  used, 
but  there  were  also  many  instances 
where  the  recipients  sold  the  seed, 
as  they  got  a  large  price  for  it,  and 
were  under  the  belief  that  they 
would  never  be  asked  for  payment. 
As  time  passed  on,  the  public 
belief  in  the  alleged  distress  became 
greatly  modified,  and,  in  fact,  many 
persons  who  had  inquired  into  the 
matter  did  not  hesitate  to  say 
they  had  been  duped  as  to  its 
extent.  Subscriptions  decreased 
rapidly,  and,  under  the  circum- 
stances, it  was  considered  neces- 
sary to  excite  the  public  mind  in 
some  other  way.  As  the  famine 
scare  had  originated  in  the  office  of 
the  '  Freeman's  Journal,'  so  to  that 
journal  belongs  the  credit  of  having 
manufactured  the  fever  scare,  which 
has  been  the  latest  development  of 
the  distress  cry.  The  experienced 
"Special"  of  the  'Freeman'  was 
again  despatched  to  Connaught, 
and  from  his  descriptions  of  disease 
alleged  to  prevail  in  the  west,  one 
would  imagine  that  the  entire  popu- 
lation of  Connaught  was  doomed  to 
destruction.  Official  investigation 
by  medical  men  proved  that  the 
disease  was  a  mild  form  of  typhus, 
and  that  in  districts  represented  to 
be  severely  attacked,  there  were 
actually  fewer  cases  than  usual. 
Typhus  is  seldom  absent  from  the 
cabins  of  the  peasantry  of  the  west; 
nor  is  this  to  be  wondered  at,  con- 


1880.] 


Irish  Distress  and  its  Origin. 


253 


sidering  their  wretched  dwellings, 
usually  overcrowded  with  inmates, 
and  the  filthy  habits  of  the  people. 
The  following  extracts,  dated  July 
9th-15th,  from  a  report  made  by 
Dr  Nixon  to  the  Local  Government 
Board,  afford  a  painful  idea  of  their 
unsanitary  condition : — 

"  Faheen. — It  consists  of  42  cabins, 
nearly  all  of  which  are  single-roomed, 
accommodating  46  families,  and  hav- 
ing a  population  of  188.  I  examined 
most  of  these  cabins,  but  found  no 
cases  of  fever  of  any  kind,  diarrhoea, 
or  dysentery  in  the  village.  The  con- 
dition of  the  people  here  is,  however, 
extremely  wretched.  In  most  of  the 
cabins  cattle  and  pigs  are  kept  in  the 
room  that  is  occupied.  The  sewage 
matter  is  partly  carried  off  by  an  open 
drain  which  runs  through  the  centre 
of  the  floor,  whilst  stagnant  pools  con- 
taining all  sorts  of  offensive  matter  lie 
in  front  of  the  cabins.  In  this  village 
there  is  no  sewerage  of  any  kind,  and 
no  road  for  car  within  more  than  a 
mile's  reach.  The  food  of  the  people 
here  consists  almost  exclusively  of 
Indian  meal  without  milk." 

"  Swinford  and  Kilkelly. — Nothing 
could  exceed  the  complete  absence  of 
sanitary  arrangements  in  this  village. 
There  were  fully  eight  inches  of  man- 
ure in  one  cabin,  in  the  room  where 
seven  persons  lived,  and  the  woman  of 
the  house  explained  that  she  could  not 
clean  it  out,  as  then  she  would  have 
no  manure.  A  large  pond,  filled 
with  greenish  water,  and  containing 
all  kinds  of  sewage  matter,  was  in 
front  of  the  house,  and  the  sewer  in 
connection  with  it  had  its  mouth 
closed  by  a  large  stone  put  against  it. 
Yet,  although  illness  existed  in  three 
families  in  this  village  for  over  two 
months,  it  was  only  on  the  preceding 
day  that  the  medical  officer  of  the 
district  was  sent  for." 

"  Ballintadder.— The  cabin  in  which 
these  persons  lived  was  extremely  of- 
fensive, and  on  entering  it  the  smell 
from  the  excessive  amount  of  organic 
matter  in  the  air  was  almost  over- 
powering. In  the  small  single-roomed 
cabin  in  which  the  three  patients, 
the  mother,  and  two  children  lived,  I 
counted  at  the  time  of  my  visit  three 
cows,  a  number  of  chickens,  three  cats, 


and  a  large  dog.  The  food  of  these 
people  was  meagre,  and  consisted  al- 
most entirely  of  Indian  meal  ;  yet 
they  had  13  or  14  acres  of  land.  In 
an  adjoining  house  three  boys  were 
lying,  one  of  them  since  June  1st. 
Two  of  the  patients  were  suffering 
from  typhoid  fever,  one  from  dysentry. 
The  water  used  for  drinking  purposes 
by  both  families  was  taken  from  a 
well  in  a  neighbouring  field.  On  ex- 
amining the  well  I  found  it  was 
merely  a  pit,  which  was  enclosed  by  a 
stone  wall,  and  into  which  opened  the 
drams  from  the  field,  and,  in  wet 
weather,  the  washings  of  the  roadway. 
The  field  had  been  manured  during 
the  winter  with  guano.  In  warm  dry 
weather  the  well  becomes  dry,  so  that 
ordinarily  it  contains  merely  the  sur- 
face-water from  the  soil  and  drainage- 
water.  The  well  had  been  cleaned 
about  a  month  previously,  when  a 
quantity  of  slimy  foul-smelling  matter 
was  removed  from  its  bottom.  The 
water  looked  dark  and  muddy,  and  it 
had  a  greasy  scum  upon  the  surface." 
"  KnocJcatunny. — In  the  house  where 
those  patients  reside  there  is  no  sewer 
whatever  ;  the  refuse  matter  of  all 
kinds  is  thrown  in  front  of  the  houses, 
and  nothing  could  exceed  the  horribly 
filthy  condition  of  everything  about 
them.  I  have  just  reported  the  state 
of  things  to  the  vice  guardians,  and 
they  will  have  what  is  necessary  done 
without  delay." 

One  is  tempted  to  ask  how  human 
life,  even  in  the  best  of  times,  can 
be  preserved  under  such  conditions  ? 
The  following  statement,  made  by 
Dr  Grimshaw,  Registrar-General  for 
Ireland,  at  a  meeting  of  the  Duchess 
of  Marlborough's  Committee  held 
on  the  8th  of  July,  corroborates 
this  view  of  the  case.  The  Swin- 
ford district,  it  must  be  understood, 
was  described  as  being  a  perfect 
hot-bed  of  "  famine  fever  : " — 

"Dr  Grimshaw  said  :  I  have  taken 
the  trouble  to  go  back  for  ten  years 
through  the  records  for  Swinford  dis- 
trict, analysing  minutely  those  for  the 
last  year  and  the  first  half  of  the  pre- 
sent. During  the  decennial  period  I 
find  that  fever  has  prevailed  there — in 
fact  it  is  endemic.  There  is,  there- 


254 


Irish  Distress  and  its  Origin. 


[Aug. 


fore,  nothing  remarkable  about  its 
presence  this  time  more  than  at  any 
other.  Beginning  with  1870,  in  that 
year  there  were  24  deaths  from  fever ; 
in  th«  next  22,  in  the  next  38,  in  the 
next  33,  in  the  next  13,  in  the  next  18, 
in  the  next  16,  in  the  next  36,  and  last 
year  there  were  48  deaths.  Now,  com- 
ing to  nearer  times,  in  the  first  half  of 
the  present  year  there  were  altogether 
22  deaths  from  fever,  while  in  the  first 
half  of  last  year  there  were  23,  so  that 
it  appears  this  half-year  there  has  been 
one  death  less  than  in  the  correspond- 
ing period  last  half.  In  the  second 
quarter  of  this  year  there  have  been  8 
d.-aths  altogether  from  fever  in  the 
whole  of  the  Swinford  union,  and  that 
out  of  a  population  of  53,000.  For 
the  first  half  of  this  year  the  total 
number  of  deaths  in  Swinford  union 
has  been  508,  while  that  for  the  first 
half  of  last  was  585.  So  that  the  total 
mortality  is  77  less  this  half-year  than 
in  the  corresponding  last  half,  although 
in  the  second  quarter  of  1879  there 
were  228  deaths  against  249  in  the 
corresponding  quarter  of  the  present, 
being  an  excess  of  21.  There  are 
five  districts  in  the  Swinford  union 
—  Foxford,  Kilkelly,  Keltimogh, 
Lovvpark,  and  Swinford.  The  regis- 
trars are  desired  to  furnish  infor- 
mation as  to  any  peculiarity  in  the 
state  of  health  of  the  people,  and  of 
the  five  registrars  only  two  find  any- 
thing so  peculiar  as  to  be  worthy  of 
mention.  Of  Kilkelly  the  registrar 
states :  '  A  few  cases  of  typhus  occur- 
red during  the  last  week  of  the  quar- 
ter. The  people  are  so  ill-fed  that 
the  disease  might  very  rapidly  spread 
among  them.'  He  does  not  state  that 
it  has  spread.  Of  Lowpark  the  report 
is :  '  Births  below  the  average ;  deaths 
above  the  average,  principally  aged 
people,  as  might  be  expected.  Typhus 
fever  has  broken  out  in  Charlestown, 
and  all  removed  to  the  workhouse  hos- 
pital. Destitution  prevails  in  every 
part  of  the  district.  I  know  several 
families  solely  dependent  for  food  on 
the  local  committee.'  But  there  is  no 
evidence  that  there  has  been  any  star- 
vation. Again,  looking  over  the  list 
of  epidemic  disease  in  Swinford,  the 
most  fatal  disease  there  during  the  last 
year  has  been  whooping-cough,  which 
has  proved  very  destructive  indeed. 
The  average  death-rate  of  the  Swinford 


union  has  been  only  14.8  per  thousand 
for  the  ten  years,  and  the  average 
death-rate  per  annum  for  the  second 
quarter  during  the  ten  years  has  been 
12.5,  while  for  the  second  quarter  this 
year  it  was  18.8,  which  is  probably  be- 
low the  average  for  the  whole  of  Ire- 
land. So  far  as  can  be  ascertained, 
these  outbreaks  of  fever  are  quite  com- 
mon among  the  people  of  Ireland. 
For  instance,  there  has  been  an  out- 
break of  fever  oh  the  Kflkerran  Islands, 
another  in  Skibbereen,  another  in 
Donegal,  besides  others  at  places 
where  there  has  been  no  exceptional 
distress  at  all." 

The  late  Earl  of  Carlisle,  when 
Lord-Lieutenaut  of  Ireland,  used  to 
press  the  importance  of  the  Irish 
people  cultivating  a  spirit  of  self- 
reliance.  This  is  much  required. 
They  are  always  calling  upon  some 
Hercules  or  other — either  upon  their 
landlords  or  upon  the  Government 
— for  assistance,  in  matters  where  an 
Englishman  or  Scotchman  would 
put  his  own  shoulder  to  the  wheel. 
It  has  been  long  the  fashion  to 
abuse  Irish  landlords,  and  to  repre- 
sent them  as  merciless  tyrants  ;  but 
having  a  tolerably  wide  knowledge 
of  the  dealings  of  English  and 
Scotch  landlords  with  their  tenants 
as  well  as  Irish  landlords,  we  have 
no  hesitation  in  saying  that  the 
latter  will  compare  favourably  with 
their  compeers  in  Great  Britain. 
We  do  not  mean  to  deny  that  there 
are  bad  landlords  amongst  them, 
but  we  do  assert  that  such  are 
rarely  found  amongst  that  class 
which  Paddy  calls  "  the  ould 
stock."  They  are,  for  the  most 
part,  land  speculators,  who  have 
purchased  Irish  estates  as  an  in- 
vestment for  money;  who,  there- 
fore, not  only  charge  the  highest 
rents  that  can  be  screwed  out  of  the 
people,  but  also  take  care  that  those 
rents  are  never  allowed  to  fall  into 
arrears.  Strange  to  say,  those 
"screws"  are  chiefly  to  be  found 
in  the  ranks  of  the  so-called  Liberal 
party.  Sir  J.  Tollemache  Sinclair 


1880.] 


Irish  Distress  and  its  Origin. 


255 


recently  twitted  Mr  Parnell,  in  the 
course  of  a  debate  in  the  House  of 
Commons,  with  the  fact  that  the 
rents  on  the  Parnell  estate  in  county 
Armagh  are  40  per  cent  above  the 
rents  on  neighbouring  estates  ;  and 
that,  although  the  Parnell  tenants 
were  promised  a  reduction  last 
spring  of  15  per  cent,  they  only  got 
1\  per  cent.  We  know  estates  in 
Ireland  where  the  rents  are  the 
same  at  the  present  day  as  they 
were  forty  years  ago,  without  lease 
or  writing  of  any  sort,  and  notwith- 
standing the  great  increase  which 
has  taken  place  in  the  value  of 
farm  produce  during  that  period. 
Are  the  landlords  tyrants  who  act 
in  that  manner1?  Abatements  of 
rents  have  also  been  recently  made 
by  the  majority  of  landlords,  vary- 
ing from  20  to  50  per  cent;  the 
exceptions  being  the  land-jobbers, 
who  are  patiently  biding  their 
time,  when  they  will  enforce  pay- 
ment of  arrears  without  abatement. 
The  great  drawback  to  the  pros- 
perity of  Ireland  is  the  manner  in 
which  it  has  been  made  a  theatre 
for  the  operations  of  heartless,  in- 
terested agitators.  It  is  lamentable 
to  think  that  such  a  huge  imposi- 
tion should  have  been  successfully 
practised  upon  the  English  people 
by  unscrupulous  agitators.  The 
Scotch  and  English  farmers  suf- 
fered, we  believe,  more  severely 
than  the  Irish ;  but,  from  the 
pretentious  and  unreal  agitation 
r.iised  on  behalf  of  the  latter, 
we  are  reaping  already  bitter  fruit. 
Xot  only  has  half  a  million  of 
money,  which  might  have  been 
usefully  employed  at  home,  gone 
to  demoralise  and  pauperise  the 
Irish  peasant,  but  a  measure,  whose 
communistic  tendencies  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  exaggerate,  and  which  will 
ruin  the  Irish  landlord  in  the 
disaffected  districts,  has  received 
the  sanction  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons. These  mischievous  effects 


have  been  amply  exemplified  of 
late;  and,  unfortunately,  Mr  Glad- 
stone has  thought  fit  to  foster 
agitation,  and  to  encourage  those 
who  acknowledge  that  they  aim 
at  the  destruction  of  all  rights  of 
property  in  Ireland,  and  the  dis- 
solution of  the  Union.  The  party 
in  power  has,  by  its  Disturbance 
Bill,  inflicted  a  blow  upon  Ire- 
land from  which  she  will  not 
recover  for  many  years.  Landed 
property  has,  in  the  meantime, 
been  rendered  valueless  :  the  own- 
ers in  many  cases  see  only  ruin 
awaiting  them;  capital  has  been 
driven  from  the  country,  and  every 
industrial  interest  outside  of  Ulster 
has  been  imperilled.  Sales  of 
landed  property  cannot  be  effected 
in  the  Land  Court.  There  are  no 
bidders,  and  the  presiding  judge 
recently  said  that  "  it  was  a  per- 
fect farce  offering  property  for  sale 
in  that  Court."  No  capitalist  will 
lend  a  penny  at  present  on  the 
security  of  land  outside  of  Ulster ; 
and  those  who  have  money  lent  on 
such  security  have,  in  several  in- 
stances, given  notice  of  their  in- 
tention to  exercise  their  right  of 
foreclosure.  There  is  no  hope  for 
Ireland  so  long  as  "  Irish  ideas " 
continue  to  be  interpreted  by  an 
impulsive  enthusiasm  which  finds 
congenial  allies  in  the  passion  of 
the  mob,  and  the  violence  of  the 
men  who  are  ever  eager  to  defy  the 
law.  It  is  only  in  the  fall  of  Mr 
Gladstone  from  power  that  there  is 
immediate  prospect  of  amendment 
in  Irish  affairs.  As  he  has  de- 
clared that  he  will  never  sit  in  a 
Tory  Parliament,  let  us  trust  the 
day  is  not  far  distant  when  he  shall 
retire  to  the  peaceful  and  classic 
shades  of  Ha  warden,  leaving  the 
bark  of  the  State  to  be  steered  by 
wiser  and  more  prudent  men,  who 
will  not  tamper  with  Irish  disaffec- 
tion, no  matter  what  form  it  may 
assume. 


Ministerial  Progress. 


[Aug. 


MINISTERIAL    PEOGRESS. 


A  CONSIDERABLE  portion  of  the 
short  session  which  began  on  the 
20th  May  is  over,  and  the  result 
cannot  be  said  to  be  a  success  for 
the  Government.  The  majority 
which  has  been  scraped  together 
from  the  four  quarters  of  the  king- 
dom shows  no  signs  of  cohesion. 
The  defection  of  a  hundred  mem- 
bers ceases  to  astonish,  and  upon 
one  important  occasion  this  strong 
Administration  was  left  in  a  mi- 
nority of  forty-five.  A  congeries  of 
politicians  which  includes  Whig 
magnates  and  the  Irish  tail,  Lord 
Selborne  and  Mr  Bradlaugh,  High 
Churchmen  and  earnest  Dissenters, 
may  easily  enough  form  a  majority, 
but  can  scarcely  claim  to  be  a  po- 
litical party  sufficiently  organised 
and  disciplined  to  carry  on  with 
credit  and  success  the  government 
of  the  country.  To  increase  an  in- 
efficiency which  is  already  painfully 
apparent,  and  which  will  necessarily 
become  more  conspicuous  as  time 
goes  on,  they  have  at  their  head 
a  statesman  who  has  never  been 
famous  for  his  management  of  men, 
who  loves  to  rule  by  successive 
tours  de  force  rather  than  by  pru- 
dence and  forethought,  and  who 
has  recklessly  evoked  passions  and 
demands  which  it  will  be  equally 
dangerous  to  gratify  or  to  neglect. 

It  was  foreseen  that  the  manage- 
ment of  the  new  majority  would  be 
a  work  of  considerable  difficulty, 
but  few  of  us  ever  supposed,  during 
the  wildest  prognostications  of  pos- 
sible failure,  that  the  reins  would 
pass  to  the  hands  of  Sir  Stafford 
Northcote  in  less  than  six  weeks, 
or  that  the  Government  would  be 
defeated  upon  a  matter  which  in- 
tensely interested  and  even  excited 
the  constituencies.  But  Mr  Glad- 
stone has  never  been  famous  for 


prudent  leadership.  He  has  snatched 
the  Premiership  from  Lord  Gran- 
ville  and  constituted  himself  the 
guardian  of  the  infant  Administra- 
tion. If  his  plan  is  to  withdraw 
before  it  is  discredited,  satisfied  with 
having  redeemed  the  defeat  of  1874 
and  re-established  the  ascendancy 
of  the  Liberal  party,  it  may  be  that 
he  will  be  disappointed.  The  pro- 
cess of  being  discredited  has  begun 
early,  and  it  begins  not  with  de- 
partmental mistakes,  but  with  the 
policy  of  the  Government  and  the 
management  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons. A  whole  evening  was  wasted 
on  the  15th  June  in  putting  a 
question  to  the  TTnder  Secretary  for 
Foreign  Affairs.  No  doubt  the 
question  tended  to  raise  a  most  in- 
convenient discussion  on  the  char- 
acter and  antecedents  of  the  new 
French  ambassador,  and  such  dis- 
cussion was  raised  upon  a  motion 
to  adjourn.  But  the  impulsive 
leader  of  the  House  created  an  up- 
roar first  by  claiming  the  right  to 
treat  such  discussion  as  irregular 
and  out  of  order,  and  second  by 
moving,  for  the  first  time  for  two 
centuries,  that  a  member  addressing 
the  House  be  not  heard.  It  is  need- 
less to  add  that  for  the  rest  of  the 
evening  business  was  at  a  stand- 
still. It  would  be  a  thankless  task 
to  pursue  the  details  of  a  worthless 
dispute,  but  every  one  must  have 
felt  that  such  a  scene  would  have 
been  impossible  under  more  adroit 
management.  A  septuagenarian 
who  attempts  not  merely  to  direct 
the  general  policy  of  Government, 
but  also  to  administer  the  depart- 
ment of  finance,  and  manufacture 
sensational  and  superfluous  budgets, 
and  hastily  frame  rash  legislation 
in  obedience  to  popular  agitation, 
must  necessarily  fail  in  the  prudent 


1880.] 


Ministerial  Progress. 


25T 


management  of  an  unruly  majority. 
The  task  is  one  which  requires  more 
careful  attention  and  forethought 
than  a  man  so  weighted  with  years 
and  excessive  labour  can  possibly 
give  to  it.  It  is  obvious  that,  in 
order  to  save  the  legislative  time  of 
the  House,  its  leader  must  be  on 
the  alert  to  anticipate  and  remove 
occasions  for  dispute,  or  at  least  to 
terminate  them  as  speedily  as  pos- 
sible. The  initiative  rests  with 
him,  but  it  demands  fuller  con- 
sideration than  he  finds  it  conveni- 
ent or  possible  to  give.  Mr  Glad- 
stone's love  of  rhetorical  conflict,  his 
faith  in  verbose  declamation,  his 
impatience  of  prudential  restraint, 
combine  to  render  his  leadership 
seriously  inefficient.  There  are 
plenty  of  ready  speakers  in  the 
House  prepared  to  take  part  in  any 
wrangle  which  he  may  permit  or 
encourage.  But  the  waste  of  time 
which  ensues  is  directly  chargeable 
to  the  leader  of  the  House,  when- 
ever it  can  be  shown  that  the  dis- 
pute might  have  been  foreseen  and 
prevented  by  reasonable  tact  and 
management. 

There  were  only  three  months 
from  the  date  of  the  Queen's  Speech 
which  could  be  reckoned  upon.  The 
country  was  interested  in  the  state 
of  its  foreign  affairs.  The  policy  of 
confederation  in  South  Africa,  and 
the  progress  of  the  Affghan  war  with 
its  results  upon  Indian  finance,  in- 
vited and  engrossed  attention.  Then 
there  were  the  necessary  measures 
for  the  relief  of  Ireland.  Apart 
from  these  questions  the  public  were 
perfectly  willing  to  wait  till  next 
session,  by  which  time  the  new 
Government  would  have  been  able 
to  mature  its  designs.  There  was 
nothing  of  urgent  importance.  A 
Savings  Bank  Bill,  and  a  Post-Office 
Money  Orders  Bill,  would  have  satis- 
fied most  people.  If  some  of  the 
more  impatient  spirits  on  the  Liber- 
al benches  required  subjects  upon 


which  to  display  their  rhetorical 
talents,  their  attention  might  have 
been  profitably  diverted  to  those 
very  interesting  people  the  Greeks, 
who  have  always  excited  their  sen- 
sibilities, and  who  are  destined  ta 
become  very  interesting  indeed  to 
every  country  in  Europe,  before  Mr 
Goschen's  mission  is  terminated. 
While  the  House  of  Commons 
has  been  absorbed  in  interminable 
wrangles  over  ill-considered  pro- 
jects of  legislation,  some  of  which 
are  likely  to  prove  abortive,  and  the 
rest  might  easily  have  been  post- 
poned, there  are  developing  in  the 
East  all  the  materials  for  a  severe  dip- 
lomatic defeat,  or  a  serious  struggle 
which  may  not  improbably  involve 
the  great  Powers.  Patience  is  not 
one  of  Mr  Gladstone's  numerous  vir- 
tues, and  under  his  regime,  neither 
the  claims  of  Greece  abroad,  nor  of 
any  legislative  project  at  home  can 
be  allowed  to  wait.  The  policy  of 
"  meddle  and  muddle  "  is  being 
speedily  developed,  and  can  only 
terminate  in  disaster  or  failure. 
Ireland  and  Greece  are  the  unfor- 
tunate subjects  of  all  this  patron- 
ising activity.  In  the  former,  agi- 
tation is  stimulated,  and  the  Peace 
Preservation  Act  allowed  to  expire; 
in  the  latter,  a  thirst  for  annexation 
is  sanctioned  by  invoking  the  united 
will  of  Europe,  while  the  means  of 
satisfying  it  without  a  sanguinary 
war  have  never  yet  been  conjectured. 
"We  shall,  however,  confine  our 
attention  to  what  is  going  on  at 
home.  Having  regard  to  the  serious 
difficulties  found  or  created  by  the 
present  Government  in  the  East  and 
in  South  Africa,  and  to  the  circum- 
stance that  both  the  Ministry  and 
the  House  of  Commons  were  new 
to  their  duties,  a  short  programme 
of  measures,  shown  to  be  necessary 
or  inevitable,  was  all  that  prudence 
required.  The  Queen's  Speech  fore- 
shadowed some  new  measures  of 
Iiish  relief,  a  Burial  Bill,  a  Bill  re- 


258 


Ministerial  Progress. 


lating  to  ground  game,  another  con- 
cerning the  liabilities  of  employers 
for  accidents  sustained  by  workmen, 
and  another  for  the  extension  of 
the  borough  franchise  in  Ireland. 
Of  these  the  first  alone  related  to  a 
subject  of  immediate  urgency.  The 
last  was  one  which  it  was  ridicul- 
ous to  mention  at  that  early  date. 
To  deal  with  some  of  the  others 
would  require  all  the  legislative 
time  which  a  prudent  leader  might 
be  able  to  save  from  the  rapacity  of 
new  members  burning  to  distin- 
guish themselves.  To  these,  how- 
ever, have  been  added  a  sensational 
Budget,  and  a  crude  and  ill-digested 
measure  regarding  the  remedies 
•of  Irish  landlords  which  has 
roused  the  utmost  vehemence  of 
controversy.  Is  it  any  wonder 
that,  as  the  session  proceeded,  we 
heard  complaints  on  all  sides  of 
failure,  and  of  what  is  called  the 
utter  breakdown  of  the  parliament- 
ary machinery?  The  country  has 
given  to  Mr  Gladstone  a  splendid 
majority,  and  its  inefficiency  is  al- 
ready denounced.  But  the  value  of 
a  majority  depends  upon  its  leader, 
and  thus  far  it  cannot  be  said  to 
have  been  wielded  with  success. 
The  leader  seems  to  be  thinking  far 
more  of  his  sway  over  the  con- 
stituencies, and  how  he  poses  before 
them,  both  with  regard  to  the 
measures  which  he  brings  forward 
and  the  principles  which  he  per- 
mits himself  to  enunciate,  than  he 
does  of  conciliating  support  within 
the  walls  of  Parliament,  by  tact  in 
his  management,  or  matured  con- 
sideration in  his  proposals.  It  was 
constantly  alleged  against  Lord 
Beaconsfield  that  he  was  seeking 
to  augment  the  power  of  the  Crown, 
and  treated  Parliament  with  studied 
neglect.  It  is  far  more  true  that 
Mr  Gladstone's  eye  is  on  the  mas- 
ses, and  his  thought  is  how  he  can 
best  manipulate  their  favour.  It 
may  be  that  the  House  of  represen- 


[Aug. 


declining  in  power  and 
public  estimation,  and  that  for  the 
future  the  leading  statesmen  of  the 
country  will  look  outside  its  walls 
for  the  true  source  and  security  of 
their  power.  The  growth  of  the 
power  of  the  press,  the  decisive 
vigour  with  which  a  numerous  con- 
stituency declares  its  Avill  from  the 
ballot-box,  point  in  that  direction. 
But  as  long  as  parliamentary  ma- 
chinery is  maintained — and  we 
trust  it  will  remain  for  many  cen- 
turies yet  —  the  Ministers  must 
lead  the  House  of  Commons,  with 
loyal  regard  for  its  character  and 
dignity,  if  they  wish  to  find  in  it  a 
ready  and  efficient  instrument  of 
government  and  legislation.  The 
House  looks  to  its  leader  for  faith- 
ful guidance,  as  rightfully  as  it 
looks  to  the  Prime  Minister  to 
direct  the  executive.  And  it  will 
be  a  serious  step  taken  in  the  de- 
cline of  Parliament  whenever  the 
House  of  Commons  learns  to  dis- 
trust its  leader  in  all  that  relates 
to  its  own  authority  and  power, 
and  suspects  that  he  either  with- 
holds or  regulates  his  guidance,  not 
from  a  loyal  regard  for  its  character 
and  dignity,  but  from  the  more 
personal  feeling  of  what  is  service- 
able to  his  own  position  out  of 
doors,  either  as  regards  the  Crown 
or  the  masses.  Mr  Gladstone's 
attitude  during  the  last  Parliament 
was  distinctly  antagonistic  to  it ; 
and  it  seems  that  the  habit  of  mind 
is  increasing,  and  that  the  position 
assigned  him  during  the  last  elec- 
tion, as  the  nominee  of  the  masses, 
divorces  his  political  interests  to  a 
large  extent  from  those  of  the  House 
of  Commons,  which  he  betrays  by 
the  increasing  fervour,  rather  than 
prudence,  of  his  speeches,  and  a 
careless  disposition  with  regard  to 
the  rights  of  Parliament.  The  Brad- 
laugh  business,  for  instance,  will,  it 
seems  to  us,  always  be  regarded  as 
a  marvel  of  mismanagement ;  but 


1880.] 


Ministerial  Progress. 


the  characteristics  of  that  misman- 
agement were  nevertheless  the  famil- 
iar manifestations  of  imprudence, 
shrinking  from  responsibility  and 
despotic  dictation.  But  there  was 
lacking  also  that  loyalty  to  the 
House  on  the  part  of  its  leader, 
which  ought  to  be  evinced  by  careful 
solicitude  for  its  interests,  instead 
of  ostentatiously  distinguishing  be- 
tween the  Government  and  itself. 
The  new  member  for  Northampton 
was  a  well-known  man.  He  had 
proclaimed  in  their  most  offensive 
shape,  and  in  a  manner  which  has 
repelled  and  disgusted  all  classes  of 
the  nation,  certain  opinions  upon 
theological  and  social  subjects, 
which  there  is  too  much  reason  to 
believe  are  not  peculiar  to  himself. 
His  entry  into  the  House  of  Com- 
mons was  known  to  have  shocked 
many  Liberals,  and  notably  Mr 
Samuel  Morley,  who,  though  he  had 
stood  sponsor  for  the  new  member 
in  the  heat  and  hurry  of  the  election, 
had  come  forward  to  explain  away 
his  responsibility  in  answer  to  the 
protestations  of  his  supporters. 
Mr  Bradlaugh  gave  full  notice  to 
the  Government  that  he  intended 
to  raise  the  question  of  his  liability 
to  take  the  oath  of  allegiance,  and 
to  claim  to  make  an  affirmation 
instead.  Ordinary  foresight  could 
have  detected  that  here  were  the 
man  and  the  occasion  for  a  serious 
disturbance,  and  that  firm  and  cau- 
tious guidance  was  emphatically 
required  at  the  hands  of  the  chief 
of  a  formidable  but  disunited  ma- 
jority. But  so  far  from  the  Prime 
Minister  being  entitled  to  the  credit 
of  having  wisely  and  successfully 
guided  the  House  to  the  settlement 
of  an  issue  which  was  fraught  with 
personal  irritation  rather  than  with 
great  consequences,  the  whole  affair 
slipped  out  of  his  hands  from  be- 
ginning to  end;  and  after  six  weeks 
of  controversy,  during  which  the 
House  of  Commons  has  been  men- 


aced by  the  mob,  and  compelled  by 
the  Government  to  rescind  its  own 
resolution  and  set  aside  the  reports 
of  two  select  committees,  it  has 
been  finally  handed  over  to  the  law 
courts  to  determine.  Yet  the  sole 
question  was  whether  a  member 
who  desired  to  affirm  should  be 
permitted  to  do  so;  and  notwith- 
standing that  that  question  was 
complicated  by  considerations  aris- 
ing out  of  Mr  Bradlaugh's  charac- 
ter and  antecedents,  and  from  the 
nature  of  his  objections  to  the  oath, 
it  was  clearly  one  which  might  and 
ought  to  have  been  settled  without 
the  interference  of  the  mob.  No 
question  of  principle  was  involved, 
for  no  one  proposed  to  change  the 
law.  All  that  was  wanted  was  to 
interpret  it.  Preliminary  to  doing 
so,  the  House  had  to  decide  whether 
it  would  interpret  its  own  rules  of 
procedure,  or  leave  such  interpre- 
tation to  the  courts  of  law. 

It  seems  to  us  perfectly  mon- 
strous that  the  leader  of  the  House 
of  Commons  should  deliberately 
allow  a  question  of  this  kind  to 
drift,  and,  for  fear  of  entangling 
his  Government  with  issues  of  an 
inconvenient  nature,  abdicate  the 
function  of  leadership.  But  Mr 
Gladstone  derives  his  power  so  ex- 
clusively from  the  masses,  that  when 
questions  of  difficulty  and  delicacy 
arise,  around  which  considerable 
public  excitement  may  not  impro- 
bably accrete,  it  is  of  the  utmost 
importance  to  his  position  that  he 
should  have  time  to  ascertain  which 
way  popular  feeling  is  likely  to  go,, 
and  not  to  commit  himself  too 
hastily,  by  any  word  or  act,  to  any 
course  which  his  patrons  might  dis- 
approve. Accordingly,  from  first 
to  last,  he  took  up  the  position 
which  he  accurately  described  on 
the  8th  July,  when  the  controversy 
was  over, — viz. :  "  We  consider  that 
the  return  of  any  member  to  this 
House  must  be  subject  to  the  con- 


260 


Ministerial  Progress. 


[Aug. 


ditions  of  the  existing  law  ;  and  to 
ascertain  the  application  of  those 
conditions  to  particular  cases  is  no 
part  of  the  duty  of  the  Government, 
which,  when  a  proposal  is  made  to 
alter  the  law  in  any  one  of  its 
hranches,  will  deal  with  it  on  gen- 
eral principles." 

In  other  words,  he  washed  his 
hands  of  the  whole  business  and 
let  it  drift,  careless  of  the  honour 
of  the  House  of  Commons  and  the 
dignity  of  its  proceedings.  A  defi- 
nite proposal  that  the  House  should 
allow  Mr  Bradlaugh  to  affirm,  sub- 
ject to  his  responsibility  by  statute, 
made  in  the  first  instance  by  its 
leader,  or  still  more,  after  the  first 
committee  had  reported  by  the  cast- 
ing vote  only  of  its  chairman,  would 
probably  have  settled  the  matter. 
But  Mr  Gladstone  would  make  no 
definite  proposition  of  any  kind. 
The  responsibility  was  not  left  to 
Mr  Bradlaugh,  it  was  referred  to  a 
select  committee.  By  so  doing  the 
House  virtually  asserted  jurisdiction 
•over  the  claim,  with  the  tacit  assent 
of  the  Government ;  in  fact,  the  Sec- 
retary to  the  Treasury  proposed  the 
reference.  Great  conflict  of  opin- 
ion arose  as  to  Mr  Bradlaugh's  legal 
right  to  affirm ;  and  the  inability 
of  the  select  committee  to  come  to 
any  decision,  except  by  the  casting 
vote  of  its  chairman,  was  ample 
justification  for  then  and  there  refer- 
ring the  matter  to  the  courts  of  law. 
In  the  absence  of  any  action  on  the 
part  of  the  Government,  Mr  Brad- 
laugh  came  to  the  table  and  claimed 
to  take  the  oath,  and  Mr  Gladstone 
moved  that  that  claim  should  be 
referred  to  another  committee.  The 
Opposition  considered  that  it  was 
time  that  the  House  should  know 
its  own  mind,  and  resisted ;  but  the 
Government  insisted  upon  formally 
and  openly  evading  responsibility, 
and  throwing  the  question  to  a 
select  committee.  Meanwhile  the 
public  excitement  increased.  The 


defiant  assertion  of  atheistic  opinions 
distressed  the  religious  bodies  of  all 
denominations.  A  conflict  between 
the  House  and  a  constituency,  the 
increasing  notoriety  of  Mr  Brad- 
laugh,  a  bitter  and  unpractical  dis- 
pute over  the  retention  of  any  form 
of  oath,  were  evils  which  were 
unanimously  deprecated.  The  com- 
mittee, of  course,  reported  that  Mr 
Bradlaugh  could  not  be  sworn, 
since  the  oath  was  as  unmeaning  to 
him  as  a  Chinaman's  ceremony  of 
breaking  a  saucer  over  his  head 
would  have  been.  The  form  of 
words  was  not  an  oath  in  Mr  Brad- 
laugh's  mouth.  But  the  committee 
pointed  out  that  the  best  way  out 
of  the  difficulty  was  to  refer  the' 
matter  to  the  courts  of  law,  by 
allowing  Mr  Bradlaugh  to  affirm 
on  his  own  responsibility,  and  dis- 
tinctly deprecated  any  action  by 
the  House  which  would  prevent 
Mr  Bradlaugh's  obtaining  a  judicial 
decision  as  to  his  statutory  rights. 
All  admitted  the  delicacy  and  gravity 
of  the  situation,  and  that  it  demand- 
ed the  utmost  vigilance  on  the  part 
of  the  leader  of  the  House.  But 
so  fearful  was  the  nominee  of  the 
masses  of  even  appearing  to  run 
counter  to  what  might  turn  out  to 
be  the  popular  voice,  that  even  at 
this  critical  moment  he  hesitated 
to  assume  the  reins.  It  was  left  to 
Mr  Labouchere  to  propose  that  the 
House  should  take  the  matter  into 
its  own  hands,  and  decide  in  Mr 
Bradlaugh's  favour  and  his  right  to 
affirm,  thus  exercising  at  last  the 
jurisdiction  which  it  had  all  along 
assumed.  Mr  Gladstone,  on  the 
second  night  of  the  debate,  sup- 
ported that  motion  in  a  speech 
which  pointed  to  the  abolition  of 
oaths  altogether.  It  was  rejected 
by  a  majority  of  45.  Thus  far  the 
House  had,  with  the  tacit  acquies- 
cence of  the  Government,  shown 
by  the  reference  to  two  committees 
and  by  the  Ministerial  support  of 


1880.] 


Ministerial  Progress. 


261 


Mr  Labouchere's  motion,  asserted 
jurisdiction  over  the  case  and  exer- 
cised it.  Then  came  the  scene  of  Mr 
Bradlaugh'sclaimingto  take  the  oath. 
Mr  Gladstone  declined  to  advise 
the  House  whether  Mr  Bradlaugh 
should  be  heard,  or  in  what  way 
the  authority  of  the  Speaker  should 
be  supported  in  compelling  obedi- 
ence to  his  orders,  founded  on  the 
resolution  of  the  House.  In  fact, 
he  washed  his  hands  of  the  whole 
affair  in  a  huff,  much  in  the  same 
way  in  which  he  has  twice  resigned 
the  leadership  of  his  party  when  it 
failed  in  due  submission.  Sir  Staf- 
ford Northcote  assumed  the  leader- 
ship, rather  than  allow  the  whole 
business  to  degenerate  into  an  un- 
governable uproar,  which,  it  seems, 
Mr  Gladstone  was  willing  should 
take  place.  Having  vindicated  the 
authority  of  the  House,  which  its 
leader  was  willing  should  be 
trailed  in  the  dust,  Sir  Stafford 
Northcote  the  next  day  moved  that 
Mr  Bradlaugh  should  be  released, 
having  first  ascertained  from  Mr 
Gladstone  that  he  had  no  suggestion 
to  make,  not  having  yet  had  time 
to  consult  his  colleagues.  Mean- 
while the  mob  had  begun  to  rise, 
and  tumultuous  meetings  to  be  held 
in  favour  of  a  particular  interpreta- 
tion of  a  statute  and  of  a  particular 
form  of  procedure.  Under  singular 
mismanagement,  Mr  Bradlaugh's  in- 
clination or  disinclination  (it  was 
not  very  clear  which)  to  repeat  the 
words  of  the  oath  was  expanded 
into  a  question  of  the  independence 
of  all  the  constituencies  of  England. 
Then  at  last  the  nominee  of  the 
masses  was  willing  to  move.  He 
proposed  that  the  House,  which  had 
all  along,  and  with  his  tacit  con- 
sent and  even  at  his  instance,  in 
the  case  of  the  second  committee, 
asserted  and  exercised  jurisdiction, 
should  abandon  that  jurisdiction, 
rescind  its  resolution,  and  admit  Mr 
Bradlaugh  to  affirm,  subject  to  his 


legal  responsibility.  He  did  so  on 
the  ground  that  the  House  was 
menaced  by  proceedings  which  were 
subversive  of  its  dignity,  and  that 
the  step  proposed  was  the  only  way 
to  preserve  its  peace  and  police. 
And  the  motion  was  carried. 

The  result  of  the  whole  affair, 
trifling  as  it  was,  being  merely  a 
question  of  procedure  and  interpre- 
tation, immediately  involving  no 
new  principle,  but  merely  the  ap- 
plication of  the  existing  law,  was 
that  both  the  Government  and  the 
House  were  thoroughly  humiliated; 
unless  indeed  Mr  Gladstone  claims 
it  as  a  triumph  to  have  in  the 
end  imperiously  dictated  to  the 
House  with  the  aid  of  popular 
excitement.  This  result  is  one  of 
which  no  one  can  be  proud.  At 
an  early  stage  it  might  have  given 
satisfaction.  But  coming  after  a 
protracted  struggle,  during  which 
the  leader  of  the  House  refused  the 
initiative  till  clamours  arose  outside, 
and  the  House  itself  had  been  com- 
mitted to  a  directly  opposite  deci- 
sion, and  to  enforcing  it  by  impris- 
onment, it  was  most  unsatisfactory. 
The  impotence  of  the  conclusion 
is  shown  by  its  leaving  Mr  Brad- 
laugh,  after  all  the  debates  and 
pretentious  efforts  to  arrive  at  a 
decision,  responsible  for  the  conse- 
quences. The  House  of  Commons, 
owing  to  the  extraordinary  mis- 
management of  its  leader,  has  been 
menaced,  has  submitted,  and  has, 
after  all,  abandoned  the  interpreta- 
tion and  direction  of  its  own  pro- 
cedure. The  reputation  of  a  House 
elected  in  the  way  and  under  the 
influences  observable  at  the  general 
election,  is  not  a  matter  of  any  deep 
interest  to  Conservatives.  But  the 
readiness  with  which  it  has  abdi- 
cated its  authority  in  this  instance, 
and  the  particular  course  which  it 
took,  show  that  it  is  a  House  of 
confused  aims  and  uncertain  con- 
duct, reflecting  by  its  temper,  its 


262 


Ministerial  Progress. 


[Aug. 


indecision,  and  its  shrinking  from 
responsibility,  the  ignorant  and 
misguided  excitement  in  which  it 
found  its  origin. 

The  Bradlaugh  episode  is  not  the 
only  one  in  which  the  Government 
have  already  achieved  a  parliamen- 
tary fiasco.  Its  difficulties  appear 
to  be  increasing,  and  to  be  mainly 
if  not  entirely  of  its  own  creation; 
showing  that  the  strongest  majority 
and  the  greatest  ability  and  experi- 
ence will  not  compensate  for  the 
want  of  patient  forethought.  No- 
thing has  yet  occurred  to  bring  out 
the  governing  characteristics  of  this 
Ministry  more  conspicuously  than 
the  Compensation  for  Disturbance 
(Ireland)  Bill.  There  Avas  the  rash 
and  reckless  determination  to  bid 
for  popular  support ;  then  the  hasty 
adoption  of  alleged  facts  and  figures 
to  justify  it ;  then  the  flagrant 
disregard  of  admitted  rights  of  pro- 
perty and  principles  of  legislation ; 
then  successive  changes  of  front  as 
the  difficulty  of  either  advancing  or 
receding  became  apparent ;  and  then 
the  welcome  escape  from  legislative 
inefficiency  by  handing  the  sub- 
ject over  to  the  discretion  of  the 
county  court  judges.  A  more  ill- 
considered  project,  consisting  of 
only  one  operative  clause,  it  was 
impossible  to  lay  before  Parliament. 
It  was  designed,  no  doubt,  to  redeem 
some  of  the  idle  pledges  so  reck- 
lessly strewn  about  during  the 
general  election ;  and  at  the  out- 
set, no  doubt,  the  Government  had 
argued  themselves  into  the  belief 
that  some  measure  of  the  kind  was 
necessary. 

In  some  respects  the  leaders  of 
the  Government  —  Mr  Gladstone 
and  Mr  Forster  —  are  to  be  con- 
doled with  in  regard  to  the  way 
in  which  they  were  misled  by  their 
supporters'  statistics.  No  doubt  it 
was  a  misplaced  confidence  in  those 
very  misleading  figures  which  orig- 
inally perverted  their  judgment. 


But  the  subordinates  were  not  re- 
sponsible for  the  tone  of  violence 
which  was  assumed,  and  the  en- 
couragement which  was  so  thought- 
lessly given  to  the  anti-rent  agita- 
tors and  politicians  in  Ireland.  The 
leaders  appealed  to  very  dangerous 
principles,  which  struck  at  the  root 
of  all  property,  and  gratified  for 
the  time  Mr  Parnell  and  his  fol- 
lowers. Some  of  their  organs  in  the 
press  deliberately  advocated  a  dis- 
solution, and  pointed  to  this  very 
measure  as  an  instance  how  impos- 
sible it  was  to  carry  democratic 
measures  with  a  plutocratic  Parlia- 
ment. For  a  time  it  seemed  as  if 
the  most  revolutionary  proceedings 
were  in  contemplation.  An  imme- 
diate dissolution  was  so  earnestly 
deprecated  by  some  of  the  more 
temperate  of  the  Ministerial  jour- 
nals, that  the  suspicion  is  inevit- 
able that  it  must  have  been  con- 
templated as  a  possible  contingency. 
Somehow,  nothing  has  seemed  to  go 
right;  and  it  appeared  not  impossible 
that  the  Minister  who  in  1874  dis- 
solved because  he  had  a  majority  of 
66,  and  could  not  go  on  with  it, 
might  find  that  a  majority  of  double 
that  number  would  be  no  impedi- 
ment to  a  similar  manoeuvre.  A 
partial  disruption  of  the  Ministry, 
moreover,  had  seemed  to  begin  with 
the  secession  of  Lord  Lansdowne, 
who  represents  the  rising  Whig  sec- 
tion of  the  party,  and  whose  retire- 
ment may  yet  have  an  important  in- 
fluence on  the  future  of  the  party. 

This  unfortunate  measure,  the 
fate  of  which  has  weakened  a  strong 
Ministry,  and  would  have  totally 
wrecked  a  weak  one,  was  due  to 
two  admitted  blunders  of  the  first 
magnitude.  One  was  an  allegation 
that  during  the  first  half  of  this 
year,  1690  evictions  had  taken 
place  in  Ireland,  and  that  unless 
this  movement  were  checked,  15,000 
persons  would  in  the  course  of  the 
year  be  thrown  upon  the  wide 


1880.] 


Ministerial  Progress. 


2G3 


world,  without  home,  without  hope, 
and  without  remedy.  The  other 
was,  that  a  force  of  between  3000 
and  4000  men  had  been  quartered 
upon  the  western  division  of  Gal- 
way  in  order  to  carry  out  these  evic- 
tions, and  that  thus  a  state  of  civil 
war  had  to  all  intents  and  pur- 
poses ensued.  From  these  two 
allegations  the  deduction  was  made 
that  the  law  under  which  such  mis- 
fortunes arose  was  unsuited  to  time 
and  place,  and  must  be  altered  by 
transferring  to  tenants  thus  liable 
to  eviction  a  portion  of  the  rights 
which  properly  belonged  to  the 
landlord.  This  transference,  which 
in  a  less  mealy-mouthed  generation 
would  have  been  called  rank  spoli- 
ation, was  described  in  more  modern 
phraseology  as  compensating  the 
tenant  when  disturbed  by  his  land- 
lord's remedies  for  rent. 

Before,  however,  the  discussion 
of  the  Bill  in  the  least  degree 
threatened  exhaustion,  it  was  made 
plain  by  Lord  George  Hamilton 
that  the  two  allegations  upon  which 
it  was  founded  were  absolutely  false, 
and  that  the  Government  had  been 
hoaxed.  The  scare  about  homeless 
and  hopeless  tenants  had  been 
founded  upon  official  returns  of 
"ejectments,"  which  the  Govern- 
ment had  been  induced  to  believe 
meant  the  same  thing  as  "actual 
evictions,"  whereas  they  referred  to, 
for  the  most  part,  mere  formal  pro- 
cesses by  the  landlord  with  a  view  to 
establish  and  secure  his  right  against 
tenants  who  were  well  able  to  pay. 
The  alarm  about  civil  war  and  the 
excessive  application  of  the  constab- 
ulary force  arose  from  multiplying 
each  member  of  the  force  by  the 
number  of  times  his  services  had 
been,  during  a  given  space  of  time, 
put  in  requisition.  Consequently, 
when  the  figures  of  the  Government 
came  to  be  tested  by  these  revela- 
tions, it  appeared  that  the  Govern- 
ment had  resorted  to  panic  legisla- 
VOL.  cxxvm. — NO.  DCCLXXVIII. 


tion  because,  out  of  600,000  Irish 
agricultural  holdings,  less  than  200 
had  been  in  six  months  the  scene 
of  actual  evictions.  The  additional 
police  force,  moreover,  when  ascer- 
tained in  reference  to  the  number 
of  men  whom  it  contained,  instead 
of  the  number  of  times  each  man 
was  employed,  appeared  to  be  some- 
thing under  400, — not  an  excessive 
number,  considering  the  nature  of 
the  agitation  which  has  been  going 
on,  and  the  manner  in  which  it  has 
been  encouraged.  The  Government 
Bill,  therefore,  could  no  longer  be 
supported  on  the  ground  that  tens 
of  thousands  of  peasants  had  been 
driven  from  their  homes  to  starve, 
and  that  thousands  of  police  had  to 
be  employed  in  upholding  a  cruel 
law,  and  in  evicting  the  farmers  of  a 
single  district.  As  a  sample  of  what 
really  had  occurred,  Lord  George 
Hamilton  was  able  to  show  that  in 
place  of  156  evictions  in  Donegal 
during  the  past  half-year  alleged  by 
the  Government,  there  had  only  been 
seventeen,  and  of  these  a  consider- 
able majority  were  at  the  instance 
of  creditors  other  than  landlords, 
and  therefore  were  no  argument  in 
favour  of  altering  the  law  as  be- 
tween landlord  and  tenant.  The 
whole  ground  upon  which  this  panic 
legislation  had  been  proposed  and 
was  being  pressed  upon  Parliament 
was  cut  from  under  the  feet  of  the 
Government.  That  ground  we  un- 
derstand to  be,  that  the  Peace  Pre- 
servation Act  being  no  longer  in 
force,  the  Government  would  not, 
in  the  face  of  the  alleged  numerous 
evictions,  and  the  extensive  oper- 
ation of  force  to  carry  them  into 
effect,  be  responsible  for  the  peace 
of  Ireland,  unless  this  Compensa- 
tion Bill  were  passed. 

Not  merely  did  the  Government 
totally  fail  to  sustain  the  ground 
upon  which  they  originally  placed 
the  Bill,  and  attempted  to  vindicate 
its  necessity,  but  from  first  to  last 


264 


Ministerial  Progress. 


[Aug. 


they  failed  to  exhibit  any  clear 
perception  as  to  the  exact  objects 
which  they  had  in  view,  or  as  to 
the  proper  limits  of  their  measure. 
We  will  assume  in  their  favour 
that  their  real  object  was  to  prevent 
what  thus,  on  the  figures  supplied 
and  erroneously  interpreted  to  them, 
was  believed  to  be  an  abuse  of  the 
power  of  eviction  during  a  period 
of  great  distress.  They  proposed 
to  effect  that  object  by  restricting 
the  landlord's  right  to  evict;  by 
proposing  that  if  he  does  evict,  he 
should  compensate  the  tenant,  not 
for  any  infringement  of  his  (the 
tenant's)  right,  but  for  a  harsh 
exercise  of  the  admitted  legal  right 
to  evict.  It  was  not  proposed  to 
confer  in  so  many  words  a  pro- 
prietary right  on  the  tenant,  and, 
pro  tanto,  to  confiscate  the  property 
of  the  landlord  so  as  to  transfer  it 
to  his  defaulting  debtor  for  rent. 
But  the  Bill  provided  that,  if  the 
inability  to  pay  arose  from  the 
failure  of  crops,  and  if  the  land- 
lord unreasonably  refused  to  enter 
into  some  new  arrangement  with 
the  tenant,  then  he  should  pay 
compensation  to  the  extent  of  so 
many  years'  rent,  not  exceeding 
seven,  for  disturbing  him.  And 
further,  the  Bill  limited  the  time 
and  area  of  its  operation. 

Although  no  express  transference 
of  proprietary  right  was  enacted, 
there  was,  nevertheless,  a  real  de- 
privation of  the  landlord's  remedy 
for  his  rent,  and  a  recognition  of 
a  right  in  the  tenant  which  was 
practically  very  difficult  to  distin- 
guish from  a  proprietary  right,  and 
which  the  Chief  Secretary,  until 
rebuked,  frequently  described  in  so 
many  words  as  a  proprietary  right. 
This  right,  too,  had  an  excessive 
money  value  assigned  to  it  by  the 
Bill,  under  the  name  of  compensa- 
tion, which  value  represented  so 
much  abstracted  from  the  pocket 
of  the  landlord.  We  are  far  from 
saying  that,  under  urgent  circum- 


stances of  extreme  necessity,  the 
exercise  of  proprietary  rights  may 
not  for  a  time  be  interfered  with, 
and  even  suspended.  The  neces- 
sity, however,  should  be  strictly 
proved,  the  interference  strictly 
limited  by  necessity,  and  proved  to 
be  just,  either  as  a  deserved  penalty 
for  past  misconduct,  or  by  reason 
of  compensation  to  be  equitably 
awarded.  Nothing  of  the  kind  was 
attempted.  The  necessity  was  ab- 
solutely disproved;  the  Government 
betrayed  any  amount  of  vacillation 
as  to  the  degree  of  their  proposed 
interference,  which  was  obviously 
regulated  entirely  by  party  exigen- 
cies and  not  by  local  necessities  ; 
while  landlords,  good,  bad,  and  in- 
different, were  all  swept  into  the 
same  net,  and  treated  without  any 
regard  to  their  past  forbearance 
or  their  future  inevitable  losses. 
The  exhibition  of  that  vacillation 
of  purpose,  according  as  the  desire 
of  conciliating  their  Whig  sup- 
porters or  their  Irish  allies  was 
uppermost  in  the  mind  of  the  Gov- 
ernment, is  one  of  the  most  striking 
features  of  this  short  session.  Ob- 
jectors were  told  that  the  provisions 
of  the  Bill  were  admittedly  excep- 
tional in  their  character,  and  tem- 
porary in  their  operation,  due  to 
overwhelming  emergencies,  and  the 
necessity  of  preserving  the  general 
peace.  But  scarcely  was  that  prin- 
ciple, solus  populi  supremo,  lex,  as- 
serted, than  it  was  abandoned;  and 
language  was  used  which  completely 
contradicted  it,  and  raised,  as  Mr 
Gladstone  himself  complained,  on  the 
16th  July,  "untrue  and  dangerous 
impressions  in  reference  to  the  Bill." 
Not  merely  did  Mr  Forster  describe 
this  new  claim,  conceded  tempo- 
rarily to  the  tenant  as  one  in  fur- 
therance of  his  proprietary  right, 
but  Mr  Gladstone  talked  of  it  as  a 
measure  of  absolute  justice,  neces- 
sary in  order  to  enable  the  Gov- 
ernment with  a  clear  conscience 
to  enforce  the  rights  of  property. 


1880.] 


Ministerial  Progress. 


Members  of  the  Government,  in- 
cluding, if  we  recollect  right,  the 
Prime  Minister,  described  the 
principle  of  the  measure  as  an 
extension  of  the  principle  of 
the  Land  Act  of  1870.  Mr 
Gladstone  also  talked  of  Parlia- 
ment and  the  landowners  "  having 
accumulated  a  debt  to  the  people 
of  Ireland  which  it  would  be  diffi- 
cult to  redeem ; "  and  of  summary 
ejectment  for  non-payment  of  rent 
as  having  been  introduced  "  in 
fraud  of  the  Irish  tenant."  The 
inevitable  consequence  of  this  dan- 
gerous language  was  that  the  Irish 
party  in  the  House  immediately 
retorted,  with  considerable  force, 
that  if  the  principle  of  the  Bill, 
instead  of  being  that  of  exceptional 
and  temporary  interference  with 
proprietary  right  on  account  of 
grave  public  dangers,  was  in  itself 
sound,  recognised  by  previous  legis- 
lation, and  actually  in  operation, 
why  should  not  its  further  applica- 
tion by  the  Bill  be  permanent  and 
universal?  And  as  for  the  Irish 
people,  agitators  and  tenants  out- 
side the  House,  what  was  likely  to 
be  the  effect  of  such  language  upon 
them?  We  have  Mr  Forster's 
admission  on  the  same  evening  as 
that  upon  which  Mr  Gladstone 
complained  of  untrue  and  danger- 
ous impressions,  that  unreasonable 
expectations  had  been  aroused  that 
the  Bill  was  to  be  a  Bill  for  the 
suspension  of  rent.  Then  the 
'  Nation,'  an  Irish  national  paper 
quoted  by  Mr  Gibson,  referred  to 
Mr  Gladstone's  admissions  as  "  cov- 
ering the  whole  ground  of  the 
Irish  demand  in  the  matter  of  land 
law  reform,  and  as  justifying  not 
merely  the  wretched  little  Bill  in 
behalf  of  which  they  were  made, 
but  a  measure  as  sweeping  as  any 
that  had  been  recommended  by  Mr 
Parnell  or  Mr  Davitt."  It  went  on 
to  urge  that  the  Bill  itself,  restricted 
as  to  time  and  area,  would  be  of 
little  practical  use  ;  but  that  it  gave 


expression  to  a  principle  which  all 
tenant-right  advocates  looked  upon 
as  vital. 

The  principle  so  much  belauded 
was  the  principle  of  virtually  trans- 
ferring to  one  man  the  property  of 
another.  And  it  is  a  most  seri- 
ous matter,  not  merely  as  affecting 
agricultural  classes  in  parts  of  Ire- 
land, but  as  affecting  all  classes 
throughout  the  United  Kingdom, 
whether  and  where  such  a  prin- 
ciple is  to  be  appealed  to,  and 
within  what  limits  it  is  to  be  ap- 
plied. It  is  obvious  that  a  strong 
Government,  dealing  with  a  ques- 
tion of  this  magnitude,  which  goes  to 
the  very  root  of  property,  and  affects 
every  kind  of  landed  and  commer- 
cial security,  was  bound  to  proceed 
with  the  utmost  care  and  caution. 
In  the  face  of  increasing  Irish  agita- 
tion upon  the  land  question,  a  tem- 
porary expedient  of  the  kind  pro- 
posed was  a  very  dangerous  device, 
and  every  effort  should  have  been 
made  to  render  it  clearly  intelligible, 
and  to  circumscribe  it  within  just 
and  necessary  limits.  The  condem- 
nation of  the  Government  lies  in 
the  fact  that  their  Bill  was  received 
with  satisfaction  by  the  whole  class 
of  land  agitators,  as  a  concession  to 
outcry,  as  an  instalment  of  the  sa- 
cred right  of  the  tenant  to  dispense 
with  the  payment  of  rent  altoge- 
ther. The  dangerous  eagerness  with 
which  the  Ministry  seeks  to  raise 
burning  questions,  and  to  conciliate 
support  by  obedience  to  agitation, 
leads  it  into  difficulties  which  will 
very  soon  spend  its  majority  and  de- 
stroy the  confidence  of  the  country. 
It  gave  up  the  Peace  Preservation 
Act,  and  undertook,  during  the 
height  of  the  anti-rent  agitation, 
to  govern  without  the  aid  of  the 
Beaconsfield  legislation.  Then  came 
Mr  O'Connor  Power's  anti  -  rent 
Bill;  and  forthwith  the  Govern- 
ment, which  had  not  foreshadowed 
in  the  Queen's  Speech  any  measure 
of  the  kind,  felt  that  here  was  an 


266 


Ministerial  Progress 


[Aug. 


encouragement  to  disturbance  which 
they  could  neither  quell  nor  profit 
by.  Accordingly,  they  took  the 
matter  into  their  own  hands,  and 
deliberately  proposed  legislation 
which  would  virtually  prohibit 
eviction ;  and  they  have  coupled 
their  proposition  with  language 
of  the  most  inflammatory  kind. 
Their  only  compensation  hitherto 
for  the  parliamentary  disturbance 
which  they  have  unnecessarily  cre- 
ated is,  that  the  Opposition  has 
been  immensely  strengthened,  their 
own  majority  largely  reduced,  the 
Irish  vote  rendered  hostile,  the 
Liberal  party  disorganised,  and 
the  Ministry  itself  has  begun  the 
process  of  disruption. 

The  uncertainty  with  regard  to 
the  Ministerial  view  of  the  princi- 
ple of  the  measure  was  followed  by 
the  most  reprehensible  vacillation 
as  to  the  mode  and  extent  of  its 
application.  It  became  evident 
that,  as  was  remarked  by  Mr  Gib- 
son, the  Government  had  no  clear 
idea  of  what  they  really  wanted  to 
enact.  They  had  suddenly  depart- 
ed from  their  original  intention  of 
postponing  Irish  land  legislation 
till  next  session.  They  did  so 
partly  because  of  Mr  O'Connor 
Power's  Bill,  partly  because  they 
feared  the  necessity  of  being  ob- 
liged to  return  to  the  provisions  of 
the  Peace  Preservation  Act.  The 
latter  Act  had  been  abandoned  in 
deference  to  the  confident  language 
used  by  some  Ministers  during  the 
elections.  It  became  necessary  in 
consequence  to  throw  a  sop  to 
Cerberus,  or  at  least  to  have  the 
opportunity  of  saying  that  they 
had  been  prevented  from  doing  so  ; 
and  that  if  eventually  they  had 
to  renew  that  Act,  it  was  because 
they  had  been  prevented  from 
adopting  remedial  measures.  Once 
embarked  upon  their  adventure 
they  betrayed  their  uneasiness  by 
the  constant  changes  which  they 
proposed.  As  the  '  Times '  remark- 


ed, "  Nothing  could  be  more  dis- 
astrous than  the  state  of  unsettle- 
ment  and  anxiety  in  which  public 
feeling  in  Ireland  is  kept  by  the 
incessant  transformation  scenes  of 
this  parliamentary  drama."  The 
first  important  step  was  the  intro- 
duction of  Mr  Law's  amendment. 

As  the  rash  Bill  of  the  Govern- 
ment wended  its  way  through  parlia- 
mentary discussion,  it  appeared  that 
its  whole  scope  was  ruinous  to  the 
landlords,  and  a  far  greater  step  in 
the  direction  of  abolishing  rent  alto- 
gether than  the  Government  intend- 
ed, or  felt  themselves  able,  in  the 
face  of  the  defection  of  100  of  their 
supporters,  to  carry  out.  Accord- 
ingly, it  was  proposed  to  mitigate 
the  landlord's  liability  to  compensate 
his  tenant  for  not  paying  his  rent, 
by  excluding  any  case  where  he 
had  permitted  his  tenant  to  sell  his 
holding  and  the  tenant  had  failed 
to  do  so.  In  this  clause,  suddenly 
foisted  into  a  temporary  Bill,  we 
had  the  whole  question  of  intro- 
ducing Ulster  tenant  -  right  into 
other  districts  of  Ireland  opened  up 
for  discussion.  That  was  a  broad 
issue  to  lay  before  Parliament,  to- 
wards the  close  of  a  session,  in  a 
sudden  and  haphazard  manner.  No 
one  seemed  clearly  to  understand 
the  drift  of  the  proposal ;  but  one 
thing  at  least  was  clear,  that  Mr 
Parnell  and  his  friends  discovered 
that  what  the  Government  had 
given  with  so  much  pomp  and  os- 
tentation with  one  hand,  they  were 
preparing  to  take  away  in  some 
mysterious  manner  with  the  other. 
Not  merely  was  this  measure  creating 
an  extraordinary  degree  of  parlia- 
mentary disturbance,  but  it  seemed 
tolerably  certain  that,  as  amended 
by  Mr  Law,  it  would  aggravate 
the  disasters  of  the  scheduled  dis- 
tricts. It  is  difficult  to  believe 
that  the  outgoing  tenant  would  re- 
gard his  purchaser  with  any  other 
feelings  than  those  which  animate 
him  towards  his  evicting  landlord. 


1880.] 


Ministerial  Progress. 


267 


The  incomer  must  be  prepared  to 
face  agrarian  vengeance ;  and  as  far 
as  Mr  Law's  amendment  was  con- 
cerned, he  would  have  no  power 
to  sell  again,  after  the  expiry  of 
this  temporary  Act,  the  holding 
which  he  had  purchased.  Under 
such  circumstances  the  tenant 
would  in  all  probability  fail  to 
sell,  and  with  this  failure  would 
go  his  claim  for  compensation  ; 
and  in  that  way  the  provisions 
of  the  original  Bill,  to  the  dis- 
gust of  Mr  Parnell,  were  abro- 
gated. Mr  O'Connor  Power  there- 
upon proposed  that  the  landlord 
should  not  escape  unless  there 
was  a  purchaser  willing  to  buy  the 
tenant's  holding.  Limited  in  that 
way,  Mr  Law's  clause  was  imme- 
diately recognised  as  a  mockery. 
Where  there  was  a  rack-rent  there 
would  be  no  purchaser  forthcom- 
ing ;  and  where  there  was  a  saleable 
holding  any  purchaser  would,  under 
the  circumstances,  be  regarded  as 
a  traitor  to  his  class,  as  an  accom- 
plice of  the  landlord,  and  as  a  fit 
object  for  summary  vengeance.  Mr 
Biggar's  references  to  physical  force, 
under  which  expression  he  includes 
the  assassination  of  the  late  Lord 
Leitrim,had  the  greatest  significance 
in  connection  with  this  particular 
interpretation  of  Mr  Law's  amend- 
ment. -But  unless  it  was  limited 
in  that  way,  it  practically  defeated 
the  whole  object  of  the  measure. 
In  fact,  Mr  Law's  clause  abrogated 
the  Bill,  Mr  O'Connor  Power's 
interpretation  of  it  abolished  the 
clause. 

It  was  no  wonder  that  Mr  Par- 
nell got  up  and  declared  that  Mr 
Law's  amendment  would,  in  his 
opinion,  make  the  Bill  "utterly 
useless  to  effect  the  object  which 
the  Government,  when  they  intro- 
duced it,  said  they  had  in  view  " — 
not  worth  the  time  spent  and  the 
fuss  made  about  it.  And  he  pro- 
ceeded in  a  way  that  shows,  at  all 
events,  the  clearness  and  directness 


of  his  aims  as  contrasted  with  the 
muddle-headed  proceedings  of  the 
Government.  "As  the  Bill  was 
now  proposed  to  be  altered,  it  did 
not  protect  the  tenant.  It  gave 
the  landlord  the  right  to  evict,  and 
the  tenant  the  right  of  sale.  They 
knew  that  these  small  tenants  had 
no  saleable  interest."  He  went  on 
to  declare  that  if  the  Government 
proposed  to  extend  the  Ulster  cus- 
tom to  the  whole  of  Ireland  perma- 
nently, he  should  vote  for  it ;  but 
that  the  present  proposal  benefited 
only  the  larger  tenants,  who  held  at 
a  comparatively  low  rent ;  but  it 
had  not  the  slightest  effect  for  the 
protection  of  small  tenants  in  the 
west  of  Ireland.  The  O'Donoghue 
also  remarked  that  "he  had  sup- 
posed that  under  this  Bill  a  great 
portion  of  the  rents  of  Ireland 
could  be  revised  in  open  court ; 
that  everything  bearing  on  them  in 
the  interest  of  the  tenant  would  be 
sifted  by  skilled  advocates;  that 
the  secrets  of  the  Estate  Office  would 
be  turned  inside  out;  that  the  land- 
lords would  be  put  on  their  defence, 
and  asked  in  the  face  of  their  coun- 
trymen why  they  should  not  be 
mulcted  in  heavy  damages  for  being 
rack-renters.  It  now  appeared,  how- 
ever, that  they  were  simply  to  have 
the  clause  of  the  Irish  Attorney- 
General,  which  would  enable  every 
landlord  to  come  into  court,  and 
say  he  had  agreed  to  let  So-and- 
so  sell  his  interest.  No  questions 
would  be  asked,  and  the  Bill  would 
be  simply  one  for  clearing  off  the 
small  tenants  in  Ireland." 

Such  is  the  endless  confusion  in 
which  the  Government  landed  them- 
selves by  this  piece  of  peremptory 
legislation.  They  declared  it  to  be 
founded  on  just  principles,  and  in 
the  same  breath  claimed  support  for 
it  because  it  was  limited  as  to  time 
and  area.  Originally,  no  doubt,  it 
was  intended  to  meet  what  were 
supposed  to  be  exceptional  circum- 
stances, but  it  was  defended  upon 


268 


Ministerial  Progress. 


[Aug. 


principles  which  gave  the  Irish  party 
the  right  to  say  that  it  ought  to  be 
permanent  and  general.  As  the 
discussion  proceeded,  it  was  lost 
for  some  time  in  a  dispute  whether 
the  provisions  of  the  Bill  should 
be  limited  to  £15  holdings,  as  the 
Opposition  proposed  ;  to  £30  hold- 
ings, as  Mr  Gladstone  desired ;  or 
to  £50  holdings,  as  Sir  George 
Campbell  suggested, — every  limita- 
tion being  unacceptable  to  Mr  Par- 
nell  and  his  friends.  In  the  end 
the  Government  carried  a  limit  of 
£30  rateable  value — i.  e.,  in  rent 
£42  or  £45.  The  great  merit  of 
that  provision  was,  that  as  there 
were  hardly  any  holdings  above 
that  value  in  certain  districts  the 
limit  was  inoperative  for  any  prac- 
tical purpose.  As  regards  Mr 
Law's  abortive  amendment,  it  was 
eventually  withdrawn ;  and  at  the 
instance  of  Mr  Gladstone  the  diffi- 
culty was  handed  over  to  the  law 
courts.  The  Prime  Minister  pro- 
posed, in  lieu  of  it,  an  amendment 
which  exempted  all  landlords  from 
the  operation  of  the  Bill  who 
showed  that  they  had  offered  a  de- 
faulting tenant  who  proposed  un- 
reasonable terras  "  a  reasonable  al- 
ternative." The  alternative  of  sell- 
ing his  holding  might  be  a  reason- 
able alternative,  but  Parliament 
could  not  lay  down  any  definite 
rule ;  the  county  court  judges  must 
decide  upon  the  facts  of  each  par- 
ticular case.  Having  arrived  at 
this  conclusion,  which  was  nothing 
more  nor  less  than  shunting  the 
whole  subject,  the  Government 
would  hear  of  no  further  amend- 
ments. Any  attempt  to  lay  down 
any  rule  for  the  guidance  of  the 
judge  was  the  directing  of  his  mind 
to  one  subject  or  to  one  rule,  to  the 
exclusion  of  another  subject  and 
some  other  rule  which  might  be  more 
applicable — expressio  unius,  said  Mr 
Gladstone,  exclusio  alterius.  With 
the  aid  of  this  convenient  maxim, 
and  a  great  parliamentary  major- 


ity, the  task  of  vindicating  the 
proprietary  right  of  the  landlord 
was  handed  over  to  the  courts,  and 
the  Government  claimed  that  in  con- 
sequence their  Bill  had  undergone 
hardly  any  alteration.  Parliament 
was  to  trouble  itself  no  further  as 
to  good  landlords  and  bad  landlords. 
Mr  Parnell  wanted  a  permission  to 
sell  to  be  accompanied  by  an  offer 
of  a  fair  and  reasonable  rent.  Sir  H. 
Giffard  proposed  that  any  tenant 
who  was  at  the  date  of  any  eject- 
ment-process two  years  in  arrear 
withhis  rent, should  be  exempt  from 
the  operation  of  the  Act.  Clearly 
such  a  tenant  does  not  suffer  from 
a  harsh  landlord,  and  does  not 
require  exceptional,  and,  above  all, 
temporary  legislation  to  protect  him 
from  the  consequences  of  the  failure 
of  crops.  This  amendment  brought 
to  the  test  the  statement  of  the 
Government,  that  good  landlords 
— that  is,  indulgent  landlords,  not 
over  -hasty  in  demanding  their 
rents,  were  not  aimed  at  by 
the  Bill.  Those  who  clamour 
that  the  principle  of  the  Bill, 
the  principle  that  a  landlord  shall 
not  evict  for  non  payment  of  rent, 
should  be  universally  applied,  are 
more  consistent  or  more  candid 
than  the  Government.  It  is  a 
mockery  to  declare  that  the  Bill 
is  temporary  in  its  character,  in- 
tended to  prevent  abuses,  and  at 
the  same  time  to  extend  its  opera- 
tion to  cases  where  no  abuses  are 
alleged,  and  where  the  evils  com- 
plained of  are  prolonged  and  not 
temporary  in  their  character.  An 
amendment  to  exempt  landlords 
who  had  not  raised  their  rents  for 
ten  years  fared  no  better.  The 
Government  had  at  last  found  rest 
for  their  souls  in  handing  over  to 
the  county  court  judge  the  decision 
of  what  was  a  reasonable  alternative. 
That  was  the  rope  to  which  they 
clung  with  the  tenacity  of  drown- 
ing men,  and  by  it  they  got  safely 
to  shore,  with  such  remains  of  le- 


1880.] 


Ministerial  Progress. 


269 


gislative  reputation  as  their  dis- 
gusted and  mutinous  supporters 
may  accord  to  them. 

At  the  last  stage  Mr  Gibson  suc- 
ceeded in  introducing  two  amend- 
ments into  the  Bill,  intended  to 
prevent  admitted  injustice  in  its 
operation.  The  Government  had 
evidently  devoted  so  little  con- 
sideration to  their  measure,  and 
were  so  carried  away  hy  their  panic, 
caused  hy  their  hasty  abandonment 
of  their  exceptional  powers  under 
the  Peace  Act,  and  by  Mr  O'Connor 
Power's  Bill,  that  they  had  over- 
looked some  of  its  most  obvious 
consequences.  It  was  left  to  the 
Opposition  to  see  that  a  landlord 
whose  powers  of  eviction  were  sus- 
pended by  this  measure  was  not, 
contrary  to  the  intention  of  its 
framers,  subjected  to  the  further 
penalties  imposed  by  the  9th  sec- 
tion of  the  Land  Act  of  1870  upon 
a  landlord  who  allows  his  rents  to 
fall  into  arrears.  It  was  also  left 
to  the  constitutional  critics  of  the 
measure  to  supply  another  provi- 
sion against  admitted  and  grievous 
injustice,  which  its  framers  had 
overlooked.  While  compensating 
the  tenant  for  being  evicted,  the 
Ministry  forgot  to  provide  against 
his  statutory  right  of  re-entry  upon 
the  land  on  payment  of  arrears. 
The  Bill,  therefore,  as  originally 
devised,  enabled  the  tenant  to 
pocket  his  compensation,  and  after- 
wards return  to  the  land.  Start- 
ling as  that  may  sound,  it  is  not 
inconsistent  with  the  impression 
which  the  awkward  drafting  of  the 
Bill  is  calculated  to  produce — that 
the  landlord  was  to  lose  both  his 
rent  and  his  land,  and  be  mulcted 
in  damages  besides. 

The  measure  is  now  transferred 
to  the  consideration  of  the  House 
of  Lords.  Much  will  depend  upon 
the  effect  produced  upon  the  pub- 
lic mind  by  the  powerful  debaters 
in  that  House.  While  no  one  ex- 
presses satisfaction  with  the  Bill 


as  it  stands,  it  has  simply  com- 
manded toleration  at  the  hands  of 
those  who  regard  it  as  a  step  in  a 
direction  in  which  both  the  Minis- 
try and  the  House  of  Commons  dis- 
claim any  idea  of  travelling.  The 
aims  of  the  Irish  party  are  dis- 
avowed by  both  parties  in  the 
State;  but  the  sole  ground  upon 
which  approval  of  this  measure 
can,  after  the  discussion  it  has  un- 
dergone, be  rested,  is  that  it  recog- 
nises and  partially  accomplishes 
the  end  of  the  Irish  Land  League. 
It  seems  to  us  that  a  continuance 
of  the  Peace  Preservation  Act,  for 
postponement  of  any  legislation 
with  regard  to  land  till  next  ses- 
sion, would  have  best  met  the  exi- 
gencies of  the  case,  and  avoided  a 
great  deal  of  unnecessary  excite- 
ment and  discontent. 

If  the  position  of  home  legisla- 
tion is  thus  unsatisfactory,  what  is 
to  be  said  of  the  position  in  the 
East?  The  Berlin  Conference  has 
come  and  gone.  The  Identic  Note 
was  presented  on  the  llth  June. 
The  Collective  Note  followed  on 
the  15th  July — the  strongest  instru- 
ment of  peaceful  diplomacy.  The 
meaning  of  it  all  is,  that  Mr  Glad- 
stone and  his  interesting  proteges 
the  Greeks  cannot  be  kept  waiting ; 
and  the  Turks,  after  all  that  has 
been  said  and  done  by  the  Liberals 
and  their  chief  during  the  last  four 
years,  must  be  "coerced"  about 
something,  no  matter  at  what  risk, 
even  of  a  general  war  and  a  danger- 
ous reopening  of  the  whole  Eastern 
Question.  The  Porte  is  impera- 
tively "  invited "  to  accept  the 
frontier  line  settled  at  the  Berlin 
Conference.  What  next?  The 
Porte  declares  that  the  Powers 
have  in  so  many  words  decreed  the 
cession  of  two  provinces,  regardless 
that  portions  of  the  Berlin  Treaty 
favourable  to  the  Porte  have  not 
yet  been  carried  out.  The  Greek 
army  is  too  small  and  undisciplined, 
and  its  shores  too  exposed  to  the 


270 


Ministerial  Progress. 


[Aug.  1880. 


Turkish  fleet,  to  enforce  the  ces- 
sion. The  Albanians,  reinforced  by 
Turkish  disbanded  troops,  are  too 
strong  to  be  annexed  by  Greece, 
even  if  the  Porte  stands  by  and 
virtually  submits  to  the  decree  of 
the  Conference.  The  other  Powers, 
except  Eussia,  are  not  eager  for 
action.  Who  is  to  be  the  executant 
of  this  decree?  If  it  is  not  exe- 
cuted, there  is  a  grand  triumph 
for  the  Turk  and  a  galling  humilia- 
tion for  the  Gladstone  Government. 
If  attempts  are  made  forcibly  to 
execute  it,  there  will  be  a  cer- 
tain outbreak  of  sanguinary  strife 
in  the  localities  immediately  con- 
cerned, which,  in  all  probability, 
will  spread  over  the  whole  Balkan 
peninsula.  Behind  the  Greek  ques- 
tions others  arise  of  equal  urgency 
and  importance.  There  is  the  Bul- 
garian question,  for  the  free  Bul- 
garians desire  the  annexation  of 
only  half  free  Eastern  Roumelia. 
The  Albanians  have  their  well- 
known  dispute  with  the  Montene- 
grins. Roumanians  and  Servians, 
Russians  and  Austrian s,  fill  up  the 
background ;  and  on  this  scene  of 
deadly  discord  and  strong  inter- 
national jealousies,  involving,  so  far 
as  Constantinople  and  the  Straits 
are  concerned,  such  vital  interests 
of  so  many  Powers,  our  imperious 
and  headstrong  Premier  has  deter- 
mined, with  his  usual  impatience 
and  uncalculating  vehemence,  to 
stir  up  a  controversy  which  all  the 
wiser  heads  of  the  Berlin  Congress 
of  1878  resolved  to  postpone,  and 
to  commit  to  the  slower^ but  more 
peaceful  developments  of  time  and 
destiny.  Everything  is  supposed 


to  be  staked  on  the  will  of  Turkey, 
which  always,  it  is  said,  yields  to 
the  united  pressure  of  Europe. 
We  believe  that  that  expectation 
is  altogether  unfounded;  that  the 
Porte  has  neither  the  will  nor  the 
power  to  execute  this  new  device  ; 
that  if  it  is  to  be  executed  at  all, 
the  attempt  will  light  up  the 
flames  of  strife,  which  we  all  hoped 
had  been  set  at  rest ;  that  the  ad- 
vantages proposed  are  not  worth 
the  risk;  and  that  the  responsibility 
of  the  whole  proceedings  rests  un- 
fortunately with  the  British  Gov- 
ernment. We  have  substituted  for 
the  policy  which  so  satisfactorily 
adjusted  at  Berlin  the  rivalries  and 
disputes  of  all  parties  to  this  East- 
ern Question,  the  doctrine  of  peace 
at  any  price,  which  effectively  en- 
courages resistance,  and  at  the  same 
time  the  rash  provocation  to  strife 
which  springs  from  undervaluing 
the  cause  of  dispute,  the  temper 
and  resources  of  the  disputants, 
and  the  consequences  to  which  such 
provocation  may  lead.  It  is  impos- 
sible to  regard  the  present  unneces- 
sary crisis  without  grave  anxiety, 
without  feeling  that  it  has  been 
precipitated  upon  us  in  an  utterly 
uncalled-for  and  reckless  fashion. 
We  trust  that  prudence  may  yet  pre- 
vail, and  that  an  unpopular  war  will 
be  prevented,  otherwise  Englishmen 
will  learn  to  appreciate  the  gravity 
of  the  crisis  at  the  last  election,  at 
which  they  comported  themselves 
with  eo  much  levity,  and  gave  to 
Mr  Gladstone  the  opportunity  of 
inflicting  humiliation  on  his  own 
country,  or  war  and  desolation  upon 
the  territories  of  the  East. 


Printed  by  William  Blacfavood  and  Sons. 


BLACKWOOD'S 
EDINBUEGH    MAGAZINE. 


No.  DCCLXXIX. 


SEPTEMBEE   1880. 


VOL.  CXXVIII. 


THE    PILLARS    OF    THE    STATE. 


FOB  two  generations  past,  or  more 
than  that,  the  House  of  Lords  has 
been  associated  in  men's  minds  with 
the  denunciations  of  agitators  and 
demagogues,  and  with  charges  of 
obstruction,  hostility  to  the  im- 
provement and  comfort  of  the 
people,  and,  above  all,  of  a  desire 
to  restrict  our  liberties.  If  this 
branch  of  the  Legislature  were  to 
be  fairly  judged  by  all  that  has 
been  said  of  it  in  the  present  cen- 
tury, it  must  be  regarded  as  one 
of  the  most  monstrous  institutions 
which  human  perversity  has  ever 
invented  for  the  punishment  of  a 
nation.  For  the  shouting  has  been 
all  on  the  side  of  its  enemies : 
whatever  may  have  been  uttered 
in  its  defence  has  been  quietly 
spoken  and  sparingly, — from  which 
it  is  fair  to  infer  either  that  there 
was  little  to  be  said,  or  that  the 
great  Chamber  rested  on  founda- 
tions against  which  the  roaring  of 
the  demagogue  was  but  as  a  cur's 
yelp,  and  its  dignity  did  not  ad- 
mit of  an  answer  being  rendered  to 
every  infuriated  railer. 

The  latter  is  certainly  the  case. 
Its  enemies  spend  their  breath  and 

VOL.  CXXVIII. NO.  DCCLXXIX. 


hurl  their  defiances  against  it  iu 
vain;  yet  the  clatter  has  at  inter- 
vals been  kept  up  so  vigorousljr, 
that  every  one  of  us  who  was  guided 
by  his  hearing  only,  must  in  some 
early  period  of  his  life  have  asked 
himself  how  it  could  be  that  the 
laws  of  a  great  kingdom  like  this 
could  in  any  way  proceed  from  a 
body  which  God  and  man  alike 
condemned  and  execrated.  "We 
have,  perchance,  besought  our  elders 
to  explain  to  us  why  this  incubus 
continued  to  exist,  and  have  been 
surprised  to  hear  that  we  owe  our 
present  greatness  and  prosperity  as 
much  to  our  great  hereditary  Cham- 
ber as  to  any  institution  that  we 
possess ;  that  if,  on  the  one  hand, 
we  have  a  popular  Chamber  to  as- 
sert our  rights  against  monarchical 
or  aristocratic  encroachments,  and 
to  lead  us  along  in  the  course  of 
civilisation,  we  require,  on  the  other 
hand,  some  safeguard  against  the 
fatal  rashness  of  popular  move- 
ments, and  against  the  disregard 
of  justice,  honour,  and  prudence  to 
which  popular  excitement  would 
sometimes,  in  its  haste,  drive  us. 
Democracy,  we  have  been  told,  can 


272 


The  Pillars  of  the  State. 


[Sept. 


be  tyrannical  and  unreasonable  as 
well  as  monarchy.  If  we  had  not 
had  a  powerful  legislative  assembly 
independent  of  the  caprice  of  the 
multitude,  the  greatness  and  wealth 
which  this  day  make  our  institu- 
tions interesting  subjects  of  inquiry, 
would  long  ago  have  ceased  to  be. 

Explanations  such  as  have  above 
been  suggested,  would  certainly 
have  been  accompanied  by  refer- 
ences to  the  pages  of  history,  from 
whence  alone  can  be  gathered  the 
knowledge  of  our  national  growth, 
and  of  the  seemingly  antagonistic 
forces  of  which  that  "  harmonious 
whole,"  the  British  Government,  is 
compounded. 

It  is  in  the  nature  of  a  populace 
to  be  continually  proclaiming  its 
inspirations,  to  be  publishing  its 
grievances,  to  be  asserting  its  rights, 
to  be  giving  daily  proofs  of  its 
strength — sometimes  to  be  clamour- 
ing for  vengeance,  and  for  the  over- 
throw of  everything  that  may  stand 
in  the  way  of  its  wrath  or  its  desire. 
The  Chamber  which  represents  it 
must  therefore  be  a  demonstrative 
assembly ;  it  must  let  the  public 
know  every  day,  and  late  and  early, 
that  it  is  in  strength  and  vigour, 
and  ready  for  any  responsibility  that 
may  devolve  upon  it. 

But  it  is  not  in  the  nature  of  an 
aristocracy  to  be  for  ever  demand- 
ing attention  to  its  thoughts,  its 
wishes,  its  impulses,  its  duties,  or  its 
power.  Generally,  it  is  observant 
rather  than  active.  We  must  not 
therefore  expect  a  legislative  body 
that  is  formed  from  it  to  be  con- 
tinually miking  exhibitions  of  its 
strength,  but  rather  to  be  sparing 
of  its  action  until  the  knot  is  form- 
ed which  is  worthy  the  intervention 
of  a  superior  influence.  Hence 
every  day's  experience  does  not 
contain  proof  of  the  necessity  for,  or 
the  utility  of,  the  House  of  Lords. 
The  watch -dog  does  not  pass  his 
time  in  snarling,  or  in  challenging 


his  master's  foes.  He  is  patient 
and  gentle  with  those  whom  he 
knows,  and  puts  up  with  much 
hard  usage  from  them  ;  but  let  not 
the  wolf  or  the  robber  therefore 
presume  that  his  throat  will  be  safe 
from  such  a  sentinel. 

To  the  brisk  experimenter  in 
government,  to  the  confident  revol- 
utionist, to  the  red-eyed  Jacobin, 
to  the  selfish  demagogue  who  looks 
for  his  advantage  of  a  day  or  two 
and  then  the  deluge,  to  him  who 
would  tamper  with  the  public  credit 
or  the  public  honour — to  all  the 
sections  of  the  community,  rash, 
restless,  ambitious,  or  criminal,  of 
whom  the  characters  above  noted 
may  be  extreme  examples,  —  the 
steady,  imperturbable  House  of 
Lords,  standing  calmly  in  the  way, 
cannot  but  be  an  abomination. 
Even  he  who  is  honest  and  right  in 
his  views,  but  whose  patience  can- 
not endure  till  the  whole  nation 
learn  to  think  with  him,  chafes  at 
the  caution  and  delay  imposed  by 
the  Upper  House.  He  would  blind 
us  all  with  his  sudden  and  light- 
ning brilliancy  ;  and  lo  !  he  is  met 
by  the  "slow  and  steady"  of  the 
Peers,  and  he  hates  and  reviles 
them.  Yea,  they  must  necessarily 
be  much  reviled.  The  abuse  which 
is  heaped  on  them  is  the  best  proof 
we  can  have  of  their  wholesome 
influence  ! 

Let  us  not  think  the  less  of  the 
benefits  which  we  derive  from  the 
Lords  because  they  are  not  for  ever 
demanding  the  first  place  in  our 
thoughts.  The  rod  which  hangs 
with  six  weeks'  dust  upon  it  above 
the  pedagogue's  desk,  does  not 
hang  in  vain  :  the  knowledge  that 
it  is  there  silently  operates  upon 
the  unruly.  The  Peers  prevent 
more  folly  than  they  frustrate. 
Neither  let  us  regret  that  more 
frequent  opportunities  of  justifying 
their  State  are  not  afforded  to  the 
Peers.  The  best  proof  that  we  can 


1880.] 


The  Pillars  of  Hie  State. 


273 


give  of  our  wisdom  and  moderation 
is,  that  they  have  an  idle  time  of 
it.  The  machinery  of  government 
and  of  legislation  must  be  heinously 
out  of  order  -when  the  country  has 
to  fall  back  upon  the  rusty  armoury 
aud  the  time-honoured  authority  of 
the  Peers. 

Party  marshalled  against  party 
in  the  People's  House  is  generally 
found  to  maintain  a  tolerable  equi- 
librium— now  one  side  gaining  a 
little  advantage,  and  now  the  other, 
but  all  remaining  within  moderate 
and  reasonable  bounds.  Neverthe- 
less there  do  come  upon  us  times — 
once  in  a  century  or  so,  perhaps — 
when  popular  passion,  heedlessness, 
caprice  (what  shall  we  say?),  upset 
all  poise,  send  the  adverse  scale 
into  the  air,  proclaim  the  prevalence 
of  mere  will,  and  bid  injustice, 
hatred,  cupidity,  to  take  their  way. 
In  such  times  it  will  be  found  that 
the  House  of  Commons  does  not 
fairly  represent  all  classes  of  the 
people,  but  is  chiefly  elected  by 
one  selfish  class,  which,  aware  of 
its  preponderance,  and  ready  to 
seize  opportunity,  proceeds  to  urge, 
without  scruple  or  apology,  many 
an  iniquity. 

The  steadier,  the  reflecting,  the 
more  scrupulous  classes,  discover 
with  alarm  that  their  Palladium, 
their  peculiar  Chamber,  has  for  the 
time  fallen  into  the  power  of  an 
unrighteous  section,  which,  Ion  gre, 
mal  (/re,  will  go  straight  for  its  own 
ends,  trampling  down  principles 
and  the  rights  of  all  other  sections. 
The  deeds  which  they  have  hither- 
to known  to  be  done  by  only  the 
lawless  and  the  criminal  are  now 
to  be  done  under  the  sanction  of 
law.  The  danger  is  not  imme- 
diately recognised  ;  but  when  it 
is  seen,  and  every  man  becomes 
alarmed  for  his  religion,  his  hearth, 
and  his  possessions,  the  common 
apprehension  drives  all  the  threat- 
ened into  union.  Rapine  and  envy 


are  in  the  "ascendant ;  let  all  who 
love  right  and  order  sink  their 
smaller  differences,  and  make  their 
stand  together.  How  the  stand  is 
to  be  made  may  be  for  a  time  mat- 
ter of  perplexity ;  the  ordinary 
channel  for  representing  their  griev- 
ances is  dammed  up  for  them,  and 
become  a  close  path  in  the  hands 
of  their  enemies.  Then,  perhaps, 
when  nigh  desperate,  they  bethink 
them  of  the  hardly  appreciated  re- 
fuge which  has  come  down  to  them 
from  old,  old  days — of  that  branch 
of  the  Legislature  which  they  may 
have  in  younger  days  reviled  as 
obstructive,  or  despised  as  senile 
and  obsolete.  Then  they  see,  as 
they  have  never  seen  before,  how 
excellent  a  thing  it  is  to  have  a 
legislative  body  independent  of 
popular  rage  and  popular  impa- 
tience— a  body  which  can  stand 
in  the  gap,  and  ward  off  wrong, 
until  the  tyranny  be  overpast. 

Here,  then,  is  a  state  of  things 
which  could  hardly  have  been 
imagined  beforehand  —  the  more 
thoughtful  and  substantial  portions 
of  the  people  praying  protection 
against  their  own  House.  It  is, 
while  it  lasfs,  a  remarkable  Itoule- 
versement.  The  Houses  of  Parlia- 
ment change  places.  "Wealth  and 
intelligence  are  represented  by  the 
Upper  House  alone  ;  and  the  Low- 
er loses  the  lead  at  once,  and  be- 
gins to  feel  the  impotence  of  a  mere 
numerical  majority,  which  is  not 
in  harmony  with  the  interests  of 
the  community  at  large. 

If  we  consider  the  home  political 
events  of  the  summer  which  is 
passing,  we  shall  perceive  that  we 
are  now  in  one  of  those  rare  con- 
junctures of  which  a  general  de- 
scription has  been  attempted  above. 
Sectional  ascendancy  and  violence 
have  succeeded  in  pushing  through 
the  Commons  a  measure  which  has 
filled  the  thinking  and  propertied 
classes  with  apprehension  and  in- 


274 


The  Pillars  of  the  Stale. 


[Sept. 


dignation.  The  Lords  have  come 
to  the  rescue  ;  and  so  far  is  their 
action  from  being  looked  on  as 
officious,  or  supererogatory,  or  usurp- 
ing, that  they  have  on  their  side  a 
great  preponderance  of  the  educated 
and  responsible  classes.  The  House 
of  Commons  represents,  for  the  mo- 
ment, only  the  very  dregs  of  the 
people.  The  people  will  always  be 
divided  ;  and  there  are  an  infinite 
number  of  chances  as  to  how  they 
•will  range  themselves  politically. 
Bat  the  present  exceptional  divi- 
sion is  that  of  the  humblest  yet 
most  numerous  order  arrayed  on 
one  side ;  and  property,  intelli- 
gence, enterprise,  ability,  on  the 
other. 

The  above,  it  may  be  said,  is 
'  Maga's '  estimate  ;  the  above  is 
the  Tory  account  of  what  the  new 
House  of  Commons  represents. 
But  one  would  like  to  hear  the 
other  side :  it  would  probably  be 
a  different  story.  Very  well;  we, 
fortunately,  can  give  a  picture  of 
the  Liberal  constituencies  drawn 
by  no  friend  of  '  Maga,'  and  by  (at 
present)  no  Tory,  whatever  he  may 
have  been,  or  yet  may  be,  for  he  is 
a  Protean  politician.  We  can  give 
a  picture  furnished  by  one  who  is 
at  present  a  Liberal  of  the  Liberals 
— one  whose  evidence  on  such  a 
subject  no  Liberal  would  venture 
to  question.  We  can  give  it  in 
what  must  be  his  own  words  if  he 
has  been  fairly  reported  : — 

"  You  have  great  forces  arrayed 
against  you— I  will  not  say  '  You '  if 
you  will  permit  me  to  identify  myself 
with  you.  I  will  say  we  have  great 
forces  arrayed  against  us.  Unfortu- 
nately we  cannot  make  our  appeal  to 
the  aristocracy,  excepting  that  which 
never  must  be  forgotten,  the  distin- 
guished and  enlightened  minority  of 
that  body,  the  able,  energetic,  patriotic, 
liberal-minded  men,  whose  feelings 
are  one  with  those  of  the  people,  and 
who  decorate  and  dignify  their  rank 
by  their  strong  sympathy  with  the 


entire  community.  "With  that  excep- 
tion in  all  the  classes  of  which  I 
speak,  I  am  sorry  to  say  we  cannot 
reckon  upon  the  aristocracy ;  we  can- 
not reckon  upon  what  is  called  the 
landed  interest;  we  cannotreckon  upon 
the  clergy  of  the  Established  Church 
either  in  England  or  in.  Scotland, 
subject  again  and  always  in  each  case 
to  those  most  honourable  exceptions — 
exceptions,  I  trust,  likely  to  enlarge 
and  multiply  from  day  to  day.  On 
none  of  these  can  we  place  our  trust. 
We  cannot  reckon  on  the  wealth  of 
the  country,  nor  upon  the  rank  of  the 
country,  nor  upon  the  influence  which 
rank  and  wealth  usually  bring.  In 
the  main  these  powers  are  against  us; 
and  there  are  other  powers  against  us, 
for  wherever  there  is  a  close  corpora- 
tion, wherever  there  is  a  spirit  of  or- 
ganised monopoly,  wherever  there  is 
narrow  and  sectional  interest  apart 
from  that  of  the  country,  and  desiring 
to  be  set  up  above  the  interest  of  the 
public,  there,  gentlemen,  we,  the  Lib- 
eral party,  have  no  friendship  and  no 
tolerance  to  expect.  We  must  set 
them  down  among  our  most  deter- 
mined foes.  But,  gentlemen,  above 
all  these,  and  behind  all  these,  there 
is  something  greater  than  these  — 
there  is  the  nation  itself.  And  this 
great  trial  is  now  proceeding  before 
the  nation." 

The  nation  then,  according  to 
this  extract,  is  represented  in  the 
new  House  of  Commons,  but  it  is 
the  nation  minus  the  aristocracy, 
minus  the  Established  clergy  of 
both  England  and  Scotland,  minus 
the  landed  inteiest,minus  the  wealth 
of  the  country,  minus  the  rank  of 
the  country,  minus  all  close  corpora- 
tions. When  all  these  deductions 
have  been  made,  what  have  we  left  1 
To  what  has  the  nation  been  re- 
duced 1  Pretty  nearly  to  the  dregs 
one  sees.  Now  our  Liberal  autho- 
rity here  cited  is  the  present  First 
Lord  of  the  Treasury  and  Chancellor 
of  the  Exchequer.  We  have  quoted 
from  a  speech  which  he  made  at 
West  Calder  on  the  2d  of  last 
April.  Upon  whatever  point  we 
may  differ  from  the  right  hon. 


1830.] 


The  Pillars  of  the  State. 


275 


gentleman,  we  seem  to  be  entirely 
in  accord  with  him  as  to  the  class 
which  returned  the  Liberal  majo- 
rity in  the  present  Parliament. 

We  turn,  for  a  moment,  from 
consideration  of  the  details  of  our 
present  embarrassing  position,  and 
look  to  find  when  and  how  our 
Upper  House  has  before  been  placed 
by  circumstances  on  such  command- 
ing ground.  It  is  a  long  retrospect 
that  we  have  entered  upon,  we 
soon  discover.  Not  for  nearly  a 
hundred  years  have  the  Lords  been 
so  urgently  called  upon  to  save  the 
coxintry  from  the  inconsiderateness 
of  the  popular  assembly.  We  have 
to  turn  back  to  the  days  of  the 
coalition  between  Lord  JSorth  and 
Mr  Fox,  when  the  two  had  hatched 
their  celebrated  India  Bill,  —  a 
scheme  which  would  have  made  the 
Administration  of  the  day  practi- 
cally irremovable,  and  would  have 
established  a  tyranny  of  Ministers, 
if  it  had  succeeded.* 

Those  were  very  different  days 
from  the  present.  The  middle  class 
did  not  interest  itself  in,  and  did 
not  understand,  politics  as  it  does 
to-day.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
Crown  then  interfered  more  active- 
ly in  public  affairs  than  has  ever 
been  the  case  in  our  time.  But 
the  situations  then  and  now  were 
so  far  similar,  that  the  House  of 
Commons  had  then  been  induced 
to  pass  by  a  large  majority  a  meas- 
ure which  would  have  been  fatal  to 
our  liberties  had  it  become  law. 
Not  the  people,  but  the  King,  was 


first  to  perceive  the  danger  that 
was  impending.  His  Majesty  took 
the  alarm,  and  did  that  which  we 
have  seen  the  sound  and  orderly 
part  of  our  population  do  lately — 
that  is,  he  called  upon  the  House 
of  Lords  to  come  to  tbe  rescue  of 
the  Crown  and  of  the  country,  and 
to  defeat  the  wily  Bill  which  Min- 
isters had  devised  for  their  own 
aggrandisement. 

It  was  a  most  important  crisis  in 
the  history  of  Great  Britain.  But 
fortunately,  the  Lords,  having  been 
warned  by  the  King,  were  soon 
alive  to  the  snare  which  the  Cab- 
inet had  prepared,  and  by  a  great 
majority  rejected  the  specious  Bill. 
Thereupon  his  Majesty  insisted 
upon  the  immediate  resignation  of 
the  conspirators,  and  he  called  upon 
the  younger  Pitt  to  form  an  Ad- 
ministration. Pitt  obeyed,  took 
office  as  First  Lord  of  the  Treasury 
and  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer, 
and  remained  at  the  head  of  the 
Government  continuously  for  eigh- 
teen years.  The  people  took  some 
little  time  before  they  understood 
how  entirely  in  their  interests 
had  been  the  decided  and  spirited 
action  of  the  Lords  and  of  the 
Crown.  The  House  of  Commons, 
which,  before  it  passed  the  India 
Bill,  had  seemed  to  possess  com- 
manding influence,  sank  now  to  an 
inferior  place  in  the  councils  of  the 
nation ;  and  the  strong  majority 
which  sided  with  the  old,  and 
against  the  new,  Ministry,  began  to 
decline,  and  fell  off  week  by  week 


*  "Nothing  can  be  more  evident  from  the  simplest  view  of  the  Bill,  than  the 
Ministerial  resolve  to  defy  all  the  power  of  the  Constitution.  The  whole  patronage 
of  India,  the  military  and  judicial  commissions,  the  contracts,  the  trade,  the  pur- 
chase of  merchandise  and  stores  to  the  amount,  even  then,  of  six  millions  a-year,  in 
the  hands  of  a  small  body  of  men,  must  have  created  an  influence  dangerous  to  the 
throne  and  the  Constitution.  With  this  influence  on  his  side,  a  corrupt  or  ambitious 
Minister  might  make  himself  master  of  every  corruptible  mind  in  the  country,  and 
storm  the  Legislature.  The  Bill,  by  its  own  nature,  in  the  first  instance,  involved 
the  most  comprehensive  violation  of  public  engagements,  by  the  seizure  of  the 
charters  ;  and  the  most  comprehensive  violation  of  established  policy,  by  the  general 
change  of  the  Indian  system  in  all  things  that  related  to  government  and  trade."— 
Vide  '  Blackwood's  Magazine,'  March  1835,  article  "  William  Pitt" 


276 


Tlie  Pillars  of  the  State. 


[Sept. 


till  it  was  reduced  to  nothing.  A 
new  Parliament  was  then  summoned, 
and  the  people  in  it  gave  an  over- 
whelming majority  to  Mr  Pitt, 
thereby  showing  that  they  entirely 
approved  and  confirmed  the  inde- 
pendent action  taken  by  the  Lords. 
Pitt,  as  long  as  he  lived,  never  lost 
the  confidence  of  the  country.  Well 
may  it  be  said,  therefore,  that  the 
action  of  the  Lords  on  that  occasion 
was  most  important.  It  not  only 
disposed  of  a  most  objectionable 
and  dangerous  project,  but  it  seated 
on  the  Treasury  bench  the  great 
Minister  who  safely  guided  the  ves- 
sel of  the  State  through  innumer- 
able dangers  and  difficulties. 

Between  that  day  and  the  pre- 
sent, the  Upper  House  has  often 
acted  in  opposition  to  the  Lower, 
but  in  cases  where  the  Lower 
House  was  at  last  shown  to  be  not 
unsupported  by  the  country.  In- 
stances like  these  are  not  to  our 
purpose.  We  seek  for  an  occasion 
where  the  Peers  confessedly  and 
triumphantly  defended  the  liberties 
of  the  nation  against  the  Commons, 
and  we  do  not  find  it  till  we  have 
gone  back  nearly  a  hundred  years. 
It  was  in  1783  that  Mr  Pitt,  then 
three-and-twenty  years  of  age,  be- 
came First  Minister  of  the  Crown 
in  consequence  of  the  decided  vote 
of  the  House  of  Lords. 

In  1880  we  are  again  in  such  a 
state  of  things  that  our  hope  of 
preserving  justice,  "  dealt  equally 
to  all,"  and  of  averting  revolution, 
is  once  more  in  the  House  of  Lords. 
The  circumstances  are  in  many  re- 
spects different  —  widely  different 
they  seem  at  a  careless  view  ;  but 
on  examination  there  will  be  found 
to  be  more  resemblance.  We 
have  not  an  open  coalition  of  two 
sets  of  Ministers ;  but  we  have, 
under  the  name  of  one  party — 
under  the  name  of  the  Liberal 
party — in  effect  a  coalition,  and 
nothing  else.  We  have  parties  of 


entirely  opposite  views  and  aims — 
parties,  the  thorough  triumph  of 
any  one  of  whom  would  be  the 
ruin  and  extinction  of  the  others 
— banded  together,  exercising  the 
government  and  attempting  to 
make  law.  These  parties  hold  no 
sentiment  or  political  principle  in 
common,  except  hatred  of  one  other 
party,  and  a  determination  to  possess 
power  if  they  can.  We  have  Whigs 
of  the  old  school,  Radical  reformers 
who  may  be  called  Revolutionists 
in  fact,  and  Irish  demagogues.  It 
is  not  necessary  that  we  should 
stop  here  to  prove  the  compound 
character  of  this  so-called  party,  or 
the  incongruous  elements  of  which 
it  is  composed.  The  proof  has  been 
offered  over  and  over  again,  and 
the  demonstration  may  be  regarded 
as  complete.  The  sections  of  the 
dominant  party  in  the  House  of 
Commons  are  really  as  much  op- 
posed to  each  other  as  were  the 
parties  represented  by  Lord  Js^orth 
and  Mr  Fox  respectively.  That  is 
resemblance  the  first. 

They  are  bent  upon  the  making 
of  laws  which  shall  throw  the  rep- 
resentation entirely  into  the  hands 
of  one  class,  and  that  the  lowest, 
of  the  community,  and  which  shall 
break  down  all  barriers  and  safe- 
guards against  democracy ;  in  other 
words,  they  are  bent  upon  render- 
ing it  impossible  for  any  but  them- 
selves to  have  a  majority  in  the 
Lower  House.  This  is  precisely 
what  Mr  Fox's  India  Bill  was  in- 
tended to  effect  for  the  coalition  of 
that  day.  Behold  resemblance  the 
second. 

They  have,  by  the  dispropor- 
tioned  views  which  they  announce, 
and  by  the  disrespect  for  right  and 
order  which  they  evince,  sent  alarm 
among  all  the  sober  and  steady-going 
classes  of  the  State,  insomuch  that 
those  classes,  though  mainly  of  the 
commons,  find  their  present  hope 
of  security  in  the  House  of  Lords, 


1880.] 


TJie  Pillars  of  the  State. 


277 


uphold  that  House  in  resisting  and 
defeating  the  iniquities  which  the 
Commons  have  devised,  and  expect 
from  that  House  alone  an  equal 
consideration  of  public  affairs.  Here 
is  yet  another  resemblance. 

This,  like  other  analogies,  can 
hardly  be  expected  to  go  on  all- 
fours.  Any  ingenious  person  pro- 
bably could,  with  a  little  trouble, 
point  out  a  variety  of  disagreements 
between  the  cases.  Yet  we  have 
said  enough,  we  think,  to  show  that 
the  main  points  of  danger  which 
existed  in  1783  exist  now  in  1880, 
— namely,  a  conspiracy  of  adverse 
parties  to  deprive  us  of  our  liberties. 

The  country,  as  one  may  say, 
has  fetched  a  deep  sigh,  and  is 
breathing  freely  again,  since  the 
Lords,  by  an  immense  majority — 
composed  of  Liberal  peers  as  largely 
as  Conservative,  but  all  made  Con- 
servative for  the  occasion  by  stress 
of  a  common  danger, — since  the 
Lords,  we  say,  rejected  emphatically 
the  Bill  for  compensating  Irish 
tenants  disturbed  for  the  non-pay- 
ment of  rent.  There  have  been 
already,  and  there  will  yet  be,  most 
savage  threats  uttered  against  the 
Upper  Chamber  for  having  so  es- 
sentially and  decidedly  done  their 
duty.  These  threats  were  to  have 
been  expected  from  the  disap- 
pointed sections,  the  foiled  con- 
spirators. But  the  feeling  against 
the  unjust,  the  wicked  Bill,  is  too 
general,  too  strong  throughout  the 
country,  for  the  loar  of  the  baffled 
faction  to  be  aught  but  a  brutum  fid- 
men — the  viper's  bite  against  a  file. 

"There  is  no   terror,   railers,   in    j-oiir 

threats  ; 

For  we  are  armed  so  strong  in  honesty, 
That  they  pass  by  us  as  the  idle  wind 
Which  we  regard  not. "  * 

Be  just  and  fear  not,  was  the 
maxim  offered  for  the  guidance  of 
the  Peers  by  one  of  their  own  body. 


They  have  dared  to  be  just,  and 
they  have  nothing  to  fear.  Big 
words  and  horrible  threats  are  easy 
to  utter,  but  not  so  easy  to  execute, 
for  those  who  have  been  shown 
to  be  beyond  contradiction  in  the 
wrong.  "All  hell  shall  stir  for 
this,"  said  Ancient  Pistol  when 
he  got  his  head  broke.  But  hell 
did  not  stir,  and  the  glorious  ancient 
had  to  heal  his  pate  as  best  he 
might.  If  railing  can  crush  the 
Peers,  they  will  go  down  ten  thou- 
sand fathoms  deep.  But  (we  reflect 
on  it  with  thankfulness)  hard  words 
cannot  crush. 

Not  only  have  the  Lords,  by  pa- 
tient examination  and  lengthened 
argument,  fully  justified  their  abso- 
lute rejection  of  the  Compensation 
Bill,  but  they  have  shown  the  Min- 
isterial party  to  be  without  a  shadow 
of  excuse  for  the  intended  enactment. 
The  best,,  and  almost  the  only, 
apology  for  their  measure  which  the 
supporters  of  the  Bill  were  able  to 
bring  forward  was,  that  Ministers, 
after  a  careful  examination  into  the 
state  of  Ireland,  were  of  opinion 
that  it  was  indispensable.  They 
believed  because  Ministers  believed ; 
they  had  no  better  reason.  Fides 
religionis  nostrce  fundamentum  lia- 
betur.  It  is  not  often  that  Eadicals 
are  so  ready  to  accept  doctrine  of 
any  kind  at  second-hand. 

Now,  as  a  supplement  to  sound 
argument,  it  may  be  proper  to  say 
that  men  who  have  every  means  of 
forming  a  right  judgment  think  as 
the  speakers  think;  but  to  have 
nothing  but  other  men's  belief  to 
adduce  in  support  of  a  position 
against  which  strong  and  numerous 
attacks  are  made,  is  to  be  weak  in- 
deed. Why  did  not  the  Ministers 
who  were  supposed  to  be  so  thor- 
oughly satisfied  of  the  soundness  of 
their  views,  find  an  answer  to  the 
many  objections  which  were  levelled 


*  Slightly  altered  from  Shakespeare's  'Julius  Caesar.' 


278 


The  Pillars  of  the  State. 


[Sept. 


at  the  wretched  measure  so  for- 
cibly? They  were  well  pleased 
with  the  Bill,  and  thought  it  a 
right  one.  Good ;  but  then  why  not 
meet  the  plain  and  forcible  argu- 
ments of  Lord  Derby,  which  went 
to  prove  that  it  was  a  villanously 
bad  one  ?  His  lordship  said,  among 
many  other  equally  strong  strictures 
on  the  Bill — 

"  By  this  Bill,  if  it  passes,  you  sus- 
pend the  ordinary  remedy,  and  what 
by  the  general  consensus  of  Irish  land- 
lords is  the  only  effective  remedy 
which  the  landlord  has,  against  the 
non-paying  tenant  ;  you  suspend  it 
for  eighteen  months.  Now  it  has 
been  argued  again  and  again — and  for 
my  part  I  see  no  answer  to  the  argu- 
ment— that  while  that  suspension  lasts 
you  do  injustice  in  two  ways.  First 
of  all,  because  while  you  hinder  the 
landlord  from  obtaining  his  due  from 
the  tenant,  you  do  not  relieve  the 
landlord  from  the  pressure  which  is 
brought  to  bear  upon  him  by  mort- 
gagees and  other  creditors.  He  re- 
mains still  liable  to -pay,  while  his 
only  means  of  payment  are  withheld 
from  him  by  the  operation  of  this  Bill. 
In  the  next  place,  the  tenant  himself 
has  other  creditors  besides  the  land- 
lord. He  owes  money  to  the  baker, 
the  grocer,  probably  to  the  local 
whisky-dealer,  and  almost  certainly  to 
the  local  money-lender  ;  and  in  regard 
to  them  the  ordinary  methods  of  law 
remain,  and  these  creditors  are  free  to 
obtain  payment  of  their  debts,  while 
the  one  exemption  applies  to  the  land- 
lord only.  And  although  I  do  not 
want  to  repeat  what  has  been  said  a 
hundred  times  over,  I  do  not  think 
there  is  any  answer  to  the  plea  that 
the  hardship  is  increased  by  the  land- 
lord being  the  only  creditor  who  can- 
not help  going  on  giving  credit.  The 
local  dealer  may  refuse  to  supply 
articles  if  he  is  not  paid.  The  local 
money-lender  may  not  possibly  get 
back  his  old  loans,  but  at  any  rate 
be  may  refuse  to  make  any  fresh  ad- 
vances. But  the  landowner  cannot 
get  back  his  land,  whether  he  is  paid 
for  it  or  not.  Now  I  do  not  see  how 
it  is  possible  to  deny  that  these  cir- 
cumstances, taken  together,  constitute 


ordinary  condition  of 
society,  would  be  called  a  case  of  great 
injustice  to  the  owners  of  the  soil." 

"We  have  no  more  seen  an  answer 
to  the  argument  than  Lord  Derby 
has ;  and  we  assume  that  no  answer 
can  be  given.  It  is,  in  truth,  a 
strange  way  to  relieve  a  tenant  who 
is  indebted  and  impoverished,  to 
compensate  his  losses  or  his  waste 
out  of  the  pocket  of  a  landlord  who 
is  also  impoverished  through  bad 
seasons ;  while  in  relation  to  all 
other  of  his  creditors,  the  tenant  is 
left  where  he  was  before.  It  is  a 
strange  method,  we  repeat,  and  it 
would  be  an  inexplicable  method 
were  we  to  believe  that  the  Bill  was 
invented  for  the  sake  of  the  tenant 
alone.  But  it  becomes  more  intel- 
ligible if  we  look  at  it  in  another 
way, — if  we  reflect  that  the  role  of 
the  tenant  in  the  argument  is  to 
blind  men  to  the  real  purpose  of  the 
Bill — if  we  perceive  that  the  Bill 
was  intended  not  so  much  to  bene- 
fit the  tenant  as  to  mulct  the  al- 
ready suffering  landlord.  Having 
caught  this  idea,  one  sees  plainly 
enough  that  the  tenant's  other 
creditors,  referred  to  by  Lord 
Derby,  have  nothing  to  do  with 
the  matter. 

The  Bill  was  an  attempt  to  in- 
troduce the  thin  end  of  a  wedge, 
which  would  unquestionably  have 
been  driven  in  from  time  to  time 
until  it  was  home  to  the  head.  It 
was  the  beginning  of  a  systematic 
attack  upon  property,  commencing 
with  landed  property.  Attempts 
were  made  to  exhibit  it  as  a  very 
secondary  matter,  temporary  in  its 
operations,  restricted  in  its  field, 
trifling  in  its  effects.  But  the  in- 
stincts of  all  propertied  classes  told 
them  plainly  for  what  it  was  that 
they  were  being  patted  on  the  back 
and  hushed  with  so  many  soothing 
expressions.  They  knew  that  if 
they  once  admitted  the  principle  of 
confiscation  contained  in  the  Bill, 


1880.] 


TJte  Pillars  of  the  State. 


279 


they  would  soon  have  more,  and 
more  open,  confiscation,  and  be  told 
that  it  was  only  the  extension  of  a 
principle  to  which  they  had  already 
agreed.  But  they  saw  the  danger. 
Obsta  principiis  was  their  rule. 
And  they  committed  their  cause  to 
the  Peers. 

Even  the  superior  knowledge 
which  Ministers  were  said  to  pos- 
sess, and  to  which  their  followers 
pinned  their  faith,  turned  out  to 
be  no  knowledge  at  all,  but  ficti- 
tious information  dressed  up  in  the 
style  of  authentic  facts,  yet  wholly 
untrustworthy.  "We  do  not  accuse 
Ministers  of  having  put  forward 
this  information  (the  main  prop  of 
their  Bill)  knowing  it  to  be  ficti- 
tious ;  but  we  do  accuse  them  of 
having  accepted  it  negligently,  and 
without  taking  proper  steps  for  its 
verification.  It  was  simply  an 
insult  to  Parliament  to  lay  before 
it,  in  the  form  of  statistics  ac- 
cepted and  used  by  the  Govern- 
ment, loose  statements  which  had 
never  been  confirmed  or  even 
tested.  The  process  by  which 
policemen  were  multiplied  in  these 
returns  is  especially  worthy  of  re- 
mark. It  is  one  which  would 
speedily  have  "  replenished  the 
earth  "  with  policemen  so  as  to 
make  Nature  appear  as  "a  very 
slow  coach."  It  beats  to  nothing 
FalstafFs  method  of  generating  men 
in  buckram :  the  scale  on  which 
Sir  John  worked  was  so  modest 
compared  to  this.  The  sublimest 
things  are  the  simplest;  and  this 
is  the  simple  Liberal  method  by 
which  the  police  may  rapidly  be- 
come as  the  stars  of  heaven  for 
multitude.  Every  time  that  an 
officer  is  recorded  as  having  been 
on  duty,  he  is  put  down  as  a  sep- 
arate person.  He  has  an  existence 
for  every  appearance ;  and  if  he 
should  appear  fifty  times  in  a  week, 
he  is  reckoned  as  fifty  policemen. 
Observe,  then,  the  wonderful  police 


propagation  which  may  thus  be 
rapidly  effected.  There  may  be 
limits  to  it,  but  the  limits  are  at 
an  infinite  distance  apart,  and  the 
field  of  genesis  is  practically  bound- 
less. A  modest  number  of  officers, 
numerated  by  some  one  of  the 
teens,  may  be  expanded  to  ten 
places  of  figures.  A  new  form  this 
of  infinite  series  !  t 

"Even  as   a  broken  mirror,  which  the 

glass 

In  every  fragment  multiplies;  and  makes 
A  thousand  images  of  one  that  was, 
The  same,  and  still  the  more,  the  more  it 

breaks." 

The  poet,  if  he  had  lived  in  this 
our  day,  would,  we  are  certain,  have 
used  the  police  instead  of  the  glass, 
as  being  a  more  familiar  and  strik- 
ing illustration,  and  would  have 
written 

"  A  thousand  constables  for  one  that  was," 
&c.,  &c.,  &c. 

Happily  there  were  in  the  House 
of  Commons  men  quick  to  detect 
and  to  expose  an  imposture  like 
this.  Its  authors — let  us  say  rather 
its  parents  by  adoption — were  com- 
pletely crushed  by  proofs  that  their 
figures  were  spurious,  and  had  to 
give  them  up  as  indefensible.  Thus 
what  they  asserted  to  be  the  strong 
base  of  their  measure  was  cut  away 
from  under  it. 

These  be  your  wise  men,  0  great 
Liberal  party !  (you  like  to  be  called 
"great,"  do  ye  not?)  These  be 
your  sages  and  your  pundits  !  Are 
ye  not  proud  of  them  1 

There  was  yet  another  argument 
in  default  of  answers  to  potent  ob- 
jections, used  by  the  few  supporters 
of  the  Compensation  Bill.  "  Pass 
the  Bill,"  they  said  to  the  non  con- 
tents, "  or  the  consequences  may  be 
incalculably  serious.  Irish  tenants 
have  set  their  hearts  upon  obtaining 
this  gratification  at  the  expense  of 
their  landlords.  Their  wrath  will 
be  terrible  if  you  baffle  them.  Pre- 


280 


The  Pillars  of  the  State. 


[Sept. 


pare  for  riot  and  outrage.  All  will 
be  your  fault.  We  would  have 
given  to  the  tenant  the  little  indul- 
gence about  which  he  is  so  eager ; 
and  so  have  kept  him  in  good- 
humour." 

It  is,  we  believe,  very  commonly 
the  case  that  an  intending  wrong- 
doer, balked  of  his  desire  by  the 
intervention  of  justice,  or  of  any 
champion  of  the  right,  gives  way  to 
violent  rage,  and  will  take  vengeance 
on  any  being,  offending  or  not,  who 
may  lie  at  his  mercy.  That  is,  he 
will  do  so  if  order  be  not  taken  to 
prevent  him.  It  is  dangerous  work 
to  interfere  with  burglars.  Many  a 
man,  of  late  years,  has  been  knocked 
down  and  kicked  to  insensibility  for 
attempting  to  keep  the  fists  of  a 
savage  off  a  helpless  woman,  whom 
the  savage  had  hoped  to  chastise  in 
his  moderate  judicious  way.  It  is 
probable  that,  if  Mr  G.  Fawkes  and 
other  gentlemen,  his  friends,  had 
not  had  their  time  much  occupied 
by  the  Government,  on  or  about  the 
5th  of  November  1605,  the  Lord 
Monteagle  might  have  had  a  broken 
head,  or  something  worse,  "for  his 
meddlesome  conduct  in  apprising 
the  Council  of  a  forthcoming  little 
pyrotechnic  entertainment  of  which 
he  had  had  notice. 

But  we  never  before  heard  men 
cautioned  to  keep  from  interfering 
with  robber?,  or  savage  miscreants, 
or  traitors,  on  pain  of  being  made 
responsible  for  any  crime  which 
these  malefactors  might  commit  in 
their  rage  at  being  balked  of  their 
prey.  On  the  contrary,  we  have 
always  heard  it  maintained  that  it 
was  the  abettors,  and  not  the  with- 
standers,  of  the  lawless,  who  took 
upon  them  a  heavy  responsibility. 

"  Let  us  not,  however,"  some 
good-natured  person  may  say,  "  be 
too  severe  upon  men  who  were 
driven  to  desperate  shifts.  They 
had  no  answer  to  give  to  what  was 
said,  aLd  so  they  were  obliged  to 


vapour  a  little  that  they  might  not 
appear  to  be  altogether  put  to  si- 
lence." But  was  it  mere  vapouring  ] 
Lst  us  examine  farther,  and  find 
whether  this  denunciation  of  the 
wrath  of  the  lawless  was  a  mere 
makeshift,  conceived  in  the  moment 
when  it  was  uttered,  or  part  of  a 
deep-laid  scheme  which  will  be 
wrought  out  by  nefariously  using 
the  bad  passions  and  violent  acts 
of  men  in  open  hostility  to  the  law 
as  a  means  of  terrifying  the  Legis- 
lature into  the  enactment  of  unjust 
law.  This  prattle  about  the  ire  of 
the  disaffected  Irishman  reminds 
one  (does  it  not  1)  of  something  we 
all  heard  and  marvelled  at  not  long 
ago. 

We  remember  that  Mr  Gladstone, 
who  is  at  present  Prime  Minister, 
said  publicly  last  spring  that  Fenian 
outrages,  the  abuse  of  nitro-glycer- 
ine,  the  murder  of  the  policeman  at 
Manchester,  and  so  on,  were  means 
by  which  great  and  useful  legisla- 
tion had  been  brought  about.  The 
application  of  this,  of  course,  is  that 
if  Irishmen  want  what  they  call  re- 
forms— i.e.,  iniquitous  measures  like 
the  defeated  Compensation  for  Dis- 
turbance Bill — they  must  terrorise 
the  law-abiding  populations  and 
the  Legislature  by  repeating  the 
acts  above  mentioned,  and  by  per- 
petrating acts  like  to  them.  The 
hints  about  the  effect  on  the  dis- 
affected Irishmen  of  rejecting  the 
Bdl,  may  therefore  have  been  ut- 
tered in  terrorem. 

Mr  Gladstone's  hints  will  per- 
haps be  taken.  Irishmen  are  not 
slow,  generally,  at  understanding 
an  intimation  that  a  few  outrages 
may  probably  be  for  their  advan- 
tage. Let  us,  at  any  rate,  be  pre- 
pared for  outbreaks  :  but  let  us  not 
be  frightened  thereby  into  allowing 
the  law-breakers  to  have  their  desire 
upon  the  peaceful  classes;  let  us 
rather  insist  that  the  laws  be  put 
in  force  for  the  punishment  of 


1880.] 


The  Pillars  of  the  State. 


281 


wickedness  and  vice.  Time  was 
when  the  knowledge  that  a  pro- 
posed law  was  for  the  gratification 
of  men  who  were  prepared  to  pur- 
sue their  ends  by  unlawful  means, 
would  have  decided  the  fate  of  the 
proposed  law  with  Ministers  as  well 
as  others.  But  we  have  changed  all 
that  now.  The  art  of  government 
recognises  the  expediency  of  legal- 
ising injustice  in  order  that  the 
unjust  may  be  kept  quiet,  or  per- 
haps that  the  unjust  may  repay  the 
goodwill  of  the  Government  by ' 
striking  with  panic  any  who  may 
oppose  it. 

To  return  to  our  subject.  The 
House  of  Lords  has  arrested  the 
beginnings  of  the  threatened  evil ; 
but  it  need  scarcely  be  said  that  the 
country  cannot  look  to  the  Lords 
to  go  on  defending  them.  The 
Upper  House  holds  the  coalition 
in  check  long  enough  to  give  the 
country  opportunity  of  consulting 
how  it  can  best  help  itself ;  but  the 
one  Chamber  cannot  for  long  keep 
undoing  what  the  other  Chamber 
has  done.  The  people  are  now 
thoroughly  advised  of  the  plot 
against  their  welfare,  and  must 
take  measures  accordingly.  It  is 
impossible  to  forecast  the  course 
which  things  will  take ;  yet  there 
are  one  or  two  circumstances  which 
are  significant  as  to  the  change. 

The  House  of  Lords  did  not  act 
by  parties,  in  dealing  with  the  Com- 
pensation Bill.  Members  of  the 
Government  and  their  immediate 
friends  stood  quite  alone  in  defence 
of  it.  In  condemnation  of  it  ap- 
peared the  great  body  of  Liberal 
Peers,  who,  joining  with  the  Con- 
servative Peers,  rejected  the  ob- 
noxious Bill  by  an  immense  major- 
ity. The  rejection  was  moved  by 
Earl  Grey,  a  Liberal  Peer. 

Now  we  may  feel  certain  that 
there  is  in  the  Lower  House  a  strong 


Liberal  section  which  feels  exactly 
as  the  Liberal  Peers  felt  who  con- 
demned the  Bill.  These  latter, 
having  put  aside  all  pretence  of 
being  Ministerialists,  and  having 
voted  dead  against  the  Government, 
the  schism  which  they  have  openly 
made  can  hardly  be  prevented  from 
extending  on  the  same  lines  down 
into  the  Lower  House. 

It  may  seem  presumptuous  to 
say  that  a  House  of  Commons  re- 
cently elected,  and  inclining  to  the 
Ministerial  side  by  the  huge  major- 
ity of  170  or  thereabouts,  does  not 
fairly  represent  the  country.  And 
yet  there  are  strong  signs  that  it 
does  not  represent  the  country,  as 
we  have  already  said.  And  this  is 
not  simply  a  Conservative  opinion, 
as  we  shall  show.  We  can  prove, 
out  of  Mr  Gladstone's  own  mouth, 
that  already,  when  his  Administra- 
tion was  not  above  three  months 
old,  it  had  lost  (if  it  ever  possessed) 
its  hold  of  the  public  support.  He 
has  given  us  a  test  whereby  to 
gauge  the  strength  of  a  Liberal 
Government.  That  strength  is,  as 
he  tells  us,  in  the  inverse  ratio  of 
the  power  and  vigour  with  which 
the  House  of  Lords  deals  with  the 
Government's  measures.  These  are 
his  words  :  * — 

"  In  our  day — there  is  no  reason 
why  I  should  not  say  it  to  tire  House 
of  Lords  freely,  for  it  is  an  historical 
fact — whenever  we  were  backed  at  the 
moment  by  a  very  strong  national  feel- 
ing that  it  would  have  been  dangerous 
to  confront  and  to  resist,  then  the 
House  of  Lords  passed  our  measures. 
So  they  passed  the  Disestablishment 
of  the  Irish  Church,  so  they  passed 
the  Irish  Land  Act,  and  so  I  have  no 
doubt,  if  it  please  the  Almighty  in  the 
course  of  future  years,  they  will  pass 
a  great  many  good  measures.  But  the 
moment  the  people  go  to  sleep — and 
they  cannot  be  always  awake  —  the 
moment  public  opinion  flags,  the  mo- 
ment the  people  become  satisfied,  and 


*  From  his  speech  at  Edinburgh,  March  17,  1880. 


282 


The  Pillars  of  the  State. 


[Sept. 


cease  to  take  a  very  strong  and  decided 
interest  in  public  questions,  that  is  the 
moment  when  the  majority  of  the 
House  of  Lords  grows  powerful,  and 
then  they  mangle,  then  they  cut  about, 
then  they  postpone,  then  they  reject 
the  good  measures  that  go  up  to  them 
from  the  House  of  Commons." 

Now  we  know  that  the  House 
of  Lords  has  very  decidedly  reject- 
ed a  measure  on  which  the  Gov- 
ernment laid  much  stress,  and 
which  they  had  induced  the  Com- 
mons to  pass.  Ergo,  the  people 
have  gone  to  sleep,  or  public  opin- 
ion flags,  or  the  people  have  become 
satisfied,  or  they  have  ceased  to  take 
a  very  strong  and  decided  interest 
in  public  questions.  Not  expecting 
to  receive  so  early  proof  of  the 
soundness  of  his  remark,  the  right 
hon.  gentleman  unluckily  took 
the  electors  and  the  general  public 
too  closely  into  his  confidence, — 
revealed  to  them  too  plainly  how 
his  barometer  of  popularity  is  grad- 
uated. If  they  have  taken  his 
lesson  to  heart,  all  his  hearers 
must  know  this  day  that  the  index 
of  the  glass  stands  at  indifference. 
We  may  be  sure,  too,  that  Mr 
Gladstone,  studying  his  place  in 
public  opinion  according  to  his  own 
rule,  has  learned  to  his  dismay  that 
democracy  is  asleep.  In  an  extract 
which  we  gave,  a  page  or  two  back, 
he  stated  that  democracy — i.e.,  the 
nation,  minus  all  but  its  dregs — was 
his  sole  reliance.  Clearly,  then, 
Mr  Gladstone  has  built  his  house 
upon  the  sand.  The  floods  and 
the  winds  are  not  loosed  yet,  but 
surely  they  will  come,  and  beat 
upon  that  house ! 

The  enormous  majority  of  the 
Government  in  the  Commons  may 
not,  on  a  sudden,  be  changed  into 
a  minority,  but  it  may  receive  a 
blow  from  which  it  cannot  recover. 
There  is  hope  that  we  are  already  at 
a  "  measurable  distance  "  from  deliv- 
erance from  the  wicked  coalition. 


The  Bill  which  has  produced  the 
recent  action  of  the  Lords  was,  our 
Ministers  would  have  us  believe, 
an  afterthought.  Whether  it  had 
not  been  thought  of  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  session,  or  Avhether  it 
was  produced  suddenly  and  unex- 
pectedly with  the  hope  that  so  its 
importance  might  escape  notice, 
certain  it  is  that  there  was  no  men- 
tion of  it  in  the  Queen's  Speech. 
Fortunately  the  Opposition  was  not 
"taken  aback  "by  the  manoeuvre, 
if  manoeuvre  it  was.  But  un- 
doubtedly, by  the  whole  announce- 
ment made  by  the  new  Administra- 
tion on  their  first  meeting  Parlia- 
ment, the  nation  at  large  was  much 
taken  aback — their  communications 
were  so  entirely  different  from  what 
their  previous  threats  and  denunci- 
ations had  led  us  to  expect.  We 
heard  about  Irishmen,  and  savings 
banks,  and  more  income-tax.  We 
expected  to  have  revealed  to  us  the 
blackest  criminality  that  a  Govern- 
ment could  be  capable  of ;  and  an 
attempt  made  to  fix  the  odium  of 
that  criminality  on  Lord  Beacons- 
field  and  his  late  colleagues,  whom 
for  the  last  three  years  we  have 
been  accustomed  to  hear  accused 
by  Liberal  orators  of  having  been 
the  wickedest  Ministry  that  ever 
held  office  ! 

Yes;  to  judge  by  former  speeches 
of  the  men  now  in  power,  high 
treason,  gross  misappropriation  of 
the  public  money,  breach  of  engage- 
ments and  of  every  moral  obliga- 
tion, wanton  quarrels,  criminal  de- 
signs to  involve  all  Europe  in  war 
— a  terrible  indictment — could  le 
proved  against  the  Conservative 
Government  as  soon  as  ever  the 
people  should  have  pushed  it  from 
its  vantage-ground  of  office.  But, 
strange  to  say,  no  sooner  had  it 
been  deposed,  and  laid  open  to  at- 
tack for  its  unspeakable,  flagitious 
conduct,  than  —  Presto  ! !  its  ac- 
cusers, the  great  champions  of 


1880.] 


The  Pillars  of  the  State. 


283 


morality  and  right,  imitated  the 
policy  of  Bully  Bottom,  and  aggra- 
vated their  voices  so  that  they 
roared  you  as  gently  as  any  sucking- 
dove;  they  roared  you  an't  were 
any  nightingale.  The  charges  be- 
fore so  loudly  and  so  bitterly  trum- 
peted have  ceased  to  be — are  not. 
One  is  lost  in  amazement  at  this. 
One  asks,  Is  it  possible  that  men 
claiming  to  be  gentlemen  and  men 
of  honour  can  utter  such  fearful 
accusations  against  other  gentle- 
men, and  then  capriciously  aban- 
don them  ?  or,  Is  it  possible  that 
gentlemen,  who  have  sought  power 
for  the  purpose  of  redressing  ini- 
quities like  these,  can  be  proved  to 
have  invented  the  iniquities  for 
the  sake  of  obtaining  the  power  ? 

From  the  time  that  we  have 
waited  in  vain  for  substantiation  of 
the  horrible  charges,  we  may  assume 
that  judgment  has  gone  already 
against  the  accusers  by  default. 
Not  only  have  they  ceased  to 
assail  their  predecessors,  they  have 
followed  them,  treading  in  their 
very  footsteps.  And  this  is  the 
outcome  of  these  heinous  asper- 
sions. It  has  frequently  been 
said  of  late  that  the  slanders  are 
without  parallel,  for  number,  for 
the  persistency  with  which  they 
were  repeated,  and  for  the  intensity 
of  hatred  with  which  they  were 
preferred.  Conspicuous  in  all  these 
respects  were  the  slanders  uttered 
by  Mr  Gladstone. 

It  is  remarkable  how  our  lower 
orders  can  be  imposed  upon  by  a 
solemn  countenance  and  a  Jesuitical 
avoidance  of  sensual  enjoyment. 
Provided  a  man's  life  be  austere  as 
to  meats  and  other  gratifications,  it 
matters  not  to  them  how  black  his 
heart  may  be.  They  might  suspect 
him  if  he  was  known  to  enjoy  a 
good  dinner,  a  bottle  of  old  wine, 
or  an  evening  with  some  jolly  com- 
panions ;  but  envy,  hatred,  malice, 
and  all  uncharitableness,  do  not 


seem  to  them  to  be  drawbacks  to 
a  man's  character.  And  yet  how 
much  less  harmful  are  social  indul- 
gences than  those  bad  things  which 
proceed  out  of  the  heart  ! 

"  He  didn't  mean  half  the  hard 
things  he  said,"  has  been  an  excuse 
made  for  him.  Didn't  he  1  tfien 
how  dared  he  to  say  them  ?  That 
the  man  was  insincere  in  most 
things  that  he  said,  and  that  he 
said  them  solely  for  the  sake  of 
turning  Lord  Beaconsfield's  Minis- 
try out  of  office,  we  entirely  believe. 
But  should  insincerity  be  a  recom- 
mendation to  public  favour  1 

Few  men  can  have  failed  to  re- 
mark the  apathy  and  indifference 
with  which  Mr  Gladstone,  since 
he  has  been  again  a  Minister,  has 
received  authenticated  reports  of 
dreadful  outrages,  committed  in 
what  are  now,  or  what  were  lately, 
parts  of  the  Sultan's  dominions. 
And  comparison  must  force  itsnlf 
upon  them  of  this  indifference  with 
the  indignation  and  excitement 
which  he  evinced  on  the  occurrence 
of  the  "  Bulgarian  atrocities  "  with 
which  he  made  us  so  familiar. 
Then  Mr  Gladstone's  nature  was 
stirred  to  its  very  depths  at  the 
excesses  which  were  committed ; 
his  human  sympathies  were  aroused 
and  found  expression  in  countless 
declamations;  his  righteous  soul 
could  find  no  rest  because  of  the 
atrocious  things  which  had  been 
done.  He  not  only  called  down  the 
wrath  of  Heaven  on  such  sins,  but 
he  did  all  that  in  him  lay  to  direct 
the  wrath  of  man  upon  the  "  un- 
speakable "  Turks.  He  would  have 
driven  them  out  of  Europe  head- 
long, without  thought  of  what  was 
to  become  of  them  or  of  the 
land  from  which  they  were  to  be 
ejected.  His  holy  wrath  could 
not  wait  to  think  of  detail  or  of 
consequences.  Vengeance  speedy, 
vengeance  hot,  first ;  when  that 
was  secured  it  might  be  possible 


284 


Tlie  Pillars  of  the  State. 


[Sept. 


to  think  of  circumstances  and  of 
the  future ! 

But  what  a  different  reception 
only  a  month  or  two  ago  of  reports 
of  equally  barbarous  and  more 
numerous  acts  which  disgraced  hu- 
manity !  No  indignation  ;  scarcely 
any  feeling  even.  The  reports 
treated  more  like  an  imperti- 
nent interruption  to  business  than 
like  anything  else.  Mr  Gladstone 
"  couldn't  help  it,"  he  said,  and 
turned  him  to  more  interesting 
m  atters. 

If  it  be  remembered  that  in  his 
orations  against  the  Turk  he  al- 
ways, after  having  wrought  his 
hearers  to  the  desired  pitch  of 
rage,  endeavoured  to  turn  that  rage 
against  Lord  Beaconsfield  and  his 
Government,  some  reason  begins 
to  appear  why  Mr  Gladstone,  who 
was  then  so  carried  away  by  his 
zeal  in  the  cause  of  humanity,  is  so 
lukewarm  about  humanity  now. 
He  has  achieved  his  desire  of  un- 
seating Lord  Beaconsfield,  and  no 
political  purpose  is  to  be  served, 
but  rather  a  political  difficulty 
would  be  raised,  were  humanity  at 
present  to  be  considered. 

Can  a  man  who  ponders  these 
things  be  deemed  uncharitable  if 
he  decides  that  Mr  Gladstone's 
emotions  at  the  time  of  the  "  Bul- 
garian atrocities"  were  assumed? 
that,  as  a  man,  he  cared  as  little 
about  atrocities  then  as  he  does 
now ;  that  he  was  rousing  the  pas- 
sions, and  seeking  to  wield  the 
wrath  of  the  multitude,  for  pur- 
poses of  his  own?  Can  there 
be  a  doubt  that  Mr  Gladstone  in 
this  matter  was  insincere?  That, 
probably,  is  the  key  to  all  that 
Mr  Gladstone  has  been  doing  be- 
fore high  heaven  for  the  last 
four  years.  His  ostensible  objects 
were  not  his  real  objects.  His 
sentiments  were  mere  implements. 
While  his  mind  pretended  to  be 
ranging  from  East  to  West,  search- 


ing the  things  that  belong  to  na- 
tions and  races ;  while  good  and 
evil  were  his  theme ;  while  peace 
on  earth  and  goodwill  to  men 
(except  Turks)  were  his  desire  and 
aim, — the  thought  of  a  calm  figure 
seated  on  the  Treasury  bench  was 
gnawing  at  his  heart,  stimulating 
his  tongue,  keeping  alive  his  en- 
ergies, and  operating  as  the  true 
motive  power  to  all  his  acts.  As 
with  the  Irish  Church,  so  with  all 
other  subjects  to  which  he  has  given 
himself:  he  has  been  an  adoring 
friend  or  a  deadly  enemy  just  ac- 
cording to  his  own  convenience. 

We  have  refrained  from  accusing 
Mr  Gladstone  of  being  actuated  by 
the  desire  of  returning  to  office,  be- 
cause he  has  on  more  than  one  oc- 
casion distinctly  denied  that  he  had 
any  such  desire,  and  because  his 
words  and  actions  do  not  prove 
that  he  entertained  it.  But  as  to 
his  intense  desire  to  overthrow 
Lord  Beaconsfield  there  can  be  no 
misunderstanding  whatever.  His 
words,  his  every  act,  his  bitterness 
of  soul,  give  undeniable  proof  of 
that. 

We  write  this  in  full  recollection 
that,  in  1868,  when  he  for  the  first 
time  became  Prime  Minister,  "good- 
ness "  was  ascribed  to  Mr  Gladstone 
before  all  his  other  great  attributes, 
and  that  some  fond  persons  may 
imagine  even  to  this  day  that  he  is 
"  too  good  "  to  be  guilty  of  so  much 
hypocrisy.  And  we  would  remark 
that,  whatever  exalted  notions  some 
few  minds  may  entertain  of  Mr 
Gladstone's  goodness,  the  whole  na- 
tion did,  during  his  former  Admin- 
istration, quietly  but  decidedly  re- 
linquish the  ascription  of  goodness. 
He  was  credited  with  fine  qualities 
enough  still,  as  Heaven  knows  ; 
but  the  goodness  was  dropped,  as 
not  exactly  fitting  in  with  the  ac- 
counts which  from  day  to  day  ap- 
peared of  the  conduct  of  his  Gov- 
ernment. We  confidently  appeal 


1880.] 


The  Pillars  of  the  State. 


285 


to  the  utterances  of  the  press  in 
1872-73-74,  as  compared  with  those 
in  1868,  in  support  of  the  assertion 
that  the  nation  had  dropped,  hy 
consent  as  it  were,  Mr  Gladstone's 
goodness  as  an  article  of  faith. 

We  point  back  to  the  vitupera- 
tion itself  which  for  four  years  flow- 
ed in  a  continuous  stream  from  his 
mouth,  like  lava  from  Vesuvius, 
and  ask  whether  such  bitter  railing, 
such  uncharitable  aspersion,  ever 
was  indulged  in  by  any  good  man, 
as  Christians  understand  the  term. 
He  will  adhere  to  his  assertions 
and  utterances  as  long  as  they  serve 
his  purpose,  and  drop  or  contradict 
them  without  scruple  whenever  he 
finds  it  convenient  to  do  so.  It 
requires  only  to  watch  his  career 
to  be  satisfied  of  his  insincerity. 
When  the  poet  was  reflecting  on 
sordid  natures,  he  asked  what  ex- 
cesses the  human  soul  was  not  cap- 
able of  when  urged  by  the  accursed 
love  of  money.  In  our  day  the  same 
question  may  be  asked  concerning 
him  who  gives  himself  up  to  the 
thirst  for  notoriety.  We  cited 
above  that  the  invectives  uttered  by 
Mr  Gladstone  were  often  said  to  be 
without  parallel.  They  have,  we 
hope,  been  very  seldom  equalled, 
but  they  are  unhappily  not  with- 
out parallel.  Mr  Fox  could  be 
equally  abusive,  and,  as  the  event 
showed,  equally  insincere.  We 
have  spoken  of  the  coalition  be- 
tween Mr  Fox  and  Lord  North  : 
let  us  for  a  moment  refer  to  the 
manner  in  which  Mr  Fox  spoke  of 
Lord  North  before  they  joined  their 
forces.  He  called  Lord  North, 

"The  great  criminal  of  the  State, 
whose  blood  must  expiate  the  calami- 
ties he  had  brought  upon  his  country; 
the  object  of  future  impeachment, 
whom  an  indignant  nation  must  in 
the  end  compel  to  make  such  poor 
atonement  as  he  might  on  a  sea/old  : 
the  leader  and  head  of  those  weak, 
wicked,  and  incapable  advisers  of  the 


Crown,  who  were  the  source  of  all  the 
public  misfortunes,  and  whom  he  and 
his  friends  would  proscribe  to  the  last 
hour  of  their  lives." 

Of  Lord  North's  Cabinet  Mr  Fox 
said — 

"  He  never  could  suffer  the  idea  of 
a  connection  with  the  members  of  that 
Cabinet  to  enter  hismiud — a  connection 
with  men  who  had  shown  themselves 
devoid  of  the  common  principles  of 
honour  and  honesty,  and  in  whose 
hands  he  could  not  venture  to  trust  his 
own  honour."  And  Mr  Fox  declared 
that,  "  whenever  he  should  be  found 
entering  into  any  terms  with  an  indi- 
vidual of  the  noble  lord's  (North's) 
Cabinet,  he  should  rest  satisfied  to  be 
called  the  most  infamous  of  mankind !" 

Yet,  in  less  than  a  year  Mr  Fox 
had  joined  his  forces  to  those  of 
Lord  North,  all  his  former  profes- 
sions cast  to  the  winds.  His  greed 
of  eminence  was  really  at  the  bot- 
tom of  all  he  said  and  did ;  and 
when  he  found  that  it  could  bo 
gratified  by  eating  his  former  words, 
and  violating  his  former  pledges, 
he  did  not  scruple  to  gratify  it  at 
that  price, — at  the  price  of  his  hon- 
our !  Therefore,  alas  !  such  wanton 
vituperation  was  not  wholly  un- 
known in  politics  before  Mr  Glad- 
stone's time. 

There  is,  however,  one  direction 
in  which,  as  we  believe,  even  Mr 
Fox  never  dared  to  go  so  far  as  Mr 
Gladstone.  We  mean  that  Mr  Fox, 
however  rashly  he  may  have  dealt 
with  his  own  honour  or  his  con- 
sistency, did  not  venture  to  drag 
sacred  names  into  the  controversy 
— never  dared  to  appeal  to  the 
Supreme  Being  against  his  political 
opponents.  This  piece  of  strategy 
is,  we  fancy,  quite  Mr  Gladstone's 
own  invention,  and  one  which  few 
men,  we  hope,  will  envy  him  the 
discovery  of.  No  doubt  this  im- 
piety imparts  a  show  of  earnestness 
to  his  assertions,  but  the  political 
advantage  must  be  fearfully  dear  at 


286 


TJie  Pillars  of  the  State. 


[Sept. 


the  price.  It  is  a  pity  that  they 
who  listened  to  these  sanctimoni- 
ous protestations  could  not  have 
heard  him,  a  week  or  two  later, 
exerting  himself  to  introduce  an 
atheist  into  the  House  of  Commons. 
Had  they  done  so,  they  would  have 
been  edified. 

And  we  do  not  think  that  Mr 
Fox  ever  did,  or  ever  would  have 
done,  as  we  know  that  Mr  Glad- 
stone did,  in  the  way  of  teaching 
the  people  to  lightly  and  system- 
atically say  the  thing  that  is  not. 
The  instructions  which  the  latter 
right  hon.  gentleman  gave  for  say- 
ing that  which  is  false,  in  reference 
to  votes  given  at  elections,  was,  per- 
haps, when  its  actual  and  probable 
consequences  come  to  be  regarded, 
the  most  reckless,  and  cruel,  and 
wicked  advice  which  he  has  ever 
volunteered.  The  electors  of  Mid- 
Lothian  were  at  liberty  to  say  that 
which  was  not  the  truth,  because 
Sir  Walter  Scott  had  once,  when 
impertinently  questioned  as  to  his 
being  the  author  of  '  Waverley,' 
answered  and  said,  "  I  am  not." 

Let  us  consider  what  this  advice 
amounted  to.  Sir  Walter's  name 
is,  as  we  all  know,  a  spell  through- 
out the  "  land  o'  cakes,"  as  indeed 
it  is  throughout  most  lands  where 
it  is  known.  Sir  Walter,  in  his 
sound,  and  manly,  and  honourable 
discretion — the  discretion  of  a  mind 
far  better  able  to  discriminate  in 
such  a  case  than  ever  Mr  Glad- 
stone's will  be  —  decided  that  he 
might  deny  the  authorship  and  be 
guiltless.  We  do  not  believe  that 
Scott  did  this  lightly.  We  do  be- 
lieve that  he  bitterly  resented  the 
cruel  necessity  of  making  answer 
which  had  been  thrust  upon  him, 
and  that  it  cost  him  a  severe  pang 
to  have  to  palter  in  any  way  with 
the  truth.  However,  he  decided, 
and,  no  doubt,  decided  as  an  hon- 
ourable man  and  good  Christian 
might  decide.  Mr  Gladstone's  les- 


son to  the  undiscriminating,  the 
ignorant,  the  unstable  multitude,  is, 
"  See  what  your  revered  Sir  Walter 
did  :  go  ye  and  do  likewise."  Can 
any  one  doubt  that  the  tendency  of 
such  advice  is  to  do  away  with  the 
distinction  between  truth  and  false- 
hood 1  to  familiarise  the  electors 
with  Deceit? 

Nor  was  the  pernicious  advice 
long  in  bringing  forth  fruit.  We  ob- 
serve that  there  is  in  Mid-Lothian, 
and  that  there  comes  from  many 
parts  of  Scotland,  a  cry  against  the 
duplicity  and  the  "  false  promises  " 
by  which  candidates  for  Parliament 
were  deceived.  We  learn,  more- 
over, from  the  reports  of  judges 
who  have  tried  election  petition", 
how  extensively  and  shamefully 
breach  of  promise  has  prevailed. 
It  is  impossible,  of  course,  to  judge 
how  much  or  how  little  of  this  im- 
morality is  attributable  to  Mr  Glad- 
stone's unhallowed  advice ;  but  at 
least  we  know  that  he  did  his  best 
to  bring  about  such  a  state  of 
things. 

Perhaps  it  was  only  a  coincid- 
ence— if  so,  it  was  a  very  awkward 
one  —  that  only  a  week  or  two 
after  Mr  Gladstone  had  been  so 
urgent  with  the  electors  not  to  be 
too  scrupulous  about  what  they 
might  say,  one  of  his  own  followers 
— a  person  whom  he  thought  it  right 
to  recommend  for  an  office  under 
the  Crown — was,  as  Dr  Watts  has 
it,  "  caught  with  a  lie  upon  his 
tongue."  Another  official,  who  had 
some  regard  for  truth,  pointed  out 
to  the  rancorous  romancer  that 
what  he  had  said  was  not  sooth, 
and  that  there  were  ample  means 
at  command  of  showing  that  it  was 
not  so.  Thereupon  the  foiled  slan- 
derer surrendered  his  invention, 
not  with  the  candour  of  a  generous 
man  who  feels  that  he  has  been 
hasty  in  his  assumption  and  is 
anxious  to  make  amends  ;  not  with 
the  readiness  of  one  who  rejoices  to 


1880.] 


The  Pillars  of  the  State. 


287 


find  that  his  fellow-men  are  not  so 
bad  as  he  had  supposed  them  ;  but 
with  a  manifest  reluctance  to  let 
go  his  calumny  ;  with  such  a  growl 
as  a  cur  gives  when  he  is  com- 
pelled to  part  with  a  bone.  He  let 
us  see  that  he  wished  the  slander  to 
have  been  a  truth.  And  yet  this 
person  is  tolerated  among  gentle- 
men, allowed  to  sit  at  good  men's 
feasts,  and,  so  far  as  we  can  hear, 
not  in  any  way  visited  with  the 
displeasure  of  society  for  having  so 
disgraced  himself ! !  It  is  an  old 
remark  that  the  age  of  chivalry  is 
past,  but  now  the  age  of  honour 
and  truth  seems  to  be  fast  passing 
also. 

Some  few  years  ago*  we  deemed 
it  our  duty  to  comment  upon  the 
conduct  of  a  right-reverend  Bishop 
who  had  been  frequently  known 
to  publicly  excuse  sin  if  com- 
mitted by  a  poor  person.  His  lord- 
ship courted  the  rabble  by  mak- 
ing light  of  their  wickedness,  as 
if  they  were  not  already  only  too 
ready  to  look  leniently  at  trans- 
gressions. He  seemed,  as  we  re- 
marked at  the  time,  to  be  teaching 
the  doctrine  that  Poverty  shall 
cover  the  multitude  of  sins,  as  a 
little  soft-sawder  for  the  multitude. 
This  was  one  way  of  warning  men 
to  flee  from  the  wrath  to  come.  But 
Mr  Gladstone's  position  is  not  con- 
fined in  its  operation  to  poor  men. 
It  tampers  with  the  truthfulness 
of  every  man  who  has  got  a  vote. 

Unfortunately  a  large  licence  has 
been  accorded  to  public  speakers  to 
exhibit  passing  events  in  such  lights 
as  may  suit  their  own  purposes. 
They  avail  themselves  of  this,  but, 
as  a  rule,  their  observations  and 
advice  are  directed  to  particular  in- 
stances. It  is  not  only  every  man's 
interest,  as  a  responsible  being,  that 
he  should  in  all  things  be  truthful; 


but  it  is  every  man's  interest  as  a 
social  being — that  is,  it  is  the  com- 
mon interest  of  us  all  —  that  he 
should  scrupulously  speak  the  truth 
in  all  things.  We  know  how  weak 
minds  are  often  tempted  to  err  in 
this  thing,  and  how  the  strictest 
principle  is  required  to  keep  them 
from  offending.  Surely  it  is  a 
wickedness  and  a  cruelty  to  smooth 
the  way  of  such  towards  sin  ! 

Attempts  to  lower  the  morality 
of  the  population  should  be  looked 
at,  not  from  a  political,  but  from  a 
judicial  point  of  view.  "Whoever 
is  guilty  of  them  is  an  enemy  to  all. 
"We  have  not  yet  reached  a  time, 
we  hope,  when  deceit  and  false- 
hood may  be  inculcated  with  im- 
punity,— when  men  may  openly  use 
their  talents  in  the  cause  of  vice. 
Society  will  rise  and  vindicate  its 
rights  against  the  false  preacher,  be 
he  who  he  may.  "When  we  meet 
such  a  one  let  us  close  our  ears,  to 
his  words.  Let  us  give  him  no 
tolerance  even  for  a  moment.  But 
let  every  honest  hand  wield  the 
whip  which  shall  lash  him  from 
the  East  to  the  West!  But  we 
digress. 

The  Minister  departmental!)'  re- 
sponsible for  bringing  the  Lords 
now  into  the  front  place  is  Mr 
Forster;  and  many  are  the  regrets 
that  we  have  heard  expressed  at 
his  having  shown  so  much  weak- 
ness and  so  much  want  of  judg- 
ment. To  Mr  Forster's  credit  stand 
recorded  many  acts  by  which  he 
showed  himself  superior  to  the  arts 
and  wiles  of  party,  and  in  regard  to 
which  he  bore  himself  with  honest 
independence.  It  was  not  expected 
that  he  would  lend  himself  to  such 
a  pitiful  design  as  the  Compensa- 
tion for  Disturbance  Bill ;  and  even 
his  adversaries  regret  that  that 
affair  did  not  devolve  upon  some 


*  Vide  'Blackwood's  Magazine'  for  Juue  1875,— art.,   "Thoughts  about  British 
Workmen — Past  and  Present." 

VOL.  CXXVIII. — NO.  DCCLXXIX.  U 


288 


The  Pillars  of  the  State. 


[Sept. 


one  of  the  Cabinet  who  had  no 
character  to  lose.  The  Bill  has 
been  a  very  damaging  piece  of 
work,  unfair  in  itself,  and  most 
discreditably  accounted  for,  and 
presented  to  and  pushed  through 
the  House  of  Commons.  The  Irish 
Secretary  cannot  but  feel  how 
much  he  has  suffered  in  reputa- 
tion through  it;  and  cannot  but 
sigh  as  he  looks  back  to  the  days 
when,  with  a  firmer  mind,  he  la- 
boured in  the  Department  of  Edu- 
cation. He  will  have  now  to  con- 
sider carefully  his  ways,  and  to  ex- 
hibit something  of  his  old  vigour 
and  independence,  if  he  would  have 
the  country  forget  this  blunder. 
We  owe  him  something  for  the 
manly  front  he  showed  to  the  im- 
pudent caucus  at  Bradford,  and 
wish  him  better  fortune  and  better 
sense  than  to  employ  himself  in 
doing  the  dirty  work  of  his  party. 
He  is  the  man  who  has  given  their 
present  prominence  to  the  House 
of  Peers. 

This  transference  of  the  regard 
of  the  country  to  the  Upper  House 
throws  some  little  more  light  on  a 
question  which  has  been  a  good 
deal  canvassed — namely,  the  mean- 
ing of  the  last  election.  It  is  pretty 
clear  now  that  the  large  Liberal 
majority  was  not  given  for  the  pur- 
pose of  promoting  any  fair  and 
reasonable  class  of  legislation,  or  to 
abolish  any  oppressive  law,  or  to 
remove  any  galling  burden.  But 
it  is  likely  that  the  more  ignorant 
classes  were,  by  continued  iteration, 
led  to  believe  that  the  late  Govern- 
ment was  dealing  unfairly  by  them, 
and  leading  them  on  to  much  dam- 
age. It  is  also  to  be  presumed  that 
they  expected  to  witness  a  notable 
exposure  of  Lord  Beaconsfield's  evil 
doings,  and  also  to  receive  some  not 
very  definitely  perceived  benefits,  if 
a  change  of  Ministry  should  take 
place.  They  have  changed  the 
Ministry,  but  not  attained  to  any 


of  these  results.  They  are  disap- 
pointed, and  conscious  of  having 
been  beguiled  into  folly,  and  they 
fall  into  an  apathetic  condition. 
The  rest  of  the  country  did  not 
agree  in  the  election  at  all.  And 
thus  the  House  of  Commons  seems 
at  present  to  be  a  mistake  all  round, 
and  the  Upper  House  takes  the 
chief  place. 

It  is  remarkable,  and  it  tends  to 
prove  some  muddle  in  the  whole 
business,  that  in  such  a  state  of 
things  the  Liberal  leaders  should 
have  shown  so  little  capacity  for 
management.  If  the  people  could 
not  specify  what  they  wanted, 
though  not  indisposed  to  a  little 
iniquity,  and  were  simply  per- 
suaded into  returning  a  Liberal 
majority,  the  leaders  had  the  more 
obligation  to  avoid  false  steps,  and 
not  to  further  embarrass  a  situation 
which  was  already  sufficiently  per- 
plexing. Yet  Ministers,  as  if  pos- 
sessed by  a  perverse  spirit,  have, 
ever  since  they  took  office,  been 
going  out  of  their  way  to  find  blun- 
ders and  to  commit  them.  Any 
prestige  which  their  great  majority 
may  have  lent  them  was  immedi- 
ately dissipated  by  their  own  ill- 
advised  acts.  They  are  labouring 
in  a  slough.  Mr  Bright  promised 
wonderful  benefits  to  be  obtained 
from  the  legislation  of  next  year  ; 
but  with  such  a  stumbling  set  of 
leaders  as  we  have  got,  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  look  to  next  year  with  any 
confidence.  Since  May  last  the 
press  has  been  announcing,  at  very 
short  intervals,  blunder  after  blun- 
der of  the  most  startling  and  un- 
called-for kind.  The  most  dement- 
ed of  all,  perhaps,  was  the  attempt 
made  by  the  Prime  Minister  to 
silence  a  member  of  the  House  of 
Commons.  This  was  a  capital 
mistake.  It  brought  out  in  strong 
relief  the  Premier's  ignorance  of 
men,  and  his  incapacity  to  estimate 
situations.  Of  course  every  mem- 


1880.] 


The  Pillars  of  the  State. 


289 


ber  felt  that  the  "stopper,"  then 
designed  for  an  Irish  member, 
might  to-morrow  be  applied  to 
himself,  if  the  gagging  should  be 
carried.  The  proposal,  therefore, 
found  no  supporter;  and  the  Speak- 
er informed  the  House  that  such  a 
motion  had  not  been  made  for  two 
hundred  years  !  ! 

The  wise  saw  of  the  Chancellor 
who  reflected  on  the  modicum  of 
wisdom  with  which  states  are  go- 
verned, may  thus  be  fortified  by 
a  notable  modem  instance.  But 
what  strikes  us  more  than  the  blun- 
der (are  not  the  Premier's  blunders 
as  common  as  blackberries'?)  is  the 
despotic  character  of  his  design — 
the  tyranny  of  it.  The  designer, 
forsooth,  is  a  champion  of  Liberal- 
ism ;  will  Liberals  abet  this  pro- 
ceeding? Our  readers  probably 
remember  a  scene  at  Dotheboys 
Hall  where  Mr  Squeers  struck  the 
desk  with  his  cane,  and  is  reported 
then  to  have  delivered  himself  as 
follows:  "Xow  then,"  said  Mr 
Squeers  mildly,  "  let  me  hear  a 
boy  speak,  and  I'll  take  the  skin 
off  his  back."  We  should  not 
-describe  Mr  Squeers  as  a  Liberal : 
but  thus  it  is  that  extremes 
meet.  Perhaps  Wackford  could 
have  cited  Liberalism  for  his 
purpose,  just  as  William  could  re- 
cur to  the  mode  of  silencing  which 
was  in  vogue  shortly  after  the  scene 
closed  on  the  middle  ages.  But, 
seriously,  could  any  man  who  might 
respect  Liberal  sentiment  in  his 
heart  have  been  ready  thus  to  dis- 
inter the  crushing  engines  of  the 
past?  Is  not  his  Liberalism  a 
mask  1  Is  not  this  another  proof 
of  his  insincerity? 

A  reference  to  the  events  of  the 
past  month  was  not  in  the  original 
plan  of  this  article,  which,  indeed, 
must  be  closed  while  August  has 
yet  many  days  to  run.  But  we 
•cannot  refrain  from  some  comment 
on  the  distressing  news  which  now, 


soon  after  the  middle  of  the  month, 
is,  from  day  to  day,  arriving  from 
Ireland.  That  unhappy  country 
is  in  a  ferment,  sure  enough.  The 
command  seems  to  have  gone  out 
among  the  people,  as  it  did  in  the 
camp  before  Sinai,  u  Slay  every 
man  his  brother  and  his  compan- 
ion." Mr  Gladstone's  words,  and 
the  wretched  Compensation  Bill, 
are  bearing  sad  fruit.  The  Minis- 
ters told  us  that  the  ordinary  laws 
would  be  found  sufficient  for  secur- 
ing the  peace  of  Ireland.  But  peace, 
clearly,  has  not  been  secured,  and 
we  await  with  anxiety  the  measures 
which  her  Majesty's  Government 
may  take  for  its  preservation.  There 
is  no  time  to  lose  :  action  must  be 
immediate  if  Ministers  would  show 
themselves  equal  to  the  emergency. 
It  is  fortunate  that  Parliament  has 
not  been  prorogued.  We  trust  that 
it  may  be  determined  to  do  some- 
thiug  more  than  "strike  at  wretch- 
ed kernes."  The  kernes  are  defy- 
ing the  law,  and  they  must  be 
taught  to  respect  it ;  but  the  head 
of  the  hydra  will  not  have  been 
crushed  until  the  traitors  who  are 
urging  the  ignorant  people  to  vio- 
lence have  been  amply  punished. 
The  speech  of  the  member  for 
Tipperary  which  has  been  read  in 
the  House  of  Commons  simply 
astonishes  by  fts  audacity  and  truc- 
ulent character:  By  the  manner 
in  which  Ministers  may  deal  with 
it  we  may  judge  of  the  probability 
or  otherwise  of  their  adopting  a 
sensible  Irish  policy.  Dare  they 
take  the  bull  by  the  horns,  or  will 
they  play  fast  and  loose  with  the 
agitation  already  begun  in  that 
land  ?  Will  they  aspire  to  govern 
Ireland,  or  only  to  manage  Irish 
members?  To  act  vigorously  and 
honestly  may  cost  them  some  votes ; 
but  it  will  do  for  their  reputation 
what  neither  apathy  nor  hesitation 
nor  confiscatory  sugar -plums  cau 
achieve. 


290 


The  Pillars  of  the  State. 


[Sept. 


The  foreign  policy,  too,  of  the 
Government  with  respect  to  Tur- 
key, is  such  as  furnishes  but  small 
ground  of  hope,  and  leaves  a  great 
deal  to  he  feared.  An  incautious 
move  has  been  made  in  the  hope 
that  it  would  be  followed  by  a 
result  of  startling  brilliancy.  In- 
stead of  brilliancy  we  have  had 
dulness  long  drawn  out ;  and  the 
result  is  still  far  off.  Pray  Heaven 
it  be  not  a  disastrous  one  !  And 
of  the  incapacity  shown  in  India, 
and  of  its  melancholy  consequen- 
ces, we  know  not  how  to  speak 
as  it  deserves.  If  responsibility 
mean  anything  when  applied  to 
the  Cabinet,  there  must  be  a  heavy 
account  to  settle  regarding  India 
before  many  months  have  passed. 
On  all  sides  clouds  hang  around 
the  Gladstone  Ministry.  It  needs 
but  for  one  cloud  to  break,  and 
the  country  will  feel  the  grievous 
error  which  it  refused  to  see  in 
the  spring  ! 

We  feel  that  we  have  been  some- 
what discursive  in  this  paper,  yet 
our  remarks  proceeded  fairly  from 
the  subject.  It  is  such  a  signifi- 
cant and  suggestive  theme,  and  the 
action  of  the  Upper  House  has 
been  recently  so  much  the  pivot  on 
which  home  politics  turned,  that 
it  was  almost  impossible  to  keep 


clear  of  collateral  headings.  One 
direction  we  hope  that  we  have 
given  to  thought,  and  that  is  to- 
wards honestly  and  patiently  ex- 
amining the  great  and  eminently 
useful  functions  which  the  heredi- 
tary Chamber  discharges.  It  stood 
by  our  forefathers;  and  it  has  re- 
cently stood  by  us  in  our  need.  If  it 
were  always  invariably  in  harmony 
with  the  cry  of  the  multitude  it  could 
not  perform  its  duties :  those  duties 
must  occasionally  be  unpopular  at 
the  time  of  performance.  But  when 
party  feeling  has  passed  by  and 
men  can  dispassionately  scan  results, 
then  they  understand  this  their 
venerable  institution.  And  so  it  is 
that,  when  our  minds  are  clear  of 
fretting  questions  of  the  hour, — 
whenever  we  feel,  not  as  partisans, 
but  as  Britons,  we  are  always  ready 
to  do  honour  to  the  Peers.  Sure 
are  we  that  on  the  next  festal  occa- 
sion when  we  are  asked  to  toast 
them,  the  eminent  service  which 
they  rendered  to  us  and  our  liberties 
in  August  1880,  wiU  fill  every  heart 
with  affection  and  respect.  The 
toast  will  have  a  deeper  meaning 
than  usual ;  the  sentiment  will  be 
of  the  present  as  well  as  the  past ; 
and  heartfelt  will  be  the  shouting 
after  every  man  has  drained  his 
bumper  to  the  health  of 


THE   HOUSE   OF   LORDS. 


1880.] 


Dr  Worth's  School.— Part  V. 


291 


DR  WORTLE'S  SCHOOL. — PART   v. 


CHAPTER   XIII. — MR   PUDDICOMBE  S    BOOT. 


IT  was  not  to  be  expected  that 
the  matter  should  be  kept  out  of 
the  county  newspaper,  or  even  from 
those  in  the  metropolis.  There  was 
too  much  of  romance  in  the  story, 
too  good  a  tale  to  be  told,  for  any 
such  hope.  The  man's  former  life 
and  the  woman's,  the  disappearance 
of  her  husband  and  his  reappear- 
ance after  his  reported  death,  the 
departure  of  the  couple  from  St 
Louis,  and  the  coming  of  Lefroy  to 
Bowick,  formed  together  a  most  at- 
tractive subject.  But  it  could  not 
be  told  without  reference  to  Dr 
Wortle's  school,  to  Dr  Wortle's 
position  as  clergyman  of  the  parish, 
— and  also  to  the  fact  which  was 
considered  by  his  enemies  to  be  of 
all  the  facts  the  most  damning, 
that  Mr  Peacocke  had  for  a  time 
been  allowed  to  preach  in  the  par- 
ish church.  The  'Broughton  Ga- 
zette,' a  newspaper  which  was  sup- 
posed to  be  altogether  devoted  to 
the  interest  of  the  diocese,  was  very 
eloquent  on  this  subject.  "  We  do 
not  desire,"  said  the  '  Broughton 
Gazette,'  "  to  make  any  remarks  as 
to  the  management  of  Dr  Wortle's 
school.  We  leave  all  that  between 
him  and  the  parents  of  the  boys 
who  are  educated  there.  We  are 
perfectly  aware  that  Dr  Wortle 
himself  is  a  scholar,  and  that 
his  school  has  been  deservedly  suc- 
cessful. It  is  advisable,  no  doubt, 
that  in  such  an  establishment  none 
should  be  employed  whose  lives 
are  openly  immoral; — but  as  we 
have  said  before,  it  is  not  our  pur- 
pose to  insist  upon  this.  Parents, 
if  they  feel  themselves  to  be  ag- 
grieved, can  remedy  the  evil  by 
withdrawing  their  sons.  But  when 
we  consider  the  great  power  which 


is  placed  in  the  hands  of  an  incum- 
bent of  a  parish,  that  he  is  endowed 
as  it  were  with  the  freehold  of  his 
pulpit,  that  he  may  put  up  whom 
he  will  to  preach  the  Gospel  to  his 
parishioners,  even  in  a  certain  de- 
gree in  opposition  to  his  bishop, 
we  think  that  we  do  no  more  than 
our  duty  in  calling  attention  to 
such  a  case  as  this."  Then  the 
whole  story  was  told  at  great  length, 
so  as  to  give  the  "we"  of  the 
'Broughton  Gazette'  a  happy  op- 
portunity of  making  his  leading 
article  not  only  much  longer,  but 
much  more  amusing,  than  usual. 
"We  must  say,"  continued  the 
writer,  as  he  concluded  his  narra- 
tive, "that  this  man  should  not 
have  been  allowed  to  preach  in  the 
Bowick  pulpit.  He  is  no  doubt  a 
clergyman  of  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land, and  Dr  Wortle  was  within 
his  rights  in  asking  for  his  assist- 
ance ;  but  the  incumbent  of  a  par- 
ish is  responsible  for  those  he  em- 
ploys, and  that  responsibility  now 
rests  on  Dr  Wortle." 

There  was  a  great  deal  in  this  that 
made  the  Doctor  very  angry, — so 
angry  that  he  did  not  know  how  to 
restrain  himself.  The  matter  had 
been  argued  as  though  he  had  em- 
ployed the  clergyman  in  his  church 
after  he  had  known  the  history. 
"For  aught  I  might  know,"  he 
said  to  Mrs  Wortle,  "  any  curate 
coming  to  me  might  have  three 
wives,  all  alive." 

"  That  would  be  most  improb- 
able," said  Mrs  Wortle. 

"  So  was  all  this  improbable, — 
just  as  improbable.  Nothing  could 
be  more  improbable.  Do  we  not 
all  feel  overcome  with  pity  for  the 
poor  woman  because  she  encounter- 


292 


Dr  Worths  School— Part  V. 


ed  trouble  that  was  so  improbable  1 
How  much  more  improbable  was  it 
that  I  should  come  across  a  clergy- 
man who  had  encountered  such  im- 
probabilities?" In  answer  to  this 
Mrs  "Wortle  could  only  shake  her 
head,  not  at  all  understanding  the 
purport  of  her  husband's  argument. 

But  what  was  said  about  his 
school  hurt  him  more  than  what 
was  said  about  his  church.  In  re- 
gard to  his  church  he  was  impreg- 
nable. Not  even  the  Bishop  could 
touch  him, — or  even  annoy  him 
much.  But  this  "penny-a-liner," 
as  the  Doctor  indignantly  called 
him,  had  attacked  him  in  his  ten- 
derest  point.  After  declaring  that 
he  did  not  intend  to  meddle  with 
the  school,  he  had  gone  on  to  point 
out  that  an  immoral  person  had 
been  employed  there,  and  had  then 
invited  all  parents  to  take  away 
their  sons.  "  He  doesn't  know 
what  moral  and  immoral  means," 
said  the  Doctor,  again  pleading  his 
own  case  to  his  own  wife.  "As 
far  as  I  know,  it  would  be  hard  to 
find  a  man  of  a  higber  moral  feel- 
ing than  Mr  Peacocke,  or  a  woman 
than  his  wife." 

"I  suppose  they  ought  to  have 
separated  when  it  was  found  out," 
said  Mrs  Wortle. 

"No,  no,"  he  shouted;  "I  hold 
that  they  were  right.  He  was 
right  to  cling  her,  and  she  was 
bound  to  obey  him.  Such  a  fellow 
as  that," — and  he  crushed  the  paper 
up  in  his  hand  in  his  wrath,  as 
though  he  were  crushing  the  editor 
himself, — "such  a  fellow  as  that 
knows  nothing  of  morality,  nothing 
of  honour,  nothing  of  tenderness. 
What  he  did  I  would  have  done, 
and  I'll  stick  to  him  through  it  all 
in  spite  of  the  Bishop,  in  spite  of 
the  newspapers,  and  in  spite  of  all 
the  rancour  of  all  my  enemies." 
Then  he  got  up  and  walked  about 
the  room  in  such  a  fury  that  his 
wife  did  not  dare  to  speak  to  him. 


[Sept, 


Should  he  or  should  he  not  answer 
the  newspaper  1  That  was  a  ques- 
tion which  for  the  first  two  days 
after  he  had  read  the  article  greatly 
perplexed  him.  He  would  have 
been  very  ready  to  advise  any  other 
man  what  to  do  in  such  a  case. 
"  Never  notice  what  may  be  writ- 
ten about  you  in  a  newspaper,"  he 
would  have  said.  Such  is  the  ad- 
vice which  a  man  always  gives  to 
his  friend.  But  when  the  case  conies 
to  himself  he  finds  it  sometimes 
almost  impossible  to  follow  it, 
"  What's  the  use  ?  Who  cares  what 
the  '  Broughton  Gazette '  says  ?  let 
it  pass,  and  it  will  be  forgotten  in 
three  days.  If  you  stir  the  mud 
yourself,  it  will  hang  about  you  for 
months.  It  is  just  what  they  want 
you  to  do.  They  cannot  go  on  by 
themselves,  and  so  the  subject  dies 
away  from  them ;  but  if  you  write 
rejoinders  they  have  a  contributor 
working  for  them  for  nothing,  and 
one  whose  writing  will  be  much 
more  acceptable  to  their  readers  than 
any  that  comes  from  their  own  an- 
onymous scribes.  It  is  very  dis- 
agreeable to  be  worried  like  a  rat 
by  a  dog  ;  but  why  should  you  go 
into  the  kennel  and  unnecessarily 
put  yourself  in  the  way  of  it  1 "  The 
Doctor  had  said  this  more  than 
once  to  clerical  friends,  who  were 
burning  with  indignation  at  some- 
thing that  had  been  written  about 
them.  But  now  he  was  burning 
himself,  and  could  hardly  keep  his 
fingers  from  pen  and  ink. 

In  this  emergency  he  went  to 
Mr  Puddicombe,  not,  as  he  said  to 
himself,  for  advice,  but  in  order 
that  he  might  hear  what  Mr  Puddi- 
combe would  have  to  say  about  it. 
He  did  not  like  Mr  Puddicombe, 
but  he  believed  in  him, — which 
was  more  than  he  quite  did  with 
the  Bishop.  Mr  Puddicombe  would 
tell  him  his  true  thoughts.  Mr  Pud- 
dicombe would  be  unpleasant,  very 
likely;  but  he  would  be  sincere 


1880.] 


and  friendly.  So  he  went  to  Mr 
Puddicombe.  "  It  seems  to  me," 
he  said,  "  almost  necessary  that  I 
should  answer  such  allegations  as 
these  for  the  sake  of  truth." 

"  You  are  not  responsible  for  the 
truth  of  the  '  Broughton  Gazette,'  " 
said  Mr  Puddicombe. 

"  But  I  am  responsible  to  a  cer- 
tain degree  that  false  reports  shall 
not  be  spread  abroad  as  to  what  is 
done  in  my  church." 

"You  can  contradict  nothing 
that  the  newspaper  has  said." 

"It  is  implied,"  said  the  Doctor, 
"that  I  allowed  Mr  Peacocke  to 
preach  in  my  church  after  I  knew 
his  marriage  was  informal." 

"  There  is  no  such  statement  in 
the  paragraph,"  said  Mr  Puddi- 
combe, after  attentive  reperusal  of 
the  article.  "  The  writer  has  writ- 
ten in  a  hurry,  as  such  writers  gen- 
erally do,  but  has  made  no  state- 
ment such  as  you  presume.  "Were 
you  to  answer  him,  you  could  only 
do  so  by  an  elaborate  statement  of 
the  exact  facts  of  the  case.  It  can 
hardly  be  worth  your  while,  in  de- 
fending yourself  against  the '  Brough- 
ton Gazette,'  to  tell  the  whole  story 
in  public  of  Mr  Peacocke's  life  and 
fortunes." 

"You  would   pass  it  over  alto- 
gether ? " 
•  "  Certainly  I  would." 

"  And  so  acknowledge  the  truth 
of  all  that  the  newspaper  says." 

"  I  do  not  know  that  the  paper 
says  anything  untrue,"  said  Mr 
Puddicombe,  not  looking  the  Doc- 
tor in  the  face,  with  his  eyes  turned 
to  the  ground,  but  evidently  with 
the  determination  to  say  what  he 
thought,  however  unpleasant  it 
might  be.  "  The  fact  is  that  you 
have  fallen  into  a — misfortune." 

"I  don't  acknowledge  it  at  all," 
said  the  Doctor. 

"All  your  friends  at  any  rate 
will  think  so,  let  the  story  be 
told  as  it  may.  It  was  a  misfor- 


Dr  Worth's  School.— Part  V. 


293 


tune  that  this  lady  whom  you 
had  taken  into  your  establishment 
should  have  proved  not  to  be  the 
gentleman's  wife.  When  I  am  tak- 
ing a  walk  through  the  fields  and 
get  one  of  my  feet  deeper  than 
usual  into  the  mud,  I  always  en- 
deavour to  bear  it  as  well  as  I  may 
before  the  eyes  of  those  who  meet 
me,  rather  than  make  futile  efforts 
to  get  rid  of  the  dirt,  and  look  as 
though  nothing  had  happened.  The 
dirt,  when  it  is  rubbed  and  smudg- 
ed and  scraped,  is  more  palpably 
dirt  than  the  honest  mud." 

"  I  will  not  admit  that  I  am  dirty 
at  all,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"  K"or  do  I,  in  the  case  which  I 
describe.  I  admit  nothing  ;  but  I 
let  those  who  see  me  form  ttieir 
own  opinion.  If  any  one  asks  me 
about  my  boot,  I  tell  him  that  it 
is  a  matter  of  no  consequence.  I 
advise  you  to  do  the  same.  You 
will  only  make  the  smudges  more 
palpable  if  you  write  to  the  'Brough- 
ton Gazette.' " 

"  Would  you  say  nothing  to  the 
boys'  parents  ? "  asked  the  Doctor. 

'•There,  perhaps,  I  am  not  a 
judge,  as  I  never  kept  a  school; 
— but  I  think  not.  If  any  father 
writes  to  you,  then  tell  him  the 
truth." 

If  the  matter  had  gone  no  far- 
ther than  this,  the  Doctor  might 
probably  have  left  Mr  Puddi- 
combe's  house  with  a  sense  of 
thankfulness  for  the  kindness  ren- 
dered to  him;  but  he  did  go  far- 
ther, and  endeavoured  to  extract 
from  his  friend  some  sense  of  the 
injustice  shown  by  the  Bishop,  the 
Stantiloups,  the  newspaper,  and  his 
enemies  in  general  through  the 
diocese.  But  here  he  failed  sig- 
nally. "  I  really  think,  Dr  Wortle, 
that  you  could  not  have  expected 
it  otherwise." 

"  Expect  that  people  should  lie?" 

"I  don't  know  about  lies.  [If 
people  have  told  lies,  I  have  not 


294 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  V. 


seen  them  or  heard  them.  I  don't 
think  the  Bishop  has  lied." 

"  I  don't  mean  the  Bishop ; 
though  I  do  think  that  he  has 
shown  a  great  want  of  what  I  may 
call  liberality  towards  a  clergyman 
in  his  diocese." 

"  No  doubt  he  thinks  you  have 
been  wrong.  By  liberality  you 
mean  sympathy.  Why  should  you 
expect  him  to  sympathise  with 
your  wrong- doing  ? " 

"  What  have  I  done  wrong  ? " 

"  You  have  countenanced  im- 
morality and  deceit  in  a  brother 
clergyman." 

"  I  deny  it,"  said  the  Doctor, 
rising  up  impetuously  from  his 
chair. 

"  Then  I  do  not  understand  the 
position,  Dr  Wortle.  That  is  all  I 
can  say." 

"  To  my  thinking,  Mr  Puddi- 
combe,  I  never  came  across  a  bet- 
ter man-  than  Mr  Peacocke  in  my 
life." 

"  I  cannot  make  comparison?. 
As  to  the  best  man  I  ever  met  in 
my  life,  I  might  have  to  acknow- 
ledge that  even  he  had  done  wrong 
in  certain  circumstances.  As  the 
matter  is  forced  upon  me,  I  have  to 
express  my  opinion  that  a  great  sin 
was  committed  both  by  the  man 
and  by  the  woman.  You  not  only 
condone  the  sin,  but  declare  both 
by  your  words  and  deeds  that  you 
sympathise  with  the  sin  as  well  as 
with  the  sinners.  You  have  no 
right  to  expect  that  the  Bishop  will 
sympathise  with  you  in  that ; — 
nor  can  it  be  but  that  in  such  a 
country  as  this  the  voices  of  many 
will  be  loud  against  you." 

"  And  yours  as  loud  as  any,"  said 
the  Doctor,  angrily. 

"That  is  unkind  and  unjust," 
said  Mr  Puddicombe.  "What  I 
have  said,  I  have  said  to  yourself, 
and  not  to  others ;  and  what  I  have 
said,  I  have  said  in  answer  to  ques- 
tions asked  by  yourself."  Then  the 


[Sept. 


Doctor  apologised  with  what  grace 
he  could.  But  when  he  left  the 
house  his  heart  was  still  bitter 
against  Mr  Puddicombe. 

He  was  almost  ashamed  of  him- 
self as  he  rode  back  to  Bowick, — 
first,  because  he  had  condescended 
to  ask  advice,  and  then  because, 
after  having  asked  it,  he  had  been 
so  thoroughly  scolded.  There  was 
no  one  whom  Mr  Puddicombe 
would  admit  to  have  been  wrong 
in  the  matter  except  the  Doctor 
himself.  And  yet  though  he  had 
been  so  counselled  and  so  scolded, 
he  had  found  himself  obliged  to 
apologise  before  he  left  the  house  ! 
And,  too,  he  had  been  made  to 
understand  that  he  had  better 
not  rush  into  print.  Though  the 
'  Broughtou  Gazette '  should  come 
to  the  attack  again  and  again,  he 
must  hold  his  peace.  That  refer- 
ence to  Mr  Puddicombe's  dirty 
boot  had  convinced  him.  He  could 
see  the  thoroughly  squalid  look  of 
the  boot  that  had  been  scraped 
in  vain,  and  appreciate  the  whole- 
someness  of  the  unadulterated  mud. 
There  was  more  in  the  man  than 
he  had  ever  acknowledged  before. 
There  was  a  consistency  in  him, 
and  a  courage,  and  an  honesty  of 
purpose  ;  but  there  was  no  softness 
of  heart.  Had  there  been  a  grain 
of  tenderness  there,  he  could  not 
have  spoken  so  often  as  he  had 
done  of  Mrs  Peacocke  without  ex- 
pressing some  grief  at  the  un- 
merited sorrows  to  which  that  poor 
lady  had  been  subjected. 

His  own  heart  melted  with  ruth 
as  he  thought,  while  riding  home,  of 
the  cruelty  to  which  she  had  been 
and  was  subjected.  She  was  all 
alone  there,  waiting,  waiting,  wait- 
ing, till  the  dreary  days  should  have 
gone  by.  And  if  no  good  news 
should  come,  —  if  Mr  Peacocke 
should  return  with  tidings  that 
her  husband  was  alive  and  well, 
what  should  she  do  then  ]  What 


1880.] 


would  the  world  then  have  in  store 
for  her1?  "  If  it  were  me,"  said  the 
Doctor  to  himself,  "  I'd  take  her 
to  some  other  home,  and  treat  her 
as  my  wife  in  spite  of  all  the  Pud- 
dicombes  in  creation  ; — in  spite  of 
all  the  bishops." 

The  I)  jctor,  though  he  was  a  self- 
asserting  and  somewhat  violent  man, 
was  thoroughly  soft-hearted.  It  is 
to  be  hoped  that  the  reader  has  al- 
ready learned  as  much  as  that ; — a 
man  with  a  kind,  tender,  affection- 
ate  nature.  It  would  perhaps  be 
unfair  to  raise  a  question  whether 
he  would  have  done  as  much,  been 
so  willing  to  sacrifice  himself,  for  a 
plain  woman.  Had  Mr  Stantiloup, 
or  Sir  Samuel  Griffin  if  he  had 
suddenly  come  again  to  life,  been 
found  to  have  prior  wives  also  liv- 
ing, would  the  Doctor  have  found 
shelter  for  them  in  their  ignominy 
and  trouble?  Mrs  Wortle,  who  knew 
her  husband  thoroughly,  was  sure 
that  he  would  not  have  done  so. 
Mrs  Peacocke  was  a  very  beautiful 
woman,  and  the  Doctor  was  a  man 
who  thoroughly  admired  beauty. 
To  say  that  Mrs  "Wortle  was  jealous 
would  be  quite  untrue.  She  liked 
to  see  her  husband  talking  to  a 
pretty  woman,  because  he  would 
be  sure  to  be  in  a  good  humour, 
and  sure  to  make  the  best  of  him- 
self. She  loved  to  see  him  shine. 
But  she  almost  wished  that  Mrs 
Peacocke  had  been  ugly,  because 
there  would  not  then  have  been  so 
much  danger  about  the  school. 

"  I'm  just  going  up  to  see  her," 
said  the  Doctor,  as  soon  as  he  got 
home, — "just  to  ask  her  what  she 
wants." 

"  I  don't  think  she  wants  any- 
thing," said  Mrs  "Wortle,  weakly. 

"  Does  she  not  ?  She  must  be  a 
very  odd  woman  if  she  can  live 
there  all  day  alone,  and  not  want 
to  see  a  human  creature." 

"  I  was  with  her  yesterday." 

"And  therefore  I   will   call   to- 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  V. 


295 


day,"  said  the  Doctor,  leaving  the 
room  with  his  hat  on. 

When  he  was  shown  up  into  the 
sitting-room  he  found  Mrs  Peacocke 
with  a  newspaper  in  her  hand.  He 
could  see  at  a  glance  that  it  was  a 
copy  of  the  '  Broughton  Gazette,' 
and  could  see  also  the  length  and 
outward  show  of  the  very  article 
which  he  had  been  discussing  with 
Mr  Puddicombe.  "Dr  Wortle," 
she  said,  "  if  you  don't  mind,  I  will 
go  away  from  this." 

"  But  I  do  mind.  Why  should 
you  go  away  ? " 

"  They  have  been  writing  about 
me  in  the  newspapers." 

"  That  was  to  be  expected." 

"But  they  have  been  writing 
about  you." 

"  That  was  to  have  been  expect- 
ed also.  You  don't  suppose  they 
can  hurt  me?"  This  was  a  false 
boast,  but  in  such  conversations  he 
was  almost  bound  to  boast. 

"It  is  I,  then,  am  hurting 
you  ? " 

"  You  ! — oh  dear,  no ;  not  in  the 
least." 

"  But  I  do.  They  talk  of  boys 
going  away  from  the  school." 

"  Boys  will  go  and  boys  will 
come ;  but  we  run  on  for  ever," 
said  the  Doctor,  playfully. 

"I  can  well  understand  that  it 
should  be  so,"  said  Mrs  Peacocke, 
passing  over  the  Doctor's  parody  as 
though  unnoticed  ;  "  and  I  perceive 
that  I  ought  not  to  be  here." 

"Where  ought  you  to  be,  then?" 
said  he,  intending  simply  to  carry 
on  his  joke. 

"Where  indeed!  There  is  no- 
where ;  but  wherever  I  may  do 
least  injury  to  innocent  people, — 
to  people  who  have  not  been  driven 
by  storms  out  of  the  common  path 
of  life.  For  this  place  I  am  pecu- 
liarly unfit." 

"  Will  you  find  any  place  where 
you  will  be  made  welcome1?" 

"  I  think  not." 


29G 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  V. 


"Then  let  me  manage  the  rest. 
You  have  been  reading  that  das- 
tardly article  in  the  papers.  It 
will  have  no  effect  upon  me.  Look 
here,  Mrs  Peacocke  ; "  —  then  lie 
got  up  and  held  her  hand  as  though 
he  were  going,  "but  he  remained 
some  moments  while  he  was  still 
speaking  to  her, — still  holding  her 
hand  ;  —  "it  was  settled  between 
your  husband  and  me,  when  he 
went  away,  that  you  should  remain 
here  under  my  charge  till  his  return. 
I  am  bound  to  him  to  find  a  home 
for  you.  I  think  you  are  as  much 
bound  to  obey  him, — which  you 
can  only  do  by  remaining  here." 

"  I  would  wish  to  obey  him,  cer- 
tainly." 

"You  ought  to  do  so, — from  the 
peculiar  circumstances  more  especi- 
ally. Don't  trouble  your  mind  about 
the  school,  but  do  as  he  desired. 
There  is  no  question  but  that  you 
must  do  so.  Good-bye.  Mrs  Wor- 
tle  or  I  will  come  and  see  you 
to-morrow."  Then,  and  not  till 
then,  he  dropped  her  hand. 

On  the  next  day  Mrs  "Wortle  did 
call,  though  these  visits  were  to  her 
an  intolerable  nuisance.  But  it  was 
certainly  better  that  she  should  al- 
ternate the  visits  with  the  Doctor 
than  that  he  should  go  every  day. 
The  Doctor  had  declared  that  char- 
ity required  that  one  of  them  should 
see  the  poor  woman  daily.  He  was 
quite  willing  that  they  should  per- 
form the  task  day  and  day  about, — 
but  should  his  wife  omit  the  duty 
he  must  go  in  his  wife's  place. 


[Sept. 


What  would  all  the  world  of  Bo- 
wick  say  if  the  Doctor  were  to  visit 
a  lady,  a  young  and  a  beautiful  lady, 
every  day,  whereas  his  wife  visited 
the  lady  not  at  all?  Therefore  they 
took  it  turn  about,  except  that 
sometimes  the  Doctor  accompanied 
his  wife.  The  Doctor  had  once  sug- 
gested that  his  wife  should  take  the 
poor  lady  out  in  her  carriage.  But 
against  this  even  Mrs  Wortle  had 
rebelled.  "  Under  such  circum- 
stances as  hers  she  ought  not  to 
be  seen  driving  about,"  said  Mrs 
Wortle.  The  Doctor  had  submit- 
ted to  this,  but  still  thought  that 
the  world  of  Bowick  was  very 
cruel. 

Mrs  Wortle,  though  she  made  no 
complaint,  thought  that  she  was 
used  cruelly  in  the  matter.  There 
had  been  an  intention  of  going  into 
Brittany  during  these  summer 
holidays.  The  little  tour  had 
been  almost  promised.  But  the 
affairs  of  Mrs  Peacocke  were  of 
such  a  nature  as  not  to  allow  the 
Doctor  to  be  absent.  "  You  and 
Mary  can  go,  and  Henry  will  go 
with  you."  Henry  was  a  bachelor 
brother  of  Mrs  Wortle,  who  was 
always  very  much  at  the  Doctor's 
disposal,  and  at  hers.  But  certainly 
she  was  not  going  to  quit  England, 
not  going  to  quit  home  at  all,  while 
her  husband  remained  there,  and 
while  Mrs  Peacocke  was  an  inmate 
of  the  school.  It  was  not  that  she 
was  jealous ;  the  idea  was  absurd  : 
but  she  knew  very  well  what  Mrs 
Stantiloup  would  say. 


CHAPTER  xiv. — 'EVERYBODY'S  BUSINESS.' 


But  there  arose  a  trouble  greater 
than  that  occasioned  by  the'Brough- 
ton  Gazette.'  There  came  out  an 
article  in  a  London  weekly  news- 
paper, called  '  Everybody's  Busi- 
ness/ which  nearly  drove  the  Doc- 
tor mad.  This  was  on  the  last 


Saturday  of  the  holidays.  The 
holidays  had  been  commenced  in 
the  middle  of  July,  and  went  on 
till  the  end  of  August.  Things 
had  not  gone  well  at  Bowick  dur- 
ing these  weeks.  The  parents  of 
all  the  four  newly  expected  boys 


1880.] 


had — changed  their  ininds.  One 
father  had  discovered  that  he  could 
not  afford  it.  Another  declared  that 
the  mother  could  not  be  got  to  part 
with  her  darling  quite  so  soon  as 
he  had  expected.  A  third  had 
found  that  a  private  tutor  at  home 
•would  best  suit  his  purposes.  While 
the  fourth  boldly  said  that  he  did 
not  like  to  send  his  boy  because 
of  the  "  fuss  "  which  had  been  made 
about  Mr  and  Mrs  Peacocke.  Had 
this  last  come  alone,  the  Doctor 
would  probably  have  resented  such 
a  communication ;  but  following 
the  others  as  it  did,  he  preferred 
the  fourth  man  to  any  of  the  other 
three.  "  Miserable  cowards,"  he 
said  to  himself,  as  he  docketed  the 
letters  and  put  them  away.  But 
the  greatest  blow  of  all, — of  all 
blows  of  this  sort, — came  to  him 
from  poor  Lady  Anne  Clifford. 
She  wrote  a  piteous  letter  to  him, 
in  which  she  implored  him  to  allow 
her  to  take  her  two  boys  away. 

"My  dear  Dr  Wortle,"  she  said, 
"so  many  people  have  been  tell- 
ing so  many  dreadful  things  about 
this  horrible  affair,  that  I  do  not 
dare  to  send  my  darling  boys  back 
to  Bowick  again.  Uncle  Clifford 
and  Lord  Eobert  both  say  that  I 
should  be  very  wrong.  The  Mar- 
chioness has  said  so  much  about 
it  that  I  dare  not  go  against  her. 
You  know  what  my  own  feelings 
are  about  you  and  dear  Mrs  Wortle; 
but  I  am  not  my  own  mistress. 
They  all  tell  me  that  it  is  my  first 
duty  to  think  about  the  dear  boys' 
welfare  ;  and  of  course  that  is  true. 
I  hope  you  won't  be  very  angry 
with  me,  and  will  write  one  line  to 
say  that  you  forgive  me. — Yours 
most  sincerely, 

"ANNE  CLIFFORD." 

In  answer  to  this  the  Doctor 
did  write  as  follows  : — 

"Mv    DEAR   LADY   AXNE,  —  Of 


Dr  Worths  School— Part  V. 


297 


course  your  duty  is  very  plain, — 
to  do  what  you  think  best  for  the 
boys;  and  it  is  natural  enough  that 
you  should  follow  the  advice  of 
your  relatives  and  theirs. — Faith- 
fully yours,  JEFFREY  WORTLE." 

He  could  not  bring  himself  to 
write  in  a  more  friendly  tone,  or  to 
tell  her  that  he  forgave  her.  His 
sympathies  were  not  with  her.  His 
sympathies  at  the  present  moment 
were  only  with  Mrs  Peacocke.  But 
then  Lady  Anne  Clifford  was  not 
a  beautiful  woman,  as  was  Mrs 
Peacocke. 

This  was  a  great  blow.  Two 
other  boys  had  also  been  summon- 
ed away,  making  five  in  all,  whose 
premature  departure  was  owing 
altogether  to  the  virulent  tongue 
of  that  wretched  old  Mother  Ship- 
ton.  And  there  had  been  four  who 
were  to  come  in  the  place  of  four 
others,  who,  in  the  course  of  nature, 
were  going  to  carry  on  their  more 
advanced  studies  elsewhere.  Va- 
cancies such  as  these  had  always 
been  preoccupied  long  beforehand 
by  ambitious  parents.  These  very 
four  places  had  been  preoccupied, 
but  now  they  were  all  vacant. 
There  would  be  nine  empty  beds 
in  the  school  when  it  met  again 
after  the  holidays  ;  and  the  Doctor 
well  understood  that  nine  beds  re- 
maining empty  would  soon  cause 
others  to  be  emptied.  It  is  success 
that  creates  success,  and  decay  that 
produces  decay.  Gradual  decay  he 
knew  that  he  could  not  endure. 
He  must  shut  up  his  school, — give 
up  his  employment, — and  retire  al- 
together from  the  activity  of  life. 
He  felt  that  if  it  came  to  this  with 
him,  he  must  in  very  truth  turn 
his  face  to  the  wall  and  die.  Would 
it, — would  it  really  come  to  that, 
tint  Mrs  Stantiloup  should  have 
altogether  conquered  him  in  the 
combat  that  had  sprung  up  between 
them? 


298 


Dr  Worth's  School—Part  V. 


But  yet  he  would  not  give  up 
Mrs  Peacocke.  Indeed,  circum- 
stanced as  he  was,  he  could  not 
give  her  up.  He  had  promised 
not  only  her,  but  her  absent  hus- 
band, that  until  his  return  there 
should  be  a  home  for  her  in  the 
schoolhouse.  There  would  be  a 
cowardice  in  going  back  from  his 
word  which  was  altogether  foreign 
to  his  nature.  He  could  not  bring 
himself  to  retire  from  the  fight, 
even  though  by  doing  so  he  might 
save  himself  from  the  actual  final 
slaughter  which  seemed  to  be  im- 
minent. He  thought  only  of  mak- 
ing fresh  attacks  upon  his  enemy, 
instead  of  meditating  flight  from 
those  which  were  made  upon  him. 
As  a  dog,  when  another  dog  has 
got  him  well  by  the  ear,  thinks 
not  at  all  of  his  own  wound,  but 
only  how  he  may  catch  his  enemy 
by  the  lip,  so  was  the  Doctor  in 
regard  to  Mrs  Stantiloup.  When 
the  two  Clifford  boys  were  taken 
away,  he  took  some  joy  to  himself 
in  remembering  that  Mr  Stantiloup 
could  not  pay  his  butcher's  bill. 

Then,  just  at  the  end  of  the  holi- 
days, some  good-natured  friend 
sent  to  him  a  copy  of  '  Everybody's 
Business.'  There  is  no  duty  which 
a  man  owes  to  himself  more  clearly 
than  that  of  throwing  into  the 
waste-paper  basket,  unsearched  and 
even  unopened,  all  newspapers  sent 
to  him  without  a  previously  de- 
clared purpose.  The  sender  has 
either  written  something  himself 
which  he  wishes  to  force  you  to 
read,  or  else  he  has  been  desirous 
of  wounding  you  by  some  ill-natur- 
ed criticism  upon  yourself.  '  Every- 
body's Business  '  was  a  paper  which, 
in  the  natural  course  of  things,  did 
not  find  its  way  into  the  Bo  wick 
rectory;  and  the  Doctor,  though 
he  was  no  doubt  acquainted  with 
the  title,  had  never  even  looked 
at^its  columns.  It  was  the  purpose 
of  the  periodical  to  amuse  its  read- 


[Sept. 


ers,  as  its  name  declared,  with  the 
private  affairs  of  their  neighbours. 
It  went  boldly  about  its  work,  ex- 
cusing itself  by  the  assertion  that 
Jones  was  just  as  well  inclined  to 
be  talked  about  as  Smith  was  to 
hear  whatever  could  be  said  about 
Jones.  As  both  parties  were  served, 
what  could  be  the  objection?  It 
was  in  the  main  good-natured,  and 
probably  did  most  frequently  gratify 
the  Joneses,  while  it  afforded  con- 
siderable amusement  to  the  listless 
and  numerous  Smiths  of  the  world. 
If  you  can't  read  and  understand 
Jones's  speech  in  Parliament,  you 
may  at  any  rate  have  mind  enough 
to  interest  yourself  with  the  fact 
that  he  never  composed  a  word  of 
it  in  his  own  room  without  a  ring 
on  his  finger  and  a  flower  in  his 
button-hole.  It  may  also  be  agree- 
able to  know  that  Walker  the 
poet  always  takes  a  mutton-chop 
and  two  glasses  of  sherry  at  half- 
past  one.  '  Everybody's  Business ' 
did  this  for  everybody  to  whom 
such  excitement  was  agreeable.  But 
in  managing  everybody's  business 
in  that  fashion,  let  a  writer  be  as 
good-natured  as  he  may,  and  let  the 
principle  be  ever  so  well  founded 
that  nobody  is  to  be  hurt,  still 
there  are  dangers.  It  is  not  always 
easy  to  know  what  will  hurt  and 
what  will  not.  And  then  some- 
times there  will  come  a  temptation 
to  be,  not  spiteful,  but  specially 
amusing.  There  must  be  danger, 
and  a  writer  will  sometimes  be  in- 
discreet. Personalities  will  lead  to 
libels  even  when  the  libeller  has 
been  most  innocent.  It  may  be 
that,  after  all,  the  poor  poet  never 
drank  a  glass  of  sherry  before  din- 
ner in  his  life, — it  may  be  that  a 
little  toast-and- water,  even  with  his 
dinners,  gives  him  all  the  refresh- 
ment that  he  wants,  and  that  two 
glasses  of  alcoholic  mixture  in  the 
middle  of  the  day  shall  seem,  when 
imputed  to  him,  to  convey  a  charge 


1880.] 


of  downright  inebriety.  But  the 
writer  has  perhaps  learned  to  re- 
gard two  glasses  of  meridian  wine 
as  but  a  moderate  amount  of  sus- 
tentation.  This  man  is  much  flat- 
tered if  it  be  given  to  be  under- 
stood of  him  that  he  falls  in  love 
with  every  pretty  woman  that  he 
sees  ; — whereas  another  will  think 
that  he  has  been  made  subject  to  a 
foul  calumny  by  such  insinuation. 

'  Everybody's  Business '  fell  into 
some  such  mistake  as  this,  in  that 
very  amusing  article  which  was 
written  for  the  delectation  of  its 
readers  in  reference  to  Dr  Wortle 
and  Mrs  Peacocke.  The  '  Brough- 
ton  Gazette'  no  doubt  confined 
itself  to  the  clerical  and  highly 
moral  views  of  the  case,  and,  hav- 
ing dealt  with  the  subject  chiefly 
on  behalf  of  the  Close  and  the 
admirers  of  the  Close,  had  made  no 
allusion  to  the  fact  that  Mrs  Pea- 
cocke was  a  very  pretty  woman. 
One  or  two  other  local  papers  had 
been  more  scurrilous,  and  had,  with 
ambiguous  and  timid  words,  al- 
luded to  the  Doctor's  personal  ad- 
miration for  the  lady.  These,  or 
the  rumours  created  by  them,  had 
reached  one  of  the  funniest  and 
lightest-handed  of  the  contributors 
to  'Everybody's  Business,'  and  he 
had  concocted  an  amusing  article, — 
which  he  had  not  intended  to  be  at 
all  libellous,  which  he  had  thought 
to  be  only  funny.  He  had  not  ap- 
preciated, probably,  the  tragedy  of 
the  lady's  position,  or  the  sanctity 
of  that  of  the  gentleman.  There 
was  comedy  in  the  idea  of  the 
Doctor  having  sent  one  husband 
away  to  America  to  look  after  the 
other  while  he  consoled  the  wife  in 
England.  "  It  must  be  admitted," 
said  the  writer,  "that  the  Doctor 
has  the  best  of  it.  While  one 
gentleman  is  gouging  the  other, — 
as  cannot  but  be  expected,  —  the 
Doctor  will  be  at  any  rate  in  secu- 
rity, enjoying  the  smiles  of  beauty 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  V. 


299 


under  his  own  fig-tree  at  Bowick. 
After  a  hot  morning  with  'rvTmo '  in 
the  school,  there  will  be  '  amo '  in 
the  cool  of  the  evening."  And  this 
was  absolutely  sent  to  him  by  some 
good-natured  friend  ! 

The  funny  writer  obtained  a 
popularity  wider  probably  than  he 
had  expected.  His  words  reached 
Mrs  Stantiloup,  as  well  as  the 
Doctor,  and  were  read  even  in  the 
Bishop's  palace.  They  were  quoted 
even  in  the  'Broughton  Gazette,' 
not  with  approbation,  but  in  a  high 
tone  of  moral  severity.  "  See  the 
nature  of  the  language  to  which  Dr 
Wortle's  conduct  has  subjected  the 
whole  of  the  diocese  !  "  That  was 
the  tone  of  the  criticism  made  by 
the  'Broughton  Gazette'  on  the 
article  in  'Everybody's  Business.' 
"  What  else  has  he  a  right  to  ex- 
pect 1 "  said  Mrs  Stantiloup  to  Mrs 
Rolland,  having  made  quite  a  jour- 
ney into  Broughton  for  the  sake  of 
discussing  it  at  the  palace.  There 
she  explained  it  all  to  Mrs  Eol- 
land,  having  herself  studied  the 
passage  so  as  fully  to  appreciate 
the  virus  contained  in  it.  "He 
passes  all  the  morning  in  the  school 
whipping  the  boys  himself  because 
he  has  sent  Mr  Peacocke  away,  and 
then  amuses  himself  in  the  evening 
by  making  love  to  Mr  Peacocke's 
wife,  as  he  calls  her.  Of  course 
they  will  say  that, — and  a  great 
deal  worse."  Dr  Wortle,  when  he 
read  and  re-read  the  article,  and 
when  the  jokes  which  were  made 
upon  it  reached  his  ears,  as  they 
were  sure  to  do,  was  nearly  mad- 
dened by  what  he  called  the  heart- 
less iniquity  of  the  world  ;  but  his 
state  became  still  worse  when  he 
received  an  affectionate  but  solemn 
letter  from  the  Bishop  warning  him 
of  his  danger.  An  affectionate  let- 
ter from  a  Bishop  must  surely  be 
the  most  disagreeable  missive  which 
a  parish  clergyman  can  receive. 
Affection  from  one  man  to  another 


300 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  V. 


is  not  natural  in  letters.  A  bishop 
never  writes  affectionately  unless  he 
means  to  reprove  severely.  When 
he  calls  a  clergyman  "his  dear 
brother  in  Christ,"  he  is  sure  to 
go  on  to  show  that  the  man  so 
called  is  altogether  unworthy  of 
the  name.  So  it  was  with  a  letter 
now  received  at  Bowick,  iu  which 
the  Bishop  expressed  his  opinion 
that  Dr  Wortle  ought  not  to  pay 
any  further  visits  to  Mrs  Peacocke 
till  she  should  have  settled  herself 
down  with  one  legitimate  husband, 
let  that  legitimate  husband  be  who 
it  might.  The  Bishop  did  not  in- 
deed, at  first,  make  reference  by 
name  to  'Everybody's  Business,' 
but  he  stated  that  the  "  metro- 
politan press"  had  taken  up  the 
matter,  and  that  scandal  would 
take  place  in  the  diocese  if  further 
cause  were  given.  "  It  is  not 
enough  to  be  innocent,"  said  the 
Bishop,  "  but  men  must  know  that 
we  are  so." 

Then  there  came  a  sharp  and 
pressing  correspondence  between 
the  Bishop  and  the  Doctor,  which 
lasted  four  or  five  days.  The  Doc- 
tor, without  referring  to  any  other 
portion  of  the  Bishop's  letter,  de- 
manded to  know  to  what  "  metro- 
politan newspaper"  the  Bishop  had 
alluded,  as,  if  any  such  paper  had 
spread  scandalous  imputations  as 
to  him,  the  Doctor,  respecting  the 
lady  in  question,  it  would  be  his, 
the  Doctor's,  duty  to  proceed  against 
that  newspaper  for  libel.  In  answer 
to  this,  the  Bishop,  in  a  note  much 
shorter  and  much  less  affectionate 
than  his  former  letter,  said  that  he 
•did  not  wish  to  name  any  metro- 
politan newspaper.  But  the  Doctor 
would  not,  of  course,  put  up  with 
such  an  answer  as  this.  He  wrote 
very  solemnly  now,  if  not  affec- 
tionately. "  His  lordship  had 
spoken  of  'scandal  in  the  diocese.' 
The  words,"  said  the  Doctor, 
"  contained  a  most  grave  charge. 


[Sept. 

He  did  not  mean  to  say  that  any 
such  accusation  had  been  made  by 
the  Bishop  himself;  but  such  ac- 
cusation must  have  been  made  by 
some  one  at  least  of  the  London 
newspapers,  or  the  Bishop  would 
not  have  been  justified  in  what  he 
had  written.  Under  such  circum- 
stances he,  Dr  "Wortle,  thought 
himself  entitled  to  demand  from 
the  Bishop  the  name  of  the  news- 
paper in  question,  and  the  date  on 
which  the  article  had  appeared." 

In  answer  to  this  there  came  no 
written  reply,  but  a  copy  of  the 
'  Everybody's  Business  '  which  the 
Doctor  had  already  seen.  He  had, 
no  doubt,  known  from  the  first  that 
it  was  the  funny  paragraph  about 
"  TVTTTW  "  and  "  amo  "  to  which  the 
Bishop  had  referred.  But  in  the 
serious  steps  which  he  now  intend- 
ed to  take,  he  was  determined  to 
have  positive  proof  from  the  hands 
of  the  Bishop  himself.  The  Bishop 
had  not  directed  the  pernicious 
newspaper  with  his  own  hands,  but 
if  called  upon,  would  not  deny  that 
it  had  been  sent  from  the  palace  by 
his  orders.  Having  received  it, 
the  Doctor  wrote  back  at  once  as 
follows; — 

"  RIGHT  REVEREND  AND  DEAR 
LORD,  —  Any  word  coming  from 
your  lordship  to  me  is  of  grave  im- 
portance, as  should,  I  think,  be  all 
words  coming  from  a  bishop  to  his 
clergy ;  and  they  are  of  special  im- 
portance when  containing  a  reproof, 
whether  deserved  or  undeserved. 
The  scurrilous  and  vulgar  attack 
made  upon  me  in  the  newspaper 
which  your  lordship  has  sent  to 
me  would  not  have  been  worthy  of 
my  serious  notice,  had  it  not  been 
made  worthy  by  your  lordship  as 
being  the  ground  on  which  such  a 
letter  was  written  to  me  as  that  of 
your  lordship's  of  the  12th  instant. 
Xow  it  has  been  invested  with  so 
much  solemnity  by  your  lordship's 


1880.] 


notice  of  it,  that  I  feel  myself 
obliged  to  defend  myself  against  it 
by  public  action. 

"  If  I  have  given  just  cause  of 
scandal  to  the  diocese,  I  will  retire 
both  from  my  living  and  from  my 
school.  But  before  doing  so  I  will 
endeavour  to  prove  that  I  have 
done  neither.  This  I  can  only  do 
by  publishing  in  a  court  of  law  all 
the  circumstances  in  reference  to 
my  connection  with  Mr  and  Mrs 
Peacocke.  As  regards  myself,  this, 
though  necessary,  will  be  very  pain- 
ful. As  regards  them,  I  am  in- 
clined to  think  that  the  more  the 
truth  is  known,  the  more  general 
and  the  more  generous  will  be  the 
sympathy  felt  for  their  position. 

"  As  the  newspaper  sent  to  me, 
no  doubt  by  your  lordship's  orders, 
from  the  palace,  has  been  accom- 
panied by  no  letter,  it  may  be 
necessary  that  your  lordship  should 
be  troubled  by  a  subpoena,  so  as  to 
prove  that  the  newspaper  alluded 
to  by  your  lordship  is  the  one 
against  which  my  proceedings  will 
be  taken.  It  will  be  necessary,  of 
course,  that  I  should  show  that  the 
libel  in  question  has  been  deemed 
important  enough  to  bring  down 
upon  me  ecclesiastical  rebuke  of 
such  a  nature  as  to  make  my  re- 
maining in  the  diocese  unbearable, 
unless  it  be  shown  to  have  been 
undeserved." 

There  was  consternation  in  the 
palace  when  this  was  received.  So 
stiff-necked  a  man,  so  obstinate,  so 
unclerical, — so  determined  to  make 
much  of  little  !  The  Bishop  had  felt 
himself  bound  to  warn  a  clergyman 
that,  for  the  sake  of  the  Church,  he 
could  not  do  altogether  as  other  men 
might.  No  doubt  certain  ladies  had 
got  around  him, — especially  Lady 
Margaret  Momson, — filling  his  ears 
with  the  horrors  of  the  Doctor's  pro- 
ceedings. The  gentleman  who  had 
written  the  article  about  the  Greek 


Dr  Worth's  School. — Part  V. 


301 


and  the  Latin  words  had  seen  the 
truth  of  the  thing  at  once, — so  said 
Lady  Margaret.  The  Doctor  had 
condoned  the  offence  committed  by 
the  Peacockes  because  the  woman 
had  been  beautiful,  and  was  repay- 
ing himself  for  his  mercy  by  bask- 
ing in  her  beauty.  There  was  no 
saying  that  there  was  not  some 
truth  in  this.  Mrs  Wortle  herself 
entertained  a  feeling  of  the  same 
kind.  It  was  palpable,  on  the  face 
of  it,  to  all  except  Dr  Wortle  him- 
self,— and  to  Mrs  Peacocke.  Mrs 
Stantiloup,  who  had  made  her  way 
into  the  palace,  was  quite  convinc- 
ing on  this  point.  Everybody  knew, 
she  said,  that  he  went  across,  and 
saw  the  lady  all  alone,  every  day. 
Everybody  did  not  know  that.  If 
everybody  had  been  accurate,  every- 
body would  have  asserted  that  he 
did  this  thing  every  other  day. 
But  the  matter,  as  it  was  represent- 
ed to  the  Bishop  by  the  ladies,  with 
the  assistance  of  one  or  two  clergy- 
men in  the  Close,  certainly  seemed 
to  justify  his  lordship's  interference. 
But  this  that  was  threatened  was 
very  terrible.  There  was  a  deter- 
mination about  the  Doctor  which 
made  it  clear  to  the  Bishop  that 
he  would  be  as  bad  as  he  said. 
When  he,  the  Bishop,  had  spoken 
of  scandal,  of  course  he  had  not 
intended  to  say  that  the  Doctor's 
conduct  was  scandalous;  nor  had 
he  said  anything  of  the  kind.  He 
had  used  the  word  in  its  proper  sense 
— and  had  declared  that  offence 
would  be  created  in  the  minds  of 
people  unless  an  injurious  report 
were  stopped.  "It  is  not  enough 
to  be  innocent,"  he  had  said,  "  but 
men  must  know  that  we  are  so." 
He  had  declared  in  that  his  belief 
in  Dr  Wortle's  innocence.  But 
yet  there  might,  no  doubt,  be  an 
action  for  libel  against  the  news- 
paper. And  when  damages  came 
to  be  considered,  much  weight  would 
be  placed  naturally  on  the  atten- 


302 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  V. 


tion  which  the  Bishop  had  paid  to 
the  article.  The  result  of  this  was 
that  the  Bishop  invited  the  Doctor 
to  come  and  spend  a  night  with 
him  in  the  palace. 

The  Doctor  went,  reaching  the 
palace  only  just  before  dinner. 
During  dinner  and  in  the  drawing- 
room  Dr  Wortle  made  himself  very 
pleasant.  He  was  a  man  who 
could  always  be  soft  and  gentle 
in  a  drawing-room.  To  see  him 
talking  with  Mrs  Holland  and  the 
Bishop's  daughters,  you  would  not 
have  thought  that  there  was  any- 
thing wrong  with  him.  The  dis- 
cussion with  the  Bishop  came  after 
that,  and  lasted  till  midnight.  "  It 
will  be  for  the  disadvantage  of  the 


[Sept, 


diocese  that  this  matter  should  be 
dragged  into  court,  —  and  for  the 
disadvantage  of  the  Church  in 
general  that  a  clergyman  should 
seem  to  seek  such  redress  against 
his  bishop."  So  said  the  Bishop. 

But  the  Doctor  was  obdurate. 
"I  seek  no  redress,"  he  said, 
"against  my  bishop:  I  seek  re- 
dress against  a  newspaper  which 
has  calumniated  me.  It  is  your 
good  opinion,  my  lord, — your  good 
opinion  or  your  ill  opinion,  which 
is  the  breath  of  my  nostrils.  I 
have  to  refer  to  you  in  order  that 
I  may  show  that  this  paper,  which 
I  should  otherwise  have  despised, 
has  been  strong  enough  to  influ- 
ence that  opinion." 


CHAPTER   XV. — "'AMO'    IN   THE   COOL   OF   THE   EVENING." 


The  Doctor  went  up  to  London, 
and  was  told  by  his  lawyers  that 
an  action  for  damages  probably 
would  lie.  "  '  Amo '  in  the  cool  of 
the  evening,"  certainly  meant  mak- 
ing love.  There  could  be  no  doubt 
that  allusion  was  made  to  Mrs  Pea- 
cocke.  To  accuse  a  clergyman  of 
a  parish,  and  a  schoolmaster,  of 
making  Jove  to  a  lady  so  circum- 
stanced as  Mrs  Peacocke,  no  doubt 
was  libellous.  Presuming  that  the 
libel  could  not  be  justified,  he 
would  probably  succeed.  "Justi- 
fied!" said  the  Doctor,  almost  shriek- 
ing, to  his  lawyers ;  "  I  never  said 
a  word  to  the  lady  in  my  life  ex- 
cept in  pure  kindness  and  charity. 
Every  word  might  have  been  heard 
by  all  the  world."  Nevertheless, 
had  all  the  world  been  present,  he 
would  not  have  held  her  hand  so 
tenderly  or  so  long  as  he  had  done 
on  a  certain  occasion  which  has 
been  mentioned. 

"  They  will  probably  apologise," 
said  the  lawyer. 

"  Shall  I  be  bound  to  accept  their 
apology  1 " 


"  No,  not  bound  ;  but  you  would 
have  to  show,  if  you  went  on  with 
the  action,  that  the  damage  com- 
plained of  was  of  so  grievous  a  na- 
ture that  the  apology  would  not 
salve  it." 

"The  damage  has  been  already 
done,"  said  the  Doctor,  eagerly. 
"  I  have  received  the  Bishop's  re- 
buke,— a  rebuke  in  which  he  has 
said  that  I  have  brought  scandal 
upon  the  diocese." 

"  Eebukes  break  no  bones,"  said 
the  lawyer.  "  Can  you  show  that 
it  will  serve  to  prevent  boys  from 
coming  to  your  school  ?  " 

"It  may  not  improbably  force 
me  to  give  up  the  living.  I  cer- 
tainly will  not  remain  there  subject 
to  the  censure  of  the  Bishop.  I 
do  not  in  truth  want  any  damages. 
I  would  not  accept  money.  I  only 
want  to  set  myself  right  before  the 
world."  It  was  then  agreed  that 
the  necessary  communication  should 
be  made  by  the  lawyer  to  the  news- 
paper proprietors,  so  as  to  put  the 
matter  in  a  proper  train  for  the 
action. 


1880.] 

After  this  the  Doctor  returned 
home,  just  in  time  to  open  his 
school  with  his  diminished  forces. 
At  the  last  moment  there  was  an- 
other defaulter,  so  that  there  were 
now  no  more  than  twenty  pupils. 
The  school  had  not  heen  so  low  as 
this  for  the  last  fifteen  years.  There 
had  never  been  less  than  eight-and- 
twenty  before,  since  Mrs  Stanti- 
loup  had  first  begun  her  campaign. 
It  was  heartbreaking  to  him.  He 
felt  as  though  he  were  almost 
ashamed  to  go  into  his  own  school. 
In  directing  his  housekeeper  to 
send  the  diminished  orders  to  the 
tradesmen  he  was  thoroughly 
ashamed  of  himself;  in  giving  his 
directions  to  the  usher  as  to  the  re- 
divided  classes,  he  was  thoroughly 
ashamed  of  himself.  He  wished 
that  there  was  no  school,  and  would 
have  been  contented  now  to  give  it 
all  up,  and  to  confine  Mary's  for- 
tune to  £10,000  instead  of  £20,000, 
had  it  not  been  that  he  could  not 
bear  to  confess  that  he  was  beaten. 
The  boys  themselves  seemed  almost 
to  carry  their  tails  between  their 
legs,  as  though  even  they  were 
ashamed  of  their  own  school.  If, 
as  was  too  probable,  another  half- 
dozen  should  go  at  Christmas,  then 
the  thing  must  be  abandoned.  And 
how  could  he  go  on  as  rector  of  the 
parish  with  the  abominable  empty 
building  staring  him  in  the  face 
every  moment  of  his  life? 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  really  going 
to  law,"  said  his  wife  to  him. 

"I  must,  my  dear.  I  have  no 
other  way  of  defending  my  honour." 

"  Go  to  law  with  the  Bishop  ? " 

"Xo,  not  with  the  Bishop." 

"But  the  Bishop  would  be 
brought  into  it?" 

"  Yes,  he  will  certainly  be  brought 
into  it." 

"And  as  an  enemy.  What  I 
mean  is,  that  he  will  be  brought 
in  very  much  against  his  own 
will." 

VOL.  CXXVIII. — NO.  DCCLXXIX. 


Dr  Worth's  School — Part  V. 


303 


"  Xot  a  doubt  about  it,"  said  the 
Doctor.  "  But  he  will  have  brought 
it  altogether  upon  himself.  How 
he  can  have  condescended  to  send 
that  scurrilous  newspaper  is  more 
than  I  can  understand.  That  one 
gentleman  should  have  so  treated 
another  is  to  me  incomprehensible  ; 
but  that  a  bishop  should  have  done 
so  to  a  clergyman  of  his  own  dio- 
cese shakes  all  my  old  convictions. 
There  is  a  vulgarity  about  it,  a 
meanness  of  thinking,  an  aptitude 
to  suspect  all  manner  of  evil,  which 
I  cannot  fathom.  What !  did  he 
really  think  that  I  was  making  love 
to  the  woman?  did  he  doubt  that 
I  was  treating  her  and  her  husband 
with  kindness,  as  one  human  being 
is  bound  to  treat  another  in  afflic- 
tion ?  did  he  believe,  in  his  heart, 
that  I  sent  the  man  away  in  order 
that  I  might  have  an  opportunity 
for  a  wicked  purpose  of  my  own  1 
It  is  impossible.  When  I  think  of 
myself  and  of  him,  I  cannot  believe 
it.  That  woman  who  has  succeeded 
at  last  in  stirring  up  all  this  evil 
against  me, — even  she  could  not 
believe  it.  Her  malice  is  sufficient 
to  make  her  conduct  intelligible ; 
— but  there  is  no  malice  in  the 
Bishop's  mind  against  me.  He 
would  infinitely  sooner  live  with 
me  on  pleasant  terms  if  he  could 
justify  his  doing  so  to  his  con- 
science. He  has  been  stirred  to  do 
this  in  the  execution  of  some  pre- 
sumed duty.  I  do  not  accuse  him 
of  malice.  But  I  do  accuse  him  of 
a  meanness  of  intellect  lower  than 
what  I  could  have  presumed  to 
have  been  possible  in  a  man  so 
placed.  I  never  thought  him  clever ; 
I  never  thought  him  great;  I  never 
thought  him  even  to  be  a  gentleman, 
in  the  fullest  sense  of  the  word ;  but 
I  did  think  he  was  a  man.  This  is 
the  performance  of  a  creature  not 
worthy  to  be  called  so." 

"  Oh,  Jeffrey,  he  did  not  believe 
all  that." 


30i 


Dr  Worth's  School.— Part  V. 


[Sept. 


"  What  did  lie  believe  ?  When 
he  read  that  article,  did  he  see  in  it 
a  true  rebuke  against  a  hypocrite, 
or  did  he  see  in  it  a  scurrilous 
attack  upon  a  brother  clergyman,  a 
neighbour,  and  a  friend?  If  the 
latter,  he  certainly  would  not  have 
been  instigated  by  it  to  write  to 
me  such  a  letter  as  he  did.  He 
certainly  would  not  have  sent  the 
paper  to  me  had  he  felt  it  to  con- 
tain a  foul-mouthed  calumny." 

"  He  wanted  you  to  know  what 
people  of  that  sort  were  saying." 

"  Yes ;  he  wanted  me  to  know 
that,  and  he  wanted  me  to  know 
also  that  the  knowledge  had  come 
to  me  from  my  bishop.  I  should 
have  thought  ill  of  any  one  who 
had  sent  me  the  vile  ribaldry.  But 
coming  from  him,  it  fills  me  with 
despair." 

"Despair!"  she  said,  repeating 
his  word. 

"Yes;  despair  as  to  the  condi- 
tion of  the  Church  when  I  see  a 
man  capable  of  such  meanness  hold- 
ing so  high  place.  '  "  Amo  "  in  the 
cool  of  the  evening  ! '  That  words 
such  as  those  should  have  been  sent 
to  me  by  the  Bishop,  as  showing 
what  the  'metropolitan  press'  of 
the  day  was  saying  about  my  con- 
duct !  Of  course,  my  action  will  be 
against  him, — against  the  Bishop. 
I  shall  be  bound  to  expose  his  con- 
duct. What  else  can  I  do  ?  There 
are  things  which  a  man  cannot  bear 
and  live.  Were  I  to  put  up  with 
this,  I  must  leave  the  school,  leave 
the  parish; — nay,  leave  the  coun- 
try. There  is  a  stain  upon  me 
which  I  must  wash  out,  or  I  cannot 
remain  here." 

"  No,  no,  no,"  said  his  wife,  em- 
bracing him. 

"  '  "  Amo  "  in  the  cool  of  the 
evening  ! '  And  that  when,  as  God 
is  my  judge  above  me,  I  have  done 
my  best  to  relieve  what  has  seemed 
to  me  the  unmerited  sorrows  of 
two  poor  sufferers !  Had  it  come 


from  Mrs  Stantiloup,  it  would,  of 
course,  have  been  nothing.  I  could 
have  understood  that  her  malice 
should  have  condescended  to  any- 
thing, however  low.  But  from  the 
Bishop  ! " 

"  How  will  you  be  the  worse  ? 
Who  will  know  1 " 

"  I  know  it,"  said  he,  striking 
his  breast.  "I  know  it.  The 
wound  is  here.  Do  you  think  that 
when  a  coarse  libel  is  welcomed 
in  the  Bishop's  palace,  and  treated 
there  as  true,  that  it  will  not  be 
spread  abroad  among  other  houses  ? 
When  the  Bishop  has  thought  it 
necessary  to  send  it  me,  what  will 
other  people  do, — others  who  are  not 
bound  to  be  just  and  righteous  in 
their  dealings  with  me  as  he  is  1 
1  "  Amo  "  in  the  cool  of  the  even- 
ing ! ' "  Then  he  seized  his  hat  and 
rushed  out  into  the  garden. 

The  gentleman  who  had  written 
the  paragraph  certainly  had  had  no 
idea  that  his  words  would  have 
been  thus  effectual.  The  little  joke 
had  seemed  to  him  to  be  good 
enough  to  fill  a  paragraph,  and  it 
had  gone  from  him  without  further 
thought.  Of  the  Doctor  or  of  the 
lady  he  had  conceived  no  idea 
whatsoever.  Somebody  else  had 
said  somewhere  that  a  clergyman 
had  sent  a  lady's  reputed  husband 
away  to  look  for  another  husband, 
while  he  and  the  lady  remained 
together.  The  joke  had  not  been 
much  of  a  joke,  but  it  had  been 
enough.  It  had  gone  forth,  and 
had  now  brought  the  whole  palace 
of  Broughton  into  grief,  and  had 
nearly  driven  our  excellent  Doctor 
mad  !  "  '  Amo '  in  the  cool  of  the 
evening  ! "  The  words  stuck  to 
him  like  the  shirt  of  Nessus,  lacer- 
ating his  very  spirit.  That  words 
such  as  those  should  have  been  sent 
to  him  in  a  solemn  sober  spirit  by 
the  Bishop  of  his  diocese !  It 
never  occurred  to  him  that  he  had, 
in  truth,  been  imprudent  when  pay- 


1880.] 


ing  his  visits  alone  to  Mrs  Pea- 
cocke. 

It  was  late  in  the  evening,  and 
he  wandered  away  up  through  the 
green  rides  of  a  wood  the  horders 
of  which  came  down  to  the  glebe 
fields.  He  had  been  boiling  over 
with  indignation  while  talking  to 
his  wife.  But  as  soon  as  he  was 
alone  he  endeavoured, — purposely 
endeavoured  to  rid  himself  for  a 
while  of  his  wrath.  This  matter 
was  so  important  to  him  that  he 
knew  well  that  it  behoved  him  to 
look  at  it  all  round  in  a  spirit  other 
than  that  of  anger.  He  had  talked 
of  giving  up  his  school,  and  giving 
up  his  parish,  and  had  really  for  a 
time  almost  persuaded  himself  that 
he  must  do  so  unless  he  could  in- 
duce the  Eishop  publicly  to  with- 
draw the  censure  which  he  felt 
to  have  been  expressed  against 
him. 

And  then  what  would  his  life  be 
afterwards?  His  parish  and  his 
school  had  not  been  only  sources  of 
income  to  him  :  the  duty  also  had 
been  dear,  and  had  been  performed 
en  the  whole  with  conscientious 
energy.  Was  everything  to  be 
thrown  up,  and  his  whole  life  here- 
after be  made  a  blank  to  him,  be- 
cause the  Bishop  had  been  unjust 
and  injudicious1?  He  could  see 
that  it  well  might  be  so,  if  he  were 
to  carry  this  contest  on.  He  knew 
his  own  temper  well  enough  to  be 
sure  that,  as  he  fought,  he  would 
grow  hotter  in  the  fight,  and  that 
when  he  was  once  in  the  midst  of 
it  nothing  would  be  possible  to  him 
but  absolute  triumph  or  absolute 
annihilation.  If  once  he  should 
succeed  in  getting  the  Bishop  into 
court  as  a  witness,  either  the  Bishop 
must  be  crushed  or  he  himself. 
The  Bishop  must  be  got  to  say  why 
he  had  sent  that  low  ribaldry  to  a 
clergyman  in  his  parish.  He  must 
be  asked  whether  he  had  himself 
believed  it,  or  whether  he  had  not 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  V. 


305 


believed  it.  He  must  be  made  to 
say  that  there  existed  no  slightest 
reason  for  believing  the  insinuation 
contained ;  and  then,  having  con- 
fessed so  much,  he  must  be  asked 
why  he  had  sent  that  letter  to 
Bo-wick  parsonage.  If  it  were  false 
as  well  as  ribald,  slanderous  as  well 
as  vulgar,  malicious  as  well  as 
mean,  was  the  sending  of  it  a  mode 
of  communication  between  a  bishop 
and  a  clergyman  of  which  he  as  a 
bishop  could  approve?  Questions 
such  as  these  must  be  asked  him ; 
and  the  Doctor,  as  be  walked  alone, 
arranging  these  questions  within 
his  own  bosom,  putting  them  into 
the  strongest  language  which  he 
could  find,  almost  assured  himself 
that  the  Bishop  would  be  crushed 
in  answering  them.  The  Bishop 
had  made  a  great  mistake.  So  the 
Doctor  assured  himself.  He  had 
been  entrapped  by  bad  advisers,  and 
had  fallen  into  a  pit.  He  had  gone 
wrong,  and  had  lost  himself.  When 
cross-questioned,  as  the  Doctor  sug- 
gested to  himself  that  he  should  be 
cross-questioned,  the  Bishop  would 
have  to  own  all  this  ; — and  then  he 
would  be  crushed. 

But  did  he  really  want  to  crush 
the  Bishop?  Had  this  man  been 
so  bitter  an  enemy  to  him  that, 
having  him  on  the  hip,  he  wanted 
to  strike  him  down  altogether?  In 
describing  the  man's  character  to 
his  wife,  as  he  had  done  in  the 
fury  of  his  indignation,  he  had 
acquitted  the  man  of  malice.  He 
was  sure  now,  in  his  calmer  mo- 
ment, that  the  man  had  not  in- 
tended to  do  him  harm.  If  it  were 
left  in  the  Bishop's  bosom,  his 
parish,  his  school,  and  his  charac- 
ter would  all  be  made  safe  to  him. 
He  was  sure  of  that.  There  was 
none  of  the  spirit  of  Mrs  Stanti- 
loup  in  the  feeling  that  had  pre- 
vailed at  the  palace.  The  Bishop, 
who  had  never  yet  been  able  to 
be  masterful  over  him,  had  desired 


306 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  V. 


[Sept. 


in  a  mild  way  to  become  master- 
ful. He  had  liked  the  opportunity 
of  writing  that  affectionate  letter. 
That  reference  to  the  "  metropoli- 
tan press "  had  slipt  from  him  un- 
awares; and  then,  when  badgered 
for  his  authority,  when  driven  to 
give  an  instance  from  the  London 
newspapers,  he  had  sent  the  objec- 
tionable periodical.  He  had,  in 
point  of  fact,  made  a  mistake ; — a 
stupid,  foolish  mistake,  into  which 
a  really  well-bred  man  would  hard- 
ly have  fallen.  "  Ought  I  to  take 
advantage  of  it?"  said  the  Doctor 
to  himself  when  he  had  wandered 
for  an  hour  or  more  alone  through 
the  wood.  He  certainly  did  not 
wish  to  be  crushed  himself.  Ought 
he  to  be  anxious  to  crush  the 
Bishop  because  of  this  error? 

"  As  for  the  paper,"  he  said  to 
himself,  walking  quicker  as  his 
mind  turned  to  this  side  of  the 
subject, — "  as  for  the  paper  itself,  it 
is  beneath  my  notice.  What  is  it 
to  me  what  such  a  publication,  or 
even  the  readers  of  it,  may  think 
of  me?  As  for  damages,  I  would 
rather  starve  than  soil  my  hands 
with  their  money.  Though  it 
should  succeed  in  ruining  me,  I 
could  not  accept  redress  in  that 
shape."  And  thus  having  thought 
the  matter  fully  over,  he  returned 
home,  still  wrathful,  but  with  miti- 
gated wrath. 

A  Saturday  was  fixed  on  which 
he  should  again  go  up  to  London 
to  see  the  lawyer.  He  was  obliged 
now  to  be  particular  about  his  days, 
as,  in  the  absence  of  Mr  Peacocke, 
the  school  required  his  time.  Satur- 
day was  a  half-holiday,  and  on  that 
day  he  could  be  absent  on  condi- 
tion of  remitting  the  classical  les- 
sons in  the  morning.  As  he  thought 
of  it  all  he  began  to  be  almost 
tired  of  Mr  Peacocke.  Neverthe- 
less, on  the  Saturday  morning,  be- 
fore he  started,  he  called  on  Mrs 
Peacocke, — in  company  with  his 


wife, — and  treated  her  with  all  his 
usual  cordial  kindness.  "  Mrs 
Wortle,"  he  said,  "is  going  up  to 
town  with  me ;  but  we  shall  be 
home  to-night,  and  we  will  see  you 
on  Monday  if  not  to  -  morrow. " 
Mrs  "Wortle  was  going  with  him, 
not  with  the  view  of  being  present 
at  his  interview  with  the  lawyer, 
which  she  knew  would  not  be 
allowed,  but  on  the  pretext  of  shop- 
ping. Her  real  reason  for  making 
the  request  to  be  taken  up  to 
town  was,  that  she  might  use  the 
last  moment  possible  in  mitigating 
her  husband's  wrath  against  the 
Bishop. 

"  I  have  seen  one  of  the  proprie- 
tors and  the  editor,"  said  the  law- 
yer, "  and  they  are  quite  willing  to 
apologise.  I  really  do  believe  they 
are  very  sorry.  The  words  had  been 
allowed  to  pass  without  being  weigh- 
ed. Nothing  beyond  an  innocent 
joke  was  intended." 

"  I  daresay.  It  seems  innocent 
enough  to  them.  If  you  throw 
soot  at  a  chimney-sweeper  the  joke 
is  innocent,  but  very  offensive  when 
it  is  thrown  at  you." 

"  They  are  quite  aware  that  you 
have  ground  to  complain.  Of  course 
you  can  go  on  if  you  like.  The  fact 
that  they  have  offered  to  apologise 
will  no  doubt  be  a  point  in  their 
favour.  Nevertheless  you  would 
probably  get  a  verdict." 

"  We  could  bring  the  Bishop  into 
court  ? " 

"I  think  so.  You  have  got  his 
letter  speaking  of  the  '  metropolitan 
press '  ? " 

"  Oh  yes." 

"  It  is  for  you  to  think,  Dr  Wor- 
tle, whether  there  would  not  be  a 
feeling  against  you  among  clergy- 
men." 

"  Of  course  there  will.  Men  in 
authority  always  have  public  sym- 
pathy with  them  in  this  country. 
No  man  more  rejoices  that  it  should 
be  so  than  I  do.  But  not  the  less 


1880.] 


is  it  necessary  that  now  and  again 
a  man  shall  make  a  stand  in  his 
own  defence.  He  should  never 
have  sent  me  that  paper." 

"  Here,"  said  the  lawyer,  "  is  the 
apology  they  propose  to  insert  if 
you  approve  of  it.  They  will  also 
pay  my  bill,  —  which,  however,  will 
not,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  he  very 
heavy."  Then  the  lawyer  handed 
to  the  Doctor  a  slip  of  paper,  on 
which  the  following  words  wer.e 
written  ;  — 

"Our  attention  has  heen  called 
to  a  notice  which  was  made  in  our 
impression  of  the  —  ultimo  on  the 
conduct  of  a  clergyman  in  the  dio- 
cese of  Broughton.  A  joke  was 
perpetrated  which,  we  are  sorry  to 
find,  has  given  offence  where  cer- 
tainly no  offence  was  intended.  "We 
have  since  heard  all  the  details  of 
the  case  to  which  reference  was 
made,  and  are  able  to  say  that  the 
conduct  of  the  clergyman  in  ques- 
tion has  deserved  neither  censure 
nor  ridicule.  Actuated  by  the  pur- 
est charity  he  has  proved  himself  a 
sincere  friend  to  persons  in  great 
trouble." 

"  They'll  put  in  your  name  if 
you  wish  it,"  said  the  lawyer,  "  or 
alter  it  in  any  way  you  like,  so  that 
they  be  not  made  to  eat  too  much 
dirt." 

"  I  do  not  want  them  to  alter  it," 
said  the  Doctor,  sitting  thought- 
fully. "  Their  eating  dirt  will  do 
no  good  to  me.  They  are  nothing 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  V. 


307 


to  me.  It  is  the  Bishop."  Then, 
as  though  he  were  not  thinking  of 
what  he  did,  he  tore  the  paper  and 
threw  the  fragments  down  on  the 
floor.  "  They  are  nothing  to  me." 

"  You  will  not  accept  their  apol- 
ogy 1 "  said  the  lawyer. 

"Oh  yes; — or  rather,  it  is  un- 
necessary. You  may  tell  them  that 
I  have  changed  my  mind,  and  that 
I  will  ask  for  no  apology.  As  far 
as  the  paper  is  concerned,  it  will  be 
better  to  let  the  thing  die  a  natural 
death.  I  should  never  have  trou- 
bled myself  about  the  newspaper  if 
the  Bishop  had  not  sent  it  to  me. 
Indeed  I  had  seen  it  before  the 
Bishop  sent  it,  and  thought  little 
or  nothing  of  it.  Animals  will  after 
their  kind.  The  wasp  stings,  and 
the  polecat  stinks,  and  the  lion  tears 
its  prey  asunder.  Such  a  paper  as 
that  of  course  follows  its  own  bent. 
One  would  have  thought  that  a 
Bishop  would  have  done  the  same." 

"  I  may  tell  them  that  the  action 
is  withdrawn." 

"  Certainly;  certainly.  Tell  them 
also  that  they  will  oblige  me  by 
putting  in  no  apology.  And  as  for 
your  bill,  I  would  prefer  to  pay  it 
myself.  I  will  exercise  no  anger 
against  them.  It  is  not  they  who 
in  truth  have  injured  me."  As  he 
returned  home  he  was  not  altogether 
happy, feeling  that  the  Bishop  would 
escape  him ;  but  he  made  his  wife 
happy  by  telling  her  the  decision 
to  which  he  had  come. 


308 


Tlie  Bayard  of  the  East. 


[Sept, 


THE    BAYAED    OF    THE    EAST. 


THE  character  of  a  Bayard  can 
"be  appreciated  in  its  fullest  signifi- 
cance only  by  an  age  of  chivalry. 
In  the  lips  of  men  of  our  own  genera- 
tion the  phrase  at  best  only  conveys 
half  a  compliment.  The  qualities 
which  made  the  good  knight  of  the 
days  of  Froissart  and  Monstrelet  are 
more  cheaply  rated  by  the  nine- 
teenth century,  unless  backed  up 
by  attributes  which  we  have  come 
to  regard  as  more  solid.  "Sans 
peur  et  sans  reproclie  "  is  as  noble 
a  legend  as  ever  was  borne  on 
a  shield,  yet  it  would  produce 
but  a  moderate  impression  upon 
either  the  Horse  Guards  or  the  War 
Office.  In  modern  warfare  personal 
bravery  has  declined  in  value,  per- 
sonal recklessness  is  altogether  at 
a  discount ;  while  personal  action, 
unless  it  is  directed  along  the  hard 
and  fast  lines  of  the  orders  of  the 
day,  is  altogether  condemned.  But 
there  are  times  when  the  military 
machine  gets  out  of  joint  or  cannot 
be  worked,  and  then  we  must  look 
to  pluck  and  cold  steel  for  deciding 
the  issue.  At  such  times  we  are 
ready  enough  to  applaud  valour, 
and  to  reward  it  with  Victoria 
Crosses  or  Stars  of  India  and  of 
the  Bath ;  but  we  do  not  hold  that 
these  decorations  carry  with  them 
a  title  to  the  more  solid  guerdons 
of  staff  appointments  and  brigade 
commands.  But  so  long  as  war  is 
war,  whatever  changes  overtake  the 
way  in  which  it  is  conducted,  the 
soldier's  readiness  to  hazard  his 
own  life  for  the  chance  of  killing 
his  enemy,  must  ever  be  the  main 
foundation  for  confidence  of  vic- 
tory; and  we  cannot  bring  our- 
selves to  think  that  army  adminis- 


trators would  be  less  successful  if 
they  kept  this  fact  more  steadily 
before  their  eyes. 

It  is  not  very  easy  to  imagine 
Bayard  tied  up  by  the  bonds  of 
the  Queen's  Kegulations,  and  to 
conceive  how,  fettered  by  such  en- 
cumbrances, he  could  have  main- 
tained his  character.  The  necessity 
of  perfect  subordination  must  often 
war  against  not  only  the  desire  of 
personal  distinction,  but  even  the 
exercise  of  those  generous  and  chiv- 
alrous qualities  which  made  up  the 
better  side  of  medieval  knighthood. 
To  a  strong-minded  man  it  is  an 
easier  duty  to  hazard  his  life  than 
to  sacrifice  his  judgment  to  the 
carrying  out  of  commands  which 
he  believes  to  be  wrong  in  them- 
selves, or  which  he  is  convinced 
could  be  more  nobly  and  success- 
fully carried  out  after  his  own 
fashion.  It  is  only  the  man  who  can 
make  circumstances  his  own,  how- 
ever, that  may  venture  on  such  re- 
volt. Success  may  compel  disobe- 
dience to  be  condoned  ;  failure  only 
aggravates  the  original  offence,  how- 
ever praiseworthy  the  intention  may 
have  been. 

The  career  of  Sir  James  Outram 
is  one  of  the  most  notable  instances 
in  our  own  day  of  an  independent 
judgment,  exerted  in  the  teeth  of 
authority,  forcing  its  way  to  recog- 
nition and  high  reward.  His  con- 
temporaries styled  him  the  "  Bayard 
of  the  East ; "  and  he  owed  the  title 
even  more  to  his  chivalrous  defi- 
ance of  the  authority  of  Govern- 
ment when  he  conceived  its  policy 
to  be  wrong  or  unsuitable,  than  to 
the  dauntless  courage  which  never 
failed  him  in  the  field  or  in  the 


James   Outram:   A  Biography.     By  Major -General   Sir  F.  J.   Goldsmid,  C.  B., 
K.C.S.I.     Smith,  Elder,  &  Co.:   1880. 


1880.] 


TJie  Bayard  of  the  East. 


309 


hunting-ground.  Glorious  as  Out- 
ram's  career  was,  even  his  admiring 
friends  would  never  have  recom- 
mended it  for  general  imitation. 
Not  a  man  in  a  hundred  could  have 
exercised  the  same  independence, 
and  have  secured  the  same  condon- 
ation for  splendid  disobedience. 
Time  after  time  he  set  aside  his 
written  instructions,  and  even  the 
special  orders  of  his  superiors ;  and 
as  often  the  Government  felt  com- 
pelled to  own  that  he  had  done 
right  in  the  main,  although  it  was 
obliged  to  qualify  its  approbation 
by  reflections  upon  his  mode  of 
action.  Not  that  Outram  was  al- 
ways right :  indeed,  in  our  rapid 
sketch  of  his  history  we  shall  have 
occasion  to  refer  to  not  a  few  mat- 
ters in  which  we  conceive  him  to 
have  been  seriously  in  error ;  but 
his  mistakes  were  those  which  a 
strong  and  generous  nature  that 
has  spurned  aside  the  safeguards  of 
subordination  and  official  routine 
is  peculiarly  liable  to  commit.  The 
part  which  Outram  played  in  the 
great  events  amid  which  his  life  in 
the  East  was  spent,  has  been  the 
turning-point  of  much  controversy 
and  hot  political  feeling,  from  which, 
even  at  the  present  day,  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  wholly  dissever  our  judg- 
ment. And  if  his  biographer  has 
failed  to  present  us  with  an  alto- 
gether impartial  estimate,  he  has 
at  least  illustrated  the  debated 
points  in  Outram's  conduct  with 
such  fulness,  that  the  reader's  task 
in  forming  an  opinion  of  his  own 
is  greatly  simplified. 

Believers  in  heredity  will  trace 
most  of  the  marked  peculiarities  of 
Outram's  character  to  his  maternal 
grandfather,  Dr  James  Anderson,  a 
distinguished  Scotch  horticultur- 
ist and  savant,  a  correspondent  of 
George  Washington,  and  the  editor 
of  the  '  Bee,'  the  Liberal  politics 
of  which  got  him  into  trouble  with 
the  Crown  officers,  although  he  was 


also  the  friend  of  Lord  Melville, 
and  an  active  coadjutor  in  that 
nobleman's  projects  for  developing 
industries  on  the  wild  coasts  and 
islands  of  Scotland.  Mrs  Outram 
was  possessed  of  all  her  father's 
natural  vigour  and  resolution  ;  and 
when  the  failure  of  her  husband's 
affairs,  folio  wed  by  his  death,  left  her 
a  widow  with  five  young  children, 
almost  entirely  dependent  on  the 
bounty  of  relatives,  she  faced  her 
position  "with  characteristic  spirit 
and  independence,"  as  her  eon's 
biographer  justly  terms  it.  Her 
own  account  of  her  visit  to  Lord 
Melville  gives  a  better  insight  into 
this  lady's  character  than  a  volume 
of  biography  could  do  : — 

"  My  spirit  rose,  and  in  place  of  mean- 
ly supplicating  his  favour  like  a  pau- 
per soliciting  charity,  I  addressed  him 
like  a  responsible  being,  who  had  mis- 
used the  power  placed  in  his  hands  by 
employing  my  father's  time  and  tal- 
ents for  the  good  of  the  country,  and 
to  meet  his  own  wishes  and  ends,  then 
leaving  him  ignobly  to  suffer  losses  he 
could  not  sustain,  but  which  his  high- 
toned  mind  would  not  stoop  to  ward 
off  by  solicitations  to  those  who  had 
used  him  so  unjustly.  I  then  stated 
my  own  situation,  my  dependence  and 
involved  affairs,  and  concluded  by 
saying  that  I  could  not  brook  depend- 
ence upon  friends,  when  I  had  claims 
on  my  country,  by  right  of  my  father, 
adding, '  To  you,  my  lord,  I  look  for 
payment  of  these  claims.  If  you  are 
an  honest  or  honourable  man,  you  will 
see  that  they  are  liquidated  ;  you  were 
the  means  o'f  their  being  incurred,  and 
you  ought  to  be  answerable  for  them. 
In  making  this  application,  I  feel 
that  I  am  doing  your  lordship  as  great 
a  favour  as  myself,  by  giving  you  an 
opportunity  of  redeeming  your  char- 
acter from  the  stigma  of  holding  out 
promises  and  not  fulfilling  them.' 
All  this  I  stated,  and  much  more,  in 
strong  language,  which  was  so  different 
from  anything  his  lordship  expected 
or  was  used  to  meet  with,  that  he  after- 
wards told  me  he  was  never  so  taken 
by  surprise  or  got  such  a  lecture  in 
his  life." 


310 


TJie  Bayard  of  the  East. 


[Sept. 


The  heroine  of  this  scene,  with 
its  spirit,  temper,  and  feminine 
logic,  might  have  sat  to  Thackeray 
for  the  portrait  of  Madame  Esmond, 
the  mother  of  the  Virginians.  Such 
a  woman  was  likely  to  bring  up 
manly  hoys ;  and  from  his  childhood 
Outram  showed  all  the  boldness 
and  resolution  that  marked  his  lat- 
ter year?.  His  mother's  circum- 
stances did  not  permit  of  her  giv- 
ing her  family  what  would  now 
pass  for  a  good  education,  but  he 
seems  to  have  laid  in  a  fair  stock 
of  learning  at  an  excellent  parish 
school  in  Aberdeenshire,  whither 
his  mother  had  gone  to  reside, 
and  afterwards  at  an  academy  in 
the  county  town.  His  elder 
brother  Francis,  whose  career  in 
the  Bombay  Engineers  afterwards 
came  to  so  melancholy  a  termina- 
tion, had  got  a  nomination  to  Addis- 
combe  and  was  preparing  for  India ; 
and  his  uncle  Archdeacon  Outram 
seems  to  have  recommended  his  sis- 
ter to  educate  James  for  the  Church. 
But  for  this  calling  the  young 
Bayard  felt  no  vocation.  "You 
see  that  window, "  he  said  to  his 
sister ;  "  rather  than  be  a  parson  I'm 
out  of  it,  and  I'll  'list  for  a  com- 
mon soldier."  Fortunately,  Mrs 
Outram  had  kind  friends  in  the 
county,  who  intervened  to  save  the 
lad  from  a  career  for  which  he  had 
so  little  relish ;  and  through  Cap- 
tain Gordon,  the  member  for  Aber- 
deenshire, he  was  nominated  to  a 
cadetship  in  the  Bombay  infantry, 
and  sailed  for  the  East  in  May 
1819.  He  was  then  only  in  his 
sixteenth  year,  but  the  Lords  of 
Leadenhall  Street  knew  that  boys 
often  did  them  good  service.  It 
was  on  record  that  when  the  Direc- 
tors were  disposed  to  demur  at  the 
childish  appearance  of  John  Mal- 
colm, to  whose  nature  that  of 
Outram  was  much  akin,  a  spirited 
answer  speedily  removed  their 
scruples.  "  Why,  my  little  man," 


said  one  of  the  Directors  to  young 
Malcolm,  as  Sir  John  Ivaye  tells  the 
story,  "  what  would  you  do  if  you 
were  to  meet  Hyder  Ali?"  "Do, 
sir  1 "  replied  Malcolm ;  "  I  would 
out  with  my  sword  and  cut  off  his 
head;"  and  the  Directors  unani- 
mously agreed  that  he  would  do. 
Like  Malcolm,  Outram  was  childish 
in  appearance,  and  was,  when  he 
joined  in  Bombay,  "the  smallest 
staff  officer  in  the  army."  He  was, 
however,  posted  to  the  1st  Gren- 
adier Native  Infantry,  but  was 
almost  immediately  transferred  to 
the  4th  N.I. 

There  is  little  to  record  of  Out- 
ram's  early  days  as  a  subaltern 
of  native  infantry.  Drills,  duty, 
hog-hunting,  and  munshis  made  up 
the  story  of  the  lives  of  most  of 
his  class.  He  seems  to  have  been 
a  diligent  soldier,  for  he  was  able 
in  the  course  of  a  year  to  act  as 
adjutant  of  his  corps.  He  had  his 
fair  share  of  the  maladies  of  the 
Deccan  and  Gujerat,  and  doubtless 
the  usual  pecuniary  struggles  which 
a  subaltern  has  to  make  ends  meet. 
The  increasing  thoughtfulness  of 
his  character  is  manifested  by  the 
regard  which  he  began  to  show  for 
his  mother's  circumstances,  and  by 
the  plans  which  he  laid  for  allow- 
ing her  a  portion  of  his  income. 
"  You  used  to  say  you  were  badly 
off,"  he  wrote  to  his  mother  in  the 
cold  weather  of  1822;  "but  as  I 
had  been  used  to  poor  Udney,"  the 
parish  school  where  he  had  been 
educated,  "  I  thought  we  were 
very  comfortable  at  our  humble 
home.  Now  when  I  see  how  many 
privations  you  had  to  put  up  with, 
I  think  you  made  wonderful  sacri- 
fices for  your  children,  whose  duty 
it  is  to  make  you  as  comfortable  as 
they  possibly  can." 

A  wider  career  was  soon  to  open 
up  to  Outram  than  the  routine 
duties  of  his  regiment,  varied  by 
an  occasional  expedition  to  quell 


1880.] 


TJie  Bayard  of  the  East. 


311 


local  disturbances  in  some  of  the 
districts  which  had  not  yet  begun 
to  take  kindly  to  the  rule  of  the 
Company.  The  Mahratta  power 
had  fallen  in  1818,  and  we  had 
entered  into  the  inheritance  of 
the  Peishwas.  The  following  year 
Mountstuart  Elphiustone  became 
Governor  of  Bombay;  and  never 
was  a  statesman  better  qualified  by 
natural  talents  and  training  for  in- 
troducing a  foreign  rule  into  con- 
quered territories.  Among  other 
countries  to  be  broken  in,  was  the 
vast  territory  of  Khandesh,  lying  to 
the  south  of  the  Sautpoora  range 
and  the  Nerbudda.  It  is  now  a 
settled  and  prosperous  district,  pay- 
ing a  good  revenue,  and  inhabited 
by  law-abiding  and  industrious 
cultivators.  But  in  1825,  when 
James  Outram  was  sent  into  the 
country,  Khandesh  included  some 
of  the  wildest  portions  of  India. 
The  deep  ravines  of  the  Sautpoora 
mountains,  shrouded  in  dense  for- 
ests, gave  cover  to  a  savage  race, 
to  whom  the  name  of  law  was  un- 
known, who  had  no  avocation  ex- 
cept the  pursuit  of  plunder,  and 
whom  both  Hindoo  and  Muham- 
inadan  had  agreed  in  considering 
as  irreclaimable  to  civilisation. 
Khandesh  had  been  the  seat  of  a 
Muhammadan  kingdom  established 
by  revolted  viceroys  of  Delhi,  ,for 
two  hundred  years,  until  Akhbar,  in 
the  last  year  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury, reunited  it  to  the  empire.  It 
had  afterwards  come  under  the 
dominion  of  the  Mahratta  con- 
querors ;  but  neither  Mussulman 
nor  Mahratta  had  been  able  to 
tame  the  tribes  of  the  highland 
country,  and  had  been  content  to 
treat  them  as  wild  beasts,  ruthlessly 
destroying  them  when  caught  out  of 
their  jungles,  and  punishing  them 
by  retributive  expeditions  into  their 
fastnesses.  These  tribes  were  known 
by  the  appellation  of  Bhil.  They 
were  non- Aryans,  and  had  been  less 


influenced  by  the  northern  immigra- 
tion than  any  of  the  other  Indian 
tribes  which  we  are  accustomed  to 
speak  of  as  aboriginal.  The  same 
attributes  which  distinguished  them 
in  Outram's  days  had  been  their 
characteristic  in  the  earliest  ages 
of  Indian  history.  In  the  Maha- 
bharata,  Drona  refuses  to  teach 
archery  to  the  son  of  the  Eajah  of 
the  Bhils,  saying,  "The  Bhils  are 
robbers  and  cattle-lifters — it  would 
be  a  sin  to  teach  them  to  use  weap- 
ons ; "  and  the  same  legend  would 
seem  to  indicate  that  even  for  the 
use  of  the  bow  the  Bhils  had  been 
indebted  to  their  Aryan  enemies. 
Pent  in  their  mountain  ravines, 
and  held  at  enmity  by  all  their 
neighbours  from  prehistoric  times, 
it  was  no  wonder  though  adminis- 
trators considered  it  as  a  hopeless 
task  to  reduce  the  Bhils  to  order, 
and  reclaim  them  from  their  thiev- 
ish propensities.  Yet  this  was  the 
duty  which  was  now  prescribed  to 
Outram.  Mountstuart  Elphinstone 
was  anxious  to  restore  Khandesh 
to  the  prosperity  which  it  had  en- 
joyed under  Muhammadan  rule  ; 
and  to  promote  this  plan,  it  was 
necessary  that  something  should  be 
done  to  keep  the  Bhils  in  order. 
"With  his  usual  judgment  Elphin- 
stone pitched  upon  the  right  men, 
though  two  young  and  compara- 
tively untried  officers,  for  the  work 
which  he  had  in  view.  Outram 
he  called  his  "  sword,"  and  Cap- 
tain Charles  Ovans  was  to  be  his 
"plough."  A  fair  idea  of  the  ser- 
vices which  he  expected  from  each 
of  them  may  be  inferred  from  these 
epithets  ;  but  if  Outram  was  to  be 
the  sword,  he  was  speedily  to  prove 
himself  a  blade  of  the  finest  tem- 
per. The  Scotch  governor,  remem- 
bering possibly  the  policy  by  which 
Chatham  had  broken  in  the  High- 
landers of  his  own  country,  intrust- 
ed Outram  with  the  duty  of  raising 
a  Bhil  corps  among  the  robber 


312 


The  Bayard  of  tlie  East. 


[Sept. 


tribes.  The  town  of  Dharangaon 
was  to  be  his  headquarters,  and 
his  jurisdiction  extended  over  a 
vast  tract  of  country  running  up 
into  the  glens  of  the  Sautpooras, 
where  the  fiercest  and  most  irre- 
claimable tribes  of  the  Bhils  were 
harbouring.  Outrarn  at  this  time 
was  only  two-and-twenty ;  but  he 
applied  himself  to  his  work  with  a 
zeal  and  wisdom  which  would  have 
been  creditable  to  an  officer  of  dou- 
ble his  age  and  experience.  His 
first  aim  was  to  gain  the  confidence 
of  the  Bhils  ;  and  this  he  achieved 
by  fearlessly  living  in  their  villages 
unattended  by  a  guard,  and  by 
convincing  them  of  his  courage  in 
desperate  encounters  with  their 
enemy,  the  tiger.  He  had,  how- 
ever, to  commence  by  hostilities, 
and  the  nucleus  of  the  future  corps 
was  formed  out  of  a  handful  of 
outlaws  captured  by  his  troops.  "  I 
thus  effected  an  intercourse  with 
some  of  the  leading  Naicks  " — chief- 
tains— "  went  alone  with  them  into 
their  jungles,  gained  their  hearts 
by  copious  libations  of  brandy,  and 
their  confidence  by  living  unguard- 
ed among  them,  until  at  last  I  per- 
suaded five  of  the  most  adventurous 
to  risk  their  fortunes  with  me, 
which  small  beginning  I  considered 
insured  ultimate  success." 

The  young  Bayard  was  now  in 
his  element.  He  had  a  great  work 
to  do  ;  he  was  not  tied  down  by 
precise  instructions ;  he  had  no 
superiors  on  the  spot  to  whom  to 
account  strictly  for  his  mode  of 
action ;  his  life  was  one  of  peril 
and  adventure ;  and  the  signal  suc- 
cess which  soon  attended  his  efforts 
would  have  stimulated  even  a  less 
zealous  nature  to  increased  exer- 
tions. The  doubts  which  the  Bhils 
were  at  first  disposed  to  feel  speed- 
ily wore  off.  As  soon  as  he  was 
sure  that  his  recruits  felt  confidence 
in  himself,  Outram  returned  their 
trust.  He  had  no  guards  except 


his  Bhils ;  he  gave  them  arms ;  he 
shared  in  their  amusements  ;  and 
he  convinced  them  that  obedience 
and  good  conduct  would  insure  for 
them  promotion  and  reward.  They 
willingly  took  the  field  against  the 
plundering  bands,  of  their  own 
race,  and  in  the  course  of  four 
or  five  months  he  had  together 
so  respectable  a  corps  that  he 
felt  no  shame  in  marching  them 
into  the  Maligaon  to  take  their 
place  beside  his  own  regiment  of 
the  native  line.  The  reception 
which  the  Bhils  met  with  from  the 
Bombay  Sepoys  at  once  crowned 
Outram's  efforts  with  success.  The 
Sepoy  had  always  been  looked  upon 
by  the  Bhil  as  his  natural  enemy. 
There  were  the  great  barriers  of 
caste  and  no  -  caste  between  the 
two,  and  their  natural  repugnance 
must  have  been  equal.  But  dis- 
cipline kept  the  Sepoy's  preju- 
dices in  check,  and  he  surprised 
the  Bhil  by  meeting  him  on  the 
footing  of  a  fellow-soldier.  "  ISTot 
only  were  the  Bhils  received  by  the 
men  without  insulting  scoffs,"  says 
Outram,  "  but  they  were  even  re- 
ceived as  friends,  and  with  the 
greatest  kindness  invited  to  sit 
among  them,  fed  by  them,  and 
talked  to  by  high  and  low.  .  .  . 
The  Bhils  returned  quite  delighted 
and  flattered  by  their  reception, 
and  entreated  me  to  allow  them 
no  rest  from  drill  until  they  be- 
came equal  to  their  brother -sol- 
diers !  "  Let  those  who  undervalue 
the  ends  which  English  influence 
is  working  out  in  India  think  how 
much  was  implied  in  such  a  meet- 
ing. For  the  first  time  since  the 
days  of  Mahabharata,  some  two  or 
three  and  twenty  centuries  back, 
the  Bhils  had  been  received  on  a 
footing  of  equality  by  their  fellow- 
creatures,  treated  as  men,  and  not 
as  vermin  of  the  jungle.  It  was 
not  much  wonder  though  they  were 
deeply  impressed,  and  that  when 


1880.] 


TJte  Bayard  of  the  East. 


313 


Outram  went  back  to  Dharangaon 
lie  had  no  want  of  recruits  for  his 
corps. 

From  1825  to  1835  Outram  was 
employed  among  the  Bhils ;  and 
the  country,  as  well  as  the  people, 
underwent  a  marked  change  under 
his  rule.  Eaids  from  the  Saut- 
pooras  became  more  rare,  for  the 
outlaws  were  speedily  made  to 
understand  that  when  Outram  and 
his  Bhils  got  on  their  trail  no  hid- 
ing-place was  too  remote,  no  jungle 
too  dense,  to  save  them  from  cap- 
ture. Although  only  a  lieutenant 
in  the  army,  and  seven-and-twenty 
years  of  age,  he  found  himself  in 
1830  commander-in-chief  of  a  force 
some  fifteen  hundred  strong,  with 
which  he  subdued  the  lawless  tribes 
of  the  Dang  country,  and  earned 
the  special  thanks  of  Government. 
He  opened  schools  for  the  children 
of  his  Bhil  soldiers ;  and  in  spite  of 
the  contempt  which  not  a  few  felt 
for  this  attempt  to  educate  a  race 
that  had  ever  been  ignorant  of 
reading  and  writing,  the  experi- 
ment was  fairly  successful,  and  had 
at  all  events  the  good  effect  of 
raising  the  Bhil  in  his  own  self- 
respect.  Amid  all  this  ruling, 
educating,  and  fighting,  Outram 
contrived  to  distinguish  himself 
among  the  tigers  in  the  Khandesh 
jungles  ;  and  it  is  probable  that  the 
dauntlessness  with  which  he  sought 
out  and  encountered  the  fiercest 
man-eating  tigers,  raised  him  more 
in  the  estimation  of  the  Bhils  than 
all  his  other  exploits.  His  game- 
bag  for  the  ten  years  of  his  sojourn 
among  the  Bhils  will  raise  a  sigh 
of  envy  among  sportsmen  of  the 
present  day  : — 

"  From  1825  to  1834  inclusive,  he 
himself  and  associates  in  the  chase 
killed  no  fewer  than  235  tigers, 
wounding  22  others ;  25  bears,  wound- 
ing 14  ;  12  buffaloes,  wounding  5 ;  and 
killed  also  16  panthers  or  leopards. 
Of  this  grand  total  of  329  wild  ani- 


mals, 44  tigers  and  one  panther  or 
leopard  were  killed  during  his  ab- 
sence by  gentlemen  of  the  Khandesh 
hunt ;  but  Outram  was  actually  pre- 
sent at  the  death  of  191  tigers,  15 
panthers  or  leopards,  25  bears,  aud  12 
buffaloes." 

His  lieutenant,  Douglas  Graham, 
who  was  as  entertaining  a  writer 
as  he  was  a  bold  shot,  has  recorded 
many  remarkable  adventures  which 
we  would  gladly  repeat  if  our  space 
allowed.  We  must,  however,  con- 
tent ourselves  with  one  anecdote 
which  Captain  Stanley  Scott,  in 
recent  times,  found  still  fresh  in 
the  memory  of  the  Bhils. 

"  In  April  or  May  1825,  news  having 
been  brought  in  by  his  shikari,  Chima, 
that  a  tiger  had  been  seen  on  the  side 
of  the  hill  under  the  Mussulman  tem- 
ple among  some  prickly-pear  shrubs, 
Lieutenant  Outram  and  another  sports- 
man proceeded  to  the  spot.  Outram 
went  on  foot,  and  his  companion  on 
horseback.  Searching  through  the 
bushes,  when  close  on  the  animal, 
Outram's  friend  tired  and  missed,  on 
which  the  tiger  sprang  forward  roaring, 
seized  Outram,  and  they  rolled  down 
the  side  of  the  hill  together.  Being  re- 
leased from  the  claws  of  the  ferocious 
beast  for  a  moment,  Outram,  with  great 
presence  of  mind,  drew  a  pistol  he  had 
with  him,  and  shot  the  tiger  dead.  The 
Bhils,  on  seeing  that  he  had  been  in- 
jured, were  one  and  all  loud  in  their 
grief  and  expressions  of  regret  ;  but 
Outram  quieted  them  with  the  re- 
mark, '  What  do  I  care  for  the  claw- 
ing of  a  cat ! '  This  speech  was  rife 
among  the  Bhils  for  many  years  after- 
wards, and  may  be  so  until  this  day." 

These  ten  years  among  the  Bhils 
were  the  making  of  Outram.  They 
matured  his  courage,  taught  him 
self-reliance — a  lesson  which  he  was 
ever  too  apt  to  learn — afforded  him 
an  experience  in  command  which 
he  could  never  have  acquired  in  his 
regiment,  and  brought  his  capacity 
and  talent  prominently  before  the 
Bombay  Government.  Both  Mount- 
stuart  Elphinstone  and  Sir  John 


3U 


The  Bayard  of  the  East. 


[Sept. 


Malcolm  could  fully  appreciate  the 
difficulties  with  which  Outram  had 
to  contend,  and  both  were  well 
content  that  he  should  he  left  to 
take  his  own  way.  It  was  when 
thus  freed  from  official  leading- 
strings  that  Outram  was  sure  to  do 
his  work  best.  By  the  time  he 
left  Khandesh,  although  only  thirty- 
two  years  of  age,  he  had  made  a 
reputation  for  ability  that  was  re- 
cognised far  beyond  his  own  Pre- 
sidency; and  he  left  such  mem- 
ories of  himself  among  the  Bhils 
as  Cleveland  had  left  among  the 
Kols,  or  Macpherson  among  the 
Khonds,  or  John  Nicholson  among 
the  wild  clans  of  the  Peshawur 
border.  To  Outiam  as  well  as  to 
these  latter  officers  divine  honours 
were  paid  after  his  departure.  "  A 
few  years  ago  some  of  his  old 
Sepoys  happened  to  light  upon  an 
ugly  little  image.  Tracing  in  it  a 
fancied  resemblance  to  their  old 
commandant,  they  forthwith  set  it 
up  and  worshipped  it  as  '  Outram 
Sahib.' " 

When  the  time  came  for  Outram 
to  take  leave  of  the  Bhils,  he  found 
a  governor  ruling  in  Bombay  who 
was  not  the  most  likely  man  to 
appreciate  his  special  gifts  and 
turn  them  to  the  best  account. 
Sir  Robert  Grant  was  a  well-mean- 
ing but  weak  governor,  more  anx- 
ious to  earn  a  character  as  a  philan- 
thropic administrator  than  to  take 
the  steps  which  were  necessary  to 
enforce  order  in  the  outlying  parts 
of  his  Presidency.  "When  Outram 
was  sent  to  the  Mahi  Kanta,  a 
native  State  in  Gujerat,  he  did  not 
hesitate  to  cavil  with  his  instruc- 
tions, and  to  bluntly  tell  the  Gov- 
ernment that  they  did  not  go  far 
enough.  But  though  rebuked  for 
his  frankness,  Outram  was  not  de- 
terred from  taking  his  own  way; 
and  the  Bombay  Government  was 
sorely  exercised  in  finding  language 
which  would  at  once  congratulate 


him  on  the  success  he  had  achieved, 
and  condemn  the  mode  in  which 
he  had  acted.  We  need  not  go 
into  details  of  these  Mahi  Kanta 
troubles,  which  have  no  interest  for 
us  except  so  far  as  they  illustrate 
Outram's  predilection  for  modifying 
his  orders  to  suit  his  own  views, 
which  were  certainly  always  con- 
ceived in  the  higher  interests  of  the 
State  and  of  the  people  with  whom 
he  was  concerned.  His  spirited  con- 
duct in  the  Mahi  Kanta  earned  the 
commendation  of  the  Court  of 
Directors;  but  this  also  was  quali- 
fied by  a  reminder  that  they  were 
not  "  forgetful  of  the  fact  that  on 
several  occasions  he  had  shown  a 
disposition  to  act  in  a  more  per- 
emptory manner,  and  to  resort 
sooner  to  measures  of  military  co- 
ercion, than  the  Bombay  Govern- 
ment had  approved."  Outram  was 
not  the  man  to  bear  such  a  re- 
mark in  silence,  and  he  drew  up  a 
memorandum  in  vindication  of  his 
career,  which  the  Bombay  Govern- 
ment answered  by  soothing  en- 
comiums. He  was  too  good  an 
officer  for  Government  to  lightly 
quarrel  with,  and  his  consciousness 
of  his  own  powers  enabled  him  to 
address  the  Secretariat  in  a  tone 
which  would  have  insured  certain 
suspension  in  the  case  of  any  less 
qualified  officer.  But  it  is  import- 
ant to  note  that,  even  at  this  early 
period  of  his  career,  he  had  begun 
to  indulge  in  those  contests  with 
Government  which,  more  or  less  all 
his  life  through,  retarded  his  ad- 
vancement and  interfered  with  the 
disposition  of  his  superiors  to  em- 
ploy him  on  service  worthy  of  his 
abilities. 

In  the  interval  between  his  em- 
ployment among  the  Bhils  and  his 
mission  to  the  Mahi  Kanta,  Out- 
ram had  married;  and  the  union,  in 
spite  of  many  separations  arising 
from  his  wife's  ill  health  and  his 
own  absences  on  duty,  was  in  every 


1880.] 


The  Bayard  of  the  East. 


315 


way  calculated  to  promote  his 
happiness.  But  sickness  compelled 
Mrs  Outram  and  her  infant  son  to 
return  to  England  in  1837;  and 
Outram  himself  had  then  purposed 
to  take  leave  and  follow  her  in  1840. 
But  meantime  the  Affghan  war  had 
broken  out,  and  Outram  was  among 
the  first  to  send  in  his  name  as  a 
volunteer. 

Sir  John  Keane,  commanding  the 
Bombay  column,  appointed  him  an 
extra  aide-de-camp;  and  Outram 
accepted  the  appointment,  appa- 
rently more  because  it  would  give 
him  admission  into  the  campaign, 
when  he  would  be  able  to  find 
other  opportunities  of  making  him- 
self useful,  than  that  he  cared  much 
for  a  place  in  the  general's  house- 
hold. Outram's  peculiar  talents 
soon  found  adequate  employment 
in  his  new  position.  The  position 
of  the  Talpur  Ameers  of  Sind, 
lying  across  the  line  of  communica- 
tions of  the  Bombay  column,  ren- 
dered it  necessary  that  an  under- 
standing should  be  come  to  with 
them.  Outram  and  Lieutenant 
Eastwick  were  despatched  to  Haid- 
erabad  to  obtain  the  Ameers'  ac- 
ceptance of  a  draft  treaty  prepared 
by  Colonel  Pottinger,  the  Eesident ; 
and  this  mission  was  the  commence- 
ment of  that  intercourse  with  the 
Talpur  families  which  subsequently 
ripened  to  a  warm  friendship,  and 
which  brought  so  much  trouble 
and  worry  upon  Outram's  after- 
career.  On  this  occasion  his  mis- 
sion was  unsuccessful,  and  it  re- 
quired a  demonstration  from  the 
north  to  make  the  Ameers  listen  to 
reason.  Shortly  after,  Outram  was 
sent  on  to  Shikarpur,  where  the 
king,  Shah  Sujah-ul-Mulk,  and  Mr 
MacNaghten,  the  Envoy,  then  were, 
to  arrange  about  the  commissariat 
and  transport  for  the  advance  of  the 
Bombay  column.  The  success  with 
which  Outram  accomplished  this 
mission  marked  him  out  as  the 


most  suitable  officer  for  keeping  up 
communication  between  Sir  John 
Keane  and  the  Envoy's  headquar- 
ters; and  into  this  work — involving, 
as  it  did,  long  and  dangerous  rides 
through  wild  passes  and  unfriendly 
tribes,  perils  from  ambush  and  from 
mutinous  escorts,  fatigue,  and  scanty 
fare — Outram  threw  himself  with 
all  his  heart.  The  employment 
carried  with  it  the  valued  advan- 
tage that  it  took  him  to  the  scene 
of  action  whenever  anything  of  im- 
portance was  going  on.  On  one 
occasion  he  was  severely  hurt  by  a 
fall  from  his  horse ;  but  instead  of 
lying  up  until  recovery,  he  travel- 
led with  the  column  in  a  palanquin. 
At  the  storming  of  Ghuzni — from 
the  official  accounts  of  which  Out- 
ram's name  was  omitted,  probably 
from  the  provincial  jealousy  which 
characterised  the  Bengal  and  Bom- 
bay armies  so  strongly  in  the  first 
Affghan  wars — Outram  was  present, 
and  had  distinguished  himself  by  a 
gallant  exploit  on  the  eve  of  the 
battle  with  a  small  party  of  the 
Shah's  contingent,  capturing  the 
holy  banner  of  white  and  green, 
and  routing  a  strong  party  of  the 
Affghans.  But  his  great  exploit  in 
the  Affghan  campaign  was  his  pur- 
suit of  Dost  Mohammed,  which, 
though  it  failed  to  capture  the 
Ameer,  was  a  feat  of  den-ing-  do  which 
the  earlier  Bayard  might  have  been 
proud  to  number  among  his  enter- 
prises. On  the  fall  of  Ghuzni,  Dost 
Mohammed  made  for  Bamian,  with 
the  evident  intention  of  falling 
back  upon  Balkh,  then  as  now  the 
natural  refuge  of  every  discomfited 
pretender  to  the  Affghan  throne. 
A  flying  force  of  2000  Affghans  and 
100  of  our  own  cavalry,  the  whole 
under  the  command  of  Outram, 
were  to  endeavour  to  hunt  down 
the  flying  Ameer ;  and  a  num- 
ber of  young  officers,  most  of 
whom  were  destined  to  attain  after- 
distinction  in  the  service,  volun- 


316 


The  Bayard  of  the  East. 


[Sept. 


teered  to  accompany  him.  There 
was  Wheeler  of  the  Bengal  cavalry, 
Colin  Troup,  Christie,  George  Law- 
rence, Broadfoot,  Keith  Erskine, 
and  others ;  and  Bayard  could  not 
have  wished  for  a  braver  following. 
The  hopes  founded  on  Affghan  as- 
sistance were  delusive.  The  cavalry 
supplied  by  the  Shah  were  a  badly- 
mounted  rabble.  The  guide,  an 
old  melon  seller,  who  had  risen  to 
high  rank  by  changing  sides  in  the 
Affghan  troubles,  was  utterly  un- 
trustworthy. He  wished  to  follow 
the  trail  of  the  Ameer,  while  Out- 
ram's  desire  was  to  make  his  way 
across  tbe  hills  and  intercept  his 
flight.  The  native  guide,  however, 
contrived  to  lead  them  by  such 
routes  as  would  waste  time  and 
give  the  Ameer  an  opportunity  of 
getting  beyond  the  Paropamisus. 
At  every  halting  -  place  the  native 
forces  were  falling  off;  and  when 
they  came  within  a  day's  march  of 
"the  Dost,"  as  Sir  Francis  Gold- 
sinid  designates  the  Ameer,  he  had 
barely  fifty  Aifghans  to  support  him, 
and  his  supplies  were  exhausted. 

"But  Hajji  Khan  urged  a  halt,  on 
the  plea  that  the  force  at  their  disposal 
was  insufficient  to  cope  with  the  ene- 
my. Outrani  insisted  on  moving,  and 
managed  in  the  course  of  the  afternoon 
to  get  together  some  750  Affghans  of 
sorts,  whom  he  induced  to  accompany 
his  own  particular  party.  Through 
accident  or  design,  the  guides  went 
astray,  and  in  the  darkness  of  the 
night  the  way  was  lost  '  amid  inter- 
minable ravines,  where  no  trace  of  a 
footstep  existed ; '  so  that  Yort  was  not 
reached  until  next  morning,  when  Dost 
Mohammed  was  reported  to  be  at 
Kharzar,  sixteen  miles  distant  on  the 
highroad  leading  from  Cabul  to  Bam- 
ian.  No  inducement  could  get  the 
Affghans  to  advance  another  stage 
until  the  morning  of  the  following 
day,  August  7th ;  and  in  the  interim 
their  leader  attempted  by  every  avail- 
able means,  and  including  even  threats, 
to  dissuade  Outram  from  proceeding 
any  further,  strongly  representing  the 


scarcity  of  provisions  for  his  men,  and 
the  numerical  superiority  of  those 
whom  he  sought  to  encounter.  He 
was  unable,  however,  to  carry  his 
point ;  for  he  pleaded  to  one  who 
went  onward  in  spite  of  every  obstacle. 
When  the  pursuers  arrived  at  Khar- 
zar they  ascertained  that  the  Ameer 
had  gone  to  Kalu,  whither,  leaving 
behind  their  Affghan  adviser,  they 
pressed  on  the  same  afternoon,  over 
the  Hajji  Guk  (or  Khak),  a  pass  12,000 
feet  above  the  ocean,  whence  they  saw 
the  snow  1500  feet  below  them.  At 
Kalu  they  were  again  doomed  to  dis- 
appointment. Dost  Mohammed  had 
left  some  hours  previously,  and  it  was 
supposed  that  he  had  already  sur- 
mounted the  Kalu  Pass,  the  highest  of 
the  Hindu  Kush.  Here  Outram  and 
his  comrades  were  compelled  to  re- 
main the  night,  encamped  at  the  foot 
of  Kuh-i-Baba,  the  'Father  Mountain," 
monarch  of  that  mighty  range,  and 
22,000  feet  high :  they  had  been  nine 
hours  in  the  saddle,  and  horses  and 
men  were  knocked  up.  The  next  day 
they  were  overtaken  by  Captains  Tay- 
lor and  Trevor,  with  30  troopers  and 
about  300  Affghans, — which  reinforce- 
ment, though  it  seems  to  have  inspired 
Hajji  Khan  with  courage  to  rejoin  his 
headquarters,  did  not  a  whit  diminish 
his  ardour  in  endeavouring  to  persuade 
the  British  commandant  to  delay  the 
pursuit.  He  tried,  by  entreaty,  men- 
ace, and  withholding  guides,  to  keep 
back  this  dauntless  soldier,  even  when 
mounting  his  horse  and  in  the  act  of 
departure ;  but  in  vain :  before  night- 
fall Outram  had  crossed  the  steep 
Shutargardan  (camel  -  neck),  a  pass 
some  thousands  of  feet  higher  than 
the  Hajji  Guk,  and  after  dark  he  halt- 
ed at  a'  deserted  village  at  the  foot  of 
the  Ghat,  ...  on  the  banks  of  a 
stream  which  flows  into  the  Oxus. 
Briefly,  after  six  days'  hard  riding  and 
roughing  he  reached  Bamian,  to  miss 
again  the  object  of  his  search,  and  to 
certify  that  with  such  a  guide  and  in 
such  a  country,  it  would  be  madness 
to  continue  the  chase." 

Fruitless  as  this  expedition  was, 
it  was  one  of  the  most  gallant 
achievements  in  the  whole  of  the 
first  Affghan  war ;  and  the  fact 
that  an  officer  of  Outram's  stand- 


1880.] 


TJie  Bayard  of  the  East. 


317 


ing  should  have  been  chosen  to 
lead  it,  showed  that  his  native  ap- 
titude for  such  enterprises  had 
already  been  recognised  by  the 
military  authorities  and  by  the 
Envoy,  the  latter  of  -whom,  in 
spite  of  differences  of  opinion  as 
to  the  policy  which  they  were  en- 
gaged in  carrying  out,  was  anxious 
to  procure  Outram's  transfer  to  the 
political  department.  He  was,  how- 
ever, next  sent  to  reduce  the  Ghil- 
zai  country — a  duty  which  he  per- 
formed with  characteristic  energy 
and  success,  capturing  their  leaders 
and  dismantling  or  blowing  up  their 
forts.  He  took  part  in  General 
Willshire's  capture  of  Kelat,  where 
he  so  specially  distinguished  him- 
self as  to  be  selected  to  carry  the 
despatch  to  the  Bombay  Govern- 
ment—  a  hazardous  duty,  as  the 
general  desired  him  to  return  to 
India  by  the  direct  route  to  Son- 
miani  Bundar,  and  report  upon  its 
practicability  for  the  passage  of 
troops.  Disguised  as  an  Aff'ghan, 
accompanied  by  one  servant  and 
guided  by  two  Syuds,  Outram 
made  his  way  by  JSTal  to  Son- 
miani,  a  distance  of  355  miles,  in 
eight  days,  supporting  the  char- 
acter of  a  Pir  or  holy  man  on  the 
road  with  much  skill ;  and  he 
astonished  his  brother-in-law,  Gen- 
eral Farquharson,  by  bursting  into 
his  quarters  at  Kurrachee  in  Aff- 
ghan  costume,  armed  with  sword 
and  shield.  He  learned  afterwards 
that  the  Chief  of  Wadd  had  been 
made  acquainted  with  his  journey, 
and  had  followed  him  hot  -  foot 
down  through  the  passes  to  Son- 
ruiani,  with  a  view  to  intercept  and 
slav  him. 

The  immediate  reward  of  Out- 
ram's Affghan  services  was  the 
political  agency  of  Lower  Sind,  in 
succession  to  Colonel  Pottinger, 
although  the  appointment  was 
shorn  of  the  title  of  Resident,  by 
which  the  latter  officer  had  been 


distinguished.  Outram  had  scruples 
about  this  change,  but  Sind  present- 
ed afield  for  a  man  of  action  which 
he  could  not  fail  to  appreciate. 
Afghanistan  was  far  from  settled, 
and  Sind  must  be  the  basis  of  all 
operations  in  the  southern  part  of 
the  country  as  well  as  in  Beluchis- 
tan.  The  condition  of  the  Talpur 
Ameers  was  then  growing  more 
and  more  critical ;  and  though  Out- 
ram was  by  no  means  well  calcu- 
lated to  practise  the  diplomacy 
which  the  Government  of  India 
was  disposed  to  exercise  in  their 
case,  he  was  yet  alive  to  the  pros- 
pects of  distinction  which  the  situ- 
ation in  Sind  presented.  He  was 
never  a  "political"  in  the  success- 
ful sense  of  the  term.  He  drew  a 
somewhat  fanciful  distinction  be- 
tween his  obligations  in  civil  and 
military  employ,  which  was  a  pro- 
lific source  of  embarrassment  to  him 
in  the  former  capacity.  He  enter- 
tained the  idea  that  while  the 
soldier  ought  to  yield  unquestion- 
ing obedience  to  the  orders  of  his 
superiors,  the  political  officer  might 
be  permitted  the  greater  latitude  of 
accommodating  the  policy  of  Gov- 
ernment to  the  dictates  of  his  own 
conscience.  Such  feelings  were  to 
Outram's  credit  as  a  man,  but  they 
naturally  detracted  from  his  utility 
as  an  agent  of  Government,  and 
laid  the  foundation  of  the  painful 
controversy  regarding  the  annexa- 
tion of  Sind  in  which  he  subse- 
quently became  involved,  and  which 
for  many  years  cast  a  heavy  cloud 
over  his  life.  We  cannot  now  go 
into  the  details  of  this  unprofit- 
able discussion.  Of  the  necessity 
for  annexing  Sind  we  do  not  enter- 
tain a  doubt,  and  the  prosperity 
which  British  rule  has  brought  to 
that  province  must  more  than  con- 
done the  irregularity  of  the  steps 
which  Lord  Ellenborough  and  Sir 
Charles  Napier  took  against  the 
Ameers.  Outram  seems  to  have 


318 


The  Bayard  of  the  East. 


[Sept. 


exaggerated  in  his  own  mind  the 
obligations  which  he  conceived 
himself  to  he  under  to  the  Talpur 
dynasty.  He  was  present  at  the 
death  of  Nur  Muhammad  Khan, 
and  had  solemnly  accepted  the 
guardianship  of  his  children;  and 
he  seems  to  have  considered  that 
this  pledge  affected  his  personal 
honour  as  well  as  his  political  capa- 
city. At  the  same  time  Outram, 
in  the  exercise  of  his  political 
agency,  displayed  an  independence 
of  the  Supreme  Government  which 
naturally  drew  down  upon  him 
Lord  Ellenborough's  displeasure. 
That  nobleman  was  unpopular  with 
all  branches  of  the  service ;  he 
was  constantly  finding  his  orders 
thwarted  by  the  personal  views  of 
the  officers  who  ought  to  have  car- 
ried them  out ;  and  we  cannot  won- 
der at  his  feeling  that  so  promin- 
ent a  case  as  that  of  Outram  re- 
quired to  be  made  an  example,  in 
spite  of  the  hard  work  and  bril- 
liant services  which  the  Governor- 
General  readily  acknowledged.  The 
political  agent  took  the  extreme 
step  of  maintaining  Lieutenant 
Hammersley  in  his  post  at  Quetta, 
"  on  the  plea  of  urgent  require- 
ments," after  that  officer  had  been 
remanded  to  his  regiment,  in  con- 
sequence of  the  displeasure  of  the 
Supreme  Government ;  and  though 
the  motives  which  actuated  Out- 
ram were  generous  to  Quixotry,  he 
himself  was  conscious  of  the  risk 
which  he  was  incurring.  "  See  this 
correspondence  about  Hammersley," 
he  writes  to  the  Secretary  of  the 
Bombay  Government,  "  which,  I 
take,  will  end  in  his  lordship  send- 
ing me  to  my  regiment."  With  an 
officer  who  thus  takes  his  own  way 
with  his  eyes  open,  we  cannot  sym- 
pathise very  much  when  his  worst 
anticipations  are  realised.  The  first 
punishment  that  befell  him  was  the 
appointment  of  General  Nott  to  the 
chief  political  as  well  as  military 


power  in  Lower  Afghanistan,  Sind, 
and  Beluchistan,  which  interposed 
that  officer  between  himself  and 
the  Supreme  Government.  Outram 
felt  the  slight,  but  it  was  charac- 
teristic of  his  generous  nature  that 
he  was  resolutely  resolved  that  his 
sore  feelings  on  this  point  should 
not  be  allowed  to  affect  his  zeal  in 
co-operating  with  his  new  superior. 
But  Outram  threw  too  much  per- 
sonal feeling  into  the  affairs  amid 
which  he  was  moving  to  be  a  de- 
sirable assistant  in  a  course  of  policy 
so  tortuous  as  that  which  Lord 
Ellenborough  was  forced  by  circum- 
stances to  follow.  He  was  friendly 
to  the  Sind  Ameers,  and  he  obsti- 
nately shut  his  eyes  to  their  hostile 
disposition,  which  was  obvious  to 
Lord  Ellenborough's  Government. 
He  had  a  great  liking  for  the 
young  Khan  of  Kelat,  whom  he 
had  personally  been  the  means 
of  bringing  into  the  British  alli- 
ance ;  and  he  restored  to  him 
the  territory  of  Shawl  almost  on 
his  own  responsibility,  and  cer- 
tainly with  a  precipitation  that 
could  not  but  be  displeasing,  and 
m^ghtwell  have  been  embarrassing, 
to  the  Supreme  Government.  On  the 
whole,  we  cannot  say  that  Lord 
Ellenborough  was  altogether  to 
blame  because,  on  the  arrival  of 
Sir  Charles  Napier  to  assume  the 
chief  military  and  political  power 
in  Sind,  he  took  the  opportunity  of 
sending  Major  Outram  back  for  a 
season  to  his  regiment.  The  com- 
parison between  the  reputations  of 
Outram  and  Lord  Ellenborough  has 
naturally  made  their  dissensions 
reflect  to  the  disadvantage  of  the 
latter;  but  a  dispassionate  review  of 
Outram's  proceedings  in  the  Sind 
agency  will  convince  any  impartial 
judge  that  he  took  more  upon  him 
than  his  subordinate  position  war- 
ranted ;  and  that  unless  the  Gov- 
ernor-General was  prepared  to  have 
his  policy  dictated  by  his  political 


1880.] 


The  Bayard  of  the  East. 


310 


officers,  he  had  no  alternative  ex- 
cept to  remove  so  wilful  a  diploma- 
tist to  a  field  of  action  where  his 
temperament  would  be  less  liable 
to  bring  him  into  collision  with  the 
dominant  policy.  In  the  estima- 
tion of  many  competent  Anglo- 
Indian  politicians,  it  might  have 
been  well  for  Lord  Ellenborough 
had  he  followed  Outram's  counsels. 
On  this  we  offer  no  opinion.  We 
pimply  maintain  that  the  Governor- 
General,  holding  the  views  which 
he  did,  was  perfectly  justified  in 
removing  Outram  for  following  the 
course  which  he  had  chosen. 

By  this  time  Outram's  character 
was  thoroughly  established  in  the 
eyes  of  all  India.  His  bravery,  his 
zeal,  and  his  capacity  as  a  leader, 
had  been  demonstrated  beyond 
question  in  the  Cabul  campaign ; 
and  his  chivalrous  loyalty  to  his 
friends,  his  modesty  of  his  own  ex- 
ploits, and  his  hatred  of  untruth, 
had  come  forcibly  before  the  public 
in  the  course  of  his  contests  with 
the  Supreme  Government.  It  is  pro- 
bable that  the  independence  which 
he  displayed  did  much  to  enhance 
his  popularity ;  for  Lord  Ellen- 
borough's  Government  was  gener- 
ally disliked,  and  opposition  to  it 
was  accounted  a  cardinal  virtue 
both  in  the  services  and  among 
non-officials.  When,  therefore,  at 
the  farewell  dinner  given  to  Outram 
on  his  departure  from  Sind,  Sir 
Charles  Napier  proposed  his  health 
as  the  "  Bayard  of  India,  sans  peitr 
et  sans  repi'oche"  the  epithet  was 
adopted  by  acclamation  throughout 
the  country ;  and  the  compliment 
had  no  small  influence  on  Outram's 
after-career.  The  Government  too, 
although  it  could  not  help  regard- 
ing him  as  an  impracticable  political, 
was  yet  fully  convinced  of  his  capa- 
city for  doing  it  excellent  service, 
and  had  no  intention  of  shelving 
him  for  good  in  his  native  infantry 
regiment :  nor  was  he  long  destined 

VOL.  CXXVIII. — NO.  DCCLXXIX. 


to  be  absent  from  the  scene  of  his 
former  labours.  Just  as  he  was 
preparing  to  sail  for  England  on 
leave  at  the  end  of  1842,  Sir  Charles 
Napier  desired  his  services  as  com- 
missioner for  arranging  the  details 
of  the  revised  treaty  with  the  Tal- 
pur  Ameers  ;  and  the  Supreme  Gov- 
ernment acceded  to  the  request. 
Outram  was  disposed  to  quarrel 
with  the  curt  way  in  which  his 
appointment  was  communicated,  but 
his  desire  to  be  back  in  Sind  was 
stronger  than  his  feeling  of  resent- 
ment. In  the  events  which  follow- 
ed, the  position  of  Outram  freed 
him  from  all  ulterior  responsibility 
for  the  measures  which  were  ulti- 
mately taken.  The  treachery  of  the 
Ameers  put  an  end  to  his  functions 
as  a  negotiator,  and  would  have 
sacrificed  his  life  but  for  his  gal- 
lant defence  of  the  Haiderabad 
Residency.  This,  however,  does 
not  seem  to  have  alienated  Out- 
ram's sympathies  from  the  Talpur 
family,  or  to  have  relieved  his 
conscience  of  what  he  considered 
due  to  his  pledge  to  Nur  Mu- 
hammad. The  course  of  events  is 
very  succinctly  and  justly  summed 
up  in  a  letter  from  Lord  Ellen- 
borough  to  the  Queen,  which  we 
prefer  to  quote,  as  giving  the 
reader  a  more  correct  account  of 
the  principles  upon  which  Sind 
was  annexed  than  either  Out- 
ram's letters  or  his  biographer's 
comments : — 

"The  new  treaty  proposed  to  the 
Ameers,  justified  by  their  violation  of 
the  existing  treaty  and  by  various  acts 
of  intended  hostility,  would  have  given, 
to  the  British  Government  in  India 
practical  command  over  the  Lower 
Indus.  Between  acquiring  that  com- 
mand and  retiring  at  once  from  the 
Indus  there  was  no  safe  course.  The 
retirement,  following  upon  the  with- 
draAval  of  the  armies  from  Cabul, 
would  have  given  credit  to  the  mis- 
representations studiously  circulated 
with  respect  to  the  circumstances  un- 


320 


The  Bayard  of  the  East. 


[Sept. 


der  which  that  withdrawal  took  place ; 
and  it  would  have  had  the  necessary 
consequence  of  leading  to  the  violation 
in  all  its  details  of  the  commercial 
treaty  which  secured  the  free  naviga- 
tion of  the  Indus. 

"  The  position  in  which  the  Govern- 
ment of  India  would  have  stood  had 
the  new  treaty  been  acceded  to,  and  at 
first  faithfully  carried  out,  would  not 
have  been  without  its  embarrassments. 
It  could  not  be  expected  that  the 
Ameers  would  have  at  all  times  quiet- 
ly submitted  to  provisions  they  had 
accepted  with  reluctance,  and  war 
would  have  been  forced  upon  us  here- 
after at  an  inconvenient  moment. 

"It  cannot  be  regretted,  therefore, 
that  the  treachery  of  the  Ameers 
should  have  obliged  the  British  Gov- 
ernment to  take  at  once  a  more  de- 
cided course,  and  to  establish  its  own 
authority  in  all  such  parts  of  Scinde 
as  it  may  be  desirable  to  hold  in  our 
hands. 

"  To  attempt  to  enter  into  terms 
with  the  defeated  Ameers  would  have 
been  an  act  of  weakness  and  self- 
destruction.  No  faith  could  be  ex- 
pected from  them  ;  and  even  if  they 
were  disposed  to  adhere  to  their  en- 
gagements, the  barbarous  violence  of 
their  followers  would  not  permit  them 
to  do  so.  There  appeared  to  be  no 
advisable  course  of  policy  but  that 
of  at  once  taking  possession  of  the 
country  which  had  been  thus  thrown 
into  our  hand,  and  so  using  our  power 
as  to  make  our  conquest  beneficial  to 
the  people."* 

Whatever  view  may  be  taken  of 
the  conquest  of  Sind,  it  is  much 
to  be  regretted  that  Outram  should 
have  plunged  into  controversy  upon 
the  subject.  His  own  share  in  the 
troubles  of  Sind  had  never  been 
seriously  reflected  upon,  and  his 
reiterated  vindications  of  his  own 
conduct  were  even  more  uncalled 
for  than  his  criminations  of  the 
officers  more  immediately  connected 
with  the  annexation.  Of  his  quar- 
rel with  Sir  Charles  Napier,  Out- 
ram's  biographer  wisely  says  very 


little.  Both  were  hot  -  tempered, 
outspoken  men,  alike  too  ready  to 
seize  the  pen  when  their  feelings 
were  warm  ;  and  the  only  conclu- 
sion that  we  could  come  to  from  an 
investigation  of  their  quarrel  would 
be,  that  there  were  right  and  wrong 
on  both  side?,  and  that,  if  Outram's 
course  was  the  more  generous,  Sir 
Charles  Napier's  was  the  more 
statesmanlike. 

We  must  Imrry  over  the  succeed- 
ing years  of  Outram's  life,  nor  lin- 
ger over  the  testimonials  to  his 
merits  which  poured  from  all  quar- 
ters— a  sword  worth  300  guineas 
from  the  people  of  the  Bombay 
Presidency,  a  gold  medal  from  the 
Pope,  and  a  Bible  and  Prayer-book 
from  the  Bishop  of  Bombay,  who 
felt  himself  debarred  from  contri- 
buting to  the  more  warlike  present. 
He  visited  England  a  Lieutenant- 
Colonel  and  a  C.B.  in  1843,  and 
plunged  into  the  thick  of  the  Sind  . 
controversy  which  was  then  raging 
fiercely  in  Parliament  and  at  Lead- 
enhall  Street.  But  the  time  had 
passed  for  altering  the  Sind  policy, 
and  all  that  Outram  could  do  was 
to  widen  the  breach  between  him- 
self and  Lord  Ellenborough's  party. 
Naturally,  on  his  return  to  India, 
the  Government  showed  no  dispo- 
sition to  provide  him  with  an  ap- ' 
pointment  adequate  to  his  services 
and  merit.  The  only  post  offered 
him  was  the  Nimar  agency  in  Cen- 
tral India,  the  salary  of  which  was 
inferior  to  what  he  had  drawn  in 
the  Mahi  Kanta;  and  the  duties 
were  merely  of  a  routine  character. 
The  disturbances  in  the  Southern 
Mahratta  country  breaking  out  soon 
after,  found  him  active  employment 
again;  and  he  served  in  a  halt-mili- 
tary, half-political  capacity  in  the 
Kolapore  and  Sawant  Wari  States, 
doing  brilliant  service  in  the  attacks 
upon  the  insurgents'  forts,  and,  it 


The  Indian  Administration  of  Lord  Ellenborougli. 
70-72. 


Edited  by  Lord  Colchester. 


1880.] 


The  Bayard  of  the  East. 


321 


must  be  owned,  incurring  frequent 
expostulations  from  the  Govern- 
ment for  the  very  free  interpreta- 
tion which  he  frequently  put  upon 
its  instructions. 

In  1845  we  find  Outram  filling  the 
post  of  Resident  of  Satara,  an  easy 
but  not  over-lucrative  appointment. 
Although  a  Lieutenant-Colonel  and 
a  Companion  of  the  Bath,  Outram's 
substantive  rank  in  the  army  was 
still  only  that  of  Captain,  and  his 
pay  suffered  in  consequence.  But 
though  not  free  from  the  pinchings 
of  poverty,  he  scornfully  refused 
to  touch  an  anna  of  the  Rs.  29,941 
(nearly  £3000)  which  came  to  him 
as  his  share  of  the  Sind  prize-money. 
Bayard  would  not  participate  in 
what  he  looked  upon  as  plunder, 
and  would  have  restored  his  por- 
tion to  the  son  of  his  old  friend, 
the  Ameer  Nur  Muhammad,  who 
had  been  committed  to  his  charge. 
But  there  were  obstacles  in  the 
way  of  such  benevolence,  and 
Outram  got  rid  of  the  money  by 
dividing  it  among  the  military  and 
missionary  institutions  for  the  edu- 
cation of  European  children.  He 
would  fain  have  taken  part  in  the 
exciting  events  that  soon  took  place 
in  the  Punjab,  but  the  Bombay 
Government  refused  to  spare  him. 
The  Residency  of  Baroda,  then  the 
great  prize  in  the  Bombay  political 
department,  was  soon  to  fall  vacant, 
and  the  reversion  of  this  post  was 
Outram's  by  right  of  natural  selec- 
tion; and  accordingly,  in  May  1847, 
he  was  gazetted  to  his  new  appoint- 
ment. 

It  might  have  been  thought  that 
by  this  time  Outram's  Quixotic 
feelings  would  have  been  well 
tamed  down  by  the  varied  ex- 
periences through  which  he  had 
passed,  and  the  troubles  which  he 
had  brought  upon  himself  by  break- 
ing through  the  bonds  of  routine. 
He  was  now  in  middle  life,  with 
matured  experience,  and  with  a 
reputation  which  gave  him  a  firm 


ho'd  of  the  ladder  leading  to  the 
highest  prizes  in  the  Company's  ser- 
vice. It  was  his  interest  to  avoid  fur- 
ther sources  of  unpleasantness  with 
his  Government  and  with  the  Board 
of  Directors.  But  while  Outram 
was  as  yet  beholding  Baroda  only 
from  a  distance,  he  had  already 
planned  out  a  work  for  which  he 
had  every  reason  to  know  his  Gov- 
ernment would  give  him  scanty 
thanks.  In  Baroda,  as  in  almost 
every  other  native  State,  there 
reigned  the  demon  of  Kliatpat^ 
which  presides  over  bribery,  cor- 
ruption, the  malversation  of  justice, 
and  official  oppression  generally ; 
but  there  was  this  difference,  that 
Khatpat  had  a  stronger  hold  on 
Baroda  than  on  any  other  native 
State  of  the  day.  Outram  had  long 
eyed  the  evil  from  afar,  as  if  he 
fain  would  grapple  with  it ;  and 
even  when  in  the  Mahi  Kanta,  he 
had  made  use  of  his  limited  oppor- 
tunities to  denounce  the  system. 
On  his  arrival  at  Baroda  he  threw 
himself  into  the  work  of  beating 
down  corruption  wherever  he  could 
detect  it,  and  the  consequence  was 
that  he  soon  had  the  whole  State  in 
a  ferment.  The  Government  and 
the  Board  of  Directors  knew  as 
well  as  Outram  the  corrupt  condi- 
tion of  the  Gaikwar's  court  and  ad- 
ministration;  but  they  knew  also 
that  to  strike  at  the  root  of  the 
evil  they  would  have  to  strike  at 
the  Gaikwar  himself,  and  the  time 
had  not  yet  arrived  when  so  ex- 
treme a  measure  could  be  ventured 
upon.  The  Resident  had  plenty 
of  hints  to  be  moderate  in  the 
measures  which  he  was  taking  to  un- 
earth and  hunt  down  corruption  ; 
but  he  was  too  high-minded  to  allow 
prudential  advice  to  stand  between 
him  and  what  he  saw  to  be  the 
clear  line  of  his  duty,  or  to  lend 
his  official  assistance  to  gloss  over 
evils  which  were  discreditable  to  the 
honour  of  British  rule.  Revelation 
alter  revelation  of  the  grossest  cor- 


322 


The  Bayard  of  the  East. 


[Sept. 


ruption  in  the  palace,  in.  the  Re- 
sidency, in  every  department  of  the 
Gaik  war's  administration,  aroused 
the  public  mind,  both  in  India 
and  in  England,  to  the  Baroda 
abuses  ;  and  the  Court  of  Directors 
could  no  longer  stifle  the  subject. 
Investigations  were  ordered,  and  the 
results  did  not  always  bear  out  the 
statements  of  the  Resident.  He 
had,  of  course,  perjury  and  false- 
hood to  contend  with  at  every  step  ; 
and  there  is  little  doubt  that  his 
warm  temperament  had  led  him  to 
entertain  extreme  views  of  the  cor- 
ruption with  which  he  was  warring, 
and  of  the  cases  which  he  had  cham- 
pioned. In  December  1851,  the 
Bombay  Government,  at  the  head 
of  which  Viscount  Falkland  then 
was,  found  it  impossible  to  main- 
tain Outram  longer  at  Baroda  with- 
out committing  itself  to  the  ex- 
treme measures  which  would  have 
been  the  natural  action  to  have 
taken  upon  his  reports;  and  a 
letter  was  sent  to  him  announcing 
its  resolution  to  remove  him,  but 
leaving  it  to  him  "  to  withdraw  in 
the  manner  least  offensive  to  his 
own  feelings,  and  least  calculated 
to  embarrass  Government  or  affect 
their  amicable  relations  with  H.H. 
the  Gaikwar."  The  Court  of  Direc- 
tors wrote  even  more  harshly  of  his 
proceedings  ;  and  although  a  large 
number  of  its  members  sympathised 
with  Outram's  aims,  a  despatch  was 
sent  out  strongly  condemnatory  of 
the  tone  of  Outrarn's  reports  and 
of  the  character  of  his  proceedings. 
The  subject  was  ventilated  in  Par- 
liament with  very  little  result,  and 
two  huge  blue-books  were  laid  be- 
fore the  House1',  which  had  but 
little  influence  on  public  opinion. 
People  generally  felt  that  the 
course  taken  by  Outram  had 
been  a  noble  and  disinterested 
one,  and  that  if  he  had  sinned  at 
all,  he  had  sinned  from  excess  of 
zeal  on  behalf  of  the  honour  of  his 
Governmpnt.  His  time,  thus  placed 


at  his  own  disposal,  was  employed 
in  revisiting  England ;  but  it  was 
fated  that  his  holidays  at  home 
were  always  to  be  marred  by  his 
Indian  quarrels.  He  persisted  in 
fighting  the  battle  of  Baroda  cor- 
ruption in  England  with  but  little 
expectation  of  obtaining  so  unani- 
mous a  verdict  in  his  favour  as 
might  compel  the  Court  of  Direc- 
tors to  reverse  its  harsh  sentence. 
But  when  the  time  came  for  him  to 
return  to  India,  the  Court  addressed 
a  despatch  to  Lord  Dalhousie,  the 
Governor- General,  expressing  a  hope 
that,  as  there  was  no  position  under 
the  Bombay  Government  equal  in 
importance  to  the  one  from  which 
Outram  had  been  removed,  his  claims 
to  employment  under  the  Supreme 
Government  might  be  favourably 
considered.  Meanwhile  the  troubles 
in  the  East  which  ended  in  the 
Crimean  war  had  broken  out,  and 
the  Foreign  Office  was  disposed  to 
take  advantage  of  Outram's  ser- 
vices ;  but  Lord  Stratford  de  Red- 
cliffe  could  hold  out  no  immediate 
pro?pect  of  employment,  and  so  he 
went  on  his  way  to  Calcutta.  He 
was  now  fortunate  enough  to  meet 
with  a  chief  who  could  appreciate 
his  peculiar  disposition  end  utilise 
his  powers ;  and  as  soon  as  the 
transfer  of  the  Baroda  Residency 
from  the  Bombay  to  the  Supreme 
Government  was  completed,  Out- 
ram was  replaced  in  his  old  ap- 
pointment. At  Baroda  he  had  the 
satisfaction  of  removing  from  office 
some  of  the  worst  of  his  old  antag- 
onists, and  his  conduct  called  forth 
the  warm  approbation  of  the  Gov- 
ernor-General. Had  he  been  backed 
by  a  ruler  like  Lord  Dalhousie 
during  the  eventful  years  of  his 
first  residence  at  Baroda,  there  can 
be  no  question  but  that  he  would 
have  been  able  to  purge  the  Gaik- 
war's  Court,  and  have  earned  com- 
mendation instead  of  rebuke  for  his 
exertions.  "  The  mingled  sternness 
and  consideration  with  which  yen 


1880.] 


The  Bayard  of  the  East. 


323 


Lave  treated  the  Gaikwar,"  -wrote 
the  Governor  -  General,  "  will,  I 
hope,  have  a  lasting  effect  upon  the 
Gaikwar  himself,  and  will  teach 
both  him  and  those  about  him  that, 
•while  the  Supreme  Government  is 
desirous  of  upholding  him,  it  must 
he  obeyed  in  all  things.  .  .  . 
You  must  accept  my  personal  con- 
gratulations and  thanks  in  regard 
to  the  complete  success  of  your 
return  to  Baroda." 

Lord  Dalhousie's  aim  in  sending 
Outram  back  to  Baroda  had,  how- 
ever, rather  been  a  generous  desire 
that  he  might  have  aii  opportunity 
of  removing  the  effects  which  the 
harsh  judgment  of  the  Bombay 
Government  and  the  Court  of  Di- 
rectors had  produced,  and  that  the 
Gaikwar  might  be  shown  that  the 
Supreme  Government  was  not  dis- 
posed to  put  up  with  the  corruption 
which  had  unhappily  characterised 
his  administration,  than  that  he  had 
any  intention  of  continuing  Outram 
in  the  post.  To  have  maintained 
him  longer  than  this  end  was  accom- 
plished, would  not  have  been  in 
accordance  with  the  principles  upon 
which  the  feudatory  policy  of  the 
Indian  Government  is  conducted  ; 
and  accordingly,  when  the  Residency 
and  command  at  Aden  fell  vacant, 
Outram  was  selected  to  fill  it.  The 
short  period  which  he  occupied  this 
office,  coupled  with  his  shattered 
health,  did  not  admit  of  his  leaving 
his  impress  upon  this  ungenial  sta- 
tion, but  it  gave  him  an  insight 
into  Arabian  affairs  which  was  sub- 
sequently useful  in  his  Persian  com- 
mand. He  gladly  received  Lord 
Dalhousie's  summons  to  take  up 
the  Residency  at  Lucknow  from 
Colonel  Sleeman,  who  was  retir- 
ing at  the  close  of  a  long,  use- 
ful, and  honourable  career.  Here 
Outram  was  destined  to  take  part 
in  the  crowning  acts  of  Lord 
Dalhousie's  Indian  administration, 
upon  which  history  never  has  been, 
and  never  will  be,  able  to  adopt  a 


unanimous  opinion.  Had  any  pos- 
sibility remained  of  preserving 
Oudh  as  an  independent  State,  by  a 
vigorous  exercise  of  the  influence 
which  the  Company's  Government 
were  entitled  to  exert  by  treaty, 
by  a  vigorous  application  of  the 
knife  to  the  corruptions  of  the 
Lucknow  Court,  and  by  the  entire 
remodelling  of  the  administration 
of  the  kingdom,  Outram  was  of  all 
others  the  man  to  carry  such  a 
work  to  a  successful  termination. 
But  the  Government  had  come  to 
the  conclusion  upon  very  sufficient 
grounds  that  the  Court  of  Oudh 
was  past  the  aid  of  political  sur- 
gery, and  Outram  was  called  in  to 
kill  and  not  to  cure.  By  the  time 
that  he  was  sent  to  Lucknow  an- 
nexation may  be  looked  upon  as 
having  become  a  foregone  conclu- 
sion, and  it  cannot  be  said  to  have 
been  a  part  of  his  mission  to  deal 
with  reform.  But  no  fitter  man 
could  have  been  found  to  hold  the 
helm  while  so  important  a  revolu- 
tion was  being  effected,  and  of  this 
Lord  Dalhousie  was  well  aware. 
Had  his  duty  lain  in  a  different 
direction,  we  can  scarcely  suppose 
that  Outram  would  have  succeeded 
any  better  than  Low  and  Sleeman 
had  done.  But  his  presence  in 
Oudh  unquestionably  maintained 
peace  while  the  arrangements  of  the 
annexation  were  being  effected,  and 
postponed  for  eighteen  months 
the  outbreak  which  was  destined 
to  put  an  end  to  the  Company's 
Government  in  its  turn.  From  a 
Calcutta  newspaper  of  the  day  we 
get  an  interesting  glimpse  of  Out- 
ram's  personal  appearanceas  he  made 
his  splendid  entrance  into  Lucknow. 
"  Everybody  was  delighted  to  see 
the  Colonel  looking  so  well,  and 
many  an  anxious  glance  was  turned 
to  behold  the  Bayard  of  India.  He 
is  a  small  man,  with  dark  hair  and 
moustache,  and  the  eyes  of  a  falcon, 
with  gentleman  and  soldier  stamped 
in  every  feature."  In  addition  to 


324 


The  Bayard  of  the  East. 


[Sept, 


his  previous  honours,  his  services  in 
Oudh  brought  him  a  civil  K.C.B. 
at  the  sanm  time  that  a  similar  dec- 
oration was  conferred  on  John  Law- 
rence for  his  services  in  the  Punjab. 
To  Outram  this  honour  was  en- 
hanced by  the  farewell  letter  from 
Point  de  Galle,  in  which  his  re- 
tiring chief  announced  the  dis- 
tinction. "It  is  some  comfort  to 
me  for  other  mortification?,"  wrote 
Lord  Dalhousie,  "that  I  am  able, 
by  the  Gazette  which  I  found  here, 
to  hail  you  as  Sir  James  Outram 
before  I  cease  to  sail  under  the 
Company's  flag.  ...  As  long 
as  I  live  I  shall  remember  with 
genuine  pleasure  our  official  con- 
nection, and  shall  hope  to  retain 
your  personal  friendship.  A  let- 
ter now  and  then  when  you  can 
find  time  would  be  a  great  gratifi- 
cation to  me."  The  strain  of  his 
duties  in  Oudh  told  severely  upon 
a  constitution  already  shattered  by 
hard  service  and  climate,  and  Out- 
ram had  again  to  take  leave  to 
England  in  the  hot  weather  of  1856. 
He  had  learned  wisdom  from  pre- 
vious experience,  and  kept  aloof  as 
much  as  possible  from  the  discus- 
sions of  the  India  House.  He  had 
risen  greatly  in  the  estimation  of 
the  Directors  since  his  late  suc- 
cesses in  Baroda  and  Oudb,  and 
might  calculate  upon  the  best  things 
the  Court  had  to  bestow.  But  his 
health  was  still  in  an  unsatisfactory 
condition,  and  he  seems  for  some 
time  to  have  been  doubtful  whether 
he  would  again  be  able  to  return  to 
the  East.  His  cure,  however,  is 
said  to  have  been  effected  in  this 
fashion : — 

"  On  the  determination  of  the  Gov- 
ernment to  declare  war  against  Persia, 
Colonel  Sykes,  then  an  East  Indian 
Director,  went  to  Outram,  who  was  ly- 
ing ill  at  Brighton.  '  I  am  glad  to  see 


you,'  said  the  sick  man,  '  for  it  may  he 
the  last  time.'  '  I  am  sorry  for  that,' 
said  the  Colonel,  '  for  I  had  come  to 
tell  you  that  we  had  decided  to  offer 
you  the  command  of  the  expedition 
against  Persia.'  '  What !  Persia  1 '  ex- 
claimed Outram  ; '  I'll  go  to-morrow.' " 

The  anecdote  is  at  least  len  tro- 
vato;  and  Outram's  ailments  were 
certainly  soon  forgotten  in  tho 
bustle  of  preparations  for  taking  up 
his  command.  The  story  of  Out- 
ram's Persian  campaign  has  been 
already  told  at  length  in  the 
columns  of  this  Magazine  by  one 
of  his  brave  companions,  and  we 
must  refer  the  reader  to  that  paper  * 
for  a  just  and  succinct  summary. 
He  was  preceded  in  the  field  by 
General  Stalker,  who  had  carried 
Bushire  and  destroyed  the  maga- 
zine at  Chahkota  before  his  chief 
could  arrive.  Outram's  biographer 
gives  us  to  understand  that  the 
General  was  anxious  that  his  old 
friend  should  have  the  credit  of 
reducing  Bushire  before  he  himself 
appeared  on  the  field.  The  other 
magazine,  Borasjun,  awaited  Out- 
ram's arrival.  His  march  against 
this  village  resulted  in  the  cavalry 
and  artillery  battle  of  Kooshab,  at 
the  commencement  of  which  Out- 
ram was  stunned  by  a  fall  from  his 
horse,  when  his  place  was  ably  sup- 
plied by  Colonel  Lugard,  his  chief 
of  the  staff,  until,  as  he  says  in 
a  letter  to  the  Governor-General, 
"  the  noise  of  the  commencement 
of  the  contest  brought  me  to  my 
senses."  Havelock,  whose  name 
was  destined  to  be  coupled  with 
that  of  Outram  in  a  still  more 
memorable  campaign,  joined  the 
force  with  his  division  in  the 
middle  of  February;  and  the  at- 
tack was  then  carried  out  upon 
Mohummra,  which  Outram  had 
resolved  to  make  from  the  time 


*  '  Blackwood's  Magazine,'  vol.  xc.,  September  1861—"  The  Persian  War  of  1856- 
57,'  by  the  late  Lieutenant-General  J.  A.  Ballard,  C.B.,  whose  lamented  death, 
within  the  present  year,  deprived  the  Royal  (Bombay)  Engineers  of  one  of  their 
ablest  and  mo^t  cultured  officers. 


1880.] 


Tie  Bayard  of  the  East. 


325 


that  he  assumed  the  command. 
This  strong  position,  which  was 
situated  on  a  branch  of  the  Shat- 
el-Arab,  was  attacked  by  steamers 
and  sloops  of  war ;  and  the  only 
argument  that  could  prevent  Out- 
ram  from  exposing  himself  in  the 
leading  ship,  was  the  plea  that  his 
presence  might  deprive  the  Commo- 
dore and  the  Indian  navy  of  their 
due  share  of  credit.  The  Scindian 
in  which  he  sailed  came,  however, 
under  heavy  fire,  and  a  musket-ball 
was  prevented  from  striking  his 
foot  by  a  hooJcah  which  fortunately 
happened  to  be  in  the  way.  Al- 
though the  Persians  numbered 
nearly  four  to  one,  the  batteries 
were  carried,  and  their  force  en- 
tirely routed,  with  a  very  trifling 
loss  on  our  side.  The  Persians 
halted  at  Ahwaz,  a  town  a  hundred 
miles  up  the  Karun  river,  whence 
a  force  under  Captain  Hunt  of  the 
78th  Highlanders  quickly  dislodged 
them.  Outram  himself,  writing  in 
testimony  of  the  gallantry  of  his 
troops  on  this  occasion,  says  : — 

"  A  more  daring  feat  is  not  on  record, 
perhaps,  than  that  of  a  party  of  300 
infantry,  backed  by  three  small  river 
boats,  following  up  an  army  of  8000 
men,  braving  it  by  opening  fire  and 
deliberately  landing  and  destroying  the 
men,  magazines,  and  capturing  one 
of  his  guns  in  face  of  his  entire  army, 
and  actually  compelling  that  army  to 
fly  before  them,  and  occupying  for 
three  whole  clays  the  position  they 
had  compelled  the  enemy  to  vacate  ! " 

This  daring  feat,  at  which  Out- 
ram was  as  much  elated  as  if  it  had 
been  carried  out  by  himself,  really 
closed  the  Persian  war.  The  news 
of  peace  reached  the  General  along 
with  the  intelligence  of  the  success 
at  Ahwaz.  Victorious  as  we  had 
been,  the  war  had  closed  for  us  not 
a  minute  too  soon,  for  the  elements 
of  mutiny  were  already  making  their 
appearance  in  Northern  India,  and 
the  time  was  at  hand  when  only  the 
presence  of  such  men  as  Outram  in 


their  own  provinces  could  save  Brit- 
ish  rule  in  the  East  from  extinction. 

Outram  returned  in  all  haste  to 
Bombay  on  the  summons  of  Govern- 
ment. He  was  covered  with  fresh 
honours,  and  now  wore  the  Grand 
Cross  of  the  Bath ;  but  we  may  read- 
ily believe  that  the  tidings  which 
reached  him  before  sailing  from 
Bushire,  of  the  narrow  escape  of  his 
wife  and  son  from  the  mutineer 
at  Allyghur,  was  a  more  heartfelt 
source  of  congratulation ;  but  he 
was  still  on  "the  tenter-hooks"  to 
hear  if  they  continued  in  safety  at 
Agra. 

We  now  come  to  that  portion 
of  Outram's  career  which  it  would 
be  needless  to  recapitulate  in  de- 
tail. His  name,  with  those  of 
Lord  Clyde  and  Havelock,  occupies 
the  central  point  of  the  history  of 
the  Sepoy  war ;  and  if  his  services 
met  with  a  less  meed  than  befell 
those  of  his  distinguished  chief, 
we  are  to  remember  that  Outram 
enjoyed  even  the  greater  honour  of 
having  sacrificed  his  own  chances 
to  swell  the  glory  of  Havelock. 
But  looking  back  to  the  whole 
campaign,  from  the  day  that  he 
took  up  his  command  at  Dinapore 
down  to  the  final  capture  of  Luck- 
now,  it  will  be  readily  admitted 
that  no  single  officer  contributed 
more  to  the  suppression  of  the 
Mutiny  than  Sir  James  Outram. 
He  brought  to  the  task  all  the 
qualities  of  an  experienced  and 
successful  general ;  his  personal 
daring  warmed  into  enthusiasm  all 
the  troops  with  whom  he  came  in 
contact;  while  his  native  energy 
successfully  battled  against  the 
overwhelming  difficulties  by  which 
he  was  surrounded.  With  marvel- 
lous celerity  he  put  Behar  in  a  po- 
sition of  safety,  and  pushed  on  to 
assist  Havelock  in  the  relief  of  the 
beleaguered  garrison  of  Lucknow. 
In  those  days  he  was  as  hot  for 
vengeance  as  Neill  himself,  though 
his  views  subsequently  veered  to 


326 


The  Bayard  of  the  East. 


[Sept. 


the  other  extreme.  '"  Proclaim  at 
Cawnpore,"  he  writes  to  Havelock 
on  his  march  up,  "  that  for  every 
Christian  woman  and  child  mal- 
treated at  Lucknow  an  Oudh  noble 
shall  he  hanged."  He  had  already 
informed  Havelock  that  he  did  not 
design  to  deprive  him  of  the  glory 
of  relieving  the  Eesidency,  hut 
would  join  him  in  his  capacity  of 
Chief  Commissioner  and  serve  as  a 
volunteer.  It  was  not  once  or  even 
twice  that  Outrarn  had  made  sim- 
ilar sacrifices  for  the  sake  of  his 
brothers-in-arms,  but  this  splendid 
instance  of  self-denial  eclipsed  all 
the  others.  The  episode  has  been 
worthily  chosen  for  the  central 
device  of  the  magnificent  shield 
presented  to  him  by  his  own 
Presidency. 

The  meeting  between  Havelock 
and  Outram  took  place  on  the 
morning  of  September  15th,  and 
the  first  charge  of  the  latter  was  to 
demit  his  rights  as  senior  officer. 
The  Governor  -  General  had  heard 
of  the  proposal,  and  expressed 
himself  "  in  the  warmest  terms  of 
admiration."  We  cannot  say,  how- 
ever, that  the  necessary  division 
of  responsibility  and  of  views  was 
not  without  its  disadvantages ;  but 
this  arose  more  from  the  nature 
of  things  than  from  any  wish  that 
Outram  had  to  influence  the  other 
General.  As  the  chief  of  the 
volunteer  cavalry  Outram  was  in 
his  element,  and  he  led  the  charge 
at  Mangalwar,  which  materially 
aided  Havelock  in  making  good  his 
position  after  crossing  the  Ganges, 
with  a  stout  cudgel  in  his  hand. 
On  the  advance  from  the  Alum 
Bagh,  his  knowledge  of  Lucknow 
"mainly,  if  not  solely,  enabled  the 
column  to  thread  its  way  through 
the  streets,  especially  intricate  near 
the  Residency.  The  final  attack 
had  not  been  ventured  on  without 
differences  of  opinion  between  the 
Generals,  but  Outram  gallantly  did 


his  best  to  contribute  to  the  suc- 
cess of  the  day.  Outram  would 
have  halted  at  the  Chattar  Munzil 
when  night  fell,  but  Havelock  was 
impatient  to  carry  the  goal ;  and 
the  other  would  not  balk  him." 

"  Onward  went  the  gallant  and  de- 
voted band — Highlanders  and  Sikhs 
— with  Havelock  and  Outram  at  their 
head.  Neill  and  the  Madras  Fusiliers 
followed,  charging  through  a  very 
tempest  of  tire.  The  Baillie  Guard 
was  reached,  the  garrison  was  saved  ; 
but  the  cost  was  heavy.  Neill  fell 
like  a  true  soldier,  shot  through  the 
head  ;  Avhile  of  the  entire  force  of 
about  2000  one-fourth  were  killed  and 
wounded.  The  rear-guard,  with  many 
wounded,  remained  at  the  Moti  Mahal, 
beyond  which  they  were  unable  to 
pass  until  extricated  by  a  force  sent 
out  the  following  day.  In  the  words 
of  the  despatch,  'Sir  James  Outram 
received  a  flesh-wound  in  the  arm  in 
the  early  part  of  the  action  near  Char 
Bagh,  but  nothing  could  subdue  his 
spirit ;  and  though  faint  from  loss  of 
blood,  he  continued  to  the  end  of  the 
action  to  sit  on  his  horse,  which  he 
only  dismounted  at  the  gate  of  the 
Residency.' " 

Thus' was  the  Eesidency  relieved, 
or  rather  reinforced,  for  the  masses 
of  rebels  soon  again  closed  round 
the  British  position,  which  but 
for  its  strength  in  numbers  and 
store  of  provision  and  materiel, 
would  soon  have  been  in  as  great 
straits  as  the  glorious  little  garrison. 
Eetirement  in  the  presence  of  so 
overwhelming  a  hostile  force  as 
that  which  hovered  about  them 
was  hopeless,  and  from  September 
25th  to  November  22d  Outram 
had  to  hold  his  ground  against  a 
constant  series  of  attacks  until  the 
arrival  of  the  Commander-in-chief. 
He  has  been  blamed  for  having,  by 
his  urgent  representations,  hurried 
Sir  Colin  Campbell  away  from 
Cawnpore,  and  thus  prevented  the 
previous  dispersion  of  the  Gwalior 
contingent.  Upon  this  point  we 
may  possibly  receive  fuller  informa- 


1880.] 


The  Bayard  of  the  East. 


327 


tion  when  Major-General  Shadwell's 
forthcoming  'Life  of  Lord  Clyde' 
appears.  But  that  the  Lucknow 
garrison  was  critically  placed  is 
manifested  by  the  fact  that  Out- 
ram's  last  gun-bullock  was  killed 
on  the  day  he  and  Campbell  met 
at  the  Moti  Mahal.  His  letters 
also  rebut  the  charge  that  he  had 
placed  the  safety  of  his  position 
before  the  dispersion  of  the  Gwalior 
force.  On  the  Commander-in-chief's 
arrival  the  Eesidency  was  silently 
evacuated  by  a  movement  which 
Lord  Clyde  pronounced  to  be  a 
model  of  discipline  and  exactness, 
but  Outram  afterwards  publicly 
disclaimed  the  credit  in  favour  of 
his  chief.  "  The  withdrawal  of  the 
Lucknow  garrison,"  Outram  him- 
self says,  "the  credit  of  which  is 
assigned  to  Sir  James,  was  planned 
by  Lord  Clyde,  and  effected  under 
the  protection  of  the  troops  imme- 
diately under  his  lordship's  com- 
mand, Sir  James  Outram  merely 
carrying  out  his  chief's  orders." 
Lord  Clyde,  in  his  despatches,  has 
on  his  part  given  Outram  the  honour 
of  both  planning  and  executing  the 
evacuation  ;  so  we  may  fairly  sup- 
pose that  the  credit  of  the  move- 
ment is  divisible  between  them. 

With  regard  to  the  course  to  be 
next  followed  the  Generals  were 
divided.  Outram  wished  to  attack 
the  Kaiser  Bagh  and  town,  and 
hold  the  city  after  turning  out 
the  rebels.  Sir  Colin  preferred  to 
move  to  an  open  position  outside 
the  town  without  further  loss  of 
life.  The  Governor  -  General,  to 
whom  reference  was  made  by  tele- 
graph, took  Sir  Colin's  view ;  and 
Outram  was  consequently  left  at 
the  Alum  Bagh  to  hold  the  city  in 
check  from  November  27th  to  the 
end  of  the  following  February. 
We  need  not  go  over  the  incidents 
of  his  gallant  stand  upon  this  posi- 
tion, or  of  his  subsequent  move- 
ments across  the  Goomtee,  which 


have  been  fully  described  in  Sir 
Hope  Grant's  Journals.  We  shall 
better  employ  our  remaining  space 
to  give  the  following  personal  re- 
miniscence of  him  while  at  the 
Alum  Bagh  :— 

"  His  care  for  the  soldiers,  consid- 
eration for  brother  officers,  and  abne- 
gation of  self,  were  then,  as  throughout 
his  career,  proverbial ;  and  anecdotes 
no  doubt  abound  in  illustration  of 
these  prominent  features  in  his  char- 
acter at  this  period.  At  the  Residency, 
we  are  told  that,  on  one  occasion, 
when  the  scarcity  of  provisions  for 
the  mere  sustenance  of  life  necessi- 
tated a  strict  frugality  on  the  part  of 
all  ranks,  his  indignation  was  aroused 
at  the  unexpected  offer  of  an  excep- 
tionally luxurious  meal.  The  soldier- 
butcher  had  begged  his  acceptance  of 
the  heart  and  liver,  or  other  delicate 
portions  of  the  internal  economy  of  a 
bullock,  in  addition  to  the  ration  of 
meat  for  the  day.  Now  such  a  pro- 
posal was,  in  his  opinion,  simply  out- 
rageous ;  the  idea  that  he,  of  all  others 
in  the  camp,  should  be  selected  as  the 
recipient  of  a  kind  of  modified  Khat- 
pat,  was  too  horrible  to  contemplate  : 
nothing  would  satisfy  him  but  to  place 
the  culprit  under  arrest !  But  a  little 
after-inquiry  into  the  matter  elicited 
the  fact  that  the  proffered  dainties 
were  the  legitimate  perquisites  of  the 
well  -  inclined  butcher,  who  was  at 
liberty  to  dispose  of  them  as  he  liked, 
and  had  as  much  right  to  offer  them 
to  the  General  commanding  as  to  the 
junior  subaltern  among  his  officers. 
The  poor  man  was  therefore  released 
with  a  kindly  apology." 

There  was  always  a  thorough 
feeling  of  camaraderie  between 
Outram  and  his  troops,  which  en- 
abled him  to  call  out  the  enthusi- 
asm of  the  men  Avhenever  there 
was  occasion ;  and  though  at  times 
he  could  be  a  severe  disciplinarian, 
he  gratified  them  by  showing  an 
unusual  amount  of  confidence  with 
regard  to  what  was  going  on  around 
them. 

"A  general  officer  thus  illustrates 
this  latter  trait :  '  Nothing  could  ex- 
ceed the  courtesy  and  kindness  of  Sir 


328 


The  Bayard  of  the  East. 


[Sept. 


James  to  all  under  his  command,  of 
whatever  rank.  Whilst  in  camp  at 
Alum  Bagh,  when  we  visited  the  out- 
lying pickets,  who  do  not  turn  out  to 
pay  compliments,  the  men  would  all 
come  forward  to  meet  the  General  and 
salute  him.  Thejr  would  come  up  and 
pat  his  charger,  and  ask  him  if  he  had 
any  news.  On  one  occasion  a  cossid 
had  brought  him  some  welcome  intel- 
ligence :  he  said  to  me,  "  1  will  tell 
you  shortly "  —  and  we  galloped  off. 
When  surrounded  by  the  men  he 
pulled  the  letter  out  of  his  pocket 
and  read  out  to  us  all  the  report  of 
one  of  Sir  Colin's  victories  over  the 
rebels.  He  then  turned  to  me  and 
said,  "  I  wanted  to  be  the  first  to  let 
these  fine  fellows  have  the  good  news." 
His  kindness  and  attention  to  the  sick 
and  wounded  were  very  great.'" 

The  appointment  of  military 
member  in  the  Viceroy's  Council 
called  Outram  away  to  Calcutta  be- 
fore the  campaign  was  finally  over, 
and  he  was  destined  to  take  part  in 
the  great  questions  that  were  being 
discussed  affecting  the  transfer  of 
the  government  from  the  Company 
to  the  Crown.  He  filled  this  post 
for  two  years,  from  May  1858  to 
July  1 860,  but  all  the  time  he  was 
struggling  with  failing  health  and 
against  a  constitution  worn  out  with 
toil,  care,  and  hardships.  He  re- 
turned home  to  be  literally  crushed 
with  honours,  for  he  had  scarcely 
strength  to  appear  in  public  to 
make  acknowledgments  for  the  ad- 
dresses, testimonials,  and  thanks 
which  were  proffered  to  him.  He 
moved  about  hither  and  thither  in 
search  of  restored  strength,  but  he 
Avas  worn  out.  An  attack  of  bron- 
chitis at  Nice  hastened  his  end, 
and  he  died  peacefully  in  his  chair 
on  March  11,  1863.  His  mother 
had  only  predeceased  him  by  a  few 
weeks,  having  lived  to  witness  the 
full  fruition  of  her  son's  triumphs. 

A  character  like  that  of  Outram 
is  much  more  easily  summed  up 
than  his  career.  He  died  a  com- 


paratively young  man,  but  he  had 
enjoyed  the  "  crowded  hour  of  glori- 
ous life,"  which  requires  volumes  to 
describe  it  adequately.  Outram's 
nature,  however,  lay  on  the  surface, 
and  could  be  read  at  a  glance. 
Brave  to  recklessness  where  he  was 
personally  concerned,  cautious  and 
prudent  where  the  lives  of  others 
were  in  question  ;  self-sacrificing  for 
himself,  hotly  jealous  in  behalf  of 
the  interest  of  his  friends  and  fol- 
lowers ;  animated  by  high  ideas, 
which  he  often  carried  to  the  verge 
of  Quixotry,  and  which,  as  we  have 
seen,  brouglit  him  too  frequently 
into  collision  with  the  authorities 
and  with  routine ;  a  gallant,  loving, 
and  generous  nature, — James  Out- 
ram stands  forth  in  our  days  as  the 
true  representative  of  the  Chevalier, 
whose  name  has  been  added  to  his 
own.  He  was,  indeed,  a  knight 
sans  peur  et  sans  reproche.  It  is 
noteworthy  that  on  his  last  depar- 
ture from  India,  when  he  broke  up 
his  little  stock  of  books  among  the 
soldiers'  libraries,  he  carried  away 
with  him  his  copies  of  Froissart  and 
Monstrelet. 

We  share  Sir  Francis  Goldsmid's 
regret  that  Sir  John  Kaye  did  not 
live  to  fulfil  his  purpose  of  writing 
a  life  of  Outram.  Since  Kaye's 
death,  Anglo  -  Indian  biography 
seems  to  have  fallen  upon  evil  days. 
Ifo  career  in  the  present  century 
affords  ampler  materials  for  a  pic- 
turesque memoir  than  that  of  Out- 
ram. But  Sir  Francis  Goldsmid 
has  given  us  a  biography,  which, 
but  for  its  subject,  would  certainly 
have  been  tedious  reading,  and  of 
which  the  chief  value  is  the  ample 
material  it  affords  for  forming  an 
independent  opinion  apart  from  the 
biographer's  reflections.  It  would 
require  the  pen  of  the  genial  canon 
of  Chimay  or  of  Sir  Walter  Scott 
to  write  a  life  of  Outram  worthy 
of  such  a  preux  chevalier. 


1380.] 


A  Week  in  Athens. 


329 


A    WEEK    IN    ATHENS. 


"  On  the  ^gean  shore  a  city  stands 
Built  nobly,  pure  the  air,  and  light  the  soil ; 
Athens,  the  eye  of  Greece,  mother  of  arts 
And  eloquence,  native  to  famous  wits, 
Or  hospitable,  in  her  sweet  recess, 
City  or  suburban,  studious  walks  and  shades." 

—MILTON. 


WE  had  ridden  across  the  Pelo- 
ponnese  from  shore  to  shore,  and 
now  in  three,  or  at  the  most  four, 
hours'  time  we  were  to  be  in 
Athens.  So  we  thought.  But  d!s 
aliter  visum  est.  The  south-west 
wind,  before  which  we  sped  merrily 
out  of  the  little  harbour  of  Epithav- 
ro  (Epidaurus)  about  4  P.M.  on  an 
April  afternoon,  dropped  as  soon  as 
we  were  in  the  open  waters  of  the 
Saronic  Gulf,  to  be  succeeded  by 
a  stiff  nor'-wester  blowing  right 
athwart  our  track  from  where,  in  the 
far  horizon,  the  mighty  Acrocorin- 
thus  towered  above  the  low-lying 
Isthmus  of  Corinth. 

Our  captain  did  not  care  to  ven- 
ture across  to  the  Piraeus  in  his 
small  boat  under  these  altered  cir- 
cumstances; so  as  night  was  coming 
on  we  ran  for  shelter  into  the  har- 
bour of  ^Egina.  Here  meeting  with 
a  collision  which  shattered  one  of 
our  bulwarks,  and  might  well  have 
sent  us  to  the  bottom,  we  were  fain 
to  throw  ourselves  upon  the  mercy 
of  a  Greek  naval  officer,  Captain 
Miaoulis,  whose  steam-launch  we 
found  lying  at  the  quay.  He  also 
had  been  driven  into  ^Egina  by 
stress  of  weather.  He  kindly 
agreed  to  take  us  across  with  him 
on  the  morrow,  and  named  four 
o'clock  in  the  morning  as  the  hour 
of  his  start. 

Though  the  morning  broke  glori- 
ously fine,  the  north-west  wind  was 
still  blowing,  and  continued  to  do  so 
all  the  forenoon.  This  gave  us  time 
to  see  something  of  /Egina,  though 
not,  unfortunately,  the  famous  tem- 


ple of  Zeus  Panhellenios,  which 
stands  on  a  height  some  four  hours' 
ride  from  the  town.  We  saw, 
however,  the  remains  of  the  old 
harbour,  and  of  a  temple  of  Aph- 
rodite, built  on  the  cliif  about  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  to  the  east  of  the 
town.  From  this  point  we  could 
see  distinctly  the  opposite  coast  of 
Attica,  though  Athens  is  not  con- 
spicuous enough  to  be  seen  at  such 
a  distance  ;  and  the  rugged  back  of 
Salamis,  which  is  higher  and  more 
imposing  than  I  had  expected  to 
find  it. 

Modern  ^Egina  is  a  busy  port, 
with  a  frontage  of  tall  buildings — 
warehouses,  inns,  coffee-houses,  and 
shops — along  the  quay,  which  is 
thronged  with  sailors.  Behind  the 
town  rise  heights  covered  with 
white  villas,  picturesquely  set  in 
gardens  of  olives,  oranges,  and 
mulberries ;  while  here  and  there  a 
single  palm-tree  reminded  us  that 
we  were  now  in  comparatively 
Eastern  climes.  In  the  back- 
ground are  the  rugged  peaks  which 
make  the  island  so  conspicuous  an 
object  from  Athens  and  from  all 
the  surrounding  country. 

Among  the  inhabitants  of  ,/Egina, 
especially  the  boys,  we  noticed 
more  heads  and  faces  of  the  type 
familiar  to  us  in  old  Greek  sculp- 
ture than  we  had  met  hitherto,  or 
were  destined  afterwards  to  meet, 
in  the  Greece  of  to-day.  Three  or 
four  of  these  young  fellows,  with 
their  large  eyes,  low  foreheads, 
finely -cut  profiles,  and  luxuriant 
heads  of  hair,  might  have  sat  as 


330 


A  Week  in  Athens. 


models  for  the  Pan-Athenaic  pro- 
cession -with  which  Phidias  adorned 
the  frieze  of  the  Parthenon.  Our 
hostess,  too,  a  comely  woman  of 
forty,  with  two  beautiful  children, 
had  a  face  and  figure  cast  in  true 
Attic  mould. 

By  two  o'clock  at  last  the  ad- 
verse wind  had  dropped,  and  we 
were  able  to  set  off,  in  a  trim  little 
yawl,  in  tow  of  the  steam-launch. 

Now  were  we  indeed  in  the  very 
heart  of  historic  Hellas.  The  danc- 
ing waters  over  which  we  were 
speeding,  and  in  which  now  and 
again  the  fabled  dolphin  showed 
his  tawny  back,  had  been  crossed 
and  recrossed  by  all  the  fleets  that 
Greece  had  ever  equipped,  and  by 
all  the  great  men  who  had  ever  left 
or  visited  her  shores.  Greek  heroes 
must  have  sailed  over  them  on 
their  way  to  Troy.  Here,  at  any 
rate,  was  the  central  point  of  that 
splendid  maritime  dominion  which 
Athens,  in  the  days  of  her  great- 
ness, wielded  over  all  the  coasts 
and  islands  of  the  ^Egean.  To  the 
west,  following  the  gulf  till  it  nar- 
rowed to  a  point,  the  eye  fell  upon 
the  huge  Acrocorinthus.  To  the 
north  rose  mountain-masses,  stretch- 
ing back,  as  we  knew,  to  Helicon 
and  Parnassus,  though  those  peaks 
were  not  in  view.  Cithaeron,  in 
the  foreground,  wore  a  crown  of 
luminous  golden  haze. 

Looking  eastward,  the  low  coast 
of  Attica  could  be  traced  as  far  as 
Cape  Sunium.  Beyond  loomed 
three  or  four  of  the  "  shining 
Cyclades."  In  front,  but  somewhat 
to  the  left  of  our  course,  a  white  row 
of  houses  along  the  shore  betokened 
Megara,  that  troublesome  neighbour 
and  stubborn  foe,  whom  Athens 
found  a  very  thorn  in  her  side.  It 
is  easy  to  see,  when  the  scene  is 
before  you,  how  it  was  that  this 
little  State  so  long  held  possession 
of  Salamis,  which  lies  along  the 
shore  not  much  further  from  Me- 


[Sept. 


gara  than  from  the  Piraeus.  And 
we  must  remember,  too,  that  in 
those  early  days,  before  Solon's 
eloquent  appeal  had  shamed  his 
countrymen  into  seizing  the  island, 
the  Piraeus  was  not  bound  to 
Athens  by  the  tie  with  which  the 
genius  of  Themistocles  afterwards 
united  the  city  and  the  port.  So 
that  in  fact  Salamis  was  nearer  to 
Megara  than  to  Athens. 

But  now  right  in  front  of  us  the 
sun  catches  some  white  buildings 
on  the  shore  which  must  belong 
to  the'  Piraeus,  and  as  we  look  in- 
land a  low  conical  height  strikes  the 
eye.  It  is  too  peaked  to  be  the 
Acropolis.  It  is  Mount  Lycabettus. 
Before  long,  however,  another  ele- 
vation can  be  made  out  a  little  way 
to  the  right  —  an  oblong  mound, 
of  a  deep  orange- brown,  and  with 
a  remarkably  level  surface.  And 
there,  surely,  are  buildings  upon  it ! 
An  earnest  gaze  leaves  at  last  no 
doubt  in  our  minds  that  this  mere 
speck  in  the  landscape,  but  faintly 
visible  against  the  background  of 
hills,  is  in  truth  that  which  we 
have  longed  all  our  lives  to  see,  the 
rock  which  seems  to  sum  up  in 
itself  the  supremest  effort  that  art 
has  achieved  in  the  world,  —  the 
Acropolis  of  Athens  !  Every  mo- 
ment we  are  drawing  nearer  to  the 
shore,  and  the  objects  upon  it  be- 
come more  distinct.  One  by  one 
the  buildings  upon  the  Acropolis 
fall  into  their  true  relations,  and 
the  shattered  wreck  of  the  Par- 
thenon stands  out  by  itself.  The 
main  outline  of  the  picture  being 
thus  stamped  upon  our  minds,  we 
must  wait  for  a  closer  inspection  to 
show  us  its  details. 

Salamis  is  now  quite  close  to  us 
on  the  left ;  and  while  crossing  the 
east  end  of  the  bay  which  lies  be- 
tween it  and  the  shore,  we  are  busy 
in  our  conjectures  as  to  the  exact 
scene  of  the  battle.  However  far 
we  may  have  been  from  forming 


1880.] 


A  Week  in  Athens. 


331 


a  true  idea  of  the  positions  of  the 
rival  fleets,  we  had  at  least  no  dif- 
ficulty in  recognising  a  tiny  little 
islet,  within  a  few  yards  of  which 
we  passed,  as  Psyttaleia,  whereon 
the  flower  of  the  Persian  army  was 
cut  off,  and  round  which  at  last  the 
struggle  raged  most  fiercely. 

Meanwhile  the  Piraeus,  the  Athe- 
nian Acropolis,  and  even  Mount 
Lycabettus,  have  quite  disappeared 
from  view,  and  we  are  nearing 
an  apparently  harbourless  shore, 
when  of  a  sudden,  rounding  a 
rocky  point  which  runs  out  from 
the  left  to  bar  our  path,  we  find 
ourselves  in  a  roomy  harbour  full 
of  shipping,  of  life  and  stir  of  all 
kinds.  A  few  minutes'  bustle,  and 
we  are  in  an  open  carriage,  bowling 
along  the  dusty  tree -fringed  road 
between  the  Piraeus  and  Athens. 
We  have  scarcely  passed  the  out- 
skirts of  the  port  when,  the  Acro- 
polis again  comes  prominently  into 
view,  touched  to  purple  by  the  sun 
now  setting  behind  Salamis.  To 
its  left  rises  the  conical  peak  of 
Lycabettus,  and  in  the  background 
the  view  is  closed  by  Pentelicus, 
which  has  been  most  appropriately 
likened  to  the  pediment  of  a  Greek 
temple.  Hymettus  is  on  our  right, 
parallel  with  the  road  ;  and  on  our 
left,  the  plain  is  shut  in  by  a  ridge 
which  near  the  sea  is  called  Kory- 
dallos,  and  further  inland  bears 
the  name  of  yEgaleos.  Along  the 
foot  of  it  a  belt  of  trees  marks  the 
course  of  the  Kephisos,  and  the 
famous  olive-groves  which  stretch 
away  to  Kolonos.  Further  inland, 
between  this  ridge  and  Pentelicus, 
rises  the  massive  shoulder  of  Par- 
nes,  which,  with  Cithaeron  further 
west,  parts  Attica  from  Bceotia. 
By  the  time  we  approach  Athens 
the  light  has  faded,  leaving  in  the 
western  sky  an  after-glow  of  orange 
fading  into  a  lovely  pale  blue, 
while  Salamis  and  Korydallos  be- 
come black  as  night.  Still  there 


was  sufficient  twiliyht  to  show  us 
the  Acropolis  and  its  buildings, 
the  Theseum,  the  Areopagus,  and 
the  Hill  of  the  Muses,  and  to  make 
us  realise  that  we  were  in  the  city 
of  Pericles. 

The  whole  scene  seemed  strange- 
ly familiar,  the  more  so  that  it  is 
just  the  ancient  part  of  Athens 
which  the  traveller  first  sees  on 
his  road  from  the  Piraeus.  He 
passes  next  through  what  remains 
of  Athens  as  it  was  under  Turkish 
rule  —  low  dirty  houses,  narrow 
streets,  and  bazaars.  From  this 
quarter  one  comes  into  the  modern 
town,  fast  becoming  as  trim  and 
bright  as  Paris  itself. 

Our  slumbers,  though  well  earned 
by  a  hard  week's  travelling,  were  by 
no  means  undisturbed.  I  should 
think  that  no  city  could  vie  with 
Athens  in  the  extent  and  variety 
of  its  night  -  noises.  Dogs,  cats, 
men,  and  perhaps  most  trying  of 
all,  the  Attic  owl,  with  its  melan- 
choly piping  monotone,  unite  to 
make  the  blessed  silence  of  night 
a  hollow  mockery.  The  Athenians 
of  old  might  be  excused  for  pre- 
ferring the  image  of  the  owl  in  sil- 
ver to  its  unmusical  and  feathered 
prototype. 

If,  however,  the  noises  of  the 
night  recalled  rather  some  Lon- 
don court  than  the  city  of  Peri- 
cles, a  glance  in  the  morning  from 
the  windows  of  our  hotel  in  yEolus 
Street,  reassured  us  at  once.  For 
at  the  end  of  the  street  rose  an 
enormous  barrier  of  orange-brown 
rock,  and  upon  its  summit  stood 
two  mighty  fragments  of  a  temple, 
separated  by  a  chasm  of  blue  sky. 
There,  indeed,  was  the  Parthenon, 
shattered  and  maimed,  but  still 
instinct  with  beauty  and  grandeur. 
It,  too,  is  of  an  orange-brown  tone, 
and  that  dark-blue  sky  forms  the 
most  harmonious  background  one 
could  conceive. 

It  was  not  long  before  we  were 


332 


A  Week  in  Athens. 


making  our  way  along  ^Eolus  Street, 
then  to  the  left,  past  the  Temple  of 
the  "Winds,  to  where  some  stone 
steps  lead  to  the  foot  of  the  Acro- 
polis on  the  north  side.  Then  a 
winding  footpath  takes  one  to  the 
western,  side,  whence  a  zigzag  track 
through  a  plantation  of  giant  aloes 
runs  up  to  the  side-door  which  now 
serves  for  an  entrance  to  the  rock. 
The  old  broad  steps  up  which 
processions  used  to  pass  are  now 
blocked  up  below  by  a  wall  and 
disused  gateway.  Passing  through 
an  archway  on  the  right,  we  enter 
on  the  left  a  small  doorway  which 
leads  us  through  a  little  yard 
strewn  with  beautiful  architec- 
tural and  sculptured  fragments,  on 
to  the  main  steps  about  half-way 
up.  The  Propylaea  were  immediate- 
ly above  us  ;  on  our  right  the  lovely 
little  temple  of  Wingless  Victory ; 
on  our  left  the  Pinacotheca,  adorned 
of  old  with  the  famous  paintings  of 
Polygnotus.  But  these  must  not 
detain  us  now.  Moving  upwards 
and  onwards,  we  had  hardly  gained 
the  level  of  the  Propylsea,  when  our 
eyes  fell  upon  a  grand  temple-front, 
seared  and  discoloured  with  the 
wear  of  ages,  but  majestic  beyond 
belief.  Of  hue  varying  from  light 
brown  through  rich  orange  to  ab- 
solute black,  while  here  and  there, 
where  a  column  has  been  chipped, 
the  marble  shows  its  dazzling  white- 
ness, the  mighty  building  confronts 
one  with  the  calm  dignity,  and  yet 
faultless  beauty,  which  one  asso- 
ciates with  the  goddess  herself,  to 
whom,  by  men  of  old,  this  shrine 
was  raised. 

Between  the  Propylsea  and  the 
Parthenon  the  rugged  surface  of  the 
rock  is  marked  with  wheel-tracks, 
associated  by  tradition  with  the 
chariot  processions  which  went 
yearly  to  the  Acropolis  on  the  great 
Pan-Athenaic  festival.  All  around 
lie  huge  fragments  of  marble.  But 
these,  and  the  details  of  the  Par- 


[Sept. 


thenon  front,  were  only  taken  in 
at  a  later  time.  An  irresistible 
fascination,  not  unmingled  with 
awe,  led  me  now  to  mount  the 
steps  and  at  once  enter  the  temple. 
Some  people  have  felt  disappoint- 
ment at  first  sight  of  the  Parthenon, 
but  I  can  only  say  that  it  surpassed 
all  my  expectations  in  beauty  and 
grandeur.  Apart  from  the  historic 
associations  that  come  crowding  into 
the  mind  as  one  stands  on  a  spot 
so  rich  in  memories,  the  scene  itself 
cannot  but  fix  contemplation.  Now 
the  imagination  strives  to  restore  the 
building,  even  in  its  ruin  exqui- 
sitely harmonious,  to  its  original 
perfection  of  form,  adding  the  bril- 
liant colouring  which  is  now  gener- 
ally believed  to  have  adorned  it ;  or 
to  recall  to  its  place  round  the  walls 
of  the  ceZ/a,  that  wonderful  frieze 
which,  born  beneath  the  deep-blue 
of  an  Athenian  sky,  has  at  length 
found  shelter  in  the  gloom  of  a 
Bloomsbury  basement.  Now  vain 
longings  and  regrets  are  stirred  by 
the  thought  that  this  building,  after 
surviving  some  two  thousand  years, 
fell  a  victim,  hardly  two  centuries 
ago,  to  the  explosion  which  has 
rent  asunder  the  eastern  and  west- 
ern ends,  not  only  wrecking  the 
inner  shrine,  but  throwing  down 
many  of  the  outer  columns  on  either 
side.  Again,  the  eye  is  delighted 
by  the  rich  tone  which  the  wear  of 
centuries  has  imparted  to  the  west- 
ern front,  and  which  contrasts  strik- 
ingly alike  with  the  original  marble 
where  its  surface  has  been  laid 
bare,  and  with  the  sky  above ;  or 
follows  lovingly  the  beautiful  lines 
of  the  still  standing  columns,  allow- 
ing due  picturesque  value  even  to 
the  ghastly  gap  in  the  centre,  and 
drinking  in  the  strong  sunlight 
which  beats  down  upon  the  whole 
and  throws  deep  shadows  in  contrast 
to  its  own  radiance.  And  such  a 
scene,  if  you  are  fortunate,  you  can 
enjoy  in  perfect  stillness,  so  aloof 


1880.] 


A  Week  in  Athena. 


333 


at  times  seem  the  precincts  of  the 
Acropolis  from  the  stir  of  modern 
everyday  life. 

For  the  sake  of  clearness  I  will 
here  depart  from  the  chronological 
sequence  hitherto  ohserved,  and 
proceed  to  mention  more  in  detail 
certain  features  of  the  Parthenon, 
and  of  the  Acropolis,  which  were 
stamped  upon  my  memory  by  re- 
peated visits. 

To  begin  with  the  west  front  of 
the  Parthenon.  It  was  a  most 
pleasant  surprise  to  find  that  the 
frieze  of  Phidias  *  is  on  this  side  of 
the  building  still  in  its  place,  and 
though  somewhat  discoloured  by 
age,  in  a  fair  state  of  preservation. 
One  is  thus  enabled  to  form  some 
sort  of  judgment  as  to  the  effect  it 
was  intended  by  the  artist  to  pro- 
duce. For  of  all  artists  the  Greeks 
most  thoroughly  understood  how 
to  adapt  means  to  ends,  and  work- 
manship to  the  conditions  not  only 
of  material  but  of  place.  Now  the 
first  thing  that  strikes  one  is  that 
from  no  point  of  view  could  the 
famous  procession  which  we  are 
accustomed  to  see  running  in  un- 
broken line  round  the  walls  of  the 
Elgin  Room  in  the  British  Museum, 
have  been  seen  even  approximately 
as  a  whole.  Only  the  friends  of 
Phidias,  who  saw  it  in  his  studio, 
or  who,  as  Mr  Alma  Tadema  has 
pictorially  and  happily  suggested, 
were  allowed  to  mount  the  scaffold- 
ing and  walk  round  the  wall  of  the 
cella,  when  the  frieze  was  first  in- 
stalled in  its  true  position,  can  ever 
have  seen  his  masterpiece  except, 
so  to  speak,  in  detachments,  till  the 
time  came  for  it  to  be  taken  down 
from  its  place,  carried  across  the 
seas,  and  exposed  to  public  view  in 


the  capital  of  a  nation  which  neither 
Phidias  nor  Pericles  could  have  con- 
ceived of  as  being  otherwise  than 
mere  barbarians.  For  the  utmost 
that  can  be  seen  from  below  at  one 
time  is  commensurate  with  the  dis- 
tance between  any  two  of  the  col- 
umns of  the  peristyle.  Framed, 
therefore,  between  these,  the  ob- 
server, standing  some  ten  or  fifteen 
yard  s  back  from  them,  sees  the  suc- 
cessive groups  of  horsemen  which 
compose  the  one  part  of  the  frieze 
still  remaining  in  situ. 

One  mighty  fragment  of  the 
group  which  adorned  the  pedi- 
ment, and  two  or  three  mutilated 
metopes,  enable  one,  by  the  aid  of 
the  imagination,  to  form  some  idea 
of  how  these  further  adornments 
of  the  west  front  looked  when  the 
temple  was  still  entiie.  Readers 
need  hardly  be  told  that  the  most 
important  remains  of  these  master- 
pieces, again,  are  to  be  seen  in  the 
British  Museum. t 

Speaking  generally,  my  impres- 
sion is  that  these  latter  features  of 
the  temple  must  have  been  on  the 
whole  more  successful  in  their  ulti- 
mate effect  than  the  more  delica'e 
and  beautiful  frieze.  But  it  is  really 
impossible  for  a  modern  observer, 
still  less  one  untrained,  to  pass  judg- 
ment on  these  matters.  Given  the 
bright  colours  which  musthave  mate- 
rially added  clearness  to  the  different 
groups  of  the  procession,  how  beau- 
tiful may  not  have  been  the  ever- 
shifting  vignettes  of  graceful  figures 
which  caught  the  eye  as  one  wan- 
dered round  the  temple,  thrown 
into  strong  relief  by  the  darker 
tone  of  the  intervening  columns  ! 

A  lover  of  Greek  art  is  not  nat- 
urally inclined  to  feel  gratitude  to 


*  I  use  this  phrase  for  convenience,  and  as  according  with  popular  usage.  But 
we  cannot  really  suppose  the  whole  frieze,  or  necessarily  even  the  pedimental  sculp- 
tures or  metopes,  to  have  been  the  sole  handiwork  of  this  artist,  though,  no  doubt, 
his  guidance  and  care  were  always  present. 

t  There,  too,  is  a  model  of  the  Parthenon,  which  renders  minute  description  of  its 
construction  on  my  part  quite  unnecessary. 


33  i 


A  Week  in  Athens. 


[Sept. 


the  Turks  for  any  mark  that  they 
have  left  behind  on  the  monu- 
ments of  Athens.  But  if  the  stair- 
case which  now  leads  to  the  roof 
of  the  Parthenon  was  indeed  built 
by  them  as  an  approach  to  the 
tower  which  they  erected  at  one 
corner  to  mar  the  perfection  of  the 
building,  due  thanks  must  not  be 
withheld  even  from  the  barbarian. 
The  tower  happily  has  been  re- 
moved, but  the  staircase  still  leads 
to  the  roof,  and  to  one  of  the  most 
lovely  views  that  Athens  can  boast. 

At  one's  feet  lies  the  whole  Athen- 
ian plain.  Immediately  below  rise 
the  columns  of  the  Propyltea ;  slight- 
ly to  the  left  the  Museion  or  Hill  of 
the  Muses ;  beyond  the  Propyltea 
the  dark-brown  rocky  summit  of 
the  Areopagus,  sloping  down  on  the 
left  to  the  hollow  which  separates 
it  from  the  Pnyx.  To  the  right  of 
the  Areopagus,  but  on  a  lower  level, 
stands  the  Theseum,  or,  as  others 
prefer  to  call  it,  the  Temple  of  Her- 
akles.  Beyond  these  the  eye  can 
follow  the  straight  line  of  road, 
shaded  by  grey  poplars  and  plane- 
trees,  which  unites  now  as  in  old 
times  Athens  and  Piraeus,  the  city 
and  the  port.  Beyond  the  clustered 
houses  of  Piraeus,  where  even  now 
more  than  one  tall  chimney  betokens 
the  presence  of  modern  industry, 
glitters  the  blue  ^Egean,  with  the 
peaks  of  JEgina  in  the  far  back- 
ground, and  to  the  right  the  rugged 
back  of  Salamis,  behind  which  loom 
the  hills  of  the  Morea.  Coming 
northward  again,  the  eye  rests  on 
the  slopes  of  Korydallos  and  ^Egal- 
eos,  with  the  dark  belt  of  olives 
running  along  their  base.  Facing 
these  heights  on  our  left  hand,  the 
plain  is  closed  by  the  graceful  lines 
of  Hymettus  losing  themselves  in 
the  sea  at  Phalerum. 

S'ich,  then,  is  the  scene  which 
meets  the  gaze  of  any  one  who 
mounts  the  roof  of  the  Parthenon  ; 
and  it  was  from  this  point  of  van- 


tage that  I  saw  one  of  those  rich 
feasts  of  colour  which,  night  after 
night,  are  spread  before  the  de- 
lighted eyes  of  the  dwellers  in  this 
city  of  the  immortals.  So  regular 
are  they,  that  even  Murray  thinks 
it  necessary  to  catalogue  the  various 
shades  of  purple  and  red  which  the 
setting  sun  throws  nightly  on  the 
hills.  As  one  stands,  say  on  the 
road  to  Piraeus,  with  one's  back  to 
the  west,  /Egaleos  on  the  left  is  of 
a  purple  almost  melting  into  black- 
ness; Pentelicus,  which  closes  the 
view  in  front  of  us,  dons  the  rich 
garb  of  an  emperor ;  Hymettus,  on 
our  right,  is  rosy  pink ;  and  rosy, 
too,  is  the  tone  which  touches  the 
Acropolis.  But  to  return  to  the 
particular  sunset  which  suggested 
this  digression. 

Over  the  Morean  hills  and 
^Egina  hung  a  mass  of  dark  storm- 
clouds,  which  cast  a  dull  leaden 
tone  on  to  the  waters  of  the  ^gean, 
shining,  nevertheless,  here  and 
there  with  a  strange  sheen.  Grad- 
ually the  lower  edge  of  these  clouds 
grew  fiery  red  as  the  sun  passed 
through  them  on  his  way  to  rest ; 
and  ^Egina,  too,  borrowed  some- 
thing of  his  radiance.  Above  the 
clouds  the  sky  was  orange  fading 
into  pale  green.  But  nearer  the 
zenith  glowed  one  belt  of  rosy 
cloud ;  and  as  I  looked,  behold  ! 
the  silver  bow  of  Artemis,  newborn, 
shone  forth  to  greet  her  brother 
Apollo  ere  he  sank  from  sight. 
Above  Hymettus  the  sky  was  pale 
blue  fading  almost  magically  into 
the  warm  rose-colour  which  soon 
diffused  itself  over  the  mountain, 
and  tinged  the  very  Parthenon  it- 
self where  I  was  seated.  In  strong 
contrast  to  this  glow  were  the 
greyish  -  white  masses  of  cloud 
which  weighed  close  upon  the  op- 
posite slopes  of  ^Egaleos.  One 
charming  and  unexpected  feature 
was  a  distant  view  over  Salamis 
of  the  Acrocorinthus,  which,  before 


1880.] 


A  Week  in  Athens. 


335 


the  last  struggles  of  the  sun  had 
suffused  the  heavens  with  red,  stood 
out  in  a  luminous  golden  haze  above 
the  waters  of  the  Saronic  gulf. 

The  Parthenon  is  an  inexhaust- 
ible subject,  but  I  have  said  as 
much  of  it  as  space  will  allow,  so  I 
will  now  ask  my  readers  to  return 
to  the  entrance  of  the  Acropolis, 
through  which,  in  our  eagerness  to 
see  its  crowning  glory,  we  passed 
so  hurriedly.  Let  us  stand,  then, 
on  the  marble  steps  and  look  about 
us.  The  view  westward  is  prac- 
tically the  same  as  from  the  roof  of 
the  Parthenon.  Turning  round  to 
ascend  the  steps  we  see  above  us 
the  beautiful  avenue  of  columns 
which  forms  the  centre-piece  of  the 
Propylseo,  or  Porch  on  a  grand 
scale,  which  guards  the  entrance 
of  the  rock. 

The  beauty,  originality,  and  per- 
fect appropriateness  of  this  build- 
ing, which  was  designed  by  Mnesi- 
cles  about  the  year  436  B.C.,  have 
often  been  extolled,  but,  I  think, 
not  exaggerated.  Though  the  mid- 
dle portion,  the  Propylaeum  proper, 
is  much  mutilated — hardly  a  single 
column  standing  entire,  and  one 
architrave  only  remaining  to  repre- 
sent the  roof,  while  the  two  wings 
are  also  mere  wrecks — the  imposing 
character  and  successful  boldness 
of  the  design  are  still  evident.  A 
glorious  gateway,  indeed,  by  which 
to  approach  the  splendours  within  ; 
glorious  now,  as  its  marble  front 
glitters  in  the  clear  air,  and  stands 
out  in  bold  relief  against  the  sky, 
but  how  much  more  glorious  when 
it  shone  resplendent  with  gold  and 
rich  colouring,  and  admitted,  on 
their  way  to  the  temple  of  Athene, 
the  chariots  and  horsemen,  and 
priests,  and  young  men  and  maid- 
ens, who  passed  in  glittering  pro- 
cession up  the  steps  to  bear  their 
annual  gift  -  robe  to  the  goddess  ! 
Xo  wonder  that  Epaminondas,  in 
noble  envy  of  so  grand  a  monu- 

VOL.  CXXVIII.  —  NO.  DCCLXXIX. 


ment  of  art,  prayed,  half  in  jest 
half  in  earnest,  for  its  forcible  re- 
moval to  his  native  Thebes ! 

The  Propylsei  being  an  undoubt- 
ed instance  of  the  lavish  use  of 
colour  in  architecture  by  the  Greeks, 
a  few  words  on  this  vexed  ques- 
tion may  not  be  out  of  place  here. 
At  first  sight,  to  those  who  have 
given  no  special  attention  to  the 
subject,  the  idea  of  laying  colour 
on  the  virgin  purity  of  Pentelic 
marble  is  certainly  repugnant.  It 
was  a  shock  to  the  present  writer, 
as  it  must  have  been  to  many 
others,  to  realise  the  notion  for  the 
first  time.  But  a  little  considera- 
tion, and,  I  might  add,  a  little  more 
faith  in  such  perfect  masters  of 
artistic  taste  as  the  Greeks  have 
otherwise  shown  themselves  to  be, 
may  modify  this  first  impression. 
In  the  first  place,  the  delicate  or- 
namentation in  which,  at  any  rate, 
Ionic  buildings  abound,  would, 
without  the  aid  of  colour,  be  in 
many  cases  lost  upon  an  observer 
standing  below ;  while,  without  such 
aid,  elaborate  compositions,  like  the 
frieze  of  the  Parthenon,  must,  in 
the  situation  selected  for  them, 
have  lost  greatly  in  value.  But 
there  is  another  point  which  at 
once  strikes  the  traveller  who 
stands  beneath  an  Attic  sky,  and 
is  brought  face  to  face  for  the  first 
time  with  the  actual  conditions 
under  which  the  Greeks  worked. 
This  is,  that  the  intense  clearness, 
one  might  almost  say  radiance,  of 
the  air  makes  it  impossible  even  to 
look  at  a  white  glittering  substance 
like  marble,  except  through  some 
medium,  such  as  smoked  glass. 
What,  then,  would  have  been  the 
use  of  a  Greek  sculptor  lavishing 
his  skill  and  invention  upon  works 
of  which,  when  exposed  in  open 
air  and  to  public  view,  only  the 
general  effect  could  be  appreciated, 
while  the  grace  and  delicacy  of  de- 
sign and  execution  upon  which  he 
z 


336 


A  Week  in  Athens. 


prided  himself  was  lost  in  the 
glare  of  sunlight?  If  the  Greeks 
were  an  artistic  nation,  they  were 
also  an  eminently  practical  one ; 
and  I  can  hardly  think  that  they 
would  have  been  content  with  such 
disproportion  of  means  to  ends,  of 
labour  to  the  result  produced.  Need 
we  wonder,  then,  that  they  took  the 
most  obvious  means  of  overcoming 
this  difficulty  1  Let  any  one  walk 
in  the  glare  of  noonday  past  some 
of  the  new  houses  which  the 
Athenians  of  to-day  have  decorated 
with  bare  marble,  and  say  whether 
these  men  or  their  ancestors  of 
twenty  centuries  ago  best  under- 
stood the  proprieties. 

I  have  already  mentioned  the 
temple  of  Wingless  Victory.  It 
stands  on  a  platform  of  hewn  mar- 
ble, of  which  one  side  forms  the 
right-hand  boundary  -  wall  of  the 
steps  leading  to  the  Propylaea.  It 
is  placed,  however,  by  one  of  those 
delicate  nuances  of  artistic  eifect 
in  which  the  Greeks  delighted, 
not  flush,  or  even  parallel,  with 
the  edge  of  the  wall,  but  inclined 
at  a  slight  angle,  so  that  the  light 
catches  it  at  a  different  time,  and 
the  uniformity  of  line  is  broken. 
In  the  same  way  the  Parthenon 
does  not  exactly  front  east  and 
west,  or  stand  exactly  either  at 
right  angles  to  the  Propylsea  or 
parallel  with  the  Erectheum.  Any 
one  who  studies  carefully  the  art 
and  architecture  of  the  Greeks  is 
met  at  every  turn  by  those  con- 
scious deviations  from  mathemati- 
cal accuracy,  and  is  struck  by  the 
boldness  of  a  people  whose  sense  of 
the  laws  of  harmony  is  so  strong 


[Sept. 


that  they  can  dare  to  violate  them 
and  yet  never  be  inharmonious. 
The  fact  established  by  Mr  Pen- 
rose,  that  every  seemingly  straight 
line  in  the  Parthenon  is  in  reality 
a  delicate  curve,  is  a  yet  stronger 
case  in  point.  But  to  return  to  our 
temple.  It  is  a  lovely  and  perfect 
example  in  miniature — for  it  is  not 
much  more  than  16  feet  by  18 — of 
the  Ionic  order.  There  was  a  beau- 
tiful little  frieze  running  round  the 
top  of  the  outside  wall  (now  in 
the  British  Museum),  and  it  had 
formerly  one  remarkable  feature,  in 
the  shape  of  a  parapet  of  slabs, 
adorned  with  beautiful  draped  fig- 
ures of  Victory  in  various  atti- 
tudes, which  was  set  on  the  plat- 
form round  the  building.  Some  of 
these  slabs  are  preserved  in  the 
Museum,  on  the  Acropolis,  and 
there  are  casts  of  them  in  the 
Elgin  Room  at  the  British  Museum. 
They  are  remarkable  as  showing 
how  even  violent  motion  could  be 
treated  with  freedom  and  yet  per- 
fect grace  in  the  best  days  of  Greek 
sculpture.* 

A  few  words  now  about  the 
Erectheum,  the  general  name  given 
to  the  little  block  of  buildings 
(including  the  so-called  Pandro- 
seion  and  the  Cecropeion)  which, 
as  we  pass  through  the  Propylsea, 
stands  on  our  left  hand,  close 
against  the  outside  wall  of  the 
Acropolis.  Beside  the  Parthenon 
it  is  a  mere  pigmy,  but  in  the 
days  of  its  perfection  it  must  have 
been  quite  a  gem.  Even  now  its 
remains  are  covered  with  delicate 
and  lovely  ornamentation.  The 
south  porch,  which  faces  its  giaut 


*  II.  Beule,  to  whose  exhaustive  work  on  the  Acropolis  I  may  refer  readers  who 
wish  for  detailed  information  on  the  subject,  thinks  that  the  Temple  of  Victory  may 
have  been  built  in  the  time  of  Cimon,  and  therefore  earlier,  though  only  by  a  few 
years,  than  the  Propylsea  or  the  Parthenon.  The  parapet  slabs  he  considers  to 
have  been  added  in  the  fourth  century  B.C.  We  are  safe  in  saying,  and  it  is  a  fact 
worthy  of  remembrance,  that  all  these  buildings,  with  the  Theseum  and  others  no 
longer  extant,  were  built  within  the  space  of  fifty  years,  the  breathing-time  between 
the  Persian  and  Peloponnesian  wars,  480-430  B.C. 


1880.] 


neighbour  the  Parthenon,  is  sup- 
ported by  the  famous  Karyatides, 
—  six  most  graceful  draped  female 
figures.  Four  of  the  sisters  are 
still  in  their  place,  but  one  stands 
disconsolate  in  our  own  Museum, 
still  holding  on  her  head  a  frag- 
ment of  the  cornice  which  she  was 
created  to  support  ;  another  is  at 
Munich.  These  vacancies  are  sup- 
plied by  modern  casts  which  help 
one  to  realise  the  general  effect  of 
the  structure  far  better  than  if 
mere  blocks  had  been  put  in  to 
fill  their  place.  There  is  something 
very  beautiful  and  dignified  about 
this  porch,  in  spite  of  the  objection 
raised  by  some  critics  to  the  prin- 
ciple of  employing  the  human  figure 
as  an  essential  element  in  architec- 
ture. The  objection  would  be  per- 
fectly just,  were  there  any  sense 
of  strain  or  unnatural  effort  in  the 
effect  produced.  But  these  stately 
women  bear  their  burden  with 
perfect  ease.  Any  feeling  of  diffi- 
culty is  removed  by  the  delicate 
device  of  making  them  all  to  rest  on 
the  foot  nearest  the  centre  of  the 
porch. 

The  northern  porch  is  a  lovely 
specimen  of  the  Ionic  order,  per- 
haps one  of  the  most  perfect  we 
have.  Several  columns  are  stand- 
ing quite  entire.  The  doorway  over 
which  the  porch  is  raised  is  richly 
ornamented  with  the  honeysuckle 
and  kyination  design,  and  a  line 
of  single  rosettes  adorns  the  lintel 
and  doorposts.  The  honeysuckle 
occurs  again  on  the  top  of  the 
columns  and  along  the  architrave. 
This  porch  we  know  to  have  been 
richly  adorned  with  gold  and  red 
and  blue,  and  very  beautifully  must 
the  delicate  tracery  of  the  designs 
have  come  out  under  this  treat- 
ment. 

Between  these  two  porches  is 
an  oblong  chamber,  the  shrine  of 
Athene  Polias,  wherein  grew  the 
sacred  olive-tree,  and  where  was 


A  Week  in  Athens. 


337 


kept  with  reverent  care  the  wooden 
image  of  Athene  which  fell  from 
heaven. 

Close  to  the  Erectheum,  excava- 
tion has  revealed  a  piece  of  the 
wall  built  by  Themistocles.  It  is 
a  splendid  piece  of  masonry,  quali- 
fied to  stand  almost  any  assault 
before  the  days  of  gunpowder. 
Built  into  this  wall  at  one  point 
are  some  of  the  drums  of  the  old 
Parthenon,  showing  at  what  press 
of  need  the  wall  was  raised,  the 
builders  working  in  whatever  stones 
came  ready  to  their  hand. 

A  few  yards  beyond  the  eastern 
end  of  the  Parthenon,  but  on  a  con- 
siderably lower  level,  stands  a  trim 
little  museum,  well  stored  with  pre- 
cious fragments  of  architecture  and 
sculpture.  Here  are  three  or  four 
of  the  most  beautiful  slabs  of  the 
frieze  of  Phidias,  notably  the  maid- 
ens bearing  waterpots  in  various 
yet  ever  graceful  attitudes,  and  two 
noble  youths  on  horseback  from  the 
equestrian  procession.  Casts  of 
these  supplement  the  originals  in. 
the  British  Museum.  Here,  too, 
are  the  Victories  from  the  temple 
of  !Xike  Apteros  ("Wingless  Vic- 
tory), mentioned  above,  and  many 
other  less  known  but  hardly  less 
beautiful  remains.  Interesting 
from  another  point  of  view  are 
some  pieces  from  the  cornice  and 
soffits  of  the  Parthenon,  on  whicli 
traces  of  red  and  blue  are  still 
visible.  In  a  smaller  building — 
an  old  Turkish  guard-house — be- 
tween the  Erectheum  and  the  Par- 
thenon, are  other  beautiful  things  ; 
but  the  key  of  the  place  is  not  very 
readily  accessible,  and  I  was  not 
lucky  enough  during  our  week's  stay 
in  Athens  to  find  an  entrance.  The 
whole  surface  of  the  rock,  espe- 
cially between  the  Parthenon  and 
Propytaa,  is  strewn  with  fragments 
of  architecture  and  sculpture  which 
await  the  ingenuity  of  scholars  to 
identify  and  piece  them  together. 


338 


A  Week  in  AtJiens. 


Even  as  they  lie  they  seem  to  con- 
firm the  account  given  by  Pausanias 
of  the  countless  works  of  art  he  saw 
on  the  Acropolis. 

Now  let  us  descend  from  the 
Acropolis,  and  wander,  so  far  as 
time  will  allow,  round  .the  other 
remains  of  ancient  Athens.  As  we 
leave  the  famous  rock  behind  us, 
and  descend  the  slope,  only  a  small 
hollow  separates  us  from  the  rugged 
summit  of  the  Areopagus.  Some 
steps  are  cut  in  the  rock  towards 
the  eastern  end,  so  that  one  climbs 
easily  to  the  judgment-seat,  where 
sat  that  grave  and  reverend  court. 
Two  scenes  in  particular  occur  most 
naturally  to  the  mind  as  one  stands 
on  this  spot — the  trial  scene  in  the 
Eumenides  of  ^schylus,  and  the 
speech  of  St  Paul.  To  remind  us 
of  the  one,  there  are  at  our  feet 
the  hollow  recesses  in  which,  at  the 
sublime  close  of  the  great  trilogy 
of  the  Greek  tragedian,  the  Furies, 
now  turned  from  their  wrath,  find 
at  once  a  resting-place  and  a  shrine. 
There,  too,  peering  over  the  summit 
of  the  rock  above,  stands  the  great 
temple  of  Athene,  to  remind  us 
that  she  stepped  in  to  arbitrate  be- 
tween Orestes  and  his  fierce  pur- 
suers. To  the  truth  of  one  at  least 
of  the  charges  made  by  St  Paul 
against  the  Athenians — Sao-iSai/Ao- 
veo-repot  core — ye  are  too  supersti- 
tious :  theTheseum,  the  Parthenon, 
and  the  temple  of  Victory,  still 
standing  around  and  above,  and 
in  the  far  southward,  the  grand 
columns  reared  to  Olympian  Zeus, 
still  remain  as  living  testimony. 

Descending  from  the  Hill  of  Ares, 
and  moving  westward,  we  come  to 
the  Kerameicus,  where  were  found 
those  beautiful  tombstones,  or  fune- 
ral stehe,  the  discovery  of  which 
revealed  to  us  so  important,  and 
hitherto  so  unappreciated,  a  side  of 
Greek  art.  These  are  now  for  the 
most  part  placed  in  the  Patis^ia 
Museum,  and  will  be  dealt  with 


[Sept. 

later.  Some  few  yet  remain  where 
they  were  dug  up.  Differing  widely 
both  in  spirit  and  execution,  hardly 
one  but  conveys  some  trait  of  per- 
sonal or  national  character.  And 
the  value  of  such  mute  testimony, 
over  and  above  that  borne  by  writ- 
ten memorials,  few  will  deny. 
Thoroughly  to  know  a  nation's 
character  one  must  know  it  in  all 
its  moods,  and  what  mood  strikes 
such  solemn  and  touching  chords  in 
the  common  heart  of  mankind  as 
that  to  which  death  is  the  key-note  ? 

The  temple  of  Theseus,  to  which, 
after  leaving  the  Kerameicus,  we 
pass,  by  inclining  slightly  to  the 
right,  stands  by  itself  in  an  open 
space,  round  which  some  attempt 
has  been  made  to  plant  aloes  and 
other  ornamental  shrubs.  Of  all 
extant  buildings  in  the  Doric  order, 
this,  though  the  smallest,  is  the 
most  perfect.  It  owes  its  preser- 
vation to  the  fact  that  it  was  in 
early  Christian  times  turned  into 
a  church  and  dedicated  to  Saint 
George.  The  thought  reminds  one 
that  the  Parthenon  too,  long  dedi- 
cated to  the  service  of  the  Virgin 
Mary,  might  have  been  preserved 
in  like  manner  had  not  the  Turks 
misused  it  for  a  powder-magazine, 
and  the  Venetians  dropped  a  bomb- 
shell into  it! 

The  beautiful  harmony  of  pro- 
portion which  strikes  one  in  the 
temple  of  Apollo  at  Bassse,  and  in 
the  Parthenon,  is  hardly  less  con- 
spicuous in  this  smaller  example  of 
the  Doric  order.  The  impression 
is  rather  to  be  felt  than  described, 
but  it  is  real  nevertheless.  To 
look  at  such  a  building  has  upon 
the  mind  the  same  soothing  influ- 
ence as  to  hear  delicious  music. 
For  the  time  all  the  senses  are 
satisfied,  and  nothing  is  wanting. 

Turning  eastwards  again  from  the 
temple  of  Theseus,  and  passing  the 
western  end  of  the  Areopagus,  we 
see  on  our  left,  at  the  foot  of  the 


1880.] 


Acropolis,  the  remains  of  the  Odeum 
of  Herodes  Atticus,  with  its  brick 
proscenium,  pierced  with  many 
windows.  On  our  right,  at  the 
distance  of  one  hundred  yards  or 
so,  is  the  Hill  of  the  Muses,  crowned 
with  the  interesting  but  unorna- 
mental  monument  of  Philopappu?. 
We  may  note,  in  passing,  that  here- 
abouts lay  the  most  ancient  part  of 
the  city,  as  Thucydides  bears  wit- 
ness. As  we  advance  along  the 
south-western  side  of  the  Acropolis, 
we  pass  the  scene  of  busy  excava- 
tions which  have  already  revealed 
the  foundations  of  a  temple  of rEscu- 
lapius,  and  maybe  expected  .to  pro- 
duce yet  more  valuable  results. 
For  the  debris  which  conceals  the 
face  of  the  rock  is  the  accumulation 
of  centuries,  and  who  knows  what 
treasures  may  not  lie  beneath  1 
Already  more  than  one  important 
inscription  has  been  found.  The»e 
are  the  spoils  of  history;  but  art, 
too,  need  not  despair  of  some  prize 
from  so  rich  a  field. 

Not  far  beyond  we  come  upon 
the  theatre  itself,  laid  bare  only  a 
few  years  ago  by  similar  excava- 
tions. Xext  to  the  Parthenon,  no 
spot  in  Athens  is  so  rich  in  associa- 
tions and  memories  as  this.  In- 
deed, in  some  ways  even  the  marble 
shrine  of  Athene  yields  in  interest 
to  this  rock-cut  temple  dedicated  to 
the  rites  of  Dionysus.  When  wTe 
think  of  the  tremendous  part  played 
in  literature,  in  history, — nay,  in 
civilisation  itself, — by  the  Greek 
dramatists,  and  then  remember  that 
it  was  here  on  this  very  spot  that 
each  of  those  splendid  masterpieces 
— ay,  and  many  more  which  have 
not  come  down  to  us — were  pro- 
duced ;  that  on  these  very  stone 
seats  were  assembled  year  after  year 
the  great  Athenian  people  and  their 
guests  ;  that  here,  therefore,  mutt 
have  sat  to  witness  the  triumphs  of 
-^Eschylus,  of  Sophocles,  of  Euri- 
pides, and  of  Aristophanes  —  all 


A  Week  in  Athens. 


339 


those  mighty  spirits  whose  names 
are  deathless,  whose  deeds  and 
words  live  on  in  the  life  of  hu- 
manity,— when  we  call  to  mind  all 
this,  we  may  well  be  excused  for 
emotion  when  we  stand  in  the 
theatre  at  Athens.  To  name  but 
three  or  four  of  those  who  must 
have  been  there  before  us — Soc- 
rates, Pericles,  Phidias,  Demos- 
thenes,— is  to  name  men  each  in 
his  own  line  supreme. 

These,  then,  being  some  of  the 
human  associations  of  the  place, 
what  of  its  natural  features  1  Let 
us  sit,  as  I  did,  in  one  of  the 
marble  arm-chairs  which  form  the 
lowest  circle  of  the  cavea,  and 
which  were  set  aside  for  priests, 
ambassadors,  archons,  and  other 
officials,  that  of  the  priest  of  Dio- 
nysus occupying  the  central  place. 
We  are  looking  south-east  and  fac- 
ing the  stage.  All  that  remains 
of  the  stage  is  a  low  wall  adorned 
with  figures  in  high  relief,  belong- 
ing to  about  the  second  century 
B.C.,  but  still  possessing  no  little 
gracefulness  and  decorative  effect. 
Beyond  is  the  Ilissus,  and  in  the 
background  Hymettus  sloping  down 
to  the  sea  at  Phalerum.  Were  we 
sitting  in  the  topmost  seats  we 
might,  by  looking  westward,  catch 
a  sight  of  Pirteus,  and  the  sea  and 
islands  beyond  ;  but  from  our  pres- 
ent position  they  are  hidden  by 
high  ground  intervening.  Looking 
eastward  Lycabettus  rises  up  seem- 
ingly close  at  hand,  though  in  fact 
much  of  the  modern  town  lies  be- 
tween. Beyond  this  soars  Penteli- 
cus,  closing  our  view.  Quite  near 
to  us  on  the  left  of  the  stage  stands 
the  arch  of  Hadrian ;  and  beyond, 
though  still  on  this  side  of  the 
Ilissus,  rise  the  few  tall  columns 
which  remain  of  the  temple  of 
Olympian  Zeus,  begun  by  Pisis- 
tratus  just  before  his  expulsion,  but 
never  actually  completed  till  the 
time  of  Hadrian,  seven  centuries 


3  tO 


A  Week  in  Athens. 


later.  Hence  the  use  of  the  Corin- 
thian column,  perhaps  nowhere  in 
Greece  seen  to  more  advantage  than 
here. 

If  we  turn  in  our  seat  and  look 
at  the  Acropolis  above  our  heads 
we  can  see  part  of  the  eastern  end 
of  the  Parthenon,  and  just  a  corner 
of  the  Propylsei,  with  the  temple 
of  Victory.  To  an  actor  on  the 
stage  these  buildings  would,  of 
course,  be  more  completely  visible. 
He  might  catch  a  sight,  too;  across 
the  Areopagus,  of  Salamis,  with 
the  far  mountains  of  Achaia  and 
Argolis. 

Let  this  imperfect  sketch  of  the 
theatre  and  its  surroundings  con- 
clude my  notice  of  the  ancient 
monuments  of  Athens.  The  reader 
who  is  disappointed  at  the  number 
of  omissions  and  the  meagreness  of 
treatment  must  remember  that  a 
week  spent  in  such  a  place  flies 
only  too  quickly,  and  really  allows 
but  little  time  for  accurate  obser- 
vation. All  I  have  attempted  has 
been  to  convey  a  general  impres- 
sion of  the  most  obvious  remains 
of  ancient  Athens. 

There  is,  however,  one  point 
which  demands  a  special  word  of 
explanation.  There  was  one  spot 
in  Athens,  even  more  closely  asso- 
ciated with  the  genius  of  the  peo- 
ple, more  bound  up  with  their  daily 
life  as  citizens,  than  either  the  Par- 
thenon or  the  theatre.  I  mean,  of 
course,  the  Agora.  Why,  then,  have 
I  passed  this  by  in  silence?  Be- 
cau«e  it  must  be  admitted  that  arch- 
aeological authorities  have  not  yet 
agreed  as  to  its  site.  It  were  out 
of  place  here,  even  were  I  com- 
petent to  deal  with  the  subject,  to 
discuss  the  various  theories  that 
have  been  in  vogue.  Suffice  it  to 
repeat  that  no  theory  has  yet  estab- 
lished itself  beyond  dispute.  All 
that  one  can  say  is,  that  it  lay  some- 
where between  the  Areopagus  and 
the  rising  ground  to  the  south-west, 


[Sept. 


which  is  identified  with  the  Pnyx. 
In  this  very  space,  separated  from 
the  Areopagus  by  a  grassy  slope, 
shaped  somewhat  like  a  horse-shoe 
and  bounded  by  a  semicircular  wall 
of  hewn  stone,  still  stands  what 
looks  temptingly  like  a  Mma,  a 
small  stone  platform  with  steps. 
And  this  travellers  were  content 
to  recognise  as  the  genuine  relic 
until  the  conscientious  research 
of  modern  archaeologists — French, 
German^  and  English  —  threw 
discredit  upon  its  claims.  How 
much  rapturous  emotion  must  these 
few  stones  have  called  forth  upon 
false  pretences  !  How  many  peo- 
ple must  have  fancied  that  they 
stood  where  Pericles  and  Demos- 
thenes had  stood  before  them — 
stood  to  sway  the  passions  or  to 
raise  the  ardour  of  the  Athenian 
demos!  For  myself,  however,  the 
doubt  had  already  entered  into  my 
soul  before  I  saw  the  soi-disant 
bema,  so  that  all  the  enthusiasm 
which  such  a  scene  ought  to  have 
summoned  up  was  chilled  at  the 
outset,  and  I  did  not  even  stand 
on  the  stone  platform  at  all.  It 
is  now  commonly  supposed  to  be 
an  altar  ;  and  I  understand  that 
one  of  the  latest  theories  as  to  the 
genuine  bema  is  that  it  was  mov- 
able, so  that  the  chance  of  coming 
upon  it  seems  small  indeed. 

I  must  now  say  a  few  words 
upon  the  various  museums  of 
Athens,  wonderfully  rich,  as  in 
Athens  they  ought  to  be,  in  relics 
of  Greek  art.  It  is  a  consolation 
to  find  that  the  "  eye  of  Greece  " 
still  possesses  snch  treasures,  when 
we  remember  the  rich  spoils  that 
have  been  carried  from  thence  to 
adorn  the  museums  of  Western 
Europe.  The  Varvakion,  a  build- 
ing which  stands  in  a  large  quad- 
rangle approached  by  a  covered 
passage  from  yEolus  Street,  and  is 
devoted  to  purposes  of  public  in- 
struction, contains  a  very  rich  col- 


A  Week  in  Athens. 


1880.] 


lection  of  vases,  especially  those  of 
an  early  period,  and  the  varieties 
peculiar  to  Attica.  Here,  too,  are 
many  of  the  curious  terra -cotta 
figures  found  in  tombs  at  Tanagra 
and  elsewhere,  and  examples  of 
which  may  be  seen  at  the  British 
Museum,  and  not  a  few  fragments 
of  fine  sculpture.  In  a  small  room 
at  the  Ministry  of  Public  Instruc- 
tion are  preserved  some  important 
relics,  such  as  a  remarkable  iron 
circle  with  an  inscription  from 
Olympia,  a  rude  copy  of  the  famous 
Athene  of  Phidias,  with  several 
beautiful  heads,  and  more  vases. 
I  have  already  referred  to  the 
museums  on  the  Acropolis.  There 
remains  the  new  National  Museum, 
on  the  road  leading  to  Patissia, 
where  are  stored  the  most  striking 
of  the  funeral  stelae  dug  up  in  the 
Kerameicus.  Here,  indeed,  there 
is  enough  of  beauty  and  interest 
to  repay  many  visits.  The  funeral 
monuments  themselves  deserve  a 
month's  study  at  the  least,  if  one  is 
to  appreciate  fully  the  exquisite  feel- 
ing and  the  beauty  of  workmanship 
which  distinguish  many  of  them. 
One  I  must  attempt  to  describe,  be- 
cause it  is  so  eminently  characteristic 
of  the  calmness  of  the  Greek  mind 
in  presence  of  death.  Among  many 
farewell  scenes  of  touching  tender- 
ness, mother  parting  from  children, 
husband  from  wife,  friend  from 
friend,  is  one  slab  on  which  stands 
out  in  high  relief  the  fully  modelled 
figure  of  a  young  man.  No  agony 
of  death  is  on  his  brow,  no  sorrow 
of  parting,  no  shadow  of  regret. 
He  leans  in  an  attitude  of  easy 
grace  against  a  pedestal.  The  left 
leg  'crosses  the  right,  the  whole  body 
being  bare  save  for  a  cloak  flung 
across  the  bent  left  arm  and  passing 
behind  his  back  so  as  to  serve  as 
cushion  for  his  seat.  The  left  fore- 
arm is  gone ;  and  the  right  arm  too, 
which  seems  to  have  been  stretched 
out  across  the  chest,  is  broken  off 


341 


above  the  elbow.  Though  the  nose 
and  lips  are  much  mutilated,  the 
rest  of  the  head  is  perfect,  the  hair 
crisp  and  curly,  the  eyes  steadfastly 
gazing  to  the  front.  The  modelling 
of  the  whole  figure,  if  an  unskilled 
observer  may  pronounce  upon  euch 
a  point,  seems  to  recall  the  best 
efforts  of  Greek  sculpture.  Grace 
of  outline  is  combined  with  strength 
and  dignity.  The  treatment  re- 
minds one  of  the  various  figures  of 
Hermes,  whose  original,  attributed 
to  the  hand  of  Praxiteles,  has  lately 
been  unearthed  at  Olympia.  To 
the  left  of  this  principal  figure,  but 
on  a  lower  step  of  the  pedestal, 
crouches  a  small  child,  also  un- 
clothed, apparently  asleep,  with  his 
head  bowed  upon  his  hands,  which 
are  crossed  upon  his  knees.  At 
his  feet,  on  the  right,  lies  a  dog, 
somewhat  resembling  a  stag-hound, 
and  perhaps  indicating  that  his 
young  master  was  noted  as  a 
hunter.  On  the  extreme  right  the 
slab  is  broken  away ;  but  enough 
remains  to  show  in  profile  the 
reverend  aspect  of  an  old  man  with 
flowing  hair  and  beard,  leaning 
upon  a  staff  which  is  grasped  in 
his  left  hand,  while  his  right  is 
raised,  as  if  in  meditation,  to  his 
mouth.  He  is  clad  in  a  loose  gar- 
ment, falling  in  simple  folds.  The 
right  arm,  which  is  finely  modelled, 
is  perfect ;  so,  too,  save  for  a  slight 
defect  in  the  nose,  is  the  head. 
He  looks  thoughtfully  at  the  young 
man.  Can  the  figure  be  a  personi- 
fication of  Death  come  to  summon 
him  away  1  If  so,  he  has  found  a 
victim  who  is  calmly  ready  for  the 
call,  whether  it  came  to  him  in  the 
field  of  battle,  in  the  chase,  or  on 
the  bed  of  sickness. 

Space  will  not  allow  me  to  say 
more  of  the  rich  contents  of  the 
National  Museum,  except  to  men- 
tion that  the  inscriptions  are  re- 
markable both  in  number  and  in- 
terest. I  must  add  to  my  sum- 


342 


A  Week  in  Athens. 


mary  of  museums,  that  some  rooms 
in  the  adjoining  Ecole  Polytech- 
nique  have  been  set  aside  for  the 
display  of  objects  of  archaic  art 
and  manufacture.  Here  is  by  this 
time  arranged  the  famous  Mycenae 
treasure  discovered  by  Dr  Schlie- 
niann,  which,  when  we  were  in 
Athens,  a  few  weeks  only  after  the 
find,  was  carefully  stowed  under 
lock  and  key  in  the  National  Bank. 
And  here  are  the  very  similar  ob- 
jects since  found  at  Spata  and 
elsewhere. 

Before  summing  up  the  results 
of  "A  Week  in  Athens,"  I  will 
briefly  describe  three  short  trips 
which  we  found  time  to  make  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  the  city,  to 
the  olive-groves  of  Kolonos,  to  the 
plain  of  Marathon,  and  to  the  tomb 
of  Themistocles  at  the  Piraeus. 

Kolonos. 

It  was  about  noon  one  day  that 
we  drove  to  Kolonos,  along  a  very 
dusty  road,  past  pretty  villas  stand- 
ing in  their  own  gardens,  well  plant- 
ed with  orange,  lemon  and  cypress 
trees,  and  almonds  in  full  blossom. 
The  day  was  as  hot  as  an  English 
July,  so  we  were  not  sorry,  on 
reaching  the  village,  to  seek  the 
shade  of  some  grand  white  poplars 
which  stand  in  an  open  space  in 
front  of  the  inn.  The  heat,  too, 
and  especially  the  glare  from  the 
chalky  soil  (TOJ/  apyfJTa — flashing — 
KoAwvov,  Sophocles  calls  it),  prevent- 
ed us  from  going  some  two  hundred 
yards  to  the  right  of  the  road,  just 
before  reaching  the  inn  aforesaid, 
in  order  to  stand  on  the  undoubted 
hill,  or  mound  as  it  is  in  reality, 
which  has  been  glorified  by  the 
genius  of  Sophocles. 

A  few  hundred  yards  beyond  the 
village-green  brings  one  to  the  fa- 


[Sept. 

mous  olive  -  grove?,  somewhat  thin 
and  disappointing  here,  though 
more  venerable  trees  aie  to  be  seen 
if  one  wanders  far  enough  into  the 
woods.  One  cannot  honestly  say 
that  all  the  details  of  the  charming 
description  given  by  Sophocles  in 
the  '  CEdipus  Coloneus'  are  still  to 
be  identified.  We  at  least  heard 
no  nightingales  warbling  shiilly  be- 
neath the  green  glades,  or  haunting 
the  dark  ivy.  Dionysus  never 
showed  us  his  radiant  face.  Nar- 
cissus and  crocus  may  still  bloom 
there,  but  their  bloom  was  over. 
Still  the  place  has  beauties  of  no 
common  order.  The  ground  was 
all  planted  with  corn,  whose  wav- 
ing green  contrasted  well  with  the 
silver-grey  of  the  olive  and  the  opal- 
escent blue  overhead.  As  one  en- 
ters the  grove  the  footpath  quickly 
leads  to  the  bed  of  the  Kephisos, 
quite  dry  even  in  April,  sad  to  say, 
though  Sophocles  would  have  us 
believe  that  the  sleepless  nomad 
fountains  of  the  stream  never  grow 
less.  One  could  not  then,  as  one  had 
hoped,  find  relief  from  the  heat  in 
the  sight,  the  touch,  and  the  sound 
of  this  familiar  stream.  The  gift 
of  the  water-nymph  was  withheld. 
Yet  were  we  not  without  immortal 
aid  against  the  shafts  of  Apollo  the 
far-darter.  For  Athene  lent  the 
shade  of  her  olive,*  and  the  green 
gift  of  Demeter  served  us  for  a  cool 
resting-place  after  the  dust ;  and  as 
we  lay  there  enjoying  the  stillness, 
and  musing  upon  the  associations 
of  the  place,  one  of  us  caught  sight, 
through  the  trees,  of  the  Athenian 
Acropolis  and  the  Parthenon,  show- 
ing a  rich  golden  orange  against  the 
blue  background  of  sky.  We  saw- 
no  more  effective  view  of  the  rock 
and  its  monuments  than  this  one 
vignetted  in  the  olive-wreath  of 
Kolonos.  Sophocles  may  have  seen 


700. 


r\avKas  irai8oTp6<t>ov  <(>v\\oi>  e\aius,  8  roiSe 


oph.  (Ed.,  Col. 


1880.] 


A  Week  in  Athens. 


343 


it  thus  when  as  a  boy  he  wandered 
in  the  woods  around  his  native 
deme,  and  dreamed  of  the  day 
when  he  was  to  be  chosen  for  his 
beauty  of  form  and  presence  to  lead 
the  bright  Athenian  procession  to 
that  temple  on  th6  great  festival  of 
the  goddess.  If  no  further  thought 
of  his  future  fame  as  a  poet  stirred 
his  mind  in  those  early  days,  it  is  at 
least  a  fact  of  no  common  interest 
to  the  modern  traveller  that  a  place 
so  closely  linked  with  the  name  of 
the  most  characteristically  Athenian 
of  the  Greek  dramatists  should  com- 
mand so  suggestive  a  view  of  the 
centre  -  piece  of  ancient  Athens, 
standing  out  alone  and  above  all 
other  signs  of  the  city,  whether 
ancient  or  modern. 

Marathon. 

From  a  spot  whose  main  interest 
lies  in  the  domain  of  poetry  and 
legend  we  pass  to  one  of  those 
scenes  which  stand  out  in  the 
world's  history  as  witnesses  of 
noble  and  decisive  deeds  wrought 
by  men  in  presence  of  overwhelm- 
ing difficulty  and  danger ;  and  the 
name  of  Marathon  somehow  arouses 
a  feeling  of  affectionate  reverence 
such  as  few  other  historical  spots 
have  called  forth.  To  leave  Athens, 
then,  without  seeing  Marathon, 
was  not  to  be  thought  of.  Early 
one  morning  we  secured  a  car- 
riage, and  soon  found  ourselves 
passing  through  the  eastein  out- 
skirts of  the  city,  under  the  north- 
ern slope  of  Mount  Lycabettus, 
and  into  the  plain  bejond.  It 
was  a  grey  morning,  rather  wanting 
in  colour,  but  pleasantly  cool.  At 
first  the  country  was  barren  and 
stony,  producing  little  but  wild- 
flowers  of  the  ruder  sort.  The  Attic 
plain  was  always  known  for  the 
poverty  of  its  soil.  But  as  we  near- 
ed  Pentelicus,  the  soil,  though  still 
for  the  most  part  uncultivated,  be- 


came richer  in  wild  vegetation,  and 
we  passed  through  fine  plantations 
of  aged  olives,  of  fir,  and  of  plane. 
The  sun  now  shone  brightly,  tem- 
pered by  a  delicious  breeze,  and 
the  eye  was  delighted  by  the  most 
charming  contrasts  of  colour,  the 
fresh  green  of  the  fir  and  plane,  the 
silver-grey  of  the  olive — these  upon 
a  background  of  blue  sky  with 
banks  of  white  cloud.  Beneath 
was  a  tangled  undergrowth  of  greens 
of  various  hue,  relieved  by  brilliant 
masses  of  scarlet  poppies  and  of 
purple  vetch,  with  a  delicate  ac- 
companiment of  cistus, —  a  little 
flowering  shrub  like  a  dog-rose, 
with  blossoms  of  pale  creamy  white 
peeping  out  from  tiny  leaves,  thick- 
set, and  of  the  loveliest  shades, 
from  green  to  the  darkest  purple. 
These  poppies  were  quite  gloriou?, 
some  of  them  nearly  two  inches  in 
diameter,  and  with  a  black  cross  in 
the  centre. 

Leaving  on  our  left  the  little  vil- 
lage of  Kephisia,  picturesquely  situ- 
ated at  the  foot  of  Pentelicus,  and 
on  our  right  the  king's  summer 
palace  and  the  northern  extremity 
of  Hymettus,  we  soon  got  beyond 
these  famous  mountains,  and  in 
sight  of  the  sea.  Even  then  we 
had  something  like  an  hour's  drive 
before  we  reached  our  journey's  end. 
At  last  the  road,  which  had  been 
running  in  a  north-easterly  direc- 
tion, under  a  back-spur  of  Penteli- 
cus, inclined  to  the  left,  round  the 
end  of  the  spur,  and  made  across  a 
low-lying  grassy  expanse  to  some 
white  houses  a  mile  or  so  away. 
We  did  not  need  to  follow  it  to 
that  point,  for  now  that  the  whole 
plain  and  bay  of  Marathon  lay 
stretched  before  us,  our  business 
was  to  find  the  mound  which  is  the 
sole  visible  memorial  of  the  event 
which  has  raised  the  place  to  im- 
mortality. This  was  easy  enough, 
for  it  is  the  only  break  in  the  dead 
level.  Turning  sharp  to  the  right, 


344 


A  WeeJc  in  Athens. 


along  a  very  rugged  track,  among 
scattered  fig-trees  just  bursting  into 
leaf,  with  here  and  there  a  row  of 
vines  and  a  carpet  of  green  corn,  a 
few  hundred  yards  brought  us  to 
the  spot.  A  plunge  into  the  blue 
y£gean  to  annul  the  effects  of  a  hot 
and  dusty  drive,  quickened  our 
senses  to  take  in  the  points  of  the 
scene.  It  has  been  often  described, 
but  no  description  can  convey  its 
quiet  beauty  aud  grandeur. 

Standing  on  the  mound  and 
looking  seaward,  the  bay,  with  its 
deep  blue  waves  lashed  into  little 
points  of  white  foam  by  the  breeze, 
and  sparkling  in  the  sun  like  dia- 
monds, is  shut  in,  save  at  its  south- 
ern extremity,  by  the  rugged  bar  of 
Euboea,  whose  topmost  peaks,  snow- 
clad,  glitter  against  the  sky,  in 
contrast  with  the  bare  grey  rocks 
beneath.  A  few  hundred  yards 
only  from  the  shore,  towards  the 
northern  end  of  the  bay,  lies  the 
little  rocky  isle  where  the  Persian 
leaders  bivouacked  on  the  night 
before  the  battle. 

This,  then,  was  the  scene  which 
lay  before  the  eyes  of  the  Greeks 
as  they  stood  waiting  the  approach 
of  the  foe — the  same  then  as  now, 
but  that  the  dancing  waters  of  the 
bay  were  crowded  with  Persian 
vessels. 

Now  let  us  consider  the  view 
which  presented  itself  to  the  sight 
of  the  invaders.  First,  a  shore  of 
white  sand,  and  behind  it  a  marshy 
plain,  so  described  by  Herodotus, 
probably  more  so  then  than  now, 
when  some  part  of  it  at  least  is  under 
cultivation.  In  the  background 
rises  a  semicircle  of  rugged  hills, 
with  one  bare  peak  conspicuous  in 
the  centre,  the  eastern  extremity  of 
a  ridge  running  at  right  angles  from 
Pentelicus.  To  the  right  opens 
up  a  pass  which  winds  round  the 
northern  end  of  Pentelicus  into  the 
Attic  plain.  It  was  through  this 
pass  that  the  victorious  Greeks 


[Sept. 


made  their  way  back  to  the  city, 
and  once  more  confronted  the  Per- 
sian fleet,  which,  in  answer  to  the 
traitor's  signal  on  Pentelicus,  had 
in  the  meantime  sailed  round  to  the 
Pineus.  Between  the  hills  proper 
and  the  plain  are  lower  slopes  cov- 
ered with  herbage :  on  these  it 
seems  probable  that  the  Athenian 
host  was  drawn  up,  and  from  this 
point  of  vantage  made  their  rush 
upon  the  foe,  already  entangled  in 
the  morasses  beneath.  In  the 
midst  of  these  morasses,  where 
even  now  the  soil  is  luxuriant  of 
tall  reeds  and  a  tangled  mass  of  wild 
vegetation,  is  the  mound  beneath 
which  lie  buried  300  Athenians  of 
that  brave  army.  To  stand  on  the 
mound  which  covers  that  glorious 
dust,  to  think  of  that  struggle  and 
its  significance,  in  presence  of  tho 
very  mountains  and  sea  which  be- 
held it,  is  a  sacred  privilege  and 
a  lifelong  fund  of  exalted  remem- 
brance. 

Byron's  lines  express  wonder- 
fully the  spirit  of  the  scene,  and  we 
may  repeat  them  without  feeling  the 
melancholy  contrast  which  forced 
itself  upon  his  mind,  between  the 
Greek  patriots  of  2000  years  back 
and  their  descendants  groaning  be- 
neath a  foreign  yoke, — for  Greece 
has  risen  at  last  and  shaken  off  the 
yoke,  and  after  half  a  century  of 
freedom  may  hold  up  her  head  again 
among  the  nations  with  pride  and 
with  hope. 

"The  sun,  the  soil,  but  not  the  slave, 
the  same ; 

Unchanged  in  all  except  its  foreign 
lord,— 

Preserves  alike  its  bounds  and  bound- 
less fame, 

The  battle-field,  where  Persia's  victim 
horde 

First  bow'd  beneath  the  brunt  of  Hellas' 
sword, 

As  on  the  morn  to  distant  glory  dear, 

"When  Marathon  became  a  magic  word ; 

"Which  utter'd.tothehearer's  eye  appear 
The  camp,  the  host,  the  fight,  the  con- 
queror's career. 


1880.] 


The  flj'ing  Mede,  liis  shaftless  broken 

Low  ; 

The  fiery  Greek,  his  red-pursuing  spear ; 
Mountains  above,  earth's,  ocean's  plain 

below, 
Death  in  the  front,  destruction  in  the 

rear ! " 

We  started  back  to  Athens  at 
about  two  o'clock,  and  got  in  by 
six,  when  the  sun  was  setting  be- 
hind ^Egaleos,  and  casting  a  rich 
glow  across  to  Hymettus. 


The  Tomb  of  Themistocles. 

As  if  to  have  stood  on  the  plain 
of  Marathon  was  not  enough  for 
one  day's  delight,  we  must  needs 
start  off  after  dinner  (and  by  train, 
too,  on  the  only  railway  in  Greece  !) 
to  the  Piraeus,  to  pay  our  homage 
at  the  last  resting-place  of  the  man 
who,  whatever  his  faults,  was  the 
first  to  see  what  Athens  had  it  in 
her  to  accomplish,  and  to  open  her 
eyes  and  guide  her  hands  to  the 
fulfilment  of  her  destiny. 

Making  our  way  as  best  we  could 
in  the  darkness  past  the  shipping 
and  the  dockyards,  then  through 
the  straggling  houses  which  lie 
scattered  above  the  harbour  to  sea- 
ward, and  where,  each  house  being 
provided  with  a  fierce  and  ob- 
fctreperous  dog,  we  had  some  diffi- 
culty in  escaping  with  a  whole 
skin,  we  at  length  came  out  upon 
a  narrow  footpath  leading  through 
waste  moorland  along  the  sea-shore. 

A  scramble  of  five  minutes  or  so 
through  the  rough  boulders  brought 
us  to  a  point  where  the  coast-line 
turned  slightly  southwards,  and  left 
us  looking  across  S.W.  to  the  island 
of  Salamis  and  the  mountains  of 
the  Morea.  Hard  by  lies  the  great 
Athenian.  His  tomb  commands 
the  scene  of  the  battle  Avhich  rivals 
the  fame  of  Marathon,  and  which 
would  hardly  have  been  fought  at 
all  cave  for  him.  Hitherto  the 
night  had  been  dark,  and  the  moon 


A  Week  in  Athens. 


345 


chary  of  her  light ;  but  now,  as  we 
looked,  her  struggle  with  the  clouds 
grew  more  intense,  and  their  efforts 
to  hide  her  radiance  each  moment 
more  vain,  till  at  last,  shaking  off  her 
last  foe — a  great  black  fellow,  that 
floated  moodily  down  to  join  his 
discomfited  comrades  upon  the  Mor- 
ean  hills — she  shone  forth  triumph- 
antly, and  amid  flocks  of  white 
cloudlets,  which  here  and  there 
relieved  the  blue-blackness  of  the 
heavens.  And  what  lovelier  scene 
could  she  have  illumined  1  At  our 
feet  gleamed  the  dark  waters  of  the 
gulf,  just  trembling  in  the  breeze, 
and  beyond  the  gleam  the  cone  of 
^Egina  rose  sheer  into  the  silent 
air — ^Egina,  the  "eyesore  of  the 
Piraeus."  How  easy  to  imagine, 
standing  where  we  stood,  the  im- 
patient indignation  which  the  daily 
sight  of  that  persistent  peak,  ever 
pointing  upwards,  and  the  rugged 
aspect  of  the  whole  island — fit  em- 
blem of  her  people's  stubborn  tem- 
per— must  have  roused  in  Athenian 
breasts  !  It  was  as  if,  in  the  days 
when  bitterness  between  England 
and  France  ran  highest,  France  had 
been  as  plainly  and  constantly  vis- 
ible from  the  port  of  London  as  the 
Isle  of  Wight  is  from  Southampton. 
Behind  ^gina,  and  sweeping  round 
to  the  right,  loomed  the  hills  of  Ar- 
golis  and  Achaia.  Nearer  at  hand 
lay  Salamis,  her  jagged  outline  well 
defined  against  the  sky.  Between 
her  and  the  shore  little  Psyttaleia, 
whose  name  lives  in  the  record  of 
the  battle,  asserted  its  existence  by 
the  steady  ray  from  its  lighthouse 
shining  across  the  mouth  of  the 
harbour.  Looking  inland,  the  lights 
of  the  Piraeus  added  to  the  scene 
fresh  interest,  both  of  picturesque- 
ness  and  of  association,  as  showing 
that,  not  less  now  than  in  old  days, 
the  place  was  full  of  the  stir  and 
hum  of  men. 

It  was  hard  to  turn  one's  back 
upon  a  scene  so  rich  in  memories, 


346 


A  Week  in  Athens. 


so  calmly  beautiful ;  it  was  hard  to 
feel  that  one  might  never  again  see 
it  under  such  perfect  conditions. 
But  the  lateness  of  the  hour  com- 
pelled us  at  last  to  be  mindful  of 
returning.  So,  afcer  fighting  our 
way  once  more  by  dint  of  frequent 
stjne- thro  wing  through  our  canine 
foes,  we  secured  a  carriage  (the  last 
train  having  long  departed),  and 
drove  back  into  Athens. 

Farewell. 

And  now  our  eight  days  were  up, 
and  we  had  to  bethink  ourselves  of 
returning  indeed — of  leaving  behind 
not  one  lovely  scene  only,  but  the 
very  city  of  Pericles,  and  Greece 
itself.  Our  last  night  was  to  be 
spent  in  a  moonlight  visit  to  the 
Acropolis,  which  had  only  become 
possible  quite  late  in  our  stay,  for 
at  first  there  had  been  no  moon. 
Alas  for  putting  off  anything  till 
the  last  moment  !  The  day  had 
been  fine  enough,  but  clouds  began 
to  gather  suspiciously  about  sunset, 
and  by  nine  o'clock  when  we  set 
out  the  sky  was  quite  overcast,  and 
a  drzzling  rain  was  falling.  Still 
we  pressed  on,  for,  wet  or  fine,  it 
was  to  be  our  last  visit  to  the  Par- 
thenon, and  was  not  to  be  forgone. 
The  old  doorkeeper  who  let  us  on  to 
the  rock  looked  considerably  aston- 
ished at  any  one  dreaming  of  going 
up  on  such  a  dismal  night.  Pro- 
bably no  one  but  Englishmen, 
and  an  enthusiast  to  boot,  would 
have  dreamt  of  it.  I  do  not  think, 
however,  that  the  trouble  was  at 
all  thrown  away.  There  Avas  a 
weird  grandeur  about  the  great 
temple,  and  the  ruins  geneially, 
which  they  had  not  worn  before. 
There  was  something,  too,  in  the 
temper  of  the  heaven?,  strangely 
akin  to  the  deep  regret  we  could 
not  but  feel  at  standing  for  the  last 
time  on  so  sacred  a  spot.  After 
wandering  aimlessly  and  somewhat 


[Sept. 


sadly  about  the  Parthenon  for  half 
an  hour  or  so,  I  at  last  seated  my- 
self under  the  peristyle  at  the  S.\V. 
corner,  and  there  remained  with 
no  company  but  my  own  thought?, 
and  with  the  wind  howling  through 
the  broken  columns,  and  bringing 
now  and  again  gusts  of  rain  across 
my  face,  till  at  last  unutterable 
melancholy  at  the  desolation  of  the 
scene,  at  the  glory  passed  away,  at 
the  thought  of  leaving  it  all  be- 
hind, made  longer  stay  unbearable. 
One  last  gaze  then  at  the  temple, 
so  far  as  the  darkness  revealed  its 
grand  outlines,  a  last  look  at  the 
beautiful  porch  of  the  Karyatides 
— the  grave  maidens  calm  and  un- 
moved in  storm  as  in  sunshine — 
and  the  Ionic  fa$ade  of  the  Erec- 
theum,  and  we  tread  for  the  last 
time  the  worn  rocky  roadway  lead- 
ing down  to  the  Propylsea.  Pass- 
ing (as  if  loath  to  pass)  through  the 
avenue  of  columns,  beautiful  even 
in  the  darkness,  we  linger  for  a  few 
moments  on  the  marble  steps  be- 
low, casting  perhaps  one  backward 
glance  at  the  mighty  Parthenon  be- 
hind, nodding  an  affectionate  fare- 
well to  the  little  temple  of  Victory 
at  our  left  hand,  and  gazing  as  best 
we  can  through  gloom  and  rain  at 
the  plain  and  sea  beneath.  Then 
rousing  once  more  the  drowsy  jani- 
tor, we  in  good  earnest  turn  our 
backs  upon  the  Acropolis  of  Athens. 
No  gleam  of  moonlight  ever  shone 
out  to  cheer  us. 

Next  morning  we  set  out  early  for 
the  Piiaeus.  It  was  gloriously  fine, 
and  the  Acropolis  again  showed  a 
golden  orange  against  blue  sky,  as 
on  our  first  morning  in  Athens.  Ar- 
rived at  the  harbour,  we  found  that 
for  some  reason  or  other  the  steamer 
which  was  supposed  to  start  at  ten 
was  not,  after  all,  to  sail  till  three. 
It  was  not  worth  while  to  go  back  to 
Athens,  so  we  spent  our  morning 
pleasantly  and  not  unprofitably  in 
inspecting,  first,  a  very  flourishing 


A  Week  in  Athens. 


1880.] 

cloth  manufactory,  and  then  the 
little  harbour  of  Munychium,  lying 
between  the  Piraeus  and  the  road- 
stead of  Phalerum.  Along  a  con- 
siderable part  of  this  little  pro- 
montory, which  is  broken  by  two 
picturesque  basins,  are  visible  re- 
mains of  the  long  walls  which  pro- 
tected them  in  the  days  of  Athenian 
greatness  ;  and  similar  remains  may 
be  seen  close  down  to  the  shore,  and 
even  under  the  water  outside  the 
Piraeus. 

Between  three  and  four  o'clock 
we  at  last  weighed  anchor,  and 
soon  left  behind  all  trace  of  the 
city,  which,  as  I  have  said  before,  is 
a  very  insignificant  object  in  the 
landscape.  Our  eyes,  however,  were 
fixed  on  it  so  long  as  anything  at 
all  was  visible,  and  then  rested  on  the 
stronger  features  of  the  surround- 
ings,— on  Salamis,  Parnes,  Pentel- 
icus,  and  Hymettus,  and  rugged 
./Egina,  lying  nearer  to  us  on  the  left 
hand.  The  sail  was  really  most  de- 
lightful. A  fresh  breeze  was  blowing 
off  the  Peloponnesian  coast,  and 
lashing  the  blue  waters  into  foam. 
Then  the  coast  itself  was  full  of  in- 
terest and  picturesque  beauty,  espe- 
cially whrn  later  on  the  sun  set  be- 
hind the  hills,  and  gorgeous  colours 
came  out  in  contrast  with  the  deepest 
shadows.  The  sunset  was  followed 
by  a  brilliant  moon,  which  added 
fresh  beauty  to  the  scene  and  light- 
ness to  our  hearts.  Of  the  rest  of 
our  voyage — of  the  storm  to  which 
we  awoke  on  the  following  morning, 
arid  which  would  have  driven  us, 
like  St  Paul,  right  down  on  to 
Malta,  had  we  not  run  for  shelter 
into  the  Gulf  of  Messenia  (for  the 
wind  was  that  Relf-sarae  Euroclydon 
named  in  Holy  Writ, — the  same 
"  Auster,  dux  turbidus  Hadriae," 
familiar  to  us  in  Horace) ;  of  the 
lovely  sail  through  the  Straits  of 
Messina,  with  sea  and  sky  a  bril- 
liant blue,  the  coast  of  Italy  gorge- 
ous in  colour  of  soil  and  vegetation, 


347 


and  ^na  sparkling  in  front  like  a 
pyramid  of  molten  silver, — of  these 
and  other  sights  this  is  not  the 
place  to  speak.  For  Athens  is  our 
present  text,  and  Athens  is  now  far 
behind. 

Conclusion. 

And  now  to  sum  up  in  a  few 
words  the  impressions  of  "  A  Week 
in  Athens."  Had  our  expectations 
been  realised?  Could  we  feel  that 
the  dreams  of  past  years  had  not 
been  mere .  illusions,  to  ba  dispelled 
at  first  sight  of  the  reality  ?  Would 
the  name  of  Athens  still  have  the 
same  indescribable  charm  for  us,  or 
would  familiarity  have  deadened  its 
magic  influence?  To  such  ques- 
tions I  can,  for  my  own  part,  look- 
ing back  across  an  interval  of  three 
years,  emphatically  answer,  No  !  In 
some  points,  of  course,  the  place  was 
not  exactly  as  we  had  imagined  it, 
— when  did  imagination,  unaided, 
ever  call  up  a  true  picture  either 
of  nature  or  of  man?  But  in  no 
respect  did  Athens  fall  short  of 
my  ideal,  while  fresh  and  quite  un- 
imagined  charms  revealed  them- 
selves. Among  these  not  the  least 
was  the  quality  of  the  atmosphere, 
its  extraordinary  radiance  and  deli- 
cacy, which  seems  to  give  poetry 
to  objects  in  themselves  neither 
striking  nor  picturesque.  The 
hills  of  AtKca,  Hymettus,  ^Egaleos, 
Parnes,  and  Pentelicus,  present  no 
very  remarkable  features,  save  a 
certain  noble  simplicity  of  form, 
but  as  they  glitter  in  the  noonday 
sun,  or  take  the  rich  colouring  of 
sunset,  their  beauty  is  quite  fascina- 
ting. There  is  a  very  curious  and 
interesting  testimony  to  their  at- 
tractiveness in  Thackeray's  'Cornhill 
to  Cairo,'  which  is  the  more  valu- 
able that  the  writer's  attitude  is 
distinctly  not  that  of  a  worshipper. 
He  seems  indeed  to  find  difficulty  in 
summoning  up  the  proper  enthu- 


348 


A  Week  in  Athens. 


[Sept. 


siasm;  yet  these  lulls  are  too  much 
for  him.     This  is  what  he  says  : — 

"Round  this  wide,  yellow,  barren 
plain — a  stunt  district  of  olive-trees 
is  almost  the  only  vegetation  visible — 
there  rises,  as  it  were,  a  sort  of  chorus 
of  the  most  beautiful  mountains  ;  the 
most  elegant,  gracious,  and  noble  the 
eye  ever  looked  on.  These  hills  did 
not  appear  at  all  lofty  or  terrible,  but 
superbly  rich  and  aristocratic.  The 
clouds  were  dancing  round  about  them; 
you  could  see  their  rosy-purple  sha- 
dows sweeping  round  the  clear  serene 
summits  of  the  hills." 

Another  pleasant  surprise  was 
the  rich  orange  tone  of  such  build- 
ings as  the  Parthenon  and  the  Pro- 
pylsea ;  and  of  the  very  rock  of 
the  Acropolis,  contrasting  so  finely 
•with  the  blue  sky,  and  also  giving 
one  an  idea  of  the  advantage  of 
adding  colour  to  marble  buildings 
in  such  a  brilliant  atmosphere. 
The  country  is  rather  wanting  in 
colour,  the  scanty  soil  producing 
little  foliage  but  olives  and  poplars 
and  cypresses,  so  that  the  value  of 
this  tone  in  the  prominent  build- 
ings is  more  marked.  I  have  al- 
ready spoken  of  the  important  part 
played  by  Mount  Lycabettus  in 
every  view  of  the  city.  This  is  a 
point  that  strikes  one  at  once,  and 
yet  quite  unexpectedly.  The  hill 
is  too  steep  and  inaccessible  to  have 
ever  been  available  as  a  fortress,  or 
indeed  in  any  way,  so  that  its  name 
hardly  comes  into  history — and  it 
did  not  occur  to  the  ancients  that  a 
hill  was  worth  mention  merely  for 
its  picturesqueness. 

I  have  spoken  very  little  of  the 
molern  town,  because  space  obliged 
me  to  dwell  only  on  what  was  of 
the  highest  interest.  I  may  say, 
however,  that  it  is  bright  and  at- 
tractive, and  daily  becoming  more 
so  as  the  number  of  travellers, 
usually  of  the  more  cultivated  kind, 
increases.  The  people  are  most 
courteous  and  kindly,  and  to  tra- 


vellers eager  to  learn  about  the 
antiquities,  the  professors  of  the 
university  and  other  learned  men 
are  both  able  and  willing  to  render 
assistance.  In  fact,  now  that  the 
Germans  and  French  both  have 
nourishing  schools  of  archaeology 
established  in  Athens  (an  example 
soon,  we  trust,  to  be  followed  by 
ourselves),  while  the  Greeks  them- 
selves are  taking  a  keen  and  in- 
telligent interest  in  such  matters, 
scholars  and  men  of  culture  are 
beginning  to  flock  there,  and  Athens 
bids  fair  to  become,  as  Roma  was 
at  the  beginning  of  the  century,  a 
centre  of  attraction  and  a  meeting- 
place  for  savants  of  all  lands. 

Of  the  surroundings  of  the  city 
a  week's  stay  hardly  allows  one 
to  form  an  adequate  impression. 
Eleusis,  Phyle,  Sunium,  and  other 
places  of  interest,  we  had  no  time 
to  see.  The  city  itself  needs  at 
least  ten  days  or  a  fortnight  to  do 
even  scanty  justice  to  its  wonders 
— especially  to  the  unexpected  rich- 
ness of  the  museums.  At  the  same 
time,  let  not  this  deter  any  one, 
with  limited  time  at  his  disposal, 
from  making  the  journey.  Two 
days  will  give  you  a  very  fair  im- 
pression of  the  whole  place,  and 
enable  you  to  see  the  Acropolis  and 
its  surroundings  with  perfect  ease. 
Go  to  Athens,  if  only  for  two  or 
three  days,  is  my  advice  to  all  who 
can  find  an  opportunity.  Don't 
mind  the  journey.  By  travelling 
down  through  Italy  to  Brindisi, 
and  thence  by  steamer  past  Corfu 
and  Zante  up  the  Gulf  of  Corinth, 
across  the  isthmus  and  the  Saronic 
gulf,  you  may  reach  the  Piraeus  in 
eight,  or  at  most  nine,  days  from 
London.  The  very  journey  is  full 
of  beauty  and  interest.  Athens,  at 
any  rate,  will  reward  you  for  your 
pains.  Go,  then  !  in  the  spring  if 
you  can,  or  in  the  autumn,  or  at 
Christmas  ;  but  go  —  at  whatever 
time — go  to  Athens !  Crede  experto. 


1880.] 


A  Lasting  Memory. 


349 


A    LASTING     MEMORY. 


THE  night  of  my  return  I  went 
to  the  Haymarket  Theatre.  After 
nay  long  wanderings  my  arrival  had 
disappointed  me.  It  was  a  dull 
November  Saturday.  London  was 
not  full,  and  I  found  scarcely  any  of 
the  greetings  I  had  longed  for  and 
expected.  My  few  relatives  were 
absent ;  in  the  clubs  I  belonged 
to  I  only  found  strangers.  Time 
hung  heavy  on  my  hands  after 
the  strange  scenes  of  the  past  five 


years.     So   I  went    to    the    Hay- 
market. 

The  little  •  theatre  had  always 
been  my  fancy.  I  remembered  it 
from  very  early  youth — Farren,  Web- 
ster, Buckstone,  Howe,  Holl,  Mrs 
Nisbet,  Mrs  Glover,  Julia  Bennett, 
and  Miss  P.  Horton.  I  have  never 
been  a  great  theatre-goer  or  devotee 
of  the  drama,  and  my  knowledge 
of  theatrical  history  is  pretty  well 
confined  to  the  Haymarket. 


There  was  rather  a  long  entr'acte, 
and  my  mind  by  instinct  but  mist- 
ily went  over  different  occasions  of 
play-going.  Here  I  had  been  with 
A,  and  B,  and  C,  in  days  when  the 
end  of  the  play  was  the  beginning 
of  the  evening.  Nearly  opposite 
once  existed  a  kind  of  hell  upon 
earth  called  Bob  Croft's,  whither 
young  men  went  merely  because 
it  was  disreputable. 

Once  or  twice  in  early  youth  I 
had  been  taken  there,  and  I  had 
not  fancied  it,  for  rough  amusements 
had  never  been  to  my  liking.  At 
Mr  .  Croft's  an  ordinary  evening 
generally  ended  in  a  fight,  and  a 
not  very  extraordinary  one  in  a 
police  invasion.  Here  I  had  been 
kept  from  harm's  way  by  Jock 
Campbell  —  since  dead.  Once — 
the  remembrance  followed  quick — I 
had  come  to  the  theatre  in  a  box 
with  Jock  Campbell  and  others. 
Among  them  was  Lydia  Mainwar- 
ing.  The  play  was  the  same  as 
that  now  being  acted — the  '  School 
for  Scandal.'  I  glanced  at  the  box 
we  had  occupied.  It  was  empty. 
The  curtain  again  drew  up. 

Another  entr'acte.  The  box 
was  still  empty.  -I  sighed.  My 


longed-for  return  had  been  such 
a  disappointment.  I  had  almost 
expected  to  see  some  friend  in 
the  box.  Curious — in  a  box  near 
it  two  hands  in  black  gloves  are 
holding  an  opera-glass  directed  to- 
wards me.  The  wrists  seem  familiar, 
small,  but  with  hard  wiry  sinews 
expressing  power  and  strength. 
The  next  time  I  look  up,  the 
hands  and  the  glass  are  there  no 
logger,  and  their  owner  has  retired 
to  the  back  of  the  box. 

The  pky  was  over,  and  a  well- 
known  farce  was  about  to  com- 
mence. The  stalls  were  half 
emptied,  when  a  well-known  face 
came  and  greeted  me.  It  was 
Sir  Esmd  Egerton,  once  a  school- 
fellow, then  a  clergyman — a  voca- 
tion he  had  renounced  on  suc- 
ceeding to  a  baronetcy  and  a  pro- 
perty. He  was  a  kindly,  dull 
man. 

"  "Westerham,"  he  said,  "  I  had 
no  idea  you  were  in  London." 

"  I  have  only  just  returned  after 
nearly  five  years'  wandering  in  the 
two  Americas." 

"  I  knew  you  were  travelling 
somewhere,  but  no  one  ever  heard 
from  you." 


330 


A  Lasting  Memory. 


[Sept. 


"I  have  so  few  people  to  write 
to,"  I  answered,  "and  no  one  wrote 
to  me.  I  have  often  been  beyond 
the  range  of  all  news,  public  or 
private." 

"Then,  I  daresay  you  never 
heard  of  my  marriage?  Come  up 
and  make  the  acquaintance  of  my 
•wife." 

He  took  me  to  the  box  in  which 
I  had  seen  the  black  gloves. 

"My  dear,  I  don't  think  you 
ever  knew  my  old  friend  Lord 
Westerham,  though  I  believe  you 
come  from  the  same  country  and 
bear  the  same  name.  He  has  just 
returned  from  South  America." 

Lady  Egerton  bowed  for  a  mo- 
ment without  a  word.  Then,  as 
though  to  make  reparation,  she 
said,  "  I  am  always  glad,  Esme,  to 
see  your  friends.  Welcome  home, 
I  should  say,  Lord  AVesterham.  I 
know  you  already  from  Esme  and 
others.' 

It  was  the  same  voice  and  the 
same  gesture  as  before — a  mixture 
of  defiance  and  submission,  of  re- 
sentment and  fear.  To  Esme  her 
bearing  was  affectionate  and  caress- 
ing, almost  compassionate  and  full 
of  gratitude. 


But  to  me  Lydia  Mainwaring 
showed  no  sign  of  recognition. 

"  I  was  surprised  to  hear  of  Sir 
Esm6's  mairiage  just  now.  I  have 
had  no  letters  for  months,  and  have 
seen  no  newspapers  except  in  the 
last  few  weeks." 

"Won't  you  ask  the  wanderer 
to  dine  to  morrow  ? "  suggested  the 
husband. 

"I  hope  you  will  come,  Lord 
Westerham.  Esme  will  long  to 
hear  your  adventures;  and,"  she 
added  more  slowly,  and  with  an 
emphasis  perceptible  only  to  my- 
self— "and  they  will  interest  me 
too."  She  continued — "  I  feel  a 
little  chilly,  Esme,  and  should  like 
to  go  home." 

He  begged  me  to  escort  his  wife 
down-stairs  while  he  looked  out  for 
the  carriage. 

When  alone  she  said  no  word  of 
recognition  or  reminiscence. 

"You  must  have  seen  the  play 
before,  Lord  Westerham." 

"  Once,"  I  replied,  "  a  long  time 
ago,  from  the  box  next  to  this  one." 

"  Then  you  will  remember  to- 
morrow," she  said,  as  she  entered 
the  carriage.  "I  know  your  pro- 
mises are  sacred.  Good  night." 


My  youth  was  most  unhappy.  My 
mother  had  married  a  second  time 
a  Welsh  clergyman,  who  had  spec- 
ulated on  her  family.  She  was  the 
sister,  and  later  the  heir  general,  of 
Lord  Westerham,  who,  having  two 
boys  and  an  encumbered  estate, 
could  do  little  for  her,  even  if  so 
inclined.  The  death  of  his  two 
boys  made  but  little  change  in  his 
inclination,  as  it  seemed  to  em- 
bitter his  wife,  a  hard  Scotch  Puri- 
tan, towards  those  who  were  to 
succeed  to  the  inheritance  of  her 
sons.  Nor  did  it  improve  the  dis- 
position towards  me  of  my  step- 


father. Small  as  were  my  prospects, 
they  stood  in  the  way  of  his  son, 
my  step -brother  —  an  impulsive, 
choleric,  sickly  boy,  who  died 
before  his  father.  But  my  early 
life  and  home  were  unhappy.  My 
small  patrimony  was  seized  on  by 
my  step-father,  who  grudged  me 
the  food  and  shelter  he  gave 
me  from  my  own  money.  Things 
could  not  last  thus.  At  an  early 
age  I  therefore  found  myself  living 
in  London  with  a  distant  cousin,  a 
conveyancer,  who  gave  me  a  latch- 
key, and  allowed  me  to  have  my 
own  way,  under  the  guidance  of 


1880.] 


A  Lasting  Memory, 


351 


another  distant  relative,  a  sporting 
man  and  a  scapegrace.  It  was 
under  his  patronage  that  I  became 
acquainted  with  the  establishment 
of  Mr  Eobert  Croft.  It  is  a  wonder 
to  me  now  that  I  was  not  ruined 
in  purse  and  reputation  before  I 
reached  the  age  of  nineteen.  For- 
tunately, I  disliked  the  society  into 
which  I  was  initiated,  and  after  the 
first  flattering  assurance  that  I  was 
"  seeing  life,"  I  backed  out  of  Mr 
Croft's  intimate  circle.  Indeed  I 
never  entered  into  his  establish- 
ment above  two  or  three  times — 
once  with  my  cousin,  who,  having 
secured  me  the  entree,  allowed  me 
alone  to  improve  the  occasion.  It 
was  on  my  third  and  last  appear- 
ance that  I  made  the  acquaintance 
of  Jock  Campbell. 

After  dining  alone  with  the  con- 
veyancer, I  left  him  to  his  work, 
went  to  the  theatre,  and  sat  in  the 
stalls  next  Jock.  I  looked  much 
younger  than  my  age,  which  was 
not  more  than  seventeen.  When  I 
left  the  theatre  I  crossed  the  Hay- 
market  and  passed  up  the  little 
court  which  led  to  Croft's.  I  had 
engaged  to  meet  my  scapegrace 
cousin  there.  He  had  dazzled  me 
with  the  promise  of  taking  me  to  a 
scene  of  even  greater  bliss.  At  the 
door  of  Bob  Croft's,  waiting  for  it 
to  be  opened  at  the  necessary 
signal,  stood  the  tall,  heavy,  but 
well  -  proportioned  form  that  had 
sat  next  me  at  the  theatre.  Look- 
ing at  me  as  we  entered,  he  said, 
in  a  tone  of  compassion,  "  Hillo  ! 
young  man,  you  are  beginning 
early."  I  half  resented  his  re- 
marks, and  with  an  air  of  superi- 
ority I  asked  the  waiter  if  Mr  Alan 
M'Tavish  had  arrived. 

"Alan  MTavish!"  Jock  Camp- 
bell murmured  to  himself  as,  on 
learning  that  my  cousin  had  not  ar- 
rived, I  walked  into  the  first  room. 
The  rooms  were  small  and 
crowded.  The  gas  flamed,  but  the 

VOL.  CXXVIII. — XO.  DOCLXXIX. 


floors  were  sanded.  The  space  was 
divided  into  boxes,  of  which  only 
two  sides  were  fenced  off.  The 
atmosphere  was  thick  with  smoke  ; 
and  there  was  to  be  found  the  refuse 
of  race-courses  and  singing-halls, 
with  a  large  sprinkling  of  young 
men  of  the  upper  and  middle 
classes,  Guardsmen,  and  others  who, 
like  myself,  imagined  they  were 
enjoying  life. 

Jock  Campbell  entered  as  a  king, 
and  was  rapturously  greeted  by  all 
the  assembly. 

He  was  a  splendid  fellow — tall, 
at  least  six  feet  four,  muscular,  with 
great  breadth  of  shoulders,  power- 
ful arms,  and  a  handsome,  high-bred, 
fair-complexioned  face,  on  which  he 
wore  a  moustache  —  an  ornament 
only  known  in  those  days  to  men 
who,  like  himself,  were  in  the 
cavalry. 

"  Good  night,  Jock,"  the  mob 
cried  out. 

"  Good  night,"  he  responded, 
cheerily;  and  notwithstanding  the 
vile  surroundings,  his  presence  and 
his  voice  showed  the  good  there 
was  in  the  man. 

He  was  not  more  than  four-and- 
twenty,  and  the  days  had  not  died 
out,  now  almost  forgotten,  when 
coarse  debauchery  was  deemed  the 
extreme  of  wit  and  good  company. 
Spring-heeled  Jacks  wrenching  off 
door-knockers,  midnight  surprises, 
fights  in  the  street,  attacks  on 
the  police, — these  were  the  pleas- 
ures of  many  young  men  of  the 
world  now  staid  grandfathers  and 
lights  in  their  generation.  Jock 
Campbell  had  fallen  into  these 
ways  from  high  spirits  rather 
than  from  depravity.  He  was  full 
of  energy,  strong,  handsome,  and 
beloved — beaming  with  sympathy, 
which  was  enlisted  by  his  com- 
panions for  the  moment,  whether 
these  were  innocent  or  the  reverse. 
Belonging  to  a  regiment  in  which 
such  pursuits  were  the  vogue,  he 


352 


A  Lasting  Memory. 


[Sept. 


plunged  readily  into  them.  But 
he  was  equally  popular  in  ball- 
rooms with  maiden  aunts,  or  even 
little  children,  for  he  was  only 
pleased  with  giving  pleasure. 

Waiting  for  my  cousin,  I  called 
ostentatiously  for  a  glass  of  "pale 
white,"  the  synonym  for  brandy- 
and  -  water  in  an  unlicensed  in- 
stitution. An  inner  feeling  seemed 
to  tell  me  that  Jock  Campbell  had 
his  eye  on  me ;  and  half  resent- 
ful, yet  half  fascinated,  I  followed 
him  up-stairs  with  my  brandy- and- 
water  in  my  hand.  The  room  was 
rather  larger,  as  supper  could  be 
obtained  there,  and  a  table  stood 
very  nearly  the  whole  length  of  the 
room,  covered  with  a  cloth  spotted 
with  gravy,  beer,  and  strong  drink. 
I  sat  down  at  an  unoccupied  corner 
of  this,  sipping  my  brandy  -  and- 
water  and  smoking  a  cigar,  a  newly- 
acquired  accomplishment.  A  man 
with  a  broken  nose  named  Shep- 
herd, a  betting  man,  sat  at  the 
other  end.  The  rest  of  the  room 
was  crowded;  for  it  was  known 
Jock  Campbell,  who  had  a  beauti- 
ful voice,  would  be  asked  to  sing 
a  song. 

"Come,  Jock — a  song!"  they  all 
cried;  and  he  trolled  forth,  in  a  rich, 
strong  tenor,  an  Irish  song  with 
a  rollicking  chorus,  in  which  the 
whole  room  joined. 

"  Encore  !  encore  !  "  shouted  the 
crowd. 

"I  'ope  the  song  won't  be  so 
noisy,  captain,"  said  Mr  Bob  Croft, 
"  acos  of  the  peelers." 

"  All  right,"  said  Jock  Campbell, 
as  he  took  a  puff  of  his  cigar,  look- 
ing me  straight  in  the  face ;  and 
leaning  his  chin  on  his  hand,  he 
sang  in  a  minor  key,  and  in  a  low 
tone,  a  pathetic  Scotch  song.  The 
effect  was  extraordinary.  The 
crowd  was  hushed  while  he  sang ; 
and  when  he  ended,  the  lost,  hard- 
ened women  present  were  crying 
and  sobbing  like  children. 


On  myself  the  effect  was  elec- 
trical. I  had  often  heard  the  song 
in  my  home,  and  had  always  been 
told  that  it  was  unpublished,  and 
related  to  an  event  in  our  family 
history.  It  set  me  musing. 

"  Come,  young  man,"  said  the 
broken-nosed  ruffian  at  the  end  of 
the  table  ;  "  don't  you  know  it's 
your  duty  to  stand  the  company 
with  champagne  round1?" 

I  was  quite  dazed  with  the 
speech. 

"  If  you  go  wool-gathering,  young 
man,"  continued  Shepherd,  "  I'll 
bring  you  to,  soon  enough." 

"  Don't  be  too  hard  on  the 
youngster,  Tim  Shepherd,"  said 
Jock  Campbell. 

"  If  he  don't  stand  champagne, 
I'll  knock  his  head  off,"  replied  the 
bully. 

"  No,  you  won't,  Tim,"  rejoined 
Jock.  "  A  big  fellow  like  you  can't 
hit  a  child  like  that." 

"No,  you  can't,  Tim,"  said  the 
company.  "We  don't  want  no 
champagne." 

"  You  shall  have  some,  however," 
declared  Jock  Campbell ;  and  he 
ordered  half-a-dozen  of  Mr  Croft, 
who  brought  it  up  himself. 

By  this  time  Jock  Campbell  had 
come  near  me. 

"  You  must  take  a  glass,  young- 
ster," he  said,  "if  only  for  the 
sake  of  my  song.  Do  you  know 
it?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered.  "In  my 
family  it  is  known  as  the  song  of 
Lydia  Mainwaring,  the  Welsh  girl 
who  loved  the  Scotchman." 

"  Where  do  you  live,  my  boy  1 
You  had  better  go  home." 

"  I  am  waiting  for  some  one." 

"  Alan  M'Tavish  won't  come  here 
to-night.  He  has  been  taken  to  a 
spenging-house.  You  had  better 
leave  this,  as  there  is  sure  to  be 
a  row  soon.  Can  I  give  you  a 
lift?" 

"  I  live  in  Baker  Street." 


1880.] 


A  Lasting  Memory. 


353 


"  What !  with  old  Calvert  M'Tav- 
ish  ?  It  is  not  far  out  of  my  way 
to  the  barracks." 

His  brougham  was  standing  at 
the  door,  and  he  took  me  home. 


"  Don't  go  any  more  to  Bob 
Croft's,"  he  said  at  parting.  "  Trust 
my  word,  it  is  not  good  for  you, 
and  my  name  is  Jock  Campbell. 
"We  shall  meet  soon." 


Alan  M'Tavish  was  soon  set  free 
from  the  sponging-house.  Calvert 
was  rich,  and  his  mission  seemed  to 
be  the  release  of  Alan  from  arrest. 
He  was  a  quaint,  kind-hearted,  yet 
selfish  old  man,  who  had  discov- 
ered the  secret  that  immediate  com- 
pliance saved  a  great  deal  of  trouble. 
His  only  hobby  was  his  profession, 
which  had  produced,  and  was  pro- 
ducing, a  good  deal  of  money.  To 
a  great  part  of  this  his  few  relatives 
seemed  welcome.  Alan  helped  him- 
self freely,  and  was  only  arrested 
when  Calvert  was  out  of  town.  I 
was  far  more  humble  and  content- 
ed myself  with  my  small  means 
— ample  enough,  as  Calvert  would 
not  hear  of  my  paying  for  bed  or 
board. 

"Who  is  Jock  Campbell?"  I 
asked  of  Alan. 

"  As  good  a  fellow  as  ever  lived. 

A  captain  in  the ,  and  a  kind 

of  cousin  of  yours  and  mine.  Did 
you  ever  hear  the  song  of  Lydia 
Mainwaring  ? " 

"Yes,  I  have — often."  Some- 
how or  other  I  did  not  like  to 
tell  the  manner  in  which  I  had 
last  heard  it. 


"  Well,  since  the  loves  of  Lydia, 
and  of  Jock  her  lover,  the  names 
of  Mainwaring  and  Campbell  have 
been  intertwined  in  almost  every 
generation.  You, — at  least  your 
mother  is  a  Mainwaring.  Lord 
Westerham  has  married  a  Camp- 
bell. But  Lady  Westerham  has 
nearer  Mainwaring  relations  than 
her  husband.  Jock  Campbell  is 
her  nephew,  and  she  has  a  girl 
living  with  her,  half  cousin,  half 
dependant,  whose  name  is  Lydia 
Mainwaring,  and  whose  relationship 
to  Lord  Westerham  is  scarcely  ap- 
preciable." 

"  I  wish  I  knew  my  relations,"  I 
said,  with  a  sigh.  "  I  have  so  few 
respectable  acquaintances." 

"Am  I  not  sufficient ?"  asked 
Alan.  "  Well,  perhaps  I  am  not 
respectable,"  he  replied  in  his 
turn.  "  You  know,"  he  went  on  to 
say,  "  the  difficulty.  Lady  Wester- 
ham has  a  crotchet,  and  your  step- 
father is  a  brute.  But  you  cer- 
tainly should  know  more  people. 
It  won't  do  for  your  acquaintance 
to  be  confined  to  Calvert  and  my- 
self. I'll  think  it  over.  Just  lend 
me  a  couple  ofjpounds." 


Lord  and  Lady  Westerham  came 
to  town,  and  Jock  Campbell  in- 
sisted on  their  asking  me  to  dinner. 
Lord  Westerham  was  a  heavy,  high- 
bred man,  interested  in  agriculture, 
and  deep  in  reviews  and  newspapers. 
Lady  Westerham  was  the  real  figure 
round  which  was  grouped  the  fam- 


ily history.  Aged,  with  grey  hair 
under  a  cap,  dressed  in  a  great  deal 
of  rich  silk  and  old  laces,  she  was 
in  every  respect  the  grande  dame. 
Her  manners  at  first  were  somewhat 
assuring ;  but  there  was  a  hardness 
in  her  well-cut  features,  and  a  look 
almost  ferocious  in  her  eyes,  over- 


354 


A  Lasting  Memory. 


[Sept. 


hung  by  bushy  eyebrows,  which 
impressed  you  very  soon  with  the 
feeling  almost  of  cruelty.  She  sel- 
dom smiled,  and  never  laughed ; 
and  her  eye,  with  an  expression  of 
command  and  triumph,  was  con- 
stantly searching  the  looks  and 
watching  the  movements  of  Lydia 
Mainwaring. 

It  was  impossible  to  see  this 
girl  without  pitying  her.  She  was 
very  beautiful,  but  never  appeared 
happy.  Her  eyes  wore  a  startled 
look,  like  that  of  a  deer  on  the  alert 
— sometimes  almost  a  look  of  terror. 
It  was  easy  to  learn  the  secret. 
Lady  "Westerham  never  left  her 
alone,  never  omitted  some  phrase 
that  must  cut  her  to  the  heart.  If 
she  spoke  to  Jo6k  Campbell  or  my- 
self, she  was  bidden  to  leave  the 
room.  If  absent,  she  was  recalled 
and  cross  -  questioned  as  to  her 
doings.  For  Jock  Campbell  alone 
had  Lady  Westerham  any  affec- 
tion. He  was  her  nearest  relation 
and  her  heir.  It  was  principally 
on  her  income  that  Lord  Wester- 
ham  managed  to  keep  up  Castle 
Creasy,  his  house  over  the  Scotch 
Border. 

Even  Lady  Westerham's  hard 
nature  yielded  to  Jock's  sunny  pres- 
ence. He  seemed  to  have  some  dom- 
inating influence  over  her,  which 
at  times  reduced  her  to  silence  in 
the  middle  of  a  cutting  remark  to 
Lydia.  To  him  Lydia  owed  her 
few  pleasures.  When  she  went 
rarely  to  the  theatre,  it  was  with 
Jock  and  myself,  under  the  chaper- 
onage  of  Calvert  M'Tavish. 

To  myself  Lady  Westerham  was 
very  gracious. 

"  I  am  glad  to  know  you,  Mr 
Masters,"  she  said,  with  a  slight 
Scotch  accent,  "  for  we  are  doubly 
cousins ;  and  in  Scotland  more  than 
elsewhere  we  hold  the  doctrine  that 
blood  is  thicker  than  water.  I  am 
Campbell  and  Mainwaring,  and 
nothing  else.  This  girl  is  a  Main- 


waring,  and  her  mother  was  a 
Campbell,  and  that's  why  she  lives 
here,  Mr  Masters." 

"  I  suppose  she  is  a  cousin  also  1 " 
I  said,  shaking  hands  with  the  poor 
girl,  and  rather  glad  to  claim  rela- 
tionship with  her. 

"  Yes,  in  a  kind  of  way.  Lydia, 
you  had  better  go  through  the 
accounts." 

Without  a  word  Lydia  left  the 
room. 

A  year  or  two  after  my  acquaint- 
ance with  the  Westerhams  my 
mother  died,  and  I  became  the 
heir  to  the  title  and  such  estate  as 
went  with  it.  At  the  bidding  of 
Lord  Westerham,  I  assumed  the 
name  of  Mainwaring,  and  in  the 
winter  of  the  same  year  went 
with  Jock  Campbell  to  Castle 
Creasy. 

"Theo,"  he  said  to  me  in  the 
train,  after  smoking  in  silence,  "  I 
want  to  take  you  into  confidence." 
The  tone  in  which  he  spoke  im- 
pressed me.  It  seemed  as  though 
some  turning-point  of  my  life  was 
presenting  itself. 

"We'll  talk  business,"  he  said. 
"I  have  been  thinking  over  mat- 
ters, and  I  find  that,  barring  my 
little  sister  in  the  country  and 
Lady  Westerham,  I  have  no  nearer 
relation  than  you.  Now,  I  am 
not  going  to  live  long.  My  heart 
is  shaky,  and  I  know  it ;  and  I  have 
no  one  to  whom,  as  much  as  to 
yourself,  I  can  bequeath  my  confi- 
dences. My  little  sister  is  well 
provided  for.  She  had  exactly  the 
same  fortune  as  myself,  and  the 
accumulations  will  be  considerable 
when  she  comes  of  age.  I  there- 
fore intend  dividing  my  own  for- 
tune into  two  parts — one  I  leave  to 
her  and  one  to  you." 

I  made  some  gesture  of  depreca- 
tion. 

"Don't  interrupt  me,  and  don't 
think  I  shall  leave  you  your  share 
absolutely.  I  hope  not  to  die  just 


1880.] 


A  Lasting  Memory. 


355 


yet;  but  when  I  do,  you  will  re- 
ceive a  letter  making  a  charge  on 
the  money  I  leave  you.  This  is 
what  lawyers  call  a  secret  trust.  It 
is  not  legally  binding ;  but  you,  I 
know,  will  respect  it.  I  do  not 
even  ask  you  to  give  me  your 
word.  You  will  know  the  let- 
ter to  be  genuine  both  from  my 


handwriting  and  from  two  seals 
— this  one  I  wear  on  my  finger, 
and  another  with  the  initials  'L. 
M.'" 

The  communication  was  so  sad- 
dening that  I  could  not  find  a  word 
of  reply.  Probably  my  silence 
pleased  him  more  than  phrases. 
I  hope  so. 


Castle  Creasy  is  a  very  lonely 
place.  The  house  is  built  in  gran- 
ite, with  a  moat  round  it,  now 
dry  and  grown  in  grass.  The 
ghost  of  Lydia  Mainwaring  haunts 
one  portion  of  it — a  long  corridor, 
with  bachelors'  rooms,  and  ending 
in  a  billiard-room.  The  house  was 
more  gloomy  than  necessary,  owing 
to  its  half-tenantless  state.  It  was 
rare  that  any  visitors  were  admitted 
to  the  house,  partly  from  the  want 
of  income,  partly  from  the  almost 
ascetic  seclusion  of  its  masters  since 
the  death  of  the  two  sons.  One 
custom  alone  partly  relieved  the 
oppressive  character  of  the  residence. 
Gas  —  not  long  introduced  into 
country-houses — was  kept  burning 
all  night  in  different  portions  of 
the  building.  -  This  was  absolutely 
necessary  in  case  of  any  night 
alarm,  and  made  up  for  the  small 
number  of  the  servants.  Jock  and 
I  walked  through  the  large  gloomy 
hall. 

"There  is  the  heroine  of  the 
song,"  he  said.  I  looked  up,  and 
either  in  imagination  or  reality  saw 
a  striking  likeness  of  the  present 
Lydia  Mainwaring.  We  went  up 
an  oaken  staircase  and  passed  a 
long  gallery.  Then  we  were  re- 
ceived by  the  master  and  mistress 
of  the  house.  Lydia  Mainwaring 
was  with  them,  her  eyes  more 
startled  and  fear-stricken  than  be- 
fore. The  likeness  to  the  picture 
again  struck  me. 


Lord  Westerham  received  us  in  a 
kind  but  somewhat  reserved  man- 
ner. Lady  "Westerham  kissed  Jock 
on  the  forehead.  Then  she  turned 
to  me  and  said — 

"I  must  bid  you  welcome,  Mr 
Mainwaring,  though  you  will  enjoy 
the  inheritance  of  my  sons." 

Lydia  shook  hands  with  us  with 
a  look  as  though  she  feared  a  blow. 

"  Perhaps  you  will  go  to  your 
rooms  to  dress,"  interposed  Lady 
Westerham.  "  They  are  in  the 
bachelors'  wing.  Lydia,  ring  the 
bell." 

Jock  seemed  half  inclined  to 
make  some  joking  observation,  but 
the  whole  atmosphere  was  too  chill- 
ing and  oppressive,  and  we  followed 
the  butler  to  our  rooms. 

The  corridor  in  which  they  were 
situated  was  entered  by  a  flight  of 
four  or  five  steps.  Over  the  en- 
trance there  was  a  dim  gas-light. 
The  same  over  the  door  of  the  bil- 
liard-room opposite.  It  contained 
twelve  rooms,  six  on  either  side. 
These  were  furnished  in  the  rough 
style  with  which  bachelors  used 
formerly  to  be  treated. 

There  was  a  bed  very  little  better 
than  a  ploughman's,  with  a  dimity 
curtain.  Patches  of  carpet  were 
placed  here  and  there.  The  wash- 
hand-stand  was  of  common  painted 
deal,  and  the  dressing-table  was 
covered  with  an  unbleached  cloth, 
on  which  stood  a  small,  plain  look- 
ing-glass. The  windows  had  shut- 


356 


A  Lasting  Memory. 


[Sept. 


ters,  but  only  two  plain  calico  cur- 
tains ;  and  a  battered  tin  bath  stood 
in  one  corner. 

"My  servant  will  look  after 
Mr  Mainwaring,"  said  Jock  to  the 
butler.  -"Which  room  would  you 
like,  Theo  1 "  he  continued. 

I  mechanically  took  the  first  on 
the  left.  Jock  took  the  next. 

"  We  must  have  a  fire,  Waters," 
said  Jock  Campbell  to  the  butler. 

"  My  lady  has  said  nothing  about 
it,"  answered  the  latter. 

"Well,  Waters,  I'll  take  the 
risk  upon  myself,  and  pay  you  for 
the  coals  in  case  of  necessity." 

Jock  spoke  half  in  jest,  but  it 
was  clear  that  the  jest  was  half  in 
earnest. 

As  our  stay  continued,  it  became 
no  easier.  Hitherto  I  had  never 
shot,  and-  Jock  initiated  me  into 
the  mysteries  of  the  art,  for  which  I 
had  contracted  a  passion.  I  some- 
times thought  he  seemed  to  tire 
himself  to  please  me  by  staying  out 
as  long  as  possible,  and  more  than 
once  he  seemed  worn  out  on  our 
return ;  but  he  was  so  unselfish 
that  he  appeared  for  my  sake  to  be 
as  greedy  of  the  amusement  as  my- 
self. One  evening  we  were  later 
than  usual,  and  when  we  returned 
to  dinner  he  was  deadly  pale. 
Lydia  looked  at  him  with  an  anxi- 
ety I  had  never  before  seen,  and  her 
gaze  of  terror  intensified. 

We  never  sat  up  very  late,  and 
that  night  we  were  both  tired. 

"  Good  night,  Theo,  boy,"  said 
Jock,  cheerfully;  "sleep  well,  and 
God  bless  you." 

I  always  had  slept  well,  but  at 
Castle  Creasy  I  slept  better  than 
usual  after  all  my  exercise  and  out- 
of-door  life. 

But  I  was  restless.  Perhaps  I 
had  overstrained  my  nerves  or  had 
drunk  too  much  whisky.  I  slept, 
but  not  soundly — that  kind  of  sleep 
in  which  the  senses  are  very  acute. 
It  must  have  been  about  one  o'clock 


when  I  started  up  in  my  bed.  I 
had  distinctly  heard  the  entrance- 
door  of  the  passage  open.  Then 
there  Avere  thuds  as  though  some 
heavy  substance  was  falling  from 
step  to  step.  Then  I  heard  a 
heavy  sigh  and  a  sweeping  sound, 
as  though  the  same  heavy  load  was 
being  dragged  slowly  along  the  pas- 
sage, till  it  stopped  f£r  a  moment. 
I  could  resist  my  feelings  no  longer. 
I  leaped  up  from  my  bed  and  open- 
ed the  door,  and  I  saw  Lydia 
Mainwaring  scared  and  wan,  the 
perspiration  streaming  down  her 
cheeks,  dragging  along  the  floor 
the  dead  body  of  Jock  Campbell. 
He  was  dressed  in  his  evening 
waistcoat  and  trousers,  with  a 
lighter  smoking-jacket  I  had  often 
seen.  His  smoking  cap  had  fallen 
off,  and  lay  near  the  steps.  My 
eyes  caught  Lydia's.  She  did  not 
say  a  word,  but  lifting  her  hand 
with  a  meaning  I  never  conceived 
a  gesture  could  express,  and  gazing 
at  me  with  her  look  of  terror  and 
entreaty,  I  felt  I  knew  her  prayer. 
I  returned  to  my  room. 

The  dragging  noise  still  continued 
till  it  came  opposite  Jock's  room. 
I  heard  it  in  the  room  itself.  Then 
there  was  a  pause.  Meanwhile  I 
had  not  gone  to  bed  again,  but 
hastily  putting  on  some  clothes,  I 
waited  what  was  to  come.  In 
about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  my  own 
door  opened,  and  Lydia  beckoned 
to  me  silently. 

She  said  but  a  few  words  in  a 
whisper  so  low  that,  except  for  the 
silence  round,  it  would  have  been 
inaudible. 

"  He  died  in  my  room,"  she  said. 
This  was  all. 

The  next  day  Jock  Campbell 
was  found  lying  dead  on  his  bed. 
Nothing  in  the  room  was  disturbed. 
His  cap  lay  near  him.  His  clothes 
bore  no  trace  of  the  ghastly  journey. 

The  authorities  who  investigated 
the  matter  reported  that  ho  "  died 


1880.] 


A  Lasting  Memory. 


357 


by  the  visitation  of  God."  It  was 
a  true  verdict,  as  the  heart-disease 
of  which  he  had  spoken  to  me  had 
killed  him. 

In  the  night  before  his  funeral, 
at  the  hour  of  his  death,  I  heard 
the  door  open  once  again.  Again 
Lydia  walked  down  the  steps,  and 
again  came  to  my  room.  Together 
we  went  and  prayed  by  the  side  of 
his  coffin.  » 

"  Cousin  Theo,"  she  said  to  me, 
"  you  know  that  he  loved  you  as 
we  both  loved  him.  I  must  never 
see  you  again  if  I  can  help  it. 
Never  seek  me ;  and  if  we  meet,  let 
us  do  so  as  strangers.  I  ask  you 
this  favour  on  his  coffin." 

I  pressed  her  hand  and  gave  her 
the  promise.  Then  she  kissed  the 
coffin  and  glided  noiselessly  from 
the  corridor.  I  did  not  see  her 
again. 

The  next  night  Lady  "Westerham 
sent  for  me.  She  said  to  me 
hardly— 

"The  grave  has  closed  over 
Jock.  He  is  gone.  My  sons  are 
gone.  Doubtless  you  will  enjoy 


their  inheritance.  I  do  not  love 
you,  but  I  am  not  unjust.  Let  us 
never  meet  again." 

Next  day  I  left  the  house.  Cal- 
vert  M'Tavish  was  Jock's  executor, 
and  his  will  was  as  he  had  an- 
nounced it.  But  the  letter  never 
reached  me. 

I  was  nearly  twenty -one,  and 
Calvert  M'Tavish,  my  next  friend, 
agreed  to  my  travelling.  I  had 
always  longed  for  adventure,  and 
my  first  journey  was  to  the  deserted 
cities  of  Central  America. 

At  Guatemala  I  had  heard  of  the 
death  of  Lord  Westerham,  followed 
shortly  after  by  that  of  his  wife. 
The  latter  had  left  me  her  fortune, 
which  was  not  very  large,  as  her 
will  expressed  it,  "  out  of  pure  jus* 
tice."  It  was  charged  with  an 
annuity  for  Lydia  Mainwaring. 

I  knew  I  was  well  off,  but  noth- 
ing more.  Oat  of  Jock  Campbell's 
legacy  I  had  put  by  one  half 
religiously  as  a  reserve  against 
the  secret  trust,  which,  as  yet, 
had  never  been  communicated  to 


I  dined,  as  invited,  the  next  day 
with  Sir  Esm<£  and  Lady  Eger- 
ton. 

There  was  but  one  guest  beside 
myself.  It  was  Jock  Campbell's 
sister.  She  is  now  my  wife.  The 
day  after  our  marriage  Lady  Eger- 
ton  enclosed  me  a  letter.  It  was 
the  secret  trust  of  Jock  Camp- 
bell. 

It  ran  thus  : — 


"DEAREST  THEO,  —  This  is  my 
secret  trust.  If  Lydia  Mainwaring 
is  ever  in  want  of  money,  give  her 
half  my  legacy  to  you.  She  is  the 
one  love  of  my  life. 

"  If  you  die  without  heirs,  be- 
queath the  sum  I  have  left  you  to 
my  sister.  It  is  my  dying  wish 
that  you  should  marry  her.  Good- 
bye, dear  young  cousin.  —  Your 
affectionate  cousin,  JOCK." 


358 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. — Part  X. 


[Sept. 


BUSH -LIFE    IN    QUEENSLAND. — PAET    X. 


CHAPTER  XXX. A    RAID    OF    THE    MYALLS. 


THE  months  flew  round  rapidly 
in  the  new  country.  Shearing  was 
past,  and  things  were  beginning  to 
assume  a  more  homely  aspect  on 
John's  station  and  at  Lilian  field,  as 
Stone  had  christened  his  new  posses- 
sion. There  was  much  intercourse 
between  John  and  the  Stones,  and 
he  often  rode  over  to  Lilianfield 
during  the  wet  weather;  and  with 
the  intuitive  quickness  of  her  sex, 
Lessie  guessed  before  long  his  love 
for  some  one;  and  he  at  last  confided 
to  her  his  secret,  feeling  much  re- 
lieved in  being  able  to  talk  about 
Jluth  to  one  who  could  understand 
his  feelings. 

How  different  was  the  aspect  of 
things  this  wet  season  compared 
with  the  last! 

Stations  were  formed  for  nearly 
a  hundred  and  fifty  miles  outside 
John's  run,  and  he  began  to  regard 
himself  quite  as  an  inside  squat- 
ter. His  neighbours  greatly  assisted 
him  in  keeping  his  cattle  together, 
turning  them  back,  and  sending 
over  notice  whenever  they  were 
discovered  making  away ;  and,  in 
like  manner,  he  peiformed  the  same 
good  office  for  them.  Things  soon 
began  to  wear  quite  a  settled  look. 

He  had  also  been  most  fortu- 
nate in  his  relations  with  the 
blacks.  From  the  outset  it  had 
been  his  principle  to  leave  them  un- 
molested unless  provoked  to  adopt 
severer  measures ;  and  he  had  been 
enabled  as  yet  to  keep  them  away 
without  bloodshed.  A  more  inti- 
mate acquaintance  with  the  ways 
and  customs  of  the  whites  had  pro- 
duced a  certain  amount  of  contempt 
for  them  among  the  Myalls ;  and 
here  and  there  a  murder  of  a  white 
man  or  two  in  the  district,  or  a 


wholesale  spearing  of  cattle,  an- 
nounced that  a  war  of  aggression, 
and  also  of  retaliation,  had  com- 
menced. Indeed  the  behaviour  of 
some  of  the  whites  was  reprehen- 
sible in  the  highest  degree ;  and 
a  few  of  the  more  brutal  spirits 
thought  as  little  of  "  knocking  over 
a  nigger  "  at  sight  as  they  Avould 
have  done  of  shooting  a  kangaroo. 

This  was,  however,  far  from 
being  a  general  feeling;  and  not- 
withstanding the  charges  brought 
against  the  pioneer  squatters  in  the 
southern  newspapers,  by,  for  the 
most  part,  ignorant  and  sentimental 
writers,  those  who  were  acquainted 
with  them,  and  with  the  dangers 
and  provocations  of  their  daily  lives, 
will  admit  that  the  greater  number 
acted  with  temperate  forbearance 
towards  those  tribes  of  aboriginals 
with  whom  they  came  in  contact. 

It  was  indeed  both  instructive 
and  amusing  to  investigate  the  sur- 
roundings of  some  of  those  who 
espoused  most  loudly  the  cause  of 
"  the  poor  black."  Some  were  com- 
fortably settled  southern  squatters, 
whose  fathers  or  predecessors  had 
once  been  pioneers  themselves,  and 
who,  in  bequeathing  to  their  follow- 
ers the  country  they  had  wrested 
from  the  original  inhabitants,  had, 
along  with  it,  transmitted  to  them 
a  complicity  and  share  in  any  in- 
justice and  guilt  exercised  in  its 
acquisition.  Others  were  blatant 
town  politicians,  anxious  to  de- 
velop the  "  resources  of  the  coun- 
try," who,  by  neglecting  no  oppor- 
tunity of  furthering  immigration, 
discovering  new  gold-fields,  and 
exploring  fresh  pastoral  country, 
urged  the  energetic  white  men  to 
eeek  their  fortunes  in  places  where 


1880.] 


Buslt-Life  in  Queensland. — Part  X. 


359 


tliey  must  of  necessity  come  in  con- 
tact with  their  black  brethren, — a 
contact  which  history  shows  to  have 
been  ever  attended  with  conflict. 

A  few  were  ministers  of  the  Gos- 
pel, who,  although  shaking  their 
heads  in  sorrowful  disapproval  of 
the  manner  in  which  the  "  poor 
blacks "  were  driven  from  their 
hunting-grounds  in  order  to  make 
room  for  the  white  man's  sheep, 
never  hesitated  to  a'cquire,  if  pos- 
sible, on  favourable  terms,  land 
thus  appropriated,  —  or  who  were 
to  be  seen,  armed  with  carbine  or 
pistol,  making  their  way  from  one 
little  bush  community  to  another, 
for  the  purpose  of  collecting  money. 
The  majority,  however,  were  well- 
meaning  men,  but  thoroughly  igno- 
rant of  the  state  of  matters,  and  of 
the  real  feelings  and  behaviour  of 
most  of  those  whose  actions  they 
condemned. 

Things,  as  we  have  said,  bore  a 
cheerful  and  bright  aspect ;  and  the 
rapidly  increasing  number  of  his 
young  stock  led  our  hero  to  look 
forward  hopefully  to  the  time  when 
he  might  clear  off  the  heavy  debt 
which  at  present  embarrassed  him, 
and  settle  down  into  a  breeder  of 
pure  stock,  after  the  manner  of  his 
friend  Fitzgerald.  Stone  had  also 
done  very  well ;  his  lambings  had 
been  good,  —  indeed  they  could 
hardly  have  been  otherwise  on  the 
splendid  country  he  owned ;  but 
the  heavy  expense  of  carriage, 
wages,  &c.,  materially  affected  his 
profit.  He  felt  that  the  roughness 
of  the  life  was  by  no  means  suited 
to  his  young  wife,  and  had  made 
up  his  mind  to  sell  Liliantield  on 
the  first  fair  offer. 

In  pursuance  of  this  scheme  he 
had  started  on  a  trip  down  to  the 
coast  to  meet  a  would-be  purchaser, 
leaving  Bessie  with  her  infant  at 
home.  A  married  overseer,  whose 
wife  attended  to  the  cooking,  resid- 
ed in  a  cottage  close  by,  and  Bessie's 


plucky  heart  would  not  permit  her 
to  detain  her  husband  from  his  im- 
portant business.  The  overseer  was 
a  good  enough  servant  under  the 
direction  of  his  master,  but  fool- 
hardy and  totally  incapable  of  being 
intrusted  with  any  charge  by  him- 
self. Stone  left  with  the  intention 
of  returning  in  about  ten  days,  or 
twelve  at  the  most. 

Everything  was  safe ;  there 
seemed  no  possibility  of  anything 
going  wrong  at  home ;  and  if  Bessie 
was  in  want  of  advice  or  help  of  any 
sort,  she  could  send  over  for  John. 

So  thinking,  and  hoping  the  re- 
sult of  his  journey  would  render  all 
fears  unnecessary  in  future,  Stone 
had  started.  John  had  been  made 
aware  of  his  friend's  intended  ab- 
sence, and  would  have  ridden  over 
to  see  Bessie,  but  had  been  pre- 
vented owing  to  the  sudden  appear- 
ance of  blacks  on  his  run,  who 
not  only  disturbed  his  cattle,  but 
speared  a  number  of  them,  and, 
among  others,  a  valuable  herd  bull. 

He  had  just  returned  from  view- 
ing the  remains  of  the  slain  animals, 
-  and  was  sitting  musing  on  the  best 
course  to  pursue,  when  Stone's 
blackboy,  a  little  fellow  about 
twelve  years  old,  dashed  up  on  a 
reeking  horse. 

"  Missa  Wess,  black  fellow  kill 
'em  altogether.  White  fellow  'long 
o'  Lillanfill ! " 

"What  name1?"  (what  do  you 
say  ?)  roared  John,  jumping  up. 

"  Yohi,"  said  the  boy,  still  sitting 
on  his  horse,  "  altogether  bong " 
(dead),  "one  fellow  bail  bong  "  (one 
not  dead). 

"Which  one  bail  bong?"  de- 
manded John,  in  terror. 

"  Missis  bail  bong,  ony  cawbawn 
prighten"  (Missis  not  dead,  only 
dreadfully  frightened). 

"  Blucher  ! "  vociferated  John  at 
the  top  of  his  voice.  (Gunpowder 
had  been  sent  home  to  his  tribe  at 
his  special  request.) 


360 


Basil-Life  in  Queensland. — Part  X 


[Sept. 


Blucher  appeared  in  a  moment. 
He  had  grown  to  be  a  smart,  active, 
intelligent  lad,  with  his  energies 
always  strung  to  the  utmost,  as  if 
waiting  to  dash  forward  and  execute 
his  master's  orders  as  soon  as  com- 
municated. 

"Blucher,"  said  John,  "black 
fellow  kill  him  white. fellow." 

Blucher's  eyes  glistened  and 
started  forward,  the  whites  of  them 
becoming  ominously  bloodshot. 

"  Which  way  ] "  he  asked. 

"Along  o'  Lilianfield.  Get  up 
the  horses." 

In  a  moment  Bluey  was  mounted 
upon  the  other  boy's  horse ;  and 
soon  gathering  up  the  paddocked 
horses,  he  caught  and  saddled  his 
own  and  his  master's. 

Arming  himself  with  Snider  and 
revolver,  and  providing  his  attend- 
ant with  the  same,  John  mounted, 
and  with  his  two  companions  was 
soon  galloping  towards  the  scene 
of  the  disaster.  As  they  proceeded, 
the  usually  smiling  downs  seemed 
to  tell  a  tale  of  horror  and  blood- 
shed. Between  the  road  and  the 
blue  mountain-ranges  a  huge  bush- 
fire  raged  fiercely,  the  smuts  from 
which,  though  many  miles  away, 
floated  down  upon  them  as  they 
tore  along.  The  sky  was  lurid, 
and  a  dull  roar  struck  their  ears, 
intimating  the  extent  and  fury  of 
the  conflagration. 

Blucher  spurs  alongside  of  his 
master,  and  points  out  that  the  road 
is  covered  with  naked  footprints. 
Presently  they  come  across  scat- 
tered mobs  of  sheep,  apparently  lost, 
and  approach  a  sheep- station  hut, 
to  which  the  flock  evidently  be- 
longs. John,  still  at  a  gallop,  turns 
off  the  road  to  examine  the  hut, 
and  Blucher  draws  his  carbine, 
looking  about  him  eagerly. 

Yes ;  it  is  just  as  the  blackboy 
expected.  There  lies  one  old  shep- 
herd on  his  face,  across  the  thresh- 
old of  the  door,  pierced  by  a  couple 


of  spears,  and  his  head  ghastly  with 
tomahawk- wounds. 

John  does  not  feel  at  all  sur- 
prised. Somehow  it  seems  quite 
natural.  He  has  no  time  to  do 
anything  at  present,  and  is  about 
riding  away,  when  the  little  boy 
calls  from  the  gateway  of  one  of 
the  yards. 

"Here  'nother  one  white  fel- 
low." 

Yes,  so  there  is, — it  is  the  mate 
of  the  first  man.  He  lies  doubled 
across  a  log,  his  head  battered  in 
in  a  most  frightful  manner,  his  old 
blue-serge  shirt  thick  with  gore, 
the  jagged  "  nullah-nullah  "  which 
was  used  in  the  atrocious  deed 
broken  on  the  ground  near  him. 

"  Come  along,"  shouts  John,  and 
once  more  he  is  hastening  along 
towards  Lilianfield. 

As  he  dashes  up  to  the  door  of 
the  barred-up  house,  it  opens,  and 
Bessie  rushes  out  dishevelled  and 
pale,  with  her  infant  in  her  arms. 
She  holds  out  her  hand,  but  she 
cannot  utter  a  word,  and  John  has 
to  lead  her  to  a  seat,  where  her  feel- 
ings relieve  themselves  in  a  flood 
of  tears.  As  soon  as  she  could 
speak,  she  explained  to  John  that 
soon  after  her  husband  left,  the 
overseer  had  met  some  blacks  on 
the  run,  and  in  opposition  to  the 
treatment  adopted  towards  them  by 
Stone,  he  had  encouraged  them 
about  the  head-station.  For  a  few 
days  they  had  behaved  themselves 
with  propriety ;  but  Bessie,  fearful 
for  the  life  of  herself  and  child, 
had  barricaded  the  house  she  re- 
sided in,  and  determined  to  await 
her  husband's  return.  The  over- 
seer and  his  wife,  on  the  contrary, 
saw  no  danger,  and  the  woman 
could  not  be  persuaded  to  sleep  in 
the  same  house  with  Bessie.  What 
occasioned  the  outbreak  Bessie  did 
not  know,  but  a  number  of  savages 
made  a  rush  upon  the  unfortunate 
woman,  killing  her  at  once.  They 


1880.] 


Busli-Life  in  Queensland. — Part  X. 


361 


then  tried  to  enter  the  house  in 
which  she  herself  dwelt,  and  were 
only  deterred  upon  her  firing  two 
or  three  shots  from  her  husband's 
revolver,  which,  urged  hy  despera- 
tion, notwithstanding  her  total  ig- 
norance and  dread  of  firearms,  she 
succeeded  in.  The  little  blackboy 
had  been  away  playing  in  the  creek ; 
and  frightened  by  the  wild  shouts, 
which  enabled  him  to  guess  what 
was  being  enacted,  he  lay  hidden 
among  the  long-bladed  grass  tus- 
socks until  night,  when,  stealing  out 
quietly,  he  made  his  way  to  the 
house,  and  finding  his  mistress 
alive,  was  directed  by  her  to  seek 
out  John. 

Bessie  had  seen  nothing  of  the 
overseer,  and  feared  that  he  had 
also  paid  for  his  foolhardiness  with 
his  life. 

John  soon  made  up  his  mind  as 
to  what  had  to  be  done.  Writing 
a  hasty  note  requesting  the  pres- 
ence of  the  detachment  urgently, 
he  despatched  the  boy  once  more 
to  the  "  officer  in  charge  of  the  na- 
tive mounted  police  barracks,"  near 
Byng's  station,  trusting  that  he 
might  not  be  absent  on  patrol. 
Inditing  another  to  the  manager 
of  an  adjoining  sheep-station,  he 
put  it  into  the  hands  of  Blucher, 
instructing  him  to  return  with  all 
haste. 

He  then  set  to  work  to  dig  a 
grave  for  the  poor  woman  who  had 
fallen  a  victim  to  the  bloodthirsty 
aboriginals,  with  Bessie,  whose 
nerves  were  dreadfully  shaken,  for 
a  companion.  So  much  occupied 


was  he,  that  he  did  not  hear  her 
joyous  exclamation  of  surprise  as 
her  husband  galloped  up  furiously, 
and  springing  off  his  horse,  folded 
her  to  his  heart ;  and  his  happi- 
ness was  scarcely  less  than  Bessie's 
when  Stone  stepped  to  the  edge 
of  the  grave  and  called  to  him. 
Something  had  made  Stone  uneasy 
— what  it  was  he  could  not  say ;  but 
without  waiting  to  finish  his  busi- 
ness he  had  hurried  back,  unable 
to  rest  until  he  had  once  more  seen 
his  wife  and  child.  As  he  drew 
near  his  home  his  vague  fears  grew 
stronger,  and  the  smoke-laden  at- 
mosphere seemed  to  fill  him  with 
a  dread,  to  which  the  body  of  the 
overseer,  lying  a  mutilated  trunk 
on  the  road,  gave  only  too  fearful 
a  reality. 

All  was  well  now,  however,  Bes- 
sie thought ;  and  that  evening,  late, 
they  had  plenty  of  assistance  in 
the  shape  of  the  Super  of  the  run 
to  which  John  had  sent  Blucher, 
who  came  over  with  three  or  four 
men. 

Next  morning  early,  Stone  put 
Bessie  in  the  buggy,  and  started 
over  with  her  for  the  friendly  man- 
ager's dwelling,  where  he  had  ar- 
ranged she  should  remain  for  a 
week  or  two.  John  and  the  rest 
busied  themselves  in  burying  the 
overseer  and  the  poor  shepherds, 
and  in  collecting  the  sheep,  which, 
fortunately,  had  remained  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  yard.  These  they 
left  in  charge  of  three  of  the  men, 
well  armed,  and  then  returned  to 
Lilianfield  head-station. 


CHAPTER   XXXI. — THE   BLACK   TROOPERS — PURSUIT   AND   ATTACK. 

They  had  not   been  long  back  "Dismount,"   from   the   officer  in 

when  two   or   three    laden    pack-  charge,   who   thereupon    came   up 

horses   passed    the  window,    and,  and  shook  hands  with  John  and 

going  to  the  door,  they  saw  a  body  his  friend,  with  whom  he  was  a 

of  ten  native    troopers   drawn  up  favourite.     He  was  about  twenty- 

in  a  line,  and  heard  the  command,  seven  or  twenty-eight  years  of  age, 


362 


Bash-Life  in  Queensland. — Part  X. 


[Sept. 


by  birth  an  Irishman,  very  gentle- 
manly in  his  manners,  and  of  good 
family.  Judicious  and  firm  in  the 
management  of  his  command,  he 
was  one  of  the  best  officers  in  the 
service  of  Government,  and  his  tact 
in  managing  his  boys  prevented 
desertions  and  kept  them  in  a  state 
of  constant  efficiency.  He  had  been 
transferred  to  his  present  district 
from  a  barracks  near  a  large  gold- 
field,  where  a  slight  hauteur  of  man- 
ner had  rendered  him  somewhat 
unpopular  among  the  roughs,  who 
believe  in  the  glorious  maxim  of 
"  Liberty,  fraternity,  and  equality." 

"  Very  glad  to  meet  you,  West, 
but  sorry  for  the  occasion.  No- 
thing happened  to  Mrs  Stone,  I 
trust1?  I  don't  see  her  about." 

"  No,  thank  God  ! "  said  John  ; 
and  he  gave  a  short  account  of 
what  had  occurred. 

"Ah  !  just  so,"  returned  the 
mounted  trooper;  "one -half  of 
the  murders  are  occasioned  by  fool- 
hardiness  and  an  overweening  trust 
in  the  generosity  of  the  blacks. 
I'll  just  walk  down  and  see  the 
rations  served  out,  and  return."  So 
saying,  he  walked  down  to  where 
his  men  had  erected  their  tents. 

Stone  returned  late  in  the  even- 
ing ;  but  as  he  felt  the  urgent  need 
of  looking  after  his  other  shepherds, 
and  as  their  friend  the  superin- 
tendent could  not  longer  spare 
the  time  from  his  own  business, 
it  was  arranged  that  John  alone 
should  accompany  the  troopers  in 
their  pursuit.  To  tell  the  truth, 
John  was  not  sorry  for  the  oppor- 
tunity thus  afforded  of  striking 
wholesome  terror  into  the  tribe, 
which,  notwithstanding  his  peace- 
ful behaviour  towards  them,  was 
beginning  to  cause  him  serious 
trouble  and  loss. 

The  troopers  were,  of  course,  de- 
lighted at  the  prospect  of  a  colli- 


sion with  their  countrymen,  and 
an  unusual  degree  of  activity  pre- 
vailed in  the  camp, — so  much  so, 
that  next  morning  before  sunrise, 
while  Stone  and  his  guest  were 
getting  through  their  hasty  break- 
fast, the  corporal  of  the  troop  made 
his  appearance  at  the  door,  and 
stiffening  himself  into  an  erect 
military  attitude,  saluted  gravely, 
reporting  at  the  same  time,  "  Every 
sing  all  righ,  Mahmy."* 

"Very  good,  Howard,"  returned 
his  superior,  whose  name  was 
Blake. 

All  were  soon  in  readiness  to 
start,  and  Blucher  brought  up  his 
master's'  horse  and  his  own,  his 
eyes  glistening  with  envy  as  he 
noted  "  the  pomp  and  circumstance 
of  glorious  war "  which  attended 
the  marshalling  of  his  sable  breth- 
ren. 

The  black  troopers  presented  a 
very  warlike  and  efficient  front,  as 
they  stood  up  in  line,  each  one 
by  his  horse's  head,  awaiting  the 
order  to  mount. 

The  blue  jacket?,  with  their  red 
collars  and  cuffs,  became  the  dark 
complexions  exceedingly  well,  and 
their  wild  faces  were  brought  out 
into  fierce  relief  by  their  curtained 
white  cap -covers.  White  riding- 
trousers  and  serviceable  leggings 
protected  their  extremities,  and 
black  leathern  belts  with  large  car- 
tridge -  pouches  hung  across  their 
shoulders.  Under  each  saddle  lay 
a  large  blue  military  saddle-cloth 
bound  with  red.  A  change  of  cloth- 
ing and  a  blanket,  rolled  in  a  strong 
piece  of  American  duck,  were  strap- 
ped over  the  pommel  of  their  sad- 
dles, and  a  Snider  carbine  hung  on 
the  right  side. 

Blake  took  his  horse  from  the 
orderly  who  stood  holding  it,  and 
walking  forward  a  little,  quietly 
gave  the -command — 


Mahmy  or  ilammie,  the  name  given  Ly  black  police  to  their  officers. 


1880.] 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. — Part  X. 


363 


"  Prepare  to  mount.  Mount  " — 
motioning  them  at  the  same  time  in 
the  direction  in  which  they  them- 
selves knew  they  had  to  go. 

After  the  first  hundred  yards 
the  men  broke  the  stiff  cavalry 
order  which  they  at  first  preserved, 
and  rode  at  ease — two  being,  how- 
ever, specially  detailed  to  look  after 
the  pack-horses  bearing  the  rations 
and  spare  ammunition,  with  the 
tents  of  the  troop.  . 

John  and  Blake  brought  up  the 
rear  at  some  distance. 

The  sub-inspector  was  a  good- 
looking  young  man,  with  refined 
features  and  a  dark  complexion. 
A  short  moustache  shaded  the 
upper  lip,  and  an  occasional  lisp 
gave  a  piquancy  to  his  modulated 
voice,  indicating  a  boyishness  which 
its  owner  was  far  from  possessing. 
He  wore  no  uniform,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  a  white-covered  forage- 
cap ;  but  his  horse  was  accoutred 
in  a  similar  manner  to  that  of  his 
men,  and  in  addition  he  wore  a 
revolver  in  his  belt.  They  made 
their  way  towards  the  sheep  station 
where  the  unfortunate  shepherds 
had  been  killed  —  all  the  tracks 
having  been  ascertained  to  run  in 
that  direction.  It  soon  turned  out, 
from  examination  of  circumstances, 
that  the  men  were  slaughtered 
merely  because,  in  their  retreat,  the 
blacks  had  happened  to  drop  across 
them. 

Blake  now  halted  his  men,  and 
ordered  two  to  the  front  for  the 
purpose  of  following  up  tracks,  de- 
siring the  x)thers  to  keep  behind 
him  and  John  with  the  pack-horses. 
It  would  have  been  a  work  of  some 
difficulty  to  trace  the  retreating 
mob  from  the  hut,  owing  to  the 
bush  -  fire  which  had  swept  over 
the  country,  but  for  the  fact  that 
the  tracks  of  two  or  three  who  had 
lagged  behind  were  discovered^ mak- 
ing over  the  burnt  ground  after 
their  tribe. 


The  soft,  powdered,  black  and 
grey  debris  of  the  long  grass  re- 
vealed the  naked  footprints  distinct- 
ly ;  and  steadily  the  advanced-guard 
followed  them  over  the  wide  plain, 
and  on  to  the  banks  of  the  river, 
where  it  issued  from  the  hilly  coun- 
try, nearly  fifteen  miles  above  Lil- 
ianfield,  and  not  very  much  farther 
from  John's  own  run. 

The  tracks  were  two  days  old, 
and  the  boys  pushed  on  rapidly 
but  cautiously  —  eagerly  listening 
to  the  slightest  sound,  and  exam- 
ining, with  the  most  careful  scru- 
tiny, the  leaves  and  twigs  disturbed 
by  the  light-heeled  Myalls  in  their 
retreat.  Nothing  escaped  them  ; 
and  whenever  an  important  fact 
was  discovered  tending  to  throw 
light  upon  the  particular  tribe  of 
blacks,  or  their  numbers,  or  mo- 
tives, the  trooper  who  observed  it 
would  ride  up  and  report  the  mat- 
ter to  his  officer. 

In  about  five  miles  farther  they 
came  upon  a  deserted  camp.  The 
numerous  fires  proved  that  it  had 
been  occupied  by  a  large  number  of 
natives ;  and  the  bark  gunyahs,  and 
the  heaps  of  ashes,  denoted  that 
they  had  resided  in  it  for  some 
time.  Many  trees  were  stripped 
of  their  bark  in  the  neighbourhood, 
and  beaten  paths  ran  down  to  the 
water.  Circular  ovens,  formed  of 
large  stones,  for  roasting  meat,  were 
in  plenty ;  and  here  and  there  the 
presence  of  bullock-bones  told  John 
that  his  herd  had  supplied  the  camp 
with  several  good  feeds.  Smaller 
heaps  of  grey  ashes,  and  heaps  of 
mussel-shells  surrounding  the  main 
hearth,  pointed  out  where  the  war- 
rior's wives  and  children  had  slept 
around  him  ;  and  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  each  lay  a  big  round  stone 
or  two,  for  the  purpose  of  pounding 
up  the  kernels  of  the  nuts,  whose 
husks  lay  in  small  piles  about  the 
camp.  A  few  broken  gourds,  a 
broken  spear  or  two,  and  a  cracked 


361 


Eusli-Life  in  Queensland. — Part  X. 


[Sept. 


coolaman*  were  to  be  seen  here 
and  there ;  and  small  irregular  pieces 
of  the  soft,  thick  bark  of  the  ti-tree 
were  scattered  round  the  fires,  on 
one  or  two  of  which  a  brand  still 
smouldered. 

The  detachment  halted  and 
camped  for  the  night  about  a  mile 
farther  on.  There  was  a  certain 
amount  of  romance  about  the  pur- 
suit of  the  savages,  which  awoke 
a  sentiment  of  pleasure  in  John's 
nature ;  and  the  feeling  of  being  the 
hunter  was  much  more  agreeable 
than  that  of  being  the  hunted  one, 
a  position  which,  in  connection  with 
this  very  tribe,  he  had  experienced 
several  times. 

The  night  was  bright  and  clear, 
and  the  moon  was  at  the  full.  The 
fire-lights  falling  upon  the  stacked 
carbines  and  military  accoutre- 
ments, formed  a  fitting  background 
for  the  circle  of  wild -eyed  and 
fiercely  whiskered  and  moustachioed 
troopers,  and  gave  a  picturesque- 
ness  to  the  camp.  Blucher  sat  in 
the  centre,  an  entranced  listener  to 
endless  stories,  the  drift  of  which 
John  could  guess  from  the  oft- 
repeated  sounds  of  "Poo'oh,  poo'oh," 
—  as  the  narrator  imitated  the 
firing  of  carbines,  amid  roars  of 
laughter  from  the  rest.  John  shared 
Blake's  tent ;  —  their  conversation 
was  prolonged  until  near  midnight, 
and  on  going  outside  before  pre- 
paring for  sleep,  they  were  astonish- 
ed to  find  that  a  total  eclipse  of  the 
moon  had  taken  place.  The  boys 
were  all  asleep,  but  were  soon  awak- 
ened by  the  orderly  who  answered 
Blake's  summons.  They  stared  at 
the  moon  in  wonder,  and  discussed 
matters  in  awestruck  whispers. 

"  Ask  them,"  said  Blake,  "  what 
has  occasioned  this  darkness." 

The  man  left,  and  after  some 
time  returned,  saying  the  rest  were 
unanimous  that  the  "  devil-devil " 


had  caused  it,  in  order  the  more 
easily  to  catch  'possums. 

"No  doubt," returned  Blake;  and 
soon  John  and  he  were  fast  asleep. 

Next  morning  all  hands  were  in 
their  saddles  by  sunrise,  and  the 
pursuit  was  recommenced.  The 
travelling  was  in  some  places  very 
difficult,  it  being  necessary  to  cross 
the  river  frequently,  owing  to  the 
tortuous  nature  of  its  course ;  and 
the  fording  of  the  stream  was  made 
very  dangerous  by  the  large  rocks 
and  slippery  boulders  which  lay 
in  its  bed,  causing  the  horses  to 
stumble  or  their  shod  hoofs  to  slide. 
The  numerous  tracks  in  the  river- 
sand  plainly  showed  that  the  main 
body  of  the  retreating  natives  had 
followed  the  water-course ;  and  the 
peculiar  smell  from  the  small 
fresh -burnt  patches  of  river- grass 
here  and  there,  told  that  they  could 
not  be  very  far  away.  Camps  of 
small  parties,  all  making  after  the 
main  mob,  were  frequently  found  ; 
and  the  heaps  of  mussel  -  shells, 
fish-bones,  and  remains  of  fresh- 
water turtle  about  them,  proved 
that  it  did  not  take  them  long  to 
provide  a  liberal  supply  of  food  for 
a  mid-day  meal.  That  they  were 
in  dread  of  being  chased  was  evi- 
dent by  the  long  stages  between 
their  principal  resting-places.  The 
troopers'  excitement  now  gave  them 
much  the  air  of  kangaroo-hounds 
looking  about  for  their  game  ;  and 
one  of  them,  after  staring  fixedly 
ahead  of  him  for  some  time,  rode 
up  and  reported  that  he  saw  a 
camp-smoke  in  the  distance.  Blake 
now  called  a  halt,  and  took  the 
opinion  of  the  troop.  They  were 
all  keen  bushmen,  and  acquainted 
with  every  artifice  of  bush  warfare. 

"  Do  you  all  see  the  smoke, 
boys?"  inquired  Blake. 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  good  way  ovah  dere," 
answered  the  corporal,  Howard, 


Native  vessel  for  fetching  water. 


1880.] 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. — Part  X. 


365 


a  large-bodied,  active,  bloodthirsty- 
looking  mau,  with  a  long  drooping 
moustache.  John  followed  Blake's 
gaze,  and  shaking  his  head  slowly 
from  side  to  side,  in  imitation  of 
the  troopers,  was  thereby  enabled 
clearly  to  discover  a  faint  column 
of  smoke  rising  afar  off.  They 
now  proceeded  more  cautiously,  pass- 
ing as  they  did  some  places  where, 
from  the  fresh  wood-shavings  from 
newly -made  nullah  -  nullahs,  and 
recently-cut  holes  in  trees  covered 
with  'possum-hair  or  owls'  feathers, 
they  felt  assured  the  tribe  had 
passed  that  morning  early.  Num- 
bers of  crows  also  indicated  that 
the  offenders  were  not  far  ahead, 
these  birds  always  following  in  the 
wake  of  a  native  camp. 

Blake  once  more  commanded  a 
halt,  and  ordering  two  of  his  most 
intelligent  boys  to  strip  naked,  he 
sent  them  ahead  to  scout,  their  un- 
covered forage-caps,  however,  being 
carried  in  their  belts,  to  serve  if 
necessary  as  a  distinction  between 
them  and  the  Myalls. 

Pushing  rapidly  onwards,  the 
spies  disappeared  in  the  forest,  and 
the  troop  moved  slowly  after  them. 
Iii  about  an  hour's  time  they  were 
met  returning,  and  in  excited 
whispers  reported  that  they  had 
come  m  sight  of  the  wild  men's 
camp.  They  further  stated  that 
their  presence  had  been  observed 
by  the  watchful  eyes  of  one  of  the 
natives,  who,  however,  mistook 
them  in  the  distance  for  two  of  his 
own  companions,  signalling  to  them 
with  his  hand  to  join  him,  which 
they,  however,  managed  to  avoid ; 
and  under  the  pretence  of  looking 
for  cheicyah-bag,  they  made  their 
way  into  the  river-bed,  and  thence 
back  \o  the  troop. 

A  rapid  description  of  the  sit- 
uation of  the  camp  enabled  Blake 
to  make  a  proper  disposition  of  his 
men  in  attacking  it.  The  Myalls 
were,  it  appeared,  settled  for  the 


night  in  the  sandy  bed  of  the  river, 
which  there  flowed  between  the 
rocky  eminences,  densely  clothed 
with  scrub. 

First  of  all  dismounting  and 
turning  out  the  horses,  the  troopers 
stripped  themselves  of  everything 
but  their  shirts,  caps,  and  cartridge- 
belts. 

Then  addressing  them  shortly, 
Blake  rehearsed  his  plan  of  attack. 
Four  boys  were  to  advance  stealth- 
ily on  each  side  through  the  scrub 
and  occupy  the  rocky  heights. 
One  of  the  four  on  each  side  was 
then  to  make  his  way  to  the  river- 
banks,  taking  the  camp  in  rear. 
As  soon  as  these  had  effected  a 
junction  they  were  to  advance,  driv- 
ing, if  possible,  the  unsuspecting 
savages  down  the  river  into  the 
teeth  of  Blake  and  John,  who,  with 
the  two  other  troopers,  were  to  bear 
the  brunt  of  the  shock. 

This  arrangement  being  thorough- 
ly understood,  the  party  started  on 
foot,  and  shortly  afterwards  the 
faint  cooeys  and  shouts  told  them 
that  the  cruel  murderers  were  all 
gathered  together  and  resting  after 
the  toils  of  the  chase,  which,  not- 
withstanding the  rapidity  of  the 
retreat,  they  had  not  neglected. 
The  thick  bushes  and  shrubs 
growing  in  the  river  afforded  a 
shelter  to  the  small  party  who 
there  awaited  the  signal  which  was 
to  tell  them  that  the  camp  was 
surrounded  and  the  hour  of  retribu- 
tion arrived. 

At  last  it  came.  Boom — boom, 
broke  upon  the  still  evening  air, 
and  in  a  moment  the  river-gorge 
resounded  with  the  wild  war-cries 
of  the  men  and  the  terrified  clamour 
of  the  women  and  children. 

"  Look  out,  West !  here  they 
come,"  shouts  Blake,  as  a  dozen 
black  figures,  with  hideous  features 
under  their  streaming  locks,  burst 
upon  them,  armed  with  spears  and 
nullah-nullahs. 


366 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland.— Part  X. 


[Sept. 


Bang — bang,  go  a  couple  of  car- 
bines, and  two  of  them  drop  on 
their  tracks. 

"  Hu — hu — hu — hu — prrrrrrr ! — 
hah — hu — hu — hio — prrrrrrr ! "  yell 
the  Myalls,  sending  two  or  three 
volleys  of  spears  and  boomerangs  at 
their  unexpected  assailants. 

They  have  as  yet  had  no  expe- 
rience of  the  superiority  of  the 
white  man's  "weapons,  and  make 
a  stand  for  a  little,  but  they  soon 
perceive  that  it  is  futile.  Here 
and  there  the  carbines  crack  among 
the  rocks  and  bushes,  and  at  last 
cease.  The  black  fellows  have  suc- 
ceeded in  getting  away  or  in  hiding 
themselves  in  the  crevices  of  the 
rocks.  Blake  and  his  party  advance 
to  examine  the  camp.  As  they  go 
along,  Howard,  the  corporal,  who 
has  distinguished  himself  particu- 
larly, almost  stumbles  over  a  little, 
fat,  round  pickaninny,  (child)  rolled 
up  in  a  bundle  of  bark ;  and  pick- 
ing it  up  hastily,  he  carries  it  along 
with  him.  Here  are  a  group  of 
ugly  old  black  hags  on  the  ground, 
clamorously  yelling,  and  gashing 
their  heads  with  sharp  stones.  "  It 
is  a  pity,"  says  Blake,  pointing 
to  them,  "  that  their  sex  pre- 
vents their  punishment ;  they  are 
always  the  instigators  of  any  out- 
rage committed  by  the  men." 
Howard  deposits  the  infant  in  the 
lap  of  one  of  them,  admonishing 
her  to  look  after  it  and  cease  her 
roaring,  and  makes  off  to  join  his 
fellows  in  pursuit  of  other  male 
blacks.  Everywhere  are  children 
and  gins  sitting  among  the  bushes, 
or  endeavouring  to  steal  away  with 
all  they  can  muster  together.  Or- 
dering a  trooper  to  collect  them 
and  stand  sentry,  Blake  directs 
John's  attention  to  a  couple  of 
buckets  and  some  tin  billies,  be- 
sides axes  and  tomahawks,  which 
have  been  carried  away  from  Lilian- 
field.  One  demon-like  old  woman 
wears  a  small  shawl  tied  around 


her  loins,  which  John  recognises  as 
having  belonged  to  the  overseer's 
wife.  Their  own  dilly-bags  have 
nothing  of  value  or  interest  in  them. 
Some  locks  of  hair  rolled  up  in 
thin  slips  of  bark,  probably  belong- 
ing to  a  deceased  friend ;  a  piece  or 
two  of  crystal  for  magic  purposes  ; 
two  or  three  bones  and  some  fat, 
which  the  troopers,  who,  from  their 
own  upbringing,  are  authorities  on 
such  things,  pronounce  human ;  a 
primitive-looking  bone  fish-hook  or 
two,  and  some  string,  made  of 
opossums'  hair, — that  is  all. 

Shouts  of  laughter  are  now  heard 
from  the  rocks  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  river,  and  John  and  Blake 
make  their  way  over  to  discover 
the  cause.  Now  and  then  there 
is  an  interval  of  silence,  which  is 
immediately  followed  by  an  un- 
controllable scream  of  hearty  laugh- 
ter from  several  voices. 

Just  before  John  and  his  friend 
reach  the  spot,  two  shots  are  fired 
in  rapid  succession,  and  on  joining 
the  police,  they  find  them  standing 
round  the  body  of  a  native. 

"What  were  you  laughing  at, 
Howard?"  demands  his  officer. 

"  Oh,  Mahmy !  we  find  this  one 
wild  fellow  lyin'  down  gammonin' 
dead.  I  know  that  one  not  dead. 
I  no  see  hole  belongin'  to  bullet; 
and  Jack  and  Turkey  here"  (point- 
ing to  two  other  troopers),  "  been 
take  a  long  piece  grass,  and  tickle 
that  one  along  a  inside  noss,  and 
then  dead  black  fellow  been  '  tsee, 
tsee'"  (imitating sneezing),  "and  me 
an'  altogether  cabawn  laff.  By-and- 
by  that  fellow  get  up  an'  want  to 
run  away,  an'  me  been  chewt 
him." 

Blake  turned  away,  muttering, 
"It's  no  use  saying  anything  to 
them,  they  wouldn't  understand  it." 
A  search  resulted  in  the  discovery 
of  eight  dead  bodies.  Some  more 
had  probably  been  wounded,  and 
had  escaped. 


1880.] 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. — Part  X. 


367 


The  slain  aboriginals  lay  in 
various  attitudes.  Here  was  one 
stretched  on  his  back,  his  spears  in 
one  hand,  and  his  stone  tomahawk 
in  the  other,  the  small  pupil  yet 
gleaming  from  amid  the  yellow 
whiteness  of  the  half- closed  glassy 
eye — the  little  hole  in  his  dusky 
bosom  indicating  the  road  which 
his  wild  spirit  had  taken  on  leav- 
ing its  earthly  habitation.  There 
another  on  his  face,  hands  and  legs 
spread  out ;  a  third  had  rolled  to 
the  bottom  of  a  ravine,  where,  still 
clutching  his  tomahawk,  he  retain- 
ed a  diabolically  hideous  and  truc- 
ulent expression  of  countenance. 

All  articles  of  any  value  were  by 
Blake's  orders  collected. 

A  large  fire  having  been  lighted, 
the  spoils  of  the  camp  were  by 
its  means  destroyed  :  spears  were 
broken,  and  stone  tomahawks  ga- 
thered and  carried  away,  to  be 
thrown  into  the  deepest  pool  of  the 
river.  These  arrangements  having 
been  carried  out,  the  party  returned 
to  where  their  horses  had  been 
turned  out,  and  camped  for  the 
night. 

With  dawn,  all  hands  were 
once  more  astir,  and  again  the  in- 
exorable sub  -  inspector  continued 
his  chase,  and  by  dint  of  persever- 
ing tracking,  and  much  climbing, 
he  succeeded  in  discovering  and 
agiin  surprising  the  encampment, 
which  had  been  shifted  much  far- 
ther back,  in  a  wild  and  almost 
inaccessible  part  of  the  mountain- 


range, — explaining  to  John  the  great 
necessity  there  was  for  convincing 
the  natives  that  it  was  possible  to 
follow  and  harass  them  in  their 
most  formidable  strongholds. 

In  rushing  this  camp  one  of  the 
boys  was  wounded  by  a  spear, 
which,  penetrating  the  thick  part 
of  the  leg,  nearly  cut  the  main 
artery ;  another  received  a  large 
gash  on  the  thigh  from  a  boomerang ; 
and  John  himself  narrowly  escaped 
death  at  the  hands  of  a  big  black 
fellow,  who  was  shot  by  Blake. 
Blucher  behaved  with  much  pluck, 
and  earned  great  praise  for  cool- 
ness from  his  companions.  Once 
more  the  camp  was  sacked,  and 
the  spoil  destroyed,  and  mount- 
ing their  horses,  the  avenging  band 
began  their  homeward  march,  and 
next  evening,  about  sundown,  came 
in  sight  of  Lilianfield.  As  soon 
as  the  buildings  were  observed,  the 
corporal  rode  up  to  Blake,  saying, 
"  Please,  sir,  boy  want  to  sing 
out." 

"Very  well,  Howard,  they  may 
do  so,"  answered  the  former. 

Presently  arose  in  concert  a  trem- 
ulous cry,  gradually  increasing  in 
intensity,  and  winding  up  with 
fierce  whoops.  It  had  a  horrible 
blood-curdling  effect,  and  the  black 
horsemen  kept  it  up  until  their  ar- 
rival—  such  being  the  customary 
announcement  made  by  them  and 
their  fellows  of  having  returned 
covered  with  the  blood  of  the 
slain. 


CHAPTER   XXXII. — LOVE   IX  TUB   EUSH. 


"We  must  hurry  rapidly  over  the 
next  few  years  of  John  West's 
bush  experience,  which,  though 
years  of  toil  and  struggle,  were 
marked  by  few  incidents  that 
would  interest  our  readers.  His 
friend  Stone  again  took  wing,  and 
disposed  of  Lilianfield  to  a  squat- 

VOL.  CXXVI1I. — NO.  DCCLXXIX. 


ter  from  Eiverina  in  New  South 
Wales,  who  had  been  charmed  by 
the  glorious  extent  of  downs  and 
plains  in  the  new  country.  The 
departure  of  the  Stones  was  a  great 
loss  to  John.  Their  kindness  and 
society  had  endeared  them  much  to 
him  ;  and  had  they  been  of  his  ovm 
2  B 


3GS 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. — Part  X. 


[Sqt. 


"blood,  he  could  not  have  loved  them 
better.  He  was  also  disheartened 
at  the  failure  of  all  his  attempts  to 
reopen  a  correspondence  with  Ruth. 
He  had  never  received  an  answer  to 
his  letter ;  and  although  he  made 
strenuous  exertions  through  Fitz- 
gerald, he  could  not  discover  any 
trace  of  her  whereabouts. 

His  attention,  however,  was  soon 
directed  to  affairs  more  immediately 
pressing.  His  partner,  the  elder 
Mr  Fitzgerald,  made  up  his  mind 
to  transform  John's  station  into 
a  sheep-run ;  and  no  arguments  of 
West  could  induce  him  to  alter  his 
purpose.  The  cattle  were  mustered 
and  sold,  and  John  viewed  their 
departure  with  a  full  heart.  Once 
more  came  days  of  lost  sheep,  of 
anxious  care  and  uncertainty.  And 
his  toil  was  soon  turned  into 
trouble.  The  country  upon  which 
his  hardy  cattle  had  thriven  so  well 
was  not  suited  to  the  delicate  me- 
rino. The  constantly  falling  prices 
in  the  English  and  Continental 
wool-markets  were  reducing  sheep- 
owners  to  the  verge  of  despair,  and 
John's  charge  and  interest  suffered 
with  those  of  the  rest.  When  it 
was  too  late  Mr  Fitzgerald  became 
conviuced  of  the  mistake  which  he 
had  made ;  but  it  would  have  in- 
volved too  heavy  a  sacrifice  now  to 
have  repaired  the  error,  and  John 
consented  to  hold  on  if  possible, 
and  await  better  times. 

But  it  was  heartless  work.  Af- 
ter the  wet  season  the  long  grass 
sprang  up,  and  quickly  seeding, 
caused  the  sheep  to  resemble  pin- 
cushions. The  sharp  needle-like 
seeds  stuck  all  over  their  bodies, 
injuring  the  skin,  and  when  pierc- 
ing to  the  heart,  occasioned  death. 
The  swampy  pastures  caused  foot- 
rot.  In  short,  there  was  no  end 
to  the  calamities  against  which  he 
had  to  contend.  The  lambing 
seemed  to  be  a  farce,  which  custom 
alone  rendered  it  necessary  to  ob- 


serve. The  bleating  of  a  lamb 
jarred  painfully  on  John's  ears,  its 
plaintive  cry  too  surely  foreboding 
the  end  awaiting  it. 

He  had  parted  with  the  cattle 
about  t\vo  years,  and  was  in  the 
middle  of  his  sheep  struggles  when 
the  mailman  one  day  rode  up, 
bringing  him  a  letter  from  fie 
younger  Fitzgerald.  Expecting  to 
find  it  as  usual  relating  to  sta- 
tion affairs,  he  threw  it  aside  to 
peruse  at  leisure,  and  continued 
the  work  he  had  in  hand.  That 
evening,  drawing  his  correspon- 
dence towards  him  with  a  sigh,  he 
tore  open  his  friend's  letter  first, 
and  commenced  to  master  its  de- 
tails, much  after  the  fashion  of  a 
boy  learning  his  lesson.  But  his 
stolidity  passed  away  ;  he  gradually 
became  excited ;  and  eventually, 
passion  overcoming  his  accustomed 
composed  and  self-reliant  manner, 
he  started  up,  dashed  the  letter  to 
the  ground,  and  stamping  on  it 
furiously,  he  stormed  up  and  down 
the  room,  raving  out  incoherent 
threats  and  wild  upbraidings. 

What  was  the  cause  of  his  emo- 
tion ?  Simply  this  :  The  letter  from 
his  friend  contained  the  announce- 
ment that  Mr  Cosgrove  had  re- 
turned to  Cambaranga,  and  that,  in 
the  person  of  his  step  -  daughter, 
Fitzgerald  had  discovered  Miss  Bou- 
verifl,  the  lady  to  whom  he  had  lost 
his  heart  in  Sydney,  and  whom  he 
was  now  determined,  if  possible,  to 
make  his  Avife. 

To  account  for  John  West's  sur- 
prise, we  must  now  give  a  brief 
summary  of  events  at  Cambarangi 
and  Betyammo  during  the  years 
that  he  had  been  struggling  in  the 
new  country. 

The  old  house  was  again  occu- 
pied, and  had  assumed  a  look  of 
cheerfulness  which  it  had  not  worn 
for  many  a  day.  Cosgrove  himself 
took  little  interest  in  anything.  He 


1880.] 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. — Part  X. 


369 


had  changed  greatly  within  the  last 
two  years.  His  figure  had  lost  its 
elasticity,  and  his  voice  was  no 
longer  cheery  and  loud ;  while  his 
hair  had  grown  grey — almost  white. 
His  son's  frightful  crime  had  given 
him,  with  the  discovery  of  his  other 
misdemeanours,  a  shock  from  which 
he  never  recovered.  Soon  after 
Balfs  flight  he  had  left  Camba- 
ranga  for  Melbourne,  where  he  was 
joined  by  Ruth.  She  had  been 
staying  during  his  visit  to  Cam- 
baranga  with  Mr  and  Mrs  Berke- 
ley, relatives  of  her  mother  and 
her  own,  who  gladly  would  have 
kept  her  altogether,  for  they  were 
childless,  and  both  were  proud  of 
their  young  kinswoman's  beauty 
and  accomplishments. 

When  the  details  of  the  murder 
first  became  known,  Mr  Berkeley 
instantly  made  preparations  for 
leaving  Sydney  for  some  time,  to 
escape  the  disagreeable  scandal  to 
which  his  relationship  with  the  re- 
puted sister  of  the  murderer  might 
give  birth. 

Ruth  was  happy  with  her  friends, 
and  grew  to  love  them  much ;  but 
when  she  saw  Cosgrove  haggard 
and  miserable,  cursing  the  fate 
which  had  left  him  a  childless 
man,  she  could  not  bear  to  desert 
him, — he  had  always  been  good  to 
her, — and  she  determined  (to  her 
friends'  great  indignation)  to  make 
her  home  with  her  step-father.  He 
now  began  to  value  her  companion- 
ship. He  did  not  talk  to  her  much, 
but  he  took  pleasure  in  being  near 
her,  and  would  remain  for  hours 
wrapped  in  thought  while  she  sat 
at  her  work  or  her  studies. 

Cambaranga  was  being  managed 
by  a  superintendent,  and  Cosgrove 
and  his  daughter  were  consequently 
free  to  roam  where  they  liked.  Part 
of  their  time  was  spent  in  Tasmania 
and  part  in  New  Zealand,  for  Mr 
Cosgrove  had  given  up  all  inten- 
tions, if  he  ever  had  any,  of  return- 


ing to  England ;  and  although  he 
never  spoke  on  the  subject  to  Ruth, 
it  seemed  to  her  as  if  he  wanted  to 
be  near  his  son,  should  his  aid  ever 
be  required.  The  fall  in  wool  had 
compelled  him,  with  many  others,  to 
return  and  look  after  his  business 
himself,  and  he  found  that  owing  to 
the  incompetence  of  his  manager  he 
had  suffered  severely  in  his  means. 
In  fact,  it  was  a  toss  up  whether 
or  not  he  could  weather  through  the 
storm.  His  mind,  formerly  so  clear, 
had  become  clouded  and  hazy,  and 
the  difficulties  out  of  which  at  one 
time  he  would  have  threaded  his 
way  with  ease,  threatened  to  over- 
whelm him. 

Ruth  had  not  been  long  at  Cam- 
baranga when  Phoabe  Gray,  who 
felt  much  for  the  lonely  girl,  rode 
over  to  make  a  call,  and  conceived 
a  strong  liking  for  her.  She  con- 
trived to  excite  an  equal  amount  of 
enthusiasm  in  the  breasts  of  her 
father  and  mother;  and  notwith- 
standing the  dislike  of  the  former 
for  Mr  Cosgrove,  she  induced  him 
to  drive  over  with  her  to  Camba- 
ranga in  order  to  bring  Ruth  back 
on  a  visit.  Her  step-father,  al- 
though demurring  at  first,  yielded 
eventually  to  Mr  Gray's  represen- 
tations, that  so  continual  a  life  of 
solitude  would  prove  injurious  to 
her  health,  and  she  returned  with 
them  to  Betyammo,  where  her  un- 
affected gentle  ways  and  ladylike 
manners  speedily  made  her  the 
favourite  of  all. 

Willy  Fitzgerald  had,  since  his 
friend's  departure,  thought  much  on 
what  he  had  said  in  reference  to 
Phoebe  Gray,  and  during  the  many 
opportunities  which  he  had  of 
watching  her,  he  was  forced  to  ad- 
mit that  she  was  all  John  had  de- 
scribed her  to  be ;  but  he  could  not 
forget  the  face  or  conversation  of 
his  unknown  love,  and  were  it  not 
for  his  eminently  practical  nature, 
he  might  have  been  tempted  to 


370 


Bush-Life  In  Queensland. — Part  X. 


[Sept. 


start  on  an  expedition  in  search  of 
her.  Time,  however,  had  weakened 
the  impression,  and  of  late  he  had 
been  a  more  frequent  visitor  at 
Betyammo,  and  had  begun  to  take 
much  pleasure  in  the  time  spent 
there.  His  visits  to  all  were  most 
acceptable,  and  to  none  more  so 
than  demure  little  Phoebe,  whose 
fluttering  heart  told  her  the  reason 
why  whenever  she  heard  his  manly 
voice  exchanging  greetings  with  her 
father,  or  his  firm  quick  step  on  the 
verandah.  Her  fancy  for  Ruth 
amused  him  much,  and  he  was  ac- 
customed to  tease  her  about  the 
enthusiasm  with  which  she  spoke 
of  her  new  friend.  He  himself 
had  not  as  yet  ridden  over  to  Cam- 
baranga,  partly  from  his  old  detes- 
tation of  its  owner,  and  partly  from 
a  delicacy  connected  with  the  dread- 
ful career  of  his  eon.  He  had  conse- 
quently had  no  opportunity  of  see- 
ing Euth. 

It  happened  one  evening  that 
Ruth,  who  was  staying  for  a  few 
days  with  her  new  friends  at  Bety- 
ammo, was  standing  in  the  doorway 
at  the  back  of  the  picturesque  old 
cottage.  She  leant  slightly  against 
the  sidepost  of  the  door,  and  mused 
quietly  with  bent  head,  as  she 
traced  lines  on  the  sandy  floor  with 
her  little  foot.  The  setting  sun  was 
bathing  everything  in  a  sea  of  golden 
mellow  light,  and  the  heavy  bunches 
of  grapes  glowed  under  their  leafy 
shade.  The  calm  stillness  of  even- 
ing was  unbroken,  save  for  the  mur- 
mured cooing  notes  of  the  squatter 
pigeons,  as  they  followed  each  other 
down  to  their  favourite  water,  and 
the  happy  utterances  of  the  bright- 
winged  little  parrots,  half-a-dozen 
of  whom  had  nests  far  down  in  the 
hollow  trunk  of  the  gnarled  old 
monarch  of  the  forest,  from  whose 
branches  the  gigantic  convolvulus 
hung  in  richer  and  more  graceful 
festoons  than  ever.  Occasionally 
the  lowing  of  cattle  fell  faintly 


upon  the  ear,  and  the  smell  of 
wild  -  flowers  became  perceptible. 
Ruth  was  suddenly  awakened  from 
her  reverie  by  hearing  the  peculiar 
warning  cry  of  Bessie's  old  pet,  the 
Native  Companion,  who  came  danc- 
ing along  with  outspread  wings, 
uttering  a  startled  coo'oorrrrrooor, 
coo'oorrrrrooor.  On  looking  up 
hastily  she  became  aware  of  the 
presence  of  a  gentleman  who  had 
dismounted  from  his  hor?e,  and 
who  was  gazing  eagerly  upon  her 
with  an  earnest  wondering  expres- 
sion. 

"  Good  God,  Miss  Bouverie  ! "  he 
said,  "  when  did  you  come  here  1 " 

For  a  moment  she  started.  She 
remembered  having  seen  a  face 
somewhere  like  the  one  now  before 
her,  but  she  could  not  recall  where. 
It  was  a  pleasant  but  a  faint  mem- 
ory, yet  she  failed  to  recollect  the 
circumstances.  "  I  came  here  to- 
day from  Cambaranga,"  she  replied ; 
"  but  who  are  you  1 " 

"  From  Cambaranga  !  "  uttered 
Fitzgerald — for  itwashe — still  more 
perplexed  and  somewhat  piqued  at 
not  being  recognised.  "  Is  it  pos- 
sible, Miss  Bouverie,  that  you  do 
not  remember  me  at  Mrs  Berkeley's 
in  Sydney  1 " 

She  smiled ;  she  knew  him  now, 
— his  voice  had  been  recalling  him. 
It  was  her  turn  now  to  be  sur- 
prised and  glad,  for  she  had  liked 
the  young  man  whose  visit  had 
been  driven  out  of  her  memory  by 
subsequent  painful  events.  One 
other  explanation,  which  Fitzgerald 
scarcely  needed,  unravelled  the 
whole  story.  Ruth's  father's  name 
was  Bouveiie,  and  in  consequence, 
the  misapprehension  had  arisen 
which  had  mystified  him. 

The  sun  of  nature  was  sinking 
to  rest  amid  its  opal  and  golden 
glories ;  but  Fitzgerald's  sun  had 
appeared,  and  blazed  with  a  splen- 
dour and  brilliancy  only  the  more 
intense  for  the  long  night  of  daik- 


1880.] 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. — Part  X 


371 


ness  which  ha<:l  preceded  it.  While 
he  gazed  on  Ruth's  beautiful  ani- 
mated features  as  she  spoke  of  her 
childhood's  days  and  of  the  grateful 
affection  with  which  she  had  ever 
treasured  up  the  kindness  he  had 
shown  to  her  when  a  little  bereaved 
orphan,  Willy  Fitzgerald  felt  in- 
toxicated with  love.  The  dark 
shaded  eyes  glistened  with  a  mois- 
ture which  deepened  their  soft 
earnestness,  and  the  innocent  child- 
like lips  trembled  as  they  returned 
the  thanks  of  the  maiden  for  ser- 
vice rendered  to  the  child. 

Phoebe  coming  out  of  the  house 
at  this  moment,  curious  to  know 
what  could  have  loosened  the 
strings  of  Ruth's  quiet  tongue,  took 
in  the  situation  at  a  glance,  and 
a  bitter  pang  filled  her  straight- 
forward honest  little  heart.  She 
little  guessed  how  deeply  Ruth's 
memory  had  been  graven  on  Fitz- 
gerald's heart ;  but  she  had  heard 
John  West,  a  day  or  two  before  his 
departure,  make  a  laughing  allusion 
to  some  Sydney  lady,  whose  beauty 
had  exercised  a  magic  influence 
over  him,  and  she  had  ever  since 
cherished  a  secret  desire  to  know 
more  of  her.  She  knew  now.  Un- 
consciously she  began  to  hate  her 
friend.  A  tearing,  burning,  hor- 
rible feeling  took  possession  of  her 
breast,  which  was  not  lessened  when 
the  squatter,  after  greeting  her 
kindly,  turned  once  more  to  Ruth 
with  an  evident  admiration  which 
betrayed  too  truly  how  he  hung 
upon  every  word  her  lips  uttered. 
Poor  Phrebe  struggled  hard  to  sup- 
press the  anger  which  had  taken 
possession  of  her. 

During  the  evening  meal,  in- 
stances of  blind  adoration  were 
multiplied  before  Phoebe's  under- 
standing eyes,  and  what  appeared 
to  her  father  and  mother  as  only 
the  natural  interest  in  a  pretty  girl 
whom  he  had  known  as  a  child, 
bore  a  very  different  significance  to 


her.  She  passed  a  miserable  even- 
ing, and  when  she  retired  to  her 
room  she  struggled  for  hours  in 
prayer  against  the  horrible  feelings 
which  she  was  amazed  to  find  deep- 
rooted  in  her  breast.  She  slept 
but  little  that  night,  and  awoke 
next  morning  to  endure  a  fresh 
series  of  mortifications  and  unin- 
tentional slights,  which  lacerated 
her  wounded  spirit.  And  yet  in 
honesty  she  could  not  charge  Ruth 
with  behaviour  unbecoming  her 
self-respect.  She  made  no  advances 
unworthy  of  maidenly  modesty, 
and  adopted  none  of  the  little  arti- 
fices or  tactics  calculated  to  excite 
a  lover's  admiration.  Her  manner, 
after  the  first  moments  of  surprise 
had  passed  away,  returned  to  its 
accustomed  quiet  and  repose.  Un- 
conscious of  the  admiration  she 
excited  she  could  not  have  been ; 
but  whether  it  was  that  she  was 
accustomed  to  the  effects  of  her 
own  beauty,  or  that  she  valued  not 
the  conquest  she  had  made,  Ruth 
sought  not  to  improve  her  triumph. 
Phoebe  observed  all  this,  and  still 
found  it  a  hard  matter  not  to  detest 
one  whose  very  indifference  was 
prized  by  the  man  she  herself 
best  loved  in  the  world. 

Phoebe  herself  eeemed  to  have 
faded  out  of  Fitzgerald's  memory,  for 
during  the  two  days  that  he  spent 
at  Betyammo  he  was  seldom  absent 
from  Ruth's  side.  Inspired  by  her 
presence,  he  became  brilliant,  some- 
times even  witty  ;  his  bearing  grew 
more  erect,  and  his  gallantry  more 
marked.  It  was  with  difficulty 
that  Phoebe  restrained  herself  from 
allowing  the  state  of  her  soul  to  be- 
come apparent.  These  were  hours 
of  the  acutest  agony;  but  after 
much  fierce  wrestling  with  herself, 
she  subdued  the  wild  torment,  and 
schooled  herself  to  bear  her  lot  in 
silence  at  least.  It  -was,  however, 
unavailing.  Ruth  soon  discovered 
a  difference  in  her,  and  for  some 


372 


Baali-Life  in  Queensland. — Part  X. 


[Sept. 


little  time  was  at  a  loss  to  guess  its 
cause.  Phoebe's  eyes  occasionally 
Lore  traces  of  weeping,  and  the 
calm,  well-regulated  mind  betrayed 
signs  of  an  unaccustomed  agitation. 

A  few  evenings  after  the  owner 
of  Ungahrun  left  Betyammo,  the 
Gray  family  had  separated  to  retire 
for  the  night,  and  Euth,  who  had 
sought  her  own  room,  felt  impelled 
to  seek  out  Phcsbe,  and  if  possible 
discover  the  cause  of  her  unhap- 
piness.  Entering  the  little  bright 
chamber,  so  neat  and  trim,  and  sug- 
gestive of  maidenly  purity,  she  saw 
Phoabe  kneeling  by  the  side  of  the 
little  white-curtained  bed,  her  head 
buried  in  her  hands.  Her  knock 
had  not  been  heard,  and  she  could 
plainly  distinguish  the  sobs  of  the 
kneeling  girl,  as  she  poured  out 
supplications  for  aid  and  guidance. 

Euth's  first  impulse  was  to  re- 
turn as  quickly  as  she  had  ad- 
vanced; but  yielding  to  second 
thoughts,  she  moved  forward,  and, 
sinking  beside  her  friend,  she  stole 
her  arm  around  her  waist  silently, 
offering  up  her  own  requests  for 
the  direction  and  assistance  of  the 
suppliant.  Together  they  knelt  for 
some  time  in  silence;  then  rising, 
Euth  led  the  agitated  girl  to  a  seat, 
and  sitting  down  beside  her,  com- 
menced, without  exactly  knowing 
why,  to  tell  the  story  of  her  own 
griefs  and  sorrows.  She  became 
aware,  as  the  history  advanced,  of 
an  increased  interest  on  the  part  of 
Phoebe  when  she  spoke  of  John's 
kindness  and  the  affection  she  had 
entertained  for  him,  and  intuitive- 
ly she  began  to  suspect  the  origin 
of  her  friend's  distress.  Delicately 
she  enlarged  upon  her  own  feelings, 
and  gave  utterance  to  hopes  and 
thoughts  which  till  then  had  never 
shaped  themselves  in  words ;  and 
she  felt,  as  Phoebe  drew  closer  to 
her,  and  laid  her  sobbing  head  trust- 
fully upon  her  shoulder,  that  she 
had  been  enabled  to  administer  a 


degree  of  consolation  which  acted 
in  some  measure  as  a  healing  balm 
to  the  stricken  girl. 

After  this  evening  they  became 
firmer  friends  than  ever,  but  a  tacit 
understanding  forbore  further  ap- 
proach to  the  delicate  topic.  Fitz- 
gerald was  a  constant  visitor,  but 
his  devotion  awakened  no  response 
in  Euth's  breast.  She  endeavoured 
to  time  her  visits  to  Betyammo 
when  business  was  most  likely  to 
keep  her  adorer  at  home;  so  that, 
if  possible,  Phoebe  should  be  spared 
the  sight  of  what  could  not  be 
otherwise  than  painful  to  her. 

Fitzgerald  himself  was  at  a  loss 
to  account  for  Euth's  behaviour. 
He  knew  that  she  was  intelligent, 
and  gifted  beyond  the  average,  but 
her  brightest  moods  were  reserved 
for  others ;  and  exert  himself  to 
please  her  as  he  might,  he  was  un- 
able to  obtain  the  smallest  encour- 
agement. Indeed  he  could  not  help 
suspecting  sometimes  a  desire  on 
her  part  to  avoid  his  notice ;  but 
he  had  been  so  general  a  favourite, 
and  so  much  sought  after,  that  he 
never  for  a  moment  contemplated 
rejection. 

Stone's  search  for  a  home  had 
terminated  in  the  purchase  of  a 
very  fine  freehold  property  of  over 
seven  thousand  acres  in  extent, 
about  one  hundred  miles  distant 
from  Brisbane,  and  contiguous  to 
a  growing  country  town.  He  and 
Bessie  established  themselves  here, 
surrounded  by  pleasant  neighbours ; 
and  the  ex -pioneer  devoted  his 
time  to  the  fattening  of  store  cattle 
purchased  from  stations  at  some 
distance  up-country,  combined  with 
the  formation  of  a  pure-bred  herd 
of  shorthorn  cattle, — in  which  pur- 
suit he  took  much  interest,  and 
which  promised  him  a  most  profit- 
able return  on  the  money  invested 
in  it. 

A  visit  from  Bessie  assisted 
greatly  in  keeping  matters  straight, 


1830.] 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. — Part  X. 


373 


and  a  few  whispered  words  of  en- 
couragement in  Euth's  ear  were  a 
sufficient  reward  for  her  self-control. 
The  latter  had  feared  lest  the  stigma 
attached  to  the  crime  committed  by 
her  step  -  father's  son  might  have 
included  her  within  its  withering 
shade,  and  she  felt  that,  without 
further  evil,  enough  had  befallen 
John  through  his  connection  with 
Mr  Cosgrove.  On  this  account  she 
had  refrained  from  answering  his 
last  letter,  which,  notwithstanding, 
she  prized  as  one  of  her  greatest 
treasures ;  and  it  pained  her  to 
think  that  he  might  ascribe  to 
disinclination  and  ingratitude  a  re- 
ticence which  resulted  from  a  desire 
for  his  welfare.  But  John  West 
had  no  such  ideas ;  and  at  the 
moment  when  Fitzgerald's  letter 
had  roused  all  the  latent  passion 
within  him,  he  loved  her  with  an 
intensity  which  surprised  himself. 
It  was  a  strange,  faithful  love — 
imaginative  indeed,  but  not  the 
less  pure  and  sincere.  Seeing  few 
of  the  opposite  sex,  his  mind  ever 
reverted  to  the  one  bright  type  of 
it  which  had  captivated  his  boyish 
fancy.  His  dreams  revealed  the 
child-maiden  tripping  along,  books 
in  hand,  as  he  first  saw  her  —  or 
issuing  from  her  room  to  say  once 
more  that  sweet  good-bye,  the  me- 
mory of  which  had  cheered  many  a 
lonely  hour.  Strong,  practical  man 
that  he  was,  that  one  shadow  grew 
to  his  inmost  soul.  The  realising 
of  his  dreams  one  day  was  his  great- 
est incentive  to  struggle  through 
his  hard  life.  Lying  down  or  rising 
up,  his  most  secret  and  cherished 
thoughts  were  of  Euth.  It  was 
therefore  he  rejoiced  in  his  early 
successes  ;  they  brought  him  nearer 
to  her  :  on  her  account  he  fretted 
over  his  disasters ;  they  removed 
from  him  his  hope. 

Days  elapsed  after  the  receipt  of 
the  news  which  had  affected  his 
peace  of  mind  so  violently,  before 


he  recovered  any  degree  of  serenit}'. 
In  vain  he  argued  with  himself;  in 
vain  he  compared  his  prospects  with 
those  of  his  more  fortunate  friend. 
The  latter  was  everything  she  could 
desire.  What  had  he  himself  to 
offer?  Even  supposing  that  her 
love  still  remained  his  —  and  he 
laughed  bitterly  as  the  thought 
struck  him — what  would  he  do  with 
her?  He  had  no  home  to  offer; 
and  were  he  indeed  to  obtain  a 
situation  as  manager  of  a  station 
(a  very  remote  contingency  at  this 
time,  when  the  ruin  of  hundreds 
filled  each  journal  with  advertise- 
ments from  well-known  and  capable 
men,  clamorous  for  employment), 
what  kind  of  home  would  it  be 
to  her,  brought  up  in  luxury,  and 
accustomed  to  refinement1?  How 
could  she,  tender  and  inexperi- 
enced, encounter  the  coarse  every- 
day realities  of  hard  practical  life, 
which  were  the  portion  of  an  under- 
paid and  overworked  superintend- 
ent's wife?  He  might  at  any 
moment  be  thrown  out  of  his  situ- 
ation at  the  caprice  of  some  arro- 
gant, self-made,  vulgar  rich  man  ; 
and  Euth's  delicate  susceptibilities 
might  be  shocked  at  having  perforce 
to  mingle  with  coarser  and  baser 
natures.  No ;  it  was  all  a  folly. 
He  was  mad  to  think  of  her  at  all. 
He  was  worse  than  mad  to  feel  as 
he  did  towards  the  friend  who  had 
shown  him  kindness  of  the  most 
disinterested  kind.  What  a  dog 
in  the  manger  would  he  be  to  stand 
between  her  and  that  comfort 
which  goes  so  great  a  way  in  pro- 
moting the  happiness  of  married 
life! 

With  these  feelings  he  turned 
once  more  desperately  to  work,  and 
strove,  by  the  violence  of  his  exer- 
tions, to  blunt  the  sharpness  of  his 
reflections;  but  little  satisfaction 
could  be  derived  from  the  contest 
in  which  he  was  engaged.  It  seem- 
ed as  if  the  very  forces  of  nature 


374 


Bmli-Life  in  Queensland. — Part  X. 


[Sept. 


\vere  arrayed  against  him ;  for  the 
season  proved  one  of  the  driest 
which  it  had  been  his  fate  to  wit- 
ness. A  scorching  heat  withered 
np  all  green-feed,  bringing  number- 
less miseries  in  its  train.  The 
wretched  condition  of  the  sheep 
betrayed  their  unhappy  state,  and 
their  fast-decreasing  numbers  were 
only  too  sure  an  index  of  the  utter 
unfitness  of  the  country  on  which 
they  depastured.  Scarcely  three- 
fourths  remained  of  the  original 
number  which  had  been  delivered 
to  John.  Vast  bush-fires  sprang 
up  in  all  directions,  devouring  the 
dry  tinder -like  grass,  and  filling 
the  air  with  a  smoky  haze.  The 
water-holes  dried  one  by  one.  In 
some  there  remained  a  small  quan- 
tity of  thick,  green,  watery  slime, 
encircled  by  tenacious  fathomless 
mud,  out  of  which  the  weakened 
limbs  of  the  animals,  who  were  at- 
tracted by  the  smell  of  the  precious 
liquid,  failed  to  draw  their  water- 
swollen  bodies  ;  and  around  most  of 
these  water-traps  (for  they  were  no- 
thing else)  lay  embedded  helplessly 
a  ring  of  slowly -perishing,  despair- 
ing-eyed creatures,  famishing  with 
hanger  and  dying  with  thirst  un- 
der a  blazing  sun. 

Sheep  were  lost  daily,  and  wan- 
dered about  at  their  will,  all  the 
efforts  of  the  worn-out  shepherds 
failing  to  keep  them  together  ;  and 
indeed,  in  most  instances,  it  was 
as  a  great  personal  favour  to  John 
himself  that  the  men  remained 
with  him  during  the  fearful  drought. 
Lean,  disease-stricken  native  clogs 
dragged  their  mangy  bodies  along 
beside  gaunt  tottering  kangaroos, 
without  strength  or  courage  to 
assail  them,  and  dead  wallabies  and 
other  animals  lay  about  everywhere. 

What  misery  it  was  !  Exertions 
were  fruitless  to  alleviate  suffering 
or  prevent  loss,  and  John  felt  his 


heart  hardening ;  his  soul  began  to 
rebel,  and  bitterness  to  flow  from 
that  inward  fount  from  which  had 
welled  a  spring  of  love  to  all. 

He  had  returned  to  his  hut  after 
an  unusually  fatiguing  day  of  use- 
less labour.  He  ate  his  lonely 
meal  of  salt  junk  and  damper,  and 
lighting  his  pipe,  he  paced  up  and 
down  in  front  of  his  solitary  abode. 
It  was  one  of  those  beautiful  moon- 
lit nights,  which  were  without 
beauty  to  the  owners  of  the  parched, 
waterless  pieces  of  territory,  on 
which  they  could  behold  their 
stocks  dying  without  being  able  to 
assist  them  in  the  slightest.  The 
heaven  was  without  a  single  cloud. 
The  sweet  influences  of  Pleiades 
had  no  power  to  modify  the  suffer- 
ings on  earth,  and  the  red  Aldeb- 
aran  looked  pitilessly  with  an  eye 
of  fire  upon  a  fiery  world.  All 
around,  the  horizon  glared  with  the 
reflected  glow  of  huge  conflagra- 
tions. As  he  strode  up  and  down 
in  his  bitterness  of  soul,  he  realised 
more  acutely  the  great  weight  of 
the  burden  which  bowed  him 
down.  Descending  from  the 
branches  of  an  iron-bark  tree  beside 
him,  a  beautiful  little  mangaroo  * 
floated  downwards  on  outstretched 
wings  to  the  foot  of  a  tall  sapling 
at  a  little  distance  away,  and 
nimbly  ascending  it,  was  followed 
by  his  mate,  who,  quickly  imitating 
the  example  set  her,  perched  her- 
self on  a  branch  adjoining.  There 
they  chattered  and  played,  frolick- 
ing among  the  branches,  through 
which  the  white  moon  shone  with 
cold,  hard  loveliness.  As  John 
watched  their  merry  gambols,  some 
sympathetic  chord  of  his  nature 
was  touched.  How  gladsome  and 
joyous  they  looked  !  They  were 
content  with  their  humble  lot. 
Some  degree  of  their  happiness 
radiated  into  his  own  heart,  and 


A  description  of  the  small  flying  squirrel,  with  exquisitely  fine  fur. 


I860.] 


Bash- Life  in  Queensland.— Part  X. 


375 


"  he  blessed  them  unawares."  A 
feeling  of  hope  sprang  up  in  his 
soul,  and  his  fast-waning  faith  and 
trust  in  the  good  providence  of 
God  struck  a  deeper  root  and  found 
a  richer  soil.  He  went  about  his 
cheerless  work  with  a  renewed 
strength ;  and  shortly  afterwards, 
to  his  great  joy,  a  change  in  the 
weather  brought  back  with  it  a 
cessation  from  his  hardest  toil. 

Not  very  long  after  the  drought 
had  passed  away,  John  received  a 
letter  from  young  Fitzgerald,  en- 
closing one  from  his  father,  which 
intimated  that  arrangements  had 
been  made  for  selling  the  run  for 
what  it  would  bring  by  auction. 
The  letter  went  on  to  state  that,  as 
the  speculation  had  proved  disas- 
trous to  all  concerned,  and  as  John 
had  lost  the  capital  which  he  had 
invested  in  it,  he  was  authorised 
to  draw  the  sum  of  £300  as  some 
compensation  for  the  exertions  he 
had  made  when  in  charge. 

The  younger  Fitzgerald's  letter 
merely  congratulated  his  friend  on 
having  ended  his  slavery,  and,  ap- 
parently taking  it  for  granted  that 
he  would  make  his  way  straight 
to  Ungahrun,  concluded  by  saying 
that  they  would  there  talk  over  his 
future  plans.  These  Fitzgerald  had 
already  arranged  in  his  own  mind. 
John  was  to  manage  Ungahrun  at 
a  liberal  salary,  which  would  be 
some  indemnification  for  what  he 
had  already  gone  through ;  while 
he  himself  would  marry  Ruth,  and 
with  her  visit  the  much-talked-of 
Europe. 

The  sale  was  concluded ;  John 
had  given  delivery;  and  he  and  his 
faithful  Blucher,  now  almost  out  of 
his  senses  with  joy  at  the  thought 
of  returning  to  his  trile,  were  on 
their  way  down  to  Ungahrun.  The 
undertaking  of  the  journey  had 
been  a  subject  of  much  inward  con- 
flict with  John.  He  told  himself 
how  much  better  it  would  be  to 


keep  away,  and  never  look  upon 
Ruth  again ;  but  with  curious  in- 
consistency he  brought  forward 
stronger  arguments,  which  proved 
how  ungrateful  he  would  appear  to 
his  other  friends  should  he  not 
return  amongst  them,  if  only  for  a 
short  visit ;  and  at  last  he  started 
with  an  uneasy  conscience. 

Many  a  well  -  known  spot  he 
remembered  as  he  travelled  along. 
Here  he  had  camped  with  his  cattle 
during  the  rain.  Into  these  lagoons 
they  rushed  when  parched  with 
thirst.  This  is  the  identical  gully 
into  which  he  and  his  horse  fell 
headlong  during  the  stampede  of 
his  cattle.  Now  he  is  on  the  Cam- 
baranga  run.  He  is  strong  still  in 
his  resolution  to  keep  from  tempta- 
tion, but  one  look  at  the  homestead 
and  the  house  she  lives  in  he  must 
have,  if  it  costs  him  his  life. 

They  come  to  a  spot  where  a 
short  cut  strikes  oft  for  Ungahrun, 
and  sending  Blucher  with  the  pack- 
horses  along  it,  John  keeps  towards 
his  own  early  home.  He  expe- 
riences somewhat  of  the  feeling 
which  may  torture  a  condemned 
spirit  roaming  in  the  vicinity  of 
Paradise. 

As  he  rides  through  the  thick 
wattles  which  line  the  road,  he 
meets  a  man  with  a  pack-horse.  It 
is  the  station  ration- carrier.  John 
has  too  often  performed  the  same 
work  not  to  know  his  appearance. 
A  few  hasty  questions  are  answered 
in  a  manner  which  relieve  and  yet 
disappoint  him.  Mr  Cosgrove  is  at 
home,  but  his  daughter  is  not.  She 
is  staying  at  Betyammo,  and  the 
man  does  not  know  when  she  will 
return. 

John  rides  on  with  less  interest 
and  a  slight  attack  of  his  old  gnaw- 
ing pain.  Fitzgerald  is  doubtless 
at  Betyammo.  Now  he  is  in  view 
of  the  well  -  known  head-station. 
There  is  the  well-remembered  worl- 
shed.  It  seems  only  yesterday 


376 


Bash-Life  in  Queensland. — Part  X. 


[Sept. 


since  he  and  Stone  visited  it  for 
the  first  time.  There  lies  the  gar- 
den, and  the  little  creek  which  joins 
its  waters  with  the  main  stream. 
Can  so  many  years  have  flown  by 
since  his  eyes  first  rested  on  the 
scene  ?  Yonder  is  Ruth's  mother's 
grave, — she  must  often  go  there. 
He  will  for  once  kneel  where  she 
has  knelt,  and  then  he  will  depart. 
He  will  risk  his  peace  of  mind  no 
further.  Quietly  he  crosses  over  to 
the  spot  which  his  memory  insep- 
arably connects  with  her  he  loves. 
It  is  much  the  same  as  when  he 
left  it.  The  railing  and  head- 
stone which  Fitzgerald  had  put 
up  about  her  mother's  grave  are 
still  there,  but  there  is  a  look 
of  trim  neatness  about  it  which 
shows  that  loving  hands  have  been 
lately  at  work.  How  rapidly  his 
heait  is  beating  !  His  boyhood's 
memories  flow  over  him.  He  re- 
members how  fervently  his  own 
father  strove  to  ward  from  him 
the  ills  of  life,  and  as  he  kneels 
under  the  great  currajong-tree  his 
mind  becomes  absorbed  in  the 
past. 

Fitzgerald  had  in  vain  sought  an 
opportunity  to  converse  with  Euth 
in  private,  for  with  an  amount  of 
clever  tact  and  skilful  mano3uvring 
which  astonished  herself,  she  had 
hitherto  managed  to  evade  and  put 
off  the  scene  which  she  felt  was 
inevitable.  She  liked  the  Un- 
gahrun  squatter  much  as  a  friend, 
and  the  thought  of  the  pain  which 
she  knew  was  in  store  for  him  dis- 
tressed her  greatly.  Day  by  day 
she  felt  that  the  approach  of  the 
dreaded  hour  was  drawing  nearer, 
and  that  the  crisis  was  alone  post- 
poned by  herself. 

She  had  one  day  taken  advan- 
tage of  a  rumoured  absence  of  Fitz- 
gerald from  home  to  canter  over 
and  visit  her  Betyammo  friends, 
when  to  her  surprise  she  found  her 


lover  there  before  her.  He  had 
turned  up  in  some  unaccountable 
way,  as  he  often  did  about  that 
time.  Strange  coincidences  seemed 
to  multiply  themselves  in  connec- 
tion with  him.  This  time,  his  face 
wore  a  look  of  resolution,  and  his 
general  air  gave  so  much  evidence 
of  determination,  that  Euth  trem- 
bled. She  felt  sure  the  time  for  an 
explanation  had  come.  Still  she 
struggled  to  delay  it.  Insisting 
that  her  step- father  could  not  spare 
her,  she  announced  her  intention 
next  morning  of  returning  to  Cam- 
baranga;  and  waylaying  Mr  Gray 
privately,  she  begged  that  he  would 
accompany  her  back.  It  was,  how- 
ever, no  use.  Fitzgerald  saddled 
his  horse,  deaf  to  all  hints,  and 
joined  the  party.  Euth  resolutely 
kept  by  Mr  Gray's  bridle-rein  most 
of  the  way,  and  it  was  not  until 
within  a  short  distance  from  the 
station  that  the  casual  encounter 
of  an  intimate  and  loquacious  friend 
of  the  old  squatter's  gave  Fitzgerald 
the  opportunity  he  sought  for.  In 
a  few  straightforward  and  manly 
words  he  said  all  he  had  to  say  ; 
and  earnestly  he  made  offer  of  his 
love,  and  promised  to  shield  and 
guard  her,  as  his  heart's  most 
sacred  treasure,  through  life.  His 
utterance  had  been  so  rapid  that 
Euth,  whose  tears  fell  fast,  was 
quite  unable  to  stem  its  torrent. 
She  shook  her  head,  and  was 
endeavouring  to  decline  the  offer 
as  gently  as  she  could,  when  the 
loud  greeting  whinny  of  a  horse 
startled  them  both.  It  stood  tied 
up  to  a  sapling  near  her  mother's 
grave,  and  the  sound  had  the 
effect  of  causing  its  owner  to  rise 
hastily  from  where  he  had  been 
kneeling  and  gaze  at  the  new- 
comer. 

He  stood  bareheaded — a  tall, 
muscular,  well-built  figure,  in  rough 
bush-attire,  his  auburn  beard  and 
hair  powdered  with  the  dust  of 


1880.] 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. — Part  X. 


377 


travel,  gazing  at  them  with  a  fright- 
ened stare  on  his  bronzed  aquiline 
features. 

"  John  West  !  "  cried  Fitzgerald, 
in  delighted  surprise. 

Darkly  red  flushed  the  weather- 
beaten  face,  a  tempest  of  rage  for  an 
instant  seemed  to  pass  over  the 
strongly-marked  countenance,  hut 
only  for  a  moment.  The  next 
minute  he  had  sprung  on  his  horse 
and  was  galloping  away,  excitedly 
waving  his  hands.  Whither  ?  — 
he  knew  and  cared  not. 

Ruth's  tears  had  stopped  with 
the  surprise,  but  now  they  welled 
faster  than  ever;  and  Fitzgerald's 
surprise  at  his  friend's  strange 
conduct  but  increased  their  flow. 
Attributing  her  emotion  to  the 
same  cause  which  had  fiist  occasion- 
ed it,  Fitzgerald  would  have  re- 
newed his  suit,  but  was  excitedly, 
almost  passionately,  interrupted  by 
Ruth,  who  incoherently  begged 
him  to  desist;  and  on  reaching  the 
head -station  she  hurried  to  her 
chamber,  in  which  she  shut  herself 
up,  resolutely  refusing  to  see  any 
one,  not  excepting  her  step-father 
and  old  Mr  Gray,  who  feared  that 
she  had  been  attacked  by  a  sudden 
indisposition. 

Fitzgerald  wandered  about  in  a 


maze  of  astonishment,  at  one  time 
canvassing  his  friend's  behaviour, 
and  next  moment  that  of  his 
mistress. 

Night,  however,  brought  counsel, 
and  in  the  morning  Ruth  met  him 
with  a  calm  face ;  and  while  stating 
her  appreciation  of  the  proposal  he 
had  made  to  her,  and  her  own  deep 
sense  of  his  private  worth,  firmly 
declined  accepting  it,  causing  that 
gentleman's  visage  to  assume  an 
expression  of  more  puzzled  amaze- 
ment than  it  had  ever  worn  before. 
In  vain  he  would  have  expostu- 
lated. Mildly,  but  decidedly,  she 
put  an  end  to  further  entreaties 
by  informing  him  that  to  her  the 
subject  was  of  so  painful  a  nature 
that  its  further  discussion  could 
only  wound  without  changing  her 
feelings. 

In  desperation  Fitzgerald  applied 
for  advice,  first  to  Mr  Gray,  and 
then  to  Mr  Cosgrove,  the  latter 
appeal  to  him  a  most  distasteful 
proceeding. 

Both  shrugged  their  shoulders 
helplessly,  and  Fitzgerald  rode 
home  by  himself  that  afternoon,  a 
very  much  sadder  man  than  when 
he  left  it,  vainly  seeking  some  ex- 
planation of  so  bewildering  a  state 
of  things. 


378 


New  Novels. 


[Sept. 


NEW      NOVEL  S. 


IT  is  common  in  the  literary 
world  to  call  this  time  of  general 
holiday  and  locomotion  "the  silly 
season."  The  word  is  not  a  word — 
however  applicable  to  other  peri- 
odical productions — which  has  ever 
been  involved  in  any  of  the  calcu- 
lations of  '  Maga,'  to  whose  kind 
hands  summer  and  winter,  and 
autumn  as  well,  bring  a  supply  of 
all  the  good  things  of  this  world. 
Bat  if  not  in  writing,  we  may  at 
least  be  allowed  to  suggest  that  in 
reading,  the  common  holiday  is  the 
silly  season.  "  Books  for  the  sea- 
side," such  as  we  see  constantly  ad- 
vertised, are  not  those  books  of 
serious  import  which  no  doubt  oc- 
cupy our  thoughts  during  the  rest 
of  the  year.  Those  high  specula- 
tions upon  the  antecedents  of  the 
human  race  which  begin  to  make 
us  so  much  better  acquainted  with 
our  distant  ancestors  the  Ascidians 
than  we  are  with  those  intervening 
races,  the  Picts,  for  instance,  who 
must  be  much  nearer  to  us  in  blood ; 
and  even  those  speculations  which 
are,  we  suppose,  the  last  novelty  in 
science,  as  to  whether  Evolution 
may  not  involve  Degeneration,  and 
Humanity  be  on  the  fair  way  back 
again  to  Ascidianism — a  hypothesis 
which  will  suit  a  great?  many  minds 
and  ought  to  have  a  great  success  in 
the  Low  Church :  such  studies  are 
the  occupation  of  home,  to  be  pur- 
sued in  the  steady  dusk  of  winter 
days,  or  under  the  stimulating  irri- 
tation of  the  east  winds  in  spring. 
But  with  a  sweep  of  breezy  country, 
or  still  more  breezy  sea,  before  our 
eyes  and  our  windows  ;  or  a  snowy 
mountain  inviting  our  regard  with 
its  folds  of  gloom  and  shadow,  its 
pinnacles  of  silver ;  or  after  the  la- 
borious pleasure  of  a  day  upon  the 
moors, — our  minds,  let  us  allow,  are 


not  strung  for  such  inquiries.  Then 
the  gravest  reader  may  confess  with- 
out shame  that  it  is  "  only  novels  " 
which  he  has  broxight  with  him  ; 
and  that  so  much  energy  as  he  can 
command  from  the  outdoor  refresh- 
ment which  need  or  fashion  pre- 
scribes, and  which  is  to  strengthen 
his  mind  for  all  such  inquiries,  and 
his  nerves  for  all  their  consequences, 
not  to  speak  of  mo;e  immediate  ne- 
cessities— is  fit  for  no  greater  exer- 
tion than  to  follow  the  fortunes  of 
a  pretty  heroine,  or  a  muscular  son 
of  the  gods,  through  the  orthodox 
three  volumes.  Muscular  heroes 
and  pretty  heroines  are  as  necessary 
to  our  comfortable  existence  during 
this  period  of  supposed  retirement 
from  the  occupations  of  ordinary 
life,  as  they  are  to  some  of  us  for 
the  other  part  of  the  year.  It  is 
true  that  of  all  the  expedients  of 
amusement  none  are  so  well  worn  ; 
but  they  have  outlasted  the  greater 
part  of  those  inventions  for  occupy- 
ing the  listless,  and  distracting  the 
weary,  of  which  the  world  is  full. 
And  as  there  must  be  something  for 
the  mind  to  do  now  and  then,  as 
well  as  for  the  body,  even  in  holi- 
day-time, there  can  be  few  better 
occupations  for  the  critic — himself 
snatching  a  breath  of  fresh  air,  and 
never,  of  course,  during  his  more 
gravel}' inspired  moments,  troubling 
himself  with  anything  so  frivolous 
— than  to  indicate  a  few  of  the  works 
with  which  his  beloved  public  may 
with  advantage  occupy  itself  in  the 
leisure  of  its  yearly  holiday,  in  the 
well-bred  languor  of  country-house 
visiting,  or  among  the  invigorating 
yet  somewhat  tedious  pleasures  of 
the  seaside. 

"  Only  Novels  !  "  If  it  were  but 
in  consideration  of  one  of  the  most 
flourishing  branches  of  trade,  these 


1880.]                                        New  Novels.  379 

articles  might  claim  a  less  contcmp-  natural    insight,   and    sparkles   of 

tuous  mention.     It  is  true  that  the  that  perception  which  approaches 

students  of  such  mysteries  are  in-  genius.     After  all,  when  one  comes 

variably  informed   that   the   great  to  consider  it,  there  are  few  greater 

proportion  of  them  do  not  pay, —  achievements  than  that  of  creating 

from  which  it  may  be  inferred  that  before  our  eyes  one  distinct  human 

of  all   generous   and   self-denying  being  who  is,  yet  is  not,  whose  face 

professions,  there  are  none  so  mag-  we   shall   never   see,  who  can  no 


nanimous  as  those  which  have  to  do 
with   the  printing  and  issuin     of 


more  be  touched  or  identified  than 
a  mist,  yet  whom  we  know  as  well 


light  literature.  But  whether  they  as  we  know  our  brother.  That  the 
pay  or  not,  it  is  evident  that  they  power  to  do  so  should  be,  is  of 
employ  as  large  a  staff  of  workmen  itself  a  sufficiently  great  wonder  ; 
(to  look  at  the  matter  from  an  econ-  but  it  becomes  still  more  remark  - 
omical  point  of  view)  as  many  more  able  when  we  reflect  that  the  gift 
dignified  kinds  of  traffic.  We  do  in  greater  or  less  development  is 
not  speak  of  the  solitary  man  or  scarcely  even  uncommon,  and  that, 
woman  somewhere  in  a  study  or  when  it  is  exercised  largely,  it  is 
parlour,  or  even  garret,  who  sets  the  always  more  or  less  despised.  The 
whole  agoing;  but  of  the  paper-  "distinguished  novelist"  is  good- 
makers,  the  printers,  the  noble  me-  naturedly  bantered  by  his  friends 
chanic,  the  bookbinding  girls,  the  upon  his  distinctions.  He  laughs 
ingenious  compositor,  who  all  get  at  them  himself,  in  or  out  of  his 
their  bread  out  of  these  ephemera  sleeve  ;  perhaps  laughing  a  little  all 
at  which  everybody  smiles.  This  the  same  at  those  who  are  so  jocular 
consideration  should  make  us  pause  about  his  reputation.  Such  was 
when  we  speak  with  a  scoff  about  not  the  case  in  the  days  of  the 
only  novels.  Nails  and  needles,  Wizard  of  the  North ;  though,  to 
which,  though  insignificant  articles, 
are  always  spoken  of  with  respect, 
do  not  employ  a  more  respectable 


band  of  workmen.     Novels  are  a 


be  sure,  there  are  a  hundred  novels 
in  existence  now  for  one  then. 

However,  let  it  be  some  consola- 
tion to  those  who  profess  this  trade, 


part   of  the  industrial   system  of  that  it  is  the  most  inexhaustible,  the 

England.      They  are  wares  which  most  indispensable   of  arts.      No 

are  largely  exported,  and  still  more  other  is  so  old — no  other  so  uhiver- 

largely  stolen  from  us.     They  have  sal.    If  Eve  did  not  tell  stories  out- 

indeed  every  external  title  to  re-  side  of  Eden,  among  all  that  crop 

spect — but  yet,  somehow  or  other,  of  thistles,  to  Abel  and  Cain  before 

they  do  not  receive  it.      A  novel  they  had  learned  how  to  quarrel, 

is  a  book  which  some  people  are  our  first  mother  was  not  the  woman 

ashamed  of  reading,  and  most  peo-  we  take  her  for.    From  the  nursery 

pie  speak  of  apologetically  as  an  to  that  sick-room  at  the  other  end 

exception  to  their  usual  studies — as  of  time  which,  painful  and  languid 

a  trifle  taken  up,  don't  you  know,  as  it  must  be,  we  all  hope  to  pass 

when  one  has  nothing  better  to  do.  through,  none  of  us  can  do  with- 

Keading  for  the  seaside  !      Under  out  our  story.     It  is  a  poor  soul 

this    description  figure    books    in  that  never  has  lost  a  night's  sleep, 

which   the   secrets  of  human  life  or  wasted  half  a  summer's  day,  on  a 

are  sounded,  sometimes  with  power,  novel.    It  may  be  doubtful,  indeed, 

and   often  with   sincerity  as  great  whether  any  of  us  have  learnt  to 

as,  or  greater  than,  that  of  any  of  conduct    ourselves    better   through 

your  philosophers,  with  gleams  of  the  difficulties  of  life  in  consequence 


380 


of  the  experiences  of  the  number- 
less heroes  and  heroines  whom  we 
have  followed  with  interest  through 
the  same ;  but  at  all  events  our  in- 
terest has  been  quickened  in  their 
experiences  by  the  similarity  of  our 
own.  It  has  been  claimed  by  one 
of  the  chief  novelists  of  the  day, 
we  think  Mr  Trollope,  who  cer- 
tainly has  a  right  to  be  heard  on 
the  subject,  that  novels  teach  peo- 
ple, and  especially  young  people, 
how  to  talk,  and  have  had  a  dis- 
tinct influence  in  shaping  the 
stream — not  a  very  brilliant  one 
— of  English  conversation.  Per- 
haps this  is  rather  a  strong  state- 
ment, and  it  would  be  more  true  to 
say  that  English  novels  influence 
English  conversation  as  the  '  Times  ' 
leads  popular  opinion,  by  divining 
and  echoing  it — occasionally  with  a 
clever  semblance  of  forestalling  and 
originating.  It  is  somewhat  curious, 
by  the  way,  when  we  come  to  think 
of  it,  and  by  no  means  complimen- 
tary to  the  novelists,  that  they,  as 
we  have  just  said,  do  so  little  to 
guide  or  help  those  who  may  have 
complications  of  life  to  go  through 
very  similar  to  the  complications 
which  form  the  subjects  of  modern 
romance.  This  is  a  question  which 
writers  of  fiction  would  do  well 
to  ponder.  Who  has  been  helped 
through  one  of  these  difficulties  by 
the  example  of  the  last  study  of 
life  which  even  the  most  potent 
of  contemporary  magicians  has  set 
before  him?  Perhaps  the  reason 
is,  that  a  scarcely  appreciable  por- 
tion of  humanity  are  those  who  are 
troubled  by  the  special  problems 
which  the  novelist  prefers  to  inves- 
tigate and  fathom.  For  example, 
there  are  curiously  few  bigamists 
in  good  society,  yet  bigamy  is  per- 
haps more  popular  than  any  other 
subject  with  some  novelists.  And 
few  of  us,  after  all,  very  few,  make 
eccentric  wills,  which  are  still  more 
largely  used.  As  for  the  one  grand 


New  Novels.  [Sept. 

problem  of  which  all  the  novels  are 
full,  which  is  how  to  get  ourselves 
beloved  and  married,  that,  it  is  pro- 
verbial, is  a  question  in  which  no- 
body will  take  any  advice  or  pro- 
fit by  any  example.  Here  human 
nature  always  feels  its  situation 
unique  and  its  circumstances  unex- 
ampled. If  there  ever  was  a  silly 
maiden  like  Lydia  Languish  in  real 
life,  demanding  to  be  wooed  fantas- 
tically and  mysteriously,  to  be  run 
away  with  and  flattered  by  clandes- 
tine vows,  in  imitation  of  her  fa- 
vourite heroine,  we  are  very  sure 
there  never  was  any  who  learned 
prudence  and  patience  from  the 
most  exemplary  of  fictitious  women. 
No  doubt  it  pleases  the  young  couple 
who  have  to  wait  for  each  other 
through  a  lingering  engagement,  to 
read  of  others  in  the  same  circum- 
stances ;  but  we  doubt  if  man  or 
woman  ever  got  a  hint  for  the 
speedier  termination  of  their  em- 
barrassments through  those  of  their 
contemporaries  in  fiction.  It  is  by 
no  means  to  be  desired  that  novelists 
should  give  up  this  subject  which  is 
sacred  to  them,  but  in  which  no- 
body will  ever  be  guided  by  any 
experience  save  their  own  ;  yet  it 
would  be  well  for  them  in  other 
points  to  consider  this  deficiency. 
They  are  the  recognised  exponents 
of  social  life ;  it  is  their  task  to 
exhibit  men  and  women  in  the 
midst  of  all  its  complications  :  and 
it  is  a  reproach  to  them  that  they 
do  nothing  to  help  their  fellow- 
creature  who  may  have  similar  trials 
to  go  through.  An  instance  strikes 
us  in  the  work  of  one,  who  without 
question  stands  at  the  head  of  this 
branch  of  literature  at  the  present 
moment  in  England.  When  Mary 
Garth  is  in  attendance  upon  the  old 
miser  in  '  Middlemarch,'  she  pre- 
vents him  from  burning  an  unjust 
will  which  he  has  made  in  a  fit  of 
ill -temper  and  which  disinherits 
her  lover.  Why  does  she  prevent 


1880.]  New  Novels. 


381 


him  from  carrying  out  his  re- 
morseful wish  at  the  last  moment  1 
Because  it  would  be  to  her  own 
advantage  through  her  lover.  Now, 
to  hinder  a  man  from  doing  what  he 
wishes,  the  thing  being  rather  right 
than  wrong,  when  he  has  only  a  few 
minutes  to  do  anything  in,  because 
it  is  to  your  own  advantage,  is  almost 
as  revolting  to  good  sense  and  nat- 
ural justice  as  to  force  him  in  the 
same  circumstances  to  do  something 
for  your  advantage — and  extreme- 
ly silly  in  its  superiority  to  boot. 
This  is  putting  the  vanity  of  fan- 
ciful disinterestedness  above  both 
justice  and  charity,  for  the  only 
right  in  the  case  was  that  of  the 
dying  man  to  burn  the  paper  for 
which  he  was  alone  responsible,  if 
he  chose.  Here  is  one  of  the  cases 
in  which  fiction  fails  of  its  mission 
and  is  of  use  to  no  one ;  and  if 
George  Eliot  fails,  who  is  likely  to 
succeed  ? 

These  are  not  the  days,  however, 
of  exemplary  romances,  and  we 
have  ceased  to  understand  the  ne- 
cessity for  a  moral.  Novels  with 
a  purpose,  indeed,  are  universally 
scouted,  although  one  of  the  most 
powerful  of  contemporary  story- 
tellers, Mr  Charles  Eeade,  never 
takes  pen  in  hand  without  some 
moral  object,  some  abuse  to  assail 
or  good  cause  to  advance;  (and,  alas ! 
are  there  no  more  windmills  looming 
against  the  sky,  no  rattle  of  chains 
upon  any  prison  band  to  make  that 
champion  take  the  road  again1?) 
We  have  said  that  no  suggestion 
even  of  a  desire  that  the  novelist 
should  resign  that  subject  which  is 
his  from  time  immemorial,  the  great 
theme  of  story  and  of  song,  love, 
which  is  one  of  the  few  things  as 
old  and  as  continual  as  story-telling, 
has  ever  entered  our  mind.  To  tell 
the  truth,  though  we  have  heard 
our  contemporaries  give  heaven 
thanks  for  a  novel  without  love, 
we  have  never  shared  that  cruel 


sentiment.  Sometimes,  we  confess 
to  having  been  a  little  weary  of  the 
pretty  young  couples  in  Moliere, 
who  come  in  and  occupy  the  stage 
when  we  want  Harpagon  or  Sgan- 
arelle.  But  that  is  only  because  the 
great  French  dramatist  did  not 
understand,  any  more  than  the 
majority  of  his  countrymen,  the 
charm  of  honest  and  pure  young 
love.  To  this  moment  it  is  old 
love,  full  of  complications  and  per- 
adventures,  the  love  of  the  experi- 
enced and  world-worn,  the  secondes 
voces,  which  most  occupies  the  ima- 
"gination  of  our  neighbours.  The 
greatest  of  living  Frenchmen,  and, 
we  think,  of  living  romancers,  has 
indeed  been  able  to  do  without  the 
sentiment  altogether,  notably  in  his 
last  great  work,  where  the  nearest 
approach  to  a  heroine  has  attained 
the  age  of  twenty  months  only  (not 
years);  but  few  people  have  the 
force  of  Victor  Hugo.  Generally, 
however,  a  novel  in  which  there  is 
not  a  pair  of  lovers  is  a  mistake,  and 
undesirable  in  art  as  well  as  unac- 
ceptable to  the  majority  of  readers  ; 
but  when  we  say  this  we  must  also 
add,  that  scarcely  any  great  writer 
has  made  love  his  sole  theme,  any 
more  than  love  is  the  chief  agency 
in  the  world.  Shakespeare,  who 
never,  or  .at  least  in  very  rare  in- 
stances, omits  it  altogether,  has 
given  it  the  chief  place  only  in  one 
pre-eminent  picture  of  youthful 
passion  and  enthusiasm,  done  all 
in  the  glow  of  sudden  inspiration, 
the  story  of  that  moment  which 
is  for  ever,  the  breathless  ecstasy 
which  is  instantaneous  and  immor- 
tal, born  of  its  own  divine  caprice, 
and  saved  by  death  as  sweet  as  love 
from  any  ending.  We  have  heard 
from  the  lips  of  ineffable  critics  that 
Juliet  was  a  very  forward  young 
woman,  and  her  doings  quite  incon- 
sistentwith  the  rules  of  good  society, 
which  no  doubt  is  perfectly  true ; 
and  had  our  great  poet  given  us 


382 


New  Novels. 


[Sept 


nothing  but  a  succession  of  Juliets 
he  would  not  have  been  so  great  a 
poet.  This,  however,  is  what  the 
present  school  of  story-tellers  cannot 
understand.  It  was,  we  think,  with 
'Jane  Eyre'  that  it  began  to  be 
supposed  that  the  hot  encounter  of 
t\vo  lovers,  with  all  their  juxtaposi- 
tions and  all  their  quarrels,  heats, 
and  coolnesses,  was  the  only  object 
of  fiction  —  a  disastrous  discovery 
which  has  done  more  damage  in  the 
world  than  many  a  more  important 
mistake.  Taking  Shakespeare's  ex- 
ample, however,  we  may  say  that 
a  story  which  is  pure  love  and 
nothing  else  must  end  in  a  catas- 
trophe. It  is  an  intolerable  state, 
not  to  be  supported  by  the  great 
mass  of  human  beings  who  are  not 
in  love;  and  its  suddenness,  and  the 
overpowering  brief  current  of  its 
potency,  the  pity  of  the  strange  and 
tragic  conclusion,  the  bitter-sweet  of 
that  union  which  is  ending,  are  com- 
ponent parts  of  its  power  over  us, 
and  justify  its  acceptance  as  the 
supreme  romance,  the  one  typical 
tale  of  youth  and  passion.  There  is 
no  looking  behind  or  after  in  that 
sudden  rapture — it  is  all  concen- 
trated in  the  moment,  the  hour,  the 
one  point  of  everlasting  duration, 
which  to  ordinary  mortals  is  beat 
out  upon  the  clock  in  the  shortest 
spell  of  time.  But  when  the  youth- 
ful pair  occupy  their  real  position 
in  a  real  world,  the  interest  of  their 
story  not  only  gives  zest  to  the 
study  of  more  ordinary  existence, 
but  it  gives  the  indispensable  com- 
position, the  necessary  beginning 
and  ending  which  every  tale  re- 
quires. Eeal  life  has  no  ending 
save  in  death, — it  is  a  tangle  of 
breakings  off  and  addings  on,  of 
new  beginnings  overlapping  the 
old,  of  ties  arbitrarily  cut  and  ar- 
bitrarily pieced  together  again,  and 
nothing  to  make  the  picture,  as 


painters  say,  "compose."  Some- 
times a  bold  artist  will  take  this 
very  imperfection  for  his  rule,  and 
make  a  story  with  as  little  purpose 
as  life  itself,  and  as  destitute  of 
shape  and  sequence,  which  is  won- 
derfully taking  and  attractive  to  the 
cultivated  imagination — for  a  time. 
But  it  needs  a  singular  gift,  and  the 
method  requires  to  be  very  sparingly 
used. 

Miss  Broughton  has  hitherto  oc- 
cupied a  very  good  position  among 
the  writers  of  the  impassioned 
school.  Xobody  has  sinned  more 
than  she  has  done  against  the  ret- 
icences of  love.  She  has  left  very 
little  indeed  to  the  imagination, 
and  insisted  upon  every  detail  of 
long-drawn  and  passionate  inter- 
views with  a  vehemence  which  has 
confused  the  modest  reader,  but 
always  with  a  vigour  and  spirit 
which  have  covered  a  multitude  of 
sins.  There  has  generally  been  just 
impropriety  enough  in  her  situa- 
tions to  make  the  extreme  virtue 
of  her  heroines  more  ostentatiously 
palpable  than  the  virtue  of  honest 
English  girls  whom  nobody  sus- 
pects, has  any  business  to  be — which 
is  a  coarse  way  of  promoting  purity 
and  exhibiting  fine  sentiment.  But 
either  the  unanimity  of  virtuous 
critics  has  been  for  once  of  some 
moral  use,  or  else  other  influences 
have  persuaded  Miss  Broughton 
that  this  is  not  the  best  course 
for  a  writer  whose  aim  is  at  some- 
thing higher  than  the  applause  of 
the  frivolous  or  light-minded  ;  an>l 
in  the  novel  which  she  has  called 
'Second  Thought*,'*  perhaps  with 
a  double  meaning  and  intention  of 
expressing  her  own  changed  ideas 
as  well  as  her  heroine's,  she  hps 
"  turned  over  a  new  leaf,"  accord- 
ing to  the  usual  formula.  '  Second 
Thoughts'  deals  only  with  virtuous 
persons.  There  is  not  in  it  a  touch 


Second  Thoughts.     By  Ilhocla  Broughton.     Bentley. 


1880.] 


Second  Thoughts. 


383 


of  illegitimate  love  from  end  to  end, 
and  there  are  few  if  any  violent  em- 
braces, and  only  a  few  references  to 
the  "  sweet  body,"  which  has  occu- 
pied in  recent  fiction  more  than  the 
part  which  used  in  more  reserved 
times  to  be  appropriated  to  the 
sweet  heart.  But  when  she  had 
made  up  her  mind  to  go  so  far,  we 
think  Miss  Broughton  would  have 
done  well  to  go  a  little  further. 
Love  is  still  the  sole  question,  or 
almost  the  sole  question,  in  the 
book.  To  be  sure,  there  is  a  matter 
of  domestic  government  which  is 
very  amusingly  treated,  and  which 
gives  a  little  human  variety  to 
the  monotonous  and  long-winded 
conflict  between  the  lovers;  for  it 
is  a  duel  of  mutual  pride,  self- 
denial,  and  sacrifice  which  occupies 
the  two  volumes,  and  might,  had 
not  the  writer  been  merciful,  have 
occupied  three,  for  any  reason  that 
can  be  seen  to  the  contrary.  The 
story  is,  we  are  sorry  to  say,  a  very 
well-worn  and  antiquated  story,  and 
its  little  contrivances  of  difficulty 
such  as  the  accustomed  novel-reader 
will  dismiss  with  a  smile,  seeing 
through  them  from  the  first  word. 
Tnere  is  a  gruff  and  rude,  but  be- 
nevolent and  admirable,  young  doc- 
tor, whose  action,  entirely  on  her 
behalf  and  in  her  interest,  rouses 
the  fierce  resentment  and  dislike  of 
Gillian  the  heroine,  until  the  sud- 
den discovery  of  his  proud  disin- 
terestedness makes  her  find  out  at 
the  same  time,  that  while  she  sup- 
posed she  was  hating,  she  had  been 
learning  to  love  him.  He  is  made 
her  guardian,  and  she  is  compelled 
to  live  in  his  house ;  and  while 
they  bite  and  scratch,  the  mutual 
attraction  increases.  This  kind  of 
struggle  is  one  which  has  been  dear 
to  romance  in  recent  years.  It  has 
been  repeated  over  and  over  again, 
the  man  invariably  being  iu  the 
right  and  the  woman  in  the  wrong, 
with  much  edifying  discovery  of 

VOL.  CXXVIIT. — NO.  DCCLXXIX. 


her  feminine  imperfections  on  one 
side,  and  glorification  of  his  strong 
and  noble  and  superior  qualities  on 
the  other.  This  is  one  peculiarity 
of  female  novelists  upon  which  crit- 
ics, so  fond  of  dwelling  upon  their 
characteristics,  have  rarely  hit.  In 
the  old  times  when  literature  was 
chiefly  in  the  hands  of  men,  women 
were  elevated  to  a  visionary  pin- 
nacle; but  now  it  is  the  turn  of  the 
stronger  sex,and  there  are  few  things 
which  more  surprise  the  male  reader 
than  the  flattering  picture  which  he 
finds  presented  to  him  of  his  own 
species  in  the  shape  of  heroes  who 
to  him  are  very  questionable  speci- 
mens of  the  race.  Once  more  it  is 
'  Jane  Eyre '  who  -sets  this  fashion. 
Her  brutal  yet  captivating  lover 
has  been  the  father  of  hundreds — 
might  we  not  say  thousands  ? — of 
unmannerly  fellows,  who  have  been 
worshipped  by  perverse,  yet  at  bot- 
tom most  submissive,  young  women, 
through  volume  after  volume  of 
mutual  controversy,  in  which  they 
have  always  the  best  of  it.  This 
unconscious  homage  ought  to  soften 
the  gentlemen  of-  the  newspapers  ; 
but  here,  we  fear,  another  principle 
comes  in,  and  your  critic,  who  feels 
himself  in  every  way  a  more  desir- 
able specimen  of  humanity  than 
the  much -lauded  hero,  but  who 
knows  that  no  such  appreciation 
awaits  him,  becomes  jealous  of  his 
imaginary  brother. 

Miss  Broughton's  heroine  is  very 
pleasantly  introduced  to  the  reader. 
She  is  the  niece,  housekeeper,  and 
absolute  sovereign  of  a  mild  and 
somewhat  stupid  squire,  who  is  her 
uncle,  and  over  whose  motherless 
children  she  bears  a  benevolent  but 
imperious  sway.  The  Christmas 
party  which  the  lively  and  energetic 
Gillian  (painful  name,  by  the  way, 
for  a  heroine — but  novelty  is  every- 
thing) organises  and  arranges  is 
very  brightly  put  before  us ;  and 
we  already  see  that  the  too  great 
2  c 


New  Novels. 


[Sept, 


self-confidence  of  the   young  mis- 
tress of  the  house,  so  certain  that 
she  is  indispensable  to  the  comfort 
of   everybody,   and    that    nothing 
could  be  done  without  her,  is  des- 
tined,  like    every   other    kind   of 
pride,  to  have  a  fall.     This  humili- 
ation conies  swiftly  and  suddenly, 
in  the  person  of  a  very  decided  and 
positive  visitor,  who  brings  her  an 
order  from  her  father  to   proceed 
instantly  to  him,  in  company  with 
the  messenger,  who  is  her  father's 
doctor,  already  a  celebrated  young 
physician  in  large  practice,  and  a 
man,  the  reader  instantly  perceives, 
of  most  unusual   generosity,  since 
he  has  left  that  practice  and  come 
to   the  country  in   the  depths   of 
winter,  getting  a  very  cold  recep- 
tion for  his  pains,  in  order  to  fetch 
a  rebellious  girl  to  her  extremely 
cranky    and    disagreeable    parent. 
The  only  motive  for  this  remark- 
able act  is  that  the  father  is  rich, 
and   the   doctor   cannot   stand   by 
and  see  the  old  man's  fortune  alien- 
ated  from   his  only  child.      Any- 
thing  more   ungrateful   than   that 
child,  for  his  care  of  her,  could  not 
be ;  and  indeed  the  father,  as  Miss 
Broughton  represents  him,  is  a  very 
good  justification  of  her  unwilling- 
ness.    Bad   fathers   are   favourites 
with  this  writer,  and  with  her  imi- 
tators—  fathers    so    bad    that    no 
family  fiction  is  practicable  about 
them,   and   their   children  frankly 
despise    and    abhor    the   domestic 
tyrants.     No  worse  specimen  than 
Mr    Latimer    has    ever    appeared 
among  the  group  of  those  gentle- 
men  already   known   to   us.     His 
absolute  and  undisguised  self-occu- 
pation, and  cruelty  to  the  unwilling 
victim — his  cynicism,  his  atheism, 
his  lovelessness  and  hopelessness — 
make  up  the  most  unattractive  pic- 
ture, and   add  an   entirely  useless 
shadow  to  the  story,  for  there  is  no 
advantage  gained  to  it  by  his  in- 
troduction; and  even  Dr  Burnet's 


extremely  disagreeable  generosity 
might  just  as  well  have  been  exer- 
cised, had  we  been  only  told  of  the 
undesirable  existence  of  the  testa- 
tor, who  orders  his  daughter  to 
marry  the  doctor  on  pain  of  los- 
ing her  fortune — a  hardship  only 
avoided  by  his  coarse  refusal  of  the 
privilege.  The  original  part  of  the 
book,  however,  which  is  pushed 
into  a  corner  by  this  commonplace 
love-story,  made  Gillian's  absence 
for  a  time  from  home  indispens- 
able; and  it  is  this  which  will 
most  amuse  the  reader.  Here  is  a 
picture  of  her  original  attitude  in 
her  uncle's  house.  She  is  endeav- 
ouring not  only  to  console  that 
worthy  man  for  the  extraordinary 
hardship  of  her  departure,  but  in 
some  degree  to  fortify  him  against 
-its  evil  consequences. 

"  '  I  cannot  think  what  you  will  do 
without  me,'  says  Gillian,  with  uncon- 
scious conceit,  sadly  gazing  at  the 
glowing  coals,  as  pictures  of  the  total 
disorganisation  of  family,  house,  and 
village,  consequent  on  her  departure, 
march  gloomily  through  her  mind. 

"'I  am  sure  I  cannot  think,5  echoes 
the  poor  Squire,  humbly. 

" '  I  fear  you  will  all  be  at  sixes  and 
sevens  by  the  time  I  come  back.' 

"  '  I  am  sure  we  shall.' 

« 'Try  to  keep  things  together,  dear/ 
in  a  gently  hortatory  voice  ;  '  try  to 
keep  a  tight  hand  on  the  reins.' 

"  '  I  will  try,  Gill,'  not  very  con- 
fidently. 

" '  I  am  a  little  afraid  of  Jane,' 
pursues  Gillian,  thoughtfully.  'She 
is  a  good  girl,  Lut  rather  inclined  to 
be  self-willed  and  masterful' — as  if 
these  were  the  last  qualities  with 
which  she  herself  would  have  any 
sympathy.  'Will  you  try  to  keep 
her  a  little  in  check?' 

" '  If  you  wish,  Gill,'  with  less  con- 
fidence. 

"  Another  pause. 

" '  Sophia  Tarlton  has  promised  to 
take  my  drunkards,'  continues  the 
girl,  thoughtfully.  '  I  have  left  all 
my  Temperance  tracts  in  the  order  in 
which  I  wish  her  to  read  them  ;  I  am 


1880.1 


Second  Thoughts. 


385 


anxious  that  she  should  make  no  mis- 
take'. "Will  you  remind  her  ? ' 

" '  Yes,  Gill.' 

"  Again  they  are  silent,  but  so  is  not 
the  wind.  Plainly  they  can  hear  it 
raving,  and  tearing,  and  hustling  out- 
side. Gillian  shudders.  '  What  have 
I  done  to  deserve  a  journey  of  a  hun- 
dred and  fifty  miles  on  such  a  night, 
and  in  such  company?'  she  groans 
with  an  accent  of  angry  contempt. 

" '  Perhaps,  after  all,  he  may  not  be 
such  bad  company,'  says  the  Squire, 
consolingly.  'Perhaps — who  knows? 
— he  mav*  turn  out  quite  a  pleasant 
fellow.'  " 

" '  I  shall  certainly  not  give  him 
the  chance,'  returns  Gillian,  with  dig- 
nity. '  His  proximity  is  forced  upon 
nie^  but  I  may  at  least  be  spared  his 
conversation.  Nothing  will  induce 
me  to  open  my  lips  to  him.' " 

"With  these  melancholy  previ- 
sions of  the  family  ruin  which  is 
to  follow  her  withdrawal  from  the 
helm  of  affairs,  and  her  determined 
prejudice  against  her  new  com- 
panion, the  young  lady  sets  forth 
to  find  him  as  insupportable  as  she 
has  made  up  her  mind  he  must  be. 
A*  d  she  has  a  very  unpleasant  time 
of  it  in  the  cheerless,  half-furnished 
house  where  her  father  is  lying 
sneering  and  dying,  the  most  odious 
impenitent  whom  we  remember  to 
have  come  across  in  fiction,  where 
generally  there  is  a  charitable  senti- 
ment in  favour  of  affording  at  least 
an  opportunity  of  final  repentance 
to  the  sinner.  Miss  Eroughton, 
however,  is  not  sentimental,  and, 
we  fear,  she  is  almost  more  true  in 
representing  her  selfish  roue  as  con- 
sistently selfish,  and  daringly  in- 
different to  the  final  act  in  his 
wretched  tragedy,  to  the  end.  Gil- 
lian makes  the  worst  of  everything 
consistently,  with  a  spirit  which 
proves  her  to  be  worthy  of  her 
father,  until  the  climax  of  naughti- 
ness and  fiery  opposition  is  reached, 
and  the  proud  and  furious  girl  is 
brought  to  herself  by  Burnet's  un- 
compromising and  equally  angry 


refusal  of  her,  in  the  shock  of 
which  contemptuous  rejection  her 
eyes  are  opened  to  see  what  a  very 
foolish  figure  she  has  been  cutting, 
and  how  admirable  is  the  noble- 
minded  bear  who  will  have  nothing 
to  do  with  her.  "We  are  quite 
ready  to  agree  with  Gillian  about 
herself;  but  we  do  not  think  the 
reader  will  share  her  sentiments 
in  respect  to  her  gruff  and  uncivil 
doctor,  whose  incivility  and  want 
of  breeding  is  much  more  evident 
throughout  the  story  than  the  noble- 
ness which  his  contrite  ward  attri- 
butes to  him  from  the  moment  he 
rejects  her— another  proof  of  that 
darling  maxim  of  a  certain  class  of 
writers  of  fiction,  that  women  are 
like  dogs,  never  so  affectionate  as 
when  they  have  been  well  beaten. 
"We  may  pass  over  this,  however,  and 
over  the  dreary  period  of  Gillian's 
incarceration  in  the  house  of  her 
lover- guardian,  who  continues  as 
brutal  as  he  can  manage  to  be,  not- 
withstanding the  spell  which  is 
beginning  to  work  upon  him.  A 
clever  but  imperfect  and  hurried 
sketch  of  his  disagreeable  and  im- 
perious sister  is  almost  the  only  en- 
livening particular  in  this  dreary 
interval  of  covert  love-making ;  but 
when  Gillian  comes  of  age  and 
makes  her  exit  very  unwillingly 
from  the  doctor's  drab  -  coloured 
house,  her  return  home  to  the 
kingdom  which  she  fondly  hopes 
is  waiting  for  her,  involves  a  sacri- 
fice almost  more  disagreeable  than 
anything  that  had  gone  before.  The 
squire  had  hinted  some  time  before 
that  the  household  had  got  "  out 
of  gear,"  and  that  he  feared  the 
"  team  would  require  a  good  deal 
of  driving" — a  very  proper  and 
squirely  form  of  comparison.  But 
the  warning  has  altogether  passed 
from  Gillian's  mind  when  she  goes 
home  in  full  assurance  of  triumph, 
looking  out  of  the  window  of  the 
railway -carriage  "  to  distinguish  " 


386 


which,  of  the  dear  little  flock,  whose 
tutelar  angel  she  is  now  again  going 
to  become,  is  awaiting  her  with 
eager  tenderness. 

"  As  the  train  slackens  speed,  her 
eye  expectantly  seeks  among  the  ve- 
hicles gathered"  outside  her  own  ponies 
and  pony -carriage,  which  she  had 
confidently  requested  might  be  sent 
to  meet  her.  She  fails  to  find  them  ; 
but  no  doubt  they  are  hidden  behind 
some  bulky  omnibus  or  intervening 
fly.  Nor  does  she  at  first  see  any 
figure  on  the  platform  that  strikes  her 
as  familiar.  Her  eye  passes,  carelessly 
at  first  indeed,  over  a  showy-looking 
young  lady  pacing  up  and  down  with 
a  rather  swaggering  air  ;  nor  is  it  till 
she  has  vainly  examined  every  other 
form  and  face  that  her  glance  casually 
alights  again  on  the  one  first  dismissed 
as  unrecognised, — alights  to  discover 
that  the  swaggering  young  lady  is 
none  other  than  Jane — Jane  shot  up, 
dressed  up,  grown  up  !  For  the  first 
moment  the  shock  of  this  metamor- 
phosis strikes  her  dumb — the  meta- 
morphosis that,  in  six  brief  months, 
has  transformed  a  leggy  tomboy,  with 
short  petticoats  and  pigtail  hair,  into 
a  self-  conscious,  modish  woman  of 
the  world.  Nor,  when  she  recovers 
speech,  is  her  greeting  such  as  she  had 
planned  it  should  be.  '  Why,  child,' 
in  a  shocked  voice,  '  what  a  hat ! ' 

"'I  am  sorry  you  do  not  like  it,' 
replied  Jane,  pertly  ;  '  but  one  cannot 
please  everybody.' 

"Gillian  does  not  for  the  moment 
make  any  rejoinder.  In  a  jarred  si- 
lence she  makes  her  way  beside  her 
cousin  to  the  door  of  exit.  Just  before 
reaching  it :  '  Uncle  Marlowe  has  not 
come  to  meet  me  1 '  she  says,  in  a  sub- 
dued voice  of  disappointment. 

"'He said  something  aboutit,'  replies 
Jane,  carelessly ;  '  but  I  persuaded 
him  not  to  come.  You  know  that  he 
has  no  command  over  his  feelings,  and 
I  thought  he  might  very  likely  make 
a  scene  at  the  station.' 

"  They  have  issued  into  the  open 
air,  and  again  Gillian's  eyes  seek  ex- 
pectantly the  bay  ponies  with  black 
points,  which  again  they  fail  to 
find.  Instead  of  them  a  garish  little 
equipage,  drawn  by  a  pair  of  piebald 
cobs,  with  florid  harness,  overdone 


New  Novels.  [Sept. 

with  brass  ornaments,  bells  round 
their  necks,  and  roses  at  their  ears, 
stops  the  way. 

"  *  I  —  I  do  not  understand,'  said 
Miss  Latimer,  in  a  bewildered  voice. 
'  What  has  become  of  my  ponies  1 ' 

"  '  They  are  sold,'  replies  Jane.  '  I 
hope  you  do  not  mind  ;  but  they  were 
such  humdrum  old  things  that  it  was 
no  fun  driving  them.  I  persuaded 
papa  to  buy  me  these  instead.'  .  .  . 

"  Is  this  really  she,  sitting  snubbed 
and  secondary  in  this  gaudy  pony- 
chaise  ?  Is  this  really  Jane — gawky, 
romping,  but  thoroughly  be-mastered 
Jane  —  this  off-hand  young  woman, 
with  rakish  get-up  and  degage  mien 
patronising  her  from  a  box  -  seat  ? 
She  looks  round  with  a  sort  of  gasp. 
Shall  she  find  everything — the  whole 
face  of  nature — equally  changed  ?  Will 
the  gentle  hills  have  swelled  to  Hima- 
layas, and  the  green  meadows  turned 
to  torrid  deserts  ? " 

This  horrible  revelation  goes  on 
when  they  reach  the  house,  where 
Gillian  finds  herself  relegated  (we 
quote  the  word  from  Miss  Brough- 
ton,  who  is  fond  of  it,  as  so  many 
other  writers  are  nowadays)  to 
one  of  the  guest  -  chambers,  her 
former  room  having  been  taken 
possession  of  by  the  irrepressible 
Jane,  who  likewise  takes  the  head 
of  the  table  at  dinner,  and  patron- 
ises and  takes  charge  of  her  papa 
and  his  opinions,  exactly  as  Gillian 
once  did  for  her  uncle.  Gillian's 
horror  and  disgust  are  extreme. 
She  makes  a  very  solemn  remon- 
strance and  appeal  to  the  squire, 
who,  poor  man,  is  in  a  great  fright 
between  his  late  and  present  tyrant. 
He  anxiously  disclaims  all  idea  of 
having  made  any  revolution  in  his 
household.  "I  am  sure  I  don't 
know,"  he  cries,  "  how  things  have 
come  about,  but  I  assure  you  I  have 
done  nothing." 

"  '  As  long  ago  as  at  the  time  of  my 
father's  death,'  continues  Gillian,  im- 
pressively, '  I  remember  you  telling 
me  that  you  thought  you  saw,  as  you 
phrased  it,  "  an  indication  on  the  part 


1880.] 


Second  TJwuglds. 


387 


of  my  team  to  kick  over  the  traces." 
Well,  dear,  I  can  only  tell  you  now,' 
with  an  accent  of  austere  composure, 
'  that  unless  I  am  very  ably  seconded 
and  vigorously  backed  up  by  you,  I 
shall  have  to  give  up  the  attempt  at 
driving  them  at  all.' 

"  Awed  by  this  threat,  though  per- 
haps to  his  own  secret  soul  he  may 
confess  that  it  does  not  convey  to  him 
the  impression  of  utter  ruin  that  it 
would  have  done  a  twelvemonth  since, 
the  Squire  stares  hopelessly  at  the 
beck.  .  .  .  '  I  am  sure,'  he  says  in  an 
uncertain  voice,  'that  it  is  the  last 
thing  I  should  wish  ;  but — but — I  give 
you  my  word  of  honour  I  do  not  see 
my  way  to  helping  it.' 

"'If  you  ask  my  advice,'  cries  his 
niece,  eagerly — he  is  certainly  inno- 
cent of  having  done  so, — '  if  you  think 
my  opinion  worth  having,  I  have  no 
hesitation  in  recommending  you  to 
send  Jane  to  a  good  school  immediate- 
ly. You  have  allowed  her,'  with  an 
accent  of  dignified  reproof,  'to  get 
completely  beyond  the  control  of  any 
governess — so  school  is  the  only  alter- 
native.' 

'•'  The  Squire  shakes  his  head—'  She 
would  not  go.' 

" '  Would  not  go  ! '  repeats  Gillian 
angrily,  darting  a  contemptuous  glance 
at  the  poor  gentleman  beside  her. 
"  You  must  be  joking — a  child  of  that 
age ' 

"'She  is  not  so  very  young,  you 
know,'  replies  the  Squire,  in  faint  de- 
murrer, — '  sixteen  this  month,  and 
she  tells  me  she  is  always  taken  for 
eighteen.' 

" '  And  you  always  take  everything 
she  says  au  pied  de  la  lettre,'  says  Gil- 
lian ;  .  .  .  but  it  seems  he  holds, 
with  a  tenacity  to  which  her  experi- 
ence of  him  affords  no  parallel,  to  his 
idea. 

" '  She  is  old  for  her  age,'  he  says, 
almost  persistently.  '  She  is  a  girl  with 
a  great  deal  of  character ;  knows  her 
own  mind,  and  thinks  for  herself.  Do 
you  know,  Gill,'  with  a  deprecating 
smile,  putting  his  hand  on  her  shoul- 
der — '  do  you  know,  Gill,  that  she 
often  reminds  me  of  you.'" 

Thus  the  niece  is  utterly  routed, 
and  the  daughter  remains  mistress 
of  the  field.  The  second  and  still 


greater  revolution  by  which  Jane 
in  her  turn  is  worsted,  by  the  ad- 
vent of  a  sovereign  of  undoubted 
and  unquestionable  rights,  the  new 
wife  whom  the  poor  squire  takes 
refuge  in,  is  vivaciously  told,  and 
is  an  admirable  example  of  poetic 
justice.  And  there  could  not  be  a 
finer  little  bit  of  nature  than  Gil- 
lian's waking  up  to  the  sense  that 
her  excellent  uncle  is  not,  after  all, 
an  old  man,  and  that  there  is  noth- 
ing monstrous  in  the  idea  that  he 
may  marry  again.  The  squire's 
household  altogether  is  fine  comedy, 
a  very  admirable  essay  at  a  kind  of 
work  which  always  repays  the  art- 
ist. We  can  only  regret  that  Miss 
Broughton,  when  she  made  up  her 
mind  to  abandon  the  hackneyed 
ground  of  perpetual  love-making  in 
which  she  has  unfortunately  set  up 
in  trade  and  provided  capital  for 
so  many  coarse  imitators,  should  not 
have  gone  a  little  further  and  taken 
advantage  of  those  infinite  humours 
of  human  nature  for  which  she  has 
a  keen  if  not  very  kindly  eye.  A 
little  less  of  the  love  conflict  be- 
tween Burnet  and  Gillian — which 
from  the  beginning  we  know  all 
about,  having  been  involved  in  such 
passages  of  arms  a  thousand  times 
before,  from  our  very  cradle,  so  to 
speak,  as  novel-readers — and  a  little 
more  of  these  pleasant  varieties  of 
life,  would  have  been  a  great  advan- 
tage to  her  'Second  Thoughts,' 
which  all  the  same  is  a  very  enter- 
taining and  pleasant  little  book, 
short  as  any  critic  could  desire,  and 
full  of  rare  bits  of  observation  and 
flashes  of  wit.  The  curious  chintz 
dressing-gown  in  which  the  pub- 
lisher has  thought  fit  to  present 
it  to  the  world  is  not  in  the  least 
appropriate  to  a  production  about 
which  there  is  no  languor  or  sloven- 
liness, but  sharp  and  clean-cut  work, 
and  every  sign  of  a  faculty  thor- 
oughly capable  and  awake. 

We  find  ourselves  in  a  completely 


388 


different  atmosphere  when  we  step 
from  Marlow  Hall  and  its  thorough- 
ly modern  humours  to  the  wild 
Yorkshire  coast  and  rugged  fells 
where  Mr  Blackmore*  has  this 
time  laid  his  scene.  His  fine  and 
pawky  humour,  the  way  he  has  of 
planting  a  sting  of  wit  or  satire  in 
the  heart  of  an  innocent  -  looking 
sentence,  and  hitting  the  reader 
sharply,  now  on  one  side,  now  on 
the  other,  with  a  surprise  which 
makes  the  blow  infinitely  more  tell- 
ing; the  quaint  philosophy  which 
flows  forth  so  spontaneously  and  is 
never  at  a  loss ;  the  tender  human- 
ity and  cordial  fun  which  charac- 
terise everything  he  writes,  —  are 
all  here  in  their  usual  exuberance  ; 
though  it  must  be  confessed  that  the 
long-windedness  which  is  so  great 
a  drawback  to  the  rapid  reader  is 
here  also  undiminished :  nay,  the 
strain  is  more  lengthy  than  ever, 
lingering  on  in  a  channel  which  is 
always  smooth  and  often  sparkling, 
and  through  the  pleasantest  detours 
and  windings,  but  long,  long,  un- 
deniably long;  so  that  he  who  loves  a 
story,and  hewho  snatches  upa  novel 
as  a  distraction,  will  find  themselves 
defrauded  of  a  good  deal  more  time 
than  they  calculated  upon,  and  be- 
trayed into  much  more  intellectual 
excitement  than  perhaps  they  are 
disposed  for.  Mr  Blackmore  is  a 
story-teller  of  the  days  in  which  it 
was  quite  unimportant  whether  the 
stories  told  came  to  any  end  or  not. 
He  would  have  saved  Scheherezade 
all  that  trouble  and  enjoyed  the 
task,  though  in  a  different  fashion 
from  that  of  the  Eastern  improvisa- 
tore.  He  is  not  a  man  who  can  go 
carelessly  through  the  slightest  in- 
cident ;  whenever  he  pauses  it  is  a 
necessity  of  his  nature  to  approfon- 
dir  all  his  human  surroundings,  so 
that  if  his  hero  pauses  on  the  road 
to  ask  for  a  glass  of  water,  you  may 


Ntw  Novels.  [Sept. 

be  sure  that  you  will  be  made  ac- 
quainted with  the  very  secret  of  the 
inner  life  going  on  within  the  home- 
ly door  at  which  he  knocks,  and  un- 
derstand why  the  woman  who  serves 
him  looks  sad  or  glad,  and  find  out 
afterwards  that  the  mere  accident 
of  this  glass  of  water  has  knitted 
her  and  her  family,  if  not  her  grand- 
children to  the  third  or  fourth 
generation,  with  a  subtle  thread  of 
connection  to  the  main  tissue  of 
the  hero's  fate.  Mr  Blackmore  is 
stronger  in  his  heroes  than  his 
heroines.  In  respect  to  the  latter 
he  is  of  the  old-fashioned  way  of 
thinking,  and  furnishes  us  with  a 
delightful,  thorough-going,  ideal  girl, 
clad  in  the  prettiest  and  most  appe- 
tising flesh  and  blood,  the  light  of 
everybody's  eyes,  always  doing  the 
thing  she  ought  to  do,  and  never 
coming  down  from  that  pretty  plat- 
form which  is  her  right.  Naturally 
such  a  sweet  creature  has  nothing 
more  to  do  with  the  struggles  of 
the  story  than  to  suffer  patiently 
and  sometimes  scheme  cleverly  for 
her  lover.  Mary  Anerley  satisfies 
all  these  old-fashioned  needs ;  but 
we  cannot  think  she  is  of  suffi- 
cient importance  in  the  story  to  be 
permitted  to  give  it  its  name.  In- 
deed we  must  add  that  the  story 
itself  is  of  no  great  importance  to 
the  reader.  It  is  that  of  a  little 
boy  who  drifts  in  all  by  himself  in 
a  boat  from  a  wrecked  ship,  grows 
into  a  gallant  sailor  and  smuggler, 
is  found  out  by  means  of  certain 
gold  buttons  which  were  on  his 
dress  to  be  the  son  of  a  great  Anglo- 
Indian  personage,  goes  through  in- 
numerable adventures,  and  at  last, 
declining  to  have  anything  to  do 
with  the  father  who  has  shown 
something  less  than  perfect  faith 
in  him,  ends  his  career,  not  even 
adopting  his  family  name,  as  a 
navy  captain  and  husband  of  the 


Mary  Anerley.     By  R.  H.  Blackmore.    Sampson  Low  &  Co. 


i860.] 


Mary  Anerley. 


389 


fresh  and  blooming  heroine  who 
had  saved  his  life  when  he  was  a 
smuggler.  The  device  of  the  lost 
child  is  not  original,  but  few  novel- 
ists employ  it  with  the  frank  sim- 
plicity which  Mr  Blackmore  has 
already  shown  in  this  respect ;  for 
something  like  the  same  expedient 
was  adopted  in  the  '  Maid  of  Sker,' 
if  our  memory  serves  us  rightly. 
Neither  does  the  mystery  of  the 
Yordas  family  with  which  the  book 
opens,  and  the  discovery  of  the 
deed  which  takes  all  their  property 
from  the  two  reigning  sisters  in 
order  to  restore  it  to  the  supposed 
disinherited  son,  Sir  Duncan  Yordas, 
father  of  the  miraculously  saved 
Kobin,  come  to  much.  These  sis- 
ters are  put  well  on  the  canvas — 
one  proud  and  imperious,  the  other 
fanciful  and  fine-ladyish,  fond  of 
good  dinners,  and  of  an  only  child 
who  has  been  pampered  and  petted 
into  a  little  coward  and  tyrant — 
but  we  soon  lose  sight  of  them, 
and  their  occasional  reappearance 
does  not  excite  the  interest  of  the 
reader,  who,  on  the'whole,  does  not 
care  a  bit  what  becomes  of  the  deed 
or  of  Sir  Duncan  Yordas,  and,  even 
when  Miss  Philippa  attempts  to  de- 
stroy the  inconvenient  parchment, 
remains  singularly  indifferent  to  it. 
We  are  bound  to  admit  that  we  do 
not  think  even  Eobin  Lyth  a  very 
interesting  personage  :  in  short,  we 
do  not  care  for  Mr  Blackmore's  story 
as  a  story  at  all.  It  is  the  way  in 
which  he  tells  it  that  is  captivat- 
ing. His  characters  are  not  very 
distinct,  and  they  have  a  general 
resemblance  to  each  other,  talk  in 
the  same  way,  and  show  the  same 
mixture  of  quaint  simplicity  and 
sagacity ;  but  when  the  author  him- 
self steps  in  and  unfolds  the  web  to 
us,  giving  to  each  of  his  puppets  its 
own  little  twist,  the  characteristic 
obliquity  which  each  possesses,  his 
quips  and  cranks  of  genial  humour 
are  unsurpassed,  if  indeed  they  are 


equalled  by  any  living  writer.  The 
book  is  not  one  to  be  read  through 
at  a  sitting  from  a  circulating  li- 
brary, but  to  be  laid  up  in  one's 
own  shelves  and  turned  to  on  oc- 
casion. If  Mr  Blackmore  would  a 
little  confine  the  abundant  tide  of 
his  richly  flowing  and  leisurely 
utterances,  he  would  have  a  better 
chance  of  taking  his  place  among 
English  classics,  and  of  sending 
down  that  utterance,  a  perennial 
and  wholesome  stream  of  tender 
charity  and  genial  wisdom  to  en- 
rich posterity,  than  almost  any 
writer  we  know.  But  it  is  difficult 
to  quote  from  him.  Besides  that 
he  is  too  minute  and  lengthy  in  his 
descriptions  for  our  limited  space, 
he  is  at  the  same  time  too  equable, 
too  even.  The  scenes  which  he  in- 
tends to  be  most  striking  are  not 
those  in  which  he  is  at  his  best ; 
he  takes  as  much  trouble  with  the 
smallest  incident  as  with  the  great- 
est, and  will  somewhat  perversely 
embellish  a  trifling  little  corner  of 
his  tale,  while  its  principal  thread 
has  to  take  care  of  itself.  Here, 
however,  is  a  description  taken  by 
hazard  of  a  peaceful  farmhouse  in 
the  Yorkshire  wilds  eighty  years 
ago — for  the  time  of  the  story  is  the 
"year  one." 

"  A  place  of  smiling  hope,  and  com- 
fort, and  content  with  quietude :  no 
memory  of  man  about  it  runneth  to 
the  contrary ;  while  every  ox,  and 
horse,  and  sheep,  and  fowl,  and  frisky 
porker  is  full  of  warm  domestic  feel- 
ing and  each  homely  virtue.  For  this 
land,  li&e  a  happy  country,  has  escaped 
for  years  and  years  the  affliction  of 
much  history.  .  .  .  Here  stands 
the  homestead,  and  here  lies  the  mea- 
dow-land ;  there  walk  the  kine  (having 
no  call  to  run),  and  yonder  the  wheat 
in  the  hollow  of  the  hill,  bowing  to  a 
silvery  stroke  of  the  wind,  is  touched 
with  a  promise  of  increasing  gold. 

"  As  good  as  the  cattle  and  the  crops 
themselves  are  the  people  that  live 
upon  them ;  or  at  least  in  a  fair  degree 
they  try  to  be  so ;  though  not,  of  course, 


3DO 


so  harmless,  or  faithful,  or  peaceful,  or 
charitable.  Btit  still,  in  proportion, 
they  may  be  called  as  good ;  and,  in 
fact,  they  believe  themselves  much 
better.  And  this  from  no  conceit  of 
any  sort,  beyond  what  is  indispensable ; 
for  nature  not  only  enables  but  com- 
mands a  man  to  look  down  upon  his 
betters.  .  .  .  The  present  owner 
Avas  Stephen  Anerley,  a  thrifty  and 
well-to-do  Yorkshire  farmer  of  the 
olden  type.  Master  Anerley  was  turned 
quite  lately  of  his  fifty-second  year, 
and  hoped  (if  so  pleased  the  Lord)  to 
turn  a  good  many  more  years  yet,  as  a 
strong  horse  works  his  furrow.  For 
he  was  strong,  and  of  a  cheerful  face, 
ruddy,  square,  and  steadfast,  built  up 
also  with  firm  body  to  a  wholesome 
stature,  and  able  to  show  the  best  man 
on  the  farm  the  way  to  swing  a  pitch- 
fork. Yet  might  he  be  seen  upon 
every  Lord's  Day  as  clean  as  a  new- 
shelled  chestnut ;  neither  at  any  time 
of  the  week  was  he  dirtier  than  need 
be.  Happy  alike  in  the  place  of 
his  birth,  his  lot  in  life,  and  the  wis- 
dom of  the  powers  appointed  over 
him,  he  looked  up,  with  a  substantial 
faith,  yet  a  solid  reserve  of  judgment, 
to  the  Church,  the  Justices  of  the  Peace, 
spiritual  lords  and  temporal,  and,  above 
all,  his  Majesty  George  the  Third. 
Without  any  reserve  of  judgment, 
which  could  not  deal  with  such  low 
subjects,  he  looked  down  upon  every 
Dissenter,  every  pork-dealer,  and  every 
Frenchman.  What  he  was  brought 
up,  that  he  would  abide  by ;  and  the 
sin  beyond  repentance,  to  his  mind, 
was  the  sin  of  the  turncoat. 

"With  all  these  hard-set  lines  of 
thought  or  of  doctrine  (the  scabbard  of 
thought  which  saves  its  edge  and  keeps 
it  out  of  mischief),  Stephen  Anerley 
was  not  hard,  or  stern,  or  narrow- 
hearted.  Kind,  and  gentle,  and  good 
to  any  one  who  '  knew  how  to  behave 
himself,'  and  dealing  to  every  man 
full  justice — meted  by  his  own  mea- 
sure— he  was  liable  even  to  generous 
acts,  after  being  severe  and  having  his 
own  way.  But  if  anybody  ever  got 
the  better  of  him  by  lies,  and  not  fair 
bettering,  that  man  had  wiser  not 
begin  to  laugh  inside  the  Riding. 
Stephen  Anerley  was  slow  but  sure, 
not  so  very  keen  perhaps,  but  grained 
with  kerns  of  maxim'd  thought  to 
meet  his^  uses  as  they  came,  and  to 


Neio  Novels.  [Sept. 

make  a  rogue  uneasy.  To  move  him 
from  such  thoughts  was  hard,  but  to 
move  him  from  a  spoken  word  had 
never  been  found  possible." 

"We  cannot  but  find  serious  fault 
with  Mr  Blackmore,  that  having  set 
forth  a  man  on  such  powerful  lines 
as  these,  he  does  nothing  particular 
with  him.  Stephen  Anerley,  with 
all  these  faculties,  is  of  no  more  use 
in  the  imbroglios  that  follow  than 
to  make  a  pithy  speech  now  and 
then  in  Mr  Blackmore's  always 
pithy  language.  His  daughter, 
Mary,  who  is  the  heroine,  makes  a 
prettier  picture:  we  find  her  here 
in  conjunction  with  one  of  those 
dumb  creatures  whom  our  author 
comprehends  so  tenderly.  She  is 
about  to  run  down  upon  the  beach, 
in  the  early  morning,  to  get  some 
shrimps  for  breakfast,  having  ridden 
from  home  upon  the  old  pony,  who 
meanwhile  waits  for  her  above 
high-water  mark. 

"  Mary  has  brought  him  down  the 
old  '  Dane's  Dyke,'  for  society  rather 
than  service,  and  to  strengthen  his 
nerves  with  the  dew  of  the  salt.  .  .  . 
He  may  do  as  he  likes — as  he  always 
does.  If  his  conscience  allows  him  to 
walk  home,  no  one  will  think  the  less 
of  him.  Having  very  little  conscience 
at  his  time  of  life  (after  so  much  con- 
tact with  mankind),  he  considers  con- 
venience only.  To  go  home  would 
suit  him  very  well,  but  his  crib  would 
be  empty  till  his  young  mistress  came : 
moreover,  there  is  a  little  dog  that 
plagues  him  when  his  door  is  open  ; 
and  in  spite  of  old  age  it  is  something 
to  be  free ;  and  in  spite  of  all  expe- 
rience, to  hope  for  something  good. 
Therefore  Lord  Keppel  is  as  faithful 
as  the  rocks.  He  lifts  his  long  heavy 
head  and  gazes  wistfully  at  the  an- 
chored ships,  and  Mary  is  sure  that 
the  darling  pines  for  his  absent  master. 
But  she,  with  the  multitudinous  tingle 
of  youth,  runs  away  rejoicing.  The 
buoyant  power  and  brilliancy  of  the 
morning  are  upon  her,  and  the  air  of 
the  bright  sea  lifts  and  spreads  her, 
like  a  pillowy  skate's  egg.  The  polish 
of  the  wet  sand  flickers  at  every  quick 
touch  of  her  dancing  feet.  Her  danc- 


1880.] 


Mary  Anerley. 


391 


ing  feet  are  as  light  as  nature'and  high 
spirits  made  them — not  only  quit  of 
spindle-heels,  but  even  free  from  shoes 
and  socks,  left  high  and  dry  on  the 
shingle.  .  .  .  Such  a  pretty  sight 
was  good  to  see  for  innocence  and 
largeness.  So  the  buoyancy  of  nature 
springs  anew  in  those  who  have  been 
weary  when  they  see  her  brisk  power 
inspiring  the  young,  who  never  stand 
still  to  think  of  her,  but  are  up  and 
away  with  her,  where  she  will,  at  the 
breath  of  her  subtle  encouragement." 

Mary  is  always  pretty  and  fresh 
and  faithful,  with  those  glances  of 
quick  perception  which,  as  opposed 
to  reason,  are  the  old-fashioned 
heroine's  right — and  her  lover  is 
always  skilful  and  daring,  and 
ready  for  any  emergency.  Mr 
Blackrnore  has  made  evidently  a 
most  careful  study  of  Flamborough 
and  all  its  humours,  and  speaks  of 
the  boats  and  the  fish  and  the  popu- 
lation as  if  he  loved  them.  Their 
slow  speech,  marked  by  "that 
sagacious  contempt  for  all  hot  haste 
and  hurry  (which  people  of  impa- 
tient fibre  are  too  apt  to  call  a 
drawl),  may  here  be  found,  as  in 
other  Yorkshire,  guiding  and  re- 
tarding well  that  headlong  instru- 
ment the  tongue,"  he  tells  us. 
And  the  fisher  village,  with  its  wild 
and  hardy,  yet  faithful  and  kind 
population ;  the  men  at  sea  or 
sunning  themselves  upon  the  beach; 
the  women  out  in  anxious  bands  to 
look  for  the  boats,  or  tranquilly 
preparing  the  supper  at  home  when 
all  is  still  at  sea ;  the  maimed  and 
broken  down,  yet  still  jolly  tars, 
about — relics  of  the  wars  which 
seemed  at  that  time  England's 
natural  state;  the  anxious  little 
cutters  and  heavy  coast-guardsmen 
hungering  for  prizes,  the  smart  and 
ubiquitous  free -traders  whom  all 
the  county  pets  and  helps, — rise 
before  us  till  we  learn  to  know  the 
very  rocks,  the  caves,  the  fishing- 
cobles  in  their  brilliant  colours, 
the  slow-tongued  gossips  pouring 


out  their  long  vowels  on  the  shore. 
The  parson  of  the  salt-water  parish 
is  one  of  the  best  sketches  in  the 
book,  and  his  first  introduction  to 
the  reader  is  in  Mr  Blackmore's 
best  style. 

"Such  a  man  generally  thrives  in 
the  thriving  of  his  flock,  and  does  not 
harry  them.  Because  he  is  a  wise  man 
who  knows  what  other  men  are,  and 
how  seldom  they  desire  to  be  told 
that  same  thing  more  than  a  hundred 
and  four  times  in  a  year.  Neither  did 
his  clerical  skill  stop  here  ;  for  Parson 
Upround  thought  twice  about  it  before 
he  said  anything  to  rub  sore  conscien- 
ces, even  when  he  had  them  at  his 
mercy,  and  silent  before  him,  on  a  Sun- 
day. He  behaved  like  a  gentleman  in 
this  matter,  where  so  much  temptation 
lurks,  looking  always  at  the  man 
whom  he  did  not  mean  to  hit,  so  that 
the  guilty  one  received  it  through  him, 
and  felt  himself  better  by  comparison. 
In  a  word,  this  parson  did  his  duty 
well,  and  pleasantly  for  all  his  flock ; 
and  nothing  embittered  him  unless  a 
man  pretended  to  doctrine  without 
holy  orders.  For  the  doctor  reasoned 
thus — and  sound  it  sounds — if  divinity 
is  a  matter  for  Tom,  Dick,  or  Harry, 
how  can  there  be  degrees  in  it  1  He 
held  a  degree  in  it,  and  felt  what  it  had 
cost ;  and  not  the  parish  only,  but  even 
his  own  wife  was  proud  to  have  a  doc- 
tor every  Sunday.  And  his  wife  took 
care  that  his  rich  red  hood,  kerseymere 
small-clothes,  and  black  silk  stockings 
upon  calves  of  dignity,  were  such  that 
his  congregation  scorned  the  surgeons 
all  the  way  to  Beverley." 

The  parson,  however,  had  a  thoin 
in  the  flesh.  Almost  every  honest 
man  has  a  nickname,  the  author 
tells  us :  but  when  this  name  is 
acquired,  not  at  school,  "  but  in  the 
weaker  time  of  manhood,"  and 
specially  when  it  is  a  shaft  aimed 
at  a  venture,  and  "  meaning  no  more 
harm  than  pepper  " — yet  smiting 
him  in  his  tenderest  point — how  is 
it  to  be  borne  1  The  circumstances 
of  the  blow  were  as  follows  : — , 

"A  leading  Methodist  from  Filey 
town,  who  owed  the  doctor  half  a 


392 


guinea,  came  one  summer  and  set  up  his 
staff  in  the  hollow  of  a  limekiln,  where 
he  lived  upon  fish  for  change  of  diet, 
and  because  he  could  get  it  for  nothing. 
This  was  a  man  of  some  eloquence,  and 
his  calling  in  life  was  cobbling  ;  and 
to  encourage  him  therein,  and  keep 
him  from  theology,  the  rector  not  only 
forgot  his  half-guinea,  but  sent  him 
three  or  four  pairs  of  riding-boots  to 
mend,  and  let  him  charge  his  own 
price,  which  was  strictly  heterodox. 
As  a  part  of  the  bargain,  this  fellow 
came  to  church,  and  behaved  as  well 
as  could  be  hoped  of  a  man  who  had 
received  his  money.  He  sat  by  a  pil- 
lar, and  no  more  than  crossed  his  legs 
at  the  worst  thing  that  disagreed  with 
him.  And  it  might  have  done  him 
good,  and  made  a  decent  cobbler  of 
him,  if  the  parson  had  only  held  him 
when  he  got  him  on  the  hook.  But 
this  is  the  very  thing  which  all  great 
preachers  are  too  benevolent  to  do. 
Dr  Upround  looked  at  this  sinner,  who 
was  getting  into  a  fright  upon  his  own 
account,  though  not  a  bad  preacher 
when  he  could  afford  it ;  and  the 
cobbler  could  no  more  look  up  at  the 
doctor  than  when  he  charged  him  a 
full  crown  beyond  the  contract.  In  his 
kindness  for  all  who  seemed  convinced 
of  sin,  the  good  preacher  halted,  and 
looked  at  Mr  Jobbins  with  a  soft,  relax- 
ing gaze.  Jobbins  appeared  as  if  he 
would  come  to  church  for  ever,  and 
never  cheat  any  sound  clergyman 
again ;  whereupon  the  generous  divine 
omitted  a  whole  page  of  menaces  pre- 
pared for  him,  and  passed  prematurely 
to  the  tender  strain  which  always 
winds  up  a  good  sermon.  Now  what 
did  Jobbins  do  in  return  for  all  this 
magnanimous  mercy  1  Invited  to 
dine  with  the  senior  churchwarden 
upon  the  strength  of  having  been  at 
church,  and  to  encourage  him  for 
another  visit,  and  being  asked,  as  soon 
as  ever  decency  permitted,  what  he 
thought  of  Parson  Upround's  doctrine 
between  two  crackles  of  young  gri  skins 
(come  straight  from  the  rectory  pig- 
sty), he  was  grieved  to  express  a  stern 
opinion  long  remembered  at  Flam- 
borough.  'Ca'  yo  yon  mon  Dr  Up- 
roond  ?  I  ca'  un  Dr  Upandoon.' 

"From  that  day  the  rector  of  the 
parish  was  known  far  and  wide  as  Dr 
Upandown — even  among  those  who 
loved  him  best.  For  the  name  well 


New  Novels.  [Sept, 

described  his  benevolent  practice  of 
undoing  any  harsh  thing  he  might 
have  said — sometimes  by  a  smile,  and 
very  often  with  a  shilling  or  a  basket 
of  spring  cabbages." 

Thus  our  author  will  ramble  on, 
not  troubling  himself  too  much 
about  plot  or  method,  but  always 
with  a  humorous  light  illuminat- 
ing everything  he  touches,  a  racy 
breadth  of  nature,  and  many  a 
quaint  fling  of  genial  banter  at 
everybody  that  comes  in  his  way. 
The  laugh  that  is  always  lurking 
somewhere  in  his  sentences  does 
not  take  away  the  force  of  them 
when  there  is  any  deeper  question 
in  hand ;  but  it  gives  an  unex- 
pected relief  and  perpetual  origin- 
ality to  the  quaint  commentary 
upon  the  deeds  of  men.  A  writer 
with  such  a  gift  may  be  pardoned 
if  he  is  an  indifferent  builder  of  a 
tale.  And  truth  to  tell,  his  tale 
is  very  badly  built  and  would  never 
hold  water.  Some  of  the  scenes 
are  absurdly  melodramatic,  as  is,  for 
instance,  that  in  which  the  mur- 
derer is  self-convicted, — an  elabor- 
ate piece  of  stage  effect,  fit  only  for 
a  Surrey  theatre,  and  demanding 
blue-lights  and  all  the  resources  of 
the  scene-shifters.  So,  to  a  lesser 
extent,  is  the  almost  ludicrous 
misery  of  the  poor  little  Carroways 
when  M.  Mordacks,  the  deus  ex 
machind  of  the  book,  finds  them 
starving,  after  the  murder  of  their 
father,  notwithstanding  the  charit- 
able intentions  towards  them,  not 
carried  out,  of  all  their  neighbours. 
Here  eccentricity  of  description  is 
pushed  to  its  furthest  limits,  though 
not  without  a  tender  touch  here 
and  there,  and  (inevitably)  not  a 
few  laughable  ones,  to  temper  the 
pain.  Here,  however,  just  after 
this,  is  a  fine  bit  of  homely  pathos 
which  it  would  be  hard  to  surpass. 
When  the  suffering  family  have 
been  fed,  and  warmed,  and  restored 
to  comfort,  and  the  poor  mother  to 


1880.]  Poet  a 

her  wavering  wits,  almost  gone 
astray  with  misery,  the  kind  and 
officious  meddler  in  every  man's  busi- 
ness who  has  rescued  them,  sug- 
gests to  the  poor  widow  that  she 
might  prefer  "  some  inland  house  " 
instead  of  the  seaside  cottage,  which 
keeps  her  husband's  fate  continu- 
ally before  her  eyes  : — 

"  Many  people  might  not  like  to 
stop,"  the  widow  answered  simply  ; 
"  but  to  me  it  would  be  a  worse  pain 
to  go  away.  I  sit  in  the  evening  by 
the  window  here.  Whenever  there  is 
light  enough  to  show  the  sea,  and  the 
beach  is  fit  for  landing  on,  it  seems  to 
my  eyes  that  I  can  see  the  boat  with 
my  husband  standing  up  in  it.  He  had 
a  majestic  attitude  sometimes,  with 
one  leg  more  up  than  the  other,  sir, 
through  some  of  his  daring  exploits  ; 
and  whenever  I  see  him  he  is  just  like 
that ;  and  the  little  children  in  the 
kitchen  peep  and  say,  '  Here's  daddy 
coming  at  last,  we  can  tell  by  mam- 
my's eyes  ; '  and  then  the  bigger  ones 
say,  '  Hush  !  you  might  know  better.' 
And  I  look  again,  wondering  which 
of  them  is  right ;  and  then  there  is 
nothing  but  the  clouds  and  sea. 
Still  when  it  is  over  and  I  have  cried 
about  it,  it  does  me  a  little  good  every 
time.  I  seem  to  be  nearer  to  Charley, 
as  my  heart  falls  quietly  into  the  will 
of  the  Lord." 

Mr  Hamilton  Aide"*  is  not  of 
the  calibre  of  Mr  Blackmore,  Avhich 
is  no  discredit  to  him — for  a  man 
may  do  very  well  indeed  in  the  way 
of  fiction,  without  being  able  to 
lift  the  sword  of  the  author  of 
'  Lorna  Doone '  and  '  Alice  Lor- 
raine ' — but  he  is  a  writer  of  cultiva- 
ted and  eloquent  mind,  and  he  fur- 
nishes us  with  another  novel  that 
a  man  may  read  without  feeling 
that  he  has  wasted  just  so  much 
time  as  it  has  occupied  him,  which 
is,  alas !  so  often  the  feeling  with 
which  we  put  down  the  novel 
which  is  not  from  the  hand  of  an 
acknowledged  master  of  the  craft. 
He  is  one  of  those  who  writes 


Peer. 


393 


seldom  and  carefully,  which  is  a 
condition  dear  to  all  critics,  though 
not  so  absolutely  certain  of  success 
as  all  scientific  prognostications 
declare  it  to  be.  A  man  cannot  go 
beyond  his  tether,  however  long  he 
may  think  about  it — and  'Poet  and 
Peer '  is  not  a  great  work ;  but  it 
is  readable  and  reasonable,  and 
treats  of  a  world  something  like 
the  world  we  know.  The  charac- 
ter of  the  hero,  however,  is  not  one 
which  can  very  easily  be  realised 
among  the  rising  youth  of  any  pe- 
riod, and  in  so  far  it  is  separated 
from  the  easily  conceivable  hero  of 
most  romances.  A  young  man  who 
is  such  a  spoilt  child  of  Providence 
as  not  only  to  possess  the  ideal  po- 
sition of  an  English  peer,  but  the 
still  more  ideal  lot  of  a  successful 
young  poet,  is  a  creature  almost  too 
bright  and  good  for  human  nature's 
daily  food.  No  young  man  (in  a 
novel)  with  such  a  double  crown,  but 
has  of  course  fate  against  him,  and 
scarcely  a  chance  in  his  favour,  or 
a  loophole  by  which  he  may  escape 
to  safety  and  happiness.  To  be  a 
poet  alone  (again  in  a  novel)  is  bad 
enough,  and  entails  a  course  of 
trial  and  taking  down  to  which  the 
labours  of  Hercules  are  a  small 
matter,  but  rank  and  genius  com- 
bined, are  too  much  for  any  au- 
thor's toleration.  Life  indeed,  as 
well  as  art,  finds  it  hard  to  permit 
such  a  combination  of  good  fortunes. 
There  is  but  one  modern  instance 
in  real  life,  and  we  do  not  know 
who  would  envy  the  lot  of  Byron. 
Wilfrid,  Lord  Athelston,  however, 
is  not  like  his  noble  predecessor  in 
the  walks  of  poetry.  He  is  not  a 


)ut  rather  a  being  made  up  of  fan- 
cies, going  off  at  a  tangent  even  from 
the  things  he  most  cares  for,  if  the 
caprice  seizes  him;  unstable  as  he 
is  brilliant,  and  cursed  with  that 
ability  to  have  most  things  his  own 


Poet  and  Peer.     By  Hamilton  Aide.     Hurst  &  Blackett. 


394 


New  Novels. 


[Sept. 


way,  which  we  all  sigh  for,  and 
which  so  few  of  us  attain.  It  is 
very  bad  for  us  when  we  do  attain 
it,  all  the  story-books  say ;  but  we 
know  nobody  old  enough  or  ex- 
perienced enough  to  allow  this 
maxim  of  easy  philosophy  to  be 
true  in  his  own  case  at  least.  Of 
course,  Lord  Athelston  is  a  most 
flagrant  example  of  the  evils  of 
having  everything  one's  own  way ; 
and  yet  as  a  matter  of  fact  it  is 
not  he  who  suffers,  but  the  other 
people  surrounding  him,  who  are 
involved  in  his  fate,  and  who  are 
prevented  in  consequence  of  his 
prior  claims  from  having  their  way. 
He  begins  life  by  falling  in  love 
with  a  very  pretty  girl  in  the  vil- 
lage, whom  he  has  noticed  as  a 
child,  and  who  develops  into  a 
pupil  -  teacher  by  means  of  this 
early  notice,  and  afterwards  into 
a  governess,  attaining  thus  brevet- 
rank  as  a  lady,  and  being  brought 
by  circumstances,  almost  as  an 
equal,  into  his  sphere.  The  young 
lord  is  altogether  a  young  man  of 
his  time.  He  is  astray  in  his  re- 
ligious beliefs,  scoffs  at  aristocracy, 
outrages  all  etiquettes,  and  writes 
luscious  poetry  on  the  borders  of 
indecency,  if  it  does  not  cross  that 
ill-defined  line.  At  an  early  period 
in  his  career,  we  find  him  startling 
his  pretty  village  girl  by  warning 
her  not  to  "  respond  so  fervently  " 
to  the  Athanasian  Creed. 

"  '  I  thought  I  ought  to  say  the  re- 
sponses out  loud,'  she  replied,  after  a 
momentary  hesitation. 

"  '  Do  you  know  that  you  are  con- 
signing me,  with  many  millions  more, 
to  everlasting  punishment  ? ' 

"'Oh,  sir!'  She  looked  unutter- 
ably shocked. 

" '  Creeds  do  a  great  deal  of  harm  by 
trying  to  force  those  who  have  natu- 
rally religious  instincts,  but  are — well, 
perhaps  iinruly  —  into  strait  -  waist- 
coats.' 

"  She  opened  her  pretty  brown  eyes 
wide.  '  But  the  Creed  is  in  the  prayer- 
book,  sir  ;  and  if  I  go  to  church—^—' 


" '  I  know  what  you  are  thinking — 
that  /  have  no  business  to  go  ;  but 
I've  Scripture  authority  for  it.  There's 
a  fellow  in  the  Bible  who  prayed  that 
it  might  be  forgiven  him  when  he 
bowed  down  in  the  house  of  Rimmon.' 

'"Oh,  sir!'  cried  Nellie, startled  out 
of  all  shyness  by  her  distress  ;  '  you 
don't  compare  our  parish  church  with 
the  house  of  Rimmon  1 ' 

"'Only  inasmuch  as  superstition  and 
human  invention  have  spoilt  the  sim- 
ple faith  in  a  Creator  of  this  beautiful 
world.  ...  All  that  cursing  of  others 
only  does  harm.' 

"  '  I'm  sure  I  don't  mean  it,'  said 
she,  looking  contrite.  '  I  suppose  it 
was  only  put  in  to  frighten  people  a 
little.' 

" '  Fancy  frightening  people  into 
belief !  No,  Nellie  ;  I  shall  teach  you 
some  day  a  better  sort  of  belief  than 
that.  Promise  not  to  run  away  from 
Ripple  till  I  come  down  here  to  stay 
in  August.'" 

This  is  the  young  man's  begin- 
ning. That  he  turns  the  head  of 
the  sweet  little  country  girl  is  simple 
enough  :  fortunately  circumstances, 
and  his  parents'  prompt  action,  pre- 
vent any  further  harm,  if  indeed  he 
meant  it,  which  we  are  not  led  to 
believe.  He  did  not  mean  anything 
except  to  sip  all  the  sweets  he  could 
get  at.  Nellie  Dawson,  however,  is 
left  behind  when  the  young  prince 
goes  out  into  the  world,  where  he 
meets  with  many  ladies  and  adven- 
tures. In  Rome  he  conies  across 
his  fate  in  the  shape  of  a  wonderful 
Anglo-Italian  beauty,  Sylvia  Bra- 
bazon,  whom  he  encounters  on 
Monte  Pincio,  dressed  in  "  a  dark- 
red  robe — it  would  be  sacrilege  to 
call  it  a  gown  or  frock — trimmed 
with  fur,  and  made  as  nearly  as 
possible  like  that  we  are  accustom- 
ed to  associate  with  Faust's  Mar- 
guerite," with  a  fur  cap  upon  her 
head,  and  hair  of  reddish  brown 
hanging  "  in  loose  coils  in  a  net  far 
down  her  back."  This  remarkable 
young  lady  is  as  much  gifted  in 
mind  as  she  is  imposing  in  person ; 
and  the  poet  loses  not  only  his 
heart,  which  he  has  already  lost 


1880.]  Poet  and  Peer. 

and  found  again  on  several  occa- 
sions, but  his  head,  and  can  think 
of  nothing  else;  but  he  does  not 
find  here  either  the  simple  worship 
of  Nellie  Dawson,  or  the  reluctant 
but  complete  submission  to  his 
charms  of  Lady  Frances  Cope,  his 
second  victim.  Here  is  a  clever 
little  scene  in  which  Miss  Brabazon 
takes  her  young  admirer  down. 

" '  I  have  known  some  very  good 
women,'  said  he,  biting  his  lip. 

"  '  Have  you  ?  I  should  not  have 
thought  so  from  your  poems.' 

" '  You  have  read  them,  then  ? '  He 
looked  pleased. 

" '  I  have.' 

"  He  looked  less  pleased. 

"  '  From  the  tone  in  which  you  say 
that,  1  fear  you  liked  nothing'  in  the 
book  ?  Of  course  I  am  aware  it  is  not 
one  for  a  conventionally  brought  up 
young  lady  ;  but  I  fancied  you  were 
not  that.' 

" '  No,  I  am  not  that,  or  I  should 
hardly  acknowledge  I  have  read  it.' 

"'Why  did  you  do  so?' 

"  She  paused  a  moment.  '  Because 
I  had  some  curiosity,  having  heard  of 
you  from  my  friend.' 

" '  And  you  hated  the  book  alto- 
gether I ' 

"  '  I  thought  it  showed  misapplied 
talent, — a  capacity  for  doing  better 
things.' 

"  '  These  poems  are  meant  to  illus- 
trate the  various  phases  of  a  young 
man's  inner  life.  Nothing  must  be 
hid.  His  soul's  vicissitudes — the  out- 
pourings of  his  rapturous  though  tran- 
sient passions  ;  his  discouragements  as 
to  this  present  world  ;  his  doubts  as  to 
the  next.  You  must  take  it  as  a  whole, 
not  condemn  isolated  passages.' 

" '  If  I  tell  you  what  1  really  think, 
you  will  not  mind  I '  she  said,  slowly. 
'  I  shall  not  mind.' 
'  I  do  not  hear  in  your  verse  the 
throbbing  pulse  of  real  passion,  any 
more  than  I  hear  the  cry  of  a  soul's  real 
anguish.  It  seems  to  me  like  a  clever 
imitation  of  both,  and  leaves  me  un- 
moved. As  to  the  doubts  expressed, 
it  is  the  fashion  for  every  young  man 
to  have  them,  and  talk  about  them, 
now.'" 

With  this  very  clear  conception 
of  the  sham  young  hero  by  her 


395 


side,  it  is  yet  perhaps  quite  true 
to  human  nature  that  Miss  Bra- 
bazon should  fall  in  love  with  him 
all  the  same.  She  declines  to 
accept  him,  however,  at  the  first 
asking.  And  Nellie  turns  up  de- 
veloped from  a  pretty  country  girl 
into  a  beauty  of  the  angelical  order, 
the  much -cherished  governess  and 
companion  of  a  kind  woman  who 
treats  her  like  a  sister,  and  the 
beloved  of  the  good,  straightfor- 
ward, trustworthy  contreheros,  a 
certain  Hubert  St  John,  a  school- 
fellow of  Lord  Athelston,  but  as 
honest  as  the  other  is  shifty.  Nel- 
lie loves  nobody  but  the  enchanter 
of  her  youth,  and  he  has  no  objec- 
tion after  Sylvia's  rebuff  to  pick  up 
those  dropped  threads,  until  at  last, 
having  compromised  her,  the  young 
lord  in  a  pet  impulsively  marries 
her,  half  in  indignation,  half  in 
pique,  though  not  without  a  little 
love  too.  It  is  quite  according  to 
the  canons  of  art,  and  also  not  at 
all  in  discord  with  the  older  canons 
of  nature,  that  while  Mr  Aide's 
hero  rouses  little  more  than  the  im- 
patience and  indignation  of  the 
reader,  he  captivates  all  the  women 
that  are  brought  in  contact  with 
him..  If  it  were  not,  however,  that 
we  see  it  constantly  in  life,  we 
should  be  disposed  to  protest  against 
the  sacrifice  of  two  or  three  fine 
feminine  creatures  to  one  worth- 
less man,  or  vice  versa,  which  is 
constantly  going  on  in  fiction.  And 
here,  not  only  the  women  who 
don't  count  so  much,  but  the  good 
hero  who  vindicates  mankind,  is 
sacrificed  to  the  selfish,  feeble,  and 
frivolous  poet,  the  spoilt  child  of 
fortune.  We  must  not  complain, 
for  it  is  very  likely  the  same  thing 
would  happen  to-morrow  had  we 
all  the  privilege,  as  the  novelist 
has,  of  seeing  the  secret  springs  of 
life,  and  knowing  how  the  events 
which  surprise  society  were  brought 
about.  Those  exciting  passages  of 
love,  vanity,  and  human  trouble 


396 


take  place  in  the  midst  of  that 
Anglo-Eoman  society  which  is  so 
curiously  conventional  and  arti- 
ficial, the  very  freedom  of  Conti- 
nental life  making  our  countrymen 
more  obstinately  like  themselves  in 
the  new  atmosphere  than  in  the 
old.  It  is  a  sign,  however,  of  certain 
novel  tendencies  in  society,  that 
both  Miss  Broughton  and  Mr  Aide 
should  give  us  a  sharp  sketch  of 
the  Apostle  of  Culture,  the  melan- 
choly and  moonstruck  prophet  of 
art,  who  has  lately  found  a  place 
everywhere,  with  cadaverous  coun- 
tenance, and  distorted  pose,  and 
general  superiority  to  everybody  and 
everything.  One,  at  least,  of  these 
novelists,  along  with  Mr  Punch,  our 
constant  critic,  have  given  exag- 
gerated importance  to  one  thinly 
disguised  individual  whom  many 
readers  will  recognise ;  but  Mr  Aide's 
professor  is  not  so  simple.  We 
are  happy  not  to  be  able  to  recog- 
nise him  if  he  is  meant  for  a  por- 
trait :  but  his  presence  is  signifi- 
cant. And  so  is  that  of  the  clever 
American,  no  longer  dressed  out 
in  coarse  Americanisms,  who  is  now 
a  recognised  member  of  society 
everywhere.  Miss  Deck  is  not  a 
lofty  specimen,  but  she  is  very 
different  from  the  rudely  daubed 
caricature  which  used  to  do  duty 
in  novels.  Her  quick,  sharp,  cyni- 
cal observation,  only  a  little  vulgar 
— her  acknowledged  correspondent- 
ship  and  intention  of  picking  every- 
body's brains  for  her  letters  to  her 
newspapers — are  quite  familiar  in- 
dications of  the  new  member  of 
all  our  social  circles.  If  she  did 
not  speak  of  being  "  vurry  dull " 
and  describe  her  country-folk  as 
"  Amurricans,"  we  should  scarcely 
at  the  first  glance  know  that  she 
came  from  the  other  side  of  the 
Atlantic;  though  afterwards  the 
peculiar  diction  of  our  cousins 
evolves  itself  with  chastened  force. 


New  Novels.  [Sept. 

Mr  Aide  touches  this  amusing  cos- 
mopolitan with  a  light  and  skilful 
hand. 

The  third  volume  is  of  a  tragic 
character — the  peer-poet  married  to 
the  humble  little  beauty,  who  trem- 
bles at  her  own  blessedness,  tortures 
her  to  his  heart's  content ;  and  ulti- 
mately drives  her,  at  the  last  twist 
of  agonised  feeling,  to  the  verge  of 
suicide,  from  which  she  is  saved  by 
the  constant  watchful  care  of  the 
lover  whom  she  would  not  have — 
but  only  to  die,  leaving  her  utterly 
heartless  and  contemptible  husband 
to  the  love  of  the  woman  who  had 
been  far  too  good  for  him,  even  in 
his  comparatively  innocent  youth. 
This  terrible  anti-climax  might  no 
doubt  have  happened  in  fact ;  but 
we  object  to  it  in  fiction,  and  to 
poor  Nellie's  sufferings  altogether. 
We  have  no  right,  even  in  the  ex- 
igencies of  art,  to  torture  the  poor 
lamb  which  is  to  be  sacrificed. 
Apart,  however,  from  this  unneces- 
sary misery,  the  book  is  very  much 
above  the  usual  level  of  novels.  It 
is  written  by  a  man  fully  acquainted 
with  the  society  he  is  describing, 
both  in  its  higher  levels,  and  among 
the  eccentric  and  out-of-the-way 
circles,  where  apostles  of  divorce 
and  reformers  of  dress  are  to  be 
found  among  many  other  kinds  of 
lions. 

Mrs  Walford's  '  Troublesome 
Daughters '  *  is  a  work  of  a  less 
ambitious  type.  Here  we  are  taken 
into  no  variety  of  society,  and  in- 
troduced to  no  out-of  the-way  peo- 
ple. A  glimpse,  vague  and  general, 
of  the  delights  of  Brighton  during 
its  fashionable  period — the  London 
out  of  town,  which  is  always  more 
artificial  than  London  at  home — 
and  an  equally  vague  glimpse  of  the 
"  season  "  itself,  occupies  indeed  a 
part  of  the  time  and  action  of  the 
story;  but  all  that  is  important 
and  characteristic  takes  place  in 


Troublesome  Daughters.     By  L.  B.  Walford.     W.  Blackwood  &  Sons. 


1880.] 


Troublesome  Daughters. 


397 


"Wigtownshire,  on  the  breezy  eea- 
coast,  or  in  the  manor-house  of 
Carnochan,  \vhich  is  the  centre  of 
the  tale.  Mrs  Walfoid  has  a  free- 
dom and  strength  when  her  foot  is 
on  her  native  heath  which  does  not 
belong  to  her  in  other  localities. 
"VVe  are  inclined,  indeed,  to  believe 
that  there  is  something  in  the  dic- 
tum of  a  simple  critic  just  suggest- 
ed to  us,  that  Scotch  life  answers 
the  novelist's  purpose  better  than 
corresponding  life  anywhere  else  : 
perhaps  because  the  old  principle 
holds  true,  and  our  dear  country- 
folk are  still  a  more  unanimous  na- 
tion than  any  Bother;  so  that  one 
class  understands  another  with  a 
completeness  little  known  else- 
where. Mrs  Walford's  farmhouse 
is  nearer  to  us  in  point  of  time 
than  Mr  Blackmore's  —  a  fact 
which  might  naturally  cramp  the 
writer  in  a  sketch  so  close  to 
nature  that  it  might  be  taken  for  a 
portrait.  But  this  is  not  the  case  ; 
and  the  muirland  farm  may  hold 
its  place  beside  that  of  Stephen 
Anerley,  though  the  pen  of  the 
younger  writer  is  not  the  powerful 
implement  which  Mr  Blackmore 
wields.  The  cosy  interior,  the 
sage  simplicity  of  the  occupants, 
the  old  farmer's  amused  contempt 
yet  admiring  awe  of  the  studies  of 
his  daughter  and  her  friend,  the 
mother's  genial  and  poetic  sympathy 
in  all  "  trials,"  are  very  beautifully 
described;  and  if  the  writer  had 
given  a  little  more  time  to  the 
working  out  of  this  broad  and  ten- 
der study  of  life,  she  would  have 
done  a  great  deal  better  than  in 
concentrating  all  her  reader's  atten- 
tion upon  what  she  will  forgive  us 
for  calling  the  extremely  absurd 
and  not  very  honourable  conduct  of 
Captain  Evelyn,  and  the  suspense 
and  anxiety  of  her  heroine.  The 
first  volume  opens  with  great  pic- 
turesqueness  and  force,  in  a  stormy 
night,  upon  a  wild  moor,  with  a 
young  sportsman,  who  has  lost  his 


way,  and  is  beatifically  introduced 
to  the  most  genial  comfort  and 
warmth  by  the  pity  of  a  girl  whom 
he  meets  in  the  stormy  gloaming, 
and  whose  every  tone  and  step  pro- 
claim her  to  be  a  lady,  though  it 
is  only  a  farmhouse  to  which  she 
guides  him.  Our  curiosity  is  de- 
lightfully roused  by  this  little 
mystery,  which  promises  a  solution 
much  more  piquant  than  it  receives. 
"  Miss  Kate,"  the  lovely  and  shy 
enigma  whom  the  gallant  Captain 
cannot  fathom,  turns  out  to  be  one 
of  the  "  troublesome  daughters  " 
from  whom  the  book  takes  its  title, 
who  has  been  sent  away  into  ban- 
ishment at  the  farm,  not  because 
of  any  inconvenient  love  affair,  or 
other  natural  expedient  of  novels, 
but  because  she  has  been  unduti- 
fully  defiant  of  a  new  step-mother, 
and  determined  to  resist  the  injus- 
tice which  has  been  done  to  an 
excellent  nursery  -  governess,  the 
daughter  of  the  farmer  who  now 
gives  her  shelter.  This  is  a  strong 
step  for  a  new  step-mother  to  take ; 
but  the  young  lady  is  very  passion- 
ate and  determined,  and  Mrs  Wai- 
ford  is  bent  upon  working  moral 
reformation  as  well  as  inventing 
difficulties  to  carry  her  through  the 
story.  Kate's  temper,  indeed,  is 
very  much  insisted  on  throughout 
the  tale,  and  gives  rise  to  number- 
less little  lectures  and  scenes,  which, 
if  Mrs  "\Valford  did  not  manage 
them  with  a  good  deal  of  skill, 
would  approach  the  character  of 
squabbles.  This,  however,  is  not 
the  sole  difficulty  of  the  situa- 
tion. The  step-mother  turns  out 
to  be  Captain  Evelyn's  mother, 
who  has  married  a  second  time,  and 
to  whose  house  he  is  on  his  way. 
"\Vhen  he  proceeds  to  Carnochan, 
however,  much  mystified  and  inter- 
ested by  the  pretty  lodger  or  peni- 
tent in  the  farmhouse,  he  learns  the 
whole  story  without  letting  it  be 
suspected  that  he  has  already  made 
acquaintance  with  the  banished 


398 


New  Novels. 


[Sept. 


Kate,  and  lives  at  the  house  in 
easy  intercourse  with  the  rest  of 
the  family,  who  adopt  him  as  broth- 
er, without  ever  betraying  himself. 
Inscrutable  as  are  the  ways  of  wo- 
men's heroes,  we  feel  that  the  dif- 
ficulty which  the  young  man  thus 
creates  in  his  own  path  is  about  as 
unnecessary  as  any  fictitious  embar- 
rassment that  ever  was  invented. 
Lady  Olivia  Newbattle,  his  mother, 
is  an  excellent  study  of  character 
— she  is  a  fine  lady,  full  of  all 
the  gentle  enthusiasm  and  gush- 
ing sympathy  which  so  many  fine 
ladies  possess,  especially  in  fic- 
tion ;  and  her  new  husband's 
daughters  have  been  represented 
to  her  friends  in  the  most  delight- 
ful light  as  companions  such  as  she 
has  yearned  for.  But  the  man- 
agement of  four  headstrong  girls 
used  to  having  their  own  way  is 
no  holiday  task  for  a  woman  who 
has  always  taken  hers,  and  does 
not  love  trouble  or  self-sacrifice  of 
any  kind.  The  sisters,  excepting 
Kate,  are  not  of  much  account. 
Mrs  Walford  is  tempted  by  the 
very  common  artifice  which  the 
majority  of  novelists  give  way  to,  of 
colouring  all  the  secondary  persons 
with  an  unpleasant  tint  in  order  to 
throw  up  the  excellence  of  the  fa- 
vourite— an  expedient  which  Miss 
Austen  herself  employs,  and  which 
therefore  has  high  warrant,  but 
which  is  not  high  art.  It  is  gen- 
erally improbable,  if  we  could  but 
get  writers  of  fiction  to  believe  it, 
that  one  member  of  a  family,  fath- 
ered and  mothered,  brothered  and 
sistered  by  disagreeable  people, 
should  be  everything  that  is  de- 
lightful. Such  a  freak  of  nature 
may  occur  occasionally,  but  it  is 
rare;  and  it  requires  far  more  skill, 
and  a  finer  touch,  to  bring  out  the 
high  whiteness  of  perfection  upon  a 
background  full  of  light,  than  to 
dash  in  its  uncompromising  outline 
boldly  upon  the  surrounding  dark- 
ness. Of  the  sisters,  Alice  is  envi- 


ous and  insignificant,  Bertha  spite- 
ful and  stupid,  and  Marjorie  a  vain 
and  heartless  beauty,  with  all  the 
faults  of  her  kind.  Kate,  the  relief 
to  all  this  inferiority,  is  wickeder, 
while  the  wickedness  lasts,  than  any 
of  them.  She  is  a  little  spitfire,  a 
pretty  vixen,  a  creature  made  up  of 
temper  and  passion :  truth  to  tell, 
except  now  and  then  in  a  wicked 
gleam  of  her  eye,  or  clench  of  her 
small  fists,  she  does  very  little  to 
justify  the  character  ;  but  Mrs  Wal- 
ford knows  best.  When  Captain 
Evelyn  has  heard  all  the  rights  or 
wrongs  of  the  story,  he  returns  to 
the  farm,  and  there  discusses  the 
matter  with  such  wisdom  and  dis- 
cretion that  the  rebellious  Kate  sees 
her  folly,  and  comes  the  length  of 
submission :  when  lo !  this  reformer, 
this  missionary  of  peace  in  military 
shape,  turns  round  upon  his  convert 
and  proposes  something  entirely 
different.  This  is  done  in  a  great 
scene,  the  most  striking  in  the  book, 
perhaps,  which  closes  the  first  vol- 
ume, and  the  first  part  of  the  story 
— in  which  Evelyn  makes  his  de- 
claration of  love,  and  succeeds  in  his 
wooing:  but  adds  a  picture  of  the 
life  the  engaged  pair  are  to  lead  upon 
this  retired  coast,  "nobody  knowing, 
nobody  dreaming  of  their  happiness," 
to  which  the  girl  listens  astonished. 
"  I  will  take  you  out  on  moonlight 
nights,  my  wild  sea-mew,"  he  says, 
"  when  the  waves  are  booming  along 
the  shore  as  they  are  doing  now,  and 
we  will  take  boat  with  the  fishermen, 
and  we  will  learn  their  songs,  Kate, 
and  sing  them  to  each  other.  .  .  . 
Cheer  up,  Kate,"  he  adds,  "  we  shall 
cheat  them  all." 

" '  While  they  think  your  existence 
is  a  burden  to  you  under  the  weight 
of  their  displeasure,  we,  together,  will 
be  making  merry  at  their  expense. 
We  shall  be  laughing  at  them  from 
our  hiding-place.  Perhaps  now  and 
then  I  may  go  over  and  see  how  they 
are  getting  on,  walking  in  as  it  were 
from  far-off  places,  when  we  are  actu- 
ally under  their  noses  all  the  time. 


1880. 


Troublesome,  Daughters. 


399 


It  would  be  awkward  if  you  were  to 
be  sent  for  ;  but  I  can  take  care  to 
prevent  that,  I  think.  You  must  not 
write  too  contentedly ;  you  must  not 
let  them  see  you  are  too  happy ;  we 
must  keep  up  the  show  of  dissatis- 
faction.' 

"  '  And  this  is  to  go  on,'  said  Kate, 
slowly,  '  for  how  long  ? ' 

"  'Why  do  you  ask  1  You  are  already 
afraid  of  being  tired  of  me.  The  pro- 
spect wearies  you  ? '  He  paused  for  a 
disclaimer.  None  came.  'Is  that  it, 
Kate  ?  ...  At  least  our  little 
romance  will  remain  our  own.' 

"  '  And  you  would  play  a  part  like 
that  ? '  said  Kate,  in  a  low,  unnatural 
voice  ;  '  and  you  would  have  me  play 
it  too  ? ' 

"'And  who  could  play  it  better? 
You  have  quite  the  talent.5  " 

It  is  not  wonderful  that  poor 
Kate,  to  whom  this  proposal  is 
made  at  great  length, — though  the 
proposal,  in  fact,  is  of  the  most 
meaningless  character,  for  there  is 
not  even  a  clandestine  marriage  pro- 
posed, nothing  but  a  few  weeks' 
foolish  philandering  under  the  wing 
of  the  farmer's  wife,  and  with  no  in- 
fringement of  propriety, — should  he 
indignant,  and  feel  herself  insulted : 
but  she  need  not  have  broken  a 
blood-vessel.  Broken  blood-vessels 
were  once  considerably  in  request  in 
novels.  How  well  we  recollect  the 
heroine  who  put  her  delicate  hand- 
kerchief to  her  lips,  and  brought  it 
away  stained  with  red  ! — but  she 
has  gone  out  of  fashion.  It  is  a 
very  extreme  step  on  Mrs  Waif ord's 
part,  and  only  could  have  been  jus- 
tifiable, we  think,  had  the  hero 
been  much  more  naughty  than  he 
had  any  intention  of  being.  Be- 
sides, there  was  no  delicacy  of 
chest  or  throat  previously  indicated 
to  lead  us  up  to  this  catastrophe. 
~\Ye  wonder  if  blood  -  vessels  do 
break  like  this,  quite  promiscuously, 
without  any  warning  1  The  foolish 
Guardsman  is  of  course  unutterably 
shocked  and  horrified,  as  well  he 
may  be,  and  he  has  hard  ado  to 

VOL.  CXXVIII. NO.  DCCLXXIX. 


carry  her  home  along  the  rough 
coast,  with  the  blood  welling  from 
her  mouth.  The  author  seems  to 
think  that  it  was  a  fine  thing  of 
him  to  do  this,  as  if  he  could  have 
deserted  the  girl  whom  he  believed 
himself  to  have  killed.  But  though 
Captain  Evelyn  has  a  horrible  fright, 
he  does  not  seem  on  the  whole  to 
suffer  either  in  the  opinion  of  the 
heroine  or  the  writer  when  all  is 
over.  Once  more  we  repeat  there 
is  nothing  so  inscrutable  as  a  wo- 
man's hero.  Being  perfect  as  he 
is,  he  may  conduct  himself  like  the 
basest  hound,  and  nobody  thinks 
any  worse  of  him.  He  remains  to 
all  parties  as  high-souled  and  mag- 
nanimous a  being  as  ever,  even  after 
this  extremely  silly  and  futile  at- 
tempt to  lead  the  conscientious 
little  heroine  astray. 

Captain  Evelyn  behaves  very 
foolishly  another  time  when  every- 
thing is  on  the  point  of  being  set- 
tled, by  listening  to  the  coarse 
story  of  an  odious  little  Cockney 
whom  the  elder  sister  marries  for 
his  money,  and  who  has  the  assur- 
ance to  represent  Kate  as  having 
desired  to  secure  him  for  herself, 
and  to  be  under  the  influence  of 
insane  impulses,  —  a  clumsy  and 
brutal  tale  which  Evelyn  accepts, 
going  off  on  the  spot  to  India 
without  a  question  asked  or  explan- 
ation given.  This  is  giving,  in  mere 
wantonness,  that  occasion  to  blas- 
pheme for  which  the  enemy,  in  the 
shape  of  the  critic,  is  always  lying 
in  wait.  It  is  putting  into  his 
very  mouth  his  usual  taunt  at  that 
third  volume  which  custom  de- 
mands, and  which  certainly  does 
stir  unfortunate  writers  of  fiction 
to  very  strange  expedients  some- 
times. But  we  must  relinquish 
Captain  Evelyn,  whose  ways  and 
manners  are  beyond  our  compre- 
hension. Kate,  on  the  other  hand, 
though  unduly  tried  by  that  broken 
blood  -  vessel  and  other  matters, 

2D 


400 


New  Novels. 


and  by  a  hero  who  is  so  very  sham- 
heroic,  is  a  sweet  little  heroine ; 
and  the  farm  folk,  in  their  salt- 
Avater  landscape,  the  wholesome 
fragrant  junction  of  moor  and  sea, 
are  delightful.  Space  forbids  us  to 
give  the  reader  any  glimpse  of  this 
kind  and  genial  household.  He 
will  do  well  to  take  the  full  benefit 
for  himself.  But  it  shows  that  Mrs 
Walford  has  a  great  deal  of  power 
which  she  has  as  yet  but  little  cul- 
tivated, and  of  which  she  could 
make  a  great  deal  more  than  of 
Guardsmen,  a  species  not  very  in- 
teresting, save  to  young  ladies  in 
their  first  season.  We  hope  to 
meet  her  again  upon  this  promising 
ground. 

After  discussing  the  work  of  so 
many  well-known  writers,  we  must 
pause  to  notice  a  new  book  by,  so 
far  as  appears,  a  new  writer,  which, 
though  it  bears  a  most  unattractive 
title,*  is  as  entertaining  and  ori- 
ginal a  composition  as  we  have  met 
with  for  a  long  time.  A  heroine 
who  is  perfectly  indifferent  to  the 
truth,  who  spends  the  money  given 
her  in  charity  upon  new  gloves  and 
other  dainty  trifles,  who  smokes 
cigarettes  and  visits  young  men  in 
their  rooms,  and  gets  one  in  whom 
she  specially  confides  to  visit  her 
in  the  parlour  of  an  Anglican 
Sisterhood  in  the  disguise  of  a 
Eoman  Catholic  priest,  is  an  ori- 
ginal figure  certainly,  and  some- 
what startling  withal.  But  Bour- 
bachokatzouli,  which  is  her  pretty 
little  name,  is  with  all  this  a 
delightful  heroine ;  and  we  do  not 
know  when  we  have  encountered 
one  so  captivating  and  novel.  She 
tells  fibs  by  the  dozen ;  she  is  idle, 
fond  of  dress,  fond  of  pleasure — 
everything  which  a  good  girl  should 
not  be;  but  she  is  a  charming 
creature,  and  we  can  find  no  fault 
in  her.  "  She  is  all  right,"  says 
the  gentle  little  clergyman's  wife, 


who  goes  with  her  husband  to  re- 
port upon  this  extraordinary  ap- 
plicant for  charity — and  we  agree 
with  her.  At  the  same  time,  we 
cannot  but  feel  that  Bourbacho- 
katzouli  met  with  a  wonderful  deal 
of  kindness,  and  that  everybody 
was  better  to  her  than  she  had 
any  right  to  expect.  The  English 
sham  convent  in  which  she  passes 
some  time  is  a  rather  coarse  cari- 
cature, though  not  without  points 
of  truth  in  its  hostile  picture ;  but 
the  luxurious  Greek  is  very  amus- 
ing among  the  sisters.  We  cannot 
attempt  to  enter  into  the  book,  as 
all  our  space  is  forestalled  by  the 
last  work  on  our  list ;  but  we  ad- 
vise the  reader,  if  he  ever  long?, 
as,  weary  critic  though  we  be,  we 
do  sometimes,  for  a  genuine  story 
which  shall  bring  the  heart  into 
one's  mouth,  and  lead  us  innocently 
astray  into  neglect  of  all  our  duties, 
to  send  at  once  for  '  A  Modern 
Greek  Heroine,'  and  to  read  all 
about  Miss  Valletta®  before  he  goes 
to  bed.  We  may  add,  for  the  en- 
couragement of  the  innocent,  that 
though  this  young  lady  is  alarm- 
ingly unconventional,  there  is  not 
a  grain  of  the  immodest  in  her 
nature.  She  is  perfectly,  daringly, 
innocent  so  far  as  this  goes,  thougli 
she  tells  fibs ;  and  though  there  is 
a  general  tendency  in  the  book  to 
represent  the  foolish  girls  who  love 
dress,  movement,  and  pleasure  as 
on  the  whole  the  kindest,  best,  and 
faithfullest,  there  is  no  harm  to  be 
got  from  it.  For  it  is  not  only 
the  Greek  heroine  who  is  of  this 
mind :  Ethel,  who  is  represented 
as  a  little  flirt  and  frivolous  per- 
sonage, coaxing  her  mother  out 
of  stray  pieces  of  jewellery,  and 
full  of  schemes  for  getting  her  own 
way,  is  the  one  who  stands  up  for 
the  persecuted  when  trouble  comes  ; 
while  the  good  and  gentle  Alice 
shrinks  back  in  a  flutter  of  moral 


A  Modern  Greek  Heroine.     Hurst  &  Blackett. 


1880.] 


The  Egoist. 


401 


apprehension,  believing  in  wicked- 
ness with  the  exaggerated  faith  of 
terror,  though  she  knows  nothing 
of  it.  This  is  a  disagreeable  doc- 
trine ;  but  we  are  by  no  means  sure 
that  it  is  not  true. 

The  author  of '  The  Egoist '  *  holds 
an  exceptional  position  in  literature. 
He  is  not  a  favourite  with  the  mul- 
titude, but  if  that  is  any  compensa- 
tion, he  is  a  favourite  with  people 
who  are  supposed  to  know  much 
better  than  the  multitude.  His 
works  corue  before  us  rarely ;  but 
when  they  do  come,  there  is  a  little 
tremor  of  expectation  in  the  air. 
The  critics  pull  themselves  up,  the 
demigods  of  the  newspapers  are  all 
on  the  alert.  It  is  understood  that 
here  is  something  which,  though  in 
all  probability  caviare  to  the  gen- 
eral, it  will  be  a  creditable  thing, 
and  a  point  in  a  man's  favour  to 
admire.  Like  Mr  Rossetti's  pic- 
tures, there  is  a  certain  ignorance, 
a  certain  want  of  capacity  involved 
in  the  absence  of  appreciation.  Not 
to  know  Mr  Meredith  is  to  argue 
yourself  unknown;  and  the  'Egoist' 
has  been  regarded  with  a  great 
deal  of  respectful  admiration.  It 
is  a  book  which  sets  out  Avith 
very  high  pretensions,  and  claims 
to  represent  to  us  the  leading 
qualities  of  the  human  race  in 
an  exceptionally  clear  and  animated 
way.  It  is  "a  comedy  in  narra- 
tive," challenging  comparison  with 
the  masterpieces  in  that  different 
branch  of  art;  and  even  among 
these  masterpieces,  a  certain  selec- 
tion must  be  made  to  justify  the 
comparison,  for  the  unity  of  its 
sentiment  indicates  such  comedies 
as  the  "Avare"  and  the  "Misan- 
thrope," rather  than  the  livelier 
works  of  mingled  interest  with 
which  (not  to  speak  of  Shakespeare) 
Goldsmith  and  Sheridan  have  fur- 
nished us.  This,  it  will  be  seen, 
is  rather  an  appalling  ordeal  for  a 


book  in  three  large  volumes,  with 
scarcely  an  incident  from  beginning 
to  end,  all  turning  upon  the  ques- 
tion who  is  to  marry  Sir  Willoughby 
Patterne,  and  occupied  with  the 
exhibition  of  that  gentleman's  char- 
acter to  the  world.  Mr  Meredith 
informs  us  in  his  prelude,  which 
ought  to  have  been  called  the  pro- 
logue, that  in  order  to  elucidate  the 
Book  of  Earth,  the  lore  of  human 
self-estimation  and  wisdom,  Art  is 
the  specific. 

"  The  chief  consideration  for  us  is," 
he  says,  "what  particular  practice  of 
Art  in  letters  is  the  best  for  the  perusal 
of  the  book  of  our  common  wisdom,  so 
that  with  clearer  mind  and  livelier 
manners  we  may  escape,  as  it  were, 
into  daylight  and  song  from  a  land 
of  fog-horns.  Shall  we  read  it  by  the 
watchmaker's  eye,  in  luminous  rings, 
eruptive  of  the  infinitesimal,  or  point- 
ed with  examples  and  types  under  the 
broad  Alpine  survey  of  the  spirit  born 
of  our  united  social  intelligence,  which 
is  the  comic  spirit?  Wise  men  say 
the  latter.  They  tell  us  that  there  is 
a  constant  tendency  in  the  book  to 
accumulate  excess  of  substance  ;  and 
such  repleteness  obscuring  the  glass  it 
holds  to  mankind,  renders  us  inexact 
in  the  recognition  of  our  individual 
countenances :  a  perilous  thing  for  civ- 
ilisation. And  these  wise  men  are 
strong  in  the  opinion  that  we  should 
encourage  the  comic  spirit,  who  is  after 
all  our  own  offspring,  to  relieve  the 
book.  Comedy,  they  say,  is  the  true 
diversion,  as  it  is  likewise  the  key  of 
the  great  book,  the  music  of  the  book. 
They  tell  us  how  it  condenses  whole 
sections  of  the  book  in  a  sentence, 
volumes  in  a  character ;  so  that  a  fair 
part  of  a  book,  outstripping  thousands 
of  leagues  when  unrolled,  may  be  com- 
;cl  in  one  comic  sitting." 


After  this  prelude  and  promise 
the  author  goes  on,  as  we  have  said, 
to  three  huge  volumes,  made  up  of 
a  thousand  conversations,  torrents 
of  words  in  half  lines,  continued, 
and  continued,  and  continued,  till 
every  sentiment  contained  in  them  is 


*  The  Egoist.     By  George  Meredith.     Kegan,  Paul,  &  Co. 


402 


beaten  to  death  in  extremest  extenu- 
ation, and  the  reader's  head  aches, 
and  his  very  bones  are  weary.  The 
first  volume  is  fine,  the  second  tedi- 
ous, the  third  beyond  all  expression 
wearisome.  Sir  Willoughby  Pat- 
terne  is  an  egotist  of  the  sublimest 
type.  How  he  makes  everybody 
and  everything  subservient  to  him, 
keeping  in  hand  a  mild  and  gentle 
worshipper  who  lives  close  by,  and 
is  always  ready  to  burn  incense  to 
him,  while  he  engages  himself  to 
marry,  one  after  the  other,  two 
younger,  richer,  more  beautiful 
heroines ;  how  he  pets  and  applauds 
a  humble  hero  in  the  Marines,  who 
has  glorified  the  name  of  Patterne 
in  a  far-oif  war,  but  says  "not  at 
home"  when  that  hero  appears  in 
the  shape  of  an  elderly  and  shabby 
lieutenant ;  how  he  permits  his  poor 
cousin  to  take  the  expenses  of  that 
lieutenant's  boy,  and  himself  ad- 
ministers half-crowns  and  crowns, 
but  will  take  no  responsibility  for 
the  little  dependant;  how  he  dis- 
gusts the  beautiful  young  heroine 
who  has  hastily  pledged  herself  to 
accept  him,  so  that  she  struggles 
through  two  long  volumes  in  her 
attempts  to  get  free  from  him  before 
the  eyes  of  his  worshippers,  till  one 
by  one  they  fall  away,  and  even  the 
romantic  and  poetical  Letitia  has 
her  eyes  opened ;  how  at  last  he  is 
cast  upon  the  compassion  of  this 
first  love,  a  poor  diminished  crea- 
ture, found  out  on  all  sides ;  and 
how  even  Letitia  refuses,  and  will 
only  consent  to  have  him  on  the 
most  unrelenting  and  continued 
pressure.  This  is  the  story.  If  it 
had  been  made  a  comedy  of,  in  three 
moderate  Acts,  instead  of  three  large 
volumes,  it  might  have  been,  with 
the  amount  of  power  expended,  a 
fine  one.  But  to  tell  us  of  an  art 
which  "  condenses  whole  sections 
into  a  sentence,"  and  volumes 
in  a  character,  and  afterwards 
to  serve  up  this  slender  story  in 
about  a  thousand  pages  of  long- 


New  Novels.  [Sept. 

winded  talk,  is  the  most  curious 
and  barefaced  contradiction.  "We 
do  not  think  we  ever  found  our- 
selves astray  in  such  a  tangle  of 
conversation  in  all  our  experience  : 
true,  the  action  of  a  comedy  is  con- 
ducted by  conversation,  but  not,  ye 
gods  !  in  such  bucketsful.  To  have 
the  lively  successions,  the  rapid 
movement,  the  clear-cut  lines  of  a 
good  comedy  suggested  to  us,  and 
then  to  read,  and  read,  and  read, 
till  the  brain  refuses  further  com- 
prehension, and  only  a  spectrum  of 
broken  lines  of  print  remains  upon 
its  blurred  surface,  is  cruel.  For  a 
week  or  two  after  we  complete  the 
book  we  find  ourselves  haunted 
with  that  shadow  of  conversations, 
thus— 

"  She  will  not  be  bridesmaid  to  me." 
She  declines  ?  add  my  petition,  I 


beg. 

"  To  all  1  or  to  her  ? " 

"  Do  all  the  bridesmaids  decline  I " 

"  The  scene  is  too  ghastly." 

"  A  marriage  ? " 

"  Girls  have  grown  sick  of  it." 

"  Of  weddings  ? — We'll  overcome  the 
sickness." 

"  With  some " 

"  Not  with  Miss  Darleton  ?  You 
tempt  my  eloquence." 

"  You  wish  it  1 " 

"  To  win  her  consent  ?  certainly." 

"The  scene?" 

"  Do  I  wish  that  ? " 

But  this  is  an  easy  specimen. 
It  is  like  silly  verse  without  the 
rhyme;  the  talk  in  which  each 
speaker  occupies  a  line  and  a  half 
is  more  painful  still.  Even  now, 
at  a  happy  distance  from  our  first 
reading,  we  have  but  to  think  of 
the  book,  and  lo  !  the  air  is  marked 
all  over  with  those  adumbrations, 
with  all  manner  of  jerks  and  dashes, 
and  notes  of  interrogation  added  on. 
At  the  same  time,  we  cannot  but 
allow  that  the  entire  self-absorption 
of  Sir  Willoughby  Patterne  has  a 
certain  sublimity  in  it.  If  there 
was  but  half  of  it,  and  still  better 
if  there  was  but  a  third  part,  it 


1880.] 


Tlie  Egoist. 


403 


would  be  powerful.  A  man  who  is 
his  own  law,  and  who  never  devi- 
ates from  one  magnificent  prin- 
ciple of  self-reference,  can  scarcely 
be  without  a  certain  force.  The 
incident  of  the  lieutenant's  visit 
referred  to  above,  will  be  as  good  a 
specimen  as  any  of  the  manner  of 
man.  Sir  Willoughby,  on  hearing 
of  the  marine's  gallantry,  had  sent 
him  a  present  and  a  complimentary 
letter,  being  intent  on  taking  for 
himself  and  his  name  all  the  credit 
possible.  He  went  so  far  as  to  in- 
vite the  unknown  cousin  to  Patterne 
Hall.  But  one  day,  while  he  is 
walking  on  the  stately  terrace  with 
his  betrothed  and  various  other  fine 
people,  he  sees  in  the  distance  "  a 
thickset  stumpy  man "  advancing 
to  the  door  of  the  hall. 

"  His  brief  sketch  of  the  creature 
was  repulsive.  The  visitor  carried  a 
bag,  and  his  coat-collar  was  up,  his 
hat  was  melancholy.  He  had  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  bankrupt  tradesman 
absconding  :  no  gloves,  no  umbrella. 
As  to  the  incident  we  have  to  note,  it 
was  very  slight.  The  card  of  Lieu- 
tenant Patterne  was  handed  to  Sir 
Willoughby,  who  laid  it  on  the  sal- 
ver, saying  to  the  footman,  '  Not  at 
home.' 

"  He  had  been  disappointed  in  the 
age,  grossly  deceived  in  the  appear- 
ance, of  the  man  claiming  to  be  his 
relation  in  this  unseasonable  fashion ; 
and  his  acute  instinct  advised  him 
swiftly  of  the  absurdity  of  introducing 
to  his  friend  a  heavy  unpresentable 
senior  as  the  celebrated  gallant  Lieu- 
tenant of  Marines,  and  the  same  as  a 
member  of  his  family.  He  had  talked 
of  the  man  too  much,  too  enthusiasti- 
cally, to  be  able  to  do  so.  A  young 
subaltern,  even  if  passably  vulgar  in 
figure,  can  be  shuffled  through  by  the 
aid  of  the  heroical  story,  humorously 
exaggerated  in  apology  for  his  aspect. 
Nothing  can  be  done  with  a  mature 
stumpy  marine  of  that  rank.  Consi- 
derateness  dismisses  him  on  the  spot 
without  parley.  It  was  performed  by 
a  gentleman  supremely  advanced  at 
an  early  age  in  the  art  of  cutting. 
Young  Sir  Willoughby  spoke  a  word 
of  the  rejected  visitor  to  Miss  Durham 


in  response  to  her  startled  looks.  '  I 
shall  drop  him  a  cheque,'  he  said,  for 
she  seemed  perse aally  wounded,  and 
had  a  face  of  crimson.  The  young 
lady  did  not  reply." 

This  is  Sir  Willoughby  at  the 
sublime  point;  but  by-and-by,  when 
he  quotes  page  upon  page  in  a  wordy 
attempt  to  convince  his  second  be- 
trothed lady  (Miss  Durham  having 
saved  herself  abruptly  by  a  run- 
away match)  that  the  release  she 
asks  is  impossible,  all  the  grandeur 
of  his  attitude  is  lost,  and  the 
merest  stupidity  of  unreason  takes 
hold  upon  the  self-seeker.  Even 
his  pride  does  not  take  fire.  It  is 
roused  by  the  revolting  idea  that 
any  one  should  wish  to  be  free 
from  him,  but  only  into  exasperat- 
ing attempts  to  ignore  the  lady's 
meaning,  or  endless  adjurations  on 
the  subject  of  fidelity.  As  for  Clara 
Middleton,  his  fiancee,  she  is  almost 
equally  wearisome  in  the  perpetual 
twitter  and  flutter  of  her  wings,  as 
she  struggles  for  the  release  which 
he  will  not  give :  she  half  runs  away, 
then  returns  again,  and  talks,  talks 
— in  the  library,  in  the  laboratory, 
to  half-a-dozen  confidants,  to  her 
father,  and  to  Sir  Willoughby  him- 
self, protesting  that  she  will  not 
marry  him,  but  never  venturing  to 
break  the  bond  for  herself.  The 
first  effort  for  freedom  is  made  in 
the  first  volume ;  but  it  is  not  till 
the  very  end  of  the  third,  and  after 
arguments  and  discussions  innumer- 
able, that  the  bond  is  broken  and 
Clara  is  allowed  to  go  free.  All  the 
devices  of  the  man  who  will  not 
acknowledge  to  himself  that  he  is 
not  the  idol  of  all  his  world,  to  save 
his  own  pride,  fatigue  us  hugely 
before  we  are  done  with  them.  Mr 
Meredith  has  fallen  into  the  reverse 
error  from  that  of  those  novelists 
who  blacken  all  their  secondary  char- 
acters in  order  to  have  an  intense 
white  light  of  perfection  upon  their 
hero  or  heroine.  All  the  people  sur- 
rounding Patterne  House  and  all 


404 


the  guests  in  it,  and  even  the 
two  meek  aunts,  Eleanor  and  Isa- 
bella, see  through  the  hero  and  all 
his  little  motives,  and  the  centre 
of  self  in  which  he  lives  and  moves, 
before  we  are  done  with  him.  His 
dependants  are  not  taken  in  by 
his  profound  self- worship.  He  is 
"jilted  "  twice.  Letitia  Dale,  who 
began  by  worshipping,  accepts  his 
hand,  only,  so  to  speak,  by  force, 
declaring  that  she  does  not  and 
cannot  love  him.  This  seems  to  us 
as  little  true  to  nature  as  the  exist- 
ence of  one  black  swau  among  a 
multitude  of  crows.  The  Egoist 
who  takes  nobody  in  is  a  most 
feeble  specimen  of  his  kind.  In  a 
general  way,  even  the  worst  speci- 
mens impose  more  or  less  upon  their 
surroundings,  and  it  is  very  rare 
indeed  where  there  is  not  one  out- 
and-out  believer  to  keep  the  self- 
worshipper  in  countenance.  But 
Sir  Willoughby  has  not  a  creature 
left  to  stand  by  him.  The  stupid- 
est of  his  retainers  sees  through  him 
— even  his  old  aunts.  Mr  Meredith, 
indeed,  partly  justifies  this  by  pro- 
mising us,  in  his  high-flown  pre- 
lude, the  pathos  without  which  he 
says  "no  ship  can  now  set  sail." 
The  Egoist  surely  inspires  pity," 
he  says.  But  the  universal  aban- 
donment of  the  hero  is  too  much. 
A  man  who  makes  so  ineffable  a 
fool  of  himself,  who  disgusts  every- 
body, and  exposes  himself  to  be 
kicked  all  round  by  every  humili- 
ating toe  that  chooses  to  point  itself 
at  him,  is  by  far  too  poor  a  creature 
to  be  raised  to  the  eminence  of  a 
pattern  egoist.  He  is  in  reality, 
after  the  first  volume,  a  very  poor 
counterfeit,  not  worthy  in  any  way 
of  his  role. 

And  it  is  hard  to  have  to  repeat 


New  Novels.  [Sept.  1880. 

to  a  writer  of  such  reputation  as  Mi- 
Meredith,  and  one  who  is  the  fa- 
vourite of  the  clever,  the  pet  of  the 
superior  classes,  goute  above  all  by 
those  who  confer  fame, — what  it  is 
so  common  to  say  to  all  the  poor 
little  novelists  (chiefly  female)  who 
are  rated  in  the  newspapers  about 
the  devices  to  which  they  are  driven 
to  furnish  forth  their  third  volume, 
— but  unpleasant  as  the  duty  is, 
we  must  fulfil  it.  Had  the  author 
of  the  'Egoist'  been  superior,  as  he 
ought  to  be,  to  that  tradition,  his 
book  would  have  been  infinitely 
better.  Had  he  confined  it  to  one 
volume,  it  might  have  been  a  re- 
markable work.  As  it  is,  it  will 
do  no  more  than  hang  in  that  limbo 
to  which  the  praise  of  a  coterie,  un- 
supported by  the  world,  consigns 
the  ablest  writer  when  he  chooses 
to  put  forth  such  a  windy  and  pre- 
tentious assertion  of  superiority  to 
nature  and  exclusive  knowledge  of 
art.  Weakness  may  be  pardonable, 
but  weakness  combined  with  pre- 
tention  is  beyond  all  pity.  Mr 
Meredith's  fault,  however,  is  per- 
haps less  weakness  than  perversity 
and  self-opinion.  He  likes,  it  is 
evident,  to  hear  his  own  voice — as 
indeed,  for  that  matter,  most  of  us 
do.  If  "the  water  were  roasted 
out  of  him,"  according  to  the  for- 
mula of  the  great  humorist  whom 
he  quotes  in  his  prelude,  there 
might  be  found  to  exist  a  certain 
solid  germ  of  life  and  genius ;  but 
so  long  as  he  chooses  to  deluge  this 
in  a  weak,  washy,  everlasting  flood 
of  talk,  which  it  is  evident  he  sup- 
poses to  be  brilliant,  and  quaint, 
and  full  of  expression,  but  which, 
in  reality,  is  only  cranky,  obscure, 
and  hieroglyphical,  he  will  do  that 
genius  nothing  but  injustice. 


Printed  by  William  Llackwood.  <fc  t-ons. 


BLACKWOOD'S 
EDINBUKGH    MAGAZINE. 


No.  DCCLXXX. 


OCTOBER   1880. 


VOL.  CXXVIII. 


DR   WOETLE'S    SCHOOL.— PART    vi. 

CHAPTER   XVI. "  IT   IS   IMPOSSIBLE." 


THE  absence  of  Dr  and  Mrs 
Wortle  was  peculiarly  unfortunate 
on  that  afternoon,  as  a  visitor  rode 
over  from  a  distance  to  make  a  call, 
— a  visitor  whom  they  both  would 
have  been  very  glad  to  welcome, 
but  of  whose  coming  Mrs  Wortle 
was  not  so  delighted  to  hear  when 
she  was  told  by  Mary  that  he  had 
spent  two  or  three  hours  at  the 
rectory.  Mrs  "Wortle  began  to 
think  whether  the  visitor  could 
have  known  of  her  intended  ab- 
sence and  the  Doctor's.  That 
Mary  had  not  known  that  the 
visitor  was  coming  she  was  quite 
certain.  Indeed  she  did  not  really 
suspect  the  visitor,  who  was  one 
too  ingenuous  in  his  nature  to  pre- 
concert so  subtle  and  so  wicked  a 
scheme.  The  visitor,  of  course,  had 
been  Lord  Carstairs. 

"  Was  he  here  long?"  asked  Mrs 
Wortle,  anxiously. 

"  Two  or  three  hours,  mamma. 
He  rode  over  from  Buttercup,  where 
he  is  staying  for  a  cricket-match, 
and  of  course  I  got  him  some 
lunch." 

VOL.  CXXVIII. — NO.  DCCLXXX. 


"  I  should  hope  so,"  said  the 
Doctor.  "  But  I  didn't  think  that 
Carstairs  was  so  fond  of  the  Mom- 
son  lot  as  all  that." 

Mrs  Wortle  at  once  doubted  the 
declared  purpose  of  this  visit  to 
Buttercup.  Buttercup  was  mor» 
than  half-way  between  Carstairs 
and  Bowick. 

"  And  then  we  had  a  game  of 
lawn-tennis.  Talbot  and  Monk 
came  through  to  make  up  sides." 
So  much  Mary  told  at  once,  but 
she  did  not  tell  more  till  she  was 
alone  with  her  mother. 

Young  Carstairs  had  certainly 
not  come  over  on  the  sly,  as  we 
may  call  it,  but  nevertheless  there 
had  been  a  project  in  his  mind, 
and  fortune  had  favoured  him.  He 
was  now  about  nineteen,  and  had 
been  treated  for  the  last  twelve 
months  almost  as  though  he  had 
been  a  man.  It  had  seemed  to 
him  that  there  was  no  possible 
reason  why  he  should  not  fall  in 
love  as  well  as  another.  Nothing 
more  sweet,  nothing  more  lovely, 
nothing  more  lovable  than  Mary 
2  B 


406 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  VI. 


[Oct. 


Wortle  had  he  ever  seen.  He  had 
almost  made  up  his  mind  to  speak 
on  two  or  three  occasions  before  he 
left  Bowick  ;  but  either  his  courage 
or  the  occasion  had  failed  him. 
Once,  as  he  was  walking  home  with 
her  from  church,  he  had  said  one 
word; — but  it  had  amounted  to 
nothing.  She  had  escaped  from 
him  before  she  was  bound  to  under- 
stand what  he  meant.  He  did  not 
for  a  moment  suppose  that  she  had 
understood  anything.  He  was  only 
too  much  afraid  that  she  regarded 
him  as  a  mere  boy.  But  when 
he  had  been  away  from  Bowick 
two  months  he  resolved  that  he 
would  not  be  regarded  as  a  mere 
boy  any  longer.  Therefore  he  took 
an  opportunity  of  going  to  Butter- 
cup, which  he  certainly  would  not 
have  done  for  the  sake  of  the  Mom- 
sons  or  for  the  sake  of  the  cricket. 

He  ate  his  lunch  before  he  said 
a  word,  and  then,  with  but  poor 
grace,  submitted  to  the  lawn-tennis 
with  Talbot  and  Monk.  Even  to 
his  youthful  mind  it  seemed  that 
Talbot  and  Monk  were  brought  in 
on  purpose.  They  were  both  of 
them  boys  he  had  liked,  but  he 
hated  them  now.  However,  he 
played  his  game,  and  when  that 
was  over,  managed  to  get  rid  of 
them,  sending  them  back  through 
the  gate  to  the  school-ground. 

"  I  think  I  must  say  good-bye 
now,"  said  Mary,  "  because  there 
are  ever  so  many  things  in  the  house 
which  I  have  got  to  do." 

"  I  am  going  almost  immedi- 
ately," said  the  young  lord. 

"  Papa  will  be  so  sorry  not  to 
have  seen  you."  This  had  been 
said  once  or  twice  before. 

"  I  came  over,"  he  said,  "  on 
purpose  to  see  you." 

They  were  now  standing  on  the 
middle  of  the  lawn,  and  Mary  had 
assumed  a  look  which  intended  to 
signify  that  she  expected  him  to  go. 
He  knew  the  place  well  enough  to 
get  his  own  horse,  or  to  order  the 


groom  to  get  it  for  him.  But  in- 
stead of  that,  he  stood  his  ground, 
and  now  declared  his  purpose. 

"  To  see  me,  Lord  Carstairs  !  " 

"  Yes,  Miss  Wortle.  And  if  the 
Doctor  had  been  here,  or  vour 
mother,  I  should  have  told  them." 

"Have  told  them  what?"  she 
asked.  She  knew;  she  felt  sure 
that  she  knew  ;  and  yet  she  could 
not  refrain  from  the  question. 

"  I  have  come  here  to  ask  if  you 
ean  love  me." 

It  was  a  most  decided  way  of  de- 
claring his  purpose,  and  one  which 
made  Mary  feel  that  a  great  diffi- 
culty was  at  once  thrown  upon  her. 
She  really  did  not  know  whether 
she  could  love  him  or  not.  Why 
shouldn't  she  have  been  able  to 
love  him?  Was  it  not  natural 
enough  that  she  should  be  able? 
But  she  knew  that  she  ought  not 
to  love  him  whether  able  or  not. 
There  were  various  reasons  which 
were  apparent  enough  to  her  though 
it  might  be  very  difficult  to  make 
him  see  them.  He  was  little  more 
than  a  boy,  and  had  not  yet  finish- 
ed his  education.  His  father  and 
mother  would  not  expect  him  to  fall 
in  love,  at  any  rate  till  he  had  taken 
his  degree.  And  they  certainly 
would  not  expect  him  to  fall  in 
love  with  the  daughter  of  his  tutor. 
She  had  an  idea  that  circumstanced 
as  she  was,  she  was  bound  by  loyalty 
both  to  her  own  father  and  to  the 
lad's  father  not  to  be  able  to  love 
him.  She  thought  that  she  would 
find  it  easy  enough  to  say  that  she 
did  not  love  him  ;  but  that  was  not 
the  question.  As  for  being  able  to 
love  him, — she  could  not  answer 
that  at  all. 

"  Lord  Carstairs,"  she  said,  se- 
verely, "you  ought  not  to  have 
come  here  when  papa  and  mamma 
are  away." 

"  I  didn't  know  they  were  away. 
I  expected  to  find  them  here." 

"  But  they  ain't.  And  you  ought 
to  go  away." 


1880.] 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  VI. 


407 


"  Is  that  all  you  can  say  to  me  ?  " 

"  I  think  it  is.  You  know  you 
oughtn't  to  talk  to  me  like  that. 
Your  own  papa  and  mamma  would 
be  angry  if  they  knew  it." 

"Why  should  they  be  angry? 
Do  you  think  that  I  shall  not  tell 
them?" 

"I  am  sure  they  would  disap- 
prove it  altogether,"  said  Mary. 
"  In  fact  it  is  all  nonsense,  and 
you  really  must  go  away." 

Then  she  made  a  decided  attempt 
to  enter  the  house  by  the  drawing- 
room  window,  which  opened  out  on 
a  gravel  terrace. 

But  he  stopped  her,  standing 
boldly  by  the  window. 

"  I  think  you  ought  to  give  me 
an  answer,  Mary,"  he  said. 

"  I  have  ;  and  I  cannot  say  any- 
thing more.  You  must  let  me  go 
in." 

"  If  they  say  that  it's  all  right  at 
Carstairs,  then  will  you  love  me  1 " 

"They  won't  say  that  it's  all 
right;  and  papa  won't  think  that 
it's  right.  It's  very  wrong.  You 
haven't  been  to  Oxford  yet,  and 
you'll  have  to  remain  there  for 
three  years.  I  think  it's  very  ill- 
natured  of  you  to  come  and  talk  to 
me  like  this.  Of  course  it  means 
nothing.  You  are  only  a  boy,  but 
yet  you  ought  to  know  better." 

"It  does  mean  something;  it 
means  a  great  deal.  As  for  being 
a  boy,  I  am  older  than  you  are,  and 
have  quite  as  much  right  to  know 
my  own  mind." 

Hereupon  she  took  advantage  of 
some  little  movement  in  his  posi- 
tion, and,  tripping  by  him  hastily, 
made  good  her  escape  into  the 
house.  Young  Carstairs,  perceiving 
that  his  occasion  for  the  present  was 
over,  went  into  the  yard  and  got 
upon  his  horse.  He  was  by  no 
means  contented  with  what  he  had 
done,  but  still  he  thought  that  he 
must  have  made  her  understand 
his  purpose. 

Mary,   when   she  found   herself 


safe  within  her  own  room,  could 
not  refrain  from  asking  herself  the 
question  which  her  lover  had  asked 
her.  "  Could  she  love  him  ? "  She 
didn't  see  any  reason  why  she 
couldn't  love  him.  It  would  bo 
very  nice,  she  thought,  to  love  him. 
He  was  sweet-tempered,  handsome, 
bright  and  thoroughly  good  -  hu- 
moured ;  and  then  his  position  in 
the  world  was  very  high.  Not  for 
a  moment  did  she  tell  herself  that 
she  would  love  him.  She  did  not 
understand  all  the  differences  in  the 
world's  ranks  quite  as  well  as  did 
her  father,  but  still  she  felt  that 
because  of  his  rank, — because  of 
his  rank  and  his  youth  combined, 
— she  ought  not  to  allow  herself 
to  love  him.  There  was  no  rea- 
son why  the  son  of  a  peer  should 
not  marry  the  daughter  of  a  clergy- 
man. The  peer  and  the  clergy- 
man might  be  equally  gentlemen. 
But  young  Carstairs  had  been  theie 
in  trust.  Lord  Bracy  had  sent  him 
there  to  be  taught  Latin  and  Greek, 
and  had  a  right  to  expect  that  he 
should  not  be  encouraged  to  fall  in 
love  with  his  tutor's  daughter.  It 
was  not  that  she  did  not  think  her- 
self good  enough  to  be  loved  by 
any  young  lord,  but  that  she  was 
too  good  to  bring  trouble  on  the 
people  who  had  trusted  her  father. 
Her  father  would  despise  her  were 
he  to  hear  that  she  had  encouraged 
the  lad,  or  as  some  might  say,  had 
entangled  him.  She  did  not  know 
whether  she  should  not  have  spoken 
to  Lord  Carstairs  more  decidedly. 
But  she  could,  at  any  rate,  comfort 
herself  with  the  assurance  that  she 
had  given  him  no  encouragement. 
Of  course,  she  must  tell  it  all  to 
her  mother,  but  in  doing  so  could 
declare  positively  that  she  had  given 
the  young  man  no  encouragement. 
"It  was  very  unfortunate  that 
Lord  Carstairs  should  have  come 
just  when  I  was  away,"  said  Mrs 
Wortle  to  her  daughter  as  soon  as 
they  were  alone  together. 


408 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  VI. 


"  Yes,  mamma ;  it  was." 

"And  so  odd.  I  haven't  been 
away  from  home  any  day  all  the 
summer  before." 

"  He  expected  to  find  you." 

"  Of  course  he  did.  Had  he  any- 
thing particular  to  say  1 " 

"  Yes,  mamma." 

"He  had?  What  was  it,  my 
dear?" 

"  I  was  very  much  surprised, 
mamma,  but  I  couldn't  help  it. 
He  asked  me " 

"  Asked  you  what,  Mary  ? " 

"  Oh,  mamma ! "  Here  she  knelt 
down  and  hid  her  face  in  her  mo- 
ther's lap. 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  this  is  very  bad ; 
— very  bad  indeed." 

"  It  needn't  be  bad  for  you, 
mamma ;  or  for  papa." 

"  Is  it  bad  for  you,  my  child  ? " 

"  No,  mamma, — except  of  course 
that  I  am  sorry  that  it  should  be 
so." 

"  What  did  you  say  to  him  1 " 

"  Of  course  I  told  him  that  it 
was  impossible.  He  is  only  a  boy, 
and  I  told  him  so." 

"  You  made  him  no  promise." 

"  No,  mamma  ;  no  !  A  promise  ! 
Oh  dear  no  !  Of  course  it  is  im- 
possible. I  knew  that.  I  never 
dreamed  of  anything  of  the  kind  ; 
but  he  said  it  all  there  out  on  the 
lawn." 

"  Had  he  come  on  purpose  ?  " 

"  Yes  ; — so  he  said.  I  think  he 
had.  But  he  will  go  to  Oxford, 
and  will  of  course  forget  it." 

''  He  is  such  a  nice  boy,"  said 
Mrs  Wortle,  who,  in  all  her  anxi- 
ety, could  not  but  like  the  lad  the 
better  for  having  fallen  in  love  with 
her  daughter. 

"  Yes,  mamma ;  he  is.  I  always 
liked  him.  But  this  is  quite  out 
of  the  question.  What  would  his 
papa  and  mamma  say  ?  " 

"  It  would  be  very  dreadful  to 
have  a  quarrel,  wouldn't  it1? — and 
just  at  present  when  there  are  so 
many  things  to  trouble  your  papa.'' 


[Oct. 


Though  Mrs  Wortle  was  quite 
honest  and  true  in  the  feeling  she 
had  expressed  as  to  the  young 
lord's  visit,  yet  she  was  alive  to  the 
glory  of  having  a  young  lord  for 
her  son-in-law. 

"  Of  course  it  is  out  of  the  ques- 
tion, mamma.  It  has  never  occur- 
red to  me  for  a  moment  as  other- 
wise. He  has  got  to  go  to  Oxford 
and  take  his  degree  before  he  thinks 
of  such  a  thing.  I  shall  be  quite 
an  old  woman  by  that  time,  and  he 
will  have  forgotten  me.  You  may 
be  sure,  mamma,  that  whatever  I 
did  say  to  him  was  quite  plain.  I 
wish  you  could  have  been  here 
and  heard  it  all,  and  seen  it  all." 

"  My  darling,"  said  the  mother, 
embracing  her,  "  I  could  not  believe 
you  more  thoroughly  even  though 
I  saw  it  all,  and  heard  it  all." 

That  night  Mrs  Wortle  felt  her- 
self constrained  to  tell  the  whole 
story  to  her  husband.  It  was  in- 
deed impossible  for  her  to  keep 
any  secret  from  her  husband. 
When  Mary,  in  her  younger  years, 
had  torn  her  frock  or  cut  her 
finger,  that  was  always  told  to  the 
Doctor.  If  a  gardener  was  seen 
idling  his  time,  or  a  housemaid 
flirting  with  the  groom,  that  cer- 
tainly would  be  told  to  the  Doctor. 
What  comfort  does  a  woman  get 
out  of  her  husband  unless  she  may 
be  allowed  to  talk  to  him  about 
everything?  When  it  had  been 
first  proposed  that  Lord  Carstairs 
should  come  into  the  house  as  a 
private  pupil,  she  had  expressed 
her  fear  to  the  Doctor, — because  of 
Mary.  The  Doctor  had  ridiculed 
her  fears,  and  this  had  been  the 
result.  Of  course  she  must  tell 
the  Doctor.  "  Oh  dear,"  she  said, 
"  what  do  you  think  has  happened 
while  we  were  up  in  London  1 " 

"  Carstairs  was  here." 

"  Oh  yes,  he  was  here.  He 
came  on  purpose  to  make  a  regular 
declaration  of  love  to  Mary." 

"  Nonsense." 


1880.] 


"  But  he  did,  Jeffrey." 

"  How  do  you  know  he  came  on 
purpose  ? " 

"  He  told  her  so." 

"I  did  not  think  the  boy  had 
so  much  spirit  in  him,"  said  the 
Doctor.  This  was  a  way  of  look- 
ing at  it  which  Mrs  Wortle  had 
not  expected.  Her  husband  seemed 
rather  to  approve  than  otherwise  of 
what  had  been  done.  At  any  rate, 
he  had  expressed  none  of  that  loud 
horror  which  she  had  expected. 
"  Nevertheless,"  continued  the  Doc- 
tor, "he's  a  stupid  fool  for  his 
pains." 

"  I  don't  know  that  he  is  a  fool," 
said  Mrs  Wortle. 

"  Yes,  he  is.  He  is  not  yet 
twenty,  and  he  has  all  Oxford 
before  him.  How  did  Mary  be- 
have ? " 

"  Like  an  angel,"  said  Mary's 
mother. 

"  That's  of  course.  You  and  I 
are  bound  to  believe  so.  But  what 
did  she  do,  and  what  did  she  say  ? " 

"  She  told  him  that  it  was  simply 
impossible." 

"  So  it  is, — I'm  afraid.  She  at 
any  rate  was  bound  to  give  him  no 
encouragement. " 

"  She  gave  him  none.  She  feels 
quite  strongly  that  it  is  altogether 
impossible.  What  would  Lord 
Bracy  say?" 

"  If  Carstairs  were  but  three  or 
four  years  older,"  said  the  Doctor, 
proudly,  "  Lord  Bracy  would  have 
much  to  be  thankful  for  in  the 
attachment  on  the  part  of  his  son, 
if  it  were  met  by  a  return  of  affec- 
tion  on  the  part  of  my  daughter. 
What  better  could  he  want  ? " 

"  But  he  is  only  a  boy,"  said  Mrs 
Wortle. 

"  No ;  that's  where  it  is.  And 
Mary  was  quite  right  to  tell  him 
that  it  is  impossible.  It  is  im- 
possible. And  I  trust,  for  her  sake, 
that  his  words  have  not  touched 
her  young  heart." 

"  Oh  no,"  said  Mrs  Wortle. 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  VI. 


409 


"  Had  it  been  otherwise,  how 
could  we  have  been  angry  with  the 
child?" 

Now  this  did  seem  to  the  mother 
to  be  very  much  in  contradiction 
to  that  which  the  Doctor  had  him- 
self said  when  she  had  whispered 
to  him  that  Lord  Carstairs's  com- 
ing might  be  dangerous.  "  I  was 
afraid  of  it,  as  you  know,"  said  she. 

"  His  character  has  altered  dur- 
ing the  last  twelve  months." 

"  I  suppose  when  boys  grow  into 
men  it  is  so  with  them." 

"  Not  so  quickly.  A  boy  when 
he  leaves  Eton  is  not  generally 
thinking  of  these  things." 

"A  boy  at  Eton  is  not  thrown 
into  such  society,"  said  Mrs  Wortle. 
"  I  suppose  his  being  here  and  see- 
ing Mary  every  day  has  done  it." 

"  Poor  Mary  ! " 

"  I  don't  think  she  is  poor  at 
all,"  said  Mary's  mother. 

"  I  am  afraid  she  must  not  dream 
of  her  young  lover." 

"  Of  course  she  will  not  dream 
of  him.  She  has  never  entertained 
any  idea  of  the  kind.  There  never 
was  a  girl  with  less  nonsense  of 
that  kind  than  Mary.  When  Lord 
Carstairs  spoke  to  her  to-day,  I  do 
not  suppose  she  had  thought  about 
him  more  than  any  other  boy  that 
has  been  here." 

"  But  she  will  think  now." 

"No;— not  in  the  least.  She- 
knows  it  is  impossible." 

"  Nevertheless  she  will  think 
about  it.  And  so  will  you." 

"  I ! " 

"  Yes,— why  not  ?  Why  should 
you  be  different  from  other  mothers  1 
Why  should  I  not  think  about  it 
as  other  fathers  might  do?  It  is 
impossible.  I  wish  it  were  not. 
For  Mary's  sake,  I  wish  he  were 
three  or  four  years  older.  But  he 
is  as  he  is,  and  we  know  that  it 
is  impossible.  Nevertheless  it  is 
natural  that  she  should  think  about 
him.  I  only  hope  that  she  will 
not  think  about  him  too  much." 


410 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  VI. 


[Oct. 


So  saying,  he  closed  the  conversa- 
tion for  that  night. 

Mary  did  not  think  very  much 
about  "it"  in  such  a  way  as  to 
create  disappointment.  She  at  once 
realised  the  impossibilities,  so  far 
as  to  perceive  that  the  young  lord 
was  the  top  brick  of  the  chimney 
as  far  as  she  was  concerned.  The 
top  brick  of  the  chimney  may  be 
very  desirable,  but  one  doesn't  cry 
for  it,  because  it  is  unattainable. 
Therefore  Mary  did  not  in  truth 
think  of  loving  her  young  lover. 
He  had  been  to  her  a  very  nice 
boy ;  and  so  he  was  still.  That ; — 
that,  and  nothing  more.  Then  had 
come  this  little  episode  in  her  life 
which  seemed  to  lend  it  a  gentle 
tinge  of  romance.  But  had  she 
inquired  of  her  bosom  she  would 
have  declared  that  she  had  not  been 
in  love.  With  her  mother  there 
was  perhaps  something  of  regret. 
But  it  was  exactly  the  regret  which 
may  be  felt  in  reference  to  the  top 
brick.  It  would  have  been  so 
sweet  had  it  been  possible;  but 
then  it  was  so  evidently  impos- 
sible. 

With  the  Doctor  the  feeling  was 
somewhat  different.  It  was  not 
quite  so  manifest  to  him  that  this 
special  brick  was  altogether  unat- 
tainable, nor  even  that  it  was  quite 
the  top  of  the  chimney.  There  was 
no  reason  why  his  daughter  should 
not  marry  an  earl's  son  and  heir. 


ISTo  doubt  the  lad  had  been  confided 
to  him  in  trust.  No  doubt  it  would 
have  been  his  duty  to  have  pre- 
vented anything  of  the  kind,  had 
anything  of  the  kind  seemed  to 
him  to  be  probable.  Had  there 
been  any  moment  in  which  the 
duty  had  seemed  to  him  to  be 
a  duty,  he  would  have  done  it, 
even  though  it  had  been  necessary 
to  caution  the  Earl  to  take  his  son 
away  from  Bo  wick.  Bat  there  had 
been  nothing  of  the  kind.  He  had 
acted  in  the  simplicity  of  his  heart, 
and  this  had  been  the  result.  Of 
course  it  was  impossible.  He  ac- 
knowledged to  himself  that  it  was 
so,  because  of  the  necessity  of  those 
Oxford  studies  and  those  long  years 
which  would  be  required  for  the 
taking  of  the  degree.  But  to  his 
thinking  there  was  no  other  ground 
for  saying  that  it  was  impossible. 
The  thing  must  stand  as  it  was. 
If  this  youth  should  show  himself 
to  be  more  constant  than  other 
youths, — which  was  not  probable, — 
and  if,  at  the  end  of  three  or  four 
years,  Mary  should  not  have  given 
her  heart  to  any  other  lover, — which 
was  also  improbable, — why  then,  it 
might  come  to  pass  that  he  should 
some  day  find  himself  father-in-law 
to  the  future  Earl  Bracy.  Though 
Mary  did  not  think  of  it,  nor  Mrs 
Wortle,  he  thought  of  it, — so  as  to 
give  an  additional  interest  to  these 
disturbed  days. 


CHAPTER   XVII. — CORRESPONDENCE   WITH   THE   PALACE. 

The   possible    glory    of    Mary's  its  own  nest.     It  was  that  convic- 

future  career  did  not  deter  the  Doc-  tion,  and  not  any  idea  as  to  the 

tor  from  thinking  of  his  troubles,  sufficiency   or   insufficiency,  as   to 

— and  especially  that  trouble  with  the  truth  or  falsehood,  of  the  edi- 

the  Bishop  which  was  at  present  tor's  apology,  which  had  actuated 

heavy  on  his  hand.     He  had  deter-  him.    As  he  had  said  to  his  lawyer, 

mined  not  to  go  on  with  his  action,  he  did  not  in  the  least  care  for  the 

and  had  so  resolved  because  he  had  newspaper  people.     He  could  not 

felt,  in  his  more  sober   moments,  condescend  to  be  angry  with  them, 

that  in  bringing  the  Bishop  to  dis-  The  abominable  joke  as  to  the  two 

grace,  he  would  be  as  a  bird  soiling  verbs  was  altogether  in  their  line. 


1880.] 


Dr  Wortle's  School.— Part  VI. 


411 


As  coming  from  them,  they  were  no 
more  to  him  than  the  ribald  words 
of  boys  which  he  might  hear  in  the 
street.  The  offence  to  him  had 
come  from  the  Bishop,  —  and  he 
resolved  to  spare  the  Bishop  because 
of  the  Church.  But  yet  something 
must  be  done.  He  could  not  leave 
the  man  to  triumph  over  him.  If 
nothing  further  were  done  in  the 
matter,  the  Bishop  would  have 
triumphed  over  him.  As  he  could 
not  bring  himself  to  expose  the 
Bishop,  he  must  see  whether  he 
he  could  not  reach  the  man  by 
means  of  his  own  power  of  words  ; 
— so  he  wrote  as  follows : — 

"  MY  DEAR  LORD,  —  I  have  to 
own  that  this  letter  is  written  with 
feelings  which  have  been  very  much 
lacerated  by  what  your  lordship 
has  done.  I  must  tell  you,  in  the 
first  place,  that  I  have  abandoned 
my  intention  of  bringing  an  action 
against  the  proprietors  of  the  scur- 
rilous newspaper  which  your  lord- 
ship sent  me,  because  I  am  unwill- 
ing to  bring  to  public  notice  the 
fact  of  a  quarrel  between  a  clergy- 
man of  the  Church  of  England  and 
his  bishop.  I  think  that,  what- 
ever may  be  the  difficulty  between 
us,  it  should  be  arranged  without 
bringing  down  upon  either  of  us 
adverse  criticism  from  the  public 
press.  I  trust  your  lordship  will 
appreciate  my  feeling  in  this  matter. 
Nothing  less  strong  could  have  in- 
duced me  to  abandon  what  seems 
to  be  the  most  certain  means  by 
which  I  could  obtain  redress. 

"I  had  seen  the  paper  which 
your  lordship  sent  to  me  before  it 
came  to  me  from  the  palace.  The 
scurrilous,  unsavoury,  and  vulgar 
words  which  it  contained  did  not 
matter  to  me  much.  I  have  lived 
long  enough  to  know  that,  let  a 
man's  own  garments  be  as  clean  as 
they  may  be,  he  cannot  hope  to 
walk  through  the  world  without 
rubbing  against  those  who  are 


dirty.  It  was  only  when  those 
words  came  to  me  from  your  lord- 
ship,— when  I  found  that  the  ex- 
pressions which  I  had  read  in  that 
paper  were  those  to  which  your 
lordship  had  before  alluded,  as  be- 
ing criticisms  on  my  conduct  in  the 
metropolitan  press  —  criticisms  so 
grave  as  to  make  your  lordship 
think  it  necessary  to  admonish  me 
respecting  them, — it  was  only  then, 
I  say,  that  I  considered  them  to  be 
worthy  of  my  notice.  When  your 
lordship,  in  admonishing  me,  found 
it  necessary  to  refer  me  to  the 
metropolitan  press,  and  to  caution 
me  to  look  to  my  conduct  because 
the  metropolitan  press  had  ex- 
pressed its  dissatisfaction,  it  was,  I 
submit  to  you,  natural  for  me  to 
ask  you  where  I  should  find  that 
criticism  which  had  so  strongly 
affected  your  lordship's  judgment. 
There  are  perhaps  half  a  score  of 
newspapers  published  in  London 
whose  animadversions  I,  as  a  clergy- 
man, might  have  reason  to  respect, 
— even  if  I  did  not  fear  them.  Was 
I  not  justified  in  thinking  that  at 
least  some  two  or  three  of  these 
had  dealt  with  my  conduct,  when 
your  lordship  held  the  metropoli- 
tan press  in  terrorem  over  my 
head  1  I  applied  to  your  lordship 
for  the  names  of  these  newspapers, 
and  your  lordship,  when  pressed 
for  a  reply,  sent  to  me — that  copy 
of  'Everybody's  Business.' 

"  I  ask  your  lordship  to  ask 
yourself  whether,  so  far,  I  have 
overstated  anything.  Did  not  that 
paper  come  to  me  as  the  only 
sample  you  were  able  to  send  me  of 
criticism  made  on  my  conduct  in 
the  metropolitan  press?  No  doubt 
my  conduct  was  handled  there  in 
very  severe  terms.  No  doubt  the 
insinuations,  if  true, — or  if  of  such 
kind  as  to  be  worthy  of  credit  with 
your  lordship,  whether  true  or  false, 
— were  severe,  plain-spoken  and 
damning.  The  language  was  so 
abominable,  so  vulgar,  so  nauseous, 


412 


Dr  Worths  School— Part  VI. 


[Oct. 


that  I  will  not  trust  myself  to  re- 
peat it.  Your  lordship,  probably, 
when  sending  me  one  copy,  kept 
another.  Now  I  must  ask  your 
lordship, — and  I  must  beg  of  your 
lordship  for  a  reply, — whether  the 
periodical  itself  has  such  a  charac- 
ter as  to  justify  your  lordship  in 
founding  a  complaint  against  a 
clergyman  on  its  unproved-  state- 
ments ;  and  also,  whether  the  facts 
of  the  case,  as  they  were  known  to 
you,  were  not  such  as  to  make  your 
lordship  well  aware  that  the  in- 
sinuations were  false.  Before  these 
ribald  words  were  printed,  your 
lordship  had  heard  all  the  facts  of 
the  case  from  my  own  lips.  Your 
lordship  had  known  me  and  my 
character  for,  I  think,  a  dozen 
years.  You  know  the  character 
that  I  bear  among  others  as  a 
clergyman,  a  schoolmaster,  and  a 
gentleman.  You  have  been  aware 
how  great  is  the  friendship  I  have 
felt  for  the  unfortunate  gentleman 
whose  career  is  in  question,  and 
for  the  lady  who  bears  his  name. 
When  you  read  those  abominable 
words,  did  they  induce  your  lord- 
ship to  believe  that  I  had  been 
guilty  of  the  inexpressible  treachery 
of  making  love  to  the  poor  lady 
whose  misfortunes  I  was  endeavour- 
ing to  relieve,  and  of  doing  so  al- 
most in  my  wife's  presence  ? 

"  I  defy  you  to  have  believed 
them.  Men  are  various,  and  their 
minds  work  in  different  ways, — 
but  the  same  causes  will  produce 
the  same  effects.  You  have  known 
too  much  of  me  to  have  thought  it 
possible  that  I  should  have  done  as 
I  was  accused.  I  should  hold  a 
man  to  be  no  less  than  mad  who 
could  so  have  believed,  knowing  as 
much  as  your  lordship  knew.  Then 
how  am  I  to  reconcile  to  my  idea 
of  your  lordship's  character  the 
fact  that  you  should  have  sent  me 
that  paper  1  What  am  I  to  think 
of  the  process  going  on  in  your 
lordship's  mind  when  your  lordship 


could  have  brought  yourself  to  use. 
a  narrative  which  you  must  have 
known  to  be  false,  made  in  a  news- 
paper which  you  knew  to  be  scur- 
rilous, as  the  ground  for  a  solemn 
admonition  to  a  clergyman  of  my 
age  and  standing  ?  You  wrote  to 
me,  as  is  evident  from  the  tone  and 
context  of  your  lordship's  letter, 
because  you  found  that  the  metro- 
politan press  had  denounced  my 
conduct.  And  this  was  the  proof 
you  sent  to  me  that  such  had  been 
the  ca'se ! 

"  It  occurred  to  me  at  once  that, 
as  the  paper  in  question  had  vilely 
slandered  me,  1  could  redress  my- 
self by  an  action  of  law,  and  that  I 
could  prove  the  magnitude  of  the 
evil  done  me  by  showing  the  grave 
importance  which  your  lordship 
had  attached  to  the  words.  In 
this  way  I  could  have  forced  an 
answer  from  your  lordship  to  the 
questions  which  I  now  put  to  you. 
Your  lordship  would  have  been 
required  to  state  on  oath  whether 
you  believed  those  insinuations  or 
not;  and  if  so,  why  you  believed 
them.  On  grounds  which  I  have 
already  explained,  I  have  thought 
it  improper  to  do  so.  Having  aban- 
doned that  course,  I  am  unable 
to  force  any  answer  from  your 
lordship.  But  I  appeal  to  your 
sense  of  honour  and  justice  whether 
you  should  not  answer  my  ques- 
tions ; — and  I  also  ask  from  your 
lordship  an  ample  apology,  if,  on 
consideration,  you  shall  feel  that 
you  have  done  me  an  undeserved 
injury. — I  have  the  honour  to  be, 
my  lord,  your  lordship's  most  obedi- 
ent, very  humble  servant, 

"JEFFREY  WOETLE." 

He  was  rather  proud  of  this 
letter  as  he  read  it  to  himself,  and 
yet  a  little  afraid  of  it,  feeling  that 
he  had  addressed  his  Bishop  in 
very  strong  language.  It  might 
be  that  the  Bishop  should  send 
him.no  answer  at  all,  or  some  curt 


, 


1880.] 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  VI. 


413 


note  from  his  chaplain  in  which 
it  would  be  explained  that  the  tone 
of  the  letter  precluded  the  Bishop 
from  answering  it.  "What  should 
he  do  then  ?  It  was  not,  he  thought, 
improbable,  that  the  curt  note  from 
the  chaplain  would  be  all  that  he 
might  receive.  He  let  the  letter 
lie  by  him  for  four  -  and  -  twenty 
hours  after  he  had  composed  it, 
and  then  determined  that  not  to 
send  it  would  be  cowardly.  He 
sent  it,  and  then  occupied  himself 
for  an  hour  or  two  in  meditating 
the  sort  of  letter  he  would  write  to 
the  Bishop  when  that  curt  reply 
had  come  from  the  chaplain. 

That  further  letter  must  be  one 
which  must  make  all  amicable  inter- 
course between  him  and  the  Bishop 
impossible.  And  it  must  be  so 
written  as  to  be  fit  to  meet  the 
public  eye  if  he  should  be  ever 
driven  by  the  Bishop's  conduct  to 
put  it  in  print.  A  great  wrong 
had  been  done  him ;  —  a  great 
wrong  !  The  Bishop  had  been  in- 
duced by  influences  which  should 
have  had  no  power  over  him  to 
use  his  episcopal  rod  and  to  smite 
him, — him,  Dr  Wortle  !  He  would 
certainly  show  the  Bishop  that  he 
should  have  considered  beforehand 
whom  he  was  about  to  smite. 
"  Amo  in  the  cool  of  the  evening  ! " 
And  that  given  as  an  expression 
of  opinion  from  the  metropolitan 
press  in  general !  He  had  spared 
the  Bishop  as  far  as  that  action  was 
concerned,  but  he  would  not  spare 
him  should  he  be  driven  to  further 
measures  by  further  injustice.  In 
this  way  he  lashed  himself  again 
into  a  rage.  Whenever  those  odious 
words  occurred  to  him,  he  was  almost 
mad  with  anger  against  the  Bishop. 

When  the  letter  had  been  two 
days  sent,  so  that  he  might  have 
had  a  reply  had  a  reply  come  to 
him  by  return  of  post,  he  put  a  copy 
of  it  into  his  pocket  and  rode  off  to 
call  on  Mr  Puddicombe.  He  had 
thought  of  showing  it  to  Mr  Puddi- 


combe before  he  sent  it,  but  his  mind 
had  revolted  from  such  submission  to 
the  judgment  of  another.  Mr  Pud- 
dicombe would  no  doubt  have  ad- 
vised him  not  to  send  it,  and  then 
he  would  have  been  almost  com- 
pelled to  submit  to  such  advice. 
But  the  letter  was  gone  now.  The 
Bishop  had  read  it,  and  no  doubt 
re-read  it  two  or  three  times.  But 
he  was  anxious  that  some  other 
clergyman  should  see  it, — that  some 
other  clergyman  should  tell  him 
that,  even  if  inexpedient,  it  had 
still  been  justified.  Mr  Puddi- 
combe had  been  made  acquainted 
with  the  former  circumstances  of 
the  affair ;  and  now,  with  his  mind 
full  of  his  own  injuries,  he  went 
again  to  Mr  Puddicombe. 

"  It  is  just  the  sort  of  letter  that 
you  would  write  as  a  matter  of 
course,"  said  Mr  Puddicombe. 

"  Then  I  hope  that  you  think  it 
is  a  good  letter  1 " 

"  Good  as  being  expressive,  and 
good  also  as  being  true,  I  do  think 
it." 

"  But  not  good  as  being  wise  ? " 

"  Had  I  been  in  your  case  I 
should  have  thought  it  unnecessary. 
But  you  are  self-demonstrative,  and 
cannot  control  your  feelings." 

"  I  do  not  quite  understand  you." 

"  What  did  it  all  matter  ?  The 
Bishop  did  a  foolish  thing  in  talk- 
ing of  the  metropolitan  press.  But 
he  had  only  meant  to  put  you  on 
your  guard." 

"  I  do  not  choose  to  be  put  on 
my  guard  in  that  way,"  said  the 
Doctor. 

"  No  ;  exactly.  And  he  should 
have  known  you  better  than  to 
suppose  you  would  bear  it.  Then 
you  pressed  him,  and  he  found 
himself  compelled  to  send  you  that 
stupid  newspaper.  Of  course  he 
had  made  a  mistake.  But  don't  you 
think  that  the  world  goes  easier 
when  mistakes  are  forgiven  1 " 

"  I  did  forgive  it,  as  far  as  fore- 
going the  action." 


414 


Dr  Worth's  School.— Part  VI. 


"  That,  I  think,  was  a  matter  of 
course.  If  you  had  succeeded  in 
putting  the  poor  Bishop  into  a 
witness-box  you  would  have  had 
every  sensible  clergyman  in  Eng- 
land against  you.  You  felt  that 
yourself." 

"  Not  quite  that,"  said  the  Doc- 
tor. 

"  Something  very  near  it ;  and 
therefore  you  withdrew.  But  you 
cannot  get  the  sense  of  the  injury 
out  of  your  mind,  and  therefore 
you  have  persecuted  the  Bishop 
with  that  letter." 

"  Persecuted  ?"  » 

"  He  will  think  so.  And  so 
should  I,  had  it  been  addressed  to 
me.  As  I  said  before,  all  your 
arguments  are  true, — only  I  think 
you  have  made  so  much  more  of 
the  matter  than  was  necessary  ! 
He  ought  not  to  have  sent  you  that 
newspaper,  nor  ought  he  to  have 
talked  about  the  metropolitan  press. 
But  he  did  you  no  harm  ;  nor  had 
he  wished  to  do  you  harm ; — and 
perhaps  it  might  have  been  as  well 
to  pass  it  over." 

'•  Could  you  have  done  so  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  imagine  myself  in 
such  a  position.  I  could  not,  at 
any  rate,  have  written  such  a  letter 
as  that,  even  if  I  would;  and  should 
have  been  afraid  to  write  it  if  I 
could.  I  value  peace  and  quiet  too 
greatly  to  quarrel  with  my  bishop, 
— unless,  indeed,  he  should  attempt 
to  impose  upon  my  conscience. 
There  was  nothing  of  that  kind 
here.  I  think  I  should  have  seen 
that  he  had  made  a  mistake,  and 
have  passed  it  over." 

The  Doctor,  as  he  rode  home, 
was,  on  the  whole,  better  pleased 
with  his  visit  than  he  had  expected 
to  be.  He  had  been  told  that  his 
letter  was  argumentatively  true,  and 
that  in  itself  had  been  much. 

At  the  end  of  the  week  he  re- 
ceived a  reply  from  the  Bishop, 
and  found  that  it  was  not,  at  any 
rate,  written  by  the  chaplain. 


[Oct. 


"  MY  DEAR  Dr  WORTLE,"  said  the 
reply  ;  "  your  letter  has  pained  me 
exceedingly,  because  I  find  that  I 
have  caused  you  a  degree  of  annoy- 
ance which  I  am  certainly  very  sorry 
to  have  inflicted.  When  I  wrote 
to  you  in  my  letter, — which  I  cer- 
tainly did  not  intend  as  an  ad- 
monition,— about  the  metropolitan 
press,  I  only  meant  to  tell  you,  for 
your  own  information,  that  the 
newspapers  were  making  reference 
to  your  affair  with  Mr  Peacocke. 
I  doubt  whether  I  know  anything 
of  the  nature  of  '  Everybody's  Busi- 
ness.' I  am  not  sure  even  whether 
I  had  ever  actually  read  the  words 
to  which  you  object  so  strongly. 
At  any  rate,  they  had  had  no 
weight  with  me.  If  I  had  read 
them, — which  I  probably  did  very 
cursorily, — they  did  not  rest  on  my 
mind  at  all  when  I  wrote  to  you. 
My  object  was  to  caution  you,  not 
at  all  as  to  your  own  conduct,  but 
as  to  others  who  were  speaking  evil 
of  you. 

"  As  to  the  action  of  which  you 
spoke  so  strongly  when  I  had  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  you  here,  I  am 
very  glad  that  you  abandoned  it, 
for  your  own  sake  and  for  mine, 
and  for  the  sake  of  all  us  generally 
to  whom  the  peace  of  the  Church  is 
dear. 

"As  to  the  nature  of  the  lan- 
guage in  which  you  have  found 
yourself  compelled  to  write  to  me, 
I  must  remind  you  that  it  is  un- 
usual as  coming  from  a  clergyman 
to  a  bishop.  I  am,  however,  ready 
to  admit  that  the  circumstances  of 
the  case  were  unusual,  and  I  can 
understand  that  you  should  have 
felt  the  matter  severely.  Under 
these  circumstances,  I  trust  that 
the  affair  may  now  be  allowed  to 
rest  without  any  breach  of  those 
kind  feelings  which  have  hitherto 
existed  between  us. — Yours  very 
faithfully,  C.  BROUGHTON." 

"It    is    a    beastly  letter,"  the 


1880.] 


Dr  Worth's  School. —Part  VI. 


415 


Doctor  said  to  himself,  when  he 
had  read  it, — "  a  beastly  letter ;  " 
and  then  he  put  it  away  without 
saying  any  more  about  it  to  him- 
self or  to  any  one  else.  It  had 
appeared  to  him  to  be  a  "beastly 
letter,"  because  it  had  exactly  the 
effect  which  the  Bishop  had  in- 
tended. It  did  not  eat  "  humble- 
pie  ; "  it  did  not  give  him  the  full 
satisfaction  of  a  complete  apology ; 
and  yet  it  left  no  room  for  a  further 
rejoinder.  It  had  declared  that  no 
censure  had  been  intended,  and  ex- 
pressed sorrow  that  annoyance  had 
been  caused.  But  yet  to  the  Doc- 
tor's thinking  it  was  an  unmanly 
letter.  "Not  intended  as  an  ad- 
monition ! "  Then  why  had  the 


Bishop  written  in  that  severely 
affectionate  and  episcopal  style1? 
He  had  intended  it  as  an  admoni- 
tion, and  the  excuse  was  false.  So 
thought  the  Doctor,  and  comprised 
all  his  criticism  in  the  one  epithet 
given  above.  After  that  he  put 
the  letter  away,  and  determined  to 
think  no  more  about  it. 

"  Will  you  come  in  and  see  Mrs 
Peacocke  after  lunch  1 "  the  Doctor 
said  to  his  wife  the  next  morning. 
They  paid  their  visit  together ;  and 
after  that,  when  the  Doctor  called 
on  the  lady,  he  was  generally  ac- 
companied by  Mrs  Wortle.  So 
much  had  been  effected  by  '  Every- 
body's Business,'  and  its  abomina- 
tions. 


CHAPTER   XVIII. — THE   JOURNEY. 


"We  will  now  follow  Mr  Peacocke 
for  a  while  upon  his  journey.  He 
began  his  close  connection  with 
Robert  Lefroy  by  paying  the  man's 
bill  at  the  inn  before  he  left 
Broughton,  and  after  that  found 
himself  called  upon  to  defray  every 
trifle  of  expense  incurred  as  they 
went  along.  Lefroy  was  very  anx- 
ious to  stay  for  a  week  in  town. 
It  would,  no  doubt,  have  been  two 
weeks  or  a  month  had  his  com- 
panion given  way ; — but  on  this 
matter  a  line  of  conduct  had  been 
fixed  by  Mr  Peacocke  in  conjunc- 
tion with  the  Doctor  from  which 
he  never  departed.  "If  you  will 
not  be  guided  by  me,  I  will  go 
without  you,"  Mr  Peacocke  had 
said,  "and  leave  you  to  follow 
your  own  devices  on  your  own  re- 
sources." 

"  And  what  can  you  do  by  your- 
self?" 

"  Most  probably  I  shaU  be  able 
to  learn  all  that  I  want  to  learn. 
It  may  be  that  I  shall  fail  to  learn 
anything  either  with  you  or  with- 
out you.  I  am  willing  to  make 
the  attempt  with  you  if  you  will 


come  along  at  once ; — but  I  will 
not  be  delayed  for  a  single  day. 
I  shall  go  whether  you  go  or  stay." 
Then  Lefroy  had  yielded,  and  had 
agreed  to  be  put  on  board  a  Ger- 
man steamer  starting  from  South- 
ampton, to  New  York. 

But  an  hour  or  two  before  the 
steamer  started  he  made  a  revela- 
tion. "This  is  all  gammon,  Pea- 
cocke," he  said,  when  on  board. 

"  What  is  all  gammon  1 " 

"  My  taking  you  across  to  the 
States." 

"  Why  is  it  gammon  ?  " 

"  Because  Ferdinand  died  more 
than  a  year  since ; — almost  immedi- 
ately after  you  took  her  off." 

"  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  that 
at  Bowick  ? " 

"  Because  you  were  so  uncommon 
uncivil.  Was  it  likely  I  should 
have  told  you  that  when  you  cut 
up  so  uncommon  rough  ? "  . 

"  An  honest  man  would  have 
told  me  the  very  moment  that  he 
saw  me." 

"  When  one's  poor  brother  has 
died,  one  does  not  blurt  it  like  that 
all  at  once." 


416 


Dr  Wortle's  School— Part  VI. 


"  Your  poor  brother  ! " 

"Why  not  my  poor  brother  as 
well  as  anybody  else's1?  And  her 
husband  too  !  How  was  I  to  let 
it  out  in  that  sort  of  way  1  At  any 
rate,  he  is  dead  as  Julius  Caesar. 
I  saw  him  buried, — right  away  at 
'Frisco." 

"  Did  he  go  to  San  Francisco  1 " 

"  Yes, — we  both  went  there  right 
away  from  St  Louis.  When  we 
got  up  to  St  Louis  we  were  on  our 
way  with  them  other  fellows.  No- 
body meant  to  disturb  you,  but 
Ferdy  got  drunk,  and  would  go 
and  have  a  spree,  as  he  called  it." 

"  A  spree,  indeed  !  " 

"  But  we  were  off  by  train  to 
Kansas  at  five  o'clock  the  next 
morning.  The  devil  wouldn't  keep 
him  sober,  and  he  died  of  D.T.  the 
day  after  we  got  him  to  'Frisco. 
So  there's  the  truth  of  it,  and  you 
needn't  go  to  New  York  at  all. 
Hand  me  the  dollars.  I'll  be  off 
to  the  States ;  and  you  can  go  back 
and  marry  the  widow,  —  or  leave 
her  alone,  just  as  you  please." 

They  were  down  below  when 
this  story  was  told,  sitting  on  their 
portmanteaus  in  the  little  cabin 
in  which  they  were  to  sleep.  The 
prospect  of  the  journey  certainly 
had  no  attraction  for  Mr  Pea- 
cocke.  His  companion  was  most 
distasteful  to  him;  the  ship  was 
abominable ;  the  expense  was  most 
severe.  How  gladly  would  he  avoid 
it  all  if  it  were  possible !  "  You 
know  it  all  as  well  as  if  you  were 
there,"  said  Eobert,  "  and  were 
standing  on  his  grave."  He  did 
believe  it.  The  man  in  all  proba- 
bility had  at  the  last  moment  told 
the  true  story.  Why  not  go  back 
and  be  married  again  1  The  Doctor 
could  be  got  to  believe  it. 

But  then  if  it  were  not  true  ? 
It  was  only  for  a  moment  that  he 
doubted.  "  I  must  go  to  'Frisco  all 
the  same,"  he  said. 

"Why  so?" 

"  Because  I  must  in  truth  stand 


[Oct. 


upon  his  grave.  I  must  have 
proof  that  he  has  been  buried 
there." 

"  Then  you  may  go  by  yourself," 
said  Eobert  Lefroy.  He  had  said 
this  more  than  once  or  twice 
already,  and  had  been  made  to 
change  his  tone.  He  could  go  or 
stay  as  he  pleased,  but  no  money 
would  be  paid  to  him  until  Pea- 
cocke  had  in  his  possession  posi- 
tive proof  of  Ferdinand  Lefroy 's 
death.  So  the  two  made  their  un- 
pleasant journey  to  New  York  to- 
gether. There  was  complaining  on 
the  way,  even  as  to  the  amount 
of  liquor  that  should  be  allowed. 
Peacocke  would  pay  for  nothing 
that  he  did  not  himself  order. 
Lefroy  had  some  small  funds  of  his 
own,  and  was  frequently  drunk 
while  on  board.  There  were  many 
troubles ;  but  still  they  did  at  last 
reach  New  York. 

Then  there  was  a  great  question 
whether  they  would  go  on  direct 
from  thence  to  San  Francisco,  or 
delay  themselves  three  or  four  days 
by  going  round  by  St  Louis.  Le- 
froy was  anxious  to  go  to  St  Louis, 
—  and  on  that  account  Peacocke 
was  almost  resolved  to  take  tickets 
direct  through  for  San  Francisco. 
Why  should  Lefroy  wish  to  go  to 
St  Louis  ?  But  then,  if  the  story 
were  altogether  false,  some  truth 
might  be  learned  at  St  Louis ; 
and  it  was  at  last  decided  that 
thither  they  would  go.  As  they 
went  on  from  town  to  town,  chang- 
ing carriages  first  at  one  place  and 
then  at  another,  Lefroy's  manner 
became  worse  and  worse,  and  his 
language  more  and  more  threatening. 
Peacocke  was-  asked  whether  he 
thought  a  man  was  to  be  brought 
all  that  distance  without  being 
paid  for  his  time.  "You  will  be 
paid  when  you  have  performed 
your  part  of  the  bargain,"  said  Pea- 
cocke. 

"  I'll  see  some  part  of  the  money 
at  St  Louis,"  said  Lefroy,  "  or 


1880.] 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  VI. 


417 


I'll  know  the  reason  why.  A 
thousand  dollars !  What  are  a 
thousand  dollars?  Hand  out  the 
money."  This  was  said  as  they 
were  sitting  together  in  a  corner 
or  separated  portion  of  the  smok- 
ing-room of  a  little  hotel  at  which 
they  were  waiting  for  a  steamer 
which  was  to  take  them  down  the 
Mississippi  to  St  Louis.  Peacocke 
looked  round  and  saw  that  they 
were  alone. 

"  I  shall  hand  out  nothing  till 
I  see  your  brother's  grave,"  said 
Peacocke. 

"You  won't?" 

"  Not  a  dollar !  What  is  the 
good  of  your  going  on  like  that1? 
You  ought  to  know  me  well  enough 
by  this  time." 

"  Bat  you  do  not  know  me  well 
enough.      You    must    have    taken 
me  for  a  very  tame  sort  o'  crittur." 
"  Perhaps  I  have." 
"  Maybe    you'll    change     your 
mind." 

"Perhaps  I  shall.  It  is  quite 
possible  that  you  should  murder 
me.  But  you  will  not  get  any 
money  by  that." 

"  Murder  you  !  You  ain't  worth 
murdering."  Then  they  sat  in 
silence,  waiting  another  hour  and 
a  half  till  the  steamboat  came. 
The  reader  will  understand  that  it 
must  have  been  a  bad  time  for  Mr 
Peacocke. 

They  were  on  the  steamer  to- 
gether for  about  twenty-four  hours, 
during  which  Lefroy  hardly  spoke 
a  word.  As  far  as  his  companion 
could  understand  he  was  out  of 
funds,  because  he  remained  sober 
during  the  greater  part  of  the  day, 
taking  only  what  amount  of  liquor 
was  provided  for  him.  Before, 
however,  they  reached  St  Louis, 
which  they  did  late  at  night,  he 
had  made  acquaintance  with  certain 
fellow-travellers,  and  was  drunk 
and  noisy  when  they  got  out  upon 
the  quay.  Mr  Peacocke  bore  his 
position  as  well  as  he  could,  and 


accompanied  him  up  to  the  hotel . 
It  was  arranged  that  they  should 
remain  two  days  at  St  Louis,  and 
then  start  for  San  Francisco  by  the 
railway  which  runs  across  the  State 
of  Kansas.  Before  he  went  to  bed 
Lefroy  insisted  on  going  into  the 
large  hall  in  which,  as  is  usual  in 
American  hotels,  men  sit  and  loaf 
and  smoke  and  read  the  news- 
papers. Here,  though  it  was  twelve 
o'clock,  there  was  still  a  crowd  ; 
and  Lefroy,  after  he  had  seated 
himself  and  lit  his  cigar,  got  up 
from  his  seat  and  addressed  all  the 
men  around  him. 

"  Here's  a  fellow,"  said  he,  "  has 
come  out  from  England  to  find 
out  what's  become  of  Ferdinand 
Lefroy." 

"I  knew  Ferdinand  Lefroy," 
said  one  man,  "  and  I  know  you 
too,  Master  Eobert." 

"  What  has  become  of  Ferdinand 
Lefroy  1 "  asked  Mr  Peacocke. 

"  He's  gone  where  all  the  good 
fellows  go,"  said  another. 

"You  mean  that  he  is  dead1?" 
asked  Peacocke. 

"  Of  course  he's  dead,"  said 
Eobert.  "I've  been  telling  him 
so  ever  since  we  left  England ;  but 
he  is  such  a  d unbelieving  in- 
fidel that  he  wouldn't  credit  the 
man's  own  brother.  He  won't  learn 
much  here  about  him." 

"  Ferdinand  Lefroy,"  said  the 
first  man,  "  died  on  the  way  as  he 
was  going  out  West.  I  was  over 
the  road  the  day  after." 

"  You  know  nothing  about  it," 
said  Robert.  "  He  died  at  'Frisco 
two  days  after  we'd  got  him  there.," 

"He  died  at  Ogden  Junction, 
where  you  turn  down  to  Utah 
city." 

"  You  didn't  see  him  dead,"  said 
the  other. 

"  If  I  remember  right,"  continued 
the  first  man,  "they'd  taken  him 
away  to  bury  him  somewhere  just 
there  in  the  neighbourhood.  I 
didn't  care  much  about  him,  and  I 


418 


Dr  Worth's  School.— Part  VI. 


didn't  ask  any  particular  questions. 
He  was  a  drunken  beast, — better 
dead  than  alive." 

"  You've  been  drunk  as  often  as 
him,  I  guess,"  said  Kobert. 

"  I  never  gave  nobody  the  trouble 
to  bury  me,  at  any  rate,"  said  the 
other. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  positively 
of  your  own  knowledge,"  asked 
Peacocke,  "  that  Ferdinand  Lefroy 
died  at  that  station  ? " 

"Ask  him;  he's  his  brother, 
and  he  ought  to  know  best." 

"  I  tell  you,"  said  Robert,  earn- 
estly, "  that  we  carried  him  on  to 
'Frisco,  and  there  he  died.  If  you 
think  you  know  best,  you  can  go 
to  Utah  city  and  wait  there  till 
you  hear  all  about  it.  I  guess 
they'll  make  you  one  of  their  elders 
if  you  wait  long  enough."  Then 
they  all  went  to  bed. 

It  was  now  clear  to  Mr  Peacocke 
that  the  man  as  to  whose  life  or 
death  he  was  so  anxious  had  really 
died.  The  combined  evidence  of 
these  men,  which  had  come  out 
without  any  preconcerted  arrange- 
ment, was  proof  to  his  mind.  But 
there  was  no  evidence  which  he 
could  take  back  with  him  to  Eng- 
land and  use  there  as  proof  in  a 
court  of  law,  or  even  before  the 
Bishop  and  Dr  Wortle.  On  the 
next  morning,  before  Eobert  Lefroy 
was  up,  he  got  hold  of  the  man 
who  had  been  so  positive  that 
death  had  overtaken  the  poor 
wretch  at  the  railway  station,  which 
is  distant  from  San  Francisco  two 
days'  journey.  Had  the  man  died 
there,  and  been  buried  there,  no- 
thing would  be  known  of  him  in 
San  Francisco.  The  journey  to  San 
Francisco  would  be  entirely  thrown 
away,  and  he  would  be  as  badly  off 
as  ever. 

"  I  wouldn't  like  to  say  for  cer- 
tain," said  the  man  when  he  was 
interrogated.  "I  only  tell  you 
what  they  told  me.  As  I  was  pass- 
ing along,  somebody  said  as  Fcrdy 


[Oct. 

Lefroy  had  been  taken  dead  out  of 
the  cars  on  to  the  platform.  JS"ow 
you  know  as  much  about  it  as  I 
do." 

He  was  thus  assured  that  at  any 
rate  the  journey  to  San  Francisco 
had  not  been  altogether  a  fiction. 
The  man  had  gone  "  West,"  as  had 
been  said,  and  nothing  more  would 
be  known  of  him  at  St  Louis.  He 
must  still  go  on  upon  his  journey 
and  make  such  inquiry  as  might 
be  possible  at  the  Ogden  Junction. 

On  the  day  but  one  following 
they  started  again,  taking  their 
tickets  as  far  as  Leavenworth. 
They  were  told  by  the  officials  that 
they  would  find  a  train  at  Leaven- 
worth  waiting  to  take  them  on 
across  country  into  the  regular  San 
Francisco  line.  But,  as  is  not  un- 
usual with  railway  officials  in  that 
part  of  the  world,  they  were  de- 
ceived. At  Leavenworth  they  were 
forced  to  remain  for  four-and-twenty 
hours,  and  there  they  put  them- 
selves up  at  a  miserable  hotel  in 
which  they  were  obliged  to  occupy 
the  same  room.  It  was  a  rough, 
uncouth  place,  in  which,  as  it 
seemed  to  Mr  Peacocke,  the  men 
were  more  uncourteous  to  him,  and 
the  things  around  more  unlike  to 
what  he  had  met  elsewhere,  than 
in  any  other  town  of  the  Union. 
Eobert  Lefroy,  since  the  first  night 
at  St  Louis,  had  become  sullen 
rather  than  disobedient.  He  had 
not  refused  to  go  on  when  the 
moment  came  for  starting,  but  had 
left  it  in  doubt  till  the  last  moment 
whether  he  did  or  did  not  intend 
to  prosecute  his  journey.  When 
the  ticket  was  taken  for  him  he 
pretended  to  be  altogether  indiffer- 
ent about  it,  and  would  himself  give 
no  help  whatever  in  any  of  the 
usual  troubles  of  travelling.  But 
as  far  as  this  little  town  of  Leaven- 
worth he  had  been  carried,  and 
Peacocke  now  began  to  think  it 
probable  that  he  might  succeed  in 
taking  him  to  San  Francisco. 


1880.] 


Df  Worth's  School— Part  VI. 


On  that  night  he  endeavoured  to 
induce  him  to  go  first  to  hed,  but 
in  this  he  failed.  Lefroy  insisted 
on  remaining  down  at  the  bar, 
where  he  had  ordered  for  himself 
some  liquor  for  which  Mr  Peacocke, 
in  spite  of  all  his  efforts  to  the 
contrary,  would  have  to  pay.  If 
the  man  would  get  drunk  and  lie 
there,  he  could  not  help  himself. 
On  this  he  was  determined,  that 
whether  with  or  without  the  man, 
he  would  go  on  by  the  first  train  ; 
— and  so  he  took  himself  to  his 
bed. 

He  had  been  there  perhaps  half 
an  hour  when  his  companion  came 
into  the  room, — certainly  not  drunk. 
He  seated  himself  on  his  bed,  and 
then,  pulling  to  him  a  large  travel- 
ling-bag which  he  used,  he  un- 
packed it  altogether,  laying  all  the 
things  which  it  contained  out  upon 
the  bed.  "What  are  you  doing 
that  for?"  said  Mr  Peacocke;  "we 
have  to  start  from  here  to-morrow 
morning  at  five." 

"I'm  not  going  to  start  to-mor- 
row at  five,  nor  yet  to-morrow  at 
all,  nor  yet  next  day." 

"You  are  not1?" 

"  Not  if  I  know  it.  I  have  had 
enough  of  this  game.  I  ani  not 
going  further  west  for  any  one. 
Hand  out  the  money.  You  have 
been  told  everything  about  my 
brother,  true  and  honest,  as  far  as 
I  know  it.  Hand  out  the  money." 

"Not  a  dollar,"  said  Peacocke. 
"  All  that  I  have  heard  as  yet  will 
be  of  no  service  to  me.  As  far  as 
I  can  see,  you  will  earn  it;  but 
you  will  have  to  come  on  a  little 
further  yet." 

"  Not  a  foot ;  I  ain't  a-going  out 
of  this  room  to-morrow." 

"  Then  I  must  go  without  you ; — 
that's  all." 

"  You  may  go  and  be .  But 

you'll  have  to  shell  out  the  money 
first,  old  fellow." 

"Not  a  dollar." 

"  You  won't  ? " 


419 
How 


"Certainly   I   will    not. 
often  have  I  told  you  so  1 " 

"  Then  I  shall  take  it." 

"That  you  will  find  very  diffi- 
cult. In  the  first  place,  if  you 
were  to  cut  my  throat " 

"Which  is  just  what  I  intend 
to  do." 

"  If  you  were  to  cut  my  throat, 
— which  in  itself  will  be  difficult, 
— you  would  only  find  the  trifle 
of  gold  which  I  have  got  for  our 
journey  as  far  as  'Frisco.  That 
won't  do  you  much  good.  The  rest 
is  in  circular  notes,  which  to  you 
would  be  of  no  service  whatever." 

"  My  God  ! "  said  the  man  sud- 
denly, "I  am  not  going  to  be  done  in 
this  way."  And  with  that  he  drew 
out  a  bowie-knife  which  he  had 
concealed  among  the  things  which 
he  had  extracted  from  the  bag. 
"You  don't  know  the  sort  of  coun- 
try you're  in  no  w.  They  don't  think 
much  here  of  the  life  of  such  a 
skunk  as  you.  If  you  mean  to 
live  till  to-morrow  morning  you 
must  come  to  terms." 

The  room  was  a  narrow  chamber 
in  which  two  beds  ran  along  the 
wall,  each  with  its  foot  to  the 
other,  having  a  narrow  space  be- 
tween them  and  the  other  wall. 
Peacocke  occupied  the  one  nearest 
to  the  door.  Lefroy  now  got  up 
from  the  bed  in  the  further  corner, 
and  with  the  bowie-knife  in  his 
hand,  rushed  against  the  door  as 
though  to  prevent  his  companion's 
escape.  Peacocke,  who  was  in  bed 
undressed,  sat  up  at  once ;  but  as 
he  did  so  he  brought  a  revolver  out 
from  under  the  pillow.  "So  you 
have  been  and  armed  yourself; 
have  you  1 "  said  Robert  Lefroy. 

"Yes,"  said  Peacocke; — "if  you 
come  nearer  me  with  that  knife  I 
shall  shoot  you.  Put  it  down." 

"  Likely  I  shall  put  it  down  at 
your  bidding." 

With  the  pistol  still  held  at  the 
other  man's  head,  Peacocke  slowly 
extricated  himself  from  his  bed. 


420 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  VI, 


"  Now,"  said  he,  "  if  you  don't 
come  away  from  the  door  I  shall 
fire  one  barrel  just  to  let  them 
know  in  the  house  what  sort  of 
affair  is  going  on.  Put  the  knife 
down.  You  know  that  I  shall  not 
hurt  you  then." 

After  hesitating  for  a  moment 
or  two,  Lefroy  did  put  the  knife 
down.  "I  didn't  mean  anything, 
old  fellow,"  said  he.  "I  only 
wanted  to  frighten  you." 

"Well,  you  have  frightened  me. 
Now,  what's  to  come  next  ? " 

"No,  I  ain't; — not  frightened  you 
a  bit.  A  pistol's  always  better  than 
a  knife  any  day.  Well  now,  I'll 
tell  ye  how  it  all  is."  Saying  this, 
he  seated  himself  on  his  own  bed, 
and  began  a  long  narration.  He 
would  not  go  further  west  than 
Leavenworth.  Whether  he  got  his 
money  or  whether  he  lost  it;  he 
would  not  travel  a  foot  further. 
There  were  reasons  which  would 
make  it  disagreeable  for  him  to  go 
into  California.  But  he  made  a 
proposition.  If  Peacocke  would 
only  give  him  money  enough  to 
support  himself  for  the  necessary 
time,  he  would  remain  at  Leaven- 
worth  till  his  companion  should 
return  there,  or  would  make  his 
way  to  Chicago,  and  stay  there  till 
Peacocke  should  come  to  him. 
Then  he  proceeded  to  explain  how 
absolute  evidence  might  be  obtained 
at  San  Francisco  as  to  his  brother's 
death.  "  That  fellow  was  lying 
altogether,"  he  said,  "  about  my 
brother  dying  at  the  Ogden  station. 
He  was  very  bad  there,  no  doubt, 
and  we  thought  it  was  going  to  be 
all  up  with  him.  He  had  the  hor- 
rors there,  worse  than  I  ever  saw 
before,  and  I  hope  never  to  see  the 
like  again.  But  we  did  get  him  on 
to  San  Francisco ;  and  when  he 
was  able  to  walk  into  the  city  on 
his  own  legs,  I  thought  that,  might 


[Oct. 


be,  he  would  rally  and  come  round. 
However,  in  two  days  he  died ; — and 
we  buried  him  in  the  big  cemetery 
just  out  of  the  town." 

"  Did  you  put  a  stone  over  him  1 " 

"  Yes ;  there  is  a  stone  as  large 
as  life.  You'll  find  the  name  on  it, 
— Ferdinand  Lefroy  of  Kilbrack, 
Louisiana.  Kilbrack  was  the  name 
of  our  plantation,  where  we  should 
be  living  now  as  gentlemen  ought, 
with  three  hundred  niggers  of  our 
own,  but  for  these  accursed  North- 
ern hypocrites." 

"  How  can  I  find  the  stone  1 " 

"  There's  a  chap  there  who  knows, 
I  guess,  where  all  them  graves  are 
to  be  found.  But  it's  on  the  right 
band,  a  long  way  down,  near  the 
far  wall  at  the  bottom,  just  where 
the  ground  takes  a  little  dip  to  the 
north.  It  ain't  so  long  ago  but 
what  the  letters  on  the  stone  will 
be  as  fresh  as  if  they  were  cut 
yesterday." 

"Does  no  one  in  San  Francisco 
know  of  his  death  1 " 

"There's  a  chap  named  Burke 
at  Johnson's,  the  cigar  -  shop  in 
Montgomery  Street.  He  was  bro- 
ther to  one  of  our  party,  and  he 
went  out  to  the  funeral.  Maybe 
you'll  find  him,  or,  any  way,  some 
traces  of  him." 

The  two  men  sat  up  discussing 
the  matter  nearly  the  whole  of  the 
night,  and  Peacocke,  before  he 
started,  had  brought  himself  to 
accede  to  Lefroy 's  last  proposition. 
He  did  give  the  man  money  enough 
to  support  him  for  two  or  three 
weeks  and  also  to  take  him  to 
Chicago,  promising  at  the  same 
time  that  he  would  hand  to  him 
the  thousand  dollars  at  Chicago 
should  he  find  him  there  at  the 
appointed  time,  and  should  he  also 
have  found  Ferdinand  Lefroy's 
grave  at  San  Francisco  in  the  man- 
ner described. 


.1880.] 


Memory. 


421 


MEMORY. 


IT  is  one  of  Lord  Bacon's  apo- 
thegms that  the  brains  of  some 
creatures  taken  in  wine,  as  hares, 
hens,  deer,  are  said  to  sharpen 
memory.  This  opinion  must  have 
broken  down  under  experiment,  or 
no  dishes  would  be  more  in  request 
than  those  in  which  brains  were 
the  principal  ingredients;  nor  would 
there  be  any  incivility  in  setting 
these  savoury  remedies  before  our 
guests,  for  defective  memory  is  a 
fashionable  complaint  no  one  is 
ashamed  to  accuse  himself  of.  La 
Bruyere  indeed  regards  the  con- 
fession or  claim  to  one  as  a  re- 
source of  egoism,  under  cover  of 
which  men  arrogate  to  themselves 
superior  qualities.  "  Men  talking 
of  themselves  avow  only  small  de- 
fects and  those  compatible  with 
great  talents  and  noble  qualities. 
Thus  they  complain  of  bad  mem- 
ory ;  inwardly  satisfied,  and  con- 
scious of  good  sense  and  sound  judg- 
ment, they  submit  to  the  reproach 
of  absence  of  mind  and  reverie  as 
though  it  took  for  granted  their 
lei  esprit"  It  is,  in  fact,  the  one 
question  about  our  intellectual 
selves  we  may  discuss  in  a  mixed 
company.  It  involves  no  real  self- 
depreciation  to  accuse  ourselves  of 
bad  memory ;  for  defective  memory, 
in  social  popular  discourse,  is  re- 
garded as  an  accidental  disadvan- 
tage outside  the  higher  faculties,  and 
with  little  more  to  do  with  the 
thinking  part  of  us  than  short- 
sightedness, or  the  broad  face  attri- 
buted to  himself  by  the  Spectator. 
This  prevalent  indulgent  tone  in 
no  way  falls  in  with  philosophical 
language  towards  this  deficiency. 
"Memory,"  to  recall  Locke's  judgment 
to  our  readers,  "is  subject  to  two  de- 
fects :  first,  that  it  loses  the  idea 
quite,  and  so  far  it  produces  perfect 

VOL.  CXXVIII. — NO.  DCCLXXX. 


ignorance;  secondly,  that  it  moves 
slowly,  and  retrieves  not  the  ideas 
that  it  has,  and  are  laid  up  in  store, 
quick  enough  to  serve  the  mind  upon 
occasion.  This,  if  it  be  to  a  great 
degree,  is  stupidity;  and  he  who 
through  this  default  in  his  memory 
has  not  the  ideas  that  are  really 
preserved  there,  ready  at  hand 
when  need  and  occasion  calls  for 
them,  were  almost  as  good  be  with- 
out them  quite,  since  they  serve 
him  to  little  purpose.  The  dull 
man  who  loses  the  opportunity 
whilst  he  is  seeking  in  his  mind  for 
those  ideas  that  should  serve  his 
turn,  is  not  much  more  happy  in 
his  knowledge  than  one  that  is 
perfectly  ignorant.  It  is  the  busi- 
ness, therefore,  of  the  memory  to 
furnish  the  mind  with  those  dor- 
mant ideas  which  it  has  present 
occasion  for;  in  the  having  them 
ready  at  hand  on  all  occasions,  con- 
sists that  which  we  call  invention, 
fancy,  and  quickness  of  parts."  In 
fact,  however,  it  is  only  the  small 
change  of  memory  that  people  will- 
ingly proclaim  themselves  short  of : 
by  the  very  act  of  owning  it,  taking 
for  granted  the  store  of  gold  laid  up 
and  ready  for  the  intellect's  greater 


The  truth  is,  it  is  not  a  personal 
topic  that  particularly  interests  any 
one  but  the  man's  self.  Men  trouble 
themselves  very  little  about  the 
memory  of  their  friends,  except 
when  some  lapse  interferes  with 
their  own  convenience.  They  take 
him  as  he  is,  without  speculating 
on  the  difference  a  better  memory 
would  have  made  in  him.  He  is 
viewed  as  a  whole.  What  he  can 
recall  —  in  what  order  his  mind 
stands  in  its  innermost  recesses — 
is  nothing  to  other  men,  however 
much  it  may  affect  his  place  in  the 
2  F 


422 


Memory. 


[Oct. 


world.  Regrets  on  this  head  pass 
as  so  many  words  of  course.  And 
yet,  if  there  is  truth  in  them,  they 
mean  a  great  deal — they  account 
for  a  great  deal.  Nobody  can  do 
much  in  the  department  he  has 
chosen  without  having  tenacity  of 
memory  in  it.  A  man  may  forget 
what  he  pleases  out  of  his  own 
sphere  of  thought  and  practice,  but 
he  must  have  a  ready,  clear  memory 
in  that  sphere,  or  he  will  make  no 
way ;  and  for  this  reason,  that  if 
he  forgets  in  that  sphere,  there  has 
been  defect  in  the  great  preliminary 
of  attention.  In  the  way  most  men 
have  learned  what  they  are  assumed 
to  know,  they  have  no  right  to  ex- 
pect to  remember  it.  A  good 
memory,  as  a  rule,  represents  much 
more  than  itself.  It  indicates  a 
mind  capable  of  a  keener,  more 
fixed,  more  single  attention  than 
ordinary  men  can  bestow  on  any- 
thing beyond  their  immediate  per- 
sonal interests  —  a  mind  open  to 
receive,  a  j  udgment  ready  to  weigh 
what  is  worth  retaining,  a  capacity 
for  quick  selection  and  concentra- 
tion of  thought. 

Are  really  strong,  vivid  impres- 
sions ever  forgotten  ?  and  does  not  a 
generally  treacherous  memory  imply 
a  universal  defect  and  want  of  stam- 
ina, either  congenital  or  due  to  self- 
neglect?  We  read  of  the  great  memo- 
ries of  great  men  ;  but  does  not  this 
mean  that  what  they  have  once 
seen,  done,  learned,  was  welcomed 
with  a  warmer  reception,  scored  at 
the  time  with  a  deeper  incision, 
engraved  in  larger,  stronger  char- 
acters than  is  the  case  with  ordinary 
men — and  in  this  way  made  their 
own?  Most  people  receive  facts 
and  knowledge  into  their  minds, 
not  as  permanent  inhabitants,  but 
as  lodgers.  If  only  they  heard 
with  all  their  ears,  saw  with  an 
undistracted  gaze,  listened  with  an 
undivided  attention,  took  all  in 
with  resolute  apprehension  at  the 


time,  they  would  be  providing  a 
home  for  new  ideas.  Everybody 
who  does  all  this  remembers — can 
recall  at  will.  The  habit  of  such 
attention  is  the  building  of  an 
edifice  where  everything  is  assigned 
its  proper  place,  and  can  be  found 
when  wanted. 

We  believe  that  all  minds  have 
a  sort  of  lumber-room  wherein  toss 
the  past  events  of  life,  fragments 
and  tatters  of  the  knowledge  once 
acquired  and  the  facts  once  familiar. 
For  want  of  active  measures  for 
storing  them  on  their  first  recep- 
tion, these  lie  irrecoverable,  or  at 
best  unavailable,  for  present  need. 
And  if  persons  put  themselves  to 
the  question,  they  need  be  at  no  loss 
to  account  for  this.  Probably  of 
all  habits  of  mind,  inattention  is 
earliest  contracted  and  most  diffi- 
cult to  dislodge.  Where  it  has 
gained  a  firm  footing,  even  the  will 
cannot  cure  it.  We  believe  nothing 
is  so  rare  as  a  power  of  unbroken 
attention.  The  seductive  pleasures 
of  wool-gathering  insinuate  them- 
selves, fasten  themselves,  offer 
themselves  like  an  easy  cushion, 
assert  themselves  as  originality  and 
invention,  —  divert,  amuse,  take 
prisoner,  lap  in  Elysium  before 
the  victim  is  aware  of  his  lapse 
or  can  rally  his  powers  to  the 
immediate  demands  of  the  hour. 
Wherever  there  has  been  this  sort 
of  bargain  between  duty  and  in- 
dolence, to  attend  no  more  than  is 
necessary  for  the  present  occasion, 
drifting  off  into  dreamland  as  a 
relaxation,  there  the  memory  has 
been  incurably  weakened.  There 
should  be  a  surplus,  of  attention, 
a  concentration  beyond  the  neces- 
sities of  the  hour,  to  form  a 
memory. 

This  formation  of  memory  starts 
with  consciousness,  and  has  its 
moral  aspect.  AVhere  the  interests 
centre  in  self  and  its  immediate 
surroundings,  the  memory  cannot 


1880.] 


Memory. 


423 


be  laying  up  treasures  for  the  future. 
We  see  the  difference  in  the  young- 
est children.     It  is  a  great  thing, 
of  course,  to  teach  in  an  interesting 
way  so  as  to  make  attention  as  little 
painful  an  effort  as  possible.     The 
child  so  taught  starts  at  an  advan- 
tage ;  but  there  is  a  subtle  form  of 
selfishness  that  eludes  all  benevo- 
lent aims  to  enlarge  the  range  of 
interests,  that  refuses  to  see  beyond 
the  charmed  circle,   and   shackles 
and   confines  the   memory  at  the 
outset.     We  may  almost  foretell  of 
some   children   that  they  will   re- 
member what  now  occupies  them 
so  deeply,  because  we  see  no  under- 
current of  self  at  work  interfering 
with  the  free  reception  of  new  con- 
genial ideas;  while  others  take  in 
new  thoughts  with  a  reserve ;  half 
occupied  with  themselves,  if  they 
attend,  turning   the   new   acquire- 
ment into  an  occasion  for  present 
show  and  self-glory.      The  phrase 
"  hits  the  fancy,"  explains  the  pos- 
ture of  mind.      Nothing  hits  the 
fancy  of  some  children  apart  from 
self;  with  others,  the  object  which 
hits  and  seizes  the  attention  stands 
single,  and  takes  them  out  of  them- 
selves.    Sir  Walter  Scott  owns  to 
this   memory.     "  I   had   always  a 
wonderful  facility  in  retaining  in 
my  memory  whatever  verses  pleased 
me : "    quoting    the   old   Borderer 
who  had  no  command  of  his  mem- 
ory, and  only  retained  what  hit  his 
fancy.     "  My  memory  was  precise- 
ly of  the   same   kind ;   it   seldom 
failed  to  preserve  most  tenaciously 
a   favourite   passage   of    poetry,   a 
play-house   ditty,  or,  above   all,  a 
Border  -  raid    ballad  ;    but    names, 
dates,  and  the  other  technicalities 
of  history  escaped  me  in  a  most 
melancholy    degree."       Of    course 
this  early  passion  of  interest  implies 
a  bias.     The  memory  here  came  by 
nature,  was  not  cultivated  by  self- 
mastery  ;  but,    while   following    a 
bent,  it  carried  him  out  of  himself 


and   beyond   himself,  which  it  is 
an  important  function  of  memory 
to  do.     All  people  have  not  only  a 
memory,   but  a  tenacious  memory 
for  some  things.      If  for  nothing 
useful,  if  not  for  things  observed, 
for  things  learnt,  for  thought,  for 
events,  for  persons,  for  the  outsides 
of  things,  for  words,  for  names,  for 
dates,  —  yet    for    follies,    vanities, 
trifles,  grudges  connected  with  self ; 
and  especially  for  losses,   wrongs, 
slights,  snubs,  disparagements,  in- 
juries, real  or  fancied,  inflicted  in 
the  course   of  a  lifetime  on   that 
dear   self.     If  memory  is  not  put 
to  its  legitimate  uses,  subjected  to 
rule,  given  work  to  do,  it  degener- 
ates into  a  mere  deposit,  a  residu- 
um of  worthless  refuse,  degrading 
the  nature  it  should  elevate,  sup- 
plying the  mind  with  unwholesome 
food,  on   which  it   largely  broods 
and  ruminates.     Of  the  same  class 
is  the  memory  roused   out  of  its 
lethargy  by  the  presence  of  others — 
as,  for  example,  on  the  revival  of 
former  acquaintance  —  into  a  sort 
of  malignant  activity ;  a  memory 
dissociated  from  sympathy,  recalling 
precisely  the  things  which  ought  to 
be  forgotten — misfortunes,  humilia- 
tions, and  the  like — and  forcing  on 
reluctant  ears  with  unflinching  ac- 
curacy of  detail,  facts  long  erased 
from  busier,  fuller,  better  -  trained 
memories,  as  though  inspired  by  a 
sort  of  necessity  to  let  loose  the 
unmannerly  crowd  of  revived  im- 
ages where   it  gives  most  annoy- 
ance.     How   often   we   wish    for 
others  the  reverse  of  what  we  desire 
for  ourselves  !     If  they  could  only 
forget ! 

There  are  memories  that  seem 
self-acting  instruments,  stimulated 
neither  by  feeling  nor  intellect ; 
as  though  eye  and  ear  stamped 
words  and  characters  on  the  brain 
independent  of  thought  and  will, 
and  with  no  relation  to  the  idio- 
syncrasy of  the  owner.  Something 


424 


Memory. 


[Oct. 


in  the  signs  of  time,  number,  name, 
gets  a  mysterious  hold.  These  as- 
sociate themselves  with  some  qua- 
lity in  the  man  in  a  way  incom- 
prehensible to  the  observer.  Me- 
mories, average  and  fallacious  on 
general  topics,  have  an  unfailing 
accuracy  in  retaining  rows  of  figures 
and  arbitrary  combinations  of  let- 
ters. Nor  can  the  possessor  of 
these  fixed  impressions  account 
any  better  than  another  for  this 
speciality.  What  comes  to  us  by 
nature  we  regard  as  proper  to  man. 
It  is  the  absence  or  failure  of  it 
that  takes  us  by  surprise.  Again, 
there  are  memories  where  the  in- 
tellect is  conspicuously  below  par, 
which  expend  themselves  with 
marked  success  on  trivial,  minute 
matters,  removed  from  any  reason- 
able connection  with  themselves. 
Thus  they  regard  their  fellow-crea- 
tures perhaps  on  the  side  of  age  : 
how  old  they  are  ;  on  what  day 
their  birthday  falls.  It  is  on  this 
point  that  they  bring  themselves 
into  relation  with  their  fellow-men, 
on  which  they  can  draw  compari- 
sons and  find  affinities.  Or  it  may 
be  the  expenditure  of  money  : 
what  things  cost ;  what  people  died 
worth ;  and  so  on.  Whatever  the 
subject  of  recollection,  it  is  con- 
nected with  anything  rather  than 
the  inner  self  of  the  object  dwelt 
on. 

However,  these  are  the  curiosi- 
ties of  our  subject.  It  is  this  view 
of  memory  as  something  arbitrary 
that  makes  it  easy  for  people  to 
accuse  themselves  of  the  want  of 
it :  great  feats  of  recollection  of  this 
class  serving  the  ordinary  loose  de- 
fective memory  a  good  turn.  It 
cannot  be  said  of  any  natural  power 
that  it  is  without  legitimate  pur- 
pose or  use ;  but  no  reasonable 
man  regrets  that  he  does  not  know 
everybody's  birthday,  or  that  he 
cannot  reproduce  a  dozen  figures  in 
a  line  that  have  once  met  his  eye. 


What  men  do  need  for  themselves 
is  the  memory  that  puts  them  in  a 
position  to  cultivate  and  use  their 
other  gifts  ;  that  makes  a  judicious 
selection  at  starting;  that  stores  what 
is  worth  keeping ;  that  lets  nothing 
slip  that  belongs  to  the  develop- 
ment of  their  aptitude  or  genius ; 
that  arranges  its  treasures  in  order, 
for  use;  that  can  meet  a  sudden 
occasion ;  that  retains  whatever  it 
is  desirable  to  keep.  Such  a  mem- 
ory is  not  a  faculty  in  itself — it  is 
the  indication,  and,  indeed,  proof 
of  many  other  faculties,  and  also  of 
self-management.  Some  new  ideas 
find  such  congenial  soil  that  it  is 
no  merit  to  make  them  welcome  ; 
but  how  many  must  own  to  them- 
selves that  the  will  failed  rather 
than  the  understanding,  when 
what  was  uncongenial  and  difficult 
was  first  presented  to  them,  and  the 
choice  given  of  acceptance  or  pas- 
sive rejection  1  Then  was  their  op- 
portunity; then  memory  was  open 
and  receptive ;  but  they  indolently 
suffered  knowledge  to  pass  over 
their  minds  like  the  shade  of  a  cloud, 
which  they  might  have  made  their 
own  by  a  resolute  effort  of  sus- 
tained, however  painful  attention. 
So  far  as  a  strong  will  directed  to 
good  ends  is  a  virtue,  memory  of 
this  character  seen  in  its  function 
is  a  virtue,  and  tells  for  the  man, 
morally  as  well  as  intellectually. 
In  this  view  of  things,  in  propor- 
tion to  the  man's  natural  powers, 
his  confession  of  bad  or  defective 
memory  is  a  serious  avowal,  to 
which  his  hearers  may  attach  more 
importance  than  he  himself  is  will- 
ing to  give  it. 

While  a  strong  and  vast  memory 
is  an  object  of  vague  longing  with 
us  all,  as  a  fact,  people  often  wish 
for  it  who  have  already  as  much  as 
is  good  for  them — as  much  as  they 
can  make  good  use  of;  that  is, 
they  have  it  in  proportion  to  their 
other  gifts.  Their  grasp  of  thought, 


1880.] 


Memory. 


425 


of  the  deep  and  abstract,  could 
never  have  been  a  powerful  one  ; 
their  interest  in  large  subjects  never 
keen  or  sustained  :  and  a  dispro- 
portionate memory  is  a  property  un- 
manageable in  weak  and  indiscreet 
hands ;  it  imprisons  the  mind 
•within  its  own  range  and  lends 
itself  to  display.  People  so  gifted, 
in  sober  truth,  require  an  excess 
of  modesty,  sympathy,  and  discre- 
tion, to  keep  the  gift  from  being 
obtrusive  and  troublesome.  To 
employ  the  memory  in  tours  de 
force,  which  is  the  very  natural  and 
indeed  excusable  temptation,  often 
defeats  its  object ;  impressing  the 
hearer  rather  with  the  exhibitor's 
vanity  or  want  of  judgment  than 
with  the  wonder  or  splendour  of 
the  display.  Society  would  not  be 
the  better  for  a  large  accession  of 
memories  of  the  class  of  Mrs  Tibbs 
in  the  "Citizen  of  the  World." 
Our  readers  will  recall  the  scene  at 
Vauxhall,  where  the  city  widow 
on  her  good  behaviour,  and  unwill- 
ing to  forfeit  all  pretensions  to 
politeness,  has  to  sit  and  listen 
to  that  lady's  song  of  portentous 
length,  of  which  she  would  not 
spare  her  party  a  single  verse : 
"  Mrs  Tibbs  therefore  kept  on  sing- 
ing, and  we  continued  to  listen  ;  till 
at  last,  when  the  song  was  just  con- 
cluded, the  waiter  came  to  inform 
us  that  the  water-works  (which 
the  widow  had  gone  to  see)  were 
over !" 

A  good  memory  of  the  social 
order,  stimulated  by  companionship 
and  conversation,  is  indeed  a  de- 
lightful faculty  when  it  is  sup- 
ported by  wit  and  observation ; 
but  the  people  who  long  for  it 
might  not  be  equal  to  the  charge 
of  such  an  engine,  and  indeed  per- 
sons largely  gifted  this  way  some- 
times make  us  realise  that  there  are 
things  it  is  good  to  forget.  They 
are  apt  to  run  off  into  surplus- 
age of  detail  and  the  like.  Their 


memory  rather  obeys  some  inner 
law  than  is  guided  by  sympathy 
with  the  general  mind.  People 
with  exact  memories  of  scenes  in 
which  they  have  played  a  part,  do 
not  always  consider  how  far  this 
minuteness  and  exactness  are  worth 
the  hearer's  attention,  or  are  likely 
to  suit  his  turn  of  mind.  A  strong 
hold  of  self,  an  intense  sense  of  the 
Ego,  is  almost  a  necessary  accom- 
paniment of  great  memories  that 
show  themselves  in  social  inter- 
course. Whatever  touches  this, 
whether  through  pain  or  pleasure, 
makes  an  impression  beyond  the 
ordinary  measure.  A  man's  self 
may  be  said  to  be  all  he  has,  and 
every  man  has  this  ;  but  the  differ- 
ence is  surprising  between  one  man 
and  another  in  the  hold  and  real- 
ising of  this  possession.  It  is  an 
intellectual,  not  a  moral  difference. 
It  is  strength.  But  it  occasionally 
puts  the  man  of  strong  memory 
a  little  out  of  step  with  his  au- 
ditors. He  finds  himself  listened 
to  with  interest  while  his  memory 
runs  in  the  groove  of  his  hearers' 
tastes  and  likings  ;  while  it  supple- 
ments theirs ;  while  he  reveals  stores 
which  are  of  the  quality  they  can 
value  and  would  willingly  make 
their  own ;  while  he  is  the  channel 
of  communication  with  noted  per- 
sons and  eventful  doings  not  other- 
wise approachable; — and  he  does  not 
always  understand  the  grounds  of 
his  power  of  sustaining  the  atten- 
tion of  others,  and  reckons  on  tak- 
ing it  along  with  him  farther  than 
it  willingly  would  go  ; — into  occa- 
sions which  only  concern  his  private 
interests  and  merely  personal  mat- 
ters. We  hope  to  hear — what  his 
powers  allow  us  a  right  to  expect 
—  a  reproduction  of  some  vivid 
scene,  some  occasion  appealing  to 
the  general  sympathies,  some  touch 
of  human  nature  given  with  verbal 
truth  of  word  and  tone,  some  trait 
of  humour,  wit,  or  wisdom,  of  which 


426 


Memory. 


[Oct. 


liis  memory  is  the  sole  chronicler  ; 
or,  at  least,  to  be  enlightened, 
cleared  up,  set  right  on  some  point 
that  concerns  us.  Instead  of  this 
we  find  ourselves  involved  in  some 
dull  narrative,  some  incident,  some 
intricate  dispute,  either  out  of  the 
hearer's  line  of  interest  and  com- 
prehension, or  in  its  nature  trivial, 
and  the  proper  prey  of  oblivion. 
If  it' occupies  his  mind,  he  does  not 
always  see  why  it  should  not  charm 
other  ears,  and  hold  them  in  the 
willing  bondage  his  clear,  sustained, 
vivid  narrative  is  used  to  do  on  sub- 
jects not  more  interesting  or  impor- 
tant to  himself. 

Great  memories  in  all  but  great 
men  are,  it  may  be  observed,  apt  to 
be  infested  by  hobbies.  Mankind, 
as  such,  has  its  infatuations,  taken 
np  with  eagerness,  but  presently 
laid  down  again  out  of  mere  inca- 
pacity to  secure  the  attention  of 
others;  a  condition  necessary  to  the 
permanent  existence  of  hobbies, 
which  are  essentially  sociable  things. 
Even  while  they  are  in  full  force  iu 
unretentive  minds,  the  facilities  for 
escape  prevent  their  being  the  tax 
and  infliction  upon  others  which  a 
hobby  in  the  hands  of  a  powerful 
memory  and  practised  delivery  is 
felt  to  be; — a  memory  that  never 
loses  its  thread  or  relaxes  its  hold 
of  a  forced,  unwilling  attention. 
There  is  an  alliance  between  voice 
and  the  propensity  under  discus- 
sion. Either  the  social  memory 
cultivates  the  voice  to  sustained 
effort,  or  the  voice,  strong  and 
sounding,  stimulates  the  talking 
power.  It  may  be  some  benevolent 
scheme,  some  view,  some  discovery, 
some  grievance,  some  panacea,  some 
standing  quarrel,  some  political  or 
religious  theory  ;  but  whatever  it 
is,  it  is  unwelcome — the  speaker  is 
known  for  this  flaw.  "We  are  in  for 
a  repetition  of  what  we  have  heard 
before  without  interest ;  there  is  no 
freshness  of  handling.  He  is  excel- 


lent, delightful,  edifying — the  best 
company  —  the  past  is  quickened 
into  life  under  his  spell ;  what  he 
has  seen,  what  he  has  read,  is  still 
an  open  page  into  which  he  will  in- 
itiate you  and  hold  you  enthralled, 
if  you  can  only  keep  him  clear  of 
this  pitfall ;  but  he  drifts  into  it  by 
a  sort  of  fatality,  and  prefers  to  be 
a  bore.  An  inexorable  memory, 
incapable  of  letting  slip  the  min- 
utest point — a  memory  where  noth- 
ing fades  into  indistinctness — holds 
him  and  his  hearer  in  hopeless 
prolixity  of  detail. 

With  all  its  temptations,  social 
memory,  as  dependent  on  other 
gifts  for  its  success,  is  yet  the 
memory  that  confers  most  pleasure, 
whether  on  him  who  exercises  it,  or 
on  those  who  profit  by  it.  A  sort 
of  security  attaches  to  it ;  things 
seem  more  real  in  its  presence ;  the 
land  of  shadows  assumes  outline ; 
we  know  where  we  are ;  we  stand 
on  firmer  ground.  But  when  mem- 
ory is  discussed  in  ordinary  talk,  it 
is  more  commonly  tested  by  what 
are  called  its  feats.  A  good  talker 
is  never  at  his  best  when  his  mem- 
ory comes  in  for  much  commenda- 
tion. And  here  general  ability 
may  be  quite  dissociated  from  it. 
Memory  may  be  a  man's  sole  dis- 
tinguishing gift,  as  possibly  it  is  of 
that  native  scholar  commended  by 
Professor  Max  Muller,  who,  "al- 
most naked  and  squatting  in  his  tent, 
knows  the  whole  Samhita  and  Pada 
text  by  heart;"  and  those  Brah- 
mans  who,  the  same  authority  tells 
us,  can  repeat  the  whole  Eig  Yeda 
— twice  as  long  as  '  Paradise  Lost.' 
Or,  to  shift  our  ground,  of  a  certain 
William  Lyon,  a  strolling  player 
commemorated  in  the  magazines  of 
the  last  century,  who,  one  evening 
over  his  bottle,  wagered  a  crown 
bowl  of  punch — a  liquor  of  which 
he  was  very  fond — that  next  morn- 
ing at  the  rehearsal  he  would  repeat 
a  Daily  Advertiser  from  beginning 


1880.] 


Memory. 


427 


to  end.  "At  tins  rehearsal  his  op- 
ponent reminded  him  of  his  wager, 
imagining,  as  he  was  drunk  the 
night  before,  that  he  must  certainly 
have  forgot  it ;  and  rallied  him  on 
his  ridiculous  bragging  of  his  mem- 
ory. Lyon  pulled  out  the  paper, 
and  desired  him  to  look  at  it  and 
be  judge  himself  whether  he  did  or 
did  not  win  his  wager.  Notwith- 
standing the  want  of  connection 
between  the  paragraphs,  the  variety 
of  advertisements,  and  the  general 
chaos  that  goes  to  the  composition 
of  any  newspaper,  he  repeated  it 
from  beginning  to  end  without  the 
least  hesitation  or  mistake."  "I 
know"  (continues  the  narrator)  "this 
to  be  true,  and  believe  the  parallel 
cannot  be  produced  in  any  age  or 
nation."  This,  no  doubt,  is  going 
too  far ;  but  it  is  a  feat  which  may 
take  its  place  amongst  the  achieve- 
ments of  Brahmans  and  rhapso- 
dists ;  though  we  would  not  put 
it  on  an  equality  with  Mr  Brand- 
ram's  wonderful  faculty.  Of  the 
quality  of  that  memory  which,  in 
the  case  of  George  Bidder,  who  at 
ten  years  old  could  add  two  rows 
of  twelve  figures,  give  the  answers 
immediately,  and  an  hour  after 
retain  the  two  rows  in  his  mem- 
ory, it  is  not  within  our  scope  to 
pronounce. 

But  feats  of  this  sort  also  adorn 
the  memory  of  men,  on  whom  they 
hang  as  mere  ornaments,  accidental 
graces,  adding  little  to  their  pres- 
tige. Biographies  of  a  past  date 
delight  in  eccentric  exercises  of  the 
faculty.  Thus  of  Fuller  we  are 
told, — "That  he  could  write  ver- 
batim another  man's  sermon  after 
hearing  it  once,  and  that  he  could 
do  the  same  with  as  many  as  five 
hundred  words  in  an  unknown 
language  after  hearing  them  twice. 
One  day  he  undertook  to  walk  from 
Temple  Bar  to  the  furthest  end  of 
Cheapside  and  to  repeat,  on  his 
return,  every  sign  on  either  side 


of  the  way,  in  the  order  of  their 
occurrence,  a  feat  which  he  easily 
accomplished."  And  what  has  late- 
ly been  reported  of  the  Eev.  Or- 
lando Hyham,  as  an  example  of 
his  most  distinctive  faculty,  "  that 
his  memory  was  such  that  as  he 
read  Liddell  and  Scott's  Greek 
Dictionary  he  destroyed  the  succes- 
sive pages,  content  with  having 
mastered  their  contents,"  is  told  of 
Bishop  Bull,  at  the  end  of  a  mas- 
terly array  of  intellectual  powers  : 
"  And  as  his  reading  was  great, 
so  his  memory  was  equally  reten- 
tive. He  never  kept  any  book  of 
references  of  commonplaces,  neither 
did  he  ever  need  any;"  the  writer 
adding  that,  "together  with  this 
happy  faculty  he  was  blessed  with 
another  that  seldom  accompanied 
it  in  the  same  person,  and  that  was 
an  accurate  and  sound  judgment." 
Memory  was  in  a  past  day  more  sys- 
tematically cultivated  than  with  us. 
People  set  themselves  tasks.  Thus 
Thomas  Cromwell  of  the  Reforma- 
tion period,  as  a  travelling  task, 
committed  to  memory  the  whole  of 
Erasmus's  Paraphrase  on  the  New 
Testament.  Bishop  Sanderson  could 
repeat  all  the  Odes  of  Horace,  all 
Tully's  Offices,  and  much  of  Ju- 
venal and  Persius  without  book. 
Bacon  alludes  to  receipts  for  its  im- 
provement, as  well  as  what  herbs,  in 
the  popular  mind,  tend  to  strength- 
en imperfect  memory,  as  onions,  or 
beans,  or  such  vaporous  food.  Again, 
he  writes,  "  we  find  in  the  art  of 
memory  that  images  visible  work 
better  than  conceits "  in  impress- 
ing things  on  the  mind.  A  fact 
which  finds  modern  illustration  in 
the  case  of  the  Fifth  Avenue  Hotel 
waiter,  who  daily  receives  some  five 
hundred  hats  from  chance  persons 
dining  together  in  one  room,  and 
without  any  system  of  arrangement 
promply  returns  each  hat  to  its 
owner,  explaining  that  he  forms  a 
mental  picture  of  the  wearer's  face 


423 


Memory. 


[Oct. 


inside  his  hat,  and  that  on  looking 
into  the  hat,  its  owner  is  instantly 
brought  before  him.  Again,  to  recur 
to  Bacon's  speculations,  he  finds  that 
"  hasty  speech  confounds  memory." 
Again — as  writing  makes  an  exact 
man,  so — "  if  a  man  writes  little  he 
had  need  of  a  great  memory."  And 
he  criticises  the  exercises  used  in 
the  universities  as  making  too  great 
a  divorce  between  invention  and 
memory,  in  their  cultivation  of  both 
faculties. 

Progress  would  seem  to  discour- 
age the  feats  of  memory  that  once 
gave  such  simple  ingenuous  self- 
forgetting  pleasure  in  social  circles. 
People  are  more  impatient  for  their 
turn ;  the  attitude  of  admiration  is 
less  congenial  to  modern  society 
than  in  the  days  we  read  of ;  hence 
there  is  less  encouragement  for  peo- 
ple to  cultivate  this  gift  as  a  so- 
cial accomplishment.  Those  were 
the  days  when  men  listened  to 
quotations,  —  delighted  with  their 
aptitude  to  the  occasion, — content 
even  though  they  could  not  cap 
them  with  something  equally  well 
fitting.  Of  Burton,  the  author 
of  the  '  Anatomy  of  Melancholy,' 
Wood  writes  :  "  I  have  heard  some 
of  the  ancients  of  Christ  Church 
often  say  that  his  company  was 
very  merry,  facete,  and  juvenile  ; 
and  no  man  in  his  time  did  sur- 
pass him  for  ready  and  dexterous 
interlarding  his  common  discourses 
among  them  with  verses  from  the 
poets  or  sentences  from  classic 
authors — which  being  then  all  the 
fashion  in  the  university,  made 
his  company  the  more  acceptable." 
In  our  day  we  prefer  the  habit 
of  quotation,  if  a  strong  and  per- 
tinacious one,  as  interlarding  ima- 
ginary discour.-e.  Even  Dick 
Swiveller,  incomparable  in  re- 
source, and  master  of  the  art  of 
linking  the  poet's  thought  with 
the  homely  needs  of  daily  life, 
might  sometimes  weary  mankind's 


growing  impatience  in  actual  inter- 
course, however  refreshing  and  sug- 
gestive in  the  page  are  these  indi- 
cations of  an  inexhaustible  memory, 
— as,  for  example,  in  that  interview 
with  the  mysterious  lodger  who 
obstinately  withholds  his  name  : — 

"  '  I  beg  your  pardon,'  said  Dick, 
halting  in  his  passage  to  the  door, 
which  the  lodger  prepared  to  open. 
'When  he  who  adores  thee  has  left 
but  the  name — ' 

"  <  What  do  you  mean  1 ' 

'" — But  the  name,'  said  Dick — '  has 
left  but  the  name — in  case  of  letters  or 
parcels.' 

" '  I  never  have  any,'  returned  the 
lodger. 

"  '  Or  in  case  anybody  should  call.' 

"  '  Nobody  ever  calls  on  me.' 

" '  If  any  mistake  should  arise  from 
not  having  the  name,  don't  say  it  was 
my  fault,  sir,'  added  Dick,  still  linger- 
ing.— '  Oh,  blame  not  the  bard !'  " 

A  summary  ejectment  stops  a  flow 
which  nothing  else  would  have 
brought  to  an  end.  Perhaps  it  is 
because  the  effusions  of  our  own 
poets  offer  more  difficulties  to  the 
memory  than  Moore's  flowing  lines, 
but  we  do  not  imagine  that  the 
verse-loving  youth  of  the  present 
day  are  charged  with  the  same 
amount  of  quotable  verse  as  when 
Dickens  wrote  his  early  works.  It 
should  be  a  regret  to  Mr  Brown- 
ing that  the  human  memory  is  in- 
capable of  retaining  even  specimens 
of  the  vast  .mass  of  his  poetry,  so 
to  call  it.  The  poems  of  his  (for 
we  grant  some  very  few  noted  ex- 
ceptions to  our  ruk)  that  can  be 
learned,  that  can  live  as  music  does 
in  the  mind,  are  as  the  halfpenny- 
worth of  bread  to  the  huge  bulk 
of  what  cannot  be  assimilated  by 
memory,  of  verse  which  relies  solely 
on  the  printed  page,  solely  on  the 
eye  of  the  reader,  for  its  prolonged 
existence. 

No  memory  has  had  finer  things 
said  of  it  than  Lord  Bolingbroke's. 
Spence  quotes  Pope  on  it : — 


1880.] 


Memory. 


429 


"  There  is  one  thing  in  Lord  Boling- 
broke  which  seems  peculiar  to  himself. 
He  has  so  great  a  memory,  as  well  as 
judgment,  that  if  he  is  alone,  and 
without  books,  he  can  sit  down  by 
himself  and  refer  to  the  books,  or 
such  a  particular  subject  in  them,  in 
his  own  mind,  and  write  as  fully  on 
it  as  another  man  would  with  all  his 
books  about  him.  He  sits  like  an 
Intelligence,  and  recollects  all  the 
questions  within  himself." 

And  in  one  of  the  records  of  the 
time  we  find  a  letter  dwelling  on 
the  same  faculty  : — 

"Whatever  he  read  he  retained  in 
a  very  singular  manner,  for  he  made 
it  entirely  his  own ;  and  whether  he 
was  to  speak  or  to  write  on  any  sub- 
ject, all  he  had  ever  read  in  his 
.  favourite  authors  occurred  to  him 
just  as  he  read  it,  so  that  he  de- 
livered this  in  conversation,  or  threw 
it  upon  paper,  as  if  he  had  the  book 
in  his  hand, — a  circumstance  that  it 
imports  you  to  know,  for  otherwise 
you  will  take  for  studied  affectation 
what  was  to  him,  and  perhaps  only  to 
him,  perfectly  natural.  In  the  earlier 
part  of  his  life  he  did  not  read  much, 
or  at  least  many  books,  for  which  he 
sometimes  gave  the  same  reason  that 
Menage  did  for  not  reading  Moreri's 
Dictionary,  that  he  was  unwilling  to 
fill  his  head  with  what  did  not  deserve 
a  place  there,  since,  when  it  was  once 
in,  he  knew  not  how  to  get  it  out 
again." 

This  fear  is  surely  unique — that 
is,  of  books  as  a  whole,  though  every 
memory  is  more  retentive  than  its 
owner  cares  for  in  particular  cases. 
We  find  in  all  the  social  records  of 
this  period  great  mention  made  of 
the  faculty,  with  warnings  against 
the  habits  that  spoil  it,  such  as 
"  large  commonplacing,"  which 
teaches  one  to  forget,  and  spoils  one 
for  conversation,  or  even  for  writ- 
ing. Pope's  memory  is  a  subject 
with  himself  and  others.  It  was 
good  in  its  way  ;  he  could  use  it  for 
books  and  reference;  but  his  nerves 
— those  disorganisers  of  the  mind's 
system  and  order — stood  in  its  way 


in  general  intercourse.  He  never 
could  speak  in  public  : — 

"  I  don't  believe,"  he  said,  "  that  if 
it  was  a  set  thing,  I  could  give  an 
account  of  any  story  to  twelve  friends 
together,  though  I  could  tell  it  to  any 
three  of  them  with  a  great  deal  of 
pleasure.  When  I  was  to  appear  for 
the  Bishop  of  Rochester  in  his  trial, 
though  I  had  but  ten  words  to  say, 
and  that  on  a  plain  point  (how  the 
Bishop  spent  his  time  while  I  was 
with  him  at  Bromley),  I  made  two  or 
three  blunders  in  it,  and  that  notwith- 
standing the  first  row  of  lords — which 
was  all  I  could  see — were  mostly  of 
my  acquaintance." 

It  need  not  surprise  us,  therefore, 
to  find  that  he  does  not  give  a  high 
place  to  the  facultjr,  and  quenches 
its  pretensions  in  a  neat  simile : — 

"  In  the  soul  where  memory  prevails, 
The  solid  force  of  understanding  fails  ; 
Where  beams  of  warm  imagination  play, 
The  memory's  soft  figures  fade  away."  * 

He  had  had  unpleasant  experience 
of  Wycherley's  eccentric  memory, 
who,  whether  owing  to  disposition 
or  a  fever  in  his  youth,  did  not  re- 
member a  kindness  done  him  from 
minute  to  minute. 

"  He  had  the  same  single  thoughts, 
which  were  very  good,  come  into  his 
head  again  that  he  had  used  twenty 
years  before,  his  memory  not  being 
able  to  carry  above  a  sentence  at  a 
time.  These  single  sentences  were 
good,  but  without  connection,  and 
only  fit  to  be  flung  into  maxims.  He 
would  read  himself  asleep  in  Mon- 
taigne, Rochefoucault,  or  Seneca,  and 
the  next  day  embody  these  thoughts 
in  verse,  and  believe  them  his  own, 
not  knowing  that  he  was  obliged  to 
any  one  of  them  for  a  single  thought 
in  the  whole  poem." 

Good — i.e.,  tenacious — memories, 
we  may  observe,  sometimes  serve 
their  owner  the  same  trick.  They 
cannot  always  distinguish  foreign 
ideas,  which  have  got  a  fixed  place 
in  their  minds,  from  native  pro- 
duce. A  notable  instance  of  this 


430 


Memory. 


[Oct. 


fact  is  the  unconscious  repetition  by 
Shelley,  in  some  verses  in  his  prose 
romance  of  St  Irvyne,  of  whole  lines 
of  Byron's  '  Dark  Lachin-y-gair. ' 

Neither  Bolingbroke,  nor  any  of 
the  unlettered  examples  whose  mem- 
ories were  the  more  powerful,  he- 
cause, — like  the  Hermit  of  Prague, 
who  never  saw  pen  and  ink, — they 
had  nothing  else  to  trust  to,  can  he 
set  above  Lord  Macaulay  in  this 
question  of  memory.  It  was  a  mem- 
ory of  stupendous  feats,  and  also  an 
intelligent  instrument  and  servant. 
He  could  not  only  remember  what 
was  useful,  what  he  wanted  to 
remember,  but  what  was  utterly 
worthless;  what  entered  his  mind 
by  accident ;  what  was  read  by  the 
eyes  only,  scarcely  entering  into 
the  mind.  If,  on  one  occasion,  he 
repeated  to  himself  the  whole  of 
'  Paradise  Lost '  while  crossing  the 
Irish  Channel,  on  another,  waiting 
in  a  Cambridge  coffee-house  for  a 
post-chaise,  he  picked  up  a  country 
newspaper  containing  two  poetical 
pieces  —  one  "  Eeflections  of  an 
Exile,"  and  the  other  "A  Parody 
on  a  Welsh  Ballad  " — looked  them 
once  through,  never  gave  them  a 
further  thought  for  forty  years,  and 
then  repeated  them  without  the 
change  of  a  single  word.  The  read- 
ers of  his  Life  will  remember  that 
his  memory  retained  pages  of  trashy 
novels  read  once  in  his  youth.  In 
fact,  in  a  way  of  speaking,  he  forgot 
nothing.  As  has  been  well  said, 
"  his  mind,  like  a  dredging-net  at 
the  bottom  of  the  sea,  took  up  all 
that  it  encountered,  both  bad  and 
good,  nor  ever  seemed  to  feel  the 
burden," — in  this  differing  from  Bol- 
ingbroke. We  have  spoken  of  dis- 
proportionate memories.  His  we 
cannot  but  think  a  case  in  point. 
He  would  have  been  a  fairer  his- 
torian if  he  could  have  forgotten 
some  things — if  his  early  impres- 


sions had  so  faded  that  they  could 
have  given  place  to,  or  at  least 
been  modified  by,  new  ones.  In 
their  vivid  strength  they  stood  in 
the  way  of  judgment.  To  quote 
again  from  the  same  source  : — 

"  There  have  been  other  men,  of  our 
own  generation,  though  very  few,  who, 
if  they  have  not  equalled,  have  ap- 
proached Macaulay  in  power  of  mem- 
ory, and  who  have  certainly  exceeded 
him  in  the  unfailing  accuracy  of  their 
recollections.  And  yet  not  in  accuracy 
as  to  dates,  or  names,  or  quotations,  or 
other  matters  of  hard  fact,  when  the 
question  was  simply  between  ay  and 
no.  In  these  he  may  have  been  with- 
out a  rival.  In  a  list  of  kings  or  popes, 
or  Senior  Wranglers,  or  Prime  Minis- 
ters, or  battles,  or  palaces,  or  as  to  the 
houses  in  Pall  Mall,  or  about  Leicester 
Square  he  might  be  followed  with  im- 
plicit confidence.  But  a  large  and 
important  class  of  human  recollec- 
tions are  not  of  this  order  ;  recol- 
lections, for  example,  of  characters, 
of  feelings,  of  opinions — of  the  in- 
trinsic nature,  details,  and  bearings  of 
occurrences.  And  here  it  was  that 
Macaulay's  wealth  '  was  unto  him  an 
occasion  of  falling  ;'  and  that  in  two 
ways.  First,  the  possessor  of  such  a 
vehicle  as  his  memory  could  not  but 
have  something  of  an  overweening 
confidence  in  what  it  told  him.  .  .  . 
He  could  hardly  enjoy  the  bene- 
fit of  that  caution  which  arises  from 
self-interest  and  the  sad  experi- 
ence of  frequent  falls.  But  what  is 
more,  the  possessor  of  so  powerful  a 
fancy  could  not  but  illuminate  with 
the  colours  it  supplied  the  matters 
which  he  gathered  into  his  great 
magazine,  wherever  the  definiteness 
of  their  outline  was  not  so  rigid  as  to 
defy  or  disarm  the  action  of  the  in- 
truding or  falsifying  faculty.  Imagi- 
nation could  not  alter  the  date  of  the 
battle  of  Marathon,  of  the  Council  of 
Nice,  or  the  crowning  of  Pepin  ;  but 
it  might  seriously,  or  even  fundament- 
ally, disturb  the  balance  of  light  and 
dark  in  his  account  of  the  opinions  of 
Milton  or  of  Laud,  or  his  estimate  of 
the  effects  of  the  Protectorate  or  the 
Restoration."* 


*  Gladstone's  Gleanings,  vol.  ii. 


1880.] 


Memory. 


431 


"Wonders  are  told  of  Lord 
Brougham's  memory  for  trifles  as 
well  as  for  important  things :  in 
his  case  certainty  dissociated  from 
judgment  as  a  pervading  influence. 
George  Ticknor,  calling  upon  him 
in  1838,  after  saying  what  a  dis- 
agreeable disposition  he  found  in 
him  when  he  spoke  of  Jeffrey  and 
Empson,  adds : — 

"What  struck  me  most,  however, 
was  his  marvellous  memory.  He  re- 
membered where  I  lodged  in  London 
in  1819,  on  what  occasions  he  came  to 
see  me,  and  some  circumstances  about 
my  attendance  in  the  Committee  of 
the  House  of  Commons  on  Education, 
which  I  had  myself  forgotten  till  he 
recalled  them  to  me.  Such  a  memory 
for  such  mere  trifles  seems  almost  in- 
credible. But  Niebuhr  had  it  ;  so 
had  Scott,  and  so  had  Humboldt — 
four  examples  which  are  remarkable 
enough.  I  doubt  not  that  much  of 
the  success  of  each  depended  on  this 
extraordinary  memory,  which  holds 
everything  in  its  grasp." 

Sir  James  Mackintosh's  memory 
was  one  of  the  same  gigantic  order, 
and  no  douht  served  him  well. 
The  more  that,  of  him  it  was  said, 
he  so  managed  his  vast  and  prodi- 
gious memory,  as  to  make  it  a 
source  of  pleasure  and  instruction 
rather  than  that  dreadful  engine  of 
colloquial  oppression  into  which 
it  is  sometimes  erected.  This  allu- 
sion serves  to  prove  that  prodigious 
memories  afford  others  more  won- 
der than  delight,  as  generally  ap- 
plied, whether  in  exhibiting  their 
power  by  ill-timed  display,  or  by 
giving  the  impression  of  a  more 
complete  knowledge  of  what  con- 
cerns ourselves  than  suits  with 
human  reserve ;  for  it  would  not 
be  comfortable  to  live  with  a  per- 
son who  never  forgets  our  own 
small  sayings  and  doings.  Indeed 
it  is  sometimes  very  disagreeable 
to  be  reminded  of  things  about 
ourselves  that  we  have  forgotten 
or  would  willingly  dispute,  but 


that  the  remembrancer  is  held  in- 
fallible. For  social  purposes,  the 
memory  that  has  its  specialities  is 
a  more  congenial  element — it  puts 
us  more  on  an  equality — a  memory 
that  while  it  even  boasts  its  powers 
makes  confession  of  failures.  Thus 
Horace  Walpole  mingles  the  two 
conditions  of  feeling  in  speaking 
of  his  especial  turn.  "  In  figures  I 
am  the  dullest  dunce  alive.  I  have 
often  said  of  myself,  and  it  is  true, 
that  nothing  that  has  not  a  proper 
name  of  a  man  or  a  woman  to  it 
affixes  any  idea  upon  my  mind. 
I  could  remember  who  was  King 
Ethelbald's  great  aunt,  and  not  be 
sure  whether  she  lived  in  the  year 
500  or  1500." 

We  have  spoken  of  the  unsympa- 
thetic memory:  but  there  is  a  mem- 
ory, the  growth  and  result  of  sym- 
pathy; the  memory  of  the  listener  too 
actively  and  unselfishly  interested 
to  lose  the  first  impression  received 
by  a  disengaged  attention.  There 
are  memories  charged  with  innu- 
merable confidences;  for  who  has 
not  at  one  time  or  another  occa- 
sion for  a  confidant  at  once  secret 
and  sympathetic,  of  whom  the 
confider  can  feel  sure  when  he  re- 
sumes his  revelations  that  no  re- 
minders are  necessary — that  what 
has  gone  before,  the  story  as  he  told 
it,  lives  clear  and  distinct  1  Again, 
there  is  the  memory  of  the  affec- 
tions, confining  itself  to  the  ties  of 
consanguinity,  of  family,  and  do- 
mestic life ;  where  alike  live  what 
are  called  memorable  scenes  in  all 
their  circumstances,  minute  de- 
tails— the  sayings  of  childhood,  the 
small  joys  and  sorrows,  the  gaieties, 
the  engagements,  the  changes,  dates, 
times,  seasons,  birthdays,  journeys, 
visitings,  successes,  crosses,  of 
those  who  constitute,  or  have  ever 
constituted,  home.  These,  on  the 
whole,  are  comfortable  memories, 
kindly  referees,  who  know  how  to 
keep  unwelcome  recollections  to 


432 


Memory. 


[Oct. 


themselves — who  rouse  no  ghosts 
by  unseasonable  revelations.  Akin 
with  this  is  the  memory  that  con- 
nects long  periods  of  time,  belong- 
ing to  a  vigorous  organisation,  to  a 
receptive  childhood,  early  open  to 
the  stimulus  of  exciting  events  pass- 
ing around  it.  Sir  Walter  Scott's 
mother,  who  died  December  1819, 
had  such  a  one.  Of  whom,  he 
writes,  "she  connected  a  long  period 
of  time  with  the  present  genera- 
tion, for  she  remembered,  and  had 
often  spoken  with,  a  person  who 
perfectly  remembered  the  battle  of 
D  unbar,  and  Oliver  Cromwell's 
subsequent  entry  into  Edinburgh." 
There  is  the  memory  for  what 
meets  the  eye,  and  strictly  confined 
as  a  speciality  to  some  taste  or 
pursuit.  Some  people  can  retain 
the  details  of  scenery,  the  outlines 
of  mountains,  the  exact  place  of 
a  particular  passage  on  the  page 
of  a  book,  &c.,  with  an  accuracy 
that  refuses  to  be  puzzled  or  mis- 
led. What  they  have  once  seen 
they  see  still,  in  all  its  changing 
aspects,  while  the  faces  of  their 
friends  and  acquaintances  refuse  to 
be  conjured  up  in  absence.  There 
is  the  memory  connected  with  self- 
glorification  that  should  be  checked 
by  its  owner — for  memory  may 
cultivate  certain  habits  of  mind  as 
it  may  be  cultivated  by  them  ;  the 
memory  that  preserves  polite  no- 
meaning  speeches  and  fine  compli- 
ments, and  by  mere  repetition  gives 
them  a  point  and  value.  There  is 
the  memory  that  plays  its  owner 
false,  that  remembers  and  forgets  at 
the  same  time — a  memory  familiar 
to  us  all  by  example,  and  even  per- 
haps by  some  nearer  touch  of  it — of 
which,  not  to  wound  living  suscep- 
tibilities we  will  borrow  our  illus- 
tration from  an  essayist  of  the  last 
century  discussing  the  same  habit. 
He  in  his  turn  goes  back  to  a 
previous  age,  recording  an  "  ob- 


servation made  by  that  celebrated 
reprobate,  the  Earl  of  Rochester,  on 
Charles  II. ,"  who  lives,  in  the  gen- 
eral notion  at  least,  as  a  wit  and 
good  company : — 

"  That  monarch  had  a  custom  of 
telling  every  day  in  the  circle  a  thou- 
sand trifling  occurrences  of  his  youth, 
and  would  constantly  repeat  them  over 
and  over  again,  without  the  smallest 
variation,  so  that  such  of  his  courtiers 
as  were  acquainted  with  his  Majesty's 
foible  would  instantly  retreat  when- 
ever he  began  any  of  his  narrations. 
My  Lord  Rochester,  being"  with  him 
one  day,  took  the  liberty  of  being  very 
severe  upon  that  head.  '  Your  Ma- 
jesty,' says  he,  'has  undoubtedly  the 
best  memory  in  the  world.  I  have 
heard  you  repeat  the  same  story,  with- 
out the  variation  of  a  syllable,  every 
day  these  ten  years  ;  but  what  I  think 
extraordinary  'is,  that  you  never  recol- 
lect that  you  generally  tell  it  to  the 
same  set  of  auditors.'" 

This  memory  of  the  "  Merry 
Monarch  "  was  clearly  a  drawback 
to  the  mirth  of  his  company,  and 
set  his  courtiers  on  rueful  specu- 
lation. Lord  Halifax  says  of  it : 
"  A  very  great  memory  often  for- 
getteth  how  much  time  is  lost  by 
repeating  things  of  no  use.  It  was 
one  reason  of  his  talking  so  much  ; 
since  a  great  memory  will  always 
have  something  to  say,  and  will  be 
discharging  itself,  whether  in  or  out 
of  season,  if  a  good  judgment  doth 
not  go  along  with  it  and  make  it 
stop  and  turn.  Sometimes  he  would 
make  shrewd  applications,  at  others 
he  would  bring  things  out  that 
never  deserved  to  be  laid  in  it." 
Persons  beyond  the  reach  of  checks 
and  snubs  should  always  receive 
compliments  on  their  memory  with 
suspicion.  For  the  want  of  such 
rude  lessons,  the  memory  of  royal 
personages  has  played  them  strange 
tricks,  and  led  them  to  assert  as 
their  own,  with  persistent  repeti- 
tions and  in  good  faith,  the  feats 


1880.] 


Memory. 


433 


and   successes   of  their   victorious 
generals. 

There  is,  again,  the  verbal  memory 
— a  delightful  and  enviable  gift  in 
good  hands,  though  not  inconsistent 
with  the  misuse  of  it  in  the  manner 
just  recorded.  Some  persons  can 
recall  the  very  words  used  by  others, 
and  can  give  life  and  truth  to  any 
remembered  scene  by  a  faithful  re- 
production of  language  and  tone  ; 
while  others  are  so  totally  wanting 
in  the  power  of  repeating  words  in 
the  order  in  which  they  have  heard 
them,  though  believing  themselves 
fully  possessed  of  their  purport, 
that  they  are  incapable  of  the 
most  trifling  task.  A  story  bear- 
ing upon  this  infirmity  was  told  of 
Hogarth  :— 

"  With  Dr  Hoadley  (son  of  the  lati- 
tudinarian  bishop),  the  late  worthy 
chancellor  of  Winchester,  Mr  Hogarth 
was  always  on  terms  of  the  thickest 
friendship,  and  frequently  visited  him 
at  Winchester,  St  Cross,  and  Alresford. 
It  is  well  known  that  the  Doctor's 
fondness  for  theatrical  exhibitions  was 
so  great  that  no  visitors  were  ever  long 
at  his  house  before  they  were  solicited 
to  accept  a  part  in  some  interlude  or 
other.  He  himself,  with  Garrick  and 
Hogarth,  once  personated  a  laughable 
parody  on  the  scene  in  '  Julius  Caesar,' 
where  the  ghost  appears  to  Brutus. 
Hogarth  personated  the  spectre ;  but 
so  unretentive  was  his  memory,  that, 
although  his  speech  consisted  only  of 
two  lines,  he  was  unable  to  get  them 
by  heart.  At  last  they  hit  on  the 
following  expedient  in  his  favour  :  the 
verses  he  was  to  deliver  were  written 
in  such  large  letters  on  the  outside  of 
an  illuminated  paper  lanthom  that  he 
could  read  them  when  he  entered  with 
it  in  his  hand  on  the  stage." 

Is  there  any  connection  between 
this  inability  literally  to  follow  the 
course  of  another  man's  thought,  and 
the  painter's  declaration  "that  no 
other  man's  words  could  completely 
express  his  own  ideas  "  ?  ]STo  per- 
son successful  in  the  pursuit  he  has 


chosen  can  be  without  memory  good 
for  the  work  he  especially  needs  for 
it.  We  do  not  therefore  question 
Hogarth's  memory  for  art,  though 
he  could  not  commit  to  it  two 
successive  lines  of  verse.  People 
constantly  accuse  themselves  of  bad 
memories  who  are  less  deficient 
in  the  faculty  than  they  believe. 
There  are  two  ways  of  forgetting : 
there  is  the  clean  sweep  of  matter 
received  into  the  brain — a  process 
which,  when  it  takes  place,  follows 
very  early  after  its  reception;  and 
there  is  the  latent  unconscious  re- 
taining of  it  in  the  niind  where  it 
effects  some  functions  of  culture. 
One  must  hope  so  at  least,  or  where 
lies  the  difference  between  the  reader 
of  the  ordinary  type  and  the  man 
who  never  opens  a  book  1  This  is 
the  forgetfulness  Cowper  owns  to: 
"  What  I  read  to-day  I  forget  to- 
morrow. A  bystander  might  say 
this  is  rather  an  advantage,  the 
book  is  always  new;  but  I  beg  the 
bystander's  pardon.  I  can  recollect 
though  I  cannot  remember;  and 
with  the  book  in  my  hand  I  re- 
cognise those  passages  which,  with- 
out the  book,  I  should  never  have 
thought  of  more." 

In  truth,  forgetfulness  has  a  very 
important  part  to  play  in  placing 
men  in  their  proper  standing, 
whether  intellectually  or  morally, 
as  the  maxim  forget  and  forgive 
teaches  us.  Forgiveness  is  easy 
where  the  other  comes  first,  and 
submission  stands  in  the  same  re- 
lation— 

"For  we  are  more  forgetful  than  re- 
signed." 

And  those  whose  lives  lead  them 
into  contact — often  clashing,  diffi- 
cult contact — with  others,  feel  the 
same  benefit  from  a  capacity  for 
letting,  or  finding,  things  slip  out  of 
recollection.  Vexations,  disappoint- 
ments, provocations,  worries,  do 


434 


Memory. 


[Oct. 


not  accumulate.  Each  day  brings 
its  own;  but  what  yesterday  seemed 
a  serious  trial,  with  qualities  for 
sticking  and  making  itself  lastingly 
unpleasant,  through  a  benign  re- 
laxation of  the  memory  is  cleared 
off  like  a  cloud.  Pascal,  "  that  pro- 
digy of  parts,"  of  whom  it  was  said 
that  till  the  decay  of  his  health 
he  forgot  nothing  of  what  he  had 
done,  read,  or  thought,  in  any  part 
of  his  rational  age,  yet  derives  a 
valuable  lesson  from  an  occasional 
lapse,  not  unfamiliar  to  lesser  in- 
telligences :  "En  ecrivantma  pense'e 
elle  m'echappe  quelques  fois.  Mais 
cela  me  fait  souvenir  de  ma  faiblesse 
que  foublie  a  toute  heure;  ce  qui 
m'instruit  autant  que  ma  pense'e 
oubliee,  car  je  ne  tends  qu'a  con- 
noitre  mon  neant."  The  trial  of 
failure  in  the  matter  of  memory  is 
better  adapted  for  pious  meditation 
or  for  speculation,  pen  in  hand, 
than  for  conversation.  It  is  trouble- 
some enough  to  all  concerned  not 
to  remember  what  we  ought,  when 
the  occasion  demands  it ;  it  makes 
matters  worse  to  detain  the  com- 
pany with  regrets  and  ejaculations. 
Self-interest  ought  to  teach  a  man 
not  to  dwell  on  a  proper  name  that 
eludes  him.  For  when  it  comes  to 
forgetting  these  arbitrary  signs  the 
faculty  has  lost  some  of  its  edge. 
By  beating  the  brains  for  a  word 
that  will  not  come,  he  is  only  mak- 
ing the  world  acquainted  with  the 
deterioration. 

By  comparison  with  others,  -we 
may  talk  of  perfect  memories  ;  but 
in  truth  there  can  be  DO  really  re- 
tentive memory — none  that  does  not 
let  slip  infinitely  more  than  it  re- 
members. Men  would  be  something 
beside  men  if  they  did  not  forget. 
Indeed,  in  so  far  as  Bolingbroke 
approached  universality,  he  sug- 
gested this  idea ;  for  Pope  thought 
so  highly  of  him,  we  are  told,  that 
to  him  he  seemed  in  this  world  by 


mistake,  and  fancied  the  comet  then 
visible  had  come  to  take  him  home. 
Cardinal  j^ewman,  in  his  '  Grammar 
of  Assent,'  has  written  on  the  one- 
sidedness  of  the  best  memory  : — 

"  We  can,"  he  says,  "  form  an  ab- 
stract idea  of  memory,  and  call  it  one 
faculty  which  has  for  its  subject-matter 
all  past  facts  of  our  personal  experi- 
ence ;  but  this  is  really  only  an  illu- 
sion ;  for  there  is  no  such  gift  of  uni- 
versal memory.  Of  course  we  all 
remember  in  a  way,  as  we  reason,  in 
all  subject-matters;  but  I  am  speaking 
of  remembering  rightly  as  I  spoke  of 
reasoning  rightly.  In  real  fact,  mem- 
ory, as  a  talent,  is  not  one  indivisible 
faculty,  but  a  power  of  retaining  and 
recalling  the  past  in  this  or  that  de- 
partment of  our  experience,  not  in 
any  whatever.  Two  memories,  which 
are  both  specially  retentive,  may  also 
be  incommensurate.  Some  men  can 
recite  the  canto  of  a  poem,  or  good 
part  of  a  speech,  after  once  reading  it, 
but  have  no  head  for  dates.  Others 
have  great  capacity  for  the  vocabulary 
of  languages,  but  recollect  nothing  of 
the  small  occurrences  of  the  day  or 
year.  Others  never  forget  any  state- 
ment which  they  have  read,  and  can 
give  volume  and  page,  but  have  no 
memory  for  faces.  I  have  known 
those  who  could,  without  effort,  run 
through  the  succession  of  days  on 
which  Easter  fell  for  years  back  ;  or 
could  say  where  they  were,  or  what 
they  were  doing,  on  a  given  day  in  a 
a  given  year;  or  could  recollect  the 
Christian  names  of  friends  and  strang- 
ers ;  or  could  enumerate  in  exact  order 
the  names  on  all  the  shops  from  Hyde 
Park  Corner  to  the  Bank ;  or  had  so 
mastered  the  University  Calendar  as 
to  be  able  to  bear  an  examination  in 
the  academical  history  of  any  M.A. 
taken  at  random.  And  I  believe  in 
most  of  these  cases  the  talent,  in  its 
exceptional  character,  did  not  extend 
beyond  several  classes  of  subjects. 
There  are  a  hundred  memories  as 
there  are  a  hundred  virtues." 

As  we  have  said,  it  needs  quali- 
ties and  faculties  in  proportion  to 
make  a  vast  memory  a  desirable 
gift.  Nobody  can  hope  by  pains 


1880.] 


Memory. 


435 


and  cultivation  to  acquire  one,  and 
the  attempt  would  be  misspent  time. 
What  a  man  wants  for  himself  in 
memory  is  not  a  master-power  but 
a  servant :  the  memory  that  keeps 
his  past  of  learning  and  experience 
alive  in  him,  one  recognised  not 
as  itself  but  by  results.  In  society 
the  memory  that  gets  itself  talked 
about  often  wearies,  but  conversa- 
tion can  never  be  at  its  best  without 
the  play  of  memory  upon  it.  Every 
circle  should  have  some  member 
whose  age  leads  him  naturally,  or 
whose  temper  inclines  him  to  look 
back;  who  has  a  store  to  turn 
to  where  the  first  treasures  were 
laid  in  a  receptive  inquiring  child- 
hood. It  is  the  want  of  this  in- 
fusion of  a  past  which — all-engros- 
sed in  the  present — makes  the  talk 
of  the  young  among  themselves, 
however  bright  and  clever  they  may- 
be, of  so  thin  a  quality ;  its  liveli- 
ness so  evanescent — so  mere  a  flash 
of  youthful  spirits — so  flat  if  there 
is  an  attempt  to  revive  its  sallies. 
The  resources  of  memory  give  a 


form  to  vivacity  and  a  body  to  wit. 
The  cheerfulness  that  has  its  minor 
harmonies,  that  has  known  sorrows, 
and  through  a  native  spring  of  spirits 
surmounted  them,  has  more  intel- 
lectual satisfying  value  than  any 
mere  effervescence  of  natural  gaiety. 
It  is  Dr  Johnson's  view  that  sol- 
itary unsocial  spirits  amuse  them- 
selves with  schemes  of  the  future 
rather  than  with  reviews  of  the 
past,  which,  in  fact,  are  pleasanter 
to  talk  of  with  a  large  liberty  of 
expression  than  to  think  over  in 
every  detail.  But  these  are  rever- 
ies very  well  to  entertain  self  with, 
though  never  suggesting  themselves 
to  common-sense  as  a  topic  for  con- 
versation. Time,  however,  drives 
all  men  to  their  past  at  last, — the 
time  when  "  we  have  no  longer  any 
possibility  of  great  vicissitudes  in 
our  favour,  and  the  changes  which 
are  to  happen  will  come  too  late  for 
ouraccommodation," — thattime,the 
description  of  which  more  properly 
belongs  to  the  moralist  and  the 
preacher. 


436  TJie  Enchanted  Bridle.  [Oct, 


THE    ENCHANTED    BRIDLE. 
A   LEGENDARY   BALLAD. 

[THE  legend  upon  -which  this  ballad  is  founded  is  well  known  in  Ayr- 
shire. It  is  briefly  as  follows :  Sir  Fergus  of  Ardrossan,  otherwise 
known  as  the  "  deil  o'  Ardrossan,"  procured,  through  Satanic  agency,  a 
bridle  which  enabled  him  to  perform  wonderful  feats  on  horseback. 
Having  on  one  occasion  to  go  from  home,  he  charged  his  wife  not  to 
allow  their  son  to  use  the  enchanted  bridle;  this  injunction,  however, 
was  not  obeyed.  The  wayward  youth  mounted  his  father's  steed,  rode 
off,  and  was  afterwards  thrown  from  the  saddle  and  killed  on  the  spot. 
On  his  return,  Sir  Fergus  slew  his  wife  in  a  fit  of  rage,  and  subsequently 
retired  to  Arran,  where  he  passed  the  remainder  of  his  days  in  solitude.] 


"  Get  up,  get  up,  my  merrie  young  men, 
And  saddle  my  guid  bay  steed  ; 

For  I  maun  ride  to  St  Mirren's  Kirk, 
And  the  time  draws  on  wi'  speed." 

Then  up  and  spalc  his  bonnie  young  wife  : 
"What  for  suld  ye  gang  there? 

'Tia  past  the  hour  for  vesper  sang, 
'Tis  past  the  time  for  prayer." 

Then  up  and  spak  his  only  son : 

"  I  hear  the  sad  sea's  maen ; 
O  think  on  the  mirk  and  eerie  night, 

0  think  on  the  wind  and  rain. 

The  shore  is  wild,  the  glen  is  deep, 

The  moor  is  rough  and  hie; 
And  he  who  rides  on  sic  a  night 

Suld  hae  guid  companie." 

"Ye  speak  but  true,  my  bonnie  young  wife, 

The  time  o'  prayer  is  bye; 
Ye  speak  but  true,  my  only  son, 

The  wind  and  waves  are  high. 

The  shore  is  wild,  the  glen  is  deep, 

The  moor  is   cauld  and  wide ; 
But  I  hae  a  tryst  at  St  Mirren's  Kirk, 

And  I  trow  I  downa  bide." 

He  mounted  on  his  strang  bay  steed, 

Nor  dreamed  o'  rain  or  wind ; 
The  lanesome  whaup  cried  on  before, 

The  houlet  screamed  behind. 


1380.]  TJie  Enchanted  Bridle.  437 

"  Speed  on,  speed  on,  my  guid  bay  mare, 

Nor  heed  that  melodie ; 
Tis  but  the  sang  o'  the  lone  mermaid, 

As  she  sings  to  the  -wintry  sea. 

Haud  up,  haud  up,  my  bonnie  bay  steed, 

Till  ye  wun  to  bank  or  brae; 
For  the  wan  water  o'  Fail-lie  burn 

I  trow  has  tint  its  way." 

The  thunder  brattled  wi'  eerie  thud, 

As  he  rade  ower  the  moor  o'  Kame ; 
But  when  he  cam  to  the  Baidland  hill, 

The  lichtnin'  spell'd  his  name. 

"When  he  gaed  by  the  mountain  tarn, 

And  through  the  Biglee  moss, 
He  saw  a  lowe  on  St  Mirren's  Kirk, 

Abune  the  guid  stane  cross. 

And  when  he  cam  to  the  auld  kirkyaird, 

Wow  !  but  he  shook  wi'  dread  ; 
For  there  was  a  ring  o'  seven  witches 

A'  dancin'  abune  the  dead. 

There  were  twa  grim  hags  frae  Saltcoats  toon, 

And  twa  frae  the  Kirk  o'  Shotts, 
And  twa  cam  ower  frae  the  Brig  o'  Turk, 

And  ane  frae  John  o'  Groats. 

0  wha  was  he  in  that  hellish  ring 

Wi'  buckles  abune  his  knee  ? 
He  was  clad  in  a  garb  o'  guid  braidclaith, — 

I'se  warrant  the  Deil  was  he ! 

And  aye  he  keckled,  and  aye  he  flang, 

As  the  hags  gaed  merrilie  round, 
Till  the  frightened  banes  i'  the  kirkyaird  mool 

Lap  up  through  the  quaking  ground. 

Then  by  cam  a  muckle  cormorant, 

And  it  jowed  the  auld  kirk  bell ; 
The  lowe  gaed  out,  the  witches  fled, 

And  the  Deil  stood  by  himsel'. 

The  wind  blew  up,  and  the  wind  blew  doon, 

Till  it  felTd  an  auld  ash-tree  ; 
And  the  Deil  cam  ower  to  the  kirkyaird  yett, 

And  he  bow'd  richt  courteouslie. 

VOL.  CXXVIII. — NO.  DCCLXXX.  2  O 


438  The  Enchanted  Bridle.  [Oct. 

"  0  cam  ye  here  to  be  purged  or  shriven, 

Or  cam  ye  here  to  pray1?" 
"01  cam  here  for  the  bonnie  bridle 

Ye  promised  me  yesterday. 

I  wad  ride  on  the  back  o'  the  nor'-east  wind ; 

I  wad  prance  through  driving  storm; 
And  I  wad  own  the  guid  bridle 

That  wad  keep  me  aye  frae  harm." 

"  Gin  I  gie  you  the  gift  ye  seek, 

0  what  will  you  gie  me? 
Gin  I  gie  you  the  bonnie  bridle, 

0  what  sal  be  my  fee?" 

"I  am  chief  o'  the  knights  o'  Cunninghame; 

1  am  laird  o'  the  green  Cumbray; 
And  I'll  gie  you  a  bonnie  white  doo 

When  ye  pass  by  that  way." 

He  is  aff  on  the  wings  o'  the  nor'-east  wind, 

Wi'  a  speed  that  nane  may  learn  ; 
He  has  struck  red  fire  frae  the  black  Kame  hill, 

And  flash' d  ower  the  Baidland  cairn. 

And  aye  he  shook  his  strange  bridle, 

And  aye  he  laughed  wi'  glee, 
As  his  wild  steed  danced  doon  the  mountain-side 

Uncheck'd  by  rock  or  tree. 

"  0  up  and  see  this  eerie  sicht ! " 

Cried  a  shepherd  in  Crosby  glen  ; 
But  as  he  spak  the  swift  bay  steed 

Had  pass'd  ayont  his  ken. 

"0  up  and  see  this  wild  horseman, 
And  his  horse  wi'  the  clankin'  shoon  ! " 

But  ere  the  eye  could  be  turned  to  look 
He  had  clanged  through  Ardrossan  toon. 

And  aye  he  rade,  and  aye  he  laughed, 

And  shook  his  bridle  grim ; 
For  there  wasna  a  rider  in  a'  the  laud, 

Could  ever  keep  sicht  o'  him. 


"  Get  up,  get  up,  my  merrie  young  men, 

Get  up  my  sailors  gay; 
For  I  wad  sail  in  my  bonnie  white  boat, 

To  the  shores  o'  fair  Cumbray." 


1880.]  The  Enchanted  Bridle.  439 

He  set  his  face  to  the  saut,  saut  sea, 

He  turned  his  back  to  land  ; 
And  he  sang  a  lilt  o'  a  guid  luve-lay, 

As  he  gaed  doon  the  strand. 

He  hadna  been  a  league  frae  shore, 

A  league  but  barely  three; 
"When  oot  and  spak  his  only  son  : 

"Send  my  guid  page  to  me. 

Now  saddle  me  fast  my  father's  steed, 

Put  his  new  bridle  on  : 
For  I  maun  ride  to  Portincross 

Before  the  licht  is  gone." 

Then  up  and  spak  his  young  mother : 

"  My  son,  that  maunna  be  ; 
The  rocks  are  high,  the  steed  is  wild, 

And  I  fear  the  gurly  sea. 

I  dream'd  a  dolefu'  dream  yestreen, 

And  grat  till  my  een  were  blin' ; 
0  if  ye  ride  that  wild  bay  steed, 

I  fear  ye'll  ne'er  come  in." 

"Come  cheer  ye  up,  my  mother  dear, 

Fause  dreams  ye  maunna  dree; 
What  gies  sic  joy  to  my  father's  heart, 

Will  no  bring  grief  to  me." 

Now  he  has  mounted  the  bonnie  bay  steed, 

And  he  has  seized  the  rein ; 
"  Cheer  up,  cheer  up,  my  sweet  mother, 

Till  I  come  back  again." 

The  first  mile  that  he  rade  alang, 

His  een  were  lit  wi'  glee ; 
The  second  mile  that  he  rade  alang, 

His  heart  beat  merrilie. 

The  third  mile  that  he  rade  alang, 

His  feet  danced  in  his  shoon ; 
And  ere  the  fourth  mile  he  had  rade 

His  brain  gaed  whirling  roon'. 

He  flang  the  reins  frae  oot  his  han' — 

The  steed  gaed  briskly  on, 
Ower  rock  and  fen,  ower  moor  and  glen, 

By  loch  and  mountain  lone. 


440  Tlie  Enchanted  Bridle.  [Oct. 

The  sun  blink'd  merrily  in  the  lift ; 

Pearls  glearn'd  on  ilka  tree  ; 
The  bonniest  hues  o'  rainbow  licht 

Were  flickerin'  on  the  sea. 

0  sweet  is  the  smile  o'  the  opening  rose, 
And  sweet  is  the  full-blawn  pea ; 

And  sweet,  sweet  to  the  youthfu'  sense, 
Were  the  ferlies  he  did  see. 

Fair  forms  skipped  merrily  by  his  side, — 

The  gauze  o'  goud  they  wore ; 
But  the  blythest  queen  o'  a'  the  train 

Danced  wantonly  on  before. 

"Come  here,  come  here,  my  bonnie  young  May, 

Sae  sweet  as  I  hear  ye  sing ; 
Come  here,  come  here,  my  ain  true  luve, 

And  I'll  gie  ye  a  pearlie  ring." 

He  urged  the  steed  wi'  his  prickly  heel, 

Till  the  red  blude  stained  her  side ; 
But  he  ne'er  could  reach  that  fause  young  May 

Sae  fast  as  he  might  ride. 

He  rade  and  rade  ower  the  wide  countrie, 

Till  mirth  gave  place  to  pain  ; 
The  sun  dropp'd  into  the  cauld,  cauld  sea, 

And  the  sky  grew  black  wi'  rain. 

"  Haud  in,  haud  in,  my  guid  bay  steed, 
Sae  fast  as  ye  seem  to  flee ; 

1  hear  the  voice  o'  my  dear  mother, 
As  she  greets  at  hame  for  me. 

0  halt  ye,  halt !   my  bonnie  bay  steed, 

There's  dule  by  the  sounding  shore ; 
Nae  pity  dwells  in  the  bleak,  bleak  waves, 

Sae  loud  as  I  hear  them  roar. 

0  help  me,  help  !   my  sweet  mother ; 

Come  father  and  succour  me  ! " 
But  the  only  voice  in  the  lone  mirk  nicht 

Was  the  roar  o'  the  grewsome  sea. 

He  has  lookit  east,  he  has  lookit  wast, 
He  has  peer'd  through  the  blinding  hail ; 

But  the  only  licht  on  the  wide  waters, 
Was  the  gleam  o'  his  father's  sail. 


1880.]  The  Enchanted  Bridle.  441 

He  has  lookit  north,  he  has  lookit  south, 

To  see  -where  help  might  be; 
But  the  wild  steed  leapt  ower  the  black  headland 

And  sank  in  the  ruthless  sea ! 


0  when  his  father  reached  the  shore, 

Sair  did  he  greet  and  maen, 
When  he  thought  on  the  fair  young  face 

He  ne'er  might  see  again. 

"Come  back,  come  back  my  bonnie  young  son, 

Come  back  and  speak  to  me ! " 
But  he  only  heard  thro'  the  grey,  grey  licht 

The  sough  o'  the  pitiless  sea. 

"  0  gie  me  a  kiss  o'  his  red,  red  lips, 

Or  a  lock  o'  his  gouden  hair ! " 
But  the  heartless  wind,  wi'  an  eldritch  soun', 

Aye  mocked  at  his  despair. 

O  cauld  was  the  bite  o'  the  plashing  rain, 
And  loud  was  the  tempest's  roar; 

And  deep  was  the  grief  o'  the  father's  heart 
As  he  stood  by  the  hopeless  shore. 

"  "Wae,  wae  on  my  tryst  at  St  Mirren's  Kiik, 

That  bargain  I  sairly  rue, 
When  I  took  ower  the  Deil's  bridle 

And  sold  my  bonnie  white  doo  ! " 


412 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. — Conclusion. 


[Oct. 


BUSH-LIFE    IN    QUEENSLAND.— CONCLUSION. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. — TRYING   THE   DIGGINGS. 


VARIED  as  has  been  the  life  and 
hazardous  the  adventures  through 
which  our  readers  have  accompan- 
ied John  West  in  his  experiences, 
we  have  now  to  introduce  them 
to  another  and  wilder  phase  in 
the  career  of  a  Queensland  settler. 
The  scene  is  changed  to  a  dark, 
little,  uninteresting  valley  far  into 
the  Bush,  through  which  runs  a 
chain  of  shallow  water-holes  and 
small  sandy  creeks.  On  a  little  flat 
are  pitched  a  few  tents,  and  the 
banks  of  the  creek  are  being  broken 
into  by  a  number  of  stalwart  dig- 
gers armed  with  picks  and  shovels. 
Here  and  there  are  seen  men  sitting 
at  the  edge  of  water-holes,  tin  dish 
in  hand,  swilling  the  wash -dirt 
round  and  round  to  allow  the 
golden  particles  from  their  weight 
to  sink  to  the  bottom,  and  thus  get 
separated  from  the  earthy  matter 
which  was  permitted  to  escape  over 
the  side  of  the  dish.  One  of  these 
is  already  known  to  the  reader,  and 
we  shall  now  introduce  the  other, 
and  explain  the  cause  of  their 
presence  on  this  scene. 

The  mixed  feelings  with  which 
John  West  had  ridden  away  from 
the  scene  of  his  meeting  with  Euth 
and  Fitzgerald  may  be  readily  ima- 
gined. He  had  at  last  met  with  his 
love,  after  long  years,  only  to  find 
her,  as  he  imagined,  the  destined 
bride  of  his  dearest  friend.  In- 
stinctively he  took  the  road  for 
Uugahrun,  but  he  felt  that  it  would 
no  longer  be  the  home  that  he  had 
looked  forward  to.  A  whirlwind 
of  various  emotions  swept  over  him, 
and  revealed  to  him  on  its  depar- 
ture that  peace  of  mind  was  only 
to  be  obtained  by  flight.  He  could 
not  stay ;  he  could  not  bear  to  look 


upon  Fitzgerald's  happiness  with- 
out a  more  confident  assurance 
that  he  could  keep  his  mind  free 
from  jealousy  and  ill-will.  As  he 
rode  along,  he  overtook  a  young 
man  on  horseback  driving  a  couple 
of  pack-horses  before  him  in  com- 
pany with  Blucher.  He  had  no 
wish  for  conversation,  and  calling 
to  the  latter,  was  about  to  pass  on 
with  a  quiet  "  Good-day,"  when 
Blucher  said,  "  This  one  white 
fellow  been  known  you  along  o' 
Inland,  Missa  Wess." 

John  looked  at  the  stranger,  but 
failed  to  recognise  him. 

"  It  is  so  long  ago,"  said  the 
traveller,  "  that  I  don't  wonder  at 
you  forgetting  me,  and,  indeed, 
but  for  your  blackboy  I  would' not 
have  known  you.  Don't  you  re- 
member Ned,  Mr  West,  the  boy  in 
Mr  Cosgrove's  service  in  England, 
whom  you  used  to  protect  from  that 
bully  Cane,  the  stable-lad1?  I've 
been  round  here,  sir,  to  ask  for 
you,  sir,  two  or  three  times  since 
I  came  to  Australia  about  five  years 
ago,  for  I  kept  thinking  of  you  and 
wishing  I  could  meet  you ;  but  you 
always  happened  to  be  absent  when 
I  passed." 

John  remembered  and  gladly  wel- 
comed his  old  friend,  whose  unex- 
pected arrival  afforded  a  great  relief 
from  his  own  dreary  thoughts.  He 
gladly  seized  the  opportunity  of 
camping  with  him  in  the  Bush  in 
order  that  he  might  hear  his  adven- 
tures. Ned's  story  was  soon  told. 
He  had  become  a  "  wandering  dig- 
ger," and  had  partaken  of  the  varied 
fortunes  that  attend  that  class  of 
gold-seekers,  and  was  now  on  his 
way  towards  a  hitherto  little  known 
region  where  a  "  new  rush "  was 


1880.] 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. — Conclusion. 


443 


situated.  John  had  heen  tempt- 
ed more  than  once  to  visit  a  gold- 
field  and  seek  his  fortunes  in  the 
bowels  of  the  earth,  but  had  hitherto 
refrained,  from  the  feeling  that  such 
a  life  once  begun  would  be  difficult 
to  relinquish.  But  at  present  he 
was  not  in  a  condition  to  reason. 
He  had  no  ties  to  keep  him  back. 
He  had  found  an  experienced  and 
faithful  work -fellow.  He  had  a 
little  money  for  their  immediate 
expenses.  He  would  try  digging. 
He  could  not  be  more  unsuccessful 
than  he  had  already  been.  The 
upshot  of  this  train  of  reflection 
was,  that  next  morning  he  an- 
nounced his  intention  of  accom- 
panying Xed;  and  thus  we  find  the 
two  actively  at  work  in  the  locality 
where  the  chapter  opens, — and  hard, 
uncompromising  work  it  was. 

The  banks  of  the  stream  had  to 
be  cut  away  with  solid,  heavy,  pick- 
and-shovel  labour,  until  the  wash- 
dirt,  lying  on  the  clayey  substratum 
containing  the  gold,  was  reached. 
This  had  to  be  carefully  bagged  up 
and  conveyed  to  the  water's  edge, 
after  which  it  had  to  be  washed — 
a  process  requiring  no  little  skill 
and  endurance  —  the  whole  day's 
work  very  often  not  producing 
enough  to  pay  for  rations. 

The  gold  was  found  by  the  new- 
comers to  be  very  patchy  and  un- 
evenly distributed;  so  much  so,  that 
the  men  working  in  the  claim  a  few 
feet  from  their  own  struck  a  rich 
little  patch,  from  which  they  quickly 
extracted  60  ounces  of  metal,  while 
they  slaved  away  hopefully,  but 
nevertheless  unsuccessfully. 

A  succession  of  weeks  of  unre- 
warded labour  decided  them  upon 
striking  their  camp  and  wooing 
fortune  on  fresh  ground.  Their 
intention  was  no  sooner  known  in 
the  little '  camp  than  the  deserted 
spot  occupied  by  their  canvas  habi- 
tation was  measured  off  and  appro- 
priated by  some  fresh  arrivals,  who 


at  once  commenced  to  sink  a  hole 
for  luck,  as  they  phrased  it,  on  the 
very  site  hitherto  used  by  them  as 
a  fireplace  and  where  they  had  sat 
together  night  after  night  discussing 
their  cheerless  prospects.  Away 
John  and  Ned  wandered  again, 
without  having  any  definite  place  of 
residence  in  view.  Sometimes  they 
tried  one  locality,  anon  another,  as 
fancy  led  them.  In  one  gully  success 
in  a  limited  degree  would  keep  them 
working  for  weeks,  in  the  hope  that, 
by  dint  of  persistent  work,  a  reward 
for  their  labour  would  ultimately 
await  them.  In  another  and  more 
likely-looking  spot,  utter  barrenness 
seemed  to  prevail. 

Among  the  population  with  whon; 
their  life  brought  them  in  contact 
were  many  strange  characters.  Men 
of  education  and  varied  experience 
could  be  seen  working  in  company 
with  ignorant,  prejudiced  navvies. 
Gentlemen's  sons,  nurtured  in  lux- 
ury, toiled  uncomplainingly,  and 
endured  the  most  adverse  fortune 
with  as  unyielding  a  spirit  as  the 
day-labourers  beside  them  who  had 
never  known  a  much  different  life. 
There  were  men  who  looked  to  dig- 
ging as  a  last  resource,  and  some  who 
only  occasionally  followed  it  when 
lured  by  glowing  reports  of  great 
finds  of  the  coveted  metal.  Others 
there  were  who  had  never  done  any- 
thing else.  Brought  up  as  miners 
from  their  youth,  and  having  lived 
all  their  lives  amid  the  excitement 
of  a  diggings,  they  were  perhaps  less 
under  its  influence  than  most  men. 
Having  been  constantly  their  own 
masters,  they  were  characterised  by 
a  kind  of  sensible,  manly  independ- 
ence, which  the  rag-tag  and  bobtail 
who  followed  in  their  rear  vainly 
strove  to  imitate.  On  the  whole, 
John  "West  found  them  to  represent 
the  most  respectable  class  of  manual 
labourers  in  the  colony.  They  were 
honest,  intelligent,  and  hard-work- 
ing, sober  as  a  rule,  firm  in  their 


444 


Busk-Life  in  Queensland. — Conclusion. 


[Oct. 


friendships,  and  hospitable  and  gen- 
erous to  all  in  want. 

A  stray  female  or  two  sometimes 
found  their  way  out  to  these  scenes 
— the  most  unsuitable,  surely,  of  all 
places  in  the  world  for  their  presence. 
They  were  generally  old  pioneers  of 
the  frontier  who  had  braved  the  dan- 
gers and  discomforts  of  many  an 
outside  field,  and  who  partook  more 
of  the  nature  of  the  masculine  than 
of  the  feminine.  They  appeared 
to  be  well  known  to  all  the  diggers, 
and  were  invariably  distinguished 
by  sobriquets  conferred  on  them 
apparently  by  common  consent,  in- 
stead of  their  own  proper  names, 
which  it  is  questionable  whether 
any  one  but  themselves  knew. 

The  society  in  which  our  hero 
found  himself  would  have  had  the 
effect  of  thoroughly  breaking  down 
his  spirits  had  he  allowed  himself 
time  for  reflection ;  but,  setting  to 
work  resolutely,  he  endeavoured  as 
much  as  possible  to  forget  and  ignore 
his  surroundings.  His  comrade  Ned 
was,  under  the  circumstances,  a  great 
comfort  to  him.  Modest  and  re- 
tiring in  his  manners,  he  never  for- 
got his  own  place,  and  innumerable 
little  acts  of  attention  proved  to 
John  that  the  lad  only  wanted  op- 
portunity to  pour  out  the  kindly 
feelings  of  his  heart.  So  passed 
their  digging  life  ;  sometimes  in  the 
middle  of  a  small  camp  of  fellow- 
miners — at  others  secluded  among 
the  ranges,  and  isolated  from  all 
human  beings. 

An  extract,  dated  June  8,  1878, 
taken  from  the  '  Queenslander,'  * 
will  illustrate  the  kind  of  life  they 
led  at  this  period  : — 

"...  The  country  itself  and 
the  population  peculiarly  favour  the 
raids  of  hostile  blacks.  Geologists  tell 
us  that  Northern  Queensland  was  once 
covered  by  a  dense  coating  of  desert 


sandstone  or  conglomerate.  On  the 
great  watersheds  of  the  Flinders  and 
Cloncurry  this  overlying  mass  has 
been  denuded  by  the  currents  and 
atmospheric  agencies  of  bygone  ages. 
Downs  which  rejoice  the  heart  of 
the  pastoral  tenant,  nourish  on 
their  monotonous  surface  fat  beeves, 
where  once  the  wallaby  and  walla- 
roo coursed  through  rocky  defiles ; 
but  the  source  of  the  Gilbert  more 
slowly  yields  to  the  same  influences, 
and  maintains  its  primeval  charac- 
ter of  sterile  rock  and  savage  gran- 
deur. The  river  itself  is  a  fit  pro- 
totype of  its  innumerable  branches. 
A  broad  bed  of  sand  winds  its  tortu- 
ous course  through  overhanging  cliffs 
of  conglomerate,  falling  here  and 
there,  where  the  process  of  disintegra- 
tion has  been  more  complete,  into 
low  rises,  covered  with  pebbly  wash, 
and  intersected  by  veins  of  the  strata 
underlying  the  conglomerate,  slate, 
diorite,  &c.  Sometimes  on  the  banks 
of  the  main  river,  more  frequently  in 
the  ravines  running  therein,  nearly 
always  at  the  heads  of  the  tributaries 
and  lesser  creeks,  wherever  the  slate 
has  been  exposed,  and  the  auriferous 
strata  are  uncovered,  the  colour  of 
gold  is  found.  Under  favourable  con- 
ditions— that  is  to  say,  where  the  de- 
nudation has  been  complete,  the  pro- 
cess of  removal  extensive,  and  the 
bars  of  diorite  supposed  to  contain 
gold-bearing  leaders  sufficiently  pierc- 
ed, and  the  slate  fully  bared — payable 
deposits  of  gold  are  struck,  rarely,  if 
ever,  bearing  any  similarity  except  in 
the  conditions  under  which  they  are 
found.  In  size,  form,  and  Value,  the 
precious  metal  within  a  limited  area 
will  present  great  diversities.  Some- 
times the  leader  from  which  the  gold 
is  presumably  discharged  could  be 
identified  if  it  were  not  that  specimens 
of  entirely  opposite  character,  embed- 
ded in  distinct  forms  of  quartz,  were 
found  lying  side  by  side.  Sometimes 
the  gold  is  free  from  quartz,  sometimes 
embedded  in  greenstone,  sometimes 
combined  both  with  greenstone  and 
quartz,  sometimes  with  quartz  alone. 
Often  it  is  as  fine  as  flour ;  again  it 
will  range  from  'colours'  to  nuggets 


*  Published  weekly  in  Brisbane,   Queensland.      An   ably-conducted  journal,   of 
vhich  the  population  of  the  colony  are  justly  proud. 


1880.] 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. — Conclusion. 


445 


of  several  ounces.  It  may  be  worth 
only  £2,  18s.  per  ounce  ;  it  may,  and 
does,  assay  £3,  18s.  and  £4.  No  rule 
can  be  laid  down  ;  and  in  one  case  at 
least  the  purchaser  has  one  invariable 
price,  which  protects  him  from  much 
loss  on  the  inferior  samples,  and  leaves 
an  ample  margin  of  profit  on  the  bet- 
ter class.  The  best  patches  are  got  in 
ravines  a  few  hundred  feet  in  length, 
where  a  narrow  gutter  of  two  or  three 
feet  contains  the  payable  gold.  The 
mouth  is  not  unusually  poor  ;  the  ex- 
treme head  of  the  ravine  is  also  worth- 
less ;  but  occasionally  the  gold  is 
traced  through  the  exposed  slate  right 
up  to  the  conglomerate — in  fact,  to 
points  where  the  beetling  cliffs  have 
covered  the  bed  with  such  masses  that 
the  labour  of  removing  them  could 
not  be  paid  by  the  gold  won.  In  no 
instance  has  the  discovery  of  gold  in 
the  conglomerate  in  situ  been  authen- 
ticated, though  careless  observers 
who  have  got  gold  in  conglomerate 
debris  may  deny  the  assertion. 

"  In  this  region  nature  maintains  a 
fitting  solitude.  The  glaring  cliffs 
drop  down  from  a  table-land  where 
the  cypress-pine  surges  mournfully  in 
the  breeze,  half-starved  dingoes  wake 
the  echoes  of  the  hills  by  their  nightly 
serenades,  and  a  few  blacks  roam  from 
creek  to  creek  and  gorge  to  gorge,  find- 
ing, in  the  innumerable  caves  into 
which  the  soft  substance  is  excavated, 
safe  harbour  and  concealment  after  a 
raid  on  the  plains  below.  To  this 
region  must  one  come  to  see  the  fossie- 
ker  in  all  his  miserable  state.  Travel- 
ling in  pairs,  but  usually  working 
separately,  the  true  gambusino  of  the 
north  is  found.  Each  boils  his  separ- 
ate billy  and  provides  his  frugal  fare  ; 
each  pitches  his  solitary  tent ;  each 
works  when  and  how  disposed  ;  each 
roams  the  ravines  adjacent  in  search 
of  some  hidden  store  ;  and  only  when 
an  abundance  of  water  and  cradling 
dirt  convenient  points  out  the  mutual 
benefit  do  the  two  combine  and  share 
the  joint  proceeds.  Inducement  for 
such  a  life  is  hard  to  find.  Every 
pound  of  food  has  to  be  packed  from 
fifty  to  a  hundred  miles.  Salt  meat 
is  necessarily  the  sole  form  in  which 
meat  can  be  provided.  Day  after  day, 
week  after  week,  the  patient  fossieker 
tries  creek  after  creek,  gully  after 


gully,  ravine  after  ravine,  with  the 
same  result;  the  monotonous  'colour,' 
or,  worse  still,  the  occasional  presence 
of  a  coarse  speck  encouraging  the  de- 
lusion of  better  things.  But  allow 
unwonted  success  to  have  attended 
research.  The  dirt  is  payable,  the 
site  not  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
from  water,  and,  by  unremitting  toil, 
from  two  pennyweights  to  a  rarely- 
attained  millennium  of  an  ounce  a-day 
can  be  made.  What  is  the  rationale 
of  proceeding  ?  No  sooner  has  a  per- 
manent camp  been  pitched  than  watch- 
ful eyes  have  marked  the  smoke. 
Every  movement  from  the  camp  is 
noted.  Every  dish  of  dirt  has  to  be 
picked  in  a  hollow  admirably  adapted 
to  conceal  approaching  footsteps.  Huge 
masses  of  rock  hang  within  spear's- 
throw  of  the  unsuspecting  miner.  The 
hard  and  stony  ground  hides  all  vag- 
rant tracks  except  to  the  most  experi- 
enced. Every  pound  of  dirt  has  to  be 
borne  on  the  back  over  spinifex,  or 
through  grasses  shedding  barbed  seeds 
directly  they  are  touched.  It  has  to 
be  washed  beneath  a  glaring  sun,  aided 
by  all  kinds  of  winged  tormentors ;  and 
hour  by  hour,  nay,  every  second,  there 
is  the  same  uneasy  consciousness  that 
bloodthirsty  and  vengeful  eyes  are 
upon  you,  and  that  to  relinquish  your 
gun  for  a  minute  may  cost  you  your 


Such  was  the  nature  of  the  ar- 
duous unrewarded  pursuits  which 
the  two  companions  carried  on  at 
this  period.  They  had  been  nearly 
twelve  months  seeking  their  "  for- 
tune" in  this  manner,  and  what 
little  gold  they  had  succeeded  in 
obtaining  had  melted  away,  along 
with  a  large  portion  of  John's  slen- 
der capital,  in  providing  rations  and 
in  replacing  a  couple  of  horses  which 
had  fallen  victims  to  the  spears  of 
the  aboriginals.  Our  hero  about 
this  time  had  undertaken  a  journey 
into  the  township  to  purchase  a 
fresh  stock  of  rations  and  necessary 
supplies,  leaving  his  mate  alone 
behind  him  in  the  desolate  wilder- 
ness, whither  their  work  had  drawn 
them,  to  find  him  on  his  relurn 


446 


Bash- Life  in  Queensland. — Conclusion. 


[Oct. 


(about  ten  days  afterwards)  pros- 
trate, a  victim  to  a  severe  attack 
of  malarious  fever.  How  miserably 
wretched  everything  looked  !  The 
fire  had  been  out  for  nearly  a  week. 
The  unfortunate  man,  utterly  ex- 
hausted by  the  enervating  disease, 
had  been  unable  to  procure  a  draught 
of  water,  after  exhausting  the  quan- 
tity which  had  filled  the  bucket 
when  he  was  first  taken  ill,  and 
had  been  at  least  a  couple  of  days 
tortured  by  excruciating  thirst. 
Utterly  debilitated,  he  had  looked 
forward  to  nothing  but  death  as  a 
release  to  his  sufferings,  when  the 
arrival  of  John  again  restored  a 
spark  of  hope  to  his  breast.  Un- 
able to  move  or  speak,  his  eyes, 
dilated  by  illness  to  double  their 
natural  size,  followed  the  form  of 
his  companion  with  a  trustful  look 
of  confidence  and  affection,  which 
revealed  that  the  drooping  spirit 
had  once  more  taken  root  and  was 
reviving.  The  next  morning  he 
was  better,  and  some  doses  of  fever 
mixture,  together  with  his  friend's 
society,  restored  the  sick  man  in  a 
few  days  so  far  that  he  was  able  to 


sit  up  and  partake  of  a  little  of 
"  Liebig's  extract,"  a  preparation 
invaluable  to  those  beyond  the 
reach  of  fresh  meat. 

During  the  periodical  attacks  of 
delirium  which  accompanied  the 
fever,  Ned  had  spoken  much  of 
a  creek  beyond  the  mountains  in 
which  he  felt  sure  a  rich  patch  of 
gold  was  awaiting  them,  and  which 
he  begged  John  to  join  him  in  pro- 
specting as  soon  as  the  weakness 
which  at  present  prostrated  him 
should  allow  them  to  move.  West 
was  at  first  inclined  to  treat  these 
often-expressed  wishes  as  the  whim- 
sical fancies  of  a  sick  man  which 
would  disappear  with  renewed 
health  and  vigour ;  but  in  this  he 
was  mistaken.  Each  day  the  de- 
sire grew  stronger  in  the  now  con- 
valescent patient ;  and  as  the  spot 
in  which  they  were  then  working 
offered  no  great  inducement  for 
them  to  prolong  their  stay,  they 
started,  making  towards  the  distant 
range  of  high  hills,  which  were 
visible  from  the  pallet  where  Ned 
had  lain  during  so  many  weary  days 
alone  in  his  despair  and  misery. 


CHAPTER   XXXIV. — PROSPECTING — THE   BOWER-BIRD'S   NEST. 


On  all  diggings  there  is  a  class  of 
men  who,  impatient  of  steady,  con- 
stant labour,  devote  themselves  to 
the  exploring  of  hitherto  unworked 
and  untrodden  ground.  These  men 
are  distinguished  by  the  name  of 
"  Prospectors,"  and  to  their  inde- 
fatigable energy  and  experienced 
skill  has  been  due,  in  many  cases, 
the  opening  up  of  new  and  valuable 
auriferous  tracts.  Among  these 
men  are  to  be  met  some  of  the 
most  intelligent  and  brave  of  the 
hardy  miners  of  the  north,  and  very 
frequently  they  earn  but  a  poor 
reward  for  the  perils  and  hardships 
which  they  undergo.  Too  often  it 
happens  that  they  act  the  jackal's 


part  in  pointing  out  the  prey  to 
the  lion  "  population,"  and  that  in 
the  rush  which  follows  they  come 
off  but  second-best,  notwithstand- 
ing the  regulations  of  the  gold-fields, 
by  which  the  discoverers  of  a  new 
and  payable  field  are  entitled  to  a 
certain  reward,  sometimes  in  money, 
and  at  others  in  extended  claims,  or 
both,  according  to  the  ideas  of  the 
Government  which  at  the  time  may 
be  in  power.  These  prospectors 
go  in  well-equipped  parties  of  from 
three  to  six,  horsed,  armed,  and 
provisioned  at  their  own  expense, 
and  make  flying  tours  over  a  vast 
extent  of  territory,  working  a  day 
here,  another  there,  settling  for  a 


1880.] 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. — Conclusion. 


447 


fortnight  at  times  in  one  place,  and 
again  travelling  without  intermis- 
sion for  weeks  over  unlikely-looking 
ground.  Supposing  them  to  have 
been  successful  in  discovering  a 
tract  containing,  to  the  best  of  their 
belief,  payable  gold,  it  is  required  of 
them,  in  order  to  obtain  the  Govern- 
ment reward  and  protection  for 
the  area  chosen  by  them  to  be 
worked  on  their  own  account,  that 
they  shall,  on  coming  in,  make  a 
full  report  to  the  Gold  Commis- 
sioner nearest  to  the  spot,  whose 
duty  it  is  at  once  to  start  back  with 
them,  to  examine  and  report  on  the 
field  for  Government  information. 
An  immense  number  of  eager  dig- 
gers follow  the  return  party,  all 
flushed  with  the  hopes  of  gain. 
Should  these  prove  fallacious,  and 
the  workings  be  found  poor,  an 
excitement  more  or  less  tumultu- 
ous generally  succeeds,  and  the  un- 
reasoning and  disappointed  crowd 
usually  turn  their  thoughts  towards 
hanging,  or  at  least  lynching,  the 
unfortunate  prospectors,  who  in  all 
probability  have  themselves  been 
the  greatest  losers  by  the  trans- 
action. 

Other  prospectors  there  are  of  a 
less  ambitious  nature.  They  have 
no  desire  that  their  names  shall 
descend  to  posterity  in  connection 
with  their  discoveries.  They  are 
secret  and  cautious.  They  confine 
their  explorations  within  a  circle  of 
from  fifty  to  a  hundred  miles  out- 
side the  known  area  of  the  diggings, 
and  mostly  go  in  pairs.  Should 
they  chance  to  alight  upon  a  pay- 
able creek,  gully,  or  ravine,  they 
set  to  work  quietly  to  extract  as 
much  of  the  precious  metal  as  pos- 
sible frpm  the  soil  before  they  can 
be  discovered,  preferring  the  chance 
of  what  they  can  get  to  the  ques- 
tionable benefit  of  a  Government 
reward,  with  its  contingent  annoy- 
ances. Sometimes  it  happens  that  a 
few  of  the  roughs  and  horse-thieves, 


of  whom  there  are  always  plenty 
about  every  diggings  township, make 
up  a  party  to  prospect,  in  the 
hope  of  alighting  upon  some  easily- 
worked  heavy  deposit  of  gold,  or 
discovering  a  camp  of  men  who 
have  done  so,  and  thus  sharing 
cheaply  in  the  benefits  resulting 
from  their  skill  and  -  research.  It 
does  not  take  this  class  of  pros- 
pectors long  to  equip  themselves. 
They  are  acquainted  with  the 
whereabouts  of  almost  every  horse 
of  any  value  on  the  field.  Their 
nights  are  spent  in  driving  them 
away  and  hiding  them,  and  their 
days  in  bringing  them  back  after  a 
sufficiently  large  reward  has  been 
offered  by  the  anxious  owners. 
They  easily  get  a  supply  of  rations 
on  credit  from  the  various  store- 
keepers, who,  fearful  of  their  pos- 
sible resentment,  are  glad  to  get 
rid  of  them  for  a  time  on  any 
terms.  Horses  begin  to  disappear, 
and  all  of  a  sudden  the  little  town- 
ship is  forsaken  temporarily  by  a 
number  of  scoundrels  who  have 
infested  it,  and  made  honest  men 
uneasy  about  their  property.  It  is 
impossible  to  follow  them  :  they 
are  thorough  bushmen,  and  have 
taken  every  precaution  against  pur- 
suit. The  white  constables,  stiff 
and  slow  in  their  movements,  are 
nowhere  beside  the  quick-witted 
rogues  who,  once  mounted,  defy 
the  clumsy  horsemen  of  the  law. 
Now  and  again  reports  are-  brought 
into  camp  about  them  by  men  who 
have  seen  them  in  various  places, 
and  a  general  uneasiness  as  to 
horse-flesh  and  security  of  property 
prevails. 

John  West  and  Ned  were  pros- 
pectors of  the  secret  and  cautious 
class.  Our  hero  could  not  bear  the 
idea  of  working  among  the  com- 
mon herd  for  a  bare  livelihood.  He 
had  set  his  all  upon  the  hazard  of 
the  die,  and  he  felt  that  on  working 
on  the  outside  there  was  a  chance 


448 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. — Conclusion. 


[Oct. 


•which  possibly  might  turn  up 
trumps  some  day.  He  was,  in  fact, 
leading  a  gambler's  existence  ;  and 
the  expedition  on  which  they  had 
just  started,  although  Quixotic  from 
many  points  of  view,  afforded  them 
quite  as  good  an  opening  for  suc- 
cess as  any  other  they  might  under- 
take. In  this  spirit  he  pursued  his 
way,  quietly  listening  to,  though 
without  participating  in,  the  san- 
guine prophecies  of  his  companion, 
who,  since  his  attack  of  fever,  ap- 
peared to  have  acquired  a  double 
stock  of  energy.  In  one  or  two 
places  they  came  upon  ravines 
which  gave  promise  of  returning 
a  substantial  and  easy  reward  for 
labour,  and  John  began  to  doubt 
whether  it  was  wise  in  him  to  pass 
them  unheeded.  Some  one  might 
drop  on  their  tracks,  and  in  follow- 
ing them,  discover  and  profit  by 
their  folly  and  neglect.  Any  sug- 
gestion, however,  to  halt  for  a  few 
days  produced  such  an  agony  of 
impatience  and  annoyance,  that 
John,  although  feeling  strongly 
convinced  of  the  folly  of  doing  so, 
never  failed  each  time  to  give  way 
to  the  imploring  entreaties  of  his 
comrade,  whose  great  desire  appear- 
ed to  be  to  get  on  the  other  side  of 
the  mountains,  on  whose  dark  and 
rugged  tops  his  eyes  had  dwelt 
during  his  recent  extremity.  Each 
day  as  they  approached  the  great 
range  Ned  grew  more  and  more 
silent ;  and  John  sometimes  felt 
inclined  to  think  that  his  mind  had 
become  somewhat  deranged  by  his 
sufferings.  With  difficulty  they 
surmounted  the  dark,  cypress- 
clothed,  conglomerate  hills,  and 
with  equal  difficulty  descended  the 
precipitous  rocks  on  the  other  side, 
into  a  savage,  barren,  narrow  valley, 
hemmed  in  between  two  steep 
mountain-spurs,  the  sides  of  which 
were  covered  with  stunted  palms, 
grass,  trees,  and  coarse  high  fern- 
grass.  Making  their  way  slowly, 
they  at  last  emerged  upon  the  half- 


dried  channel  of  a  creek,  crossed  in 
places  by  great  bars  of  slate.  The 
bent  and  twisted  ti-tree  and  river- 
oak  saplings  reveal  the  fierce  char- 
acter of  the  mountain  torrent  dur- 
ing the  rainy  season.  At  present 
its  bed  is  but  a  glaring,  burning 
ribbon,  relieved  at  intervals  by  a 
deep  water-hole,  which  some  strong 
eddy  has  scooped  out  of  the  sandy 
bed.  The  surface  of  the  country  is 
strewn  with  quartz  pebbles  and 
boulders  \  and  although  not  as  auri- 
ferous-looking as  some  of  the  places 
they  have  passed  by,  is  nevertheless 
promising. 

As  they  prepare  to  cross  the 
creek,  their  attention  is  attracted 
by  a  neat  little  structure  under  a 
few  bushes  close  to  them.  John 
recognises  it  at  once,  but  Ned  has 
never  seen  one  before.  It  is  the 
bower  of  the  bower -bird.  It  is  a 
most  interesting  little  building,  and 
Ned  dismounts  to  examine  it.  In 
length  it  is  about  two  feet.  It  is 
open  at  either  end.  The  walls  are 
composed  of  small  twigs  beautifully 
and  carefully  interlaced,  and  are 
three  or  four  inches  thick,  rising, 
and  becoming  gradually  thinner  as 
they  do,  until  they  almost  meet 
where  they  arch  overhead.  The 
width  of  the  little  summer-house  is 
about  a  foot.  It  is  not  a  nest  for 
breeding  purposes,  but  simply  a 
playground — a  bower  for  social 
intercourse  ;  and  here  a  number  of 
the  skilful  little  architects  meet 
together  to  amuse  themselves. 
With  the  view  of  beautifying  their 
retreat,  the  bower-birds  have  collec- 
ted a  large  quantity  of  white  pebbles, 
snail-shells,  pieces  of  quartz,  crystal, 
&c.,  which  they  have  arranged  in 
neat  plots  at  either  entrance,  and  also 
on  the  floor  in  the  middle.  Sud- 
denly Ned,  who  has  been  kneeling 
down  examining  the  wondrous  lit- 
tle edifice,  gives  a  great  cry,  and 
starting  to  his  feet,  rushes  to  one  of 
the  pack-horses,  from  the  back  of 
which  he  tears  his  pick,  shovel,  and 


1880.] 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. —  Conclusion. 


449 


tin  dish,  and  hastening  down  to  the 
creek,  he  commences  scraping  up 
the  drift  which  has  collected  in  one 
of  the  hollows  of  the  slaty  bar 
which  crosses  its  bed.  In  another 
instant  he  has  swilled  away  the 
sand  in  a  small  pool  on  the  rock 
close  by,  and  is  glaring  dazedly 
upon  at  least  an  ounce  of  bright 
yellow  gold  at  the  bottom  of  his 
dish.  John,  who  has  remained 
sitting  on  his  horse  in  a  state  of 
speechless  surprise  at  the  unac- 
countable behaviour  of  his  mate, 
now  dismounts  and  approaches 
him.  Ned  hears  him  not;  he  is 
still  gazing  stupidly  on  the  yellow 
heap  at  the  bottom  of  the  dish,  one 
glance  at  which  reveals  all  to  John. 
"Without  a  word,  as  if  stung  by 
some  insect,  the  bite  of  which  com- 
pels frantic  exertion,  he  has  rushed 
to  the  horses  and  possessed  him- 
self of  his  implements,  and  in  an- 
other instant  is  washing  dish  after 
dish  of  the  golden  sand,  until  he 
has  quite  a  little  heap  beside  him 
on  a  flat  stone,  and  the  sun  is  sink- 
ing low  in  the  western  sky.  He 
looks  up.  Ned  is  hard  at  work, 
and  the  horses  are  gone.  A  sudden 
exclamation  to  this  effect  breaks 
the  spell  which  has  bound  them, 
and  urged  by  the  necessity  of  at- 
tending to  their  safety,  they  both, 
arise  and  look  about  them.  Their 
hearts  are  too  full  to  speak.  Their 
horses  are  discovered  grazing  a  few 
hundred  yards  off,  and  mechani- 
cally the  companions  unsaddle  their 
animals  and  fix  the  camp. 

Once  more  they  descend  to  the 
scene  of  their  labours.  They  can 
hardly  believe  the  evidence  of  their 
eyes.  Again  and  again  they  wash 
dish  after  dish,  with  the  same  happy 
result,  until  darkness  compels  them 
to  desist.  As  they  sit  in  their  tent 
after  their  frugal  supper,  examining 
the  produce  of  their  day's  work, 
West,  who  can  hardly  realise  yet 
that  everything  is  not  a  dream, 
suddenly  asks :  "  What  made  you 


so  determined  to  prospect  over  on 
this  side  of  the  ranges,  Ned  1 " 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  the 
other — "I  can't  account  for  it;  but 
when  I  was  lying  on  my  bunk, 
slowly  perishing  with  fever  and 
thirst,  I  kept  hearing  a  voice  in  my 
ears  saying,  '  Over  the  mountains, 
there  is  your  luck,'  until  I  felt  con- 
vinced that,  could  I  but  once  accom- 
plish the  journey,  I  would  at  last 
drop  on  the  spot  we  have  been 
seeking  so  long.  The  weaker  I 
grew  the  stronger  became  the  be- 
lief; and  at  last,  with  your  return, 
the  hope  of  gratifying  the  intense 
longing  enabled  me  to  cast  sickness 
behind  me.  I  had  thoughts  of 
nothing  else.  The  voice  kept  ever 
sounding  in  my  ears,  '  Over  the 
mountains ; '  and  as  we  made  our 
way  here,  I  felt  certain  that  step 
by  step  we  were  nearing  our  luck." 

"But,"  said  West,  "what  was  it 
that  made  you  try  the  creek  so 
suddenly  ?  It  was  a  likely  enough 
place,  but  we  have  tried  hundreds 
of  similar  patches  unsuccessfully." 

"Well,"  returned  Ned,  "as  I 
was  examining  the  bower  of  those 
wonderful  birds,  and  remarking 
their  taste  in  laying  out  their  little 
play-house  just  like  human  beings, 
I  happened  to  take  up  some  of  the 
quartz -pebbles  which  ornamented 
the  entrances  to  the  little  wicker 
abode.  Each  one,  almost,  had  a  few 
specks  of  gold  in  it.  I  heard  again 
the  voice,  '  Over  the  mountains, 
there  lies  your  luck,7  and  then  I 
seized  the  shovel  and  dish.  I 
knew  I  should  find  it ;  but  it 
almost  took  my  senses  away  for 
all  that." 

The  two  friends,  excited  by  their 
good  fortune,  continued  talking 
long  into  the  night,  and  next  morn- 
ing daybreak  found  them  once  more 
working  with  furious  ardour.  Day 
by  day  the  same  work,  varied  with 
more  or  less  success,  caused  the 
hours  to  pass  with  the  swiftness 
of  minutes,  and  the  little  chamois- 


450 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. — Conclusion. 


[Oct. 


leather  bags  were  filled  to  bursting. 
The  first  week's  work  had  produced 
upwards  of  250  ounces  of  a  very 
rich  sample  of  gold.  The  discovery 
of  a  rich  ravine,  debouching  upon 
the  river  just  above  the  slaty  bar 
they  had  first  set  to  work  upon, 
proved  of  the  utmost  importance. 
If  they  could  only  work  it  out  in 
quietness,  they  would  have  suffi- 
cient to  satisfy  themselves.  It  had 
always  been  a  rule  of  the  two  com- 
rades, as  indeed  it  is  of  most  dig- 
gers, to  rest  from  their  labours  on 
the  Sabbath;  and  in  accordance  with 
their  usual  practice,  on  the  first 
Sunday  after  their  discovery  of  the 
golden  bar,  they  had,  after  resting 
during  the  forenoon,  strolled  out 
for  a  walk.  Instinctively  they  bent 
their  steps  towards  the  neat  little 
bower,  to  whose  busy  and  tasteful 
builders  they  owed  so  much.  There 
it  was,  a  perfect  marvel  of  ingenuity. 
As  he  stooped  down  to  examine 
the  shells  and  quartz  collected  with 
so  much  care  and  labour,  it  occurred 
to  John  that,  where  the  quartz 
specimens  were  found,  others  were 
to  be  met  with.  The  character  of 
the  quartz  bore  a  great  resemblance 
to  that  of  much  lying  on  the  ground 
and  filling  the  mountain  -  gullies 
around.  Breaking  the  quartz  boul- 
ders here  and  there,  they  soon  col- 
lected a  heap  of  specimens  of  a  sim- 
ilar character,  all  indicating  that 
the  main  reef  or  vein  from  which 
they  had  been  hurled,  or  from 
which  the  gradual  process  of  denu- 
dation had  washed  them,  lay  at  no 
great  distance.  Following  these 
evidences  up  the  mountain  -  slope 
for  about  a  couple  of  hundred 
yards,  they  came  upon  a  large 
"  blow  "  or  outcrop  of  quartz,  stick- 
ing out  of  the  earth,  over  the  sur- 
face of  which  was  scattered  de- 
tached blocks  of  the  same  substance. 
Gold  was  everywhere  embedded  in 
greater  or  less  quantities  on  the  ma- 
trix, and  large  and  valuable  speci- 
mens were  picked  up  by  the  friends 


as  they  casually  explored  the  ground 
about. 

Eeturning  next  morning  to  the 
reef,  they  collected  and  bagged  up 
the  most  valuable  pieces  which  they, 
could  find,  and  betook  themselves 
once  more  to  their  work  in  the 
ravine,  determining  to  return,  if 
spared,  at  some  future  period,  with 
the  necessary  tools  and  proper  ap- 
pliances for  the  opening  up  of  the 
great  vein.  Nearly  three  weeks  had 
been  passed  in  uninterrupted  labour, 
and  the  results  of  their  work  had 
assumed  very  considerable  propor- 
tions, when  the  prospectors  were 
disagreeably  disturbed  one  morning 
by  the  presence  of  natives.  They 
had  hitherto  been  remarkably  for- 
tunate in  escaping  the  notice  of  the 
denizens  of  the  wilds  in  which  they 
lived;  but  on  this  occasion  they 
received  a  no  less  startling  than 
unwelcome  notice  of  trespass  in  the 
shape  of  a  spear,  which,  hurled 
from  behind  a  few  bushes,  at  a  dis- 
tance of  about  eighty  yards,  passed 
within  an  ace  of  Ned's  head,  as  he 
brought  up  a  bucket  of  water  from 
the  water-hole  below  the  camp.  A 
bullet  instantly  fired  at  the  treach- 
erous foe,  and  which  struck  a  tree 
close  to  him,  causing  large  pieces 
of  bark  to  fly  off  it,  had  the  effect 
of  making  him  beat  a  hasty  retreat, 
ducking  his  head  in  the  most  ludi- 
crous way  as  the  reverberations  of 
the  report  among  the  ranges  assail- 
ed him  on  every  side.  From  this 
time  forward,  however,  they  had 
no  rest  ;  a  horrible  uncertainty 
kept  them  ever  on  the  watch ;  and 
even  when  reassured  to  a  certain 
extent  by  a  complete  cessation  of 
all  annoyance  for  a  couple  of  day?, 
engendering  the  hope  that  their 
bloodthirsty  enemies  had  left  the 
vicinity  of  their  camp,  a  cooey  on 
the  mountains,  answered  in  the 
distance  by  two  or  three  more, 
would  again  awaken  the  harassing 
dread  which  continually  haunted 
them. 


1880.] 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. — Conclusion. 


451 


The  experience  of  native  habits 
which  John  had  acquired  during 
his  squatting  life  became  very  use- 
ful in  this  emergency,  and  enabled 
them  to  take  measures  which  had 
the  effect  of  keeping  the  blacks  at 
a  distance,  and  of  estimating  pro- 
perly their  chances  of  safety  and 
danger.  As  a  matter  of  precaution, 
a  hole  had  been  dug  in  the  floor  of 
the  tent,  in  which  all  their  treasure 
had  been  stowed  away,  and  each 
night  the  day's  earnings  were  se- 
cretly added  to  the  hoard.  Digging 
became  a  much  more  arduous  task 
than  formerly.  The  necessity  for 
being  constantly  on  guard  obliged 
each  to  take  it  in  turns  to  act 
as  sentry,  day  and  night,  besides 
which,  their  horses  proved  a  source 
of  incessant  trouble.  Some  days 
before  the  appearance  of  the  blacks, 
one  of  the  animals,  a  restless  wan- 
dering mare,  had  strayed  away, 
leading  the  others  with  her,  and 
about  six  miles  distant  had  drop- 
ped across  a  patch  of  young  burnt 
feed,  which  had  ever  since  remained 
an  irresistible  attraction  to  them. 
No  means  adopted  to  keep  them 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  camp 
having  the  desired  effect,  the  search- 
ing for  them  on  foot  became  a  really 
dangerous  duty,  it  being  highly  im- 
perative that  one  man  should  re- 
main to  guard  the  household  gods. 
On  discussing  their  position  one 
evening,  after  a  peculiarly  distress- 
ing day,  and  finding  that  their  horses 
had  once  more  cleared  out,  the  com- 
rades came  reluctantly  to  the  con- 
clusion that  they  could  no  longer 
remain  in  their  camp  with  any  de- 
gree of  safety.  The  natives  might 
at  any  moment  take  it  into  their 
heads  to  spear  their  horses,  in 
which  case  they  would  have  but 
a  slender  chance  of  ever  reaching 
civilisation  ;  or  an  accidental  spear 
might,  causing  the  death  of  one  of 
themselves,  render  the  escape  of  the 
other  next  to  an  impossibility.  All 
thingsconsidered,then,they  resolved 


to  be  contented  with  what  gold  they 
had  already  secured,  and  to  return 
as  soon  as  possible,  in  order  to 
open  up  the  quartz-reef,  which  they 
regarded  as  the  most  valuable  of 
their  discoveries.  Next  morning 
therefore,  Ned,  whose  turn  it  was 
for  that  duty,  started  in  order  to 
recover  the  truant  nags,  leaving 
John  behind  him  to  guard  the 
camp.  Down  the  rocky  creek  he 
took  his  way,  his  bridle  on  his  left 
arm,  and  his  carbine  over  his  shoul- 
der, keeping  a  sharp  look-out  for 
natives.  He  came  to  the  spot  where 
the  horses  usually  ran ;  but  this 
time  they  were  not  to  be  seen,  al- 
though the  tracks  and  manure  indi- 
cated that  they  could  not  have  left 
the  place  long  before.  Up  and 
down  he  searched  unsuccessfully, 
and  at  length,  following  the  creek 
some  distance  down  into  unknown 
ground,  came  upon  the  junction  of 
a  small  tributary  with  it.  Fagged 
and  vexed  with  tramping  so  many 
miles  over  a  broken,  grass -seedy 
country,  he  seated  himself  to  reet 
for  a  few  minutes  on  a  large  granite 
boulder,  but  had  hardly  done  so 
when  the  approach  of  a  horseman 
from  behind  startled  him. 

"  Good  day,"  said  the  stranger, 
gruffly.  "  Prospecting  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  returned  Ned. 

"  So  ham  I.  Camp  hup  the 
creek  1" 

"  Yes,"  again  replied  Ned.  "  Seen 
any  horses?" 

"No,"  answered  the  new-comer 
shortly,  turning  his  horse's  head  up 
the  little  creek  which  junctioned 
with  the  larger  one  near  them. 

"  I'm  looking  for  some  horses," 
said  Ned,  "and  I'm  fairly  knocked 
up  over  it.  If  you  see  any  tracks 
up  the  way  you're  going,  you  might 
fire  off  your  carbine  to  let  me  know, 
and  I'll  come  up." 

The  man  rode  away,  and  Ned 
remained  where  he  was,  though 
without  expecting  much  from  his 
meeting  with  the  horseman,  who 


452 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. —  Conclusion. 


[Oct. 


was  evidently  a  surly-tempered  man 
of  few  words.  Ten  minutes  had 
scarcely  elapsed,  however,  when 
the  report  of  a  rifle  sounded  up  the 
little  stream,  followed  at  intervals 
by  half-a-dozen  others;  and  pushing 
hurriedly  along,  he  caught  sight  of, 
and  made  his  way  to,  his  new  ac- 
quaintance, who  was  sitting  on  his 
horse,  on  a  little  knoll  some  distance 
above  the  bank  of  the  creek. 

"  Where  are  they  ?  "  eagerly  in- 
quired Ned,  who  saw  no  signs  of 
the  wanderers. 

"  I  got  two  of  the  ,"  re- 
turned the  man,  with  a  grim,  self- 
satisfied  sort  of  air. 

"Where?"  asked  Ned,  looking 
around.  "  I  don't  see  any." 

"There's  one,"  replied  the  new 
prospector,  pointing  with  his  car- 
bine to  the  still  warm  and  bleeding 
body  of  a  black  man  lying  among 
the  long  grass  beside  him ;  "  the 
other's  in  the  creek." 

"  I  came  hacross  them  hunawares, 
hand  'ad  the  first  hon  'is  back 
hafore  'e  know'd  where  'e  was;  but 
this  un  giv'  me  a  good  deal  of 
bother  hafore  I  dropped  'im." 

Ned  had  no  great  sympathy  for 
the  blacks;  he  had  suffered  too 
much  from  their  enmity,  and,  if 
necessary,  would  not  have  hesitated 
in  taking  their  lives  in  defence  of 
his  own  ;  but  this  cold-blooded  pro- 
cedure filled  him  with  horror. 

"  Did  they  not  attack  you  first  1 " 
he  asked. 

"  They  didn't  get  the  slant  this 

time.     The wretches  halways 

does  when  they  can,  hand  I  hal- 
ways serves  'em  same  way.  There's 
nothing  I  likes  better  nor  shoot- 
ing a  good  hold  stinking  buck 
nigger." 

Ned  looked  at  the  speaker. 
There  was  something  about  him 
which  recalled  some  vague  recol- 
lection, some  undefined  misty  me- 
mory of  bygone  times.  He  was 
mounted  upon  an  exceedingly 
handsome  chestnut,  with  a  thor- 


ough-bred look,  which  bespoke  pedi- 
gree and  speed.  His  air  and  man- 
ner proclaimed  him  a  self-reliant, 
determined  man,  unaccustomed  to 
control;  but  a  glance  at  the  coarse 
round  head,  and  repulsive  animal 
features  of  the  face,  revealed  the 
presence  of  the  brutal  type  of 
mind  of  which  they  are  the  certain 
indications.  Comment  on  the  ac- 
tion would  have  been  as  imprudent 
as  useless,  so,  with  a  short  farewell, 
he  once  more  started  in  pursuit  of 
his  stray  property,  not  at  all  relish- 
ing the  parting  words  of  the  black 
slayer,  who  shouted  after  him  that 
he  would  look  him  up  at  his  camp. 
He  had  not  gone  far  when  he  for- 
tunately fell  in  with  the  fresh 
tracks  of  horses,  and  shortly  after- 
wards, coming  upon  the  stragglers 
themselves,  he  started  for  the  camp. 
The  announcement  to  John  West 
that  their  whereabouts  had  been 
discovered  was  as  unwelcome  as 
startling,  upsetting,  as  it  necessarily 
did,  all  their  previous  arrangements. 
It  had  been  their  intention,  after  se- 
curing their  gold,  and  providing  the 
necessary  tools  required  by  them 
in  quartz-mining,  to  proclaim  the 
discovery  of  the  golden  region,  and 
secure  the  advantages  of  the  Gov- 
ernment reward  and  protection.  It 
was  a  simple  plan,  and  one  which 
could  not  have  failed  in  obtaining 
for  them  every  advantage  they  de- 
sired, provided  that  the  knowledge 
of  the  auriferous  country  remained 
their  own.  It  was  not  to  be  ex- 
pected for  a  moment  that  any  one 
with  the  smallest  experience  of 
digging  could  remain  ignorant  of 
the  rich  nature  of  the  alluvial  de- 
posits ;  and  it  was  equally  natural 
to  suppose  that  the  new  -  comers 
would  endeavour  to  be  the  first  in 
announcing  the  find,  and  claiming 
the  consequent  advantages  for  them- 
selves. On  the  other  hand,  it  was 
just  possible  that  a  compromise 
might  be  effected,  and  that  by  the 
amalgamation  of  both  parties,  all 


1880.] 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland, —  Conclusion. 


453 


might  participate  in  the  golden 
harvest. 

What  was  to  he  done?  Ned 
was  strongly  against  having  any 
connection  with  the  bad-featured 
stranger,  for  whom  he  had  imbibed 
a  strong  dislike.  The  question  was 
argued  in  all  its  bearings  by  the 
excited  comrades,  whose  agitation 
was  by  no  means  allayed  on  seeing 
a  couple  of  horsemen,  with  a  spare 
horse  or  two,  arrive  about  sundown, 
and  proceed  to  erect  a  small  tent  a 
couple  of  hundred  yards  distant 
from  their  own.  Uneasily  after 
supper  they  lay  for  a  couple  of 
hours  revolving  what  plan  to  adopt 
under  the  circumstances.  Night 
had  again  drawn  her  dark  veil 
across  the  dismal  gloomy  territory, 
upon  whose  silence  the  noisy  bustle 
and  activity  of  a  practical,  self- 
seeking,  struggling  world  was  about 
to  break. 

"  I'm  uneasy  about  this  gold, 
Ned,"  said  West.  "  I  think  we 
ought  to  set  to  work  and  bag  it 
up  properly,  so  that  we  can  strike 
camp  and  be  off  the  moment  we 
choose." 

"  I  think  so  too,"  returned  Ned. 
"  The  sooner  we  have  it  wrapped  up 
the  better.  I  wouldn't  like  that 
ugly-looking  fellow  I  came  upon 
to-day  to  get  a  look  at  it." 

"  Well,"  proposed  John,  "  let  us 
start  to  work  at  once.  We  can't 
have  a  much  quieter  time." 

In  a  few  minutes  the  precious 
store  was  brought  forth  from  its 
hiding-place,  and  lay  displayed  upon 
the  large  piece  of  strong  canvas 
which  was  intended  to  envelop  it. 
A  noble  sight  it  was,  and  deeply  it 
stirred  the  emotions  of  the  men, 
whose  manifold  sufferings  and  la- 
bours it  but  inadequately  repre- 
sented. Silently  they  gazed  for  a 
time,  recognising,  as  they  did  so, 
many  a  well-known  piece  of  coarse 
metal  which  had  rejoiced  their  eyes 
in  the  rinding.  Heaving  an  in- 

VOL.  CXXVIII. — NO.  DCCLXXX. 


voluntary  sigh,  West  broke  the 
silence. 

"  What  was  that  fellow  like  you 
met  this  morning,  Ned  1 " 

His  companion  was  about  to  reply 
when  a  step  was  heard  outside  the 
tent,  and  pulling  aside  the  flap  the 
man  himself  appeared. 

"  Hi  say,  mates,  you  'ave  a  nice 
little  'eap  of  the  right  sort  there," 
he  remarked,  directing  a  burning 
look  of  cupidity  towards  the  yellow 
pile  on  the  canvas. 

Springing  to  his  feet,  and  grasp- 
ing his  loaded  carbine,  with  jealous 
rage  depicted  in  his  features,  John 
shouted,  "  Stand  back  !  What  do 
you  want  1 " 

"  Oh,nothink,  "said  the  intruder; 
"  honly  I  com'd  hon  a  visit." 

"  Then, "  sternly  rejoined  the 
young  man,  by  whose  side  Ned 
now  stood,  weapon  in  hand,  "  back 
you  go  to  your  own  camp.  If  I 
catch  you  about  mine  after  night- 
fall, I'll  drive  daylight  through  you. 
Those  are  my  rules.  Away  you  go." 

Cursing  deeply,  the  surprised  and 
discomfited  visitor  slunk  back  to 
his  quarters,  the  friends  watching 
his  retiring  figure  through  the  trees 
by  the  light  of  the  now  rising 
moon. 

"Ned,"  said  West,  "that  man 
will  never  rest  until  he  becomes 
possessed  of  the  gold  there  by  some 
means  or  other,  if  possible.  He's 
a  more  dangerous  enemy  than  any 
black  fellow  among  these  ranges.  I 
knew  it  the  moment  I  saw  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  canvas.  I  don't  know 
how  it  is,"  he  continued,  "  but  the 
sight  of  him  set  my  blood  boiling 
within  me.  I  seem  to  know  his 
devil's  face  somehow." 

"  So  do  I,"  returned  Ned  ;  "  but 
I  can't  think  where  I  saw  it." 

"  Well,  no  matter ;  there's  but 
one  thing  to  do  now,"  replied  John, 
whose  decision  always  rose  to  meet 
any  emergency.  "  We  must  en- 
deavour to  get  away  from  here  to- 
2  H 


454 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. —  Conclusion. 


[Oct. 


night,  unawares  to  that  fellow. 
AVe'll  make  up  the  gold  and  pack 
the  horses  (it's  lucky  you  got 
them  to-day),  and  start  back  the 
way  we  came.  We've  moonlight ; 
and  I'll  defy  them,  or  any  one  else, 
to  track  us  over  the  rocky  road  we 
made  our  way  here  by,  without  a 
blackboy,  and  then  they'd  have  no 
easy  job." 

Armed  with  his  carbine,  our  hero 
kept  careful  watch,  while  his  com- 
panion hastily  completed  the  neces- 
sary preparations,  and  by  a  couple 
of  hours  after  midnight  they  had 
started,  leaving  the  tent  standing 
and  a  good  fire  burning  beside  it, 
to  deceive  their  neighbours.  Slowly 
but  steadily  they  made  their  way 
over  the  stony  precipitous  moun- 
tains, and  only  halted  for  a  short 
time  next  morning  in  order  to  par- 
take of  a  hasty  meal.  Daylight 
enabled  the  travellers  to  continue 
their  journey  with  greater  comfort, 
but  their  rate  of  speed  was  much 
reduced,  owing  to  more  than  one  of 
their  horses  having  torn  off  their 
shoes  in  the  rocky  conglomerate 
defiles.  They  camped  that  night, 
feeling  tolerably  secure,  from  the 
distance  accomplished  and  the  diffi- 
cult nature  of  the  country  they  had 
passed  over,  taking,  nevertheless, 
the  precaution  of  keeping  watch ; 
and  three  days  more  brought  them 
by  mid-day  to  a  little  permanent 
mining  camp,  where,  for  the  first 
time  since  the  night  of  their  flight, 
they  experienced  a  thorough  feel- 
ing of  safety. 

With  the  absence  of  the  sense 
of  danger,  and  the  return  of  confi- 
dence, a  suspicion  began  to  creep 
over  John  that  perhaps  he  had 
been  too  hasty  in  his  conclusions. 
How  absurd  it  would  look  should 
it  turn  out,  after  all,  that  the  man 
was  a  well-known  character,  and  as 
honest  as  himself !  He  felt  ashamed 
almost  of  his  behaviour,  and  was 
taxing  himself  with  a  want  of  cool- 
ness, when  Ned,  who  had  been  get- 


ting the  horses  shod  at  the  forge, 
came  up,  almost  breathlessly  ex- 
cited. 

"  Anything  wrong  ? "  asked  John. 

"  Only  this,"  answered  his  mate : 
"  I  saw  that  fellow  who  found  us 
out  over  the  mountains,  a  few 
minutes  ago." 

"Are  you  certain,  Ned?"  in- 
quired John,  all  his  old  suspicion 
flooding  on  him  in  a  moment. 

"  Quite  sure,"  returned  he.  "  I 
had  been  speaking  to  an  old  ac- 
quaintance, and  on  returning  to  the 
forge  I  saw  him  for  an  instant, 
talking  to  one  of  the  men.  I  could 
not  be  mistaken  about  the  face. 
The  moment  I  entered  he  went  out 
the  back  way,  and  although  I  fol- 
lowed him  instantly,  I  could  not 
see  which  way  he  took." 

"Did  you  ask  at  the  smithy 
about  him  ? " 

"  Yes,"  said  Ned  ;  "  but  nobody 
knew.  All  they  could  tell  me  was 
that  he  inquired  when  we  intended 
starting." 

"  I'm  more  certain  than  ever  that 
fellow  is  after  our  gold,"  remarked 
John.  "  I  wish  we  had  it  in  the 
Commissioner's  strong-box.  Are 
the  horses  finished?" 

"  Very  nearly." 

"Well," replied  John,  "wait here. 
I'll  go  and  fetch  them,  and  per- 
haps I  may  get  a  sight  of  him  up 
at  the  camp." 

He  made  his  way  to  the  forge 
and  got  his  animals,  but  no  further 
information  could  he  glean  on  the 
subject  which  disturbed  him.  As 
he  left  the  smithy  deep  in  thought, 
leading  the  horses  along,  the  loud 
hearty  "  Good  evening,  mate,"  of 
a  couple  of  horsemen  awoke  him 
from  his  meditations.  The  speakers 
were  a  couple  of  burly,  bearded 
miners,  their  long  Californian  hats 
nearly  covering  their  features  from 
view.  Each  man  was  leading  a 
spare  horse,  packed  with  a  small 
compact  swag,  and  both,  it  could 
be  seen  at  a  glance,  were  on  their 


1880.] 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. — Conclusion. 


455 


road  into  town.  At  first  sight 
John  failed  to  remember  under 
•what  circumstances  he  had  seen  the 
men  before ;  but  at  last  it  flashed 
upon  him  that  these  were  the  min- 
ers who  had  occupied  their  de- 
serted ground  on  the  first  camp 
they  had  settled  on,  and  who  had 
started  sinking  a  shaft  in  their  fire- 
place for  luck. 

"  Holloa  ! "  he  cried,  his  interest 
becoming  awakened.  "  Is  that  you? 
What  luck  had  you  with  that  old 
claim  of  ours?" 

"Well,"  returned  one  of  the  dig- 
gers, "  Bill  here  and  me  have  been 
mates  this  many  a  year,  but  taking 
up  that  old  ground  was  the  best 
day's  work  ever  we  done  together. 
We  took  a  couple  of  hundred  ounces 
out  of  that  fireplace,  and  ever  after 
we  couldn't  go  wrong  somehow. 
They've  given  us  the  name  of  the 
'lucky  mates.'" 

"  Many's  the  time,"  broke  in  the 
other,  "  Tom  here  and  me  said  we 
wished  we  could  come  across  you 
and  your  mate,  in  case  as  how  we 
could  give  you  a  bit  of  a  lift,  if  so 
be  as  you  wanted  it,  for  we've  had 
plenty  ever  since." 

John  thanked  the  speaker  hearti- 
ly, and  informed  him  that  he  had 
done  well  himself,  and  was  even 
now  on  his  road  to  the  Commis- 
sioner's camp  with  some  gold. 

"  We  are  going  there  ourselves," 
replied  his  friends ;  "  we  might  as 
well  go  together.  Where's  your 
camp  1 " 

This  accession  to  their  strength 
was  a  most  welcome  addition  to  our 
prospectors,  whose  story  was  list- 
ened to  with  great  interest  by  the 
off-handed,  honest-hearted  diggers. 

The  night  passed  by  quietly,  and 
next  morning  the  travellers  pre- 
pared to  accomplish  the  remaining 
distance  which  lay  between  them 
and  their  destination. 

A  considerable  portion  of  the 
road  wound  through  narrow,  rocky 
defiles,  hemmed  in  betwixt  precip- 


itous cliffs,  and  was  infested  by  a 
tribe  of  savages  whose  treacherous 
ferocity  had  procured  for  it  a  repu- 
tation of  the  very  worst  description. 
Many  a  time  the  spears  of  the  am- 
buscaded natives  had  been  dyed  red 
in  the  heart's-blood  of  the  gold-lov- 
ing invaders  of  their  sterile  domains ; 
and  notwithstanding  all  the  exer- 
tions of  the  native  police  stationed 
in  the  vicinity,  the  spot  maintained 
its  evil  character.  The  united 
party,  keeping  a  careful  look-out 
around  them,  had  almost  reached 
the  most  intricate  portion  of  the 
stony  pass  in  safety,  when  wild 
yells  some  distance  ahead,  together 
with  a  shot  and  the  shrieks  of  a 
white  man's  voice,  warned  them 
that  once  more  the  vindictive  My- 
alls were  engaged  in  their  bloody 
work.  Drawing  their  firearms, 
they  pushed  rapidly  forward,  and 
turning  a  corner,  saw,  not  far  in 
front  of  them,  a  white  man  rapidly 
bounding  down  the  rocks  on  one 
side  of  the  road,  closely  pursued 
by  three  or  four  totally  naked  abo- 
riginals, who,  with  terrific  yells, 
hurled  their  spears  at  their  shriek- 
ing victim.  Several  more  of  the 
tribe  were  congregated  on  a  rock 
a  little  higher  up,  clamorously  en- 
gaged over  some  object  on  the 
ground.  The  unexpected  arrival  of 
the  new-comers,  together  with  half- 
a-dozen  well-directed  bullets,  had  the 
instant  effect  of  dispersing  the  na- 
tives, of  whom  in  less  than  a  minute 
there  was  not  a  vestige  to  be  seen. 
Leaving  Ned  and  one  of  their 
diggings  friends  to  look  after  the 
man  to  whose  rescue  they  had  so 
opportunely  come,  and  who  now 
lay  in  a  fainting  condition  on  the 
ground,  John,  with  the  other, 
climbed  towards  the  rocky  shelf 
where  they  had  noticed  the  group 
of  aboriginals  collected.  A  fearful 
object  met  their  eyes.  It  was  the 
grinning  head  of  him  whose  lust  of 
gold  had  impelled  him  to  pursue 
the  owners  of  the  golden  heap 


456 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. — Conclusion. 


[Oct. 


which  had  excited  his  covetousness 
on  the  distant  creek,  and  who  had 
evidently  selected  this  difficult 
gqrge  with  a  view  of  "  sticking  up  " 
;and  robbing  them,  only  to  fall  a 
,prey  to  the  countrymen  of  the  be- 
ings he  had  himself  slaughtered  with 
so  little  compunction.  As  John 
West  gazed  on  the  dreadful  sight 
before  him,  awe-struck  at  the  ter- 
rible and  '  swift  retribution  which 
had  overtaken  the  hardened  villain 
in  ,the  midst  of  his  crimes,  the  like- 
ness which  had  so  puzzled  him  in 
life  became  explained,  and  it  was 
with  a  feeling  of  the  deepest  hor- 
ror that  he  recognised  in  the  pale 
and  death-stricken  face  the  batter- 
ed, lowering  visage  of  Bill  Cane, 
the  murderer  of  M'Duff.  A  thick 
beard,  hiding  the  lower  part  of  his 
face,  had  concealed  his  identity, 
and  produced  the  alteration  which 
had  hitherto  proved  an  effectual 
disguise.  The  mutilated  trunk  lay 
some  distance  off,  torn  and  hacked 
by  blunt  weapons ;  and  in  spite  of 
the  short  time  at  their  disposal,  the 
eager  cannibals  had  carried  away 
several  portions  of  th'e  body,  for 
what  purpose  there  was  but  little 
doubt.  Descending  to  their  com- 
panions, they  found  them  engaged 
in  doing  what  they  could  for  the 
relief  of  the  unhappy  being,  who 
recovered  from  one  fainting  fit 
merely  to  fall  into  another.  The 
first  glance  assured  John  that  it 
was  the  miserable  Kalf,  but  so 
changed,  so  cadaverous  and  wretch- 
ed-looking, that  Ned,  who  had  not 
seen  him  for  several  years,  entirely 
failed  to  remember  him. 

A  spear-head  had  penetrated  his 
shoulder,  but  beyond  that  no  wound 


could  be  discovered  to  account  for 
his  prostration.  Suddenly,  as  if 
recalled  by  the  sound  of  John 
West's  voice,  the  eyes  of  the  wound- 
ed man  opened  slowly,  and  fixing 
them  steadily  on  the  speaker,  he 
seemed  animated  by  a  desire  to  say 
something.  Bending  down,  West 
approached  his  ear  to  the  lips  of 
the  miserable  creature,  and  barely 
distinguished  the  whisper,  "  I — did 
not — want  to — kill  him,"  when  the 
relaxed  jaw  and  a  rattle  in  the 
throat  announced  that  he  had 
passed  away,  —  M'Duff' s  murder 
being  evidently  the  subject  of 
his  thoughts  in  this  solemn  hour. 
The  sudden  terror  had  been  too 
much  for  him.  His  enfeebled 
constitution  was  unable  to  bear  up 
against  the  effects  of  the  shock  ', 
and  in  death,  as  in  life,  the  brothers 
in  guilt  remained  unparted. 

This  awful  climax  to  the  lawless 
lives  of  the  slain  men  impressed 
the  onlookers  greatly,  and  all  felt 
relieved  when  the  arrival  of  a  body 
of  police,  who  had  been  sent  for, 
allowed  them  to  leave  the  blood- 
stained pass.  But  little  notice  was 
taken  of  the  event  by  the  public  in 
general.  Murder  by  blacks  was 
too  common  an  occurrence  to  cause 
much  surprise;  and  the  report  of 
the  new  field  discovered  by  John 
West  and  his  mate,  together  with 
the  amount  of  gold  brought  in  by 
them,  created  an  excitement  before 
which  everything  else  paled  in  in- 
terest; and  but  few  days  elapsed 
when,  accompanied  by  the  principal 
Government  authorities,  and  fol- 
lowed by  an  immense  concourse  of 
miners,  they  returned  to  the  scene 
of  their  successful  labours. 


CHAPTER    XXXV. — EXPLAINS    MATTERS    IN    GENERAL — THE    EXD. 

Willy  Fitzgerald,  we  have  alread.y  events  which  had  occurred  around 

mentioned,  returned   to  Ungahrun  him.      He   could   not  account   for 

a  sadder  man  than  he  had  left  it,  Euth's  agitation,  or  for  the  abrupt 

and  not  less  sad  than  puzzled  by  the  and  decisive  manner  with  which  she 


1880.] 


dish-Life  in  Queensland. — Conclusion. 


457 


had  intimated  her  refusal  of  his 
offer.  Even  now  he  could  scarcely 
realise  that  his  hopes  were  for  ever 
at  end.  He  had  made  so  certain 
of  success  that  the  probability  of 
rejection  even  never  suggested  itself 
to  him.  Could  it  really  be  the  case  ? 
He  had  surely  committed  some 
blunder  unawares, — perhaps  he  had 
offended  her  womanly  sensibilities 
in  some  stupid  way.  He  was  so 
utterly  deficient  in  tact.  What 
else  could  it  have  been  ?  Then  the 
recollection  of  her  calm. determined 
manner  would  rise,  bringing  with 
it  a  sense  of  hopelessness,  and  also 
a  touch  of  bitter  indignation  and 
resentment ;  for  poor  Fitzgerald  had 
undoubtedly  loved  honestly  and 
sincerely — and  rejection  of  love  is 
a  sore  trial  to  bear.  What  could 
have  been  the  matter,  too,  with 
John  West?  He  seemed  to  have 
gone  out  of  his  senses.  Everything 
was  at  sixes  and  sevens.  He  would, 
however,  find  his  friend  at  home, 
and  discover  that  part  of  the  busi- 
ness. 

In  this,  as  we  know,  he  was 
mistaken ;  and  the  short  note 
which  Blucher  handed  to  him  ex- 
plained nothing ;  nor  could  the 
blackboy,  who  was  as  perplexed 
as  himself  at  his  master's  disap- 
pearance, throw  much  light  on  the 
subject.  What  could  have  made 
him  behave  in  so  wild  and  extra- 
ordinary a  manner  on  meeting  them 
the  day  before  1  Was  it  possible — 
and  he  started  as  he  remembered 
Ruth's  emotion — that  she  could 
have  been  the  cause  of  the  remark- 
able excitement  which  had  dis- 
turbed him  1  Had  there  been  any- 
thing between  them  previously  1 
The  question  threw  a  new  light 
over  everything  ;  the  place  of 
meeting — the  kneeling  posture, — 
everything  seemed  to  point  to  the 
fact :  and  then  his  sudden  de- 
parture. 

It  accounted  for  all 

But  did  Euth  love  him?     Ah! 


that  question  pricked  him  with 
sudden,  sharp  pain.  It  was  true 
that  she  had  never  given  himself 
any  great  encouragement ;  and  he 
remembered  feeling  at  a  loss  for 
a  reason  why  she  should  at  times 
appear  anxious  to  avoid  his  com- 
pany. He  had  consoled  himself 
at  the  time  by  attributing  it  to  her 
woman's  coquetry,  and  it  had 
piqued  his  fancy  rather  than  other- 
wise. What  a  blind  fool  he  had 
been !  Gradually  it  dawned  on 
him  that  he  had  been  inhabiting 
a  fool's  paradise ;  and  the  more  he 
thought  on  it,  the  wider  his  eyes 
opened  to  the  truth,  and  the  surer 
grew  the  conviction  that  his  rejec- 
tion was  final.  His  reflections, 
however,  did  him  good  on  the 
whole,  for  love  cannot  exist  unless 
it  has  love  to  feed  upon ;  and  the 
knowledge  that  he  had  wasted  his 
affection  on  one  whose  thoughts 
were  bound  up  in  another,  was  as 
gall  and  wormwood  to  his  self- 
love. 

Euth,  the  unwilling  cause  of  his 
misery,  was  by  no  means  very 
happy  herself.  She  was  not  at  all 
proud  of  her  conquest.  It  only 
added  to  her  embarrassments.  She 
was  troubled  about  her  step -father, 
and  troubled  about  John.  Each 
mail  brought  worse  news  than  the 
last  from  Europe ;  and  in  propor- 
tion as  wool  fell  in  value,  so 
did  the  sheep  which  produced  it. 
Daily  Mr  Cosgrove's  affairs  grew 
more  hopelessly  involved,  and  his 
health  worse.  Who  could  have 
foreseen  a  few  years  ago  that  such 
a  change  could  have  come  over  the 
strong,  selfish,  hard  man  of  the 
world?  The  terrible  disappoint- 
ment which  his  son's  career  had 
wrought  had  given  the  first  great 
stroke,  and  from  that  date  forth  he 
had  gradually  begun  to  sink.  The 
question  of  what  she  should  do  in 
the  event  of  his  death  not  infre- 
quently presented  itself  to  Euth's 
dismayed  mind  with  appalling  inten- 


458 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. — Conclusion. 


[Oct. 


sity.  The  Berkeley?,  it  is  true, 
were  her  blood-relations,  but  they 
had  been  so  incensed  with  her  elec- 
tion to  reside  with  her  step-father, 
that  she  could  hope  but  for  little 
sympathy  from  that  quarter;  and 
she  knew  not  where  else  she  could 
look  to.  As  to  John  West,  Euth 
wept  with  vexation  when  she  re- 
membered the  pained  despairing  ex- 
pression which  had  swept  over  his 
features  as  he  noticed  Fitzgerald 
bending  over  her  in  the  earnestness 
of  his  entreaty.  She  had  longed 
to  see  him  once  more,  and  what 
had  come  of  it  1  She  knew  some- 
what of  his  struggling  life,  and  how 
unwearyingly  he  had  battled  for 
success ;  and  she  trembled  as  she 
thought  what  utter  despair  might 
urge  him  to.  She  bore  her  troubles, 
nevertheless,  as  she  had  learned  to 
do  long  ago,  with  outward  calm. 
Whatever  might  have  been  the  con- 
flict and  distress  of  her  soul,  no  one 
knew  it.  As  for  the  Grays,  they 
lived  very  much  in  the  same  hum- 
drum style  they  had  done  since 
Bessie's  marriage.  The  fall  in 
sheep  considerably  affected  the  old 
squatter's  income ;  but  he  had 
money  put  by,  and  owed  no  man 
anything,  and  hoped  by  strict  econ- 
omy to  tide  over  the  crisis  which 
was  ruining  the  money-borrowing 
sheep-owners  all  around.  Phoebe 
had  seen  but  little  of  either  Ruth 
or  Fitzgerald  since  the  event  which 
had  so  greatly  disturbed  the  lat- 
ter's  equanimity;  for  the  former 
was  too  busy  at  home  attending  to 
her  step-father's  ailments,  and  the 
latter  would  rather  have  gone  any- 
where at  this  period  than  to  Bety- 
ammo.  His  self  esteem  had  been 
wounded,  and  he  fancied  himself 
humiliated  in  the  eyes  of  the  world ; 
and  somehow  he  felt  as  if  he  could 
willingly  have  faced  any  one  rather 
than  Phcebe.  She  had  come  out  of 
the  struggles  which  had  tried  her 
so  bitterly,  as  gold  comes  from  the 
fire.  Her  unselfish  cheery  little 


spirit  arose  from  the  burning  flames 
like  a  phcenix  from  the  ashes.  She 
had  bravely  done  battle  with  her- 
self ;  and  although  the  old  wounds 
rankled  and  bled  afresh  now  and 
again,  she  went  about  her  house- 
hold duties  with  a  somewhat  un- 
reasoning but  fixed  belief  that 
whatever  is  is  best,  and  that  every- 
thing is  ordered  for  the  best,  cheer- 
ing and  comforting  her  parents,  and 
shedding  happiness  around  her. 

Stone  and  Bessie  were  very  com- 
fortable in  their  new  home,  and 
prosperity  still  smiled  upon  them. 
John's  sudden  disappearance  had 
perplexed  Stone  exceedingly ;  and 
Bessie's  mysterious  nods  and  "  I 
could  if  I  woulds,"  served  only 
to  mystify  him  more.  "  Now, 
Bessie,"  he  would  say,  "  you're  just 
like  all  the  rest  of  your  sex.  I'm 
sure  you  think  that  some  love-affair 
is  at  the  bottom  of  it ;  and  how  on 
earth  was  the  fellow  to  fall  in  love? 
He  hadn't  the  chance." 

Then  Bessie  would  nod  her  head 
more  sagaciously  than  ever,  and 
her  husband  would  give  up  the 
conundrum  in  despair.  Ruth's  re- 
jection of  Fitzgerald  had  by  no 
means  taken  her  by  surprise,  and, 
to  tell  the  truth,  she  rather  enjoyed 
the  unexpected  discomfiture  of  her 
old  friend  than  otherwise.  "  It 
won't  do  him  a  bit  of  harm,"  she 
frequently  told  Charley.  She  was 
very  fond  of  Ruth,  and  honoured 
her  for  her  consistent  character  and 
her  devotion  to  her  now  broken- 
down  step-father,  and  would  will- 
ingly have  shown  her  all  the  kind- 
ness that  lay  in  her  power,  but  the 
distance  was  too  far,  and  Ruth  was 
tied  down  to  her  duties. 

At  last,  however,  a  day  came. 
On  going  in  to  Mr  Cosgrove's  room 
one  morning  to  inquire  for  him, 
Ruth  discovered  him  sitting  by  the 
window-seat,  a  letter  spread  before 
him  on  his  knees.  The  bed  was  un- 
pressed.  Startled,  she  approached, 
and  found  him  a  corpse !  The 


1880.] 


Bash- Life  in  Queensland. — Conclusion. 


459 


candle  by  his  side  was  burnt  down 
into  the  socket.  He  had  evidently 
been  dead  some  hours.  She  had 
long  looked  forward  to  the  possible 
occurrence  of  the  event;  but  still 
the  suddenness  took  her  by  sur- 
prise, and  the  shock  was  a  severe 
one.  She  had  never  loved  her  step- 
father with  the  love  which  most 
children  bestow  so  unconsciously 
on  their  parents  ;  but  never  having 
known  her  own  father,  and  having 
lived  all  her  life  with  the  dead 
man,  who  had  treated  her  even  in 
his  successful  days  with  a  certain 
amount  of  kindness,  she  could  not 
but  grieve  for  him.  Where  he  was 
had  been  a  home  to  her,  and  latterly 
he  had  softened  and  changed  very 
much  in  his  manner,  as  he  became 
more  infirm  and  dependent.  The 
letter  which  had  engrossed  his  latest 
moments  was  from  his  agents,  Messrs 
Bond  &  Foreclose,  and  contained  an 
intimation  to  the  effect  that  the 
very  unsatisfactory  nature  of  his 
account  had  compelled  them  to 
take  the  disagreeable  step  of  putting 
the  estate  into  liquidation  ;  and  the 
dreaded  announcement  had  proba- 
bly killed  him.  Mr  Gray,  who  was 
sent  for,  came  over  in  the  afternoon 
with  Bessie,  who  had  arrived  on  a 
visit  the  day  before ;  and  Phoebe 
and  the  sisters  sympathised  with 
the  lonely  girl,  and  carried  her  off 
to  Betyammo,  where  Mrs  Gray  re- 
ceived her  like  a  daughter,  and 
where  they  made  much  of  her,  and 
consoled  her  with  a  hundred  woman- 
ly little  attentions  and  kindnesses. 
Mr  Gray  remained  at  Cambaranga, 
setting  things  in  order ;  and  Willy 
Fitzgerald,  on  hearing  the  news, 
mounted  his  horse  and  galloped 
over  too,  taking  care  not  to  go  near 
the  house  until  he  ascertained  that 
Ruth  had  gone  away — after  which 
he  stayed,  assisting  Mr  Gray  in 
putting  things  to  rights,  and  in 
endeavouring  to  do  what  they  could. 
Poor  Ruth  !  they  soon  saw  they 
could  not  do  much'  for  her.  The 


letter  she  had  herself  seen  acquaint- 
ed them  with  that.  There  was  ab- 
solutely nothing  left.  Both  men 
knew  that  Mr  Cosgrove's  affairs  had 
been  long  in  a  bad  way,  but  neither 
had  any  idea  of  their  being  in  so 
deplorable  a  state  ;  and  Willy  Fitz- 
gerald implored  Mr  Gray  to  accept 
a  sum  of  money  which  would  at 
least  keep  Ruth  from  present  in- 
convenience. She  might  be  allowed 
to  believe  it  came  from  the  estate, 
— "  anything  she  liked,"  he  urged, 
"  provided  she  had  it ; "  but  old 
Mr  Gray  would  not  hear  of  such 
a  thing. 

"No,  no,  Fitzgerald,  my  boy;  it 
won't  do.  It's  like  your  generous 
nature ;  but  it  won't  do — won't  do. 
What  if  she  ever  came  to  know 
about  iU  No,  no  —  it  won't  do. 
We'll  see  about  her;  she'll  be  all 
right,  make  your  mind  easy." 

So  having  nothing  more  to  do, 
Fitzgerald  rode  home,  and  busied 
himself  about  his  work,  and  endea- 
voured to  forget  the  existence  of 
Ruth  Bouverie. 

When  Bessie  left  Betyammo,  she 
carried  Ruth  with  her  in  spite  of 
kind  old  Mr  Gray's  entreaties  to 
make  their  house  her  home ;  and 
Ruth,  determined  not  to  eat  the 
bread  of  idleness,  put  into  execu- 
tion a  little  scheme  which  she  had 
evolved  when  staying  with  her 
friends.  She  qualified  as  a  Govern- 
ment school  teacher,  and,  through 
Stone's  influence,  got  herself  ap- 
pointed to  the  little  Government 
school  in  the  township  near  his 
property ;  and  on  it  she  expended 
all  her  energies,  riding  in  early  in 
the  morning,  and  returning  again 
at  sundown,  to  be  a  companion  to 
her  friend,  and  gladden  the  house- 
hold with  her  calm,  sweet  pres- 
ence. 

The  public  papers  had  apprised 
the  colony  at  large  of  the  important 
discovery  which  had  been  made  in 
the  shape  of  a  new  gold-field,  and 
of  the  exceedingly  rich  prizes  which 


460 


Bush-Life  in  Queensland. — Conclusion. 


[Oct. 


some  of  the  fortunate  finders  had 
drawn  in  the  great  lottery ;  but  as 
yet  John  had  kept  silence  about  his 
share  of  good  fortune.  He  stood 
almost  alone.  He  had  no  one  to 
rejoice  with  him  except  Stone  and 
his  wife, — and  the  Grays,  perhaps  ; 
but  they  lived  too  near  Ungahrun, 
and  he  did  not  care  about  going 
there.  He  could  not  bring  himself 
as  yet  to  face  Euth  as  another  man's 
wife.  His  success  had  not  come 
unalloyed  by  pain.  How  different- 
ly would  he  have  felt  a  couple  of 
years  earlier !  Then,  perhaps,  he 
might  have  had  a  chance  against 
the  rich  man ;  but  now— now  that 
he  cared  comparatively  little  for 
success,  everything  went  well  with 
him.  Ned  and  he  received  a  con- 
siderable money  reward  from  Gov- 
ernment, as  well  as  an  unusually 
large  area  along  the  line  of  reef 
they  had  opened,  and  which  from 
the  first  yielded  rich  stone.  The 
gold-fields  had  proved  a  success ; 
much  alluvial  gold  had  been  taken 
out  of  the  ravines  and  gullies,  and 
many  new  quartz  -  reefs  had  been 
found  out  and  Avere  being  worked. 
Machinery  had  been  attracted  to 
the  field  at  an  early  stage,  and  one 
of  the  results  of  the  "  crushings  " 
was  to  fill  the  pockets  of  John  and 
his  mate  over  and  over  again.  It 
was  no  doubt  a  great  triumph  for 
him,  but  on  the  whole  he  found  it 
wearisome.  The  excitement  was 
passed  away,  and  he  grew  sick  to 
death  of  the  bustle  and  push  around 
him.  He  sighed  once  more  for  the 
quiet  bush-life,  the  lowing  of  the 
peaceful  herd,  the  scent  of  the 
trampled  sweet  marjoram,  and  the 
blood  -  stirring  gallop  through  the 
pleasant  pasture-lands.  The  mem- 
ory of  his  early  life  grew  irresisti- 
bly strong.  There  was  nothing  to 
detain  him.  Ned,  who  had  be- 
come a  person  of  considerable  im- 
portance, undertook  the  manage- 
ment of  the  claim ;  so,  saddling  his 
horse  one  morning,  he  abruptly  took 


leave  of  his  friends — including  the 
"  lucky  mates,"  whose  favouring 
genius  had  enabled  them  to  secure 
the  ground  adjacent  to  his  own, 
and  who  were  in  a  fair  way  to  be- 
come independent  for  life  —  and 
started  south  for  Brisbane,  whence 
he  made  his  way  up  to  visit  Stone 
and  Bessie. 

It  was  a  soft  pleasant  evening, 
and  Stone,  who  had  been  round 
the  stables  and  outhouse-buildings, 
superintending  personally  the  feed- 
ing and  watering  of  a  number  of 
choice  young  pedigree  stock,  came 
up  and  joined  Bessie,  as  she  stood 
on  the  grass-plot  in  front  of  the 
house,  nursing  her  baby.  It  was 
her  second  child,  and  the  first,  a 
sturdy  little  man,  ran  to  meet  his 
father,  clamouring  for  a  ride  upon 
his  shoulder. 

"  Come  along,  then,  old  fellow," 
said  Stone,  lifting  him  up ;  "  we'll 
go  and  meet  Euth,  and  you  shall 
ride  back  with  her." 

As  he  opened  the  little  garden- 
gate  leading  down  the  road,  he  be- 
came aware  of  a  horseman  riding 
towards  the  house. 

"  Holloa,  Bessie  ! "  he  remarked, 
calling  attention  to  the  fact,  "  we 
are  going  to  have  company  to- 
night." 

"  Who  can  it  be,  I  wonder  ? " 

"  No  idea  :  some  stranger,  I  sup- 
pose." 

Nearer  and  nearer  the  horseman 
drew,  until  at  last,  springing  from 
his  horse  amid  loud  exclama- 
tions of  delight  and  surprise,  John 
West  stood  beside  them,  shaking 
hands  and  answering  a  hundred 
questions. 

Indeed,  so  busy  and  excited  were 
they  all,  that  no  one  noticed  Euth 
as  she  rode  up,  and,  dismounting, 
entered  the  little  gate,  but  Mr  Stone, 
junior,  who  set  up  a  shout  of  wel- 
come. 

"  Do  you  know  who  this  is  ? " 
inquired  Bessie. 

West  turned  round,  and  his  heart 


1880.] 


Bash-Life  in  Queensland. — Conclusion. 


461 


stood  almost  still  with  the  sudden- 
ness of  the  start. 

"  Don't  you  remember  Ruth  Bou- 
verie  1 "  said  Stone,  hastily. 

"  Euth  Bouverie  ?  "  returned 
John,  with  an  unmistakable  em- 
phasis on  the  surname,  and  an  ash- 
en face,  which  caused  that  of  the 
person  in  question  to  grow  a  deep 
crimson. 

"  Yes,  of  course ;  what  else  ? "  an- 
swered the  settler,  going  over  to 
his  wife,  who  had  been  making  a 
series  of  telegraphic  signals  to  him, 
and  accompanying  her  inside  the 
house,  leaving  Euth  and  John 
standing  together  on  the  grass- 
plot. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Bessie?" 
asked  the  mystified  man.  "  Any- 
thing wrong  1 " 

"  !No,"  she  said,  laughing ;  "  only 
you  are  such  a  great  stupid,  and  can't 
see  one  inch  before  you.  I  always 
told  you  I  knew  more  than  I  cared 
to  tell  about  the  cause  of  John's 
disappearance,  didn't  I  ? " 

"  Whew  !  "  whistled  Stone. 
"Oh!  that's  it,  is  it?  and  my 
lord  here  was  jealous  of  Fitzgerald 
and " 

"  Something  of  that  sort,"  re- 
turned Bessie.  "  That's  all  right 
now,  though,  thank  goodness;  and 
mother  says  that  Willy  has  got 
over  the  disappointment  complete- 
ly, and  is  more  there  than  ever. 
Now  you  know,  and  just  leave  them 
to  themselves.  They'll  be  all  right 
directly." 

And  apparently  knowing,  shrewd- 
witted  Bessie  was  right ;  for  that 
evening  at  supper  John  West's  face 
wore  a  beaming  look  of  happiness, 
such  as  had  not  lighted  it  for  many 
a  day;  while  Euth,  filled  with  sweet 
content,  listened  to  the  narrative 
of  his  adventures  with  mingled  pity 
and  amazement,  weeping  at  the  last 
tears  of  sorrow  over  the  fate  of  the 
unhappy  Ealf,  with  a  sincerity  of 
grief  which  was  undeserved. 

But  little  now  remains  to  be  told. 


Yielding  to  his  inclinations,  John 
West  purchased  a  compact,  well- 
grassed  cattle  station  in  a  favour- 
ite part  of  the  country,  where,  sur- 
rounded by  pleasant  neighbours,  he 
literally  lives  under  the  shade  of 
his 'own  fig-tree,  and  drinks  the 
juice  of  his  own  grape.  Euth,  now 
his  wife,  moves  about,  imparting  to 
everything  a  feminine  grace  and 
elegance,  with  a  magical  touch, 
which  to  her  husband  is  simply 
marvellous;  and  as  he  rests  his 
eye  on  her  figure,  and  the  fragrant 
blossoms  of  the  flower-garden  which 
it  is  her  especial  delight  to  tend, 
the  recollection  of  days  of  un- 
rewarded toil,  and  misery,  and 
danger,  fades  away  as  does  an  un- 
substantial dream  of  the  night 
before  the  brightness  of  the  golden 
morning. 

As  already  related,  Fitzgerald 
recovered  his  soundness  of  heart, 
but  not  for  long.  His  renewed 
intercourse  with  the  Grays  brought 
him  once  more  into  contact  with 
Phoebe,  and  day  by  day  he  became 
more  and  more  impressed  with  her 
charming  character  and  sterling 
qualities,  until  at  last,  wondering 
how  he  could  have  been  so  blind 
as  to  prefer  any  one  before  her, 
he  begged  her  to  become  his  wife. 
For  some  months  Phrebe  held  out, 
in  order,  as  she  said,  to  give  him 
time  to  know  his  own  mind ;  but 
eventually  yielding  to  his  repeated 
solicitations,  she  consented,  and  the 
new  house  at  Ungahrun  opened  its 
doors  to  receive  a  throng  of  rejoic- 
ing friends  and  neighbours  eager 
to  welcome  the  advent  of  its  new 
mistress. 

Desmard  is  succeeding  well  as  a 
squatter  out  west,  his  father  having 
advanced  a  sufficient  sum  to  pur- 
chase a  share  in  what  will  with 
time  become  a  valuable  station. 

Ned  has  developed  into  a  machine- 
owner,  and  bids  fair  to  become  one 
of  the  largest  mining  capitalists  in 
the  colony. 


462 


The  Roof  of  the  World. 


[Oct. 


THE     ROOF    OF    THE    WORLD. 


IN  February  1838,  Lieutenant 
Wood,  of  the  Indian  Navy,  rode 
across  the  level  summit  of  the  Ko- 
tal  of  Ish-kashni  —  the  only  pass 
across  that  long  and  lofty  offshoot 
from  the  Hindu  Kush  which  forms 
the  eastern  frontier  of  Badakhshan; 
and  from  thence,  at  a  height  of 
nearly  11,000  feet  above  the  sea, 
he  looked  down  into  the  narrow 
mountain  -  valley  wherein,  undis- 
cernible  beneath  the  snow,  flowed 
the  infant  stream  of  the  Oxus.  For 
long  centuries  no  European  had 
beheld  that  river  in  its  upper 
course;  and  the  brief  narratives 
of  Marco  Polo  and  one  or  two 
other  early  adventurers,  were  still 
received  in  Europe  with  scepti- 
cism, and  even  with  incredulity. 
That  is  the  way  in  which  the 
world  receives  the  narratives  of  all 
first  explorers.  Bruce's  '  Travels  in 
Abyssinia,'  with  its  true  story  of  a 
strange  land  and  strange  peoples, 
were  treated  as  purely  mythical ; 
and  the  '  Tales  of  Baron  Munchau- 
sen,'  which  have  delighted  the  chil- 
dren of  subsequent  generations, 
were  originally  published  in  deri- 
sion of  Bruce's  narrative.  For  some 
days  before  we  here  meet  him, 
Lieutenant  Wood  had  been  on  the 
actual  track  of  Marco  Polo ;  and 
his  brief,  memorable,  and  interest- 
ing expedition  which  we  are  about 
to  recount,  shows  how  accurate  is 
the  simple  narrative  of  the  daring 
Venetian,  whose  tidings  of  the 
great  empire  of  China  and  of  the 
Indies  fired  Columbus  with  the 
desire  to  find  a  way  thither  across 
the  wild  wastes  of  the  Atlantic. 

More  than  a  twelvemonth  had 
elapsed  since  Lieutenant  Wood  start- 
ed from  the  mouths  of  the  Indus, 
making  his  way  slowly  up  that 
most  luinavigable  of  large  rivers ; 


and  when  at  length  baffled  by  the 
rapids  at  the  Salt  Eange,  he  made 
his  way  overland,  by  Kohat  and  the 
Khyber  Pass,  to  Cabul.  His  spe- 
cial object  was  to  visit  the  unknown 
region  of  the  upper  Oxus,  and,  if  pos- 
sible, to  track  the  river  to  its  source. 
Taking  the  most  direct  route,  he 
endeavoured  to  surmount  the  Hin- 
du Kush  by  one  of.  the  passes 
immediately  to  the  north  of  Cabul ; 
but  he  found  the  Parwan  Pass  im- 
practicable so  late  in  the  year,  and 
wisely  turning  back,  he  escaped  the 
fate  of  another  party  which  had 
started  from  Cabul  along  with  him, 
and  whose  members  perished  in  the 
snow  in  an  adjoining  pass.  Back, 
down  the  long  valley  again,  he  had 
to  go  to  Cabul;  from  thence  he  made 
for  Bameean,  the  best  known  and 
most  westerly  of  the  passes  over  the 
Hindu  Kush;  and  thence  he  de- 
scended northward  towards  the  Ox- 
us until  he  came  to  the  sultry  and 
unhealthy  lowlands  of  Kunduz.  The 
Oxus  was  there  within  a  day's  ride; 
but  his  object  was  to  strike  the 
river  much  further  up  ;  and  as  the 
course  of  the  Oxus  above  Kunduz 
projects  northwards  in  a  semicircle, 
he  resolved  to  proceed  along  the 
chord  of  the  arc,  through  Badakh- 
shan,  and  over  the  Kotal  of  Ish- 
kashm. 

Standing  upon  the  summit  of 
the  pass,  an  unbroken  expanse  of 
snow  spread  around.  Far  as  the 
eye  could  reach,  white  mountains 
towered  aloft  into  the  cold  sky. 
Behind  were  the  narrow  mountain- 
valleys  of  the  eastern  part  of  Bad- 
akhshan,  in  one  of  which  lie  the 
lapis-lazuli  mines,  famous  from  the 
earliest  times,  and  which  Wood  had 
just  visited.  la  front,  and  2000 
feet  below  him,  flowed  the  snow- 
covered  Oxus,  coming  down  a  long 


1880.] 


TJie  Roof  of  the  World. 


463 


narrow  valley  from  the  east  —  an 
opening  between  precipitous  paral- 
lel mountain-chains,  on  whose  sum- 
mits, and  far  down  their  sides,  lay 
the  unmelted  snow  of  countless 
centuries.  To  the  right,  as  he  thus 
looked  eastward,  the  Hindu  Kush 
towered  above  the  narrow  vale ; 
while  to  the  left,  the  mountain-chain 
on  which  he  stood  ran  north  by 
•west  beyond  the  range  of  vision, — 
a  mighty  barrier,  which  causes  the 
Oxus  to  turn  at  right  angles  to  its 
previous  course,  curving  northward 
round  Badakhshan. 

There,  then,  was  the  infant  Oxus, 
only  a  hundred  feet  in  width  ;  and 
he  was  the  only  European  of  mod- 
ern times  who  had  seen  the  sight. 
Descending  the  pass,  Wood  and 
his  small  party  (himself  the  sole 
European)  crossed  the  river  on 
bridges  of  hardened  snow ;  for  the 
ice  was  ruptured  by  the  rise  of  the 
river,  which  begins  early  in  spring. 
He  had  a  great  desire  to  visit  the 
world-renowned  Euby  Mines,  which 
had  been  famous  when  Europe  was 
still  in  its  infancy.  They  lay  only 
twenty  miles  down  the  river,  and 
he  could  see  the  mountain  into 
whose  sides  the  galleries  were  quar- 
ried in  search  of  the  gem  which 
rivals  even  the  diamond  in  value. 
Only  twenty  miles ;  but  he  could 
not  reach  the  spot !  And  yet  the 
route  to  the  mines  from  where  he 
stood  is  actually  the  only  one  by 
which  the  people  of  mountain- 
girdled  Badakhshan  can  communi- 
cate with  the  provinces  of  Dar- 
waz,  Roshan,  and  Shagnan  opposite 
to  them  on  the  north  or  right 
bank  of  the  Oxus.  Throughout 
these  twenty  miles  the  mountains 
on  the  left  bank  descend  in  lofty 
precipices  to  the  river-bed,  —  the 
only  route  is  along  the  right  bank. 
Bat  even  there  the  mountains  come 
so  close  to  the  river,  that  journey- 
ing by  horseback  is  rarely  possible, 
and  journeying  on  foot  is  only  safe 


in  the  summer  months;  and  the 
best  route  of  all  is  along  the  surface 
of  the  river  in  winter  when  it  hap- 
pens to  be  hard  frozen. 

Wood  had  been  partly  prepared 
for  this  disappointment.  When 
ascending  the  Pass  of  Ish-kashm,  a 
strange,  way-worn  figure  had  met 
them,  brushing  his  way  through  the 
willow  scrub  that  covers  the  slope, 
with  the  skin  of  a  horse  wrapped 
round  him.  Tempted  by  the  fro- 
zen state  of  the  river,  he  had  gone 
with  some  comrades  to  pay  a  visit 
in  Darwaz,  just  beyond  the  Ruby 
Mines;  but  when  about  to  return 
they  found  the  river  had  burst  its 
icy  covering.  His  companions 
turned  back  to  await  the  coming 
of  summer;  but  he  had  pushed  on, 
and  only  got  through  after  sacri- 
ficing his  horse,  whose  hide  he  was 
carrying  home  with  him.  Hardly 
had  this  strange-clad  wayfarer  pass- 
ed on,  when  Wood  met  a  party  of 
horsemen  descending  from  the  pass, 
who  told  him  they  had  been  sent 
to  collect  tribute  at  a  hamlet  near 
the  Euby  Mines.  They  had  to  leave 
their  horses  and  make  their  way 
thither  on  foot ;  and  on  their  return 
one-third  of  the  party  had  been 
overwhelmed  by  an  avalanche  on 
the  mountain-side.  Happening  to 
look  back,  the  foremost  of  the  party 
beheld  a  white  mist  rushing  down, 
and  their  comrades  were  seen  no 
more.  Such  was  the  region  which 
Wood  had  now  reached. 

Overruling  the  fears  and  natural 
dislike  of  his  little  party,  Wood 
now  turned  his  face  eastward,  or 
E.  by  N.,  resolved  to  make  his  way 
up  through  the  wild  and  lonesome 
narrow  mountain  -  valley  down 
which  flowed  the  Oxus  from  its 
unknown  source  in  the  far-off 
mountain  -  land  of  Pamir.  This 
valley,  which  he  entered  and  first 
looked  down  upon  from  the  Pass 
of  Ish-kashm,  is  called  Wakhan, — 
so  Wood  found  :  a  name  which  is 


464 


The  Roof  of  the  World. 


[Oct. 


mentioned  passingly  by  Marco  Polo, 
but  which  had  never  since  been 
heard  of  in  Europe,  and  which  now 
became  replaced  in  geography.  Pro- 
ceeding up  this  valley,  which  for 
fifty  miles  above  Ish-kashm  varies 
from  a  mile  to  barely  two  hundred 
yards  in  width  —  a  mere  thread 
among  the  tremendous  mountain- 
ranges  on  either  hand  —  Wood's 
little  party  early  in  the  afternoon 
reached  Ishtrakh.  The  word  ham- 
let is  too  big  for  this  little  settlement 
— a  few  rude  and  small  houses  built 
for  shelter  among  the  rocky  frag- 
ments of  the  mountains.  As  a 
snow -shower  was  falling  when  he 
arrived,  no  sign  of  human  habita- 
tion was  discernible,  but  for  a  yak 
standing  quietly  at  what  proved  to 
be  the  door  of  one  of  the  dwellings. 
The  yak — the  reindeer  of  Tibet  and 
the  Pamir, — a  creature  that  cannot 
live  where  the  temperature  is  above 
the  freezing-point ! 

The  mountain-range  which  here 
shuts  in  the  valley  of  the  Oxus 
on  the  south  is  the  most  easterly 
part  of  the  Hindu  Kush.  Ishtrakh 
stands  at  the  mouth  of  a  glen  or 
gorge  in  these  mountains,  down 
which  a  rivulet  flows  into  the  Ox- 
us from  its  source  in  the  eternal 
snows ;  and  up  this  glen  there  is 
a  path  leading  to  a  pass  over  the 
Hindu  Kush,  so  that  by  a  three 
days'  journey  one  may  reach  the 
seat  of  the  ruler  of  Chitral.  But 
the  journey  must  be  made  on 
foot,  and  is  only  practicable  in 
summer,  and  the  entire  route  is 
through  the  wild  mountains,  utter- 
ly uninhabited.  So  inaccessible  is 
this  region  that  even  a  route  of  this 
kind  is  held  worthy  of  mention. 

At  Ishtrakh,  Wood  learnt  that 
for  forty  miles  upwards  the  valley 
of  the  Oxus  was  wholly  unin- 
habited. The  cold  was  great,  and 
the  wind  from  the  mountains  so 
piercing  that  nothing  short  of  ne- 
cessity would  justify  a  bivouac  for 


the  night  in  the  open.  According- 
ly, after  some  ten  hours'  rest,  Wood 
and  his  little  party  started  from 
Ishtrakh  at  midnight — whether  by 
moonlight  or  by  the  gleam  of  the 
snow  is  not  mentioned — and  rode 
along  by  the  river  through  the 
wild  and  profound  solitude  for  forty 
miles — thirteen  hours  in  the  saddle 
— to  a  little  settlement  called  Kun- 
dut,  which,  be  it  observed,  is  due 
north  of  Attock.  Just  before  reach- 
ing this  place,  the  ground  became 
more  level,  and  the  Oxus,  dividing 
into  many  channels,  meandered 
over  a  sandy  bed,  studded  with 
numberless  islets,  which  were  thick- 
ly covered  with  an  undergrowth 
of  red  willow  -  trees.  In  passing 
through  one  of  these  copses,  Wood's 
dog  started  a  hare  from  its  bed — 
the  only  living  thing  they  had  seen 
throughout  their  forty  miles'  ride. 

At  Kundut,  Shah  Turai,  in  a 
little  fort,  ruled  as  monarch  over  the 
fifteen  families  which  constituted 
the  population,  and  whose  houses 
clustered  about  the  fort  like  so 
many  cells  in  a  beehive.  Wood 
was  hospitably  received  by  the 
Shah.  "A  large  fire  soon  blazed 
upon  the  hearth  of  the  best  house  ; 
and  his  subjects  being  convened, 
I  was  paraded  round  it  to  refute 
the  assertion  of  a  wandering  cul- 
lender (fakir)  from  Jumbo  in  the 
Himalaya  Mountains,  who  had  per- 
suaded the  credulous  Wakhanis 
that  the  Feringis  were  a  nation  of 
dwarfs."  And  here  we  get  a 
glimpse,  reminding  us  of  one  of  the 
earliest  stages  of  settled  human  life 
long  before  calendars  were  com- 
piled or  timepieces  invented.  The 
holes  in  the  roofs  of  the  houses, 
besides  giving  vent  to  the  smoke, 
perform  the  office  of  sundials,  in- 
dicating the  hour  of  the  day  when 
the  sun  is  shining.  "  Before  the 
housewife  begins  to  prepare  the 
family  meal,  she  looks  not  up  at  a 
clock,  but  round  the  walls  or  upon 


1880.] 


The  Roof  of  the  World. 


4G5 


the  floor  for  the  spot  on  which  his 
golden  light  is  streaming.  The  sea- 
sons also  are  marked  by  the  same 
means ;  for  when  the  sun's  rays, 
through  this  aperture  in  the  roof, 
reach  one  particular  spot,  it  is  seed- 
time." 

Eesuming  his  journey  up  the 
valley  of  the  Oxus,  Wood  and  his 
little  party  had  not  proceeded  far 
when  the  barking  of  dogs  and  the 
sight  of  yaks,  camels,  and  sheep 
roaming  over  the  plain  bespoke 
the  vicinity  of  a  pastoral  people. 
It  was  an  encampment  of  Kirghiz, 
numbering  a  hundred  families,  and 
possessed  of  about  2000  yaks,  4000 
sheep,  and  1000  camels  :  "  not  the 
ugly-looking  camel  of  Africa,  but  the 
species  known  as  the  Bactrian,  and 
which,  to  all  the  useful  qualities 
of  the  former,  adds  a  majestic  port 
that  no  animal  but  the  horse  can 
surpass."  It  was  the  first  time 
that  the  Kirghiz  had  ever  wintered 
in  that  district,  and  they  had  just 
arrived, — having  been  solicited  to 
do  so  by  the  Uzbeks  of  Badakhshan, 
with  whom  they  are  connected  by 
race. 

Throughout  that  day's  journey 
the  valley  of  the  Oxus  continued 
level,  about  a  mile  wide,  grassy  in 
some  places,  and,  though  far  from 
fertile,  improved  in  appearance  com- 
pared with  its  lower  course.  But 
it  is  only  on  the  brink  of  the  river 
that  herbage  and  willow  -  copse 
abound  ;  the  outer  part  of  the  nar- 
row plain,  at  the  foot  of  the  moun- 
tains, being  entirely  bare  and  de- 
void of  vegetation.  After  a  twenty- 
four  miles'  ride,  Wood  reached  a 
place  called  Kila  Panj  (from  five 
hillocks  clustered  together) ;  and 
at  this  point  he  crossed  to  the 
right,  or  north  bank  of  the  river, 
which  there  flowed  at  the  rate  of 
three  and  a  half  miles  an  hour.  At 
the  crossing  -  place  at  Kila  Panj, 
the  stream  is  split  into  two  chan- 
nels,— one  of  which,  twenty-seven 


yards  broad,  was  two  feet  deep ; 
the  other,  which  was  broader  by  ten 
yards,  was  so  shallow  that  Wood's 
dog  crossed  it  without  swimming. 
A  further  ride  of  about  ten 
miles  brought  the  party  to  their 
halting-place  for  the  night  at  His- 
sar — a  small  rude  fort,  with  a  little 
settlement  around  it. 

At  this  point  the  valley  of  the 
Oxus  bifurcates.  One  valley  or 
glen  runs  up  among  the  moun- 
tains east  by  south,  the  other  runs 
north-east ;  and  down  each  of  them 
flowed  a  stream  of  nearly  equal 
size.  Which  was  the  Oxus?  To 
Wood's  eye  the  stream  from  the 
east  seemed  slightly  the  larger; 
but  the  Wakhanis  held  the  oppo- 
site opinion  as  a  fact ;  nor  was  it 
easy  for  Wood  to  decide,  for  the 
stream  from  the  north  was  broken 
into  several  channels.  The  north- 
ern stream,  however,  was  covered 
with  ice  to  the  point  of  junction, 
whereas  the  eastern  one  was  un- 
frozen,— plainly  showing  that  the 
stream  from  the  north  rose  in  a 
much  higher  altitude  than  the 
other.  Also,  when  Wood  made  a 
clearing  in  the  ice,  he  found  the 
velocity  of  the  northern  tributary 
double  that  of  the  one  from  the 
east.  Further,  the  Kirghiz  tribe 
whom  he  had  met  on  the  previous 
day  had  told  him  positively  that 
the  source  of  the  Oxus  was  to  be 
found  in  the  lofty  table-land  to  the 
north-east.  So  Wood  resolved  to 
track  the  stream  which  came  down 
from  the  north. 

But  he  wanted  guides,  and  an 
escort  for  protection  against  the 
roving  Kirghiz  tribes ;  and  he  was 
detained  at  Hissar  and  at  Langar 
Kish,  a  place  a  few  miles  further 
on ;  until  it  occurred  to  him  to 
boldly  ask  an  escort  from  the  Kir- 
ghiz encampment  down  the  river — 
that  is,  from  the  very  people  whom 
he  had  to  guard  against;  and  he 
had  not  to  repent  his  confidence. 


466 


The  Roof  of  the  World. 


[Oct. 


At  Hissar,  which  stands  at  the 
confluence  of  the  two  streams,  the 
valley  of  the  Oxus — narrow  at  the 
best  —  terminates  ;  and  the  route 
lies  up  the  durah  Sir-i-kol  —  the 
defile  or  rough  glen  down  which 
comes  the  Oxus  from  the  plateau 
of  Pamir.  Langar  Kish  (10,800 
feet  above  the  sea)  is  the  most 
easterly  point  of  Wakhan,  and  the 
last  'place  of  human  habitation. 
The  travellers  now  clothed  them- 
selves more  heavily  than  ever,  to 
keep  out  the  intense  cold:  "the 
Munshi  in  particular  was  so  ham- 
pered up  with  worsted  cloaks  that 
his  arms  were  all  but  useless,  and 
his  short  legs  had  scarcely  action 
enough  to  keep  him  on  his  horse." 
The  sides  of  the  mountains  form- 
ing the  defile  were  broken  down  in 
abrupt  declivities,  and  the  snow- 
wreatheclstreamflowed  roughly  amid 
their  dislocated  fragments.  This 
is  the  route  by  which  the  Yarkand 
Caravan  travels ;  and  three  hours 
after  starting,  Wood's  party  came 
to  a  ravine  which  they  had  great 
trouble  in  crossing,  and  where  fre- 
quently the  caravan  is  interrupt- 
ed, and  its  merchandise  has  to  be 
transferred  from  the  camel's  back 
to  that  of  the  yak.  They  bivou- 
acked for  the  night  on  a  knoll,  free 
from  snow,  but  only  so  from  its 
being  swept  by  every  gust  that 
traversed  the  durah.  The  cold 
was  intense.  Wood's  thermometer 
was  only  graduated  down  to  6° 
above  zero,  Fahrenheit,  and  the 
mercury  had  sunk  down  into  the 
bulb.  Three  of  the  party  (two  of 
them  Affghans)  suffered  so  much 
during  the  night  that  they  had  to 
be  sent  back  to  Langar  Kish. 
Height  of  the  bivouac  above  the 
sea,  12,000  feet. 

Xext  morning  resuming  their 
course  up  the  rough  snow-covered 
glen,  the  journey  was  most  fatigu- 
ing. Although  the  snow  lay  only 
two  feet  deep,  it  was  but  half-froz- 


en, and  drifts  abounded  in  which 
the  horse  and  his  rider  floundered 
painfully.  At  noon  they  took  to 
the  frozen  surface  of  the  river,  and 
the  change  was  most  agreeable. 
It  was  dark  before  they  reached 
the  halting-place  chosen  by  the 
Kirghiz  guides  j  the  snow  on  it 
lay  a  yard  deep,  and  a  cold  ugly 
spot  it  looked  :  but  the  Kirghiz 
taking  their  wooden  shovels,  quick- 
ly showed  that  there  was  a  store  of 
fuel,  sheep  and  camels'  dung,  be- 
neath ;  and  by  the  help  of  a  good 
fire,  and  high  snow  walls  around 
them,  the  night  was  passed  in  tol- 
erable comfort.  Height  above  the 
sea,  13,500  feet. 

Before  starting  next  day,  the  foot- 
men of  the  party  had  to  be  sent  back, 
dead-beat ;  and  the  party  resumed 
their  way  up  the  frozen  river.  Horns 
in  large  numbers  (the  spoil  of  the 
Kirghiz  hunters)  now  were  strewed 
in  all  directions,  projecting  from 
the  snow, — some  of  them  of  aston- 
ishingly large  size.  These  belonged 
to  the  Ovis  Poli,  a  creature  between 
a  goat  and  a  yak,  first  seen  by 
Marco  Polo,  and  hence  its  European 
name.  That  night  they  bivouacked 
again  on  the  site  of  a  summer  en- 
campment of  the  Kirghiz,  and  with 
the  same  "  comforts  "  as  before. 
Height  above  the  sea,  14,400  feet. 

Next  morning — the  fourth  after 
leaving  Langar  Kish — there  was  a 
strike  among  the  escort ; — only  two 
of  them  could  be  persuaded  to  go 
further.  But  that  was  enough ; 
for  now  the  object  of  search  was 
said  to  be  only  twenty-one  miles 
distant.  Hitherto  Wood's  party 
had  been  greatly  helped  by  fol- 
lowing in  the  tracks  of  a  band 
of  Kirghiz  who  had  just  preceded 
them  ;  but  these  had  turned  off  up 
a  glen  to  the  left,  and  now  they 
had  to  make  a  way  for  themselves 
through  the  half-frozen  snow,  which 
lay  deeper  and  deeper  as  they  ad- 
vanced. Near  as  Wood  had  now 


1880.] 


TJie  Poof  of  the  World. 


467 


approached  to  the  source  of  the 
Oxus,  he  would  have  failed  after 
all  in  reaching  it,  had  not  the  river 
been  frozen.  They  were  fully  two 
hours  in  forcing  their  way  through 
a  field  of  snow  not  five  hundred 
yards  across.  "  Each  individual  by 
turns  took  the  lead,  and  forced  his 
horse  to  struggle  onward  until  ex- 
haustion brought  it  down  in  the 
snow,  where  it  was  allowed  to  lie 
and  recruit  whilst  the  next  was 
urged  forward.  It  was  so  great  a 
relief  when  we  again  got  upon  the 
river,"  says  Wood,  "  that  in  the 
elasticity  of  my  spirits  I  pushed 
my  pony  into  a  trot : "  a  proceeding 
which  was  instantly  checked  by  a 
Wakhani,  who  cautioned  Wood  to 
beware  of  the  "  wind  of  the  moun- 
tains"—  the  rarefied  air  of  those 
high  altitudes,  of  which  we  shall 
see  more  by-and-by. 

As  they  neared  the  source  of  the 
Oxus  the  ice  on  its  surface  became 
brittle.  In  the  afternoon  they  had 
to  leave  it,  and  journey  for  an  hour 
along  its  right  bank.  Ever  since 
leaving  Langar  Kish,  the  mountains 
on  either  hand  had  appeared  to 
become  lower  and  lower,  —  the 
ascent  being  so  gradual  that  they 
hardly  thought  of  the  great  altitude 
which  stage  by  stage  they  were 
reaching.  Now,  the  mountains 
appeared  to  be  entirely  falling 
away  from  them ;  and  ascending  a 
low  hill,  which  apparently  bounded 
the  valley  to  the  eastward,  at  five 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of  the  19th 
of  February  1838,  Wood  at  length 
stood  upon  the  Bam-i-duniah,  the 
"Roof  of  the  World."  Height  above 
the  sea,  15,600  feet. 

Before  him,  looking  northward, 
Wood  beheld  a  wide  mountain- 
table  -  land  mantled  in  snow.  A 
plain,  stretching  almost  to  the  hori- 
zon and  about  four  miles  in  breadth, 
lay  embosomed  amid  swelling  hills 
about  500  feet  high,  but  which  on 
the  south  east  towered  into  moun- 


tains ;  and  in  the  middle  of  the 
plain,  or  rather  along  one  side  of 
it,  spread  a  fine  lake,  in  the  form  of 
a  crescent,  fifteen  miles  in  length, 
and  with  an  average  breadth  of 
one  mile.  And  almost  at  his  feet, 
at  the  southern  end  of  the  lake, 
the  Oxus  was  flowing  from  its 
source,  and  plunging  into  the  durah 
by  which  the  travellers  had  ap- 
proached. Here,  then,  was  the 
object  of  this  bold  expedition  ac- 
complished. The  old  and  almost 
forgotten  story  of  Marco  Polo  was 
true ;  and  the  great  river  Oxus, 
which,  after  creating  the  Oasis  of 
Khiva,  disappears  in  the  marshes 
of  the  Aral  Sea,  has  its  source  in 
a  lake  on  the  Great  Pamir  steppe, 
the  Roof  of  the  World. 

Passing  on  to  the  frozen  surface 
of  the  lake,  called  Sir-i-kol,  Wood 
cut  some  holes  in  the  ice  to  let 
down  his  sounding-lead ;  but  the 
depth  was  small — only  about  six 
feet,  —  and  the  water  was  dis- 
coloured and  fetid,  doubtless  from 
the  decay  of  the  rich  rank  grasses 
which  grow  in  summer.  The  lake 
was  probably  deeper  in  other  parts, 
but  Wood  was  unable  to  explore 
further,  owing  to  the  labour  of  cut- 
ting through  the  ice,  which  was 
two  and  a  half  feet  thick.  The 
difficulty  of  doing  anything  was 
felt  to  be  excessive,  owing  to  the 
extreme  rarity  of  the  atmosphere. 
"  A  few  strokes  with  an  axe  brought 
the  workman  to  the  ground.  A 
run  at  full  speed  for  fifty  yards 
made  the  runner  gasp  for  breath." 
The  pulse,  too,  was  bounding  as  if 
at  high  fever -heat.  Wood  first 
observed  this  peculiarity  when  he 
was  still  among  the  mountain-val- 
leys of  Badakhshan.  Accidentally 
touching  his  pulse  he  felt  it  was 
galloping,  and,  turning  somewhat 
anxiously  to  his  medical  instruc- 
tions, he  took  the  remedies  pre- 
scribed for  fever.  Next  morning 
the  pulse  still  galloped,  but  he 


468 


TJie  Roof  of  the  World. 


[Oct. 


felt  quite  well ;  and  he  soon 
found  that  the  pulses  of  all  the 
party  were  in  the  same  way.  As 
he  remarks,  man  has  a  harometer 
within  him  which  approximately 
shows  his  elevation  ahove  the  sea. 
On  the  banks  of  Lake  Sir-i-kol  the 
pulses  of  his  party  heat  at  from 
110  to  124  per  minute,— the  pul- 
sation being  quicker  in  the  stout 
or  fat  men  than  in  the  spare  or 
thin. 

On  this  elevated  solitude  Wood 
halted  for  the  night.  The  uniform 
robe  of  snow  rendered  it  difficult  to 
determine  distances  or  altitudes, — 
hence,  he  says,  it  is  possible  that 
Sir-i-kol  is  much  larger  than  he  took 
it  for — but  he  reckoned  that  the 
mountains  at  the  southern  end  of  the 
lake  were  about  3400  feet  above  the 
lake,  or  19,000  above  the  sea;  and 
the  perennial  snow  upon  them,  par- 
tially melting  in  summer,  furnishes 
a  never-failing  supply  of  water  to 
the  lake  and  the  Oxus  which  flows 
from  it.  The  wintry  scene  was 
oppressive,  almost  appalling.  A 
dull  cloudless  sky  overhead,  with  a 
snowy  waste  below,  extending  far 
as  the  eye  could  reach.  Not  a  liv- 
ing thing  was  to  be  seen,  not  a 
sound  to  be  heard ;  the  air  was  as 
silent  and  tenantless  as  the  earth. 
Not  even  a  bird  stirred  the  air  with 
its  wings. 

"  Silence  reigned  around — silence  so 
profound  that  it  oppressed  the  heart ; 
and  "  (says  Wood)  "  as  I  contemplated 
the  hoary  summits  of  the  everlasting 
mountains,  where  human  foot  had 
never  trod,  and  where  lay  piled  the 
snows  of  ages,  my  own  dear  country 
and  all  the  social  blessings  it  contains 
passed  across  my  mind  with  a  vivid- 
ness of  recollection  that  I  had  never 
felt  before.  It  is  all  very  well  for 
men  in  crowded  cities  to  be  disgusted 
with  the  world  and  to  talk  of  the  de- 
lights of  solitude.  Let  them  but  pass 
one  twenty-four  hours  on  the  banks  of 
Sir-i-kol,  and  it  will  do  more  to  make 
them  contented  with  their  lot  than  a 
thousand  arguments." 


Saddling-up  soon  after  mid-day, 
Wood  and  his  escort  re-entered  the 
defile,  descending  down  to  Langar 
Kish,  and  finding  the  mountains 
rising  higher  and  higher  on  either 
hand  as  they  descended.  Journey- 
ing down  the  narrow  valley  of  the 
Oxus,  and  recrossing  the  Pass  of 
Ish-kashm,  he  made  good  his  return 
through  Badakhshan  to  Kunduz ; 
and  finally  visited  the  Oxus  at  the 
point  where  it  is  about  to  enter  the 
Deserts,  after  making  its  semicir- 
cular detour  from  Ish-kashni  around 
Badakhshan.  It  was  now  a  great 
river.  It  was  with  difficulty  that 
he  forded  it  on  horseback,  riding 
three  abreast  to  break  the  current ; 
and  yet  the  river,  at  the  ford,  was 
split  into  three  channels.  These 
had  an  aggregate  breadth  of  about 
350  yards,  and  the  stream  in  the 
main  channel  ran  at  the  rate  of  four 
miles  an  hour. 

Since  Wood's  memorable  journey, 
the  eastern  "  fork  "  (as  the  Ameri- 
cans say)  of  the  Oxus,  which  joins 
with  the  Sir-i-kol  river  at  Hissar, 
has  been  explored  by  the  Indian 
traveller  known  as  "  the  Mirza."  As 
Wood  suspected,  this  eastern  branch, 
called  the  "  River  of  Sirhad,"  is 
really  the  larger,  although  it  has 
a  much  lower  source.  The  length 
of  its  course  is  about  100  miles, 
while  Wood's  Oxus  is  about  70. 
From  Hissar  (the  point  of  conflu- 
ence) the  valley  of  the  Sirhad  river 
rounds  E.  by  S.,  close  under  the 
eastern  extremity  of  the  Hindu 
Kush,  to  where  that  mountain-chain 
is  met  at  an  angle  by  the  lofty  Ka- 
rakorum  chain  of  the  Himalaya. 
Apparently,  at  the  angle  where 
these  mighty  chains  meet,  a  lofty 
spur  runs  northward,  forming  the 
eastern  front  of  the  Roof  of  the 
World,  looking  down  upon  Yar- 
kand  and  Kashgar.  Certainly  at 
this  point  the  valley  of  the  Sirhad 
river  turns  northward,  opening  out 
on  the  steppe  of  the  Little  Pamir, 


1880.] 


The  Roof  of  the  World. 


469 


where  this  branch  of  the  Oxus 
(like  the  other)  issues  from  a  lake 
—about  13,300  feet  above  the  sea. 

Captain  Wood's  narrative  was 
originally  published  at  a  time  when 
Central  Asia  was  a  region  not  mere- 
ly unknown  to  (which  it  still  is), 
but  wholly  uncared  for  by,  the  pub- 
lic. In  1872,  when  the  exploits  of 
the  Athalik  Ghazi  of  Kashgar,  and 
the  military  invasion  by  Russia, 
attracted  public  interest  to  that 
part  of  the  East,  "Wood's  narrative 
was  republished,  prefaced  by  an 
Essay  on  the  Valley  of  the  Oxus  by 
Colonel  Yule,  C.B.*  The  Essay  is 
worthy  of  the  high  reputation  of 
its  author,  who,  by  his  commen- 
taries on  Marco  Polo's  'Journey,' 
and  also  by  other  writings,  has 
proved  himself  our  ablest  authority 
on  the  geography  and  history  of 
the  greater  part  of  Central  Asia. 
It  is  from  Colonel  Yule's  writings 
that  we  have  mainly  drawn  the 
concluding  portion  of  this  paper, 
auxiliary  to  the  simple  narative  of 
Wood. 

Very  remarkable  is  it,  in  the 
historical  incidents  quoted  by 
Yule,  to  see  how  prosperous  and 
populous  were  many  parts  of  this 
region  which  are  now  not  only 
desert  or  in  decay,  but  in  some  of 
which  both  soil  and  climate  would 
seem  highly  adverse  to  civilised 
settlement.  It  is  strange  to  find 
Wakhan — the  wild  narrow  valley 
through  which  Wood  (like  Marco 
Polo)  journeyed  to  the  source  of 
the  Oxus — spoken  of  by  the  old 
Venetian  traveller  (in  1272)  as  "a 
land  containing  a  good  many  towns 
and  villages,  and  scattered  habita- 
tions ; "  or,  in  still  earlier  times,  by 
the  historian  Abulfeda,  who  speaks 
of  the  splendid  palaces  of  the  kings 
of  Waksh: — a  most  mountainous 


country  on  the  upper  tributaries 
of  the  Oxus — remaining  unknown 
to  the  modern  world,  despite  the 
"  scientific  expeditions  "  of  General 
Kauffmann. 

Strange  as  it  may  seem,  these 
lofty  mountain-solitudes  of  the  world 
were  as  well  known  to  the  Chinese 
twelve  centuries  ago,  or  better,  as 
they  are  to  us  at  the  present  day. 
The  first  travellers  who  have  left  a 
written  and  published  account  of 
the  region  were  two  Chinese  pil- 
grims of  the  Buddhist  persuasion, 
who  passed  this  way  on  their  visit 
to  India  about  A.D.  518,  and  who 
mention  that  this  lofty  region  (called 
by  the  Chinese  Tsung  Ling]  was 
commonly  said  to  be  half-way  be- 
tween heaven  and  earth, — just  as 
the  northern  continuation  of  the 
Pamir  mountains  is  to  this  day 
called  by  the  Chinese  the  Tien 
Shan,  or  Heavenly  mountains.  In 
the  next  century  (about  644  A.D.), 
another  Chinese  pilgrim  to  the 
Buddhist  shrines  of  India,  named 
Hwen  Thsang,  on  his  way  back 
to  China,  took  the  very  course 
up  the  valley  or  defile  of  the 
Sir-i-kol  branch  of  the  Oxus  recent- 
ly explored  by  Wood,  and  thence 
down  from  the  Roof  of  the  World 
into  the  plains  of  Yarkand  and 
Kashgar,  on  his  way  to  cross  the 
very  different,  but  not  less  formid- 
able, obstacle  to  travellers  —  the 
Desert  of  Gobi.  Hwen  Thsang 
states  that,  on  leaving  India,  he 
journeyed  for  140  miles  across  the 
mountains,  and  reached  the  valley 
of  Pomilo  (Pamir),  lying  between 
two  snowy  ranges  of  the  Tsung 
Ling. 

"  The  traveller,"  he  says,  "  is  an- 
noyed by  sudden  gusts  of  wind,  and 
the  snow-drifts  never  cease,  spring  or 
summer.  As  the  soil  is  almost  con- 


*  Journey  to  the  Source  of  the  River  Oxus.  By  Captain  John  Wood,  Indian 
Navy.  New  edition,  edited  by  his  Son.  With  an  Essay  on  the  Geography  of  the 
Valley  of  the  Oxus,  by  Colonel  Henry  Yule,  C.  B.  With  Maps.  London  :  John 
Murray:  1872. 

VOL.  CXXVIII. — XO.   DCCLXXX.  2  I 


470 


The  Roof  of  the  WorU. 


[Oct. 


stantly  frozen,  you  see  but  a  few  mis- 
erable plants,  and  no  crops  can  live. 
The  whole  region  is  but  a  dreary  waste, 
without  a  trace  of  humankind.  In 
the  middle  of  the  valley  is  a  great 
lake.  This  stands  on  a  plateau  of 
prodigious  elevation.  The  lake  dis- 
charges to  the  west  [south-west],  and 
a  river  runs  out  of  it  in  that  direction, 
and  joins  the  Potsu  (Oxus).  The  lake 
likewise  discharges  to  the  east,  and  a 
great  river  runs  out,  which  flows  east- 
ward to  the  western  frontier  of  Kiesha 
(Kashgar),  where  it  joins  the  river 
Sita,  and  runs  eastward  into  it  to  the 
sea." 

That  a  lake  should  have  two  out- 
lets in  opposite  directions  is  very  un- 
usual, but  not  physically  impossi- 
ble ;  and  although  Hwen  Thsang's 
statement  is  generally  disbelieved, 
Burnes  heard  the  same  story  from 
the  natives  about  forty  years  ago. 

In  the  thirteenth  century,  the 
Roof  of  the  World  was,  for  the 
first  time,  beheld  by  the  eye  of  a 
European,  Marco  Polo ;  and  only 
two  or  three  Europeans  have  ever 
beheld  it  since  then,  even  down  to 
the  present  day.  The  'Travels  of 
Marco  Polo  '  is  truly  a  remarkable 
book.  Its  author  was  simply  an 
enterprising  Venetian  merchant, 
who  undertook  the  most  wonderful 
and  difficult  journey,  or  series  of 
journeys, — no  doubt  with  a  strong 
love  of  adventure  in  his  heart,  but 
merely  in  the  way  of  business.  He 
seems  totally  unaware  that  he  him- 
self was  doing  anything  wonder- 
ful, although  he  expatiates  on  the 
strange  sights  and  peoples  which  he 
met  with.  As  regards  his  own  ad- 
ventures, and  his  own  impressions 
of  the  difficult  expedition  which  he 
undertook,  he  says  almost  nothing, 
—  not  even  when  travelling  for 
weeks  among  the  coldest  and  loftiest 
mountains  in  the  world,  or  while 
traversing  for  a  month  the  path- 
less wastes  of  the  sandy  desert  of 
Gobi. 

The    portion    of    Marco    Polo's 


itinerary  wherein  he  describes  the 
approach  to  the  lofty  table -land 
of  Asia,  from  Badakhshan  up  the 
valley  of  the  Oxus,  and  the 
sight  which  met  him  when,  like 
Wood  nearly  six  centuries  after- 
wards, he  emerged  upon  the  Great 
Pamir,  is  as  follows — in  his  own 
words,  but  abridged  : — 

"  In  leaving  Badashan,  you  ride 
twelve  days  between  east  and  north- 
east, ascending  a  river  that  runs 
through  a  land  containing  a  good 
many  towns  and  villages  and  scattered 
habitations.  And  when  you  leave 
this  little  country,  and  ride  three  days 
north-east,  always  among  the  moun- 
tains, you  get  to  such  a  height  that  it 
is  said  to  be  the  highest  place  in  the 
world  !  And  when  you  have  got  to 
this  height,  you  find  a  great  lake  be- 
tween two  [ridges  of]  mountains,  and 
out  of  it  a  fine  river  running  through 
a  plain.  The  plain  is  called  Paniier, 
and  you  ride  across  it  south  to  north 
for  twelve  days  together,  finding  noth- 
ing but  a  desert  without  habitations 
or  any  green  thing ;  so  that  travellers 
are  obliged  to  carry  with  them  what- 
ever they  have  need  of.  The  region 
is  so  lofty  and  cold  that  you  do  not 
even  see  any  birds  flying.  And  I 
must  notice  also  that,  because  of  this 
great  cold,.fire  does  not  burn  so  bright- 
ly, nor  give  out  so  much  heat  as  usual, 
nor  does  it  cook  food  so  effectually." 

Let  an  Alpine  climber,  or  a 
tourist  standing  for  his  brief  hour 
on  the  summit  of  Mont  Blanc,  look 
around  upon  the  expanse  of  moun- 
tain-peaks and  deep  vallejs,  and 
fancy  it  all  levelled  up  to  his  own 
altitude, — a  comparatively  level  ex- 
panse far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  but 
with  round-topped  hills  (unlike  the 
jagged  peaks  of  the  Alps)  of  a  few 
hundred  feet  in  height  projecting 
above  this  mountain  -  plain,  with 
small  lakes  in  the  hollows  among 
the  hills.  Such  would  be  a  re- 
semblance to  the  Pamir  plateau 
where  Wood  saw  it ;  except  that  in 
one  quarter  the  horizon  was  girdled 
by  a  lofty  range  of  mountains,  whose 


1880.] 


The  Roof  of  the  World. 


471 


summits  rose  between  three  and 
four  thousand  feet  higher  than 
Mont  Blanc.  And  when  Wood 
beheld  it,  this  vast  and  unique 
mountain-plain  was  entirely  cover- 
ed with  snow,  and  the  Sir-i-kol 
lake  frozen  deep  with  ice. 

Wood  saw  only  the  south-west- 
ern extremity  of  the  great  plateau; 
but  not  the  least  remarkable  feature 
of  the  region  is  its  vast  extent. 
From  Lake  Sir-i-kol  it  extends 
northwards  for  wellnigh  200  miles, 
where  the  plateau  joins  nearly  at 
right  angles  the  lofty  Alai  chain, 
along  whose  northern  base  flows  the 
Jaxartes.  The  breadth  of  the  Pamir 
plateau  is  variously  reckoned  from 
20  miles  by  Hwen  Thsang,  who 
apparently  speaks  of  one  particular 
valley  -  route,  to  100  by  Colonel 
Yule,  who  computes  the  gene- 
ral breadth  of  the  mountain-mass. 
Marco  Polo,  for  some  unexplained 
and  unaccountable  reason,  except  it 
were  the  spirit  of  adventure,  did 
not  content  himself  with  crossing 
this  mountain-mass,  but  proceeded 
across  its  entire  length,  descending 
into  the  eastern  plains  at  Kashgar 
and  thence  returning  south  to  Yar- 
kand.  After  speaking  of  Lake 
Sir-i-kol,  the  source  of  the  Oxus, 
the  Venetian  says  :  "  Now,  if  we 
go  on  with  our  journey  towards  the 
east-north-east,  we  travel  a  good 
forty  days,  continually  passing  over 
mountains  and  hills,  or  through 
valleys,  and  crossing  many  rivers 
and  tracts  of  wilderness.  And  in 
all  this  way  you  find  neither  hab- 
itation of  man  or  any  green  thing, 
but  must  carry  with  you  whatever 
you  require.  The  country  is  called 
Bolor."  Hwen  Thsang  said  :  "  The 
whole  tract  is  but  a  dreary  waste 
without  a  trace  of  human  habita- 
tion." Benedict  Goes,  who  crossed 
the  Pamir  steppe  late  in  the  autumn 
of  1603,  speaks  of  the  great  cold 
and  desolation,  and  difficulty  of 
breathing.  In  recent  times  (1861), 


Abdul  Medjid,  an  agent  of  our 
Indian  Government,  who  passed 
the  Pamir  on  his  way  to  Kokan, 
in  the  valley  of  the  Jaxartes,  says  : 
"  Fourteen  weary  days  were  oc- 
cupied in  crossing  the  steppe  :  the 
marches  were  long,  depending  on 
uncertain  supplies  of  grass  and 
water,  which  sometimes  wholly 
failed.  Food  for  man  and  beast 
had  to  be  carried  by  the  party,  for 
not  a  trace  of  human  habitation  is 
to  be  met  with  in  these  inhospit- 
able wilds.  The  steppe  is  inter- 
spersed with  tamarisk  jungle  and 
the  wild  willow,  and  in  summer 
with  tracts  of  high  grass." 

The  loftiest  part  of  the  plateau 
is  believed  to  be  at  its  southern 
extremity  where  Lieutenant  Wood 
saw  it,  15,600  feet  above  the  sea ; 
and  it  declines  to  about  10,000 
feet  at  its  northern  end.  From  its 
western  front,  several  lofty  ranges 
run  south  -  westwards  for  two  or 
three  hundred  miles,  till  they  strike 
the  course  of  the  Oxus  below  Ish- 
kashm,  where  the  river  makes  its 
north-easterly  circuit  round  Badakh- 
shan, — with  as  many  large  rivers 
flowing  down  the  narrow  interven- 
ing valleys,  draining  the  great 
snowy  mass  of  the  plateau.  Colo- 
nel Yule  says :  "  The  core  of  the 
mountain-mass  of  Pamir  forms  a 
great  elevated  plateau,  at  least  180 
miles  north  and  south,  and  about 
100  east  and  west.  The  greater 
part  of  this  plateau  appears  to  con- 
sist of  stretches  of  tolerably  level 
steppe,  broken  and  divided  by  low 
rounded  hills, — much  of  it  covered 
with  saline  exudations,  but  inter- 
spersed with  patches  of  willow  and 
thorny  shrubs,  and  in  summer  with 
extensive  tracts  of  grass."  Many 
lakes  are  scattered  over  the  surface 
of  the  plateau,  from  which  rivers 
flow — the  many  streams,  as  Marco 
Polo  says,  which  have  to  be  crossed 
when  traversing  the  steppe  from 
south  to  north.  As  might  be  ex- 


472 


TJie  Roof  of  the  World. 


[Oct. 


pected  from  the  great  breadth  of 
the  plateau,  there  is  no  sharp  ridge 
dividing  the  drainage  or  water-flow; 
some  of  the  eastern  rivers,  which 
flow  down  to  the  plains  of  Kashgar 
and  Yarkand,  apparently  rising  far 
back  on  the  western  side  of  the 
steppe  ;  while  some  of  the  western 
rivers,  tributaries  of  the  Oxus,  ap- 
pear to  run  in  valleys  overlapping 
the  others,  and  having  their  source 
near  the  eastern  edge  of  the  plateau. 
As  already  said,  the  eastern  side  of 
the  plateau  appears  to  be  higher 
than  the  western,  and  some  of  the 
peaks  in  that  quarter,  according  to 
Hayward,  rise  to  a  height  of  20,000 
or  21,000  feet  above  the  sea.  In 
its  northern  part,  the  great  steppe 
is  crossed  from  east  to  west  by  a 
belt  of  mountains,  traversed  by  the 
Kizil  Yart  Pass,  which  leads  to  the 
dersht  or  steppe  of  Alai,  bounded 
on  the  north  by  the  Alai  range, 
whose  northern  front  drains  into 
the  Jaxartes  river.  This  small 
northern  portion  of  the  great  pla- 
teau is  only  about  twenty  miles 
from  north  to  south,  but  forty  from 
east  to  west ;  and  it  is  drained 
westwards  by  the  Sark-ab  ("Bed 
River"),  which  is  the  greatest  tribu- 
tary of  the  Oxus,  and,  except  one, 
the  last  of  the  large  rivers  which 
join  the  Oxus  from  the  north. 

Across  this  mountain  -  land  of 
Pamir,  lofty  and  desolate  as  it  is, 
lay  the  earliest  route  between 
Western  Asia  and  early  -  civilised 
China.  In  the  reign  of  the  Em- 
peror Justinian  an  embassy  was 
sent  from  Byzantium  to  the  country 
from  which  silk  came ;  but  when 
they  reached  the  Bolor  mountains, 
and  the  Roof  of  the  World  frowned 
before  them,  the  Byzantines  lost 
heart  and  turned  back ;  and  so 
China  remained  unvisited  by  Euro- 
peans for  other  eight  centuries. 
But,  for  generations  before  Jus- 
tinian, commercial  enterprise  had 
established  a  route  to  Eastern  Asia 


across  this  formidable  barrier  of 
mountain  s.  P  tolem  y  the  geograph  - 
er  speaks  of  the  "  Seric  caravan," 
of  which  the  Yarkand  caravan  of 
the  present  day  is  doubtless  a  relic. 
The  Seric  caravan,  says  Ptolemy, 
started  from  Hyrcania,  at  the  south- 
western corner  of  the  Caspian  Sea, 
and  "  then  the  route  runs  through 
Aria  [the  Herat  territory]  to  Mar- 
giana  Antiochia  [Merv].  Thence 
the  route  proceeds  eastward  to  Bac- 
tra  [Balk],  and  from  that  [cross- 
ing to  the  right  bank  of  the  Oxus, 
where  there  was  a  stone  bridge  in 
the  days  of  the  Emperor  Humayoon], 
northward  up  the  ascent  of  the  hill- 
country  of  the  Comedse ;  and  then, 
inclining  somewhat  south  through 
the  hill-country  as  far  as  the  gorge 
[probably  about  the  Ruby  Mines], 
in  which  the  plain  [along  the  bank 
of  the  river]  terminates ;  and  then 
for  a  distance  of  about  150  miles, 
extending  to  the  Stone  Tower,  the 
route  would  seem  to  tend  north- 
wards [as  the  valley  of  the  Oxus 
does  above  Ish-kashm].  The  Stone 
Tower  stands  in  the  way  of  those 
who  ascend  the  gorge  ;  and  from  it 
the  mountains  extend  eastwards  to 
join  the  chain  of  Imaus  [the  Roof 
of  the  World],  which  runs  north  to 
this  point  from  the  territory  of 
Palimbothra  "  [or  India]. 

From  this  statement  it  is  plain 
that  the  ancient  Seric  caravan 
crossed  the  Pamir  by  following 
either  the  eastern  or  western  "  fork" 
of  the  Upper  Oxus — either  by  the 
glen  of  the  Sirhad  river,  or  by 
Wood's  Oxus,  up  the  defile  to  Lake 
Sir-i-kol.  The  geographical  posi- 
tion of  the  Stone  Tower  mention- 
ed by  Ptolemy  has  given  rise  to 
much  discussion  among  geographers. 
Apparently,  it  was  a  fort  guarding 
the  defile  leading  down  from  the 
Pamir,  and  through  which  invad- 
ers or  marauding  bands  would  come 
from  the  mountains  or  from  the 
country  to  the  east,  about  Yar- 


1880.] 


TJie  Hoof  of  the  World. 


473 


kaiul  and  Kashgar.  Such  a  fort 
might  be  placed  almost  anywhere 
in  the  valley  of  the  Oxus  as  far 
down  as  the  Euby  Mines,  if  not 
lower  still,  —  for  in  Darwaz  and 
Eoshan  (the  provinces  on  the  right 
bank  of  the  Oxus  below  Ish-kashm), 
the  long  and  lofty  parallel  chains 
of  which  we  have  spoken  as  sloping 
south-westwards  from  the  Pamir, 
come  down  abruptly  upon  the  Oxus. 
And  it  is  curious  to  observe  that 
when  the  Turkish  tribes  began  to 
descend  into  Western  Asia,  a  fort 
was  actually  built  in  this  quarter  to 
check  their  irruptions.  "  In  793," 
says  Yule,  "  Fadhl  Ibn  Yahya,  the 
Barmecide,  was  invested  with  the 
government  of  all  the  countries 
from  Kerman  to  the  frontier  of  the 
Turks;  and  he  caused  a  barrier 
with  two  castles  to  be  erected  in  a 
defile  beyond  Khotl,  by  which  the 
Turkish  marauders  used  to  come 
down  in  their  forays.  The  memory 
of  this  barrier,  which  was  known 
to  the  Arabs  as  El  Bab,  or  'the 
Gate,'  is  believed  to  survive  in 
the  name  of  the  State  of  Darwaz 
(Gate),  which  still  exists  on  the 
Panja,  or  Upper  Oxus."  This  cas- 
tellated barrier  erected  "  beyond 
Khotl"  must  have  stood  on  the 
banks  of  the  Oxus  within  some 
80  or  100  miles  below  Ish-kashm— 
in  which  district,  as  already  said, 
several  lofty  mountain-chains  from 
the  Pamir  come  down  abruptly 
upon  the  river's  bed,  as  at  the 
Euby  Mines.  The  Stone  Tower  of 
Ptolemy,  however,  lay  much  fur- 
ther up  the  river,  at  "  the  gorge  " 
leading  up  to  the  Pamir  steppe; 
and  it  seems  to  me  that  Hissar, 
where  the  two  forks  of  the  Upper 
Oxus  unite,  and  from  whence  one 
gorge  leads  up  to  Sir-i-kol  and  the 
Great  Pamir,  and  the  other  to  the 
Little  Pamir,  very  aptly  corres- 
ponds with  the  position  assigned  to 
the  "  Stone  Tower  "  of  Ptolemy. 
Moreover,  Hissar  means  "  the 


Fort,"  just  as  Darwaz  means  "  the 
Gate  ; "  and  the  rude  fort  which 
still  exists  at  that  place  may  actu- 
ally have  existed  there  since  the 
early  times  of  the  Seric  caravan. 

Nowhere  in  the  world  is  there 
a  more  mountainous  and  inaces- 
sible  region  than  that  of  the  Upper 
Oxus  and  its  tributaries  ;  and  it  is 
just  in  such  localities  that  one  finds 
the  remains  of  the  old  population. 
The  various  travellers  who  have  re- 
cently penetrated  here  and  there  into 
this  mountainous  region — compris- 
ing the  provinces  of  Karategin,  Eo- 
shan, Shagnan,  and  Wakhan — agree 
in  stating  that  the  settled  but  thin 
and  scattered  population  belongs  to 
the  Iranian  (Persian)  branch  of  the 
Aryan  or  Indo-European  race.  The 
people,  called  Tajiks,  are  descend- 
ants of  the  early  Persians  :  the  poor 
rude  denizens  of  Wakhan  and  ad- 
joining districts  belong  to  the  once 
mighty  nation  which  established 
the  empire  of  Cyrus  and  Darius. 
In  Badakhshan  also  the  bulk  of  the 
people  are  Tajiks.  Among  this  up- 
land section  of  the  Tajiks  there  are 
relics  of  the  old  Zoroastrian  fire- 
worship.  In  "Wakhan,  between 
Ish-kashm  and  Hissar,  Wood  saw 
the  ruins  of  three  "  Kaffir "  forts, 
which  the  natives  believe  to  have 
been  erected  by  the  Gebirs  or  fire- 
worshippers  :  and  I  have  no  doubt 
the  natives  are  right,  for  only  a 
year  ago  the  correspondent  of  the 
'  Daily  News '  found  a  fire-temple 
not  wholly  abandoned  on  the  shores 
of  the  Caspian.  Moreover,  Wood 
mentions  the  reluctance  with  which 
a  Badakhshi  blows  out  a  light.  In 
like  manner,  he  says,  "  A  Wakhani 
considers  it  bad  luck  to  blow  out 
a  light  by  the  breath,  and  will 
rather  wave  his  hand  for  several 
minutes  under  the  flame  of  his  pine- 
slip  than  resort  to  the  sure  but  to 
him  disagreeable  alternative"  of 
blowing  it  out. 

The   Tajiks,    says  Wood,  are   a 


474 


The  Roof  of  the  World. 


[Oct. 


handsome  race  of  the  Caucasian 
stock,  differing  widely  from  the 
Turkish  or  Mongolian,  Uzbeks  and 
Kirghiz,  who,  from  the  sixth  cen- 
tury onwards  have  been  flooding 
Western  Asia.  The  Tajiks  are  to 
be  found  both  to  the  north  and 
south  of  the  Hindu  Kush.  Accord- 
ing to  "Wood  and  others,  the  Kaffirs 
of  the  valleys  to  the  north  of  the 
Cabul  river,  leading  up  to  the 
lofty  Chitral  and  Baroghil  Passes 
of  the  Hindu  Kush,  belong  to  the 
Tajik  race ;  and  they  are  certainly 
the  wildest  and  most  barbarous 
branch  of  it.  Living  in  snowy 
and  inaccessible  valleys,  it  may  be 
doubted  whether  they  were  ever 
brought  under  the  influence  of  the 
Zoroastrian  creed,  or  any  other. 
They  fiercely  repel  Mohammedan- 
ism, and  do  not  appear  to  have  any 
settled  religion :  hence  the  name 
"  Kaffirs,"  or  unbelievers,  applied 
to  them  by  their  neighbours,  the 
Mohammedan  population  both  of 
Affghanistan  and  of  Badakhshan. 
About  the  time  of  our  first  invasion 
of  Affghanistan,  when  a  British 
officer  (I  think  Captain  Conolly) 
was  at  Jellalabad,  he  was  sur- 
prised one  day  by  his  attendants 
rushing  into  his  tent,  in  a  state  of 
great  excitement,  and  exclaiming, 
"  Here  are  your  countrymen  com- 
ing ! "  It  was  a  party  of  Kaffirs. 
But  the  officer  apparently  had  little 
taste  for  ethnology,  and  he  got  rid 
of  his  wild-looking  "  countrymen  " 
as  quickly  as  possible. 

The  highlanders  from  the  Upper 
Oxus — the  Bactrians  and  Sacse — 
formed  the  hardiest  and  most  dar- 
ing regiments  in  the  armies  of 
Darius  and  Xerxes  ;  and  the  Sacae 
led  the  van  in  the  attack  upon  the 
Greeks  at  Thermopylae.  They  must 
either  have  been  Turkish  or  Iranian, 
but  there  is  no  reason  to  believe 
that  they  were  different  in  race 
from  the  Persian  host  among  whom 
they  were  enrolled.  Kawlinson,  in 


his  '  Herodotus,'  places  the  country 
of  the  Sacfe  at  the  head  of  the 
Oxus,  on  the  Pamir,  if  not  also 
beyond  the  mountains,  in  the  plains 
of  Yarkand.  The  empire  of  Darius 
appears  to  have  extended  beyond 
the  Eoof  of  the  World;  and  un- 
doubtedly in  those  times  the  entire 
population  between  Oxus  and  Jax- 
artes  was  Iranian — as  in  the  main 
it  still  is  to  this  day  eastward  of 
the  longitude  of  Balk,  except  on 
the  Pamir  itself. 

Widely  different  is  the  Kirghiz 
race,  which  now  form  the  thin  and 
roving  population  of  the  Pamir 
mountains,  and  one  of  whose  tribes 
Wood  found  wintering  for  the  first 
time  in  the  valley  of  Wakhan. 
They  are  evidently  of  the  same 
race  as  the  Uzbeks,  who  have  long 
been  settled  in  Kunduz  and  on  the 
plains  around  the  lower  course  of 
the  Oxus.  The  difference  between 
a  temperate  and  a  rigorous  climate 
on  the  physique  is  observable  in 
the  well-proportioned  frame  of  the 
Uzbek,  and  the  stunted  growth 
of  the  Kirghiz  of  Pamir.  "  More 
weather-beaten  faces,"  says  Wood, 
"  I  have  never  seen ;  they  had, 
however,  the  hue  of  health.  Their 
small  sunken  eyes  were  just  visible 
from  beneath  fur  caps,  while  the 
folds  of  a  snug  woollen  comforter 
concealed  their  paucity  of  beard. 
The  clothing  of  most  of  them  con- 
sisted of  a  sheep's  skin,  with  the 
wool  inside."  They  liked  tobacco, 
but  were  absolutely  voracious  of 
snuff  —  eating,  not  snuffing  it. 
When  Wood  presented  his  box 
to  the  chief  of  the  tribe,  the  Kir- 
ghiz quietly  emptied  half  of  its 
contents  into  the  palm  of  his  hand, 
then,  opening  his  mouth,  and  hold- 
ing his  head  back,  at  two  gulps  he 
swallowed  the  whole.  Wood  pro- 
nounced the  young  women  (very 
unlike  the  men)  pretty.  "All 
have  the  glow  of  health  in  their 
cheeks ;  and  though  they  have  the 


1880.] 


The  Roof  of  the  World. 


475 


harsh  features  of  their  race,  there 
is  a  softness  about  their  lineaments, 
a  coyness  and  maidenly  reserve  in 
their  demeanour,  that  contrasts 
most  agreeably  -with  the  uncouth 
figures  and  harsh  manners  of  the 
men."  Colonel  Burnaby,  in  his 
'  Ride  to  Khiva,'  mentions  a  charm- 
ing Kirghiz  girl  who  greatly  took 
his  fancy  until  he  saw  the  cool 
way,  or  rather  the  lively  relish, 
with  which  the  fair  damsel  cut  the 
throat  of  a  fat  sheep  which  he  had 
presented  to  her  family  for  a  ban- 
quet! 

To  the  denizens  of  this  land  of 
snow  the  yak,  or  kash-gow,  is  as 
invaluable  as  the  reindeer  to  the 
Laplander ;  or,  in  another  way,  as 
the  camel  to  the  Arab.  Its  milk 
is  richer  than  that  of  the  cow  ;  and 
its  hair  is  woven  into  clothes  and 
other  fabrics.  Where  a  man  can 
walk,  a  yak  can  be  ridden.  It  is 
remarkably  sure-footed  :  like  the 
elephant,  it  has  a  wonderful  sagac- 
ity in  knowing  what  will  bear  its 
weight,  and  in  avoiding  hidden 
depths  and  chasms;  and  when  a 
pass  or  gorge  becomes  blocked  by 
snow  (provided  it  be  not  frozen),  a 
score  of  yaks  driven  in  front  will 
make  a  highway.  This  strange 
creature  frequents  the  mountain- 
slopes  and  their  level  summits ;  it 
needs  no  tending,  and  finds  its  food 
at  all  seasons.  If  the  snow  on  the 
heights  lie  too  deep  for  him  to  find 
the  herbage,  he  rolls  himself  down 
the  slopes,  and  eats  his  way  up 
again,  displacing  the  snow  as  he 
ascends.  When  arrived  at  the  top, 
he  performs  a  second  somersault 
down  the  slope,  and  displaces  a 
second  groove  of  snow  as  he  eats 
his  way  to  the  top  again.  The  yak 
cannot  bear  a  temperature  above 
freezing; -and  in  summer  it  leaves 
the  haunts  of  men  and  ascends  far 
up  the  mountains  to  the  "  old  ice," 
above  the  limit  of  perpetual  snow, 
its  calf  being  retained  below  as  a 


pledge  for  the  mother's  return,  in 
which  she  never  fails.  It  was  on 
the  summit  of  the  Pass  of  Ish-kashm 
that  Wood  first  met  this  strange 
animal ;  and  he  sent  one  down  to 
a  friend  at  Kunduz  :  but  although 
Badakhshan  was  then  in  winter,  the 
poor  yak  died  long  before  it  reached 
the  plains. 

The  Eoof  of  the  World  is  not  a 
place  for  the  census-takers,  but  it 
is  computed — a  mere  guess — that 
the  several  tribes  who  inhabit  or 
frequent  these  mountain-solitudes 
number  about  a  thousand  families, 
chiefly  on  the  Little  Pamir,  around 
Lake  Rangkul.  In  the  summer 
the  women,  as  in  the  pastoral  dis- 
tricts of  the  Alps,  encamp  in  the 
higher  valleys,  and  devote  their 
whole  time  to  the  dairy,  the  men 
remaining  below,  but  paying  flying 
visits  to  the  upper  stations.  "  All 
speak  in  rapture  of  these  summer 
wanderings."  Doubtless  the  tem- 
porary separation  of  the  sexes  im- 
parts a  zest  to  these  occasions  ;  but 
it  is  wonderful  the  change  which 
summer  makes  even  upon  that 
lofty  mountain-land.  Even  around 
Lake  Sir-i-kol,  the  loftiest  part  of 
the  plateau,  as  high  as  the  sum- 
mit of  Mont  Blanc,  no  sooner 
does  the  summer  sun  melt  the 
snows  in  the  valley  than  the 
most  succulent  verdure  covers  the 
soil.  The  grass  grows  nearly  a 
yard  high,  of  the  richest  quality ; 
and  every  traveller,  from  Marco 
Polo  down  to  Faiz  Bakhsh,  re- 
peats the  fact  that  the  leanest 
horse  becomes  fat  in  a  fortnight's 
time  upon  that  verdurous  upland. 
The  kirgahs,  or  tents  of  the  Kir- 
ghiz, are  strongly  built  and  very 
comfortable — about  fourteen  feet  in 
diameter  and  eight  feet  in  height ; 
the  fire  blazes  in  the  centre,  with 
a  good  outlet  at  the  top ;  and  a 
suspended  mat  secludes  the  dress- 
ing-place of  the  women.  While 
the  females  tend  the  flocks — sheep, 


476 


The  Roof  of  the  World. 


[Oct. 


yaks,  and  camels — there  is  ample 
scope  for  the  hunters.  Lake  Sir-i- 
kol  is  a  favourite  summer  resort 
of  these  rovers  of  the  plateau.  No 
sooner  does  the  sun  melt  the  snows 
on  the  little  plain  than  the  banks 
of  the  lake  are  studded  with  their 
tents,  while  the  waters  of  the  lake 
are  frequented  by  abundant  flocks 
of  wild-fowl.  The  tenantless  air, 
as  Marco  Polo  and  Wood  saw  it  in 
winter,  becomes  noisy  with  the 
flight  of  birds.  The  spoils  of  the 
chase  not  only  add  to  the  small 
supply  of  human  food,  but  com- 
prise skins  and  fleeces  alike  of  do- 
mestic and  commercial  value.  The 
most  remarkable  animal  of  the 
plateau  is  the  great  sheep  of 
Pamir,  (for  it  is  found  nowhere 
else  in  the  world)  the  Ovis  Poli, 
with  its  enormous  horns.  Here 
and  there  on  the  plateau  the  yak  is 
seen  in  a  wild  state,  in  small  herds 
far  up  on  the  snowy  slopes  of  the 
mountains.  Whether  wild  or  do- 
mesticated, the  yak  is  gregarious, 
and  is  able  to  beat  off  the  hungry 
wolves.  There  is  also  a  kind  of 
goat,  called  rang,  having  a  valu- 
able fleece,  and  from  which  seve- 
ral of  the  lakes  which  dot  the  pla- 
teau take  their  names — Eang-kul, 
or  "Goat  Lake."  Strange  to  say, 
deer  (of  some  kind)  abound ;  foxes 
and  wolves  frequent  the  plateau, 
and  bears  and  tigers  are  occasion- 
ally met  with. 

A  remarkable  but  highly  com- 
fortable change  on  the  face  of  the 
earth  is  the  great  circumscription 
which  has  occurred  in  the  domain 
of  the  wild  beasts,  especially  of  the 
man -slaying  kind.  What  hard 
times  the  "prehistoric"  peoples 
must  have  had,  in  regions  of  dense 
forest,  where  savage  man  was  a 
feeble  intruder,  and  the  ferce  were 
the  lords  dominant !  The  matter- 
of-fact  annals  of  the  Chinese  record 
that  their  ancestors  at  first  were 
so  ignorant  and  helpless  that  they 


made  their  dwellings  in  trees  to 
escape  from  the  wild  beasts, — just 
as  do  the  Veddahs  of  Ceylon  at 
the  present  day,  and  also  some  of 
the  rude  tribes  of  Borneo.  Even 
in  historic  times,  according  to  Vir- 
gil, the  lion  was  a  native  of  Italy; 
and  the  Nemaean  lion  was  doubt- 
less the  last  of  his  race  in  Greece. 
In  less  remote  times  the  "  king  of 
beasts  "  abounded  in  the  valley  of 
Jordan,  and  also  on  the  plains  of 
Mesopotamia,  affording  royal  sport 
to  the  bold  and  hardy  monarchs  of 
Nineveh,  who  tracked  the  lion  to 
his  lair — sometimes  attacking  him 
single  -  handed  and  on  foot  —  as 
coolly  and  frequently  as  the  Czar 
or  the  gallant  old  Emperor  of  Ger- 
many go  a-boar-hunting,  shooting 
the  brute  from  their  ambush.  So 
late  as  the  fourteenth  century,  lions 
abounded  on  the  Oxus ;  and  it  is 
recorded  that  a  great  review  of  his 
army,  held  by  Ghengis  Khan,  on 
the  banks  of  that  river  (somewhere 
about  Balk)  was  interrupted  by  a 
party  of  lions  that  broke  into  the 
camp.  Now,  the  lion  has  entirely 
disappeared  from  the  valley  of  the 
Oxus,  and  the  whole  western  part 
of  Central  Asia.  The  Pamir  knows 
him  not;  and  although  the  Eus- 
sian  officers  have  heard  of  his  being 
seen  about  Lake  Issyk-kol  (the 
White  or  Frozen  Lake),  close  to  the 
frontier  of  Siberia,  it  seems  that 
even  the  vast  mountain- chains  of 
Central  Asia  have  ceased  to  be  the 
habitat  of  the  royal  beast. 

"  Habit  is  a  second  nature  ; "  and 
when  habit  has  operated  for  several 
generations,  it  is  marvellous  what 
it  enables  human  nature  to  bear. 
So,  the  Kirghiz  tribes  can  roam 
with  impunity,  and  in  summer  with 
pleasure,  over  the  inhospitable 
Eoof  of  the  World.  Even  a  Vene- 
tian gentleman  can  journey  over  it 
for  forty  days  without  a  single  word 
as  to  his  own  hardships,  and  merely 
with  a  few  sentences  descriptive  of 


1880.] 


TJie  Roof  of  the  World. 


477 


the  aspect  of  the  region.  But  it 
hardly  needs  the  uncomplaining 
woids  of  Lieutenant  Wood  to  re- 
alise the  perils  of  journeying  at 
such  an  altitude.  "The  danger," 
he  says,  "  which  is  increased  by 
[the  necessity  for]  sleeping  literally 
amongst  the  snow,  in  the  middle  of 
winter,  did  not  occur  to  me  at  the 
time.  We  were  most  fortunate  in 
having  done  so  with  impunity. 
Our  escape  is,  under  Providence,  to 
be  attributed  to  the  oceans  of  tea 
we  drank,  .  .  .  which  kept  off 
the  drowsiness  which  cold  engen- 
ders, ending  in  death.  .  .  .  The 
kettle  was  never  off  the  fire  when 
we  encamped  ;  indeed,  throughout 
the  whole  of  our  wanderings  the 
Munshi  and  myself  lived  almost 
entirely  upon  it.  We  used  the  de- 
coction, not  infusion,  and  always 
brewed  it  strong.  Another  pre- 
ventative  was  the  firing  we  con- 
stantly kept  up,  and  the  precaution 
of  sleeping  with  our  feet  towards 
it."  Wood  was  only  a  week  on 
the  Pamir, — namely,  in  ascending 
and  returning  from  Hissar,  where 
the  Sir-i-kol  defile  begins, — and  yet 
the  greater  part  of  his  small  party 
had  to  be  sent  back  before  reaching 
the  summit  of  the  plateau. 

Such,  then,  is  the  Bam-i-duniah, 
the  "  Eoof  of  the  World."  At  pre- 
sent the  interest  which  attaches  to 
that  remarkable  region  is  even  more 
military  and  political  than  geogra- 
phical. Eussia  now  holds  all  the 
country  north  of  the  Alai-Tau 
chain,  the  southern  watershed  of 
the  Upper  Jaxartes;  and  Russian 
"  scientific  expeditions  "  have  been 
out  on  the  Pamir,  and  exploring 
the  quadrangular  mountain  -  region 
lying  between  their  own  frontier 
and  the  Upper  Oxus  and  Hindu 
Kush.  West  of  the  Pamir  plateau 


for  about  200  miles,  the  country 
is  intersected  by  a  series  of  moun- 
tain -  chains  coming  down  from 
the  plateau  unbroken  till  they 
reach  the  Oxus, — a  region  wellnigh 
impervious  and  uncrossable,  either 
from  north  or  south.  But  the  Pamir 
plateau  is  like  a  lofty  mound,  a 
mountain -bridge,  whose  compara- 
tively level  summit  connects  the 
Terek  and  other  eastern  passes  of 
the  Alai  chain  with  the  Darkot 
and  Baroghil  passes  of  the  Hindu 
Kush, — leading  down  the  Chitral 
valley  to  Jellalabad,  or  by  the  Gilgit, 
across  the  Indus,-  to  Cashmere.  No 
army  will  ever  cross  this  mountain- 
bridge  ;  Asiatic  armies,  or  rather 
single  corps  d'armee,  have  crossed 
the  Pamir  from  east  to  west,  but 
no  army  can  traverse  the  200  miles 
from  north  to  south.  No  doubt  a 
column  might  do  so,  even  with 
light  artillery,  and  might  steal 
across  it  secretly,  arriving  sud- 
denly at  the  crest  of  the  Hindu 
Kush.  If  Stolietoff's  mission 
could  come  from  Samarcand  to 
Bameean,  entering  Affghanistan  be- 
fore we  had  tidings  of  its  starting, 
one  of  Kauffman's  columns  might 
still  more  secretly  traverse  the 
solitudes  of  the  Pamir.  Hence, 
when  war  lately  threatened  in 
Europe,  our  Indian  Government 
ordered  the  Maharajah  of  Cashmere 
to  occupy  the  Baroghil  Pass  with 
his  troop?, — albeit  we  never  heard 
that  this  had  been  done.  But  even 
had  they  arrived  at  Baroghil,  the 
Muscovites  would  have  been  little 
more  than  half-way  to  India.  "  It's 
a  far  cry  to  Lochawe  ! "  Anyhow, 
we  have  described  the  geographi- 
cal features  of  the  Pamir,  and  read- 
ers who  have  military  tastes  may 
be  left  to  draw  their  own  con- 
clusions. 


478 


Lois :  a  Sketch. 


[Oct. 


LOIS:     A      SKETCH. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  Eyes  so  tristful." 


FIVE  o'clock  on  a  chill  October 
evening;  the  wind  coming  in  gusts, 
with  a  dreary,  wailing  sound  in  the 
pauses  between,  that  tell  of  a  com- 
ing storm.  Every  gust  detaches 
fresh  leaves  from  the  avenue  of 
chestnut?,  that  all  the  summer 
has  formed  the  glorious  approach 
to  Anderton  House.  But  now  the 
ground  is  thickly  carpeted  with 
their  golden-brown  treasures,  and 
beneath  their  overarching  boughs 
paces,  with  slow  steps,  the  figure  of 
a  girl. 

Twice,  notwithstanding  the  chill 
dampness,  the  rising  wind,  and 
rapidly  increasing  twilight,  she 
walks  up  and  down  the  avenue, 
with  bent  head  and  clasped  hands  ; 
then,  with  a  long  sigh,  she  opens 
the  gate  that  leads  into  a  trim 
garden,  and  from  thence  to  a  wide 
stone  terrace,  and  pausing  there, 
prepares  to  let  herself  in  through  a 
French  window  into  a  cheerful,  fire- 
lit  room.  The  key  is  turned  reluc- 
tantly, almost  as  if  the  warm  inte- 
rior were  not  a  temptation  to  her  ; 
and  with  a  lingering  look  behind 
her,  she  hesitated,  her  foot  on  the 
threshold,  as  if  half  contemplating 
another  walk,  and  even  as  she  stood 
thus,  a  man's  low  voice  fell  upon 
her  ear, — a  tall  man's  figure  stood 
beside  her. 

"  Lois." 

"  You  here  ! "  she  said,  with  a 
start,  bringing  her  eyes  back  from 
the  far-away  darkening  sky,  and 
her  voice  trembling  a  little  as  she 
spoke. 

"I  have  come  to  see  you,"  the 
voice  replied;  "there  is  no  harm  in 
that,  is  there?  I  saw  you  in  the 
avenue,  and  followed  you  through 


the  garden  almost  involuntarily  ; 
at  any  rate,  without  thinking  it 
might  be  a  liberty.  But  you  must 
forgive  me,  as  I  am  here,  and  let 
me  in  this  way." 

In  perfect  silence  they  entered 
the  room,  and  moved  into  the  circle 
of  firelight,  and  in  its  flickering 
light  you  can  see  them  well. 

A  young  man,  and  a  younger 
woman.  He,  a  big  broad-shoul- 
dered man,  dark- haired,  dark-eyed, 
with  a  short  brown  beard  with 
gleams  of  gold  about  it,  that  shone 
in  the  firelight ;  she,  a  tall  slender 
girl  with  a  white  face,  out  of  which 
two  dark-grey  eyes  looked, — grey 
eyes  that  at  another  time  might 
have  attracted  by  their  beauty,  but 
to  -  night  were  only  rendered  re- 
markable by  their  passionate  de- 
spair, and  the  black  rings  surround- 
ing them. 

It  was  the  girl  who  at  length 
broke  the  silence.  Taking  off  her 
hat  with  slim  white  hands  that 
trembled  in  the  firelight,  and  push- 
ing back  the  wavy-brown  hair  from 
a  low  forehead,  she  turned  towards 
her  companion  questioningly,  but 
as  no  answer  came  to  the  unspoken 
words,  she  steadied  her  trembling 
voice,  and  said  slowly,  as  if  it  were 
a  lesson  learnt  by  heart,  "My 
uncle  is  not  in." 

For  a  minute  the  man  made  no 
reply.  He  was  standing  with  his 
back  to  the  fireplace,  watching  her 
with  an  intentness  that  might  have 
made  her  nervous  ;  but  there  are 
moments  when  all  the  little  things 
that  at  another  time  might  abash 
us  are  forgotten,  or  overlooked  in 
the  immensity  of  the  present  mo- 
ment. So  it  seemed  was  the  case 


1880.]  Lois:  a  SJcefch. 

now.  Under  those  searching  eyes, 
those  of  Lois  did  not  fall;  her 
clasped  hands  no  longer  trembled  : 
she  stood  quite  still  indeed,  but  as 
if  under  the  power  of  a  mesmerist. 
— "  So  the  upshot  of  it  all  is,  that 
you  are  going  to  marry  Sydney 
Bering  1 "  That  was  how  he  broke 
the  silence  at  length.  At  his  words, 
thought  and  life  seemed  to  return 
to  the  grey  eyes,  and  the  girl  start- 
ed, as  if  awaking  from  an  actual 
dream.  She  lifted  her  hand — a 
hand  on  which  flashed  and  sparkled 
in  the  fireglow  a  great  diamond — 
and  pushed  the  hair  off  her  fore- 
head. 

"  Yes,"  she  made  answer  then,  in 
a  low,  very  clear  voice  ;  "  to-morrow 
is  my  wedding-day." 

There  might  have  been  interpret- 
ed a  tinge  of  warning  or  of  reproof 
in  the  tones  of  her  voice. 

"Why?" 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  and 
then,  with  sudden  passion,  that  was 
sad  to  hear  in  so  young  a  voice, 
"  Do  you  forget  that  when  last 

"  And  then  changing  her 

sentence — "  that  you  promised  you 
would  never  come  back  1 " 

"  I  remember,  and  I  admit  that 
I  have  broken  my  promise.  Scold 
as  much  as  you  like,  do  what  you 
like,  but,"  with  a  sudden  break 
in  his  voice,  "  for  Heaven's  sake, 
don't  look  at  me  like  that ! " 

"I  am  sorry,"  she  said,  gently; 
but  whether  the  apology  was  for 
her  looks  or  her  words,  it  were 
difficult  to  say.  "I  would  like 
you  to  go,  Mr  Moreton,  —  I  am 
tired  —  very  tired.  And  —  I  am 
happier  alone." 

"  Frank,  at  any  rate ;  but  I  am 
not  going  yet.  Hitherto  you  have 
had  it  all  your  way,  but  it  shall  be 
no  longer  so;  now  you  must  listen 
to  me.  I  have  tried  to  live  with- 
out you, — I  cannot ;  so  I  have  come 
to  take  you  away.  On  my  honour," 
as  she  would  have  interrupted  him, 


479 


"  I  would  have  tried  to  bear  it,  I 
would  have  left  it  all  alone,  if  you 
had  been  happy,  but  you  are  not. 
Why,  good  Heavens  ! "  with  sud- 
den impetuosity,  "I  should  scarcely 
have  known  you  if  I  had  met  you 
in  the  street !  Ah,  child  !  what  did 
you  do  it  for  1 " 

"It  was  right  then;  it  is  more 
than  ever  right  now,"  she  replied, 
in  a  low  voice  that  struggled  to  ap- 
pear calm.  "  She  loved  you,  and 
you  were  engaged  to  her,  and  be- 
sides  " 

"  They  told  you  about  the 
money,  did  they  ?  And  how  I 
should  have  nothing  if  I  married 
you,  and  riches  with  her.  Oh,  I've 
no  doubt  you  heard  all  the  parti- 
culars before  you  made  up  your 
mind  !  No  man  living  is  worth 
poverty  to  a  woman.  Well,  you 
have  got  what  you  wanted  then, 
— Bering  is  rich  enough  in  all  con- 
science, and " 

He  paused;  but  whether  from 
lack  of  words,  or  in  compunction 
at  the  agonised  face  raised  to  his, 
it  would  be  hard  to  say. 

"Ah,  don't — don't!"  she  cried, 
clasping  her  hands  together,  "if 
you  do  not  in  truth  wish  to  drive 
me  mad  !  Have  some  pity  on  me. 
Everything  and  everybody  is  cruel 
and  hard  ;  and  the  right  has  grown 
so  dim,  that  I  scarcely  can  tell  it 
from  the  wrong  !  Tell  me,"  stretch- 
ing out  two  slender  hands,  "what 
am  I  to  do  1 " 

"  To  do  ? "  he  repeated,  moving 
a  step  nearer.  "  You  are  to  come 
with  me — away — now  ;  do  you  un- 
derstand ?  I  have  friends  .  with 
whom  you  can  stay  to-night;  and 
to-morrow,  before  the  world  shall 
have,  discovered  your  absence,  you 
will  have  become  my  wife." 

She  looked  up  half  bewildered, 
as  if  scarcely  comprehending  his 
words.  And  then,  as  if  to  break 
the  silence,  and  so  remove  the  spell : 
"  No,  no,"  she  said,  hastily,  moving 


480 


back  a  step  as  she  spoke ;  "no,  no  ; 
not  that, — that  is  all  over.  You 
must  not  tempt  me — it  is  not  kind. 
Only  you  must  never  say  those  cruel 
things  again.  I  can  bear  all  the 
rest.  Have  I  not  been  learning  to 
bear  it  these  three  months'?  You 
must  have  pity  now." 

She  spoke  so  low  that  Robert 
Moreton  had  to  lean  down  to  hear 
what  she  was  saying.  Even  his 
doubts  were  hushed  to  rest  looking 
at  the  white,  hollow  cheeks,  and 
dark-rinimed  eyes. 

"  I  cannot  go,"  pacing  up  and 
down  the  room ;  "  it  is  useless  to 
tell  me  to  do  so.  You  love  me — 
it  is  unnecessary  for  you  to  deny 
it ;  and  I  love  you — how  much, 
you  will  never  guess  or  know." 

At  his  words  a  slight  tinge  of 
colour  passed  over  her  cheeks. 

"  Hush,  please,"  she  interposed, 
pleadingly. 

"  It  is  madness,  therefore,  for  us 
to  part,"  he  went  on,  unheeding 
her  interruption.  "  Come." 

He  paused  in  his  walk,  and  held 
out  his  arms  as  he  spoke. 

"  No,  no  ! "  she  cried,  shrinking 
away ;  "  your  words  are  an  insult 
— to  her — and  to  me  ! " 

"  I  think,  Lois,"  he  cried,  "  you 
are  the  coldest,  cruellest  woman  I 
ever  met !  Love  !  Why,  the  very 
meaning  of  the  word  is  incompre- 
hensible to  you.  Marry  whom  you 
will,"  an  angry  flush  dyeing  his 
cheeks ;  "  it  is  nothing  to  me." 
And  then,  with  a  sudden  change  of 
tone — "My  darling,  forgive  me;  I 
am  mad,  I  think.  Do  not  mind 
my  words, — do  not  listen  to  them, 
except  when  I  tell  you  to  come 
away  with  me ;  for,  you  see  it 
yourself,  we  could  not  live  apart." 

They  were  standing  close  together 
upon  the  hearth-rug  now,  he  tower- 
ing above  her ;  his  dark,  passionate 
eyes  fixed  on  hers,  awaiting,  almost 
breathlessly,  her  reply. 

"  Mr    Moreton,"  she   said,    and 


Lois :  a  Sketch.  [Oct. 

her  voice  trembled  so,  that  she 
made  a  fresh  beginning.  "  Mr 
Moreton,  an  hour  ago  Sydney  Der- 
ing  was  standing  where  you  are 

now,  saying  '  Good-bye,'  and  I " 

She  hesitated  a  second,  but  then 
went  on  quite  firmly,  though  still 
in  that  low,  careful  voice,  not  taking 
her  eyes  off  his  face,  or  shrinking 
away  from  him  as  she  had  done  at 
first — "and  I  kissed  him  for  the  last 
time  before  I  stand  at  the  altar  as 
his  Avife.  Tell  me,  what  would  you 
think  of  a  woman  who  deceived  him 
now  1 — for,"  her  voice  falling  once 
more,  "he  loves  me." 

"  And  you  think  that  I  do 
not?" 

"No,  no,"  quickly;  "but  you 
see  it  is  different.  To  marry  you 
would  be  wrong ;  to  marry  him " 

"  Would  not  be  right,"  he  inter- 
rupted ;  "  don't  think  it." 

"  I  cannot  tell,"  she  sighed,  wea- 
rily. "  He  loves  me,  and,"  more 
eagerly,  "  I  do  like  him,  and  my 
uncle  wishes  it ;  and — oh,  tell  me 
what  to  do  !  "  with  a  momentary 
imploring  cry. 

"  If  you  would  listen  to  me,  you 
would  come  with  me  before  it  is 
too  late,  and  leave  him  to  make  the 
best  of  it.  Have  you  pretended  to 
him  that  you  love  him  also  ?  " 

The  colour  flitted  over  her  pale 
cheeks. 

"  He  knows,"  she  said,  shortly. 

"  And  you  have  made  up  your 
mind?  For 'the  last  time,  I  tell 
you,  sacrifice  everything,  child, — 
the  opinion  of  the  world,  the 
money,  though  I  honestly  believe 
that  does  not  count  with  you, — and 
come  with  me,  and  let  my  love 
nurse  you  back  into  health." 

The  dark  eyes  were  bent  upon 
hers,  saying  "  Come"  as  plainly  as 
the  passionate  words  ;  but  Lois  did 
not  falter. 

"  I  cannot !  "  she  cried.  "  You 
must  not  tempt  me,  for  I  will  not 
go  back  from  my  word  now ;  it  is 


1880.] 


Lois :  a  SJcetch. 


481 


too  late.  Enough  misery  has  been  ; 
I  will  do  now  what  I  believe  to  be 
right.  You  know,"  imploringly, 
"  whatever  you  may  say,  that  I  am 
striving  to  do  right." 

He  moved  back  a  step  as  the 
low,  sorrow-laden  voice  fell  on  bis 
ear,  and  then  held  out  his  hand  in 
silence. 

Instead  of  taking  it,  she  shrank 
back  from  it.  "  I  could  not,"  she 
said ;  "  I  am  a  weak  coward,  and 
you  —  you  are  a  man,  and  ought 
to  be  stronger,  braver;  then,  of 
your  pity,  go.  So  weak  am  I,  that 
if  I  had  my  hand  in  yours,  and 
you  said  'Come,'  I  could  not,  I 
believe,  say  '  No.'  Then  be  merci- 
ful, and  go  ;  and  if  you  can,  do  not 
despise  me  !  " 

In  perfect  silence  Robert  More- 
ton  walked  over  to  the  glass  door 
which  still  stood  half  open,  but, 
having  reached  it,  he  turned  back 
once  more  to  Lois's  side,  and  looked 
at  her  a  moment  without  speaking, 
and  then — "  I  believe,"  he  said, 
"  you  will  be  happy  yet.  You  are  a 
good  woman  ;  you  are  trying  to  do 
what  is  right,  so  it  will  come  right. 
You  have  called  out  all  there  is  of 
good  in  me,  to-night,  or  I  should 
not  be  saying  this.  By-and-by," 
with  a  break  in  his  voice,  "  you 
will  love  your  husband — good  wo- 
men always  do — and  then  the  past 
will  seem  a  dream." 

"  I  am  going  to  try,"  she  said, 
softly.  "  You  will  never  know, 
Robert,  how  thankful  I  am  that 
your  last  words  were  kind ! " 

"  Good-bye,"  he  faltered. 

"  Good-bye,"  she  said  tenderly, 
quietly,  as  one  might  whisper  it 
in  an  actual  dream ;  and  the  little 
glass  door  closed,  and  Lois  Grey 
was  left  alone  to  contemplate  her 
future. 

What  story  is  it  the  wind  tells  as 
it  sobs  and  wails  about  a  house? 
Surely  a  woful  story,  it  finds  such 
a  ready  echo  in  our  hearts.  Later 


on,  Lois  Grey,  listening  to  it,  feels 
slow,  painful  tears  rise  to  her  eyes 
— tears  she  will  not  allow  to  fall. 

"No,"  she  says,  determinedly, 
rising  as  she  feels  them  gather,  and 
brushing  them  away,  "  I  will  not 
even  cry  !  It  is  sad — most  sad ;  but 
I  will  waste  no  time  in  tears  ;  I 
will  save  all  my  strength  to  make 
a  better  thing  of  the  future." 

And  while  she  is  praying  for 
guidance,  and  power  to  do  right, 
and  forgiveness  for  past  errors,  we 
will  take  a  glimpse  into  another 
apartment,  where  another  girl  is 
wrestling  with  fate  to-night. 

A  very  different  girl  this,  to  the 
one  we  have  just  left,  with  the  sad 
grey  eyes  ; — a  girl  in  the  first  flush 
of  beautiful  young  womanhood. 
Brilliant  in  colouring ; — a  tall,  regal 
figure,  bright  golden  -  brown  hair, 
and  large  blue  eyes,  —  certainly  a 
woman  likely  to  gain  her  full  share 
of  admiration.  And  yet 

On  her  knee  lies  an  open  letter, 
signed  "  Robert  Moreton,"  which 
tells  of  a  love  that,  if  it  once  was 
hers,  has  grown  cold  now ;  and  it 
is  over  this  letter  that  the  gold  head 
is  bent ;  at  its  words  the  blue  eyes 
are  sparkling,  the  low  brows  drawn 
together  in  sullen  anger.  "  Throw 
me  over, — that  is  it  in  plain  Eng- 
lish," lifting  her  head  scornfully ; 
"  and  it  is  her  doing, — I  know  it 
well.  But  I  will  not  let  him  go, 
— he  shall  love  me."  And  as  she 
spoke  she  rose,  and,  drawing  up 
her  figure  to  its  full  height,  stood 
gazing  at  herself  in  the  glass. 

"  Yes,  once  married,  he  must 
love  me.  She  would  never  have  a 
chance  against  me.  What  is  it," 
she  cried,  after  a  moment's  pause, 
"that  she  does?  A  white -faced 
little  thing  like  that !  First  Syd- 
ney Dering,  and  now  Robert, — she 
has  taken  thorn  both  away  from 
me !" 

And  then,  with  sudden  falter- 
ing, and  burying  her  face  in  her 


482 


hands,  the  tears  "began  to  flow. 
But  she  brushed  them  angrily 
away,  and  drawing  pen  and  ink 
towards  her,  sat  down  to  write. 
"  With  his  love,  or  without  it," 
she  muttered,  as  her  pen  travelled 
over  the  paper.  "Ah,  surely  I  must 

win  it  in  time  ;  and  if  not "    A 

pause.     The  ill-tempered  look  that 


Lois  :  a  Sketch.  [Oct. 

marred  the  beauty  of  the  face  crept 
over  it  again.  "  If  not,  there  are 
other  things  in  life  but  love." 

Then  there  was  silence, — a  silence 
as  deep  as  that  that  had  already 
fallen  over  Anderton  House,  save 
for  the  moaning  of  the  storm,  which 
was  increasing  in  violence  with  every 
passing  hour. 


CHAPTER  n. 


'  What  is  my  duty  ?— The  demands  of  the  day.' 


A  month,  four  whole  weeks,  have 
passed  away  since  Lois  Grey  became 
Lois  Dering.  The  honeymoon  is 
over,  and  Sydney  has  brought  his 
wife  back  to  Kelver, — back  to  his 
ward,  Florence  Gainsford,  who,  with 
his  mother,  lives  under  his  roof. 

Lois's  eyes  are  less  despairing 
than  when  we  saw  them  last, — an 
occasional  gleam  of  sadness,  like 
the  strain  of  sorrow  in  a  German 
valse,  alone  is  left  to  tell  of  the 
sadness  they  have  seen.  But  they 
look  out  of  a  white  face  still — a 
white  face  sadly  wanting  in  the 
curves  that  are  the  chief  glory' of 
youth ;  and  beside  the  magnificent 
beauty  of  golden  -  haired  Florence 
Gainsford,  Lois's  small  pretensions 
to  good  looks  seem  very  small  in- 
deed. 

And  Florence  has  a  knack  of  let- 
ting her  feel  that  it  is  so, — a  knack 
of  putting  her  farther  and  farther 
into  the  background, — of  asserting 
her  rights  as  the  daughter  of  the 
house — a  position  she  has  held  too 
long  to  relinquish  without  a  strug- 
gle ;  so  that,  in  addition  to  other 
reasons  she  may  have  for  standing 
at  arm's-length  from  her  guardian's 
wife,  this  by  itself  is  a  powerful 
one. 

Her  reign,  however,  is  nearly 
over  now.  Very  soon  will  come  her 

wedding-day ;  and  after  that 

But  when  Lois  gets  as  far  as  that 
she  does  not  follow  out  the  train  of 


thought, — only  gives  a  great  sigh  of 
relief. 

In  the  meantime,  day  by  day, 
Eobert  More  ton  comes  riding  over 
from  Dewhurst,  in  obedience  to  his 
lady-love's  whims.  Hesatdownonce 
intending  to  write  a  letter  contain- 
ing some  excuse,  —  anything  that 
should  prevent  his  going  to  Kelver ; 
sudden  illness  even  came  into  his 
mind  as  a  reason  for  running  away, 
no  matter  what  should  be  said  of 
him.  But  as  he  sat,  pen  in  hand, 
he  remembered  two  pleading  eyes 
that  had  once  roused  every  good 
thought  and  feeling  he  could  recall, 
— a  farewell  when  he  had  sworn  to 
be  a  help,  and  not  a  hindrance ;  and 
of  all  that  might  be  said  of — some 
one — if  he  should  refuse  to  go  to 
Kelver,  now  that  the  mistress  of  it 
was  home  again;  —  and  he  threw 
the  sheet  of  paper  into  the  fire,  and 
rode  over  as  usual. 

It  was  an  ordeal,  perhaps  ;  but  it 
was  better  for  her — that  was  enough 
for  him. 

"She  shall  have  every  chance  of 
happiness,"  he  said,  loyally,  as  he 
flung  himself  off  his  horse ;  "  and  I 
do  not  think  he  knows  who  it  was 
that  went  nigh  to  break  her  heart. 
Only  I  wish  that  she  had  given  me 
back  my  freedom,  though,  after  all, 
that  was  my  own  fault." 

Was  Sydney  Dering,  it  may  be 
wondered,  aware  of  the  tragedy 
enacting  itself  beneath  his  eyes  ? 


1880.]  Lois:  a  Sketch. 

Sometimes  his  wife  wondered  faint- 
ly if  it  were  so. 

He  said  nothing  ;  but  then  he 
was  a  silent  man,  who  rarely  spoke 
without  distinct  occasion.  Since 
that  evening  two  months  ago,  when 
Lois  Grey  had  faltered  out  her  con- 
fession that  the  love  he  offered  she 
had  not  to  return,  and  he  had  told 
her  he  would  wait  in  patience  till 
she  had  learned  to  repay  his  affec- 
tion, he  had  never  alluded  to  the 
subject.  He  did  not  speak  of  hope 
or  love  in  present  or  future, — not 
even  now  when  the  shadow  was 
fading  slowly  from  her  eyes,  and  a 
more  peaceful  expression  taking  its 
place.  He  might  have  been  blind,  or, 
perhaps,  as  Lois  sometimes  thought 
— merely  careless. 

It  might  have  seemed  strange  to 
him,  and  in  another  man  might 
have  called  forth  some  question  or 
remark,  how,  go  where  he  would,  the 
slender  girlish  form  followed  him. 

Bat  she  said  nothing,  and  he 
asked  no  questions,  showed  neither1 
surprise  nor  pleasure,  perhaps  felt 
neither ;  but  when  a  well  known 
ring  came  at  the  door,  and  a  well- 
known  voice  was  heard  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, wherever  Sydney  Bering 
might  be,  if  he  looked  up,  he  was 
sure  to  find  his  wife  by  his  side. 

If  he  rose  up  to  go  out,  or  to 
play  on  the  organ,  as  he  sometimes 
would  in  the  twilight  of  these 
whiter  evenings,  the  slim  black 
figure  seemed  by  instinct  to  put 
down  the  book  it  held,  acd  cross 
the  floor.  "  You  are  going  out "? 
May  I  come  with  you?"  she  would 
say  softly. 

And  he  would  reply  "  Yes,"  sim- 
ply, and  nothing  more  would  pass 
between  them.  Later  on  the  ques- 
tion and  answer  even  grew  un- 
necessary. 

When  he  rose,  his  work  over, 
and  put  aside  his  writing  materials, 
he  had  only  to  stretch  out  his  hand 
to  feel  the  small,  slim  fingers  in 


483 


his  ;  and  together  they  would  pass 
the  drawing  -  room  door,  w hence 
issued  the  low  murmur  of  voices; 
together  they  would  walk  down 
the  long  gallery,  to  where  the 
organ  stood ;  and  whilst  Sydney 
played,  and  Lois  sat  crouched  on 
the  rug  in  the  firelight  listening, 
there  was  no  need  of  words. 

Once  or  twice  they  came  across 
the  lovers.  Florence,  superb  in  her 
beauty  and  her  love ;  Robert,  bend- 
ing his  tall  head  to  listen  to  her 
words.  Even  then,  though  Lois  felt 
the  colour  die  out  of  her  cheeks 
in  the  very  fear  that  possessed  her, 
lest  sorrow  that  she  felt  she  might 
live  down  alone,  should  come  to 
be  shared  by  her  husband ; — even 
then,  as  she  turned  in  nervous 
fear  towards  him,  lest  he  should 
have  observed  her  white  face,  she 
saw,  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  that  he 
was  not  looking  at  her — that  his 
eyes  were  turned  towards  the  out- 
side world,  and  the  gathering  snow- 
clouds,  although  his  hand  still 
rested  on  hers. 

"There  will  be  snow,"  he  said, 
calmly.  "Do  you  think  you  will 
venture  out  1 " 

"  Yes,  please"  she  cried,  eagerly  ; 
"I  should  like  a  walk!" 

"It  is  not  a  very  good  day,  and 
you  look  so  delicate.  I  do  not  Like 
you  to  run  any  risks." 

"I  am  quite  strong,  Sydney — 
when  I  am  with  you,"  she  added, 
with  a  smile,  after  a  pause.  "I 
would  much  rather  go." 

"  Then,  of  course,  you  shall,"  he 
replied,  cheerfully.  "  Two  are  al- 
ways better  than  one.  I  have  had 
a  hard  day's  work.  You  shall  come 
and  talk  to  me." 

But,  after  all,  they  did  not  talk 
much, — only  wandered  about,  and 
looked  at  the  dogs  and  horses,  and 
speculated  about  the  snowstorm  and 
various  other  unimportant  matters, 
until  down  the  hard  frosty  road 
came  the  sound  of  horses'  feet. 


484 


And  then  Sydney,  looking  again 
at  the  inclement  sky,  suggested 
that  the  library,  with  a  bright 
lire,  would  be  a  pleasant  exchange 
for  this  dim,  cold  atmosphere  ;  and 
his  wife  agreeing,  they  went  in. 

Does  he  guess  anything,  or  know 
anything  1  she  wondered.  But  the 
calm,  quiet  face  told  nothing  ; 
there  was  no  answering  reflection 
from  the  questioning  eyes  she  in- 
voluntarily turned  towards  him,  as 
the  thought  passed  through  her 
mind,  and  she  gave  a  quick  sigh 
of  relief. 

"  Come  to  me  when  you  are  tired 
of  the  dravving-room  and  mother's 
society.  Florence  has  gone  over  to 
the  Veres'  for  a  week,  so  you  may 
find  it  dull ;  but  perhaps  I  flatter 
myself  when  I  suggest  you  may 
find  it  less  dull  here  ? " 

He  had  his  back  to  her  as  he 
spoke,  stirring  the  fire,  so  he  did 
not  see  the  sudden  gleam  of  relief 
that  seemed  to  lift  years  off  her, 
— did  not  hear  the  exclamation  of 
thankfulness  that  crossed  her  lips  ; 
was  aware,  indeed,  of  nothing  until 
he  felt  a  soft  kiss  on  the  hand  that 
hung  down  by  his  side.  When  he 
did  turn  round  she  was  gone,  so  all 
explanation  of  the  unusual  caress 
was  of  necessity  impossible. 

A  week,  when  it  is  only  a  re- 
prieve from  something  that  must 
come  to  pass,  flies  more  swiftly 
than  the  usual  fourth  of  a  month  ; 
but,  on  the  other  hand,  the  re- 
spite in  itself  helps  us,  renews  our 
strength,  and  so  enables  us  to  bear 
better  the  pain,  the  anxiety,  what- 
ever it  may  be,  when  it  does  come, 
and  so  Lois  Dering  found. 

Found  Florence  Gainsford  in 
her  defiant  happiness,  her  proud 
beauty,  less  trying  than  before  that 
week's  holiday.  Besides,  the  time 
was  drawing  on  now ;  wedding- 
presents,  Avedding-dresses  were  dis- 
cernible about  the  house ;  soon — 


Lois :  a  Sketch.  [Oct. 

ah !  very  soon  now — the  shadow 
thrown  by  the  presence  of  these 
lovers  would  disappear,  leaving 
her,  Lois  Dering,  as  she  so  ar- 
dently prayed,  unshaded  by  ill, — 
or  even  by  faint  reminders  of  the 
past. 

"  I  will  forget  it,"  she  said,  day 
by  day  ;  "  I  will  remember  nothing, 
think  of  nothing,  but  him  I " 

It  is  the  1st  of  January,  the 
evening  before  the  wedding,  and 
Lois  is  seated  on  a  low  stool  by  the 
fire  in  a  little  sitting-room  that  is 
rarely  used  :  but  every  unoccupied 
corner  in  the  house  seems  to  have 
been  called  into  requisition ;  and 
to  be  out  of  the  confusion  and  fuss 
that  is  reigaing  everywhere  else, 
Mrs  Dering  has  taken  refuge  here. 

Her  thoughts  have  wandered 
away  from  the  book  she  is  still 
holding  in  her  hand,  her  head  has 
sunk  on  the  low  rail  of  the  fender, 
and  almost  unknown  to  herself,  and 
certainly  without  any  specific  cause, 
the  tears  have  gathered  in  her  eyes. 

The  quiet  opening  of  the  door, 
however,  reminds  her  of  this  fact, 
and  she  raises  her  hand  quickly  to 
brush  them  away,  but  not,  it  seems, 
quickly  enough,  for  Eobert  More- 
ton's  voice  breaks  the  silence, — 
Robert's  voice,  earnest  and  low, 
and  full  of  pain:  "What  is  it? 
You  are  crying.  What  is  the  mat- 
ter?" And  then,  with  a  sudden 
change  in  his  tones,  "I  beg  your 
pardon,  Mrs  Dering;  I  was  told 
Florence  was  here,  and  that  she 
wanted  to  see  me  directly  I  arrived." 

"I  will  go  and  look  for  her," 
Lois  said,  rising  from  her  seat  and 
turning  away,  ignoring,  as  he  had 
done,  those  first  words. 

"  No,  no  ! "  he  cried  ;  "  indeed  I 
would  rather  not.  This  is  far  plea- 
santer  and  quieter  for  you  than 
the  drawing-room.  I  will  go  back 
there ;  sooner  or  later  I  shall  be 
sure  to  find  her." 


1880.] 


Lois :  a  Sketch. 


485 


Lois  could  not  find  it  in  her 
heart  to  dissuade  him,  so  she  sat 
down  again  on  the  footstool  from 
which  she  had  risen,  and  from  there 
she  watched  the  man's  figure  as  he 
walked  irresolutely  away.  Some- 
thing in  his  attitude,  something  in 
the  firelit  room,  and  the  solitude 
and  the  quiet,  reminded  her  in  a 
strange  far-off  manner,  as  we  recall 
bygone  dreams  in  a  dream,  of  that 
other  evening  when  she  had  chosen 
her  path  in  life,  putting  her  duty, 
or  what  she  believed  to  be  such, 
before  her  love,  and  acting  on  an 
impulse  that  the  dream  caused,  she 
stretched  out  her  hand.  "Robert," 
she  said,  in  her  sweet  voice — "  Ro- 
bert, you  know  I  wish  you  well 
to  morrow." 

He  turned  at  the  sound  of  her 
voice,  but  he  made  no  reply  to  her 
words ;  only,  after  a  pause  :  "  Are 
you  happy  ? "  he  asked.  Then 
they  became  aware  that  a  third 
person  was  present, — that  Florence 
Gainsford  was  standing  close  beside 
them,  with  drawn  brows,  watching. 

"Robert,"  she  said,  slowly,  "  will 
you  go  into  the  conservatory  and 
wait  there  a  few  moments  for  me  1 
I  shall  not  be  long-,  and  I  want  to 
talk  to  you  a  little  alone,  —  there 
are  so  many  people  in  the  drawing- 
room." 

"  All  right ;  I'll  go,"  he  replied, 
and  so  departed,  and  the  two 
women  were  left  alone. 

Then  Florence,  drawing  her  splen- 
did figure  up  to  its  full  height,  and 
gazing  mercilessly  down  on  the 
slight  girlish  form  beneath  her : 
"  You  may  look  as  innocent  as  you 
can, — or  as  you  dare,  Mrs  Dering ; 
but  I  tell  you  that  you  do  not  de- 
ceive me,  if  you  do  others,  and  I 
am  determined  that  you  shall  know 
it.  You  may  try  to  come  between 
Robert  and  me,  as  you  came  be- 
tween Sydney  and  me " 

"Hush!"  cried  Lois,  rising  to 
her  feet,  her  eyes  flashing — "  hush  ! 

VOL.  CXXVI1I. — NO.  DCCLXXX. 


How  dare  you  say  such  things  ?     I 
will  not  listen  to  another  word." 

"You  shall  hear  every  word  I 
choose  to  say.  What  chance  do 
you  think  you  have  against'  me  1 
I  tell  you  that  I  loved  your  hus- 
band,— that  he  would  have  married 
me  had  it  not  been  for  your  false 
face.  I  tell  you  that  I  know  how 
you  flirted  with  Robert  Moreton, 
and  would  have  married  him  if  he 
had  had  Sydney's  fortune.  Ah," 
with  a  hasty  movement,  "  a  child 
could  see  through  you !  No  one 
but  an  infatuated  man  could  ever 
have  been  deceived  by  such  bold 
scheming.  Take  care  that  his  love 
is  not  as  quickly  lost  as  won.  But 
enough, — your  past  is  nothing  to 
me,  absolutely  nothing,  except  in 
so  far  as  it  affects  my  future.  And 
I  tell  you  plainly  that  I  will  not, — 
do  not,  —  forgive  anything.  You 
can  do  me  no  harm ;  for  if  you  care 
to  know  it,  I  am  marrying  him 
solely  because  I  do  not  choose  that 
you  shall  come  between  me  and 
anything  or  any  one  that  is  mine. 
Do  you  understand?  But  if  you 
value  your  own  peace  of  mind, 
you  will  do  well  not  to  interfere 
between  us  again." 

"  Ah,  poor  Robert ! "  It  was  al- 
most more  a  sigh  than  an  articulate 
sentence,  but  Florence  heard  it. 

"  It  is  too  late  to  pity  him  now," 
she  said,  sneeringly ;  "  you  should 
have  thought  of  all  that  before." 

Her  words,  the  tones  of  her 
voice,  awoke  Lois  from  the  apathy 
that  had  stolen  over  her,  as  she  had 
stood  there  listening,  though  only 
half  consciously,  to  Florence's  words. 
"  Oh,  Syd,  Syd  ! "  she  cried,  clasp- 
ing her  hands  together;  "why  do 
you  ever  leave  me  alone?" 

"  I  will  tell  him  my  story,  if  you 
prefer  it,"  Florence  said,  coldly. 
"  I  think  his  opinion  of  you  would 
not  be  quite  the  same  if  he  knew  as 
much  as  I  do." 

"Ah,   spare   him!"  Lois  cried, 
2  K 


486 


wringing  her  hands  ;  "  do  not  strive 
to  poison  his  inind  against  me." 

"  He  is  spared, — as  you  choose 
to  call  it, — so  long  as  you  do  not 
attempt  to  come  between  me  and 
my  husband.  If  you  do,  trust  me, 
my  vengeance  is  in  my  own  hands, 
and  will  be  both  swift  and  sure." 

She  turned  and  walked  slowly  a- 
way,  with  a  stately  movement  which 
it  was  impossible  to  imitate,  with- 
out one  word  from  Lois,  who  seemed 
as  one  struck  suddenly  dumb. , 

Miss  Gainsford  played  her  part 
well  during  the  evening, — did  and 
said  all  that  was  required  of  her, 
even  to  murmuring  a  few  words  of 
love  to  Robert  Moreton,  as  he  stood 
by  her  side  in  the  conservatory. 

She  was  troubled  with  no  uncom- 
fortable sensations  at  the  remem- 
brance of  those  words  spoken  to 
Lois.  She  did  not  think  she  had 
been  untruthful,  or  even  unkind. 

From  her  own  point  of  view  she 
had  interpreted  Lois's  conduct,  and 
it  was,  as  she  herself  said,  from  that 
point  of  view,  only  too  easy  to  be 
seen  through ;  but  then  it  is  always 
difficult,  often  impossible,  for  a 
lower  nature  to  judge  a  higher, 
from  the  mere  fact  that  many  deeds 
can  be  interpreted  so  easily  well  or 
ill,  according  to  the  power  of  vision 
granted  to  the  interpreter.  So  Flor- 
ence Gainsford  went  on  her  way 
rejoicing,  feeling  that  she  held  in 
her  hand  a  dagger,  which  might  be 
called  upon  to  do  its  fatal  work  at 
any  moment  that  might  be  required. 

"I  have  given  her  a  fair  warn- 
ing," she  said,  in  a  hard  voice,  as 
she  stood  alone  in  her  room  that 
night.  "  Next  time  I  shall  not 
warn  ;  I  shall  strike."  And  so  fell 
asleep  to  awake  and  find  that  it  was 
her  wedding-day. 

But  whilst  she  walked  slowly 
away  without  a  backward  glance, 
Lois  remained,  sitting  quite  still 
for  a  whole  hour,  with  beating 
pulses  and  wide-open  eyes  that 


Lois :  a  Sketch.  [Oct 

stared  into  the  dying'  embers  of 
the  tire,  going  over  and  over  again 
in  her  mind  the  details  of  that 
terrible  interview.  "Did  I  do 
wrong?  Perhaps  I  should  have 
told  him  everything  before  I  mar- 
ried; but  it  would  be  too  cruel 
now,  whatever  it  might  have  been 
then.  No ;  at  any  cost,  it  must  be 
borne  alone  now.  Why,  I  would 
put  up  with  anything  to  save  him 
an  hour's  pain  ! "  And  then  cover- 
ing her  face  with  her  hands  :  "  He 
might  not  believe  me — he  might 
believe  her — and  think,  as  she  says, 
that  it  was  the  money  that  tempted 
me.  Oh,  I  could  never  bear  it !  " 
And  with  a  quick  movement  she 
rose  to  her  feet,  and  quitting  the 
now  dark  room,  walked  to  the  door 
of  her  husband's  study. 

"Syd,"  entering,  and  speaking 
quickly  with  panting  breath,  and 
the  marks  of  tears  still  about  her 
eyes — "Syd,  may  I  sit  here  with 
you  ? "  He  stretched  out  his  hand 
and  drew  her  down  beside  him. 

"  Do  I  ever  say  '  No '  ? "  he  asked, 
gently ;  but  he  added  nothing  more, 
— made  no  allusion  to  the  tear-drops 
on  the  eyelashes,  or  the  trembling 
voice  —  only  smoothed  the  hair 
back  from  her  aching  forehead  in 
silence. 

"  That  feels  safe,"  she  said,  half 
under  her  breath  once ;  and  he  re- 
plies gently,  "  I  like  to  know  that 
you  feel  safe  with  me." 

After  a  long  pause — "Sydney," 
Lois  asked,  "  where  are  they  going 
for  their  honeymoon?  It  is  very 
odd,"  nervously,  "  but  it  never 
struck  me  to  ask  before." 

"  To  America.  You  know  Flor- 
ence's relations  are  American,  so  it 
seems  a  good  opportunity  to  go  out 
and  make  acquaintance  with  them. 
They  will  be  away  six  months." 

"  Six  months,"  repeated  Lois, 
looking  up  into  her  husband's  face 
with  a  little  sigh  that  sounded  like 
relief.  "Then  when  they  return 


1880.]  Lois:  a  Sketch. 

home  we  shall  have  been  married 
eight  whole  months  !  " 

Perhaps  Lois's  train  of  thought 
was  not  easy  to  follow  out  by  Lois's 
husband  ;  perhaps  the  sigh  of  re- 
lief,  and  the  words  by  which  it  was 
followed,  were  an  enigma  to  him, 


487 


he  either  could  not,  or  did  not  care 
to  guess. 

At  any  rate  he  said  nothing,  and 
Lois  returned  to  the  watching  of 
the  fire  ;  and  on  her  side  also  the 
silence  after  that  remained  un- 
broken. 


CHAPTER    III. 


'Passavant  le  ineillor  " 

—  Old  French  War-Cry. 


January  has  given  place  to  June ; 
instead  of  frost  and  snow,  and  bare 
branches  overhead,  a  midsummer 
sun  is  shining  strong  and  bright, 
and  the  trees  that  grow  around 
Kelver  are  green  with  the  green- 
ness of  early  summer.  There  is 
summer  everywhere  :  in  the  joyous 
song  of  birds,  in  the  many  colours 
of  the  gay  roses  that  enrich  the 
garden ;  and  within  the  dark  eyes 
and  on  the  soft  cheeks  of  Lois 
Dering,  it  seems  to  have  also  found 
an  abiding-place. 

She  is  standing  by  the  open  win- 
dow of  her  husband's  study,  looking 
over  the  rich  lawn  to  where  the  roses 
show  beyond  ;  and  as  she  stands 
there  in  her  clinging  white  dress, 
that  is  unrelieved  by  any  colour, 
her  lips  curved  into  a  happy  smile, 
which  is  reflected  in  her  sweet  eyes, 
it  is  hard  to  recognise  the  girl  with 
great  tragic  eyes  who  said  "  good- 
bye "  to  Eobert  Moreton  some 
eight  months  ago. 

"Lois." 

At  the  sound  of  her  husband's 
voice  she  turned  her  head. 

"  That,"  he  said,  holding  out  an 
envelope,  "  means,  I  suppose,  that 
they  have  come  home." 

The  smile  faded  slowly,  entirely 
away,  as  she  took  it ;  but  her  hus- 
band's eyes  were  bent  upon  his 
letters,  which  had  just  arrived,  so 
perhaps  he  did  not  observe  it. 
Did  not  observe  how  the  colour 
also  slowly  faded  away,  and  the 


shadow  crept  stealthily  back  into 
the  sweet  eyes. 

But  she  said  nothing,  only  open- 
ed the  envelope,  and  drew  forth 
from  it  a  card  gaily  monogrammed, 
which  requested  the  presence  of 
Mr  and  Mrs  Dering  at  a  ball  to  be 
held  a  fortnight  hence  at  Siston 
Manor. 

She  looked  at  it  a  moment,  as 
if  she  could  not  comprehend  its 
signification,  and  then  in  silence 
crossing  to  Sydney's  side,  laid  it 
down  on  the  table. 

He  took  it  up,  and  whilst  read- 
ing it,  held  the  hand  that  had 
placed  it  there,  imprisoned  in  his  ; 
but  he  did  not  glance  up  at  the 
face  above  him,  only  said  gently, 
"  I  think  we  shall  have  to  go, 
Lois,  though  we  are  not  ball-going 
people.  Unfortunately,  even  we," 
with  a  smile,  "  have  to  consider 
the  world  sometimes  ! " 

Nothing  more  was  said  then  or 
afterwards  on  the  subject,  and  the 
dreaded  day  came  round  in  due 
course,  as  days  have  a  habit  of 
doing,  without  respect  to  our  feel- 
ings. 

But  in  that  intervening  fort- 
night the  shadow  that  had  been 
banished  crept  back,  and  took  up  its 
abode  in  Lois's  eyes ;  the  pathetic 
droop  returned  tc  the  sweet  mouth. 

Once  more  Sydney  Dering  might 
have  observed,  had  he  been  an  ob- 
servant man,  how,  whenever  he 
looked  up  from  his  writing,  the 


483 


slight  figure  of  his  wife  was  seated 
on.  a  low  stool  at  his  feet,  or  couch- 
ed in  an  easy-chair  by  his  open 
window,  looking  abroad  with  that 
far-seeing  gaze  that  sees  nothing. 

Once  more,  whenever  he  went 
abroad,  he  found  a  small  hand  in 
his,  heard  a  low  voice  beg  to  be 
allowed  to  go  with  him. 

For,  "if,"  was  the  unspoken 
dread  deep  down  in  Lois's  heart — 
"  if  she  should  come  over  here,  and 
find  me  alone  again, — or,  worse  still, 
if  he  should  come  !  " 

And  then  she  would  rise  from 
the  piano,  or  her  painting,  or  what- 
ever was  the  occupation  of  the 
moment,  and  hasten  down  the 
passage  with  quick  nervous  feet,  to 
that  room  that  she  felt  represented, 
as  far  as  she  was  concerned,  safety, 
— to  that  one,  whom  she  had  never 
known  unwilling,  or  unready  to  re- 
ceive her. 

"  Besides  the  feeling  of  protec- 
tion, it  is  a  comfort  that  he  is  so 
absent, — that  he  notices  nothing  ; 
does  not  observe  when  I  am  rest- 
less and  unhappy,  or  when  I  am 
quiet  and  content,  which  is  a  rest," 
with  a  sigh,  "  because  I  need  not 
even  think  how  I  am  looking,  or 
what  I  am  saying,  when  I  am  with 
him.  His  mind  is  in  his  books; 
but  I, "  with  a  quick,  proud  smile, 
"  have  his  heart.  Ah,"  clasping 
her  hands  together,  "  if  I  were  to 
lose  it  ! " 

The  great  hall  of  Siston  was 
gleaming  with  lights ;  men  and 
women  talking,  flirting,  dancing, 
quarrelling,  were  passing  to  and 
fro.  Mrs  Moreton,  resplendent  in 
amber  satin,  was  the  admired  of 
every  one.  Beauty  such  as  hers 
could  not  fail  to  attract  attention. 
But  it  did  not  touch  the  heart  in 
the  way  that  Lois  Bering's  did,  for 
all  that ;  and  if  votes  had  been 
taken  on  the  subject,  there  would 
have  been  many  given  to  the  tall 


Lois :  a  Sketch.  [Oct. 

slender  woman  in  trailing  white 
satin, — the  woman  with  the  small 
dark  head  and  dreamy  eyes,  who 
moved  about  with  her  hand  on  her 
husband's  arm. 

"You  will  give  me  a  dance1?" 
questioned  Robert  Moreton,  almost 
eagerly, — an  older  Robert  than  we 
saw  eight  months  ago,  not  precisely 
a  happy-looking  bridegroom ;  and 
Lois,  at  his  words,  shrank  closer  to 
her  husband's  side,  and  began  some 
faltering  excuse. 

But  Sydney  interposed.  "You 
must  dance  a  little,"  he  said,  with 
a  smile,  "  or  people  will  say  I  am 
preventing  you.  And  you  should 
begin,  for  you  know  we  are  not  go- 
ing to  stay  very  late.  I  am  lazy," 
he  went  on,  turning  to  Robert, 
"and  not  a  ball-going  man,  as  I 
daresay  you  may  remember ;  so  my 
wife  is  going  to  be  obedient,  and, 
in  consideration  of  the  long  drive 
home,  she  has  promised  to  leave 
early." 

Mr  Moreton  made  no  reply,  be- 
yond a  muttered  "Balls  were  not 
much  in  his  line  either,"  but  offered 
his  arm,  which  Lois  took,  and 
almost  before  she  was  aware  of 
what  she  was  doing,  she  found  her- 
self walking  down  the  room  with 
Robert,  for  the  first  time  able  to 
speak  to  him  without  fear  of  list- 
eners, since  that  terrible  eve  of  his 
marriage  six  months  ago. 

That  time  was  in  both  their 
minds.  In  his,  with  the  remem- 
brance of  that  question  he  had 
asked,  the  answer  to  which  in  com- 
mon loyalty  he  had  not  pressed. 
The  drooping  figure,  the  firelit 
room,  the  weeping  woman,  all  were 
present  before  him  now,  and  forbade 
all  attempts  on  his  part  at  common- 
place ball-room  conversation. 

With  her  there  was  but  one  re- 
membrance,—  that  of  the  bitter 
words  she  had  heard  that  night,  the 
threat  that  had  so  terrified  her ;  and 
involuntarily  she  raised  her  eyes  and 


1880.]  Lois:  a  Sketch. 

glanced  round  the  room  in  search 
of  the  one  whom  it  was  her  first 
thought  to  seek  in  time  of  trouble 
or  perplexity.  Yes,  there  he  was, 
standing  quite  close  beside  her, 
though  not  apparently  watching 
her,  and  across  her  troubled  heart 
came  a  sensation  of  relief. 

And  with  that  sensation  of  re- 
lief she  felt  capable  of  thinking  of 
some  slight  conventional  phrase 
Avherewith  to  break  the  silence 
which  had  hitherto  sheltered  her ; 
and  even  as  she  was  about  to  say 
it,  through  all  the  noise  about  her, 
was  clearly  borne  to  her  ears  a 
strange  voice  which  said,  as  if  in 
reply  to  a  previous  question  :  "  Yes, 
he  was  awfully  in  love  with  her, — 
he  only  married  the  other  for  her 
money." 

"  And  she  1 " 

Something  in  the  significance  of 
the  words  arrested  Lois's  attention, 
— something  in  the  words  them- 
selves helped  her  to  a  knowledge 
of  whom  they  were  speaking,  and 
with  a  quick,  terrified  movement 
she  raised  her  eyes  to  her  husband's 
face,  even  as  the  voice  made  an- 
swer :  "  Married  Dering  for  his." 

Their  eyes  met,  for  he  was  watch- 
ing her ;  and  she  strove  to  read  in 
his  if  he  had  also  heard,  but  there 
was  no  sign  if  it  were  so.  With  a 
sudden  resolve,  which  blinded  her 
to  what  others  might  think  or  say, 
"  Let  me  go  to  him,  Mr  Moreton," 
she  faltered ;  and  before  Robert  had 
realised  what  she  meant,  she  was 
by  Sydney's  side. 

"  Ah,  no,  no  ! "  she  cried,  her 
words  coming  out  with  something 
like  a  sob.  And  then,  restraining 
herself  with  an  effort,  and  slipping 
her  arm  quietly  through  his:  "  Syd- 
ney," she  said,  lifting  her  head 
proudly,  her  eyes  flashing,  and  a 
delicate  colour  rising  in  her  cheeks 
— "  Sydney,  would  you  mind  taking 
a  turn  round  the  room  with  me? 
I " 


489 


"It  is  not  very  amusing  for 
you,"  he  answered  gently,  "  to  go 
to  a  ball  and  then  to  talk  to  your 
husband." 

"I  should  like  it,"  she  replied 
softly,  laying  her  other  hand  on  his 
arm — "just  once,  please,  round  the 
room." 

Slowly  they  did  as  she  asked, — 
she  with  her  small  head  lifted,  her 
dark  eyes  looking  into  his,  and 
then  the  music  striking  up,  told 
them  another  dance  was  beginning, 
and  Lois's  partner,  coming  to  claim 
her :  "  Thank  you,  Syd,"  she  said 
in  a  low  voice,  with  sudden  vehe- 
mence as  she  was  about  to  leave 
him — "  thank  you,  Syd,  so  much ! " 
Only  Eobert  Moreton,  left  partner- 
less  by  reason  of  Lois's  sudden 
flight,  perhaps,  observed  them,  but 
he  could  not  forget  the  look  with 
which  she  had  left  him  and  turned 
away  with  her  husband. 

"Of  course,"  he  muttered,  im- 
patiently— "  of  course  she  is  fond 
of  him.  Did  I  not  tell  her  so  it 
would  be  ? "  half  defiantly,  as  if  it 
had  been  the  fact  of  his  telling  it 
that  had  brought  it  to  pass. 

"  Moreton  has  gone,  or  is  going, 
back  to  America."  The  speaker 
was  Mr  Dering,  the  scene  his  own 
breakfast  -  table,  the  audience  his 
wife  and  mother,  and  the  time  a 
month  later  than  the  Siston  ball. 

"  Back  to  America  ! "  exclaimed 
old  Mrs  Dering ;  "  why,  they  have 
only  just  returned  from  there." 

"  Not  '  they,' "  corrected  Mr  Der- 
ing. "  Moreton  is  leaving  his  wife 
in  England." 

At  those  words  Lois  raised  her 
eyes  quickly,  as  if  about  to  speak, 
but  she  said  nothing,  and  her  hus- 
band went  on :  "  She — Florence — is 
going  up  to  Scotland  for  a  month 
or  two,  so  I  asked  her  if  she  would 
care  to  come  here  for  a  few  days 
first." 

"When?" 


490 


Lois :  a  Sketch 


[Oct. 


Lois  was  all  eagerness  now. 

"  On  Monday  next ;  but  she  will 
not  stay  long — only  a  day  or  two. 
She  said  she  would  like  to  see  you, 
mother." 

"Ah,  Sydney,  then  you  will  not 
be  here ! " 

"  No,  Lois  ;  I  cannot  help  it.  I 
must  go  to  London  as  I  arranged 
on  Saturday ;  but  I  shall  only  stay 
as  short  a  time  as  possible.  Lon- 
don is  not  very  tempting  at  this 
time  of  year." 

"  No,"  said  Lois,  kneeling  by  his 
side,  and  speaking  more  earnestly 
than  the  occasion  seemed  to  war- 
rant, "  you  must  not  say  that.  You 
must  not  want  to  come  home  be- 
cause London  is  dull,  but  because 
/  am  here." 

"Of  course,"  he  answered,  throw- 
ing his  arms  about  her,  and  raising 
her  to  her  feet.  "  Of  course  you 
know  how  I  shall  weary  till  I  see 

you.  The  question  is  rather 

No,  no,"  interrupting  himself,  "  we 
will  not  ask  any  questions,  but  just 
enjoy  the  time  that  is  left  to  us. 
Let  us  go  to  the  organ ;  I  have 
something  I  should  like  you  to 
hear." 

"  Good-bye,  dear  wife."  Mr  Der- 
ing  was  just  starting  for  London, 
and  Lois  was  hovering  about  him, 
saying  and  hearing  last  words,  and 
for  once  Sydney  seemed  to  have 
emerged  out  of  his  ordinary  quiet 
self,  and  to  be  more  disturbed  than 
there  seemed  occasion  for.  "  I  wish 
you  were  coming  with  me.  We 
have  never  been  separated  yet  since 
we  were  married,  have  we1?  Take 
great  care  of  yourself, — and  do  not 
fret  or  worry  about  anything.  Will 
you  promise  ? " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  if  you  should  really  want 
me,  you  will  send  for  me  at  once, 
will  you  not —  to  Gresham  Place  ? " 

"Yes.  Ah,  Syd,"  with  sudden 
passion,  "how  good  you  are  to  me  ! 


You  will  be  al \vays  kind  to  me1?" 
imploringly. 

"You  are  my  wife,  Lois,"  he 
said  gently,  drawing  her  towards 
him  ;  "  my  dear  wife.  Good-bye, 
and  God  bless  you." 

He  had  kissed  her  and  gone,  but 
ere  reaching  the  door  he  came  once 
more  to  her  side. 

"Lois,"  stooping  his  head,  and 
speaking  very  low,  but  more  pas- 
sionately than  she  had  ever  heard 
him  speak  before,  "would  you  say, 
'  Dear  Syd,  I  love  you '  ? " 

All  in  a  second  the  colour  died 
slowly  away  out  of  Lois's  face.  A 
mingling  of  utter  surprise  and  many 
other  feelings  kept  her  silent,  and 
in  that  second's  space  the  glow 
faded  out  of  Mr  Bering's  face,  leav- 
ing just  the  kind,  gentle  look  she 
knew  so  well. 

"  Of  course,"  she  half  stammered ; 
but  Sydney's  voice  cut  her  sentence 
in  two. 

"  What  nonsense  I  am  talking  !  " 
he  said.  "  Words  are  but  very  un- 
satisfactory things, — deeds  are  much 
better  ; "  and  before  the  colour  had 
returned  to  her  cheeks,  he  was 
gone. 

"  Oh,  Syd,  Syd  ! "  she  cried,  when 
she  had  realised  this  fact,  sinking 
down  on  a  chair  and  covering  her 
face  with  her  hands, — "  why  did  I 
not  say  it  ?  Oh,  dear  Syd,  the  very 
first  thing  that  you  have  ever  asked 
me  to  do  ! " 

She  wept  inconsolably  for  some 
time ;  and  then  remembering  that 
after  all  he  was  only  going  for  a 
week,  she  dried  her  tears,  with  a 
resolve  that  the  very  first  thing 

when  he  returned "Ah,  yes," 

she  said  softly  to  herself,  "  we  shall 
see  then." 

But  in  the  meantime  Florence 
Moreton's  visit  had  to  take  place. 

She  arrived  on  the  Monday,  as 
she  had  said — harder,  colder,  more 
unloving  than  ever,  at  least  in 
Lois's  eyes ;  but  then,  perhaps,  she 


1880.]  Lois:  a  Sketch. 

was  hardly  a  fair  judge  of  Robert 
Moreton's  wife. 

The  day  was  got  through  some- 
how, Mrs  Moreton  showing  most 
clearly  that  her  visit  was  paid  to  Mr 
Bering's  mother,  not  to  his  wife. 

But  Lois  bore  with  everything. 
"  It  will  not  last  long,"  she  thought. 
"  Four  more  days  and  he  will  come 
home, — two  more  days  and  she  will 
go;"  for  this  was  Tuesday,  and  on 
the  following  Thursday  Mrs  More- 
ton  had  announced  that  it  was  her 
intention  to  depart. 

"Where  is  Mr  Bering  staying 
in  town  1 "  she  asked  at  dinner  on 
Wednesday  night ;  and  his  mother 
replied,  "At  4  Gresham  Place." 
"  I  shall  go  and  pay  him  a  visit 
whilst  I  am  in  London,"  she  went 
on.  "  I  daresay  I  shall  find  him 
in,  and  I  particularly  want  to  see 
him  before  I  go  to  Scotland." 

As  she  spoke,  she  looked  full 
into  Lois's  eyes,  with  calm,  insolent 
triumph. 

"He  will  be  glad  to  see  you, 
Florence,"  said  old  Mrs  Bering. 
"  He  is  very  fond  of  you,"  with  a 
little  smile  at  the  unsmiling  beauty 
by  her  side. 

"  Other  people,"  she  said,  with  a 
little  stress  on  the  words,  "have 
rather  put  me  out  of  his  good 
graces,  I  fear." 


491 


"So  I  should  have  thought,"  she 
replied  shortly ;  and  there  the  con- 
versation ended, — all  conversation 
as  far  as  Lois  was  concerned.  Her 
thoughts  came  faster  and  faster. 
If  she  could  only  get  a  moment 
alone  to  collect  thpm  in  ! 

At  length  the  dinner  was  over, 
and  she  was  at  liberty  to  retire  to 
her  own  room,  and  think  over 
what  was  coming. 

"  Oh,  what  is  she  going  to  do  ?" 
she  cried,  pressing  her  hands  to- 
gether. And  after  a  moment :  "  If 
she  tells  him  what  she  told  me, 
what  will  he  think  ?  Ah,  he  will 


believe  her — I  know  he  will.  He  is 
so  unobservant, — sees  so  little  of 
what  is  going  on  about  him  that 
the  doubt  will  find  a  place  in  his 
heart.  And,"  with  sudden  passion, 
"he  will  remember  how  I  said 
'Good-bye'  to  him, — how  I  would 
not  say  I  loved  him  when  he  asked 
me, — and  he  will  never  know  that 

Ah,"  breaking  off  suddenly, 

"  I  could  not  bear  it !  It  would 
kill  me." 

But  rising  to  her  feet,  and  with 
an  effort  calming  herself,  "  I  must 
see  her.  She  shall  be  forced  to  say 
what  she  is  going  to  do." 

With  hasty  steps  she  traversed 
the  passages  that  lay  betwixt  her 
room  and  Mrs  Moreton's,  and 
knocking  at  the  door,  was  bidden 
to  enter. 

Florence  looked  surprised  though, 
when  she  saw  who  obeyed  her 
voice,  but  she  said  nothing,  leaving 
it  for  her  visitor  to  state  the  cause 
of  her  appearance.  There  was 
something  in  the  way  she  turned 
her  head,  shading  her  eyes  with  a 
feather  fan  all  the  while  from  the 
glow  of  the  lamp — something  so 
calm,  so  relentless — that  it  made 
Lois  feel  herself  small  and  pitiable, 
and  in  the  wrong,  as  she  stood  before 
her.  But  any  certainty  was  better 
than  this  terrible  doubt.  "What  are 
you  going  to  see  my  husband  for  1 " 
she  asked,  in  tones  that  she  could 
not  prevent  from  trembling,  try  as 
she  might. 

"  I  am  going  to  see  him,"  replied 
Florence,  crossing  her  small  feet  on 
the  stool  before  her,  and  turning 
her  head  back  to  the  contemplation 
of  the  empty  fireplace,  "  to  tell  him 
what  his  wife  forgot  to  tell  him  when 
she  married  him, — that  she  was  in 
love  with  Eobert  Moreton  all  the 
time  that  she  was  trifling  with  him, 
merely  for  the  pleasure  of  prevent- 
ing him  from  marrying  me, — the 
girl  whom  it  was  always  intended 
he  should  marry ; — but  that  at 


Lois :  a  Sketch. 


last  prudence  triumphed  over  love, 
as  in  such  a  case  it  is  very  likely 
it  would  do, — so  she  married  him  for 
what  he  could  give  her, — leaving 
Robert  Moreton  to  console  himself 
with  me.  I  shall  also  tell  him  how 
I  warned  his  wife,"  with  a  little 
scornful  emphasis  on  the  word, 
"  that  if  she  would  confine  her 
flirting  to  the  past,  I  would  say  no- 
thing about  my  discoveries." 

"  Mrs  Moreton,"  interrupted 
Lois,  "you  are  a  hard  woman, — 
an  ill-tempered  woman, — and  you 
hate  me  ;  still  you  are  truthful,  I 
think ;  and,"  clasping  her  hands, 
"even  if  you  do  believe  some  of 
the  terrible  things  you  say  of  me, 
you  would  not  stoop,  surely,  to  tell 
a  lie,  to  see  how  much  you  can 
make  my  husband  believe,  just 
for  the  sake  of  being  revenged  on 
me?" 

"I  shall  tell  him,"  went  on 
Florence,  in  that  same  cold  hard 
voice,  utterly  heedless  of  Lois's  pas- 
sionate interruption,  "  how  you 
came  to  our  ball,  talked  to  my  hus- 
band, and  how,  the  next  morning, 
he  told  me — his  wife — that  Eng- 
land was  unbearable  to  him,  and 
that  he  should  go  back  to  America. 
I  may  be  very  blind,  but  not  quite 
so  blind  as  not  to  be  able  to  see  the 
cause  and  effect  there. 

"No,"  as  Lois  would  have  in- 
terrupted, raising  her  feather  fan 
slowly,  "  I  do  not  care  to  hear  your 
excuses, — you  can  keep  them  for 
your  husband.  It  remains,  of 
course,  to  be  proved  yet,  whether 
he  will  take  your  word  or  mine." 
"  I  was  going  to  make  no  excuses," 
said  Lois  quietly,  proudly,  in  the 
pause  that  followed.  "  I  should 
think  that  I  had  descended  to  your 
level  if  I  bandied  words  with  you." 
And  without  another  syllable  she 
left  the  room. 

But  alone  in  her  own  apart- 
ment her  courage  gave  way.  The 
enemy  had  not  altogether  had  the 


worst  of  it,  and  Lois's  aching  heart 
echoed  many  of  her  bitter  words. 

"Was  I  doing  wrong  all  the 
time,"  she  cried,  as  she  paced  up 
and  down,  "  when  I  was  trying  so 
hard  to  do  right  1  Ah  !  why  did  I 
not  tell  him  all  ?  How  I  wish  now 
I  had  !  I  wish  I  had  had  any  one 
to  warn  me — and  I  am  all  alone, 
quite  alone  now !  If  she  makes 
him  believe  her  now,  when  he  is 
everything  to  me, — ah,  it  will  kill 
me  !  Oh,  Syd,  Syd,  dear  Syd!  my 
husband,  my  only  friend  !  why  did 
you  leave  me  ?  " 

She  was  crying  now,  bitter,  salt 
tears,  that  flowed  almost  uncon- 
sciously, as  she  paced  the  room,  or 
paused  to  look  forth  at  the  deepen- 
ing gloom  of  night. 

"  She  will  go  to  him  to-morrow, 
the  first  thing, — this  may  be  my 
last  night  of  peace.  She  shall 
have  it  all  her  own  way, — she  has 
conquered  me !  Besides,  I  could 
not  go  up  with  her.  And  fancy 
poor  quiet  Sydney  in  his  study, 
with  two  angry  women  scolding  and 
upbraiding  each  other  in  his  pres- 
ence !  "  And  she  smiled  a  little 
dreary  smile  at  the  very  idea. 

But  at  that  moment  a  sudden 
thought  struck  her;  she  ceased 
speaking,  and  a  quick  faint  gleam 
brightened  the  eyes  which  had 
been  gazing  abroad  so  forlornly. 
She  took  out  her  watch — only  half- 
past  nine. 

"  Plenty  of  time,"  she  murmured. 
In  an  instant  she  had  rung  the  bell. 

"  Owens,"  as  her  maid  entered, 
speaking  hurriedly,  with  burning 
cheeks,  and  eyes  still  full  of  tears, 
"something  has  occurred  which 
makes  it  absolutely  necessary  I 
should  see  your  master  to-night, 
so  I  am  going  by  the  10.50  train 
to  town,  and  I  want  you  to  come 
with  me  to  the  station.  Can  you 
be  ready  in  five  minutes  1 " 

"  Certainly,  ma'am ;  but  will  you 
not  drive  ? " 


1880.]  Lois ;  a  Sketch. 

"'No,  no,"  with  nervous  impa- 
tience ;  "  I  want  to  go  quietly,"  a 
red  streak  dyeing  her  cheeks,  "so 
you  must  not  let  any  one  know  I 
have  gone, — you  understand  ? " 

"Certainly,  ma'am,"  Owens  said 
again;  and  she  being  old  and  dis- 
creet, and  having  been  Lois  Grey's 
maid  in  the  old  days  before  she 
came  to  Kelver,  Lois  Bering  felt 
she  might  trust  her ;  and  turning  to 
her  with  sudden  impetuosity,  "So 
much  depends  on  it,  Owens,"  she 
said,  —  "all  my  happiness,"  her 
eyes  growing  misty  again.  "  Don't 
let  Mrs  Moreton  know  I  have 
gone." 

"It  is  all  right,  Miss,  though  I 
should  say  'Ma'am,'  but  having 
known  you  before,  it  sometimes 
slips  out, — but  they  all  think  you 
have  gone  to  bed  ;  and  how  should 
they  ever  know  different  1 " 

The  London  train  was  just  dash- 
ing into  the  station  as  Lois  and 
Owens  found  themselves  on  the 
platform  to  meet  it.  Lois  had  not 
spoken  all  the  way ;  she  would  not 
even  think  of  what  she  was  going 
to  do,  the  words  she  was  going  to 
say. 

All  she  could  think  of  was,  that 
the  same  roof  no  longer  sheltered 
herself  and  Florence  Moreton,  and 
that  she  felt  she  could  not  have 
borne. 

She  had  crept  into  old  Mrs  Ber- 
ing's room  before  leaving,  and  had 
kissed  that  elderly  lady,  somewhat 
to  her  surprise,  for  Lois  was  not  a 
demonstrative  woman  as  a  rule. 

"Good  night,  mother,"  she  said 
gently,— she  had  got  into  the  habit 
of  calling  Mrs  Bering  by  that  name, 
for  the  sake  of  gathering  about  her, 
if  possible,  the  relationships,  at 
least  in  name,  that  she  had  missed 
so  long  out  of  her  life.  "  Good 
night,  mother.  If Ah,  mo- 
ther !  is  Sydney  ever  unkind  ?  " 

"  No,  no,"  said  the  old  lady,  look- 


493 


ing  up  half  astonished  at  the  ques- 
tion, and  the  fervour  with  which  it 
was  asked.  "  No,  no;  he  is  too  just 
for  that." 

"But  it  is  more  than  justice  I 
want,"  she  murmured  as  she  turned 
away.  And  it  was  those  words 
that  had  been  ringing  in  her  ears 
ever  since. 

All  through  that  hour's  railway, 
all  through  the  long  drive  in  the 
rattling  cab  afterwards,  and  now  as 
she  stood  before  the  dreary  dark 
London  house,  through  the  silent 
street  they  seemed  to  be  echoing  : 
"Ah,  but  I  want  more  than  jus- 
tice ! " 

Who  that  counts  upon  that  here 
is  likely  to  be  satisfied  ? 

She  had  rung,  how  many  times 
was  it  1  The  cabman  was  growing 
impatient,  her  own  heart  was  sink- 
ing lower,  lower.  She  had  never 
thought  of  this.  Suppose  he  were 
not  here;  that  the  empty  house 
had  seemed  too  dreary,  and  he  had 
gone  to  his  club.  It  was  only  too 
probable ;  and  what  should  she  do, 
alone  in  London,  at  this  hour  of 
the  night?  and  with  feverish 
strength  she  rung  again  —  such  a 
peal,  that  it  seemed  as  if  its  echoes 
would  never  die  away;  but  when 
they  did,  lo  !  there  was  the  sound 
of  shuffling  feet,  the  door  was 
opened  by  a  dirty,  slipshod  char- 
woman, and  one  great  difficulty 
was  surmounted, — she  was  safe  in- 
side her  own  house. 

"  "Where  is  he— Mr  Bering  1 "  she 
asked ;  and  at  length,  when  Mrs 
Jones  had  sufficiently  recovered  her 
temper  and  her  senses  to  answer, 
she  pointed  to  the  study  door, 
under  which  a  light  was  visible ; 
and  the  good  woman  speedily  re- 
tired, visions  of  mutton-chops  hav- 
ing to  bo  cooked  at  this  unseason- 
able hour  of  the  night,  in  addition 
to  being  awoke  out  of  her  first 
sleep,  seizing  her — and  with  some- 
what hasty  steps  she  disappeared. 


494 


Lois:  a  Sketch. 


[Oct. 


But  not  before  Lois's  nervous  hand 
had  turned  the  handle  of  the 
library  door,  and  that  she  stood  in 
the  presence  of  her  husband.  He 
was  hard  at  work ;  the  sounds  in 
the  house  had  not  even  disturbed 
him,  —  he  was  aware  of  nothing 
until  the  door  opened,  and  a  low, 
trembling  voice  cried,  "  Sydney,  I 
have  come  to  you  ! "  And  looking 
up,  he  saw  a  vision  of  his  wife,  but 
not  the  happy,  contented  girl  he 
had  left  four  days  ago,  but  a  woman 
with  dark-shadowed,  tearful  eyes, 
and  pathetically  drooping  mouth, 
that  told  easily  enough  their  own 
tale  of  woe. 

"What  is  it?"  he  questioned, 
steadying  his  voice  as  best  he  could, 
and  holding  out  his  hand. 

But  she  never  heeded  it. 

"  Sydney,"  she  said,  crossing  the 
room,  and  standing  on  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  table,  looking 
down  at  him  with  wide,  terrified 
eyes — "  Sydney,"  speaking  in  quick, 
nervous  tones,  "  she  is  coming  to 
tell  you  that  I  married  you  for  your 
money;  and,  Sydney " 

He  held  up  his  hand  as  if  he 
would  stay  her  words,  but  she  went 
on,  regardless  of  the  sign.  "And 
she  says  that  I  love  Robert  More- 
ton, —  and  that  when  it  comes  to 
believing  either  her  words  or  mine, 
that  you  will  not  believe  mine, 
because  I  have  deceived  you.  Oh, 
Sydney,"  clasping  her  slender  hands 
together,  "  you  must  believe  me  ! " 

"  And  what  must  I  believe  ? "  he 
asked,  slowly. 

He  had  risen  now,  and  was  stand- 
ing looking  down  at  her  white  face 
and  frightened  eyes. 

"Believe1?"  she  repeated,  her 
voice  sinking  into  an  earnest  whis- 
per. "Why,  whatever  she  says, 
you  must  believe  I  love  you.  It 
may  be  hard,"  she  went  on,  steady- 


ing her  voice  with  difficulty,  "be- 
cause she  says  such  dreadful  things, 
and  they  all  sound  so  true;  but 
you  must  put  no  faith  in  them ; 
you  must  try  and  think,  however 
hard  it  may  be,  'She  tried  to  do 
right.'  It  is  not  justice,"  a  little 
incoherently,  those  words  coming 
back  to  her  remembrance — "  I  want 
much  more  than  justice." 

"  And  what,  then,  do  you  want  1 " 

"Love,"  she  cried,  unsteadily. 

"Have  I  ever  refused  it?"  he 
asked.  And  then  :  "  My  dear,"  he 
said,  gently,  "have  I  not  watched 
you? — is  not  that  better  than  any 
guess-work  ?  The  world  may  guess, 
may  accuse  even,  but  I  know"  He 
stretched  out  his  arms  as  he  spoke. 
"  Dear  wife,"  he  said,  "  did  you 
really  doubt  me?  Did  you  sup- 
pose that  any  one  could  step  be- 
tween us?  Did  you  really  believe 
I  would  take  any  one's  word  against 
yours?  Ah,  dear  wife,  that  shows 
that  I  have  not  quite  conquered, 
even  yet ! " 

His  arms  were  about  her  now, 
her  head  was  on  his  shoulder,  her 
beating  heart  was  growing  quieter 
under  the  influence  of  his  presence, 
but  she  raised  her  eyes  at  his  words, 
and  asked  what  he  meant. 

"  It  was  coming  —  the  love,  I 
mean,"  he  replied,  tenderly.  "  Very 
slowly,  but  none  the  less  surely,  it 
was  taking  root  in  my  wife's  heart. 
That  day — the  day  I  came  up  here 
— it  was  nearly  full  grown,  was  it 
not  ? " 

"It  was  there,  Syd,"  she  said, 
the  tears  falling  hot  and  fast  upon 
his  coat  -  sleeve,  "  but  I  did  not 
know  it.  I  never  found  out  what 
it  was  till  you  were  gone.  l^"ow," 
clasping  her  arms  about  his  neck — 
"  now,  with  all  my  heart,  I  can  say, 
'Dear  Sydney,  I  love  you.'" 


1880.]  Life  and  Death.  495 

LIFE     A  N  D     DEATH. 

THREE    SONNETS. 

I. 

0  LIFE  !   0  Death !     Ye  dread  mysterious  twain, 

Baffling  us  from  the  cradle  to  the  bier; 

Phantoms  that  fill  our  souls  with  strange,  vague  fear, 
Elusive  as  the  forms  that  haunt  the  brain 
Of  the  sick  raver.     Question  we  in  vain 

The  lore  of  all  the  ages,  sage  and  seer, 

To  answer  why  and  who  ye  are,  and  clear 
The  clouds  that  round  you  evermore  remain. 
Whence  come  ye?  Whither  go  ye?  None  may  say — 

One  leads  man  walking  in  an  idle  show 

Along  the  myriad  paths  of  joy  and  woe 
To  where  the  other  waits  to  bear  away 
The  enfranchised  Soul,  that  chartless  Ocean  o'er, 
To  the  dim  land  whence  man  returns  no  more. 


0  Life  !   0  Death  !     How  good  ye  are  and  fair, 
As,  luminous  in  the  glory  of  God's  love, 
Ye  stand  revealed  His  Angels  from  above  ! 

Angels  we've  entertained,  though  unaware, — 

The  janitors  that  wait  our  souls  to  bear 
Through  either  gate  of  Being;   not  to  rove 
Unguided,  but  in  course  prescribed  to  move, 

Fixed  as  the  planets'  paths  that  roll  through  air. 

In  Christ's  "dear  might,"  your  Lord  and  ours,  now  bold 
With  reverent  courage,  lo  !   the  veil  we  raise 
Erst  wrapped  around  you,  and  with  wondering  gaze 

Your  solemn  beauty  undismayed  behold, 

No  more  dread  mysteries,  our  souls  to  scare, 

Making  Life  Vanity  and  Death  Despair. 

in. 

Life  is  no  sleepless  dream,  as  poets  sing : 
Death  is  no  dreamless  sleep,  as  sophists  say. 
A  deeper  wisdom  tells  UP,  brothers  they, 

Loving,  though  parted  until  Time  shall  bring 

The  twain  together  in  their  journeying, 
To  part  no  more,  on  that  supremest  day, 
When  Heaven  and  Earth  and  Time  shall  pass  away, 

And  Christ  shall  reign  o'er  all  as  God  and  King. 

Yet,  till  they  meet,  there  stands  a  third  between, 
•A  brother,  like  yet  differing  from  each, 
And  he  is  SLEEP,  whose  mission  is  to  teach 

What  Life's  and  Death's  less  mysteries  may  mean,* 

Till,  Life's  watch  o'er,  we  "fall  on  sleep,"  to  spring 

To  deathless  Life  through  Death's  awakening. 

JOHN  FRANCIS  WALLER. 

*  "Yirvos  ra  fiiKpa  rov  Bavdrov  fj.vffrripia.  — Menander. 


496 


Society  and  the  Salons  before  the  French  Revolution.          [Oct. 


SOCIETY  AND  THE  SALONS  BEFOEE  THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION. 


WHO  were  the  men  of  the  French 
Eevolution?  Naturally  we  seek 
them  among  the  members  of  the 
Tiers  Etat  that  held  those  memor- 
able meetings  in  the  Tennis  Court 
at  Versailles ;  on  the  benches  of 
the  Girondists,  and  in  the  mutter- 
ings  of  the  Mountain ;  in  the  clubs 
and  the  cafes  and  the  faubourg  of 
the  working  -  classes.  And  no 
doubt  the  Mirabeaus  and  the  Ver- 
gniauds,  the  Desmoulins,  the  Dan- 
tons,  and  the  "  incorruptible " 
Eobespierres,  have,  in  one  sense, 
the  most  direct  claim  to  the  title. 
But  after  all,  those  philosophers, 
demagogues,  and  mob-orators  were 
but  the  youngest  children  of  the 
demon  of  the  Eevolution.  To 
them  fell  the  finishing  of  the  work 
which  others  had  been,  consciously 
or  unconsciously,  forwarding;  and 
they  reaped  with  the  axes  of  the 
guillotines  the  harvest  that  cen- 
turies had  sown.  When  the  aris- 
tocrats crowded  the  prisons,  and 
were  sent  in  their  thousands  on 
the  tumbrils  to  the  scaffolds,  it  was 
but  another  illustration  of  the  law 
of  moral  government  that  makes 
the  children  suffer  for  the  sins  of 
the  parents.  It  is  hard,  indeed,  to 
say  where  the  history  of  the  Ee- 
volution begins,  for  the  feudal  sys- 
tem, with  all  its  terrible  abuses, 
was  for  long  the  only  refuge  of  the 
helpless.  The  seigneur  might  play 
the  tyrant  over  the  hovels  that  had 
clustered  themselves  for  protection 
under  the  battlements  of  his  castle ; 
but  at  least  he  secured  to  their  in- 
mates their  lives  and  the  enjoy- 
ment of  such  property  as  it  pleased 
him  to  spare  them.  Without  even 
imperfect  safeguards  of  the  kind, 
the  life  of  the  peasant  would  sel- 
dom have  been  worth  a  day's  pur- 
chase in  an  age  where  might  meant 
right,  and  in  a  country  where  the 


man-at-arms  was  the  master.  It 
was  the  iron  hand  of  the  martial 
seigneurs  that  kept  the  bassepeuple 
from  perpetually  flying  at  each 
other's  throats ;  and  although,  as 
the  guardians  of  their  feminine 
vassals,  they  may  remind  one  of 
wolves  left  in  charge  of  the  sheep- 
fold,  nevertheless  the  virtue  of  the 
lowly  would  have  fared  still  worse 
had  the  advent  of  the  reign  of 
equality  and  fraternity  been  anti- 
cipated by  a  few  hundreds  of  years. 
But  investigations  as  to  the  be- 
ginnings of  the  history  of  the 
Eevolution  have  at  best  a  philo- 
sophical or  speculative  interest. 
It  is  sufficient  for  all  practical 
purposes  to  choose  any  arbitrary 
date  under  the  old  monarchical 
regime  when  we  already  see  the 
revolutionary  influences  in  baleful 
activity.  And  for  luridly  pic- 
turesque illustration  of  a  turbu- 
lent' though  superficially  brilliant 
society,  the  reigns  of  the  later 
Valois  princes  will  serve  our  pur- 
pose as  well  as  any  others.  By 
that  time,  though  the  seigneurs 
still  exercised  their  rights,  and 
more  especially  the  rights  that  were 
represented  by  a  money  value,  with 
a  few  honourable  exceptions  they 
had  entirely  ignored  their  respon- 
sibilities. The  subtle  and  stern 
policy  of  Louis  XI.  had  paved  the 
way  for  the  apotheosis  of  the  con- 
solidated and  invigorated  monarchy 
in  the  person  of  Francis.  In  Francis 
we  have  one  of  those  fortunate  his- 
torical characters  who  imposed  upon 
his  contemporaries  as  he  has  im- 
posed upon  posterity.  Beaten  and 
humiliated  on  the  field  of  Pavia, 
having  compromised  the  rights  of 
the  Crown  and  broken  his  solemn 
pledges,  he  nevertheless  continued 
to  carry  his  head  high,  while  his 
memory  is  encircled  by  a  halo  of 


1880.]         Society  and  the  Salons  before  the  French  Revolution.  497 


chivalry.  The  qualities  for  which 
he  is  admired,  and  even  his  unde- 
niable virtues,  had  distinctly  revolu- 
tionary tendencies.  He  was  a  man 
of  taste,  and  a  generous  patron  of  the 
fine  arts.  But  what  with  his  court- 
ly magnificence  and  his  political 
ambitions,  he  dipped  recklessly  in 
treasure-chests  that  had  somehow 
to  be  replenished,  and  set  a  royal 
example  of  lavishing  to  all  the 
spendthrifts  of  the  realm.  To  some 
extent  he  had  encouraged  inde- 
pendence of  thought  on  the  first 
stirring  of  the  new  religious  move- 
ments, though  he  never  scrupled  to 
sacrifice  his  proteges  to  the  force 
majeure  of  political  circumstances. 
The  very  opposite  of  Louis  XL, 
and,  in  many  respects,  of  his  im- 
mediate predecessor,  he  inaugurated 
a  new  order  of  things  which  im- 
poverished his  kingdom,  demoral- 
ised his  aristocracy,  and  fostered 
the  seeds  of  inveterate  animosities 
between  classes — an  order  of  things 
which  endured  down  to  the  grand 
crowning  catastrophe. 

Louis  XI.  could  be  liberal  on 
occasions,  but,  as  a  rule,  he  had  car- 
ried parsimony  to  avarice.  As  he 
had  broken  the  power  of  the  for- 
midable feudatories,  so  he  held  his 
great  nobles  at  arm's-length — sur- 
rounding himself  with  Ministers  who 
were  his  creatures,  and  who  cost 
him  comparatively  little.  Francis 
originated  the  system  of  centralisa- 
tion. The  aristocracy  were  attracted 
to  the  splendours  of  his  chateaux, 
as  moths  flutter  to  the  flame  of 
a  candle.  Each  of  the  seigneurs 
strove  to  shine  in  his  degree,  and 
most  of  them  scorched  their  wings 
or  something  worse,  since  all  out- 
stripped their  means.  The  Jews 
and  the  usurers  had  a  blissful  time 
of  it,  when  money  must  be  had  on 
any  terms,  and  domains  were  being 
mortgaged  wholesale.  The  screw 
was  being  tightened  on  the  farmers 
and  peasants,  who  were  crushed 
under  corvees  that  were  inexorably 


exacted,  and  they  seldom  saw  their 
lord  from  one  year's  end  to  the 
other.  Those  unfortunates  had  to 
stagger  under  their  daily  burdens, 
without  the  relief  of  even  crying 
for  redress.  It  was  like  being 
given  over  into  the  hands  of  the 
tormentors,  while  tortures  were  ag- 
gravated by  the  poire  d'angoisse — 
an  excruciating  medieval  adapta- 
tion of  the  more  humane  modern 
gag.  The  taskmasters  understood 
their  duties  too  well  to  transmit 
complaints  that  were  idle  and  irri- 
tating. Meantime  the  master  of 
those  serfs  was  struggling  for  his 
share  of  Court  sunshine.  He  dare 
not  withdraw  into  the  shade  for  the 
briefest  space,  for  fear  of  losing 
what  favour  he  had  gained.  His 
indefatigable  attendance  and  his 
outlay  were  self-interested  specula- 
tions. If  he  were  paid  by  Court 
places  or  lucrative  commands,  he 
lived  in  easy  magnificence,  and 
dressed  himself  in  much -envied 
authority.  If  his  claims  were  ne- 
glected and  his  intrigues  proved 
fruitless,  he  dropped  out  of  the 
race  a  beggared  man.  So  the 
nobles  became  the  obsequious  cour- 
tiers of  the  sovereign,  and  the 
harsh  oppressors  of  the  helpless 
people. 

By  the  time  of  Francis's  effete 
grandchildren,  those  abuses  had 
been  seeding  in  rank  luxuriance, 
and  the  demoralisation  had  made 
rapid  progress.  Francis  was  at 
least  a  man,  with  chivalrous  tastes 
and  manly  ambitions.  The  sons  of 
Catherine  de  Medicis  showed  in 
their  strain  Italian  indolence  with 
Italian  ferocity.  They  had  inher- 
ited the  frail  constitutions  which 
had  been  enfeebled  by  premature 
excesses.  Resembling  in  many  re- 
spects the  last  monarchs  of  the 
Merovingian  dynasty,  they  differed 
from  them  in  having  no  hereditary 
maire  of  the  palace.  That  was  a 
post  that  was  always  being  intrigued 
for ;  and  the  favourites  for  the  time 


498  Society  and  the  Salons  before  the  French  Revolution.          [Oct. 


either  "  amused  themselves "  like 
the  king,  or  turned  their  attention 
to  the  more  practical  business  of 
establishing  a  family  and  enriching 
it.  So  the  spirit  of  a  sanguinary 
frivolity  reigned  supreme  ;  while 
the  distance  between  Paris  and  the 
provinces  was  widening.  Hugue- 
notism  was  something  more  than 
the  profession  of  new  forms  of  be- 
lief and  a  reaction  against  the  cor- 
ruptions of  Rome.  It  was  the 
dawning  of  a  hope  in  the  heart  of 
the  nation  ;  a  protest  against  the 
shameless  self-indulgence  of  the  pri- 
vileged classes ;  a  social  uprising 
against  grinding  oppression.  The 
nobles  who  headed  the  movement 
were  the  most  thoughtful  of  their 
caste  ;  and  the  younger  gallants 
who  embraced  the  opinion  of  their 
families  were  bound  by  their  party 
badge  to  a  greater  circumspection 
of  conduct.  The  one  point  on  which 
they  steadily  declined  to  be  con- 
verted was  the  point  of  honour. 
If  their  tenets  or  their  respectability 
laid  them  open  to  scoffs,  they  were 
the  more  ready  to  suspect  insults  and 
to  resent  them ;  and  as  the  bravest 
soldiers  of  France  were  in  the  ranks 
of  "  the  Religion,"  so  there  were  no 
more  terrible  duellists  than  were  to 
be  found  among  their  jeunesse  doree. 
For  the  fashion  of  duelling  was 
then  at  its  height ;  and  seldom  has 
a  fashion  of  any  kind  been  carried 
to  more  outrageous  excesses.  The 
progress  of  science  and  invention 
had  given  the  swordsmen  of  the 
new  school  unusual  facilities.  The 
cumbrous  weapons  of  medieval 
times  had  gone  out  since  Henri 
Deux  had  fallen  to  the  lance  of 
Montgomery.  It  was  no  longer  an 
affair  of  solemn  tilting-matches  be- 
tween barriers,  when  men  sweltered 
under  the  ponderous  weight  of  their 
mail,  mounted  on  animals  like 
Flemish  dray-horses.  Gentlemen 
had  come  to  draw  at  a  moment's 
notice,  and  fight  it  out  in  their 
slashed  doublets.  The  fencing- 


master  was  abroad,  and  Italy  had 
sent  France  her  savants  in  the  art 
of  arms  as  well  as  her  painters, 
sculptors,  and  architects.  The  use 
of  the  rapier  was  the  only  serious 
study  of  the  gentlemen,  whose  ca- 
reers were  likely  to  be  as  brief  as 
inglorious,  if  they  had  not  gradu- 
ated in  the  schools  of  self-defence. 
Already  they  were  being  initiated  in 
the  subtleties  of  feint,  thrust,  and 
parry ;  although  they  still  used  the 
dagger  by  way  of  guard,  to  the  dis- 
turbing of  the  harmony  of  eye  and 
arm.  Not  only  were  challenges 
given  on  slight  provocation,  but  on 
no  provocation  at  all.  A  certain 
reputation  was  a  perilous  thing,  for 
it  awoke  the  ambition  of  novices 
on  their  promotion.  There  were 
instances,  indeed,  when  the  reputa- 
tion became  so  terrible  as  to  scare 
even  the  harebrained  spirits  of  the 
time,  who,  although  they  prided 
themselves  on  their  reckless  indif- 
ference to  danger,  preferred  to  draw 
the  line  short  of  certain  death  :  as 
in  the  case  of  the  notorious  Bussy 
d'Amboise,  ante  damne  and  cham- 
pion in  ordinary  to  the  Due  d'Alen- 
5on,  afterwards  D'Anjou, — a  prince 
as  "  false,  fleeting,  and  perjured  " 
as  Shakespeare's  Clarence,  and  who 
is  said  to  have  come  to  as  tragic  an 
end.  "  The  brave  Bussy  "  was  the 
very  type  of  the  high-born  ruffler 
and  spadassin,  and  the  stories  told 
of  his  prowess  sound  marvellous. 
It  was  said  that  to  keep  his  hand  in, 
and  simply  by  way  of  practice,  he 
would  defend  himself  against  three 
or  four  practised  swordsmen,  who 
set  upon  him  with  their  naked 
weapons;  and  if  his  overbearing  in- 
solence was  notorious  even  in  that 
age,  it  scarcely  surpassed  his  skill 
and  courage.  The  Scriptural  judg- 
ment pronounced  on  men  of  blood 
found  signal  fulfilment  in  the  case 
of  Bussy.  He  died  hard,  and  fight- 
ing desperately  in  a  guet  -  apens, 
into  which  he  had  been  betrayed 
by  his  licentious  gallantry.  The 


1880.]         Society  and  the  Salons  before  the  French  Revolution.          499 


story  told  by  Dumas  in  his  '  Dame 
de  Monsoreau'  is  founded  in  tlie 
main  incidents  upon  fact  and  the 
chronicles,  though  these  suggest 
that  the  gallant  came  to  his  end 
through  the  treachery,  and  not  the 
tenderness,  of  his  mistress. 

The  duels  of  those  days — duel,  by 
the  way,  is  a  misnomer — were  ar- 
ranged on  the  principle  of  the  great- 
est pleasure  of  the  greatest  numbers. 
There  were  two  seconds  at  the  least 
on  either  side,  and  they  never  stood 
idle  when  their  principals  were  en- 
gaged. Then,  as  now,  there  were 
spots  of  habitual  resort,  like  the  Bois 
de  Boulogne  or  de  Vincennes  in  the 
present  century.  But  in  old  Paris, 
though  its  buildings  were  densely 
crowded,  there  was  no  need  to  go  far 
to  find  sequestered  fighting-ground. 
There  were  waste  spaces  in  the  pre- 
cincts of  many  of  the  convents; 
and  so  if  the  wounded  men  held 
to  the  rites  of  religion,  they  had 
ghostly  comfort  within  easy  reach. 
Superstition  sanctified  ferocity;  and 
sometimes,  on  specially  formal  occa- 
sions, the  Church  had  been  invoked 
by  the  Crown  to  give  its  sanction 
to  the  right  in  the  arrangement  of 
the  preliminaries.  Thus,  in  the 
famous  combat  of  the  mignons  of 
Henry  III.  with  the  champions  of 
his  brother's  faction,  the  weapons 
of  the  mignons  had  been  solemnly 
blessed;  sword  and  dagger  blades 
had  been  sprinkled  with  holy 
water  ;  and  three  of  the  most  dis- 
reputable livers  in  all  Paris  had 
been  shriven  and  absolved  by  the 
king's  confessor. 

There  was  a  strange  mixture  of 
courage  and  cowardice,  of  punctilio 
with  a  most  unchivalrous  abuse  of 
advantages,  in  the  habits  of  the 
time.  Some  of  the  ceremonial  of 
chivalry  still  survived,  though  the 
spirit  was  dead  or  dying.  "When 
men  had  dropped  in  those  set  con- 
tests of  six  or  more,  it  was  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  recognised  rules 
of  the  game  to  butcher  the  sur- 


vivors by  odds  of  numbers.  Am- 
bushes were  laid  in  the  narrow 
streets,  where  the  dark  shadows 
in  nooks  and  corners,  between  the 
dim  swinging  lamps,  lent  them- 
selves easily  to  strategy  of  the 
kind.  Princes  of  the  blood  had 
only  to  hint  that  they  would  gladly 
be  rid  of  an  inconvenient  enemy,  to 
send  scions  of  the  noblest  houses  of 
France  to  practise  the  arts  of  the 
skulking  Indian.  The  kings  fell 
into  the  fashion  like  the  rest ;  and 
when  their  authority  had  been  set 
successfully  at  defiance,  they  had 
recourse  to  the  treachery  that  sup- 
plied the  place  of  strength.  So  we 
have  not  only  the  massacre  of  St. 
Bartholomew,  when  the  trap  was 
baited  with  the  hand  of  a  daughter 
of  France,  and  the  monarch  threw 
himself  into  the  part  of  a  Judas 
with  the  spirit  of  an  actor  who 
has  the  heart  in  his  role ;  but  that 
dramatic  tragedy  in  the  Chateau 
of  Blois,  where  the  Guises  were 
slaughtered  on  the  threshold  of  the 
council  chamber.  Gentlemen  of 
birth  got  a  living  and  reputation  as 
professional  bravoes ;  like  De  Mau- 
revel  who  was  intrusted  with  the 
murders  of  Coligny  and  Henry  of 
Beam,  on  the  strength  of  the  adroit- 
ness he  had  shown  in  disposing  of 
De  Mouy  St  Phale,  and  others  of 
the  Huguenots.  As  these  ruffians 
played  useful  subordinate  parts  in 
the  state-craft  of  the  day,  so  their 
services  were  not  merely  recom- 
pensed in  secret.  They  not  only 
had  well-filled  purses  to  jingle  in 
the  cabarets,  and  were  admitted  to 
royal  audiences  by  back-staircases  ; 
but  they  had  their  open  entrees  at 
the  Court,  where  thev  mixed  with 
"  men  of  honour."  The  gentlemen 
who  were  continually  coming  from 
the  provinces  to  push  their  fortunes 
at  the  Court,  laid  themselves  out  to 
deserve  the  favour  of  their  patrons 
by  some  atrocious  deed  of  violence. 
Occasionally,  when  they  had  not 
the  discretion  to  keep  their  own 


500  Society  and  the  Salons  before  the  French  Revolution.          [Oct. 


counsels,  but  had  whispered  of  the 
honourable  mission  they  had  ac- 
cepted, they  might  find  themselves 
disagreeably  checkmated.  Thus  it 
was  bruited  about  that  one  of  these 
ruffling  adventurers  proposed  to 
himself  the  honour  of  assassinating 
D'Andelot.  It  was  flying  boldly  at 
dangerous  game,  for  D'Andelot  was 
the  younger  brother  of  the  Admiral 
Coligny,  and  had  the  courage  of 
the  princes  of  the  family  of  Chatil- 
lon.  But  it  would  have  been  be- 
neath a  man  of  D'Andelot's  degree 
to  cross  swords  himself  with  an 
obscure  adventurer,  and  he  had 
friends  and  followers  in  plenty  who 
were  eager  to  take  up  the  quarrel. 
One  of  those  zealous  adherents  was 
on  the  outlook  for  this  truculent 
stranger  at  a  grand  Court  reception ; 
took  the  opportunity  of  hustling 
him  in  such  a  way  that  a  demand 
for  satisfaction  brooked  no  delay ; 
and  nipped  his  hopes  of  preferment 
in  the  bud  by  passing  a  rapier 
through  his  body. 

What  strikes  one  as  strange,  even 
among  so  many  incongruities,  is  the 
nerve  and  vigour  displayed  by  the 
viveurs  in  one  of  the  most  dissi- 
pated societies  the  world  has  ever 
seen.  That  they  should  have  been 
personally  brave  is  no  matter  of 
surprise,  if  their  courage  had  too 
often  degenerated  into  ferocity,  for 
courage  has  always  been  pre-emi- 
nently a  French  quality.  They 
remind  us  very  much  of  Ouida's 
Guardsmen,  whom  we  happen  to 
know  to  be  phantoms  of  her  brain. 
Like  their  fathers  before  them,  they 
had  done  all  in  their  power  to 
weaken  their  constitutions  by  ex- 
cessive debauchery.  They  lived 
hard,  they  ate  like  ogres,  they  drank 
deep,  they  excited  themselves  by 
playing  at  games  of  hazard  for  stakes 
they  could  ill  afford  to  lose ;  love- 
making,  with  fighting,  was  the  busi- 
ness of  their  lives ;  and  they  habit- 
ually turned  the  night  into  day. 
Nevertheless  they  were  almost  in- 


variably "  all  there,"  on  any  of  these 
bloody  emergencies  which  might 
crop  up  at  any  moment.  Not  only 
did  they  show  "  three-o'clock-in-the- 
morning  courage,"  passing  straight 
through  the  bath  from  a  drinking- 
bout  to  some  match  that  had  been 
suddenly  improvised,  where  they 
were  turned  down  like  cocks  in  a 
cock-pit ;  but  they  sought  agreeable 
distraction  in  dabbling  in  conspira- 
cies where  the  torture-chamber  and 
the  scaffold  were  the  penalties  of 
failure.  Nor  did  they  neglect  any  of 
the  numerous  opportunities  of  tak- 
ing part  in  a  spirited  little  civil  war. 
Used  to  lives  of  such  effeminacy  as 
carry  us  back  to  the  worst  days  of 
the  decadence  of  Imperial  Eome, 
revelling  in  luxuries  whenever  they 
could  procure  them,  they  neverthe- 
less not  only  behaved  in  the  field 
with  the  dash  of  the  Duke  of  Wel- 
lington's "  dandy  Guardsmen,"  but 
manfully  bore  the  fatigues  of  the 
war,  and  even,  in  case  of  extrem- 
ity, its  privations.  What  weighed 
upon  them  most  was  the  dulness 
of  a  protracted  leaguer,  when 
they  had  been  shut  up  with  their 
chiefs  in  some  provincial  town, 
till  the  whirligig  of  events  should 
bring  relief  or  a  surrender.  It  is 
true  they  might  lighten  the  weari- 
ness of  the  siege  by  love-affairs 
with  the  ladies  of  the  citizens ; 
and  it  is  significant  of  the  general 
degradation  of  manners,  that  these 
ostentatiously  affiches  attachments 
par  amours,  tended  to  a  pleasant 
understanding  between  the  noblesse 
and  the  bourgeoisie. 

Generally  in  the  incessant  civil 
broils  from  the  days  of  the  League, 
and  before  them  down  to  those  of 
the  Fronde,  it  was  the  people  who 
were  punished  in  the  place  of  the 
principals.  It  was  the  people 
who  suffered  by  the  privations  and 
exactions,  the  scouring  of  the  coun- 
try for  supplies,  the  levying  contri- 
butions on  the  cities,  the  wanton 
burning  and  plundering,  the  heavi- 


1880.]         Society  and  the  Salons  before  the  French  Revolution.  501 


est  losses  in  the  field.  The  great 
nobles  held  out  till  they  had 
either  made  good  their  point  or 
submitted  on  the  promise  of  an 
ample  indemnity.  It  is  true 
that,  now  and  again,  things  ended 
differently ;  especially  when  the 
Church,  the  Valois,  and  the  Lor- 
raine Princes  had  been  alarmed  by 
the  growing  strength  ®f  the  Hugue- 
nots. Then,  occasionally,  as  one 
or  the  other  party  had  the  upper 
hand,  it  would  take  a  savage  revenge 
on  the  principle  of  rce  victis. 
Prisoners  of  the  rank  and  file  were 
butchered  in  cold  blood — one  of 
the  rare  occasions  when  the  lower 
orders  had  the  best  of  it ;  and  the 
gentlemen  of  birth  had  the  privilege 
of  being  consigned  to  the  dungeons 
and  tormentors.  Perhaps  the  most 
terrible  scenes  of  the  kind  took 
place  on  the  discovery  of  the  con- 
spiracy of  Amboise,  when  the  Guises 
did  their  utmost  to  merit  the  fate 
that  befell  themselves  later  in  the 
neighbouring  chateau.  At  Amboise 
they  had  gone  to  work  with  cruel 
deliberation  to  inspire  a  terror 
which  should  deter  from  similar 
attempts.  The  king,  who  was  a 
minor,  and  a  puppet  in  their  hands, 
was  forbidden  to  exercise  his  pre- 
rogative of  mercy.  In  considera- 
tion for  his  health,  and  possibly  for 
his  feelings,  he  had  to  be  removed 
from  the  romantic  town  his  guar- 
dians had  turned  into  a  charnel- 
house.  The  walls  of  his  fortress- 
palace  were  festooned  with  the 
severed  limbs  and  the  corpses  of 
victims  hung  in  chains,  like  vermin 
to  the  doors  of  a  barn.  The  gutters 
of  the  steep  streets  ran  in  rivulets 
of  gore  that  are  said  to  have  dis- 
coloured the  waters  of  the  river ; 
and  when  the  soldiery  had  been 
satiated  with  that  wholesale  butch- 
ery, the  noyades  of  the  infamous 
Carrier  were  anticipated.  Their 
swords  or  the  channel  of  the  Loire 
sufficed  to  dispose  of  the  mob  ;  but, 

VOL.  CXXVIII. — NO.  DCCLXXX. 


meantime,  in  the  dungeons  hewn 
out  of  the  rock,  the  rack  and  wheel 
and  presses  were  at  work,  with  the 
practised  ingenuity  of  the  sworn 
tormentors.  And  it  is  remarkable 
that,  though  frail  nature  would 
often  succumb,  and  the  slow  agony 
lead  sooner  or  later  to  confession, 
yet  frequently  the  sufferers  sup- 
ported the  torture,  disdaining  to 
save  themselves  by  the  betrayal  of 
their  friends.  We  may  find  an  ex- 
planation as  to  those  implicated  in 
that  affair  of  La  Renaudie  by  as- 
suming that  being  Huguenots  they 
might  have  been  honestly  religious, 
and  that,  in  their  enthusiasm,  they 
regarded  themselves  as  martyrs  for 
their  faith.  But  that  explanation 
will  not  apply  to  widely  different 
cases  where  the  torture  was.endured 
with  similar  constancy,  as  when 
some  of  the  instruments  and  con- 
fidants of  the  faithless  D'Alencon, 
declined  to  betray  the  master  who 
had  abandoned  them. 

Yet  the  torture  of  those  days 
was  studied  as  a  science,  though 
perhaps  it  had  gained  in  diabolical 
refinement  by  the  time  that  Damiens 
was  operated  on  before  the  bean 
monde  of  Paris  for  his  attempt  upon 
Louis  the  Well-beloved.  The  scene 
in  the  sixteenth  century  was  usual- 
ly a  gloomy  underground  chamber, 
dimly  lighted  by  torches  or  cressets, 
and  deadened  by  massive  masonry 
against  the  escape  of  sound.  The 
executioner  was  probably  born  in 
the  scarlet,  or  had  at  all  events 
served  an  apprenticeship  to  some 
master  who  had  perpetuated  the 
grim  traditions  of  the  craft.  He  and 
his  aides  had  paid  careful  attention 
to  the  machinery :  if  the  screws 
and  the  pulleys  worked  slowly  and 
roughly,  that  was  all  the  better, 
so  long  as  they  did  not  kill.  A 
speedy  release  was  the  thing  to  be 
guarded  against ;  and  most  horri- 
ble of  all  was  the  presence  of  the 
chirurgeon.  There  he  stood,  in 
2  L 


502  Society  and  the  Salons  before  the  French  Revolution^          [Oct. 


grave  imperturbability,  with,  hard, 
watchful  eyes,  or  with  the  finger 
on  the  pulse  of  the  patient,  appro- 
priately robed  in  his  sad-coloured 
garments,  ready  to  interpose  should 
tortured  nature  seem  overstrained, 
or  to  awaken  it  when  it  had  found 
relief  in  kindly  oblivion.  In  the 
latter  case,  he  would  apply  himself 
with  salts  and  essences  to  the  re- 
vival of  the  mangled  wreck  of 
humanity,  and  rekindle  the  sparks 
of  life  by  assiduous  attentions,  till 
the  recovery  was  so  satisfactory 
that  the  torture  might  be  resumed. 
Occasionally  the  sufferer  would 
make  full  confession ;  sometimes, 
having  nothing  to  say  that  was 
worth  hearing,  he  would  groan  out  a 
tissue  of  incoherent  falsehoods;  not 
unfrequently,  as  we  have  remarked, 
he  would  be  firm  to  the  end — great- 
ly to  the  credit  of  his  courage  or 
his  obstinacy.  In  the  sixteenth 
century,  and  long  afterwards,  that 
licensed  inhumanity  was  recognised 
all  over  France,  and  abused — if  ab- 
use may  be  said  to  be  possible — by 
the  possessors  of  seignorial  rights, 
as  well  as  by  the  provincial  Par- 
liaments and  governors.  Remember- 
ing the  traditions  of  cruelty  and  in- 
solence that  had  been  multiplying 
themselves  from  time  immemorial 
through  the  length  and  breadth  of 
the  land  under  the  rule  of  harsh 
and  irresponsible  tyrants,  we  may 
have  some  conception  of  the  re- 
vengeful spirit  that  was  unchained, 
when  the  mob  had  broken  loose 
and  become  masters  in  their  turn. 

Thus  neither  in  the  country,  nor 
even  in  the  cities,  had  the  people 
natural  protectors  or  courts  of  ap- 
peal whither  they  could  turn  for 
redress.  There  were  no  tribunes 
to  interpose  between  them  and  the 
patricians.  The  supreme  power  of 
the  Crown  was,  in  some  respects,  a 
terrible  reality ;  but  the  people  had 
seldom  profited  by  it,  and  were  used 
to  see  it  set  at  nought.  There  were 
no  great  municipal  corporations  like 


those  of  the  free  imperial  cities  of 
Germany,  where  the  burghers  could 
hold  up  their  heads  behind  their 
walls ;  though,  by  the  way,  such 
oligarchies  as  those  of  Nuremburg 
or  Ratisbon  could  be  cruelly  tyran- 
nical as  any  Valois.  The  realm  of 
France  was  like  the  empire  of  the 
Csesars,  as  De  Quincey  describes  it, 
— a  world  where  there  was  no  pos- 
sibility of  flight,  with  the  difference 
that  there  were  many  tyrants  in 
place  of  one.  Individuals  had  to 
make  up  their  minds  to  endure. 
Shifting  quarters  could  only  be 
done  by  risking  life  and  sacrificing 
property, — unless  when  the  fugitive 
took  service  as  a  man-at-arms,  be- 
coming one  of  the  tondeurs  in  place 
of  the  flayed.  Even  when  a  Riche- 
lieu, practising  the  parable  of  Tar- 
quin,  had  struck  down  the  heads  of 
the  poppies,  and  crippled  or  curbed 
the  feudal  aristocracy,  the  people 
gained  comparatively  little.  The 
Court  had  become  more  splendidly 
extravagant  than  ever ;  and  the 
vanity  and  ambitions  of  Louis  the 
Great  waged  a  succession  of  costly 
or  humiliating  wars.  But  from  the 
days  of  the  orgies  of  the  Tour  de 
Nesle  to  the  frivolities  and  scandals 
of  the  Petit  Trianon,  the  contrasts 
of  magnificence  and  misery  had 
been  extreme.  On  the  one  side 
we  see  the  seigneur  at  Paris,  or, 
in  later  times,  at  one  of  the  palaces 
in  the  environs.  In  vain  had  mon- 
archs  like  Henri  Quatre,  simple  and 
careless  in  their  personal  habits,  set 
an  example  of  indifference  to  dress ; 
in  vain  had  clear-sighted  reformers 
like  Richelieu  sought  to  restrain 
society  by  sumptuary  laws;  in 
vain  had  miserly  ministers  like 
Mazarin  carried  frugality  into 
avarice  in  their  personal  expendi- 
ture. The  men  vied  with  the  wo- 
men in  that  extravagance  of  cos- 
tume which  was  fostered  by  the 
fashions  of  each  successive  age. 
The  richest  stuffs  of  Italy  and  the 
Low  Countries  were  slashed  in  all 


1880.]         Society  and  the  Salons  before  the  French  Revolution.  503 


fantastic  manners.  A  gala  suit  with 
its  falling  collars  and  ruffles  of  lace 
and  delicate  quiltings  of  white  satin, 
might  he  ruined  hy  the  wine-stains 
in  a  single  drinking-hout.  Constant 
changes  of  dress  were  as  much  de 
rigueur  as  in  the  over-abused  Court 
of  the  Empress  Eugenie.  And  the 
personal  magnificence  of  the  master 
struck  the  key-note  to  the  style  of 
the  suitable  establishment  he  main- 
tained. The  great  nobles  had  their 
attendant  gentlemen  and  their  pages, 
the  officers  of  their  households,  the 
staff  of  their  kitchens,  with  their 
upper  servants  and  troops  of  lack- 
eys in  their  liveries.  It  is  true 
that  their  furniture  might  have 
seemed  incommodious  to  the  more 
fastidious  ideas  of  the  fortunate 
middle  classes  of  this  present  cen- 
tury ;  but  they  launched  out  freely 
in  articles  of  luxury,  and  luxuries 
in  those  days  brought  fancy  prices. 
They  hung  their  walls  with  tapestry 
richly  woven  and  figured  after  ar- 
tistic designs ;  and  decked  uncom- 
fortable couches  with  magnificent 
embroideries.  They  gilded  and 
moulded  and  painted  their  ceilings ; 
they  had  taken  to  importing  rare 
mirrors  from  Venice,  and  patronised 
pupils  of  tbe  Lombard  goldsmiths  for 
plate;  and  while  Palissy  was  being 
persecuted  for  his  heretical  opin- 
ions, the  graceful  and  eccentric  con- 
ceptions of  his  pottery  wares  were 
already  becoming  the  rage.  They 
paid  sooner  or  later  for  these  objects 
of  meuMerie  and  vertu.  The  wines 
and  the  banquets  were  in  keeping 
with  the  plate  on  the  buffets,  and 
tbe  damask  and  crystal  that  set  off 
the  tables.  They  played  high,  too, 
as  we  have  said,  and  they  often  lost 
heavily,  and  how  they  came  by  the 
ready  money  is  a  mystery. 

For  looking  on  the  dark  reverse 
of  the  picture,  and  at  the  condition 
of  the  provinces  and  the  populace 
of  Paris,  we  see  in  contrast  to  that 
lurid  and  factitious  splendour  the 
very  blackness  of  wretchedness.  The 


farmers  and  peasants  were  ground 
clown  by  forced  contributions  and 
exactions;  and  a  great  proportion  of 
their  most  precious  time  was  sacri- 
ficed to  merciless  corvees.  Down  to 
the  very  eve  of  the  Revolution,  these 
corvees  had  increased  rather  than 
diminished  ;  and  a  man  might  be 
called  away  when  his  crops  were 
overripe  to  repair  the  impassable 
roads  for  a  chance  visit  of  the 
seigneur.  Aside  from  the  great 
highways,  the  roads  had  always 
been  execrable.  It  was  difficult  to 
send  surplus  produce  to  any  mar- 
ket, so  that  in  the  most  bountiful 
season?,  prices  in  the  remote  par- 
ishes were  often  nominal.  When 
there  was  a  local  dearth,  there  was 
little  assistance  to  be  had ;  and  the 
famines,  when  the  people  generally 
had  been  starving,  were  followed  by 
deadly  fevers  and  epidemics.  At 
the  best  of  times  the  labouring  men 
worked  hard  and  fared  wretchedly; 
and  every  now  and  then  some  levy 
of  the  ban  and  arriere-ban  swept 
off  the  field-hands  to  serve  in  the 
wars.  That  last  evil  had  increased, 
when  the  absolute  ascendancy  of  the 
king  had  suppressed  all  domestic 
troubles,  with  the  exception  of  the 
religious  persecutions  in  the  south. 
Never  had  the  drain  on  the  coun- 
try been  more  severe  than  when 
the  glories  of  the  Grand  Monarque 
were  on  the  wane,  and  his  armies 
were  being  annihilated  by  Marl- 
borough  and  the  Allies.  As  for 
Paris,  the  inhabitants  of  its  gloomy 
streets  and  tortuous  alleys  were  in 
chronic  wretchedness,  and  sullenly 
mutinous ;  while  millions  were  be- 
ing squandered  on  palaces  in  the 
environs,  and  directors  of  the  fin- 
ances like  Fouquet  were  rivalling 
the  ostentation  of  the  sovereign. 

And  if  the  material  condition  of 
the  people  was  deplorable,  matters 
were  scarcely  more  satisfactory  in 
a  moral  point  of  view.  The  ex- 
ample of  the  Court  and  the  conduct 
of  the  aristocracy  had  been  con- 


504          Society  and  the  Salons  before  the  French  Revolution. 


[Oct. 


sistently  scandalous.  Until  Louis 
XVI.  made  his  appearance,  too  late, 
in  the  novel  characters  of  respect- 
able husband  and  father,  the  only 
king  who  had  not  been  a  roue 
and  professed  voluptary  was  Louis 
XIII. ;  and  he  had  laid  himself 
open  to  ridicule  by  making  love 
ostentatiously  but  platonically. 
The  insolent  mistresses  of  the  nion- 
archs  had  taken  the  pas  of  their 
lawful  wives ;  their  children  had 
been  legitimised,  ennobled,  and 
enriched  with  princely  appanages 
and  well-paid  sinecures.  To  the 
State  progresses  of  the  seraglio 
of  Louis  XIV.  had  succeeded  the 
orgies  of  the  Hegency  and  the  in- 
famies of  the  Pare  aux  Cerfs.  Nor 
was  it  only  the  royal  sensualists, 
who  had  their  agents  to  scour  the 
cities  and  the  country  in  search 
of  pretty  faces.  The  great  nobles, 
the  Court  favourites,  the  parvenus 
farmers-general,  had  each  of  them 
his  secluded  petite  maison,  where 
outrages  were  perpetrated  with 
practical  impunity.  The  roturier 
had  as  little  chance  of  redress  for 
the  injuries  by  which  he  ought  to 
have  considered  himself  honoured, 
as  the  peasant  of  a  century  or  so 
before,  who  smarted  under  the 
droit  de  seigneur. 

In  the  darkest  days  of  the  dark 
middle  ages,  the  Church  had  stood 
between  the  people  and  its  tyrants. 
With  all  the  grossness  of  its  cor- 
ruptions, it  had  been  comparatively 
paternal  in  its  rule ;  and  the  posi- 
tion of  the  vassals  on  its  vast  do- 
mains had  been  relatively  enviable. 
There  had  been  sanctuaries,  besides, 
to  shelter  the  unfortunate  with  the 
criminal;  and  it  had  encouraged 
the  hopes  of  a  brighter  hereafter. 
But  since  the  Churchmen  had  ceased 
to  suffer  violence  themselves,  their 
sympathies  had  been  rather  with 
the  oppressors  than  the  oppressed. 
They  had  added  domain  to  domain, 
they  had  inherited  deathbed  dona- 
tions, till,  in  the  great  accumulation 


of  their  riches,  they  rivalled  the 
mushroom  financiers.  The  high  dig- 
nities and  wealthy  emoluments  were 
monopolised  by  members  of  the 
aristocracy,  who  lavished  their  rev- 
enues in  the  dissipation  of  the 
Court,  and  were  laymen  in  all  re- 
spects but  the  privilege  of  marry- 
ing— a  deprivation  for  which  they 
easily  consoled  themselves.  Even 
those  who  had  risen  from  the  ranks 
by  force  of  abilities  and  eloquence, 
were,  with  hardly  an  exception, 
conspicuous  as  time-servers.  Their 
only  protest  against  the  disorders 
of  the  kings  was  occasionally  refus- 
ing them  the  right  of  confession. 
They  exempted  them  specially  from 
the  penalties  of  vice  and  the  moral 
responsibilities  of  ordinary  human- 
ity, in  these  highly  finished  efforts 
of  oratory  that  pleased  the  taste  of 
the  more  intellectual  of  their  audi- 
ences. Setting  society  scandalous 
examples  themselves,  they  could  not 
enforce  decent  living  on  their  sub- 
ordinates. Thus  the  influence  of 
the  rural  priests  had  been  gradually 
paralysed;  while  the  princes  and 
prelates  of  the  ecclesiastical  hier- 
archy, by  their  practical  commen- 
tary on  the  precepts  of  the  Gospel, 
had  provoked  general  hostility  be- 
yond the  ranks  of  the  privileged. 

So  the  primary  source  of  the  Ke- 
volution  with  its  horrors  was  in  the 
faults  and  follies  of  a  self-indulgent 
society  which  had  taken  for  its 
motto  apres  nous  le  deluge,  and 
forgotten  that  it  might  have  to 
reckon  with  a  day  of  retribution. 
But  that  day  of  retribution  was  pre- 
cipitated by  the  growing  influence 
of  the  salons  in  favour  of  free 
thought  and  speech.  The  salon 
was  an  institution  essentially  French 
and  distinctively  feminine.  It  was 
the  reunion  in  the  drawing-rooms 
of  some  grande  dame — great  by 
station  or  by  talents,  but  chiefly  by 
tact — of  congenial  spirits,  who  learn- 
ed to  understand  each  other  in  the 
course  of  habitual  and  unrestrained 


1380.]         Society  and  the  Salons  before  the  French  Revolution.  505 


intercourse.  The  salon  came  to 
be  governed  by  its  code  of  un- 
written laws,  at  least  as  much  as 
by  Madame  la  President e  ;  and  its 
frequenters  prided  themselves  on 
their  loyalty,  in  the  French  mean- 
ing of  the  word.  Talking,  jesting, 
speculating,  and  mocking,  giving  a 
free  rein  to  satire  and  irony,  within 
certain  defined  though  elastic  limits, 
they  found  courage  in  the  sense  of 
a  common  sympathy,  and  not  un- 
frequently  pushed  courage  to  au- 
dacity. The  salons,  in  a  different 
way,  had  anticipated  the  Eeign  of 
Terror.  "Wit  and  brilliant  epigram 
have  always  had  more  than  mere 
toleration  in  France ;  and  though 
people  in  power  might  be  smarting 
from  their  wounds,  they  were  slow 
to  retaliate  by  abusing  their  autho- 
rity. They  nursed  their  resent- 
ment in  silence,  and  affected  to 
smile,  rather  than  provoke  further 
ridicule  by  proclaiming  their  annoy- 
ance. Suppressing  a  salon  was  a 
serious  thing,  and  it  was  difficult 
to  quench  the  lights  of  a  constella- 
tion illuminated  by  rank,  genius, 
and  learning,  all  banded  together 
in  close  confraternity.  Napoleon 
attempted  that  not  unsuccessfully, 
when  he  had  turned  France  into  a 
barrack-yard,  with  an  aristocracy  of 
marshals  who  had  risen  from  the 
ranks,  and  a  police  of  espionnage 
presided  over  by  a  Fouche".  But 
Napoleon's  most  autocratic  prede- 
cessors were  more  sensitive  to  an 
opinion  which  made  itself  felt  even 
in  the  sanctuary  of  the  royal  bed- 
chamber. The  bon  mot  that  describ- 
ed the  old  regime  as  "  a  despotism 
tempered  by  epigrams,"  embodied 
a  great  historical  truth. 

The  salons  had  been  doing  a 
great  work,  and  in  their  beginnings 
at  least  had  been  an  almost  unmixed 
benefit.  They  had  refined  manners ; 
they  had  developed  thought ;  they 
had  encouraged  learning,  arts,  sci- 
ence, and  literature ;  they  had 
established  a  succession  of  little 


republics  of  the  intellect,  amid  the 
turmoil  of  wars,  factions,  and  in- 
trigues. Not  that  they  held  them- 
selves aloof  from  politics,  or  raised 
themselves  above  the  bitterness  of 
faction.  On  the  contrary,  under 
the  League,  the  Fronde,  and  later, 
they  resolved  themselves  repeatedly 
into  coteries  of  conspirators,  and 
waged  a  war  of  pamphlets  as  well 
as  of  words.  But  their  grand  mo- 
tive, and  their  enduring  effect,  was 
to  emancipate  minds  from  the  fet- 
ters of  tradition,  and  to  inoculate 
society  with  those  novel  ideas, 
which,  gradually  spreading  down- 
wards with  the  diffusion  of  educa- 
tion, could  not  fail  to  be  directly 
revolutionary  in  the  end.  They 
were  necessarily  pessimist  rather 
than  optimist.  In  place  of  approving 
things  because  they  were,  they  rather 
treated  their  existence  as  a  presump- 
tion against  them.  They  flashed 
the  vivid  light  of  spirituel  criticism 
upon  abuses  repugnant  to  justice  and 
common-sense,  which  had  only  been 
tolerated  from  the  habit  of  acquies- 
cence. The  system  worked  harmless- 
ly and  pleasantly  enough,  so  long  as 
it  meant  merely  something  like  the 
jeux  d'esprit  of  an  aristocracy,  fair- 
ly satisfied  on  the  whole,  in  spite 
of  occasional  exiles  and  imprison- 
ments, with  their  social  ascendancy 
under  a  paternal  despotism.  Even 
princes  of  the  blood  took  to  play- 
ing with  fire,  laughing  at  jests  on 
the  doctrine  of  hereditary  rights, 
and  trifling  with  perilously  revolu- 
tionary speculations.  But  the  re- 
publican tolerance  of  the  salons  had 
introduced  the  recruits,  who,  spring- 
ing from  the  people,  had  their  inter- 
ests in  common  with  it.  Those 
proteges  were  welcomed  and  petted 
with  a  supercilious  courtesy  and  con- 
temptuous patronage  more  irritat- 
ing than  any  holding  them  at  arm's- 
length  might  have  been.  Thus 
there  are  stories  told  of  Voiture 
which  may  serve  to  illustrate  what 
we  mean,  though  the  poet  was  not 


506 


Society  and  the  Salons  before  the  French  Revolution.          [Oct. 


made  of  the  stuff  to  be  dangerous. 
The  son  of  a  tavern-keeper,  with 
the  entree  of  the  best  houses,  he 
was  permitted  extraordinary  licence; 
and  apropos  to  one  of  his  outbreaks, 
the  Prince  de  Conde"  remarked  of 
him  at  Eambouillet,  "  Si  Voiture 
etait  des  notres  on  ne  pouvait  le 
soufFrir."  That  precisely  expressed 
the  slighting  civility  with  which 
the  wits  of  the  people  were  treated 
by  their  superiors.  Eesenting  it, 
although  they  dared  seldom  show 
their  resentment,  they  had  no 
temptation  to  detach  themselves 
from  their  order.  On  the  contrary, 
they  laboured  zealously  though  se- 
cretly for  the  social  subversion,  to- 
wards which  the  salons  were  unwit- 
tingly helping  them.  The  Yoitures 
and  their  fellows  of  the  earlier  dis- 
pensation ended  in  the  giants  of  a 
more  advanced  generation — in  the 
Diderots  and  D'Alemberts,  the  Vol- 
taires  and  Eousseaus.  The  flint  and 
the  steel  of  bright  intellects  struck 
their  sparks  in  the  quick  passages  of 
arms  that  were  to  kindle  the  com- 
bustible atmosphere  in  a  confla- 
gration ;  sceptics  and  freethinkers 
in  politics  as  in  religion  entered 
against  each  other  in  a  race  of 
audacity ;  and  even  those  who,  like 
Erasmus,  were  not  of  the  material 
for  martyrs,  were  somewhat  con- 
soled by  notoriety  if  martyrdom 
chanced  to  be  forced  upon  them. 
The  lettre  de  cachet  or  the  edict  of 
exile  was  an  advertisement  of  the 
doctrines  that  had  provoked  it ;  and 
when  the  offender  was  restored  to 
the  admiring  circle  that  had  been 
bereaved  of  him,  he  found  that 
the  seeds  he  had  sown  had  been 
shooting  and  ripening  in  his  ab- 
sence. 

What  is  extraordinary  is,  that  an 
institution  so  novel  as  the  salon  did 
not  grow  slowly  to  maturity  from  in- 
significant beginnings.  But  as  that 
of  the  H6tel  Eambouillet  was  the 
first  of  them  all,  so  it  has  remained 
the  most  famous.  Who  and  what 


was  the  woman,  we  ask  naturally, 
who  has  the  credit  of  the  original 
idea  that  bore  such  extraordinary 
fruit ;  who  achieved  immortality  as 
the  first  of  the  queens  of  society,  or 
rather,  as  the  first  of  the  presidents 
of  the  feminine  oligarchy  that  for 
long  held  the  sceptre  of  society 
in  commission?  And  though  she 
has  been  pronounced  a  remarkable 
woman  by  the  unanimous  consent 
of  her  contemporaries,  yet,  from 
what  we  can  gather,  she  seems  to 
have  been  hardly  so  far  hors  de 
ligne  as  to  explain  the  exceptional 
position  she  made  for  herself.  We 
can  only  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  we  have  a  proof  the  more,  that 
even  commanding  success  in  society 
is  due  to  the  impalpable  combina- 
tion of  qualities  it  is  altogether  im- 
possible to  analyse.  Not  that  we 
are  inclined  to  depreciate  Catherine 
de  Vivonne,  Comtesse  d'Angennes, 
afterwards  Marquise  de  Eambouillet. 
She  was  beautiful  and  rarely  accom- 
plished besides, — she  was  well-born 
and  wealthy.  But  surely  it  needed 
something  more  than  talents  and 
accomplishments,  birth  and  riches, 
to  set  an  example  of  manners  at 
the  early  age  of  six-and-twenty  to 
the  boisterous  Court  of  the  buxom 
Queen  Eegent ;  to  reclaim  the  rough 
veterans  of  the  fierce  religious  wars 
and  the  reckless  scapegraces  of  a 
turbulent  rising  generation  to  a  re- 
gard for  the  Menseances  that  was  as 
new  to  them  as  it  was  genante ;  to 
break  stiff-necked  aristocratic  pre- 
judices into  submission  to  her  gentle 
yoke,  forcing  nobles  of  innumera- 
ble quarterings  to  be  courteous  to 
roturiers  with  neither  fathers  nor 
court  -  armour ;  and  to  keep  order 
among  the  elements  of  a  courtly 
bear-garden,  where  sharp  speeches 
were  flying  about  as  freely  as  balls 
from  the  arquebuses  at  Arques  or 
Ivry.  Yet  all  that  Catherine  de 
Vivonne  accomplished,  apparently 
by  those  subtle  feminine  influences 
which  made  her  word,  her  look, 


1880.]         Socitty  and  the  Salons  before  the  French  Revolution.  507 


her  very  presence,  a  law  to  the 
guests,  not  a  few  of  whom  were  of 
rank  superior  to  her  own.  It  is 
more  wonderful,  perhaps,  that  she 
accomplished  it  in  face  of  the  rival- 
ries which  her  self-made  ascendancy 
must  inevitably  have  provoked  in 
a  generation  of  women  whose  jeal- 
ousies were  proverbial. 

The  Hotel  Rambouillet  was  a  pro- 
test against  the  licence  of  the  day  ; 
a  neutral  ground  where  the  parti- 
sans of  faction  could  compose  the 
differences  of  which  they  were  be- 
ginning to  weary.  And  the  time 
of  its  foundation  was  happily 
chosen.  Society  longed  for  repose 
and  amusement  after  a  period  of 
wars,  prescriptions,  executions,  and 
confiscations  that  had  spread  misery 
and  sown  animosities  broadcast. 
It  needed  amusement,  and  knew 
not  how  to  amuse  itself.  Dissipa- 
tion had  taken  the  place  of  more 
innocent  distractions,  and  the  life 
of  the  camp -bred  man  of  fashion 
was  a  round  of  duels  and  revels. 
The  licence  of  the  period  had  ex- 
tended to  the  ladies.  Their  refine- 
ment was  scarcely  superior  to  thtir 
morality,  and  both  left  almost  every- 
thing to  desire.  Horseplay  and 
practical  jokes  were  of  everyday 
occurrence  in  the  highest  circles; 
the  language  of  the  Court  was  such 
as  might  have  passed  current  in 
the  modern  cabaret,  and  the  jests 
most  heartily  relished  were  of  a 
breadth  that  often  went  beyond  the 
borders  of  obscenity.  The  change 
from  the  reception  -  rooms  of  the 
Palace  or  the  princely  H6tels  to 
the  famous  blue  'salon  of  Madame 
d'Angennes,  must  have  been  like 
passing  from  one  of  our  popular 
music-halls  into  church.  There,  in 
place  of  bon  mots  and  double  enten- 
dre^ that  might  have  scandalised 
a  vivandiere,  you  listened  to  pre- 
cise and  somewhat  pedantic  dispu- 
tations as  to  the  shades  of  meaning 
in  words ;  though  those  disputa- 
tions on  language,  by  the  way,  came 


somewhat  later,  and  the  hostess 
had  begun  by  making  things  pleas- 
ant, before  she  ventured  to  make 
her  reunions  instructive.  She  had 
encouraged  lively  conversation  that 
easily  diverged  into  subjects  that 
were  literary,  artistic,  or  aesthetic. 
To  the  Rambouillet  Hotel  came  the 
poets  of  the  age,  with  their  fresh 
tributes  of  verses;  and  gentlemen 
who  had  no  pretensions  to  compose, 
could  at  all  events  bring  their  con- 
tributions in  the  form  of  criticisms. 
We  take  it  that  it  was  in  the  blue 
and  yellow  salons  that  the  "fine 
gentleman"  of  subsequent  comedy, 
first  took  substantial  shape ;  when 
some  tincture  of  letters  became  al- 
most as  necessary  to  the  character 
as  a  richly  fancied  dress  or  readi- 
ness with  the  small-sword.  Thither, 
or  to  receptions  modelled  after  those 
of  Rambouillet,  came  the  fathers  of 
French  tragedy  and  comedy,  some- 
times like  Corneille  in  their  pre- 
miere jeunesse,  to  read  the  pieces 
that  were  to  make  their  authors 
immortal.  Pastoral  romances,  like 
those  of  the  Marquis  d'Urfe',  were 
modernised  after  contemporary  life, 
and  translated  into  action.  It  be- 
came the  mode  to  form  respectful 
and  platonic  attachments,  to  dress 
out  the  language  of  compliment  in 
fantastic  tricks  of  speech.  As  Vic- 
tor Cousin  says,  in  his  article  on 
the  assemblies  of  Mademoiselle  de 
Scude"ry,  the  behaviour  of  the  la- 
dies was  correct,  with  no  osten- 
tation of  prudery,  and  tenderness 
was  permitted,  though  passion  was 
forbidden. 

The  range  of  the  entertainments 
offered  was  as  wide  as  the  tempera- 
ments and  the  tastes  of  the  varied 
company.  It  was  no  uncommon 
thing  for  some  courtly  abbe  to  de- 
light his  audience  with  an  im- 
promptu discourse,  where  the 
style  was  perhaps  more  considered 
than  the  matter.  Yet  sometimes 
a  startling,  though  not  altogether 
disagreeable,  surprise  was  impro- 


508  Society  and  the  Salons  before  the  French  Revolution.          [Oct. 


vised  for  those  light-hearted  vota- 
ries of  fashion;  as  when  Bossuet, 
then  a  youth  of  sixteen  or  seven- 
teen, made  his  debut  with  the  Mar- 
quis de  Eambouillet,  under  the 
auspices  of  the  Marquis  de  Feu- 
quieres.  Lady  Jackson  tells  the 
story  well  in  her  amusing  volumes 
on  '  Old  Paris.'  The  Marquis  pre- 
sented his  modest  companion  as  a 
youth  with  an  irresistible  vocation 
for  the  pulpit,  with  a  marvellous 
facility  for  extemporaneous  dis- 
course, and  who  promised  to  be 
one  day  a  miracle  of  eloquence. 
At  that  time  a  sermon  in  a  salon 
was  a  novelty ;  and  when  it  was 
suggested  that  the  young  Bossuet 
should  give  a  proof  of  his  powers, 
Madame  de  Eambouillet  character- 
istically hesitated.  Her  innate 
good  taste  probably  disapproved 
making  sacred  subjects  a  spectacle 
for  the  indifferent ;  but  she  reluc- 
tantly deferred  to  the  wishes  of 
her  friends.  The  hero  of  Eocroi 
happened  to  be  there,  and  Mon- 
seigneur  expressed  a  wish  for  the 
sermon.  Then  the  "  eagle  of 
Meaux"  tried  his  maiden  flight, 
and  seldom  had  ever  a  veteran 
Court  preacher  addressed  a  more 
embarrassing  audience.  Bossuet 
was  but  a  boy  from  the  country, 
of  very  humble  origin  besides,  and 
it  can  only  have  been  the  high 
consciousness  of  his  mission  and 
opportunity  that  raised  him  above 
the  trying  surroundings.  Thoughts 
inspired  by  his  genius,  found  ex- 
pression in  the  words  that  were 
warmed  by  the  fire  of  his  native 
eloquence.  The  company,  with 
the  well-bred  versatility  that  charac- 
terised it,  had  passed  from  gaiety 
of  mood  to  the  semblance  of  gravity, 
and  composed  itself  to  listen  seri- 
ously. A  slip  of  paper  with  a  sug- 
gested text  was  placed  in  the  hands 
of  the  debutant.  The  subject  could 
hardly  have  been  more  suitable  to 
the  society;  it  was  given  in  the 
words  of  the  great  "  Preacher"  par 


excellence — "  Vanity  of  vanities;  all 
is  vanity." 

"Some  of  the  more  frivolous  of 
the  company  could  scarcely  suppress 
laughter  as  he  stepped  on  the  dais. 
But  the  deep,  calm,  grave  voice  of  the 
young  man,  as  in  simple  but  eloquent 
words  he  pronounced  the  exordium, 
soon  commanded  the  attention.  At- 
tention became  interest ;  the  salon  was 
forgotten,  and  the  'Ave  Maria'  said 
as  devoutly  as  in  Notre  Dame.  .  .  . 
The  profound  silence  that  had  reigned 
throughout  the  discourse  continued 
even  for  a  few  minutes  after  the 
preacher  had  concluded,  so  deep  was 
the  impression  he  had  made.  Pulpit 
eloquence  was  then  almost  unknown. 
His  poetic  fervour  and  powerful  words 
had  fallen  on  ears  accustomed  to  the 
dryness  and  pedantry  with  which  the 
truths  of  religion  were  then  invariably 
set  forth.  The  great  preachers  of  the 
seventeenth  century  had  not  yet  ap- 
peared. The  first  of  them  was  heard 
that  night  in  the  salons  of  Rambouillet. 
M.  de  Feuquieres  hastened  to  embrace 
his  protege,  and  the  company  gathered 
round  him  to  express  their  admiration 
and  thanks.  No  one  had  asked  his 
name,  and,  in  truth,  until  this  triumph 
was  achieved,  had  cared  to  know  it. 
It  was  but  a  plebeian  one,  and  had 
served,  with  his  then  provincial  air, 
for  a  poor  jest  to  the  idle  young  nobles 
who  were  supposed  to  be  studying  at 
the  College  of  Navarre,  where  he  was 
himself  a  student,  lately  arrived  from 
Dijon." 

That  was  an  exceptional  scene, 
with  thrilling  effects  and  a  dramatic 
denouement  that  must  have  been 
talked  of  for  long,  and  which  was 
worthy  of  being  chronicled.  But 
looking  back  upon  them  by  the 
light  of  contemporary  memoirs  and 
letters,  the  nightly  aspects  of  these 
brilliant  gatherings  are  as  pic- 
turesque as  they  are  full  of  in- 
terest. We  can  not  only  group 
the  frequenters  in  the  rooms,  but 
refurnish  and  redecorate  the  apart- 
ments themselves,  to  the  mirrors 
on  the  walls  and  the  paintings  on 
the  panels.  For  the  costumes  we 
may  go  to  the  works  of  contem- 
porary painters  from  Eubens  down- 


1830.]        Society  and  the  Salons  before  the  French  Revolution.          509 


wards.  Among  the  glittering  groups 
of  high-born  celebrities  and  nonen- 
tities— among  scarred  and  grizzled 
marshals  of  France  and  the  gay 
young  gallants  their  grandchildren 
— among  abbes  more  like  pet  its 
maitres  than  priests,  with  their 
fashionably- cut  cassocks  and  their 
ruffles  of  Flanders  lace — among  the 
ladies,  resplendent  in  family  jewels, 
and  rustling  in  stiff  satins  and  bro- 
cades,— there  stand  out  certain  typi- 
cal figures.  There  was  the  mistress 
herself,  who  has  been  painted  for 
us  with  loving  minuteness,  though 
by  pens  that  may  possibly  have 
nattered.  There  was  the  Court 
contingent,  with  the  eagle-beaked 
D'Enghien  at  its  head,  and  his 
hump -backed  brother  of  Conti. 
There  was  their  beautiful  sister  the 
Duchess  of  Longueville,  who,  escap- 
ing from  the  clutches  of  the  small- 
pox with  charms  unimpaired,  had 
her  own  receptions  afterwards  dur- 
ing the  Fronde,  when  she  played  the 
Queen  of  Hearts  among  the  citizens 
of  Paris.  There  were  hot-headed 
rufflers  like  De  Calprenede  and  De 
Scudery,  who  had  the  pens  of 
ready  writers  as  well,  and  who 
may  be  said  to  have  set  the  fashion 
of  professional  novel  writing.  There 
was  the  clever  M.  de  Scudery's 
more  talented  sister,  whose  sisterly 
affection  was  set  to  work  at  high 
pressure  to  supply  the  incessant 
drains  of  her  brother's  necessities ; 
and  there  was  the  little  circle  of 
poets  who  were  famous  in  their 
time,  but  whose  works  have  since 
been  wellnigh  forgotten,  with  the 
interminable  romances  of  the  Scud- 
erys.  An  assiduous  frequenter  of 
the  salons,  from  the  Hotel  Eam- 
bouillet  to  that  of  Madame  de 
Sable,  was  the  Rochefoucauld  of 
the  '  Maxims,'  then  Prince  de  Mar- 
sillac,  whose  tongue  is  said  to  have 
been  as  sarcastic  as  we  should  have 
supposed  from  his  '  Maxims.' 

Most    conspicuous    among    the 
ladies  were  two   who  were  never 


wedded,  though  hardly  even  the 
Marquise  herself  was  the  object  of 
more  general  adoration.  One  was 
beautiful ;  both  were  fascinating. 
We  have  already  alluded  to  Made- 
moiselle de  Scudery,  the  writer  of 
the  romances  that  were  then  be- 
coming the  rage.  It  was  said  that 
she  had  every  charm  save  that  of 
personal  beauty.  She  had  shown 
the  versatility  of  her  talents  in  im- 
passioned verses  before  she  had 
written  these  voluminous  novels 
and  the  society  of  the  salon  had 
christened  her  their  Sappho.  But 
when  fair  -  complexioned  blondes 
carried  all  before  them,  Made- 
moiselle de  Scudery  had  the  mis- 
fortune to  be  sallow  and  almost 
swarthy.  She  had  been  deeply 
marked  besides  by  the  smallpox, 
that  terrible  scourge  of  the  day. 
But  the  disadvantages  that  morti- 
fied her  vanity  were  redeemed  by 
the  brightness  and  intelligence  of 
expression  which  lighted  up  some- 
what insignificant  features.  No 
woman  of  the  time  had  more  varied 
treasures  of  information,  or  could 
converse  with  greater  gaiety  and 
entrain.  Almost  more  petted  in 
the  Hotel  was  Angelique  Paulet. 
Men  learned  to  admire  Mademoiselle 
de  Scudery  for  her  mind,  but  they 
fell  in  love  at  first  sight  with  Made- 
moiselle Paulet.  It  was  impossible 
to  overlook  that  magnificent  blonde 
with  those  luxuriant  masses  of  gold- 
en hair,  the  flashing  eyes,  and  the 
brilliant  complexion.  She  had  in- 
spired grand  passions,  but  she  held 
her  adorers  in  respect  by  her 
farouche  airs  of  prudery  and  the 
impetuosity  of  her  nature;  and  it 
was  not  her  yellow  tresses  alone 
that  had  gained  her  the  well-known 
sobriquet  of  la  lionne.  Though  the 
spoiled  child  of  the  society,  with 
her  seductive  coquetry  and  her  be- 
witching voice,  she  could  use  her 
teeth  and  claws  on  occasion.  If 
she  was  cold  of  temperament,  she 
had  some  reason  to  be  vain ;  for  a 


510 


Society  and  the  Salons  be/ore  the  French  Revolution.         [Oct. 


liaison  that  may  have  been  in- 
nocent, though  it  somewhat  com- 
promised her,  linked  her  earliest 
love-affair  with  the  event  of  the 
century.  Long  afterwards,  when 
the  venerable  queen  of  fashion  had 
her  fauteuil  among  the  crowd  of 
those  who  might  have  been  her 
grandchildren,  men  whispered  of 
the  visit  paid  the  beauty  by  Henri 
IV.  on  the  fatal  day  of  his  assas- 
sination by  Eavaillac. 

If  we  have  loitered  in  the  recep- 
tion-rooms of  the  Marquise  de  Ram- 
bouillet, it  is  because  hers  was  not 
only  the  first  of  the  salons,  but 
most  typical  of  all  the  rest.  It 
would  be  impossible,  within  the 
limits  at  our  disposal,  to  give  more 
than  the  most  superficially  com- 
prehensive catalogue  of  the  long 
series  of  social  gatherings,  with 
their  notorieties,  that  perpetuated 
the  traditions  of  Rambouillet  by 
an  unbroken  succession  down  to 
the  reign  of  the  Citizen  -  king. 
All  we  can  attempt  is  to  touch  on 
a  trait  here  and  there;  to  take 
passing  notice  of  some  character- 
istic celebrity;  and  to  glance  at 
the  latest  phase  of  the  develop- 
ment of  polite  freethinking  and 
philosophical  radicalism.  And 
apropos  to  traditions  handed  down 
by  apostolical  succession,  we  are 
impressed  by  the  longevity  of  the 
lights  of  the  salons.  From  Made- 
moiselles de  Scude"ry  and  Paulet, 
who  passed  the  fourscore  years  and 
ten,  and  the  Marquise  de  Ram- 
bouillet  herself,  down  to  the  Ma- 
dames  du  Deffand  and  Geoffrin,they 
seem  to  have  lived  in  the  radiance 
of  an  intellectual  youth,  far  beyond 
the  ordinary  span  of  mortality.  It 
may  have  been  that  the  brilliancy 
of  their  mental  powers  was  the 
sign  of  the  exuberance  of  their 
bodily  vigour;  but  the  life  they 
led  seems  to  have  been  eminently 
healthy,  with  its  happy  alterna- 
tions of  excitement  and  repose.  The 
world  went  smoothly  with  them  ; 


their  habits  were  regulated  like 
clock-work ;  they  rose  superior  to 
the  entramement  of  mere  vulgar 
dissipation.  They  appear  to  have 
practised,  for  the  most  part,  a  good- 
natured  philosophy  that  preserved 
them;  though,  of  course,  there 
were  exceptions,  as  when  Madame 
de  Longueville  had  become  the  life 
and  soul  of  the  malcontents  of  the 
Fronde.  Dipping  into  the  chron- 
icles of  the  salons,  we  are  surprised 
from  time  to  time  by  finding  the 
heroine  of  one  century  surviving 
far  into  the  next,  when  we  had 
half  fancied  she  must  have  been 
mouldering  under  some  moss-grown 
gravestone.  So  there  came  to  be 
an  unbroken  continuity  of  inter- 
course, which  insured  a  certain 
sequence  of  system  and  ideas,  al- 
though it  was  modified  by  the  pro- 
gress of  speculation  and  the  inevit- 
able changes  of  manners. 

The  brilliant  success  of  the  Hotel 
Rambouillet,  as  it  provoked  jeal- 
ousies, incited  rivalry  and  imita- 
tion. But  the  first  avowed  at- 
tempt at  rivalry  proved  a  failure,  al- 
though made  under  patronage  that 
was  almost  omnipotent.  Threat- 
ened perpetually  by  conspiracies, 
and  surrounded  by  bitter  enemies, 
Richelieu  had  regarded  the  reunions 
of  Rambouillet  with  very  natural 
suspicion.  The  Minister  would 
willingly  have  come  to  an  under- 
standing by  which  the  Marquise 
should  have  given  her  parole  for 
the  good  behaviour  of  her  guests. 
When  the  Ifcdy  refused  with  char- 
acteristic spirit,  and  when  the  con- 
fidants he  sent  for  purposes  of 
espionnage  found  that  they  were 
civilly  sent  to  Coventry,  he  re- 
solved upon  starting  a  centre  of 
counter-attraction.  He  had  already 
established  her  favourite  niece  in  the 
palace  of  the  Petit  Luxembourg ; 
and  now  Madame  de  Combalet's 
magnificent  suites  of  apartments 
were  thrown  open  to  the  worlds  of 
fashion  and  literature.  But  the 


1830.]         Society  and  the  Salons  before  the  French  devolution.         511 


spirit  of  unrepressed  partisanship 
that  reigned  there  proved  fatal  to 
free  thought  and  unembarrassed  in- 
tercourse ;  "while  Madame  de  Com- 
balet,  like  many  of  the  belles  mon- 
daines  of  the  time,  oscillated  be- 
tween the  world  and  the  terrors  of 
the  hereafter.  When  she  went  into 
retraite  at  her  favourite  convent 
with  the  purpose  of  assuring  her 
salvation,  her  receptions  were  in- 
terrupted, and  the  company  fell 
away.  Far  more  successful  was 
Madame  de  Sabl6,  who  may  be  said 
to  have  picked  up  the  charmed 
mantle  when  it  fell  from  the  shoul- 
ders of  Madame  de  Eambouillet. 
The  Marquise  de  Sable  was  the 
intimate  friend  of  that  indefatigable 
politician  and  intriguing  diplomat- 
ist, the  Duchesse  de  Longueville. 
But  the  Marquise,  in  the  maturity 
of  her  widowhood,  had  had  enough 
of  the  vanities  of  the  world.  She 
set  herself  in  earnest  to  that  work 
of  preparation  for  death  which 
Madame  de  Combalet  had  been  in 
the  habit  of  undertaking  spasmod- 
ically ;  and  she  built  the  mansion 
for  her  retreat  in  the  precincts  of 
the  monastery  of  Port  Eoyal  de 
Paris.  Nowhere  did  one  find 
a  more  stately  tone  of  manners, 
or  more  exquisite  refinement  and 
taste.  But  though  her  mind  was 
much  preoccupied  by  religion,  and 
perhaps  because  she  felt  so  in- 
tensely on  the  subject,  religious 
discussions  were  discouraged  or  for- 
bidden among  guests  who  professed 
every  variety  of  opinion.  She 
turned  the  conversation  rather  to 
the  worldly  lessons  that  might  be 
gathered  from  the  actual  intercourse 
of  life,  and  set  the  example  of 
embodying  her  reflections  and  ex- 
perience in  some  condensed  pensee 
or  pregnant  apothegm.  And  by 
something  like  a  trick  of  the  irony 
of  destiny,  the  worldly-wise  Max- 
ims of  the  misanthropical  La  Roche- 
foucauld had  their  origin  in  his 
friendship  with  this  devoutly- 


minded  lady  who  had  set  all  her 
aspirations  on  the  things  of  eternity. 

Another  lady,  of  more  question- 
able antecedents  and  very  opposite 
character,  who  was  honoured  by  the 
intimacy  of  the  Duke,  was  the  re- 
nowned Ninon  de  1'Enclos.  Ninon, 
though  she  had  been  gay,  was  by 
no  means  giddy  :  she  had  benefited 
by  a  very  excellent  education ;  she 
had  nursed  the  moderate  fortune 
she  inherited ;  she  had  acquired  a 
variety  of  accomplishments  to  assist 
her  unrivalled  gifts  of  seduction ; 
and  living  almost  beyond  the  years 
of  any  of  the  long-lived  sisterhood, 
to  the  last  she  charmed  the  intellect 
as  well  as  the  senses.  The  salon 
in  the  house  in  the  Rue  des  Tour- 
nelles,  where  she  had  characteris- 
tically decorated  the  panels  with 
scenes  from  the  story  of  Psyche, 
was  filled  with  such  a  crowd  of 
princes,  potentates,  and  gay  young 
seigneurs,  as  to  move  the  jealousy 
of  the  stately  Anne  of  Austria. 
Ninon,  in  fact — though  carrying  the 
parallel  too  far  would  do  her  gross 
injustice — had  anticipated  the  role 
of  some  of  our  ladies  of  the  demi- 
monde, or  rather  of  the  more  re- 
putable Mrs  Rawdon  Crawley. 
She  offered  men  of  refinement  the 
charms  of  a  society  where  restraints 
were  relaxed  although  not  remov- 
ed, and  which  certainly  tended  to 
disincline  eligibles  from  matrimony. 
The  queen,  in  a  burst  of  feminine 
petulance,  sent  the  siren  an  order 
to  withdraw  to  a  convent,  even 
going  so  far  as  to  suggest  as  the 
most  suitable  that  of  the  Daughters 
of  Repentance.  Thanks  to  the  in- 
terposition of  influential  mediator?, 
matters  were  smoothed  over;  and 
indeed  Ninon  had  friends  whom  it 
would  have  been  folly  to  irritate, 
when  the  wit  that  wounded  and 
rankled  had  terrors  even  for  majesty. 

The  habitues  of  the  receptions  of 
the  crippled  Scarron  had  attacked 
the  Court  party  with  poisoned 
weapons.  His  eimp'c  rocms  were 


512  Society  and  the  Salons  before  the  French  Revolution.         [Oct. 


the  headquarters  of  the  pamphle- 
teers who  had  held  Mazarin  up  to 
bitter  ridicule;  and  Scarron  him- 
self was  the  author  of  the  '  Mazar- 
inades.'  It  was  in  the  Eue  de  la 
Tixeranderie  that  Franchise  d'Au- 
bigne,  Madame  de  Maintenon, 
made  her  debut  in  the  world  of 
Paris ;  and  the  deformed  wit  married 
the  beautiful  young  provincial  out 
of  chivalrous  compassion  as  much 
as  admiration.  He  saved  the  future 
Queen  of  Versailles  from  the  veil 
to  which  she  had  been  devoted ; 
and  the  heroine  of  that  strange 
romance  repaid  him  with  grateful 
tenderness. 

The  H6tel  of  the  Cardinal,  after 
his  death,  became  a  twin  centre  of 
society.  The  half  that  took  the 
name  of  Hotel  Mazarin  had  been 
part  of  the  dowry  of  Hortense 
Mancini,  who  was  married  to  the 
Marechal  de  Meilleraie,  afterwards 
created  Due  de  Mazarin.  The  other 
half,  known  as  the  Hotel  de  Severs, 
passed  to  the  brother  of  Hortense, 
who  had  been  ennobled  as  Due  de 
Kevers.  Both  were  furnished  with 
more  than  royal  magnificence;  for 
Mazarin,  miserly  as  he  was,  had  a 
mania  for  sumptuous  decoration, 
and  had  sunk  a  portion  of  his 
hoards  in  the  accumulation  of  ob- 
jects of  art.  It  was  a  strange  fate 
that  of  the  Duchess  of  Mazarin, 
who,  after  being  courted  as  the 
niece  of  the  all-powerful  Minister, 
and  sparkling  among  the  queens  of 
society  in  all  the  luxury  that  wealth 
could  command,  spent  the  decline 
of  her  life  in  seclusion  at  Chelsea, 
and  died  there  in  such  extremity  of 
insolvency  that  her  creditors  laid 
an  arrest  on  her  remains.  Faith- 
ful to  her  through  all  her  changes 
of  fortune  was  St  Evremond,  whose 
career  had  been  nearly  as  checkered 
as  her  own.  The  brilliant  wit  had 
been  a  soldier  of  fortune  in  his 
youth,  and  a  satirist  of  fortune  as 
well.  He  had  transferred  his  ser- 


vices, in  both  capacities,  to  the  Car- 
dinal, after  having  been  courted 
by  the  princes  at  the  head  of  the 
Fronde ;  and  the  Cardinal,  though 
always  chary  of  his  crowns,  appre- 
ciated the  value  of  the  recruit  he 
had  gained.  He  might  have  been 
less  satisfied  with  his  new  adherent 
had  he  known  that  St  Evremond 
was  satirising  him  secretly  ;  but,  as 
it  happened,  it  was  reserved  for 
Louis  XIV.  to  revenge  the  memory 
of  the  Minister  he  had  detested. 
The  chance  discovery  of  a  sting- 
ing pasquinade  on  Mazarin,  though 
only  in  the  shape  of  a  private  let- 
ter, determined  the  King  on  making 
an  example  of  a  satirist,  without 
seeming  to  be  actuated  by  personal 
resentment.  But  St  Evremond  had 
warning  of  the  coming  lettre  de 
cachet,  and  escaped  to  Holland, 
and  thence  to  England.  There  we 
meet  him,  in  the  pages  of  De  Grarn- 
mont,  shining  among  the  licentious 
wits  at  the  Court  of  the  second 
Charles ;  and  surviving  into  the 
eighteenth  century,  on  a  modest 
pension  from  the  English  Treas- 
ury, he  died  in  narrow  circum- 
stances and  the  fulness  of  years, 
to  be  honoured  with  a  funeral  in 
Westminster  Abbey. 

The  siecle  of  Louis  XIV.  was 
unfavourable  to  the  salons.  His 
ambition  and  enterprises  gave  them 
subjects  enough  for  discussion  and 
speculation ;  but  the  ascendancy  of 
his  all-absorbing  personality  must 
have  weighed  heavily  upon  them. 
It  was  no  light  matter  to  offend  the 
absolute  tyrant  of  a  servile  aris- 
tocracy. Moreover,  the  salons,  as 
we  have  said,  were  distinctively 
Parisian — like  Madame  de  Stael,  if 
any  of  these  literary  ladies  were 
banished  voluntarily  or  otherwise 
to  the  provinces,  their  thoughts 
would  always  turn  regretfully  to 
their  own  especial  Hue  du  Bac — 
and  Louis  disliked  Paris,  and  visit- 
ed it  as  seldom  as  possible.  He  had 


1880  ]         Society  and  the  Salons  before  the  French  Revolution.  51  $ 


never  forgiven  the  citizens  their  tur- 
bulence, and  the  humiliations  they 
had  heaped  on  his  mother  and  him- 
self. Nevertheless,  while  Marly, 
St  Germains,  or  Versailles  were 
basking  in  the  sunshine  of  the  mon- 
arch's countenance,  there  were  still 
houses  in  Paris  where  there  were 
regular  reunions,  recruited  by  oc- 
casional visitors  from  the  Court ; 
while  there  were  royal  ladies  who 
held  rival  courts  of  their  own  at 
the  Palais  Eoyal  and  the  Luxem- 
bourg. 

*•  Hurrying  on  towards  the  mid- 
dle of  the  eighteenth  century,  we 
come  to  those  latter-day  salons  of 
the  old  regime  that  did  the  most 
towards  hatching  the  Eevolution. 
Among  the  most  notable  was  that 
of  Madame  Geoffrin,  which,  indeed, 
was  one  of  the  institutions  of  the 
century.  Already  immense  strides 
had  been  made  towards  actual 
equality  in  the  republic  of  intel- 
lect. It  was  no  longer  a  case  of 
admitting  brilliant  young  rotu- 
riers  upon  sufferance ;  or  of  tolera- 
ting "  professional  beauties  "  and 
feminine  wits  who  were  pushed 
forward  by  the  men.  Few  of  her 
predecessors  had  exercised  more 
absolute  authority  than  Madame 
Geoffrin.  She  is  said  to  have  been 
the  daughter  of  a  vintner ;  she  had 
married  a  bourgeois  colonel  of  the 
National  Guard,  who  made  a  hand- 
some fortune  as  a  manufacturer  of 
looking  -  glasses.  Yet  before  her 
death  we  find  her  corresponding 
on  the  easiest  terms  with  Cather- 
ine, Empress  of  all  the  Eussias ; 
and  she  was  tempted  from  Paris 
in  her  old  age  to  pay  a  visit  to 
Stanislas  Poniatowski,  who  had 
announced  to  her  his  accession  to 
the  throne  of  Poland  by  writing, 
"Manian,  votre  fils  est  roi."  Madame 
Geoffrin  had  formed  the  nucleus  of 
her  salon  by  seducing  the  friends 
of  Madame  de  Tencin,  who  was 
alive  to  the  proceedings  of  her  un- 


grateful eleve.  "  Savez-vous,"  she 
said,  "  ce  que  la  Geoffrin  vient  faire 
ici1?  Elle  vient  voir  ce  qu'elle 
pourra  receuillir  de  mon  inven- 
taire."  Madame  Geoffrin's  recruit- 
ing was  more  than  successful,  and 
Sainte-Beuve  dilates  on  the  company 
she  entertained.  Each  Monday  she 
had  a  dinner  for  the  artists — Van- 
loo,  Vernet,  Boucher,  La  Tour, 
Vien,  &c.  Each  "Wednesday  she 
entertained  the  literary  world,  and 
among  the  guests  at  the  brilliant 
feasts  of  reason  were  D'Alembert, 
Mairan,  Marmontel,  Morellet,  Saint- 
Lambert,  Helvetius,  Grimm,  D'Hol- 
bach,  and  many  a  kindred  spirit. 
Her  saloons  were  thrown  open  for 
receptions  after  dinner,  and  the 
evening  closed  with  the  most  select 
of  little  suppers,  limited  to  some 
half-dozen  of  her  intimates.  Princes 
came  to  her,  says  Sainte-Beuve,  as 
private  individuals,  and  "les  arnbas- 
sadeurs  n'en  bougeaient  des  qu'ils 
y  avaient  mis  pied."  Madame  Geof- 
frin, like  the  Marquise  de  Sable, 
tabooed  politics  and  religion ;  and 
she  lent  a  watchful  ear  to  the  con- 
versation around  her,  peremptorily 
checking  any  risque  or  dangerous 
speeches  with  a  "  Voila  qui  est  bien." 
Her  sterling  good  sense  was  as  con- 
spicuous as  her  good-nature ;  and 
she  showed  the  latter  quality  in 
endless  deeds  of  benevolence.  A 
more  questionable  use  of  her  ample 
means  was  in  the  liberality  with 
which  she  subsidised  the  '  Ency- 
clopedic ;  '  and  apropos  to  ;her 
lorg-standirg  liaison  with  the  En- 
cyclopedists, her  last  bon  mot  is 
recorded.  She  was  lying  on  her 
deathbed,  struck  down  by  paralysis, 
when  her  daughter,  more  devout 
than  her  mother,  closed  the  door 
of  the  room  against  the  philoso- 
phers. There  was  profound  sen- 
sation, of  course,  among  the  old 
friends  of  the  house,  and  the  rumour 
of  it  reached  the  dying  woman. 
"  My  daughter,"  she  said,  "  like 


514  Society  and  the  Salons  before  the  French  Revolution.          [Oct. 


Godfrey  de  Bouillon,  wishes  to  de- 
fend my  tornb  against  the  infidels." 
No  one  of  the  leaders  of  French 
society  has  been  batter  known  in 
England  than  Madame  du  Deffand. 
We  naturally  associate  the  blind 
old  lady  with  her  maternal  affec- 
tion for  Horace  Walpole ;  and  it 
was  in  London  that  the  bast  col- 
lection of  her  letters  ^was  first 
published,  from  manuscripts  found 
among  Walpole's  papers.  If  Ma- 
dame Geoffrin  embodied  sterling 
good  sense,  Madame  du  Deffand 
represented  excellent  taste;  and  the 
letters  she  has  left  are  models  of 
composition.  She  owed  little  to 
education,  and  almost  everything 
to  self -instruction  and  intellectual 
society.  Her  style,  as  Walpole 
wrote  to  her,  was  specially  her 
own ;  and  he  could  hardly  have 
paid  it  a  higher  compliment  than 
in  warning  her  against  trying  to 
change  for  the  better  by  model- 
ling her  writing  after  Madame  de 
Sevigne.  In  her  old  age  she  fell  on 
comparatively  evil  days,  and  she 
had  to  repsut  the  act  of  benevo- 
lence which  should  have  given  her 
a  daughter  by  adoption.  In  her 
discovery  of  a  congenial  spirit  in 
Mademoiselle  de  1'Espinasse,  we 
are  reminded  of  the  story  of 
Cimabue  and  Giotto.  Madame  du 
Deffand,  who  was  of  a  noble  family 
of  Burgundy,  had  met  in  her  native 
province  a  bright  young  girl  who 
was  the  souffre-douleur  of  the  family 
that  had  received  her  for  "  charity." 
She  appreciated  at  first  sight  the 
qualities  of  the  Cinderella,  brought 
her  to  Paris,  installed  her  as  her 
companion,  and  presented  her  to 
the  company  who  frequented  her  re- 
ceptions. Mademoiselle  de  1'Espin- 
asse  acted  towards  her  patroness  as 
Madame  Geoffrin  had  behaved  to 
Madame  de  Tencin.  Madame  du 
Deffand  was  an  invalid  who  rose 


late,  and  Mademoiselle  de  1'Espin- 
asse  profited  by  her  opportunities. 
The  mistress  of  the  house  soon 
discovered  that  she  was  being  de- 
prived of  the  monopoly  of  her 
most  cherished  possession  in  the 
shape  of  the  devotion  of  her  fideles. 
There  was  a  storm,  which  scarcely 
cleared  the  air,  and  Madame  du 
Deffand  had  no  reason  to  congratu- 
late herself  on  having  precipitated 
a  rupture.  The  attentions  that  had 
been  paid  to  her  faithless  confidante 
proved  to  have  been  no  unmeaning 
compliment ;  and  the  seceders  who, 
as  Sainte-Beuve  expresses  it,  fol- 
lowed the  fortunes  of  the  spirituelle 
emigrante,  framed  themselves  into 
a  joint-stock  company  to  establish 
her  in  a  salon  of  her  own.  Among 
them  were  numbered  D'Alembert, 
Turgot,  and  Brienne,  the  future 
archbishop  and  chancellor — a  se- 
cassion  that  the  blind  lady  might 
well  deplore.  "  From  that  moment 
Mademoiselle  de  I'Egpioassa  lived 
apart,  and  became,  by  her  salon 
and  by  her  influence  on  D'Alembert, 
one  of  the  recognised  powers  of  the 
eighteenth  century." 

It  is  time  that  we  brought  our 
article  to  a  close.  It  is  not  in  its 
plan  to  break  ground  on  the  new 
epoch  that  may  be  said  to  have 
begun  with  Madame  Recamier ;  nor 
need  we  recapitulate  what  we  have 
said,  directly  and  indirectly,  as  to 
the  influence  of  those  salons  of  the 
eighteenth  century  on  the  terrible 
dramas  that  were  to  be  enacted  at 
its  close.  The  mere  names  that 
are  scattered  over  the  last  few  pages 
are  amply  suggestive  of  the  extent 
of  that  influence.  If  the  precursors 
of  the  later  revolutionists  were  ia 
the  dissolute  aristocracy  of  the  dim 
ages,  its  most  able  and  indefatigabltj 
pioneers  are  to  be  found  among  the 
friends  of  the  Gsoffcins,  the  Ddf- 
fands,  and  the  L'Espinasses. 


1880.] 


The  Stump  Ministry :  its  First  Session. 


515 


THE   STUMP  MINISTRY  :   ITS   FIRST   SESSION. 


A  MINISTER  who  is  the  object 
of  worship  almost  idolatrous  to  the 
great  mass  of  his  partisans,  and  be- 
hind whom  they  now  sit  in  over- 
whelming majority,  has  had  control 
of  the  nation's  interests  for  about 
five  months.  In  ordinary  circum- 
stances such  a  period  might  well  be 
held  too  short  to  justify  any  decided 
criticism  of  a  statesman's  proceed- 
ings. But  the  position  of  the  Min- 
istry which  now  holds  office  is  dif- 
ferent from  that  of  any  ordinary 
Administration,  whether  as  regards 
the  events  antecedent  to  its  acces- 
sion to  power,  or  those  of  the  few 
months  of  its  existence.  The  mode 
and  manner  of  its  coming  into  being 
were  unlike  anything  previously 
known  in  parliamentary  history; 
the  power  given  to  it  by  the  con- 
stituencies was  almost  unheard  of; 
and  the  course  it  has  run  for  little 
more  than  the  third  part  of  a  year, 
has  been  as  much  if  not  more  out 
of  the  common  than  might  have 
been  expected,  either  from  the  pecu- 
liarity of  its  hatching,  or  the  gigantic 
monstrosity  that  was  the  issue  of  it. 

Never  in  the  constitutional  his- 
tory of  this  or  any  other  country  was 
the  political  war  for  the  overthrow 
of  a  Government  conducted  as  was 
that  which  the  present  Prime  Min- 
ister and  his  friends  waged  against 
the  late  Administration  of  Lord 
Bsaconsfield.  A  policy  which  com- 
mended itself  to  the  juigmant  of 
Parliament,  and  overcame  the  argu- 
mants  of  party  orators  so  effectually 
as  to  bring  over  to  its  side  many 
whose  political  associations  neces- 
sarily made  them  jealous  critics, 
was  assailed  again  and  again  in 
vain.  The  House  of  Commons  re- 
mained unmoved  by  oppositioa  rhe- 
toric, and  gave  an  unflinching  sup- 
port to  the  Government.  The  un- 


wonted spectacle  was  seen  of  men 
who  had  once  been  Ministers  of  the 
Crown  rushing  about  the  country 
during  vacations  and  recesses,  in 
order  to  excite  crowds  by  violent 
declamation  in  favour  of  views 
which,  when  Parliament  assembled, 
they  were  unable  to  induce  very 
many  of  their  own  party  to  sanction. 
Those  who,  on  platforms  crowded 
with  admirers,  roared  as  veritable 
lions,  were  as  dumb  dogs  in  compari- 
son when  obliged  to  stand  in  face  of 
their  opponents  at  St  Stephen's.  As 
Lord  Salisbury  truly  said,  "  Butter 
would  not  melt  in  their  mouths." 
Not  once  during  the  momentous 
years  since  1874  were  they  able  to 
talk  in  the  Houses  of  Parliament  as 
they  ranted  from  waggons  or  rail- 
way bridges,  lest  they  should  disgust 
those  of  their  political  friends  who 
repudiated  their  views,  and  alienate 
others  whom  party  loyalty  alone 
kept  from  open  revolt.  For  it  was 
one  of  the  anomalies  of  the  last 
Parliament,  which  history  will  have 
to  explain,  that  while  never  was  a 
Ministerial  policy  more  fiercely  and 
persistently  assailed,  and  held  up 
to  public  scorn  as  weak,  unworthy, 
and  immoral,  never  was  the  invec- 
tive of  opposition  less  effectively 
supported  when  brought  to  the 
crucial  test  of  division.  Never  did 
Lord  Hartington  the  nominal  shep- 
herd, or  Mr  Gladstone  the  real 
leader  —  the  butting-ram  —  of  the 
flock,  succeed  in  bringing  their  fol- 
lowers together.  A  score  or  so  of 
wandering  sheep  would  break  away 
and  rush  into  the  wrong  pen,  and 
another  score  would  resist  with  ab- 
solute stolidity  all  attempts  to  lead 
or  drive  them. 

Bit  while  the  firmness  and  pa- 
triotism of  Parliament  were  thus 
upholding  the  Ministry  of  the  day 


516 


TJie  Stump  Ministry :  its  First  Session. 


[Oct. 


against  opposition,  which,  whether 
right  in  its  views  or  not,  was  un- 
doubtedly factious  in  its  action, 
the  enemies  of  the  Government 
were  hard  at  work  with  the  only 
weapons  left  to  them — those  of  in- 
vective and  abuse.  It  cannot  be 
doubted  that  the  strength  and  con- 
tinued success  of  the  Government 
in  Parliament  were  most  satisfac- 
tory from  a  patriotic  point  of  view, 
and  as  furnishing  an  incident  to 
be  recorded  with  pride  in  British 
history  —  nation  al  representatives 
putting  aside  party  trammels  when 
questions  of  world-wide  importance 
are  at  issue.  But  it  is  equally  true 
that  the  negative  effect  was  most 
damaging  to  constitutional  inter- 
ests. The  patriotic  were  lulled  into 
false  security;  while,  at  the  same 
time,  the  vanity  and  conceit  of 
those  who  were  endeavouring  to 
make  political  capital  against  the 
Government  were  so  piqued  by 
their  repeated  defeats,  that  they 
were  stimulated  to  tremendous  ex- 
ertion, and  induced  to  adopt  any 
weapons,  however  unworthy.  Their 
only  hope  was  to  overthrow,  by  a 
gigantic  effort,  the  Ministry  which 
their  most  violent  attacks  had  hith- 
erto been  unable  even  to  shake. 
Sensible  men  of  all  classes,  and 
powerful  journals  of  all  politics, 
looked  upon  the  Government  as 
able,  without  any  strengthening  of 
its  fortifications,  to  resist  every  at- 
tack in  the  future,  as  it  had  done 
in  the  past.  Being  unable  to  see 
any  breach  as  the  result  of  so  many 
previous  assaults,  they  were  confi- 
dent that  everything  was  secure, 
and  that  no  fresh  works  need  be 
thrown  up,  or  extra  guards  mounted. 
The  efforts  of  the  enemy  had  so 
signally  failed,  in  comparison  with 
the  energy  displayed  in  them,  that 
all  the  defending  and  a  great  num- 
ber of  the  attacking  party  looked 
on  the  result  of  the  final  great 
struggle  as  a  foregone  conclusion. 


The  last  assault  might  cause  some 
loss  to  the  defenders,  but  it  was 
not  believed  that  it  could  compel  a 
surrender. 

One  thing  above  all  others  tended 
to  produce  this  feeling  of  security, 
which  in  the  end  proved  so  disas- 
trous to  the  late  Government.  It 
was  quite  manifest  to  all  who 
were  well  informed,  and  who  re- 
tained sufficient  calmness  to  watch 
the  struggle  with  reasonable  impar- 
tiality, that  the  attack  was  being 
conducted  in  a  manner  in  which 
there  was  a  great  deal  of  glaring 
misrepresentation,  and  much  that 
was  so  wild  as  to  border  on  the 
frantic.  The  rules  which  usually 
obtain  in  such  contests  were  again 
and  again  overstepped.  Words 
that  social  etiquette  scarcely  per- 
mits, and  many  words  that  it  for- 
bids, were  freely  and  vehemently 
used  by  the  leader  of  the  clamour, 
and  re-echoed  by  his  followers. 
"Insane,  suicidal,  and  wicked," 
were  among  the  mildest  of  the 
epithets  which  formed  the  fight- 
ing vocabulary  of  excited  orators. 
The  Lowes  and  the  Harcourts,  the 
Brights  and  the  Chamberlains,  the 
Eylands  and  the  Andersons,  and 
those  lower  down,  if  indeed  there 
be  any,  vied  with  each  other  in 
the  licence  of  vituperation  and 
invective,  which  they,  as  imitators 
of  their  chief,  permitted  to  them- 
selves. He  and  they  bade  the 
nation  believe  the  proceedings  of 
the  Government  then  in  power  to 
have  been  such  that  "  no  honest 
people  could  think  of  them  without 
shame  and  degradation," — that  to 
suffer  a  continuance  of  their  foreign 
and  colonial  policy  would  be  im- 
moral ;  and  "  Heaven's  name  "  was 
again  and  again  invoked  in  passion- 
ate appeal  against  the  existence  of 
a  Ministry  of  such  vain  counsels 
and  evil  lusts.  The  tone  used  was 
so  extravagant,  the  energy  so  ex- 
cited, that  it  roused  contempt  rathtr 


1880.] 


The  Stump  Ministry :  its  First  Session. 


517 


than  indignation  among  educated 
and  sensible  people,  suggesting  more 
the  condition  of  minds  unstrung  by 
envy  and  disappointment  than  of 
patriotic  hearts  moved  by  wisdom. 
Accordingly,  it  was  the  general 
anticipation  of  those  who  took  an 
interest  in  public  affairs,  that  an 
opposition  so  conducted  called  for 
no  special  energy  to  counteract  its 
effect  upon  the  constituencies. 

In  this  a  double  mistake  was 
committed.  It  was  forgotten  that 
the  constituencies  created  by  the 
Reform  Acts  of  1867  and  1868 
contain  a  vast  mass  of  voters  who 
are  likely  at  all  times  to  be  swayed 
by  those  who  take  most  trouble 
to  attract  their  attention  at  the 
moment — voters  who  cannot  be  ex- 
pected to  show  much  discrimina- 
tion in  the  opinions  they  form,  but 
are  more  likely  to  be  carried  away 
by  passionate  appeals  than  led  by 
sober  counsels.  The  masses  are  al- 
ways emotional ;  they  are  seldom 
discriminating.  Naturally  prone 
to  strong  language  themselves,  they 
enjoy  it  with  special  relish  when  it 
is  uttered  by  men  of  higher  posi- 
tion than  their  own.  They  are  led 
not  by  their  own  convictions,  but 
by  those  who  have  the  inborn  gift 
of  leading.  Let  the  man  who  has 
the  power  but  start  the  current, 
and  the  headlong  rush  follows — 

"Die  Menge  schwankt  in  ungewissen 

Geist 
Dann  striirat  sie  nach,  woliin  der  Strom 

sie  reist." 

The  constituencies  brought  into 
being  by  the  last  Reform  Bill  can 
never  be  left  alone  to  form  their 
own  judgment  by  those  who  truly 
desire  well  to  their  country.  They 
are  certain  not  to  be  left  alone  by 
the  Radicals,  who,  whatever  other 
faults  they  may  have,  undoubted- 
ly give  evidence  of  the  strength 
of  their  convictions  by  their  untir- 
ing energy.  But  even  if  this  were 
not  so,  the  modern  possessor  of  the 

VOL.  CXXVIII. NO.  DCCLXXX. 


franchise  must  not  be  neglected. 
He  is  exacting  of  attention,  and  he 
requires  instruction.  The  modern 
voter  must  be  influenced,  and  the 
influence  must  be  kept  up  from 
day  to  day  vigorously,  unceasingly, 
unweariedly.  The  party  that  does 
not  appeal  to  the  passions  of  men 
— that  neither  rouses  their  natural 
propensity  to  destructiveness,  nor 
offers  bribes  to  their  selfishness — can 
least  afford  to  leave  the  household 
suffrage  voter  uncared  for,  in  the 
fond  hope  that  his  action  at  the 
ballot-box  will  be  guided  by  sound 
principles.  We  do  not  expect  good 
manners  from  children  who  live  in 
the  back  slums  of  our  cities,  un- 
less we  seek  them  out  and  tend 
them.  As  little  should  we  expect 
sound  politics  from  voters  of  the 
less  cultivated  classes  of  society  if 
we  leave  them  alone  and  untended, 
to  learn  their  political  manners  in 
an  atmosphere  which  reeks  with 
Radicalism. 

Such  was  the  first  mistake — im- 
agining that  because  it  was  evident 
to  the  instructed  that  the  opposi- 
tion made  to  the  Government  was 
unsound  and  unfair,  it  could  pro- 
duce no  evil  results  and  need  not 
be  feared.  The  second  error  was 
as  serious.  The  manifest  extrava- 
gance and  frantic  character  of  the 
opposition  was  looked  upon"  as  suf- 
ficient to  defeat  itself.  It  was 
thought  that  the  marked  contrast 
between  its  violence  out  of  doors 
and  the  feebleness  displayed  in 
Parliament  indicated  its  own  weak- 
ness, and  would  prevent  the  con- 
stituencies being  influenced  by  it. 
Relying  on  the  truth  that 

"  Deep  rivers  with  soft  murmurs  glide 

along, 
The  shallow  roar," — 

it  was  fondly  believed  that  the 
blatant  talk  and  loud  shouting  of 
the  envious  and  the  foolish  would 
be  as  harmless  as  the  babbling 
stream  —  that  the  constituencies 
2  M 


518 


The  Stump  Ministry :  its  First  Session. 


[Oct. 


would  gauge  its  mean  depth,  as 
so  many  had  already  done,  and 
instead  of  being  swept  away  in 
the  current,  would  set  themselves 
against  it  resolutely.  Those  who 
took  this  view  had  forgotten  Dry- 
den's  lines — 

"  Though  nonsense  is  a  nauseous  heavy 

mass, 
The    vehicle    called    Faction    makes   it 


It  seems  not  to  have  occurred  to 
them  to  consider  that  the  very  vio- 
lence and  extreme  character  of  the 
extra  -  parliamentary  clamour  was 
produced  by,  and  intended  to  coun- 
teract, the  Government's  parliamen- 
tary success.  It  was  essentially  an 
appeal  from  the  informed  and  skilled 
to  the  ignorant  and  unversed.  Flat- 
tery of  the  mob  was  the  leading 
characteristic  of  its  style.  It  was 
a  direct  appeal  to  passion.  Ex- 
citement and  not  calm  judgment 
was  the  spirit  evoked.  The  struggle 
was  undoubtedly  conducted  on  the 
Liberal  side  with  the  skill  of  genius ; 
but  it  was  the  genius  which  felt 
that  the  battle  must  be  won  by 
tactics  hitherto  unknown  in  our 
constitutional  history.  It  will  be 
shown  later  how  this  was  done, 
and  how  successfully,  so  that  the 
"vehicle  Faction"  did  make  most 
wonderful  "  nonsense  pass." 

Eut  besides  the  character  of  ex- 
travagance and  absurdity  which 
was  stamped  on  so  large  a  propor- 
tion of  the  stump  oratory  of  1879, 
much  of  it  was  known  to  be  ab- 
solutely false,  and  much  of  it  to 
be  only  colourably  true,  the  devi- 
ations from  truth  being  easy  of 
exposure.  Accordingly,  it  was  be- 
lieved that  the  falsity  which  was 
attached  to  it  would  cause  it  to 
defeat  itself,  and  that  no  more  was 
necessary  to  extract  the  sting  than 
to  expose  the  falsehood.  But  in  this 
instance,  again,  the  operation  of  a 
general  rule  was  trusted  to,  without 


regard  to  the  circumstances  of  the 
particular  case.  Just  as  men  are 

"  Slow  to  believe  that  which  they  wish 
Far  from  their  enemies,"— 

so,  when  the  unscrupulous  course 
is  taken  of  influencing  by  passion 
while  professing  to  guide  by  rea- 
son, men  will  believe  anything 
against  the  object  held  up  to  their 
detestation.  Lies  fly  out  on  swift 
wings,  and  when  the  wind  of  pas- 
sion blows  behind  them,  the  truth 
will  vainly  press  to  catch  them  up. 
Lies,  uttered  with  tones  of  solem- 
nity and  interlarded  with  pious 
appeals  to  Heaven,  are  believed, 
while 

"  Modest  truth  is  cast  behind  the  crowd  ; 
Truth    speaks    too    low,    hypocrisy  too 
loud. " 

Nor  do  lies  so  told  catch  only  the 
ignorant  and  those  whom  bias 
makes  ready  to  believe  anything. 
It  is  foolish  to  ignore  the  well- 
ascertained  fact  that  falsehoods 
often  and  solemnly  repeated  will 
find  believers,  even  among  people 
otherwise  wary  and  cautious, — nay, 
sometimes  the  very  utterer  himself 
is  caught  in  the  net  of  his  own 
hiding — 

"  Till  their  own  words  at  length  deceive 

'em, 
And,  oft  repeating,  they  believe  'em." 

Persistent  assertion,  particularly  in 
political  attacks,  will  always  have 
a  measure  of  acceptance  for  the 
time  being,  however  certainly  its 
evil  success  will  later  recoil  upon 
its  authors.  Only  let  it  be  per- 
sistent enough,  and  be  uttered  with 
solemn  emphasis  as  the  expression 
of  a  semi-religious  faith,  with  much 
profession  of  a  sense  of  responsi- 
bility on  the  part  of  the  accuser. 
Say  it  but  often  enough  and  pon- 
derously enough  and  unctuously 
enough — 

"And  here's  the  secret  of  a  hundred 

creeds ; 
Men  get  opinions,  as  boys  learn  to  spell, 


1880.] 


The  Stum2)  Ministry:  its  First  Session. 


519 


By  reiteration  chiefly  ;— the  same  thing 
Will  pass  at  last  for  absolutely  wise, 
And  not  with  fools  exclusively," — 

words  which  are  specially  correct 
when  the  thing  that  is  being  said 
"  oft  enough  "  is  a  slanderous  accu- 
sation against  your  neighbour. 

It  will  be  granted  by  the  most 
keen  supporters  of  the  Gladstone 
agitation  of  1879-80  that  there 
was  abundance  of  reiteration.  As 
Sir  William  Harcourt  elegantly 
expressed  it,  they  had  to  keep 
"  pegging  away."  The  truth  is,  the 
fury  of  the  Liberals  was  in  no  re- 
spect spontaneous,  but  was  worked 
up  by  persistent  agitation.  The 
wrath  of  official  Liberalism  was 
raised  to  a  white  heat  not  by  the 
Conservative  policy,  but  by  the 
monstrosity  of  a  Conservative  Gov- 
ernment being  powerful  at  all,  and 
resisting  all  their  assaults  in  Par- 
liament so  successfully.  It  is  in 
their  eyes  a  crime  for  Conservatism 
to  be  in  power,  except  "  by  per- 
mission." 

"Malicious  envy,  root  of  all  debates, 
The  plague  of  governments  and  bane  of 
states," 

was  at  the  bottom  of  all  the  tur- 
moil. The  party  that,  according  to 
their  former  assertions,  had  wrought 
its  own  ruin  in  1867  by  passing 
Household  Suffrage,  sitting  on  the 
right  side  of  the  Speaker  for  six 
years  in  undiminished  strength;  the 
political  Chatterton,  who  had  de- 
stroyed himself,  ruling  as  the  most 
powerful  statesman  of  modern  times, 
and  raising  the  prestige  of  Great 
Britain  once  more  in  the  councils 
of  Europe,— all  this  was  a  sight 
too  maddening  to  be  endured. 
Weapons  for  its  destruction  must 
be  found,  and  their  blows  must 
fall  in  furious  showers.  To  hold 
the  fort  of  the  State  against  Liber- 
alism is  a  crime.  It  is  robbery  of 
the  righteous,  and  against  robbers 
all  is  fair.  To  get  them  cast  out 


and  ourselves  divide  the  spoils  will 
be  a  blessing  to  the  country,  and 
so  noble  an  end  justifies  the  means. 
This  was  the  Radical  creed  at  the 
last  election,  as  expressed  in  their 
words  and  manifested  in  their 
actions. 

If  the  course  of  political  affairs 
during  the  years  of  the  latest 
Eastern  crisis  had  been  as  carefully 
observed  as  it  should  have  been  by 
those  on  whom  rests  the  responsi- 
bility of  the  conduct  of  the  political 
struggle  preparatory  to  the  general 
election,  the  error  of  underrating 
the  influence  of  the  Opposition 
labours  throughout  the  country,  be- 
cause of  their  extravagant  and  un- 
scrupulous character,  might  have 
been  avoided.  It  would  not  have 
escaped  observation,  that  long  before 
the  dissolution  of  Parliament  Mi- 
Gladstone  and  his  coadjutors  had 
very  efficiently  gauged  the  ignorance 
and  gullibility  of  a  large  proportion 
of  the  parliamentary  voters,  and 
had  succeeded  in  exciting  them  to 
that  condition  of  political  passion 
in  which  they  soon  become  deaf  to 
all  argument  that  may  tell  against 
the  object  of  their  idolatry,  and 
ready  to  cheer  anything  that  the 
voice  may  utter,  which  to  them 
"  is  the  voice  of  a  god  and  not  of 
a  man."  The  proposal  of  Hushai 
the  Archite,  to  put  ropes  round 
the  city  and  drag  it  into  the  river, 
was  not  more  absurd  than  many 
things  uttered  with  pompous  so- 
lemnity during  Liberal  stumping, 
and  cheered  to  the  echo  by  gap- 
ing audiences.  The  cool  effrontery 
with  which  things  absolutely  con- 
tradictory were  said — the  ignorant 
being  caught  one  day  by  strong 
asseveration,  and  the  old  Liberals 
soothed  by  saving  clauses  on  an- 
other— has  never  been  equalled  in 
history.  The  extreme  Radicals 
were  patted  on  the  back,  and  pro- 
mised the  reversal  of  this  piece  of 
policy,  and  the  abandonment  of  that 


520 


TJie  Stump  Ministry :  its  First  Session. 


[Oct. 


acquisition.  Conventions  would  be 
repudiated,  and  retreats  ordered  at 
once.  Whigs,  on  the  other  hand, 
were  told,  almost  with  a  wink,  all 
that  kind  of  thing  is  electioneering 
enthusiasm,  and  useful  to  get  us 
these  Radical  votes,  but  to  keep  their 
minds  easy.  Of  course  obligations 
undertaken  by  the  present  Govern- 
ment must  be  fulfilled.  Home 
Rule  was  a  thing  that  a  respectable 
Whig  could  not  even  vote  for  an 
inquiry  into,  and  Mr  Gladstone 
did  not  understand  what  it  might 
mean;  but  that  was  no  reason  why 
a  Home-Ruler  should  not  be  elected, 
and  bring  a  very  useful  vote  to  a 
Liberal  Government.  Never  mind 
about  a  policy.  "Out  with  the 
Tories,"  and  there  will  be  time 
enough  to  consider  what  should  be 
done  afterwards.  Great  was  the 
flattery  with  which  the  Radical 
voters  were  spoken  of  as  the  "  in- 
telligence" of  the  country;  and  yet 
those  who  thus  spoke  were  not 
afraid  to  put  this  wonderful  intelli- 
gence to  such  strains,  after  it  had 
been  worked  up  to  a  proper  stand- 
ard of  political  excitement.  And 
they  were  right.  You  cannot  mix 
the  tumbler  too  strong  for  those 
who  have  already  drunk  too  much, 
and  whose  toast  is  "  Confusion  to 
our  foes." 

Perhaps  the  strongest  of  all  the 
circumstances  which  may  be  held 
to  account  for  the  general  belief 


policy  of  the  Government,  in  spite  of 
threats  by  Reform  Club  committees 
and  grumblings  of  Radical  caucuses. 
This  fact  was  appealed  to,  and  the 
appeal  was  unanswerable.  What 
was  the  use  of  fulminating  in  strong 
language  against  a  Conservative 
Ministry — language  so  violent  as  to 
constitute  a  practical  popular  im- 
peachment— when  they  could  point 
to  many  able  and  stable  men  on 
the  Opposition  benches  from  whom 
they  received  consistent  support  ? 

But  here,  again,  those  who  thus 
argued  had  not  correctly  measured 
the  audacity  of  the  agitation  leader. 
They  looked  upon  him,  and  perhaps 
rightly,  as  leading  a  forlorn-hope. 
But  they  forgot  that  audacity  in 
such  a  leader  may  be  the  best  gen- 
eralship. And  so  it  proved.  Here 
came  in  that  stroke  of  genius  of 
which  some  notice  was  promised  in 
a  former  part  of  this  paper,  and 
which  overcame  this  apparently  in- 
superable difficulty  most  brilliantly. 
Whether  it  was  not  at  the  same 
time  a  blow  most  foul,  let  men 
judge  now,  when  events  can  be 
rehearsed  calmly.  Mr  Gladstone 
ventured  on  a  master-stroke  which, 
if  successful,  would  completely  de- 
stroy all  advantage  his  opponents 
could  derive  from  appealing  to  the 
fact  that  Parliament  had  given  them 
an  ample  certificate.  He  boldly 
seized  on  this  inconvenient  ally  of 
the  Conservative  Government,  and 


which  undoubtedly  existed,  that  the    included  him  in  the  impeachment. 
Radical   agitation,  headed  by  Mr    Unscrupulous  constables,  when  an 
Gladstone,  would  be  unsuccessful, 
was    that    already   alluded    to, — 
the  firm,  unflinching  support  given 
by    Parliament,     independent     of 
party,  to  the  Beaconsfield  Adminis- 
tration.    This,  it  was  thought,  was 
a  difficulty  in  the  way  of  Radical 


success,  which  could  not  be  over- 
come.    Old  Whigs,  moderate  Lib- 


exceptionally  strong  witness  for  the 
defence  accompanies  a  prisoner  to 
the  police  station,  sometimes  get 
rid  of  the  difficulty  summarily  by 
suddenly  seizing  him  and  including 
his  name  in  the  charge-sheet  as  an 
accomplice.  Such  a  proceeding  is 
exactly  on  a  par  with  what  Mr 
Gladstone  did,  and  his  doing  was 


erals,  and  ultra- Radicals  had  been  hailed  with  tremendous  applause 
found  again  and  again  giving  a  by  his  Radical  friends.  In  his  first 
hearty  and  patriotic  support  to  the  Mid  -  Lothian  tour,  the  Ministry 


1880.] 


The  Stump  Ministry :  its  First  Session. 


521 


alone  were  attacked  and  vituper- 
ated. But  when  Mr  Gladstone 
found  that  all  his  glorification  among 
Scotch  Radicals  had  no  effect  in 
altering  the  stream  into  the  Gov- 
ernment lobby,  he  changed  his 
tactics  in  his  second  stumping 
round.  He  made  a  furious  on- 
slaught, not  only  on  the  Min- 
istry, but  on  Parliament  itself, 
transferring  to  it  every  charge  he 
had  before  formulated  against  the 
Government.  Parliament,  which 
ought  to  have  impeached  Beacons- 
field,  must  itself  be  impeached  along 
with  him.  All  who  took  the  trouble 
to  read  Mr  Gladstone's  second  series 
of  Mid-Lothian  addresses  will  re- 
member how  this  new  evolution 
was  developed  to  outflank  the  foe's 
strongest  defences. 

"  The  responsible  Government,  as  I 
have  stated  from  this  place,  and  state 
again,  has  been  supported  by  the 
majority  of  the  House  of  Commons. 
That  majority  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons has  freely  taken  over  the  respon- 
sibility, which,  in  the  first  instance, 
was  that  of  Ministers  alone." 

"I  tell  you  confidently,  gentlemen, 
I  have  sat  in  eleven  Parliaments  of 
this  country  ;  and  of  all  the  eleven 
there  is  not  one  that  would  for  a  mo- 
ment have  entertained  such  a  scheme, 
excepting  the  Parliament  which  has 
supported  Lord  Beaconsfield's  Admin- 
istration. You  may  think,  gentlemen, 
that  that  is  not  a  very  civil  thing  to 
say  of  a  Parliament ;  but  I  assure  you, 
such  was  the  pressure  on  my  mind, 
that  I  said  it  on  Monday  night  in  the 
House  of  Commons  as  plainly  and  as 
intelligibly  as  I  have  said  it  now  to 
you." 

"  I  rejoice  that  now  we  have  another 
tribunal  to  appeal  to — a  tribunal  I 
think,  I  will  venture  to  say,  of  larger 
hearts  and  of  larger  minds — a  tribunal 
from  which  I  expect  more  solid  and 
more  intelligent  judgment  than  we 
have  been  able  to  get  out  of  the  Par- 
liament that  is  now  expiring,  mis- 
guided as  it  has  been  by  the  influence 
of  the  Administration." 


"  No  man  ought,  without  question- 
ing himself  again  and  again,  to  advance 
against  a  Ministry  that  it  has  invaded 
the  rights  of  Parliament,  and  against 
a  Parliament  that  it  has  suffered,  tole- 
rated, encouraged,  and  rewarded  that 
invasion.  And  yet,  gentlemen,  that 
is  the  work  of  the  late  Parliament.  It 
is  no  vague,  general  charge.  A  severe 
charge  it  is.  It  is  one  that  cannot  be 
conveyed  in  slight  or  in  secondary 
language.  You  must  find  for  it  for- 
cible and  stringent  terms.  But  follow 
it  into  its  detail,  scrutinise  it  to  the 
very  root,  and  you  will  find  that  in 
points  almost  without  number  it  is  too 
grievously  made  good  ;  and  that  the 
late  House  of  Commons,  which  is  the 
proper  guardian,  and  the  only  effectual 
guardian,  of  British  liberty,  has  not 
performed  its  trust,  but  has  been  con- 
tent to  see  those  liberties  impaired  and 
compromised  in  the  shape  of  aggression 
and  trespass  upon  the  privileges  and 
prerogatives  of  the  Parliament  itself." 

The  tactics  thus  adopted  to  cap- 
ture, by  a  bold  stroke,  a  position 
that  seemed  impregnable,  were  car- 
ried out  with  tremendous  vigour  by 
the  statesman  who  originated  them. 
"With  an  intensity  of  passion  which 
seemed  to  give  to  the  being  swayed 
by  it  power  to  set  the  natural  laws 
of  his  period  of  life  at  defiance, 
making  nought  of  physical  fatigue 
and  mental  strain,  he  hurled  his 
anathemas  against  the  Executive 
which  formulated,  and  the  Parlia- 
ment which  gave  life  to,  the  national 
policy.  The  statesman  who  guides 
public  opinion  by  argument  was 
displaced  by  the  preacher  who  in- 
cites to  action  through  the  emotions. 
Not  as  politically  mistaken,  but  as 
personally  wicked,  were  Ministers, 
and  those  who  upheld  them,  de- 
nounced. The  rhetoric  of  excite- 
ment was  deliberately  resorted  to. 
The  tone  was  that  of  revolutionary 
propagandise,  not  of  responsible 
statesmanship.  Mr  Gladstone,  with 
the  marked  tendency  which  he  con- 
stantly manifests  to  the  chicaneries 


522 


The  Stump  Ministry :  its  First  Session. 


[Oct. 


of  Jesuitry,  used  his  position  as  an 
experienced  statesman  to  increase 
his  influence,  but  professed  to  be 
a  statesman  retired  from  business, 
that  he  might  escape  the  responsi- 
bility attaching  to  the  character. 
His  conduct  was  like  that  of  a 
French  general  of  the  Empire  lead- 
ing the  Communists,  with  a  blouse 
over  his  epaulettes  and  a  bonnet 
rouge  on  his  head.  The  prestige  of 
position  was  used  to  obtain  support, 
while  the  position  itself  was  in  pre- 
tended humility  resigned,  in  order 
that  the  responsibility  attaching  to 
it  might  not  be  incurred.  The 
weight  of  statesmanly  repute  was 
employed  to  give  practical  force  to 
the  tactics,  and  to  stimulate  the 
enthusiasm  of  the  rank  and  file ;  but 
the  position  of  statesmanship  was 
disclaimed,  in  order  to  allow  the 
necessary  licence  to  the  attack. 
The  skill  of  generalship  must  be 
used  ;  but  the  cordon,  which  might 
be  sullied  by  practices  contrary  to 
the  usages  of  war,  must  not  be 
worn.  The  shout  was  the  shout  of 
"  the  greatest  statesman  of  this  or 
any  other  age  ;"  but  it  was  only  "  a 
humble  country  member."  who  was 
answerable  for  the  meaning  of  the 
sounds.  The  intention  was  to  in- 
flame the  public  mind  by  the  pres- 
sure upon  it  of  the  "  intense  earn- 
estness "  of  a  versed  and  favourite 
statesman;  while  the  double  advan- 
tage of  a  colour  of  disinterestedness 
and  a  freedom  from  the  necessary 
restraint  of  responsibility  might 
be  secured,  by  posing  as  a  mere 
shooting-coat  -  and  -  gaiters  member 
of  Parliament. 

How  from  this  position  of  double- 
dealing  Mr  Gladstone  declaimed — 
denouncing  Parliament,  insulting 
our  allies,  and  giving  encourage- 
ment to  Home  Rule,  as  no  man 
could  have  done  without  disgrace 
to  himself  and  injury  to  his  country, 
who  stood  in  the  position  of  a  leader 
either  in  or  out  of  office;  and  no 


man  who  ever  had  been  a  states- 
man should  have  done — least  of  all 
within  a  few  weeks  of  his  becom- 
ing First  Minister  of  the  Crown, — 
every  one  knows.  How  successful 
his  agitation  proved  itself  the  Con- 
servative party  know  but  too  well. 
If  the  lesson  is  learned  which  the  his- 
tory of  that  agitation  teaches,  there 
may  in  the  end  be  more  good  ihan 
evil  resulting  from  it.  If  Conser- 
vatives will  but  realise  that  the  lash- 
ing of  a  sea  into  fury  is  the  work 
of  a  few  hours,  and  that  it  is  wind 
by  which  its  power  is  so  quickly 
developed,  they  will  not  so  fondly 
trust  to  thestorm  blowing  pastharm- 
less  as  they  did  during  the  last  year. 
Bulwarks  to  resist  the  sea  must 
be  built  during  calm  weather,  and 
in  good  time.  It  is  the  duty  of  the 
Conservative  party  to  have  strong 
defences  against  the  destructive 
tendencies  of  Radical  and  revolu- 
tionary politics.  These  are  spas- 
modic and  violent,  and  may,  if  not 
banked  out  when  the  winds  are  at 
rest,  sweep  all  before  them,  when 
some  political  ^Eolus  lets  the  stor- 
my blasts  loose.  Let  the  Conser- 
vative party  learn  the  lesson ;  and 
perhaps  when  the  next  Radical  wave 
is  blown  up  by  some  future  "irre- 
sponsible country  member,"  it  may 
be  thrown  back  on  itself  harmless, 
by  the  resistance  of  the  united  and 
cemented  bulwark  of  a  party  de- 
termined to  oppose  revolution  and 
protect  the  institutions  under  which 
our  country  has  grown  great  and 
prosperous. 

But  while  the  Liberal  majority  of 
1880  was  to  a  great  extent  obtained 
by  these  unworthy  means,  it  was 
also  in  a  very  considerable  degree 
due  to  a  different  and  a  most  laudable 
cause,  which  ought  to  be  noticed  in 
considering  the  character  of  the  ma- 
jority. When  the  general  election 
was  imminent,  it  was  felt  by 
all  men  who  wished  well  to  the 
country,  to  be  above  everything  de- 


1880.] 


The  Stump  Ministry :  its  First  Session. 


523 


sirable,  that  whatever  party  held 
power  after  it  was  over,  it  should  not 
do  so  on  the  sufferance  of  the  Home- 
Eulers.  All  saw  that  if  the  suc- 
cess of  Government  measures  should 
depend  on  the  assistance  of  Par- 
nellites,  it  could  only  be  obtained 
at  a  price  which  no  honest  Min- 
isters would  pay,  and  which  must  at 
once  seal  the  fate  of  any  Ministry 
that  could  be  found  base  enough  to 
tender  payment  of  it.  It  was  this 
feeling,  no  doubt,  that  stimulat- 
ed the  Liberal  party  to  the  most 
strenuous  efforts  for  the  purpose 
of  increasing  their  majority,  when 
it  had  become  clear,  early  in  the 
contest,  that  a  Conservative  Cabi- 
net was  EO  longer  possible.  Old 
Whigs,  who  had  been  coldly  in- 
different during  the  previous  stump 
agitation,  and  held  aloof  from  the 
fierce  and  unwarrantable  abuse  that 
was  showered  on  the  Beaconsfield 
Government,  were  roused  to  activ- 
ity the  moment  it  became  certain 
that  their  party  must  take  office. 
A  majority,  with  the  Home  Eule 
vote  discounted,  became  a  necessity, 
if  their  accession  to  power  was  to 
bring  them  anything  but  shame 
or  disaster,  or  both.  Their  efforts 
were  successful.  The  overweening 
confidence  of  the  Conservatives  in 
the  counties,  which  in  many  in- 
stances had  made  them  careless 
both  in  nursing  the  register  and 
paying  attention  to  the  voters,  with 
the  aid  of  the  all-powerful  tempta- 
tion contained  in  the  prospect  of 
being  on  the  winning  side,  enabled 
the  Whigs  to  snatch  many  vic- 
tories by  a  vigorous  coup-de-main, 
and  swelled  the  already  great  ma- 
jority beyond  the  wildest  expecta- 
tions of  the  most  sanguine  Liber- 
als. Steady  Whigs  were  rejoiced  to 
think  that  the  new  Ministry  could 
discard  the  assistance  of  the  Irish 
Home  Rule  party,  and  looked  for- 
ward to  the  prospect  of  a  Liberal 
reign,  which  in  its  brilliant  success 


should  console  them  for  the  unjus- 
tifiable way  in  which  the  Tories 
had  for  six  years  usurped  their 
right  to  control  the  government  of 
the  country. 

If  the  strength  of  a  Government 
could  be  satisfactorily  tested  by  the 
number  of  their  majority  in  the 
House  of  Commons,  then  the  Glad- 
stone Administration  of  1880  ought 
to  be  the  most  stable  that  has 
swayed  the  destinies  of  the  nation 
during  the  last  half-century.  The 
majority  with  which  they  took  their 
seat  on  the  Treasury  bench  was 
made  up  of  enthusiastic  Liberals, 
full  of  jubilation  over  a  party  vic- 
tory, which  to  many  of  them  was 
a  surprise,  and  to  all  a  success  be- 
yond their  most  sanguine  calcula- 
tions. To  the  outward  seeming  all 
promised  well.  The  turn  in  the 
tide  of  bad  trade  had  come;  the 
prospect  of  the  season  seemed  more 
favourable  for  agriculture  than  for 
several  years  back.  Affghanis- 
tan  and  Zululand  were  quieted. 
Eastern  Europe  was  no  longer 
causing  immediate  anxiety.  The 
good  ship  Liberalism  had  but  to 
set  full  sail  to  the  breeze  to  carry 
her  inestimable  blessings  swiftly 
and  safely  to  every  part  of  the 
world  where  the  interests  or  the 
duties  of  the  nation  called  for 
action. 

Such  was  the  state  of  matters 
a  few  short  months  ago.  What  is 
their  condition  now  ?  Is  it  too 
much  to  say  that  the  brilliancy  of 
the  former  prospect  finds  its  exact 
contrast  in  the  melancholy  sight 
now  before  the  eyes  of  Great 
Britain  and  the  world?  No  Min- 
istry has  ever  held  office  in  this 
country  with  a  substantial  majority 
which  has  been  so  discredited  in 
three  years,  as  the  present  Govern- 
ment is  now,  after  it  has  had  about 
three  full  months  to  develop  its 
measures.  Just  as  their  most 
sanguine  expectations  never  led 


524 


The  Stump  Ministry :  its  First  Session. 


[Oct. 


them  to  look  for  such  power  as 
they  possessed  when  they  took 
the  reins  of  office,  so  the  most 
extravagant  hopes  of  those  who 
are  their  political  foes  could  never 
have  made  it  possible  for  them 
to  anticipate  such  a  rapid  de- 
cadence of  the  new  Administra- 
tion's prestige.  Instead  of  the  co- 
lossal Liberal  majority,  with  "the 
greatest  statesman  of  this  or  any 
other  age "  as  its  head,  being  seen 
doing  its  work  with  a  powerful 
hand  like  a  sinewy  Hercules,  it 
rather  resembles  the  giant  of  the 
race-course  booth.  An  unwieldy, 
weak-kneed,  petulant  mass,  it  is 
like  the  "  tallest  man  in  the  fair," 
wonderful  for  everything  except  the 
capacity  to  be  of  the  slightest  prac- 
tical use,  and  occasionally  being  in 
such  a  state  from  "  want  of  tone  " 
(according  to  good-natured  medical 
phrase),  that  the  irregular  and  dis- 
orderly action  of  its  monstrous  parts 
creates  considerable  risk  of  the 
whole  booth  being  upset.  Within 
a  few  weeks  of  his  engagement  the 
giant  has  become  so  unsteady  in 
his  habits,  that  his  performances 
have  descended  from  the  sublime 
to  the  ridiculous. 

What  has  the  head  done  ? — that 
head  whose  "intense  earnestness" 
has  been  held  up  to  the  admiration 
of  the  constituencies  of  Great  Brit- 
ain, and  from  whose  lips  they  were 
told  unadulterated  wisdom  and 
purest  truth  ever  flowed.  Almost 
the  first  act  of  Mr  Gladstone  which 
was  of  an  importance  to  attract 
public  attention,  on  his  becoming 
Prime  Minister,  was  to  pen  a 
humble  apology  to  a  sovereign,  one 
of  our  allies,  for  language  which,  to 
use  his  own  words,  he  could  "  not 
defend,  far  less  repeat,"  uttered  by 
him  when  conducting,  in  a  position 
"  of  less  responsibility, "  the  most 
tremendous  political  agitation  of 
the  last  quarter  of  a  century.  He 
placed  himself  between  the  horns 


of  a  dilemma.  Either  what  he  spoke 
was  untrue  and  should  never  have 
been  spoken  at  all ;  or  it  was  true, 
but  the  Minister  who  has  got  into 
power  by  stating  the  truth,  may 
escape  from  difficulties  thereby 
created,  by  saying  that  what  was 
true  was  false  and  cannot  be  jus- 
tified. The  deliverance  of  impar- 
tial critics  upon  this  incident  will 
be,  that  Mr  Gladstone  tried  to 
drag  our  ally  in  the  mire  to  serve 
his  own  political  ends;  and  that  the 
Prime  Minister  of  this  country 
exposed  it  to  humiliation  in  his 
person,  that  he  might  save  himself 
from  the  consequences  of  his  own 
gratuitous  and  most  unjustifiable 
attack  upon  a  friendly  state.  The 
contrast  between  Mr  Gladstone,  the 
immaculate  exposer  of  everybody 
else's  evil  deeds,  declaiming  in  Mid- 
Lothian  to-day,  so  "  honest  "  and  so 
"earnest,"  and  the  same  Mr  Glad- 
stone a  few  weeks  after,  eating  his 
own  words  to  "  Dear  Count  Kar- 
olyi,"  may  be  edifying  as  a  proof  of 
versatility  and  courage  of  a  certain 
kind,  but  it  is  not  the  sort  of  exhi- 
bition that  is  most  refreshing  to  or- 
dinary British  subjects.  They  are 
not  yet  sufficiently  educated  in  the 
Ignatius  Loyola  school,  as  to  ap- 
preciate an  earnestness  which  is 
"  irresponsible,"  and  a  moral  code 
which  allows  the  use  of  means  that 
cannot  be  manfully  justified,  in 
order  to  gain  an  important  end, 
and  whenever  the  end  has  been 
compassed,  permits  escape  from  the 
consequences  by  prompt  and  abject 
confession  of  the  impropriety  of  the 
means. 

What  has  been  his  conduct  as 
leader  of  the  House  of  Commons — 
that  position  which  calls  for  so 
much  tact,  temper,  and  loyal  watch- 
fulness over  its  dignity  and  freedom'? 
He  has  within  a  few  weeks  so  far 
forgotten  the  responsibility  of  his 
position  in  these  respects,  and  given 
way  to  excited  feeling,  as  to  ig- 


1880.] 


TJie  Stump  Ministry :  its  First  Session. 


525 


nore  the  authority  of  the  Chair 
in  matters  of  order,  and  to  move 
that  a  member  whom  the  Speaker 
did  not  call  to  order  should  be 
silenced.  No  doubt  it  may  be 
pleaded  for  him,  that  the  member 
in  regard  to  whom  the  motion  was 
made  was  committing  a  very  mark- 
ed breach  of  taste  and  good  feeling, 
and  that  the  leader  of  the  House 
was  in  truth 

' '  Goaded  by  most  sharp  occasions, 
Which  lay  nice  manners  by  ; " 

but  this  can  in  no  way  excuse  one 
of  his  age  and  experience  for  com- 
mitting the  mistake  of  taking  an 
improper  step  to  put  matters  right. 
The  leader  who  takes  an  inch  in 
irregularity,  from  however  good  a 
motive,  is  tempting  others  to  take 
an  ell.  And  the  result  of  this 
high-handed  and  unconstitutional 
ebullition  was  to  cause  a  scene 
most  discreditable  to  Parliament, 
and  to  place  the  First  Minister  of 
the  Crown  in  the  humiliating  posi- 
tion of  having  ultimately  to  with- 
draw a  motion  which  had  been 
tabled  with  vehemence  and  pressed 
with  determination. 

He  has  further  succeeded  in 
astonishing  society  by  two  actions 
of  a  most  antipodean  description. 
Contrary  to  all  past  usage,  he  has 
nominated  a  Eoman  Catholic,  and 
that  Roman  Catholic  a  pervert,  to 
a  viceregal  position  under  a  sove- 
reign, one  of  the  fundamental  con- 
ditions of  whose  right  to  reign  is 
that  she  shall  be  a  Protestant.  No 
one  can  doubt  that  this  was  done 
with  special  regard  to  the  nomi- 
nee's religious  faith.  It  is  prepos- 
terous to  pretend  that  the  appoint- 
ment could  be  justified  solely  on 
the  ground  of  special  qualification 
for  the  office.  And  thus  the  spec- 
tacle is  exhibited  of  the  author  of 
'  Vaticanism,'  written,  presumably, 
from  a  position  of  "  irresponsibil- 
ity," going  out  of  his  way  to  give 


a  viceroy alty  to  one  of  its  votaries. 
On  the  other  hand,  he  has  lent 
all  his  powerful  influence,  both 
as  an  individual  and  as  a  Minister, 
to  aid  an  avowed  atheist  in  hia 
efforts  to  force  his  way  into  a  seat 
in  the  House  of  Commons.  And 
this  in  the  case  of  one  not  merely 
holding  sceptical  opinions  as  an  in- 
dividual, but  who  is  an  active  and 
unblushing  propagandist,  whose  dis- 
semination of  indecent  and  abomin- 
able writings  in  furtherance  of  his 
so-called  philosophy  it  has  been 
necessary  to  rebuke  by  punishment 
in  a  criminal  court.  Still  further,  he 
publicly  announced  his  intention  to 
parade  his  -infidelity  before  Parlia- 
ment, to  tell  its  members  to  their 
faces  that  an  oath  as  he  should 
answer  to  God  was  an  empty  form, 
which  would  have  no  binding  effect 
upon  his  conscience.  Yet  this  man, 
when  he  made  these  avowals,  and 
even  when,  after  making  them,  he 
had  the  effrontery  to  volunteer  to 
take  the  oath  after  all,  was  backed 
up  by  the  Prime  Minister  with  fer- 
vour in  his  attempts  to  thrust  him- 
self, with  all  his  atheistical  philo- 
sophy paraded  in  front  of  him,  into 
the  Legislature  of  a  country  whose 
royal  flag  carries  the  motto,  "Dien 
et  mon  Droit."  When  the  dignity 
of  the  House  of  Commons  was  out- 
raged, and  its  authority  defied  by 
this  "fool  who  hath  said  in  his 
heart,  There  is  no  God,"  the  sad 
sight  was  seen  of  the  leader  of  that 
House  sitting  in  sulks  and  dudgeon, 
abdicating  his  position  and  petu- 
lantly casting  off  loyalty  to  the 
House  because  the  offender  was 
his  protege,  and  because  the  House 
of  Commons  had  dared  to  outvote 
him  on  the  question  of  admitting 
the  infidel.  He  who  objects  so 
fiercely  to  what  he  calls  imperial- 
ism, has  made  it  plain  that  the 
House  of  Commons,  or  at  least  his 
majority,  must  submit  to  his  impe- 
riousness  or  suffer  his  displeasure. 


526 


The  Stump  Ministry :  'ds  First  Session. 


[Oct. 


He  is  not  the  servant  of  the  coun- 
try, but  its  representatives  are  his 
serfs.  The  man  who  is  loudest 
against  what  he  calls  a  "mechan- 
ical majority,"  loses  no  time  in 
making  it  plain  that  a  majority 
which  will  not  do  his  bidding,  even 
when  the  doing  of  it  is  revolution, 
will  be  made  to  feel  who  is  its 
master.  The  sight  of  the  leader  of 
the  House,  sitting  begloved  and 
cane  in  hand,  refusing  to  give  any 
assistance  in  the  maintenance  of  its 
authority,  because  it  has  an  opinion 
of  its  own  in  a  matter  of  consti- 
tutional importance,  and  will  not 
yield  to  his  dictation,  is  novel,  and 
it  is  to  be  hoped  will  remain  unique. 
It  is  a  first  and  very  marked  indi- 
cation of  Mr  Gladstone's  views  of 
the  uses  of  a  majority,  and  shows 
conclusively  why  he  considers  a 
Conservative  majority  to  be  "me- 
chanical." It  is  because  he  holds 
that  to  be  the  proper  function  of 
a  majority.  It  is  not  its  being 
mechanical  that  rouses  his  ire  ;  it  is 
that  its  duty  being  mechanical  it 
sometimes  carries  out  the  will  of  a 
wicked  Lord  Beaconsfield.  When  it 
is  the  instrument  of  a  virtuous  Min- 
ister like  himself,  the  only  crime  it 
can  commit  is  assuming  to  be  any- 
thing more  than  Liguori's  Jesuit — 
"  a  stick  in  the  hand  of  a  man." 

There  is  one  thing  about  this 
wretched  Bradlaugh  business  which 
makes  it  of  much  greater  import- 
ance than  if  it  related  merely  to  so 
insignificant  a  person  as  the  in- 
dividual in  question.  It  is  painful 
to  think  that  such  a  man,  with  such 
a  history — whose  name  would  prob- 
ably have  been  unknown  except 
among  atheists  and  holders  of 
strange  social  doctrines  in  his  own 
stratum  of  society,  but  for  the  fact 
that  his  profane  and  disgusting 
views  were  so  offensively  put  forth 
as  to  necessitate  his  trial  in  a  crim- 
inal court — should  be  the  means  of 
practically  effecting  a  substantial 


constitutional  revolution.  For  can 
anything  more  revolutionary  be 
imagined  than  a  Ministry  allowing 
the  Legislature  of  a  Christian  coun- 
try to  be  invaded  by  those  who  deny 
the  very  existence  of  God,  and  re- 
fuse to  recognise  any  responsibility 
hereafter  for  the  deeds  done  in  the 
body?  Yet  Mr  Gladstone  is  not 
ashamed,  in  his  special  pleading  for 
the  atheist,  to  talk  of  "  the  narrow 
ledge  of  theism,"  as  if  the  religious 
toleration,  which  has  gone  the 
length  of  accepting  all  men  who 
acknowledge  God,  has  brought 
them  within  a  thousand  miles  of 
allowing  themselves  to  be  governed 
by  those  who  deny  His  existence 
and  insult  His  sovereignty.  Mr 
Gladstone  ought  to  know,  and  we 
believe  does  know,  that  there  was 
scarcely  a  man  in  the  Parliaments 
which  removed  Eoman  Catholic 
and  Jewish  disabilities  who  would 
not  rather  have  kept  the  law  as  it 
stood  for  ever,  if  they 'had  believed 
that  the  admission  of  atheists 
could  be  looked  upon  as  a  logical 
sequence  of  what  they  did. 

There  is  one  other  act  which, 
though  technically  that  of  the 
Ministry  as  a  whole,  may  in  all 
fairness  be  set  down  on  the  list  of 
deeds  for  which  Mr  Gladstone  is 
responsible.  He  has  added  one 
penny  to  the  income  -  tax.  The 
man  who  went  to  the  country  in 
1874  with  the  cry  that  the  income- 
tax  should  be  abolished,  begins 
his  next  term  of  office  by  increas- 
ing it.  The  burden  of  a  tax  which 
he  and  his  followers  have  always 
denounced  as  a  war  tax,  is  deliber- 
ately added  to,  not  from  any  neces- 
sity consistent  with  that  represen- 
tation of  it,  but  to  compensate  for 
loss  created  by  the  repeal  of  another 
tax,  which  Conservatives  have  al- 
ways maintained  ought  to  be  abol- 
ished at  a  convenient  opportunity, 
but  which,  in  the  days  when  the 
revenue  was  increasing  by 


1880.] 


The  Stump  Ministry :  its  First  Session. 


527 


and  bounds,"  neither  Mr  Gladstone 
nor  any  other  Liberal  ever  took  a 
single  step  to  remove. 

Such  are  some  of  the  doings  of 
the  head  of  this  colossal  Liberal 
power.  A  glance  at  a  few  of  the 
acts  of  the  whole  body  will  be 
equally  instructive.  But  first,  what 
have  they  undone  of  the  work  of 
their  predecessors  ?  If  one  tithe  of 
what  was  shouted  before  and  dur- 
ing the  general  election  were  true, 
the  new  Ministry,  on  coming  into 
power,  would  of  necessity  have  had 
to  reverse  many  important  acts  of 
those  whose  places  they  took.  The 
Cyprus  that — to  use  Mr  Gladstone's 
phrase — we  had  "  filched,"  would 
have  been  given  up.  The  Anglo- 
Turkish  Convention,  which  was 
"insane,"  would  have  been  aban- 
doned. The  Porte,  who  it  was 
"  absurd "  to  say  would  resist  by 
force  the  will  of  Europe,  would 
have  been  dealt  with  and  disposed 
of.  The  concert  of  Europe,  which 
the  Beaconsfield  Government  had 
"  broken  up,"  would  again  be 
brought  to  bear  in  irresistible  de- 
monstrations against  the  unspeak- 
able Turk.  Sir  Bartle  Frere,  the 
wicked  proconsul,  who  slaughtered 
"  poor  Zulus,"  would  have  been  at 
once  recalled.  Beneficent  and  prac- 
tical home-work  would  immediately 
be  set  in  operation,  and  a  short  ses- 
sion of  Liberalism  would  do  more 
than  years  of  Conservative  "  sham  " 
legislation.  One  of  the  most  im- 
portant officials  of  the  Liberal  party 
gave  as  an  excuse  for  their  lead- 
ers putting  forward  no  programme 
of  policy,  that  they  would  have 
enough  of  work  in  setting  right 
the  evil  things  done  by  the  Con- 
servative Government  to  occupy 
them  for  some  time.  And  if  the 
last  Government  had  been,  as  was 
asserted,  the  "  very  worst  Govern- 
ment of  the  century —  untrust- 
worthy, wicked,  detestable,"  and  a 
hundred  other  things,  there  would 


have  been  some  reason  in  what  he 
said.  But  his  friends  having  gained 
their  end  by  all  this  strong  language, 
what  have  they  done,  during  the 
months  they  have  been  in  office,  to 
reverse  the  action  of  those  they 
ousted  from  power?  As  regards 
Tuikey,  they  have  done  nothing 
that  was  not  within  the  programme 
of  the  former  Ministry.  The  loud 
bluster  so  many  of  them  indulged  in 
about  Bulgaria  and  Eoumelia  has 
so  far  died  away,  that  within  a  few 
weeks  we  have  been  told  that  if  Tur- 
key will  settle  the  Greek  and  Mon- 
tenegrin questions,  no  more  will  be 
asked  at  her  hands  in  Europe.  And 
so  plain  is  it  that  the  anti-Moham- 
medan aspirations  of  Bulgaria  and 
Eoumelia  have  nothing  to  expect 
in  their  aid  from  us,  that  already 
the  old  Eussian  game  is  being 
played — the  importation  into  these 
countries  of  Eussian  arms,  Eus- 
sian officers,  and  Eussian  men. 
The  naval  demonstration  mode  of 
coercion, — that  highly  moral  expe- 
dient of  bullying  a  weak  Power, 
not  because  you  intend  to  act,  but 
because  you  have  made  up  your 
mind  that  action  would  be  unneces- 
sary if  you  shammed  it  enough, — 
is,  indeed,  still  on  \,he  tapis ;  but 
it  seems  to  be  quite  understood 
that,  as  representing  any  real  in- 
tention of  using  force,  it  is  a  mere 
sham.  Its  danger  as  a  precedent 
is  too  clear  to  require  notice.  But 
one  thing  is  quite  plain  from  the 
state  of  matters  in  the  East.  The 
concert  of  Europe  has  not  been  so 
consolidated  by  joy  of  the  nations 
at  Mr  Gladstone's  accession  to  power 
as  to  lead  to  much  display  of  con- 
fidence in  the  prospect  of  future 
peace.  Every  day  that  has  elapsed 
since  Mr  Goschen  went  forth  with 
a  Liberal  olive-twig  in  his  button- 
hole has  witnessed  increased  pre- 
parations for  war  in  Eastern  Europe. 
War,  and  not  peace,  is  the  result  to 
which  all  external  action  points. 


528 


Tlie  Stump  Ministry :  its  First  Session. 


[Oct. 


Much  might  be  said  about  Aff- 
ghanistan,  but  until  more  detail 
is  known  it  would  not  be  fair  to 
make  decided  comments.  Still  this 
at  least  may  be  said  now,  that  three 
months  of  the  new  regime  have 
been  signalised  by  a  military  dis- 
aster for  which  the  Government  of 
the  day  will  have  to  find  excuse. 
The  disaster  was  not  the  result  of 
treachery,  as  was  the  case  in  Cabul, 
but  of  underrating  the  power  of  the 
enemy,  and  of  intrusting  to  general 
officers  inexperienced  in  actual  war- 
fare the  responsibility  of  carrying 
out  delicate  and  important  opera- 
tions. We  need  not  go  over  the 
series  of  blunders  which  culminat- 
ed in  the  defeat  of  Kushk-i-Nak- 
hud,  or  apportion  to  each  quarter 
its  due  degree  of  culpability.  It  is 
quite  clear,  however,  that  Ayoub 
Khan's  menaces  were  regarded  with 
an  indifference  which  was  altogether 
reckless.  His  advance  was  known 
at  Candahar  and  Simla  on  27th 
June,  and  it  was  then  decided  that 
a  force  should  be  sent  out  to  oppose 
him.  The  day  before  the  departure 
of  this  force,  Ayoub 's  strength  was 
known  at  Candahar  with  tolerable 
accuracy,  and  it  was  known  also 
that  the  force  sent  against  him 
was  vastly  inferior  numerically, 
and  had  only  one  battery  to  his 
six.  Why,  then,  were  not  reinforce- 
ments from  the  reserve  division, 
which  Lord  Lytton  had  ordered  to 
be  held  in  readiness  for  some  such 
emergency,  pushed  up  to  Gene- 
ral Fhayre,  and  General  Phayre's 
troops  advanced  at  once  to  Canda- 
har 1  Let  it  only  be  ascertained 
where  the  responsibility  of  this 
neglect  is  to  be  attached,  and  there 
can  be  no  mistake  as  to  the  judgment 
which  the  country  will  pronounce. 
But  there  is  one  fact  connected  with 
this  last  phase  of  the  Affghan  war  on 
which  comment  need  not  be  de- 
layed— viz.,  that  the  India  Office 
in  London  was  in  such  ignorance  of 


what  was  going  on,  that  when  the 
news  of  the  disaster  came,  Lord 
Hartington  was  unable  to  give  Par- 
liament the  slightest  information. 
On  the  nature  of  the  expedition, 
the  forces  which  composed  it,  and 
all  other  important  facts,  the  Secre- 
tary for  India  knew  as  little  as  the 
messenger  who  carries  his  despatch- 
box  to  the  House.  One  would  have 
imagined  that  every  step  and  detail 
of  the  all-important  proceedings  in 
that  land  would  have  been  well 
known,  and  that  the  Government 
at  home  would  have  followed  them 
with  the  keenest  anxiety ;  but 
such,  apparently,  was  not  the  case. 
The  Ministry  of  all  the  talents 
and  virtues  is  guided,  as  to  the 
actings  of  to-day  in  India,  by  the 
opinion  of  General  Stewart  pro- 
nounced many  weeks  before ;  and 
military  expeditions  are  absolutely 
ordered  by  the  Governor  -  General 
without  regard  to  intervening  oc- 
currences. Expeditions  most  haz- 
ardous, and  on  which  the  whole 
future  prestige  of  Great  Britain  in 
Affghanistau — ay,  and  in  all  India — 
may  depend,  are  entered  upon,  and 
brought  to  woful  end,  before  the 
Government  at  home  know  how  they 
are  composed,  or  what  they  were  in- 
tended to  accomplish.  It  is  surely 
not  too  much  to  say  that  such  a 
state  of  things  is  in  every  respect 
discreditable.  The  Gladstone  Gov- 
ernment have  to  thank  the  bril- 
liant military  commander  and  his 
plucky  troops  who  have  defeated 
Ayoub  Khan,  for,  to  some  extent, 
saving  our  military  prestige  in 
India ;  but  they  are  mistaken  if 
they  believe  that  the  successful  re- 
sult of  General  Roberts's  daring 
march  will  save  them  from  the 
blame  which  must  attach  some- 
where for  the  previous  disaster, 
and  which,  at  present,  they  cannot 
show  does  not  attach  to  them. 

What,  again,  has  been  the  con- 
duct of  the  Government  in  regard 


1880.] 


The  Stump  Ministry :  its  First  Session. 


529 


to  affairs  in  South  Africa  1  It  will 
not  be  forgotten  that  one  of  Mr 
Gladstone's  most  severe  strictures 
upon  the  Government  of  Lord  Bea- 
consfield  was,  that  they  had  so  in- 
structed Sir  Bartle  Frere  as  to  secure 
all  credit  of  success  to  themselves, 
while  so  adjusting  matters  that  the 
blame  of  all  failure  should  fall  on 
their  subordinate.  Mr  Gladstone, 
who  thus  spoke,  could  not  with 
any  show  of  fairness  join  in  the 
furious  Kadical  attacks  which  were 
made  against  that  much -respected 
and  valuable  public  servant,  upon 
whom  the  most  unmeasured  in- 
sult was  heaped  by  the  Lawsons 
and  the  Chamberlains.  Accord- 
ingly, when  the  new  Govern- 
ment took  office,  Sir  Birtle  Frere 
was  not  recalled.  Yet  now,  Sir 
Bartle  Frere  is  removed  from  his 
post.  He  was  first  kept  there, 
because  Mr  Gladstone  had  chosen 
to  make  capital  against  his  chief, 
and  not  against  him;  and  now 
when  there  is  no  longer  need  to 
keep  up  that  line  of  conduct,  he 
is  suddenly  told,  in  order  to  satisfy 
Radical  spite,  that  he  is  deprived 
of  his  office.  It  is,  perhaps,  fortu- 
nate that  so  able  a  man  is  once 
more  relieved  from  compulsory  si- 
lence under  attack,  and  can  publicly 
inform  his  countrymen  of  the  truth. 
It  cannot  be  hoped  that  he  will 
make  those  who  maligned  him 
ashamed ;  but  he  can  give  valuable 
information  to  a  country  that  re- 
spects him,  being  no  longer  under 
the  obligation  to  keep  the  counsel 
of  a  Government  which,  when  in 
Opposition,  used  him  as  a  means  of 
discrediting  their  opponents,  and 
on  obtaining  office  cast  him  off,  on 
the  ground  that  his  views,  if  not 
those  of  the  previous  Ministry,  were 
not  in  accordance  with  theirs. 

Coming  now  to  Home  politics, 
is  it  too  much  to  say  that  the  new 
Ministry  has  within  a  short  quarter 
of  a  year  raised  a  feeling  of  uneasi- 


ness and  even  alarm  in  the  minds 
of  a  great  number  of  their  own  re- 
spected supporters,  straining  party 
allegiance  to  the  snapping-point  by 
their  crude,  rash,  and  unstatesman- 
like  measures,  their  truckling  to 
the  seditious  and  the  revolution- 
ary, and  their  playing  fast  and  loose 
with  property  in  order  to  curry 
favour  with  the  extremists'?  Men 
who  thought  they  were  once  more 
going  to  have  a  day  of  "  Plain  Whig 
Principles,"  with  just  a  bit  thrown 
now  and  again  to  stop  the  barking 
of  those  troublesome  Radicals,  and 
prevent  their  showing  their  teeth, 
soon  stood  aghast  when  they  saw 
the  kind  of  Liberalism  they  were 
expected  to  support.  And  thus  the 
unprecedented  spectacle  was  seen  in 
the  first  session  of  a  new  Parlia- 
ment, of  the  measures  pressed  by 
the  Ministry  being  met  with  the 
most  scathing  criticism  from  those 
sitting  on  the  Government  benches 
in  both  Houses  of  the  Legislature, 
the  Opposition  being  led  by  men 
whose  names  are  as  household 
words  among  the  members  of  the 
party  in  power.  A  Government, 
which  would  certainly  have  been 
excused  had  its  first  brief  session 
being  signalised  by  no  very  import- 
ant or  striking  measures,  has  suc- 
ceeded in  turning  nominal  strength 
into  practical  weakness,  by  per- 
verse breaking  loose  from  sound 
principles  of  legislation,  peevish  im- 
patience of  discussion  and  criticism, 
and  a  painful  display  of  haste  to 
buy  a  cheap  popularity,  by  measures 
tending  to  benefit  particular  classes, 
without  regard  to  the  rights  and 
property  of  others. 

There  are  only  three  measures 
brought  in  during  the  late  session 
which  have  any  novelty  about  them, 
and  are  of  any  great  public  import- 
ance, —  the  Employers'  Liability 
Bill,  the  Hares  and  Rabbits  Bill, 
and  the  Irish  Disturbance  Bill.  Of 
the  first  it  may  be  said  that  the 


530 


TJie  Stump  Ministry :  its  First  Session. 


[Oct. 


law  as  it  stood  was  such  as  to  call 
for  some  amendment,  it  being  un- 
doubtedly hard  that  the  doctrine 
of  collaborateur  should  be  extended 
to  responsible  managers,  who  prac- 
tically took  the  entire  charge  of 
large  and  dangerous  works,  and  were 
more  in  the  position  of  author- 
ised delegates  than  servants  of  the 
proprietor.  But  the  Bill  of  the 
Government  was  not  an  honest  ef- 
fort to  remove  a  legal  injustice,  but 
was  so  conceived  as  to  be  a  mani- 
fest sop  thrown  to  the  working 
class  and  others.  It  was  crudely 
framed,  ill  considered,  and  unstates- 
manlike,  and  bore  unmistakable 
traces  of  its  political  purpose,  show- 
ing how  Liberalism,  which  professes 
to  have  no  sectional  regards,  seeks 
to  please  the  class  who  form  the  ma- 
jority at  the  expense  of  the  minor- 
ity. It  is  another  illustration  of 
the  fact  that  Liberalism  aims  at 
satisfying  not  the  community,  but 
a  part  of  it ;  not  society,  but  that 
class  of  it  from  which  the  votaries 
of  Liberalism  hope  to  obtain  most 
themselves.  They  are  very  loud  in 
general  denunciation  of  bribery,  but 
they  see  nothing  immoral  in  a  gi- 
gantic bribe  to  the  masses.  Bribery 
is  bad  enough  when  the  corrupt 
doer  provides  the  bribe  himself.  It 
is  much  worse  when  the  money  is 
taken  out  of  other  people's  pockets. 
The  Hares  and  Eabbits  Bill  is 
a  most  deplorable  specimen  of  the 
same  kind  of  legislation,  if  possible 
more  hastily  conceived  and  crudely 
framed.  It  is  a  Bill  to  prevent 
people  contracting  in  their  own 
way  about  matters  which  are  of  no 
interest  to  any  but  themselves.  No 
one  will  say  that  such  legislation 
may  not  in  certain  cases  be  wise 
and  right.  But  this  Bill  had  on  it 
the  same  stamp  of  political  bribery 
as  the  last  referred  to.  As  Lord 
Beaconsfield  truly  said,  the  mani- 
fest animus  with  which  it  had  been 
drawn  up  was  amazing.  It  is  a 


sufficient  indication  of  the  unsatis- 
factory character  of  this  Liberal 
effort,  that  its  rejection  should  be 
moved  by  a  member  of  a  family 
whose  Liberalism  is  strong,  and 
whose  present  head  was  long  the 
active  whip  of  the  part}',  and  is 
now  the  Speaker  of  the  House  of 
Commons.  It  may  be  left  to 
Liberals  themselves  to  account  for 
the  fact  that  the  most  strenuous 
opposition  to  the  Government  mea- 
sures comes  from  the  Liberal  side 
of  the  House.  When  the  names  of 
Brand  and  Trevelyan  are  found  at 
the  head  of  opposition  to  a  Liberal 
Government's  measures,  the  infer- 
ence to  be  drawn  by  those  who  look 
on  at  the  play  is  obvious. 

But  the  Bill  of  the  Government 
which  has  attracted  the  most  public 
attention,  is  that  the  name  of  which 
has  been  on  every  one's  lips  for 
some  time,  the  "Irish  Disturbance 
Bill" — well  named,  indeed,  if  the 
word  "disturbance"  be  taken  in  its 
ordinary  sense.  This  ill-fated  Bill 
was  drawn  in  ignorance,  brought  in 
in  haste,  supported  by  contradic- 
tory arguments,  mercilessly  cut  up 
by  Liberal  members,  looked  upon 
as  revolutionary  by  many  English 
and  Scotch  Liberals,  and  scarcely 
accepted  as  an  instalment  of  their 
demands  by  the  Irish  party.  Al- 
though the  most  remarkable  measure 
brought  in  by  the  Government,  it 
was  entirely  an  afterthought.  There 
was  no  notice  of  it  in  the  Queen's 
Speech,  but  only  an  indication  that 
the  state  of  Ireland  was  satisfactory, 
— which  reads  curiously  alongside  of 
the  statement  of  the  Prime  Minister 
about  a  dozen  weeks  after,  that  we 
are  within  "measurable  distance" 
of  civil  war  in  that  land.  The 
Disturbance  Bill  was  introduced 
with  the  statement  that  there  had 
been  recently  an  enormous  number 
of  evictions  by  landlords  in  Ireland 
— which  statement,  it  was  proved, 
would  not  stand  examination  either 


1 380.] 


The  Stump  Ministry :  its  First  Session. 


531 


as  regarded  the  number  or  the  as- 
sertion as  to  the  landlords.  It  was 
supported  by  the  asseveration  that 
these  evictions  had  required  vast 
numbers  of  police  to  assist  the  offi- 
cers of  the  law  in  the  procedure;  but 
it  soon  became  known  that  these 
numbers  were  obtained  by  counting 
men  in  the  same  way  as  a  gaping 
country  booby  counts  the  procession 
of  "  the  600  steel  clad  warriors"  in 
a  theatrical  spectacle,  not  knowing 
that  a  score  or  so  do  duty  ten  times 
over.  As  regarded  the  evictions 
which  did  take  place,  no  allowance 
was  made  for  the  fact  that  Mr 
Parnell  and  his  friends  had  been 
going  from  one  end  of  Ireland  to 
another  stimulating  resistance  to 
the  payment  of  rent,  urging  ten- 
ants to  pay  nothing  but  what  they 
thought  reasonable,  and  if  that  was 
refused  to  pay  nothing  at  all,  but 
to  "  stick  by  their  holdings."  The 
farther  fact  was  ignored  that,  in 
answer  to  these  disgraceful  instruc- 
tions, not  only  did  many  who  were 
able  to  pay  withhold  their  rents, 
but  they  and  their  friends,  by 
threats  and  dangerous  violence, 
prevented  others  from  paying  who 
were  willing  and  even  anxious  to 
do  so. 

The  Bill  itself  was  such  as  might 
have  been  expected  from  its  origin. 
The  character  of  it  was  changed 
from  day  to  day  to  catch  votes. 
When  its  dangerous  tendencies 
were  seen  to  create  serious  alarm 
in  a  large  portion  of  the  Liberal 
party,  the  Irish  Attorney- General 
proposed  an  amending  clause,  which 
the  Home  Rule  party  at  once  de- 
nounced as  destroying  the  whole 
benefits  of  the  Bill.  The  argu- 
ments in  favour  of  it  filled  the 
wide  range  lying  between  the  state- 
ments that  it  was  a  just  measure  of 
temporary  relief  to  real  distress,  and 
that  we  were  in  Ireland  within 
measurable  distance  of  civil  war. 
It  was  pushed  through  the  House 


of  Commons,  in  the  certain  know- 
ledge that  it  must  leave  that  cham- 
ber a  discredited  measure.  It  ul- 
timately passed  that  House  by  a 
smaller  majority  than  had  ever  sup- 
ported the  late  Government,  though 
the  normal  majority  of  the  present 
Government  is  as  three  to  one  at 
least  in  comparison  with  that  of 
the  former.  It  was  sent  up  to  the 
House  of  Lords  in  circumstances 
which  practically  made  it  the  duty 
of  that  Assembly  to  throw  it  out, 
and  was  sent  there  for  no  other 
purpose  than  to  give  the  Radical 
spouters  the  opportunity  of  attack- 
ing the  Upper  House,  and  throwing 
the  blame  of  the  loss  of  the  measure 
upon  the  Peers.  The  Government 
scraped  together  enough  of  votes 
out  of  their  large  majority  to  save 
themselves'  from  the  humiliation 
of  withdrawing  a  discredited  Bill, 
being  willing  rather  to  suffer  the 
degradation  of  appearing  to  join  in 
the  attacks  of  demagogues  on  the 
Upper  Chamber.  Unfortunately, 
however,  for  the  success  of  these 
contemptible  tactics,  the  fate  of  the 
Bill  in  the  House  of  Lords  was  such 
as  to  make  it  impossible  to  influence 
any  mind  against  that  House,  which 
is  not  already — as  apparently  the 
Chief  Secretary  for  Ireland's  is — at 
the  command  of  the  revolutionary 
party. 

The  motion  to  throw  out  the 
Bill  was  made  by  one  of  the 
most  venerable  and  consistent 
Liberals  in  the  House.  Peers 
made  a  sacrifice  of  lucrative  offices 
under  the  Crown  rather  than  de- 
part from  principle  to  do  Mr 
Gladstone's  bidding.  Of  those  who 
promised  to  support  the  second 
reading,  some  with  merciless  power 
exposed  the  faults  of  the  measure. 
Officials  who  must  support  it  out 
and  out  were  apologetic  and  cring- 
ing. The  plea  most  urged  was  that 
it  was  "  exceptional  and  tempor- 
ary." It  was  on  a  similar  repre- 


532 


Tlie  Stump  Ministry :  Us  First  Session. 


[Oct. 


sentation  that  the  Old  Man  of  the 
Sea  was  first  suffered  to  get  on 
Sindbad's  back.  Temporary  meas- 
ures to  save  people  from  being  com- 
pelled to  pay  their  debts  in  the  case 
of  people  who  do  not  intend,  if 
they  can  help  it,  to  pay  them  at 
all,  are  apt  to  be  looked  upon  as 
temporary  only  in  the  sense  of 
their  being  intended  to  be  replaced 
by  permanent  arrangements  of  the 
same  kind.  Legislation  to  declare 
debts  "  doubtful "  for  two  years,  is 
likely  to  tend  to  these  and  many 
others  having  to  be  written  off  as 
"  bad  "  in  the  end.  And  if  this  is 
so  when  the  debtor  is  an  ordinary 
person,  it  is  still  more  so  when  he 
is  of  an  imaginative  type — most  of 
all,  when  the  imaginative  individual 
is  being  worked  upon  from  day  to 
day  by  designing  and  unprincipled 
men,  who,  for  their  own  ends,  are 
setting  him  to  resist  his  creditors. 

The  history  of  the  Gladstone 
Administration  up  to  the  present 
time  may  be  briefly  summed  up. 
The  new  Prime  Minister  rode  into 
power  on  the  crest  of  a  tremendous 
wave,  which  the  wind  of  his  orat- 
ory had  mainly  contributed  to  raise. 
He  entered  on  office  with  a  major- 
ity which  no  Minister  has  had  com- 
mand of  within  this  generation. 
He  was  set  so  high  above  oppo- 
sition that  he  could  bid  defiance 
to  Conservatives  and  Home-Rulers 
alike.  His  party  had  sunk  their 
differences,  or  at  least  had  pro- 
fessed to  do  so.  His  rivals  for 
the  Premiership  had  waived  their 
claims.  He  had  but  a  short  session 
before  him,  and  the  prospect  of 
a  long  prorogation  to  mature  his 
schemes.  What  is  the  state  of 
things  now  1  He  has  already  found 
that  people  who  will  applaud  any- 
thing, however  strong,  when  shout- 
ed against  the  common  enemy,  will 
not  necessarily  do  the  same  when 
they  think  their  own  interests 
are  in  danger.  He  has  seen  that 


though  atheists  are  necessarily 
Liberals,  many  Liberals  are  not 
yet  prepared  to  lie  down  with  such 
political  bedfellows.  He  has  seen 
that  though  Home -Rulers  hate 
the  Tories  as  he  does  himself, 
they  will  give  him  their  support 
against  them  for  an  adequate  con- 
sideration, and  not  otherwise.  He 
has  seen  that  any  attempt  to  pay 
even  a  first  fraction  of  the  price 
alienates  many  of  the  rest  of  his  fol- 
lowers. He  has  seen  his  efforts  to 
conciliate  the  Irish  party  causing 
consternation  to  English  Liberals, 
yet  barely  accepted  with  civility 
as  an  instalment  by  those  whom 
it  was  intended  to  propitiate.  He 
has  seen  his  majority  disappear 
altogether,  when  he  tried  to  use  it 
as  a  lever  to  force  an  atheist  into 
the  Legislature.  He  has  seen  it 
attenuated  to  an  alarming  degree 
when  he  asked  it  to  sanction  un- 
warrantable interference  with  pro- 
perty, to  please  demagogues  and 
revolutionists,  and  to  encourage  the 
improvident  and  the  lawless.  He 
has  seen  his  law-officers  both  in 
England  and  Scotland  rejected  by 
their  constituencies  when  seeking 
re-election  on  taking  office.  He 
has  seen  the  most  vigorous  opposi- 
tion to  his  most  important  measures 
led  by  representative  Liberals  in 
both  Houses  of  Parliament.  He  has 
seen  the  Greys  and  the  Brands  rise 
to  move  the  rejection  of  his  so-called 
reforms.  He  has  seen  the  repre- 
sentative of  one  of  the  oldest  and 
most  distinguished  Liberal  families 
rise  in  his  place  in  Parliament,  and 
declare  the  most  important  Gov- 
ernment Bill  of  the  session  to  be 
a  "dishonest  and  dishonourable" 
measure.  He  has  seen  officials  of 
his  own  nomination  resign  their 
posts  within  twenty  weeks  of  their 
appointment,  because  they  could 
not  bring  themselves  to  turn  their 
backs  on  principle,  and  to  aid  in 
passing  semi  -  revolutionary  mea- 


1880.] 


The  Stump  Ministry :  its  First  tiessiuit. 


533 


sures.  He  has  seen  his  latest  cre- 
ated peers,  formerly  Ministers  under 
him,  whom  he  had  sent  to  strength- 
en the  dehating  power  of  his  par- 
ty in  the  House  of  Lords,  voting 
against  his  most  important  measure 
of  his  first  session.  He  has  seen 
that  same  measure  reduce  his  ma- 
jority in  the  House  of  Commons  to 
a  figure  scarcely  exceeding  the  num- 
hers  of  the  Home  Rule  party,  and 
has  seen  it  defeated  in  the  Upper 
House  by  nearly  six  to  one,  there 
being  sufficient  numbers  of  his  own 
party  voting  with  the  non-contents 
to  throw  his  measure  out,  without 
the  aid  of  a  single  Opposition  peer. 
He  has  seen  his  majority  melting 
away  during  the  first  weeks  of  his 
tenure  of  office,  at  the  rate  of  about 
two  seats  per  month,  so  that  it  is 
already  literally  decimated.  He 
has  seen  parliamentary  obstruction, 
which  his  powerful  Government 
was  to  put  down  with  ease,  as  ram- 
pant and  more  clamant  than  ever. 
He  has  seen  the  sops  thrown 
to  the  obstructionists  produce  no 
effect  but  to  make  them  more  in- 
satiable. He  has  seen  the  most 
monstrously  prolonged  session  of 
modern  times  end  in  unseemly  and 
lawless  wrangles.  He  has  seen  one 
of  the  chief  members  of  this  Govern- 
ment quoted  as  saying  of  the  House 
of  Lords  that  such  interference  as 
theirs  might  "  lead  many  men  in 
and  out  of  the  House  to  consider 
whether  the  frequent  repetition  of 
such  action  did  not  call  for  some 
change  in  the  constitution  of  the 
Upper  House  as  advisable  and  even 
necessary."  He  has  seen  another 
of  the  chief  members  of  his  Govern- 
ment repudiating  in  strong  terms 
the  statements  of  his  colleague. 
He  has  seen  one  Minister  explaining 
that  another  Minister  in  using  such 
language  had  expressed  only  "  his 
own  opinion,"  (proh  pudor  /)  and 
had  no  intention  of  expressing  the 
opinion  of  the  Government.  He 

VOL.  CXXVIII. — NO.  DCCLXXX. 


has  seen  an  "  important  Liberal 
Association  "  not  afraid  (according 
to  his  own  statement)  to  send  him, 
as  Prime  Minister  of  Great  Britain, 
a  resolution  containing  these  words : 

"  That  the  indignation  of  this  Asso- 
ciation has  been  aroused  by  the  efforts 
on  behalf  of  the  people,  of  Government 
and  the  people's  representatives,  hav- 
ing been  thwarted  by  an  irresponsible 
branch  of  the  Legislature,  the  members 
of  which  exercise  vitally  important 
functions,  irrespective  of  their  moral 
character  or  mental  capability.  That 
this  Association  earnestly  desires  that 
Government  may  be  able  to  devise 
and  apply  means  for  the  correction  of 
this  flagrant  constitutional  anomaly." 

And  having  received  this  scandal- 
ous production,  he  has  not  been 
ashamed  to  say  that  he  is  "  much 
gratified,"  without  one  word  of  re- 
pudiation. And  after  all  this,  the 
Prime  Minister,  with  characteristic 
courage,  assures  his  Greenock  ad- 
mirers from  the  deck  of  the  Grand- 
tully  Castle,  that  as  he  and  his  col- 
leagues "had  begun,  so  they  would 
continue,  and  so  they  would  end 
their  career  "  (adding  most  signifi- 
cantly, as  if  conscious  that  the  sit- 
uation is  critical),  "whether  that 
career  be  short  or  long." 

It  is  only  necessary,  in  order  that 
the  country  may  see  clearly  what 
is  before  it,  to  shade  off  this  sketch 
of  what  has  happened  since  Mr 
Gladstone  took  office,  by  quoting 
a  word  or  two  from  what  may 
be  considered  the  Government 
organs,  the  '  Times '  and  the  '  Daily 
News.'  That  these  two  papers 
should  now  be  entitled  to  that 
name,  is  of  itself  an  indication  what 
kind  of  a  Government  rules  the 
country.  Says  the  '  Times '  in  re- 
gard to  our  Indian  possessions — 

"If  England  has  annexed  India,  it 
is  scarcely  less  true  that  India  has 
annexed  England.  What  sufficient 
advantage,  it  must  be  asked,  do  we 
receive  in  return  ?  The  advantages 
2* 


534 


The  Stump  Ministry :   its  First  Session. 


[Oct.  1880. 


we  confer  are  obvious  enough ;  but 
so  too  are  sacrifices  we  make  in  con- 
ferring them.  The  time  has  surely 
come  for  us  to  realise  our  position  in 
India,  and  to  see  how  far  it  really 
demands  from  us  all  that  we  have 
been  content  to  give  for  it." 

Says  the  <  Daily  News '  in  regard 
to  a  Bill  thrown  out  in  the  House 
of  Lords  without  the  aid  of  one 
Conservative  vote — 

"It  much  depends  on  their"  (the 
House  of  Lords)  "  own  discretion  how 
long  their  (!)  institution  is  to  be  allow- 
ed to  remain  unmodified.  If  they  are 
wise,  and  do  not  for  a  long  time  inter- 
fere again,  as  they  did  the  other  night, 
with  the  action  of  representative  in- 
stitutions, they  may  go  unaltered  for 
no  one  can  say  how  much  time  yet." 

These  two  excerpts  are  perfect  in ' 
their  impudence  of  tone,  and  their 
palpable  fishing  for  instruction  from 
the  Radicals  how  far  Government 
newspapers  may  go  in  recommend- 
ing mean  and  revolutionary  action. 
When  politics  has  got  into  such  a 
state,  that  trash  of  this  kind  is 
published  in  Government  organs, — 
and  it  may  be  added — talked  by 
Cabinet  Ministers  airing  their  "  in- 
dividual opinions  "  from  the  Treas- 
ury bench,  and  causing  gratification 
to  Prime  Ministers, — the  country 
cannot  be  far  from  the  downfall  of 


a  Ministry,  or  from  the  taking  of  a 
serious  step  towards  political  revo- 
lution, or  both.  Meanwhile  the  duty 
of  the  Conservative  party  is  clear. 
Acting  on  our  chief's  counsel,  let 
there  be  no  constitutional  struggle, 
except  upon  a  question  worthy  to  be 
the  means  of  raising  it.  The  party 
is  amply  strong  enough  both  in  the 
country  and  in  Parliament  to  over- 
throw the  present  Government 
whenever  the  heterogeneous  conglo- 
meration which  put  them  in  power 
develops  too  dangerous  vigour  from 
the  tail.  Let  Conservatives,  till 
then,  assist  by  every  means  to 
prevent  such  development,  in  per- 
fect certainty  that  as  soon  as  the 
tail  finds  it  cannot  have  its  own 
way  of  wagging,  it  will  shake  to 
pieces  the  body  that  restrains  it. 
But  above  all  things,  let  every  Con- 
servative hold  fast  by  principle. 
Let  there  be  no  imitation  of  the 
Jesuitical  opposition  of  the  last 
Parliament  which  held  that  "re- 
sponsibility" in  statesmen  depend- 
ed upon  whether  they  were  in 
office  or  not.  Such  morality  may 
sometimes  aid  in  obtaining  a  pres- 
ent triumph,  but  there  is  abundant- 
proof  in  the  political  history  of 
the  last  four  months  that  it  has  a 
Nemesis  of  its  own  creation  follow- 
ing close  upon  its  footsteps. 


Printed  by  William  l>lc.':kt':ood  and  S&ns. 


BLACKWOOD'S 
EDINBURGH    MAGAZINE. 


No.  DCCLXXXL 


NOVEMBER   1880. 


VOL.  CXXVIII. 


THE   PRIVATE   SECKETARY. 


CHAPTER  I. 


N  Robert  Clifford  advertised 
for  a  private  secretary,  it  was  not 
without  sundry  misgivings,  nowise 
abating  when  the  announcement 
actually  appeared  in  the  '  Times,' — 
"Wanted,  by  a  private  gentleman, 
a  confidential  secretary,"  —  for  he 
fchrank  by  anticipation  from  the 
inroad  on  his  privacy  which  would 
be  caused  by  such  an  addition  to 
his  little  household ;  but  the  cor- 
respondence arising  out  of  the  busi- 
ness to  which  he  had  applied  him- 
self was  making  such  inroads  on 
his  leisure  —  by  which,  being  an 
indolent  man,  he  set  great  store — 
that  to  obtain,  relief  in  this  way 
appeared  to  be  the  lesser  evil. 

This  step,  however,  in  the  first 
instance,  rather  added  to  than  dim- 
inished his  labours,  the  advertise- 
ment producing  such  a  shower  of 
applications  for  the  appointment, 
that  it  seemed  as  if  the  whole  edu- 
cated population  of  England  must  be 
in  want  of  employment,  and  made 
up  of  persons  possessing  exactly  the 
qualifications  needed  for  such  a  situ- 
ation. Clifford  had  seen  something 

VOL.  CXXVIII. — NO.  DCCLXXXL 


of  the  under  currents  of  London  life, 
but  it  was  a  new  revelation  to  find 
how  many  respectable  and  fairly 
educated  men  were  eager  to  accept 
as  salary  a  sum  smaller  than  that 
which  a  few  years  before  they  were 
costing  their  fathers  while  at  school1? 
Fortunately  he  had  taken  the  pre- 
caution to  give  for  address  his  club, 
whence  the  applications  were  for- 
warded to  his  chambers,  or — not- 
withstanding the  condition  stated 
in  the  advertisement,  apply  by  letter 
only — he  would  have  been  inun- 
dated with  visitors,  the  candidates 
and  their  friends,  each  thinking  that 
an  exception  would  be  allowed  in 
his  case. 

The  next  step  was  to  sift  the 
applications.  Clifford  read  them 
all  through  carefully,  and  selecting 
about  a  score  of  the  most  promising, 
wrote  to  inform  those  candidates  to 
whom  the  remainder  belonged  that 
they  were  not  chosen,  and  to  the 
selected  candidates  to  ask  them  to 
give  him  a  personal  interview  at  his 
chambers.  The  writing  of  so  many 
letters  was  a  laborious  operation  ; 
2o 


53G 


Tlie  Private  Secretary.— Part  I. 


[Xov. 


and  while  engaged  upon  it,  Clifford, 
who  was  indolent  as  well  as  consci- 
entious, found  himself  heartily  wish- 
ing that  the  secretary  had  been 
already  at  hand  to  help  him.  How- 
ever, it  was  got  through  at  last; 
and  now  came  the  task  of  final 
selection.  Clifford  had  appointed 
a  morning  for  the  reception  of  the 
applicants,  and  a  different  hour  was 
named  for  each  candidate,  so  that 
they  might  come  in  succession,  or  at 
any  rate  that  not  more  than  two  or 
three  might  he  in  waiting  at  a  time. 
Clifford  sat  at  his  round  table,  with 
the  candidates'  papers  before  him, 
and  got  up  the  case  of  each  in  turn, 
before  they  were  shown  in,  one  by 
one,  the  porter  of  his  chambers 
acting  as  master  of  the  ceremonies. 
At  first  he  felt  awkward  under 
these  new  relations.  A  shy  man, 
the  deferential  manner  of  the  candi- 
dates distressed  him  as  much  as 
their  eagerness  to  gain  his  favour  ; 
but  the  feeling  gradually  wore  off, 
and  he  soon  found  himself  able 
to  put  each  candidate  through  his 
facings  with  self-possession,  and 
extract  from  him  the  further  infor- 
mation which  he  needed.  The 
operation  took  time,  but  it  afforded 
a  useful  means  of  further  elimi- 
nation. Testimonials  are  usually 
somewhat  one-sided ;  they  enlarge 
on  the  merits  of  the  subject,  but 
his  defects  are  to  be  inferred  only 
from  what  is  left  unsaid.  Thus 
Clifford  found  that  the  testimonials 
of  one  candidate,  whose  ability  and 
experience  were  warmly  vouched 
for,  had  omitted  to  mention  that 
this  worthy  person  was  stone-deaf; 
another,  whose  strong  points  were 
said  to  be  a  sweet  temper  and  great 
literary  power,  proved  to  be  so  fat 
that  he  could  hardly  find  room  in  the 
comfortable  arm-chair  placed  for  the 
candidates  at  the  opposite  side  of 
the  table.  Another  poor  fellow, 
credited  by  his  backers  with  all  the 
virtues  of  humanity,  seemed  evi- 


dently to  be  growing  blind :  Clif- 
ford foresaw  a  probable  pensioner, 
and  steeled  his  heart. 

The  result  of  the  personal  inter- 
views was  to  reduce  the  field,  in 
Clifford's  view,  to  three  candidates, 
any  one  of  whom  would  probably 
prove  very  suitable  ;  and  he  was  re- 
viewing their  qualifications  in  his 
mind,  trying  to  discover  some  rea- 
son for  giving  one  of  them  the  pre- 
ference over  the  others,  when  he 
noticed  that  one  packet  still  re- 
mained to  be  disposed  of,  untrans- 
ferred  from  the  original  heap  on 
his  right  to  that  on  his  left,  signi- 
fying that  one  candidate  still  re- 
mained to  be  seen.  The  packet 
was  a  small  one,  consisting  indeed 
of  only  a  single  paper,  a  short  let- 
ter signed  "  H.  Eeid,"  to  the  effect 
that  the  writer,  if  appointed,  was 
confident  of  giving  satisfaction. 
"An  application  unsupported  by 
a  single  testimonial,"  said  Clifford 
to  himself,  throwing  it  down  on 
the  table;  and  he  wondered  what 
could  have  made  him  keep  this  ap- 
plication, which  contained  so  little 
information,  among  those  reserved. 
Then  he  remembered  that  he  had 
been  struck  with  the  earnestness 
and  simplicity  of  the  letter,  and 
the  neat  and  clear  handwriting. 
"Well,"  he  thought,  "H.  Eeid  is  not 
likely  to  stand  much  chance  against 
two  or  three  of  the  men  I  have  seen 
to-day.  However,  as  an  appoint- 
ment has  been  made  for  H.  Eeid, 
H.  Eeid  must  be  seen."  So  he  rang 
the  hand-bell  for  the  porter  with  an 
impatient  feeling,  for  the  morning's 
business  had  been  fatiguing,  and  he 
was  anxious  to  get  it  over. 

There  were  no  more  gentlemen 
waiting,  said  the  porter,  in  reply  to 
the  summons,  only  a  party. 

"  Well,  then,  show  the  party  in, 
one  at  a  time ;  but  I  have  appoint- 
ments for  only  one  person  more." 

"  The  party  is  only  one  person,  if 
you  please,  sir,"  said  the  porter ;  "  a 


1880.] 


The  Private  Secretary. — Part  I. 


537 


young  person, — a  young  lady,"  he 
added,  rather  doubtingly,  and  seem- 
ing disposed  to  smile,  yet  as  if  not 
knowing  how  Clifford  would  take  it. 
"  Well,  then,  show  in  the  young 
lady  at  once.  I  wonder  what  she 
can  want  with  me,"  thought  Clif- 
ford ;  "  but  it  must  he  money,  of 
course.  A  woman  with  a  mission, 
probably.  These  earnest  young 
ladies  with  a  mission  don't  mind 
what  they  do  or  where  they  go,  so 
long  as  their  mission  is  a  charitable 
one." 

But  his  reflections  were  inter- 
rupted by  the  re-entry  of  the  porter 
ushering  in  the  "  party." 

Clifford  rose,  and  bowing,  mo- 
tioned to  his  visitor  to  take  the 
vacant  chair  opposite  his  own,  and 
then  reseating  himself,  awaited  her 
communication. 

The  visitor  was  a  woman  rather 
above  the  middle  height,  slight 
in  figure.  So  much  was  revealed 
by  the  shape  of  the  waterproof 
cloak  she  wore,  nearly  covering 
a  dark  -  coloured  dress.  Her  face 
was  hidden  by  a  veil ;  nor  did  Clif- 
ford look  at  it  long,  being  a  shy 
man.  After  his  first  bow  he  turned 
his  eyes  away  from  the  lady  to- 
wards the  fireplace,  leaving  it  to 
her  to  begin  the  conversation. 

"  I  believe,  sir,  you  have  adver- 
tised for  a  private  secretary  ? " 

The  voice  was  soft  and  low ; 
and  as  Clifford  turned  towards  the 
speaker,  who  had  now  lifted  her 
veil,  he  confronted  a  pair  of  expres- 
sive eyes,  and  saw  that  the  speaker 
was  young. 

He  bowed  in  reply.  "  A  sister  of 
one  of  the  applicants,"  he  thought ; 
"  but  I  am  not  going  to  job  this 
appointment  for  any  sister." 

"I  have  waited  on  you  in  con- 
sequence," said  the  young  woman  ; 
"  I  have  come  by  appointment.  I 
think,"  she  continued,  with  a  little 
hesitation,  "  that  is  my  application 
I  see  on  the  table." 


"That?"  said  Clifford,  a  little 
testily, — "  that  is  an  application 
from  '  H.  Reid,'  who  is  one  of  the 
candidates  selected  out  of  a  great 
many;  but  H.  Reid  was  asked  to 
come  himself,  not  to  send  a  deputy." 

"I  am  H.  Reid," said  the  visitor, 
with  a  shade  of  disappointment  in 
her  voice. 

Clifford  started.  "  But  is  there 
not  some  mistake  ? "  he  asked.  "  I 
did  not  advertise  on  behalf  of  any 
institution,  but  for  a  private  secre- 
tary, for  private  and  confidential 
business,  and  to  be  employed  at 
home — here,  in  these  chambers,  in 
fact." 

"Then  you  cannot  entertain  my 
application?"  said  the  young  wo- 
man, sorrowfully. 

"  She  is  not  pretty,"  said  Clifford 
to  himself;  "she  is  too  sallow;  but 
what  expressive  eyes  she  has  !  and 
what  beautiful  teeth  !  What  is  her 
history,  I  wonder?  Is  she  a  young 
lady  ?  or  only  a  '  young  person '  ? 
Certainly  she  has  not  got  the  Cock- 
ney twang,  but  she  is  very  matter- 
of-fact."  Then  he  continued  aloud, 
"You  thought,  perhaps,  that  I  was 
an  elderly  gentleman?  What  do 
you  say  now  ? " 

"  You  don't  look  very  old,  sir." 

This  was  said  in  a  matter-of-fact 
way,  as  if  the  speaker  took  too 
serious  a  view  of  life  to  be  much 
troubled  about  the  comparative 
ages  of  the  men  she  met  with. 

"I  am  a  good  deal  older  than 
you,  miss,"  said  Clifford  to  himself, 
a  little  nettled.  "I  should  put 
you  down  at  not  much  more  than 
twenty,  although  your  face  looks  so 
careworn."  Then  he  went  on,  "  Per- 
haps you  thought  the  advertiser 
dated  from  a  family  mansion,  with 
a  large  establishment  round  him, 
and  ladies  in  the  house.  Young 
bachelors  living  in  chambers  don't 
often  want  private  secretaries." 

"I  did  not  think  about  it," 
she  answered,  simply ;  yet  Clifford 


533 


The  Private  Secretary.— Part  I. 


thought  he  could  detect  a  touch  of 
scorn  in  her  voice,  as  if  implying 
that  had  they  met  on  terms  of 
equality,  she  would  have  held  him 
cheap.  "I  am  in  want  of  a  situa- 
tion, and  I  thought  I  might  prove 
fit  for  this  one.  I  think,"  she 
continued  after  a  pause,  "if  you 
allowed  me  a  trial  I  should  give 
satisfaction." 

"But,"  said  he,  feeling  embar- 
rassment rather  than  pleasure  in 
the  situation,  and  disposed  for  the 
moment  to  throw  cold  water  on  the 
applicant's  zeal,  "do  you  know  that 
what  you  are  asking  for  is  a  post 
with  very  hard  work,  and  very 
little  pay?" 

"  I  don't  mind  hard  work,"  re- 
plied H.  Eeid;  "I  have  been  ac- 
customed to  hard  work.  May  I 
ask  what  the  hours  would  be  1 " 

"  Well,  I  am  afraid  I  am  rather 
irregular  in  hours;  it  would  be 
pretty  well  all  day,  and  sometimes 
even  longer, — at  least,  I  don't  mean 
that ;  what  I  mean  is,  that  I  don't 
keep  regular  hours  like  a  banker  or 
a  merchant;  and  on  some  days, 
when  a  pressure  of  letters  comes,  I 
find  myself  working  on  till  late. 
And  sometimes  I  am  away  all 
day,  and  then  I  have  to  make  up 
for  lost  time  when  I  come  home. 
But  I  daresay  it  could  be  arranged 
that  the  secretary  should  keep  reg- 
ular hours,  even  if  I  do  not,"  he 
added,  although  without  any  very 
definite  notion  about  the  matter. 
"  Suppose,"  he  continued,  interroga- 
tively, "  we  were  to  say  from  ten 
to  four  as  a  rule,  and  extra  time 
whenever  necessary  "  ? 

"  I  should  not  consider  those  long 
hours  at  all.  A  girl  whom  I  know 
works  in  a  telegraph,  office,  and 
has  to  be  there  from  nine  to  six." 

"  So  she  has  a  friend  a  telegraph 
clerk,"  thought  Clifford,  with  a 
feeling  of  disappointment;  "then 
she  must  be  in  a  humble  way  of 
life,  although  she  does  speak  so 


nicely  herself.  All  those  telegraph 
young  women  have  the  detestable 
London  twang."  Then  he  added 
aloud,  "  Of  course  you  will  under- 
stand, Miss  Reid,  that  by  mention- 
ing these  particulars,  I  don't  wish 
to  commit  myself  to  anything  de- 
finite." 

Miss  Eeid  bowed,  but  looked 
disappointed,  and  he  went  on — 

"But  have  you  considered  all 
the  bearings  of  the  case?  The 
position  would  be  rather  peculiar 
and  exceptional,  and "  Clif- 
ford here  paused,  as  if  waiting  for 
his  visitor  to  say  something;  but  she 
merely  looked  gravely  at  him  with 
earnest  eyes,  and  he  went  on,  rather 
confusedly, — "  In  short,  don't  you 
think  that  the  position  for  a  young 
— a  young  lady,  shut  up  here  in  a 
bachelor's  quarters  day  after  day, 
would  be  just  a  little  awkward?" 

"  I  should  be  very  sorry  to  put 
you  to  any  personal  inconvenience," 
replied  Miss  Eeid,  with  just  a 
touch  of  scorn  in  her  voice;  and 
as  she  spoke,  Clifford  thought  she 
looked  as  if  she  might  be  forty. 
"I  thought  perhaps  there  might 
be  a  spare  room,  or  office,  which 
the  secretary  could  occupy  1 " 

"I  was  not  thinking  of  my  own 
convenience,"  he  replied.  "  Of 
course  there  are  other  rooms  be- 
sides this  in  the  flat.  I  was  rather 
thinking  of  you.  But  if  you  don't 
mind,  I  suppose  I  need  not.  But 
how  would  you  manage  about 
meals?  I  am  speaking  hypotheti- 
cally,  of  course,  as  if  we  had  actu- 
ally come  to  an  agreement,  which 
we  have  not.  You  see  I  want  to 
put  all  the  difficulties  of  the  case 
before  you.  You  can't  go  from 
morning  till  late  in  the  afternoon 
without  something  to  eat." 

"  I  daresay,"  she  observed,  sim- 
ply, "  there  will  be  some  restaurant 
not  far  off.  Yes,  there  is  the  re- 
freshment-room at  the  Army  and 
Stores,  which  is  quite  close. 


1880.] 


The  Private  Secretary. — Part  I. 


539 


I  could  get  there  and  back  in  a  very 
few  minutes.  Oh  yes,  sir,  I  should 
be  able  to  manage  very  well  for 
refreshments,  I  am  sure."  She 
spoke  eagerly,  as  if  very  desirous 
that  this  objection  should  not  be 
made  much  of. 

"You  take  me  too  seriously," 
said  Clifford;  "I  was  only  joking 
about  the  refreshments.  My  house- 
keeper, I  have  no  doubt,  would  be 
able  to  arrange  that  part  of  the 
business.  But  are  you  in  the  habit 
of  going  to  restaurants  alone  ? " 

"  I  have  to  go  everywhere  alone," 
she  replied  j  and  again  there  was  a 
shade  of  scorn,  mingled  with  mel- 
ancholy, in  her  voice.  "When 
people  have  to  go  about  London 
seeking  to  earn  their  bread,  they 
soon  get  to  be  able  to  take  care  of 
themselves." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  for  doubt- 
ing your  capacity  in  that  respect." 
Clifford  here  felt  a  little  nettled 
and  disappointed.  There  would 
have  been  something  romantic  in 
the  idea  of  giving  shelter  and 
support  to  a  helpless  young  crea- 
ture. But  with  this  young  woman, 
so  self-possessed  and  competent  to 
take  care  of  herself,  there  seemed 
no  room  for  any  notion  of  chivalry, 
or  even  flirtation.  Miss  Reid  was 
evidently  a  very  matter-of-fact 
young  lady.  "  Perhaps  she  is 
hungry  too,"  he  thought ;  "  poor 
thing,  she  certainly  looks  rather 
pinched."  Then  he  added  aloud — 

"  But  we  have  been  going  too 
fast.  These  are  matters  of  detail 
which  ought  to  have  been  dis- 
cussed later.  To  be  quite  busi- 
nesslike and  practical,"  —  Clifford 
felt  that  he  had  been  very  much 
the  reverse, — "  I  ought  first  to  ask 
what  are  your  qualifications  for  the 
office  you  seek." 

"  I  have  had  a  good  education  : 
I  believe  I  know  my  own  language  ; 
I  have  lived  a  good  deal  abroad,  and 
know  French  very  well,  German 


pretty  well,  and  I  am  quick  at 
figures.  You  have  seen  my  hand- 
writing ? " 

"  Yes ;  you  write  a  very  clear, 
neat  hand,  and  not  too  small.  Well, 
now,  suppose  you  give  me  a  sample 
of  your  skill  in  composition."  So 
saying,  Clifford  rose,  and  going  to 
the  writing-table  behind  his  chair, 
took  a  packet  of  foolscap  and  a  pen 
and  placed  them  before  his  visitor. 
"  Suppose  you  write  a  short  essay 
on — well,  say  on  the  qualifications 
needed  in  a  private  secretary." 

Miss  Reid  took  the  pen  without 
looking  up,  and,  after  a  minute's 
pause,  began  to  write.  Clifford 
meanwhile,  instead  of  resuming  his 
seat,  stood  facing  the  table,  with  his 
back  to  the  fire,  looking  down  at 
her,  sitting  at  his  right.  The  young 
lady,  noways  embarrassed  by  the 
knowledge  that  he  was  watching 
her,  wrote  on  steadily,  and  for  a 
few  minutes  the  silence  was  broken 
only  by  the  sound  of  her  busy  pen. 
Clifford  noticed,  now  the  shabby 
glove  was  drawn  off,  that  the  hand 
was  white  and  well  formed,  with 
thin  taper  fingers.  "  Perhaps,"  he 
thought,  "  she  may  have  pretty  feet, 
although  that  boot  which  just  shows 
below  her  dress  is  old  and  muddy. 
And  her  dress  is  shabby.  She  must 
be  in  want,  poor  thing,  to  have  come 
seeking  for  this  post.  If  she  were 
better  dressed  she  would  be  almost 
good-looking.  It  is  certainly  a  very 
expressive  face,  and  she  has  a  pretty 
figure." 

Presently  she  handed  him  the 
paper,  and  sat  quietly  with  folded 
hands  looking  up  at  him,  while  he, 
still  standing  before  the  fire,  read 
her  essay. 

"  Ox  THE  QUALIFICATIONS  NEEDED 
IN  A  PRIVATE  SECRETARY. 

"The  private  secretary  should 
be  diligent  and  methodical,  and 
especially  careful  to  convey  accu- 


540 


TJie  Private  Secretary.— Part  I. 


[Xov. 


rately  in  his  letters  the  exact  mean- 
ing of  his  employer's  instructions. 

"He  must  be  courteous  in  his 
communications  with  his  employer's 
correspondents,  conveying  refusals 
as  delicately  as  may  be  consistent 
with  distinctness  of  meaning. 

"  He  should  offer  his  own  advice 
and  suggestions  for  the  disposal  of 
business  only  when  they  are  sought 
for,  or  when  it  may  be  clearly  for 
the  employer's  interests  to  do  so. 
In  the  latter  case,  he  should  not 
be  restrained  by  the  fear  of  being 
thought  officious,  or  being  snubbed. 
At  the  same  time,  he  must  care- 
fully avoid  the  temptation  to  exert 
the  tyranny  of  office,  the  besetting 
sin  of  useful  and  zealous  servants, 
by  pressing -unduly  his  own  views 
against  those  of  his  employer. 

"  The  duties  of  a  private  secretary 
differ  from  those  of  a  public  officer, 
in  that  they  may  have  to  be  more 
irregularly  performed  as  regards 
time.  The  private  secretary  must 
be  prepared  to  sacrifice  his  own 
convenience  in  this  respect  to  that 
of  his  employer,  and,  above  all,  to 
put  up  with  quickness  or  even  fret- 
fulness  of  temper,  so  long  as  its 
exhibition  does  not  involve  any  loss 
of  self-respect,  making  proper  allow- 
ance for  the  natural  tendency  of  all 
persons  to  abate  the  restraints  of 
manner  among  those  with  whom 
they  come  frequently  in  contact. 

"  It  needs  hardly  be  added  that 
the  private  secretary  should  scrupu- 
lously preserve  inviolable  all  the 
private  information,  not  to  say 
secrets,  of  importance  which  may 
be  intrusted  to  him,  acting  scrupu- 
lously in  this  respect  in  the  spirit 
of  Hamlet's  injunction  to  Horatio. 

"  [If  the  private  secretary  be  a 
woman, the  needful  alteration  should 
be  made  throughout  in  the  personal 
pronoun.]  (Signed)  H.  EEID." 

It  was  now  Miss  Eeid's  turn 
to  watch  Clifford's  face  as  he  read 


the  little  essay,  and  she  looked  up 
at  him  with  obvious  anxiety. 

"  And,  pray,  who  told  you,"  said 
he,  smiling,  yet  with  a  shade  of 
annoyance  in  the  tone  of  his  voice, 
"that  I  had  a  quick  and  fretful 
temper  1 " 

"  I  had  no  one  in  particular  in 
view,"  she  said,  simply ;  "  but  I 
suppose  all  men,  when  their  own 
masters,  are  more  or  less  exacting 
and  impatient." 

"  Indeed  !  and  may  I  ask,  where 
have  you  gained  your  deep  experi- 
ence of  our  sex  ]  I  beg  your  par- 
don," he  continued,  noticing  a 
change  in  the  expression  of  her 
face ;  "  I  had  no  business  to  put 
so  impertinent  a  question.  Well,  I 
daresay  you  are  right;  although  I  am 
sure  Simmonds,  my  housekeeper, 
will  tell  you  I  am  never  cross  with 
her — indeed  I  think  it  is  rather  the 
other  way.  "Well,  now,  having  gone 
so  far,  Miss  Reid,  there  is  one  thing 
I  suppose  I  ought  to  ask,  and  that 
is  for  a  personal  reference." 

Miss  Eeid  looked  distressed. 

"  A  certificate  from  your  last 
employer  would  be  the  most  satis- 
factory kind  of  testimonial,"  he  con- 
tinued, as  she  remained  silent. 

"  I  have  never  been  out  in  em- 
ployment before,"  she  said  at  last, 
and  with  evident  hesitation ;  "  at 
least,  not  in  employment  of  this 
kind.  I  have  had  some  experience 
in  teaching." 

"  Well,  then,  a  reference  from 
your  last  situation  would  be  suffi- 
cient." 

"  I  think,"  said  Miss  Eeid,  after 
a  pause,  and  evading  the  proposi- 
tion, "  I  could  obtain  a  reference 
which  would  be  perfectly  satisfac- 
tory, but  there  would  be  some  little 
delay  in  procuring  it.  The  gentle- 
man I  should  apply  to  is  abroad." 

But  somehow  Clifford  did  not 
relish  the  idea  of  delay,  and,  with- 
out answering  her  directly,  he  con- 
tinued— 


1830.] 


The  Private  Secretary.— Part  I. 


541 


"There  is  another  point,  too. 
You  have  forgotten  to  inquire  what 
the  salary  of  the  appointment  is  to 
be." 

"  I  thought  you  would  mention 
this  point  in  due  course,  sir." 

"  I  propose  to  fix  it  at  two  hun- 
dred a-year.  Don't  you  think  that 
enough  ? "  he  added,  noticing  a  look 
of  surprise  on  Miss  Reid's  face. 

"  Oh  no,  sir,"  she  replied;  "  quite 
the  reverse.  It  is  a  great  deal  more 
than  I  expected." 

"  You  should  not  say  that,"  said 
Clifford,  smiling,  and  feeling  that 
he  had  taken  her  at  a  disadvantage; 
"  you  ought  not  to  cheapen  your- 
self in  that  way.  They  say  that 
women  are  spoiling  the  market  in 
every  line  of  business  by  doing  their 
work  at  such  a  low  figure.  You 
ought  to  have  made  a  palaver  about 
the  rate.  You  see,"  he  added,  in  a 
bantering  tone,  "for  all  you  are 
so  clever,  and  such  a  judge  of  char- 
acter, there  are  some  things  on  which 
you  may  get  a  hint  with  advantage. 
Well,"  he  continued,  feeling  a  little 
uncomfortable  as  she  made  no  reply, 
while  the  large  eyes  looked  at  him 
gravely  without  responding  to  the 
jest,  "  we  must,  I  suppose,  con- 
sider the  matter  as  settled.  Of 
course,"  he  added,  feeling  that  he 
was  committing  himself  rashly,  "  it 
is  understood  that  the  engagement 
is  not  made  for  the  whole  year,  but 
only  by  the  quarter.  When  shall 
you  be  able  to  take  up  your  duties  1 
to-morrow  ] " 

"I  am  very  sorry,  sir,  but  I  am 
afraid  I  can  hardly  be  free  quite  so 
soon  as  that.  This  is  Thursday. 
Would  it  inconvenience  you  very 
much  if  I  deferred  coming  till  next 
Monday  ? " 

It  was  arranged  accordingly  that 
Miss  Eeid  should  enter  upon  her 
duties  on  the  Monday  —  Clifford, 
however,  being  sensible  of  a  distinct 
feeling  of  disappointment  that  the 
beginning  should  be  put  off  so  long 


— and  the  young  lady  rose  to  take 
her  departure.  She  stopped  as  she 
was  going  out  of  the  room,  and  said, 
"  I  am  deeply  grateful  for  your  kind- 
ness in  appointing  me,  sir;  I  trust 
to  give  you  no  cause  to  regret  it." 

"  I  am  sure  you  will  not,"  replied 
Clifford,  although  he  would  have 
been  puzzled  to  assign  any  specific 
grounds  for  his  confidence.  Then 
he  added,  "  By  the  way,  you  have 
not  told  me  where  you  live  ? " 

"  I  live  some  little  way  out  of 
town,"  she  said  ;  "  but  I  can  get  to 
and  fro  very  easily." 

"  And  do  you  live  alone  1 " 

"  No,  sir ; "  and  then  colouring, 
and  with  some  hesitation,  she  added, 
"  I  live  with  my  father."  And 
again  Clifford  felt  a. .little  disap- 
pointed. Matter-of-fact  though  the 
lady's  proceedings  had  been,  there 
was  an  air  of  repressed  feeling  about 
her  which  had  led  him  to  look  for 
an  answer  implying  something  more 
mysterious  and  romantic. 

No  sooner  was  Clifford  left  alone 
than  he  began  to  think  he  had 
made  a  fool  of  himself.  Here  had 
he  engaged  this  young  woman, 
about  whom  he  knew  positively 
nothing,  to  occupy  a  confidential 
position  involving  a  complete  inroad 
into  the  privacy  of  his  life.  He 
would  not  have  engaged  any  one  of 
his  own  sex  on  such  terms ;  and 
Miss  Eeid,  who  professed  to  wish 
that  the  matter  should  be  put  on  a 
purely  business  footing,  must  de- 
spise him  for  being  so  soft.  He 
dismissed,  indeed,  as  soon  as  he 
thought  of  it,  the  idea  that  this 
might  be  the  scheme  of  some  de- 
signing woman  to  attach  herself  to 
him.  Miss  Eeid  had  nothing  of  the 
siren  about  her,  and  to  suppose  that 
her  matter-of-fact  manner  was  as- 
sumed to  cover  an  artful  plan  of  this 
sort  was  evidently  absurd.  Differ- 
ence of  sex  was  hardly  to  be  re- 
garded as  entering  into  the  matter ; 


542 


The  Private  Secretary. — Part  I. 


|>Tov. 


and  yet,  as  lie  recalled  the  pose  of 
her  figure  while  she  was  writing  the 
essay,  he  could  not  but  admit  that 
there  was  nothing  unfeminine  about 
her.  She  was  not  at  all  the  sort 
of  person  to  associate  with  the  idea 
of  the  championship  of  woman's 
rights  or  the  repeal  of  the  Con- 
tagious Diseases  Acts.  Still  there 
was  no  doubt  that  he  made  a  sen- 
sible inroad  on  the  independence 
of  his  bachelor  life,  without  appa- 
rently any  corresponding  advantage 
that  could  not  have  been  equally 
obtained  by  choosing  a  secretary  of 
his  own  sex ;  while  the  disadvan- 
tages were  obvious.  Indeed,  the 
more  he  thought  about  it,  the  more 
awkward  the  matter  seemed  ;  and 
but  that  he  had  been  so  foolish  as 
to  let  Miss  Eeid  go  without  learn- 
ing her  address,  he  would  even  now 
have  written  to  cancel  the  bargain. 
But  then,  again,  he  was  sensible  of 
a  somewhat  strong  desire,  whether 
founded  on  a  sentiment  of  romance 
or  mere  curiosity,  to  pursue  the  ad- 
venture. After  all,  he  could  always 
get  rid  of  the  private  secretary  at 
any  time  by  paying  a  quarter's 
salary.  An  excuse  for  putting  an 
end  to  the  engagement  could  no 
doubt  be  readily  found,  if — as  he 
now,  under  the  reaction  of  feeling 
set  up  by  her  departure,  expected 
would  prove  to  be  the  case — she 
should  turn  out  to  be  incompetent, 
or  the  arrangement  was  found  em- 
barrassing and  inconvenient ;  and 
this  would  be  a  more  dignified  way 
of  proceeding  than  to  make  such  an 
admission  of  softness  as  would  be 
implied  in  cancelling  the  engage- 
ment before  it  was  entered  on. 
But  at  any  rate,  some  special  ar- 
rangements must  be  made  to  meet 
the  case  ;  and  so  reflecting,  he  rang 
for  Mrs  Simmonds,  his  cook  and 
housekeeper. 

"  Simmonds,  I  have  just  en- 
gaged a  private  secretary.  The 
spare  room  at  the  end  of  the  pas- 


sage will  have  to  be  turned  into  a 
sort  of  office." 

"  Very  good,  sir.  The  gentleman 
will  sit  there,  I  suppose,  to  do  his 
writing." 

"  Quite  so.  The  fact  is,  however, 
the  secretary  is  not  exactly  a  gen- 
tleman. It  will  be  a — a  young  lady 
— the  young  lady  who  called  thia 
morning  with  the  other  people." 

"  Indeed,  sir  ! "  said  Simmonds, 
bridling  up. 

"  Yes.  The  young  lady  and  her 
father  are  in  reduced  circumstances." 
Simmonds  appeared  somewhat  mol- 
lified at  the  word  father,  and  he 
went  on — "Some  more  furniture 
will  be  required  for  the  room — a 
writing-table  and  so  forth.  I  will 
see  to  that.  The  young  lady  will 
come  from  ten  till  four  every  day  ; 
and  if  she  wants  to  send  me  any 
messages,  and  I  should  happen  to 
be  at  home,  she  will  ring,  and  you 
or  Jane  can  bring  them.  She  will 
communicate  through  you." 

"  I  see,  sir,"  said  Simmonds,  now 
quite  mollified. 

"  Yes,"  he  continued,  gathering 
confidence  as  he  saw  that  Simmonds 
was  not  disposed  to  make  difficulties, 
"  you  and  Jane  must  look  after  her, 
and  you  must  arrange  to  let  her  have 
some  luncheon  every  day — a  chop,  or 
something  of  that  sort,  I  suppose,  or 
whatever  young  ladies  are  in  the 
habit  of  eating.  And,  Simmonds," 
he  added,  as  she  was  leaving  the 
room,  "  you  need  not  tell  anybody 
that  the  young  lady  is  a  secretary  ; 
in  fact,  you  need  not  say  anything 
about  it.  There  is  no  reason  why 
anybody  but  you  and  Jane  should 
ever  see  the  young  lady.  If  any  one 
should  happen  to  see  her,  you  can 
say  she  is  under  an  engagement  to 
copy  some  writing  ;  in  fact,  that  is 
how  the  thing  should  be  explained 
to  Jane.  It  is  quite  usual  nowadays 
to  employ  female  hands  on  work  of 
that  sort ;  they  do  it  so  much 
cheaper  than  men." 


1880.] 


Tlie  Private  Secretary. — Part  L 


513 


Then  Clifford  went  out  to  get 
some  furniture  for  the  room,  which 
was  now  almost  bare,  for  he  had  not 
been  long  in  occupancy  of  his  flat, 
His  purchases  included  a  pedestal 
writing  -  table  with  drawers,  and 
chair  to  match,  a  couch,  an  easy- 
chair,  a  side  -table  with  lock-up 
pigeon-holes  above,  a  Lund's  copy- 
ing-  press  on  a  stand,  and  a  couple 


of  despatch-boxes  opening  with  the 
same  key.  The  arrangements  corn- 
pleted,  he  found  himself  looking 
forward  with  considerable  impati- 
ence  to  Monday,  constantly  striv- 
ing  to  recall  the  exact  features  of 
his  visitor,  feeling  amused  as  well 
as  annoyed  to  find  how  indistinct 
was  the  impression  they  had  left 
behind. 


CHAPTER    II. 


On  the  following  Monday  morn- 
ing, precisely  at  ten  o'clock,  Clif- 
ford, who  had  just  finished  break- 
fast, heard  the  outer  bell  ring,  to  be 
answered  by  Simmonds  ;  and  pres- 
ently the  sound  of  voices  in  the 
hall,  and  opening  of  doors,  an- 
nounced that  Miss  lieid  liad  ar- 
rived and  taken  possession  of  her 
room.  Then  he  could  hear  the  foot- 
steps of  Simmonds  returning  to  the 
kitchen,  and  all  was  still. 

Clifford's  chambers  consisted  of 
a  flat  on  the  second  floor  of  the 
Alexandra  Mansions.  Access  was 
obtained  from  the  central  staircase, 
common  to  all  the  sets  of  chambers, 
opening  into  the  little  hall,  which 
ran  through  the  centre  of  the  block. 
Four  rooms  opened  on  the  passage 
from  the  right  side.  The  first — that 
nearest  to  the  hall-door — was  theone 
appropriated  to  the  private  secre- 
tary. Then  came  a  small  dressing- 
room  communicating  with  it,  which 
also  was  set  apart  for  her  use. 
!Xext  to  this  was  the  dining-room, 
seldom  used,  Clifford  usually  din- 
ing at  his  Club.  Last  of  all  was 
the  sitting-room,  the  largest  of  all 
— library  and  drawing-room  com- 
bined— which  he  occupied  through- 
out the  day.  These  four  rooms 
made  up  the  side  of  the  flat  look- 
ing on  to  the  street.  On  the  left 
side  of  the  passage  was  the  door 
leading  to  the  servants'  rooms  and 
offices ;  then  came  the  blank  wall 


which  separated  them  from  the 
passage;  and  lastly,  his  own  bed- 
room, opposite  to  his  sitting-room. 
The  offices  and  his  bedroom  looked 
into  a  courtyard  or  well  at  the  back, 
the  sides  of  which  were  inlaid  with 
white  polished  tiles  to  give  light. 
Thus,  between  Clifford's  sitting- 
room  and  that  occupied  by  his  sec- 
retary, two  other  rooms  intervened, 
cutting  off  all  sound  from  each  other 
of  what  the  occupants  were  doing. 

Miss  Eeid  found  her  day's  work 
ready  prepared  for  her,  in  the  form 
of  a  number  of  letters  needing  re- 
plies. Clifford  had  answered  none 
since  Thursday,  and  as  his  corre- 
spondence was  a  large  one,  there 
was  a  considerable  accumulation. 
These  letters  had  all  been  placed  in 
one  of  the  despatch-boxes  on  Miss 
Eeid's  table,  and  on  the  top  was  laid 
a  sealed  envelope  containing  the  key, 
and  a  memorandum  of  instructions. 
Upon  each  letter  a  few  lines  pre- 
scribing the  mode  of  dealing  with  it 
had  been  written  in  red  ink.  But 
Miss  Eeid  was  to  be  careful  to  ob- 
serve the  distinction  between  the 
words  "draft"  and  "reply."  In 
the  one  case  she  was  to  prepare  a 
draft  of  the  proposed  reply,  and 
submit  it  to  him  for  approval  before 
making  a  fair  copy  for  despatch  : 
in  the  other  case  the  reply  might 
be  written  at  once  in  the  sense  of 
the  instructions;  but  in  the  first 
instance  these  replies  also  were  to 


544 


Tlie  Private  Secretary.— Part  I. 


[Xov. 


be  shown  to  him  before  being 
posted,  until  he  was  satisfied  that 
the  private  secretary  had  got  into 
the  way  of  expressing  herself  ex- 
actly as  he  wished.  All  letters 
were  to  be  written  in  copying-ink, 
and  impressions  taken  in  the  Lund's 
copying-books  provided  for  the  pur- 
pose with  the  accompanying  press. 
These  books  were  to  be  indexed 
from  day  to  day,  so  that  the  corre- 
spondence could  at  once  be  traced. 
As  soon  as  the  letters  for  the  day 
were  ready  for  signature  and  de- 
spatch, and  the  other  draft  letters 
prepared  for  approval,  they  could  be 
sent  in  to  him  in  one  of  the  boxes. 
So  ran  the  instructions,  which 
also  provided  for  recording  and  reg- 
istering the  letters  received.  There 
being,  as  we  have  said,  a  consider- 
able accumulation  of  papers  await- 
ing the  secretary,  and  as  no  doubt 
she  would  take  some  little  time  in 
settling  down  to  work,  Clifford 
was  not  surprised  that  the  young 
lady  did  not  seek  for  or  send  to 
him  at  once;  but  as  the  morning 
wore  on,  and  she  made  no  sign,  he 
began  to  get  fidgety  and  impatient. 
Probably  she  would  be  puzzled  how 
to  set  to  work ;  but  was  it  pride,  or 
diffidence,  or  modesty  that  kept  her 
from  coming  or  sending  to  him  for 
instructions]  Hardly  the  latter 
condition,  to  judge  from  her  bold- 
ness on  Thursday.  Could  it  be 
that  she  found  no  difficulty  in  deal- 
ing with  the  papers,  and  was  going 
to  knock  off  the  whole  job  at  a  sit- 
ting 1  He  would  have  liked  to  see 
what  she  was  doing ;  but  there 
would  be  an  awkwardness  in  going 
to  her  room  now,  as  he  had  not  done 
so  on  her  first  arrival.  That  would 
have  been  the  proper  time  for  a  visit : 
his  own  stupidity  was  to  blame  for 
the  misadventure.  But  really  it 
seemed  as  if  the  notion  of  her  being 
there  at  all  was  a  delusion  of  the 
fancy,  so  still  was  the  house.  Yet 
no  !  For  at  one  o'clock  a  movement 


could  be  heard  in  the  passage,  and 
the  jingle  of  plates  and  glasses.  Miss 
Reid's  luncheon  is  being  taken  into 
her  room,  according  to  orders.  Then 
all  is  silence  again.  Soon  afterwards 
Clifford  took  his  hat  and  went  out 
for  a  walk,  pausing  for  a  moment 
before  the  door  of  Miss  Reid's  room, 
— but  only  for  a  moment :  it  would 
not  do  to  appear  to  be  listening. 
All  seemed  quiet  within ;  and  he 
went  off  with  an  amused  sense  of 
the  drollness  of  the  situation, — a 
young  lady  in  his  employ,  shut  up 
in  his  house,  whom  he  has  not  yet 
ventured  to  see, — feeling  also,  more 
strongly  than  ever,  that  he  had 
done  a  very  foolish  thing  in  making 
the  engagement.  A  private  secre- 
tary who  was  not  on  confidential 
terms  with  his  or  her  employer,  and 
who  could  not  come  in  and  out 
freely,  and  did  nothing  but  copy 
letters,  was  not  likely  to  be  of 
much  use.  He  might  as  well  have 
given  out  his  correspondence  to  be 
done  at  a  law-stationer's  by  con- 
tract. 

About  three  o'clock  he  came 
home  again.  The  house  presented 
the  same  still  aspect  as  before.  He 
had  expected  to  find  a  returned  de- 
spatch-box awaiting  him ;  but  there 
was  nothing  on  the  table  except 
some  more  letters.  He  took  up  a 
book  and  tried  to  read,  but  fouijd 
it  impossible  to  fix  his  attention  ; 
and  at  last,  after  waiting  some  time 
longer,  he  got  up  and  went  to  Miss 
Reid's  room.  He  hesitated  a  little 
before  knocking,  and  then  doing  so, 
entered  the  room  without  waiting 
for  a  reply. 

Miss  Reid  was  seated  at  the 
writing-table,  the  surface  of  which 
was  covered  with  papers.  One 
despatch-box  was  on  the  table  ;  the 
other,  with  open  lid,  on  the  floor. 
The  aspect  of  the  room  and  its 
occupant  was  thoroughly  business- 
like. Clifford  had  just  time  to 
notice  that  Miss  Reid  was  differ- 


1880.] 


The  Private  Secretary.— Part  I. 


545 


ently  dressed  from  when  he  had 
first  seen  her.  Her  cloak  was  fold- 
ed up  and  placed  on  a  chair,  with 
her  hat  —  evidently  a  new  one — 
resting  on  it.  Her  dress,  although 
quite  plain  and  of  dark  material, 
was  well  made,  and  covered  a  slight, 
slim  figure.  Neat  cuffs  and  collar 
set  off  the  slender  hands  and  neck 
better  than  did  the  dingy  cloak  in 
which  he  had  first  seen  her.  "  It 
is  odd,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  that 
I  should  not  have  thought  her 
pretty ;  and  what  beautiful  hair  she 
has,  if  it  is  all  her  own." 

Miss  Reid  rose  and  bowed.  Clif- 
ford bowed  in  return ;  and  then, 
after  a  little  hesitation,  advanced 
and  offered  his  hand. 

Somehow  he  felt  a  little  shy,  and 
was  certainly  the  least  self-possessed 
of  the  two.  "  I  hope  you  find  your- 
self pretty  comfortable,"  he  said  at 
last;  "Mrs  Simmonds  has  looked 
after  you,  I  hope,  and  sent  you 
some  luncheon  1" 

He  knew  this  had  been  done, 
and  what  the  luncheon  was  com- 
posed of,  for  he  had  ordered  it  him- 
self; but  he  wanted  something  to 
say. 

Miss  Reid  replied  that  she  was 
most  comfortable,  and  that  Mrs  Sim- 
monds had  taken  every  care  of  her. 

"  And  have  you  got  all  you  want 
in  the  way  of  stationery  and  so 
forth  ? " 

"Everything,  thank  you,  sir,  is 
most  complete  ;  I  only  hope  I  may 
be  able  to  do  justice  to  all  the  pre- 
parations which  have  been  made." 

"But  the  position  of  this  table 
is  a  little  perplexing,  I  see,"  he  ob- 
served again,  for  want  of  something 
to  say ;  "  the  light  comes  on  it  at 
the  wrong  side.  How  stupid  of  me 
not  to  think  of  that  !  Let  me  turn 
it  round  the  other  way.  Perhaps 
you  would  kindly  help, — it  is  rather 
heavy.  There,  that  will  do ; "  and 
the  two,  by  their  united  efforts, 
slued  the  table  round,  while  Clif- 


ford hastened  to  move  the  chair  to 
the  other  side,  also  the  box  which 
was  on  the  floor. 

"  Pray  do  not  trouble  yourself, 
sir,"  said  Miss  Reid,  as  he  stooped 
to  pick  up  the  box.  She  stooped 
at  the  same  time,  and  their  heads 
came  in  contact. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Clif- 
ford, rubbing  his  head  ;  "  that  was 
confoundedly  stupid  of  me.  I  hope 
you  are  not  much  hurt  1 " 

"  Not  more  than  you  are,  sir,  I 
believe,"  she  replied,  without  show- 
ing any  sign  of  pain. 

"  Women  bear  pain  better  than 
men,"  said  Clifford,  stopping  the' 
rubbing,  and  letting  his  hand  fall. 

"  Some  women,"  said  Miss  Reid. 

So  she  is  a  flatterer,  thought 
Clifford ;  she  wants  to  pretend  to 
crack  up  men.  Then  bethinking 
him  that  possibly  Simmonds  might 
be  listening  in  the  passage,  he  added 
aloud,  "But  how  does  your  work 
get  on  ]  " 

"  Pretty  well,  thank  you,  sir — at 
least  I  hope  so  for  a  beginning:  but 
there  are  several  points  on  which  I 
want  instructions ;  I  have  made  a 
note  of  them  here." 

"  "Well,  let  me  first  see  those 
letters  that  you  have  disposed  of. 
"Won't  you  sit  down  1 "  he  con- 
tinued, taking  up  the  papers  and 
sitting  down  himself  in  the  writing- 
chair  at  the  table,  while  motioning 
to  her  to  take  another. 

"  Thank  you,  sir,  but  I  would 
rather  stand,  if  you  please  ;  I  have 
been  sitting  all  the  morning."  Ac- 
cordingly, Miss  Reid  stood  by  his 
side  while  Clifford  went  through 
all  the  papers  which  she  had  pre- 
pared for  him. 

The  work  was  very  well  done  so 
far  as  it  went,  although  there  was 
not  very  much  of  it.  In  one  or 
two  cases,  indeed,  the  secretary  had 
not  quite  understood  the  orders  on 
which  her  letter  was  to  be  written ; 
but  in  every  case  the  draft  was  well 


546 


The  Private  Secretary.— Part  1. 


[Xov. 


expressed  and  precise  :  and  Clifford, 
who  prided  himself  on  his  business- 
like habits,  found  with  pleasure 
that  his  secretary  had  not  over- 
estimated her  powers.  The  letters 
were  not  quite  as  he  would  have 
written  them  himself;  but  he  would 
not,  by  altering  them,  give  her  the 
trouble  of  writing  them  again. 

"  But  now  as  to  taking  copies," 
said  Clifford,  rising;  "  do  you  know 
how  to  manage  a  Lund's  press  'I  " 

"  I  am  afraid  not,  sir;  but  I  hope 
to  learn  the  method  very  quickly. 
Perhaps  Mrs  Simmonds  could  show 
me?" 

"  Mrs  Simmonds  be — she  knows 
as  much  about  copying  letters  as 
she  does  about  playing  the  piano. 
By  the  way,  you  have  not  told  me 
whether  music  is  among  your  ac- 
complishments 1 " 

11 1  play  a  little,"  said  MissEeid, 
simply ;  "  but  about  the  way  of 
using  the  copying-press  ?  " 

"  You  do  it  in  this  way,"  said 
Clifford,  a  little  nettled  at  being 
brought  back  to  business,  moving 
to  the  side-table  on  which  stood  the 
press.  "  You  first  wet  the  paper  of 
the  book  thoroughly  with  the  brush 
— so ;  then  you  put  it  in  the  press  to 
dry  it  partially  against  the  blotter 
— so  ;  and  then  you  take  the  book 
out  and  place  the  letter  between 
the  damp  leaves,  and  return  the 
book  to  the  press  to  take  the  im- 
pression— so.  The  whole  art  con- 
sists in  judging  of  the  degree  of 
dampness  to  be  left  in  the  paper, 
and  the  length  of  time  the  letter 
should  be  kept  in  the  press.  If 
you  overdo  it,  the  letter  comes  out 
as  if  it  had  been  written  on  blotting-- 
paper. I  can't  bear  to  get  a  letter 
myself  copied  in  this  careless  way, 
and  I  should  like  still  less  to  send 
one  out  so.  This  letter  that  we 
are  now  taking  the  impression  of 
was  written  about  three  hours  ago, 
so  I  am  keeping  it  rather  long  in 
the  press.  See  now,"  he  continued, 


drawing  the  book  out,  "  we  have 
got  a  perfect  facsimile  impression, 
and  yet  no  one  could  tell  that  the 
original  had  ever  been  in  the  press. 
That  is  the  point  to  aim  at.  Some 
people  are  greatly  offended  if  you 
take  press  copies  of  the  letters  you 
send  them.  However  important  the 
subject  may  be,  they  like  the  fiction 
to  be  kept  up  that  the  letter  has 
not  been  copied,  although  they 
know  that  the  thing  must  have 
been  done  in  some  form.  Now, 
suppose  you  try  your  hand  at  it. 
Yes,  the  press  is  a  little  stiff,"  he 
continued,  as  he  watched  his  secre- 
tary in  vain  trying  to  press  down 
the  levers  with  all  the  force  of  her 
slender  fingers,  while  he  could  not 
but  notice  the  graceful  motion  of 
her  figure  as  she  bent  over  the 
table.  "  Let  me  help  you  ;  "  and 
so  saying,  he  applied  his  own 
hands  to  the  levers.  In  pressing 
these  he  pressed  her  hands  too, 
which  were  on  them,  and  she  with- 
drew them  quickly,  stepping  back 
a  pace  at  the  same  time.  "  How 
clumsy  I  am!"  he  cried;  "I  am 
afraid  I  must  have  hurt  you  again." 

"  You  did,  a  little  ; "  and  he 
thought  he  could  detect,  from  the 
tone  of  her  voice,  that  she  did 
think  him  clumsy,  but  was  not  at 
liberty  to  find  fault  with  her  em- 
ployer. So  he  reverted  to  business. 
"Now  you  have  left  the  letter  long 
enough,"  he  exclaimed,  retreating 
from  the  table  to  make  room  for 
her — "  out  with  it  quickly  !  Yes, 
that  is  a  fairly  good  impression, 
but  there  is  still  the  mark  of  the 
beast  on  it.  You  have  kept  the 
paper  a  trifle  too  long  in  the  press ; 
but  you  will  soon  be  able  to  work 
the  machine  properly.  You  are 
evidently  quick  at  learning." 

Miss  Eeid  bowed.  Clifford 
could  hardly  tell  whether  or  not 
she  was  pleased  at  his  praise.  He 
continued,  "But  now  the  next 
thing  is  to  post  these  letters ;  let 


1880.] 


The  Private  Secretary.— Part  I. 


547 


me  help  you," — and  the  two  were 
employed  for  a  few  minutes  in 
folding  and  putting  into  their  en- 
velopes the  letters  which  Miss  Eeid 
had  written.  "Now  for  the  stamps," 
said  Clifford  :  "  but  stay,  I  have 
given  you  no  stamps,"  and  he  went 
back  to  his  room,  and  presently  re- 
turned with  a  sheet  of  them. 

The  stamps  were  soon  applied, 
and  Miss  Eeid  stood  waiting,  as  if 
she  expected  him  to  leave  the  room. 
Clifford  broke  the  silence — 

"I  suppose  you  feel  tired  after 
your  day's  work  ] " 

"  Oh  dear  no,  sir ;  I  will  set 
to  work  at  once,  and  finish  what 
lias  still  to  be  done,  if  you  will 
kindly  look  through  these  drafts 
and  instruct  me  on  the  doubtful 
points." 

"  But  you  would  not  get  through 
all  those  letters  by  night.  There 
is  no  immediate  hurry  about  them  ; 
you  have  done  quite  enough  for  a 
beginning, — besides,  I  feel  idle  my- 
self. Better  give  over  for  to-day, 
and  take  them  up  to-morrow." 

"Thank  you,  sir," said  Miss  Reid 
simply,  and  proceeded  to  lock  up 
the  papers  in  one  of  the  despatch- 
boxes.  Then  she  moved  towards 
the  chair  on  which  her  hat  and 
cloak  were  lying,  and  transferring 
the  former  on  to  the  table,  took  up 
the  cloak  as  if  to  put  it  on. 

"Allow  me  to  help  you,"  said 
Clifford,  gallantly. 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  again  replied 
the  young  lady,  "but  I  am  accus- 
tomed to  manage  for  myself."  She 
spoke  in  a  repellent  way,  and  Clif- 
ford stopped  short,  feeling  rather 
sheepish.  After  a  pause  he  said, 
"  Miss  Eeid,  I  have  a  suggestion  to 
make." 

Miss  Eeid  laid  down  the  cloak, 
and  making  a  little  bow,  stood  wait- 
ing for  the  communication. 

"  It  has  occurred  to  me,"  he  ob- 
served with  some  little  hesitation, 
"  that  perhaps  you  might  find  it  a 


convenience  to  take  an  advance  of 
salary." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,  but  I  think  I 
would  rather  be  paid  in  the  regular 
way — that  is,  after  it  is  due."  Miss 
Eeid  spoke  simply,  but  again  in  a 
cold,  repellent  way. 

"  I  daresay  you  will  think  me  an 
unbusinesslike  creature  to  make  the 
proposal,"  he  replied,  feeling  awk- 
ward, "but  the  fact  is,  I  have 
noticed,"  looking  significantly  at 
her  dress,  "that  you  appear  to  have 
been  put  to  some  expense,  and  I 
thought  that  a  little  ready  money 
might  be  a  convenience.  It  would 
be  a  pity  that  you  should  incur 
debt  just  at  the  beginning  of  your 
engagement." 

"  It  is  very  kind  of  you  to  make 
the  proposal,  sir,  but  I  was  not 
quite  without  money  when  I  first 
called,  although  I  did  not  feel  justi- 
fied in  spending  it  until  I  was  sure 
of  an  engagement.  You  must  not 
think  me  extravagant,  but  I  thought 
it  was  only  proper  to  make  myself 
a  little  smart.  Every  woman  likes 
to  be  decently  dressed,"  she  con- 
tinued with  a  smile,  as  if  anxious 
to  remove  any  ill  impression ;  and  it 
seemed  to  Clifford  that  she  now 
for  the  first  time  spoke  like  a 
woman,  rather  than  a  machine 
which  he  had  bought.  And  his 
feelings  now  went  off  on  the  other 
tack.  "  Confound  it,"  he  thought, 
"she  is  setting  her  cap  at  me."  The 
circumstances  of  his  past  life  had 
made  Clifford  somewhat  suspicious, 
and  now  it  flashed  across  him  that 
he  had  been  altogether  too  simple 
and  slow  of  taking  an  obvious  hint. 
This  demure  and  matter-of-fact 
manner  was  no  doubt  merely  as- 
sumed. A  young  lady  who  could 
so  far  go  out  of  her  way  as  she  had 
gone  already,  would  surely  be  ready 
to  go  a  little  further  on  small  en- 
couragement. And  the  feeling  now 
rising  uppermost  within  him  was  of 
something  more  than  the  curiosity 


543 


The  Private  Secretary. — Part  1. 


and  expectation  which  her  appoint- 
ment had  first  created.  She  looked 
almost  arch,  and  certainly  winning, 
as  she  stood  before  him,  ready  to 
leave  the  room,  yet  waiting  by  the 
door,  an  altogether  different  person 
from  the  anxious  applicant  of  last 
Thursday.  Clifford  knew  little 
about  women,  and  his  general  feel- 
ing towards  them  was  of  chivalrous 
respect,  his  manner  towards  them 
shy;  still  the  suspicion  now  came 
uppermost  that  it  might  be  merely 
his  own  awkwardness  and  slowness 
of  apprehension  which  was  at  fault, 
in  failing  to  apprehend  the  motives 
of  his  visitor,  and  that  probably 
she  was  holding  him  cheap  because 
the  affair  had  not  already  advanced 
another  stage.  Something  there 
was  of  disappointment  in  his  mind 
that  this  interesting  young  creature 
should  be  found  to  come  below  the 
high  standard  by  which  he  had 
measured  her  at  first ;  but  to  this 
succeeded  a  sudden  desire  to  push 
the  adventure,  if  such  it  was  to  be, 
to  the  end. 

He  advanced  to  wish  her  good 
day,  and  held  out  his  hand.  The 
young  lady  responding,  gave  him 
her  own,  making  him  a  little  curt- 
sey— whether  of  coquetry  or  respect, 
he  could  not  say. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said,  still  holding 
her  hand,  "  do  you  think  you  shall 
be  satisfied  with  your  engagement  1 " 

"  It  is  rather  whether  you  will  be 
satisfied,  sir.  I  daresay  you  have 
hardly  had  time  to  make  up  your 
mind  on  that  point," — she  said  this 
looking  him  frankly  in  the  face,  and 
with  a  smile  which  he  thought  very 
winning.  Her  features  when  in  re- 
pose had  not  struck  him  as  beauti- 
ful ;  it  was  their  mobility,  and  the 
play  of  expression  in  her  face,  which 
made  their  charm. 


"Is  she  laughing  at  me  for  my 
simplicity,"  he  thought,  "  or  is  she 
simple  and  honest  herself  T'  And 
he  continued,  rather  awkwardly,  still 
holding  her  hand — 

"Who1  I?  Oh  yes,  I  am  very 
well  satisfied  with  my  bargain.  I 
think  I  ought  to  be,  ought  I  not  1 " 
he  added,  with  an  air  of  would  be 
gallantry.  "  I  shall  be  satisfied 
enough,  you  may  be  sure,  if  you 
don't  repent  of  it, — eh?" 

As  he  spoke,  he  felt  there  was 
more  in  his  manner  than  his  words. 

"  You  will  never  give  me  cause 
to  repent  of  it,  I  am  sure,"  she  re- 
plied, withdrawing  her  hand ;  and 
making  him  another  bow,  she  opened 
the  door  and  passed  out,  leaving 
him  standing  in  the  room,  blushing 
with  shame,  although  even  then 
uncertain  of  the  exact  meaning  to 
be  attached  to  her  words,  and 
whether  she  had  understood  what 
he  had  intended  to  convey  by  his. 
After  all,  he  had  not  said  much ; 
but  his  looks,  he  thought,  could 
hardly  be  misunderstood.  Yet  there 
was  nothing  either  of  encourage- 
ment or  indignation  in  her  manner. 
"Well,"  he  thought,  "if  she  is  as 
pure-minded  as  she  appears  to  be,  I 
am  a  mean  rascal  for  trying  to  take 
advantage  of  my  position."  And  he 
determined  to  put  the  ideas  which 
had  possessed  him  for  the  moment 
altogether  on  one  side.  In  future, 
and  always,  his  relations  with  his 
private  secretary  should  be  main- 
tained on  a  strictly  business  foot- 
ing. There  should  be  no  question 
of  gallantry,  or  even  politeness,  be- 
yond what  would  be  shown  to  one 
of  his  own  sex  employed  in  this 
capacity.  After  all,  a  deal  of  trouble 
would  be  saved  by  adopting  this 
line,  as  he  had  intended  doing  from 
the  first. 


1880.] 


Tie  Private  Secretary.— Part  L 


549 


CHAPTER    III. 


Accordingly,  when  next  morning 
Miss  Reid  arrived,  as  before,  pre- 
cisely at  ten  o'clock,  Clifford  again 
made  no  sign ;  and  the  two  occu- 
pied their  respective  rooms  with- 
out, at  first,  any  communication 
passing  between  them.  The  secre- 
tary, indeed,  would  be  abundantly 
occupied  with  the  business  left 
over  from  the  previous  day;  and 
it  was  nearly  noon  before  he  had 
made  the  necessary  annotations  on 
the  post  of  the  morning.  Then  he 
would  have  liked  to  take  the 
bundle  of  papers  into  her  room, 
but  restrained  himself.  He  would 
give  her  no  further  opportunity  for 
supposing  that  he  desired  to  estab- 
lish their  relations  on  a  footing  of 
gallantry.  He  would  be  nothing 
henceforth  but  the  matter-of-fact 
master.  For  another  thing,  he 
must  complete  his  disarmament  of 
any  suspicions  that  might  be  still 
harboured  by  Simmonds  on  the 
subject,  and  the  expression  of 
which,  on  her  part,  would  be  sub- 
versive of  all  domestic  comfort ; 
although  Simmonds,  who  knew 
more  of  her  master  and  his  ways 
than  most  people,  would  probably 
not  be  difficult  to  satisfy  on  that 
score. 

In  fulfilment  of  this  determina- 
tion, therefore,  instead  of  taking  in 
the  papers  himself,  he  put  them  in 
a  box,  and  ringing  for  Jane,  the 
maid,  told  her  to  carry  it  to  Miss 
Reid.  This  was  the  first  step  to- 
wards opening  that  form  of  com- 
munication. Soon  Miss  Reid's 
bell  could  be  heard,  and  Jane 
brought  him  a  return  box,  contain- 
ing some  draft  letters  for  approv- 
al, and  some  queries  upon  others 
for  further  explanation  and  instruc- 
tion,— the  work,  in  fact,  which  had 
been  prepared  the  previous  day. 
Clifford  noticed  with  satisfaction 


that  the  drafts  were  far  from  suit- 
able in  form.  No  margin  was  left 
of  blank  paper  for  his  emendations, 
and  some  of  her  writing  was  crossed. 
In  truth,  he  was  in  a  more  critical 
mood  now  than  yesterday.  "  She 
is  not  perfection,  after  all,"  he 
thought ;  "  here  is  something  to 
take  hold  of."  So  he  slashed  the 
drafts  about  freely,  and  wrote  on  a 
slip  of  paper  that  all  drafts  should 
in  future  be  written  in  half-margin, 
on  one  side  only,  and  with  plenty 
of  space  between  the  lines  for  ad- 
ditions and  alterations,  and  then 
returned  the  box  by  the  same 
agency.  Again  he  noted,  by  the 
sounds  permeating  the  flat,  that 
Miss  Reid's  luncheon  was  being 
taken  in  to  her  :  he  then  went  out 
as  before  for  his  usual  walk. 

He  did  not  return  home  till  after 
four  o'clock,  when  he  found  the  de- 
spatch-box on  his  table,  and  all  the 
mutilated  drafts  in  it  in  one  bundle, 
with  fresh  ones  neatly  rewritten, 
embodying  all  his  alterations,  in 
another.  Taking  them  up  he  went 
to  Miss  Reid's  room,  and  knocking 
at  the  door,  entered.  Miss  Reid 
rose  as  before,  and  bowing,  waited 
for  him  to  speak. 

"  These  revised  drafts  are  all  very 
nice  and  proper,"  he  said ;  "  but 
why  be  at  the  trouble  of  writing 
them  a  second  time  ? " 

"  It  was  no  trouble,  sir." 

"  No ;  but  then  you  have  lost  so 
much  time  over  them.  You  might 
have  been  preparing  the  fair  copies 
for  despatch  instead." 

"I  thought  you  would  like  the 
originals  to  be  neat  and  proper  for 
record.  The  first  drafts  looked  so 
untidy  after  all  those  corrections." 

"Yes,  but  I  don't  like  to  see  time 
wasted.  Why  have  two  originals  ? 
The  fair  copy  is  to  be  done  in 
copying-ink,  and  put  through  the 


550 


The  Private  Secretary.— Part  I. 


[Xov. 


press  ;  so  that  in  any  case  you  will 
have  a  copy  in  the  hook,  won't 
you1?  As  it  is,  you  have  lost  a 
clay's  post."  Clifford  spoke  tartly, 
as  if  he  were  vexed.  This  time,  at 
any  rate,  there  should  be  no  ques- 
tion of  the  relations  between  em- 
ployer and  employed. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  said  Miss 
Reid,  mournfully  ;  "  I  quite  under- 
stand now.  It  was  very  stupid  of 
me,  hut  I  did  it  for  the  best."  She 
looked  so  dejected  that  Clifford 
hastened  to  reassure  her,  finding 
it  impossible  to  preserve  his  first 
manner. 

"  Well,  there  is  not  much  harm 
done;  I  daresay  you  will  soon  get 
into  the  way  of  the  thing." 

"  I  will  do  my  best,  sir,  you  may 
be  sure ;  and  if  you  do  not  mind 
being  at  the  trouble  of  having 
these  letters  posted,  by -and -by, 
they  shall  all  be  ready  for  you  by 
to-night." 

"  Oh  no,  there  is  no  need  for  that ; 
I  don't  want  you  to  work  at  them 
over-hours  :  a  day  more  or  less  will 
not  matter  much." 

"  I  would  rather  get  them  done 
this  evening,  if  you  please,  sir,  and 
then  I  shall  be  ready  for  to- 
morrow's work  :  it  will  be  a  pity 
to  begin  by  accumulating  arrears. 
But  if  you  will  have  a  little  pa- 
tience with  me,  I  hope  I  shall  soon 
be  able  to  give  you  satisfaction." 
And  so  it  was  settled  accordingly. 
And  Miss  Reid  sat  down  and  be- 
gan writing  as  if  the  matter  were 
settled ;  and  leaving  her  room, 
Clifford  called  to  Simmonds  to  tell 
her  that  Miss  Reid's  work  would 
probably  detain  her  till  late  that 
evening ;  she  was  to  be  sure  and 
take  in  tea  to  her  at  five  o'clock. 
So  saying,  he  left  the  house,  and 
dining  a's  usual  at  his  Club,  did 
not  return  till  late.  Then  he  found 
all  the  letters  in  the  despatch-box 
awaiting  his  signature,  and  taking 
them  out  he  posted  them  himself, 


before  he  went  to  bed,  in  the  near- 
est pillar-post. 

The  next  day  began  in  the  same 
way  as  the  two  preceding  ones. 
The  private  secretary  arrived  at  ten 
o'clock  to  a  minute,  and  Clifford 
sent  her  the  day's  work  as  before 
in  the  despatch-box,  by  the  hand 
of  Jane,  and  went  out  as  usual  for 
his  walk,  returning  in  the  after- 
noon. Then  Jane  brought  him 
back  a  box  full  of  papers, — letters 
newly  written  according  to  orders, 
for  approval  before  despatch ;  and 
draughts  of  others,  this  time  writ- 
ten in  half-margin,  with  the  lines 
well  spaced  out ;  while  there  was 
also  a  memorandum  of  cases  on 
which  further  instructions  were  de- 
sired. With  all  these  Clifford  dealt 
in  order.  He  altered  the  drafts 
freely,  for  he  was  very  precise  and 
methodical  in  correspondence,  and 
his  secretary  had  not  yet  caught 
the  mode  of  expression  which  suited 
him.  He  even  altered  some  of  the 
letters  she  had  written,  although 
they  were  quite  unimportant — ac- 
knowledgments of  letters  or  pam- 
phlets received,  and  so  forth  — 
which  involved  that  they  should 
be  written  a  second  time.  Lastly, 
he  replied  to  the  secretary's  quer- 
ies, which  had  been  drawn  up  on 
half-margin,  writing  his  orders  or 
explanation  against  each.  It  would 
have  been  simpler  and  shorter  to 
go  and  talk  the  matter  over  with 
her,  but  he  abstained  from  doing 
so.  What  had  passed  between 
them  on  the  first  day  still  rankled 
in  his  mind  :  it  would  have  needed 
au  effort  which,  being  naturally 
indolent,  he  was  averse  from  mak- 
ing, to  place  their  relations  on  a 
friendly  footing,  or  even  one  of 
mutual  courtesy,  without  going  into 
explanations,  or  evoking  something 
in  the  way  of  a  scene  which  would 
have  been  equally  embarrassing. 
"  She  prefers  the  relation  of  master 
and  servant,"  he  thought ;  "  so  let 


1830.] 


The  Private  Secretary.— Part  I. 


551 


it  be.  After  all,  it  would  probably 
turn  out  that  her  society  was  not 
worth  cultivating.  "Well  educated  as 
she  is,  I  don't  suppose  she  is  quite 
a  lady  ;  at  any  rate,  it  will  save  a 
great  deal  of  trouble  if  our  connec- 
tion is  maintained  on  a  purely  busi- 
ness footing."  And  still  thrusting 
on  one  side,  without  allowing  him- 
self to  dwell  on  it,  the  feeling  of 
romance  which  had  possessed  him 
on  the  first  prospect  of  the  addition 
of  this  new  inmate  to  his  house- 
hold, he  resolutely  associated  her 
in  his  mind  with  the  unsentimental 
appearance  she  presented  on  the 
day  of  her  first  visit,  with  her 
shabby  boots  and  rusty  cloak. 

So  now  having  replied  to  the  dif- 
ferent queries,  he  added  a  remark  on 
the  bottom  of  the  paper :  "  Miss 
Reid  is  requested  not  to  extend  her 
day's  work  beyond  five  o'clock,  un- 
less specially  instructed  to  do  so. 
Any  matters  undisposed  of  by  that 
hour  are  to  be  taken  up  and  dealt 
with  on  the  following  day.  There 
will  be  no  loss  of  time  in  the  long- 
run  by  keeping  regular  hours  ; " — 
and  rang  for  Jane  to  take  the 
box  back. 

The  succeeding  days  were  passed 
in  precisely  the  same  way,  Clifford 
not  allowing  himself  to  dwell  on 
the  sense  of  disappointment  he  was 
conscious  of  feeling  that  matters 
should  have  fallen  into  this  groove, 
albeit  it  was  entirely  of  his  own 
making.  But  one  result  was  sa1  isfac- 
tory.  Mrs  Simmonds  and  Jane,  who 
were  probably  somewhat  exercised 
at  first  by  Miss  Eeid's  engagement, 
now  took  no  more  thought  about 
her  coming  and  going  than  of  the 
tradesmen's  calls.  And  Clifford, 
pursuing  the  method  of  doing  busi- 
ness adopted  from  the  first,  noticed 
with  pleasure  the  quickness  with 
which  the  secretary  had  fallen  into 
his  ways,  and  had  caught  his  style 
of  expression.  Each  day  the  emen- 
dations and  corrections  of  her  work 

VOL.  CXXVIII. — NO.  DCCLXXXT. 


became  fewer.  "  She  is  certainly 
very  intelligent,"  he  thought ;  "  she 
seems  to  know  exactly  what  I  want 
to  say,  and  how  to  say  it."  As 
one  result  of  this  aptitude,  his  own 
share  of  the  business  became  rap- 
idly lighter,  and  he  found  himself 
daily  enjoying  more  and  more 
leisure  for  his  books. 

During  this  time  he  never  even 
saw  his  secretary,  although  con- 
stantly dwelling  on  her  features, 
and  trying  to  recall  them.  He  be- 
gan to  feel  the  absurdity  of  the 
thing.  Miss  Reid  might  just  as 
well  do  her  work  at  home,  and 
save  him  the  embarrassment  of  her 
presence  in  the  chambers.  Still, 
although  it  would  often  have  been 
simpler,  and  saved  time,  to  give  his 
instructions  personally,  he  perse- 
vered in  his  system.  "  Let  her  come 
to  me,"  he  thought ;  "  if  we  are  to 
be  master  and  servant,  the  servant 
may  as  well  seek  the  master  as  the 
master  the  servant." 

But  Miss  Reid  did  not  come  to 
him.  At  last,  one  day,  he  had  occa- 
sion to  refer  to  the  letter-books  which 
were  in  her  room,  and  this  excuse 
for  going  there  satisfied  his  pride 
and  his  scruples.  "  Pray,  keep  your 
seat,"  he  said,  as  she  rose  on  his 
entrance ;  "  I  merely  want  to  refer 
to  the  letter-books," — and  he  went 
straight  to  the  side -table  in  the 
drawer  of  which  they  were  kept, 
while  Miss  Reid  resumed  her  seat 
and  her  writing. 

"You  are  getting  on  famously," 
he  said  presently,  looking  round 
the  orderly  room  ;  "  you  find  the 
work  all  plain  and  straightforward 
now,  I  think."  Then  he  added, 
holding  up  the  book  which  he  had 
been  consulting,  "  These  indexes 
are  rather  too  full." 

"  I  am  sorry,  sir " 

"  There  is  nothing  to  be  sorry 
about,"  he  said,  smiling  good-na- 
turedly; "Rome  was  not  built  in 
a  day.  You  are  doing  very  well. 
2p 


552 


The  Private  Secretary. — Part  I. 


[Xc 


But  an  index  is  not  an  index  if 
you  tell  the  whole  story  over  again. 
Brevity  is  the  thing  to  study  in 
an  index.  In  fact,  it  may  be  studied 
with  advantage  in  all  correspond- 
ence. The  tendency  to  be  a  little 
diffuse  is  the  only  fault  I  have  to 
find  in  your  writing." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,  for  mention- 
ing it.  I  will  endeavour  to  be 
more  brief  in  future." 

"I  see  you  have  got  your  papers 
in  good  order,"  he  continued,  tak- 
ing up  the  different  bundles,  one 
by  one,  in  the  pigeon-holes  of 
the  cabinet ; — "  but  what  is  this  ? " 

"  Those,"  said  Miss  Eeid,  rising 
and  coming  towards  him,  to  see 
which  packet  he  referred  to,  "  are 
your  instructions  on  my  queries." 

"  But  what  is  the  good  of  keep- 
ing these  ?  They  were  needed  only 
in  the  days  of  your  apprenticeship." 

"  They  might  be  useful  for  my 
— if  at  any  time  you  had  occasion 
to  employ  another  secretary." 

Clifford  looked  at  the  speaker  to 
see  if  her  words  contained  any 
special  meaning  ;  but  her  face  be- 
trayed no  expression  of  the  sort 
as  she  added,  with  a  slight  smile, 
"  Of  course,  I  have  no  wish  to  anti- 
cipate evil ;  still,  in  matters  of 
business,  one  is  bound  to  consider 
the  interest  of  one's  employer,  and 
I  should  be  sorry  if  you  had  to 
go  through  the  same  trouble  a 
second  time,  in  teaching 

"Your  successor?  That  is  very 
disinterested  of  you,"  said  Clifford, 
sarcastically. 

"  Not   at   all,  sir,"  she   replied, 


simply  ;  "  it  appears  no  more  than 
my  duty  to  suggest  it." 

"  What  is  the  girl  really  think- 
ing about,  I  wonder?"  was  his 
mental  rejoinder.  NOT  was  the 
doubt  made  plainer  when  she  add- 
ed, "  This  reminds  me  that  there 
is  one  suggestion  I  ought  to 
make." 

"  And  what  is  that,  pray  1 " 
"  Merely  that  it  might  be  better 
if  my  name  appeared  on  the  record 
somewhat  differently.  It  might  be 
misunderstood  if  '  Miss  Eeid '  ap- 
peared on  the  papers." 

"  Oh  !  So  you  think  there  is 
room  for  misunderstanding?  So 
you  propose  that  I  should  dub  you 
Mr  Reid  ?  I  have  you  there,  you 
little  humbug,"  he  added  to  him- 
self. 

"  I  would  suggest  that  you  should 
put  simply  '  H.  Eeid.'  " 

"  I  thought  you  were   going   to 
say  simply — '  Eeid. '   Very  good ,  H . 
Eeid ;   perhaps  it  will  be  as  well. 
Is  it  allowable  to  ask  of  H.  Eeid," 
he  added,  as  he  moved  towards  the 
door,  "  if  the  H.  stands  for  Helen, 
or  Harriet,  or  Hannah  ?  " 
"  My  name  is  Hilda,  sir." 
"  Your  mother's  name?" 
"No;    I   was   called   after    my 
aunt,  my  mother's  only  sister." 
"  Is  your  mother  alive  ? " 
"  No,  sir ;  I  lost  my  mother  about 
two  years  ago.     I  am  living  with 
my  father." 

Clifford,  as  he  went  back  to  his 
room,  remembered  that  Miss  Eeid 
had  always  been  dressed  in  half 
mourning. 


1880.] 


Army  Reform. 


553 


ARMY     REFORM. 


THE  new  Secretary  of  State  for 
War  has  announced  the  intention 
of  dealing  with  the  various  army 
questions  still  unsettled.  As  re- 
gards organisation,  what  has  been 
called  Lord  Cardwell's  scheme  has 
so  far  proved  a  failure,  not  through 
any  inherent  defects,  but  from  the 
attempt  of  the  Government  of  the 
day  to  carry  on  wars  without  ask- 
ing Parliament  for  the  sinews  of 
war.  The  Government  has  for  the 
last  three  years  heen  playing  this 
game  of  false  economy,  and  our 
military  organisation  has  in  con- 
sequence been  subjected  to  a  strain 
which  it  never  was  intended  to 
bear,  and  under  which  it  was  in- 
evitable that  it  would  break  down. 

"When  the  Liberals  succeeded  to 
office,  the  condition  of  the  army 
loudly  called  for  immediate  remedy. 
The  report  of  Lord  Airey's  Com- 
mittee supplied  all  the  necessary 
data,  and  among  Mr  Gladstone's 
lieutenants  were  several  men  of 
great  ability,  who,  having  been  at 
the  War  Office  during  the  incep- 
tion of  the  present  organisation, 
were  thoroughly  versed  in  all  the 
details.  Either  Lord  Card  well, 
Lord  Northbrook,  or  Lord  Lans- 
downe  would  have  been  ready  to 
deal  with  the  subject  to  the  best 
possible  advantage.  But  to  employ 
them  on  the  work  was  too  obvious 
a  measure  for  the  system  of  "  How 
not  to  do  it."  It  is  understood 
that  Lord  Cardwell's  health  at  the 
time  prevented  his  taking  office. 
Lord  Xorthbrookwas  sent  to  the  Ad- 
miralty, where  he  found  himself  at 
first  very  appropriately  at  sea.  Lord 
Lansdowne  went  to  the  India  Office, 
of  which  he  had  no  previous  ex- 
perience. And  Mr  Childers,  dis- 
qualified for  the  Admiralty  by  his 
knowledge  of  naval  matters,  under- 


took to  regenerate  the  army.  The 
consequence  of  this  shuffling  of  the 
official  pack  is  that,  at  a  time  when 
the  army  is  in  extremis,  Mr  Chil- 
ders requires  nine  months  for  ges- 
tation before  delivering  himself  of 
the  remedial  measures  so  urgently 
required — a  wise  delay,  no  doubt,  in 
view  of  his  ignorance  of  the  special 
work  confided  to  him  ;  but  in  that 
case,  what  becomes  of  the  somewhat 
arrogant  pretension  that  "  a  states- 
man " — save  the  mark,  how  many 
of  the  class  are  there1? — can  take  up 
any  new  department  as  profitably 
as  if  he  had  served  an  apprentice- 
ship to  it1? 

When  Mr  Childers  does  declare 
himself,  it  is  almost  certain  it  will 
be  in  the  same  sense  as  that  in 
which  Colonel  Stanley  would  have 
dealt  with  the  subject  in  the  spring 
of  the  present  year,  but  for  the 
general  election ;  and  nine  months 
will  have  been  lost,  during  which 
the  crisis  has  been  aggravattd  by 
fresh  Indian  troubles,  and  may  be 
further  intensified  by  events  in 
Eastern  Europe. 

In  anticipation  of  the  remedies 
Mr  Childers  may  propose,  it  is  de- 
sirable the  public  should  appreciate 
the  causes  of  the  so-called  "  break- 
down "  of  the  existing  organisation. 

The  primary  cause  is  that  the 
country  carried  on  two  difficult 
wars  at  the  same  time,  with  all  the 
establishments  on  a  peace  footing. 

The  subsidiary  causes  are  as  fol- 
lows : — 

The  present  system  was  based  on 
the  principle  that  during  peace  the 
number  of  battalions  at  home  should 
balance  the  number  abroad;  and 
that  if  war  should  necessitate  the 
despatch  of  any  of  the  home  bat- 
talions, the  balance  should  be  re- 
dressed by  a  pro  tanto  increase  of 


554 


Army  Reform. 


[Nov. 


the  number  of  men  at  the  depots. 
Yet,  owing  to  the  demands  of  war, 
the  home  force  was  reduced  hy  fif- 
teen battalions,  without  any  com- 
pensating increase  to  the  number  of 
men  remaining  at  home. 

The  consequence  was,  that  where- 
as in  ordinary  times  each  battalion 
abroad  depended  for  its  yearly 
drafts  on  its  depot  numbering  90 
men,  a«sisted  by  its  home  bat- 
talion, numbering  five,  six,  seven, 
or  eight  hundred  men.  When  15 
battalions  were  sent  abroad,  these, 
together  with  their  15  linked  bat- 
talions previously  abroad,  or  30 
battalions  in  all,  had  to  look  for 
their  yearly  drafts  to  15  depots 
alone,  numbering  in  the  aggregate 
1350  men.  To  enable  these  depots 
to  meet  the  demand,  each  should 
have  been  raised  from  90  to  at 
least  400  — that  is  to  say,  the 
15  depots  in  the  aggregate  should 
have  been  raised  from  1350 
to  6000.  The  consequence  of  ne- 
glecting this  obvious  measure, 
which  formed  an  indispensable 
feature  of  Lord  Cardwell's  scheme, 
was,  that  the  drafts  of  seasoned  men 
required  to  be  sent  in  the  following 
year  to  the  30  battalions  concerned 
were  not  forthcoming  from  the  de- 
pots, and  had  therefore  to  be  sup- 
plied by  volunteers  from  the  bat- 
talions remaining  at  home,  to  their 
great  detriment. 

The  increase  of  the  depots  here 
referred  to,  though  indispensable 
in  view  of  the  requirements  of  the 
future,  could  not  obviously  meet 
the  demand  for  seasoned  soldiers 
to  complete  the  battalions  going 
on  service.  A  battalion  at  peace 
strength  can  only  be  raised  to  war 
strength  either  by  completing  its 
numbers  from  the  "Reserve,  or  by 
volunteers  from  other  battalions ; 
there  is  absolutely  no  other  method, 
because  a  battalion  going  into  the 
field  must  be  composed  of  soldiers 
having  a  service  of  one  year  and  an 


age  of  twenty  years  as  the  mini- 
mum ;  and  the  depots  on  a  sudden 
call  are  unable  to  supply  men  pos- 
sessing these  qualifications.  But 
as  it  would  be  highly  impolitic  to 
employ  the  Reserve  men  compul- 
sorily  for  every  war  requiring  a 
few  battalions  to  be  placed  in  the 
field,  "  volunteering  "  must  be  re- 
sorted to. 

The  late  abuse  of  volunteering 
has  been  rather  unreasonably  em- 
ployed as  an  argument  against  a 
practice  which,  within  restricted 
limits,  constitutes  a  desirable  and 
convenient  assistance  to  the  adju- 
tant-general in  an  emergency.  But 
the  extent  to  which  this  expedient 
should  be  resorted  to  should  be  re- 
duced to  a  minimum  by  always 
maintaining  a  certain  number  of 
battalions  at  war  strength. 

Consequently  the  present  system 
was  based  on  the  condition  that 
the  battalions  at  home  should  be 
maintained  at  a  certain  minimum 
strength.  The  numbers  were  fixed 
both  with  a  view  to  provide  at  an 
early  period  an  adequate  Reserve, 
without  which  "  short  service  "  is 
a  mockery,  and  also  as  the  only 
means  of  maintaining  in  readiness 
for  the  small  wars,  in  which  Eng- 
land is  so  frequently  involved,  a  cer- 
tain number  of  battalions  at  high 
strength. 

Yet  the  number  of  men  on  which 
Lord  Cardwell's  scheme  was  based, 
and  which  were  approved  by  Par- 
liament, were  voted  only  for  one 
year.  In  the  very  next  year  there- 
after the  numbers  were  reduced  by 
more  than  7000  men,  by  the  very 
Government  that  had  established 
the  system ;  and  since  then  the 
numbers  actually  voted  have  made 
it  inevitable  that  the  battalions  first 
for  service  have  been  composed 
nearly  one-half  of  boys  under  eight 
months'  service. 

The  causes  above  enumerated 
were  entirely  due  to  the  political, 


1880.] 


Army  Reform. 


555 


not  to  the  military,  administration 
of  the  army.  As  a  commentary,  the 
following  remarks  from  Napier's 
'  Peninsular  War  '  are  so  applicable, 
that  we  here  reproduce  them: — 

"  War  tries  the  strength  of  the  mili- 
tary framework  ;  it  is  in  peace  that 
the  framework  itself  must  be  formed, 
otherwise  barbarians  would  be  the 
leading  soldiers  of  the  world.  The 
slightest  movement  in  war  requires  a 
great  effort,  and  is  attended  by  many 
vexations  which  the  general  feels 
acutely  and  unceasingly ;  but  the 
politician,  believing  in  no  difficulties 
because  he  finds  none,  neglects  the  sup- 
plies, charges  disaster  on  the  general, 
and  covers  his  misdeeds  with  words. 

"  The  want  of  transport  had  again 
obliged  the  Allies  to  draw  the  stores 
from  Elvas  ;  and  hence  here  (Badajos), 
as  at  Ciudad  Rodrigo,  time  was  neces- 
sarily paid  for  by  the  loss  of  life  ;  or 
rather  the  crimes  of  politicians  were 
atoned  for  by  the  blood  of  the  soldiers. 

"  Why  were  men  thus  sent  to 
slaughter  when  the  application  of  a 
just  science  would  have  rendered  the 
operation  comparatively  easy  ?  Be- 
cause the  English  ministers,  so  ready 
to  plunge  into  war,  were  quite  igno- 
rant of  its  exigencies  ;  because  the 
English  people  are  warlike  without 
being  military,  and  under  pretence  of 
maintaining  a  liberty  they  do  not 
possess,  oppose  in  peace  all  useful 
martial  establishments." 

In  commenting  on  the  foregoing 
quotations,  a  writer  on  army  re- 
form in  '  Fraser's  Magazine,'  of 
April  1871,  remarks  : — 

"  More  than  thirty  years  have  come 
and  gone  since  these  words  were  writ- 
ten, and  it  may  well  be  questioned  if 
the  English  people  have  become  wiser 
in  the  interval.  No  one  can  accuse 
Mr  Gladstone  and  his  colleagues  of  a 
frantic  eagerness  to  plunge  into  war  ; 
and  Sir  W.  Napier  would  probably 
have  been  satisfied  with  the  measure 
of  liberty  to  which  the  English  people 
have  attained  ;  but  their  opposition  to 
martial  establishments  in  peace  tend- 
ing to  increased  estimates,  is  as  strong 
now  as  when  the  historian  wrote. 

"  The  newspapers  which,  before  the 
Franco-German  war,  insisted  on  re- 


duced military  expenditure  at  all 
hazards,  and  which,  under  the  alarm 
created  by  that  war,  urged  on  the  Gov- 
ernment the  most  extreme  measures  to 
remedy  the  mischief  they  had  so  large 
a  share  in  creating,  are  now  oscillating 
back  again  to  the  false  sense  of  secu- 
rity which  recent  events  had  disturbed. 

"While  the  war  lasted,  ballot  for 
the  militia  was  pronounced  indispen- 
sable by  the  least  impulsive  of  the 
English  journals.  Some  of  them  even 
rejected  that  measure  as  not  going  far 
enough.  The  '  Spectator '  declared 
'  No  ballot  M-ill  be  permitted  ;  the 
whole  population  without  exception 
must  be  subjected  to  the  same  train- 
ing.' And  the  'Times'  enunciated 
the  creed  that  '  no  reasons  but  those 
founded  on  false  security,  blindness  to 
change,  indolence  or  pure  folly,  can  be 
given  why  every  man  should  not  have 
a  certain  amount  of  military  training.' 

"  Had  the  war  been  prolonged  even 
a  few  months,  there  is  little  doubt  that 
'conscription'  would  have  been  forced 
by  the  apprehensions  of  the  public  on 
an  unwilling  Ministry.  But  the  cool- 
ing-down process,  dating  from  the  con- 
clusion of  the  armistice,  has  been  very 
rapid  indeed.  We  may  feel  sure  that 
the  opinions  enounced  in  the  '  Times ' 
on  any  given  morning  are  those  which 
have  been  prevalent  for  the  preceding 
day  or  two  in  clubs,  in  rail  way -car- 
riages, and  among  the  mercantile  com- 
munity;  and  so  early  as  the  26th  Jan- 
uary, just  three  days  after  the  first 
hint  of  an  armistice  being  probable, 
that  journal,  soxinding  the  inevitable 
note  of  reaction,  painted  a  glowing 
picture  of  peaceful  prospects  in  Europe 
and  America,  declared  that  we  have 
already  sufficient  soldiers  for  all  our 
wants,  and  concluded  with  a  rhapsody 
on  the  blessings  of  a  general  disarma- 
ment. 

"  It  would  almost  appear  as  if  popu- 
lar institutions  and  an  efficient  army 
were  incompatible.  It  is  a  simple 
matter  that  Parliament,  while  the  im- 
pression of  last  year's  events  is  still 
fresh,  should  vote  fifteen  millions  for 
the  military  service  of  the  year ;  but 
it  is  more  easy  to  vote  this  sum  than 
to  apply  it  profitably,  or  to  induce  the 
country  to  acqxiiesce  in  the  continu- 
ance of  such  an  expenditure  whrn 
danger  no  longer  appears  to  threaten. 
"  How  then,  under  a  popular  form 


55G 


Army  Reform. 


[Xov. 


'  if  Lfovernment,  can  English  Ministers 
be  restrained  from  plavung  fast  and 
loose  with  the  lives  of  English  sol- 
diers ?  The  time,  it  is  feared,  is  yet 
distant  when  'statesmen'  of  either 
party  will  prefer  rather  to  sacrifice 
power  than  to  imperil  the  honour  and 
safety  of  the  country  in  obedience  to 
the  ignorant  cry  of  the  masses.  Mr 
Mundella,  as  the  representative  of  the 
working  men,  has  already  proclaimed 
the  formula  of  their  intelligent  creed 
— '  No  increase  to  the  military  esti- 
mates ; '  and  although  the  increase 
now  proposed  by  the  Government 
may  be  voted  for  the  present  year, 
what  guarantee  exists  that  in  succeed- 
ing years  the  military  charges  shall 
not  become  'small  by  degrees,  and 
beautifully  less,'  to  suit  the  taste  of 
the  constituencies  ?" 

Can  it  be  denied  that  the  fore- 
going remarks  apply  as  forcibly  to 
the  different  Governments  of  this 
country  during  the  last  ten  years 
as  at  the  time  when  they  were 
written?  In  this  matter  both 
parties  are  in  fault. 

The  unsatisfactory  condition  of 
our  infantry  battalions,  which  oc- 
casioned the  convening  of  Lord 
Airey's  Committee,  was  largely  due 
to  the  action  of  Mr  Gladstone's 
Government  in  reducing  the  estab- 
lishments on  the  maintenance  of 
which  the  success  of  their  own 
scheme  absolutely  depended. 

Lord  Beaconsfield's  Government 
chose  to  imperil  our  armies  rather 
than  run  the  risk  of  a  hostile  vote 
by  asking  Parliament  for  funds  to 
meet  the  requirements  of  the  wars 
with  which  we  have  been  threat- 
ened, or  in  which  we  have  been 
engaged,  during  the  last  three 
years;  and,  as  a  consequence,  it 
was  impossible  to  complete  the 
battalions  for  service  in  South 
Africa  with  soldiers  of  proper  age 
and  service  without  destroying  the 
infantry  battalions  remaining  at 
home ;  and  after  all,  the  Zulu  bat- 
talions contained  a  large  infusion 
of  men  under  one  year's  service. 


This  method  of  conducting  our 
affairs  is  simply  childish.  In 
abolishing  "  purchase,"  and  in 
establishing  the  short -service  or- 
ganisation, Mr  Gladstone's  Govern- 
ment were  satisfied  with  making  a 
flash  before  the  public  for  effect ; 
but  they  entirely  neglected  the 
measures  which  could  alone  give 
those  "reforms"  a  fair  chance  of 
success.  The  question  of  promo- 
tion and  retirements  is  one  loudly 
calling  for  a  definite  and  final 
settlement.  And  in  connection 
therewith,  under  the  pressure  exer- 
cised by  his  "honourable  friend, 
the  member  for  the  Border  burghs," 
Mr  Childers  has  pledged  himself  to 
deal  with  "  honorary  colonelcies  " 
and  the  redundant  list  of  generals. 

Mr  Trevelyan  is  an  aspiring  poli- 
tician of  considerable  ability  and 
promise,  but,  like  other  hot  re- 
formers, he  is  somewhat  too  aggres- 
sive. We  would  suggest  to  that 
gentleman  that  Mr  Bright  in  this 
particular  is  a  beacon  for  avoidance 
rather  than  an  example  for  imita- 
tion; that  a  strong  case  is  best  sup- 
ported in  moderate  language;  and 
that  erroneous  or  distorted  facts, 
stated  in  acrimonious  and  exagger- 
ated language,  can  only  damage  the 
cause  they  are  intended  to  serve. 

Eeferring  to  Mr  Trevelyan's 
speech  in  the  House  of  Commons 
reported  in  the  '  Times '  of  the  7th 
July,  all  that  he  says  respecting1 
the  advantage  to  a  country  of  pos- 
sessing young  and  active  generals 
is  indisputable ;  but  he  goes  much 
too  fast  when  he  asserts  that  the 
abolition  of  "  purchase "  provided 
a  tabula  rasa  on  which  a  "perfectly 
new  construction  of  our  army  could 
be  built." 

"  There  never  was  such  a 
chance,"  he  says,  "  for  a  bold  and 
great  administrator  ;  "  meaning,  of 
course,  that  Lord  Cardwell  neg- 
lected or  was  unable  to  avail  him- 
self of  that  chance. 


1880.] 


Army  Reform. 


557 


There  is  nothing  so  sobering  to 
an  enthusiastic  reformer  as  the 
responsibility  of  po wer.  Lord  Card- 
well  was  both  a  bold  and  strong 
administrator;  and  we  venture  to 
think  that  if  Mr  Trevelyan  had 
been  in  Lord  Cardwell's  place  in 
1871,  he  would  have  found  greater 
difficulties  in  his  way  then  as  a 
creator  than  he  finds  now  as  a 
critic. 

According  to  that  gentleman's 
statement,  there  are  in  the  British 
army  626  generals  on  the  active 
list,  and  "  the  retired  list  of  gener- 
als is  one  that  no  man  can  number." 
Whereas,  the  number  on  the  active 
list,  by  the  June  Army  List,  is 
475  ;  and  the  retired  list,  "  that  no 
man  can  number,"  contains  130 — 
and  these  include  generals  of  the 
Royal  Artillery,  Royal  Engineers, 
Royal  Marines,  and  of  the  Indian 
establishment.  He  went  on  to 
say— 

"  The  country  ought  to  know  that 
while,  with  the  help  of  India,  it  was 
paying  three-quarters  of  a  million  of 
money  to  maintain  a  perfect  army  of 
generals,  when  there  was  duty  to  be 
done  in  India  of  the  nature  that  fell 
to  the  lot  of  a  general,  proper  men 
were  not  to  be  found  on  this  endless 
roll ;  but  thirty-four  officers  of  a  lower 
grade  had  to  be  selected,  and  their 
pay  raised,  in  order  to  fulfil  the  duties 
to  which  this  list  of  generals  as  now 
constituted  was,  by  the  confession  of 
the  War  Office  and  the  Horse  Guards, 
unequal." 

The  above  is  both  offensive  and 
incorrect.  Either  Mr  Trevelyan 
has  failed  to  master  his  special  sub- 
ject, even  in  the  ten  years  that  have 
elapsed  since  he  first  took  up  the 
rule  of  army  reformer,  or  he  is  un- 
candid  and  unfair  in  his  treatment 
of  it. 

If  he  did  not  know,  he  ought  to 
have  known,  that  of  the  "  three- 
quarters  of  a  million  of  money  to 
maintain  a  perfect  army  of  generals," 
about  one-third  was  due  to  pay  and 


pensions  of  generals  on  the  old 
Indian  establishment,  —  due,  that 
is,  to  the  remnant  of  an  obsolete 
system  that  was  dying  out,  and 
that  admitted  of  no  remedy. 

Again,  Mr  Trevelyan  knew,  or 
ought  to  have  known,  that  the 
selection  of  officers  of  a  lower 
grade  to  fulfil  the  duties  of  gener- 
als, was  a  measure  adopted  solely 
in  order  to  effect  the  small  saving 
in  each  case  between  the  pay  and 
allowances  of  a  brigadier  and  those 
of  a  major-general,  —  not  because 
the  list  of  generals  was  unable  to 
supply  men  competent  for  their 
duties. 

Again,  when  Mr  Trevelyan  uses 
these  words,  "  Before  promotion 
returns  to  the  same  miserably  slow 
rate  of  progress  at  which  it  crept 
along  before  the  abolition  of  pur- 
chase," we  can  only  conclude  either 
that  the  speaker  was  misreported, 
or  that  he  has  set  up  as  an  army 
reformer  with  a  very  scanty  stock 
of  accurate  knowledge.  The  crea- 
tion of  the  additional  generals  in 
1877  of  which  the  speaker  com- 
plained, was  a  measure  adopted, 
whether  wisely  or  not,  to  remedy 
the  stagnation  of  promotion  which 
had  directly  resulted  from  the 
abolition  of  purchase. 

At  the  time  when  the  Bill  for 
that  purpose  was  under  discussion, 
it  was  evident  it  would  be  incom- 
plete without  some  provision  to 
prevent  the  stagnation  of  promo- 
tion that  must  otherwise  result. 
Indeed  Lord  Cardwell  pledged  the 
Government  to  introduce,  if  neces- 
sary, a  measure  for  that  purpose  ; 
and  it  was  on  the  faith  of  that 
pledge  that  the  Commander  -  in- 
Chief  accepted  the  abolition  of 
purchase  in  the  following  words : — 

"The  Secretary  of  State  for  War 
has  declared  most  distinctly  that  he 
intends  that  the  flow  of  promotion 
shall  be  maintained  at  its  present  rate. 
That  is  the  point  at  issue.  If  the 


558 


Army  Reform. 


[Xov. 


retirements  are  such  that  the  flow  of 
promotion  is  maintained  at  the  same 
rate  without  as  with  '  purchase,'  there 
can  be  no  two  opinions  but  that  it 
is  the  better  way  to  do  away  with 
'purchase.'" — Speech  in  the  House  of 
Lords,  12th  July  1870. 

From  the  time  when  Lord  Card- 
well's  Bill  became  law,  however,  a 
stagnation  of  promotion  set  in,  and 
nothing  was  done  by  Mr  Glad- 
stone's Government  to  alleviate  it. 
It  was  left  to  the  Conservatives, 
after  the  lapse  of  six  years,  to  deal 
with  an  evil  which  had  then  be- 
come urgent.  A  Jloyal  Commis- 
sion reported  on  the  subject  of 
"  promotion  and  retirement ; "  and 
in  compliance  with  their  recom- 
mendations, serious  injustice  has 
been  done  by  compulsorily  retiring 
officers  who,  after  a  given  number 
of  years'  service,  are  still  found  in 
certain  grades.  And  thus  many 
excellent  officers  who  would  have 
obtained  the  promotion  absolving 
them  from  that  regulation  if  the 
pledges  given  by  Mr  Gladstone's 
Government  had  been  fulfilled,  have 
been  compelled  to  retire,  to  the 
ruin  of  their  professional  prospects 
and  of  their  lives. 

Those  pledges  being  unfulfilled, 
there  was  no  justification  for  impos- 
ing compulsory  retirement  on  army 
officers.  The  flow  of  promotion 
should  rather  have  been  restored 
by  the  offer  of  effectual  induce- 
ments to  retire,  at  whatever  cost 

If  the  State  take  forcibly  for  pub- 
lic purposes  the  property  of  an  in- 
dividual worth  «£  10,000,  and  pay 
him  in  compensation  only  £5000, 
the  State  is  a  robber.  But  the  ten- 
dency of  modern  legislation  seems 
more  and  more  to  aim  at  accom- 
plishing "  reforms  "  at  the  expense 
of  classes  or  individuals. 

By  abolishing  slavery  England 
purchased  a  cheap  reputation  for 
philanthropy,  principally  at  the  cost 
of  the  planters. 


The  abolition  of  purchase  has  re- 
sulted largely  in  injustice  and  suffer- 
ing to  the  officers.  And  the  present 
session  of  Parliament  affords  another 
remarkable  example  of  the  tendency 
of  "  Radical "  legislation  in  a  meas- 
ure which  sought  to  throw  all  the 
burden  of  the  suffering  occasioned 
by  the  "act  of  God"  on  a  class 
the  least  able  to  bear  it,  and  who 
were  themselves  suffering  from  that 
act. 

" Fiat  justitia"  &c.,  is  a  favour- 
ite motto  in  the  mouths  of  the 
Liberal  party  when  it  suits  them ; 
but  if  it  had  been  equitably  applied 
in  the  above  instances,  none  of  the 
classes  concerned  should  have  borne 
a  larger  proportionate  share  of  the 
cost  than  the  remainder  of  the 
community. 

The  bonus  system  which,  under 
"  purchase,"  represented  the  over- 
regulation  prices,  would  of  itself 
have  continued  to  provide  the  re- 
quisite flow  of  promotion.  But 
the  bonus  system  was  forbidden, 
partly  on  the  ground  of  its  im- 
morality, partly  according  to  the 
"big- drum"  style  of  declamation 
dear  to  the  doctrinaires,  on  the 
ground  that  merit,  and  not  money, 
should  be  the  only  passport  to  ad- 
vancement in  the  armies  of  Eng- 
land. 

As  regards  the  first,  we  are  unable 
to  perceive  anything  objectionable 
in  a  practice  by  which  one  officer 
paid  another  to  make  for  him,  a 
little  earlier,  a  vacancy  to  which 
a  little  later  he  would  succeed  as 
a  matter  of  right,  provided  he  tcere 
efficient.  Any  qualifying  tests 
might  be  as  rigidly  applied  under 
a  "  purchase  "  as  under  a  "  non-pur- 
chase" system;  for  before  promot- 
ing any  officer,  the  Commander-in- 
Chief  need  only  consider  whether 
the  aspirant  was  thoroughly  quali- 
fied, without  regard  to  any  money 
he  might  have  paid  by  anticipation. 
Indeed,  the  fear  of  losing  the  money 


1880.] 


Army  Reform. 


559 


so  paid  would  afford  an  additional 
incentive  to  efficiency. 

The  bonus  system,  however,  would 
be  incompatible  with  "  selection  by 
merit,"  because  no  officer  would  pay 
another  to  create  a  vacancy  unless 
his  succession  was  reasonably  cer- 
tain. The  reasonable  certainty 
would  depend  on  two  conditions — 
that  the  aspirant  should  be  senior 
of  his  grade,  and  that  he  should 
be  properly  qualified. 

Anything  like  a  just  system  of 
selection  by  merit,  however,  is,  in 
the  army,  impossible  except  in  time 
of  war.  Other  professions  afford 
scope  for  the  display  of  superior 
ability,  and  merit  earns  advance- 
ment by  the  operation  of  "  natural 
selection;"  in  the  struggle  for  ex- 
istence the  strongest  rise  to  the  top. 

But  in  the  army  advancement 
would  depend  on  an  artificial  selec- 
tion, although  during  the  dead  level 
of  peace  there  is  no  opportunity  for 
the  display  of  such  differences  in 
military  ability,  or  of  those  qualities 
valuable  in  the  man  of  action,  which 
could  justify  the  selector  in  disturb- 
ing the  course  of  seniority  in  army 
promotion. 

Considering  also  the  fallibility  of 
human  judgment,  and  the  influences 
to  which,  notably  in  England,  the 
selector  would  be  liable,  the  chances 
of  injustice  would  be  infinitely  less 
under  a  "  seniority  "  promotion  than 
under  "selection,"  however  honest 
the  selector  might  be. 

The  '  Times,'  in  a  leading  article 
of  29th  July,  forecasting  the  changes 
likely  to  be  proposed  by  Mr  Chil- 
ders,  says  that  he  "  has  already 
announced  his  intention  of  read- 
justing the  active  list  of  generals  in 
accordance  with  the  public  require- 
ments ;"  but  "  it  would  probably  be 
too  much  to  expect  him  also  to  in- 
terfere with  the  custom  under  which 
mere  seniority  remains  the  qualifica- 
tion for  regimental  command." 

It  is,  fortunately,  true  that  regi- 


mental seniority  remains  still  one 
of  the  principal  elements  to  be 
taken  into  account  in  determining 
regimental  promotion.  '  The  other 
qualifications  are  —  efficiency,  and 
a  certain  minimum  period  of  service. 
If  an  officer,  though  senior  of  his 
grade,  does  not  possess  the  two  last 
qualifications,  an  officer  from  some 
other  regiment  is  selected  for  pro- 
motion in  his  stead.  To  push  selec- 
tion beyond  this  would  be  mischiev- 
ous in  the  extreme. 

If  "  selection,"  in  the  sense  in 
which  it  is  advocated  by  the  doc- 
trinaires, means  anything,  it  means 
something  as  follows : — 

A  vacant  majority  is  to  be  filled 
up.  Of  the  three  senior  captains, 
who  have  had  no  opportunity  of 
proving  their  capacity  in  the  field, 
the  first  is  judged  to  be  a  fair  offi- 
cer, the  second  better,  the  third 
best.  If  selection  is  to  be  a  reality, 
the  third  captain  should  succeed  to 
the  first  vacant  majority,  and  the 
second  captain  to  the  second  va- 
cancy, the  first  captain  being  twice 
passed  over. 

If  it  should  be  replied  that  it  is 
not  intended  to  discriminate  be- 
tween approximate  shades  of  merit, 
it  follows  that  this  theoretical  selec- 
tion would  resolve  itself  into  a  sys- 
tem of  seniority,  modified  by  the 
veto  in  cases  of  incompetency  or 
insufficient  service. 

The  only  officer  of  any  experi- 
ence who  advocated  "  selection  " 
was  the  late  Lord  Sandhurst,  on 
the  ground  of  its  alleged  success  in 
reorganising  the  Indian  army  after 
the  Mutiny.  Admitting,  for  the 
sake  of  argument,  the  "  success," 
it  aifords  no  analogy.  The  selector 
in  India  is  not  exposed  to  the  social 
and  political  influences  by  which 
the  selection  in  England  is  beset. 
Moreover,  owing  to  the  Mutiny,  the 
regiments  of  the  Indian  army  in 
great  measure  disappeared,  and  the 
officers  became  unattached  at  one 


560 


Army  Reform. 


[Nov. 


stroke.  The  principle  of  selection 
was  then  applied  to  this  unattached 
list  for  the  purpose  of  officering  the 
new  corps  as  they  were  successively 
formed  ;  and  the  fortunate  individ- 
ual selected  need  never  come  in 
contact  with  the  man  over  whose 
head  he  had  been  lifted. 

The  English  army,  on  the  other 
hand,  consists  of  regiments  whose 
officers  are  in  hourly  intercourse ; 
and  the  members  of  the  regimental 
family  would,  under  a  system  of 
selection  by  merit,  live  in  a  perpet- 
ual atmosphere  of  jealousy  and  ill- 
feeling. 

Again,  the  advocates  of  selection 
assert  that  it  has  provided  the  navy 
with  a  body  of  highly  instructed 
officers,  while  "  purchase  "  failed  to 
provide  properly  instructed  officers 
for  the  army. 

But  here,  as  in  the  case  of  India, 
there  is  no  analogy  between  the 
two  services.  The  officers  of  the 
navy,  like  those  of  the  Indian 
army,  form  one  list  in  order  of 
seniority;  while,  in  the  army,  there 
are  as  many  lists  as  regiments.  A 
regiment  is  always  in  commission, 
and  its  officers  are  permanent.  A 
ship  is  commissioned,  and  her  offi- 
cers are  associated  only  during  three 
years.  In  the  navy,  the  officer 
selected  in  preference  to  another 
may  never  come  in  contact  with 
the  man  he  supersedes.  In  a  regi- 
ment, the  superseder  and  the  super- 
seded would  sit  daily  at  the  same 
board. 

The  superiority  of  naval  officers 
in  the  matter  of  professional  know- 
ledge is  in  no  degree  due  to  "  selec- 
tion," but  results  from  a  severe 
system  of  instruction,  which  is 
rigidly  enforced,  on  the  ground  of 
a  necessity  that  makes  itself  felt 
every  hour.  A  ship  in  commission 
is  always  in  presence  of  the  enemy, 
and  the  lives  of  a  whole  ship's 
company  depend  for  many  hours 
out  of  every  twenty-four,  on  the 


professional  skill  of  some  subordi- 
nate officer. 

It  was  a  favourite  argument  with 
the  "  purchase "  abolitionists  that 
the  professional  training  of  German 
officers  was  far  superior  to  our  own 
— a  superiority,  however,  that  could 
not  have  been  due  to  "  selection," 
since  promotion  in  the  German 
army  was,  and  still  is,  as  a  rule, 
by  seniority.  The  depredators  of 
English  officers  were  therefore 
driven  to  attribute  their  inferior- 
ity in  training  to  the  purchase 
system.  Speaking  in  the  House 
of  Peers,  Lord  Northbrook  stated 
that,  under  the  system  of  "  pur- 
chase "  it  was  impossible  to  secure 
what  he  called  a  professional  body 
of  officers,  because  so  many  of  all 
ranks  yearly  left  the  army  by  sale, 
that  "however  anxious  officers 
might  be  to  acquire  a  knowledge  of 
their  profession,  it  was  utterly  im- 
possible the  majority  could  do  so 
while  those  rapid  changes  went  on." 

But  we  would  ask,  in  the  name 
of  common-sense,  what  was  there 
to  prevent  "  the  majority "  who 
remained  in  the  army,  and  who 
constituted  the  field-officers,  cap- 
tains and  subalterns  of  the  time 
being,  from  acquiring  an  adequate 
knowledge  of  their  profession,  sup- 
posing an  efficient  system  of  in- 
struction to  have  been  enforced  1 
Six  years  are  surely  sufficient  for 
mastering  the  mysteries  of  a  sub- 
altern's duties ;  and  "  purchase  "  or 
"  no  purchase,"  it  would  be  solely 
due  to  the  incapacity  of  the  ad- 
ministration, if  a  subaltern  who 
might  leave  the  army  at  the  end 
of  six  years  were  not  as  efficient 
as  any  other  subaltern  of  the  same 
standing  who  might  intend  passing 
his  life  in  the  service. 

"  A  professional  body  of  officers," 
in  the  sense  in  which  the  officers 
of  the  French  army  were  profes- 
sional at  the  time  of  the  Franco- 
German  war,  is  by  no  means  to 


1880.] 


Army  Reform. 


561 


be  desired.  It  is  of  consequence 
to  a  country  like  our  own,  exposed 
to  jealousy,  and  whose  motto  on 
the  outbreak  of  war  has  always 
been  the  converse  of  "  Beady,  aye 
ready,"  to  possess  a  large  number 
of  retired  officers  among  the  civilian 
population.  And  the  number  of 
men  who,  under  "  purchase,"  yearly 
left  the  army  by  sale,  did  provide 
a  very  large  number  of  instructed 
officers  who  would  have  been  avail- 
able to  officer  the  militia  and  volun- 
teers on  an  emergency. 

The  rapid  organisation  of  the 
American  armies  during  the  civil 
war  was  only  rendered  possible  by 
the  number  of  West  Point  gradu- 
ates, of  whom  not  one-fifth  embraced 
the  army  as  a  profession,  who  were 
found  engaged  in  civil  pursuits  in 
every  State  of  the  Union. 

But  an  ounce  of  experience  is 
worth  a  pound  of  precept,  and  we 
are  able  to  cite  in  favour  of  a  sys- 
tem of  "seniority"  promotion,  the 
experience  of  the  Franco-German 
war.  For  many  years  before  the 
commencement  of  that  struggle, 
the  French  army  had  been  officered 
largely  from  the  ranks,  and  promo- 
tions were  determined  by  "selec- 
tion," or  nominally  by  merit — just 
the  system  Mr  Trevelyan  would 
introduce  among  ourselves.  Yet 
the  annihilation  of  the  French 
regular  army  was  largely  due  to 
the  incapacity  of  the  officers.  Gen- 
eral Trochu,  writing  three  years 
earlier,  complained  that,  whereas 
the  English  soldiers  when  allied 
with  the  French  were  scrupulous 
iu  paying  the  proper  military 
marks  of  respect  to  French  officers, 
the  latter  could  not  obtain  such 
marks  from  their  own  soldiers. 
And  we  know  that,  in  the  war  of 
1870-71,  French  officers  had  no 
command  over  their  men,  and  that 
the  soldiers  under  reverses  became 
as  dangerous  to  their  superiors  as 
wild  beasts. 


On  the  other  hand,  we  find  that 
the  Prussian  army,  whose  soldiers 
submitted  to  an  iron  discipline,  was 
officered  largely  by  nobles  personally 
devoted  to  the  sovereign,  and  that 
the  system  of  promotion  was  practi- 
cally (and  still  is)  one  of  pure  seni- 
ority, tempered  by  the  veto — the 
prerogative  which  the  Emperor  pos- 
sessed, to  the  same  extent  only  as 
the  English  sovereign,  of  promoting 
officers  at  pleasure  being  rarely 
exercised. 

We  have  no  desire  to  push  the 
above  comparison  beyond  its  fair 
value ;  but  when  we  find,  on  the 
one  hand,  a  system  of  promotion 
by  selection  coexisting  with  invari- 
able disaster,  and  on  the  other  hand 
a  system  of  promotion  by  seniority, 
accompanied  by  uniform  success, 
we  do  say  that  a  prudent  legislator 
should  take  these  facts  into  account 
before  seeking  to  introduce  "  selec- 
tion "  in  the  army  of  England. 

"To  readjust  the  active  list  of 
gen'erals  in  accordance  with  public 
requirements,"  is  an  undertaking  in 
which  Mr  Childers  will  find  con- 
siderable difficulty.  The  conditions 
of  such  a  measure  must  be, — firstly, 
the  equitable  treatment  of  existing 
generals ;  secondly,  the  maintenance 
of  such  a  plan  of  promotion  as  will 
provide  officers  of  suitable  age  in 
their  respective  grades. 

The  army  reformers  are  fluent 
when  they  treat  of  pulling  down 
existing  institutions,  but  are  dumb 
in  respect  to  building  up  again. 

The  reduction  of  the  redundant 
list  of  generals  from  600  to  Mr 
Trevelyan's  figure  of  less  than  100, 
can  only  be  accomplished  by  pro 
tanto  retarding  promotion  in  the 
lower  grades.  The  number  of  in- 
fantry and  cavalry  colonels  pro- 
moted to  be  major-generals  in  1878 
was  13  ;  the  number  promoted  in 
1879  was  9  ;  the  average  number 
under  existing  arrangements  does 
not  certainly  exceed  14.  The  aver- 


562 


A  rmy  Reform. 


[Nov. 


age  number  of  vacancies  by  death, 
however,  among  the  general  officers 
is  about  20,  every  third  vacancy 
only  being  filled  by  promotion  j 
and  thus,  even  though  all  promo- 
tions from  colonel  were  stopped 
until  the  list  should  be  reduced  to 
100,  it  would  take  twenty-five 
years  to  effect  the  desired  readjust- 
ment. 

Again,  the  abolition  of  honorary 
colonelcies  on  anything  like  an 
equitable  plan  would  be  a  costly 
measure.  Heretofore  the  nominal 
connection  of  a  general  officer  with 
a  regiment  as  its  colonel,  has  been 
a  mark  of  honour  and  emolument 
which  the  recipient  could  hold  at 
the  same  time  with  an  active  com- 
mand. It  is  now  proposed  to  sub- 
stitute for  an  honorary  colonelcy  a 
certain  increase  of  pay,  in  the  shape 
of  pension,  and  to  establish  a  har- 
mony between  the  military  and 
civil  services,  by  limiting  the  grant- 
ing of  such  military  pensions  to 
officers  who  have  completed  their 
active  service  and  are  not  eligible 
for  active  commands. 

The  principle  is  intelligible,  and, 
indeed,  unexceptionable ;  but  it 
will  be  difficult  to  determine  where 
the  line  shall  be  drawn  between 
generals  now  holding  honorary 
colonelcies  as  well  as  active  com- 
mands, and  those  who  are  only  ex- 
pectants of  both. 

All  the  475  generals  now  on  the 
active  list  joined  the  army  under 
the  guarantees  of  the  purchase 
system.  A  large  proportion  sank 
at  least  .£5000,  many  of  them  much 
more,  to  obtain  the  rank  of  lieut.- 
colonel,  the  whole  capital  sum  being 
absolutely  lost  on  promotion  to 
general's  rank.  These  men  have 


given  to  the  country  the  service 
of  their  lives  plus  a  large  sum  of 
money  ;  and  what  do  they  receive 
in  return  ?  By  far  the  greater 
number  never  obtain  active  em- 
ployment ;  and  their  pay — in  this 
case  really  a  pension — amounts  to 
£450  a-year,  a  sum  less  than  the 
annuity  they  might  have  purchased 
with  the  money  expended  on  pro- 
motion, if  they  had  never  given  a 
day's  service  to  their  country. 

It  can  hardly  be  denied  that,  in 
consideration  of  their  life  service, 
and  of  their  money  expenditure, 
by  which  the  State  has  directly 
benefited,  a  certain  balance  is 
due  to  these  officers ;  and  that 
balance  is  represented  by  a  vested 
interest  in  the  succession  not  only 
to  honorary  colonelcies,  but  to  ac- 
tive commands  in  addition.  It 
would  surely  be  a  breach  of  faith 
to  deprive  existing  generals  of 
that  vested  interest  without  a  full 
equivalent.  If  honorary  colonelcies 
are  abolished,  the  unattached  pay 
of  all  general  officers  should  be 
equitably  increased,  the  increase 
being  proportionate  to  the  grade. 
And  if  it  should  be  ruled  that 
in  future  a  general  holding  an  ac- 
tive command  shall  not  be  eligible 
for  an  honorary  colonelcy,  or  the 
equivalent  increase  of  pay,  the 
emoluments  of  the  active  com- 
mands must  in  equity  be  pro  tanto 
increased. 

Thus  the  change  proposed,  which 
would  be  really  a  change  more  in 
name  than  in  fact,  would  be  the 
reverse  of  economical ;  and  we  are 
inclined  to  think  that  Mr  Childers 
will  find  himself  confronted  with 
such  difficulties,  that  his  decision 
wiU  be,  "Rest  and  be  thankful." 


1880.] 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  VII. 


563 


DR   WORTLE'S   SCHOOL. — PART  vn. 


CHAPTER  xix. — "NOBODY  HAS  CONDEMNED  YOU  HERE." 


MRS  WORTLE  when  she  perceived 
that  her  husband  no  longer  called 
on  Mrs  Peacocke  alone  became  her- 
self more  assiduous  in  her  visits, 
till  at  last  she  too  entertained  a 
great  liking  for  the  woman.  When 
Mr  Peacocke  had  been  gone  for 
nearly  a  month  she  had  fallen  into 
a  habit  of  going  across  every  day 
after  the  performance  of  her  own 
domestic  morning  duties  and  re- 
maining in  the  schoolhouse  for  an 
hour.  On  one  morning  she  found 
that  Mrs  Peacocke  had  just  re- 
ceived a  letter  from  New  York  in 
which  he  had  narrated  his  adven- 
tures so  far.  He  had  written  from 
Southampton,  but  not  after  the 
revelation  which  had  been  made  to 
him  there  as  to  the  death  of  Fer- 
dinand. He  might  have  so  written, 
but  the  information  given  to  him 
had,  at  the  spur  of  the  moment, 
seemed  to  him  to  be  so  doubtful 
that  he  had  refrained.  Then  he 
had  been  able  to  think  of  it  all 
during  the  voyage,  and  from  New 
York  he  had  written  at  great 
length,  detailing  everything.  Mrs 
Peacocke  did  not  actually  read  out 
loud  the  letter,  which  was  full  of 
such  terms  of  affection  as  are  com- 
mon between  man  and  wife,  know- 
ing that  her  title  to  be  called  a 
wife  was  not  admitted  by  Mrs 
Wortle  ;  but  she  read  much  of  it, 
and  told  all  the  circumstances  as 
they  were  related. 

"  Then,"  said  Mrs  Wortle,  "  he 
certainly  is  —  no  more."  There 
came  a  certain  accession  of  sadness 
to  her  voice,  as  she  reflected  that, 
after  all,  she  was  talking  to  this 
woman  of  the  death  of  her  un- 
doubted husband. 

"  Yes  ;    he  is  dead  —  at  last." 


Mrs  Wortle  uttered  a  deep  sigh. 
It  was  dreadful  to  her  to  think 
that  a  woman  should  speak  in  that 
way  of  the  death  of  her  husband. 
"  I  know  all  that  is  going  on  in 
your  inind,"  said  Mrs  Peacocke, 
looking  up  into  her  face. 

"Do  you?" 

"  Every  thought.  You  are  telling 
yourself  how  terrible  it  is  that  a 
woman  should  speak  of  the  death 
of  her  husband  without  a  tear  in 
her  eye,  without  a  sob, — without 
one  word  of  sorrow." 

"  It  is  very  sad." 

"  Of  course  it  is  sad.  Has  it  not 
all  been  sad  1  But  what  would  you 
have  me  do  1  It  is  not  because  he 
was  always  bad  to  me, — because  he 
marred  all  my  early  life,  making  it 
so  foul  a  blotch  that  I  hardly  dare 
to  look  back  upon  it  from  the 
quietness  and  comparative  purity 
of  these  latter  days.  It  is  not  be- 
cause he  has  so  treated  me  as  to 
make  me  feel  that  it  has  been  a 
misfortune  to  me  to  be  born,  that 
I  now  receive  these  tidings  witli 
joy.  It  is  because  of  him  who  has 
always  been  good  to  me  as  the 
other  was  bad,  who  has  made  me 
wonder  at  the  noble  instincts  of  a 
man,  as  the  other  has  made  me 
shudder  at  his  possible  meanness." 

"It  has 'been  very  hard  upon 
you,"  said  Mrs  Wortle. 

"  And  hard  upon  him,  who  is 
dearer  to  me  than  my  own  soul. 
Think  of  his  conduct  to  me  !  How 
he  went  away  to  ascertain  the 
truth  when  he  first  heard  tidings 
which  made  him  believe  that  I  was 
free  to  become  his  !  How  he  must 
have  loved  me  then,  when,  after  all 
my  troubles,  he  took  me  to  himself 
at  the  first  moment  that  was  pos- 


564 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  VII. 


sible  !  Think,  too,  what  he  has 
done  for  me  since,  and  I  for  him  ! 
How  I  have  marred  his  life,  while 
he  has  striven  to  repair  mine  !  Do 
I  not  owe  him  everything  ? " 

"  Everything,"  said  Mrs  Wortle, 
— "  except  to  do  what  is  wrong." 

"I  did  do  what  was  wrong. 
Would  not  you  have  done  so  under 
such  circumstances?  Would  not 
you  have  obeyed  the  man  who  had 
been  to  you  so  true  a  husband 
while  he  believed  himself  entitled 
to  the  name  1  Wrong  !  I  doubt 
whether  it  was  wrong.  It  is  hard 
to  know  sometimes  what  is  right 
and  what  is  wrong.  What  he  told 
me  to  do,  that  to  me  was  right. 
Had  he  told  me  to  go  away  and 
leave  him,  I  should  have  gone, — 
and  have  died.  I  suppose  that 
would  have  been  right."  She 
paused  as  though  she  expected  an 
answer.  But  the  subject  was  so 
difficult  that  Mrs  Wortle  was  un- 
able to  make  one.  "  I  have  some- 
times wished  that  he  had  done  so. 
But  as  I  think  of  it  when  I  am 
alone,  I  feel  how  impossible  that 
would  have  been  to  him.  He  could 
not  have  sent  me  away.  That 
which  you  call  right  would  have 
been  impossible  to  him  whom  I 
regard  as  the  most  perfect  of  hu- 
man beings.  As  far  as  I  know 
him,  he  is  faultless  ;  —  and  yet, 
according  to  your  judgment,  he  has 
committed  a  sin  so  deep  that  he 
must  stand  disgraced  before  the 
eyes  of  all  men." 

"  I  have  not  said  so." 

"  It  comes  to  that.  I  know  how 
good  you  are ; — how  much  I  owe 
to  you.  I  know  that  Dr  Wortle 
and  yourself  have  been  so  kind  to 
us,  that  were  I  not  grateful  beyond 
expression  I  should  be  the  mean- 
est human  creature.  Do  not  sup- 
pose that  I  am  angry  or  vexed 
with  you  because  you  condemn 
me.  It  is  necessary  that  you  should 
do  so.  But  how  can  I  condemn 


[Xov. 

myself; — or  how  can  I  condemn 
him?" 

"  If  you  are  both  free  now,  it 
may  be  made  right." 

"  But  how  about  repentance  1 
Will  it  be  all  right  though  I  shall 
not  have  repented  ?  I  will  never 
repent.  There  are  laws  in  accord- 
ance with  which  I  will  admit  that 
I  have  done  wrong ;  but  had  I  not 
broken  those  laws  when  he  bade 
me,  I  should  have  hated  myself 
through  all  my  life  afterwards." 

"  It  was  very  different." 

"  If  you  could  know,  Mrs  Wortle, 
how  difficult  it  would  have  been 
to  go  away  and  leave  him  !  It  was 
not  till  he  came  to  me  and  told  me 
that  he  was  going  down  to  Texas, 
to  see  how  it  had  been  with  my 
husband,  that  I  ever  knew  what  it 
was  to  love  a  man.  He  had  never 
said  a  word.  He  tried  not  to  look 
it.  But  I  knew  that  I  had  his 
heart  and  that  he  had  mine.  From 
that  moment  I  have  thought  of 
him  day  and  night.  When  I  gave 
him  my  hand  then  as  he  parted 
from  me,  I  gave  it  him  as  his  own. 
It  has  been  his  to  do  what  he  liked 
with  it  ever  since,  let  who  might 
live  or  who  might  die.  Ought  I 
not  to  rejoice  that  he  is  dead?" 
Mrs  Wortle  could  not  answer  the 
question.  She  could  only  shudder. 
"  It  was  not  by  any  will  of  my 
own,"  continued  the  eager  woman, 
"  that  I  married  Ferdinand  Lefroy. 
Everything  in  our  country  was 
then  destroyed.  All  that  we  loved 
and  all  that  we  valued  had  been 
taken  away  from  us.  War  had 
destroyed  everything.  When  I  was 
just  springing  out  of  childhood,  we 
were  ruined.  We  had  to  go,  all  of 
us, — women  as  well  as  men,  girls  as 
well  as  boys, — and  be  something 
else  than  we  had  been.  I  was 
told  to  marry  him." 

"  That  was  wrong." 

"  When  everything  is  in  ruin 
about  you,  what  room  is  there  for 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  VII. 


1880.] 

ordinary  welldoing?  It  seemed  then 
that  he  would  have  some  remnant 
of  property.  Our  fathers  had  known 
each  other  long.  The  wretched 
man  whom  drink  afterwards  made 
so  vile  might  have  been  as  good 
a  gentleman  as  another,  if  things 
had  gone  well  with  him.  He  could 
not  have  been  a  hero  like  him 
whom  I  will  always  call  my  hus- 
band ; — but  it  is  not  given  to  every 
man  to  be  a  hero." 

"  Was  he  bad  always  from  the 
first  1 " 

"  He  always  drank, — from  his 
wedding-day ;  and  then  Eobert  was 
with  him,  who  was  worse  than  he. 
Between  them  they  were  very  bad. 
My  life  was  a  burden  to  me.  It 
was  terrible.  It  was  a  comfort  to 
me  even  to  be  deserted  and  to  be 
left.  Then  came  this  Englishman 
in  my  way  ;  and  it  seemed  to  me, 
on  a  sudden,  that  the  very  nature 
of  mankind  was  altered.  He  did 
not  lie  when  he  spoke.  He  was 
never  debased  by  drink.  He  had 
other  care  than  for  himself.  For 
himself,  I  think,  he  never  cared. 
Since  he  has  been  here,  in  the 
school,  have  you  found  any  cause 
of  fault  in  him  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed." 

"  No,  indeed  !  nor  ever  will ; — 
unless  it  be  a  fault  to  love  a  woman 
as  he  loves  me.  See  what  he  is 
doing  now, — when  he  has  gone, — 
what  he  has  to  suffer,  coupled  as 
he  is  with  that  wretch  !  And  all 
for  my  sake  !  " 

"  For  both  your  sakes." 

"  He  would  have  been  none  the 
worse  had  he  chosen  to  part  with 
me.  He  was  in  no  trouble.  I  was 
not  his  wife ;  and  he  need  only — • 
bid  me  go.  There  would  have  been 
no  sin  with  him  then, — no  wrong. 
Had  he  followed  out  your  right  and 
your  wrong,  and  told  me  that,  as  we 
could  not  be  man  and  wife,  we 
must  just  part,  he  would  have  been 
in  no  trouble ; — would  he  ? " 


565 


"  I  don't  know  how  it  would 
have  been  then,"  said  Mrs  "Wortle, 
who  was  by  this  time  sobbing  aloud 
in  tears. 

"  No  ; — nor  I ;  nor  I.  I  should 
have  been  dead, — but  he?  He  is 
a  sinner  now,  so  that  he  may  not 
preach  in  your  churches,  or  teach 
in  your  schools  ; — so  that  your  dear 
husband  has  to  be  ruined  almost 
because  he  has  been  kind  to  him. 
He  then  might  have  preached  in 
any  church, — have  taught  in  any 
school.  What  am  I  to  think  that 
God  will  think  of  it?  Will  God 
condemn  him  ? " 

"  We  must  leave  that  to  Him," 
sobbed  Mrs  Wortle. 

"Yes; — but  in  thinking  of  our 
souls  we  must  reflect  a  little  as  to 
what  we  believe  to  be  probable. 
He,  you  say,  has  sinned, — is  sin- 
ning still  in  calling  me  his  wife. 
Am  I  not  to  believe  that  if  he  were 
called  to  his  long  account  he  would 
stand  there  pure  and  bright,  in  glori- 
ous garments, — one  fit  for  heaven, 
because  he  has  loved  others  bet- 
ter than  he  has  loved  himself, 
because  he  has  done  to  others  as 
he  might  have  wished  that  they 
should  do  to  him?  I  do  believe 
it !  Believe !  I  know  it.  And 
if  so,  what  am  I  to  think  of  his 
sin,  or  of  my  own?  Not  to  obey 
him,  not  to  love  him,  not  to  do 
in  everything  as  he  counsels  me, — 
that,  to  me,  would  be  sin.  To  the 
best  of  my  conscience  he  is  my 
husband  and  my  master.  I  will 
not  go  into  the  rooms  of  such  as 
you,  Mrs  Wortle,  good  and  kind  as 
you  are  ;  but  it  is  not  because  I  do 
not  think  myself  fit.  It  is  because 
I  will  not  injure  you  in  the  esti- 
mation of  those  who  do  not  know 
what  is  fit  and  what  is  unfit.  I 
am  not  ashamed  of  myself.  I  owe 
it  to  him  to  blush  for  nothing  that 
he  has  caused  me  to  do.  I  have  but 
two  judges, — the  Lord  in  heaven, 
and  he,  my  husband,  upon  earth." 


5GG 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  VII. 


"  Nobody  has  condemned  you 
here." 

"Yes; — they  have  condemned 
me.  But  I  am  not  angry  at  that. 
You  do  not  think,  Mrs  Wortle, 
that  I  can  be  angry  with  you, — so 
kind  as  you  have  been,  so  generous, 
so  forgiving; — the  more  kind  be- 
cause you  think  that  we  are  deter- 
mined, headstrong  sinners?  Oh 
no  !  It  is  natural  that  you  should 
think  so, — but  I  think  differently. 
Circumstances  have  so  placed  me 
that  they  have  made  me  unfit  for 
your  society.  If  I  had  no  decent 
gown  to  wear,  or  shoes  to  my  feet, 
I  should  be  unfit  also ; — but  not  on 
that  account  disgraced  in  my  own 
estimation.  I  comfort  myself  by 
thinking  that  I  cannot  be  altogether 
bad  when  a  man  such  as  he  has 
loved  me  and  does  love  me." 

The  two  women,  when  they 
parted  on  that  morning,  kissed 
each  other,  which  they  had  not 
done  before ;  and  Mrs  Wortle  had 
been  made  to  doubt  whether,  after 
all,  the  sin  had  been  so  very  sinful. 
She  did  endeavour  to  ask  herself 
whether  she  would  not  have  done 
the  same  in  the  same  circumstances. 
The  woman,  she  thought,  must  have 
been  right  to  have  married  the  man 
whom  she  loved,  when  she  heard 
that  that  first  horrid  husband  was 
dead.  There  could,  at  any  rate, 
have  been  no  sin  in  that.  And 
then,  what  ought  she  to  have  done 
when  the  dead  man, — dead  as  he 
was  supposed  to  have  been, — burst 
into  her  room  ?  Mrs  Wortle, — who 
found  it  indeed  extremely  difficult 
to  imagine  herself  to  be  in  such  a 
position, — did  at  last  acknowledge 
that,  in  such  circumstances,  she  cer- 
tainly would  have  done  whatever 
Dr  Wortle  had  told  her.  She  could 
not  bring  it  nearer  to  herself  than 
that.  She  could  not  suggest  to 
herself  two  men  as  her  own  hus- 
bands. She  could  not  imagine 
that  the  Doctor  had  been  either 


[Nov. 

the  bad  husband,  who  had  unex- 
pectedly come  to  life,  —  or  the 
good  husband,  who  would  not,  in 
truth,  be  her  husband  at  all ;  but 
she  did  determine,  in  her  own 
mind,  that,  however  all  that  might 
have  been,  she  would  clearly  have 
done  whatever  the  Doctor  told  her. 
She  would  have  sworn  to  obey  him, 
even  though,  when  swearing,  she 
should  not  have  really  married 
him ;  and  there  would  have  been 
no  other  course  open  to  her.  It 
was  terrible  to  think  of, — so  ter- 
rible that  she  could  not  quite  think 
of  it ;  but  in  struggling  to  think  of 
it  her  heart  was  softened  towards 
this  other  woman.  After  that  day 
she  never  spoke  further  of  the 
woman's  sin. 

Of  course  she  told  it  all  to  the 
Doctor, — not  indeed  explaining  the 
working  of  her  own  mind  as  to  that 
suggestion  that  he  should  have  been, 
in  his  first  condition,  a  very  bad 
man,  and  have  been  reported  dead, 
and  have  come  again,  in  a  second 
shape,  as  a  good  man.  She  kept 
that  to  herself.  But  she  did  en- 
deavour to  describe  the  effect  upon 
herself  of  the  description  the  woman 
had  given  her  of  her  own  conduct. 

"  I  don't  quite  know  how  she 
could  have  done  otherwise,"  said 
Mrs  Wortle. 

"Nor  I  either;  I  have  always 
said  so." 

"It  would  have  been  so  very  hard 
to  go  away,  when  he  told  her  not." 

"  It  would  have  been  very  hard 
to  go  away,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  if 
he  had  told  her  to  do  so.  Where 
was  she  to  go  1  What  was  she  to 
do?  They  had  been  brought  to- 
gether by  circumstances,  in  such  a 
manner  that  it  was,  so  to  say,  im- 
possible that  they  should  part.  It 
is  not  often  that  one  comes  across 
events  like  these,  so  altogether  out 
of  the  ordinary  course  that  the 
common  rules  of  life  seem  to  be 
insufficient  for  guidance.  To  most 


1880.] 


of  us  it  never  happens ;  and  it  is 
better  for  us  that  it  should  not 
happen.  But  when  it  does,  one  is 
forced  to  go  beyond  the  common 
rules.  It  is  that  feeling  which  has 
made  me  give  them  my  protection. 
It  has  been  a  great  misfortune ;  but, 
placed  as  I  was,  I  could  not  help 
myself.  I  could  not  turn  them 
out.  It  was  clearly  his  duty  to 
go,  and  almost  as  clearly  mine  to 
give  her  shelter  till  he  should 
come  back." 

"A  great  misfortune,  Jeffrey." 

"  I  am  afraid  so.  Look  at  this." 
Then  he  handed  to  her  a  letter 
from  a  nobleman  living  at  a  great 
distance, — at  a  distance  so  great 
that  Mrs  Stantiloup  would  hardly 
have  reached  him  there, — express- 
ing his  intention  to  withdraw  his 
two  boys  from  the  school  at  Christ- 
mas. 

"  He  doesn't  give  this  as  a 
reason." 

"No  ;  we  are  not  acquainted  with 
each  other  personally,  and  he  could 
hardly  have  alluded  to  my  conduct 
in  this  matter.  It  was  easier  for 
him  to  give  a  mere  notice  such  as 
this.  But  not  the  less  do  I  under- 
stand it.  The  intention  was  that 
the  elder  Mowbray  should  remain 
for  another  j'ear,  and  the  younger 
for  two  years.  Of  course  he  is  at 
liberty  to  change  his  mind ;  nor 
do  I  feel  myself  entitled  to  com- 
plain. A  school  such  as  mine  must 
depend  on  the  credit  of  the  estab- 
lishment. He  has  heard,  no  doubt, 
something  of  the  story  which  has 
injured  our  credit,  and  it  is  natural 
that  he  should  take  the  boys  away." 

"Do  you  think  that  the  school 
will  be  put  an  end  to  1 " 

"  It  looks  very  like  it." 

"Altogether?" 

"  I  shall  not  care  to  drag  it  on 
as  a  failure.  I  am  too  old  now  to 
begin  again  with  a  new  attempt  if 
this  collapses.  I  have  no  offers  to 
fill  up  the  vacancies.  The  parents 

VOL.  CXXVIII. SO.  DCCLXXXI. 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  VII. 


5G7 


of  those  who  remain,  of  course, 
will  know  how  it  is  going  with 
the  school.  I  shall  not  be  dis- 
posed to  let  it  die  of  itself.  My 
idea  at  present  is  to  carry  it  on 
without  saying  anything  till  the 
Christmas  holidays,  and  then  to 
give  notice  to  the  parents  that 
the  establishment  will  be  closed 
at  Midsummer." 

""Will  it  make  you  very  un- 
happy ?" 

"  Uo  doubt  it  will.  A  man  does 
not  like  to  fail.  I  am  not  sure 
but  what  I  am  less  able  to  bear 
such  failure  than  most  men." 

"  But  you  have  sometimes 
thought  of  giving  it  up." 

"  Have  I  ?  I  have  not  known  it. 
Why  should  I  give  it  up?  Why 
should  any  man  give  up  a  pro- 
fession while  he  has  health  and 
strength  to  carry  it  on  1 " 

"You  have  another." 

"  Yes ; — but  it  is  not  the  one 
to  which  my  energies  have  been 
chiefly  applied.  The  work  of  a 
parish  such  as  this  can  be  done 
by  one  person.  I  have  always 
had  a  curate.  It  is,  moreover,  non- 
sense to  say  that  a  man  does  not  care 
most  for  that  by  which  he  makes 
his  money.  I  am  to  give  up  over 
£2000  a-year,  which  I  have  had 
not  a  trouble  but  a  delight  in  mak- 
ing. It  is  like  coming  to  the  end 
of  one's  life." 

"  Oh,  Jeffrey  !  " 

"It  has  to  be  looked  in  the  face, 
you  know." 

"  I  wish, — I  wish  they  had  never 
come." 

"  What  is  the  good  of  wishing? 
They  came,  and  according  to  my 
way  of  thinking  I  did  my  duty 
by  them.  Much  as  I  am  grieved 
by  this,  I  protest  that  I  would  do 
the  same  again  were  it  again  to  be 
done.  Do  you  think  that  I  would  ' 
be  deterred  from  what  I  thought 
to  be  right  by  the  machinations 
of  a  she-dragon  such  as  that  ? " 
2Q 


508 


Dr  Worth'*  School.— Part  VII. 


[Xc 


"  Has  she  done  it  1 " 

'•'Well,  I  think  so,"  said  the 
Doctor,  after  some  little  hesitation. 
"  I  think  it  has  been,  in  truth,  her 
doing.  There  has  been  a  grand 
opportunity  for  slander,  and  she 
has  used  it  with  uncommon  skill. 
It  was  a  wonderful  chance  in  her 
favour.  She  has  been  enabled  with- 
out actual  lies, — lies  which  could  be 
proved  to  be  lies, — to  spread  abroad 
reports  which  have  been  absolutely 
damning.  And  she  has  succeeded 
in  getting  hold  of  the  very  people 
through  whom  she  could  injure  me. 
Of  course  all  this  correspondence 
with  the  Bishop  his  helped.  The 
Bishop  hasn't  kept  it  as  a  secret. 
Why  should  he  1 " 

"The  Bishop  has  had  nothing 
to  do  with  the  school,"  said  Mrs 
Wortle. 

"  Xo  ;  but  the  things  have  been 
mixed  up  together.  Do  you  think 
it  would  have  no  effect  with  such  a 


woman  as  Lady  Anne  Clifford,  to 
be  told  that  the  Bishop  had  cen- 
sured my  conduct  severely  1  If  it 
had  not  been  for  Mrs  Stantiloup, 
the  Bishop  would  have  heard  noth- 
ing about  it.  It  is  her  doing.  And 
it  pains  me  to  feel  that  I  have  to 
give  her  credit  for  her  skill  and  her 
energy." 

"  Her  wickedness,  you  mean." 

"What  does  it  signify  Avhether 
she  has  been  wicked  or  not  in  this 
matter  1 " 

"  Oh,  Jeffrey  !  " 

"  Her  wickedness  is  a  matter  of 
course.  We  all  knew  that  before- 
hand. If  a  person  has  to  be  wicked, 
it  is  a  great  thing  for  him  to  be 
successful  in  his  wickedness.  He 
would  have  to  pay  the  final  penalty 
even  if  he  failed.  To  be  wicked 
and  to  do  nothing  is  to  be  mean 
all  round.  I  am  afraid  that  Mrs 
Stantiloup  will  have  succeeded  in 
her  wickedness." 


CHAPTER   XX. — LORD    BRACTS    LETTER. 


The  school  and  the  parish  went 
on  through  August  and  September, 
and  up  to  the  middle  of  October, 
very  quietly.  The  quarrel  between 
the  Bishop  and  the  Doctor  had  al- 
together subsided.  People  in  the 
diocese  had  ceased  to  talk  contin- 
ually of  Mr  and  Mrs  Peacocke. 
There  was  still  alive  a  certain  inter- 
est as  to  what  might  be  the  ultimate 
fate  of  the  poor  lady ;  but  other 
matters  had  come  up,  and  she  no 
longer  formed  the  one  topic  of  con- 
versation at  all  meetings.  The 
twenty  boys  at  the  school  felt  that, 
as  their  numbers  had  been  dimin- 
ished, so  also  had  their  reputation. 
They  were  less  loud,  and,  as  other 
boys  would  have  said  of  them,  less 
"  cocky  "  than  of  yore.  But  they 
ate  and  drank  and  played,  and,  let 
us  hope,  loarnt  their  lessons  as 
usual.  Mrs  Peacocke  had  from 


time  to  time  received  letters  from 
her  husband,  the  last  up  to  the 
time  of  which  we  speak  having 
been  written  at  the  Ogden  Junction, 
at  which  Mr  Peacocke  had  stopped 
for  four-and-twenty  hours  with  the 
object  of  making  inquiry  as  to  the 
statement  made  to  him  at  St  Louis. 
Here  he  learned  enough  to  convince 
him  that  Robert  Lefroy  had  told 
him  the  truth  in  regard  to  what 
had  there  occurred.  The  people 
about  the  station  still  remembered 
the  condition  of  the  man  who  had 
been  taken  out  of  the  car  when  suf- 
fering from  delirium  tremens ;  and 
remembered  also  that  the  man  had 
not  died  there,  but  had  been  carried 
on  by  the  next  train  to  San  Fran- 
cisco. One  of  the  porters  also  de- 
clared that  he  had  heard  a  few  days 
afterwards  that  the  sufferer  had  died 
almost  immediately  on  his  arrival 


Dr  Wortle'*  School— Part  VII. 


1880.] 


at  San  Francisco.  Information  as 
far  as  this  Mr  Peacocke  had  sent 
home  to  his  wife,  and  had  added 
his  firm  belief  that  he  should  find 
the  man's  grave  in  the  cemetery, 
and  he  able  to  bring  home  with 
him  testimony  to  which  no  author- 
ity in  England,  whether  social,  epis- 
copal, or  judicial,  Avould  refuse  to 
give  credit. 

"Of  course  he  will  be  married 
again,"  said  Mrs  Wortle  to  her 
husband. 

"  They  shall  be  married  here,  and 
I  will  perform  the  ceremony.  I 
don't  think  the  Bishop  himself 
would  object  to  that ;  and  I 
shouldn't  care  a  straw  if  he  did." 

"  Will  he  go  on  with  the  school  J" 
whispered  Mrs  Wortle. 

"  Will  the  school  go  on  1  If  the 
school  goes  on,  he  will  go  on,  I 
suppose.  About  that  you  had  bet- 
ter ask  Mrs  Stantiloup." 

"I  will  ask  nobody  but  you," 
said  the  wife,  putting  up  her  face 
to  kiss  him.  As  this  was  going  on, 
everything  was  said  to  comfort  Mrs 
Peacocke,  and  to  give  her  hopes  of 
new  life.  Mrs  Wortle  told  her  how 
the  Doctor  had  promised  that  he 
himself  would  marry  them  as  soon 
as  the  forms  of  the  Church  and  the 
legal  requisitions  would  allow.  Mrs 
Peacocke  accepted  all  that  was  said 
to  her  quietly  and  thankfully,  but 
did  not  again  allow  herself  to  be 
roused  to  such  excitement  as  she 
had  shown  on  the  one  occasion 
recorded. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  the  Doc- 
tor received  a  letter  which  greatly 
affected  his  mode  of  thought  at  the 
time.  He  had  certainly  become 
hipped  and  low-spirited,  if  not  de- 
spondent, and  clearly  showed  to  his 
wife,  even  though  he  was  silent, 
that  his  mind  was  still  intent  on 
the  injury  which  that  wretched 
woman  had  done  him  by  her  viru- 
lence. But  the  letter  of  which  we 
speak  for  a  time  removed  this  feel- 


569 


ing,  and  gave  him,  as  it  were,  a 
new  life.  The  letter,  which  was 
from  Lord  Bracy,  was  as  follows  :  — 

"MY  DEAR  DR  WORTLE, — Car- 
stairs  left  us  for  Oxford  yesterday, 
and  before  he  went,  startled  his 
mother  and  me  considerably  by 
a  piece  of  information.  He  tells 
us  that  he  is  over  head  and  eais 
in  love  with  your  daughter.  The 
communication  was  indeed  made 
three  days  ago,  but  I  told  him  that 
I  should  take  a  day  or  two  to  think 
of  it  before  I  wrote  to  you.  He 
was  very  anxious,  when  he  told  me, 
to  go  off  at  once  to  Bowick,  and  to 
see  you  and  your  wife,  and  of  course 
the  young  lady ; — but  this  I  stopped 
by  the  exercise  of  somewhat  per- 
emptory parental  authority.  Then 
he  informed  me  that  he  had  been 
to  Bowick,  and  had  found  his  lady- 
love at  home,  you  and  Mrs  Wortle 
having  by  chance  been  absent  at 
the  time.  It  seems  that  he  declared 
himself  to  the  young  lady,  who,  in 
the  exercise  of  a  wise  discretion,  ron 
away  from  him  and  left  him  planted 
on  the  terrace.  That  is  his  account 
of  what  passed,  and  I  do  not  in  the 
least  doubt  its  absolute  truth.  It  is 
at  any  rate  quite  clear,  from  his  own 
showing,  that  the  young  lady  gave 
him  no  encouragement. 

"  Such  having  been  the  case,  I 
do  not  think  that  I  should  have 
found  it  necessary  to  write  to  you 
at  all  had  not  Carstairs  persevered 
with  me  till  I  promised  to  do  so. 
He  was  willing,  he  said,  not  to 
go  to  Bowick  on  condition  that  I 
would  write  to  you  on  the  subject. 
The  meaning  of  this  is,  that  Lad 
he  not  been  very  much  in  earnest, 
I  should  have  considered  it. best 
to  let  the  matter  pass  on  as  such 
matters  do,  and  be  forgotten.  But 
he  is  very  much  in  earnest.  How- 
ever foolish  it  is,  —  or  perhaps  I 
had  better  say  unusual,  —  that  a 
lad  should  be  in  love  before  he  is 


570 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  VIT. 


twenty,  it  is,  I  suppose,  possible. 
At  any  rate  it  seems  to  be  the  case 
with  him,  and  he  has  convinced  his 
mother  that  it  would  be  cruel  to 
ignore  the  fact. 

"  I  may  at  once  say  that,  as  far 
as  you  and  your  girl  are  concerned, 
I  should  be  quite  satisfied  that  he 
should  choose  for  himself  such  a 
marriage.  I  value  rank,  at  any 
rate,  as  much  as  it  is  worth ;  but 
that  he  will  have  of  his  own,  and 
does  not  need  to  strengthen  it  by 
intermarriage  with  another  house 
of  peculiarly  old  lineage.  As  far 
as  that  is  concerned,  I  should  be 
contented.  As  for  money,  I  should 
not  wish  him  to  think  of  it  in  mar- 
rying. If  it  comes,  tant  mieux.  If 
not,  he  will  have  enough  of  his 
own,  I  write  to  you,  therefore, 
exactly  as  I  should  do  if  you  had 
happened  to  be  a  brother  peer  in- 
stead of  a  clergyman. 

"  But  I  think  that  long  engage- 
ments are  very  dangerous  ;  and  you 
probably  will  agree  with  me  that 
they  are  likely  to  be  more  preju- 
dicial to  the  girl  than  to  the  man. 
It  may  be  that,  as  difficulties  arise 
in  the  course  of  years,  he  can  for- 
get the  affair,  and  that  she  cannot. 
He  has  many  things  of  which  to 
think ;  whereas  she,  perhaps,  has 
only  that  one.  She  may  have  made 
that  thing  so  vital  to  her  that  it 
cannot  be  got  under  and  conquered ; 
whereas,  without  any  fault  or  heart- 
lessness  on  his  part,  occupation  has 
conquered  it  for  him.  In  this  case 
I  fear  that  the  engagement,  if  made, 
could  not  but  be  long.  I  should  be 
sorry  that  he  should  not  take  his  de- 
gree. And  I  do  not  think  it  wise  to 
send  a  lad  up  to  the  University  ham- 
pered with  the  serious  feeling  that 
he  has  already  betrothed  himself. 

"I  tell  you  all  just  as  it  is,  and 
I  leave  it  to  your  wisdom  to  sug- 
gest what  had  better  be  done.  He 
wished  me  to  promise  that  I  would 
undertake  to  induce  you  to  tell 


Miss  "Wortle  of  his  conversation 
with  me.  He  said  that  he  had  a 
right  to  demand  so  much  as  that, 
and  that,  though  he  would  not  for 
the  present  go  to  Bowick,  he  should 
write  to  you.  The  young  gentle- 
man seems  to  have  a  will  of  his 
own, — which  I  cannot  say  that  I 
regret.  What  you  will  do  as  to 
the  young  lady, — whether  you  will 
or  will  not  tell  her  what  I  have 
written,  —  I  must  leave  to  your- 
self. If  you  do,  I  am  to  send 
word  to  her  from  Lady  Bracy  to 
say  that  she  will  be  delighted  to 
see  her  here.  She  had  better,  how- 
ever, come  when  that  inflammatory 
young  gentleman  shall  be  at  Ox- 
ford.— Yours  very  faithfully, 

"  BRACY." 

This  letter  certainly  did  a  great 
deal  to  invigorate  the  Doctor,  and 
to  console  him  in  his  troubles. 
Even  though  the  debated  marriage 
might  prove  to  be  impossible,  as  it 
had  been  declared  by  the  voices  of 
all  the  Wortles  one  after  another, 
still  there  was  something  in  the 
tone  in  which  it  was  discussed  by 
the  young  man's  father  which  was 
in  itself  a  relief.  There  was,  at 
any  rate,  no  contempt  in  the  letter. 
"  I  may  at  once  say  that,  as  far  as 
you  and  your  girl  are  concerned,  I 
should  be  very  well  pleased."  That, 
at  any  rate,  was  satisfactory.  And 
the  more  he  looked  at  it  the  less 
he  thought  that  it  need  be  alto- 
gether impossible.  If  Lord  Bracy 
liked  it,  and  Lady  Bracy  liked  it, 
— and  young  Carstairs,  as  to  whose 
liking  there  seemed  to  be  no  reason 
for  any  doubt, — he  did  not  see  why 
it  should  be  impossible.  As  to 
Mary, — he  could  not  conceive  that 
she  should  make  objection  if  all 
the  others  were  agreed.  How  should 
she  possibly  fail  to  love  the  young 
man  if  encouraged  to  do  so?  Suitors 
who  are  good-looking,  rich,  of  high 
rank,  sweet-tempered,  and  at  the 


Dr  Worth's  School.—  Part  VII. 


1880.] 


same  time  thoroughly  devoted,  are 
not  wont  to  be  discarded.  All  the 
difficulty  lay  in  the  lad's  youth. 
After  all,  how  many  noblemen  have 
done  well  in  the  world  without  tak- 
ing a  degree  1  Degrees,  too,  have 
been  taken  by  married  men.  And, 
again,  young  men  have  been  per- 
sistent before  now,  even  to  the  ex- 
tent of  waiting  three  years.  Long 
engagements  are  bad,  —  no  doubt. 
Everybody  has  always  said  so.  But 
a  long  engagement  may  be  better 
than  none  at  all. 

He  almost  made  up  his  mind 
that  he  would  speak  to  Mary ;  but 
he  determined  at  last  that  he  would 
consult  his  wife  first.  Consulting 
Mrs  Wortle,  on  his  part,  generally 
amounted  to  no  more  than  instruct- 
ing her.  He  found  it  sometimes 
necessary  to  talk  her  over,  as  he 
had  done  in  that  matter  of  visiting 
Mrs  Peacocke ;  but  when  he  set 
himself  to  work  he  rarely  failed. 
She  had  nowhere  else  to  go  for 
certain  foundation  and  support. 
Therefore  he  hardly  doubted  much 
when  he  began  his  operation  about 
this  suggested  engagement. 

"  I  have  got  that  letter  this 
morning  from  Lord  Bracy,"  he 
said,  handing  her  the  document. 

"  Oh  dear  !  Has  he  heard  about 
Carstairs  1 " 

"  You  had  better  read  it." 

"  He  has  told  it  all ! "  she  ex- 
claimed, when  she  had  finished 
the  first  sentence. 

"He  has  told  it  all,  certainly. 
But  you  had  better  read  the  letter 
through." 

Then  she  seated  herself  and  read 
it,  almost  trembling,  however,  as 
she  went  on  with  it.  "  Oh  dear ; 
— that  is  very  nice  which  he  says 
about  you  and  Mary." 

"It  is  all  very  nice  as  far  as 
that  goes.  There  is  no  reason  why 
it  should  not  be  nice." 

"  It  .might  have  made  him  so 
angry  ! " 


571 


"  Then  he  would  have  been  very 
unreasonable." 

"  He  acknowledges  that  Mary 
did  not  encourage  him." 

"  Of  course  she  did  not  encourage 
him.  He  would  have  been  very 
unlike  a  gentleman  had  he  thought 
so.  But  in  truth,  my  dear,  it  is 
a  very  good  letter.  Of  course  there 
are  difficulties." 

11  Oh — it  is  impossible  ! " 

"  I  do  not  see  that  at  all.  It 
must  rest  very  much  with  him, 
no  doubt, — with  Carstairs  ;  and  I 
do  not  like  to  think  that  our  girl's 
happiness  should  depend  on  any 
young  man's  constancy.  But  such 
dangers  have  to  be  encountered. 
You  and  I  were  engaged  for  three 
years  before  we  were  married,  and 
we  did  not  find  it  so  very  bad." 

"  It  was  very  good.  Oh,  I  was 
so  happy  at  the  time  ! " 

"  Happier  than  you've  been 
since  ? " 

"Well,  I  don't  know.  It  was 
very  nice  to  know  that  you  were 
my  lover." 

"  Why  shouldn't  Mary  think  it 
very  nice  to  have  a  lover  1 " 

"  But  I  knew  that  you  would  be 
true." 

"  Why  shouldn't  Carstairs  be 
true?" 

"  Remember  he  is  so  young. 
You  were  in  orders." 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  was  at  all 
more  likely  to  be  true  on  that  ac- 
count. A  clergyman  can  jilt  a  girl 
just  as  well  as  another.  It  depends 
on  the  nature  of  the  man." 

"  And  you  were  so  good." 

"  I  never  came  across  a  better 
youth  than  Carstairs.  You  see 
what  his  father  says  about  his 
having  a  will  of  his  own.  When 
a  young  man  shows  a  purpose  of 
that  kind  he  generally  sticks  to  it." 

The  upshot  of  it  all  was,  that 
Mary  was  to  be  told,  and  that  her 
father  was  to  tell  her. 

"Ye.«,  papa,  he  did  come,"  she 


572 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  VII. 


[Xov. 


said.  "  I  told  mamma  all  about 
me." 

"  And  she  told  me,  of  course. 
You  did  what  was  quite  right,  and 
I  should  not  have  thought  it  neces- 
sary to  speak  to  you  had  not  Lord 
Bracy  written  to  me." 

"  Lord  Bracy  has  written  ! "  said 
Mary.  It  seemed  to  her,  as  it  had 
done  to  her  mother,  that  Lord 
Bracy  must  have  written  angrily ; 
bat  though  she  thought  so,  she 
plucked  up  her  spirit  gallantly, 
telling  herself  that  though  Lord 
Bracy  might  be  angry  with  his 
own  son,  he  could  have  no  cause 
to  be  displeased  with  her. 

"  Yes ;  I  have  a  letter,  which 
you  shall  read.  The  young  man 
seems  to  have  been  very  much  in 
earnest." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Mary,  with 
some  little  exultation  at  her  heart. 

"  It  seems  but  the  other  day 
that  he  was  a  boy,  and  now  he 
lias  become  suddenly  a  man."  To 
this  Mary  said  nothing ;  but  she 
also  had  come  to  the  conclusion 
that,  in  this  respect,  Lord  Carstairs 
had  lately  changed,  —  very  much 
for  the  better.  "  Do  you  like  him, 
Mary  1  " 

"  Like  him,  papa  1 " 

"  Well,  my  darling  •  how  am  I 
to  put  it?  He  is  so  much  in 
earnest  that  he  has  got  his  father 
to  write  to  me.  He  was  coming 
over  himself  again  before  he  went 
to  Oxford ;  but  he  told  his  father 
what  he  was  going  to  do,  and  the 
Earl  stopped  him.  There's  the 
letter,  and  you  may  read  it." 

Mary  read  the  letter,  taking  her- 
self apart  to  a  corner  of  the  room, 
and  seemed  to  her  father  to  take  a 
long  time  in  reading  it.  But  there 
was  very  much  on  which  she  was 
called  upon  to  make  up  her  mind 
during  those  few  minutes.  Up  to 
the  present  time, — up  to  the  moment 
in  which  her  father  had  now  sum- 
moned her  into  his  study,  she  had 


resolved  that  it  was  "  impossible." 
She  had  become  so  clear  on  the 
subject  that  she  would  not  ask 
herself  the  question  whether  she 
could  love  the  young  man.  Would 
it  not  be  wrong  to  love  the  young 
man  1  Would  it  not  be  a  longing 
for  the  top  brick  of  the  chimney, 
Avhich  she  ought  to  know  was  out 
of  her  reach  ?  So  she  had  decided 
it,  and  had  therefore  already  taught 
herself  to  regard  the  declaration 
made  to  her  as  the  ebullition  of  a 
young  man's  folly.  But  not  the 
less  had  she  known  how  great  had 
been  the  thing  suggested  to  her, — 
how  glorious  was  this  top  brick  of 
the  chimney  ;  and  as  to  the  young 
man  himself,  she  could  not  but 
feel  that,  had  matters  been  different, 
she  might  have  loved  him.  Now 
there  had  come  a  sudden  change ; 
but  the  did  not  at  all  know  how 
far  she  might  go  to  meet  the 
change,  nor  what  the  change  alto- 
gether meant.  She  had  been  made 
sure  by  her  father's  question  that 
he  had  taught  himself  to  hope. 
He  would  not  have  asked  her 
whether  she  liked  him,  —  would 
not,  at  any  rate,  have  asked  that 
question  in  that  voice, —  had  he 
not  been  prepared  to  be  good  to 
her  had  she  answered  in  the  affirm- 
ative. But  then  this  matter  did  not 
depend  upon  her  father's  wishes, — 
or  even  on  her  father's  judgment. 
It  was  necessary  that,  before  she 
said  another  word,  she  should  find 
out  what  Lord  Bracy  said  about 
it.  Then  she  had  Lord  Bracy's 
letter  in  her  hand,  but  her  mind 
was  so  disturbed  that  she  hardly 
knew  how  to  read  it  aright  at  the 
spur  of  the  moment. 

"  You  understand  what  he  says, 
Mary  ? " 

"  I  think  so,  papa." 
"  It  is  a  very  kind  letter." 
"  Very  kind  indeed.     I  should 
have  thought  that  he  would   not 
have  liked  it  at  all." 


1880.] 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  VII. 


573 


"  lie  makes  no  objection  of  that 
kind.  To  tell  the  truth,  Mary,  I 
should  have  thought  it  unreason- 
able had  he  done  so.  A  gentle- 
man can  do  no  better  than  marry 
a  lady.  And  though  it  is  much 
to  be  a  nobleman,  it  is  more  to 
be  a  gentleman." 

"  Some  people  think  so  much  of 
it.  And  then  his  having  been  here 
as  a  pupil  !  I  was  very  sorry  when 
he  spoke  to  me." 

"  All  that  is  past  and  gone.  The 
danger  is  that  such  an  engagement 
would  be  long." 

"  Very  long." 

"  You  would  be  afraid  of  that, 
Mary1?"  Mary  felt  that  this  was 
hard  upon  her,  and  unfair.  Were 
she  to  say  that  the  danger  of  a  long 
engagement  did  not  seem  to  her  to 
be  very  terrible,  she  would  at  once 
be  giving  up  everything.  She 
would  have  declared  then  that  she 
did  love  the  young  man  ;  or,  at  any 
rate,  that  she  intended  to  do  so. 
She  would  have  succumbed  at  the 
first  hint  that  such  succumbing  was 
possible  to  her.  And  yet  she  had 
not  known  that  she  was  very  much 
afraid  of  a  long  engagement.  She 
would,  she  thought,  have  been 
much  more  afraid  had  a  speedy 
marriage  been  proposed  to  her. 


Upon  the  whole,  she  did  not  know 
whether  it  would  not  be  nice  to  go 
on  knowing  that  the  young  man 
loved  her,  and  to  rest  secure  in  her 
faith  in  him.  She  was  sure  of 
this,  —  that  the  reading  of  Lord 
Bracy's  letter  had  in  some  way 
made  her  happy,  though  she  was 
unwilling  at  once  to  express  her 
happiness  to  her  father.  She  was 
quite  sure  that  she  could  make  no 
immediate  reply  to  that  question, 
whether  she  was  afraid  of  a  long 
engagement.  "  I  must  answer 
Lord  Bracy's  letter,  you  know," 
said  the  Doctor. 

"  Yes,  papa." 

"  And  what  shall  I  say  to  him?" 

"  I  don't  know,  papa." 

"  And  yet  you  must  tell  me  what 
to  say,  my  darling." 

"Must  I,  papa1?" 

"  Certainly  !  \Yho  else  can  tell 
me  1  Bat  I  will  not  answer  it  to- 
day. I  will  put  it  off  till  Monday." 
It  was  Saturday  morning  on  which 
the  letter  was  being  discussed — a 
day  of  which  a  considerable  por- 
tion was  generally  appropriated  to 
the  preparation  of  a  sermon.  "  In 
the  meantime  you  had  better  talk 
to  mamma ;  and  on  Monday  we 
will  settle  what  is  to  be  eaid  to 
Lord  Bracy." 


CHAPTER   XXI. — AT   CHICAGO. 


Mr  Peacocke  went  on  alone  to 
San  Francisco  from  the  0<lgen  Junc- 
tion, and  there  obtained  full  infor- 
mation on  the  matter  which  had 
brought  him  upon  this  long  and 
disagreeable  journey.  He  had  no 
difficulty  in  obtaining  the  evidence 
which  he  required.  He  had  not 
been  twenty-four  hours  in  the  place 
before  he  was,  in  truth,  standing  on 
the  stone  which  had  been  placed 
over  the  body  of  Ferdinand  Lefroy, 
as  he  had  declared  to  Robert  Le- 
froy that  he  would  stand  before  he 


\vould  be  satisfied.  On  the  stone 
was  cut  simply  the  names  Ferdi- 
nand Lefroy  of  Kilbrack,  Louisi- 
ana; and  to  these  were  added  the 
dates  of  the  days  on  which  the  man 
had  been  born  and  on  which  he 
died.  Of  this  stone  he  had  a 
photograph  made,  of  which  he  took 
copies  with  him  ;  and  he  obtained 
also  from  the  minister  who  had 
buried  the  body,  and  from  the  cus- 
todian who  had  charge  of  the  ceme- 
tery, certificates  of  the  interment 
Armed  with  these  he  could  no 


574 


Dr  Worth's  School.— Part  VII. 


longer  doubt  himself,  or  suppose 
that  others  would  doubt,  that  Fer- 
dinand Lefroy  was  dead. 

Having  thus  perfected  his  object, 
and  feeling  but  little  interest  in  a 
town  to  which  he  had  been  brought 
by  such  painful  circumstances,  he 
turned  round,  and  on  the  second 
day  after  his  arrival,  again  started 
for  Chicago.  Had  it  been  possible, 
he  would  fain  have  avoided  any 
further  meeting  with  Robert  Lefroy. 
Short  as  had  been  his  stay  at  San 
Francisco,  he  had  learnt  that  Ro- 
bert, after  his  brother's  death,  had 
been  concerned  in  buying  mining 
shares  and  paying  for  them  with 
forged  notes.  It  was  not  supposed 
that  he  himself  had  been  engaged 
in  the  forgery,  but  that  he  had 
come  into  the  city  with  men  who 
had  been  employed  for  years  on 
this  operation,  and  had  bought 
shares,  and  endeavoured  to  sell 
them  on  the  following  day.  He 
had,  however,  managed  to  leave  the 
place  before  the  police  had  got 
hold  of  him,  and  had  escaped,  so 
that  no  one  had  been  able  to  say  at 
what  station  he  had  got  upon  the 
railway.  Nor  did  any  one  in  San 
Francisco  know  where  Robert  Le- 
froy was  now  to  be  found.  His 
companions  had  been  taken,  tried, 
and  convicted,  and  were  now  in  the 
State  prison, — where  also  would 
Robert  Lefroy  soon  be  if  any  of  the 
officers  of  the  State  could  get  hold 
of  him.  Luckily  Mr  Peacocke  had 
said  little  or  nothing  of  the  man  in 
making  his  own  inquiries.  Much 
as  he  had  hated  and  dreaded  the 
man,  much  as  he  had  suffered  from 
his  companionship, — good  reason  as 
he  had  to  dislike  the  whole  family, 
— he  felt  himself  bound  by  their 
Idte  companionship  not  to  betray 
him.  The  man  had  assisted  Mr 
Peacocke  simply  for  money  ;  but 
still  he  had  assisted  him.  Mr  Pea- 
cocke therefore  held  his  peace  and 
said  nothing.  But  he  would  have 


[Xov. 

been  thankful  to  have  been  able  to 
send  the  money  that  was  now  due 
to  him  without  having  again  to  see 
him  ;  but  that  was  impossible. 

On  reaching  Chicago  he  went  to 
an  hotel  not  far  removed  from  that 
which  Lefroy  had  designated.  Le- 
froy had  explained  to  him  some- 
thing of  the  geography  of  the  town, 
and  had  averred  that  for  himself 
he  preferred  a  "  modest,  quiet 
hotel."  The  modest,  quiet  hotel 
was  called  Mrs  Jones's  boarding- 
house,  and  was  in  one  of  the  sub- 
urbs far  from  the  main  street. 
"  You  needn't  say  as  you're  coming 
to  me,"  Lefroy  had  said  to  him ; 
"nor  need  you  let  on  as  you  know 
anything  of  Mrs  Jones  at  all. 
People  are  so  curious ;  and  it  may 
be  that  a  gentleman  sometimes  likes 
to  lie  '  perdoo.'  "  Mr  Peacocke,  al- 
though he  had  but  small  sympa- 
thy for  the  taste  of  a  gentleman 
who  likes  to  lie  "  perdoo,"  neverthe- 
less did  as  he  was  bid,  and  found 
his  way  to  Mrs  Jones's  boarding- 
house  without  telling  any  one 
whither  he  was  going. 

Before  he  started  he  prepared 
himself  with  a  thousand  dollars  in 
bank-notes,  feeling  that  this  wretch- 
ed man  had  earned  them  in  accord- 
ance with  their  compact.  His  only 
desire  now  was  to  hand  over  the 
money  as  quickly  as  possible,  and 
to  hurry  away  out  of  Chicago.  He 
felt  as  though  he  himself  were  al- 
most guilty  of  some  crime  in  having 
to  deal  with  this  man,  in  having  to 
give  him  money  secretly,  and  in 
carrying  out  to  the  end  an  arrange- 
ment of  which  no  one  else  was  to 
know  the  details.  How  would  it 
be  with  him  if  the  police  of  Chicago 
should  come  upon  him  as  a  friend, 
and  probably  an  accomplice,  of  one 
who  was  "  wanted "  on  account  of 
forgery  at  San  Francisco  1  But  he 
had  no  help  for  himself,  and  at  Mrs 
Jones's  he  found  his  wife's  brother- 
in-law  seated  in  the  barof  the  public- 


1880.] 


house, — that  everlasting  resort  for 
American  loungers, — with  a  cigar  as 
usual  stuck  in  his  mouth,  loafing 
away  his  time  as  only  American  fre- 
quenters of  such  establishments 
know  how  to  do.  In  England  such 
a  man  would  probably  be  found  in 
such  a  place  with  a  glass  of  some 
alcoholic  mixture  beside  him ;  but 
such  is  never  the  case  with  an 
American.  If  he  wants  a  drink  he 
goes  to  the  bar  and  takes  it  stand- 
ing,— -will  perhaps  take  two  or  three, 
one  after  another  ;  but  when  he  has 
settled  himself  down  to  loafe,  he 
satisfies  himself  with  chewing  a 
cigar,  and  covering  a  circle  around 
him  with  the  results.  With  this 
amusement  he  will  remain  contented 
hour  after  hour  ; — nay,  throughout 
the  entire  day,  if  no  harder  work 
be  demanded  of  him.  So  was 
Ilobert  Lefroy  found  now.  "When 
Peacocke  entered  the  hall  or  room, 
the  man  did  not  rise  from  his  chair, 
but  accosted  him  as  though  they 
had  parted  only  an  hour  since. 
"So,  old  fellow,  you've  got  back 
all  alive?" 

"  I  have  reached  this  place,  at  any 
rate." 

"  Well,  that's  getting  back,  ain't 
it?" 

"I  have  come  back  from  San 
Francisco." 

"H'sh  !"  exclaimed  Lefroy,  look- 
ing round  the  room,  in  which,  how- 
ever, there  was  no  one  but  them- 
selves. "You  needn't  tell  every- 
body where  you've  been." 

"  I  have  nothing  to  conceal." 

"That's  more  than  anybody 
knows  of  himself.  It's  a  good 
maxim  to  keep  your  own  affairs 
quiet  till  they're  wanted.  In  this 
country  everybody  is  spry  enough 
to  learn  all  about  everything.  I 
never  see  any  good  in  letting  them 
know  without  a  reason.  Well ; 
— what  did  you  do  when  you  got 
there  ?  " 

"  It  was  all  as  you  told  me." 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  VII. 


"Didn't  I  say  so?  What  was 
the  good  of  bringing  me  all  this 
way,  when,  if  you'd  only  believed 
me,  you  might  have  saved  me  the 
trouble?  Ain't  I  to  be  paid  for 
that?" 

"You  are  to  be  paid.  I  have 
come  here  to  pay  you." 

"That's  what  you  owe  for  the 
knowledge.  But  for  coming  ?  Ain't 
I  to  be  paid  extra  for  the  journey?" 

"You  are  to  have  a  thousand 
dollars." 

"  H'sh  ! — you  speak  of  money  as 
though  every  one  has  a  business 
to  know  that  you  have  got  your 
pockets  full.  What's  a  thousand 
dollars,  seeing  all  that  I  have  done 
for  you  ?  " 

"  It's  all  that  you're  going  to  get. 
It's  all,  indeed,  that  I  have  got  to 
give  you." 

"Gammon." 

"  It's  all,  at  any  rate,  that  you're 
going  to  get.  Will  you  have  it 
now?" 

"You  found  the  tomb,  did  you?" 

"Yes;  I  found  the  tomb.  Here 
is  a  photograph  of  it.  You  can 
keep  a  copy  if  you  like  it." 

"What  do  I  want  of  a  copy?" 
said  the  man,  taking  the  photograph 
in  his  hand.  "  He  was  always  more 
trouble  than  he  was  worth, — was 
Ferdy.  It's  a  pity  she  didn't  marry 
me.  I'd  've  made  a  woman  of  her." 
Peacocke  shuddered  as  he  heard 
this,  but  he  said  nothing.  "  You 
may  as  well  give  us  the  picter. 
It'll  do  to  hang  up  somewhere  if 
ever  I  have  a  room  of  my  own. 
How  plain  it  is  !  Ferdinand  Lefroy, 
— of  Kilbrack  !  Kilbrack  indeed  ! 
It's  little  either  of  us  was  the  better 
for  Kilbrack.  Some  of  them  psalm- 
singing  rogues  from  New  England 
has  it  now; — or  perhaps  a  right- 
down  nigger.  I  shouldn't  wonder. 
One  of  our  own  lot,  maybe  !  Oh  ; 
that's  the  money,  is  it? — A  thou- 
sand dollars ;  all  that  I'm  to  have 
for  coming  to  England  and  telling 


576 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  VII. 


you,  and  bringing  you  back,  and 
showing  you  where  you  could  get 
this  pretty  picter  made."  Then  he 
took  the  money,  a  thick  roll  of 
notes,  and  crammed  them  into  his 
pocket. 

"  You'd  better  count  them." 

"  It  ain't  worth  the  while  with 
such  a  trifle  as  that." 

"  Let  me  count  them  then." 

"  You'll  never  have  that  plunder 
in  your  fists  again,  my  fine  fellow." 

"  I  do  not  want  it." 

"And  now  about  my  expenses 
out  to  England,  on  purpose  to  tell 
you  all  this.  You  can  go  and  make 
her  your  wife  now, — or  can  leave 
her,  just  as  you  please.  You 
couldn't  have  done  neither  if  I 
hadn't  gone  out  to  you." 

"You  have  got  what  was  pro- 
mised." 

"  But  my  expenses, — going  out  ?  " 

"  I  have  promised  you  nothing 
for  your  expenses  going  out, — and 
will  pay  you  nothing." 

"  You  won't  1 " 

"  Not  a  dollar  more." 

"  You  won't  1 " 

"Certainly  not.  I  do  not  sup- 
pose that  you  expect  it  for  a  mo- 
ment, although  you  are  so  persistent 
in  asking  me  for  it." 

"And  you  think  you've  got  the 
better  of  me,  do  you  ?  You  think 
you've  carried  me  along  with  you, 
just  to  do  your  bidding  and  take 
whatever  you  please  to  give  me  1 
That's  your  idea  of  me?" 

"  There  was  a  clear  bargain  be- 
tween us.  I  have  not  got  the  bet- 
ter of  you  at  all." 

"I  rather  think  not,  Peacocke. 
I  rather  think  not.  You'll  have  to 
get  up  earlier  before  you  get  the 
better  of  Robert  Lefroy.  You  don't 
expect  to  get  this  money  back  again, 
— do  you  ? " 

"  Certainly  not, — any  more  than 
I  should  expect  a  pound  of  meat  out 
of  a  dog's  jaw."  Mr  Peacocke,  as 
he  said  this,  was  waxing  angry. 


[Xov. 


"1  don't  suppose  you  do; — but 
you  expected  that  I  was  to  earn  it 
by  doing  your  bidding;  —  didn't 
you  ? " 

"  And  you  have." 

"Yes,  I  have;  but  how?  You 
never  heard  of  my  cousin,  did  you, 
— Ferdinand  Lefroy  of  Kilbrack, 
Louisiana?" 

"  Heard  of  whom ?" 

"  My  cousin,  Ferdinand  Lefroy. 
He  was  very  well  known  in  his 
own  State,  and  in  California  too, 
till  he  died.  He  was  a  good  fellow, 
but  given  to  drink.  We  used  to 
tell  him  that  if  he  would  marry 
it  would  be  better  for  him ; — but 
he  never  would  ; — he  never  did." 
Robert  Lefroy  as  he  said  this  put 
his  left  hand  into  his  trousers- 
pocket  over  the  notes  which  he  had 
placed  there,  and  drew  a  small  re- 
volver out  of  his  pocket  with  the 
other  hand.  "  I  am  better  prepared 
now,"  he  said,  "than  when  you 
had  your  six-shooter  under  your 
pillow  at  Leavenworth." 

"I  do  not  believe  a  word  of  it. 
It's  a  lie,"  said  Peacocke. 

"  Very  well.  You're  a  chap  that's 
fond  of  travelling,  and  have  got 
plenty  of  money.  You'd  better  go 
down  to  Louisiana  and  make  your 
way  straight  from  New  Orleans  to 
Kilbrack.  It  ain't  above  forty  miles 
to  the  south  -  west,  and  there's  a 
rail  goes  within  fifteen  miles  of  it. 
You'll  learn  there  all  about  Ferdi- 
nand Lefroy  as  was  our  cousin, — 
him  as  never  got  married  up  to 
the  day  he  died  of  drink  and  was 
buried  at  San  Francisco.  They'll 
be  very  glad,  I  shouldn't  wonder, 
to  see  that  pretty  little  picter  of 
yours,  because  they  was  always  un- 
common fond  of  cousin  Ferdy  at 
Kilbrack.  And  I'll  tell  you  what, 
you'll  be  sure  to  come  across  my 
brother  Ferdy  in  them  parts,  and 
can  tell  him  how  you've  seen  me. 
You  can  give  him  all  the  latest 
news,  too,  about  his  own  wife.  He'll 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  VII. 


1880.] 

l>e  glad  to  hear  about  her,  poor 
woman."  Mr  Peacocke  listened  to 
this  without  saying  a  word  since 
that  last  exclamation  of  his.  It 
might  be  true.  Why  should  it  not 
be  true  1  If  in  truth  there  had  been 
these  two  cousins  of  the  same  name, 
what  could  be  more  likely  than  that 
his  money  should  have  been  lured 
out  of  him  by  such  a  fraud  as  this  1 
But  yet, — yet,  as  he  came  to  think 
of  it  all,  it  could  not  be  true.  The 
chance  of  carrying  such  a  scheme 
to  a  successful  issue  would  have 
been  too  small  to  induce  the  man 
to  act  upon  it  from  the  day  of  his 
first  appearance  at  Bowick.  Nor 
was  it  probable  that  there  should 
have  been  another  Ferdinand  Lefroy 
unknown  to  his  wife  ;  and  the  ex- 
istence of  such  a  one,  if  known  to 
his  wife,  would  certainly  have  been 
made  known  to  him. 

"  It's  a  lie,"  said  he,  "  from  be- 
ginning to  end." 

"  Very  well ;  very  well.  I'll  take 
care  to  make  the  truth  known  by 
letter  to  Dr  Wortle  and  the  Bishop 
and  all  them  pious  swells  over 
there.  To  think  of  such  a  chap 
as  you,  a  minister  of  the  Gospel, 
living  with  another  man's  wife,  and 
looking  as  though  butter  wouldn't 
'melt  in  your  mouth  !  I  tell  you 
what,  I've  got  a  little  money  in  my 
pocket  now,  and  I  don't  mind  go- 
ing over  to  England  again  and  ex- 
plaining the  whole  truth  to  the 
Bishop  myself.  I  could  make  him 
understand  how  that  photograph 
ain't  worth  nothing,  and  how  I 
explained  to  you  myself  as  the 
lady's  righteous  husband  is  all 
alive,  keeping  house  on  his  own 
property  down  in  Louisiana.  Do 
you  think  we  Lefroys  hadn't 
any  place  beside  Kilbrack  among 
us  1 " 

"  Certainly  you  are  a  liar,"  said 
Peacocke. 

"  Very  well.     Prove  it." 

"  Did  you  not  tell  me  that  your 


577 


brother  was  buried  at  San  Fran- 
cisco 1 " 

"Oh,  as  for  that,  that  don't 
matter.  It  don't  count  for  much 
whether  I  told  a  crammer  or  not ; 
that  picter  counts  for  nothing.  It 
ain't  my  word  you  was  going  on 
as  evidence.  You  is  able  to  prove 
that  Ferdy  Lefroy  was  buried  at 
'Frisco.  True  enough.  I  buried 
him.  I  can  prove  that.  And  I 
would  never  have  treated  you  this 
way,  and  not  have  said  a  word  as  to 
how  the  dead  man  was  only  a  cousin, 
if  you'd  treated  me  civil  over  there 
in  England.  But  you  didn't." 

"  I  am  going  to  treat  you  worse 
now,"  said  Peacocke,  looking  him 
in  the  face. 

*'  What   are   you   going    to   do 
now?    It's  I  that  have  the  revolver, 
this  time."      As   he   said  this   he 
turned  the  weapon   round   in   his 
hand. 

"  I  don't  want  to  shoot  you, — 
nor  yet  to  frighten  you,  as  I  did 
in  the  bedroom  at  Leavenworth ; — 
not  but  what  I  have  a  pistol  too." 
And  he  slowly  drew  his  out  of  his 
pocket.  At  this  moment  two  men 
sauntered  in  and  took  their  places 
in  the  further  corner  of  the  room. 
"  I  don't  think  there  is  to  be  any 
shooting  between  us." 

"  There  may,"  said  Lefroy. 

"  The  police  would  have  you." 

"So  they  would, — for  a  time. 
What  does  that  matter  to  me  ?  Isn't 
a  fellow  to  protect  himself  when 
a  fellow  like  you  comes  to  him 
armed  ? " 

"  But  they  would  soon  know 
that  you  are  the  swindler  who 
escaped  from  San  Francisco  eigh- 
teen months  ago.  Do  you  think 
it  wouldn't  be  found  out  that  it 
was  you  who  paid  for  the  shares 
in  forged  notes  1  " 

"  I  never  did.  That's  one  of 
your  lies." 

"Very  well.  Now  you  know 
what  I  know;  and  you  had  better 


578 


Dr  Worth's  School— Part  VIL 


[Nc 


tell  me  over  again  who  it  is  that 
lies  buried  under  the  stone  that's 
been  photographed  there." 

"  What  are  you  men  doing  -with 
them  pistols  1 "  said  one  of  the 
strangers,  walking  across  the  room, 
and  standing  over  the  backs  of 
their  chairs. 

"  We  are  a-looking  at  'em,"  said 
Lefroy. 

"  If  you're  a-going  to  do  anything 
of  that  kind,  you'd  better  go  and 
do  it  elsewhere,"  said  the  stranger. 

"  Just  so,"  said  Lefroy.  "  That's 
what  I  was  thinking  myself." 

"But  we  are  not  going  to  do 
anything,"  said  Mr  Peacocke.  "  I 
hive  not  the  slightest  idea  of  shoot- 
ing the  gentleman ;  and  he  has 
just  as  little  of  shooting  me." 

"  Then  what  do  you  sit  with 
'em  out  in  your  hands  in  that 
fashion  for  1 "  said  the  stranger. 
"  It's  a  decent  widow  woman  as 
keeps  this  house,  and  I  won't  see 
her  set  upon.  Put  'em  up."  Where- 
upon Lefroy  did  return  his  pistol 
to  his  pocket, — upon  which  Mr 
Peacocke  did  the  same.  Then  the 
stranger  slowly  walked  back  to  his 
seat  at  the  other  side  of  the  room. 

"  So  they  told  you  that  lie  ;— did 
they — at  'Frisco  ?  "  asked  Lefroy. 

"That  was  what  I  heard  over 
there  when  I  was  inquiring  about 
your  brother's  death." 

"  You'd  believe  anything  if  you'd 
believe  that." 

"  I'd  believe  anything  if  I'd  be- 
lieve in  your  cousin."  Upon  this 
Lefroy  laughed,  but  made  no  fur- 
ther allusion  to  the  romance  which 
he  had  craftily  invented  on  the 
spur  of  the  moment.  After  that 
the  two  men  sat  without  a  word 
between  them  for  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  when  the  Englishman  got  up 
to  take  his  leave.  "  Our  business 


is  over  now,"  he  said,  "and  I  will 
bid  you  good-bye." 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  I'm  a-think- 
ing,"  said  Lefroy.  Mr  Peacocke 
stood  with  his  hand  ready  for  a 
final  adieu,  but  he  said  nothing. 
"  I've  half  a  mind  to  go  back  with 
you  to  England.  There  ain't  noth- 
ing to  keep  me  here." 

"  What  could  you  do  there  ? " 

"I'd  be  evidence  for  you, — as  to 
Ferdy's  death,  you  know." 

"  I  have  evidence.  I  do  not 
want  you." 

"  I'll  go,  nevertheless." 

"  And  spend  all  your  money  on 
the  journey." 

"  You'd  help ;  —  wouldn't  you, 
now?" 

"Not  a  dollar,"  said  Peacocke, 
turning  away  and  leaving  the  room. 
As  he  did  so  he  heard  the  wretch 
laughing  loud  at  the  excellence  of 
his  own  joke. 

Before  he  made  his  journey  back 
again  to  England,  he  only  once 
more  saw  Eobert  Lefroy.  As  he 
was  seating  himself  in  the  railway 
car  that  was  to  take  him  to  Buf- 
falo, the  man  came  up  to  him 
with  an  affected  look  of  solicitude. 
"  Peacocke,"  he  said,  "  there  was 
only  nine  hundred  dollars  in  that 
roll." 

"There  were  a  thousand.  I 
counted  them  half  an  hour  before 
I  handed  them  to  you." 

"  There  was  only  nine  hundred 
when  I  got  'em." 

"There  were  all  that  you  will 
get.  What  kind  of  notes  were 
they  you  had  when  you  paid  for 
the  shares  at  'Frisco  1 "  This  ques- 
tion he  asked  out  loud,  before  all 
the  passengers.  Then  Eobert  Le- 
froy left  the  car,  and  Mr  Peacocke 
never  saw  him,  or  heard  from  him 
acrain. 


1880.]  A  Jewish  Rabbi  in  Rome.  579 

A     JEWISH      RABBI     IN     ROME. 

WITH    A    COMMENTARY   BY    BEX    ISRAEL. 

Fifteenth  Century.     Reign  of  Sixtus  IV. 

RABBI  BEX  ESDRA  to  his  dearest  friend, 
Rabbi  Ben  Israel,  greeting — May  the  Lord 
Keep  thee  in  safety !     I  am  still  in  Rome, 
And,  after  months  of  silence,  now  redeem 
My  pledge  to  tell  you  how  this  Christian  world 
(Which  here  I  came  to  study),  nearly  viewed, 
Strikes  me,  a  Jew  born,  and  with  steady  faith 
In  all  the  Law  and  Prophets  of  our  land. 
Still,  though  a  Jew,  it  is  the  Truth  I  seek, — 
Only  the  Truth,-^-and,  come  from  whence  it  will, 
I  greet  it  with  bent  head  and  reverent  heart.  . 
I  am  a  seeker; — though  my  faith  is  firm, 
I  will  not  tie  my  mind  in  knots  of  creeds. 

RTo  more  preamble.    I  am  now  in  Rome, 
Where  our  Jehovah  rules  not, — but  the  man 
Jesus, 'whose  Life  and  Fate  too  well  we  know, 
Is  made  a  God — the  cross  on  which  he  died 
A  reverend  symbol,  and  his  words  the  law. 
His  words,  what  were  they1?    Love,  goodwill  to  man. 
His  kingdom1?    Peace.    His  precepts  1     Poverty. 
Well,  are  they  followed  1    That's  the  question  now. 
What  fruit  have  they  produced  ? 

One  moment,  first. 

I  think  no  ill  of  him.    He  was  sincere, 
Lofty  of  thought,  a  pure  idealist, 
Possessed,  indeed,  by  visionary  dreams, 
But  wishing  ill  to  no  one,  least  of  all 
To  us,  and  to  our  Faith,  which  was  his  own. 
I  will  not  say  he  was  entirely  wrong 
In  the  strong  censures  that  he  laid  on  us  ; 
For  we  had  many  faults — were,  as  he  said, 
Only  too  much  like  whited  sepulchres, — 
And  then,  no  good  man  is  entirely  wrong, 
And  none  entirely  right.     The  truth  is  vast, 
And  never  was  there  Creed  embraced  it  all. 
Like  all  enthusiasts  he  beheld  his  half, 
Deemed  it  the  whole,  and  with  excess  of  zeal 
Pushed  his  ideal  truth  beyond  the  stretch 
Of  human  practice.     Most  of  what  he  taught 
The  wise  and  good  of  old  had  said  before. 
His  healing  skill,  this  sect  calls  miracle", 
A  hundred  others  had  as  well  as  he  ; 


580  A  Jewish  Rabli  in  Rome. 

And  for  that  claim  his  followers  set  up, 

And  he,  perhaps  (though  here  there  is  much  doubt), 

Asserted  of  himself,  that  he  was  sent 

Messias,  King  of  kings,  to  save  the  world, — 

This,  surely,  was  no  crime  deserving  death  : 

No  mere  opinions,  void  of  acts,  are  crimes. 

Besides,  what  sect  or  creed  was  ever  crushed 
By  cruelty  1     Our  error  was  perverse, 
Wilful,  unwise.     Had  we  but  spared  his  lifr, 
He  would  have  passed  away  as  others  pass, — 
Simon  and  John  and  Apollonius, 
Judas  of  Galilee,  and  many  more. 
But,  no  !  we  lifted  him  above  the  rest ; 
Made  him  conspicuous  by  his  martyrdom  ; 
Watered  with  blood  his  doctrines ;  fired  the  hearts 
Of  those  who  loved  him  with  intemperate  zeal 
And  wild  imaginations,  till  at  last 
They  thought  they  saw  him  risen  from  the  dead. 
Our  folly  (call  it  by  its  lightest  name) 
Nourished  the  seed  into  this  mighty  sect, 
That  takes  his  name  and  worships  him  as  God. 

Setting  aside  the  superstitious  part, 
I  ask,  What  were  the  doctrines  that  he  preached, 
And  that  his  followers  with  their  lips  profess  ? 
Love  !  Peace !  Goodwill  to  man  !     This  was  the  gut 
Of  all  he  taught.     Forgive  your  enemies  ! 
Seek  for  the  lost  sheep  from  the  fold  that  stray  ! 
Harm  no  one  !     For  the  prodigal  returned 
Kill  the  fat  calf !     Be  merciful  to  all ! 
Who  are  the  enemies,  prodigals,  lost  sheep, 
To  whom  their  mercy,  love,  care,  gifts  are  given  ? 
Not  we,  the  Jews,  in  truth.     Is  it  for  us 
They  kill  the  calf1?     Are  we  the  enemies 
That  they  forgive  1     Have  they  goodwill  for  us  ? 
Not  they  !     They  hold  us  rather  like  foul  swine, — 
Abuse  us, — lay  great  burdens  on  our  backs, — 
Spit  on  us, — drive  us  forth  beyond  their  walls, — 
Force  us  all  slavish  offices  to  do, — 
And  if  we  join  their  sect,  scorn  us  the  more. 
If  those  are  blessed,  as  he  says,  whom  men 
llevile  and  persecute,  most  blest  are  we  ! 

Yet  was  not  Jesus,  first  of  all,  a  Jew, — 
Even  to  his  death  a  Jew  ?     Did  he  renounce 
His  strict  faith  in  the  Prophets  and  the  Law  1 
Never  !     "  I  come  not  to  destroy,"  he  said, 
"  The  Law  or  Prophets,  only  to  fulfil." 
So,  too,  his  preaching,  whatsoe'er  it  was, 
Was  to  the  Jews.     The  miracles  he  wrought 
Were  for  the  Jews  alone.     "  I  am  not  sent," — 


I860.]  A  Jewish  Ralli  in  Home. 

These  are  his  words, — "but  unto  the  lost  sheep 
Of  Israel's  house  :  my  bread  is  not  for  dogs." 
Who  were  the  dogs  to  whom  he  thus  refused 
To  lend  his  healing  hand  ]     What  had  she  done 
Who  asked  his  service  that  he  scorned  her  thus1? 
She  was  from  Canaan,  or  a  Greek — no,  Jew ; 
This  was  her  crime.     JTis  true  that,  touched  at  last 
By  those  sad  humble  words  of  hers,  "  The  dogs 
May  eat  the  crumbs  dropped  from  the  master's  board, 
He  made  her  an  exception  to  his  rule, — 
But  still  his  rule  was  this.     This  his  first  rule. 
j\ro  ?     But  it  was  !     Remember  the  rich  youth 
Who  prayed  to  be  his  follower  :  "  Two  things," 
He  said,  "  are  needful."     First,  that  you  obey 
The  Law  and  Prophets — that  is,  are  a  Jew ; — 
And  then  the  second,  that  your  wealth  and  goods 
You  sell,  and  give  the  proceeds  to  the  poor. 
First  be  a  Jew,  then  poor.     Renounce  all  wealth  ; 
Keep  nothing  back.     These  are  conditions  prime, 
Refusing  which,  your  following  I  reject. 

I  see  you  gravely  shake  your  head  at  this  ; 
But  read  the  records, — you  will  see  I'm  right. 
Jesus,  let  me  repeat  it  yet  again, 
Was  first  and  last  a  Jew  ;  never  renounced 
That  faith  of  ours  ;  taught  in  the  Synagogue ; 
Quoted  the  Prophets;  reaffirmed  the  Law; 
Worked  with  the  Jews,  and  only  healed  the  Jews, 
And  held  all  other  nations  but  as  dogs.* 


581 


*  (Commentary  by  Ben  Israel. ) 

I've  read  the  records  carefully  again  : 

It  goes  against  my  will — still,  I  admit, 

Ben  Esdra  may  be  right.     Here  let  me  note 

One  case  that  he  perchance  has  overlooked — 

That  of  the  Publican  named  Zaccheus. 

This  man  was  rich,  and,  curious,  sought  to  look 

On  Jesus, — for  this  purpose  climbed  a  tree. 

Jesus,  perceiving  him,  proposed  himself 

To  be  his  guest ;  at  which  a  murmuring  went 

Among  his  followers, — for  this  wealthy  man 

Was,  as  they  said,  a  sinner,  or  no  Jew. 

But  I  note  this,  that  Znccheus  on  the  spot 

Surrendered  half  his  goods  unto  the  poor 

Ere  Jesus  went  into  his  house  ;  and  then, 

And  not  till  then,  said  Jesus — "  On  this  house 

This  day  salvation  cometh,  forasmuch 

As  he,  too,  is  a  son  of  Abraham  " — 

That  is,  a  Jew.     Again,  where  did  he  send 

His  twelve  disciples  (Judas  'mid  the  rest) 

To  preach  the  Gospel  ?    To  the  Gentiles  ?     No  ! 

This  he  forbade,— but  "unto  the  lost  sheep 

Of  Israel's  house."    And  one  case  more  I  note, — 

That  of  the  woman  of  Samaria, 

To  whom  he  said  (his  followers  murmuring 

That  he  should  speak  to  her)  :  "  Salvation  comes 


582  A  Jewish  Mabbi  in  Rome.  [Nov 

And  second  (mark  this  well,  and  ponder  it), 

He  was  a  Communist — denied  the  right 

Of  private  wealth  ;  ordained  a  common  purse 

To  be  administered  for  all  alike, 

And  all  rejected  who  refused  him  this. 

"'Tis  easier  for  a  camel  to  pass  through 

A  needle's  eye," — these  are  his  very  words, — 

"Than  that  a  rich  man  should  inherit  heaven." 

A  rich  man,  mind  you,  whether  good  or  bad. 

What  was  the  moral  of  his  parable 

Of  Lazarus,  and  Dives?     What  offence 

Did  Dives,  that  in  everlasting  fire 

He  was  condemned  to  suffer  1     What  good  deed 

Did  Lazarus,  that  he  at  last  should  lie 

On  Abraham's  bosom  in  eternal  bliss  ? 

Nothing  !     The  beggar,  Lazarus,  was  poor  ; 

Dives  was  rich.     This  was  the  crime  of  one, 

The  virtue  of  the  other.     Not  one  hint 

Of  any  other  reason  for  the  hell 

Or  heaven  that  he  adjudged  them, — not  one  word 

That  Dives  was  not  charitable,  kind, 

Generous,  a  helper  of  his  brother  man ; — 

No  accusation,  save  that  he  was  rich. 

No  word  that  Lazarus,  with  all  his  sores, 

Possessed  OXE  virtue,  save  that  he  was  poor. 

Nay,  more  :  when  Dives  in  his  torment  sued 

For  mercy,  what  did  Abraham  say  to  him  ? 

You  for  your  evil  deeds  must  suffer  now  ? 

No  !  but,  "You  had  the  good  things  on  the  earth, 

Lazarus  the  evil.     Therefore,  now,  to  thee 

Is  torment  given — comfort  unto  him." 

Working  to  pile  up  wealth  Jesus  abhorred. 
"  Each  man  for  all,"  he  said,  "  and  all  for  each. 
Take  no  thought  of  to-morrow — for  the  day 
Sufficient  will  be  given.     No  sparrow  falls 
Save  through  God's  law.     The  ravens  of  the  air 
Sow  not  and  reap  not,  yet  God  feedeth  them. 
The  lilies  of  the  field  nor  toil  nor  spin,  • 
Yet  Solomon  was  not  arrayed  like  them. 
Why,  then,  take  thought  of  raiment  and  of  food  ? 

But  to  the  Jews."    Doubtless,  as  well  we  know, 
It  was  unlawful  for  a  Jew  to  eat 
And  bide  with  those  who  were  uncircumcised. 
Upon  this  point,  long  after  he  was  dead, 
Extreme  contention  'mid  his  followers  rose, 
If  Gentiles,  ere  they  had  been  circumcised, 
Into  the  Christian  faith  could  be  baptised— 
Some  holding  full  adherence  to  the  law 
A  prime  condition, — some,  that  it  sufficed 
If  its  main  principles  were  recognised  : 
But  this  I  merely  note.     It  seems  quite  clear 
That  only  Jews  at  first  could  join  the  sect. 


1880.]  A  Jewish  Rabbi  in  Rome.  583 

Leave  all  to  God.     Blessed  are  ye,  the  poor  ! 

God's  kingdom  shall  be  yours  :  but  ye,  the  rich, 

Woe  unto  you."     This  was  his  life  and  text. 

Once  only — so  the  record  goes — a  rage 

Seized  upon  Jesus,  when,  with  whip  and  thong, 

The  money-changers — all  who  bought  and  sold — 

He  from  the  precincts  of  the  temple  drove, 

Saying,  "  'Tis  writ,  This  is  the  house  of  prayer, 

But  ye  have  made  it  to  a  den  of  thieves." 

Let  this  show  what  he  thought  of  such  as  these. 

Those  who  were  with  him  knew  and  did  his  will, — 

Lived  in  community  of  goods,  renounced 

All  private  wealth.     This  doctrine,  too,  they  preached 

After  his  death ;  and  all  who  joined  their  sect 

Sold  their  possessions,  houses,  treasures,  lands, 

And  paid  the  price  into  the  common  store, 

To  be  administered  to  each  one's  need. 

They  did  not  seek  by  subterfuge  and  trick 

To  cling  to  Mammon  while  they  worshipped  God.* 

What  should  a  Christian  do,  then,  who  accepts 
The  doctrines  that  this  master,  nay,  this  God 
(For  so  they  call  him),  clearly  thus  appoints  j — 
Live  by  them,  should  he  not  ]     Not  by  blank  words 
Affirm  them,  but  by  all  his  acts  and  life. 
First,  love  to  God — and  love  to  man  as  well. 
Then  peace,  forgiveness,  kindness,  poverty. 
What  is  the  Christian  practice  ?     War — the  sword 
As  arbiter  of  all  disputes  of  men — 
Reprisals, — persecutions  unto  death 
For  all  who  differ  from  them — Peter's  sword 
That  Jesus  bade  him  sheathe, — no  simple  lives 
Of  frugal  fare  and  pure  beneficence, 
But  luxury  and  imperious  tyranny 
In  all  high  places, — all  in  earnest  strife 
To  pile  up  wealth  for  selfish  purposes, — 
Each  greedy  for  himself,  the  wretched  poor 
Down-trodden,  trampled  on, — the  Church  itself, 
Splendid  with  pageant,  cruel  in  its  power, — 
Pride  rampant,  hissing  through  a  thousand  maws, — 
Power,  like  a  ravening  wolf  among  the  lambs, 
Worrying  the  weakest, — prayers,  lip-deep,  no  more — 
The  devil's  work  done  in  the  name  of  God. 

Such  is  the  spectacle  I  see  in  Rome. 


*  Here  I,  Ben  Israel,  note  the  curious  case 
Of  Ananias  and  Sapphira,  struck 
By  sudden  death,  because  of  all  their  wealth 
They  kept  a  part  back  for  their  private  use — 
Tempting  by  this  the  Lord,  as  Peter  said. 
But  where  are  the  Almighty's  lightnings  now  ? 
VOL.  CXXVIII. — NO.  DCCLXXXI.  2  B 


584  A  Jewish  Rabbi  in  Home.  [Nov. 

Among  the  pomps  in  which  this  Christian  Church 
Invests  its  pageants,  oft  I  think  of  him 
Whom  they  pretend  to  worship,  and  his  words 
Come  back  to  me  with  which  he  once  reproved 
Oar  priests  of  his  own  days.     The  world,  indeed, 
Has  but  one  pattern  for  its  worldliness, — 
Or  now,  or  then,  'tis  evermore  the  same. 
If  we  of  old  were  stiff-necked  in  our  pride, 
Desiring  power  instead  of  godliness, 
Avid  of  pomp, — these  Christians  are  the  same  : 
They  will  not  follow  either  God  or  Christ. 
"  Thus  saith  the  Lord,  Stand  in  the  ways,  and  see  ; 
Ask,  where  is  the  good  way,  and  walk  therein, 
And  so  ye  shall  find  rest  unto  your  souls. 
But  they  replied,  We  will  not  walk  therein." 
Thus  Jeremiah, — Jesus  much  the  same. 
Long  prayers,  low  bowings  in  the  market-place, 
Chief  seats  in  synagogues,  upper  rooms  at  feasts, 
Fine  linen,  costly  dresses,  pompous  rites, 
Grand  ceremonials,  purple  trailing  robes, 
Embroidered  hems,  and  wide  phylacteries, — 
All  this  he  scorned.     Well,  still  we  see  the  same, 
For  all  his  scorn,  among  his  followers. 
His  very  words  describe  these  cardinals 
As  they  were  made  for  them  alone, — not  us. 
Not  we  alone  were  whited  sepulchres ; 
Robbed  widows,  orphans,  every  one  for  greed  : 
This  Church  still  robs  them,  wears  its  purple  robes, 
Prays  at  the  public  corners  of  the  street?, 
Nor  even  the  outside  of  the  platter  cleans. 

And  what  thinks  Jesus  of  it  1 — if,  indeed, 
He  from  beyond  can  look  into  their  hearts, 
Who  call  upon  his  name  and  preach  of  Peace. 
Foul  hypocrites,  who  feed  their  hungry  flocks 
With  husks  of  dogmas  and  dead  chaff  of  talk, 
And  trample  virtue  down  into  the  mire. 

I  ask  myself,  Do  these  men  ever  think 
Or  weigh  their  master's  teaching,  practice,  words, 
That  thus  by  rote,  like  empty  formulas, 
They  gabble  them,  as  senseless  parrots  talk. 
Doctrine  and  life  to  him  were  one.     To  these 
Doctrine  from  life  is  utterly  divorced. 

Whatever  Jesus  was,  this  Church,  these  men, 
Are  none  of  his, — or  ours  ;  his  words  alone 
They  worship  like  a  fetish,  without  sense, — 
His  real  inner  teaching  they  reject ; 
Nay.  are  afraid  to  look  it  in  the  face 
And  seek  its  meaning,  lest  it  come  to  this, 
That  they  must  choose  between  the  things  he  would, 
And  what  they  covet  dearer  than  their  life. 


580.]  A  Jewish  Rabbi  in  Rome.  585 

Jew  as  I  am,  in  view  of  them,  at  times 
I  long  to  see  some  real  Christian  sect 
Eeady  to  take  the  system  that  he  taught, 
And  try  it  in  this  world, — not  talking  Peace, 
Good-will  to  men,  Love,  Justice,  Charity, 
But  living  it  in  very  deed, — a  sect 
That  should  ahjure  all  individual  greed, 
All  competition  for  a  selfish  end, 
And  joining,  make  one  common  purse  for  all, 
As  Jesus  did  among  his  followers. 
"Would  it  succeed  ?     Ah,  you  and  I  are  Jews  ; 
Jesus  has  no  authority  with  us. 
But  were  we  Christians,  and  not  hypocrites, — 
Did  we  believe  that  he  was  really  God, 
Or  even  that  his  mission  was  divine, — 
How  should  we  dare  to  gloss  his  teachings  o'er, 
And  twist  his  doctrines  so  that  they  should  fit 
Our  worldly  needs,  and  in  the  very  face 
Of  his  plain  orders  seek  some  verbal  trick 
To  warp  them  to  the  life  we  like  to  lead  ! 

The  Eternal  One  must  needs  look  down  and  smile 
At  these  base  wrigglings  of  His  creatures  here, 
Filled  with  sad  pity,  too,  at  their  offence, — 
Seeing  them  do,  with  His  name  on  their  lips, 
All  He  forbids,  and  dreaming  none  the  less 
They  only  shall  be  saved, — all  others  damned. 

Would  Jesus'  plan  succeed  ]     The  world  thus  far 
Has  taken  another  path, — we  most  of  all, — 
Believing  not  in  him,  nor  in  his  scheme  ; — 
But  dreaming — shaking,  as  it  were,  from  me 
All  usages  and  habits  of  the  world, 
At  times  I  stretch  my  mind  out  in  the  vague, 
And  seek  upon  this  plan  to  build  a  world. 
No  property,  but  that  which  all  should  own 
With  equal  rights, — the  product  of  all  work 
Held  for  the  common  good  in  trust  for  all ; 
All,  to  the  lowest,  to  be  clothed,  fed,  housed, 
Freed  from  necessity  and  from  the  wolf 
Of  hunger,  and  the  pains  and  pangs  of  life  ; 
Each  having  claims  on  all  to  do  the  task 
Best  fitted  for  his  powers,  tastes,  happiness  ; 
Each  as  a  duty  bound  to  do  his  share, 
And  not  to  be  a  drone  within  the  hive. 

What  glory  might  the  world  then  see  ! — what  joy  ! 
What  harmony  of  work  !  what  large  content ! 
What  splendid  products  of  joint  industry  ! 
All  toiling  with  one  purpose  and  one  heart ; 
No  war,  no  waste  of  noble  energies, — 
But  smiling  peace,  the  enlarging  grace  of  art : 


586  A  Jewish  Rabbi  in  Rome. 

Humanity  a  column  with  its  base 

Of  solid  work,  and  at  its  summit  crowned 

With  the  ideal  capital  of  Love  ! 

This  is  a  dream  that  turns  this  world  of  ours 
Quite  upside  down; — I'll  say  no  more  of  it. 

And  yet  one  word  more,  lest  you  deem  me  fool ! 
Think  not  I  dream  :  none  but  a  fool  could  dream 
Equality  of  rights, — that  is,  the  claim 
To  justice,  life,  food,  freedom  in  the  bound 
Of  common  benefit,  involves  the  claim 
To  equal  virtues,  powers,  intelligence, — 
Since  God  in  these  unequal  shaped  us  all, 
And  fitted  each  one  for  his  special  end. 
So  should  the  wise,  just,  virtuous  take  the  lead, 
Or  all  at  once  is  lawless  anarchy  ; 
For  what  more  fatal,  hopeless,  than  a  scheme 
Where  wise  and  good,  and  fool  and  knave  alike, 
Own  equal  powers  and  rights  in  government? 

But  how  secure  the  leadership  to  those 
Whom  God  hath  made  for  leaders  1     Ah,  my  friend, 
That  is  the  question  none  hath  e'er  resolved ; 
For  liberty,  at  best  a  negative — 
Mere  freedom  from  restraint — engenders  soon 
Licence  and  tyranny, — dire  positives  : 
Just  as  Aurelius,  best  of  emperors, 
Begot  for  son  the  cruel  Commodus. 

Danger  on  all  sides  threatens  government. 
Choose  you  a  king, — the  very  best  is  weak, — 
And  fierce  temptation  dogs  the  path  of  power. 
Choose  you  the  Demos, — it  perchance  is  worse ; 
For  then,  as  in  an  agitated  sea, 
The  frothiest  ever  to  the  surface  swims. 
Caprice,  rage,  panic,  interest,  sway  the  mob  ; 
Justice  is  overstormed,  wisdom  lies  low, 
And  noisy  ignorance,  swollen  by  the  breath 
Of  blatant  demagogues,  wrecks  the  lost  state. 

Why  1 — But  because  the  eager  lust  of  men, 
The  godless  strife  of  utter  selfishness, 
Makes  of  the  world  a  blind  and  brutal  herd, 
All  crowding  on,  devoid  of  common  aim, — 
Each  goring  his  own  way  to  make  his  path. 

Well,  seeing  this,  and  how  these  blundering  schemes 
Beget  a  brood  of  sin  and  misery, 
Said  Jesus  to  his  followers  :  All  is  wrong ; 
Let  it  be  all  reversed, — such  life  is  hate ; 
But  God  is  love  :  try  love,  then,  for  your  scheme, — 


1880.]  A  Jewish  Ralbi  in  Rome.  587 

Try  God's  law  ; — as  the  Book  of  Wisdom  saith, 

"  All  hatred  stirreth  strife ;  but  love  hath  power 

To  cover  up  all  sins ; "  and  yet  again  : 

"  He  who  his  neighbour  scorneth,  sins ;  but  he 

Is  happy  who  hath  mercy  for  the  poor." 

"  The  profit  of  the  earth  is  made  for  all, 

And  riches  breed  disease  and  vanity." 

So  saith  the  preacher,  just  as  Jesus  said. 

Nothing  was  new  in  Jesus'  scheme  but  this, — 

To  make  community  a  fact — no  dream.* 

But  new  or  old,  his  followers  obeyed, 

Accepting  what  he  taught.     Their  life  was  pure, — 

They  craved  no  gains,  abjured  all  private  wealth  ; 

Preached  poverty,  and  practised  what  they  preached ; 

And  then,  with  stealthy  step  and  half-veiled  face, 

Pride  entered,  and  ambition  ;  and  they  shaped 

That  fair  community  into  the  thing 

Now  called  a  Church,  and  on  its  altar  raised 

The  same  false  idol  he  had  driven  forth  ; 

And  now  what  is  this  Church  so  called  of  Christ  ] 

The  last  and  even  the  most  hideous  shape 

Of  tyranny — that  spawns  upon  the  world 

As  love's  true  offspring  the  foul  serpent  brood 

Of  superstition,  bigotry,  and  hate. 

Thus  looking  on,  and  striving  as  I  can 
To  keep  my  mind  wide  open  to  new  thought, 
I  weave  my  dream  of  what  the  world  might  be, — 
A  vague  wild  dream,  but  not  without  its  charm. 

*  And  scarcely  this,  say  I,  Ben  Israel — 
Commenting  on  this  letter.     We  of  old 
Among  the  patriarchs  ever  practised  it. 
And  well  it  worked,  till,  into  cities  packed, 
Men  grew  ambitious,  greedy,  void  of  God, 
And  then  confusion  came  to  one  and  all. 
The  greed  of  riches  is  the  curse  of  man  : 
Virtiie  and  wisdom  only,  hand  in  hand, 
Have  any  rightful  claims  to  power  ;  the  wise, 
The  good,  in  every  age  affirm  the  same, — 
Solon,  Confucius,  Plato,  Thales,  all. 
"  Flee  greed,  choose  equal  rights,"  Menander  says. 
When  Greece  made  question  of  her  wisest  men 
What  is  the  best  form  of  all  government, 
Thales  replied,  "Where  none  are  over-rich, 
None  over-poor;"  and  Anacharsis  said, 
"  Where  vice  is  hated — virtue  reverenced." 
So  Pittacus — "Where  honours  are  conferred 
But  on  the  virtuous  ;"  and  Solon,  too, 
In  thought,  if  not  in  words,  like  Jesus  spoke, — 
"  Where  any  wrong  unto  the  meanest  done 
Is  held  to  be  an  injury  to  all." 
So  also  Solomon, — "  Remove  me  far 
From  vanity  and  lies  ;  and  give  to  me 
Nor  poverty  nor  wealth.     Blessed  is  he 


Who  for  the  poor  and  needy  giveth  thought : 
lall  help  him  in  his  time  of  need.' 


The  Lord  she 


588  A  Jewish  Rabbi  in  Rome.  [Xov» 

Since  nothing  in  our  Law  forbids  to  us 
The  trial  of  this  scheme,  suppose  we  Jews — 
(Nay,  do  not  smile)— suppose  we  very  Jews 
Go  on  and  do  even  this,  the  Christians'  work  : 
They  will  not  do  it, — oh,  be  sure  of  that ! 

!N~o  more  of  this  :  oh,  my  Jerusalem  ! — 
Thou  whom  again  we  shall  rebuild  in  power — 
Let  Justice  be  thy  strong  foundation-stones, 
And  Love  the  cement  that  shall  knit  them  close. 
Firm  in  our  Faith — at  last — at  last,  0  Lord  ! 
When  we  have  suffered  to  the  bitter  end, 
Thy  chosen  people  Thou  wilt  lift  again, 
And  sweep  Thy  enemies  before  Thy  path. 
Come  not  to  Eome, — it  is  the  sink  of  vice  : 
Its  grandeur  is  decayed  ;  its  splendid  days 
Are  faded.     Famine,  War,  and  Pestilence — 
Tempest  and  inundation  and  fierce  hordes — 
Have  o'er  it  swept,  with  ruin  in  their  track. 
The  herdsman  tends  his  flocks  upon  the  Hill 
Where  Manlius  drove  the  Gauls.     The  Capitol 
Scarcely  exists  in  name  :  its  temples  proud 
Are  wrecked  and  ruined.     In  the  Forum  herd 
Horned  cattle ;  and  beyond  the  Flaminian  gate, 
Where  once  triumphant  swarmed  the  crowds  of  Rome, 
Spreads  a  flat  marsh,  o'ergrown  with  rustling  canes, 
Where  flocks  of  whirring  wild-fowl  make  their  home. 
Death  haunts  the  temples,  once  so  full  of  life. 
Life  crowds  the  tombs  where  the  dead  Caesars  lie, 
And  fortifies  their  wrecks  for  deadly  feud. 
The  arts  have  perished.     Prone  upon  the  earth 
Lie  shattered  the  proud  statues  of  their  gods, 
While  the  rude  builder  breaks  them  with  his  pick, 
Or  burns  them  into  lime.     The  games  are  o'er ; 
The  streets  are  filled  with  ruffian  soldiery, 
Quick  at  a  quarrel ;  and  the  deadly  knife 
Of  treachery  stabs  the  unsuspecting  foe. 
Upon  the  Castle  every  week  are  seen 
.  Black  corpses,  nailed  along  the  outer  walls. 
The  city  throngs  at  night  with  bravos  hired, 
Who  after  murder  find  a  safe  retreat 
In  many  a  priestly  palace.     In  a  word, 
Eapine  and  murder,  rape  and  parricide, 
Ay,  ev'ry  crime,  with  or  without  a  name, 
Ravage  the  city.     Justice,  with  sad  face, 
Weeping,  hath  fled,  and  Mercy's  voice  is  dumb. 
Is  this  the  reign  of  Christ — or  Belial  1 

Yet  still  I  linger  here  :  I  scarce  know  why. 
There  is  a  charm  that,  all  beyond  my  will, 
Allures  me,  holds  me,  will  not  let  me  go. 
'Tis  not  indeed  like  our  Jerusalem  j 


1880.]  A  Jewish  Rabbi  in  Rome.  589 

Yet  in  its  age,  its  sorrows  and  its  wrongs, 

It  is  allied  to  her, — a  city  sad, 

That,  like  a  mourner  weeping  at  a  tomb, 

Sits  clad  in  sackcloth,  grieving  o'er  the  past, 

Hoping  for  nothing,  stricken  by  despair. 

Sad,  lonely  stretches  compass  her  about 

With  silence.     Wandering  here,  at  every  step 

We  stumble  o'er  some  ruin,  once  the  home 

Of  happy  life ;  or  pensive,  stay  our  feet 

To  ponder  o'er  some  stern  decaying  tomb, 

The  haunt  of  blinking  owls.     Nor  all  in  vain 

Doth  kindly  nature  strive  to  heal  the  wounds 

Of  Time  and  human  rage  :  with  ivy  green, 

With  whispering  grasses,  reeds,  and  bright-eyed  flowers. 

Veiling  its  ruin ;  and  with  tremulous  songs 

Of  far  larks  hidden  in  the  deep  blue  sky, 

Lifting  the  thoughts  to  heaven. 

Here  many  a  day 

Alone  I  stray,  and  hold  communion  sad 
With  dreams  that  wander  far  on  boundless  ways 
Of  meditation  vague,  recalling  oft 
The  passages  of  Prophets  in  our  Land. 
At  times  Isaiah  seems  to  speak,  and  say 
To  Rome,  as  once  unto  Jerusalem : 
"  Judah  is  fallen,  ruin  hath  involved 
Jerusalem.     What  mean  ye  that  ye  beat 
My  people  into  pieces  1  that  ye  grind 
The  faces  of  the  poor  1     The  Lord  shall  take 
The  bravery  of  thy  ornaments  away ; 
Thy  men  shall  perish  by  the  sword  in  war ; 
Thy  mighty  ones  shall  perish,  and  thy  gates 
Lament  and  mourn ;  and  thou,  being  desolate, 
Shalt  sit  upon  the  ground.     Woe  unto  them 
That  draw  iniquity  with  the  weak  cords 
Of  vanity,  and  call  the  evil  good, — 
Their  roots  shall  be  as  rottenness,  like  dust 
Their  blossoms  perish, — for  they  cast  away 
The  Lord's  law,  and  despise  his  Holy  Word." 

And  then  in  sorrow  for  this  grievous  fate 
In  which  we  are  plunged,  I  comfort  me  with  this — 
That  He,  the  Eternal  One,  hath  promised  us 
That  we  at  last  shall  from  our  sorrows  rest, 
And  from  our  fear,  and  from  our  bondage  dire, 
And  build  again  our  new  Jerusalem. 

And  yet  once  more.     Hear  Jeremiah  speak  : 
"  How  doth  the  city  solitary  sit 
That  once  was  filled  with  people  !     How  is  she 
Become  a  widow,  that  among  the  powers 
Was  great,  and  princess  in  the  provinces  ? 


590  A  Jewish  Rabbi  in  Rome.  [Nov. 

She  weepeth  sorely  in  the  night ;  her  tears 
Are  on  her  cheeks ;  and  of  her  lovers  none 
Will  comfort  her."     Ah,  my  Jerusalem  ! 
Thy  sister  here  is  Rome,  and  sins  like  thee, 
And  she  shall  suffer  also  like  to  thee. 

As  she  hath  suffered  for  her  heathen  pride 
And  worship  of  false  gods,  and  now  is  cast 
Headlong  to  earth  with  all  her  temples  proud, 
So  shall  she  suffer  in  the  time  to  come 
For  all  her  violence  and  worldly  lust, 
And  all  her  utter  falseness  to  her  faith. 
Is  there  no  place  upon  this  wretched  earth 
"Where  God  shall  have  His  own,  and  peace  shall  reign  1 
Is  there  no  spot  the  devil  doth  not  own  1 
Shall  we,  poor  human  wretches,  ever  seek 
To  thwart  God's  law,  and  rear  up  in  His  stead 
Base  idols,  and  make  covenant  with  Death  ? 

Such  thoughts  come  over  me,  oppressed  and  sad, 
As  'mid  Rome's  ruined  tombs  I  meditate, 
Feeling  how  transient  a  thing  is  man, 
Whose  life  is  but  a  shadow  on  the  grass 
That  comes  and  goes,  or  like  a  passing  wind, 
Or  like  a  voice  that  speaks  and  vanishes. 
And  sitting  silent  under  the  blue  sky 
That  broods  unchanging  on  the  change  below, 
Idly  I  watch  the  drooping  ivy  swing 
Through  sunlit  loops  of  arching  aqueducts, 
Printing  its  wavering  shadow  on  the  sward. 
Or,  as  my  eye  runs  down  their  lessening  lines, 
Broken  by  gaps  of  time  and  war,  and  swing 
Along  the  far  Campagna's  rolling  stretch 
Like  vertebrae  of  some  huge  skeleton, 
I  ponder  o'er  the  past  of  Rome, — the  pomp, 
The  pride,  the  power,  the  ruin, — masters,  slaves, 
Conquerors  and  victims,  even  the  gods  themselves, 
Shattered  and  fallen  and  equal  in  the  dust — 
And  silent  nature  calmly  moving  on, 
Heedless  of  them,  and  what  they  were  or  did, 
As  it  will  be  of  us,  when  we  are  gone. 
Often,  again,  with  scarce  a  conscious  thought, — 
My  spirit  wandering  vaguely,  who  knows  where  1 — 
I  gaze  upon  the  cloud-shades  trailing  slow 
O'er  the  deep  chasms  of  the  opaline  hills, 
And  drift  with  them  through  some  abyss  of  space, 
And  feel  the  silence  sink  into  my  soul. 
At  times  a  rustling  starts  me,  and  I  see 
Some  long-haired  goat,  that,  mounting  up  to  crop 
A  wandering  spray,  peers  down  through  glass-grey  eyes, 
And,  pausing/ stares  at  me.     At  times,  again, 
I  hear  the  thud  of  hoofs  upon  the  grass, 


1880.]  A  Jewish  Rabbi  in  Rome.  591 

And  jangling  swords,  and  voices  of  command, 

As  some  armed  troop  goes  galloping  along. 

And  then  I  hide  me,  knowing  that  my  tribe 

Are  only  recognised  to  he  the  hutt 

Of  mocking  words — or  scarce  more  wounding  blows. 

The  shepherd,  leaning  idly  on  his  staff, 

Alone  has  kindly  words  for  such  as  we, — 

For  nature  hath  subdued  him  into  calm, 

Until  he  almost  seems  a  part  of  her. 

I  have  seen  the  Pope,  whom  in  their  blasphemy 
They  term  God's  Holiness.     A  fisherman, 
Like  Peter,  was  his  father  ;  and  his  son, 
By  mock  humility  and  specious  ways 
Veiling  his  inward  self,  inly  devoured 
By  lust  of  place,  and  luxury,  and  power, 
Hath  mounted  in  the  end  to  Peter's  chair. 
Peter  was  poor  and  simple  at  the  least, — 
Honest  though  ignorant.     This  Sixtus  here, 
Fourth  of  his  name,  his  utter  opposite, — 
Luxurious,  worldly,  fierce,  and  stained  with  crime. 
There  are  no  limits  to  his  low  desires ; — 
None  to  his  passions  ;  and  he  treads  us  down 
As  if  we  were  the  offal  of  the  earth. 

Last  week  he  gave  a  banquet  that,  I  think, 
Poor  Peter  would  have  been  aghast  to  see  : 
Tis  said  it  cost  some  twenty  thousand  crowns, 
Shaming  Vitellius  with  its  cost  and  waste. 
But  this  is  nothing  to  his  other  deeds. 
Little  he  thinks  of  carrying  out  the  dream 
Of  which  I  just  have  spoken.     No  !  the  poor 
Starve  on  black  bread,  and  fester  in  disease, 
While  thus  he  lords  it  in  his  luxury. 
Nor  are  the  rich  much  better  off  with  him  : 
A  short  month  since  he  pillaged  an  old  man — 
The  Prince  Colonna — on  some  poor  pretence  ;— 
Eobbed  him  of  all  his  plate,  robes,  tapestries, 
Tore  him  with  torture,  then  lopped  off  his  head ; 
And  clothed  in  wretched  rags  to  mock  his  rank, 
Sent  back  in  answer  to  his  mother's  prayers 
For  his  mere  life — the  mutilated  corpse  ! 
And  this  is  God's  vicegerent  on  the  earth — 
The  head  of  what  they  call  the  Christian  Church  ! 

Bad  as  the  Christian's  lot  is,  ours  is  worse  : 
We  are  the  football  and  the  scorn  of  all, — 
Laden  with  taxes,  tributes, — forced  to  wear 
An  ignominious  badge, — banned  from  the  town, 
And  huddled  in  the  Ghetto's  filthy  den. 
No  public  office  may  we  hold :  our  oath 
Avails  not  in  their  courts  against  the  word 


592  A  Jewish  Rabbi  in  Rome.  [Nov. 

Of  any  Christian ;  and  now,  worse  than  this, 

In  these  last  years  one  degradation  more 

Is  cast  upon  us  by  this  Christian  court, 

Whose  creed  is,  "  Love  your  neighbour  as  yourself." 

We  are  but  beasts  that  in  the  Carnival 

Must  race  half-naked,  clothed  but  round  the  loins, 

A  halter  on  our  necks,  as  we  were  dogs, — 

Insulted,  hooted,  jeered  at  by  the  mob. 

No  one  of  us  is  free  of  this, — or  old 
Or  young,  whatever  be  our  state, — 
Elder  or  priest  or  child, — it  matters  not. 
High  ladies,  cardinals  in  purple  robes, 
Ay,  even  the  Pope  himself,  with  all  his  court, 
Seated  on  high,  in  all  their  pomp  and  pride, 
Laugh  at  us,  as  we  stumble  on  our  course, 
Pelted  with  filth,  and  shake  their  holy  sides, 
Encouraging  the  mob  that  mock  at  us. 

But  what  offends  me  more  than  all  the  rest 
Is  that  this  usage  has  debased  our  tribe, — 
Bent  its  proud  neck,  and  forced  it  to  the  earth, — 
Taught  us  to  cringe  and  whimper,  taught  us  wiles, 
And  driven  us  at  their  beck  to  creep  and  crawl. 
We,  who  were  God's  own  people, — we  must  bow 
Before  these  Christians  :  with  a  smile  accept 
Even  their  kicks,  and  humbly  give  them  thanks 
For  our  mere  life.     This  stings  me  to  the  quick. 
As  for  what  Christ  said,  "  Love  your  enemies  ; 
Bless  them  that  curse  you,  and  do  good  to  them," — 
This  is  beyond  the  power  of  any  man — 
Beyond  my  power  at  least, — I  curse  them  all ! 

I  stay  my  pen  here, — for  the  hot  blood  boils 
Within  my  brain  in  thinking  on  these  things  : 
I  dare  not  trust  myself  to  write  you  more. 

My  work  is  almost  done  for  which  I  came, 
And  soon  I  hope  to  greet  your  face  again, 
Shaking  the  dust  off  from  this  godless  place, 
With  all  its  rottenness  and  infamy  : 
Then  for  my  dear  Jerusalem  again  ! 

Greet  all  my  friends, — Rebecca,  Ismael, 
And  all  your  dear  ones.     Peace  be  with  you  all ! 
I  count  the  days  till  we  once  more  shall  meet. 

W.  W.  S. 


1880.] 


Voyages  in  the  P.  and  0.  : 


593 


VOYAGES    IN    THE    P.    AND    0. 


REMINISCENCES    OF    AN    OLD    FOGEY. 


IT  is  iiow  a  great  many  years 
ago  since  I  made  my  first  voyage 
to  India.  The  P.  and  0.  8.8. 
Hindustan,  in  which  I  went  out, 
was  regarded  at  the  time  as  a 
model  of  naval  architecture,  com- 
bining speed,  size,  comfort,  and 
ail  the  latest  improvements  in  a 
remarkable  degree  ;  and  we  passen- 
gers were  all  very  proud  of  her. 
She  had  double  decks,  and,  under 
favourable  circumstances,  could 
steam  eight  knots  an  hour,  with  an 
expenditure  of  I  don't  know  how 
many  tons  of  coal  a-day.  But  the 
P.  and  0.  Company  had  a  monopoly 
of  the  Eastern  seas  at  that  time,  and 
notwithstanding  an  outlay  on  this 
head  which  would  be  ruinous  in 
these  days  of  competition,  the  P. 
and  0.  managed  to  burn  their  coal 
and  keep  up  a  table  almost  as 
wasteful  as  their  engines,  and  yet 
make  a  handsome  profit.  Many 
years  afterwards  I  saw  the  Hin- 
dustan, laid  up,  relegated  to  the 
ignominious  office  of  a  coal-hulk, 
or  something  of  the  sort.  She 
lay  there,  a  notable  example  of 
the  revolution  effected  in  naval 
architecture.  Could  it  be  possible 
that  this  short,  fat,  ugly  old  hulk 
was  the  same  vessel  that  used  to  be 
extolled  as  a  model  of  the  ocean 
steamer !  Compared  with  the 
yacht -looking  vessels  which  now 
compose  the  Company's  fleet,  with 
their  long,  low  hulls  and  raking 
masts,  and  nearly  twice  her  ton- 
nage, some  of  which  were  anchored 
ahead  of  her  in  the  stream,  she 
looked  like  a  cart-horse  beside  a 
racer.  The  reflection  naturally  oc- 
curred, will  the  time  come  when 
these  beautiful  craft,  Avhose  great 
size  is  concealed  in  their  graceful 


lines,  shall  in  turn  be  condemned  as 
clumsy  and  antiquated,  and  withal 
too  small  ?  Nor  could  I  help  being 
impressed  with  the  analogy  suggest- 
ed by  the  old  hulk  in  regard  to  my- 
self. We  had  both  of  us  in  our  ways 
become  out  of  date.  Younger  men, 
looking  at  my  battered  old  face 
and  figure,  will  wonder,  no  doubt, 
how  I  could  ever  have  been  thought 
slim  and  graceful.  And  indeed,  in 
my  particular  case,  the  doubt  would 
have  been  justified  ;  I  never  set  up 
for  being  a  model  of  elegance : 
but  the  comparison  would  have 
been  appropriate  in  the  case  of 
several  of  my  fellow-passengers — 
cadets  like  myself,  and  very  fine 
young  fellows.  "We  cadets  were 
full  of  life  and  hope  and  spirits : 
we  were  all  mere  boys ;  for  com- 
missions were  given  early  in  those 
days,  and  most  of  us  had  come  fresh 
from  school  —  all  without  passing 
any  examination.  I  for  one  should 
certainly  not  have  succeeded  in 
passing  one,  for  I  had  not  got 
even  into  the  fifth  form  at  Eugby, 
and  had  never  come  under  the 
notice  of  the  head -master — suc- 
cessor to  the  great  Arnold,  who 
died  just  before  I  went  there — 
except  for  a  certain  "  function " 
more  common  then  than  in  modern 
times,  as  I  had  good  reason  to 
know.  "We  youngsters,  I  say, 
were  full  of  life  and  hope  and 
spirits.  There  were  some  half- 
dozen  of  us  on  board,  profound- 
ly ignorant  of  India  as  of  every- 
thing else,  our  study  of  mili- 
tary science  being  limited  to  a 
reading  of  '  Charles  O'Malley  '  and 
'Tom  Burke,'  but  not  the  less 
well  satisfied  with  ourselves  on 
that  account.  Had  we  got  our 


594 


Voyages  in  the  P.  and  0. : 


[Xc 


appointments  by  the  roost  severe 
competitive  examination,  we  could 
not  have  been  more  thoroughly 
impressed  with  the  excellence  of 
the  arrangements  under  which  we 
had  been  selected.  The  system 
which  had  produced  a  Clive, — of 
whom,  however,  we  did  not  know 
more  than  that  he  was  connected 
in  some  way  with  the  black-hole 
and  the  battle  of  Plassy,  and  that 
he  had  wanted  to  blow  out  some- 
body's brains  with  a  pistol,  but 
whether  his  own  or  another  man's, 
the  tradition,  as  it  reached  us,  did 
not  explain — my  own  introduction 
to  Indian  history,  through  the 
medium  of  Lord  Macaulay's  famous 
essay,  not  having  taken  place  till 
a  later  date, — a  system  which  pro- 
duced such  results  was  evidently 
the  best  possible  system  :  it  had 
produced  us.  As  for  myself,  I 
had  been  called  away  from  school 
in  the  middle  of  the  term,  an  event 
which  created  a  certain  amount  of 
stir  in  my  house — the  suddenness 
of  the  thing  was  in  itself  a  merit  of 
the  system — and  having  made  my 
appearance  before  the  Court  of 
Directors,  and  taken  an  oath  of  alle- 
giance to  the  East  India  Company, 
had  been  thereon  at  liberty  to  get 
my  outfit,  including  a  full-dress 
uniform,  the  facings  only  of  which 
were  left  doubtful  till  it  was  known 
which  regiment  of  Bengal  Native 
Infantry  would  have  the  honour  of 
enrolling  me  among  its  numbers. 
This  uniform  I  had  the  delight  of 
exhibiting  at  home  to  a  select 
party  of  friends  before  it  was 
packed  up  in  tin, — likewise  an  en- 
ormous shako,  as  to  which  my 
uncle  George  remarked  that  the 
climate  of  India  could  not  be  so 
very  hot,  or  a  shako  like  that 
would  not  be  worn.  I  discovered 
afterwards  it  was  not  the  climate 
which  was  traduced  by  report; — the 
shako  never  was  worn :  indeed,  I 
had  not  half-a-dozen  opportunities 


of  putting  on  my  dress-coatee  before 
I  had  quite  grown  out  of  it,  and 
was  forced  to  buy  another,  this 
time  out  of  my  own  pocket.  But 
the  old  man  grows  garrulous  as  the 
reminiscences  of  his  youth  crowd 
on  his  memory  :  'tis  a  foible  of  old 
age.  We  cadets,  I  say,  were  full 
of  spirits,  but  I  think  the  young 
ladies  on  board  were  still  more 
elated  by  the  change  to  their  new 
life.  They,  too,  had  most  of  them 
come  fresh  from  school,  and  their 
prospects  of  advancement  were  still 
more  extended  than  ours.  We 
knew  that  we  were  merely  cadets, 
and  shortly  to  become  ensigns,  and 
although  that  no  doubt  was  a  splen- 
did position,  still  there  was  a  vis- 
ible horizon  to  it.  We  knew  indeed 
that  even  infantry  officers  kept 
horses,  or  at  least  ponies,  in  India ; 
and  each  of  us  was  taking  out 'a 
brand-new  saddle.  Indeed,  Tom 
Price,  one  of  our  number  —  poor 
Tom !  he  turned  out  a  right-down 
good  soldier,  and  was  killed  at 
the  first  relief  of  Lucknow — con- 
fided to  us,  after  we  had  become 
friendly  and  communicative,  that, 
in  view  to  a  speedy  appearance 
on  the  Indian  turf,  he  was  taking 
out  a  racing-saddle,  smuggled  into 
his  outfit,  and  the  charge  distri- 
buted over  the  other  items,  so  that 
his  governor  knew  nothing  about 
it  when  he  paid  the  bill.  This  was 
before  trade  had  become  honest : 
there  was  great  competition  among 
the  outfitters  in  those  days.  But 
with  all  our  aspirations,  we  knew 
that  we  were  but  cadets,  and  should 
be  only  ensigns  at  first ;  and  judg- 
ing from  the  appearance  of  some 
of  our  fellow-passengers  returning 
from  furlough,  it  was  easy  to  infer 
that  promotion  in  the  Indian  army 
was  not  very  rapid.  But  the 
future  of  the  young  ladies  was  not 
subject  to  the  conditions  of  pro- 
motion by  seniority.  There  was 
a  married  lady  on  board,  going 


1880.] 


Reminiscences  of  an  Old  Fogey. 


595 


back  to  join  her  husband  reputed  to 
hold  some  appointment  in  Calcutta 
with  a  tremendous  salary  attached 
to  it,  who  was  still  quite  young, 
and  whose  jewellery  was  the  ad- 
miration  of  all   the   other  ladies. 
There  was  evidently  no  need  that 
like  should  mate  with  like;  what 
one  young  maiden  had  done  another 
might  do ;  youth  was  not  incom- 
patible with  the  enjoyment   of  a 
large  income.      Not,   I  am  bound 
to  say,  that  there  was  reason  for 
imputing  any  such  sordid  ideas  to 
these  damsels :  with  them  the  sen- 
sation of  liberty  and  entering  on  a 
new  world  was  sufficient  happiness 
for  the  time.      It   was  plain  that 
some  of    them  at  least   had,    like 
ourselves,    just  been   emancipated 
from  school,  and  they  enjoyed  the 
change  just  as   much   as  we  did. 
Indeed,  I  think  they  were  almost 
too    inexperienced   and   artless    to 
think    about    love   and    marriage. 
We  are  all  creatures  of  habit  and 
association.    To  a  young  girl,  whose 
relations  with  the  other  sex  have  so 
far  been  limited  to  being  snubbed 
by  her  brothers,  or  scolded  by  her 
music-master,  the  germs  of  the  ten- 
der sentiment  are  still  only  latent. 
True,  they  are  marvellously   soon 
developed.      The    little    unfledged 
birds  which,  sitting  helpless  in  their 
nests  of  a  morning,  still  fed  from 
their  parents'  beaks,  by  evening  are 
perched  independent   on  the  top- 
most bough,  hardly  attain  to  a  more 
rapid  development  than  a  school-girl 
may  exhibit  on  a  passage  to  India. 
Not,  however,  that  we  cadets  con- 
tributed much  to  bring  about  the 
change  in  this  case.    We  were  boys 
at  starting,  and  remained  boys  till 
the  end.     We  were  not  the  grind- 
stones on  which  the  young  ladies 
sharpened  their  wits. 

The  first  day  down  Channel  was 
fine,  with  only  a  moderate  amount 
of  motion,  and  most  of  the  passen- 
gers were  on  deck,  although  keep- 


ing aloof  from  each  other,  partly 
from  shyness  and  partly  also  be- 
cause not  feeling  quite  at  their 
ease.  But  there  was  a  very  small 
muster  in  the  saloon  for  dinner,  and 
when  next  morning  we  got  into  the 
Bay,  the  decks  were  almost  clear 
of  passengers.  The  eldest  Miss 
Dashwood  was  the  only  lady  to 
be  seen,  and  she  sat  on  a  bench 
very  still,  as  if  not  particularly 
anxious  for  society.  Still,  I  think, 
I  might  have  struck  up  an  acquaint- 
ance then  and  there ;  but  her  im- 
posing appearance  and  fine  figure 
made  me  feel  shy  of  accosting  her. 
I  thought  so  handsome  a  young 
woman  would  need  to  quaff  of  more 
sparkling  conversation  than  a  lad 
like  me  could  offer.  I  did  not 
know  till  afterwards  what  a  simple 
girl  she  was  really,  and  that  she 
would  have  been  very  pleased  to 
talk  to  me  in  the  absence  of  better 
company.  But  when  we  rounded 
Cape  Finisterre,  we  ran  at  once  into 
smooth  water :  an  awning  was  got 
up  to  shade  us  from  the  hot  autumn 
sun  —  a  proceeding  we  were  dis- 
posed to  resent  at  first,  the  genial 
warmth  was  so  pleasant ;  and  as 
the  steamer  paddled  quietly  down 
the  coast  of  Spain  and  Portugal, 
the  passengers  found  their  way  on 
deck,  and  by  the  afternoon  we  dis- 
covered that  the  saloon,  of  which 
an  engraving  had  appeared  not 
many  years  before  in  an  illustrated 
paper,  making  it  look  about  the 
size  of  Exeter  Hall,  was  hardly 
large  enough  for  all  the  passengers 
on  board.  The  ladies  soon  found 
their  English  autumn  clothing 
too  warm,  and  when  we  anchored 
at  Gibraltar  there  was  a  great  de- 
mand for  trunks  to  be  got  up 
from  the  hold. 

On  the  next  stretch  of  our  course, 
over  towards  Malta,  the  steamer's 
deck  presented  quite  a  gay  appear- 
ance, from  the  freshness  of  the  light 
dresses  in  which  most  of  the  ladies 


596 


Voyages  in  the  P.  and  0. : 


[Xov. 


now  appeared.  The  Miss  Dash- 
woods  had  so  far  been  rather  badly 
dressed :  probably  their  friends,  judg- 
ing rightly  that  there  would  be  no 
further  need  for  warm  clothes,  had 
let  them  go  in  their  old  dresses.  But 
now  they  had  begun  to  tap  the 
sources  of  their  Indian  outfit ;  and 
pretty  girls  though  they  were  before, 
they  certainly  gained  by  the  change. 
They  were  tall,  buxom,  healthy-look- 
ing girls,  with  bright  eyes  and  clear 
complexions  and  rather  full  figures, 
— figures  which  promised  indeed, 
as  they  grew  older,  to  become  too 
stout,  but  this  was  an  afterthought 
• — it  did  not  occur  to  me  at  the  time, 
— good  hair,  bright  eyes,  and  open, 
intelligent,  if  not  clever,  features. 
And  if  happiness  tends  to  set 
off  beauty,  certainly  their  charms 
received  this  addition.  Never 
were  two  girls  happier.  Life 
on  the  Hindustan  was  evidently 
like  a  new  revelation.  All  the 
young  ladies  on  board  enjoyed  their 
ship-life,  but  the  Miss  Dashwoods 
more  than  any,  because  they  were  evi- 
dently unaccustomed  to  the  society 
of  gentlemen, — they  told  us  after- 
wards they  had  come  almost  straight 
from  school, — still  less  to  the  ex- 
treme politeness  and  attention  be- 
stowed on  them  from  all  quarters. 
The  gallant  old  Admiralty  agent 
pointed  out  all  the  places  of  interest 
on  the  coast,  and  lent  them  his 
glass  to  look  through  ;  the  doctor 
gave  them  an  order  on  the  pur- 
ser for  champagne — the  rules  of  the 
Company  requiring  that  a  medical 
certificate  should  accompany  each 
issue  of  that  wine,  as  a  voucher 
in  the  accounts, — which  the  pur- 
ser, with  equal  gallantry,  was  always 
ready  to  honour;  and  whenever 
they  wanted  to  sit  down  on  deck, 
every  male  owner  of  a  chair  would 
rise  to  present  it  for  their  use — 
the  young  ladies  having  come  on 
board  unprovided  with  these  neces- 
sary articles.  All  the  young  ladies, 


and  there  were  several,  must  have 
had  a  very  pleasant  time  of  it ;  but  I 
think  the  Miss  Dashwoods  must 
have  enjoyed  themselves  most,  for 
the  reason  already  given,  and  be- 
cause being  the  prettiest  girls,  they 
got  perhaps  more  attention  than 
any  others.  At  first  I  think  they 
were  a  little  shy,  perhaps  it  would 
be  more  correct  to  say  a  little  bash- 
ful :  but  this  feeling  soon  wore  off, 
and  without  ever  becoming  exact- 
ly forward,  for  they  were  too  good- 
tempered  and  good-natured  to  be 
rude  or  pert,  they  took  the  homage 
paid  them  as  a  matter  of  course, 
and  were  perfectly  free  and  un- 
affected, and,  I  am  bound  to  say, 
were  also  perfectly  disinterested  and 
impartial  in  their  treatment  of  the 
gentlemen.  They  made  no  more 
account  of  Colonel  Tassle,  of  the 
Lancers,  who  was  a  very  great  man 
in  India,  where  dragoon  regiments 
were  scarce,  or  of  Mr  Fludyers, 
of  the  Civil  Service,  returning  a 
bachelor  from  his  furlough,  and  who 
seemed  now  disposed  to  make  up 
for  lost  time,  than  they  did  of  Mark- 
ham,  one  of  us  cadets, — a  strapping 
young  fellow,  and  quite  at  his  ease 
among  all  the  ladies,  with  whom  he 
was  a  general  favourite.  I  think 
they  liked,  on  the  whole,  the 
Admiralty  agent  best :  the  old  gen- 
tleman was  quite  fatherly  in  his 
attentions,  and  he  spoke  with  an 
air  of  authority,  as  became  a  naval 
officer  on  board  a  merchant  vessel. 
As  for  me,  I  hardly  spoke  to  any  of 
the  Miss  Dashwoods  or  any  of  the 
young  ladies  on  board,  at  first ;  not, 
I  believe,  that  they  would  have 
been  unkind,  but  that  it  would 
have  required  an  effort  to  do  so, 
and  they  were  always  so  well  em- 
ployed. But  it  is  possible  on  board 
ship  to  be  out  of  a  thing  and  yet 
in  it ;  people  throw  off  restraint  a 
good  deal, — and  these  young  people 
would  laugh  and  talk  as  freely  as  if 
those  about  them,  who  were  not  of 


1880.] 


Reminiscences  of  an  Old  Fogey. 


591 


their  set,  were  devoid  of  hearing, 
or  were  natives,  which  is  the  same 
thing.  And  so,  without  talking  to 
the  ladies,  I  used  to  hear  them  talk 
a  good  deal. 

We  had,  of  course,  the  usual  day 
at  Malta,  making  up  parties  to  go 
on  shore.  The  Miss  Dashwoods, 
with  Mrs  Morris,  who  had  charge 
of  them,  Colonel  Tassle,  Fludyers, 
and  Markkam,  made  up  a  party  :  I 
believe  the  Admiralty  agent  would 
have  liked  to  join  it,  but  profes- 
sional duties  kept  him  on  board. 
The  rest  of  us  cadets,  who  went  on 
shore  together,  met  them  several 
times  while  going  about  the  town, 
the  young  ladies  full  of  spirits,  as 
usual,  although  not  seeming  parti- 
cularly interested  in  the  archaeo- 
logy of  the  place.  They  enjoyed 
the  ices,  however,  of  which  they 
were  partaking  after  their  luncheon, 
when  our  party  came  into  the  cafe 
for  the  same  refreshment.  The 
colonel  had  gone  to  lunch  with 
some  friends  at  the  barracks,  and 
Mr  Fludyers  paid  their  bill  with  a 
lordly  air.  This  was  the  first  op- 
portunity which  had  offered  for  the 
civil  servant  to  display  his  power 
of  purse ;  for  on  board  the  Hindu- 
stan we  had  all  as  much  as,  and 
more  than,  we  wanted  to  eat  and 
drink.  Mrs  Pierrepoint,  the  wife 
of  the  civilian  high  up  in  the  ser- 
vice already  referred  to,  spent  the 
day  on  board,  notwithstanding  the 
dirt  and  discomfort  occasioned  by 
the  coaling,  I  think  she  was  a 
little  put  out  that  Colonel  Tassle 
did  not  offer  to  be  her  escort.  The 
next  evening,  happening  to  be  sit- 
ting near  her  on  deck,  I  volunteered 
the  remark  that  the  Miss  Dashwoods 
seemed  to  be  enjoying  themselves 
very  much, — a  remark  occasioned 
by  a  peal  of  laughter,  lively,  if  not 
vulgar,  which  reached  us  from  a 
group  collected  about  another  part 
of  the  deck,  and  evidently  emanat- 
ing from  one  of  the  two  sisters,  but 


which  I  could  not  distinguish, 
whereon  the  lady  replied  that 
their  aunt  would  probably  not 
approve  of  such  enjoyment  if  she 
knew  how  they  were  going  on. 
They  were  going  out  to  an  aunt 
whose  husband  was  understood  to 
hold,  like  Mr  Pierrepoint,  a  high 
appointment  at  Calcutta.  Mrs 
Hawkins  was  a  very  particular 
person.  "But  what  can  you  ex- 
pect," pursued  Mrs  Pierrepoint, 
"when  they  are  put  under  the 
charge  of  such  a  person  as  that 
of  Mrs  Morris?  I  can't  under- 
stand how  their  aunt  should 
have  permitted  such  an  arrange- 
ment; but  perhaps  it  was  done 
without  her  knowledge  :  friends  in 
England  are  sometimes  so  injudi- 
cious in  these  matters."  To  all 
this  I  expressed  my  assent.  It 
was  almost  the  first  time  that  the 
lady  had  signified  consciousness  of 
my  presence,  and  I  felt  flattered  by 
her  notice  on  this  occasion,  and  ven- 
tured to  lay  down  the  general  pro- 
position that  reserve  and  dignity 
were  much  more  attractive  in  young 
ladies  than  forwardness  and  high 
spirits.  I  knew  that  I  was  a  fatuous 
young  goose,  and  that  Mrs  Pierre- 
point  knew  that  I  was;  but  the 
remark  fell  in  with  her  temper,  and 
she  did  not  snub  me,  as  I  deserved. 
We  all  went  from  Alexandria 
to  Cairo  by  steamer,  whence  the 
transit  across  the  Desert  to  Suez 
was  effected  in  little  two-wheeled 
omnibuses,  drawn  by  four  horses, 
and  holding  each  six  persons.  The 
parties  to  travel  together  were  made 
up  beforehand.  Mrs  Morris,  the 
Miss  Dashwoods,  and  Mr  Fludyers 
were  of  course  in  one  party,  and 
with  them  were  joined  Markham, 
my  fellow  cadet,  and  another  gen- 
tleman. Colonel  Tassle  joined  a 
bachelor  party,  wisely  judging,  per- 
haps, that  a  long  night  spent  in 
a  cramped  car,  bumping  over  the 
uneven  sands,  with  ill-conditioned 


598 


Voyages  in  the  P.  and  0.  : 


[Nov. 


teams  of  horses,  was  not  a  favour- 
able condition  in  which  to  seek  the 
society  of  ladies.  And  certainly, 
when  we  all  arrived  by  instalments 
at  Suez,  Fludyer's  appearance  was 
not  prepossessing ;  Mrs  Morris,  usu- 
ally so  blooming,  looked  worn  and 
haggard ;  even  the  Miss  Dash  woods 
seemed  a  little  less  handsome  than 
usual,  although  their  spirits  were  as 
lively  as  ever.  As  for  me,  I  had 
somehow  forgotten  to  join  in  a 
party  in  time — the  parties  were  all 
made  up  before  we  got  to  Alexan- 
dria— and  so  found  myself  sharing 
a  car  with  five  other  passengers, 
whom  scarcely  any  one  on  board 
knew  personally — brokers,  or  some- 
thing of  that  sort — noisy  fellows, 
who  were  always  bawling  at  the 
stewards  because  the  meals  were 
bad,  and  generally  took  too  much 
grog  of  an  evening.  But  among 
every  set  of  passengers  there  will 
always  be  found  one  or  two  social 
bullies  of  this  sort,  who  find  fault 
with  everything,  and  abuse  the 
servants,  by  way  of  showing  in 
how  much  better  style  they  are 
accustomed  to  live  on  shore.  Nor 
need  one  go  on  board  ship  to  see 
this  form  of  snobbishness  exhibit- 
ed. I  confess  I  looked  forward 
with  some  misgivings  to  passing 
the  night  with  these  fellows ;  but 
they  behaved  less  offensively  than 
might  have  been  expected. 

At  Suez  we  embarked  on  the 
Oriental,  which  lay  a  mile  or  two 
from  shore,  the  only  object  in  the 
bay.  How  different  is  the  aspect 
of  Suez  now  !  The  Oriental  was 
another  noble  specimen  of  naval 
architecture — in  other  words,  a  fat 
old  tub,  doing  her  seven  knots  with 
an  immense  expenditure  of  coal. 
She  was  beautifully  clean,  however, 
with  a  flush  deck  unbroken  by  any 
cabins,  and  so  giving  a  broad  pro- 
menade fore  and  aft.  Everything 
now  betokened  the  East :  the  Las- 
car crew,  the  African  stokers,  the 


Chinaman  carpenter,  —  above  all, 
the  heat,  especially  to  those  bache- 
lors of  the  party  who  were  stowed 
away  in  the  lower  deck,  the  cabins 
which  were  lighted  by  a  bull's- 
eye,  never  opened  save  when  we 
came  into  port.  Sleeping  below 
was  now  impossible :  even  the  ladies 
on  the  upper  tier  who  had  their 
ports  open  slept  on  deck,  a  part  of 
which  was  partitioned  off  at  night 
by  a  sail  stretched  across.  But 
they  had  to  retire  below  at  the 
first  break  of  dawn,  as  soon  as  clean- 
ing decks  began ;  and  those  of  us 
who  might  awake  at  the  first  sound 
of  the  operation  would  catch  glimp- 
ses of  retreating  forms  flitting  down 
the  companion-ladder,  clothed  in 
white  garments  partaking  of  a 
compromise  between  what  might 
be  worn  at  day,  and  the  lighter 
vestments  suitable  to  English  bed- 
rooms. Then  we  denizens  of  the 
lower  regions  had  our  innings  ;  for 
while  the  ladies  by  ship  etiquette 
had  to  keep  their  cabins,  more  in- 
sufferable than  ever  by  contrast 
with  the  cool  night  air  they  had 
just  left,  we  could  remain  on  deck 
till  eight  o'clock.  Happy  those 
who  had  secured  a  place  on  the 
skylight  whereon  to  spread  their 
matrass  :  they  could  continue  their 
slumbers  for  a  time  while  the  decks 
were  being  soused  with  water.  But 
as  the  sun  rose  out  of  the  sea,  all 
would  join  in  the  bath  afforded 
by  the  engine — and  it  was  very  re- 
freshing to  be  pumped  upon,  even 
by  water  at  85° — parading  in  the 
scantiest  of  costumes  until  it  was 
time  to  dress  for  breakfast.  The 
descent  into  the  lower  regions  was 
certainly  an  agony,  resulting  in  a 
bath  of  perspiration  which  left  one 
much  in  the  same  state  of  moisture 
as  before.  By  eight  o'clock  the 
decks  were  ship-shape,  and  the  ladies 
would  reappear  for  the  day, — the 
Miss  Dashwoods,  like  the  rest,  in 
the  thinnest  of  muslin  dresses, 


1880.] 


Reminiscences  of  an  Old  Fogey. 


599 


which  showed  off  their  pretty 
plump  shoulders  to  great  advantage ; 
while  Mrs  Morris  adapted  her  cos- 
tume to  the  weather  so  thoroughly 
as  to  render  the  interior  economy 
of  her  toilet  apparent  almost  down 
to  her  waist.  A  loose  and  light  fit 
she  evidently  thought  becoming ; 
and  so  it  was.  Mrs  Morris  was 
not  much  over  thirty,  and  had  a 
beautiful  figure  ;  but  I  could  not 
help  wondering  whether  the  worthy 
surgeon-major,  her  husband,  would 
have  altogether  approved. 

Although  it  was  so  hot,  our 
spirits  —  that  is,  of  the  younger 
members  of  the  party — were  quite 
unaffected  by  the  weather.  The 
sea  was  as  calm  as  glass,  and  we 
had  all  got  to  be  very  intimate  and 
friendly.  It  was  a  comfort,  too,  to 
be  assured  by  the  older  passengers 
that  the  heat  on  board  was  much 
greater  than  anything  we  should 
encounter  at  Calcutta.  We  young- 
sters did  not  mind  the  heat  a  bit ; 
if  India  was  no  worse  than  this 
we  should  think  nothing  of  it,  and 
we  could  not  understand  why  the 
others  should  make  such  a  fuss 
about  it.  And  the  heat  notwith- 
standing, we  all  had  excellent  ap- 
petites, for  satisfying  which  ample 
provision  was  made  in  a  rough  sort 
of  way.  Stewed  tea  and  coffee, 
with  biscuits,  at  half-past  six  in 
the  morning  ;  breakfast  at  half-past 
eight,  with  fresh  rolls,  and  eggs, 
very  eatable  poached  ;  a  profusion 
of  dishes,  and  light  wine  for  those 
who  preferred  it  to  tea  and  coffee ; 
at  noon  there  was  a  slight  lun- 
cheon, with  cheese,  sardines,  and 
bottled  stout;  and  then  nothing 
further  was  supplied  till  dinner  at 
half-past  four.  This  was  an  elabo- 
rate meal,  served  in  the  good  old 
fashion,  with  all  the  dishes  put  on 
the  table  together,  to  send  up  the 
temperature  of  the  saloon  a  degree 
or  two  higher,  while  there  was 
hardly  room  for  the  stewards  run- 

VOL.  CXXVIII. — NO.  DOCLXXXI. 


ning  about  against  each  other,  with 
helpings  obtained  from  dishes  at 
opposing  ends  of  the  cabin.  Every- 
thing was  carved  at  table,  and 
there  was  always  a  great  run  on 
the  roast  pork,  the  preliminary  sac- 
rifice of  which  took  place  on  the 
previous  evening,  and  might  be 
witnessed  by  those  smoking  for- 
ward, near  the  part  of  the  deck 
partitioned  off  for  the  butcher. 
The  butcher  was  one  of  the  few 
Europeans  among  the  crew,  and  a 
much-employed  member  of  if.  The 
dinner  was  followed  by  dessert, 
with  plenty  of  good  strong  port 
and  sherry,  and  everything  suited 
to  the  climate  and  the  temperature  ; 
the  P.  and  0.  Company  prided 
themselves  on  doing  things  in  good 
old  English  style.  Then  there 
would  be  quoit-playing  or  single- 
stick, or  mild  gymnastic  exercises, 
appropriate  to  the  hour  and  to 
digestion,  until  tea-time — tea  and 
coffee  again,  stewed  in  a  caldron, 
with  plenty  of  toast  and  liquid 
salt  butter.  This  was  served  at 
seven.  At  nine,  an  array  of  spirit- 
bottles  graced  the  saloon-table,  with 
lemons,  sugar,  and  iced  water; 
those  who  preferred  it  might  have 
hot  water  instead ;  and  ham-sand- 
wiches were  supplied  if  asked  for. 
We  all  partook  heartily  of  these 
meals  and  refreshments,  and  then 
if  any  one  was  ill  we  put  it  down 
•to  the  climate.  And  I  have  often 
since  then  noticed  that  in  India  the 
climate,  and  not  the  diet,  is  made 
responsible  for  all  the  illness  there ; 
nor  is  this  mode  of  inference  pecu- 
liar to  India. 

Eough  profusion,  then,  was  the 
order  of  the  day  on  board  all  the 
P.  and  0.  vessels,  and  if  now  and 
then  a  steward  or  two  tumbled 
down  dead,  it  was  ascribed  to  heat- 
apoplexy.  Poor  fellows,  theirs  was 
a  hard  life  !  always  below  deck  in 
a  vapour-bath,  and  the  profusion  of 
wine  and  spirit  bottles  lying  about 
2s 


GOO 


Voyages  in  the  P.  and  0. : 


[Nc 


never  gave  them  a  surfeit  of  drink. 
Things  have  somewhat  improved 
since  those  days,  and  especially 
the  baneful  practice  has  been  dis- 
continued of  supplying  unlimited 
liquor  of  all  sorts ;  but  the  Com- 
pany still  stew  their  tea,  and  make 
every  year  many  hundred  hogs- 
heads of  undrinkable  decoction  of 
coffee.  This  reference  to  the  issue 
of  spirits  reminds  me  to  mention 
that  we  had  parted  with  our  dear 
old  rear-admiral — the  mail-agent — 
at  Alexandria,  he  being  attached  to 
the  Hindustan.  The  representative 
of  her  Majesty's  navy  on  board 
the  Oriental  was  a  weather-beaten 
old  lieutenant,  who,  alone  among 
the  ship's  company  and  passengers, 
led  a  solitary  life.  He  spent  the 
day  in  walking  up  and  down  the 
deck,  scarcely  exchanging  a  word 
with  any  one.  His  meals  he  took 
with  the  rest,  but  sadly  and  in 
silence ;  and  those  who  sat  next 
him  at  table  (we  all  of  us  kept  the 
same  places  at  meals  throughout 
the  voyage)  knew  no  more  about 
him  than  the  other  passengers. 
Whether  his  silence  and  solitary 
ways  were  the  sequence  of  mis- 
fortune, or  merely  came  from  a 
dull  nature,  could  not  be  told  ;  but 
the  poor  old  man  looked  to  be 
very  unhappy — the  only  unhappy 
person  on  board ;  for  ship-life,  if 
somewhat  uncomfortable,  and,  for 
passengers,  idle  and  useless,  is  cer- 
tainly conducive  to  good  spirits. 
It  is  impossible  to  feel  sad  in 
a  crowd.  Soldiers  and  sailors, 
squeezed  up  together  in  barracks 
or  a  ship,  will  always  be  careless 
and  light-hearted.  This  poor  old 
fellow  was  an  exception.  Whether 
he  was  single  or  married,  or  a 
widower,  or  whether  he  had  any 
children,  or  even  any  friends,  none 
of  us  knew.  Possibly  he  had  en- 
tered on  life  as  full  of  hope  and 
expectation  as  we  youngsters  had, 
and  might  at  one  time  have  walked 


the  deck  as  merrily  as  we  did ;  but 
whether  his  disappointment  came 
from  failure  within  or  from  the  force 
of  circumstances,  he  was  now  simply 
a  silent  inoffensive  sot.  The  one 
happy  time  in  his  day  came  at 
night.  The  old  fellow  might  al- 
ways be  seen  in  his  place  when  the 
ship's  bell  announced  supper-time  ; 
and  from  the  moment  when  the 
spirit  decanters  were  set  out  he 
began  to  fill  his  glass  with  cold 
brandy-and- water,  and  resting  his 
head  on  one  hand  while  the  other 
now  and  again  was  employed  in 
raising  the  tumbler  to  his  mouth, 
would  go  on  sadly  drinking  for  the 
full  hour  and  a  half  allotted  to  this 
repast.  The  whist-playing  around 
him,  or  the  merry  laughter  of  the 
young  ladies  when  they  came  down 
between  the  dances  on  deck  to  make 
what  they  called  lemonade  for  their 
partners,  —  lemonade  composed  of 
whisky  and  water,  with  lemon-juice 
squeezed  into  the  glasses  by  their 
fair  fingers,  while  they  would  not 
always  refuse  to  put  the  mixture  to 
their  pretty  lips,  just  for  a  taste ; — 
all  this  noise,  and  the  music  above, 
did  not  appear  to  be  heard  by 
the  old  toper,  although  it  may  be 
doubted  if  the  mind  was  not  as  ill- 
furnished  as  the  battered  frame  in 
which  it  dwelt.  At  half-past  ten 
the  saloon-lights  were  put  out,  and 
the  stewards — by  this  time  not  al- 
ways as  sober  as  they  might  be — 
bore  away  the  decanters,  and  then 
the  old  lieutenant  would  stagger 
off  to  his  cabin.  He  did  not  seem 
to  feel  the  heat  a  bit,  but  always 
slept  below,  not  appearing  until 
breakfast -time,  and  having  made 
what  must  have  been  a  very  simple 
toilet  in  his  cabin.  When  the 
steamer  entered  port  or  was  leaving 
it,  he  was  at  his  place  on  deck  to 
take  charge  of  the  mails  ;  except  on 
these  occasions  he  had  nothing  to 
do.  Admiralty  agents  are  now  a 
thing  of  the  past,  their  place  having 


1880.] 


Reminiscences  of  an  Old  Fogey. 


601 


been  taken  by  post-office  clerks,  who 
sort  the  mails  on  board ;  whether 
this  old  fellow  held  on  until  the 
abolition  of  the  office,  wandering  to 
and  fro  like  a  besotted  Flying  Dutch- 
man on  the  Indian  seas,  or  whether 
brandy-and-water  engrafted  on  old 
age  hastened  the  natural  course  of 
decay,  I  know  not ;  but  the  recol- 
lection of  that  dull  sad  silent  old 
man  amidst  our  gay  and  heedless 
company  often  comes  up  before  me  : 
he  seemed  to  represent  in  an  inten- 
sified degree  the  contrast  so  often 
since  witnessed  between  the  expect- 
ancy of  youth  and  the  realisation  of 
old  age. 

I  have  mentioned  the  dancing. 
We  began  this  after  leaving  Suez,  the 
piano  being  brought  up  on  deck  from 
the  saloon  for  the  purpose;  and  the 
sea  being  perfectly  calm,  the  amuse- 
ment went  on  every  night.  When 
I  say  we  danced,  I  do  not  mean 
that  I  did,  although  I  contributed 
my  humble  share  to  the  general 
amusement.  The  little  instrument 
being  only  a  cottage  piano,  none 
the  better  for  its  previous  voyages, 
and  without  any  sounding-board 
nearer  than  the  coast  of  Arabia,  did 
not  give  out  a  loud  volume  of  har- 
mony ;  and  it  was  observed  by  the 
dancers  in  their  pauses  that  some 
additional  instruments  would  be  a 
great  improvement.  On  this  one 
of  my  fellow-cadets  bethought  him 
that  I  had  a  fiddle,  as  he  called  it, 
on  board  among  my  luggage,  and 
nothing  would  satisfy  the  dancers 
but  that  I  should  produce  it ;  and 
the  second  officer — who  had  charge 
of  the  baggage,  and  played  the  con- 
certina himself,  but  preferred  danc- 
ing to  playing — petitioned  by  some 
of  the  young  ladies,  got  the  case  up 
next  day  from  the  hold,  and  in  the 
evening  I  took  my  place  beside  Mrs 
Pierrepoint,  who  had  volunteered 
to  play  for  the  others,  and  produced 
an  obligate  accompaniment  on  my 
violin,  which  of  course  was  not 


difficult  with  dance  -  music.  A 
knowledge  of  music  was  then  a  less 
common  accomplishment  among 
young  men  than  it  is  nowadays, 
and  my  contribution  to  the  stock 
of  general  amusement  obtained  for 
me  a  degree  of  consideration  to 
which  I  had  hitherto  been  a  stran- 
ger. In  fact,  I  became  quite  a 
popular  person  in  a  small  way ; 
and  the  young  ladies  stopping  to 
fan  themselves  near  to  where  I  was 
sitting,  would  thank  me  for  what 
they  were  pleased  to  call  my  beau- 
tiful playing,  although,  of  course, 
it  was  nothing  of  the  sort.  The 
eldest  Miss  Dashwood,  in  particular, 
who  was  dancing  with  O'Farrell, 
the  second  officer,  a  blustering  fel- 
low with  big  whiskers,  gave  me 
a  look  of  thanks  from  her  bright 
eyes  which  set  my  heart  a-dancing. 
"The  violin  is  such  a  beautiful  in- 
strument for  dance-music,  isn't  it?" 
she  said ;  "  not  so  expressive  as  the 
concertina,  of  course,"  she  added 
— the  reason  being,  perhaps,  that 
O'Farrell  had  been  playing  Irish  airs 
to  them  the  previous  evening,  and 
singing,  too,  with  an  accompaniment 
on  that  trumpery  thing  of  his  ;  "the 
concertina  is  best  for  melodies,  no 
doubt,  but  the  violin  is  nice  for 
waltzes  and  polkas  ;  and  it  is  quite 
wonderful  how  Mr  Trotter  plays 
them  all  out  of  his  head.  I  never 
can  play  a  note  without  my  music." 
Indeed  she  could  not  play  much 
even  with  it;  a  duet  which  the 
sisters  had  been  prevailed  on  to 
play  one  evening  in  the  saloon  be- 
fore we  got  to  Suez,  and  which  was 
apparently  their  only  "  piece "  for 
playing  in  public, — airs  from  the 
'  Sonnambula,'  arranged  as  a  piano- 
forte duet — was  not  an  impressive 
performance.  But  what  are  shallow 
accomplishments  weighed  against 
the  charms  of  form  and  face,  and 
the  solid  qualities  of  the  heart  1 
Cecilia  Dashwood  was  as  sweet- 
tempered  as  she  was  beautiful ; 


G02 


Voyages  in  the  P.  and  0.  : 


[Nov. 


and  as  she  would  throw  me  now 
and  then  a  kindly  smile  of  thanks 
which  could  not  be  seen  by  the 
partner  who  bore  her  round,  I 
i'elt  with  ecstasy  that  an  under- 
standing had  been  set  up  between 
us.  Mrs  Pierrepoint  also,  who  had 
held  aloof  from  the  general  com- 
pany, and  was  thought  to  give 
herself  airs,  became  quite  popular 
from  her  performance  at  the  piano. 
I  think  she  would  have  liked  to 
dance  herself,  although,  perhaps,  it 
would  hardly  have  been  consonant 
with  the  position  of  the  wife  of  a 
member  of  the  Board  of  Eevenue ; 
but  she  refused  Colonel  Tassle  the 
first  time  he  asked  her,  and  so 
maintained  ever  afterwards  the 
dignified  part  of  abstention.  I 
think  she  was  annoyed  that  he  did 
not  press  her  a  little  more  ;  but  he 
did  not  repeat  the  request,  and 
went  oil  at  once  to  Mrs  Morris, 
who  was  delighted  to  have  him 
for  a  partner,  and  enjoyed  dancing 
quite  as  much  as  any  girl  of  the 
party. 

Thus  went  on  the  even  tenor  of 
our  voyage,  everything,  down  to 
the  calmness  of  the  sea,  partaking 
of  the  same  monotonous  character, 
broken  only  by  the  days  at  Aden 
and  Galle,  and  the  stoppage  for  a 
few  hours  at  Madras.  Here  two  of 
the  cadets,  who  were  posted  to  the 
Madras  Presidency,  left  us,  a  staff 
sergeant  coming  off  in  a  boat  to 
take  them  away,  which  Markham, 
who  was  one  of  the  two,  did  not 
half  like.  Fludyers,  who  was,  I 
think,  a  little  jealous  of  Markham 
and  his  good  dancing  and  popu- 
larity with  the  ladies,  for  all  that 
the  latter  was  a  mere  boy,  and  who 
having  made  the  voyage  before, 
was  acquainted  with  the  usages  of 
the  Madras  Presidency,  had  rather 
spitefully  announced,  the  day  be- 
fore we  got  into  Madras  roads,  that 
this  procedure  might  be  looked 
for;  whereon  Markham  had 


stoutly  maintained  that  cadets 
being  on  the  footing  of  officers, 
such  a  degradation  was  impossible  : 
but  the  apparition  of  the  sergeant 
in  the  first  Massulah  boat  which 
came  off,  effectually  disposed  of  the 
argument.  What  would  have  hap- 
pened if  Markham  had  declined  to 
put  himself  in  charge  of  the  ser- 
geant, and  gone  ashore  by  himself 
in  another  boat,  I  don't  know. 
This  custom  of  sending  to  fetch 
the  cadets  at  Madras,  which  was 
continued  so  long  as  there  were 
any  cadets  to  send  for,  and  any 
Company's  army  to  send  them  to, 
probably  arose  out  of  some  idle 
officer  who  was  properly  charged 
with  the  duty  devolving  it  on  a 
subordinate  ;  and  as  Markham  was 
not  yet  gazetted  into  the  army,  and 
had  paid  his  own  passage  like  the 
rest  of  us,  he  was  really  independ- 
ent of  authority  until  he  chose  to 
report  himself.  But  the  alternative 
did  not  occur  to  him,  and  the  ser- 
geant having  good-naturedly  offered 
to  look  after  his  baggage,  he  ob- 
served that  it  was  a  polite  attention 
of  the  authorities  to  send  some  one 
to  take  care  of  his  traps  in  this  way; 
and  he  went  off  with  the  sergeant 
in  the  Massulah  boat,  trying  to  look 
unconcerned  as  the  young  ladies 
waved  their  adieus  from  the  deck, 
where  Fludyers,  too,  was  standing 
with  an  air  of  ill-concealed  triumph. 
Fludyers  remained  in  possession, 
while  the  juniority  of  Markham  was 
clearly  established.  Nor  had  the  lat- 
ter any  opportunity  of  saying  good- 
bye in  private.  It  was  whispered 
that  Laura  Dashwood  had  a  prefer- 
ence for  him ;  and  certainly,  instead 
of  remaining  on  deck,  she  went  be- 
low and  waved  her  handkerchief  to 
the  receding  Massulah  boat  from 
the  port-hole  of  her  cabin :  but  I 
suspect  that  .  both  she  and  her 
sister  were  quite  sufficiently  occu- 
pied with  the  mere  pleasure  of 
their  new  life — the  excitement,  the 


1880.] 


Reminiscences  of  an  Old  Fogey. 


603 


sociability,  and  the  general  atten- 
tion they  received — and  that  up 
to  this  time  they  were  still  fancy 
free.  Markham  was  full  of  soldier- 
ly instincts,  and  burning  to  distin- 
guish himself  in  his  profession ; 
and  in  the  constant  conversations 
we  cadets  used  to  have,  he  always 
maintained  stoutly  that  the  Mad- 
ras army  was  the  best  of  the  three, 
and  that  the  Hyderabad  Contingent 
was  the  finest  service  in  India. 
He  had  a  cousin  in  the  Hyderabad 
Contingent ;  and  a  coloured  litho- 
graph which  he  used  to  produce 
from  his  trunk  on  these  occasions 
of  an  officer  in  that  branch  of  the 
service,  with  a  long  tunic  covered 
with  gold  embroidery,  was  gener- 
ally considered  to  be  strong  evi- 
dence on  his  side;  for  we  all  sup- 
posed that  the  force  in  question 
was  a  part  of  the  Madras  army, 
a  delusion  still  held  by  many  per- 
sons, including  most  India  Office 
officials.  Markham's  career,  how- 
ever, did  not  turn  out  to  be  so 
eventful  as  he  expected;  for  having 
been  posted  to  the  Madras  Presi- 
dency, he  has  never  seen  a  shot 
fired,  or  had  a  chance,  poor  fellow, 
of  killing  anybody,  or  of  being  killed 
himself.  Our  ways  now  lay  apart, 
for  being  attached  to  different 
Presidencies,  we  were  as  much  cut 
off  from  each  other  as  if  we  be- 
longed to  different  armies  ;  and  we 
did  not  meet  again  till  the  other 
day,  when  he  was  at  home  on  three 
months'  privilege  leave.  Markham 
has  grown  fat,  and  every  other 
word  he  uses  is  Hindustani.  He 
is  commanding  the  Bhowanipoor 
local  battalion  ;  Bhowanipoor  is  a 
little  out  of  the  way,  he  explained, 
and  there  is  not  much  society  there  : 
but  it  is  a  great  convenience  for 
a  man  with  a  family  never  to  be 
moved  from  one  station  to  another ; 
and  then  he  was  never  bothered  by 
inspecting  officers.  Nobody  ever 
came  to  look  at  his  battalion  but 


the  Eesident  of  Bhowanipoor,  so  he 
was  his  own  master.  He  hoped  to 
hold  on  for  three  or  four  years 
longer,  when  he  should  come  into 
his  colonel's  allowances,  and  then 
he  meant  to  settle  at  Cheltenham, 
where  his  wife  and  family  were 
already  established.  Cheltenham 
was  quite  as  cheerful  as  London, 
and  much  cheaper,  and  there  weie 
lots  of  old  Qui  Hyes  to  talk  to 
there  ;  "  but  what  I  am  to  do  with 
all  my  boys,"  said  poor  Markham, 
"  is  more  than  I  can  tell.  There 
are  five  of  them  to  be  put  out  in 
the  world,  and  how  they  are  to  get 
there  in  these  days  of  competition, 
I  am  blessed  if  I  know.  You  and  I 
got  on  very  well  without  competi- 
tion." Poor  Markham !  the  enthusi- 
asm with  which  he  set  out  in  life 
had  evaporated  under  stress  of  cir- 
cumstances :  and  yet  he  was  to  be 
called  fortunate  ;  for  if  his  military 
career  had  not  been  eventful,  he  is 
eligible  to  hold  on  to  the  service 
until  entitled  to  his  colonel's  allow- 
ance. The  prospect  in  store  for 
those  who  enter  the  army  now,  is 
to  be  turned  adrift  on  a  pittance 
when  they  are  still  too  young  to  be 
idle,  but  too  old  to  learn  a  new 
trade.  Yet  the  youngsters  who 
pass  out  of  Sandhurst  and  Wool- 
wich with  this  dismal  future  before 
them  are  just  as  light-hearted  and 
hopeful  as  we  cadets  used  to  be. 

Although  as  the  Oriental  drew 
near  to  her  destination  we  were  all 
full  of  excitement  and  eager  to  land, 
yet  I  think  every  one  was  sorry  in 
a  way  when  the  voyage  came  to  an 
end.  We  had  all  become  real  good 
friends  on  board ;  and  although 
the  life  was  monotonous,  somehow 
the  days  did  not  seem.  long.  But 
the  natural  impulse  to  look  onward 
predominated  ;  and  indeed,  as  we 
steamed  up  the  Hooghly,  the  bril- 
liant green  of  the  river- banks,  in 
all  the  glory  of  the  early  cold 
weather,  set  off  by  the  bright  cloud- 


604 


Voyages  in  the  P.  and  0.  : 


[Nov. 


less  sky,  made  a  scene  which,  could 
not  fail  to  kindle  the  desire  among 
us  new-comers  to  enter  on  the  pro- 
mised land,  which  looked  so  fair 
and  joyous.  Even  the  old  stagers 
who  had  made  the  voyage  before, 
got  excited  as  the  well-known  beau- 
ties of  Garden  Reach  came  into  view. 
There  was  great  unpacking  of  boxes 
that  morning ;  and  the  ladies  were 
many  of  them  so  busy  dressing  for 
arrival,  that  they  missed  the  scenes 
on  which  we  youngsters  were  feast- 
ing, coming  on  deck  again  only  as  the 
steamer  drew  close  to  her  moorings. 
Most  of  them  had  exchanged  their 
light  muslins  for  silk  attire,  while 
beautiful  new  bonnets  had  replaced 
the  hats  worn  on  board.  Certainly 
the  air  was  now  cool  compared  with 
the  heat  of  the  Eed  Sea ;  but  it 
seemed  a  pity  to  begin  unpacking 
the  cold  weather  outfit  before  we 
got  on  shore.  Our  fair  companions 
appeared,  however,  to  attach  great 
importance  to  first  impressions,  and 
were  arrayed,  some  of  them,  as  if 
they  had  been  princesses  expecting 
a  royal  reception.  The  married 
ladies  came  out  the  strongest  in 
this  respect.  The  Miss  Dashwoods 
evidently  could  not  command  the 
same  resources  of  toilet  as  Mrs 
Pierrepoint  or  Mrs  Morris ;  but 
their  pretty  fresh  faces  and  good 
figures  sufficed  to  carry  off  their 
simpler  dresses  to  great  advantage. 
And  indeed  we  did  experience  a 
sort  of  public  reception.  The 
mail-steamer  in  those  days  arrived 
only  once  a-month,  and  its  advent 
occasioned  considerable  excitement 
at  Calcutta,  especially  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  cold  season,  when  wives 
and  daughters  were  arriving  in 'great 
numbers.  As  soon  as  the  firing  of 
the  gun  from  Fort  William  an- 
nounced that  the  steamer  was  pass- 
ing Budge  Budge  (the  telegraph 
station  a  few  miles  down  the  riv- 
er), all  those  who  were  expecting 
relatives  and  friends  would  order 


their  carriages  and  hurry  down  to 
Garden  Reach  to  receive  them  :  and 
even  many  who  had  no  relatives 
coming  would  go  down  too ;  there 
would  certainly  be  some  friends  or 
acquaintances  on  board.  Thus  we 
Avere  quite  surprised  to  see  what  a 
fleet  of  little  boats  surrounded  the 
steamer  as  she  was  slowly  warped 
to  her  berth,  each  with  one  or  more 
ladies  and  gentlemen  besides  the 
native  crew ;  and  soon  these  had 
made  their  way  on  deck,  which  now 
became  even  more  crowded  than 
when  we  left  Southampton.  The 
partings  of  the  passengers  with 
each  other,  although  hearty  and 
affectionate,  were  very  hurried, 
each  little  party  hastening  to  leave 
the  vessel  as  if  everything  depended 
on  their  being  the  first  to  get  away, 
and  a  few  minutes  more  or  less 
in  the  lifetime  to  be  spent  in 
India  were  of  extremest  import- 
ance. But  we  are  always  hurrying 
through  our  lives  in  this  way.  The 
Miss  Dashwoods  were  met  by  a  tall 
pale  gentleman  in  an  alpaca  coat 
and  white  trousers,  who  came  on 
board  attended  by  a  native  carry- 
ing an  enormous  umbrella  with  a 
white  cover  to  it,  and  whom  we  at 
once  understand  to  be  Mr  Hawkins, 
their  aunt's  husband,  and  who  car- 
ried off  the  young  ladies  and  Mrs 
Morris  in  a  large  boat  with  an  alcove 
at  one  end,  painted  green,  like  an 
exaggerated  gondola,  and  manned 
by  eight  rowers.  Somehow,  as  I 
saw  the  boat  going  off,  it  seemed  to 
create  a  moral  as  well  as  a  physical 
distance  between  Cecilia  Dashwood 
and  myself.  Many  a  kindling  glance 
had  she  cast  at  me  of  late  as  she 
was  borne  round  the  deck  by  one 
partner  or  another  in  the  dances 
to  which  I  contributed  the  music  : 
was  the  good  understanding  I  be- 
lieved to  be  thus  silently  estab- 
lished between  us  to  be  severed 
and  come  to  nought1?  My  only 
consolation  was  that  the  second 


isso; 


Reminiscences  of  an  Old  Foyey. 


G05 


officer  was  too  much  occupied 
with  his  duties  to  be  able  to  re- 
ceive any  parting  adieux.  Still  I 
had  no  friends  awaiting  me,  and 
felt  for  the  moment  depressed  and 
forlorn,  although,  as  the  young  lady 
had  herself  observed  as  we  shook 
hands,  we  should  soon  meet  again. 
But  just  then  our  fellow-passengers 
the  Mackiesons — a  merchant  and 
his  wife- — came  up  to  me,  and  find- 
ing that  I  was  not  expected  by 
any  friend,  insisted  on  my  going 
to  stay  with  them.  It  would  be 
pleasanter  for  me,  they  said,  than 
going  to  the  cadets'  quarters  in  the 
fort.  It  would  indeed  :  my  scru- 
ples about  accepting  their  invitation 
were  soon  overcome  by  the  kindli- 
ness with  which  it  was  pressed  ; 
and  they  drove  me  off  to  their 
beautiful  house  in  Ballygunge, 
which,  during  their  absence,  had 
been  done  up  and  repainted  inside 
and  out,  and  looked  as  fresh  and 
clean  as  if  just  built.  But  the 
bright  green  of  the  Venetian  blinds 
was  surpassed  by  the  splendid 
verdure  of  the  lawn  in  front :  the 
colour  of  Indian  vegetation  is  a 
perpetual  delight  to  the  new-comer. 
The  hospitality  thus  given,  out 
of  mere  compassion  for  my  lonely 
condition,  and  which  lasted  for  a 
month  before  I  went  up  country  to 
join  my  regiment,  has  since  been 
many  times  renewed,  both  in  Cal- 
cutta and  in  their  Scottish  home, 
when  Mr  Mackieson  retired  from 
business.  There  is  no  place  like 
board  ship  for  making  friends. 

Needs  not  to  say  that  I  took  an 
early  opportunity  of  calling  on  the 
Miss  Dashwoods,  who  were  estab- 
lished in  a  fine  house  in  Chow- 
ringhee,  not  then  the  dusty  thor- 
oughfare it  has  since  become.  They 
were  sitting  in  the  drawing-room 
with  their  aunt,  whose  reception  of 
me  I  thought  somewhat  cold ;  and 
already  it  was  plain  that  a  chill 
had  come  over  our  intimacy.  The 


young  ladies  were  no  longer  so 
unaffectedly  demonstrative  as  they 
used  to  be  on  board  the  Oriental ; 
nor,  I  am  bound  to  say,  should  I 
have  been  displeased  at  their  show- 
ing a  little  more  reserve  than  they 
had  been  accustomed  to  display, 
if  it  had  been  exhibited  to  any 
one  else.  As  it  was,  after  sitting 
for  about  half  an  hour  in  the  draw- 
ing-room— our  conversation  subject 
to  constant  interruptions  from  the 
coming  and  going  of  other  callers 
— I  took  my  leave,  feeling  as  if  the 
voyage  was  now  a  very  long  way 
off.  And  this  feeling  was  intensi- 
fied at  the  ball,  given  at  the  town- 
hall  a  few  days  afterwards  by  the 
bachelors  of  Calcutta,  to  which  I 
escorted  Mrs  Mackieson,  her  hus- 
band not  caring  to  go.  The  Miss 
Dashwoods  were  there,  of  course, 
radiant  as  ever,  and,  as  I  thought, 
even  more  charming  than  they 
used  to  be,  being  somewhat  quieter 
in  manner ;  and  as  this  was  the  first 
occasion  of  my  wearing  uniform, 
— for  in  those  clays  every  officer  at 
Calcutta,  whether  on  duty  or  not, 
always  appeared  in  uniform  at  such 
places — which  I  felt  was  not  unbe- 
coming,— I  hoped,  as  I  was  not 
wanted  to  play,  that  I  should  be 
able  to  secure  them  as  partners 
for  at  least  one  dance  each  ;  but 
they  both  assured  me,  each  using 
an  engaging  smile,  that  their  cards 
were  already  filled  up  for  the  whole 
evening  ;  and  I  was  fain  to  watch 
them  from  a  seat  which  I  occu- 
pied beside  Mrs  Mackieson,  as  I 
used  to  do  on  board  the  Oriental, 
although  without  my  violin  for 
company.  I  noticed  that,  except 
Lieutenant  Hillyard,  the  Governor- 
General's  aide-de-camp,  who  was 
one  of  the  givers  of  the  entertain- 
ment, all  their  partners  wore 
black  coats.  It  was  a  bitter  satis- 
faction to  me  that  the  big- whisker- 
ed O'Farrell  had  no  better  success 
than  myself,  although  he  found 


606 


Voyages  in  the  P.  and  0. : 


plenty  of  partners ;  but  the  times 
seemed  all  now  out  of  joint,  and 
I  was  glad  when  Mrs  Mackieson, 
saying  that  she  liked  to  keep  early 
hours,  and  as  I  did  not  appear  to 
•want  to  dance,  proposed  to  have 
her  carriage  called;  and  we  went 
home  long  before  the  ball  was 
ended.  Yet  there  was  one  compen- 
sating moment,  when,  as  I  was  with 
Mrs  Mackieson  in  the  refreshment- 
room,  helping  her  to  an  ice,  a  gentle 
voice  behind  me  said,  "This  is  a 
delightful  ball,  isn't  it,  Mr  Trotter  ? " 
and  turning  round,  there  was  Cecilia 
Dish  wood  also  putting  spoonfuls 
of  ice  into  her  pretty  mouth.  I  re- 
plied that  it  was  indeed  delightful, 
and  that  I  had  never  enjoyed  my- 
self more  in  my  life.  I  don't  know 
whether  the  young  lady  spoke  satiri- 
cally or  in  good  faith  when  she 
made  the  remark ;  certainly  she 
was  not  a  bit  clever  or  inclined 
to  say  smart  things,  yet  she  could 
scarcely  have  failed  to  notice  my 
dejected  appearance.  However  that 
may  be,  she  went  on  to  say,  "  But 
this  is  not  a  bit  nicer,  after  all,  than 
those  delightful  dances  on  board 
the  dear  Oriental.  How  we  used 
to  enjoy  those,  and  how  beautifully 
you  used  to  play  for  us  ! "  She 
looked  so  kindly  at  me  with  her 
large  eyes  while  she  said  this,  turn- 
ing round  as  her  partner  led  her 
away  to  the  dancing  -  room,  that 
I  had  not  another  harsh  thought 
about  her.  That  look  haunted  me 
for  a  long  time ;  and  indeed  I 
must  plead  guilty,  young  goose  that 
I  was,  to  cherishing — for  long  after 
I  had  gone  up  country  to  join  my 
regiment — a  delusion  that  my  ster- 
ling, if  not  showy  qualities,  might 
only  need  a  little  more  assurance  to 
effect  an  impression  on  the  amiable 
Cecilia's  heart,  and  hugging  to  my- 
self a  secret  purpose  of  going  back 
to  Calcutta  at  some  later  time  to 
try  my  fortune. 

Several  months  passed,  and  no 


news  reached  my  distant  station  of 
any  of  my  f ellow- passengers ;  but 
just  in  the  beginning  of  the  next 
cold  season,  the  Calcutta  papers  con- 
tained the  announcement  that  the 
wife  of  William  Morris,  M.D.,  Pres- 
idency surgeon,  had  presented  him 
with  a  son,  and  of  the  marriage  of 
Laura,  youngest  daughter  of  the 
late  John  Dash  wood  of  London, 
Esq.,  to  James  Fludyers,  Esq.,  Ben- 
gal Civil  Service.  Fludyers  had 
a  capital  appointment  at  Calcutta, 
and  was  considered  to  be  a  very 
rising  man,  who  might  be  Lieuten- 
ant-Governor one  of  these  days,  so 
that  Miss  Dashwood's  aunt  had 
reason  to  be  quite  satisfied  with 
the  match.  But  Cecilia  still  re- 
mained single ;  and  such  is  the  in- 
nate vanity  of  man,  that  I  found  my- 
self dwelling  more  and  more  on  the 
possibility  that  she  might  be  secretly 
reciprocating  my  tender  sentiments, 
and  be  waiting  for  me  to  make 
them  known.  She  would  indeed 
be  a  model  of  Calcutta  constancy 
did  she  wait  so  long ;  for  propriety 
forbade  my  opening  my  heart  to 
her,  and  my  prospects  to  her  aunt, 
for  at  least  another  two  years,  when 
I  should  be  of  age,  and  might  still 
perhaps  be  no  longer  junior  ensign 
of  my  regiment.  True,  one  of 
ensigns  was  married,  and  the  me 
ure  had  been  applauded  by  his 
brother  officers,  who  subscribed  to 
buy  him  a  buggy  and  a  silver  tea- 
pot ;  but  the  bride  was  daughter  of 
an  old  quartermaster  of  a  British 
regiment  at  our  station,  who  had 
been  brought  up  to  a  simple  style 
of  housekeeping,  and  I  felt  Mrs 
Hawkins  would  take  a  different 
view  of  the  requirements  of  married 
life  from  that  held  by  the  worthy 
quartermaster  and  his  wife.  How- 
ever, the  point  was  not  put  to  the 
proof ;  for  a  few  months  later  the 
same  papers  gave  us  news  of  the 
marriage,  at  the  cathedral,  Calcut- 
ta, of  Lieutenant  Joseph  Hillyard, 


1880.] 


Reminiscences  of  an  Old  Fogey. 


607 


Bengal  Army,  A.D.C.  to  his  Excel- 
lency the  Governor- General,  to 
Cecilia  Lucy,  eldest  daughter  of 
the  late  John  Dashwood  of  Lon- 
don, Esq.  The  announcement 
coming  in  the  middle  of  the 
hot  weather,  when  our  station 
was  nearly  deserted,  and  there  was 
nothing  whatever  to  talk  about, 
created  an  agreeable  diversion  in 
our  monotonous  existence ;  and 
having  been  a  fellow-passenger  of 
the  lady,  and  so  able  to  speak  from 
personal  knowledge,  I  was  sensible 
of  obtaining  a  certain  amount  of 
reflected  consideration.  The  affair 
was  a  good  deal  discussed  at  our 
mess,  and  our  senior  captain  ob- 
served that  it  was  a  very  good 
match  for  any  girl.  Hillyard  was 
a  second  cousin  of  the  Governor- 
General,  and  the  young  couple 
would  probably  live  at  Govern- 
ment House ;  but  the  colonel  said 
that  these  personal  appointments 
were  not  worth  much.  The  Gover- 
nor-General's time  was  nearly  up, 
and  then  Hillyard  would  be  no 
better  off  than  any  one  else,  un- 
less he  got  provided  for  first  with 
a  good  appointment.  And  indeed 
I  had  reason  to  believe  that  these 
conflicting  views  of  the  case  had 
exercised  the  mind  of  Mrs  Haw- 
kins ;  for  bethinking  me  that  one 
of  my  fellow-cadets  was  stationed 
at  Barrackpore,  I  wrote  to  him  and 
got  full  particulars  in  reply.  Mrs 
Hawkins,  he  said,  had  been  a  good 
deal  opposed  to  the  match.  She 
had  always  given  the  cold  shoulder 
to  military  men,  and  looked  very 
closely  after  her  niece;  but,  of 
course,  aide-de-camps  were  excep- 
tions ;  no  one  looked  to  their 
marrjing.  Mrs  Hawkins  had  want- 
ed her  niece  to  marry  a  Mr  Doo- 
little,  also,  like  Mr  Hawkins,  a 
judge  of  the  Suddur  Court,  a 
widower,  and  not  much  more  than 
forty;  and  the  match  would  have 
been  a  very  suitable  one  :  so  the 


discovery  that  Miss  Cecilia  had 
given  her  heart  to  Hillyard  took 
her  aunt  quite  by  surprise,  and 
was  a  great  disappointment.  How- 
ever, the  Governor  -  General  had 
disarmed  her  opposition  by  his 
gracious  advocacy  of  the  aide-de- 
camp's  suit,  and  eventually  the 
lady  was  quite  won  over.  His 
Excellency  had  given  the  bride 
a  beautiful  Arab  horse,  and  a 
number  of  other  gifts,  and  had 
been  present  with  all  his  staff 
at  the  wedding,  which  went  off 
— for  a  hot  -  weather  wedding — 
with  great  eclat.  Hillyard  was 
still  acting  as  aide-de-camp,  and 
living  with  his  bride  at  Govern- 
ment House ;  but  it  was  quite 
understood  that  he  was  to  get 
a  good  appointment  immediately, 
probably  in  the  military  secretariat. 
One  of  our  fellows  who  knew 
Hillyard  shook  his  head  at  this. 
Hillyard  was  a  very  good  fellow,  he 
said,  but  he  wasn't  clever  enough 
for  that;  why,  he  could  scarcely 
write  a  note  of  invitation  correctly. 
But  the  colonel,  who  had  been 
somewhat  soured  by  disappoint- 
ment, having  been  on  regimental 
duty  all  his  life,  observed  that  this 
would  be  just  the  reason  for  put- 
ting him  into  the  secretariat.  Pos- 
sibly the  Governor-General  took  a 
different  view  of  the  responsibilities 
of  patronage,  or  he  did  not  see  a 
likelihood  of  any  vacancy  occurring 
in  that  line  ;  at  any  rate,  in  a  short 
time,  the  Gazette  announced  the 
appointment  of  Lieutenant  Hillyard 
to  the  vacant  pension-paymaster- 
ship  at  Futtehabad — a  very  good 
appointment  for  a  subaltern,  as 
the  salary  was  consolidated  and 
independent  of  the  holder's  stand- 
ing in  the  service,  although  it  did 
not  lead  up  to  anything  better ;  and 
according  to  our  colonel,  the  work 
was  just  about  up  to  the  mark  of 
Hillyard's  capacity.  Any  fool  will 
do  for  a  pension-paymaster,  growled 


G08 


Voyages  in  the  P.  and  0. : 


[Xov. 


the  colonel ;  it's  only  to  sign  your 
name  and  blow  up  your  clerks. 

Thus  ended  my  day-dream.  Years 
passed  on,  bringing  events  which 
gave  us  all  something  more  to  talk 
about  than  the  little  tittle-tattle 
which  too  often  was  our  sole 
conversation  —  the  great  convul- 
sion .which  swept  so  many  of  us 
away,  and  recast  the  conditions 
of  Anglo  -  Indian  society.  After 
that  season  of  excitement  and  hard 
fighting,  which  drove  back  the  old 
humdrum  monotonous  times  into 
the  far-off  distance,  I  made,  like  so 
many  of  the  fortunate  survivors,  a 
new  departure,  getting  both  regi- 
mental promotion  and  staff-advance- 
ment. Those  who  were  engaged 
in  the  turmoil  knew  less  of  what 
was  going  on  elsewhere  than  the 
people  at  a  distance ;  and  it  was 
not  always  easy  to  make  out,  from 
the  disjointed  and  interrupted  ac- 
counts we  got  from  time  to  time, 
who  amongst  our  friends  had  es- 
caped, or  what  adventures  had 
befallen  them.  But  I  saw  a  bald 
account  of  the  attack  made  on 
Futtehabad,  and  the  flight  of  the 
residents  —  most  of  whom,  it 
appeared,  had  succeeded  in  escap- 
ing to  a  place  of  shelter.  Amongst 
these  were  mentioned  Hillyard  and 
his  family.  So  he  had  a  family. 
This  was  the  only  news  I  had 
heard  of  my  old  fellow  -  passen- 
ger since  her  marriage ;  nor  did 
I  hear  anything  further  for  some 
years,  except  when  I  saw  in  the 
Gazette  that  Hillyard,  whose  old 
appointment  had  been  abolished 
for  lack  of  pensioners,  was  nomi- 
nated to  be  a  deputy  auditor  at 
the  Presidency.  So  the  two  sisters 
would  be  brought  together  again ; 
for  Mr  Fludyers  was  now  holding 
one  of  the  principal  civil  appoint- 
ments in  Calcutta. 

At  last  came  the  time  for  taking 
my  first  furlough  home.  I  was  on 
special  duty  in  the  south  of  India 


when  the  happy  hour  arrived,  and 
having  sent  in  my  report  on  the 
business  for  which  I  had  been  de- 
puted there,  I  travelled  down  to  the 
coast  and  took  the  homeward-bound 
steamer  from  Madras.  It  was  the 
beginning  of  the  cold  season,  when 
but  few  people  are  going  home ;  and 
when,  going  off  in  the  early  dawn 
with  the  mails  through  the  surf,  I 
got  on  board  the  steamer — a  very 
different-looking  craft  from  the  old 
Oriental — as  she  lay  rolling  in  the 
heavy  swell,  the  captain,  who  was 
just  got  up  to  put  the  vessel  under 
way,  told  me  that  there  were  not 
twenty  passengers  on  board,  besides 
the  children. 

I  could  not  help  being  struck 
by  the  difference  between  the  scene 
presented  by  the  Timur  and  that 
which  my  recollection  connected 
with  the  Oriental.  It  was  too 
cool  to  make  sleeping  on  deck 
desirable,  and  when  I  came  on 
board  there  were  no  passengers  vis- 
ible ;  but  as  the  morning  advanced 
they  appeared  one  by  one,  with 
sober  air  and  languid  manner. 
Some  were  driven  home  by  sick- 
ness ;  others  were  leaving  India  for 
good;  all  seemed  tired  and  over- 
worked, and  to  find  a  relief  in  idle- 
ness. It  was  not  till  the  voyage 
was  further  advanced  that  we  got 
to  the  point  of  even  getting  up  an 
evening  rubber.  The  officers  of  the 
ship,  who  knew  many  of  the  pas- 
sengers, and  had  often  partaken  of 
their  hospitalities  in  Calcutta,  treat- 
ed us  all  as  if  we  were  their  personal 
friends,  and  to  be  looked  after  and 
made  comfortable,  but  they  adapted 
themselves  to  the  tastes  of  their 
company.  In  their  last  voyage, 
when  the  steamer  was  crowded  with 
outward-bound  passengers,  many  of 
them,  as  in  the  Oriental  days,  mak- 
ing their  first  passage,  the  decks  had 
no  doubt  been  a  scene  of  gaiety — 
private  theatricals  possibly,  dancing 
certainly,  in  which  the  officers  pro- 


1880.] 


Reminiscences  of  an  Old  Fogey. 


G09 


bably  took  an  active  part.  But 
now  they  behaved  in  sympathy  with 
their  present  cargo,  and  went  soberly 
about  their  work,  as  if  dancing  were  a 
frivolous  amusement,  and  they,  too, 
were  tired  and  wanted  rest.  Happi- 
ly, if  no  one  was  quite  well,  there 
were  no  cases  of  serious  illness  on 
board;  and  I  noticed  that  the 
saloon  bore  a  resemblance,  in  one 
respect,  to  that  of  the  Oriental — 
the  gusto  with  which  all  parties 
applied  themselves  to  meals. 

Another  notable  item  of  differ- 
ence was  that,  whereas  on  board  the 
Oriental  all  the  passengers  were 
adults,  except  two  babies  in  arms, 
here  the  children  were  as  numerous 
as  the  grown-up  passengers,  and  by 
no  means  contributed  to  the  condi- 
tion of  Nirvana  into  which  the  elder 
passengers  would  apparently  have 
liked  to  bring  themselves.  This  I 
soon  found  out.  I  came  on  board, 
as  I  have  mentioned,  before  any 
other  passengers  were  up,  and  hav- 
ing taken  a  bath  and  made  my 
toilet  in  the  roomy  cabin  allotted 
to  me,  I  was  sitting  on  the  deck, 
the  only  occupant,  enjoying  the 
sense  of  quiet  and  the  sea-breeze, 
when  a  child's  head  appeared  above 
the  companion-ladder,  to  be  pres- 
ently followed  by  its  accompanying 
body,  clad  in  a  little  frock  very 
much  too  short,  from  which  pro- 
jected a  pair  of  attenuated  legs. 
The  boy  might  have  been  perhaps 
ten  years  old,  but  was  tall  for  that 
age,  —  and  his  lanky  washed-out 
look  added  to  the  appearance  of  in- 
congruity between  his  size  and  his 
dress.  He  was  dragging  a  wooden 
horse  by  a  string,  and  having  gained 
the  open  deck,  he  began  running 
along  it,  dragging  the  toy  after 
him,  and  gambolling  feebly  as  if 
representing  the  motion  of  the 
animal.  A  more  perfect  speci- 
men of  the  typical  Indian  child 
I  had  never  seen.  His  blood- 
less face  bespoke  a  life  passed 


in  the  torrid  plains  of  India ;  he 
had  evidently  not  been  brought  up 
in  the  hills,  and  was  certainly  not 
going  home  a  bit  too  soon.  Then 
followed  presently  a  girl,  unmis- 
takably a  sister,  who  might  be  a 
year  or  so  -younger,  and  had  just 
the  same  washed  -  out  look  in  a 
slightly  lesser  degree.  The  little 
girl  carried  a  doll.  Then  came  up 
the  stairs  a  stout  nurse,  evidently 
Irish,  leading  two  more  children, 
who  looked  to  be  about  five  and  six 
respectively.  To  these  "succeeded 
an  ayah,  in  charge  of  two  still 
younger  children,  one  a  baby  in 
arms.  All  the  children  were  evi- 
dently of  the  same  family.  Last 
of  all  appeared  the  mamma.  Possi- 
bly from  having  assisted  in  the 
toilettes  of  her  numerous  progeny, 
she  appeared  fatigued  with  the  ex- 
ertion of  coming  on  deck,  for  she 
immediately  sat  down  in  an  easy- 
chair  and  began  to  fan  herself. 
The  ayah  took  a  place  beside  her 
on  the  deck,  still  holding  the  baby 
in  her  arms,  while  the  other  little 
one  sprawled  placidly  by  her  on 
the  deck,  sucking  the  head  of  a 
lacquered  elephant.  The  lady  was 
sitting  in  front  of  me,  so  that  I 
could  not  see  her  face,  but  I  could 
perceive  that  she  had  a  graceful, 
although  very  slight,  figure,  and 
that  there  was  not  too  much  of  the 
pretty  brown  hair,  somewhat  un- 
tidily arranged.  She  wore  a  mus- 
lin dress,  transparent  enough  to 
display  the  fair  but  very  thin 
shoulders. 

"Toony,  darling,"  called  out  the 
lady  presently,  to  the  eldest  boy,  in 
a  listless  sort  of  way,  "  don't  go  so 
far  forward — keep  near  me  ;  there's 
a  good  boy."  This  was  in  Hindu- 
stani. The  boy  did  not  pay  any  at- 
tention to  the  caution,  but  continued 
his  excursion  forward,  dragging 
the  wooden  horse,  executing  the 
while  a  feeble  gambol  with  his 
lanky  legs,  his  sister  following  him. 


G10 


Voyages  in  the  P.  and  0.  : 


[Nov. 


"  Do  go  and  bring  Toony  Baba 
back,"  said  the  lady  to  the  ayah 
in  the  same  language;  "he  will  be 
tumbling  into  the  engine  -  room." 
And  the  ayah,  leaving  the  pen- 
ultimate child  by  its  mother,  but 
still  carrying  the  baby,  pursued  and 
brought  Toony  Baba  back,  accom- 
panied by  his  sister,  for  whom  the 
wooden  horse  seemed  to  exercise 
a  sort  of  fascination.  "  Toony,  dar- 
ling," repeated  the  lady,  "  keep  by 
mamma  ;  there's  a  good  boy," — and 
Toony,  obeying,  began  to  canter 
sadly  round  the  companion  -  stair- 
case. Numbers  three  and  four,  how- 
ever, did  not  appear  so  placid,  but 
were  already  quarrelling.  "  What 
is  the  matter,  nurse?"  called  out 
the  lady,  languidly,  as  the  voice  of 
the  nurse,  who  was  seated  on  the 
deck  with  the  children  by  her  a 
little  way  off,  could  be  heard  in 
scolding  accents.  "  Sure  it's  Baboo 
doing  it  again,  ma'am,"  called  out 
the  Irish  nurse  in  response  ;  "  he's 
bating  his  little  sister  again.  Don't 
you  cry,  Mothi  darlin',"  continued 
the  woman,  fondling  the  little  girl 
kindly.  "Naughty  Baboo,"  said 
the  lady,  listlessly,  fanning  herself; 
"  I  shall  ask  the  gentlemen  to  put 
you  under  the  hen-coop  as  they  did 
yesterday,  if  you  behave  so  ; "  and 
the  child  thus  apostrophised,  creep- 
ing to  a  little  distance  from  his  sis- 
ter, sat  silent  but  defiant,  sucking 
his  thumb. 

Just  then  the  bell  rang  for  break- 
fast, and  the  lady  rising  and  giv- 
ing the  ayah  some  premonitory 
cautions  about  taking  care  of  the 
children  in  her  absence,  descended 
to  the  saloon.  The  tones  of  her 
voice  had  sounded  familiar  to  me, 
and  as  she  turned  round  to  go 
down  the  stairs  I  recognised  the 
face.  It  was  my  former  fellow- 
passenger,  Cecilia  Dashwood,  now 
Mrs  Hillyard ;  and  before  follow- 
ing her  to  the  breakfast-table,  I 
stopped  to  muse  over  this  transfor- 


mation. I  must  confess  to  having  of 
late  years  almost  forgotten  her  exist- 
ence ;  yet  now,  when  the  old  days 
were  thus  brought  back  to  recol- 
lection, it  seemed  but  a  very  short 
time  since  I  had  last  seen  her, 
walking  the  deck  so  fresh  and 
blooming.  There  speedily  ensued 
the  reflection  that  here  were  half-a- 
dozen  very  palpable  evidences  of  the 
length  of  time  that  had  intervened. 
They  afforded  ample  cause  for 
change,  and  no  doubt  the  time  con- 
sumed in  their  production  may 
have  seemed  long  enough  to  the 
parties  concerned.  Each  stage  in 
the  process  had  left  its  definite 
mark.  Somehow  I  felt  very  little 
changed  myself;  I  wondered  if  my 
old  friend  was  conscious  of  how 
much  time  had  changed  her. 

Mrs  Hillyard  was  already  seated 
at  table  when  I  entered  the  saloon, 
and  as  I  passed  behind  her  on  the 
way  to  a  vacant  seat,  I  was  about 
to  stop  and  address  her;  but  al- 
though she  turned  her  head  to  look 
up  at  me  I  could  not  be  certain  if 
I  was  recognised,  and  so  went  on 
to  my  place.  This  was  at  the  end 
of  the  table,  but  I  was  near  enough 
to  see  that  the  lady's  appetite  was 
in  good  case.  She  made  indeed 
a  hearty  meal,  and  in  conversation 
with  the  other  passengers  near  her 
was  much  more  animated  than  she 
had  been  on  deck.  And  she  was  still 
employed  on  her  breakfast  when  I 
rose  from  table  and  went  forward 
to  smoke  my  cigar.  But  later  in  the 
morning,  as  I  was  passing  the  chair 
in  which  she  was  again  seated,  with 
the  ayah  and  the  Irish  nurse  and 
the  children  round  her,  Mrs  Hill- 
yard  accosting  me  by  name,  asked 
if  I  had  quite  forgotten  her.  And 
we  at  once  resumed  our  old  friend- 
ly footing.  She,  too,  began  by  re- 
verting to  the  old  Oriental  times, 
observing,  just  as  I  had  done  in- 
wardly, that  they  seemed  as  if  only 
the  other  day.  I  could  not  for- 


1880.] 


Reminiscences  of  an  Old  Fogey. 


Gil 


bear  from  glancing  at  the  evidences 
of  the  passage  of  time  which  were 
scattered  around  her  on  the  deck. 
"  Oh  yes,"  she  said,  laughing,  "  I 
know  it  is  really  an  immense  long 
time  ago,  and  that  I  am  quite  an 
old  woman" — here  I  made  a  de- 
precating gesture; — "oh  yes,  I 
know  it  is  so,  and  I  don't  wonder 
at  your  not  recognising  me."  But 
here  I  felt  bound  to  interrupt,  pro- 
testing that  I  had  recognised  her 
from  the  first,  and  was  restrained 
from  addressing  her  only  from  not 
feeling  sure  whether  I  should  be 
remembered. 

"  Of  course  I  knew  you  at  once," 
she  replied;  "you  are  not  a  bit 
changed,  except  for  your  moustache, 
and  being  a  little  browned  like  all 
men  get  in  India.  You  are  quite 
a  young  man  still,  and  I  am  an  old 
woman ;  and  yet  that  delightful 
voyage  out  seems  like  yesterday. 
I  think  that  was  the  happiest  time 
of  my  life." 

I  must  have  given  an  involun- 
tary look  of  surprise,  for  she  con- 
tinued :  "  Of  course  I  don't  mean 
that ;  but  still  it  was  a  very  pleas- 
ant time, — no  cares  and  anxieties  ; 
and  what  fun  the  dancing  was  ! 
Didn't  you  enjoy  the  dancing?  But 
no, — I  forgot — you  used  to  play  for 
us  :  how  good-natured  you  were,  to 
be  sure ;  and  how  beautifully  you 
played  !  I  hope  you  have  got  your 
violin  with  you, — not  that  we  shall 
have  any  dancing  this  time,  of 
course." 

I  lifted  my  left  hand,  from  which 
a  couple  of  fingers  had  been  parted 
in  the  Mutiny,  to  explain  that  my 
violin-playing  had  been  put  a  stop 
to.  "  Oh  dear  ! "  she  said,  "  you 
are  one  of  the  sufferers.  Ah,  think 
what  we  went  through,  too  !  You 
heard  of  us,  I  daresay,  and  what 
an  escape  we  had  from  Futtehabad ; 
and  our  wandering  about  for  four 
days  in  the  jungle,  with  our  four 
children,  and  all  in  that  awful  heat." 


I  turned  my  eyes  towards  the 
little  group  :  all  but  the  two  eldest 
looked  to  date  from  the  post-Mutiny 
era. 

"  Toony  was  there,"  she  explain- 
ed, in  answer  to  the  question  I  put, 
"and  Missy  Baba;  but  baby  died 
from  the  heat — that  is,  the  baby  that 
then  was — and  poor  little  Tottee 
Baba  never  got  over  the  exposure." 

So  these  six  now  on  board,  it 
appeared,  were  the  survivors  from 
a  family  of  eight.  No  wonder  the 
poor  lady  looked  rather  worn  and 
haggard  ;  but  she  was  still  pretty, 
although  extremely  thin,  and  not 
very  tidy  in  her  dress. 

Mrs  Hillyard  was  very  commu- 
nicative ;  and  before  we  had  got 
much  farther  on  the  voyage,  I  knew 
as  much  about  the  history  of  her 
Indian  life  as  if  I  had  witnessed  it. 
There  was  first  the  move  to  Futte- 
habad, after  her  marriage  ;  and  she 
enjoyed  up-country  life  very  much, 
and  the  riding — the  Governor-Gen- 
eral had  given  her  a  beautiful  horse 
— and  the  sociability.  "  And  Hill- 
yard's  appointment  was  a  very  good 
one  for  a  subaltern,  —  eight  hun- 
dred '  consolidated  : '  it  seemed  such 
wealth.  We  used  to  think  that 
you  could  never  get  to  the  bottom 
of  a  bag  of  eight  hundred  rupees  ; 
but  we  soon  found  out  how  easy  it 
was."  Then,  when  the  babies  began 
to  arrive,  one  after  the  other,  the 
riding  had  to  be  given  up,  at  first 
only  as  a  temporary  measure ;  but 
soon  the  inevitable  fact  had  to  be 
faced,  —  the  riding-horse  was  not 
wanted,  but  money  was ;  and  at 
last  the  Governor- General's  wed- 
ding-present had  to  be  sold.  Then 
the  children  were  always  getting 
fever.  One  hot  weather  she  took 
them  to  the  hills.  "  We  gave  up 
our  house,  and  sold  off  everything 
to  pay  for  the  trip.  But  after  all, 
our  things  only  fetched  a  trifle, 
even  our  pretty  knick-knacks  and 
wedding- presents  ;  nobody  wanted 


G12 


Voyages  in  the  P.  and  0. : 


[Xov 


them,  you  see,  in  the  beginning  of 
the  hot  weather  —  however,  the 
Mutineers  would  have  had  them, 
in  any  case,  we  -hardly  saved  the 
clothes  on  our  backs — and  Hill- 
yard,  who  of  course  had  to  stay 
behind,  went  and  chummed  with  a 
friend,  while  I  and  the  children — 
there  were  only  three  then — went 
to  the  hills."  But  they  could  not 
afford  this  a  second  time ;  indeed 
the  long  dak  journey  was  quite 
ruinous.  That  was  the  beginning 
of  their  getting  into  debt.  Then 
came  the  Mutiny ;  and  they  lost 
almost  everything,  barely  escaping 
with  their  lives.  It  was  then  the 
poor  little  baby  of  the  day  ^died, 
and  was  buried  in  a  hole  hastily 
scratched  out  of  the  ground,  as 
they  made  their  hurried  flight 
through  the  jungle;  and  a  small 
coffin,  in  a  deserted  cemetery, 
contained  another  victim,  a  little 
later,  to  the  same  exposure.  The 
babies,  however,  were  more  easily 
replaced  than  the  other  losses, — 
Master  Baboo,  it  appeared,  was 
born  within  a  few  days  of  his  mo- 
ther's reaching  a  place  of  shelter ; 
but  their  arrival  did  not  tend  to 
reduce  expense,  and  then  Hill- 
yard's  appointment  was  abolished, 
and  they  were  thrown  back  on  a 
captain's  regimental  pay,  which 
made  matters  still  worse.  And  so, 
when  Hillyard,  after  a  time,  got 
another  appointment  at  Calcutta,  it 
was  settled  that  they  would  not  set 
up  house-keeping  again,  but  that 
she  should  take  the  children  home — 
they  were  always  down  with  fever, 
more  or  less,  every  hot  weather — 
and  that  he  should  go  and  live  at 
the  club.  This  mention  of  Cal- 
cutta led  me  to  congratulate  her 
on  her  husband's  good  fortune, — 
the  appointment  he  now  held  being 
considerably  better  paid  than  his 
old  one  at  Futtehabad.  "  But  then," 
she  said,  "look  how  expensive  Cal- 
cutta is?  Why,  a  thousand  rupees 


does  not  go  nearly  as  far  as  eight 
hundred  did  up  country ;  and  then 
there  was  all  the  time  we  were 
without  any  appointment,  and  get- 
ting more  and  more  into  debt  every 
month.  And  just  fancy  what  this 
voyage  home  has  cost  us !  and  it 
had  all  to  be  borrowed,  and  we 
were  ever  so  deep  in  the  banks 
already.  But  what  were  we  to  do  ? 
We  could  not  keep  the  children  in 
the  country  any  longer."  It  was 
indeed  high  time  that  Toony  and 
Missy  Baba  should  go  home,  as 
any  one  might  see  from  their  col- 
ourless faces  and  lanky  limbs,  and 
all  the  children  looked  in  need  of 
change. 

All  this  and  a  good  deal  more 
my  old  friend  told  me  in  the  course 
of  the  day.  She  had  not  much 
energy  for  any  active  employ- 
ment, but  she  was  always  ready 
to  talk  ;  and  as  I  was  a  good  listen- 
er, I  soon  got  to  know  as  much 
about  the  affairs  of  her  husband 
and  herself  as  if  I  had  been  living 
in  close  neighbourhood  ever  since 
she  was  married.  Mrs  Hillyard 
seemed  to  be  a  good  deal  oppressed 
by  her  numerous  offspring,  and 
quite  unable  to  take  care  of  them 
by  herself,  but  yet  to  be  saved 
from  the  wearing  effects  of  such 
a  charge  by  a  sort  of  happy  men- 
tal indolence,  dulling  the  sense  of 
worry  which  might  otherwise  have 
overpowered  her.  Her  share  in  the 
management  of  the  children  was 
indeed  purely  passive,  and  was 
limited  for  the  most  part  to  injunc- 
tions in  a  listless  tone  to  the  nurse 
and  ayah,  less  frequently  to  the 
children  themselves.  The  eldest 
gave  very  little  trouble.  Toony's 
spirits  soon  evaporated  each  morn- 
ing, and  he  would  sit  down  on  the 
deck  by  his  mother's  chair,  quite 
tranquil,  with  no  other  occupation 
than  holding  her  hand ;  happily  so, 
for  it  did  not  appear  to  occur  to  the 
mother  to  try  to  amuse  him  or  the 


1880.] 


Reminiscences  of  an  Old  Fogey. 


613 


others  in  any  way.  Missee  Baba  was 
also  very  docile,  having  little  more 
spirits  than  her  eldest  brother. 
The  two  troublesome  ones  were  the 
third  and  fourth — Baboo  and  Mothi. 
They  were  always  quarrelling  with 
themselves  or  the  other  children, 
and  would  often  need  the  interposi- 
tion of  the  lookers-on.  The  young 
gentleman  especially  had  more  tem- 
per than  all  his  brothers  and  sisters 
put  together,  and  would  use  his 
teeth  freely  upon  any  passenger  who 
interfered.  Indeed  he  was  known 
on  board  as  the  little  "Shaitan" 
or  devil,  and  fully  justified  the 
sobriquet  by  his  savage  outbursts. 
It  was  by  a  happy  thought  that 
one  of  the  passengers  had  impris- 
oned him  under  an  empty  hen-coop 
during  one  of  his  ebullitions  of 
rage,  and  the  threat  of  repeating 
the  punishment  was  the  only  thing 
that  kept  him  under  restraint.  "So, 
Mr  Stevens,"  said  Mrs  Hillyard, 
coming  on  deck  afterwards,  "  I  hear 
that  you  have  been  putting  poor 
little  Baboo  under  a  hen-coop  again  ; 
how  could  you  do  such  athing?"  But 
she  did  not  seem  at  all  angry,  and 
the  punishment  was  repeated  more 
than  once  during  the  voyage,  to 
the  infinite  comfort  of  all  on  board. 
None  of  Mrs  Hillyard's  children,  it 
may  be  mentioned,  spoke  a  word  of 
English  j  and  the  Irish  nurse  —  a 
soldier's  widow  working  her  way 
home  after  burying  her  husband 
and  children,  and  engaged  for  the 
voyage  almost  on  the  day  of  em- 
barkation— could  not  at  first  make 
herself  understood  by  them,  so  that 
her  ministrations  were  not  of  much 
effect.  She  was  wonderfully  patient 
and  kind  to  them.  She  did  not 
mind  how  much  she  was  with  them, 
she  said,  so  long  as  they  did  not 
quarrel  and  bite  each  other.  They 
reminded  her  of  her  own  babies, 
she  added ;  and  indeed  the  excel- 
lent creature  hardly  left  her  charges 
for  a  moment.  The  children,  how- 


ever— and  there  were  a  good  many 
others  on  board — did  not  interfere 
with  the  comfort  of  the  adult  pas- 
sengers so  much  as  might  have  been 
expected,  for  although  they  had  the 
run  of  the  deck,  they  were  carried 
off  at  frequent  intervals  for  their 
meals  in  the  fore  -  saloon  :  they 
slept  a  good  deal  during  the  middle 
of  the  day,  and  they  went  early  to 
bed.  The  main  saloon  also  was 
sacred  from  their  intrusion,  and  I 
soon  understood  why  Mrs  Hillyard 
liked  to  dally  over  her  meals.  It 
was  not  in  her  nature  to  be  in  a 
hurry  over  anything,  and  here  at 
least  she  could  have  the  children 
off  her  hands  for  a  time.  AVho 
dressed  and  washed  the  little  Hill- 
yards  I  don't  know.  The  ayah  was 
a  willing  creature  as  well  as  the 
Irish  nurse ;  but  the  latter  used 
often  of  an  evening  to  be  a  good 
deal  affected  by  the  motion  of  the 
ship,  and  found  a  difficulty  in  keep- 
ing her  feet  even  in  the  calmest 
weather;  but  the  family  were  got 
to  bed  somehow. 

I  ventured  to  remonstrate  with 
Mrs  Hillyard  about  the  way  in 
which  she  spoilt  the  little  ones, 
and  especially  about  her  always 
talking  to  them  in  Hindustani ;  but 
she  retorted  that  bachelor's  children 
were  proverbially  well-behaved,  and 
that  it  was  all  Hillyard's  fault. 
Hillyard — she  always  spoke  of  her 
husband  by  his  surname — would 
never  let  them  be  punished  or 
found  fault  with.  He  would  not 
have  them  with  him  for  long,  he 
said,  and  he  wanted  them  to  remem- 
ber their  papa  when  they  were 
parted,  as  having  always  been  kind 
to  them.  Hillyard  doted  on  the 
children,  and  would  sit  up  all  night 
when  any  of  them  were  sick.  And 
then  he  would  always  talk  to  the 
children  in  Hindustani — what  was 
she  to  do  ?  Yet,  as  I  observed,  the 
children  would  have  to  learn  English 
sooner  or  later.  She  knew  that,  she 


G14 


Voyages  in  the  P.  and  0.  : 


[Nov. 


answered.  She  supposed  things 
would  come  right  by-and-by,  but 
she  dreaded  the  arrival  in  England. 
They  were  to  go,  in  the  first  instance, 
to  the  house  of  Hilly ard's  father,  a 
Warwickshire  baronet.  Her  hus- 
band was  a  younger  son,  and  had 
several  brothers;  but  the  only  mem- 
bers of  the  family  at  home,  besides 
her  father-  and  mother-in-law,  were 
two  unmarried  daughters.  It  was  a 
satisfaction  to  know  that  the  poor 
lady  had  a  home  to  go  to,  for  she 
had  no  relatives  of  her  own  in 
England,  and  besides  being  quite 
unfit  to  manage  for  herself,  was 
apparently  but  slenderly  provided 
with  money  ;  but  I  could  not  help 
sharing  her  misgivings  at  the  result 
of  the  proposed  arrangement,  al- 
though from  a  different  reason  from 
that  which  caused  her  fears.  She 
declared  herself  to  be  in  great  fear 
of  her  father-in-law,  who,  she  was 
sure,  would  be  dreadfully  stern.  But 
the  fact  that  Sir  Robert  was  him- 
self coming  from  Southampton  to 
meet  her,  seemed  to  argue  a  kindly 
disposition.  I  could  not,  however, 
help  thinking  that  he  might  be  a 
little  shocked  at  some  of  her  ways, 
pretty  creature  though  she  was. 
I  even  ventured  to  suggest  that 
she  should  be  careful  not  to  drink 
much  beer ;  but  she  replied  that 
she  could  not  do  without  it;  in- 
deed her  doctor  had  ordered  her 
beer  twice  a -day,  after  there  had 
been  a  baby,  which  was  in  effect 
to  give  a  prescription  for  constant 
application. 

I  have  almost  forgotten  to  speak 
of  her  sister ;  but  of  course  my 
first  inquiries,  after  renewing  my 
acquaintance,  had  been  after  Miss 
Laura,  now  Mrs  Fludyers.  Laura, 
she  told  me,  was  wintering  in  the 
south  of  France.  She  had  wretch- 
ed health,  and  could  never  stay 
in  Calcutta  for  more  than  a  cold 
season  at  a  time.  "And  I  don't 
think,"  said  her  sister,  "  that  she 


is  very  sorry  to  get  away,  for  she 
and  Fludyers  quarrel  like  cat  and 
dog ;  I  never  could  bear  him  myself. 
Don't  you  remember  what  a  prig 
he  was  on  board  the  Oriental  ?  He 
has  a  vile  temper ;  and  then,  you 
see,  they  have  no  children  to  keep 
things  square  in  the  house."  I 
could  not  help  thinking  that  square- 
ness was  hardly  an  appropriate  term 
to  express  the  condition  of  Captain 
Hillyard's  household  ;  but  I  under- 
stood what  his  wife  meant,  and 
felt  that  it  would  have  been  a 
merciful  dispensation  if  the  sisters 
could  have  divided  Cecilia's  share 
of  children  equally  between  them. 
However,  Laura  was  to  come  to 
England  in  the  summer,  and  then 
the  two  would  meet  again. 

The  assistance  of  a  gentleman 
will  always  be  useful  to  a  lady 
travelling  with  children,  and  I  was 
able  to  be  of  some  little  service  to 
Mrs  Hillyard  on  landing  at  Suez, 
such  as  securing  a  compartment  for 
her  in  the  train  that  conveyed  us 
to  Alexandria.  Not>  however,  that 
there  would  have  been  any  compe- 
tition for  the  places  in  it,  which 
the  party  of  nine  effectually  filled ; 
and  I  could  not  help  wondering  if 
Sir  Robert  Hillyard  was  a  smoker, 
and  would  make  that  an  excuse 
for  taking  his  seat  separately  in 
a  smoking-carriage  on  the  way  up 
from  Southampton.  Master  Baboo 
inaugurated  the  journey  by  break- 
ing the  glass  of  one  window  in  his 
efforts  to  climb  out  of  the  carriage, 
and  his  subsequent  roaring  could  be 
heard  above  even  the  din  of  the 
noisy  train  ;  but  happily  the  transit 
was  made  at  night,  and  by  the 
time  we  reached  the  first  halting- 
place  all  the  children  were  asleep, 
and  Mrs  Hillyard  was  able  to  par- 
take of  the  refreshment  brought 
to  her  carriage,  in  peace,  if  not  in 
comfort. 

It  was  at  Alexandria  I  discovered 
that  Mrs  Hillyard  was  but  scantily 


1880.] 


Reminiscences  of  an  Old  Fogey. 


615 


provided  with  money,  for  she 
wanted  to  drive  straight  from  the 
station  to  the  harbour  and  go  on 
board  the  steamer,  so  as  to  avoid 
the  cost  of  staying  on  shore ;  but 
we  found  that  owing  to  our  steamer 
being  a  day  before  its  time,  the 
Southampton  steamer  had  not  ar- 
rived, and  there  was  nothing  for  it 
but  to  go  to  a  hotel.  Guessing  the 
cause  of  her  embarrassment,  I  ven- 
tured to  open  the  subject,  and  she 
confessed  to  having  barely  enough 
wherewith  to  fee  the  stewards  at  the 
end  of  the  voyage.  She  believed 
some  arrangement  had  been  made 
by  her  husband  for  an  agent  to 
meet  her  at  Southampton  and  make 
over  the  proceeds  of  a  remittance 
which  Hillyard  was  to  send  home  ; 
but  the  matter  had  a  vague  look, 
and  it  seemed  pretty  clear  that  the 
father-in-law  would  not  only  have 
to  escort  the  party  into  Warwick- 
shire, but  to  pay  for  their  railway- 
tickets  also.  And  as  Mrs  Hillyard 
knew  as  much  about  him,  as  that 
his  family  had  been  very  expensive, 
and  that  he  was  not  well  off,  this 
seemed  an  inauspicious  way  of  mak- 
ing his  acquaintance.  I  therefore 
pressed  on  her  as  much  money  as 
would  carry  her  to  her  new  home, 
and  advised  her  on  no  account  to 
let  her  husband's  father  be  at  any 
expense  for  the  journey  from  South- 
ampton. And  the  poor  lady,  afttr 
a  little  hesitation,  thankfully  ac- 
cepted the  small  loan, — indeed,  what 
else  could  she  do  ? — assuring  me  that 
Hillyard  would  repay  me  at  once. 
I  am  bound  to  say  that  he  did 
repay  me,  although  not  at  once, 
and  expressed  himself  very  grate- 
fully about  the  kindness  which  he 
said  I  had  shown  to  his  wife  and 
family. 

These  two  days  at  Alf-xandria 
were,  I  think,  the  longest  I  ever 
spent.  For  the  children,  being  now 
free  from  the  rules  of  board-ship 
life,  were  running  wild  all  over  the 

VOL.  CXXVIII.  —  NO.   DCCLXXXI. 


hotel — a  mere  pot-house  in  point  of 
comfort — and  perpetually  in  every- 
body's way.  I  took  the  four  eldest 
out  for  a  ride  on  donkeys  in  the 
afternoon,  which  gave  their  mother 
a  respite.  The  two  eldest  enjoyed 
it  in  their  languid  fashion,  but 
Baboo  wanted  to  beat  his  donkey 
unmercifully  the  whole  way,  and 
swore  vilely  at  the  attendant  boy 
because  he  attempted  to  restrain 
him.  It  was,  I  confess,  with  a  sense 
of  great  relief  that  I  saw  the  party 
safely  on  board  the  Southampton 
steamer,  and  then  betook  myself  to 
the  one  bound  for  Marseilles. 

Mrs  Hillyard  was  to  write  as 
soon  as  she  had  settled  down  in 
Warwickshire,  and  tell  me  how 
they  had  fared  on  the  rest  of  the 
voyage,  and  how  she  was  doing  in 
her  new  home.  But  the  promised 
letter  never  came,  and  the  next 
tidings  I  had  of  her  was  from  her 
sister,  whom  I  met  one  day  in  the 
following  summer  on  the  platform 
of  the  Clapham  Junction  station, 
where  she  was  waiting  with  her 
maid  to  change  trains.  Mrs  Flud- 
yers  did  not  recognise  me  at  first, 
but  when  I  introduced  myself,  she 
was  very  cordial;  and  during  the 
five  minutes'  conversation  we  had  I 
got  a  full  instalment  of  the  family 
history.  Cecilia  was  in  London,  she 
said.  The  Warwickshire  airange- 
ment  very  soon  broke  down.  The 
old  people  and  the  aunts  did  not 
take  kindly  to  the  children,  and 
could  I  wonder  at  it?  And  so 
Cecilia  had  come  to  town,  and  as 
soon  as  she  (Mrs  Fludyers)  had  re- 
turned to  England  from  the  south 
of  France,  where  she  had  been  pass- 
ing the  winter,  the  two  sisteis  had 
chummed  together  for  a  few  weeks. 
"  But  the  children  were  too  much 
for  me,"  she  continued  ;  "  I  have 
such  bad  health  at  time?,  my  nerves 
really  could  not  bear  the  strain." 
But  Mrs  Fludyers  went  on  to  ex- 
plain that  she  was  now  bound  to 


616 


Voyages  in  the  P.  and  0. : 


[Xc 


the  Isle  of  Wight,  to  take  a  house 
for  the  summer  in  which  to  re- 
ceive her  sister  and  family.  The 
children  would  be  out  all  day  on 
the  beach,  she  said,  so  that  life 
would  be  more  bearable  with  them 
there  than  when  shut  up  in  a  Lon- 
don lodging.  "Poor  Cecilia,"  she 
added,  "  I  wonder  how  she  can 
stand  it."  Mrs  Fludyers  was  beau- 
tifully dressed,  and  better  preserved 
than  her  sister,  and  was  still  very 
nice-looking.  I  cannot  say  that  she 
bore  the  appearance  of  great  deli- 
cacy, but  there  was  a  sour  look  on 
her  face,  and  also  a  sort  of  prim- 
ness, as  of  one  who  would  be  parti- 
cular about  trifles.  Altogether  she 
was  even  more  unlike  the  light- 
hearted  merry  girls  of  the  Oriental 
days,  than  poor  Cecilia  with  the 
burden  of  her  six  children  and 
small  means. 

Having  obtained  the  address 
from  Mrs  Fludyers,  I  called  next 
day  on  Mrs  Hillyard.  Her  lodg- 
ings were  in  a  noisy  thoroughfare 
not  far  from  Paddington  Station. 
The  door  was  opened  by  a  dirty 
maid  of  all  work,  and  I  was  shown 
into  the  parlour  from  which,  al- 
though it  was  nearly  three  o'clock, 
the  remains  of  the  mid-day  meal — 
to  judge  from  the  fragments,  an  un- 
savoury repast — had  not  yet  been 
removed.  Presently  Mrs  Hillyard 
came  down,  with  Toony  and  Missy 
holding  each  a  hand.  Though  still 
untidy,  she  looked  less  so  than  in 
the  loose  garments  worn  on  board 
the  steamer;  nor  did  she  look  so 
thin  in  her  warm  English  dress, 
and  there  was  a  slight  tinge  of 
bloom  in  her  pale  cheek.  The 
children,  too,  had  gained  already 
from  coming  home.  Toony  was  list- 
less and  languid,  but  less  so  than 
before,  and  being  clothed  as  a  boy, 
looked  more  like  one  than  the  mere 
aggregation  of  arms  and  legs  he 
used  to  be  on  board  ship.  Missy 
was  still  more  improved,  and  was 


becoming  a  pretty  child,  with  a 
strong  likeness  to  her  mother.  Mrs 
Hillyard  was  extremely  pleased  to 
see  me,  and  undeterred  by  the  pres- 
ence of  the  children,  who  stood  one 
on  each  side  of  her  staring  grave- 
ly, began  at  once  to  detail  her 
Warwickshire  experiences,  and  the 
reasons  for  coming  away  from  her 
father-in-law's  house,  when  inter- 
rupted by  the  sound  of  shrieks  up- 
stairs. "  That's  Mothi  Baba,"  cried 
the  mother,  starting  up,  —  "  that 
naughty  Baboo  is  teasing  her  again  ; 
excuse  me  for  a  moment, — the  ser- 
vants must  have  gone  down  to  their 
dinner ; "  and  quiet  was  restored 
and  safety  insured  to  the  baby  only 
by  Mrs  Hillyard  bringing  Master 
Baboo  down-stairs  with  his  sister 
Mothi.  The  young  scapegrace  was 
certainly  improved  upon  his  board- 
ship  form,  although  still  the  dis- 
turbing element  in  the  household. 
And  all  the  children  looked  cleaner 
than  might  have  been  expected, 
which  I  afterwards  found  to  be  due 
to  the  excellent  nurse-maid  supplied 
through  Lady  Hillyard's  agency. 

With  four  children  in  the  room, 
and  one  of  them  Master  Baboo,  con- 
versation now  became  impossible,  so 
1  proposed  a  move  to  the  "  Zoo"  by 
way  of  diversion.  And  we  set  off  ac- 
cordingly, —  Mrs  Hillyard,  myself, 
the  four  eldest  children,  and  one  of 
the  maids,  in  a  couple  of  cabs,  leav- 
ing the  infants  in  charge  of  the 
other  nurse. 

This  proved  a  fortunate  diver- 
sion, even  Baboo's  mischievous  pro- 
clivities being  subdued  for  the  time 
by  the  wonders  of  the  scene  ;  and  in 
the  open  air  their  voices  were  less 
oppressive,  and  it  was  possible  to 
hold  some  conversation  with  the 
mother.  Her  explanation  of  the 
reason  for  leaving  her  step-father's 
house  contained  little  more  than  her 
sister  had  already  told  me.  The 
old  people,  Mrs  Hillyard  said,  were 
so  particular,  and  the  aunts  so  fussy; 


1880.] 


Reminiscences  of  an  Old  Fogey. 


617 


but  it  was  easy  to  understand  that 
the  introduction  of  this  new  ele- 
ment into  the  orderly  household  of 
an  elderly  couple  and  the  two 
maiden  sisters-in-law  was  soon 
found  too  trying  for  long  cont' nu- 
ance. Mrs  Hillyard  was  now  in 
London  lodgings  until  her  sister 
could  receive  the  party  by  the  sea- 
side. Her  plans  did  not  extend 
beyond  that  point.  I  urged  that 
Toony  at  any  rate  should  be  sent  to 
school  without  loss  of  time,  as  he 
could  neither  read  nor  write,  and 
Mrs  Hillyard  admitted  that  she 
supposed  this  must  be  done  after 
they  came  back  from  the  Isle  of 
Wight.  On  our  return  from  the 
"  Zoo "  she  pressed  me  to  come  in 
and  have  some  tea ;  but  with  the 
recollection  of  the  mid-day  meal 
before  me,  I  was  selfish  enough  to 
decline  the  invitation. 

I  did  not  see  Mrs  Hillyard  again 
until  my  furlough  was  drawing  to  a 
close,  when  hearing  that  she  had 
taken  a  house  at  Richmond,  I  went 
down  there  one  dull  autumn  after- 
noon to  say  good-bye.  I  was  mis- 
led as  to  the  house  being  leased  : 
the  party  were  still  in  lodgings, 
but  there  was  a  greater  degree  of 
comfort  apparent,  or,  to  be  more 
correct,  a  smaller  degree  of  discom- 
fort, than  in  the  lodgings  she  had 
first  occupied  at  Paddington.  Pos- 
sibly also  things  did  not  look  so 
dingy  and  untidy,  when  seen  by  the 
dim  light  of  a  November  evening, 
as  in  the  broad  glare  of  a  summer's 
day.  Nearly  eighteen  months  had 
passed  since  my  last  visit,  and  Mrs 
llillyard  seemed  to  have  become 
younger  instead  of  older,  so  much 
had  she  been  set  up  by  the  English 
climate.  The  children  also  were 
like  different  beings,  so  strong  and 
robust  had  they  grown.  Toony  in- 
deed I  did  not  see,  for  he  was  at  a 
boarding-school  kept  by  a  lady,  and 
getting  on  famously,  I  was  told, 
which  I  interpreted  to  mean  that 


he  was  mastering  the  elemen's  of 
the  three  E's.  Missy  and  Baboo 
went  to  a  children's  day-school  hard 
by ;  the  other  three  were  still  in 
the  nursery.  The  day-scholars  came 
home  while  I  was  sitting  with  their 
mother,  and  presently  we  all  had 
tea  together.  Master  Baboo  was 
still  a  pickle,  but  school  discipline 
had  already  toned  down  some  of 
his  more  prominent  eccentricitiee. 
After  the  meal, — a  scrambling  affair, 
garnished  with  very  weak  tea,  for 
Mrs  Hillyard  was  evidently  not  a 
good  caterer, — the  younger  children 
were  brought  down  to  see  me,  and 
I  was  sorry  to  notice  that  the  two 
nurse -maids  with  which  their 
mother  was  furnished  in  the  first 
instance  had  been  succeeded  by 
fresh  ones, — a  change  not  for  the 
better.  I  was  given  to  understand 
that  these  were  the  last  instalment, 
and  that  there  had  been  several  in- 
termediate changes. 

Mrs  Hillyard  had  been  attracted 
to  Richmond  by  the  fact  that  an 
old  friend  of  her  Futtehabad  days, 
now  a  widow,  was  established  there, 
through  whom  she  had  made  sev- 
eral acquaintances.  She  appeared 
undetermined  whether  or  not  to 
stop  there,  but  at  any  rate  she 
would  stay  in  lodgings  for  the  pres- 
ent ;  she  found  English  housekeep- 
ing so  troublesome,  and  English 
servants  she  could  not  manage : 
nurses  alone,  which  she  must  have 
in  any  case,  were  worry  enough. 
They  were  always  wanting  to 
change.  "  How  I  envy  you  going 
back  to  India,"  she  said,  as  I  was 
taking  leave  ;  "  but  there  is  no  such 
luck  for  me.  Hillyard  says  a  double 
establishment  is  not  to  be  thought 
of  until  he  is  clear  of  the  banks, 
and  has  got  some  promotion ;  but 
he  hopes  to  run  home  by-and-by  on 
privilege  leave.  "Well,  you  will  be 
able  to  tell  him  all  about  us.  I 
shall  write  and  tell  him  to  look  out 
for  you."  I  confess  I  said  good- 


G18 


Voyages  in  the  P.  and  0.  : 


bye  to  the  poor  lady  with  a  sad 
heart.  Without  being  at  all  what 
is  called  a  motherly  woman,  she 
was  fond  of  her  children ;  yet  her 
heart  was  in  India  and  station-life, 
with  its  simple  monotonous  pleas- 
ures and  easy  sociability  ;  and  one 
felt  that,  so  far  as  the  children  were 
concerned,  they  would  be  just  as 
well  off  if  put  in  charge  of  some 
careful  person,  and  the  mother  set 
free  to  join  her  husband.  It  seemed 
a  curious  result  of  married  life  that 
the  essential  part  of  it  should  be 
thus  brought  prematurely  to  an 
end. 

On  reaching  Calcutta,  I  paid,  as 
I  had  promised  his  wife,  an  early 
visit  to  Major  Hillyard,  who  was 
living  at  the  club,  and  occupying  a 
bedroom  in  one  of  the  adjacent 
houses.  I  had  only  seen  him 
once  before,  at  the  ball  given  on 
my  first  arrival  in  India,  dancing 
with  the  fair  Cecilia ;  when,  not- 
withstanding my  feeling  of  jeal- 
ousy, I  had  been  unable  to  with- 
hold a  mental  verdict  on  his  good 
looks,  and  when  to  be  A.D.C.  to 
a  Governor-General  seemed  to  my 
youthful  aspirations  the  summit  of 
military  felicity.  He  was  still  a 
handsome  man,  but  now  both  bald 
and  stout.  My  visit  being  paid  on  a 
Sunday  afternoon,  I  found  him  at 
home,  sitting  in  his  shirt-sleeve?, 
writing  what  appeared  to  be  a  home 
letter,  as  indeed  he  presently  said 
it  was.  Sunday  being  his  leisure 
day,  he  devoted  it  to  writing  to  the 
children.  He  wrote  to  one  of  tb>m 
by  each  mail ;  this  time  he  was 
writing  to  Toony.  "  Is  this  like 
him  1 "  he  asked,  taking  up  a  pho- 
tograph from  the  table,  and  looking 
at  it  with  moist  eyes.  "  What  a 
fine  little  chap  he  has  grown,  hasn't 
he1?"  and  the  poor  fellow  was  visi- 
bly disappointed  at  finding  I  had 
not  seen  Toony.  I  was  able,  how- 
ever, to  corroborate  the  accuracy  of 
the  photographs  of  all  the  other 


children,  of  which  numerous  speci- 
mens lay  on  the  table  in  their  little 
frames,  representing  them  in  vari- 
ous stages  of  development.  "  I 
have  them  taken  twice  a-year,"  he 
said.  "  I  give  my  wife  no  peace 
unless  I  get  them  every  six  months, 
— it  is  the  one  extravagance  I  allow 
myself;  and  then  I  can  see  how 
they  are  getting  on.  This  is  the 
last  one  of  Missy,  my  eldest  girl ; 
little  darling,  how  like  she  is  get- 
ting to  her  mother  !  "  Hillyard 
seemed  never  tired  of  listening  to 
my  news  of  them  —  although,  in 
fact,  I  had  not  much  to  tell.  His 
wife  was  not  a  good  hand  at  letter- 
writing,  he  said :  although  she  never 
missed  a  mail,  he  hastened  to  add, 
still  she  did  not  always  tell  him  the 
things  he  wanted  to  know  about  the 
children.  "I  shall  get  home  and  see 
them  myself  next  year,  I  hope,  or  the 
year  after — that  is,  if  I  can  screw 
up  enough  to  pay  the  passage.  But 
living  even  as  a  bachelor  in  Cal- 
cutta is  very  expensive,  howevfr 
carefully  one  manages  :  I  have  only 
one  room,  as  you  see,  but  the  charge 
is  very  high.  And  my  wife  finds 
England  dreadfully  dear,"  he  con- 
tinued ;  "  and  by  the  time  I  have 
provided  my  monthly  remittance 
and  other  little  liabilities  " — I  pre- 
sumed he  was  here  referring  to  his 
payments  to  the  banks — "there  is 
not  much  left  for  myself."  It  had 
not  struck  me  when  a  visitor 
Mrs  Hillyard's  uncomfortable  estal 
lishment  that  it  was  on  an  exper 
sive  scale ;  but  no  doubt  she  niigl 
manage  to  muddle  away  a  good  d< 
of  money  without  having  much  t( 
show  for  it. 

As  I  drove  away  after  my  visit,  I 
could  not  help  being  irnpressi'i" 
with  the  grotesque  yet  melancholy 
aspect  of  the  situation.  Half  a 
dozen  children  growing  up  without 
a  father;  the  mother,  of  no  particu- 
lar use  to  them,  longing  to  be  oil'  to 
her  husband,  yet  kept  apart;  while 


1880.] 


Reminiscences  of  an  Old  Fogey. 


619 


he,  poor  fellow,  respectable,  honour- 
able, and  reasonably  fortunate  in 
his  official  circumstances,  yet  had 
nothing  that  he  cared  about  in  life. 
Six  days  of  the  week  he  passed  in 
grubbing  at  office  work  of  no  par- 
ticular interest,  which  any  one  else 
could  do  as  well,  and  a  good  deal 
of  which  would  probably  be  best 
not  done  at  all,  and  the  Sunday  in 
sitting  alone  in  his  shirt-sleeves 
writing  letters  to  the  children  who 
hft'l  already  forgotten  all  about 
him.  This,  forsooth,  was  an  Indian 
career.  Had  Major  Hilly ard  been 
devoted  to  his  profession,  or  attach- 
ed to  Indian  interests  of  some  kind 
to  compensate  for  his  exile,  the 
case  would  have  been  different. 
But  he  evidently  cared  nothing 
about  the  country,  or  the  army 
which  he  had  practically  quitted, 
or  about  his  employment,  except  so 
far  as  it  gave  him  a  livelihood  :  he 
was  simply  a  dull,  respectable  man, 
who  would  probably  have  been 
much  happier  earning  his  bread  in 
some  humble  capacity  at  home, 
with  his  wife  and  children  about 
him.  He  had  finished  with  his 
marriage  and  his  children,  and  the 
pleasant  part  of  his  career  had  come 
to  an  end  at  an  age  when  men  in 
England  are  just  beginning  to  see 
their  way  to  the  comforts  of  wedded 
life,  and  a  reward  for  their  labour.-*. 
A  few  days  after  this  visit  I  left 
Calcutta  for  my  station  up  country, 
and  saw  Major  Hillyard  only  once 
again,  at  a  ball  at  Government 
House, — the  place  where  in  former 
days  he  had  been  thoroughly  at 
homo,  and  to  which  he  had  brought 
his  wife  for  a  while  after  his  brief 
honeymoon  at  Barrackpoor,  but 
where  another  company  was  now 
assembled  from  that  which  had 
known  him  in  his  aide-de-camp 
days,  and  where  he  now  walked 
about,  silent  and  doleful,  as  if  his 
heart  was  elsewhere  than  in  the 
gay  scene  before  him. 


My  next  visit  to  England  was 
made  on  sick-leave,  after  a  much 
shorter  interval  of  absence  than 
preceded  my  first  return  home.  I 
had  fully  intended  to  call  on  Major 
Hillyard  on  my  way  through  Cal- 
cutta, to  see  if  he  had  any  commis- 
sions for  his  family,  but  I  was  too 
much  hurried  to  be  able  to  do  so. 
And  I  am  bound  to  say  that,  when 
I  got  home,  in  the  distractions  of 
my  visit — this  time  a  brief  one — I 
completely  forgot  all  about  them 
until  reminded  by  meeting  Mrs 
Hillyard  in  Regent  Street,  walking 
with  her  eldest  daughter,  now  a 
very  pretty  little  girl  of  about  four- 
teen, with  a  rosy  face  from  which 
all  trace  of  the  langnid  washed-out 
appearance  it  had  worn  on  the  voy- 
age home  had  passed  away.  Mrs 
Hillyard  herself  was  looking  very 
well  and  blooming :  the  freshness 
of  youth,  indeed,  had  passed  away 
never  to  return,  but  she  was  still  a 
very  comely  woman,  and  had  grown 
quite  plump  again.  She  was  now 
living  at  Korwood  in  order  that 
Missy  might  attend  the  classes 
at  the  Crystal  Palace :  they  had 
been  up  for  a  day's  shopping,  and 
•were  now  on  their  way  to  catch  a 
train  home,  and  there  was  only  time 
to  get  a  few  hurried  answers  to  my 
questions  about  the  children.  Toony 
— that  is  Willy,  as  she  ought  to  call 
him — was  at  Wellington  College, 
and  was  getting  on  capitally ;  and 
Baboo — that  is  Tommy — was  also  at 
school ;  the  others  were  all  at  home. 
Yes,  she  was  still  in  lodgings  ;  her 
plans  were  so  uncertain.  She  had 
been  hoping  to  be  able  to  go  back 
to  India  again,  but — and  here  she 
stopped  talking,  with  an  appearance 
of  confusion. 

It  was  not  only  that  Mrs  Hill- 
yard  had  grown  stouter  ;  her  figure 
had  altered  —  the  graceful  waist 
had  lost  its  slimness.  Perhaps 
something  in  my  manner  added  to 
the  embarrassment  the  had  already 


620 


Voyages  in  the  P.  and  0.  : 


expressed  by  hers,  for  she  blushed 
and  laughed  as  she  said,  "  You 
know  Hillyard  has  been  home.  He 
came  on  privilege-leave,  you  know. 
He  was  hoping  to  take  furlough. 
The  auditorship  fell  vacant,  as  of 
course  you  heard,  and  Hillyard 
ought  to  have  got  it.  It  would 
have  been  eight  hundred  a-rnonth 
more,  and  have  made  us  so  com- 
fortable, and  he  could  have  taken 
a  year's  furlough ;  but  they  went 
a  ad  put  in  another  man  over  his 
head.  Such  a  shame  !  And  so  he 
had  to  give  up  his  furlough  and 
come  home  on  privilege-leave.  Poor 
fellow,  he  got  only  five  weeks  in 
England,  but  it  was  better  than 
nothing ;  and  he  did  so  enjoy  see- 
ing all  the  children.  That  was  six 
months  ago,  and  now,"  she  added, 
again  laughing  and  blushing,  "  my 
going  back  to  India  is  put  off  for 
ever  so  long." 

So  much  I  was  able  to  gather, 
amid  the  noise  around  us,  as  we 
walked  down  Regent  Street  to- 
gether. But  Mrs  Hillyard  now 
said  that  she  must  take  a  cab  to 
catch  her  train,  and,  with  a  press- 
ing invitation  to  go  and  see  her 
before  I  went  back — a  visit  which, 
however,  I  was  not  able  to  accom- 
plish during  my  hurried  stay  in 
England — she  and  Missy  drove  off. 

Returning  to  India  by  Bom- 
bay, I  did  not  see  Hillyard  till 
a  couple  of  years  later,  when  busi- 
ness took  me  to  Calcutta.  He 
was  still  holding  the  same  ap- 
pointment there,  and  indeed  was 
not  likely  to  obtain  preferment. 
Poor  fellow,  he  was  not  quick  at 
business,  and  the  present  head 
of  his  Department  was  junior  to 
himself  in  the  service.  He  was 
no  longer  living  at  the  Club,  but 
occupied  a  couple  of  rooms  on 
the  top-floor  of  the  house  rented 
for  his  office.  And  there  I  found 
him  when  I  went  to  call.  It 
was  Sunday,  and  except  that  the 


room  was  different,  and  that  he 
had  grown  a  good  deal  stouter  and 
somewhat  more  bald,  it  might  have 
been  the  Sunday  following  that 
on  which  I  had  last  paid  him  a 
visit,  more  than  four  years  before  ; 
for  he  was  engaged,  as  then,  in 
writing  home  letters,  and  the  room, 
as  then,  was  garnished  with  photo- 
graphs. As  I  had  not  seen  any  of 
the  children,  except  Missy,  since 
he  had  seen  them  himself,  my  visit 
did  not  possess  the  same  interest 
for  their  father  as  my  previous  one ; 
but  he  did  the  honours  of  the  differ- 
ent portraits  with  much  heartiness, 
and  I  was  able  to  respond  sincerely 
to  his  praises  of  the  good  looks  of 
all  the  young  people.  "You  saw 
Missy  yourself,  didn't  you  1 "  he 
observed  ;  "  but  that  was  two  years 
ago.  That  was  the  carte  of  her  at 
that  time — taken  when  I  was  at 
home  on  privilege-leave.  I  brought 
it  back  with  me.  Very  like  her 
mamma,  isn't  she  ?  and  as  tall  now, 
within  half-an-inch ;  and  such  a 
good  girl,  too  ! "  And  Toony,  too, 
was  a  very  good  boy,  continued 
the  father,  in  reply  to  my  inquiries, 
—  a  very  good  boy.  And  what 
form  was  he  in  now  at  "Wellington 
College  1  Well,  he  wasn't  at  Well- 
ington College  now;  he  had  left 
Wellington  College,  —  the  Major's 
voice  fell  here,  and  he  spoke  with  a 
little  hesitation.  He  did  not  quite 
know  the  rights  of  the  case,  he 
added ;  everybody  said  Toony  was 
a  very  good  boy;  in  fact,  there 
couldn't  be  a  better  boy.  His  tutor 
said  so,  and  the  head-master,  too  ; 
but  somehow  he  wasn't  quick  at 
Latin  and  Greek,  and  those  things. 
He  couldn't  quite  make  out  the 
rights  of  it.  His  wife  was  not  a  good 
hand  at  explaining  matters  ;  but 
there  appeared  to  be  some  sort  of 
rule  that  if  a  boy  couldn't  do  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  Latin  and  Greek  by 
a  certain  age,  he  was  not  allowed 
to  stay  at  the  school.  "It  seems 


1880.] 


Reminiscences  of  an  Old  Foyry. 


621 


rather  hard,"  continued  the  poor 
father,  "  and  I  dare  say  loony's 
having  grown  so  fast  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  it.  Why,  he  is  two 
inches  taller  than  me,  and  not  sev- 
enteen yet.  But  we  had  to  take  him 
away  from  Wellington  College,  and 
put  him  under  a  tutor  in  St  John's 
Wood,  who  is  said  to  be  very  good 
at  preparing  boys  for  the  army.  It 
does  seem  rather  hard,"  continued 
the  poor  father,  "for  a  better  boy 
never  lived  ;  and  these  crammers  are 
dreadfully  expensive ;  but  it  can't 
be  helped.  We  must  try  to  get 
him  into  the  army, — what  else  is 
there  for  him  to  do?" 

Conversation  naturally  passed  on 
to  the  other  children,  as  the  like- 
nesses of  each  were  passed  under 
review.  "  Yes,"  said  his  father,  as 
I  took  up  one  of  a  boy  in  naval 
dress,  "  that's  Baboo  :  of  course  his 
real  name  is  Tommy,  but  they 
still  call  him  Baboo  at  home.  Yes, 
he's  a  sailor :  he's  such  a  high- 
spirited  little  fellow,  nothing  would 
satisfy  him  but  he  must  go  for  a 
sailor.  Yes,  he  is  in  the  merchant 
service;  he  is  making  his  first 
voyage  to  California  ;  his  ship 
must  be  about  going  round  Cape 
Horn  just  now.  I  am  afraid  I 
shan't  see  much  of  him,  poor  little 
chap,"  —  and  here  the  Major's 
eyes  filled  with  tears  ; — "  but  for 
the  matter  of  that,  I  shouldn't  see 
much  more  of  him  if  he  were  at 
home."  This  led  me  to  ask  Hill- 
yard  if  he  would  not  be  soon  tak- 
ing his  furlough  ;  but  he  shook  his 
head.  He  had  managed  to  run 
home  for  a  few  weeks'  privilege 
leave ;  but  how  was  he  to  think  of 
furlough,  with  all  these  expenses, 
and  the  school-bills  getting  heavier 
every  year  1  He  had  been  intend- 
ing to  have  Mrs  Hilly ard  out,  but 
then  there  was  the  new  baby  in  the 
way.  Yes,  that  was  the  likeness  of 
the  new  baby,  taken  when  it  was 
six  months  old — a  tine  little  thing, 


wasn't  it  ?  But  the  new  baby  made 
difficulties  about  travelling,  and  he 
supposed  Mrs  Hillyard  would  now 
remain  at  home  until  Missy  was 
old  enough  to  come  out  with  her. 
He  hoped  to  go  home  on  privilege- 
leave  again  next  year,  or  the  year 
after.  But  it  would  be  as  much  as 
he  could  manage. 

As  I  rose  to  go,  Major  Hillyard 
asked  me  if  I  would  not  take  some 
luucheon,  and  I  thought  looked 
sensibly  relieved  when  I  declined. 
He  did  not  take  luncheon  himself, 
he  said,  and  could  only  have  offer- 
ed me  a  biscuit  and  a  glass  of  gin 
and  soda-water.  Perhaps  we  should 
meet  again  in  the  evening,  I  said. 
I  was  engaged  to  dine  at  the  Club, 
and  supposed  I  should  see  him 
there.  No,  he  replied,  he  was 
no  longer  a  member, — he  found  it 
too  expensive.  He  only  went  there 
when  some  member  asked  him  to 
dinner.  But  the  Calcutta  people 
were  all  very  hospitable,  and  he 
dined  out  a  good  deal.  Otherwise 
he  should  never  see  a  soul  from 
one  week's  end  to  the  other. 

Major  Hillyard's  rooms,  if  not 
supplied  with  much  furniture,  were 
at  any  rate  bright  and  airy,  and 
he  himself  was  a  healthy-looking, 
well-preserved  man,  although  he  ap- 
peared to  have  dried  up  mentally  ; 
for  except  when  talking  about  his 
children,  he  had  nothing  to  say  for 
himself;  nevertheless,  the  impres- 
sion carried  away  from  my  visit 
was  a  very  sad  one.  Here  was  a 
man  whose  life  combined  all  the 
disadvantages  of  matrimony  and 
bachelorhood,  without  the  comforts 
of  either.  The  case  was  perhaps 
the  more  striking  in  that,  whether 
from  habit  or  a  phlegmatic  nature, 
Hillyard  seemed  all  unconscious 
himself  that  his  lot  was  hard.  He 
had  indeed  spoken  rather  strongly 
about  the  departmental  superses- 
sion which  he  had  undergone.  But 
he  took  it  quite  as  a  matter  of 


622 


Voyages  in  the  P.  and  0. : 


course  that  he  should  he  grubbing 
away,  practising  a  life  of  rigid 
economy  and  self -denial,  in  order 
to  provide  for  a  family  with  whom 
his  connection  was  practically  lim- 
ited to  having  contributed  to  its 
production.  And  although  I  had 
become  very  sensible,  as  I  grew 
older,  of  the  solitariness  of  my  own 
life,  and  the  cheerless  prospect 
awaiting  me  in  the  future,  when 
the  time  should  come  for  returning 
finally  to  England,  to  find  myself 
without  home- ties  or  home  inter- 
ests; still,  if  anything  would  recon- 
cile one  to  being  an  old  bachelor,  it 
surely  would  be  the  illustration  of 
married  life  furnished  by  the  hus- 
band of  my  old  friend. 

These  reminiscences,  however,  are 
not  intended  to  he  about  myself, 
except  so  far  as  the  course  of  my 
life  has  hrought  me  in  contact  with 
my  former  fellow-passenger  and  her 
family.  Mrs  Hillyard  and  I  had 
already  made  two  voyages  together 
in  P.  and  0.  steamers,  and  hy  a 
curious  coincidence  I  found  my- 
self once  more  making  the  passage 
in  her  company.  Each  voyage,  by 
the  way,  has  marked  a  stage  in  the 
progress  of  improved  communica- 
tion with  India.  "When  first  we 
went  out  together,  a  cadet  and  a 
maiden,  it  was  thought  a  great 
thing  to  get  to  Calcutta  via  South- 
ampton in  forty  days  or  so.  It 
was  not  so  very  long  before  that 
the  only  way  of  getting  there  was 
by  a  voyage  round  the  Cape,  lasting 
four  or  live  months.  On  our  return 
home  the  journey  had  been  shorten- 
ed by  the  establishment  of  the  Mar- 
seilles route.  Then  came  the  open- 
ing of  the  railway  from  Bombay 
eastward,  so  that  Calcutta  could  be 
reached  in  three  days  from  Bom- 
bay, and  the  long  trip  saved  round 
India  by  Ceylon  and  Madras.  And 
now  there  was  the  still,  further 
shortening  of  the  journey  by  the 
Brindisi  route.  I  took  that  route 


when  I  returned  to  India  after  my 
third  furlough.  But  a  good  many 
passengers  still  elect  for  the  longer 
and  cheaper  sea-voyage  from  South- 
ampton, and  among  them  on  this 
occasion  were  Mrs  Hillyard  and  her 
eldest  daughter.  The  passengers  by 
the  two  lines  unite  at  Suez,  those 
who  come  by  Southampton  getting 
there  first,  and  being  usually  already 
on  board  the  steamer  for  Bombay 
before  the  passengers  by  Brindisi 
arrive.  This  happened  on  the  oc- 
casion in  question.  The  steamer 
was  lying  out  in  Suez  roads,  and 
we  were  taken  off  to  her  in  a  steam- 
launch  ;  and  as  we  came  up  the  side, 
Missy,  as  I  found  her  mother  still 
called  her,  was  standing  on  deck. 
I  recognised  her  at  once,  although  I 
was  not  expecting  to  see  her, — not 
so  much  from  my  recollection  of  the 
little  girl  last  seen  for  a  few  minutes 
in  Regent  Street,  five  years  before, 
as  from  her  likeness  to  the  well- 
remembered  Cecilia  Dashwood  of 
my  boyhood.  She  was  so  like  what 
her  mother  had  been  when  a  girl, 
although  to  my  mind  not  so  pretty, 
that  I  could  almost  fancy  for  the  mo- 
ment time  had  stood  still,  and  that 
it  was  the  deck  of  the  old  Oriental, 
of  more  than  twenty  years  before, 
that  we  were  standing  on.  But  the 
illusion  was  quickly  dispelled  as  Mrs 
Hillyard  herself  appeared,  and  greet- 
ing me  heartily,  presented  Missy 
to  her  old  friend,  whose  face  had 
naturally  not  been  recognised  by 
the  girl.  So  at  last  Mrs  Hillyard 
was  going  back  to  India.  Missy 
had,  in  fact,  been  the  determining 
cause  of  the  step.  The  others  were 
all  old  enough  to  get  along  with- 
out their  mother,  Mrs  Hillyard 
presently  explained,  and  she  hz 
placed  them  in  charge  of  a  lad; 
who  was  devoted  to  Indian  chil 
dren,  and  to  whom  the  elder 
ones,  all  at  different  schools,  would 
go  for  their  holidays.  And  the 
baby  1  I  asked.  "  Baby  ! "  said 


1380.] 


Reminiscences  of  an  Old  Fogey. 


C23 


Mrs  HillyarJ,  "  why,  it  is  nearly 
live  years  old."  "  So  Hillyard  has 
nob  been  home  on  privilege  -  leave 
again  ?  "  "  How  can  you  talk  so  V 
replied  the  lady,  laughing.  "  Of 
course  not,  and  not  likely  to  go 
on  leave  of  any  sort,  until  he 
gets  his  colonel's  allowance,  which 
will  not  be  for  ever  so  many  years 
yet.  And  so  I  thought  I  ought  to 
go  back!  You  see,  I  had  to  think 
of  Missy.  She  is  getting  on  for 
nineteen.  England  is  so  full  of 
girls,  there  is  no  chance  of  their 
settling;  bub  of  course  you  won't 
say  a  word  to  Missy  about  it ;  I 
don't  want  to  put  such  ideas  into 
her  head ;  but  you  see,  with  so 
many  of  them  all  growing  up  so 
fast,  one  has  to  think  of  the  future. 
Why  Mo  tin  —  that's  Lucy,  you 
know  —  is  fifteen,  and  almost  as 
tall  as  Missy  already.  I  don't  want 
Missy  to  be  an  old  maid  :  one  has 
to  think  of  the  child's  happiness,  as 
I  told  Hillyard,  when  he  wanted  us 
to  stay  at  home  a  little  longer." 

Reflecting  while  she  spoke  on 
the  sort  of  life  that  the  mother 
and  father  had  been  leading,  I 
wondered  if  Mrs  Hillyard  deliber- 
ately contemplated  the  probability 
of  her  daughter's  "  settlement "  tak- 
ing the  same  form.  I  soon  found 
that  the  caution  given  to  me  not 
to  put  such  ideas  into  her  daughter's 
head  did  riot  prevent  her  mother 
from  herself  making  frequent  ref- 
erences to  the  subject  before  the 
girl,  who  must  have  known  per- 
fectly well  what  was  expected  of 
her,  and,  probably  in  consequence, 
was  somewhat  deficient  in  the 
simplicity  and  freedom  from  self- 
consciousness  which  I  used  to 
think  so  engaging  in  her  mother 
when  at  the  same  age.  But  the 
settlement  of  Missy  was  not  the 
only  motive  for  the  return  to  India. 
I  found  that  Toony  (otherwise 
Willy)  also  was  on  board.  He  had 
failed  to  pass  for  the  army,  and  was 


going  out  in  the  hope  of  getting 
into  the  Indian  police.  "  We  must 
find  something  in  the  military  line 
for  Toony,"  said  his  mother;  "  that 
is  the  only  thing  he  is  tit  for.  The 
boy  has  no  head  for  books, — he  is 
like  his  father  in  that  respect." 
Toony  was  an  overgrown  young 
fellow,  with  small  head  and  very 
long  legs,  of  placid  disposition  and 
uninquiring  mind.  He  neither 
smoked,  nor  played  whist,  nor 
talked,  nor  read,  but  spent  the  day 
— when  not  at  meals — sitting  in  an 
easy  -  chair  watching  the  man  at 
the  wheel,  or  listening  with  perfect 
gravity  to  the  conversation  around, 
but  without  furnishing  any  con- 
tribution  towards  it, — just  the  same 
sort  of  boy  as  when,  ten  years 
before,  he  cantered  feebly  round 
the  deck  with  short  dress  and  long 
attenuated  legs,  dragging  his  wooden 
horse  after  him.  There  was  a  sin- 
gular absence  of  qualities,  positive 
as  well  as  negative,  about  the  lad, 
and  it  was  easy  to  understand  how 
he  should  have  been  unable  io 
avoid  superannuation  at  school,  or 
to  pass  a  competitive  examination  ; 
while  the  assumption  that  because 
he  was  not  fit  for  anything  else  he 
was  therefore  suited  for  the  army, 
exemplified  the  proverbial  partial- 
ity of  parents  in  judging  of  their 
children.  The  poor  boy  seemed  to 
be  still  under  the  influence  of  a  too 
long  retention  in  India  as  a  child  ; 
and  I  could  not  help  thinking  that 
some  one  would  have  to  commit  a 
job  if  he  did  get  into  the  police 
department,  as  was  expected. 

It  was  now  time  to  inquire 
about  the  rest  of  the  children, 
and  I  asked  how  Master  Baboo, 
otherwise  Tommy,  the  sailor  boy, 
was  getting  on.  "  Ah,  poor  Ba- 
boo," said  his  mother,  her  face 
assuming  a  graver  aspect, — "have 
you  not  heard  about  him  1  He  fell 
overboard,  you  know,  on  his  second 
voyage — skylarking,  poor  dear  boy, 


G24 


Voyages  in  the  P.  and  0.  : 


[Nov. 


with  the  other  midshipmen, — so 
the  captain  of  the  ship  wrote  me 
very  kindly :  he  was  always  so 
high-spirited.  They  tried  to  save 
him;  the  vessel  was  in  harbour; 
but  he  was  washed  under  by  the 
tide,  they  say,  and  he  was  never 
seen  again."  Poor  little  Baboo.  So 
he,  at  any  rate,  was  provided  for. 
His  mother  wiped  away  a  tear  as 
she  told  me  the  story,  but  she  ate 
a  very  hearty  luncheon  that  morn- 
ing, and  indeed  the  boy  was  not 
of  an  engaging  disposition,  even  to 
a  parent :  besides,  the  accident  hap- 
pened a  long  way  off. 

Although  the  voyage  from  Suez 
to  Bombay  does  not  occupy  many 
days,  the  passengers  found  time  to 
strike  up  intimacies,  for  there  were 
a  great  many  young  people  on  board, 
and  the  sea  being  perfectly  calm, 
dancing  was  carried  on  every  even- 
ing ;  and  as  Miss  Hillyard  was 
borne  round  by  her  partners  in  the 
waltz,  I  was  more  strongly  reminded 
than  ever  of  the  old  Oriental  days. 
Seen  by  the  moonlight,  she  appeared 
the  exact  counterpart  of  her  mother, 
although — unless  my  memory  played 
me  false — she  was  not  so  pretty  as 
her  mother  had  been,  nor,  to  my 
thinking,  so  nice.  She  was  a  good- 
tempered,  amiable,  perfectly  com- 
monplace girl,  with  but  little  edu- 
cation and  not  much  manner. 
Perhaps  I  had  grown  more  critical. 
Certainly  there  was  a  self-conscious- 
ness about  her  from  which  her 
mother  had  been  free.  But  her 
pretty  face  and  figure  carried  off 
these  defects.  Mi?sy  soon  found 
plenty  of  admirers,  and  it  was  plain 
that  the  desired  settlement,  if  such 
a  term  could  be  justly  given  to  mar- 
ried life  in  India,  would  not  be  long 
delayed. 

And  if  this  young  lady  came  be- 
fore me  like  the  vision  of  her  mother 
returned  to  youth,  a  disillusionising 
effect  was  produced  by  the  appear- 
ance of  Mrs  Hillyard  herself  among 


the  dancers.  This  was  on  the 
second  or  third  night  after  leaving 
Suez.  "  Ladies  were  so  much  want- 
ed," she  said  to  me,  apologetically, 
as  she  stopped  to  fan  herself;  where- 
on I  protested  that  there  was  no 
need  for  apology.  Mrs  Hillyard 
seemed  to  have  taken  a  new  lease 
of  life,  and  although  a  good  deal 
stouter  than  the  Cecilia  Dashwood 
of  yore,  was  still  very  comfely,  and 
an  excellent  dancer;  and  I  think 
many  of  the  gentlemen  found  her  a 
more  agreeable  partner  than  some 
of  the  younger  ladies,  for  with 
her  they  felt  quite  at  their  ease. 
Whether  it  was  the  getting  rid  of 
the  cares  of  a  family,  or  whatever 
the  cause,  she  certainly  seemed  to 
enjoy  the  voyage  as  much  as  any  of 
the  girls  who  were  making  it  for 
the  first  time.  Not  that  there  was 
the  smallest  levity  of  conduct, — of 
that  I  believe  she  would  have  been 
incapable,  even  if  the  presence  of 
her  son  and  daughter  had  not  been 
a  sufficient  restraint ;  it  was  merely 
that  she  appeared  to  enjoy  the 
change  of  scene  and  life.  Her 
manner  withal  was  perfectly  free 
and  unaffected ;  and  except  that 
her  voice  was  sometimes  a  little 
loud,  and  that  one  could  have 
wished  her  appetite  had  not  been 
quite  so  hearty,  there  was  nothing 
to  which  exception  could  be  taken. 
I  should  have  put  down  her  high 
spirits  to  the  prospect  of  being 
again  united  to  her  husband  after 
their  long  separation,  but  from  cer- 
tain indications  that  her  feelings  in 
this  respect  were  not  of  a  very  rap- 
turous kind.  She  no  longer  spoke 
of  him  as  "  Poor  Hillyard," — a  man 
to  be  pitied  for  his  doom  to  solitary 
exile :  there  was  manifested  rather 
a  tendency  to  complain  that  she 
should  find  him  changed.  "  I  am 
told  he  has  grown  so  stout  and 
bald,"  she  said, — "that's  why  he 
won't  send  me  his  photograph 
home,  I  know.  I  ought  not  to 


1880.] 


Reminiscences  of  an  Old  Fog^y. 


625 


complain  of  that,  of  course,  for  I 
am  an  old  woman  myself.  Oh 
yes,  I  know  I  am,"  she  added  in 
rejoinder  to  the  deprecating  gesture 
by  which,  as  in  duty  hound,  I  had 
negatived  this  statement.  "Look 
at  those  big  children  of  mine  :  only 
think,  it's  ten  years  all  but  a  few 
weeks  since  I  went  home.  It's  a 
long  time  to  be  separated  from  one's 
husband,  isn't  it?" 

"  Barring  the  privilege-leave,"  I 
observed,  and,  as  a  slight  blush 
suffused  her  rosy  cheek,  added, 
"Penelope  and  her  husband  were 
separated  for  twenty  years ;  only 
in  that  case  the  lady  stayed  behind, 
while  the  husband  went  away  on 
business." 

Mrs  Hillyard  looked  at  me  to  see 
if  I  was  serious  or  in  jest,  and  then 
said,  "  It  isn't  the  long  time  I  am 
thinking  of,  but  I  hear  that  Hill- 
yard  is  so  much  changed.  He  has 
become  a  regular  misanthrope,  they 
tell  me, — never  sees  a  soul  in  his 
own  house,  and  won't  even  visit 
anybody  else,  but  just  lives  solitary 
in  his  own  bungalow.  He  tells  me 
I  must  not  expect  any  gaiety  at 
Jungipoor, — you  know  he  has  been 
promoted  to  the  Auditorship  of  the 
Jungipoor  Circle,  a  much  better 
thing  than  what  he  had  at  Cal- 
cutta. I  don't  care  about  gaiety  a 
bit," — this  was  a  fib, — "  but  I  do 
like  a  little  sociability.  If  you  are 
not  to  be  sociable  in  the  Mofussil, 
why,  one  might  as  well  be  back  in 
lodgings  in  England  !  And  there  is 
no  need  to  go  on  screwing  so,  and 
thinking  about  every  rupee,  now 
that  he  has  paid  off  his  debts  and 
got  such  a  much  better  appoint- 
ment. I  am  afraid  Hillyard  doesn't 
half  like  my  going  out  again ;  but 
Missy  had  to  be  thought  of,  and 
she  could  not  go  alone.  But  I 
don't  feel  at  all  certain  how  it  will 
turn  out." 

Poor  faithful  Hillyard  !  The 
habits  of  economy  and  self-denial. 


so  rigidly  practised  for  the  sake  of 
his  wife  and  children  till  they  had 
become  a  part  of  his  nature,  to  be 
now  brought  up  against  him  !  And 
yet  the  wife,  too,  was  to  be  pitied. 
She  was  going  back  to  a  different 
husband  from  the  man  that  she  had 
left  behind.  No  doubt  he  was 
changed.  As  we  grow  old,  our 
very  virtues  tend  to  become  ex- 
aggerated, and  our  characters  from 
this  cause  to  become  eccentric. 
Hillyard,  who  had  suffered  so  much 
from  want  of  prudence  in  money 
matters,  had  now  grown  over-cau- 
tious about  spending. 

I  had,  of  course,  made  early 
inquiry  after  sister  Laura.  Just 
now  she  was  at  home,  Mrs  Hill- 
yard  said.  She  had  made  ever  so 
many  voyages  to  India  and  back, 
but  had  never  stayed  more  than  a 
few  months  at  a  time, — she  had 
such  wretched  health.  "I  some- 
times think,"  continued  Mrs  Hill- 
yard,  "it  is  just  as  well,  for  it 
gives  Laura  and  Fludyers  an  ex- 
cuse for  seeing  only  a  little  of  each 
other.  She  has  not  come  out  this 
cold  season,  because  Fludyers  is 
going  to  retire  in  March.  But 
what  they  will  do  then,  I  am  sure 
I  don't  know :  it  will  look  so  odd 
if  they  don't  live  together  when  he 
is  at  home;  but  they  are  sure  to 
fall  out  after  a  few  weeks.  It  is 
his  dreadful  temper.  He  is  very 
fond  of  Laura  when  she  is  away, 
and  always  makes  her  a  handsome 
allowance, — so  different  from  Hill- 
yard,  who  makes  a  fuss  over  every 
rupee." 

When  the  steamer  came  to  an 
anchor  in  Bombay  harbour,  rela- 
tions and  friends  put  off  to  meet 
the  passengers,  among  them  Col- 
onel Hillyard,  who  had  travelled 
down  to  Bombay  for  the  purpose. 
I  had  seen  him  only  three  years 
before,  and  was  surprised  at  the 
change  wrought  in  so  short  a  time. 
It  was  not  only  that  he  had  become 


62G 


Voyages  in  the  P.  and  0.  : 


much  stouter,  or  tliat  lie  had  so 
little  of  the  soldier  about  him. 
This  was  not  surprising,  for  he  had 
done  no  military  duty  for  a  quarter 
of  a  century,  although  steadily  ris- 
ing all  the  time  in  army  rank.  The 
noticeable  thing  about  him  was  his 
melancholy,  soured  look,  combined 
with  an  anxious  fussiness  of  man- 
ner. I  did  not,  indeed,  remark 
this  at  first,  in  the  bustle  of  the 
greetings  taking  place  all  around 
on  deck.  I  noticed  only  that 
both  husband  and  wife  were  a 
little  embarrassed  at  the  meeting, 
as  was  perhaps  only  natural,  al- 
though his  greetings  to  his  children 
were  very  heartily  given.  There 
was  more  opportunity  for  obser- 
vation at  the  hotel,  whither  several 
of  the  passengers,  among  them 
the  Hillyards  and  myself,  repaired 
on  landing.  The  meals  there  were 
served  at  the  table  d'hote,  and 
when  the  occupants  of  the  hotel  all 
met  at  dinner,  there  had  been  time 
for  the  first  strangeness  of  the  situa- 
tion among  the  family  party  to 
wear  off.  The  room  was  dirty  and 
the  dinner  bad,  and  the  whole 
arrangement  in  striking  contrast  to 
the  comfort  and  cleanliness  of  the 
steamer,  and  it  struck  me  that  none 
of  the  newly  -  arrived  passengers 
were  much  enjoying  their  first  ex- 
perience of  land.  The  meal  was  far 
less  sprightly  than  the  dinners 
used  to  be  on  board,  and  the  Hill- 
yard  family  in  particular  were  un- 
usually silent.  To  Toony,  indeed, 
silence  came  naturally,  and  Missy, 
who  was  between  him  and  her  papa, 
somehow  did  not  find  much  to  say  ; 
while  Mrs  Hillyard,  who  sat  on  her 
husband's  right,  although  preserv- 
ing the  semblance  of  her  usual 
even  spirits,  talked  with  her  right- 
hand  neighbour  and  across  the 
table  in  a  manner  much  more  sub- 
dued than  it  was  wont  to  be.  I  had 
come  in  late,  and  my  place  being 
some  way  down  the  table,  I  could 


not  share  in  their  conversation,  but 
I  could  hear  the  Colonel  lamenting 
to  the  gentleman  opposite  that  he 
had  failed  to  get  his  wife's  luggage' 
through  the  custom-house  that  after- 
noon, and  should  be  detained  a  day 
longer  in  Bombay, — "  A  nice  hotel 
bill,"  he  added,  "I  shall  have  to 
pay  with  my  large  party,  as  if 
there  had  not  been  enough  expense 
already."  The  speech  sounded  un- 
gracious ;  and  the  way  in  which  he 
went  back  to  the  subject  through- 
out the  meal  showed  that  there 
was  some  foundation  for  his  wife's 
complaints  that  the  practice  of 
economy  •  had  developed  into  a 
passion. 

Life  at  a  Bombay  hotel  is  cer- 
tainly not  very  lively,  and  those  of 
the  visitors  who  repaired  after  din- 
ner to  the  comfortless  drawing- 
room  seemed  puzzled  what  to  do 
with  themselves.  It  was  too  early 
to  go  to  bed ;  the  room  was  not 
well  lighted  enough  for  reading, 
and  the  conversation  flagged.  I 
1  >oked  in  through  the  open  door, 
after  smoking  my  cheroot,  to  see 
the  Hillyard  party  sitting  at  one  end 
of  it,  and  wondered  if  the  ladies 
were  regretting  the  cessation  of 
their  usual  evening  dance.  The 
Colonel  perhaps  felt  all  the  awk- 
wardness of  a  honeymoon  thus 
taken  in  public,  and  having  ex- 
hausted his  questions  about  the 
children  at  home,  was  walking  rest- 
lessly up  and  down  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets.  Mrs  Hillyard  was 
yawning  in  an  easy-chair;  Missy, 
also  in  an  easy-chair,  was  occupied 
in  keeping  off  the  mosquitoes  with 
her  fan;  Toony,  al;O  seated,  was 
staring  straight  before  him,  his 
little  round  face  above  the  high 
collar  looking  even  less  expressive 
than  usual. 

This  was  the  last  I  saw  of  the 
Hillyards,  for  I  had  been  more  for- 
tunate than  them  in  getting  my 
baggage  through  the  custom-house, 


1880.] 


From  Africa. 


627 


and  started  for  my  destination  by 
the  early  train  next  morning.  But 
my  thoughts  for  the  time  often 
went  back  to  them,  and  I  wondered 
how  far  the  experiment  of  a  re- 
marriage of  this  sort  would  turn 
out.  It  would  probably  give  most 
satisfaction  at  first  to  the  husband  • 
yet,  if  I  mistook  not,  his  wife's  dis- 
position was  the  more  easily  mould- 
ed of  the  two,  and  would  the  more 
readily  adapt  itself  to  new  circum- 
stances. But  the  matter  did  not 
long  dwell  on  my  mind,  although 
recalled  when,  a  few  months  later, 
the  announcement  appeared  in  the 
papers  of  Missy's  marriage  to  a 
young  officer  stationed  at  Jungi- 
poor.  And  I  was  thinking  one  day 
that  the  time  must  be  nearly  due 


for  the  coming  out  of  her  sister 
Mothi,  when  I  saw  in  the  list  of 
departures  from  Bombay  to  South- 
ampton the  name  of  Mrs  Hillyard. 
"Mrs  Hillyard,  infant,  and  native 
female  servant,"  ran  the  announce- 
ment. So  then  the  second  mar- 
riage had  borne  its  fruit,  and  h:id 
in  turn  come  to  an  end.  I  have 
wondered  sometimes  if  Mrs  Hill- 
yard  and  I  are  destined  to  be  ever 
fellow-passengers  again,  but  it  now 
seems  hardly  likely,  for  I  see  by 
the  Army  List  that  Hillyard  will 
be  entitled  in  a  couple  of  years 
to  his  "Colonel's  allowance,"  and 
then  will  be  obliged  to  vacate 
the  Auditorship  of  the  Jungipoor 
Circle,  and  to  go  home  himself  for 
good. 


FROM  AFRICA: 

SOUTHAMPTON,    FIFTH   OCTOBER    1880. 

WE  pressed  to  greet  him  at  Southampton  Pier, 
Kot  vouching  all  his  deeds  and  words  compact 
Of  wisdom;  nor  that  all  his  censors  lacked 
Judgment  and  conscience  ;  but  to  honour  in  FREUB 
One  who  feared  God  and  knew  no  other  fear ; 
Who,  deaf  to  Party,  dared  in  every  act 
To  face  the  truth,  and  wrestle  with  stern  Fact 
For  England's  weal, — ignoring  wrath  and  jeer 
From  Faction's  bondsmen,  dull  to  comprehend 
The  Free,  and  chapmen  in  philanthropy 
Spiced  high  with  slander. 

Be  it  enough  for  me 

If  dear  ones,  where  my  dust  with  dust  shall  blend, 
Write  o'er  it :  ELEEISON  KYRIE. 

WllATE'ER  HIS  FAULTS,  SIR  BARTLE  CALLED  HIM  FRIEND. 


MARCUS  PAULUS  VENETUS. 


C28 


The  Close  of  the  Affyhan  Campaign. 


[Xov. 


THE   CLOSE   OF   THE   AFFGHAN   CAMPAIGN. 


THERE  are  turning-points  in  every 
line  of  policy,  at  which  even  the 
most  resolute  statesmen  are  com- 
pelled involuntarily  to  pause  and 
calculate  the  chances  that  may  result 
from  further  progress.  History  never 
fails  to  mark  such  halting-places,  and 
to  sternly  reflect  upon  the  indiffer- 
ence or  precipitancy  with  which  they 
have  heen  hurried  over.  As  often 
as  not  these  turning-points  are 
passed  unheeded,  and  blame  is  laid 
upon  political  fatality  which  should, 
with  greater  propriety,  have  been 
attached  to  national  fatuity.  These 
periods  are  the  tests  of  statesmen 
and  the  crises  of  empires.  They  are 
opportunities  which,  when  missed, 
no  regrets  can  recall,  no  diplomacy 
can  renew. 

We  have  reached  one  of  these 
points  in  the  policy  which  we  have 
had  to  pursue  with  regard  to  Affghan- 
istan.  As'' to  this  fact  all  parties 
among  us  are  agreed ;  and  so  un- 
usual a  unanimity  indicates  the 
importance  of  the  next  step  to  be 
taken.  The  issue  is  one  in  which 
party  controversy  may  well  be  sunk, 
party  recriminations  forgotten,  and 
party  prepossessions  sacrificed  to 
the  future  interests  of  the  empire. 
There  are  three  ends  to  be  com- 
passed out  of  the  Affghan  campaign 
which  must  commend  themselves 
equally  to  Whig  and  Tory, — peace 
to  Affghanistan,  security  to  British 
India,  and  a  termination  to  the  jeal- 
ousy and  misunderstanding  which 
constitute  the  problem  going  by  the 
name  of  the  Central  Asian  Question. 
The  desirability  of  such  results  ad- 
mits of  no  controversy  ;  the  means 
by  which  they  are  to  be  obtained 
are  fair  subjects  of  debate. 

The  close  of  the  ASghan  cam- 
paign brings  us  again  face  to  face 
with  difficulties  very  similar  to  those 


which  assailed  us  at  its  commence- 
ment. The  war  was  entered  upon 
in  the  first  place,  because  the  Ameer 
had  openly  insulted  our  Govern- 
ment after  receiving  a  Russian  em- 
bassy sent  for  the  purpose  of  effect- 
ing an  alliance;  and  secondly,  te- 
cause  the  condition  of  the  Affghan 
people  had  become  a  source  of 
present  anxiety  and  certain  future 
danger  to  British  power  in  India. 
We  were  actuated  by  no  aims  of 
conquest  or  of  territorial  acquisition. 
We  had  every  wish  to  abstain  from 
interference  in  Affghanistan ;  and 
when  events  compelled  us  to  cross 
the  frontier,  it  was  with  the  deter- 
mination to  exact  only  such  safe- 
guards as  were  necessary  to  prevent 
our  position  in  India  from  falling 
under  the  influence  of  the  hostile 
attitude  of  Cabul  rulers,  present 
and  future.  We  had  reason  to  be- 
lieve that  our  purpose  had  been  ful- 
filled by  the  conclusion  of  the  Treaty 
of  Gandamak,  which,  notwithstand- 
ing its  short  existence,  must  claim 
to  be  regarded  as  the  embodiment 
of  a  wise  and  moderate  policy. 
The  mutiny  at  Cabul,  and  the  course 
of  events  springing  out  of  that  dis- 
aster, however,  made  the  treaty  a 
dead  letter,  to  the  mutual  loss  of 
both  India  and  Affghanistan.  The 
chaotic  condition  of  affairs  at  Cabul 
following  the  Ameer's  abdication, 
the  uncertainty  where  the  Affghans 
were  to  find  a  capable  ruler,  and 
the  difficulties  attendant  upon  our 
own  military  position  in  their  coun- 
try, threw  all  plans  for  the  future 
into  abeyance.  The  change  of  Gov- 
ernment at  home  which  speedily  fol- 
lowed, tended  still  more  to  the  un- 
settlement  of  our  Affghan  policy ;  for 
though  it  fell  to  the  lot  of  Lord  Lyt- 
ton  to  make  excellent  dispositions  for 
the  future  maintenance  of  our  in- 


1880. ' 


The  Close  of  the  Afffjhan  Campaign. 


629 


fluence  in  the  Ameer's  country,  his 
viceroyalty  came  to  an  end  hefore 
effect  could  be  given  to  them.  With 
the  arrival  in  India  of  the  Marquis 
of  Ripon,  the  new  Viceroy  and  Gov- 
ernor-General, the  views  which  had 
hitherto  directed  our  Indian  foreign 
policy  underwent  a  complete  change. 
Since  that  event  our  aversion  to 
interference  in  Affghanistan  has 
been  bitterly  aggravated,  while  our 
eyes  have  at  the  same  time  been 
opened  more  widely  to  the  danger- 
ousness  of  its  tribes. 

The  experiences  of  our  two 
years'  campaigning  have  at  least 
brought  home  to  us  a  sense  of  the 
importance  which  Affghanistan  pos- 
sesses as  a  State  neighbouring  to 
our  Indian  territory,  and  of  the 
danger  which  it  might  prove  when 
acting  under  any  influences  hostile 
to  our  views.  Upon  this  point  all 
authorities  are  agreed ;  and  the  next 
question  to  be  decided  is  how  we  are 
to  secure  ourselves  against  future 
troubles  from  that  country.  This 
is  the  task  which  the  Marquis  of 
Kipon,  in  conjunction  •with  the 
Cabinet  at  home,  has  to  settle,  and 
which  his  lordship  will  find  not  less 
delicate  and  difficult  than  his  pre- 
decessor experienced  it  to  be.  In 
spite  of  the  many  revolutions  which 
Affghan  affairs  have  undergone  since 
we  entered  the  country,  there  is 
little  change  in  the  abstract  char- 
acter of  the  elements  we  have  to 
deal  with  there ;  while  the  urgent  ne- 
cessity for  preventing  the  Affghans 
from  again  becoming  as  dangerous  to 
ourselves  as  they  proved  to  be  in 
1877-78,  has  been  increased  rather 
than  diminished  by  the  issues  of 
the  campaign.  Although  at  times 
flighty  and  theoretical  in  our  public 
talk,  we  English  are,  on  the  whole, 
a  practical  people.  "We  do  not  like 
to  go  to  war,  and  we  like  still  less 
to  have  fought  without  something 
tangible  to  show  for  our  exertions. 
King  Coffee's  umbrella  was  well 


enough  in  its  way,  for  it  was  ac- 
companied by  a  guarantee  that  we 
would  have  no  more  trouble  from 
that  quarter;  but  the  gates  of 
Ghuzni  roused  the  national  wrath, 
for  a  strong  and  unbroken  power 
had  been  left  behind  in  the  Aff- 
ghan mountains.  What  more  than 
anything  else  made  the  recollection 
of  the  first  and  second  Aftghan 
wars  distasteful  to  Britain  was  the 
fact  that  we  had  nothing  to  show 
for  our  campaigning  :  that  we  had 
shed  blood  and  spent  treasure  with- 
out obtaining  any  moral  or  mate- 
rial advantage.  We  do  not  wish  to 
dwell  upon  a  topic  so  disagreeable, 
but  it  is  important  at  this  time  to 
recollect  that,  had  we  established 
our  political  influence  in  Affghan- 
istan eight-and-thirty  years  ago — as 
with  a  little  more  persistence  we 
might  well  have  done — we  would 
have  been  spared  the  late  cam- 
paign and  long  intervening  years 
of  anxiety.  The  experience  of  the 
past  presents  an  unmistakable  warn- 
ing against  the  repetition  of  the 
same  mistake  on  the  present  occa- 
sion. Unless  we  take  substantial 
guarantees  that  Affghanistan  is  to 
be  for  the  future  a  friendly  and 
allied  power ;  that  its  territories 
are  not  to  be  converted  into  a 
theatre  of  intrigue  by  any  Govern- 
ment who  wishes  to  menace  our 
Indian  empire,  either  for  greed  of 
territory  or  by  way  of  creating  a 
diversion  in  European  politics  ;  and 
that  its  administration  shall  be  so 
conducted  as  to  give  peace  and  secu- 
rity upon  our  Indian  borders, — the 
gallant  lives  that  were  sacrificed  at 
Cabul  and  Maiwand  have  been  a 
vain  offering  to  their  country. 

We  may  presume,  then,  that  it 
is  the  desire  of  men  of  all  shades 
of  political  opinion,  that  for  the 
future  we  shall  be  freed  as  much 
as  possible  from  trouble  on  ac- 
count of  Affghan  affairs ;  and  that 
the  Government  of  India  shall  be 


630 


T/ie  Close  of  the  A/jhan  Campaign. 


made  independent  of  the  changes 
in  feeling  and  policy  which  may 
come  over  their  chieftains.  But 
how  is  this  immunity  and  independ- 
ence to  be  secured  ?  If  we  appeal 
to  experience,  the  answer  will  be, 
Certainly  not  by  abandoning  the 
country  to  itself.  We  have  already 
tried  that  course,  and  how  did  it 
answer  1  For  fifteen  years  the 
Government  of  India  was  compelled 
to  pursue  a  policy  of  distrust  and 
suspicion  which  forbade  the  growtli 
of  friendly  relations  between  the 
two  countries  ;  and  it  had,  finally,  to 
buy  the  goodwill  of  Dost  Moham- 
med by  a  subsidy  which,  however 
agreeable  to  Affghan  vanity  and 
cupidity,  could  not  be  very  grati- 
fying to  our  own  national  honour. 
And  when,  in  the  very  crisis  of  the 
Sepoy  Mutiny,  the  Affghan  sirdars 
were  clamouring  to  be  led  against  the 
English,  and  no  voice  but  that  of 
the  -late  Azim  Khan  was  raised  in 
opposition,  English  power  in  Upper 
India  was  trembling  in  a  balance 
which  a  feather-weight  might  al- 
most have  turned.  Had  the  Aff- 
ghans  then  poured  down  to  join  the 
revolt,  we  must  have  been  swept 
from  Hindustan  before  we  were 
strong  enough  to  make  a  stand 
in  our  own  defence ;  or  had  the 
voice  of  a  European  Power  given 
the  faintest  encouragement  at  that 
moment,  can  we  suppose  that  the 
prudent  warnings  of  Azim  Khan 
could  have  prevailed  against  the 
warlike  enthusiasm  of  the  chiefs? 
The  close  risk  which  we  ran  on 
that  occasion  is  not  to  be  forgotten, 
either  in  forming  a  judgment  of  the 
war  which  is  past,  or  of  the  settle- 
ment which  is  yet  to  be  effected. 
We  must  remember,  too,  that  we 
have  no  assurance,  in  the  case  of  a 
similar  crisis  again  occurring,  that 
the  northern  neighbour  of.  the 
Ameer  of  Cabul  might  not  say  the 
word  needed  to  throw  the  Affghan 
tribes  into  the  field  against  us. 


And  even  when,  after  the  Mutiny, 
we  endeavoured  to  make  closer 
approaches  to  the  Cabul  Govern- 
ment for  the  mutual  interests  of 
the  two  countries,  we  were  met 
with  failure  at  every  step.  We 
paid  Dost  Mohammed  a  yearly 
subsidy,  which  all  Central  Asia 
regarded  as  black-mail  to  secure  us 
against  his  hostility.  But  in  spite 
of  this  outlay,  our  borders  were 
constantly  harassed  by  his  lawless 
subjects,  necessitating  expeditions, 
some  of  which,  like  that  against  the 
Sitana  fanatics,  had  to  assume  the 
dimensions  of  a  campaign.  Then 
when,  on  the  death  of  Dost  Mo- 
hammed, the  civil  war  broke  out 
between  his  sons,  and  the  Govern- 
ment of  India  stood  calmly  by  on 
the  platform  of  Masterly  Inactivity, 
looking  on  while  brother  cut  the 
throat  of  brother,  can  we  say — con- 
sidering the  claims  which  Britain 
advances  to  be  the  champion  of  peace 
and  humanity — that  our  position 
was  creditable  or  dignified?  Phil- 
anthropy was  not  then  FO  cheap  as 
it  has  since  become.  Nor  can  we 
say  that  Lord  Lawrence's  abandon- 
ment of  Masterly  Inactivity  reflect- 
ed greater  lustre  upon  us  than  his 
original  policy.  No  doubt  it  was 
prudent,  —  it  recognised  the  new 
element  of  danger  which  the  ad- 
vance of  Russia  might  add  to  the 
uncertain  disposition  of  the  Aff- 
ghans  ;  it  was  timely;  for  it  ended 
the  civil  war,  and  moderated  for  a 
season  the  southward  tendency  of 
the  Czar's  aggression :  but  it  was 
purely  a  selfish  move,  and  under- 
taken through  no  commiseration 
for  the  desolated  state  of  Affghau- 
istan.  Lord  Mayo  gave  a  more 
generous  turn  to  the  Affghan  pol- 
icy, and  had  he  been  spared  to 
carry  out  his  views  he  might  have 
established  our  influence  so  firmly 
at  the  Court  of  Cabul  as  to  have 
obviated  the  causes  of  the  recent 
Avar  But  all  that  he  had  gained 


1880.] 


The  Close  of  the  A/yhan  Campaign. 


631 


his  successor  Lord  Northbrook  lost, 
partly  through  blundering,  but 
niaiuly  by  an  incapacity  to  esti- 
mate the  importance  of  the  issues 
which  he  had  to  deal  with,  and  by 
a  slavish  dependence  upon  the  In- 
dia Office,  where  a  spirit  of  utter 
indifference  to  Affghan  affairs  at 
that  time  prevailed.  The  telegrams 
which  Lord  Northbrook  sent  from 
Simla  to  the  Duke  of  Argyll  afford 
incontestable  proof  that  the  Vice- 
roy's highest  ambition  was  to  con- 
tribute to  the  credit  of  the  Cabinet 
at  home,  irrespective  of  the  results 
which  his  policy  of  masterly  neg- 
ligence might  produce  upon  our 
relations  with  the  Ameer.  Before 
Lord  Lytton  entered  upon  office, 
Affghanistan  had  assumed  towards 
us  an  attitude  of  studied  hostility, 
which,  coupled  with  the  menacing 
aspects  of  Russian  policy  on  its 
northern  border,  forced  us  to  act  in 
our  own  defence. 

This  rapid  resume  is  sufficient 
to  show  that  the  policy  of  leav- 
ing Affghanistan  to  itself  has  not 
brought  us  tranquillity  in  the  past. 
Still  less  can  we  hope  that  a 
revival  at  the  present  time  would 
afford  us  immunity  from  anxiety 
in  the  future.  We  have  a  ruler  at 
Cabul  from  whose  prudence  and 
prospects  of  advantage  at  the  hands 
of  the  British  Government  we  may 
expect  much,  but  can  trust  to  noth- 
ing. He  has  been  a  refugee  in  the 
Russian  camp,  he  has  been  a  sti- 
pendiary of  the  Czar ;  and  his  ex- 
periences in  exile  may  or  may  not 
have  convinced  him  that  a  Russian 
alliance  is  preferable  to  a  British 
one.  We  seated  him  on  the  throne, 
it  is  true,  but  he  is  probably  con- 
scious that  he  could  have  secured 
it  for  himself  as  soon  as  our  troops 
had  quitted  the  country.  If  he  had 
not  ability  of  himself  to  put  down 
his  competitors,  we  need  not  sup- 
pose that  he  will  have  power  to  reign 
long  unsupported  by  us  at  Cabul. 

VOL.  CXXVI1I. — XO.  DCCLXXXI. 


We  may  do  our  best  to  cultivate  his 
friendship  and  assist  his  aims  with- 
out establishing  any  assurance  that 
he  will  serve  us  should  occasion  occur 
for  our  requiring  his  aid.  We  have 
ceased  to  believe  in  either  gratitude 
or  fidelity  influencing  an  Affghan; 
and  we  shall  deserve  to  be  duped 
if,  in  our  future  arrangements, 
we  build  upon  the  supposed  exist- 
ence of  either  of  these  qualities. 
We  must  also  take  the  proximity 
of  Russia  into  account  as  a  new 
element  which  had  not  to  enter 
into  our  plans  when  we  last  evac- 
uated Affghanistan.  We  are  quite 
willing  to  concede  that  she  is 
free  from  all  evil  intentions  against 
our  Indian  possessions ;  that  she 
has  no  thought  but  to  follow  her 
own  paths  in  Asia,  and  to  leave  us 
to  pursue  ours.  But  supposing 
the  Czar's  Government  to  be  strict- 
ly unaggressive  and  honest  so  far 
as  we  are  concerned,  and  to  be 
desirous  of  co-operating  with  us  in 
the  work  of  Asiatic  civilisation  and 
development,  we  are  conscious  of 
many  sources  of  difference  with 
ourselves  from  which  conflicting 
interests  might  spring.  Russia,  too, 
lies  outside  that  inner  concert  of 
the  European  Powers  in  which  it 
is  our  desire  to  be  included  ;  and 
should  cause  of  dissension  with 
Britain  occur  in  Europe,  she  would 
be  quite  justified  in  seeking  to  turn 
our  flank  in  India  through  the 
Affghan  kingdom.  The  best  security 
that  we  can  have  for  preventing 
such  a  cause  of  quarrel  is  to  put  it 
beyond  her  reach  ;  and  now  is  the 
time  when  we  ought  to  consider 
whether  we  cannot  do  so  without 
displaying  any  unreasonable  dis- 
trust of  her  Asiatic  policy. 

Our  situation  will  be  better 
understood  if  we  recall  the  objects 
for  which  we  went  to  war  with 
Ameer  Shere  Ali  Khan,  and  con- 
sider the  modifications  which  sub- 
sequent events  have  made  upon 
2  u 


632 


The  Close  of  the  Affyhan  Campaign. 


[Xov. 


our  original  policy.  In  making 
this  retrospect  we  have  no  wish  to 
revive  old  grounds  of  party  con- 
tention, or  to  stir  up  "  ic/nes  sup- 
}X)sitos  cineri  doloso."  We  shall 
simply  enumerate  the  facts  as 
they  bear  upon  our  present  diffi- 
culties, and  endeavour  to  draw  from 
them  such  counsels  as  they  may 
afford. 

Our  Affghan  policy  in  the  recent 
war  has  passed  through  three  well- 
defined  stages,  at  each  of  which  it 
has  seemed  possible  that  a  final 
pause  might  be  made.  The  first 
period  ended  with  the  Treaty  of 
Gandamak,  which,  had  it  lasted, 
would  have  secured  to  us  all  that 
Britain  could  have  desired  from 
Affghanistan  ;  the  second  embraced 
our  march  to  Cabul  in  consequence 
of  the  murder  of  the  Embassy,  the 
occupation  of  the  capital,  the  ab- 
dication of  Yakoob  Khan,  and  the 
settlement  of  Abdurrahman  on  the 
vacant  throne ;  the  third  closes 
with  the  Candahar  campaign  and 
the  evacuation  of  the  country  in 
pursuance  of  the  policy  of  the 
Liberal  Cabinet.  It  is  this  last 
stage  that  chiefly  concerns  our  pres- 
ent inquiry;  but  to  take  it  in  all 
its  bearings,  we  must  go  back  to 
the  circumstances  under  which  the 
rupture  took  place  between  India 
and  Affghanistan. 

When  Lord  Lytton  arrived  in 
India  the  seeds  of  a  quarrel  with 
Ameer  Shere  AH  Khan  had  already 
been  sown.  We  had  bought  his 
alliance,  and  he  had  refused  to  carry 
out  the  conditions  attached  to  the 
payment.  We  had  supported  him 
at  a  time  when,  but  for  the  English 
friendship  and  subsidy,  his  position 
at  Cabul  would  have  been  a  most 
precarious  one.  It  was  definitely 
understood  that  he  was  to  hold  no 
relations  with  Russian  emissaries, 
or  that  at  least  he  was  to  communi- 
cate any  advances  which  they  might 
make  to  him  to  the  Government  of 


India.  During  Earl  Mayo's  vice- 
royalty  the  Ameer  loyally  fulfilled 
his  pledges ;  but  under  the  unfortu- 
nate regime  of  Lord  Northbrook, 
our  influence  in  Affghanistan  was 
allowed  to  drift  from  its  moorings. 
Russian  communications  were  en- 
couraged at  Cabul,  British  counsels 
were  treated  with  contempt,  and  every 
effort  to  recall  the  Ameer  to  the 
duties  of  his  alliance  only  served  to 
widen  the  breach.  So  critical  were 
affairs  becoming,  so  numerous  were 
the  attempts  made  by  the  Russian 
officials  in  Turkistan  to  intrigue 
with  the  Court  of  Cabul,  that  upon 
the  entry  of  the  Conservative  Min- 
istry into  power  it  was  considered 
necessary  to  arrange  for  placing 
British  agencies  in  the  country  in 
order  to  watch  over  our  interests 
in  Upper  Asia.  Unhappily  Lord 
Northbrook  and  his  Council,  instead 
of  heartily  endeavouring  to  carry 
out  the  recommendations  of  the 
Cabinet,  did  their  best  to  oppose 
its  policy.  At  this  time  there  can 
be  no  question  but  that  we  could 
have  intervened  in  the  affairs  of 
Affghanistan  with  great  advantage 
to  the  Ameer  and  to  ourselves.  As 
yet  Shere  AH  had  not  wholly  lost 
sight  of  the  benefits  of  the  British 
alliance,  nor  had  his  head  as  yet  been 
turned  by  the  unsettled  condition  of 
European  affairs.  We  might  then 
have  offered  him  such  equivalents 
as  would  have  made  him  content  to 
receive  our  agencies  ;  and  the  Con- 
sprvative  Government  would  at  that 
time  have  been  disposed  to  make 
those  concessions  to  his  demands 
which  the  Liberal  Cabinet  had  irri- 
tated him  by  refusing.  Lord  North- 
brook,  however,  missed  this  oppor- 
tunity, and  engaged  in  discussions 
with  the  Ameer  in  which  the  Gov- 
ernment of  India  had  by  far  the 
worst,  and  which  tended  to  throw 
Shere  AH  still  farther  away  from 
British  friendship  and  more  into 
the  power  of  the  Turkistan  diplo- 


1880.] 


The  Close  of  the  Affghan  Campaign. 


633 


mats;  so  that,  by  the  time  when  his 
viceroyalty  expired,  he  could  only 
leave  to  his  successor  as  a  damnosa 
hieredi.tas  the  well-ripened  seeds  of 
a  conflict  which  only  wanted  time 
and  favourable  circumstances  to 
bear  an  abundint  crop  of  hostility. 
The  harsh  construction  which  in 
the  heat  of  party  conflict  was  placed 
upon  the  course  taken  by  Lord 
Lytton  from  1876  to  1878,  has  now 
been  superseded  by  the  more  intel- 
ligent judgment  of  Affghan  affairs 
which  our  recent  experience  of  the 
country  has  enabled  us  to  form. 
We  had  no  choice  between  allow- 
ing Shere  Ali  to  shake  himself  al- 
together clear  of  his  engagements  to 
us,  and  exerting  our  influence  in  an 
authoritative  manner  to  obtain  from 
him  the  terms  which  were  found 
to  be  necessary  for  our  security  in 
India.  If  we  adopted  the  former 
course,  it  would  have  been  with  the 
certainty  before  us  that  the  Ameer 
would  at  once  fall  into  the  out- 
stretched arms  of  Russia,  whose 
position  at  that  time  in  Europe  ren- 
dered the  prospect  of  an  immediate 
collision  with  England  a  very  seri- 
ous possibility.  Had  we  become 
embroiled  with  Russia,  it  would 
have  been  crediting  her  with  a 
political  imprudence  altogether  alien 
to  her  character  to  presume  that  she 
would  not  seek  to  create  a  diversion 
in  her  favour  on  the  north-west 
frontier  of  India.  And  if  she  had 
the  will  she  had  also  the  power  to 
do  so.  By  working  upon  the  half- 
demented  condition  of  Shere  Ali, 
and  the  recklessness  and  fanaticism 
of  his  subjects,  it  would  not  hive 
been  a  difficult  matter  for  Russia 
to  have  precipitated  the  Affghans 
upon  India,  had  Britain  and  she 
been  unfortunately  drawn  into  hos- 
tilities in  the  east  of  Europe. 
All  this  Lord  Lytton  had  to  take 
into  account ;  for  our  ability  to 
steer  our  way  safely  through  the 
dangerous  shoals  of  the  Russo- 


Turkish  quarrel  depended  in  a  very 
great  measure  upon  our  position  in 
India  being  placed  on  a  footing  of 
security.  The  other  course  open  to 
the  Viceroy  was  beset  with  diffi- 
culties, but  it  was  clearly  the  one 
that  it  became  the  Government  of 
India  to  take ;  and  though  it  failed 
in  securing  peace,  it  provided  us 
with  honourable  and  reasonable 
grounds  for  asserting  our  influence 
in  Affghanistan  by  arms.  Every 
resource  that  diplomacy  was  pos- 
sessed of  was  employed  to  recall 
Shere  Ali  to  a  sense  of  the  obliga- 
tions of  his  alliance.  All  the 
concessions  and  guarantees  that 
he  had  asked  in  vain  from  Lord 
Northbrook  were  offered  to  him 
if  he  would  on  his  part  give 
us  such  guarantees  of  his  good 
faith  as  the  presence  of  British 
agents  in  his  country  was  calculated 
to  afford.  We  need  not  go  over 
again  the  course  of  the  Peshawur 
discussions  to  show  that  the  Gov- 
ernment of  India  exhausted  every 
argument  in  its  power  to  extricate 
the  Ameer  from  the  maze  of  in- 
trigue in  which  he  had  allowed 
himself  to  be  warped,  or  to  show 
that  our  friendly  counsels  were  met 
only  by  duplicity  and  open  deceit. 
The  evidence  contained  in  the 
Blue-books  is  sufficient  to  warrant 
a  belief  that  Shere  Ali,  by  the  time 
of  Lord  Lytton's  arrival,  had  al- 
ready so  far  compromised  himself 
with  Russia  that  he  could  nit  ven- 
ture upon  closing  with  the  Govern- 
ment of  India's  propositions  with- 
out provoking  disclosures  which 
would  have  damned  him  in  the  eyes 
of  both  Powers. 

The  assembling  of  a  strong  Rus- 
sian force  in  Central  Asia,  and  the 
appearance  of  Stolieteffs  embassy 
at  Cabul  as  a  counter-move  to  the 
pressure  which  Britain  was  impos- 
ing upon  the  Czar's  Government, 
immediately  realised  the  worst 
anticipations  which  the  Govern- 


634 


TJie  Close  of  the  Afghan  Campaign. 


[Nov. 


ment  of  India  had  formed  of  Shere 
All's  disposition.  That  it  was  dan- 
gerous to  British  India  to  allow  the 
Ameer  to  publicly  declare  himself 
as  an  ally  of  Russia  at  a  time  when 
Britain  and  the  Czar's  Government 
were  at  controversy,  cannot  now  be 
questioned.  We  had  either  to  re- 
assert our  claims  to  Shere  Ali's 
exclusive  alliance,  which  we  had 
indeed  purchased  and  paid  for,  or 
to  wash  our  hands  for  good  of  Aff- 
ghanistan  and  its  concerns.  The 
latter  course  would  have  certainly 
been  the  more  agreeable,  could  we 
have  dared  to  follow  it.  But  no  Gov- 
ernment could  have  allowed  itself  to 
be  thus  ousted  from  Cabul  by  the 
very  Power  which  its  policy  from 
the  time  that  Lord  Lawrence  aban- 
doned his  position  of  Masterly  In- 
activity had  directly  aimed  at  keep- 
ing out  of  that  city.  No  British 
Government,  Liberal  or  Conserva- 
tive, could  have  put  up  with  such  a 
state  of  affairs ;  no  Viceroy,  Whig 
or  Tory,  could  have  extracted  from 
it  a  peaceful  issue.  Those  who 
are  unacquainted  with  the  tem- 
peraments of  the  Indian  races  are 
apt  to  deride  the  idea  of  prestige, 
and  underestimate  the  part  which 
it  plays  in  our  position  in  the  East. 
But  there  were  more  substantial 
interests  at  stake  than  prestige. 
Unless  we  held  Shere  Ali  to  his 
bond,  and  insisted  upon  the  fulfil- 
ment of  his  pledges,  we  had  to  face 
the  certainty  of  his  country  being 
converted  into  a  hostile  vantage- 
ground,  from  which  our  position 
in  India  could  be  weakened,  and 
through  which  our  ability  to  hold 
our  own  in  European  affairs  might 
be  impaired.  Perhaps  nowadays  it 
will  be  concluded  that  Shere  Ali's 
faithlessness  and  insolent  evasion 
of  his  obligations  afforded  some 
ground  for  hostility;  for  certainly 
the  Turk  was  not  more  impervious 
to  the  demonstrating  squadron  off 
Dulcigno  than  was  the  Ameer  heed- 


less of  the  solemn  warnings  of  Lord 
Lytton's  Government. 

When  we  went  to  war  with  Shere 
Ali  we  had  three  main  objects  in 
view — to  punish  him  for  the  insult 
offered  by  the  forcible  rejection  of 
our  embassy;  to  re-establish  our 
paramount  influence  at  Cabul ;  and 
to  put  a  stop  to  the  introduction  of 
Russian  influence  there.  The  jus- 
tice of  these  aims  has  not  been 
challenged  from  any  quarter  worthy 
of  being  reasoned  with.  We  had, 
moreover,  other  grounds  entirely 
apart  from  the  higher  sphere  of 
politics  for  desiring  to  bring  about 
a  more  peaceful  and  settled  condi- 
tion of  affairs  upon  the  Affghan 
border. 

Ever  since  the  annexation  of  the 
Punjab  brought  us  up  to  Peshawur 
and  the  Suleiman  range,  our  frontier 
has  been  kept  in  a  state  of  insecu- 
rity by  the  wild  Pathan  tribes  of 
the  mountains  and  passes,  who  in- 
dulge in  periodical  raids  into  our 
territory,  pillaging  our  subjects  and 
burning  their  villages.  These  pre- 
datory clans  are  the  subjects  of  the 
Ameer  of  Cabul,  who  ought  to  be 
respousible  for  their  conduct.  But 
as  since  the  death  of  Dost  Moham- 
med there  has  been  no  Government 
at  Cabul  strong  enough  to  enforce 
obedience  in  the  outlying  parts  of 
the  kingdom,  we  have  scarcely  ever 
insisted  upon  the  Ameer's  obliga- 
tions to  be  answerable  for  the  ex- 
cesses of  his  subjects  ;  and  when 
we  have  appealed  to  him,  as  in  the 
case  of  the  murder  of  Major  Mac- 
donald,  we  have  seldom  been  able 
to  obtain  satisfaction.  When  our 
first  successes  in  the  campaign  made 
us  master  of  the  Affghan  passes  and 
of  the  country  inhabited  by  the 
tribes  which  had  given  most  trouble 
to  the  Punjab  Governments,  com- 
mon prudence  dictated  to  us  the 
expediency  of  laying  a  firm  hand 
on  the  territory.  If  the  Ameer 
was  unable  to  control  his  frontier, 


1880.] 


The  Close  of  the  Affghan  Campaign. 


635 


•we  were  justified,  for  the  sake  of 
our  own  subjects,  in  demanding 
that  we  should  be  allowed  to  take 
up  such  a  position  on  it  as  would 
enable  us  to  maintain  a  check  upon 
his  troublesome  borderers,  to  put 
an  end  to  forays  into  our  territory, 
and  to  obtain  a  release  from  the 
necessity  of  sending  punitive  ex- 
peditions into  the  passes.  The  gain 
to  the  Government  of  Cabul  would 
have  been  as  great  as  to  that  of  the 
Punjab.  The  extension  of  British 
territory  above  the  passes  would 
have  reduced  to  order  a  number 
of  tribes  who  have  always  been  a 
source  of  annoyance  and  weakness 
to  the  Cabul  Government,  and 
would  have  enabled  it  to  preserve 
peace  and  collect  taxes  in  regions 
where  its  authority  has  hitherto 
been  rated  very  cheaply.  Upon 
this  ground,  then,  apart  from  the 
military  and  political  questions  in- 
volved, we  claim  that  our  demand 
for  a  new  frontier  put  forward  after 
we  had  defeated  Ameer  Shere  Ali 
was  strictly  just,  and  in  the  inter- 
ests of  both  India  and  Affghanistan. 
These  objects  of  the  campaign 
were  quickly,  to  all  appearances, 
secured.  The  gallant  advance  of 
our  troops  into  Affghan  territory 
soon  laid  the  Cabul  country  at 
our  feet,  while  the  unfortunate 
fate  of  Ameer  Shere  Ali  Khan  more 
than  atoned  for  the  folly  with 
•which  he  had  brought  ruin  upon 
himself,  and  war  upon  his  country. 
With  his  death  our  rancour  against 
the  Cabul  Government  was  extin- 
guished, 'and  we  hastened  to  em- 
brace the  overtures  of  his  successor 
to  come  to  terms.  The  Treaty  of 
Gandamak  was  concluded,  with 
reasonable  hopes  that  it  would 
prove  a  solid  bond  of  union  between 
the  two  countries,  and  remove  all 
the  old  standing  grounds  of  mistrust 
which  had  so  long  kept  them  apart. 
It  must  ever  be  regretted  that  an 
agreement  so  excellent  and  states- 


man-like should  have  been  ruptured 
at  the  start  by  one  of  these  out- 
bursts which  no  human  perspicacity 
could  have  foreseen.  Had  the  pre- 
visions of  the  treaty  been  carried 
out,  there  can  be  no  question  but 
that  it  would  speedily  have  trans- 
formed Affghanistan  into  a  strong 
outwork  of  British  power  in  India 
from  a  region  of  menace  and  danger 
at  every  season  of  embarrassment. 
It  is  no  reflection  upon  the  ability 
of  those  who  framed  the  treaty  that 
fortuitous  accident  at  once  rendered 
it  inoperative.  Chance  is  an  ele- 
ment that  no  statesman  can  elimi- 
nate altogether  from  political  af- 
fairs ;  but  the  text  of  the  Treaty  of 
Gandamak  will  still  remain  as  a 
landmark  to  future  governor-gen- 
erals in  their  dealing  with  Affghan 
affairs. 

The  mutiny  at  Cabul,  and  the 
abdication  of  Yakoob  Khan,  can- 
celled the  Treaty  of  Gandamak, 
although  it  cannot  be  said  to 
have  finally  terminated  its  policy. 
Its  extinction,  we  hold,  must 
date  from  the  entry  into  office 
of  the  .Liberal  Ministry.  In  the 
unsettled  state  of  affaiis  caused  by 
the  despatch  of  a  force  to  punish 
the  murder  of  Sir  Louis  Cavagnari 
and  his  followers,  it  was  of  course 
impossible  to  immediately  carry  oul 
the  provisions  of  the  treaty ;  but 
there  is  no  reason  to  suppose  that 
the  Government  of  India  saw  any 
cause  to  change  its  views  as  to  the 
ultimate  applicability  of  the  settle- 
ment to  the  condition  of  Affghanis- 
tan. On  the  contrary,  the  fresh 
proof  that  was  now  afforded  of  the 
treachery  and  instability  of  the  Aff- 
ghan character  must  have  strength- 
ened in  the  mind  of  the  Viceroy 
his  original  conviction,  that  it  was 
necessary  to  lay  a  firm  hand  on  the 
country.  Yakoob  Khan  had  disap- 
peared from  the  scene  ;  but  it  was 
open  to  us  to  have  made  the  same 
compact  with  his  successor  as  a 


636 


The  Close  of  the  Affjhan  Campaign. 


[Xuv. 


condition  of  our  recognition  and 
friendship.  Had  the  Conservative 
party  remained  in  power,  it  would 
doubtless  have  insisted  upon  Ya- 
koob's  successor  coming  under  the 
same  obligations  to  us  as  Yakoob 
himself  had  entered  into.  But  be- 
fore a  successor  was  forthcoming  a 
change  had  come  over  our  policy  ; 
and  the  campaign  was  destined  to 
be  wound  up  in  a  spirit  entirely 
the  reverse  of  that  in  which  it  was 
opened . 

Time  only  can  show  whether  the 
selection  of  Abdurrahman  as  the 
successor  of  Yakoob  has  been  a  for- 
tunate or  an  unfortunate  one  for  his 
country.  In  either  case,  the  respon- 
sibility of  the  Conservative  party 
is  light,  though  our  stake  is  un- 
questionably heavy.  Instead  of  at 
once  filling  the  vacancy  at  Cabul 
with  a  nominee  of  our  own  choosing, 
Lord  Lytton  waited  until  the  feeling 
of  the  Affghan  sirdars  should  of  it- 
self point  towards  a  chief  suitable 
for  the  government.  But  it  may 
be  questioned  whether  the  final 
selection  of  Abdurrahman  did  not 
turn  upon  the  fact  that  he  alone  came 
forward  to  press  his  claim,  rather 
than  upon  any  spontaneous  liking 
of  the  Affghans  for  him  as  a  ruler. 
Had  not  Ayoob  Khan,  maintaining 
his  independence  at  Herat,  been 
outside  the  competition,  it  is  more 
than  probable  that  the  choice  of 
the  chiefs  would  have  fallen  upon 
him ;  or  had  Yakoob's  son  Musa 
been  of  an  age  to  act  for  himself, 
he  might  very  likely  have  been 
preferred  to  both  of  the  other?. 
Lord  Lytton,  however,  wisely  re- 
solved to  abstain  from  influencing 
the  choice  of  the  Affghans,  and  to 
allow  them  to  select  the  chief  whose 
government  was  most  likely  to  secure 
the  general  support  of  their  country- 
men. He  had  convinced  himself  of 
the  uselessness  of  attempting  to 
bind  the  Affghans  to  ourselves  by 
treaty  or  alliance.  He  proposed  to 


seek  neither  treaty  nor  alliance  with 
the  new  Ameer,  but  by  holding 
Candahar  and  the  Kurura  valley, 
to  maintain  an  efficient  check  upon 
his  actions,  to  reduce  his  power  for 
evil  to  a  minimum,  and  to  be  close 
by  to  arrest  the  first  attempt  to 
coquet  with  any  foreign  Power.  But 
before  the  vacant  throne  could  be 
filled,  a  change  had  come  over  the 
British  Government, — the  Liberal 
party  had  carried  the  elections,  and, 
for  the  first  time  since  the  opening  of 
the  campaign,  British  policy  in  Aff- 
ghanistan  was  left  without  any  fixed 
principles  to  guide  it,  and  the  Brit- 
ish forces  without  any  definite  ob- 
ject to  achieve.  Our  position  was 
practically  abandoned  to  the  mercy 
of  circumstances;  and  it  could  hard- 
ly have  been  otherwise  than  that 
circumstances  would  speedily  con- 
spire against  us. 

To  estimate  the  effect  which  the 
change  of  Ministry  has  produced 
upon  the  Affghan  situation,  we 
must  revert  briefly  to  the  position 
taken  up  by  the  Liberal  party  in 
Opposition  with  respect  to  the 
rupture  with  Shere  Ali,  and  the 
war  which  sprang  from  it.  The 
Asiatic  policy  of  the  Conservative 
party  -was  assailed  with  a  virulence 
and  unfairness  such  as  no  English 
Opposition  had  ever  hitherto  dis- 
played. Every  step  that  Lord  Lyt- 
ton's  Government  took  was  con- 
demned, but  no  alternative  course 
was  suggested.  The  danger  which 
sprang  from  the  uncertain  tempera- 
ment of  Shere  Ali,  coupled  with 
demonstrations  on  the  part  of 
Russia  which,  in  the  critical  state 
of  European  politics,  could  not  but 
be  looked  upon  as  inimical,  was  nob 
denied,  but  the  Opposition  refused 
to  take  it  into  account.  British 
interests  were  sneered  out  of  the 
discussion,  and  the  action  of  the 
Cabinet  and  the  Viceroy  was  ex- 
plained by  a  reference  to  personal 
motives  of  an  unworthy  character. 


1880.] 


The  Close  of  the  A/ylian  Campaign. 


C37 


These  strictures  and  allegations  were 
pressed  with  such  earnestness  of 
invective  that  they  could  not  fail 
to  make  an  impression  upon  those 
•who  had  not  an  intimate  know- 
ledge of  Indian  foreign  policy. 
But  Mr  Gladstone's  palinode  to  his 
"dear  Count  Karolyi" — doubtless 
designed  to  be  regarded  as  a  circu- 
lar note  to  the  other  members  of 
the  large  body  of  statesmen  whom 
lie  had  bespattered  in  the  course  of 
his  electioneering  campaign  —  has 
since  fully  explained  how  little 
serious  import  was  to  be  attached 
to  the  outcries  raised  during  the 
era  of  agitation.  Unfortunately, 
however,  things  were  done  which 
could  not  be  undone,  and  remarks 
were  made  which  could  not  be  as 
easily  recanted  as  the  abuse  of  an 
allied  and  friendly  Power.  The  agi- 
tation at  home  had  a  markedly  mis- 
chievous effect  upon  the  course  of 
Affghan  affairs.  It  impeded  the 
efforts  of  Lord  Lytton  to  bring  the 
Ameer  to  reason,  and  doubtless  en- 
couraged him  to  provoke  war,  for 
the  Affghans  are  by  no  means  ignor- 
ant of  what  is  said  in  England  about 
their  own  country.  It  depreciated 
our  victories,  and  could  not  con- 
ceal an  outburst  of  exultation  when 
the  murder  of  Sir  Louis  Cavagnari 
and  his  companions  seemed  to  have 
realised  the  gloomy  forebodings  by 
which  the  Opposition  had  sought  to 
obstruct  the  Conservative  policy. 
It  seized  upon  the  role  of  Masterly 
Inactivity  which  Lord  Lawrence 
himself  had  timeously  abandoned, 
and  to  which,  had  he  occupied  a 
position  of  responsibility,  he  would 
never  have  reverted  as  a  popular 
platform  from  which  to  oppose  the 
aims  of  Lord  Beaconsfield's  Cabi- 
net. We  cannot  suppose  that  the 
Opposition  ever  seriously  meant 
to  take  Masterly  Inactivity  princi- 
ples with  it  into  office,  but  it  suc- 
ceeded in  identifying  itself  with 
them  in  the  eyes  of  the  constituen- 


cies, and  it  dropped  into  power  so 
unexpectedly  that  it  had  not  time 
to  feel  its  way  with  the  Affghan 
question.  The  Gladstone  Govern- 
ment, was  however,  soon  destined 
to  suffer  seriously  for  the  warmth 
with  which  it  had  advocated  a 
Masterly  Inactivity,  and  its  present 
difficulties  are  mainly  due  to  its 
past  pledges  in  favour  of  this  dogma. 
In  the  few  short  months  during 
which  it  has  been  in  power,  it  has 
already  realised  that  the  Affghans 
on  their  side  will  be  no  participants 
in  such  a  policy. 

We  turn  to  the  state  of  mat- 
ters in  which  the  Liberal  Minis- 
try found  Affghanistan  when  they 
entered  upon  office.  During  the 
winter  months  General  Eoberts 
had  made  such  good  use  of  his 
position  at  Sherpur  as  to  put  down 
all  the  insurgent  tribes  and  restore 
peace  to  the  whole  of  the  Cabul 
provinces.  Sir  Donald  Stewart's 
march  to  Cabul  and  his  victory  at 
Ahmed  Khel  had  cleared  away  the 
army  and  faction  of  Mohammed 
Jan.  All  armed  pretensions  to 
the  throne  had  been  beaten  off 
the  field  ;  and  the  more  influen- 
tial chiefs  were  quietly  waiting 
until  the  proper  time  came  to 
choose  an  Ameer.  Candahar  was 
settled  tranquilly  under  a  rul«r  of 
the  country,  and  the  security  afford- 
ed by  the  British  forces  had  already 
begun  to  be  largely  taken  advantage 
of  by  the  traders  and  agriculturists. 
On  the  Indian  side,  Lord  Lytton 
had  made  the  most  ample  prepara- 
tions against  the  occupying  forces 
being  in  danger  by  a  sudden  out- 
break, and  reserves  were  "in  readi- 
ness to  be  marched  up,  should  their 
presence  be  required,  at  a  minute's 
warning.  Only  at  Herat  was  Ayoob 
Khan  showing  signs  of  hostility; 
and  the  difficulties  of  his  position 
throughout  the  winter,  and  the 
checks  which  he  had  received  from 
comparatively  small  forces  like  that 


G38 


The  Close  of  the  Afghan  Campaign. 


[Nov. 


of  Ibraham  Khan  of  Chaknasur, 
warranted  a  belief  that  he  would 
not  venture  far  from  his  head- 
quarters. With  the  opening  of 
summer,  however,  his  position  be- 
gan to  improve,  and  the  changes 
which  now  came  over  the  British 
plans  doubtless  strengthened  his 
hands.  The  Liberal  Ministry  had 
come  into  office;  an  entire  change 
of  policy  was  announced ;  a  new 
Secretary  of  State  was  appointed, 
who  had  announced  his  intention 
to  promote  a  complete  and  speedy 
evacuation  of  the  country  while 
our  army  was  yet  struggling  [in  the 
field ;  and  anew  Viceroy  was  sent 
out  primed  with  the  principles  upon 
which  the  recent  Opposition  agita- 
tion had  been  carried  on. 

To  say  the  least  of  Mr  Gladstone's 
Indian  appointments,  they  did  not 
indicate  any  feeling  on  his  part  that 
our  affairs  in  the  East  were  in  a  con- 
dition requiring  either  tact  or  ability. 
Lord  Hartington,  the  new  Indian 
Secretary,  in  the  debates  on  the  Aff- 
ghan  question  had  displayed  in  Op- 
position an  ignorance  of  everything 
Asiatic,  which,  in  the  case  of  any 
other  politician  of  the  same  experi- 
ence in  public  life,  would  undoubt- 
edly have  excited  general  surprise. 
Lord  Ripon  was  chosen,  we  may  pre- 
sume, rather  on  account  of  his  reli- 
gion than  of  the  marked  incapacity 
which  he  had  consistently  displayed 
in  several  important  official  appoint- 
ments; and  the  selection  showed  the 
relative  positions  which  the  interests 
of  British  India  and  the  goodwill 
of  the  Eomanists  held  in  the  esti- 
mation of  the  Premier.  The  new 
Viceroy  and  the  new  Secretary  of 
State  found  Affghanistan  at  their 
feet.  Abdurrahman  had  crossed 
the  Oxus  and  had  lodged  his  claims 
for  the  throne,  which  Lord  Lytton 
did  his  best  to  consider,  although, 
from  the  time  when  the  Gladstone 
Government  entered  upon  office,  his 
Excellency  could  scarcely  be  said  to 


possess  a  locus  standi  in  Affghan 
policy.  Abdurrahman  was  apparent- 
ly in  no  hurry  to  enter  on  his  king- 
dom. He  knew  that  the  new  Brit- 
ish Government  had  pledged  itself 
to  evacuate  Affghanistan  as  speedily 
as  possible,  and  he  probably  felt 
tolerably  confident,  in  consequence, 
of  his  ability  to  secure  Cabul  either 
with  or  without  our  assistance.  He 
had  heard  also  that  Lord  Hartington 
had  ostentatiously  announced,  on 
the  part  of  his  Government,  that 
it  was  the  intention  of  the  British 
Government  to  quit  Affghanistan, 
tag  and  baggage — to  use  the  more 
expressive  than  elegant  phrase  of 
his  chief;  and  he  may  have  calcu- 
lated that  it  would  be  more  prudent 
for  himself  to  avoid  entering  into 
engagements  with  a  Power  that  was 
so  soon  to  withdraw  from  Affghan 
territory,  and  to  leave  it  alone  for 
the  future.  We  do  not  profess  to 
know  upon  what  terms  the  British 
friendship  and  alliance  have  been 
promised  to  Abdurrahman,  or  what 
pledges,  if  any,  were  required  from 
him  before  our  departure  from 
Cabul.  If  we  take  into  account 
the  judgment  of  the  agent  by  whom 
the  negotiations  were  conducted, 
and  his  after-dinner  utterances  at 
Simla  a  week  or  two  ago  upc 
Affghan  affairs,  we  are  not  like 
to  build  extravagant  prospects 
peace  and  fidelity  upon  Abdurrah- 
man's chances  of  answering  our 
expectations. 

Lord  Lytton  had  barely  left  the 
country  when  a  new  and  serious 
danger  assailed  the  British  position. 
Ayoob  Khan,  who  had  spent  the 
winter  at  Herat  in  an  attitude  of 
independent  hostility  towards  us, 
now  began  to  gather  a  power  which 
any  Government  with  its  eyes  intent 
upon  the  scene  of  action  might  easily 
have  discerned  to  be  formidable. 
The  season  was  well  opened  be- 
fore there  were  any  signs  of  seri- 
ous danger  from  Ayoob.  He  had 


1880.] 


The  Close  of  the  Aflghan  Campaign. 


G39 


had  difficulties  iri  holding  his  posi- 
tion during  the  -winter.  He  was 
scarcely  a  match  for  the  neighbour- 
ing chiefs  with  whom  he  entered 
into  hostilities.  It  was  not  until 
after  the  Liberal  Government  had 
proclaimed  its  intention  of  abandon- 
ing Affghanistan  at  an  early  date 
that  Ayoob  found  himself  in  a 
position  to  take  the  field  at  the 
head  of  a  strong  force.  "We  are 
dealing  with  proved  facts,  and  we 
only  connect  these  two  events 
chronologically,  although  we  are  by 
no  means  prepared  to  assert,  until 
the  contrary  has  been  ascertained, 
that  the  rumours  of  immediate 
evacuation  had  nothing  to  do  with 
Ayoob's  movements,  and  with  the 
hopes  of  those  who  joined  his  stand- 
ard. At  all  events,  it  was  the  duty 
of  a  prudent  Government  to  dis- 
count the  effects  which  the  tidings 
of  an  immediate  evacuation  might 
have  upon  the  feelings  of  the 
Affghans,  and  to  take  ordinary 
precautions  lest  the  suppressed 
ferocity  of  the  people,  which  had 
been  for  the  time  kept  in  check  by 
the  presence  of  our  troops,  should 
burst  forth  with  violence  at  the 
prospect  of  release.  The  Govern- 
ment, however,  contrary  to  the 
warnings  of  all  experience,  and  to 
the  advice  of  every  officer  who 
knew  the  Affghans,  seem  to  have 
built  foolish  hopes  of  winning 
the  affections  of  the  people  and 
securing  their  friendship  in  grati- 
tude for  our  forbearance.  The  re- 
sult of  Ayoob  Khan's  expedition 
from  Herat  speedily  dissipated  such 
idle  anticipations. 

It  was  not  until  some  time  after 
Lord  Lytton  had  quitted  office,  and 
the  Marquis  of  Eipon  had  been  sworn 
in  as  Viceroy,  that  Ayoob  Khan's 
movements  betrayed  any  signs  of 
coming  into  collision  with  our 
forces.  In  the  last  week  of  June 
the  new  Viceroy  telegraphed  to 
the  Secretary  of  State  that  there 


were  "rumours  of  early  movement 
of  troops  from  Herat  in  the  Canda- 
har  direction."  Ayoob's  policy  was 
supposed  to  be,  not  to  take  the  field 
immediately  himself,  but  to  send 
out  a  body  of  horse  to  raise  the 
country  in  the  direction  of  the 
Helmund,  and  act  or  not,  accord- 
ing to  the  success  of  his  emissaries. 
The  Wali  of  Candahar  was  at 
Girishk  with  a  considerable  force, 
and  ought  not  only  to  have  been 
able  to  frustrate  Ayoob's  recruiters, 
but  to  afford  the  Government  of 
India  full  and  explicit  intelligence 
of  coming  danger.  It  was,  we  had 
reason  to  suppose,  his  interest  to  do 
so,  unless  he  had  begun  to  despair 
of  being  able  to  hold  his  posi- 
tion when  the  British  had  quitted 
the  country,  and  deemed  it  policy 
to  temporise  with  Ayoob.  The 
arrangements  of  the  Government 
were  also  calculated  to  shake  the 
confidence  of  both  the  Wali  and 
his  troops.  Wali  Shere  Ali  was 
on  the  west  bank  of  the  Helmund, 
and  would  naturally  have  to  bear 
the  brunt  of  Ayoob's  attack.  On 
27th  June  the  Viceroy  telegraphed 
to  the  Home  Government  that 
in  the  event  of  Ayoob  reaching 
Furrah,  he  proposed  to  despatch  a 
force  from  Candahar  to  defend  the 
line  of  the  Helmund.  At  the  same 
time,  his  Excellency  signified  his 
intention  of  moving  up  a  reinforce- 
ment from  General  Phayre's  reserve 
to  strengthen  General  Primrose. 
The  news  from  Herat,  received  at 
Candahar  previous  to  the  1st  July, 
all  tended  to  confirm  the  rumours 
of  the  formidable  character  of 
Ayoob's  expedition,  but  did  not 
seem  to  have  received  sufficient 
evidence  from  Colonel  St  John, 
the  Resident.  On  2d  July,  however, 
a  detailed  account  of  his  strength 
was  in  possession  of  Colonel  St 
John,  and  at  once  telegraphed  to 
the  Supreme  Government.  Yet 
notwithstanding  the  more  imminent 


640 


The  Close  of  the  A/ghan  Campaign. 


[Nov. 


danger  thus  revealed,  the  Govern- 
ment did  not  think  fit  to  strengthen 
the  force  which  started  from  Can- 
dahar  to  the  Helmund,  under  the 
command  of  General  Burrows,  on 
4th  July.  This  was  a  grave  over- 
sight, and  one  that  has  yet  to  be 
explained.  Still  more  to  be  con- 
demned are  the  orders  under  which 
General  Burrows  was  directed  to 
act.  The  Political  Officer,  Colonel 
St  John,  had  issued  peremptory 
orders  that  our  operations  were 
to  be  confined  to  the  east  side 
of  the  Helmund,  and  that  the 
Wali,  who  was  beyond  the  river, 
"must  rely  on  his  own  resources." 
Colonel  St  John  thus  telegraphs 
to  the  Foreign  Office  at  Simla  the 
effect  which  he  gave  to  these  in- 
structions :  "  I  am  writing  to  Wali 


there  would  have  been  no  mutiny 
among  the  Affghan  levies,  and  we 
would  have  been  able  to  drive 
Ayoob  back  again  to  Herat.  But 
the  lines  which  the  Government 
of  India  laid  down  insured  defeat 
at  the  outset,  and  its  subsequent 
course  tended  to  secure  that  dis- 
aster should  be  ample  and  crushing. 
Consider  the  position  on  the 
Helmund  on  the  12th  July,  when 
the  Wali's  troops  first  began  to  dis- 
play signs  of  uneasiness.  Ayoob's 
advanced  guards  were  already  at 
Washir,  not  more  than  fifty  miles 
from  Girishk,  where  the  Wali  was 
posted.  The  British  brigade  was 
halted  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
river,  with  orders  not  to  cross.  Our 
Affghan  allies  could  scarcely  be 
supposed  to  relish  the  position  in 


not  to  risk  collision  with  Ayoob's  which  they  were  placed,  with  an 
regular  troops  in  Washir,  but  in  army  far  superior  to  them  in  num- 
absence  of  (orders  1)  not  giving  him 
definite  assurance  of  active  support 
from  here."  Was  ever  such  a  mes- 
sage sent  to  an  ally  in  presence 
of  an  enemy  1  "  Don't  fight  if 
you  can  help  it,  but  if  you  have  to 
fight  don't  depend  upon  us  for 
help."  What  wonder,  then,  that 
the  Wali's  troops  became  demoral- 
ised, and  that  desertion,  and  ulti- 
mately mutiny,  were  the  result. 
The  Viceroy  who  could  issue  such  an 
order  would  have  a  poor  chance  of 
escape  if  his  competency  came  with- 
in the  cognition  of  a  court-martial. 

We  put  it  to  any  reader  of  unpre-     Khan,  who  by  this  time  was  only 
judiced  judgment  to  say  whether     two   or   three  marches  distant,   in 
or  not  the  mutiny  of  the  Wali's 
troops,    which    first    left    General 
Burrows's  force  at  a  disadvantage, 
and  then  led  to  the  disastrous  de- 
feat at  Maiwand,  were  not  due  to 


bers  and  equipments  in  front,  and  a 
river  behind  them,  while  the  in- 
structions of  their  friends  on  the 
opposite  bank  only  amounted  to 
protecting  them  after  they  had  been 
beaten  across  the  Helmund.  A 
mutiny  under  such  circumstances 
cannot  excite  surprise.  What  is 
more  wonderful  is  the  indifference 
manifested  by  the  Marquis  of  Ripon 
and  his  Council  at  the  effect  which 
the  mutiny  of  the  Wali's  troops 
would  necessarily  produce  upon  our 
position.  The  desertion  of  the  Aff- 
ghans  morally  strengthened  Ajoob 


the  policy  enjoined  by  the  Govern- 
ment of  India  in  its  telegrams  of 
27th  and  30th  June  to  the  Besi- 
dent  at  Candahar.  Had  our  troops 
been  left  at  liberty  to  cross  the 
Helmund,  and  to  co-operate  with 
the  Wali,  in  all  human  probability 


the  same  proportion  as  it  physic- 
ally weakened  General  Burrow.0. 
The  mutineers  had,  moreover,  car- 
ried off  all  the  stores  which  the 
Wali  had  collected  on  the  Gir- 
ishk side  for  the  use  of  our  troops. 
The  Government  was  aware  not  only 
that  General  Burrows  was  now 
placed  at  a  serious  disadvantage, 
but  that  if  Ayoob  Khan  succeeded 
in  passing  him,  Candahar  itself 
would  be  placed  in  serious  jeopardy. 


1880.] 


The  Close  of  the  Affghan  Campaign. 


641 


And  yet  nothing  appears  to  have 
been  done  to  strengthen  either  the 
garrison  or  the  force  in  the  field. 
In  the  last  week  of  June  the  Gov- 
ernment had  called  upon  General 
Phayre  to  move  up  reinforcement?, 
but  apparently  took  no  steps  to  see 
that  he  executed  its  orders  with  the 
necessary  promptitude.  Thus  the 
careful  arrangements  which  Lord 
Lytton's  Government  had  made  for 
reinforcing  the  Affghan  garrisons  at 
any  critical  emergency  were  entirely 
wasted  in  the  hands  of  his  successor 
and  his  advisers.  From  the  date  on 
which  the  Government  at  Simla 
received  intelligence  of  the  deseition 
of  the  Wall's  troops,  until  the  battle 
of  Maiwand,  eleven  whole  days 
elapsed, — time  enough  in  the  hands 
of  any  energetic  administration,  to 
have  taken  steps  to  obviate  disaster, 
and  to  have  transmitted  such  fresh 
orders  to  the  field  as  would  have 
left  the  troops  free  to  pursue  a  line 
of  action  more  in  keeping  with  the 
necessities  of  their  position.  But 
during  the  interval  the  Governor- 
General  appears  to  have  sat  down 
and  waited  calmly  for  the  coming 
catastrophe  ;  while  the  Commander- 
in-Chief  contented  himself  with 
enjoining  caution  and  telegraphing 
a  few  queries  about  General  Bur- 
rows's position.  It  is  very  significant 
that  the  despatch  of  the  Govern- 
ment of  India  to  the  Secretary  of 
State,  dated  August  3,  and  giving 
an  account  of  the  operations  of 
General  Burro ws's  force,  from  the 
outbreak  of  the  mutiny  down  to 
the  disaster  of  Maiwand,  has  no 
action  to  record  on  the  part  of  the 
Viceroy,  no  precautions  to  report  on 
behalf  of  himself  and  Council,  not 
a  single  expression  of  concern  to 
warrant  a  belief  that  aught  but  the 
most  perfect  indifference  was  felt  in 
the  fortunes  of  our  troops  in  pres- 
ence of  the  enemy.  Nor  is  there 
in  the  Government  of  India's  de- 
spatch the  faintest  avowal  of  regret 


for  the  calamity  which  had  fallen 
upon  a  British  force,  and  for  the 
many  gallant  lives  which  had  been 
sacrificed  to  the  blundering  policy 
of  an  administration  that  had  not 
even  a  commonplace  sentiment  of 
sorrow  to  spare  over  their  loss. 

It  is  beyond  the  province  of  our 
present  article  to  enter  into  criticism 
of  General  Burrows's  conduit  in  the 
battle  of  Maiwand.  The  action 
was  unfortunate  in  all  respects — un- 
happy in  the  defeat  of  our  troops,  in 
the  heavy  loss  of  officers  and  men,  in. 
the  consequent  shock  to  our  prestige, 
and  in  the  encouragement  which  it 
afforded  to  the  discontented  part  of 
the  Affghan  population.  Now  that 
the  full  accounts  of  the  action  have 
been  received,  it  is  evident  that  the 
Government  were  seriously  to  blame 
in  committing  a  command  to  a 
general  who  had  so  little  capacity 
for  handling  troops  iit  the  field.  It 
is  no  excuse  that  the  accident  of 
General  Burrows's  position  led  to 
his  being  intrusted  with  the  charge 
of  the  expedition  to  the  Helmund. 
The  system  that  assumes  the  capa- 
bilities of  a  general  officer  on  nega- 
tive evidence  is  not  less  blame- 
worthy than  the  Government  that 
carries  it  out  in  a  season  of  emer- 
gency. Desperate  as  our  position 
was  at  Maiwand,  the  accounts  of 
the  battle  distinctly  point  to  the 
possibility  of  retrieving  it  at  more 
than  one  period  of  the  action.  Had 
a  general  of  the  skill  and  daring  of 
Sir  Frederick  Roberts  been  in  com- 
mand, heavy  as  the  odds  were 
against  us,  our  troops  would  have 
driven  Ayoob  Khan  beyond  the 
Helmund.  We  quite  admit  that 
there  are  circumstances  which  ex- 
tenuate the  forlorn  position  which 
General  Burrows  took  up  beneath 
the  pounding  fire  of  Ayoob's  bat- 
tery. He  was  neglected  by  tho 
Supreme  Government,  which  ought 
after  the  mutiny  to  have  lost  no 
time  in  encouraging  him  by  hopes 


642 


The  Close  of  the  Affghan  Campaign. 


[Nov. 


of  assistance,  and  by  the  despatch 
of  strong  reinforcements.  He  had 
no  hope  from  Candahar,  where 
General  Primrose  was  evidently 
more  anxious  about  his  own  posi- 
tion than  concerned  regarding  the 
field  force.  He  was  unfortunate 
too  in  his  political  associate,  who 
seems  to  have  had  a  very  meagre 
success  in  collecting  intelligence  of 
the  enemy,  and  who  apparently 
had  not  the  capacity  of  forming  a 
correct  estimate  of  the  news  which 
was  brought  to  him.  It  is  even 
doubtful  whether  Colonel  St  John's 
instructions  left  the  General  in 
command  sufficient  freedom  of  ac- 
tion, and  whether  we  may  not  point 
to  Maiwand  as  another  instance  of 
the  misfortunes  which  a  divided  re- 
sponsibility must  necessarily  entail 
upon  an  army  in  the  field.  The  cor- 
respondence from  Candahar  creates 
a  strong  impression  that  the  Poli- 
tical Agent  must  have  failed  to  give 
sufficient  attention  to  General  Bur- 
ro ws's  repeated  request  to  have  his 
force  strengthened,  or  to  be  allowed 
to  fall  back  within  a  supportable 
distance  of  Candahar.  These 
adverse  circumstances  a  general 
of  ability  would  have  taken  a 
pride  in  overcoming,  but  General 
Burrows's  bearing  seems  from  the 
opening  of  the  action  to  have 
invited  defeat,  and  to  have  wasted 
the  desperate  bravery  with  which 
the  Horse  Artillery  and  the  66th 
sacrificed  themselves.  With  all 
the  wish  that  the  country  usu- 
ally has  to  take  a  lenient  view,  of 
the  misfortunes  of  a  commander, 
the  general  feeling  cannot  fail  to  be 
that  an  unusually  heavy  responsi- 
bility for  the  Maiwand  calamity 
must  rest  upon  the  British  general. 
If  anything  could  tend  to  create 
a  feeling  of  sympathy  with  General 
Burrows,  it  would  have  been  the 
reception  which  the  Maiwand  de- 
spatches met  with  from  the  Govern- 
ment of  India  and  the  Commander- 


in- Chief.  We  have  already  seen 
how  greatly  the  Government  con- 
tributed to  the  desperate  circum- 
stances in  which  General  Burrows 
found  himself;  and  its  condemna- 
tion naturally  savours  of  self-de- 
fence. Nor  does  Sir  Frederick 
Halnes's  review  of  the  despatch 
impress  us  much  more  favourably. 
His  severe  strictures  upon  both  Gen- 
eral Primrose  and  General  Burrows 
only  serve  to  suggest  that  a  Com- 
mander-in-Chief  who  had  implic- 
itly relied  upon  these  officers,  can- 
not be  himself  entirely  absolved 
from  the  consequences  of  their 
failure.  Nay,  more  ;  there  is  reason 
to  suppose  that  the  Commander-in- 
Chief's  instructions  influenced  Gen- 
eral Burrows  in  giving  battle  to 
Ayoob,  when  he  should  rather  have 
fallen  back  within  a  supportable 
distance  of  Candahar.  On  the  21st 
July  Sir  Frederick  Haines  tele- 
graphed to  Candahar  that  it  was  of 
the  utmost  importance  that  Ayoob 
should  not  be  allowed  to  pass  Can- 
dahar to  Ghazni  without  being 
attacked;  and  two  days  later  he 
wired  permission  to  attack  Ayoob  if 
General  Burrows  considered  himself 
strong  enough.  These  instructions, 
which  were  really  commands,  are  I 
conclusive  proof  how  little  the 
Commander-in-Chief  and  the  Simla 
officials  appreciated  the  altered  posi-  \ 
tion  on  the  Helmund.  From  the 
time  that  the  Wali's  force  was 
broken  up  the  danger  had  been 
transferred  from  Ghazni  to  Canda- 
har. Events,  moreover,  showed 
that  Candahar  and  not  Ghazni 
was  Ayoob's  real  objective,  and 
that  the  Commander-in-Chief,  in 
his  instructions,  was  labouring 
under  a  serious  misapprehension 
as  to  both  the  purpose  of  the 
enemy  and  our  own  position.  But 
no  error  in  judgment  will  apolo- 
gise for  the  remissness  of  Sir  Fre- 
derick Haines  in  not  seeing  that  re- 
inforcements were  hurried  on  from 


1880.] 


The  Close  of  the  Afghan  Campaign. 


G43 


Qiietta  with  the  utmost  speed  to 
Candahar,  before  General  Burrows's 
disaster  had  placed  the  garrison  in 
peril. 

The  news  of  the  Mai  wand  disas- 
ter appeared  to  have  awakened  the 
Home  Government  to  a  state  of 
affairs  in  Afghanistan  for  which 
they  were  altogether  unprepared. 
If  Lord  Hartington  was  not  in  en- 
tire ignorance  as  to  the  formidable 
character  of  Ayoob's  expedition, 
and  the  critical  condition  of  Gen- 
eral Burrows's  force,  he  did  his 
information  gross  injustice  in  the 
House  of  Commons.  Fortunately 
the  condition  of  Candahar  did  not 
leave  time  for  deliberation.  The 
panic-stricken  town  had  to  be  re- 
lieved at  once,  and  Lord  Lytton's 
too  long  neglected  reserves  to  be  at 
once  hurried  up  to  the  scene  of  ac- 
tion. But  the  questions  which  Sir 
Drummond  Wolff  and  other  mem- 
bers put  from  time  to  time  during 
the  beleaguerment  of  Candahar 
plainly  revealed  the  berwilderment  of 
the  new  Indian  Secretary.  If  Lord 
Hartington  has  the  aptitude,  he  can- 
not have  the  inclination  to  apply 
himself  to  the  hard  work  which  is 
required  at  the  India  Office  even  at 
times  of  less  difficulty  than  the 
present.  As  an  instance  of  the 
official  remissness  under  the  new 
regime,  we  may  mention  the  fact 
that  the  list  of  killed  at  the  battle 
of  Mai  wand  was  delayed  until  long 
after  the  anxiety  and  suspense  of 
the  relatives  of  those  who  had  been 
engaged  had  been  put  at  rest  from 
non-official  sources, — an  instance  of 
callousness  for  which  the  India 
Office  was  responsible,  and  which, 
we  believe,  has  never  been  charge- 
able to  any  previous  Administration. 

The  splendid  march  of  General 
Roberts,  whose  achievements  all 
through  the  Affghan  campaigns  de- 
serve a  volume  to  do  them  justice 
instead  of  a  passing  notice  in  an 
article,  more  than  justified  the  con- 


fidence of  those  who  felt  convinced 
that  he  would  secure  the  honour  of 
relieving  Candahar.  Had  the  safety 
of  the  city  depended  upon  the 
Quetta  column,  it  would  indeed 
have  been  in  jeopardy  ;  and  we  do 
not  derive  much  reassurance  from 
the  arrangements  which  have  been 
made  for  the  command  of  the  gar- 
rison that  has  been  left  in  charge 
of  Candahar,  or  from  the  political 
agency  which  at  present  directs  our 
policy  in  that  quarter.  General 
Roberts's  task  was,  however,  con- 
fined by  his  instructions  to  raising 
the  siege  of  the  town.  Had  he  been 
left  unhampered  by  political  in- 
structions, we  feel  confident  that  he 
would  never  have  paused  until  he 
had  broken  up  the  last  fragments 
of  the  rebellious  army,  and  stamp- 
ed out  rebellion  between  Canda- 
har and  Herat.  It  was  no  part  of 
the  policy  of  the  present  Govern- 
ment to  avenge  the  defeat  of  Mai- 
wand  ;  and  had  Ayoob  been  pru- 
dent enough  to  retreat  to  Herat,  he 
would  probably  have  been  let  go 
unmolested.  Such,  we  apprehend, 
fairly  represents  the  policy  with 
the  execution  of  which  General 
Roberts  was  charged  ;  for  had  his 
commission  gone  far  enough  he 
would  doubtless  not  have  rested 
until  he  had  hunted  Ayoob  down, 
and  put  an  end  to  the  possibility 
of  his  creating  further  disturbance. 
Brilliant  as  was  the  action  with 
which  General  Roberts  wound  up 
the  campaign,  we  doubt  if  we  can 
regard  it  as  a  fair  equivalent  for  our 
defeat  at  Maiwand,  for  the  ghastly 
horrors  of  Burro ws's  retreat  to  Can- 
dahar, and  for  the  humiliating  con- 
dition in  which  our  garrison  there 
was  so  long  cooped  up.  The  fact 
that  Ayoob  immediately  re-estab- 
lished himself  at  the  head  of  an- 
other power,  and  is  now  in  a  posi- 
tion to  again  menace  the  country 
from  Herat,  proves  that  his  punish- 
ment personally  was  not  heavy. 


C44 


The  Close  of  the  A/<jJtan  Campaign. 


[Xov. 


Caudahar  telegrams  serve  to  confirm 
an  impression  that  his  victory  at 
Maiwand  has  elevated  Ayoob  to 
the  rank  of  a  national  hero  in  the 
eyes  of  his  countrymen. 

The  immediate  result  of  the 
battle  of  Maiwand  was  to  upset 
the  views  of  the  Government  with 
regard  to  the  evacuation  of  the 
country.  It  is  true  that  our  troops 
were  hustled  out  of  northern  Aff- 
ghanistan  in  all  haste,  while  as 
yet  the  issue  of  General  Roberta's 
expedition  was  unknown  ;  but  even 
when  Candahar  was  relieved  it  was 
obvious  that  we  could  not  afford  to 
take  our  departure.  A  few  months' 
experience  of  Atfghan  affairs  had 
opened  the  eyes  of  Government  to 
issues  that  it  could  not  or  would  not 
see  in  Opposition.  It  had  in  the  first 
place  to  consider  what  would  be- 
fall Candahar  itself  if  we  were  to 
quit  it.  We  have  separated  Canda- 
har from  Cabul,  and  given  its  Wali, 
Shere  AH  Khan,  solemn  assurances 
that  we  would  secure  his  independ- 
ence in  a  friendly  alliance  with  our- 
selves. How  far  the  present  Govern- 
ment consider  the  guarantee  of  their 
predecessors  binding  upon  them- 
selves, we  cannot,  of  course,  antici- 
pate ;  but  it  is  only  reasonable  that, 
as  we  induced  the  Wali  to  adopt 
independence,  we  should  not  leave 
him  to  the  mercy  of  a  stronger 
Power.  It  seems  likely  that  Ayoob 
Khan  has  both  the  disposition  and 
the  ability  to  seize  upon  Candahar 
as  soon  as  we  turn  our  backs. 
Whether  or  not  Abdurrahman  is 
influenced  by  the  same  ambition,  we 
cannot  say.  When  he  first  appeared 
on  thescene  he  obstinately  refused  all 
proposals  to  recognise  the  indepen- 
dence of  Wali  Shere  Ali.  As  we 
do  not  yet  know  the  exact  basis 
upon  which  the  British  Govern- 
ment has  concluded  an  alliance 
with  him,  we  are  ignorant  of  the 
footing  on  which  he  stands  with 


the  Wali's  Government.  Abdurrah- 
man, however,  is  too  true  a  Bar- 
ukzye  to  let  pledges  stand  between 
him  and  the  most  prosperous  pro- 
vince of  the  old  Affghan  kingdom, 
should  a  favourable  opportunity 
present  itself  in  the  absence  of 
the  British  to  bring  it  again  under 
the  government  of  Cabul.  These 
are  considerations  that  immediately 
stand  in  the  way  of  evacuation ;  and 
these  same,  or  others  equally  strong, 
will  face  us  when  we  reconsider  the 
subject  six  months,  a  year,  or  ten 
years  after.  In  fact,  the  condition 
of  Affghan  affairs,  the  interests  of 
British  India,  and  the  future  of 
Central  Asian  policy,  have  invol- 
untarily forced  the  Liberal  Govern- 
ment to  put  to  themselves  the 
question,  "Shall  we  hold  Canda- 
har?" If  this  question  admitted 
but  of  only  one  answer — if  our  duty 
to  resume  a  policy  of  entire  absten- 
tion from  Affghan  affairs  were  as 
clear  as  it  seemed  to  be  to  the 
Liberal  leaders  when  in  Opposition 
— then  our  course  would  be  perfect- 
ly straight.  We  ought  not  to  linger 
a  single  day  longer  in  Candahar. 
Every  week  spent  in  that  city 
is  an  unnecessary  and  vexatious 
addition  to  our  military  expen- 
diture. Let  us  not  heed  what  be- 
comes of  Wali  Shere  Ali  Khan  or 
the  chiefs  who  have  compromised 
themselves  by  our  alliance.  Let 
Ayoob  and  Abdurrahman  fall  at 
each  other's  throats,  and  let  us 
send  civil  letters  to  the  survivor, 
hailing  him  as  de  facto  Ameer  of 
Affghanistan,  until  he  in  turn  has 
met  his  match,  whom  we  will  next 
hail  as  ruler.  Let  us  retire  to  the 
line  of  the  Indus  and  "let  the 
world  slide."  That  is  what  Masterly 
Inactivity,  as  taught  and  practised 
by  the  founder  of  the  doctrine, 
requires  of  us  to  do,  if  we  are 
to  adopt  it  as  our  political  faith. 
If  the  Liberal  Ministry  means  to 


1380.] 


The  Close  of  the  AffgUan  Campaign. 


G45 


adhere  to  its  original  avowal  in 
favour  of  this  position,  it  would  be 
mistaken  weakness  on  its  part  to 
allow  any  unselfish  considerations 
to  detain  our  troops  an  hour  longer 
in  southern  Affghanistan.  But  if 
it  has  been  brought  to  see  that  its 
declarations  were  untenable,  and 
that  its  duty  is  to  consult  the  future 
welfare  and  peace  of  the  country, 
and  to  replace  British  influence  in 
Affghanistan  upon  the  footing  which 
it  occupied  in  Lord  Mayo's  time,  it 
will  be  the  duty  of  all  parties, 
Liberal  or  Conservative,  to  wish  it 
hearty  success  in  its  endeavours. 
There  are  a  variety  of  arrangements 
by  which  we  may  settle  the  future 
government  of  Candahar.  We  may 
restore  it  to  Abdurrahman;  we  may 
maintain  the  Wali  Shere  AH ;  we 
may  even,  as  has  been  suggested, 
throw  it  in  with  Herat  as  a  king- 
dom for  Ayoob  Khan,  although  the 
last-named  arrangement  would  be 
apt  to  arouse  angry  recollections  of 
the  Maiwand  defeat.  Among  the 
do-nothing  politicians  of  the  day 
there  seems  to  be  a  feeling  that  the 
easiest  way  of  getting  rid  of  Can- 
dahar would  be  to  hand  it  over  at 
once  to  Abdurrahman.  This  would 
certainly  be  to  clear  our  hands  of 
it.  But  we  must  remember  that  no 
party  professes  to  feel  any  confi- 
dence in  Abdurrahman  Khan.  He 
may  consider  it  for  his  interest  to 
keep  our  friendship,  or  he  may  find 
a  better  market  for  his  alliance  in 
Russian  Turkistan.  To  place  the 
whole  of  Affghanistan  in  the  un- 
reserved power  of  a  ruler  who  might 
become  a  creature  of  Russia  would 
be  at  once  to  plunge  us  back  again 
into  those  difficulties  from  which  we 
found  no  outlet  except  by  war.  It 
may  be  doubted,  also,  whether  we 
are  morally  free  to  dispose  of  Can- 
dahar in  this  offhand  fashion.  We 
separated  it  from  Cabul,  and  erected 
it  into  an  independent  state  under  a 


ruler  of  its  own,  who  has  not,  so 
far  as  we  are  aware,  done  anything  to 
forfeit  his  claims  upon  us.  But  the 
question  who  is  to  rule  at  Candahar 
matters  very  little.  We  do  not  want 
the  province  for  ourselves.  We  want 
to  see  it  settled  under  a  good  and 
popular  ruler,  who  will  administer 
justice  to  the  people,  secure  them 
against  disturbance,  and  develop 
the  agriculture  and  industry  of  the 
country.  We  want  some  sort  of 
guarantee  for  ourselves  against  Aff- 
ghanistan being  converted  into  a 
hostile  power  at  a  time  when  our 
hands  are  full  in  Europe  ;  and  this 
will  most  readily  be  obtained,  not  by 
longer  standing  aloof  and  playing  at 
cross  purposes  with  the  rulers  of  the 
country,  but  by  maintaining  such  a 
footing  in  Affghanistan  as  will  en- 
able us,  without  interfering  with  the 
people,  to  take  note  of  all  popular 
movements,  to  intervene  with  friend- 
ly counsels,  to  avert  civil  wars,  to 
introduce  the  thin  end  of  the  wedge 
of  civilisation,  to  wean  the  people 
from  violence  and  bloodshed,  and 
to  secure  for  ourselves  a  position  in 
High  Asia  that  would  serve  as  an 
outpost  should  troubles  from  that 
direction  threaten  the  interests  of 
India.  All  this  would  be  secured 
by  the  maintenance  of  a  mod- 
erately strong  garrison  in  Candahar. 
Such  a  garrison  would  be  a  nucleus 
whence  British  influence  would 
speedily  pervade  the  country,  and 
remove  misunderstandings  between 
ourselves  and  the  Affghans.  Its 
mere  presence  would  go  far  to  im- 
pose a  check  upon  the  bloody  civil 
wars  from  which  Affghanistan  has  so 
long  suffered,  and  which  have  tend- 
ed to  cast  discredit  upon  the  British 
Indian  Government  as  a  civilised 
friendly  power.  Sir  Donald  Stew- 
art's march  from  Candahar  to  Cabul, 
and  his  victory  over  the  Mohammed 
Jan  faction  at  Ahmed  Kheyl,  was 
in  itself  a  clear  proof  of  the  com- 


646 


The  Close  of  the  Affjhan  Campaign. 


[Xov. 


mand  which  a  garrison  at  Candahar 
affords  us  over  the  Cabul  country. 
It  would  save  us  at  some  future  time, 
when  Affghan  policy  was  drifting  in- 
to directions  foreign  to  our  interests, 
from  the  necessity  of  demanding 
permission  to  establish  agencies  in 
Herat  or  Cabul.  It  would  not  en- 
tail a  heavy  extra  charge  upon  our 
Indian  military  expenditure,  for 
with  a  garrison  in  Candahar  we 
could  reduce  all,  and  perhaps  abolish 
some,  of  our  present  military  out- 
posts on  the  Sindh  frontier.  With 
a  garrison  at  Candahar,  Affghanistan 
could  never  cause  us  uneasiness  by 
isolating  herself  as  she  did  before 
she  last  drifted  into  war ;  and  we 
would  be  secured  alike  against  in- 
ternal intrigue  in  the  country,  and 
external  influence  from  any  other 
power.  We  should  place  a  gate  upon 
the  great  highway  to  India  from 
Central  Asia,  of  which  the  meaning 
would  be  quite  intelligible  to  all 
powers  moving  in  its  direction. 
This  would  imply  no  mistrust,  but 
would  be  a  simple  act  of  caution 
permissible  to  any  prudent  power. 
The  opportunity  which  is  now 
opened  up  to  the  Government  is 


one  that,  in  the  nature  of  things, 
cannot  present  itself  a  second  time 
until  we  have  once  more  had  to 
overrun  the  country.  We  can  only 
abandon  Affghanistan  now  at  the 
certain  risk  of  sooner  or  later  having 
to  subdue  it  again.  This  would  be 
a  contingency  so  much  to  be  de- 
plored that  no  price  is  too  great 
to  pay  for  a  reasonable  prospect  of 
escaping  it.  We  are  wearied  of 
Affghan  wars  ;  our  Indian  troops  de- 
test campaigning  in  that  country; 
but  Affghanistan,  if  again  left  abso- 
lutely to  itself,  must  become  a  source 
of  danger  to  India,  at  every  point 
where  the  views  of  the  Ameer  and 
those  of  the  viceregal  Government 
diverge.  The  Government  then 
does  right  to  pause  before  rashly 
resolving  upon  the  removal  of  its 
garrison  from  Candahar.  Great 
events  have  sprung  out  of  smaller 
issues.  We  may  retain  or  quit 
our  hold  upon  Candahar  at  our 
pleasiire,  but  it  may  very  probably 
depend  upon  the  choice  we  now 
make  whether,  some  time  sooner  or 
later,  we  shall  have  as  free  an  option 
of  quitting  or  retaining  our  hold 
on  the  line  of  the  Indus. 


1880.] 


The  Unloaded  Revolver. 


647 


THE  UNLOADED   REVOLVER — THE   DIPLOMACY  OF  FANATICISM. 


IT  is  an  old  proverb  that  "  His- 
tory repeats  itself;"  but  the  stu- 
dent of  history  might  ransack  the 
archives  of  Europe  in  vain  to  pro- 
duce a  parallel  to  the  diplomatic 
events  of  the  last  four  months.  It 
has  been  reserved  for  a  political 
genius  of  altogether  exceptional 
temperament  to  create  a  situation 
absolutely  without  precedent,  alike 
in  the  negotiations  which  have  led 
up  to  it,  and  in  the  singular  char- 
acter of  the  complications  which 
it  has  produced.  Considered  from 
this  point  of  view,  there  is  a  philo- 
sophical as  well  as  a  political  side 
to  the  present  phase  of  the  Eastern 
question.  It  offers  psychological 
problems  even  more  insoluble  than 
those  which  are  presented  by  its 
diplomatic  aspect;  and  we  commend 
to  the  consideration  of  Mr  Herbert 
Spencer  an  analysis  of  the  moral 
processes  by  which  the  statesmen 
of  Europe  created  the  dilemma 
upon  the  horns  of  which  they  have 
since  become  impaled.  How  are 
we  to  account  for  the  curious  series 
of  contradictions  and  inconsisten- 
cies which  have  characterised  the 
political  action  of  a  great  party 
in  England,  and  into  which,  to  a 
greater  or  less  extent,  five  other 
European  Governments  have  been 
betrayed  ?  We  have  a  Cabinet,  the 
leading  members  of  which  have  not 
only  themselves  passed  through  the 
most  conflicting  stages  of  policy, 
but  have  succeeded  in  persuading 
a  majority  of  their  own  countrymen 
and  the  principal  Powers  of  Europe 
to  follow  them.  Twenty-five  years 
ago  we  have  these  same  men  form- 
ing part  of  a  Cabinet  whose  funda- 
mental principle  was  antagonism  to 
Russia,  supported  by  an  enthusias- 
tic nation,  in  a  war  which  had  for 

VOL.  CXXVIII. — NO.  DCCLXXXI. 


its  object  the  maintenance  of  the 
integrity  and  independence  of  the 
Ottoman  empire.  Then,  we  have 
them  governing  the  country  upon 
peace-at-any-price  principles ;  repu- 
diating any  action  which  sjiould 
involve  England  in  the  affairs  of 
Europe;  abandoning  their  treaty 
rights ;  subjecting  the  nation  to 
insult  and  political  effacement, 
until  its  selfishness  and  timidity 
became  a  byword  in  Europe,  was 
burlesqued  upon  the  English  stage, 
and  finally  produced  a  national  reac- 
tion which  led  to  their  overthrow. 
JSTow,  we  have  these  same  men 
menacingly  insisting  upon  the  ful- 
filment of  treaty  clauses  in  favour 
of  obscure  principalities  ;  abandon- 
ing in  the  case  of  Albania  the 
arguments  based  upon  the  rights  of 
kindred  nationality  which  induced 
them  to  cede  a  British  dependency 
to  Greece ;  throwing  to  the  wind 
the  plea  of  economic  expediency 
by  which  they  sought  to  justify 
national  humiliation ;  forcing  their 
country  into  the  van  of  political 
strife ;  and,  so  far  from  shrinking 
from  involving  England  in  quarrels 
in  which  she  can  have  no  direct 
concern,  assuming  an  attitude  of 
dictatorship  to  the  whole  of  Europe, 
and  offering  to  its  five  greatest 
Powers  the  alternative  of  either 
submitting  to  this  dictatorship,  or 
being  plunged  into  a  European  war. 
They  have  passed  at  a  bound  from 
being  the  most  humble  and  for- 
bearing, to  being  the  most  arrogant 
and  intolerant,  of  European  Govern- 
ments ;  and  with  this  extraordinary 
transformation  of  role,  all  their  tra- 
ditional friendships  and  antipathies 
have  become  revolutionised.  The 
policy  which  a  few  years  ago  they 
considered  to  be  essential  to  the 
2x 


648 


The  Unloaded  Revolver — 


safety  of  the  British  dominions, 
they  now  hold  to  be  effete  and 
absurd.  The  Power  they  then 
expended  national  blood  and  trea- 
sure to  preserve,  they  are  now 
ready  to  spend  blood  and  treasure 
to  destroy;  the  Power  they  then 
endeavoured  to  ruin  by  a  protracted 
war,  they  now  seek  to  co-operate 
with  as  a  valued  and  trusted  ally, 
in  achieving  the  identical  object 
which  they  formerly  fought  against 
each  other  to  prevent ;  and  they 
have  so  stupefied  and  confounded 
the  rest  of  Europe  by  this  sudden 
volte  face — so  disconcerted  all  pre- 
vious calculations,  and  overthrown 
all  policy  based  upon  the  hypo- 
thesis of  national  political  consist- 
ency— that  the  remaining  Powers 
have  been  too  bewildered  to  do 
anything  but  acquiesce  in  the  new 
combination  and  submit  to  its  guid- 
ance, until  events  should  so  shape 
themselves  as  to  afford  them  the 
opportunity  which  has  at  last  arisen 
for  escape. 

One  Power  alone  has  remained 
true  to  itself  and  to  its  traditions,  and, 
unable  in  the  whirl  and  confusion 
consequent  upon  such  sudden  and 
unexpected  changes  to  see  its  way 
clearly  in  any  direction,  has  rolled 
itself  up  in  its  prickles  like  a  hedge- 
hog, and  allows  the  European  pack 
to  snap  and  bark  round  it  to  their 
hearts'  content,  instinctively  consci- 
ous that  in  the  degree  in  which  it 
uncoils  will  the  dogs  of  war  be  let 
loose  upon  it,  and  tear  it  to  pieces  ; 
whereas,  by  allowing  them  first  to 
prick  their  noses  in  unison,  it  in- 
dulges in  the  hope  that  they  may 
ultimately  fall  upon  and  rend  each 
other. 

In  the  Prime  Minister  of  Eng- 
land and  the  Sultan  of  Turkey  the 
extremes  of  active  and  of  passive 
fanaticism  find  their  apotheosis,  and 
as  usual  with  fanaticism,  it  is  stimu- 
lated in  both  cases  mainly  by  the 


[Xov. 


prejudice  arising  from  ignorance. 
It  would,  indeed,  be  difficult  to 
imagine  a  more  complete  ignorance 
than  that  of  the  Sultan,  of  the  con- 
ditions which  surround  Mr  Glad- 
stone, and  of  the  influences  under 
which  he  acts,  were  it  not  surpassed 
by  the  ignorance  of  Mr  Gladstone 
of  the  conditions  which  surround 
the  Sultan,  and  of  the  influences 
under  which  he  acts.  This  was 
remarkably  illustrated  in  his  speech- 
es in  Mid- Lothian,  in  which  he  re- 
peatedly reiterated  the  absurd  and 
historically  inaccurate  statement 
that  moral  pressure  had  never  been 
applied  to  Turkey  by  Europe  with- 
out the  Porte  yielding.  Had  such 
pressure  been  applied  by  the  late 
Government,  he  maintained,  all  the 
difficulties  with  which  they  had  to 
contend  might  at  Once  have  been 
overcome ;  and  it  was  upon  this 
sincere  but  ignorant  conviction  that 
the  whole  policy  has  been  based 
which  has  led  to  the  present  im- 
passe, and  which  threatens  to  lead 
to  consequences  far  more  serious 
than  the  most  gloomy  anticipations 
could  have  predicted.  It  was  un- 
sound for  many  reasons.  In  the  first 
place,  Turkey  has  never  made  any 
important  concession  on  the  appli- 
cation of  moral  pressure  alone  by 
concerted  Europe. 

The  battle  of  Xavarino  was  not 
"  moral"  in  any  sense.  The  land- 
ing of  a  French  army  in  Syria,  by 
which  the  Lebanon  concessions 
were  obtained,  was  distinctly  an  act 
of  physical  force  ;  while  the  attempt 
of  the  late  Government  to  avert  the 
Russian  invasion  by  concerted  moral 
pressure  in  the  winter  of  1876-77 
was  a  decided  failure,  and  an  evi- 
dence in  the  opposite  sense.  Of 
course  it  is  not  true  that  Turkey 
has  never  yielded  to  diplomatic 
pressure,  but  it  is  not  more  true  of 
Turkey  than  of  any  other  European 
country.  Indeed  we  question  whe- 


1880.] 


The  Diplomacy  of  Fanaticism. 


G49 


ther  any  Christian  Power  would 
have  resisted  united  Europe  to  the 
extent  that  Turkey  is  now  doing. 
At  the  present  juncture  there  are 
special  reasons  why  such  pressure 
was  certain  to  be  inefficacious,  but 
of  these  it  is  now  evident  that  Mr 
Gladstone  was  profoundly  ignor- 
ant. Ever  since  the  accession  of  the 
present  Sultan  to  the  throne  the 
action  of  the  Turkish  Cabinet  upon 
public  affairs  has  been  diminish- 
ing, until  it  has  now  become  a  ques- 
tion on  every  serious  occasion,  not 
what  the  Government  of  Turkey 
Avill  do,  but  what  the  Sultan  per- 
sonally will  do.  The  same  may, 
to  a  great  extent,  be  said  of  Eng- 
land and  her  Prime  Minister, — 
hence,  in  a  diplomatic  contest  be- 
tween these  two  important  persons, 
everything  depends,  or  should  de- 
pend, upon  the  appreciation  which 
they  have  of  each  other's  executive 
power,  and  of  the  nature  of  the 
motives  by  which  each  is  influ- 
enced. !Nbw  it  is  not  probable 
that,  in  the  earlier  stages  of  the 
negotiations,  either  Mr  Gladstone 
or  the  Sultan  in  any  degree  realised 
the  personal  nature  of  the  strug- 
gle between  them.  The  Sultan 
has  been  accustomed  to  take  into 
consideration  the  character  of  the 
British  ambassador  for  the  time, 
whoever  he  may  be,  the  disposi- 
tion of  the  British  nation,  so  far  as 
he  is  informed  regarding  it  by  M. 
Musurus,  and  the  influence  on  the 
points  at  issue  of  other  European' 
Powers.  He  has  not  identified  all 
his  troubles  with  a  single  man  to 
the  extent  that  he  might  have 
done  had  he  been  better  informed  ; 
for  it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that 
if  Mr  Gladstone  had  never  existed 
we  should  never  have  had  a  na- 
val demonstration,  and  the  conse- 
quences which,  even  though  it  may 
now  be  abandoned,  it  has  tended 
to  precipitate.  On  the  other  hand, 


it  is  evident  that  Mr  Gladstone 
was  under  the  delusion  that  he 
had  a  reasonable  body  of  men, 
called  a  Cabinet,  to  appeal  to  at 
Constantinople,  and  that  among 
them  there  would  have  been  some 
who  were  sufficiently  enlightened 
to  perceive  the  dangerous  results 
which  would  accrue  to  Turkey  from 
a  policy  of  non  possumus  pushed  to 
an  extreme.  He  also  had  a  general 
idea  that  a  Turk  was  an  oriental, 
and  that  all  orientals  were  moral 
cowards,  upon  whom  a  game  of 
brag  might  be  played  with  success. 
This  is  true  of  all  orientals  who  are 
not  Moslems,  but  it  is  not  true  of 
Moslems ;  on  the  contrary,  brag  is 
the  one  weapon  which,  in  the  case 
of  the  Turk,  always  breaks  in  the 
hand  of  the  man  who  tries  to  use 
it.  Lead  and  gold  are  the  two 
metals  which  can  alone  be  absolute- 
ly relied  upon;  and  the  idea  of 
a  naval  demonstration  which  was 
ostentatiously  ordered  to  confine 
itself  to  moral  evolutions  would 
have  appealed  to  the  sense  of  hu- 
mour of  any  Turkish  Government. 
When  that  Government  became 
concentrated  in  the  person  of  the 
Sultan,  it  was  no  doubt  presented 
to  his  Majesty  by  his  immediate 
entourage  in  the  comic  light  which 
would  be  most  agreeable  to  him,  and 
had  about  as  much  effect  upon  him 
as  it  would  have  to  present  a  hair- 
brush instead  of  a  revolver  at  the 
head  of  a  burglar.  It  would  have 
been  impossible  to  devise  a  policy 
less  likely  to  succeed  with  the  Sul- 
tan, than  that  of  shaking  united 
unarmed,  or  rather  unloaded,  Eu- 
rope in  his  face.  Physically  mor- 
bidly timid,  the  Sultan  is  totally 
inaccessible  to  moral  alarm  arising 
from  concerted  action  of  this  sort. 
In  the  first  place,  there  is  no  belief 
more  rooted  in  his  mind  than  that 
people  who  are  suspicious  or  jealous 
of  each  other  should  be  able  to  act 


The  Unloaded  Revolver — 


harmoniously  in  questions  when 
their  interests  are  concerned,  ex- 
cept for  a  very  limited  period.  His 
life  is  spent  in  experimenting  upon 
human  nature  in  this  particular 
direction  ;  and  there  is  probably  no 
man  living  who  understands  better 
how  to  work  upon  the  baser  motives 
which  actuate  mankind — especially 
oriental  mankind.  He  is  an  adept 
in  the  art  of  "  ruling  and  dividing," 
and  great  success  has  inspired  him 
with  complete  confidence  in  his 
skill.  He  has  never,  therefore, 
from  the  first,  had  the  slightest  be- 
lief in  the  concert  of  Powers ;  and 
for  a  policy  based  on  this  concert 
to  succeed,  it  is  essential  that  the 
subject  of  the  experiment  should 
have  some  belief  in  it.  Not  merely 
has  he  not  believed  in  it,  but  he 
has  manifested  his  contempt  for  it 
in  successive  notes,  until  at  last  he 
exploded  a  bomb- shell  in  the  shape 
of  an  insolent  ultimatum,  which 
threw  all  the  Cabinets  of  Europe 
into  consternation,  and  exposed  the 
fallacy  which  lay  at  the  root  of 
their  so-called  concerted  action. 
Then  it  was,  when  he  had  practi- 
cally divided  the  Powers,  and  had 
driven  England  and  Eussia  into  an 
attitude  of  physical  coercion,  that 
he  listened  to  the  representations 
of  the  German  and  French  ambas- 
sadors, and  consented  to  recur  to 
the  position  in  regard  to  Monte- 
negro which  he  had  taken  up  so 
long  ago  as  April  last,  when  he 
signed  an  iradh  ceding  to  Monte- 
negro the  Kuchi-Krajna  districts, 
including  part  of  the  plain  of  Pod- 
gpritza,  and  the  valleys  occupied 
by  the  Grudi,  Hotti,  and  Clementi 
Albanians.  It  was  not  under  the 
pressure  of  any  naval  demonstration 
that  he  made  this  concession,  which 
he  always  recognised  as  an  obli- 
gation imposed  upon  him  by  the 
Treaty  of  Berlin — but  of  his  own 
free  will,  as  the  result  of  negotia- 


[Xov. 

tions  with  the  Italian  ambassador ; 
and  an  iradk  providing  for  the 
cession  of  Dulcigno  is  not  therefore 
to  be  regarded  in  the  light  of  a 
triumph  resulting  from  the  policy 
of  moral  coercion.  On  the  con- 
trary, it  is  beyond  doubt  that  the 
Sultan's  mind  was  made  up  to  cede 
territory  to  Montenegro  long  before 
the  naval  demonstration  was  pro- 
posed, and  that  this  event  had  prac- 
tically the  effect  of  interfering  with 
the  negotiations  which  he  had  en- 
tered into  with  the  Albanians  on 
the  subject.  For  in  the  convention 
agreed  to,  in  what  was  called  the 
Corti  compromise,  all  the  most 
minute  details  of  the  method  of 
evacuation  by  the  Turkish  troops  of 
the  districts  to  be  occupied  by  the 
Montenegrins  were  specified.  The 
day  and  hour  for  the  transfer  were 
fixed,  and  the  Turkish  troops  did 
actually  evacuate  the  positions. 
The  failure  of  the  Montenegrins  to 
occupy  the  ceded  territory  was  en- 
tirely their  own  fault.  A  term  of 
a  certain  number  of  hours  was 
specified  to  allow  time  for  a  messen- 
ger to  go  to  the  Montenegrin  camp 
and  inform  them  of  the  hour  when 
the  positions  occupied  by  the  Turks 
were  to  be  abandoned.  At  the 
appointed  hour  the  Turkish  troops 
evacuated  the  positions;  but  the 
messenger  was  delayed  on  the  way, 
and  when  the  Montenegrins  ad- 
vanced they  found  a  small  force  of 
Albanians  drawn  up  at  the  bridge 
of  the  Zem,  who,  hearing  what  was 
going  on,  had  had  time  to  collect 
there  in  order  to  dispute  their  pas- 
sage. It  has  always  been  alleged 
that  the  messenger  was  purposely 
delayed  in  order  to  allow  time  to  the 
Albanians  to  collect.  This  may  or 
may  not  be  the  case — the  Turks  de- 
manded a  European  Commission  to 
inquire  into  it ;  but  even  if  it  was, 
the  force  collected  was  so  small 
that  there  would  have  been  no 


1880.] 


TJie  Diplomacy  of  Fanaticism. 


651 


difficulty  whatever  in  the  Montene- 
grins, who  were  far  more  numerous, 
forcing  the  bridge  and  occupying 
the  abandoned  positions.  Had  they 
done  so,  the  Montenegrin  question 
would  then  have  found  its  solution, 
and  we  should  never  have  had  a 
Dulcigno  question,  though  possibly 
we  should  still  have  had  a  naval 
demonstration,  with  even  more 
disastrous  results,  applied  to  Janina 
and  the  Greek  frontiers,  which 
fortunately  has  now  become  im- 
possible. The  Montenegrins  de- 
clined to  take  advantage  of  the 
opportunity  of  acquiring  the  terri- 
tory ceded  to  them  by  the  Sultan 
and  evacuated  by  the  troops,  be- 
cause their  instructions  have  always 
been  from  Russia  not  to  risk  the 
life  of  a  man,  but  to  throw  upon 
Europe  the  whole  responsibility  of 
procuring  for  them  the  territory 
secured  to  them  by  the  Treaty  of 
Berlin.  Under  these  instructions 
they  declined  a  skirmish  in  which 
they  were  certain  to  be  victors, 
and  retired  before  a  handful  of 
Albanians,  who,  encouraged  by  this 
display  of  weakness  and  the  time 
thus  afforded,  proceeded  to  occupy 
the  positions  evacuated  by  the 
Turks  :  and  in  a  few  days,  even  if 
they  had  so  desired,  it  would  have 
been  impossible  for  the  Montene- 
grins to  have  overcome  the  resist- 
ance which  would  have  been  offered 
without  great  loss  of  life  ;  but  they 
showed  no  eagerness  to  do  so.  In- 
deed, the  patience  with  which  they 
have  waited  for  Europe  to  force  the 
Turks  to  hand  them  the  territory 
they  claim,  and  the  horror  of  blood- 
shed which  they  have  evinced  all 
through  the  protracted  negotiations, 
beginning  with  Plava  and  Gusinje 
and  ending  with  Dulcigno,  has 
been  so  remarkable  as  to  put  be- 
yond a  doubt  the  fact  that  they 
have  been  used  as  the  instruments 
of  Eussia  to  embroil  the  Powers 


pledged  to  the  Treaty  of  Berlin. 
The  object  of  Eussia  has  clearly 
been,  from  the  beginning,  to  make 
the  fulfilment  of  a  treaty,  wrung 
from  our  diplomats,  impracticable 
and  an  ultimate  cause  of  strife;  and 
it  cannot  be  denied  that  she  has 
played  her  cards  very  dexterously 
in  this  sense. 

It  is  necessary  to  recall  this 
episode  somewhat  in  detail,  be- 
cause there  is  a  disposition  to  re- 
gard every  concession  now  made 
by  the  Sultan  in  favour  of  Mon- 
tenegro as  the  result  of  a  naval 
demonstration  made  in  an  Austrian 
port,  whereas  it  has  in  reality  been 
in  spite  of  that  demonstration  and 
delayed  by  it.  Not  only  did  the 
Sultan  agree  before  that  demon- 
stration to  cede  the  above-named 
territory  under  the  conditions  de- 
scribed, and  actually  evacuated  it, 
but  he  made  the  same  promise 
with  regard  to  Dulcigno,  when  the 

to  the  indifference  of  the  Montene- 
grins. In  the  first  days  of  August 
the  Sultan  announced  his  intention 
of  ceding  Dulcigno,  in  terms  as  de- 
cided as  he  has  now  again  used. 
He  was  allowed  until  the  24th  of 
August  to  fulfil  his  promise.  Fail- 
ing to  do  it  in  the  stipulated  time 
of  three  weeks,  the  fleets  assemble 
to  coerce  him;  he  refuses  to  be 
coerced,  and  categorically  withdraws 
from  his  engagement  unless  the 
naval  demonstration  is  abandoned. 
The  result  of  his  defiant  attitude  is 
that  it  is  postponed ;  and  he  receives 
private  assurances  from  the  German 
and  French  ambassadors  that  if 
he  will  only  carry  out  his  original 
intention  he  will  have  no  cause  for 
further  apprehension  of  concerted 
pressure  and  naval  demonstration 
in  the  points  of  the  Eastern  ques- 
tion remaining  still  outstanding. 
On  this  he  renews  the  engage- 
ment he  made  in  the  beginning  of 


632 


The  Unloaded  Revolver — 


[Xor. 


August ;  and  the  organs  of  the 
Government  set  up  a  paean  of 
triumph,  as  if  the  surrender  had 
been  made  by  the  Sultan  and  not 
by  Europe.  It  is,  no  doubt,  of 
urgent  necessity  to  the  Government 
that  the  Radical  press  should  do  its 
utmost  to  twist  defeat  into  victory ; 
but  the  '  Neue  Freie  Presse  '  shows 
a  more  accurate  appreciation  of  the 
situation  when  it  says,  "  that 
Prince  Bismarck  by  his  late  action 
at  Constantinople  broke  the  suprem- 
acy of  Mr  Gladstone,  and  cut  the 
cord  by  which  the  English  Prime 
Minister  had  so  far  dragged  Europe 
behind  him.  He  meant  to  cut 
down  the  Turkish  upas-tree,  and 
has  succeeded  in  wounding  him- 
self." The  plain  fact  remains,  that 
the  arrival  of  the  combined  fleets 
had  the  effect  of  postponing  the 
cession  of  Dulcigno  rather  than  of 
expediting  it :  and  has  given  the 
Sultan  an  opportunity  of  exposing 
the  hollowness  of  the  European 
concert,  of  playing  off  one  Christian 
Power  against  another,  of  turning 
the  naval  demonstration  into  ridi- 
cule, of  flaunting  before  his  Moslem 
subjects  his  contempt  for  united 
Ghiaourdom,  thereby  immensely  in- 
creasing his  prestige,  and  of  post- 
poning to  the  Greek  calends  the 
rectification  of  the  Greek  frontier. 

AVith  their  usual  incapacity  for 
appreciating  the  nature  of  Moslem 
diplomacy,  the  Liberal  organs  in- 
stantly accepted  the  announcement 
of  the  surrender  of  Dulcigno  as  a 
great  British  diplomatic  success, 
and  attributed  it  to  the  alarm  in- 
spired in  the  mind  of  the  Sultan 
by  the  threat  of  sequestrating  the 
revenues  of  Smyrna,  and  apparently 
believed  on  the  12th  of  last  month 
that  the  transfer  of  the  town  would 
be  prompt  and  unconditional.  The 
fact  is  gradually  dawning  upon  them 
that  Mr  Gladstone  has  not  yet  ter- 
rified the  Sultan  into  alacrity  of 


compliance,  or  the  abandonment  of 
conditions  which  may  still  further 
test  the  value  of  the  naval  demon- 
stration, and  the  possibility  of 
blockading  the  ^Egean  ports. 

That  the  foreign  press  take  a 
very  different  view  of  the  Minis- 
terial triumph,  so  far  as  it  has  gone 
in  the  matter  of  Dulcigno,  might 
be  illustrated  by  innumerable  ex- 
tracts ;  but  it  will  suffice  to  quote 
one  from  the  '  Journal  des  Debats,' 
which  may  be  considered  as  one 
of  the  most  judicious  and  calm  ex- 
ponents of  public  opinion  on  the 
Continent : — 

"  Never,"  says  that  journal,  "  has 
the  Porte  shown  itself  more  fertile 
in  expedients  than  of  late.  It  has 
achieved  a  triumph  of  which  it  could 
hardly  have  dreamed.  It  was  not 
difficult,  after  the  revelations  of  the 
press  and  the  indiscretions,  perhaps,  of 
some  of  the  Cabinets,  to  see  that  the 
so  -  called  European  concert  was  a 
mere  soap -bubble,  which  would  col- 
lapse at  a  puff  of  air  from  Constanti- 
nople. Having  obtained  what  she 
desired,  Turkey  showed  still  further 
adroitness  in  appearing  to  yield  on 
one  point,  assured  as  she  was  that  for 
the  moment  no  European  interven- 
tion was  to  be  apprehended  in  relation 
to  Greece  and  Armenia.  These  suc- 
cesses the  Porte,  of  course,  owes 
the  smothered  rivalries  between 
Powers  ;  but  it  owes  them,  above  all, 
to  Europe's  absolute  need  of  peace, 
which  Turkey  has  known  how  to  turn 
to  account.  The  advantages  accruing 
to  the  Ottoman  Government  from  its 
victory  are  immense.  At  home  the 
Sultan  will  succeed  in  restoring  his 
shaken  throne,  for  the  Mussulmans  will 
be  well  pleased  with  Abdul  Hamid  for 
having  shown  such  determination  and 
energy  at  a  critical  moment.  Abroad, 
too,  the  prestige  of  Turkey  has  been 
unquestionably  raised.  Audacity,  1111- 
der  whatever  form,  is  highly  appre- 
ciated ;  and  no  one  will  deny  that 
Turkey  has  that  quality  in  a  sufficiently 
high  degree  to  make  up  for  no  small 
defect  of  strength.  So  much  for  what 
Turkey  has  gained  from  a  moral  point 


1880.] 


Tlie  Diplomacy  of  Fanaticism. 


of  view.  The  material  advantages  re- 
sulting from  her  conduct  are  no  less 
important.  The  Porte  cedes  Dulcigno 
to  Montenegro,  but  it  gains  its  point 
in  regard  to  the  other  portions  of  the 
Montenegrin  frontier,  and,  moreover, 
wards  off  the  occupation  of  Smyrna 
and  Salonica,  upon  which  England 
and  Eussia  seemed  resolved.  Add  to 
this  that  Turkey  now  has  little  reason 
to  be  disturbed  as  to  the  Greek  ques- 
tion, and  still  less  as  to  the  Armenian, 
and  the  principal  advantages  accru- 
ing to  Turkey  from  her  resistance  are 
enumerated." 

It  cannot  be  denied  that  the 
Sultan  has  achieved  all  these  ob- 
jects at  the  price  of  surrendering 
what  he  always  expressed  himself 
willing  in  his  own  way  and  at 
his  own  time  to  surrender  to 
Montenegro ;  and  a  wise  Minister 
should  have  foreseen  that,  so  far 
from  expediting  matters  or  pav- 
ing the  way  for  a  solution  of 
the  questions  still  unsettled,  the 
empty  -  revolver  policy  was  the 
worst  that  could  be  pursued.  But 
there  were  other  reasons  why  a 
knowledge  of  local  conditions  should 
have  convinced  Mr  Gladstone  that 
this  was  so.  It  may  be  possible  for 
the  Sultan  to  induce  the  Albanians, 
by  methods  of  persuasion,  cajolery, 
or  bribery,  known  to  himself,  to 
induce  them  to  cede  Dulcigno  with- 
out a  struggle-;— though  this  is  ex- 
tremely doubtful — if  left  entirely  to 
himself;  but  it  became  far  more  diffi- 
cult if  they  were  dared  to  protect 
their  own  territory  by  allied  Europe. 
Nothing  could  be  calculated  to  ex- 
cite a  wild  spirit  of  daring  and 
defiance  in  the  minds  of  a  race  as 
heroic  as  "the  most  heroic  race  in 
Europe,"  so  much  as  the  spectacle 
of  the  fleets  of  Europe  blazing  away 
at  them  from  impossible  distances 
while  they  were  fighting  the  Mon- 
tenegrins. It  was  a  sort  of  safe 
running  accompaniment  of  war, 
which  would  flatter  their  vanity  to 


the  highest  extent.  They  knew  per- 
fectly well  that  no  disembarkations 
were  to  be  allowed  from  the  fleet ; 
they  were  perfectly  well  aware  that 
their  positions  were  out  of  the  range 
of  the  ships,  or  at  any  rate  so  nearly 
out  of  range  that  there  would  not 
be  much  danger,  but  immense 
swagger  to  be  derived  from  being 
close  enough  to  be  fired  at  by 
allied  Europe ;  and  the  transference 
of  Dulcigno  to  Montenegro,  under 
the  guns  of  the  fleets,  was  therefore 
a  far  more  difficult  matter  for  the 
Sultan  to  achieve  than  if  the  naval 
demonstration  had  not  been  threat- 
ened. But  in  addition  to  these 
considerations,  there  is  another 
reason  especially  connected  with 
concessions  either  to  Greece  or 
Montenegro,  which  renders  a  for- 
cible disruption  of  his  own  terri- 
tory against  the  wish  of  its  popula- 
tion in  favour  of  those  countries  a 
matter  of  extreme  difficulty.  And 
this  consists  in  the  necessity  of 
considering  the  feelings  of  his  own 
body-guard  on  the  subject.  The 
Sultan  is  a  prey,  not  altogether 
without  reason,  considering  the  fate 
of  his  predecessors,  to  an  abiding 
apprehension  of  conspiracy  and 
assassination,  and  has  surrounded 
himself  with  a  body-guard  drawn 
not  from  Constantinople  or  its 
neighbourhood,  but  from  the  moun- 
tains of  Albania,  and  from  a  race  in 
whom  he  has  implicit  confidence  ; 
and  he  is  firmly  and  probably 
rightly  convinced  that,  if  he  gave 
orders  to  his  troops  under  Riza 
Pasha  to  fire  upon  the  brothers  and 
cousins  of  these  men,  his  life  would 
not  be  worth  a  day's  purchase.  He 
cannot  dispense  with  them,  because 
he  believes  his  safety  to  depend  upon 
their  constant  watchfulness,  and  he 
has  therefore  no  alternative  but  to 
consider  their  feelings.  To  those 
who  know  the  influences  dominant 
at  the  Palace,  the  idea  that  any 


G54 


The  Unloaded  Revolver — 


[Xov. 


number  of  European  ships  off  the 
coast  of  Albania  would  induce  the 
Sultan  to  risk  his  life,  or  that  the 
cession  of  Dulcigno  would  be  sim- 
plified by  a  demonstration  of  naval 
force,  was  an  absolute  absurdity. 
The  moment  that  a  great  display 
of  force  should  be  made  within 
gunshot  of  the  Albanian  position, 
the  matter  would  practically  be 
taken  out  of  the  Sultan's  hands. 
His  dignity  would  be  outraged,  his 
authority  compromised  in  the  eyes 
of  his  subjects.  His  personal  safety 
would  be  endangered.  The  warlike 
enthusiasm  of  the  local  population 
would  be  excited  to  the  highest 
pitch,  and  the  spark  probably  flung 
into  a  magazine  of  combustible 
materials  which  might  explode 
throughout  the  length  and  breadth 
of  his  empire.  Eeasons  of  state 
policy,  therefore,  no  less  than  a 
sense  of  wounded  pride,  compelled 
him  to  anticipate  so  dangerous  a 
contingency  by  meeting  coercion 
with  defiance,  and  of  risking  all  in 
the  hope  of  covering  the  bluster  of 
his  "  bag-and-baggage  "  enemy  with 
contempt  and  ridicule;  and  hence 
it  is  that  there  has  from  the  outset 
been  positively  no  excuse  whatever 
for  a  policy  which,  it  has  now  been 
proved,  is  utterly  inapplicable  to 
the  solution  of  the  Eastern  question. 
Just  as  no  Turk  conversant  with 
the  rivalries  of  European  Powers 
ever  believed  in  the  possibility  of 
a  European  concert  lasting  long 
enough  to  culminate  in  physical 
coercion,  so  no  foreigners  conver- 
sant with  the  local  conditions  ever 
believed,  from  the  day  it  was  first 
talked  of,  that  a  naval  demonstra- 
tion off  the  coast  of  Albania  would 
fulfil  the  expectations  which  had 
been  based  upon  it. 

The  best  proof  that  this  is  so  is 
to  be  found  in  the  fact  that  even 
Mr  Gladstone  would  not  again  have 
the  effrontery  to  tell  the  electors 


of  Mid  -  Lothian  that  those  who 
denied  that  concerted  moral  pres- 
sure would  force  Turkey  to  yield 
Janina  and  Metzovo  to  Greece 
talked  "  absolute  nonsense."  It 
must  be  remembered  that,  inasmuch 
as  the  Sultan  had  always  expressed 
his  willingness  to  comply  with  the 
Treaty  of  Berlin,  so  far  as  Monte- 
negro was  concerned,  he  has  per- 
sistently refused  to  accept  either 
the  recommendation  of  the  Berlin 
Protocol  or  the  later  decision  of  the 
Conference  in  regard  to  Greece; 
and  it  was  specially  to  procure 
Greece  its  increased  territory  that 
the  policy  of  moral  coercion  and 
naval  demonstration  was  proposed. 
So  far  as  all  the  outstanding  ques- 
tions waiting  for  solution  in  the 
East  are  concerned,  the  Government 
is  now,  in  consequence  of  this  Mon- 
tenegrin fiasco,  left  absolutely  with- 
out a  policy,  unless  they  are  pre- 
pared to  venture  single-handed,  or 
in  alliance  with  Russia,  on  a  war 
with  Turkey.  A  concert  of  Powers 
for  further  action  in  the  East  is 
impossible  ;  and  even  if  it  was,  Mr 
Gladstone  would  be  obliged  to  ad- 
mit that  he  could  no  longer  nurse 
the  delusion  that  the  Porte  would 
yield  to  it.  He  has  at  least  dis-  • 
covered  that  the  whole  theory  upon 
which  he  reared  his  fabric,  depended 
for  success  not  upon  a  Cabinet  of 
oriental  moral  cowards,  but  upon 
the  will  of  one  man  no  less  "  earn- 
est," no  less  obstinate,  quite  as 
ignorant  as  he  was  himself,  and 
whose  policy  of  resistance  was 
mainly  based  not  on  a  desire  for 
office  or  a  thirst  for  vengeance  on  a 
political  adversary,  but  upon  the 
most  powerful  considerations  of  po- 
litical expediency,  personal  safety, 
and  religious  fanaticism.  And,  in- 
deed, when  we  come  to  review  the 
theological  side  of  the  question,  witl 
which  Mr  Gladstone  is  eminent 
qualified  to  sympathise,  it  see: 


1880.] 


The  Diplomacy  of  Fanaticism. 


655 


difficult  to  understand  why  the 
Prime  Minister,  whose  religious 
susceptibilities  are  so  keen,  should 
not  take  into  account  tendencies 
which  are  quite  as  strongly  devel- 
oped in  the  character  of  his  Moslem 
antagonist  as  they  are  in  his  own. 
There  are  attached  to  the  Palace 
Mollahs  and  holy  men  whose  opin- 
ion upon  the  religious  bearing  of 
political  questions  his  Majesty  can- 
not ignore.  The  considerations 
which  they  involve  strike  at  the 
root  of  his  spiritual  headship  of 
Islam  ;  and  the  allegiance  of  his 
subjects  in  a  degree  depends  upon* 
the  manner  in  which  he  fulfils  the 
sacred  duties  laid  upon  him  in 
virtue  of  his  position  as  Khalif. 
When,  therefore,  a  council  of  Ule- 
mas  decide  that  to  yield  to  concerted 
moral  pressure  on  the  part  of  the 
Ghiaour  is  to  betray  the  highest 
functions  of  his  office,  he  is  bound 
to  give  weight  to  such  a  decision ; 
and  a  fetva  issued  by  the  Sheikh- 
xil-Islam  is  not  a  document  that  can 
be  lightly  cast  aside.  From  the 
Sultan's  point  of  view,  strange  as 
it  may  seem,  Mr  Gladstone  is  as 
"  wicked,"  as  "  immoral,"  and  as 
"  utterly  unprincipled  "  as  Lord 
Beaconsfield  is  from  Mr  Glad- 
stone's. An  enthusiast  in  his  reli- 
gious bigotry,  he  views  the  polit- 
ical questions  which  involve  the 
highest  interests  of  his  country  from 
a  narrow,  ignorant,  personal,  and 
highly  prejudiced  stand-point,  and 
is  urged  by  the  intense  earnestness 
of  his  impulses  to  reckless  expedi- 
ents, of  which  a  striking  illustra- 
tion is  furnished  by  the  Note  of  the 
4th  October  presented  by  the  Porte, 
and  which  was  drawn  up  at  the 
Palace,  and,  as  we  learn  from  the 
'Times' '  correspondent,  received  the 
approval  of  his  Excellency  Bahram 
Aga,  chief  of  the  black  eunuchs,  an 
official  who  possesses  a  great  ascend- 
ancy over  the  mind  of  his  Majesty. 


It  is  probable  that,  if  the  Prime  Min- 
ister had  realised  from  the  first  that 
practically  he  would  have  to  deal 
with  the  Sultan  alone,  and  how 
many  points  of  resemblance  in  char- 
acter existed  between  himself  and 
his  Majesty,  he  would  never  have 
indulged  in  the  insane  delusion  that 
the  latter  would  not  yield  to  a 
concert  of  Powers,  and  concede  the 
Greek  frontier  defined  by  the  last 
Berlin  Conference.  "We  doubt  very 
much  whether  the  concerted  moral 
pressure  of  all  Europe  would  compel 
Mr  Gladstone  to  enter  a  Cabinet 
of  which  Lord  Beaconsfield  was 
Premier;  and  yet,  in  expecting  him 
to  give  up  territory  to  Greece,  he  is 
demanding  from  the  Sultan  a  con- 
cession which  is  quite  as  galling 
to  all  his  most  cherished  suscepti- 
bilities. Hence,  as  far  as  it  is  pos- 
sible to  judge  from  the  opportun- 
ities which  have  been  afforded  us 
of  estimating  the  characters  of  these 
two  most  interesting  natures,  it  is 
probable  that,  had  Mr  Gladstone 
been  Sultan  of  Turkey,  he  would 
have  acted  almost  exactly  as  that 
high  personage  has  done.  Indeed 
it  was  impossible  to  read  the  Note 
above  referred  to  without  being 
struck  by  a  certain  casuistical  so- 
phistry, which  seemed  to  have  a 
familiar  ring  about  it,  and  bears  a 
remarkable  resemblance,  in  some  of 
its  more  obscure  and  involved  pas- 
sages, to  utterances  to  which  we  are 
so  well  accustomed. 

How  well,  for  instance,  we  know 
the  tactics  of  confusing  issues ! 
The  Powers  try  to  pin  the  Sultan 
down  to  the  question  of  Monte- 
negro ;  but  his  Majesty,  in  his  last 
Note,  buries  it  in  the  mass  of  all 
the  points  awaiting  settlement,  and 
drags  in  Armenian  reform,  Turkish 
bondholders,  Bulgarian  fortresses, 
and  all  the  rest  of  it.  "We  almost 
think  we  hear  Mr  Gladstone  reply- 
ing to  inconvenient  "  hecklers  "  on 


65  G 


The  Unladed  Revolver— 


[Xov. 


the  subject  of  the  Disestablishment 
of  the  Scotch  Kirk,  and  burying 
that  unpleasant  issue  in  a  cloud  of 
moral  phrases  on  foreign  politics. 

It  would  be  unjust,  however,  to 
the  Sultan  not  to  concede  to  his 
fanaticism  a  more  patriotic  character 
than  that  which  characterises  Mr 
Gladstone's.  Perhaps  the  most  re- 
markable distinction  in  the  earnest- 
ness of  the  two  men  is  to  be  found 
in  the  fact  that  his  Majesty  mani- 
fests upon  every  occasion  a  most 
ardent  desire  to  protect  his  own 
empire  and  nationality;  while  Mr 
Gladstone  expends  his  enthusiasm 
on  other  nationalities  of  every  de- 
scription, and  manifests  a  most  pro- 
found indifference  to  the  interests 
of  the  British  race  and  empire. 
Again  the  Sultan  appears  to  have  a 
sense  of  humour  to  which  his  great 
Christian  prototype  can  lay  no 
claim.  There  is  something  very 
comical  in  his  apprehension,  as 
stated  in  his  last  Ultimatum,  that 
the  Powers  of  Europe  might  apply 
moral  pressure  by  means  of  a  naval 
demonstration  to  extort  the  Eussian 
indemnity.  The  manner  in  which 
he  replied  to  the  moral  naval  de- 
monstration— which  was  not  to  fight, 
except  possibly  against  Albanians, — 
by  a  moral  military  demonstration 
— which  was  not  to  fight,  except  pos- 
sibly against  Montenegrins — was  a 
fine  piece  of  irony.  Altogether  it 
is  impossible  to  deny  that  Mr  Glad- 
stone has  met  his  match;  and  while 
regretting  it  in  the  interests  of  peace 
generally,  and  of  England  and 
Turkey  in  particular,  the  lesson  will 
not  have  been  thrown  away,  if  it 
has  taught  the  British  elector  that 
violent  denunciation,  moral  plati- 
tudes, and  an  overweening  assump- 
tion of  superior  knowledge,  clothed 
in  well-rounded  periods  of  "  random 
rhetoric,"  do  not  necessarily  convey 
sound  political  sense,  or  imply  an 
accurate  appreciation  of  facts  ;  and 


that  diplomatic  theories  evolved, 
not  from  acquaintance  with  local 
conditions,  but  from  an  overpower- 
ing sense  of  injury  at  the  hands  of 
a  political  opponent,  and  the  im- 
pulses of  personal  rivalry,  may, 
when  put  into  practice,  land  the 
nation  in  a  dilemma  in  which  it  has 
to  choose  between  a  disastrous  and 
unholy  war  or  an  undignified  and 
humiliating  retreat.  That  this  is  not 
a  purely  party  or  prejudiced  view 
of  the  situation,  may  be  gathered 
from  the  comments  of  the  European 
press,  which  are  the  more  valuable 
not  only  as  they  are  more  impartial 
and  unbiassed  by  local  party  feeling, 
but  because  experience  proves  that 
the  universal  consensus  of  foreign 
public  opinion  is  always  more  coin- 
cident with  the  verdict  of  history 
than  the  views  which  are  to  be 
gathered  from  the  domestic  press. 
What  that  opinion  is  may  be  seen 
from  the  following  quotations.  The 
'  National  Zeitung,'  a  leading  Libe- 
ral German  paper,  says  that — 

"The  history  of  Europe  is  at  the 
present  time  only  to  be  understood 
from  the  standpoint  of  English  party 
politics.  If  Mr  Gladstone  were  obliged 
to  turn  back  from  the  path  he  has 
entered  upon,  under  the  guidance  of 
thoughtless  passion,  the  Gladstone 
Cabinet  and  the  Whigs  would  be  in 
danger.  That  Mr  Gladstone  believes 
he  owes  it  to  himself  and  his  friends  to 
make  a  further  venture  after  the  first 
check  we  can  well  understand.  The 
question  whether  Mr  Gladstone  is 
carrying  on  an  English  or  party  policy 
we  must  leave  for  England  to  decide. 
It  seems  to  us  as  if  his  attitude  far  ex- 
ceeded the  limits  necessitated  by  Eng- 
land's interests  in  the  maintenance  of 
her  Asiatic  position.  The  logical  con- 
clusion of  what  Mr  Gladstone  is  doing 
is  the  entry  of  the  Russians  into  Con- 
stantinople, and  their  firm  establish- 
ment in  Armenia  and  Asia  Minor,  in 
a  situation  threatening  the  road  to 
India  in  front  and  flank.  Probably 
Mr  Gladstone  and  his  English  friends 
think  it  will  not  be  so  dangerous,  that 


1880.] 


The  Diplomacy  of  Fanaticism.  . 


657 


this  fire  may  be  played  with  for  a  time 
with  impunity.  He  is  apt  to  exclaim, 
with  Mercutio  in  'Romeo  and  Juliet," 
"  A  plague  on  both  your  houses ! " 
The  French  papers  have  already  work- 
ed themselves  into  an  excitement  con- 
trasting with  their  previous  calm  atti- 
tude. We  understand  the  task  which 
the  Conservative  Powers  in  Europe 
have  assigned  to  themselves  in  accom- 
panying Mr  Gladstone  in  his  experi- 
ments as  a  sort  of  keeper  to  look  after 
him,  but  we  see  them  now  apparently 
in  danger  of  being  infected  by  Mr 
Gladstone.  We  at  least  do  not  other- 
wise know  how  to  explain  the  excite- 
ment of  the  French  journals.  For 
what  interest  can  they  take  in  an  ex- 
periment? We  will  venture  on  no 
opinion  as  to  the  ultimate  issue  ;  but 
we  foresee  the  possibility  that  an 
utterly  aimless  policy  may  lead  where 
the  promoters  of  this  policy  are  least 
desirous  of  going.  Mr  Gladstone 
would  have  obliterated  the  memory 
of  Lord  Beaconsfield  by  the  brilliancy 
of  his  own  action  :  at  present  he  has 
only  furnished  him  with  a  foil  which 
he  did  not  possess  while  in  office. 
The  theological  statesman  has  follow- 
ed the  novelist  statesman,  and  Europe 
is  united  in  regarding  the  exchange  as 
a  bad  one.  But  when  the  Continental 
reader  sees  the  most  important  inter- 
ests of  Europe  dragged  into  the  arena 
of  English  party  politics  for  the  parti- 
tion of  the  East,  this  last  point  conies 
more  and  more  into  view." 

lu  an  •  article  in  the  '  Cologne 
Gazette,'  German  dissatisfaction 
with  the  English  Premier's  policy 
is  expressed  in  terms  more  than 
usually  energetic,  taking  into  con- 
sideration the  staunch  Liberal  ten- 
dencies of  the  German  journal. 

"  Mr  Gladstone  is  a  man  who  in- 
spires no  confidence.  His  presence 
at  the  head  of  the  British  Govern- 
ment is  the  cause  of  profound  dis- 
pleasure— of  a  highly  prejudicial  and 
undesirable  agitation  of  public  opin- 
ion throughout  Europe.  There  is  no 
action,  not  even  the  most  unreason- 
able, that  he  may  not  be  expected  to 
commit ;  and  as  long  as  the  might  of 
England  shall  remain,  like  a  soulless 
implement,  devoid  of  will,  in  his 


hands,  every  man  on  the  Continent  is 
justified  in  asking  himself  at  night- 
time, "  What  will  to  -  morrow's  day 
bring  to  the  world  from  London  ?'" 
One  can  deal  with  wicked  or  stupid 
men,  although  'more  readily  exposed 
in  such  transactions  to  errors  than 
when  one  has  to  do  with  honourable 
and  clever  people  ;  but  the  actions  of 
a  fanatic  can  as  Little  be  foreseen  as 
those  of  a  maniac.  And  Mr  Glad- 
stone is  a  fanatic.  He  pursues  lofty, 
unattainable,  mystic  aims,  and,  in 
order  to  attain  them,  catches  at  the 
most  unexpected  expedients.  Who, 
a  few  months  ago,  would  have  be- 
lieved it  possible  that  England  should 
have  suddenly  renounced  its  policy 
of  ages  in  the  East,  and,  in  complicity 
with  Russia,  should  have  displayed  a 
ready  alacrity  to  raise  its  sword  in 
order  to  deal  Turkey  her  death-blow  ? 
The  menacing  likelihood  of  provoking 
a  monstrous  world -conflagration  did 
not  deter  Mr  Gladstone  from  making 
ready  to  do  this  deed  ;  nor  is  it  any 
injustice  to  him  to  assert  that,  checked 
in  his  enterprise  by  the  unexpectedly 
conciliatory  behaviour  of  Turkey, 
he  has  most  unwillingly  returned  his 
brandished  sword  to  its  sheath.  We  re- 
gard it  as  a  great  misfortune  for  Eng- 
land that  such  a  man  as  Mr  Gladstone 
should  be  tolerated  in  that  country  at 
the  head  of  the  Government ;  but  we 
willingly  recognise  the  right  of  our 
neighbours  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Channel  to  be  happy  in  their  own 
way.  It  has  astounded  us  that  Eng- 
lish pride  should  have  endured  that 
the  Prime  Minister  of  Great  Britain 
should  have  been  forced  to  tender  a 
formal  apology  to  Austria  for  the 
insults  he  had  heaped  upon  that 
Empire  during  his  electioneering  cam- 
paign. We  believe  that  the  immeas- 
urable Irish  difficulties  into  which 
England  has  been  partially  thrust 
by  his  blunders,  and  the  '  Elective 
Affinities'  existing  between  his  aims 
and  those  of  the  worst  European  re- 
volutionary elements,  will  sooner  or 
later  open  Englishmen's  eyes,  and  in- 
cite them  to  deprive  him  of  the  means 
of  inflicting  further  injury  upon  his 
own  country  and  the  world  at  large. 
This,  however,  and  other  similar  mat- 
ters, are  the  affair  of  the  British  na- 
tion. Our  cares  are  nearer  to  us  still. 


658 


The  Unloaded  Revolver — 


It  is  our  desire  to  make  ourselves 
independent,  so  far  as  possible,  of  the 
Gladstonian  policy,  in  order  that  we 
may  suffer  from  it  as  little  as  may  be. 
We  therefore  hope  that  the  consider- 
ate reserve  of  the  Continental  Gov- 
ernments, hitherto  observed  in  the 
interests  of  peace,  but  a  further  main- 
tenance of  which  might  now  endanger 
it,  has  at  length  come  to  an  end ;  so 
that  the  people  of  Germany  and 
Austria,  at  least,  may  be  enabled  to 
say  with  confidence,  'We  will  not 
allow  ourselves  to  be  humbugged  into 
occupying  Smyrna,  blockading  the 
Dardanelles,  bombarding  Constanti- 
nople, or  other  measures  of  that  de- 
scription, such  as  Mr  Gladstone,  only 
a  few  days  ago,  proposed  to  put  into 
execution  at  an  early  date.' " 

The  Berlin,  correspondent  of  the 
'  Times '  tells  us  that,  "  a  deepening 
dislike  and  distrust  of  the  British 
Premier  are  beginning  to  be  dis- 
played throughout  all  Germany. 
Journals  of  every  hue  are  unani- 
mous upon  this  head,  however  much 
they  may  differ  upon  other  things." 
The  '  Conservative  Post '  declares 
that  "he  is  pursuing  a  policy  op- 
posed to  the  highest  interests  of  his 
country,  which  ought  to  be  his 
primary  consideration."  The  'Ke- 
vue  des  deux  Mondes'  describes 
him  "  as  a  prey  to  fanaticism,  which 
age  appears  only  to  inflame,  and 
which  has  often  played  him  an  ill 
turn,"  and  remarks  "  that  Mr  Glad- 
stone seems  to  have  returned  to 
power  expressly  to  show  that  Lord 
Beaconsfield  was  a  practical  man 
endowed  with  the  genius  of 
positive  diplomacy."  The  Conti- 
nental journals  are,  in  fact,  teeming 
with  complaints  which  practically 
amount  to  this,  that  so  long  as  they 
are  following  Mr  Gladstone's  lead, 
they  are  between  the  upper  and  the 
nether  millstone  of  rival  fanatics. 
"Europe,"  says  one  of  the  papers 
above  quoted,  "allows  Mr  Gladstone 
to  have  his  way  just  as  one  allows 
an  impetuous  and  violent  man  to 


[For, 

reduce  his  actions  to  absurdity,  by 
allowing  him  free  hand,  rather  than 
attempt  to  influence  him  by  rational 
considerations."  While  a  German 
writer  thus  indicates  the  mode 
of  treatment  which  he  considers  ap- 
plicable to  the  "  impetuous  and  vio- 
lent man  "  in  London,  the  Gambet- 
tist  organ,  curiously  enough,  on  the 
same  day,  commented  in  almost  sim- 
ilar language  upon  his  great  oppon- 
ent. "The  Note  of  the  Sultan," 
remarks  the  'Republique  Francaise,' 
"  has  so  exceeded  all  bounds,  that  it 
may  be  treated  like  the  acts  and 
words  of  those  partially  devoid  of 
reason.  .  .  .  The  Sultan's  will  is 
the  sole  obstacle  in  Constantinople. 
Wise  and  reflecting  minds  are  not 
lacking  who  deplore,  in  an  under- 
tone, their  sovereign's  strange  ob- 
stinacy." The  same  remark  may 
even  be  said  to  apply  to  sage  and 
reflecting  minds  in  London  in  regard 
to  their  Prime  Minister.  "There 
are  some,"  the  French  paper  con- 
tinues, "  who  ascribe  it  to  a  state 
of  mental  derangement,  the  signs 
of  which  are  becoming  more  and 
more  marked."  Under  these  circum- 
stances we  have  no  difficulty  in 
divining  the  Gladstonian  remedy. 
"  It  is  probable,"  says  the  '  Daily 
News,'  alluding  to  the  possibility  of 
the  Sultan's  deposition,  "  that  the 
solution  of  the  question  may,  as  we 
hinted  some  days  ago,  be  found  in 
this  release  of  Turkey  from  the  per- 
sonal misgovernment  under  which 
she  labours."  The  Turkish  '  Vakit ' 
and  'Terdjumani  Hakikat,'  writ- 
ing under  Imperial  inspiration, 
have  already  suggested  that  this 
solution  be  applied  to  Mr  Glad- 
stone. Indeed,  those  who  have 
had  an  opportunity  of  reading 
the  articles  of  these  papers  can- 
not but  be  struck  by  the  extra- 
ordinary similarity  of  the  language 
which  they  employ  with  regard  to 
Mr  Gladstone,  with  that  which  the 


1880.] 


The  Diplomacy  of  Fanaticism. 


C59 


English  Radical  organs  apply  to 
the  Sultan.  Thus,  the  press  of  all 
countries  have  come  to  understand 
that  it  is  a  duel  of  fanatics  ;  and  this 
it  is  which  has  created  the  extraor- 
dinary difficulty  of  the  situation,  and 
finally  hroken  up  the  European  con- 
cert. On  the  other  hand,  it  has  been 
due  to  these  opposing  forces  that 
the  concert  was  so  long  maintained. 
The  Foreign  Powers  were  afraid, 
by  breaking  it  up  before  they  had 
formed  new  combinations,  of  losing 
the  control  which  it  gave  them  over 
the  actions  of  the  British  Premier, 
whose  fanaticism  is  all  the  more 
dangerous  because  it  is  unconscious, 
and  no  man  can  predict  to  what 
lengths  it  may  lead  him.  The 
Sultan,  on  the  other  hand,  derives 
his  strength  from  the  consciousness 
of  his  own  fanaticism — it  is  a  part 
of  his  creed ;  and  the  only  person 
who  did  not  seem  to  know  that 
it  would  give  him  a  moral  force 
which  might  culminate  in  a  de- 
fiance of  Europe  was  Mr  Glad- 
stone, who,  if  he  had  himself  been  a 
conscious  fanatic,  would  have  given 
the  Sultan  credit  for  a  courage 
which  has  completely  falsified  his 
predictions.  All  this,  however, 
did  not  simplify  matters  so  far  as 
Europe  was  concerned.  The  Powers 
found  themselves  dragged  into  the 
unknown  by  two  proud  and  reck- 
less spirits, — the  one  animated  by 
the  fanaticism  of  bigotry  and  de- 
spair, and  the  other  of  ambition 
and — earnestness, — and  have  not 
been  slow  to  avail  themselves  of 
the  opportunity  afforded  by  the 
Sultan's  defiance,  to  extricate  them- 
selves from  so  unpleasant  a  posi- 
tion. We  have  thus  shown  how  a 
greater  passive  and  conscious  fana- 
ticism may  successfully  resist  an 
active  but  lesser  and  unconscious 
fanaticism,  even  when  backed  by 
the  concerted  moral  force  of  Europe. 
So  far,  it  has  been  a  hand-to-hand 


struggle  between  the  champion 
of  Christendom  and  the  chief  of 
Islam;  and  the  conflict  is  by  no 
means  at  an  end.  Having  now 
alluded, — first,  to  the  personal  in- 
fluences which  operate  upon  the 
Sultan;  secondly,  to  the  religious 
sentiment  under  which  he  acts : 
we  have  still  to  notice  the  poli- 
tical considerations  by  which  he 
is  influenced,  —  first,  in  adopting 
that  attitude  of  defiance  and  resist- 
ance which  has  amazed  Europe  in 
general,  but  Mr  Gladstone  in  par- 
ticular ;  and  latterly,  in  yielding  to 
Prince  Bismarck.  On  the  accession 
of  the  Liberal  party  to  power,  the 
Sultan  found  himself  face  to  face 
with  an  entirely  new  combination 
of  circumstances.  He  had  been 
informed —unofficially,  it  is  true — 
that,  in  the  opinion  of  the  Prime 
Minister  of  England  "  when  he  was 
in  an  irresponsible  position,"  it  is  in 
the  interests  of  that  country  that 
the  governing  Turk  should  be 
ejected  "  bag  and  baggage  "  from 
Europe ;  and  he  had  every  reason 
to  believe  that  his  old  ally  was  pre- 
pared to  go  to  war  in  partnership 
with  Russia  to  carry  out  this  policy. 
When,  in  addition  to  this,  he  hears 
the  Archduke  Rudolph  of  Austria 
openly  discussing  the  probability  of 
Salonica  being  annexed  to  that  em- 
pire,— when  he  knows  that  Bulgaria, 
Roumelia,  and  Macedonia  are  honey- 
combed with  secret  societies — that 
they  have  been  supplied  by  Russia 
with  officers,  soldiers,  and  munitions 
of  war;  that  Servia,  Montenegro, 
and  Greece  are  all  collecting  armies 
to  invade  his  empire ;  and  that  the 
elements  of  a  conflagration  have 
been  prepared,  and  the  lighting  the 
match  is  only  a  question  of  oppor- 
tunity, and  depends  on  the  pleasure 
of  Russia, — it  is  no  longer  a  doubt 
in  his  mind  as  to  what  the  inten- 
tions of  Europe  are  with  regard  to 
Turkey.  He  perceives  that  the 


GGO 


Tlte  Unloaded  Revolver — 


process  of  its  dismemberment  is  al- 
ready begun  in  theory.  The  point 
he  has  to  consider  is  how  to  make 
it  the  most  difficult  of  achievement 
to  the  enemies,  open  and  declared, 
by  whom  he  is  surrounded.  He  be- 
lieves the  enforcement  of  the  Treaty 
of  Berlin  a  mere  pretext  or  blind  to 
cover  their  hostile  intentions.  If 
they  were  in  earnest  to  have  it  ful- 
filled, he  naturally  says,  "  Why  do 
they  not  insist  upon  the  fulfilment 
of  those  clauses  which  Russia,  Bul- 
garia, and  Roumelia  ignore  ?  Why 
do  they  force  legality  against  me, 
but  act  with  flagrant  illegality  to- 
wards me?  Why  seek  to  compel 
me  to  give  provinces  to  Greece  be- 
yond the  line  suggested  in  the  Ber- 
-lin  Protocol1?  and  why  seek  to  give 
the  recommendation  in  a  protocol 
the  same  binding  effect  as  a  clause 
in  the  Treaty  1 — and  all  this  in  de- 
fiance of  a  record  in  the  18th  Proto- 
col that,  when  Eussia  proposed  at 
Berlin  to  give  the  Powers  of  Europe 
the  right  under  the  treaty  '  to  con- 
trol and  superintend  the  execution 
of  it,'  the  proposal  was  rejected  by 
a  majority  of  votes."  In  the  face  of 
all  this,  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at 
if  the  Sultan  should  look  beyond 
the  ostensible  demands  put  forward 
by  the  Powers,  and  consider  them 
merely  as  an  insidious  device  to 
bring  about  the  disruption  they 
contemplate.  "Why,"  he  says, 
"should  even  the  rectification  of 
the  Greek  frontier  satisfy  my  bag- 
and-baggage  enemy,  it  will  simply 
render  my  expulsion  more  easy :  if  I 
am  to  be  kicked  out  of  Europe,  the 
sooner  I  resist  the  process  the  bet- 
ter :  giving  up  portions  of  my  em- 
pire piecemeal,  under  mere  moral 
threats,  may  diminish  it  indefi- 
nitely, especially  now  that  the 
aspirations  of  any  petty  neighbour- 
ing nationality  are  sufficient  to 
justify  the  intervention  of  my 
European  enemies.  The  sooner  we 


[Xov. 


all  throw  off  the  masks  under  which 
we  are  diplomatising  the  better." 
So  he  boldly  cast  it  aside  when  he 
ordered  Eiza  Pasha  to  resist  the 
cession  of  Dulcigno,  if  need  be 
by  force — and  thus  paralysed  the 
movements  of  the  fleets,  and  kept 
them  bottled  up  in  an  Austrian 
harbour.  And  we  may  be  quite 
sure  he  will  do  the  same  again, 
should  the  Powers — which  it  is 
certain  they  will  not — ever  again 
attempt  to  resort  to  the  tactics  of 
Mr  Gladstone.  The  Sultan  has,  no 
doubt,  the  assurances  of  Germany 
and  France  that  there  is  no  danger 
on  this  score,  and  having  obtained 
from  their  ambassadors  the  promise 
that  the  principle  of  concerted  pres- 
sure and  naval  demonstration  shall 
be  abandoned,  he  conditionally 
yields  to  the  persuasion  and  con- 
solatory assurances  of  Count  Hatz- 
feld  what  he  persistently  denied  to 
the  threats  of  Mr  Goschen. 

But  this,  so  far  as  Mr  Gladstone 
and  his  policy  are  concerned,  by  no 
means  clears  the  way  for  the  future. 
It  is  scarcely  possible  to  suppose 
that  the  Government,  after  all  their 
preparations  to  coerce  the  Turk  into 
ceding  provinces  to  Greece,  insist- 
ing upon  reforms  in  Armenia,  and 
forwarding  Panslav  aspirations, 
are  to  be  contented  with  Count 
Hatzfeld's  success,  and  abandon 
their  whole  policy  of  coercion.  It 
is  certain  that  the  object  of  the 
naval  demonstration  was  not  to  be 
limited  to  the  partial  fulfilment  by 
the  Sultan  of  a  clause  in  the  Treaty 
of  Berlin,  which  he  always  an- 
nounced his  intention  of  fulfilling  ; 
and  in  viewof  the  possible  intentions 
of  the  Government  for  the  future,  it 
is  as  well  to  consider  how  their  pol- 
icy in  the  past  has  affected  their  re- 
lations towards  the  different  Euro- 
pean Powers.  So  far  as  Germany, 
Austria,  and  France  are  concerned, 
they  may  be  considered  to  have 


1880.J 


The  Diplomacy  of  Fanaticism. 


6G1 


definitely  separated  themselves  from 
the  policy  of  Mr  Gladstone,  and 
formed  a  concert  of  their  own.  In- 
deed, the  '  National  Zeitung '  leaves 
us  in  no  doubt  upon  this  point,  but 
distinctly  asserts  "  that  Germany 
would  protest  against  the  action  of 
Eussia  and  England,  if  they  pro- 
posed coercive  measures  against 
Turkey  which  amounted  to  a  declar- 
ation of  war.  Prince  Bismarck  has 
caused  this  to  be  understood  in 
London,  and  he  has  been  supported 
in  so  doing  by  Austro-Hungary  and 
France."  In  regard  to  Eussia,  per- 
haps the  best  indication  which  we 
have  of  the  official  political  senti- 
ments existing  in  that  country  is 
to  be  gathered  from  extracts  from 
utterances  of  the  press.  These, 
considering  their  inspired  nature, 
and  the  restrictions  which  exist  pre- 
venting the  dissemination  of  views 
which  are  not  in  accordance  with 
official  views,  possess  a  significance 
which  do  not  attach  to  journalistic 
opinions  in  any  other  country. 

We  have  already  shown  that  the 
European  Powers  are  conscious  that 
they  have  had  all  through  this 
later  phase  of  the  Eastern  difficulty 
to  deal  with  two  fanatics,  who  have 
now  reached  a  s'age  when  they 
produce  upon  each  other  the  effect 
of  a  red  flag  upon  a  bull.  "While, 
however,  Eussia  acts  the  part  of  a 
Spanish  picador  upon  both,  it  has  of 
lite  been  the  mission  of  Germany, 
France,  and  Austria,  who  foresee 
the  dangerous  consequences  of  their 
reckless  defiance  of  each  other's 
threats  and  promises,  to  endea- 
vour to  control  or  cajole  the  infu- 
riated animals.  It  is  manifestly  in 
the  interest  of  Eussia  to  reopen  the 
whole  Eastern  question  indirect- 
ly through  Montenegrin  demands 
upon  Europe,  Panslavic  agitation, 
and  British  impetuosity.  Hence 
she  counsels  caution  and  suggests 
quibbles  and  dilatory  pleas  to 


Prince  Mkita,  supplies  the  Prince 
of  Bulgaria  with  volunteers  and  the 
munitions  of  war,  and  is  profuse  in 
her  support  of  Mr  Gladstone,  while 
through  her  secret  agents  at  the 
Palace  she  encourages  the  obstinacy 
of  the  Sultan.  By  these  subtle  and 
covert  methods  she  hopes  to  hurry 
her  traditional  enemies  to  a  cata- 
strophe from  which  she  alone  can 
profit  at  their  expense.  Meanwhile 
the  Eussian  press  betrays  its  satis- 
faction at  the  dilemma  in  Avhich 
England  has  been  placed,  and  from 
which  the  only  escape  is  to  obey 
the  behests  of  the  Petersburg  dip- 
lomats, with  a  cynicism  which  it 
takes  no  pains  to  disguise.  Thus 
the  ' Novoe  Vremya '  writes  :  "Of 
all  the  Powers,  there  remain  but 
England  and  Eussia  who  can  act 
in  harmony  in  regard  to  the  Eastern 
question.  But  England  herself  does 
not  know  what  to  decide  upon,  and 
not  having  any  direct  and  imme- 
diate interest  in  the  Sclavonic 
cause,  must  inevitably  follow  the 
suggestions  of  Eussia,  if  only  her 
desire  to  solve  the  Eastern  question 
is  genuine."  Elsewhere  we  are  in- 
formed from  St  Petersburg  "that 
the  Eussian  Government  will  agree 
to  any  steps  proposed  by  the  British 
Cabinet  with  the  object  of  enforcing 
on  the  Porte  the  fulfilment  of  its 
obligations,  provided  that  England 
takes  the  lead  in  such  measures," 
— which  is  not  to  be  wondered  at, 
considering  that  when  the  measures 
in  which  England  does  take  the 
lead  seem  likely  to  result  in  humi- 
liation and  disgrace,  they  furnish 
our  complaisant  allies  with  grounds 
for  unmitigated  exultation  :  for 
what  says  the  '  Novosti '  1 — "  It  is 
necessary  to  be  able  adroitly  to 
profit  by  such  a  favourable  compli- 
cation of  circumstances.  Eussia 
can  at  any  given  moment  decide 
the  fate  of  Turkey.  Up  to  the 
present  Eussia  has  acted  very 


G62 


The  Unloaded  Revolver — 


[Nor. 


wisely,  and  has  not  in  the  least 
compromised  herself.  If  the  Eng- 
lish press  regards  the  failure  of  the 
naval  demonstration  as  a  shame 
for  all  Europe,  it  is  not  altogether 
correct.  If  anybody  is  stultified 
and  made  ridiculous  it  is  England 
alone,  hy  whose  initiative  was  un- 
dertaken this  unfortunate  demon- 
stration." And,  again,  "  England 
has  got  herself  into  the  same  pre- 
dicament Russia  floundered  into  in 
1877, — she  must  go  forward — she 
cannot  turn  back.  In  front  of  her 
is  war,  at  the  hack  of  her  are  the 
jeers  and  the  sneers  of  Europe. 
Eussia  in  1877,  enraged  at  the 
Porte's  obstinacy,  flung  herself 
single-handed  upon  the  Moslem  foe. 
England  in  1880  is  more  cautious; 
she  wants  now  to  drag  Europe  into 
the  struggle  with  her.  She  seeks 
now,  not  to  carry  out  the  Treaty  of 
Berlin,  but  the  Treaty  of  San  Ste- 
phano.  Eussia  cannot  wish  more 
than  this,  but  England  must  feel 
sorry  she  ever  curtailed  the  Sari 
Stephano  convention,  since  she  it 
is  who  to-day  thrusts  it  most  effu- 
sively upon  the  Sultan." 

"  England,"  says  the  '  Golos,'  "  is 
quite  prepared  to  take  coercive 
measures  alone  and  unaided,  and 
in  so  far  as  she  helped  the  Scla- 
vonic cause  at  the  expense  of  Tur- 
key, she  would  be  playing  Eussia's 
game  to  the  unbounded  satisfaction 
of  that  Power." 

This,  then,  is  the  extraordinary 
position  into  which  Mr  Gladstone 
has  brought  the  country  by  his 
policy  of  moral  coercion  and  alli- 
ance with  Eussia.  Public  opinion 
in  that  country  is  sneeringly  telling 
England  to  carry  out  her  Eastern 
policy  for  her,  but  at  the  same  time 
warning  her  that  she  will  keep  an 
eye  on  her,  lest  she  tries  to  get  any 
advantage  for  herself  out  of  her 
eiforts  ;  while  Eussian  journals  re- 
serve to  themselves  the  right  of 


openly  laughing  at  the  scrapes  the 
Prime  Minister  is  getting  into  in 
his  attempts  to  undo  the  work  of 
his  predecessor,  and  carry  out  the 
policy  of  the  Czar.  The  results  of 
a  Eadical  foreign  policy  so  far  has 
been  to  fill  the  foreign  Cabinets 
with  alarm  and  perplexity,  to  court 
insult  and  defiance  from  Turkey, 
and  cover  us  with  the  ridicule  and 
contempt  of  Eussia.  To  the  whole 
of  Europe  we  present  an  inexpli- 
cable enigma.  Hitherto,  no  matter 
what  party  has  been  in  office,  Brit- 
ish foreign  policy  has  always  main- 
tained a  certain  consistency  and 
continuity  :  the  policy  of  Lord  Bea- 
consfield,  so  far  as  the  East  is  con- 
cerned, was  the  policy  of  Lord  Pal- 
merston,  and  the  most  sagacious 
British  statesmen  of  both  parties 
have  been  agreed  for  more  than  a 
generation  in  their  opinion  as  to 
the  quarter  from  which  Imperial 
interests  were  constantly  menaced. 
It  was  so  manifest  that  they  were 
right  in  their  appreciation,  that  the 
statesmen  of  every  European  Cabi- 
net apprehended  the  grounds  upon 
which  the  foreign  policy  was 
based,  and  in  their  diplomatic 
relations  could  rely  upon  Eng- 
land as  a  factor  in  European  poli- 
tics in  a  certain  well -understood 
sense.  Hence  we  could,  in  a  given 
contingency,  be  counted  upon  as  an 
ally ;  and  European  statesmen,  in 
making  their  political  forecasts, 
could  depend  with  more  or  less  cer- 
tainty upon  the  position  which 
England  would  take.  Kow  all  that 
is  changed.  We  have  become  an 
unknown  quantity,  and  there  can 
be  no  doubt  that  an  irreparable  in- 
jury has  been  inflicted  upon  the 
prestige  and  moral  standing  of  the 
country  abroad,  by  this  sudden 
abandonment  of  ancient  landmarks, 
forsaking  of  traditional  allies,  and 
alliance  with  traditional  enemies. 
But  the  effect  of  this  uncalled-for 


1880.] 


The  Diplomacy  of  Fanaticism. 


663 


inconsistency  extends  far  beyond 
the  confines  of  Europe.  A 11  thro  ugh 
Asia,  where  our  most  important 
interests  are  at  stake,  aversion  has 
been  substituted  for  popularity,  and 
disappointment  for  expectancy.  In 
no  country  is  this  more  markedly 
the  case  than  in  the  Asiatic  pro- 
vinces of  Turkey.  Here,  where 
oar  prestige  contrasted  most  strongly 
with  that  of  Russia, — for  it  was 
founded  on  esteem,  while  hers  was 
based  on  fear, — we  are  losing  all  the 
confidence  and  sympathy  with  which 
we  have  hitherto  been  regarded.  It 
has  never  been  sufficiently  under- 
stood in  England  that  there  are 
really  three  great  factors  in  Turkey. 
These  are  the  Government,  the 
Christian  population,  and  the  Mos- 
lem population.  The  error  which 
has  been  made  hitherto,  both  by 
Conservative  and  Liberal  adminis- 
trations, was  in  dealing  with  the 
first  and  second,  to  the  exclusion  of 
the  third.  This  has  been  more 
especially  the  case  since  the  last 
war,  when  the  late  Government  en- 
deavoured to  carry  out  its  Eastern 
policy  by  relying  on  the  Govern- 
ment; while  the  present  one  fol- 
lows the  far  more  pernicious  course 
of  relying  on  the  Christian  popula- 
tion. The  real  power  in  Turkey 
lies  in  the  Moslem  population.  If 
they  have  not  exercised  it,  it  has 
been  because  they  have  been  with- 
held by  a  sentiment  of  religious 
allegiance  to  the  Sultan.  But  it  is 
a  mistake  to  suppose  that  the  ven- 
ality and  oppression  of  the  ring  of 
corrupt  pashas  at  Constantinople  is 
not  as  much  execrated  throughout 
the  empire  by  the  Moslems  as  by 
the  Christians.  It  is  a  mistake  to 
suppose  that  the  rule  of  the  Palace 
is  not  regarded  with  equal  abhor- 
rence by  all  classes,  races,  and  reli- 
gions in  Turkey.  It  was  hope- 
less for  a  Conservative  Government 
to  extract  from  the  Palace,  by  per- 

VOL.  CXXVIII. NO.  DCCLXXXI. 


suasion,   reforms  which   a  Radical 
Government   have   vainly    endeav- 
oured to  extort  by  threats,  without 
invoking  the  aid  of  Moslem  feeling, 
and  appealing  to  Moslem  interests ; 
and  nothing  was  easier  than  to  do 
this.     The    administrative  acts   of 
the  Constantinople  executive  have 
reduced  the  population  to  despair. 
The  demonetisation  of  the  metallic 
currency  and  other  disastrous  finan- 
cial measures,  the  unjust  imposition 
of  taxes  and  extortion  of  tax-gath- 
erers,   and   the   corruption   of  the 
local   officials  throughout  the  pro- 
vinces, would  long  sinceJhave  driven 
any  less  devout  and  enduring  popu- 
lation to  revolt.     They  looked   to 
England  to  secure  them  institutions 
at    Constantinople    and   introduce 
reforms   there — which  might   have 
been   done  by  means  of  financial 
pressure — which   should    hold  out 
some  prospect  of  relief.     The  true 
moral  pressure  to  exercise  upon  the 
Sultan  is  that  of  ironclads  demon- 
strating, not  in  favour  of  Monte- 
negro, but  of  his  own  population. 
If  a  fleet  had  appeared  at  the  mouth 
of  the  Dardanelles  whose  mission 
it  was  to  establish  a  financial  com- 
mission  at   Constantinople,   which 
should  offer  some  hope  to  the  army 
and  navy  of  being  paid  the  arrears 
which  were   due  to  them,  and  of 
compelling  the  calling  together  of 
popular  Chambers   at   the   capital, 
the  Turkish  fleet  would  have  been 
far  more  likely  to  man  yards,  and 
the  forts  to  present  arms,  than  to 
fire  upon  us ;   while  by  the  popu- 
lation at  large,  whether  Moslem  or 
Christian,   we    should    have   been 
hailed    as    deliverers.      There   has 
been  no  greater  mistake  made,  and 
it  dates  back  to  the  Hatti  Houmay- 
oun  of  the  Crimean  peace,  than  this 
discriminating  legislation  in  favour 
of  Christians  alone.  We  have  never 
thought  of  investigating   into   the 
grievances  suffered  by  the  Moslem 
2  T 


664 


The  Unloaded  Revolver — 


[Nov. 


population.  Had  we  taken  those 
into  consideration  at  the  time  we 
exclusively  occupied  ourselves  with 
Christian  sufferings,  we  should  have 
earned  a  gratitude  which  they 
were  only  willing  and  anxious  to 
offer  us.  The  remedy  of  Moslem 
grievances  need  not  have  prevented 
our  dealing  with  those  which  pressed 
exclusively  on  their  Christian  fel- 
low-subjects; but  it  was  a  fatal 
error  to  ignore  them.  Still  more 
fatal  is  it  now  to  treat  the  Moslems 
as  though,  because  they  profess  the 
same  religion,  a  solidarity  of  crime 
and  responsibility  was  established 
between  them  and  their  rulers.  It 
is,  alas  !  too  late  to  turn  back  from 
the  disastrous  path  of  exclusive 
sympathy  upon  which  we  have 
entered,  and  which  has  forced  the 
Moslem  population  into  a  position 
of  greater  antagonism  to  their  Chris- 
tian fellow-subjects,  and  of  greater 
sympathy  with  their  corrupt  rulers, 
while  it  has  altogether  disenchanted 
them  of  any  hope  of  relief  from  the 
one  European  Power  upon  whom 
they  depended,  and  who  is  certain 
in  the  not  distant  future  to  have 
most  need  of  their  confidence  and  af- 
fection. Not  only  has  this  most  un- 
fortunate impression  of  an  indiffer- 
ence amounting  to  antipathy  been 
produced  throughout  the  Moslem 
population  of  Turkey  and  Asia,  but 
it  has  spread  throughout  Islam,  and 
found  a  strong  expression  and  taken 
a  deep  hold  upon  our  own  Moslem 
population  in  India.  Though  not 
as  yet  outwardly  manifested,  there 
can  be  no  doubt  that  the  recent 
attitude  of  the  British  Government 
towards  the  Sultan  and  his  Moslem 
subjects  has  produced  a  profound 
feeling  of  dissatisfaction  throughout 
India,  which  must  increase  if  moral 
pressure  on  Turkey  is  exchanged 
for  physical  action  in  alliance  with 
Eussia.  Whether  the  country  is 
prepared  to  support  the  Government 


in  a  policy  fraught  with  such  fatal 
consequences  to  its  position  in 
Europe  and  its  material  interests  in 
Asia  remains  to  be  seen ;  but  that 
they  cannot  retreat  from  a  course 
which  must  inevitably  involve  them 
in  an  attitude  of  active  hostility  to 
Turkey,  without  incurring  the  dis- 
grace of  utter  failure  so  far  as  their 
foreign  policy  is  concerned,  is  no 
longer  open  to  doubt. 

It  is  not  hazardous  to  predict  that 
the  relief  which  they  have  derived 
from  the  Sultan's  last  Irade  will  be 
very  short-lived.  Whether  Dulcigno 
be  peaceably  ceded  or  not,  there  are 
other  points  connected  with  Mon- 
tenegro to  which  the  Ministry  are 
pledged,  and  which  assuredly  Rus- 
sia will  not  allow  to  be  forgotten. 
There  is  the  frontier  to  the  east  of 
the  Lake  of  Scutari,  including  the 
positions  of  Dinosh  and  Tusi,  to 
which  the  Montenegrins  have  quite 
as  good  a  claim  as  they  have  to 
Dulcigno,  which  awaits  cession  by 
the  Porte.  If  the  Montenegrins 
are  to  be  put  off  with  the  village 
and  district  of  Dulcigno,  which 
comprises  a  few  square  miles  of  the 
neighbourhood,  they  will  obtain 
nothing  like  an  equivalent  to  what 
they  gave  up  in  Plava  and  Gusinje, 
awarded  to  them  by  the  Berlin 
Treaty,  or  the  Kuchi-Krajna  dis- 
trict conceded  to  them  under  the 
Corti  Compromise ;  and  it  is  not 
likely  that  Russia,  whose  interest 
it  is  to  keep  the  question  until  the 
Greek  and  Panslavic  movements 
are  ripe,  will  allow  "  the  most 
heroic  race "  to  be  deprived  of  its 
treaty  rights,  without  exciting  the 
moral  indignation  of  Mr  Gladstone 
on  their  behalf.  In  fact,  after  all 
that  he  has  promised,  and  after  the 
lengths  to  which  he  has  committed 
the  country,  to  retreat  without 
making  another  Dulcigno  question 
out  of  Dinosh  and  Tusi  would 
be  a  gross  betrayal  of  the  Mon- 


1880.] 


The  Diplomacy  of  Fanaticism. 


665 


tenegrins.  Until  the  naval  demon- 
stration took  place,  be  it  remem- 
bered, the  Sultan's  attitude  in  re- 
gard to  this  part  of  the  frontier 
was  far  less  stiff  than  it  has  be- 
come since.  Then  what  are  we  to 
say  to  the  claims  of  Greece  ?  And 
here,  again,  it  is  worthy  of  remark 
that  last  year,  when  the  Greek  Com- 
missioners met  the  Turkish  Com- 
missioners on  the  Bosporus  with 
a  view  to  the  settlement  of  this 
question,  the  Turkish  Government 
actually  consented  to  a  more  favour- 
able frontier  than  the  Sultan  did 
in  his  Ultimatum  to  Europe  the 
other  day.  There  have  been  no 
fewer  than  eleven  different  lines 
proposed  from  first  to  last  in  the 
course  of  these  protracted  negotia- 
tions, and  the  Porte  has  proceeded 
very  much  on  the  principle  of  the 
sibylline  books,  and  oifered  a 
worse  one  every  time.  So  much  for 
the  influence  of  the  naval  demon- 
stration, so  far  as  this  question  is 
concerned.  There  can  be  little  doubt 
that,  practically,  the  Greeks  are 
farther  off  getting  the  coveted  terri- 
tory under  the  Philhellenic  auspices 
of  Mr  Gladstone  and  Sir  Charles 
Dilke,  without  risking  a  disastrous 
war,  than  they  were  under  the 
administration  of  Lord  Beacons- 
field  and  Lord  Salisbury ;  for  there 
can  be  nothing  more  certain  than 
that  Europe  will  decline  to  press  for 
it  "  concertedly."  And  Mr  Glad- 
stone must  now  admit  that  his  con- 
certed coercive  policy,  as  applicable 
to  Greece,  is  "  absolute  nonsense  " 
to  its  fullest  extent.  Indeed,  if  we 
are  to  believe  a  late  telegram  from 
Constantinople,  it  would  seem  pos- 
sible that  coercion  may  be  applied 
just  the  other  way,  for  the  Turkish 
Minister  for  Foreign  Affairs  is  re- 
ported to  have  informed  the  Ger- 
man Ambassador  that  he  is  in  pos- 
session of  proofs  "  that  England  has 
required  Greece,  as  soon  as  the 


Dulcigno  business  is  settled,  at 
once  to  march  forward  and  take 
possession  of  the  districts  ceded  by 
the  Conference.  In  this  step  Eng- 
land promised  Greece  material  sup- 
port." And  certainly  the  warlike 
speech  of  the  King  of  Greece  the 
other  day  will  go  far  to  confirm  this 
impression,  and  is  not  calculated 
to  facilitate  the  negotiations  now 
going  on  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
Cattaro.  Indeed,  under  these  cir- 
cumstances it  is  not  impossible  that 
Turkey  may  still  make  the  cession 
of  Dulcigno  conditional,  on  a  pro- 
mise being  given  by  Germany  and 
Austria  to  protect  her  against  the 
aggressive  designs  of  England  in  re- 
gard to  Greece;  and,  considering 
the  announcement  contained  in  the 
'  National  Zeitung '  which  we  have 
already  quoted,  it  is  not  improbable 
that  some  such  guarantee  would  be 
given.  It  -will  be  a  curious  result 
of  the  concert  of  Powers,  and  the 
naval  demonstration,  if  they  are 
converted  into  a  weapon  against 
the  policy  by  which  they  were 
forged,  and  if  Mr  Gladstone  should 
turn  out  to  be  the  real  obstacle  to 
the  cession  of  Dulcigno,  and  should 
finally  be  compelled  either  to 
abandon  all  further  pressure  upon 
Turkey  in  regard  to  the  Greek 
frontier,  or  to  ask  the  country 
which  has  elected  him  as  the  great 
conservator  of  European  peace,  to 
undertake  a  crusade  in  favour  of 
Greece  against  the  allied  powers  of 
Turkey,  Germany,  and  Austria. 
The  coercion  policy  has  caused 
Greece  and  England  to  hang  by  the 
same  rope ;  and  the  outlook,  so  far 
as  the  territorial  aspirations  of  the 
one  nation,  and  the  honour  and 
dignity  of  the  other  are  concerned, 
is  gloomy  in  the  extreme.  As 
for  poor  Armenia,  the  prospect  of 
reform  there  is  absolutely  nil,  for 
the  very  good  reason  that  the 
reform  of  that  country  by  Tur- 


The  Unloaded  Revolver. 


key  would  render  its  annexa- 
tion by  Kussia  unnecessary  :  and 
as  Russia  has  determined  to  annex 
it,  she  devises  methods  which  are 
not  difficult  both  at  Constanti- 
nople and  in  Armenia  itself  to  ren- 
der reform  impossible.  It  is  the 
old  story  of  Bulgaria  over  again, 
and  will  probably  terminate  in  the 
usual  climax  of  atrocities.  Conve- 
nient Kurds  may  too  easily  be  em- 
ployed for  this  purpose  to  be  neg- 
lected as  instruments.  The  same 
principle  applies  to  the  whole  of 
Turkey.  England  is  now  working 
in  alliance  with  the  Power  who 
seeks  the  dissolution  of  the  empire 
by  fostering  and  stimulating  its  in- 
ternal corruption,  and  inciting  its 
disaffected  populations  to  civil  war. 
There  is  every  reason  to  believe  that 
we  shall  succeed  in  this  humane 
and  laudable  enterprise,  and  that 
the  policy  of  the  Government  will 
launch  the  Turkish  empire  into  a 
series  of  horrors  compared  with 
which  the  atrocities  of  Batak  will 
appear  mild  offences.  With  the 


[Xov.  1880. 


whole  Christianpopulation  of  Turkey 
in  revolt, — which  it  is  certain  to  be 
before  many  months,  or  possibly 
weeks,  expire, — we  may  look  for  a 
Jehad  or  religious  war  as  a  neces- 
sary consequence,  when  every  Mos- 
lem will  turn  upon  the  nearest 
Ghiaour.  That  this  will  spread  into 
Asia  is  highly  probable.  That 
Turkey,  in  its  death  agonies,  will 
involve  first  Kussia  and  Austria, 
and  then  other  European  Powers, 
seems  no  less  inevitable.  All  this 
is  the  necessary  consequence  of  a 
policy  of  humanity  and  morality 
based  upon  ignorant  prejudice  and 
unreasoning  fanaticism.  And  when 
it  is  too  late,  the  masses  which  lis- 
tened to  those  wild  declamations  of 
inapplicable  moral  platitudes,  will 
awake  to  the  consciousness  that  they 
have  been  grievously  gulled  and 
misled,  and  that  the  passions  evoked 
by  the  fierceness  of  political  animo- 
sities at  home  .have  led  to  a  Euro- 
pean catastrophe,  from  the  disastrous 
consequences  of  which  their  own 
country  cannot  hope  to  escape. 


Printed  by  William  Blackicood  and  Sons. 


BLACKWOOD'S 
EDINBUBGH    MAGAZINE. 


No.  DCCLXXXII. 


DECEMBER   1880. 


VOL.  CXXVIII. 


THE  PRIVATE   SECRETARY. — PART   II. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


THREE  or  four  more  days  passed 
by,  Clifford  leading  the  monotonous 
life  which  was  habitual  to  him,  al- 
though finding  his  self-imposed 
labours  growing  daily  lighter  as  his 
secretary  became  more  expert.  But 
during  this  time  he  did  not  see 
her  again.  Although  eager  to  know 
more  of  her,  shyness  and  indolence 
combined  to  prevent  his  breaking 
through  what  had  become  a  habit  of 
life.  And  the  longer  he  kept  aloof, 
the  more  difficult  he  found  it  to 
make  an  effort  to  alter  the  formal 
relations  which  had  arisen  between 
them. 

One  day,  however,  a  visitor  called 
at  the  Mansions  and  stayed  some 
time.  After  he  had  gone,  Clifford 
entered  Miss  Reid's  room  with  a 
roll  of  paper  in  his  hand.  "  What 
does  H.  Reid  think  of  this?"  he 
said,  unfolding  it,  and  spreading  it 
on  the  table.  An  architectural  de- 
sign was  drawn  upon  it. 

"  It  looks  very  pretty,"  she  ob- 
served ;  "  but  I  am  afraid  I  don't  un- 
derstand much  about  such  things." 

"  Yes,  it  is  pretty  enough,  but  is 

VOL.  CXXVIII. — NO.  DCCLXXXII. 


it  suitable  ?  You  see  what  it  is  for  ? 
It  is  the  village  lodging-house  about 
which  there  has  been  all  this  cor- 
respondence. What  do  you  think 
of  the  arrangements  ?  It  is  for  the 
single  working  men  in  my  part  of 
the  world,  who  are  obliged  at  pres- 
ent to  lodge  in  the  married  people's 
cottages,  where  there  is  no  decent  ac- 
commodation for  them.  I  want  you, 
please,  to  go  through  the  plan  care- 
fully and  say  what  you  think  of  it." 

"  Would  not  an  architect  be  the 
best  person  to  consult  on  such  a 
matter  1 " 

"  Architects  are  very  good  fellows 
in  their  way,  but  they  never  under- 
stand their  own  business.  This 
plan  as  now  drawn,  is  the  final  out- 
come of  the  architect's  wisdom.  I 
want  you  to  pick  holes  in  it  by  the 
light  of  your  own  common-sense, 
which  I  will  back  against  that  of 
most  people,  whether  architects  or 
otherwise." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  overrate  my 
powers,  Mr  Clifford  ;  but  I  will  try." 

"That  is  right.  I  shall  often 
want  you  to  help  me  in  matters  of 
2  z 


638 


The  Private  Secretary.— Part  II. 


[Dec. 


this  sort ;  for,  as  you  may  have  dis- 
covered, a  good  deal  of  my  business 
is  mixed  up  with  architects  and 
builders." 

"And  a  good  deal  with  lawyers. 
I  hope,  sir,  you  don't  expect  me  to 
know  anything  about  law  ? " 

"  No ;  you  are  only  a  woman 
after  all,  although  you  are  so  clever. 
No,  I  am  afraid  we  can't  get  behind 
the  lawyers;  we  are  all  of  us  at 
their  mercy,  and  must  allow  them 
to  blunder  over  our  affairs  as  much 
as  they  please.  My  lawyers  are  not 
a  bad  sort  of  fellows,  I  believe,  as 
the  race  goes ;  slow  but  steady,  and 
not  inordinately  expensive.  Well, 
you  will  look  over  these  plans  at 
your  leisure,  and  compare  them  with 
my  instructions.  But  now,  what 
say  you  to  this?"  and  he  handed 
her  a  letter. 

"It  is  an  application  for  mon- 
ey," said  Miss  Reid,  after  she  had 
lead  it. 

"  I  get  a  good  many  of  these." 

"  You  do  indeed,  sir.  Half  your 
correspondence  seems  to  take  this 
form. " 

"  Yes ;  they  say  the  tramps  al- 
ways mark  the  gate-posts  of  the 
houses  where  they  get  anything 
given  them,  as  a  guide  to  let  those 
who  come  after  know  where  to  find 
something  to  eat.  I  think  the 
begging -letter -writers  must  have 
the  same  sort  of  freemasonry.  A 
cynical  friend  of  mine  hardly  ever 
gets  an  application  of  this  sort ; 
they  find  me  out  by  every  post.  I 
suppose  I  am  too  easy  and  liable 
to  be  imposed  upon."  Then,  as  it 
struck  him  that  his  listener  might 
take  the  remark  to  be  meant  to 
apply  to  herself,  he  hastened  to 
add, — "  But  is  this  application  a 
genuine  one,  do  you  think  ? " 

Miss  Reid  read  the  letter  and  its 
enclosures  over  again  before  say- 
ing, "  I  certainly  think  it  would  be 
well  to  make  further  inquiry  into 
the  case  before  giving  anything." 


"  That  is  just  what  I  propose 
myself.  The  question  is,  what  is 
the  best  way  of  setting  about  it  ? " 

"  Why  not  go  and  see  the  people 
yourself? " 

Clifford  looked  puzzled  for  a 
minute;  then  he  replied,  "This  is 
just  what  I  can't  bring  myself  to 
do  in  cases  of  this  sort.  I  suppose 
if  I  were  a  duke  or  a  millionaire,  it 
would  be  quite  proper  to  transact 
business  entirely  by  deputy.  Being 
only  a  private  gentleman  of  moder- 
ate means,  it  is  perhaps  foolish  to 
do  so ;  but  indolence  gets  the  better 
of  me,  and  I  have  fallen  into  the 
habit ;  and  not  always  having  pro- 
per agents  at  hand,  I  am  obliged 
sometimes  to  trust  to  impulse." 

"I  am  afraid  so."  Miss  Eeid 
blushed  a  little  as  she  said  this, 
for  her  own  appointment  had  been 
made  in  this  way,  which  Clifford 
noticing,  hastened  to  add," — "But 
impulse  is  often  a  very  good  guide, 
you  see.  But  pray  sit  down," 
for  Miss  Reid  had  been  standing 
all  this  time  by  the  table  at  which 
he  was  sitting.  "You  see,  I  had, 
like  everybody  else,  to  settle  on  a 
plan  of  life.  I  had  been  brought 
up  to  no  profession,  nor  was  there 
need  to  follow  one.  What  was  I 
to  do  ?  I  had  been  doing  nothing 
so  long  that  I  was  eager  for  work 
of  some  kind.  I  was  too  old  for  the 
army  ;  I  was  tired  of  the  country." 

"  Then  you  don't  hunt  ? "  inter- 
rupted his  listener. 

"No;  I  daresay  I  might  have 
aspired  to  become  in  time  a  master 
of  fox-hounds,  which  is  the  highest 
aim  of  ambition  in  my  part  of  the 
world,  for  I  come  from  a  hunting 
country.  But  I  have  had  but 
little  experience  in  riding,  and 
didn't  like  to  make  a  beginning ; 
so  I  have  never  hunted.  Have 
you?  You  look  very  animated 
about  it." 

"Never,"  she  replied.  "But  I 
used  to  be  very  fond  of  riding, — 


1880.] 


The  Private  Secretary. — Part  II. 


6G9 


"but  that  was  a  great  many  years 
ago,"  she  added  more  quietly,  re- 
lapsing into  her  former  respectful 
manner. 

"  A  great  many,  I  should  think," 
he  rejoined;  "  soon  after  you  were 
horn,  I  suppose,"  which  little  effort 
of  humour  drew  out  the  first  real 
smile  he  had  seen  on  her  grave  and 
thoughtful  face.  "  Well,  as  I  say,  I 
had  to  do  something ;  so  after  more 
or  less  waste  of  time,  it  came  ahout 
that,  not  having  a  regular  profes- 
sion, I  thought  I  would  try  and  do 
some  good  to  my  fellow-creatures. 
And  so,  in  point  of  fact,  I  have 
gone  in,  as  you  must  have  found 
out  already,  for  philanthropy — on 
a  small  scale." 

"It  is  the  noblest  profession  of 
all,"  exclaimed  the  young  lady, 
with  enthusiasm. 

A  shade  of  suspicion  passed  across 
Clifford's  mind  lest  she  should  be 
trying  to  play  on  his  vanity,  and 
he  continued  :  "  Nay,  but  there  is 
less  nobility  about  it  than  might 
be  supposed.  My  wants  are  simple, 
and  it  would  be  a  positive  trouble 
to  spend  my  income  in  keeping  up 
a  large  establishment.  For  sport, 
as  I  say,  I  have  no  taste ;  I  have 
no  need  to  save.  What  was  to  be 
done?  Lolling  about  picture-gal- 
leries would  not  satisfy  my  con- 
science; and  although  fond  of  read- 
ing, one  cannot  read  all  day.  A 
certain  amount  of  business  in  the 
morning  is  an  agreeable  diversion. 
It  is  really,  in  fact,  a  sort  of  dissi- 
pation, to  give  one  an  appetite  for 
idleness  in  the  afternoon." 

"  Like  a  glass  of  bitters  before 
dinner."  Miss  Eeid  looked  quite 
serious.  He  could  not  tell  whether 
the  illustration  was  suggested  in 
fun  or  earnest.  He  went  on — 

"ButI  am  telling  you  only  half  the 
story,  and  making  too  much  of  my- 
self. Really,  my  work  has  very  little 
of  the  meritorious  in  it,  for  I  shirk 
all  the  most  troublesome  portion. 


I  can't  bring  myself  to  do  the  per- 
sonal part — I  mean  the  going  about 
to  see  all  the  people ;  the  misery, 
and  dirt,  and  squalor  are  too  much 
for  me.  I  am  lessee  of  a  court  not 
very  far  from  this.  I  believe  the 
unfortunate  inmates  are  much  better 
off  for  their  change  of  landlord,  but 
I  am  ashamed  to  say  I  have  never 
got  to  the  point  of  seeing  the  im- 
provement myself.  I  have  started 
a  little  cottage  hospital  at  the  sea- 
side for  convalescents,  which  also 
I  have  still  to  visit." 

"  There,  at  any  rate,  you  would 
find  no  squalor  or  dirt  to  annoy  you." 

"  True,  but  something  almost  as 
bad, — gratitude.  No,  I  don't  mean 
that,"  he  added  eagerly,  noticing  a 
change  in  her  face.  "  I  am  not  a 
bit  of  a  cynic,  and  I  don't  pretend 
to  be  one ;  I  want  to  be  liked." 
Here  he  glanced  up  at  her  face, 
which,  however,  showed  no  change. 
"But  there  would  be  a  perpetual 
bobbing  of  curtseys  and  scraping 
of  forelocks,  and  then  all  the  fuss 
got  up  by  the  people  of  the  place. 
Once  when  I  was  intending  to  go 
down  to  s'ee  the  hospital, — it  is  a 
mere  cottage,  you  must  know,  al- 
though called  by  a  big  name, — the 
thing  got  wind,  and  the  local  news- 
paper proposed  a  demonstration  in 
honour  of  .'the  munificent  benefac- 
tor,' with  more  of  that  sort  of  rub- 
bish. Munificent  benefactor !  Why, 
when  I  think  of  the  poverty  there 
is  in  London,  and  how  the  cost  of 
my  club  dinner  to-day  would  keep 
a  whole  family  for  a  week,  I  some- 
times ask  myself,  what  right  have 
I  to  be  living  in  even  such  comfort 
as  I  allow  myself?  Sometimes  I  am 
quite  oppressed  with  a  sense  of  my 
own  selfishness." 

"  A  great  deal  of  the  poverty  in 
the  world  is  the  result  of  want  of 
thrift.  No  amount  of  charity  will 
make  that  good." 

"  True ;  but  how  much  is  un- 
avoidable ?  I  grant  you  that  if  no 


670 


The  Private  Secretary. — Part  II. 


[Dec. 


working  man  or  poor  bank-clerk 
were  ever  to  marry  till  he  had  pro- 
vided an  ample  insurance  in  case  of 
his  early  death,  there  might  be  no 
penniless  widows  and  orphans ;  al- 
though, even  then,  what  machinery 
are  we  to  provide  for  these  poor 
creatures  always  making  safe  in- 
vestments of  their  little  savings? 
But  I  am  thinking  of  the  unim- 
proved world  as  it  is.  And  the 
only  practical  plan  for  not  making 
myself  unhappy  about  its  hopeless 
condition,  is  not  to  think  about  it, 
or  at  any  rate  not  to  keep  my  eyes 
open,  but  just  to  act  by  rule, — to 
put  aside  so  much  for  the  purpose, 
and  to  lay  this  out  to  the  best  ad- 
vantage. That  is  just  where  my 
practice  comes  short  of  my  prin- 
ciples. I  am  too  indolent,  and 

too "  he  was  going  to  add,  "  too 

shy,"  but  stopped  himself — "  and 
too  idle  to  take  the  proper  trouble 
to  ascertain  that  the  outlay  satisfies 
this  condition." 

"  And  so,  no  doubt,  you  are  often 
imposed  on  1 " 

"  No  doubt.  Still,  on.  the  whole, 
I  hope  I  do  good.  At  any  rate,  in 
a  crude  sort  of  way  I  satisfy  my 
conscience,  which  is  not  exposed 
to  the  daily  shock  the  person  must 
encounter  who  goes  about  the  par- 
ish preaching  resignation  to  the 
starving  poor,  and  then  comes  home 
to  his  comfortable  dinner.  Excuse 
my  having  talked  so  much  about 
myself;  but  you  would  have  found 
all  this  out  sooner  or  later  for  your- 
self ;  and  as  I  want  your  help,  it  is 
just  as  well  you  should  know  all 
about  the  business  at  once." 

As  he  spoke,  he  felt  that  his 
secretary,  by  her  silence  and  re- 
spectful yet  self-possessed  manner, 
had  been  drawing  him  out,  and  led 
him  to  say  a  good  deal  more  than  he 
intended.  All  the  confidence,  so 
far,  had  been  on  his  side,  and  to-day 
more  than  ever.  He  stopped  here 
in  his  revelations,  and  continued — 


"  But  now  to  come  to  this  par- 
ticular case.  What  should  you  say 
is  the  best  way  of  verifying  tho 
man's  statements,  short  of  personal 
investigation  ?  It  seems  a  deserving 
case,  if  it  be  true." 

"  If  you  do  not  wish  to  go  your- 
self, sir,  would  you  like  me  to  go 
and  see  him  for  you  ? " 

"  You?  Do  you  know  what  sort 
of  a  place  this  is  ?  I  can  tell  from 
the  address  that  it  is  one  of  the 
worst  parts  of  London." 

"  I  am  not  afraid  of  going  about 
London ;  I  have  had  to  go  about 
a  good  deal  in  different  parts  of 
it,  and  it  is  not  always  from  the 
lowest  classes  that  one  has  most 
to  fear." 

She  spoke  with  a  little  heat  and 
scorn,  which  impressed  Clifford 
more  afterwards  than  at  the  time. 
Just  now  he  was  full  of  the  idea  of 
utilising  her  services,  and  said — 

"  It  is  more  a  question  of  trouble 
than  danger,  I  suppose.  If  you 
will  undertake  the  job,  I  should 
be  really  obliged.  Would  you  like 
Simmonds  to  go  with  you  1  But 
no,  not  Simmonds ;  if  she  once 
gets  into  the  business,  I  shall  never 
have  any  peace, — we  should  be  per- 
petually invaded  here  by  applicants 
for  relief.  But  I  could  arrange  to 
send  somebody  with  you,  if  you 
wish  it." 

"  Thank  you ;  but  I  am  quite 
accustomed  to  go  about  London 
alone.  I  will  start  in  five  minutes, 
if  the  letters  can  stand  over." 

"  Have  you  been  long  in  London, 
that  you  know  it  so  well  ?  " 

" I  have  had  to  go  a  good  deal 
about  London ;  we  used  to  live 
here,"  she  said,  with  some  hesita- 
tion. "  We  are  living  at  a  little 
distance  from  town  now." 

"  Come,  Miss  Reid, — I  have  told 
you  a  lot  about  myself ;  don't  you 
think  it  is  time  to  exchange  con- 
fidences?" 

Clifford  spoke  playfully,  but  Miss 


1880.] 


The  Private  Secretary.— Part  II. 


671 


Reid  coloured,  and,  with  some  con- 
fusion, replied, — "  I  mentioned,  the 
first  day,  that  I  was  living  with»my 
father.  I  said  I  could  give  you 
references,  if  you  wished." 

Clifford  now  felt  ashamed  of  him- 
self for  having  put  the  question, 
and  hastened  to  apologise  for  what 
he  termed  his  rudeness.  Yet  after 
she  had  gone  on  her  errand,  he 
could  not  but  be  sensible  that  he 
had  done  nothing  unreasonable  in 
seeking  to  know  something  more 
about  the  antecedents  of.  a  person 
in  his  confidential  employment. 
"  She  must  think  me  a  thorough 
noodle  for  being  so  soft  in  the  mat- 
ter. I  can  feel  that  she  sees  me 
through  and  through,  and  I  sup- 
pose I  am  an  absurd  mixture  of 
carelessness  and  caution."  Clifford, 
although  an  egotist,  knew  himself. 
Yet  in  her  presence  any  suspicions 
lest  he  should  be  giving  his  confi- 
dence rashly,  at  once  passed  away  ; 
and  after  this  first  mission,  Miss 
Eeid  ceased  to  be  merely  a  secre- 
tary, and  began  to  be  more  and 
more  employed  as  his  agent  and 
almoner.  In  fact,  to  interpolate 
such  an  agent,  shrewd,  active,  and 
disinterested,  between  himself  and 
the  objects  of  his  bounty,  exactly 
suited  his  shy  and  indolent  yet  im- 
pulsive disposition.  Miss  Reid  had 
plenty  of  time  for  the  work,  for  she 
had  soon  found  that  in  the  capacity 
of  private  secretary  there  was  really 
but  little  employment.  The  amount 
of  correspondence  which  Clifford 
had  found  so  embarrassing  when 
he  transacted  it  himself,  stopping 
while  he  wrote  to  give  his  doubts 
and  fancies  play,  and  so  often  let- 
ting the  day  run  by  before  he 
had  cleared  his  table,  was  made 
light  of,  after  the  first  few  days,  by 
his  methodical  assistant.  Coming 
at  ten,  she  would  finish  her  day's 
writing  before  luncheon,  and  then 
Clifford  would  discuss  with  her 
some  of  his  various  schemes  for 


doing  good  by  stealth.  Miss  Reid 
was  at  first  very  diffident  about 
giving  advice  ;  but  when  she  did 
offer  it,  Clifford  was  generally  made 
a  convert  to  the  good  sense  on 
which  her  opinions  were  based. 
And  sometimes  the  whole  afternoon 
would  pass  in  this  \vay ;  for  there 
was  no  longer  any  hesitation  on  his 
part  about  going  into  the  office,  as 
Miss  Reid's  room  was  now  styled. 
On  other  days  his  commissions  took 
up  a  good  deal  of  her  time. 

It  was  on  one  afternoon  that 
Miss  Reid,  returning  from  an  expe- 
dition of  this  kind,  after  reporting 
proceedings,  observed,  in  reply  to 
his  thanks — 

"  I  am  only  too  glad  to  find 
something  of  this  sort  to  do.  Do 
you  know,  sir,  I  was  beginning  to 
feel  that  I  should  hardly  be  justi- 
fied in  remaining  here  any  longer." 

"  Why,  good  heavens  ! "  said 
Clifford,  with  excitement,  "  what 
has  happened  1  Has  there  been 
anything  unpleasant,  any  want  of 
consideration  ? " 

"Oh  no,  sir  —  there  has  been 
almost  too  much  consideration,  al- 
though there  cannot  be  too  much 
gratitude  for  it ;  but  really,  after 
what  you  said  about  the  hard  work 
in  store  for  me,  it  seems  quite  ab- 
surd to  be  taking  so  much  and 
doing  so  little." 

The  deferential  way  in  whicli 
she  spoke,  and  the  expressions  of 
gratitude,  were  distasteful  to  Clif"- 
ford,  recalling  the  earlier  days  of 
their  acquaintance,  before  their  re- 
lations with  each  other  had  become 
established  on  their  present  foot- 
ing, and  when  his  manner  at  any 
rate  had  been  forced  and  artifi- 
cial. Of  late  there  had  been  noth- 
ing of  this  sort.  More  than  once, 
indeed,  Clifford  had  been  tempted 
by  a  natural  impulse  to  adopt  a 
tone  of  gallantry,  natural  towards 
a  pretty  woman,  though  somewhat 
awkwardly  expressed ;  but  any  ad- 


The  Private  Secretary. — Part  II. 


[Dec. 


vances  in  that  line  had  been 
promptly  repelled.  So  long  as  he 
acted  the  master,  his  secretary  was 
at  once  unreserved  yet  respectful ; 
but  she  resented  any  approach  to 
treating  her  on  a  footing  of  equal- 
ity, still  less  as  a  lady  suitable  to 
be  the  recipient  of  attention :  her 
abasement  under  such  overtures 
repelled  him  more  distinctly  than 
even  an  appearance  of  indignation 
would  have  done.  "  You  would 
not  exhibit  this  gallantry  to  one  of 
your  servants,"  her  manner  seemed 
to  say ;  "  why  do  so  towards  me, 
who  am,  after  all,  only  a  servant  1 " 
Thus  Clifford  had  come  into  the 
way  of  treating  her  as  she  wanted 
to  be  treated — as  a  very  competent, 
and  intelligent,  and  trustworthy 
clerk,  but  still  only  a  clerk,  and 
nothing  more,  without  the  idea  of 
sex  intervening. 

"  Your  speaking  of  taking  so 
much  reminds  me,"  he  said,  "that 
you  have  taken  nothing  yet,  and 
that  it  is  now  past  quarter-day  ; 
but  I  had  not  forgotten  my  debt,'' 
and  taking  out  his  pocket-book,  he 
handed  a  cheque  to  her  which  ho 
had  already  prepared. 

The  young  lady  thanked  him, 
but  looking  at  the  paper,  appeared 
surprised. 

"  It  is  for  a  broken  period,"  said 
he,  by  way  of  explanation;  "you 
did  not  come  here  till  nearly  half- 
quarter-day." 

" Quite  so;  but  is  there  not  some 
mistake  in  the  amount  ?  I  under- 
stood that  the  engagement  was  at 
the  rate  of  two  hundred " 

"Yes,  but  that  was  as  private 
secretary  for  clerical  work ;  I  didn't 
mean  that  you  should  go  tramping 
about  London  in  addition  for  no- 
thing. I  quite  intended  to  propose 
that  the  salary  should  be  raised  to 
three  hundred  when  I  first  asked 
you  to  undertake  this  extra  work." 

"You  can  hardly  call  it  extra 
work,"  she  objected.  "It  is  not 


precisely  of  the  kind  for  which 
the  engagement  was  made,  but  the 
hours  of  employment  are  not  longer 
than  were  mentioned  at  first.  I 
think  it  would  be  better,  if  you 
please,  to  keep  to  the  original 
terms." 

"  I  fixed  the  original  terms  for 
myself,  and  not  acting  as  agent  for 
any  one  else ;  it  is  surely  open  to 
me  who  made  them  to  modify  them." 

Still  Miss  Eeid  looked  uneasy, 
and  he  fancied  he  could  detect  a 
disinclination  to  accept  anything 
more  than  what  she  supposed  to  be 
the  proper  value  of  her  services,  or 
which  would  imply  a  gift  or  pay- 
ment on  other  than  business  grounds. 
Clifford  felt  disposed  to  add  that 
he  got  her  companionship,  making 
a  change  in  his  life  of  which  every 
day  made  him  more  sensible,  very 
cheap  at  the  higher  rate  of  salary, 
even  if  she  gave  no  services  into 
the  bargain  ;  but  he  knew  instinct- 
ively that  such  a  remark  would  be 
distasteful,  so  he  said,  instead,  under 
a  happy  inspiration,  "  If  it  is  more 
work  you  want,  you  shall  have  no 
room  for  complaint  on  that  score. 
I  have  plenty  in  reserve.  Here  is 
a  job,  for  example — but  come  into 
my  room  and  I  will  show  it  you." 

Miss  Reid  followed  him  into  the 
study,  which  she  had  never  entered 
before ;  while  Clifford,  unlocking  a 
cabinet,  took  out  a  large  bundle 
of  manuscript.  "  See,"  he  said, 
"  this  is  the  rough  catalogue  of  the 
library  of  what  was  my — my  uncle's 
house  down  in  Northamptonshire. 
I  made  it  when  living  there  with 
him,  and  have  always  intended  to 
classify  the  books  properly  when 
the  leisure  time  should  come,  which, 
somehow,  has  never  arrived.  But 
if  you  will  try  your  hand  at  it,  I 
shall  be  very  glad,  for  the  collection 
is  a  good  one,  although  all  in  con- 
fusion now.  Sit  down  there,"  he 
continued,  pointing  to  an  easy-chair 
by  the  fireplace,  while  he  set  the 


1880.] 


The  Private  Secretary.— Part  II. 


673 


example  by  taking  the  one  op- 
posite to  it.  "  But  you  must  want 
some  tea  after  your  walk.  I  should 
like  a  cup  too,  although  I  have 
not  earned  it.  Still  I  don't  eat 
luncheons."  And  when  Jane  an- 
swered the  bell,  he  ordered  that 
refreshment  to  he  brought. 

"  The  library  must  be  a  large 
one,"  said  Miss  Reid,  as  she  turned 
over  the  pages  of  the  catalogue. 
"  Did  the  list  take  you  long  to  pre- 
pare ]  " 

"  From  first  to  last  it  must  have 
occupied  a  couple  of  years.  I  did 
it  whenever  I  had  spare  time,  which 
was  not  often,  for  my  poor  uncle  " 
— Clifford  paused  a  little  at  the 
word — "kept  me  very  much  in  at- 
tendance on  him.  He  was  a  kind- 
hearted  man,"  he  continued,  in  a 
lower  voice,  "but  fidgety  and  ex- 
acting. He  was  a  great  invalid, 
and  almost  entirely  confined  to  the 
house  during  the  latter  part  of  his 
life.  And  the  life  I  led  explains 
the  habits  which,  I  daresay,  you 
think  so  contemptible  in  me." 

Clifford  said  this,  hoping  his 
auditor  would  contradict  him,  but 
she  remained  silent,  and  he  went 
on — 

"  The  result  of  this  secluded  life 
was,  that  when  my  uncle  died  and 
left  me  his  heir,  I  found  myself 
friendless.  My  only  relations  are 
in  America.  My  uncle  quarrelled 
with  all  the  neighbours,  because  he 
would  not  preserve  the  foxes.  I 
believe  he  even  ordered  them  to  be 
trapped.  Besides,  we  really  had 
no  permanent  neighbours.  Most 
of  the  houses  round  are  only  oc- 
cupied in  the  winter  months  for 
the  hunting;  and  the  winter  we 
used  to  spend  at  Torquay." 

"But  you  had  your  school  and 
college  friends  1 " 

"  I  never  was  at  school — at  least 
not  at  a  public  school.  I  was  sent 
abroad  when  a  boy  to  Germany,  to 
learn  the  language,  and  lived  in  a 


family  where  they  all  spoke  Eng- 
lish ;  and  then,  just  when  it  was  time 
to  go  to  Oxford,  my  uncle  sent  for 
me  to  stay  with  him ;  and  although 
he  spoke  of  it  as  being  merely  a  tem- 
porary arrangement,  I  could  never 
get  him  to  come  to  the  point  of  let- 
ting me  go  away  again.  So  I  drifted 
on  till  his  death.  Most  people  will 
say  that  he  made  ample  amends 
in  leaving  me  his  property — under 
conditions,"  added  the  young  man 
in  a  musing  tone ;  "  but  I  often 
think  I  should  have  done  much 
better  if  he  had  given  me  a  couple 
of  hundreds  a-year,  and  allowed  me 
to  start  in  life  like  other  young 
men.  But  here  comes  the  tea — per- 
haps you  will  pour  it  out ;  "  and  as 
Miss  Reid  stood  up  to  perform  that 
office,  and  then  handing  him  his 
cup,  took  her  own  and  sat  down 
again  to  assume  her  attitude  of  an 
attentive  listener,  the  grace  and 
dignity  of  her  movements,  the  very 
rustle  of  her  dress,  gave  him  a  sense 
of  pleasure  such  as  he  had  never 
experienced  before.  It  seemed  as 
if  by  her  presence  a  subtle  aroma  of 
something  indefinitely  sweet  now 
pervaded  his  lonely  chambers.  "How 
I  have  wasted  the  weeks,"  he  thought, 
"  living  apart  while  we  might  have 
been  together  !  And  I  said  at  first 
that  she  was  not  pretty  !  I  see 
what  it  is.  It  is  the  mobile  expres- 
sion of  her  features  which  makes 
their  charm ;  the  face  lights  up  with 
every  thought,  and  it  has  lost  the 
careworn  look  it  used  to  have." 

"  Still,"  observed  the  young  lady, 
breaking  the  silence,  "you  have 
managed  to  choose  an  occupation 
which  might  satisfy  the  highest 
aspirations.  What  profession  can 
be  nobler  than  to  employ  time  and 
fortune  in  doing  good  1 " 

"Now  she  is  wanting  to  flatter 
me,"  thought  Clifford,  a  shadow  of 
suspicion  passing  across  his  mind ; 
and  then  replied,  "It  was  practi- 
cally the  only  occupation  open  to  me. 


674 


The  Private  Secretary.— Part  II. 


Most  ways  of  spending  money  were 
denied  me.  And  somehow  it  leaves 
a  craving  unsatisfied." 

"There  are  politics.  Why  not 
take  them  up  too  1 " 

"But  think  of  the  fuss  and 
trouble  that  has  to  be  gone  through 
in  order  to  get  into  Parliament — and 
the  worse  than  trouble,  the  dirt 
that  has  to  be  eaten,  the  pledges, 
and,  worse  still,  the  speeches.  And 
then  the  dreary  life  men  lead  when 
they  get  there, — the  long  hours 
wasted  in  profitless  talk  ;  the  unut- 
terable dismalness  of  modern  de- 
bates !  And  the  speakers  have  not 
even  the  satisfaction  nowadays  of 
thinking  that  people  will  read  their 
speeches.  But  why  talk  of  speeches] 
I  should  never  have  had  the  courage 
to  open  my  mouth.  I  once  took 
the  chair  at  the  meeting  of  a  benev- 
olent society,  and  I  think  nothing 
would  ever  induce  me  to  go  through 
such  an  ordeal  again." 

Thus  they  talked  on,  or  rather 
Clifford  talked,  while  his  secretary 
listened,  occasionally  throwing  in 
a  remark  or  asking  a  question  to 
keep  the  conversation  going,  when 
the  maid  brought  in  a  letter.  Clif- 
ford started  as  he  recognised  the 
handwriting,  and  held  the  letter  for 
a  time  in  his  hand,  looking  at  the 
address  as  if  stupefied  by  what  he 
saw.  His  companion,  silently  watch- 
ing him,  could  not  but  see  that  he 
was  greatly  moved. 

Presently  he  recovered  his  com- 
posure so  far  as  to  find  words. 
"  Who  has  brought  the  note,  Jane?" 
he  asked,  still  holding  the  letter 
unopened. 

"A  man-servant,  sir,  if  you  please  j 
he  is  waiting  for  an  answer." 

"  A  servant  with  a  note  from  my 
aunt,"  thought  Clifford ;  "  then  she 
must  be  actually  in  England  ! " 

This  fact  was  announced  in  the 
note,  which  he  now  read.  It  was 
dated  from  Charles  Street.  "We 
arrived  at  Liverpool  only  yesterday 


from  New  York,  my  dear  Robert, 
and  came  on  to  town  at  once, 
straight  to  this  house,  which  has 
been  engaged  for  us  for  the  season. 
We  have  taken  over  servants  and 
everything,  and  find  it  quite  elegant 
and  handsome.  Of  course  we  are 
very  tired  after  the  journey,  but  I 
could  not  lose  an  instant  in  let- 
ting you  know  we  were  here ;  and 
Blanche  and  I  hope  that  if  you  do 
not  mind  our  being  still  at  sixes 
and  sevens,  and  are  not  too  much 
engrossed  in  your  literary  pursuits, 
you  will  come  and  dine  with  us 
quietly  this  evening.  Pot-luck,  as 
your  uncle  would  call  it.  I  was 
almost  forgetting  to  say  your  uncle 
could  not  come  with  us — immersed 
in  business  as  usual — but  he  has 
promised  to  follow  by-and-by.  I 
must  not  add  more,  having  so  much 
to  do.  So  with  my  own  and 
Blanche's  love,  and  her  hopes  that 
you  have  not  quite  forgotten  her, 
and  hoping  to  see  you  this  evening 
at  eight,  believe  me,  my  dear 
Robert,  in  much  haste,  your  affec- 
tionate aunt,  MARIA  SCALLAN. 

"P.S. — You  will  find  your  cousin 
a  great  deal  altered;  she  is  quite  the 
woman  now,  of  course.  Whether 
for  better  or  worse,  you  shall  judge 
for  yourself." 

"I  wonder  did  Blanche  really  send 
this  message,"  he  thought,  as,  still 
holding  the  note  in  his  hand,  his 
mind  hurriedly  took  in  the  conse- 
quences involved  in  her  return. 
A  great  change  in  his  life  was  now 
impending  ;  at  any  rate  he  was  now 
to  be  suddenly  called  on  to  make 
an  all-important  decision,  in  which 
his  cousin's  fate  as  well  as  his  own 
was  involved,  and  which,  although 
always  more  or  less  on  his  mind, 
had  been  but  dimly  kept  in  view 
during  her  long  absence.  Then 
he  became  aware  of  his  secretary's 
presence,  which  this  sudden  an- 
nouncement had  made  him  for  the 


1880.] 


The  Private  Secretary. — Part  II. 


675 


moment  forget,  and  he  became  sen- 
sible also  of  a  very  distinct  sensa- 
tion of  regret  that  the  mode  of  life 
•which  he  had  begun  to  find  so 
pleasant  would  now  be  liable  to 
interruption.  Then  feeling  instinct- 
ively the  impulse  to  conceal  her 
engagement  from  his  aunt,  he  hur- 
ried out  of  the  room  to  find  the 
messenger,  a  footman  in  livery, 
standing  in  the  hall.  In  answer 
to  his  inquiries,  the  man  told  him, 
what  he  had  already  learnt  from 
the  note,  that  the  ladies  who  had 
come  to  take  the  house  had  arrived 
the  previous  evening.  He  evident- 
ly knew  nothing  about  them  or  their 
relationship  to  Clifford ;  and  the 
latter,  after  ascertaining  so  much, 
went  into  Miss  Eeid's  empty  room, 
and  wrote  a  hasty  reply,  keeping 
the  door  open  the  while,  and  the 
man  standing  outside  in  the  pas- 
sage, and  taking  care  to  see  that 
he  left  the  house  without  holding 
further  communication  with  Sim- 
monds  or  Jane.  Then  he  return- 
ed to  his  own  room.  Miss  Reid 
was  still  sitting  in  the  easy-chair 
by  the  fire;  and  the  room,  thus  oc- 
cupied, seemed  to  have  a  charm  it 
had  never  before  possessed.  Some- 
how his  companion  had  become 
stiddenly  invested  with  a  new  in- 
terest; and  the  feeling  that  he 
was  no  longer  to  be  master  of  his 
own  plans  and  ways  of  life,  and 
that  this  connection  must  come  to 
an  end  just  when  it  was  becoming 
so  sweet  and  pleasant,  struck  him 
as  a  rude  and  unwelcome  shock. 
Miss  Reid,  for  her  part,  seeing  that 
lie  was  still  preoccupied  by  what 
had  passed,  and  feeling  perhaps  a 
desire  to  escape  from  her  new  posi- 
tion as  a  visitor  in  his  room,  took 
her  departure  at  once. 

Clifford  sat  pondering  over  the 
situation.  The  arrival  of  his  rela- 
tions was  an  event  as  unexpected 
as  it  was  important  to  him;  yet 
he  found  himself  thinking  still 


more  often  about  his  private  sec- 
retary, and  considering  how  to 
keep  his  aunt  in  ignorance  of  the 
engagement,  which  he  felt  would  be 
a  necessary  condition  of  maintain- 
ing it.  Clearly  Simmonds  must  be 
taken  into  confidence ;  and  indeed 
the  fact  that  his  aunt  and  cousin 
had  come  to  England  could  not 
with  propriety  be  withheld  from 
her.  Simmonds  had  been  in  the 
service  of  his  uncle,  and  knew  the 
family  history.  Accordingly,  after 
dressing  for  dinner,  he  rang  the  bell 
for  her. 

"  Simmonds,"  he  said,  while  she 
helped  him  to  put  on  his  overcoat, 
"  my  aunt  and  Miss  Scallan  have 
come  to  England.  They  arrived 
in  town  last  night  quite  unex- 
pectedly. I  heard  of  it  only  this 
afternoon." 

"  La,  sir,  you  don't  say  so ! 
Well,  it's  not  to  be  wondered  at, 
I'm  sure.  I've  been  expecting  to 
hear  of  their  coming  any  time  this 
last  twelvemonth.  The  wonder  is 
they  have  not  come  sooner,  I  think, 
and  so  much  depending  on  it." 

•'They  have  taken  a  house  in 
Charles  Street  for  the  season;  I  am 
going  to  dine  there  this  evening." 

"  You  will  make  my  duty  to  Mrs 
Scallan,  if  you  please,  sir,"  con- 
tinued the  housekeeper ;  but  she 
conveyed  this  message  in  a  tone 
which  was  the  reverse  of  dutiful. 
"And  Mr  Scallan,"  she  continued, 
"  has  he  come  over  too  along  with 
the  ladies  ? " 

"No,  my  uncle  is  to  follow,  some 
time  soon." 

"  I  suppose  it  will  be  soon,  sir ; 
there  is  not  much  time  left  before 
matters  are  settled  between  you  and 
Miss  Blanche.  Why,  it  won't  be 
many  months  before  you  become 
pix-and-twenty,  will  it,  sir?  How 
the  time  flies,  to  be  sure  !  " 

"  It  goes  quickly,  indeed,"  ob- 
served Clifford.  He  moved  towards 
the  hall-door;  and  then,  turning 


The  Private  Secretary. — Part  II. 


[Dec. 


round,  said,  with  an  appearance  of 
unconcern — 

"By  the  way,  Simrnonds,  I  do 
not  propose  to  mention  Miss  Eeid's 
engagement  to  my  aunt — that  is, 
not  for  the  present.  Of  course  I 
should  not  mind  its  being  known 
by  her  or  anybody  else,  and  I 
mean  to  tell  my  aunt  by-and-by. 
But  she  may  have  prejudices  about 
the  occupation  of  women,  about 
lady  doctors  and  lady  clerks,  and 
that  sort  of  thing,  and  might  think 
it  odd,  don't  you  see  1 " 

"Yes,  sir,  perhaps  she  might," 
said  Simmonds,  simply. 

"  Well,  you  will  understand  that 
I  should  wish  the  matter  to  reach 
my  aunt  first  through  myself.  I 
should  not  like  her  to  hear  of  it  in 
any  other  way  ;  it  would  look  as  if 
I  were  making  a  mystery  of  it." 

"  Yes,  sir,  it  would,  no  doubt," 
again  observed  the  matron. 

"  Which,  of  course,  is  not  the 
least  my  intention,"  he  continued, 
a  little  confused.  "  What  I  would 
wish,  therefore,  is,  that  if  any  of 
my  aunt's  people  come  here,  you 
should  arrange  to  see  them  your- 
self, and  that  there  should  be  no 
gossiping  between  them  and  Jane." 
And  as  Clifford  got  into  his  cab,  he 
reflected  with  satisfaction  that  Jane 
had  entered  his  service  so  long  after 
his  aunt  went  abroad,  that  she 
could  know  but  little  about  the 
family,  while  the  servants  of  the 
establishment  in  Charles  Street 
were  strange  to  both  parties.  If 
Simmonds  could  keep  the  latter  at 
bay,  whenever  they  came  to  the 
Alexandra  Mansions,  his  secret 
would  be  safe,  at  any  rate  for  a 
time.  He  thought  he  could  count 


on  Simmonds  ;  and  indeed,  between 
that  worthy  woman  and  Mrs  Scallan 
there  was  no  love  lost.  Battle  had 
been  joined  between  them  in  former 
years  over  the  household  affairs  oi 
the  late  Mr  Clifford,  which,  although 
the  housekeeper  had  been  victorious, 
had  left  behind  a  flavour  of  ill-will. 
Moreover,  any  objections  Simmonds 
might  have  felt  to  Miss  Eeid's 
engagement  in  the  first  instance 
had  been  entirely  disarmed  by  Clif- 
ford's business-like  way  of  conduct- 
ing it, —  the  separate  rooms,  the 
communication  by  despatch-boxes, 
Miss  Eeid's  solitary  luncheons,  and 
all  the  rest  of  the  arrangements  in 
keeping.  And  although  these  had 
now  undergone  a  change,  this  had 
come  about  almost  insensibly;  and 
in  the  absence  of  anything  savour- 
ing of  romance  in  the  relations 
between  employer  and  employed, 
the  housekeeper  hardly  took  more 
notice  of  Miss  Eeid's  coming  and 
going  than  if  she  had  been  a  man 
clerk ;  and  although  it  had  never 
happened  before,  it  seemed  quite  a 
natural  thing  that  the  two  should 
be  taking  tea  together  in  Clifford's 
own  room.  Miss  Eeid,  for  her  part, 
had  conducted  herself  so  discreetly, 
being  both  civil  and  almost  grate- 
ful for  the  attentions  received  from 
the  housekeeper,  while  yet  never 
encouraging  any  approach  to  famili- 
arity, that  if  Simmonds  did  not  ac- 
tually like  her,  which  could  hardly 
be  expected  under  the  circumstan- 
ces, she  at  least  did  not  dislike  her ; 
and  foreseeing  a  war  in  the  future 
between  Mrs  Scallan  and  the  pri- 
vate secretary,  her  sympathy  was 
bestowed  in  anticipation  on  the 
side  of  the  latter. 


CHAPTER  v. 


Clifford  drove  up  to  his  aunt's  ciently  justified  by  the  situation, 
house  in  a  condition  of  mental  It  was  so  long  since  he  bad  had 
excitement  and  nervousness  suffi-  any  communication  with  the  family 


1880.] 


The  Private  Secretary. — Part  II. 


G77 


that  he  had  almost  ceased  to  realise 
how  intimately  their  interests  were 
mixed  up  with  his  own.  Their 
unexpected  return  came  to  remind 
him  suddenly  that  the  problem  of 
his  future  must  soon  undergo  solu- 
tion one  way  or  the  other,  and  that 
the  question  had  not  the  less  in- 
evitably to  be  faced  because  he  had 
put  it  aside  during  their  absence. 
Yet  even  now  he  did  not  know 
how  far  the  final  settlement  of  the 
great  issue  rested  with  himself. 
Did  their  coming  intimate  that 
he  was  to  be  set  free  from  the  tie 
•which  now  bound  him,  or  did  it 
mean  that  the  connection  between 
them  was  now  to  be  drawn  closer  1 
Surely  the  latter.  At  any  rate,  it 
portended  that  his  course  in  life 
must  now  take  a  new  departure ; 
and  therefore  it  was  with  feelings 
wrought  up  to  a  high  state  of  ten- 
sion, while  also  sensible  of  consi- 
derable embarrassment  of  manner, 
that  he  entered  the  house  and  made 
his  way  up-stairs  to  the  drawing- 
room. 

Mrs  Scallan  was  alone  in  the 
room,  and  the  effusive  warmth 
with  which  she  received  him  at 
once  indicated — as  indeed  her  note 
of  the  morning  had  done  already — 
that  reconciliation  was  intended, 
and  that  the  condition  of  estrange- 
ment which  had  been  maintained 
since  they  parted,  five  years  before, 
and  which  had  been  intensified 
still  later  on  his  uncle's  death,  was 
now  to  be  replaced  by  one  of  inti- 
macy and  affection.  Clifford  had 
always  been  disposed  to  think 
kindly  of  his  aunt,  and  to  ascribe 
her  coldness  towards  him  to  her 
husband,  knowing  how  completely 
she  was  subject  to  his  influence. 
And  now,  whether  acting  under 
instructions  or  spontaneously,  the 
lady  received  him  with  every  ap- 
pearance of  cordiality,  presenting 
a  plump  cheek  to  be  kissed,  and 
declared  that  he  was  immensely 


improved  in  looks.  "Yes,  it  is 
quite  a  sudden  thing,  our  coming 
over,"  she  said,  in  reply  to  his  in- 
quiries ;  "  but  you  know  Scallan — 
your  uncle,  I  mean,  and  what  a  one 
he  is  for  doing  a  thing  all  at  once. 
He  took  it  into  his  head  that 
Blanche  must  be  presented  this 
season,  and  there  was  only  one 
drawing-room  more ;  so  nothing 
would  satisfy  him  but  to  break  up 
our  establishment  in  Fifth  Avenue 
and  that  we  should  start  straight 
away.  So  here  we  are,  back  in  Old 
England.  Scallan  took  this  place 
by  telegram — you  know  what  a  one 
he  is  for  telegraphing — house  fur- 
nished, use  of  plate,  and  servants 
and  all;  everything  as  it  stand?, 
and  paid  half  the  hiring  in  ad- 
vance ;  and  so  here  we  are.  Yes,  it 
is  all  very  handsome,  isn't  it  1  But 
you  should  have  seen  our  house 
in  Fifth  Avenue.  London  looks 
so  dingy  after  New  York  ;  but  of 
course  it's  more  fashionable,  and 
then,  in  the  States,  you  always  feel 
that  there  is  no  aristocracy,  and  I 
always  think  it  is  such  a  want. 
Blanche  is  quite  well,  thank  you  ; 
she  will  be  down  directly.  She's 
got  no  maid  yet,  so  takes  a  little 
long  to  dress.  She  will  be  de- 
lighted to  see  you,  and  I  am  sure 
you  will  be  charmed  with  her.  But 
you  will  hardly  know  her,  she  has 
filled  out  so.  She  was  quite  the 
belle  of  New  York,  I  can  assure 
you,  although  those  American  girls 
are  so  pretty.  But  she  has  not 
lost  her  heart  yet,  and  she  hasn't 
forgotten  her  cousin." 

A  certain  tone  of  uneasiness  in 
Mrs  Scallan's  rapid  utterances  be- 
trayed her  apprehension  that  this 
explanation  of  their  coming  to  Eng- 
land would  not  be  accepted  by  her 
nephew  as  the  real  one ;  and  indeed 
it  was  impossible  for  him  to  be  in 
doubt  any  longer  as  to  the  object 
of  their  sudden  appearance.  The 
silence  which  his  relatives  in 


678 


The  Private  Secretary.— Part  II. 


[Dec. 


America  had  observed  since  his 
uncle's  death  might  he  taken  to 
signify  resentment  at,  or  indiffer- 
ence to,  the  conditions  under  which 
his  uncle  had  left  his  whole  pro- 
perty to  Clifford,  to  the  exclusion 
of  his  own  sister ;  and  as  the  time 
approached  when  those  conditions 
would  take  effect,  and  the  silence 
was  still  maintained,  it  had  fallen 
in  with  Clifford's  somewhat  dreamy 
and  indolent  character  to  assume 
that  his  relatives  intended  to  hold 
him  absolved  from  their  fulfilment. 
But  whether  Mr  Scallan  was  acting 
on  a  sudden  impulse  or  from  set- 
tled purpose,  his  intention  was  now 
evident.  Clifford  was  to  be  held 
to  the  conditions  of  his  late  uncle's 
will ;  and  the  conviction  that  he 
was  now  to  be  called  on  to  make  a 
momentous  decision  did  not  tend 
to  allay  the  feeling  of  nervous  em- 
barrassment with  which  he  ad- 
vanced to  greet  his  cousin,  who 
now  entered  the  room. 

Nor  was  that  feeling  allayed  by 
the  appearance  of  the  young  lady,  in 
whom  he  with  difficulty  recognised 
the  young  girl  of  five  years  ago, 
who,  although  she  was  not  sixteen, 
and  he  almost  a  grown-up  man, 
used  even  then  to  treat  him  with 
scornful  disdain.  Mrs  Scallan  had 
not  exaggerated  in  speaking  of  her 
daughter.  Clifford  remembered  her 
as  a  slim,  pretty  young  girl,  giving 
promise  of  beauty.  That  promise 
had  been  amply  fulfilled.  She  was 
now  a  radiant  beauty.  A  figure 
which  in  a  shorter  woman  might 
have  seemed  too  full  was  in  keep- 
ing with  her  height ;  that  the  waist 
was  perhaps  almost  too  slender 
for  due  harmony  with  the  flowing 
lines  above,  was  the  only  flaw  in  an 
almost  perfect  form.  The  face  was 
pale,  except  for  a  slight  flush  on 
the  cheek,  but  the  pallor  set  off  the 
dark  lustrous  eyes.  Clifford  had 
never  before  beheld  so  splendid  a 
creature ;  and  as  she  came  into  the 


room,  with  a  slow  step  and  lan- 
guid air,  her  beauty  adorned  by  the 
rich  dress  whose  only  imperfection 
was  that  it  was  cut  somewhat  too 
low,  Clifford  involuntarily  compared 
her  with  the  more  humble  type  of 
beauty  lately  before  him.  Miss 
Eeid  could  not  boast  that  dazzling 
pearl-white  skin — it  must  be  con- 
fessed he  had  never  seen  nearly  so 
much  of  it  as  his  cousin  exposed  to 
view — and  her  figure  though  slim 
and  graceful,  wanted  the  rich  con- 
tours of  the  one  now  approaching. 
He  might  have  added,  but  that  he 
was  too  simple  to  know  it,  that 
Miss  Eeid  did  not  enhance  her 
looks  with  borrowed  charms.  For 
the  delicate  rose  tint  in  his  cousin's 
cheek  and  the  lustrous  darkness 
of  the  eyes,  art  had  come  to  the 
aid  of  nature.  But  even  without 
these  aids  she  was  a  very  beauti- 
ful woman.  Can  it  be,  he  thought, 
that  this  splendid  creature  is  des- 
tined to  be  my  wife  ? 

As  Clifford  advanced  to  greet  her 
all  his  nervousness  returned,  and 
was  not  allayed  when  she  gave 
him  the  tips  of  her  slender  fingers 
to  touch,  and  greeting  him  with 
an  air  of  languid  indifference,  as 
if  he  might  have  been  a  casual  ac- 
quaintance, last  seen  the  previous 
day,  dropped  into  an  easy -chair, 
and  sat  silent,  as  if  there  were  no 
occasion  to  exert  herself  further. 
Clifford,  too,  could  find  nothing  to 
say ;  even  Mrs  Scallan  was  dis- 
concerted, and  an  awkward  pause 
ensued,  during  which  Clifford  was 
asking  himself  why,  if  this  was  to 
be  the  lady's  mode  of  greeting  him, 
had  she  and  her  mother  come  all 
this  way,  and  sent  for  him  so 
quickly  ? 

The  silence  was  broken  by  the 
arrival  of  another  visitor,  announced 
as  Captain  Burrard. 

"The  Honourable  Captain  Bur- 
rard," whispered  Mrs  Scallan  to  her 
nephew,  "son  of  the  Earl  of  Chert- 


1880.] 


The  Private  Secretary.— Part  If. 


G79 


sey ;  he  used  to  be  in  the  Guards. 
He  was  travelling  in  the  States 
last  fall,  and  we  saw  a  great  deal 
of  him.  Scallan  was  able  to  help 
him  along  with  introductions. 
Blanche  met  him  this  morning 
when  she  was  out  shopping,  and 
asked  him  to  come  round;  but  I 
wanted  this  to  be  only  a  family 
party." 

Miss  Blanche,  however,  appeared 
well  pleased  at  the  addition,  so  far 
as  her  manner  conveyed  any  feeling. 
She  certainly  received  the  visitor 
more  graciously  than  she  had  done 
her  cousin,  her  languid  face  lighting 
up  for  the  moment  as  she  held  out 
her  hand  without  rising  from  her 
seat.  Burrard,  a  good-looking  man 
of  about  thirty,  but  inclined  to 
slight  obesity,  and  showing  inci- 
pient baldness,  displayed  for  his 
part  none  of  that  sense  of  awe  of 
the  young  lady  which  Clifford  was 
conscious  of  having  manifested. 
He  made  his  salutations  to  the 
mother  with  almost  a  patronising 
air,  and  shook  the  young  lady's  prof- 
fered hand  with  perfect  ease  and 
friendliness.  Dinner  being  now 
announced,  Mrs  Scallan  took  his 
arm,  and  Clifford  followed  with 
Blanche.  He  sought  in  vain  for 
something  to  say  on  the  way  down- 
stairs, but  no  commonplace  remarks 
came  up,  and  the  young  lady  did 
not  assist  him :  it  was  a  relief 
when  they  were  seated  at  the  round 
table  below.  But  Mrs  Scallan  be- 
gan to  make  so  many  apologies 
for  any  deficiencies  that  might  be 
apparent  in  the  repast,  on  the  score 
of  not  having  had  time  to  get 
things  square,  that  Clifford  again 
felt  quite  uncomfortable,  and  at  last 
Miss  Blanche  said  petulantly,  "  Why 
make  such  a  fuss,  mamma1?  Cap- 
tain Burrard  knows  that  as  well  as 
you  do  ; "  whereupon  the  Captain 
observed  airily  that  he  thought 
things  were  all  well  enough  con- 
sidering,— adding,  "  I  happen  to 


know  something  about  the  people 
you  have  taken  this  house  from,  and 
I  fancy  you  will  find  their  servants 
pretty  well  drilled,  and  the  dinner, 
as  we  can  all  see,  is  quite  in  order." 
And  Mrs  Scallan,  thinking  she  must 
have  committed  herself,  dropped 
the  subject.  Indeed,  the  dinner 
and  all  the  appointments  were 
handsome,  .and  the  bill  of  fare 
would  have  sufficed  for  a  much 
larger  party. 

The  conversation  turned  at  first 
on  America,  as  was  natural,  and  the 
people  and  places  the  others  had  seen 
there;  and  amid  the  references  to 
suppers  at  Delmonico's,  and  visits 
to  Saratoga  Wells  and  other  excur- 
sions, which  it  appeared  they  had 
taken  together,  Clifford  felt  himself 
to  be  metaphorically  out  in  the 
cold.  "  But  all  this  must  bore 
you,"  said  Burrard  presently,  look- 
ing across  the  table  towards  him, 
"  unless,  indeed,  you  are  in  the 
same  line  with  your  uncle,  and  go 
about  as  he  does." 

"No,  indeed,"  said  Mrs  Scallan, 
"Robert  has  no  need  to  work  fur 
his  living  like  poor  Scallan." 

"Poor  Scallan,  indeed,"  replied 
Burrard  ;  "  no  one  need  grumble  at 
having  to  work  like  Scallan,  when 
he  does  it  on  that  scale  and  with 
such  results.  Mr  Scallan,"  he  con- 
tinued, turning  to  Clifford,  "  is 
almost  as  well  known  as  the  Presi- 
dent on  the  other  side  of  the  water ; 
he  is  quite  one  of  the  great  powers 
in  the  States,  although  an  Eng- 
lishman ; — at  least  he  has  not  be- 
come a  naturalised  American,  has 
he?" 

"Oh  no,"  replied  Mrs  Scallan, 
to  whom  he  had  addressed  the 
question ;  "  Scallan  is  English  to 
the  backbone,  although  he  is  so 
much  abroad,  and  so  am  I  too." 

"  And  is  he  as  busy  as  ever  1 " 

"  Just  the  same :  as  Blanche 
said,  we  might  just  as  well  be  in 
England  as  in  New  York,  for  seeing 


680 


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[Dec. 


anything  of  him.  One  day  off  to 
'Frisco,  and  another  to  Chicago, 
and  never  writes  a  line  to  us  when 
he  is  away — only  telegraphs."  Mrs 
Scallan  said  this  in  a  somewhat 
aggrieved  manner,  and  yet  as  if 
proud  of  her  husband  for  neglect- 
ing her  under  the  circumstances ; 
then  she  added,  "  Scallan  is  such 
a  one  for  telegrams,  you  know. 
We  have  had  one  telegram  already 
since  we  arrived." 

"  You  ought  to  go  into  partner- 
ship with  your  uncle,"  said  Bur- 
rard,  again  addressing  himself  to 
Clifford  ;  "  there  is  a  splendid 
opening  in  his  line." 

"  Ah  !  that  would  not  suit  Eohert 
at  all,"  broke  in  Mrs  Scallan,  "  he 
is  such  a  one  for  books ;  we  think 
he  must  be  writing  one.  But  why 
should  any  one  work  when  they 
have  got  plenty  without  it  ? " 

"Why,  indeed ?"  said  Burrard. 
"  But  the  hardest  fate  of  all  is  that 
of  the  man  who  hasn't  plenty  with- 
out it,  and  yet  hasn't  got  any  work  ; 
the  paupers  of  younger  sons,  for 
example,  like  myself." 

"Now  you  are  laughing  at  us," 
said  Blanche,  who  had  so  far  re- 
mained silent,  as  if  the  conversa- 
tion had  no  interest  for  her. 

"The  aristocracy  have  no  need 
to  work,"  interposed  her  mother, 
"and  much  better  they  shouldn't. 
That  is  the  fault  of  the  States. 
New  York  society  is  very  elegant, 
some  of  it,  but  there  is  never  a 
gentleman  to  be  seen  about  the 
place  in  the  daytime.  I  think  a 
few  idle  gentlemen  give  such  a 
tone  to  society." 

"Very  nattering  to  Mr  Clifford 
and  myself ;  for  I  gather  from  what 
you  say  that  he  too  is  an  idler, 
belonging  to  what  political  econo- 
mists call  the  non-productive  classes. 
But  are  you  getting  your  dress 
ready  for  the  drawing-room  ? "  he 
said  to  Blanche,  turning  the  con- 
versation. 


"  Have  you  spoken  to  the  Coun- 
tess about  presenting  us?"  asked 
Blanche,  showing  for  once  a  little 
animation. 

"  My  mother  will  be  most  happy 
to  do  so,  proud  in  fact,  to  be  the 
means  of  introducing  the  famous 
beauty  of  New  York  to  the  Lon- 
don world." 

Which  in  fact  was  not  quite 
true,  Lady  Chertsey  having  con- 
sented to  undertake  the  office  only 
through  her  son's  importunity,  and 
on  condition  that  she  should  not 
be  required  to  make  "these  women's 
acquaintance." 

"  Ought  we  not  to  call  upon  her 
ladyship  to  thank  her  for  her 
kindness  ? "  asked  Mrs  Scallan ;  and 
Blanche,  although  she  had  resumed 
her  listless  attitude,  listened  eagerly 
for  the  reply. 

"  Not  in  the  least  necessary;  be- 
sides, the  first  visit  should  come 
from  her.  My  mother  will  do  her- 
self the  honour  of  calling  on  you, 
as  soon  as  she  has  knocked  off  some 
of  her  pressing  engagements." 

"That  will  be  indeed  kind," 
replied  Mrs  Scallan  ;  "  we  shall  be 
delighted  to  receive  her  ladyship, 
and  will  take  care  to  be  at  home, 
if  you  will  let  us  know  when  she 
is  coming." 

"  Must  mamma  wear  a  low 
dress  1 "  asked  Blanche.  "  The  Court 
milliner  says  so." 

"The  rule  is  absolute,"  said 
Burrard.  "And  you  too/'  he 
added,  turning  to  her,  and  speak- 
ing in  a  low  voice,  "  will  have  to 
display  your  charms  in  broad  day- 
light.'' 

Blanche  laughed,  and  said  she 
supposed  she  should  do  as  other 
people  did. 

Clifford  meanwhile  was  getting 
to  feel  very  indignant  at  what  he 
deemed  this  insolence  to  his  rela- 
tions, and  was  on  the  point  of  over- 
coming his  shyness  so  far  as  to  be 
on  the  point  of  cutting  in  with  a 


1880.] 


The  Private  Secretary.— Part  II. 


681 


rebuke  of  some  sort,  when  Cap- 
tain Burrard  changed  the  conver- 
sation by  remarking  that  he 
thought  of  going  out  again  to 
America,  after  the  summer,  to 
shoot  in  the  Rocky  Mountains. 

"Scallan  will  be  able  to  help 
you  there  famously,"  cried  his 
wife  ;  "  he  will  be  in  the  way  of 
helping  you  to  get  all  you  want. 
He  has  agents  everywhere.  He  will 
be  so  delighted  to  see  you  again." 

"The  delight  will  be  mutual," 
observed  the  Captain,  in  a  tone 
which  might  be  either  serious  or 
ironical ;  and  then  he  added,  "  I 
shouldn't  half  mind  stopping  over 
there  altogether,  if  your  husband 
would  take  me  as  partner."  Here 
again  he  might  be  either  jesting  or 
serious  ;  but  without  dwelling  on 
the  subject,  he  said  in  a  low  tone 
to  Blanche,  "Don't  you  think  I 
should  make  an  excellent  virtuous 
apprentice  ] " 

"Very  much  so,  you  look  so 
virtuous." 

"And  living  in  the  house  like 
all  apprentices  used  to  do." 

"You  would  soon  get  tired  of 
that." 

"And  of  course  finishing  up 
my  career  in  the  orthodox  way  of 
the  virtuous  apprentice,  made  one 
of  the  family  in  every  sense  1 " 

Miss  Blanche  looked  up  for  a 
moment  at  him,  and  then  meeting 
his  gaze,  laughed  and  blushed  a 
little.  Clifford  all  this  time  had 
been  engaged  in  conversation  by 
his  aunt,  and  could  not  catch  what 
was  said,  although  observing  the 
looks  that  passed. 

"And  so  you  will  not  stay  in 
England  for  the  hunting  this  year," 
said  Blanche  presently,  in  a  louder 
voice.  "  I  thought  you  could  not 
manage  to  live  without  it." 

"  What  is  a  poor  younger  son  to 
do  1  I  have  been  unlucky  with  my 
mounts  this  season,  and  can't  afford 
to  replace  them ;  so  it  will  be 


more  economical  to  go  to  America. 
Besides,  I  may  take  to  business 
there,  and  become  a  great  million- 
aire. By  the  way,  have  you  ever 
been  to  the  Rocky  Mountains  ?  "  he 
asked,  turning  to  Clifford. 

Clifford  was  obliged  to  confess 
that  he  had  not. 

"I  thought  you  might  have 
been.  Every  one  goes  so  much 
everywhere  nowadays.  I  thought 
you  might  have  given  me  a  wrinkle 
or  two  how  to  do  the  thing  econo- 
mically. But  you  can  advise  me 
about  one  thing,  Miss  Scallan — you 
can  tell  me  what  books  to  take. 
You  know  I  must  have  something 
to  read,  in  case  it  should  come  011 
to  rain  in  camp." 

"You  had  better  take  some 
French  novels." 

"  French  novels  !  Are  you  fond 
of  French  novels  ?  " 

"  I  dote  on  them,"  said  the 
young  lady. 

"  So  do  I,  especially  the  impro- 
per ones;  but  then,  you  see,  I  should 
have  to  take  a  dictionary.  I  can't 
read  French  without  a  dictionary, 
you  know,  and  then  they  would 
take  too  much  room.  French 
novels  are  printed  so  large.  JS"o ; 
I  want  something  good  in  a  small 
compass ;  something  to  come  and 
go  upon." 

"Why  not  Shakespeare?"  sug- 
gested Clifford. 

"  Shakespeare  ?  That's  a  capital 
idea  !  Yes,  I  will  take  half-a-dozen 
plays  of  Shakespeare.  Now,  Miss 
Scallan,  please  give  me  the  names 
of  half-a-dozen  good  plays."  And 
he  took  a  very  small  memorandum- 
book  out  of  his  waistcoat-pocket. 

"  Hamlet,"  said  Miss  Scallan. 

"  Hamlet,"  repeated  Captain  Bur- 
rard, entering  the  name  in  his  note- 
book. "But,  no :  I  have  seen 
Hamlet  acted,  and  very  good  it 
was,  so  I  don't  want  to  read  it; 
please  name  another." 

"Macbeth,"  said  Clifford. 


682 


The  Private  Secretary. — Part  II. 


[Dec. 


"  I  have  seen  that  acted  too  ;  but 
it  was  a  long  time  ago.  I  think  I 
could  stand  Macbeth  over  again." 

"Othello." 

"  Othello  1  I  have  seen  that  acted 
too  ;  but  it  was  by  that  Italian  fel- 
low, and  I  didn't  understand  a  word 
of  it.  Othello  will  do.  That  makes 
two." 

"  Eichard  the  Third." 

"Yes;  that  will  enable  me  to 
get  up  my  English  history." 

"  Henry  the  Fourth  commends 
itself  for  the  same  reason." 

"  So  it  does  ;  that  makes  four." 

"Five.  There  are  two  parts  to 
Henry  the  Fourth." 

"  I  don't  think  I  could  stand  two 
parts  about  the  same  fellow.      I'll 
take  the  second  part,   which   will 
have  the  winding-up  business.      I 
want  two  more." 
"  Julius  Caesar." 
"  Capital !    he   was   a  first-rate 
soldier,   Julius    Caesar.      Yes,    I'll 
take  Julius  Caesar." 

"Coriolanus." 

"Two  doses  of  Eoman  history 
would  be  too  much  for  one  time. 
"Won't  you  give  me  something 
lighter?" 

"  Measure  for  Measure." 

"  Measure  for  Measure,"  repeated 
Burrard,  completing  the  memor- 
andum. "  I  say,  you  are  sure  that's 
an  interesting  one  ;  "  and  from  the 
shrewd  twinkle  in  his  eye,  Clifford 
could  not  help  suspecting  that  the 
Captain's  knowledge  of  Shakes- 
peare was  not  altogether  of  the 
limited  kind  professed. 

"You  might  get  the  whole  of 
Shakespeare  in  one  small  pocket 
volume." 

"  Ah,  but  that  won't  do ;  I 
must  have  plays  with  notes.  I 
am  such  a  fool  that  I  shouldn't 
understand  a  word  without  notes. 
No ;  six  plays  with  copious  notes 
will  be  the  thing  for  me — each 
play  separate.  I  suppose  I  can  buy 
them  separate  1 " 


"  They  are  published  in  separate 
plays  expressly  for  the  Civil  Ser- 
vice Examinations,  with  copious 
notes." 

"That  will  be  just  the  very 
thing  for  me.  Not  that  I  ever 
passed  an  examination  in  my  life." 

"  I  thought  that  the  examina- 
tions for  the  army  were  very  se- 
vere," said  Clifford. 

"So  they  are,  awfully  stiff;  but 
I  got  in  before  the  days  of  competi- 
tion. That  is  one  of  the  advantages 
of  having  been  born  more  than 
thirty  years  ago.  I  don't  know 
what  I  should  do  if  I  happened 
to  be  born  now." 

"  Is  the  Countess  going  to  travel 
again  this  autumn  ? "  broke  in  Mrs 
Scallan,  who  had  not  been  able  to 
bear  any  part  in  the  conversation 
when  it  took  a  literary  turn. 

"  Autumn  is  a  long  way  off,  but 
they  are  pretty  sure  to  establish 
themselves  at  Homburg  as  usual. 
The  governor  is  safe  to  have  the 
gout  by  the  end  of  the  season.  He 
was  an  eldest  son  once,  so  it  comes 
naturally  to  him." 

"  And  has  Lord  Mount  Burrard 
got  the  gout  too  ] "  asked  Blanche. 
Lord  Mount  Burrard  was  the  Cap- 
tain's elder  brother. 

"  Oh  no ;  he  is  one  of  the  new 
school,  don't  you  know,  —  takes 
neither  wine  nor  beer.  But  he  is 
a  little  delicate  here — tapping  his 
shirt-front — and  has  been  spending 
the  winter  in  Algeria.  Not  much 
the  matter,  I  fancy ;  but  his  wife 
makes  him  take  great  care  of  him- 
self, and  quite  right  too." 

"  I  wonder  you  don't  go  abroad 
with  the  family,"  said  Mrs  Scallan. 
"  I  suppose  the  ladies  Emmeline 
and  Gwendoline  accompany  the 
Earl  and  Countess  in  their  travels  1 " 

"  The  poor  younger  brother  would 
get  his  travelling  expenses  paid," 
suggested  Blanche. 

"  I,  oh  no,  never  go  about  with 
my  people;  they  are  all  very  well 


830.] 


TJie  Private  Secretary. — Part  IT. 


683 


at  home,  dou't  you  know ;  but  when 
they  travel  they  take  such  a  lot  of 
servants  and  things  that  they  are 
surrounded  with  quite  an  English 
atmosphere.  They  might  just  as 
well  take  a  stock  of  English  fog 
with  them.  No ;  when  I  travel  I 
like  to  see  something  of  the  man- 
ners and  customs  of  the  people, 
and  so  I  always  go  second-class,  as 
becomes  a  poor  younger  son.  That 
is  the  only  way  to  pick  up  a  little 
French  or  German,  which  they  for- 
got to  teach  one  at  school.  Eton 
modern  languages  are  all  very  well, 
but  they  don't  go  very  far  out  of 
England." 

"  "What  wine  are  you  drinking  ? " 
said  Captain  Burrard  to  Clifford, 
after  the  ladies  had  gone  up-stair.*, 
helping  himself  to  claret.  "  I  ob- 
served that  you  took  champagne  at 
dinner.  I  like  champagne  well 
enough ;  but  when  you  are  not 
sure  about  your  wine,  a  little  claret 
is  the  least  dangerous  tipple.  A 
sound  taste  in  wine  is  evidently 
not  among  our  fair  hostess's  accom- 
plishments." 

"  I  am  sorry  that  you  do  not  ap- 
prove of  the  wine,"  replied  Clifford, 
in  a  tone  which  showed  that  he 
was  nettled  at  the  other's  way  of 
speaking ;  "  but  perhaps  my  aunt 
has  not  had  time  yet  to  arrange  fur 
a  proper  supply." 

"Your  aunt?  Upon  my  word 
I  quite  forgot  she  was  your  aunt. 
I  am  sure  I  beg  your  pardon,  my 
dear  fellow  ;  the  fact  is,  I  have  seen 
so  much  more  of  your  relatives  lately 
than  you  have,  that  it  seems  natural 
to  be  doing  the  honours  of  the  house 
to  you.  But  the  fact  is,  nobody 
has  any  good  wine  nowadays.  My 
mother  does  not  drink  wine,  and 
my  faf1ier  durstn't ;  and  the  conse- 
quence is,  that  our  people  never 
have  a  drop  of  wine  in  the  house 
fit  to  drink.  It's  the  same  every- 
where, I  think."  And  the  Captain 
was  so  apologetic  and  disparaging 

VOL.  CXXVIII. NO.  DCCLXXXIT. 


about  the  housekeeping  of  las  own 
relations,  that  Clifford's  rising  anger 
was  soon  appeased. 

When  the  gentlemen  went  up- 
stairs to  the  drawing-room,  the 
ladies  were  sitting  on  opposite  sides 
of  it.  Burrard  established  himself 
by  Miss  Scallan,  with  whom  he 
carried  on  an  easy  conversation, 
sustained  for  the  most  part  by  him- 
self, reclining  nearly  at  full  length 
in  an  easy -chair,  and  nursing  one 
ancle  on  his  knee,  while  he  stroked 
his  silk  stocking  affectionately. 
Clifford,  finding  himself  thus  fore- 
stalled, took  a  chair  by  his  aunt, 
who  began  to  ply  him  with  ques- 
tions about  his  way  of  life.  So  he 
had  quite  settled  in  London ;  and 
taken  a  flat  on  lease;  and  found  it 
comfortable ;  and  he  had  brought 
Simmonds  down  to  be  housekeeper; 
she  hoped  he  found  her  honest ; 
but  the  hope  sounded  like  a  pre- 
diction that  Simmonds  would  prove 
to  be  the  reverse.  Clifford  replied 
that  he  believed  she  was  perfectly 
honest,  and  that,  indeed,  she  had  not 
much  opportunity  for  being  other- 
wise, save  as  regards  the  contents 
of  his  tea  caddy,  for  he  took  no 
meal  except  breakfast  at  home. 
But  he  would  trust  her  with  any- 
thing. They  were  none  of  them 
to  be  trusted,  observed  the  lady — 
not,  she  dared  say,  that  Simmonds 
was  worse  than  others ;  perhaps 
not,  but  were  all  alike.  That  was 
the  comfort  of  living  in  American 
hotels ;  you  paid  your  bill  and  had 
done  with  it ;  but  Scallan  would  go 
and  take  a  house  in  Fifth  Avenue, 
and  the  servants  were  the  worry  of 
her  life.  And  now  she  had  wanted 
to  stay  at  the  Langham  ;  they  could 
have  been  very  comfortable  there, 
and  it  would  have  been  so  cheerful, 
for  some  of  their  fellow-passengers 
had  gone  there  ;  but  nothing  would 
satisfy  Scallan  but  he  must  go  and 
take  this  house,  servants  and  all, 
just  as  it  stood ;  took  it  by  tele- 

3  A. 


684 


The  Private  Secretary.— Part  II. 


[Dec. 


graph — he  was  such  a  one  for  tele- 
graphing. And  how  was  Clifford 
off  for  a  man-servant  1  What !  had 
he  no  man  1  How  could  he  get  on 
without  a  man?  He  had  no  work 
for  a  man-servant,  and  did  not  like 
one  about  the  house  ?  Mrs  Scallan 
laughed  a  little  disdainfully;  her 
nephew  was  evidently  a  very  pecu- 
liar young  man.  And  how  did  he 
pass  his  time?  Did  he  not  even 
keep  a  horse?  He  ought  to  get  a 
horse  and  ride  in  the  Park  every 
day.  His  cousin  would  be  very 
glad  to  have  him  for  an  escort. 
She  was  going  to  hire  a  horse  for 
the  season.  "  Blanche  !  "  said  Mrs 
Scallan,  in  a  louder  voice  across  the 
room,  "  I  am  telling  Robert  that 
he  ought  to  get  a  horse  and  ride 
with  you  in  the  Park.  Captain, 
you  must  come  and  see  these  photo- 
graphs we  have  brought  from  Nia- 
gara. We  have  brought  a  lot  more, 
but  they  are  not  unpacked  yet;"  and 
so  saying,  Mrs  Scallan  led  the  way 
to  a  side-table.  Burrard  could  not 
but  follow,  and  Clifford  summoned 
up  courage  to  cross  the  room  and 
take  the  vacant  place  by  his  cousin. 
He  could  not  venture,  however,  to 
lean  back  at  his  ease  as  Burrard  had 
done,  still  less  to  nurse  his  foot,  but 
sat  upright,  and  the  chair  being  low, 
he  found  his  legs  rather  in  the  way. 

Blanche  greeted  him  with  a  smile, 
her  first  encouragement,  and  which 
emboldened  him  to  speak. 

"  Do  you  intend  to  ride  regularly 
when  in  town  ? " 

"  Every  day,  I  suppose ;  that  it?, 
every  day  when  it  is  fine,  and  there 
is  nothing  else  to  do.  Do  you 
ride?" 

"  I  have  not  been  doing  so,  but 
I  mean  to ;  that  is,  if  you  would 
let  me  be  your  escort." 

"I  should  like  it  very  much 
indeed."  The  words  were  gra- 
cious, but  not  the  manner;  she 
could  hardly  have  expressed  more 
distinctly  her  perfect  indifference, 


as,  with  eyes  half  closed,  she  leant 
back  in  her  chair.  Clifford  felt  too 
crushed  to  offer  any  further  remark ; 
but  after  a  pause,  the  young  lady, 
as  if  feeling  remorseful  at  her  treat- 
ment of  him,  volunteered  an  obser- 
vation which  partially  restored  his 
equanimity.  And  so  the  conversa- 
tion went  on.  His  cousin  appeared 
to  be  divided  between  a  specific  in- 
tention to  please  him,  and  a  natural 
or  acquired  instinct  to  make  her- 
self disagreeable,  and  smiled  on  and 
snubbed  him  alternately  in  such  a 
way  that,  if  she  had  been  anybody 
else,  Clifford,  shy  man  though  he 
was,  would  have  got  up  and  left 
her.  But  he  was  not  only  im- 
pressed by  her  beauty;  the  indif- 
ference he  had  hitherto  felt  about 
her,  whenever  his  thoughts  had 
turned  that  way,  was  now  replaced 
by  a  feeling  of  deep  interest  and 
a  desire  to  come  at  a  knowledge  of 
his  cousin's  character.  This  so  far 
perplexed  him.  He  could  not  recon- 
cile the  open  overture  professed  to 
him,  in  her  coming  at  all,  as  well 
as  in  the  little  marks  of  gracious- 
ness  she  now  and  then  vouchsafed 
to  him,  with  her  generally  repellent 
manner.  Was  it  that  she  believed 
him  to  be  compelled  to  accept  her 
on  her  own  terms,  and  therefore 
desired  to  exhibit  her  own  feeling 
of  repulsion  at  the  connection,  and 
her  sense  of  the  sacrifice  she  was 
obliged  to  make  ?  Did  she  mean  to 
signify  that  she  would  accept  him 
only  because  she  could  not  help 
herself,  and  wished  to  take  advantage 
of  the  knowledge  that  he  also  was 
ready  to  close  the  bargain  on  any 
terms  ?  Or  was  her  manner  merely 
the  natural  petulance  of  a  spoiled 
beauty  ?  Clifford  had  not  time  to 
reflect  whether,  if  the  former  sup- 
position was  correct,  he  might  not 
be  making  his  bargain  on  terms 
too  dear.  He  was  too  generous 
to  think  only  of  himself;  his  pre- 
dominant feeling  was  of  pity  for 


1880.] 


TJie  Private  Secretary.— Part  II. 


C85 


her.  Hard  fate,  he  thought,  for 
one  so  beautiful,  if  forced  into  a 
distasteful  and  incongruous  union. 
Indeed,  how  much  harder  it  was 
for  her  than  for  him  !  He  would  at 
any  rate  possess  this  radiant  beauty, 
but  what  had  he  to  oifer  in  return? 
for  he  appraised  very  humbly  his 
own  attractions,  personal  as  well  as 
mental.  And  if  he  felt  no  keenness 
about  the  marriage,  how  natural  that 
it  should  cause  her  horror  and  dis- 
gust !  Still  the  contempt  now  and 
then  expressed  for  him  by  her  man- 
ner was  hardly  generous.  At  once 
pained  and  fascinated,  Clifford  kept 
his  place,  unable  either  by  speech 
or  manner  to  do  justice  to  himself, 
yet  unwilling  to  leave  her  side ;  and 
it  was  an  extreme  relief  to  him 
when  Captain  Burrard,  pulling  out 
a  very  small  watch,  declared  that 
he  had  no  idea  how  late  it  was,  the 
evening  had  passed  so  quickly,  and 
rose  to  go.  Clifford  following  his 
example  got  up  also,  casting  as  he 
did  so  a  shy  glance  of  entreaty  at 
his  cousin,  as  if  looking  for  one 
kind  word  at  parting,  to  which  she 
responded  by  a  scarcely  suppressed 
yawn. 

Her  face  became  more  animated 
ns  Burrard  crossed  the  room  to  take 
leave  of  her.  "  We  may  trust  to  you 
for  the  presentations  ? "  she  said,  as 
she  held  out  her  hand. 

"  Oh  yes,  you  may  confide  im- 
plicitly in  me.  I  will  arrange  it 
all ;  you  need  have  no  trouble 
about  the  business." 

"And  about  the  introductions?  " 


said  Mrs  Scallan  in  a  louder  voice 
from  the  other  side  of  the  room  ; 
"  you  know  we  are  quite  strangers 
in  London ;  we  are  looking  to  you 
to  give  us  a  start."  And  then,  re- 
gardless of  her  daughter's  indignant 
glances,  she  repeated  :  "  You  know 
we  are  quite  looking  to  you  to  give 
us  a  start.  Only  give  Blanche  a 
start,  and  you  may  trust  her  to  go 
right  away  with  the  best  of  them." 

"  All  right,"  replied  the  Captain. 
"Miss  Scallan  shall  have  full  jus- 
tice done  to  her  claims  to  distinc- 
tion, I  promise  you.  I'll  bring 
some  people  to  see  you  very  soon, 
— some  nice  people,  and  all  that, — 
and  set  things  going  for  you ;  and 
then,"  turning  to  Blanche,  and  giv- 
ing her  another  shake  of  the  hand 
in  a  patronising  way,  "you  will 
know  how  to  do  the  rest." 

"  You  must  come  and  see  us  very 
often  indeed,"  said  Mrs  Scallan  to 
her  nephew,  as  he  was  following 
Burrard  out  of  the  room ;  "  mustn't 
he,  Blanche1?"  she  added,  looking 
at  her  daughter,  who  had  not 
seconded  the  invitation. 

"  Of  course,"  said  the  young 
lady,  looking  anywhere  but  at  him, 
and  in  a  tone  of  voice  which  gave 
a  direct  contradiction  to  her  words ; 
then,  as  if  with  an  effort,  she  add- 
ed :  "  and  you  won't  forget  about 
the  riding?"  This  time,  however, 
accompanying  her  words  with  a 
beaming  glance  from  the  lustrous 
eyes,  and  a  smile,  the  rarity  of 
which  worked  upon  poor  Clifford 
its  own  fascination. 


CHAPTER    VI. 


"Will  you  try  a  cigar?"  said 
Burrard,  as  they  left  the  house, 
offering  Clifford  his  cigar  -  case. 
"  You  don't  smoke  ?  and  a  very 
good  thing  too.  It's  a  bad  habit, 
and  deuced  expensive.  I  can't  af- 
ford it,  but  I  do  it.  Its  astonish- 


ing how  many  fellows  don't  smoke 
nowadays.  Are  you  for  walking? 
if  so,  we  may  as  well  walk  together 
— it's  a  fine  night.  I  wouldn't  mind 
sharing  a  hansom,  just  for  once  in 
a  way  ;  but  cabs  are  against  my 
principles;  I  can't  afford  them.  A 


686 


The  Private  Secretary. — Part  II. 


[Doc. 


very  pretty  little  girl,  little  Miss 
Blanche,"  he  continued,  as  they 
walked  down  the  street  together, 
"and  so  modest  and  unaffected  and 
lively.  You  are  in  luck  to  be  on 
terms  of  relationship." 

Clifford  was  struck  with  the  in- 
appropriateness  of  the  attribution, 
for  his  cousin  was  certainly  not 
girlish  or  little ;  and  without  al- 
lowing himself  to  think  of  her  as 
immodest  and  affected,  the  qualities 
opposite  to  these  were  hardly  the 
most  conspicuous  about  her. 

"  I  don't  mind  telling  you  in 
confidence,"  continued  the  other, 
— and  here  a  pang  of  jealousy  shot 
through  his  companion, — "that  if 
I  were  a  marrying  man,  I  should 
have  fallen  in  love  with  the  little 
American  long  ago ;  but  then,  you 
know,  for  a  poor  younger  son  such 
a  thing  is  not  to  be  thought  of." 

Although  the  latter  part  of  this 
sentence  gave  Clifford  relief,  he  did 
not  at  all  relish  Captain  Burrard's 
free-and-easy  way  of  speaking  of  his 
relations ;  but  that  gentleman  ap- 
peared so  entirely  unconscious  of 
any  intention  of  giving  offence  that 
he  did  not  like  to  show  annoyance, 
and  the  other  quickly  changing  the 
conversation,  the  opportunity  was 
lost  of  resenting  the  liberty.  The 
Captain  continued  to  rattle  on  till 
they  reached  the  bottom  of  St 
James's  Street,  when  he  invited  his 
companion  to  turn  in  for  a  few 
minutes  at  what  he  termed  his 
crib.  Clifford  would  have  liked 
to  accept  the  invitation ;  he  had 
never  made  the  acquaintance  of  an 
officer  before,  much  less  a  Guards- 
man, but  a  feeling  restrained  him 
that  he  would  be  boring  his 
host.  A  man  of  fashion  like  Bur- 
rard  must  have  better  occupation 
than  to  be  entertaining  a  stranger 
like  himself,  with  no  conversa- 
tional gifts.  "  Well,  then,"  said 
the  other,  "  if  you  won't  take  pity 
on  my  solitude,  I  suppose  I  must 


look  in  at  the  club  for  a  few  min- 
utes. I  am  sorry  I  can't  ask  you 
in  there;  we  have  a  foolish  rule 
against  admitting  strangers.  I 
hope  we  shall  meet  again  soon ; 
we  shall  be  sure  to  run  across  each 
other  before  long,  London  is  such 
a  small  place.  Good  night." 

Clifford  felt  a  little  elated  by  the 
friendly  hearty  manner  of  his  new 
acquaintance,  the  first  he  had  made 
in  London  of  his  own  age,  or  with 
any  pretensions  to  fashion.  At  hia 
own  club — to  which  he  had  been  in- 
troduced by  his  trustee — the  mem- 
bers were  mostly  of  middle  age, 
and  even  of  these  he  knew  scarcely 
a  dozen.  And  yet,  he  thought,  as  he 
walked  across  .the  Park  to  Victoria 
Street,  why  should  the  Captain  care 
to  know  me  and  want  to  renew  my 
acquaintance  1  I  am  sure  he  cannot 
have  found  me  amusing.  Can  it 
be  that  he  is  in  want  of  money, 
and  healing  that  I  am  well  off, 
he  looks  on  me  as  a  pigeon  to  be 
plucked?  Such  things  take  place 
very  often  in  London,  I  believe. 
Clifford  was  innocent  of  the  world, 
and  suspicious.  But  his  thoughts 
soon  turned  back  towards  his  cous- 
in ;  and  passing  in  review  all  the 
events  of  the  evening,  he  found 
himself  in  a  state  of  mingled  per- 
plexity and  fascination,  which  kept 
him  awake  until  far  into  the  night. 

"Robert  is  not  much  changed," 
obt-erved  Mrs  Scallan,  as  soon  as 
her  visitors  had  left  the  house. 

"He  is  just  as  great  a  gawky 
as  ever,"  responded  her  daughter, 
yawning  sulkily  from  the  depths 
of  her  chair,  and  arranging  the  folds 
of  her  dress,  although  there  was  no 
one  present  to  look  at  it. 

"  Not  gawky  at  all,  Blanche ; 
he  is  shy — and  no  wonder,  after  the 
way  in  which  my  brother  kept  him 
tied  to  his  arm-chair.  We  must 
bring  him  out,  and  make  him  mix 
in  the  world  of  fashion." 


1880.] 


The  Private  Secretary. — Part  IT. 


687 


A  look  of  contempt  passed  over 
the  young  lady's  pretty  face,  as  if 
she  held  her  mother's  powers  as  a 
leader  in  the  ways  of  fashion  rather 
cheap.  The  latter  continued,  "  I 
must  give  Eobert  a  hint  to  wear  a 
white  tie  at  dinner,  and  to  get  some 
nicer  shirt-collars  ;  but  he  is  not  at 
all  bad-looking  if  he  were  properly 
dressed*.  He  only  wants  encourage- 
ment to  bring  him  out.  He  talked 
away  to  me  fast  enough.  By  the 
way,  (he  tells  me  he  has  got  that 
woman  Simmonds  still  with  him. 
He  keeps  only  her  and  a  maid  ;  he 
must  have  saved  heaps  of  money 
already.  He  can't  be  spending  five 
hundred  a-year  from  the  way  he 
lives.  But  that's  neither  here  nor 
there  just  now.  I  am  afraid  he 
has  been  put  out  to  -  night.  Of 
course  it  is  no  good  my  being  plea- 
sant with  him,  if  you  won't  so  much 
as  throw  him  a  civil  word." 

"  Oh,  bother,"  said  her  daughter, 
pettishly  ;  "  I  can't  be  always  teach- 
ing bears  to  dance.  I  am  sure  1 
Avas  civil  enough  ;  but  I  can't  make 
conversation  all  by  myself.  What 
am  I  to  do  if  he  won't  speak  when 
he  is  spoken  to  ? "  And  the  young 
lady  wound  up  her  speech  by  an- 
other yawn. 

"  It  was  a  mistake  having  the 
Captain  here,"  observed  her  mother, 
presently.  "  How  could  you  ex- 
pect your  cousin  to  come  out  when 
that  rattlebiain  was  here  to  talk 
nineteen  to  the  dozen  ?  I  must 
say,  Blanche,  I  think  you  might 
consult  me  first,  before  asking  peo- 
ple to  the  house  in  that  offhand 
way,  without  even  saying  by  your 
leave  or  with  your  leave."- 

"  I  am  sure  that  Captain  Bur- 
rard's  being  here  was  the  only  thing 
that  made  the  evening  endurable. 
Fancy  what  it  would  have  been  if 
we  had  had  no  one  but  Robert 
here  ! " 

"  Xo  one  but  Eobert  !  I  think 
that  is  hardly  the  right  way  to 


speak,  Blanche.  You  seem  to  for- 
get that  you  may  have  many  even- 
ings to  spend  with  no  one  but 
Eobert,  as  you  call  it,  before  long." 

"  What  is  the  use  of  reminding 
me  of  that  1  At  any  rate  we.  need 
not  have  nothing  but  Eobert  now. 
It  will  be  time  enough  to  talk 
about  that  when  it  comes  to  pass." 

"  I  must  say,  Blanche,  if  that  is 
the  way  in  which  you  are  going  to 
treat  the  matter,  it  is  a  pity  we 
ever  came  over  here." 
.  "  Was  the  coming  over  here  my 
doing  ?  "  retorted  the  young  lady. 
"  I  am  sure  I  was  quite  ready  to 
stay.  New  York  is*  ever  so  much 
a  nicer  place  than  London.  You 
can  do  as  you  like  there,  and  don't 
need  to  be  patronised  by  anybody." 

"  You  should  have  said  all  this 
to  your  father,  Blanche  ;  you  know 
I  had  nothing  to  do  with  it ;  you 
and  he  settled  it  between  you.  I 
must  say  you  are  rather  hard  on 
your  poor  old  mother  to  bring  her 
over  here  if  you  did  not  mean  any- 
thing to  come  of  it,  and  me  such  a 
bad  sailor  too."  And  Mrs  Scallan 
began  to  whimper. 

"  There  is  no  need  to  make  a  fuss 
about  nothing,  mamma,"  said  the 
young  lady,  her  voice  assuming  a 
more  kindly  tone.  "  There  ie  no 
harm  done,  and  there  is  plenty  of 
time.  Trust  me,  mother  ;  I  know 
my  business,  without  being  scolded 
and  lectured  to." 

"  I  hope  you  do,  my  dear ;  I 
hope  you  do,"  replied  her  mother, 
making  a  feeble  effort  to  keep  the 
upper  hand,  but  feeling  that,  as 
usual,  her  daughter  was  too  much 
for  her.  "  You  know  best,  Blanche, 
no  doubt ;  but  all  I  can  say  is, 
there  is  no  time  to  be  lost.  You 
know  how  anxious  your  father  is 
about  it.  The  very  last  words  he 
said  to  me  before  sailing  were, — 
'  Polly,'  says  he,  '  things  may  burst 
up  any  moment.'  Those  were  his 
very  words.  You  know  what  that 


688 


The  Private  Secretary. — Part  II. 


[Dec. 


means.  You  know  how  we  had  to 
clear  out  of  England  last  time ;  I 
declare  I  am  sick  and  tired  of  these 
burstings -up.  I  would  rather  by 
far  have  a  quiet  place  somewhere 
—  I  shouldn't  care  where  it  was 
— that  I  could  be  sure  of,  than  be 
living  in  this  sort  of  way,  spending 
money  right  and  left,  and  never 
knowing  what  day  the  money  may 
not  stop  coming.  I  always  feel  as 
if  I  were  on  the  edge  of  a  vol- 
cano." 

"  I  can't  help  my  father's  ways,'.' 
said  the  girl,  sulkily.  She  felt,  too, 
in  her  heart  the  degradation  of  their 
position ;  but  so  long  as  her  mother 
made  complaints,  it  suited  her  way- 
Avard  temper  to  appear  indifferent. 
"  I  can't  help  my  father's  ways," 
she  repeated  ;  "  what  would  you 
have  me  do  1 " 

"  It  isn't  what  /  want  you  to  do  : 
you  wouldn't  mind  that,  I  know  ; 
but  it's  what  your  father  wants. 
You  saw  his  telegram  yesterday  : 
'  Find  out  Robert  at  once,  and  settle 
the  business  sharp.'  That's  what 
your  father  says.  You  may  fancy 
you  can  do  better ;  but  how  you 
will  do  it,  I  am  sure  I  don't  know. 
You  may  have  the  Captain  dangling 
after  you  all  the  season,  I  daresay, 
if  you  encourage  him ;  but  he's  only 
laughing  at  us — any  one  can  see 
that.  It  was  different  in  New 
York,  where  he  was  nobody ;  but 

"  Captain  Burrard  is  nothing  to 
me,"  broke  in  Blanche  sharply,  for 
her  mother's  observation  was  too 
true  not  to  be  galling.  You  don't 
want  to  give  up  the  drawing-room, 
I  suppose]  I  don't  care  to  go,  if 
you  dou't.  It  will  look  rather  ab- 
surd, of  course,  to  give  it  up,  after 
we  have  ordered  the  dresses,  too; 
but  it  is  just  as  you  like." 

"No,  Blanche,  I  wouldn't  hear 
of  such  a  thing  as  giving  up  the 


drawing-room,"  cried  Mrs  Scallan, 
anxious  to  pacify  her  daughter, 
although  she  understood  perfectly 
that  Blanche  had  no  serious  inten- 
tion of  giving  it  up  ;  "  I  want  them 
to  see  what  a  real  beauty  is, — and 
I  am  sure  there  is  not  such  another 
in  London  as  my  Blanche,  any  more 
than  there  is  in  the  States, — only 
don't  let  the  Captain  stand  in  your 
cousin's  way.  Robert  admires  you 
very  much  already, — any  one  can 
see  that.  But  ho  will  want  some 
encouragement,  of  course." 

"  La,  mother,  how  you  go  on  ! 
Of  course  I  know  that.  They  all 
want  encouragement — in  a  way." 

"  Do  they '?  Some  of  them  seem 
to  encourage  themselves,  I  think. 
Well,  all  I  can  say  is,  I  want  to  do 
my  duty  by  you  as  well  as  your 
father ;  and  where  will  you  find 
another  like  your  cousin,  so  amiable 
and  quiet, — just  the  one  to  let  you 
do  exactly  as  you  like1? " 

"  A  cousin,  indeed  !  And  in  what 
sort  of  a  way  ? " 

"That  is  not  his  fault — and  no 
one  knows  anything  about  it ;  and 
he  has  got  the  money,  at  any  rate 
—  a  clear  five  thousand  a-year, 
Blanche  ;  and  I  don't  suppose  he 
spends  five  hundred.  He  seems  to 
live  like  a  hermit, — an  old  house- 
keeper and  one  maid.  Not  even  a 
buggy  and  horse,  or  a  man-servant, 
— just  a  couple  of  rooms,  with  that 
old  Simmonds  and  a  maid  to  look 
after  them.  He  must  have  laid  by 
ever  so  much  already.  And  it  ought 
to  have  been  yours  from  the  first. 
But  that's  neither  here  nor  there. 
Five  thousand  a-year  is  not  to  be 
picked  up  in  the  streets,  I  can  tell 
you, — and  that's  where  we  shall 
be  one  of  these  days,  I  believe  : 
I  often  feel  as  if  we  were  on  the 
edge  of  a  volcano.  I  declare  I  can't 
sleep  at  night  sometimes  for  think- 
ing of  these  burstings-up." 


1380.] 


Mr  KinylakJs  New  Volume. 


689 


MR    KINGLAKE'S    NEW    VOLUME. 


THE  most  tragic  and  disastrous 
chapter  of  English  military  history 
since  the  peace  of  1815  relates  to  the 
winter  troubles  of  our  army,  which 
encamped  in  1854  on  the  Cherson- 
ese. It  was  an  experience  of  war- 
fare which,  at  the  time,  struck 
agony,  terror,  and  remorse  into  the 
heart  of  the  nation,  and  will,  we 
trust,  stand  as  a  warning  to  future 
generations  against  the  errors  which 
precipitated  and  intensified  such 
"  horrible  and  heartrending "  cal- 
amities. It  is  fortunate  that  the 
historian  who  has  devoted  so  much 
of  his  active  life  to  the  task  of  re- 
counting that  dire  experience  and 
accentuating  that  salutary  warning, 
is  himself  a  distinguished  member 
of  that  political  party  which  incur- 
red the  heavy  responsibility  for  so 
much  suffering,  disaster,  and  peril. 
Mr  Kinglake  has  no  party  bias 
against  the  ill- starred  coalition  under 
Lord  Aberdeen.  The  tone  of  his 
book  is  fair;  while  it  is  clear  upon 
every  page  that  he  has  been  labo- 
rious and  conscientious.  He  has 
given  a  compressed  but  most  clear 
and  forcible  account  of  all  that  our 
army  endured.  He  has  carefully 
searched  out  the  real  causes  of  the 
calamity,  both  original  and  imme- 
diate ;  and  has  investigated  in  a 
judicial  spirit  the  question  of  re- 
sponsibility. If  he  may  be  sus- 
pected of  a  partiality,  it  is  one  in 
favour  of  clearing  Lord  Eaglan's 
memory  from  aspersions  which  were 
too  broadly  cast ;  if  of  an  antipathy, 
it  is  against  the  conductors  of  the 
'  Time?,'  whose  action  at  this  crisis 
in  our  history  stirred  an  amount 
of  public  feeling  and  of  official 


resentment,  corresponding  to  tie 
inordinate  power  which  they  ruth- 
lessly exercised.  But  however  that 
may  be,  the  reader  is  under  no 
necessity  of  surrendering  his  judg- 
ment to  the  author.  Though  Mr 
Kinglake's  own  conclusions  are  for- 
cibly and  skilfully  presented,  the 
materials  upon  which  they  are 
founded  are  fairly  given  ;  and  it  is 
quite  possible  to  form  an  impression 
from  the  facts  at  variance  with 
that  which  the  author  has  formed, 
and  vigorously  as  well  as  rhetori- 
cally expressed. 

The  whole  of  this  disastrous 
period,  comprised  in  Mr  King- 
lake's  volume  is  so  full  of  grave 
national  warning,  that  we  shall 
forbear  any  comments  in  a  party 
spirit,  and  endeavour  to  imitate 
the  author  himself  in  approach- 
ing it  from  its  purely  national  and 
historical  side.  The  question  is, 
How  did  it  come  to  pass  that  the 
same  people,  whose  fathers  had 
conquered  Napoleon  and  sustained 
for  years  the  Peninsular  cam- 
paigns, despatched  their  army  to 
the  Crimea  so  equipped  and  sup- 
plied, that,  in  the  full  career  of 
victory,  it  nearly  perished  from  off 
the  face  of  the  earth?  How  did  it 
happen  that  out  of  40,000  men, 
half  were,  after  four  months  of 
winter,  either  dead  or  in  the  hos- 
pitals?— that  the  army  during  the 
winter  underwent,  in  proportion  to 
numbers,  a  fiercer  havoc  than  that 
which  ravaged  London  in  the  days 
of  the  great  plague  1 — that,  by  April 
1855,  only  11,000  men  remained  of 
the  original  force,  themselves  not 
free  from  grave  bodily  ailment ; 


The  Invasion  of  the  Crimea  :  Its  Origin,  and  an  Account  of  its  Progress  down 
to  the  Death  of  Lord  Raglan.  By  A.  W.  Kinglake.  Vol.  VI.  The  Winter  Troubles. 
W.  Blackwood  &.  Sons,  Edinburgh  and  Londpn  :  1880. 


690 


Mr  Kinglalce's  Neio  Volume. 


[Dec. 


whilst  of  29,000  invalided,  nearly 
half  perished  in  the  hospitals  or  on 
hoard  the  invalid  transport-ships'? 
The  sad  answer  is,  that  all  this  in- 
calculahle  misery  arose  from  evils 
which  were  in  their  nature  too 
plainly  "  avertible,"  and  yet  under  a 
system  which  renders  it  impossible 
to  trace  them  to  any  individual  de- 
linquency, civil  or  military,  at  home 
or  abroad. 

Primarily,  the  Government  of 
Lord  Aberdeen  must  bear  the  re- 
sponsibility and  the  censure.  Out- 
side the  faults  of  system,  and  the 
break-down  of  the  machinery  of 
administration,  there  was  grave  po- 
litical mismanagement.  The  Par- 
liamentary Committee  which  sat  to 
investigate  the  condition  of  OUT 
army,  reported  that  the  Adminis- 
tration which  ordered  the  expedi- 
tion "  made  no  provision  for  a 
winter  campaign  ;  "  that  the  expe- 
dition, "  planned  and  undertaken 
without  sufficient  information,  was 
conducted  without  sufficient  care 
or  forethought ; "  and  finally,  that 
"  this  conduct  on  the  part  of  the 
Administration  was-  the  first  and 
chief  cause  of  the  calamities  which 
befell  our  army."  Nothing  which 
has  come  to  light  since  that  report 
has  served  in  any  way  to  mitigate 
the  guilt  thus  laid  at  the  door  of 
the  Cabinet.  As  regards  personal 
responsibility,  public  opinion  strove, 
at  the  timo  unsuccessfully,  to  con- 
vict Lord  Eaglan  and  the  officers 
of  his  Staff.  The  Chelsea  Board, 
which  investigated  personal  charges, 
after  the  report  of  the  Parliamentary 
Committee,  exonerated  five  officers 
of  high  place  and  authority,  whose 
conduct  and  efficiency  had  been 
impugned ;  and  after  months  of 
patient  controversy,  during  which 
it  had  examined  the  chief  surviv- 
ing officers  of  Lord  Raglan's  Head- 
quarter Staff,  and  Mr  Filder,  the 
Commissary-General,  with  materials 
more  complete  than  were  possessed 


by  the  Parliamentary  Committee, 
traced  the  true  cause  of  the  "  avert- 
ible "  sufferings  of  the  army.  They 
traced  it  to  the  failure  of  land- 
transport  power,  —  a  failure  not 
caused  by  the  want  of  horses  and 
mules,  but  by  the  want  of  means 
of  feeding  them — i.  e. ,  the  want  of 
forage.  They  declared  that  Com- 
missary-General Filder  was  not 
responsible  for  that  insufficient  sup- 
ply of  forage;  but  that  the  Treasury 
at  home  was,  owing  to  its  omission 
to  send  out  a  proper  supply  from 
England.  In  this  judicial  finding 
of  blame  the  Treasury  acquiesced. 

Mr  Kinglake  adopts  these  find- 
ings of  the  constituted  authori- 
ties, but  carries  matters  somewhat 
further.  He  condemns  the  ineffi- 
cient strategy,  which  he  imputes  to 
the  French,  the  result  of  which 
was  to  oblige  our  troops  to  winter 
in  the  Chersonese;  and  he  de- 
nounces the  whole  system  of  army 
administration  as  it  existed  at  the 
beginning  of  the  war.  Neither  the 
one  nor  the  other  in  the  least  de- 
gree exculpates  the  Ministry  or  the 
Treasury  of  that  day.  The  Ministry, 
from  the  first,  left  out  of  sight  the 
contingency  of  winter;  the  Treasury, 
at  the  critical  moment,  and  to  the 
last,  omitted  to  send  forage  for  our 
beasts  of  burden,  and  thereby  de- 
stroyed our  means  of  communica- 
tion within  the  camp. 

Before  we  go  to  the  main  facts  of 
the  story,  it  is  well  to  bear  in  mind 
the  system  of  war  administration. 
It  would  not  compare,  as  Mr  King- 
lake  is  careful  to  point  out,  with  the 
system  which  existed  from  1809 
to  1815,  under  which  Wellington 
gained  his  victories  ;  during  which 
time  three  forces  were  in  operation, 
which  formed  no  part  of  the  me- 
chanism by  which  England  managed 
war  business  either  before  or  since 
down  to  1854.  These  three  forces 
were, — first,  the  administrative  la- 
bour which  Wellington  himself 


1880.] 


Mr  Kvngldkf*  New  Volume. 


691 


undertook  at  the  seat  of  war ; 
second,  the  immense  ascendancy 
which  he  had  gained,  and  exercised 
from  abroad,  over  the  conduct  of 
our  war  administration  at  home ; 
third,  the  establishment  of  an  under- 
secretary for  war,  devoted  exclu- 
sively to  the  business  of  that  de- 
partment. This  office  was  abolished 
at  the  end  of  the  war,  and  the 
Ministry  lost  its  control  over  the 
military  transactions  of  the  coun- 
try. The  army  system,  accordingly, 
reverted  to  its  former  condition ; 
which  it  retained  down  to  1854. 
What  that  condition  was,  Mr 
Kinglake  is  at  some  pains  to  de- 
scribe. Our  ancestors,  he  says,  in 
order  to  provide  against  the  danger 
of  an  army  under  the  personal  di- 
rection of  a  sovereign,  decreed  that 
there  should  be  no  standing  army 
at  all,  and  faced  that  enormous 
waste  of  military  power  which  was 
involved  in  alternately  raising  and 
breaking  up  armies.  The  time, 
however,  arrived  when  a  standing 
army  became  essential.  With  its 
growth  there  came  into  collision  the 
personal  claim  of  the  sovereign  to 
command  it,  and  the  right  of  his 
constitutional  advisers  to  control  it. 
Military  sentiment  was  in  favour  of 
the  personal  sovereign  ;  the  Minis- 
ters felt  that  in  time  of  war  power 
and  responsibility  must  necessarily 
accrete  to  them.  Meanwhile  the 
control  of  our  land  forces  was  for 
a  long  time  divided  between  the 
king  and  the  king's  Government. 
The  dismemberment  of  our  military 
administration  resulted  from  the 
long-standing  truce  between  the 
king  and  his  ministers  in  reference 
to  army  government.  The  royal 
authority  was  administered  through 
the  Horse  Guards,  which  "served 
as  an  office  in  which  the  personal 
king  transacted  his  army  business, 
and  was  scarcely,  in  any  large 
sense,  a  department  of  State."  The 
general  commanding  in  chief  was 


supported  by  a  well-chosen  staff, 
with  an  organisation  which  he 
always  maintained  upon  the  foot- 
ing of  a  headquarters  camp.  As 
the  sinews  of  war  could  only  be 
obtained  from  Parliament  through 
the  Ministers,  the  independence  of 
the  Horse  Guards  from  parliamen- 
tary control  was  for  all  practical 
purposes  more  nominal  than  real, 
and  in  case  of  war  the  whole  con- 
duct of  it  must  necessarily  rest  with 
the  Ministry;  military  business,  in 
matters  of  discipline  and  patronage, 
tending,  on  the  conclusion  of  peace, 
to  revert  to  the  Horse  Guards.  From 
the  peace  of  1815  down  to  1854, 
all  the  armies  which  England  had 
used  had  been  made  to  depend  upon 
centres  of  admiuistrative  power  es- 
tablished in  India  and  the  colonies ; 
and  thus  the  heterogeneous  depart- 
ments which  resulted  from  divided 
authority  in  London  were  without 
any  of  the  priceless  experience  de- 
rived from  recent  campaigns.  The 
land-service  part  of  the  Kussian  war 
— that  service  which  so  miserably 
broke  down — thus  became  depen- 
dent for  its  efficiency  upon  such 
concerted  action  between  the  war 
branch  of  the  Colonial  Office,  the 
War  Office,  the  Horse  Guards,  the 
Ordnance,  the  Victualling  Office, 
the  Transport  Office,  the  Army 
Medical  Department,  the  Treasury, 
and  many  other  offices  doing  duty 
in  narrower  spheres,  as  the  Duke 
of  Newcastle  or  any  other  Colonial 
Secretary  might  be  able  to  effect. 

The  Duke  of  Newcastle  was  the 
first  Minister  of  State  who  was 
called  upon  to  bring  this  concerted 
action  into  play.  He  undertook 
the  department  of  War  on  its  first 
separation  from  that  of  the  Colo- 
nies. But  in  migrating  from  one 
office  to  the  other,  he  left  behind 
him  the  experienced  officers  and 
official  machinery  which  belonged 
to  the  vacated  department,  and 
found  himself  in  a  set  of  empty 


692 


Mr  Kinglalius  New  Volume. 


[Dec. 


rooms  that  formed  part  of  the  Trea- 
sury building,  from  whence,  without 
a  staff  or  central  machinery  of  office, 
he  endeavoured  to  concentrate  the 
dispersed  administration  of  war. 

Mr  Kinglake  draws  a  terrible 
picture  of  the  difficulties  which  he 
had  to  encounter.  And  it  is  due 
to  the  memory  of  an  unfortunate 
statesman  to  bear  -in  mind  the 
chaotic  confusion  into  which  he 
was  plunged,  when  one  recalls  the 
signal  disasters  which  overtook  him, 
and  the  storm  of  public  obloquy 
which  eventually  drove  him  from 
his  office.  If  his  object  was  to  send 
out  troops  with  guns,  cartridges, 
clothing,  provisions,  he  had  to  shoot 
off  a  set  of  requisitions  to  a  variety 
of  offices  ;  which  offices  being  them- 
selves unable  to  fulfil  all  that  was 
required  of  them,  had  in  their  turn 
to  shoot  off  other  requisitions  to 
other  departments.  The  peremp- 
tory "word  of  command"  was  su- 
perseded by  a  variety  of  more  or 
less  authoritative  appeals,  involv- 
ing correspondence  and  argument. 

In  fact,  we  went  into  the  Avar  in 
March  1854  without  a  war  depart- 
ment; and  although  we  created  a 
special  Secretary  of  State  for  War 
some  months  afterwards,  he  re- 
mained without  a  department  pro- 
perly so  called  till  after  the  horrible 
and  heartrending  distress  of  our 
army  called  loudly  for  public  repro- 
bation and  ministerial  solicitude. 
The  Horse  Guards  and  the  Colonial 
Office  possessed  up  to  that  time  ulti- 
mate military  authority ;  the  finances 
of  the  army  being  administered  by 
the  Secretary  at  War  responsible  to 
Parliament.  For  the  rest — 

"in  the  ancient  Tower  of  London, 
amongst  the  clubs  in  Pall  Mall,  in  the 
Strand,  in  Whitehall,  and  besides  in 
the  neighbouring  purlieus,  there  were 
nests  of  public  servants  transacting 
their  respective  bits  of  England's  mil- 
itary business  ;  some,  for  instance,  in 
strength  at  the  Horse  Guards,  some 


holding  the  Oidnance  Department, 
some  ensconced  at  the  Admiralty,  yet 
engaged  in  land-service  duties,  some 
buried  under  the  roof  of  the  Treasury, 
others  burrowing  in  several  small 
streets,  yet  somehow  providing  for  our 
army,  pay,  pensions,  adjudgment  of 
claims  ;  the  means  of  transport  by  sea ; 
stores,  clothing,  equipments,  recruits  ; 
surgeons,  surgical  implements,  medi- 
cines ;  courts-martial,  chaplains,  Church 
services  :  but  there  was  not,  until  war 
approached,  any  high  overruling  au- 
thority that  bound  up  the  aggregate 
number  of  all  these  scattered  offices 
into  anything  like  a  real  unit  of  ad- 
ministrative power." 

In  this  state  of  the  War  Office 
at  home,  it  was  essential  that  Lord 
Ksglan  should  exercise  over  the 
Government  at  home  an  ascendancy 
similar  to  that  exercised  by  his 
illustrious  chief  during  the  Penin- 
sular campaigns.  But  the  Ministry 
included  men  of  unusual  personal 
authority,  and  Lord  Raglan  was 
far  away.  Moreover,  the  scrupu- 
lous fairness  with  which  Mr  King- 
lake  has  written  enables  us  to  see 
that,  however  complete  his  exon- 
eration of  Lord  Raglan  in  mo^-t 
respects,  there  were  certain  per- 
sonal characteristics  and  deficien- 
cies which  prevented  him  from 
guiding  the  Ministry  at  home  with 
the  force,  energy,  and  decision 
that  the  occasion  demanded. 

We  will  not  go  into  the  question 
of  strategy.  That  belongs  to  earlier 
volumes.  Science  in  the  person 
of  Sir  John  Burgoyne,  and  the 
French,  overruled  Lord  Raglan's 
wiser  counsels  to  attack  Sebastopol 
at  once.  The  English  Ministry,  in 
Mr  Kinglake's  graphic  words,  sent 
out  the  fated  man,  the  fated  gift 
(the  siege-train),  and  the  fated 
word  (lay  siege),  and  thus  were 
responsible  for  the  strategy  which 
was  unwisely  adopted,  involving 
the  fatal  necessity  of  wintering  iu 
the  Crimea.  The  victors  at  the  Alma, 
the  potential  masters  of  all  the 
peninsula,  except  the  stronghold 


1880." 


Mr  KinylaJce's  New  Volume. 


G93 


of  Sebastopol,  had  by  their  "flank 
march,"  and  the  more  or  less  siege- 
like  measures  which  followed,  de- 
prived themselves  of  all  the  results 
of  success  except  the  spot  of  ground 
that  lay  under  their  feet.  They 
had  abandoned  to  the  enemy  almost 
the  whole  of  the  Crimea,  including 
his  line  of  communication ;  they 
had  suffered  Liprandi  to  close  round 
their  flank  and  encroach  on  their 
camp.  They  were  hemmed  in  on 
their  land  side,  encamped  on  the 
bleak  open  wold  of  the  Chersonese, 
on  a  pittance  of  ground  which 
afforded,  in  a  country  abounding  in 
cattle,  corn,  hay,  and  wood  stores, 
neither  food,  forage,  nor  fuel.  The 
resources  of  the  invaded  country 
were  wholly  ceded  to  the  van- 
quished, while  the  victors  were  de- 
pendent exclusively  on  aid  brought 
to  them  from  over  the  sea  ;  upon 
the  efforts,  so  far  as  the  English 
army  were  concerned,  of  an  Admin- 
istration which  had  been  forced 
into  the  war  against  their  will,  and 
conducted  it  with  strict  economy 
and  no  vigour ;  upon  a  commis- 
sariat system  which  depended  upon 
the  harmonious  and  complicated  co- 
operation of  numerous  public  ser- 
vants, merchants,  contractors,  and 
shipowners. 

It  was  at  this  crisis,  at  the  mo- 
ment of  adopting  this  particular 
strategy,  —  probably  involving  a 
winter  campaign, — that  Lord  Rag- 
lan should  have  vehemently  in- 
sisted upon  the  wants  of  his  army, 
during  the  rigours  of  the  impend- 
ing winter,  being  at  once  and  ener- 
getically supplied  by  the  Ministry. 
It  is  all  very  well  to  say  that  it 
was  not  his  duty  to  teach  the 
Ministers  their  business.  He  knew 
what  Ministers  are  like,  he  knew 
the  state  of  the  war  offices,  he  knew 
the  reluctance  of  Lord  Aberdeen 
and  Mr  Gladstone  to  incur  the 
necessary  expenses.  The  Allies 
were  opening  a  new  and  unforeseen 


chapter  in  the  sequence  of  event?. 
The  Ministers,  rightly  or  wrongly, 
relied  upon  his  experience  and  his 
initiative.  Under  such  circum- 
stances, on  the  8th  August,  he  rep- 
resented to  them  that  the  question 
where  the  Allied  armies  should 
winter  was  "  one  of  some  anxiety ;  " 
and  on  the  8th  November,  regaid- 
ing  that  contingency  as  at  length 
inevitable,  he  directed  his  commis- 
sary -  general  to  "  make  provision 
accordingly."  This  was  the  some- 
what phlegmatic  manner  in  which 
a  resolution  was  announced,  which, 
according  to  Mr  Kinglake,  affected 
the  health  and  wellbeing  of  the 
Allied  armies,  if  not  their  very 
existence.  It  was,  however,  un- 
fortunately but  too  characteristic  of 
the  man.  Honourable,  high-mind- 
ed, zealously  devoted  to  his  army 
and  his  work,  forty  years  of  official 
life  in  London,  and  sixty-six  years 
of  age,  had  weakened  the  force  oi 
his  will  and  the  energy  of  his  con- 
victions. He  allowed  his  strategy 
to  be  overruled,  his  roads  to  be  un- 
formed, his  Ministers  at  home  to  be 
supine,  and  his  allies  to  be  remiss. 
He  should  have  either  carried  out 
his  plan  (now  known  to  have  been 
the  right  one)  of  carrying  Sebasto- 
pol with  a  rush  ;  or  should  have 
peremptorily  insisted  upon  his  army 
being  at  once  equipped  for  the  win- 
ter, and  upon  the  French  rendering 
that  assistance  which  their  strategy 
necessitated. 

With  the  Ministry  at  home, 
sleeping  in  the  fool's  paradise  which 
Alma  and  Inkerman  had  occasioned, 
the  Allies  had  placed  themselves  in 
a  position  in  which  they  must 
mainly  depend  upon  their  own 
stores  at  home.  Ministers  weie 
altogether  too  late  in  appreciating 
the  true  gravity  of  that  position, 
and  the  enormous  efforts  which 
it  required ;  and  Lord  Raglan 
failed  in  the  energy  of  representa- 
tion which  the  impending  crisis  re- 


G94 


Mr  Kivglalte's  New  Volume. 


[Deo. 


quired.  Possibly  lie  relied  too  much 
upon  that  secondary  base  of  opera- 
tions which  was  established  on  the 
shores  of  the  Bosphorus,  where  mag- 
azines and  hospitals  were  established, 
and  whence  no  inconsiderable  sup- 
plies were  drawn.  But  that  turned 
out  to  be  a  wholly  insufficient  base. 
The  Government  at  home  were  ob- 
liged, too  late  and  with  an  inade- 
quate sense  of  the  emergency,  to 
"  make  provision  accordingly."  And 
then  began  the  frightful  tale  of 
maladministration,  disaster,  and 
misery.  First  came  the  question 
of  sea-transport  to  the  armies.  It 
seemed  to  be  imagined  that  all  the 
Government  had  to  do  was  to  go, 
purse  in  hand,  to  traders  and  ship- 
owners ;  but  when  contractors  and 
shipowners  are  challenged  to  deal 
with  customers  whose  wants  are  on 
a  large  scale  they  must  have  time — 
the  very  thing  which  the  Govern- 
ment could  not  afford  to  give.  The 
consequence  was  that  the  Govern- 
ment hai  to  go  on  waiting  and 
waiting,  while  the  lives  of  the  sol- 
diers were  hanging  upon  despatch. 
If  they  ordered  3000  new  tents  in 
November,  it  was  April  before  the 
soldiers  received  any,  and  June  be- 
fure  the  contract  was  completely  ful- 
filled. The  whole  available  mercan- 
tile shipping  of  France  and  England 
proved  insufficient  to  transport  the 
increasing  stores  which  were  accu- 
mulating in  the  West  for  the  use  of 
the  troops.  It  was  long  before  the 
flow  of  supplies  from  the  West  to 
the  East  could  be  effected.  Delay 
and  confusion  arose,  so  that,  not 
merely  were  tents  ordered  for  the 
winter  delayed  till  June,  but  fur- 
coats  also,  sent  out  by  the  Prince 
Consort  to  his  brother  officers  of 
the  Grenadier  Guards,  though 
promptly  despatched,  arrived  only 
with  the  heat  of  summer.  The  in- 
sufficiency of  steam-power  curtailed 
the  supply  of  fresh  meat  and  vege- 
tables, and  yet  had  to  be  appor- 


tioned between  the  competing  exi- 
gencies of  ammunition  and  fresh 
meat.  Even  at  the  latter  stages  of 
supply,  the  landing  of  the  stores, 
disposing  them  in  magazines,  draw- 
ing them  up  to  the  camp,  and  then 
distributing  them  for  use — the  dif- 
ficulties in  the  way  were  enormous. 
There  was  no  sufficient  harbour — 
merely  the  diminutive  basin  of 
Balaclava.  The  vast  stores  which 
constantly  arrived  had  to  be  intro- 
duced into  this  small  inlet,  and 
then  landed  and  stored  in  the  nar- 
row little  fishing- place  of  Balaclava. 
From  the  insufficiency  of  harbour, 
the  narrowness  of  the  ledge,  and 
the  want  of  "hands,"  it  resulted 
that  an  accumulation  of  supplies  lay 
for  weeks  and  weeks  on  board  of 
vessels  either  within  or  outside  the 
harbour.  Then  came  the  want  of  a 
road.  The  construction  of  a  road, 
eight  or  nine  miles  long,  from  Bal- 
aclava, the  port  of  supply,  to  our 
troops  on  the  Chersonese,  had  been 
unfortunately  delayed.  This  was 
a  matter  for  which  Lord  Eaglan 
was  responsible.  Mr  Kinglake 
strenuously  defends  him,  and 
considers  that  the  break-down  of 
land -transport  must  be  traced  to 
the  absence  of  forage,  and  the  con- 
sequent destruction  of  our  beasts 
of  burden.  He  puts  the  case  in 
this  way.  It  was  hoped  that 
Sebastopol  would  have  been  taken 
before  the  end  of  October,  up  to 
which  time  the  dry  clay  road  would 
remain  firm  and  compact,  though 
certain  to  be  broken  up  shortly  after 
that  time  by  heavy  and  long-con  tim 
ed  rains,  so  as  to  become  impassable 
for  wheeled  carriages.  There  was, 
moreover,  a  well  -  designed,  well- 
metalled  causeway  called  the  Woron- 
zoff  road  in  our  possession,  which 
led  from  the  Chersonese  to  within 
two  miles  of  Balaclava.  Under  these 
circumstances  the  metalled  road,  the 
absence  of  which  was  so  disastroi 
later  on,  was  not  constructed.  Tl 


1880.] 


Mr  Kin  flake's  New  Volume. 


695 


men  were  wanted  for  the  siege ; 
there  were  no  tools  ;  there  were  no 
means  of  hiring  labour;  and  Mr 
Kinglake  insists,  as  he  says,  with 
the  concurrence  of  Lord  Raglan's 
most  hostile  critics,  that  down  to  Oc- 
tober 17th,  Lord  Raglan  was  never 
so  circumstanced  that  he  ought  to 
have  tried  to  construct  a  stone-laid 
road  between  Balaclava  and  the 
camp.  Mr  Kinglake  argues  that, 
after  the  disappointing  experience 
of  October  17th,  which  proved  that 
the  fall  of  Sebastopol  would  not 
take  place  for  some  time,  the  small 
English  army  was  nevertheless  en- 
gaged to  the  utmost  of  its  poAver 
in  fulfilling  plans  of  attack  concert- 
ed with  the  French.  In  the  next 
twelve  days  the  enemy  was  tak- 
ing the  offensive,  and  the  English 
troops  were  fully  engaged  in  de- 
fending Balaclava  and  the  Inker- 
man  heights,  and  had  neither  men 
nor  time  to  spare  for  the  construc- 
tion of  roads.  Later  on,  when  the 
last  hope  of  Sebastopol  falling  had 
vanished,  and  the  Woronzoff  road 
had  been  lost  to  the  English,  Lord 
Raglan  began  his  measures  for  con- 
structing the  metalled  highway. 
Its  need  was  imperatively  urgent, 
for  torrents  of  rain  were  convert- 
ing the  old  road  into  a  quagmire. 
Mr  Kinglake  considers  that  Lord 
Raglan  should  have  forced  his  way 
out  of  the  difficulty  by  a  peremp- 
tory appeal  to  the  French.  Lord 
Raglan  preferred  the  policy  of  en- 
durance. The  road  soon  became 
impassable  for  waggons  ;  and  while 
our  means  of  transport  were  thus 
being  reduced  to  such  as  baggage 
horses  and  mules  could  supply, 
those  very  horses  and  mules  were 
themselves  diminishing  so  fast  as 
to  be  almost  on  the  verge  of  ex- 
tinction. Cold,  wet,  and  hard  work 
were  killing  off  the  beasts  which 
we  possessed,  while  want  of  forage 
was  preventing  the  importation  of 
fresh  ones.  The  Turkish  provinces 


mainly  provided  chopped  straw  as 
forage,  which  was  too  bulky  in  pro- 
portion to  its  weight  and  nutritive 
power  to  be  fitted  for  transport  by 
sea.  Recourse  was  had  to  England 
for  hay,  and  a  lamentable  incident 
occurred.  Mr  Filder,  the  commis- 
sary-general, applied  in  the  language 
of  "  suggestion  "  to  the  Treasury  for 
2000  tons.  On  the  22d;September, 
the  second  day  after  the  battle  of 
Alma,  he  announced  that  hay  acd 
forage  abounded  in  the  Crimea,  but 
that  supplies  could  not  be  made 
available  to  any  extent  because  of 
the  Cossack  cavalry.  On  October 
10th  the  Treasury  gave  instructions 
for  despatching  one  full  ship-load 
of  hay,  writing  to  Mr  Filder  that  it 
would  depend  on  his  subsequent  re- 
ports what  further  steps  were  taken. 
In  this  way  the  whole  of  October 
passed  before  the  first  cargo  went 
off,  and  down  to  the  end  of  Novem- 
ber only  270  tons  had  been  de- 
spatched in  lieu  of  2000.  The 
Treasury,  as  Mr  Kinglake  points 
out,  could  not  have  foreseen  that  the 
Allies  would  take  the  almost  incon- 
ceivable course  of  abandoning  the 
farm  produce  of  the  whole  Crimea 
to  a  defeated  enemy.  His  conclu- 
sion is,  that  the  dispersion  of  our 
war-waying  offices  ought,  in  justice, 
to  involve  more  or  less  a  corre- 
sponding dispersion  of  blame.  It 
was  this  omission  of  the  Treasury, 
however,  which  was  the  most  cul- 
pable act  of  the  whole  series,  in- 
volving the  most  direct  responsi- 
bility. The  want  of  forethought 
of  the  Ministry  was  the  original 
cause  of  disaster  ;  the  utter  break- 
down of  administrative  machinery 
was  the  next.  But  the  want  of 
this  forage,  for  which  the  Treasury 
was  responsible,  was  a  most  serious 
aggravation  of  all  our  difficulties. 

Mr  Kinglake  then  describes  the 
process  of  feeding  the  armies,  and 
shows  that  the  actual  provision  of 
stores  was  good  and  almost  com- 


696 


Mr  Kinglake's  New  Volume. 


[Dec. 


plete — though  he  draws  attention 
to  the  circumstance  that  20,000 
pounds  weight  of  lime-juice,  sent 
out  with  a  view  to  the  failure  in 
fresh  meat  and  vegetables,  reached 
Balaclava  on  December  19th,  but 
•was  overlooked  by  the  medical 
authorities,  until  Lord  Raglan,  six 
weeks  later,  when  scurvy  had  al- 
ready proved  baneful  to  health  and 
life,  ordered  that  the  juice  should 
be  issued  to  our  soldiers  as  part  of 
their  daily  rations.  With  regard  to 
warm  clothing,  an  immense  supply 
lay  anchored  off  Balaclava,  but  was 
destroyed  by  a  tempest.  The  loss 
was  replaced  from  Constantinople  ; 
but  the  want  of  land- transport  be- 
tween Balaclava  and  the  camp  inter- 
posed serious  delay.  The  prepara- 
tions for  the  care  of  sick  and  wound- 
ed were  wholly  insufficient.  The 
London  departments  provided  no 
sufficient  ambulance  corps ;  appro- 
priated no  sufficient,  no  well-fitted 
vessels  to  the  care  and  transport  of 
our  stricken  soldiery ;  sent  out  no  ar- 
tificers of  the  kind  demanded;  refus- 
ed Admiral  Boxer's  wise  prayer  for 
a  receiving-ship  at  Constantinople  : 
and  although,  it  is  true,  sending  out 
a  few  of  the  men,  and  of  the  things 
that  would  be  needed  for  general 
hospitals,  they  did  not  either  con- 
struct such  institutions  themselves, 
or  directly  intrust  the  task  to  other 
servants  of  State.  There  were  in- 
sufficient medical  officers,  no  attend- 
ants upon  our  sick  and  wounded 
men,  no  hospital  orderlies,  while 
the  chief  of  the  medical  staff  was 
absent  in  India.  Lord  Raglan  es- 
tablished a  general  hospital  at  Scu- 
tari. Later  on  hospitals  were  es- 
tablished in  the  Levant,  and  floating 
infirmaries  in  the  Golden  Horn. 
The  greatest  part  of  the  hospital 
system  became  concentrated  at 
Scutari,  "  rife  with  horror,  and  an- 
guish, and  death."  The  London 
departments  omitted  to  send  pro- 
per hospital  furniture  and  stores; 


nor  was  there  any  one  who  would 
assume  the  responsibility  of  pur- 
chasing the  needed  supplies  at  Con- 
stantinople. In  addition  to  this 
scandalous  neglect  of  the  hospital 
arrangements,  it  appears  that  while 
Lord  Aberdeen's  Government  last- 
ed, no  effort  was  made  to  protect 
the  army  by  sending  out  skilled 
sanitary  engineers.  This  was  the 
condition  in  which  our  army,  en- 
gaged in  siege  operations  which 
they  could  not  remit,  awaited 
the  grasp  of  winter  on  the  bleak 
heights  of  the  Chersonese.  Then 
came  the  hurricane  of  November 
14th,  bringing  into  the  camp  of 
the  Allies  "  unspeakable  misery." 
Tents  were  torn  to  pieces,  frightened 
horses  broke  loose,  waggons  were 
overturned,  large  quantities  of  food 
and  forage  destroyed.  "  Not  only 
men  fit  for  duty,  but  the  wounded, 
the  sick,  the  dying  became  exposed 
all  at  once  to  the  biting  cold  of  the 
blast,  and  deluged  with  rain  and 
sleet."  The  trenches.were  flooded  ; 
no  camp-fires  could  be  lit;  neither 
horse  nor  man  could  make  head 
against  the  storm.  A  fall  of  snow 
succeeded ;  and  many  laid  them- 
selves down  without  having  tasted 
food,  and,  benumbed  with  cold, 
were  found  dead  the  next  morning 
in  their  tents.  Mr  Kinglake  points 
out  that  Lord  Raglan  did  all  that  it 
Avas  possible  in  man  to  do  to  repair 
the  consequences  of  this  calamity  ; 
but  the  increase  of  sickness  amongst 
the  men,  the  death  of  the  horses, 
and  the  loss  of  forage,  remained  as 
operating  causes  of  further  calam- 
ities. There  was  a  hard  winter 
that  year  in  the  Crimea  which  told 
heavily  upon  both  Russian,  French, 
and  English.  In  addition  to  the 
devastation  of  the  camp  by  the 
hurricane,  the  rigours  of  winter, 
and  the  want  of  due  equipment 
for  the  men,  there  was  also  the 
huge  crushing  burden  of  over- 
work. 


1880.] 


Kinglake's  Neio  Volume. 


697 


"  Their  outpost  duties  were  always 
anxious  ami  harassing,  their  toils  with 
spade  and  pick -axe  fatiguing  ;  but 
more  irksome  than  all,  and  much  more 
trying  to  health,  was  the  task  of  men. 
serving  as  '  guards  in  the  trenches  ; ' 
men — too  often  wet  through  from  the 
first— who  there  had  to  be  sitting  all 
night  in  postures  which  cramped  their 
limbs  with  but  little  opportunity  of 
moving  except  when  some  '  alert ' 
called  them  up  to  meet  an  apprehended 
attack.  To  such  tasks  in  the  middle  of 
winter  our  men  were  kept  but  too  often 
for  five  -nights  out  of  six  ;  and  when 
it  is  remembered  that  besides  his  siege 
labours,  the  soldier  had  yet  other 
duties,  and,  in  particular,  his  duties 
in  camp,  and  the  toil  of  providing  for 
his  own  wants,  it  will  be  granted  by 
all  that  the  burthen  laid  upon  him 
was  excessive  —  so  excessive,  indeed, 
and  so  long-continued,  that,  without  a 
motive  even  more  cogent  than  a  desire 
to  carry  Sebastopol,  the  exaction  of 
work  thus  severe  would  scarce  have 
been  warrantable  ;  but  the  truth  is, 
as  we  shall  afterwards  learn  more  par- 
ticularly, that  the  siege  operations, 
though,  of  course,  in  their  nature 
aggressive,  were  still  carried  on  at  one 
time  as  a  means  of  defence — nay,  in- 
deed, it  may  rightly  be  said,  as  the 
only  good  expedient  that  could  be 
found  for  warding  off  a  ruinous  dis- 
aster." 

As  regards  what  may  be  called 
the  preventible  evils,  although  there 
was  always  at  Balaclava  after  the 
lirst  week  in  November  a  supply  of 
warm  clothing,  yet  from  want  of 
land -transport  it  was  inaccessible 
to  our  troops,  which  lay  at  a  dis- 
tance of  seven  or  eight  miles,  suf- 
fering from  cold  so  intense  that 
many  were  stricken  with  frost-bite. 
From  want  of  hands  dead  horses 
frequently  lay  unburied  close  by 
the  tents.  Scurvy,  cholera,  dysen- 
tery, and  fevers  assailed  the  army, 
leaving  to  the  stricken  men,  unless 
rescued  by  death,  the  unspeakable 
sufferings  of  a  field-hospital,  of  the 
journey  from  camp  to  port,  and  of 
the  embarkation,  besides  yet  more 
horrible  miseries.  The  result  was 


that,  in  February,  out  of  40,000 
men  nearly  14,000  were  in  hospital. 
In  four  months  9000  patients 
perished  in  the  hospital,  so  that 
nearly  23,000  in  all,  during  three 
months,  were  enrolled  amongst  the 
invalided.  As  regards  reinforce- 
ments, the  new-comers,  all  at  once 
subjected  to  the  hardships  of  this 
winter  campaign,  fell  sick  with 
appalling  rapidity,  and  increased 
the  assemblage  of  hospital  sufferers. 
Whole  regiments  disappeared,  or 
were  reduced  to  a  mere  nominal 
strength.  Of  tbe  11,000  who  re- 
mained on  the  Chersonese,  it  must 
not  be  imagined  that  all  or  even 
a  great  part  were  free  from  grave 
bodily  ailment.  Men  would  avoid 
the  sick-list  as  long  as  they  possibly 
could;  for  even  in  the  field-hospital 
they  would  lie  under  single  canvas 
upon  the  bare  earth,  or,  at  best,  on 
brushwood,  with  a  single  blanket, 
in  a  closely  ranged  layer  of  men 
without  any  decent  hospital  ser- 
vice. If  taken  to  the  port  of  Bala- 
clava they  endured  long  delays  ;  if 
on  board  ship,  there  was  no  ade- 
quate provision  of  space  or  equip- 
ment. In  a  sea  journey  of  300 
miles  they  were  thrown  overboard 
in  a  proportion  of  eighty-five  and 
then  ninety  in  the  thousand.  If 
they  reached  the  Levantine  hospi- 
tals they  met  with  frightful  over- 
crowding, want  of  due  ventilation, 
an  appalling  want  of  cleanliness, 
of  attendance,  of  comforts,  and  of 
proper  food.  From  October  1854 
to  April  1855,  out  of  an  average 
strength  of  29,000  there  perished 
in  our  hospitals  or  on  our  invalid 
transport  -  ships  11,652  men,  of 
whom  10,053  died  from  sickness 
alone.  Mr  Kiuglake  traces  all 
these  sufferings  to  the  excessive 
toil  cast  upon  our  men,  to  the  want 
of  land-transport,  and  to  the  ab- 
sence of  a  real  war  department. 
He  cannot  honestly  ascribe  flagi- 
tious delinquency  or  default  to  any 


698 


Mr  Kinglake's  New  Volume. 


[Dec. 


public  functionaries,  civil  or  mili- 
tary. He  condemns  unsparingly 
the  strategy  of  the  Allies  which 
compelled  a  winter  campaign. 

"  Their  chosen  strategy  led  them  to 
waste  the  priceless  fruits  of  the  Alma ; 
to  spare  the  '  north  side '  of  Sebas- 
topol;  to  abandon  their  conquest  of 
almost  the  whole  Crimea ;  to  surrender 
to  the  enemy  his  all-precious  line  of 
communication  ;  to  give  him  back  all 
those  country  resources — food,  forage, 
shelter,  and  fuel — which  armies  com- 
monly need ;  to  abstain  from  attack- 
ing the  south  front  of  Sebastopol 
whilst  it  lay  at  their  mercy  and  wait 
until  it  grew  strong ;  to  undertake  a 
slow  engineer's  conflict  of  pick-axe 
and  spade  and  great  guns,  against  an 
enemy  vastly  stronger  than  them- 
selves in  that  special  kind  of  strife; 
to  submit  to  be  hemmed  in  and  con- 
fined by  the  beaten  enemy;  to  let 
him  drive  them  from  the  Woronzoff 
road  —  the  only  metalled  road  that 
they  had  between  the  plain  and  our 
camp  ;  to  throw  away  the  ascendant 
obtained  by  a  second  great  victory ;  to 
see  in  the  Inkerman  day  a  reason  for 
not  pushing  fortune ;  and  then,  finally, 
in  the  month  of  November — too  late,  of 
course,  for  due  preparation — to  accept 
the  hard  perilous  task  of  trying  to  live 
out  through  a  winter  on  the  corner  of 
ground,  when  they  stood  there  main- 
taining by  day  and  by  night  a  cease- 
less strife  with  the  enemy,  but  a  yet 
harder  strife  with  the  elements.  For 
each  of  those  steps  taken  singly,  there 
was  ready  of  course,  at  the  time,  some 
reason  fatally  specious;  yet,  by  all 
of  them  taken  together,  the  Allies 
brought  themselves  to  commit  an 
enormous  abdication  of  power,  and 
condemned  their  suffering  armies  to 
the  misery  of  this  winter  campaign." 

In  this  state  of  things  it  was 
necessary  to  mask  our  weakness 
from  the  Russians  by  giving  to  the 
operations  of  the  remnant  of  our 
army  an  air  of  tranquillity,  as  though 
engaged  in  a  tedious  siege  without 
suffering  under  exceptional  cares. 
But  it  was  in  vain  to  endeavour  to 
mislead  the  enemy's  spies  as  to  the 
desperate  plight  of  our  troops  when 


both  Lord  Raglan  and  the  war  cor- 
respondents were  transmitting  to 
England  the  true  state  of  affairs. 
Lord  Raglan  was,  as  Mr  Kinglake 
points  out,  a  man  by  nature  both 
calm  and  sanguine,  "having  almost 
to  a  foible  the  habit  of  detecting  a 
humorous  element  in  the  bearing 
of  men  over-wrought  by  anxiety." 
Such  a  foiblo  was,  under  the  cir- 
cumstances, a  national  disaster. 
Never  was  a  sense  of  humour  more 
terribly  misplaced.  In  his  calm 
and  sanguine  way,  he  failed  in 
vigorously  forewarning  the  Home 
Government  of  what  they  might 
have  to  expect  from  a  winter  cam- 
paign. When  he  was  overtaken 
by  the  horrors  of  a  position  which 
really  baffles  description,  although, 
according  to  Mr  Kinglake,  he  sent 
home  "a  complete  repertory  of  all 
that  a  minister  in  London  who  was 
labouring  for  the  welfare  of  an 
army,  could  usefully  wish  to 
know,"  yet,  according  to  the  same 
authority,  it  was  all  so  buoyantly 
worded  as  to  chase  away  the  gloom 
which  it  ought  to  have  occasioned. 
Harsh  facts  were,  by  the  subtle 
power  of  his  language,  and  by  the 
influence  of  a  calm  and  sanguine 
temperament,  so  conveyed  to  the 
Ministers  as  to  present  a  picture 
animated  successful  labour.  Our 
author  gives  his  instance.  "  Th< 
roads,"  writes  Lord  Raglan,  "arc 
in  a  dreadful  state,  not  only  on 
the  ridge  but  on  the  way  to  Bala- 
clava, and  the  passage  of  wheels 
if  the  carriage  be  loaded  is  nej 
to  impossible."  It  would  need  but 
slight  emphasis  to  bring  home 
the  imagination  of  a  secretary  for 
war  that  this  was  a  state  of  things 
importing  dire  distress,  but  that 
emphasis  was  never  given  ;  and  an 
inexperienced  Minister  was  as  it 
were  warned  off  the  ground  of 
strong  resolutions  and  resolute 
efforts  by  the  next  sentence,  — 
"Everybody  is  as  busy  as  a  bee, 


1880.] 


Mr  Kinglake's  New  Volume. 


699 


in,  and  in  the  neighbourhood  of, 
Balaclava,  and  efforts  are  making 
to  get  stores  up  by  men  and  by 
horses."  The  Duke  of  Newcastle 
thus  had  all  the  sinister  facts  before 
him,  and  yet  did  not  take  the  alarm 
which  these  very  facts  seemed  to 
warrant.  Parliament  met  on  Dec- 
ember 12th  and  adjourned  on  the 
23d  without  having  learned  the 
state  of  our  army. 

At  this  crisis,  the  modern  war 
correspondent — that  enfant  terrible 
to  all  military  commanders  —  ap- 
peared upon  the  scene.  He  wrote 
under  no  restraint  except  that  of  his 
own  sagacity  and  good  feeling.  He 
of  course  made  disclosures  which 
benefited  the  enemy,  but  in  all  pro- 
bability the  sufferings  of  that  enemy 
equalled  if  they  did  not  exceed  our 
own,  and  thus  warded  off  our  de- 
struction. Even  as  early  as  October 
23d,  the  'Times'  had  given  offence 
to  Lord  Raglan  by  announcing  that 
our  losses  from  cholera  were  very 
great,  by  stating  that  the  enemy's 
shot  and  shell  reached  a  particular 
encampment,  and  by  accurately  de- 
scribing the  place  where  12  tons  of 
gunpowderwere  deposited,  and  other 
details  which  it  was  of  the  last  im- 
portance to  conceal  from  the  enemy. 
It  certainly  will  be  a  question  in 
future  wars  whether,  in  the  words 
of  Lord  Raglan,  "a  British  army 
can  long  be  maintained  in  presence 
of  a  powerful  enemy,  that  enemy 
having  at  his  command,  through 
the  English  press,  and  from  London 
to  his  headquarters  by  telegraph, 
every  detail  that  can  be  required  of 
the  numbers,  condition,  and  equip- 
ment of  his  opponent's  force."  Mr 
Kinglake  severely  condemns  the 
continued  disclosures  which  were 
made,  and  which  contained,  besides 
the  matter  above  alluded  to,  "  vivid 
accounts  of  the  evils  that  obstructed 
supply,  and  of  the  hardships,  the 
sickness,  the  mortality,  afflicting  and 
destroying  our  troops."  Not  merely 

VOL.  CXXVIII. — NO.  DCCLXXXI1. 


were  these  disclosures  made  and 
conveyed  at  once  by  telegraph  to 
Sebastopol,  but  while  the  Allies 
were  doing  all  in  their  power  to 
mask  their  weakness,  the  conductors 
of  the  public  journals  at  home,  and 
especially  the  'Times,'  resolutely 
tore  that  mask  away,  and  proclaimed 
in  terms  of  horror,  and  possibly 
even  of  exaggeration,  the  miserable 
plight  to  which  we  were  reduced. 
From  a  military  point  of  view  the 
proceedings  of  the  *  Times  '  must 
have  been  exasperating  and  peril- 
ous, amounting  almost  to  treachery, 
and  Mr  Kinglake  appears  to  share 
that  view ;  but  there  is  another 
side  to  the  picture.  The  Ministry 
at  home  were  supine ;  public  opin- 
ion nursed  itself  on  the  victories  of 
Alma  and  Inkerman,  and  refused 
the  idea  of  pending  calamity.  Lord 
Raglan  was,  on  Mr  Kinglake's  own 
showing,  over-sanguine,  over-cheer- 
ful, averse  from  the  use  of  language 
which  would  rouse  the  Cabinet  to 
exertion  and  evoke  the  great  national 
effort  which  the  circumstances  de- 
manded. In  this  highly  exceptional 
and  most  critical  state  of  things  it 
was,  in  our  opinion,  of  no  use  for  the 
managers  of  a  powerful  instrument 
like  the  'Times'  to  halt  between 
two  opinions,  and  two  courses  of 
action.  They  had  to  make  their 
choice,  once  for  all  and  definitely, 
between  a  policy  of  concealment, 
which  would  have  rested  its  hopes 
on  Lord  Raglan's  existing  force, 
on  misleading  the  enemy,  and  on 
quietly  sending  out  reinforcements 
and  supplies  ;  and  a  policy  which 
staked  everything,  the  safety  of 
Lord  Raglan's  existing  force  and 
the  future  of  the  war,  on  an  imme- 
diate, passionate,  and  resentful  pub- 
lication of  all  that  had  happened 
and  was  happening,  which  could 
rouse  the  horror  and  animate  the  ef- 
forts of  th  e  n  ation.  To  eith  er  course 
there  were  the  strongest  objections, 
and  either  course  involved  inordin- 

3B 


700 


Mr  Kinglake's  New  Volume. 


[Dec. 


ate  risks  ;  but  one  or  other  must  be 
adopted,  and  unswervingly  persisted 
in.  No  sooner  was  the  true  state  of 
the  case  laid  before  the  public  by  the 
'  Times '  and  other  newspapers  than 
the  British  people  were  in  agonies 
of  pity  and  anger.  They  demanded 
a  victim,  and  knew  not  where  to 
turn  for  one.  Mr  Kinglake,  with 
the  eye  of  the  historian,  traces  the 
distress  to  the  compound  general- 
ship abroad  which  enfeebled  our 
strategy,  and  to  the  compound  gov- 
ernment at  home  which  enfeebled 
our  war  department.  Critics  at  the 
time  were  content  to  inveigh  against 
the  want  of  system,  which  the  civil, 
military,  and  naval  administration, 
both  at  home  and  abroad,  betrayed. 
Mr  Kinglake  fixes  upon  December 
23d  as  the  date  at  which  the  'Times' 
and  the  public  became  frantic  and 
terror-stricken,  and  at  which  Lord 
Eaglan  and  the  headquarter  staff 
were  first  made  the  subject  of  in- 
vectives and  accusations  from  which 
this  volume  successfully  clears 
them.  No  doubt  there  was  great 
exaggeration  of  invective,  but  it 
served  the  purpose  of  arousing, 
stimulating,  and  directing  the  na- 
tional energy.  So  far  as  it  ex- 
pressed want  of  confidence  in  the 
military  capacity  and  endurance 
of  the  army,  history  will  dis- 
miss it  as  a  species  of  panic- 
stricken  railing.  Mr  Kinglake  has 
shown  that  the  hardships  which 
befell  both  officers  and  men  were 
endured  with  heroism  and  con- 
tented devotion.  The  utter  absence 
of  complaining,  even  in  the  wretched 
hospitals  which  were  provided  for 
them,  the  cheerful  acceptance  by 
each  soldier  of  every  misery  as  in- 
separable from  that  stress  of  war 
which  he  had  voluntarily  accepted 
as  an  incident  of  military  service, 
are  skilfully  portrayed  ;  and  we  ex- 
tract this  passage  as  summing  up 
Mr  Kinglake's  account  of  the  con- 
dition and  fortitude  of  our  men  : — 


"  Although  enduring  privations 
rendered  cruel  by  the  stress  of  winter, 
and  maintaining  day  after  day — nay, 
week  after  week — nay,  even  month 
after  month,  those  alternations  of 
watchfulness  and  combat  which  con- 
stituted, if  so  one  may  speak,  a  kind 
of  protracted  engagement,  our  army 
from  first  to  last  did  not  lose  a  foot  of 
ground,  it  did  not  lose  a  gun — above 
all,  it  did  not  lose  heart,  and — being 
happily  never  a  day  without  biscuit, 
and  cartridges — held  steadily  on  to 
the  time  when,  with  recruited  strength, 
it  could  once  more  become  the  assail- 
ant. Thus,  apart  from  the  passive 
virtue  of  fortitude  with  which  our 
men  bore  their  hardships,  there  was 
going  on  every  hour  a  valorous  con- 
flict which,  if  destined  to  endure — 
and  endure  as  we  know  it  did — long 
enough  to  meet  the  hard  exigency, 
would  become  a  warlike  achievement 
not  easily  exam  pled  in  history." 

Mr  Kinglake  passes  from  this 
vindication  of  our  troops  to  de- 
nounce the  extravagances  of  the 
'  Times '  as  confessions  of  military 
weakness  which  injuriously  lowered 
the  character  of  the  country — in- 
creased its  difficulties  with  Eussia, 
with  its  ally,  and  with  the  neutral 
States  with  which  it  was  negotiat- 
ing— and  weakened  also  its  influence 
in  the  matter  of  making  terms  of 
peace.  The  outcry  shook  the  State 
and  weakened  the  country ;  but, 
asks  Mr  Kinglake,  did  it  bring  a 
greatcoat  or  a  blanket,  or  any  more 
food  or  drink,  to  any  soldier  on  the 
Chersonese  heights  ?  Mr  Kinglake 
says  that,  amongst  the  chief  meas- 
ures of  succour,  it  would  be  hard  to 
find  any  which  had  not  been  set  on 
foot  before  the  outcry  began  ;  and 
he  enumerates  at  some  length  the 
evils  for  which  he  holds  that  out- 
cry responsible. 

First  there  was  the  vituperation 
directed  against  Lord  Eaglan  and 
the  chief  of  his  headquarter  staff; 
the  distrust  with  which  the  Home 
Government  was  inspired  as  to  the 
commanders  abroad  ;  the  desire 


1880.] 


Mr  Kinglake' s  New  Volume. 


701 


that  Government  imbibed  to  es- 
cape censure  themselves,  thus 
failing  in  loyalty  towards  their 
general,  whom  at  the  same  time 
they  dared  not  recall;  the  necessity 
of  appeasing  public  anger  by  the 
appointment  of  a  House  of  Com- 
mons Committee,  which  seemed  to 
place  the  direction  of  the  war  more 
and  more  under  popular  control. 
These,  and  the  evils  resulting  there- 
from, Mr  Kinglake  attributes  to  the 
extravagant  outcry  for  which  he 
holds  the  '  Times '  responsible. 

The  hostility  to  Lord  Raglan  was 
shaped  so  as  to  exclude  his  respon- 
sibility for  the  acts  or  omissions  of 
his  headquarter  staff;  the  chiefs  of 
the  staff  were  accordingly  to  be 
held  responsible,  and  to  expiate  the 
winter  misfortunes  by  being  dis- 
missed from  their  posts.  Loid 
Raglan,  as  might  be  expected, 
treated  with  scorn  the  proposal 
for  sheltering  him  behind  his  staff 
officers ;  but  the  notion  unfortun- 
ately found  favour  with  the  Minis- 
ters, whose  minds  appear  to  have 
been  completely  thrown  off  the 
balance  by  the  extremity  of  the 
national  peril,  and  the  roar  of  the 
popular  voice.  Down  to  the  middle 
of  December  no  confidence  could 
have  been  more  absolute  than  that 
which  the  Duke  of  Newcastle  re- 
posed in  Lord  Raglan.  The  Duke 
even  asked  Lord  Raglan  to  advise 
him  upon  the  choice  of  a  general 
who,  to  meet  the  event  of  his  being 
killed  or  disabled,  should  be  secretly 
named  as  his  successor.  But  then 
there  came  pouring  in  unofficial 
accounts  of  distress  and  disaster 
from  the  Chersonese,  from  which, 
according  to  Mr  Kinglake,  who  has 
laboriously  mastered  all  the  official 
correspondence  of  the  time,  the 
Duke  "  could  hardly  have  learned 
anything  of  really  grave  moment 
which  had  not  before  been  imparted 
to  him  by  Lord  Raglan  in  drier 
figures  and  words.  But  the  detailed 


though  fragmentary  narratives,  con- 
veyed in  their  new  poignant  forms, 
impressed  his  mind  more  acutely 
than  sober  general  statement ;  and 
perhaps  it  might  be  said  not  inaccu- 
rately, that  what  previously  he  only 
had  known  he  now  both  knew  and 
imagined." 

Under  the  pelting  storm  of  com- 
plaints which  arose,  the  Duke  be- 
came convinced  of  not  only  mis- 
management and  want  of  system  at 
Lord  Raglan's  headquarters,  but  of 
grave  dereliction  of  duty  on  the 
part  of  his  chief  officers.  He  frankly 
imparted  that  conviction  to  Lord 
Raglan.  His  doing  so  without  ask- 
ing for  an  explanation  amounted  to 
accusation ;  accusation  by  a  Secre- 
tary of  State  was  nothing  less  than 
authoritative  condemnation  of  a 
general  and  staff  still  intrusted  with 
the  command  of  the  army.  The 
Duke  felt  the  ground  sinking  from 
under  his  foot,  and,  according  to  Mr 
Kinglake,  his  letters  show  that  the 
idea  of  disengaging  himself  from 
the  cruel  fate  of  a  minister  held 
answerable  for  the  sufferings  of  our 
army,  was  running  in  his  mind. 
For  instance  he  talks  of  having  "  to 
bear  the  whole  blame,  but  already 
public  attention  is  turning  to  the 
officers  and  the  camp ; "  and  soon 
after  the  outcry  began,  he  wrote  to 
Lord  Raglan,  "  I  shall  of  course  le 
the  first  victim  to  popular  venge- 
ance ;  and  the  papers,  assisted  by 
the  Tory  and  Radical  parties,  have 
pretty  well  settled  my  fate  already." 
In  turning  against  Lord  Raglan  the 
Duke  acted  with  the  ready  assent  of 
his  colleagues,  those  very  Ministers 
who  had  ordered  the  invasion,  who 
had  approved  the  joint  strategy  of 
the  alliance,  and  who  had,  down  to 
that  moment,  reposed  unlimited  con- 
fidence in  the  generalship,  the  ad- 
ministrative skill,  and  the  diplo- 
matic tact  of  their  general.  Under 
the  influence  of  this  policy,  the 
Duke  formulated  charges  against 


702 


Mr  Kinglaktis  New  Volume. 


[Dec. 


the  Adjutant  and  the  Quartermaster 
General,  which  only  the  dispersed 
state  of  the  London  "War  Offices 
prevented  him  from  ascertaining  at 
home  were  utterly  unfounded.  He 
then  adopted  the  quaint  scheme  of 
the  'Times,'  of  trying  to  induce 
Lord  Raglan  to  consent  to  a  change 
of  his  staff,  privately  condoling  with 
Lord  Raglan  upon  the  unfair  and 
ungenerous  attacks  which  were 
made  upon  him.  The  Ministerial 
complaints  were  on  January  6th 
thrown  into  the  form  of  an  official 
despatch  ready  for  parliamentary 
use  ;  and  Lord  Raglan  saw  with 
amazement  and  grief  that  the 
Queen's  Government,  with  whom 
he  had  been  all  along  acting  in 
close,  friendly,  intimate  counsel, 
had,  under  the  pressure  of  a  news- 
paper storm,  been  converted  into 
hostile  critics  and  judges.  He  de- 
clined to  shelter  himself  behind  his 
chief  staff,  whom  he  warmly  ap- 
proved and  supported,  and  resolved 
that  nothing  short  of  an  actual 
recall  should  withdraw  him  from 
the  command  of  his  army  in  the 
time  of  trouble.  Thus,  says  Mr 
Kinglake,  the  Ministerial  plan  of 
choosing  victims  was  defeated,  and 
some  of  the  members  of  the  Gov- 
ernment were  now  inclined  to 
throw  the  blame  on  Lord  Raglan 
himself.  His  recall,  however,  turned 
out  to  be  impossible,  and  thus  the 
Ministry  having  failed  to  bind  other 
victims  for  sacrifice,  lay  open,  with 
nothing  to  shelter  it,  to  the  attacks 
which  the  meeting  of  Parliament 
was  sure  to  bring.  It  is  impossible 
to  approve  this  conduct  on  the  part 
of  the  Duke  and  his  colleagues ; 
but  they,  and  not  the  newspapers, 
must  bear  the  censure  and  the 
odium.  The  nation  itself  inter- 
fered between  the  Ministry,  and 
the  General  on  the  one  side  and 
the  army  on  the  other.  The  Min- 
isters threw  the  blame  on  their 
General ;  but  the  General  refused 


to  shelter  himself  behind  his  sub- 
ordinates, or  to  recriminate.  The 
nation  retained  him  in  command, 
expelled  their  Ministry,  and  saved 
their  army.  When  Parliament  met, 
as  every  one  knows,  the  famous 
coalition  was  dismissed  from  office 
by  a  majority  of  157.  Every  fresh 
disclosure  which  has  been  made 
concerning  its  administrative  acts 
and  internal  relations,  has  served 
to  deepen  the  obloquy  which  over- 
whelmed it.  The  substitution  of 
Lord  Palmerston  for  Lord  Aber- 
deen expressed  the  determination 
of  the  country  to  be  strenuous  in 
the  conduct  of  the  war ;  while  the 
fate  of  the  Duke  of  Newcastle  was 
.  a  warning  to  future  administrators 
that  they  must  contrive  not  to  fail 
in  the  due  supply  of  our  army. 

The  new  Government  brought  a 
great  deal  of  fresh  administrative 
energy  to  work,  "  and,"  says  Mr 
Kinglake,  "  they  were  far  from  be- 
ing so  lost  to  all  idea  of  patriotism 
as  to  be  capable  of  withdrawing 
from  the  command  of  our  army  a 
chief  upon  whom  the  whole  fate  of 
the  Allies  was  depending."  In  fact, 
the  outcry  still  raged  so  furiously, 
that  not  merely  did  the  House  of 
Commons  insist  upon  its  Commit- 
tee of  public  investigation,  but  a 
Ministry,  presided  over  by  Lord 
Palmerston,  consented  to  act  in  the 
manner  thus  described  by  Mr  King- 
lake  :— 

"  They  retained  Lord  Raglan  in  the 
command  of  our  army  ;  but  then  also 
they  ignobly  left  him  unshielded  by 
any  good  word  of  theirs  against  his 
rampant  accusers,  and  even  them- 
selves took  a  part  in  hooting  their 
absent  general,  still  engaged  in  hot 
strife  with  the  enemy  ;  whilst,  more- 
over, from  his  headquarter  staff  they 
resolved  to  chose  the  fresh  victims  re- 
quired for  appeasing  our  people." 

Lord  Panmure  proved  very  tract- 
able in  the  hands  of  the  'Times,' 
and  trudged  doggedly  on,  explain- 
ing how  vain  and  foolish  it  was 


1880.] 


Mr  Khiglake's  New  Volume. 


703 


to  dream  of  attempting  resistance ; 
savagely  hating  all  the  time  the 
yoke  which  he  thought  himself 
forced  to  bear.  Without  master- 
ing the  correspondence  which  he 
found  in  the  office,  he  framed  his 
despatch  of  February  12th  under 
the  influence  of  the  double  belief, 
says  Mr  Kinglake,  that  the  Duke 
of  Newcastle  might  have  averted 
his  fate  by  turning  earlier  on  Lord 
Raglan,  and  that  the  public  clamour 
directed  against  his  most  highly 
valued  officers  itself  sufficed  to  dis- 
qualify them.  In  this  despatch  he 
accused  Lord  Raglan,  without  wait- 
ing for  his  reply  to  the  Duke's  de- 
spatch of  January  6th,  of  not  having 
furnished  clear  and  succinct  infor- 
mation as  to  the  operations,  the 
progress,  or  prospects  of  the  cam- 
paign. He  complained  that  Lord 
Raglan's  notices  of  the  condition  of 
his  army  had  been  brief  and  un- 
satisfactory, and  he  condemned  un- 
heard both  the  Adjutant  and  the 
Quartermaster  General,  the  latter 
in  '  violent  newspaper  language.' 
The  despatch  contained  this  further 
sentence,  which  has  roused  the 
wrath  of  Mr  Kinglake,  for  which 
he  seeks  to  hold  the  Queen  and 
Prince  Consort,  as  well  as  the 
Ministry,  responsible,  and  which, 
he  says,  the  Duke  of  Wellington 
would  have  died  rather  than  have 
penned :  "  It  would  appear  that 
your  visits  to  the  camp  were  few 
and  far  between,  and  that  your  staff 
seem  to  have  known  as  little  as 
yourself  of  the  condition  of  your 
gallant  men."  At  the  same  time 
Lord  Panmure  privately  wrote  to 
Lord  Raglan  :  "  I  wish  to  protect 
as  far  as  possible  the  interests  of 
the  army,  and  to  stacd  between 
you  and  those  who  are  so  angry 
with  all  that  has  happened."  "From 
the  proffer  of  a  clandestine  alliance 
thus  made  to  him  by  his  reckless 
accuser,  Lord  Raglan  turned  away 
in  proud  silence."  Lord  Raglan 


replied  in  a  powerfully  written 
despatch,  which  wrung  from  Lord 
Panmure  what  Mr  Kinglake  calls 
a  virtual  though  ill-fashioned  re- 
tractation of  his  charges.  General 
Airey,  the  Quartermaster-General, 
was  declared  by  the  Horse  Guards 
to  be  Lord  Raglan's  right-hand 
man,  and  Lord  Hardinge  declared 
that  he  could  not  be  taken  from 
him  without  grievous  injury  to 
the  public  service ;  and  Lord  Rag- 
lan's firmness  in  standing  by  his 
staff  was  finally  rewarded  by  this 
communication  in  a  private  letter 
from  Lord  Panmure  on  June  1st : 
"  You  shall  hear  no  more  from 
me  as  to  your  staff.  I  have  told 
my  colleagues  that  I  acquiesce  in 
your  reasons  for  not  submitting  to 
a  change,  and  that  I  will  press  it 
no  further."  General  Simpson, 
who  had  been  sent  out  as  chief  of 
the  staff  to  report  as  to  these  much- 
maligned  officers,  sent  word  that 
there  was  not  one  of  them  whom 
he  would  wish  to  see  removed,  and 
that  a  better  selection  of  etaff 
officers  could  not  have  been  made. 
The  real  fact  is,  that  Minister?, 
newspapers,  and  the  public  felt 
that  severe  blame  rested  somewhere, 
and  did  not  know  where  to  direct 
it.  The  full  investigation  which 
the  subject  has  since  received  shows 
that  criticism  at  the  time,  official 
or  otherwise,  was  very  excited,  and 
more  or  less  blind.  Mr  Kinglake 
successfully  exonerates  Lord  Raglan 
and  his  staff  from  the  specific  and 
even  the  general  charges  then  made 
against  them.  But  he  lets  us  see 
very  plainly  that,  although  there 
was  little  or  no  individual  delin- 
quency, there  was  want  of  fore- 
thought and  energy  at  home,  ab- 
sence of  strategy  and  of  overmaster- 
ing will  at  headquarters  in  the  camp. 
Mr  Kinglake  draws  a  very  soiry 
picture  of  the  firmness  and  com- 
posure of  our  statesmen  under  a 
newspaper  storm.  The  '  Tiires,' 


704 


Mr  KinglaJce's  New  Volume. 


[Dec. 


however,  was  not  responsible  for 
that ;  but  it  is  entitled  to  the  credit 
of  having  imparted  a  stimulus  and 
energy  into  the  administration  of 
the  war  which  were  of  incalculable 
service.  The  whole  nation  was 
roused  to  a  sense  of  its  peril  and 
that  of  the  army  ;  economy  was  for 
a  time  properly  flung  to  the  winds; 
our  people  were  resolute  to  succour, 
rescue,  and  support  their  army. 
The  effect  of  the  measures  which 
were  taken  was,  that  hopeful  signs 
of  improvement  in  the  Chersonese 
became  daily  more  encouraging. 
On  22d  February  1855,  13,640 
men  were  disabled  by  sickness  or 
wounds.  During  the  eight  weeks 
which  followed,  that  number  was 
reduced  by  5000.  From  that  time 
onwards  the  advance  towards  good 
health  was  so  steady  and  complete, 
that,  during  the  last  month  of  the 
occupation  of  the  Crimea  in  1856, 
the  number  of  admissions  to  the 
hospital,  computed  in  proportion  to 
force,  represented  a  ratio  only  of 
one  to  ten.  Tested  by  the  rate  of 
mortality,  the  health  of  the  army 
advanced  from  a  state  similar  to 
that  of  the  great  plague  of  London 
to  one  on  a  level  with  that  enjoyed 
by  our  great  towns  in  England. 

The  way  in  which  this  came  about 
was,  that  the  difficulty  of  land-trans- 
port was  removed — first,  by  metal- 
ling a  piece  of  road  one  mile  long 
from  Balaclava  to  Kadikoi;  second- 
ly, by  constructing  a  railway.  Then 
a  land-transport  corps  was  formed 
and  intrusted  to  Colonel  M'Murdo. 
Cost  what  it  might  in  energy  and 
treasure,  the  Colonel  insisted  that 
the  army  must  be  enabled  to  move. 
His  transactions  became  so  exten- 
sive that  the  Treasury  declared  they 
must  have  a  limit ;  but  the  Colonel 
repudiated  limits,  "  till  our  rulers 
should  either  make  peace  or  else 
provide  our  army  with  the  need- 
ed carrying  power."  Accordingly, 
"from  Spain  in  the  west  to  Ar- 


menia in  the  east,  from  Wallachia 
in  the  north  to  the  Persian  Gulf  on 
the  south,"  he  purchased  beasts  of 
burden.  Before  the  war  ended,  he 
had  under  him  "a  body  of  17,000 
drivers,  of  whom  10,000  were  Brit- 
ish soldiers — men  not  only  compet- 
ent to  their  more  especial  tasks,  but 
armed  and  trained  for  fighting ; 
whilst  of  horses,  mules,  camels,  and 
dromedaries,  he  had  more  than 
28,000."  He  thus  got  together  a 
land  -  transport  power  which  com- 
pletely sufficed  for  the  great  wants 
of  the  army,  with  the  means  of 
raising  it  promptly  to  the  yet 
greater  strength  required  in  case 
of  active  operations  against  the 
Eussian  army  in  the  field. 

Before  either  the  metalled  road 
or  the  railway  was  in  use — before 
even  the  land -transport  corps  had 
been  formed — by  January  23d,  the 
army  was  well  supplied  with  warm 
clothing,  which  Lord  Raglan  had 
sent  for  to  Constantinople  after  the 
hurricane  of  November  14th.  Ma- 
terials for  giving  our  troops  the 
advantage  of  wooden  shelter  had 
arrived,  but  could  not  be  used  from 
want  of  land-transport.  In  Febru- 
ary the  Erminia,  a  schooner  belong- 
ing to  Lord  Ellesmere,  sailed  into 
port  laden  with  the  produce  of  what 
was  called  the  Crimean  Army  Fund, 
with  the  honorary  agents,  Mr  Tower 
and  Mr  Egerton,  on  board.  They 
brought  in  the  schooner,  and  on  board 
two  screw-steamers,  "  vast  quantities 
of  goods  supplied  by  our  people  at 
home  for  the  comforting  of  their 
troops  in  the  distant  Crimea."  This 
fund  had  been  started  to  provide 
for  that  purpose.  The  '  Times ' 
Fund  was  collected  to  comfort  our 
sick  and  wounded  soldiers,  the  Pa- 
triotic Fund  to  provide  for  their 
widows  and  orphans.  Tower  and 
Egerton  landed  their  thousand  tons 
of  goods.  In  order  to  transport 
them,  more  than  a  mile  from  the 
beach,  to  Kadikoi,  across  an  ex- 


1880.] 


Mr  Kinglake's  New  Volume. 


705 


panse  of  mud,  with  intervals  of 
large  detached  stones,  some  wag- 
gons were  lent  them  belonging  to 
the  railway  contractors,  and  they 
obtained  elsewhere  mules,  horses, 
and  carts ;  and  Lord  Raglan  assign- 
ed to  them  twenty  stalwart  men, 
who  were  described  as  Croats. 
With  these  means — without  accept- 
ing aid  from  a  single  fatigue-party 
of  English  troops,  and  without 
drawing  one  ration  of  food  for 
either  man  or  beast — the  splendid 
sailors  of  the  schooner,  under 
the  organising  activity  of  Tower, 
effected  their  difficult  task.  They 
then  adopted  a  masterly  and  suc- 
cessful plan  of  distribution,  under 
which  the  goods  passed  daily  and 
smoothly  into  the  hands  of  the 
soldiers.  The  whole  business  was 
a  model  of  non-official  successful 
administration,  effected  with  speed 
and  economy. 

The  miseries  of  our  troops  speed- 
ily disappeared  before  the  awaken- 
ed energy  of  their  countrymen  at 
home,  whose  newspaper  storm  was 
productive  of  as  much  good  as  the 
Balaclava  storm  of  the  14th  No- 
vember was  of  ill.  A  more  inter- 
esting account  of  these  transactions 
than  Mr  Kinglake  has  given  us,  it 
would  be  impossible  to  conceive. 
It  is  one  which  is  wholly  uninflu- 
enced by  party  bias,  and  ought  to 
be  studied  in  the  same  spirit.  It 
recounts  a  terrible  experience  of 
maladministration  ;  and  by  laying 
bare  its  causes,  and  the  manner  in 
which  they  operated,  it  serves  as  a 
salutary  warning  for  all  time  against 
carrying  into  great  military  under- 
takings the  utter  want  of  fore- 
thought and  the  misplaced  parsi- 
mony which  are  here  displayed. 
They  inevitably  lead  to  disaster, 
and  necessitate  lavish  expenditure. 
Not  all  the  virtues  of  Lord  Aber- 
deen's Cabinet,  and  the  fame  of  its 
members,  will  lighten  the  curse  of 
history  upon  its  grave  misconduct 


of  that  war,  which  it  so  reluctantly 
and  blindly  undertook. 

The  volume,  however,  speaks  for 
itself;  and  it  is  superfluous  for  a 
reviewer  to  endeavour  to  add  to 
the  force  of  the  grave  warning 
which  it  contains.  It  remains, 
however,  to  acknowledge,  on  the 
part  of  the  public,  the  literary 
skill,  the  conscientious  fairness, 
and  the  determined  mastery  of 
detail  which  this  forcible  narrative 
exhibits.  One  volume  remains  to 
complete  a  work  which  is  unique 
in  regard  to  indefatigable  research 
brought  to  bear  upon  contempo- 
raneous events,  and  the  force  and 
fire  with  which  its  animated  per- 
sonal sketches  light  up  its  abundant 
and  inevitable  detail.  Mr  King- 
lake  has  reached  that  point  in  his 
history  when  the  winter  troubles 
are  beginning  to  be  replaced  by 
happier  circumstances,  and  the  ulti- 
mate triumph  of  the  expedition  is 
beginning  to  dawn.  The  next  vol- 
ume will  be  in  its  substance  and 
tone  necessarily  in  marked  contrast 
with  the  present ;  and  its  appear- 
ance will  be  anticipated  with  im- 
patience and  welcomed  with  plea- 
sure. The  severest  portion  of  Mr 
Kinglake's  labours  is  doubtless 
achieved.  What  remains  to  fill 
this  important  leaf  in  our  national 
history  will  deal  with  a  brighter 
period.  Its  successful  accomplish- 
ment by  the  same  hand  is  all  that 
is  needed  to  complete  one  of  the 
most  animated  pictures  of  mingled 
disaster  and  triumph,  with  their 
accompaniments  of  strong  national 
feeling  and  momentous  personal  vi- 
cissitude, which  literature  has  ever 
produced. 

We  have  already  dealt  with  the 
practical  result  of  the  book  ;  and 
it  remains,  in  order  to  do  full  jus- 
tice to  its  literary  merit,  to  draw 
attention  to  the  vivid  sketches 
which  it  contains  of  the  more 
active  and  marked  personalities  of 


706 


Mr  Kinglake's  New  Volume. 


[Dec. 


the  time.  It  is  in  such  sketches 
that  Mr  Kinglake  delights ;  and 
they  serve  to  maintain  the  living 
interest  of  his  book,  bringing  the 
dramatis  personce,  as  it  were,  in. 
their  true  flesh  and  blood  before  us. 
One  of  the  very  best  is  the  sketch 
of  the  British  soldier  in  the  midst 
of  preventable  privation  and  suffer- 
ing, surrounded  by  death  and  all 
the  miseries  which  rendered  exist- 
ence impossible  : — 

"  The  true  soldier  or  '  paid  man,'  as 
distinguished  from  the  one  raised  by 
conscription,  is  indeed  a  man  govern- 
ed by  feelings  and  convictions  which 
at  first  sight  appear  strangely  different 
from,  those  of  other  human  beings. 
Upon  the  humble  rights  that  he  has 
acquired  by  entering  the  army  he  in- 
sists with  a  curious  tenacity ;  but  as 
regards  the  other  side  of  his  wild  ro- 
mantic bargain,  he  performs  it  with 
unstinting  readiness,  paying  down  his 
vast  stake,  his  freedom,  his  ease,  his 
strength,  his  health,  his  life,  as  though 
it  were  nothing  worth.  Lord  Raglan, 
when  visiting  the  field-hospitals,  used 
to  ask  upon  entering  each  tent  whether 
any  of  the  men  there  collected  had  any 
complaints  to  make ;  and  then  it  curi- 
ously happened  that  one  of  the  suf- 
ferers answered  by  firmly  alleging  a 
grievance,  but  a  grievance,  strange  to 
say,  unconnected  with  the  privations 
then  threatening  his  very  life, — a  griev- 
ance based  in  general  upon  some  ques- 
tion  of  'stoppages/  and  always  con- 
cerning money.  Thereupon  Lord  Rag- 
lan would  promise  that  the  question 
raised  should  be  considered,  and  his 
attendant  aide-de-camp  (who  on  these 
occasions  was  generally  Colonel  Nigel 
Kingscote)  used  then  to  make  a  care- 
ful note  of  the  complaint.  This  pro- 
cess was  completed  until  all  the  com- 
plaints had  been  heard ;  but  invariably 
they  related  to  money  questions. 

"No  man  ever  used  to  say  :  'My  lord, 
you  see  how  I  am  lying  wet  and  cold, 
with  only  this  one  blanket  to  serve  me 
for  bed  and  covering.  The  doctors  are 
wonderfully  kind,  but  they  have  not 
the  medicines,  nor  the  wine,  nor  any 
of  the  comforting  things  they  would 
like  to  be  giving  me.  If  only  I  had  an- 
other blanket,  I  think  perhaps  I  might 


live.  Such  words  would  have  been  true 
to  the  letter,  and  also  I  imagine  appro- 
priate in  the  judgment  of  almost  any 
civilian  ;  but  the  soldier  was  not  the 
man  who  would  deign  to  utter  them. 
He  would  hold  the  State  fast  to  its 
bargain  in  respect  to  those  pence  that 
were  promised  him  through  the  lips 
of  the  recruiting  sergeant;  but  on 
the  other  hand,  he  seemed  to  acknow- 
ledge that  he  had  committed  his  bod- 
ily welfare  no  less  than  his  life  to 
the  chances  of  war,  and  would  let  the 
Queen  have  what  he  sold  her,  with- 
out a  grudging  word.  Sometimes  the 
brave  men — I  speak  now  of  the  men 
under  arms — would  do  more  than  ac- 
quiesce in  their  sufferings,  and  detect- 
ing perhaps  a  shadow  of  care  in  the 
face  of  their  honoured  chief  when  he 
rode  past  their  camp,  would  seize  any 
occasion  that  offered  for  showing  him 
that  they  were  content.  Thus,  for 
instance,  when  asked  by  Lord  Raglan 
whether  his  regiment  had  obtained  its 
warm  clothing,  a  soldier  would  not 
merely  say  'yes,'  but  gratefully  and 
cheerily  add  that  that  '  was  all  they 
wanted/" 

Side  by  side  with  this  tribute 
to  the  spirit  which  animated  the 
British  soldier,  we  must  place  an- 
other to  the  mode  in  which  he  was 
tended  in  his  dire  distress,  and  to 
the  spirit  which  Miss  Nightingale 
infused  into  the  hospital  manage- 
ment. After  quoting  Dean  Stanley's 
eloquent  testimony  to  the  manner  in 
which  her  ascendant  held  good  with 
the  orderlies  and  all  other  soldiers 
who  were  strong  enough  to  obey 
her,  he  continues,  in  reference  to 
the  sick  and  prostrate : — 

"  There  was  worship  almost  in  the 
gratitude  of  the  prostrate  sufferer, 
who  saw  her  glide  into  his  ward  and 
at  last  approach  his  bedside.  The 
magic  of  her  power  over  men  used 
often  to  be  felt  in  the  room  —  the 
dreaded,  the  blood  -  stained  room — 
where  '  operations'  took  place.  There, 
perhaps  the  maimed  soldier,  if  not  yet 
resigned  to  his  fate,  might  at  first  be 
craving  death  rather  than  meet  the 
knife  of  the  surgeon  ;  but  when  such 
a  one  looked  and  saw  that  the  hon- 


1880.] 


Mr  Kinglake's  New  Volume. 


707 


cured  Lady-in- Chief  was  patiently 
standing  beside  him,  and — with  lips 
closely  set  and  hands  folded — decree- 
ing herself  to  go  through  the  pain  of 
witnessing  pain,  he  used  to  fall  into 
the  mood  for  obeying  her  silent  com- 
mand and — finding  strange  support  in 
her  presence — bring  himself  to  submit 
and  endure." 

And  in  a  note  Mr  Kinglake 
adds  :— 

"  At  the  time  I  am  speaking  of,  the 
vast  fame  of  the  Lady-in-Chief  had 
brought  upon  her  an  enormous  num- 
ber of  '  begging  letters,'  but — I  say  it 
with  delight — there  had  never  come  one 
from  a  soldier." 

Lord  Eaglan's  "  nonchalant "  de- 
meanour, as  it  was  erroneously 
called  at  the  time,  is  thus  de- 
scribed : — 

"  Lord  Raglan  was  most  days  on 
horseback,  either  visiting  his  divis- 
ional camps  or  his  hospitals,  or  going 
down  to  transact  business  at  Balaclava, 
but  he  used  on  such  occasions  to  ride 
with  only  a  single  aide-de-camp  ;  and 
since,  also,  as  indeed  we  have  seen, 
he  commonly  wore  a  plain  forage-cap, 
and  a  wrapper  so  overfolding  that  it 
did  not  disclose  his  maimed  arm,  there 
was  nothing  to  show  a  spectator,  unless 
chancing  to  stand  very  near,  that  one 
of  the  two  horsemen  passing  was  the 
Commander  of  the  forces.  Under  such 
conditions,  of  course,  many  officers  and 
men,  to  say  nothing  of  the  newspaper 
correspondents,  were  able  to  say  that 
they  never  saw  anything  of  the  gen- 
eral." 

The  hatred  of  ostentation,  which 
laid  Lord  Eaglan  open  to  so  many 
mischievous  comments,  is  set  forth 
by  means  of  the  following  humor- 
ous description  of  some  charlatan 
general  manipulating  public  opinion 
in  his  favour,  through  conduct  of 
\vhich  Lord  Raglan  was  incapable, 
and  which  was  the  exact  opposite 
of  that  which  he  adopted  : — 

"  If  a  charlatan  general  proposes  to 
visit  a  suffering  camp,  he  chooses  a 
time  when  he  knows  improvement  is 
ripe,  comes  clattering  up  to  the  ground 


with  a  great  cavalcade  at  his  heels, 
shows  himself  in  his  well-known  cos- 
tume, seems  to  give  a  large  number  of 
orders,  seems  to  crush  one  or  two  hap- 
less functionaries  with  ferocious  dis- 
pleasure, calls  up  some  (before  chosen) 
soldier,  tells  the  man  he  remembers 
him  well  at  the  battle  of  the  Spheres, 
says  he  means  to  look  out  for  him 
again  at  the  battle  of  Armageddon, 
gives  him  either  a  cross  or  some  coins, 
then  gallops  off,  well  assured  that  by 
the  help  of  his  salaried  glorifiers  act- 
ing vigorously  on  human  credulity,  he 
will  pass  for  a  chief  who  has  almost 
wrought  miracles  '  by  the  eagle  glance 
of  his  eye,'  and  the  irresistible  might 
of  his  wiU." 

Lord  Panmure  is  sketched  in  a 
manner  which  seems  to  bring  him 
life-like  before  us.  The  son  of  a 
headstrong  tyrannical  father,  he 
was,  on  refusing  to  be  absolutely 
estranged  from  his  mother,  com- 
pelled to  take  a  commission  in  a 
line  regiment,  with  a  bare  subsist- 
ence allowance.  The  effect  of  his 
"  virtue,  combined  with  privation, 
was  to  make  him  beyond  measure 
savage."  When  his  thraldom  was 
over,  he  quitted  the  army,  studied, 
entered  Parliament,  worked  hard, 
and  became  Secretary  at  War ;  and 
was  finally  selected  by  Lord  Pal- 
merston  to  become  Secretary  of 
State  in  succession  to  the  Duke 
of  ^Newcastle.  Mr  Kinglake  thus 
paints  him  : — 

"  Owing  partly  perhaps  to  the  habit 
of  meditating  upon  the  attributes  of 
his  father,  Fox  Maule  was  mighty  in 
curses,  not  simply  and  gently  accentu- 
ating thought  with  a  '  damn,'  like  the 
shrewd  reflective  Lord  Melbourne,  but 
arming  himself  with  maledictions  in  an 
aggressive  spirit,  as  though  he  would 
somehow  wreak  his  vengeance  upon 
many  a  lieutenant  for  the  usage  he 
had  received  in  his  youth.  Rough- 
tongued  and  rough-mannered  in  the 
midst  of  courteous  people,  he  was  for- 
midably equipped  for  attack  ;  but  his 
resources  in  the  way  of  defence  were 
even  more  efficacious,  for  nature  had 
so  thickly  encased  him  as  to  make  his 


"08 


Mr  Kinglake's  New  Volume. 


[Dec. 


mental  skin  quite  impervious  to  the 
delicate  needle-points  with  which  a 
highly-bred  gentlefolk  is  accustomed 
to  correct  its  offenders.  With  all  his 
roughness  and  violence,  it  would 
seem  he  had  no  base  malignity,  and 
was  more,  after  all,  the  rhinoceros 
than  the  tiger  of  Palmerston's  Cabi- 
net." 

Further  on,  his  tameness  under 
the  pressure  of  the  '  Times '  news- 
paper is  referred  to  : — 

"  The  bearing  of  Lord  Panmure  to- 
wards the  press  was  a  good  deal  like 
that  of  a  soldier  taken  prisoner  by  the 
enemy.  He  received  his  marching 
orders  submissively  from  the  sheets 
of  the  '  Times,'  proceeded  at  once  to 
obey  them,  and  so  trudged  doggedly 
on,  without  giving  other  vent  to  his 
savageness  than  a  comfortable  oath 
and  a  growl.  Whilst  he  trudged,  he 
would  even  explain  to  any  less  docile 
fellow-prisoner  how  vain  and  foolish 
it  was  to  dream  of  attempting  resist- 
ance." 

There  is  a  most  interesting  de- 
scription of  the  way  in  which  Tower 
and  Egerton  effected  the  cartage 
and  distribution  of  the  1000  tons 
of  goods  which  they  had  taken  out 
to  the  Crimea.  Upon  Tower  de- 
volved the  task  of  wringing  work 
from  the  Croats,  and  of  compelling 
them  to  aid  in  carrying  loads  from 
the  fort  to  the  camp. 

"  His  great  eyes  flaming  with  zeal, 
his  mighty  beard  laden  or  spangled 
like  the  bough  of  a  cedar  of  Lebanon, 
with  whatever  the  skies  might  send 
down,  whether  snow,  or  sleet,  or  rain 
- — an  eagle-faced,  vehement  English- 
man, commanding,  warning,  exhorting ; 
swooping  down  in  vast  seven-leagued 
boots  through  the  waters  and  quag- 
mires, upon  any  one  of  his  Mussul- 
mans who,  under  cover  of  piety  (when 
wanting  a  few  moments  of  rest)  stopped 
kneeling  too  long  at  his  prayers.  If 
any  wayfarer,  passing  between  camp 
and  port,  sought  to  learn  what  all  the 
stir  meant,  he  might  be  told  perhaps 
orientally,  by  some  of  the  bearers  of 
burdens,  that, '  The  will  of  Allah — His 
name  be  it  blest !  had  made  them  the 


hard-driven  slaves  of  the  sacredly- 
bearded  commander,  the  all-compel- 
ling, the  sleepless,  the  inexorable 
Father  of  boxes — the  Father  of  boxes 
more  numerous  than  even  the  seed  of 
Sheik  Ibrahim  after  ninety  and  nine 
generations  ; '  whilst  the  answer  to  any 
such  question,  if  drawn  from  an  Eng- 
lish officer,  was  likely  to  be  altogether 
neglectful  of  the  spiritual  element,  and 
simply  explain  in  five  words  that  the 
cause  of  all  the  commotion  was  'Tom 
Tower  working  his  Croats.' " 

We  will  conclude  with  the  de- 
scription given  early  in  the  volume 
of  the  second  Pitt  in  Downing 
Street,  with  an  imperfect  intelli- 
gence department,  framing  his  war- 
like measures  on  such  information 
as  was  within  his  reach,  too  often 
supplied  from  an  interested  source. 
No  finer  delineation  is  to  be  found 
anywhere  of  the  cares  and  labours 
of  the  great  Minister. 

"From  his  own  room  in  Downing 
Street,  with  an  ample  map  spread  out 
before  him,  and  too  often  at  his  elbow 
some  zealot  enforcing  the  last  new 
idea,  he  directed  in  this  or  that  quarter 
the  impacts  of  a  far-reaching  war.  To 
protect  him  from  visions  and  vision- 
aries he  had  no  wary  mentors  like 
those  whose  minds  have  been  dis- 
ciplined in  a  well-ordered  War  De- 
partment ;  and  accordingly,  when  not 
either  forming  his  great  coalitions,  or 
breaking  up  some  league  against  Eng- 
land, he  was  a  man  drawn  hither  and 
thither  by  numbers  of  sanguine  ad- 
visers with  their  souls  in  all  parts  of 
the  world — some  full  of  the  opening 
there  was  in  the  patriotism  of  Holland 
invaded  ;  some,  however,  soon  after 
resolved  that,  instead  of  defending  the 
Dutch,  it  would  be  better  on  the  whole 
to  attack  them — to  attack  them  in  Cey- 
lon, attack  them  in  tbe  Banda  Islands, 
or  Surinam,  or  attack  them  at  the  Cape 
of  Good  Hope  ;  some  yet  later  revert- 
ing to  Dutchmen  as  a  people,  then 
called  '  Batavian,'  who  ought  to  be  in- 
vaded at  home  ;  many  warranting  a 
French  restoration  with  only  a  little 
help  on  the  seaboard  ;  some,  however, 
inviting  our  people  to  the  north, 
and  others  to  the  west,  and  others, 


1880.] 


Mr  KingldkJs  New  Volume. 


709 


again,  to  the  south  coast  of  France; 
then  some,  again,  eager  to  attack  the 
French  fishing-stations  in  Newfound- 
land, far  north  ;  others  savage  against 
the  French  ilag  for  displaying  itself  in 
the  tropics,  and  pointing  to  the  Isle 
of  Goree  ;  some  planning  a  hunt 
against  Frenchmen  in  the  kingdom 
of  Naples,  others  seeking  to  chase 
them  in  the  States  of  the  Church  ; 
some  urging  a  small  expedition  for  the 
alluringly  mischievous  purpose  of  cut- 
ting the  dikes  in  Belgium ;  others 
pressing  the  invasion  of  Spanish  Gali- 
cia  and  the  seizure  of  Ferrol ;  some 
wanting  "our  troops  to  be  sent  away 
yet  further  south,  to  land  on  the  coast 
of  Andalusia,  and  then  lay  hold  of 
Cadiz  ;  others  urging  that  Bonaparte 
must  be  stopped  in  his  Eastern  adven- 
ture, and  the  French  troops  thrust 
out  of  Egypt ;  others  pressing  for  an 
occupation  of  Swedish  Pomerania,  or 
showing  that  the  half-hearted  King 
of  Prussia  could  be  trusted  to  save 
himself  from  the  fate  of  being  de- 
voured separately  by  aiding  the  de- 
fence of  Germany,  and  that  therefore 
to  act  alongside  him  a  strong  British 


force  should  at  once  be  sent  into  Han- 
over;— and  all  this  while  the  inciters, 
whose  policy  avowedly  lay  in  the  ac- 
quisition of  '  islands,'  were  busily  im- 
portuning the  Minister — some,  for  in- 
stance, entreating  him  to  accept  the 
proffered  Corsica,  others  bent  on  Min- 
orca, and  others  again  on  Malta ; 
whilst  yet  others  again  in  design 
transcended  ocean  expanses,  pointing 
out  the  diminutive  speck  which 
marked  Teneriffe  on  the  charts,  and 
maintaining  that  our  people  were  for 
some  reason  bound  as  mariners  to  go 
out  and  seize  the  lone  rock.  Much 
more  wondrous,  however,  than  the 
number  and  variety  of  these  counsels, 
was  the  fact  that  every  one  of  them 
had  in  turn  such  strong  sway  as  to 
make  Pitt  give  it  effect  ;  and  not 
now,  even  now,  have  I  yet  filled  the 
curious  list ;  for — worst  of  all — in 
those  days  came  sons  of  Mammon  in- 
tent upon  what  were  then  called  '  Sugar 
Islands  ; '  and,  the  grossest  of  the 
tempters  prevailing,  troops  bitterly 
needed  elsewhere  were  from  time  to 
time  hurried  off  to  die  of  yellow 
fever  in  the  West  Indies." 


Dr  Wortle1  s  School. — Conclusion. 


[Dec. 


DR   WORTLE'S   SCHOOL. — CONCLUSION. 


CHAPTER   XXII. — THE   DOCTORS    ANSWER. 


WHEN  the  Monday  came  there 
was  much  to  be  done  and  to  be 
thought  of  at  Bowick.  Mrs  Pea- 
cocke  on  that  day  received  a  letter 
from  San  Francisco,  giving  her  all 
the  details  of  the  evidence  that  her 
husband  had  obtained,  and  enclos- 
ing a  copy  of  the  photograph.  There 
was  now  no  reason  why  she  should 
not  become  the  true  and  honest  wife 
of  the  man  whom  she  had  all  along 
regarded  as  her  husband  in  the  sight 
of  God.  The  writer  declared  that 
he  would  so  quickly  follow  his 
letter  that  he  might  be  expected 
home  within  a  week,  or,  at  the 
longest,  ten  days,  from  the  date  at 
which  she  would  receive  it.  Im- 
mediately on  his  arrival  at  Liver- 
pool, he  would,  of  course,  give  her 
notice  by  telegraph. 

When  this  letter  reached  her,  she 
at  once  sent  a  message  across  to 
Mrs  Wortle.  Would  Mrs  Wortle 
kindly  come  and  see  herl  Mrs 
Wortle  was,  of  course,  bound  to  do 
as  she  was  asked,  and  started  at 
once.  But  she  was,  in  truth,  but 
little  able  to  give  counsel  on  any 
subject  outside  the  one  which  was 
at  the  moment  nearest  to  her  heart. 
At  one  o'clock,  when  the  boys  went 
to  their  dinner,  Mary  was  to  instruct 
her  father  as  to  the  purport  of  the 
letter  which  was  to  be  sent  to  Lord 
Bracy, — and  Mary  had  not  as  yet 
come  to  any  decision.  She  could 
not  go  to  her  father  for  aid ; — she 
could  not,  at  any  rate,  go  to  him 
until  the  appointed  hour  should 
come;  and  she  was  therefore  en- 
tirely thrown  upon  her  mother. 
Had  she  been  old  enough  to  under- 
stand the  effect  and  the  power  of 
character,  she  would  have  known 
that,  at  the  last  moment,  her  father 


would  certainly  decide  for  her, — 
and  had  her  experience  of  the  world 
been  greater,  she  might  have  been 
quite  sure  that  her  father  would 
decide  in  her  favour.  But  as  it 
was,  she  was  quivering  and  shaking 
in  the  dark,  leaning  on  her  mother's 
very  inefficient  aid,  nearly  overcome 
with  the  feeling  that  by  one  o'clock 
she  must  be  ready  to  say  something 
quite  decided. 

And  in  the  midst  of  this  her 
mother  was  taken  away  from  her, 
just  at  ten  o'clock.  There  was  not, 
in  truth,  much  that  the  two  ladies 
could  say  to  each  other.  Mrs  Pea- 
cocke  felt  it  to  be  necessary  to  let 
the  Doctor  know  that  Mr  Peacocke 
would  be  back  almost  at  once,  and 
took  this  means  of  doing  so.  "In 
a  week ! "  said  Mrs  Wortle,  as  though 
painfully  surprised  by  the  sudden- 
ness of  the  coming  arrival. 

"  In  a  week  or  ten  days.  He 
is  to  follow  his  letter  as  qu-ickly 
as  possible  from  San  Francisco." 

"  And  he  has  found  it  all  out  1 ' 

"  Yes;  he  has  learned  everything, 
I  think.  Look  at  this  ! "  And  Mrs 
Peacocke  handed  to  her  friend  the 
photograph  of  the  tombstone. 

"  Dear  me  !  "  said  Mrs  Wortle. 
"  Ferdinand  Lefroy !  And  this  was 
his  grave  ? " 

"That  is  his  grave,"  said  Mrs 
Peacocke,  turning  her  face  away. 

"  It  is  very  sad ;  very  sad  in- 
deed ; — but  you  had  to  learn  it, 
you  know." 

"  It  will  not  be  sad  for  him,  I 
hope,"  said  Mrs  Peacocke.  "In 
all  this,  I  endeavour  to  think  of 
him  rather  than  of  myself.  When 
I  am  forced  to  think  of  myself,  it 
seems  to  me  that  my  life  has  been 
so  blighted  and  destroyed,  that  it 


1880.] 


Dr  Worth's  School. — Conclusion. 


711 


must  be  indifferent  what  happens 
to  me  now.  What  has  happened 
to  me  has  been  so  bad  that  I  can 
hardly  be  injured  further.  But  if 
there  can  be  a  good  time  coming 
for  him, — something  at  least  of  re- 
lief, something  perhaps  of  comfort, 
— then  I  shall  be  satisfied." 

"  Why  should  there  not  be  com- 
fort for  you  both  ? " 

"  I  am  almost  as  dead  to  hope  as 
I  am  to  shame.  Some  year  or  two 
ago  I  should  have  thought  it  im- 
possible to  bear  the  eyes  of  people 
looking  at  me,  as  though  my  life 
had  been  sinful  and  impure.  I 
seem  now  to  care  nothing  for  all 
that.  I  can  look  them  back  again 
with  bold  eyes  and  a  brazen  face, 
and  tell  them  that  their  hard- 
ness is  at  any  rate  as  bad  as  my 
impurity." 

"  We  have  not  looked  at  you 
like  that,"  said  Mrs  Wortle. 

"No;  and  therefore  I  send  to 
you  in  my  trouble,  and  tell  you  all 
this.  The  strangest  thing  of  all  to 
me  is  that  I  should  have  come  across 
one  man  so  generous  as  your  hus- 
band, and  one  woman  so  soft-heart- 
ed as  yourself."  There  was  nothing 
further  to  be  said  then.  Mrs  Wortle 
was  instructed  to  tell  her  husband 
that  Mr  Peacocke  was  to  be  ex- 
pected in  a  week  or  ten  days,  and 
then  hurried  back  to  give  what 
assistance  she  conld  in  the  much 
more  important  difficulties  of  her 
own  daughter. 

Of  course  they  were  much  more 
important  to  her.  Was  her  girl  to 
become  the  wife  of  a  young  lord, — 
to  be  a  future  countess  ?  Was  she 
destined  to  be  the  mother-in-law  of 
an  earl?  Of  course  this  was  much 
more  important  to  her.  And  then 
through  it  all, — being  as  she  was 
a  dear,  good,  Christian,  motherly 
woman, — she  was  well  aware  that 
there  was  something,  in  truth,  much 
more  important  even  than  that. 
Though  she  thought  much  of  the 


earl-ship,  and  the  countess-ship, 
and  the  great  revenue,  and  the 
big  house  at  Carstairs,  and  the  fine 
park  with  its  magnificent  avenues, 
and  the  carriage  in  which  her 
daughter  would  be  rolled  about  to 
London  parties,  and  the  diamonds 
which  she  would  wear  when  she 
should  be  presented  to  the  Queen 
as  the  bride  of  the  young  Lord 
Carstairs,  yet  she  knew  very  well 
that  she  ought  not  in  such  an 
emergency  as  the  present  to  think 
of  these  things  as  being  of  primary 
importance.  What  would  tend 
most  to  her  girl's  happiness, — and 
welfare  in  this  world  and  the  next? 
It  was  of  that  she  ought  to  think, — 
of  that  only.  If  some  answer  were 
now  returned  to  Lord  Bracy,  giv- 
ing his  lordship  to  understand  that 
they,  the  Wortles,  were  anxious  to 
encourage  the  idea,  then  in  fact  her 
girl  would  be  tied  to  an  engage- 
ment whether  the  young  lord  should 
hold  himself  to  be  so  tied  or  no  ! 
And  how  would  it  be  with  her  girl 
if  the  engagement  should  be  allowed 
to  run  on  in  a  doubtful  way  for 
years,  and  then  be  dropped  by 
reason  of  the  young  man's  indiffer- 
ence ?  How  would  it  be  with  her 
if,  after  perhaps  three  or  four  years, 
a  letter  should  come  saying  that  the 
young  lord  had  changed  his  mind, 
and  had  engaged  himself  to  some 
nobler  bride?  Was  it  not  her  du- 
ty, as  a  mother,  to  save  her  child 
from  the  too  probable  occurrence 
of  some  crushing  grief  such  as  this  ? 
All  this  was  clear  to  her  mind ; — 
but  then  it  was  clear  also  that,  if 
this  opportunity  of  greatness  were 
thrown  away,  no  such  chance  in  all 
probability  would  ever  come  again. 
Thus  she  was  so  tossed  to  and  fro 
between  a  prospect  of  glorious  pros- 
perity for  her  child  on  one  side,  and 
the  fear  of  terrible  misfortune  for 
her  child  on  the  other,  that  she 
was  altogether  unable  to  give  any 
salutary  advice.  She,  at  any  rate, 


712 


Dr  Worth's  School. —  Conclusion. 


[Dec. 


ought  to  have  known  that  her  ad- 
vice would  at  last  be  of  no  import- 
ance. Her  experience  ought  to  have 
told  her  that  the  Doctor  would  cer- 
tainly settle  the  matter  himself. 
Had  it  been  her  own  happiness  that 
was  in  question,  her  own  conduct, 
her  own  greatness,  she  would  not 
have  dreamed  of  having  an  opinion 
of  her  own.  She  "would  have  con- 
sulted the  Doctor,  and  simply  have 
done  as  he  directed.  But  all  this 
was  for  her  child,  and  in  a  vague, 
vacillating  way  she  felt  that  for  her 
child  she  ought  to  be  ready  with 
counsel  of  her  own. 

"  Mamma,"  said  Mary,  when  her 
mother  came  back  from  Mrs  Pea- 
cocke,  "  what  am  I  to  say  when  he 
sends  for  me  1 " 

"  If  you  think  that  you  can  love 
him,  my  dear " 

"  Oh,  mamma,  you  shouldn't  ask 
me  !" 

"  My  dear  !  " 

"  I  do  like  him, — very  much." 

«  If  so " 

"  But  I  never  thought  of  it 
before ;  —  and  then,  if  he,  —  if 
he " 

"  If  he  what,  my  dear  1 " 

"If  he  were  to  change  his 
mind  1 " 

"Ah,  yes  ; — there  it  is.  It  isn't 
as  though  you  could  be  married  in 
three  months'  time." 

"  Ob,  mamma,  I  shouldn't  like 
that  at  all!" 

"  Or  even  in  six." 

"  Oh  no." 

"  Of  course  he  is  very  young." 

"Yes,  mamma." 

"  And  when  a  young  man  is  so 
very  young,  I  suppose  he  doesn't 
quite  know  his  own  mind." 

"  No,  mamma.     But " 

"Well,  my  dear." 

"  His  father  says  that  he  has  got 
— such  a  strong  will  of  his  own," 
said  poor  Mary,  who  was  anxious, 
unconsciously  anxious,  to  put  in  a 
good  word  on  her  own  side  of  the 


question,  without  making  her  own 
desire  too  visible. 

"He  always  had  that.  When 
there  was  any  game  to  be  played, 
he  always  liked  to  have  his  own 
way.  But  then  men  like  that  are 
just  as  likely  to  change  as  others." 

"  Are  they,  mamma  1  " 

"  But  I  do  think  that  he  is  a  lad 
of  very  high  principle." 

"  Papa  has  always  said  that  of 
him." 

"  And  of  fine  generous  feeling. 
He  would  not  change  like  a  weather- 
cock." 

"  If  you  think  he  would  change 
at  all,  I  would  rather, — rather, — 

rather .     Oh,  mamma,  why  did 

you  tell  me  1 " 

"  My  darling,  my  child,  my 
angel!  What  am  I  to  tell  you? 
I  do  think  of  all  the  young  men  I 
ever  knew  he  is  the  nicest,  and  the 
sweetest,  and  the  most  thoroughly 
good  and  affectionate." 

"  Ob,  mamma,  do  you  ? "  said 
Mary,  rushing  at  her  mother  and 
kissing  her  and  embracing  her. 

"  But  if  there  were  to  be  no 
regular  engagement,  and  you  were 
to  let  him  have  your  heart, — and 
then  things  were  to  go  wrong  ! " 

Mary  left  the  embracings,  gave 
up  the  kissings,  and  seated  hei 
on  the  sofa  alone.  In  this  way 
morning  was  passed  ; — and  w) 
Mary  was  summoned  to  her  father's 
study,  the  mother  and  daughter 
had  not  arrived  between  them 
any  decision. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  said  the  Doc- 
tor, smiling,  "  what  am  I  to  say  to 
the  Earl?" 

"  Must  you  write  to-day,  papa  1 " 

"I  think  so.  His  letter  is  one 
that  should  not  be  left  longer  un- 
answered. Were  we  to  do  so,  he 
would  only  think  that  we  didn't 
know  what  to  say  for  ourselves." 

"  Would  he,  papa  ? " 

"  He  would  fancy  that  we  are 
half  ashamed  to  accept  what  has 


1880.] 


Dr  Wortle1  s  School. — Conclusion. 


713 


been  offered  to  us,  and  yet  anxious 
to  take  it." 

"I  am  not  ashamed  of  any- 
thing." 

"  No,  my  dear  ; — you  have  no 
reason." 

"  Nor  have  you,  papa," 

"  Nor  have  I.  That  is  quite 
true.  I  have  never  been  wont  to 
be  ashamed  of  myself; — nor  do  I 
think  that  you  ever  will  have  cause 
to  be  ashamed  of  yourself.  There- 
fore, why  should  we  hesitate? 
Shall  I  help  you,  my  darling,  in 
coming  to  a  decision  on  the  mat- 
ter?" 

"Yes,  papa." 

"  If  I  can  understand  your  heart 
on  this  matter,  it  has  never  as  yet 
been  given  to  this  young  man." 

".No,  papa."  This  Mary  said 
not  altogether  with  that  complete 
power  of  asseveration  which  the  ne- 
gative is  sometimes  made  to  bear. 

"  But  there  must  be  a  beginning 
to  such  things.  A  man  throws 
himself  into  it  headlong, — as  my 
Lord  Carstaiw  seems  to  have  done. 
At  least  all  the  best  young  men  do." 
Mary  at  this  point  felt  a  great  long- 
ing to  get  up  and  kiss  her  father ; 
but  she  restrained  herself.  "  A 
young  woman,  on  the  other  hand, 
if  she  is  such  as  I  think  you  are, 
waits  till  she  is  asked.  Then  it 
has  to  begin."  The  Doctor,  as  he 
said  this,  smiled  his  sweetest  smile. 

"  Yes,  papa." 

"And  when  it  has  begun,  she 
does  not  like  to  blurt  it  out  at 
once,  even  to  her  loving  old 
father." 

"Papa!" 

"That's  about  it;  isn't  it? 
Haven't  I  hit  it  off? "  He  paused, 
as  though  for  a  reply,  but  she  was 
not  as  yet  able  to  make  him  any. 
"  Come  here,  my  dear."  She  came 
and  stood  by  him,  so  that  he  could 
put  his  arm  round  her  waist.  "  If 
it  be  as  I  suppose,  you  are  better 
disposed  to  this  young  man  than 


you  are  likely  to  be  to  any  other, 
just  at  present." 

"  Oh  yes,  papa." 

"  To  all  others  you  are  quite 
indifferent?" 

"  Yes,  indeed,  papa." 

"  I  am  sure  you  are.  But  not 
quite  indifferent  to  this  one?  Give 
me  a  kiss,  my  darling,  and  I  will 
take  that  for  your  speech."  Then 
she  kissed  him, — giving  him  her 
very  best  kiss.  "  And  now,  my 
child,  what  shall  I  say  to  the 
Earl?" 

"  I  don't  know,  papa." 

"Nor  do  I,  quite.  I  never  do 
know  what  to  say  till  I've  got  the 
pen  in  my  hand.  But  you'll  com- 
mission me  to  write  as  I  may  think 
best  ? " 

"  Oh  yes,  papa." 

"  And  I  may  presume  that  I 
know  your  mind  ? " 

"  Yes,  papa." 

"Very  well.  Then  you  had 
better  leave  me,  so  that  I  can  go 
to  work  with  the  paper  straight 
before  me,  and  my  pen  fixed  in  my 
fingers.  I  can  never  begin  to  think 
till  I  find  myself  in  that  position." 
Then  she  left  him,  and  went  back 
to  her  mother. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs 
Wortle. 

"He  is  going  to  write  to  Lord 
Bracy." 

"  But  what  does  he  mean  to 
say  ? " 

"  I  don't  know  at  all,  mamma." 

"  Not  know  ! " 

"  I  think  he  means  to  tell  Lord 
Bracy  that  he  has  got  no  objec- 
tion." 

Then  Mrs  Wortle  was  sure  that 
the  Doctor  meant  to  face  all  the 
dangers,  and  that  therefore  it  would 
behove  her  to  face  them  also. 

The  Doctor,  when  he  was  left 
alone,  sat  a  while  thinking  of  the 
matter  before  he  put  himself  into 
the  position  fitted  for  composition 
which  he  had  described  to  his 


714 


Dr  Worth's  School— Conclusion. 


daughter.  He  acknowledged  to 
himself  that  there  was  a  difficulty 
in  making  a  fit  reply  to  the  letter 
which  he  had  to  answer.  When 
his  mind  was  set  on  sending  an 
indignant  epistle  to  the  Bishop,  the 
words  flew  from  him  like  lightning 
out  of  the  thunder  -  clouds.  But 
now  he  had  to  think  much  of  it 
before  he  could  make  any  light 
to  come  which  should  not  hear  a 
different  colour  from  that  which  he 
intended.  "  Of  course  such  a  mar- 
riage would  suit  my  child,  and 
would  suit  me,"  he  wished  to  say; — 
"  not  only,  or  not  chiefly,  because 
your  son  is  a  nobleman,  and  will  be 
an  earl  and  a  man  of  great  property. 
That  goes  a  long  way  with  us.  We 
are  too  true  to  deny  it, — we  hate 
humbug,  and  want  you  to  know 
simply  the  truth  about  us.  The 
title  and  the  money  go  far, — but 
not  half  so  far  as  the  opinion  which 
we  entertain  of  the  young  man's 
own  good  gifts.  I  would  not  give 
my  girl  to  the  greatest  and  richest 
nobleman  under  the  British  Crown, 
if  I  did  not  think  that  he  would 
love  her  and  be  good  to  her,  and 
treat  her  as  a  husband  should  treat 
his  wife.  But  believing  this  young 
man  to  have  good  gifts  such  as 
these,  and  a  fine  disposition,  I  am 
willing,  on  my  girl's  behalf, — and 
she  also  is  willing, — to  encounter 
the  acknowledged  danger  of  a  long 
engagement  in  the  hope  of  realising 
all  the  good  things  which  would, 
if  things  went  fortunately,  thus 
come  within  her  reach."  This  was 
what  he  wanted  to  say  to  the  Earl, 
but  he  found  it  very  difficult  to 
say  it  in  language  that  should  be 
natural. 

"  Mr  DEAR  LORD  BRACT,  — 
When  I  learned,  through  Mary's 
mother,  that  Carstairs  had  been 
here  in  our  absence  and  made  a 
declaration  of  love  to  our  girl,  I 
was,  I  must  confess,  annoyed.  I 


[Dec. 


felt,  in  the  first  place,  that  he  was 
too  young  to  have  taken  in  hand 
such  a  business  as  that;  and,  in  the 
next,  that  you  might  not  unnatur- 
ally have  been  angry  that  your  son, 
who  had  come  here  simply  for 
tuition,  should  have  fallen  into  a 
matter  of  love.  I  imagine  that  you 
will  understand  exactly  what  were 
my  feelings.  There  was,  however, 
nothing  to  be  said  about  it.  The 
evil,  so  far  as  it  was  an  evil,  had 
been  done,  and  Carstairs  was  going 
away  to  Oxford,  where,  possibly,  he 
might  forget  the  whole  affair.  I 
did  not,  at  any  rate,  think  it  neces- 
sary to  make  a  complaint  to  you  of 
his  coming. 

"To  all  this  your  letter  has 
given  altogether  a  different  aspect. 
I  think  that  I  am  as  little  likely 
as  another  to  spend  my  time  or 
thoughts  in  looking  for  external 
advantages,  but  I  am  as  much  alive 
as  another  to  the  great  honour  to 
myself  and  advantage  to  my  child 
of  the  marriage  which  is  suggested 
to  her.  I  do  not  know  how  any 
more  secure  prospect  of  happiness 
would  be  open  to  her  than  that 
which  such  a  marriage  offers.  I 
have  thought  myself  bound  to  give 
her  your  letter  to  read  because  her 
heart  and  her  imagination  have 
naturally  been  affected  by  what 
your  son  said  to  her.  I  think  I 
may  say  of  my  girl  that  none 
sweeter,  none  more  innocent,  none 
less  likely  to  be  over-anxious  for 
such  a  prospect  could  exist.  But 
her  heart  has  been  touched ;  and 
though  she  had  not  dreamt  of  him 
but  as  an  acquaintance  till  he  came 
here  and  told  his  own  tale,  and 
though  she  then  altogether  declined 
to  entertain  his  proposal  when  it 
was  made,  now  that  she  has  learnt 
so  much  more  through  you,  she  is 
no  longer  indifferent.  This,  I  think, 
you  will  find  to  be  natural. 

"  I  and  her  mother  also  are  of 
course  alive  to  the  dangers  of  a  long 


1880.] 


Dr  Worth's  School. — Conclusion. 


715 


engagement,  and  the  more  so  be- 
cause your  son  has  still  before  him 
a  considerable  portion  of  his  educa- 
tion. Had  he  asked  advice  either 
of  you  or  of  me  he  would  of  course 
have  been  counselled  not  to  think 
of  marriage  as  yet.  But  the  very 
passion  which  has  prompted  him  to 
take  this  action  upon  himself  shows, 
— as  you  yourself  say  of  him, — that 
he  has  a  stronger  will  than  is  usual 
to  be  found  at  his  years.  As  it  is 
so,  it  is  probable  that  he  may  re- 
main constant  to  this  as  to  a  fixed 
idea. 

"  I  think  you  will  now  under- 
stand my  mind  and  Mary's  and  her 
mother's."  [Lord  Bracy  as  he  read 
this  declared  to  himself  that  though 
the  Doctor's  mind  was  very  clear, 
Mrs  Wortle,  as  far  as  he  knew,  had 
no  mind  in  the  matter  at  all.]  "  I 
would  suggest  that  the  matter 
should  remain  as  it  is,  and  that 
each  of  the  young  people  should  be 
made  to  understand  that  any  fu- 


ture engagement  must  depend,  not 
simply  on  the  persistency  of  one  of 
them,  but  on  the  joint  persistency 
of  the  two. 

"If,  after  this,  Lady  Bracy  should 
be  pleased  to  receive  Mary  at  Car- 
stairs,  I  need  not  say  that  Mary 
will  be  delighted  to  make  the-visit. 
— Believe  me,  my  dear  Lord  Bracy, 
yours  most  faithfully, 

"JEFFREY  WORTLE." 

The  Earl,  when  he  read  this, 
though  there  was  not  a  Avord  in  it 
to  which  he  could  take  exception, 
was  not  altogether  pleased.  "  Of 
course  it  will  be  an  engagement," 
he  said  to  his  wife. 

"Of  course  it  will,"  said  the 
Countess.  "  But  then  Carstairs  is 
so  very  much  in  earnest.  He  would 
have  done  it  for  himself  if  you 
hadn't  done  it  for  him." 

"  At  any  rate  the  Doctor  is  a 
gentleman,"  the  Earl  said,  comfort- 
ing himself. 


CHAPTER   XXIII. MR    PEACOCKE  S    RETURN. 


The  Earl's  rejoinder  to  the  Doctor 
was  very  short :  "  So  let  it  be." 
There  was  not  another  word  in  the 
body  of  the  letter;  but  there  was 
appended  to  it  a  postscript  almost 
equally  short.  "  Lady  Bracy  will 
write  to  Mary  and  settle  with  her 
some  period  for  her  visit."  And 
so  it  came  to  be  understood  by  the 
Doctor,  by  Mrs  Wortle,  and  by 
Mary  herself,  that  Mary  was  en- 
gaged to  Lord  Carstairs. 

The  Doctor,  having  so  far  ar- 
ranged the  matter, — having,  as  it 
were,  laid  a  fairly  firm  grasp  on 
the  thing  which  had  been  offered 
to  him, — said  little  or  nothing  more 
on  the  subject,  but  turned  his  mind 
at  once  to  that  other  affair  of  Mr 
and  Mrs  Peacocke.  It  was  evident 
to  his  wife,  who  probably  alone  un- 
derstood the  buoyancy  of  his  spirit, 

VOL.  CXXVIII. — NO.  DCCLXXXII. 


and  its  corresponding  susceptibility 
to  depression,  that  he  at  once  went 
about  Mr  Peacocke's  affairs  witli 
renewed  courage.  Mr  Peacocke 
should  resume  his  duties  as  soon  as 
he  was  remarried,  and  let  them  see 
what  Mrs  Stantiloup  or  the  Bishop 
would  dare  to  say  then  !  It  was 
impossible,  he  thought,  that  parents 
would  be  such  asses  as  to  suppose 
that  their  boys'  morals  would  be 
affected  to  evil  by  connection  with 
a  man  so  true,  so  gallant,  and  so 
manly  as  this.  He  did  not  at  this 
time  say  anything  further  as  to 
abandoning  the  school,  but  seemed 
to  imagine  that  the  vacancies  would 
get  themselves  filled  up  as  in  the 
course  of  nature.  He  ate  his  dinner 
again  as  though  he  liked  it,  and 
abused  the  Liberals,  and  was  anx- 
ious about  the  grapes  and  peaches, 
3c 


716 


Dr  Worth's  School — Conclusion. 


as  was  always  the  case  with  him 
when  things  were  going  well.  All 
this,  as  Mrs  Wortle  understood,  had 
come  to  him  from  the  brilliancy  of 
Mary's  prospects. 

But  though  he  held  his  tongue 
on  the  subject,  Mrs  Wortle  did  not. 
She  found  it  absolutely  impossible 
not  to  talk  of  it  when  she  was 
alone  with  Mary,  or  alone  with  the 
Doctor.  As  he  counselled  her  not 
to  make  Mary  think  too  much  about 
it,  she  was  obliged  to  hold  her 
peace  when  both  were  with  her; 
but  with  either  of  them  alone  she 
was  always  full  of  it.  To  the 
Doctor  she  communicated  all  her 
fears  and  all  her  doubts,  showing 
only  too  plainly  that  she  would  be 
altogether  broken-hearted  if  any- 
thing should  interfere  with  the 
grandeur  and  prosperity  which 
seemed  to  be  partly  within  reach, 
but  not  altogether  within  reach  of 
her  darling  child.  If  he,  Carstairs, 
should  prove  to  be  a  recreant  young 
lord !  If  Aristotle  and  Socrates 
should  put  love  out  of  bis  heart ! 
If  those  other  wicked  young  lords 
at  Christ  Church  were  to  teach  him 
that  it  was  a  foolish  thing  for  a 
young  lord  to  become  engaged  to  his 
tutor's  daughter  before  he  had  taken 
his  degree  !  If  some  better-born 
young  lady  were  to  come  in  his 
way  and  drive  Mary  out  of  his 
heart !  No  more  lovely  or  better 
girl  could  be  found  to  do  so, — of 
that  she  was  sure.  To  the  latter 
assertion  the  Doctor  agreed,  telling 
her  that,  as  it  was  so,  she  ought 
to  have  a  stronger  trust  in  her 
daughter's  charms, — telling  her  also, 
with  somewhat  sterner  voice,  that 
•  she  should  not  allow  herself  to  be 
so  disturbed  by  the  glories  of  the 
Bracy  coronet.  In  this  there  was, 
I  think,  some  hypocrisy.  Had  the 
Doctor  been  as  simple  as  his  wife  in 
showing  her  own  heart,  it  would  pro- 
bably have  been  found  that  he  was 
as  much  set  upon  the  coronet  as  she. 


[Dec. 

Then  Mrs  Wortle  would  carry  the 
Doctor's  wisdom  to  her  daughter. 
"  Papa  says,  my  dear,  that  you 
shouldn't  think  of  it  too  much." 

"  I  do  think  of  him,  mamma. 
I  do  love  him  now,  and  of  course  I 
think  of  him." 

"  Of  course  you  do,  my  dear; — of 
course  you  do.  How  should  you 
not  think  of  him  when  he  is  all  in 
all  to  you  1  But  papa  means  that 
it  can  hardly  be  called  an  engage- 
ment yet." 

"  I  don't  know  what  it  should  be 
called;  but  of  course  I  love  him. 
He  can  change  it  if  he  likes." 

"  But  you  shouldn't  think  of  it, 
knowing  his  rank  and  wealth." 

"I  never  did,  mamma;  but  he 
is  what  he  is,  and  I  must  think  of 
him." 

Poor  Mrs  Wortle  did  not  know 
what  special  advice  to  give  when 
this  declaration  was  made.  To  have 
held  her  tongue  would  have  been 
the  wisest,  but  that  was  impossible 
to  her.  Out  of  the  full  heart  the 
mouth  speaks,  and  her  heart  was 
very  full  of  Lord  Carstairs,  and  of 
Carstairs  House,  and  of  the  dia- 
monds which  her  daughter  would 
certainly  be  called  upon  to  wear 
before  the  Queen, — if  only  that 
young  man  would  do  his  duty. 

Poor  Mary  herself  probably  had 
the  worst  of  it.  No  provision  was 
made  either  for  her  to  see  her  lover 
or  to  write  to  him.  The  only  inter- 
view which  had  ever  taken  place 
between  them  as  lovers  was  that  on 
which  she  had  run  by  him  into  the 
house,  leaving  him,  as  the  Earl  had 
said,  planted  on  the  terrace.  She 
had  never  been  able  to  whisper  one 
single  soft  word  into  his  ear,  to 
give  him  even  one  touch  of  her 
fingers  in  token  of  her  affection. 
She  did  not  in  the  least  know 
when  she  might  be  allowed  to 
see  him, — whether  it  had  not  been 
settled  among  the  elders  that  they 
were  not  to  see  each  other  as  real 


1880.] 


Dr  Worth's  School—  Conclusion. 


717 


lovers  till  he  should  have  taken  his 
degree, — which  would  be  almost  in 
a  future  world,  so  distant  seemed 
the  time.  It  had  "been  already 
settled  that  she  was  to  go  to  Car- 
stairs  in  the  middle  of  November 
and  stay  till  the  middle  of  Decem- 
ber; but  it  was  altogether  settled 
that  her  lover  was  not  to  be  at 
Carstairs  during  the  time.  He  was 
to  bo  at  Oxford  then,  and  would 
be  thinking  only  of  his  Greek  and 
Latin, — or  perhaps  amusing  himself, 
in  utter  forgetfulness  that  he  had  a 
heart  belonging  to  him  at  Bowick 
Parsonage.  In  this  way  Mary, 
though  no  doubt  she  thought  the 
most  of  it  all,  had  less  opportunity 
of  talking  of  it  than  either  her 
father  or  her  mother. 

In  the  meantime  Mr  Peacocke 
was  coming  home.  The  Doctor,  as 
soon  as  he  heard  that  the  day  was 
fixed,  or  nearly  fixed, — being  then, 
as  has  been  explained,  in  full  good- 
humour  with  all  the  world  except 
Mrs  Stantiloup  and  the  Bishop, — 
bethought  himself  as  to  what  steps 
might  best  be  taken  in  the  very 
delicate  matter  in  which  he  was 
called  upon  to  give  advice.  He 
had  declared  at  first  that  they 
should  be  married  at  his  own  parish 
church ;  but  he  felt  that  there 
would  be  difficulties  in  this.  "  She 
must  go  up  to  London  and  meet 
him  there,"  he  said  to  Mrs  Wortle. 
"  And  he  must  not  show  himself 
here  till  he  brings  her  down  as  his 
actual  wife."  Then  there  was  very 
much  to  be  done  in  arranging  all 
this.  And  something  to  be  done 
also  in  making  those  who  had  been 
his  friends,  and  perhaps  more  in 
making  those  who  had  been  his 
enemies,  understand  exactly  how 
the  matter  stood.  Had  no  injury 
been  inflicted  upon  him,  as  though 
he  had  done  evil  to  the  world  in 
general  in  befriending  Mr  Peacocke, 
lie  would  have  been  quite  willing 
to  pass  the  matter  over  in  silence 


among  his  friends ;  but  as  it  was, 
he  could  not  afford  to  hide  his 
own  light  under  a  bushel.  He 
was  being  punished  almost  to  the 
extent  of  ruin  by  the  cruel  in- 
justice which  had  been  done  him 
by  the  evil  tongue  of  Mrs  Stanti- 
loup, and,  as  he  thought,  by  the 
folly  of  the  Bishop.  He  must  now 
let  those  who  had  concerned  them- 
selves know  as  accurately  as  he 
could  what  he  had  done  in  the 
matter,  and  what  had  been  the 
effect  of  his  doing.  He  wrote  a 
letter,  therefore,  which  was  not, 
however,  to  be  posted  till  after  the 
Peacocke  marriage  had  been  cele- 
brated, copies  of  which  he  prepared 
with  his  own  hand  in  order  that  he 
might  send  them  to  the  Bishop  and 
to  Lady  Anne  Clifford,  and  to  Mr 
Talbot  and, — not,  indeed,  to  Mrs 
Stantiloup,  but  to  Mrs  Stantiloup's 
husband.  There  was  a  copy  ako 
made  for  Mr  Momson,  though  in 
his  heart  he  despised  Mr  Momson 
thoroughly.  In  this  letter  he  de- 
clared the  great  respect  which  he 
had  entertained,  since  he  had  first 
known  them,  both  for  Mr  and  Mrs 
Peacocke,  and  the  distress  which 
he  had  felt  when  Mr  Peacocke  had 
found  himself  obliged  to  explain  to 
him  the  fact, — the  fact  which  need 
not  be  repeated,  because  the  reader 
is  so  well  acquainted  with  it.  "  Mr 
Peacocke,"  he  went  on  to  say,  "  has 
since  been  to  America,  and  has 
found  that  the  man  whom  he  be- 
lieved to  be  dead  when  he  married 
his  wife,  has  died  since  his  calami- 
tous reappearance.  Mr  Peacocke 
has  seen  the  man's  grave,  with  the 
stone  on  it  bearing  his  name, 
and  has  brought  back  with  him 
certificates  and  evidence  as  to  his 
burial. 

"  Under  these  circumstances,  I 
have  no  hesitation  in  re-employing 
both  him  and  his  wife  ;  and  I  think 
that  you  will  agree  that  I  could  do 
no  less.  I  think  you  will  agree, 


718 


Dr  Worth's  School— Conclusion. 


also,  that  in  the  whole  transaction 
I  have  done  nothing  of  which  the 
parent  of  any  boy  intrusted  to  me 
has  a  right  to  complain." 

Having  done  this,  he  went  up  to 
London,  and  made  arrangements 
for  having  the  marriage  celebrated 
there  as  soon  as  possible  after  the 
arrival  of  Mr  Peacocke.  And  on 
his  return  to  Bo  wick,  he  went  off 
to  Mr  Puddicombe  with  a  copy  of 
his  letter  in  his  pocket.  He  had 
not  addressed  a  copy  to  his  friend, 
nor  had  he  intended  that  one  should 
be  sent  to  him.  Mr  Puddicombe 
had  not  interfered  in  regard  to  the 
boys,  and  had,  on  the  whole,  shown 
himself  to  be  a  true  friend.  There 
was  no  need  for  him  to  advocate 
his  cause  to  Mr  Puddicombe.  But 
it  was  right,  he  thought,  that  that 
gentleman  should  know  what  he 
did; — and  it  might  be  that  he  hoped 
that  he  would  at  length  obtain 
some  praise  from  Mr  Puddicombe. 
But  Mr  Puddicombe  did  not  like 
the  letter.  "  It  does  not  tell  the 
truth,"  he  said. 

"  Not  the  truth  !  " 

"  Hot  the  whole  truth." 

"As  how!  Where  have  I  con- 
cealed anything  ? " 

"  If  I  understand  the  question 
rightly,  they  who  have  thought 
proper  to  take  their  children  away 
from  your  school  because  of  Mr 
Peacocke,  have  done  so  because 
that  gentleman  continued  to  live 
with  that  lady  when  they  both 
knew  that  they  were  not  man  and 
wife." 

"  That  wasn't  my  doing." 

"You  condoned  it.  I'm  not 
condemning  you.  You  condoned 
it,  and  now  you  defend  yourself  in 
this  letter.  But  in  your  defence 
you  do  not  really  touch  the  offence 
as  to  which  you  are,  according  to 
your  own  showing,  accused.  In 
telling  the  whole  story,  you  should 
say :  '  They  did  live  together 
though  they  were  not  married ; — 


[Dec. 

and,  under  all  the  circumstances,  I 
did  not  think  that  they  were  pn 
that  account  unfit  to  be  left  in 
charge  of  my  boys.' " 

"  But  I  sent  him  away  imme- 
diately,— to  America." 

"  You  allowed  the  lady  to  re- 
main." 

"  Then  what  would  you  have  me 
say  1 "  demanded  the  Doctor. 

"Nothing,"  said  Mr  Puddicombe ; 
— "  not  a  word.  Live  it  down  in 
silence.  There  will  be  those,  like 
myself,  who,  though  they  could  not 
dare  to  say  that  in  morals  you  were 
strictly  correct,  will  love  you  the 
better  for  what  you  did."  The 
Doctor  turned  his  face  towards  the 
dry,  hard-looking  man  and  showed 
that  there  was  a  tear  in  each  of  his 
eyes.  "  There  are  few  of  us  not  so 
infirm  as  sometimes  to  love  best 
that  which  is  not  best.  But  when  a 
man  is  asked  a  downright  question, 
he  is  bound  to  answer  the  truth." 

"  You  would  say  nothing  in  your 
own  defence?" 

"Not  a  word.  You  know  the 
French  proverb :  '  Who  excuses 
himself  is  his  own  accuser.'  The 
truth  generally  makes  its  way. 
As  far  as  I  can  see,  a  slander  never 
lives  long." 

"  Ten  of  my  boys  are  gone ! " 
said  the  Doctor,  who  had  not 
hitherto  spoken  a  word  of  this  to 
any  one  out  of  his  own  family ; 
— "ten  out  of  twenty." 

"  That  will  only  be  a  temporary 
loss." 

"  That  is  nothing, — nothing.  It 
is  the  idea  that  the  school  should 
be  failing." 

"  They  will  come  again.  I  do 
not  believe  that  that  letter  would 
bring  a  boy.  I  am  almost  inclined 
to  say,  Dr  Wortle,  that  a  man 
should  never  defend  himself." 

"  He  should  never  have  to  defend 
himself." 

"  It  is  much  the  same  thing. 
But  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do, 


1880.] 


Dr  "Wortle, — if  it  will  suit  your 
plans.  I  will  go  up  with  you  and 
will  assist  at  the  marriage.  I  do 
not  for  a  moment  think  that  you 
will  require  any  countenance,  or 
that  if  you  did,  that  I  could  give 
it  you." 

"  No  man  that  I  know  so 
efficiently. 

"But  it  may  be  that  Mr  Pea- 
cocke  will  like  to  find  that  the 
clergymen  from  his  neighbourhood 
are  standing  with  him."  And  so 
it  was  settled  when  the  day  should 
come  on  which  the  Doctor  would 
take  Mrs  Peacocke  up  with  him  to 
London,  Mr  Puddicom.be  was  to 
accompany  them. 

The  Doctor  when  he  left  Mr 
Puddicombe's  parsonage  had  by 
no  means  pledged  himself  not  to 
send  the  letters.  "When  a  man  has 
written  a  letter,  and  has  taken 
some  trouble  with  it,  and  more 
especially  when  he  has  copied  it 
several  times  himself  so  as  to  have 
made  many  letters  of  it, — when 
he  has  argued  bis  point  successfully 
to  himself,  and  has  triumphed  in 
his  own  mind,  as  was  likely  to  be 
the  case  with  Dr  Wortle  in  all  that 
he  did, — he  does  not  like  to  make 
waste  paper  of  his  letters.  As  he 
rode  home  he  tried  to  persuade 
himself  that  he  might  yet  use  them, 
lie  could  not  quite  admit  his 
friend's  point.  Mr  Peacocke,  no 
doubt,  had  known  his  own  condi- 
tion, and  a  strict  moralist  might 
condemn  him.  But  he,  —  he,  — 
Dr  Wortle, — had  known  nothing. 
All  that  he  had  done  was  not  to 
condemn  the  other  man  when  he 
did  know ! " 

Nevertheless,  as  he  rode  into  his 
own  yard,  he  made  up  his  mind 
that  he  would  burn  the  letters. 
He  had  shown  them  to  no  one  else. 
He  had  not  even  mentioned  them 
to  his  wife.  He  could  burn  them 
without  condemning  himself  in  the 
opinion  of  any  one, — and  he  burned 


Dr  Worth's  School— Conclusion. 


719 


them.  When  Mr  Puddicombe 
found  him  at  the  station  at 
Broughton  as  they  were  about  to 
proceed  to  London  with  Mrs  Pea- 
cocke, he  simply  whispered  the 
fate  of  the  letters.  "After  what 
you  said  I  destroyed  what  I  had 
written." 

"Perhaps  it  was  as  well,"  said 
Mr  Puddicombe. 

•  When  the  telegram  came  to  say 
that  Mr  Peacocke  was  at  Liverpool, 
Mrs  Peacocke  was  anxious  imme- 
diately to  rush  up  to  London.  But 
she  was  restrained  by  the  Doctor, — 
or  rather  by  Mrs  Wortle  under  the 
Doctor's  orders.  "No,  my  dear; 
no.  You  must  not  go  till  all  will 
be  ready  for  you  to  meet  him  in 
the  church.  The  Doctor  says  so." 

"  Am  I  not  to  see  him  till  he 
comes  up  to  the  altar  ? " 

"  On  this  there  was  another  con- 
sultation between  Mrs  Wortle  and 
the  Doctor,  at  which  she  explained 
how  impossible  it  would  be  for  the 
woman  to  go  through  the  ceremony 
with  due  serenity  and  propriety  of 
manner  unless  she  should  be  first 
allowed  to  throw  herself  into  his 
arms,  and  to  welcome  him  back  to 
her.  "  Yes,"  she  said,  "  he  can 
come  and  see  you  at  the  hotel  on 
the  evening  before,  and  again  in  the 
morning,  —  so  that  if  there  be  a 
word  to  say  you  can  say  it.  Then 
when  it  is  over  he  will  bring  you 
down  here.  The  Doctor  and  Mr 
Puddicombe  will  come  down  by  a 
later  train.  Of  course  it  is  pain- 
ful," said  Mrs  Wortle,  "but  you 
must  bear  up."  To  her  it  seemed 
to  be  so  painful  that  she  was  quite 
sure  that  she  could  not  have  borne 
it.  To  be  married  for  the  third 
time,  and  for  the  second  time  to 
the  same  husband  !  To  Mrs  Pea- 
cocke, as  she  thought  of  it,  the 
pain  did  not  so  much  rest  in  that, 
as  in  the  condition  of  life  which 
these  things  had  forced  upon  her. 

"  I    must   go    up    to   town   to- 


720 


Dr  Worth's  School. — Conclusion. 


[Dec. 


morrow,  and  must  be  away  for  two 
days,"  said  the  Doctor  out  loud  in 
the  school,  speaking  immediately  to 
one  of  the  ushers,  but  so  that  all 
the  boys  present  might  hear  him. 
"  I  trust  that  we  shall  have  Mr 
Peacocke  with  us  the  day  after 
to-morrow." 

"  We  shall  be  very  glad  of  that," 
said  the  usher. 

"  And  Mrs  Peacocke  will  come 
and  eat  her  dinner  again  like  be- 
fore 1 "  asked  a  little  boy. 

"  I  hope  so,  Charley." 

"  We  shall  like  that,  because 
she  has  to  eat  it  all  by  herself 
now." 

All  the  school,  down  even  to 
Charley,  the  smallest  boy  in  it, 
knew  all  about  it.  Mr  Peacocke 
had  gone  to  America,  and  Mrs 
Peacocke  was  going  up  to  London 
to  be  married  once  more  to  her  own 
husband, — and  the  Doctor  and  Mr 
Puddicombe  -were  both  going  to 
marry  them.  The  usher  of  course 
knew  the  details  more  clearly  than 
that, — as  did  probably  the  bigger 
boys.  There  had  even  been  a 
rumour  of  the  photograph  which 
had  been  seen  by  one  of  the  maid- 
servants,— who  had,  it  is  to  be 
feared,  given  the  information  to 
the  French  teacher.  So  much, 
however,  the  Doctor  had  felt  it 
wise  to  explain,  not  thinking  it 
well  that  Mr  Peacocke  should 
make  his  reappearance  among  them 
without  notice. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day 
but  one,  Mr  and  Mrs  Peacocke  were 
driven  up  to  the  school  in  one  of 
the  Broughton  flies.  She  went 
quickly  up  into  her  own  house, 
when  Mr  Peacocke  walked  into  the 
school.  The  boys  clustered  round 
him,  and  the  three  assistants,  and 


every  word  said  to  him  was  kind 
and  friendly; — but  in  the  whole 
course  of  his  troubles  there  had 
never  been  a  moment  to  him  more 
difficult  than  this, — in  which  he 
found  it  so  nearly  impossible  to  say 
anything  or  to  say  nothing.  "  Yes, 
I  have  been  over  very  many  miles 
since  I  eaw  you  last."  This  was 
an  answer  to  young  Talbot,  who 
asked  him  whether  he  had  not 
been  a  great  traveller  whilst  he 
was  away. 

"  In  America,"  suggested  the 
French  usher,  who  had  heard  of 
the  photograph,  and  knew  very 
well  where  it  had  been  taken. 

"  Yes,  in  America." 

"  All  the  way  to  San  Francisco," 
suggested  Charley. 

"  All  the  way  to  San  Francisco, 
Charley, — and  back  again," 

"  Yes  ;  I  know  you're  come  back 
again,"  said  Charley,  "  because  I  see 
you  here." 

"There  are  only  ten  boys  this 
half,"  said  one  of  the  ten. 

"  Then  I  shall  have  more  time 
to  attend  to  you  now." 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  the  lad,  not 
seeming  to  find  any  special  consola- 
tion in  that  view  of  the  matter. 

Painful  as  this  first  reintroduc- 
tion  had  been,  there  was  not  much 
more  in  it  than  that.  No  questions 
were  asked,  and  no  explanations 
expected.  It  may  be  that  Mrs 
Stantiloup  was  affected  with  fresh 
moral  horrors  when  she  heard  of 
the  return,  and  that  the  Bishop 
said  that  the  Doctor  was  foolish 
and  headstrong  as  ever.  It  may  be 
that  there  was  a  good  deal  of  talk 
about  it  in  the  Close  at  Broughton. 
But  at  the  school  there  was  very 
little  more  said  about  it  than  what 
has  been  stated  above. 


1880." 


Dr  Wortle' s  School. — Conclusion. 


721 


CHAPTER   XXIV. MARTS    SUCCESS. 


In  this  last  chapter  of  our  short 
story  I  will  venture  to  run  rapidly 
over  a  few  months  so  as  to  explain 
how  the  affairs  of  Bowick  arranged 
themselves  up  to  the  end  of  the 
current  year.  I  cannot  pretend 
that  the  reader  shall  know,  as  he 
ought  to  be  made  to  know,  the 
future  fate  and  fortunes  of  our  per- 
sonages. They  must  be  left  still 
struggling.  But  then,  is  not  such 
always  in  truth  the  case,  even  when 
the  happy  marriage  has  been  cele- 
brated \ — even  when,  in  the  course 
of  two  rapid  years,  two  normal  chil- 
dren make  their  appearance  to  glad- 
den the  hearts  of  their  parents  ? 

Mr  and  Mrs  Peacocke  fell  into 
their  accustomed  duties  in  the  di- 
minished school,  apparently  with- 
out difficulty.  As  the  Doctor  had 
not  sent  those  ill-judged  letters  he 
of  course  received  no  replies,  and 
was  neither  troubled  by  further 
criticism  nor  consoled  by  praise  as 
to  his  conduct.  Indeed  it  almost 
seemed  to  him  as  though  the  thing, 
now  that  it  was  done,  excited  less 
observation  than  it  deserved.  He 
heard  no  more  of  the  metropoli- 
tan press,  and  was  surprised  to 
find  that  the  '  Broughton  Gazette ' 
inserted  only  a  very  short  para- 
graph, in  which  it  stated  that  "  they 
had  been  given  to  understand  that 
Mr  and  Mrs  Peacocke  had  resumed 
their  usual  duties  at  the  Bowick 
School,  after  the  performance  of  an 
interesting  ceremony  in  London,  at 
which  Dr  Wortle  and  Mr  Puddi- 
combe  had  assisted."  The  press, 
as  far  as  the  Doctor  was  aware,  said 
nothing  more  on  the  subject.  And 
if  remarks  injurious  to  his  conduct 
were  made  by  the  Stantiloups  and 
the  Momsons,  they  did  not  reach 
his  ears.  Very  soon  after  the  re- 
turn of  the  Peacockes  there  was  a 
grand  dinner-party  at  the  palace, 


to  which  the  Doctor  and  his  wife 
were  invited.  It  was  not  a  clerical 
dinner-party,  and  so  the  honour  was 
the  greater.  The  aristocracy  of  the 
neighbourhood  were  there,  includ- 
ing Lady  Anne  Clifford,  who  was 
devoted,  with  almost  repentant 
affection,  to  her  old  friend.  And 
Lady  Margaret  Momson  was  there, 
the  only  clergyman's  wife  besides 
his  own,  who  declared  to  him  with 
unblushing  audacity  that  she  had 
never  regretted  anything  so  much 
in  her  life  as  that  Augustus  should 
have  been  taken  away  from  the 
school.  It  was  evident  that  there 
had  been  an  intention  at  the  palace 
to  make  what  amends  the  palace 
could  for  the  injuries  it  had  done. 

"  Did  Lady  Anne  say  anything 
about  the  boys  ? "  asked  Mrs  Wortle, 
as  they  were  going  home. 

"  She  was  going  to,  but  I  would 
not  let  her.  I  managed  to  show 
her  that  I  did  not  wish  it,  and  she 
was  clever  enough  to  stop." 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  she  sent 
them  back,"  said  Mrs  Wortle. 

"  She  won't  do  that.  Indeed  I 
doubt  whether  I  should  take  them. 
But  if  it  should  come  to  pass  that 
she  should  wish  to  send  them  back, 
you  may  be  sure  that  others  will 
come.  In  such  a  matter  she  is  very 
good  as  a  weathercock,  showing  how 
the  wind  blows."  In  this  way  the 
dinner-party  at  the  palace  was  in  a 
degree  comforting  and  consolatory. 

But  an  incident  which  of  all  was 
most  comforting  and  most  consola- 
tory to  one  of  the  inhabitants  of 
the  parsonage  took  place  two  or 
three  days  after  the  dinner-party. 
On  going  out  of  his  own  hall-door 
one  Saturday  afternoon,  immedi- 
ately after  lunch,  whom  should  the 
Doctor  see  driving  himself  into  the 
yard  in  a  hired  gig  from  Broughton 
— but  young  Lord  Carstairs.  There 


722 


Dr  Wortle's  School. — Conclusion. 


[Dec. 


had  been  no  promise,  or  absolute 
compact  made,  but  it  certainly  had 
seemed  to  be  understood  by  all  of 
them  that  Carstairs  was  not  to  show 
himself  at  Bowick  till  at  some  long 
distant  period,  when  he  should  have 
finished  all  the  trouble  of  his  edu- 
cation. It  was  understood  even 
that  he  was  not  to  be  at  Carstairs 
during  Mary's  visit, — so  imperative 
was  it  that  the  young  people  should 
not  meet.  And  now,  here  he  was 
getting  out  of  a  gig  in  the  rectory 
yard  !  "  Holloa,  Carstairs  !  is  that 
you  ? " 
•  "  Yes,  Dr  Wortle,— here  I  am." 

"  We  hardly  expected  to  see  you, 
my  boy." 

"  E"o, — I  suppose  not.  But  when 
I  heard  that  Mr  Peacocke  had  come 
back,  and  all  about  his  marriage, 
you  know,  I  could  not  but  come 
over  to  see  him.  He  and.  I  have 
always  been  such  great  friends." 

"Oh  !  to  see  Mr  Peacocke?" 

"  I  thought  he'd  think  it  unkind 
if  I  didn't  look  him  up.  He  has 
made  it  all  right ;  hasn't  he  ?  " 

"  Yes; — he  has  made  it  all  right, 
I  think.  A  finer  fellow  never 
lived.  But  he'll  tell  you  all  about 
it.  He  travelled  with  a  pistol  in 
his  pocket,  and  seemed  to  want  it 
too.  I  suppose  you  must  come  in 
and  see  the  ladies  after  we  have 
been  to  Peacocke  1 

11 1  suppose  I  can  just  see  them," 
said  the  young  lord,  as  though 
moved  by  equal  anxiety  as  to  the 
mother  and  as  to  the  daughter. 

"  I'll  leave  word  that  you  are 
here,  and  then  we'll  go  into  the 
school."  So  the  Doctor  found  a 
servant,  and  sent  what  message  he 
thought  fit  into  the  house. 

"  Lord  Carstairs  here  ! " 

"  Yes,  indeed,  Miss  !  He's  with 
your  papa,  going  across  to  the 
school.  He  told  me  to  take  word 
into  Missus  that  he  supposes  his 
lordship  will  stay  to  dinner."  The 
maid  who  carried  the  tidings,  and 


who  had  received  no  commission  to 
convey  them  to  Miss  Mary,  was, 
no  doubt,  too  much  interested  in 
an  affair  of  love,  not  to  take  them 
first  to  the  one  that  would  be  most 
concerned  with  them. 

That  very  morning  Mary  had 
been  bemoaning  herself  as  to  her 
hard  condition.  Of  what  use  was 
it  to  her  to  have  a  lover,  if  she  was 
never  to  see  him,  never  to  hear 
from  him, — only  to  be  told  about 
him, — that  she  was  not  to  think 
of  him  more  than  she  could  help  ? 
She  was  already  beginning  to  fancy 
that  a  long  engagement  carried  on 
after  this  fashion  would  have  more 
of  suffering  in  it  than  she  had 
anticipated.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
while  she  was,  and  always  would 
be,  thinking  of  him,  he  never,  never 
would  continue  to  think  of  her. 
If  it  could  be  only  a  word  once  a 
month  it  would  be  something, — 
just  one  or  two  written  words  under 
an  envelope,  —  even  that  would 
have  sufficed  to  keep  her  hope 
alive  !  But  never  to  see  him ; — 
never  to  hear  from  him !  Her 
mother  had  told  her  that  very 
morning  that  there  was  to  be  no 
meeting, — probably  for  three  years, 
till  he  should  have  done  with  Ox- 
ford. And  here  he  was  in  the 
house, — and  her  papa  had  sent  in 
word  to  say  that  he  was  to  eat  his 
dinner  there  !  It  so  astonished  her 
that  she  felt  that  she  would  be 
afraid  to  meet  him.  Before  she 
had  had  a  minute  to  think  of  it 
all,  her  mother  was  with  her. 
"  Carstairs,  love,  is  here  ! " 

"  Oh  mamma,  what  has  brought 
him  ? " 

"He  has  gone  into  the  school 
with  your  papa  to  see  Mr  Peacocke. 
He  always  was  very  fond  of  Mr 
Peacocke."  For  a  moment  some- 
thing of  a  feeling  of  jealousy  crossed 
her  heart, — but  only  for  a  moment. 
He  would  not  surely  have  come  to 
Bowick  if  he  had  begun  to  be  in- 


1880.] 


Dr  Worth's  School. — Conclusion. 


723 


different  to  her  already  !  "  Papa 
says  that  he  will  probably  stay  to 
dinner." 

"  Then  I  am  to  see  him  ? " 

"  Yes  ; — of  course  you  must  see 
him." 

"  I  didn't  know,  mamma." 

"Don't  you  wish  to  see  him?" 

"  Oh  yes,  mamma.  If  he  were 
to  come  and  go,  and  we  were  not  to 
meet  at  all,  I  should  think  it  was 
all  over  then.  Only, — I  don't  know 
what  to  say  to  him." 

"  You  must  take  that  as  it  comes, 
my  dear." 

Two  hours  afterwards  they  were 
walking,  the  two  of  them  alone  to- 
gether, out  in  the  Bowick  woods. 
When  once  thelaw, — which  had  been 
rather  understood  than  spoken, — 
had  been  infringed  and  set  at  naught, 
there  was  no  longer  any  use  in  en- 
deavouring to  maintain  a  semblance 
of  its  restriction.  The  two  young 
people  had  met  in  the  presence  both 
of  the  father  and  mother,  and  the 
lover  had  had  her  in  his  arms  before 
either  of  bhera  could  interfere.  There 
had  been  a  little  scream  from  Mary, 
but  it  may  probably  be  said  of  her 
that  she  was  at  the  moment  the 
happiest  young  lady  in  the  diocese. 

"Does  your  father  know  you  are 
here  1 "  said  the  Doctor,  as  he  led 
the  young  lord  back  from  the  school 
into  the  house. 

"  He  knows  I'm  coming,  for  I 
wrote  and  told  my  mother.  I  al- 
ways tell  everything ;  but  it's  some- 
times best  to  make  up  your  mind 
before  you  get  an  answer."  Then 
the  Doctor  made  up  his  mind  that 
Lord  Carstairs  would  have  his  own 
way  in  anything  that  he  wished  to 
accomplish. 

"  Won't  the  Earl  be  angry  ? "  Mrs 
Wortle  asked. 

"No; — not  angry.  He  knows 
the  world  too  well  not  to  be  quite 
sure  that  something  of  the  kind 
would  happen.  And  he  is  too 
fond  of  his  son  not  to  think  well 


of  anything  that  he  does.  It  wasn't 
to  be  supposed  that  they  should 
never  meet.  After  all  that  has 
passed  I  am  bound  to  make  him 
welcome  if  he  chooses  to  come 
here,  and  as  Mary's  lover  to  give 
him  the  best  welcome  that  I  can. 
He  won't  stay,  I  suppose,  because 
he  has  got  no  clothes." 

"  But  he  has ; — John  brought  in  a 
portmanteau  and  a  dressing-bag  out 
of  the  gig."  So  that  was  settled. 

In  the  meantime  Lord  Carstairs 
had  taken  Mary  out  for  a  walk  into 
the  wood,  and  she,  as  she  walked 
beside  him,  hardly  knew  whether 
she  was  going  on  her  head  or  her 
heels.  This,  indeed,  it  was  to  have 
a  lover.  In  the  morning  she  was 
thinking  that  when  three  years  were 
past  he  would  hardly  care  to  see 
her  ever  again.  And  now  they  were 
together  among  the  falling  leaves, 
and  sitting  about  under  the  branches 
as  though  there  was  nothing  in  the 
world  to  separate  them.  Up  to 
that  day  there  had  never  been  a 
word  between  them  but  such  as 
is  common  to  mere  acquaintances, 
and  now  he  was  calling  her  every 
instant  by  her  Christian  name,  and 
telling  her  all  his  secrets. 

"We  have  such  jolly  woods  at 
Carstairs,"  he  said  ;  "'but  we  shan't 
be  able  to  sit  down  when  we're 
there,  because  it  will  be  winter. 
We  shall  be  hunting,  and  you  must 
come  out  and  see  us." 

"  But  you  won't  be  there  when  I 
am,"  she  said,  timidly. 

"  Won't  I  ]  That's  all  you  know 
about  it.  I  can  manage  better  than 
that." 

"You'll  be  at  Oxford." 

"  You  must  stay  over  Christmas, 
Mary;  that's  what  you  must  do. 
You  musn't  think  of  going  till 
January." 

"  But  Lady  Bracy  won't  want 
me." 

"  Yes,  she  will.  We  must  make 
her  want  you.  At  any  rate  they'll 


724 


Dr  Worth's  School— Conclusion. 


[Dec. 


understand  this ;  if  you  don't  stay 
for  me,  I  shall  come  home  even  if 
it's  in  the  middle  of  term.  I'll 
arrange  that.  You  don't  suppose 
I'm  not  going  to  be  there  when 
you  make  your  first  visit  to  the 
old  place." 

All  this  was  being  in  Paradise. 
She  felt  when  she  walked  home 
with  him,  and  when  she  was  alone 
afterwards  in  her  own  room,  that, 
in  truth,  she  had  only  liked  him 
before.  Now  she  loved  him.  Now 
she  was  beginning  to  know  him, 
and  to  feel  that  she  would  really, — 
really  die  of  a  broken  heart  if  any- 
thing were  to  rob  her  of  him.  But 
she  could  let  him  go  now,  without  a 
feeling  of  discomfort,  if  she  thought 
that  she  was  to  see  him  again  when 
she  was  at  Carstairs. 

But  this  was  not  the  last  walk  in 
the  woods,  even  on  this  occasion. 
He  remained  two  days  at  Bo  wick, 
so  necessary  was  it  for  him  to  renew 
his  intimacy  with  Mr  Peacocke. 
He  explained  that  he  had  got  two 
days'  leave  from  the  tutor  of  his 
College,  and  that  two  days,  in  Col- 
lege parlance,  always  meant  three. 
He  would  be  back  on  the  third  day, 
in  time  for  "gates  ;  "  and  that  was 
all  which  the  strictest  college  dis- 
cipline would  require  of  him.  It 
need  hardly  be  said  of  him  that 
the  most  of  his  time  he  spent  with 
Mary;  but  he  did  manage  to  devote 
an  hour  or  two  to  his  old  friend, 
the  school-assistant. 

Mr  Peacocke  told  his  whole  story, 
and  Carstairs,  whose  morals  were 
perhaps  not  quite  so  strict  as  those 
of  Mr  Puddicombe,  gave  him  all  his 
sympathy.  "  To  think  that  a  man 
can  be  such  a  brute  as  that,"  he 
said,  when  he  heard  that  Ferdinand 
Lefroy  had  shown  himself  to  his 
wife  at  St  Louis,  —  "only  on  a 
spree." 

"  There  is  no  knowing  to  what 
depth  utter  ruin  may  reduce  a  man 
who  has  been  born  to  better  things. 


He  falls  into  idleness,  and  then 
comforts  himself  with  drink.  So 
it  seems  to  have  been  with  him." 

"  And  that  other  fellow ;  —  do 
you  think  he  meant  to  shoot  you?" 

"Never.  But  he  meant  to  frighten 
me.  When  he  brought  out  his 
knife  in  the  bedroom  at  Leaven- 
worth  he  did  it  with  that  object. 
My  pistol  was  not  loaded." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  little  as  I  wish  to  be 
murdered,  I  should  prefer  that  to 
murdering  any  one  else.  But  he 
didn't  mean  it.  His  only  object 
was  to  get  as  much  out  of  me  as  he 
could.  As  for  me,  I  couldn't  give 
him  more,  because  I  hadn't  got  it." 
After  that  they  made  a  league  of 
friendship,  and  Mr  Peacocke  pro- 
mised that  he  would,  on  some  dis- 
tant occasion,  take  his  wife  with 
him  on  a  visit  to  Carstairs. 

It  was  about  a  month  after  this 
that  Mary  was  packed  up  and  sent 
on  her  journey  to  Carstairs.  When 
that  took  place,  the  Doctor  was  in 
supreme  good-humour.  There  had 
come  a  letter  from  the  father  of  the 
two  Mowbrays,  saying  that  he  had 
again  changed  his  mind.  He  had, 
he  said,  heard  a  story  told  two 
ways.  He  trusted  Dr  Wortle 
would  understand  him  and  forgive 
him,  when  he  declared  that  he  had 
believed  both  the  stories.  If  after 
this  the  Doctor  chose  to  refuse  to 
take  his  boys  back  again,  he  would 
have,  he  acknowledged,  no  ground 
for  offence.  But  if  the  Doctor 
would  take  them,  he  would  intrust 
them  to  the  Doctor's  care  with  the 
greatest  satisfaction  in  the  world, — 
as  he  had  done  before. 

For  a  while  the  Doctor  had  hesi- 
tated ;  but  here,  perhaps  for  the 
first  time  in  her  life,  his  wife  was 
allowed  to  persuade  him.  "  They 
are  such  leading  people,"  she  said. 

"  Who  cares  for  that  ?  I  have 
never  gone  in  for  that."  This, 
however,  was  hardly  true.  "When 


1880.] 


Dr  Worth's  School.— Conclusion. 


725 


I  have  been  sure  that  a  man  is  a 
gentleman,  I  have  taken  his  son 
without  inquiring  much  further. 
It  was  mean  of  him  to  withdraw 
after  I  had  acceded  to  his  re- 
quest." 

"But  he  withdraws  his  with- 
drawal in  such  a  flattering  way  ! " 
Then  the  Doctor  assented,  and  the 
two  hoys  were  allowed  to  come. 
Lady  Anne  Clifford  hearing  this, 
learning  that  the  Doctor  was  so 
far  willing  to  relent,  became  very 
piteous  and  implored  forgiveness. 
The  noble  relatives  were  all  willing 
now.  It  had  not  been  her  fault. 
As  far  as  she  was  concerned  herself 
she  had  always  been  anxious  that 
her  boys  should  remain  at  Bowick. 
And  so  the  two  Cliffords  came  back 
to  their  old  beds  in  the  old  room. 

Mary,  when  she  first  arrived  at 
Carstairs,  hardly  knew  how  to 
carry  herself.  Lady  Bracy  was 
very  cordial  and  the  Earl  friendly, 
but  for  the  first  two  days  nothing 
was  said  about  Carstairs.  There 
was  no  open  acknowledgment  of 
her  position.  But  then  she  had 
expected  none;  and  though  her 
tongue  was  burning  to  talk,  of 
course  she  did  not  say  a  word. 
Bat  before  a  week  was  over  Lady 
Bracy  had  begun,  and  by  the  end 
of  the  fortnight  Lord  Bracy  had 
given  her  a  beautiful  brooch. 
"That  means,"  said  Lady  Bracy 
in  the  confidence  of  her  own  little 
sitting-room  up -stairs,  "that  he 
looks  upon  you  as  his  daughter." 

"  Does  it  ? " 

"Yes,  my  dear;  yes."  Then 
they  fell  to  kissing  each  other,  and 
did  nothing  but  talk  about  Car- 
stairs  and  all  his  perfections,  and 
his  unalterable  love,  and  how  these 
three  years  could  be  made  to  wear 
themselves  away,  till  the  conver- 
sation,—  simmering  over  as  such 


conversation  is  wont  to  do, — gave 
the  whole  house  to  understand  that 
Miss  Wortle  was  staying  there  as 
Lord  Carstairs's  future  bride. 

Of  course  she  stayed  over  the 
Christmas,  or  went  back  to  Bowick 
for  a  week  and  then  returned  to 
Carstairs.  so  that  she  might  tell 
her  mother  everything,  and  hear  of 
the  six  new  boys  who  were  to  come 
afcer  the  holidays.  "Papa  couldn't 
take  both  the  Buncombes,"  said 
Mrs  Wortle  in  her  triumph,  "  and 
one  must  remain  till  midsum- 
mer. Sir  George  did  say  that  it 
must  be  two  or  none,  but  he  had 
to  give  way.  I  wanted  papa  to 
have  another  bed  in  the  east  room, 
but  he  wouldn't  hear  of  it." 

Mary  went  back  for  the  Christ- 
mas and  Carstairs  came;  and  the 
house  was  full,  and  everybody 
knew  of  the  engagement.  She 
walked  with  him,  and  rode  with 
him,  and  danced  with  him,  and 
talked  secrets  with  him, — as  though 
there  were  no  Oxford,  no  degree 
before  him.  No  doubt  it  was  very 
imprudent,  but  the  Earl  and  the 
Countess  knew  all  about  it.  What 
might  be,  or  would  be,  or  was  the 
end  of  such  folly,  it  is  not  my  pur- 
pose here  to  tell.  I  fear  that  there 
was  trouble  before  them.  It  may, 
however,  be  possible  that  the  degree 
should  be  given  up  on  the  score 
of  love,  and  Lord  Carstairs  should 
marry  his  bride, — at  any  rate  when 
he  came  of  age. 

As  to  the  school,  it  certainly 
suffered  nothing  by  the  Doctor's 
generosity ;  and  when  last  I  heard 
of  Mr  Peacocke,  the  Bishop  had 
offered  to  grant  him  a  licence  for 
the  curacy.  Whether  he  accepted 
it  I  have  not  yet  heard,  but  I 
am  inclined  to  think  that  in  this 
matter  he  will  adhere  to  his  old 
determination. 


726 


The  Indian  Famine  Reports. 


[Dec. 


THE    INDIAN    FAMINE    REPORTS. 


DURING  the  last  hundred  years 
there  have  been  thirty-six  visita- 
tions of  scarcity,  in  varied  degrees 
of  intensity  and  for  varied  periods 
of  duration,  extending  over  varied 
areas  of  the  Indian  peninsula,  occu- 
pied by  dense  or  thin  populations. 
Since  India  came  under  the  im- 
perial rule  in  1858,  there  have  been 
six  famines.  These  have  attracted 
much  attention  in  England ;  they 
were  all  treated  in  different  ways, 
with  more  or  less  success :  there 
was-  a  general  feeling  that  the 
method  of  treatment  should  be 
uniform,  and  that  better  arrange- 
ments were  required  for  saving  life. 
It  was  therefore  resolved  in  1877 
to  appoint  a  Commission  "  to  col- 
lect with  the  utmost  care  all  infor- 
mation which  may  assist  future  ad- 
ministrators in  the  task  of  limiting 
the  range  or  mitigating  the  inten- 
sity of  these  calamities."  The  task 
was  difficult.  A  few  remarks  on 
the  Eeport  will  explain  how  it  was 
carried  out,  and  show  the  value  of 
a  document  that  has  been  "pre- 
sented to  both  Houses  of  Parlia- 
ment by  command  of  her  Majesty." 
It  will  be  handed  down  as  a  full 
history  of  past  famines,  and  as  a 
guide  for  their  future  treatment. 
It  will  remain  with  the  ruling  pow- 
ers to  determine  whether  the  fol- 
lowing observations  will  in  any  way 
tend  to  modify  some  of  the  imprac- 
ticable arrangements  suggested  by 
the  Commissioners. 

It  is  proposed  in  this  paper  to 
follow  the  order  of  the  Report  *  as 
far  as  possible ;  to  make  such  re- 
marks as  various  sections  demand; 
to  point  out  certain  omissions  in  the 
famine  history;  and  then  to  con- 
clude with  some  general  remarks. 


The  instructions  referred  to  con- 
tain a  difficulty.  Information  was 
wanted  to  assist  in  limiting  "the 
range  "  of  famine.  Where  was  this 
to  be  found?  The  Commission 
sought  it  in  meteorology. 

"All  Indian  famines  are  caused 
by  drought,"  is  laid  down  as  an 
axiom.  The  subject  of  rainfall 
connected  with  sun-spots  is  then 
entered  upon.  "  All  terrestrial  me- 
teorological phenomena  closely  de- 
pend" on  the  heat  derived  from 
the  sun,  and  the  fluctuation  of  rain 
seems  to  be  "  in  some  measure  syn- 
chronous with  those  periodical  va- 
riations in  the  condition  of  the  sun 
which  are  indicated  by  the  varying 
extent  or  number  of  sun-spots  ;  and 
the  recurring  cycle  of  about  eleven 
years "  according  with  "the  peiiod 
of  sun-spot  variation." 

This  cycle  is  not  true.  The  table 
at  p.  22  registers  six  droughts 
and  famines  of  varied  duration  in 
the  twenty  years  of  imperial  rule. 
There  was  a  great  famine  in  1833- 
34,  over  the  same  area  as  that  of 
1876-77.  Here  are  cycles  of  over 
forty  in  one  case,  and  over  three 
years  in  the  other.  It  is  therefore 
impossible  to  say  that  famines  are 
the  effects  of  sun-spots. 

Has  it  not  been  forgotten  that 
the  sun  is  a  general  factor  ?  If  the 
spots  cause  action  on  this  earth, 
then  the  action  of  drought,  if  due 
to  sun-spots,  must  be  general ;  but 
drought  is  always  local.  Is  there 
not  an  analogy  here  to  the  two 
tails  of  the  calf  as  being  due  to 
the  comet,  and  the  double-headed 
chicken  to  the  eclipse? 

The  Eeport  goes  on  to  say,  "  No 
power  exists  of  foreseeing  the  at- 
mospheric changes  effective  in  pro- 


*  Report  of  the  Indian  Famine  Commission:  Part  I.,  Relief — 1880.  Report  of 
the  Committee  on  the  Riots  in  Poona  and  Ahmednagar — 1875-76.  Report  by  James 
Caird,  Esq.,  C.B.,  on  the  Condition  of  India  :  with  Correspondence.  1880. 


1880.] 


The  Indian  Famine  Reports. 


'27 


ducing  the  rainfall,  or  of  determin- 
ing beforehand  its  probable  amount 
in  any  season,"  so  as  to  be  of  any 
practical  use.  Eut  "within  the 
last  few  years  a  very  satisfactory 
system  of  meteorological  observa- 
tions has  been  established  all  over 
British  India."  It  is  suggested 
that  this  department  should  be 
maintained,  strengthened,  and  im- 
proved, so  as  to  supply  informa- 
tion to  the  officers  connected  with 
agriculture  or  famines.  Such  aids 
should,  however,  be  used  with  due 
caution,  and  a  "  more  sound  and  ac- 
curate knowledge  of  the  causes  and 
mode  of  occurrence  of  the  periodical 
rains"  should  be  diffused  "  among 
all  classes  of  the  community." 

It  is  therefore  suggested  that 
India  should  pay  for  a  department 
which  has  not  now,  and  probably 
never  will  have,  any  knowledge  of 
the  coming  rain  -  quantity.  The 
American  meteorologists  circulate 
useful  forecasts  of  weather,  because 
the  area  of  land  information  is  ex- 
tensive, and  the  wind-currents  are 
pretty  well  known.  India  has  no 
information  from  the  ocean  as  to 
the  evaporation  or  condensation  for 
the  south-west,  and  no  information 
from  China  or  Siberia  of  a  coming 
north-east,  monsoon.  As  placed 
before  us  by  the  Commission,  the 
whole  of  this  meteorological  theory 
may  be  dispensed  with. 

The  present  writer,  when  in  In- 
dia, had  many  opportunities  of 
watching  the  advent  of  the  south- 
west monsoon,  and  formed  the  fol- 
lowing conclusions,  which  may  be 
taken  for  what  they  are  worth. 

Evaporation  is  always  going  on 
from  the  ocean.  There  must  be 
moisture  in  the  air.  The  condensa- 
tion of  this  moisture  depends  upon 
the  temperature  of  the  air.  If  the 
condensing  stratum  is  high,  the 
moisture  rises  to  it.  If  that  stratum 
is  low,  the  condensation  takes  place 
there.  "When  the  clouds  roll  up 


along  the  ocean  surface,  they  im- 
pinge upon  the  land  with  a  great 
electric  disturbance.  When  the 
fleecy  clouds  fly  high,  there  is  no 
electricity.  In  the  latter  case  there 
is  little  or  no  rain,  in  the  former  a 
great  deal.  The  line  of  Western 
Ghauts,  of  varied  height,  from 
2000  to  8000  feet,  catch  the  clouds, 
and  receive  a  copious  rain.  When 
the  clouds  are  thus  caught,  they 
roll  down  the  eastern  slope,  and 
rain  falls  over  the  great  area  of  In- 
dia's plain.  If  the  clouds  do  not 
catch  the  mountains,  they  pass  rain- 
less over  the  plains.  Therefore  the 
higher  the  mountain  the  greater  the 
chance  of  rain  in  the  valleys  and 
the  plains. 

As  far  as  weather-changes,  rain- 
fall, and  the  general  condition  of 
the  crops  are  concerned,  it  was  for- 
merly the  custom  for  the  division 
native  officers  to  send  weekly  re- 
ports to  the  British  officer  in  charge 
of  the  district ;  it  was  sufficient  for 
all  current  revenue  business.  A 
collector  could  at  any  time  know  of 
a  deficient  rainfall ;  but  as  he  had 
no  means  of  knowing  what  quantity 
of  food  was  in  store,  he  could  never 
be  sure  that  a  famine  was  at  hand. 
This  difficulty  still  exists. 

The  population  of  British  India 
is  put  down  at  "190  millions." 
"  Disastrous  consequences  "  and 
great  "  difficulties  "  in  famine  times 
are  found  in  the  fact  that  the  great 
mass  of  the  people  depend  on  agri- 
culture. A  failure  of  rain  is  a  fail- 
ure of  labour,  wages,  and  food. 
"  The  complete  remedy  for  this 
condition  .  .  .  will  be  found 
only  in  the  development  of  indus- 
tries other  than  agriculture,  and  in- 
dependent of  the  fluctuations  of  the 
seasons."  The  population  being  in 
excess  of  the  demand  for  necessary 
field-work,  "  eat  up  the  profits  that 
would  otherwise  spring  from  the 
industry  of  the  community.  It  is 
not  surprising  that  in  a  country 


728 


The  Indian  Famine  Reports. 


[Dec. 


thus  situated  material  progress  is 
slow." 

It  may  be  remarked  here  that  it 
is  very  surprising ;  but  India  has 
been  brought  into  this  situation 
by  connection  with  richer  people. 
Fifty  years  ago  hand  looms  rattled 
in  every  Deccan  village.  It  has 
been  said  that  they  existed  all  over 
India.  There  were  weavers  who 
did  nothing  else,  and  ploughmen 
wove  their  cloth  from  their  own 
cotton.  Thirty  years  ago  those 
looms  were  gone.  No  cotton-spin- 
ning helped  the  gossip  at  the  ryot's 
door  :  men  and  women  wove  their 
cloth  from  their  own  cotton  grown 
on  the  cheap  soil  of  India,  carried 
200  miles  on  bullocks'  backs,  trans- 
ported over  the  long  black  waters, 
converted  into  fabrics  on  British 
looms,  and  brought  back  again  to  be 
part  of  the  clothing  of  a  half-naked 
Indian.  Did  not  Mr  Caird  know 
this,  and  all  the  history  of  free 
trade  in  cotton,  when  he  signed  his 
name  to  that  sentence,  "Material 
progress  is  slow  "  ?  If  he  did,  and 
if  the  present  condition  is  disas- 
trous, Material  ruin  is  rapid  would 
have  been  a  truer  conclusion  to  the 
section. 

There  is  another  point  in  the 
above  quotation  that  must  be  noted. 
AVhy  is  the  population  in  excess  of 
demand  for  necessary  field-labour] 
A  wide  field  opens  out  on  this 
question.  Volumes  might  be  writ- 
ten on  the  increasing  and  decreas- 
ing races.  Libraries  might  be  filled 
with  the  details  of  field-work.  Har- 
vests, home  consumption,  storage, 
and  export,  all  have  their  histories ; 
but  our  observations  must  be  very 
limited.  When  the  Land  Revenue 
Survey  began  to  give  land  to  the 
occupiers  in  Western  India  (183G), 
there  was  a  rush  of  people  to  the 
plough;  the  unfortunate  weavers 
were  mostly  absorbed,  and  ooprefs 
(strangers)  took  up  land — some  for 
bond  fide  culture,  some  because 


their  new  possessions  became  se- 
curity for  old  and  new  debts.  The 
production  of  food  and  the  popula- 
tion increased.  The  assessment  on 
the  land  was  lowered,  but  more 
revenue  was  collected.  The  people 
were  happy,  and  the  Government 
was  contented.  About  1851-52  a 
new  impetus  was  given  to  the  popu- 
lation by  railway-works  and  higher 
wages  for  labour.  In  1862  the  de- 
mand for  Indian  produce  raised  the 
prices,  and  in  July  1864  the  Gov- 
ernment of  Bombay  wrote — "  There 
never  was  a  time  during  the  known 
history  of  Western  India  when  land 
suitable  for  the  growth  of  grain  was 
in  greater  demand  than  during  the 
present  period  of  high-priced,  un- 
skilled labour."  In  course  of  time 
this  demand  decreased,  and  at  the 
same  period  the  harvests  were  de- 
ficient. The  creditors  claimed  their 
bonds  ;  the  ploughman  had  to  give 
up  his  land  under  the  civil  laws  of 
1859.  In  1875  the  cultivators  re- 
belled against  their  creditors,  and 
in  1877  the  increased  population 
of  the  Deccan  were  thrown  into  a 
famine  by  a  natural  drought  that 
extended  over  the  same  area  as  that 
of  1833-34,  with  a  greater  intensity, 
and  with  a  smaller  stock  of  food 
in  store.  These  populations  in  the 
Bombay  and  Madras  provinces  had 
therefore  increased  by  natural  and 
accidental  causes.  They  had  been 
thrown  out  of  labour  and  food  by 
nature  and  by  the  laws.  The  Fam- 
ine Commission  finds  the  people 
in  excess  of  demand,  and  the  ob- 
ject of  its  Eeport  is  to  multiply 
them. 

"  Of  the  rate  of  increase  in  a 
population,  little  is  known  at  pres- 
ent ; "  but  "  the  effect  of  famine  in 
checking  the  increase  of  numbers  is 
less  than  is  often  supposed."  It  is 
believed  that  India,  as  an  unaffected 
whole,  will  find  food  for  affected 
areas  without  much  pressure.  The 
demand  is  roughly  calculated  ;  the 


1880.] 


The  Indian  Famine  Reports. 


729 


quantity  available  for  storage,  ex- 
port, and  consumption  of  the  richer 
classes,  is  put  down ;  and  it  is  be- 
lieved that  the  local  stocks  "com- 
monly suffice  for  not  less  than  three 
months'  consumption  of  the  local 
population." 

Forty  years  ago  the  revenue 
officers  in  the  Deccan  calculated, 
on  good  data,  that  an  average  har- 
vest laid  up  a  store  of  food  suffi- 
cient to  tide  over  the  next  harvest ; 
but  there  were  always  cultivators 
who  never  stored  enough  for  that 
period.  A  scanty  rainfall  reduced 
these  classes  to  distress.  This  dis- 
tress must  be  much  increased,  and 
the  price  of  food  must  be  much 
enhanced,  if  only  three  months' 
supply  is  kept  in  store.  The  dan- 
ger for  the  future  is  touched  on, 
and  a  remedy  isjsuggested.  Waste 
lands  are  to  be  reclaimed,  agricul- 
ture is  to  be  improved,  irrigation  is 
to  be  extended,  and  there  are  "rea- 
sonable grounds  of  confidence  for 
the  future."  Touching  these  sug- 
gestions lightly  as  they  come,  it 
may  be  said  that  many  attempts 
have  been  made  to  reclaim  waste 
areas,  some  with,  some  without  suc- 
cess, because  no  preliminary  efforts 
were  made  to  clear  the  jungles  or 
purify  the  water.  If  some  atten- 
tion is  paid  to  these  points,  all  the 
rest  will  follow  on.  Improvement 
in  agriculture  follows  improvement 
in  the  people  :  at  present  they  are 
deteriorating.  Irrigation  has  been 
considered  a  certain  remedy  for 
famines,  but  there  is  much  to  be 
said  against  it.  Canals  from  per- 
ennial rivers  insure  water,  but 
many  rivers  in  India  depending  on 
the  yearly  rainfall  become  so  low 
that  they  cannot  be  used.  The 
works  for  canals  are  expensive  :  a 
remuneration  is  obtained  by  an 
assessment  on  the  land  irrigated,  or 
by  the  sale  of  water.  An  ordinary 
food-crop  would  not  pay  ;  export- 
able produce  is  therefore  raised,  and 


the  proceeds  are  satisfactory.  The 
food-area  is  decreased.  Anicuts  or 
canals,  on  rain-supplied  rivers,  may 
give  valuable  crops  in  ordinary 
seasons;  but  these  fail  in  times  of 
drought.  Tanks  and  wells  come 
under  the  same  difficulty.  Ordin- 
ary food  is  not  produced  in  rainy 
seasons  from  artificial  reservoirs. 
These  fill,  but  food-crops  grow  with- 
out them.  In  dry  seasons  they 
partly  or  entirely  fail ;  and  it  is 
only  now  and  then  that  they  can 
be  used  for  growing  ordinary  food. 
Natural  irrigation  is  used  for  food- 
crops  ;  but  this  fails  in  dry  seasons. 
In  1833-34  the  wells  in  the  Shola- 
pur  country  nearly  all  failed.  In 
1877-78,  between  the  Poona  and 
Ahmednagar  districts,  they  did  not 
fail.  Of  course  a  certain  quantity 
of  irrigation  is  a  food  or  money  aid 
to  the  proprietor ;  but  as  in  all 
available  seasons  it  reduces  the  area 
of  food-production,  or  does  not  be- 
come remunerative,  it  follows  that 
artificial  irrigation  must  not  be 
much  extended  at  present,  and 
cannot  be  depended  on  as  a  remedy 
for  famine. 

Wo  now  have  to  consider  the 
export  of  Indian  produce.  The  ex- 
port of  food-grain,  excepting  rice, 
is  said  to  be  small,  "  because  other 
countries  do  not  consume  the  mil- 
lets of  India."  The  '  Pioneer 
Mail'  of  23d  Sept.  1880,  tells  us— 
"Between  October  1878  and  Feb- 
ruary 1879,  490,000  maunds  of 
Jouar  and  Bajree  were  exported." 
Northern  India  is  said  to  export 
•wheat,  grain,  pulse,  and  other 
spring  crops.  In  the  '  Mail '  of 
19th  July  1880,  the  figures  of  the 
trade  of  India  for  the  year  ending 
the  31st  March  1880  are  given. 
The  exports  of  merchandise  reached 
the  values  of  the  respective  years — 

"  For  1876-77  are  £60,961,632 
„  1877-78  „  65,183,713 
„  1878-79  „  60,893,611 
„  1879-80  „  67,168,861" 


730 


The  Indian  Famine  Reports. 


[Dec. 


The  year  following  the  famine  had 
a  decrease ;  but  the  last  season 
showed  a  great  increase.  Raw  cot- 
ton, opium,  wheat,  and  jute  ex- 
panded ;  tea  and  tobacco  declined. 
The  'Pioneer  Mail'  of  23d  Sep- 
tember tells  us  that  the  trade  be- 
tween the  United  States  and  In- 
dia, imports  and  exports,  shows  "an 
increase  of  183  lacs  of  rupees  in 
four  years." 

The  Commissioners  seem  to  argue, 
that  because  the  actual  exportation 
to  foreign  countries  of  food-grain  is 
small,  that  this  enormous  exporta- 
tion of  soil-produce  does  not  affect 
famines.  It  is  overlooked  that  an 
enormous  area  of  land  capable  of 
bearing  food-crops  is  thus  used  for 
other  purposes.  Food-grains  must 
therefore  decrease  in  quantity  and 
increase  in  price.  This  increase 
necessarily  happens  when  the  hand- 
to  -  mouth  population  can  get  no 
labour  and  no  wages.  The  ordinary 
rate  of  wages  does  not  seem  to  be 
given  in  the  Report,  but  in  the 
provinces  they  may  be  put  down  at 
1£  or  2  annas.  Mr  Caird  tells  us 
the  labourer  "  gets  the  same  dole 
that  he  got  in  the  last  generation." 
He  allows  that  they  have  risen  in 
centres  of  industry,  and  the  Gov- 
ernment of  India  accepts  the  situ- 
ation. The  general  rate  of  wages 
is  therefore  low,  about  3d.  per 
day.  The  price  of  food  varies — 
in  one  place  indicating  famine,  in 
another  prosperity.  Famine  prices 
vary :  in  ordinary  years  common 
food-grain  is  put  down  at  20  to 
30  seers  per  rupee,  equivalent  to 
25s.  to  17s.  per  quarter  of  500  Ib. ; 
in  time  of  great  scarcity  it  will  rise 
to  63s.  or  50s.  per  quarter,  and  even 
higher, — and  "  these  prices  will  gen- 
erally admit  of  import  with  com- 
mercial profit"  from  foreign  coun- 
tries. The  labouring  classes  on 
wages  could  not  maintain  them- 
selves at  these  rates,  and  with  no 
wages  they  fall  at  once  into  a 


famine.  There  may  be  food  in 
store  with  the  buniah,  and  with 
well-to-do  cultivators  ;  but  the  fam- 
ishing classes  must  fall  back  on  the 
assistance  of  the  Government,  even 
in  average  harvest  seasons,  partly 
because  the  land  is  used  for  export- 
able produce,  and  not  for  food. 
Thus  we  come  again  to  the  future 
requirements  of  an  increasing  peo- 
ple with  decreasing  food,  the  pos- 
sible contingencies,  and  the  proposal 
for  storage  of  food. 

This  storage  and  its  cost  are  dis- 
cussed in  the  Report,  and  insisted 
on  in  the  dissent  from  that  Report, 
signed  by  two  of  the  members. 
The  plan  proposed  is  to  store  food 
in  good  seasons  :  the  yearly  cost  is 
put  down  at  £800,000.  A  supply 
is  to  be  always  ready,  because  a 
famine  "may  occur  in  any  year." 
But  difficulties  are  foreseen  in  the 
management,  in  the  interference 
witrh  trade,  in  its  effect  upon  the 
morals  of  the  people.  It  is  thought 
that  private  storage  is  sufficient, 
that  railways  will  help  to  make  it 
available;  but  internal  communica- 
tion must  be  attended  to.  Actual 
destitution  must  be  met  with  em- 
ployment and  wages  or  by  gratuit- 
ous relief,  the  food  to  come  from 
the  traders. 

The  dissenting  members  thinl 
that  not  only  is  storage  of  food  ex- 
pedient, but  necessary.  •  The  points 
are  argued  as  closely  as  the  evidence 
allowed.  The  population  requiring 
storage  is  put  down  at  40  millions. 
The  calculations  in  section  156  are 
objected  to,  but  the  surplus  is  taken 
as  providing  in  twelve  years  of 
storage  enough  "to  feed  300  mil- 
lions." But  when  famine  does  come, 
"the  barest  sufficiency  of  supplies 
can  be  obtained "  at  quadrupled 
prices  ;  and-  therefore  "  the  alleged 
surplus  must  be  greatly  overesti- 
mated." 

The  dissenting  members  do  not 
mention  how  long  stored  grain  will 


1880.J 


The  Indian  Famine  Reports. 


731 


keep  good.  We  have  seen  it  taken 
out  from  the  pens  (underground 
granaries)  black  and  unfit  for  food 
in  three  years.  The  dissenters  say, 
"  as  famines  come  but  once  in  twelve 
years,"  their  stores  must  go  on  ac- 
cumulating to  meet  the  probable 
demand.  It  would  not  be  safe  to 
try  so  long  a  storage.  When  grain 
is  put  into  the  pens  in  a  very 
dry  condition,  it  keeps  well;  but 
the  natural  fermentation  of  grain 
in  a  closed- up  cellar  was  in  for- 
mer days  a  constant  cause  of  loss 
of  life  by  entering  the  pit  before 
it  was  ventilated.  It  was  an  ordi- 
nary custom  to  keep  a  two  years' 
stock  for  local  consumption  ;  but 
the  same  causes  which  lead  the 
Commissioners  to  insist  on  the 
improvement  of  communication, 
have  already  acted  on  the  produc- 
ing areas  by  facilitating  export, 
and  encouraging  the  growth  of  ex- 
portable crops.  When  there  were 
no  roads  and  no  carts  in  the  out- 
lying villages  ;  when  great  herds 
of  Brinjaree  bullocks  gathered  the 
grain  and  carried  it  into  the  cities  ; 
when  there  was  a  transit  duty  on 
all  grain, — the  food  of  the  Deccan 
ryots  was  sold  at  40  seers  per  one 
rupee.  The  difference  is  striking, 
and  one  is  inclined  to  accept  the 
conclusion  of  the  dissenting  mem- 
bers that  storage  of  grain  in  good 
seasons  would  be  advisable.  There 
seems,  however,  to  be  an  error  some- 
where :  the  dissenters  use  eleven 
or  twelve  years  as  a  fixed  famine 
cycle  ;  but  in  the  table,  page  22,  six 
periods  of  drought  lasting  over  one 
or  two  years  are  recorded,  all  with- 
in twenty  years.  This  chance  of 
constant  recurrence  of  rain -failure 
destroys  the  accuracy  of  the  calcu- 
lations, so  that  neither  the  dissent- 
ing members  nor  the  majority  of 
the  Commissioners  can  be  trusted 
on  the  storage  question.  It  may  be 
observed  here,  that  in  one  place  the 
population  is  given  at  190,000,000, 

VOL.  CXXVIII. NO.  DCCLXXX1I. 


and  in  another  at  181,350,000; 
while  58,300,000  are  given  at 
another  place  as  the  numbers  affect- 
ed by  famine  during  the  last  cen- 
tury. The  rate  of  mortality  for  the 
last  thirty  years,  for  which  time 
alone  an  estimate  of  any  value  can 
be  given,  "  did  not  fall  short  of 
10,000,000."  Here  again  we  find 
"the  ultimate  effect  on  the  growth 
of  the  population  is  much  less  im- 
portant than  might  at  first  sight 
have  been  supposed."  This  storage 
question  will  be  noted  again. 

"  The  practical  recommendations  " 
must  now  be  looked  at,  but  only 
in  those  parts  where  the  benefit  is 
doubtful,  or  where  the  evil  is  evi- 
dent. At  present  the  collector  is 
the  chief  famine  supervisor;  all 
the  district  and  village  officers  are 
under  him.  As  the  chief  magis- 
trate, all  the  police  are  under  his 
orders.  He  has,  or  ought  to  have, 
an  intimate  knowledge  of  all  that 
goes  on  in  his  charge.  He  is  the 
first  British  officer  who  necessarily 
obtains  all  local  information  of  a 
coming  famine.  Formerly  he  ob- 
tained from  his  divisional  native 
officers  a  weekly  report  of  rainfall 
and  the  condition  of  the  crops. 
His  information  was  sufficiently 
full  for  his  arduous  and  responsible 
duties.  He  knew  what  village 
roads  or  walls  wanted  repair,  and 
what  tanks  required  cleaning  out. 
He  was,  in  fact,  a  ubiquitous  officer, 
with  a  general  knowledge  of  the 
condition,  political,  economical,  and 
statistical,  of  the  districts  under  his 
charge.  It  is  necessary,  for  the  pro- 
per discharge  of  his  duties,  that  he 
should  be  the  paramount  executive. 

A  famine  code  is  now  to  be  pre- 
pared, "  to  secure  uniformity  of 
system."  It  has  been  allowed  that 
conditions  vary  in  every  province, 
therefore  each  must  have  its  code. 
"  Prompt  and  decided  action "  is 
necessary.  "  The  local  codes  of 
famine  relief  should  be  laid  before 

3D 


732 


Tlie  Indian  Famine  Reports. 


[Dec. 


the  Supreme  Government ;  "  and, 
being  sanctioned,  "the  entire  re- 
sponsibility "  of  due  relief  should 
rest  with  the  local  governments 
— a  "  financial  check  "  only  being 
retained  by  the  Supreme  Govern- 
ment, with  a  "general  power  of 
correcting  errors."  The  limits, 
therefore,  of  local  authority  "should 
be  clearly  defined  at  the  outset." 
It  may  be  observed  here,  in  passing, 
that  as  novel  cases  and  questions 
must  arise  in  every  famine,  it  will 
be  as  well  to  give  a  wide  margin  to 
this  delegated  authority,  in  order  to 
prevent  unnecessary  delay. 

The  Commission  see  that  it  is 
impossible  to  secure  all  that  may 
be  wanted  by  any  "  system  of 
measures ; "  and  it  is  suggested 
that  the  "  prearranged  plan  be 
placed  definitely  and  permanently 
under  some  special  branch  of  the 
secretariat,"  —  this  office  to  have 
charge  of  all  famine  records,  to 
note  results,  and  collect  informa- 
tion or  statistics  on  the  general 
condition  of  the  people,  for  the 
purpose  of  supplying  Government 
with  a  report  "in  a  uniform  and 
intelligible  manner,"  and  for  "  con- 
veying orders."  A  corresponding 
secretariat  office  would  be  under 
the  Viceroy  in  Council.  This  de- 
partment would  most  certainly  in- 
terfere with  the  prompt  action  that 
is  so  necessary  in  famine  times. 

These  offices  "  would  not  neces- 
sarily involve  any  great  increase  of 
expenditure."  They  would  be  called 
"the  agriculture  department."  As 
the  recurrence  of  famines  is  put 
down  in  the  Report  as  a  cycle  of 
eleven  or  twelve  years,  the  famine 
commissioner  and  the  director  of 
agriculture,  both  of  special  activity, 
and  assisted  by  the  "  co-operation 
of  all  departments,"  would  not  ap- 
parently have  much  to  do ;  but  if 
under  the  imperial  rule  famines 
and  poverty  become  chronic  and 
perennial,  then  the  Commissioners 


have  laid  down  a  good  deal  of 
work.  Medical  and  sanitary  offi- 
cers are  to  be  busy ;  the  administra- 
tion of  railways  is  to  be  "  closely 
watched;"  some  one  will  have  to 
see  that  irrigation  is  used  "  for  the 
preservation  of  the  food  -  crops," 
and,  as  far  as  possible,  for  their 
extension.  But  "the  efficiency  of 
such  a  special  department  will 
depend  mainly  on  the  complete- 
ness and  accuracy  with  which  the 
vital  agriculture  and  economic  stat- 
istics "  are  collected  in  villages,  and 
compiled  in  each  subdivision  and 
district.  To  carry  out  these  views, 
there  are  to  be  "supervisors  of 
village  accountants  "  where  neces- 
sary, "visiting  each  village  in 
turn ; "  —  and  over  these  "  there 
should  be  a  special  officer  in  every 
district,  to  see  that  the  supervisors 
did  their  duty,  to  test  the  agricul- 
tural returns,  to  examine  market- 
prices,  to  look  after  the  population 
in  the  records  of  births  and  deaths  ; 
food- stocks,  fluctuation  in  trade, 
loans,  and  rates  of  interest ;  the 
demand,  supply,  and  wages  of 
labour."  These  officers,  while  gen- 
erally subordinate  to  the  collec- 
tor, would  be  specially  under  the 
orders  of  the  agricultural  depart- 
ment, in  respect  to  the  system  on 
which  their  returns  are  to  be  pre- 
pared." The  director  of  agricul- 
ture is  to  control  all  this  machinery, 
and  is  to  be  selected  for  his  know- 
ledge of  the  agricultural  classes. 
"  All  these  officials,  and  a  certain 
proportion  of  the  special  officers  in 
each  district,  should  have  been  pre- 
pared for  their  duties  by  a  techni- 
cal training  in  scientific  and  prac- 
tical agriculture." 

We  then  come  to  the  relief 
duties.  Work  and  wages  are  to 
be  given  "promptly,"  before  the 
people  have  lost  strength  from 
want  of  food,  and  "needful  steps 
should  be  taken  to  induce  all  desti- 
tute persons  ...  to  come  to  the 


1830.] 


The  Indian  Famine  Reports. 


733 


places  where  employment  is  offered." 
The  work  should  be  simple  labour, 
under  the  officers  of  the  "Public 
"Works  Department,"  assisted  by 
the  civil  officer,  under  the  general 
control  of  the  collector,  who  is  to 
be  responsible  for  all  relief  in  his 
district,  except  arrangements  of  a 
technical  nature.  Economy  is  to 
be  considered, — "the  wage  should 
be  adjusted  from  time  to  time  so 
as  to  provide  sufficient  food  for  the 
labourer's  support."  The  minute 
consideration  bestowed  by  the  Com- 
missioners on  the  details  of  these 
suggestions  is  sufficient  proof  of 
the  ability  and  energy  employed  on 
the  duty  ;  but  there  can  be  no  doubt 
that  a  complex  matter  is  made  more 
so  by  the  increased  establishment — 
doors  are  opened  to  fraud,  bribery, 
and  conspiracy,  with  the  conse- 
quent delay  in  action.  It  is  even 
suggested  that  the  "wage  should 
be  paid,  if  possible,  daily,  other- 
wise at  intervals  of  not  more  than 
three  or  four  days,  and  the  pay- 
ment should  be  superintended  by 
a  thoroughly  trustworthy  officer." 
Then  they  talk  of  classifying  labour 
according  to  physical  conditions ; 
care  should  be  taken  that  work 
does  not  depress  morals  or  strength, 
and  families  are  not  to  be  broken 
up.  All  these  details  are  entered 
into  as  if  the  men  of  the  Commis- 
sion had  heard  them  for  the  first 
time. 

We  feel  justified  in  this  suspicion 
of  their  ignorance  on  a  reference 
to  the  table  at  page  24.  There 
are  blanks  in  it,  and  these  "more 
frequently  mean  that  there  is  no 
information  on  record,  than  that 
nothing  ought  to  be  entered  under 
the  heading  in  question."  In  the 
famine  of  1832-33,  the  cost  to  the 
Bombay  Government  is  blank,  but 
the  loss  of  land  revenue  is  entered 
as  Us.  981, 200.  Now,  information 
on  this  point  must  have  been 
recorded  in  the  Sholapur  office,  at 


Poona;  in  the  office  of  the  revenue 
commissioner,  northern  division ; 
and  in  the  revenue  department, 
Bombay.  It  will  therefore  be  as 
well  to  give  a  brief  memorandum 
of  the  action  taken  at  that  time. 
It  will  be  seen  that  all  the  points 
now  suggested  as  novelties  were 
considered,  and  the  main  point, 
the  unity  of  the  population,  was 
not  forgotten  as  it  now  has  been. 

Some  time  in  1833,  the  writer 
was  left  in  temporary  charge  of  the 
sub-collectorate  and  the  adawlut,  in- 
cluding the  jail,  as  fourth  assistant  to 
the  collector  of  Poona,  on  the  special 
duty  of  inquiring  into  the  arrears 
of  revenue  from  the  time  when  the 
Deccan  provinces  came  under  the 
government  of  the  East  India  Com- 
pany. The  duty  impressed  upon 
him  the  necessary  homogeneity  of 
very  heterogeneous  races.  It  was 
self-evident  that  the  common  cun- 
bie  or  ryot,  could  not  exist  without 
the  money-lender,  or  the  soucar 
without  the  ryot.  Therefore  the 
Government,  so  far  as  it  was  de- 
pendent on  the  land  revenue,  could 
not  exist  without  both.  At  that 
time  a  famine  broke  out  suddenly 
in  the  Sholapur  districts,  and  starv- 
ing people  flocked  into  Sholapur. 
Immediate  action  was  necessary. 

A  durbar  was  arranged,  the  city 
merchants  were  summoned ;  they 
all  paid  taxes  at  that  time.  The 
fact  of  a  famine  was  accepted 
by  the  assembly.  The  merchants 
were  asked  if  the  food -stock  in 
hand  was  sufficient  to  meet  the 
possible  demand.  It  was  pointed 
out  to  the  meeting,  and  it  knew 
very  well,  that  the  maintenance  of 
the  labouring  classes  was  the  main- 
tenance of  themselves.  After  a  con- 
sultation, and  an  estimate  of  de- 
mand, they  said — No  !  They  were 
then  called  on  to  provide  the  defici- 
ency. Government  would  give  em- 
ployment, and  pay  the  bills  for  food. 
This  was  agreed  to.  One  pancha- 


734 


TJte  Indian  Famine  Reports. 


[Dec. 


yet  was  appointed  on  the  spot  to 
make  out  the  ration  account,  another 
to  calculate  the  probable  numbers  ; 
and  in  consultation  with  another 
part  of  the  assembly,  it  was  ar- 
ranged that  the  starved-out  labour 
should  be  at  once  employed  in 
cleaning  out  the  city  tank,  then 
nearly  dry — in  repairing  the  broken 
Avails  and  roads.  The  adawlut  was 
to  supply  the  necessary  tools  from 
the  jail  stores  ;  and  as  the  duty  of 
collecting  revenue  was  in  abeyance, 
clerks  and  peons  were  drafted  from 
my  district  offices  to  superintend  the 
work.  The  labourers  were  divided 
into  gangs  of  twelve — one  to  be 
selected  by  themselves  as  muc- 
cadum,  headman.  One  peon  over- 
looked several  gangs.  Clerks  visited 
all  the  works  twice  a-day.  They 
issued  ration-tickets  to  each  gang. 
Each  muccadum  drew  the  morning 
and  evening  food  from  the  nearest 
buniah  :  these  men  made  temporary 
shops.  A  superior  officer  selected 
the  daily  locality  for  labour.  The 
police  officer  superintended  the 
labour-gangs.  'One  of  his  subordi- 
nates overlooked  those  who  could 
not  work.  The  city  mhomletdar 
supervised  the  ticket -clerks,  and 
compared  their  ticket- books  with 
the  tickets  given  in  by  the  buniahs 
as  vouchers  for  their  daily  bills.  A. 
fixed  ration  was  drawn  up,  with  a 
weekly  tariff.  This  was  prepared  by 
the  merchants,  subject  to  the  ap- 
proval of  the  officer  in  charge  of 
the  district.  A  brief  report  was 
sent  in  direct  to  the  Government, 
and  a  copy  through  the  usual  chan- 
nel. Details  may  not  have  been 
given,  but  they  were  all  entered  in 
the  office -book  at  the  time;  and 
that  document  would  have  been 
forthcoming  now  if  the  Commis- 
sioners had  not  imagined  that  their 
own  "carefully  considered  series" 
of  questions  were  sufficient  to  elicit 
all  the  required  information. 

The  Eeport  is  destitute  of  infor- 


mation as  to  the  merchants  who 
supply  food,  and  we  are  forced  to 
gather  the  present  feeling  towards 
these  useful  people  from  the  official 
Report  '  On  the  Riots  in  Poona 
and  Ahmednagar  in  1875.'  These 
merchants  are  mostly  money-lend- 
ers ;  and,  says  this  Report,  chapter 
iii.  sect.  38,  clause  3,  "The  average 
Marwari  money-lender  is  not  a  plea- 
sant character  to  analyse  ;  his  most 
prominent  characteristics  are  love 
of  gain,  and  indifference  to  the 
opinions  or  feelings  of  his  neigh- 
bours.«  His  business  .  .  .  would 
tend  to  degrade  and  harden  even  a 
humane  nature,  which  his  is  not." 
There  are  many  accusations  in  this 
Report  against  money-lenders  as  a 
body  ;  and  it  is  very  unfortunate 
for  Government  and  the  people  that 
such  a  feeling  should  be  authori- 
tatively published.  Every  magis- 
trate in  western  India  has  had  these 
classes  before  him  for  fraud,  per- 
jury, forgery,  assault,  and  murder. 
They  were  not  worse  than  similar 
classes  in  other  countries ;  and  on 
the  occasion  now  alluded  to  at  Shol- 
apur  in  1833,  they  (chiefly  Lingayet 
Brahmins)  were  very  useful,  very 
merciful,  and  careful  to  save  the 
Government  from  any  unreasonable 
expenditure.  They  had  to  import 
food-grain  from  Goojerat  and  Khan- 
desh,  all  on  pack- bullocks  or  tat- 
toos; but  the  impression,  at  this 
distance  of  time,  is  that  it  was  sold 
to  the  working-parties  at  unremu- 
nerative  prices.  It  may  be  consid- 
ered for  a  moment  what  British  rule 
has  done  to  make  the  merchants 
what  they  now  are.  In  1836  their 
house  and  occupation  taxes  were 
remitted,  with  a  promise  never  to 
reimpose  them.  In  1838,  or  there- 
about, the  transit  duties  were  taken 
off.  In  1836  the  Land  Revenue 
Survey  gave  land  in  fee-simple  to 
the  pauper  occupant.  This  became 
security  for  more  loans — it  brought 
more  money-lenders  into  the  country. 


1880.] 


TJie  Indian  Famine  Reports. 


735 


In  1859  the  civil  laws  were  altered. 
The  '  Report  on  the  Deccan  Riots,' 
sect.  104,  says:  "The  creditor  has 
more  than  all  the  protection  usually 
accorded  hy  civilised  codes.  .  .  . 
The  agricultural  debtor  has  no  loop- 
hole whatever."  Is  it  strange  that 
soucar  and  buniah  should  use  the 
law  that  we  gave  them,  and  the 
opportunity  that  we  offer?  Is  it 
strange  that  that  astute  man,  the 
late  Sir  George  Wingate,  should 
have  written  in  1852,  "The  facil- 
ities which  the  law  allows  for  the 
realisation  of  deht  have  expanded 
credit  to  a  most  hurtful  extent "  1 
(p.  31,  Deccan  Riots).  "The  prosper- 
ity of  the  ryot  is  no  longer  neces- 
sary to  the  prosperity  of  the  village 
money-lender.  .  .  .  Mutual  good- 
will and  confidence  have  been  suc- 
ceeded by  mutual  distrust  and  dis- 
like" (p.  45).  The  laws  were  not 
changed  for  the  benefit  of  the  sou- 
car  when  those  words  were  written, 
and  Sir  George  could  not  confess 
that  the  sop  wanted  by  the  money- 
lender was  the  land  that  had  been 
given  to  the  ryot  by  his  own  action. 
The  cancer  had  become  dangerous 
in  twelve  years:  the  ryots  had  over- 
drawn ;  enmity  was  growing  to 
that  point  so  much  desired  by  the 
soucar ;  the  Government  made  the 
law  in  1859-60  that  dropped  the 
sop  into  the  open  soucar's  mouth. 
"  But,"  say  the  Indian  Government, 
in  reply  to  Mr  Caird  (p.  19),  quot- 
ing Sir  Henry  Maine,  "each  step 
onwards  was  supposed  to  be  sug- 
gested by  the  experiences  of  the 
past ;  no  step  was  taken  till  it  was 
believed  to  have  the  approval  of 
the  local  Indian  experts  most  in 
credit.  There  never  was  a  system 
which,  after  the  first,  grew  up 
less  at  haphazard  than  that  under 
which  India  is  administered  and 
governed."  He  (the  soucar)  is  now 
the  owner  of  thousands  of  acres 
wrung  from  pauper  owners  by  de- 
crees of  civil  courts,  and  is  reviled 


because,  like  Sh}  lock,  he  has  claimed 
his  bond. 

These  are  the  people  to  whom 
allusion  is  made  in  the  Famine  Re- 
port :  "  We  have  no  doubt  that  the 
true  principle  for  the  Government 
to  adopt  as  its  general  rule  of  con- 
duet  .  .  .  is  to  leave  the  busi- 
ness of  the  supply  and  distribu- 
tion of  food  to  private  trade."  It 
is  not  supposed  that  the  traders  in 
all  regions  are  in  the  same  con- 
dition as  they  are  said  to  be  in 
the  Deccan,  but  the  Commissioners 
speak  generally, — "Every  interfer- 
ence by  the  Government  with  the 
operations  of  trade  .  .  .  must 
be  prejudicial  to  the  growth  of 
those  habits  of  self-reliance  which 
it  is  so  essential  for  Government  to 
encourage." 

It  was  this  very  encouragement 
that  was  given  to  the  trade  at  Shol- 
apur.  And  this  system  of  using  the 
existing  trade  for  the  food-supply 
has,  we  believe,  been  always  adopted 
in  Bombay ;  and  it  was  chiefly  the 
extraordinary  methods  of  procuring 
food  in  Bengal  in  1874,  and  the 
uncertain  procedure  suggested  by 
that  method,  which  made  it  seem 
necessary  to  send  a  commission  of 
inquiry  to  India. 

Notwithstanding  all  the  reason- 
ing that  runs  through  these  Re- 
ports, and  the  letters  from  Mr 
Caird,  these  papers  convey  nothing 
new  to  practical  men,  unless  it  is 
in  the  way  to  meet  the  increased 
cost  of  "  improved  administra- 
tion." We  have  endeavoured  to 
show  that  the  new  suggestions  are 
theoretical,  useless,  or  mischievous  ; 
but  the  additional  charge  seems  to 
be  put  down  at  £800,000  yearly, 
and  something  over  "£100,000" 
for  new  offices  and  famine  charges 
— say  £1,000,000  in  all.  In  the 
present  financial  condition  of  India, 
no  new  establishments  are  requir-- 
ed ;  there  is  already  a  statistical 
office,  from  which  the  collector 


736 


The  Indian  Famine  Reports. 


[Dec. 


can  obtain  any  information  which 
his  own  staff  could  not  supply,  but 
the  collector  must  be  the  chief 
authority  in  his  own  province. 
The  Eeport  ends  with  a  "  belief  " 
that  the  extra  expenditure,  instead 
of  leading  to  "inconvenience,  will 
be  followed  at  an  early  period  by 
material  improvements  "  —  increas- 
ing the  power  of  contending  success- 
fully with  the  terrible  scourge  of 
drought  and  famine  to  which  the 
country  must  be  ever  liable." 

In  the  last  section  of  the  dissent, 
signed  by  Messrs  Caird  and  Sulli- 
van, there  is  a  sentence  that  must 
not  be  handed  down  to  history 
without  notice :  "  The  complete 
break-down  that  occurred  in  the 
last  famine  was  but  a  repetition,  on 
a  larger  scale,  of  the  failure  which 
has  characterised  the  administra- 
tion of  every  Indian  famine  in  this 
century,  with  the  single  exception 
of  that  in  1874."  It  has  been 
shown  above  that  the  Commission 
had  no  information  as  to  the  ex- 
penditure for  the  famine  in  the 
Bombay  territory,  1833-34.  As  far 
as  the  most  afflicted  province  was 
concerned,  Sholapur,  it  was  met 
with  success  by  the  very  measures 
now  suggested,  with  the  exception 
of  money  wages.  It  is  easy  to 
trace  the  origin  of  the  opinion  given 
as  to  the  Behar  and  Bengal  famine 
of  1874  ;  but,  in  the  opinion  of 
lookers-on,  no  famine  administra- 
tion was  worse  conducted  as  to  its 
interference  with  trade,  its  man- 
agement of  stores,  and  its  reckless 
waste  of  money,  than  that  which 
was  taken  out  of  the  hands  of  the 
executive  departments,  and  con- 
trolled by  the  Viceroy.  It  would 
have  been  well  if  the  Commission 
had  gone  into  the  detail  of  that 
famine  administration.  If  they 
had,  it  must  have  been  held  up  as  a 
beacon  to  be  avoided  in  the  future. 
As  they  did  not  do  this,  it  seems 


as  if  the  express  duty  for  which 
they  were  paid  had  been  neglect- 
ed. The  same  may  be  said  of  Mr 
Caird.  He  was  instructed  to  con- 
sider agriculture — he  reported  in 
sixteen  pages  on  "The  Condition 
of  India"  ! 

We  now  venture  on  a  few  gene- 
ral remarks.  Droughts  must  come, 
and  famines  of  greater  or  less  ex- 
tent and  duration  must  happen. 
Populations  vary  :  in  Bengal  the 
food  -  production  is  scarcely  suffi- 
cient for  the  people  in  an  average 
year ;  in  other  provinces  it  has 
been  barely  enough,  and  of  late 
years  very  little  has  been  kept  in 
store.  The  reason  of  this  will  be 
seen  presently.  The  result  is,  that 
present  famines  come  more  suddenly 
and  unexpectedly  than  formerly. 
As  population  increases,  this  lia- 
bility must  grow  with  it.  With 
the  increase  of  exportable  produce, 
as  shown  above,  there  must  be  a 
decrease  of  food-produce.  As  the 
demand  for  food  increases  with  the 
population,  the  price  of  food  must 
rise  ;  but  as  the  supply  of  labour 
is  now  more,  and  will  be  far  more, 
than  the  demand,  the  wages  of  la- 
bour will  not  rise.  At  the  present 
moment  they  are  perhaps  at  a  lower 
value  than  in  any  other  region  of 
the  civilised  world — barely  enough 
to  live  on.  There  is,  then,  a  grow- 
ing condition  of  chronic  poverty. 
In  addition  to  this,  every  man  with 
any  security  is  in  debt  to  the 
village  soucar,  either  on  his  own 
account  or  for  his  ancestors.  Many 
are  bond- servants  (slaves)  to  their 
creditors.  If  there  is  no  work  at 
home,  they  are  let  out,  and  even 
sent  to  relief-works,  with  an  under- 
standing that  a  portion  of  their 
wages  is  to  be  given  to  the  master. 
In  average  seasons  there  is  home- 
work to  be  had ;  but  the  moment 
field-labour  ceases  from  drought, 
too  much  rain,  or  conclusion  of 


1880.] 


TJie  Indian  Famine  Reports. 


737 


harvest,  the  hand-to-mouth  popula- 
tions are  in  want.  Formerly  some 
cultivators,  with  small  stores  of 
food  in  baskets  or  in  pens,  assisted 
their  poor  neighbours  ;  they  had 
also  a  chance  of  food  by  wood  or 
grass  cutting.  These  two  chances 
are  now  closed,  and  there  is  nothing 
left  for  a  man  to  do  at  home.  In 
ordinary  times  there  may  be  casual 
occupation  for  a  few  in  the  large 
towns,  but  in  times  of  scarcity  this 
fails. 

There  are,  then,  famines  of  money 
and  famines  of  drought ;  and  with- 
out taking  an  extravagant  view  of 
the  present  condition  of  the  culti- 
vating class  in  India,  they  seem  to 
be  more  unhappily  situated  than 
at  any  previous  time.  As  far  as 
the  Deccan  is  concerned,  another 
class  of '  people  are  in  a  worse 
condition  than  they  were  fifty 
years  ago.  We  allude  to  the 
hereditary  village  servants  and  arti- 
ficers. When  these  people  were 
dependent  on  the  field-produce  of 
their  village,  getting  an  uncertain 
quantity  of  food  from  each  ryot,  it 
was  to  the  interest  of  both  parties 
that  good  work  should  be  done 
and  a  liberal  payment  made.  When 
this  old  system  was  broken  up  in 
1836  by  the  substitution  of  a  money 
payment,  there  was  not  enough  to 
live  on  in  many  instances,  and  there- 
fore no  inducement  for  the  artificer 
to  do  good  work.  The  hereditary 
artificers  were  often  thrown  out  of 
work,  whole  classes  left  destitute, 
and  the  pauper  population  was  in- 
creased. 

The  Land  Eevenue  Survey  thus 
broke  up  two  social  ties  of  long 
standing,  the  mutual  dependence  of 
ryot  and  artificer,  and  of  ryot  and 
soucar.  The  connection  had  come 
about  by  the  natural  gravitation  of 
social  molecules  ;  time  had  worn  off 
the  accidental  asperities,  and  up  to 
1835-36  the  wheels  rolled  round 


without  friction :  there  was  no 
necessity  for  throwing  the  great 
machine  out  of  gear.  But  novel- 
ties were  attractive ;  unsuspected 
agencies  were  at  work ;  the  poor 
ryot  was  to  be  freed  from  all  future 
misery.  The  soucar  found  a  greater 
attraction  in  the  land  than  in  the 
person  of  the  ryot;  and,  as  his  yearly 
measure  of  grain  was  no  longer  paid 
by  the  ryot,  the  artificer  did  not 
care  to  labour  for  him.  A  great 
revolution  began  then.  More  mis- 
chief was  done  in  endeavouring  to 
stop  gaps  in  1859.  Whole  popula- 
tions were  then  placed  under  the 
tender  mercies  of  the  soucar  and  the 
grain-dealer;  and  in  1874-75,  the 
Viceroy  of  India  smashed  the  brok- 
en wheels  to  pieces  by  showing  that 
the  famished  nations  were  depen- 
dent on  him  and  not  on  their  old 
neighbours.  The  Deccan  tires  flew 
off  in  1875,  the  spokes  rattled  in 
the  shrinking  nave. 

Mr  Fawcett  described  the  situ- 
ation, as  reported  by  the  '  Times  ' 
of  16th  June  1880  :  "At  the  time 
the  East  India  Company  was 
abolished,  many  safeguards  against 
extraordinary  expenditure,  and 
many  securities  for  economy,  were 
swept  away;  and  the  safeguards 
and  securities  which  had  been 
substituted  for  them  had  to  a 
great  extent  proved  impotent." 
The  East  India  Company  had 
cracked  the  egg  ;  the  imperial  rule 
has  broken  it.  We  have  already 
had  two  Commissions  of  "  king's 
horses  and  king's  men,"  the  egg 
has  not  been  "  put  together  again," 
and  another  Commission  has  been 
talked  of  to  inquire  how  the  egg 
was  broken. 

One  of  the  securities  alluded  to 
by  Mr  Fawcett  requires  some  ob- 
servation :  the  instructions  to  the 
Famine  Commission  touched  upon 
it,  and  it  is  talked  of  in  the  Re- 
port very  lightly.  In  other  places 


738 


The  Indian  Famine  Reports. 


[Dec. 


it  has  been  held  up  as  a  certain 
remedy  for  famine.  Irrigation  is 
alluded  to ;  and  the  curious  part 
of  the  subject  is,  that  the  whole 
question  is  so  little  understood  by 
those  who  write  about  it.  A  repe- 
tition may  be  useful. 

There  is  in  India  natural  and  arti- 
ficial irrigation.  As  a  rule,  food  is 
not  produced  on  the  latter  for  the 
people,  because  the  assessment  re- 
quires a  more  valuable  crop.  Food, 
chiefly  rice,  is  produced  on  the  for- 
mer. In  bad  seasons  the  artificial 
irrigation  has  been  used  to  supple- 
ment food  at  an  enhanced  price. 
A  pauper  famine  is,  however,  more 
aggravated  than  mitigated  by  arti- 
ficial irrigation,  and  the  natural 
irrigation  fails  in  dry  seasons.  In 
ordinary  years  all  common  food  is 
produced  by  the  rainfall,  and  there- 
fore all  land  artificially  watered 
does  not  produce  food,  but  reduces 
the  food-growing  area  in  some  pro- 
vinces. It  is  not,  therefore,  advis- 
able to  increase  artificial  irrigation, 
except  in  provinces  where  rice  is 
the  food,  and  where  the  supply  of 
water  is  sufficient  for  two  crops  in 
the  year.  This  is  not  always  the 
case ;  but  the  Commission  did  not 
touch  on  the  subject,  and  therefore 
we  can  only  speak  from  general 
knowledge.  If  the  water-supply 
depends  on  a  tank,  it  is  sure  to 
fail  in  dry  seasons;  if  it  depends 
on  a  river,  that  often  becomes  use- 
less from  the  failure  of  one  mon- 
soon :  and  over  the  whole  penin- 
sula to  the  south  of  the  Indus  and 
Ganges  valleys,  the  great  rivers 
that  water  the  vast  area  are  entirely 
dependent  on  the  rainfall  on  the 
mountains  of  Central  India  —  in 
Bhopal,  Eampoor,  and  Nagpoor 
provinces.  Below  the  Taptee  to 
Cape  Comorin  all  the  rivers  come 
from  the  rainfall  on  the  long  line 
of  Western  Ghauts,  and  two  dry 
seasons  reduce  many  of  these  long 


rivers  to  trickling  streams  and  deep 
pools.  The  great  irrigation-works 
on  the  lower  Godavery  were  in  dan- 
ger of  failing  in  1877.  These  con- 
tingencies were  beyond  the  notice 
of  the  Famine  Commissioners,  but 
they  seem  essential  to  the  prospects 
of  the  future. 

It  is  obvious  that  the  increas- 
ing value  of  Indian  exports  throws 
money  into  the  country;  but  the 
tendency  is  to  decrease  the  quan- 
tity, and  increase  the  price,  of  food. 
The  increase  of  irrigation  is  there- 
fore an  increase  of  famine  in  a  gen- 
eral view,  though  it  may  decrease 
personal  and  local  distress  if  there 
is  food  to  buy. 

When  producing  populations 
come  into  trade  contact  with  non- 
producing  nations,  the  benefit  to 
each  ought  to  be  equal  by  exchange 
of  commodities.  But  if  the  demand 
for  certain  produce  interferes  with 
the  production  of  necessary  food,  it 
would  seem  necessary  for  the  rul- 
ing power  to  modify  the  action  of 
trade  by  some  politic  measures. 
The  increasing  demand  for  Indian 
produce  in  foreign  countries  is  a 
proof  of  mercantile  profit ;  but  if 
that  profit  is  an  agent  for  famine, 
or  a  factor  in  reducing  the  area  of 
food-production,  it  seems  fair  that 
something  should  be  contributed 
from  that  mercantile  profit — or,  in 
other  words,  by  the  consumer — to 
the  maintenance  of  those  producers 
who  are  deprived  of  their  food  by 
the  actions  of  trade.  The  subject 
expands  here  beyond  the  scope  of 
this  paper ;  but  as  there  is  no 
escape  from  the  fact  that  more  than 
sixty  million  pounds  sterling  value 
of  produce  is  yearly  exported  from 
India,  the  question  may  be  put  to  the 
authorities — Should  not  that  value 
contribute  something  to  the  main- 
tenance of  those  producing  popula- 
tions whose  food  it  helps  to  reduce  1 
As  famines  do  not  come  every  year, 


1880.] 


The  Indian  Famine  Reports. 


739 


there  is  no  necessity  for  a'  high  de- 
mand ;  but  if  one-eighth  per  cent 
were  raised  by  export  duty  on  the 
whole,  a  nucleus  for  a  famine  fund 
of  about  375,000  rupees  yearly 
might  be  funded.  This  does  not 
seem  to  have  been  thought  of,  but 
it  is  feasible :  the  export  is  there, 
the  Custom-house  does  the  duty, 
the  Treasury  receives  the  money, 
and  the  only  thing  to  be  done 
would  be  to  deduct  such  amount 
as  may  be  determined  on  from  the 
receipts,  and  credit  it  to  the  famine 
fund.  In  making  a  licence  system 
for  a  famine  fund,  the  authorities 
did  not  assess  it  with  due  care;  and 
hence  the  fraud,  oppression,  and 
omissions  that  are  so  constantly 
complained  of.  ' 

In  making  their  elaborate  but 
useless  calculation  for  a  famine 
fund,  the  Commissioners  do  not 
seem  to  have  discovered  that  a 
"Dharun  Puttee,"  or  famine -tax, 
existed  in  the  Deccan  under  the 
rule  of  the  Peshwa.  It  was  taken 
off  in  1836,  and  never  had  been 
collected  by  the  Government  of  the 
East  India  Company;  but  its  his- 
tory would  have  been  useful. 

There  is  another  point  connected 
with  trade  that  deserved  some  at- 
tention. The  value  of  Indian  ex- 
ports is  given  above  at  over  sixty 
million  pounds  sterling.  It  was 
lately  discovered  that  transit  duties 
were  levied  on  goods  for  export  by 
the  municipal  octrois  on  the  road  : 
it  has,  we  believe,  been  put  a  stop 
to  as  an  illegal  levy.  These  duties, 
however,  did  not  prohibit  export; 
the  goods,  therefore,  realised  a  pro- 
fit. It  must  not  be  forgotten  that 
all  exported  raw  produce  is  producd 
from  the  lightest  taxed  land,  and 
by  the  cheapest  labour,  in  the  world. 
As  a  matter  of  course,  the  actual 
producer  is  remunerated  for  his 
labour  by  the  sale  of  his  commo- 
dity ;  but  if  the  commodity  sells  at 


a  profit,  surely  the  merchant  and 
consumer  may  be  expected  to  con- 
tribute something  in  the  way  of 
duties  on  these  exports,  for  the 
reasons  already  given.  If  an  ex- 
port duty  is  objected  to,  the  same 
end  can  be  obtained  by  making  a 
light  cess  on  all  lands  occupied  by 
exportable  crops.  The  unfortunate 
licence- tax,  as  it  now  stands,  might 
then  be  abolished. 

India  has  not  been  specially  for- 
tunate in  its  finance  ministers ;  and 
it  seems  strange  that  neither  this 
department  nor  the  Famine  Com- 
mission thought  of  using  the  old 
machinery  for  the  storage  of  food, 
and  giving  the  privilege  of  storage 
to  the  most  respectable  merchants 
in  those  districts  where  famines 
are  common.  This  suggestion  is 
not  put  forward  as  a  sure  remedy, 
but  as  much  more  sure  than  the 
plan  of  the  Commissioners.  There 
was  formerly,  and  probably  there 
still  is,  a  head  trader  in  every  mar- 
ket-town. He  used  to  fix  the 
market-prices  of  food  and  other 
things.  In  some  places  this  man 
had  certain  privileges  admitted  by 
Government,  and  he  took  the  lead 
in  initiating  municipal  boards.  It 
seems  possible  that  this  social  offi- 
cial might  be  designated  by  some 
honorary  '  title,  to  be  hereditary 
during  good  conduct,  and  to  be 
trusted  with  the  yearly  storage  in 
his  district  of  such  quantity  of  food- 
grain  as  might  be  thought  advisable 
to  meet  the  possible  demands  in  his 
circle  of  a  season  of  scarcity, — this 
scarcity  to  be  determined  by  the 
municipal  board,  where  there  is  one, 
and  by  the  head  merchant  (sliait) 
in  council  with  the  collector,  in 
other  districts.  A  fee  should  ac- 
company the  title,  to  be  renewed 
on  each  succession.  The  reimburse- 
ment would  come  from  sales  in  bad 
seasons,  and  the  weekly  taritf  of  food 
would  be  adjusted  by  the  same  au- 


740 


The  Indian  Famine  Reports. 


[Dec. 


thorities  as  above.  The  fees  of  office 
should  be  credited  tothefaminefund. 
As  Government  would  be  the  pay- 
master in  such  seasons  of  scarcity, 
there  would  be  no  risk  of  loss,  as 
prices  must  rise  in  scarce  seasons. 
If  there  happened  to  be  a  run  of 
good  seasons,  the  Government  could 
afford  to  remunerate  the  famine 
storekeeper  for  any  certain  loss  by 
resale  of  old  stores. 

One  misfortune  in  the  documents 
under  consideration  is,  that  they 
lay  down  the  law  dogmatically, 
and  as  if  the  subject  had  not  been 
thought  of  and  digested  long  ago. 
This  results  naturally  from  not  ex- 
amining old  records,  and  from  con- 
tenting themselves  with  oral  evi- 
dence, and  answers  to  questions 
from  those  thought  competent togive 
them.  The  latter  only  referred  to 
their  own  experience,  and  any  native 
evidence  is  generally  given  to  suit 
the  audience.  Few  people  are  bet- 
ter j  udges  of  this  than  the  educated 
Brahmins ;  and  we  can  see  the  scene 
before  us  as  the  precautions  for 
checks  on  supposed  dishonesty,  the 
necessary  safeguards,  and  the  labour 
test,  were  talked  over  with  these 
astute  men.  It  is  long  since  we 
found  out  that  if  you  suspect  a 
native  of  India  you  are  sure  to  be 
deceived ;  if  you  trust  him,  you 
are  not :  but  in  the  case  of  the 
famine  at  Sholapur,  no  labour  test 
was  wanted,  nor  was  there  time  to 
try  one;  the  wages  for  the  light 
labour  required  were  a  ration,  de- 
nned by  a  native  jury  as  suffi- 
cient. Notifications  were .  sent  to 
all  villages,  and  the  applications 
for  labour  on  the  published  terms 
were  deemed  then,  and  should  be 
deemed  now,  a  sufficient  test  of 
poverty  and  starvation.  If  money 
is  given,  no  test  can  exclude  some 
who  are  not  driven  to  the  famine- 
works  by  a  dire  necessity. 

If  great  public  works  are  opened 


to  relieve  famishing  populations, 
and  British  officers  are  in  command, 
it  becomes  an  object  with  them  to 
get  on  with  the  work.  Two  things 
are  then  liable  to  happen,  both  of 
which  are  better  avoided, — 1st,  a 
ready  acceptance  of  able  labour ; 
2d,  over  -  labour  for  inability. 
Again,  if  skilled  superintendence 
is  used  for  unskilled  labour,  either 
the  patience  or  the  strength  of  the 
superintendent  is  sacrificed.  In 
1877  -  78,  on  the  Dhond  and 
Munmar  railway  relief-works,  one 
officer  died  on  the  spot,  two  soon 
after  leaving  the  works,  and  one 
came  to  Europe  ill.  The  detailed 
superintendence  of  all  works  should 
be  intrusted  to  natives.  They  could 
be  confided  in  to  do  such  work  as 
they  were  told  to  do  nearly  fifty 
years  ago.  It  would  be  strange  if 
that  confidence  cannot  be  justified 
under  the  greater  number  of  Eng- 
lishmen, and  under  a  supposed  bet- 
ter rule.  Our  district  treasury 
officers  are  trusted  with  lacs  of 
rupees  :  is  it  not  paltry  to  suspect 
native  clerks  of  defrauding  starv- 
ing labourers'?  The  Report  under 
consideration  seems  to  have  no 
confidence  in  famine  management, 
unless  by  British  superintendence 
and  great  expenditure.  This  is  very 
unfortunate,  at  a  moment  when  Eng- 
land is  anxious  to  repose  more  tiust 
in  her  Indian  fellow-subjects. 

We  must  now  conclude  this 
ancient  story.  It  began  in  the 
time  of  Abraham,  3778  years  ago. 
About  two  hundred  years  later  the 
Egyptian  famine  took  place.  Con- 
fidence was  placed  in  Joseph  :  he 
stored  up  the  food  and  sold  it  ;  he 
gathered  all  the  money  from  the 
people,  then  the  cattle,  horses,  and 
asses;  the  people  then  became  his 
slaves  :  he  removed  them  from  one 
part  of  the  country  to  another,  and 
settled  their  payments,  from  the 
seed  that  he  had  given,  at  one-fifth 


1880.] 


The  Indian  Famine  Reports. 


741 


of  the  produce.  Instances  are 
known  where  Indian  traders  have 
taken  at  the  rate  of  250  per  cent ; 
but  the  English  Government  would 
not  enter  into  this  lottery.  The 
whole  situation  is  very  old :  exac- 
tion began  between  Esau  and  Jacob, 
slavery  in  the  sale  of  Joseph. 
David  illustrated  the  present  when 
he  wrote,  3165  years  ago,  "Let 
the  extortioner  catch  all  that  he 
hath,  and  let  the  strangers  spoil  his 
labour." 

All  this  is  now  done,  and  a 
season  of  drought  visits  the  land. 
Its  produce  has  gone  to  other  lands  ; 
there  is  no  food  for  the  poor ;  there 
is  a  famine  from  no  rain  and  no 
money.  Undigested  policy,  party 
laws,  and  free  trade — or,  in  other 
words,  the  force  of  circumstances — 
have  done  all  this. 

The  Commission  was  appointed 
for  the  purpose  of  giving  informa- 
tion to  enable  the  Indian  authori- 
ties to  meet  future  famines.  Some 
of  the  outlines  of  famine  history 
have  been  put  together,  measures 
now  in  use  have  been  recommended 
for  continuance.  The  two  dissent- 
ing members  tell  us  that  the  late 
attempts  to  save  life  in  the  famine 


of  1877-78  were  "  a  complete  break- 
down," and  were  but  "  a  repetition 
on  a  large  scale  of  the  failure  which 
has  characterised  the  administra- 
tion of  every  famine  in  this  cen- 
tury, with  the  sole  exception  of 
that  of  1874."  In  that  year  mul- 
titudes of  people  were  fed,  as  the 
price  of  food  was  beyond  their 
means ;  life  was  therefore  preserved 
by  an  extravagant  supply  of  food, 
a  reckless  waste  of  money,  a  vast 
loss  of  morality  among  the  poor, 
a  great  disturbance  of  trade,  and  a 
sad  exhibition  of  distrust.  If  any 
executive  officer  had  allowed  such 
things,  he  would  probably  have 
been  dismissed  the  service. 

We  conclude  by  drawing  atten- 
tion to  the  famine  relief  plan  outlin- 
ed above,  and  would  suggest  that  it 
should  be  applied  to  small  local 
circles  where  necessary,  under  the 
control  of  the  officer  in  charge  of 
the  district,  either  in  communica- 
tion with  the  governor  direct,  or 
through  the  usual  channels.  Col- 
lectors as  a  rule  are  fully  competent 
to  meet  these  emergencies,  and  any 
interference  with  them  destroys 
that  authority  which  ouglit  to  bo 
paramount  in  their  province. 


742 


From  the  Sicilian  of  Vicortai. 


[DC 


FROM    THE    SICILIAN    OF    VICORTAL 
I. — A   DEDICATION. 

LIKE  spray  blown  lightly  from  the  crested  wave 

To  glitter  in  the  sun, 
So  from  iny  heart  love  gave 

These  airy  fancies  to  the  eyes  of  a  beloved  one. 

But  who  shall  guess 
From  the  blown  foam  that  in  the  sunbeam  shines 

What  secret  stores  there  be 

Of  unsunn'd  sea? 

Ah !  how  much  less 
The  depths  of  what  I  feel  from  these  poor  broken  lines 

I  dedicate  to  thee ! 


II. REFLECTED    HEAVEN. 

The  mountain- tops  above  the  mist 

Like  summer  islands  lie — 
Now  we  together  both  were  blest 
If  thither  we  could  fly. 

And  you,  while  at 

Your  feet  I  sat, 
Would  gaze  into  the  skies; 

But  I  would  be 

Content  to  see 
Their  glory  in  your  eyes. 


III. — SUMMER    IN    WINTER, 

Winter  is  it?     Summer  splendour 

Never  was  so  fair  to  see ! — 
All  because  a  maiden  tender 

Gave  to-day  her  heart  to  me. 
Heaven  a  happy  lifetime  lend  her, 

Long,  and  from  all  evil  free ; 
For  the  graces  that  commend  her 

Make  her  life  the  life  of  me. 


IV. — LOVE   TEST. 

Lassie  wi'  the  face  sae  bonnie, 
An'  the  bricht  bewitchin'  ee, 

Is  there,  tell  me,  is- there  ony 
Danger  I  can  dare  for  thee? 


1830.J  From  the  Sicilian  of  Vicortai.  743 

That  I  lo'e  thee  thou  mayst  know  it, 

But  it's  hard  for  me  to  bear 
A'  my  love  till  I  can  show  it 

By  some  danger  I  maun  dare ! 


V. — THE   VIOLETS   GRAVE. 

The  woodland !     And  a  golden  wedge 
Of  sunshine  slipping  through ! 

And  there,  beside  a  bit  of  hedge, 
A  violet  so  blue ! 

So  tender  was  its  beauty,  and 

So  douce  and  sweet  its  air, 
I  stooped,  and  yet  withheld  my  hand, — 

Would  pluck,  and  yet  would  spare. 

Now  which  were  best? — for  spring  will  j 

And  vernal  beauty  fly — 
On  maiden's  breast  or  in  the  grass 

Where  would  you  choose  to  die? 


VI.— FELIX,    FELIX   TER   QUATERQUE 

Shout  and  sing,  ye  merry  voices 

Of  the  mountain-forest  free ! 
What,  but  late,  were  jarring  noises 

Now  as  music  are  to  me ! 
Earth  in  bridal  bloom  rejoices, 

Heaven  benignly  bends  to  see  ! 
He,  beloved  of  her  his  choice  is, 

Blest  of  all  the  boys  is  he  ! 
Blest  of  all  the  world  of  boys  is 

He  that's  telling  this  to  thee  ! 
Shout  and  sing,  ye  merry  voices  ! — 

Fill  the.  forest  with  your  glee  ! 


VII. — SUMMER   EVE. 

It  is  the  hour  when  all  things  rest: 
The  sun  sits  in  the  bannered  West 
And  looks  along  the  golden  street 
That  leads  o'er  ocean  to  his  feet. 

Sea-birds  with  summer  on  their  wing 
Down  the  wide  West  are  journeying, 
And  one  white  star  serenely  high 
Peeps  through  the  purple  of  the  sky. 


744 


From  the  Sicilian  of  VicortaL 

O  sky,  and  sea,  and  shore,  and  air, 
How  tranquil  are  ye  now,  and  fair ! 
But  twice  the  joy  ye  are  were  ye 
If  one  that's  dead  companioned  me. 


[Dec. 


VIII. — SERENADE. 

Awake,  "beloved !  it  is  the  hour 

When  earth  is  fairyland ; 
The  moon  looks  from  her  cloudy  bow'r, 

The  sea  sobs  on  the  sand. 
Our  steps  shall  be  by  the  dreaming  sea 

And  our  thoughts  shall  wander  far 
To  the  happy  clime  of  a  future  time 

In  a  new-created  star ! 

Arise,  my  fair !  a  strange  new  wind 

Comes  kindly  down  from  heaven; 
Its  fingers  round  my  forehead  bind 

A  chaplet  angel-given. 
I'll  sing  to  thee  of  the  dawns  to  be 

And  the  buds  that  yet  shall  blow 
In  the  happy  clime  of  a  future  time 

Which  only  the  angels  know  ! 


IX. — THE    FUGITIVES. 


Dear  love,  we  have  left  them  behind  us  ! 

Behind  us,  and  far  below ! 
They  will  search  a  month  ere  they  find  tis 

In  the  hill-wood  where  we  go. 

Listen !  .  .  .  that  is  the  voice  of  the  forest, 
It  is  whispering  us  words  of  cheer: 

Ah,  my  heart,  when  my  heart  was  sorest, 
Has  often  been  healed  up  here  ! 

Why  do  you  cling  to  me,  darling, 
And  bury  your  face  in  my  breast? 

You  may  well  be  at  ease  where  the  starling 
Has  grown  a  familiar  guest. 

The  forest  and  the  mountain 

And  I  are  old,  old  friends, 
And  the  wild  birds  and  the  fountain 

And  the  sky  that  over  them  bends ; 


1880.]  From  the  Sicilian  of  Vicortai.  745 

And  the  friends  of  my  youth  and  my  childhood, 

Thou  maiden  of  the  sea 
That  hidest  thy  face  in  the  wild  wood, — 

How  could  they  be  foes  to  thee  1 

Look  up,  my  own  heart  maiden  ! 

JSTo  foot  of  man  comes  here  ; 
'Tis  tenantless  as  Eden 

Throughout  the  tranquil  year  ! — 

But  I  am  nearly  forgetting 
'  Old  Philip  and  his  wife  : 
From  sunrise  to  sunsetting 
They  lead  a  simple  life. 

'Tis  sixty  years  since  he  brought  her 

To  share  his  board  and  bed ; 
And  they  had  a  son  and  a  daughter — 

But  she  is  long  since  dead. 

And  the  boy  became  a  soldier 

And  marched  to  the  wars  away  : 
And  the  old  couple  grow  still  older 

In  the  wood  here  where  they  stay. 

How  brightly  your  eyes  are  shining, 

And  but  the  trace  of  a  tear  ! 
With  your  cheek  on  my  arm  reclining, 

Dear  heart,  you  should  have  no  fear. 

They  sit  far  up  on  the  mountain 

Beside  their  clean-swept  hearth, 
Where  the  river  is  only  a  fountain 

And  heaven  is  nearer  than  earth. 

The  goodwife  knits  her  stocking, 

And  Philip  should  trap  the  game; 
But  he's  old,  so  the  birds  are  flocking 

And  the  blue  hares  are  quite  tame. 

The  mother  thinks  of  her  daughter 

And  her  hair  that  outshone  the  sun; 
But  Philip  dreams  of  slaughter, 

And  of  his  wayward  son. 

There  is  none,  you  know,  to  advise  her, 

Excepting  her  prejudiced  mate. 
Ah,  heaven !  the  mother  is  wiser 

As  love  is  better  than  hate. 


746  From  the  Sicilian  of  Vicortai. 

So  the  mother  knits  and  fondles 

In  fancy  the  flaxen  hair, 
While  Philip  a  sabre  handles, 

And  starts  in  his  sleep  in  his  chair. 

How  far  to  their  cottage  is  it? — 
A  good  hcyir's  climb,  I  should  say : 

Of  coarse,  we  must  pay  them  a  visit, 
And  they're  sure  to  ask  us  to  stay. 

So  now,  sweetheart,  if  you're  rested, 
We'll  farther  up  the  wood : 

Many  a  night  have  I  nested 
Here  in  the  solitude. 

It's  grand  in  the  wood  in  the  sunlight 
As  the  sunlight's  falling  now, 

But  I  like  it  too  when  the  wan  light 
Of  the  moon  is  on  each  bough. 

Look  back !   she  is  floating  yonder — 
I  saw  her  between  the  trees 

When  their  fringes  were  drawn  asunder 
By  the  fingers  of  the  breeze. 

How  naked  and  forsaken 

She  shrinks  through  the  blue  day-sky  ! 
At  night,  never  fear,  she'll  awaken 

And  lift  her  horn  on  high. 

Look  up  through  the  boles  before  us, 
And  the  long  clear  slanting  lines 

Where  the  light  that  shimmers  o'er  us 
Is  sifted  through  the  pines  ! 

It's  a  good  hour  yet  till  gloaming, 
And  theu  we've  Selene's  light; 

And  it's  pleasant  this  woodland  roaming 
In  search  of  a  home  for  the  night. 

Give  me  your  hand,  my  darling ! 

We're  safe  in  the  solitude; 
In  the  world  beneath  us  there's  snarling- 

There's  peace  in  the  mountain  wood. 


[Dec. 


1880.] 


Winter  Sports  and  Pleasures. 


747 


WINTER  SPORTS  AND  PLEASURES. 


THERE  is  a  luxury,  no  doubt,  in 
life  in  the  tropics ;  and  when  we  are 
shivering  in  our  English  damp 
and  fogs,  the  islands  of  the  South 
with  their  balm-scented  breezes  will 
flit  before  us  in  visions  of  the  earth- 
ly Paradise.  "We  are  alive  to  the 
charms  of  cloudless  skies;  of  the 
checkered  shadows  under  flowery 
groves  in  landscapes  lit  up  by  floods 
of  sunshine  ;  of  myriads  of  brilliant 
stars  reflected  in  sleeping  seas  land- 
locked within  reefs  of  coral.  We 
can  sympathise  with  the  feelings  of 
the  tempest- tossed  adventurers  who, 
after  beating  in  the  teeth  of  Atlan- 
tic gales  into  the  Unknown,  ex- 
changed the  decks  of  their  straining 
caravels  for  a  time  of  blissful  re- 
pose in  the  islands  of  "  the  Indies ; " 
as  we  can  imagine  those  seductive 
memories  of  the  Cytheiaean  Ota- 
heite  that  incited  the  mariners  of 
the  Bounty  to  their  memorable  deed 
of  violence.  But  the  tropical  Edens 
have  their  shady  sides  for  men  who 
have  been  bred  in  more  bracing  lati- 
tudes. It  is  all  very  well  for  the 
sensuous  aborigines  to  live  in  each 
glowing  hour  and  take  little  heed  of 
the  morrow;  to  gather  their  fruits 
from  the  boughs  within  reach  of  their 
hands;  to  dispense  with  clothing 
in  disregard  of  decency ;  to  swing 
their  hammocks  of  fibre  anywhere 
out  of  the  sun,  and  dream  away  the 
days  and  the  feverish  nights.  The 
life  must  pall  sooner  or  later  on 
men  with  whom  energy  is  inborn  ; 
the  heat  is  enervating,  and  saps  the 
strength,  which  is  the  source  of 
health,  good  spirits,  and  self-satis- 
faction ;  and  the  lotus-eating  immi- 
grants, after  a  time,  might  be  driven 
to  seek  refuge  from  weariness  in 
suicide. 

Englishmen  have  a  happy  knack 
of  adaptability,  and  can  acquit  them- 

VOL.  CXXVIII. — NO.  DCCLXXXII. 


selves  with  credit  under  most  con- 
ditions. They  made  the  fortune 
of  our  fervid  West  Indian  colonies 
with  their  own  before  the  abolition 
of  the  slave  trade  and  of  the  sugar 
duties.  They  have  conquered  an 
empire  in  Asia  and  kept  it,  in  spite 
of  the  relaxing  atmosphere  of  the 
plains  of  Hindostan,  where  they 
must  swelter  through  their  duties 
in  baking  cantonments  or  stifling 
courts  of  justice,  and  struggle  for 
a  troubled  sleep  under  punkahs. 
They  have  settled  Queenslands,  and 
Georgias,  and  Guianas,  with  many 
a  province  more  or  less  swampy  and 
sultry;  they  live,  as  they  make  up 
their  minds  occasionally  to  droop 
and  die  among  mud -banks,  man- 
groves, and  malaria,  at  the  mouths 
of  rivers  on  the  Gold  and  Grain 
coasts.  They  take  cheerfully  by 
battalions  and  batteries  to  scorch- 
ing rocks,  at  such  stations  as  Gib- 
raltar, Malta,  and  Aden,  which 
might  be  marked  on  an  ascending 
atmospheric  scale  as  hot,  hotter, 
hottest.  Nevertheless,  and  natu- 
rally, they  will  always  ehow  to 
more  advantage  in  the  least  genial 
of  latitudes.  We  have  nothing 
more  thrilling  in  the  national  an- 
nals— though  foreigners,  by  the  way, 
have  been  running  us  hard  of  late 
years,  as  the  Dutch  and  the  Scan- 
dinavians did  in  former  centuries — 
than  our  stories  of  arctic  adventure. 
We  see  the  hardy  navigator — an  am- 
phibious cross  between  the  bull-dog 
and  the  sand-fish,  with  the  tenacity 
of  the  one  and  the  dash  of  the  other 
— standing  out  into  the  polar  fogs 
and  ice-floes  in  the  bark  that  was 
but  a  cockle-shell  in  point  of  ton- 
nage. The  timbers  might  be  sea- 
soned oak,  and  the  rude  fastenings 
of  well-hammered  iron,  yet  a  casual 
nip  of  the  ice  must  crack  its  sides 

3E 


748 


Winter  Sports  and  Pleasures. 


[Dec. 


like  a  walnut-shell.  We  see  the 
rough  skipper  and  his  crew  clinging 
to  the  tiller  and  the  frozen  shrouds, 
in  seas  that  sweep  the  deck  from 
stem  to  stern,  and  weather  that 
would  tear  any  canvas  into  ribbons. 
In  the  safe  little  sea-boat,  that  is 
slow  at  the  best  under  sail,  they 
have  to  bide  their  time  and  possess 
their  souls  in  patience  as  they  lie 
becalmed  under  the  lee  of  the  ice- 
cliffs,  or  dodge  the  set  of  the  ice- 
packs. There  was  scarcely  room  to 
"  swing  a  cat "  in  the  tiny  cabin 
that  just  served  as  a  refuge.  Over- 
tasked and  short-handed  as  they 
were,  they  had  often  to  turn  in 
"  all  standing,"  ready  to  answer  the 
boatswain's  call  at  a  moment's  no- 
tice ;  and  they  expected  the  inevit- 
able arrival  of  the  scurvy  on  salt 
junk,  weevilly  ship-biscuit,  and  new 
rum.  Preserved  meats  and  lime- 
juice  were  as  yet  undreamt  of;  and 
their  medicine  and  luxury  was  the 
quid  of  tobacco,  at  once  the  best  of 
sedatives  and  stimulants.  It  is  a 
long  stride  from  those  forlorn-hopes 
of  adventure  to  the  well-found  and 
strongly  -  manned  expeditions  we 
have  lately  been  sending  out  to 
the  Pole.  But  even  with  all  the 
appliances  that  science  and  ex- 
perience can  suggest  or  liberality 
supply,  the  lives  of  arctic  explor- 
ers must  be  trying  at  the  best; 
and  the  soundest  constitutions  are 
strained  if  not  shattered.  Yet  the 
only  difficulty  in  finding  the  crews 
is  the  picking  and  choosing  in  the 
crush  of  volunteers ;  and  cheerful- 
ness under  perfect  discipline  does 
its  best  to  command  success,  though 
the  sole  distractions  out  of  doors 
through  the  long  dark  winter,  are 
constitutionals  along  the  snow- 
paths  kept  clear  to  the  "observa- 
tory," or  sledging  -  parties  carried 
out  with  heroic  resolution. 

For  when  you  change  passive  en- 
durance into  a  grapple  with  diffi- 
culties, the  spirit  will  rise  irrepres- 


sibly  to  meet  them.  "We  have  tra- 
vellers wrapped  in  the  casings  of 
furs  and  woollens  they  dare  not  cast, 
facing  the  frozen  blasts  on  the 
steppes  of  Tartary,  or  scrambling 
up  the  highest  passes  in  our  hemi- 
sphere— those  gutter -pipes  which 
drain  the  "  Roof  of  the  World." 

We  can  recall  a  dozen  stories 
of  recent  winter -travelling  adven- 
tures, where  we  may  be  sure  that 
the  pleasures  predominated  over 
the  pains,  though  the  adventurers, 
who  were  gently  born  and  bred, 
must  have  suffered  as  intensely  as- 
they  endured  doggedly.  Such  as 
Lord  Milton  and  Dr  Cbeadle  hew- 
ing their  way,  with  "  Mr  and  Mrs 
Assineboine,"  through  the  precipi- 
tous forests  on  the  banks  of  the 
Fraser  River ;  Major  Butler  likewise 
setting  his  face  to  the  westward 
across  "The  Great  Lone  Land;" 
Mr  Andrew  Wilson  carried  as  an 
invalid  on  a  litter,  along  slate-cor- 
nices on  precipices  under  the  hang- 
ing snow-masses  in  the  Himalayan 
"  Abode  of  Snow ; "  or  Major  Bur- 
naby,  in  his  ride  to  Khiva  in  the 
cold  that  was  almost  too  much  for 
his  Cossack  guides. 

What  go  far  towards  nerving 
the  men  of  the  North  to  the  enjoy- 
ment of  their  winters,  or  of  arctic 
weather,  are  the  pleasures  of  hope 
and  of  contrast.  Even  the  employes 
of  the  Hudson  Bay  Company  have 
the  prospect  of  basking  through 
their  long  summer  day ;  and  the 
hardiest  of  us  would  scarcely  care 
to  cast  in  our  lot  for  life  with  the 
Esquimaux.  Shaw  and  Forsyth, 
and  the  travellers  who  have  crossed 
the  Hindu  Kush,  looked  forward  to 
a  welcome  in  the  Vale  of  Kashmir, 
or  in  the  rich  vegetation  that  en- 
circles Kashgar,  sacred  to  the 
admirers  of  the  Arabian  Nights ; 
while  Burnaby,  when  he  had  left 
the  steppes  behind  him,  drew 
bridle  among  the  gardens  and 
pomegranate-groves  of  the  Kliivan 


1880.] 


Winter  Sports  and  Pleasures. 


749 


canals.  Tourists  in  Europe  have 
experienced  delights  of  the  kind 
when,  after  the  damp  and  gloom  of 
a  raw  Eoman  winter,  they  have 
taken  their  first  spring  rides  in  the 
Campagna,  when  it  was  bursting 
almost  before  their  eyes  into  one 
vivid  blush  of  violets ;  or  when, 
after  a  long  day  and  night  passed 
in  the  old-fashioned  diligence  in 
the  frozen  wind  on  the  heights  of 
the  Morena,  they  have  rubbed 
their  eyes,  with  the  break  of  dawn, 
among  the  fountains  and  orange- 
trees  of  sunny  Cordova.  A  balmy 
breath  of  spring  in  winter  is  sooth- 
ingly refreshing  as  an  oasis  in  the 
desert.  But  comparatively  very 
little  heat  goes  a  long  way  with 
most  Englishmen  ;  and  in  a  really 
tropical  climate  they  generally  feel 
at  their  worst.  Even  an  unusually 
warm  summer  in  England  makes 
the  life  of  too  many  of  our  fellow- 
creatures  a  melancholy  spectacle, 
till  they  begin  to  pick  up  again 
with  the  shortening  days. 

Very  different  it  is  in  the  begin- 
nings of  "  our  old-fashioned  Eng- 
lish winter"  with  men  who  have 
wealth,  health,  and  strength  in 
moderation  !  We  believe  it  is  the 
lightness  of  feeling,  following  on 
the  first  steady  fall  of  the  tempera- 
ture below  the  freezing-point,  that 
explains  those  effusive  rhapsodies 
on  "  seasonable  "  jollity  which  char- 
acterise our  popular  Christmas  lite- 
rature. We  are  really  in  excellent 
spirits,  and  perhaps  the  bracing  air 
has  gone  to  our  heads.  We  see 
everything  not  precisely  in  couleur 
de  rose,  but  in  the  dazzling  radiancy 
of  sparkling  frost,  and  are  in  the 
humour  to  listen  to  absurdities  and 
sentimentalities  as  sound  enough 
sense  to  be  fitting  to  the  time  of 
year.  But  it  is  the  modern  school 
of  Christmas  writers  who  are  be- 
come sickly,  stilted,  and  sentimen- 
tal ;  and  for  that  Dickens  is  chiefly 
responsible.  He  began  so  admira- 


bly in  a  flow  of  natural  humour  and 
pathos,  that  he  was  encouraged  to 
parody  himself,  and  so  the  pictu- 
resqueness  of  '  Pickwick '  and  the 
city  idyl  of  the  '  Christmas  Carol ' 
came  down  to  the  level  of  the  lat- 
est of  his  Christmas  annuals.  But 
the  early  Christmas  pictures  by  mas- 
ters of  genius  must  touch  sympa- 
thetic chords  in  every  bosom,  and 
make  misery  itself  often  feel  sadly 
mirthful  in  memory  of  the  frolics 
of  happier  times.  Without  going 
further  back  in  our  literature,  take 
Scott's  famous  introduction  to  the 
sixth  canto  of  '  Marmion ' — 

"Heap   on  more  wood!  —  the  wind  is 

chill ; 

But  let  it  whistle  as  it  will, 
We'll  keep  our  Christmas  merry  still." 

The  ring  of  the  metre  sounds  like 
the  church  bells  to  a  devotee,  or 
the  dinner-gong  to  a  hungry  man. 
What  a  striking  picture  of  the 
kindly  joviality  that  levels  ranks 
and  sets  a  truce  to  cares !  The 
baron's  hall,  where  the  flames  from 
the  great  log-fire  that  went  roaring 
and  crackling  up  the  vast  chimney, 
flashed  their  light  on  merry  faces 
and  burnished  flagons.  The  stately 
baron  in  the  chimney-corner,  un- 
bending for  once ;  the  "  heir  with 
roses  in  his  shoes,"  flirting  with 
village  maiden  with  redder  roses 
in  her  cheeks ;  the  boar's  head, 
bedecked  with  bays  and  rose- 
maries, grinning  on  the  festal 
board  among  sirloins  and  huge 
bickers  of  plum-porridge,  and  was- 
sail-bowls bobbing  with  the  roasted 
crabs;  the  tales  of  the  hunting- 
field  by  flood  and  fell ;  the  stories 
of  venerable,  time  -  honoured  su- 
perstitions that  made  the  hearers 
shudder  even  in  that  merry  crowd ; 
the  mumming,  the  singing,  the 
laughing,  and  the  dancing,  while 
the  winds  that  howled  and  whistled 
through  the  trees  and  the  loopholes 
in  the  battlements,  drove  the  smoke- 


750 


Winter  Sports  and  Pleasures. 


[Dec. 


wreaths  "back  again  down  the  chim- 
ney, and  scattered  the  sparks  from 
the  blazing  roots.  Little  recked 
kinsmen,  tenants,  and  cottagers,  of 
trifling  inconveniences  like  these, 
in  those  Christmas  gambols  that 

"  Could  cheer 

The  poor  man's  heart  through  half  the 
year." 

Some  centuries  later,  and  in  '  Brace- 
bridge  Hall,'  we  see  how  our  old 
English  fashion  of  keeping  Christ- 
mas impressed  a  sympathetic  Amer- 
ican. The  New  Englanders,  as  Mrs 
Beecher  Stowe  shows  in  her  '  Pog- 
anuc  People,'  have  a  pretty  notion 
of  perpetuating  those  traditions 
that  were  carried  over  the  Atlantic 
in  the  Mayflower,  although  the 
early  Pilgrim  Fathers  were  Puri- 
tans. But  in  a  new  country,  with 
the  go-ahead  energy  that  has  grubbed 
the  forests  and  split  the  trees  into 
shingles;  with  its  practically-mind- 
ed men  and  its  hard  utilitarianism, 
its  brand-new  buildings  and  its 
bald-faced  meeting-houses,  the  as- 
sociations must  be  lacking  that  give 
the  season  its  solemnity.  There  are 
no  old  squires  and  old  Master 
Simons ;  no  old  blue-coated  serving- 
men  bred  under  the  roof-tree  of  the 
hall;  no  old  polished  mahogany 
dining  -  tables,  or  old  family  por- 
traits whose  burnished  frames  are 
brightened  up  for  the  occasion  with 
misletoe  and  holly-berries ;  no  cel- 
lars of  rare  old  wines  and  ales  that 
flow  at  the  festal  Christmas-tide  like 
water ;  above  all,  no  quaint  old 
Norman  church,  where  the  pews  of 
oak  and  the  medieval  monuments 
have  been  as  yet  undesecrated  by 
the  sesthetic  restorer.  Then  Dick- 
ens popularised  the  Bracebridge 
Halls — we  will  not  say  that  he 
vulgarised  them — in  his  delightful 
sketches  of  the  Manor  Farm.  For 
though  we  fancy  "  the  fine  old 
host"  dropped  his  /i's,  though  he 
welcomed  that  very  rough  diamond, 


the  inimitable  Bob  Sawyer,  as  a 
familiar  friend,  and  extended  his 
hospitalities  to  a  seedy  strolling 
actor  like  Jingle,  —  nevertheless 
the  Manor  Farm  must  live  in  the 
memories  of  Englishmen  and  their 
descendants  in  stvcula  sceculorum. 
We  cordially  echo  the  hearty  senti- 
ment of  Mr  Weller :  "  Your  mas- 
ter's a  wery  pretty  notion  of  keepin' 
everything  up,  my  dear.  I  never 
see  such  a  sensible  man  as  he  is, 
or  such  a  reg'lar  gen'l'm'n ; "  as  we 
assent  to  the  grateful  utterance  of 
Mr  Pickwick,  when  sitting  down 
"  by  the  huge  fire  of  logs,  to  a  sub- 
stantial supper  and  a  mighty  bowl 
of  wassail " — "  this  is  indeed  com- 
fort." 

But  the  whole  of  the  winter 
sketches,  of  which  that  supper  on 
Christmas  Eve  is  but  one  in  a  series, 
are  as  delightful  as  they  are  charac- 
teristic of  manners  that  are  depart- 
ing. The  drive  along  the  frost- 
bound  roads  on  the  outside  of  the 
Muggleton  mail,  after  the  cod-fish 
and  the  barrels  of  oysters  had  been 
forced  into  the  gaping  fore  -  boot ; 
the  change  of  horses  at  the  inn  in 
the  market- town — it  was  only  a  slow 
coach,  we  must  remember — when 
Mr  Pickwick  and  Mr  Tupman  came 
so  near  being  left  behind,  when 
they  had  run  up  the  yard  to 
fresh  themselves  at  the  tap ;  the 
walk  along  the  frozen  lanes  to  the 
farm ;  the  meeting  with  the  house- 
party,  the  reception,  the  supper, 
the  rubbers,  and  the  hot  elder-wine 
to  follow;  the  wedding  next  day, 
and  the  breakfast  that  sent  the 
poor  relations  to  bed.  Of  course 
there  is  a  dash  of  Christmas  romance 
in  the  pretty  fancy  that  elderly 
gentlemen  fresh  from  town  could 
hold  out  through  the  rustic  hos- 
pitality of  the  farm,  and  rise  each 
successive  morning  all  the  brisker 
and  the  brighter  for  it.  We  should 
surmise  that  Mr  Pickwick  must 
have  been  troubled  by  nightmares 


1830.] 


Winter  Sports  and  Pleasures. 


751 


after  those  late  and  heavy  suppers ; 
while  Mr  Tupman  was  the  very  sub- 
ject for  flying  twinges  of  the  gout. 
But  there  can  he  no  question  that, 
for  keeping  dyspepsia  at  bay,  there 
is  nothing  like  country  life  and 
jovial  company  at  a  time  when  you 
feel  bound  to  feast  and  make  merry ; 
and  there  are  charmingly  natural 
touches  in  that  scene  on  the  ice 
which  preceded  Mr  Pickwick's  im- 
mersion in  the  pond.  It  is  a  rough 
English  translation  of  the  hearty 
communion  of  a  Scottish  curling- 
match.  Old  men  become  boys  again 
in  the  biting  air,  and  take  to  frol- 
icking like  cart-horses  turned  out 
in  a  meadow.  "  Ceremony  doffs  her 
pride"  at  the  Manor  Farm  as  in 
the  baronial  hall ;  and  there  are 
old  "Wardle  and  the  fat  boy,  Mr 
Pickwick  and  his  faithful  Sam, 
Messrs  Snodgrass,  Sawyer,  Winkle, 
&c.,  all  "keepin'  the  pot  a-bilin'," 
and  following  each  other  along  the 
slide  as  if  their  very  lives  depend- 
ed on  it. 

Such  bright  winter  pictures  have, 
of  course,  their  sombre  side.  You 
tumble  out  of  bed  to  see  the  coun- 
try covered  with  a  dazzling  mantle. 
Every  twig  and  slender  spray  is 
enveloped  in  icy  tracery.  There 
are  festoons  of  icicles  depending 
from  the  window  -  sashes,  and  the 
panes  are  interlaced  with  a  delicate 
fretwork  that  may  shame  those 
masterpieces  of  Moorish  art  that  are 
still  the  marvels  of  the  connoisseur. 
Sparkling  in  the  cold  sunshine,  it 
all  looks  cheerful  enough  as  you 
contemplate  it  from  a  comfortably 
warmed  room,  unless,  indeed,  your 
soul  be  set  upon  hunting,  and  your 
horses  are  fretting  in  their  stalls. 
But  even  in  the  country  your 
pleasures  may  be  dashed  by  re- 
minders of  the  existence  of  suffer- 
ing. There  goes  a  thinly  -  clad 
urchin  under  the  windows,  shrug- 
ging his  shoulders  together,  and 
blowing  upon  his  frost-nipped  fin- 


gers. The  birds  are  gathered  into 
ragged  balls  on  the  boughs ;  the 
blackbirds  and  starlings  are  hop- 
ping gingerly  about  on  the  lawn, 
like  so  many  jackdaws  of  Eheims, 
blighted  under  the  ban  of  the 
church ;  the  very  tomtits  seem 
limp  and  depressed ;  while  the 
robins,  pressed  by  the  cravings  of 
appetite,  come  almost  tapping  at 
the  windows  as  they  ask  for  their 
crumbs.  After  all,  it  may  be  hoped 
that  the  sufferings  of  those  country 
creatures  are  nothing  worse  than 
may  be  endured  and  soon  forgotten. 
These  birds  will  be  fed  from  the 
breakfast-room  windows,  and  there 
are  still  hips  and  haws  in  the 
hedgerows  for  their  fellows.  The 
boy  has  had  a  morning  meal  before 
turning  out  of  his  cottage,  and 
there  are  worse  maladies  in  the 
world  than  chilblains,  while  exer- 
cise will  set  youthful  blood  in  cir- 
culation. But  your  thoughts  travel 
away  to  the  poor  in  the  great  towns, 
who  must  rise  to  fireless  hearths 
and  shiver  on  short  commons.  After 
all,  such  sufferings,  like  the  poor 
themselves,  will  be  always  with  us, 
and  in  winter  time  the  souls  of  the 
well  -  conditioned  must  be  excep- 
tionally open  to  melting  charity. 
If  you  cannot  help  being  bright  and 
cheery  yourself,  you  feel  the  more 
bound  to  consider  your  less  fortu- 
nate fellow -mortals.  Christopher 
North  put  it  very  neatly  and  truly 
in  one  of  the  '  Noctes '  for  this 
month  of  December.  He  had  been 
eulogising  winter,  more  suo,  over  a 
blazing  fire  before  the  well-spread 
board  in  the  blue  parlour  at  Am- 
brose's ;  and  the  Shepherd  had 
been  chiming  in  with  the  praises  of 
cold  and  curling, — beef  and  greens. 
Tickler,  sitting  in  moody  reserve, 
strikes  a  dissonant  note.  "  This 
outrageous  merriment  grates  my 
spirits.  'Twill  be  a  severe  winter, 
and  I  think  of  the  poor."  North 
answers — "  Are  not  wages  good  and 


752 


Winter  Sports  and  Pleasures. 


[Dec. 


work  plenty,  and  is  not  charity  a 
British  virtue  ?  "  And  we  trust 
that,  in  this  season  of  1880,  we  may 
write  a  cheerful  article  on  winter 
pleasures  without  feeling  sympa- 
thies or  conscience  unduly  weighted. 
We  hope  that  work  will  be  plenty 
and  wages  good,  for  trade  is  stead- 
ily, if  slowly,  reviving,  and  the  use- 
ful virtues  of  providence  and  tem- 
perance have  heen  growing  with 
the  working  classes  since  1825. 
Charity  is  still  a  British  virtue ; 
while  institutions  that  were  then 
unthought  of  have  been  founded, 
and  the  organisation  of  dispassion- 
ate relief  has  been  indefinitely  ex- 
tended. We  remember,  for  our 
comfort  too,  as  a  fact  incontestably 
established  by  statistics,  that  cold 
is  far  less  destructive  than  damp  to 
life  and  consequently  to  health ; 
and  '  in  the  fitful  climates  of  an 
English  winter,  we  can  have  but 
the  choice  between  the  one  and  the 
other.  So  let  the  readers  of  '  Maga ' 
be  free-handed  with  their  cheque- 
books and  their  purses,  and  they 
may  give  themselves  over  with  easy 
minds  to  the  joys  and  the  buoy- 
ancy inspired  by  the  season. 

Even  in  the  metropolis,  setting 
the  chances  of  accidents  aside,  a 
hard  winter  may  not  be  altogether 
unexciting.  There  is  always  some- 
thing impressive  in  gatherings  in  a 
great  city  under  circumstances  that 
are  at  once  picturesque  and  unfa- 
miliar. Last  winter  we  came  very 
near  to  witnessing  a  repetition  of 
those  grand  historical  fetes  of  the 
Ice-king,  when  fairs  were  held  on 
the  frozen  Thames,  and  oxen  roasted 
whole  were  washed  down  from  flow- 
ing hogsheads.  Had  it  not  been 
for  the  works  of  the  Thames  Em- 
bankment, the  brackish  tide  might 
have  been  bound  in  iron  fetters. 
We  missed  that  stirring  spectacle 
by  a  hair's-breadth  ;  but  before  now 
we  have  seen  skating  on  the  Ser- 
pentine by  torch-light,  when  a  Lon- 


don feast  of  lanterns  seemed  in 
course  of  celebration  between  Al- 
bert Gate  and  Kensington  Gardens. 
The  wolves  and  hyaenas  were  dis- 
porting themselves  with  the  lambs 
— or,  in  other  words,  the  hordes  of 
roughs  from  the  east  were  mingling 
amicably  with  shop-lads  and  decent 
artisans  and  gay  young  gentlemen 
from  the  clubs  of  the  west.  The 
police  mustered  strong  in  case  of 
need,  but  what  were  the  scattered 
members  of  the  blue-coated  force 
among  so  many  ?  There  were  noise 
and  horse-play,  and  boisterous  mer- 
riment; and  we  do  not  say  that 
pockets  were  not  lightened  here 
and  there,  or  some  differences  set- 
tled by  interchange  of  fisticuffs. 
But  on  the  whole  it  was  a  gay  and 
a  good-humoured  mob ;  and  even 
the  ladies  who  ventured  out  upon 
the  side  walks  could  admire  the 
humours  of  the  night  without  much 
risk  of  insult.  A  whole  school  of 
Rembrandts  and  Schalkens  would 
have  found  endless  subjects  for  their 
brushes.  The  bands  of  skaters 
skimming  along  in  open  order,  and 
the  hockey -players,  swaying  blaz- 
ing torches  overhead,  leaving  the 
splashes  of  flaming  resin  in  waving 
beauty-lines  behind  them,  till  the  air 
and  ice  seemed  to  be  studded  with 
flights  of  Brobdingnagian  fire-flies  ; 
the  illuminated  circles  and  the 
fiery  crescents,  where  a  space  had 
been  cleared  for  the  graceful  evolu- 
tions of  amateurs  surrounded  by 
admiring  spectators  ;  the  girdling 
rings  of  carriage-lamps  along  the 
drives ;  the  rows  of  chairs  and 
tables,  with  their  constellations  of 
candles,  where  skates  were  being 
strapped  on  or  stripped  off;  the 
glowing  stoves  of  the  hot-chestnut 
sellers  and  baked-potato  men ;  the 
horn  lanterns  on  the  roving  wheel- 
barrows, with  oranges  and  apples 
and  lighter  refreshments ;  the 
cracking  of  vesuvians  and  kindling 
of  pipes;  the  reddening  cigar-tips 


1880.] 


Winter  Sports  and  Pleasures. 


753 


circulating  in  their  myriads ;  the 
reflection  of  the  flickering  volumes 
of  light  cast  faintly  and  fitfully  in 
the  floating  fogs, — all  made  up  a 
strange  carnival  of  fire,  to  the  crash 
of  many  kinds  of  Cockney  music, 
from  brass  bands  and  barrel-organs 
to  accordions  and  concertinas. 

It  is  but  a  night  ticket  taken  at 
King's  Cross  or  Euston  Square,  and 
we  shift  the  scene  to  the  north  of 
the  Border.  You  roll  out  of  the 
berth  in  the  "Pullman,"  or  shake 
yourself  clear  of  your  wrappings  to 
contemplate  the  December  morning 
breaking  on  the  sea  or  the  land- 
ward wastes.  Sea  blends  with  sky 
and  vapour  with  dull  grey  fallow,  till 
you  can  hardly  tell  where  one  be- 
gins or  the  other  ends.  But  there 
are  bright  streaks  in  the  reddening 
horizon  to  the  west,  which  slowly 
break  into  golden  bars,  and  then  the 
disc  of  the  ruddy  orb  of  light  rises 
in  all  the  promise  of  his  frigid 
glories.  It  is  in  the  assurance  of 
a  life-giving  winter  day  that  you 
hear  the  hoar-frost  crackle  under 
your  chilly  feet  on  the  railway  plat- 
form. The  double  dogcart  is  in 
waiting  with  the  roughed  horses : 
strip  their  warm  clothing,  and  give 
them  their  heads.  They  spring 
forward,  rattling  the  pole -chains, 
breathing  smoke  if  not  flame  from 
their  nostrils  like  the  swifter  cours- 
ers of  the  sun  overhead ;  and  far 
and  near  may  be  heard  the  echo  of 
their  hoofs  as  they  rattle,  regardless 
of  their  back  .sinews,  along  the  iron 
roads.  For  the  black  frost  has  laid 
a  veto  on  field-labour,  and  most  of 
mankind  who  work  out  of  doors 
must  take  a  holiday  perforce.  The 
ploughshare  is  frozen  fast  in  the 
crisp  furrow  ;  the  ditcher  might 
splinter  the  point  of  his  pickaxe 
before"  doing  another  yard  of  his 
drain ;  the  farm  pond  must  be 
broken  to  let  the  animals  drink ; 
and  as  the  partridges  have  gathered 
to  the  shelter  of  the  rick-yards,  so 


the  snipes  and  every  species  of 
wild-fowl  have  taken  to  the  shrunk- 
en rills  of  slow  trickling  water. 

It  is  an  involuntary  holiday ; 
but  is  the  parish  to  stand  idle  on 
that  account,  or  draw  chairs  and 
stools  into  the  ingle-nook  to  gossip 
and  doze  and  keep  the  fireplace 
warm?  Not  a  bit  of  it !  It  is  not 
every  day  that  the  canny  Scotchman 
has  the  chance  of  giving  himself 
over  to  enjoyment  with  a  clear  con- 
science. Dreepdaily  has  challenged 
Bodencleuch  to  a  curling  -  match ; 
and  already  the  players,  with  an 
admiring  tail,  are  striding  forward 
over  hill  and  moor,  from  all  the 
airts,  to  the  trysting- place.  The 
laird,  hospitable  as  he  is,  somewhat 
hurries  you,  nevertheless,  over  a 
hearty  Scotch  breakfast ;  for  he  is 
to  act  skip  or  headman  himself  for 
his  players  of  Bodencleuch,  while 
the  stalwart  schoolmaster  from  over 
the  march,  discharges  a  similar 
office  for  the  men  of  Dreepdaily. 
A  sharp  walk  through  the  policies 
and  past  the  kirk  takes  you  to  the 
curling-pond.  It  is  a  merry  scene, 
set  in  a  frame  of  silver,  that  you 
look  down  upon  from  the  angle  of 
the  path  that  leads  over  the  brae 
from  the  kirk-style.  The  pond  lies 
in  a  hollow,  at  the  foot  of  a  broomy 
knowe,  that  in  the  fresh  fragrance 
of  the  spring  is  covered  with  yellow 
blossoms.  Now  all  nature  is  as 
deathlike  as  well  may  be.  Every- 
thing below  and  around  is  clothed 
with  a  chilly  winding-sheet,  stretch- 
ing under  the  steel-blue  glitter  of 
an  almost  cloudless  sky.  But  long 
before,  you  had  heard  the  clamour 
of  voices  sounding  deep  and  shrill 
in  the  rarefied  atmosphere,  and  now 
you  look  down  on  such  a  gathering 
of  rural  worthies  as  Burns  might 
have  sung  or  Wilkie  painted.  A 
burst  of  welcome  greets  the  laird 
and  his  friends,  followed  by  a  re- 
spectful though  a  momentary  hush. 
Place  for  the  kirk,  and  there  is  the 


754 


Winter  Sports  and  Pleasures. 


[Dec. 


parish  minister,  and  likewise  his 
reverend  brother  of  the  Free  per- 
suasion ;  and  there  is  the  stout 
schoolmaster  of  Dreepdaily,  famed 
as  a  curler  far  and  near,  who  dwarfs 
his  "  shilpit "  but  enorgetic  compeer 
ofBodencleuch.  The  minister's  man, 
who  is  likewise  precentor,  will  soon 
have  an  opportunity  of  showing 
that  his  sonorous  bass  is  good  for 
other  things  than  pitching  psalm- 
tunes  ;  for  it  is  not  for  nothing  that 
"  the  curling "  is  known  as  the 
"  roaring  game."  There  are  farmers 
who  cultivate  and  graze  their  500 
acres ;  and  crofters  who  club  with 
a  neighbour  to  hitch  up  a  single 
"  pair  of  horse."  There  are  keepers 
from  the  hill,  and  woodmen  from 
the  plantations  ;  cottagers  who  get 
their  living  among  the  dikes  and 
the  ditches ;  "  mason  lads  "  who 
have  been  frozen  out  of  their  work  ; 
the  tailor  who  has  slipped  from  his 
board,  the  shoemaker  who  has  cast 
his  apron  behind  him,  and  the 
smith  who  has  been  lured  away 
from  his  forge,  though  they  might 
all  have  been  following  their  indoor 
avocations.  There  are  poachers  and 
village  scant  -  o  -  graces,  somewhat 
shamefaced,  and  in  the  meantime 
on  their  best  behaviour,  but  feeling 
that  the  occasion  brings  them  tem- 
porary absolution;  and  herd -boys 
and  "  hafflin'  callants,"  and  id  genus 
omne.  Seldom  elsewhere  will  you 
see  such  a  meeting  of  folks  of  many 
ages,  and  ranks,  and  creeds,  and 
callings,  meeting  for  once  on  a 
footing  of  the  most  fraternal  equal- 
ity, and  indulging  in  the  fullest  lib- 
erty of  joviality,  without  forgetting 
good  manners  and  mutual  regard. 

But  if  the  assembly  struck  you 
as  being  somewhat  boisterous  in 
the  morning,  you  ought  to  see  and 
hear  it  in  the  afternoon.  The 
well-pitted  sides  are  bringing  the 
match  to  a  close  in  the  lengthen- 
ing shadows  of  the  surrounding 
hills,  and  excitement  has  risen  to 


fever-height.  The  dull  roar  of  the 
curling-stones  on  the  keen  ice  is 
accompanied  by  the  frenzied  shouts 
of  the  partisans  as  some  shot  of 
great  moment  is  being  played.  Re- 
spectable fathers  of  families,  and 
kirk-elders  to  boot,  are  dancing  as 
if  they  were  on  hot  girdles,  and 
possessed  by  demons.  The  stone 
delivered,  or,  rather,  barely  dropped, 
from  the  strong  arm  of  Sandy  the 
smith,  is  gliding  forward  on  its  fate- 
ful mission.  "  Soop  her  up  !  soop 
her  up!"  "Na,  na;  let  abee ! 
let  abee  ! "  The  brooms  are  being 
flourished  over  the  shapely  brown 
boulder  from  the  Burnock  Water, 
by  fingers  that  burn  to  lend  it  legs. 
and  direction.  The  voice  of  the 
skip  dominates  all :  "  Leave  alane  ! 
leave  alane,  will  ye?  She's  a* 
there,  right  enough ! "  And  sud- 
denly, as  the  stone  has  skirted  the 
very  edge  of  one  of  the  enemy's 
surest  guards,  a  tremulous  move- 
ment is  to  be  detected  in  the 
handle.  The  crafty  player,  with 
a  dexterous  turn  of  the  wrist,  has 
communicated  the  hitherto  imper- 
ceptible "side."  The  stone,  in  a 
graceful  parabola,  curls  gently  in- 
wards, takes  an  "  inwick "  off  the 
inner  edge  of  another,  and  circles 
in  to  lie  "  a  pot-lid  "  on  the  very 
tee.  "What  yells  of  applause  and 
triumph  rend  the  air  !  "  Shift  that 
if  ye  can,  my  lads  ! "  shouts  Boden- 
cleuch  in  friendly  mockery ;  while 
Dreepdaily  chafes  and  rages  in  wild 
but  impotent  disgust.  That  great 
shot  of  the  smith's  has  decided  the 
"  end  "  and  the  game  ;  for  in  vain 
does  the  schoolmaster  —  with  the 
laird  following  to  neutralise  his 
play, — try  to  break  a  way  to  that 
winning  stone  through  the  advanc- 
ed-guards of  Bodencleuch. 

The  smith  has  his  meed  of  praise 
in  the  meantime;  and  he  will  have 
added  a  cubit  or  more  to  his  moral 
stature  when  hishealth  is  drunk  with 
all  the  honours,  at  the  curling  supper 


1830.] 


Winter  Sports  and  Pleasures. 


755 


in  the  evening.  A  grand  festivity 
that  supper  is,  -which  might  glad- 
den the  soul  of  any  epicure  who 
came  to  it  with  a  curler's  appetite 
and  digestion.  "  Beef  and  greens ; 
Oh,  Mr  North,  beef  and  greens  ! " 
ejaculated  the  Ettrick  Shepherd,  in 
a  rapture  of  joyous  retrospect.  And 
what  spreads  these  are  to  sturdy 
and  hungry  men,  who  perhaps  sel- 
dom taste  butchers'  meat  from  one 
week's  end  to  the  other  !  When  it 
is  cut  and  come  again  as  the  huge 
carving-knife  heaps  the  steaming 
platters  with  Gargantuan  slices 
embosomed,  like  the  curling-ponds 
in  summer,  in  circling  hills  of 
green ;  when  the  kettles  are  sing- 
ing on  the  hob ;  when  the  square 
case-bottles  of  mountain -dew  are 
revolving  swiftly  round  the  table, 
and  the  smoking  tumblers  are  being 
drained  to  song  and  speech,  and 
jest  and  story.  What  matter  that 
the  jokes  are  old  1  Like  the  straw- 
coloured  spirits,  they  are  all  the 
better  for  that.  Temperance  may 
be  an  admirable  virtue  in  the  ab- 
stract, but  away  with  such  hetero- 
doxy as  total  abstinence.  No  man 
would  set  his  face  against  it  more 
stoutly  than  the  minister,  whose 
presence  is  sanctifying  the  mirth 
as  he  has  blessed  the  bountiful 
meal.  How  can  a  group  of  men, 
who,  though  they  have  frames  of 
iron,  are  pleasantly  wearied  with 
healthful  exercise,  be  "a  hair  the 
waur "  for  drinking  in  moderation  1 
Say  their  own  spirits  are  a  trifle 
elevated  when  they  go  home,  the 
very  good  wives  will  scarcely  gloom 
at  them  once  in  a  way;  and  the 
fostering  of  good-fellowship  and 
neighbourly  feelings  must  be  a  clear 
and  positive  gain  in  any  case.  It 
is  not  the  jovial  curlers  who  will 
say  no  to  that,  as  they  sing  "  Auld 
acquaintance,"  with  arms  crossed 
and  hands  linked,  when  breaking 
up  before  any  of  them  have  overtly 
exceeded. 


From  curling  to  cock- shooting, 
in  the  alliterative  point  of  view,  is 
a  natural  transition.  While  the 
curling  -  ponds  in  the  east  and 
south  have  been  bearing  for  many 
days,  the  fresh  water  in  the  milder 
climate  of  the  west  coast  is  still 
rippling  to  each  gentle  breeze.  But 
while  the  curling  sports  are  still 
in  full  swing,  a  letter  reaches  you 
from  Argyllshire  by  agreement. 
The  frost  has  come  at  last,  and  in 
earnest,  and  the  cocks  will  be  fol- 
lowing it  in  flights.  Already  their 
harbingers  are  scattering  about  in 
many  a  hanging  copse  and  many 
a  corrie  on  the  heather  braes.  And 
one  fine  morning  a  select  party 
of  friends,  gaitered  and  shooting- 
booted,  is  sitting  down  to  an  early 
repast  in  a  lonely  shooting-lodge  on 
the  shores  of  Loch  Fyne.  A  lonely 
lodge  we  say ;  and  indeed  the  sole 
drawback  to  the  spot  is  the  dif- 
ficulty of  finding  beaters  in  that 
romantic  wilderness.  However,  the 
old  keeper  has  done  his  best,  and 
has  mustered,  by  hook  or  crook, 
half-a-dozen  of  ill-matched  mortals, 
from  a  leggy,  shock-headed  Celt, 
who  has  turned  out  in  the  scantiest 
of  tattered  kilts,  to  a  short-set  boy 
who,  in  an  ordinary  way,  acts  aide- 
de-camp  to  any  poacher,  or  shep- 
herd, or  gillie.  A  grander  beat  than 
ours,  in  point  of  picturesqueness, 
it  would  be  difficult  to  find ;  and 
it  is  as  dear  to  the  cocks  as  to 
lovers  of  nature.  The  ground  falls 
in  a  succession  of  long  tumbling 
slopes  from  the  ridge  of  heather- 
covered  hills  to  the  shores  of  the 
loch.  From  each  eminence  the  eye 
naturally  travels  down  the  estuary 
as  it  winds  away  among  the  moun- 
tains, round  promontory,  creek,  and 
bay.  Most  beautiful  of  all,  per- 
haps, is  the  immediate  foreground. 
What  tempts  the  woodcock  are  the 
multiplicity  of  springs,  and  the  va- 
riety of  streams  that  come  down 
an  endless  succession  of  parallel 


756 


Winter  Sports  and  Pleasures. 


[Dec. 


ravines,  with  rocky  banks  that  are 
overgrown  with  wood  in  many 
spots.  Here  the  water  is  leaping 
down  staircases  of  stone,  under 
mossy  cornices  fringed  with  icicles. 
Elsewhere  you  can  barely  hear  it 
murmur  as  it  is  lost  to  sight  under 
the  drooping  firs  and  the  birchen 
boughs.  And  everywhere  in  those 
tiny  valleys  are  gushing  land- 
springs,  which  convert  the  turf 
around  them  into  a  tiny  morass, 
where  the  mud  will  be  softened  for 
the  "long-bills"  in  the  mid-day 
sunshine.  Between  these  Scottish 
nullahs  are  patches  of  Highland 
jungle,  —  the  dwarf  oak,  and  the 
birch,  and  the  spruce  and  silver 
fir,  interspersed  with  old  and 
gnarled  hollies,  and  interwoven 
with  matted  brambles ;  while  the 
open  glades  in  the  heather  are 
dotted  over  with  outstanding  trees 
like  the  Alpine  tcettertannen,  and 
with  beds  of  withered  bracken,  in 
all  the  winter  hues  of  their  reds 
and  yellows. 

Even  had  our  force  been  drilled 
and  trained  to  work  together,  it 
would  be  no  easy  matter  to  handle 
it  cleverly.  The  very  retrievers  at 
heel  sometimes  "  come  a  cropper " 
in  scrambling  down  the  sides  of 
ravines;  and  should  a  cock  be 
flushed  while  you  are  setting  your 
face  to  the  "  stey  brae,"  the  bird  is 
sure  to  go  away  unscathed.  More- 
over, though  there  is  no  snow  to 
speak  of,  each  stone  and  root  is 
varnished  over  with  its  coating  of 
treacherous  ice,  that  gives  hold 
neither  to  foot  nor  hand.  But 
there  seems  to  be  a  providence 
that  saves  sportsmen  from  sprained 
ankles,  and  each  fall  is  only  a  sub- 
ject for  merriment,  though  the  occa- 
sional plunge  over  mid-thigh  in  a 
"  moss-pit "  is  a  more  serious  matter. 
But  soon  the  shooting  begins,  and 
the  fun  becomes  fast  and  furious. 
Instinct  tells  you  where  to  seek  for 
the  cocks, — in  these  sloughs  of  de- 


spond where  the  surface  is  greenest ; 
but  the  dropping  them  needs  judg- 
ment as  well  as  quickness.  The 
bird  shoots  gently  upwards,  with 
that  swift  and  stealthy  flight  of  his, 
sweeping  round  the  nearest  con- 
venient stem,  or  jerking  and  dip- 
ping through  the  tree-tops.  Shall 
you  shoot  sharp,  or  give  him  time  1 
that  is  the  question,  often  answered 
amiss  on  the  spur  of  the  moment. 
There  is  delay,  besides,  in  recover- 
ing the  fallen ;  for  there  is  but  little 
scent  to  help  the  dogs,  and  it  is 
hard  to  judge  distances  in  the  rank 
bracken  or  heather,  where  a  cock  lies 
like  a  needle  in  a  bundle  of  hay. 
Then  comes  another  cause  of  com- 
plications and  cross-purposes.  For 
roe  are  plentiful,  though  hares  are 
scarce ;  and  a  roe  may  be  crouch- 
ing in  his  lair  under  any  one  of 
those  fir-boughs ;  while  each  isola- 
ted bit  of  oak-coppice  is  well  worth 
beating  out.  So  one  barrel  is  some- 
times loaded  with  B.  B,  while  the 
other  is  charged  with  the  shot 
which  must  serve  in  case  of  need 
for  either  cock  or  pheasant.  Mis- 
takes will  happen  notwithstanding 
presence  of  mind  ;  and  a  woodcock 
may  be  triumphantly  threading  the 
scattering  charge  of  buckshot,  while 
the  stern  of  a  deer,  at  a  range  of 
forty  yards  or  more,  is  being  tickled 
by  the  light  pellets  of  No.  5. 

Nevertheless  the  bag  mounts ; 
the  roe  have  been  bled  and  hung 
to  trees  to  be  retrieved  again  ;  and 
in  spite  of  immersions,  scratches, 
and  falls,  beaters  and  guns  are  in 
the  highest  spirits.  Brief  space 
is  given  for  lunch,  since  days  are 
short  and  distances  are  consider- 
able. And  we  have  yet  to  beat 
out  the  famous  oak  -  coppice  that 
hangs  upon  the  side  of  an  almost 
precipitous  valley.  How  the  beat- 
ers are  to  work  their  way  along, 
where  even  monkeys  with  prehen- 
sile tails  might  be  puzzled,  is  for 
their  consideration.  They  scramble 


1880.] 


Winter  Sports  and  Pleasures. 


757 


in  somehow  at  the  one  end  in  faith, 
and  we  trust  that  they  will  struggle 
out  at  the  other.  Close  beating 
is  a  sheer  impossibility  :  but  it  is 
hoped  that  the  game,  being  unso- 
phisticated and  seldom  disturbed, 
may  rise  or  go  forward  in  place 
of  running  back.  Three  of  the 
guns  are  to  manage  above  as  best 
they  can,  while  the  fourth  fol- 
lows the  bed  of  the  stream  at  the 
bottom.  It  is  almost  worth  com- 
ing all  the  way  to  Loch  Fyne  to 
have  a  single  shot  at  an  old  black- 
cock in  these  circumstances.  Up 
he  rises  from  among  the  rocks  on 
powerful  wing,  his  jetty  plumage 
glistening  in  the  sunbeams,  skim- 
ming the  feathering  firs  with  the 
sweeping  pinions  that  propel  him 
like  a  rocket  shot  from  a  mortar. 
Clean  missed  in  a  flurry  by  the 
first  gun  —  cleverly  killed  by  the 
second ;  and  borne  ahead  for  fifty 
yards  or  so  by  his  acquired  velo- 
city, you  hear  him  crashing  through 
the  branches  in  the  depths,  and  can 
mark  his  course  by  the  showers  of 
ice-dust. 

In  the  dark  inclement  days  of 
the  winter,  the  moors  and  forests 
are  left  very  much  to  their  native 
denizens.  Even  the  keepers  and 
gillies,  when  not  under  surveillance, 
are  inclined  to  fight  shy  of  the 
upper  hills ;  and  the  shepherds,  who 
have  to  face  much  fearful  weather, 
strive  to  keep  theirflocks  in  the  more 
sheltered  valleys.  For  there  is  some- 
thing appalling  in  a  Highland  snow- 
storm, when  the  day 'is  darkened 
with  feathering  snow-flakes  and  the 
air  laden  with  icy  drift ;  when  the 
winds  howl  down  the  passes  and 
shriek  in  the  wildest  fury  as  they  are 
caught  in  the  glens  and  the  corries  ; 
and  when  snow-slips  and  small 
avalanches  are  happening  every- 
where, engulfing  each  living  thing 
that  comes  across  the  path  of  their 
descents.  Then  fox  and  wild  cat 
take  refuge  in  their  earths  in  the 


recesses  of  the  cairns,  howling  and 
meaning  with  cold  and  hunger ;  and 
the  winged  game  cower  together  in 
the  lee  of  the  braes,  or  scrape  for  a 
precarious  subsistence  on  the  more 
exposed  banks  that  have  been  laid 
bare  by  the  storm.  When  the 
snowfall  is  suspended  and  the  "  lift 
has  cleared,"  the  shepherd  must 
go  abroad  in  fear  and  trembling. 
Too  many  of  the  fleecy  flock  so  dear 
to  his  memory  are  lost  to  sight, 
buried  deep  under  the  heaps  of 
gathering  snow-wreaths ;  and  in 
many  a  quiet  nook  and  corner  of 
the  winding  stream  the  backwater 
will  be  choked  with  submerged 
corpses. 

Death  is  never  far  from  the  man 
who  is  out  in  a  Highland  snow- 
storm, and  it  is  a  risk  that  the 
sportsman  will  not  lightly  en- 
counter. But  en  revanche  there  are 
often,  in  the'dead  season  of  the  year, 
long  spells  of  settled  and  most  ex- 
hilarating weather,  when  the  grouse 
sit  wonderfully  in'  the  "  black 
frosts,"  and  an  active  walker  may 
fill  a  bag  satisfactorily.  Then, 
seen  in  the  bright  sunlight,  the 
.  clear  summits  of  the  highest  hills 
may  exercise  an  irresistible  fascina- 
tion on  him,  and  he  decides  for  a 
bold  dash  at  the  ptarmigan.  If  he 
go  by  the  barometer  and  sage  ad- 
vice, he  may  make  the  expedition 
tolerably  safely.  The  work  will 
be  hard,  of  course,  but  scarcely  so 
severe  as  one  might  fancy.  For  by 
judicious  strategy  the  ascent  may 
be  made  by  the  slopes  where  the 
snow -sprinkling  is  comparatively 
thin,  and  along  ravines  whose  gra- 
velly and  slaty  sides  offer  a  com- 
paratively easy  footing.  And  hav- 
ing once  surmoxmted  the  lower  zone 
of  perpetual  snow,  the  sportsman 
will  find  himself  "  travelling,"  as 
the  Scotch  say,  on  natural  cause- 
ways that  have  been  swept  by  the 
winds,  and  which  are  roughly  paved 
with  what  looks  like  the  debris  of 


758 


Winter  Sports  and  Pleasures. 


[Dec. 


a  stone  quarry.  Nor  should  it  be 
so  much  the  sport  you  look  to  on 
those  occasions,  as  the  splendour  of 
the  sky  effects,  the  grandeur  of  the 
scenery,  and  the  romantic  excite- 
ment of  the  whole  undertaking. 
Down  in  the  valleys  are  morning 
mists  and  darkness.  The  bottom 
of  that  deep  chasm  you  have  left  to 
the  right,  and  where  you  heard  the 
harsh  croak  of  the  raven,  is  filled 
with  billowy  volumes  of  vapour; 
but  already,  though  the  sun  will 
be  invisible  to  you  for  half  an  hour 
to  come,  the  tops  of  the  "  Rocky 
Mountains "  for  which  you  are 
bound,  are  glowing  in  all  the  hues 
of  the  rainbow.  "When  the  sun 
does  burst  into  sight,  the  dazzling 
radiance  of  the  landscape  becomes 
almost  painful,  and  it  is  a  relief  to 
rest  the  aching  eyes  on  the  shadows 
thrown  here  and  there  by  some 
boldly  projecting  cliff.  There  are 
animated  objects  enough  of  interest 
as  you  press  forward,  though  there 
is  no  time  to  loiter.  The  gr.ouse 
cocks  rise  wild  with  their  cheery 
crow.  Now  and  again,  as  you 
climb  by  the  banks  of  the  stream, 
you  cross  the  tracks  of  the  night- 
hunting  otter  or  the  wild  cat,  or 
almost  surprise  those  little  parties 
of  ducks  that  have  been  feeding 
at  their  ease  in  a  sequestered  pool. 
As  the  snow  gets  thinner,  and  you 
leave  the  region  of  heather  for  the 
stones,  the  tracks  of  the  mountain- 
hares  are  more  frequent,  and  soon 
they  are  starting  before  you  each 
twenty  yards,  sitting  up,  kangaroo- 
like,  in  their  quaint  curiosity,  and 
inspecting  you  with  complacent 
interest  over  their  shoulders.  Con- 
sidering the  impossibility  of  car- 
rying them  away,  knocking  them 
over  would  be  wanton  bloodshed. 
You  would  gladly  have  bestowed  a 
barrel  on  that  magnificent  hill-fox, 
with  the  sinewy  body  and  the 
feathering  brush,  who,  though  he 
supplies  his  larder  as  a  rule  with 


the  hares,  must  have  taken  toll 
many  a  time  from  the  firstlings  of 
the  flock,  judging  by  his  size  and 
grand  condition.  But  before  you 
have  time  to  snatch  your  gun  from 
the  gillie  who  has  relieved  you  of 
it,  he  has  vanished  round  the  corner 
of  the  nearest  ridge,  to  reappear  by- 
and-by  on  a  more  distant  slope, 
going  pleasantly  within  himself  at 
a  comfortable  canter. 

The  actual  ptarmigan  -  shooting 
in  itself  is,  it  must  be  confessed, 
somewhat  tame.  Although  there 
is  little  difficulty  in  finding  the 
birds  at  first,  since  they  are  pretty 
sure  to  get  up  shy  and  wild,  yet 
they  will  often  return  nearly  to  the 
spot  from  whence  they  were  sprung, 
and  wait  your  second  approach  com- 
paratively calmly.  And  as  they 
have  a  trick  of  dropping  sharply 
behind  the  rocks  where  they  rise, 
you  need  not  scruple  to  shoot  them 
sitting.  But  there  is  something 
grandly  exciting  in  the  sport  all 
the  same,  as  you  go  scrambling 
among  the  rocks  and  fallen  boul- 
ders ;  taking  jumps  that  in  cooler 
blood  you  would  eschew  ;  setting 
the  serious  chances  of  fractured 
limbs  at  defiance  ;  and  keeping  on 
your  legs  in  shooting  attitude  as 
best  you  can,  while  swaying  your 
breech-loader  in  the  air  by  way  of  a 
balancing-pole.  The  sense  of  tak- 
ing one's  diversion  aloft  in  the  blue 
empyrean,  far  above  the  normal 
regions  of  a  Highland  cloudland,  is 
in  itself  exhilarating  enough  ;  and 
the  air  you  inhale  is  light  as  laugh- 
ing-gas, without  being  so  rarefied 
as  to  try  the  lungs.  Then  the 
white  ptarmigan,  flushed  from  their 
perch  on  the  cliffs,  go  circling  be- 
neath your  feet  round  splintered 
pinnacles  and  buttresses,  eddying 
over  the  abyss  in  the  drift  of  the 
vapours,  like  a  flight  of  storm- 
pigeons.  Plunging  the  eye  far 
down  into  the  profound,  there  is 
nothing  but  those  circling  specks 


1880.] 


Winter  Sports  and  Pleasures. 


•59 


for  it  to  rest  upon,  between  the  slab 
on  which  your  shooting-boots  are 
slipping  and  the  slopes  of  heather 
some  couple  of  thousand  feet  below. 
As  for  the  glories  of  the  prospect, 
you  may  turn  your  face  as  you  will. 
To  the  north  and  east  stretches  a 
seemingly  limitless  extent  of  track- 
less moor,  forest,  and  sheep-farm, 
where  hill  and  valley,  till  they  con- 
found themselves  in  the  snowy  dis- 
tance, are  veined  by  the  black 
blotches  or  lines  that  mark  the  lakes 
or  the  rivers  and  burns.  South- 
ward you  follow  the  course  of  the 
great  strath,  while  through  sharply 
denned  vistas  in  the  far-away  chains 
you  distinguish  the  plains  of  the 
fertile  Lowland  counties.  And 
westward,  beyond  the  waters  of  a 
hill  -  embosomed  estuary,  are  the 
grand  outlines  of  those  mountain- 
masses  of  granite  that  beat  back  the 
surges  of  the  tempestuous  Atlantic. 
It  is  a  natural  descent  from  the 
clouds,  or  where  the  clouds  ought 
to  be,  to  the  Lowland  coverts.  We 
are  in  the  great  preserves,  where 
hares  in  herds  and  troops  of  hand- 
fed  pheasants  invite  the  attention 
of  banded  poachers,  and  provoke 
heartburnings  in  parishes  that 
ought  to  be  peaceful.  Should  big 
battues  rank  among  winter  pleas- 
ures? Hardly,  in  the  sense  in 
which  we  are  writing  this  article ; 
and  poetically  as  picturesquely,  there 
is  a  terrible  bathos  in  the  droop 
from  days  among  the  ptarmigan  in 
the  upper  air,  to  the  massacre  of 
pheasants  running  tame  between 
your  boots.  Besides,  anybody  but 
an  enthusiast  in  slaughter  must  be 
ennuye  by  standing  up  to  the  ankles 
in  the  half-frozen  mud  of  the  rides, 
or  blowing  upon  numbed  figures  at 
some  draughty  corner,  though  he 
may  comfort  himself  with  the  as- 
surance that  it  will  soon  be  a  "hot" 
one.  Far  more  to  our  mind  is  the 
rough-and-ready  fun  to  be  found 
in  ferreting  in  a  keen  frost.  The 


little  party  are  all  on  the  qui  vive, 
— from  the  guns  and  the  keepers 
with  spades  and  ferret-boxes,  to  the 
cock -eared  terriers  who  are  ad- 
mitted to  participate  in  the  sport, 
and  the  more  sober-minded  retriev- 
ers who  form  the  reserve.  Hardly 
a  breath  of  air  is  stirring  :  you  may 
almost  hear  the  flutter  to  the  earth 
of  a  withered  leaf,  and  so  every- 
thing is  in  your  favour.  And 
there  is  something  in  such  com- 
monplace or  vulgar  amusements  as 
rabbiting  and  rat-hunting  that  re- 
commends itself  to  the  vagrant  in- 
stincts of  humanity.  For  ourselves, 
we  have  ferreted  in  all  manner  of 
circumstances,  from  wheat  -  stacks 
and  crumbling  barns  upwards.  In 
the  mounds  under  the  gnarled 
boughs  of  the  oaks  and  thorns  in  a 
venerable  park,  where  the  rabbits 
burrowed  amicably  in  the  hollow 
stems  among  the  jackdaws ;  and 
might  either  make  an  unexpected 
appearance  at  some  fungus  covered 
cranny  overhead,  or  shoot  out  of 
some  unsuspected  bolting  hole 
under  the .  withered  fronds  of  the 
bracken.  We  have  shot  on  the 
face  of  a  brae  sloping  to  a  preci- 
pice dipping  sheer  into  a  lake, 
where  each  rabbit,  as  he  was  rolled 
over,  crumpled  into  a  ball,  and  pitch- 
ing over  the  brink  was  picked  up 
by  a  boatman  in  waiting ;  in  the 
dikes  dividing  fields  in  the  northern 
Scotch  counties,  where  the  piles  of 
loose  granite  that  had  been  cleared 
ofi0  the  land  were  honeycombed  by 
labyrinths  of  galleries — where  fer- 
rets had  to  be  sent  in  by  the  half- 
dozen  to  cut  the  lines  of  commu- 
nication, and  whence  the  inmates 
would  scuttle  at  intervals  like  the 
fragments  of  a  bursting  shell.  And 
of  course  we  have  ferreted  in  all 
weathers.  But  to  our  fancy,  as  we 
said,  the  pleasantest  form  of  the 
sport  is  in  the  perfect  stillness  and 
purity  of  the  clear  winter  day,  in 
the  banks  and  hedgerows  of  a  richly 


760 


Winter  Sports  and  Pleasures. 


[Dec. 


wooded  Lowland  country.  It  is 
a  very  fair  match,  on  the  whole, 
between  the  guns  and  the  rabbits. 
Scene  —  for  example  —  under  the 
skeleton  canopy  of  a  spreading  oak, 
the  leafless  twigs  forming  a  lace- 
work  against  the  sky,  with  a  strag- 
gling hedge  in  front  and  a  bramble- 
grown  ditch  beyond.  The  burrow 
dates  from  days  immemorial ;  some 
of  the  holes  have  been  enlarged  by 
the  colony  of  badgers  that  take  up 
their  quarters  there  from  time  to 
time;  and  the  outlets  are  so  many 
and  in  such  unlikely  spots,  that  any 
attempt  at  a  systematic  blockade  is 
impracticable.  Dramatis  personm : 
a  couple  of  guns  standing  back  to 
back  under  the  oak ;  two  others, 
similarly  posted  in  the  field  beyond 
the  ditch ;  three  keepers  bending 
in  varied  attitudes  over  the  burrow, 
previous  to  rushing  towards  the 
stem  of  the  oak  to  bestow  them- 
selves out  of  the  way ;  three  ferrets 
who  have  disappeared  in  the  bowels 
of  the  earth ;  a  couple  of  veteran 
terriers,  their  heads  twisted  on  one 
side,  almost  to  the  dislocation  of 
their  necks,  and  each  nerve  in  their 
bodies  quivering  with  excitement ; 
with  as  many  retrievers  that  are 
scarcely  less  interested,  though  they 
do  their  best  to  keep  up  some  dignity 
of  deportment.  So  far  as  the  mere 
ferreting  goes,  the  terriers,  Spice  and 
Ginger,  had  better  have  been  left 
at  home,  since  they  are  more  likely 
to  tumble  into  the  way  than  not. 
But  they  are  useful  in  hunting  out 
a  ditch  or  a  hedge  -  bottom ;  and 
a  miss  here  and  there  is  of  little 
consequence.  Conticuere  omnes ;  in- 
tentique  ora  tenelant.  The  tails  of 
the  ferrets  have  been  deliberately 
dragged  out  of  sight;  and  all  is 
silence  in  the  meantime. 

But  as  we  feel,  it  is  the  ominous 
silence  that  heralds  earthquakes 
and  convulsions  of  nature.  There 
is  a  faint  scraping  and  a  shuflle 
beneath  our  feet;  the  shuffling  is 


succeeded  by  a  rushing  to  and  fio  ; 
the  scraping  grows  into  a  portentous 
rumbling,  as  if  a  working  party  of 
gnomes,  with  picks  and  wheelbar- 
rows, were  mining  the  foundation 
of  the  ancestral  oak.  The  grum- 
bling echoes  of  that  subterraneous 
chase  are  now  here  and  now  there. 
If  the  distracted  terriers  were  to 
follow  their  bent,  they  would  be 
dancing  over  the  surface  of  the 
ground  like  a  couple  of  globules  of 
quicksilver.  Even  the  sportsmen, 
although  they  have  time  to  think, 
or  because  they  have  time,  are  con- 
scious of  something  of  the  flutter 
that  thrills  on  the  nerves  when  a 
covey  of  black-game  is  whirring  up 
all  around  one.  The  rabbits  have 
realised  there  is  danger  above,  and 
are  loath  to  be  forced  by  any  amount 
of  hunting.  You  can  conceive  the 
sudden  agitation  in  those  peaceful 
tenements  below,  with  the  stealthy 
enemies,  all  teeth,  claw,  and  sinew, 
following  up  the  remorseless  chase 
with  slow,  malignant  ferocity.  Now 
some  stout  old  buck  must  be  stand- 
ing fiercely  at  bay,  his  bristling  back 
set  to  the  end  of  a  burrow,  and  his 
fore-paws  hammering  viciously  at 
his  assailant.  You  can  follow  the 
shifting  fortunes  of  the  single  com- 
bat, for  there  seems  to  be  but  a  sod 
between  you  and  the  lists.  Next 
there  is  a  rush  of  desperation ;  he 
has  taken  a  flying  leap  over  the 
ferret,  and  is  gone  by.  Then  a 
second  fugitive  shows  his  head 
above  ground  only  to  jerk  it  back 
again ;  while  a  third  bounces  out 
of  one  hole,  like  a  Jack-in-the-box, 
to  take  a  flying  leap  down  another. 
But  at  last  the  general  sauve  quipeut 
begins.  There  a  rabbit  makes  a  rush 
for  the  ditch,  and  gains  the  covered- 
way  of  matted  weeds  and  thorn, 
closely  followed  up  by  the  yelping 
terriers,  to  be  hustled  out  again  a 
little  lower  down ;  while  a  compan- 
ion dares  a  straight  dash  across  the 
open,  to  be  cleverly  stopped  in  due 


1880.] 


Winter  Sports  and  Pleasures. 


7G1 


course.  The  winding-sheet  of  snow 
is  rent  and  torn  as  rabbits  tear 
their  way  out  of  hidden  issues,  to 
land  themselves  in  the  middle  of 
scattering  charges  ;  there  is  a  quick 
rolling  fire,  with  sharp  clicking  of 
the  barrel  -  hinges  as  the  smoking 
breech  -  loaders  close  on  the  car- 
tridges ;  a  shower  of  icy  particles 
from,  the  bushes,  falling  on  the 
curly  coats  of  the  retrievers;  a 
scattering  of  floating  flick,  a  cut- 
ting of  twigs  by  the  driving  shot, 
a  crimsoning  of  the  spotless  surface. 
Then  the  shooting  dies  away  and 
ceases,  as  the  bolting  draws  to  an 
end.  The  terriers  are  come  back 
from  their  mad  bursts  of  excite- 
ment, with  panting  tongues  and 
heaving  sides  :  the  keepers  gather 
up  the  slain  which  the  retrievers 
had  already  been  collecting  for 
them;  and  finally,  the  ferrets  re- 
appear one  by  one,  blinking  their 
fiery  eyes,  and  licking  their  encar- 
mined  jowls,  to  be  caught  up  by 
the  napes  of  their  necks  and  de- 
posited snugly  in  the  boxes.  The 
exciting  melodrama  is  at  an  end, 
so  far  as  that  burrow  is  concerned, 
when  we  move  on  to  another,  where 
the  scenery  has  changed  with  the 
circumstances.  In  the  hurry  and 
crush  of  incidents  ;  in  the  strained 
expectation,  passing  through  quick 
sensations  to  the  sanguinary  de- 
nouement, keeping  all  the  faculties 
on  the  alert,  and  the  blood  in 
swift  circulation,  there  is  no  time 
to  think  of  being  chilly.  And 
then,  when  you  feel  you  have  had 
enough  of  it;  when  the  lights  on 
the  landscape  begin  to  fade  as  the 
sun  sinks  down  in  the  cloud-bank 
to  the  westward ;  when  the  ferrets, 
gorging  themselves  on  the  game 
they  have  grappled,  begin  to  hang  in 
the  holes  in  spite  of  powder-flashes, 
till  the  keepers  have  to  exercise  their 
shoulders  in  digging  among  the 
stones  and  roots, — you  have  only  to 
lay  down  the  gun  and  walk  briskly 


home  to  the  library.  If  we  desire 
to  enjoy  luxurious  converse  with  a 
favourite  author,  who  will  bear  doz- 
ing over,  since  we  half  know  him 
by  heart,  we  find  nothing  more 
delightful  than  that  time  before 
dinner,  when,  after  some  hours  of 
moderate  exertion  and  exposure, 
we  mingle  listless  reading  with 
languid  reverie,  and  intersperse  both 
with  an  occasional  nap. 

Very  different  from  the  dawdling 
over  rabbiting  is  wild-fowl  shoot- 
ing. The  one  may  be  enjoyed  in 
moderation  as  a  distraction ;  as  an 
agreeable  digestive  after  a  comfort- 
able breakfast ;  as  a  whet  for  indo- 
lent literary  by-play  and  for  dinner, 
after  the  fashion  of  the  avant-table 
in  Russia  or  Scandinavia,  where 
spirits  and  piquant  trifles  are 
served  up  as  appetisers.  Wild- 
fowl shooting  is  a  serious  business, 
and  we  do  not  know  whether,  any 
more  than  the  battue,  it  ought  to  be 
included  among  winter  pleasures. 
For  our  own  part,  we  should  be  in- 
clined to  say  no ;  but  it  is  certain 
that  it  becomes  a  passion  with  those 
who  devote  themselves  to  it.  The 
successful  wild-fowler  needs  some- 
thing of  the  qualities  that  set  up 
a  Hercules  going  forth  upon  his 
labours.  In  the  first  place,  he  must 
have  enthusiasm  bordering  upon  an 
abiding  frenzy.  He  must  have  no 
ordinary  endurance,  with  a  consti- 
tution of  iron ;  he  must  have  keen 
eyes  and  steady  nerves ;  he  must 
have  coolness  and  presence  of  mind 
to  temper  his  eagerness ;  and,  before 
all  things  of  course,  he  should  be 
a  deadly  shot.  In  the  pursuit  of 
ordinary  game,  the  "  hit  and  miss  " 
man  may  enjoy  himself  as  much  as 
his  "  crack  "  companion.  But  it  is 
heart-breaking  in  wild-fowling,  after 
having  intrigued,  manoeuvred,  and 
toiled  for  a  single  family  shot,  to 
see  the  birds  fly  away  without 
a  feather  of  their  plumage  being 
ruffled.  The  practical  wild-fowler 


762 


Winter  Sports  and  Pleasures. 


[Dec. 


should  be  as  clever  with  his  gun  as 
the  juggler  who  goes  through  his 
feats  on  the  slack-rope.  Ashore,  he 
must  shoot  when  he  has  heen  shiv- 
ering, in  spite  of  his  bodily  powers; 
when  his  feet  have  been  frozen  to 
his  stocking?,  and  his  stockings 
congealed  in  his  boots ;  when  he  is 
slipping  about  in  treacherous  mud, 
in  a  pair  of  "  mud-shoes,"  or  boards 
that  are  attached  to  his  boots  like 
sandals ;  or  when  he  has  sunk  over 
the  knee  in  shifting  sands,  or  has 
been  surprised  by  a  chance  while 
fording  a  sea-creek.  Ten  to  one, 
the  flight  he  fires  at  may  come  tra- 
velling down  wind  at  something 
from  twenty  to  forty  knots  an  hour. 
And  what  a  weapon  he  has  to  carry  ! 
We  believe  that  the  most  accom- 
plished modern  experts  declare 
by  preference  for  a  five-bore ;  and 
none  but  those  who  have  been  ini- 
tiated can  realise  what  it  is  to  car- 
ry so  ponderous  a  piece  of  metal 
through  a  long  day's  heavy  walking 
in  the  face  of  blustering  weather. 
Even  the  most  accustomed  shoulder 
may  ache,  and  the  bare  recoil  must 
often  be  serious.  And  if  the  fowler 
has  to  contend  with  such  difficul- 
ties ashore,  what  must  it  be  afloat  1 
In  loch- shooting,  of  course,  if  you 
can,  you  will  choose  a  calm  day, 
and  so  your  difficulties  are  light- 
ened in  place  of  being  aggravated. 
But  off  the  coast,  though  scarcely  a 
zephyr  may  be  stirring,  there  may, 
nevertheless,  be  a  heavy  ground- 
swell.  And  then  you  must  take 
aim  from  a  dancing  platform,  and 
make  your  flying  practice  by  knack 
or  instinct.  Imagine  a  man  shoot- 
ing grouse  on  a  drive  as  he  balanced 
himself  on  the  oscillations  of  a  see- 
saw, and  you  have  a  moderate  no- 
tion of  the  chances  of  sea-fowling 
under  circumstances  that  are  fairly 
favourable. 

Then  for  the  requisites  in  point 
of  constitutional  hardihood.  Mild 
weather  saddens  the  fowler's  heart, 


and  his  spirits"  go  up  with  the  fall 
of  the  thermometer.  It  is  indis- 
pensable that  he  should  dress  him- 
self warmly,  yet,  for  his  own  sake, 
he  must  not  make  his  wrappings 
too  cumbersome.  He  will  have  to 
crawl  or  worm  himself  along  when 
making  his  stalk,  and  yet  he  may 
have  to  lie  perdu  for  minutes  or 
half-hours,  more  or  less,  without 
moving  a  muscle.  Even  in  a  boat 
he  must  not  so  over-hamper  him- 
self with  top  gear  as  to  prevent 
the  heavy  gun  coming  easily  to  his 
shoulder;  and  yet  a  bitter  wind 
blowing  off  the  sea  or  the  salt-mar- 
shes may  be  searching  his  marrow 
through  pea-jacket  and  jersey. 
Keeping  the  feet  dry  is  out  of  the 
question ;  and  his  only  certainty 
about  the  best  pair  of  waterproof 
wading-boots  is,  that  they  will  in- 
fallibly doom  the  wearer  to  partial 
immersion.  Gloves,  as  everybody 
knows,  are  sadly  in  the  way  when 
it  comes  to  fingering  a  lightly-set 
pair  of  triggers;  and  half -frozen 
feet  and  half  -  frost  -  nipped  fingers 
must  trouble  the  calm  pleasures  of 
expectancy. 

The  successful  wild-fowl  shooter 
must  necessarily  be  an  enthusiast ; 
but  we  believe  that  most  gentlemen 
who  take  to  the  sport,  follow  it 
more  or  less  in  dillettante  fashion. 
That  is  the  experience  of  Mr  Col- 
quhoun,  the  veteran  author  of  '  The 
Moor  and  the  Loch,'  who  observes 
that  the  rustic  who  has  only  the 
single  barrel  of  an  old  -  fashioned 
weapon  to  depend  upon,  grudges 
no  expenditure  of  patience  in 
the  attainment  of  his  ends.  He 
has  familiarised  himself  with  the 
haunts  and  habits  of  the  wild- 
fowl, and  lays  himself  out  delib- 
erately to  circumvent  the  birds. 
He  watches  for  a  potshot,  dwells 
deliberately  on  his  aim,  and,  for  the 
most  part,  does  damage  proportion- 
ate to  the  pains  he  takes.  While 
the  gentleman,  somewhat  impatient 


1880.] 


Winter  Sports  and  Pleasures, 


763 


of  delays  and  inconveniencies,  and 
trusting  to  the  killing  powers  of  his 
tool,  with  the  reserve  of  a  second 
barrel,  often  scares  the  birds  in  his 
rash  approaches,  or  fires  too  precip- 
itately at  an  excessive  range.  Mr 
Colquhoun's  advice  for  wild-fowl 
shooting  on  inland  lakes,  is  as 
simple  as  it  will  be  found  to  be 
satisfactory.  After  expatiating  on 
the  birds'  quickness  of  hearing,  &c., 
recording  his  observations  as  to 
their  keenness  of  scent,  and  coun- 
selling the  sportsman  as  to  his 
equipments,  he  tells  him  how  the 
stalk  may  be  most  surely  accom- 
plished. When  you  have  detect- 
ed the  birds  you  propose  to  try 
for,  take  their  bearings  exactly  by 
marks  upon  the  shore  in  relation  to 
another  placed  further  inland.  Then 
make  a  detour  to  come  unperceived 
behind  the  inner  mark.  From  that 
of  course  the  final  approaches  have 
to  be  made,  with  an  astuteness  even 
greater,  if  possible,  than  that  which 
is  indispensable  in  deer-stalking. 
Should  there  be  divers,  you  take 
advantage  of  their  temporary  disap- 
pearances to  run  forward  between 
times  to  a  succession  of  ambushes 
like  the  "  stations  "  of  some  pil- 
grimage to  a  Catholic  shrine. 

Often,  no  doubt,  there  is  excite- 
ment enough  in  that  sort  of  sport ; 
but  to  us,  considering  the  suffering 
that  may  be  involved,  too  much 
is  staked  on  result.  As  in  deer- 
stalking, through  no  fault  of  your 
own,  you  may  be  balked  even  of 
a  miss  at  the  last  moment.  We 
like  better  another  form  of  the 
sport  mentioned  by  Mr  Colquhoun 
— as,  indeed,  to  what  does  he  not 
make  allusion  in  the  encyclopaedia 
he  has  so  picturesquely  christened  1 
— when  questing  for  ducks.  You 
follow  the  springy  drains,  keeping 
fifteen  yards  from  them,  and  about 
forty  in  advance  of  an  attendant 
who  walks  close  to  the  trench.  It 
is  deadly  work  covering  the  plump, 

VOL.  CXXYIII.— NO.  DCCLXXXIl. 


full-fed  mallards  and  their  mates 
as  they  first  rise  in  their  heavy 
flight;  and  there  is  intense  satis- 
faction in  surprising  a  wild  goose. 
When  gathered  into  flocks,  as  you 
see  them  generally,  the  geese  are 
among  the  most  suspicious  of  cre- 
ated things ;  and  the  man  who 
has  stalked  a  flock  with  its  ve- 
dettes and  sentinels  set,  may  plume 
himself  on  no  ordinary  achieve- 
ment, unless  some  lucky  accident 
has  befriended  him.  While  a  wild 
duck,  fired  at  from  an  ambush  in 
the  gloaming,  as  he  wings  his  strong 
flight  overhead  to  his  favourite 
feeding-grounds,  is  as  hard  to  hit 
as  he  is  hard  to  kill.  Even  heavy 
pellets,  striking  at  certain  angles, 
have  an  extraordinary  knack  of 
rolling  themselves  up  harmlessly 
in  the  down. 

We  scarcely  care  to  diverge  to 
long-shore  shooting,  which,  though 
by  no  means  an  uninteresting  sub- 
ject in  itself,  is  a  sport  left  for  the 
most  part  to  professionals.  It  may 
be  followed,  by  the  way,  with  great 
success  in  the  Dutch  polders  and 
marshes ;  in  the  sand-dunes  of  the 
Flemish  seaboard,  and  in  some  of 
the  north-western  departments  of 
France.  On  the  mud -flats  and 
sands  in  our  own  eastern  counties, 
and  on  the  sand-banks  and  bars  at 
the  mouths  of  the  brackish  estu- 
aries, among  the  floating  sea-weed, 
in  sharp  frosts  at  the  commence- 
ment of  the  winter,  the  bag  may 
be  filled  with  a  wonderful  variety. 
Stalking  along  under  cover  of  the 
sand-hills  and  sea-walls  ;  stealthily 
turning  along  the  bends  of  the 
creeks,  where  the  waters  are  sink- 
ing with  the  reflux  of  the  tide ; 
crouching  in  bloodthirsty  expect- 
ancy as  you  see  a  flight  skimming 
towards  you  along  the  beach, — you 
may  kill  herons,  curlew?,  ducks, 
and  plovers,  with  many  a  species 
of  diver  and  wader,  of  which  some 
may  be  as  rare  as  the  most  of  them 
3  F 


764 


Winter  Shorts  and  Pleasures. 


[Dec, 


are  common.  Nor  shall  we  em- 
bark on  board  one  of  the  handy 
little  yachting  craft,  of  which  the 
crew  is  but  one  man,  with  possibly 
a  boy,  but  which,  nevertheless,  have 
most  elastic  accommodation  below, 
while  there  is  actually  room  on 
deck  for  the  dingy,  which  is  often 
towing  astern.  The  cabins  of  these 
are  snug  places  enough,  as  they  are 
assuredly  compact ;  but  the  owners, 
amateurs  and  town -bred  though 
they  may  be,  always  strike  us  as 
being  among  the  most  venturesome 
of  British  mariners.  We  take  it 
for  granted  that  the  skipper  is 
proof  to  sea-sickness,  and  it  may  be 
assumed  that  he  is  equally  confi- 
dent that  he  was  never  born  to  be 
drowned.  For  to  oay  nothing  of 
the  notion  of  being  capsized  in  a 
squall,  which  he  would  scout  as 
an  outrageous  impeachment  on  his 
seamanship,  there  are  the  proba- 
bilities of  his  grounding  upon  a 
bank  in  one  of  the  fogs,  which 
are  accompaniments  of  the  weather 
most  favourable  for  sea -fowling. 
He  pursues  his  sport  on  the  borders 
of  the  crowded  waterways,  where 
fleets  of  coasting  craft  are  continu- 
ally plying  ;  and  may  be  awakened 
out  of  the  sleep  he  has  dropped 
into  011  his  watch,  to  find  his  boat 
cut  down  to  the  water-line,  while 
he  is  being  submerged  by  a  strange 
cutwater.  Moreover,  he  may  have 
to  run  in  a  sudden  gale  for  moor- 
ings in  some  river-mouth  or  har- 
bour of  refuge,  by  no  means  always 
easy  of  attainment.  As  a  set-oif 
against  these  probable  or  proble- 
matic dangers,  is  the  "pleasure" 
of  alternately  sitting  up  in  the  bit- 
ing air  on  the  deck,  glass  in  hand, 
behind  a  swivel-gun  or  a  battery 
of  heavy  breech-loaders;  and  div- 
ing down  into  the  tiny  cabin  to  be 
toasted  before  facing  a  fresh  spell 
of  the  cold. 

We  have  been  writing  of  winter 
sports  and  pleasures  to  be  followed 


for  choice  among  the  frost  and 
snow  ;  but,  oddly  enough,  the  win- 
ter sport  par  excellence  of  the  Eng- 
lish gentleman  comes  to  a  stand- 
still in  our  genuine  winter  weather. 
A  frost  is  not  unwelcome  to  the 
fox-hunter  in  the  spring  and  after 
an  open  season,  when  he  has  well- 
nigh  ridden  his  horses  to  a  stand- 
still, and  half  his  stud  is  gone  on 
the  sick-list.  But  frost  in  Novem- 
ber or  December,  when  the  winter 
is  young  and  hopes  are  fresh  !  It 
is  certainly  not  quite  so  trying  as 
it  used  to  be  in  the  days  of  the 
mail-coaches  and  post  chaises,  when 
the  hunting  man  in  the  Midlands 
was  practically  storm-bound  in  the 
streets  of  a  dull  provincial  town  ; 
when  the  sole  resources  were  over- 
eating and  hard  drinking,  the  bil- 
liards by  day,  the  rubber  by  night, 
and  smoking  countless  cigars  in 
the  stables  in  dismal  contemplation 
of  the  hocks  of  the  steeds.  Now  a 
man  takes  his  ticket  to  town  by 
express  train,  and  while  he  finds  a 
sympathetic  chorus  of  growlers  in 
his  club  in  St  James's,  is  always 
within  reach  of  a  telegram.  But 
even  comparatively  fortunate  as  he 
is,  that  season  of  suspense  is  a  sore 
trial  to  him.  His  sweet  temper 
is  fretted  with  hope  deferred.  He 
goes  to  bed  restless,  after  anxious 
looks  at  the  skies,  and  sees  his 
horses  casting  themselves  in  their 
stalls  in  his  perturbed  nightmares  ; 
or  wakens  in  disappointment  from 
Tantalus-like  dreams,  where  he  has 
been  following  the  hounds  to  the 
music  of  the  horn.  To  make  matters 
worse,  notwithstanding  these  wor- 
ries of  his,  in  place  of  losing  flesh  he 
has  been  laying  it  on.  When  men  of 
frugal  minds  have  been  calculating 
weights  somewhat  too  closely  in 
making  their  purchases,  half  a  stone 
more  is  a  great  annoyance.  But 
such  time  of  probation  must  come 
to  an  end,  and  at  last  the  weather 
has  shown  unmistakable  signs  of 


1880.] 


Winter  Sports  and  Pleasures. 


765 


relaxing.  A  tremor  of  expectancy 
has  run  through,  the  hunting  coun- 
ties, and  the  first  meet  after  the 
yielding  frost  has  been  advertised 
to  come  off  at  the  kennels. 

And  we  do  not  know  that  the 
successors  of  the  immortal  Leech 
could  find  more  inspiriting  subjects 
for  their  pencils  than  in  the  humours 
of  the  grand  gathering  after  the 
involuntary  rest.  It  has  become 
apparent  that  the  weather  has  fair- 
ly broken,  and  there  is  even  some 
prospect  of  scent  on  the  grass  and 
the  fallows.  There  is  a  general 
coming  up  from  all  parts  of  the 
country  ;  for  though  squires  and 
farmers  have  had  their  more  serious 
avocations  to  distract  them,  yet 
they  too  have  been  vexing  their 
souls  over  missed  chances  of  sport. 
Each  man  is  on  the  qui  vive,  and 
the  horses  are  decidedly  more  so 
than  is  agreeable.  Even  the  cover- 
hacks  seem  to  have  quicksilver  in 
their  heels,  which  is  all  very  well ; 
and  the  horses  in  the  vehicles  of 
many  fashions  which  are  pressing 
forward  to  the  muster,  are  tossing 
the  foam  about  their  chests  and 
rattling  their  frothing  curb-chains. 
Sober  old  hunters,  warranted  steady 
when  sold,  and  carrying  certificates 
of  irreproachable  character  in  their 
faces  and  ordinary  demeanour,  are 
indulging  in  gay  and  unaccustomed 
gambols  ;  while  the  giddier  young- 
sters, although  they  may  "  be  free 
from  vice,"  are  showing  themselves 
playful  as  kittens,  and  as  full  of 
tricks  as  so  many  monkeys.  We 
think  it  is  Mr  Benjamin  Buckram, 
who  remarks  in  '  Mr  Sponge's 
Tour,'  in  discussing  the  character 
of  the  redoubted  Hercules,  that  if 
a  gentleman  gets  spilt,  it  does 
not  much  "  argufy "  whether  it  is 
done  from  play  or  vice.  And  not 
a  few  gentlemen  now  seem  to  be 
much  of  that  way  of  thinking,  as 
their  mounts,  catching  the  contagion 
of  excitement  in  the  crowd,  disport 


themselves  like  fresh-caught  mus- 
tangs from  the  Texan  prairies.  Here 
is  a  silken-coated  young  one  on  his 
muscular  hind-legs,  gracefully  im- 
proving on  the  antics  of  a  dancing- 
bear,  and  threatening  to  topple  back 
upon  a  rider  who  has  scarcely  nerve 
to  bring  him  back  to  his  bearings. 
Another,  arching  his  crest  and 
tucking  in  his  haunches,  shows 
an  English  edition  of  the  Austra- 
lian buck  -  jumping  trick ;  while 
most  of  them  are  lightly  laying 
back  their  ears,  or  shooting  flashes 
out  of  the  cornei s  of  their  eyes,  and 
not  a  few  are  unpleasantly  ready 
with  their  heels.  But  if  it  is  all 
in  good  temper  on  the  part  of  the 
steeds,  the  same  can  hardly  be  said 
of  the  riders.  The  jostling,  and 
the  chance  of  a  humiliating  acci- 
dent, throw  some  gentlemen  off 
their  mental  balance,  who  are  al- 
ready uneasy  as  to  the  "  safety  of 
their  seats ; "  and  it  would  appear 
that  some  lowering  clouds  are  flit- 
ting across  the  general  hilarity. 
But  the  hospitality  of  the  worthy 
master  brings  incipient  unkindness 
to  a  check.  The  meet  at  the  ken- 
nels means  a  meeting  on  the  lawn, 
where  the  disappearance  of  the 
frost  is  demonstrated  conclusive- 
ly by  the  cutting  up  of  the  turf 
and  furrowing  of  the  gravel.  The 
long  tables  are  spread  in  the  old 
oak  hall,  under  polished  rafters 
and  scutcheoned  panels,  and  among 
family  portraits.  The  genial  host 
goes  about  among  his  scarlet- 
coated  guests,  hail-fellow-well-met 
with  everybody ;  and  the  ladies  of 
the  household,  as  they  do  the  hon- 
ours of  the  tea  and  coffee,  light  up 
the  sombre  old  banqueting  -  hall 
with  their  smiles.  There  is  a  pretty 
lively  clatter  of  knives  and  forks, 
intermingled  with  the  clash  of  cups 
and  glasses.  Those  who  do  not 
sit  down  to  the  more  substantial 
fare,  gather  round  the  decanters  on 
buffets  and  sideboards ;  while  the 


76G 


Winter  Sports  and  Pleasures. 


[Dec. 


liveried  serving- men  are  busy  out- 
of-doors  handing  brimming  tankards 
to  yeomen  and  outsiders.  If  the 
horses  are  full  of  fire  and  oats,  their 
exuberant  spirits  will  soon  be  coun- 
terbalanced by  the  circulation  of 
jumping  powder  among  the  gentle- 
men of  the  hunt ;  and  if  sharp 
retorts  were  bandied  a  few  minutes 
before,  there  is  a  universal  drowning 
of  all  unpleasantness.  Only,  should 
there  be  a  find,  and  should  the  nu- 
merous field  get  fairly  away  with 
their  fox,  a  wise  man  will  do  well 
to  take  a  line  of  his  own,  though  at 
the  chance  of  having  to  face  some 
extra  fencing.  A  crush  in  a  lane 
or  a  cannon  in  a  gap,  may  possibly 
entail  awkward  consequences. 

One  of  the  show  meets  of  the 
season  is  a  characteristically  English 
spectacle,  which  must  impress  the 
intelligent  foreigner  who  desires  to 
study  our  manners  or  to  pass  our 
choicer  horse-flesh  in  review.  In  a 
good  country,  whether  in  the  shires 
or  the  provinces,  he  will  see  as 
high-bred  hunters  as  money  can 
procure ;  while  some  of  the  hacks 
and  the  pairs  in  phaetons  and 
double  dogcarts,  are  models  of  sym- 
metry and  style  after  their  kinds. 
He  will  be  struck  by  clean-built 
thorough  -  breds  that  look  smaller 
than  they  are  till  he  comes  to  see 
them  extending  themselves  over  for- 
midable fences,  and  laying  the  wide- 
stretching  enclosures  behind  them 
in  their  stride.  He  will  admire  the 
serviceable  animals  that  carry  those 
substantial  farmer?,  who  manage  to 
see  a  sufficiency  of  the  sport  though 
they  stick  for  the  most  part  to  gates 
and  lanes ;  and  transfusing  their 


intelligence  into  the  instinct  of  the 
fox,  ride  knowingly  to  points  ra- 
ther than  in  the  line  of  the  pack. 
And  he  will  understand  the  uni- 
versal enthusiasm  for  the  sport 
when  he  marks  how  the  rag-tag 
and  bobtail  turn  out  for  the  fun 
from  the  market-towns,  the  villages, 
and  the  solitary  hamlets,  mounted 
upon  anything,  down  to  broken- 
kneed  ponies  and  ragged  -  coated 
donkeys  fed  on  furze.  But  our 
article,  as  we  have  remarked,  lies 
rather  in  the  snow  than  in  sloppy 
pastures  and  holding  fallows.  So 
we  shall  not  follow  the  hounds  as 
they  draw  from  cover  to  cover ;  and 
as  for  the  tale  of  the  run,  has  it  not 
been  often  written  by  men  who 
were  themselves  unapproachably  in 
the  foremost  flight,  but  who  are 
gone  beneath  the  turf  they  used  to 
gallop  over  1  The  shades  of  the  de- 
parted warn  us  to  be  silent,  from 
Nimrod  of  the  '  Quarterly,'  mighty 
among  literary  hunters,  to  the 
lamented  Colonel  Whyte-Melville, 
so  lately  lost  by  an  accident  in 
the  hunting-field.  The  hunting- 
field  in  the  south,  as  the  curling- 
pond  in  the  north,  brings  many 
classes  together  in  a  kindly  com- 
munion of  tastes  and  sympathies ; 
and  long  may  it  continue  to  do  so. 
The  greater  and  the  more  unre- 
served the  genial  intercourse  of  this 
kind,  the  less  is  it  likely  that  re- 
volutionary legislation  will  sow  dis- 
sensions among  those  who  ought 
to  be  friends— will  banish  all  but 
utilitarians  from  rural  England,  and 
subvert  the  time  -  honoured  land- 
marks that  our  fathers  have  reli- 
giously preserved. 


1880.] 


Paulo  Post  Fuiurum  Policy. 


767 


PAULO     POST     FUTUETJM     POLICY. 


WITH  the  approach,  of  the  win- 
ter season,  the  time  seems  fairly 
to  have  arrived  for  examining  the 
success  of  the  Liberal  policy  to 
which  the  country  so  light-heart- 
edly committed  itself  in  the  spring- 
time. Churlish  Conservatives,  who 
have  not  the  fear  of  Cambridge 
University  before  their  eyes,  may 
be  tempted  to  rub  up  their  Creek 
and  recall  ^Esop's  fable  of  the 
grasshopper  and  the  ant.  The 
Liberal  party  have  piped  and  sung 
persistently  throughout  their  hal- 
cyon days  of  spring  and  summer, 
and  may  fairly  be  invited  to  dance 
to  their  own  music  through  the 
coming  winter. 

There  appears,  however,  unfor- 
tunately, to  be  as  little  harmony 
amongst  our  present  rulers  as 
amongst  that  more  important  body 
of  performers,  the  Powers  of  Eu- 
rope, in  whose  concert  Mr  Glad- 
stone aspired  to  the  honourable 
post  of  conductor.  Whilst  the 
Prime  Minister  at  the  Guildhall 
discourses  on  the  primary  neces- 
sity of  maintaining  law  and  order 
in  Ireland,  Mr  Bright  and  Mr 
Chamberlain  are  speaking  words 
of  scarcely  veiled  sympathy  with 
Irish  seditious  agitators ;  and  whilst 
Mr  Gladstone  says  at  the  Guildhall 
that  the  Treaty  of  Berlin  "  was  a 
treaty  that  promised  to  confer  great 
benefits  upon  Europe ;  and  that  we" 
(the  Liberal  Government)  "  at  once 
declared  our  intention  to  address 
ourselves  to  the  purpose  of  endeav- 
ouring to  secure  the  execution  of 
an  instrument  which  was  due  to 
the  policy  of  our  predecessors," 
Mr  Chamberlain,  a  week  later, 
tells  a  Birmingham  audience  that 
the  "authoritative  mandate  of  the 
country  to  Mr  Gladstone  was  an 
emphatic  condemnation  of  the  pol- 


icy of  the  late  Government,"  and 
instructed  him  "  to  reverse  as  far 
as  possible  a  policy  which  the  nation 
had  condemned." 

We  willingly  leave  to  the  Prime 
Minister  and  his  President  of  the 
Board  of  Trade  the  task  of  making 
these  apparent  contrarieties  agree, 
and  shall  regard  the  subtle  ex- 
planation which  will  no  doubt 
be  forthcoming,  with  little  more 
than  academical  curiosity.  We 
say  this  on  the  assumption  that 
the  Cabinet  have  not  agreed  to 
differ  amongst  themselves  on  so 
important  a  subject  as  the  foreign 
policy  of  their  country ;  and  that 
they  will  be  able  to  demon- 
strate to  Parliament  that  the  two 
Ministers  whose  words  we  have 
quoted  really  meant  one  and  the 
same  thing.  But  it  is  of  import- 
ance to  know  which  of  the  two 
seemingly  divergent  lines  of  states- 
manship is  to  be  pursued.  Six 
months  ago  we  should  have  attach- 
ed the  greater  weight  to  Mr  Cham- 
berlain's language ;  but  after  the 
Austrian,  Cyprian,  and  South  Afri- 
can recantations,  we  cannot  feel  sure 
that  our  versatile  Prime  Minister 
may  not  one  day  pose  as  a  great  War 
Minister.  It  is  a  curious  instance 
of  the  irony  of  circumstances  to  read 
in  foreign  newspapers,  French,  Ger- 
man, Austrian,  and  Italian,  that  a 
universal  feeling  of  relief  is  mani- 
fested all  over  the  Continent  be- 
cause the  English  Premier,  the  in- 
veterate opponent  of  a  "  spirited  for- 
eign policy,"  the  modern  David,  the 
slayer  of  the  Jingo  Goliath,  has  un- 
expectedly intimated  his  reluctance 
to  let  slip  the  dogs  of  war  on  Europe. 
Will  any  honest  man  deny  that  Mr 
Gladstone  overthrew  the  late  Ad- 
ministration on  the  ground  that 
their  policy  was  a  turbulent  and 


768 


Paulo  Post  Fatumm  Policy. 


[Dec. 


reckless  one,  calculated  to  involve 
their  country  in  foreign  complica- 
tions 1  Will  any  one  demonstrate 
that  his  own  policy  has  not  been 
one  of  restless  interference  —  of 
threats  against  a  State  (Turkey) 
with  which  we  are  at  peace — of  in- 
sult, per  Mr  Chamberlain,  to  a  Gov- 
ernment with  which  he  found  Eng- 
land on  the  most  cordial  terms  of 
friendship  1  In  short,  what  Liberal 
statesman  will  show  us  that  it  is 
the  Tory  party  who  has  troubled 
Israel,  and  not  his  own  house  1 

Throughout  the  last  session  of 
Parliament  the  leaders  of  the  Con- 
servative party  consistently  ab- 
stained from  raising  any  debate  on 
foreign  politics,  because  the  new- 
comers advanced  the  weighty  and 
reasonable  plea  that  time  must  be 
allowed  them  to  shape  and  carry 
out  a  practical  policy,  the  onus  of 
which  had  devolved  upon  them  at 
an  unexpected  moment.  Again  and 
again  were  we  told,  "  We  are  acting 
in  perfect  concert  with  Europe ; 
wait  a  little,  and  see  what  we  will 
do."  Well,  we  have  waited  six 
months  and  more,  and  are  wellnigh 
as  much  in  the  dark  as  ever.  The 
only  light  afforded  to  this  free  con- 
stitutional country  has  been  the 
negative  evidence  of  the  Austrian 
Red-book,  which  certainly  fails  to 
substantiate  the  Ministerial  conten- 
tion that  they  have  acted  through- 
out in  harmony  with  the  rest  of 
Europe.  Our  own  memory  may  be 
as  short  as  that  of  our  political  op- 
ponents, yet  we  surely  accurately  re- 
member the  denunciations  levelled 
at  the  Conservative  Ministry  for 
keeping  the  country  in  the  dark  as 
to  their  policy.  Are  we  to  be  de- 
pendent for  the  future  on  foreign 
publications  for  an  explanation  of 
what  is  being  done  in  our  name1? 

Responsible  statesmen,  and  the 
voice  of  the  public  press,  have  at- 
tributed to  Mr  Gladstone  a  pro- 
position to  commit  an  act  of  war 


against  Turkey  by  seizing  certain 
property  belonging  to  that  Govern- 
ment. The  charge  has  never  been 
denied ;  and  Great  Britain  is  liter- 
ally in  this  position  (assuming  the 
accuracy  of  a  story  oft  repeated  and 
hitherto  uncontradicted),  that  her 
Prime  Minister,  coming  into  office 
as  a  peace  Minister  and  champion  of 
open  diplomacy,  has,  to  the  best  of 
his  ability,  and  without  consulting 
Parliament  or  the  nation,  plunged 
his  country  into  war.  Most  happily, 
Continental  statesmen  were  cooler 
and  clearer-headed  than  the  English 
Premier ;  and  a  crying  scandal  has 
been  averted  through  their  prudence 
and  moderation.  A  strict  account 
will  be  demanded  from  the  Govern- 
ment when  Parliament  meets,  of  all 
the  circumstances  attendant  on  this 
"  Smyrna  dues  "  question. 

Let  us  briefly  examine  the  Min- 
isterial explanations  and  defence  of 
their  present  position.  Their  parrot- 
cry  is,  We  are  pledged  to  carry  out 
the  provisions  of  your  (the  Conser- 
vative) Treaty  of  Berlin.  The  Lib- 
eral versions  of  the  term  "Treaty  of 
Berlin  "  recall  to  our  mind  the  cel- 
ebrated fire  described  by  Sir  W. 
Scott  in  his  '  Bride  of  Lammer- 
moor.'  In  that  novel  the  old  family 
retainer  burns  up  some  rubbish  at 
his  master's  castle  on  the  plea  "  that 
this  fire  will  be  an  excuse  for  ask- 
ing anything  we  want  through  the 
country ;  this  fire  will  settle  many 
things  for  the  family's  credit  that 
cost  me  daily  the  telling  of  twenty 
lies  :"  and  he  adds,  "in  some  sort 
a  good  excuse  is  better  than  the 
things  themselves."  In  this  latter 
sentence  we  are  disposed  cordially 
to  concur,  when  we  think  of  the 
"things  themselves"  Liberal  for- 
eign policy  has  conferred  upon  us 
in  the  shape  of  Crimean,  Chinese, 
Abyssinian,  and  other  wars. 

As  regards  the  former  portion  of 
Mr  Caleb  Balderstone's  remarks,  the 
Treaty  of  Berlin  has  undoubtedly 


1880.] 


Paulo  Post  Futunim  Policy. 


769 


been  a  godsend  to  the  Kadicals, 
who  contrive  with  much  ingenuity 
not  only  to  make  it  an  excuse  for 
"asking  anything  they  want  through 
the  country,"  but  also  to  present  it 
under  two  totally  different  aspects 
to  their  constituents. 

When  a  Ministerial  orator  is 
replying  to  any  strictures  a  Tory 
may  venture  to  make  on  the  policy 
of  coercing  Turkey,  he  is  apt  to 
say,  "We  are  simply  carrying  out 
your  own  policy  :  the  Treaty  of 
Berlin  is  your  work  ;  we  take  it  up 
loyally  as  the  legacy  you  left  us, 
and  are  endeavouring  faithfully  to 
execute  it."  But,  not  unfrequent- 
ly,  he  goes  on  to  say  in  the  next 
breath,  "As  for  the  Conservative 
Government's  boasted  Berlin  Treaty, 
they  are  entitled  to  no  credit  for  it ; 
all  the  valuable  provisions  of  the 
Treaty  were  inserted  at  the  instance 
of  France  or  Eussia,"  as  the  case 
may  be. 

Now  we  cannot  permit  such  as- 
sertions to  pass  unchallenged.  If 
the  late  Administration  are  to  be 
held  to  have  simply  dictated  the 
terms  of  the  treaty  to  which  their 
signature  is  affixed,  they  are  neces- 
sarily entitled  to  the  full  credit  of 
the  provisions  of  it  affecting  the 
interests  of  the  Eastern  Christians, 
which-  are  usually  represented  by 
the  Liberal  party  as  the  special 
contributions  of  other  Powers  to 
the  settlement  of  south  -  eastern 
Europe.  If,  on  the  other  hand, 
the  Tory  plenipotentiaries  are  to 
be  held  as  having  acceded  with 
reluctance  to  the  article  affecting 
Montenegro,  and  the  recommen- 
dation regarding  Greece,  they  are 
surely  within  their  right  in  taking 
exception  to  the  course  Mr  Glad- 
stone seems  to  wish  this  country 
to  adopt — namely,  that  of  taking 
the  lead  in  Europe  in  carrying  out 
these  particular  provisions  by  force 
of  arms.  We  are  perfectly  ready 
to  concede,  granting  for  the  sake  of 


argument  that  the  latter  hypothesis 
is  correct,  that  it  would  not  be  un- 
reasonable for  Liberals  to  taunt  Con- 
servative statesmen  with  bad  faith 
if  they  should  refuse,  when  called  on 
by  the  other  Powers,  to  join  in  exe- 
cuting a  treaty  to  which  they  had 
set  their  hand?.  It  is  not  necessary, 
however,  at  this  moment  to  enter 
upon  the  question  exactly  how  far 
we  might  be  bound  to  go  in  exe- 
cuting a  treaty  par  voie  de  fait,  if 
called  on  to  do  so;  because  it  is 
not  contended  that  the  other  Powers 
who  are  held  up  to  us  as  the  Chris- 
tian patrons  have,  with  one  excep- 
tion, suggested  to  us  that  we  should 
make  war  on  Turkey.  The  fault 
Conservatives  find  with  the  Min- 
istry is,  that  they  appear  anxious 
to  drag  other  nations  forward  in 
a  hostile  enterprise  in  which  our 
honour  and  interests  are  not  spe- 
cially concerned. 

In  connection  with  this  topic  it 
is  worth  while  to  devote  a  few 
lines  towards  pointing  out  an  in- 
genious attempt  made  by  our  polit- 
ical opponents  to  show  that  our 
responsibilities  towards  Greece  and 
Montenegro  are  identical.  Indeed 
many  Liberal  speakers,  trading  on 
the  sentimental  affection  English- 
men are  supposed  to  entertain  for 
a  country  immortalised  by  Homer 
and  by  Byron,  do  not  hesitate  to 
insinuate  that  the  claims  of  Greece 
upon  us  are  even  stronger  than 
those  of  Montenegro.  They  base 
this  assertion  on  two  facts, — first, 
that  during  the  progress  of  the 
Eusso  -  Turkish  war  we  advised 
Greece  in  her  own  interest  to  ab- 
stain from  attacking  Turkey ;  and 
secondly,  that  the  13th  Protocol  of 
the  Berlin  Treaty  recommended  a 
certain  territorial  cession  by  Turkey 
to  Greece :  and  Article  24  of  that 
Treaty  provided  that  if  Greece  and 
Turkey  could  not  agree  on  the 
rectification  of  frontier  suggested  in 
the  Protocol,  the  great  Powers  re- 


770 


Paulo  Post  Futurum  Policy. 


[Dec. 


served  their  right  to  mediate.  Now 
what,  in  all  this,  gives  Greece  a 
claim  to  ask  for  our  armed  assist- 
ance against  an  old  ally  ?  As  re- 
gards the  first  point,,  she  had  value 
received.  Her  money  and  the 
Mood  of  her  soldiers  were  saved. 
It  must  not  he  forgotten  that,  in- 
dependently of  the  greater  or  less 
resistance  she  might  have  met  with 
from  Turkey  on  land,  her  sea-coast, 
her  Pirseus,  her  very  capital,  were  ex- 
posed to  the  attack  of  the  powerful 
Turkish  fleet.  As  regirds  the  claim 
conferred  by  the  Treaty  of  Berlin,  the 
principle  of  a  cession  of  territory  to 
Greece  by  Turkey  is  conceded,  and 
always  has  been  conceded,  by  the 
Ottoman  Government.  The  great 
Powers  expressly  abstained  from 
positively  declaring  that  such  and 
such  districts  must  be  ceded  ;  they 
laid  down  authoritatively  the  new 
Montenegrin  frontier,  but  only 
recommended,  with  a  formal  re- 
servation in  Article  24  of  the 
Treaty,  a  particular  new  line  of 
Greco -Turkish  frontier. 

Sir  Stafford  Northcote  did  well, 
in  his  recent  speech  at  Bristol,  to 
intimate,  not  merely  to  Greece,  but 
also  to  her  Majesty's  Ministers,  that 
the  Conservative  party  would  reso- 
lutely oppose  any  armed  interven- 
tion on  the  part  of  this  country  for 
the  mere  purpose  of  extending  the 
Greek  frontier  in  a  particular  direc- 
tion. Since  the  days  when  Byron 
sang,  the  complexion  of  Eastern 
politics  has  totally  altered.  We 
have  good  grounds  for  asserting 
that  there  is  no  real  animosity 
between  Greek  and  Turk.  Both 
are  menaced  by  that  new  factor  in 
European  affairs,  the  Pan-Sclavistic 
movement.  That  common  danger 
should  unite  them;  and  if  Greece 
does,  as  she  not  unreasonably  may, 
look  forward  to  the  ultimate  in- 
heritance of  Constantinople,  her 
wisest  statesmen  must  feel  that  it 
must  be  an  affair  of  generations 


rather  than  of  years  before  she  is 
strong  enough  to  grasp  the  dazzling 
prize.  An  attempt  to  pluck  such  a 
pear  before  it  is  ripe  is  far  more 
likely  to  lead  to  its  total  loss  than 
to  any  other  result. 

The  question  of  the  Montenegrin 
frontier  is  somewhat  different.  Lord 
Salisbury  has  been  severely  attacked 
for  his  declaration  that  it  was  a 
matter  that  did  not  concern  this 
country  whether  Montenegro  got 
possession  of  Dulcigno  or  not.  Yet 
in  the  sense  in  which  he  spoke  he 
was  entirely  right.  Lord  Salisbury 
asserted  that  it  was  the  duty  of 
Turkey  to  make  the  cession,  and 
that  he  desired  to  see  it  made. 
That  is  the  Conservative  programme 
as  fully  as  the  Liberal.  Turkey 
signed  the  Treaty  of  Berlin ;  and 
although  that  treaty  expressly  pro- 
vided that  Dulcigno  should  be 
restored  to  Turkey,  yet,  as  she  has 
subsequently  agreed  to  cede  Dul- 
cigno in  lieu  of  the  cessions  speci- 
fied in  the  treaty,  and  as  this 
arrangement  has  been  assented  to 
by  the  other  signatory  Powers,  the 
Porte  is  clearly  bound  to  fulfil 
its  engagements.  No  Conserva- 
tive statesman  would  have  the 
smallest  right  to  support  the  Otto- 
man Government  in  an  attempt  to 
evade  their  promise.  But  we  can- 
not leave  out  of  sight  the  question 
of  our  own  relative  obligations  to- 
wards the  other  Powers  of  Europe  in 
this  matter.  Montenegro  has  always 
ostentatiously  posed  as  the  special 
protege  of  Russia.  It  will  hardly 
be  denied  that  it  was  at  Russia's 
instigation  that  she  took  up  arms 
against  Turkey.  The  late  Govern- 
ment unquestionably  viewed  with 
regret  the  result  of  the  Russo-Turk- 
ish  war — the  outbreak  of  which  they 
strove  hard  to  prevent.  The  Con-, 
servative  Administration  fully  re- 
cognised the  urgent  need  for  Turk- 
ish reform ;  but  they  sought  to  attain 
that  end  by  peaceful  means,  and 


1880.] 


Paulo  Post  Futurum  Policy. 


771 


means  by  which  Turkey  might  have 
been  truly  strengthened  rather  than 
prostrated.  But  Eussia  saw  her 
opportunity,  and  precipitated  hos- 
tilities. The  States  of  Servia  and 
Montenegro  profited  by  her  vic- 
tory. Now  the  Liberal  party  seek 
to  figure  as  rival  patrons  of  those 
two  countries.  Mr  Gladstone  af- 
fects to  believe  that  by  zealously 
pressing  upon  Turkey  the  execu- 
tion of  the  provisions  of  the  Berlin 
Treaty  relating  to  Montenegro,  he 
can  detach  the  latter  Power's  allegi- 
ance from  the  Eussian  to  the  Eng- 
lish Government.  We  do  not  be- 
lieve the  statesmen  of  Cettigne  are 
as  simple  as  he  supposes. 

Does  the  Prime  Minister  hope  to 
persuade  the  Montenegrin  Govern- 
ment that  England  would,  under 
any  circumstances  and  under  any 
Government,  have  sanctioned  the 
making  of  an  unofficial  war  upon 
Turkey  by  British  subjects  and 
officers  fighting  on  behalf  of  Mon- 
tenegro 1  Yet  it  is  to  the  flame 
thus  kindled  by  Eussia  that  Prince 
Nikita  owes  his  accession  of  terri- 
tory. It  is  only  reasonable  for  him 
to  hope  that  history  may  repeat  it- 
self, and  to  prefer  solid  pudding  to 
Mr  Gladstone's  empty  eulogies  of 
the  valour  of  his  subjects. 

We  hold,  therefore,  that  Lord 
Salisbury  was  perfectly  justified  in 
saying  that  England  would  be  none 
the  worse  off  if  Dulcigno  were  not 
surrendered.  Turkey  would  have 
broken  her  word,  no  doubt ;  but  if 
we  are  to  go  to  war  to  punish  every 
State  that  breaks  faith  with  us, 
what  are  we  to  say  to  the  tearing 
up  of  the  Black  Sea  Treaty  and 
the  annexation  of  Khiva?  If  our 
readers  will  refer  to  Lord  Salis- 
bury's despatch  of  July  13,  1878, 
enclosing  the  signed  Treaty  of  Ber- 
lin, they  will  see  that  the  question 
of  the  Montenegrin  frontier  is  not 
treated  as  one  in  which  England 
has  any  peculiar  interest.  A  treaty 


drawn  up  by  six  Powers  conjointly, 
whose  views  are  divergent,  must 
be  in  the  nature  of  a  compromise. 
English  special  wishes,  let  us  say, 
are  considered  in  the  delimitation 
of  Eastern  Eoumelia;  French,  in 
the  recommendation  regarding  the 
Greek  frontier;  and  Eussian,  in 
the  concessions  to  Servia  and  Mon- 
tenegro. 

As  long,  therefore,  as  the  Con- 
servative leaders  abstain  from  en- 
couraging, directly  or  indirectly, 
the  Turkish  Government  in  its 
neglect  to  fulfil  the  treaty,  they  are 
fully  entitled  to  point  out  to  their 
own  countrymen  that  England  will 
suffer  no  material  harm  from  the 
non-execution  of  a  particular  provi- 
sion ;  and  they  are  also  within  their 
right  in  protesting  against  their  suc- 
cessors, under  cover  of  the  pretext 
that  they  are  carrying  out  Conser- 
vative policy,  seeking  to  embroil 
England  in  a  foreign  war,  in  a  mat- 
ter in  which  we  have  no  vital  stake. 
If  the  doctrine  we  have  here  laid 
down  seems  to  any  of  our  readers 
to  -require  vindication,  we  would 
refer  them  to  the  Liberal  leaders' 
speeches  passim  on  the  occasion  of 
the  tearing  up  of  the  Black  Sea 
Treaty  by  Eussia,  and  their  able 
arguments  to  prove  that  we  were 
not  bound  to  resent  by  force  of 
arms  the  violation  of  a  treaty  in 
which  (according  to  their  conten- 
tion) we  had  no  special  interest. 

Before  closing  this  article,  we 
may  devote  a  few  general  remarks 
to  what  we  have  ventured  to  call 
the  Paulo  post  futurum  policy  of 
the  present  Administration. 

At  the  moment  of  writing  these 
lines,  the  cession  even  of  Dulcigno 
has  not  been  accomplished.  With 
a  somewhat  strange  sense  of  humour, 
Mr  Gladstone  capped  a  course  of 
six  months'  energetic  policy  by  read- 
ing a  telegram  from  a  foreign  sover- 
eign on  the  subject,  amidst  "  roars 
of  laughter,"  at  the  Guildhall  ban- 


772 


Paulo  Post  Faturum  Policy. 


[Dec. 


quet.  Whether  the  position  of  a 
Minister,  whose  course  of  policy 
is  rewarded  by  what  his  audience 
and  he  himself  appear  to  consider 
a  mere  jest,  is  entirely  satisfactory 
and  dignified,  we  leave  to  the  Prime 
Minister  to  decide.  Hitherto  the 
result  of  the  Liberal  Government's 
foreign  policy  is  represented  by  a 
cipher ;  and  this  makes  it  difficult 
to  calculate  what  they  may  accom- 
plish during  their  tenure  of  office, 
since  the  product  of  nought,  whe- 
ther multiplied  by  six  months  or 
six  years,  is  unchanged. 

How  does  the  Liberal  Ministry, 
which  six  months  ago  entered  into 
possession  of  time-honoured  Down- 
ing Street  amidst  a  flourish  of  trum- 
pets which  proclaimed  it  the  wisest, 
strongest,  and  honestest  of  Admin- 
istrations, now  stand  before  the 
country  ?  As  for  its  wisdom,  it 
consists  at  home  in  having  disgust- 
ed moderate  Liberals  with  their 
advanced  comrades,  and  in  having 
set  the  two  Houses  of  Parliament 
by  the  ears ;  abroad,  the  members 
of  the  Cabinet  alternately  threaten 
and  fawn  on  Austria  and  Germany. 
As  for  its  strength,  its  representa- 
tive in  Ireland  can  only  ask  for 
"  sympathy  "  from  that  class  of  our 
fellow-subjects  who  claim  from  him 
the  bare  right  to  be  protected  from 
assassination ;  abroad  Mr  Glad- 
stone—  the  heaven-born  Minister 
who  was  to  set  right  these  dis- 
jointed times — does  not  now  "  de- 
spair "  that  the  European  concert, 
in  which  he  has  ceased  to  play  first 
fiddle,  may  effect  something. 

But  the  strongest  ground  remains 
— the  Tory  who  may  steal  Mr  Glad- 
stone's reputation  for  wisdom  and 
for  strength  may  steal  trash;  but 
he  who  filches  from  a  Liberal 
Cabinet  its  good  name,  assails  its 
most  sensitive  but  most  impreg- 
nable point.  We  will  recall  the 
denunciations  of  Lord  Beacons- 
field's  secret  policy  of  the  outrage 


on  the  House  of  Commons  alleged 
to  have  been  committed  by  the 
fact  that  negotiations  were  con- 
ducted, and  important  political 
steps  taken,  without  its  knowledge. 
Mr  Gladstone  had  much  to  say 
as  to  the  necessity  of  abandoning 
Cyprus  and  the  Transvaal ;  but, 
above  all,  the  late  Ministry  were 
impeached  for  their  secret  agree- 
ment (so  called)  with  Eussia  prior 
to  the  meeting  of  the  Berlin  Con- 
gress. The  iniquity  of  these  acts 
was  a  household  phrase  in  the 
mouths  of  our  present  Ministers. 
Now  to  test  these  virtuous  senti- 
ments by  facts.  What  informa- 
tion has  as  yet  been  vouchsafed 
by  the  Foreign  Office  to  Parlia- 
ment as  to  our  policy  abroad  ? 
Were  it  not  for  the  publication  of 
the  Austrian  Red-book,  the  country 
would  have  had  nothing  but  news- 
paper rumour  to  depend  on.  We 
can  remember  the  vituperation  be- 
stowed on  the  Tories  for  summon- 
ing Indian  troops  to  Malta  without 
the  knowledge  of  Parliament ;  but 
we  search  in  vain  for  the  record  of 
the  communication  to  that  assem- 
bly, or  to  the  country  at  large,  of 
the  act  of  war  Mr  Gladstone  is  said 
to  have  contemplated  and  proposed 
to  Europe — namely,  the  confisca- 
tion of  the  Smyrna  dues. 

We  are  content  to  pass  over  the 
retention  of  Cyprus  and  the  Trans- 
vaal, and  will  allow  the  Ministry 
the  excuse  that  when  they  cease 
to  be  a  body  of  "  irresponsible 
gentlemen,  they  found  in  the 
pigeon-holes  of  Downing  Street 
evidence  to  satisfy  themselves  of 
the  necessity  for  swallowing  their 
own  words  and  "  keeping  a  grip  " 
on  their  predecessors'  acquisitions. 
But  there  is -one  topic  on  which 
it  appears  to  us  the  Conservative 
explanation  of  their  policy,  simple 
and  sufficient  though  it  be,  has 
not  been  fully  developed.  We  refer 
to  the  Salisbury  SchouvalofF  agree- 


1880.1 


Paulo  Post  Futurum  Policy. 


773 


ment.  To  judge  from  the  language 
that  Liberal  leaders  have  habitu- 
ally applied  to  this  document,  the 
ordinary  reader  might  suppose  that 
Congresses  were  in  the  habit  of 
assembling  without  a  vestige  of 
prearrangement  as  to  the  subjects 
of  their  deliberations.  Now  what 
was  this  agreement  ?  Let  us  recall 
facts.  The  Treaty  of  San  Stefano 
had  been  concluded  between  Eussia 
and  Turkey,  and  contained  certain 
provisions  absolutely  inadmissible 
by  England,  and  others  to  which 
she  strongly  objected.  There  were 
two  courses  open  to  her  to  ob- 
tain modifications  of  the  treaty — 
either  by  force  of  her  own  arms, 
or  by  the  consensus  of  European 
opinion.  She  selected  the  latter, 
and  the  fact  of  the  assemblage  of 
a  Congress  of  European  Powers  to 
revise  the  Berlin  Treaty  was  Eng- 
land's substantial  triumph.  But, 
on  the  other  hand,  Russia  natur- 
ally said,  "We  will  not  go  into 
a  Congress  without  some  secur- 
ity that  your  object  is  neither  a 
mere  delay  to  get  ready  for  war, 
nor  an  intention  to  deprive  us  of 
the  entire  fruits  of  our  victory." 
The  Tory  Ministry  had  then  to 
consider  if  they  would  incur  certain 
war  by  allowing  the  Congress  to 
fall  through  or  not.  They  appear 
to  have  decided  thus :  "  Certain 
points,"  they  said  in  effect  to  Russia, 
"  we  insist  on  peremptorily, — on 
others  we  have  a  strong  opinion, 
which  we  hope  may  be  shared  by 
other  Powers ;  we  shall  press  those 
points  at  the  Congress,  but  will  not 
make  their  rejection  a  casus  belli. 
It  was  a  reasonable  and  legitimate 
hope  on  their  part  that  other  Powers 
might  have  so  far  backed  them  at 
Berlin  as  to  have  induced  Russia 
to  abandon  at  least  a  great  portion 
of  her  ultimate  acquisitions.  In 
this  hope,  however,  they  were  dis- 
appointed ;  and  as  Russia  was  not 
amenable  to  argument,  the  Cyprus 


Convention  was  our  reply  to  her 
territorial  gains  in  Asia  Minor. 

In.  connection  with  this  subject 
it  is  well  to  lay  clearly  before  the 
country  what  was  at  that  time  the 
real  position  of  the  Conservative 
Ministry  towards  Russia.  They 
were  alternately  represented  by 
their  opponents  either  as  a  body 
of  men  duped  by  the  superior  saga- 
city of  General  Ignatieff  and  Count 
Schouvaloff,  or  as  makebates  bent 
on  stirring  up  a  quarrel  in  defiance 
of  the  solemn  promises  and  honour- 
able undertakings  of  a  peaceful  Em- 
peror and  a  sisterly  country,  whose 
only  fault  in  Tory  eyes  was  a  chi- 
valric  enthusiasm  for  the  cause  of 
Christianity. 

Neither  view  appears  to  us  cor- 
rect. No  Government  could  wish 
to  embroil  their  native  land  in  war 
for  the  mere  lust  of  blood — they 
were  bound  to  search  anxiously  for 
means  by  which  a  modus  vivendi 
could  be  established  with  Russia; 
but  they  were  equally  bound  not  to 
neglect  the  lessons  of  history,  and 
to  remember  that  circumstances  had 
occurred  not  ten  years  ago  which 
had  proved  so  irresistible  that  the 
Czar  of  Russia's  solemn  personal 
word  of  honour  had  yielded  to  their 
force.  Russia  stood  towards  Eng- 
land in  the  position  of  one  party  in 
a  lawsuit  towards  another.  There 
need  be  no  enmity  between  a  plain- 
tiff and  a  defendant,  but  there  is  a 
wide  diversity  of  interests  ;  and  the 
lawyer  who  should  neglect  every 
means  to  strengthen  his  client's 
case  on  the  plea  that  his  opponent 
was  too  noble  to  profit  by  any  tech- 
nical advantage  he  might  derive 
from  his  negligence,  would  certainly 
be  held  to  have  grievously  failed  in 
his  duty. 

The  Russian  forces  occupied  in 
1878  an  advantageous  position  at 
the  gates  of  Constantinople ;  had 
they  obtained  possession  of  that 
city,  the  Black  Sea  might  have  been 


774 


Paulo  Post  Futurum  Policy. 


[Dec. 


closed  to  English  vessel?,  our  trade 
with  Asia  Minor  ruined  by  the  ap- 
plication of  the  prohibitive  Eussian 
tariff;  and,  worse  than  all,  the  Dar- 
danelles Straits  turned  into  a  shel- 
ter for  Russian  men-of-war  desir- 
ous to  harass  the  Mediterranean  or 
hinder  the  passage  of  our  ships 
through  the  Suez  Canal.  We  do 
not  say  this  would  have  happened, 
but  it  might  have  occurred — the 
contingency  could  not  be  over- 
looked ;  the  Russian  Government 
had  yielded  once  to  temptation  iu 
Khiva :  and  had  an  English  Min- 
istry allowed  themselves  to  be 
cozened  a  second  time,  no  censure 
that  could  have  been  pronounced 
upon  them  would  in  our  opinion 
have  been  too  severe.  They  rightly 
held  prevention  to  be  better  than 
cure,  and  the  verdict  of  history  will 
undoubtedly  sustain  their  judgment. 

Our  immediate  object,  however, 
is  not  to  discuss  the  wisdom  of  the 
Tory  policy,  generally  speaking, 
towards  Russia,  but  the  honesty  or 
dishonesty  of  the  signature  of  the 
agreement  with  the  Russian  am- 
bassador. 

Mr  Gladstone's  followers  call  it 
deceitful  and  immoral.  Did  they 
ever  hear  of  the  Conference  of  Lon- 
don of  1870?  Do  they  know  that 
prior  to  that  Conference  Russia  had 
torn  up  the  Treaty  of  Paris?  and 
will  any  Liberal  statesman  assert 
that  the  Conference  (ostensibly 
called  together  for  the  revision  of 
that  treaty)  did  not  meet  with  the 
foregone  understanding  that  the 
particular  clause  objectionable  to 
Russia  was  to  be  eliminated  1  Take 
again  the  case  of  the  Geneva  arbi- 


tration, and  the  presentation  and 
rejection  of  the  American  indirect 
claims.  "Will  Mr  Gladstone  tell  us 
that  it  was  not  a  matter  of  pre- 
arrangement  between  the  British 
and  American  agents  that  those 
claims  should  be  presented  pro 
forma  to  the  tribunal,  and  disal- 
lowed on  the  ground  of  want  of 
jurisdiction  ? 

We  do  not  write  this  for  the 
purpose  of  censuring  the  acts  just 
referred  to  performed  by  the  last 
Liberal  Government,  but  merely  to 
prove,  as  we  could  do  by  many 
other  instances,  that  in  coming  to 
a  species  of  understanding  with 
Russia  in  1878,  the  Conservative 
Government  merely  followed  ordi- 
nary diplomatic  precedent  in  simi- 
lar cases. 

It  is  therefore  impossible  to  com- 
mend even  the  honesty  of  Liberal 
statesmen  who  condescend  thus  to 
vilify  their  opponents  for  follow- 
ing a  track  they  have  themselves 
marked  out.  It  is  painful  for  an 
Englishman  to  have  to  censure  the 
foreign  policy  of  his  own  Govern- 
ment ;  far  rather  would  we  pray 
for  a  time  when,  under  the  simple 
watchword  of  "  Our  country's  hon- 
our and  interests,"  Liberal  and  Tory 
might  unite  in  the  determination 
to  prefer  their  fatherland  to  their 
party.  But  so  long  as,  for  the  sake 
of  driving  a  political  foe  from  office, 
the  Radical  party  does  not  scruple 
to  sacrifice  their  country's  welfare 
on  the  altar  of  faction,  so  long  will 
the  Tories  use  every  legitimate 
method  to  prevent  the  abrogation 
of  the  position  their  ancestors  have 
built  up  for  the  empire. 


1880.] 


Our  Reproach. 


775 


IRELAND    OUR    REPROACH. 


WILL  any  among  us  deny  the 
proposition  that  we  Britons,  though 
abounding  in  power  and  wealth, 
allow  ourselves  to  be  continually 
fretted  and  hindered  by  the  lawless- 
ness of  about  three  millions  of 
persons,  or  one-tenth  of  the  whole 
population  of  the  three  kingdoms  1 
The  disaffected  portion  of  Ireland  is 
the  unsound  part  here  intended  : 
our  figures  may  be  disputed,  but 
the  exactness  of  them  is  not  essen- 
tial to  the  argument.  Ireland, 
which  might  be  a  bulwark  of  the 
empire,  is  a  source  of  weakness 
thereto,  a  perpetual  sore,  hitherto 
immedicable  by  any  skill  that  we 
possess.  In  justice  to  ourselves, 
we  must  say  that  we  have  acted 
upon  our  own  favourite  theory, 
that  the  rulers  must  be  in  fault,  to 
the  very  point  of  absurdity.  "We 
have  gone  on  removing  grievance 
after  grievance  (so  called)  without 
obtaining  the  very  smallest  recog- 
nition of  our  goodwill.  For  sixty 
years  we  have  been  endeavouring 
to  conciliate  Ireland,  but  in  vain. 
The  cry  of  Ireland  against  Great 
Britain  is  as  shrill,  now  that  there 
is  not  a  shadow  of  a  grievance  to 
point  to,  as  it  was  before  the  first 
step  was  taken  towards  relief  of  her 
disabilities.  Our  efforts  may  have 
liberated  our  souls  with  regard  to 
our  own  consciences ;  but  as  regards 
Ireland  they  have  been  absolutely 
fruitless. 

Neither  is  this  simply  a  senti- 
mental matter.  It  is  not  merely 
that  we  have  anxiously  courted  the 
kindly  regard  of  Ireland,  and  failed 
to  touch  her  affections.  It  is  our 
misfortune  (or  fault)  that  the  dis- 
affected, irreconcilable  portion  of 
that  island  is  turbulent  as  well  as 
irresponsive,  aggressive  and  violent 
rather  than  cold.  The  law  of  the 


land  there  is  proclaimed  a  tyranny ; 
men  refuse  to  obey  it ;  they  band 
themselves  together  to  resist  it,  and 
to  enforce  resistance  to  it.  It  is 
morally  certain  that  no  amount  of 
concessions  to  the  cries  and  preten- 
sions of  Ireland  would  satisfy  her  ; 
they  would  probably  only  render 
her  more  exacting,  more  unreason- 
able, more  ungovernable.  She — 
that  is,  her  troublesome  population 
— has  found  out  that  a  strong  con- 
spiracy to  resist  and  violate  the 
law  can  reduce  the  risk  of  law- 
breaking  to  something  very  small, 
as  long  as  laws  are  framed  to  suit 
peace-loving  communities  rather 
than  lawless  districts.  She  has 
found  that  crime  and  resistance  to 
the  law,  briskly  sustained  for  sev- 
eral months,  are  very  likely  to  ob- 
tain for  her  the  object  of  her  latest 
clamour  ;  and,  as  if  her  own  in- 
stincts were  not  keen  enough  in  this 
direction,  she  has  been  assured  by 
the  present  Prime  Minister  that 
law-breaking  is  the  way  to  success. 
She  is  infested  by  agitators  whose 
own  interests  and  whose  notoriety 
depend  wholly  upon  keeping  her 
in  a  state  of  irritation.  She  is 
incapable  of  seeing  for  herself  that 
orderly  behaviour,  and  respect  for 
and  conformity  to  the  law,  are  the 
most  likely  means  of  freeing  her- 
self from  the  poverty  and  unhap- 
piness  which  infallibly  attend  her 
insubordination ;  and  those  who 
alone  can  gain  her  ear  will  never 
suggest  to  her  such  ideas  as  obe- 
dience and  patience.  Here,  then, 
is  a  call  for  speedy  and  stern  ac- 
tion on  our  part. 

We  trust  that  we  shall  not  be 
misunderstood.  It  is  not  our  con- 
tention that  nothing  in  the  way  of 
indulgence  or  reform  should  be  con- 
ceded to  Ireland.  But  we  say  that 


776 


Our  Reproach. 


[Dec. 


no  reform  or  indulgence  should  be 
given  in  exchange  for  obedience  to 
the  law — in  other  words,  that  no- 
thing of  the  kind  should  be  wrung 
from  the  Legislature  by  crime  and 
rebellion.  Complaint  of  griev- 
ances and  breach  of  the  laws  are 
two  very  different  things.  For  the 
one  there  is  a  legitimate  mode  of 
expression ;  for  the  other  there 
should  be  no  toleration  at  all.  We 
are,  on  this  side  the  water,  per- 
fectly familiar  with  demands  and 
agitations  for  changes  in  the  law  ; 
but  then  these  are  not  accompan- 
ied by  assassination  and  outrage,  as 
they  are  in  Ireland.  It  is  one  thing 
to  make  reasonable  complaints  and 
demands,  and  quite  another  to  break 
existing  laws.  A  broad  distinction 
should  be  made  between  what  Ire- 
land wishes  and  asks  for,  and  what 
Ireland  does.  If  her  deeds  are  un- 
lawful, they  must  be  punished,  and 
repetition  of  them  prevented,  no 
matter  what  her  demands  may  be. 
Let  her  obey  first,  and  then  let  her 
prefer  her  complaint.  At  present 
she  is  disobedient  and  ungovern- 
able ;  and  her  insubordination  must 
be  considered  before,  and  independ- 
ently of,  her  grievances. 

There  are  men, — men  who  know 
well  how  to  express  their  opinions, 
— who  tell  us  that  the  present  state 
of  things — the  wretched,  scandalous 
state  of  things — is,  after  all,  Ire- 
land's own  affair.  She  is  the  only, 
or,  at  any  rate,  the  principal,  loser 
by  it.  If  Great  Britain  could  only 
induce  her  to  consider  her  ways, 
and  to  intelligently  follow  after  her 
own  prosperity,  Great  Britain  would 
be  only  too  glad  and  too  ready  to 
assist  in  the  work  of  regeneration. 
But  if  Ireland  will  not  be  persuad- 
ed ;  if,  deaf  to  reason  and  defiant 
of  consequences,  she  is  resolute  to 
pursue  the  suicidal  course  on  which 
she  has  for  long  been  adventuring, 
then  on  her  eyes  be  it;  we  would 
have  saved  her  if  we  conveniently, 


and  with  not  too  great  trouble, 
could  have  done  so ;  it  is  only  her- 
self that  she  is  wrecking;  why 
should  we,  if  she  will  not  hear 
reason,  perform  the  thankless  office 
of  dragooning  her  into  order,  of 
enforcing  her  wellbeing  by  an  ap- 
proach to  martial  law?  She  will 
never  understand  that  any  such 
action  is  taken  out  of  pure  goodwill 
to  her ;  she  will  only  accuse  us  still 
more  violently  of  oppressing  her. 
Let  us  not,  therefore,  incur  the 
trouble  of  keeping  her  quiet,  or  earn 
her  augmented  curse;  but  let  us 
leave  her  to  her  fate,  to  suffer  ad- 
versity, and  to  learn  in  that  bitter 
school,  if  she  can  learn  anywhere. 

We  must  say  that  we  have  been 
surprised  to  read  arguments  of  this 
kind,  and  that  we  have  lived  hither- 
to in  a  very  different  belief.  We 
have  been,  and  we  still  are,  of 
opinion  that  Ireland's  behaviour  is 
not  simply  Ireland's  affair ;  that 
we  cannot  allow  Ireland  to  ruin 
herself,  or  to  proceed  in  wilfulness 
or  anarchy  beyond  a  certain  limit, 
lest  she  in  her  infatuation  should 
bring  evil  upon  Great  Britain. 
And  we  suppose  that,  as  we  dare 
not  to  throw  Ireland  wholly  upon 
her  own  resources,  and  to  cast  her 
loose,  we  act  unwisely  in  not  mak- 
ing her  feel  constantly  the  curb 
which,  in  extreme  cases,  we  must 
tighten  upon  her.  The  way  in 
which  she  wishes  to  go  is  a  way 
that  we  shall  never  approve,  and 
never  suffer  her  to  walk  in  as  far  as 
the  goal  which  she  proposes  to  her- 
self; then  why  let  her  walk  in  that 
way  at  all?  why  make  a  pretence 
of  giving  her  her  head,  when  we 
know  that,  sooner  or  later,  we 
must  bring  her  up  with  a  sharp 
check  ?  Seeing  that  we  cannot  leave 
her  wholly  to  her  own  imagina- 
tions and  courses,  it  would  surely 
be  kinder  and  wiser  to  keep  her 
always  subject  to  discipline,  and 
not  to  allow  her  fits  of  licence 


1880.] 


Our  Reproach. 


777 


to  be  followed  by  fits  of  coercion. 
We  presume,  then,  that  the  argu- 
ment to  which  we  have  referred 
rests  on  an  unsound  basis.  We  say 
that  we  cannot  —  that  we  never 
shall  —  allow  Ireland  to  (as  the 
proverb  says)  "  make  her  own  bed 
and  lie  on  it."  Great  Britain  claims 
the  right  to  retain  Ireland  as  an 
integral  part  of  the  United  King- 
dom ;  and  she  claims  the  right 
of  restraining  in  Ireland  deeds, 
speeches,  and  writings  which  may 
tend  to  the  damage  of  the  king- 
dom generally,  or  operate  as  bad 
examples  in  other  parts  of  the 
empire.  If  then  Ireland  must,  in 
the  most  essential  matters  of  State, 
be  under  the  control  of  the  sister 
island,  it  is  due  to  her  that  her 
political  life  should  be  altogether 
regulated  by  British  counsel.  We 
have  no  right  to  give  her  just  so 
much  line  as  shall  entice  her  to 
folly.  We  know  that  we  must 
govern  her.  Let  us  govern  her 
thoroughly.  Britons  may  shut 
their  eyes  to  this  their  duty,  but 
they  never  can  relieve  themselves 
of  it ;  and  '  Maga's  '  exhortation  to 
them  is  that  they  address  them- 
selves to  it  as  a  very  serious  duty 
indeed,  and  that  they  allow  no 
perfunctory  performance  of  it. 

If  we  at  all  act  up  to  our  own 
principles,  the  knowledge  that  it  is 
our  duty  to  govern  Ireland  effec- 
tually will  be  sufficient  to  make  us 
do  it.  Bat  we  are  not  left  wholly 
to  a  sense  of  duty;  our  honour, 
our  dignity,  begin  to  be  involved 
in  our  successful  government  of 
Ireland.  Foreign  countries  have 
found  out,  and  do  not  fail  to  re- 
proach us  with,  our  disgraceful 
failure  in  that  respect.  And  we 
may  expect  these  reproaches  to 
become  more  stinging  and  more 
frequent  as  our  unskilfulness  may 
become  better  known.  For  we  have 
a  knack  of  inviting  the  retorts  of 
foreign  Governments  by  the  merci- 


less criticisms,  and  often  by  the 
active  interferences  in  their  affairs 
which  we  delight  to  exercise,  just 
as  if  we  were  perfect  ourselves,  and 
a  model  of  able  and  efficient  govern- 
ment. We  love  to  throw  stones, 
forgetful  that  we  live  in  a  glass 
house.  Foreigners,  if  they  have 
hitherto  not  often  noticed  our  in- 
consistency, are  at  any  rate  now- 
waking  up  to  a  sense  of  it,  and 
are  likely  to  cast  it  in  our  teeth. 
Austria  is  said  to  have  done  so 
pretty  sharply  once  ;  and  we  have 
heard  that  the  Sultan,  when  being 
lectured  by  Mr  Goschen  as  to  the 
proper  mode  of  ruling,  replied, 
"  You  English  at  least  ought  to 
have  some  fellow-feeling  with  me, 
because  you  have  got  an  Ireland 
which  you  cannot  rule.  Now  I 
have  got  some  fifteen  Irelands  ; 
that  is  my  case."  John  Bull,  the 
universal  physician  of  governments, 
must  heal  himself  if  he  would 
silence  the  sarcasms  and  invectives 
of  the  patients  for  whom  he  loves 
to  prescribe. 

Now  Great  Britain,  one  supposes, 
can  put  away  this,  her  reproach  re- 
garding Ireland,  whenever  it  may 
please  her  determinedly  to  do  so. 
With  her  power  and  her  wealth 
she  may  certainly  decree  and  effect 
that  an  island  lying  so  close  on  her 
flank  shall  cease  to  be  a  hornet's 
nest  to  her.  This,  as  a  general 
proposition,  we  expect  that  no  one 
will  deny.  If  to  keep  Ireland  quiet 
by  any  possible  means  —  even  to 
the  extent  of  extinguishing  the  in- 
surgent population  —  be  the  prob- 
lem, there  is  no  doubt  that  it  can  be 
solved.  Only  that  we  should  never 
think  of  solving  it  in  a  savage,  un- 
intelligent manner.  We  must  do 
it  with  the  very  tenderest  hand — 
with  rose-water,  it  would  seem, 
from  the  nonsense  which  is  some- 
times said  and  written  on  the  sub- 
ject ;  but  we  all  agree  that  it  must 
be  done  by  patient  firmness,  and 


778 


Our  Reproach. 


[Dec. 


not  by  vindictive  violence.  And 
herein — that  is,  in  the  very  restricted 
means  which  we  allow  ourselves — 
lies  our  difficulty.  Because,  when 
it  is  explained  that  the  cure  must 
be  wrought  with  the  utmost  con- 
sideration for  the  patient  whom  it 
is  desired  to  reform,  not  to  crush, 
the  foregoing  proposition  ceases  to 
be  self-evident.  Power  means  a 
good  many  things  besides  men  and 
ships,  and  arms  and  money.  Know- 
ledge is  power:  and  there,  we  fancy, 
is  the  rub — we  do  not  know  how  to 
manage  Ireland. 

But,  as  we  expect  it  to  be  objected, 
it  is  altogether  a  mistake  to  assume 
that  the  government  of  Ireland  has 
never  been  attempted  except  by 
coaxing  and  weak  indulgence.  We 
have  grappled  Ireland  ere  now  with 
the  strong  hand ;  trodden  down  her 
rebellion  with  our  men  of  war ;  co- 
erced her  disaffection  by  stringent 
laws  :  yet  our  sternness  had  no  bet- 
ter result  than  our  complaisance. 
We  grant  this,  and  reply  that  our 
wrath  was  as  much  without  know- 
ledge as  our  petting.  In  the  last 
century  (to  go  no  farther  back),  we 
wreaked  vengeance  on  rebellious 
Ireland ;  we  punished  her  sharply  : 
but  though  that  punishment  might 
be  reckoned  an  expiation  for  past 
offences,  it  could  not,  without  fur- 
ther treatment  careful  and  judicious, 
bring  about  a  reformation.  Much 
patience  and  knowledge  were  re- 
quired for  that,  and  these  were  not 
forthcoming.  More  than  once  in 
the  present  century  we  have  passed 
repressive  laws — laws  very  good  in 
themselves,  but  ineffectual,  inasmuch 
as  they  were  timidly  enacted  and 
enforced ;  inasmuch  as  they  were 
accompanied  with  an  amount  of 
puling  and  whining  which  proved 
to  all  the  world,  and  especially  to 
those  whom  they  principally  con- 
cerned, that  our  hearts  were  failing 
us  all  through ;  and  inasmuch  as 
they  were  never  persisted  in  long 


enough  to  bear  good  fruit,  or  even 
to  convince  the  unruly  that  we  were 
in  earnest.  Our  desire  seemed  al- 
ways to  be,  not  so  much  to  gain  a 
good  result  from  the  law,  as  to  find 
the  earliest  possible  excuse  for  re- 
pealing it  without  thought  of  what 
was  to  follow.  In  short,  we  have 
never  tried  to  this  day  a  steady, 
persistent,  inexorable  enforcement 
of  the  law  that  will  insist,  before 
all  things,  upon  the  law  being  re- 
spected, that  will  be  turned  aside 
by  no  countercharge  against  the 
law,  that  will  convince  the  unruly 
of  the  folly  of  fencing  and  tamper- 
ing with  the  declared  will  of  Great 
Britain. 

Great  Britain  can  enforce  the  law 
upon  Ireland  if  she  will.  But  it 
requires  something  more  than  the 
mere  volition.  She  must  be  at 
some  pains,  she  must  go  a  little  out 
of  her  beaten  track,  before  she  can 
prescribe  for  the  distemper  of  Ire- 
land with  a  chance  of  healing  it. 
For  it  is  a  truth  that  the  very  in- 
stitutions which  we  have  estab- 
lished for  the  maintenance  of  order, 
freedom,  and  improvement,  and 
which  minister  to  those  greatest 
ends  on  this  side  St  George's 
Channel,  are  impotent  for  the  same 
ends  on  the  other  side  —  nay,  are 
made  the  very  means  of  encourag- 
ing and  perpetuating  disorder.  The 
great  stronghold  of  Irish  disaffec- 
tion, disobedience,  and  ungovern- 
ableness  is  the  House  of  Commons 
of  the  United  Kingdom — not  of  its 
own  will,  but  by  the  unfortunate 
concurrence  of  things.  Let  this 
truth  be  perceived  and  accepted, 
and  we  shall  have  made  an  import- 
ant step  on  the  road  to  that  know- 
ledge which  may  help  us  to  the 
disburthening  ourselves  of  Our  Ee- 
proach. 

Obedience  to  the  law  ought  not 
to  be  a  subject  of  debate  in  any 
legislative  assembly.  That  the 
laws  must  and  shall  be  obeyed  is 


1880.] 


Our  Reproach. 


779 


au  axiom  which  ought  to  precede 
the  making  of  law,  and  which  it 
becomes  law-makers,  of  all  men,  to 
hold  as  sacred  and  unquestionable. 
Hut  however  readily  our  legislators 
may  consent  to  this  axiom  that  it 
is  good,  certain  it  is  that  in  prac- 
tice, and  as  regards  Ireland,  they 
have  failed  to  act  up  to  it.  The 
emulations  of  party  find,  in  the  dis- 
graceful condition  of  Ireland,  only 
too  convenient  a  lever  for  raising 
political  capital.  When  a  Ministry, 
impelled  perhaps  by  the  rising  of 
the  tide  of  crime  above  the  usual 
mark,  ventures  to  act  with  some 
little  vigour,  immediately  the  Oppo- 
sition is  penetrated  by  the  wrongs 
of  Ireland,  denounces  the  execution 
of  the  law  there  as  the  most  pitiless 
tyranny,  and  declares  that  what 
will  pacify  Ireland  is  not  severity, 
but  indulgence  and  redress  of  wrong. 
On  the  other  hand,  should  a  Min- 
istry, by  weakness  and  fear  to  exe- 
cute the  law,  have  allowed  the  law- 
abiding  portion  of  the  Irish  people 
to  be  murdered  and  outraged  in 
larger  proportion  than  ordinary,  in 
order  to  court  the  rebellious,  it  is  in 
a  pitiable  strait,  denounced  by  the 
Opposition  as  tolerating  anarchy, 
almost  without  protest,  and  afraid 
to  enforce  the  law  lest  its  party  in- 
terests should  be  compromised  by 
its  doing  so.  The  prize  for  which 
parties  contend,  and  the  advantage 
which  they  dare  not  forego,  are  the 
votes  of  the  Irish  members — all,  or 
nearly  all,  of  whom  are  on  the  side 
of  the  disaffected. 

But  in  regard  to  a  matter  of  such 
consequence  as  this,  which  affects 
the  peace  of  a  large  portion  of  the 
United  Kingdom,  and  the  well- 
being  of  all  of  it,  there  is  no  stretch 
of  imagination  in  supposing  that 
English  legislators  might  be  ready 
to  sink  their  differences,  and  to 
consult,  not  the  advantage  of  party, 
but  the  good  of  the  nation.  There 

VOL.  CXXVIII. — NO.  DCCLXXXII. 


is  no  doubt  that,  if  they  should  do 
so,  and  should  continue  their  united 
action,  they  would  soon  make  an 
end  of  Irish  grievances  and  Irish 
insurrection  :  they  would  put  away 
Our  Reproach.  But  if  long  experi- 
ence be  any  guide  in  such  matters, 
there  is  no  probability  whatever  of 
parties  preferring  the  national  good 
to  the  Irish  vote.  As  readily  might 
two  generals  in  the  field  agree  to  re- 
frain from  outflanking  each  other, 
or  to  conduct  the  war  without  pow- 
der and  shot!  No;  we  must  put 
out  of  our  minds,  as  an  unattain- 
able object,  the  hearty,  efficient 
government  of  Ireland  by  Parlia- 
ment, except  under  the  strongest 
pressure. 

Parliamentary  government  is  not 
suited  to  all  peoples  in  all  times, 
— it  is  surely  no  treason  to  say  as 
much  as  that.  We  do  not  govern 
India  by  a  Parliament ;  Jamaica  is 
not  governed  by  a  Parliament ;  and 
we  could  cite  other  less  conspicuous 
instances.  Government  by  other 
means  than  Parliament  is,  then, 
not  unknown  to  our  empire.  Yet 
we  Britons  hold  the  Parliamentary 
system  to  be  the  perfection  of  go- 
vernment; and  whatever  we  may 
tolerate  at  a  great  distance  from 
home,  we  cannot  even  think  of  a 
people  living  (and  rioting)  under 
the  very  shadow  of  the  Lion,  as 
it  were,  and  yet  deprived  of  this 
greatest  of  political  blessings.  We, 
having  this  world's  great  good  in 
the  form  of  Parliamentary  govern- 
ment, could  not  bear  to  see  our 
Irish  brother  have  need  of  the  same, 
and  shut  up  our  compassion.  But 
it  is  surely  some  answer  to  such  an 
observation  as  this,  that  Parliamen- 
tary government  has  signally  failed 
to  make  Ireland  prosperous,  peace- 
able, contented,  or  happy.  A  form 
of  government  which  is  found  want- 
ing in  so  many  respects  cannot  be 
such  a  very  great  blessing  ;  and  the 
3  G 


780 


Our  Reproach. 


[Dec. 


suspension  of  it  may  scarcely  be 
regarded  as  a  hardship.  We  ven- 
ture to  say,  then,  that  we  might 
signally  promote  the  wellbeing  of 
Ireland  if  we  were  to  relieve  her  of 
direct  Parliamentary  government. 

Does  this  solve  the  difficult  ques- 
tion ?  By  no  means.  It  is  only  a 
step  towards  solution.  It  may  be 
wise  to  be  off  with  the  old  Govern- 
ment before  we  are  on  with  the 
new;  but  it  would  be  wise  also, 
before  putting  away  the  old,  to 
consider  what  the  new  ought  to  be. 
It  ought  assuredly  to  be  a  Govern- 
ment appointed  for  a  fixed  and  not 
for  a  short  period,  in  order  that  it 
may  last  long  enough  to  carry  out 
fully  its  new  methods,  whatever 
those  may  be.  By  being  assured 
of  its  term  of  existence,  it  will  be 
independent  of  the  fluctuations  of 
party  politics  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, and  able  to  pursue  its  way 
undisturbed ;  not  compelled  to  save 
its  own  life  by  making  sacrifice  of 
its  duty,  but  free  to  give  its  whole 
attention  to  the  regeneration  of 
Ireland.  Its  chief  business  would 
be  to  make  the  law  respected,  and 
to  adequately  protect  life  and  pro- 
perty. The  accession  of  such  a 
Government  to  office  would  be  a 
blessed  event  for  the  peaceably- dis- 
posed Irish.  And  peaceably-  disposed 
persons  from  other  lands  would  ven- 
ture their  lives  and  capital  in  Ire- 
land when  it  should  be  known  that 
protection  was  assured  there  for  a 
fixed  and  extended  term,  and  that 
the  arm  of  the  law  would  not  be 
subject  to  the  oscillating  majorities 
of  Parliament.  If  capital  could  get 
only  fifteen  years  protection  assured 
to  it,  it  would  probably,  before  the 
expiration  of  that  period,  have 
been  able  to  take  order  for  its  own 
future  maintenance.  For  the  per- 
sons who  would,  in  ordinary  course, 
attend  the  migration  of  capital, 
would  be,  for  the  most  part,  friends 
of  order;  so  that  the  law-abiding 


population  would  have  a  tendency 
to  increase,  and  after  a  time  it 
might  equal  or  outnumber  the  re- 
bellious. Idleness,  one  great  bane 
of  Ireland,  would  decrease  on  the 
introduction  of  capital.  There 
would  be  no  miraculous,  sudden 
change ;  but  with  industry  hum- 
ming all  around  him,  it  would  be 
impossible  for  the  Irishman  long 
to  keep  to  his  habit  of  lying  listless 
on  the  floor,  and  nursing  vengeance 
against  the  British  Government  for 
evils  which  are  the  consequence 
really  of  his  own  thriftlessness  and 
insobriety.  Indeed,  such  a  Govern- 
ment would  be  able  to  cure  all  the 
prominent  evils  which  now  disgrace 
Ireland,  and  disgrace  us  whose  duty 
it  is  to  govern  Ireland. 

For  the  form  of  government,  it 
may  be  (say)  a  Viceroyalty  and 
Council,  with  this  proviso,  that  it 
must  be  established  for  a  certain 
term  of  years,  and  it  must  be  en- 
dowed with  very  large  powers.  It 
must  fulfil  a  fixed  term  in  order 
that  law-abiding  habits  may  take 
root,  and  that  lengthened  security 
may  be  given  to  those  who  would 
introduce  and  uphold  industries 
and  improvements ;  and  it  must  be 
powerful,  that  it  may  summarily 
suppress  attempts  to  resist  or  to 
break  the  law.  Whether  or  not 
the  Viceroy  should  be  considered 
a  member  of  Administration,  and 
should  go  out  of  office  with  his 
party,  or  whether  his  should  be  a 
non-Ministerial  appointment,  and 
he  should  remain  in  office  after  the 
retirement  of  the  party  who  ap- 
pointed him,  would  be  a  question 
for  those  who  might  undertake  to 
carry  out  the  scheme.  We  should 
prefer  that  the  Viceroy  should  not 
be  a  party  man,  but  that  he  should 
be  selected  as  being  generally  fit 
for  this  very  responsible  office,  and 
irrespective  of  party.  It  may  occur 
to  many  that  an  able  soldier,  not 
known  as  leaning  very  decidedly  to 


1880.] 


Our  Reproach. 


781 


either  side  in  politics,  might  well 
fill  the  post.* 

The  Viceroy  may  be  required  to 
govern  according  to  the  laws  as 
they  stand,  so  long  as  they  may 
be  obeyed ;  but  he  ought  to  have 
power  to  alter  them  temporarily  in 
ways  known  to  these  islands — such 
as  suspension  of  the  Habeas  Corpus 
Act — whenever  and  wherever  the 
disturbed  state  of  the  country  may 
appear  to  him  and  his  advisers  to 
require  such  alteration.  It  may 
also  be  necessary  to  arm  him  with 
authority  to  try  offenders  otherwise 
than  by  jury.  Indeed  his  powers 
must  be  great ;  and  therefore  the 
utmost  circumspection  would  be 
required  in  selecting  him. 

The  essence  of  the  scheme,  how- 
ever, would  be,  that  Parliament 
should  be  pledged  to  its  continu- 
ance for  an  appointed  time.  Of 
course,  we  do  not  mean  that  the 
ruler  should  for  his  term  of  office 
be  without  control.  He  must  not 


overstep  the  limits  assigned  to  him ; 
but  within  those  limits  let  him  be 
very  little  fettered.  If  he  be  the 
able  man  that,  as  we  contend,  he 
ought  to  be,  there  will  not  be  much 
danger  in  giving  him  a  large  dis- 
cretionary range. 

By  this  method,  or  one  like  it, 
the  affairs  of  Ireland  would  cease 
to  be  the  daily  care  of  the  British 
Legislature.  There  would,  if  the 
Viceroy  should  be  a  man  of  suffi- 
cient qualities,  be  no  playing  fast 
and  loose  with  the  government  of 
that  island.  Ireland  would  cease 
to  be  a  handle  for  party  operations. 
The  trade  of  the  Irish  agitator 
would  be  gone  on  this  side  the 
water.  Law-abiding  Irish  subjects 
would  be  protected  by  the  law,  in- 
stead of  being  left  to  the  tender 
mercies  of  secret  confederacies 
which  will  not  allow  them  to  exer- 
cise any  of  the  rights  of  free  men, 
— to  buy  or  sell,  to  work  or  cease 
from  working,  to  dwell  on  this  pro- 


*  While  this  article  was  being  corrected  for  the  press,  we  were  gratified  to  notice 
a  letter  from  Lord  Headley  to  the  editor  of  the  '  Standard '  newspaper,  dated  Novem- 
ber 9th,  in  which  views  very  similar  to  ours  as  to  the  form  of  government  necessary 
for  Ireland  are  set  forth.  His  lordship's  opinions  have  been  formed  during  the 
experience  of  a  long  residence  in  Ireland ;  and  we  regard  them  as  a  strong  support  to 
our  suggestions,  with  which  they  coincide.  We  take  the  liberty  of  extracting  two  or 
three  paragraphs  from  Lord  Headley 's  letter  : — 

"Truly,  Ireland  requires  exceptional  legislation,  but  the  exceptional  legislation 
should  be  that  of  a  mild  despotism,  as  compared  with  the  so-called  constitutional 
government  which  suffices  in  the  other  home  portions  of  her  Majesty's  dominions. 

"I  hold  it  to  be  a  very  satire  on  the  meaning  of  the  verb  'to  govern,'  and  an 
abuse  of  the  word  '  constitutional,'  to  accept  the  proposition  that  it  would  be  uncon- 
stitutional to  govern  Ireland  on  a  different  system  to  that  which  obtains  in  England 
or  Scotland.  To  say  that  it  is  impossible  to  do  so,  is  a  confession  that  no  strong 
Government,  if  honest,  could  make. 

"  Thus,  then,  the  Irish  gentlemen  who  would  be  loyal,  and  the  gentlemen  from 
Ireland  who  would  not,  join  issue  on  one  common  point. 

"  Exceptional  legislation  we  both  clamour  for.  '  Give  us  Home  Rule,'  cries  out 
the  latter;  'Ireland  to  the  Irish,  and  we  shall  have  prosperity.'  'No,'  exclaims 
the  former  ;  '  for  the  result  of  Home  Rule  appears  in  facts  and  figures  in  this  letter ; 
rather  extend  to  us  a  gentle  but  despotic  arm  from  the  mother  country. ' 

' '  I  venture  to  offer  these  remarks  as  coming  from  one  who  has  made  it  his  business 
and  pleasure  to  live  amongst  the  people  in  the  fullest  sense  of  the  idea  for  the  last 
seventeen  years  ;  and  personally,  more  especially  in  regard  to  the  relations  with  my 
own  tenants,  my  affection  hitherto  has  been  well  repaid.  I  am  not,  therefore,  afraid 
of  being  misinterpreted  by  those  whose  opinion  I  value  when  I  raise  my  voice  for  a 
mild  despotism,  being  well  assured  that,  for  the  present  at  all  events,  it  is  the  only 
form  of  government  which  can  protect  an  impulsive,  generous-hearted,  but  too 
sanguine  and  excitable  a  race  from  a  class  of  adventurers  which  from  time  imme- 
morial has  known  only  too  well  how  to  turn  these  good  qualities  to  the  furtherance 
of  its  own  vicious  ends. " 


782 


Our  Reproach. 


[Dec. 


perty  or  on  that,  to  give  evidence 
in  courts  of  law, — except  as  the 
conspirators  shall  dictate.  The 
lawless  would  cease  to  occupy  all 
the  care  and  thought  of  the  govern- 
ing power.  Grievances,  complaints, 
would  have  to  be  referred  to  the 
Viceroy,  and  dealt  with  by  him. 
The  Houses  would,  for  a  period, 
wash  their  hands  of  Irish  politics ; 
the  debates  in  the  Commons  would, 
in  all  probability,  recover  some- 
thing of  their  ancient  dignified  and 
respectable  character. 

But  the  great  effect  of  the  change 
would  be  in  Ireland  itself.  The 
Viceroy  should  be  charged,  as  a 
first  duty,  to  prevent,  to  repress, 
and  to  punish  crime  ;  to  control 
agitation ;  to  curb,  if  necessary, 
the  press.  The  use  of  the  lash 
ought  to  be  permitted  in  punishing 
wretches  who  may  have  been  guilty 
of  torturing  dumb  creatures.  No 
man  dare  contend  that  such  heart- 
less criminals  could  be  degraded 
by  corporal  punishment ;  neither 
could  any  say  that  such  cruelty 
had  not  richly  earned  the  infliction. 
The  Viceroy  should  be  empowered 
to  disarm  the  populations  of  re- 
fractory districts.  He  ought  to  be 
supported  by  a  strong  civil  and  a 
strong  military  force,  so  as  to  give 
law-breakers  no  chance  at  all.  He 
might  meet  with  a  little  trouble  at 
first ;  but  as  soon  as  it  should  be 
understood  and  felt  that  Parliamen- 
tary agitation  was  at  an  end,  and 
that  the  laws  were  being  impar- 
tially enforced,  the  disposition  to 
turbulence  and  outrage  would,  as  we 
may  confidently  anticipate,  rapid- 
ly decline.  At  the  same  time,  it 
should  be  a  charge  to  the  Viceroy 
to  promote  industry,  to  ascertain 
and  attempt  to  develop  the  re- 
sources of  the  sister  island,  and  to 
attract  capital  into  it.  Indeed  the 
passage  of  capital  into  the  country 
would  not  require  much  invitation, 
but  would  occur  in  the  ordinary 


course  of  things  as  soon  as  life  and 
property  should  be  known  to  be 
more  secure  than  of  old — as  soon  as 
it  should  be  said  of  Ireland  that 
the  murderer,  the  mutilator,  and  the 
wrecker  of  homes  could  no  longer 
walk  there  in  safety  by  dav  or  by 
night.  The  new,  strong  Govern- 
ment might  give  much  sound  ad- 
vice as  to  how  assistance  from  this 
island  might  be  most  profitably 
given  to  Ireland.  At  present  there 
is  much  reason  to  fear  that  English 
gifts  of  money  to  Ireland  are  inju- 
diciously applied, — that  the  party 
spirit,  the  misrepresentation,  and 
the  terrorism  which  are  curses  of 
the  island,  procure  the  misdirec- 
tion of  this  as  they  do  of  every  well- 
intended  provision.  Many  well- 
wishers  of  Ireland  recommend  a 
copious  emigration  therefrom.  The 
Government  here  suggested  would 
be  able  greatly  to  facilitate  and  to 
regulate  emigration. 

We  are  quite  aware  that  the 
remedy  here  recommended  is  a 
sweeping  and  a  searching  one — one 
that  would  be  violently  objected  to. 
The  defence  of  it  lies  in  the  miser- 
able condition  of  Ireland,  for  the 
amelioration  whereof  none  of  our 
ordinary  expedients  of  government 
will  suffice.  We  cannot  govern 
Ireland  as  we  govern  Great  Britain. 
It  is  a  shame  and  a  sin  to  us  not  to 
govern  Ireland  effectually.  Ergo, 
we  are  bound  to  try  another  form 
of  government.  It  should  be  re- 
membered that  our  partiality  for 
Parliamentary  government,  and  our 
notion  that  it  would  be  cruelty  to 
deprive  Ireland  of  that  which  we 
look  upon  as  a  great  blessing  to 
ourselves,  are  but  sentiments.  And 
in  dealing  with  a  very  difficult  pro- 
blem, we  want  common-sense,  not 
sentiment.  It  is  the  sentimental 
view  which  the  Irish  demagogues 
endeavour  continually  to  exhibit  to 
us,  because  they  know  well  that 
they  thus  address  our  national 


1880.] 


Our  Reproach. 


783 


foibles  rather  than  our  judgment, 
and  because  they  know  also  that 
whenever  Great  Britain  may  take 
this  matter  in  hand  in  a  practical 
way  their  occupation  will  be  gone. 
But  it  is  our  duty  to  be  practical 
here.  Once  put  into  the  right 
groove  and  held  there  for  a  period, 
the  Irish  would  forget  their  blood- 
thirstiness  and  savagery ;  they 
would  learn  that  their  advancement 
and  prosperity  can  be  better  and 
more  easily  promoted  than  by  as- 
sassination and  violence ;  and  they 
would  apply  their  faculties  to  arts 
and  pursuits  which  would  to  a 
great  extent  shut  out  the  baser  and 
fiercer  passions.  After  witnessing 
the  benefits  of  order  and  industry 
for  a  generation,  they  would  hardly 
choose,  even  if  it  were  permitted, 
to  return  to  uselessness  and  ferocity. 
Having  thus  dreamt  out  our  day- 
dream of  a  reasonably  governed  Ire- 
land, we  wake  up  to  behold  the  im- 
movable, inexorable  powers  which 
stand  for  the  long-tried,  unfruit- 
ful state  of  things,  and  which,  to 
some  minds,  render  amelioration 
impossible,  and  the  hope  of  it  an 
absurdity.  Our  contemporary  the 
'  Saturday  Eeview '  wrote  not  very 
long  ago — "It  would  now  be  im- 
possible to  administer  Ireland  as 
a  mere  dependency.  The  growing 
strength  of  the  English  democracy 
would  place  an  insurmountable  im- 
pediment in  the  way  of  any  attempt 
of  the  kind.  The  extreme  Liberal 
party  will  never  consent  to  deprive 
itself  of  the  aid  of  allies  who  will 
always  be  ready  to  support  revolu- 
tionary measures."  *  It  is  true 
that  no  damsel  or  treasure  was  ever 
surrounded  by  more  vigilant  and 
determined  guardians  —  dragons, 
griffins,  adamantine  gates,  enchant- 
ed bulwarks — than  would  be  sure 
to  show  themselves  in  defence  of 
the  continuance  of  Our  Reproach. 


Their  name  is  legion  for  whose  profit 
a  distracted,  discreditable  Ireland 
serves.  Private  interests,  party 
interests,  would  start  up  alarmed  ; 
and  more  than  that,  a  jealous  Legis- 
lature, inwardly  conscious  of  hav- 
ing failed,  but  outwardly  boastful 
of  its  power  and  its  privileges, 
would  wrestle  hard  to  maintain  its 
hold  of  that  which  only  festers  in 
its  grasp.  We  do  not  underrate, 
and  we  have  no  wish  to  make  light 
of,  the  immense  force  which  would 
come  from  the  east  and  from  the 
west,  from  the  north  and  from  the 
south,  and  insist  that  Ireland  should 
remain  poor,  lawless,  barbarous,  and 
a  reproach  to  us. 

But  appalling  as  the  adventure 
is,  we  are  not  utterly  dismayed. 
We  remember  that  a  stout  heart 
and  a  good  cause  always  sufficed  to 
penetrate  the  enchanter's  barriers, 
though  he  charmed  never  so  wisely. 
And  we  believe  yet  in  the  power 
of  an  honest  desire  and  a  persistent 
courageous  endeavour.  There  are 
myriads  in  this  land,  who,  if  they 
were  once  fairly  impressed  with  the 
importance,  first  to  Ireland  and 
secondly  to  Great  Britain,  of  deal- 
ing wisely  with  this  difficulty, 
would  rise  above  party  considera- 
tions, and  insist  upon  the  power 
of  Great  Britain  being  used  earnest- 
ly and  determinedly  for  the  better 
government  of  Ireland.  But  these 
well-disposed  myriads  require  to  be 
instructed,  and  to  understand  clearly 
not  only  what  they  must  do,  but 
what  they  must  not  do.  It  is  not 
an  impossible  thing  for  "Britons  to 
be  wrought  to  the  conviction  that 
the  time  has  come  for  taking  some 
very  serious  step  with  regard  to 
Ireland.  They  have  often  felt 
that  they  must  and  would  address 
themselves  to  her  amelioration ; 
but  whenever  this  has  been  the 
case,  there  has  always  been  at  hand 


*  September  4,  1880. 


764 


Our  Reproach. 


[Deo. 


some  specious  adviser,  who,  seeing 
that  things  must  needs  be  altered, 
took  pains  that  they  should  be 
altered  as  little  as  possible.  The 
great  care  of  these  advisers  was, 
that  no  reform  should  go  to,  or 
near  to,  the  root  of  the  matter. 
They  are  prompt  to  deflect  the 
thrust  which  they  cannot  block. 
They  lead  into  a  side  channel  the 
force  which  has  been  accumulated 
for  the  correction  of  the  evil ;  and 
by  proposing  palliatives,  compro- 
mises, and  concessions, — measures 
calculated,  perhaps,  to  bring  a 
seeming  peace  for  a  year  or  two, 
—  they  waste  and  disperse  the 
head  of  public  feeling,  which,  if 
it  were  properly  directed,  might 
produce  a  permanent  cure.  We 
have  only  to  look  back  at  the 
various  nostrums  which  have  been 
from  time  to  time  administered, 
without  being  followed  by  any 
good  result,  to  be  convinced  of 
their  futility,  and  to  be  warned 
against  the  repetition  of  such  weak 
and  inappropriate  action.  We  have 
never  been  able  to  kill  the  snake 
of  sedition  and  rebellion,  though 
we  have  scotched  it  so  often.  With 
certainty  it  has  raised  its  head 
again  and  hissed  at  us,  giving 
clear  proof  that  our  efforts  had 
been  futile,  and  that  the  work  was 
all  to  do  over  again.  There  is 
a  Land  Commission  sitting  now 
(as  many  a  Commission  has  sat 
before)  to  devise  some  compromise 
which  may  bring  a  lull  of  a  year 
or  two  —  a  thing  which  may  be 
a  great  relief  to  Ministers.  The 
Commission  will  recommend  some 
new  law  as  a  matter  of  course — 
some  new  law  which,  for  the  twen- 
tieth time  in  this  century,  is  to 
put  an  end  to  all  contention  and 
satisfy  Ireland  at  last.  Already 
fond  people,  prone  to  temporising, 
are  talking  about  a  "  settlement " 
of  the  land  question.  As  if  there 
ever  could  be  a  settlement  by  the 


stock  Parliamentary  routine  !  Was 
not  the  land  question  "  settled  "  by 
Parliament  in  1870?  and  were  we 
not  then  assured  that  there  would 
be  need  of  no  further  legislation  on 
the  subject  1  It  tries  one's  patience 
to  hear  stuff  like  this  about  "  settle- 
ment "  repeated.  The  "  settlement " 
would  probably  be  a  bribe  to  the 
unruly,  at  the  expense  of  the  order- 
ly, to  give  the  Ministry  rest  for  a 
twelvemonth  or  so.  We  earnestly 
desire  that  the  well-wishers  of  Ire- 
land may  not  be  led  from  the  right 
track  by  any  such  recommendation. 
If  the  Commissioners  have  anything 
reasonable  and  good  to  recommend, 
let  us  have  it,  in  God's  name,  and 
be  thankful ;  but  let  us  not  accept 
it  as  a  thing  which  can  acquit  us 
of  our  obligations  toward  Ireland. 
Mr  Parnel],  M.P.,  in  a  speech  which 
he  made  at  Ennis  on  the  19th  Sep- 
tember, is  reported  to  have  said  as 
follows  in  reference  to  the  Land 
Commission  now  sitting  : — 

"  I  am  bound  to  tell  you  honestly  that 
I  believe  this  Commission  was  appoint- 
ed in  order  to  try  and  whittle  down  the 
demand  of  the  Irish  tenantry,  and  to 
try  to  find  out  what  was  the  very  least 
measure  of  reform  that  had  a  chance 
of  being  accepted  in  Ireland,  and  to  a 
great  extent  to  divert  the  minds  of  ten- 
ant-farmers from  agitating  and  organ- 
ising to  the  useless  work  of  going  be- 
fore this  Commission  and  giving  evi- 
dence. I  cannot  possibly  see  what 
useful  effect  evidence  before  this  Com- 
mission can  have.  We  know  that  the 
report,  if  there  is  any  report,  must  be 
of  a  one-sided  character,  and  against 
the  interests  of  the  people  of  this  coun- 
try. The  composition  of  the  Commis- 
sion is  a  guarantee  of  that.  Hence  we 
have  to  consider  whether  it  is  at  all 
probable  that  the  importance  which 
might  be  gained  by  having  evidence 
put  down  could  have  any  counterbal- 
ancing advantage  as  compared  with 
the  demoralisation  that  the  farmers 
must  experience  when  they  turn  their 
eyes  with  any  hope  of  confidence  to 
such  Commission  when  so  constituted. 
What  will  be  said  if  the  tenant-farmers 


1880.] 


Our  Reproac.il, 


785 


come  before  this  Commission  in  any 
large  numbers  ?  It  will  be  said  that 
you  have  accepted  the  Commission  ; 
that  you  must  therefore  be  bound  by 
its  report ;  and  if  there  is  very  much 
evidence  given,  it  will  form  a  very  good 
excuse  for  the  Government  arid  for 
the  English  Tory  party  to  put  off  legis- 
lation on  the  land  question  next  ses- 
sion until  they  have  time  to  read  the 
evidence  and  consider  its  bearing  and 
effect.  My  opinion,  then,  decidedly  is 
this  —  Whatever  harm  you  do  your 
cause  by  going  before  this  Commission, 
you  certainly  will  be  able  to  do  no 
good." 

Though  our  aims  are  very  differ- 
ent from  those  of  Mr  Parnell,  yet 
we  quite  agree  with  him  that  110 
recommendation  calculated  to  heal 
the  wounds  of  Ireland  is  likely  to 
proceed  from  the  Commission.  It 
is  very  likely,  indeed,  to  "  whittle 
down  "  the  whole  question,  and  to 
propose  (as  has  been  done  twenty 
times  before)  some  paltry  quack- 
salve,  with  the  effect  —  if  a  law 
should  be  founded  upon  its  sugges- 
tions—  of  obtaining  a  two  years' 
truce  for  the  Ministry,  and  of  en- 
abling them  to  brag  once  more  that 
they  have  pacified  Ireland. 

Here  we  may  glance  for  a  mo- 
ment at  the  curious  apology  for 
delay  which  has  been  of  late  so 
frequently  made  by  Ministers  and 
their  friends.  "Let  us,"  it  has 
been  said,  "  not  be  studious  to  en- 
act exceptional  laws  for  Ireland 
until  it  shall  be  proved  beyond 
contradiction  that  the  ordinary  law 
of  the  land  has  failed.  Let  us  ex- 
haust the  ordinary  law  first."  As 
if  it  were  not  already  clear  to  the 
most  vulgar  mind  that  the  law  has 
most  miserably  failed,  that  it  is  in- 
operative, and  that  in  its  place  has 
been  erected  an  illegal  and  secret 
power  coercing  by  means  of  assas- 
sination and  cruelty  !  "Why,  if  there 
had  remained  any  virtue  or  any  effi- 
cacy in  the  ordinary  law,  the  case 
of  Ireland  which  we  are  discussing 


could  not  have  arisen.  The  fortune 
of  the  man  in  Thessaly  was  to  re- 
cover his  sight  by  the  same  process 
which  had  destroyed  it ;  and  the 
plan  of  our  Ministerial  sages  is  that 
the  code  which  has  allowed  Ireland 
to  sink  to  such  a  state  of  anarchy, 
is  now  to  be  the  instrument  of  her 
restoration  !  Pshaw  ! !  The  men 
who  use  this  pitiful  sophistry  know 
well  that  the  Queen's  writ  will  not 
run  in  many  parts  of  Ireland ;  that 
witnesses  of  acts  of  violence  dare 
not  denounce  or  reveal  them  ;  and 
that  juries,  only  too  often,  dare  not, 
on  the  clearest  evidence,  to  convict 
a  criminal ! 

The  '  Spectator '  newspaper,  on 
the  30th  October,  wrote  as  follows  : 
"The  British  Government  is  not 
bound  to  govern  only,  but  to  gov- 
ern constitutionally;  and  the  first 
principle  of  the  constitution  is 
that  the  despotic  power  intrusted 
to  Parliament  shall  not  be  used  to 
set  aside  law,  until  the  law  has 
failed  to  protect  public  order."  A 
little  further  down  in  the  same 
article  may  be  read:  "It  is  an 
open  question  whether  the  law  has 
any  strength  at  all ;  whether  any 
jury  could  be  got  together  with- 
out packing,  which,  on  any  evi- 
dence, would  convict  a  popular  law- 
breaker." If  the  writer  here  have 
not  proved  a  case  against  himself, 
there  is  no  such  thing  as  demon- 
stration. 

No ;  we  must  go  very  much 
deeper  than  a  Commission  is  likely 
to  even  hint  at,  and  much  further 
than  the  ordinary  law  will  carry 
us.  We  must,  in  good  earnest, 
govern  Ireland,  not  coax  her  into  a 
short-lived  good-humour.  And,  as 
has  been  already  stated,  Parliament 
is  not  likely,  of  its  own  will,  ever 
to  make,  and  adhere  to,  such  dispo- 
sitions as  will  do  good. 

Equally  plain  is  it  that  we  can 
do  nothing  except  through  Parlia- 
ment. So,  if  Parliament  will  not 


786 


Our  Reproach. 


[Dec. 


do  it,  there  is  an  end  of  the  matter  ! 
But  soft :  it  was  only  said  that  Par- 
liament would  not  do  the  right 
thing—  i.e.,  according  to  our  view, 
institute  a  new  government  for  a 
fixed  period  —  of  its  own  will. 
There  is  nothing  which  Parlia- 
ment may  not  be  made  to  do  by 
the  pressure  of  opinion  persistent- 
ly applied.  Once  it  is  understood 
that  the  people  of  Great  Britain 
see  their  way  to  a  great  and  benev- 
olent end,  that  they  are  determined 
to  attain  that  end,  and  that  they 
will  be  satisfied  with  nothing  short 
of  it,  Parliament  will  do  the  will  of 
the  country,  and  the  right  man  will 
come  to  the  front  to  guide  Parlia- 
ment in  so  doing.  But  this  will 
never  be  unless  the  country  is  firm, 
and,  with  a  single  and  unalterable 
mind,  insists  upon  the  government 
of  Ireland  being  removed  for  a  time 
beyond  the  daily  cognisance  of  the 
Legislature.  Alternatives  will  be  a 
hundred  times  offered  before  the  re- 
solution to  make  this  great  change 
can  be  finally  taken.  If  the  people 
accept  any  substitute  whatever  for 
the  quasi  dictatorship,  they  will  be 
once  more  foiled  of  their  purpose, 
once  more  doomed  to  disappoint- 
ment, once  more  amused  till  tbe 
day  of  waking  up  to  the  knowledge 
that  Ireland  is  as  bad  as  ever,  and 
that  we  must  begin  again.  It  is  a 
self-denying  ordinance  which  they 
must  compel  Parliament  to  enact. 

We  have  no  doubt  that  as  soon 
as  the  people  of  this  country  per- 
ceive their  duty  towards  Ireland, 
they  will  endeavour  to  do  it.  But 
some  reflection  is  required,  and 
much  avoidance  of  old  errors.  Let 
us,  as  a  very  important  point,  con- 
sider that  we  have  been  accus- 
tomed to  regard  the  bad,  the  dis- 
affected, the  unraly  portion  of  the 
Irish  with  interest ;  while  for  the 
orderly,  well-disposed  part  of  them, 
we  have  had  hardly  a  thought  to 


give.  There  may  be  a  reason  why 
we  inadvertently  do  this ;  but  is  it 
right  to  do  it  after  we  have  per- 
ceived our  inadvertence?  It  is  a 
truth  that  the  tyranny  which  Irish 
orators  impute  to  Great  Britain, 
and  to  which  Great  Britain  empha- 
tically pleads  Not  guilty,  is  prac- 
tised daily  by  the  unruly  Irisili 
upon  their  peaceable  neighbours. 
No  men  can  lead  more  miserable 
lives  than  those  Irishmen  who  are 
loyal  and  sound  at  heart.  Should 
they  be  landlords,  they  are  denied 
the  rents  which  are  justly  due  to 
them  from  their  tenants,  and 
threatened  with  death  if  they 
attempt  by  legal  means  to  obtain 
their  own,  or  to  rid  themselves 
of  their  unprofitable  tenants.  "We 
know  that  these  are  often  not 
empty  threats,  and  that  lives  are 
taken  on  small  provocation,  so  that 
every  landlord  may  be  said  to  carry 
his  life  in  his  hand.  If  the  peace- 
able men  be  themselves  tenants,  or 
of  the  tenant  class,  they  are  for- 
bidden to  pay  their  rent  by  bands 
of  secret  conspirators ;  they  are 
forbidden  to  occupy  certain  lands 
which  the  conspirators  may  choose 
to  have  left  on  the  landlord's  hands, 
or  to  exercise  that  freedom  as  to 
hiring  or  letting,  labouring  or  serv- 
ing, which  is  the  right  of  every  man 
in  a  free  community.  Death  is  the 
penalty  threatened  for  breach  of 
the  conspirators'  commands;  but 
possibly,  for  a  first  disobedience  of 
these,  the  victim  may  mercifully 
be  let  off  with  having  his  house 
set  on  fire,  his  crops  destroyed,  or 
his  cattle  rendered  valueless  by  the 
most  cruel  injuries.  The  law  does 
not  help  those  who  are  thus  op- 
pressed. Justice  Shallow's  servant 
Davy  remarked  that  "  an  honest 
man  is  able  to  speak  for  himself, 
while  a  knave  is  not ; "  but  things 
in  Ireland  to-day  are  very  unlike 
the  things  of  Davy's  experience. 


1880.] 


Our  Reproach. 


787 


The  knaves  are  now  alone  able 
to  speak  for  themselves,  and  they 
speak  loudly  enough,  while  honest 
men  cannot  get  a  hearing  and  are 
confounded.  It  is  more  than  a 
man's  life  is  worth  to  give  evidence 
against  one  of  these  conspirators 
from  the  witness-box,  or  as  a  juror 
to  pronounce  him  guilty.  Every- 
thing, therefore,  is  against  the 
orderly  and  peaceable  man.  He 
is  subjected  to  the  fearful  wrongs 
which  we  have  described,  and  no 
man  layeth  it  to  heart.  Begin  to 
talk  about  Ireland,  and  you  find 
shortly  that  it  is  the  law-breakers, 
their  cries,  their  demands,  and  what 
is  to  be  done  for  them,  that  you  are 
discussing ;  while  for  their  victims, 
the  poor  souls  whom  we  ought  to 
protect,  we  have  not  a  word  or  a 
thought.  What  has  the  Govern- 
ment been  doing  very  lately — only 
a  few  months  ago  ?  While  Ireland 
was  known  to  be  exceptionally  un- 
quiet and  disposed  to  turbulence 
and  law-breaking,  Government  suf- 
fered an  Act  to  expire  which  had 
specially  been  passed  for  the  pre- 
servation of  the  peace — that  is  to 
say,  when  a  strong  measure  was 
expressly  wanted  as  the  only  means 
whereby  the  law  could  be  upheld, 
they  declined  to  propose  any  strong 
measure.  And  why  1  Because  the 
votes  of  the  Irish  members  would 
be  lost  to  them  if  they  should 
attempt  to  deal  firmly  with  Irish 
crime ;  and  therefore  loyal  subjects 
must  be  shot,  and  outraged,  and 
treated  as  criminals ;  for  what  are 
they  in  comparison  of  the  Irish 
vote  !  Is  it  too  much  to  require 
of  the  British  people  that  well-dis- 
posed loyal  men  should  be  allowed 
to  exercise  the  ordinary  rights  of 
citizens  in  Ireland  without  being 
perpetually  in  fear  of  death?  It 
is  Britain's  business ;  Britain  is 
responsible  ;  at  Britain's  door  must 
lie  all  the  blood  that  is  shed,  and 


all  the  damage  tiat  is  suffered,  for 
want  of  a  sufficient  executive  Gov- 
ernment. 

A  piece  of  refined  consideration 
which  has  been  recently  put  forth  by 
a  writer,  who  is  also  an  ex-Minister 
of  the  Liberal  party,  in  a  contem- 
porary periodical,  regarding  a  special 
law  for  Ireland,  is  most  remarkable. 
This  writer  would  by  no  means  coun- 
tenance a  stringent  measure,  because 
its  restrictions  would  abridge  the 
liberties  of  the  peaceable  as  well  as 
of  the  unruly.  It  is  refreshing  to 
find  a  word  of  any  kind  written  for 
the  peaceable  ;  but  such  a  word  as 
this  is  surely  an  absurdity,  if  any 
word  can  be  so.  You  take  the 
shadow  of  death  off  peaceable  men, 
you  give  them  security  for  their 
property,  and  restore  to  them  the 
rights  of  free  men,  but  in  so  doing 
you  commit  an  injustice  against 
them  because,  forsooth,  you  restrict 
their  liberties,  and  involve  them  in 
common  disabilities  with  the  trans- 
gressors !  Could  a  severer  satire 
upon  mawkish  sentiment  have  been 
penned?  The  mind  that  could  have 
conceived  it  must  have  been  accus- 
tomed to  range  far  and  wide  in 
search  of  specious  answers  to  stern 
strong  arguments.  Is  it  likely  that 
they  who  are  crying  to  us  to  save 
their  lives  and  all  that  they  possess, 
would  object  to  protection  being 
purchased  at  the  expense  of  some 
civil  disabilities?  If  the  life  be 
more  than  meat  and  the  body  than 
raiment,  surely  either  of  them  is 
more  than  the  liberty  of  possessing 
firearms,  or  of  uttering  treasonable 
speeches.  Wo  should  like  to  hear 
on  this  subject  some  of  the  poor 
men  who  have  been  served  with 
threats  in  the  form  of  coffins.  Can 
we  suppose  that  they  would  object  to 
having  their  lives  preserved  because 
the  law  which  might  preserve  them 
would  impose  some  slight  restric- 
tions? Assuredly  not.  It  is  only 


788 


Our  Reproach. 


[Dec. 


the  advocate  who  undertakes  to 
speak  in  their  name  that  could 
think  of  such  a  thing.  They  feel 
that  the  tyranny  of  agitators  and 
brigands  is  a  thousand  times  harder 
to  bear  than  any  limitation  which 
the  law  might  impose. 

And  this  brings  us  to  another 
stage  of  our  argument.  We  have, 
as  it  were,  put  aside  Parliament  and 
appealed  to  the  people  outside  it. 
The  people  must  be  advised  and 
marshalled  somehow  before  they 
can  join  in  a  clear  deflnite  demand 
concerning  the  government  of  Ire- 
land. And  the  duty  of  marshal- 
ling and  instructing  them  devolves 
upon  the  press.  If  the  press  will 
keep  continually  before  the  British 
people  the  wrongs  which  they  are 
permitting,  and  the  criminality  of 
permitting  such  wrongs,  an  interest 
may  be  raised  which  may  go  on 
more  and  more  extending  and  in- 
tensifying, until  the  nation  is  ready 
to  rectify  a  crying  error,  and  to  do 
it  intelligently  and  effectually.  "We 
ought  not  to  relax  our  efforts  simply 
because  the  cause  looks  so  difficult  as 
to  be  almost  hopeless.  We  know 
that  we  have  right  on  our  side; 
and  that  ought  to  give  us  courage 
and  energy.  Ten  righteous  men 
might  have  saved  the  cities  of  the 
plain ;  and  ten  honest  pens  work- 
ing devotedly  for  the  better  govern- 
ing of  Ireland,  may  fan  the  flame 
of  opinion,  until  it  shall  have  be- 
come an  irresistible  fire-blast.  We 
are  not  the  first  who  have  laboured  in 
this  field,  and  we  trust  that  we  may 
not  be  the  last  by  very  many.  The 
subject  ought  to  be  kept  continually 
prominent.  The  arena  must  not  be 
given  up  wholly  to  those  who  speak 
fur  the  rebels.  Enough,  and  far 
more  than  enough,  is  said  for  them. 
At  least  an  equal  voice  should  be 
raised  on  behalf  of  the  loyal  people 
who  are  at  this  moment,  and  con- 
tinually, suffering  brutal  violence 


and  deprivation  of  their  natural 
rights  at  the  hands  of  organised 
miscreants  whom  it  is  our  duty  to 
hold  in  check  and  to  punish. 

We  have  set  before  us  pictures 
in  plenty  of  the  miserable  Ireland, 
Our  Reproach,  which  the  unintelli- 
gent, fruitless  treatment  of  the  last 
fifty  years  has  produced.  What 
should  those  melancholy  pictures 
teach  us1?  Surely,  not  that  it  is 
expedient  to  go  on  still  longer  in 
the  same  senseless  way,  but  rather 
that  we  should  resort  to  a  new  sys- 
tem of  treatment,  the  old  one  hav- 
ing, by  the  confession  of  both  sides, 
failed  lamentably.  "Emancipate 
the  Catholics,  and  all  will  go  well," 
said  the  infallible  physicians';  and 
we  emancipated  the  Catholics.  But 
all  did  not  go  well.  "  Pull  down 
the  Irish  branch  of  the  Church  of 
England,"  said  the  infallible,  "  and 
all  will  go  well."  We  pulled  down 
the  Irish  Protestant  Church ;  but 
all  did  not  go  well,  nor  a  bit  better 
than  before.  "Kevise  the  land 
laws,"  again  said  the  infallible,  "  and 
all  will  go  well."  We  revised  the 
land  laws;  but  does  the  account 
set  before  us  from  day  to  day  show 
that  all  is  going  well  1  Nay,  surely ; 
but  it  proves  beyond  contradiction 
that  the  infallible  physicians,  so 
called,  knew  nothing  whatever  of 
their  work,  and  were  the  merest 
bunglers.  Manifestly  it  is  time  to 
lay  to  our  hand,  and  to  institute  a 
more  intelligent  system. 

But  might  it  not  be  profitable 
to  dwell  a  little  on  pictures  of  a 
happy  and  contented  Ireland,  such 
as  might  be  achieved  by  a  firm  and 
impartial  Government?  The  in- 
trinsic wealth  of  Ireland  has  never 
been  developed,  simply  by  reason 
of  the  perversity  of  its  own  popu- 
lation, which  perversity  has  again 
been  encouraged  and  maintained  by 
British  perversity  in  governing — or 
rather  in  not  governing — Ireland. 


1880.] 


Our  Reproach. 


789 


No  man  dares  to  lay  out  capital 
in  Ireland;  because  the  chances 
are  very  great  that,  on  the  at- 
tempt being  made  to  found  there 
any  industry  whatever,  overseers 
and  workmen  would  be  murdered 
or  rattened,  buildings  would  be 
burned,  machinery  broken,  cattle 
maimed,  and  destruction  in  every 
way  perpetrated.  "We  are  howl- 
ing for  want  and  misery,"  say,  in 
effect,  the  Irish ;  "  but  at  your 
peril,  Saxons,  bring  any  of  your 
wealth  here  to  relieve  us  by  find- 
ing us  profitable  employment.  As 
much  foolish  alms,  to  keep  us  in 
idleness  and  rioting,  as  you  please  ; 
but  bring  us  the  means  of  certain- 
ly earning  our  bread,  and  you  die." 
Landowners  are  scared  from  resid- 
ing on  their  properties,  and  so 
spending  money  in  the  country, 
by  the  fear  of  death  —  they  take 
refuge  elsewhere;  and  the  ruffians 
who  scare  them,  forming  an  argu- 
ment out  of  their  own  wrong,  raise 
a  clamour  against  absenteeism.  We 
have  already  remarked  on  the  means 
resorted  to  for  defeating  the  courts 
of  law  in  any  attempt  to  punish 
the  lawless.  But  all  this  might 
be  reversed  if  we  should  choose  to 
give  protection  to  life  and  property. 
Capital,  for  the  employment  of 
which  there  is  ample  occasion 
there,  might  be  attracted  in  such 
quantity  as  would  afford  honest 
livelihood  to  tens  of  thousands. 
Manufactures  might  be  established, 
fisheries  promoted,  waste  lands  re- 
claimed, mines  worked,  communi- 
cations increased,  the  comfort  of 
the  population  immeasurably  ad- 
vanced, if  only  we  would  give 
such  protection  to  the  capitalist, 
his  servants  and  his  gear,  as  would 
beget  a  fair  hope  of  some  profit  on 
his  venture.  Landlords  would  re- 
turn to  their  homes  if  assured  of 
their  lives  and  liberties.  The  effect 
must  undoubtedly  be,  to  turn  that 


land  into  a  garden  and  a  hive  of 
industry,  which  is  now  everywhere 
neglected,  and  in  many  parts  a 
wilderness;  to  turn  the  people 
from  being  savages  or  demi- sav- 
ages and  brigands,  or  else  crushed 
victims,  into  civilised,  industrious, 
useful  inhabitants  ;  to  make  Ire- 
land, instead  of  a  loss  and  a  grief 
to  UP,  a  source  of  wealth  and  a 
defence  ! 

This  latter  picture,  which  with- 
out question  can  be  realised  if  we 
will,  ought,  we  say,  to  be  contem- 
plated by  us  Britons,  as  well  as 
the  Ireland  of  squalor,  poverty,  and 
every  species  of  lawlessness;  and 
in  season  and  out  of  season,  when- 
ever we  may  be  undertaking  an 
action  for  our  own  profit  or  pleas- 
ure, whenever  we  are  enjoying  our 
luxuries  and  our  comforts,  when- 
ever we  are  disposed  to  lecture  other 
countries  on  the  proper  methods 
of  government,  whenever  we  would 
travel  or  would  rest,  whenever  we 
would  ask  a  blessing  on  honest 
endeavour,  ought  to  be  set  before 
us  the  pictures  of  this  Ireland  and 
of  this, — of  the  Ireland  which  we 
are  neglecting  and  misgoverning, 
and  of  that  prosperous  Ireland  which 
we  might  produce,  if  only  we  would 
give  our  minds  to  this  most  inter- 
esting duty,  and  act  boldly  and 
firmly  together.  We  must  behold 
Ireland  as  she  now  is — a  shuttle- 
cock pushed  about  in  the  political 
arena,  not  for  her  good,  but  for 
the  convenience  and  advantage  of 
parties.  We  must  realise  the  truth 
that  her  miserable,  helpless  condi- 
tion can  have  no  end  unless  we  stir 
ourselves  on  her  behalf  and  come  to 
her  rescue ;  but  that  if  we  do  stir 
ourselves,  we  may  not  only  end  her 
misery  but  bring  prosperity  to  her. 
Once  we  see  our  duty  we  shall  be 
without  excuse  if  we  fail  to  do  it. 
It  is  at  our  very  door  that  relief 
is  wanted — a  relief  far  more  need- 


790 


Our  Reproach. 


[Dec. 


fal  than  pecuniary  alms.  Only  by 
giving  such  relief  can  we  quiet  the 
accusations  of  our  own  consciences : 
only  thus  can  we  put  away  OUR 
EEPROACH. 

In  the  above  paper  no  political 
party  has  been  attacked.  It  has 
been  the  writer's  object  not  to 
identify  himself  with  any  faction, 
but  rather  to  recommend  measures 
which,  as  he  feels  certain,  would 
be  in  a  high  degree  beneficial 
to  Ireland  —  to  recommend  them 
to  the  British  people  to  be  adopt- 
ed as  a  work  of  duty,  and  for 
their  own  interest.  The  statesmen 
who  may  carry  out  these  meas- 
ures will,  it  is  thought,  deserve 
well  of  their  country,  be  their  side 
in  politics  what  it  may.  But, 
while  these  remarks  have  been  in 
preparation  for  the  press,  events 
have  been  in  progress  in  Ireland 
which,  being  intimately  related  to 
our  subject,  call  for  notice ;  and 
the  authorities  there  and  here  have 
pursued  a  course  on  which  some 
comment  may  be  desirable. 

Several  opportunities  have  been 
used  by  persons  in  authority  for 
publicly  noticing  the  condition  of 
things  in  Ireland  ;  and  one  eminent 
person  has  emphatically  assured  us 
that  the  supremacy  of  the  law  must 
and  will  be  upheld  in  that  island 
whatever  else  may  befall  there. 
They,  or  many  of  them,  have  also 
made  mention  of  great  wrongs  en- 
dured by  the  Irishmen  who  set  the 
law  at  naught ;  and,  where  these 
wrongs  may  not  have  been  stated 
in  words,  they  have  been  implied 
by  the  tenor  and  tone  of  the 
speaker.  As  regards  the  promises 
to  uphold  the  laws  through  evil 


report  and  good  report,  they  ought, 
as  one  may  imagine,  to  be  a  source 
of  inexpressible  comfort  and  satis- 
faction to  ourselves,  and  to  all  who 
participate  in  views  such  as  have 
been  just  now  propounded.  If 
they  do  not  make  us  light  of  heart 
— and  we  fear  that  we  find  little 
pleasure  in  them — we  may  have 
some  reason  to  give  presently  why 
we  refuse  to  be  charmed.  But  let 
us  first  notice  the  Irish  grievances  ; 
let  us  examine  what  has  sounded 
ominously  like  a  justification  of 
Irish  lawlessness. 

There  is  nothing  very  startling 
in  the  sounds,  "Irish  grievances." 
As  long  as  '  Maga '  has  existed, 
now  more  than  two  generations, 
there  have  always  been  Irish  griev- 
ances ;  and  in  the  old  time  before 
her  they  were  the  mode  also,  as 
our  fathers  have  declared  to  us. 
It  seems  to  be  ordained  for  these 
grievances,  as  the  Scriptures  say 
it  is  for  the  poor,  that  they  shall 
never  perish  out  of  the  land.  As 
has  already  been  remarked,  the 
grievances  have  been  cured  over 
and  over  again  in  the  present  cen- 
tury; and,  strangely  enough,  it  is 
the  very  lips  which,  ten  years  ago, 
assured  us  of  the  eradication  of  the 
grievances,  and  promised  a  long 
reign  of  peace  thereafter,  which 
now  reopen  the  wail  and  declare 
that  Ireland  has  great  and  grievous 
wrongs.  Like  the  cry  of  icolf,  the 
wail  and  the  announcement  fall 
rather  flat  upon  accustomed  ears ; 
yet  still  it  behoves  those  who 
would,  before  all  things,  advise  for 
the  public  security,  to  look  abroad 
for  a  moment,  and  not  to  assume 
incontinently  that  the  wolf  is 
an  invention.*  Certes,  the  Irish- 


*  From  some  remarkable  utterances  made  lately  at  Birmingham,  one  is  led  to 
imagine  that  not  really  a  redress  of  grievances,  but  a  sort  of  retribution,  is  the 
desire  and  the  due  of  Irishmen  :  landlords  are  thought  to  have  had  things  too  much 
to  their  advantage  in  the  past,  therefore  let  the  tables  be  turned  and  let  tenants 


1880.] 


Our  Reproach. 


791 


man's  grievances  are  not  obvious 
— they  are  not  to  be  discovered 
at  a  glance.  And  we  cannot  but 
remark,  that  those  who,  having 
authority,  have  spoken  of  them 
and  emphasised  them,  have  en- 
tirely omitted  to  tell  us  what  they 
are.  The  omission  is  suspicious. 
Xo  scrutiny  that  we  can  exercise 
suffices  to  show  us  their  nature  or 
their  extent.  That  a  great  many 
evils  are  to  be  seen  in  Ireland — 
poverty  and  idleness  for  example — 
we  do  not  doubt;  but  to  make  these 
grievances  it  must  be  shown  that 
tuey  are  due  to  the  action  of  some 
supplanters  or  oppressors.  More- 
over, it  would  seem  from  the  man- 
ner in  which  the  grievances  are 
named,  that  they  are  very  old  griev- 
ances, notwithstanding  the  repeat- 
ed cures  of  them  that  have  been 
effected  since  the  year  1800.  We 
quite  believe  that  in  the  far  past 
there  existed  in  Ireland  a  state  of 
things  not  characterised,  according 
to  modern  ideas,  by  equity  or 
charity.  But  we  have  changed 
this  state  of  things  ;  it  exists  no 
longer.  To  be  continually  revert- 
ing to  it,  and  hugging  the  griev- 
ances that  may  have  lain  in  it,  is 
as  senseless  as  it  would  be  for 
modern  Englishmen  to  be  continu- 
ally fretting  themselves  about  the 
state  of  society  which  obtained 
under  the  Plantagenets  or  the  Tu- 
dors.  "Whatever  those  evils  may 
have  been,  either  in  England  or 
Ireland,  they  have  been  swept 
a\vay,  as  far  as  that  can  be  done 
by  the  laws.  As  nobody  will  tell 
what  the  grievances  are,  we  are 
left  to  guess ;  and  after  making 
the  best  examination  in  our  power, 
we  remain  with  the  conviction  that 
the  grievance  at  present  amounts 
to  this — viz.,  that  many  of  those 


Irishmen  who  are  not  owners  of 
land  desire  ardently  to  be  so,  and 
entertain  a  serious  idea  of  becom- 
ing so  by  disposing  of  the  landlords 
in  some  unjust  manner,  the  Legis- 
lature being  expected  to  help  them 
in  their  pursuit. 

No\v  this,  to  an  ordinary  mind, 
has  much  the  same  appearance  as 
an  imagined  grievance  of  some 
Englishmen  who,  having  cast  eyes 
of  desire  on  the  wealth  of  the 
Barons  Rothschild  or  the  Messrs 
Coutts,  should  set  upon  the  present 
owners  to  dispossess  them  by  any 
conceivable  method,  and  should 
call  upon  the  Legislature  to  pass 
an  ordinance  to  strip  the  financiers, 
and  hand  over  their  assets  to  those 
who  would  so  much  desire  to  en- 
joy them.  We  know  how  much 
sympathy  with  this  grievance  would 
be  felt  in  London  city,  and  the 
sort  of  consolation  which  the  ag- 
grieved would  be  likely  to  receive 
there.  But  shift  the  scene  of  it 
to  Ireland,  and  some  men  see  it 
in  a  totally  different  light.  We 
don't  know  why.  And  if  this  is 
really  the  grievance,  that  those  who 
have  not  are  debarred  from  robbing 
those  who  have,  we  don't  care  to 
waste  more  time  over  it.  But  we 
should  much  desire  all  who  are 
eloquent  about  Ireland's  wrong,  to 
say  whether  it  be  such  a  wrong  as 
we  have  guessed  at.  They  ought 
to  do  this;  and  then  the  country 
will  understand  distinctly  what 
their  aim  is. 

And  now  as  to  the  boast  that, 
before  all  things,  the  law  shall  be 
upheld  in  Ireland.  So  pleasant  is 
the  announcement,  that  we  believe 
that  we  might  have  joined  in  the 
cheers  with  which  it  was  greeted  at 
the  Mansion  House  on  Lord  Mayor's 
Day  if  we  had  been  present.  We 


have  all  their  own  way  in  the  present  and  future.     This  is  not  a  statesmanlike 
method  of  arguing  ;  and  it  will  not,  as  we  expect,  be  found  to  be  very  convincing. 


792 


Our  Reproach. 


[Dec.  1880. 


could  have  joined,  we  say,  in  the 
applause  for  very  delight  that  such 
an  utterance  had  fallen  from  the 
lips  of  a  man  who  was  in  a  posi- 
tion to  make  his  acts  correspond 
with  it.  But  a  moment's  reflec- 
tion— a  mental  glance  at  the  miser- 
able state  of  things  as  they  are ; — 
must  have  dispelled  the  comfort- 
able illusion; — 

"Alas  !  recollection  at  hand 
Soon  hurries  us  back  to  despair." 

The  Minister,  when  he  gave  voice 
to  the  flourish,  must  have  known 
that  he  was  taking  no  step  what- 
ever for  the  purpose  of  preserving 
life  and  property.  However  benev- 
olent his  ideas  or  his  wishes  may 
be,  his  acts  have  been  confined  to 
instituting  a  prosecution  of  certain 
agitators  —  a  very  right  thing  in 
itself,  though  tardily  resorted  to — 
which  is  expected  to  run  a  tedious 
course  of  some  three  months  in  the 
law  courts.  Call  you  this  backing 
of  the  law1?  Call  you  this — this 
timid,  feeble  action — throwing  the 
shield  of  the  law  over  threatened 
lives,  securing  her  Majesty's  sub- 
jects in  the  exercise  of  their  rights 
as  freemen,  or  executing  the  laws 
against  brigandage  and  ruffianism1? 
When  Sir  John  Falstaff  expected 


to  receive  two-and-twenty  yards  of 
good  satin,  he  found  that  Master 
Dumbleton  had  sent  him  only 
"  security "  :  we,  when  we  were 
told  to  expect  security,  found  that 
we  had  been  listening  to  fustian  ! 
While  the  law  is  dragging  its  slow 
course  along  against  the  agitator?, 
murder  is  as  free  as  before  to  strike 
his  victims  —  ay,  and  is  striking 
them  ;  conspiracy  against  peaceable 
persons  gathers  force,  and  operates 
with  increased  terror,  instead  of 
finding  its  designs  checked;  land- 
lords are  driven  forth ;  capital  is 
altogether  disappearing ;  private 
enterprise  is  undertaking  the  duty 
which  the  executive  has  basely 
shrunk  from  assuming.  We  have 
imbecility  in  the  place  of  vigour ; 
and  all  the  worst  features  of  law- 
lessness aggravated  by  the  convic- 
tion that  the  authorities  dare  not 
act. 

Everything  that  we  see  around 
us  confirms  us  in  our  view  that 
there  must  be  a  new  and  stringent 
method  of  governing  Ireland  ;  that 
a  strong  arm  must  draw  her,  and 
hold  her,  once  more  within  the 
paths  of  law  and  duty  ;  and  that 
the  people  of  Great  Britain  must 
gravely  consider,  and  must  prescribe 
for,  her  needs. 


INDEX    TO    VOL.    CXXVIII. 


Aberdeen,  Lord,  his  government  and  the 
Crimean  War,  690  et  scq. 

Aberdeen,  the  "Wise  Club"  of,  22. 

Abdurrahman  Khan,  the  new  Ameer  of 
Cabul,  636,  645. 

Addison  imitated  by  Beattie,  23. 

/Egina,  modern,  329. 

AFFGHAN  CAMPAIGN,  THE  CLOSE  OF  THE, 
628. 

AFRICA,  FROM.  By  MARCUS  PAULUS 
VENETUS,  627. 

Ahwaz,  the  fight  at,  325. 

Aide,  Hamilton,  his  '  Poet  and  Peer '  re- 
viewed, 393. 

Airey,  Lord,  his  military  organisation 
committee,  553  et  seq. 

Alison,  Mr,  his  system  of  Taste,  21. 

Alum  Bagh,  Outram  at  the,  327. 

Amboise,  the  conspiracy  of,  501. 

Anderson,  Dr  James,  309. 

Anti-rent  agitation  in  Ireland,  245. 

Aral  sea,  the,  209  et  seq. 

ARMY  REFORM,  553— Mr  Childers  at  the 
War  Office,  ib. — our  broken-down  or- 
ganisation, 554 — the  political  adminis- 
tration of  the  army,  555 — Mr  Trevel- 
yan's  projects,  556  et  seq. — results  of 
the  abolition  of  purchase,  558 — the 
bonus  system,  ib. — selection,  560 — the 
readjustment  of  the  active  list  of  gen- 
erals, 561. 

ATHENS,  A  WEEK  AT,  329. 

Ayoob  Khan's  insurrection,  638. 

Bacon,  Lord,  his  recipe  for  memory,  421. 

Bam-i-duniah,  the,  467. 

Baroda,  Outram  as  Resident  at,  321. 

Battalion  system,  the,  554. 

BAYARD  OF  THE  EAST,  THE,  308  —  Sir 
James  Outram,  ib.—  his  mother,  309— 
education,  310 — work  among  the  Bhils, 
311 — sporting  exploits,  313 — differences 
with  Government,  314 — the  Affghan 
campaign,  315  —  the  chase  after  Dost 
Mohammed,  316 — service  in  Sind,  317 
— the  Ameei-s  and  the  treaty,  319 — the 
Baroda  Residency,  321  —  the  Persian 
expedition,  324— the  Mutiny,  325— at 
the  Alum  Bagh,  327— death,  328. 
BEATTIE,  17 — the  literary  life  of  the  pro- 
vinces, ib.  —letter  -  writing,  18  —  the 


ScotchSehool  of  Criticism, 20— Beattie's 
position  in  it,  22 — sources  of  his  liter- 
ary influence,  23— his  controversy  with 
Hume,  25— Essay  on  Truth,   26— Os- 
sianic  controversy,  27— his  poetry,  29 
—the  "Minstrel,"  31— its  relationship 
to  the  "Excursion,"  32 — the  "Judg- 
ment of  Paris,"  34. 
Berlin  Conference,  results  of  the,  269. 
Bhils,  Out-ram's  work  among  the,  311. 
BLACKBIRD,  THE.     By  W.  W.  S.,  174. 
Blackmore,  R.  D.,  his  'Mary  Annerley ' 

reviewed,  388. 

Blackmore's  "Paraphrase  of  Job,"  24. 
"Blue-stocking"  coterie,  the,  25. 
Bolingbroke,  Lord,  his  wonderful  mem- 
ory, 429. 

Bonus  system  in  the  army,  the,  558. 
Bradlaugh,  the  case  of  Mr,  258. 
BRIDLE,  THE  ENCHANTED,  A  LEGENDARY 

BALLAD,  436. 
Brougham,  Lord,  his  memory  for  trifles, 

431. 
Broughton,  Rhoda,  her  'Second  Thoughts' 

reviewed,  382. 

Burnaby,  Colonel,  his  adventures  in  Cen- 
tral Asia,  276. 
Burrows,  General,  his  expedition  against 

Ayoob  Khan,  640  et  seq. 
BUSH-LIFE  IN  QUEENSLAND,  Part  VIII., 
89— Part  IX.,  187— Part X.,  358— Con- 
clusion, 442. 
Caird,  Mr,  his  dissent  from  the  Indian 

Famine  Report,  736. 
Candahar,  the  retention  of,  645. 
Cardwell,    Lord,    his  army  reforms,  553 

et  scq. 

CENTRAL  ASIA:    THE  MEETING -PLACE 
OF  EMPIRES,    205 — physical    changes, 
206  —  geography,    209— races,    210  — 
Russian  designs  on,  212— steppes  and 
deserts,  215 — Colonel  Burnaby's  expe- 
riences, 216— Russian  encroachments, 
219— the  Khivan  expedition,  220. 
Charles  II.,  his  great  memory,  432. 
Childers,  Mr,  at  the  War  Office,  553. 
CLOSE  OF  THE  AFFGHAN  CAMPAIGN,  THE, 
628  —  resumf  of  policy,    631  —  Lord 
Lytton's  policy,  632  —  objects  of  the 
war,  634— change  of  Ministry,  636— 


794 


Index. 


the  Indian  appointments,  638 — Ayoob 
Khan's  insurrection,  639 — the  Mai  wand 
disaster,  641— its  results,  644  —  the 
retention  of  Candahar,  645. 

Cock-shooting,  755. 

COLLEGE,  SCHOOL  AND,  62. 

Colour,  use  of,  in  Greek  architecture,  335. 

Compensation  for  Disturbance  Bill,  262 
et  seq.,  277. 

CONFESSIONAL,  A  LAY,  37. 

Coniiaught  peasantry,  sanitary  condition 
of  the,  253. 

COONTRY-LIFK     IN    PORTUGAL,    51  — Mr 

Crawford's  'Portugal,  Old  and  New,' 
ib. — travelling,  53 — peasant  life,  54 — 
landed  proprietors,  55— farming,  56— 
country  villas,  58  —  sport,  59— port 
wine,  60 — inns,  ib. 

Crawford,  Mr  Oswald,  his  '  Portugal,  Old 
and  New,'  reviewed,  51. 

CREW,  THE  LASCAR,  80. 

Curling,  753. 

Dalhousie,  Lord,  and  Sir  James  Outran), 
323. 

DAY  BEWITCHED  :  IN  THE  DEER  FOREST, 
A,  221. 

Deer-stealing  in  Lapland,  140. 

Deffand,  Madame  du,  514. 

Derby,  Lord,  on  Compensation  for  Dis- 
turbance Bill, 

DIPLOMACY  OF  FANATICISM,  THE  :  THE 
UNLOADED  REVOLVER,  647. 

Discipline  at  Eton,  66 — at  Oxford,  73. 

Distress  in  Ireland,  244  et  seq. 

Don«,  young,  77. 

Dost  Mohammed,  Outram's  chase  after, 
315. 

DR  WORTLE'S  SCHOOL,  Part  III.,  1— 
Part IV.,  228— Part  V.,  391— Part VI., 
405— Part  VII.,  563— Conclusion,  710. 

Duelling  in  France,  498. 

Dulcigno,  the  difficulty  about  the  cession, 
of,  650. 

EAST,  THE  BAYARD  OF  THE,  308. 

'Egoist,  The', by  George  Meredith,  re- 
viewed, 401. 

Eldon,  Lord,  letter  from  the  Duke  of 
Wellington  to,  122. 

Ellenborough,  Lord,  and  Outran),  318. 

EMPIRES,  CENTRAL  ASIA:  THE  MEETING- 
PLACE  OF,  205. 

ENCHANTED  BRIDLE,  THE  :  A  LEGEND- 
ARY BALLAD,  436. 

Erectheum,  the,  336. 

Eton,  changes  at,  64 — discipline  at,  66 
—tutors,  67. 

European  officials  in  India,  excessive  em- 
ployment of,  134. 

FAMINE  REPORTS,  THE,  726. 

Farming  in  Portugal,  56. 

FINANCIAL  SITUATION  IN  INDIA,  THE, 
124 — the  unforeseen  deficit,  ib. — its 
real  explanation,  125 — Sir  John  Stra- 
chey's  financial  administration,  127  et 


seq.—  result  of  the  Budget  failure,  130 
—  Mr  Laing's  views  of  Indian  finance, 
130 — proofs  of  Indian  prosperity,  133 
—retrenchment,  134. 

Fjeld  stues  in  Lapland,  141  et  seq. 

Forbes,  Sir  William,  the  biographer  of 
Beattie,  26. 

Foreign  press,  the,  on  the  Gladstone 
policy,  652. 

Forster,  Mr,  and  the  Compensation  for 
Disturbance  Bill,  287. 

Fox,  Mr,  his  vituperation  contrasted  with 
that  of  Mr  Gladstone,  285. 

French  Revolution  of  1831,  the,  its  effects 
upon  the  English  Reform  agitation, 
108. 

FROM  AFRICA.  By  MARCUS  PAXTLUS 
VENETUS,  627. 

Fuller,  his  retentive  memory,  427. 

Gandamak,  the  treaty  of,  cancelled,  635. 

Genius,  Sir  Joshua  Reyuolds's  definition 
of,  19. 

Geoffrin,  Madame,  513. 

Gerard's  Essay  on  Taste,  20. 

Gladstone  Administration,  the,  256. 

Gladstone,  Mr,  on  the  House  of  Lords, 
281 — his  withdrawal  from  his  charges 
against  Lord  Beaconsfield's  Administra- 
tion, 283  —  his  sincerity  questioned, 
284 — his  attempt  to  silence  a  member, 
288 — his  Indian  appointments,  638 — 
on  the  Liberal  residuum,  274. 

Gleig,  the  Rev.  Mr,  letter  from  the  Duke 
of  Wellington  to,  118— letters  to  the 
Duke,  119-121. 

Gold-hunting  in  Queensland,  444  ct  seq. 

Goldsmid,  Sir  F.  J.,  his  '  Life  of  Outram ' 
reviewed,  308. 

Goschen's,  Mr,  mission,  257. 

Grey,  Earl,  his  declaration  in  favour  of 
Reform,  109— his  Ministry,  110. 

Grimshaw,  Dr,  his  report  on  condition  of 
Swinford,  253. 

Haidarabad  Residency,  Outram's  defence 
of  the,  319. 

Hammerfest,  135  et  seq. 

Hancock,  Dr  W.  N.,  his  statistics  of 
Irish  labour,  247. 

HANS  PRELLER  :  A  LEGEND  OF  THE 
RHINE  FALLS,  176. 

Harrowby,  Lord,  his  position  with  re- 
gard to  Reform,  119. 

Havelock  at  Lucknow,  326. 

Headley,  Lord,  on  Irish  government, 
781." 

Hissar,  466. 

Hogarth,  instance  of  his  uuretentive 
memory,  433. 

House  of  Commons,  the  present,  273. 

Hume,  Beattie 's  controversy  with,  25,  26. 

Hunting,  764. 

Hwen  Thsang,  his  journeys,  469. 

Hyham,  Rev.  Orlando,  his  retentive 
memory,  427. 


Index. 


795 


IN  THE  DEER  FOREST  :  A  DAY  BE- 
WITCHED, 221. 

INDIA,  THE  FINANCIAL  SITUATION  IN, 
124. 

Indian  Budget,  unexpected  deficit  in  the, 
124. 

INDIAN  FAMINE  REPORTS,  THE,  726— 
meteorology,  ib.  —  increase  of  popula- 
tion, 728— food -production,  729— the 
Commissioners'  practical  recommenda- 
tions, 731  et  seq.  —  Messrs  Caird  and 
Sullivan's  dissent,  739. 

Inns  in  Portugal,  60,  61. 

Inverness,  82. 

IRELAND  OUR  REPROACH,  775 — success 
of  the  Irish  conspiracy,  ib.  —  our  re- 
sponsibility for  governing  Ireland,  777 
—  inadequacy  of  parliamentary  gov- 
ernment, 779 — a  quasi  despotism  re- 
commended, 780  —  obstacles,  783— 
Lord  Sherbrook's  views,  787— the  de- 
velopment of  Irish  resources,  789. 

Ireland,  distress  in,  244  et  seq. 

IRISH  DISTRESS  AND  ITS  ORIGIN,  244— 
Spenser's  description  of  Ireland,  ib. — 
the  Parnell  agitation,  245— O'Connell's 
account  of  the  peasantry,  246  —  Dr 
Hancock's  statistics,  247 — newspaper 
reporters  imposed  on,  248 — misappli- 
cation of  relief,  249 — Father  Nugent's 
report,  250 — sanitary  condition  of  the 
Connaught  peasantry,  253. 

Ish-Kashm,  462. 

Ishtrakh,  464. 

Jaxartes,  208  et  seq. 

Jones,  Admiral  Gore,  on  Lascar  crews,  80. 

Jotka-jarva,  142. 

Kames,  Lord,  Voltaire's  opinion  of,  21. 

Karasjok,  147. 

Keane,  Sir  John,  his  column  in  the  AfF- 
ghan  campaign,  315. 

Kerameicus  at  Athens,  the,  338. 

Khandesh,  the  Bhils  of,  311. 

Khatpat,  Sir  James  Outram's  war  against, 
321. 

Khivan  expedition,  the,  220. 

Khokan  annexed  by  Russia,  219. 

KINGLAKE'S  NEW  VOLUME,  MR,  689 — 
the  Winter  Troubles,  690 — our  war  ad- 
ministration, 691 — the  position  in  the 
Crimea,  693— after  the  hurricane,  696 
— Lord  Raglan's  conduct,  694 — suffer- 
ings of  the  troops,  697 — the  outcry 
by  the  '  Times, '  699— Lord  Panmure's 
despatch,  702  —  literary  merits  of  the 
volume,  705  et  seq. 

Kirghiz  race,  the,  474. 

Kolonos,  a  visit  to,  342. 

Laing,  Mr,  his  attack  on  Indian  finance, 
124— his  views  considered,  130. 

Lauded  proprietors  in  Portugal,  55. 

Lang  Val,  salmon-fishing  in,  85. 

Lansdowne,  Lord,  his  secession  from  the 
Ministry,  263. 
VOL.  CXXVIII. NO.  DCCLXXXtl. 


LAPLAND,  A  REINDEER  RIDE  THROUGH, 
135. 

Lapland  scenery,  136  et  seq. 

Lapp  execution,  a,  137. 

Lapps,  145 — their  moral  condition,  150. 

LASCAR  CREW,  THE,  80. 

LASTING  MEMORY,  A,  349. 

LAY  CONFESSIONAL,  A,  37. 

Lectures,  College,  71  et  seq.  } 

Letter- writing,  the  decay  of,  18. 

LEWS  :  ITS  SALMON  AND  HERRING,  THE, 
82 — Inverness,  ib. — travelling  by  the 
Highland  Railway,  83 — from  Strome 
to  Stornoway,  ib. — fishing  in  Lang  Val, 
85— Lews  fish-curing,  87. 

Liberal  Cabinet,  the,  inconsistencies  of, 
647. 

LIFE  AND  DEATH  :  THREE  SONNETS  BY 
JOHN  FRANCIS  WALLER,  495. 

Lois:  A  SKETCH,  478. 

Lords,  the  House  of,  271  et  seq. 

Louis  XL,  the  age  of,  497. 

Louis  XIV.,  the  age  of,  513. 

Lucknow,  the  relief  of,  326. 

Lyndhurst,  Lord,  his  motion  against  the 
Reform  Bill,  120. 

Lyon,  William,  his  extraordinary  effort 
of  memory,  426. 

Lytton,  Lord,  his  Affghan  policy,  632. 

Macaulay,  Lord,  his  feats  of  memory, 
430. 

Mahi  Kanta,  Outram  in  the,  314. 

Maiwand,  the  battle  of,  641  et  seq.— its 
political  results,  644. 

Marathon,  a  visit  to,  343. 

Marlborough,  the  Duchess  of,  her  relief 
fund,  249. 

'Mary  Annerley,'  by  R.  D.  Blackmore, 
reviewed,  388. 

Masterships  at  Eton,  64. 

MEMORY,  421 — defective  memories,  ib. — 
the  formation  of  memory,  422— curiosi- 
ties of,  424 — memory  in  conversation, 
425— social  memory,  426— feats  of,  427 
— Bolingbroke,  428— Pope,  429— Mac- 
aulay, 430— Mackintosh,  431— Charles 
II.,  432 — vast  memories,  434. 

MEMORY,  A  LASTING,  349. 

Meredith,  George,.  'The  Egoist'  by, 
reviewed,  401. 

Milton's  sonnets,  167. 

MINISTERIAL  PROGRESS,  256 — character 
of  the  administration,  ib. — home  af- 
fairs, 257  — the  Bradlaugh  case,  258 
et  seq.  —  Compensation  for  Disturb- 
ance Bill,  262  et  seq. — the  position  in 
the  East,  269. 

Minstrel,  by  Beattie,  the,  29. 

Mohummra,  the  capture  of,  324. 

Montague,  Mrs,  her  letters,  18— her  cor- 
respondence with  Beattie,  25. 

Montenegrin  frontier  question,  the,  770. 

Mossman,  Mr,  letter  from  the  Duke  of 
Wellington  to,  110. 

3  H 


796 


Index. 


Museums  of  Athens,  the,  341. 

Mutiny,  the  Indian,  325. 

Napier,  Sir  C.,  and  Outram.  319. 

Newcastle,  the  Duke  of,  his  administra^ 
tion  of  the  Crimean  war,  690  et  seq. 

Newman,  Cardinal,  his  remarks  on  mem- 
ory, 434. 

NEW  :  NOVELS,  378— the  trade  of  novel- 
making,  379— 'Second  Thoughts,'  by 
Ehoda  Broughton,  382  —  '  Mary  An- 
nerley,'  by  R.  D.  Blackmore,  388— 
'Poet  and  Peer,'  by  Hamilton  Aide, 
393— 'Troublesome  Daughters,'  by  L. 
B.  "Walford,  396— '  The  Egoist,'  by 
George  Meredith,  401. 

Ninon  de  1'Enclos,  511. 

Nixon,  Dr,  his  reports  on  the  Irish 
peasantry,  253. 

North  and  Fox  coalition,  a  parallel  to 
the  present  Government,  275. 

Northbrook,  Lord,  on  purchase,  560 — 
mistakes  in  his  Affghan  policy,  633. 

Northcote,  Sir  Stafford,  his  assistance  to 
Government  in  the  Bradlaugh  case, 
261. 

NOVELS,  NEW,  378. 

Nugent,  Father,  his  report  on  the  Irish 
distress,  250  et  seq. 

Oaths,  parliamentary,  discussion  on,  258. 

O'Connell,  Mr,  his  description  of  the 
Irish  peasantry,  246. 

Olla  podrida,  54. 

Ossianic  controversy,  the,  27. 

OUR  REPROACH,  IRELAND,  775. 

'  Outram,  James,  a  Biography,'  by  Sir  F. 
J.  Goldsmid,  reviewed,  308. 

Outram,  Mrs,  her  interview  with  Lord 
Melville,  309. 

Ovans,  Captain  Charles,  among  the  Bhils, 
311. 

Ovis  Poli,  the,  466. 

Oxford,  University  and  College  rules  at, 
68— reading  at,  70. 

Oxus,  the,  208  et  seq.,  462  et  seq. — forks 
of,  465. 

P.  AND  0.,  VOYAGES  IN  THE:  REMINIS- 
CENCES OF  AN  OLD  FOGEY,  593. 

Pamir  steppe,  the,  470. 

Panmure,  Lord,  his  despatch  to  Lord 
Raglan,  703— his  character  sketched 
by  Mr  Kinglake,  707. 

Parliamentary  reform — have  the  antici- 
pations of  its  opponents  been  realised  ? 
105  et  seq. 

Parnell,  Mr,  his  anti-rent  agitation,  245 
— his  speech  at  Ennis,  784. 

Parthenon,  the,  332  — its  west  front, 
333. 

PAULO  POST  FUTURUM  POLICY,  767 — 
differences  among  Ministers,  ib. — 
Ministerial  explanations  of  Eastern 
policy,  768— our  responsibilities,  769 
— the  Montenegrin  frontier  question, 
770  —  the  present  appearance  of  the 


Government,  772 — Liberal  policy  to- 
wards Russia,  773. 

PAULUS  VENETUS,  MARCUS  :  FROM 
AFRICA,  BY,  627. 

Peers,  the,  and  the  Parliament,  271. 

Persian  expedition,  the,  324. 

Peter  the  Great,  his  designs  on  Central 
Asia,  212  ct  seq. 

PILLARS  OF  THE  STATE,  THE,  271  — 
House  of  Lords,  ib.  —  the  popular 
chamber,  273— parallel  between  the 
present  Government  and  the  North  and 
Fox  coalition,  275 — Compensation  for 
Disturbance  Bill,  277— what  does  the 
present  House  of  Commons  represent  ? 
281— Mr  Fox  and  Mr  Gladstone  com- 
pared, 285— the  meaning  of  the  last 
election,  288. 

Pitt's  Administration,  Mr,  275. 

'  Poet  and  Peer, '  by  Hamilton  Aide,  re- 
viewed, 393. 

Poolk,  the  reindeer  sledge,  138  et 
seq. 

Pope's  memory,  429. 

PORTUGAL,  COUNTRY  LIFE  IN,  51. 

Portuguese  country  gentlemen,  57. 

Port  wine,  60. 

PRIVATE  SECRETARY,  THE,  Part  I.,  535 
—Part  II.,  667. 

Proctorial  system,  the,  75. 

PROGRESS,  MINISTERIAL,  256. 

Promotion  in  the  army,  558. 

Propyloea,  the,  335. 

Provinces,  the  literary  life  of,  in  last  cen- 
tury, 17. 

Provincialism,  the  feeling  of,  17,  18. 

Ptarmigan-shooting,  758. 

Public  school  system,  our,  62  et  seq. 

Qusens,  the,  157. 

QUEENSLAND,  BUSH-LIFE  IN,  Part  VIII., 
89— Part  IX.,  187— Part  X.,  358— 
Conclusion,  442. 

Rabbit-shooting,  759. 

Raglan,  Lord,  his  position  in  the  Crimea 
in  winter  of  1855-56,  692  et  seq.— at- 
tacked by  the  'Times,'  699  — Lord 
Panmure's  despatch  to,  703. 

Rambouillet,  the  Hotel,  506. 

Ranjkul  Lake,  475. 

Ravna-stuen,  145. 

Reading  at  Oxford,  70. 

Reform  Bill  of  1832,  the,  105  et  seq. 

REFORM,  WELLINGTON  AND,  105. 

REINDEER  RIDE  THROUGH  LAPLAND,  A, 
135— Hammerfest,  ib.—  Bosekop,  136 
—the  Lapp  sledge,  138— the  fjeld  sta- 
tion, 141 — a  night  at  Ravna-stuen. 
145— Karasjok,  147— condition  of  th 
Lapps,  150 — Russian  territory,  154 — 
Vadsoe,  156— whale-fishing,  157. 

REMINISCENCES  OF  AN  OLD  FOGEY:  VOY 
AGES  IN  THE.  P.  AND  0.,  593. 

Reynolds,  Sir  Joshua,  his  definition  of 
genius,  19. 


Index. 


797 


RHINE  FALLS,  HANS  PRELLER  :  A  LE- 
GEND OF  THE,  176. 

Rochester,  Lord,  his  rebuke  of  Charles  II., 
432. 

ROME,  A  JEWISH  RABBI  IN,  by  W.  W.  S., 
579. 

Roof  of  the  World,  the,  208. 

ROOF  OF  THE  WORLD,  THE,  462 — Lieu- 
tenant Wood's  exploration,  ib. — Wak- 
han,  463— the  forks  of  the  Oxus,  465— 
the  Bam-i-duniah,  467— the  Mirza's  ex- 
plorations, 468 — Marco  Polo's  travels, 
469— description  of  the  plateau,  471— 
caravan  routes,  472 — the  people,  474 
— political  interest  attaching  to  it,  477. 

Russia  and  the  Gladstone  policy,  662. 

Russian  Lapland,  154. 

Russian  progress  in  Central  Asia,  218  et  seq. 

Sable,  Madame  de,  511. 

Salarais,  330. 

Salmon  and  herring  in  the  Lews,  82. 

SALONS  BEFORE  THE  FRENCH  RKVOLU- 
TION,  SOCIETY  AND  THE,  496. 

Sandhurst,  Lord,  his  advocacy  of  selec- 
tion, 559. 

Scarron,  511. 

SCHOOL  AND  COLLEGE,  62  —  Our  public 
school  system,  ib. — changes  at  Eton, 
64 — discipline,  66— tutors  and  pupils, 
67 — Oxford,  68 — university  and  col- 
lege rule,  69 — "Sent  down  to  read," 
71 — lectures,  72 — discipline,  73 — proc- 
tors, 76 — young  dons,  77. 

Scott,  Sir  Walter,  on  memory,  423. 

Scudery,  Mademoiselle  de,  509. 

'Second  Thoughts,'  by  Rhoda  Brough- 
ton,  reviewed,  382. 

SECRETARY,  THK  PRIVATE,  Part  I.,  535 
—Part  II.,  667. 

Seigneurs,  the  French,  497. 

Selection  iu  the  army,  559. 

Seric  caravan  route,  the,  473. 

Serpentine,  night-skating  on  the,  752. 

Shakespeare's  sonnets,  163. 

Shelley,  an  instance  of  unconscious  repe- 
tition by,  430. 

Sind,  Outram's  career  in,  317  —  the 
Ameers  of,  319. 

Sind  prize-money,  Outram  and  the,  321. 

Sir-i-kol  lake,  467. 

SOCIETY  AND  THE  SALONS  BEFORE  THE 
FRENCH  REVOLUTION,  496  —  the  pro- 
vinces, ib. — the  seigneurs,  497— duel- 
ling, 498— dissipated  bravery,  500— 
torture,  501  —  the  influence  of  the 
Church,  504— the  salons,  505— HStel 
Rambouillet,  506— the  Hotel  Mazarin, 
512— Madame  Geoffrin,  513— Madame 
du  Deffand,  514. 

SONNETS,  A  TALK  ABOUT,  159. 

Spenser's  account  of  the  Irish,  244. 

Sport  in  Portugal,  58,  59. 

State  railways,  the  Indian,  their  financial 
management,  131,  132. 


STATE,  THE  PILLARS  OF  THE,  271. 

Steppes  of  Central  Asia,  the,  215. 

"Stone  Tower,"  Ptolemy's,  473. 

Strachey,  General  Richard,  his  explana- 
tions of  the  Indian  deficit,  124. 

Strachey,  Sir  John,  his  administration  of 
the  Indian  finances,  126  et  seq. 

Strome  Ferry  to  Stornoway,  83. 

STUMP  MINISTRY,  THE,  515— the  agita- 
tion against  Lord  Beaconsfield,  ib. — 
Conservative  mistakes,  511 — the  Libe- 
ral majority,  522 — the  Bradlaugh  case, 
525 — home  politics,  529 — Compensa- 
tion for  Disturbance  Bill,  530. 

Sultan,  the,  his  fanaticism  compared  to 
that  of  Mr  Gladstone,  648. 

Swinford,  the  condition  of,  253. 

Tajiks,  the,  211,  473. 

TALK  ABOUT  SONNETS,  A,  159— the  struc- 
ture of  the,  160 — the  true  idea  of,  162 
— Shakespeare's  sonnets,  163  et  seq. — 
Milton,  167  et  seq.—  Wordsworth,  171 
—Blanco  White,  173. 

Talpur  Ameers  of  Sind,  the,  219. 

Tana  river,  the,  155. 

Tashkent  annexed  by  Russia,  219. 

Tavans,  the,  211. 

Temple,  Sir  Richard,  his  Indian  financial 
administration,  128. 

Tennyson,  Mr,  his  imitation  of  Beattie's 
"Judgment  of  Paris,"  35. 

Themistocles,  the  tomb  of,  345. 

Thomson,  his  poetry  contrasted  with  that 
of  Beattie,  31. 

Tigers  killed  by  Outraro,  313. 

'Times,'  the,  its  attacks  on  Lord  Rag- 
lan, 699  et  seq. 

Torture,  501. 

Travelling  in  Portugal,  52  et  seq. 

Trevelyan,  Mr,  his  proposals  for  military 
organisation,  507. 

'  Troublesome  Daughters,'  by  L.  B.  Wai- 
ford,  reviewed,  396. 

Turkish  race,  early  home  of  the,  210. 

UNLOADED  REVOLVER,  THE  :  THE  DIP- 
LOMACY OF  FANATICISM,  647— "moral 
pressure"  on  the  Porte,  648— immo- 
bility of  the  Sultan,  649  — the  Dul- 
cigno  difficulty,  650 — the  foreign  press 
on  Mr  Gladstone's  policy,  652  et  seq. — 
the  two  fanatics,  661 — Russia  and  Eng- 
land, 662 — the  Greek  prospects,  664. 

Vadsoe,  156— its  fishery,  157. 

Varanger  fjord,  the,  156. 

VlCORTAI,  FROM  THE  SICILIAN  OF,  742. 

Volunteering  in  the  army,  abuse  of,  554. 

VOYAGES  IN  THE  P.  AND  0. :  REMINIS- 
CENCES OF  AN  OLD  FOGEY,  593. 

Walford,  L.  B.,  'Troublesome  Daughters,' 
by,  reviewed,  396. 

WALLER,  JOHN  FRANCIS,  LIFE  AND 
DEATH,  BY,  495. 

Wapooses,  Lapp  reindeer  guide,  137 
et  seq. 


798 


Index. 


War  Office,  its  condition  in  the  Crimean 
war,  692. 

Water-system  of  Central  Asia,  changes 
in,  207. 

WEEK  AT  ATHENS,  A,  829 — jEgina,  ib. — 
view  from  the  gulf,  331 — the  Acropolis, 
332— Parthenon,  333— Propylaea,  335 
—temple  of  Wingless  Victory,  336— 
Erectheum,  ib.  —  temple  of  Theseus, 
338 — museums,  340  —  Kolonos,  342  — 
Marathon,  343— tomb  of  Themistocles, 
345— farewell,  346— conclusion,  347. 

WELLINGTON  AND  REFORM,  105  — the 
Bill  of  1832,  ib.  —  the  '  Wellington 
Despatches,'  107 — dissolution  of  Par- 
liament, 108— the  Duke's  views  of  Re- 
form, 109 — Earl  Grey's  Government, 
110 — the  threatened  creation  of  peers, 
114— Lord  Wharncliffe's  tactics,  115— 
disturbed  condition  of  the  country,  ib. 
et  seq. — the  second  reading  carried  in 
the  Lords,  120 — secession  of  Conserva- 
tive peers,  121 — the  Duke's  position 
vindicated,  122  et  ad  fin. 

'  Wellington  Despatches,'  the,  vol.  viii., 
reviewed,  107. 

Wharncliffe,  Lord,  his  negotiations  on 
the  Reform  Bill,  115  et  seq.—  their  fail- 
ure, 118. 


White's,  Blanco,  sonnet,  173. 

Wild-fowl  shooting,  761. 

Wilson,  Professor,  liis  estimate  of  Beattie, 
21,  22. 

Wingless  Victory,  temple  of,  at  Athens, 
356. 

WINTER  SPORTS  AND  PLEASURES,  747 — 
tropical  life  compared  with  that  of  a 
cold  climate,  ib. — winter  pictures,  749 
et  seq. — night-skating  on  the  Serpen- 
tine, 752 — curling,  753 — cock -shoot- 
ing, 755  —  ptarmigan-shooting,  758  — 
rabbiting,  759  —  wild-fowl  snooting, 
761 — hunting,  764. 

'Winter  Troubles,'  Mr  Kinglake's,  re- 
viewed, 689. 

Wolves  in  Lapland,  152. 

Wood,  Lieut.,  I.N.,  his  explorations^  in 
Central  Asia,  462  et  seq. 

Wordsworth,  his  imitations  of  Beattie, 
33,  34. 

Wordsworth's  sonnets,  17. 

WORLD,  THE  ROOF  OF  THE,  462. 

W.  W.  S.,  THE  BLACKBIRD,  BY,  174— A 
JEWISH  RABBI  IN  ROME,  BY,  579. 

Yule,  Colonel,  his  essay  on  the  valley  of 
the  Oxus,  469 — his  edition  of  'Marco 
Polo,'  ib. 

Zarafshan,  the,  209  et  seq. 


Printed  by  William  Blackwood  and  Sons. 


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