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? 


THE 


GENTLEMAN'S  MAGAZINE 


JULY — DECEMBER, 


4873- 


Preface  and  Valediction. 


^IVE  years  ago  I  found  the  Gentletfiari s  Magazine 
languishing,  in  browu  covers,  under  a  heavy  taxation. 
_  _  Aided  by  the  eijterprising  firm  of  Bradbury  and  Evans, 
^^^^"^^^  and  assisted  by  authors  who  have  made  Bouverie  Street 
famous,  I  reformed  the  Urbanian  Institution,  abolished  its  restrictive 
tariff,  and  let  into  it  the  daylight  of  a  new  era.  In  short,  I  did  what 
Mr.  Cave  himself  would  have  done  had  he  been  alive :  I  adapted 
the  oldest  publication  to  the  newest  aspect  of  the  times. 

Surrounded  by  men  who  had  already  made  an  indelible  impression 
upon  the  world's  literatiu:e — Mr.  Shirley  Brooks,  Mr.  Mark  Lemon^ 
Mr.  Tom  Taylor,  Mr.  William  Jerdan,  Mr.  "  Luke  Limner,"  Mr. 
H.  H.  Dixon  ("The  Druid"),  Mr.  •* Cavendish,"  Mr.  Philip  James 
Bailey  ("Festus"),  Mr.  William  Sawyer,  Mr.  Blanchard  Jerrold, 
Dr.  Stallard,  Dr.  Strange — I  had  the  hondur  of  attracting  to  the  old 
standard  a  band  of  younger  men,  whose  pens  are  now  engaged  in 
wider  fields  of  usefulness.  True  to  the  spirit  of  the  ancient  founder 
of  the  house,  I  sought  a  well-skilled  writer  for  my  first  prefatory 
remarks,  and  found  him  in  Mr.  Shirley  Brooks,  who  wrote  those 
graceful  words  of  introduction  which  set  forth  the  purpose  and 
intention  of  the  new  government 

Since  those  early  days  of  "  the  Shilling  Series "  the  magazine  has 
changed  publishers;  three  of  my  most  distinguished  contributors  have 
''rested  from  their  labours ;"  and  I  now  vacate  the  editorial  chair. 
Change  is  a  fundamental  law  of  existence.  It  pervades  all  thuigsr 
even  St.  John's  Gate,  which  has  lately  become  the  property  of  my 
esteemed  friend,  Sir  Edmund  Lechmere,  Bart.,  in  whose  reverent 
hands  it  will  find  that  loving  security  from  unworthy  uses  which  I 
have  tried  to  exercise  in  regard  to  the  periodical  which  first  saw 
the  light  in  that  house  of  famous  memory. 

According  to  the  means  at   my  disposal,   I  have   endeavoured 


vi  ^    Preface. 

honourably  to  maintain  "  the  Urbanian  Succession,  the  Johnsonian 
Prescription."  In  this  I  have  had  the  support  of  many  friends  in 
literature  and  art,  the  co-operation  of  eminent  writers,  the  kindly 
consideratigp  of  a  generous  public.  To  all  and  each  of  these,  ladies 
and  gentlemen,  are  due  my  hearty  acknowledgments.  Gratitude  is  a 
delightful  and  virtuous  exei;cise  of  the  mind.  Therefore  the  pleasure 
of  these  thanks  is  miiM|j  and  I  hope  to,  make  my  avowal  of  this 
deep  debt  of  gratitude 'in  some  sort  felt  by  coupling  with  it  the 
most  impressive  of  all  our  noble  AngldfCaxos^  words — Farewell  ! 

I  have  long  desired  relief  from  the  peculiar  par^  of  the  Gentle- 
matCs  Magazine;  but  I  should  never,  I  think,  have  had  courage 
enough  to  sever  the  binding  link  witnout  the  action  of  more  than 
ordinary  influences.  Circumstances  h^ve  arisen  which  aflbrd  me 
a  special  opportunity  of  retirement,  and  I  now  give  up  the  Editorship 
with  a  feeling  o(  pride  in  my  eleven  volumes  of  this  "Entirely  New 
Series." 

In  saying  Farewell,  the  consolation  is  afforded  me  of  knowing 
that  I  shall  still  meet  in  other  ^  paths  of  literature  the  friends  who 
tnay  miss  me  from  the  chair  of  Mr,  CaVe.  My  final  goodbye 
should  indeed  only  be  to  that  shadow  which  I  have  striven  to 
idealise  and  revive — Sylvanus  Urban,  Gentleman — whose  hand  I 
take  in  mine  with  tender  solicitude,  whispering  in  the  old  man's  ear 
the  sadly  sweet  and  lingering  valedictum — Farewell ! 


JOSEPH  HATTON. 


9,  Titchfield  Terrace,  Regent's  Park, 
November,  1873. 


Contents. 


4 


Across  the*  Alps ;  or,  Glimpses  of  North  Italy.    By  S.  W.  Kershaw,  M.A.  272 

Alger  s* Amuse.    By  Edward  Henry  Vizetell^ 391 

Among  the  Kabyles.   «(y  Edward  Henry  VizeTelly    .       .        .        .554 

«  •    t 

Berehaven.    By  ArthurClive.  '.  .        .•.        .        •        .318 

Charles  Lamb,  Some  I«etters  of;  with  Reminisctoces  of  Himself  awakened 

tl^by.    By MaryXowden  Clark£  .•    .        .  .617 

Clytie.    A  Novel  of  Modem  Life.    By  Joseph  Hatton  : — 

Chap.  XV. — Mr.  Chute  Woodfield  on  the  Drama       .        .        .        .  i 

XVI.^The  Breez^  in  CouncO 10 

XVII. — ^A  Memorable  Day,  begun  at  Barrington*!,  and  closed  at 

Hyde  Park  Comer 17 

XVin.— Behind  the  Scenes          .        .        .        ...        .        -  113 

XIX.— Fate       .                .    , 118 

XX.-At  Grassnook ^h 

Book  n :— 

Chap.  I. — ^After  Ten  Years 237 

n. — The  Ransfords 240 

III. — Clytie  as  My  Lady          .    ' 246 

rV. — ^A  Social  Tempest          .        .     *  •        .    v    .        .        .  365 

V. — The  Story  in  the  Papers 368 

VI. — In  the  Witness  Box •  ,        .  376 

Vn.— During  the  Adjourmnent 489 

VIII. — Clytie  in  Court 495 

IX. — Clytie*s  Life  in  London 503 

X. — Clytie's  Evidence  Continued 707 

XI. — The  Fourth  Day  of  Clytie's  Kianiination       .        .        .  715 

Xn.-A-Mr.  Cuffing  Consults  with  his  Client      .        •        .        •  719 

Cj'farthfa   Castle.      (From   Mrs.  Rose  Maiy  Crawshay's  Album.)     By 

William  Sawyer      •       •       •       .       • 280 

Dartmoor.    The  Scene  of  the  Autumn  Manoeuvres,  1873    .        •        •        •516 

Day's  Cub  Hunting,  A.    By  SiRius  ...•••••  509 


\ 


viii  Contents. 


Eafly  Days  of  Napoleon  III.    From  the  Private  Diary  of  a  Prussian  Lady. 

Translated  by  the  Countess  of  Harrington        ...        .        .        .27 

For  Music.    By  M.  Betham-Edwards 447 

Getting  Back  to  Town.    By  the  Rev.  F.  Arnold 382 

Hand  Fishing 400 

Landlord  and  Tenant.     By  George  Hedley 150 

Lawn  Meet,  A.     By  W.  F.  Marshall 697 

Life  in  4London : —  • 

VIIL— At  Tattersall's.    Bjf  Charles  Pkbody    ••       .        .        .        -  "^S 

IX.— Dining  with  the  Premier.    By  Robin  Goodfellow       .        .178 

■ 

X.— On  'Change,    By  Charles  Pebody 664 

Macaulay's  Estimate  of  Dante     .        .        .  • •  .     254 

Making  the  Worst  of  It.    By  John  Baker  Hopkins  : — 

Chap.  IV. — Sunshine 72 

V. — A  Stormy  Day 77 

VI.— Too  Late 84 

Vn. — Lord  Shamvock 87 

VIII. — Rose  Dulmaine 93 

IX. — National  Backbone 98 

X. — A  Little  Mystery 103 

XI. — Sister  Ruth 195. 

XII. — Alias  Simpson 199 

XIII. — Unforeseen  Troubles 205 

XTV. — Lord  Shamvock  Cornered 210 

XV.— Where  is  She  ?  .        .        .        .    ' 215 

XVI. — Lord  Shamvock*s  Wedding 219. 

XVII.— Dick's  Domestic  Troubks 230 

XVIII. — Number  Ninety-seven         .......  323 

XIX. — Rose  is  Tempted 328 

XX. — Downhill 333 

XXI. — Mr.  Stot  is  Bothered 339. 

XXII. — Seeking  Bread •        .        .        .  344 

XXUI. — Lord  Shamvock  in  Clover 348. 

XXIV.— Mrs.  Laura  Marshall t^-^-^ 

XXV — A  Clue  to  the  Mystery 44a 

XXVI.-— Citizen  Delorme 453 


Contents.  ix 


• 


Chap.  XXVII.->R^e  gets^ork  to  do 457 

XXYni.--La]ira  and  Flora «     .    462 

XXIX.-.-Dldl^  Kites  Wtti't  Fl}r : .466 

XXX.— Citizen  Delorme  IVaps  Ids  Fox 472 

XXXI. — Dick  Disappears '   477 

XXXn. — Laura,  Lady  Shamvock 570 

XXXIII. — La\<rker  to  the*Rescue     .        •      #•        •        •  '574 

XXXIV.— Mr.^Gouger  Works  the  Parcel.       \        .       \        .        .580 

XXXV.— Frank  Hews  of  Rose       .        .        .      ,.        .        .        .585 

XXXVI.— Lord  Shamvock  Finds  the  Monef 592 

( XXXVn.— The  Dearest  Friend  Flora        .        .     ♦  .        .  -599 

XXXVIII.— Henry  Clayton's  Revenge 606 

XXXIX.— The  Stolen  Scarf  Rn ^31 

XL.— By  the  Haunted  Tree 638 

XLI. — Mrs.  Stot  puts  on  Mourning 643 

XLII. — Rose  meets  Ruth 649 

XLni.—  Dying  and  Unknown 654 

XLIV. — Henry  Clayton  is  rewarded  for  his  kindness  to  Dick  .        .     659 

Merry  Mass  Song,  Our.     1873.    ^X  Edward  Capern    ....     663 

Mina  Bretton.    A  Story.  By  Alice  Lee 440 

Month    in    the  Persian   Gulf,  A.      By  Viscount    Pollington,   M.A., 

F.R.G.S 157 

My  First  Woodcock.      By  Pelagius      .        .        .        .        .        .        .297 

Old  Story  of  Travel,  An.      3y  H.  T.  Wood,  B.A 183 

Olive,    Princess    of   Cumberland    and    Duchess   of  Lancaster.      By  E. 

Walford,  M.A 170 

Our  Athletics.     By  SiRius        .        .   ' 432 

Our  Climbing  Club    .        .        .        ^ 130 

Oxford  Problem,  An 725 

Pa\rabroking  in  Scotland.      By  T.  F.  O'DONNELL.        .        .        .        .143 

Photograph  Album,  The.     A  Prologue.     By  H.  C i 

Seals  and  Signets.    By  James  Hutchings 5 

Somebody's  Child.    By  Henry  W.  Lucy 304 

Strange  Experiment,  A.    By  David  Ker,  Khivan  Correspondent  of  the 

Dat'fy    Telegraph         • 49 

Stray  Thoughts  on  Pilgiimagts •        •        •        .    549 


I 


X  Contents. 


• 


Table  Talk.    By  Sylvanus  Urban,  Grentleman.    i^  230,  358,  483,  61?,     729 

Thomas  Walkers,  The.    The  Popular  Boroughreeve  and  the  Author  of 
"  The  Original."    Two  Biographies,  drawn  from  unpublished  Family 
Correspondence  and  Documents.    By  Blanchard  Jerrold. 
Chapk  I.— The  Popular  Boroughreeve 409 


U. — ^A  Marked  Man 41 


/ 


m. — ^Jacobin   Walker 424 

IV. — Trial  for  Conspincy 525 

V. — The  Reformers  of  1794 53^ 

VI. — Correspondence  with  Wedgewood 683 

VII. — Correspondence  with  Fox 689 

Town  Palace  of  the  Percies,  The.  By  E.  Walford,  M.A.  .  -313 
Two  Arab  Markets.  By  Edward  Henry  Vizetelly  .  .  .  .281 
Woohner's  Picture :  The  Story  of  Leander.  By  D.  Christie  Murray  .  706 
Zenobia  in  Captivity,    By  Robert  Steggall.        .        .  ,  564 

Zuleika.      By  Arthur  O'Shaughnessy 168 


THE 


Gentleman's  Magazine 


July,  1873. 


Clytie. 

A  Novel  of  Modern  Life. 
BY  JOSEPH  HATTON. 

I 

CHAPTER  XV. 

MR.    CHUTE   WOODFIELD  ON   THE   DRAMA. 

>HE  Royal  Athenaeum  Theatre  had  been  for  years  under 
a  cloud  until  the  advent  of  Mr.  Chute  Wpodfield. 
Shakespeare,  burlesque,  opera  bouflfe,  each  had  failed 
to  restore  the  original  popularity  of  the  establishment. 
Playgoers  had  got  out  of  the  habit  of  going  to  the  Athenaeum. 
The  rent  was  high ;  the  theatre  was  expensive  in  many  ways ;  and 
everybody  said  it  was  doomed  to  be  the  one  large  handsome  unsuc- 
cessful London  theatre.  Ill-luck  seemed  to  have  claimed  the  places  for 
its  own,  when  Mr.  Chute  Woodfield,  a  country  manager  of  means  and 
taste,  made  up  his  mind  to  restore  the  fallen  fortunes  of  the  house, 
and  to  do  this  with  legitimate  ^lays  well  acted.  The  professional 
crowd  laughed  at  him  ;  the  public  said  nothing ;  the  press  referred  in 
a  tone  of  pity  to  the  fact  that  the  Athenaeum  was  to  be  reopened  on 
a  certain  day  with  new  decorations,  a  high  class  company,  a  ne 
play,  and  "  no  fees."  The  management  promised  to  provide  for  th 
comfort  of  its  audiences,  as  well  as  to  cater  for  their  intellectual 
enjoyment  Actors  who  should  have  rejoiced  in  this  worthy  effort 
to  raise  dramatic  art  laughed  at  it,  and  discounted  success  as  though 
they  were  really  not  interested  in  it     Mr.  Chute  Woodfield  went  his 

own  way,  and  paid  the  highest  tribute  that  management  could  pay 
Vol.  XL,  N.S.  1873.  b 


3 


The  Gentlemafis  Mamzine. 


v> 


to  the  best  feelings  and  to  the  highest  §entiments  of  cultivated 
people,  and  though  he  had  a  hard  fight  at  first,  he  drew  to  the 
Athenaeum  special  audiences ;  he  attracted  old  playgoers ;  he 
brought  to  his  theatre  people  who  had,  left  off  going  to  the  play, 
men  and  women  who  had  been  told  that  the  drama  was  given  over 
to  shopkeeping  managere  and  ballet  girls ;  he  filled  his  house  with 
the  intellect  of  London.  When  Clytie  wrote  to  this  gentleman  he 
was  manager  of  the  most  successfiU  theatre  in  town,  and  proprietor 
of  a  famous  house  in  the  country.  He  appointed  twelve  o'clock  at 
noon  to  see  her ;  he  had  replied  promptly  that  the  daughter  of  a 
lady  so  distinguished  as  Miss  Olivia  Pitt  had  every  claim  upon  his 
consideration  and  respect 

Clytie  found  her  way  to  the  stage  door,  and  thence  into  the  porter's 
room,  a  curious  little  square  box,  adorned  with  playbills,  notices,  and 
letters  in  racks;  the  entrance  ornamented  with  managerial  procla- 
mations and  fire  buckets.  Presently  she  was  conducted  along  a 
narrow  passage,  and  then  across  the  stage.  She  had  only  time  to 
catch  a  glimpse  of  the  empty  house,  the  seats  covered  with  calico, 
over  which  beams  of  daylight,  ftill  of  motes,  came  prying  down  upon 
the  stage,  where  the  scenery  in  shreds  and  patches  seemed  to  be 
hiding  away  from  the  intrusive  skirmishers  of  the  sun.  Clytie  was 
chiefly  occupied  in  keeping  up  with  the  porter,  and  steering  clear  of 
stage  properties.  It  was  all  wonderfully  strange  and  sober  to  her, 
and  the  more  so  when  she  stood  within  the  manager's  room.  There 
was  nothing  romantic  or  artistic  in  the  place  anywhere,  and  there 
were  dirty  people  and  workmen  hanging  about  as  she  crossed  the 
stage,  towards  which  the  daylight  was  struggling  in  long  columns  of 
skirmishing  order.  It  somehow  got  into  Cly tie's  mind  that  the  day- 
light had  no  chance  with  the  Athenaeum  Theatre ;  as  for  the  sun, 
that  was  altogether  out  of  the  question ;  the  place  reminded  her  of 
the  cathedral  vaults  and  the  old  wine  cellar  at  the  Hermitage.  How 
everybody  had  overdrawn  London,  she  thought 

Mr.  Woodfield's  room  was  a  nota^e  apartment  in  its  way.  It  was 
unpretending  enough  for  a  grocer's  counting-house,  though  it  had 
seen  great  times  and  great  people.  The  history  of  the  Athenaeum 
was  the  history  of  the  modem  drama.  All  the  stars  of  the  day  had 
sat  and  talked  in  the  manager's  room.  Lessees  of  the  theatre  had 
pored  over  books  and  papers  (just  as  Mr,  Woodfield  was  doing  when 
Clytie  entered),  in  success  and  in  prosperity.  Bankruptcy,  gaunt  and 
ruthless,  had  sat  opposite  his  victims  there,  and  dragged  them  into 
the  street.  Prosperity  had  also  visited  the  room,  and  quaffed  cham- 
pagne in  bumpers.     First  nights  and  last  nights  had  been  variously 


.    Cfytie.  J 

celebrated  there ;  new  pkys  that  nright  have  restored '  failing  purses 
had  been  rejected,  and  new  plays  with  the  mildew  of  failure  in 
them  had  been  accepted.  The  old  room  had  seen  wisdom  and 
stupidity  alike  active  and  po^^rful  in  this  centre  of  the  Athenaeum, 
machinery ;  and  it  seemed  as  if  Mr.  Chute  Woodfield  had  learned 
the  lessons  which  the  walls  had  they  possessed  ears  and  understand- 
ing  would  teach. 

It  was  not  the  manager's  room  of  Clytie's  &ncy ;  but  a  plain  room 
with  a  desk  in  the  centre ;  a  cOuch  covered  with  newspapers ;  twa 
chairs  also  covered  with  newspapers  j  a  window  from  which  the  day- 
light was  excluded  by  paint  and  putty;  and  a  mantel-shelf  upon, 
which  stood  a  bust  of  Shakespeare,  a  cigar-box,  a  taper,  a  bottle, 
and  two  wine- glasses.  Here  and  there  on  the  walls  were  a  few  pro- 
fessional pictures,  but  mostly  modem  ones  having  reference  to  recent 
Athenaeum  successes. 

Mr.  Chute  Woodfield,  a  tall,  stout,  middle-aged  gentieman,  with  a 
dark  heavy  moustache  and  a  round  genial  face,  rose  from  the  desk 
as  Clytie  was  showa  into  the  room.  He  bowed  to  her  with  an  air 
of  accustomed  courtesy,  removed  the  newspapers  from  one  of  the 
chairs,  placed  it  for  her,  stood  by  her  until  she  was  seated,  said  he 
was  very  glad  to  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  her,  and  then  resumed 
his  stool  at  the  desk. 

**  I  have  to  thank  you,  Mr.  Woodfield,  for  your  kind  letter,"  said 
Clytie,  a  blush  stealing  over  her  face  as  she  spoke. 

"  Kindness  is  cheap,  my  dear  young  lady,  and  my  letter  is  not 
worth  *  thank  you.' " 

*^  I  cannot  tell  you  how  much  I  thought  of  it,"  said  Clytie. 

"  Indeed  ?"  said  Mr.  Woodfield,  inquiringly. 

"  I  have  not  been  accustomed  to  much  kindness,"  said  the  girl. 

"  No  ?  that  is  strange.    I  would  rather  have  believed  the  contrary."* 

"  But  that  is  not  what  I  came  to  say  to  you,"  said  Clytie,  "  and 
I  must  not  take  tip  your  time." 

"  I  am  quite  at  your  service, i)elieve  me,"  said  the  manager;  "if 
not  for  your  sake,  at  least  for  your  mother's." 

"  You  knew  my  mother*  then  ?  "  said  Clytie. 

"  I  did,  and  I  think  I  should  have  known  you  for  her  daughter 
had  I  met  you,  even  without  speaking  to  you." 

"  Indeed !  oh,  that  is  fortunate,"  exclaimed  Clytie,  her  eyes  ftill 
of  sudden  hope  and  pleasure.     "You  will  help  me  then  !" 

"  If  I  can,  certainly,"  said  Mr.  Woodfield.  "How  can  I  serve  you? 
Don't  be  afiraid  to  speak  plainly  to  me." 

Clytie  felt  that  she  was  trembling  with  anxiet}'.    Her  mouth  was- 

B  2 


4  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

dry.  She  could  hardly  speak.  It  seemed  so  bold  and  vain  to  say 
what  was  in  her  heart  to  say ;  but  she  was  determined  to  do  it ; 
her  very  life  somehow  seemed  to  depend  upon  her  becoming  an 
actress. 

"  I  want  you  to  give  me  an  engagement  at  your  theatre,"  she 
said  as  calmly  as  the  excitement  of  the  moment  would  permit 

"Yes,"  said  the  manager. 

He  spoke  quite  calmly.  He  did  not  fly  up  at  her  and  say  "  No." 
He  did  not  smile  sarcastically ;  in  short, .  he  did  not  rebuke  her  in 
any  way.  On  the  contrary,  he  received  her  proposition  quite  as  a 
matter  of  course. 

"  That  is  what  I  came  to  say,"  said  Clytie,  in  answer  to  the 
manager's  silence.     He  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  her  to  proceed. 

"  What  is  your  line  ?  "  he  asked  thoughtfully. 

"  My  line  ?  "  Clytie  repeated  after  him. 

"  Your  line  of  business  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,"  said  Clytie,  feeling  hot  and  un- 
comfortable. 

"  You  have  never  appeared,  then,"  said  the  manager,  surprised. 

"  Upon  the  stage  ?  "  asked  Clytie  in  a  very  low  voice,  humbled  in 
her  own  estimation  at  this  discovery. 
' "  No,  sir." 

"  Have  you  played  as  an  amateur  ?  " 

'*  No,  sir,"  said  Clytie,  almost  with  the  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  Do  you  know  anything  about  theatres  ?  " 

"No,  sir,"  said  Clytie,  expecting  nothing  less  than  her  immediate 
expulsion  as  an  impostor. 

"  Ah  ! "  said  the  manager,  as  if  he  were  answering  some  private 
thought  of  his  own. 

"  I  once  went  to  the  Newcastle  Theatre,"  said  Clytie,  regaining  a 
little  of  Jier  confidence. 

"You  are  not  living  in  London,  then?" 

"  Yes,  I  am  now." 

"  How  long  have  you  been  here?" 

"  About  a  fortnight." 

"  Are  your  friends  in  town  ?" 

"  I  am  living  with  friends  now,"  said  Clytie,  with  a  little  pardonable 
prevarication. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  manager,  puzzled. 

"  I  came  to  London  to  seek  an  engagement" 

"  A  theatrical  engagement  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 


Clytie.  5 

"  And  you  havb  had  no  experience  whatever  of  theatres  ?  " 

"None;  but  I  would  take  a  very  humble  engagement;   I  am 
,  willing  to  learn  and  to  begin  at  the  beginning." 

"  You  have  lived  in  the  country,  then,  all  your  life  ?  " 

"  I  have ;  yes,  I  am  sorry  to  say." 

"  And  you  have  friends  there  ?  " 

"  I  had,"  said  Clytie, 

**  Have  you  not  now  ?  " 

Clytie  burst  into  tears,  but  she  speedily  recovered  herself. 

"  Pray  forgive  me,'  sir,"  she  said,  drying  her  eyes. 

"  Nay,  you  must  forgive  me,"  said  the  manager.  "  I  had  no  right 
to  cross-examine  you  in  this  way ;  I  should  not  have  done  so,  only 
out  of  a  sincere  desire  to  be  of  service  to  you." 

"  I  quite  appreciate  your  kindness,"  said  Clytie ;  "  I  know  I  am  a 
very  weak,  silly  girl,  but  I  shall  get  tlie  better  of  my  want  of 
experience  soon." 

The  manager  looked  at  the  lovely  face  and  the  graceful  figure, 
and  almost  shuddered  at  the  thought  of  what  might  become  of  a  girl 
with  her  appearance  had  she  fallen  into  some  other  managerial 
hands  than  his.  « 

"  Will  you  confide  in  me,  and  let  me  advise  you  ? "  said  the 
manager,  looking  at  her,  and  speaking  with  true  sympathetic 
earnestness.  "  I  promise  you,  by  the  memory  of  your  mother,  to 
give  you  the  benefit  of  all  my  experience  and  judgment" 

"Thank  you,"  said  Clytie,  "you  are  most  kind;  I  shall  never 
forget  how  kind." 

"  What  relative  have  you  living  in  the  country  ?  " 

"  You  will  not  write  to  him  without  my  permission  ?" 

"  No." 

"  My  grandfather." 

"  Your  mother's  father  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Is  he  well  to  do  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  he  is  the  organist  of  St.  Bride's  at  Dunelm." 

"  And  why  is  he  not  with  you  ?" 

"  I  ran  away  from  him." 

"  Oh  !  Was  he  unkind  ?  I  mean  could  you  go  back  to  him  if 
you  wished  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  dare  say ;  but  not  until  I  have  obtained  an  engagement 
in  London,"  said  Clytie,  with  firmness. 

"  I  wish  you  would  not  think  of  that,  my  dear,"  said  the  manager. 

"  Do  you  think  I  should  not  succeed  ?" 


6  The  GentUmads  Magazine. 

"  No ;  but  you  have  no  idea  of  the  life  of  hardship  and  misery 
which  you  are  proposing  for  ycHUself." 

"  I  am  willing  to  work." 

''  The  stage  is  in  the  hands  of  bad  people ;  it  is  not  a  fit  profes- 
sion now  for  a  lady.     Have  you  been  to  a  London  theatre  ?  " 

"  Last  night,  with  Mrs.  Breeze," 

«*What  did  you  see?" 

"The  Castle  Diamonds." 

"  Did  you  see  the  ballet?** 

''  Yes." 

^*  You  would  not  like  to  commence  your  career  in  that  costume  ?  " 

The  question  brought  no  blush  tc^Clytie'sface,  though  the  costume 
— cr  want  of  it — had  for  a  moment  at  the  theatre.  She  regarded  the 
manager's  question  from  a  professional  point  of  view.  The  desire  to 
be  an  actress  had  already  schooled  her  thoughts  thus  far. 

"  I  do  not  know ;  I  should  not  object  to  begin  quite  humbly,  like 
any  one  else." 

"  My  dear  girl,  you  do  not  know  what  you  say.  There  is  scarcely 
a  respectable  theatre  in  London ;  I  mean  respectable  for  a  girl  such 
as  you,  unprotected  and  alone.  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  arraign 
all  the  London  managers ;  there  are  some  noble  exceptions  to  the 
general  lule  of  infamy  and  degradation.  My  poor  child,  you  would 
be  insulted,  humiliated,  and  made  a  wretched  woman  the  first  week 
of  your  career.  The  whole  system  of  modem  management,  and  the 
surroundings  of  theatres  in  the  present  day — it  may  have  alwa)rs  been 
so,  I  can't  tell — the  whole  business  and  management  is  bad,  utterly 
bad ;  vile ;  how  vile  your  innocent  mind  cannot  imagine  or  realise. 
If  you  value  your  reputatioo^  if  jrou  look  forward  to  a  blameless  life, 
if  you  would  be  good,  and  respectable,  and  a  lady,  all  that  you  look 
and  are,  be  anything  but  an  actress." 

Clytie  looked  at  the  manager  as  he  rose  from  his  desk,  looked  at 
him  with  blank  despair. 

"You  are  disappointed,  I  see,  greatly  disappointed,"  said  the 
manager,  "  though  I  am  advising  you  as  if  you  were  my  own  child ; 
if  I  did  not  feel  a  deep  interest  in  you,  I  would  give  you  an  engage- 
ment in  my  own  theatre,  or  send  you  to  a  lady  who  would  educate 
you  for  the  profession ;  but  in  doing  so  I  should  be  guilty  of  a  great 
wrong ;  you  must  not  go  upon  the  stage.  Go  home  to  your  grand- 
father, or  if  you  will  stay  here  try  some  other  profession.  Why  not 
try  Art  ?  There  are  many  ladies  who  make  name  and  money  as 
painters." 

Clytie  did  not  speak. 


Clytie.  7 

"  Are  you  in  want  of  money  ?  " 

**  No,"  said  the  girl,  with  the  pride  of  a  duchess  and  the  purse  of 
a  seamstress. 

"  Let  me  help  you  in  some  way." 

"  My  mother  was  a  good  woman  and  an  actress,"  said  Clytie. 

Mr.  Woodfield  had  heard  a  scandal  in  which  Miss  Olivia  Pitt's 
name  held  a  prominent  place.  She  ran  away  with  a  lord's  son. 
Even  her  best  friends  had  not  laid  the  charge  of  matrimony  at  her 
door. 

"  Your  mother,"  said  Mr.  Woodfield,  "  was  one  of  the  loveliest 
women  of  her  day,  and  the  best  actress  in  my  time." 

Clytie's  ambition  prompted  her  afresh  at  this  declaration. 

"  Then  why  should  not  her  daughter  go  upon  the  stage  ?  " 

"Miss  Olivia  Pitt,"  said  the  manager,  "led  a  hard  life  in  her 
«arly  days." 

"  She  married  a  lord's  son,"  said  Clytie,  interrupting  him  for  the 
first  time. 

"  Indeed !"  said  the  manager.  "  I  lost  sight  of  her  when  she  left 
London.     She  was  in  my  company  in  the  country." 

Clytie's  eyes  beamed  with  curiosity. 

"  Yes ;  in  fact  I  gave  her  her  first  engagement." 

"  Oh,  my  dear  sir,  you  interest  me  beyond  measure,"  said  Clytie. 
■**  My  grandfather  never  told  me  half  her  history." 

"  Her  Ufe  was  quite  a  theatrical  life,"  said  the  manager.  "  She 
was  stage-strudc  Her  father  was  a  musician  at  Lincoln.  She  ran 
away  with  a  company  of  strolling  players.  Her  mother  died  broken- 
hearted. She,  poor  girl !  led  a  life  of  hardship  and  toil.  For  three 
years  she  may  be  said  to  have  eaten  the  bread  of  poverty." 

Clytie  sat  transfixed  while  the  manager  was  talking,  her  great  eyes 
wide  open,  her  red  lips  parted,  and  her  hands  clasped ;  her  fancy 
following  the  runaway  girl  from  place  to  place,  her  heart  bleeding 
with  sympathy  and  sorrow  for  the  strolling  player  who  was  her 
mother. 

"  She  played  in  bams,  in  the  back  yards  of  inns ;  her  father  dis- 
•carded  her ;  she  had  no  friends ;  she  did  not  earn — at  all  events  she 
did  not  receive — ten  shillings  a  week.  I  had  what  they  call  the 
Lincoln  circuit,  and  heard  her  story  while  dining  with  the  mayor  of 
the  town,  who  took  an  interest  in  her  case.  The  next  day  she  called 
upon  me,  just  as  you  have  called,  for  an  engagement ;  but  she  knew 
her  line  of  business,  she  knew  what  she  could  do,  and  she  acted 
before  me  at  once — that  is,  she  spoke  some  lines  from  '  As  You  Like 
It'     Fortune,  as  well  as  the  lady's  genius,  was  in  her  favour.     I 


8  The  GentlematCs  Magazine. 

wanted  a  leading  lady.  I  engaged  her  for  six  nights  ;  she  was  suc- 
cessful. I  brought  her  father  into  my  room  and  reconciled  him 
to  his  daughter." 

'*  God  bless  you,  Mr.  Woodfield  ! "  exclaimed  Clytie,  burying  her 
face  m  her  hands.  ' 

"  I  was  the  means  of  getting  the  lady  her  first  engagement  in  town. 
Your  grandfather  made  his  way,  and  became  conductor  of  the 
orchestra  in  the  theatre  where  she  was  engaged  All  London 
hated  the  man  who  one  day  carried  her  oflf  to  the  Continent;  and  it 
was  a  general  sorrow  that  wept  over  the  Times  when  a  year  after- 
wards her  death  at  Boulogne  was  made  public." 

Clytie  was  sobbing.  "My  poor  dear  grandfather,"  she  said; 
"  how  could  you  b§  so  cruel  to  me  ?  " 

"  So  you  can  easily  understand  that  I  am  interested  in  you,  and  I 
am  sure  you  will  believe  that  I  desire  to  give  you  good  advice  and 
to  be  of  service  to  you." 

"  Yes,  yes,  Mr.  Woodfield,"  said  Clytie.  ' 

"  Well,  then,  understand,"  said  Mr.  Woodfield,  taking  both  her 
hands  in  his,  and  looking  at  her  steadfastly,  "  that  I  advise  you  to 
go  home  to  your  grandfather,  and  that  I  prohibit  you  fiom  going  on 
the  stage.  You  may  command  me  as  if  I  were  your  grandfather, 
except  in  this  :  you  say  he  has  been  unkind  to  you ;  I  will  not  be 
that.  I  fear  you  have  misunderstood  him ;  I  will  write  to  him  when 
you  say  I  may,  I  will  bring  him  here,  I  will  do  anything  you  ask, 
but  one  thing — I  will  not  introduce  you  to  your  destruction.  There ! 
Now  tell  me  where  you  live,  and  Mrs.  Woodfield  shall  call  and 
you." 

"  Thank  you  very  much ;  I  feel  you  are  doing  what  you  think 
best ;  I  will  try  and  think  it  is  for  the  best,  and  I  will  write  to  you 
to-morrow,"  said  Clytie. 

**  Will  you  not  give  me  your  address  ?" 

"  To-morrow,"  said  Clytie,  the  obstinacy  of  her  nature  coming  to 
the  protection  of  her  ambition  once  more.    "  To-morrow  I  will  write." 

She  thought  there  would  be  no  harm  in  having  a  day's  freedom  of 
action.  If  she  gave  him  her  address  he  might  send  it  to  her  grand- 
father, and  justify  his  breach  of  trust  by  the  plea  of  right 

"Post  Office,  Camden  Town,  will  find  you,  then?"  said  the 
manager. 

"  Yes ;  and  you  will  not  write  to  grandfather  without  my  per- 
mission." 

"  You  have  my  word,"  said  Mr.  Woodfield  ;  "and  to-morrow  you 
will  write  to  me." 


C lytic.  9 

« I  will,"  said  Clytie. 

"  You  cannot  find  your  way  out  alone— -come,  I  will  show  you — 
take  my  arm." 

The  manager  conducted  the  girl  a  nearer  way  out  of  the  theatre  \ 
through  a  private  door,  round  by  the  entrance  to  the  stalls,  and  out 
past  the  box-office  into  the  broad  daylight,  which  for  a  moment 
dazzled  her  eyes. 

'*  Good  morning.  Miss  Pitt,"  he  said,  shaking  her  by  the  hand. 
"  Turn  to  the  right  if  you  are  going  west ;  or,  shall  I  call  a  cab  for 
you  ?  " 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  Clytie,  and  she  turned  in  the  direction  of 
the  Strand. 

"  Clark,"  said  the  manager,  calling  to  a  man  who  stood  near  the 
box-office  door. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

**  You  saw  that  young  lady  ?  " 

"  Yes,  SU-." 

"  Follow  her  wherever  she  goes,  until  you  are  satisfied  she  is  at 
home ;  and  then  come  and  tell  me  where  she  goes,  what  she  does, 
where  she  lives,  and  tell  no  one  else ;  if  any  cad  molests  her  kick 
him." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Clark,  who  in  three  minutes  was  close  on  the  track 
of  the  prettiest  pair  of  ankles  that  had  been  seen  in  the  Strand  for 
many  a  day.  Clytie  wore  a  short  dress  and  tight  country  boots. 
She  had  covered  her  lilac  dress,  which  was  beginning  to  get  soiled, 
with  a  thin  shawl,  that  clung  about  her  shoulders,  and  detracted 
nothing  from  her  round,  graceful  form.  She  wore  a  white  straw 
bonnet,  with  lilac  flowers  and  grey  ribbons ;  and  even  Clark  thought 
she  was  the  handsomest  girl  he  had  ever  seen. 

Two  hours  afterwards  Clark  returned  to  the  theatre.  Mr.  Wood- 
field  had  gone  to  his  club.  Clark  was  to  go  to  the  Garrick  the 
moment  he  returned.  Clark  went  to  the  club  straight,  carrying  there 
a  black  eye,  and  a  coat  rather  the  worse  for  a  tear  at  the  collar.  The 
club  porter  frowned  at  Clark,  but  he  insisted  that  he  was  to  see  Mr. 
Woodfield,  who,  on  being  sent  for,  said  Clark  was  to  be  shown  into 
the  strangers'  room.  .^ 

"  "  Well  ?  "  said  the  manager,  shutting  the  door. 

"  I  did  as  you  wished,  sir." 

"  Yes ;  go  on." 

"  Followed  the  lady  down  the  Strand ;  she  went  into  a  confec- 
tioner's and  had  a  bun ;  then  went  across  Trafalgar  Square ;  up  the 
Haymarket ;  two  gents  followed  her." 


lo  Tlie  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  manager. 

"  But  they  soon  give  it  up.'' 

"  Yes ;  go  on ;  finish  before  I  guess  the  lot.     I  see  your  black  eye." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Clark.     '*  In  Regent  Street  a  fellow  spoke  to  her, 
and  she  looked  frightened;  she  mentioned  to  a  policeman  as  this 
person  was  annoying  of  her,  but  the  officer  only  laughed." 

"Ah,  it  is  that  light  short  dress,"  said  the  manager  to  himself. 
^*  Mrs.  Woodfield  must  see  her,  and  dress  her  properly." 

"  So  she  turns  up  a  by-street,  as  if  to  get  out  of  the  way,  and  this 
gent,  he  follows  her  and  speaks  to  her  again,  and  I  see  she  was  in 
a  dreadful  state  like,  evidently  not  used  to  London ;  so  I  goes  up  to 
him  and  lets  straight  out  at  him  in  tlie  mouth." 

"  Bravo,  Clark,  bravo  ! "  exclaimed  the  manager. 

"Well,  he  turns  on  me  sudden  like,  and  was  quicker  than  I 
thought,  and  he  pinned  me  against  the  wall,  and  we'd  a  bit  of  a  set 
to,  a  reglar  up  and  downer ;  and  then  the  police  comes  and  a  great 
crowd,  and  I  explains  to  the  officer,  who  said  he  knowed  the  gent, 
and  it  served  him  right,  and  he'd.  k)ck  him  up  if  he  didn't  clear  out 
in  a  jiffy ;  and  so  I  started  off  after  the  young  lady,  sir,  and  I — 
and  so  I  started  off  after  the  young  lady — and  when  I " 

"  Yes,  yes." 

"  She  was  gone,  and  which  way  I  couldn't  tell,  and  I  lost  her,  sir." 

"  Ah,  I  thought  so.     Clark,  you  are  an  ass." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  An  egregious  ass." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Here  is  a  sovereign  for  vou.     Go  home  and  wash  your  face." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  That's  it,"  said  the  manager,  going  back  to  the  smoke  room. 
**  Mrs.  Woodfield  must  dress  her — ^it  is  that  short  light  dress ;  I  hope 
Clark  punished  the  thie£" 

CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE   BREEZES   IN   COUNCIL. 

"Well,  I  dunno  but  what  the  gentleman  be  right,"  said  Mr. 
Johnny  Breeze,  sitting  in  the  littie  back  garden,  after  the  children 
had  gone  to  bed.  "  I'm  sure  I  dunno.  Missie  knows  best,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"  And  is  that  all  you've  got  to  say  about  it,  Johnny  ?"  asked  Mrs. 
Breeze,  who  always  professed  to  seek  Johnny's  opinion  and  to 
value  it.  * 


Clytie.  1 1 

Mrs.  Breeze  was  one  of  those  kind-hearted  autocrats  who  did 
everything  she  could  to  make  the  outer  world  believe  that  her  hus- 
band  was  master  in  his  own  house.  ''  I  will  ask  Breeze/'  she  would 
say,  in  cases  of  the  smallest  or  greatest  importance.  ^'  I  could  not 
take  upon  myself  to  decide  such  a  matter  without  consulting  Johnny." 
Observations  of  this  kind  were  continually  on  her  lips.  But  in  her 
own  quiet  way  she  settled  aU  things  according  to  her  own  judgment 
Johnny  had  really  no  voice  in  anything.  He  tliought  he  had,  and 
he  would  go  home  switching  the  gnats  as  if  he  were  an  independent 
domineering  husband  and  father ;  and  when  he  went  to  smoke  his 
pipe  at  the  local  public-house  he  talked  with  the  best  of  the  little 
men  there,  and  even  expressed  fierce  opinions  now  and  then  upon 
the  Government  Indeed  he  had  once  been  known  to  threaten 
physical  violence  against  a  man  who  asserted  that  the  Government 
were  bringing  in  a  Bill  to  abolish  all  P.K.'s  under  five  feet  four. 
But,  take  him  for  all  in  all,  Johnny  was  as  mild,  conciliatory,  and 
genial  a  P.  K.  as  one  could  wish  to  see  in  authority. 

"And  that  is  all  youVe  got  to  say?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Breeze. 
"  Why  I  should  have  thought  that  with  your  experience  of  society, 
and  seeing  people,  and  talking  to  my  lords  and  my  ladies — ^well,  I 
should  have  thought,  Johnny,  that  you  would  have  been  ready  to  say 
something  definite  on  the  point,  as  Mr.  Stevens  would  observe  if  he 
were  here,  and  a  good  thing  he  isn't." 

Clytie  smiled  pleasantly  at  Mrs.  Breeze.  Johnny  drew  solemnly 
at  his  pipe  while  he  listened  to  his  wife,  and  thought  what  a  woman 
it  was  sure-ly.  They  were  sitting  in  the  litde  back  garden,  just  under 
the  back  parloiu:  window,  having  had  an  humble  al  fresco  supper  of 
bread  and  cheese  and  lettuce.  The  canal  lay  quietly  at  the  bottom 
of  the  garden,  although  it  had  been  whipped  for  fish  in  the  most 
persevering  way  by  Master  Breeze  for  an  hour  before  bedtime.  One 
lazy  barge  went  by  just  as  Breeze  was  lighting  his  pipe,  and  there 
was  something  picturesqiie  in  the  old  boat,  with  its  red  and  white 
sign,  and  a  woman  at  the  helm.  Why  or  wherefore  she  did  not 
make  out,  but  the  boat  gliding  by  had  a  soothing  eff*ect  upon 
Clytie.  The  twilight  fell  gently  upon  her  spirits,  albeit  there  were 
blacks  in  it,  and  she  liked  to  sit  there  in  the  little  garden:  She  felt 
that  she  was  safe  with  these  kind  people,  and  that  was  a  great  deal 
after  what  she  had  gone  through. 

"He  remembered  your  mother?"  said  Mrs.  Breeze,  looking  at 
Clytie,  and  drawing  her  shawl  roimd  her  shoulders. 

"  Yes.    Well  ?"  Clytie  replied. 

"  But  advised  you  to  go  home  to  your  fiionds,  because  the  stage 


1 2  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

were  not  fit  for  a  lady ;  and  that's  it,  my  love,  that's  what  I  feel  about 
it.  I'm  sure  the  way  in  which  the  girls  are  dressed ;  well,  I've  often 
said  to  Johnny,  I  wonder  the  Queen  and  Government  don't  stop  it ; 
and,  as  for  acting,  why,  it's  not  what  I  call  acting  at  all — it's  nothing 
but  legs,  ind  smirks  on  their  faces,  as  is  enough,  I'm  sure,  to  make 
one  sick  ;  not  but  what,  once  in  a  way,  you  do  see  a  good  play  with 
persons  dressed  all  over,  not  as  if  they'd  come  out  of  their  bedrooms 
and  forgotten  as  they'd  not  finished.  But  that  is  neither  here  nor  there. 
The  question  is  as  to  what  you  mean  to  do." 

"  I  must  try  some  other  theatre,"  Clytie  replied,  quietly.  **  If  we 
rejected  every  profession  or  business  because  there  are  bad  people 
in  it,  or  on  account  of  its  being  disagreeable,  we  should  all  sit  at 
home  and  do  nothing." 

**  That's  true,"  said  Johnny. 

"  Not  altogether,"  said  Mrs.  Breeze ;  "  but  it  aint  no  good  arguing 
it,  because  she's  made  up  her  mind,  and  what  we've  got  to  do  is  to 
help  if  we  can ;  though,  from  what  Mr.  Woodfield  said,  there  don't 
seem  to  be  much  diflSculty  about  it,  if  we  only  knew  how  to 
go  on." 

"  I  will  write  to  another  manager.     That  is  all,"  said  Clytie. 

Mr.  Breeze  suddenly  laid  down  his  pipe. 

"What  is  it.  Breeze  ?"  asked  his  wife,  suddenly.     "  An  idea  !" 

"  Well,  if  I  aint  bin  and  forgotten  the  very  thing  as  I  wanted  to 
say  and  to  do  particular.  I  was  a  speaking  to  a  gent  who  is  in  the 
newspaper  line  this  very  morning  in  the  park,  and,  he  says,  *  Well, 
if  a  young  lady  wants  to  go  on  the  stage,  there  be  lots  of  advertise- 
ments and  agents,'  he  says,  *  and  go  and  get  a  Nera^  as  is  a  news- 
paper devoted  to  the  profession.' " 

"  Johnny's  right.  I  know  what  he  means.  That  newspaper  fellow 
as  lodged  with  me  and  paid  regular,  as  I  was  telling  you,  he  used  to 
have  one  and  read  it  in  bed  every  Simday  morning.  Johnny,  it  aint 
late,  and  if  you  likes  tc  go  out  for  half  an  hour  and  borrow  one  at 
the  York  and  Albany,  or  somewhere,  why  go  at  once  and  take  yer 
pipe  along." 

The  P.K.  put  on  his  unprofessional  coat  and  hat,  and  away  he 
went.  During  his  absence  Mrs.  Breeze  and  Clytie  put  away  the 
supper  things,  took  in  the  chairs  from  the  garden,  lighted  the  lamp, 
and  sat  down  in  the  back  parlour  to  work  and  talk  and  prepare  their 
minds  for  a  continuation  of  the  family  council  when  Johnny  should 
return  with  the  Nera.  Mrs.  Breeze  found  that,  in  spite  of  two  nights 
of  hard  work  after  supper,  she  had  still  a  score  of  stockings  to  dam, 
and  Clytie  discovered  that  she  was  an  excellent  h^d  at  this  sort  of 


C lytic.  1 3 

work.  So  the  two  were  soon  busily  engaged,  with  their  hands  and  arms 
half  covered  with  stockings,  "  As  looked  for  all  the  world  like 
gauntlets,"  Mrs.  Breeze  said,  "  and  she  was  sure  no  picture  was  ever 
more  perfect  than  Mary  a  sitting  there  darning,  like  a  fine  lady  as 
she  had  seen  stitching  a  cavalier's  rosette  on  his  hat,  in  the  time  of 
the  wars,  when  they  wore  velvet  coats  and  swords." 

It  seemed  no  time  before  Johnny  returned. 

"  There  it  is,"  he  said,  triumphantly,  spreading  out  the  newspaper 
upon  the  table.  "  There  you  are,  Missie,  and  I'm  sure  IVe  been 
trying  to  read  them  advertisements  with  a  view  to  understanding  them, 
and  Tm  as  far  off  as  ever.  Every  man  to  his  own  trade — and  woman, 
too,  I  suppose.  I  dare  say,  if  there  was  a  Park  Keeper's  Gazette^ 
people  outside  the  profession  would  find  it  hard  to  understand  it ; 
but,  however,  there's  what  they  calls  the  actor's  paper  for  you,  and  I 
dessay  you'll  make  more  of  it  than  I  can." 

Clytie  thanked  the  P.K.  with  a  sweet  smile,  and  opened  the  mys- 
terious paper  and  began  to  read  it,  first  all  over  at  one  rapid  glance 
to  herself,  and  then  in  bits  for  the  edification  of  the  Breezes. 

"Wanted,  a  good  heavy  man  !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Breeze.  "Well, 
there,  I  should  think  Mr.  Stevens  would  do  for  that.  He  must  be 
fourteen  stone  if  he's  an  ounce.  'A  good  walking  gentleman,  a 
juvenile  gent,  a  gent  for  seconds,  a  leading  lady,  and  a  chambermaid.' 
Well,  what  they  mean  I  suppose  they  know — I'm  sure  I  don't ;  and 
Mr.  Breeze  is,  no  doubt,  right — every  trade  to  itself;  and  I'm  told 
there  is  a  Lodging  House  Guide^  though  I  don't  exactly  consider 
myself  in  that  line  ;  but  walking  gents  and  chambermaids  for  a 
theatre  is  what  I  certainly  caimot  make  out" 

"  I  suppose  it  describes  what  they  call  their  line  of  business,"  said 
Clytie.  "  I  did  not  quite  understand  Mr.  Woodfield  when  he  asked 
me  what  my  line  was." 

"I  should  have  put  it  down  for  a  leading  lady,"  said  Johnny, 
refilling  his  pipe. 

"  Well  done,  Johnny,"  said  Mrs.  Breeze ;  "that's  very  good." 

Mrs.  FBreeze,  indeed,  was  so  pleased  with  this  exhibition  of 
Johnny's  cleverness  that  she  put  a  stockinged  arm  round  his  neck 
and  gave  him  a  smacking,  high-sounding  kiss  on  the  cheek. 

"  Wanted,  three  good  utility  ladies  (all  must  sing  and  dance),  old 
man,  a  good  low  comedian,  and  useful  couple  j""  also  a  double  bass 
and  property  man,"  Clytie  read  in  her  pleasant  musical  voice,  with 
a  long  expressive  note  of  exclamation  at  the  end,  and  an  inquiring 
look  at  Mr.  Breeze. 

The  P.  K.  smoked  solemnly  and  made  no, reply.     Mrs.  Breeze 


14    ''  The  Gentleniaiis  Magazine. 

laid  her  two  hands  upon  her  knees,  stocking-needle,  cotton,  and  all, 
and  looked  at  Johnny.     The  P.  K.  was  lost  in  smoke  and  thought. 

"  What  do  you  make  of  that,  Mr.  Breeze  ?  "  Clytie  asked. 

"  I  don't  make  anything  of  it,  Missie ;  it  is  altogether  beyond  me  ; 
I  can  only  repeat,  Everybody  to  his  trade." 

"  It  is  indeed  a  very  curious  paper,"  said  Qytie ;  "  I  fear  I  under- 
stand it  no  better  than  yourself,  Mr.  Breeze,  though  somehow  I  feel 
the  strangest  interest  in  it.  'Wanted,  a  character  singer;  also  a  bass- 
player  (double-handed),  and  star,  seconds,  juveniles,  and  responsible 
people.* " 

"  Double-handed,"  said  Johnny  reflectively.  "  I  see  a  double- 
headed  sheep  once  in  a  show  at  Epsom,  but  that's  more  curious  still 
— a  double-handed  bass-player." 

"  Ah,  I  shall  never  forget  that  day,  Johnny ;  it  was  before  we  were 
married  ;  we  went  from  the  dairy ;  lovely ;  how  the  time  does  fly  to 
be  sure." 

"  For  sale,  fifty  Indian  serpents,  two  leopards,  one  hundred  mon- 
keys, and  a  large  ourang-outang,  and  a  variety  of  stock,  just  arrived 
from  India,"  said  Clytie,  still  reading  at  random.  "  And  here's  your 
sheep,  Mr.  Breeze,  wants  a  partner,  two  heads  and  six  legs,  the  most 
remarkable  phenomenon  of  the  day." 

Clytie  beamed  with  delight  over  this  discovery. 

"  It  is  the  most  wonderful  paper  ! "  she  exclaimed ;  "  it  seems  to 
belong  to  a  new  world  ;  I  could  not  have  believed  there  could  be 
such  a  paper." 

**  Oh,  bless  you,  Missie,  you  don't  know  what's  going  on  about  you 
till  you  looks,  nor  the  lives  as  people  lead ;  now  there's  a  friend  of 
mine  at  the  Zoo,  talking  of  wild  animals — he  lives  witli  two  seals  in  a 
pond." 

"  Johnny !  Johnny ! "  said  Mrs.  Breeze,  laying  down  Master 
Breeze's  stockings,  darned  and  clean  for  the  morrow. 

"  Well,  not  exactly  in  a  pond ;  nor  more  than  Sykes  lives  in  the 
elephant's  house ;  but  he  talks  of  nothing  else,  and  as  for  a  termagant 
woman,  the  scratches  on  that  man's  body,  he's  scored  with  them,  and 
for  all  that  he  loves  them  sea-lions,  and  that's  his  world,  though  he 
does  take  a  walk  over  Primrose  Hill  once  in  a  way." 

"  The  strangest  paper,"  said  Clytie,  turning  it  over  and  devouring 
it  with  her  round  eloquent  eyes.  "  And  here  are  gentlemen  who 
teach  the  histrionic  art,  lessons  given  upon  the  stage,  and  engagements 
guaranteed." 

"  There,  now  you've  got  to  the  right  place,"  said  Mrs.  Breeze. 

"  Is  it  an  agent  ?  "  asked  Johnny. 


Clytie,  1 5 

"No,  a  teacher,"   said   Ci)rtie;    "but  here  is  an  agent — *Mr. 
Barrington's  Dramatic  Agency :   booking  fee  to  professionals,  three 
and  sixpence;  several  vacancies  in  good  companies;  wanted,  artistes » 
in  all  lines  of  business ;  a  few  ladies  and  gentlemen  for  a  dramatic 
club,  &c.    Note  the  address,  Covent  Garden.' " 

"That's  it,"  said  Johnny;  "every  man  to  his  trade;  but  there 
don't  seem  nothing  so  very  mysterious  about  the  agency  business ; 
look  at  them  estate  agents  and  registry  offices ;  there's  one  thing,  we 
don't  want  agencies  in  the  park-keeping  line." 

"  You  would  advise  me,  then,  to  write  to  Barrington's  ? "  Clytie 
asked. 

"  Well,  I  dunno  for  that,"  said  Johnny ;  "  there's  nothing  like  a 
personal  call,  I  always  think ;  but  of  course  " 

"Johnny  is  right,"  broke  in  Mrs.  Breeze;  "it's  been  a  great  night 
with  him,  one  of  his  clever  nights ;  I  am  sure  I  was  saying  to  myself 
just  now  if  Johnny  had  only  had  his  opportunities — well  there,  I 
don't  like  to  praise  him  before  his  feice,  but  he  has  got  that  common 
sense  which  in  any  other  profesaon  would  have  brought  him  to  the 
front;  it's  been  a  great  night  with  him  from  the  moment  as  he 
thought  of  that  Ncra  newspaper ;  and  the  best  thing  is  to.  call  at  that 
place,  and  if  you'll  go  early,  my  dear,  I'll  go  with  you,  for  I  do  think 
as  some  one  should  be  by  your  side,  as  there's  no  knowing  what 
traps  there  be  in  this  London — ^might  kidnap  you  for  a  show  or  some- 
thing, for  I  do  declare  some  of  them  advertisements  made  my  blood 
curdle,  all  along  of  my  suddenly  remembering  a  young  girl  as  ran 
away  with  a  show  company,  and  was  painted  up  and  made  into  an 
Indian  princess,  at  twopence  each  and  half-price  to  the  working 
classes,  though,  my  dear,  it  in  no  wise  applies  to  you,  though  I  must 
say  it  did  come  into  my  mind." 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Breeze,  you  are  too  good  ;  it  is  very,  very  kind  of 
you  to  go  with  me  ;  we  will  go  as  soon  as  you  like  in  the  morning," 
said  Clytie. 

"Ten  o'clock  will  give  me  time  for  putting  things  straight  and 
getting  the  children  out  of  the  way,"  said  Mrs.  Breeze,  "  and  we  can 
take  a  'bus  from  the  York  and  Albany  to  the  Circus  and  walk  to 
Covent  Garden,  and  look  at  the  shops  as  we  go,  for  I  do  think  that 
next  to  buying  things  is  looking  in  at  the  windows  and  saying  what 
you  would  buy  if  you'd  money  enough;  though  I  knew  an  old 
gentleman  as  killed  himself  pretty  nigh  with  that  very  thing,  and  I 
forget  now  whether  I  knew  him  or  see  him  in  a  play ;  it  was-  one  of 
them  big  sausages,  as  thick  as  your  arm  and  curled  like  one  of  them 
crokay  hoops,  and  he  was  poor,  and  he  always  said  whan  ^he  was 


i6  The  Gentlematis  Magazine. 

rich  he'd  buy  that  sausage  and  eat  every  bit  of  it  for  supper ;  and  it 
came  true ;  but  it  as  nigh  killed  him  as  could  be,  though  he  lived  to 
.tell  the  story." 

Clytie  laughed,  and  said  many  curious  things  in  life  came  to  pass. 
Supposing  she  were  to  be  rich  some  day? 

"  Bless  you,  I  hope  you  will,"  said  Mrs.  Breeze. 

I 

**  I  sometimes  think  I  may  be,"  said  Clytie,  looking  up  with  a 
world  of  wonder  in  her  eyes.  "  Sometimes  I  think  so ;  and  if  ever 
that  should  come  to  pass,  Maggie,  then,  my  dear  good  soul,  you  shall 
not  look  in  the  windows  and  wish ;  you  shall  look  and  have." 

Clytie  put  her  arms  round  Mrs.  Breeze's  white  neck  and  kissed 
her,  and  laid  her  head  upon  her  matronly  bosom,  and  the  P.  K. 
looked  on  admiringly.  Mrs.  Breeze  stroked  the  girl's  hair  with  her 
round  fat  hand,  and  fondled  her  with  all  the  affection  of  a  loving 
mother. 

If  poor  old  Grandfather  Waller  could  only  have  seen  the  runaway 
safe  in  those  kind  arms  he  would  have  been  a  happy  man ;  for  his 
fears  would  not  let  him  picture  her  in  security.  Clytie  thought  of  the 
old  man  as  she  lay  nestling  her  face  in  Mrs.  Breeze's  neck.  She 
thought  of  him  tenderly,  but  not  yet  without  a  tinge  of  resentment 

That  night,  when  she  was  alone  sitting  by  her  humble  bed  with  its 
patchwork  coverlet  and  its  strip  of  stair-carpet  by  the  side,  she  almost 
made  up  her  mind  to  write  to  her  grandfather,  just  a  line  to  say  she 
was  safe  and  as  happy  as  she  could  be  under  all  the  circumstances  of 
her  position.  Or  Mrs.  Breeze  might  write  this  for  her.  The  letter 
could  be  posted  without  any  address.  Yes,  she  would  do  that.  She 
felt  better  when  she  had  settled  that  this  should  be  part  of  the 
morrow's  work.  Then  she  thought  over  all  she  had  gone  through 
during  the  day — all  that  Mr.  Woodfield  had  told  her  about  her 
mother.  It  made  her  sad,  the  dark  picture  which  the  manager  had 
drawn  of  her  mother's  early  days  ;  but  she  would  not  dwell  upon  it — 
she  preferred  to  think  of  the  successful  actress,  the  woman  who  had 
had  London  at  ber  feet ;  to  think  of  her  mother  as  the  loveliest 
woman  and  the  greatest  actress  of  her  time,  and  the  wife  of  a  lord's  son. 
She  prayed  every  night  that  some  day  she  might  meet  that  lord's  father; 
he  was  still  living — Grandfather  Waller  had  told  her  so  always,  and 
more  than  once  he  had  told  her  she  was  an  honourable  if  she  had  her 
rights,  and  ought  to  be  a  lady  of  title.  It  was  a  pity  she  had  no  friend, 
she  thought,  to  help  her — ^no  clever  man,  like  Tom  Mayfield  for  in- 
stance, who  would  lay  his  life  down  for  her.  She  could  give  him  this 
secret  for  his  devotion,  and  ask  him  to  find  it  all  out  For  an  unso- 
phisticated country  girl,  Clytie  had  some  shrewd  worldly  ideas,  and 


Clytie.  1 7 

an  amount  of  enterprise  and  firmness  worthy  of  a  London  education. 
She  learnt  quickly  too.  For  example,  she  noticed  that  although  she 
was  well  dressed  for  Dunelm,  there  was  something  wanting  in  the 
style  and  manner  and  finish  of  her  clothes ;  during  the  day  she  had 
let  out  a  tuck  in  her  dress  and  hemmed  a  frill  round  the  bottom ; 
in  the  morning  she  would  get  up  very  early  and  retrim  her  bonnet ;  a 
watch-chain  was  not  worn  round  the  neck  she  noticed ;  she  must 
have  a  differently-shaped  boot  to  that  she  was  now  wearing ;  and  her 
hair  must  be  braided  in  the  style  of  a  grand  lady  whom  she  saw  in  a 
gorgeous  carriage  in  Regent  Street.  Her  mind  was  in  a  wliirl  of 
projects,  memories,  fancies,  and  speculations  as  she  sat  there  on  the 
little  bed ;  she  thought  of  everything  and  everybody — looking  forward, 
however,  throughout,  into  a  future  which  she  hoped  to  mould  to  her 
own  ambition. 

CHAPTER    XVn. 

A   MEMORABLE   DAY,    BEGUN   AT   BARRINGTON'S   AND   CLOSED   AT 

HYDE   PARK   CORNER. 

They  stood  inside  a  somewhat  remarkably  furnished  office,  Mrs. 
Breeze  and  Clytie.  A  pert  youth  in  buttons  requested  that  they 
would  be  seated.  He  pointed  to  an  ottoman  in  the  centre  of  the 
room,  but  Mrs.  Breeze  scowled  at  this  piece  of  drawing-room  furniture, 
and  placed  a  chair  for  Clytie,  while  she  sat  upon  a  long  stuffed  seat 
near  a  desk,  at  which  the  pert  youth  was  reading  a  newspaper.  Mr. 
Barrington,  he  said,  would  be  shortly  disengaged. 

It  was  a  very  remarkable  room — a  combination  of  drawing-room, 
counting-house,  telegraph  office,  artist's  studio,  and  police  station.  It 
was  a  room  designed  to  impress  the  weak,  to  awe  the  strong,  and 
confuse  the  wary  ;  it  was  a  swaggering,  bullying,  coaxing,  humbugging 
room ;  a  pretentious  impostor  of  a  room  ;  and  yet  it  looked  respectable 
and  honest  and  outspoken.  What  Pecksniff  was  among  men,  this 
office  was  among  offices,  if  one  might  judge  by  appearances  ;  it  was  a 
bouncing  kind  of  room ;  it  had  speaking  tubes  and  letter  racks, 
ledgers  and  diaries,  telegraph  forms,  letter  weights,  and  bells ;  if  it 
had  been  the  outer  office  of  a  modern  Fouch^,  and  in  France,  it 
could  not  have  been  better  or  more  notably  supplied  with  appliances 
for  the  expeditious  execution  of  the  most  tremendous  business 
requirements.  A  Rothschild,  a  Cabinet  Minister,  a  Colonel  Hender- 
son, a  Chatterton  managing  three  theatres  at  a  time,  could  not  have 
been  fenced  round  with  more  cunning  devices  for  hurrying  commands 
to  their  destination,  and  checking  the  performance  of  the  most 
Vol.  XI.,  N.S.  1873.  c 


1 8  The  Gentlematis  Magazine. 

■ 

important  decrees ;  "  Post  office  "  was  painted  upon  a  side  counter, 
with  slits  for  letters ;  "  Telegraph  office — telegrams  to  all  parts  of  the 
world,"  was  written  upon  another  cabinet  close  by.  But  for  the 
general  silence  it  would  have  been  easy  to  imagine  clerks  at  work 
behind  these  official-looking  boxes.  Every  now  and  then  a  bell 
rang,  and  a  voice  was  heard  struggling  through  the  windings  of  a 
gutta-percha  tube,  upon  which  the  boy  at  the  desk  would  lay  his 
paper  down  and  say  something  up  another  trumpet,  and  then  came 
back  the  old  repose.  The  post  office  and  the  telegraphic  department 
wer^  both  dummies.  Even  Mrs.  Breeze  noticed  this.  She  deliberately 
left  her  seat,  and  looked  behind  the  formidable  cabinets,  where  silence 
reigned  supreme.  But  the  room  seemed  to  bounce  and  look  down 
at  Mrs.  Breeze,  through  ponderous  gold  rimmers,  and  point  to 
its  ottoman  with  photographs  of  eminent  actresses  at  the  apex  of  a 
centre  ornament  which  sprung  mysteriously  from  the  triple  seat  It 
seemed  to  smile  a  Pecksniffian  smile  of  pity  upon  her,  and  point  to 
the  fourscore  pictures  of  beautiful  creatures  over  the  mantel-shelf, 
who  had  been  engaged  through  Mr.  Barrington's  agency  in  this  very 
room,  and  made  large  fortunes  and  famous  names  in  the  shortest 
possible  time  on  record. 

Presently  two  bells  suddenly  electrified  the  pert  youth,  against 
whom  Mrs.  Breeze  had  conceived  a  furious  dislike ;  he  leaped  from 
his  seat,  darted  past  the  "post  office,"  and  disapj)eared — only,  how- 
ever, to  return  almost  immediately. 

"  Step  this  way,  ladies,"  said  the  boy,  "Mr.  Barrington  will  see 
you  himself." 

They  were  ushered  into  a  small  room  furnished  in  crimson  velvet ; 
a  sort  of  library  drawing-room,  such  as  you  might  expect  to  find  as 
the  swell  parlour  of  a  fashionable  betting  saloon  ;  and  there  sitting 
at  a  gimcrack  rosewood  toy  writing  table  was  discovered  the  well- 
known  and  highly  successful  dramatic  agent  Mr.  Barrington,  a  well- 
dressed  gentleman  of  five-and-forty,  with  a  black  curled  moustache 
and  whiskers,  irreproachable  teeth  and  studs  ;  a  white  waistcoat  and 
gold  chain  ;  two  white  hands  sparkling  with  rings  ;  and  a  voice  tuned 
to  the  musical  and  artistic  tastes  of  his  numerous  and  interesting  clients. 

"Good  morning,  ladies — pray  be  seated,"  said  Mr.  Barrington, 
taking  in  at  one  glance  the  features,  dress,  style,  and  i)robable  position 
of  his  visitors. 

Mrs.  Breeze  waited  until  Clytie  was  seated,  and  then  she  complied 
with  Mr.  Barrington's  polite  request,  but  she  had  a  secret  idea  that 
the  office  boy  was  watching  her  through  one  of  the  office  tubes, 
and  she  felt  aggressive. 


C lytic.  1 9 

"  What  may  I  have  the  pleasure  of  doing  for  you  ?  "  said  Mr.  Bar- 
rington,  comprehending  both  ladies  in  the  obsequious  but  confident 
glance  which  he  flung  at  thepa  from  beneath  his  black  bushy  eyebrows. 

"  Nothing  for  me,  thank  you,"  said  Mrs.  Breeze,  drawing  her  light 
shawl  tightly  round  her  shoulders ;  "  fqr  this  lady,  and  1  hope  it  may 
be  satisfactory  to  her." 

"  I  also  hope  so,  I  am  sure,"  said  Mr.  Barrington,  directing  his 
Attention  to  Clytie. 

"  I  desire  to  place  my  name  upon  your  list,  and  to  ask  your  kind 
offices  in  procuring  me  an  engagement,"  said  Clytie,  handing  to  him 
her  name  and  address  written  upon  a  sheet  of  note  paper — "  Miss 
Pitt,  Post  Office,  Camden  Town." 

"  Yes,  my  child,  certainly,"  said  Mr.  Barrington. 

"And  there  is  the  fee." 

**  Thank  you,  you  are  business  like.'* 

Clytie  had  presented  two  half-crowns  with  her  address. 

"  That  was  the  charge  mentioned  in  the  advertisement,"  said  Mrs. 
Breeze,  not  quite  liking  to  be  ignored  in  the  conversation  ;  for  Mr. 
Barrington,  since  he  discovered  that  she  was  only  a  friend  or  com- 
I>anion  of  the  young  girl,  had  altogether  confined  his  remarks  ^nd 
his  looks  to  Clytie. 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  agent ;  "  it  is  a  pity  that  commerce  should  be 
called  upon  to  interfere  in  the  arrangements  of  art,  but  it  was  ever  so, 
since  the  world  began.     What  line  of  business,  Miss  Pitt  ?  " 
I  do  not  quite  know ;  I  am  a  beginner,"  said  Clytie. 
Yes,  you  are  a  beginner ;  have  you  taken  lessons  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Clytie ;  "  but  I  think  I  could  make  myself  useful." 

"  Very  good ;  you  are  business  like,  as  I  said  before ;  you  can 
make  yourself  useful.     Ah  ! " 

Mr.  Barrington  looked  at  Clytie  from  beneath  his  eyebrows,  leaned 
back  in  his  chair,  and  rubbed  his  jewelled  hands  reflectively. 

"  You  can  make  yourself  useful.  If  you  obtained  an  appearance 
would  Lord — ah,  Lord — dear  me,  what  a  memory  I  have — would  his 
lordship  take  a  box  or  stall  for  the  season,  or  " 

"  No,"  said  Clytie,  with  some  .hesitation,  not  understanding  the 
question,  and  anxious  not  to  confess  her  ignorance  upon  stage 
matters  so  readily  as  she  did  to  Mr.  Woodfield. 

"  No  ?  perhaps  it  is  Captain ;  dear  me,  my  memory  goes  like  the 
wind — or  Mr.  somebody,  or  some  friend  or  another ;  he  would  like 
you  to  appear,  and  would  assist  you." 

"  I  have  no  friends,  except  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Breeze,  in  London,  at 
present,"  said  Clytie,  looking  at  Mrs.  Breeze, — "  and  they  " 

c  2 


20  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

"  Would  come  and  see  you  and  pay  for  their  seats  like  other  people  " 
said  Mrs.  Breeze  promptly ;  **  though  I  don't  think  that  is  what  the 
gentleman  means  ;  perhaps  he'll  explain." 

"  No,  Mrs.  Breeze,  it  is  not  necessary ;  I  simply  wish  to  under- 
stand what  the  young  lad/s  prospects  are." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Clytie. 

"  Your  appearance  is  immensely  in  your  favour.  I  may  say  that, 
without  flattery.  I  suppose  your  first  idea  is  to  make  yourself  useful, 
as  you  say ;  you  would  probably  pay  for  a  first  appearance  ?  " 

"  No,  I  could  not  do  that,"  said  Clytie. 

"  You  would  give  your  services  then,  for  a  time,  without  salary,  in 
order  to  get  into  a  theatre,  to  get  an  opening—  to  make  a  start,  in 
short." 

"  I  wish  to  earn  money.  It  is  necessary  that  I  should,  and  I  have 
chosen  the  stage  as  a  profession ;  my  mother,  sir,  was  a  famous 
actress,"  said  Clytie,  with  a  quiet  firmness,  that  Mrs.  Breeze  had 
almost  applauded  with  the  handle  of  her  parasol. 

"  Quite  so,  and  I  think  you  would  be  successful ;  you  should  join 
some  good  amateur  society,  some  dramatic  club,  where  you  could 
play  parts,  and  work  your  way;  there  is  the  Siddons  Club,  for 
example,  which  has  given  to  the  stage  several  distinguished  actors  and 
actresses ;  but  for  leading  business  you  would  pay  ^^3  a  night  and 
find  your  own  dresses ;  you  could  do  that  I  suppose,  if  it  led  to  a 
good  engagement  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  I  could  not,"  said  Clytie.  "  I  had  no  idea  there  were  so 
many  difficulties,  sir ;  I  have  a  good  appearance  you  say ;  I  can 
speak  properly,  I  can  sing,  I  am  a  musician,  I  am  the  daughter  of  an 
actress,  surely  these  are  qualifications  that  might  obtain  some  position 
for  me.  Mr.  Chute  Woodfield  said  I  should  have  no  difficulty  xn 
getting  an  engagement ;  but  he  advised  me  not  to  go  upon  the  stage, 
because  he  said  it  was  not  a  respectable  profession  now  for  a  lady ; 
otherwise  he  would  have  given  me  an  engagement  in  his  own  theatre," 
said  Clytie  earnestly,  and  with  a  slight  expression  of  resentment  in  her 
manner,  which  was  highly  satisfactoiy  to  Mrs.  Breeze. 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  P.  K.'s  wife,  looking  defiance  at  Mr.  Barring- 
ton  and  all  his  velvet  furniture. 

"  Oh,  indeed,  Mr.  Woodfield  said  so  ?  well,  he  is  partly  right ;  'he 
gets  all  his  clever  people  from  me;  why,  my  child,  I  could  place  you 
in  his  own  theatre  this  moment,  in  spite  of  himself,  if  you  had  ex- 
perience ;  talent  overcomes  all  of  them.  Well,  now  we  have  really 
got  to  business  ;  I  think  I  quite  understand  what  you  desire,  my  dear 
young  lady,  quite,  and  I  must  help  you." 


C lytic.  2 1 

Thereupon  he  drew  towards  him  a  pliable  tube  and  spoke  down  it 
for  nearly  a  minute,  and  there  entered  from  a  door  that  was  disguised 
by  a  painting  of  "  Mrs.  Siddons  as  the  Tragic  Muse "  an  elderly 
man  with  a  book  in  his  hand,  and  a  quill  pen  behind  his  ear. 

"  Thomas,  have  the  kindness  to  enter  this  lady's  name  and  get  her 
signature  to  form  G,  which  please  to  read  to  her." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Thomas,  sitting  down  and  copying  Clytie's  address 
into  the  book,  after  which  he  read  to  her  an  agreement  whereby  she  was 
called  upon  to  pledge  herself  that  she  would  accept  no  engagement 
except  through  Mr.  Barrington,  and  that  she  would  give  him  her 
first  month's  salary,  together  with  some  binding  clauses,  equally 
liberal,  which  Clytie  signed  notwithstanding  Mrs.  Breeze's  admonitory 
looks  and  interruptions. 

"And  Thomas,"  said  Mr.  Barrington,  "is  the  company  for  the 
Delphos  Theatre  quite  filled  ?  " 

'-*  I  think  not,"  said  Thomas. 

"  Did  Lord  St.  Barnard  call  about  the  business  while  I  was  in  the 
park  yesterday  ?  " 

"  No,  sir." 

"Nor  the  new  lessee,  Mr.  Wyldenberg?" 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Thank  you,  that  will  do,  Thomas." 

The  clerk  passed  through  the  picture  and  disappeared  as  silently 
as  he  had  entered. 

"  Really,  Miss  Pitt,  you  have  excited  my  interest ;  yes,  and  my  sym- 
pathy, too ;  believe  me,  I  will  try  and  serve  you  ;  it  has  been  my  lot  to 
introduce  into  the  profession  some  of  its  most  illustrious  stars.  I  con- 
fess that  commercial  reasons  have  influenced  me  ;  yes,  I  confess  that ; 
but  money  is  not  everything,  and  sometimes  it  is  policy  to  wait  for 
it ;  your  mother  was  Miss  Olivia  Pitt ;  I  have  been  trying  for  the  last 
five  minutes  to  recall  the  likeness ;  I  do  so  at  this  moment ;  I  do  so 
with  a  vast  amount  of  pleasure ;  She  was  a  great  actress  ;  I  saw  her 
at  Drury  Lane  when  she  came  out.  Yes,  and  I  have  a  lively  remem- 
brance of  the  effect  her  acting  made  upon  me  ;  I  was  a  very  young 
man  in  those  days.  Place  yourself  in  my  hands,  my  dear  child,  and 
we  will  see  what  can  be  done.  Meanwhile  take  this  note  [he  was  slowly 
writing  while  he  talked]  to  Mr.  Wyldenberg,  of  the  Delphos  Theatre, 
to-morrow,  and  let  me  know  the  result  by  post" 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Barrington,"  said  Clytie,  with  an  expression  of 
sincere  gratitude ;  and  Mrs.  Breeze  said  "  Thank  you  "  also,  aiid  felt 
her  resentment  and  defiance  oozing  out  at  her  fingers'  ends,  which 
tingled  with  a  desire  to  shake  hands  with  the  gentleman  whom  she 
had  commenced  by  hating  heartily. 


22  The  Gentlefndfis  Magaziiie. 

Mr.  Barrington  rang  his  bell,  and  the  office  boy  appeared,  where- 
upon all  Mrs.  Breeze's  warlike  feelings  came  back  upon  her. 

"  Show  these  ladies  out,  Norfolk,"  said  Mr.  Barrington,  rising  and 
bowing  to  Clytie.     "  Good  morning,  good  morning." 

As  Mrs.  Breeze  followed  Clytie  to  the  stairs  of  the  outer  office  she 
suddenly  turned  round.  She  felt  sure  that  horrid  boy  was  doing 
something,  as  she  told  Breeze  afterwards;  and  sure  enough  he  was — 
making  an  ugly  face  behind  her  back,  and  putting  his  thumb  to  his 
nose ;  but  she  was  just  in  time  to  acknowledge  his  attentions  in  a 
smart  slap  on  the  head  with  her  parasol,  and  "Send  that  by  telegraph 
if  you  like." 

"A  wonderful  girl,"  said  Mr.  Barrington,  brushing  his  whiskers, 
before  a  hand-glass,  while  his  visitors  were  making  their  way  into  the 
street.  "  Pretty  !  By  heavens,  she  is  lovely.  Eyes  !  By  Jove,  they 
are  diamonds  !  Lips  !  Corals  !  Ton  my  soul,  it's  the  loveliest  face 
I  ever  saw.  And  what  a  figure  !  She  ought  to  be  worth  her  weight 
in  gold.  We  shall  see.  No  chance  of  any  salary  at  the  Delphos. 
But  Lord  St.  Barnard  will  take  a  fancy  to  her,  like  a  shot.  Must 
drop  him  a  line.  Ah  !  I  look  seedy  to-day — decidedly  seedy.  Must 
have  a  *  pick-me-up.'     Thomas  !" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Thomas,  appearing  on  the  instant. 

"  I'm  going  to  the  club." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Back  in  an  hour." 

"Yes,  sir." 

The  Tragic  Muse  turned  its  back  on  Thomas,  and  Mr.  Bar- 
rington turned  his  back,  with  its  stay-laced  fall,  upon  the  Tragic 
Muse. 

"Well,  there,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  said  Mrs.  Breeze,  when  she 
and  Clytie  were  in  the  street,  "  I  like  him  for  what  he  said  at  last, 
and  could  have  hugged  him  for  it  at  that  moment ;  but  I  feel  as  if 
I'd  been  in  a  sham  affair — as  if  I'd  been  in  a  show  as  was  aU  outside, 
like  the  pictures  you  see  of  exhibitions  at  a  fair ;  and  as  for  that 
puppy  in  the  office — well,  there,  I  could  have  killed  him." 

"  I  fear  your  prejudice  arises  out  of  kind  feeling  for  me,"  said 
Clytie ;  and  for  a  moment  she  felt  sorry  that  Mrs.  Breeze  had  accom- 
panied her. 

Mrs.  Breeze  was  not  exactly  a  common  woman ;  she  was  not 
vulgar ;  she  was  rather  good  looking ;  her  face  was  round  and  honest 
and  English-like ;  but  somehow  Clytie,  catching  sight  of  her  in  shop 
windows,  could  not  help  noticing  how  inferior  her  appearance  was  to- 
her  own ;  her  shawl  was  not  well  put  on,  her  bonnet  had  big  red 


C lytic.  23 

roses  in  it,  and  she  walked  like  a  man,  and  carried  her  parasol  as  if 
it  were  a  weapon  of  defence.  Clytie  noticed  this  not  with  any  un- 
kindly feeling ;  but  somehow  she  did  notice  it,  and  wondered  if  she 
had  suffered  in  the  estimation  of  Mr.  Barrington  from  such  com- 
panionship. Then  Mrs.  Breeze  would  stop  occasionally  in  the  streets 
to  emphasise  her  remarks,  and  sometimes  to  point  at  something  or 
somebody.  Clytie  wished  she  would  not  do  this ;  but  the  next 
moment,  when  she  thought  what  a  protection  it  was  to  have  Mrs. 
Breeze  with  her,  when  she  remembered  how  she  had  been  insulted 
the  day  before,  then  she  felt  that  she  was  ungrateful  to  Mrs.  Breeze ; 
so  when  that  good  lady  took  her  into  Co  vent  Garden  to  show  her 
tjie  flowers,  she  insisted  upon  bu)dng  for  her  three  fine  plants  which 
Mrs.  Breeze  had  admired.  Mrs.  Breeze  invented  all  sorts  of  diffi- 
culties to  nullify  the  purchase,  the  last  one  being  the  utter  impossi- 
bility of  their  carrying  the  flowers  home ;  but  this  was  overruled  by 
the  dealer  discovering  that  he  had  a  cart  just  going  to  Primrose  Hill, 
and  so  the  flowers  were  paid  for,  and  Clytie  suggested  luncheon, 
which  took  them  to  the  Strand,  where  Clytie  again  tried  to  make  up 
to  Mrs.  Breeze  for  the  unkind  and  ungratefiil  thoughts  which  had 
troubled  her  on  leaving  Mr.  Barrington's  famous  theatrical  agency. 

"  Well  now,  Mary,  my  own,  since  you  have  insisted  on  treating 
me,  I  shall  beg  to  have  my  own  way,  and  I  shall  just  call  a  cab,  and 
we  will  drive  to  Hyde  Park  Comer  and  see  the  beauty  and  fashion 
of  the  world,  as  they  say  it  is  to  be  seen  there  ;  and  you  wondered 
last  night  where  all  the  gay  people  could  be  in  this  great  London, 
and  you  can  see  them  there  or  nowhere ;  and  what  is  more,  there's 
nothing  to  pay,  and  a  mouse  may  look  at  a  king,  as  the  nursery  book 
says.     Hi,  cabby ;  hi !" 

Before  Clytie  could  interfere  or  reply  Mrs.  Breeze  was  bargaining 
with  the  cabman  about  his  fare,  because  then,  as  she  explained,  there 
could  be  ho  mistake,  and  you  knew  what  you  were  about. 

They  stood  for  some  time  near  the  Comer.  Clytie  was  bewildered. 
Here,  indeed,  was  London  at  last,  the  London  of  which  Phil  Rans- 
ford  had  told  her,  the  London  of  her  dreams,  the  gay  and  brilliant 
London  of  fashion  and  beauty,  the  London  of  parks  and  flowers,  and 
lovely  women  and  brave  men. 

"  We  will  get  two  chairs  if  we  can,**  said  Mrs.  Breeze,  "  only  a 
pfenny  each  ;  and  then  we  can  sit  and  see  all  that's  going  on  with  the 
best  of  them." 

Clytie  suffiered  the  woman  to  do  whatever  she  wished ;  she  felt 
powerless  in  the  crowd  ;  she  hardly  dared  venture  to  cross  the  road 
with  its  continued  change  of  carriages. 


24  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

"Don't  mind,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Breeze,  "the  policeman  will  stop 
'em  for  us ;  they  may  be  dukes  and  duchesses,  bless  you,  but  they 
must  stop  and  let  us  cross  when  the  officer  holds  up  his  hand.*' 

The  policeman  stood  between  them  and  raised  his  hand. 

"  I  declare  it  was  like  Moses  and  the  Red  Sea,  that  policeman 
a  stopping  the  traffic  for  us,"  said  Mrs.  Breeze,  when  they  were  on 
the  side  path.  "  I  have  been  here  afore  more  than  once,  but  never 
did  I  see  such  a  block.  Well  there,  I  do  say  it's  a  picture  for  Queen 
Victoria  to  be  proud  of." 

Clytie  said  nothing.  She  stood  by  the  railings  and  watched  the 
gorgeous  stream  of  carriages  ;  she  sat  in  a  chair  and  fixed  her  eyes 
upon  the  mounted  ladies  and  gentlemen ;  she  saw  the  pleasant  flirta- 
tions that  were  going  on ;  she  saw  "  bright  eyes  look  love  to  eyes 
that  spake  again  ; "  she  saw  all  there  was  to  see,  and  she  saw  it  in  a 
dreamy  fashion,  as  if  she  were  sitting  in  the  Hermitage  Gardens,  and 
listening  to  Phil  Ransford's  description  of  the  great  city,  where  she 
should  be  a  queen.  She  did  not  know  the  Tory  Chief  as  he  stepped 
frotn  his  brougham  and  handed  out  his  wife — now,  alas !  no  more — 
for  a  quiet  saunter  towards  Kensington  Gardens  ;  she  did  not  know 
the  dashing  Irish  Secretary  on  his  dashing  bay;  nor  the  rising 
financier  of  the  Government  on  his  sturdy  cob ;  she  did  not  know 
the  famous  actor  who  had  just  burst  upon  the  town,  nor  the  new 
poet,  nor  the  great  traveller  fresh  from  Central  Africa,  nor  the  golden- 
haired  lady  with  the  white  ponies  in  the  drive,  nor  the  belle  of  the 
season,  the  rich  Indian  heiress ;  but  suddenly  she  saw  some  one 
whom  she  recognised,  for  she  clutched  Mrs.  Breeze  by  the  arm,  and 
gasped  "  Mr.  Ransford  !  ^* 

The  next  moment  Phil  Ransford  pulled  a  quiet-looking  mare  up 
by  the  railings  .and  dismounted,  handing  the  reins  to  a  groom  who 
v\  as  in  attendance  upon  a  showy  bay.  Clytie  clung  to  Mrs.  Breeze's 
arm,  and  the  P.  K.'s  wife  was  considerably  bewildered.  Phil  Ransford 
raised  his  hat,  stooped  under  the  railing,  and  presented  himself  to 
Clytie,  putting  out  his  hand  with  the  confident  air  of  an  old  friend, 
and  bowing  so  politely  to  Mrs.  Breeze  that  the  P.  K.'s  good  lady,  as 
his  brother  P.  K.'s  called  her,  could  only  bow  again  and  wait  for 
results. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you,"  said  Phil. 

"  I  thought  you  were  seriously  hurt,  sir,"  said  Clytie.  "  I  am  glad 
to  find  you  looking  well." 

"  Oh,  it  was  nothing,"  said  Phil,  "only  a  bruise  or  two,  and  I  do 
not  care  for  them,  seeing  that  they  were  received  in  honour  of  so  fair 
a  lady." 


C lytic.  25 

Clytie  did  not  reply.  Mrs.  Breeze,  therefore,  felt  it  incumbent 
upon  her  to  know  who  this  fine  gentleman  could  be.  A  shadow  of 
doubt  swept  over  her ;  but  it  was  gone  in  a  mom'ent. 

"  Who  is  this  gentleman  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Breeze. 

"  Mr.  Philip  Ransford,"  said  Clytie,  **  of  Dunelm,  and  a  friend  of 
my  grandfather." 

"  An  old  friend  of  Miss  Waller's  family,  and  one  who  is  most 
desirous  of  being  of  service  to  her,"  said  Phil. 

"  The  greatest  service  you  can  render  me  now,"  said  Clytie,  "  is  to 
give  me  your  word  that  you  will  not  communicate  with  my  grand- 
father unless  you  have  my  permission." 

Clytie  said  this  with  a  glance  which  Phil  understood  at  once  to 
mean  that  he  must  not  continue  his  conversation  in  presence  of  Mrs. 
Breeze. 

"  You  have  my  word,"  said  Phil ;  "  but  may  I  not  call  upon  you  ?  " 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  Clytie, 

"  Then  it  is  true  ?  "  said  Phil. 

"  What  is  true  ?  "  asked  Clytie. 

"  Tom  Mayfield  is  in  London." 

Despi^e  her  looks  of  admonition,  Phil's  jealous  fears  would  not  be 
held  in  check ;  his  selfishness  was  too  active  even  for  delay.  He 
had  heard  of  Tom  Mayfield's  flight,  and  he  believed  that  Clytie  and 
the  student  had  gone  away  together. 

"  I  know  nothing  of  Mr.  Mayfield's  movements,"  said  Clytie  with 
dignity.     "  Good  morning,  sir." 

"  Nay,  just  a  moment  My  'people  are  all  here,  and  I  must  join 
them  ;  forgive  me  if  I  have  pained  you ;  let  me  call  upon  you ;  there 
is  nothing  I  would  not  do  to  serve  you." 

Clytie  looked  at  Mrs.  Breeze,  who  said — 

"If  you  see  no  objection,  I  think  the  gentleman  had  better  come 
to  St.  Mark's  Crescent ;  if  he  is  a  friend  of  your  family,  and  takes  an 
interest  in  your  welfare,  Fm  sure  I  see  no  reason  against  it ;  you  can 
see  him  in  my  presence  for  that  matter,  you  know,  and  it  seems  provi- 
dential to  me  that  we  have  met  the  gentleman." 

"  Thank  you,  madam,"  said  Phil,  "  you  put  the  case  most  sensibly. 
Miss  Waller  must  need  a  friend,  and  if  she  sees  the  slightest  impro- 
priety in  my  calling  alone,  why  my  mother  shall  come  with  me ;  and 
yonder  she  is  in  the  yellow  carriage  passing  that  coach  and  four,  and 
looking  this  way." 

"  I  see  her,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Breeze,  "and  I  am  sure  nothing  can  be 
more  proper  than  your  conduct,  though  I  did  you  an  injustice  at  first, 
— for  a  moment,  but  no  more." 


26  The  Gentlemaiis  Magazine. 

"  You  may  call,"  said  €1)116 ;  "  43,  St.  Mark's  Crescent,  Regent's 
Park  North." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Phil. 

"  A  word  before  you  go,""  said  Cl)rtie ;  "  my  grandfather,  how 
is  he  ?  " 

"  I  left  Dunelm,  within  the  week  after  you  left ;  I  went  to  Brighton 
to  recruit,  and  came  on  here ;  Mr.  Waller,  I  believe,  left  Dunelm  the 
day  after  your  departure — for  York,  I  think  ;  and  since  then  I  have 
heard  nothing  about  that  most  hateful  city." 

Clytie  turned  pale  at  the  thought  of  her  grandfather  wandering' 
over  the  country  in  search  of  her. 

"  Good  morning,"  she  said,  and  turning  away  pressed  Mrs.  Breeze's 
arm  tightly.     "  Let  us  go  home.     I  feel  very  much  upset" 

Mrs.  Breeze  put  her  arm  round  the  girl,  and  led  her  away,  a  score 
of  people  turning  to  look  at  the  country  beauty.  Clytie  soon  re- 
covered, and  presently  walked  with  her  accustomed  elasticity,  Mrs. 
Breeze  conducting  her  over  the  grass  the  shortest  way  out  of  the 
Park,  towards  Park  Lane,  where  she  hailed  a  cab,  and  without  any 
preliminary  arrangement  about  fare,  directed  the  driver  to  go  to  St. 
Mark's  Crescent,  and  not  do  it  as  if  he  were  at  a  funeral  They 
reached  home  in  time  to  prepare  the  P.  K.'s  tea;  and  while  the 
tea  things  were  laid  by  Miss  Lotty,  Master  Harry  brought  a  letter 
from  the  Camden  Town  Post  Office,,  where  he  had  been  directed  to 
call  as  he  came  home  from  school.  It  had  only  just  been  received ; 
it  was  from  Mr.  Barrington  requesting  his  dear  young  friend  to  call  at 
the  Delphos  Theatre  at  three  o'clock  on  the  following  day.  Imme- 
diately after  she  left  his  office  that  morning  he  had  had  the  good 
fortune  to  meet  Mr.  Wyldenberg,  who  had  consented  to  see  her  at 
the  time  above  stated,  and,  if  possible,  to  make  room  for  her  in  his 
new  company.  The  Breezes  made  merry  over  the  good  news,  and 
Johnny  promised  to  take  all  the  family  to  see  Missie  the  first  night 
she  appeared. 

(To  he  continued,) 


The   Early   Days   of 
Napoleon  III. 

FROM  THE  PRIVATE  DIARY  OF  A  PRUSSIAN  LADY,  TRANSLATED 

BY  THE  COUNTESS  OF  HARRINGTON. 

•T  was  in  the  summer  of  1838  that  I  first  saw  the  Prince. 
Since  the  death  of  his  mother,  Hottense,  he  had  lived  in 
retirement,  either  at  Arenemberg  or  in  the  adjoining  chciteau  of 
Gottlieben.  It  was  there  that  a  small  circle  of  his  intimate 
friends  assembled  round  him,  and  there  also  he  received  many  marks 
of  sympathy  and  love  from  tlie  Swiss  people. 

France  and  Germany  watched  him  with  suspicious  eyes,  for  they 
looked  on  the  adventurer  Louis  Napoleon  as  a  dangerous  enemy^ 
although  he  was  banished  from  both  countries,  and  dared  not  even 
show  himself  in  the  neighbouring  town  of  Constance  without  running 
the  risk  of  being  taken  up.  Yet  the  inhabitants  of  that  town  spoke 
with  affection  and  pity  of  the  poor  unfortunate  Prince,  and  evinced 
the  most  lively  sympathy  for  him.  They  did  not  forget  his  benevolence 
a:nd  amiability,  and  the  pleasant  and-friendly  rkunums  which  he  had 
at  Arenemberg  and  Gottlieben,  and  which  his  acquaintances  at 
Constance  were  glad  to  join,  althoAigh  in  strict  secresy.  It  was  also 
whispered  to  me  that  in  spite  of  orders  to  the  contrary  the  Prince 
was  himself  often  at  Constance,  that  he  went  there  disguised  in  the 
uniform  of  a  common  Baden  soldier,  that  he  walked  uninterruptedly 
across  the  long  wooden  bridge  into  the  town.  The  toll-gatherer  at 
the  bridge  pretended  not  to  know  him ;  he  turned  the  other  way 
when  the  Baden  soldier  passed  by,  but  looked  after  him  smiling,  and 
rejoicing  at  having  outwitted  the  foreign  spies.  The  beautiful  Frau 
von  M.,  who  had  known  Queen  Hortense  intimately,  and  to 
whom  Prince  Louis  was  devotedly  attached,  lived  at  Constance,  and 
she  told  us  much  about  Arenemberg  and  Gottlieben.  She  spoke  with 
tears  of  the  Queen's  kindness  to  her,  and  of  the  great  attachment 
existing  between  the  mother  and  son. 

It  was  to  this  lady  my  friend  and  I  were  indebted  for  our  short 
visit  to  Arenemberg*^  Strangers  were  seldom  admitted  there,  but  a 
few  lines  to  the  Prince  from  the  amiable  and  lovely  Frau  von  M. 
procured  us  admittance.     Louis  Napoleon  was  then  a  young  man  of 


28  The  Gentlemaris  Magazine. 

thirty,  not  handsome,  but  on  his  energetic  features  there  was  an  expres- 
sion of  gentle  kindness,  and  in  his  mild  brown  eyes  a  ray  of  hearty 
welcome.  Nothing  mysterious,  nothing  sham,  nothing  manih-e  in  his 
demeanour,  which  was  open  and  unconstrained.  His  brown  hair  was 
short  and  curly,  his  forehead  broad  and  thoughtful,  and  a  slight  well- 
cultivated  moustache  overshadowed  his  mouth.  He  certainly  did  not 
give  us  the  idea  either  of  an  adventurer  or  of  a  madman,  nor  could 
we  detect  any  likeness  to  the  formidable  spectre  of  his  uncle,  as 
he  was  looked  upon  by  France  and  Germany.  When  we  drove 
into  the  courtyard  at  Arenemberg  he  stood  surrounded  by  a  few 
gentlemen  watching  with  great  interest  a  groom  exercising  a 
horse. 

After  our  servant  had  respectfully  delivered  to  him  the  letter  from 
Frau  von  M.,  he  quickly  came  up  and  helped  us  to  alight,  assuring  us 
that  it  would  give  him  pleasure  to  show  us  \i\% petite  maison,  as  he  called 
it.  He  signed  to  the  gentlemen  to  approach,  and  introduced  them 
severally  to  us.  The  short,  broad  man,  with  dark,  resolute  features,  was 
Colonel  Vaudrey,  and  the  other  slight  young  man,  with  the  cheerful 
countenance,  was  called  Fialin.  No  one  could  have  guessed  that 
this  young  man,  who  had  all  the  appearance  of  a  commis  voyageur^ 
was  destined  to  be  a  peer  of  France,  a  ministre  of  the  future  Empire — 
that  Fialin  would  ever  be  transformed  into  the  influential  Due  de 
Persigny!  The  rooms  we  passed  through  were  not  very  beautiful, 
nor  was  there  anything  very  regal  about  them.  The  furniture  was 
old-fashioned,  and  Louis  Napoleon  told  us  it  had  all  come  from 
Malmaison,  and  was  a  remembrance  of  old  times.  The  hard  couch, 
surmounted  by  the  gold  eagle,  had  been  in  the  reception  room  of 
the  Empress  Josephine,  and  only  a  few  days  before  her  death  the 
Emperor  Alexander  had  been  seated  beside  her  upon  it  Over  another 
couch  hung  a  small  sketch  in  water-colours,  which  much  attracted  my 
attention,  and,  when  I  asked  the  subject  of  it.  Prince  Louis  smiled. 
"A  little  remembrance  of  my  youth,"  he  said,  "painted  by  the 
artistic  hand  of  Madame  Cochelet,  who  was  then  my  governess.  The 
lady  in  the  long  train,  and  with  brilliants  in  her  hair — that  is  my  dear 
mother ;  and  that  little  fellow  in  front  of  her,  to  whom  she  is  bending 
down — that  is  myself.  It  was  in  the  days  of  prosperity  and  splendour, 
as  you  see  by  the  cortlge  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  behind  At  that 
time,  madame,  we  lived  in  Paris,  when  I  was  not  an  honorary 
burgher  of  Thurgau,  but  the  nephew  of  the  Emperor  Napoleon.'* 
He  sighed ;  but  soon  banishing  his  momentary  sadness,  he  resumed 
his  genial  manner.  "  I  will  tell  you  the  story  of  this  little  picture, 
and  why  it  was  drawn,"  he  continued.     "  There  was  a  ball  at  the 


The  Early  Days  of  Napoleon  III.  29 

Tuileries  given  by  the  Emperor,  and  my  mother  had  dressed  mag- 
nificently for  it,  and  when  she  came  into  our  room  my  brother  and  I 
gazed  at  her  with  great  admiration.  She  appeared  to  us  like  some 
fairy  out  of  the  tales  with  which  Madame  Cochelet  used  to  enter- 
tain us  when  we  had  done  our  lessons  welL  The  Queen  perceived 
our  childish  pleasure : 

"*  You  find  me  beautiful  to-night,  my  dear  children;  you  admire 
my  brilliants,  my  jewels  ;  but  to  me  this  little  bunch  of  violets  in  my 
belt  seems   more   beautiful   than  all  the  diamonds  and  pearls 
possess.' 

"  She  detached  the  littie  bouquet  and  held  it  out  to  us.  They 
were  my  favourite  flowers,  and  I  reached  out  my  hand  for  them. 

"*Wilt  thou  have  them,  Louis? 'said  my  mother;  *  or  wouldst 
thou  prefer  one  of  these  diamonds?' 

"  *  Keep  thy  diamonds  and  give  me  the  violets,'  said  I.  My 
mother  smiled. 

"  *  Right,  Louis,'  she  said ;  *  the  diamonds  have  no  scent,  and  give 
no  joy  to  the  heart.  Keep  thy  love  for  the  violets,  they  bloom  every 
spring,  and  make  one  happy  even  when  one  has  no  jewels.' 

"  *  But  thou  wilt  always  have  jewels,  chtre  mamma  Queen,'  said  my 
brother ;  '  and  when^  one  has  them,  one  can  always  buy  plenty  of 
violets.' 

"  My  mother  answered  sadly  : 

"  *  Who  knows,  my  son,  whether  we  shall  always  be  rich,  and  looked 
up  to  as  "we  are  now  ?  I  wonder  what  you  two  would  do  if  all  our 
splendour  and  wealth  were  taken  away  !  How  would  you  set  about 
gaining  your  livelihood  ? ' 

"  *  I  should  become  a  soldier,'  said  my  brother.  *  I  should  win 
battles,  and  conquer  kingdoms,  as  our  uncle  did.' 

"  *And  thou,  my  little  Louis?'  asked  my  mother. 

"  I  had  been  turning  the  question  over  in  my  childish  head  for  some 
minutes.     At  last  I  said : 

"  *  I,  chh-e  maman,  should  gather  violets,  and  sell  them  in  bouquets 
for  sous,  like  the  little  boy  who  always  stands  at  the  door  of  the 
Tuileries.' 

"  The  gentlemen  and  ladies  laughed  atthis,  but  my  mother  bent 
down  and  kissed  me. 

"  That  is  the  moment,  madame,  which  Madame  Cochelet  has  tried 
to  represent  in  the  picture  which  she  painted  and  presented  to  my 
mother,  in  memory  of  this  little  scene.  She  always  kept  it  hanging 
here ;  and  on  the  day  she  died  she  sent  for  it,  looked  at  it  once 
more,  and  said  to  me  :  *  Louis,  be  always  content  with  the  violets  ; 
they  will  outlast  the  brilliants.' " 


30  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

As  a  ccmi}xinion  to  this  picture,  there  was  another  iDteresting 
sketch  of  a  £ur  blue^}*ed  boy^  the  unfortunate  King  of  Rcnne, 
painted  by  Queen  H<»teiise  for  her  mother  Josephine.  In  a 
smalkr  s»a^  we  saw  a  beautiful  portrait  of  the  Queen  herself  The 
artist  had  represented  her  standing  on  a  balcony  by  moonlight,  in 
a  |>es«s\^  And  melancholy  attitude,  so  well  suited  to  her  character. 
How  X  a&i^^^  had  die  warned  her  beloved  son  against  any  mad  and 
Ibo^Haiviy  ^ikdeftiking.  He  always  believed  it  was  his  mission 
3v:>  raise  up  t^  thrcKie  of  his  uncle,  and  to  carr}*  out  the  Napoleonic 
^ji<^  i?c  i^e  pory  of  France. 

Op^osdte  to  dut  of  Queen  Hoitense  hung  a  picture  of  Napoleon  I. 
<*  boi^sjelhjick.  It  was  a  copy  of  Ae  celebrated  one  by  David,  repre- 
scsDtix^  ^i:^  on  tiie  sunuaii  of  die  Alps,  his  soldiers  climbing  after 
losn.  i^xiis  Napok>o«i  stK»od  souie  time  bd^ne  this  picture.  Sud- 
^denV  "he  a:;:ra>ed  *3  Fiilai : 

'^Mon  anJS  >>e  siiki  '^  wtijtfe\>er  vour  wise  beads  mav  sav  to  the 
ocxfitrsn.  1  shfiH  ,U9d  o&e  <JUy  cross  my  Alps,  and  cry,  ^£m  ijv^imtf*  to 

FiiJlir  ij3s^^^crec  oaJv  br  a  5»w:  bet  Co^<y&d  Vaaadiev  mzamured 

Afr^  vir  >iiid  tia^^isod  the  x^ne  lower  roosms^  :i>e  Fkecc  said 

■*- 1  ^i\.  T)r»u-  shc«r  yon  my  ibo^r  of  holies — roy  ujodwr's  r^XMn  ;  the 
Toniti  ir  which  she  ^^ied.     I  iw^^esr  lea  aii>-  ooje  ^o  licre :  tei  yoa 

■^^ti  v^i  ^XLihi:  zz  ihi"  i>:<4  >«  the  suircasc  jeadii^  to  the  cq^er 
isxiXT^,  hi  tumcc  sxac  Badd£^5  ;io  his  tracnds.  who  remaiii^  liehiiid. 
1^>  asrx'n:jf<l  SLi\L  ««5jif^  l>e!fojpe  a  4oar  which  was  cozmcetjcd  Inr  a 
sn)»k  ciriain.  The  IVinct  ^Irew  i;  jjsi^c.  ajki  unkid:cd  the  door. 
"V'  t  c.r\wrs^L  L  "haDcisomt  todbl  in  which  sr*wi  s.  Isj^c  Freadi  bed 
tv-ith  cnrn^or.  cu-tainf  and  n  ouilr^  hh>^  sfetin  coamcrpau^  lagion 

*•  Tti.n:  ir  tp:  nortraii.'"  said  ihi  Trincc  in  £  l4>1^  voic^  "**wlnc2a  slae 
a^w^^^  >  r:  m'^::  rr  hez  hcan.  1r.  her  Ins;  or.;>^.  hdorc  1  iaanved, 
-shf  i>>eL  Tr  K^i'>k  n:  i:  ior  hours  anc  lalk  xc  ii.' 

V  i  r'liuf  v.-itr  flifhrulty  -supnresf  our  tv-nrs.  staTKirT^  "i^cinne  dfce 
cDDv^i  v.inrr  had  hec^mc  an  alt^r  of  romomhmnc^  ior  ^^e 
afT>v^.tum;iTi  ^on.  "\'£  te]:  afraid  ic>  kv»k  7:W\\\\  ijs  in  :hj?  Toccm  : 
i:  seeTnL>(.  aimrs:  >ncr^c».  The  vh>cer/f  ornanxmts  utu:  nwHaiaiis.  lay 
um*n  the  T-ibtcs.  .'md  cvcn'ihinL  TiTt^^^nriS^  xC'  Iv  soninukM;sl\  ki:^  lai 
4b^sam.  or 3c*:  ir.  tvh5ch  she  hf>d  iefi  ii.     TIk  PrifKx  took  nj.  asm£ll 


The  Early  Days  of  Napoleon  III.  3  r 

crystal  box,  which  he  opened,  and  showed  us  two  plain  gold  rings  on 
a  velvet  cushion. 

"  These  are  the  wedding  rings  of  the  Emperor,"  he  said,  "  and  of 
the  Empress  Josephine.  They  are  the  standards  of  the  whole  Buona- 
parte l^mily,  which  we  sihall  always  carry  before  us  in  the  battle  of 
life." 

He  looked  silently  at  them  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  said  : 

"You  will  forgive    me,  madame,   but  my  reminiscences  in  this, 
room  are  always  too  much  for  me.     In  this  room  I  always  feel  as  a 
child  wailing  for  his  mother." 

We  were  greatly  touched  by  his  kindness  in  allowing  us  to  see 
this  room,  and  silently  followed  him  down  stairs,  where  we  again  found 
Colonel  Vaudrey  and  M.  Fialin,  and  after  resting  a  few  minutes  in 
the  breakfast  room  below,  we  took  our  leave.  The  Prince  accom- 
panied us  to  the  carriage,  and  shook  hands  with  us  cordially.  As 
we  drove  away,  he  said  : 

"  You  live  in  Germany,  madame.     Who  knows  but  I  may  return 

your  visit  some  of  these  days  ?" 

*****  , 

Only  a  few  weeks  afterwards  Louis  Napoleon  had  left  his  quiet 
beautiful  Arenemberg.  The  French  and  German  Governments 
equally  objected  to  his  living  there,  and  requested  Switzerland  to 
expel  him.  Switzerland  refused,  Louis  Philippe  threatened^  and 
things  were  beginning  to  look  serious,  when  Louis  Napoleon  wrote  to 
the  Landamman  of  Thurgau  announcing  his  determination  to  ensure 
the  peace  of  Switzerland  by  quitting  Arenemberg  and  leaving  the 
country. 

He   took   his   departure  in  October,  1838,  travelled  in  disguise 

through  Germany  and  Holland  to  England,  and  thence  made  that 

second  unsuccessful  attempt  on  France  which  brought  upon  him  his 

long  imprisonment  at  Ham.     We  all  know  what  followed,  and  how 

the  adventurer  Louis  Napoleon  became  President  of  the  Republic  m 

1848. 

***** 

On  the  14th  of  June,  1856,  my  husband  and  I  were  in  Paris.  It 
was  the  day  of  the  christening  of  the  Prince  Imperial,  and  we  had 
hired  a  room  for  200  francs  in  the  Rue  Rivoli,  to  see  the  procession. 
Through  the  kindness  of  the  Prussian  ambassador,  we  had  also  been 
able  to  secure  places  in  the  cathedral  of  Notre  Dame.  The  Rue 
Rivoli  presented  a  splendid  appearance  on  that  day.  From  top  to 
bottom  the  houses  were  thronged  with  beautifully  dressed  ladies. 
whose  anxious  looks  were  directed  towards  the  enormous  mass  of 


32  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine, 

advancing  soldiers.    What  a  gigantic  army  it  was  !    Among  the  other 
regiments,  those  were  conspicuous    who    carried  their   victorious 
banners  just  returned  from  the  shores  of  the  Black  Sea.     The  slight 
forms  of  the  French  officers  who  passed  by  us  on  this  great  f^e  day 
were  a  contrast  to  those  of  our  broad  shouldered,  muscular  Pome- 
ranians and  Uckermarkers.  When  the  soldiers  had  placed  themselves 
in  rows  four  deep  on  each  side  of  the  street,  the  real  procession 
began.     First,  in  magnificent  open  carriages,  came  the  household  of 
the  Emperor.     Then  accompanied  by  a  detachment  of  the  Imperial 
Guard,  in  a  carriage  drawn  by  eight  horses,  the  Child  of  France,  the 
Prince  Imperial.     A  nurse  bore  him  on  a  crimson  cushion,  covered 
with  lace,  the  governess  and  under-govemess  seated  beside  her.  Then 
came  a  regiment  of  cavalry.  Afterwards  the  Pope's  Nuncio,  in  a  carriage 
drawn  by  six  horses.     As  he  appeared  the  music  ceased,  and  nothing 
was  heard  but  the  bells  of  Notre  Dame,  and  the  booming  of  cannon 
from  the  Dome  of  the  Invalides.  As  the  Prelate  passed  along  the  people 
bowed  silently  and  reverentially,  while   he  made  the  sign  of  the 
cross,  and  blessed  them  from  the  carriage  to  the  right  and  to  the  left. 
Then,  amidst  the  flourish  of  trumpets  and  trombones,  and  the  thunder 
of  cannon,  and  the  shouts  of  the  people,  first  the  Cent  Gardes,  then  the 
Imperial  carriage  approached,  drawn  by  eight  thorough-bred  white 
horses,  in  rich  trappings  of  red,  white,  and  blue,  the  colours  of  France. 
The  carriage  was  surmounted  by  a  magnificent   Imperial  crown, 
which  shone  like  pure  gold  in  the  sunshine.     At  the  four  comers, 
beside  the  gilt  pillars  which  enshrined  the  enormous  windows,  figures 
of  Fame,   blowing    their  trumpets,   were  artistically  grouped,  and 
seemed  to  proclaim  to  France  the  dominion  of  Imperialism.  On  gold 
embroidered  cushions  inside  sat  the  Imperial  pair  side  by  side.     The 
Emperor  was  in  the  uniform  of  a  general,  with  the  broad  ribbon  of  the 
Legion  of  Honour  across  his  shoulder,  and  his  head  uncovered.    The 
cold  impenetrable  face  I  now  beheld  bore  little  resemblance  to  that  of 
the  Louis  Napoleon  of  Arenemberg.     The  smile  was  forced,  and  his 
uneasy  glance  from  side  to  side  almost  betrayed  a  suspicion  that  an 
assassin  might  be  lurking  among  the  crowd,     peside  him  sat  the 
Empress  crowned  with  diamonds.     She  was  distinctly  visible  behind 
the  large  windows  of  the  carriage.     All  were  struck  with  admiration 
at  her  majestic  and  splendid  appearance. 

As  the  Imperial  carriage  slowly  passed,  we  gained  our  carriage  by 
a  back  door  and,  driving  quickly  through  by-streets,  arrived  in  good 
time  to  take  our  seats  in  the  Cathedral.  And  there  the  sight  which 
greeted  our  view  was  past  description  in  its  beauty  and  magnificence. 
The  pillars  were  hung  with  cloth  of  gold  in  all  directions,  the  Imperial 


The  Early  Days  of  Napoleon  III.  33 

"  N  "  glittering  among  thousands  of  wax-lights.  The  places  were  soc  n 
filled,  and  every  comer  blazed  with  jewels,  decorations,  and  stars. 
An  immense  concourse  of  priests,  with  the  Archbishop  at  their  head, 
stood  awaiting  the  Nuncio.  The  same  high-backed  crimson  and  gold 
chairs  on  which  Napoleon  I.  and  Marie  Louise  had  sat  at  the 
christening  of  the  King  of  Rome  were  now  placed  for  Louis  Napoleon 
and  Eugenie.  Presently  a  commotion  was  perceptible  among  the 
priests  that  descended  the  steps  to  meet  the  Nuncio,  who  had  just 
arrived,  and  escort  him  to  the  altar.  The  Child  of  France  followed 
with  his  suite,  and,  a  few  minutes  afterwards,  the  flourish  of  trombones 
and  trumpets  announced  the  entrance  of  the  Imperial  train.  It 
resembled  a  gorgeous  sparkling  serpent  gliding  along,  and  all  rose 
to  behold  it.  Louis  Napoleon  conducted  the  Empress  to  her  seat. 
How  beautiful  she  looked  as  she  stood  there,  robed  in  sky-blue  satin 
covered  i^vith  costly  lace,  the  Crown  diamonds  of  France  sparkling 
upon  her  neck  and  arms ;  and  in  the  diadem  upon  her  head  flashed 
the  far-famed  Regent  diamond  like  a  heavenly  star  !  This  precious 
jewel  dates  from  the  time  of  Charles  the  Bold.  A  moment  came  in 
which  all  these  diamonds  were  outshone  by  others  far  more  beau- 
tiful. It  was  when  the  Nuncio  stretched  forth  his  hands  over  the 
Child  of  France  and  blessed  him.  Then  from  Eugenie's  eyes  gushed 
forth  the  brightest  and  most  lovely  brilliants,  the  tears  which  a  mother 
sheds  at  sight  of  the  blessing  of  her  child.  And,  for  me,  these  tears 
were  the  best,  the  truest  refutation  of  the  mischievous  and  dis- 
graceful reports,  which  were  then  spreading  over  the  world,  that  this 
Child  of  France  was  not  the  child  of  his  Imperial  mother.  Yes, 
these  tears  of  the  Empress  Eugenie  were  the  tears  of  a  real  mother. 
At  that  instant  she  forgot  her  beauty  and  her  glory,  and  the  look  which 
she  bent  on  her  child  was  a  mother's  look  of  affectionate  solicitude, 
saddened  perhaps  by  a  presentiment  of  future  anxiety  and  trouble. 

Once  more  I  saw  the  Emperor  Napoleon.  It  was  in  1861.  His 
days  of  prosperity  were  drawing  to  a  close.  He  had  lost  faith  in  his 
"  star  "  and  in  the  people  whom  he  ruled.  The  shadows  of  bygone 
days  stood  round  his  bed  at  night,  robbed  him  of  his  slumbers,  and 
reproached  him  with  acts  of  injustice.  The  revelations  made  by 
Orsini  had  influenced  his  mind,  and  he  distrusted  his  friends  and  his 
people.  In  vain  he  tried  to  suppress  the  secret  societies ;  he  saw 
that  the  French  people  were  bursting  asunder  the  chains  with  which 
he  had  bound  them.  Louis  Napoleon  knew  this  well,  and  it  made 
him  sad  and  reserved  and  unapproachable.  I  saw  him  coming 
from  St.  Cloud  in  a  carriage,  the  Empress  beside  him,  the  Child  of 
France  opposite  to  them  with  his  governess.  Slowly  they  rolled 
Vol.  XI.,  N.S.  1873.  d 


34  'I'f^  Gentlematis  Magazine. 

along  the  boulevards,  but  no  "Vive  rEmpereur"  greeted  his  ear 
from  the  crowd  on  the  trottoir;  only  a  derisive  word  or  a  suppressed 
curse  was  heard  at  intervals,  and  one  could  see  how  here  and  there 
a  disguised  sergent  dc  vilU  laid  his  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  the 
offender  and  took  him  away.  The  Emperor's  face  was  pale,  his  eyes 
were  sunken,  and  the  furrows  on  his  brow  told  of  bodily  and  mental 
pain.  like  a  spectre  of  the  past  he  glided  by,  and  I  almost  shuddered 
when  I  saw  him — the  pale,  joyless  ghost  of  a  beautiful  sunny  past 

Nothing  was  left  of  the  enterprising,  life-loving  young  man  of 
Arenemberg. 

And  now  he  is  dead.  The  man  who  ruled  the  world,  before  whom 
kings  and  emperors  bowed  down,  and  who  dictated  laws  to  Europe, 
has  left  us.  Dust  and  ashes  he  is  now,  like  his  throne  which  has  fallen 
into  dust,  and  like  his  power,  which,  in  the  terrible  purgatory  of 
Gravelotte  and  Sedan,  was  burnt  to  ashes. 

How  they  flattered  and  dissembled  before  him,  these  nations 
and  these  princes,  while  he  was  mighty !  How  they  despised  him 
when  he  fell !  Few  remembered  the  respect  or  the  pity  due  to 
adversity.  To  the  ancients  a  spot  was  sacred  which  had  been  struck 
by  lightning,  because  they  believed  it  to  have  been  touched  by  the 
finger  of  God,  and  before  the  ashes  of  a  blasted  tree  they  bent  in 
pious  reverence  and  worshipped  the  omnipotence  of  the  Most  High. 
And  should  not  we,  also,  venerate  the  ashes  of  the  lightning-slain 
Louis  Napoleon  ? 

He  had  indeed  "crossed  his  Alps,"  but  Society  had  risen  up 
against  him.  Revolution  had  uplifted  her  head  to  change  the  system, 
to  allay  the  sufferings  which  Imperialism  had  created.  Will  she  find 
a  remedy  ?  Thiers  could  not  heal  the  wounds  which  the  Imperial 
army  has  inflicted  on  poor  France?  He  only  endeavoured  to  revenge 
them.    Will  his  successor  be  able  to  heal  them  ? 


Life  in  London. 


VIII.— AT  TATTERSALUS. 

T  Tattersairs!  What  romance — ^what  mysteries — what 
iniquities  dusterTOund  these  words — "  At  Tattersall's ! " 
— in  the  imagination  of  miUions  of  men  and  women  i 
It  is  the  Mecca  of  the  Turf,  and  is  to  ^ortsmen  all 
over  the  world  what  the  House  of  Commons  is  to  politicians — 
what  the  Stock  Exchange  is  to  men  of  business — what  Printing 
House  Square  is  to  newspaper  men — what  Paternoster  Row  is  to 
publishers  —  what  Westminster  Hall  is  to  lawyers  —  what  West- 
minster Abbey  is  to  English  Churchmen.  It  is  a  classic  spot,  a 
spot  over  which  the  imagination  of  sportsmen  broods,  like  the 
imagination  of  a  devotee  over  the  associations  of  a  favourite 
shrine.  Yet  with  all  the  interest  that  Tattersall's  creates,  it 
is  next  perhaps  to  the  Stock  Exchange — and  hardly  next  even 
to  that — the  profoundest  mystery  in  the  Life  of  London.  Its 
history  has  yet  to  be  written,  and  perhaps  no  man  could  have 
written  it  better,  could  have  written  it,  that  is,  more  pleasantly, 
with  more  picturesqueness,  with  a  richer  store  of  personal  re- 
collections and  personal  anecdote,  than  one  of  the  old  contributors 
to  the  Gefttlemaris  Magazine,  "  H.  H.  D.,"  the  Elia  of  the  Turf  But 
what  "  H.  H.  D."  might  have  done  may  perhaps  even  yet  be  done  by 
•one  of  those  veterans  of  the  Turf  who  are  now  closing  their  books  and 
abandoning  the  Turf  to  spend  the  rest  of  their  days  in  the  quiet  of 
their  own  parks,  with  their  dogs  and  their  horses  and  their  rooks. 
Originally,  Tattersall's  was  a  mere  stable  yard  and  horse  repository, 
distinguished  from  the  general  run  of  establishments  of  this  kind  only 
by  the  larger  attendance  of  sportsmen.  The  Subscription  Room  is 
comparatively  the  creation  of  yesterday ;  and  there  must  be  scores 
of  men  yet  on  the  Turf — ^men  who  have  been  ruined  by  their  specu- 
lations on  two-year-olds,  and  men  who,  beginning  as  stable-boys,  now 
keep  their  banking  accounts  with  a  standing  balance  of  ;^  10,000 
— who,  when  they  first  consulted  "  Old  Tattersall "  about  joining 
the  Room  or  making  a  book,   wer^   bluntly  told   to    keep  their 

money  in  their  pockets  ;  for  it  is  an  odd  illustration  of  the  caprice  of 

D  2 


36  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

circumstances  that  the  founder  of  the  yard,  the  man  under  whose 
management  the  Comer  attained  its  highest  prestige  and  became  the 
Exchange  of  Turf-men,  had  what  many'of  his  friends  thought  an  insane 
horror  of  a  betting  book,  andjdid  all  that  a  man  in  his  position  could 
do  to  check  gambling  by  friendly  hints  and  suggestions  to  youths  fresh 
from  college  and  fired  with  the  idea  of  making  a  splendid  coup  at 
the  expense  of  the  Ring. 

Fourteen  years  have  now  elapsed  since  Old  Tattersall,  after  a  reign 
of  fifty  years,  handed  over  his  hammer  to  younger  if  not  more 
vigorous  hands ;  and  in  those  fourteen  years  the  science  of  betting 
has  grown  and  developed  more  than  it  had  probably  done  in  the 
previous  half-century.  What  Old  Tattersall  would  have  said  if  caUed 
upon,  as  his  descendants  have  been,  to  knock  down  a  two-year-old 
with  jQiy^oo  of  forfeits  on  his  head,  I  cannot  say ;  but  that  fact 
sufficiently  illustrates  the  daring  and  adventurous  spirit  of  speculation 
which  marks  the  Turf-men  who  now  meet  under  the  shadow  of  his 
rostrum  to  stake  an  estate  on  the  throw  of  a  "  dice  on  four  legs.'' 
TattersalFs  yard  has  grown  with  the  growth  of  horse-racing ;  and  it 
now  forms  the  central  institution  of  the  Turf,  is  the  focus  of  half  the 
gambling  that  is  carried  on  within  the  four  seas,  gives  the  cue  to 
every  bookmaker,  regulates  by  its  quotations  the  odds  on  every 
racecourse,  and  through  the  system  of  agency  that  has  spnmg  up 
within  the  past  few  years  is  open  to  every  clerk  or  draper's  assis- 
tant or  stable-boy  who  wishes  to  stake  half-a-sovereign.  Through 
the  action  of  these  men — men  who  make  betting  on  races  the 
profession  of  their  lives —  a  milHon  of  money  is  often  staked,  in  sums 
ranging  from  ten  shillings  to  ten  pounds,  on  a  single  race;  and 
on  the  eve,  say,  of  the  Derby  or  the  Oaks  or  the  St.  Leger 
TattersalFs  presents  a  scene  of  animation  that  is  only  to  be 
matched  on  the  Paris  Bourse  when  a  panic  is  in  the  air.  Take 
Tattersairs  on  the  Monday  previous  to  the  Derby.  This  is  alwa3r5  a 
field  day,  and  the  rooms  are  generally  full.  This  year  the  day  fell  on 
the  26th  of  May.  You  could  hardly  push  your  way  through  the 
crowd.  The  scene  was  a  Babel  of  tongues — every  man,  or  almost 
every  man,  carrying  a  book  and  pencil  in  his  hands,  and  three  men 
out  of  four  offering  to  lay  upon  this  or  that  horse.  "  Nine  to  two 
against  Hochstapler."  "  Four  to  two  against  Gang  Forward — 
90  to  40" — "375  to  100  against  Kaiser" — "1,000  to  60  against 
Suleiman  " — "  500  to  400  against  Gang  Forward  and  Kaiser  "|: — these 
are  the  sort  of  offers  you  hear  on  all  sides.  Doncaster  was  hardly 
spoken  of.  Perhapsjnow  and  then  you  might  hear  an  offer  of  50  to  i 
against  Mr.  Merry's  colt  Dy  some  one  who  wished  to  fill  his  book  with 


Li/ejn  London,  37 

anythmg  and  to  have  all  the  horses^upon  his  cards ;  but  that  was  all. 
The  horse  was  not  in  the  betting.  Almost  all  the  business  was  done 
upon  the  favourites.  "  Gang  Forward  was  in  genuine  demand  " — I 
take  the  Times  report  of  the  next  day  as  a  correct  representation  of 
what  was  done — "at  9  to  4  and  a  shade  less  odds,  and  fully  a 
thousand  must  have  been  entrusted  to  him  for  a  place,  at  2  to  i,  the 
price,  of  course,  being  laid  by  the  backer.  Kaiser's  friends  mostly 
stood  out  for  4  to  I,  terms  upon  which  they  were  frequently  accommo- 
dated; the  correct  return,  however,  would  be  375  to  too,  as  4  to  i 
was  asked  for  at  the  close.  Some  £z^^  ^^s  also  invested  upon  Mr. 
Savile's  colt  to  be  in  the  first  three,  odds  of  6  to  4  being  betted 
upon  him  with  an  eye  to  this  result.  At  the  opening  of  business 
4  to  I  was  accepted  about  Hochstapler  to  some  ;^3ooj  but 
the  price  widened  somewhat  ^towards  the  finish,  when  9  to  2 
was  laid  to  lose  fully  ;^7,ooo3  but  the  money  went  into  an 
undeniably  good  quarter.  For  a  'position'  also,  Hochstapler 
was  freely  supported,  at  5  to  4.  Chandos  was  firm,  at  10  and  9 
to  I ;  15  'ponies 'were  booked  to  Montargis,  and  1,000  to  60,  once, 
to  Suleiman.  The  outsiders,  however,  commanded  Uttle  attention," 
and  you  might  have  booked  any  amount  of  bets  at  50  to  i  against 
Doncaster  or  the  rest  In  the  course  of  a  couple  of  hours  in  the 
afternoon  one  hundred  thousand  pounds  have  been  known  to  be 
invested  on  five  or  six  horses.  This,  in  fact,  is  now  a  regular  branch 
of  commission  business,  and  the  account  of  what  was  done  at  Tat- 
tersairs  yesterday  appears  in  all  the  newspapers  as  regularly  as  the 
City  Article  and  the  Court  Circular.  The  Tinus  often  allots  as  much 
of  its  space  to  Tattersall's  as  it  does  to  the  Money  Market,  and  the 
Standard^  in  one  of  its  editions,  gives  a  great  deal  more  to  sport 
than  it  does  to  Parliament  and  the  law  courts,  as  much  as  it  does  to 
the  Tichbome  trial.  Nor  is  this  all.  The  Turf  has  a  press  of  its 
own,  and  in  the  Newspaper  Directory  you  may  count  a  couple  of 
sporting  newspapers  to  every  religious  newspaper  you  find.  The 
Guardian  probably  hardly  circulates  a  tenth  of  the  copies  that  BelFs 
Life  does,  and  the  circulation  of  the  Record^  although  published  twice 
a  week,  is  probably  only  a  bagatelle  in  comparison  with  the  Sporting 
Life.  The  Rock  has,  I  believe,  a  circulation  equal  to  that  of  the 
Guardian  and  Record  put  together.  But  the  Racing  Calendar  could,  I 
have  very  little  doubt,  double  even  upon  the  Rock,  All  the  London 
newspapers  make  it  a  point  to  keep  a  Turf  prophet,  in  addition  to  a 
staff  of  Turf  reporters,  as  they  made  it  a  point  a  few  years  ago  to 
keep  a  poet,  and  make  it  a  point  now  to  keep  a  special  correspon- 
dent to  do  wars,  revolutions,  and  military  reviews. 


38  The  Gentlemaiis  Magazine. 

All  this  is  the  growth-  of  a  very  few  years — principally  of  flie  post 
tea  years;  and  it  is  not  yet  a  century  since  the  three  great  races  of  the 
year  were  founded.  The  St.  Leger  was  instituted  in  honour  of  General 
St.  Leger  no  longer  ago  than  1776  ;  the  Oaks  by  the  twelfth  Earl  of 
Derby  in  1779;  the  Derby  by  the  same  nobleman  in  1780.  There 
were  races  both  at  Newmarket  and  Epsom  Downs  in  the  reign  of 
Charles  II.,  and  even  at  an  earlier  date,  but  they  were  almost  exclu- 
sively attended  by  the  Court  and  nobility.  "  Horseraces,"  says  an  old 
writer  quoted  by  Strutt,  "are  desports  of  great  men."  Prior  to  1753, 
when  the  Jockey  Club  purchased  the  racing  ground  at  Newmaricet, 
there  were  only  two  meetings  in  the  year,  and  yet  to-day  saddling  bells 
are  ringing  in  Merrie  England  from  February  i8th  to  November  20th. 
This  racing  term  does  not  quite  rival  the  181 1-12  season  in  the  Oakley 
and  Cross  Alban  country,  which  lasted  for  299  days,  to  the  sorrow  of 
"  foxes,"  in  every  month  save  the  leafy  month  of  June ;  but,  even 
as  it  is,  the  calm  of  the  other  eighty-nine  days  seems  quite  insuf- 
ferable to  the  Newmarket  cavalry,  and  every  year  sees  a  fresh  race- 
course opened  in  some  part  of  the  country.  This  year  it  is  at  Pistol, 
and  next  year  Bristol  will  probably  have  a  couple  of  meetings,  in  the 
spring  and  autumn,  instead  of  simply  holding  an  April  steeplechase, 
as  it  does  this  year.  The  Derby  has  long  since  become  one  of  tiie 
recognised  holidays  of  the  year — a  sort  of  national  fHe  day.  Parlia- 
ment adjourns  over  the  Derby  as  it  adjourns  over  a  great  religious 
festival  or  a  day  of  national  thanksgiving;  and  but  for  Mr.  Tom 
Hughes  it  would  probably  adjourn  over  the  Oaks  day  too.  The 
courts  of  law  generally  contrive  to  have  an  open  day.  Business  on 
the  Stock  Exchange  is  a  blank.  Mark  Lane  is  almost  deserted.  The 
Three  per  Cents,  for  once  in  the  year  stand  still,  and  the  rate  of 
exchange  is  not  quoted  in  the  Times,  Artists  throw  aside  their 
brushes.  The  newspapers  are  in  most  cases  left  to  edit  themselves, 
and  the  busiest  race  in  Christendom — the  men  of  the  pen — cease 
from  scribbling  to  turn  out  with  a  four-in-hand  upon  Epsom  Downs,  to 
shout  themselves  hoarse  in  honour  of  the  Baron,  Sir  Joseph  Hawley, 
or  Mr.  Merry. 

It  is  only  till  very  recently  that  you  might  not  expect  to  find 
half  Her  Majesty's  Ministers  and  the  leaders  of  the  Opposition 
on  the  Grand  Stand,  and  even  now  the  Jockey  Club  contains 
upon  its  rolls  a  couple  of  kings,  three  royal  princes  (one  of  whom 
once  wrote  in  the  Spur),  a  Russian  prince,  six  dukes,  three  marquises, 
nineteen  "  belted  earls,"  seven  barons,  and  any  number  of  baronets^ 
generals,  and  M.P.'s.  At  present,  however,  it  has  only  a  single 
Cabinet  Minister  upon  its  rolls,  the  Marquis  of  Hartington,  although 


Life  in  London.  39 

till  now  we  have  hardly  had  a  Ministry  from  the  days  of  Sir  Robert 
Walpole  which  has  not  contained  some  eminent  man  whose  colours 
were  well  known  to  every  visitor  at  Epsom  and  Newmarket  The 
stately  figure  of  the  Earl  of  Derby  was  as  well  known  all  through 
his  life  at  TattersalFs,  in  the  paddock  at  Epsom,  Newmarket,  and 
Doncaster,  as  it  was  in  St  Stephen's  and  the  House  of  Lords,  and  it 
was  probably  his  experience  upon  the  Turf  that  gave  him  the  power 
of  ruling  men  with  the  consummate  tact  and  skill  that  made  him 
perhaps  the  greatest  Parliamentary  leader  we  have  ever  had.  Lord 
Palmerston,  like  Lord  Derby,  was  quite  as  much  of  a  sportsman  as  a 
statesman,  and  probably  in  his  heart  thought  more  of  the  blue  riband 
of  the  Turf  than  he  thought  of  the  Premiership  and  of  all  the  honours 
of  the  House  of  Commons.  And  till  within  the  past  ten  or  fifteen 
years  these  men  have  been  the  types  of  English  statesmen  and 
of  English  sportsmen.  This  breed  of  English  statesmen  began  with 
the  Lord  Treasiwer  Godolphin,  and  till  to-day  we  were  beginning  to 
think  that  it  ended  with  Lord  Palmerston,  all  the  men  of  political 
mark  on  the  books  of  Tattersall's  breaking  up  their  studs  and  relin- 
quishing the  Turf  within  a  year  or  two  after  the  disappearance  of 
"  Old  Pam."  The  last  of  these  sporting  Secretaries  of  State  was 
.General  Peel,  and  General  Peel  has  now  left  the  Turf  as  well  as  the 
House  of  Commons  for  five  or  six  years ;  and,  with  the  exception  of 
Lord  Hartington,  the  front  ranks  of  neither  the  Conservative  nor  the 
Ministerial  Benches  in  the  House  of  Connnons  now  contain  a  single 
fece  which  is  familiar  to  the  Ring.  Mr.  Disraeli  is  perhaps  a 
sportsman  at  heart,  and  the  best  description  of  the  Derby  that  has 
ever  been  written — the  classical  and  historical  description — is  that 
from  his  pen.  But  Mr.  Disraeli  is  only  a  sportsman  as  most  of  the 
rest  of  us  are  sportsmen,  in  his  love  of  sport,  of  horses,  and  of  the 
genial  and  healthy  excitement  of  the  Turf  And  Mr.  Gladstone  is  not 
even  this.  If  the  Premier  can  distinguish  a  racehorse  from  a  himter, 
or  a  hunter  from  a  cob,  it  is  all  that  he  can  do ;  alid  what  the  Premier 
is  the  rest  of  the  Ministry  are  and  must  be,  I  take  it,  now,  if  they 
are  to  play  their  parts  well  in  Parliament  and  in  the  work  of  adminis- 
tration in  Whitehall.  The  Marquis  of  Hartington  may  perhaps  be 
able  to  spare  time  from  the  work  of  governing  Ireland  to  look  after 
a  stud  of  horses  at  Newmarket,  and  to  make  a  book  upon  the  Derby 
or  the  St  Leger;  but  if  the  experience  of  Lord  Derby,  Lord 
Palmerston,  or  even  of  Lord  George  Bentinck,  is  worth  anjrthing, 
the  man  who  enters  into  politics  as  a  science — enters  into  it,  that  is, 
heart  and  soul — must  think  of  no  books  but  blue  books,  and  of  no 
horses  but  his  hunters  and  his  park  cob.     Lord  Derby  sold  off  m< 


40  The  GaUlenians  Magazine. 

cf  Ids  stud  vhen  he  assumed  the  Premier^p,  and  Lcml  P^dmerston's 
hcTses  made  aH  their  nmning  before  the  owner  of  Dionahad  dreamed 
cf  superseding  Lord  Russell  as  the  chief  kA  the  \^liig  clan,  or  of 
kading  the  House  of  Commons  on  his  own  account  Lord  George 
Bentinck  sold  ofif  all  his  horses  when  he  once  made  up  his  mind  to  go 
i^io  rjnning  against  Peel  upon  the  question  of  Protection  versus 
Free  Trade,  belie\ing,  and  I  think  righdy,  that  it  is  impossible  to 
2iteDd  at  once  to  a  stable  and  to  statesmanship.  This  might  have 
been  possible,  perhaps  easy,  in  the  days  of  Arme  and  of  the  First 
and  Second  Georges ;  and  as  a  matter  of  fzxx  we  know,  upon  the 
authority  of  Bishop  Burnet  and  of  Pope,  that  the  ''silentest  and 
modestest  man  ever  bred  in  a  Court" — the  Lord  Treasurer  Godolphin 
— the  man  who  had  the  clearest  conception  of  ''  the  whole  Govern- 
ment, both  in  Chiuxh  and  State,  and  perfecdy  knew  the  temper, 
genius,  and  disposition  of  the  flnglish  nation,"  was  never  more  at 
home  with  himself  than  when  he  could  spare  a  few  hours  from  the 
business  of  the  State  to  spend  in  racing,  card  playing,  and  cock 
fighting,  and  thought  far  less  of  compliments  to — 

Patiitio*s  high  desert. 
His  hand  unstained,  his  nncornipted  heait, 

than  he  did  of  a  compliment  turning  upon  his  pride  in  piquet,  New- 
market fame,  and  judgment  at  a  bet  But  everything  has  changed 
since  then,  and  nothing  more  than  politics  and  sport  Politics  have 
grown  into  a  science,  and,  to  be  properly  carried  on,  require  the 
highest  powers  of  mind  and  the  devotion  of  a  life  ;  and  sport,  it  is 
vexing  to  add,  has  become  litde  else  with  the  mass  of  mai  upon  the 
Turi  than  a  system  of  gambling  upon  a  gigantic  scale. 

The  "  Book  Calendar"  shows  that  nearly  2,000  thorough- 
bred mares  are  r^stered  with  Messrs.  Weatherby  as  having  foaled 
or  slipped  foal  in  the  course  of  the  season,  and  that  600  or  700 
are  barren.  About  ^360,000  is  run  for  armually  in  stakes  and 
added  money.  At  Ascot  Heath  alone  the  "added  money"  often 
runs  up  to  ;;£^5,ooo  and  Her  Majesty's  Vase.  Thirty-three  Queen's 
Plates  are  given  to  be  run  for  in  Great  Britain,  and  sixteen  and  a 
Royal  WTiip  in  Ireland.  No  fewer  than  800  owners,of  whom  several 
score  run  in  assumed  names — a  system  which  had  its  rise  with  **  Mr. 
Gordon  " — declare  their  colours,  and  eighteen  of  them  a  second  one. 
Stripes  and  whole  coloured  jackets,  like  the  scarlet  of  "  Grafton," 
the  black  of  "  Derby "  and  Bowes,  the  yellow  of  "  Richmond  "  and 
Merry,  and  the  "all  white"  of  Anson,  were  once  the  prevailing 
fashion.    Ellerdale's  success  made  "belts"  fashionable,  Voltigeur's 


Life  in  London.  41 

fame  brought  out  a  perfect  rush  of  red,  black,  blue,  and  green  spots ; 
then  the  spots  changed  to  stars ;  and  latterly,  when  Danebury  was 
in  the  ascendant,  a  run  was  made  upon  hoops.  Even  the  Dutchman 
failed  to  popularise  a  love  for  the  tartan.  Blues,  dark,  mazarine,  light, 
Waterloo,  and  sky,  have  yielded  to  Mexican;  Lord  Winchilsea's 
gorge  de  pigeon,  which  was  twice  seen  in  front  on  The  Caster,  has 
not  been  pirated ;  no  one  seems  to  envy  Colonel  Pearson  his  black 
and  scarlet  chevrons ;  and  the  Osborne  family  have  pretty  well  had 
a  monopoly  of  the  chocolate  and  black  cap,  which  old  John  adopted 
when  his  early  master,  the  Duke  of  Leeds,  died,  and  racehorses  were 
banished  from  Hornby.  Two-year-old  racing  was  a  long  time  striking 
root  in  the  Turf.  Even  the  Yorkshire  men  sneered  at  it  as  **  Paddy- 
land  racing,"  and  never  seemed  to  compass  what  a  really  good  two- 
yeaf-old  could  do  till  in  181 1  they  saw  Oiseau  (6st)  run  clean  away 
at  Doncaster,  over  a  mile  and  a  half,  from  Ashton,  5  yrs.  (Qst.  nib.), 
and  Octavian,  4  yrs.  (8sL  91b.),  the  SL  Leger  winners  of  the  two 
preceding  years.  Between  1832  and  1849  the  number  of  two-year- 
old  starters  increased  from  200  to  264,  while  the  threes  and  fours 
only  gained  24  and  17  respectively.  Up  to  1849  the  Irish  horses 
were  not  included  in  the  list,  but  these  seventeen  years  embrace  the 
stable  zeniths  of  Lord  George  Bentinck  in  the  south  and  the  '^  B. 
Green  confederacy "  in  the  north.  His  lordship,  who  believed  that 
he  could  break  the  Ring  with  the  produce  of  his  May  Middleton  and 
his  Velocipede  mares,  paid,  it  is  said,  upwards  of  ^50,000  in  stakes 
for  his  stable  one  season,  and  a  colt,  Farintosh,  which  he  sold  as  a 
roarer  for  ^35,  cost  him  upwards  of  ^3,000  under  that  head  alone. 
Still  peers  and  commoners  were  content  to  look  on  in  wonderment 
at  the  modem  "  Napoleon,"  and  did  not  care  to  follow  his  lead. 
It  was  only  when  three  colts  in  succession  broke  the  "  Champion 
spell,"  and  the  victories  of  Flying  Dutchman,  Voltigeur,  and  Nancy 
woke  up  Yorkshire  and  the  metropolis  into  fresh  racing  life,  that  lists 
sprang  up  everywhere.  Perhaps  no  racehorse  enriched  so  many 
and  ruined  so  many  as  Nancy,  and  her  backers  fairly  fought  round 
Mr.  Davis  before  her  second  Chester  Cup  race  as  to  who  should 
first  thrust  their  five  pound  notes  into  his  hands,  and  get  pencilled 
down  just  before  starting  at  15  to  10.  Although  the  present  Chief 
Justice  laid  a  hand  of  steel  on  the  "  listers,"  and  forced  them  to  put 
up  their  shutters,  he  could  not  quench  the  betting  spirit. 

If  Tattersall's  was  too  dignified  to  gratify  the  outer  public's  craving 
for  the  odds  to  a  crown,  peripatetic  philosophers  in  the  street,  the 
park,  and  "  the  ruins  "  were  ready  to  stand  in  the  breach.  Latterly 
some  really  trustworthy  commission  agents  have  gratified  the  yearnings 


42  The  GentlematCs  Magazine. 

of  "the  young  men  from  the  country,"  and  the  supplies  at  the 
Comer  have  been  not  a  little  recruited  by  the  sovereigns  and  fivers 
flowing  in  from  that  source.  Nine-tenths  of  the  people  who  send 
their  cheques  and  post-office  orders  and  bank  notes  to  Mr.  Wright 
and  Mr.  Sydney  Smith  know  nothing  more  about  horses  or  jockeys 
than  they  pick  up  from  BdVs  Life  or  the  Fidd,  They  sipiply  invest 
their  money  "  at  a  venture,"  acting  either  upon  the  suggestions  of 
their  own  fancy,  or  upon  the  advice  of  "  Asmodeus  "  or  "  Hotspur.'* 
Sir  Joseph  Hawle/s  horses  are  always  great  favourites  with  them. 
The  Marquis  of  Hastings's  were  at  one  time.  The  Baron's  are  now. 
To-morrow  they  will  pin  their  faith  to  the  colours  of  a  Norfolk 
squire,  ifhese  selections  are  the  result  of  pure  caprice ;  but  it  is 
remarkable  how,  even  when  acting  in  this  way,  the  public  acts 
together.  Tattersall's  is  the  clearing  house  of  the  Turf.  It  is  to  the 
Ring  what  the  Clearing  House  is  to  bankers,  what  the  Stock 
Exchange  is  to  brokers  and  men  of  business  ;  and  standing,  like  the 
Stock  Exchange,  beyond  the  pale  of  the  law,  it  is  governed  by  a 
committee  of  its  own  nomination,  possessing  the  double  powers  of  a 
court  of  law  and  of  a  court  of  honoin*.  Like  the  Stock  Exchange, 
too,  TattersalPs  has  its  Bulls  and  its  Bears,  its  millionaires  and  its 
"  legs,"  its  plungers  and  its  defaulters.  It  has,  moreover,  its  days  of 
business  and  its  settling  days ;  and  it  may  be  added  that  Tattersall's, 
like  the  Stock  Exchange,  is,  in  its  present  form  and  on  its  present 
scale,  an  organised  development  of  one  of  the  characteristic  traits  of 
the  age,  a  trait  which  is  as  strongly  marked  in  the  City  clerk  who 
dabbles  in  stocks  on  a  salary  of  ^300  a  year,  as  in  the  noble 
who  throws  away  an  income  of  ;;^3oo,ooo  a  year  by  making 
a  book  on  a  stable  of  yearlings.  Tattersall's  is,  with  the  Stock 
Exchange,  the  only  place  in  London  where  a  woman  has  never  yet 
been  seen. 

But  these  are  not  the  points  that  strike  you  as  you  enter  Tattersall's 
and  find  yourself  in  what  looks  like  a  section  of  the  Crystal  Palace, 
with  a  long  line  of  horse-boxes,  an  auctioneer's  rostrum,  a  drinking 
fountain,  a  fox,  and  a  bust  of  George  IV.  This  is  the  outer  circle 
of  the  mystery  of  iniquity ;  and  on  a  business  day,  say  the  eve  of 
the  Derby  or  the  Oaks,  you  will  find  it  filled  with  a  host  of  people, 
representing  pretty  well  every  shade  of  what  is  called  sporting  life  ; 
Ministers  of  State,  sprigs  of  the  aristocracy,  limbs  of  the  law,  broken- 
down  "legs"  trying  to  "get  on  for  half  a  sov."  upon  the  strength  of  a 
stable  secret,  and  broken  down  huntsmen,  who,  for  the  price  of  a 
glass  of  beer,  will  tell  you  the  secret  history  of  every  horse  entered 
for  the  Derby  and  the  Oaks,  and  the  winners  into  the  bargain,  it 


Life  in  London.  4S 

you  have  faith,  and  will  cross  their  hands  with  a  bit  of  gold.  Here 
and  there,  too,  if  you  know  anything  of  the  world  represented  by 
BelPs  Life,  you  will  find  an  ex-pugilist —  now  and  then  perhaps  a 
roan  with  a  broken  nose,  who  has  won  the  champion's  belt — ^button- 
holing a  duke  or  a  marquis ;  for  on  the  Turf,  as  under  it,  as  Lord 
George  Bentinck  wittily  said,  "all  men  are  equal"  If  you  possess 
the  entrke^  and  can  pass  from  this  outer  circle  to  the  centre  of  the 
temple  of  horse-racing,  you  will  find  yourself  in  somewhat  selecter 
company.  The  Subscription  Room  is  closed  to  all  except  the 
initiated  ;  but  its  "  price  current "  governs  all  the  betting  transactions 
within  the  four  seas.  In  contrast  with  the  Stock  Exchange  it  is  a 
palace.  All  its  appointments  are  distinguished  by  an  air  of  luxury 
and  refinement.  Tesselated  pavement,  stained-glass  windows,  a  line 
of  stuffed  leather  seats  running  round  the  room,  you  find  here,  partly 
in  the  form  of  an  exchange,  partly  in  the  form  of  a  club  smoking 
room,  everything  that  the  luxury  and  good  taste  of  the  Jockey  Club 
can  suggest  for  the  convenience  and  pleasure  of  its  members.  These, 
I  need  hardly  say,  are  die  Hite  of  the  Turf— the  flower  of  the  motley 
host  in  the  yard  who  are  criticising  the  form  of  a  three-year-old  which 
has  ruined  her  owner  by  losing  the  Derby  and  ;£"  100,000  with 
it  —  peers  of  Parliament,  members  of  the  House  of  Conmions, 
Cit)'  bankers  whose  scrawl  on  the  back  of  a  bill  is  good  for  a  quarter 
of  a  million  in  Threadneedle  Street ;  barristers  whom  you  may  find 
on  the  woolsack  to-morrow,  or  in  the  ermine  and  the  horsehair  of  a 
Lord  Chief  Baron ;  guardsmen  and  journalists,  Chamberlains  of  the 
Royal  Household,  and  officers  of  the  Lord  Majror's  Court.  Here, 
till  yesterday,  you  might  see  a  boy  from  Eton,  the  heir  to  a  great 
name  and  a  fine  estate,  backing  his  opinion  to  the  tune  of 
;^5 0,000  with  money  borrowed  at  six  himdred  per  cent  Here 
you  may  still  find  a  Lincolnshire  squire,  whose  wits  are  probably 
worth  to  him  ;^2o,ooo  a  year  if  he  chooses  to  exercise 
them.  Admiral  Rous  and  Sir  Joseph  Hawley  are  state  pillars 
in  this  aristocratic  republic.  Their  word  upon  a  point  of  honour 
or  upon  a  rule  of  the  Ring  carries  with  it  all  the  force  of  law  to 
thousands  who  know  them  only  as  the  great  twin  brothers  of 
the  Turf.  You  can  read  nothing  in  the  face  of  a  thorough- 
bred man  of  the  Turf  except  perfect  self-possession,  shrewd 
intellect,  and  a  will  of  iron ;  and  you  may  pick  these  men  out  in 
the  Subscription  Room  at  a  glance  from  the  crowd  who  are  pur- 
chasing their  experience  at  the  expense  of  their  ancestral  oaks,  and 
perhaps  of  something  more.  Here  is  one  of  these  neophytes  of  the 
Ring — a  companion  of  princes,  the  son  of  a  Minister  of  Cabinet  ra 


44  The  Gentlemaiis  Magazine. 

with  the  blood  of  an  Eastern  Emperor  in  his  veins.  He  is  booking  a 
bet  of  I  GO  to  I  to  a  youth  with  the  down  still  on  his  cheeks,  the  son 
of  one  of  the  most  illustrious  of  the  Crimean  heroes ;  and  close  by, 
in  the  centre  of  a  group  of  bookmakers  and  aristocratic  "  legs,"  stands 
a  young  man — still,  probably,  on  the  sunny  side  of  thirty — ^who 
will  tell  you  with  the  utmost  nonchalance  that  he  has  sold  an 
estate  to  a  City  man  for  ;^3oo,ooo,  to  square  up  his  book  and 
to  fight  the  Ring.  He  is  the  representative  of  a  long  line  of  mailed 
barons  who  fought  under  the  walls  of  Jerusalem,  at  Cressy  and  at 
Agincourt — statesmen  and  warriors  who  in  their  time  administered 
government  and  war  with  more  than  the  capacity  of  Richelieu ;  and 
he  is  flattering  himself  with  the  presumptuous  hope  that  in  these 
piping  days  of  peace  it  is  his  destiny  to  add  one  more  exploit  to  the 
achievements  of  his  race  by  breaking  the  Ring. 

This  is  one  of  the  illusions  of  youth  on  the  Turf.     There  are  two 

or  three  grey-bearded  members  of  the  Jockey  Club  who,  if  put  to  the 

rack,  could  tell  us  that  they  began  their  first  book  thirty  years  ago  with 

that  impression  themselves.     It  was  the  hope,  till  the  last,  of  Lord 

George  Bentinck ;  and  the  Marquis  of  Hastings,  even  after  l^is  fair 

lands  had  passed  out  of  his  hands,  still  talked  of  accomplishing  what 

the  Napoleon  of  the  Turf  had  failed  in.     Upon  the  Derby  of  1867 

Lord  Hastings  lost  by  far  the  heaviest  sum  that  was  ever  lost  on  a 

race.     It  seems  but  the  other  day  that  the  air  was  vocal  with  the 

enthusiastic  cheers  that  greeted  his .  appearance  on  the  course  at 

Ascot,  after  paying  away  through  his  commissioners  about  ;^ioo,ooo 

on    the    Derby  settling.      In    many  a   little  race  at  Newmarket 

Lord  Hastings  backed  his  horse  to  win  ;^i 0,000.     It  made   no 

difference  to  him  whether  the  bookmakers   asked  him   to   stake 

;;^2,ooo  or  ;^5,ooo  against  their  ;;f  10,000.     Whatever  they  offered 

in  the  way  of  odds,  so  long  as  the  sum  was  large  enough,  he  was 

content  to  book ;  and  during  his  short  career  on  the  Turf  the  odds 

laid  were  shorter  and  the  gains  won  by  the  bookmakers  larger  than 

during  any  other  three  years  of  the  present  century.     He  often  paid 

away  ^£40,000  or  ;^So,ooo  upon  a  settlement  after  a  Houghton  or 

Second  October  Meeting ;  and  since  Lord  Hastings's  time  high  bets 

have  been  the  rule  at  Tattersall's  and  in  the  Ring.     Mr.  J.  B.  Morris, 

the  bookmaker,  has  been  known  to  lay  ;£4o,ooo  to  ^600  against 

each  of  five  of  Sir  Joseph  Hawley's  horses,  against  each  of  six  of  the 

Duke  of  Newcastle's  horses,  and  against  a  horse  of  Mr.  Chaplin's. 

Again,  ;^  1,000  to  ;£  10  has  been  laid  that  a  certain  horse  would  win 

the  Liverpool  Cup,  and;£i,ooo  tO;^io  that  Sir  Frederick  Johnstone 

would  ride  the  winner ;  and  Mr.  Chaplin  has  been  known  to  win 


Life  in  London.  45 

;^ 1 40,000  upon  the  Derby,  and  Captain  Machell,  his  confederate, 
;;f  60,000.  A  year  or  two  ago  Mr.  Chaplin  won  a  leviathan  bet  of 
;;f  50,000  that  The  Hermit  would  beat  The  Palmer  the  first  time  they 
met,  and  ;;£'i 0,000  that  The  Hermit  beat  Marksman.  These  bets  are 
of  course  the  freaks  of  the  Turf ;  but  to  say  that  a  man  is  making  a 
book  upon  two-year-olds  is,  at  Tattersall's,  to  say  that  a  man  is  in  a 
fair  way  to  finish  his  career  in  the  Court  of  Chancery  or  Basinghall 
Street  It  is  the  ne  plus  ultra  of  gambling  on  the  Turf;  and  I  need 
hardly  go  out  of  my  way  to  illustrate  its  consequences,  since  the  fact 
must  be  sufficiently  obvious  to  every  man  who  knows  anything  at  all 
of  horse  flesh,  of  the  risks  of  training,  of  the  vices  of  grooms,  and  of 
the  foibles  of  jockeys.  Yet,  after  all,  this  is  not  wilder  work  perhaps 
in  the  long  run  than  staking  money  on  favourites,  for  I  believe — 
and  experience  warrants  the  belief — that  in  five  years  any  man  with  a 
cool  head  and  a  long  piurse  might  make  enough  to  buy  the  fee- 
simple  of  Hyde  Park  by  betting  ten  thousand  to  one  against  all  the 
favo^irites  that  are  started  for  the  Derby,  the  Oaks,  and  the  St.  Leger. 
Short,  however,  of  attempting  to  break  through  the  Ring,  no  man 
who  re^ijly  knows  how  to  make  a  book  need  be  altogether  ruined  on 
the  Turf.  You  may  meet  men  by  the  dozen  at  TattersalFs  who,  if 
they  chose  to  tell  you  their  secrets,  would  tell  you  that  their  wits  are 
worth  ;^  10,000  or  ;;f20,ooo  a  year  to  them.  Reduced  to  a 
system,  nothing  is  safer  than  "business  on  the  Turf."  Lord 
George  Bentinck  for  years  kept  up  his  magnificent  stud  by  his 
book;  and  Mr.  Harry  Hill,  his  chief  Ring  commissioner,  could,  I 
fancy,  tell  us  some  piquant  stories  if  he  were  to  turn  to  his  note- 
books. It  is  said  that  in  a  single  year  (1845,  I  believe)  Lord 
George  netted  nearly  ;^so,ooo  upon  a  couple  of  horses  alone; 
and  it  oozed  out  in  the  Qui  Tarn  action  at  Guildford  that 
another  of  his  horses.  Gaper,  ran  at  the  Derby  to  win  ;^  120,000 
more.  In  the  case  of  the  Marquis  of  Hastings  and  the  Earl 
of  Stamford  these  coups  of  Lord  George  Bentinck  were  re- 
versed ;  and  if  it  were  possible  to  strike  a  balance,  I  suspect  it 
would  be  found  that  Lord  Hastings  and  the  Earl  lost  more  than 
Lord  George,  with  all  his  victories,  ever  won.  It  is,  however,  by  the 
ruin  of  men  like  the  Marquis  of  Hastings  that  the  Ring  is  kept  up  ; 
for  without  them  the  bookmakers  must  soon  go  to  the  dogs.  Left  to 
themselves,  they  would  eat  each  other  up,  like  crabs,  iir  a  couple  of 
years  ;  and  there  would  be  nothing  left  of  the  Ring  but  half  a  dozen 
leviathan  bookmakers,  a  crowd  of  paupers  with  their  note-books  and 
metallic  pencils,  and  the  traditions  of  Tattersall's.  At  present  the 
peers  and  the  "legs,"  the  porcelain  and  the  clay,  millionaires  and 


46  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

Yorkshire  stable-boys,  are  all  mixed  up  together;  and.asloDg  as  there 
are  peers  to  be  fleeced  and  estates  to  be  cut  up  into  ribbooSy 
Tattersall's  will  remain  what  it  is  at  present — one  of  the  most  flourish- 
ing institutions  in  London. 

To  say  that  Tattersall's  represents  something  mone  than  one  of  the 
most  flourishing  institutions  in  London — that  it  is  also  one  of  its 
greatest  anomalies — is  of  course  to  take  up  a  thorny  question.     Yet 
this  is  the  fact    Tattersall's  is  a  perplexity  to  the  House  of  Commons, 
to  the  courts  of  law,  to  the  police.     It  is  the  great  outwork  of  the 
Ring ;  and  as  long  as  Tattersall's  exists,  Mr.  Tom  Hughes  will  find 
himself  foiled  at  every  turn  in  his  crusade  against  the  Turf^  or  at 
least  against  that  system  of  gambling  which  has  grown  up   on  the 
Turf.     You  may  do  at  Tattersall's  what  you  may  do  nowhere  else ; 
and  the  privileges  of  Tattersall's  yard  paralyse  all  the  attempts  of 
the  police  to  put  down  gambling  upon  racehorses  by  obliterating 
or  confusing  all  the  lines  which  the  House  of  Conunons  tries  to 
draw  in  the  business.     You  may  pencil  a  bet  at  Tattersall's  which^  if 
pencilled  at  an  ofllce  in  Blackfriars  or  the  Strand,  or  even  in  the  street, 
will  bring  the  police  down  upon  you  in  an  instant.     You  may  do  in  the 
smoking-room  of  a  club  what  you  may  not  do  in  the  cofliee-room  of  an 
hotel.     You  may  do  in  Scotland  what  you  may  not  do  south  of  the 
Tweed ;  and  the  consequence  is,  that  when  the  English  police  are 
swooping  down  upon  every  nest  of  betting  men  they  can  find  in 
London,  every  English  sporting  paper  is  full  of  the  advertisements  of 
agents  with  oflices  in  Edinburgh  and  Glasgow ;  and  that  the  sums  of 
money  which  a  year  or  two  ago  found  their  way  to  Tattersall's 
through  Jermyn  Street  and  St  James's,  now  find  their  way  to  the 
head-quarters  of  the  Turf  through  Scottish  bankers.     Lotteries  are 
illegal,  and  are  put  down  with  a  high  hand  by  the  law,  even  where 
they  are  set  up  under  the  most  plausible  pretexts.     Yet  Tattersall's 
is  the  centre  of  a  vast  system  of  gambling  which  has  its  ramifications 
in  every  town  and  village  in  the  Empire  ;  and  tlie  Derby,  the  Oaks, 
and  the  St.  Leger  are  growing  into  a  lottery  in  which  we  may  all  take 
tickets  to  any  amount,  with  the  temptation  of  almost  any  possible 
prize,  and  the  risk  of  losing  only  the  trifle  we  take  it  into  our  heads 
to  stake. 

This  tendency  of  racing  to  encourage  gambling  and  to  promote 
the  breed  of  blacklegs  is  a  serious  and  growing  objection,  the  most 
serious  perhaps  of  all  the  objections,  to  the  sports  of  the  Tur£ 
But  racehorses  are  not  dice  of  necessity;  and  there  is  no  necesssuy 
connection  between  horse-racing  and  gambling.  It  is  possible  that 
the  sport  may  give  a  stimulus  to  gambling,  because  a  bet  is  the  touch- 


Life  in  London.  47 

stone  of  an  Englishman's  sincerity,  and  as  long  as  this  is  the  case  it  is 
as  hopeless  to  attempt  to  put  down  gambling  by  suppressing  races  as 
it  would  be  to  talk  of  arresting  the  sun  by  stopping  our  chrono- 
meters. It  cannot  be  done.  Parliament  might  interdict  horse-racing 
to-morrow,  and  make  it  a  penal  offence  to  book  a  bet  upon  a  race 
for  a  pair  of  gloves  or  a  white  hat.  But  gambling  would  still  be 
carried  on.;  and  it  is  an  open  question  even  now  whether  more 
money  does  not  change  hands  on  the  Stock  Exchange  in  the  course 
of  a  single  fortnight  in  what  are  really  and  truly  gambling  transac- 
tions than  changes  hands  at  Tattersairs,  and  on  all  the  racecourses 
of  England,  in  a  year.  It  is  a  foible  of  Englishmen,  and  all  we  can 
do  is  to  make  the  best  of  it  Tattersall's  is  not  the  only  spot  within 
•the  four  seas  where  gambling  is  carried  on.  It  penetrates  the  whole 
of  our  social  and  conunercial  life.  It  is  the  life  and  soul  of  much  of 
our  trade.  The  ironmasters  of  Staffordshire  gamble  in  iron-warrants. 
The  brokers  and  bankers  of  Liverpool  gamble  in  cotton  bales.  The 
Manchester  men  gamble  in  grey  shirtings.  The  merchants  and 
brokers  of  Mark  Lane  gamble  in  com.  The  shipowners  of  the  Tyne 
and  the  north-eastern  ports  gamble  with  their  caigoes  and  crews.  It 
is,  in  fact,  hard  to  find  anything  in  which  some  of  us  are  not  gambling 
more  or  less  all  through  the  year,  from  molasses  to  madoUapans. 
The  sports  of  the  Turf  are  in  themselves  a  healthy,  manly,  invigo- 
rating pastime ;  and  this  pastime,  with  steepldchasing,  hunting,  boat- 
racing,  and  the  rest  of  our  sports,  has  helped  to  make  the  national 
character  what  it  is.  An  Englishman  loves  a  horse  as  much  as  an 
Arab  does.  It  is  an  instinct  with  all  of  us.  It  is  in  the  blood. 
•  You  cannot  eradicate  it ;  and  perhaps,  on  the  whole,  it  is  hardly  de- 
sirable to  attempt  to  eradicate  it ;  for  people  must  have  sport  of 
some  sort,  and  if  they  cannot  have  healthy  and  exhilarating  sports, 
like  those  at  Epsom  and  Newmarket,  they  will  take  to  something 
worse.  Horse-racing  is  at  least  a  humaner  sport  than  bull-fighting. 
It  is  healthier  than  the  cards  and  dice  of  the  Italian  and  French 
casinos.  It  is  pleasanter  than  the  beer-bibbing  customs  of  the 
Germans.  The  Turf  has,  and  must  have,  its  follies  and  its  vices, 
like  everything  else ;  and  when  a  racehorse  is  turned  into  a  dice  on 
four  legs,  the  sports  of  the  Turf  take  a  form  which  true  sportsmen 
themselves  must  reprobate  as  well  as  the  best  of  us.  But  to  say,  as 
one  of  the  severest  of  our  satirists  has  said,  that  although  the  horse 
in  itself  is  one  of  the  noblest  of  animals,  it  is  the  only  animal  which 
develops  in  its  companion  the  worst  traits  of  our  nature,  is  to  do 
an  injustice  to  the  horse  as  well  as  to  its  rider ;  and  if  the  observa- 
tion were  true,  it  would  apply  quite  as  much  to  the  highest  and 


48  The  Gentlemaris  Magazine. 

noblest  of  our  race  as  it  does  to  the  troop  of  blacklegs  who  are  to 
be  found  upon  every  racecourse.  It  is  possible  that  one  of  these 
days  we  may  agree  to  take  our  notions  of  sport  from  Mr.  Tom 
Hughes  and  Mr.  Edward  Freeman,  to  abandon  racing  and  to  taboo 
hunting  as  cruel.  But  we  shall  not  do  this  just  yet,  perhaps  not  at 
all,  and  certainly  not 

Till  far  on  in  summers  which  we  shall  not  see ; 

and  all  we  can  do  is  to  hope  that  when  this  happens  Englishmen 
will  be  so  etherealised  in  their  moral  nature  that  they  will  not  take 
to  something  worse.  The  test  of  races  and  of  their  influence  is, 
of  course,  to  compare  the  moral  tone  of  a  town  where  they  are  held 
once  a  year  with  the  moral  tone  of  a  town  where  they  are  held 
only  once  in  ten  years.  Take  Newcastle,  or  Bath,  or  Newmarket, 
and  compare  either  of  these  towns  with  Bristol.  What  is  the  differ- 
ence ?  And  how  much  different  will  the  tone  of  Bristol  be  five  years 
hence  in  comparison  with  to-day  ?  This  is  the  test ;  and  although  I 
know  it  has  been  said  by  a  witty  jockey  that  in  talking  of  honesty  in 
Yorkshire  it  is  best  to  say  honest/>^,  I  am  not  aware  that  Yorkshire 
is,  take  it  all  in  all,  worse  than  Gloucestershire  or  Somerset,  and  in 
Yorkshire  it  is  as  common  to  find  a  retired  jockey  playing  the  part 
of  vicar's  churchwarden  as  it  is  in  the  East  or  the  West  to  find  an 
attorney  or  a  farmer.  It  is  not  the  racecourse  that  timis  men  into 
blacklegs.  It  is  the  blacklegs  who  corrupt  the  racecourse;  and 
perhaps  if  blacklegs  were  not  plying  their  vocation  on  the  Turf,  we 
should  find  them  in  the  lobby  of  the  House  of  Commons,  or  upon 
the  Stock  Exchange,  forming  rings,  as  they  do  in  Washington  and 

New  York. 

Charles  Pebody. 


A   Strange   Experiment. 

BY  DAVID  KER,  KHIVAN  CORRESPONDENT  OF  THE  "  DAILY 

TELEGRAPH." 

PLEASANT  place  of  resort  is  the  Imperial  Library 
at  St.  Petersburg,  especially  during  the  dismal  supre- 
macy of  those  half-caste  November  days  which  are 
neither  pure  autumn  nor  pure  winter,  though  com- 
bining the  worst  qualities  of  both.  After  the  long  and  weary  passage 
of  the  Nevski  Prospect,  ankle  deep  in  half  thawed  snow,  bumped' 
against  by  sulky  foot  passengers,  nearly  run  down  by  charging  sledges, 
wetted  in  a  sneaking,  spiritiess  manner  by  the  rain,  which  drizzles 
down  as  if  it  could  not  muster  energy  enough  for  a  good  hearty 
pour — after  all  this,  it  is  no  light  satisfaction  to  reach  the  open  sea 
of  the  vast  Theatre  Square,  enter  the  hospitable  door  of  the  great 
library,  commit  one's  wet  coat  and  spattered  goloshes  to  the  ready 
attendant,  in  his  perennial  bottle  green  coat  with  its  surface  rash  of 
brass  buttons,  and  spring  up  the  spacious  stairway  with  a  comfortable 
feeling  of  escape  from  the  waste  howling  wilderness  outside,  into 
which  nothing  shall  induce  one  to  venture  again  for  several  hours  to 
come.  It  is  true  that  on  your  first  entrance  you  do  experience  a 
haunting  sensation  of  being  back  again  in  the  "  Final  Schools  "  for 
your  degree  examination — a  phantasy  considerably  aided  by  the  dead 
silence  of  the  great  hall,  the  long  ranges  of  tables  with  their  busy 
occupants,  and  the  black  robed  figure  of  the  curator  enthroned  at  the 
far  end,  like  an  image  of  passionless  Fate  ;  but  this,  like  most  other 
"  early  impressions,"  is  not  long  in  wearing  off. 

Here,  then,  it  was  that  I  presented  myself  early  one  afternoon  on 
such  a  day  as  I  have  described  above,  in  the  hope  of  getting  a  peep 
at  the  latest  addition  to  the  library — a  rare  windfall,  described  in  the 
official  report  as  "  A  collection,  in  the  Spanish  language,  of  all  the 
documents  relating  to  Simon  Bolivar,  the  Liberator  of  Peru  and 
Columbia,  published  at  Caraccas,  1826-33,  in  22  vols.,  4to ;  only  three 
other  copies  of  which  are  known  to  exist  in  Europe — one  in  the 
Library  of  Darmstadt,  another  in  that  of  Ste.  Genevieve  at  Paris,  and 
the  third  in  the  British  Museum."  Unhappily  I  had  been  forestalled 
by  a  Russian  savant,  and  was  fain  to  console  myself  with  a  re-reading. 
Vol.  XI.,  N.S.  1873.  ^ 


50  Tke  Gentleman's  Magazine, 

for  the  tenth  or  eleventh  time,  of  one  of  Nikolai  Gogors  weird 
medleys  of  broad  farce  and  overwhelming  horror,  over  which  I  lin- 
gered far  beyond  my  usual  time.  The  table  lamps  had  been  lighted, 
the  other  occupants  of  the  room  in  which  I  sat  (a  smaller  and 
gloomier  one  than  the  great  salon  devoted  to  journals  and  magazines) 
had  dropped  off  one  by  one,  till  I  was  left  quite  alone ;  and  the  utter 
silence  and  loneliness,  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  the  dimly  lighted 
room,  with  its  long  ranges  of  dusty  folios  and  worm-eaten  manuscripts, 
as  well  as  the  frightful  story  that  I  had  been  reading,  combined  to 
excite  me  in  a  way  of  which  I  had  had  no  experience  for  years 
past.  All  of  a  sudden,  just  at  the  moment  when  my  nerves  were 
strained  to  the  utmost,  I  became  conscious  of  a  feeling  of  uneasiness 
akin  to  that  which  arouses  the  sleeper  when  some  one  gazes  stead- 
fastly in  his  face.  I  looked  up,  and  found  myself  confronted  by  a 
tall,  slender,  delicate  featured  man,  in  deep  black,  who  was  gazing  at 
me  with  the  intense  earnestness  of  one  who  sees  the  object  for  which 
he  has  long  striven  in  vain  at  last  within  his  reach.  So  suddenly  and 
silendy  had  he  risen  upon  me  that  I  could  not  restrain  a  slight  starts 
which  he  seemed  to  notice. 

"  Pardon  me  if  I  disturb  you,'*  said  he  in  a  soft  but  strangely 
impressive  voice ;  "  and  allow  me  to  ask  (if  it  be  not  too  great  a 
liberty)  whether  you  are  a  resident  of  St  Petersburg." 

"  For  the  present  I  am ;  but  I  expect  to  leave  shortly  on  a'  foreign 
tour.  Allow  me  to  ask,  in  turn,  whether  you  have  any  special  motive 
for  inquiring." 

"  I  will  frankly  own  that  I  have,"  he  replied  with  a  courteous  bow  y 
"  it  is  in  your  power  to  do  me  a  very  great  favour." 

Now,  when  a  perfect  stranger  tells  you  that  you  can  do  him  a  great 
favour,  it  is  natural  to  anticipate  the  request  of  "  a  triflmg  loan,"  and 
to  feel  one's  purse-strings  quiver  in  every  nerve ;  but  on  the  vacuus 
viator  principle,  I  was  perfectly  easy  upon  that  head.  My  appre- 
hensions took  another  fonn.  The  famous  "  PicMer  robberies  "*  had 
been  discovered  but  a  few  weeks  before,  and  if  a  respectable  German 
professor  could  be  guilty  of  such  wholesale  plundering,  might  not 
even  a  man  as  seemingly  reputable  as  my  new  acquaintance  harbour 
similar  designs  ?    And  yet,  when  I  looked  again  at  his  finely-cut 


♦  This  maiu  a  respectable  and  well-known  habitue  of  the  library,  actually 
carried  off  at  different  times,  in  the  artfully  contrived  pockets  of  his  loose  coat, 
nearly  5,000  rare  books  and  MSS.,  with  which,  but  for  the  merest  accident,  he 
would  have  decamped  in  safiety.  He  has  been  sentenced  to  tnmsportation  for 
life. 


A  Strange  Experiment.  5 1 

features  and  grand  massive  foreheac^  I  felt  ashamed  of  my  momen- 
tary suspicions. 

"  I  am  aware  that,  as  a  stranger  to  you,  I  am  taking  a  great  liberty,** 
he  resumed,  changing  suddenly  from  Russian  to  Froich ;  "  but  I 
must  trust  to  your  kindness  to  let  the  urgency  of  the  case  excuse  my 
want  of  ceremony.  The  fact  is,  I  am  on  the  brink  of  a  great  disco- 
very in  science,  and  I  can  see  tSat  you  are  admirably  qualified  to 
assist  me." 

"/,  qualified  to  assist  you,  my  dear  sir?"  answered  I  compassion- 
ately ;  "  no  man  less  so,  I  assure  you  !  I  have  received  a  sound 
classical  education — a  sufficient  guarantee  that  I  know  nothing  of 
science,  or  of  anything  else  likely  to  be  useful." 

"  You  are  pleased  to  jest,  I  conclude,"  said  the  unknown,  with  a 
slight  smile ;  "  I  have  myself  the  greatest  respect  for  the  English 
universities,  though,  unhappily,  I  have*  never  had  the  pleasure  of 
visiting  them.  But  it  is  not  of  such  qualifications  as  these  that  I 
speak.  I  have  been  observing  you  for  the  last  ten  minutes,  before 
addressing  you,  and  have  convinced  myself  that  of  all  whom  I  have 
met  in  St.  Petersburg,  you  alone  are  capable  of  doing  what  I 
require !" 

Was  the  man  mad  ?  His  tone  was  perfectly  calm  and  rational, 
but  the  light  in  his  eyes  as  he  spoke  the  last  words  was  decidedly 
"  uncanny."  A  vague  recollection  flitted  across  my  mind  of  an  old 
German  legend,  the  dramatis  persorue  of  which  were  a  student  and  a 
courteous  stranger  in  black,  while  a  certain  mysterious  bond  signed 
with  blood  figured  largely  in  the  denouement.  Was  the  present  interview 
to  end  in  a  similar  way  ?  To  my  disturbed  fancy,  the  lamps  appeared 
to  bum  dimmer  than  before,  and  the  room  seemed  to  have  grown 
suddenly  darker  and  colder. 

"  What  do  you  want  me  to  do,  then  ?"  asked  I,  somewhat  abruptiy ; 
for  as  the  man  spoke,  I  became  aware  of  a  feeling  (apparently  occa*- 
sioned  by  his  presence)  which  is  very  hard  to  describe  intelligibly. 
My  thoughts  seemed  disordered,  or  rather ,  I  had  lost  the  power  of 
framing  them  coherently ;  a  strange  and  not  impleasing  excitement, 
such  as  I  have  occasionally  experienced  at  the  sound  of  certain  kinds 
of  music,  completely  possessed  me ;  and  blended  with  it  was  a  vague 
sense  of  subjection  (as  if  imder  the  dominion  of  a  will  stronger  than 
my  own)  which  was  altogether  new  to  me.  Had  I  been  a  believer 
in  mesmerism,  I  should  have  said  that  a  powerftil  "magnetiser** 
stood  beside  me ;  as  it  was,  I  judged  it  high  time  to  cut  short  the 
interview.  But  before  the  imknown  could  reply,  the  custodian  of 
the  department,  who  had  been  having  a  chat  with  his  brother  officer 


E  2 


5  2  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

in  the  next  room,  entered,  with  a  warning  that  the  library  (which  is 
never  open  after  9  p.m.)  was  about  to  close.  As  we  descended  the 
stairs,  the  stranger,  who  had  taken  out  his  pocket-book,  answered  my 
question  by  offering  me  a  card. 

"  If  you  will  favour  me  with  a  visit  any  evening  next  week,"  said 
he,  "  I  shall  be  able  to  explain  to  you  more  fully  the  experiment  I 
spoke  of.     May  I  hope  for  your  kind  assistance  ?" 

I  hesitated  a  moment  before  replying.  Had  I  been  a  man  of 
science,  I  should  naturally  have  declined  to  assist  in  a  discovery,  the 
credit  of  which  I  was  not  to  have  myself ;  but  being  a  mere  ignorant 
classman  of  Oxford,  ready  to  fling  myself  into  any  new  adventure 
"  for  the  fun  of  the  thing,"  I  rather  liked  the  idea  than  otherwise. 
Moreover,  the  intense  earnestness  of  the  stranger's  manner,  and 
another  indefinable  feeling  besides,  made  me  loth  to  refuse  him. 

"  So  be  it !"  said  I  recklessly ;  "  I  am  at  your  service.  Let  us  say 
Monday  evening ;  I  have  no  engagement  then." 

"  Ten  thousand  thanks ! "  said  the  unknown,  a  glow  of  genuine 
satisfaction  lighting  up  his  marble  features.  "  On  Monday,  then,  at 
seven  o'clock,  I  shall  expect  you.     Good  evening." 

And  wrapping  himself  in  a  long  grey  cloak  handed  him  by  the 
concierge^  he  vanished  into  the  outer  darkness,  while  I,  by  the  light 
of  the  passage  lamps,  read  on  the  card  which  he  had  given  me  : 

Dmitri    Antonovitch    Tchoudoff, 

Professor  of  Natural  Science, 

On  the  Saddvaya, 

House  Lepeschkin,  Lodging  No.  9. 

,  Punctually  at  seven  o'clock  on  Monday  evening  I  turned  the 
comer  of  the  Sadovaya,  and  made  for  the  house  indicated.  Like 
many  other  large  houses  in  St  Petersburg,  it  was  entered  through  a 
yard,  and  portioned  off  into  separate  flats,  each  inhabited  by  a 
different  tenant;  so  that  it  was  not  without  some  trouble  that  I  at 
length  found  the  number  I  was  in  search  of.  I  had  barely  time  to 
ring,  when  the  door  was  noiselessly  opened  by  a  tall,  gaunt,  pale- 
faced  lackey  in  deep  black,  who  looked  (as  I  could  not  help  think- 
ing) as  if  his  master  had  raised  him  from  the  dead  by  a  galvanic 
experiment.  I  was  ushered  into  a  small  cabinet,  literally  walled  in 
on  every  side  by  ranges  of  books.  The  central  table  was  heaped  with 
piles  on  piles  of  maps,  plans,  diagrams,  and  manuscript  notes ;  and  in 
the  midst  of  this  chaos  sat  the  Professor  himself,  in  a  black  velvet 
dressing-gown,  reading  by  the  light  of  a  shaded  lamp. 

**  Ten  thousand  thanks,  my  dear  sir,"  said  he,  springing  up  and 


A  Strange  Experiment.  53 

shaking  me  warmly  by  the  hand.  "  I  was  sure  that  I  could  depend 
upon  you  ;  and  I  am  glad  to  say  that  I  am  equally  certain  of 
success  in  our  proposed  experiment  Rely  upon  it,  the  discovery 
that  we  are  seeking  will  be  made." 

I  inwardly  thought  that  M.  Tchoudoflf  might  as  well  have  spoken 
for  himself,  considering  what  a  very  subordinate  part  in  the  "  dis- 
covery "  was  reserved  for  me ;  but  I  merely  bowed,  and  expressed 
my  satisfaction  at  being  able  to  give  him  any  assistance. 

"  Your  assistance  will  be  invaluable,  I  assure  you,"  he  answered  ; 
"  and  all  the  more  so  that,  as  I  have  already  said,  I  know  not  where 
else  I  could  have  looked  with  equal  hope  of  success.  But  before  we 
commence  our  experiments,  allow  me  to  offer  you  some  refreshment" 

He  touched  a  small  bell  beside  him,  and  the  cadaverous  servant 
reappeared  with  coffee  and  a  plate  of  thin  white  cakes,  which 
exhaled  a  peculiar  fragrance  altogether  new  to  me.  The  Professor 
filled  my  cup,  and  remarked,  as  he  held  the  plate  towards  me,  "  I 
find  these  sweetmeats  rather  good  eating ;  the  recipe  is  one  which  I 
myself  brought  from  the  East.  In  the  coiu^e  of  your  travels  you 
have  doubtless  fallen  in  with  them." 

I  replied  in  the  negative,  and  fancied  (doubtless  it  was  only  fancy) 
that  I  could  detect  in  his  face  the  faintest  shade  of  satisfaction  at  my 
reply.  As  my  host  took  his  coffee  cup,  I  glanced  at  the  book  which 
he  had  laid  down.     It  was  a  copy  of  "  The  Coming  Race." 

"A  very  amusing  book,"  I  remarked;  "but  of  course  utterly 
extravagant" 

"  Perhaps  not,"  answered  the  Professor,  with  a  singular  emphasis 
in  his  tone.  '*  On  the  contrary,  it  is  (in  my  opinion,  at  least)  a  very 
powerfully-drawn  allegorical  picture  of  certain  changes  which,  sooner 
or  later,  must  undoubtedly  take  place.  I  will  not  go  so  far  as  to 
assert  that  all  the  wonders  ascribed  to  the  *Vril-staff*  are  to  be 
received  as  truth ;  but  I  will  confidently  say  that  there  is  a  large  sub- 
stratum of  fact  underlying  the  whole  description." 

For  the  second  time  I  began  to  have  doubts  of  the  soundness  of 
my  new  friend's  intellects.  That  science  has  sjtill  vast  discoveries  to 
make  no  one  who  has  even  a  slight  acquaintance  with  it  in  its  pre- 
sent form  can  doubt  for  a  moment ;  but  when  a  learned  man  gravely 
assures  you  that  the  existence  of  a  fluid  which,  "  enclosed  in  the 
hollow  of  a  rod  held  by  the  hand  of  a  child,"  is  capable  of  "  shatter- 
ing the  strongest  fortress,  and  cleaving  its  burning  way  from  the  front 
to  the  rear  of  an  embattled  host,"  is  quite  within  the  bounds  of 
possibility,  it  is  only  natural  to  feel  somewhat  sceptical.  In  order  to 
avoid  the  necessity  of  replying,  I  devoted  myself  to  the  Eastern 


54  ^>^  GeniUnrntis  Magazine. 

sweetmeats,  which  had  a  peculiarly  rich,  luscious,  almost  intoxicating 
-flavour,  as  new  to  me  as  their  scent.*  Perhaps  *!  can  best  convey 
an  idea  of  it  by  comparing  it  with  that  of  the  finest  guava  jelly. 
M.  Tchoudoff  now  turned  the  conversation  to  classical  subjects,  and 
discussed,  with  the  animation  of  one  who  had  seen  the  things  which 
he  described,  the  grandeur  of  Egyptian  monuments,  the  beau^  of 
Athenian  sculptures,  the  perfect  military  organisation  of  ancient 
Rome.  On  all  these  topics  his  information  seemed  boundless ;  and 
die  flow  of  his  discourse,  illustrated  by  the  display  of  antiques" 
such  as  the  savants  of  the  Imperial  Museum  would  have  perilled 
their  lives  to  get  a  sight  of,  insensibly  carried  me  away  with  it 
little  by  litde  there  came  over  me  what  I  may  term  the  complement 
^or  sequel  of  the  excitement  which  had  seized  me  in  the  Imperial 
library  on  my  first  meeting  with  M.  Tchoudoff;  and  blended  with  it, 
now  as  then,  was  the  feeling  of  being  dominated  1^  an  overmastering 
influence.  At  length,  hoping  to  shake  off  the  growing  oppression,  I 
rose  from  my  seat,  and  walked  to  the  other  end  of  the  room,  as  if  to 
examine  the  books  on  the  farther  shelves ;  and  then,  for  the  first 
time,  I  remarked  a  small  round  table,  upon  which  lay  a  broken 
sword-hilt,  a  crumbling  manuscript,  and  a  rusty  spear-head. 

"  These  are  the  last  additions  to  my  antiquarian  museum,"  said 
M.  Tchoudoff,  coming  up  to  the  table;  "and  I  am  now  engaged 
in  trying  to  find  out  their  histoiy.  Perhaps  you  may  be  able  to 
help  me.'' 

"I?" 

"  Yes,  you  may  possibly  find  some  clue  which  has  escaped  me ; 
your  eyes  are  younger  than  mine.  Sit  down  and  examine  them  at 
your  ease." 

I  obeyed  unsuspectingly ;  but  scarcely  had  I  taken  up  the  sword- 
hilt  (which  happened  to  lie  nearest),  when  the  Professor,  quick  as 
thought,  made  several  passes  with  his  hands  in  front  of  my  face, 
following  them  up  by  drawing  a  sponge  dipped  in  some  fragrant 
liquid  across  my  forehead.  In  a  moment  (a  flash  of  lightning  is  not 
more  instantaneous)  I  was  seized  with  a  terrible  spasm  of  nervous 
convulsion,  as  if  (to  quote  a  famous  passage)  "every  bone,  sinew, 
nerve,  fibre  of  the  body  were  wrenched  open,  and  some  hitherto 
Hnconjectured  presence  in  the  vital  organisation  were  forcing  itself 
to  light  with  all  the  pangs  of  travaiL"t     This  agony  was  succeeded 


•  It  has  been  suggested  to  me  that  these  drugs  (for  such  they  undoubtedly 
were)  may  have  been  partly  answerable  for  what  followed — a  theory  which  I  am 
'BOt  in  a  pofiitioD  cither  to  confinn  or  to  deny. 

t  «♦  A  StiBDge  Stoiy,"  voL  i.,  chap.  ja. 


A  Strange  Experiment.  55 

hy  a  brief  period  of  unconsciousness  \  and  then  came  a  sudden  sense 
<A  joyous  vigour,  of  bounding  and  elastic  buoyancy,  as  though  I  had 
in  very  deed  awaked  to  a  new  life  in  which  no  pain  or  weakness 
•could  find  place.    And  this  was  the  scene  upon  which  I  awoke. 

I  stood  in  a  deep  narrow  gorge,  on  the  shore  of  a  dark  lake,  shut 
in  on  every  side  by  mountains,  whose  higher  slopes  were  shrouded 
in  grey  mist  I  was  arrayed  as  if  for  battle,  and  around  me  stood 
.armed  men,  thousands  upon  thousands,  mth  the  crested  helmet,  and 
huge  shield,  and  short  broadsword  of  the  Roman  legionary;  and 
beside  me  were  the  sacred  ensigns  that  bore  the  initials  of  the  Senate 
and  people  of  Rome ;  but  armour  and  standards  alike  looked  dull 
and  leaden  beneath  the  encircling  dimness,  and  upon  every  face  was 
an  awful  shadow,  the  shadow  of  approaching  death.  Then  suddenly 
there  burst  from  the  cloud  above  us  a  clamour  of  countless  cries 
blended  into  one — the  shrill  scream  of  the  Moor,  the  fierce  shout  of 
the  Spaniard,  the  deep  bellowing  war-whoop  of  the  Gaul ;  and  out  of 
the  ghostly  mist  broke  a  whirling  throng  of  half-seen  figures — stately 
men  in  gorgeous  armour,  wild  figures  in  tossing  white  mantles,  grim 
giants  naked  to  the  waist ;  and  down  upon  us  they  came  with  the 
rush  of  a  stormy  sea.  Then,  through  the  whole  defile,  the  battle 
raged  and  roared;  the  air  was  thick  with  flying  darts,  the  ground 
miry  with  blood  Our  men  fell,  rank  on  rank ;  the  enemy  pressed 
nearer  and  nearer.  And  my  standard-bearer  dropped  at  my  feet, 
loaning  with  his  last  breath, — *'  Caius  JFlaminius,  tlie  gods  have 
forsaken  us  1 "  and  my  sword  broke  short  in  my  hand ;  but  with  the 
hilt  I  still  struck  fiercely  to  right  and  left  And  now  a  towering 
horseman  came  rushing  at  me  with  levelled  spear;  I  felt  a  sudden 
shock — a  fierce  grinding  pang — and  then  all  was  a  blank. 

I  was  walking  slowly,  with  a  roll  of  manuscript  in  my  hand,  along 
a  broad  open  space  (like  the  public  place  of  a  great  city),  thronged 
with  noble  sculptures,  and  goodly  altars,  and  stately  temples,  and 
-all  the  glory  that  still  lingered  in  imperial  Athens  after  the  fatal  day 
of  Chxronea.  And  around  me  lay  the  beautiful  city,  not  as  I  had 
seen  it  in  my  waking  hours,  ravaged  and  marred  by  ages  of  ruin,  but 
in  all  the  splendour  of  its  prime.  To  my  left  rose  the  bare  limestone 
ridge  of  the  Areopagus ;  to  my  right  the  rugged  hill  of  the  Pnyx, 
crowned  by  its  semicircular  enclosure  and  tribunal  of  hewn  stone, 
a  council  hall  not  made  with  hands,  worthy  of  the  great  spirits  that 
had  tenanted  it  In  front  the  great  bastion  of  the  Acropolis  rose 
Aip  stark  and  grim  against  the  sunny  sky ;  and  on  its  summit  appeared 


56  The  Gentleman* s  Magazine. 

the  glorious  frontage  of  the  Propylaea,  and  the  eight  marble  columns 
of  the  Parthenon,  and  the  mighty  figure  of  Minerva  Promachus,  with 
Jier  crested  helmet  and  brazen  spear. 

"  Well,  friend,  how  fares  it  with  you  ?  "  said  a  grave-looking  man, 
the  foremost  of  several  who  were  following  me.  "  Are  you  ready  to 
appear  on  yonder  stage  to-morrow,  with  all  the  men  of  Athens  for  a 
chorus  ?  " 

"I  fear  nothing,"  answered  I;  "and  least  of  all  do  I  fear  that 
dainty  coxcomb  -^schines — to  the  ravens  with  him  1  But  lo  !  here 
he  comes,  with  all  his  chorus  of  fi*ogs  about  him  ! " 

A  noisy  group  bore  down  upon  us,  in  the  centre  of  which  was  a 
man  of  handsome  features,  but  somewhat  tame  expression,  who 
halted  just  in  front  of  me. 

"  Room ! "  he  cried,  sneeringly ;  "  room  for  Demosthenes  the 
thunderer,  who  shakes  the  earth  with  his  words,  and  slays  men  with 
the  breath  of  his  mouth  ! " 

As  he  spoke,  there  rushed  through  me  a  sense  of  overwhelming 
power,  as  though  I  could  in  very  deed  blast  him  with  a  breath.  I 
looked  him  full  in  the  face,  and  he  quailed. 

"  There  will  be  room  enough  for  me  when  your  place  is  empty,** 
answered  I.  "  As  surely  as  the  gods  look  down  upon  us  this  day, 
shall  you  beg  a  lodging  from  the  Persian  ere  many  days  are  past." 

As  the  words  were  uttered,  I  became  unconscious  once  more. 

I  was  marching  in  the  ranks  of  a  great  host,  armed  and  arrayed 
after  the  old  Persian  fashion,  through  a  boundless  desert,  whose  dull 
brassy  glare  wearied  the  eye,  with  its  grim  monotony.  To  the  farthest 
horizon  there  was  no  sight  or  sound  of  life ;  and  we  leaned  upon  our 
spears,  for  we  were  weary  and  disheartened.  And  suddenly,  amid 
the  quivering  haze  of  intense  heat  that  girdled  the  horizon  there 
appeared  a  dark  spot,  which  broadened,  and  deepened,  and  widened, 
till  it  overspread  all  that  quarter  of  the  sky.  Then,  in  a  moment,  its 
darkness  turned  to  fire,  and  came  whirling  towards  us  like  a  wave  of 
the  sea ;  and  in  the  shadow  of  the  coming  destruction  every  man 
saw  in  his  neighbour's  livid  face  the  horror  that  was  written  on  his 
own.  Then  came  a  roar  as  if  the  earth  were  rent  in  twain,  and  a  hot 
blast  smote  full  upon  us,  and  earth  and  air  were  shaken,  and  we  fell 
to  the  ground  like  dead  men. 

"  Rejoice  with  me,  my  friend  !"  said  a  voice  in  my  ear,  as  I  awoke 

o  consciousness ;  and  beside  me  stood  the  Professor,  radiant  with 

joy.     "  I  have  learned  from  you  all  that  I  wished  to  know.     This 


A  Strange  Experiment.  5  7 

sword  is  that  of  Flaminius,  the  Consul,  who  fell  at  Lake  Trasiraene ; 
this  manuscript  is  the  first  draft  of  Demosthenes'  Crown  Oration ; 
this  spear-head  is  a  relic  of  the  lost  detachment  of  Cambyses'  African 
expedition.  My  great  discovery  is  at  length  complete,  and  it  is  this: 
that  certain  exceptionally  gifted  persons  can  be  stirred  by  the  mere 
contact  of  any  object  to  follow  it  back  through  all  the  changes  of 
its  existence,  and  read  its  history  from  the  very  beginning.  Hence- 
forth the  annals  of  the  early  ages  are  a  blank  no  longer ;  with  the 
aid  of  this  new  science  (surpassing  mere  clairvoyance  as  far  as  the 
cannon  surpasses  the  catapult)  we  shall  carry  the  torch  of  Truth 
through  the  darkest  windings  of  the  Past,  and  read  all  the  secrets  of 
antiquity.  But  I  tire  you,  my  friend,  and  you  have  need  of  repose. 
Once  more  accept  my  thanks,  and  pardon  the  trial  to  which  I  have 
subjected  you;  it  was  necessary  for  the  advancement  of  science. 
Within  a  week  I  start  for  Turkestan  on  a  scientific  mission  ;  but  on 
my  return  we  will,  please  God,  pursue  our  researches  to  the  end." 

An  hour  later  I  was  back  at  my  hotel,  in  the  first  stage  of  a  fever 
which  kept  me  out  of  harm's  way  till  my  friend  the  Professor  was 
well  on  his  road  eastward.  With  my  consent  we  shall  never  meet 
again.  As  a  reasoning  and  accountable  creature,  I  object  to  being 
turned  into  a  kind  of  dredger  for  the  fishing  up  of  sunken  facts  and 
traditions.  I  see  the  Turkestan  News  every  week ;  and  the  moment 
there  is  any  word  of  M.  Tchoudoff's  return  I  shall  at  once  send  in 
my  passport,  and  betake  myself  to  Japan,  Mexico,  or  the  North  Pole, 
as  chance  may  direct 


Seals  and  Signets. 

T  is  assumed  that  the  origin  of  seals  and  the  use  of  signets  is 
a  subject  of  some  considerable  interest  to  many  people,  and 
suggestive  /<fr  se  of  important  thoughts  to  the  students  of 
ancient  history — of  forms  of  thought  and  systems  of  opinions 
which  virtually  have  passed  away,  though  many  of  the  symbols  and 
customs,  in  themselves  unimportant,  have  outlived  the  things  signified 
and  the  mutations  of  four  thousand  years. 

The  world  has  nothing  in  it  more  mysterious  than  its  own  origin, 
and  while  the  first  principles  of  nature  are  beyond  the  pale  of  hinnan 
understanding,  the  real  origin  of  things  relating  to  man,  in  a  great 
degree,  partakes  of  the  same  mystery,  and  is  proportionately  obscure. 
Seals  aiid  signets  are  of  this  natiure,  their  origin  being  absolutely  lost 
in  the  maze  of  antiquity;  but  we  trace  the  use  of  them  amongst  the 
earliest  records  of  tradition  and  history.  Many  important  facts  seem 
to  declare  that  their  origin  was  religious.  As  the  first  form  of  reli- 
gious worship  seems  to  have  been  elementary,  or  the  worship  of 
visible  objects  of  nature  as  symbols  of  Divine  attributes,  it  follows 
almost  as  a  matter  of  consequence  that  the  devices  on  seals  and 
signets,  by  which  oaths,  deeds,  and  transactions^  both  civil  and  reli- 
gious, were  ratified,  would  be  symbols  of  sacred  objects,  such  as  the 
sun,  moon,  stars,  earth,  and  ocean.  History  assures  us  that  this  was 
the  case,  and  hence  the  oldest  objects  of  antiquity  are  found  to  be 
seals  and  signets,  and  cylindrical-shaped  stones  with  emblems  on 
them  of  such  objects.  Some  are  so  old  that  the  approximate  period 
of  their  construction  seems  fabulous  to  persons  unacquainted  with 
their  history.  They  suggest  thoughts  and  reflections  of  the  pro- 
foundest  character,  and,  however  remote  from  the  routine  of  daily 
life,  they  bear  upon  matters  of  the  highest  importance.  It  is  there- 
fore no  wonder  that  the  Scriptures  frequently  refer  to  them  in  relation 
to  facts  and  transactions,  and  for  current  illustrations. 

The  Book  of  Job  describes  incidentally  a  condition  of  society 
older  than  any  other  book  of  the  Bible,  and  there  is  good  reason  to 
believe  that  it  had  an  existence  a  long  time  prior  to  the  Pentateuch. 
No  reference  is  made  in  it  to  the  Jewish  patriarch,  and  no  allusion 
to  ideas  purely  Israeli tish.  The  Almighty  is  announced  in  Job  as 
the  true  object  of  worship,  and  the  author  of  that  book  clearly 


% 


Seeds  and  Signets,  59 

looked  through  symbols  to  the  things  signified,  and  recognised  in 
the  sun,  moon,  and  stars,  and  the  hosts  of  heaven,  testifiers  only  of 
that  Almighty  who  sustains  all  things. 

Laiidseer,  in  his  "  Sabean  Researches,"  pertinently  remarks,  "  In 
Job  the  references  to  the  signet  and  its  uses  are  fi-equent,  and  in 
general  not  to  be  mistaken ;  nor  does  Jhe  circumstance  of  its  being  a 
Sabean  custom  appear  to  have  interfered  with  the  pure  Deism  of  the 
patriarch."  To  make  this  generally  apparent  we  make  a  few  quota- 
tions firom  the  Scriptures  : — 

"  Why  hast  thou  set  me  as  a  mark  against  thee,  and  sealed  up  the 
stars?" — referring  to  the  practice  of  sealing  up  precious  things,  so 
that  they  cannot  be  seen  nor  touched  by  unlawful  hand.  "  Thou 
settest  a  print  on  the  heels  of  my  feet " — so  that  he  could  not  escape 
•discovery  by  flight — a  figiurative  expression  referred  to  by  Elisha, 
"  He  (the  Almighty)  marks  all  my  paths."  "  My  transgression  is 
sealed  up  in  a  bag  " — in  which  expression  the  use  of  the  seal  is  most 
evident  "  Then  He  openeth  the  ears  of  men,  and  sealeth  their 
instructions  " — in  the  same  manner  as  kings  give  authority  to  subjects 
to  act  in  lieu  of  tfiemselves.  Their  instructions  being  sealed  with 
the  king's  signet,  so,  figuratively,  the  Almighty  sealeth  man's.  "  He 
sealeth  up  the  hand  of  every  man,"  from  which  we  see  that  man 
cannot  act  without  the  permission  of  the  Almighty,  or  go  beyond 
His  instructions,  adding,  "  that  He  may  know  His  work."  "  His  (the 
Leviathan)  scales  are  his  pride  shut  up  together  as  with  a  seal."  "  It 
is  turned  as  clay  to  the  seal"  Here  there  is  a  striking  reference  to 
the  use  of  the  cylindrical  seal,  giving  us  clearly  the  idea  of  rolling  off 
impressions  on  soft  clay.  David  says,  "  See  we  not  our  sign  :  there 
is  no  more  any  prophet,  neither  is  there  among  us  any  that  know  how 
long."  Jeremiah  remarks,  "  I  subscribed  the  evidence  and  sealed 
it,  and  took  witnesses ;  I  took  evidence  both  of  that  which  was  sealed 
according  to  law  and  custom,  and  that  which  was  open."  Both  this 
law  and  custom  were  antecedent  to  Moses,  and  even  to  Abraham. 
"  As  I  live,  saith  the  Lord,  though  Coriah  the  son  of  Jehoiakim, 
King  of  Judah,  were  the  signet  on  my  right  hand,  yet  would  I  pluck 
thee  hence."  As  the  signet  was  not  only  precious  in  itself  but  the 
sign  of  the  highest  authority,  this  expression  of  Jehovah's  anger  is 
very  terrible.  It  is  said  in  Haggai,  "  In  that  day,  saith  the  Lord  of 
Hosts,  I  will  take  thee,  O  Zerubbabel,  and  will  make  thee  a  signet, 
for  I  have  chosen  thee."  The  former  part  of  the  text  is  thoroughly 
Sabean  in  sense  and  form  of  utterance,  and  the  latter  is  gracious  to 
Zerubbabel,  making  him,  as  God's  right  hand. 

In  the  narrative  of  Daniel  being  cast  into  the  lion's  den  we  have 


6o  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

a  striking  instance  of  this  immemorial  custom  as  practised  by  the 
Sabean  kings  and  princes  who  were  called  "  Sons  of  the  Sun."  "  And 
a  stone  was  brought  and  laid  upon  the  mouth  of  the  den,  and  the 
King  sealed  it  with  his  own  signet  and  with  the  signet  of  his  lords." 
Again,  "  O  Daniel,  shut  up  the  words  and  seal  the  book." 

Many  references  of  this  nature  are  found  in  the  Old  Testament, 
while  the  New  Testament  abounds  with  others  of  the  same  character,  of 
which  the  following  may  be  taken  as  an  example  : — "  Set  to  his  seal, 
that  God  is  true."  "  The  seal  of  mine  Apostleship."  "  Having  this 
seal,  the  Lord  knoweth  them  that  are  His."  The  last  clause  of  this 
text  is  figuratively  supposed  to  be  engraven  on  the  seal  after  the 
manner  of  a  motto  on  a  modem  coat  of  arms.  "Making  the 
sepulchre  sure,  sealing  the  stone."  In  all  such  instances  the  Jewish 
authorities  imitated  the  practices  of  the  Sabean  kings  of  Egypt  and 
Assyria.  "  The  seal  of  the  righteousness  of  faith,"  that  is,  circum- 
cision, a  distinctive  mark  by  which  a  Jew  could  not  cease  to  be  a 
Jew.  "  The  seal  of  God  in  their  foreheads."  Opening  the  seals  in 
the  Revelations,  with  many  other  instances,  all  showing  the  general 
and  continuous  allusions  to  antecedent  customs  of  a  more  ancient 
theology.  Every  beast  sacrificed  in  Egypt  to  the  Sabean  deities 
had  its  forehead  or  horns  sealed  by  the  High  Priest  with  the 
Thoth-stone  seal,  or  Truth,  after  it  had  been  examined  and  pro- 
nounced free  from  blemish,  and  fit  to  be  offered  for  the  sins  of 
the  people  generally,  or  the  worshipper  in  particular. 

In  pursuing  the  subject  of  seals  and  signets,  it  does  not  seem 
possible  nor  desirable  to  separate  them  entirely  from  the  engraved 
objects  represented  on  them  in  most  ancient  times,  or  their  signifi- 
cance among  the  people  to  whom  they  were  symbols  of  sacred  or 
religious  things.  The  use  made  of  them  for  a  period  of  more  than 
a  thousand  years  before  the  Christian  era  is  quite  evident  from  the 
few  quotations  from  the  Book  of  Job,  and  they  might,  if  necessary, 
be  easily  multiplied. 

In  all  nations  and  ages,  whatever  the  condition  of  civilisation,  all 
customs,  rites,  and  objects  consecrated  to  the  service  of  religion  by 
human  beings,  whether  firom  reverence,  or  fear,  or  from  reflection,  have 
been  preserved  and  conserved  with  the  greatest  care.  This  tendency 
in  our  common  nature,  so  conducive  to  general  good,  has,  almost  as 
a  necessary  consequence,  been  oflen  productive  of  great  evils.  It 
was  the  cause  of  idolatry,  that  great  and  cardinal  sin  of  the  Jews, 
from  the  time  of  Moses  until  af^er  the  Babylonian  captivity.  During 
their  four  hundred  years  of  bondage  in  Egypt  the  influence  of  the 
Sabean  theology,  or  more  properly  speaking  mythology  (for  that  pure 


Seals  and  Signets.  6i 

faith  was  then  corrupted),  by  which  they  were  continually  surrounded 
resulted  in  their  minds  becoming  thoroughly  engrained  with  the  moral 
and  religious  feelings  and  ideas  of  the  common  people  of  that  nation ; 
although  Moses,  who  was  learned  in  all  the  arts  of  the  Egyptians, 
knew  all  the  mysteries  of  science  as  then  taught  and  accepted, 
and  clearly  distinguished  the  meaning  of  symbols,  and  in  no  instance 
confounded  concomitancy  of  effects  in  nature  with  causation,  it  was 
not  the  case  with  the  Twelve  Tribes  over  whom  he  was  called  to 
rule,  and  for  whom  he  became  a  lawgiver,  spiritual  and  political. 

This  conservative  element  of  our  nature,  equally  the  cause  as  a 
principle  of  the  greatest  evils  according  to  circumstances,  had  so  com- 
pletely imbued  the  children  of  Abraham  with  the  ideas  comprehended 
under  the  system  of  solar  and  Sabean  mythology,  that  the  authority 
of  Moses  and  Aaron,  supported  by  the  power  vouchsafed  by 
Jehovah,  to  work  mighty  miracles,  and  the  promise  of  good  things 
to  come,  a  land  flowing  with  milk  and  honey,  and  fearful  manifesta- 
tions of  Jehovah's  indignation,  were  all  unable  to  eradicate  the  moral 
taint  of  idolatry,  or  inspire  purer  ideas  of  religious  worship.  So 
deeply  rooted  were  the  vulgar  notions  of  the  Egyptian  people  in  the 
minds  of  the  Hebrews,  and  so  persistently  conserved,  that  forty  years 
of  the  teachings  of  Moses  and  Aaron  failed  to  achieve  a  correction  of 
the  evil,  and  as  a  result  every  soul  of  man's  estate,  save  one,  who 
came  out  of  bondage  was  slain  in  the  wilderness. 

The  condition  of  the  Jewish  mind  did  not  materially  change  for  some 
centuries  after  entering  into  the  Promised  Land.  After  the  Theocracy 
had  ceased,  the  old  leaven  with  which  seals  and  signets  were  more  im- 
mediately connected  was  still  conserved  and  rampant,  as  the  "golden 
calves  made  by  King  Jeroboam,"  and  set  up  as  "  the  gods  which 
brought  them  out  of  the  land  of  Egypt,"  to  which  the  people  went 
to  worship  and  offer  sacrifices  on  altars  before  them,  clearly  show. 

The  earliest  seals  and  signets  spoken  of  historically  had  solar  and 
Sabean — />.,  astrological  and  astronomical — symbols  and  devices,  for 
they  were  twin  sciences  in  those  ancient  days  of  knowledge  and 
enlightenment  Babylonian  cylinders  are  now  in  actual  existence, 
many  of  them  three  and  four  thousand  years  old,  some  of  which  have 
strange  devices  engraved  upon  them,  pregnant  ^vith  mythological 
opinions,  scientific  lore,  and  astronomical  discovery,  of  which  modem 
learning  and  research  at  best  but  dimly  perceive  the  significance. 
Rich  says,  speakmg  of  them  in  a  general  way,  "  They  are  the  most 
remarkable  and  interesting  of  all  antiques.  They  are  from  one  to 
three  inches  in  length ;  some  are  of  stone,  others  apparently  of  paste 
or  composition  of  various  kinds.     Some  of  them  have  cuneiform 


62  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

writing  on  them,  which  is  of  the  third  species,  but  with  the  remarkable 
peculiarity  that  it  is  miersed^  or  written  from  right  to  left,  every  other 
kind  of  cuneiform  writing  being  incontestably  to  be  read  from  left  to 
right.  This  can  only  be  accounted  for  by  supposing  they  were  intended 
to  roll  off  impressions.  I  must  not  omit  to  mention  in  this  place  that 
a  Babylonian  cylinder  was  not  long  ago  found  in  digging  in  the  Field 
of  Marathon,  and  is  now  in  the  possession  of  M.  Flauval,  of  Athens. 
The  cylinders  are  chiefly  to  be  found  in  the  ruins  of  Jerbourza. 
The  people  of  the  country  are  fond  of  using  them  as  amulets,  and  the 
Persian  pilgrims,  who  come  to  the  shrine  of  Ali  Hossein,  frequently 
carry  back  with  them  some  of  these  curiosities.  The  Baby- 
lonian antiques  are  generally  finished  with  the  utmost  care  and 
delicacy,  while  the  Sossanians  are  of  the  rudest  design  and  execu- 
tion." 

To  the  investigation  of  the  lore  on  these  cylinders  Landseer  has 
devoted  much  time  and  sfudy,  and  his  lectures  are  full  of  the  highest 
efforts  of  speculative  thought,  all  tending  to  show  the  astronomical 
condition  of  the  heavens  at  the  time  of  the  fabrication — showing 
also  their  astronomical  significance  as  nativities  of  the  persons  for 
whom  they  were  originally  made,  and  who  used  them  on  important 
occasions  as  we  use  a  family  seal  or  coat  of  arms.  With  them  they 
were  declarations  of  faith — as  proofs  of  mystical  incorporation  with 
the  hosts  of  heaven,  the  constellations,  or  the  powers  and  princi- 
palities supposed  to  be  inherent  in  them  as  presiding  deities. 

The  cuneiform  characters  on  these  antique  cylinders  form  a  marked 
or  well  defined  period  in  the  development  of  written  language,  and 
on  this  account,  among  others,  they  are  interesting  to  the  student  of 
ancient  history.  It  seems  clear  that  cylinders  with  astrological  and 
astronomical  s)anbols  on  them  are  of  an  older  date  than  those  with 
cuneiform  characters,  and  these  must  date  back  to  a  period  more 
remote  than  is  at  first  suspected  by  youthful  students.  Cuneiform 
characters  abound  on  the  temple-palaces  or  palace-temples  of 
Persepolis,  of  which  M.  Bailli,  by  accurate  retrospective  calculation, 
fixes  the  foundation  at  the  period  of  3,209  -years  before  the  Christian 
era,  when  the  sun  entered  the  constellation  of  Aries.  Cylinders, 
rock-temples,  rock-tablets,  hieroglyphics  on  tombs,  miunmy  cases, 
and  papyri,  are  the  most  ancient  records  of  the  world's  civilisation, 
yet  it  is  quite  evident  that  when  these  antique  works  were  executed 
the  arts  and  sciences  were  by  no  means  in  their  infancy.  Languages 
of  development  of  the  most  extraordinary  character  must  have  pre- 
ceded their  fabrication.  Their  origin,  like  written  language,  is  buried 
in  obscurity — in  oblivion. 


Seeds  arid  Signets.  63 

Writing  of  some  kind  seems  to  have  been  coeval  with  tradition 
and  to  have  sprung  out  of  it  from  the  instinctive  love  of  conserving 
the  memory  of  past  persons  and  things.  Hieroglyphical  writing,  or 
writing  by  emblems,  appears  to  have  preceded  not  only  the  cuneiform 
characters,  but  that  form  of  writing  which  must  more  strictly  be 
called  S3Fmbolical,  like  that  on  the  more  ancient  cylinders,  where 
astrological  and  m)rthological  figures  portray  science  and  knowledge. 
Hierogl3rphical  writing  grew  by  slow  degrees  to  its  full  development 
It  was  an  invention  and  not,  properiy  speaking;  a  discovery,  and  a 
careful  study  of  it  seems  to  show  that  the  Magi  had  a  system  of 
phonetics  connected  with  the  signs  and  figures  of  material  objects, 
and  in  some  manner  descriptive  of  the  objects  under  consideration. 

Growing  out  of  this  method,  after  many  years,  and  ages  even,  the 
Demotic  method  was  invented,  written  characters  after  the  manner  of 
the  cuneiform,  Cbptic,  Hebrew,  and  Greek  characters^  and  not  unlike 
those  used  by  the  Chinese  at  the  present  time.  From  these  arose  the 
third  great  division,  or  the  alphabetical  system. 

The  time  of  the  birth  of  these  S3rstems  cannot  be  fixed  with  any 
degree  of  accuracy,  as  they  overlap  and  double  on  each  other  in 
various  nations,  in  a  manner  somewhat  inexplicable ;  but  all  the 
historical  records  of  the  period  of  Moses  in  Egypt  are  of  the  hiero- 
glyphical kind.  It  is  not  clear,  as  far  as  we  have  been  able  to  ieam, 
that  the  Demotic  system  was  then  developed  so  as  to  be  available  for 
seals  and  signets,  or  rock-tablets.  Certainly  we  have  no  grounds  to 
believe  that  an  alphabetical  language  did  then  exist,  and  hence  the 
precious  "  tables  of  stone  "  brought  by  Moses  from  the  top  of  Sinai 
were  probably  magnificent  cylinder  stones,  and  either  sculptured  or 
painted  hieroglyphics,  of  the  kind  found  on  the  rock-tablets  of  Sulphus, 
the  temple-tombs,  mummy-cases,  and  papjnri  of  ancient  Egypt  On 
this  subject  it  is  respectfully  submitted  as  highly  probable  that 
impressions  were  rolled  off  for  the  use  of  the  Twelve  Tribes  of  Israel 
as  required. 

As  the  two  tables  were  "  of  testimony  " — tables  of  stone  written 
by  the  Finger  of  God,  as  well  as  a  decalogue  for  moral  and  reh- 
gious  guidance — ^the  idea  that  the  two  tables  were  cylinders  is  not 
an  unreasonable  supposition.  It  is,  however,  passing  strange  that  the 
stones,  which  could  not  have  been  very  large,  as  they  were  both 
carried  down  Mount  Sinai  by  Moses,  though  containing  records  of 
infinite  importance,  being  written  by  the  "  Finger  of  God,"  should 
have  been  so  soon  lost  in  oblivion,  while  hundreds  of  thousands  of 
antiquities  more  ancient  and  inconceivably  less  precious  stiU  survive, 
the  driblets  di  which  fill  the  museums  of  Europe.     This  certainly 


64  The  Gentlematis  Magazine, 

exceeds  human  comprehension.  It  awakens  unutterable  thoughts 
respecting  the  fact  and  the  character  of  these  chosen  people  of 
Jehovah. 

There  are  many  important  words  and  utterances  of  frequent  occur- 
rence in  the  Old  Testament,  and  sculptured  on  Egyptian  and 
Assyrian  antiquities,  which  will  throw  additional  light  on  ancient  seals 
and  signets  and  Babylonian  cylinders,  if  their  meanings  were  clearly 
defined.  This  I  will  endeavour  to  do  by  such  means  or  knowledge 
as  lies  at  command,  and  which  will  show  that  there  is  a  general  agree- 
ment in  the  lore  of  antiquity  in  all  nations,  and  the  earlier  the  period 
the  closer  the  resemblance  in  symbols,  principles,  and  things  signified. 

"Ath-sign"  means  "what?"  "Signet"  means  "prodigy ;"  denoting 
the  operations  of  the  mind.  "Ensign,"  "a flag;"  a  s)anboliall  image 
held  aloft.  "Thoth,"  "truth;"  it  comes  from  "othoth,"  "ahtoth  ;" 
with  the  Egyptians  the  "a"  being  dropped.  "Baal-ath,"  "Lord  of 
the  Sign,"  and  "Baal-Amon,"  "Lord  of  the  Ram,"  were  synonymous. 
The  sun  is  sometimes  called  "  Moloch,"  "  the  King ; "  "  Baal," 
"  the  Lord ; "  and  "  Mithra,"  "  the  Saviour ; "  "  Adad,"  or  "  Hadad," 
"one  superior,"  or  "one  only;"  "Baal-Saba,"  "the  Lord  of 
Sabaoth,"  the  leading  star  of  the  heavenly  constellations. 

"  Baal "  or  "Bel,"  with  the  Babylonians,  was  the  sun  personified,  the 
same  as  "  Baal-Amon  "  of  Solomon's  Song — "Bel"  in  the  constellation 
Aries.  Ancient  seals  and  signets  frequently  bear  the  symbol  and  appel- 
lation of  the  chief  of  the  Sabean  mythology,  as  Baal,  Bel,  and  Bail. 
"  The  plains  of  Shenoar  "  mean  "  the  plains  of  the  sun."  "  Ath-Baal " 
and  "  Ben-Adad  "  mean  "  sign  of  the  sun  "  and  "  sons  of  the  sun." 
"  Rimmon "  signifies  "  the  Exalted  One,"  indicating  the  sun  in  his 
highest  exaltation.  He  was  a  Syrian  deity,  and  his  symbol^  was  a 
pomegranate,  as  the  name  signifies. 

Bates  says  the  Hebrew  "Sibel,"  or  "  Sabael,"  means  "  the  tropics ;" 
"  Baal-Sabas,"  "  the  Lord  of  Sabaoth,"  the  stars  of  heaven.  The  Divine 
Psalmist  referred  to  these  common  opinions  and  things,  to  whom  seals 
and  signets  were  familiar  as  household  treasures,  when  he  wrote,  as 
rendered  by  highest  commentators,  "  In  the  Sun  hath  Jehovah  placed 
his  tabernacle,  or  habitation,"  as  the  true  leader  of  the  Sabaoth,  i>., 
hosts  of  stars.  In  another  place  he  says  "  God  is  to  us  a  sun  and 
shield."  This  text  is  the  motto  on  the  seal  of  the  arms  of  the  borough 
of  Banbury,  and  its  use  is  for  a  similar  purpose  to  the  ancient  seals 
and  signets  :  it  refers  the  inhabitants  to  the  God  they  profess  to 
worship,  for  the  same  purpose  as  did  the  mythological  and  astrono- 
mical horoscopes  on  Babylonian  and  Assyrian  cylinders.  The  sun 
is  often  seen  winged,  and  thus  symbolised  it  was  to  the  ancient 


Seals  and  Signets.  65 

Magi  significant  of  the  same  attributes  as  perceived  now,  whether  the 
appellation  was  Rimmon,  Adad,  Baal,  Bel,  Ath,  Thoth,  or  Jehovah. 

Mention  is  made  of  seals  and  signets  at  a  very  early  period  of 
Jewish  history,  as  will  be  seen  by  referring  to  the  narrative  of  Tamar 
and  Judah.  "  What  pledge  shall  I  give  thee  ?  "  and  she  said  "  Thy 
signet,  and  the  bracelets  and  the  staff  that  is  in  thine  hand/'  Ancient 
custom  and  usage  clearly  suggests  the  character  of  this  pledge.  It 
was  a  walking  staff— the  staff  of  a  household  with  the  bracelets  and 
signet  pendant  like  a  tassel,  the  signet  being  a  family  or  personal 
horoscope,  the  full  import  of  which  was  well  known  to  Tamar.  She 
knew  it  would  be  redeemed — that  it  would  be  a  proof  beyond  question 
on  whom  her  offspring  ought  to  be  affiliated.  As  this  incident  took 
place  nearly  five  hundred  years  before  Moses  was  bom  it  is  evident 
that  seals  and  signets,  and  those  profound  mythological  mysteries 
comprehended  under  the  general  name  of  Sabeanism  had  a  prior 
existence  to  the  Mosaic  legislation  ;  and  hence  the  forms  of  thought, 
faith,  and  customs  which  we  find  sometimes  dimly  and  obscurely 
expressed,  and  sometimes  clearly,  in  the  Pentateuch,  refer  to  an  older 
civilisation  and  a  higher  order  of  things  touching  sciences  and  art, 
tlian  prevailed  among  the  children  of  Abraham  for  nearly  a  thousand 
years  after  that  patriarch  was  "  brought  out  of  the  Ur  of  tiie  Chaldee." 

Many  facts  go  to  prove  how  thoroughly  Sabeanism  was  incor- 
porated with  all  the  afiairs  of  life  at  that  period,  and  the  Hebrew 
language,  however  it  originated  (and  the  language  so  called  was  not 
invented  by  the  Jews),  must  have  had  its  idioms  developed  by  a 
nation  of  Sabean  worshippers,  whose  faith  and  customs,  secular  and 
religious,  thoroughly  engrained  it  Hence  the  first  word  of  the  Bible 
is  one  whose  meaning  is  derived  from  the  Sabeanites*  divining-tree  ; 
"  Ashre,"  or  "  Blesser,"  enters  into  its  radical  meaning.  "  Berschit "  has 
been  translated  "  In  the  beginning,"  but  great  authorities  say  that 
"  principling,  or  organising  energy  would  be  more  abstractly  sublime 
and  correct."  It  thus  becomes  clear  that  the  language  of  the  Jews, 
which  they  must  have  found  ready  developed  more  or  less  accurately 
to  their  tongues,  was  built  upon  or  derived  from  a  nation  of  Sabean 
worshippers  who  had  attained  a  high  state  of  civilisation  before  the 
existence  of  Abraham. 

The  divining-tree  of  the  Sabeans,  by  which  horoscopes  were 
anciently  ascertained  (to  be  engraved  on  seals  and  signets  in  symbolical 
characters),  the  ancient  calendar  made,  and  the  sacred  cycle  deter- 
mined^ shows  another  point  of  the  ancient  Scriptiures. 

The  term  "Ashre"  has  been  capriciously  used,  maltreated,  and 
falsely  rendered,  so  as  to  be  totally  misunderstood  by  ordinary 
Vol.  XI.,  N.S.  1873.  f 


66  The  Gentlematis  Magazifie. 

readers  of  the  Scriptures.  At  the  time  they  were  translated  into 
English  the  Sabean  divining-tree  Ashre  was  not  understood,  either 
as  to  character  or  use.  Hence  we  have  such  strangely  dissimilar 
renderings  of  the  term.  While  writing,  I  have  now  lying  before  me 
a  drawing  of  an  Ashre,  taken  from  a  Babylonian  cylinder,  a  very 
curious  instrument;  but  it  is  not  easy  to  understand  how  it  was 
worked  by  the  diviner.  The  term  has  been  grossly  treated  :  some- 
times called  "blesser,"  and  sometimes  "a  grove  of  trees,"  than 
which  nothing  can  be  more  dissimilar,  making  it  not  only  impossible 
for  uncritical  readers  to  know  what  is  meant  by  the  text,  but  giving 
a  totally  erroneous  idea. 

We  know  that  terms  referring  to  obsolete  customs  and  forgotten 
instruments,  the  manner  of  using  which  has  become  a  lost  art, 
cannot  be  very  felicitously  rendered  in  a  foreign  language  by  any 
linguist ;  but  when  there  is  an  utter  ignorance  of  the  custom  and 
thing  itself  the  result  will  not,  cannot,  be  distinguished  by  truth  and 
accuracy.  Two  or  three  instances  are  submitted  to  illustrate  the 
subject.  Deut.  ii.,  20  :  "Thou  shalt  not  plant  a  grove  (Ashre)  of 
any  trees  near  the  altar  of  the  Lord  thy  God."  David  says  in  the 
Psalms  :  "  Blessed  (Ashre)  is  the  man,  &c."  Now  the  true  meaning 
of  Ashre  is  "Blesser,"  or  "Advancer;"  so  that  in  the  last  instance  the 
true  meaning  is  given ;  but  if  the  translators  had  adhered  to  their 
other  way  oF  rendering  the  term  it  would  have  been  "Engroved  is  the 
man,"  which  would  have  been  nonsense.  Therefore,  to  render  Ashre 
"  grove"  or  "grove  of  trees,"  which  is  frequently  the  case,  conveys  a 
totally  false  meaning.  It  is  presumed  that  Julius  Bates  gives  the  true 
rendering :  "  Thou  shalt  not  set  up  any  Ashre  of  any  wood ; "  or 
"  Thou  shalt  not  fix  up  an  Ashre  under  any  tree  near  the  altar  of  the 
Lord  thy  God."  The  term  does  not  refer  to  natural  trees  at  all,  but 
to  the  setting  up  of  the  divining-tree  of  the  Sabeanites.  The  instance 
of  Leah  in  naming  the  child  of  her  handmaid  Jacob's  son,  co&firms 
this  view.  "And  Leah  said,  *  Happy  am  I :  the  daughters  shall  call 
me  blessed.'  And  she  called  his  name  Ashre" — that  is,  "Blesser,"  or 
"Advancer."  This  historical  fact  also  shows  that  at  that  early  period 
of  the  Jewish  people  the  Sabean  &ith  prevailed,  giving  rites,  customs, 
and  influences,  social  and  religious. 

Tlie  AjBhie       d  by  Abra      1  and  his  posterity  was  precisely  of  the 

*  M       t  1     d  t)y  the  Sabean  nations ;  but  an  absurd 

m  2  ,  xviL,  zo :  "And  they  set  them  up 

e      ^  \      \  hill,  and  under  every  green  treeJ* 

1    cdy  set  np  under  "  every  green  tree," 

^  made  a  grove  and  set  it  up  m  the 


Seals  and  Signets,  67 

house  of  the  Lord.'*  A  divining-tree  instrument  might  be  easily  set 
up  in  the  Temple,  though  profanely  according  to  the  law;  but  a 
"grove  of  trees"  could  not  be  so  readily  established  in  such  a 
place.  Take  one  more  illustration  out  of  many  that  might  be 
adduced.  According  to  Josephus,  Abraham  was  learned  in  the 
knowledge  of  the  stars,  or  hosts  of  heaven.  He  lived  in  Arabia^ 
where  the  science  of  astronomy  was  first  studied.  Hence  he  could 
divine  a  divination,  make  his  own  horoscope,  or  cast  his  nativity,  as 
it  is  called  in  modem  days — arrange  his  own  sign,  to  be  engraved  on 
his  seal  or  signet;  as  we  say,  "marshalling  his  coat  of  arms"  by 
symbolical  imagery.  It  is  said  in  Gen.  xxi.,  33,  "Abraham  planted 
a  grove  (Ashre),  and  called  on  the  name  of  the  Lord."  He  erected 
a  divining-tree  instrument,  and  with  no  reproach  to  his  faith,  for  he 
saw  through  the  signs  in  the  staiVy  hosts  of  heaven,  and  the  divine 
powers  and  potentates  then  supposed  to  reside  in  them,  as  indicated 
.  by  the  Ashre,  the  things  signified. 

A  thousand  years  after  Abraham  the  divine  penmen  of  the  Jews 
believed  the  Sabean  faith,  that  the  constellations — the  stars  of 
heaven — were  the  mansions  of  presiding  powers,  subordinate  deities, 
without  which  belief  the  foUowihg  striking  quotation  has  no  meaning : 
"The  stars  in  their  courses  fought  against  Sisera."  We  find  (2  Kings, 
xxiii.)  that  Hilkiah  "brought  out  the  grove  from  the  House  of 
the  Lord,  and  burnt  it  at  the  brook  Kedron,  and  stamped  it  small  to 
powder;"  showing  clearly  that  the  divining-tree  instrument  only  is 
meant  by  the  term  "  grove."  In  verse  7  it  is  said,  "  And  he  broke 
down  the  houses  of  the  Sodomites  that  were  by  the  house  of  the 
Lord,  where  the  women  wove  hangings  for  the  grove."  The  whole 
chapter  gives  us  a  picture  of  the  moral  degradation  of  the  Jews  so 
loathsome  and  revolting  that  we  are  utteriy  unable  to  understand 
how  a  people  who  had  for  a  long  series  of  ages  been  under  the 
special  government  of  Jehovah,  under  a  Theocracy,  could  be  so 
enormously  wicked.  Either  the  Theocracy  was  a  great  delusion,  or 
the  priestly  executives  of  Jehovah's  will  were  diabolically  wicked 
beyond  those  who  sought  to  violate  the  very  angels  of  God,  and  were 
consumed  by  fire  and  brimstone  in  the  Cities  of  the  Plains. 

From  what  has  been  said,  it  will  not  be  difficult  to  see  the  connec- 
tion there  is  between  the  use  of  ancient  seals  and  signets  and  their 
symbolical  devices  and  the  development  of  modem  heraldry.  All 
the  principal  signs  of  the  ars  heraldica  have  been  derived  from  the 
83rmbolical  figures  used  in  the  ancient  mythological  and  astrological 
system  of  Sabeanism.  The  ancient  Egyptian  and  Chaldean  Magi 
had  as  severely  defined  a  science  of  heraldry  as  we  have  at  the 

F  2 


68  The  Gmtlema^is  Magazine. 

present  time,  but  it  was  connected  with  the  religious  sentiment  in  a 
manner  not  now  recognised.  It  was,  in  fact,  a  part  of  a  theological 
belief,  and  was  taught  by  a  privileged  and  sacred  body  of  persons 
who  were  supposed  to  be  divinely  appointed  in  a  higher  but  in  an 
analogous  manner  to  the  Herald's  College,  established  by  King 
Richard  the  Third.  By  their  fiat  all  regal  ceremonies,  solemnities, 
contracts,  institutions,  instalments,  births,  and  marriages  were  regu- 
lated, and  especially  funerals,  by  which  the  departed  spirit  was 
supposed  to  be  religiously  conducted  from  this  world  to  the  next, 
and  by  a  divine  apotheosis  became  one  with  Osiris,  the  Infinite  and 
Eternal. 

It  may  be  true  that  our  system  of  heraldry  was  not  developed  till 
the  closing  years  of  the  mediaeval  period,  yet  there  are  no  grounds  to 
conclude  that  it  was,  properly  speaking,  a  new  institution ;  for  the 
signs  and  symbols,  as  before  stated,  belonged  to  the  ancient  system, 
of  which  seals  and  signets  formed  an  important  and  interesting  part. 
It  is  quite  evident  that  heraldic  emblazonry  was  an  institution  of 
the  early  Greeks,  and  this  would  take  us  beyond  the  period  of  Homer 
and  Hesiod. 

The  celebrated  "Bayeux  Tapestry"  is  an  elaborate  delineation 
of  the  symbols  at  the  time  of  the  Norman  Conquest,  a.d.  1066.     In 
''Debrett's  Peerage"  it  is  well  stated — "The  earliest  RoU  of  Arms 
jf  which  we  have  any  notice  is  in  the  reign  of  Henry  III.,  and  the 
-eign  of  Edward  I.  presents  us  with  the  earliest  document  extant 
The  famous  *  Roll  of  Caerlaverock,'  a  poem  in  old  Norman  French, 
rehearses  the  names  and  armorial  ensigns  of  all  the  barons,  knights, 
&c.,  who  attended  Edward  at  the  siege  of  Caerlaverock  Castle,  a.d. 
1300.     Heraldry  is  therein  for  the  first  time  presented  to  us  as  a 
science.      The  principal  rules  and  terms  of  the  art  were  then  in 
existence,  and  from  about  that  time  the  latter  are  continually  found 
in  the  fabliaux  and  romances  of  France  and  England."    In  a  figura- 
tive sense,  the  heraldic  shield  or  field  represents  the  ancient  firmament, 
and  the  charges  the  houses  or  mansions  in  which  resided  the  powers, 
potentates,  and  dominions  which  guided  the  constellations.    They 
were  of  greater  or  less  dignity — or,  argent,  gules,  azure,  sable,  vert, 
purpure,  sanguine,  tenne.     It  is  not  a  little  singular  that  these  repre- 
sent the  sun,  moon,  and  the  seven  planets  known  to  the  ancient 
Magi.     This  subject  is  perhaps  too  recondite  to  be  here  fiirther  pur- 
sued.    We  will,  therefore,  take  a  brief  but  general  glance  at  the 
mottoes  of  the  armorial  bearings  of  our  nobility  now  surviving  on 
their  arms,  the  representatives  of  ancient  seals  and  signets.     The 
mottoes  are  more  or  less  expressive  of  qualities  or  purposes,  which 


Seals  and  Signets.  69 

may  by  a  figure  of  speech  be  called  characteristics  of  the  family 
whose  coat  of  arms  they  accompany  as  a  general  illustration  of  the 
emblazonry.  This  view,  however,  more  particularly  applies  to  the 
original  or  primitive  shield,  for  the  various  quarterings  through  the 
intermarriage  of  families  have  complicated  the  symbolical  figures  so 
that  the  harmony  between  the  marshalling  and  the  motto  is  in  a  con- 
siderable degree  destroyed.  It  is  no  less  a  fact  that  present  owners 
of  coats  of  arms  and  mottoes  do  not  necessarily  inherit  those  virtues 
for  the  possession  of  which  the  original  grant  was  made,  and  not 
unfrequently  the  character  is  more  discordant  with  the  motto  than 
the  motto  is  with  the  symbols  on  the  shield.  Were  it  otherwise,  it 
would  only  be  necessary  to  consult  that  admirable  work,  "  Debrett's 
Peerage  and  Baronetage,"  to  learn  the  leading  moral,  civil,  and  per- 
sonal qualities  and  virtues  of  the  nobles  of  the  land  in  which  we 
live.  No  doubt  there  are  some,  possibly  many,  whose  mottoes 
indicate  the  character  of  those  who  own  them,  being  full  of  signi- 
ficance, embodying  principles  at  once  simple  and  important,  while 
others  express  concentrated  knowledge,  purpose,  and  experience. 
Let  us  glance  at  a  few  mottoes  by  way  of  illustrating  the  general 
object  of  this  article. 

The  Marquis  of  Abercom's  is  "  Sola  nobilitas  virtus."  This  does 
not  recognise  that  social — which  may  with  propriety  be  called  con* 
ventional — nobility  which  in  these  days  is  accepted  as  the  genuine 
article,  and  obtained  by  that  fortunate  conjunction  of  circumstances 
called  birth.  If  one  admits  Dr.  Johnson's  definition  of  virtue  by  a 
negative  process,  that  a  man  must  do  something  more  than  his  duty  to 
be  virtuous,  it  pretty  clearly  shows  that  that  "  virtue"  which  is  the 
"  only  nobility"  consists  not  in  the  condition  in  which  one  happens 
to  be  bom,  but  in  good  and  great  actions.  For  a  man  with  such  a 
motto  to  plume  himself  upon  his  birth  is  a  cruel  satire  on  his  own 
dignity. 

The  Marquis  of  Aylesbury's  motto, "  Fuimus"  (We  have  been),  may 
be  viewed  as  expressing  regret  or  triumph ;  hence  its  influence  on  the 
mind  of  the  owner  of  it  may  inspire  melancholy  or  inglorious  ease — 
scarcely  mirthfulness  or  noble  aspirations. 

The  Earl  of  Albemarle's  motto  inculcates  a  high  moral  lesson, ''  Ne 
cede  malis"  ("Do  not  yield  to  misfortune"),  while  Earl  Annesley's 
"  Virtutis  amore"  ("From  the  love  of  virtue")  breathes  the  true  spirit 
of  life  and  the  correct  principle  of  human  action.  The  **  Always  ready" 
("  Toujours  pret") — of  Earl  Antrim  indicates  the  high  civil,  social,  and 
patriotic  qualities  which  conspire  to  make  a  practical  man.  Baron 
Bagton's  "  Antiquum  obtineus  "  ("  Possessing  antiquity  "),  irrespective 


70  The  Gentlemaf^s  Magazine. 

of  other  considerations,  has  but  small  merit  as  a  signet  motto. 
Viscount  Bangor's  "  Sub  cruce  salus"  ("Salvation  beneath  the  Cross") 
sufficiently  tells  its  import  and  its  age.  Many  mottoes  of  a  pious 
character,  of  which  this  may  be  taken  as  a  fair  specimen,  are  borne 
by  the  English  nobility  and  gentry. 

The  Duke  of  Bedford's  motto  may  be  either  pithy  or  petulant — 
"  Che  sara  sara"  ("  What  will  be,  will  be  ").  It  is  an  old  saw  worthy  the 
wisdom  of  a  washerwoman  or  a  wiseacre ;  while  that  of  Elarl  Berkeley, 
**  Dieu  avec  nous  "  ("  God  with  us  "),  has  all  the  vanity  of  its  French 
original,  united  to  the  presumption  of  English  sectarianism.  "  Amo  " 
{"  I  love  "),  the  motto  of  the  Duke  of  Buccleuch,  is  so  absolute  and  yet 
so  indefinite  that  it  may  be  by  the  addition  of  a  substantive  (and  it 
has  no  meaning  without  one)  either  good  or  bad  or  indifferent, 
heavenly,  earthly,  sensual,  or  devilish. 

That  of  Earl  Cornwath  is  downright  vernacular  and  nobly  heroical 
— "  I  dare  " — breathing  the  spirit  of  chivalry  and  smacking  of  the 
^  tented  field ; "  while  "  Watch  and  pray  "  ("  Vigilate  et  orate  ")  of 
Baron  Castlemain  is  monkish  or  puritanical.  Earl  Castle-Stuart's 
motto  conmiands  in  good  English  "Forward" — ^ringing  with  the 
metal  and  mettle  which  wins  victories  on  all  the  battle  fields  of  life — 
and  "Semper  paratus"  ("Always  ready")  on  the  banner  of  Baron 
Cliflford  nobly  supports  the  same  "  sentiment "  or  command. 

There  is  something  philosophically  smart  and  inspiring  in  the 
motto  of  Baron  Cranworth  :  "  Post  nubila  Phoebus "  ("After  clouds, 
sunshine  ");  and  not  less  so  the  "In  omnia  paratus"  ("Prepared  for  all 
things ")  of  Baron  Dunalley.  The  vernacular,  "  Strike,"  of  Baron 
Hawke,  is  strikingly  in  harmony  with  the  name  of  the  thing  originally 
signified,  and  "Now  or  never"  ("Nunc  aut  nunquam")  of  Earl 
Kilmorey  inspires  a  kindred  sentiment  of  heroism. 

Some  mottoes  are  mystical  for  a  pvupose,  as  was  that  of  Earl 
Kintore,"  Quae  amissa  salva"  ("What  was  lost  is  safe  ") — referring  to 
the  regalia  of  Scotland  preserved  by  the  first  Earl  of  Kintore.  Baron 
Langford's  "Bear  and  forbear"  is  eminently  philosophical  and 
pregnant  with  great  practical  Wisdom  \  while  the  Marquis  Tweeddale's 
"Spare  nought"  inculcates  the  very  opposite  qualities.  Equally 
demonstrative  and  characteristic  is  the  motto  of  Baron  Westbury, 
"  Ithel,"  ("  Pride,")  the  Welsh  name  of  the  fiamily,  a  quality  not 
particularly  amiable. 

Such  are  some  of  the  most  striking  mottoes  of  the  English  peerage, 
which  they  bear  on  their  arms  as  family  distinctions,  and  which  had 
their  origin  as  already  stated. 

The  mottoes  of  the  baronets  and  gentry  of  England  are  of  course 


Seals  and  Signets.  71 

in  principle  the  same  as  those  of  the  peers  and  royal  family,  but 
there  appears  to  be  a  greater  tendency  to  the  Caesarian  famous 
despatch  "  Veni,  vidi,  vici."  The  following,  freely  taken  from  Debrett's 
admirable  work,  will  illustrate  the  fact : — 

"Loyalty,"  "Devotion,"  "Activity,"  "Ready,"  "Activdy,"  "In- 
nocent and  True,"  "  Hallelujah,"  "  Liberty,"  "  Country,"  "  Unity," 
"  Think,"  "  Persevere,"  "  Forward,"  '*  Forget  Not,"  "  Take  Care," 
''  Firm,"  "  Watch." 

"  I  fly  high  "  is  the  acme  of  conceitedness,  and  "  Never  give  in  " 
is  a  good  motto  for  a  fighting  family  like  that  of  Sir  John  Lawrence 
of  Indian  renown,  who  bears  it ;  but  of  far  more  worth  is  the  truth 
inculcated  by  the  motto  of  the  Clifford  family,  "  Virtus  mille  scuta  " 
— "  Virtue  is  equal  to  a  thousand  shields." 

In  bringing  these  observations  to  a  close  we  cannot  refrain  from 
remarking  the  singular  fact  that  the  literal  signs  and  symbols  of  the 
ancients  have  been  preserved  for  four  or  five  thousand,  years,  generally 
signifying  the  same  material  objects,  though  the  spiritual  existences 
and  divine  principles  which  were  originally  symbolised  have  been 
totally  lost  to  the  public  mind,  and  but  dimly  discerned  by  the  most 
astute  student  of  the  past  systems  of  thought,  cosmogony,  and 
theology.  These  have  been  from  time  to  time  often  readjusted 
through  the  countless  cycles  of  past  existence,  supplementing  the 
theories  which  governed  humanity  in  its  aspirations  after  a  knowledge 
of  the  Unknown,  if  not  unknowable,  and  supplanting  them  accord- 
ing to  the  exigencies  and  postulates  of  an  enlarged  life.  However 
large  the  utterance,  it  b  not  too  much  to  say  tliat  all  the  mystical 
signs  and  symbols  of  Grecian  mythology,  of  the  Greek  Church  and 
Roman  Catholicism,  and  of  Freemasonry,  had  a  common  origin,  and 
they  are  referrible  to  the  same  common  paternity  as  heraldry  and 

ancient  seals  and  signets. 

James  Hutchings. 


Making  the  Worst  of  it. 

BY  JOHN  BAKER  HOPKINS. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

SUNSHINE. 


|H£  most  impressible  thing  on  earth  is  the  face  of  man. 
Not  the  features,  but  the  countenance.  The  grooms  in 
a  stud  stable,  who  are  constantly  with  horses,  become 
horsey  in  countenance  as  well  as  in  garment.  The 
countenance  of  the  shepherd  is  sheepish.  The  dog  fancier  might  be 
attired  in  the  choicest  productions  of  the  tailor's  art,  but  so  long  as 
his  face  was  visible  his  trade  would  be  known.  The  influence  of  ' 
man  on  man  is  greatest.  Children  of  one  family  differ  in  feature,  yet 
there  is  a  family  likeness  because  they  have  been  subject  to  the  same 
mental  impressions ;  for  that  which  we  call  the  countenance  is  the 
shining  forth  or  reflection  of  the  mind.  Husband  and  wife,  when 
the  bond  is  the  strong,  holy  union  of  hearts,  grow  wonderfully  alike ; 
and  the  likeness  in  countenance  is  made  more  conspicuous  by  same- 
ness in  manner. 

How  soon  when  there  is  change  of  association  there  is  change  of 
countenance  and  unlikeness !  When,  after  long  years,  we  return  to 
some  memory-cherished  spot,  perhaps  the  house  in  which  the  days  of 
our  youth  were  passed,  we  are  startled  at  the  imperfection  of  our 
memory.  The  rooms  are  larger  or  smaller,  richer  or  poorer  than  we 
thought  they  were.  We  recollect  the  old  tree,  and  the  shady  comer 
in  which  grew  the  lilies  of  the  valley  that  we  gathered  for  the  fair 
victim  of  our  first  essay  in  love  making ;  but  the  garden  is  not  the 
garden  we  expected.  Or  if,  after  years  of  separation,  we  meet  a 
friend,  a  school  comrade,  or  a  college  chum,  it  is  improbable  that 
the  intimacy  will  be  renewed.  Old  friend,  I  love  you  as  in  the 
olden  time,  but  you  are  not  as  you  were  in  the  olden  time.  You 
have  grown  so  strange  that  I  cannot  be  with  you  as  I  was  in  the 
years  before  the  flood,  in  the  days  of  our  youth.  I  am  more  intimate  , 
with  the  new-fledged  friends,  though,  may  be,  I  love  them  less.  My 
schoolfellow,  my  playmate,  feels  as  I  feel,  and  we  may  remain  fast 
friends,  but  intimate  companionship  is  impossible. 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  73 

Henry  Clayton  was  for  the  first  days  a  stranger  at  home.  In 
prison  and  in  exile  the  memory  of  his  home  had  never  slept  No 
incident,  however  trivial,  was  forgotten.  And  when  he  came  home 
he  was,  he  knew  not  why,  disappointed.  Not  in  the  loving  wel- 
come from  his  wife;  but  the  home  was  not  altogether  homely  to  him. 
The  change  was  in  him  much  more  than  in  his  home,  but  he  knew 
it  not  The  transplanted  tree  is  drooping.  Shall  we  move  it  back 
to  its  native  earth  ?  Yes,  for  it  will  surely  die  if  left  in  the  foreign 
soil,  yet  the  roots  may  not  be  able  to  re-affiliate  with  the  mother 
earth. 

The  mighty  affection  of  the  wife  triumphed,  and  before  Henry  had 
been  back  a  month  the  strange  strangeness  had  well  nigh  passed  away. 
But  the  child  was  not  reconciled,  and  her  coldness  chilled  the  heart 
of  her  father.  She  obeyed  her  mother,  and  addressed  Henry  as  her 
father,  but  it  was  too  manifest  that  her  salutation  was  merely  lip 
homage.  She  never  spoke  to  him  except  to  answer  a  question.  She 
never  looked  at  him,  even  when  speaking  to  him.  She  never  kissed 
him,  and  shrank  from  him  when  he  kissed  her.  Alice  did  not 
believe  that  Henry  was  her  father.  Her  mother  told  her  so,  and  she 
did  not  deny  it,  but  she  did  not  in  very  deed  and  in  her  heart 
believe  the  statement 

Henry  bore  with  the  child.  So  did  the  mother  outwardly,  but  not 
inwardly.  Her  anger  begat  dislike,  and  she  began  to  look  upon  her 
child  as  an  affliction,  and  not  a  blessing.  Once  or  twice  Ann 
wrestled  with  the  growing  unkindness,  and  vainly,  for  the  child 
offended  her  daily.  Nor  could  the  mother  altogether  conceal  her  ill- 
feeling  ;  and  Alice  wished  the  more  fervently  that  Henry  had  not 
come  to  make  her  unhappy. 

It  was  the  third  Sunday  after  the  return. 

"Are  you  going  to  church  to-night,  Ann  ?  "  asked  Henry. 

"  Not  if  you  wish  me  to  remain  at  home  with  you." 

"  Oh  no.     I  will  walk  as  far  as  the  church  with  you." 

Father,  mother,  and  child  set  forth.  Alice  was  about  to  take  her 
mother's  arm,  but  Ann  repulsed  her,  and  she  walked  behind.  When 
they  were  at  the  church  porch  Ann  said,  "  We  shall  soon  be  home, 
dear." 

"  I  think  I  will  go  in  with  you.     It  can't  harm  me." 

Ann  was  delighted,  and  for  the  first  time  since  his  imprisonment 
Henry  entered  a  place  of  worship.  He  had  almost  forgotten  how  to 
kneel  During  no  part  of  the  service  did  his  lips  move,  but  his  face 
showed  that  the  words  of  prayer  and  the  hymns  of  praise  moved  his 
heart  not  a  little. 


74  The  Gentleman! s  Magazine. 

On  the  return  from  church  there  was  supper,  and,  being  Sunday 
night,  Alice  was  at  the  table.  Directly  the  meal  was  over  she  was 
told  to  go  to  bed.  Mrs.  Clayton  had  become  peremptory  to  the 
girl,  and  she  rose  hastily,  lighted  her  candle,  and  kissed  her  mother. 
The  mother  did  not  return  the  Iciss.  To  her  child  her  lips  had 
become  rigid  as  marble. 

Then  Alice  went  to  her  father.  He  kissed  her  cheek,  and  for  the 
first  time  since  she  was  a  prattling  child  she  kissed  him.  The  hot 
blood  flushed  her  face ;  his  was  pale.  She  put  both  her  arms  about 
his  neck,  and  he  stooped  to  her,  and  she  kissed  him  again,  and  said, 
**  Father,  dear,  for  you  are  my  father,  and  I  have  been  very  wicked.  I 
will  be  good  to  you,  and  love  you." 

He  took  the  girl  on  his  knee  and  nursed  her,  as  if  the  last  time  he 
had  done  so  were  yesterday,  and  his  girl  were  still  a  prattling  child. 

Ann  saw  what  had  happened,  and  she  stole  from  the  room.  The 
reconciliation  of  child  to  father  filled  her  with  joy  and  thankfulness. 
Not  for  her  own  sake,  not  for  the  sake  of  Alice,  .but  for  the  sake  of 
her  husband.  Apart  from  his  happiness  she  had  no  thought  of  hap- 
piness. Deep,  unselfish,  and  ever  growing  love  may  be  rare,  but  not 
so  rare  as  the  cynic  thinks.  Ann  Clayton  is  a  type  of  a  class,  a  type 
of  the  women  who  inspire  men  by  their  affection,  and  who  save 
society  from  the  corruption  that  would  ensue  from  utter  selfishness. 

Oh !  the  more  than  magic  power  of  pure  love !  The  embrace,  the 
recognition,  the  pledge  of  love  from  his  child  suddenly  transformed 
Henry  Clayton.  The  dead  heart  was  alive  again.  The  strength  and 
health  of  the  crushed  spirit  was  renewed. 

"  Ever  since  our  Alice  spoke  to  me,  Ann,  •  the  words  that  were 
sung  to-night,  *  Lord,  now  lettest  thou  Thy  servant  depart  in  peace,' 
have  been  in  my  ears,  and  in  n\y  mind,  and  in  my  heart.  Not  Aat 
I  wish  to  die,  Ann,  for  I  feel  that  I  can  live  a  better  life,  and  I  will 
do  so." 

They  sat  by  the  fireside  talking  for  hours  about  the  past  and 
about  the  future. 

"  Henry,  dear,  you  are  yourself  to-night  You  look  as  you  did 
before  our  sorrow." 

Next  day  Henry  walked  with  Alice  to  her  school,  and  was  waiting 
for  her  when  she  came  out  of  school.  He  was  loving  to  her  as  a 
lover.  In  the  afternoon  he  went  to  town,  and  called  on  Mr.  Stot 
The  eminent  detective  eyed  his  visitor  while  he  shook  hands  with 
him. 

*'  Glad  to  see  you  looking  nearer  the  nines  than  you  were  t'other 
f    ~  it     Take  the  word  of  one  who  is  up  in  human  nature,  which  is 

art  goiog,  that  tracking  a  serpent  which  has  stung  you 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  75 

aint  paying  sport,  and  if  it  were,  flustering  aint  the  way  to  catch 
your  serpent" 

"  I  have  called  on  you  about  that  business.  I  agree  with  you  that 
Mellish  is  dead,  and  so  we  will  stop  the  pursuit." 

'^  I  said  we  might  bury  him  on  suspicion.  I  did  not  say  he  was 
dead." 

"Not  dead!"  exclaimed  Henry.  "What  has  happened?  Do 
you  think  he  is  alive  ?     Do  you  know  he  is  alive  ?" 

Ann  would  not  at  this  moment  have  said  that  her  husband  looked 
as  he  did  before  their  sorrow.  His  very  features  were  distorted  by 
inhuman  hate.  Well,  not  inhuman,  but  human,  for  what  hate  is  so 
horrible,  so  godless  as  human  hate  ? 

**  Why,"  replied  the  detective,  "  lightning  itself  is  slower  than  a 
hamstrung  tortoise  compared  to  the  pace  you  rush  at  conclusions. 
No,  Mr.  Clayton,  I  don't  know  that  he  is  alive.  I  don't  think 
he  is  alive.  But  not  having  the  body,  we  can't  swear,  except  circum- 
stantially, that  he  is  dead,  and,  according  to  your  instructions,  I  will 
keep  a  look  out" 

For  two  or  three  minutes  there  was  silence.  Then  Henry  spoke 
slowly,  firmly,  but  with  evident  effort : 

"  Whether  he  is  dead  or  living,  stop  the  pursuit  \i  you  find  him, 
I  should  have  to  see  him,  and  to  avenge  a  wrong  that  can  never  be 
redressed.  It  is  better  for  those  I  love  that  I  should  not  know  Mellish 
lives.  I  will  count  him  dead.  If  he  is  living,  let  him  not  cross  my 
path.     That  is  all." 

"Which  is  a  wise  resolution,"  said  Mr.  Stot  "It  is  to  me 
what  I  call  an  unawares  pleasure,  which  is  always  the  sweetest ;  for 
after  the  way  you  raved  about  vengeance  I  should  have  sworn  all 
the  oaths  ever  invented  that  you  would  never  forgive  that  enemy,  so 
long  as  white  is  white  and  black  is  black." 

^*  And  I  do  not  forgive  him.  If  he  were  alive,  and  I  could  kill 
him  without  bringing  sorrow  to  those  I  love,  I  would  do  it  That 
being  impossible,  whether  he  is  dead  or  alive  he  shall  be  dead  to  me, 
imless  he  crosses  my  path." 

"  That's  what  I  call  a  genuine  business  view.  If  revenge  pays, 
have  it  if  you  can  get  it     If  it  don't  pay,  cut  it  if  you  can." 

When  Henry  left,  Mr.  Stot  whistled  two  or  three  bars  of  a  tune 
something  like  a  parody  on  "  Rule,  Britannia." 

"  Can't  see  to  the  bottom  of  this  well.  It's  likely  to  be  the  ^^'ife's 
doing ;  for  a  fellow  who  is  fond  of  his  wife  shifts  with  her  whims  as 
a  weathercock  does  with  the  wind.  Wouldn't  Mellish  dance  a  jig 
if  he  knew  it !     But  he  won't  through  this  child  !     First,  I  don't  like 


76  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

him  for  swindling  me.  Next,  I  hate  him  for  doing  his  paltry  little 
best  to  get  me  into  a  bother.  And,  moreover,  he  might  go  abroad 
to  be  out  of  harm's  way,  and  he  is  useful  to  me,  or  may  be  so.  What 
a  mighty  power  it  is  to  know  men's  secrets !" 

Henry  was  merry  that  evening.  He  played  with  Alice,  and  laughed 
as  he  had  not  done  for  many  years.  When  he  was  alone  with  his 
wife  he  told  her  what  he  had  intended  to  do  about  Mellish,  and  how 
he  had  resolved  to  forego  his  revenge. 

"  Oh,  Henry  dear,  such  revenge  would  have  been  cruel  to  Alice 
and  to  yourself.  Then  our  child  could  not  have  said  ^  My  father  has 
been  afflicted,  but  he  is  guiltless  of  crime.' " 

"  Yet,  Ann,  it  is  hard  to  forego  revenge." 

"  Harder  still,  my  dearest,  to  do  a  wrong  that  cannot  be  undone." 

"Well,  old  love,  I  will  not  do  the  wrong.     Are  you  satisfied?" 

The  answer  was  a  kiss. 

"  Has  our  little  one  seen  the  old  home  since  I  went  away  ?" 

To  Henry  his  child  was  still  a  little  child. 

"  After  that  dreadful  day  we  never  looked  at  the  house.  I  had  not 
the  courage,  and  truly  not  the  wish." 

"  When  Alice  comes  from  school  to-morrow  we  will  visit  the  old 
place,  and  then,  Ann,  we  will  try  to  forget  the  past  sorrow  and  live 
for  the  days  to  come." 

After  a  long  and  stormy  voyage  there  is  the  enjoyment  of  home. 
Human  life  has  been  again  and  again  compared  to  a  voyage,  because  the 
comparison  is  so  true  and  so  exact.  With  some — ^with  most  of  us — the 
voyage  is  an  alternation  of  sunshine  and  darkness,  of  calm  and  storm. 
Others,  when  the  land — the  better  land — ^is  in  sight  can  tell  only  of 
a  prosperous  voyage,  during  which  the  winds  and  the  waves  were  never 
violent  Others  throughout  have  been  in  suffering  and  peril,  knowing 
no  calm  save  when  the  tried  and  labouring  ship,  still  throbbing  and 
trembling,  rested  for  a  moment  in  the  dread  abyss  betwixt  the  angry 
wave  just  overcome  and  the  angry  wave  ahead.  Yet  the  com- 
parison is  not  altogether  perfect.  Some  ships  are  wrecked  and  reach 
not  the  destined  port  With  men,  whether  the  voyage  of  life  be 
calm  or  stormy,  the  end  is  the  same,  the  destined  port  is  reached. 
All  at  length  pass  through  the  gloomy  straits  of  Death  into  the  haven 
of  the  Life  Immortal. 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  77 


CHAPTER  V. 

A     STORMY     DAY. 

Alice  tripped  merrily  to  school,  for  she  had  in  her  hand  a  note 
from  her  mother  to  Miss  Barnes,  asking  that  she  might  be  allowed  to 
return  home  at  half-past  eleven.  She  knew  nothing  of  the  proposed 
visit  to  the  old  home,  but  her  father  had  told  her  that  they  \i(ere  going 
to  town,  that  they  would  dine  in  town,  and  after  dinner  go  to  the 
theatre. 

The  theatre  !  Alice  was  fourteen  years  old,  yet  she  had  not  seen 
a  theatre.  She  had  heard  of  the  theatre,  she  had  read  of  the  theatre, 
and  she  had  often  asked  her  mother  to  go  to  the  theatre.  She  asked 
in  vain.  In  the  years  of  sorrow  Ann  could  not  visit  the  theatre, 
and  her  child  could  not  do  so  without  her.  Great,  then,  was  the  delight 
of  Alice  when  her  father  said,  "  After  we  have  had  a  nice  little  dinner, 
with  lots  of  pudding,  we  will  go  to  the  theatre."  The  promised  treat 
kept  her  awake,  and  was  the  subject  of  her  dreams.  Most  antici- 
pated treats  disappoint  us.  They  do  not  satisfy  the  over-stimulated 
appetite  of  the  imagination.  But  the  theatre  is  an  exception.  It  is 
only  when  we  become  morbidly  critical  that  the  stage  does  not  amuse 
us,  and  it  may  be  that  frequently  those  who  find  fault  have  neverthe- 
less been  beguiled  from  their  care  and  had  their  jaded  minds 
recreated. 

They  were  to  set  off  for  the  day's  excursion  as  soon  as  Alice  came 
from  school,  and  Mrs.  Clayton  and  her  husband  were  in  the  parlour 
ready  to  start     Ann  was  at  the  piano. 

"  Yes,  Ann,  that  is  the  piece.  I  remember  the  last  time  you  played 
it  to  me.  I  was  dancing  baby  about  the  room,  and  it  was  the  night 
before  our  trouble  began.  Once  since  then  I  heard  it  played  by  a 
procession  band  in  Australia,  and  I  think,  though  I  did  not  know  it 
then,  that  hearing  the  dear  old  tune  made  me  too  homesick  to  keep 
my  resolution — my  foolish  resolution — not  again  to  see  you  and  our 
little  one." 

"  It  is  more  than  ten  years  since  I  have  played  it  Music  has 
been  hateful  to  me,  though  I  have  taught  it  for  Alice's  sake.  But  I 
have  never  played  the  music  of  our  happy  time." 

"  It  is  twelve  o'clock.     Alice  should  be  here." 

"  Miss  Barnes  is  not  particularly  obliging,  dear.  She  likes  to  show 
her  authority ;  and  Alice  will  bring  a  note  informing  me  that  she 
tould  not  leave  at  half-past  eleven  without  disturbing  a  class." 

*'  I  wish  Miss  Barnes  had  been  more  obliging  on  this  occasion* 


1 

78  The  Gentlematis  Magazine. 

See  how  the  day  has  darkened,  and  darkness  at  noon  does  not  pass 
away.     I  like  to  start  in  sunshine." 

"  Oh,  Henry,  I  hope  it  will  not  rain.  It  will  be  a  great  dis- 
appointment." 

"  The  rain  shan-t  keep  us  at  home,  Ann." 

There  was  a  loud  knock.  As  loud  as  the  knock  of  a  footman, 
and  longer.  A  knock  intended  to  announce  the  importance  of  the 
visitor. 

"  Some  one  called  to  talk  about  the  progress  of  her  daughter,  or 
to  grumble  at  my  week's  holiday.     I  wish  we  had  started !" 

But  Mrs.  Clayton  was  wrong :  Alice  came  in  with  Miss  Barnes. 
The  schoolmistress  was  a  tall,  scraggy  miss,  who  had  been  "  about 
thirty"  for  twenty  years.  Her  *'  Good  morning,  ma'am,"  was  sharp 
and  the  reverse  of  cordial ;  and  when  she  saw  Mr.  Clayton  she  stood 
still,  and  her  thin,  faded  face  flushed. 

"  May  I  beg  the  favour  of  a  word  in  private,  Mrs.  Cla)rton  ?  " 

But  Mrs.  Clayton  and  her  husband  were  too  startled  by  the  appear- 
ance of  Alice  to  notice  Miss  Barnes,  or  heed  her  question.  The  girl 
was  crying  violently,  and  she  clung  to  her  mother,  hiding  her  face  in 
her  cloak. 

"  What  does  this  mean  ?  "  a^ed  Mrs.  Clayton.  "  Alice  is  a  good 
girl,  and  I  am  sorry  she  should  be  punished." 

"  I  have  not  punished  your  daughter,  Mrs.  Clayton ;  and  if  you 
will  let  me  have  a  minute  with  you  alone  I  will  explain  what  has 
happened." 

"  My  wife  has  no  secrets  from  her  husband,"  said  Henry. 

**  So  you  are  Mr.  Clayton  !    And  you  say  it  quite  openly,  too." 

"  I  suppose  our  domestic  affairs  are  not  your  business,"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Clayton. 

"  Not  without  they  are  made  so,  ma'am  ;  but,  however  unpleasant 
it  may  be,  it  shall  never  be  said  that  I  did  not  do  my  duty  to  the 
very  letter,  to  the  very  crossing  of  a  t  and  the  dotting  of  an  i." 

Suddenly  it  occurred  to  both  husband  and  wife  that  the  visit  of 
Miss  Barnes  had  something  to  do  with  their  great  sorrow.  Henry 
was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  Go  on,  madam." 

"  I  will,  sir,  request  you  to  premise  that  I  simply  tell  with  my 
tongue  what  I  have  heard  with  my  ears,  that  I  am  only  for  the  time 
a  human  parrot,  having  no  opinion  about  the  words  I  speak.** 

"  We  want  no  gossip,"  said  Mrs.  Clayton,  quickly,  "  and  we  wish 
you  good  morning." 

"  No,  Ann,  we  will  hear  the  gossip.     What  is  it,  Miss  Barnes?*^ 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  79 

"  They  do  say,  Mr.  Clayton,  that  you  have  been  away  for  many 
years  from  your  family,  and '' — Miss  Barnes  hesitated — "  and  that  you 
could  not  help  it." 

*'  Perhaps  they  said  I  was  a  felon  ?" 

"  They  did,  Mr.  Clayton,  but  I  could  not  believe  it.  I  felt  sure 
that  such  a  respectable,  well-conducted  lady  as  Mrs.  Clayton  could 
not  have  had  a  husband  and  that  a  girl  like  Alice  could  not  have  a 
felon  for  a  father.  But  for  the  sake  of  my  school  I  was  obliged  to 
come  here  to  be  able  to  contradict  the  report  on  authority." 

"  We  have  heard  enough  of  your  gossip,"  said  Mrs.  Clayton,  "  and 
you  can  go." 

"Not  so,  Ann.  Let  Miss  Barnes  hear  the  truth.  Madam,  ten 
years  ago  I  was  falsely  charged  with  attempting  to  stab  a  man  in  a 
quarrel  and  I  was  convicted."      ' 

"  Oh  dear !  I  shall  never  get  over  the  disgrace  and  the  blow.  It 
will  be  my  ruin !  How  dared  you,  madam,"  asked  Miss  Barnes, 
turning  to  Mrs.  Clayton,  "  to  send  a  felon'is  daughter  to  a  respectable 
school  ?" 

"  Do  you  not  hear  he  was  innocent  ?" 

"  That  does  not  do  away  with  his  being  a  felon." 

"Who  told  you  that  I  had  been  a  felon?" 

"  No  one  \  I  got  this,"  replied  Miss  Barnes,  putting  a  letter  on  the 
table. 

Henry  took  it  and  read  as  follows : — 

"  Madam, — I  am  informed  that  you  have  the  daughter  of  a  re- 
turned convict  in  your  school.  Her  name  is  Alice  Clayton.  If  you 
want  to  keep  your  school  together  you  had  better  get  rid  of  the 
felon's  daughter.  "  ^  Friend." 

**  You  can  go,  madam.     What  is  due  to  you  shall  be  sent  to  you."" 

"  How  can  you  pay  me  for  the  disgrace,  and  the  injury,  and  the 
ruin  of  my  school  and  of  my  reputation  ?     How" 

Henry  pointed  to  the  door. 

"  Go  !  and  without  another  word." 

The  look  and  voice  of  Henry  alarmed  Miss  Barnes,  and  she  de- 
parted in  haste,  banging  the  parlour  door  and  the  street  door  after 
her. 

Mrs.  Clayton  pushed  Alice  from  her  and,  embracing  her  husband, 
said,  "  It  is  a  trial  for  us,  dearest,  but  do  not  let  that  woman  make 
us  all  unhappy." 

"  It  is  a  brand — it  is  a  brand.  The  only  places  I  do  not  shame 
are  the  prison  and  the  hulks." 


8o  The  Gentlematis  Magazine. 

"  Henry,  for  my  sake,  for  I  am  and  have  ever  been  your  loving 
wife,  for  my  sake,  Henry,  and  for  our  child's,  do  not  despair." 

"  The  felon's  child !    Speak  to  her,  Ann." 

"  Alice,  come  here  and  kiss  your  father." 

**  Oh  I  why  did  he  come  home  to  make  us  miserable  V* 

**  Wretch  !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Clayton,  and  if  Henry  had  not  caught 
her  arm  she  would  have  struck  Alice. 

"  The  child  is  just,  even  if  she  is  not  generous.  I  ought  not  to 
have  come  home." 

"  Let  me  tell  her  all." 

"  As  you  like,"  replied  Henry,  sitting  in  the  easy  chair. 

Without  taking  off  her  bonnet  and  cloak,  Mrs.  Clayton  took  the 
girl  to  the  sofa  and  told  her  tale  of  sorrow.  She  spoke  first  of  the 
happy  days,  of  the  happy  home,  of  how  her  father  loved  her,  fondled 
her,  played  with  her,  watched  over  her.  Then  she  told  about  the 
heavy  misfortune,  of  the  conviction  of  the  father  although  he  was 
guiltless.  She  spoke  of  the  long  and  weary  years  of  suffering,  of  how 
the  father,  in  prison  and  in  exile,  had  never  ceased  to  love  and  to 
think  of  his  child. 

"  Oh  !  Alice,  how  he  loves  you  I  cannot  tell ;  love  him,  and 
God  will  bless  your  love ! " 

She  took  Alice  to  where  her  husband  was  seated. 

"  Alice  wants  to  kiss  you  and  to  comfort  you,  dearest." 

The  father  stooped  and  kissed  her,  but  she  did  not  speak  or  kiss 
him,  and  shrank  from  him,  clinging  more  closely  to  her  mother. 

"  Go  to  your  bedroom,  Alice,"  said  Mrs.  Clayton.  "  Hencefortli 
I  am  not  your  mother,  nor  you  my  child,  except  in  name." 

The  girl  left  the  room  without  a  reply,  and  without  raising  her 
eyes. 

"  I  am  going  into  the  City." 

"  What  for,  Henry?     Can  I  go  with  you  ?" 

**  No,  Ann,  I  must  have  a  sharp  walk,  and  alone." 

"  Henry,  you  will  not  let  that  cruel  girl  drive  you  from  home,  and 
leave  me  heartbroken  and  without  hope.  Another  parting,  Henry, 
would  kill  me." 

"  I  must  think ;  I  must  think.  I  shall  return  at  night,  after  Alice 
is  in  bed.  I  do  not  love  her  less.  I  wish  I  did.  For  you  are  right, 
Ann,  she  is  cruel  indeed." 

Henry  mounted  an  omnibus.  The  driver  was  talkative.  He 
asked  Mr.  Clayton  what  he  thought  of  the  weather,  whether  he  had 
seen  a  finer  piece  of  horseflesh  in  a  l)us  than  the  roan  mare,  and 
what  was  his  opinion  about  the  great  jewel  robbery.    When  you  are 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  8i 

disposed  for  silence  any  talker  is  anno)dng,  but  a  talker  who  asks 
questions  is  unbearably  irritating.  Mr.  Clayton  alighted  and  walked. 
He  entered  Mr.  Stot's  office  just  as  the  great  man  hunter  and  bill 
discounter  was  casing  his  hands  in  kid. 

"  Why,  Mr.  Clayton,  your  luck  is  miles  ahead  of  any  in  my  little 
experience.  People  come  here  scores  of  times  and  never  set  eyes 
on  me.     You  come  morning,  noon,  and  night,  and  always  spot  me." 

"  I  will  not  detain  you  many  minutes." 

"  No  occasion  for  apologising,  Mr.  Clayton.  I  keep  cats  to  look 
after  my  mice,  and  can  call  my  soul  my  own  without  being  any  the 
poorer.  I  was  only  going  to  do  half  a  dozen  natives  and  half  of 
stout.  Will  you  join  me?  There  is  nothing  like  oysters  and  double 
brown  for  the  manufacture  of  backbone^  and  what  is  a  fellow  worth 
without  backbone,  and  plenty  of  it  ?" 

"  No,  thank  you,  Mr.  Stot,  I  can't  eat." 

"  Go  to  a  doctor.  So  long  as  you  can  eat,  nature  may  right  you, 
but  if  you  can't  eat,  it's  die  or  doctor,  if  not  both.  However,  come 
into  my  den  and  discharge  your  cargo  of  news,  and  maybe  you  will 
get  hungry  enough  for  oysters." 

When  the  door  was  closed  Mr.  Stot  put  himself  before  the  fire, 
thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  and  began  to  whistle,  hum,  and  hiss 
his  favourite  medley  of  "  Rule,  Britannia"  and  "  A  Frog  he  would  a 
wooing  go." 

"  What's  the  hitch,  Mr.  Clayton  ?  Your  face  tells  me  something 
has  gone  head  over  heels  and  upside  down." 

Henry  told  Mr.  Stot  about  Miss  Barnes. 

"  People  find  fault  with  the  law,  Mr.  Clayton,  but  it's  awfully  queer 
justice  outside  the  law.  Suppose  you're  guilty,  when  the  law  has 
given  you  tit  for  tat,  in  the  shape  of  punishment  for  the  offence,  the 
law  sets  you  free.  Society  don't  do  anything  of  the  sort.  Religions 
society  will  hand  you  a  tract  at  the  end  of  a  pair  of  tongs,  and  tell 
you  to  seek  the  forgiveness  of  God,  but  religious  society  won't  let 
you  come  near  it.  You  are  good  enough  for  God,  but  an  awful 
sight  too  bad  for  human  piety." 

The  distinguished  man  hunter  lighted  a  cigar,  of  which  he  had 
twisted  off  the  end  whilst  speaking. 

"  You  are  right,  Mr.  Stot ;  there  is  no  chance  of  my  being  let 
alone." 

"Why,  of  course,  there  is.     It's  only  moving  to  another  neigh- 
bourhood.    There  are  scores  of  worlds  in  London,  and  one  world 
knows  nothing  whatever  of  another.    What  makes  you  feel  it  like 
the  tickling  of  an  open  wound  is  that  you  were  not  guilty.     If  I 
Vol.  XI.,N.S.  1873.  g 


82  The  Gentlematis  Magazine. 

were  in  for  a  spell  of  penal,  let  me  deserve  it  You're  none  the 
better  off  for  being  innocent,  and  have  the  awful  aggravation 
of  feeling  every  moment  that  you  don't  deserve  what  you  are 
getting." 

Henry  told  Mr.  Stot  that  he  thought  of  leaving  the  country,  and, 
being  pressed  for  his  reason,  he  confided  to  the  man  hunter  the 
conduct  of  Alice. 

"  Poor  girl,  I  do  not  blame  her,  Mr.  Stot.  I  only  pity  her  and 
love  her,  and  I  hate  myself  for  returning  *and  giving  her  this 
sorrow." 

"  Well,  Mr.  C,  I  beg  to  say  that  my  view  is  the  direct  opposite. 
I  do  blame  her,  though  I  don't  believe  in  young  girls,  and  never 
heard  of  one  that  was  worth  her  salt  in  the  way  of  affection.  More- 
over, because  the  child  cares  no  more  for  her  father  than  the  hoof  of 
a  horse  does  for  the  animal  from  which  it  grows,  it  does  not  follow 
that  the  father  is  to  divorce  himself  from  a  good  wife,  and  sentence 
himself  to  be  an  outcast  for  life." 

Henry  did  not  reply,  for  the  remarks  of  Mr.  Stot  had  awakened 
him  to  a  sense  of  what  he  owed  to  his  wife.  He  experienced  a 
sudden  revulsion  of  feeling.  His  idol  of  clay  was  broken.  He 
would  henceforth  strive  to  repay  the  love  of  his  wife,  and,  as  for 
Alice,  she  should  obey  the  rule  of  her  mother. 

"  If  I  stood  in  your  boots  I  should  ease  the  com  by  packing 
the  young  ma'am  to  a  first  rate  school.  And  if  you  choose  to  call 
yourself  by  some  other  name  there  is  no  law  to  stop  you.  Though 
it  is  not  a  case  of  must,  and  few  Hke  a  change  of  name  unless  well 
paid  for  the  hocus  pocus." 

**  I  think  I  shall  follow  your  advice,  Mr.  Stot" 

"  Don't  think  about  it ;  make  up  your  mind  to  do  it,  and  it  will  be 
done." 

"  It  shall  be  done.  Do  you  know  that  handwriting?"  asked 
Henry,  giving  the  anonymous  letter  sent  to  Miss  Barnes. 

"  No.     It  looks  a  sham  hand." 

"  Why  should  the  writer  disguise  his  writing  ?  If  MelUsh  is  alive 
he  may  have  written  that  note." 

"  Now,  Mr.  Clayton,  that's  what  I  call  shooting  at  the  moon.  Of 
all  the  evidence  that  I  have  come  across — and  that  is  enough  to  make 
you  disbelieve  in  any  evidence — handwriting  is  the  worst  The  ex- 
perts" will  always  swear  on  the  side  that  pays  them,  and  with  a  clear 
conscience,  too.  Moreover,  Mellish  would  keep  out  of  your  way. 
A  man  always  fears  the  man  he  has  wronged." 

When  Henry  left  Mr.  Stot's  offices  the  rain  that  had  been  so  long 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  83 

threatening  came  down  in  torrents.     Henry  took  shelter  under  a 
doorway. 

"  I  will  take  the  first  cab  that  passes.  Stot  is  right  I  have  been 
unjust  and  cruel  to  Ann,  and  a  fool  to  my  own  happiness.  Come 
what  may,  I  shall  never  again  be  unjust  and  cruel  to  my  wife." 

A  hansom  appeared,  and  Henry  hailed  it.  It  was  engaged. 
When  Henry  held  up  his  hand  the  occupant  looked  out  and  drew 
back.  All  the  colour  left  Henry's  lace,  and  he  stood  for  a  moment  as 
if  spell-boimd. 

"  It's  Mellish  ! "  he  exclaimed,  and  ran  after  the  cab.  The  rain  was 
heavy,  and  the  Strand  was  deserted.  Th^  cab  went  at  a  rattling 
pace,  and  had  a  good  start  Henry  touted  to  the  cabman  to  stop, 
•  but  the  driver  did  not  hear  or  did  not  heed  him.  Henry  was  gaining 
rapidly  on  the  cab,  and  in  two  or  three  minutes  would  have  caught 
it  In  his  hot  haste  he  knocked  against  a  woman  carrying  a  basket 
of  oranges  on  her  head.  The  vendor  of  oranges  reeled,  and  her 
oranges  were  scattered  on  the  pavement  and  in  the  road.  Henry  was 
rushing  on  when  a  policeman  caught  his  arm.  Henry  turned  fiercely 
on  the  policeman,  who  relinquished  his  hold  and  drew  his  stafil 

"  It's  no  go.  I'll  be  down  on  yer  if  you  tries  on  that  game,"  said 
the  policeman. 

There  was  a  crowd,  in  spite  of  the  rain  which  still  splashed  on  the 
pavement. 

"  I  want  to  catch  that  cab.  I'll  give  five  pounds  to  any  man  who 
stops  it!" 

There  was  a  shout  of  derision. 

"  You  don't  get  off*  with  that  bid.  So  just  come  with  me  to  Bow 
Street,  and  tell  that  tale  to  the  inspector.  Larking  and  keeling  agin 
an  old  woman  and  upsetting  her  living  into  the  gutter." 

Henry  knew  that  the  cab  was  out  of  reach,  and  that  a  visit  to  Bow 
Street  might  be  awkward. 

"  I'll  pay  the  damage." 

"  It's  a  crown  that  I've  lost,  and  the  breath  knocked  out  of  my 
poor  heart,"  whimpered  the  woman,  who,  with  the  aid  of  the  crowd, 
had  picked  up  her  oranges. 

**  Here's  half-a-sovereign  for  you." 

"  Blessings  on  yer,"  said  the  woman,  "  Yer  a  bom  gentleman,  and 
I  hope  it's  not  yourself  as  is  hurt" 

"  You  have  charged  him,  and  you  must  come  along  to  the  station." 

"  Why,  I  never  said  nothing  agin  the  gentleman.     How  could  he 

help  me  shoving  up  agin  him,  when  he  was  running  like  a  dog  with 

a  boiling  kettle  tied  on  his  tail  ?" 

G  2 


84  The  Gcfitleman  s  Magazine. 

The  crowd  laughed.  The  policeman  seemed  unwilling  to  lose  a 
charge. 

*'  You  shall  have  my  name  and  address,"  said  Henry.  "  Keep  back 
the  crowd."  Henry  gave  him  a  blank  piece  of  paper,  and  cleverly 
slipped  a  piece  of  gold  into  his  palm. 

'^  Assaulting  a  constable  in  the  execution  of  his  duty  is  at  least 
fourteen  days  with  hard  labour,  but  it  don't  hurt  the  public  if  the 
constable  is  willing  to  let  yer  oflf  on  the  chance  of  a  summons." 

The  policeman  settled  his  belt  and  resumed  his  beat  amidst  the 
jeers  of  the  saturated  crowd.  Henry  walked  towards  Charing  Cifoss, 
escorted  by  two  or  three  small  gutter  boys.  He  threw  them  spme 
pence,  and  they  ran  into  Trafalgar  Square  and  stood  on  their  h^ads 
at  the  base  of  the  Nelson  column,  that  being  the  way  in  which  the 
gutter  boys  of  London  express  joy  and  gratitude.  Henry  walked 
about  the  Strand  for  hours.  He  looked  into  every  cab  in  the  l^ope 
that  his  enemy  might  be  retiuning. 

"  It  was  Mellish,  I  swear.  He  escaped  me  to-day,  but  I  shall  |iave 
my  hand  on  him  before  long." 

Big  Ben  solemnly  clanged  the  hour  of  ten.  Henry  had  not  ts^ted 
food  since  the  morning,  and  he  felt  faint  and  exhausted. 

"  I  must  give  it  up  for  to-night,"  he  muttered,  and  turned  ii^to  a 
tavern  and  took  some  refreshment  at  the  bar. 

Two  men  were  talking  of  a  recent  murder.  Henry  gulped  down 
his  ale,  but  could  not  finish  his  bread  and  cheese. 

If  he  had  caught  Mellish,  another  murder  would  have  been  talked 
about  He  would  have  been  in  a  cell,  handcuffed  and  closely  watched. 
And  his  wife ! 

"  Thank  God  I  failed !  No,  you  scoundrel,  not  even  for  the  sake 
of  revenge  will  I  afflict  her  with  a  killing  sorrow.  You  will  die  a 
dog's  death,  but  not  by  my  hand." 

Henry  got  into  a  cab  and  drove  home, 

CHAPTER  VI. 

TOO   LATE. 

The  door  was  opened  to  Henry  by  a  strange  woman. 

"I'm  glad  youVe  come,  doctor,  for  the  poor  creature  seems 
a  going." 

Henry  stared  at  the  woman,  and  gasped  for  breath. 

"Aint  you  the  doctor?  Oh  dear,  if  so  be  you  are  Mr.  Clayton 
bear  up,  for  her  life  may  depend  upon  it" 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  85 

Henry  wiped  the  heavy  sweat  from  his  brow,  and  sat  upon  a  chair 
in  the  pasfeage. 

The  servant  came  from  the  kitchen  with  a  can  in  her  hand. 

"  Here's  the  water,  nurse.  It  is  quite  boiling,  and  IVe  put  more  on. 
Bless  me,"  exclaimed  the  girl,  "  here's  master  1 " 

"Tell  him  how  the  poor  dear  has  been  took,  whilst  I  go  to  her," 
said  the  nurse,  going  upstairs  with  the  can  of  water. 

The  girl  told  Henry  that  in  the  afternoon  her  mistress  had  been 
very  angry  with  Alice. 

"  I  was  bringing  in  the  tea  things,"  she  continued,  **  when  I  heard 
Miss  Alice  say  as  she  wished  you  would  never  come  back.  With  that 
missis  jumped  up,  and  ran  at  Miss  Alice  for  to  strike  her,  but  she 
screamed  and  moved  backwards.  Missis  did  strike  at  her,  and 
whilst  hitting  at  her  fell  flat  on  her  face,  hitting  her  head  against  the 
piano.  I  tried  to  get  missis  up,  but  I  could  only  turn  her.  Then  I 
ran  for  a  doctor,  and  he  came  and  bled  her,  and  she  come  to,  and 
we  got  her  into  bed.  When  doctor  left  he  told  me  to  get  some  one 
to  be  with  me,  and  I  got  the  nurse  through  the  milkman,  who  knows 
her.  Missis  has  been  quiet  as  a  lamb,  but  is  moaning  so  now  that  we 
have  sent  for  the  doctor.  Oh,  master ! "  said  the  girl  sobbing,  "  what 
shall  we  do,  what  shall  we  do ! " 

As  the  girl  concluded  the  doctor  arrived.     Henry  stood  up. 

"  Is  there  any  hope  ?  " 

"  You  are  the  lad/s  husband  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"Your  wife  seems  very  debilitated  and  worn.  Excuse  the  ques- 
tion— but  has  she  had  any  care  or  trouble  ?  " 

"  Years  of  trouble." 

"  Ah,  I  thought  so.  But  we  must  do  our  best,  and  hope  the  best. 
Have  you  seen  her  ?  " 

Henry  shook  his  head. 

"  Come  then,  but  don't  give  way  before  her." 

Henry  followed  the  doctor  upstairs.  As  the  door  was  opened  a 
moan  smote  upon  his  ear. 

Ann  was  lying  on  her  back,  one  hand  clutching  the  sheet,  and  the 
other  hand  pressed  on  her  heart  Her  face  was  pallid — a  greenisli 
leaden  white.  Her  hair  on  one  side  was  matted  with  the  blood  that 
had  flowed  from  the  wound. 

The  doctor  took  her  hand  from  her  heart,  and  felt  her  pulse.  She 
shrank  from  his  touch,  and  moaned. 

"  How  are  her  feet,  nurse  ?" 

"  We  have  put  hot  water  to  them,  but  nothing  warms  them." 


86  The  Gentlematis  Magazine. 

"I  shall  open  another  vein." 

The  doctor  took  Henry  aside. 

"The  case  is  critical,  Mr.  Clayton.  You  must  prepare  for  the 
worst" 

"  There  is  no  hope  ?  "  whispered  Henry. 

"  There  is  still  life  j  but  it  may  be  that  we  can  only  give  her 
momentary  ease." 

The  vein  was  opened,  but  very  little  blood  came.  The  doctor 
mixed  brandy  with  water,  and  put  some  in  her  mouth.  She  could 
not  swallow,  and  it  trickled  from  her  mouth.  She  moaned  again, 
put  her  hand  to  her  head,  and  opened  her  eyes. 

"  Speak  to  her,"  said  the  doctor. 

Henry  bent  over  the  bed  and  kissed  her  lips.  There  was  a  smile 
of  loving  recognition.  She  moved  her  hand  from  her  head.  H«iry 
pressed  it  and  held  it  He^leant  upon  the  bed,  and  she  nestled  in 
his  arms  in  the  old  familiar  way. 

She  dosed  for  a  few  moments.  The  doctor  felt  her  pulse,  and 
shook  his  head  ominously.     Henry  could  not  repress  a  shudder. 

Then  Ann  woke  and  sighed.  Not  a  sigh  of  relief,  but  a  stifled 
sigh  of  suffering.  The  doctor  put  some  brandy  and  water  into  her 
mouth.  There  was  a  slight  convulsion  of  the  throat,  but  she  did  not 
swallow  it     Her  lips  moved,  and  Henry  kissed  them. 

There  was  another  movement  of  the  lips,  and  a  low,  gurgling^ 
noise. 

"  She  sleeps,"  whispered  Henry. 

The  doctor  put  his  hand  to  her  heart 

"  Mr.  Clayton,"  said  the  doctor,  "  she  has  gone  before  you.  She 
sleeps  the  sleep  we  must  all  sleep." 

The  Dread  Destroyer  had  triumphed. 

Had  triumphed  and  fled.  - 

When  she  lay  on  the  pillow  there  was  no  trace  of  pain  on  her  face. 
There  was  a  smile,  a  sweet  smile,  and[she  looked  so  young. 

Oh  for  the  eye  of  Faith  to  see  the  Angel  of  Life,  of  Life  Immortal, 
hover  o'er  the  dying  !  To  see  at  the  moment  when  the  spirit  quits 
its  tenement  of  earth  another  angel,  robed  with  the  shining  robe  and 
crowned  with  the  crown  that  the  Angel  of  Life  had  held. 

Until  the  day  of  the  burial  Henry  did  not  leave  the  house.  An 
hour  after  the  death  of  his  wife  he  went  to  Alice. 

"  I  do  not  reproach  you,  Alice,  about  the  past  You  have  spumed 
me,  and  I  shall  leave  you.  Not  uncared  for ;  but  I  shall  leave  you. 
For  her  sake  I  shall  not  forget  you ;  but  we  must  part     You  will 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  87 

hear  from  me  in  a  few'da)rs,  and  you  will  have  to  do  my  bidding  or 
to  perish." 

The  girl  was  crying  violently.  She  stretched  out  her  hands  to  her 
father.  For  a  moment  his  lips  quivered,  and  there  was  an  impulse 
to  take  his  child  to  his  arms  and  weep  with  her.  He  saw  her  cloak 
and  hat  lying  on  a  chair.  The  scene  with  Miss  Barnes  flashed 
through  his  mind.     His  features  became  rigid  as  iron. 

"  God  be  with  you,  Alice  !     I  cannot" 

And  so  he  left  her. 

After  the  funeral  he  did  not  return  to  the  house.  But  the  next 
day  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Stot  arrived.  The  distinguished  man  himter  had 
been  appointed  Alice's  guardian.  They  took  her  to  their  villa,  and 
in  a  few  weeks  she  was  placed  in  a  convent  school  in  France, 
according  to  the  instructions  of  Henry.  Alice  asked  about  her 
father,  and  was  told  that  he  had  gone  abroad.  She  wished  to  write 
to  him,  but  Mr.  Stot  did  not  know  his  address. 

When  Mr.  Stot  returned  from  France,  and  reported  to  his  wife  that 
Alice  had  been  left  at  the  school,  Mrs.  Stot  asked  how  she  bore  the 
parting. 

"  She  cried  a  good  deal,  and  asked  me  to  bring  her  bacL" 

"  And  I  wish  you  had,  ^ot.  It's  a  cruel  business,  and  Mr. 
Clayton  has  no  more  heart  than  a  paving  stone." 

"  He's  heart  enough,  but  it  has  been  awfully  hit  and  twisted,  and 
the  girl  was  not  what  she  should  have  been.  But  Clayton  is  in  the 
wrong.     He's  made  the  very  worst  of  a  bad  business.'*^ 


CHAPTER  Vn. 

LORD     SHAMVOCK. 

Lord  Shamvock  took  his  watch  from  under  his  pillow.  It  was 
nearly  eleven  o'clock.     His  lordship  yawned,  and  got  out  of  bed. 

Lord  Shamvock  is  a  peer,  in  the  Irish  peerage,  and  not  a  repre- 
sentative peer.  His  lordship  inherited  a  small  estate,  and  that  he 
had  mortgaged  to  the  utmost  farthing  forty  years  ago.  He  had  no 
visible  means  of  support,  yet  somehow  managed  to  live  a  life  of 
ease  and  pleasure.  His  chambers,  a  first  floor  over  a  Piccadilly  shop, 
were  tolerably  well  appointed,  and  no  man  smoked  better  cigars  nor 
wore  more  fashionable  clothes.  His  lordship  does  a  little,  a  very 
little,  on  the  Turf.  He  might  do  more,  but,  unfortunately,  he  has  been 
a  defaulter.  He  is  well  skilled  in  games  of  chance,  and  is  tolerably 
successful  in  divorcing  young  fools  from  their  money.     On  two  or 


88  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

three  occasions  he  has  been  a  candidate  for  a  seat  in  the  House  of 
Commons,  and  was  beaten ;  and  forgot  to  pay  his  electioneering 
expenses.  He  has  been,  and  is,  a  director  of  public  companies  got 
up  for  the  benefit  of  the  promoters  and  directors.  His  lordship 
lias  a  grand  coat  of  arms,  a  knightly  crest,  and  his  motto  is,  "Always 
for  honour."  Thanks  to  the  art  of  the  tailor,  the  ar^  of  the  stay- 
maker,  and  the  art  of  the  coiffeur,  his  lordship,  who  has  com- 
pleted his  sixtieth  year,  will  pass  for  about  forty  in  the  street. 
That  delights  my  lord,  who  has  been  a  rouk  from  his  youth.  The 
achievements  of  his  life  are  triumphs  over  the  virtue  of  poor  girls — 
** always  for  honour."  His  favourite  promenades  are  the  Burlington, 
Leicester  Square,  and,  by  night,  Regent  Street  and  the  Haymarket, 
and  he  is  well  known  to  the  human  garbage  of  the  metropolis.  He 
is  cut  by  the  Upper  Ten.  His  only  lordly  acquaintances  are  two  or 
three  black-sheep  lords.  But  he  is  admitted  into  a  few  decent  houses. 
Nobodies  of  moderate  fortune  are  honoured  by  the  company  of  a 
lord,  and  they  are  in  comfortable  ignorance  of  what  deeds  are  done 
by  Lord  Shamvock  "  always  fof  honour."  The  nobodies'  parties  are 
a  bore  to  his  lordship,  but  he  makes  them  profitable.  It  is  on  such 
occasions  that  he  turns  his  skill  in  card-playing  to  account ;  and  he 
frequently  favours  his  host  by  borrowing  a  trifle.  When  a  live  lord 
who  dined  with  you  yesterday,  and  whom  you  want  to  give  tclat  to  your 
party  next  week,  asks  you  to  be  his  banker  to  the  extent  of  a  hundred 
pounds,  it  would  be  vulgar  to  refuse,  and  Mrs.  Nobody  and  her 
daughters  would  never  forgive  Mr.  Nobody's  meanness  and  folly. 
If  a  penniless  lord  will  do  anything,  "always  for  honour" — if  he  will 
condescend  to  paltry,  base,  and  fraudulent  acts,  "  always  for  honour  " 
— he  can  make  an  income  by  his  title. 

Lord  Shamvock  rang  the  bell,  yawned  again,  and  then  sat  on  an 
easy  chair,  covered  up  in  a  dressing-gown  that  had  been  handsome. 

In  a  few  minutes  Lawker,  his  lordship's  valet  of  all  work, 
appeared  with  a  cup  of  tea.  Lawker  was  a  wizen-faced  old  man, 
dressed  in  napless  black. 

**  Why,  my  lord  !" 

"  None  of  your  confounded  excuses.  Didn't  I  tell  you  to  call  me 
at  ten  ?" 

"At  ten  precisely." 

"  And  why  do  you  not  obey  me?" 

"  Why  it  is  this  way,  my  lord.  It's  over  twenty  years  that  I  have 
been  with  you,  and  whenever  I've  waked  you  according  to  orders, 
it  has  always  been  a  volley  of  perjuration  and  you  out  of  condition 
for  the  day." 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  89 

"Stop  your  jabber,  and  help  me  to  dress.  I  expect  a  person 
here  in  half  an  hour  on  business.     Confound  the  business !" 

"  She  won't  mind  being  kept  a  little,  and  if  she  do  it  can't  be 
helped." 

**  She  !  It  happens  to  be  a  he,  Lawker.  Women  are  for  pleasure, 
not  business." 

**  It's  a  matter  of  taste,  and  according  to  circumstances.  Now  for 
my  own  part " 

"  If  you  don't  stop  your  jaw  111  ram  the  sponge  into  your  con- 
founded mftuth.     Give  me  my  teeth." 

"The  dress  set,  my  lord  ?" 

"  Yes,  booby.     Didn't  I  tell  you  I  wanted  to  dress  ?  '' 

Lawker  made  up  his  master  in  silence,  only  broken  by  his  lord- 
ship's ejaculations.  The  operation  was  nearly  complete,  when  there 
was  a  bang  at  the  outer  door  of  the  chambers. 

"  Tell  him  I  shall  be  with  him  in  a  second." 

Lawker  went,  and  returned  with  a  disturbed  countenance. 

"  It's  that  Mr.  Stot  I  told  him  you  were  out,  but  he  pushed  in, 
and  said  he  would  wait" 

Lord  Shamvock  ground  his  dress  teeth. 

"  I  know  I  shall  strangle  you.  Did  I  not  order  you  to  tell  him  I 
would  see  him  directly  ?  " 

"  How  could  I  suppose  that  party  was  the  party  as  you  was  a 
dressing  to  see,  as  if  he  was  a  royal  duchess  in  diamonds  and 
feathers  ?  " 

"  Buckle  on  my  waistcoat,  and  do  as  you  are  bid.  Stop.  Do  you 
want  to  crush  in  my  ribs  ?  " 

When  his  master  left  the  room  Lawker  sparred  at  the  door. 

"  There  would  be  more  dancing  than  blubbering  if  you  was 
crushed.  Keeping  you  out  of  your  grave  is  death  to  many,  but  not 
to  me.  Though  the  wages  is  in  arrears  that  no  mortal  accountant 
could  ever  add  up,  I  gets  it  out  of  you,  my  lord." 

Lord  Shamvock  betrayed  no  ill-temper  when  he  greeted  Mr.  Stot. 

"  Sorry  to  keep  you  waiting,  Stot,  but  you  know  that  punctuality  is 
not  one  of  my  peculiarities." 

Five  years  have  elapsed  since  Mr.  Stot  undertook  the  guardianship 
of  Alice  Clayton.  Mr.  Stot  has  retired  from  the  detective  pro- 
fession. It  is  not  so  profitable  as  bill  discounting,  and  it  is  a  bar 
to  polite  society.  Mr.  Stot  no  longer  resides  on  the  south  of  the 
Thames,  but  occupies  a  house  in  Russell  Square,  and  is  reputed  to 
be  enormously  rich.  He  looks  rich.  Rare  diamonds  glitter  in  his 
shirt     A  three  hundred  guinea  ring  glitters  on  his  finger.     A  richly 


90  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

jewelled  key  is  attached  to  his  watch  chain.  Moreover,  his  gracious- 
pomposity  manner  suggests  the  possession  of  riches. 

"  Which  means  that  your  lordship  makes  ducks  and  drakes  of  other 
people's  time,  which  does  not  belong  to  you.  But  a  wait  of  five 
minutes  is  not  worth  fighting  about  ^  I  can  afibrd  it" 

"  Try  a  smoke,  Stot,"  said  his  lordship,  offering  his  cigar  case. 

"  I  don't  mind  if  I  do,  but  it  must  be  my  own  brand.  Try  one  of 
mine.     I  import  them  myself." 

"  Mine  are  good,  but  I  daresay  yours  are  better.  Not  discount 
cigars,  eh,  Stot?" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  asked  Mr.  Stot,  stifliy, 

"  Oh,  nothing,  Stot.  Only  the  stupid  old  joke  about  half  and  half 
discounting,  half  cash  and  half  cigars,  or  painted  canvas." 

"  I  object  to  jokes  in  business.  Lord  Shamvock,  afid  I  never  did 
the  chandler  shop  business  you  seem  to  know  all  about" 

"  Talk  about  being  thin  skinned !  Why,  Stot,  you  are  raw,  absolutely 
raw.  When  I  got  yoiu:  mandate,  which  set  forth  that  you  must  see 
me,  I  was  glad  of  it,  as  I  wanted  to  see  you." 

"  Perhaps  you  want  a  loan  ?  " 

"  That's  a  bull's  eye.  Yes.  I  want  a  trifle  for  a  few  months,  and 
the  security  would  pass  muster  in  tiie  City." 

"  Then  take  it  to  the  City.  This  firm  declines  the  business.  Fact 
is.  Lord  Shamvock,  I  have  gone  into  City  finance.  The  West  End 
trade  don't  pay." 

**  Not  sixty  per  cent,  Stot?    You  don't  get  that  in  the  City?" 

"  You  are  out,  my  lord.  At  the  West  End  it  is  sixty  per  cent  on 
paper,  and  I  will  bet  that  it  does  not  net  twelve  per  cent  Now,  in 
the  City,  if  you  have  the  stuff,  and  you  can  get  in  the  swim,  you  can 
spend  like  a  prince,  and  also  at  least  double  your  fortune,  and 
often  treble  it,  once  in  seven  years." 

"  Well,  Stot,  you  may  still  oblige  an  old  fiiend,  and  charge  what 
you  like.  I  pledge  you  my  word  that  you  will  get  principal  and 
interest  in  a  few  months,  and  old  scores  cleared  off.** 

"  I  do  not  take  the  word  of  any  man  for  my  good  gold  unless  he 
is  a  rich  man  who  cannot  afford  to  cheat." 

"  You  are  complimentary  this  morning,  Stot" 

"  No,  my  lord,  I  only  speak  the  truth.  Your  gentleman-borrower 
comes  to  the  money-lender,  and  begs  for  a  loan  as  if  he  were 
begging  for  his  life.  I  tell  him  the  security  is  queer, — that  the  rate 
will  be  heavy.  He  swears  the  money  is  worth  anything  to  him. 
He  gets  the  coin,  and  spends  it,  and  when  the  time  for  payment 
comes  he  rails  against  the  money-lender,  and  if  he  can  pay  goes  to 


Making  the  Worst  of  it,  9 1 

Chancery  to  wriggle  out  of  his  bargain.     You  may  call  that  honour  ;. 
I  don't." 

"  Well,  Stot,  it's  a  pretty  lecture.  Did  you  come  here  \o  improve 
my  business  morals  ?" 

"No.  I  can't  improve  what  don't  ecist.  I  came  here  about 
Boliver's  bUls." 

**  Confound  Boliver  and  his  bills.  My  name  is  to  them ;  but  I  can't 
do  more  than  pay  my  own  debts,  and  that  not  for  a  month  or  two." 

"  Lord  Shamvock,  your  name  is  not  wortfi  much  as  a  rule ;  but 
this  is  an  exception.  It  is  as  good  as  Rothschild's  in  the  case  of 
these  bills.  My  lord,  you  came  to  my  little  place  on  the  other  side  of 
the  water.  It  was  kind  of  a  lord  to  do  that ;  and  when  you  asked 
me  for  a  hundred  pounds  for  a  week  I  gave  it  you ;  and  when  your 
back  was  turned  tore  up  your  I  O  U.  But  Boliver's  bills  will  be 
paid,  and  you  will  help  me  to  get  the  money." 

"  You  can't  get  blood  out  of  a  stone." 

**  Boliver  is  not  a  stone,  and  when  you  get  a  rogue  in  the  vice  you 
may  screw  money  out  of  him." 

"  Mr.  Stot,  I  really  cannot  permit  you  to  speak  of  my  friend 
Mr.  Boliver  so  disrespectfully." 

"  Antics  won't  do.  Hear  me  out,  Lord  Shamvock.  I  have  over 
;^7,ooo  on  Boliver.  The  bill  for  ;^Soo  on  Duncan,  Forbes,  and  Co. 
will  be  due  in  a  fortnight" 

"  Duncan's  is  all  right  That  bill  will  be  paid;  but  as  for  the  rest 
I  am  not  very  sanguine." 

"  Duncan's  bill  was  given  to  me  by  you.  It  bears  your  endorse- 
ment, as  well  as  that  of  Boliver,  the  drawer." 

"  WTiy  do  you  drag  in  my  name  ?  I  was  only^  Boliver's  friend.  I 
did  not  share  your  money." 

"Lord  Shamvock,  it's  not  nature  to  do  something  for  nothing; 
but  that  is  not  my  concern.     Duncan's  bill  is  in  my  safe." 

Lord  Shamvock  was  busy  lighting  a  cigar. 

"  I  see  your  lordship  understands  me." 

"  I  tell  you  that  Duncan's  bill  will  be  paid  the  day  it  is  due." 

**  Perhaps  not,  my  lord." 

"  I'll  bet  you  a  hundred  to  one  in  hundreds  that  it  is." 

"  Suppose  it  is  not  presented  ?" 

"  That  will  be  your  look  out." 

"  I  don't  think  that  I  shall  present  it  at  the  place  where  it  is  made 
payable." 

Lord  Shamvock  started. 

"  That  bill  is  a  forgery,  my  lord." 


92  TJie  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

"  Impossible  !"  gasped  his  lordship. 

"  Don't  waste  time,  my  lord ;  I  must  be  oflf  directly." 

"  If  it  is  a  forgery,  I  am  not  responsible." 

"You  will  let  Mr.  Boliver  know  that  unless  I  get  a  part — z.  good 
part — of  what  he  owes  me,  and  good  security  for  the  rest,  then  on  the 
day  that  Duncan's  bill  is  due  I  shall  go  before  the  magistrate  and  ask 
for  warrants  for  the  arrest  of  the  parties  whose  names  are  on  the  back 
of  the  bill." 

Mr.  Stot  rose  from  his  chair,  and  began  pulling  on  his  glove. 

"How  dare  you  threaten  to  prosecute  an  innocent  man?" 

"I  never  threaten  ;  I  only  tell  you  what  I  shall  do.  As  for  guilt 
or  innocence,  that  is  a  matter  of  evidence.  The  guilt)'  get  off,  and 
the  innocent  get  convicted,  according  to  the  evidence." 

"  How  can  Boliver  find  the  money  or  security  ?  "  . 

**  Let  him  loot  somebody  else,  and  for  security  for  the  balance  I 
will  take  forged  bills,  endorsed  by  you  to  me,  if  he  has  nothing  else 
to  offer,  for  forged  bills  are  good  security.  But  I  won't  be  chiselled, 
my  lord ;  I  will  have  my  money." 

"  This  is  not  a  grateful  return  for  my  friendship,  Stot." 

"  Why,  my  lord,  is  there  no  gratitude  in  the  world  ?  Because 
there  is  no  cause  for  gratitude,  and  you  can't  have  a  consequence 
without  a  cause.  Why  have  you  been  civil  to  James  Stot  ?  Because 
you  wanted  something  from  me.  Why  did  I  give  you  that  hundred 
pounds  ?  Because  it  paid  me,  and  pleased  Mrs.  Stot  to  have  a  tide 
to  visit  us  over  the  water." 

**  I  will  see  Boliver  to-day." 

"  Do  so.     A  fortnight  soon  slips  away." 

"  When  will  you  call  on  me  ?  " 

"  Not  till  the  aflfair  is  settled.  It's  your  business  to  call  on  me. 
Good  morning,  my  lord." 

When  left  alone  Lord  Shamvock  paced  the  room  with  unusual 
quickness. 

"This  might  be  a  crusher.  And  this  horrible  fix  for  a  girl,  a 
puling  girl  who  defies  me,  and  who  is  not  worth  the  ash  of  a 
cigar  !  I  am  glad  he  did  not  go  to  Boliver.  That  might  not  have 
mended  matters,  but  made  them  worse ;  for  Stot  would  be  a  devil 
if  he  became  revengeful.  It's  a  fix,  but  I  must  get  out  of  it  Curse 
the  girl,  and  curse  Stot." 

Lord  Shamvock  took  a  liqueur  glass  of  brandy,  and  then  went  to  his 
club  to  breakfast. 

"  So,  my  lord,"  said  Lawker ;  "  so,  my  lord  bully,  you  are  in  for  it, 
and  the  pot  is  boiling  hot     If  you  don't  settle  with  Mr.  Stot  you 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  93 

will  be  lagged,  and  I  shall  lose  a  trifle.  If  you  do  settle  with  Mr. 
Stot,  you  will  learn  that  doors  have  keyholes  and  that  I  have  ears, 
and  you  will  have  to  settle  with  Lawker." 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

ROSE  DULMAINE. 

Royal  Lion  Theatre.  Unprecedented  success!  The  greatest  hit 
of  the  age !  The  gorgeous  and  screaming  new  and  original  burlesque 
drama,  entitled  "  The  Siege  of  Paris  \  or.  Love  under  Fire."  Novel 
dances.  Miss  Rose  Dulmaine  has  a  quintuple  encore  in  the  song, 
"  Cupid  scales  the  Walls."  Overflowing  houses.  The  free  list 
entirely  suspended.    Places  may  be  booked  three  months  in  advance. 

The  Lion  is  one  of  the  smallest,  prettiest,  and  most  prosperous 
theatres  in  London.  It  is  not  in  favour  with  the  critics.  The 
scenery  is  excellent,  the  upholstery  is  expensive,  and  the  dresses  are 
extravagant ;  but  the  critics  are  not  very  kind  to  the  acting,  and 
denounce  the  pieces  as  poor  adaptations  from  the  French.  The 
critics  may  be  right,  yet  the  theatre  is  thronged  with  audiences,  who 
laugh  loudly  and  applaud  boisterously.  "The  Siege  of  Paris"  is  a 
decided  triumph  from  the  managerial  point  of  view.  Mr.  Blewlite, 
the  lessee,  is  turning  in  money  so  fast  that  he  has  taken  a  charming 
villa  at  Fulham,  has  a  brougham  and  pair,  and  open  house 
with  imlimited  champagne  every  Sunday.  He  has  presented  the 
author  of  the  burlesque  with  a  hundred  pounds.  He  has  doubled 
the  salary  of  Miss  Rose  Dulmaine.  After  the  performance  he  goes 
to  the  Albion  and  jeers  at  the  critics.  "  They  said  the  *  Siege'  would 
not  do,  and  wrote  it  down  as  hard  as  they  could.  The  house  was 
chock  full  of  money  to-night,  and  every  stall  and  box  booked  for  a 
fortnight     The  critics  are  fools." 

The  critics  are  too  used  to  abuse  to  be  annoyed  by  the  crowing  of 
Mr.  Blewlite.  One  of  these  gentlemen  replied,  "We  never  said  that 
low  bodies  and  short  skirts,  gymnastics  in  flesh-coloured  tights,  and 
highly  spiced  music-hall  songs  would  not  pay.  We  only  said  that 
from  a  dramatic  point  of  view  your  burlesque  is  bosh." 

The  curtain  had  just  risen  on  the  playing-in  two  act  comedy  when 
Lord  Shamvock  entered  the  stage  door.  His  lordship  was  very  much 
got  up,  and  was  smoking  a  cigar. 

"  Has  Miss  Dulmaine  arrived  ?" 

The  door-keeper,  who  was  taking  light  refreshment  in  the  form  of 
bread,  cheese,  spring  onions,  and  porter,  replied  that  Miss  Dulmaine 
was  in  her  dressing  room. 


94  ^f^  Genilemaiis  Magazine. 

"  I  want  to  see  her,  Dick." 

"  There's  a  tidy  few  in  the  same  predicament,  but  it's  no  go  here. 
And  if  Mr.  Blewlite  came  by  and  smelt  diat  cigar  there  would  be  a 
tidy  row." 

"  Blewlite  has  grown  fastidious.  Here,  throw  the  cigar  behind  the 
fire.     But,  Dick,  I  must  see  the  Rose." 

"  Very  sorry,  my  lord,  but  it  can't  be  done.  Strict  orders  that  no 
one  is  to  see  her^  not  if  it  was  her  own  father,  and  she  is  not  to  be 
bothered  with  messages." 

Lord  Shamvock  put  half-a^sovereign  into  Dick's  soiled  hand. 

'*  I  think  you  will  oblige  me,  Dick.  Tell  Miss  Dulmaine  I  am 
liere." 

Dick  Feckles  is  not  a  pleasant  specimen  of  humanity.  His  £Eice  is 
thin,  blotchy,  and  scarred.  His  eyes  are  sunken,  and  he  has  two 
red  marks  in  lieu  of  eyebrows.  His  manner  is  cringing  and 
shrinking. 

Dick  looked  at  the  half^overeign  and  then  at  Lord  Shamvock's 
waistcoat. 

"  None  of  your  nonsense,  Dick.    Do  as  I  tell  you." 

"  Go  outside.     I'll  go  to  her  and  risk  it." 

"  Very  well,  Dick ;  but  be  as  sharp  as  you  can,  and  don't  keep  me 
prowling  about  like  a  peeler  in  mufti." 

Lord  Shamvock  was  waiting  nearly  half  an  hour,  but  the  time  did 
not  seem  very  long.  His  lordship  was  thinking  not  only  of  Rose 
Dulmaine  but  also  of  the  Stot  afifair.  His  reflections  were  accom- 
panied by  profane  ejaculations. 

"  Curse  her.  A  pretty  devil's  ambush  she  has  led  me  into.  It's 
the  first  time  in  my  life  I  have  been  worried  by  a  woman.  Worried 
and  fooled,  for  though  I  have  spent  three  hundred  pounds  in  presents 
I  don't  know  whether  the  bait  takes,  for  she  does  not  even  wear  my 
presents,  and  treats  me  as  if  she  were  a  coronetted  Diana.  I  hate 
her,  but  I  won't  be  beaten  whatever  it  costs." 

His  lordship's  reflections  were  interrupted  by  the  voice  of  Dick 
Feckles. 

"  Step  in  quick,  she  is  waiting." 

Rose  Dulmaine  stood  in  the  dingy  passage.  She  is  a  tall,  finely 
moulded  girl.  Her  eyes  are  lustrous  but  not  expressive,  and  bar 
features,  though  regular,  are  not  handsome.  She  is  good  lookii^,  but 
not  beautiful,  though  men  call  her  so,  and  her  photographs  sell  largely. 

"  This  is  kind  of  you,  Rose." 

"  But  it  is  not  kind  of  you.  Blewlite  objects  to  interviews  at  the 
theatre,  and  I  don't  want  to  offend  him." 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  95 

**  My  dear  girl,  I  would  rather  see  you  elsewhere.  Let  me  see  you 
home  after  the  burlesque." 

"  I  have  told  you  before  that  you  cannot  do  so." 

"  Where,  then,  will  you  meet  me  for  a  little  chat  ?  If  you  are  so 
cruel  to  one  wh6  is  devoted  to  you  I  shall  do  something  desperate." 

Lord  Shamvock  held  herhandand  tried  to  raise  it  to  his  lips.  She 
repulsed  him  angrily. 

"  Upon  my  word  you  are  a  cool,  a  freezing  dame.  You  were 
good  enough  to  accept  my  poor  offerings,  and  now  you  treat  me  as  a 
stranger.     It  won't  do.  Rose." 

"  Won't  do  !  I  did  not  ask  for  your  presents,  and  I  did  not  sell 
myself,  body  and  soul,  for  a  few  paltry  trinkets." 

"  Paltry  trinkets  !    Their  cost  was  not  paltry." 

"  Your  lordship  did  not  send  me  the  bills.  But  I  must  leave  you. 
I  shall  be  called  in  a  few  minutes." 

"  Will  you  meet  me  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  Where  ?  " 

*'  Say  Kensington  Gardens,  in  the  broad  walk  near  the  palace,  at 
three  o'clock." 

"  Perhaps." 

**  You  will  be  there  ?  " 

"  Yes.     If  I  can." 

"  If  you  knew  my  devotion,  Rose,  you  would  not  disappoint  me." 

"Good-night" 

"  Good-night,  my  darling,"  and  Lord  Shamvock  stooped  and  kissed 
her  hand. 

"  Dick,  I  want  to  see  you.  Call  at  my  chambers  on  Monday 
night.     Ten,  sharp." 

"  Yes,  my  lord,"  said  Dick,  looking  at  his  clothes. 

"  There  will  not  be  a  party,  Dick,  and  you  need  not  put  on 
evening  dress." 

"  I  must  keep  to  my  rags,"  muttered  Dick,  as  his  lordship  went 
out. 

After  the  burlesque  Rose  Dulmaine  was  escorted  to  a  cab  by 
Blewlite,  and  driven  to  her  home  in  King's  Road,  Chelsea.  Her  home 
is  an  indifferently  furnished  first  floor.  There  are  two  candles  on 
the  table,  and  one  of  them  burnt  into  the  socket  A  man  who  was 
stretched  on  the  sofa  roused  at  her  entrance. 

"  You  are  precious  late  to-night.    You  are  always  late." 

"  I  left  the  theatre  as  soon  as  I  had  dressed." 

"  Come  home  in  your  paint  You  won't  look  much  the  worse 
for  it" 


96  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

"  You  are  always  quarrelling.    I  am  worn  out.    I  wish  I  was  dead." 

"  I  don't.  It  would  be  a  pretty  sell  if  you  were  to  die  just  as  you 
are  worth  double  your  weight  in  gold." 

"  You  care  no  more  for  me  than  for  a  dog." 

"  I  dare  say  we  can  cry  evens.  If  I  hadn't  a  lease  of  you  for  life 
you  would  leave  me  to-morrow  now  that  you  are  getting  on  and  can 
do  without  me." 

"  Oh,  Frank  !  you  know  that  I  love  you,  and  that  all  I  do  is 
for  your  sake." 

"  Bah  !  Keep  sentiment  for  the  boards.  It  don't  pay  in  private. 
Did  you  see  that  scoundrel  Shamvock  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Did  you  ask  him  for  the  money  ?  " 

"  No,  Frank.     I  could  not." 

"  Could  not !  If  he  were  a  young  man  you  would  be  more  willing 
to  serve  me.  Shamvock  is  a  hateful  old  scoundrel,  and  you  will  not 
squeeze  him  though  I  have  to  play  hide  and  seek  for  a  paltry  two  or 
three  hundred  pounds." 

"  He  wants  me  to  meet  him  to-morrow." 

"  Do  so.  Agree  to  any  other  appointment  he  proposes,  on  con- 
dition that  he  sends  you  a  round  sum.  You  shall  not  keep  the  other 
appointment.  Rose,  and  we  shall  go  on  smoothly." 

Frank  got  up  from  the  sofa,  and  helped  himself  to  whisky  and 
water.  He  is  verging  on  middle  age.  In  his  youth  he  might  have 
been  handsome,  but  his  face  is  bloated,  and  the  expression  evil  and 
desperate. 

"  How  the  old  brute  would  start  if  he  were  told  that  you  are  the 
wife  of  his  dear  friend  Frank  Boliver." 

"  I  wish  he  and  all  the  world  knew  it." 

"  Much  obliged  to  you,  Rose,  but  I  would  rather  not  A  near 
relation  might  alter  his  will,  and  that  would  be  awkward." 

"And  when  your  relative  is  dead,  dear  Frank,  we  shall  be  so 
happy." 

"  He  won't  die  yet  awhile.  Rich  men  with  poor  relations  have  a 
knack  of  living  long  after  they  are  wanted." 

"  If  you  loved  me,  Frank,  as  you  did,  I  could  bear  any  trouble." 

"  ]  laps  I  do  love  you.  Rose,  for  I  hate  that  scoundrel  Shamvock 
jri      account  as  well  as  my  own." 

*'  I  meet  him  ?  " 

*•  You  mi  Though  Shamvock  is  a  pauper,  he  will  find  the 
\  I  nt,  and  then  if  the  old  fool  bothers  you,  it  will 
him." 


Making  the  Worst  of  it,  97 

Rose  was  standing  by  the  table. 

**  Why  can't  you  sit  down.?  I  suppose  you  don't  want  to  go  to 
bed  the  moment  you  come  in  ?  Half  an  hour  is  not  too  much  tim? 
to  devote  to  me.     But  be  off,  if  you  like." 

"  Frank,  how  can  you  speak  to  me  as  if  I  had  ever  been  unkind  to 
you  ?  I  like  to  sit  with  you,  and  oh  !  I  msh  you  would  be  happy." 

"  Fill  a  pipe  for  me,  and  another  taste  of  liquor.  You  are  a  miglity 
fine  lady  at  the  theatre,  Rose,  with  lords  and  swells  begging  10  be 
your  humble  flunkeys,  but  here  you  are  my  servant,  and  you  must 
obey  me." 

The  gentleness  of  Rose  appeared  to  provoke  him.  He  gnaslied 
his  teeth,  and  muttered.  When  Rose  brought  him  the  pipe  he 
doubled  his  fist,  and  raised  his  arm  to  strike  her. 

"  Frank  ! " 

His  arm  dropped,  and  he  sat  on  a  chair. 

"  Don't  be  afraid.  Rose.  It  is  over.  I  am  ill,  very  ill.  It  seems 
as  if  I  had  a  double  mind.  I  have  dreadful  thoughts,  and  I  know 
that  they  are  wrong,  but  I  can't  stop  them." 

Rose  kissed  him,  and  sat  upon  his  knee. 

"  There,  that  will  do.  We  might  jog  on  together  in  peace  if  I  had 
a  little  quiet." 

"  Oh,  if  you  only  loved  me,  Frank ! " 

"  I  hate  sentiment.  I  am  married  to  you,  and  there  is  the  end  of 
it.     If  I  were  free  I  might  have  got  out  of  my  trouble." 

Rose  got  up. 

"  Have  I  brought  trouble  on  you  ?  " 

"  I  was  in  trouble  before  I  knew  you,  and  through  that  villain 
Sliamvock.  Money  would  get  me  out  of  the  ^m^  and  if  I  were  not 
married  to  you  I  could  marry  a  decent  fortune." 

"  I  will  not  hinder  you.  I  will  leave  you,  Frank,  and  you  shall 
never  see  me  again." 

"  No  you  won't  I  am  not  going  to  prison  for  bigamy,  and  you  are 
not  going  to  cut  just  when  you  are  making  money.  None  of  your 
tricks.  Rose." 

There  was  a  long  silence. 

"  Is  it  much  money  that  you  want  ?  " 

"  A  hatful ;  but  five  hundred  will  do  for  the  present" 

"  If  you  did  not  get  the  money  ?  " 

"  It  would  be  worse  than  beggary  for  me.     But  I  must  get  the 

money.     Shamvock  is  the  cause  of  my  fix,  and  Shamvock  must  pay. 

Meet  him,  and  do  as  I  tell  you." 

'*  I  will  do  anything  tliat  you  bid  mc." 

Vol.  XI.  N.  S.,  1873.  \\ 


98  The  Gentlemafis  Magazine. 

"  So  much  the  better  for  us  both,  for  I  swear  I  won't  suflfer  alone, 
and  you  shan't  be  jolly  whilst  I  am  ip  prison." 

"In  prison!" 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  it  would  be  worse  than  beggjgy  if  I  did  uot  get 
the  money  ?  Before  that  happeQed  I  stiQuld  put  a  stoppfcr  on  yoyr 
enjoyment.  But  do  as  I  tell  you,  and  there  will  be  an  end  to  our 
trouble.  Come,  I  don't  want  to  sit  up  all  night  moomng^  over  an 
empty  whisky  bottle.     It's  time  we  were  in  bed." 

If  the  admirers  of  Rose  Dulmaine  could  have  seen  her  pale,  sad 
face  as  she  followed  her  husband  out  of  the  room,  they  would  not 
have  believed  that  the  brilliant  actress  and  the  unhappy  wife  were 
one.  The  friends  of  Frank  Boliver  would  hardly  have  reco^ised 
him  if  they  had  seen  him,  not  o^ly  cast  down  by  trouble  but  also 
brutalised  by  drink. 

CHAPTER  IX. 

NATIONAL   BACKBONE. 

"  The  English  are  a  nation  of  shopkeepers,"  quoth  Napoloon  the 
First  Perhaps  these  are  npt  the  exact  words,  for  the  sayii\gs  of  the 
masters  of  legions  are  not  always  correctly  reported,  bu^  the  great 
captain,  in  some  form  of  words,  sneered  at  the  English  retail  trader. 

Trafalgar  aijd  Waterloo  are  a  biting^  reply  to  the  sneer. 

A  nation  of  shopkeepers !  Yes ;  and  on  the  seas  sovereign,  in 
Asia  the  supreme  Ruler,  the  mighty  mother  of  mighty  na^tions,  in 
America  and  in  Australia  the  dominant  race,  colonies  and  possessions 
in  every  quarter  of  the  globe,  in  comn^erce  fo^most,  in  arms  uncon- 
quered,  in  science  and  in  literature  unrivalled^and  the  freest  people 
on  earth. 

There  are  politicians  who.  rant  against  the  shopkeeping  class^  Do- 
these  windbags  ever  read  history  or  the  newspapers  ?  Do  they  find 
that  nations  without  a  shopkeeping  class,  that  is,  withput  a  class  of 
middlemen — who  are  to  the  producer  and  the  consumer  what  the  trunk 
of  the  tree  is  to  the  roots  and  the  fruit-bearing  branches-^are  prosperous 
and  enduringly  great  ?  The  order,  contentment,  and  vigour  of  the 
English  nation  would  be  impossible.without  the  shopkeeper.  The.  aris- 
tocracy, titled  and  untitled,  would  become  enfeebled  and  dpcay  weje  it 
not  for  a  constant  supply  of  new  blood.  And  how  is  that.supply  of  new 
blood  obtained  ?  The  shop  is  the  viaduct.  The  labourer  or  his  son 
begins  shopkeeping  on  the  smallest  scale,  with  a  stock  that  might  be 
bought  for  a  month's  wages.  In  the  next  generation  the  business 
has  grown,  and  the  tradesman  has  stock  and  capital,  and  a  little 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  99 

property.  Forthwith  he  becomes  a  public  man.  He  is  summoned 
on  juries,  he  is  a  member  of  the  Vestry,  he  is  a  Poor  Law  Guardian, 
a  churchwarden,  a  Common  Councillor,  and  if  he  increases  in  riches, 
or  has  the  gift  of  gabbing,  he  will  attain  to  the  dignity  of  mayor.  It 
is  a  happy  incident  of  our  political  and  social  system  that  the  moment 
a  man  rises  above  the  rank  of  labourer  he  is  schooled  in  the  elements 
of  public  life.  Real  public  life.  Not  talk,  but  administration.  Not 
politics,  but  statesmanship.  In  every  large  town  parish  in  England 
there  are  more  real  statesmen  than  are  to  be  found  in  Paris  and 
Madrid  put  together.  The  successful  trader  sends  his  son  to  a 
public  school,  whereat  the  son  of  a  tripe  dealer  is  better  than  the  son 
of  a  duke  if  he  has  a  better  intellect ;  although  intellect,  like  titular 
nobility,  is  a  mere  accident  of  birth.  It  is  a  wonder  that  some  of 
our  levelling  reformers  have  not  rebelled  against  Providence  and 
proposed  a  law  to  abolish  such  an  accident  of  birth  as  superior 
intellect !  In  thirty  or  forty  years  the  shopkeeper's  son  is  a  bishop  or 
a  law  lord,  and  there  is  another  name  inscribed  on  the  roll  of  the 
peerage.  The  second  son  has  stuck  to  the  business  and  become 
immensely  rich.  He  goes  into  Parliament,  and  marries  his  daughters 
to  poor  but  illustrious  titles,  and  so  revivifies  old  stock  with  new 
blood.  Do  away  with  shopkeeping,  and  there  would  be  an  impassable 
gulf  between  the  root  and  the  top  of  the  tree.  The  top  of  the  tree 
would  droop  and  die,  and  the  root  would  rot  in  the  ground. 

We  talk  about  our  wonderful  Press.  The  English  newspapers 
are  indeed  the  marvels  of  the  age.  Full,  fresh,  and  exact  informa- 
tion, and  the  finest  talent  in  the  land  contributing  essays  that 
would  be  nine  day  wonders  only  they  are  so  numerous.  Now,  Mr. 
Windbag,  take  up  any  leading  newspaper.  Do  you  know  why  that 
newspaper  can  give  you  so  much  news,  latest  intelligence,  and  first- 
rate  literature  for  the  price  ?  Do  you  know  why  so  much  can  be  done 
for  the  money,  and  without  any  subsidy  from  any  party  ?  Do  you 
know  why  the  Press  of  England  is  not  only  the  most  costiy  and  the 
best,  but  also  the  most  free  and  independent  ?  It  is  the  revenue 
derived  from  the  shopkeepers'  establishments  that  makes  the  English 
newspaper  the  best  newspaper  in  the  world,  and  thoroughly  inde- 
pendent. Abolish  the  shopkeeping  class,  and  the  English  newspaper 
would  no  longer  be  the  wonder  and  envy  of  the  nations ;  and, 
without  the  English  Press,  what  would  become  of  England  ? 

Yet  Lord  Shamvock,  landless,  moneyless,  roue^  gambler,  and  par- 
ticeps  criminis^  if  not  actually  a  forger,  shuddered  at  the  prospect  of 
most  unholy  but  lawful  wedlock  with  Selina  Hawes. 

Speaking  fashionably,  old  Hawes  never  had  a  father,  and,  ctfortiorty 


j:  .•         H  2 

•  • :  •    :  V 

•  •  .      .     . 


lOO  The  Gentleman  s  Magazif^, 

• 

never  a  grandfather ;  but,  to  tell  the  vulgar  truth,  he  had  a  father  who 
was  a  jobbing  carpenter  in  a  small  Eastern  Counties  town — that  is 
to  say,  an  overgrown  village. 

The  jobbing  carpenter  and  his  wife,  being  thrifty  folk  and  ambitious, 
apprenticed  their  son  and  heir,  an  only  child,  to  the  village  grocery 
store,  which  vras  the  post  office,  and  sold  everything.  Thomas 
Hawes,  who  had  attended  the  best  day  school  in  the  town,  was  a 
smart  lad  and  well  educated,  from  the  getting  on  point  of  view. 
To  make  money,  and  to  be  a  modern  King  of  Men,  reading, 
writing,  and  a  little  arithmetic  are  the  only  needful  mental  accom- 
plishments. When  Tom  was  out  of  his  time,  the  village  store 
offered  him  a  good  salary,  with  a  distant  prospective  partnership,  and, 
to  the  amazement  and  dismay  of  the  village  store,  the  offer  was 
declined.  Tom  had  entered  into  an  arrangement  to  travel  for  a 
London  house.  He  became  one  of  the  best  travellers  on  the  road  ; 
like  Hogarth's  industrious  apprentice,  he  married  his  employer's 
daughter,  and  when  the  father-in-law  died,  Mr.  Thomas  Hawes  be- 
came head  of  a  thriving  business. 

"  It's  all  ;^2,ooo  a  year,  Jane,"  said  Tom  to  his  wife,  "  and,  taking 
care  as  we  do,  we  may  have  ;^4o,ooo  by  the  time  we  are  sixty ; 
and  that  is  what  I  call  worth  living  for." 

Mr.  Hawes  was  rather  annoyed  that  Selina,  a  girl,  was  his  only  child. 

"  However,  what  was  not  to  be  is  not,  and  there  is  the  end  of  it. 
I  suppose  only  children  run  in  families.  The  worst  of  an  only  child 
is  that,  if  anything  happens  to  it,  there  is  not  another  to  fall  back 
upon,  and  your  property  goes  away  from  your  flesh  and  your  blood 
and  your  name.  If  anything  happens  to  Selina,  I  will  sink  my 
whole  property  in  a  life  annuity.  No  relations  shall  get  warm 
because  I  am  cold." 

So  Mr.  Hawes  waxed  richer  and  richer,  though  he  was  not  nearly 
so  rich  as  the  gossips  reported.  It  is  wonderful  how  the  world  is 
given  to  exaggerate  the  riches  of  rich  men.  Still,  Mr.  Hawes  had 
piled  up  many  thousands,  and  his  business  did  not  fall  off.  He 
took  a  house  in  Montague  Place,  and  gave  parties.  He  wanted 
Selina  to  marry.  Selina  was  not  loth  to  gratify  the  paternal  wish ; 
but  marriage  is  a  contract,  and  there  must  be  two  parties  thereto. 
A  damsel  with  a  reputed  ;£"  100,000  contingent  on  the  death  of  her 
papa  is  never  without  wooers,  but  the  views  of  Mr.  Hawes  were  very 
grand  indeed. 

"  Our  Miss  don't  marry  a  Mr.,  and  that's  settled,  Jane.  I  think 
what  I  can  give  her  in  settlement  and  by  expectations  is  worth  a  tip- 
top title,  and  I'll  have  value  for  my  money." 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  loi 

Selina  was  thin,  over  thirty,  and  looked,  in  spite  of  art,  all  her  age. 
But  who  cares  for  the  quality  of  the  purse,  or  the  ornamentation,  if 
it  is  stuffed  with  a  fortune  in  bank  notes  ?  No  doubt  there  were 
noblemen  with  high,  mighty,  and  ancient  titles,  who  would  have 
gladly  closed  with  the  bargain,  but  the  existence  of  the  matrimonial 
nugget  was  not  known  to  the  great  world.  Mr.  Hawes  could  not 
advertise  his  daughter.  It  is  a  breach  of  social  etiquette  for  a  lawyer 
to  advertise  for  clients,  a  physician  for  patients,  or  a  lady  for  a  hus- 
band. Mr.  Hawes  and  his  wife  were  disappointed,  and  began  to 
contemplate  the  bestowal  of  their  daughter  on  a  baronet  whose 
grandfather  had  done  something  before  the  Prince  Regent  and  who 
had  left  his  descendants  nothing  to  support  the  dignity  of  the  heredi- 
tary Sirship.  At  this  juncture  Lord  Shamvock  appeared  upon  the 
scene,  and  after  a  short  negotiation  he  and  Selina  were  affianced.  In 
fact,  the  business  had  been  concluded  the  day  before  the  unpleasant 
interview  with  Mr.  Stot. 

Lord  Shamvock  dined  in  Montague  Place  en  famille^  and  after 
the  retirement  of  the  hostess  and  daughter,  his  lordship  had  a  little 
chat  over  the  wine  with  his  future  father-in-law. 

"  I  am  willing  to  sign,  seal,  and  deliver  before  the  three  months, 
if  you  like,  my  lord,  and  the  sooner  the  business  is  finished  off  the 
better.  My  lawyers  could  get  the  settlements  ready  in  a  week.  It 
is  very  simple.  Everything  settled  on  Miss,  with  a  life  interest  to  you 
if  she  dies,  which  is  not  likely.  We  are  a  tough  breed,  ray  lord,  and 
Selina  is  like  enough  to  have  a  second  spec,  in  the  shape  of  a 
duke." 

"  I  don't  object  to  the  terms,  Mr.  Hawes,  but  I  think  it  would  be 
fair  to  put  a  trifle,  say  two  or  three  thousand  pounds,  in  my  hands.  I 
do  not  profess  to  be  rich,  and  the  trifle  would  be  useful." 

"  Very  sorry,  my  lord,  but  it  can't  be  done,  and  I  would  make  tlie 
same  answer  to  the  son  of  a  king.  It  has  been  my  rule  in  life 
never  to  give.  Nobody  is  the  better  for  getting  something  for 
nothing,  and  I  won't  waste  my  property.  Of  course  Miss  won't  leave 
home  without  a  purse,  and  I  shall  put  five  hundred  pounds  into  it. 
That  you  can  grab,  for  according  to  the  law  what  is  not  in  trust  is  the 
husband's.     The  jewels  will  be  settled." 

'*  I  wish,  my  dear  sir,  that  I  had  acted  upon  your  golden  rule  of 
never  to  give,  but  it  is  no  use  lamenting  I  was  not  wise  yesterday." 

*'  If  I  made  the  laws,  giving  should  be  a  penal  servitude  crime. 
What  becomes  of  all  the  fine  property  left  for  charity  ?  It  isn't  made 
the  most  of,  and,  what  is  more,  is  divided  into  about  two  equal  parts. 
The  one  half  goes  to  pay  the  trustees  and  managers  of  the  property. 


I02  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

and  the  other  half  is  given  to  people  who  could  do  without  it  It  is 
the  same  with  hospitals  and  unions.  Charity  makes  people  idle 
and  spendthrifts.  Only  let  it  be  known  that  there  is  no  help  for 
anybody,  and  there  would  be  precious  little  idleness  and  waste." 

"  Mr.  Hawes,  you  ought  to  be  in  Parliament  We  wsmtmen  who 
are  practical  philosophers.  But  to  business  for  a  moment  The  fiict 
is  I  have  two  or  three  things  to  clear  up.  A  few  hundreds  will  do.  It 
will  facihtate  matters  if  you  lend  me  ^i,ooo  on  good  security  for 
about  two  months." 

Mr.  Hawes  critically  examined  a  glass  of  port,  sipped  it,  put  the 
glass  on  the  table,  and  tapped  his  nose  gently  with  his  left  hand  fore- 
finger. 

"We  met  at  Stot'Sjmy  lord.  Is  it  Stot  you  have  to  clear  up 
with  ?  I  should  not  care  about  Miss  being  married  to  one  of  Stot's 
lot.  The  principal  would  be  safe,  but  every  &rthing  of  interest  would 
be  taken  from  her." 

Lord  Shamvock  laughed. 

'*  My  dear  Mr.  Hawes,  don't  be  alarmed.  The  boot  is  on  the  other 
leg." 

**  Come,  that  won't  da     You  have  not  lent  money  to  Jem  Stot  ?  " 

"  Not  exactly,  yet  Stot  owes  me  money.  I  borrowed  of  him  and 
paid  him  over  and  over  again.  When  I  found  out  the  wholesale 
plundering,  I  was  down  on  Stot,  and  he  admitted  owing  me  over 
twelve  hundred  pounds." 

"  Did  he  pay  you  ?  " 

"  No,  I  gave  him  three  months." 

"Did  you  take  a  bill?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Stot  IS  good  for  fifly  times  the  amount  I'll  cash  the  bill  for  you 
at  the  Bank  rate,  so  there  will  be  no  favour  on  either  side." 

"  I  pledged  my  honour  the  bill  should  not  go  out  of  my  posses- 
sion." 

"  I  shan't  part  with  it  You  can  have  it  back  any  day  you  like, 
by  paying  the  money." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Hawes,  I  will  see.  If  I  find  I  want  the.  money,  I 
will  let  you  have  Stot's  bill.  By  the  way,  this  affair  is,  of  course, 
confidential." 

"Strictly  so.  If  you  want  the  coin,  you  can  have  a  cheque  for 
Stot's  bill  whenever  you  like.     Shall  we  join  the  ladies,  my  lord  ?" 

In  a  by  no  means  pleasant  humour  Lord  Shamvock  took  coffee 
with  his  bride  elect. 


* 

Making  the  Worst  of  it.  103 

CHAPTER  X. 

A  LITTLE  MYSTERY. 

When  Lord  Shamvock  turned  his  back  on  Montague  Place  he 
muttered  several  profane  remarks  about  the  Haweses.  He  cursed 
the  meanness  of  Mr.  Hawes,  and  he  did  not  bless  Selina,  or  her 
mamma. 

"  It's  Rose  who  distracts  me.  Let  me  have  done  with  her,  and 
I  shall  put  up  with  the  grocery  Miss  like  a  lamb." 

He  stopped  to  light  a  cigar,  and  laughed  as  he  thought  of  the 
invention  about  Stot  He  was  serious  as  the  thought  entered  his 
mind  that  he  might  make  it  a  practical  joke  ^md  get  the  money. 
The  blood  rushed  to  his  iace^  and  he  staggered 

'*  Not  such  a  fool  as  that  for  all  the  Roses  in  creation.'' 

* 

He  hailed  a  cab,  and  drove  to  his  chambers.  He  had  the  latch- 
key in  the  door  when  he  was  accosted  by  a  shambling  figure : 

"  Beg  your  pardon." 

"  Well,  Feckles,  what  is  it  ?    A  message  ?" 

"  A  letter,  my  lord." 

**  Come  up,  Dick." 

They  were  followed  into  the  room  by  the  vigilant  Lawker. 

''  Spirits  and  water,  and  then  you  can  go  to  bed,  Lawker.  Call 
me  at  nine.  I  mean  nine^  Lawker.  I  have  some  business  to  look 
after." 

When  Lawker  had  put  the  spirits  on  the  table- and  disappeared,  his 
noble  master  opened  and  read  the  letter  that  Dick  had  given  him 
coming  upstairs. 

''  You  have  not  kept  your  promise.  You  profess  to  love  me,  and 
yet  refuse  the  small  &vour  I  ask*  You  know  why  I  ask  it.  If  you 
let  me  have  the  five  hundred  pounds  to-morrow  night  I  can  leave  next 
day.  If  not,  t  will  see  you  no  more.  I  can  get  what  I  require  with- 
out your  aid." 

Such  were  the  contents  of  the  unaddressed  and  unsigned  letter. 
"  Help  yourself,  Dick ;  don't  spare  the  spirit" 
Dick  shuffled  to  the  table,  and  with  a  shaking  hand  mixed  some 
spirits  and  water,  and  sat  down  after  a  deep  drink. 
**  Dick,  do  you  know  what  the  Rose  wants  ?  " 
"  Diamonds  ?  " 
"  Guess  again," 
"■  Settlement  ?" 


104  ^^^  Gentleman  s  Magazine, 

"  ^Vrong,  Dick.  This  is  rather  an  exceptional  case.  She  wants 
live  hundred  pounds  in  cash,  and  if  I  don't  find  the  stuff  she  won't 
be  my  Rose." 

I  )ick  emptied  his  glass. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  old  Dulmaine  ?'* 

A  nod. 

"  Fill  up,  Dick.     What  sort  of  man  is  the  father  ?" 

"  Queer,  and  always  in  for  it,"  replied  Dick,  pointing  to  the 
bottles. 

"  An  old  scoundrel.  Rose  pretends  the  five  hundred  pounds  is  to 
get  her  father  out  of  a  mess.  It  is  the  price  the  scoundrel  sets  upon 
his  daughter." 

Dick  took  another  drink. 

"  The  Rose  says  she  can  get  it  without  me.  WTiat  do  you  think, 
Dick?" 

"  Shoals  of  them." 

"  Curse  the  fools,  curse  her,  and  curse  my  most  infernal  folly." 

Lord  Shamvock  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  smoking  his  cigar, 
pausing  once  or  twice  at  the  table  to  sip  his  brandy  and  water. 

"  Curse  her,"  he  muttered. 

He  sat  down  opposite  to  Dick. 

"  Can  you  write?" 

The  abrupt  query  startled  Dick,  and  it  was  repeated  before  he 
answered,  in  the  affirmative. 

"  A  good  commercial  fist  ?  " 

Dick  jerked  his  head  down  and  up. 

"  I'll  try  you.  Copy  that,  and  in  the  same  handwriting,  as  near  as 
you  can." 

Dick  shuffled  to  the  writing  table,  and  began  copying  a  note  that 
Lord  Shamvock  placed  before  him. 

"  Capital.    True  as  a  photograph.     Here,  just  try  the  signature." 

His  lordship  txmied  over  the  note,  and  again  placed  it  before 
Dick,  who  looked  at  the  signature,  and  started  as  if  he  had  been 
stvmg. 

"What's  the  matter?  Do  you  know  Jem  Stot?  I  suppose  your 
little  affair  was  short  of  murder,  and  Stot  is  out  of  the  detective 
line." 

But  Dick  was  not  composed. 

"  Dick  Feckles,  no  nonsense  with  me.  I  always  knew  that  you  were 
a  marked  man.  I  shall  not  tell  Stot  to  look  after  a  person  with  shaved 
eyebrows  and  a  scarred  face  who  calls  himself  Dick  Feckles.  You 
serve  me  and  I  will  pay  you  for  your  work.     But  you  must  serve  me, 


Making  the  Worst  of  it,  105 

or  your  eyebrow  shaving  and  your  scarring  will  not  ser\e  you.     Do 
you  hear  ?  " 

Dick  muttered  that  he  had  been  unfortunate,  and  that  he  would 
do  any  work  if  he  was  not  named  to  Jem  Stot. 

"  That's  a  bargain,  Dick ;  you  are  good  at  writing.  Was  the 
imitation  of  writing  your  foible  ?" 

Dick  jerked  his  head  down  and  up. 

"  There  must  be  plenty  of  forgery  going  on.  It*s  so  easy,  and,  I 
suppose,  not  one  in  ten  thousand  found  out  Dick,  be  here  in 
the  morning  at  ten,  sharp.     No,  say  eleven,  sharp.     Do  you  hear  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  lord.'* 

"  You  will  not  be  such  a  fool  as  to  fail  Here's  your  cab  fare  and 
a  drink.'' 

His  lordship  put  half-a-sovereign  on  the  table.  Dick  took  it  up, 
put  it  in  his  pocket,  cast  a  hungry  look  at  the  spirit  bottle,  and 
departed.  • 

Next  day  Mr.  Hawes  discounted  a  promissory  note  for  ;^  1,2 5 3  for 
Lord  Shamvock.  As  he  put  the  promissory  note  in  his  strong  box 
the  old  gentleman  laughed 

"  Very  kind  of  Stot  to  beg  of  me  not  to  let  my  lord  have  our 
Miss.  Stot  is  pretty  nigh  due  North,  but  not  too  North  for  me.  * 
He  knows  fast  enough  that  when  my  lord  is  my  lawful  son  I  shall 
look  after  the  cash  for  that  note,  and  maybe  squeeze  out  as  much 
more  by  an  inspection  of  accounts.  I  thought  it  funny  when  Stot 
said  to  me,  *  You  met  Shamvock  at  my  place,  and,  as  between  man 
and  man,  I  must  say  to  you,  don't  give  him  your  daughter ! '  You 
are  keen,  Stot,  but  Hawes  is  a  trifle  sharper  set" 

Mr.  Stot  was  rather  ruffled  at  the  rejection  of  his  advice,  and  so 
expressed  himself  to  Mrs.  Stot 

"  They  say  that  a  man  who  makes  money  can't  be  a  fool.  It's  a 
\\Tong  saying.  Look  at  Hawes.  He  began  with  a  straw,  and  he  has 
scraped  together  feathering  enough  for  thousands  of  nests.  Yet  he  is 
going  to  fling  away  his  only  daughter  because  a  rascally  pauper  and 
worse  has  got  a  Lord  instead  of  a  Mister  before  his  name.  For  all 
his  money  making,  Hawes  is  a  fool,  and  I'm  another.  Advice  for 
which  you  don't  pay  is  not  worth  more  than  it  costs ;  and  advice  that 
is  not  even  asked  for  is  not  even  thanked  for." 

Within  forty-eight  hours  many  other  persons  besides  tlie  Haweses 
and  the  Stots  were  talking  about  Lord  Shamvock.  The  night  after 
Mr.  Hawes  had  obliged  his  son-in-law  elect,  Mr.  Blewlite  was  per- 
plexed and  enraged  by  the  non-appearance  of  Miss  Rose  Dulmaine 
He  sent  to  her  lodgings,  but  could  get  no  other  tidings  than  that  the 


io6  The  Gentleman's  Magazitte. 

lady  had  gone.  At  the  end  of  the  comedy  poor  Blewlite  appeared  at 
the  footlights,  said  that  Miss  Rose  Dulmaine  could  not  appear  that 
night,  that  it  was  no  fault  of  his,  and  that  he  hoped  the  audience  would 
allow  Miss  Jenkins  to  do  her  best  in  the  part  The  audience  hissed, 
roared,  and  groaned.  A  disappointed  audience  will  never  listen  to 
the  voice  of  reason  or  heed  a  plea  for  pity.  Blewlite  said  that  those 
who  liked  could  have  tickets  for  another  night,  or  their  money 
returned.  The  offer  of  the  netum  of  the  admission  money  was 
greeted  with  cheers  by  those  who  had  entered  without  payment^  for 
although  the  free  list  was  entirely  suspended  in  the  advertisements, 
there  were  many  free  admissions.  When  Blewlite  reached  his  room 
he  found  a  telegram  from  Rose.  It  was  dated  Paris,  and  expressed 
her  regret  that  she  was  con^)elled  to  break  her  engagement  without 
notice. 

"  She's  off  with  that  villain  Shamvock.     I'll  make  him  pay  for  it.*' 

The  scum  of  society  as  well  as  Blewlite  concluded  that  the  Rose 
had  gone  oflf  with  Lord  Shamvock,  who,  like  a  true  roui,  was  wont  to 
boast  of  his  conquests,  real  and  imaginary.  The  impression  was 
confirmed  by  inquiring  at  his  lordship's  chambers  and  by  Lord 
Walsher,  also  of  the  Irish  peerage,  who  had  a  bet  with  Shamvock 
that  he,  Shamvock,  would  not  carry  off  the  Rose. 

The  gossips  were  put  to  sudden  silence  by  Lord  Shamvock  strol- 
ling into  his  club  soon  after  two  o'clock.  He  was  chaffed  about  the 
Rose,  and  smiled.  The  dregs  of  society  are  not  ashamed  of  crime, 
and  the  scum  of  society  is  not  ashamed  of  infamously  vicious 
deeds.  He  assured  Blewlite  that  he  did  not  know  the  whereabouts 
of  the  Rose.  The  frantic  manager  did  not  believe  the  statement, 
and  had  his  lordship  closely  watched  by  detectives.  The  watching 
was  in  vain.     No  clue  was  obtained  to  the  retreat  of  Rose  Dulmaine. 

The  Lion  Theatre  was  closed,  and  Blewlite  was  reconciled  to  the 
critics.  Never  again  would  he  stake  his  money  on  a  show  or  on  a 
devil  in  tights.  Henceforth  he  would  stick  to  legitimate  drama.  For 
weeks  the  midnight  company  at  the  Albion  was  entertained  by  a 
recital  of  Blewlite's  trouble,  otherwise  Rose  Dulmaine  would  have 
been  altogether  forgotten.  Pleasiure-seekers  run  after  those  who 
only  live  to  please,  as  children  chase  the  butterfly ;  if  the  butterfly 
disappears  it  is  forgotten.  It  is  true  that  the  poet,  the  artist,  and 
the  writer,  who  sunshine  the  hearts  of  men,  are  loved  and 
remembered  for  ever.  But  Rose  Dulmaine  was  not  an  artist.  She 
was  a  mere  flesh  and  blood  puppet  of  the  stage.  So  do  not  abuse 
the  public  for  caring  so  little  about  her  fate. 

(To  be  continued,) 


TABLE    TALK. 

BY  SYLVANUS  URBAN,  GENTLEMAN. 


I  LOOK  upon  the  visit  of  the  Shah  of  Persia  as  a  token  of  recogni- 
tion in  the  East  of  the  finality  of  the  abandonment  by  Great  Britain 
of  the  policy  of  aggression  and  conquest.  It  is  getting  to  be  under- 
stood, not  in  Turkey  and  Egypt  alone,  but  in  Persia,  in  Afghanistan, 
in  Beloochistan,  and  even  to  some  small  extent  in  China,  that  a  new 
era  has  at  last  really  dawned  upon  the  history  of  the  human  race. 
Weak  and  insignificant  nations  in  all  times  have  called  out  against 
war,  but  such  protests  could  not  be  accepted  as  a  sign  of  war's  deca- 
dence. A  few  examples  have  occurred  of  great  monarchs,  ruling  in 
powerful  kmgdoms,  who  have  declared  for  peace  on  principle,  and 
maintained  the  principle  so  long  as  it  was  possible ;  but  they  could 
never  give  the  smallest  guarantee  for  the  policy  of  their  successors. 
Since  the  world  began  Great  Britain  is  the  first  powerful  nation 
which  has  pledged  itself  as  a  people  never  again  to  take  any  man's 
territory  and  keep  it  by  force,  and  we  have  given  so  many  proofs  that 
this  is  our  fixed  resolve,  and  can  show  so  much  evidence  that  it  is 
likely  to  be  the  permanent  policy  of  the  country,  dictated  by  public 
opinion  strengthening  and  becoming  more  confirmed  year  by  year, 
that  the  old  peoples  of  the  East,  who  have  passed  all  the  days  of  their 
history  in  the  perpetual  turmofl  of  war,  are  gradually  learning  to  put 
trust  in  our  resolve,  and  to  a|>preciate  the  transcendent  importance 
of  it  A  sense  of  this  great  fact  I  believe  to  be  the  motive  by 
which  these  Eastern  potentates,  consciously  or  unconsciously,  are 
moved  to  come  westward  and  visit  us.  They  have  been  made 
sensible  that  the  international  policy  of  Great  Britain  does  not 
depend  upon  the  changing  will  of  a  line  of  Sovereigns  or  upon  the 
arbitrary  fiat  of  a  Minister,  and  they  want  to  see  if  it  is  possible  to 
gauge  the  actual  power  on  which  they  have  to  rely  for  the  perma- 
nence of  this  intensely  modem  policy.  I  am  afraid  that  these  flying 
visits  of  SultTJi,  of  Viceroy,  and  of  Shah  are  not  enough  to  make 
them  comprehend  how  it  is  that  government  by  the  voice  of  a 
whole  people  must  be,  sooner  or  later,  a  guarantee  against  wars  of 
aggression ;  but  such  sights  of  the  people  of  England  in  their  cities 
and  at  their  work  as  those  which  the  Shah  has  seen  must  convey  the 


io8  The  Gentleman  s  Mamzine, 


'A 


thought  that  these  millions  have  nothing  to  gain  by  the  acquisition 
of  territory,  that  they  have  a  great  deal  to  lose  by  war,  and  that  if  it 
depends  upon  them  (as  it  does)  a  great  deal  of  reliance  may  be 
|)laced  in  that  modem  international  policy  of  ours  of  which  Great 
Britain  is  the  first  exemplar.  Shah  and  Sultan  and  Viceroy  may  well 
ponder  on  these  things.  WTiat  a  splendid  future  might  there  not  be 
yet  for  the  countries  of  Asia,  where  civilisation  began,  if  the  inter- 
national policy  of  Great  Britain  could  be  really  transplanted  and 
made  to  take  root  there  !  The  potentates  of  the  East  seem  more 
anxious  than  any  others  to  come  and  sit  at  the  feet  of  this  country, 
and  to  learn  what  they  may  do  to  be  saved.  Why  should  not  the  old 
greatness  of  the  East  be  restored  ?  Let  us  not  be  superstitious  about 
the  dogma  that  civilisation  of  necessity  travels  westward.  The  secret 
of  the  westward  movement  has  always  been  aggression,  and  Great 
Britain  has  begun  to  teach  that  aggression  is  not  a  permanent  or 
inalienable  condition  of  national  life. 


The  brief  history  of  the  Alexandra  Palace  during  the  time  that  it  was 
open  to  the  public  exemplified  the  enormous  demands  made  by  our 
metropolis  upon  those  who  provide  entertainment  for  its  people  and 
its  visitors.  The  great  building  was  burnt  down  after  it  had  been 
opened  only  thirteen  days,  and  during  that  time  some  two  hundred 
thousand  persons  had  passed  in  and  out  of  it  The  one  lesson  of 
that  thirteen  days  was  that  the  enormous  palace  was  not  spacious 
enough  for  its  purpose.  If  a  place  of  public  attraction  which  is  to 
be  self-supporting  depends  for  its  success  entirely  upon  the  coming 
of  vast  numbers  of  persons,  it  should  be  one  of  the  chief  objects  of 
its  promoters  to  see  that  the  building  will  bear  the  greatest  probable 
pressure  of  numbers.  It  -took  only  one  week  to  show  that  the 
Alexandra  Palace  was  not  equal  t«  the  conditions  on  which  it 
depended  for  its  chances  of  prosperity.  On  the  very  day  on  which 
a  hundred  thousand  of  the  inhabitants  of  London  were  engaged  in 
forming  a  procession  and  making  a  demonstration  in  the  western 
district  of  the  metropolis,  and  when  every  form  of  holiday-making 
was  patronised  by  great  numbers  in  all  parts  of  the  town  and 
suburbs  and  in  every  place  worth  spending  a  few  hours  in  within 
reach  of  excursion  by  road,  river,  and  rail,  there  were  nearly  sixty 
thousand  people  in,  or  trying  to  get  into,  that  new  and  beautiful 
building  on  Muswell  Hill.  The  palace  was  large,  but  it  was  not 
equal  to  such  a  pressure.  We  have  got  to  learn  the  conditions 
attached  to  the  congregation  of  this  stupendous  population  on  one 
spot  and  the  increasing  facilities  for  the  coming  hither  of  strangers 


Table  Talk.  109 

on  particular  occasions  and  days  of  the  year.  Is  it  too  late  for  the 
promoters  of  that  unfortunate  enterprise  to  attempt  to  meet  the  case? 
Their  mansion  is  almost  level  with  the  ground,  and  they  are  going 
to  rebuild  it.  Why  not  take  the  lesson  of  the  event,  and  make  it  a 
palace  large  enough  for  the  comfortable  entertainment  of,  say,  a 
hundred  thousand  persons?  Its  unequalled  size  would  be  its  best 
advertisement.  Such  an  enterprise  would  show  a  sense  of  what  the 
metropolis  is  coming  to.  The  actual  increase  of  our  population  is  a 
hundred  thousand  in  two  years.  We  must  duly  provide  for  the 
amusement  of  this  rapidly  rising  new  generation,  not  expecting  them 
to  sub-divide  and  distribute  themselves  to  suit  our  convenience. 


Some  modes  of  expressing  the  most  ordinary  opinions  and  sentir 
ments    continually    provoke    an    appeal    to    first    principles.      A 
notable  instance  has  occurred  within  the  last  month  in  Earl  Fitz- 
william's  address  to  his  colliers  after  a  conflict  between  him  and  thcxii 
on  a  trade  union  question.     The  noble  lord,  in  order  to  convince 
the  men  that  they  were  fighting  an  unequal  battle  with  him,  and  that, 
though  he  was  disposed  to  act  generously,  he  had  them  very  much  at 
his  mercy,  told  them  that  it  was  a  matter  of  indifference  to  him 
whether  he  worked  his  coal  mines  or  not ;  that  perhaps  he  might 
think  proper  to  close  his    pits,   and  that  whatever   he  did  with 
that  deep  store  of  wealth  it  would  be  a  firm  bank  to  him  and  his 
upon  which  he  could  draw  at  any  time.      Even  moderate  journals 
have  treated  this  as  a  most  unwise  boast  and  threat,  calculated  to 
accelerate  the  growth  of  communistic  ideas  with  regard  to  the  soil. 
I  cannot,  however,  see  that  this  portion  of  Earl  Fitzwilliam's  speech 
was  quite  what  it  was  made  out  to  be — an  ill  advised  assertion  of 
rights  of  property  which  are  threatened.     It  was  a  simple  mistake  as 
to  his  rights.   If  Earl  Fitzwilliam,  and  all — or  any  large  proportion  of 
— the  owners  of  coal  mines  were  to  resolve  to  close  their  mines,  they 
would  quickly  find  that  they  have  no  arbitrary  inalienable  privileges 
such  as  that  assumed  by  the  noble  lord.     It  would  take  Parliament 
only  a  few  days  to  pass  an  Act  for  the  working  of  the  mines  for  the 
sake  of  the  community,  in  spite  of  anything  the  proprietors  could  do 
to  the  contrary,  and  I  am  not  sure  that,  on  a  crisis,  if  Parliament  were 
not  sitting,  the  same  thing  would  not  be  done  by  the  Home  Office 
under  an  Order  in  Council.     There  is  nothing  at  all  terrible  in  this  \ 
there  is  only  the  simple  fact  that  Earl  Fitzwilliam  made  a  mistake  in 
the  statement  of  his  proprietary  rights.     It  is  one  of  the  simplest  and 
best  recognised  principles  of  political  economy  that  rights  of  property 
in  the  soil  arc  limited  by  considerations  of  the  public  good. 


no  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

There  is  one  solution  of  the  difficult  problem  connected  with 
English  agriculture  and    the    better  payment  of  the  agricultural 
labourer  which  I  expect  to  see  attempted  on  a  considerable  scale 
before  long.     If  it  should  appear — as  indeed  it  appears  already — 
that  the  English  farmer  cannot  meet  the  demands  of  the  labourers 
for  higher  pay  and  go  on  making  a  reasonable  profit  from  his  com  in 
the  market,  he  can  only  arrive  at  this  conclusion :  that  under  the 
rapidly  changing  condition  of  things  this  island  cannot  grow  com  to 
advantage.     Happily  the  alternative  is  not  so  very  serious.     There 
are  places  enough  in  the  two  hemispheres  where  cheap  wheat  can 
be  grown  on  a  vast  scale,  and  the  time  is  past  when  any  civilised 
country  can  hope  to  live  in  independence  of  the  productions  of  other 
nations.     The  natural   agricultural  production  of  a  narrow  island 
like  ours  is  cattle.     Neither  meat  nor  fat  stock  can  ever  be  brought 
across  sea  except  under  great  disadvantages,  while  wheat  and  flour 
are  among  the  most  accommodating  of  cargoes.    We  have  a  good 
start,  too,  as  graziers  and  breeders  of  stock.     No  nation  as  yet  can 
produce  animals  and  meat  like  ours,  while  in  the  matter  of  wheat  we 
show  no  strongly  marked  excellence.    We  can  grow  cattle  and  food 
for  cattle,  and  compete  with  all  the  world  in  the  market,  making  a 
good  profit  and  employing  the  very  minimum  of  manual  labour.     I 
make  no  doubt  that  as  far  as  the  condition  of  our  agricultural  dis- 
tricts will  lend  itself  to  this  change  this  is  what  we  are  coming  to. 
We  shall  be  by-and-by  a  manufacturing,  a  mining,  and  a  grazing 
country.     Some  have  foretold  this  swifdy  coming  future  as  a  threat  to 
the  labourers  and  a  punishment  upon  them  for  asking  higher  wages, 
but  I  do  not  see  it  so.     There  is  enough  of  useful  and  profitable 
work  for  strong-arms  and  industrious  hearts  to  perform  in  the  world 
without  binding  them  down  to  a  kind  of  production  in  which  we  are 
heavily    handicapped    in    the   race    with   other    great    agricultural 
territories. 

The  attention  of  readers,  as  well  as  the  province  of  writers,  is  so- 
much  divided  in  these  days  into  separate  and  wholly  distinct  chan- 
nels that  I  can  hardly  form  an  idea  how  many  people  are  giving  heed 
to  the  psychological  discussion  of  the  last  few  weeks  on  the  nature 
and  origin  of  instinct     It  is  a  controversy  of  immense  importance  ia 
the  history  of  philosophy.     If  Mr.  Spalding,  Mr.  Darwin,  and  Mr. 
George  Henry  Lewes  are  right  then  there  must  be  an  end  to  our 
habitual  reverence  for  the  dictates  of  pure   instinct;   for  instinct 
means  nothing  more  than  a  powerful  habit  of  organism  acquired  by^ 
the  animal  through  ages  upon  ages  of  striving  for  self-preservation 


Tcd^U  Talk^  III 

and  gratification,  and  banded  down  by  hereditary  transmission.  So- 
instincts  may  be  of  evil  origin  as  well  as  good,  and  it  may  become 
an  important  study  how  to  eradicate  some  of  the  instincts  of  the 
animal  species  and  of  man.  By  this  theory  civilisation  is  at  war 
with  some  of  the  most  deeply  seated  human  and  animal  instincts, 
and  it  may  be  that  we  shall  arrive  at  a  better  method  than  any  here^ 
tofore  discovered  of  saving  certain  troublesome  races  of  men  and 
some  species  of  the  lower  organisations  from  extermination.  Up  to- 
the  present  time  we  have  seen  no  way  of  dealing  with  them,  and 
could  only  seek  to  sweep  them  out  of  our  way. 


Is  it  too  much  to  hope  that  the  Archaeological  Institute  of  Great 
Britain,  on  its  visit  to.  Devon  in  the  present  month,  will  make  att 
attempt  to  throw  a  litde  new  light  upon  the  question  of  the  origin  of 
the  so-called  Druid  stones  and  circles  of  Dartmoor?    I  cannot  help 
thinking  that  scienrific  investigation  has  been  a  litde  sluggish  in 
dealing  with  those  and  similar  remains.     Until  recently  it.  was  gene- 
rally accepted,  in  books,  that  the  Druids  fixed  those  great  blocks  in 
circles  and  marked  out  those  sacred  ways  along  which  it  has  been  sup- 
posed human  victims  were  led  to  the  sacrifice.     But  more  recently,  since 
the  tendency  of  scientific  thought  has  been  to  relegate  pre-historic 
remains  to  periods  of  more  remote  antiquity  than  used  to  be  admitted 
into  ordinary  speculations  concerning  man,  doubts  have  been  cast 
upon  the  whole  Druid  hypothesis,  and  the  fixing  of  the  stones  has 
been  thought  to  have  been  probably  the  work  of  races  of  men  of 
fabulous  antiquity,  who  were  here  before  the  Celts.     All  this  while, 
however,  casual  visitors  and  parties  of  explorers,   looking  at  the 
boulders  without  much  reference  to  books,  have  been  in  the  habit  of 
forming  theories  of  their  own,  and  scarcely  ever  a  company  assembles 
on  the  ground  but   one  or  more  of  their  number  show  signs  of 
scepticism   with  respect   to  all  the  theories,  and  start  afresh  the 
question    whether    there    are  traces  enough  of  human  design  in 
the  position    of   the    stones    to    need    any    archaeological    expla- 
nation   whatever.      The    sceptical    theory   is    that   Nature  herself 
does  eccentric  things  sometimes,  and  may  she  not,  it  is  asked,  in  the 
placing  of  so  many  hundreds  of  thousands  of  boulders  on  Dartmoor,, 
have  by  accident  left  those  few  forming  the  rings  of  circles  and  the 
borders  of  mathematically  shaped  pathways  ?    The  present  form  of 
the  £sice  of  Dartmoor  was  made,  there  is  good  reason  to  believe,  by 
the  action  of  the  waters  when  central  Devon  formed  a  part  of  the  bed  of 
the  Atlantic  Ocean.     Would  it  not  be  well  that  men  like  Huxley  and 


1 1 2  TJtt  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

Danvin,  and  the  great  geologists  and  physical  geographers,  should 
precede  the  antiquarians,  and  attempt  to  define  the  natural  forces 
which  made  Dartmoor  what  it  is,  and  say  whether  there  might  have 
been  any  action  of  currents,  any  movements  of  the  world  of  waters 
which,  by  the  denuding  process,  might  have  left  those  stones  thus  in 
curves  and  rows?  If  they  should  say  that  that  is  possible,  I  do  not 
suppose  that  the  anthropologists  would  be  willing  to  accept  the 
solution,  nor  would  they  be  justified  in  adopting  too  readily  ^the 
speculative  explanations  of  men  of  science ;  but  if  the  decision 
should  be  the  other  way,  and  the  hypothesis  of  human  design  in  the 
placing  of  the  stones  were  to  be  affirmed  by  the  doctors  of  natural 
philosophy,  the  archaeologists  would  be  in  a  better  position  than  that 
which  they  occupy  at  present.  I  fear  that  the  only  sentiment 
which  the  Druid  stones  will  excite  in  the  minds  of  the  military  hordes 
who  will  flow  over  Dartmoor  in  the  course  of  the  next  few  weeks,  in 
the  execution  of  the  annual  manoeuvres,  will  be  a  sentiment  of  exe- 
cration that  so  many  dangerous  obstructions  should  stand  in  the  way 
of  horsemanship  and  artillery. 


THE 


GENTLEMAN'S    MaGAZINE 


August,  1873. 


Clytie. 

A  Novel  of  Modern  Life. 
BY  JOSEPH  HATTON. 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 

BEHIND  THE   SCENES. 

LYTIE  now  found  herself  in  the  strange  new  world  for 
which  she  had  been  longing.  She  dismissed  Mr. 
Chute  Woodfield's  warning  with  a  kindly  note,  and 
flung  herself  straight  into  the  Barrington-Wyldenberg 
trap.  How  should  she,  poor  child,  know  that  it  was  a  trap  ?  Mr. 
Woodfield's  advice  might  be  very  good,  and  it  might  not  Good  or 
bad,  she  could  not  afford  to  take  it  Her  will  was  against  it,  her 
desires,  her  ambition,  her  hopes,  her  purse,  all  were  against  it  Her 
interview  with  Mr.  Wyldenberg  was  charming.  He  had  taken  the 
Delphos  Theatre  for  three  years ;  he  was  going  to  produce  a  lot  of 
new  pieces ;  he  had  now  in  rehearsal  a  comedy  and  a  burlesque. 
Clytie's  appearance  was  everything  he  could  desire;  she  should 
have  a  small  part  in  each  piece,  and,  to  begin  with,  a  salary  of  two 
pounds  per  week.  His  wife  should  help  her,  and  he  was  very  much 
indebted  to  Mr.  Barrington  for  introducing  her.  He  took  her  from 
his  private  room  to  the  stage,  introduced  her  to  his  wife,  who  appeared 
in  the  bills  as  Miss  Delamayne,  and  played  Apollo  in  the  burlesque. 
This  lady  received  her  somewhat  coldly,  but  Clytie  began  work  at 
once,  accepted  her  parts  (which,  by  the  way,  had  been  thrown  up 

that  very  morning  by  an  experienced  actress),  and  went  home  to  St. 
Vol.  XI.,  N.S.  1873.  i 


«'I4  ^^^  Gefttlemans  Magazvie. 

Mark's  Crescent  a  proud  and  happy  girl — proud  in  her  anticipation 
of  success,  happy  because  she  could  now  write  to  her  grandfather  a 
preliminary  letter,  telling  him  that  she  would  soon  be  able  to  give 
Ihira  her  address,  where  he  would  find  her  in  receipt  of  an  income  of 
lier  own  earning,  and  an  independent  little  woman  of  the  world  who 
while  forgiving  him  all  his  unintentional  unkindness,  desired  her- 
self to  be  forgiven.  She  felt  that  her  foot  was  on  the  first  round 
of  the  ladder,  and  nothing  should  prevent  her  from  mounting.  She 
worked  without  flagging,  and  had  almost  committed  the  words  of 
her  parts  to  memory  on  the  day  she  received  them.  Her  only  diffi- 
culty at  present  was  in  the  business  of  the  piece  and  taking  up  her 
cues.     All  this  she  would  speedily  master. 

Phil  Ransford  called  at  St.  Mark's  Crescent,  and  rejoiced  ^inth  the 
Breezes  over  their  fair  lodger's  prospects,  and  made  himself  so  agree- 
able to  Mrs.  Breeze  that  she  quite  seconded  all  his  plans  for  the 
young  girl's  advancement  in  life. 

"I  am  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Breeze,  "that  Mr.  Ransford  is  a  bom 
gentleman,  and  there,  if  I  might  say  so,  over  head  and  ears  in  love 
with  you.  Why,  he  as  good  as  told  me  that  he  had  popped  the 
question  to  you,  and  you  wouldn't  have  him  with  all  his  money,  and 
although  he  would  have  made  no  objection  to  the  theatrical  business, 
and,  I'm  sure,  to  have  a  husband  in  play-acting — well,  there,  it  is 
almost  a  necessity." 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Breeze,  I  told  you  that  story  long  ago,  and  I  said 
it  was  chiefly  through  Mr.  Ransford  that  I  left  home." 

"  Not  the  name — you  did  not  say  the  name,  my  dear.  And  he  was 
the  gentleman  !  Well,  I  never !  and  such  a  fine  young  man ;  and  you 
flung  his  handsome  present  into  the  river,  and  your  grandfather  fished 
it  out;  well,  there,  if  you  didn't  like  him  that  was  the  proper  spirit; 
I  should  have  done  the  same  thing  with  Johnny  Breeze,  and  pushed 
him  in  after  for  that  matter ;  but  Mr.  Ransford,  there,  he  loves  you 
just  as  much  as  Johnny  loved  me,  and  it  do  seem  a  pity,  as  he  says, 
that  you  can't  reciprekate  his  passion." 

"  I  have  no  particular  objection  to  Mr.  Ransford,"  said  Clytie  ; 
**and  it  is  very  good  of  him  to  offer  to  take  me  to  the  theatre,  but  I 
would  much  rather  he  did  not  come  here." 

^Why?"  asked  Mr.  Breeze;  "why,  Missie?  I'm  sure  if  you 
■think  it's  wrong  I  will  tell  him  so  at  once ;  but,  there,  he  knows  Mr. 
Wyldenberg,  he  says,  and  he  can  help  you — Oh,  I  don't  know  how 
much  he  can't  help  you — and  he  is  that  kind  it  would  seem  like  being 
ungrateful  to  fortune  to  refuse  his  attentions — and  knowing  your 
.grand&ther  too." 


Clytie.  115 

**  I  will  do  what  you  think  is  right,"  said  Clytie.     "  I  dare  say  Mr. 
Phil  Ransford  can  be  useful  to  me." 

"That  he  can,"  said  Mrs.  Breeze. 

Mr.  Ransford  had  praised  Mrs.  Breeze's  little  parlour ;  had  tipped 
the  children ;  had  talked  freely  of  his  mother  and  sisters ;  had  offered 
to  take  the  whole  family  to  the  play  in  his  brougham  the  first  night 
of  Clytie's  appearance ;  and  had  made  himself  so  agreeable  and 
fascinating  that  all  Mrs.  Breeze's  natural  shrewdness  and  foresight 
were  overcome.  A  young  girl  alone  in  London,  too,  he  had  said, 
had  a  claim  upon  any  man's  consideration  and  sympathy ;  but  Miss 
Waller,  whom  he  had  known  so  long — a  lady  in  manners  and  appear- 
ance, and  without  friends  in  town— he  would  consider  himself  a 
coward  and  a  cad  if  he  did  not  use  all  his  influence  for  her ;  to  say 
nothing  of  being  pressed  to  do  so  by  other  and  higher  feeliqgs  than 
mere  sympathy. 

Clytie  did  not  take  much  persuading  to  allow  Mr.  Ransford  to 
place  a  brougham  at  her  service  for  the  theatre.  Mr.  Barrington,  who 
was  standing  at  the  stage  door  on  the  second  morning  of  Clytie's 
engagement,  talking  to  the  lessee  about  the  remarkable  beauty  of  that 
young  lady,  was  not  a  little  startled  when  he  saw  the  carriage  drive 
up.  He  bowed  profoundly  to  the  young  lady,  who  gave  him  her 
hand  with  that  fiank  innocence  of  manner  which  had  impressed  him 
so  much  at  his  first  interview  with  her. 

"  By  Gad,"  he  said  to  Wyldenberg,  as  the  brougham  drove  off,  to 
return  again  after  rehearsal,  ''she's  clever.  Ton  my  soul,  she's 
clever.  I  could  have  sworn  she  was  genuine ;  would  have  laid  my 
life  against  a  strawberry  that  she  was  poor,  and  ambitious,  and  a 
stranger  to  London.  I  thought  I  was  a  match  for  the  smartest  girl 
in  Europe.  She's  done  me !  And,  by  heavens,  what  an  innocent 
look  she  has  !  Women  are  bom  actors,  Wyldenberg ;  you  ought  to 
make  a  fortune  out  of  this  one." 

"  Don't  understand,"  drawled  Wyldenberg,  a  tall,  lazy-looking, 
curly-headed,  blonde  young  man,  with  fine  blue  eyes,  and  a  moustache 
as  long  as  the  King  of  Italy's.  *'  For  a  man  of  the  world  and  a 
dramatic  agent  you  are  a  gusher." 

**  Thank  heaven  I  am  not  a  bla$k  loll-about  like  you,  Wyldenberg," 
said  Barrington  \  "  you  look  as  if  you  had  got  up  against  your  will, 
and  wanted  to  lie  down  again ;  the  famous  old  sluggard  of  the 
nursery  books  was  a  fool  to  you ;  how  the  deuce  you  contrive  to 
discover  capitalists,  and  when  discovered  to  work  them,  is  a  mystery 
to  me." 

"  Indeed — ^ah,"  said  Wyldenberg,  sitting  down  in  the  door-keeper's 

I  2 


9> 


99 


1 1 6  T/ie  Gmtleniatis  Magazine. 

room,  and  telling  the  man  to  go  out  and  fetch  some  brandy  and  soda; 
"  but  what  about  this  girl — ^how  has  she  done  you  ?  " 

"  Didn't  you  see  her  brougham  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Well?" 

"  I  see  lots  of  broughams." 

"You're  a  knowing  swell,"  said  Barrington;  "never  commit 
yourself." 

"  No ;  you  do  though." 

*'  My  frank  nature,"  said  Barrington ;  "  too  honest ;  let  out  every- 
thing ;  always  did." 

"  Then  let  out  this  thing,"  drawled  Wyldenbeig. 

"  You  think  nothing  of  the  brougham  after  what  I  have  told  you  ? 

"  No." 

"  What  did  you  think  of  the  driver  ?  It  was  not  a  hired  broughaoL 

"  Oh,  bother,"  said  Wyldenberg ;  "  tell  me  or  don't  I'm  tired ;  was 
up  till  five  this  morning." 

*'  It  was  Mr.  Phil  Kansford's  man  who  drove  my  innocent  dove* 
like  beauty  here." 

Wyldenberg  whistled,  and  ran  his  fingers  through  his  curls. 

"  Thought  that  would  wake  you  up,"  said  Barrington ;  "  he  is  one 
of  your  capitalists,  if  rumour  can  be  credited." 

"  Rumour  can  be  something  elsed  if  it  likes,"  said  Wyldenberg.  "  I 
owe  him  five  hundred  pounds,  and  he  has  threatened  me  with  a  writ. 
Barrington,  shake  hands." 

Barrington  smiled,  pulled  up  his  shirt  collar,  pulled  down  his  wrist- 
bands, and  shook  hands  with  his  friend,  the  handsome  lessee  of  the 
Delphos  Theatre. 

When  villains  shake  hands  let  good  people  tremble. 

Clytie  was  even  more  successful  at  rehearsal  than  she  had  any  right 
to  expect.  Miss  Delamayne  had  not,  however,  treated  her  with 
marked  courtesy,  and  the  stage  manager  had  brought  tears  into 
her  eyes  by  the  rough  tone  in  which  he  had  corrected  one  of  her 
mistakes.  A  young  lady  who  said  she  had  been  in  the  profession  all 
her  life  told  her  when  the  rehearsal  was  over  that  she  must  not  mind 
this  sort  of  thing.  The  young  lady  laughed  and  winked  in  a  very 
vulgar  burlesque  way  when  Clytie  spoke  of  Miss  Delamayne  as  the 
lessee's  wife.  Lord  Somebody  and  two  other  gentlemen  had  stood 
at  the  wings  during  rehearsal,  and  this  made  Clytie  nervous  at  first,  but 
the  love  of  what  she  was  doing  carried  her  safely  through  the  oideal 
of  such  an  audience.  She  did  not  like  being  spoken  to,  however,  by 
these  gentlemen  without  an  introduction.    Lord  Somebody  and  Miss 


C lytic.  1 1 7 

Delamayne  seemed  to  be  on  very  intimate  terms,  and  the  two  other 
gentlemen  were  very  merry  with  the  girls  of  the  burlesque  ballet. 
The  young  lady  who  had  been  in  the  profession  all  her  life  laughed  at 
Clytie  when  she  saw  that  she  blushed  at  Lord  Somebody's  familiar 
nod  and  smile.  But  the  incident  troubled  Clytie  not  a  little,  and  all 
the  way  home  she  sat  wondering  and  musing  over  all  she  had  seen 
and  heard  in  the  new  world  she  had  that  morning  discovered. 

At  rehearsal  the  next  day  Mr.  Wyldenberg  invited  several  ladies  of 
the  theatre  to  a  luncheon  in  his  room.  Clytie  begged  to  be  excused, 
but  Mr.  Wyldenberg  insisted,  and  she  felt  bound  to  comply.  It 
was  a  champagne  luncheon  from  a  &mous  Piccadilly  house.  The 
gentlemen  who  were  at  the  theatre  on  the  previous  day  were  present, 
and  Mr.  Wyldenberg  told  Clytie  that  he  expected  an  old  friend  of 
his,  and  her's  he  was  glad  to  hear.  She  was  a  little  confused  at  this, 
and  feared  that  some  ambassador  from  her  grandfather  would  pre- 
sently appear.  When,  therefore,  Mr.  Phil  Ransford  presented 
himself,  Clytie  felt  greatly  relieved,  and  Phil  was  agreeably  surprised 
at  the  unmistakable  smile  of  satisfaction  that  welcomed  him  in 
Clytie's  large  eloquent  eyes.  He  had  misconstrued  the  cause  ; 
but  vanity  is  not  confined  to  woman.  It  was  a  noisy  luncheon. 
The  ladies  laughed  loud  and  long  at  the  smallest  jokes,  and 
they  drank  the  champagne  witK  an  undisguised  relish.  Lord  Some- 
body sang  a  funny  song,  and  told  Wyldenberg  that  his  friend  Lord 
St.  Barnard  was  never  tired  of  hearing  him  sing  it.  He  regretted 
much  that  Lord  St  Barnard  was  laid  up  with  the  gout,  and  Wylden- 
berg hoped  Lord  St.  Barnard  would  soon  be  better.  Miss  Delamayne 
said  Lord  St  Barnard  was  the  kindest  old  boy  in  the  world,  and  the 
cleverest  Then  she  reminded  one  of  her  lady  friends  of  a  picnic 
Lord  St  Barnard  had  once  given  in  his  grounds  at  Grassnook,  on 
the  Thames,  the  loveliest  place  in  the  world.  Once  or  twice  Clytie 
felt  the  blood  rush  into  her  face  at  the  remarks,  not  of  the  men,  but 
of  the  ladies ;  but  on  these  occasions  Phil  Ransford,  who  was  by 
her  side,  contrived  to  tarn  her  attention  another  way  by  some 
observation  intended  ^for  her  alone.  By-and'-by  the  conversation 
ceased  to  be  general,  each  gentleman  devoting  himself  to  a  lady,  and 
each  lady  devoting  herself  to  a  gentleman.  Cigars  and  coffee  were 
introduced,  and  everybody  seemed  to  be  thoroughly  happy. 

"  You  don't  much  care  for  this  ?"  said  Phil  aside  to  Clytie. 

"  No,"  said  Clytie. 

"  Can't  help  it,  you  know,  in  the  theatrical  profession.  This  is 
what  they  call  Bohemian  life." 

"  Yes,"  said  Clytie ;  "  but  it  will  not  be  necessary  for  me  to  lunch 
here  again  ?" 


1 1 8  The  Gentlemaris  Magazine. 

"  WeU,  no,"  said  Phil,  "  not  unless  you  like ;  but  I  dare  say  you 
will  soon  get  used  to  it." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Clytie,  trying  hard  to  regard  it  as  something 
belonging  to  the  duties  of  her  profession ;  '^  I  was  very  glad  when 
you  came." 

'^  My  dear  girl,"  said  Phil,  taking  her  hand,  which  she  withdrew 
rapidly,  and  at  the  same  time  looking  round  the  room  to  see  if  the 
action  had  been  noticed. 

Miss  Delamayne  was  sitting  with  her  head  reclining  on  Lord  Some- 
body's shoulder,  her  lifeless  yellow  hair  straggling  all  over  his  shirt 
front. 

"  Take  me  away,"  said  Clytie. 

"  Certainly,"  said  Phil,  rising. 

"  Don't  go,  old  boy,"  said  Lord  Somebody.  "  Miss  Pitt,  don't 
take  him  away  yet." 

Clytie  made  no  reply.  Phil  offered  her  his  arm.  She  took  it,  and 
they  left  the  room.    Phil's  brougham  was  at  the  door. 

''  You  look  ill,"  he  said,  as  he  handed  her  into  the  carriage ;  ''  a 
little  drive  will  do  you  good.  May  I  accompany  you  for  ten 
minutes  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Clytie,  "  pray  do ;  I  feel  miserable  and  ill" 

Giving  some  directions  to  his  coachman,  Phil  took  his  seat  beside 
Clytie,  who  sank  back  into  a  comer  of  the  brougham. 

''  I  feel  very  ill,  Mr.  Ransford,"  she  said ;  *'  it  is  the  smoke,  I  sup- 
pose.    I  shall  be  better  presently." 

Phil  took  her  hand  and  hoped  she  would;  but  she  did  not  get 
better.  He  pulled  the  check  string  and  told  the  coachman  to  drive 
home.     Presently  the  carriage  stopped  in  Piccadilly. 

"  Take  me  home,"  said  Clytie,  faintly. 

**  Will  you  not  trust  me?"  said  Phil.  "These  are  my  chambenL 
My  man's  wife  shall  attend  you.  A  little  eau  de  Cologne  and  quiet 
will  put  you  all  right.  No  doubt  it  is  that  horrid  smoke.  Come,  I 
will  take  care  of  you." 

Clytie  looked  appealingly  at  him. 

**  Trust  me,"  he  said,  earnestly. 

She  suffered  herself  to  be  conducted  into  the  house. 

CHAPTER  XIX. 

FATK. 

Standinc.  at  the  wing  of  the  great  world's  theatre  Fate  arranges 
some  wonderfully  dramatic  roiubinations. 

Fate  never  tires.     He  in  always  at  work.     His  plots  are  delicate 


C lytic,  1 1 9» 

and  subtle.    The  cruelties  of  his  tableaux  are'  veiled  in  the  darkness 
of  secrecy. 

Mirabeau  scouted  the  irreligious  mania  of  ^naticism,  yet  he  found 
it  "  impossible  not  to  believe  that  there  are  very  estimable  beings 
who,  from  a  concurrence  of  disastrous  circumstances  accumulated  oa 
their  heads,  seem  to  be  destined  to  a  calamitous  existence.'' 

Poor  Waller,  the  organist  of  St  Bride's,  was  a  good  and  estimable 
man.  Indeed,  his  greatest  sin — if  sin  it  might  be  called — ^was  that 
outburst  of  temper  and  its  attendant  jealous  surveillance  over  his 
granddaughter  which  drove  Qytie  from  home.  And  yet  the  musicians 
had  led  a  life  of  pain  and  misery  and  trouble.  Blessed  with  an. 
affectionate  and  loving  nature,  he  had  suffered  a  world  of  pain  and 
heart-ache.  Fate  had  struck  him  blow  upon  blow,  wounding  hink 
each  time  where  most  he  felt  the  smart  In  his  old  age  Fate  still 
pursued  him  relendessly,  and  as  if  glorying  in  the  very  refinement 
of  his  persecution  put  him  down  at  Piccadilly  Circus  just  as  the  door 
of  Phil  Ransford's  chambers  closed  upon  his  child. 

Fate  stood  at  the  wing  of  the  world's  play,  and  with  his  iron  hand 
upon  the  curtain  might  be  credited  with  a  grim  smile  at  this  dramatic 
situation.  Old  Waller  would  have  given  his  very  life  to  have  seen, 
his  child  again,  for  one  reason  above  all  others ;  he  had  discovered 
that  he  had  wronged  her.  At  no  time  since  her  departure  fron^ 
Dunelm  had  she  more  needed  his  watchful  care  and  protection  than 
at  that  moment  when  he  stood  within  a  few  yards  of  her  at  Piccadilly 
Circus. 

This  cruel  trick  of  cruel  Fate  was  quite  consistent  with  the  dis-^ 
covery  which  Luke  Waller  had  made  after  his  child  had  fled.  That 
letter  which  Phil  Ransford  had  written  to  Qytie,  and  which  Tom. 
Mayfield  had  seen  through  the  intervention  of  the  organ-blower,. 
Clytie  had  left  it  behmd  her.  The  wily  servant  found  it  in  my  young 
lady's  room.  If  she  had  discovered  it  soon  enough  for  Tom  May- 
field  to  have  had  an  explanation  some  good  might  have  been  done ;. 
but  Fate  had  ordered  differently.  You  remember  when  Torn 
Mayfield  stood  in  the  shadow  of  the  old  church  watching  the  Her- 
mitage windows  and  Phil  Ransford ;  you  remember  what  the  signal 
of  Clytie's  consent  to  elope  was  to  be,  a  jar  of  flowers  placed  outside 
the  front  room  window,  at  about  ten  o'clock,  just  before  bedtime ; 
you  remember  that  daring  insidious  letter  written  by  Phil  Ransford  to 
the  persecuted  wilfiil  belle  of  the  cathedral  city ;  you  pitied  her  at 
the  time,  you  feared  for  her,  you  stood  in  imagination  by  the  side  of 
Tom  Mayfield,  you  shared  his  rapture  when  the  time  came  without 
the  signal,  your  heart  sank  with  his  when  a  few  minutes  afterwards 


wo  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

the  window  was  raised  and  a  jar  of  flowers  was  placed  outside.  You 
remember  his  heartbroken  cry  "  Oh,  Clytie,  Clytie,  you  have  killed 
me,"  and  you  know  what  has  followed. 

Fate,  if  Destiny  really  may  be  personified,  must  have  chuckled 
when  Grandfather  Waller  read  this  letter.  She  had  never  given  the 
hated  signal  Clytie  had  no  hand  in  it  The  poor  child,  if  her 
imagination  had  for  a  moment  been  fired  by  Phil  Ransford's  letter, 
had  scouted  his  proposition  the  next  The  thought  of  it  had 
made  her  so  anxious  and  afraid  that  her  grand&ther  insisted  that  she 
was  ill  and  must  goto  bed  early.  When  she  had  said  ''Good  night"  and 
left  the  room  the  old  man  had  seized  upon  a  vase  of  flowers  as  the 
cause  of  his  child's  headache  and  evident  indisposition ;  so  he  raised 
the  window  and  put  it  outside.  And  this  was  the  signal  so  terrible 
to  Tom  Mayfield,  so  glorious  for  the  moment  in  the  eyes  of  Phil 
Ransford.  This  was  the  trifling  incident  upon  which  Fate  hung  the 
destinies  of  half  a  dozen  lives.  The  discovery  of  the  cruel  mistake 
heaped  coals  of  fire  on  Luke  Waller's  head.  His  soul  was  filled  with 
remorse.  He  wanted  to  fling  himself  at  her  feet  and  ask  her  forgive- 
ness. He  longed  to  wipe  out  all  the  past  and  make  her  happy.  To 
discover  that  she  was  really  innocent  tortured  him  even  more  than 
belief  in  her  guilt  had  done.  And  now,  perhaps,  he  had  driven  her 
to  distraction  ?  How  long  could  a  simple  innocent  child  such  as  she 
live  in  the  great  world  alone,  without  a  protector,  and  save  herself  from 
the  ten  thousand  villains  who  would  beset  her  path?  The  thought 
maddened  him.  The  train  in  which  he  followed  her  to  York  seemed 
only  to  crawl,  though  it  was  express.  And  he  read  her  tender  pitiful 
letter  over  and  over  again.  It  was  a  mercy  that  the  tears  came 
into  his  eyes  at  last  and  relieved  him  somewhat  firom  the  great  weight 
that  seemed  to  be  crushing  his  heart  "  Oh,  my  dear  grandfather, 
I  am  not  what  you  think  me !  Oh,  my  dear  grandfather,  you  should 
not  have  said  that !  I  kiss  you  while  you  sleep,  my  dear  grandfather, 
and  am  gone."  He  repeated  the  words  though  they  were  daggers, 
repeated  them  and  sobbed  and  cried  aloud  "  My  poor  dear  child,  my 
poor  persecuted  darling,  forgive  me,  forgive  me  1  ** 

Arrived  in  York,  the  poor  old  man  had  lost  all  trace  of  the  fugitive. 
The  railway  officials  did  not  think  she  had  left  York.  An  inspector 
remembered  her  well  firom  the  description.  He  felt  sure  that  she 
remained  in  York.  Luke  Waller  searched  the  city  up  and  down, 
wandered  about  the  old  streets  day  and  night  Once  he  had  looked 
wistfully  at  the  river,  and  had  felt  sick  at  the  hideous  thought  that 
she  might  be  lying  pale  and  still  in  the  shadow  of  the  new  nK)on 
that  trembled  on  the  eyening  ripples.    On  the  following  day  he  had 


Clytie.  1 2 1 

crept  into  the  cathedral  and  prayed  with  all  his  might,  but  Fate  stood 
grim  and  unbending  at  his  elbow.  Then  a  railway  porter  believed 
that  a  young  lady,  just  like  her  whom  Mr.  Waller  described,  went  on 
to  Scarborough.  The  old  man  hesitated  whether  to  accept  this 
uncertain  clue  or  go  on,  as  his  judgment  dictated,  to  London. 
Fate  decided  for  him.  He  went  to  Scarborough.  At  this  fashion- 
able watering-place  he  had  come  upon  the  track  of  two  persons 
believed  to  be  newly  married  who  answered  to  the  likenesses 
of  his  child  and  Tom  Mayfield.  He  caught  at  any  straw.  This 
idea  took  him  to  Liverpool  and  Manchester ;  and  at  last  he  deter- 
mined to  seek  the  lost  one  in  London.  He  had  arrived  in  town  twa 
hours  before  Mr.  Wyldenberg  opened  the  first  bottle  of  champagne 
at  that  luncheon  in  the  Delphos  Theatre,  and  when  Phil  Ransford's 
brougham  pulled  up  in  Piccadilly  the  old  man  was  on  his  way  to  his 
old  rooms  in  Bedford  Street  Fate  had  a  mind  to  torture  him  a 
little  with  memories  of  the  past  In  his  happiest  days  he  had  lived 
with  his  daughter,  Clytie's  mother,  in  Bedford  Street  Fate  had  put 
it  into  his  head  that  some  mysterious  power  of  divination  might  lurk 
in  the  atmosphere  she  had  once  breathed.  It  would  be  a  good  point 
to  start  from.  He  would  live  there  again  if  he  could;  he  would 
make  out  a  map  of  London  from  that  centre,  and  search  it  house  by 
house;  he  would  advertise  in  the  papers,  he  would  employ  the 
police,  he  would  spend  his  last  shilling  in  the  search,  and  commence 
and  conclude  all  operations  from  this  centre. 

Bedford  Street  would  sympathise  with  him.  The  spirit  of  old 
times  would  look  down  upon  him.  Her  influence  would  come  to  his 
aid.  Fate  would  not  be  so  cruel  as  to  shut  out  his  child  from  him 
any  longer.  He  would  call  out  her  name  in  the  streets.  He  would 
print  it  on  the  walls.    All  London  should  see  and  hear  it 

Poor  old  man,  the  stones  over  which  he  walked  were  thick  with 
clues  to  his  mystery,  but  he  was  never  destined  to  find  them.  At 
Piccadilly  Circus  he  might  almost  have  heard  his  child's  voice,  he 
was  so  near  to  her,  but  the  cherished  music  was  never  again  to  break 
in  upon  him  except  in  dreams  of  past  days.  In  Bedford  Street  he 
was  close  to  Barrington's,  where  he  could  have  obtained  her  address, 
and  that  very  day  she  had  written  to  him,  and  to-morrow  the  letter 
would  be  lying  at  Dunelm ;  but  Fate  decreed  that  he  should  never 
receive  the  precious  missive.  Mr.  Chute  Woodfield  stood  upon  the 
Garrick  steps  as  the  old  man  passed,  and  a  Bedford  Street  printer 
was  setting  up  his  child's  name  for  a  playbill ;  yet  his  heart  yearned 
in  vain  for  a  trace  of  his  darling,  for  a  sight  of  whom  he  would  not 
have  considered    death    too  great   a  penalty.    The  last  shadows 


122  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

were  gathering  round  the  old  man.  The  great  scene-shifter  had 
little  more  need  of  him.  He  had  nearly  played  out  his  part,  and 
there  was  no  more  dialogue  set  down  for  grandfather  and  child.  He 
might  wander  a  short  time  amidst  the  scenes  of  his  early  da3rs,  and 
dream  himself  back  again  into  the  old  orchestra  which  death  had 
long  since  cleared ;  but  he  was  surely  slipping  out  into  the  everlast- 
ing shadows,  and  she,  the  wilful,  persecuted  child  of  the  old  cathedral 
city,  she  had  kissed  him  her  last — for  he  and  her  the  great  parting 
was  over.  "  I  kiss  you  while  you  sleep,  my  dear  grandfather,  and 
am  gone." 

CHAPTER  XX. 

* 

AT   GRASSNOOK, 

After  passing  Cookham  Ferry,  on  the  Thames,  the  river  spreads 
itself  into  three  branches,  the  principal  of  which,  as  the  fine  old 
guide-book  in  the  Grassnook  Library  tells  us,  forms  a  sudden  and 
bold  sweep  to  the  left,  flowing  rapidly  by  Hedsor  Wharf;  the  middle 
stream  pursuing  a  direct  course,  rendered  more  commodious  for 
navigation  by  the  checking  of  the  current  in  the  floodgates.  These 
two  branches  assist  in  forming  the  largest  island  on  the  river,  and  on 
this  island  the  late  [Sir  George  Young  erected  a  pleasant  villa,  called 
Formosa  Place.  The  remaining  branch  directs  its  course  to  the 
right  by  the  well-known  Venables  Paper  Mills.  The  scenery  now 
becomes  extremely  beautiful ;  the  Hedsor  heights  rising  from  their 
chalky  beds  with  the  hanging  woods  above,  connected  with  the 
bolder  and  more  richly  variegated  foliage  of  Cliefden.  Hedsor 
church  occupies  a  highly  picturesque  situation,  embosomed  in  trees, 
and  placed  on  a  commanding  eminence  overlooking  one  of  the  most 
picturesque  parts  of  Bucks  and  Berks. 

In  the  midst  of  this  lovely  scenery  reposed  Grassnook,  a  low 
straggling  house,  planted  in  the  midst  of  lawns  and  gardens,  and 
surrounded  by  trees  and  old  park  railings.  The  windows  looked  out 
through  the  trees  upon  the  river  which  flowed  gently  on  its  way 
between  Hedsor  heights  and  Grassnook  flats.  The  tow  path 
on  the  Thames  was  blocked  at  Grassnook  by  Lord  St  Barnard's 
grounds,  and  thus  brought  into  existence  the  feny  close  by.  Hedsor 
looked  down  from  its  woody  heights  upon  Grassnook ;  Grassnook 
looked  up  at  Hedsor ;  looked  up  from  a  level  luxuriant  plain  green 
as  emerald ;  looked  up  across  the  deep  unruffled  waters  of  die  Thames 
that  seem  to  lie  quietly  thereabouts  to  make  a  mirror  for  the  Hedsor 
and  Cliefden  woods,  and  the  pretty  rustic  lodges  and  boat  houses  on 
the  green  banks. 


C lytic.  *       123. 

*' There  is  hardly  a  more  lovely  spot  than  this  in  the  world/'  said 
the  Dean  of  Dunelm,  sipping  some  very  old  Madeira  near  the  open 
window  of  the  Grassnook  dining-room,  into  which  room  was  creeping 
the  combined  perfumes  of  hay,  honeysuckle,  roses,  and  seringa. 

"Dimelm,  Mr.  Dean,  with  the  cathedral  and  castle  seen  from 
Prebend's  Bridge,  is  finer,"  said  Lord  St  Barnard,  sitting  with  his 
right  leg  bandaged  and  on  a  cushioned  foot-rest  newly  invented  for 
the  rich  gouty  subjects  of  the  Queen. 

"  Finer,  perhaps,"  said  the  Dean  in  a  rich  unctuous  voice,  "  but 
without  the  softness,  the  cultivation,  the  luxiuious  depth  of  colour  of 
Grassnook  and  Cliefden." 

**  Yes,  we  are  more  civilised  in  our  scenery  tlian  you  are  in  the 
north ;  our  trees  are  better  behaved,  our  grass  is  a  better  colour,  our 
river  is  bluer,  our  winds  are  more  gentle,"  said  his  lordship,  ''  but  our 
gout  is  more  severe." 

The  Dean,  a  tall,  well-built,  handsome  old  man,  with  a  warm 
genial  face,  white  hair,  and  grey  sparkling  eyes,  turned  round  and 
smiled  at  his  friend. 

"  Yes,  you  arc  going  to  say  that  I  should  have  listened  to  the  voice 
of  the  preacher,  or  followed  the  example  of  the  famous  clerical 
athlete  at  Oxford." 

"  No,  I  would  be  sorry  to  give  you  the  additional  pain  of  such 
reflections,"  said  the  Dean. 

"  Don't  spare  me,"  said  Lord  St  Barnard.  "  I  have  not  done 
much  with  my  talents,  I  fear ;  not  even  hidden  them  under  a  bushel. 
I  hope  my  successor  will  do  better,  though  I  can  say  this,  the  silver 
pieces  have  not  diminished ;  indeed,  I  rather  expect  my  property 
has  doubled  in  value  during  the  last  thirty  years." 

"  You  always  did  give  very  realistic  and  literal  readings  of  scrip- 
ture," said  the  Dean,  smiling. 

"Halt!"  exclaimed  his  lordship.  "I  see  we  are  drifting  into 
theology  again.  I'll  none  of  it.  If  I  have  not  done  all  that 
becomes  a  man,  not  to  say  a  peer  of  the  realm,  have  I  not  suffered  ? 
Wifeless,  childless,  gout  and  potass  water — good  heavens  above,  you 
don't  think  there  is  anything  more  for  me  in  the  future  by  way  of 
expiation  ?  " 

'^  Is  that  the  question  you  select  for  preventmg  a  theological  dis- 
cussion ?  "  asked  the  Dean  quietly.  "  My  dear  St  Barnard,  you  strike 
there  at  the  root  of  all  theology ;  but  we  will  talk  of  other  things  ; 
take  me  into  your  world.  I  am  your  guest,  and  you  know  my  old  way 
of  adapting  myself  to  circumstances." 

"You  are  a  dear  old  boy,"  said  his  lordship,  *^  as  you  always  were  \ 


1 24  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

the  same  at  Eton,  the  same  at  Oxford,  the  same  as  a  curate,  tlie 
same  as  a  dean,  and  I  cannot  tell  you  how  much  I  esteem  your  kind- 
ness in  coming  down  here  in  the  midst  of  the  season  to  see  an  old 
stranded  friend.     How  long  are  you  staying  in  town  ?  " 

"  Two  weeks,"  said  the  Dean. 

"  And  then  you  return  to  Dunelm  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  let  us  talk  of  the  old  city ;  you  should  have  a  great  deal  of 
news  for  me.  How  is  my  protigky  old  Waller,  and  his  pretty  grand- 
child ?  " 

"  Ah,  there  I  fear  my  news  will  cause  you  pain,  my  dear  friend, 
since  your  interest  in  their  welfare  is  so  great" 

"  The  old  man  is  not  dead  ?"  asked  my  lord,  earnestly. 

"No,  but  he  has  suddenly  left  Dunelm;  the  story  is  somewhat 
mysterious." 

"Indeed,"  said  Lord  St  Barnard,  looking  anxiously  into  his 
friend's  face. 

**  The  girl,  whose  beauty  was  becoming  a  proverb,  it  appears  ran 
away  from  home ;  it  is  believed  that  she  eloped  with  one  of  our 
students,  a  very  promising  young  man,  Mr.  Tom  Mayfield." 

Lord  St.  Barnard  sighed  and  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  as  if  he 
resigned  himself  to  the  realisation  of  a  foreboded  calamity. 

"  Your  interest  in  the  young  lady  seems  more  than  an  ordinary- 
interest,  and  I  sympathise  with  you  in  the  ill  return  which  you 
have  received  for  your  generosity." 

"  Go  on,  my  friend;  don't  mind  me;  I  am  used  to  this  sort  of 
thing ;  I  expected  it,  though  my  hopes  went  strongly  in  the  other 
direction ;  nature  is  above  art,  stronger  than  education ;  it  always  has 
its  way.     Poor  child,  what  could  be  expected  of  her?" 

**  The  old  man  followed  the  fugitives,  the  Hermitage  is  closed,  and 
no  one  knows  anything  about  the  movements  of  Waller,  Mayfield,  or 
the  child." 

"  When  did  this  occur?" 

"  Only  two  or  three  weeks  ago." 

"  I  might  have  hoped  to  hear  from  you,  under  the  circumstances," 
said  his  lordship,  gravely. 

"  My  dear  Barnard,"  said  the  Dean,  "  I  heard  you  were  ill ;  the 
papers  have  been  full  of  paragraphs  about  your  health.", 

"  Damn  the  papers ! "  exclaimed  his  lordship,  "  and  the  gout ! " 
adding  as  quickly  an  apology  for  swearing.  "  Pray  forgive  me ;  I 
owe  you  and  offer  you  my  sincere  apologies." 

*'I  hoped  to  be  in  town  this  week,  and  I  thought  it  best  to 


Clytie.  125 

communicate  my  bad  news  in  person;  further,  I  wished  to  satisfy 
myself  by  the  fullest  inquiry." 

"  Certainly,  and  you  were  right" 

"  It  turns  out  that  there  is  some  doubt  whether  Miss  Waller  really 
did  elope  with  Mayfield.  The  student's  landlady  says  the  suspicion, 
is  wrong  altogether;  he  was  deeply  in  love  with  her;  but  if  she 
favoured  the  advances  of  any  gentleman,  Mr.  Philip  Ransford  was 
the  fortunate  man/' 

"  Ah !  Ransford,  eh  ?  A  scoundrel,  Mr.  Dean,  a  scoundrel^ 
capable  of  any  iniquity.'* 

"  His  reputation  in  Dunelm  is  not  the  most  desirable ;  but  I  have 
to  speak  of  the  Ransfords  presently." 

"  Did  she  receive  the  visits  of  this  Ransford  ?  " 

**  I  believe  so,  and  much  to  the  annoyance  of  her  grandfather, 
who  rather  favoured  the  suit  of  Mr.  Mayfield,  a  well  conducted  and 
exceedingly  clever  young  man— deejay  in  love  with  her  too,  so  says 
his  landlady.  He  had  a  bust  in  his  room,  a  bust  of  Clytie,  which  he 
used  to  talk  to,  and  he  called  Miss  Waller  Clytie,  so  his  landlady 
says ;  and  one  night,  that  before  she  disappeared,  he  came  home 
and  broke  the  bust  all  to  pieces,  and  the  next  morning  he  was 
gone." 

''  A  romance,  and  a  sad  one,  I  fear ;  Ransford  is  the  villain.  The 
student  would  have  married  her,  and  ere  this  would  have  been  at  hes 
grandfather's  feet.  Poor  child !  What  was  your  Divine  Master 
doing  when  He  permitted  tliis  to  happen  ?  " 

"  No  profianity,  Barnard,"  said  the  Dean,  solemnly;  "we  are  men  of 
the  world ;  I  am  an  ordained  priest ;  in  either  capacity  we  are  but 
poor  creatures,  and  may  not  question  the  decrees  of  the  Almighty." 

**  Well,  well,  if  He  loveth  whom  He  chasteneth,  then  indeed  He 
loveth  me,"  said  my  lord  with  a  spice  of  bitterness  in  the  expression 
of  a  deep  and  earnest  feeling. 

**You  never  told  me  why  you  had  so  deep  an  interest  in  the 
Wallers,  and  I  do  not  understand  why  you  are  so  much  moved ;  you 
have  told  me  before  now  that  I  am  the  only  friend  wha  enjoys  your 
entire  confidence." 

"  It  is  true,  my  oldest  and  best  of  friends ;  I  am  a  very  lonely 
man ;  I  have  lived  out  of  all  liking  or  disliking,  but  I  had  a  half- 
matured  plan  with  regard  to  that  girl,  had  she  lived  on,  and  stood 
the  test  of  twenty  summers." 

"  I  do  not  ask  for  your  secret,  but  I  have  always  felt  that  you  had 
one  beneath  the  Hermitage  roof^  and  I  should  not  have  been 
surprised  to  find  that  Mr.  Waller  had  been  here." 


ii  26  The  Getttlematis  Magazine. 

'*  That  is  a  matter  of  astonishment  also  to  me/'  said  his  lordship. 
'*  There  may  be  hope  in  this ;  the  trouble  is  not  so  great  as  we 
fear." 

The  Dean  sipped  his  Madeira,  and  wondered  what  was  coming 
next 

''  You  knew  the  story  of  my  boy,  my  poor  Frank,  who  lies  yonder 
in  the  old  vault,  where  all  my  hopes  and  ambition  were  buried 
with  him?" 

"  Too  well,  my  dear  friend,  too  well." 

"  Mary  Waller,  the  Clytie  of  your  Dunelm  student,  is  my  boy's 
child." 

"  Good  God  ! "  exclaimed  the  Dean,  rising  to  his  feet ;  "my  poor 
dear  friend ;  the  Lord  in  His  wisdom  has  indeed  afflicted  diee ! " 

"  Aye,  more  than  you  can  ever  know,"  said  my  lofd ;  "  but  I  have 
deserved  it,  I  have  deserved  it" 

The  Dean  got  up  and  pressed  his  friend's  hand. 

'*  Nay,  do  not  let  it  trouble  you  so  much,"  said  Lord  St  Barnard ; 
"  I  have  nursed  the  secret  so  long  that  I  am  accustomed  to  it ;  time 
wears  down  the  angles  of  the  sharpest  sorrow  ;  try  and  consider  that 
you  have  known  this  for  years,  and  let  us  go  on  to  other  subjects. 
What  about  these  Ransfords  ?  I  hate  them — vulgar  upstarts.  And 
this  son,  with  whose  presence  they  polluted  Maudlin  College,  what 
of  him  ?  " 

''It  is  thought  in  Dunelm  that  the  Ransfords  are  in  monetary 
trouble  ;  the  Northern  Bank,  in  which  the  old  man  had  a  large 
interest,  stopped  payment,  as  you  know,  last  year,  and  the  liability  of 
the  shareholders  is  being  realised ;  it  was  rumoured  in  the  city  that 
you  were  about  to  foreclose  the  mortgage  which  it  was  known  you 
retained  upon  the  Ransford  property,  when  Ransford  bought  the 
Dunelm  estate  and  mills." 

'*  Indeed,"  said  his  lordship  with  a  frown  ;  "  it  was  rumoured,  was 
t  ?  You  think  men  are  punished  in  this  world  as  well  as  in  the  next  ? 
It  is  right  that  it  should  be  so,  is  it  not  ?" 

"  *  Whatever  is  is  right,'  is  the  expression  of  true  fidth  and  proper 
resignation." 

*'  An  arrogant  lot  this  Ransford  caiiaille.  I  have  heard  it  said  in 
Dunelm,  vulgarly  proud,  not  good  to  the  poor,  money  trying  to  over- 
ride blood,  the  loom  setting  itself  up  for  equality  with  the  sword,  the 
mechanic  standing  uncovered  in  the  presence  of  the  descendant  of 
princes." 

"They  are  not  beloved  by  the  people  of  Dimelm,"  said  the  Dean. 

''It  would  be  a  great  satisfaction  to  me  if  I  were  made  the 


Clytte.  127 

instrument  of  their  present  punishment  Will  ymi  do  me  the  favour 
to  touch  the  bell  ?  " 

With  a  sympathetic  smile  the  Dean  complied  A  servant  entered 
upon  the  instant 

''  Will  you  excuse  me  a  moment  ?  "  said  my  lord  to  the  Dean. 

Then  addressing  the  servant  his  lordship  said,  ^^  Ask  Mr.  Belmont 
to  write  by  the  next  post,  and  make  an  appointment  for  Sdkirk  and 
Brown,  the  lawyers,  to  come  to  Grassnook  to-morrow  at  two  o'clock/' 

The  servant  bowed. 

"  There  are  letters ;  wiD  your  lordship  have  them  now  ?  " 

"  Take  them  into  the  library." 

'^  And  now,  Mr.  Dean,  let  us  discuss  this  painfiil  business ;  you  insist 
upon  returning  to  London  to-night,  and  your  train  leaves  Cookham  at 
ten  o'clock ;  the  carriage  will  be  at  the  door  in  an  hour." 

*'  I  will  come  down  again  to-morrow,"  said  the  Dean. 

"  The  season  will  be  at  an  end  earlier  than  usual,  they  tell  me." 

"  So  I  understand ;  Parliament  will  rise  before  the  end  of  July." 

"  And  the  general  election  ?  " 

<<  Will  take  place  after  the  harvest,''  said  the  Dean. 

"  What  about  Dunelm ;  will  the  cathedral  city  do  its  duty?" 

'*  I  think  so.  A  new  and  daring  section  of  the  constituency  have 
had  the  audacity  to  mention  the  name  of  Mr.  Philip  Ransford  as  a 
probable  candidate." 

His  lordship  made  a  contemptuous  gestmre.  "  The  new  franchise 
has  turned  England  topsy-turvy;  but  there  will  be  no  Ransford  in  the 
House  of  Commons  as  long  as  I  live." 

"  There  wiQ  be  a  severe  contest  in  both  divisions  of  the  county, 
and  an  association  is  being  formed  with  hostile  intentions  against  the 
Church.     I  fear  our  successors,  Barnard,  will  have  some  trouble." 

"  A  policy  of  expediency  and  conciliation  on  the  part  of  the  Tories 
has  brought  about  far  more  dangerous  changes  than  all  the  legislation 
of  the  Whigs." 

"  There  are  no  Whigs  nor  Tories  now,"  said  the  Dean.  "  Radical 
and  Conservative  are  not  only  new  names,  but  they  represent  alto- 
gether a  new  order  of  things.  The  next  Dean  of  Dunelm  may  live 
to  see  Fox,  the  Mediodist,  preaching  in  the  cathedral" 

''  And  Smith,  die  brewer,  lording  it  over  Grassnook,"  said  my  lord ; 
"  why,  for  that  matter,  have  I  not  myself  let  the  Bankside  estate  to  a 
retired  coal  dealer  ?  It  is  true  I  resisted ;  but  my  agent's  financial 
arguments  and  the  coal  dealer's  quiet  English  merchant-like  maimer, 
and  his  wife's  presentation  at  Court,  and  a  hundred  other  things 
iviped  out  the  plebeian  taint,  and  he  is  quite  a  little  prince  at 


128  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

Bankside.  We  are  all  as  bad  as  each  other,  Dean,  all  alike ;  Mammon 
lias  his  hand  upon  us,  Blood  has  gone  out  of  fashion,  and  Money  has 
come  in.  It  is  a  blessing  we  are  old  men,  you  and  I ;  the  change 
cannot  trouble  us  much  longer/* 

Thus  the  conversation  flowed  on  until  his  lordship's  carriage  came 
swinging  round  the  wooded  drive  at  the  side  entrance  to  Grassnook ; 
and  then  these  two  old  friends,  Dean  and  Lord,  who  had  been  boys 
at  school  and  students  at  college  together,  parted ;  and  while  the 
Churchman  was  rolling  by  train  to  Paddington  the  Layman  was  being 
wheeled  into  the  quiet  lamp-lighted  library  of  Grassnook,  where  the 
Bamards  had  written  their  letters  long  before  the  coaching  days,  let 
alone  the  age  of  Macadam  and  Stephenson. 

Lord  St.  Barnard  opened  his  letters.  One  of  them  was  from 
Wyldenberg,  venturing  to  hope  that  his  lordship  had  recovered  from 
his  illness,  and  trusting  that  his  lordship  would  be  enabled  to  honour 
the  Delphos  Theatre  with  his  presence  before  the  season  closed. 
Mr.  Wyldenberg  begged  to  enclose  his  lordship  a  photograph  of  a 
dcbutantCy  of  whom  great  things  were  expected.  His  lordship  was  in 
no  humour  for  Mr.  Wyldenberg's  letters.  He  had  nearly  laid  portrait 
and  letter  aside  with  a  mere  cursory  glance,  but  that  same  grim  Fate 
who  was  marshalling  old  Waller  the  way  he  should  go  was  at  his 
lordship's  elbow  to  hold  up  the  picture. 

"  Great  heavens  ! "  exclaimed  my  lord,  holding  the  portrait  close 
in  to  the  lamplight  "  Miss  Julia  Pitt !  Her  face !  Her  name  !  God's 
judgments  are  indeed  terrible.  This  is  Maiy  Waller,  Clytie,  my  boy's 
child,  my  granddaughter ;  in  the  hands  of  Wyldenberg  I  Curse  this 
gout !  Frank,  I  wish  I  had  died  with  you,  for  I'm  the  most  miserable 
fellow  living." 

His  lordship  leaned  back  in  his  chair  with  the  portrait  in  his  hand, 
and  stared  vacantly  at  the  ceiling.  Presently  he  began  to  talk  to 
himself  somewhat  incoherently. 

"It  was  indeed  a  lovely  face  !  No  wonder  she  won  you  body  and 
soul,  Frank.  It  astonished  the  Dean  to  know  that  this  child  was 
yours,  though  he  must  have  guessed  it,  I  fancy,  some  time  or  another. 
But  there  is  that  other  secret  which  must  die  with  me.  If  she  had 
lived  to  be  twenty  without  showing  the  taint  of  the  Pitts,  I  think  I 
should  have  declared  that  marriage  and  acknowledged  her.  But 
something  is  due  to  the  Bamards — to  those  grand  men  and  women 
who  have  handed  down  the  name  untainted  in  alliance  with  the 
noblest  names  of  English  history.  I  have  done  nothing  for  the 
family.  I  will  solace  my  conscience  with  this  sacrifice.  The  records 
shall  not  tell  the  story  of  Frank's  wild  elopement  and  final  marriage 


Clytie.  1 29 

to  an  actress,  and  his  father's  unnecessary  acknowledgment  of  the 
vagabond  offspring  of  a  half  legal  ceremony  in  Boulogne.  No,  St. 
Barnard,  you  shall  rescue  her,  if  possible,  and  save  her  from  herself, 
if  Fate  permits.  But  Bankside  and  Weardale  and  Grassnook  shall 
go  intact  to  my  nephew  and  his  children.  If  Ransford  does  not 
marry  her,  and  of  course  he  will  not,  Miss  Julia  Pitt  shall  have  the 
proceeds  of  the  Dunelm  property.  It  will  be  a  sweet  bit  of  retaliation 
to  give  her  that  cub's  patrimony — to  settle  it  upon  her  so  that  she 
cannot  deal  with  the  principal." 

His  lordship  seemed  somewhat  reconciled  to  his  own  misfortunes 
while  contemplating  those  which  were  coming  upon  the  Ransfords. 
He  rubbed  his  thin  delicate  hands  together  for  a  moment,  and  his 
grey  eyes  sparkled.  He  had  been  a  handsome  man  in  his  time,  but 
now  his  face  wore  a  fixed  and  fagged  expression.  When  his  valet 
came  to  administer  a  special  medicine,  to  be  taken  at  bed  time,  he 
said : — 

'*  You  wrote  to  the  lawyers?" 

'*  Yes,  my  lord" 

"  Telegraph  to  them  in  the  morning,  and  tell  them  to  bring  down 
White,  the  detective." 

{To  he  continued.) 


Vol.  XI.,  N.S.  1 873.1. 


Our  Climbing  Club. 

UR  town  is  a    remarkable    one.      Among    its    other 
curiosities  it  is  notorious  (I  would  prefer  the  word 
^^  celebrated  ")  for  the  possession  of  a  Climbing  Club. 
The  members  do  not  undertake  to  scale  Alps,  for  the 
simple  reason  that  there  are  no  Alps  in  the  neighbourhood  to  scale. 
The  nearest  approach  to  a  moimtain  within  twenty  miles  of  the  place 
is  a  hill  of  such  modest  elevation  that  the  boiling  point  at  its  summit 
is  not  found  to  differ  by  the  third  part  of  a  degree  from  the  boiling 
point  at  its  base.     Having,  therefore,  no  peaks  and  passes  upon 
which  to  practice,  and  the  members  being  mostly  individuals  who 
would  prefer  breaking  their  bones  in  their  own  country  to  being 
brought  home  upon  a  shutter  from  Switzerland,  our  society  was  incor- 
porated for  the  express  purpose  of  ascending  steeples,  spires,  turrets, 
chimneys,  upcast-shafts,  obelisks,  monuments,  ruined  piles,  and  other 
dangerous  erections.    A  crumbling  tower  without  a  vestige  of  stair* 
case,  the  stones  threatening  to  crush  the  adventurer  at  every  step^ 
and  the  whole  fabric  nodding  as  if  in  resentment  at  the  intrusion,  is 
a  favourite  pike  de  rhistana  with  the  body,  but  our  most  desperate 
experiments   have   been   made  upon  tall  chimneys  and  tapering 
spires. 

We  meet  at'  regular  intervals  to  listen  to  memoirs  from  the 
members  who  have  made  private  asceqts,  and  also  to  arrange  for 
what  are  called  field-days,  when  we  assemble  for  the  purpose  of 
achieving  some  great  exploit  in  common.  It  is  our  practice,  on 
hearing  of  any  suitable  object,  to  send  out  the  secretary  fand  an 
official  who  is  called  a  surveyor,  and  if  they  report  favourably — in 
other  words,  if  they  announce  that  the  project  is  difficult  and  reason- 
ably dangerous — a  day  is  appointed,  certain  performers  are  selected 
(unless  the  task  admits  of  the  united  force  of  the  dub),  and  then  the 
necessary  steps  are  taken  to  give  the  expedition  all  the  gaiety  of  a 
pic-nic  as  well  as  all  the  dignity  of  a  serious  enterprise. 

Speaking  without  undue  partiality,  I  should  think  it  must  be  a 
very  piquant  spectacle  to  see  us  operating  upon  a  crumbling  [castle 
or  a  ruined  old  abbey.  On  arriving  at  the  spot  we  invest  it  formally 
as  if  we  were  about  to  subject  it  to  a  regular  siege.  The  building  is 
forthwith  divided  mto  imaginary  sections,  men  are  told  oflF  for  the 


Oitr  Climbing  Club.  131 

assault,  the  choice  of  danger-posts  is  determined  by  lot,  if  it  cannot 
be  settled  by  agreement  (our  leading  climbers  are  extremely  tenacious 
of  their  rights  in  this  particular) ;  and,  after  a  reasonable  time  has 
been  allowed  for  the  study  of  their  several  parts,  a  signal  is  given, 
which  is  the  winding  of  a  silver  horn  by  the  president,  and  the 
stormers  rush  to  their  work,  just  as  the  troops  did  to  theirs  at 
Badajoz  or  at  Sebastopol.  A  very  curious  sight  it  must  be  to 
witness  a  number  of  dark  forms  wriggling  up  the  walls  in  all  stages 
of  progress,  and  looking  like  big  caterpillars,  or  like  the  travelling 
crabs  which  crawl  over  houses  rather  than  diverge  an  inch  from  their 
path.  Nor  could  a  right-minded  spectator  contemplate  without 
emotion  the  various  results  of  the  operation,  for  ought  he  not  to 
share  in  the  triumph  of  those  who  are  speedily  discovered  bestriding 
the  pinnacle  at  which  they  aimed,  and  yet,  on  the  other  hand, 
sympathise  deeply  with  the  disappointment  of  those  who,  after  a 
dozen  gallant  struggles,  find  their  part  of  the  escalade  utterly  imprac- 
ticable ? 

We  do  not,  of  course,  decline  to  experiment  on  clifis,  and  there  is 
a  gorge  of  some  extent  made  by  the  River  Weir  in  our  neighbour- 
hood, every  steep  escarpment  of  which  has  been  crawled  over  by 
some  member  of  our  dub.  Nor  do  we  disdain  to  practise  upon 
quarries.  Indeed  we  have  rented  an  old  one  at  no  great  distance, 
which  is  used  as  an  exercising  ground  for  our  junior  associates,  and 
here  the  more  experienced  members  keep  their  hands  in  by  "  taking 
a  climb,"  just  as  swimmers  take  a  swim.  When  we  visit  the  quany 
with  a  number  of  imdergraduates — I  mean  imdergraduates  in  the  art 
— the  cliffs  are  distributed  among  them  according  to  their  capacities, 
each  individual  being  carefully  instructed -as  to  the  points  he  must 
make  in  his  ascent.  "  You  see  that  tuft  ?  Steer  for  it  direct.  Half 
a  dozen  yards  above  there  is  a  piece  of  projecting  rock  :  you  must 
turn  its  flank.  Beyond  it  again  there  is  a  bit  of  perfectly  smooth 
whinstone :  you  can  make  nothing  of  that ;  you  must  coast  it  to  the 
right ;  then  use  your  axe  in  cutting  steps  in  that  bed  of  clay.  You 
observe  the  exposed  roots  of  a  tree  trailing  down  the  bank  ?  Your 
policy  must  be  to  make  for  those,  and  then  hoist  yourself  up  by  their 
means  to  the  summit."    And  so  forth. 

Occasionally,  too,  but  more  ^by  way  of  affording  elementary 
instruction  to  our  yoimger  associates,  we  operate  upon  trees.  Our 
inspector  is  sent  out  to  fix  upon  a  wood  and  report  as  to  its  capa- 
bilities. The  tallest  and  most  difficult  growths  are  assigned  to  the 
more  advanced  members  of  the  dub.  We  give  ten  minutes  to 
each  individual,  in  order  that  he  may  familiarise  himself  with  the 

K  2 


132  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

peculiarities  of  his  vegetable,  and  map  out  his  route  to  the  apex.  Then, 
at  the  usual  signal,  the  climbers  spring  to  the  assault  A  cracking  of 
twigs  and  a  clashing  of  branches  is  soon  heard.  The  adventurers 
are  speedily  lost  to  view,  until  at  length  they  force  their  way  through 
the  foliage  and  emerge  at  the  top.  On  arriving  there  it  is  their  duty 
to  signify  the  event  by  waving  a  handkerchief  or  uttering  a  loud 
shout,  and  each  person  is  expected  to  bring  down  the  highest  twig 
or  branch  he  can  reach,  this  being  considered  equivalent  in  some 
measure  to  carrying  off  the  brush  at  a  hunt  We  have  members  who 
can  run  up  an  oak  like  a  squirrel,  and  some  who  can  swarm  to  the 
summit  of  an  elm  as  easily  as  a  monkey  bom  to  the  trade.  Our 
Chubb  would  scramble  to  the  top  of  an  Australian  Eucalyptus,  five 
hundred  feet  high  by  seventy  broad,  almost  as  soon  as  a  street  urchin 
could  wriggle  up  a  lamp  post. 

As  intimated,  however,  our  greatest  and  most  legitimate  exploits 

consist  in  the  ascent  of  spires,  windmills,  lofty  chimnejrs,  and  other 

artificial  structures.    Leaving  natural  objects  in  a  great  measure  to 

Alpine  clubsmen  and  Cockney  mountaineers,  we  devote  ourselves  to 

the  infinitely  more  dangerous,  because  more  perpendicular,  task  of 

climbing  edifices,  where  there  is  scarcely  a  projecting  knob  upon  which 

we  can  lay  hands  or  rest  a  foot    How  such  ascents  are  accomplished 

I  will  proceed  to  explain,  selecting  as  an  illustration  our  operations 

upon  an  old  upcast  shaft  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Dunholme.    The 

surveyor  having  reported  that  there  was  a  fine  specimen  not  far  from 

Winkle  Abbey — a  place  famous  for  pic-nics — it  was  unanimously 

resolved  that  this  should  be  made  the  subject  of  our  next  field  day. 

Accordingly  on  a  fine  summer's  morning  the  club  marched  out  in 

considerable  force,  admirably  victualled  for  the  occasion,  and  with 

the  usual  accompaniment  of  camp  followers.     On  arriving  at  the 

spot  four  of  our  number  were  detailed  for  duty.     But  how,  in  the 

name  of  wonder,  could  four  men  clamber  up  a  conical  building  with 

a  surface  as  smooth  as  that  of  Eddystone  Lighthouse  ?    The  question 

may  well  be  asked.     I  am  proud  to  give  the  reply.     Each  of  the 

stormers — I  repeat  because  I  admire  the  expression — carried  a  pouch 

containing  a  number  of  staples  or  peculiarly  shaped  nails,  which  he 

drove  one  by  one  into  any  crevice  in  the  stone,  or  into  the  mortar 

between  the  layers  of  masonry.     For  this  purpose  he  was  provided 

with  a  hammer,  and  also  with  chisels  where  refractory  work  had  to 

be  done.     To  each  of  these  staples  was  fastened  a  kind  of  stirrup, 

into  which  a  foot  or  a  hand  might  be  easily  inserted.     The  mode  of 

ascent  will  therefore  be  readily  conjectured.      Standing  upon  the 

ground,  the  operator  first  drove  into  the  wall  two  of  these  holdfasts 


Our  Climbing  Club.  135 

at  a  height  of  about  ten  or  twelve  inches,  and  at  nearly  the  same 
distance  from  each  other.  He  then  hammered  in  two  more  at  a 
convenient  elevation  above,  and  having  done  this  as  far  as  he  could 
reach,  he  placed  a  foot  in  each  of  the  lower  stirrups,  and  holding  by  one 
of  the  upper  articles,  the  process  was  repeated  continually  until  he 
attained  the  summit.  Very  carefully  the  work  must  be  done,  for 
woe  be  to  the  adventurer  if  the  staples  should  be  imperfectly 
fixed  Very  cautiously  must  he  transfer  himself  firom  stimip  to 
stirrup,  for  a  slip  might  lead  to  the  dislocation  of  every  bone  in  his 
body.  Meanwhile  fresh  three  men  were  operating  upon  other  por- 
tions of  the  shaft,  and  slowly  but  steadily  advancing  towards  the  top. 
Unquestionably  it  was  a  thrilling  performance.  As  they  receded  from 
earth,  and  each  step  grew  more  hazardous  (filing  bodies,  it  will  be 
remembered,  tumble  through  about  sixteen  feet  of  space  in  the  first 
second  of  time),  the  other  members  of  the  club  cheered  them 
loudly ;  for  in  that  spirit  of  emulation  which  always  distinguishes 
Britons  (who,  if  they  were  going  to  shoot  over  a  precipice  in  com- 
pany, would  probably  try  which  of  them  could  do  it  the  fastest)  our 
climbers  invariably  make  a  race  of  it  to  the  top. 

It  will  at  once  be  understood  that  this  mode  of  ascent  is  prac- 
ticable only  when  the  masonry  is  of  such  a  character  as  to  admit  of 
the  ready  insertion  of  the  staples.  We  could  not,  of  course,  mount 
a  monolith  pillar  on  this  principle,  except  at  a  great  expenditure  of 
time,  and  with  an  enormous  amount  of  chiselling  (how  Simeon 
Stylites  clambered  up  his  column  I  do  not  exactly  comprehend).  But 
we  have  "done"  factory  chimneys  of  incredible  height,  though  these 
exploits  are  of  so  dangerous  a  nature  that  we  do  not  allow  any 
member  of  the  club  to  peril  his  life  except  by  special  permission 
under  the  hand  of  the  president,  and  certified  by  the  secretary,  after 
a  resolution  to  that  effect  has  been  passed  by  at  least  three-fourths  of 
the  members. 

But  the  best  proof  that  our  proceedings  are  fiaught  with  danger  is 
to  be  found  in  the  fact  that  the  club  has  a  class  of  subscribers  who 
are  known  as  Past  or  Supernumerary  Associates.  They  are  in  truth 
disabled  members — persons  who  have  broken  a  limb,  or  put  out  a 
shoulder,  or  effected  a  ruptiu^  in  their  interiors,  or  done  themselves 
some  other  important  injury,  and  have  therefore  been  compelled  to 
retire,  either  wholly  or  temporarily,  from  active  service.  These  indi- 
viduals, in  so  far  as  they  are  not  absolutely  crippled,  attend  the  meet- 
ings and  go  out  on  field  days,  when  they  assist  by  their  advice,  or  in 
superintending  operations,  or  in  managing  the  commissariat  depart- 
ment.   They  are  held  in  honour  according  to  the  amount  of  damage 


134  '^^^  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

m 

they  have  incurred  and  the  desperate  nature  of  the  enterprises  they 
undertook.  We  have  a  member  who  broke  his  collar  bone  once,  put 
out  his  hip  joint  twice,  sustained  a  compound  fiucture  of  the  left  arm, 
lost  at  least  a  dozen  teeth  at  various  times,  sprained  his  wrist  so 
effectually  that  he  cannot  write  his  name,  and  on  one  occasion  slipped 
down  from  such  a  height  that  he  scraped  ofif  all  the  skin  on  his  right 
xheek,  including  a  bit  of  his  nose,  and  came  to  the  groimd  with  half 
his  body  perfectly  flayed.  Hence  our  ranks  are  divided  into  the 
A.B.S  and  D.B.s — that  is  to  say,  the  Able-bodied  and  the  Disabled- 
bodied. 

Sometimes,  too,  we  have  to  incur  dangers  from  the  prejudices  of 
proprietors  who  object  to  our  performances.  More  than  once  the 
owner  of  a  windmill  or  a  tower  has  been  infuriated  on  finding  his 
grounds  invaded,  and  his  buildings  scored  with  parallel  lines  of 
staples.  On  one  occasion  when  we  were  engaged  in  executing  an  ex- 
tremely delicate  operation  upon  a  ruin  which  was  regarded  as  a  very 
refractory  object,  and  one  of  our  men  was  clinging  to  the  masonry  at 
a  considerable  height,  amidst  the  breathless  silence  of  the  spectators, 
a  number  of  persons  came  up  at  a  canter,  dragging  with  tliem  a 
machine  as  if  it  were  a  piece  of  artillery.  The  crowd  opened,  the  men 
unlimbered  (so  to  speak),  and  instantly  a  stream  of  water  was  directed 
upon  the  climber,  who  was  cruelly  pinned  to  the  wall,  and  drenched 
more  thoroughly  than  he  had  ever  been  since  he  was  bom.  The 
bystanders  shrieked  with  fun,  and  as  the  assailants  had  planted  the 
engine  near  a  rivulet,  which  they  seemed  determined  to  pump  dry, 
it  became  necessary  to  execute  a  charge  upon  them  with  the  com- 
bined force  of  the  club  before  we  could  rescue  our  unfortunate 
comrade. 

On  another  occasion,  when  one  of  our  veterans  who  is  kno\ni  as 
Excelsior  Smith  was  making  the  ascent  (strictly  private  as  he  thought) 
of  a  dilapidated  windmill,  and  had  reached  about  midway — ^a  stiffish 
piece  of  business  it  was  too^— the  occupant  of  the  farm  came  up  in  a 
towering  rage,  knocked  out  all  the  lower  staples,  procured  a  pole, 
and  struck  out  the  higher  as  far  as  he  could  reach,  and  thus  left  our 
unfortunate  friend  perfectly  insulated  in  the  air.  After  hanging  in 
that  predicament  for  a  full  hour,  the  exasperated  brute  at  the  foot  of 
the  building  condescended  to  allow  a  ladder  to  be  brought  in  order 
that  Excelsior  might  descend ;  but  no  sooner  had  the  latter  arrived 
at  the  ground  than  he  was  taken  into  custody  for  trespass,  and  when 
he  remonstrated  with  his  captor  he  was  further  charged  with  an 
assault.  To  the  eternal  disgrace  of  British  justice,  I  should  state  that 
on  being  carried  before  the  magistrates,  our  distinguished  clubsman  was 


Our  Climbing  Club.  135 

fined  forty  shillings  and  costs,  with  the  option  of  going  to  prison  for 
a  couple  of  calendar  months  if  he  preferred.  And  I  should  also 
observe  (and  I  do  so  with  unspeakable  disgust)  diat  the  Bench 
strongly  recommended  him  to  select  the  latter  course,  because  he 
could  then  pursue  his  studies  by  climbing  the  public  treadmill  instead 
of  a  private  windmill 

As  a  further  illustration  of  the  difficulties  in  which  a  climber  may 
sometimes  be  placed,  let  me  give  a  few  extracts  from  a  paper  which 
was  recently  read  at  a  meeting  by  one  of  our  best  men,  Septimus 
Bobus.  ''  In  August  last,"  says  this  eminent  hand,  "  I  resolved  to 
make  a  private  ascent  of  the  spire  of  St.  Mary  the  Milkmaid.  It  is 
a  spire  of  graceful  taper,  and  of  considerable  elevation,  springing  from 
a  tower,  up  which  I  stole  without^  attracting  any  attention.  I  had, 
indeed,  passed  the  night  in  the  church,  in  order  to  be  ready  for  an 
early  assault,  as  I  knew  that  I  should  not  be  allowed  to  de^e  the 
beautiful  masonry  by  knocking  in  the  staples  if  it  could  be  prevented. 
I  hoped  to  complete  the  enterprise  before  the  churchwardens  were 
well  out  of  their  beds,  fearing  that  if  I  did  not  I  should  have  those 
officials,  with  the  sexton  and]  probably  [a  curate  or  two,  at  my  heels. 
The  sun  had  scarcely  risen  when  I  stood  upon  the  leads  of  the  tower, 
and  planted  my  first  nail  in  the  spire."  Here  the  narrator  described 
the  various  steps  of  his  progress,  and  explained  stmdry  little  mishaps 
which  occurred.  "  At  last,"  continued  he,  "  I  reached  the  summit, 
or  as  near  to  it  as  I  could  prudently  venture.  The  spire  had  become 
so  slender  that  my  weight  might  have  been  too  much  for  the  delicate 
masonry,  and  I  was  compelled  to  clasp  it  with  my  arms,  as  if 
administering  a  fond  embrace.  %In  this  position,  of  course,  it  became 
my  duty  to  realise  and  enjoy  the  prospect.  Every  one  knows  the 
reason  why  people  clamber  up  mountains  and  steeples.  It  appears 
that  the  picturesque  is  to  be  found  at  a  considerable  height  in  the 
atmosphere,  just  as  happiness  is  to  be  discovered  (so  people  think) 
at  giddy  elevations,  and  on  the  pinnacles  of  power.  I  therefore  lifted 
my  head  as  cautiously  as  I  could,  or  to  speak  more  correctly,  I 
allowed  my  cheek  to  rest  upon  the  cold  stone,  and  screwed  my  eyes 
roimd  to  take  in  as  much  of  the  landscape  as  was  accessible  to  view. 
Roofe  of  all  kinds,  and  in  every  style  of  disrepair — tiles  wanting  here, 
and  slates  slipping  off  there — chimneys  ranging  from  clumsy  stacks  to 
slenderly  twisted  tubes — pots  and  ventilators  at  all  angles  of  inclina- 
tion consistent  with  bare  duty — these  formed  the  principal  objects  in 
the  panorama  which  lay  outstretched  at  my  feet  Not  that  I  could 
see  much  of  it,  for  the  smoke  which  streamed  from  those  chimne3rs 
was  driven  full  in  my  face.     I  candidly  admit  that  I  could  not  extract 


T36.  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

any  considerable  amount  of  pleasure  from  the  spectacle.  I  am  not 
aware  that  the  scenery  of  house  tops  is  considered  peculiarly  sublime. 
Roofs  are  undoubtedly  a  study — interesting  to  the  philosopher  and 
mason;  but  I  am  not  acquainted  with  any  .painter  who  has  made 
a  forest  of  chimney  pots,  pouring  out  their  separate  torrents  of 
smoke,  the  subject  of  any  eminent  picture,  llie  country  all  around 
was,  I  believe,  extremely  beautiful,  but  I  could  not  see  much  of  it, 
and  what  I  could  see  was  not  particularly  enjoyable,  considering  my 
exhausted  condition,  and  the  painful  attitude  I  was  compelled  to 
maintain.  In  this  respect,  however,  I  presume  I  was  in  no  worse 
plight  than  most  mountaineers  who  reach  the  summit  to  find  their 
strength  gone,  and  their  prospect  drowned  in  mist. 

'*  But  in  this  position  I  did  not  forget  that  I  had  one  little  ceremony 
to  perform.  When  people  have  clambered  to  the  top  of  a  peak,  after 
encountering  a  host  of  difficulties,  their  first  business,  of  course,  is  to 
take  some  refreshment.  Unless  they  do  that  they  have  done  nothing ; 
if  they  do  that  many  think  they  need  do  nothing  else.  They  always 
crown  the  exploit  by  opening  a  bottle  of  champagne  or  some  other 
inspiring  fluid  (according  to  taste),  and  drinking  to  the  health  of  the 
mountain.  It  was  my  duty,  therefore,  to  take  some  refreshment  I 
owed  it  to  my  situation  to  draw  out  my  flask,  open  a  paper  of  sand- 
wiches, and  to  lunch.  How  I  accomplished  this,  compelled  as  I 
was  to  clasp  the  slender  spire  with  one  arm,  is  a  point  which  the 
reader's  ingenuity  or  imagination  must  help  him  to  explain ;  but  in 
endeavouring  to  pour  the  wine  into  my  throat  (I  think  it  was 
brandy,  however),  the  fluid  took  the  wrong  channel,  owing  to  the 
constrained  position  of  my  head,  and  brought  on  a  spasm  by  which  I 
was  almost  choked.  Coughing,  and  spluttering,  and  quivering,  I 
continued  for  several  minutes,  expecting  that  I  should  lose  my  hold, 
and  shortly  afibrd  a  little  practice  for  the  coroner.  In  my  contortions 
one  of  the  staples  beneath  my  feet  partially  yielded,  and  I  felt  that  if 
I  laid  too  much  pressure  upon  it  (and  my  weight  is  far  fi^m  trivial)  it 
would  give  way.  I  found  myself  in  an  awful  predicament.  A  cold 
perspiration  broke  out  from  every  pore. 

"  Glancing  down  at  the  Market  Place  I  observed  that  it  was  filling 
with  people.  Some  were  pointing,  all  were  gazing  at  the  dark  object 
which  was  clinging  like  a  spider  to  the  spire.  Out  of  the  buzzing  and 
hubbub  came  forth  some  articulate  sounds.  '  Bless  us,'  cried  one, 
*  it's  a  man  ! '  *  A  man,'  replied  another ;  *  he  must  be  a  super- 
human fool ! '  *  It's  an  escaped  lunatic  ! '  exclaimed  a  third.  *  A 
clear  case  of  suicide,'  added  a  fourth.  *  We  shall  all  be  wanted  at 
the  inquest ;  the  whole  parish  will  give  evidence.'     I  think  this  idea 


Our  Climbing  Club,  137 

l)leased  the  multitude,  for  when  some  one  suggested  that  measures 
should  be  taken  for  my  relief,  there  was  an  amendment  proposed  and 
very  extensively  supported,  that  *the  idiot  should  be  let  alone." 
Meanwhile  a  couple  of  reporters  were  at  work  with  their  note  books^ 
taking  minutes  of  the  adventure  with  a  view  to  a  most  thrilling 
narrative  in  their  next  impression.  One  artist  was  busily  employed  in 
sketching  me  for  the  Illustrated  London  News^  and  another  of 
humbler  pencil  was  doing  me  in  a  fearfully  exaggerated  style  for  the 
Illustrated  Police  Ne^vs.  Indeed  the  latter  gentleman  embellished  his 
drawing  by  placing  a  couple  of  policemen  on  the  spire,  and  represent- 
ing  them  as  scrambling  up  the  masonry  in  perpendicular  pursuit.  In 
a  short  time  the  churchwardens,  accompanied  by  a  detachment  of  the 
constabulary,  mounted  to  the  top  of  the  tower,  and  shouted  to  me 
furiously  to  descend.  They  told  me  to  consider  myself  in  custody, 
although  practically  I  was  as  inaccessible  to  them  as  if  I  had  been  oi> 
the  summit  of  the  Peter  Botte  Mountain.  But  I  confess  that  when  I 
heard  I  was  already  apprehended  I  felt  greatly  relieved,  for  just  at 
that  moment  I  should  have  been  glad  to  exchange  my  position  for  a 
prison  cell  or  even  for  the  prison  crank.  The  caption,  however 
nominal  it  might  appear  at  that  altitude,  seemed  in  some  way  or 
other  to  guarantee  my  safe  return  to  earth,  and  it  occurred  to  me  that 
if  after  receiving  this  summons  I  remained  any  longer  in  my  critical 
situation,  I  should  be  guilty  of  contempt  of  court 

"Not  being  a  lawyer  I  am  unable  to  say  to  what  height  the  juris- 
diction of  a  British  tribunal  extends  above  the  soil :  whether  process 
can  be  served  upon  you  in  the  atmosphere,  or  whether  it  would  be 
right  for  a  bailiff  to  board  a  man  for  the  purpose  in  a  balloon.  But, 
leaving  this  point  to  the  jurists,  I  held  it  my  duty  to  descend  for  the 
purpose  of  putting  in  a  legal  appearance.  How  I  got  down  alive, 
and  without  even  a  broken  bone,  I  shall  not  attempt  to  explain,, 
but  the  instant  my  body  came  within  the  reach  of  the  officials  I  was 
seized  by  one  as  a  sacrilegious  trespasser,  was  collared  by  another  as  3 
dangerous  lunatic,  and  was  put  under  arrest  by  a  third  as  an  intend- 
ing suicide.  My  sanity  was  eventually  established  (though  with  some 
difficulty),  but  ever  since  the  exploit  I  have  been  knoiivii  as  the  *  ass- 
spire-ing  blockhead.'  My  only  consolation  is  that  the  staples  and 
holdfasts  which  I  drove  into  the  beautiful  shaft  of  St.  Mary  the  Milk- 
maid may  be  seen  to  the  present  hour  by  the  aid  of  sharp  eyes  or 
of  a  moderate  glass." 

The  above  case  will  show  that  our  club  labours  under  one  great 
difficulty — we  are  not  duly  appreciated  by  the  public,  we  can  extract 
no  genuine  sympathy  or  encouragement.     In  fact  the  vulgar  have 


138  The  Gentlemaris  Magazine. 

not  scrupled  to  christen  us  the  cracked  onesy  and  our  D.B^  the 
cripples.  This  would  be  exceedingly  painful  to  sensitive  minds — and 
such  there  are  among  us — were  it  not  that  we  are  sustained  by  a 
high  conviction  of  duty,  and  consider  that  we  are  rendering  an 
important  service  to  society  by  our  aerial  explorations.  I  find^  for 
example,  that  some  persons  of  a  very  ignoble  cast  of  mind,  when 
referring  to  our  exploits,  will  frequently  exclaim,  "  Just  what  chimney 
sweepers  do."  Now  it  is  precisely  this  inability  to  comprehend  the 
lofty  and  unselfish  motives  of  our  club  which  disgusts  me  with  man- 
kind. People  ought  really  to  entertain  more  elevated  views,  what- 
ever their  position  or  training  in  life  may  be.  It  is  flagrant  abuse  of 
common  sense  to  class  scientific  climbing  with  chimney  scraping.  I 
admit  that  a  sweep  is  a  useful  member  of  society,  and  that  in  the 
prosecution  of  his  calling  he  may  disjoint  a  hip  or  get  suffocated  in 
a  flue  ;  nothing  is  more  natural  But  these  are  paid  perils.  Ours 
are  purely  voluntary.  That  makes  a  prodigious  diffifirence,  even  if 
there  were  nothing  else  to  distinguish  us  from  the  heroes  of  soot. 

In  one  sense,  it  is  true,  we  are  immensely  popular.  In  all  our 
expeditions  we  are  followed  by  a  crowd  of  persons,  including  many 
juveniles,  several  females,  and  even  a  number  of  gentlemen  idlers. 
But  I  cannot  conceal  from  myself  that  their  intention  is  to  amuse 
themselves  at  our  expense,  and  though  I  object  to  this  perverted 
view  of  our  exploits,  I  trust  I  am  sufficiently  magnanimous  to  say 
that  they  are  quite  welcome  to  extract  as  much  diversion  as  they  like 
from  our  proceedings.  I  strongly  suspect,  however,  that  many  of 
them  are  influenced  by  a  motive  which  is  not  only  discreditable  but 
positively  infamous.  I  cannot  divest  myself  of  the  conviction  that 
these  people  turn  out  in  expectation  of  some  serious  disaster.  They 
calculate  that  an  accident  must  sooner  or  later  occur.  They  accom- 
pany us  as  the  horror-hunter  did  Van  Amburgh,  under  the  impression 
that  the  lions  would  some  day  or  other  snap  off*  the  performer's  head, 
in  which  case  they  might  as  well  be  there  to  enjoy  the  spectacle.  I 
readily  admit  that  if  one  of  our  members  broke  a  leg  they  would 
gladly  assist  (I  do  not  mean  at  the  fracture,  but)  in  carrying  him  home 
on  a  shutter.  Unless  I  am  greatly  mistaken,  however,  there  is 
always  an  air  of  disappointment  when  we  finish  our  operations  with- 
out a  catastrophe,  as  much  as  to  intimate  that  we  have  defrauded 
them  of  a  treat  or  failed  in  doing  our  duty  to  the  public.  Indeed,  I 
have  overheard  one  sanguinary  individual  express  an  opinion  that  if 
a  fatal  accident  did  occur  he  should  certainly  like  to  be  in  at  the 
death ;  and  I  have  known  another  brutally  suggest  that  we  ought  to 
keep  a  coroner  of  our  own,  and   have  him  always  out  with  us, 


Our  Climbing  Club.  139 

instead  of  putting  the  county  to  the*  expense  of  sitting  upon  us  in 
succession. 

It  would  pain  me  much  to  record  the  comments  which  are  fre- 
quently made  upon  our  exploits  while  in  course  of  performance,  but 
in  the  intertots  of  truth,  and  with  a  view  to  show  that  we  are  martyrs 
to  science  on  a  limited  scale,  I  ought  to  mention  a  few  of  the  ironical 
exhortations  we  receive: — "Look  at  that  wriggling  ass.  He  will 
never  reach  the  top  for  a  week.  Give  up,  old  boy ;  it  is  too  much 
for  you.  And  yonder  is  the  stout  one  !  He,  now,  is  scrambling  up 
like  a  lamplighter.  Hell  beat  those  lanky  beggars  hollow.  What 
will  you  bet  on  the  porpoise  ?  A  quart  of  beer,  I  say»  on  the  fat 
one  !  He  is  the  man  for  our  money !  Hurrah !  one  of  them  lean 
sinners  has  slipped.  Like  Jack  and  Gill,  he'll  be  sure  to  crack  his 
crown!  Cracked  already,  Jim!  And  the  others  will  come  tum- 
bling arter.  But  look  at  the  fellow  who  has  got  perched  on  that 
bit  of  rock,  and  don't  seem  as  if  he  could  get  any  farther.  Hollo, 
you,  sir,  are  you  going  to  stick  there  all  night?  Shall  we  send 
you  up  your  supper  in  a  balloon,  or  would  you  prefer  waiting  for 
it  till  the  middle  of  next  week?  Thought  as  much;  down  he 
comes !  Should  say  it  is  a  case  of  a  collar-bone  at  least :  perhaps 
his  neck !  If  so,  it  will  serve  him  right,  for  I  never  saw  such  a 
set  of  born  fools  in  all  my  life." 

But  perhaps  I  ought  to  say  a  few  words  about  some  of  our  club 
worthies.  Our  leading  character  is  Martin  Chubb.  He  is  as  agile 
as  a  monkey,  as  daring  as  a  lion,  and  as  desperate  as  a  demon.  That 
man,  it  may  safely  be  said,  sticks  at  nothing.  There  is  a  legend  in 
Dunholme  that  he  once  scrambled  up  the  perpendicular  side  of  a 
house  by  dexterous  manipulation  of  the  window  ledges,  cornices, 
spouts,  and  other  slender  projections.  I  could  never  induce  him  to 
give  me  the  precise  details  of  the  exploit,  for  he  is  a  person  of  exem- 
plary modesty,  and  for  this  reason  alone  must  be  accounted  a  true 
genius ;  but  I  have  always  construed  his  smile  and  the  flash  in  his 
eye  when  the  subject  was  mentioned  as  a  silent  acceptance  of  the 
impeachment.  Indeed,  I  could  believe  anything  of  such  a  man.  If 
told  that  he  had  vaulted  over  the  great  wall  of  China  at  a  single 
jump,  or  got  to  the  top  of  the  Great  P>Tamid  in  a  dozen  strides 
exactly,  I  should  say,  "  Very  likely  :  if  there  is  a  person  in  the  world 
who  can  do  an  impossible  thing  it  is  Martin  Chubb."  But  like  all 
genuine  worthies,  he  has  his  detractors.  I  am  ashamed  to  soil  my 
lips  by  uttering  the  name  which  has  been  conferred  upon  him  by  the 
canaille.  I  suppose  it  must  be  done,  however ;  but  it  is  imder  pro- 
test.    Him  they  call  the  "  Very  Cracked  One  !" 


140  The  Gmtlemafis  Magazitie. 

Hercules  Potts  is  a  bom  climber.  His  ruling  passion  was  deve- 
loped at  an  early  age,  as  is  the  case  with  those  who  exhibit  a  decided 
genius  for  poetry,  painting,  fighting,  felony,  or  any  other  special 
pursuit.  While  quite  a  lad  he  expressed  a  strong  desire  to  mount 
the  belfry  of  his  native  village,  but  being  forbidden  by  his  parents  on 
account  of  its  dilapidated  condition,  he  made  the  ascent  by  stealth. 
The  pleasure  of  outwitting  them  gave  such  a  charm  to  the  exploit 
that  he  not  only  repeated  it  frequently,  but  made  excursions  all  round 
the  neighbourhood  until  he  had  scaled  most  of  the  belfiies  within 
twenty  miles.  As  his  opportunities  mcreased  he  proceeded  to  "  do  " 
the  whole  county,  spite  of  his  mother's  predictions  that  he  would 
assuredly  dislocate  his  neck.  Almost  from  the  first  he  kept  a  journal 
of  his  performances,  but  when  his  passion  had  ripened  into  a  syste- 
matic pursuit,  he  opened  a  ledger  in  which  he  recorded  the  parti- 
culars of  each  adventure,  the  precise  moment  of  ascent  and  return, 
the  difficulties  of  the  journey,  the  number  of  steps  traversed,  the 
estimated  height  of  the  tower,  the  state  of  repair  or  ruin  in  which  it 
happened  to  be,  the  extent  and  peculiarities  of  the  view  presented, 
with  various  other  details,  not  forgetting  any  pranks  which  he  might 
play  upon  the  clocks,  bells,  or  weathercocks,  the  former  of  which 
were  occasionally  stopped,  and  the  latter  not  unfrequently  missed  or 
unshipped.  Enlarging  his  sphere  of  enterprise,  he  made  fora>'s  in 
all  directions,  until  he  could  never  see  a  tower  or  steeple  without 
feeling  an  irresistible  desire  to  attack  it.  The  last  time  I  had  the 
pleasure  of  inspecting  his  books  I  found  that,  without  reckoning 
repetitions,  he  had  made  his  one  thousand  four  hundred  and  thirty- 
ninth  ascent ! 

Strange  to  say,  we  have  a  very  stout  man  among  our  members. 
It  was  he  who  mounted  the  spire  of  St.  Mary  the  Milkmaid.  To  look 
at  him  you  would  suppose  that  he  \\'as  as  unfit  to  scale  a  steeple  as  an 
elephant  is  to  ascend  a  tree.  But  he  is  one  of  the  bravest  and  most 
active  individuals  in  the  club.  In  his  case  the  triumph  of  matter 
over  mind  is  perfectly  marvellous,  for  he  will  carry  his  twenty  stones  up 
a  tower  or  an  escarpment  almost  as  quickly  as  the  slenderest  of  our 
band  could  ascend.  Is  he  distressed  in  making  his  ascents  ?  He 
sa>'s  not.  In  fact,  he  considers  himself  on  a  level  with  the  others, 
except  in  the  matter  of  perspiration.  There  he  certainly  suffers.  He 
comes  down  dripping — one  may  say  drenched.  He  is  known  by  the 
vulgar  as  Big  Bobus.  He  is  always  an  object  of  peculiar  attraction 
to  the  spectators.  The  dash  and  Han  of  this  hero,  who  charges  a 
precipice  as  if  he  were  going  to  tear  it  down  with  his  nails,  always 
commands  attention  ;  but  the  figure  of  Big  Bobus,  outspread  like  an 


Our  Climbing  Club.  .141 

eagle  in  heraldry,  and  displayed  in  all  its  huge  proportions  against 
the  rock,  is  irresistibly  comic — that  I  admit ;  and  his  progress,  espe- 
cially if  it  is  the  "wriggle,"  is  generally  greeted  with  shouts  of 
laughter  and  ironical  applause. 

Augustus  Sprigg  is  the  dandy  of  the  club.  Will  it  be  believed 
that  on  grand  public  days  he  goes  to  work  in  white  kid  gloves  ?  Not 
that  this  is  done  in  a  spirit  of  coxcombry.  On  the  contrary,  he  makes 
it  a  point  of  honour  to  return  from  the  escalade  with  those  articles 
either  blackened  with  his  labours  or  actually  torn  to  shreds.  And  I 
am  bound  to  say  he  never  spares  himself,  for  on  one  occasion  (a 
quarry  scene)  his  performances  were  so  brilliant  and  spirited  that  he 
was  literally  encored  by  the  associates.  I  shall  never,  indeed,  forget 
him  when,  at  the  most  critical  part  of  the  ascent,  he  coolly  turned  to 
the  spectators  and  bowed  his  acknowledgments  of  the  compliment, 
although  in  so  doing  he  risked  his  life. 

Brindley  Watt  is  another  great  man  among  us.  He  is  the 
inventor  of  the  flexible  mail-glove.  This  is  formed  of  exquisitely 
fine  rings  of  metal  (any  metal  almost  will  serve,  as  the  patentee  does 
not  confine  himself  to  any  particular  substance,  but  leaves  it  open  to 
the  public  to  employ  gold  or  platinum  if  desired).  The  article 
adapts  itself  with  such  freedom  to  the  hand  that  the  wearer  is  scarcely 
sensible  that  his  fingers  are  covered,  and  yet  it  serves  as  an  admirable 
protection  for  the  flesh,  and  it  has  the  special  advantage  that  it 
cannot  be  torn  like  cloth  or  leather.  Brindley  received  the  thanks 
of  the  dub  for  his  masterly  invention,  which  has  saved  many  a 
palm  from  being  severely  blistered  or  excoriated. 

Wallerton  has  his  specialty.  Place  him  between  two  meeting 
walls,  say  the  interior  angle  of  a  building,  and  that  man  will  scramble 
to  the  top  without  the  least  help  from  projections  or  any  other  mortal 
thing.  He  puts  his  back  to  the  comer,  supports  his  weight  by  press- 
ing with  his  hands  against  each  wall,  and  ascends  by  working  his 
legs  alternately  in  a  similar  fashion.  Up  he  goes  like  a  sailor  or  an 
Irish  hodman.  Prison-breakers  have  practised  this  trick  before. 
Jack  Sheppard  made  his  escape,  I  believe,  by  its  instrumentality, 
but  there  is  a  prodigious  difference  between  a  vulgar  burglar  and  a 
refined  philosophical  climber.  The  value  of  this  movement  will  be 
appreciated  when  it  is  remembered  that  fissures  and  crevices,  as  well 
as  "  chimneys  "  in  the  Alpine  sense,  frequently  present  themselves  in 
the  course  of  an  ascent  Wallerton  of  course  always  selects  a  route 
which  will  enable  him  to  practise  his  favourite  manoeuvre,  if  possible; 
and  here  it  must  be  admitted  he  shines  beyond  any  other  member  of 
the  club. 


142  The  Gefttlemati s  Magazine. 

Scraper  again — Maximilian  Scraper — ^is  a  splendid  performer.  He 
has  the  art  of  helping  himself  up,  under  favourable  circumstances,  by 
means  of  his  chin.  In  certain  places  he  can  hook  himself  on  to  a 
small  projection  by  means  of  this  part  of  his  anatomy,  and  so  leave 
his  hands  and  feet  at  comparative  liberty,  instead  of  employing 
them  to  support  his  weight  His  jaw  is  of  a  remarkably  massive 
build :  indeed,  it  is  so  prominent  in  its  form  and  so  original  in  its 
structure  that  Scraper  cheerfully  foregoes  all  pretensions  to  beauty, 
and  is  content  to  rely  upon  its  unparalleled  muscular  power.  To 
shield  it  from  injury  I  should  observe  that  it  is  well  shod  when  on 
duty,  oiu:  great  mechanician  having  invented  a  special  apparatus  for 
its  protection.  This  consists  of  a  plated  pad,  which  fits  imder  the 
chin  and  buckles  round  the  neck ;  and  it  is  generally  admitted  to  be 
one  of  the  neatest  contrivances  which  Brindley's  genius  has  yet  pro- 
duced. I  have  heard  it  stated,  though  I  cannot  bear  testimony  from 
personal  observation,  that  Scraper  has  been  seen  suspended  fi-om  a 
window  ledge  by  sheer  force  of  jaw,  with  his  legs  dangling  in  the  air 
and  his  hands  (both  of  them)  engaged  in  scratching  his  head. 

It  will  be  seen,  therefore,  that  we  have  our  different  styles  of  ascent 
Martin  Chubb,  as  might  be  expected  firom  his  daring,  impetuous  cha- 
racter, adopts  what  is  called  the  direct  principle ;  that  is  to  say,  he 
goes  straight  to  his  object  if  practicable,  never  diverging  to  the 
right  or  left  unless  some  insurmountable  obstruction  bars  the  way. 
It  is  a  point  of  honour  with  him  to  turn  aside  for  nothing  which 
human  adroitness  and  human  audacity  can  surmount,  and  as  he  is 
a  man  who  has  scratflied  the  word  "  impossible "  out  of  his  dic- 
tionary, and  always  draws  his  pen  through  it  when  he  discovers  it 
in  any  of  his  books  (he  serves  Mr.  Mudie's  in  the  same  fashion),, 
it  will  be  readily  understood  that  he  goes  almost  as  straight  as  an 
arrow  to  his  goal.  Muggins,  on  the  contrary,  eschews  without 
despising  the  perpendicular  style.  He  generally  operates  by  zigzags. 
This  plan  he  says  is  preferable,  because  it  "  eases  "  the  ascent,  and 
enables  a  man  to  reach  the  summit  in  a  much  less  exhausted  state, 
and  in  a  better  condition  to  do  justice  to  the  prospect  and  the  pro- 
visions. Scraper  modifies  this  principle  in  the  case  of  curved  or 
cylindrical  objects,  like  slender  towers  or  spires  or  chimneys  or 
dilapidated  windmills,  by  the  spiral  treatment,  as  it  is  designated.  In 
other  words,  he  winds  round  and  round  the  erection,  so  that  his  path,  if 
marked  out  upon  it,  would  give  it  something  of  the  appearance  of  the 
Tower  of  Babel  in  old  pictm-es,  or  of  the  pillar  in  the  Place  Vend6me 
before  it  was  levelled  by  the  modem  Goths.  Craggs  is  a  man  of 
medium  policy.    He  has  no  objection  to  the  perpendicular  system — 


Our  Climbing  Club.  143. 

when  it  will  suit  his  purpose ;  and  as  little  to  the  zigzag  or  the  spiral 
— when  it  will  contribute  to  the  same  end.  In  plain  terms  he  accom- 
modates his  style  to  his  work,  and,  like  a  sensible  man,  cuts  his  coat 
according  to  his  cloth.  In  making  this  remark  I  must  not  be  sup- 
posed for  a  moment  to  disparage  any  of  the  other  modes  of  treat- 
ment, for  they  are  all  admirable  in  their  way ;  but,  in  my  opinion,  a 
stiff  adherence  to  any  one  method  must  give  a  sort  of  monotony  to 
the  pursuit,  and  deprive  the  performer  of  much  of  the  enjoyment 
which  is  due  to  the  delicate  manoeuvres  a  more  eclectic  'practitioner 
is  at  liberty  to  adopt. 

I  should  like  to  have  said  a  great  deal  more  about  our  club  had 
time  permitted,  but  must  refer  the  public  to  the  forthcoming  volume 
of  our  Transactions,  where  some  choice  illustrations  will  be  found, 
representing  the  stout  member  on  the  spire,  the  very  cracked  one 
on  the  windmill,  and  the  entire  company  engaged  in  performing  the 
quarry  scene,  by  way  of  frontispiece.  There,  too,  the  fullest  informa- 
tion will  be  given  in  a  memoir  by  the  president  respecting  the  various 
movements  in  vogue  among  us,  from  the  wriggle  to  the  straddle,  and 
the  manual  to  the  pedaL  I  think  I  may  say  that  this  work  will 
admit  of  very  favourable  comparison  with  the  journals  of  the  Alpine 
Club,  and  that  oiur  romantic  escapes  will  prove  quite  as  exciting 
as  those  of  the  most  desperate  moimtaineers. 


_•  -  ♦  I 


Pawnbroking  in  Scotland. 

|HOUGH  the  present  condition  of  the  pawnbroking  laws 
in  England  has  been  discussed  from  time  to  time  in 
long  and  elaborate  articles,  the  effects  of  these  enact- 
ments on  society  in  Scotland  have  been  hitherto  over- 
looked. The  purpose  of  this  paper  is  to  indicate  a  few  of  the  most 
important  results  of  tlie  pawnbroking  laws  in  Scotland,  inasmuch 
as  they  show  perhaps  more  clearly  than  any  which  have  been 
ascertained  in  this  country  how  detrimentally  existing  regulations 
act  against  the  welfare  of  the  lower  classes.  The  vastness  of  the 
interest  involved  will  be  understood  from  the  figures  quoted  below, 
which  are  taken  from  evidence  supplied  by  the  most  experienced 
authorities  on  the  subject  The  aggregate  number  of  pledges  en- 
tnisted  to  pawnbrokers  in  Glasgow  every  year  amounts  to  5,500,000, 
of  which  5,000,000  are  under  ten  shillings,  and  about  half  a 
million  above  ten  shillings  and  under  ten  pounds.  Most  of  the 
pawnbrokers  conduct  their  business  honestly,  but  some  are  repre- 
sented as  being  guilty  of  constant  acts  of  illegality.  One  man,  for 
instance,  is,  or  was,  in  the  habit  of  engaging  persons,  or  had  them 
in  his  employment,  for  the  purpose  of  going  into  the  streets  and 
selling  pawn  tickets  to  any  simpleton — I  am  using  the  language  of 
a  city  official — whom  they  might  meet  in  the  streets,  and  when 
the  purchasers  of  the  tickets  went  to  take  the  things  out  of  pawn  they 
^ound  they  were  inferior  in  value  to  the  amount  represented  on  the 
pawn  ticket.  It  might  be  asked,  and  has  been  asked,  how  would 
the  pawnbroker  get  possession  of  a  ticket  to  sell  in  that  way  ?  The 
answer  is  ready.  He  takes  what  is  represented  to  be,  say,  a  gold 
watcli  out  of  his  sale  room  and  issues  a  ticket  for  it  at,  say,  three 
pounds.  This  he  gives  to  one  of  those  persons  called  "  stickers," 
who  goes  out  and  sells  it  to  any  one  whose  wisdom  is  so  limited  as 
to  be  deceived  by  the  promised  bargain.  There  is  another  practice 
which  entails  much  more  hardship  on  the  poor  than  that  already 
described,  and  which  is  the  more  dangerous  from  the  fact  that  it  is 
pursued  under  the  cover  of  legitimate  business.  The  pawnbroker 
issues  a  ticket  marked  with  a  larger  sum  than  was  paid  to  the  indi- 
vidual who  has  pledged  certain  articles.  When,  then,  the  articles 
arc  released  the  man  who  has  entrusted  his'goods  to  the  pawnbroker 


Pawnbroking  hi  Scotland.  145 

discovers  that  he  has  a  considerably  larger  sum  to  pay  than  that 
which  he  received.  Furthermore,  people  who  are  obliged  to  pledge 
their  goods  find  that,  when  they  return  to  redeem  them,  they  cannot 
get  the  actual  articles  they  pawned,  but  others  of  inferior  quality. 

The  following  case  was  brought  under  the  notice  of  the  Committee 
of  the  House  of  Commons  appointed  to  inquire  into  the  operation  of 
the  Pawnbroking  Acts  some  time  ago.  A  pawnbroker  took  in 
pledge  from  a  woman  a  large  number  of  new  shirts,  drawers,  and 
webs  of  plaiding  entrusted  to  her  for  the  purpose  of  manufacture. 
The  woman  was  apprehended  for  embezzling  goods.  The  detective 
officers,  on  going  to  the  pawn-office  where  the  woman  said  she  had 
left  the  articles,  found  that  the  pledges  were  marked  off  as 
redeemed,  but  they  afterwards  discovered  the  articles  in  the  pawn- 
broker's possession.  The  Chief  Constable  of  Glasgow,  from  whose 
experience  these  details  are  given,  stated  that  there  is  great  facility 
for  pledging  stolen  goods  with  pawnbrokers  in  that  city.  He  does 
not  think  those  in  the  trade  fairly  carry  out  an  important  provision  of 
the  Act — that  of  assisting  the  police  in  the  detection  and  recovery 
of  stolen  goods.  This  is  accounted  for  to  a  certain  extent  by  saying 
that  the  pawnbroker  gets  no  remuneration  for  loss  of  time  spent  in 
police-courts  and  other  courts ;  he,  therefore,  has  no  interest  in 
putting  goods  into  the  hands  of  the  authorities.  In  his  evidence  the 
Chief  Constable  also  observed  that  very  feiv  pawnbrokers  fail  in 
business^  and  even  if  a  man  goes  out  of  the  trade  his  shop  is  gene- 
rally taken  by  another  pawnbroker. 

The  present  facilities  for  pawning  tend,  in  the  opinion  of  this 
functionary,  to  undermine  the  moral  welfare  of  the  lower  classes,  for 
by  them  improvident  people  have  too  many  opportimities  for  disposing 
of  their  property.     Speaking  of  free  trade  in  pawnbroking,  he  con- 
tends that  the  pawnbroker  would  always  be  likely  to  get  the  best 
of  the  bargain,  being,  as  he  would  be,  in  a  position  to  dictate  terms. 
He  urges  that  the  hours  during  which  pawn-shops  are  open  should 
be  restricted,  for  a  good  reason  given  in  these  words — "  I  think  the 
nearer  that  you  bring  the  hours  of  a  pawnbroker  to  daylight  the  better." 
His  statement  regarding  the  opportunities  afforded  to  thieves  for  dis- 
posing of  stolen  goods  by  gawnbrokers  is,  perhaps,  the  most  effective 
commentary  on  itself.   Cases  have  arisen  in  which  it  has  been  denied 
that  stolen  property  was  in  a  pawnbroker's  shop,  and  subsequently 
the  tickets  have  been  discovered  on  thieves,  by  which  the  knowledge 
of  the  place  where  the  property  has  been  deposited  has  been  obtained. 
Almost  invariably  pawn-tickets  are  found  when  a  gang  of  thieves  is 
apprehended,  either  on  their  persons  or  in  their  houses.     "  I  think  I 
Vol.  XI.  N.S.,  187J  l 


1 46  The  Gentle^nafis  Magazine. 

could  almost  say  that  I  have  found  the  presence  of  100  pawn-tickets 
in  the  possession  of  one  thief,"  is  one  of  the  sentences  which  occur 
in  the  evidence  of  the  witness  whose  testimony  has  been  quoted. 
There  is  not  the  slightest  doubt  that  under  the  present  system  pawn- 
broking  induces  stealing.  Everything  a  thief  steals  is  turned  into 
whisky  or  other  strong  drinks,  and  whenever  he  steals  he  turns  the 
product  of  his  robbery  into  money  to  obtain  liquor.  Very  frequently 
he  does  so  by  resorting  to  the  pawn-office  as  a  means  of  getting 
money  for  the  purpose. 

It  is  not  inopportune  to  consider  the  demoralising  effect  of  the 
pawnbroking  system  while  its  reform  is  demanded  by  many  of  those 
pursuing  that  specific  business.  In  1800  the  Act  came  into  operation ; 
in  1806  there  was  only  one  pawn-office  in  Glasgow ;  now  there  axe 
over  one  hundred  and  twaity.  But  it  must  not  be  supposed  that  these 
are  the  only  agencies  by  which  the  improvident  can  dispose  of  their 
goods  and  chattels.  There  are  besides,  under  licences,  four  himdred 
and  fifty  "  wee  pawns,"  which  correspond  to  the  leaving  shops  of 
London  which  are  not  under  licence.  People  habitually  lose  their 
tickets  and  then  make  affidavits  before  magistrates,  stating  that 
certain  goods  in  certain  offices  are  their  property.  This  proceeding 
gives  opportunity  for  dishonest  practices.  Affidavits  are  made  and 
goods  obtained  by  persons  who  are  not  the  owners.  These  S3rstematic 
receivers  of  stolen  goods  are  supplemented  in  their  work  by  a  number 
of  "  resetters  "  as  they  are  called — who  keep  theu:  melting-pots  ready, 
and  do  nothing  but  reset  stolen  property.  The  summary  of  the  Chief 
Constable's  evidence  is  "that  the  present  system  of  pawnbroking  fosters 
petty  theft  in  our  great  towns." 

A  magistrate  has  given  it  as  his  opinion  that  if  there  were  no 
pawnbrokers  people  of  slender  means  would  be  led  to  rely  more  on 
their  own  resources,  and  to  be  more  provident  in  their  habits. 
The  system — says  the  same  authority — contributes  to  demoralise 
the  lower  portions  of  the  community  by  affording  facilities  for  getting 
4rink.  "  I  think,"  he  adds,  "  that  the  fact  of  their  having  been  so  long 
able  9D  readily  to  raise  money  in  that  way  has  contributed  greatly  to 
:niake  them  improvident  in  their  habits.  I  think  it  would  be  a  meet 
tdesirable  thing  to  have  a  law  even  to  prevent  people  from  "y^^^pg 
(themselves  and  their  children  so  poor  and  miserable  as  they  are  at 
present"  Then  arises  the  consideration  for  those  who  pay  xates  and 
taxes  that  people  who  part  with  their  clothing  and  those  things  that 
are  necessaries  of  life  throw  the  burden  upon  others — the  provident 
and  thrifty  part  of  the  community.  Instances  have  been  adduced 
in  which  women  have  pawned  every  article  of  furniture  in  the  house 


Pawnbroking  in  Scotland.  147 

and  every  stitch  of  clothing  belonging  to  the  family.  The  pledging 
of  bed  and  body  clothing  in  Glasgow  has  been  proved  to  be  very 
extensive.  The  small  pledges  of  these  articles  are  generally  made 
to  obtain  drink.  The  witness,  a  magistrate  of  Glasgow,  who  proved 
these  deplorable  &cts,  says  that  he  observes  the*  table  of  interest — 
generally  speaking — to  be  founded  upon  the  standard  of  twenty  per 
cent.  *'  Now,  considering  that  the  pawnbroker  has  what  we  should 
call  good  security  for  the  money  advanced,  I  cannot  see  why  he 
should  be  allowed  to  charge  so  high  a  rate,"  are  the  words  in  which 
he  indirectly  condemns  the  pecuniary  dealings  of  the  pawnbrokers 
with  the  poor — an  opinion  which  will  be,  doubtless,  endorsed  by 
every  one  who  thoughtfully  considers  the  conditions  under  which  the 
lending  and  the  borrowing  take  place. 

Some  valuable  suggestions  were  made  with  regard  to  pledges.  It 
was  urged  that  better  provision  should  be  made  for  the  reversion  of 
those  pledges  coming  to  owners,  the  pawners*of  the  goods;  and  that 
that  reversion,  if  there  were  any,  and  if  the  pawners  of  the  goods  could 
not  be  found,  should  be  paid  over  to  some  of  the  charities  of  the  city. 
*^  During  the  visitations  of  the  poor  I  have  made,"  said  one  witness, 
"  I  have  very  frequently  observed  the  evil  influences  of  the  pawn- 
broking  system.  I  have  visited  their  houses,  and  sometimes  found 
that  there  was  nothing  to  lie  upon  possibly  but  a  heap  of  straw, 
no  bed-clothing,  and  hardly  a  rag  to  cover  the  nakedness  of  the 
heads  of  the  family  and  the  children." 

Referring  to  the  system  of  pawnbroking,  which,  it  was  urged,  was 

a  social  necessity,  this  question  was  put : — **  Is  it  more  extraordinary 

than  the  banking  system  for  the  richer  classes  of  society  ?  and  must 

not  the  poor  have  some  place  where  they  can  go  and  get  advances 

upon  easy  terms?"     The  following  reply  was  returned:  "It  used 

not  to  be  so  in  former  days,  and  it  is  not  so  in  many  parts  of  the 

country  still.     I  do  not  think  that  the  really  deserving  poor  are  ever 

lefl  to  starve,  or  very  seldom."  Blankets  given  by  benevolent  persons 

to  poor  individuals  have  been  very  frequently  pawned.    The  estimate 

given  regarding  Glasgow  as  a  pawnbroking  agency  is  enough  to 

disturb  the  arithmetical  digestion  of  every  one  who  reads  it.     ^'I 

have  tried,"  says  a  magistrate  of  the  city,  "  to  come  at  some  sort  of 

estimate  of  the  money  spent  yearly  by  the  working  classes  in 

pawning,  and  the  result  has  been  that  from  ;f  150,000  to  ;f  200,000 

a  year  is  spent  in  interest  /"     In  reply  to  a  question,  "  Is  not  that 

more  than  is  spent  in  all  the  religious  observances  and  education  of 

the  city  ?"  the  witness  said,  "  I  think  it  is  a  great  deal  more." 

In  the  whole  range  of  the  evidence  perhaps  there  was  no  more 

L  2 


148  The  Gmtlemans  Magazine. 

extraordinary  assertion  than  that  many  of  the  people  who  habitually 
pawned  were  very  regular  in  their  attendance  at  church. 

It  appears  from  the  evidence  of  the  Procurator  Fiscal  for  the 
Eastern  District  of  Renfrewshire  that  of  96,000  pledges  made  in  Pol- 
lockshaws  during  the  year,  the  majority  were  bed  and  body  clothing 
and  small  articles  of  household  effects — articles  essentially  necessary 
for  the  comfort  of  the  people  pledging  them,  and  for  the  preservation 
of  their  health.  The  number  of  pledges  for  every  individual  in  the 
population  was  lo^/^,  and  for  every  family  of  five  persons,  50. 
Supposing  that  only  one  half  of  the  population  were  to  go  to  pa^ni- 
shops,  every  creature  of  this  half  in  PoUockshaws  would  pledge  2 1 
pledges,  and  every  family  100  pledges  in  the  year.  There  can  be 
no  doubt  whatever  of  the  demoralising  effect  of  pledging  and  pawn- 
ing ;  and  if  that  effect  be  going  on,  it  is  easy  to  conceive  that  there 
must  be  a  great  change  for  the  worse  in  the  social  condition  of  the 
inhabitants  of  the  place. 

In  1833  there  were  only  52  pawnbrokers  in  Scotland;  they  had 
increased  from  one  in  1806  to  52  in  1833.  In  1838  they  had 
increased  to  88.  In  1863  they  had  increased  to  312.  The  number 
now  must  be  considerably  larger  than  it  was  in  1865,  when  a  return 
was  made  to  the  House  of  Commons  of  the  number  of  pawnbrokers 
in  Great  Britain,  for  in  Glasgow  alone  the  number  had  increased 
since  1861  from  79  to  115. 

The  following  answers  to  questions  addressed  by  members  of  the 
Committee  of  the  House  of  Commons  to  a  Scotch  official  are  their 
own  best  commentary : — 

"  Can  you  give  us  the  total  number  of  pledges  in  the  United 
Kingdom  ?" 

**  In  order  to  get  at  the  total  number  of  pledges,  you  are  obliged 
to  assume  a  certain  number  for  each  establishment.  It  is  difficult  to 
make  that  calculation,  because  all  parties  are  not  agreed  about  it 
Many  people  think,  and  I  think,  that  the  average  number  will  be 
60,000  for  each  establishment  in  Great  Britain  and  Ireland.  However, 
we  will  say  that  it  will  only  be  about  40,000.  Keyson,  in  his  work 
on  pawnbroking,  admits  that  the  metropolitan  pawnbrokers  will  have 
40,000  each,  and  he  remarks  that  no  establishment  can  well  be  kept 
up  unless  it  has  40,000.  In  that  case,  the  number  of  pledges  in 
Scotland  (and  it  is  to  Scotland  that  I  have  given  my  particular  atten- 
tion) would  be  18,720,000,  and  in  the  United  Kingdom,  taking  the 
Kome  rate,  the  number  of  pledges  would  be  207,780,000." 

"  Have  you  observed  that  the  increase  of  the  system  of  pawnbrok- 
l)een  identified  with  the  increase  of  crime  in  Scotland?" 


Pawnbroking  in  Scotland.  1 49 

"Yes,  so  far  as  my  own  observation  goes,  it  has,  very  materially ;  and 
I  may  state  that  I  have  been  in  conmimiication  with  all  parts  of  Scot- 
land on  this  subject,  with  gentlemen  who  take  a  very  great  interest  in 
the  social  improvement  of  the  people  of  Scotland ;  with  the  heads  of 
the  police,  for  instance,  and  other  persons ;  and  they  all  concur  in  the 
opinion  that  pawnbroking  has  been  one  great  source  of  crime,  and  is 
the  means  of  not  only  creating  crime,  but  of  fostering  and  encouraging 
-crime." 

"  You  have  taken  some  means  to  ascertain  the  number  of  witnesses 
connected  with  pawnbroking  establishments  who  have  been  examined 
in  a  certain  number  of  cases  connected  with  theft  and  embezzlement, 
have  you  not  ?  " 

"  I  have ;  in  my  own  experience  for  the  last  forty  years  I  have  had 
comparatively  few  cases  of  theft  under  cognizance  which  have  not 
had  some  connection  either  direct  or  indirect  with  the  pawn-shop,  and 
I  have  gone  over  all  the  indictments  in  the  Sheriff  Court  of  Glasgow, 
in  cases  tried  by  the  sheriff  and  a  jury  in  two  different  years,  and  I 
have  ascertained  by  an  examination  of  the  lists  of  those  witnesses 
appended  to  the  indictments  that  in  119  cases  of  housebreaking, 
theft,  resetting,  and  embezzlement,  tried  at  Glasgow  by  the  Sheriff  of 
Lanarkshire  and  a  jury  in  i860,  106  of  the  witnesses  were  pawn- 
brokers or  brokers." 

It  is  astonishing  how  prosperous  pawnbrokers  are,  notwithstanding 
the  alleged  persecution  of  their  class,  and  their  demands  for  improved 
legislation  to  guard  them  against  the  machinations  of  their  clients. 
The  witness  from  whose  evidence  I  have  most  recently  quoted  stated 
that  he  Iiad  ticver  kfunvn  a  pawtibroker  gd  into  the  Gazette  in  Scotland, 
Looking  at  the  whole  result  of  the  evidence — the  undeniable  statistics 
adduced  by  magistrates,  and  the  weak,  flimsy  fallacies  of  the  pawn- 
brokers— the  only  conclusion  at  which  I  can  arrive  is  that  the 
pawnbroking  system,  as  at  present  administered,  fosters  crime, 
encourages  improvidence,  and,  while  it  appears  to  help  the  poor,  tends 
to  involve  them  in  degrading  complications,  the  effects  of  which  are 
not  wholly  dissimilar  to  those  of  the  beneficent  Poor  Law,  which 
makes  paupers  in  these  countries  to  the  third  and  fourth  generations. 

T.    F.    O'DONNELL. 


Landlord  and  Tenant. 

BY  GEORGE  HEDLEY, 

|HE  Landlord  and  Tenant  (England)  Bill,  recently  intro- 
duced into  Parliament,  naturally  suggests  some  mental 
production  calculated  to  improve  the  relations  between 
landlord  and  tenant,  and  help  them  to  cany  on  tfieir 
business  in  a  more  equitable,  frugal,  and  satkfactory  way.  The  Bill, 
I  may  state  at  the  outset,  does  not  apply  to  any  holding  that  is  not 
agricultural  or  pastoral,  or  partly  agricultural  and  pastoral,  nor  does  it 
hold  any  power  over  gentlemen's  mansions,  houses,  or  demesne  lands. 
Tradesmen's  houses  and  lands,  I  presume,  are  also  exempt,  whether 
agricultural  or  pastoral,  or  both ;  but  the  Bill  does  not  say  an3rthing 
about  the  latter,  and  I  suppose  it  would  have  to  be  fought  out  after- 
wards in  courts  of  law,  if  the  measure  should  pass,  at  what  point  the 
suburban  residence  and  semi-agricultural  and  pastoral  farm  ends,  and 
the  real  farm  residence  and  real  farm  begins.  The  first  question  that 
we  have  to  ask  ourselves,  then,  is  this — Is  there  a  measure  of  any 
kind  needed  for  the  welfare  of  this  country,  and,  if  so,  of  what  nature 
should  it  be  ?  If  we  were  to  judge  by  the  few  cases  of  difference 
betin-een  landlord  and  tenant  within  our  notice,  by  the  almost  total 
absence  of  appeals  to  law  by  landlord  and  tenant,  and  the  utter  apathy 
and  stolid  indifference  manifested  by  the  farmers  while  this  Bill  is 
pending,  my  answer  would  certainly  be  in  the  negative;  and  we 
should  infer  that  the  present  measure  was  rather  the  result  of  dis- 
satisfied agitators  and  ambitious  members,  who  had  nothing  to  lose 
or  gain,  than  of  those  who  were  immediately  interested  and  vitally 
concerned.  My  own  opinion  is  that  some  measure  or  arrangement 
is  really  needed  to  ensure  enterprising  tenants  who  have  short  leases 
or  no  leases  at  all  compensation  for  unexhausted  improvements, 
when  landlords  pertinaciously  refuse  or  fail  to  observe  9ie  rights  due 
from  them ;  because  any  land  that  is  improved  will  produce  more 
rent  to  the  landlord  (price  of  labour  and  money  being  equal),  and, 
under  any  circumstances,  greater  crops  to  the  incoming  tenant  at  the 
expense  partially,  no  doubt,  of  the  one  who  has  gone  out  But  the 
question  arises,  between  whom  do  those  interests  lie  ?  Are  they  between 
tenant  and  landlord,  or  between  tenant  and  tenant  ?  He  would  be  a 
very  bold  man  who  would  assert  that  they  lay  between  tenant  and 


Landlord  and  Tenant.  1 5 1 

landlord  entirely,  for  whatever  sum  or  sums  the  landlord  was  mulcted 
in  by  the  ongoing  tenant  he  would  certainly  try  to  make  the  succeed- 
ing one  recoup  to  him,  and  when  law  had  become  the  stem  arbiter 
between  them,  as  it  would  under  this  Bill,  he  would  not  omit,  as  in 
many  cases  he  does  now,  to  put  in  a  counter  claim  for  dilapidations 
of  buildmgs,  gates,  and  fences,  and  general  deterioration  of  the  value 
of  the  soil.  Who,  then,  would  be  the  gainers  but  the  individual 
tenant  who  was  really  a  good  tenant,  and  the  whole  number 
of  landlords,  whether  good  or  bad,  if  they  asserted  their  power? 
This  would  be  protecting  only  a  dass  and  a  portion  of  a  class^ 
while  the  other  portion — viz.,  the  farmers — without  the  improving 
spirit  within  them,  would  be  left  entirely  at  the  mercy  of  their 
landlords  and  agents.  A  measiure  to  amend  the  land  laws  of 
England  should  favoin:  no  class  nor  section  of  a  class  in  particular,  but 
should  deal  fairly  with  tenants  in  the  aggregate  and  landlords  in  the 
aggregate ;  should  have  a  humanising  and  tranquillising  effect  upon 
their  feelings  and  thoughts;  should  lessen  the  distance  between 
grades ;  should  render  espionage  and  litigation  unnecessary ;  should 
strengthen  the  bonds  of  fraternity,  and  foster  mutual  confidence  and 
mutual  prosperity,  so  that  the  greatest  amount  of  produce  might  be 
derived  from  the  soil  for  the  universal  benefit  of  the  people.  Would 
the  Bill  of  Messrs.  Howard  and  Read  have  this  effect  ?  I  humbly 
venture  to  say  it  would  not.  Although  it  is  drawn  with  some  in- 
genuity, and  the  utmost  wish  to  do  justice  between  classes,  there  is  a 
lack  of  vision  and  statesmanlike  qualification  about  it  which  would 
make  it,  if  passed  into  law,  repulsive  and  ruinous  and  bad  to 
the  classes  it  was  meant  to  benefit.  It  proceeds  precipitantly,  and 
takes  no  cognizance  of  the  power  we  already  have  to  settle  disputes 
by  arbitration.  It  would  give  the  needy  owner  power  to  ruin  not 
only  the  bad  and  the  middling  class  of  tenants,  but  in  some  cases 
the  good.  It  would  give  the  cunning  tenant  the  power  to  saddle 
the  landlord  widi  expenses  valueless  in  themselves.  It  would  set  up 
a  system  of  perpetual  espionage,  cupidity,  and  litigation,  and  it  would 
strike  at  the  toot  of  all  trade  and  commerce  by  destroying  the 
validity  of  contracts.  Let  us  now  look  closely  and  carefully  at  a  few 
of  the  clauses  of  the  measure  and  the  general  tenour  of  its  sense  as  it 
appears  to  us.  If  passed  into  law  as  it  is,  with  the  12th  Clause  intact, 
it  would  render  all  bargains  and  agreements  at  the  will  of  the  tenant, 
and  at  any  time,  null  and  void  !  If  with  the  12  th  Clause  eliminated, 
it  would  simply  be  of  no  use  whatever,  because  the  landlord  could  at 
all  times  make  a  covenant  with  the  tenant  to  supersede  the  Act. 
There  was,  in  my  opinion,  a  cruel  irony  in  the  announcement  of  the 


152  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

Conservatives  to  the  effect  that  they  would  not  oppose  the  spirit  of 
the  measure  if  the  12  th  Clause  were  taken  out  But  apart  from  that 
unhealthy  and  damnatory  portion  the  Bill  appears  to  me  to  be  ill- 
conceived  and  hastily  drafted,  and  would  do  harm  instead  of  good  to 
all  classes  of  the  community.  The  first  clause  says  that  tenants  are 
to  be  compensated  for  "  temporary,  durable,  and  permanent  improve- 
ments— (i)  Temporary  improvements  shall  extend  to  any  outlay 
effectually  and  properly  incurred  by  a  tenant  in  the  purchase  and 
application  of  manures  or  fertilisers  to  other  than  com  crops,  or  in 
the  purchase  of  com,  cake,  and  other  feeding  stuffs  consumed  by  live 
stock  on  the  holding.  (2)  Compensation  for  durable  improvements 
shall  extend  to  any  outlay  effectually  and  properly  incurred  by  a 
tenant  in  subsoiling,  getting  up  and  removing  stones,  liming,  chalking, 
marling,  claying,  boning  with  undissolved  bones,  laying  down  perma- 
nent pasture,  or  in  any  other  improvements  which  have  a  durable 
effect  in  amending  the  land  or  deepening  the  soil.  (3)  Compensa- 
tion for  permanent  improvements  shall  extend  to  any  outlay  effec- 
tually and  properly  incurred  by  a  tenant  in  reclaiming,  levelling, 
warping,  planting  (other  than  omamental),  draining,  making  or 
improving  water-courses,  works  of  irrigation,  ponds,  wells,  re- 
servoirs, fences,  roads,  bridges,  or  in  the  erection  or  enlarge- 
ment of  buildings  on  the  holding,  or  in  any  other  improve- 
ments of  a  permanent  nature.''  All  these  things  to  be  settled 
by  commissioners  and  arbitrators  appointed  by  Government 
As  regards  temporary  improvements,  the  arbitrators  —  from 
whose  judgment,  let  me  remark  here,  in  all  cases,  there  is  to 
be  no  appeal — may  go  back  for  four  years  and  allow  for  outlays 
effectually  and  properly  incurred.  But  who,  I  would  ask,  are  to  be 
the  witnesses  whether  they  are  effectually  and  properly  incurred  or 
not  ?  and  is  it  not  an  undoubted  fact  that  all  manures  and  feeding 
stuffs,  such  as  are  referred  to  here,  return  themselves  to  the  tenant  in 
less  than  two  years  instead  of  four  ?  It  may  be  answered  to  the  first 
part  that  a  record  could  be  kept  of  the  outlay  for  each  year,  and 
vouchers,  in  the  shape  of  the  bills  paid,  be  given  ;  and  to  the  second, 
that,  although  the  tenant  may  and  does  receive  full  benefit  fix)m  the 
things  applied,  they  have  had  the  effect  of  making  the  land 
better  for  the  next  comer.  But  would  it  be  contended  that  this  would 
not  lead  to  spurious  dealings  and  cooked  accounts  between  unscmpu- 
lous  manure  and  cake  merchants  and  farmers  not  over  particular  in 
habits  or  principles,  of  the  existence  of  whom  our  own  reminiscences, 
and  the  evidence  of  chemists  like  Professor  Voelcker,  furnish 
suf^cient  data  ?    .\nd  would  it  be  argued  that  because  a  shopkeeper. 


Landlord  and  Tenant.  153 

to  use  a  simile,  has  spent  his  energies,  his  time,  his  capital,  his  talent 
in  making  his  place  attractive  to  his  customers — ^and  they  are  exact 
analogies — his  shop,  his  land ;  his  customers  and  goods,  his  profit — 
he  would  be  justified  in  coming  upon  the  landlord  for  a  money 
compensation  because  the  premises  had  got  an  improved  name  ?  The 
idea,  I  think,  is  preposterous  and  untenable  so  far  as  temporary  im- 
provements go.  With  respect  to  durable  and  permanent  improve- 
ments, I  ask  again  who  would  be  the  witnesses?  Mr.  Howard 
proposes  to  go  back  ten  years  with  one,  and  twenty  years  with  the 
other ;  but  the  arbitrators  and  witnesses  who  saw  the  farm  ten  years 
or  twenty  years  before  might  be  all  dead  and  buried.  The  new 
arbitrators  might  have  a  very  imperfect  interpretation  of  the  docu- 
ments left  behind  for  their  guidance,  and  who  would  be  left  save 
those  interested,  and  possibly  interested  to  deceive,  with  a  memory 
lively  enough  of  what  had  been  done  to  the  farm  in  the  shape  of  im- 
provements, and  also  how  many  of  those  improvements  had  been 
repaid  and  balanced  by  countervailing  returns  from  the  landlord  ?  As 
far  as  I  am  able  to  judge,  twenty  years  is  much  too  far  to  go  back  for 
compensation  under  any  circumstances.  A  tenant  could  drain  whole 
fields,  if  he  liked,  under  the  5th  Clause  of  this  Bill,  without  the  con- 
sent of  the  landlord,  and  make  out  his  claim  at  the  end  of  that 
time  for  compensation.  This  would  never  do.  Many  cases  might 
be  cited  where  tenants  have  drained  large  portions  of  farms  under 
eight  years'  leases  with  no  compensation  clauses  at  all,  and  where 
their  capital  has  undoubtedly  been  returned  to  them  within  three  or 
four  years  by  the  improved  state  of  the  soil,  and  consequently  larger 
crops.  As  to  buildings,  a  silly,  uninformed  owner  might  sanction 
erections  which  by  his  wiser  successor  would  be  thought  to  be  of  no  use, 
yet  he  would  be  compelled  to  pay  for  them  or  to  have  them  pulled 
down  at  a  loss  of  labour  and  time  to  the  public  and  the  disfigurement 
of  the  place  for  ever.  We  have  many  instances  of  large  erections 
upon  arable  farms  having  become  obsolete  and  useless  already,  and 
there  is  every  appearance  of  this  state  of  things  increasing,  as 
butchers'  meat  advances  in  price  and  large  tracts  of  tillage  are  sown 
down  to  save  expense  of  labour,  material,  &c. 

If  we  look  at  the  converse  side  of  the  question  we  shall  find  it 
equally  objectionable  as  a  matter  of  political  and  social  economy, 
calculated  upon  a  sensible  basis,  and  tending  to  the  good  of  mankind. 
A  landlord  can  claim  for  land  considered  to  be  in  a  foul  or  neglected 
condition,  and  at  any  time  within  twenty  years  may  assess  his  tenant 
with  damages  for  dilapidation  of  buildings  or  deterioration  of  the  soil. 
Why,  this  simply  means  misery  and  ruination  in  some  hands  to  well 


154  ^^'^  Getitlemans  Magazhie. 

meaning  and  properly  conducted  tenants.  I  have  known  many 
instances  where  farms  have  been  taken  in  such  a  poor  conditioii  that 
they  would  grow  hardly  a  whicken  or  a  weed  of  any  kind ;  but  after 
an  affluent  course  of  husbandry,  and,  perhaps,  an  impure  seeding  of 
grasses,  which  no  tenant  can  effectually  guard  against,  abundance  of 
twitch  and  annual  weeds  were  produced  along  with  cereal  and  green 
crops,  probably  betokening  foulness  and  imperfect  husbandry  without, 
but  actually  proving  richness  and  vitality  i^ithin.  And  have  we  not 
frequently  known  buildings  which  seemed  good  and  substantial  to 
begin  with  go  down  to  decay  and  crumble  to  pieces  in  an  incredibly 
short  space  of  time  ?  all  of  which  under  this  Bill  a  tenant  would  be 
liable  for ;  and  if  he  refused  to  pay,  what  chance,  I  would  ask,  would 
he  have  even  in  arbitration,  with  the  wealthy,  the  influential,  and 
probably  purblind,  obtuse,  or  unscrupulous  owner  ?  It  is  needless  to 
proceed  much  further  in  refutation  of  the  prevailing  tenets  of  this 
measure,  except  to  notice  the  absolute  incongruity  between  the  12th 
and  the  15  th  Clauses.  The  one  says  that  a  tenant  may  contract 
himself  out  of  all  engagements ;  the  other,  that  a  tenant  claiming 
under  a  local  custom,  such  as  Lincolnshire,  &c,  shall  adhere  to  his 
custom  and  not  be  bound  by  the  Act  at  all !  This  is  positively 
bewildering  to  any  person  acquainted  with  the  business  of  farming, 
and  it  would  leave  some  parts  of  the  country  without  any  pro- 
tection from  the  Act  whatsoever. 

Again,  a  landlord  is  to  be  entitled  to  claim  for  all  hay,  straw,  roots^ 
or  green  crops  sold  off  the  farm,  and  the  tenant  for  the  extra  size,  as 
he  may  term  it,  of  a  turnip  or  mangold,  and  the  increased  thickness 
of  the  stems  of  his  cereals  produced  by  artificial  manure  during  the 
last  four  years  of  his  tenancy !  Might  not  the  landlord  under  such  a 
regime  have  much  more  to  come  in  than  the  tenant  ?  and  if  the  other 
way,  would  it  not  be  a  funny  spectacle  to  see  a  tenant  distraining  upon 
a  struggling  landlord  who  had  an  expensive  family  to  keep  up  and  no 
money  to  spare  ?  Yet  all  these  things  are  possible  under  this  Bill- 
Moreover,  a  limited  owner  of  a  farm  or  farms  has  imlimited  power 
to  do  all  the  harm  he  can  to  other  limited  o>\'ners,  by  making  foolish 
bargains  with  his  tenants,  or  letting  the  land  upon  a  tenure  imsuited 
to  its  conditions  ;  and  the  Public  Works  Loan  Commissioners  are  to 
advance  to  a  tenant  any  amount  of  money  settled  upon  by  the 
arbitrators  for  what  they  may  call  tenant-right,  and  charge  the  form  or 
fim  with  it  at  an  interest  of  frve  per  cent.,  the  whole  being  repay- 
tfairty-five  years.  Many  a  landlord  under  this  clause  would 
ship  of  land  a  curse  instead  of  a  blessing,  for  the 
up  more  than  the  rent;  and,  i^ithout  the  consent 


Landlord  and  Tenant.  155. 

of  his  partners,  he  would  not  be  able  to  sell  out,  or,  if  selling,  would 
probably  be  left  without  a  penny  in  the  world  If  all  the  farmers- 
in  the  counties  where  no  tenant-right  exists  were  consulted  upon  this 
measure,  I  have  not  much  doubt  but  that  they  would  declare  against 
it  Wherever  such  a  system  is  legalised  and  put  in  force,  it  requires 
much  more  capital  to  start  a  farm  than  where  it  is  left  optional 
between  landlord  and  tenant  to  make  their  own  bargains,  and  hence 
it  has  the  very  pernicious  and  dangerous  effect  of  preventing  the 
frugal  hind,  the  clever  farm  bailiff,  or  poor  farmer's  son  from  ever  be- 
coming a  farmer.  Take,  for  instance,  a  case  in  Sussex,  where  tenant- 
right  prevails,  and  where  a  friend  of  mine  received  ;f  597  12s.  from 
his  successor  on  leaving  a  farm  of  100  acres.  There  is  in  this  case,  I 
perceive,  in  the  inventory  of  the  professional  preparer  of  the  land  for 
leaving  and  the  valuator  of  work  done  and  goods  left  the  following 
items,  viz.  : — Seventeen  acres,  five  times  ploughed,  six  times  drag 
harrowed,  four  times  clog  crushed,  four  times  rolled,  then  dressed  with 
dung  and  superphosphate  of  lime,  for  which  full  time  and  value  are 
charged.  Then  there  are  a  great  many  acres  supplied  with  dung  and 
nitrate  of  soda,  for  which  half  price  is  charged ;  next  there  is  the  old 
remaining  hay  and  straw  at  market  value ;  then  the  soil  heaps,  ashes, 
and  dung  in  folds  and  fields,  the  chalk  and  stones  for  roads,  and  labour 
of  horses  and  of  men ;  the  whole  amounting  to  that  extraordinary  sum. 
This,  you  will  observe,  is  taking  nearly  six  pounds  an  acre  from  one 
tenant's  pocket  and  putting  it  into  another's  before  the  stocking  of  the 
fauin  is  ever  begun.  The  result  of  it  is  that  the  capital  of  the  farmer  is 
absorbed  in  the  entry,  and  he  has  little  left  to  apply  to  the  business 
of  farming,  and  to  enable  him  to  obtain  good  crops  and  profits  by 
proper  systems  of  husbandry  and  suitable  horses  and  stock.  I  know 
several  farmers  in  one  of  the  southern  counties  so  poor  and  miserable 
that  they  cannot  buy  sufficient  lambs  to  consume  their  fogs  with,  and 
they  make  it  a  custom  to  send  their  messenger  round  to  some 
wealthy  dealer  and  ask  him  to  send  his  flocks  to  eat  them  do^n  for 
nothing.  May  we  not  fairly  say  that  this  is  partly  the  result  of  what  is 
termed  the  tenant-right  system,  for  we  scarcely  can  hear  of  such  com- 
plete depletion  in  the  exchequer  of  the  farm  where  no  such  system 
prevails  ?  It  has  been  the  wisdom  of  previous  legislators  to  make  the 
land  laws  of  England  as  simple  as  possible.  They  have  worked  well 
up  to  the  last  few  years  ;  but  now  that  tenants  have  the  worst  of  it 
by  dear  labour  and  high  priced  mahures,  they  naturally  seek  ease  in 
some  direction.  But  is  it  the  body  of  farmers  who  look  to  legislation 
for  support,  or  is  it  only  the  shallow  agitator  and  his  tool,  the 
shallow  member?     I  should  feel  inclined  to  say  the  latter.     It  is 


156  The  Genilentafis  Magazine. 

true  that  the  enterprising  tenant  ought  to  have  compensation  for 
unexhausted  improvements ;  but  is  there  no  way  of  gaining  that  end 
but  by  appealing  to  law  ?  The  feeling  between  landlords  and  tenants 
isj)ne  of  mutual  respect  and  kindness ;  they  know  that  they  have  an 
identity  of  interests  at  stake.  When  any  differences  arise — ^which  is 
seldom  the  case — they  are  ruled  by  customs  and  their  stamped 
agreements,  which  are  binding  at  law.  But  law  is  seldom  ap- 
pealed to.  They  manage  to  settle  their  differences  between  them- 
selves,  with  little  injury  to  either ;  but,  in  any  case,  if  that  cannot 
be  done,  they  do  it  by  arbitration,  and  an  arbitration  of  the  wisest 
kmd.  They  do  not  seek  a  Government  commissioner,  who  would 
probably  know  nothing  of  the  district,  but  take  each  a  neighbour 
who  is  well  acquainted  with  the  land  and  very  likely  cognisant  of  all 
the  facts  of  the  case.  The  matter  is  adjusted  with  little  expense  to 
either,  and  with  more  fairness  and  equity  than  the  law  would  be 
likely  to  give.  The  majority  of  landlords  have  no  wish  to  take 
advantage  of  their  tenants,  but  desire  to  do  them  all  the  good  they 
can ;  the  majority  of  tenants  are  very  healthy  minded,  and  keenly  alive 
to  everything  that  affects  their  own  interests.  Can  they  not  be  left  to 
make  their  own  bargains  ?  A  clause  introduced  into  each  agreement 
sanctioning  the  principle  of  a  claim  for  unexhausted  improvements 
would  probably  meet  all  the  difficulties  of  the  situation  ;  and,  after  a 
few  years  had  elapsed,  if  omitted  by  any  party  or  repudiated  by  a  land- 
lord, the  custom  obtaining  would  determine  the  matter.  Even  such 
a  clause  might  have  the  sanction  of  statute  law ;  but  it  would  have  to 
be  very  carefully  fiumed,  otherwise  it  would  cause  a  split  between 
owners  and  occupiers,  and  eventually  the  owners  would  farm  their 
estates  themselves,  having  a  steward  or  manager  upon  each  farm. 
Almost  any  part  of  this  Bill,  with  the  first  clause  left  standing,  would 
liave  this  effect  also.  How  then,  let  me  ask,  could  it  benefit  the 
tenant,  or  how  could  it  benefit  the  landlord  ?  and  if  it  would  not 
adjust  differences  in  an  equitable  way,  as  I  have  shown  before  it 
would  not,  then  I  think  sincerely  and  truly  that  it  is  the  duty  of  all 
right  minded  and  well  intentioned  men  to  endeavour  to  procure  its 
rejection. 


A  Month  in  the  Persian  Gulr 

BY  VISCOUNT  POLLINGTON,  M.A.,  F.R.G.S. 

T  was  with  feelings  of  peculiar  pleasure  that  one  pleasant 
afternoon  in  January  we  perceived  the  small  town  of  Busheer 
rising  above  the  horizon.  My  companion  and  myself  had 
travelled  for  fift}'-four  days  on  horseback,  from  the  northern- 
most frontier  of  Persia,  Toolfa,  on  the  Araxes,  to  this  place,  and  for 
thirteen  out  of  those  fifty-four  travelling  days  we  had  waded  through 
tolerably  deep  snow.  However,  this  was  to  be  our  last  halting-place^ 
at  any  rate  in  Persia,  and  we  resolved  therefore  to  push  on  as  fast 
as  possible. 

Now  this  "pushing  on"  could,  for  two  reasons,  by  no  means 
exceed  the  notable  pace  of  four  miles  an  hour.  In  the  first  place^ 
the  horses  we  were  riding  were  half-starved,  ill-favoured,  and  bony 
animals,  that  could  hardly  muster  up  strength  for  a  trot  between 
them ;  and  in  the  second  place,  the  soil  over  which  we  journeyed 
was  by  no  means  conducive  to  speed,  consisting  as  it  did  of  one 
broad  flat  expanse  of  sticky  mud  about  a  foot  in  depth,  and 
occasionally  covered  for  a  mile  or  so  at  a  time  by  a  few  inches  of 
water  from  the  neighbouring  sea. 

The  road,  although  leading  to  the  chief  and  (with  the  exception 
of  Bunder  Abbas,  farther  east)  only  seaport  in  the  Persian  dominions, 
barring  those  on  the  Caspian,  consisted  solely  of  the  old  tracks 
of  many  mules,  horses,  and  camels,  and  was  perhaps  half  a  mile 
broad.  There  were  no  landmarks  on  the  dead  flat,  excepting 
latterly  the  Anglo-Indian  telegraph  posts,  here  of  iron,  which  skirt 
almost  the  whole  of  the  road  from  Teheran  to  Busheer,  where  the 
land-line  joins  the  submarine  cable.  Presently  we  discovered  the 
sea — the  Persian  Gulf — on  our  right.  It  here  made  an  excursion 
on  to  the  mainland,  causing  thereby  the  road  (save  the  mark  !)  to 
perform  a  prolonged  detour  in  order  to  circumvent  this  water,  and 
to  get  to  the  neck  of  firm  land  which  sweeps  in  a  westerly  direction 
towards  Busheer,  and  eventually  forms  the  promontory  whereon  ^at 
town  is  built. 

As  I  have  said  before,  however,  the  road  was  at  times  for  miles 
covered  with  water,  and  we  seemed  to  be  riding  in  the  midst  of  a 
sea — an  awkward  position  both  for  ourselves  and  our  baggage,  should  * 
any  of  our  animals  take  it  into  their  heads  to  fall  down. 


158  The  Ge^itletnans  MagazifU. 

At  length  we  reached  the  firm  land,  then  past  a  few  palm  trees 
«(we  had  left  whole  groves  of  them  behind  us  on  the  previous  day) ; 
past  many  muleteers  slowly  driving  along  their  reluctant  and  heavily- 
laden  beasts,  and  we  urged  our  jaded  cattle  into  a  feeble  and  spas- 
modic semblance  to  a  trot,  which  brought  us  up  to  the  walls  of 
Busheer  at  about  four  in  the  afternoon. 

Now,  when  I  speak  of  walls,  the  reader  must  not  picture  to 
himself  anything  like  a  good  solid  English  brick  walL  No  \  these 
walls  were  rather  masses  of  dry  mud,  heaped  up  into  some  likeness 
to  battlements  broken  down  at  every  ten  yards,  and  which  any  pop- 
gun would  knock  over  at  a  moment's  notice.  The  gate  is  closed  at 
sunset,  thus  preventing  ingress  or  egress ;  unless,  indeed,  you  choose 
to  walk  round  by  the  shore  or  climb  over  a  broken  portion  of  the 
walls,  when  you  can  get  in  or  out  easily  enough.  The  gate  consists 
of,  or  consisted  of — it  may  have  rotted  away  by  this  time — ^wooden 
beams  insecurely  fastened  together  by  rusty  ironwork. 

Passing  through  this  gate,  we  inquired  our  way  to  the  Resident's 
house.  However,  as  we  perceived  the  English  flag  floating  proudly 
on  the  breeze  at  a  very  short  distance  ahead,  we  had  only  to  take 
the  proper  turning,  and  were  at  the  door.  On  presenting  our  cards 
to  two  grim-looking  sepoys  who  were  keeping  guard  attired  in  white, 
with  coloured  turbans  on  their  heads,  we  were  shown  upstairs. 

We  subsequently  discovered  that  these  Government  buildings  are 
called  "  residences,"  because  the  political  agent  who  ought  to  reside 
therein  seldom  does  so,  being  generally  on  leave,  or  travelling,  or 
something  or  another. 

The  house  fronts  the  sea,  about  twenty  yards  from  the  edge  of 
some  rocks  which  rise  twenty  feet  above  the  beach.  It  is  built  of 
natural  mud  bricks,  whitewashed  over,  as  are  most  of  the  houses 
in  Busheer.  On  entering  by  the  arched  front  door,  we  stood  in  a 
court,  having  buildings  two  stories  high  on  two  sides,  a  wall  on  the 
third,  and  low  buildings  (offices,  &c,  including  the  Post  Office)  on 
the  fourth  side.  Here  we  dismounted,  and  went  up  to  a  platform 
forming  the  roof  of  part  of  the  house,  by  a  broad  flight  of  low  dried 
mud  steps,  which  were  on  our  right  on  entering.  When  we  had 
ascended  these  we  were  shown  into  a  small  room  dignified  by  the 
name  of  "  the  office,"  on  the  left,  when  the  "  Uncovenanted  Civil 
Service  Servant,"  the  Vice-Resident,  received  us,  and  expressed  his 
regret  that  the  Resident  was  not  there  to  do  so  himself. 

In  this  little  room  any  little  differences  that  may  arise  in  Busheer 
,  -or  the  neighbourhood  between  English  subjects  are  adjudicated 
upon  and  settled. 


A  Month  in  the  Persian  Gulf.  159 

The  Resident  courteoasly  infonned  us  that  we  could  have  the 
rooms  set  apart  for  strangers — subject  to  the  return  of  the  agent, 
who  at  that  time  was  cruising  about  in  the  private  steamer  which 
a  munificent  Indian  Government  puts  at  his  disposal.  Descending 
the  steps  again,  we  passed  under  an  archway  into  a  second  and 
larger  court,  surrounded  by  offices  of  all  descriptions,  including  the 
stables,  but  much  in  need  of  repair.  Then  up  anotiier  broad  flight 
of  steps  we  entered  above  the  archway  the  rooms  which  were 
allotted  to  us.  The  furniture  widiin  them  was  not  calculated  on  any 
very  luxurious  scale,  consisting  as  it  did  of  one  large  table,  four 
chairs,  one  small  looking  glass  on  a  diminutive  table,  and  two  hard 
divans — ^no  carpets  of  course. 

We  proceeded  to  instal  ourselves,  and  make  ourselves  as  comfort- 
able as  possible,  not  a  difficult  matter,  as  the  greatest  amount  of 
comfort  to  be  got  out  of  the  rooms  was  small. 

We  had  two  Persian  servants  with  us,  a  father  and  his  son.  The 
father  talked  about  thirty  words  of  English,  and  we  were  Mmost 
entirely  guiltless  of  Persian,  so  that  occasionally  our  conversation 
used  to  come  to  a  standstill.  The  son  could  not  speak  one  word  of 
English,  and  was  only  useful  in  registering  his  father's  commands. 

Awa  Baba's  (that  was  the  English  linguist's  name)  favourite 
expression  was  "  Down  below,"  used  equally  in  the  singular  or  plural 
tense,  and  in  the  most  impartial  manner.  With  him  it  signified 
indifferently  "  down  stairs "  or  what  domestic  servants  term  "  the 
insides  "  of  any  animal,  and  then  it  turned  under  his  manipulation  into 
"  Down  belows,"  or  indeed  any  word  for  which  he  happened  to  be  at  a 
loss  to  find  an  adequate  expression.  However,  he  was  honest  beyond 
the  generality  of  Persians  of  the  lower  classes,  and  an  excellent 
Dragoman. 

With  his  assistance  we  converted  the  largest  apartment  of  the  three 
into  our  sitting  room.  This  was  some  twenty  feet  high,  with  a 
stretched  canvas  ceiling.  It  had  five  doors  opening  oo  to  a  vexandah, 
half  panels,  half  glass,  which  of  course  let  in  much  air,  and  although 
this,  no  doubt,  was  very  desirable  in  summer,  it  was  extremely  dis- 
agreeable in  January.  The  outer  walls,  as  well  as  those  of  the  partition, 
were  five  feet  thick,  and  all  round  the  room  there  were  recesses,  two 
feet  deep,  let  into  the  walls,  excepting  at  the  partition,  where  the 
same  sized  recesses  were  pierced  into  the  next  rooms,  no  doubt  to 
allow  a  person  sitting  in  one  room  to  overhear  all  conversation 
carried  on  in  the  others  !  Two  doors  opening  out  of  this  large 
room  led  down  two  steps  to  the  two  smaller  ones.  In  these 
we   erected   our   travelling  beds,   articles  of  very   rough    Persian 


1 60  The  Gentletnans  Magazine. 

constniction,  but  which  we  had  found  extremely  useful  in  our  caravan 
journeys.  As  we  found  soon  after  our  arri\'al  that  the  dining  accom- 
modation of  the  Residency  consisted  of  three  plates,  two  tumblers,  and 
a  salt  cellar,  we  sent  A^^-a  on  a  foraging  expedition,  which  turned 
out  tolerably  successful,  and  at  any  rate  furnished  forth  our  repast 

On  the  dav  of  our  arrival  the  weather  was  fine,  but  rather 
windy — much  to  our  discomfort,  as  we  had  some  faint  thoughts  of 
going  on  to  India  in  the  mail  steamer  (which  had  arrived  the  day 
before  us,  and  ^('as  on  its  way  to  Bussora),  before  returning,  supposing 
it  to  be  perfectly  fine,  and  a  calm  guaranteed  during  the  seven  da>*s' 
vo\-age  from  Busheer  to  Kunrachee. 

On  the  next  day  rain  fell  in  torrents,  and  I  regret  to  say  dripped 
plontifully  into  the  rooms  of  Her  Britannic  Majesty's  Resident  at 
Busheer — at  any  rate,  into  those  we  occupied.  The  wet  caused  such 
a  dampness  in  our  room  that  the  very  soap  dissolved  as  if  it  had  been 
left  in  water  by  mistake,  and  the  streams  that  came  from  the  ceiling 
caused  us  to  dodge  our  beds  about  so  as  to  avoid  the  drenching  they 
would  get  if  left  in  any  place  for  ti*-elve  hours.  As  getting  wet  out 
of  doors  ^\'as  perhaps  preferable  to  undergoing  the  same  process 
within,  we  determined  upon  exploring  the  bazaars.  Our  road  lay 
tlmnigh  many  lines,  and  consisted  of  about  three  yards  widUti  of 
nuui  in  a  liquid  state,  enclosed  by  walls  of  the  same  valuable  material, 
but  in  a  dr}-  condition,  as  the  dwelling  houses  here,  as  in  other 
IVrsian  towns,  stood  some  distance  back,  behind  these  walls,  which 
enclosed  a  g,uden  court. 

riie  app^earance  of  the  bazaars  at  Busheer  is  squalid  in  the 
cMretue.  rhe  \*aulted  portions  consist  here  and  there  of  mud  bricks, 
\\  iili  oj^onings  at  the  top  to  let  in  the  light — and  the  rain — most  of 
those  arvhes  being  constructed  of  rotten  palm  branches,  with  a  canvas 
coverin*:  laid  u|K>n  them. 

rb.e  lu.\ur  is  n;irrower  than  usual  in  Persia,  and  is  lined  with  the 
orxlinaiy  little  oj^cn  shops  on  either  side.  Their  proprietors  sit  cross. 
Ici^jitxl  on  a  sort  of  splashboard  (here  not  inappropriate),  and 
jutiently  await  the  decrees  of  Providence.  Sometimes,  as  we  our- 
selves have  ^.xvasionally  experienced,  they  prefer  sa)-ing  "  That  is  not 
fi»r  s.ile  "  to  taking  the  trouble  of  getting  up  and  handing  the  object 
l\»  the  would-be  pun  haser. 

1 1  ere  those  shops  that,  were  they  situated  in  the  Burlington  Aicade 
instead  of  on  the  shore  of  the  Persian  Gulf,  would  be  called  "  haber- 
ilashoRi*  shoi>s '  were  generally  the  neatest  and  best  ananged;  and 
the  gvHxls  displax-ed  therein  were  ahnost  alwa}-s  of  English  manu- 
tUciunf.   The  amount  of  conunon  i^-ooden  matches  (wananted  to  light 


A  Month  m  the  Persian  Gulf.  1 6 1 

anywhere,  not  only  "  on  the  box")  imported  from  Vienna  and  sold  in 
these  bazaars  is  enormous.  The  tradesmen  at  Busheer  never  ask 
more  than  six  times  the  amount  they  mean  eventually  to  take.  Some 
Jews  have  established  commercial  relations  with  Busheer,  as  indeed 
they  have  with  most  places  of  the  habitable  world.  One  of  these, 
Nazim  by  name,  had  a  shop  outside  the  bazaar  much  frequented  by 
the  unfortunate  European  exiles  in  the  place.  After  the  manner  of 
Jews  in  other  parts  of  the  world,  he  had  a  collection  of  the  most 
miscellaneous  objects  littered  about  the  one  room  that  constituted 
tlie  shop.  Shirts,  pocket-books,  preserved  meats.  Cavendish  tobacco, 
cloth,  clay  i)ipes,  potted  anchovies,  and  old  coins  were  a  few  among 
the  various  articles  in  which  he  dealt.  In  fact  Nazim  sold  or  bought 
anything  that  could  be  bought  or  sold.  One  of  his  habitues  took 
us  over  to  the  Jew's  private  dwelling,  a  tumble  down  old  house, 
entered  by  a  narrow  door,  in  front  of  which  a  bit  of  mud  wall  screened 
ihc  inner  court  from  view ;  for  the  harem  was  on  one  side  of  this, 
and  we  caught  sight  of  one  dirty  petticoat.  Here  we  sat  do\vn  in  an 
upi>er  chamber,  and  by  way  of  commencing  business  our  host  forced 
us  to  imbibe  some  strong  ginger  wine.  After  this  he  produced  a 
stock  of  old  coins,  and  we  purchased  a  few  of  them,  although  this 
is  a  hazardous  venture  in  Persia  unless  the  buyer  understands  tlie 
science  of  numismatics  thoroughly,  which  neither  of  us  did.  Vast 
numbers  of  coins  arc  continually  offered  for  sale  to  the  traveller,  and 
some  fifty  per  cent,  of  these  are  well  executed  counterfeits.  The 
learned,  however,  in  such  matters  sometimes  pick  up  very  curious 
coins  as  yet  unknown  in  Europe.  Wc  also  purchased  a  small  carpet, 
for  among  his  other  stock-in-trade  the  Jew — an  honest  fellow,  by  the 
way — sold  carpets.  In  Persia  those  without  any  pile  and  of  the 
closest  texture  are  the  most  sought  after.  These  come  from  Keoman, 
to  the  east  of  Shiraz. 

Tlic  town  itself  docs  not  afford  much  amusement,  and  the 
bazaar  was  always  exhausted  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  stroll,  so  that 
ne  were  reduced  to  inventing  expedients  for  improving  the  mind. 
As  wc  wore  safely  booked  here  for  a  month,  reading,  under  these 
circumstances,  of  course  claimed  the  first  place.  There  were  only  two 
^periodicals  to  be  had  in  Busheer,  and  these  were  a  year  old.  How- 
ever, one  civilised  being  had  a  copy  of  •*  Les  Miserables,"  and  this 
somewhat  bulky  work  sufficed  for  a  limited  time.  Then  an  excel- 
lent copy  of  line's  "  Arabian  Nights  "  proved  a  great  resource,  more 
especially  as  wc  intended  visiting  **  the  city  of  the  Caliphs  ",  on  our 
way  homewards.  We  also  bethought  ourselves  of  taking  Persian  les- 
sons, which  would  be  the  more  useful  as  we  were  about  leaving  Persia.. 
Vol.  XI.,  X.S.  1873.  m 


1 62  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

Thereupon  an  old  man,  a  former  Moonshee,  or  interpreter^  to  the 
Residency,  made  his  appearance.  He  was  in  receipt  of  a  pensioi^ 
from  the  Indian  Government,  and  talked  English  at  the  rate  of  a 
word  a  minute.  In  the  very  elementary  book  out  of  which  we 
endeavoured  laboriously  to  extract  a  scant  knowledge  of  the  language 
some  quaint  stories  were  contained;  the  following  is  one  of 
them: — 

''  A  father  and  his  son  were  once  walking  in  the  fields  together, 
when  suddenly  the  son  disappeared  down  a  deep  well,  which  he  had 
walked  into  unawares.  The  distracted  parent  rushed  up  to  the  well's 
mouth,  and  perceiving  that  his  son  was  lying  at  the  bottom,  very 
much  hurt  but  still  alive,  he  shouted  down  to  him, '  Oh,  my  dear  boy, 
mind  you  do  not  run  away ;  I  am  going  to  get  a  rope  for  >'OU  to  get 
out  by.'  " 

There  was  also  another  little  story,  which  I  think  has  found  its 
way  into  Sir  J.  Malcolm's  "  Persia."  It  is  a  charming  little  anecdote 
of  the  celebrated  poet  Hafiz. 

*'  One  day  Hafiz  was  in  the  baths  at  Pabreez  when  he  met  a 
stranger,  who  entered  into  conversation  with  him,  and  presently  began 
to  '  chaff  him  on  his  baldness.'  (Now  though  Mohammedans  shave 
their  heads,  they  ordinarily  leave  a  small  tufl  of  hair,  or  forelock,  in 
front,  and  of  course  the  hair  quickly  grows  again,  except  where  there 
is  natural  baldness,  as  in  this  case.)  The  stranger  (who,  I  must 
confess,  seems  to  have  been  rather  rude)  took  hold  of  one  of  the 
round  tin  shaving  'vessels  used  in  the  bath,  and  holding  it  out  to 
Hafiz,  exclaimed,  '  How  comes  it  that  all  you  Shiranzees  have  the 
top  of  your  heads  like  this  ?'  *  And  how  happens  it,'  retorted  Hafiz, 
turning  the  bowl  with  its  cavity  upwards,  'that  all  you  Tabreezes 
have  the  inside  of  your  heads  like  that  ?' " 

The  hour  of  our  tuition  by  means  of  this  invaluable  book  used  to 
vary  every  day.  Persians  do  not  generally  carry  watches,  and  our  old 
man  used  to  come  at  any  time  between  ten  and  twelve  in  the  fore- 
noon. The  lesson  generally  lasted  for  about  two  hours,  and  then  we 
sometimes  strolled  in  the  bazaars,  where  there  was  sure  to  be  at  least 
one  fight  in  progress.  The  system  of  fighting  which  obtained  here 
was  entirely  contrary  to  the  rules  of  the  P.  R.,  and  consisted  in  one 
of  the  antagonists  (the  stronger  one)  seizing  the  other  by  the  waist, 
and  pushing  him  vigorously  into  the  gutter  or  a  shop  front,  if  such 
was  handy,  at  the  same  time  butting  with  his  head.  Hitting  out  was 
not  thei^  strong  point,  but  I  must  allow  them  whatever  credit  may 
attach  to  the  use  of  unlimited  bad  language.  The  noise  which  a 
squabble  of  any  sort  occasions  in  the  East  is  deafening,  as  we 


A  Month  in  the  Persian  Gulf.  163 

frequently  found  to  our  cost  during  our  travels,  when  many  nights 
we  were  kept  awake  by  the  muleteers  cursing  at  each  other. 

During  our  stay  we  tried  to  purchase  a  bushy-tailed  cat,  but  only 
one  (a  bad  specimen)  was  to  be  found  in  the  town;  and  this, 
\^'ith  the  exception  of  one  which  we  saw  up  a  tree  in  Ispahaun,  was 
the  only  Persian  cat  proper  we  saw  in  Persia. 

Another  ramble  was  towards  the  beach,  but  this  is  most  uninterest- 
ing here,  and  no  shells  are  to  be  picked  up  on  it,  excepting  perhaps 
after  a  storm. 

Inland  there  are  no  grand  natural  features  under  a  distance 
of  forty  miles  or  so,  and  walking  on  a  dead  treeless  land  is  not 
exhilarating,  so  we  seldom  went  that  way.  However,  we  used  to 
walk  into  the  little  office  occasionally,  and  study  the  intricacy  of  the 
telegraph  system,  which  we  never  thoroughly  got  over.  The  over- 
land Persian  telegraph  office  and  that  of  the  sea  line  are,  or  were, 
situated  about  a  mile  apart,  so  that  messages  were  always  delayed 
here  if  they  had  to  go  by  land,  or  ince  versa. 

Nothing  whatever  is  manufectured  in  Busheer,  but  everything, 
even  including  water,  is  brought  from  a  distance.  Trie,  there  are  a 
few  wells  in  Busheer,  but  the  water  drawn  from  them  is  brackish  and 
not  fit  for  drinking.  We  had  a  Persian  gun  made  for  us  in  the 
bazaars,  but  as  its  component  parts  consisted  of  an  old  "  Brown 
Bess,"  Tower  marked,  ffint  lock  and  all,  transmogrified,  we  did  not 
count  that  as  a  manufacture,  although  some  coarse  inlaid  work  was  put 
into  the  stock  by  the  Busheer  artist.  However,  the  cotton  trade  of 
Persia  with  Bombay  and  Kurrachee  passes  through  the  town,  and 
carpets  are  also  freely  exported  ;  but  the  anchorage,  excepting  some 
five  miles  out  at  sea,  is  exceedingly  precarious,  owing  to  the  north- 
west winds  which  blow  into  the  roadstead,  and  the  shallow  nature  of 
the  sandy  beach. 

The  boats  which  take  out  cargo  to  the  larger  ships  in  the  offing 
can  hardly  come  up  to  the  rough  quay,  and  civilised  passengers 
have  to  be  carried  into  these  on  the  shoulders  of  men.  There  are 
generally  six  rowers  to  these  boats,  and  they  sit  on  the  sides  of  the 
boat,  pulling  the  oars  towards  themselves  sideways.  The  blades  of 
their  oars  are  some  nine  inches  broad  and  very  rough.  When  we 
tried  to  get  on  board  our  steamer  eventually,  it  took  us  three  hours 
to  do  so,  and  we  grounded  when  about  three-quarters  of  a  mile  from 
the  shore,  although  we  drew  about  one  foot  of  water  only. 

About  twenty-five  miles  out  to  sea  there  are  two  small  islands,  the 
larger  of  which,  called  Karrick,  was  the  station  of  the  English  fleet 
during  our  desultor)'  war  with  Persia  ;  some  ancient  reservoirs  built 

M  2 


164  The  Genllenians  Magaziiu. 

by  the  Portuguese,  and  other  ruins,  are  still  visible  on  this  island, 
it  is  said.  It  is  small,  elevated,  and  of  a  round  shape,  as  we  sighted 
it  on  bur  voyage  to  Bussora.  The  best  pearls  are  found  near  the 
island  of  Bahren,  in  the  Sea  of  Oman,  the  dark  waters  of  which  roll 
near  the  opposite  Arabian  coast. 

The  fishermen  who  dive  for  the  pearls  are  all  very  poor ;  they  are 
strictly  searched  after  every  dive,  but  have  been  known  to  swallow  a 
pearl  in  order  to  conceal  it.  The  merchants,  or  Banian  Indians, 
amass  immense  fortunes  by  employing  these  divers.  There  were 
several  Banians  at  Busheer  during  our  stay  there,  on  account  of 
some  disturbances  which  were  in  progress  on  the  island :  they  were 
all  British  subjects,  and,  indeed,  every  resident  in  Busheer  not  a 
Persian  is  under  English  protection.  The  inhabitants  of  Busheer 
are  hardly  true  Persians :  the  conical  thick  cloth  cap  is  rarely 
seen,  but  is  supplanted  by  the  Arab  kefyeh — generally  a  piece  of 
gaudily  coloured  cloth,  sometimes  silk,  wound  round  the  skull  cap. 
The  sea-wall  round  the  town  is  broken  down,  partially  by  the 
English  boats'  crews  in  the  war,  and  I  believe  is  not  allowed'  to  be 
built  up  again.  A  flock  of  flamingoes  were  lazily  floating  on  the 
waves,  for  people  do  not  take  the  trouble  to  shoot  at  them,  and  if 
they  did  they  would  most  probably  miss  the  birds.  One  day,  to  vary 
our  entertainments,  some  of  the  English  residents  and  ourselves 
had  an  exciting  contest  in  pistol  shooting  on  the  beach ;  wc 
erected  a  black  bottle  at  twenty-five  paces  as  a  mark,  and  called 
the  contest  Colt  i\  Deane  and  Adams ;  there  were  several  of  us, 
.  but  I  regret  to  state  that  out  of  some  twenty  shots  apiece,  all 
were  misses,  and  the  rival  merits  of  our  pistols  were  not  put  to  any 
very  decisive  test  At  the  close  we  all  gathered  round  the  rascally 
bottle  which  had  so  long  defied  us,  and  demolished  it  by  throwing 
stones  from  about  two  yards  distance.  About  half  the  population  6f 
Busheer  collected  around  us  to  witness  the  fun.  In  Eastern  towns 
the  smallest  event  is  known  throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of 
the  place  almost  before  it  has  occurred.  In  any  large  bazaar  the 
stranger  on  the  look  out  for  any  particular  object  seems  to  be  sur- 
rounded by  a  sort  of  human  telegraph.  We  have  occasionally  asked 
the  price  of  something  at  one  end  of  a  great  bazaar,  and  on  arriving 
at  ii  remote  part  of  the  same,  we  have  had  the  same  sort  of  article 
ofiered  to  us,  at  a  slightly  reduced  rate.  No  foreigners  are  allo\i'ed 
to  possess  landed  property  in  Persia,  except  by  special  permission, 
whii  li  I  believe  is  seldom  granted.  Of  course  all  residencies  or 
consulates  stand  on  British  ground,  but  tliey  are  subject  to  inter 
natioPii],  not  national,  law. 


A  Mo7ith  171  the  Persian  Gulf.  165 

The  only  possible  excursion  to  be  made  on  horseback  from 
Busheer  is  to  the  neighbouring  fort,  memorable  from  a  gallant 
defence  against  us  in  the  war.  The  commander  of  the  fort  at  that 
time  seems  to  have  been  a  braver  man  than  some  Persians,  at  any 
rate  if  the  speech  attributed  to  him  be  authentic.  When  ordered 
to  take  command  of  the  garrison  and  defend  it  against  our  expected 
attack,  he  is  reported  to  have  said  **  I  will  go ;  I  hear  I  cannot  stand 
against  the  English,  but  as  I  am  commanded  to  go,  I  will  sell  my  life 
as  dearly  as  possible."  No  matter  what  he  said,  he  certainly  was 
slain  after  inflicting  some  loss  on  our  forces.  The  fort  was  only  at- 
tacked and  stormed  in  order  to  make  an  example  of  the  defenders 
and  induce  the  capitulation  of  Busheer.  The  plan  succeeded  per- 
fectly, for  after  the  storming  the  garrison  of  the  larger  town  ran  away, 
a  few  of  them  only  being  killed  by  shells  thrown  from  the  fleet. 

We  rode  out  to  the  fort  along  the  coast  at  about  a  mile  from  the 
sea,  through  a  partially  cultivated  country.  The  background  of 
mountains  inland  was  exceedingly  picturesque,  but  at  the  same  time 
impressed  us  with  the  feeling  of  delight  that  we  had  no  longer  to  cross 
those  mountains ;  our  path  was  narrow  and  very  stony,  and  there 
were  no  trees  excepting  an  occasional  palm.  When  we  had  ridden 
about  eighteen  miles  we  arrived  at  the  Resident's  summer  villa,  a 
small  mud-brick  house,  with  verandahs  all  roimd.  After  partaking 
of  tiffin  here,  we  walked  to  a  small  mound  in  the  immediate  neigh- 
bourhood, where  fragments  of  bricks  with  cuneiform  inscriptions  are 
continually  found,  and  we  were  fortimate  enough  to  procure  some 
specimens.  The  legend  b  that  permission  to  excavate  the  mound 
has  been  repeatedly  sought  and  declined,  as  the  Persian  Government 
are  fearful  lest  inside  might  be  found  documents  handing  Busheer 
over  to  the  English.  Then  we  walked  down  to  the  fort  on  the  shore, 
passing  various  cut  stones  on  our  way,  which  seemed  to  have  once 
belonged  to  some  larger  settlement.  The  fort  looked  very  in- 
significant, only  a  square  mound  of  earth,  until  we  got  close  up  to  it ; 
but  then  we  perceived  that  a  trench  some  twenty  yards  wide  sur- 
rounded it,  and  the  earthworks  rose  some  fifty  feet  above  the  level 
of  the  ground  on  the  other  side  of  it,  apparently  raised  on  a  natural 
platform  of  rock.  There  were  no  buildings  to  afford  shelter  to 
troops  inside,  but  scattered  stones  testified  to  former  quarters.  There 
was  an  old  reservoir  in  the  centre  of  the  fort,  which  appeared  some 
300  yards  square  in  extent,  and  an  underground  passage  led  from 
this  reservoir  to  the  shore,  thus  allowing  the  garrison  a  means  of 
escape  if  surprised  from  the  land  side. 

We  returned  from  our  excursion  before  sunset     We  were  told 


1 66  The  Gentleniatis  Magazine. 

that  even  in  summer  the  days  are  never  longer  than  fourteen  hours 
here.  Fever  is  very  prevalent,  even  in  February,  for  the  superin- 
tendent of  the  cable  line,  the  agent  for  the  mail  steamezs,  and  the 
Vice-Resident,  the  latter  a  native  of  India,  were  attacked  by  inter- 
mittent fever  during  our  month's  stay. 

The  routine  of  our  days  gradually  came  to  something  like  the 
following : — 

Dressing,  say  half  an  hour,  as  at  Busheer  much  attention  to  toilette 
was  out  of  place ;  then  half  an  hour  smoking ;  one  hour  eating — 
oh,  no,  during  the  day ;  not  one  hour  for  break&st !  Two  hours 
Persian  Moonshee,  one  hour  writing,  two  walking,  and  about  nine 
reading.  The  relative  portions  of  time  occupied  in  walking  and 
reading  actually  fluctuated  according  to  circumstances. 

The  smoking  above  mentioned  necessitated  a  total  cessadon 
from  all  other  labour,  and  engrossed  all  our  attention  for  the 
time  being,  as  the  process  is  most  absorbing  and  very  agreeable. 
The  Persian  waterpipe  differs  considerably  from  the  Indian  hookah, 
although  the  process  is  the  same.  The  Persian  pipe  is  composed 
of  a  brass  or  silver  or  even  gold  enamelled  head,  which  contains 
the  tobacco.  This  is  principally  grown  at  Shiraz,  and  lacks  the 
pungency  of  the  American  or  Turkish  plant,  a;nd  it  is  generally 
smoked  in  Persian  harems ;  indeed,  we  have  heard  it  whispered  in 
scandal-loving  circles  that  it  used  to  be  the  fashion  in  India  for 
ladies  to  smoke  the  hookah.  The  tobacco  is  well  wetted,  and  then 
the  moisture  is  partially  squeezed  out  of  it  in  a  piece  of  linen.  Then 
about  a  handful  is  placed  in  the  bowl  of  the  pipe,  and  some  lumps  of 
live  charcoal  are  placed  upon  it  The  head  fits  upon  a  perforated 
stem  of  wood,  which  in  its  turn  fits  into  a  (generally)  globular-shaped 
vase  of  silver  or  brass,  and  penetrates  into  water,  with  which  the 
globe  is  three  parts  filled ;  on  one  side  of  the  vase  there  is  another 
wooden  stem  ending  in  a  mouthpiece.  Then  by  inhaling  the  smoke 
from  the  head  of  the  pipe  through  the  water  into  the  lungs  the  opera- 
tion is  perfected.  The  inhalation  keeps  the  charcoal  alive,  which 
burns  the  tobacco  and  allows  smoke  to  generate.  The  smoke 
is  puffed  out  of  the  smoker's  nostrils,  and  at  first  induces  a  species  of 
gentle  intoxication  not  provided  against  by  the  "  Permissive  Prohibi- 
tory Bill "  of  Mr.  Lawson ;  but  after  the  first  few  times  of  smoking 
this  wears  off,  unless  the  dose  be  very  long  continued. 

There  are  no  mosques  of  any  distinction  in  Busheer,  and  even  if 
there  were  a  giaour  would  not  be  permitted  to  enter  them,  and  thus 
I  have  come  to  the  end  of  the  enumeration  of  things  to  be  seen 
or  done  in  Busheer ;  the  list  is  somewhat  meagre,  but,  alas  1  such  is 


A  Month  in  the  Persian  Gulf.  167 

also  the  fact,  and  for  any  one  wishing  to  select  a  cheerful  abiding 
place  I  should  reconunend  an  eschewal  of  Busheer,  at  any  rate  for 
a  permanency.  A  very  nice  trip  of  two  months  might,  however,  be 
made  from  Bombay  to  Busheer,  then  up  the  country  to  Shiraz  and 
Persepolis,  and  back. 

One  pursuit,  and  one  only,  I  have  as  yet  omitted,  which  can  be, 
or  used  to  be,  followed  here.  This  was  the  game  of  quoits,  and 
Busheer  witnessed  our  first  introduction  to  the  game  in  the  back 
court  of  the  Residency.  The  hour  for  our  departure  in  the  mail 
steamer  found  us  playing  at  quoits,  and  this  game  finishes  my 
**  simple  story  "  of  "  A  Montii  in  the  Persian  Gulf." 


ZULEIKA. 

ZULEIKA  is  fled  away, 

Though  your  bolts  and  your  bars  were  strong ; 
A  minstrel  came  to  the  gate  to-day 

And  stole  her  away  with  a  song  : 
His  song  was  subtle  and  sweet, 
It  made  her  young  heart  beat, 

It  gave  a  thrill  to  her  faint  heart's  will 
And  >\'ings  to  her  weary  feet. 

Zuleika  was  not  for  ye. 

Though  your  laws  and  your  threats  were  hard  ; 
The  minstrel  came  from  beyond  the  sea 

And  took  her  in  spite  of  your  guard  : 
His  ladder  of  song  was  slight, 
But  it  reached  to  her  window  height ; 

Each  verse  so  frail  was  the  silken  rail 
From  which  her  steps  took  flight. 

The  minstrel  was  fair  and  young ; 

His  soul  was  of  love  and  fire ; 
His  song  was  such  as  you  ne'er  have  sung 

And  only  love  could  inspire : 
He  sang  of  the  singing  trees, 
And  the  passionate  sighing  seas, 

And  the  lovely  land  of  his  minstrel  band ; 
And  with  many  a  song  like  these 

He  drew  her  forth  to  the  distant  wood 

Where  bird  and  flower  were  gay 
And  in  silent  joy  each  green  tree  stood ; 

And  with  singing  along  the  way, 
He  drew  her  to  where  each  bird 
Repeated  his  magic  word 

And  there  seemed  a  spell  she  could  not  tell 
In  every  sound  she  heard. 


Zitlnka.  169 

And  singing  and  singing  still, 

He  drew  her  away  so  far, 
Past  so  many  a  wood  and  valley  and  hill, 

That  now  would  you  know  where  they  are  ? 
In  a  bark  on  a  silver  stream. 
As  fair  as  you  see  in  a  dream  ; 

Lo,  the  bark  glides  along  to  the  minstrel's  song 
While  the  smooth  waves  ripple  and  gleam. 

And  soon  they  T^vill  reach  the  shore 

Of  that  land  whereof  he  sings, 
And  love  and  song  will  be  evermore 

The  precious,  the  only  things ; 
They  will  live  and  have  long  delight 
They  two  in  each  other's  sight, 

In  the  \iolet  vale  of  the  nightingale 
And  the  flower  that  blooms  by  night 

Arthur  O'Shauchnessv. 


Olive,  Princess  of  Cumberland 
AND  Duchess  of  Lancaster. 

lOST  readers  are  aware  of  the  ha  that,  like  the 
Duchy  of  Cornwall,  the  Duchy  of  Lancaster  is  an 
appanage  of  the  British  Crown,  and  a  source  of  income 
to  royalty.  Few,  however,  possibly  are  aware  that 
within  the  memory  of  our  fathers  the  title  of  Duchess  of  Lan- 
caster was  assumed  and  borne  by  a  lady  in  virtue  of  an  alleged 
bestowal  of  that  honour  on  her  by  George  III.,  and  that  she  was 
recognised  as  such  by  foiu:  royal  dukes,  and  received  with  full 
honours  as  a  member  of  the  royal  family  at  the  Lord  Mayor's 
dinner  at  the  Guildhall  little  more  than  fifty  years  ago,  though  she 
now  lies  in  a  humble  grave ! 

And  who  was  this  Duchess  of  Lancaster  ?  And  how  came  she  to 
assume  that  title  ? 

I  will  tell  the  story  as  her  daughter  has  told  it  in  certain  documents 
of  a  legal  nature,  which  she  not  very  long  since  brought  forward  in 
evidence  of  her  claim  before  the  House  of  Lords,  and  a  copy  of 
which  has  come  into  my  possession. 

To  make  the  narrative  plain,  I  must  go  back  just  a  hundred  years. 
At  that  time  there  was  living  in  the  town  of  Warwick  a  clergyman  of 
some  literary  and  social  distinction,  the  Rev.  Dr.  James  Wilmot — a 
man  who  was,  in  the  opinion  of  many  persons,  the  real  author  of 
•*Junius's  Letters,"  and  who  had  married  a  Princess  Poniatowski, 
sister  of  the  last  reigning  Sovereign  of  Poland.  The  issue  of  this 
union — if  the  statements  of  the  family  are  to  be  believed — ^was  an 
only  child,  a  daughter,  Olive,  who  was  married  by  her  father,  on  the 
4th  of  March,  1767,  at  Lord  Archer's  house  in  Grosvenor  Square,  to 
His  Royal  Highness  Henry  Frederick,  Duke  of  Cumberland,  the 
youngest  brother  of  George  IIL 

It  is  well  known  that  King  George  had  a  great  aversion  to  any  of 
the  royal  family  contracting  a  marriage  vrith  an  English  subject; 
accordingly,  it  appears  that  this  marriage  was  kept  quite  private, 
and,  indeed,  was  not  known  for  several  years  afterwards  to  the 
public,  though  two  distinguished  noblemen,  the  Earl  of  Warwick 
and  the  great  Lord  Chatham  (the  elder  Pitt)  were  privy  to  its  cele- 
brationi  and  certified  to  its  regularity  by  their  formal  signatures. 


Olive^  Prificess  of  Cumberland.  171 

On  the  3rd  of  April,  1772,  this  marriage  resulted  in  the  birth  of  an 
only  child,  a  daughter,  who  was  privately  baptised  the  same  day  as 
Olive  Wilmot,  and  was  brought  up  to  believe  herself  the  daughter  of 
Mr.  Robert  Wilmot,  and  niece  of  the  reverend  gentleman  who,  if  the 
story  be  true,  was  her  grandfather.  The  family  lived  at  Warwick,  and 
Olive  Wilmot  grew  up  to  childhood  and  to  womanhood  apparently 
unconscious  of  her  real  royal  parentage,  although  on  the  day  fol- 
lowing her  birth  she  was  ''  rebaptised,  by  the  King's  command,  as 
Olive,  daughter  of  the  Duke  of  Cumberland"  This  second  baptism, 
however,  was  not  entered  in  the  parish  register,  but  was  placed  On 
record  by  a  certificate  signed  by  Dr.  Wilmot,  his  brother  Robert,  and 
John  Dunning  (afterwards  Lord  Ashburton).  The  certificate  of  this 
union  was  kept  private  and  sacred,  being  entrusted  to  the  care  of 
Lord  Warwick,  as  was  also  the  following  document,  which  I  copy 
from  the  legal  statements  put  forward  in  evidence  only  a  few  years 
since  before  the  House  of  Lords  : — 

Geo&gx,  R. 
We  are  hereby  pleased  to  create  Olive  of  Cumberland  Duchess  of  Lancaster, 
and  to  grant  our  royal  authority  for  Olive,  our  said  niece,  to  bear  and  use  the  title 
and  arms  of  Lancaster,  should  she  be  in  existence  at  the  period  of  our  royal 
■demise. 

Given  at  our  palace  of  St  James's,  May  21,  1773. 

(Witnesses)  Chatham. 

J.  Dunning. 

This  paper  may  have  been  written  in  full  by  the  King;  but  it 
clearly  is  very  informal,  as  it  departs  from  the  usual  phaseology  of 
"  name,  style,  and  title" — ^and  does  not  mention  in  the  second  clause 
the  grade  in  the  peerage  to  which  His  Majesty  wished  to  elevate 
**  our  niece,"  whether  to  that  of  a  baroness,  a  countess,  or  a  duchess. 
It  was  agreed,  however,  between  the  King,  his  brother.  Dr.  Wilmot, 
and  witnesses,  that  the  patent  of  creation  should  not  be  acted  upon 
during  the  life  of  George  III. ;  the  reason  alleged  being  that  this  step 
was  necessary  in  order  to  screen  the  King's  brother  from  a  trial  for 
bigamy,  as  in  1771  he  had  married  publicly  Lady  Anne  Luttrell, 
daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Carhampton,  and  widow  of  Mr.  Christopher 
Horton,  of  Catton,  coimty  Derby.  It  is  clear,  however,  that  if  this 
was  the  ground  for  suppressing  the  patent  of  creation,  it  would  have 
been  far  more  sensible  (since  the  King  was  privy  to  his  brother's 
marriage)  to  have  agreed  that  the  patent  should  not  be  acted  on 
during  the  life  of  the  Duke  of  Cumberland  himself,  seeing  that  his 
death — which  happened  in  1790 — of  course  put  an  end  to  all 
possibility  of  his  being  indicted  for  bigamy. 

In  1 791  this  Miss  Olive  Wilmot,  as  she  was  reputed  to  be — 


172  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

apparently  in  profound  ignorance  of  her  rank — ^bestowed  her  hand 
on  Mr.  John  Thomas  Serres,  of  whom  all  that  we  know  is  that  he 
was  a  son  of  Dominic  Serres,  and  that  he  followed  the  profession  of 
a  portrait  painter. 

Here  I  prefer  to  tell  the  story  of  "  Olive,  Duchess  of  Lancaster," 
in  her  own  words.     She  says,  in  her  printed  "  case" : — 

"The  said  Olive  Serres,  having  been  informed  of  her  proper 
position  in  life  shortly  after  the  demise  of  His  Majest}'  King 
George  III.,  and  being  (as  she  had  foundation  to  believe)  the 
legitimate  daughter  of  Henry  Frederick,  Duke  of  Cumberland, 
fourth  and  youngest  brother  of  his  said  Majesty,  assumed  the 
honour,  title,  and  dignit}'  of  a  princess  of  the  blood  royal ;  styled 
herself  "Her  Royal  Highness  Olive,  Princess  of  Cumberland," 
and  adopted  the  royal  arms,  livery,  and  seals  in  like  manner  as 
made  use  of  by  other  junior  members  of  the  royal  family.'* 

In  September,  1820,  not  long  after  succeeding  to  the  throne, 
George  IV.  issued  his  command,  through  Lord  Sidmouth,  that  the 
certificate  of  marriage  between  his  uncle,  the  Duke  of  Cumberland, 
and  the  elder  Olive  Wilmot  should  be  "proved  and  authenticated." 
This  was  done :  it  was  duly  authenticated  before  Lord  Chief 
Justice  Abbott  (afterwards  Lord  Tenterden) ;  and  the  lady  in  ques- 
tion was  told — apparently,  however,  only  verbally — by  her  solicitor, 
a  Mr.  Bell,  that  His  Majesty  "had  been  graciously  pleased  to 
acknowledge  Her  Royal  Highness  as  Princess  of  Cumberland,  only 
legitimate  daughter  of  his  late  uncle,  Henry  Frederick,  Duke  of 
Cumberland,"  and  to  give  orders  that  she  should  have  found  for  her 
a  suitable  residence  until  a  permanent  one  could  be  fixed  upon, 
and  that  pecuniary  means,  sufficient  to  enable  her  to  keep  up  her 
dignity,  should  be  at  once  placed  at  her  conunand.  She  was  then 
living  in  Alfred  Place,  Bedford  Square;  and  even  by  her  own 
statement  the  information  does  not  appear  to  have  been  sent 
to  her  officially. 

The  Dukes  of  Sussex,  Clarence,  and  Kent,  it  appears,  were  not 
slow  in  acknowledging  their  new  cousin,  being  satisfied  that  the 
documents  with  their  father's  signature,  "  George*R,"  were  genuine ; 
and,  although  the  Duke  of  Cambridge  did  not  acknowledge  her 
till  a  far  more  recent  date  (1844),  and  the  Duke  of  York  refused  to 
follow  suit  altogether,  she  maintains  that  the  Duke  of  Kent  had 
long  previously  gone  so  far  as  not  only  to  make  a  will  bequeathing 
to  her  ;^  1 0,000,  and  to  assign  to  her  and  her  child  a  yearly  income 
of  ^400  under  his  hand  and  seal,  promising  solemnly  to  see  his 
"cousin  reinstated  in  her  royal  birthright  at  his  father's  demise,'* 


Olive,  Princess  of  Cumberland.  1 73 

but  absolutely  to  nominate^  her  as  the  future  guardian  of  his  infant 
daughter,  her  present  Majesty.     The  documents  are  as  follows  : — 

1.  I  solemnly  testify  my  satisfaction  as  to  the  proofs  of  Princess  Olive  of 
Cumberland's  birth,  and  declare  that  my  royal  parent's  sign  manual  to  the  certifi- 
cates of  my  dearest  cousin's  birth  are,  to  the  best  of  my  own  comprehension  and 
belief,  the  genuine  handwriting  of  the  King,  my  father.  Thus  I  constitute  Olive, 
Princess  of  Cumberland,  the  guardian  and  the  director  of  my  daughter  Alexan- 
drinaS*  education,  from  the  age  of  four  years  and  upwards,  in  case  of  my  death, 
and  from  the  Duchess  of  Kent  being  so  unacquainted  with  the  mode  of  English 
cduciition  ;  and,  in  case  my  wife  departs  this  life  in  my  daughter's  minority,  I  con- 
stitute my  cousin  Olive  the  sole  guardian  of  my  daughter  till  she  is  of  age. 

London,  Nov.  1st,  1819.  Edward. 

2.  Piincc  Edward,  Duke  of  Kent,  binds  himself  hereby  to  pay  to  my  daughter, 
Lavinia  Janctta  Horton  Serres,  400/.  yearly  during  her  life,  in  regular  quarterly 
payments,  and  further  promises  that  she  shall  be  the  young  lady  companion  of  his 
daugliter  Alexandrina,  when  that  dear  infant  attains  her  fourth  year.  Witness  the 
royal  signature  of  His  Royal  Highness,  in  confirmation  of  this  sacred  obligation. 

Dec.  17th,  1819.  Olive. 

Edward. 

Tlic  Duke  of  Kent  lived  only  a  few  weeks  after  signing  this  strange 
I)aper,  dying  a  week  before  his  father ;  but  he  survived  long  enough 
— if  this  story  be  true — to  "  recommend  solemnly  Mrs.  Olive  Serres, 
otherwise  Olive,  Princess  of  Cumberland,"  to  his  brother,  afterwards 
George  IV.,  and  to  write  other  formal  appeals  to  his  wife  and  to  his 
infant  child,  in  order  to  aid  her  in  obtaining  "  her  royal  rights." 

At  the  request  of  the  Duke  of  Kent,  the  late  Mr.  Robert  Owen,  of 
Socialist  memory,  advanced  to  the  Princess  no  less  than  1,200/. ;  and 
it  appears  from  these  papers  that  the  sum  was  repaid  to  his  son,  Mr. 
Robert  Dale  Owen,  by  her  present  Majesty's  command. 

The  rest  of  the  story  of  "Olive,  Princess  of  Cumberland  and 
Duchess  of  Lancaster,"  may  be  soon  told.  Her  mother  had  died  in 
France,  early  in  life,  of  a  broken  heart,  brought  on  by  the  trouble 
and  anxiety  entailed  on  her  by  her  connection  with  royalty,  all  the 
more  perilous  because  it  was  clandestine.  Her  husband,  Mr.  Serres, 
<lied  in  1824,  and  ten  years  later  (in  November,  1834)  she  died  also 
of  a  broken  heart ;  she  was  buried  in  the  churchyard  of  St.  James's, 
Piccadilly,  and  had  the  satisfaction,  such  as  it  was,  of  being  entered 
in  the  register  as  a  Princess  of  the  blood  royal. 

Her  daughter,  Lavinia  Janetta  Horton  Serres,  married  a  Mr. 
Ryves— a  member  of  a  good  Dorsetshire  county  family — but  the 
marriage  did  not  turn  out  happily,  the  union  being  dissolved  by   a 

*  It  will  be  remembered  that  Her  Majesty's  full  name  is  *'  AUrxandrina 
Victoria,*'  .md  that  it  was  under  that  double  Ji.imc  ihat  >hc  \va?>  proclaimed 
<Juccn. 


1 74  The  GentleniarCs  Magazine. 

legal  separation.  Mrs.  Ryves  died,  if  not  in  actual  poverty,  at  all 
events  in  very  needy  circumstances,  in  lodgings  in  Queen's  Crescent, 
Haverstock  Hill,  in  December,  1871  ;  her  husband,  too,  ended  his 
days  in  obscurity  early  in  the  present  year.  Besides  one  son  and  one 
daughter,  who  are  deceased,  Mrs.  Ryves  had  issue  three  daughters 
and  two  sons,  who  siurvive  her,  by  no  means  in  affluent  circumstances. 
I  believe  it  is  true,  and  if  true  it  is  a  wonderful  example  of  the  irony 
of  history,  that  the  lady  who,  assuming  her  own  statement  to  be  trust- 
worthy, was  the  second  cousin  of  our  most  gracious  Queen,  and  her 
possible  and  intended  guardian,  was  dependent  in  her  last  illness  on 
the  aid  and  support  of  those  who  had  little  enough  of  their  own  to 
spare,  and  now  lies  in  I  care  not  to  say  how  humble  a  grave  in  the 
cemetery  at  Highgate. 

But  my  readers  will  want  to  know  what  steps  were  taken  by  the 
Princess  Olive,  and  by  her  daughter,  Mrs.  Ryves,  in  order  to  prosecute 
their  claim  to  the  title  bestowed  by  George  III.,  and  to  the  legacy 
left  them  by  the  will  of  Edward,  Duke  of  Kent 

The  lady  who  had  trod  upon  scarlet  laid  along  her  path  when  she 
dined  in  state  at  the  royal  table  at  the  Guildhall  in  November, 
1820,  in  the  following  year  was  arrested  upon  a  promissory  note, 
most  probably  on  purpose  to  raise  the  question  of  her  birth  in  a  legal 
shape  and  form.  She  pleaded  that,  as  a  member  of  the  royal 
family,  she  was  privileged  from  arrest ;  and,  although  baffled  on  this 
occasion  by  a  legal  technicality,  in  the  next  year  she  gained  her 
point  in  another  way.     I  use  her  daughter's  words  : — 

This  lady  ....  subsequentlygained,  or  rather  was  granted,  her  privilege 
.  .  .  .  as  being  a  member  of  the  royal  family,  for,  having  refused  to  pay 
taxes  for  armorial  bearings,  male  sen-ants,  &c.,  an  information  was  filed  against 
her  in  the  Court  of  Exchequer  by  the  then  Attorney-General,  and  after  hearing 
the  arguments  on  the  case  for  several  daj's  the  Chief  Baron  advised  the  Attorney* 
General  to  withdraw  the  information,  which  he  accordingly  complied  with. 

She  must,  however,  have  had  a  strong  taste  for  the  law  and  law- 
courts,  as  next  year — I  am  not  informed  how  the  circumstance  came 
about — she  was  "  living  within  the  Rules  of  the  Fleet." 
Her  daughter  tells  us,  \\nth  apparent  satisfaction,  that 

She  was  delivered  into  the  custody  of  the  Warder  by  the  name,  style,  and  title 
of  Princess  of  Cumberland.  From  the  Fleet  she  was  removed  into  the  custody 
of  the  Marshal  of  the  King's  Bench,  when,  after  having  been  for  seven  years  in 
illegal  bondage,  her  liberty  was  effected  by  a  writ  from  the  Grown  Office  to  the 
Marshal  of  the  King's  Bench  for  the  Princess  to  proceed  to  the  Judges  at  West- 
minster  to  receive  her  liberty,  which  she  accordingly  did,  and  obtained  it. 

On  the  death  of  George  IV.  the  daughter,  Mrs.  Ryves,  filed  a  bill 


Olive,  Princess  of  Cumberland.  1 75. 

in  Chancery  against  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  as  the  King's  executor, 
for  the  money  due  to  her  mother  from  the  estate  of  Geoi^e  III.,  but 
was  defeated  by  a  legal  technicality  which  prevented  her  right  from . 
being  really  tried  at  law.  But  with  respect  to  her  claim  to  royal 
blood,  she  was  wholly  powerless  to  take  any  further  steps  until  the 
passing  of  the  "  Legitimacy  Declaration  Act"  in  1858.  Under  the 
provisions  of  this  Act,  as  soon  as  she  could  collect  sufficient  funds, 
she  brought  forward  in  1861  a  suit  to  establish  her  own  birth 
as  "  the  lawful  daughter  of  John  Thomas  Serres,  and  Olive,  his  wife  "; 
but  returning  to  the  charge  in  1866,  she  failed  to  obtain  a  decree  for 
the  legitimization  of  her  grandmother's  marriage  with  the  Duke  of 
Cumberland.  In  fact,  to  use  her  own  words,  "  the  decree  of  the 
Court  for  Divorce  and  Matrimonial  Causes  of  June  13,  1866,  de- 
clares that  Olive  Serres  was  not  the  legitimate  daughter  of  the  Duke 
of  Cumberland,  and  that  there  was  no  valid  marriage  between  the 
said  Duke  and  Olive  Wilmot" 

Against  this  decision,  some  three  or  four  years  since,  Mrs.  Lavinia 
Janetta  Horton  Ryves  appealed,  as  a  last  resource,  to  the  House  of 
Lords ;  but  she  failed  in  her  appeal,  which  was  dismissed  in  a  very 
summary  manner.  This  failure,  no  doubt,  as  it  stripped  her  of  her 
last  worldly  possessions,  also  broke  her  heart,  and  she  died,  as  I  have 
said,  in  poverty  at  Christmas,  1871,  like  her  mother  before  her,  a 
victim  to  disappointed  hopes  and  shattered  ambitions.  Alas  !  how 
true  are  the  bitter  words  : — 

The  lovely  young  Lavinia  once  had  friends ! 

Thus  far  I  have  given  my  story  in  the  words  of  Mrs.  Ryves.  The 
death  of  her  mother,  however — the  Princess  Olive — gave  occasion 
to  a  long  obituary  notice  of  her  career  in  the  pages  of  this  magazine 
for  the  year  1835,  in  which  her  pretensions  to  royalty  are  treated  as 
** fabrications,"  and  she  herself  denounced  as  an  "extraordinary  and 
aspiring  impostor."  On  the  principle  of  "Audi  alteram  partem,"  I  take 
from  the  notice  of  Sylvanus  L^rban  all  the  facts  which  are  in  any 
way  supplemental  to  the  story  of  Mrs.  Ryves. 

It  is  here  said  that  her  father,  Mr.  Robert  Wilmot,  was  a  house- 
painter  at  Warwick,  and  that  while  living  with  her  uncle,  the 
Rev.  Dr.  Wilmot,  shortly  afler  quitting  school,  she  appeared  as  a 
witness  on  a  very  extraordinary  trial  for  a  burglary  in  her  uncle's 
house,  for  which  two  men  were  convicted  and  executed.  "  Her 
account,"  adds  Mr.  Urban,  "  was  ver}*  manellous,  and  her  conduct, 
as  she  represented  it,  highly  heroic."  Her  husband,  Mr.  John 
T.  Serres,  was  scene  painter  at  the  Royal  Coburg  Theatre,  and  also 
marine  painter  to  King  George  III.  and  to  the  Duke  of  Clarence; 


176  The  Genller?ia7ts  Magazine. 

her  husband's  father,  Count  Dominic  Serres,  a  gentleman  of  French 
extraction,  who  had  been  taken  a  prisoner  in  war,  settled  in  England, 
and  became  one  of  the  early  members  of  the  Royal  Academy.  After 
her  separation  from  her  husband  Mrs.  Serres  was  thrown  on  her  own 
resources,  and  in  1806  obtained  the  appointment  of  landscape  painter 
to  the  Prince  of  Wales.  It  is  believed  that  at  one  time  she  also 
made  an  appearance  on  the  stage,  and  performed  as  Polly  in  the 
"Beggar's  Opera." 

Always  possessed  of  a  busy  and  romantic  imagination,  Olive  at  an 
early  age  essayed  her  powers  at  original  composition,  and  in  1805 
published  a  novel  entitled  "  St.  Julian."  In  the  following  year  she 
gave  to  the  world  a  volume  of  poetical  miscellanies,  which,  ■  strangely 
enough,  she  named  "  Flights  of  Fancy."  These  she  followed  up  with 
an  opera,  "  The  Castle  of  Avala,"  and  a  volume  of  "  Letters  of 
Advice  to  her  Daughters." 

"In  1813,"  says  Mr,  Svlvanus  Urban,  "she  embarked  in  her  first 
attempt  to  gull  the  public  by  proclaiming  her  late  uncle.  Dr.  Wilmot, 
to  be  the  long  sought  author  of  *Junius's  Letters.*  These  preten- 
sions, advanced  by  her  in  a  *  Life  of  the  Rev.  James  Wilmot,  D.D.,' 
were  negatived  by  letters  from  Dr.  Butler,  of  Shrew^sbury,  (afterwards 
Bishop  of  Lichfield,)  and  Mr.  G.  Woodfall,  published  in  the 
GoUlcmaiC s  Magazitu  for  August  181 3,  and  giving  rise  to  a  con- 
troversy which  was  carried  on  for  several  months."  Her  next  freak 
was  an  "  Explanation  of  the  Creed  of  St.  Athanasius  for  the  advan- 
tage of  youth." 

"About  the  year  181 7,"  continues  Mr.  Urban,  "she  first  discovered, 
or  professed  to  have  discovered,  that  she  was  not  the  daughter  of 
Mr.  R.  Wilmot,  but  of  Henry,  Duke  of  Cumberland.  At  first  she 
was  satisfied  to  be  accounted  illegitimate;  but  she  shortly  after 
professed  to  be  his  legitimate  daughter.  At  first  her  mother  was 
Mrs.  Payne,  sister  to  Dr.  Wilmot,  and  afterwards  she  became  the 
Doctor's  daughter.  On  these  pretensions  she  proceeded  to  forward 
her  claims  to  the  Prince  Regent  and  the  royal  family,  and  to  the 
oftlcers  of  the  Government.  She  now  employed  herself  in  fabricating 
several  absurd  and  contradictory  statements,  the  most  weighty  of 
which  was  a  will  of  George  III.  in  which  he  left  her  fifteen  thousand 
pounds.  In  the  Session  of  1822  or  1823  Sir  Gerard  Noel  was 
induced  to  move  in  the  House  of  Commons  for  an  investigation  of 
her  claims.  The  motion  was  seconded  by  Mr.  Joseph  Hume ;  but 
Sir  Robert  Peel,  in  a  most  clear  and  convincing  speech,  set  the 
matter  at  rest,  and  enlightened  the  few  who  had  been  deceived 
by  her  extravagant  assumptions.   He  pointed  out  that  her  documents 


Olive^  Princess  of  Cumberland.  177 

were  framed  in  the  most  injudicious  and  inconsiderate  manner,  many 
of  the  signatures  being  such  as  could  never  have  been  made  by  the 
parties  whose  they  professed  to  be.  He  concluded  his  speech 
by  humorously  observing  that  "  even  if  these  claims  were  given  up, 
there  were  others  which  could  yet  be  pressed,  for  the  lady  had  *  two 
strings  to  her  bow.'  In  fact,  he  held  in  his  hand  a  manifesto  of  the 
Princess  Olive,  addressed  to  the  highest  powers  of  the  Kingdom 
of  Poland,  and  stating  that  she  was  descended  from  Stanislaus 
Augustus !  From  this  time,  however,  the  Princess  Olive  was  con- 
strained to  relinquish  her  carriage  and  her  footmen  in  the  royal 
liveries,  which  some  simple  tradesmen  had  enabled  her  to  display." 

Her  later  years  were  spent,  I  fear,  not  only  in  obscurity,  but  in 
poverty,  and,  indeed,  "  within  the  Rules  of  the  King's  Bench,"  where 
she  died. 

I  have  seen  a  portrait  of  the  Princess  Olive,  and  certainly  no 
one  who  inspects  it  will  deny  that  she  bore  a  striking  likeness  to  the 
royal  family,  and  especially  to  King  George  IV. 

E.  Walford. 


Vol.  XI.,  N.S.  1873. 


Life  in  London. 


IX.— DINING  WITH  THE  PREMIER. 

F  I  had  been  invited  to  dine  with  the  literary  magnates  of 
Yeddo,  and  it  had  fiEdlen  to  my  lot  to  see  the  Japanese  ladies 
come  trooping  in  to  look  on  from  a  distance,  the  incident 
would  have  been  recorded  in  my  notes  as  an  example  of 
barbarism  in  Japan.  The  Shah  of  Persia  would  not,  I  suppose, 
even  extend  so  much  consideration  as  this  to  the  female  ornaments 
and  slaves  of  the  land  of  Hafiz  and  roses.  I  confess  it  astonished 
me  last  month  to  see  the  women  of  England  flocking  round  this 
Imperial  Blue  Beard  with  the  diamond-hilted  sword.  But  that  is 
only  by  the  way.  My  business  lies  in  another  direction,  and  with 
men  who  generally  take  credit  for  honouring  and  admiring  women. 
Fancy  the  intellectual  men  of  a  great  civilised  city,  with  the  First 
Minister  of  the  Crown  at  their  head,  inviting  ladies  to  see  them  dine 
and  hear  them  talk !  I  do  not  know  when  I  have/elt  so  humiliated 
as  I  did  the  other  day  sitting  before  a  plate  of  soup,  and  seeing 
handsome  and  well-dressed  women  picking  their  way  through  a 
crowd  of  noisy  men  at  dinner,  to  remote  seats  where  they  might  con- 
template the  noble  savage,  and  hear  him  talk  after  he  had  gorged 
himself  to  repletion.  Yet  this  was  the  Literary  Fund  dinner.  The 
managers  of  the  Press  Fund  Festival  spread  a  separate  repast  for  the 
ladies  in  a  room  adjoining  to  the  men's  mess,  and  conducted  them 
into  the  general  room  afterwards.  It  is  left  for  the  more  humble 
Newsvendors*  Association  to  invite  ladies  to  the  high  privilege  of 
sitting  down  with  the  men ;  but  old  Bede  of  Durham,  who  drew  a 
line  beyond  which  ladies  were  not  to  pass  even  at  prayers  in  the 
cathedral,  was  not  more  strict  than  are  the  Literary  Funders.  I  com- 
mend this  subject  to  the  pens  of  Mrs.  Crawshay,  Mrs.  Garrett,  or 
Miss  Power  Cobbe.  I  am  a  man,  and  feel  incompetent  to  satirise  this 
;aflfair  as  keenly  as  the  merits  of  the  case  deserve.  It  offers  a  capital 
topic  for  the  pen  of  a  woman  who  can  feel  for  herself  as  I  felt  for  her 
in  Freemasons'  Hall. 

Mr.  Gladstone  never  looked  better,  never  spoke  better,  and  never 
had  a  more  appreciative  audience.  He  sat  between  Lords  Stanhope 
and  Houghton.    Close  by  were  the  Bishop  of  Deny,  the  Dean  of 


Life  in  Loftdofi.  179 

Westminster,  the  Dean  of  Lincoln,  Mr.  Motley,  Anthony  Trollope.  The 
Premier's  calm  pale  face  stood  out  like  th^  leading  head  in  some  old 
picture.  It  was  a  treat  to  watch  the  familiar  countenance^  to  note  its 
changes,  to  catch  glimpses  of  the  great  mind  in  the  eloquent  eyes.  Mr. 
Gladstone's  remarks  condemnatory  of  "  the  butcher,  the  baker,  the 
candlestick  maker,"  entering  the  literary  arena  were  received  with 
earnest  applause.  This  is  a  subject  which  cannot  be  too  seriously  con- 
sidered by  editors,  publishers,  and  the  public  generally,  and  I  rejoiced 
to  find  it  dealt  with  in  the  preface  to  the  last  volume  of  the  GentlemarCs 
Magazine,  A  book,  simply  because  it  is  written  by  a  grocer,  or  a 
weaver,  or  by  some  other  working  man,  is  not  to  be  judged  by  the 
disadvantages  under  which  it  is  written ;  it  must  stand  on  its  own 
merits,  and  if  it  will  not  bear  the  crucial  test,  those  who  applaud  it 
and  help  it  simply  because  it  is  written  by  one  who  might  be 
supposed  incompetent  to  such  a  task  are  doing  a  great  wrong  both 
to  the  author  and  to  society.  This  is  the  opinion  of  the  Premier,  and 
it  is  a  sound  and  practical  opinion.  The  crowd  of  amateurs,  of 
learned  shoemakers  and  inspired  kitchen  maids,  is  growing  every  day. 
Editors'  boxes  are  full  of  their  maudlin  nonsense.  Every  now  and 
then  a  publisher  is  found  for  some  of  them,  and  the  result,  as  a  rule, 
is  cruel  disappointment  An  author  has  no  right  to  parade  his  want 
of  time  or  qualification  for  the  work  which  he  offers  to  the  public  on 
the  same  terms  as  other  authors.  If  I  undertook  to  make  a  set  of 
dining-room  furniture  for  Sylvanus  Urban,  I  have  no  claim  to 
special  consideration  when  I  come  and  say,  "  The  fact  is,  sir,  I  am  a 
tailor,  and  this  is  my  first  attempt  at  joinering." 

I  once  dined  with  Lord  Stanhope  at  Madresfield  Coiut,  near  Mal- 
vern, soon  after  the  marriage  of  his  daughter  with  Lord  Beauchamp. 
The  editor  of  Pitt's  Letters  is  an  old  friend  of  the  Premier.  Mr. 
Gladstone  referred  to  this  friendship  in  proposing  Lord  Stanhope's 
health,  referred  to  it  in  really  warm  and  affectionate  terms.  Despite 
the  complexion  of  the  Premier's  mouth,  which  is  marked  by  what 
some  poet  has  called  "  the  downward  drag  severe,"  it  is  capable  of  a 
very  genial  and  fascinating  smile.  This  struck  me  most  forcibly  and 
pleasantly  while  he  was  talking  to  Lord  Stanhope — ^who,  by  the  way, 
is  a  sprightly  and  interesting  .conversationalist  It  was  his  lordship's 
grandfather  who  invented  the  Stanhope  press,  and  to  whom 
we  are  partly  indebted  for  the  art  of  stereotyping.  Sitting  near 
him  the  other  night  carried  me  back  to  the  grand  old  hall  at 
Madresfield,  the  more  so  that  upon  that  occasion  Lord  Beauchamp 
in  a  short  speech  discovered  me  to  his  lordship^as  an  author,  and 
compelled  me  to  reply  in  the  full  view  of  Lord  Stanhope's  gold- 

N  2 


1 80  TJie  Getitlema^is  Magazine. 

rimmers,  which  made  me  just  a  trifle  nervous,  and  led  to  a  literary 
chat,  during  which  Lord  Stanhope  expressed  an  almost  enthusiastic 
admiration  of  Phillips's  famous  poem  on  "Cyder/*  which  was 
"Printed  for  Jacob  Tonson,  within  Gray's  Inn  Lane,  1708,"  and 
published  anonymously.  Speaking  to  us  in  a  cider  country,  the 
historian  quoted  with  a  certain  unction  some  of  the  practical 
descriptive  passages  of  the  rare  old  poem.  There  were  a  few  among 
the  company  who  had  personal  sympathies  with  productive  land  and 
harvest-time  ;  and  more  particularly  just  then,  for  the  country  was 
brown  and  yellow  with  the  teeming  crops.  Lord  Stanhope  said 
there  could  hardly  be  a  more  perfect  combination  of  the  poetic  and 
the  practical  than  the  opening  comparison  of  various  soils,  from 
which  he  selected  the  following : — 

But,  Farmer,  look,  where  full-ear'd  sheaves  of  lye 
Grow  wavy  on  the  tilth,  that  soil  select 
For  apples  ;  thence  thy  industry  shall  gain 
Ten-fold  reward  ;  thy  gamers,  thence  with  store 
Surcharged,  shall  burst ;  thy  press  with  purest  juice 
Shall  flow,  which  in  revolving  years  may  try 
Thy  feeble  feet,  and  bind  thy  fault'ring  tongue. 
Such  is  the  Kentchurch^  such  Dantzegan  ground. 
Such  thine,  O  learned  Brome,  and  Capel  sxxcYi, 
William  Burlton,  much  lov'd  Geers  his  Marsh 
And  Sutton^  acres,  drench'd  with  regal  blood 
Of  Ethelberty  when  to  th'  unhallow'd  feast 
Of  Mercian  Offa  he  invited  came 
To  treat  of  spousals. 

I  have  an  old  copy  of  "  Cyder  "  bound  up  with  another  remarkable 
work  of  that  period,  "  printed  for  Bernard  Lintott,  at  the  Cross  Keys 
between  the  two  Temple  Gates  in  Fleet  Street"  It  is  "  The  Art  of 
Cookery,  in  imitation  of  Horace's  Art  of  Poetiy,"  inscribed  to  the 
Honourable  Beefsteak  Club,  now,  alas,  no  more.  The  work  opens 
with  "Some  letters  to  Dr.  Lister,"  from  one  of  which  I  will  quote  a 
few  lines  d  propos  of  dining,  which  I  commend  as  a  text  to  my  friend 
Fin-Bee,  or  the  Food  Journal-  It  has  reference  to  juries,  dinners, 
and  tooth-picks,  and,  in  spite  of  its  satire,  gives  us  a  glimpse  of 
society  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago,  which,  coming  from  an  out-of- 
the-way  source,  is  not  a  little  curious.  "  Now,  the  custom  of  juries 
dining  at  an  eating-house,  and  having  passes  of  water  brought  them 
with  tooth-picks  ting'd  with  vermilion  swimming  at  the  top,  being  still 
continued;  why  may  we  not  imagine  that  the  tooth-picks  were  as 
ancient  as  the  dinner^  the  dinner  as  the  Juries^  and  the  juries  at  least 
as  the  grandchildren  of  Mitzraine  ?  .  .  .  I  could  wish  Dr.  Wotton 
in  the  next  edition  of  his  *  Modern  Learning*  would  tell  us  the  original 


Life  in  London.  i8i 

of  ivory  knives^  with  which  young  heirs  axe  suflfer'd  to  mangle  their 
own  pudding ;  as  likewise  of  silver  and  gold  hirves,  brought  in  with 
the  desert  for  carving  jellies  and  orange-butter ;  and  the  indispensable 
necessity  of  a  silver  knife,  at  the  sideboard,  to  mingle  salads  with." 

But  this  is  by  the  way.  I  want  to  say  a  few  words  about  after 
dinner  speaking.  I  am  not  going  to  trouble  you  with  a  treatise  on 
oratorical  aesthetics  ;  I  only  desire,  in  a  suggestive  way,  to  ask  why 
post-prandial  oratory  is,  as  a'  rule,  so  arrogant  and  stupid.  Froude 
the  other  day  at  the  Press  Fund  dinner  moaned  and  postured,  and 
whined  like  a  Primitive  Methodist  at  a  Love  Feast ;  Anthony  Trollope 
talked  as  if  he  had  the  pilgrim's  peas  in  his  mouth ;  and  at  the 
Literary  Fund  one  could  not  understand  two  words  in  twenty  that  fell 
from  the  lips  of  Lords  Houghton  and  Stanhope,  or  even  Dean  Stanley. 
Mr.  Walter,  M.P.,  was  tolerably  distinct,  but  why  so  preachy  ?  Every 
other  man  who  gets  up  to  make  a  speech  seems  to  think  he  is  in  the 
pulpit.  The  Bishop  of  Deny  made  himself  understood,  but  he 
ranted  and  stuck  to  his  text  of  "  not  yet,"  for  all  the  world  like  a 
parson  engaged  in  a  missionary  sermon.  Tom  Taylor  got  out  of  the 
clerical  style,  but  he  made  his  usual  mistake  of  thinking  and  talking 
only  about  Tom  Taylor.  Called  upon  to  speak  for  the  Literature  of 
the  United  Kingdom,  he  devoted  himself  entirely  to  a  dissertation 
upon  himself,  his  habits,  his  weaknesses,  his  strength,  and  what  the 
critics  said  of  him.  Next  to  the  speech  of  Mr.  Gladstone,  Mr. 
Motley's  earnest  tribute  to  English  literature  and  to  English  tradition 
was  the  most  successful  speech  of  the  evening.  Mr.  Motley  is  a 
quiet,  modest  looking  man  of  fifty,  hair  and  beard  a  frosty 
grey,  and  crisp  )  he  has  earnest  eyes,  and  his  action  while  speak- 
ing is  deferential  and  sympathetic.  His  picture  of  the  earliesf 
dream  of  an  intellectual  American  was  idyllic.  He  drew  the 
two  shrines  at  which  a  young  intellectual  American  desired  to  bend 
his  knee;  he  drew  Stratford-on-Avon  and  Westminster,  and  in 
touching,  eloquent,  picturesque  language  worthy  the  historian  of 
*'  the  Dutch  Republic."  The  Bishop  of  Deny,  in  proposing  "The 
Literature  of  the  United  States,"  mentioned  "Walt  Whitman"  as 
one  of  America's  greatest  geniuses.  It  was  \ude  I  know,  but  I 
laughed  aloud,  and  a  spiteful  reflection  came  into  my  heart.  I  said 
to  myself,  "  I  am  not  sorry  that  Mr.  Gladstone  disendowed  you,  O 
pompous  Bishop  of  Deny ! "  Mr.  Motley,  in  replying,  referred  to 
Longfellow,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  Emerson,  Joaquin  Miller, 
Whittier,  as  among  great  Americans,  and  I  applauded  him  to  the  echo. 

When  the   "  toastmaster  "  was  about  to  call  for  a  charge  of  our 
glasses  to  the   health  of  "The  Ladies,"  Mr.  Gladstone,  with   his 


1 82  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

quick  observant  eyes,  noticed  that  the  ladies  had  disappeared. 
Many  of  the  gentlemen  had  gone  too.  Mr.  Taylor's  eloquence  had 
emptied  all  the  furthermost  benches.  "  The  Ladies  "  were,  therefore^ 
not  toasted.  It  is  well  for  me  that  this  omission  occurred ;  for  I  had 
registered  a  profane  vow,  over  a  glass  of  bad  port,  registered  it 
savagely  and  with  malice  prepense,  I  was  not  set  down  in  the  toast 
list,  but  I  had  resolved  to  reply  for  the  ladies.  I  dare  say  I  should 
have  astonished  Mr.  Gladstone,  quite  as  much,  perhaps,  as  Tom 
Taylor  astonished  the  Mayor  of  Leeds  the  other  day,  and  I  might 
have  surprised  myself  and  friends,  seeing  that  I  am  known  as  a 
modest  and  unobtrusive  gentleman.  May  I  ask  the  ladies  who 
read  the  Gentleman* s — and  I  am  told  they  are  legion — to  think  well 
of  me  for  my  good  intentions  ? 

Robin  Goodfellow. 


An  Old  Story  of  Travel. 

BY  H.  T.  WOOD,  B.A, 

have  been  to  India  and  back  is  not  enough  nowadays 
to  make  a  man  a  traveller,  but  to  go  nearly  all  the 
way  there  on  foot  would  be  a  very  creditable  feat 
even  now.  About  three  hundred  years  ago  a  man  did 
this,  and  as,  so  far  as  we  know,  nobody  else  has  ever  attempted  to 
rival  him  by  repeating  the  perfonnance,  it  really  seems  that  he  de- 
serves more  credit  than  he  generally  gets.  Who  is  there  who  knows 
the  name  of  Coryat — ^Poor  T<Mn  Coryat,  as  his  contemporaries  used 
to  call  him  ?  Now  and  again  a  stray  antiquarian,  ransacking  the  dusty 
shelves  of  some  old  library,  may  come  across  the  quaint  book  he  has 
left  us,  but  not  many  folk  have  the  patience  to  struggle  through  the  diffi- 
culties of  queer  spelling  and  ancient  print,  for  the  sake  of  a  few  quips 
and  cranks  three  centuries  old.  He  was  one  of  the  queerest  fish  that 
ever  lived,  tfiis  Coryat — cracked,  some  of  his  friends  said,  and  it  may 
be  not  without  reason ;  though,  if  there  was  a  bee  in  his  bonnet,  there 
was  also  a  very  considerable  share  of  true  genius,  aye,  and  of  soimd 
common  sense,  under  that  bonnet.  Let  us  try  and  dig  up  his  intel- 
lectual bones. 

The  briefest  sketch  of  his  birth  and  early  life  may  suffice.  That 
he  was  bom  in  1575,  the  son  of  the  Rector  of  Odcombe,  in  Somer- 
set; that  he  was  educated  at  Winchester  and  Gloucester  Hall, 
Oxford,  is  as  much  as  we  need  care  to  know.  "  At  the  latter  place,'^ 
says  Wood,  in  the  **  Athense  Oxonienses,"  '^  continuing  about  three 
years,  he  attained,  by  the  help  of  a  great  memory,  to  some  com- 
petency in  logic,  but  more  by  fiur  in  the  Greek  tongue,  and  in 
humaner  learning."  His  marvellous  power  of  acquiring  languages 
we  shall  have  occasion  to  notice  hereafter.  When  he  left  college  he 
seems  to  have  known  well  both  Latin  and  Greek,  the  former,  of 
course,  as  all  scholars  of  his  time  knew  it,  colloquially.  The  first 
we  hear  of  him  when  his  imiversity  life  was  over,  is  as  occupying 
some  sort  of  position  in  the  household  of  Henry,  Prince  of  Wales. 
How  he  came  by  the  post  we  are  not  told,  nor  even  exactly  what  the 
post  was,  for  his  name  does  not  appear  in  the  list  of  the  household. 
Whatever  his  official  duties  were,  his  real  position  seems  to  have 


1 84  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

been  that  of  a  privileged  jester.  Fuller,  that  quaintest  of  old 
chroniclers,  says  that  "  He  was  the  Courtiers'  AnvU  to  trie  their  witts 
upon,  and  sometimes  this  AnvU  returned  the  Hammers  as  hard  knocks 
as  it  received."  He  became  popular,  too — "falling  into  the  com- 
pany of  the  wits,  who  found  him  little  better  than  a  fool  in  many 
respects,  made  him  their  whetstone,  and  so  became  fioitis  nimis 
omnibus!'  Such,  at  least,  is  the  statement  of  Anthony  k  Wood. 
Like  some  other  clever  men,  he  found  that  his  most  profitable 
employment  was  to  play  the  fool,  and,  having  a  natural  inclination 
that  way,  he  probably  played  the  character  well  Still,  like  others 
who  have  followed  the  same  trade,  he  might  have  died  forgotten  as 
soon  as  his  antics  ceased  to  please,  but  for  one  particular  craze  he 
got  into  his  head.  He  thought  he  would  like  to  travel  and  see  the 
world.  Whether  he  wanted  to  get  materials  for  a  book,  or  whether 
he  was  ui^ged  by  a  mer^e  itch  for  vagabondage,  does  not  appear. 
Anyhow,  he  did  make  a  tour  through  Europe,  kept  a  journal  on 
the  way,  and  published  it  when  he  came  back  under  the  porten- 
tous title  of  "  Coryat's  Crudities,  hastily  gobled  up  in  five  moneths 
Travells  in  France,  Sauoy,  Italy,  Rhetia,  comonly  called  the  Grysou's 
Country ;  Heluetia,  alias  Switzerland,  some  parts  of  High  Germany 
and  the  Netherlands.  Newly  digested  in  the  hungry  aire  of  Odcombe, 
in  the  County  of  Somerset,  and  now  dispersed  to  the  nourishment  of 
the  Travelling  Members  of  this  Kingdome."  With  these  "Crudities" 
his  name  is  connected  by  the  few  who  know  that  name  at  all  The 
sole  object  of  the  book  was  to  amuse.  In  this  respect  Corjrat  was 
the  Mr.  Sala  of  his  time.  He  did  not  trouble  himself  much  about 
anything  but  what  he  thought  would  amuse  his  readers  and  make  them 
laugh.  True,  some  of  his  witticisms  are  rather  flat  and  stale,  but  it 
must  be  a  good  joke  that  will  stand  keeping  for  three  centuries,  and 
our  friend's  witticisms  are,  after  all,  not  of  the  very  finest  order.  In 
his  search  for  comic  objects  he  seems  to  have  found  nothing  more 
comic  than  himself,  so  he  treats  us  to  a  good  deal  of  autobiography. 
Not  that  he  tries  to  glorify  himself;  on  the  contrary,  he  relates  with 
the  most  perfect  freedom  and  candour  matters  that  most  men  would 
take  pains  to  conceal,  and  seems  to  enjoy  nothing  more  thoroughly 
than  relating  with  every  detail  the  particulars  of  some  occasion  on 
which  he  made  a  fool  of  himself. 

So  much  for  the  manner  of  the  book ;  now  for  its  matter.  It  was 
on  May  14th,  1608,  that  Coryat  started  from  Dover.  The  miseries 
of  the  passage  he  does  not  forget  to  describe,  but  gives  us  a  graphic 
description  of  his  sickness  and  the  ridiculous  picture  he  presented 
under  its  attacks.     The  discomfort  of  the  crossing  seems  to  have  been 


An  Old  Story  of  Travel.  1 85 

about  the  same  then  as  now,  only  there  was  more  of  it,  inasmuch  as 
it  lasted  longer.  From  Calais  he  went  straight  to  Paris,  riding  post. 
There  he  saw  much  to  admire.  The  unfinished  Louvre  and  the 
Tuileries  both  attracted  his  notice.  The  miracle  of  St.  Denis  he 
thought  "too  great  to  be  true,"  a  modified  expression  of  opinion  with 
which  we  may  safely  agree.  Casaubon  he  made  acquaintance  with, 
and  found  him  "  by  so  much  the  more  willing  to  give  me  entertain- 
ment, by  how  much  the  more  I  made  relation  to  him  of  his  learned 
works,  whereof  some  I  have  read."  "  Fontaine  Beleau"  he  was  much 
pleased  with.  On  the  whole,  his  descriptions  in  this  part  of  the 
book  read  curiously  like  the  remarks  of  some  much  more  recent 
travellers. 

From  Paris  he  proceeded  southward  through  France  and  Savoy, 
without  meeting  with  any  very  remarkable  adventures.     As  he  says 

in  a  set  of  macaronic  verses  : — 

Alpes 

Passavi,  transvectus  equo  cui  nomina  ten-toes. 

A  piece  of  exquisite  Latinity  hardly  worth  the  trouble  of  translation. 
It  was  in  Italy  that  he  spent  most  of  his  holiday  and  made  most  of  his 
curious  observations.  One  of  the  first  things  that  struck  him  was 
a  certain  monstrous  custom  that  the  people  had  of  using  forks  at  their 
meals,  instead  of  eating  with  their  fingers  in  the  usual  way.  However, 
though  he  was  at  first,  naturally  enough,  shocked  at  so  silly  and 
withal  barbarous  a  practice,  he  afterwards  became  reconciled  to  it — 
nay,  even  went  so  far  as  to  adopt  it  himself,  and  attempt  its  intro- 
duction into  England.  For  this  he  was  properly  rallied  on  his  return, 
but  as  he  was  a  noted  eccentric,  probably  everything  he  did  was 
considered  humorous,  and  this  among  the  rest.  Fans,  he  remarked, 
were  carried  by  both  sexes,  some  very  curious  and  of  great  value ; 
but  more  extraordinary  still  were  some  wonderfiil  contrivances 
"  which  they  commonly  call  in  the  Italian  tongue  umbrellaes,  that  is, 
things  that  minister  shadow  unto  them  for  shelter  against  the  scorch- 
ing heate  of  the  sunne.  These  are  made  of  leather  something 
answering  to  the  forme  of  a  little  cannopy,  &  hooped  in  the  inside 
with  divers  little  wooden  hoopes  that  extend  the  umbrella  in  a  prety 
large  compasse.  They  are  used  especially  by  horsemen,  who 
carry  them  in  their  hands  when  they  ride,  fastening  the  end  of  the 
handle  upon  one  of  their  thighs,  and  they  import  so  large  a  shadow 
unto  them  that  it  keepeth  the  heate  of  the  sunne  from  the  upper 
parts  of  their  bodies."  Worthy  Jonas  Hanway,  the  introducer  into 
England  of  the  umbrella,  being  then  unborn,  the  implement 
which  has  since    become  the  distinguishing  characteristic  of  an 


1 86  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

Englishman  was  not  known  to  our  ancestors.  At  Cremona  he  ate 
fried  frogs  ;  at  Padua  he  went  to  St  Anthony's  tomb,  hoping  to  see 
some  demoniacs  exorcised  of  their  devils,  "  but  the  eflfect  thereof 
turned  to  nothing."  Here  also  he  observed  one  custom,  the  naixation 
of  which  got  him  credit  for  want  of  veracity.  He  says  that  in  a 
public  place  there  was  a  stone,  and  if  a  debtor  felt  his  debts  too 
many  for  him,  he  could  go  and  sit  for  a  prescribed  time  upon  this 
stone  in  a  certain  ridiculous  position,  and  thereby  become  freed  from  his 
creditors.  This  new  sort  of  bankruptcy  court  was  not  believed  in  by 
critics  at  home,  but  as  Addison  afterwards  saw  and  described  the 
same  ceremony,  it  seems  that  we  must  give  Coryat  more  credit 
for  truthfulness  than  did  his  contemporaries. 

His  next  halt  was  Venice.  Here  he  spent  six  weeks — ^thc  sweetest 
of  his  life,  as  he  says.  Venice  was  then  in  the  zenith  of  her  glory ; 
and  the  beautiful  queen  of  the  Adriatic,  like  Corinth  of  old,  was 
ever  hospitable  to  strangers.  The  "Odcombian  Legge -stretcher," 
as  our  traveller  called  himself,  was  made  as  welcome  as  all  the  rest  of 
the  world,  and  for  the  treatment  he  received  he  was  not  ungrateful. 
Everything  pleased  him ;  he  was  ready  to  admire  and  wonder  at 
everything.  The  gondolas  he  was  delighted  with,  and  he  grows 
almost  as  fervent  in  tlieir  praise  as  Mr.  DisraelL  So  much  did  they 
take  his  fancy  that  he  mentions  as  the  most  remarkable  of  all  the 
Venetian  curiosities  '^  a  little  bay  nag  feeding  in  the  churchyard  of 
St  John  and  St.  Nicolas.''  Who  indeed  could  find  a  use  for  a  nag, 
bay  or  other,  when  it  was  given  him  to  ride  at  ease  in  a  gondola  ? 
Some  of  his  adventures  in  this  city  of  pleasure  we  had  better  pass  over 
in  silence,  though  to  be  sure  he  dilates  upon  them  with  his  usual 
naivete.  Nor,  perhaps,  are  his  observations  upon  the  city  and  its 
monuments  of  a  general  interest  Some  of  his  friends  in  England 
dubbed  him  the  **  Tombstone  Traveller  "  on  the  stirength  of  them^an 
unkind  cut,  especially  as  there  were  then  no  "  Murray's  Handbooks  " 
to  save  the  voyager  the  trouble  of  such  descriptions. 

Then,  as  now,  the  English  style  of  dress  hardly  commended  itself  to 
the  travelled  sense  of  beauty,  and  as  the  continental  Englishman  now 
sneers  at  the  shooting-jacket  or  the  flaring  gown  of  his  compatriot^ 
so  to  Coryat's  eye  the  Venetian  garb  contrasted  favourably  with  the 
garish  colours  affected  by  the  English.  Our  ancestors,  he  thinks, 
wore  more  fantastical  fashions  than  any  other  nation  under  the  sun, 
the  French  only  excepted.  But  it  was  not  only  the  Italian  costume 
that  came  in  for  criticism.  Our  traveller,  though  a  sober  man 
enough,  has  a  word  to  say  about  the  wines  of  the  country.  The 
ieuryma  Christi  he  especially  fancied,  and  he  quotes  with  approval 


An  Old  Story  of  Travel.  187 

the  dictum  of  some  one  who  could  only  exclaim  after  the  first 
bumper,  "  Domine,  cur  non  laciymasti  in  regionibus  nostris?'' 

One  thipg,  and  one  only,  did  not  meet  with  his  approval — the 
religion  of  the  country.  Oiu:  friend  was  a  staunch  Protestant,  and 
had  very  little  toleration  for  Popish  weaknesses.  A  feat  which  he 
considered  very  creditable  was  the  purloining  of  one  of  those  little 
wax  figures  that  Catholics  hang  up  as  votive  ofiferings  in  their 
churches.  After  long  hankering,  he  watched  his  opportunity  and 
carried  off  a  small  waxen  leg.  As  his  performance  rendered  him 
liable  to  be  had  up  before  the  Inquisition,  it  at  all  events  required 
some  courage  to  do  that  which  otherwise  had  been  but  a  miserable 
bit  of  petty  larceny. 

So  much  for  Venice  and  its  delights.  From  it  he  struck  north- 
wards through  Germany.  At  the  "  bathes  of  Hinderhowe,  com- 
monly called  Baden,''  he  made  a  short  stay,  and  watched  the  folk 
drinking  the  waters  and  bathing,  the  latter  in  somewhat  promiscuous 
fashion.  Not  far  from  Baden  he  met  with  one  of  those  adventures 
which  he  apparently  dwells  upon  for  want  of  anything  more  serious 
to  relate.  As  he  was  going  along  the  road  he  was  struck  by  the 
suspicious  appearance  of  two  "  boors.''  Being  well  provided  with 
funds,  he  felt  nervous,  and  so  to  disarm  suspicion  he  adopted  the 
r6U  of  a  beggar,  put  off  his  hat  vpry  courteously  unto  them, 
and  addressed  them  '^  in  a  language  they  did  but  poorly  understand,, 
even  the  Latin."  The  device  was  perfectly  successful,  for,  says  he^ 
<<they  gave  me  so  much  of  their  tin-money  called  fennies  (as 
poor  as  they  were)  as  paid  for  half  my  supper  that  night  at  Baden." 
Either  the  "  boors "  were  liberal,  or  the  supper  a  very  bad  one ; 
however,  Coryat  got  off  safe  with  the  gold  he  had  quilted  in  his 
jerkin,  and  .was  happy. 

Strasbouig  he  passed  through,  and  he  gives  us  a  picture  of  the 
wonderful  clock.      Another  picture    represents  the  great  Tun  of 
Heidelberg  with  Coryat  standing  on  it.  This  tun  was,  in  his  opinion, 
"  the  most  remarkable  and  famous  thing  of  that  kinde  that  I  saw  in 
my  whole  journey." 

At  **St.  Gavem,"  a  town  on  the  Rhine,  he  was  subjected  to  a 
ceremony  something  of  the  same  sort  as  that  connected  with  the 
celebrated  '^  Highgate  oath."  Near  the  town  gate  was  hung  an  iron 
collar,  and  this  was  fastened  round  the  neck  of  the  stranger  to  be 
initiated.  Of  course  he  was  released  on  paying  the  usual  penalty — 
drink  for  the  company  roimd.  At  Cologne  there  were  the  relics  of  the 
three  kings  to  be  seen,  just  as  they  are  now.  Probably  Coryat  was  not 
the  first  Cockney,  as  he  was  certainly  not  the  last,  to  gape  at  them. 


1 88  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

The  remainder  of  his  journey  to  Flushing  contained  little  of 
interest.  Thence  he  sailed  to  London,  where  he  arrived  on  October 
3rd,  1608,  "being  Monday,  about  foure  of  the  clocke  in  the  after- 
noone/'  In  all,  as  he  relates  with  pride,  his  travels  had  extended 
over  1,975  miles.  He  saw  forty-five  cities,  and  was  twenty  weeks 
and  two  days  on  his  journey. 

Such  was  Coryat's  first  tour.  Not  a  very  remarkable  one,  indeed, 
nor,  except  for  its  results  upon  the  traveller,  deserving  much 
record.  Perhaps  not  so  much  the  deeds  he  did,  as  the  way  in 
which  he  told  those  deeds  we  should  admire,  and  in  the  above 
bald  account  most  of  the  original  quaint  flavoiu*  is  unhappily 
lost.  However,  good  or  bad,  these  adventures  were  to  be 
handed  down  to  posterity.  Coryat's  first  care  was  to  write  a  book — 
the  "  Crudities  "  above  mentioned.  This  was  the  only  book  he  ever 
completed,  and  very  proud  he  was  when  it  was  done.  Having 
finished  its  preparation,  and  obtained  the  necessary  permission  to 
publish  it,  he  went  round  to  all  his  friends  among  "the  wits,'"' 
asking  for  sets  of  verses  which  might  make  a  sort  of  introduction  to 
the  book.  They  seem  to  have  given  them  readily  enough,  though 
the  poems  were  not  of  a  sort  to  have  afforded  much  gratification  to 
one  of  a  more  sensitive  nature  than  Coryat  In  mock-heroic  style 
they  lauded  the  virtues  of  the  modem  Ulysses,  who  had  dared  the 
dangers  of  the  Channel,  and  visited  such  unknown  lands  as  Fiance 
and  Italy.  Whether  our  traveller  accepted  in  good  faith  these  extra- 
vagant bits  of  laudation,  or  whether,  as  is  much  more  probable^  he 
looked  upon  them  as  good  jokes,  likely  to  suit  his  book,  we  will  not 
profess  to  decide.  There  they  are,  nearly  sixty  of  them,  a  proof  of 
either  the  pertinacity  or  the  popularity  of  the  collector.  There  are 
well  known  names,  too,  among  the  list  of  contributors — Ben 
Jonson,  Lawrence  Whittaker  (a  special  crony  of  Coryafs),  Michael 
Drayton,  Inigo  Jones,  Dudley  Digges,  so  that  we  may  justly  conclude 
that  Coryat  was  at  least  notorious.  The  result  was  successful,  for,  as 
Anthony  \  Wood  tells  us,  the  verses  **  did  very  much  advantage  the 
sale  of  the  book." 

M.  Delepierre,  in  his  "  Macaronfeana,"  will  have  it  that  all  the  verses 
are  by  one  hand — that  of  Coryat  himself — and  we  caqnot  help  a 
suspicion  that  he  is  not  entirely  wrong.  However,  all  the  writers  who 
mention  Coryat,  in  books  written  not  long  after  his  death,  treat  the 
verses  as  genuine,  so  the  weight  of  evidence  is  in  their  fitvour. 

So  the  book  was  published,  and  became  at  least  a  nine  days* 
wonder.  Coryat,  in  his  own  estimation  at  least,  was  the  traveller  of 
the  age,  and  he   felt  the  necessity  of  keeping  up  his  reputation. 


An  Old  Story  of  Travel.  189 

Partly,  it  would  seem,  from  his  craving  for  notoriety,  partly  because 
the  restlessness  of  the  genuine  traveller's  fever  was  upon  him,  he 
made  up  his  mind  to  take  such  a  journey  as  man  had  never  taken 
before.  He  would  visit  the  three  quarters  of  the  old  world.  This 
was  his  route — Turkey,  Palestine,  Persia,  thence  to  India  and  China, 
that  he  might  **see  Tartaria  in  the  vast  parts  thereof;"  after  that  to 
the  court  of  Prester  John  in  Ethiopia,  and  then  perhaps  home  again, 
to  write  another  and  a  greater  book — a  book  that  should  not  only 
make  him  famous  in  his  own  days,  but  hand  down  his  reputation  to 
generations  yet  unborn.  Such  was  the  scheme.  Had  it  been  carried 
out  (perhaps  omitting  the  visit  to  Prester  John)  and  a  faithful  record 
of  it  kept,  we  should  like  enough  have  had  a  book  of  travel  only 
second  to  that  of  the  great  Father  of  History  himself  In  the  event, 
as  we  shall  see,  death  interrupted  the  traveller  before  his  purpose  wa» 
more  than  half  accomplished,  and  besides  we  have  but  very  scant 
accounts  of  what  he  did  succeed  in  accomplishing.  Of  the  earlier 
and  less  interesting  part  of  his  travels  an  account  was  published 
in  "  Purchases  Pilgrims,"  but  of  the  latter  portion  we  have  little 
knowledge,  except  what  is  derived  from  a  few  letters  sent  home  from 
various  points  in  his  travels,  and  a  chapter  in  Terry's  "Voyage 
to  East  India,"  of  which  more  anon. 

He  started  on  this  long  journey  in  161 8.  From  London  he  v.'cn« 
straight  to  Constantinople  or  Stamboul,  and  there  his  journey  proper 
may  be  said  to  have  begun.  At  Zante  he  saw  the  tomb  of  Cicero, 
but  was  not  equally  fortunate  at  "  Syo  "  with  that  of  Homer.  The 
sites  of  the  seven  churches  of  Asia  he  was  anxious  to  discover,  bu4 
could  not.  For  this  he  was  partly  reconciled  by  the  sight  of  Troy, 
or  its  ruins,  among  them  a  great  house  which  '*  is  continued  by 
tradition  to  have  been  sometimes  a  part  of  the  famous  palace  of  great 
King  Priamus."  He  took  the  opportunity,  as  usual,  of  playing  the 
fool  in  company  with  another  Englishman  named  Rugge,  who  dubbed 
him  a  knight  of  Troy,  whatever  that  may  be.  After  this  he  made  a 
speech — another  weakness  of  his — and  rested  content  with  himself. 

His  next  stage  was  by  sea  to  Jatta  or  Joppa,  whence  he  made  his 
way  to  Jerusalem  over  a  road  infested  by  Arab  marauders.  In  Jeru- 
salem he  was  kindly  treated  by  a  convent  of  Franciscan  friars,  who 
showed  him  all  the  treasures  and  wonders  of  the  sacred  spot.  They 
took  him  to  Bethlehem,  and  did  not  forget  to  point  out  a  stone  by 
the  wayside  on  which  the  Virgin  had  rested  herself.  In  order  to- 
afford  a  comfortable  seat,  the  stone  had  made  itself  soft,  so  that  it 
had  received  on  it  the  impress  of  the  Virgin's  form,  and  this,  as  it 
hardened  again,  it  still  preserved.    As  a  memorial  of  his  pilgrimage, 


igo  The  Gentlevian's  Magazine. 

'Coryat  got  himself  tattooed,  a  feet  of  which  he  often  boasted  in  after 
life,  saying  "  I  bear  in  my  body  the  marks  of  the  Lord  Jesus." 

According  to  Purchas,  Coryat  went  to  the  Dead  Sea,  and  there 
heard  of  but  did  not  see  "  the  pillar  of  Lot's  wife  in  salt  with  her 
-childe  in  her  armes,  and  a  pretty  dogge  also  in  salt  by  her,  about  a 
bow  shot  from  the  water."  The  "  pretty  dogge"  seems  to  have  been 
too  much  for  old  Purchas,  for  he  adds  that  Coryat  **  saw  not  this, 
but  tooke  the  report  of  another,  and  seemeth  by  the  child  and  dog 
to  be  a  falsehood  in  word  or  in  deede." 

Coryat  found  Palestine  very  thinly  populated,  and  Terry,  who 
notices  this,  goes  on  to  contrast  its  condition  with  that  in  which  it 
was  at  the  time  of  the  Biblical  narrative.  He  remarks  that  it  was 
very  wonderful  a  strip  of  ground  some  i6o  miles  long  by  60  broad 
should  ever  have  supported  thirteen  himdred  thousand  fighting  men. 
These  calculations,  though  savouring  of  Dr.  Colenso's  spirit,  by  no 
means  led  Terry  to  the  bishop's  conclusions.  He,  worthy  man,  only 
thought  the  miracle  the  greater. 

From  Palestine  Coryat  went  to  Aleppo,  where  he  was  entertained 
by  the  English  consul.  Here  he  had  to  wait  for  a  caravan.  "With 
it  he  marched  into  Persia,  not  forgetting  to  note  on  his  way  Uz  of 
the  Chaldees,  the  birthplace  of  Abraham.  Nineveh  he  'saw,  "  which 
now  hath  its  old  name  changed,  and  is  called  Mozel ;  also  Babylon, 
now  *  Bagdat."*  The  Euphrates  and  the  Tigris  he  crossed,  the  latter 
almost  dryshod,  the  water  not  reaching  above  the  calf  of  his  leg. 
Next  he  went  "through  both  the  Armenias,  and  either  did,  or  else 
our  traveller  was  made  to  believe  that  he  saw  the  very  mountain 
Ararat  on  which  the  'ark  of  Noah  rested  after  the  flood.'" 

The  next  country  visited  was  Persia,  where  he  saw  "  Uzpahan," 
the  usual  place  of  residence  of  "  Sha  Abbas,  or  King  Abbas  ; "  also 
Seras,  anciently  Shushan,  where  "  Ahasuerus  kept  his  rojral  and  most 
magnificent  Court."  At  Ispahan  he  remained  two  months,  and 
then  went  with  a  caravan  to  Lahore,  a  journey  that  occupied  four 
months  and  some  days.  This  to^Ti,  he  tells  us,  was  the  Mogul's 
chieff  city,  a  place  of  great  wealth,  and  "  lying  more  temperately  out 
of  the  parching  sun  than  any  other  of  his  great  cities  do.**  His  next 
stopping  place  was  Agra,  "  the  Mogul's  metropolis."  The  road  from 
I^hore  to  Agra  was  planted  the  whole  way  with  trees  to  shade  it; 
this  road  was  400  miles  long,  and  took  our  traveller  twenty  days  to 
pass  over.  Here  Coryat  stayed  till  "  he  had  gotten  to  his  Ttu-kish  and 
Morisco  or  Arabian  languages  some  good  knowledge  in  tfie  Persian 
and  Indostan  tongues."  Asnere  was  his  next  stopping-place.  On  his 
journey  he  had  met  Sir  Robert  Shirley,  who  was  resident  at  the 


An  Old  Story  of  Travel.  191 

Mogul's  Court,  and  had  married  a  niece  of  the  monarch.  From  this 
town  he  sent  home  letters,  dated  161 5 ;  one  among  them  to  Lawrence 
AVhittaker,  in  which  he  describes  the  wonders  of  the  Mogul's  Court 
Not  the  least  of  these  marvels  were  die  unicorns,  "  whereof,"  he  says, 
"**  two  have  I  seene  at  his  Court,  the  strangest  beasts  of  the  world." 
This  we  may  charitably  suppose  was  a  little  bit  of  brag  for  friends  at 
home.  A  picture  of  the  traveller,  riding  on  an  elephant,  accompanied 
the  letter.  Another  letter  was  sent  "To  the  High  Seneschal  of  the 
Right  Worshipfiil  Fraternity  of  Sireniacal  Gentlemen  that  meet  the 
first  Friday  of  every  month  at  the  sign  of  the  Mermaid,  in  Bread 
Street,  in  London."  At  Asnere  he  rested  some  little  space,  and 
reckoned  up  his  journey.  From  Jerusalem  to  Asnere  he  calculates 
was  2,700  miles.  This  he  had  accomplished  in  fifteen  months  and 
some  days,  all  on  foot.  During  the  whole  journey  he  had  spent  but 
^3,  and  ten  shillings  of  this  he  had  been  cheated  out  of  by  some 
Armenian  Christians.     On  the  whole  an  economical  tour. 

On  September  16,  16 16,  he  left  Asnere  and  went  back  to  Agra, 
where  he  stayed  six  weeks.  Next  we  hear  of  him  at  Mandoa,  in  the 
house  of  Sir  Thomas  Rowe,  the  English  ambassador.  It  is  to  Terry, 
the  chaplain  of  Sir  Thomas,  afterwards  Rector  of  Greenford  in 
Middlesex,  that  we  owe  most  of  our  knowledge  about  Coryat's 
travels.  In  1655  Terry  wrote  his  "  Voyage  to  East  India,"  and  in  it 
he  tells  how  he  metCoryat  "in  those  parts"  (near  Surat),  and  became 
intimate  with  him. 

While  at  Agra  Coryat  put  his  linguistic  powers  to  the  test  by  tack- 
ling a  certain  laundress,  who  used  to  '^  scold,  brawl,  and  rail  from  the 
sun-rising  to  sunset,  until  one  day  he  undertook  her  in  her  own 
language,  and  by  eight  of  the  clock  in  the  morning  so  silenced  her 
that  she  had  not  one  word  more  to  speak."  So  says  Terry,  with 
infinite  gusto. 

But  the  end  of  poor  Coryat's  travels  was  drawing  near.  He  began 
to  &il  in  health  and  spirits,  and  was  much  oppressed  with  the  idea 
that  he  would  never  get  back  safe  home  to  publish  his  trarels.  This 
was  his  chief  distress,  and  one  day  when  he  suddenly  swooned  away 
in  the  presence  of  Sir  Thomas  Rowe  and  Terry,  he  confided  to  them 
this  feeling  that  he  should  never  see  England  again.  Nor  did  he,  for 
in  spite  of  the  requests  of  Sir  Thomas  that  he  would  continue  with 
him,  he  determined  to  press  on  with  his  journey,  and  started  for  Surat 
There  he  died,  and  the  manner  of  his  death  was  in  this  wise  :  on 
his  arrival  at  Surat  he  found  some  English  who  had  just  arrived. 
They,  it  appears,  had  brought  out  with  them  some  sack,  and  this 
seems  to  have  caught  our  traveller's  fancy,  who  cried  out  ^'  Sacky 


igi  The  Getitlenians  Magazine. 

sack,  is  there  such  a  thing  as  sack  ?  I  pray  thee  give  me  some  sack." 
On  drinking  of  it,  though  moderately,  Terry  tells  us,  as  he  was  ever  a 
temperate  man,  it  so  aggravated  his  disorder  that  he  sickened  and 
died.  Sic  exit  Coryatus,  says  his  biographer,  who  seems  to  have  had 
a  sincere  regard  for  this  queer  cross-grained  bit  of  humanity.  He  was 
buried  at  Surat  "  under  a  little  monument,  like  one  of  those  that  are 
usually  made  in  our  churchyards." 

Such  was  the  end  of  "  Poor  Tom  Coryat,"  the  "  single-soled  and 
single-souled  "  traveller.  It  was  but  an  unhappy  end  after  all,  since 
he  never  lived  to  carry  out  the  purpose  which  had  led  him  on  so 
many  weary  miles.  Could  he  have  published  his  journal  he  would 
have  died  happy.  It  never  was  published.  His  papers  seem  to  have 
come  into  the  possession  of  Sir  Thomas  Rowe,  but  what  became  of 
the  greater  part  of  them  is  not  known.  This  was  a  real  loss.  No 
one  in  that  time,  perhaps  no  one  since,  except  Anquetil  Duplessis, 
the  Frenchman,  ever  saw  so  much  of  the  people  of  India  as  did 
( !oryat.  He  travelled  among  them  as  one  of  themselves,  wearing  their 
dress  and  speaking  their  tongue.  That  strange  Eastern  civilisation, 
then  in  its  full  splendour,  must  have  been  familiar  to  him.  It  would 
have  been  a  very  valuable  book,  had  it  ever  been  written,  for,  despite 
all  his  follies  and  eccentricities,  Coryat  was  a  keen  and  a  shrewd 
observer.  He  was  minutely  accurate  and  veracious,  so  far  as  we  can 
judge  from  his  first  book,  and  from  the  report  of  Terry,  who  probably 
had  read  his  journals.  As  a  traveller  he  had  that  restless  itch  for 
motion  which  has  distinguished  the  race  from  Ulysses  downward. 
Terr>'  says  that  he  was  "of  a  coveting  eye,  that  could  never  be 
satisfied  with  seeing,  though  he  has  seen  very  much,  and  who  took  as 
much  content  in  seeing  as  many  others  in  the  enjoyment  of  great  and 
rare  things."  In  character  he  was  "  of  inordinate  but  simple  vanity," 
easily  flattered,  and  easily  wounded  by  any  appearance  of  slight  or 
neglect.  Many  of  his  contemporaries  held  but  a  poor  opinion  of 
him.  Wood,  the  compiler  of  the  "Athenae  Oxonienses,"  always 
speaks  slightingly  of  him.  Taylor,  the  water-poet,  was  a  bitter 
enemy  of  his,  and  no  love  was  lost  between  the  two. 

Your  plenteous  want  of  wit  seems  wondrous  wittie, 

says  Taylor ;  and  this,  though  bitter,  is  not  wholly  unjust.  Kinder  and 
more  entirely  true  is  old  Fuller's  epigrammatic  saying,  "  First,  few 
would  be  found  to  call  him  Fool,  might  none  do  it  save  such  who  had 
as  much  Learning  as  himself.  Secondly,  if  others  have  more  Wisdom 
than  he,  thankfulnessc  and  humility  is  the  way  to  preserve  and 
increase  it" 


The   Photograph   Album 

A  PROLOGUE. 

N  vain  will  he  who  herein  looks 
Seek  for  great  men,  like  Ixjrds  and  Dukes, 
The  honest  phiz  of  Smith  or  Snooks 
Too  surely  has  betrayed  him  : 
No  flattery  tones  a  wrinkle  down, 
No  smirk  does  duty  for  a  frown, 
Black  is  not  white,  and  Brown  is  Brown 
As  plain  as  Nature  made  him. 

This  is  my  friend,  that  now  my  foe — 
For  thus  the  tide  will  ebb  and  flow — 


Those  dear  fond  eyes  could  even  go 

And  smile  upon  another  ; 
Such  tales  are  told  beneath  the  sun, 
This  loving  couple  fight  like  fun. 
That  gentle  youth  has  been  and  done 
A  bill,  and  his  own  brother. 

In  early  youth  'twas  understood 
The  premium  was  for  "  being  good  '' 
A  picture-book,  with  cuts  on  wood 

Of  birds  and  beasts  and  bogies ; 
And  so,  if  you  are  nice,  you  know. 
My  picture-book  to  you  I'll  show. 
Of  "  lions,"  brutes,  of  belle  and  beau. 

And  well  got-up  old  fogies. 


The  grave,  grim  knight  in  coat  of  mail. 
The  flowing  wig,  the  quaint  pig-tail. 
The  patch  and  powder,  all  entail. 

Like  parchment,  life's  gradations  ; 
Until  the  next  heir,  in  his  need. 
With  reckless  Charles  has  quite  agreed 
To  clear  out,  at  utnoost  speed. 

His  **  valuable  relations." 
Vol.  XL,  N.S.  1873. 


194  2^^  Ge7itle7Jtan' s  Magazine. 

Let  but  a  few  years  pass  away, 
And  see  how  fades  that  lady  gay  ! 
The  very  "  Hon  "  has  had  his  say, 

And  sunk  into  perdition  : 
There's  not  a  head  but  where  you  doubt — 
Who — ^when — or  what  it  is  about ; 
And  people  talk  of  bringing  out, 

Alas  !  a  new  edition. 

H.  C 


Making  the  Worst  of  it, 

BY  JOHN  BAKER  HOPKINS. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

SISTER   RUTH. 


IHE  Strand  is  one  of  the  best  known  and  busiest  streets 
in  the  world.  Most  travellers  as  well  as  natives  have 
seen  Somerset  House  and  the  two  churches  in  the  road- 
way,  and  have  marvelled  at  the  architectural  and  topo- 
graphical eccentricities  of  our  forefathers.  What  a  thoroughfare  I 
What  a  never  ending,  quick  flowing  stream  of  men  and  women 
from  early  morning  until  late  at  night!  How  many  persons  pass 
through  the  Strand  in  a  day?  Never  mind  about  the  figures. 
Day  by  day  humanity  enough  to  people  a  small  kingdom  uses  the 
broad  thoroughfere.  Stand  by  the  gloomy  entrance  to  Somerset 
House  and  ask  a  himdred  passers-by  to  direct  you  to  Winsor  Court. 
It  is  a  hundred  chances  to  one  that  even  one  in  the  hundred  will  be 
able  to  do  so,  though  the  court  is  just  opposite.  For  Winsor  Court  is  a 
blind  court,  and  blind  courts  are  only  known  to  the  poor  and  to  the 
police.  Probably  a  long  time  ago,  before  George  III.  was  King,  this 
Winsor  Court  was  inhabited  by  well-to-do  people  who  had  pews  in 
the  parish  church  and  who  dressed  as  grand  dames  when  they  had 
a  row  on  the  silvery  Thames  or  walked  in  the  Park.  The  no- 
thoroughfare  added  to  the  value  of  the  houses,  because  it  ensured 
comparative  freedom  from  noise.  Now  that  the  Strand  has  become  a 
market  only  the  blind  court  has  gone  down  and  become  the  abode 
of  the  poor.  We  pass  along  ten  yards  of  smutty,  yellowish  covered 
entrance,  and  we  are  in  Winsor  Court.  The  noise  of  the  rushing, 
crushing  traffic  of  the  Strand  strikes  hoarsely  and  confusedly  on  the 
ear,  and  as  if  it  were  afar  off. 

The  second  floor  of  the  grimiest  house  on  the  east  side  is  the 
abode  of  Mr.  Feckles.  Dirty  and  dismal  is  the  sitting  room.  Two 
or  three  broken  panes  are  patched  with  paper,  and  the  curtains  are 
a  dress  and  a  shawl,  the  shawl  being  Mrs.  Feckles'  only  out-door 
garment,  and  the  dress  is  long  past  the  stage  of  shabbiness  when  the 
boldest  pawner  would  dare  ofier  it  to  the  mildest  tempered  pawnbroker. 


•     •    ••.    •••    1.  «^  ^ 


1 96  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

The  blackness  of  the  torn  carpet  vies  with  the  blackness  of  the 
heavily  cobwebbed  ceiling.  A  woman  in  draggled  and  tattered 
clothes  is  huddled  on  a  worn  and  uneasy  looking  sofa.  Mr.  Feckles 
is  burning  cheap  tobacco  in  a  very  short  and  highly  coloured  clay. 

"  Dick,  don't  be  a  brute.  Get  me  a  little  of  anything.  I  have  not 
tasted  to-day,  and  I  could  cry  only  there's  no  tears  left  in  me." 

"  Then  why  don't  you  eat  ?  If  s  drink  and  drink  with  you  as  long 
as  you  are  awake."  ' 

"  You  are  a  wretch.  You  know  my  poor  delicate  stomach  turns  at 
the  thought  of  food ;  and  those  who  can't  eat  must  drink.  And  you 
are  the  one  to  preach  to  me  about  drink  !  Was  I  a  drinker  till  you 
dragged  me  to  the  gutter  ?  And  don't  you  drink  like  a  fish  with  a 
burning  fever  on  it  ?" 

"  There's  no  money  and  nothing  to  pawn." 

"  Then  why  don't  you  turn  out  and  get  money  ?  The  Lion  isn't  the 
only  theatre,  and  I  wish  that  old  lord  had  been  burning  before  he 
went  off  with  that  hussey  and  shut  up  the  Lion." 

"  I  have  no  money,  I  tell  you." 

"  That's  a  lie." 

"  You  had  better  mind  what  you  are  after,"  said  Dick,  in  an  angry 
voice. 

"  Hit  me,  do.  But  you  won't  twice  \vithout  getting  a  precious 
good  tit  for  your  tat." 

Mrs.  Feckles  rose  from  the  sofa  as  she  spoke,  and  emphasised  the 
word  "tat"  with  a  thump  on  the  table.  Dick  was  about  to  speak 
when  the  domestic  wrangle  was  disturbed  by  a  knock  at  the  door. 

"  It's  a  dun ;  but  you  may  answer  him,  Mr.  Feckles,  for  I  won't. 
No  more  of  your  dirty  work  for  me,  and  the  only  thanks  starving, 
lies,  and  bullying." 

The  knock  was  repeated. 

"  Come  in,"  shouted  Dick. 

When  the  door  opened,  Mr.  Feckles  was  startled,  dropped  his 
pipe,  and  exclaimed  "  Lord  Shamvock." 

"  How  are  you,  Dick  ?  I  want  a  word  with  you,  and  so  here  I 
am.  Mrs.  Feckles,  I  presume  ?  I  hope  I  shan't  be  in  the  way. for 
two  or  three  minutes  ?" 

**  Oh,  no,  my  lord  ;  but  we  are  not  fit  to  be  seen  by  any  one." 

**  Never  mind  about  the  place.  Dick  is  down  on  his  luck,  but  I 
shall  put  him  on  his  legs.  We  need  not  bother  your  wife's  ears  with 
our  business,  Dick." 

"  Certainly,  my  lord.     I  will  leave  you,"  said  Mrs.  Feckles. 

**  By  the  bye,  could  you  get  me  a  glass  of  sherry  ?     Here,  Dick, 


t  •  '   " 
•  •  ♦   • 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  197 

ask  your  wife  to  get  a  bottle/*   said  his  lordship,  holding  out  a 
sovereign.  * 

Mrs.  Feckles  dexterously  interposed  her  hand,  and  took  the 
money.     Dick  looked  savage,  and  Lord  Shamvock  laughed. 

"  Don't  let  him  have  the  change.  Ill  take  care  that  Dick  has 
enough  in  his  pocket  to  keep  out  the  devil.'* 

Mrs.  Feckles  bestowed  an  anxious,  longing  look  at  the  shawl 
curtain,  and  went  on  her  errand. 

"  Feckles,  do  you  know  that  the  Rose  is  married  ?*' 

Dick  shook  his  head. 

"  Why  don't  you  answer?" 

"No,  my  lord." 

"  Well,  she  is,  and  the  scoundrel  who  passed  for  her  &ther  is  her 
husband,  and  between  them  they  have  done  me  out  of  ;^8oo.  The 
jewels  that  cost  me  over  ;^3oo  they  have  pawned  for  a  third  of  their 
value,  and  the  night  before  the  bolt  they  had  ;^5oo  in  banknotes.  I 
mean  to  catch  them.     What  sort  of  man  is  the  sham  father?'* 

"  Tall  and  thin,  and  lushy  about  the  face,**  replied  Dick. 

"  What  coloured  hair  ?" 

"  Brown,  with  a  good  deal  of  grey." 

"  Any  whiskers  ?" 

"  No,  my  lord,  a  clean  shave." 

"  Stoops  a  little  and  eyes  blue.     Eh,  Dick  ?*' 

"  Ves,  my  lord.** 

"  Any  mark  about  the  face  ?" 

"  Red  mark  on  one  cheek,  like  a  scar." 

"  The  villain  !  But  I  will  have  it  out  of  him.  Dick,  that  fellow's 
name  is  Boliver,  Frank  Boliver.  There's  fifty  pounds  for  you  if  you 
can  spot  him." 

Dick  shook  his  head. 

"  Think  it  over,  and  call  on  me  to-morrow  night  You  may  hit 
upon  a  clue.  Here  is  a  couple  of  quid  on  account  Don*t  breathe  a 
word  of  what  I  have  told  you,  or  I  shall  not  stand  your  firiend.  Of 
course  you  will  keep  it  dark  from  your  wife.*' 

"  I  won't  tell  her  anything.'* 

"  That  won't  do,  Dick.  When  a  woman  thinks  there  is  a  secret 
she  will  worm  it  out  Tell  her  a  lie  with  a  dash  of  truth  in  it.  Say  I 
came  to  ask  you  about  the  Rose,  and  that  I  am  going  to  get  you  a 
situation.     There  is  no  lie  so  safe  as  a  half  truth.** 

Mrs.  Feckles  was  heard  in  the  passage,  and  she  was  not  alone.  She 
was  saying  something  to  somebody,  and  the  somebody  answered  with 
a  wild  and  scornful  laugh. 


198  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

"  What* s  the  row,  Dick  ?" 

"It's  my" 

"  Why,  father,  she  wanted  me  to  wait  outside  because  )rou  had  a 
lord  with  you.     I  am  not  afi:aid  of  a  lord.* 

A  girl,  tall,  pale,  with  lustrous  flashing  eyes,  and  a  bright  burning 
flush  on  either  cheek.  The  hood  of  her  doak  thrown  ofi^  and  her 
hair  very  long,  dark  brown  and  unkempt  Her  doak,  of  the 
coarsest  serge,  is  long  and  broad  enough  to  fall  in  heavy  folds. 
Round  her  waist  a  thick  rope  knotted  at  the  end,  and  reaching  to  her 
feet  Round  her  neck  a  thinner  cord,  to  which  a  cross  is  attached. 
The  delicacy  of  the  girl  strongly  and  painfully  contrasts  with  the 
rough  attire,  and  her  voice  is  full  and  musical  as  if  she  were  not 
weak,  but  hale. 

''WTio  is  this,  Dick?" 

The  girl  replied. 

"  I  am  Sister  Ruth.     He  is  my  father,  but  she  is  not  my  mother." 

'*  I  am  sure  I  have  tried  my  utmost  to  be  a  mother  to  her,"  said 
Mrs.  Feckles. 

The  girl  laughed.  A  low  but  ringing,  half  scornful,  half  pitying  laugh. 

"Tried  to  be  my  mother  !  Who  could  be  my  mother  but  my 
mother  ?  I  never  saw  her  with  my  eyes.  Oh  mother  dear,  let  me 
go  to  you,  I  am  so  weary.*' 

"  Poor  girl,"  said  Lord  Shamvock. 

"  Not  poor,  yet  I  am  poor.  A  bride  and  a  widow,  and  a  widow 
and  a  bride.  AVhen  I  am  very  good  the  angels  bring  my  mother  to 
me  while  I  sleep.  Though  I  never  saw  her  with  my  eyes,  I  know  her 
from  all  the  angels,  and  I  sleep  on  her  bosom,  and  she  is  my  mother, 
and  I  am  her  little  baby,  and  I  am  so  happy." 

"  It  is  sad,"  whispered  Lord  Shamvock.  Perhaps  for  the  first  time 
that  hard,  cruel,  corrupt  heart  felt  unselfish  sorrow. 

"  No,  that  is  not  sad,  that  is  joy.  Oh,  mother,  nurse  me  to-night 
But  it  is  sad  that  in  all  the  years  and  in  all  the  nights  I  can  never 
bring  my  father  to  my  mother.  I  cannot  tell  her  about  him.  I  love 
liim,  but  I  never  think  of  him  when  I  am  with  her — ^never,  never, 


never." 


She  kissed  her  fether. 

"See  me  to-morrow,  Dick.  Good  day,  Mrs.  Feckles.  God  bless 
you,  my  girl." 

Lord  Shamvock  had  shaken  hands  with  Ruth,  and  was  at  the  door 
when  she  exclaimed  "  Stop,  my  lord,  I  must  speak  to  you." 

She  took  him  to  the  window,  and  holding  up  her  hand  to  the  lig^t 
spoke  in  a  whisper. 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  I99 

"  You  can  see  through  it.  The  cage  is  frail.  The  spirit  will  soon 
be  free." 

She  put  his  hand  upon  her  heart 

"  It  beats  so  hard  and  fast  The  spirit  would  be  free,  and  will 
not  let  me  rest*' 

She  put  his  hand  to  her  head. 

"  I  feel  it  there,  too.  It  is  torture  sometimes,  and  I  know  the  end 
will  come  soon.  And  then  my  father  will  be  alone.  My  mother 
will  never  let  me  come  to  him  to  comfort  him.  Will  you  give  him  a 
little,  ever  so  little  ?  " 

"  He  shall  not  want" 

"  I  shall  pray  for  you.** 

Lord  Shamvock  was  leaving. 

**  Oh,  my  mission,  my  mission !    My  lord,  hear  me  ! " 

"  Don't,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Fcckles. 

"  The  fire  bums,  and  I  must  speak.  My  lord,  when  you  go  to 
Court  tell  the  Queen  and  the  lords  that  all  men  are  equal ;  that  the 
land  is  the  people's,  and  that  their  misery  has  killed  Sister  Ruth. 
The  rich  ones  of  the  earth  heap  up  riches,  and  yet  call  them- 
selves Christians." 

Ruth  walked  up  to  Lord  Shamvock,  and  said  in  his  ear  "  I  shall 
pray  for  you,  and  when  my  mother  has  me,  and  will  not  let 
me  come  back  again,  you  will  not  forget  my  father." 

She  lifted  his  hand  and  kissed  it,  and  as  she  did  so  a  single 
scalding' tear  fell  on  it 

CHAPTER  XIL 

ALIAS   SIMPSON.    . 

"  If  1  had  to  begin  life  again  I  would  do  very  differently."  So 
think  most  men  in  the  hour  of  regretful  despondency — those  who 
succeed  as  well  as  those  who  fail,  and  perhaps  the  successful  are  the 
more  discontented  with  their  conduct  The  man  who  wins  the  race 
finds  the  prize  somewhat  disappointing.  He  imagines  that  if  he  had 
done  this,  or  left  that  undone,  success  would  have  been  more  com- 
plete and  more  fruitful  of  happiness.  Granting  that  the  paths  you 
did  not  try  would  have  led  you  to  the  untried  earthly  paradise  for 
which  you  sigh,  you  would  miss  them  even  if  you  had  to  begin  life 
over  again.  Unbought  experience  is  worthless.  It  is  the  same  with 
the  nation  as  with  the  man.  History  may  be  written  for  our  instruc- 
tion, but  we  only  read  it  for  our  amusement  or  to  garnish  a  contro- 
versial  speech.      Therefore,   history  repeats   itself.     So   with   the 


200  The  Gaitlemans  Mamzine. 


'^> 


individual.  By  training  nmc  h  may  be  done  to  improve  the  chances 
of  a  virtuous  and  happy  career,  but  every  man  has  to  walk  alone 
and  to  pay  for  his  experience  with  suffering. 

Besides,  what  prevents  you  beginning  life  again  ?  Too  old  ? 
Faugh  !  It  is  not  how  many  years  you  have  lived,  but  how  many 
years  you  will  yet  live.  You  may  do  something  for  the  riches  you 
covet.  The  difficulty  is  that  you  will  not  begin  life  afresh.  Vou 
will  not  change  your  name,  your  associates,  the  place  that  knows 
you,  and  maybe  your  country. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Simpson,  of  No.  73,  Belitha  Road,  Laurel  Park, 
Holloway.  They  have  been  for  some  weeks  at  that  lodging.  Hol- 
loway  is  not  a  remote  village.  The  doggerel  prophet  told  a  bygone 
generation  that  England's  fame  would  ne'er  go  down  till  Highgate 
stood  in  London  town.  The  Union  Jack  floats  as  high  and  proudly 
as  ever,  yet  Highgate  is  part  of  the  Great  City  of  Burnt  Ckiy,  and 
Holloway  lies  betwixt  the  heart  and  the  environs  thereof.  \'et 
though  living  in  the  great  city,  no  one  suspects  that  Mr.  and  Mrs* 
Simpson  are  not  what  they  were  a  few  weeks  ago.  No  one  has 
observed  that  Mr.  Simpson  was  Mr.  Boliver  and  Mrs.  Simpson  the 
Rose  of  the  Lion  Theatre. 

PVank  had  resolved  to  live  as  an  alias  for  a  year  or  so,  and  Rose 
was  content  to  live  anywhere  and  to  be  called  by  any  name  pro- 
\*ided  Frank  was  with  her.  But  both  were  disquieted.  Rose  knew 
not  why  her  husband  shunned  society  and  seemed  to  fear  some 
terrible  catastrophe.  Frank  was  restless  and  quickly  repented  his 
resolution.  If  he  loved  his  wife  at  all,  it  was  not  all  in  all,  and  his 
heart  yearned  for  the  noise,  the  bustle,  and  the  excitement  of  the 
whirling  world  he  had  forsaken.  He  became  irritable  and  morose. 
The  patience  of  his  wife  provoked  him.  Perhaps  if  she  had  been 
angr}-  or  passionate  he  might  have  somewhat  curbed  his  temper,  but 
her  forbearance  was  a  stinging  reproach  that  infuriated  him. 

"  Rose,  I've  something  to  tell  you  that  you  won't  like  to  hear,  but 
you  must  hear  it  and  bear  it  too.'* 

"  Oh,  Frank,  are  you  in  any  danger?" 

"  None  whatever,  except  of  being  moped  to  death  in  this  hateful 
solitary  cell." 

"  If  you  don't  like  the  place  and  it  is  dull,  dear,  we  can  move." 

"  Now,  Rose,  once  for  all  stop  your  aggravating  innocence,  for  it 
does  not  impose  on  me.  What  is  the  use  of  moving  from  one 
oii      iblc  solitude  to  another  ?     I^ok  here,  whether  it  pleases  you 

the  other  thing,  I  have  done  ^ith  hide  and  seek  after  this  week. 
'       going  into  society." 


Makino  the  Woi'st  of  it.  201 

"  Very  well,  Frank.     I  thought  there  was  something  that  '* 


"What  you  refer  to  is  settled,  but  trust  you  for  stirring  up  an 
unpleasantness.     No,  I  am  free  to  go  where  I  choose." 

"  Do  what  you  will,  Frank,  so  long  as  you  are  happy  and  love 
ine!" 

"  Your  yea-nay  put-on  meekness  doesn't  increase  my  love,  I  can 
tell  you.  However,  you  are  my  lawful  wife  and  I  must  put  up  with 
some  of  it ;  but  I  am  not  to  sacrifice  the  whole  of  my  days  to  your 
whims.  You  must  keep  dark.  You  will  stop  here  as  Mrs.  Simpson. 
When  I  come  here,  which  will  be  pretty  often,  I  shall  be  Mr. 
Simpson,  a  commercial  traveller." 

"  Frank,  I  feel  it ;  I  can't  help  feeling  it.  I  am  your  wife,  and  I 
am  to  be  as  if  I  were  not  your  wife." 

**  You  may  sneer  and  snarl,  but  I  am  not  going  to  be  moped  to 
death  to  gratify  your  stupid  selfish  whim." 

"  That  is  not  fair  to  me.  I  will  bear  degradation — any  degradation 
— for  your  sake." 

"  I  suppose  you  would  be  charmed  to  hear  that  Lord  Shamvock 
said  Rose  Dulmaine  took  jewels  and  money  from  him  for  her  hus- 
band, Mr.  Frank  Boliver  ?  You  would  be  delighted  to  see  me  kicked 
out  of  society." 

"  I  was  to  be  acknowledged  as  your  wife  when  your  uncle  died^ 
but  now  I  am  to  wait  till  somebody  else  dies.  You  will  never 
acknowledge  me  till  I  am  dead." 

"  Perhaps'  not  then.  I  might  have  *  Simpson'  cut  on  your  tomb- 
stone." 

That  cruel  sneer  was  too  heavy  an  addition  to  the  weight  of 
sorrow,  and  Rose  cried. 

"  AVhat  a  fool  you  are.  You  aggravate  me  till  I  don't  know  what 
I  am  saying,  and  then  you  take  every  word  as  serious.  I  am  not  a 
liar.  When  my  uncle  dies  you  shall  be  my  acknowledged  wife,  and, 
as  for  Shamvock,  I'll  give  him  a  hint  that  if  he  dares  to  breathe  your 
name  he  shall  be  taught  that  I  can  pull  a  trigger." 

The  somewhat  kinder  tone  of  Frank  did  not  stop  the  crying. 

"  Come,  Rose,  leave  off,  for  there  is  no  need  for  tears.  I  shall  think 
it  over  for  a  week,  but  if  you  bother  me  like  this,  I  shall  bolt  at  once 
and  not  be  in  a  hurry  to  come  back." 

In  the  morning  Frank  was  looking  over  the  newspaper,  while 
Rose  was  out  marketing.     He  lighted  on  the  following : — 

"  Mr.  Frank  Boliver.  Any  one  giving  information  of  the  address 
of  Mr.    Frank   Boliver  will  be   handsomely  rewarded.     Apply  to 


202  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

Messrs.  Doloski  and  Gouger,  Private  Detective  Office,  Surrey  Street, 

Strand." 

"  Doloski  and  Gouger !  Who  has  dared  do  this  ?  It  will  be  a 
dear  da/s  work  for  somebody.  Not  long  ago  this  would  have 
alarmed  me ;  but  now  my  conscience  is  free  as  a  baby's  so  far  as  the 
law  is  concerned.  Doloski  and  Gouger*s  client  shall  pay  for  this. 
The  answer  will  be  quicker  than  pleasant." 

The  wife  came  in  and  saw  Frank  putting  on  his  boots. 

"  I  am  going  to  town,  Rose.     I  shall  be  back  to  dinner." 

" Going  to  town ?    Is  anything  the  matter? 

"  Nothing  that  hurts  me,  Rose.  I  will  tell  you  about  it  when  I 
return." 

Frank  was  in  a  good  humour,  for  he  kissed  his  wife  on  leaving. 
Rose  was  pleased  and  puzzled. 

"  I  know  he  would  always  be  kind  if  he  were  not  in  trouble ;  and 
if  he  were  kind  I  could  almost  forget  the  past." 

Then  Rose,  after  much  mental  guessing,  concluded  that  the*  rich 
relation  was  dead  or  dying.  No  more  concealment.  No  more  false 
names.     She  would  be  his  wife  before  the  world. 

Rose  would  be  less  sanguine  if  she  were  older.  Waiting  for  the 
shoes  of  the  dead  is  dreary  work.  The  rich  relation  has  the  best 
medical  care  and  lives  long.  When  he  dies,  the  inheritor  of  his 
wealth  cannot  enjoy  it  as  he  would  have  done  ten  years  before. 
Perhaps  he  does  not  enjoy  it  at  all,  for  a  dead  man*s  shoes  are  apt  to 
blister  tlie  feet  and  press  the  corns  of  the  new  wearer.  No  wonder 
the  poor  man  craves  for  riches,  for  money  would  do  great  things  for 
him.  No  wonder  the  rich  man  murmurs,  for  wealth  can  do  so  little 
for  him.  Having  the  attainable,  we  have  strength  and  leisure  to 
sigh  and  pine  for  the  unattainable.  When  we  are  too  old  to  feed 
upon  dreams  we  turn  to  philosophy,  and  that  soon  fails.  There  remains 
religion.  Happy  the  man  whose  faith  is  to  him  as  the  very  substance 
of  the  things  hoped  for  ! 

WTien  Frank  arrived  at  the  offices  of  Messrs.  Doloski  and  Gouger 
a  youth  informed  him  that  the  partners  were  in. 

"  WTiat  name,  sir  T 

"  Simpson." 

\\Tien  he  was  shown  into  the  private  room,  Mr.  Doloski  looked 
«p  for  a  moment,  and  then  resumed  his  writing.  Mr.  Gouger  asked 
him  to  be  seated. 

"  What  can  we  do  for  you,  Mr.  Simpson  ?  " 
"I  have  called  about  the  advertisement  respecting  Mr.  Frank 
loKver." 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  203 

"  Very  kind  of  you.     Do  you  know  his  address  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  I  presume  you  will  favour  us  with  the  information  we  require. 
It  will  do  Mr.  Boliver  no  harm." 

"  What  about  the  handsome  reward  ?  " 

"  If  we  get  the  address  from  your  information  there  is  a  ten  pound 
note  for  you." 

"  Not  enough,"  said  Frank. 

"  What  do  you  wan^,  Mr.  Simpson  ?  " 

"  I  will  do  it  for  twenty." 

"  What  do  you  say,  Doloski  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Gouger. 

"  Mr.  Simpson  has  a  big  idea,  but  we  may  risk  it" 

"  Give  me  a  contract  for  the  twenty  pounds." 

"  Certainly,  if  you  doubt  our  word." 

"  I  do  not  doubt  your  word,  gentlemen,  but  in  a  matter  of  business 
I  prefer  a  bond." 

Mr.  Gouger  wrote  a  letter  promising  to  pay  the  twenty  pounds,  and 
handed  it  to  Frank,  who  looked  over  it,  folded  it,  and  put  it  in  his 
pocket. 

"  If  I  bring  you  face  to  face  with  Mr.  Frank  Boliver  you  will  be 
satisfied  ?  " 

"  Perfectly,"  said  Mr.  Gouger. 

**  Gentlemen,  I  am  Mr.  Frank  Boliver." 

Mr.  Gouger  looked  at  Frank  and  then  at  liis  partner. 

"  I  don't  see  the  joke,  Mr.  Simpson." 

Mr.  Doloski  left  his  desk,  and  bolted  the  door. 

"  It's  not  a  joke,  Gouger.     That  is  Boliver,  I  swear." 

"Well,  gentlemen,  you  have  caught  your  Tartar;  what  are  you 
going  to  do  with  him  ?  " 

"  Detain  you  till  our  client  comes." 

"  Detain  me  ?  Keep  me  in  custody,  in  unlawful  custody.  That 
will  cost  you  more  than  twenty  pounds.  Pay  the  reward,  gentlemen, 
and  unbolt  the  door." 

The  partners  conferred  together,  and  appeared  uncertain  as  to  the 
course  they  should  pursue. 

"  Come,  gentlemen,  this  won't  do.  Am  I  your  prisoner?  If  not, 
I  am  off.  Yqu  can  pay  the  reward  another  day.  I  am  satisfied  with 
your  written  contract" 

"  From  your  coming  here  we  feel  sure  there  is  a  mistake  which 
concerns  you  as  well  as  our  client  to  have  cleared  up." 

"  Who  is  your  client  ?  " 

"  Mr.  James  Stot" 


I 

204  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

"  What,  Jem  Stot !  A  model  money  lender.  He  takes  the  cream, 
but  does  not  chisel  you  out  of  the  skim  milk.  What  does  Stot  want 
with  me?" 

"  He  holds  some  bills  of  yours." 

"  He  does  not." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Boliver,  he  holds  some  bills  bearing  your  endorsement, 
and  for  which  you  have  had  the  coin." 

"  I  tell  you  there  is  not  a  bit  of  stamped  paper  out  with  my  name 
on  it." 

"  We  will  be  open  with  you,"  said  Mr.  Doloski ;  "  Mr.  Stot  has 
some  paper  on  which  your  name  is  written,  and  the  cash  has  been 
given  to  Lord  Shamvock  on  your  account." 

"  Shamvock  !  This  is  news  indeed !  Well,  gentlemen,  I  have 
not  had  the  money,  and  my  name  has  been  forged  ! " 

**  Lord  Shamvock  is  your  friend  ?  " 

"  No,  he  is  my  enemy.  I  have  been  fleeced  by  him,  and  lately 
he  tried  to  do  w^orse  than  fleece  me." 

"  What  was  his  game  ?  " 

"  He  gave  me  a  three  hundred  pound  bill  to  discount,  and  lent 
me  fifty  pounds  out  of  the  cash.  When  it  was  nearly  due  he  told  me 
that  there  was  something  wrong  about  the  acceptance,  and  that  I 
was  in  jeopardy,  for  I  might  not  be  able  to  prove  my  innocence. 
That  bill  is  paid  and  burnt." 

"Was  the  acceptance  Duncan,  Forbes,  and  Co.  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  He  has  stuffed  another  of  that  lot  into  our  client.  Do  you 
object  to  seeing  Mr.  Stot  ?  " 

"  Object !     I  must  see  him.     \Miere  is  he  to  be  found  ?  " 

"  At  Russell  Square." 

"  Let  us  call  on  him." 

"  Certainly,  Mr.  Boliver,"  said  Mr.  Doloski.  "  I  will  go  with  Mr. 
Boliver." 

"  I  shan't  bolt,"  said  Frank. 

Mr.  Gouger  laughed  and  shook  him  by  the  hand.  It  would  require 
extraordinary  sharpness  and  agility  to  bolt  from  Doloski. 

Mr.  Stot  listened  to  the  explanations  of  Mr.  Doloski  with  what  is 
called  an  unmoved  countenance,  and  in  these  days  command  over 
the  facial  muscles  is  deemed  an  heroic  achievement. 

"  What  you  tell  me  is  not  news,  or  I  should  not  have  advertised  for 
Mr.  Boliver.  If  you  want  a  chase,  shout,  blow  your  horn,  and  let 
your  fox  know  you  are  after  him ;  but  if  you  want  to  snare  and  catch 
your  fox,  don't  advertise  your  game.  I  knew  that  Mr.  Boliver  was 
innocent." 


Making  the  Worst  of  it,  205 

**  You  want  me  to  swear  to  the  bills  being  forgeries.  I  am 
ready." 

"  My  dear  sir,"  said  Mr.  Stot,  "that  was  my  plan,  but  it  won't  do. 
Shamvock  will  swear  you  are  the  guilty  party,  and  in  proof  of"  it  he 
will  bring  up  the  forged  bill  you  discounted,  shared,  and  paid.  That 
would  not  answer  my  purpose,  and  would  compromise  you." 

**  I  never  thought  of  that,"  exclaimed  Frank.  "  The  villain  may  be 
able  to  disgrace  and  ruin  me." 

'*  Could  not  one  or  two  witnesses  listen  to  a  conversation  between 
Mr.  Boliver  and  Shamvock?"  suggested  Mr.  Doloski. 

"  No,  my  friend,"  said  Mr.  Stot.  "  I  have  a  safer  plan.  When  do 
you  start  for  New  York?" 

"  To-morrow  night,"  said  Mr.  Doloski. 

**  How  long  will  you  be  there  ?" 

**  Three  or  four  weeks." 

"  Take  Mr.  Boliver  with  you." 

**  Certainly." 

**  How  will  that  help  me?"  asked  Frank. 

"  Leave  it  to  me.  Do  as  I  tell  you,  and  I  pledge  you  my  word 
that  I  will  ruin  Shamvock  and  get  you  out  of  the  fix." 

"There  is  one  difficulty.  The  fact  is,  I  am  just  now  without 
money." 

"  I  will  find  the  money.  Don't  thank  me.  Shamvock  shall  pay 
the  expenses." 

It  was  arranged  that  Frank  should  go  with  Mr.  Doloski. 

"  By  the  way,  your  going  must  be  a  secret.  The  whole  success 
depends  upon  that.  I  have  an  appointment  with  Shamvock  here  at 
seven.  He  will  be  out  at  that  hour.  Call  on  him  then,  see  his  man 
l^wker,  and  leave  word  that  you  will  call  again  in  a  few  days." 

Frank  left  with  Doloski. 

"  Ah,"  said  Mr.  Stot,  "  I'll  pot  you,  my  lord.  The  old  business 
may  be  vulgar,  and  it  does  not  pay  like  finance,  but  it  is  good  fun  to 
trap  an  artful  thief  like  Shamvock." 

CHAPTER  Xni. 

UNFORESEEN   TROUBLES. 

Frank  did  not  tell  his  wife  where  he  was  going  or  when  he 
would  return.  He  said  to  himself  that  it  would  be  unfair  to  Stot  to 
do  so ;  but  the  real  motive  for  concealment  was  jealousy.  He  loved 
Rose  too  well  to  be  indifferent,  well  enough  to  be  cruelly  distrustful, 
and  not  well  enough  to  be  nobly  and  wisely  trustful.     He  told  her 


2o6  The  Ge7itlemaii s  Magazine. 

that  there  were  family  reasons  for  his  departure,  and  that  he  might 
not  return  in  a  week  or  a  month.  Rose  was  startled,  grieved,  and 
rebellious,  and,  to  reconcile  her,  Frank  declared  solemnly  that  it  was- 
necessary  for  his  honour  and  happiness  to  leave  her  for  a  week  or 
two,  and  that  on  his  return  he  hoped  he  should  be  able  to  acknow- 
ledge their  marriage.  So  Rose  let  him  go,  he  promising  to  write  to 
her  frequently. 

The  next  morning  a  letter  came.  It  was  afTectionate  in  tone,  but 
the  news  was  disappointing.  Frank  said  he  should  not  write  again 
until  he  announced  his  coming  home,  because  it  was  necessary  he 
should  keep  his  whereabouts  secret  In  a  few  weeks  she  should  know 
all,  and  then  she  would  not  reproach  him.  He  enclosed  a  bank 
bill  for  fifty  pounds  that  she  could  use  if  she  wanted  more  money 
before  his  return. 

Rose  was  crying  when  Mrs.  Gibbs,  the  landlady,  came  to  remove 
the  breakfast  things. 

"  Dear  me,  mum,  what  it  is  the  matter  ?  I  hope  there  is  no  bad 
news  from  the  good  gentleman." 

Rose  shook  her  head  ;  but  Mrs.  Gibbs  had  her  suspicions,  which 
she  freely  communicated  to  her  next  door  neighbour  and  to  Mr. 
Gibbs. 

"  I  always  said  there  was  something  queer  about  them.  The  way 
he  used  to  go  on  at  her  is  what  no  honest  married  woman  would 
stand  from  the  finest  man  that  ever  put  one  leg  before  the  other.  He 
will  not  turn  up  again,  and  she  knows  it,  and  serve  the  creature 
right.  And  a  pretty  condition  he  leaves  her  in.  But  Mr.  Simpson 
don't  saddle  his  cast-offs  on  Martha  Gibbs." 

The  neighbour  agreed  with  the  irate  landlady.  Mr.  Gibbs  did  not, 
and  was  bullied  for  siding  with  "a  creature"  against  his  wife. 

"If  Simpson  don't  turn  up  in  a  week,  which  I'd  swear  is  not  his 
name,  I  shall  put  a  question  or  two  that  will  take  some  of  the  bounce 
out  of  her." 

On  Saturday  morning  Mrs.  Gibbs  brought  up  the  week's  bill  with 
the  breakfast  Rose  went  into  the  bedroom,  which  adjoined  the 
sitting-room,  to  get  the  money.  She  could  not  put  the  key  into  the 
lock,  and  when  she  pulled  the  drawer  it  opened,  but  there  was  no 
money.  The  gold,  the  bank  notes,  and  the  bank  bill  were  gone. 
She  turned  everything  out  of  the  drawer,  but  there  was  no  money. 
She  called  for  Mrs.  Gibbs. 

"  Well,  mum." 

Rose  as  well  as  she  could  explained  to  her  what  had  happened. 

"  Oh !  indeed,  mum.    You  may  be  mighty  clever,  but  it  won't  do. 


Making  tlie  Worst  of  it.  207 

and  shan't  do ;  and  I'll  let  you  know  the  consequences  of  accusing 
an  honest  woman,  that  you  are  not  worthy  to  breathe  with  in  the  same 
air,  of  robbery.  Prove  your  words  before  you  are  a  minute  older,  or 
1*11  see  what  the  police  can  do." 

With  that  she  screamed  for  Mr.  Gibbs,  who  immediately  appeared 
on  the  scene. 

"  What  did  I  tell  you  about  this  creatiu'e  ?  Instead  of  paying  me 
my  honest  money,  she  turns  round  and  says  we  have  robbed  her  of  a 
fortune  out  of  her  drawer.  But  she  don't  get  off  with  that  gag,  and 
will  learn  as  soon  as  look  -at  me  that  the  wisdom  teeth  of  Martha 
Gibbs  is  cut  ever  so  long,  and  quite  full  growed  enough  to  be  a 
match  for  any  hussey." 

"  I  did  not  accuse  any  one,  sir,"  said  Rose.  "  I  only  told  Mrs. 
Gibbs  that  the  money  was  gone." 

"  And  who  could  have  took  it,  unless  there  has  been  fellows  in  here 
unbeknown  to  me  ? "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Gibbs. 

"  You  need  not  insult  me,"  said  Rose.     "  I  will  pay  your  bill." 

"  And  go  as  soon  as  you  like,  we  being  quite  willing  to  cry  quits 
for  the  week's  notice." 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Gibbs,  "  if  Mrs.  Simpson  has  lost  any  money 
we  ought  to  make  inquiries." 

"  If  your  grandmother,"  said  Mrs.  Gibbs,  scornfully.  "  Why  don't 
she  send  for  the  police  ?  Why  don't  she  send  for  her  husband,  if 
there  be  such  a  party  ?  " 

Rose  was  helpless.  How  could  she,  living  under  a  false  name, 
take  any  steps  to  recover  her  money  ?  She  felt  the  taunt  about  her 
husband,  for  it  was  true  that  she  could  not  send  to  him. 

"  I  will  pay  your  bill,  Mrs.  Gibbs." 

"  And  go,  mum  !" 

Go !  How  would  she  get  Frank's  letters  ?  How  would  Frank 
find  her  when  he  retiuned  ?    But  Mrs.  Gibbs  was  obdurate. 

"  I  will  go ;  but  you  will  let  me  call  for  letters,  and  you  will  give 
my  new  address  to  Mr.  Simpson  if  he  comes  home  sooner  than 
expected  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  said  Mr.  Gibbs. 

"  No,  I  won't  I  won't  take  in  no  letters,  no  address,  and  no 
nothing.  Pay  your  bill,  and  let  me  see  the  back  of  you  and  the  last 
of  you.  And  you  needn't  be  fussing  about  Mr.  Simpson,  or  whatever 
his  name  is,  for  you  have  had  your  pennyworth  out  of  him,  and  he 
won't  trouble  you  again." 

Rose  had  a  few  shillings  in  her  purse,  and  she  had  to  provide 
money  for  Mrs.  Gibbs  and  money  for  her  food.     She  made  up  her 


2o8  The  Gentleman  s  Magazifu. 

mind  to  pawn  her  watch  and  chain.  She  dressed  quickly  and  went 
out,  and  walked  until  she  came  to  a  pawnbroker's.  Frank  had  often 
pawned ;  but  it  was  her  first  experience,  and  she  was  timid  and 
ashamed.  A  man  in  dingy  shirt  sleeves  asked  her  what  he  could 
show  her.  She  took  the  case  out  of  her  pocket  and  handed  it  to 
him. 

**  Can't  you  see  this  is  the  selling  department?  Pledges  aint 
took  at  this  counter.  You  must  go  round  the  comer,  and  the  first 
door  you  come  to." 

Rose  went,  and  entered  one  of  the  pawning  boxes,  which  are  so 
constructed  that  the  customers  cannot  see  each  other.  Pawning  is 
not  unlawful,  but  it  is  a  confession  of  poverty,  and  the  most  hardened 
sinner  would  blush  at  being  seen  at  a  pawnbroker  s.  The  customers 
sneak  in  and  out  as  if  they  were  thieving. 

*'  Well,  mum,  what  do  you  want  on  this  lot  ?' 

*'  As  much  as  you  will  give  me,  please." 

**  That  aint  our  way  of  business  ;  you  must  name  the  figure." 

Rose  knew  that  the  watch  and  chain  had  cost  twenty-five  guineas, 
and  reflected  that  Frank  might  not  return  for  a  fortnight  or  even 
three  weeks.     She  asked  for  fifteen  pounds. 

"  Why  don't  you  say  fifty  at  once  ?  We  don't  mind  how  much  we 
oblige  such  an  uncommon  pleasant  lady ;  but  I  tell  you  what  we  can 
do,''  continued  the  man,  as  he  threw  the  case  on  the  counter,  "  if  you 
want  to  buy  a  lot  superior  to  this,  we  can  accommodate  you  for  a  five 
pound  note." 

"  What  will  you  lend  ?" 

"  What's  the  good  of  wasting  time  on  a  Saturday  ">  We  can  do  five 
on  the  lot." 

**  That  is  so  little." 

The  man  took  up  the  case,  examined  the  watch,  weighed  the  chain, 
and  tested  it. 

"  It's  good  enough  so  far  as  it  goes,  and  Fll  make  it  seven  ten.  If 
that  won't  do  you  must  try  another  shop." 

Rose  agreed  to  take  the  seven  pounds  ten. 

"  What  name  and  address  ?'' 

"  Mrs.  Simpson,  Belitha  Villas." 

"Ann  Simpson,  No.  7,  Belitha  Villas,'' muttered  the  man,  as  he 
made  out  the  ticket.  Rose  took  the  seven  pounds  ten,  less  the  charge 
for  the  ticket,  and  left  the  shop. 

She  searched  for  lodgings.  At  most  houses  they  only  let  to 
gentlemen.  At  some  they  refused  her,  afler  a  conversation.  At 
one  place  they  asked  for  a  reference,  and  Rose  had  no  reference  to 


Making  the  Worst  of  it,  209 

give.  She  walked  the  whole  length  of  the  Caledonian  Road,  until 
slie  came  to  King's  Cross,  and  there,  in  a  dull  street  opposite  the 
station,  she  hired  some  parlours,  paying  a  week  in  advance,  and  an 
extra  rent  under  the  circumstances.  When  settling  with  Mrs.  Gibbs, 
she  gave  her  half-a-sovereign,  and  that  worthy  person  promised  to 
take  in  her  letters,  and,  if  her  husband  returned  without  writing,  to 
inform  him  of  her  new  address.  This  relieved  Rose  of  a  pressing 
anxiety,  and  she  promised  Mrs.  Gibbs  a  handsome  present  when 
lier  husband  came  home. 

Every  morning  she  was  to  call  at  the  HoUoway  lodging  and  inquire 
if  there  was  a  letter,  or  if  he  had  called.  That  was  the  arrangement 
with  Mrs.  Gibbs.  Tired  in  body  and  mind,  Rose  went  to  bed  early, 
but  it  was  hours  before  she  slept  Now  that  the  excitement  of  tlje 
day  was  over  she  began  to  think  about  the  robbery,  and  wondered 
whether  Frank  would  blame  her  for  being  careless.  Then  her 
thoughts  were  engrossed  by  Frank.  Where  was  he  ?  When  would 
he  return  ?  Would  he  then  acknowledge  her  as  his  wife  ?  Presently,  in 
spite  of  her  utmost  efforts,  the  remembrance  of  home,  of  her  child- 
hood and  her  girlhood,  filled  her  mind.  Her  solitude  became  almost 
too  oppressive  for  endurance.  She  longed  for  the  daylight,  and 
when  the  morning  twilight  gladdened  her  eyes  she  fell  into  a  deep 
sleep,  and  did  not  awake  until  the  church  bells  were  ringing  for  tlie 
morning  service. 

She  was  very  hot,  and  her  head  ached.  The  landlady  brought  her 
some  tea,  and  being  refreshed  she  went  to  Holloway.  There  was  no 
letter,  and  no  one  had  called.  Mrs.  Gibbs  was  civil,  and  Rose  said 
slie  should  come  every  day,  and  that  her  husband  would  soon  be 
back.  Not  a  word  was  said  about  the  robbery.  Mrs.  Gibbs  told 
her  neighbours  that  she  was  still  of  opinion  that  it  was  a  story 
invented  for  the  purpose  of  concealing  her  poverty  and  desertion. 
Mrs.  Gibbs  bragged  very  much  of  her  foresight  when  day  after  day 
passed  and  there  was  no  letter,  and  no  inquiry,  and  Rose  did  not 
call. 

When  Rose  returned  to  her  lodging  she  could  not  eat  the  dinner 
that  was  set  before  her.  The  landlady,  a  motherly,  middle-aged 
woman,  wxs  struck  with  her  appearance,  and  felt  her  head  and  her 
hands. 

"  Dear  soul,  how  feverish  you  are,  to  be  sure.  See  my  doctor ;  he 
is  ver}'  clever,  and  he  will  soon  set  you  to  rights." 

Rose  said  she  would  be  well  after  a  sleep ;  but  throughout  the  day 

she  continued   hot,  thirsty,  and  with  a  heavy  headache.     In   the 

morning  she  could  hardly  lift  her  head  from  the  pillow,  and  when  she 
Vol.  XI.N.  S.,  1873.  p 


2 1  o  Tlie  Gentleman  s  .Magazute. 

tried  to  stand  her  limbs  had  lost  their  strength.  She  was  prostrated 
by  fever. 

The  doctor  came,  but  at  that  stage  could  give  no  opinion.  He 
told  her  he  would  send  her  some  medicine,  and  that  she  must  keep 
in  bed. 

"Oh,  I  must  go  out!'* 

"  Not  to-day,  my  dear,"  replied  the  doctor. 

"  Am  I  going  to  be  ill  ?  Let  me  know  the  worst.  May  I  go  out 
to-morrow  ?     Oh,  do  let  me  go  out !  " 

**  Take  what  I  send,  keep  yourself  quiet  to-day,  and  you  may  be 
better  to-morrow." 

When  the  doctor  left.  Rose  essayed  again  to  get  up,  but  could  not. 
A  letter  might  be  waiting  for  her  at  Holloway,  or  he  might  have 
returned.     She  pressed  her  hot  hand  to  her  hot  head. 

"  She  would  give  him  my  address,"  she  murmured. 

The  doctor  repeated  his  visit  at  night.  After  he  had  seen  the 
patient  he  spoke  to  the  landlady. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say  this  is  a  bad  case.  Very  likely  typhus.  You 
have  children  and  other  lodgers  in  the  house.  She  must  be  removed 
to-morrow.     Do  you  know  her  friends  ?" 

"No,  sir." 

"  Where  did  she  come  from  ?  *' 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Go  in  to  her  and  ask  her  where  she  lived  or  the  address  of  a 
friend." 

The  landlady  questioned  her,  and  so  did  the  doctor,  but  in 
vain.  Her  replies  were  incoherent  They  searched  her  boxes,  but 
found  no  clue.  The  letter  from  Frank  had  been  stolen  with  the 
money. 

In  the  morning  Rose  was  swaddled  in  blankets,  and  taken  in  the 
parish  fever  cab  to  the  hospital. 

"  Poor,  forsaken,  motherless  dear,"  said  the  good-hearted  landlady, 
crying.     "If  it  were  not  for  my  children  she  should  not  go." 

"  The  journey  will  not  hurt  her,"  replied  the  doctor,  "  and  you 
could  not  nurse  her  so  well  here  as  she  will  be  nursed  at  the 
hospital." 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

LORD  SHAMVOCK  CORNERED. 

"It  is  awful  folly  to  owe  small  debts.     Owe  much  or  nothing." 
That  is  a  Shamvock  aphorism.    It  is  in  accordance  with  the  law  of 
England,  which  treats  small  debtors  as  criminals.    If  you  are  a  swell, 


Making  tJie  Worst  of  it.  211 

and  your  ledger,  if  you  have  a  ledger,  should  show  that  you  are  a  few 
thousands  to  the  bad,  you  need  not  be  worried  by  creditors  or  try  to 
swim  with  a  load  on  your  back.  My  dear  sir,  the  law  takes  a  just 
view  of  the  relations  between  you  and  your  creditors.  It  pleased 
the  trader  in  the  exercise  of  his  unbiassed  judgment  to  risk  his  goods 
in  the  expectation  of  making  so  much  profit.  The  creditor  has  a 
mortgage  on  your  property,  and  to  a  limited  extent  on  your  income,, 
for  the  Court  of  Bankruptcy  may  adjudge  you  to  set  aside  a  part  of 
your  income,  so  that  your  creditors  will  receive,  if  they  like  to  claim 
it,  a  farthing  or  even  as  much  as  a  halfpenny  in  the  pound  per  annum, 
and,  setting  aside  the  interest,  they  would  get  their  debts  in  about  five 
hundred  years.  But  you  cannot  be  arrested  for  your  debts,  and, 
with  the  aid  of  a  lawyer  and  an  accountant,  you  can  get  a  discharge 
from  your  debts  and  start  afresh.  If  you  are  such  a  bungler  as  to- 
commit  a  fraud  in  law  you  may  be  punished  for  your  bungling. 

But  the  working  man  who  owes  paltry  debts,  giving  a  paltry  total 
of  twenty  or  thirty  pounds,  can  be  imprisoned  time  after  time,  and 
can  get  no  relief  from  the  Bankruptcy  law. 

Lord  Shamvock  does  not  in  his  brilliant  aphorism  refer  to  anything 
so  mean  as  a  County  Court  debt.  He  speaks  of  comparatively 
small  debts.  When  he  was  less  known  and  more  trusted  his  lord- 
ship favoured  tradesmen  who  could  afford  to  lose  respectable  sums, 
and  who  do  not  dun  their  creditors.  Of  late  years,  on  the  strength 
of  his  title.  Lord  Shamvock  has  patronised  tradesmen  of  less 
eminence,  and  he  has  been  terribly  bored  by  repeated  and  urgent 
applications  for  settlements.  Since  the  announcement  of  his  forth- 
coming marriage  >vith  Miss  Hawes,  the  heiress,  the  outer  door  of 
his  chambers  has  not  been  beset  by  duns.  His  creditors  are  con- 
tent to  wait  until  his  lordship  is  united  in  the  holy  bonds  of  matri- 
mony to  the  money-bags  of  Mr.  Hawes.  Indeed  the  prospective 
marriage  has  enabled  his  lordship  to  open  new  accounts,  to  replenish 
his  wardrobe,  to  refill  his  depleted  jewel  case,  to  purchase  a  chest  of 
exquisite  cigars,  and  to  gladden  the  hearts  of  his  friends  with  copious 
draughts  of  the  finest  wines.  His  lordship  has  even  managed  to 
open  a  banking  account,  and  his  cheque  will  be  honoured  for  any 
amount  not  exceeding  five  hundred  pounds. 

His  lordship  is  arrayed  in  an  effective  morning  costume.  On  the 
third  finger  of  his  right  hand  there  is  a  massive  signet  ring.  On  the 
little  finger  of  his  left  hand  there  is  a  cluster  of  brilliants.  A  new  set 
of  dress  teeth  glitter  in  his  mouth.  Yet  his  lordship  does  not  appear 
easy  or  happy.     He  looked  at  his  watch. 

"Nearly  an  hour  late.      I  hope  he  has  not  come  across  that 

P    2 


2 1 2  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

scoundrel  Boliver.     I  wish  that  both  of  them,  particularly  Stot,  were 
dead  and  buried.     I  should  be  out  of  my  bother  then." 

Stop  before  you  throw  a  stone  at  Lord  Shamvock.  Everybody  is 
supposed  to  be  in  somebody's  way,  and  there  is  often  secret  satisfac- 
tion at  the  victories  of  Death.  It  is  very  brutal  to  express  a  wish 
that  some  one  may  die.  It  is  brutal  to  speculate  on  the  benefit  you 
would  derive  if  so  and  so  died.  But  what  a  mortality  there  would  be 
if  everybody  who  is  supposed  to  be  in  somebody  else's  way  were  to 
die  !  Would  there  be  one  man  living  to  mourn  for  the  death  of  the 
human  race  ? 

The  answer  to  Lord  Shamvock's  meditation  was  the  arrival  of 
:VIr.  Stot, 

*' An  hour  behind  your  appointment,  Stot !" 

**You  said  you  would  be  in  all  the  morning,  and  I  mentioned 
eleven  as  about  the  hour  I  should  call." 

"  I  am  just  now  a  man  of  business.  I  am  to  be  married  this  day 
week.' 

*' Indeed!" 

**  Have  you  not  read  the  announcement  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  lord ;  but  unless  our  affair  is  arranged  I  may  have  to 
forbid  the  banns." 

"  You  won't  do  that.  It  is  not  your  interest  to  keep  me  out  of  a 
good  investment." 

**  Will  Boliver  give  me  bills  on  Duncan,  Forbes,  and  Co.  for  all 
the  bills  I  now  hold?" 

"  No,  I  can't  persuade  him  to  do  so." 

**  You  know  the  alternative,  my  lord,  and  1  wish  you  good 
morning." 

"  Don't  be  in  a  hurry.  I  have  a  proposal  to  make.  Give  me  a 
discharge  in  full,  and  I  will  pay  you  ;^5oo  in  cash  and  ;^i,ooo  in 
bills  payable  two  months  after  my  marriage.  I  shall  lose  j^i, 500  by 
Boliver's  criminal  duplicity,  and  you  will  get  ^^1,500  out  of  the  fire." 

"  My  claim,  including  interest  and  expenses,  is  ^^7,700.  I  shan't 
take  a  poimd  less." 

••  Then  I  can't  help  you." 

"  Very  well,  my  lord,  I  must  help  myself.     Before  I  dine  to-day  I 
i  have  a  warrant  out  against  you  for  forgery." 
Tl      is  a  scandalous  and  dastardly  attempt  to  ruin  an  innocent 

1  get  a  warrant  out   for  the  arrest  of  Ixrd 

innocent." 


Making  tlte  Worst  of  it.  213 

"  It  is  a  question  of  evidence.  You  may  best  me.  I  don't  think 
you  will." 

"  At  any  other  time  I  would  have  defied  you  to  do  your  worst ; 
but  now  I  should  sacrifice  a  fortune.  I  will  see  Boliver  and  let  you 
know  to-morrow." 

"  To-morrow  won't  do.  The  Duncan,  Forbes,  and  Co.  bill  is  due." 

"  Surely  you  will  give  me  until  this  time  to-morrow  ?" 

**  It  is  not  my  fault  that  you  have  put  oflf  the  arrangement  until 
the  last  moment.  If  I  get  a  bill  at  three  months  for  ;^  7, 7  00,  drawn 
by  Mr.  Frank  Boliver,  accepted  by  Messrs.  Duncan,  Forbes  and  Co., 
and  endorsed  by  Lord  Shamvock  at  seven  o'clock  to-night,  I  shall 
have  the  honour  of  being  one  of  the  guests  at  your  wedding  break- 
fast this  day  week,  to. which  my  friend  Hawes  has  invited  me.  If 
not,  I  shall  give  instructions  to  my  attorney  which  I  shall  not 
withdraw." 

Lord  Shamvock  writhed  with  rage  and  fear.  The  taunt  about  the 
marriage  revealed  to  him  the  deep  abyss  of  infamy  into  which  he 
had  fallen.  But  there  stood  Mr.  Stot,  callous  to  his  rage  and  to  his 
fear,  and  as  imperturbable  as  an  incarnate  fate.  With  an  oath,  a 
coarse,  vulgar  oath.  Lord  Shamvock  told  Mr.  Stot  he  would  send  to 
him  by  seven  o'clock. 

"  You  must  come  to  me  yourself." 

"  Must !    \Vhy  am  I  to  obey  you  as  if  I  were  an  errand  boy?' 

"  For  two  reasons,  my  lord.  It  is  improper  to  send  such  a  valuable 
document  by  a  messenger.  It  is  necessary  that  you  should  see  me 
burn  the  bills  you  propose  to  replace  by  the  new  acceptance." 

Lord  Shamvock  kept  the  seven  o'clock  appointment  and  returned 
to  his  chambers  in  a  humour  the  reverse  of  amiable.  Lawkcr  was 
standing  before  the  house. 

"  I  want  a  word  with  you,  my  lord,  which  must  be  spoke  in  the 
street." 

"  Are  you  drunk  ?    Go  in,  or  you  will  repent  your  impudence." 

"  No,  I  aint  drunk,  my  lord,  and  I  shan't  go  into  them  chambers 
again.     I  have  done  with  your  service,  and  my  things  are  moved." 

"  You  rascal !    Go  back,  or  I  will  give  you  into  custody." 

**  No,  you  won't  I've  taken  nought  of  yours.  I  don't  rob  and  I 
don't  forge.     I  ain't  a  pal  of  Mr.  Feckles !" 

Lord  Shamvock  reeled,  and  then  stood  staring  at  Lawker  without 
speaking. 

•*  If  you  go  into  the  little  room  and  stand  on  a  chair  near  the  door 
you  will  find  a  pretty  fairish  hole  in  the  wall.  I've  heard  and  seen  a 
good  deal  that  has  passed  of  late.     I  heard  your  talk  with  Mr.  Stot 


2 1 4  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

this  morning.  I  saw  what  you  and  Mr.  Feckles  were  doing  this 
afternoon." 

Lord  Shamvock  moved  as  if  he  were  about  to  assault  Lawker. 

*  That  might  do  up  there,  and  that's  why  I  won't  go  there  never  no 
more.  It  won't  do  here.  You  have  been  ill-using  me  and  keeping 
me  out  of  my  wages  for  years,  but  I  always  knew  I  should  have  you 
some  day,  and  Fve  got  you  now." 

"  AVhat  do  you  want  ?"  asked  Lord  Shamvock,  hoarsely. 

''  No  favour,  but  the  money  you  owe  me  and  the  wages  that  is  due  : 
— Borrowed,  ;^io5  ;  wages  due,  ^55  ;  total,  ;£'i6o.  That's  all  I 
want  of  you.  Give  me  a  cheque,  for  I  know  you  have  got  the  money, 
and  I  walk  off  to  my  own  business.  Don't  do  it,  and  I  walk  my  legs 
to  Russell  Square  and  Montague  Place." 

*^  If  I  give  you  a  cheque  for  ^200  and  a  handsome  present  in  a 
few  weeks,  will  you  swear  not  to  mention  the  business  ?  " 

It  was  a  bitter,  grovelling  humiliation  to  ask  a  favour — and  such  a 
favour ! — of  his  valet.  But  his  lordship  had  not  yet  drained  the 
cup. 

'^  I  don't  want  no  present,  handsome  or  unhandsome:  I  won't 
take  ;^2oo.  I  aint  a  Feckles.  I  want  my  due,  which  is  ^160. 
Not  a  penny  less  or  more.  Pay  that  and  I  shan't  speak  a  word  about 
the  business.  For  years  you  have  been  kicking  me,  but  I  have  had 
my  turn  now,  and  that  is  enough." 

"  Come  up,  Lawker  \  I  will  give  you  the  money.  Don't  be  afraid. 
We  will  part  friends." 

*'Well,  I  am  not  exactly  afraid,  but  I  shan't  go  up.  You  can 
bring  it  to  me  here.  I  will  walk  up  and  down  till  you  return.  I  will 
wait  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 

Lord  Shamvock  entered  the  house  and  his  chambers.  It  was 
dusk,  and  he  lighted  the  gas.  He  went  into  the  litde  room  mentioned 
by  Lawker,  and  mounted  a  chair  near  the  door.  There  was  the  hole 
through  which  all  that  was  done  and  said  in  the  next  room  could  be 
seen  and  heard. 

His  lordship  sat  on  the  sofa  for  three  or  four  minutes. 

"  There  is  no  help  for  it  If  the  scoundrel  were  here  I  would 
strangle  him.     But  there  is  no  help  for  it." 

He  drew  a  cheque  for  ;£i6o,  and  while  writing  cursed  his  hand 
for  shaking. 

He  took  the  cheque  to  Lawker,  handed  it  to  him  without  speaking 
a  word,  and  returned  to  his  chambers. 

"  He  is  down,  and  I  am  almost  sorry  for  him,"  muttered  Lawker, 
as  he  pocketed  the  cheque  and  took  a  parting  look  at  the  diaroben ; 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  215 

"  but  I  have  done  no  more  than  what  is  right  to  myself,  and  Sham- 
vock  has  been  all  his  life  crushing  others  without  pity." 

No  such  reflection  embittered  the  present  misery  of  Lord  Sham- 
vock.  He  cursed  Stot,  he  cursed  Lawker,  he  cursed  Rose  Dulmaine, 
he  cursed  Boliver,  and  he  cursed  his  own  folly,  but  he  never  thought 
of  the  misery  he  had  inflicted  upon  others  \  he  never  thought  of  the 
many  victims  of  his  brutal  debauchery. 

"  When  I  am  married  I  shall  fight  it  out.  Lawker  will  not  betray 
me.  Feckles  dare  not  betray  me.  Stot  may  suspect,  but  he  cannot 
prove  anything  against  me,  and  I  can  prove  something  against 
Boliver.  I  shall  best  Stot,  with  all  his  cunning,  and  I  shall  have 
my  revenge  against  Boliver  and  the  Jezebel  Rose." 

Gloating  over  the  dream  of  vengeance,  and  stimulated  by  brandy, 
he  forgot  his  danger.  When  he  went  to  bed  the  immediate  trouble 
was  how  he  should  dress  in  the  morning  without  the  help  of  I-.awker. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

WHERE      IS      SHE? 

Society  is  not  hard  hearted.  It  has  forgiven  the  origin  of  Mrs. 
Stot  and  the  detective  career  of  her  husband.  Now  Mr.  Stot  has 
become  a  magnate  of  finance,  and  has  ceased  to  be  a  manhunter,  people 
who  are  leaders  in  the  fashionable  world,  who  are  rich  and  noble, 
who  have  ancestral  abodes  in  their  counties,  and  whose  names  are 
inscribed  in  the  Red  Book  of  English  Life,  travel  firom  the  etherial 
regions  of  Belgravia,  Tybumia,  and  Kensington,  to  visit  the  Stots  in 
Russell  Square.  Mr.  Stot's  financial  fame  has  something  to  do  with 
the  brilliant  social  success.  No  man  is  more  skilful  in  floating  a  loan, 
so  that  the  millionaires,  the  mighty  rulers  of  nations,  are  delighted  to 
have  his  assistance,  and  he  not  only  gets  a  share  of  the  profits,  but 
can  put  money  into  the  purses  of  his  friends.  Greece  and  Rome 
despised  commerce.  In  the  Platonic  Republic  there  are  no  traders. 
Cicero  deemed  trading  ignoble,  and  was  of  opinion  that  the  highest 
nations  should  not  be  commercial.  Nolo  eundem  popidum  impera- 
iorein  d portitorem  esse  terrarum.  The  only  noble  way  of  getting  rich 
was  by  plundering  fallen  foes.  Until  very  lately  there  was  in  this 
country  a  deep-rooted  prejudice  about  the  vulgarity  of  trade,  but  now 
old  blood  and  new  riches  are  reconciled,  and  old  blood  is  by  no 
means  averse  to  making  money  by  trade.  Lombard  Street,  Mincing 
I^ne,  and  Capel  Court ;  Manchester,  Liverpool,  and  Birmingham,  are 
related,  and  nearly  related,  to  the  above-named  etherial  regions.  The 


2 1 6  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine, 

most  pleasant  means  of  filling  your  pockets,  if  you  are  not  a  trader 
by  vocation,  is  having  a  kind  financial  friend  who  can  allot  you  stock 
that  is  going  to  a  premium,  and  will  tell  you  when  you  are  to  sell. 
There  are  two  or  three  coronets  to  whom  Mr.  Stot  s  acquaintance  is 
worth  at  least  ;^2,ooo  a  year. 

Then  the  Stots  are  agreeable  folk.  Mr.  Stot  is  not  courtly  in  his 
manners,  but  he  is  firank  and  not  obtrusive.  Mrs.  Stot  is  jolly  and 
good-natured.  She  is  always  ready  to  do  anything  for  the  young 
people,  and  the  young  people  are  immensely  fond  of  her.  If  you 
want  to  learn  the  latest  news  as  to  engagements  have  a  chat  with 
Mrs.  Stot.  She  is  not  a  match-maker,  but  when  an  offer  is  made  and 
accepted  the  fact  is  communicated  to  Mrs.  Stot,  who  is  a  dear  good 
creature. 

A  select  dinner  party  was  followed  by  a  reception,  and  the  RusscU 
Scjuare  rooms  were  thronged  with  distinguished  guests.  Mr.  Stot  had 
lately  achieved  a  financial  triumph,  and  rumour  credited  him  with  a 
profit  of  a  quarter  of  a  million  sterling;  the  actual  profit  being  less 
than  a  tenth  of  that  sum.  Mr.  Stot  had  just  issued  an  address  to  the 
electors  of  Mammonton,  and  his  return  was  regarded  as  a  certainty. 
It  is  not  surprising  that  locomotion  was  hard  labour  in  Mrs.  Stot's 
reception  rooms. 

Towards  midnight  the  crowd  began  to  disperse,  and  Mr.  Stot  had 
arranged  for  a  rubber. 

"  We  are  going  to  have  our  game  in  the  snuggery,  my  dear,"  he 
said  to  his  wife. 

"Who  is  that  sitting  on  the  couch  near  the  window?  He  has 
been  there  for  half  an  hour  and  no  one  has  spoken  to  him." 

"  A  gentleman  from  New  York,  a  Mr.  Henry.  He  was  introduced 
by  Duckworth.  He  came  early  and  seems  to  be  stopping  to  the  last. 
I  will  speak  to  him." 

The  gentleman  referred  to  was  tall  and  thin,  with  a  white  flowing 
beard.     He  arose  from  the  couch  when  Mr.  Stot  spoke  to  him. 

"  I  fear  you  have  had  a  dull  time  of  it,  Mr.  Henry.  There  has 
been  such  a  crowd  that  I  have  not  had  the  chance  of  speaking  to 
iny  one.     Let  me  introduce  you  to  Mrs.  Stot." 

"  I  have  been  introduced  to  your  wife  years  ago,  but  I  suppose  I 
have  grown  out  of  all  remembrance." 

**  Years  ago! "  exclaimed  Mr.  Stot.  "  I  must  be  getting  blind.  You 
are  *' 

"  Henry  Clayton,  and  forgive  mc  coming  to  your  house  uninvited." 

Mr.  Stot  seized  both  hands  and  shook  them  heartily. 

"  Forgive  you  !    No  man  more  welcome.     We  have  always  been 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  2\J 

talking  of  you,  and  hoping  you  would  turn  up.  Mrs.  Stot  will  be  fit 
to  jump  out  of  her  skin.     Come  here,  my  dear." 

Mrs.  Stot,  who  had  been  talking  with  some  ladies,  approached. 

**  Better  not  mention  my  name  before  your  friends." 

"  Come  this  way,"  said  Mr.  Stot,  leading  Henry  into  an  adjoining 
room  ;  and  when  his  wife  had  followed  them  he  closed  the  door. 

*'  My  dear,  you  were  introduced  to  this  gentleman  years  ago.  Don't 
you  remember  him  ?  " 

"  No,  I  can't  say  I  do,  but  you  will  not  be  offended,  sir,  for  my 
memory  is  not  like  Mr.  Stot's,  which  could  not  forget  if  it  wanted." 

**  You  saw  me  once  only,  Mrs.  Stot,  and  I  am  greatly  changed." 

"  I  have  a  sort  of  recollection.     WTio  is  it,  Stot  ?  " 

"  Can't  you  guess  ?  Don't  you  know  the  gentleman  we  have  talked 
of  almost  every  day,  and  whom  you  have  longed  to  see  ?  " 

Mrs.  Stot  laid  her  hand  on  her  husband's  arm,  and  looked  stead- 
fastly at  Henry. 

"  Stot,  is  it — can  it  be  our  Alice's  father  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  it  is  Henry  Clayton." 

Mrs.  Stot  took  Henry's  hand,  and  held  it  in  both  her  hands. 

"  How  glad  I  am  to  see  you  I  can't  tell  you.  And  where  is  our 
Alice  P     Where  is  our  Alice  ?  " 

"  Thank  you,  bless  you  for  your  kind  greeting.  I  have  been  look- 
ing for  my  child  all  the  evening,  but  I  suppose  she  has  outgrown  even 
my  remembrance." 

Mrs.  Stot  let  go  Henry's  hand  and  looked  at  her  husband. 

"  Is  Alice  with  you  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Stot. 

"  Is  Alice  with  me  ?  I  do  not  understand  you.  With  me  ?  Alice 
with  me  ?  " 

"Stot,  Stot,  ask  him  what  it  means.  Ask  him  if  our  poor  child  is. 
well,  and  where  she  is." 

"  Keep  quiet,  my  dear.  It  will  be  explained.  Is  Alice  with  you^ 
Clayton  ?  " 

**  With  me  ?     I  came  here  to  see  her." 

**  Where  did  you  leave  her  ?  " 

**  With  you ;  I  have  not  seen  or  heard  of  her  from  that  day." 

"  Stot,  what  does  it  all  mean  ?  My  poor  Alice ;  what  does  it 
mean  ?  Oh  Mr.  Clayton,  let  us  know  the  worst,  for  this  I  cannot 
bear  I  ' 

Henry  looked  as  alarmed  and  bewildered  as  Mrs.  Stot. 

"  Keep  quiet,  my  dear.  Pray  speak,  Clayton,  and  let  us  hear  all 
about  it." 

"  My  story  is  soon  told.     I  went  from  place  to  place  until  I  had 


2 1 8  The  Gentlefnan's  Magazine, 

spent  the  money.  I  settled  in  Australia.  Again  I  made  a  fortune, 
though  I  did  not  seek  it.  Then  came  a  yearning  for  my  child.  I 
returned  to  England  I  watched  your  house  from  day  to  day,  in  the 
hope  of  seeing  Alice.  Mr.  Duckworth,  the  manager  of  the  bank  to 
which  I  sent  my  money,  told  me  he  was  coming  here  to  a  party.  I 
told  him  I  wanted  to  see  you  without  at  first  telling  you  my  name. 
He  brought  me  here.  All  the  night  I  have  been  searching  for  Alice. 
Where  is  the  child  ?  " 

"  Stot,  what  is  he  saying?    Oh,  our  poor  Alice  !" 

"  You  need  not  speak,"  said  Henry,  mournfully.  "  It  is  the  old 
fate.     I  am  too  late — too  late." 

"  Keep  quiet,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Stot.  "  Clayton,  did  you  not 
send  for  Alice?" 

"  Send  for  Alice !  No.  Is  she  dead,  or  has  something  worse 
befallen  her?" 

"  Stot,  my  dear,  I  am  so  ill.  My  poor  Alice !  Oh,  my  poor 
child." 

"  Clayton,  it  is  well  nigh  three  years  ago  that  we  got  two  letters 
from  France.  One  was  from  the  lady  of  the  school.  It  said  Alice 
had  left  to  go  with  her  father,  and  that  she  was  pained  and  alarmed  that 
the  child  had  left  in  such  a  manner.  The  other  letter  was  from  Alice, 
saying  that  you  had  taken  her,  and  that  she  was  going  abroad  with 
you.  It  was  a  long  letter,  and  she  said  she  was  so  miserable  about  the 
past  that  she  could  not  stop  in  the  school,  and  that  she  was  glad  to  go 
to  you.  I  went  to  France.  I  found  that  Alice  had  left  suddenly, 
and  I  could  not  trace  her.  I  supposed  that  the  story  was  true,  and 
that  you  had  taken  her  away." 

"  My  sins  are  punished,  and  there  is  no  mercy  for  me.  Wife  and 
daughter  both  destroyed  by  my  cruel  act." 

"  Stot,  where  is  the  child  ?  Promise  me,  dear,  that  you  will  find 
her  and  bring  her  to  me.  If  you  want  me  not  to  die,  do  so.  Think 
of  her,  poor  dear  child,  gone  no  one  knows  where." 

**  Keep  quiet,  my  dear.     Clayton,  we  must  find  Alice." 

"  Bless  you,  Stot.  You  must,  you  will  find  her.  Bless  you,  my 
dear." 

"  Find  her  !  We  may  seek,  but  we  shall  not  find.  There  is  no 
such  mercy  for  me." 

"  Clayton,  this  is  an  awful  blow  for  you  and  for  us  too  ;  for  Mrs. 
Stot,  who  has  not  a  child  of  her  own,  loves  Alice,  and  looked  upon 
her  as  her  own  adopted.  But  don't  make  up  your  mind  to  fail. 
That  is  not  the  way  to  succeed.     We  will  find  Alice." 

"  If  she  yet  lives,"  said  Henry. 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  2 1 9 

"  If !  I  am  not  going  to  be  cowed  by  an  *  if.'  I  say,  Clayton,  we 
will  find  her." 

**  Stot,  if  I  had  never  loved  you  as  I  have  done  I  should  now. 
You  will  be  as  good  as  your  word,  dear,  and  you  will  find  her?" 

"  We  will  start  for  France  to-morrow  evening." 

"  You  might  start  in  the  morning,  Stot" 

"  My  dear,  there  is  Shamvock's  business  to-morrow.  But  that 
should  not  keep  me,  only  there  is  something  to  be  done  here  as 
well  as  in  France.     I  must  see  Gouger  and  set  him  on  the  scent." 

"  If  I  could  I  would  thank  you  both.  I,  her  father,  deserted  her, 
spumed  her,  drove  her  to  despair.  You  loved  her,  and  you  care 
for  her." 

"  Mr.  Clayton,"  said  Mrs.  Stot,  "  you  must  be  cheerful.  Be  a 
good  soul,  and  believe  what  Stot  says.  He  will  find  the  child,  and 
when  he  does  we  will  all  be  happy  together." 

"  Right  you  are,  my  dear.  Now  leave  us,  so  that  we  may  talk  it 
over  together." 

"  Stot,  I  can't  I  must  hear  all,  or  I  should  be  crying  my  eyes 
out  of  my  head.  As  for  going  back  and  wishing  anybody  good  night, 
I  couldn't  for  the  world." 

Mr.  Stot  went  to  the  few  remaining  guests  and  told  them  that  a 
long  expected  firiend  had  arrived,  and  so  excused  the  absence  of  Mrs. 
Stot,  and,  when  the  guests  had  departed,  he  rejoined  his  wife  and 
Henry. 

It  was  daylight  before  Stot  got  up  and  said  : — 

"  We  can't  do  without  some  sleep.  Clayton  will  stop  here.  Yes 
you  will,  Cla)rton,  if  you  said  *  No '  fifty  times.  For  the  present  you 
must  obey  orders,  I  being  the  commander-in-chief." 

Mrs.  Stot  shook  hands  with  Henry  and  then  kissed  him. 

"  You  are  our  Alice's  father,  and  we  love  you.  Do  keep  a  cheerful 
heart  for  her  sake  and  for  all  our  sakes  ! " 

Henry  was  greatly  moved  by  the  true  womanly  affection  of  Mrs. 
Stot 

"  For  Alice's  sake  and  for  my  own  I  thank  you  and  bless  you." 

CHAPTER  XVI. 

LORD    SHAMVOCK's   WEDDING. 

Mr.  Hawes  made  the  most  of  his  matrimonial  investment.  The 
fashionable  newspapers  announced  that  the  mairiage  of  Lord  Sham- 
vock   to  the  accomplished  daughter  and  heiress  of  Mr.  Thomas 


2  20  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine, 

Hawcs  would  be  celebrated  the  last  week  in  the  month.  He 
arranged  for  the  exhibition  of  the  bridal  dresses  in  the  window  of 
the  milliner.  He  could  not  restrain  the  expression  of  his  delight. 
"  Come  now,"  he  would  say  to  a  friend,  "  I  think  we  have  done  a 
pretty  good  stroke  of  business  with  our  Miss.  I  am  a  plain  Mister, 
as  my  father  was  before  me,  but  my  Miss  will  be  a  lady  of  title,  and  I 
shall  have  a  lord  for  a  son-in-law.  With  my  fortune  backing  him  he 
may  die  a  duke  if  he  keeps  his  eyes  open."  The  pleasure  was  not 
altogether  unalloyed.  The  settlement  involved  parting  with  the 
control  of  a  large  sum  of  money.  "  Ah,"  he  exclaimed,  "  I  hate 
settlements.  It's  like  being  robbed  by  your  own  flesh  and  blood. 
It's  like  being  stripped  before  you  are  dead."  He  took  care  to 
appoint  safe  and  sound  trustees,  and  to  have  the  principal  secured 
from  any  liabilities  of  Lord  Shamvock.  "  What  I  want,"  he  said  to 
his  la\\yers,  "  is  to  have  it  made  so  tight  that  if  a  lord  could  go 
into  the  workhouse  he  could  not  be  kept  out  with  my  money."  Me 
groaned  about  the  cost  of  the  trousseau  and  estimate  for  the  break- 
fast. "I  promised  Shamvock  to  give  Miss  a  purse  of ;^ 500.  I 
shan't  do  it  after  all  I  have  spent.  A  purse  of  ;^5o  will  be  handsome, 
and  I  don't  see  what  a  married  woman  wants  with  money."  His 
pleasure  was  not  alloyed  by  any  doubt  as  to  the  happiness  of  his 
daughter.  She  was  the  means  of  making  Mr.  Thomas  Hawes  the 
father-in-law  of  a  lord,  and  her  happiness  was  not  thought  about. 

Lord  Shamvock  was  not  exultant  as  becometh  a  bridegroom.  He 
did  not  repent  the  bargain,  and  was  glad  when  the  marriage  day 
dawned.  The  income  of  his  wife  and  what  he  could  squeeze  out  of 
Mr.  Hawes  would  enable  him  to  enjoy  life  and  to  be  free  from  the 
worry  of  duns.  Moreover,  he  should  be  able  to  fight  Stot,  and  to 
effect  an  easy  arrangement  of  his  difficulty.  With  the  money  he  had 
by  him  and  the  money  Selina  would  take  from  home  he  should  be 
able  to  redeem  the  Stot  acceptance  discounted  by  Mr.  Hawes.  Still 
his  lordship  was  not  lively.  The  worry  about  the  bills  held  by 
Mr.  Stot  and  the  conduct  of  Lawker  had  broken  down  his  health. 
Before  his  lordship  could  complete  his  toilet  with  the  aid  of  his  new 
valet,  who  was  not  nearly  so  handy  as  Lawker,  he  had  to  stimulate 
with  brandy.  When  his  best  man,  Sir  Henry  Bawbee,  chaffed  him 
about  the  marriage,  his  lordship  bade  him  stop  his  jesting,  as  he  was 
in  no  humour  for  fooling. 

"  Why,  Shamvock,  you  are  not  grateful  to  Fortune.  Besides,  old 
fellow,  you  should  have  kept  a  stock  of  temper.  You  will  want  it 
during  the  honeymoon." 

"  Eleven  is  the  hour  fixed  for  the'job,  and  it  is  time  we  started.     I 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  1 2 1 

shall  be  precious  glad  when  the  whole  confounded  bother  is  over  and 
1  can  have  my  cigar." 

And  in  this  sweet  state  of  mind  Lord  Shamvock  went  to  church. 

The  wedding  party  was  numerous,  but  not  so  distinguished  as 
Mr.  Hawes  \vished.  Three  or  four  fashionable  people  had  refused 
the  invitation  to  be  present.  Mr.  Hawes  asked  Mr.  Stot  if  he  could 
bring  some  of  his  great  acquaintances. 

"  You  know  I  don't  care  about  such  fiddle  faddle,  but  it  will  please 
Mrs.  H.  and  Miss,  and  weddings  don't  come  even  once  a  year." 

Mr.  Stot  said  he  could  not  assist  Mr.  Hawes,  and  again  ventured 
to  question  the  prudence  of  the  marriage. 

"  Stot  and  all  of  them  are  choking  with  envy ;  but  they  won't 
baulk  Thomas  Hawes." 

I^rd  Shamvock  suggested  that  Mr.  Stot  should  not  be  invited. 

"  But  he  is  invited,  my  lord,  and  he  shall  come  just  to  choke  him 
with  envy.     He  has  not  got  a  Miss,  and  can  never  start  a  family." 

The  presence  of  Mr.  Stot  at  the  breakfast  did  not  improve  th« 
temper  of  the  bridegroom,  and  in  spite  of  the  wine  he  was  dull  and 
absent.  It  was  a  relief  to  him  when  the  bride  retired  to  dress  for  the 
journey. 

**  Now  the  ladies  are  gone  is  there  any  objection  to  a  quiet  cigar  ? 
I  know  Lady  Shamvock  does  not  mind  smoke.*' 

"  If  her  ladyship  does  not  object  we  cannot,"  said  Mr.  Hawes. 

Mr.  Stot  left  his  seat  and  whispered  to  Lord  Shamvock. 

**  Impossible." 

"  No,  my  lord,  not  impossible,  but  imperative.  I  must  have  an 
interview  with  you.  It  would  be  unpleasant  to  mention  the  business 
before  the  company." 

Lord  Shamvock  got  up  and  his  walk  was  unsteady.  Perhaps  the 
brandy  and  the  wine  had  affected  him. 

Mr.  Stot  whispered  to  Mr.  Hawes. 

"What  for?" 

"  That  I  will  explain,"  said  Mr.  Stot,  and  the  bridegroom  and  the 
father-in-law  followed  him  out  of  the  room. 

Two  gentlemen  were  standing  in  the  hall.  Mr.  Stot  beckoned  to 
them,  and  they  entered  the  study.  I^rd  Shamvock  sat  down,  but 
even  then  he  could  not  keep  his  limbs  still,  and  he  was  very  pale. 

"  What  does  this  intrusion  mean  ?  Why  is  his  lordship,  my  son-in- 
law,  troubled  about  business  at  such  a  time  ?  " 

"  It's  against  my  advice  that  Lord  Shamvock  is  your  si^n  in-ln\v.  I 
am  sorry  to  give  you  pain,  Mr.  Hawes,  but  it  can't  be  helped.  'I'his 
day  week  his  lordship  gave  me  a  bill  for  ^{^7,700,  ])nrporte(l  to  be 


22  2  Tlie  Gefttlenmns  Magazine. 

drawn  by  Frank  Boliver,  and  accepted  by  Duncan,  Forbes,  and  Co. 
It  was  not  drawn  by  Frank  Boliver.  It  was  not  accepted  by  Duncan, 
Forbes,  and  Co." 

Mr.  Hawes  looked  at  Lord  Shamvock  and  then  at  Mr.  Stot. 

"  I  do  not  understand.  What  is  it  to  me  or  to  his  lordship,  my 
son-in-law  ?  " 

"  I  say  that  the  bill  for  jC7i7^^  endorsed  to  me  by  Lord 
Shamvock  is  a  forgery ;  that  the  only  genuine  signature  is  that  of 
Shamvock." 

"  Well,  what  is  that  to  his  lordship  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Hawes. 

"  I  say  that  Lord  Shamvock  is  the  forger  and  the  utterer  of  the  bill 
that  he  knew  to  be  forged." 

Mr.  Hawes  gasped  for  breath,  and  when  he  could  speak  he  turned 
to  Lord  Shamvock. 

"  Why  is  your  lordship  silent  ?  ^Vhy  do  you  allow  this  dreadful 
charge  and  insult  ?  " 

**  Because  he  is  guilty,"  replied  Mr.  Stot. 

"  I  did  not  forge  those  names,  and  that  I  swear." 

"  Do  you  hear  ?  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Hawes  fiercely. 

"  I  didn't  say  the  signatures  were  written  by  you,  but  they  were 
written  by  your  direction." 

"  That  scoundrel  Lawker,"  muttered  Lord  Shamvock. 

'^  Lawker !"  said  Mr.  Stot  **  No,  we  have  no  need  to  seek  for 
such  evidence.  Mr.  Gouger,"  he  continued,  pointing  to  that 
gentleman,  "  of  Doloski  and  Gouger,  will  tell  you  that  Mr.  Boliver, 
the  pretended  drawer  of  the  bill,  left  England  with  Mr.  Doloski  a 
fortnight  since,  the  day  after  he  called  on  your  lordship,  and  is 
now  in  America." 

"  That  is  so,"  said  Mr.  Gouger. 

There  was  silence  for  a  minute.  His  lordship  saw  that  he  was 
trapped,  and  Mr.  Hawes  had  at  length  a  dim  perception  of  the 
situation. 

"  Either  the  ;;^7,7oo  must  be  paid  now,  or  Lord  Shamvock  must 
leave  in  the  custody  of  the  officer,"  said  Mr.  Stot,  pointing  to  the 
man  who  stood  by  Mr.  Gouger. 

^  Stot,  you  will  not  be  so  cruel !"  gasped  Mr.  Hawes.  "  You  will 
n      kfll  us  alL    het  him  go  now.     There  is  some  mistake.     It  will 

10  D       ke.    Time  presses.     Is  the  bill  to  be  paid  ?' 
ing,  went  to  liis  iron  safe,  and,  when  he  had 
out  a  bill  and  showed  it  to  Mr.  Stot. 
well  suppose,"  said  Mr.  Stot. 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  223 

"What  a  villain  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Hawes.  "  But  he  must  go  with 
my  daughter.     I  could  not  bear  the  disgrace." 

"Then  you  must  pay  the  ^^7,700.  But  I  don't  advise  it.  In 
your  case  I  should  let  him  have  his  deserts." 

"  Call  on  me  to-morrow.     I  mil  arrange  with  you,  Stot." 

"  No,  Mr.  Hawes,  I  must  have  the  money  now  or  his  body.'* 

"  I  have  not  the  money." 

"  I  will  take  your  cheque." 

"  I  cannot,  I  will  not  pay,"  said  Mr.  Hawes,  passionately. 

"  Wise  resolution.     Officer,  do  your  duty." 

As  the  officer  was  advancing  towards  I^ord  Shamvock  there  was  a 
knock  at  the  door,  and  a  servant  said  : — 

"If  you  please,  sir.  Lady  Shamvock  is  ready." 

Mr.  Hawes  stood  between  the  officer  and  Lord  Shamvock. 

"  Stop,  this  will  kill  me.     Will  you  take  a  part,  Stot  ?" 

"  No,  and  time  presses." 

"  Are  there  any  more  of  these  things,  my  lord  ?  "  asked  Mr.  I  lawcs. 

"  I  swear  there  are  not." 

The  door  was  opened  by  Mrs.  Hawes. 

"  \\Tiy,  dear,  how  is  this  ?    Her  ladyship  is  waiting." 

"  Leave  us.     We  shall  be  with  you  in  a  minute." 

Mr.  Hawes  took  a  chequebook  out  of  the  iron  safe,  and  drew  a 
cheque  for;;^7,7oo.  He  gave  it  to  Mr.  Stot,  who  handed  him  the 
bill.  Mr.  Hawes  lighted  a  wax  taper,  and  burnt  the  bill,  and  also 
the  Stot  bill. 

"  Now  leave,  and  if  I  can  I  will  have  my  revenge,**  said  Mr.  Hawes, 
shaking  his  fist  at  Mr.  Slot. 

"  I  urged  you  not  to  give  your  daughter  to  Lord  Shamvock,  and  I 
did  not  advise  you  to  settle  this  affair.  I  would  rather  have  punished 
the  man  than  had  the  money." 

"Be  off!"  said  his  lordship,  looking  triumphantly  at  the  taper 
that  was  covered  with  the  embers  of  the  burnt  bills.  "  I  am  free  from 
your  plotting,  and  look  out  for  yourselves.     Be  off  !*' 

"Good  afternoon.  But  do  not  threaten.  The  bills  are  de- 
stroyed ;  but  I  have  evidence  enough  of  your  crime  if  I  choose  to 
proclaim  it." 

Mr.  Stot,  Mr.  Gouger,  and  the  officer  left  the  house. 

In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  the  bride  and  bridegroom  departed.  It 
was  noticed  that  Lord  Shamvock  was  in  better  spirits  than  he  had 
been  during  the  day. 

"I  suppose  old  Hawes  has  been  lining  his  pockets,'*  said  Sir 
Henry  Bawbee. 


2  24  ^'^^  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

But  Mr.  Hawes  was  not  able  to  see  his  daughter  to  the  carriage. 
"  I  didn't  think  the  old  flint  had  so  much  feeling,"  said  Sir  Henry 
Bawbee. 

CHAPTER    XVH. 

dick's    domestic    troubles. 

This  chronicle  begins  with  a  tribute  to  the  joy  and  bliss  of  Home. 
Duhe  domum.  Home,  sweet  Home.  The  tabernacle  in  the  >\ilder- 
ness  of  life.  The  Temple  on  earth  that  typifies  our  thought  and  hope 
of  Heaven.  But  every  home  is  not  happy.  It  is  too  often  the 
Temple  of  discord.     And  then  woe  to  the  family. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Feckles  had  for  years  led  what  is  called  a  cat  and  dog 
life.  We  slander  the  feline  and  canine  races.  A  cat  and  dog  abiding 
together  by  no  will  or  consent  of  their  own  soon  cease  warfare,  and 
live  peacefully.  Husband  and  wife  voluntarily  pledged  and  sworn  to 
love  and  clierish  each  other,  wrangle  and  fight  until  death  or  the  law 
doth  put  them  asunder.  The  jarring  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Feckles  had 
culminated  in  blows  and  the  intervention  of  the  wife's  relations.  Dick 
said  that  Mrs.  Feckles  was  constantly  the  worse  for  liquor.  Mrs. 
Feckles  retorted  that  he  had  made  her  so  miserable  that  she  did  not 
care  what  became  of  her,  and  further  that  he  was  often  mad  with 
drink.  In  the  end  Mrs.  Feckles  went  into  the  country  with  her 
relations,  Dick  giving  her  ten  pounds,  and  a  promise  of  so  much  per 
month.  Lord  Shamvock,  who  was  afraid  of  Mrs.  Feckles  knowing  too 
much  of  her  husband's  business,  benevolently  found  the  money. 

Dick  was  not  so  happy  as  he  anticipated.  He  could  drink  and 
smoke  without  a  word  of  reproach.  He  could  lounge  away  tlie 
day  without  being  abused  for  idleness,  and  he  could  stay  out  till 
midnight  \\ithout  being  scolded.  But  Ruth  was  not  domesticated, 
and  did  not  attend  to  his  wants  as  Mrs.  Feckles  had  done.  Worse 
than  that,  the  girl  had  become  more  strange  in  her  manner  and  in  her 
talk,  and  so  worried  and  aggravated  her  father  that  before  the  first 
week  of  freedom  was  over  he  began  to  think  of  asking  Mrs.  Feckles 
to  return. 

Ruth  was  stitching  some  coarse  calico  when  her  father  entered 
the  room. 

"  Working  again  ?  "  said  Dick. 

"  The  naked  are  many,  and  the  workers  are  few,"  replied  Ruth. 

"  Stuflf  about  the  naked.  You  would  be  doing  more  good  if  you 
looked  after  your  father.  Here  it  is  just  three,  and  that  bit  of  steak 
not  cooked,  and  not  a  spark  of  fire  in  the  grate." 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  225 

Ruth  laid  down  her  work,  and  proceeded  to  light  the  fire,  but 
before  doing  so  she  put  on  a  pair  of  gloves.  The  girl,  though  she 
knew  it  not,  was  vain  of  the  whiteness  of  her  thin,  transparent  hands. 

"Ruth,  how  would  you  like  a  week  in  the  country  ?  " 

"  The  country  is  beautiful,  and  I  often  long  for  it  when  I  see 
flowers,  or  when  the  sun  shines,  but  I  tell  the  flowers  and  the  sun- 
shine that  I  cannot  leave  ray  poor,  I  cannot  leave  my  poor." 

"  I'll  have  no  more  of  these  tantrums.  You  shall  dress  like  any 
other  girl,  and  do  as  I  tell  you." 

"That  cannot  be.  My  mother  would  be  angry.  I  must  bide 
where  I  am  till  I  go  to  her." 

There  was  no  more  conversation  until  Dick  was  eating  his  steak 
and  Ruth  had  resumed  her  work. 

"  Father,  you  have  told  me  that  my  mother  was  buried  a  long  way 
off:  Will  you  take  me  there  ?  If  so,  I  will  leave  my  poor  for  a 
little  while  and  go  with  you." 

"  Stop  that  talk,"  said  Dick,  savagely. 

"  You  are  always  angry  when  I  speak  of  my  mother.  Oh,  father, 
what  did  you  do  to  her  that  she  never  comes  to  you,  and  will  never 
let  you  go  to  her — never,  never,  never  ?  " 

Dick  raved  and  swore,  and  left  the  room  in  a  rage. 

"  Oh,  mother,  I  wish  you  could  forgive  him.  He  would  be  happy 
and  I  should  be  happy.  But  I  must  not  think  or  talk  ;  I  must  work. 
The  naked  are  many  and  the  workers  are  few." 

Dick  went  to  a  neighbouring  public  and  ensconced  himself  on  a 
seat  before  the  bar. 

"  Three,  Mr.  Feckles  ?  "  asked  the  barman. 

"  Make  it  four  cold,  and  a  screw." 

"  Why,  Dick,  here  again  ?  You  might  as  well  live  here,  and  save 
shoe  leather,"  said  a  bystander. 

"  You  don't  pay  for  my  shoe  leather,"  said  Dick. 

"Aint  he  getting  high?"  said  another  bystander.  "We  shall 
want  a  ladder  and  a  telescope  for  to  look  at  him  directly." 

"  It  comes  of  his  being  at  the  Lion,"  said  the  first  speaker.  "  I 
say,  Dick,  what  became  of  that  gal,  eh  ?  That  there  Rose,  eh  ? 
You're  a  reglar  facinator,  Dick,  and  I  shudn't  wonder  if  you  was  the 
Cupid  that  took  her  off"." 

There  was  a  laugh,  but  Dick  smoked  and  drank  without  deigning 
to  reply. 

Mr.  Clayton  and  Mr.  Gouger  were  at  another  part  of  the  bar 
taking  a  glass  of  wine. 

"  What  a  strange  looking  fellow,"  said  Henry. 
Vol.  XI.,  N.S.  i?^73.  Q 


226  The  GentlcfnatCs  Maganine. 

''  His  face  would  convict  him  of  any  crime  without  evidence/' 
remaiked  Mr.  Gouger. 

"  I  fancy  I  have  seen  his  face  before/* 

"  Where  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  on  the  other  side  of  the  earth." 

Henry  went  up  to  Dick. 

"I  think  I  have  seen  you  before  to-day^  Have  you  been  in 
Australia  ?  " 

"  No,  I  aint,"  snarled  Dick. 

^*  I  b^  your  pardon.     Will  you  take  a  glass  with  me?'' 

Dick  pushed  his  glass  on  the  bar  and  walked'  out  of  the  place. 

"  Not  very  civil,"  said  Henry. 

"  Dick  is  on,  sir,"  observed  one  of  the  bystanders.  ''  He's  a  good 
deal  to  try  him.  A  wife  he  has  been  obliged  to  shunt,  and  a  daughter 
touched  in  the  upper  story.    That  wouki  try  most  tempers."' 

^  You  are  right     I  am  sorry  that  I  spdoe  to  kim." 

When  Henry  and  Mr.  Gouger  left  the  public-house  there  was  a 
crowd  in  the  road. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  " 

"  A  man  bowled  over  by  one  of  them  hansoms." 

"  Why,  it  is  the  old  fellow  I  spoke  to." 

Two  men  were  supporting  Dick  and  dragging  him  along. 

"  Come  on,"  said  Mr.  Gouger,  "  there  are  plenty  to  look  after 
him." 

''  I  should  like  to  see  what  becomes  of  htm.  ^  will  joiii  you  in  the 
office  in  a  few  minutes." 

"  Don't  be  long,  and  don't  give  the  crus^  soaker  money.  It 
will  only  make  him  drunk." 

"  Is  he  much  hurt  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  only  shook,"  said  one  of  the  men. 

"  Where  does  he  live  ?  " 

"  Just  here,  sir." 

"  Help  him  home  and  I  will  pay  you  for  the  trouble." 

Stimulated  by  the  prospect  of  reward,  the  men  speedily  got  Dick 
to  his^home. 

It  required  some  skill  to  get  him  up  stairs.  The  door  waar  opened 
by  Ruth. 

'<  Whafs  the  matter  with  my  fadier  1" 

Henry  stared  at  Ruth,  and  then  remembered  what  he  had  heaxd  in 
thejpublic-house. 

^'  Do  not  be  alarmed,"  he  said.     ''  Your  father  is:iiotiiijnred»" 
A  brush  wiU  set  the  tumble  right,"  said  one  of  the  men.    ''  The 


4( 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  227 

governor  has  took  more  than  he  can  carry  perpendicular.     That's 
what's  the  matter." 

When  Dick  was  laid  on  the  bed  Henry  gave  the  men  the  promised 
reward,  and  they  departed. 

Dick  was  breathing  heavily.  Ruth  loosened  his  necktie  and  bathed 
his  face  with  water. 

"  Can't  you  let  me  alone  ?    Give  me  a  four,  cold,  quick." 

Dick  turned  on  his  side  and  soon  gave  oral  evidence  that  he  slept. 

"  He  will  wake  up  well.     He  often  gets  like  it** 

**  You  should  tell  him  of  his  danger.  He  might  have  been  injured, 
or  even  killed." 

"  Poor  father.  No  one  watches  over  him.  My  mother  never 
comes  to  him  and  will  never  let  him  go  to  her.*' 

"  And  does  your  mother  leave  you  alone  ?  " 

Ruth  put  her  hand  on  Henry's  arm. 

"  My  mother  leave  me  ?  She  watches  me  by  day,  and  when  I  am 
good  is  with  me  by  night.     All  last  night  I  slept  in  her  arms.*' 

"What,  is  she  so  near?  Does  she  live  in  the  house?  I  thought 
your  mother  had  lately  gone  away." 

Ruth  put  her  hand  to  her  head  and  looked  at  Henry  as  if  she  did 
not  understand  what  he  had  said. 

"  Ah,  you  do  not  know.  You  mean  his  wife.  She  has  gone,  but 
she  is  not  my  mother.  I  have  never  seen  my  mother  but  when  I 
sleep.  She  died,  but  I  don't  know  when.  He  won't  tell  me  when, 
or  where  she  is  buried." 

"  Poor  girl ! " 

**  Poor !  No,  I  am  Sister  Ruth,  and  the  angels  have  charge  over 
me.  But  he  is  poor.  I  am  soon  going  to  my  mother.  She  told  me 
so  last  night,  and  then  he  will  be  alone.  And  he  will  never  come  to 
my  mother.  She  will  not  see  him  or  let  me  speak  of  him.  What  he 
has  done  I  don't  know ;  but  the  angels  will  not  smile  on  him,  and  he 
is  lost !     Poor  father,  lost,  lost,  lost ! " 

"  Have  you  no  relations  ?    No  aunt  or  uncle  ?  " 

Ruth  shook  her  head  mournfully. 

"  My  mother  is  with  the  angels,  and  there  is  my  father." 

And  she  pointed  to  the  bed. 

The  blow  was  not  intended,  but  Henry  writhed.  His  girl,  too,  was 
motherless,  and  her  father  had  not  cared  for  her. 

**  Can  I  help  you  ?  Let  me  be  your  friend,  and  your  father's  friend." 

Ruth  put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder  and  gazed  at  him  earnestly. 

"  The  angels  smile  on  you.  When  my  mother  comes  to  me  to-night 
I  will  tell  her  that  you  were  kind  to  me." 

Q  2 


22$  The  Gentleiiiaii s  Magazine. 

"  I  must  go  now.  I  shall  not  be  in  London  again  for  a  week  or 
two,  but  when  I  return  I  will  see  you." 

Henry  took  a  bank  note  from  his  pocket-book  and  offered  it  to 
Ruth.  She  drew  back,  and  for  a  moment  her  pale  face  was  flushed 
with  anger. 

"  Sister  Ruth  has  the  angels  to  minister  to  her,  and  needs  not 
silver  or  gold.  Ah,  you  mean  it  for  my  father,  but  a  great  lord  gives 
him  money,  and  he  has  too  much." 

"  Very  well.  I  shall  call  here  when  I  return.  My  name  is  Clayton. 
You  will  remember  it  ?" 

**  No.  I  only  remember  what  happened  long  ago,  and  not  the 
name.     But  I  shall  not  forget  your  face." 

Henry  wrote  on  a  scrap  of  paper,  "  Henry  Clayton,  Poste  Res- 
tante,  Paris." 

"  If  I  can  help  your  father  before  I  return,  \\Tite  to  me.  Good- 
bye.   God  bless  you." 

"  It  is  evening,  and  how  little  I  have  done !  Night  after  night  my 
mother  says  to  me  the  naked  are  many  and  the  workers  are  few,  and 
I  never  forget  what  she  says.  But  I  can't  work  now.  It  is  evening, 
and  I  must  visit  my  poor." 

"  Can  you  leave  your  father?" 

"  He  >\t11  sleep  for  hours." 

Ruth  descended  to  the  court  with  Henry,  and  then  pressed  his  hand 
and  left  him  quickly. 

Dick  did  not  sleep  so  long  as  Ruth  anticipated.  He  called  for  her, 
and,  as  she  did  not  answer,  he  managed  to  stagger  to  the  cupboard 
and  help  himself  to  a  glass  of  raw  spirits.  Being  thus  refreshed,  he 
succeeded  in  lighting  a  candle,  though  he  had  some  difficulty  in 
bringing  the  wick  and  the  lucifer  match  into  contact.  The  next 
performance  was  filling  his  pipe.  He  took  up  the  paper  on  which 
Henry  had  written  his  name  and  address. 

'^  What's  this  ?  Has  that  old  Shamvock  been  leaving  some  of  his 
orders?" 

Dick  held  the  paper  close  to  the  candle,  but  he  could  not  read 
the  pencilled  writing.  The  paper  caught  fire,  and  then  Dick  read 
the  first  line. 

He  screamed  and  sat  in  a  chair,  shaking  and  staring  at  the  candle 
and  the  tinder  of  the  burnt  paper.  He  did  not  move  till  Ruth 
came  in. 

"Awake  already,  father?" 

Dick  pointed  to  the  cupboard.  Ruth  gave  him  some  spirits  and 
water. 


Making  tlic  Worst  of  it.  229 

"  Ruth,  who  has  been  here  ?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Did  any  one  leave  his  address  ?" 

Ruth  shook  her  head.  She  had  forgotten  all  the  incidents  of 
Henry's  visit 

*•  Maybe  it  was  the  drink  that  put  the  devil's  name  in  my  eyes." 

"  Good  night,  father." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  bed  at  this  hour  for,  leaving  me  alone  ? 
3klrs.  Feckles  will  have  to  come  back,  that  is  certain." 

"  I  am  not  weary,  father,  but  I  must  go  to  sleep  soon  lest  my 
mother  be  waiting  for  me." 

"  Lor,  what  would  I  give  to  have  Mrs.  Feckles  back  with  me  this 
very  night !" 

"  Listen,  father. 

In  her  arms  I  sleep ; 
When  I  wake  I  weep. 

Xo,  that  is  not  it.  I  forget  what  the  angels  taught  me ;  but  I  do 
not  forget  when  I  sleep.  Then  I  hear  the  sweet  music,  and  I,  too, 
can  sing  so  sweetly.  Good  night,  father.  Woe  unto  you  if  you 
wake  me  from  the  blissful  sleep.  Good  night.  I  am  coming,  mother, 
dear,  I  am  coming." 

**  Lor,  what  shall  I  do  ?  I'd  give  worlds  if  Mrs.  Feckles  were  here 
this  very  night." 

(  To  he  continued,) 


TABLE    TALK. 

BY  SYLVANUS  URBAN,  GENTLEMAN. 


It  is  a  curious  fact  that  the  descriptive  writers  of  the  press  who  write 
introductions  to  reports  and  do  light  leaders  for  the  daily  papers 
should  have  overlooked  the  visit  of  the  Persian  princes  to  London  in 
1835  and  1836.  Upon  that  memorable  event  Mr.  James  Baillie 
wrote  two  volumes,  giving  a  detailed  narrative  of  the  visit  of  the  Per- 
sians, with  an  account  of  their  journey  from  Persia  and  subsequent 
adventures.  This  work  would  have  afforded  a  fund  of  suggestions  to 
the  journalist  engaged  upon  "  copy "  in  connection  with  the  visit  of 
His  Majesty  the  Shah.  These  three  Persians  were  not  only  the]  first 
Persians  but  the  first  Asiatic  princes  who  ever  visited  this  country. 
Mr.  Baillie  was  charged  with  the  task  of  providing  for  their  comfort 
while  they  were  in  England  and  "  of  escorting  them  hence,  on  their 
return  to  the  asylum  they  had  chosen.'*  The  princes  were  fugitives^ 
and  were  severally  known  as  Reza  Koolee  Meerza,  NejefF  Koolee 
Meerza,  and  Timour  Meerza.  They  stayed  at  Long's  Hotel  at  first, 
and  afterwards  at  Mivart's  Hotel,  Brook  Street,  as  guests  of  the 
British  Government  Mr.  Baillie  was  the  Boswell  of  the  party,  and 
his  book  is  full  of  interesting  memoranda  of  the  Persians'  ideas, 
and  opinions  concerning  what  they  saw.  Prince  Reza  Koolee 
Meerza's  criticism  and  comparison  of  English  and  Persian  beauty  in 
woman  may  be  cited  as  specially  interesting.  Mr.  Baillie  told  him 
that  in  England  we  esteem  fair  beauties,  and  blue  and  grey  eyes^ 
especially  when  united  with  suitable  features.  "  Ah,  well !  we  do 
not  in  Persia,"  said  the  prince;  "  deep  black  eyes  for  us,  and  the  eye- 
brows like  a  pair  of  arches,  with  a  fine  rich  colour.  Now  there — 
there  is  one  [this  talk  occurred  at  a  Chiswick  fife]  who  has  something 

just  a  little You  must  know  that  among  us  we  distinguish  two  kinds 

of  beauty ;  one  of  which  we  value  highly,  and  the  other  we  admire 
but  little.  We  call  them  seb&hut  and  malldhtit.  The  first  consists  in 
mere  regularity  of  feature,  fine  eyes,  a  fine  nose,  a  beautiful  mouthy 
perhaps,  but  without  life  or  expression :  for  this  we  have  no  fancy.  The 
other  consists  in  that  beauty  of  expression  which  may  exist  indepen- 
dent of  form  and  features.  The  mouth  may  be  ill-made,  the  chin 
not  what  it  should  be ;  and  yet  in  tlie  whole  face  there  may  be  a 


Table  Talk,  231 

spirit  and  a  zest,  a  something  more  taking  than  mere  beauty  of  form^ 
which  catches  the  heart  of  man  in  spite  of  himself.  This  is  what  we 
value,  what  we  covet"  From  what  I  learn  among  those  who  profess 
to  have  understood  what  the  Shah  liked  and  disliked  in  England,  this 
type  of  Persian  beauty  differs  rather  from  the  style  of  woman  which 
His  Majesty  admired  in  London. 


Mr.  Baillie  took  these  Persian  princes  to  Bedlam,  the  Penitentiary, 
and  some  of  the  principal  prisons.  One  of  the  female  inmates  of 
Bedlam,  a  good-looking,  excitable  woman,  asked  the  youngest  prince 
his  name.  When  he  said  it  was  Timour,  she  replied,  "  Ah  !  Timour 
the  Tartar  !  Well,  you  are  Timour,  and  I'm  the  Tartar,  ain't  I  ?'' 
"  And  what  is  your  name  ?"  to  the  second  prince.  "  Wali,"  said  he. 
"  Wali  1  oh,  what  a  name  !  Strange  figure  too,"  said  she.  "  Well, 
Mr.  Wali,  I'll  tell  you  what  youll  do.  I'm  going  to  get  out  of  this 
place  soon — they  can't  keep  me  long — ^and  you  shall  take  me  for  a 
nursery  governess,  and  I'll  teach  you  the  tricks  of  Bedlam."  Among 
the  male  lunatics  there  was  Hatfield,  who  shot  at  King  George  the 
Third,  and  Martin,  the  incendiary  of  York  Cathedral.  The  Persians 
were  deeply  impressed  with  the  cleanliness  and  order  of  our  public 
institutions.  Above  all  things,  they  were  struck  with  the  national 
clemency  which  had  provided  special  comforts  for  Hatfield,  who  had 
in  Bedlam  a  fine  apartment,  "  surrounded  by  his  birds  and  animals, 
living  and  stuffed,  canaries,  parrots,  &c." 


According  to  this  remarkable  book,  which  the  newspaper  cor- 
respondents have  so  strangely  overlooked,  Futeh  Allee  Shah,  the 
then  late  King  of  Persia,  had  the  largest  family  of  children,  perhaps, 
that  was  ever  bom  to  man.  It  was  not  kno\Mi  how  many  wives  he 
had,  because  the  vacancies  by  death  were  speedily  filled.  His 
Majesty,  moreover,  was  in  the  habit  of  making  frequent  changes  in 
the  rose  garden  of  his  harem,  occasionally  weeding  out  those  flowers 
which  withered  or  lost  their  loveliness,  and  not  seldom  bestowing 
such  superannuated  fair  ones  as  marks  of  favour  upon  his  officers,  who 
had  to  pay  handsomely  also  for  this  mark  of  distinction.  Those 
ladies  who  brought  the  King  sons  were  seldom  abandoned  or  lost 
sight  of.  The  moment  it  was  known  that  any  of  his  wives  had 
become  the  mother  of  a  male  infant,  a  superior  establishment  was 
immediately  allotted  to  her,  and  she  entered  immediately  into  the 
enjoyment  of  a  weight  and  influence  which  was  denied  to  those  who 
had  the  ill-luck  to  be  mothers  only  of  female  children.     "  But  the 


232  The  Gentlentan  s  Magazine. 

King's  passion  was  variety,  and,  as  he  made  a  rule  of  marrying  after 
a  fashion  every  female  to  whom  he  took  a  fancy,  you  may  conceive 
tliat  the  number  of  his  wives  amounted  to  a  pretty  high  figure." 


If  any  one  asks  what  is  really  the  matter  in  France  and  Spain,  he 
gets  a  hundred  different  answers.  Every  man  has  his  theory.  Opinion 
just  now  is  in  a  chaotic  state  on  such  questions.  People  will  lay  the 
fault  at  the  door  of  Kingcraft,  of  Imperialism,  of  Republicanism,  of 
Communism,  of  Popery,  of  Protestantism,  of  unbelief,  of  the  untutored 
■condition  of  the  minds  of  those  populations  in  the  matter  of  self- 
government.  But  is  it  not  remarkable  that,  at  the  very  time  when 
Thomas  Carlyle  is  still  a  living  man  among  us,  nobody  seems  to  hit 
upon  the  explanation  that  those  two  great  nations,  without  definite  or 
trustworthy  forms  of  government  and  without  any  guarantee  of  social 
stability  from  day  to  day,  are  each  suffering  from  the  same  malady — 
the  want  of  a  Hero  ?  It  seems  to  me — not  reckoning  by  dates,  but 
by  freshness  of  memory — to  be,  as  it  were,  but  yesterday  when  we 
were  all  reading  "  Hero- Worship,"  and  when  everybody  was  ready  to 
admit,  with  or  without  qualification,  that  the  great  man  rising  uj> 
above  the  heads  of  his  fellows  was  the  only  efficient  cause  of  all 
success,  the  only  competent  remedy  for  all  disasters  and  all  undesir- 
able states  of  things.  The  heads  of  all  readers  were  full  of  Wodin  and 
Thor,  of  Frederick  the  Great  and  Mahomet,  of  Cromwell,  Martin 
Luther,  and  the  rest  of  them,  and  nobody  would  have  expected  any 
nation  in  trouble  to  come  right  again,  or  to  enter  upon  a  high  career, 
unless  a  hero  turned  up  at  the  fitting  time.  The  gospel  according  to 
the  author  of  "  Sartor  Resartus  "  must  be  very  evanescent,  since,  as 
spectators  of  the  events  in  France  and  Spain  we  have  already 
forgotten  our  hero-worship,  and  each  of  us  is  speculating  with  perfect 
freedom  of  thought  upon  the  causes  of  the  critical  condition  of  those 
two  countries.  I  am  bound  to  move  on  with  the  intellectual  tide,  and 
therefore  I  will  not  say  that  it  would  of  a  certainty  be  well  for  either 
France  or  Spain  that  a  giant  should  grow  up  in  the  service  of  each ; 
for  now  that  we  have  escaped  somewhat  from  the  spell  thrown  over 
lis  by  the  philosopher  of  Chelsea,  it  is  impossible  to  avoid  recalling 
periods  in  history  when  the  master  mind  has  come  to  the  front  and 
retarded  rather  than  helped  on  the  healthful  progress  of  things.  The 
fact,  however,  remains  that  there  are  no  supreme  heroes,  either  in  the 
disorganised  or  the  well-organised  countries  of  the  world — with  one 
notable  exception.  The  only  actual  giant  in  the  two  hemispheres  is 
Prince  Bismarck,  and  the  only  stupendous  piece  of  work  that  has 


Table  Talk.  233 

been  done  in  our  time — the  making  of  the  German  Empire — is  the 
personal  act  of  that  one  man.     The  literary  career  of  the  author  of 
"  Htro-Worship  "  will  be  incomplete  if  he  does  not  wTite  us  the  life 
of  the  first  Chancellor  of  the  German  Empire. 


I  AM  glad  to  learn  that  at  the  Greenwich  visitation  the  Board  of 
Visitors,  by  a  unanimous  vote,  supported  the  views  expressed  by  my 
contributor,  Mr.  R.  A.  Proctor,  in  his  article  in  the  Gentleman's 
Magazine  on  the  transit  of  Venus. 


"  The  pipers  walked  before  the  carriage,  and  the  Highlanders  on 
either  side,  as  we  approached  the  house.  Outside  stood  the  Marquis 
of  Lome,  just  two  years  old,  a  dear,  white,  fat  little  fellow  v/ith  red- 
dish hair,  but  very  delicate  features,  like  both  his  father  and  mother ; 
he  is  such  a  merry,  independent  little  child."  This  was  written  in 
1848  by  Her  Majesty  the  Queen,  in  her  diary  of  a  visit  to  Inverary. 
As  time  wears  on,  the  early  notes  in  Her  Majesty's  book  grow  in 
interest  like  my  own  pages.  There  is  nothing  so  attractive  to  the 
iiuman  mind  as  personal  history  of  this  character.  I  was  thinking  of 
the  "  white,  fat  little  fellow  "  while  I  watched  him  shoot  at  Wimble- 
don, where,  by  the  way,  the  practice  at  the  butts  and  the  running 
deer  has  this  year  been  something  wonderful.  Lord  de  Grey  struck 
the  deer  twice  in  the  heart  with  a  double  barrelled  rifle  while  it  was 
passing  once.  

A  SAD  but  striking  picture  in  English  history  is  the  incident  of  the 
death  of  the  Bishop  of  Winchester.  It  wants  a  Macaulay  to  write 
that  chapter.  This  was  the  grandest  and  most  remarkable  represen- 
tative of  the  English  Church  in  our  age.  He  was  a  man  whose 
company  was  sought  by  princes  and  statesmen.  In  the  charm  of 
social  life  he  had  few  equals  in  English  society  and  no  su- 
i;eriors.  A  hundred  reminiscences  rise  to  mind  as  I  think  of  him. 
Wherever  he  appeared  in  company  men  and  women  gathered 
round  him,  for  of  the  few  really  accomplished  talkers  that  were  left 
to  us  he  was  one  of  the  most  eminent,  and  his  wit  had  the  rare 
quality  that  it  was  at  once  keen  and  kind.  But  if  there  are  not 
many  conversationalists  remaining  there  are  also  not  many  genuine 
orators,  and  again  he  was  one  of  the  foremost.  His  figures  of 
speech,  enriched  with  fresh  and  original  observations  of  the  beauties 
of  nature,  carried  the  imagination  captive,  and  there  were  touches  now 
and  then  of  tender  sympathy — all  the  more  potent  because  of  the 


5  34  '^f^^  Gentlema)is  Magazine. 

natural  and  ready  vigour  of  the  man — ^which  went  straight  to  the  heart, 
^nd  reminded  the  listener  somehow  of  the  cogency  of  the  feet  that  to 
this  man's  father  eight  hundred  thousand  British  colonial  slaves  owed 
in  a  great  measure  their  freedom.  The  picture  of  this  fine  old 
Churchman  a-horseback  by  the  side  of  Lord  Granville,  pointing  out 
the  grandeur  of  the  July  trees  and  glorying  in  the  exceptional  beauty 
and  sweetness  of  the  summer's  evening  a  few  moments  before  his 
death,  will  not  be  easily  eflfaced  firom  the  recollections  of  this  gene- 
ration.   

Lord  Westbury,  whose  name  appears  on  the  death  roll  of  the 
month,  was  one  of  the  gladiators  of  the  bar.  Given  a  naturally  fine 
intellect,  and  the  law  will  make  the  best  of  it  Through  life  brain  work 
seemed  to  him  but  child's  play,  and  his  scorn  for  feebleness  of  intel- 
ligence was  unique.  Humble  minded  men  were  afiraid  of  him,  strong 
men  preferred  not  to  encounter  him.  His  reliance  on  pure  mental 
power  was  so  great  that  at  times  the  very  merits  of  his  case,  the  logic 
and  the  evidence,  were  almost  matters  of  indifference  to  him.  It  is 
half  a  century  since  he  was  called  to  the  bar.  He  rose  to  the 
highest  eminence  in  the  State,  but  he  might  have  been  a  greater 
man. 

St.  John's  Gate,  the  fine  old  architectural  relic  which  will  for  ever 
be  associated  with  the  name  and  early  history  of  the  Gentleman^s 
Magazine^  is  to  be  spared  and  protected  from  the  ravages  of  Time. 
Even  in  these  days  there  are  Crusaders  and  Hospitallers.  There  is  a 
modem  English  Order  of  the  Knights  of  St.  John,  and  they  have  gone 
up  Clerkenwell  and  taken  possession  of  the  Gate,  within  whose  walls 
the  famous  Cave  printed  the  **  First  of  the  Magazines."  "  These 
modern  knights,"  says  Mr.  Pettit  Griffith  writing  to  the  Build€r^  to 
whom  he  gives  the  credit  of  being  the  first  to  appeal  to  the  public, 
thirty  years  ago,  for  the  preservation  of  the  Gate,  "  imbued  with  the 
same  love  of  order  and  charity  as  their  ancestors,  have,  by  purchase, 
regained  possession  of  the  fi-eehold,  and  the  Gate  will  no  longer  be 
humiliated  as  a  tavern  ;  they  will  complete  the  restoration  of  the  old 
Gate,  and  when  restored  it  will  no  longer  be  hidden  firom  the  public 
gaze,  but  face  an  important  thoroughfare,  viz.,  the  new  street  now 
being  formed  from  Old  Street  to  Oxford  Street  **  During  these  thirty 
years  the  protection  of  the  Gate  has  been  under  Mr.  Grifi^'s  care, 
and,  thanks  to  the  good  feeling  of  the  occupiers,  he  has  had  no  diffi- 
culty in  saving  the  fine  old  relic  fi-om  injury.  Mr.  Griffith  acknow- 
ledges the  efforts  of  the  Gentleman's  Magazine^  as  well  as  diose  of  the 


•  Table  Talk.  235 

Titnts  and  Aiheiumm^m  behalf  of  the  work  whidi  has  now  been  so 
chivalrousiy  undertaken  by  the  Anglican  successors  of  the  grand 
old  Knights  Hospitallers  of  St  John  of  Jerasalem,  It  is  more 
than  seven  centuries  and  a  half  since  this  Pnory  was  founded 
in  Clerkenwell,  it  is  five  hundred  years  since  Wat  Tyler 
set  fire  to  it,  and  only  a  little  less  since  its  rebuilding; 
three  hundred  years  ago  Queen  Elizabeth's  Master  of  the  Revels 
converted  the  sacred  house  into  a  wardrobe  in  connection 
with  the  dramatic  performances  in  which  her  gradous  Majesty 
delighted,  and  here  were  the  rehearsals  held  under  the  management 
of  £dmund  Tilney.  The  disestablished  Priory  was,  in  fact,  the  cradle 
of  modem  dramatic  performances,  and  no  wonder  that  Garrick  tried 
his  first  London  dress  rehearsal  within  the  Gate.  I  presume  that 
these  Knights  of  St  John  of  the  nineteenth  century/  will  not  be 
foigetfiil  of  die  hospitable  traditions  of  their  ordo-  or  of  their 
ancient  care  for  pilgrims,  and,  if  they  disestablish  the  Gale  Tavern, 
which  boasts  of  being  the  oldest  in  Christendom,  will  open  the  Gate 
as  a  club  for  dramatic  and  literary  pilgrims  seeking  to  pay  their 
devotions  at  the  shrine  of  Garrick,  Samuel  Johnson,  and  Goldsmith. 


Mr.  G.  H.  Jones,  in  a  new  work  on  "  Dentistry ;  its  Use  and  Abuse," 
desires  for  dentists  what  schoolmasters  are  looking  for — a  compulsor}' 
examination  and  licence  to  practice  their  profession.  The  school 
master  complains  that  any  person  can  open  a  school ;  the  denlbt 
says,  "There  is  not  a  profession  more  tampered  with  and  which 
numbers  so  many  imqualified  members  in  its  ranks  as  dentistry. 
Even  an  amateur  can  style  himself  a  dentist,  if  he  chooses,  though 
he  be  ignorant  of  the  very  names  of  teeth."  Her  Majest/s  subjects 
suffer  seriously  on  this  account,  as  they  do  in  the  case  of  ill-conducted 
schools  and  uneducated  teachers.  But  it  seems  to  me  that  it  would 
be  comparatively  easy  for  the  leading  dentists  to  form  an  academy  of 
their  own^  or  so  extend  and  enlarge  their  present  association  as  to 
offer  the  public  a  directory  of  names  of  qualified  practitioners  that 
would  protect  them  firom  amateurs  and  experimentalists. 

♦ 

I  AGREE  with  the  political  critics  that  the  forthcoming  marriage  of 
the  Duke  of  Edinburgh  with  the  Grand  Duchess  Maria  of  Russia 
will  probably  have  very  little  influence  upon  diplomacy  or  inter- 
national afiairs;  but  I  shall  look  for  social  results.  As  yet  we 
have  learned  almost  nothing  firom  Russia,  though,  even  in  matters  of 
high  civilisation,  Russia  has  a  good  deal  to  teach  us.     There  are  at 


a  $6  The  Gefttlenjfi?i's  Mkgazine. 

St  Petersburg  fashions  of  high  life,  there  aro^even  some  industrial 
arts,  and  there  are  certainly  refinements  of  manner  and  breeding 
which  might,  with  discretion,  be  Avrought  in  with  the  warp  of  English 
life  and  society  without  doing  us  any  harm  and  possibly  with  con-^ 
siderable  advantage.  The  Imperial  Princess  will  certainly  not  pome 
and  take  up  her  abode  among  us  without  bringing  influences  with 
her — nor,  indeed,  without  bringing  Russians  with  her.  She  will  set  the 
fashion  for  a  season  or  two,  and  perhaps  be  the  "  rage."  There  wilP 
thenceforward  be  more  going  to  and  fro  between  St.  Petersburg  and 
London  than  heretofore,  and  these  are  reasons  why  I  think  we  maj- 
anticipate  considerable  results  from  the  event  For  the  alliance 
brings  us  into  contact  with  a  totally  different  race,  and  we  shall  come 
face  to  face  with  many  novelties.  In  this  respect  the  advent  of  the 
Princess  Alexandra  was  very  different  We  have  lived  next  door  to 
Denmark  all  our  days,  the  same  blood  runs  in  the  veins  of  the  two 
peoples,  and  our  purely  domestic  habits  are  almost  identical  with 
those  of  our  Danish  neighbours.  For  the  Princess  of  Wales  there 
was  only  the  easy  task  of  becoming  an  Englishwoman,  and  for  us  the 
welcome  task  of  accepting  her  in  that  character.  The  Grand 
Duchess  Maria  will  not  become  an  Englishwoman.  It  will  take  two 
or  three  generations  to  assimilate  the  House  of  Brunswick  with  that 
of  Romanoff.  But  since  there  is  an  intense  longing  in  the  hearts  of 
the  highest  class  of  Russians  for  the  best  forms  of  civilisation,  there 
is  something  to  hope  and  not  much  to  fear  from  this  marriage  between 
thf  two  families.  Fame  speaks  highly  of  the  Princess,  and  there  is 
not  living  a  finer,  manlier  scion  of  the  House  of  Brunswick  than 
the  second  son  of  Queen  Victoria  and  the  late  Prince  Consort. 


i 


THE 


Gentleman's  Magazine 


September,  1873. 


Clytie. 

A  Novel  of  Modern  Life. 
BY  JOSEPH  HATTON. 

BOOK  II. 

CHAPTER     I. 

AFTER  TEN  YEARS. 

II ME  halts  for  no  man.  Never  ceasing,  silent,  unbroken, 
unresting,  the  all  conquering  monarch  continues  ^is 
course  everlastingly.  Day  wearies  him  not.  Night 
obstructs  not  his  course.  He  stays  neither  for  Love  nor 
Hate.  Even  Money  cannot  arrest  his  footsteps.  Mammon  may 
buy  most  things.  Time  is  not  to  be  purchased.  Onward,  with  unvary- 
ing footsteps,  onward  he  goeth — in  all  weathers,  through  all  seasons. 

And  yet  he  began  his  life  before  Adam ;  this  untiring  Time.  We 
look  forward,  and  Fancy  outstrips  the  great  traveller.  Thought  shoots 
ahead  and  seems  to  make  Time  lag.  But  thought  is  spasmodic  and 
euatic ;  Time  is  steady  and  incessant  in  his  progress.  He  stays 
not  to  think ;  he  waits  not  to  reflect ;  he  does  not  turn  his  head 
to  look  upon  the  way  he  has  journeyed.  By-and-by  he  ov^takes 
the  Future,  and  like  the  rising  tide  obliterates  tl^e  sign  which 
Fancy  had  made  in  the  sand  when  the  sea  was  far  away.  Then 
we  look  back  over  the  years  that  are  gone;  look  back  where 
the  landmark  of  our  hopes  and  wishes  once  stood,  look  back  to 
'  the  spot  where  we  think  we  made  that  mark  in  the  beach,  and  we 
find  that  Time  is  not  only  perpetual  in  his  advance,  but  we  find  that 
he  is  swift  also. 

Vol.  XI.,  N.S.  1873.  ^ 


238  The  Gentleman  MMd^zine. 

When  we  were  looking  forward  Time^as  i\^  snail,  the  tortoise; 
looking  back,  he  is  Time.  And  who  or  what  so  swift  as  he  ?  An 
arrow  from  a  bow.  A  lightning  flash.  A  shuttle  in  the  loom.  A 
swallow  on  the  wing.  A  shadow  on  the  wall.  A  dream  of  happiness. 
These  things  but  faintly  emblem  the  rapid,  rushing,  scudding,  fleeting 
thing  called  Time. 

'Tis  a  vapour  in  the  air ; 
'Tis  a  whirlwind  rushing  there ; 
'Tis  a  short-lived  fading  flower  ; 
'Tis  a  rainbow  on  a  shower ; 
'Tis  the  closing  watch  of  night, 
Dying  at  the  rising  light  ; 
'Tis  a  landscape  vainly  gay, 
Painted  upon  crumbling  clay ; 
'Tis  a  lamp  that  wastes  its  fires ; 
'Tis  a  smoke  that  quick  expires ; 
'Tis  a  bubble ;  'tis  a  sigh : — 
Be  prepared,  O  man,  to  die. 

Time  is  the  great  leveller,  the  revealer  of  the  truth,  the  judge,  the 
punisher.  He  is  no  respecter  of  persons.  It  is  said  that  he  deals 
tenderly  with  this  man  or  that  woman.  It  is  not  so.  Some  men  and 
women  deal  tenderly  with  themselves.  Some  men  and  women  go 
'through  life  with  a  perpetual  calmness.  Fortune  is  in  their  service. 
Their  forbears  made  their  life  free  from  money  troubles.  Others,  with 
whom  Time  is  supposed  to  deal  tenderly,  have  banished  wrinkles  and 
diyase  by  a  strict  respect  of  the  law  moral  and  divine.  They  have 
always  looked  to  the  future.  They  have  had  strength  of  mind 
<inough  to  look  onward  and  wait.  Time,  passing  over  all  with  equal 
pace,  deals  with  material  as  he  finds  it.  The  result  is  according  to 
the  strength  of  the  material,  though  at  last  there  comes  a  day  when 
the  best  must  give  way  with  the  worst.  Time's  mission  is  defined. 
It  is  laid  down,  the  course  he  shall  travel.  It  is  mapped  out  and 
l^lanned  with  the  stars  and  the  planets,  with  the  sun  and  the  moon, 
,and  may  not  be  altered. 

After  ten  years  what  has  Time  done  with  the  people  whose  histories 
^o  to  make  up  this  story  ?  After  ten  years  we  may  fairly  begin  by  an 
inquil^  about  Tom  Mayfield. 

When  the  Dunelm  student  turned  his  back  upon  the  old  cathedral 
city,  plucking  as  he  hoped  the  image  of  Clytie  from  his  heart,  be  took 
the  train  to  Liverpool,  with  the  intention  of  going  to  the  Antipodes. 
But  Fate  had  willed  it  othenvise.     He  fell  in  with  some  men  who^ 
.  were  going  out  on  a  mining  expedition  to  California. 

Time  presently  encountered  the  misanthrope  at  a  mining  station 


•^      Cly^ie.  239 


on  a  salmon  river,  gdown  •in  a  wooded  valley.      Time  found  him 
there,  a  bronzed  and  bearded  man  with  his  hair  long  and  his  hands 
broad  and  homy.     The  pale-faced,  anxious-looking  student,  tliin  and 
delicate  as  Clytie  had  seen  him  in  the  old  city,  was  broad  and  thick- 
set and  strong  among  the  gold-diggers  of  California.     He  lived  in  a 
cabm  with  one  of  the  men  whom  he  had  met  at  Liverpool,  and  was 
generally  looked  up  to  and  respected  by  the  rough  colojiy  in  which  he 
had  cast  his  lot     He  and  his  friends  were  successful  in  their  mining 
ventures,  and  after  two  years  Tom  Mayfield  had  deposited  a  con- 
siderable sum  of  money  in  the  bank  of  the  only  town  in  the  district, 
a  small  city  some  riiree  hundred  miles  away.     But  Tom  cared  little 
or  nothing  about  the  money.      Getting  it  had   been  an  absorbing 
occupation  that  helped  him  to  forget  why  he  was  there,  why  thousands 
of  miles  of  sea  and  land  lay  between  him  and  his  native  country. 
The  mining  station  was   eventually  broken   up  by  an  attack  of 
Indians,  and  this  made  Tom  a  wanderer  from  place  to  place,  from 
city  to  city.     It  was  a  wild  strange  life,  full  of  danger  and  adventure. 
He  had  fought  in  Mexico ;  he  had  done  battle  with  Indians  in  their 
own  fastnesses ;  he  had  seen  life  in  its  wildest  and  grandest,  in  its 
simplest  and  in  its  noblest  shapes.    He  had  dwelt  with  Nature  in  her 
most   delicious   haunts ;  he    had  basked  in  the  sun-lands  by  the 
Golden  Gates  of  the  Far  West ;  he  had  fought  for  very  life  in  the 
same  place  against  winter  in  winter's  most  appalling  shape — snow. 
He  had  sat  by  Indian  camp  fires  and  learnt  the  Indian  tongue  :  he 
had  seen  the  red  man  on  the  war  trail  and  at  peace ;  as  a  stran^ly- 
trusted  white  who  had  shown  a  reckless  disregard  of  life  that  had 
won  the  red  man's  heart  he  had  taken  part  in  the  autumn  feasts  of 
the  savage,  revelling  in  the  Indian  summer.     He  had  felt  a  thrill  of 
inspiration  touch  his  very  soul  at  the  sight  of  nature  in  this  grand, 
wild,  western  dress.     Manzineta  berries,  rich  and  golden,  the  splen- 
<iid  anther,  the  red  and  yellow  of  the  maple,  the  cold,  dark  green  of 
the  firs ;  the  balmy  sunshine,   the  novel  festival ;  na  wonder  the 
student's  imagination  gave  back  the  gorgeous  colours ;  no  wonder  this 
wild  life,  with  its  chequered  days  and  nights,  full  of  romance  and 
danger  in  a  new  world,  gave  a  poetic  tone  to  the  settled  melancholy 
of  the  disappointed  lover.  * 

Tom  Mayfield  found  that  he  was  a  poet ;  and  wheft  almost  every- 
body had  forgotten  him  London  discovered  him;  then  England  took 
up  his  book  and  talked  of  the  new  American  writer,  the  new  poet 
**  who  dated  from  savage  lands,  from  wilds  of  river  and  mountain,  from  a 
far-off  country  that  was  almost  unknown ;  who  had  set  the  music 

of  nature  to  new  words,  and  given  the  language  of  rejected  love  a 

&  2 


240  The  Gentleman  f  Md^azine. 

new  dialect.  The  modem  monks  at  Dunelm  i^d  the  new  poet  and 
wondered  at  him ;  and  the  new  people  at  the  Hermitage  who  had 
never  seen  the  former  occupants  at  all,  they  had  a  copy  of  Tom 
Mayfield's  book,  a  reprint  from  the  American  edition.  But  no  one 
knew  Tom  Mayfield  in  connection  with  the  book.  The  name  on 
the  title-page  was  "  Kalmat,"  and  that  name  suddenly  became  famous 
in  England.  The  critics  could  not  understand  how  a  man  such  as 
American  gossips  had  described  could  write  poems  that  had  not  only 
all  the  glow  and  warmth  of  Byron,  but  were  as  scholarly  in  their  way 
as  the  works  of  Pope  and  Young.  The  American^  said  Kalmat  was  a 
miner,  a  soldier,  an  adventurer,  a  wild,  uncultured  genius  of  the  West, 
a  native  who  must  be  self-educated,  and  they  instanced  him  as  an 
illustration  of  the  God-gifted  genius  which  knows  all  things  as  it  were 
by  instinct  Kalmat  had  nothing  to  say  on  this  subject,  but  he 
wrote  on.  He  poured  out  all  the  pent  up  feelings  of  his  soul.  He 
wailed  over  his  lost  love.  He  railed  against  that  cruel  Fortune  which 
makes  love  a  bane  and  a  curse,  a  poison  to  the  soul,  a  dagger  to  the 
heart.  He  drew  pictures  of  a  heaven  of  love  where  each  heart  found 
its  fellow,  and  he  put  it  in  contrast  with  the  hell  of  earth  where  gold 
and  jewels  are  weighed  against  a  true  man's  devotion.  Rich  and 
glowing,  and  hot,  and  eloquent,  burning,  scorching,  luscious  words 
and  thoughts  met  you  at  every  page  ;  and  it  was  easy  to  see  that  a 
great,  brave  man  had  here  given  up  his  secret  soul  to  poetic  con- 
fe^ion,  and  you  pitied  him  though  you  knew  him  not,  and  sard 
sorrow  and  heart-break  and  disappointed  love  had  their  uses  since 
tliey  gave  inspiration  to  a  vagabond  and  a  wanderer,  who  otherwise 
could  only  have  told  us  tales  of  mining  life  and  Indian  battles. 

But  what  manner  of  man  was  this  poet  of  the  Golden  West  ?  The 
newspapers  gave  it  out  that  "  Kalmat"  was  expected  in  England. 
And  when  the  second  part  of  this  history  opens  Tom  Mayfield, 
bronzed  and  bearded,  and  grizzled  and  grey  with  sun  and  shower, 
with  heart-ache  and  storm,  is  tossing  upon  the  bosom  of  the  wide 
Atlantic,  on  his  way  home. 

CHAPTER  n. 

THE   RANSFORDS. 

Ten  years  had  wTought  few  changes  in  Dunelm,  so  far  as  appear- 
ances went. 

The  old  city  was  quiet  and  beautiful  as  ever.  Time  had  found* 
Cathedral,  Bridge,  and  Castle  strong  against  his  grindmg  footsteps. 
People  went  to  church  on  Sundays,  and  took  their  mommg  walk 


"^       Clylie.  241 

afterwards,  with  the  tJsual  regularity.  Town  Councildom  talked  and 
gossipped  at  nights  in  the  bar  parlour  of  the  city  tavern.  Clerical 
Dunelm  ^till  turned  up  its  nose  at  lay  Dunelm.  In  summer  the  sun 
found  the  flowers  and  trees  and  wooded  dells  that  had  given  so  much 
pleasure  to  Clytie  ready  to  be  as  genial  and  familiar  with  any  one 
else. 

But  the  rustle  of  the  Ransford  silks  over  the  Prebend's  Bridge 
was  heard  no  more.  It  was  always  a  condition  of  Pride  that  it 
should  have  a  fall,  and  when  Pride  has  taken  the  form  of  money- 
arrogance,  its  fall  is  fatal  to  peace  ever  after ;  for  such  a  fall  is  never 
softened  by  sympathy.  The  Ransfords  were  a  hard,  bitter  lot.  In 
their  prosperity  they  had  no  friends,  though  they  had  much  lip 
service ;  in  their  fall  no  kind  word  fell  upon  their  wounded  feelings, 
neither  man  nor  woman  stood  by  them. 

Old  Ransford  was  ruined  by  a  great  bank  failure,  coupled  with 
other  financial  complications,  which  brought  upon  him  the  most  com- 
plete and  utter  despair.  His  fortunes  were  as  finished  a  wreck  as  if 
some  great  tide  of  Fate  had  swept  over  them  and  left  nothing  but 
broken  spars  behind. 

A  period  of  ten  years  from  the  days  of  Clytie  in  Dunelm  had  left 
the  Ransfords  scattered,  as  it  were,  to  the  four  winds  of  heaven. 
Their  mills  knew  them  no  longer ;  the  house  on  the  hill  was  occupied 
by  one  of  Ransford's  earliest  and  most  insignificant  opponents,  who 
had  been  one  of  his  foremen ;  and,  such  are  the  complicationsi^  of 
Fate,  the  revenues  of  this  Dunelm  estate  had  for  some  years  been 
paid  to  a  special  account,  watched  over  by  trustees,  for  the  very  girl 
whom  the  Ransford  women  had  looked  down  upon  in  their  rustling 
array  of  silks  and  jewels  on  that  summer  Sunday  when  Phil  Ransford 
stopped  to  speak  to  Clytie. 

Thus  Time  after  ten  years  finds  old  Ransford  in  the  situation  of  a 
colliery  clerk  at  five-and-twenty  shillings  a  week.  The  eldest  Miss 
Ransford  is  keeping  a  school  at  Barnard  Castle.  She  has  six  pupils, 
and  finds  it  diflftcult  to  get  meat  twice  a  week.  The  second  Miss 
Ransford  has  done  better.  She  has  gone  out  to  Australia  as  the  wife 
of  one  of  her  father's  weavers.  The  youngest  of  the  family  ajjd  her 
mother  are  still  better  off.  They  are  lying  in  the  churcjiyard  beneath 
the  cooling  shadow  of  an  ivied  tower. 

And  what  has  Time  done  with  Phil  Ransford  ?  What  has  come  to 
pass  in  the  career  of  the  man  who  deliberately  laid  snares  and  traps  for 
the  happiness  and  honour  of  a  vain  but  pure-minded  and  innocent  girl? 
Is  there  anything  in  that  philosophy  which  holds  that  sin  brings  its  own 
punishment  ?    The  Phil  Ransfords  of  the  world,  are  they  to  wait  1 


242  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

their  deserts  until  the  Last  Day  ?  Is  there  no  living  present  hand  to 
spurn  them  ?  Does  no  one  strike  them  down  in  the  streets  ?  Do 
they  go  on  and  sleep  and  breathe  the  air  equally  vn\\\  other  men  ? 
Not  always.  Now  and  then  the  Higher  Power  makes  examples  of 
them  here,  and  they  come  to  miserable  endings.  But  the  mischief 
they  do  is  greater  than  their  punishment,  and  because  such  men 
appear  to  flourish,  the  hasty  and  short  sighted  say  there  is  no  God. 

Phil  Ransford  is  a  needy,  shabby  genteel,  bouncing,  billiard 
sharping,  vulgar  schemer  about  London.  Once  he  was  nearly 
a  successful  adventurer.  He  made  friends  with  a  promoter  of 
public  companies,  and  narrowly  escaped  making  twenty  thousand 
pounds.  He  commenced  to  exhibit  his  real  character  before 
the  transaction  was  quite  closed,  and  just  in  X\mt  to  be  kicked 
into  Lombard  Street  by  a  northern  giant  upon  whose  money 
Phil  had  already  placed  his  hand.  Phil  could  not  get  on  in  the 
City  after  this,  and  was  obliged  to  confine  his  operations  to  that 
part  of  London  which  is  west  of  Temple  Bar.  Here  he  was  an 
adventurer  with  many  fortunes.  If  he  had  not  been  expelled  from 
two  respectable  clubs  to  which  he  belonged  in  his  palmy  days  of 
Dunelm  his  operations  might  have  been  on  a  large  scale,  but  in  one 
way  or  another  Fate  hustled  him  out  of  all  decent  society.  Even 
Bohemia  had  utterly  discarded  him.  The  Wyldenberg  set  looked 
down  upon  him.  Now  and  then,  however,  he  would  for  a  week  or 
two  at  a  time  raise  his  head  from  the  clouds  that  had  settled  upon 
him,  and  walk  out,  the  shadow  of  what  he  had  been.  A  new  coat, 
a  pair  of  well  cleaned  trousers,  a  white  hat  with  a  black  band,  an 
eye-glass,  a  cane,  would  help  the  general  effect  of  a  sort  of  spasmodic 
attempt  to  emerge  once  more  into  semi-respectable  life;  but  these 
reappearances  in  respectable  streets  and  at  first-class  caft^s  were  only 
spasmodic.  He  soon  dropped  back  again  into  the  darkness  to  cheat 
and  swindle  on  a  small  scale,  and  to  curse  Lord  St.  Barnard  and  his 
wife,  whom  he  charged  with  helping  to  ruin  him.  This  was  a  theme 
of  which  he  never  tired. 

"  If  half  of  what  you  say  is  true,"  said  Mr.  Simon  Cuffing,  a  touting 
lawyer,  who  pushed  his  profession  chiefly  in  the  hall  of  the  Lambeth 
County  Court,  "  if  only  half  of  it  is  true,  I  tell  you,  there  is  no 
difficulty  about  making  money  out  of  them." 

*•  If!     What  do  you  mean,  Cuffing?"  said  Phil. 

"  Mean  what  I  say,"  said  the  shabby  little  lawyer,  sipping  his 
twopennyworth  of  gin. 

"  Do  you  disbelieve  me  ?  "  asked  Phil,  taking  a  cheap  cigar  from 
his  mouth,  and  putting  on  an  air  of  injured  innocence. 


Clytie.  243. 

"  Not  exactly  ;  but  a  clever  fellow  with  a  secret  such  as  you 
possess  ought  not  to  be  drinking  in  this  miserable  coffee-house  with  a 
comrton  lawyer  such  as  I,"  said  Cuffing. 

"  How  do  you  mean,  Cuffing  ?" 

*^  Have  you  never  applied  to  them  for  money? " 

"  Never  !  You  forget  yourself,  Cuffing.  A  man  \inth  an  Oxford 
education,  and  the  prospect  of  a  seat  in  the  House  of  Commons  !  I 
may  be  down  now.  Cuffing,  but  I  do  not  forget  that  I  am  a  gentleman.'* 

*'  Don't  you  ? "  said  the  lawyer,  unmoved.  "  I  thought  you  had 
forgotten  that  long  ago.'* 

"  Ah,  you  are  like  the  rest,  Cuffing ;  you  only  judge  a  man  by  his 
purse  and  his  appearance." 

"  I  judge  him  by  the  company  he  keeps.  No  gentleman  would 
have  me  for  his  boon  companion,  to  begin  with." 

"Cuffing,  I  bear  no  malice";  here's  my. hand,"  said  Phil,  grandly;. 
"  if  you  do  say  an  unkind  thing  you  generally  turn  it  back  upon. 
yourself.' 

Cuffing  took  the  ends  of  Phil's  fingers  in  his  hand  for  a  moment^ 
and  then  gave  them  back  to  their  owner,  saying, 

**  And  if  you  tell  a  lie  about  a  business  matter,  if  it  is  to  your 
interest  to  withdraw  it  and  tell  the  truth,  you  generally  do  so." 

"  Cuffing,"  exclaimed  Phil,  "  ten  years  ago  if  any  man  had  said 
that  to  me  I  would  have  brained  him  on  the  spot." 

*•  Ten  years  ago,"  said  Cuffing,  calmly.  "  Did  you  know  Lord 
St.  Barnard  then  ?  " 

"  No ;  not  this  one  ;  I  knew  the  old  lord  slightly." 

"  Ah  ;  who  is  this  other  fellow,  then  ?  " 

"  The  old  lord  died  about  eight  years  ago,  and  this  fellow  was  his. 
nephew,  a  long  way  removed." 

"  \Vhat  is  he  like  ?  " 

"  Oh,  he's  what  you  would  call  a  good-looking  ass  enough,  so  far 
as  that  goes." 

"  Ah ;  is  he  a  civil  sort  of  chap  ?  " 

"  Yes,  civil  enough,  the  beast." 

"  When  was  the  last  time  he  gave  you  money?" 

"  He  never  gave  me  money.  Cuffing,  'pon  my  soul,  I  shall  strike 
you  if  you  treat  me  in  this  way,"  exclaimed  Phil.  "  Have  I  not  told 
you,  over  and  over  again,  that  revenge  is  my  only  feeling  in  this, 
matter — wounded  pride,  outraged  honour." 

Cuffing  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  grinned. 

"  Strike  me  ! "  he  said.  "  Why,  Ransford,  I  would  shoot  yon  lik<t 
a  dog  if  you  laid  a  hand  on  me." 


244  1^^^  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

"  Shoot  me  ?  "  said  Phil,  with  undisguised  horror ;  "  do  you  carry 
a  pistol,  then  ?  " 

"  I  do,  except  when  my  uncle  carries  it  for  me ;  but  at  this  moment 
I  happen  to  be  carrying  it  myself." 

*•  The  devil  you  do,"  said  Phil ;  "and  what  is  it  ?" 

"  There  it  is,"  replied  the  gin-drinker,  producing  a  revolver. 

"  You  alarm  me,  Cuffing,"  said  Phil.  "  I  hate  pistols,  and  I 
would  rather  be  hanged  than  shot." 

"The  chances  are  greatly  in  favour  of  your  own  choice  of 
deaths  being  favourably  considered  by  a  kind  Providence,"  said  the 
lawyer. 

"  You  are  simply  a  brute,  Cuffing — simply  a  brute." 

"  Not  at  all ;  go  on  with  your  story.  Let  me  see,  where  were 
we  ?  " 

"  If  I  go  on  don't  call  me  names ;  that  is,  don't  insinuate  that  I 
am  a  liar." 

"  I  never  insinuate,"  said  the  lawyer. 

"  You  want  to  pump  me  in  your  own  way,  and  to  get  my  story  out 
of  me  as  easily  as  if  you  had  your  hand  upon  old  Aldgate  pump." 

"  I  don't  want  to  pump  you,"  said  Cuffing ;  "  but  I  see  no  reason 
why  you  shouldn't  have  revenge  as  well  as  money.  Hitherto,  you 
say,  you  have  had  the  money  from  her  ladyship,  not  from  Lord 
St.  B." 

"  Well,  if  you  must  have  it,  I  admit  that  on  two  occasions  I  have  ; 
but  the  money  was  not  so  sweet  as  sitting  at  luncheon  with  her  and 
my  lord." 

"  When  was  that  ?  " 

"  A  year  ago  at  the  Westminster  Palace  Hotel ;  I  made  her  intro- 
duce me  ;  I  made  her  ask  me  to  luncheon." 

"  That  was  plucky,"  said  Cuffing.     "  I  wonder  he  stood  that" 

"  Stand  anything  from  her,"  said  Phil ;  "  but  she  has  thrown  down 
the  cards,  won't  play  any  more." 

"  No ;  how  is  that  ?  " 

"  Have  called  twice,  and  she  declines  to  see  me." 

"  Ah,  that's  wrong.     Have  you  written  to  her  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  she  takes  no  notice." 

"  You  have  worried  her  too  much,  perhaps.  Ever  meet  her  out 
anywhere  ?  " 

"  I  used  to  go  into  the  park  on  purpose." 

"  Yes,"  said  Cuffing,  making  perfect  mental  notes  of  the  situation  ; 
"  did  she  recognise  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  they  both  bowed ;  I  insisted  on  that" 


Clytie.  245 

"  Then  you  had  talked  the  matter  over  ?  " 

"  A  year  ago.     Yes,  after  that  luncheon." 

"  I  see,  I  see.  Then  you  were  in  the  park  last  week  ;  for  I  remem- 
ber you  had  on  a  new  coat.     Did  you  see  her  ?  * 

**  Yes,  and  Barnard  too." 

"  And  they  cut  you  dead  ?  "  # 

"They  did,  curse  them,  and  it  shall  be  the  dearest  cut  Ihey  ever 
made." 

**  What  do  you  propose  to  do  ?  " 

"  Expose  her,  crush  her.  Curse  the  woman,  why,  she  gets  her  very 
pin  money  out  of  my  property." 

"  How  ?  " 

"  The  Dunelm  estate,  which  was  to  have  been  mine,  and  would 
but  for  the  old  lord  foreclosing,  is  her  husband's.  I  am  not  sure  if 
the  old  lord  did  not  give  her  the  proceeds  before  he  died." 

"  That  is  important,"  said  Cuffing.  "  His  lordship  is  a  great  sweil, 
is  he  not  ?  " 

"  A  Lord  of  the  Admiralty,  something  in  the  Queen's  Household, 
a  Colonel  of  Volunteers,  Lord  Lieutenant  of  his  county,  the  Lord 
knows  what,  ciurse  him." 

**  Her  ladyship  has  been  presented  at  Court,  of  course  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  stood  near  Buckingham  Palace  and  saw  her  on  her  way. 
There  was  a  block  of  carriages.  I  stood  and  looked  at  her.  By 
heaven,  you  should  have  seen  the  cold-hearted  little  beggar.  She 
looked  bang  at  me  as  if  she  had  never  seen  me." 

"  She  is  clever  then." 

"  Clever  isn't  the  word  for  it ;  but  clever  people  always  make  mis- 
takes." 

**  Money  is  your  game  I  conclude,  though  I  see  revenge  in  your 
eye,"  said  the  lawyer.  "  You  have  never  tried  his  lordship  ?  Now, 
no  more  equivocating,  be  straight  with  me,  and  I  can  help  you.' 

**  I  have  tried  him,"  said  Phil.  "  You  would  worm  the  very  soul 
out  of  a  fellow." 

"  Did  you  say  what  you  would  do?  " 

"  I  hinted  at  it" 

"  That  you  knew  his  wife  under  disreputable  circumstances,  or 
words  to  that  effect? " 

"I  did." 

"What  did  he ^y?" 

"  Called  me  a  scamp,  showed  me  the  door,  and  threatened  to 
hand  me  over  to  the  police  if  ever  I  annoyed  him  again." 

"  Now,  why  in  heaven's  name  did  you  not  tell  me  all  this  at  first  ? 


238  The  Gentleman  m  Mo^zine. 

When  we  were  looking  forward  Time^as  \!o^  snail,  the  tortoise ; 
looking  back,  he  is  Time.  And  who  or  what  so  swift  as  he  ?  An 
arrow  from  a  bow.  A  lightning  flash.  A  shuttle  in  the  loom.  A 
swallow  on  the  wing.  A  shadow  on  the  wall.  A  dream  of  happiness. 
These  things  but  faintly  emblem  the  rapid,  rushing,  scudding,  fleeting 
thing  called  Time. 

'Tis  a  vapour  in  the  air ; 
'Tis  a  whirlwind  rushing  there ; 
Tis  a  short-lived  fading  flower  ; 
'Tis  a  rainbow  on  a  shower ; 
'Tis  the  closing  watch  of  night, 
Dying  at  the  rising  light ; 
'Tis  a  landscape  vainly  gay, 
Painted  upon  crumbling  clay ; 
'Tis  a  lamp  that  wastes  its  lircs ; 
'Tis  a  smoke  that  quick  expires ; 
'Tis  a  bubble ;  'tis  a  sigh : — 
Be  prepared,  O  man,  to  die. 

Time  is  the  great  leveller,  the  revealer  of  the  truth,  the  judge,  the 
punisher.  He  is  no  respecter  of  persons.  It  is  said  that  he  deals 
tenderly  with  this  man  or  that  woman.  It  is  not  so.  Some  men  and 
women  deal  tenderly  with  themselves.  Some  men  and  women  go 
'through  life  with  a  perpetual  calmness.  Fortune  is  in  their  service. 
Their  forbears  made  their  life  free  from  money  troubles.  Others,  with 
whom  Time  is  supposed  to  deal  tenderly,  have  banished  wrinkles  and 
diyase  by  a  strict  respect  of  the  law  moral  and  divine.  They  have 
always  looked  to  the  future.  They  have  had  strength  of  mind 
enough  to  look  onward  and  wait  Time,  passing  over  all  with  equal 
pace,  deals  with  material  as  he  finds  it.  The  result  is  according  to 
the  strength  of  the  material,  though  at  last  there  comes  a  day  when 
the  best  must  give  way  with  the  worst  Time's  mission  is  defined. 
It  is  laid  down,  the  course  he  shall  travel.  It  is  mapped  out  and 
planned  with  the  stars  and  the  planets,  with  the  sun  and  the  moon, 
and  may  not  be  altered. 

After  ten  years  what  has  Time  done  with  the  people  whose  histories 
^o  to  make  up  this  story  ?  After  ten  years  we  may  fairly  begin  by  an 
inqui%  about  Tom  Mayfield. 

When  the  Dunelm  student  turned  his  back  upon  the  old  cathedral 
city,  plucking  as  he  hoped  the  image  of  Clytie  from  his  heart,  be  took 
the  train  to  Liverpool,  with  the  intention  of  going  to  the  Antipodes. 
But  Fate  had  willed  it  otherwise.     He  fell  in  with  some  men  who^i 
.  were  going  out  on  a  mining  expedition  to  California. 

Time  presently  encountered  the  misanthrope  at  a  mining  station 


^      Cly^ie.  239 

on  a  salmon  river,  ^own  ♦In  a  wooded  valley.      Time  found  him 
there,  a  bronzed  and  bearded  man  with  his  hair  long  and  his  hands 
broad  and  homy.     The  pale-faced,  anxious-looking  student,  thin  and 
delicate  as  Clytie  had  seen  him  in  the  old  city,  was  broad  and  thick- 
set and  strong  among  the  gold-diggers  of  California.     He  lived  in  a 
cabm  with  one  of  the  men  whom  he  had  met  at  Liverpool,  and  was 
generally  looked  up  to  and  respected  by  the  rough  colojiy  in  which  he 
had  cast  his  lot     He  and  his  friends  were  successful  in  their  mining 
ventures,  and  after  two   years  Tom  Mayfield  had  deposited  a  con- 
siderable sum  of  money  in  the  bank  of  the  only  town  in  the  district, 
a  small  city  some  tiiree  hundred  miles  away.     But  Tom  cared  little 
or  nothing  about  the  money.      Getting  it  had   been  an  absorbing 
occupation  that  helped  him  to  forget  why  he  was  there,  why  thousands 
of  miles  of  sea  and  land  lay  between  him  and  his  native  country. 
The  mining  station  was   eventually  broken   up  by  an  attack  of 
Indians,  and  this  made  Tom  a  wanderer  from  place  to  place,  from 
city  to  city.     It  was  a  wild  strange  life,  full  of  danger  and  adventure. 
He  had  fought  in  Mexico  j  he  had  done  battle  with  Indians  in  their 
own  fastnesses  ;  he  had  seen  life  in  its  wildest  and  grandest,  in  its 
simplest  and  in  its  noblest  shapes.    He  had  dwelt  with  Nature  in  her 
most   delicious   haunts ;  he    had  basked  in  the  sun-lands  by  the 
Golden  Gates  of  the  Far  West ;  he  had  fought  for  very  life  in  the 
same  place  against  winter  in  winter's  most  appalling  shape — snow. 
He  had  sat  by  Indian  camp  fires  and  learnt  the  Indian  tongue  :  he 
had  seen  the  red  man  on  the  war  trail  and  at  peace ;  as  a  strangely- 
trusted  white  who  had  shown  a  reckless  disregard  of  life  that  had 
won  the  red  man's  heart  he  had  taken  part  in  the  autumn  feasts  of 
the  savage,  revelling  in  the  Indian  summer.     He  had  felt  a  thrill  of 
inspiration  touch  his  very  soul  at  the  sight  of  nature  in  this  grand, 
wild,  western  dress.     Manzineta  berries,  rich  and  golden,  the  splen- 
did anther,  the  red  and  yellow  of  the  maple,  the  cold,  dark  green  of 
the  firs ;  the  balmy  sunshine,   the  novel  festival ;  na  wonder  the 
student's  imagination  gave  back  the  gorgeous  colours ;  no  wonder  this 
wild  life,  with  its  chequered  days  and  nights,  full  of  romance  and 
danger  in  a  new  world,  gave  a  poetic  tone  to  the  settled  melancholy 
of  the  disappointed  lover.  ^ 

Tom  Mayfield  found  that  he  was  a  poet ;  and  wheft  almost  every- 
body had  forgotten  him  London  discovered  him;  then  England  took 
up  his  book  and  talked  of  the  new  American  writer,  the  new  poet 
*  who  dated  from  savage  lands,  from  wilds  of  river  and  mountain,  from  a 
far-off  country  that  was  almost  unknown ;  who  had  set  the  music 

of  nature  to  new  words,  and  given  the  language  of  rejected  love  a 

&  2 


240  The  Gentleman  i  M^azine. 

new  dialect  The  modem  monks  at  Dunelm  sted  the  new  poet  and 
wondered  at  him ;  and  the  new  people  at  the  Hermitage  who  had 
never  seen  the  former  occupants  at  all,  they  had  a  copy  of  Tom 
Mayfield's  book,  a  reprint  from  the  American  edition.  But  no  one 
knew  Tom  Mayfield  in  connection  with  the  book.  The  name  on 
the  title-page  was  *'*'  Kalmat,"  and  that  name  suddenly  became  famous 
in  England.  The  critics  could  not  understand  how  a  man  such  as 
American  gossips  had  described  could  write  poems  that  had  not  only 
all  the  glow  and  warmth  of  Byron,  but  were  as  scholarly  in  their  way 
as  the  works  of  Pope  and  Young.  The  American^  said  Kalmat  was  a 
miner,  a  soldier,  an  adventurer,  a  wild,  uncultured  genius  of  the  West, 
a  native  who  must  be  self-educated,  and  they  instanced  him  as  an 
illustration  of  the  God-gifted  genius  which  knows  all  things  as  it  were 
by  instinct  Kalmat  had  nothing  to  say  on  this  subject,  but  he 
wrote  on.  He  poured  out  all  the  pent  up  feelings  of  his  soul.  He 
wailed  over  his  lost  love.  He  railed  against  that  cruel  Fortune  which 
makes  love  a  bane  and  a  curse,  a  poison  to  the  soul,  a  dagger  to  the 
heart.  He  drew  pictures  of  a  heaven  of  love  where  each  heart  found 
its  fellow,  and  he  put  it  in  contrast  with  the  hell  of  earth  where  gold 
and  jewels  are  weighed  against  a  true  man's  devotion.  Rich  and 
glowing,  and  hot,  and  eloquent,  burning,  scorching,  luscious  words 
and  thoughts  met  you  at  every  page  ;  and  it  was  easy  to  see  that  a 
great,  brave  man  had  here  given  up  his  secret  soul  to  poetic  con- 
fe^ion,  and  you  pitied  him  though  you  knew  him  not,  and  said 
sorrow  and  heart-break  and  disappointed  love  had  their  uses  since 
they  gave  inspiration  to  a  vagabond  and  a  wanderer,  who  otherwise 
could  only  have  told  us  tales  of  mining  life  and  Indian  battles. 

But  what  manner  of  man  was  this  poet  of  the  Golden  West  ?  The 
newspapers  gave  it  out  that  "  Kalmat"  was  expected  in  England. 
And  when  the  second  part  of  this  history  opens  Tom  Mayfield, 
bronzed  and  bearded,  and  grizzled  and  grey  with  sun  and  shower, 
with  heart-ache  and  storm,  is  tossing  upon  the  bosom  of  the  \*'ide 
Atlantic,  on  his  way  home. 

CHAPTER  II. 

THE   RANSFORDS. 

Ten  years  had  wTought  few  changes  in  Dunelm,  so  far  as  appear- 
ances went. 

The  old  city  was  quiet  and  beautiful  as  ever.  Time  had  founcf 
Cathedral,  Bridge,  and  Castle  strong  against  his  grinding  footsteps. 
People  went  to  church  on  Sundays,  and  took  their  morning  walk 


Clytie.  241 

afterwards,  with  the  Jsual  regularity.  Town  Councildom  talked  and 
gossipped  at  nights  in  the  bar  parlour  of  the  city  tavern.  Clerical 
Dunelm  jstill  turned  up  its  nose  at  lay  Dunelm.  In  summer  the  sun 
found  the  flowers  and  trees  and  wooded  dells  that  had  given  so  much 
pleasure  to  Clytie  ready  to  be  as  genial  and  familiar  with  any  one 
else. 

But  the  rustle  of  the  Ransford  silks  over  the  Prebend's  Bridge 
was  heard  no  more.  It  was  always  a  condition  of  Pride  that  it 
should  have  a  fall,  and  when  Pride  has  taken  the  form  of  money- 
arrogance,  its  fall  is  fatal  to  peace  ever  after ;  for  such  a  fall  is  never 
softened  by  sympathy.  The  Ransfords  were  a  hard,  bitter  lot.  In 
their  prosperity  they  had  no  friends,  though  they  had  much  lip 
service ;  in  their  fall  no  kind  word  fell  upon  their  wounded  feelings, 
neither  man  nor  woman  stood  by  them. 

Old  Ransford  was  ruined  by  a  great  bank  failure,  coupled  with 
other  financial  complications,  which  brought  upon  him  the  most  com- 
plete and  utter  despair.  His  fortunes  were  as  finished  a  wreck  as  if 
some  great  tide  of  Fate  had  swept  over  them  and  left  nothing  but 
broken  spars  behind. 

A  period  of  ten  years  from  the  days  of  Clytie  in  Dunelm  had  left 
the  Ransfords  scattered,  as  it  were,  to  the  four  winds  of  heaven. 
Their  mills  knew  them  no  longer ;  the  house  on  the  hill  was  occupied 
by  one  of  Hansford's  earliest  and  most  insignificant  opponents,  who 
had  been  one  of  his  foremen ;  and,  such  are  the  complications^  of 
Fate,  the  revenues  of  this  Dunelm  estate  had  for  some  years  been 
paid  to  a  special  account,  watched  over  by  trustees,  for  the  very  girl 
whom  the  Ransford  women  had  looked  down  upon  in  their  rustling 
array  of  silks  and  jewels  on  that  summer  Sunday  when  Phil  Ransford 
stopped  to  speak  to  Clytie. 

Thus  Time  after  ten  years  finds  old  Ransford  in  the  situation  of  a 
colliery  clerk  at  five-and-twenty  shillings  a  week.  The  eldest  Miss 
Ransford  is  keeping  a  school  at  Barnard  Castle.  She  has  six  pupils, 
and  finds  it  difficult  to  get  meat  twice  a  week.  The  second  Miss 
Ransford  has  done  better.  She  has  gone  out  to  Australia  as  the  wife 
of  one  of  her  father's  weavers.  The  youngest  of  the  family  and  her 
mother  are  still  better  off.  They  are  lying  in  the  churchyard  beneath 
the  cooling  shadow  of  an  ivied  tower. 

And  what  has  Time  done  with  Phil  Ransford  ?  What  has  come  to 
pass  in  the  career  of  the  man  who  deliberately  laid  snares  and  traps  for 
the  happiness  and  honour  of  a  vain  but  pure-minded  and  innocent  girl? 
Is  there  anything  in  that  philosophy  which  holds  that  sin  brings  its  own 
punishment  ?    The  Phil  Ransfords  of  the  world,  are  they  to  wait  for 


250  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

"  Mary,"  said  his  lordship,  "  you  know  there  is  no  sacrifice  under 
heaven  that  I  would  not  make  for  you." 

"  My  dear  husband,"  said  Clytie,  lookmg  up  into  his  face  with  per- 
fect confidence  in  this  avowal. 

"  When  you  consented  to  make  me  the  happiest  of  men  seven  years 
ago  you  said  there  was  a  family  mystery  about  your  early  life  that 
had  alone  influenced  you  in  rejecting  me  twice  previously." 

"  Yes,  dear,  but  I  think  I  have  told  you  all  the  mystery  over 
and  over  again,"  said  my  lady. 

"  You  mean  the  professional  character  of  your  mother,  her  elope- 
ment, your  unhappy  life  at  Dunelm,  and  your  running  away.  I  refuse 
to  see  anything  derogatory  in  that,  and  society  condones  such  things 
every  day.  At  the  present  moment  the  lady  who  is  in  the  highest 
consideration  at  Court,  who  almost  performs  royal  duties  in  her  en- 
tertainments and  hospitality,  was  the  daughter  of  an  actor  to  whom 
my  u»cle  had  almost  given  alms." 

"  You  ought  to  be  a  Liberal  in  politics,  my  dear  lord,"  said  Clytie, 
^*  your  sentiments  are  too  generous." 

"  We  Tories,  dear,  are  chivalrous,  and  we  count  Love  and  Beauty 
outside  the  pale  of  politics,"  said  my  lord,  kissing  his  wife  >vith  an 
air  of  high-bred  gallantry. 

"  I  know  what  you  wish  to  speak  about ;  I  see  the  same  expression 
of  trouble  in  your  eye  as  that  which  only  comes  there  when  you  have 
seen  or  heard  from  Mr.  Ransford.  Ah  !  my  dear,  I  was  right  when 
I  resolved  never  to  marry,  and  wrong  to  indulge  in  the  supreme 
happiness  of  being  your  wife.  My  instinct  told  me  that  sooner  or 
later  that  man  would  be  the  cause  of  grief  and  trouble  and  annoyance, 
not  to  me  alone — for  I  could  have  borne  it  singly — but  to  my 
husband." 

**  Have  no  fear,  my  darling." 

'*  I  do  fear  ;  I  have  a  presentiment  that  this  man,  coward  and 
plebeian,  will  separate  us.  I  saw  him  a  week  ago  pass  Grassnook 
in  a  boat.  He  was  pointing  at  the  house.  I  was  sitting  on  the 
terrace  with  our  little  Helen,  and  it  seemed  as  if  his  shadow  fell 
upon  me  and  chilled  my  heart." 

"  My  own  darling,  you  have  a  delicate  and  sensitive  nature.  Tell 
me  what  it  is  we  have  to  fear  from  this  man,  who  threatens  now  so 
boldly,  and  in  such  a  way  as  to  invite  and  almost  compel  defiance  and 
action." 

"Nothing,  my  lord,"  said  Clytie.  "  I  do  not  think  there  is  any- 
thing in  my  life  that  I  need  blush  for.  I  did  not  tell  you  that  when 
quite  a  girl  this  man,  who  knew  my  grandfather,  paid  a  clandestine 


Clyiie,  251 

visit  to  me,  and  that  my  grandfather  dragged  me  into  the  housc^  and 
called  me  cruel  names." 

His  lordship  winced  at  this.  It  seemed  strange  to  hear  this  lovely 
woman,  a  countess  and  a  queen  in  society,  make  such  a  confession. 

"  And  I  told  you  how  he  drove  me  to  his  chambers  in  Piccadilly 
when  I  had  commenced  the  profession  of  my  mother  on  the 
stage." 

C'lytie's  voice  trembled,  and  she  looked  timidly  at  her  husband's 
face,  which  was  more  fi.\ed  and  stern  than  she  had  ever  seen  it. 

*'  Vcs,  you  told  me  that,"  said  his  lordship,  inwardly  counting  how 
far  such  incidents  as  these  might  be  twisted  to  the  purpose  of  a 
villain  who  now  openly  told  Lord  St.  Barnard  that  he  would  have  his 
wife  excluded  from  Court. 

'*  There  is  one  circumstance  which  I  have  never  attempted  to  ex- 
plain to  you  fully,"  said  Clytie.  **  I  told  you  that  I  had  every  reason 
to  believe  that  my  mother  was  married — indeed,  that  I  never  d^ibted 
it  My  grandfather  Waller  promised  some  day  to  satisfy  me  upon  this 
subject." 

"  You  think  this  man  will  strike  at  you  from  this  point?"  asked  his 
lordship,  interrupting  her. 

**  I  do  not  know  what  to  think,  my  dear ;  but  these  subjects^have 
been  much  in  my  mind  of  late,  and  I  believe  that  the  secret  of  the 
late  Lord  St.  Barnard's  finding  me  out  and  settling  that  money  u])on 
me  was  not  simply  because  he  knew  my  grandfather  and  was  a  friend 
of  the  Dean,  but  on  account  of  his  son  having  married  my  mother." 

"  What  are  you  saying  ?     You  bewilder  me,"  said  my  lord. 

**  I  think  you  and  I,  dear,  arc  cousins ;  I  have  thought  so  for 
years." 

"And  never  confided  in  me  until  now,"  said  his  lordship 
reproachfully. 

**  I  was  afraid,"  said  Clytie ;  '*  I  did  not  like  to  talk  about  these 
things." 

**  Then  you  did  not  love  me  as  I  have  loved  you." 

Clytie  laid  her  head  upon  her  husband's  shoulder  and  wept. 

"  My  own  dear  love,"  he  said,  putting  his  arm  round  her,  **  I  did 
not  intend  to  wound  you ;  be  brave  and  trust  me  and  tell  me  all." 

*'  I  think  the  late  earl's  son,  Frank,  was  my  father,  and  I  think 
God  brought  you  to  me  because  He  was  kinder  to  me  than  to  you." 

"Why  kinder?" 

"  Because  you  brought  hapi)iness  to  me ;  I  in  return  give  you 
trouble  and  shame." 

"Why  shame?" 


252  The  Gentlematis  Magazine. 

**  You  should  have  married  in  your  own  station — one  of  your  own 
Tank,  and  you  should  have  known  her  life  from  the  first." 

"  If  your  suspicions  are  correct  I  have  married  in  my  own  rank, 
and  if  you  have  told  me  all  your  life  I  know  it  from  the  first ;  and 
whether  this  be  so  or  not,  you  are  my  wife,  the  mother  of  my  children, 
and  I  love  you  with  all  my  heart  and  soul." 

He  took  her  into  his  arms  and  pressed  her  to  his  heart. 

"I  think  the  Dean  knows  about  my  mother,"  said  Clytie  pre- 
sently. "  I  feel  sure  he  does  ;  he  was  in  the  confidence  of  the  late 
lord." 

"  He  shall  come  down  and  see  us ;  next  week  he  is  to  be  in  town, 
and  he  likes  Grassnook,  he  says,  better  than  Dunelm.  And  now,  my 
darling,  we  will  talk  no  more  about  these  things." 

"  But  what  will  this  man,  this  Ransford,  do  ?" 

"  We  must  have  him  punished,  I  think." 

**  flmished  !"  said  Clytie.     "  How  ?    By  the  law  ?" 

**  Yes,  dear,  I  think  so." 

"  An  action,  then,  for  libel,  or  an  arrest  and  prison  ?" 

"  I  hardly  know ;  some  action  must  be  taken,  unless  you  object." 

"  I  do  not  object  for  myself,"  said  Clytie. 

"  I  have  no  wish  or  feeling  beyond  you." 

"  My  dear  Edward,"  said  Clytie,  suddenly  drawing  herself  up  to 
her  full  height,  and  looking  straight  into  her  husband's  eyes,  "  I  see 
that  you  are  more  troubled  about  this  matter  than  you  care  to  say. 
The  time  has  come  when  this  coward  and  calumniator  must  be  met. 
I  see  it ;  I  feel  it ;  I  have  thought  about  it  always  when  you  are  out 
of  my  sight.  Do  what  in  your  wisdom  you  judge  to  be  right.  Count 
me  as  nothing  against  your  honour ;  let  no  consideration  for  my  feel- 
ings influence  your  action.  I  am  your  cousin  and  your  wife.  Man 
nor  woman,  howsoever  pure,  can  go  through  this  muddy  world  and 
escape  calumny  even  in  the  humblest  ranks ;  how  much  more  shall 
scandal  fall  upon  those  who  rise  to  distinction  and  affluence  !  If  an 
early  life  of  trouble,  running  away  from  home,  being  a  student  for 
the  stage,  a  lodger  in  an  obscure  street,  be  fatal  to  a  woman's  repu- 
tation ;  then  buy  this  man  who  denounces  me ;  if  a  love  of  art,  a 
wilful  nature,  an  unhappy  home,  an  effort  at  independence,  and  the 
persecution  of  a  scoundrel  are  no  dishonour  to  a  noble  name ;  then, 
my  lord,  hold  this  man  up  in  the  light  of  day  and  let  him  be  punished." 

Clytie's  languid  eyes  lighted  up  with  an  unwonted  brilliancy.  She 
looked  wonderfully  beautiful. 

"  It  shall  be  so,"  said  her  husband,  ringing  the  bell. 

A  servant  handed  to  his  lordship  a  letter  and  an  evening  paper. 


Clytie, 


Do 


« 


Send  the  children  to  me,"  said  her  ladyship. 

A  boy  and  girl  came  bounding  into  the  room.  Clytie  caught  tliera 
both  in  her  arms  and  kissed  them. 

Lord  St.  Barnard  uttered  a  cry  of  painful  surprise  and  turned  pale. 
His  wife  and  children  were  by  his  side  in  a  moment. 

^'  It  is  nothing,  it  is  nothing,''  said  his  lordship ;  but  in  his  right 
hand  he  was  crushing  both  letter  and  newspaper,  as  if  such  stings 
as  ihey  contained  might  be  grasped  and  killed  like  nettles. 

(To  be  continued.) 


Vol.  XI.  N.  S.,  1873.  « 


Macaulay's  Estimate  of  Dante. 

trsi^^ "  "^^H£  opinion  of  the  great  body  of  the  reading  public 
is  very  materially  influenced  even  by  the  unsupported 
assertions  of  those  who  assume  the  right  to  criticise." 
Few  will  dispute  the  truth  of  these  words,  which  occur 
in  the  course  of  Macaulay's  scathing  and  unsparing  criticism  of  Robert: 
Montgomery's  poetical  works. 

At  the  same  time  there  is  perhaps  no  set  of  opinions  to  which 
this  remark  applies  with  more  fitness  than  to  the  unsupported  asser- 
tions made  by  the  critic  himself  respecting  the  character  and  writings 
of  the  greatest  of  Italian  poets.  As  Macaulay  says,  the  great  majority  > 
of  the  young  ladies  and  gentlemen  who,  when  asked  if  they  read 
Italian,  answer  in  the  affirmative,  would  as  soon  read  a  Babylonian 
brick  ^  as  a  canto  of  Dante.  We  shall  go  further,  and  say  that 
if  they  read  any  part  of  the  great  epic  given  to  the  world  by 
the  immortal  Florentine  in  the  false  light  supplied  by  the  critic 
they  would  obtain  as  little  insight  into  the  true  intention  of  the 
author  as  if  they  sought  for  it  in  the  inscriptions  of  an  Oriental 
temple.  Into  the  two  not  very  lengthy  essays  in  which  Macaulay 
comments  on  the  grandest  monument  of  Italian  literature — the 
essay  on  Milton  and  the  essay  on  Dante — there  have  been  crowded 
more  inaccuracies,  more  misrepresentations,  more  unsupported  state- 
ments than  have  ever  appeared  together  within  the  same  number  of 
pages  of  a  commentary  written  by  one  author  about  the  writings  of 
another.  In  recent  years  the  name  of  Dante  has  been  prominently 
before  us.  In  the  notices  of  "  The  Divine  Comedy,"  and  in  other 
dissertations  on  the  same  subject,  the  observant  reader  could  easily 
perceive  that  most  persons  who  gave  their  opinions  to  the  world  had 
been  "  materially  influenced  by  the  unsupported  assertions  of  one 
of  those  who  assume  the  right  to  criticise."  Though  the  exigencies 
of  space  will  prevent  us  from  entering  into  the  examination  of 
Mi     lula/s  opinion  at  length,  we  undertake  to  show  that  not  only  is 

Dante's  genius  and  the  structure  of  "  The  Divine 

ect,  but  that  its  falsity  can  be  proved  from  internal 

1  by  the  epic  itself,  as  well  as  by  external  historical 

contradictions  in  terms  into  which  the  critic  has 


Macaulays  Estimate  of  Dante.  255, 

been  betrayed  will  be  pointed  out  in  the  progress  of  this  paper — 
contradictions  some  of  which  partake  of  a  somewhat  amusing 
character,  in  such  close  juxtaposition  do  they  occur  in  relation  to- 
each  other.  It  may  be  unhesitatingly  asserted  that  there  is  not  in 
the  course  of  Macaulay's  dissertation  on  our  author  a  single  propo- 
sition which  may  not  be  safely  controverted,  save  a  few  which  might 
be  guaranteed  by  the  most  superficial  reader  of  an  indifferent  trans- 
lation. Indeed  many  of  his  reckless  opinions  would  have  been 
materially  modified  or  entirely  changed  had  he  carefully  perused  that 
English  version  by  the  Rev.  Henry  Francis  Gary  on  which  he  himself 
has  bestowed  such  warm  praise.  Even  when  he  assumes  a  position 
which  can  be  sustained,  its  strength  is  destroyed  by  an  almost  direct 
negation  in  some  other  portion  of  his  commentary. 

English  readers  generally  learn  Macaulay's  estimate  of  Dante  fi-om> 
the  comparison  between  the  Florentine  and  the  English  poe^ deli- 
neated in  the  essay  on  Milton.  That  comparison,  and  the  erroneous 
premises  upon  which  it  has  been  based,  will  be  analysed  hereafter. 
Meanwhile  the  reader's  attention  will  be  directed  to  the  untenable 
and  contradictory  opinions  expressed  by  the  critic  regarding  "  The 
Divine  Comedy"  in  an  essay  on  Dante  which  appeared  in  Knight's 
Quarterly  Magazine  for  1824,  and  which  has  been  republished  in  his 
miscellaneous  works.  It  may  be  urged  by  those  who  endeavour  to- 
defend  the  critic  that  at  the  date  specified  Macaulay  was  a  very  young 
man — his  years  corresponding  with  those  of  the  century — but  these  ^ 
opinions  come  to  us  with  all  the  authority  of  his  name. 

Macaulay  is  right  in  the  first  portion  of  his  essay,  in  which  he 
says  that  Dante  created  a  language  distinguished  by  unrivalled 
melody,  and  peculiarly  capable  of  furnishing  to  lofty  and  passionate 
thoughts  the  appropriate  garb  of  severe  and  concise  expression.  But 
even  in  this  proposition  he  has  done  but  scant  justice  to  the  man 
who  in  the  gloom  of  the  dark  ages  rose  like  a  glittering  star  to  dispel 
the  intellectual  darkness  of  the  time.  The  consideration  might  have 
been  adduced  that  the  mind  which  created  the  language  which  has 
been  not  extravagantly  designated  "  la  miisica  parlata  "  gave  it  a 
nerve  and  an  energy  which  have  grown  weaker  in  the  hands  of  every 
one  who  has  since  endeavoured  to  clothe  his  thoughts  in  its  melodious 
tones.  But  when  the  first  sentence  of  the  review  has  been  perused, 
almost  every  succeeding  paragraph  affords  ready  ground  for  con- 
troversy. Even  when  indulging  in  fervent  praise  of  Dante's  genius, 
Macaulay  suggests  positions  which  cannot  for  a  moment  be  sustained. 
"  The  florid  and  luxurious  charms  of  his  style,"  he  says,  "enticed  the 

poets  and  the  public  from  the  contemplation  of  nobler  and  sterner 

s  2 


2^6  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

models."  Between  this  sentence  and  the  opinion  already  quoted  lies 
the  first  of  the  series  of  obvious  contradictions  which  occur  in  the 
progress  of  Macaula/s  estimate  of  Dante.  In  one  passage  the  poet 
is  represented  as  having  furnished  to  lofty  and  passionate  thoughts 
their  appropriate  garb  of  severe  and  concise  expression ;  almost  in 
the  next  page  the  st>le  is  described  as  florid  and  luxurious — neither 
of  which  quahtative  words  can  be  justly  predicated  of  it,  however 
strained  the  interpretation  may  be.  Lest  we  may  be  accused  of 
replying  to  criticism  by  assertion,  we  would  urge  that  writings  in  a 
florid  style  can  be  amplified  or  curtailed  without  detrimental  effect. 
One  adjective  may  be  employed  instead  of  two ;  one  of  two  verbs 
placed  conjunctively  may  be  made  to  do  the  work  of  the  dual  com- 
bination ;  or  additions  may  be  made  at  will  to  the  rhetorical  embel- 
lishments by  which  such  writings  are  adorned  without  injur)'  to  the 
sense  or  detriment  to  the  structure.  But  no  one  dares  to  interfere 
with  the  text  of  Dante.  The  alteration  of  a  word,  the  substitution 
of  another  term  for  that  used  by  the  author,  will  prove  how  exqui- 
sitely designed  is  the  whole  structure.  In  what  sense  are  we  to 
understand  the  word  "  sterner''?  Is  it  as  regards  stjle  or  subject? 
If  the  reference  be  to  style,  the  critic  may  be  contradicted  out  of  his 
own  mouth.  "  The  style  of  Dante,"  he  sa)rs,  "  if  not  his  highest,  is 
perhaps  his  most  peculiar  excellence.  I  know  nothing  with  which  it 
can  be  compared.  The  noblest  models  of  Greek  composition  must 
yield  to  it  His  words  are  the  fewest  and  the  best  which  it  is  possible  to 
use.  The  first  expression  in  which  he  clothes  his  thoughts  is  always 
so  energetic  and  comprehensive  that  amplification  would  only  injure 
the  effect.  I  have  heard  the  most  eloquent  statesmen  of  the  age 
remark  that,  next  to  Demosthenes,  Dante  is  the  writer  who  ought  to 
be  most  attentively  studied  by  every  man  who  desires  to  attain 
oratorical  eminence."  Indeed,  so  closely  woven  is  the  texture  of  the 
poem,  which — regarding  it  in  the  light  of  the  present — we  do  not 
hesitate  to  describe  as  the  greatest  epic  of  ancient  or  modem  times, 
that  the  removal  or  alteration  of  one  thread  will  spoil  the  sym- 
metrical beauty  of  the  fabric.  Again,  how  could  Dante's  style 
entice  the  poets  and  the  public  from  the  contemplation  of  nobler 
and  sterner  models  ?  Where  could  the  young  mind  aspiring  to  the 
contemplation  of  higher  things  find  a  nobler  exemplar  than  in  the 
u  ances  of  the  man  who  had  explored  the  depths  of  Hell  and 
a  d  the  sufferings  of  its  tortured  denizens;  who  had  passed 

h  the  cleansing  regions  of  the  second  state,  and  then  ascended 
tl     coi      Dplation  of  that  heavenly  glory  with  which  he  had  asso- 

object  of  his  unrequited  passion  ? 


Macaulays  Estimate  of  Dante.  257 

If  the  contents  of  the  paragraph  quoted  be  true — and  they  are 
strictly  true — where,  may  we  ask,  are  sterner  models  of  style  to  be 
discovered  ?  Certainly  not  in  the  classics  of  Greece  or  Rome.  If 
proof  were  required  to  support  these  propositions,  it  might  be  found 
in  ample  shape  in  the  fact  that,  whereas  the  most  stem  models  of 
ancient  literature  have  been  reproduced  in  English  versions  with 
such  fidelity  to  the  originals  that  an  English  reader  can  appreciate 
their  genius  and  spirit — not  wholly,  of  course,  but  in  a  great  degree — 
the  stern  severity  of  Dante's  style  has  defeated  all  the  efforts  of  all 
who  have  endeavoured  to  construe  his  poems  into  English  verse  and 
prose ;  so  much  so  that  the  highest  praise  that  can  be  possibly 
given  to  the  best  translation  of  "  The  Divine  Comedy  *' — by  Cary — 
is,  that  it  is  better  than  others,  wliich  are  deplorably  indifferent  The 
sternness  of  Dante's  style  is  still  more  dearly  demonstrated  when  we 
consider  its  metre — the  terza  rima — in  using  which  writers  would  be 
naturally  betrayed  into  laxity  and  diffusion.  But  every  line  of  Dante 
contains  the  expression  of  a  significant  idea,  or,  at  least,  part  of  a 
sentence  leading  to  the  immediate  production  of  a  vivid  picture  or 
the  instant  evolution  of  a  solemn  thought.  Style  is  here  spoken  of 
as  the  mere  dress  of  thought,  in  another  place  it  will  be  considered 
according  to  a  more  correct  definition.  Does  the  critic  mean  to 
afhrm  that  there  is  in  any  of  the  ancient  classics  a  sterner  model  as 
regards  subject  than  "The  Divine  Comedy"  of  Dante?  Does  he 
contend  that  there  is  nothing  in  the  Italian  epic  comparable  in  stem 
intensity  to  the  dramatic  action  of  the  "  Prometheus  Vinctus,"  which 
De  Quincey  has  described  as  a  gigantic  drama — the  one  great 
model  of  the  ethico-physical  sublime  in  Greek  poetry,  not  resting  on 
moral  energies,  but  on  a  synthesis  between  man  and  nature  ?  There 
is  more  stern  horror  in  the  few  lines  in  which  Dante  describes  Count 
Ugolino  devouring  the  ever-growing  skull  of  Archbishop  Ruggieri, 
by  whom  he  and  his  children  had  been  famished  in  prison,  than  in 
a  multitude  of  such  stories  as  the  legend  in  which  an  eagle  is  repre- 
sented as  perpetually  feeding  on  the  liver  of  a  mortal.  Further- 
more, Dante's  picture  possesses  that  attribute  of  truthfulness  which 
raises  him  far  beyond  the  highest  genius  whose  works  are  recorded 
in  the  literature  of  the  ancients.  Does  he  contend  that  the  "  CEdipus" 
of  Sophocles  is  a  sterner  model  ?  We  oppose  the  argument  that  there 
is  more  stern  justice  in  condemning  to  the  tortures  of  the  damned 
those  who  had  loved  as  Paolo  and  Francesca,  than  in  inflicting  the 
privation  of  sight  on  the  king  who  had  been  guilty  of  incest  with 
his  own  mother.  Does  he  find  one  in  the  story  of  Medea  ?  Then 
we  urge  that  there  is  far  more  stem  and  fearful  justice  measured  out 


^$S  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

in  the  Malebolgian  gulfs.  Furthermore,  and  above  all,  while  in  the 
•dramas  of  the  ancients  nothing  is  presented  but  the  sensual  philo- 
sophy of  a  coarse  mythology,  in  Dante's  poem  we  are  led  to  the 
•contemplation  of  bliss  or  woe  throughout  the  endless  ages. 

Dante  was  a  man  of  turbid  and  melancholy  spirit.  In  early  life  he  entertained 
a  strong  and  unfortunate  passion,  which  long  after  the  death  of  her  he  loved 
continued  to  haunt  him.  Dissipation,  ambition,  misfortune  had  not  effaced  it. 
Beatrice,  the  unforgotten  object  of  bis  early  tenderness,  was  invested  by  his 
imagination  with  glorious  and  m3rsterious  attributes.  $he  is  enthroned  among 
the  highest  of  the  celestial  hierarchy. 

We  may  say,  without  any  apprehension  of  a  charge  of  hyper- 
criticism,  that  the  word  "turbid"  in  a  critical  description  of 
character  is,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  indefinite ,  but  if  it  be  taken 
in  its  conventional  sense,  its  collocation  with  the  word  "  melan- 
choly" suggests  an  obvious  contradiction.  "  Turbid  **  denotes  con- 
stant agitation  or  perturbation.  "Melancholy"  indicates  an  aspect 
of  sorrowful  repose.  But  it  is  unnecessary  to  make  this  paragraph 
the  subject  of  an  etymological  discussion.  If  Dante's  character  be 
evolved  from  his  works,  it  will  be  found  that  Macaulay's  estimate  of 
it  is  unjust  as  well  as  incorrect.  If,  instead  of  being  a  lover  and  a 
soldier,  he  became  turbid  and  melancholy,  we  can  find  ample  cause 
for  the  change  in  his  unrequited  love,  his  defeated  ambition,  and  his 
bitter  exile.  True  it  is  that  he  hurled  the  arrows  of  lacerating  satire 
against  those  whom  he  reckoned  among  the  enemies  of  his  country 
and  his  kind ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  who  can  be  more  affectionately 
pathetic  when  he  has  to  speak  of  those  who,  whether  in  ancient  or 
— to  him — recent  limes,  had  by  their  genius  or  their  patriotism  added 
glory  to  that  country's  history  or  shed  lustre  on  her  letters?  Further- 
more, we  have  Dante's  own  assurance  of  his  conviction  that  man 
should  enjoy  his  being,  and  that  not  to  do  so  is  to  be  ungrateful  to 

the  Author  of  it : — 

E  per6  nel  second© 
Giron  convicn  che  senza  pro  si  penta 
Qualunque  priva  se  del  vostro  mondo 
Biscazza  e  fondc  la  sua  facultade 
E  piange  1^,  dove  esser  dee  giocondo. 

A  passage  which  has  been  imitated  by  Spenser  in  tlie  fourth  book  of 

"  The  Faerie  Queene  "  : — 

For  he  whose  daies  in  wilful  woe  are  womc 

The  grace  of  his  Creator  doth  despise 

That  will  not  use  his  gifts  for  thankless  nigardise. 

With  what  lively  affection  and  tender  pathos  does  he  speak  when 
occasion  arises  of  the  kindness  of  those  who  befriended  him  when 


Macaulays  Estimate  of  Dante.  259 

he  was  suflfering  the  bitterness  of  exile,  "  climbing  the  stairs  and 

eating  tlie  bread  of  another !" . 

We  now  proceed  to  examine  a  very  important  portion  of  Macaulay's 

criticism — namely,  that  in  which  he  indicates  the  relative  value,  in  a 

rhetorical  and  aesthetic  sense,  of  the  three  divisions  of  "  The  Divine 

Comedy."     The  following  extract  contains  some  of  his  opinions  on 

this  subject : — 

The  description  of  Heaven  is  far  inferior  to  the  Hell  or  Purgatory.  With  the 
passions  and  miseries  of  the  suffering  spirits  he  felt  a  strong  sympathy.  But 
among  the  beatified  he  appears  as  one  who  has  nothing  in  common  with  them 
— as  one  who  is  incapable  of  comprehending  not  only  the  degree  but  the  nature 
of  the  enjoyment.  We  think  that  we  see  him  standing  among  those  smiling 
and  radiant  spirits  with  tliat  scowl  of  unutterable  misery  on  his  brow,  and  that 
curl  of  bitter  disdain  on  his  lip,  which  all  his  portraits  have  preserved  and  which 
might  furnish  Chantrey  with  hints  for  the  head  of  his  projected  Satan. 

In  this  sentence,  as  well  as  in  others  to  be  adduced  in  this  article, 
there  is  ample  proof  that  Macaulay  had  confined  his  study  of  "  The 
Divine  Comedy"  almost  exclusively  to  the  Hell,  and  that,  like  Sir 
Walter  Scott,  he  was  deterred  from  attempting  to  analyse  the  meta- 
physical mind  of  the  poet  as  developed  in  the  Purgatory  and  the 
Paradise.  The  superficial  reader  of  Dante  will  certainly  find  more 
vivid  interest  in  the  Hell  than  in  any  other  part  of  the  great  epic, 
inasmuch  as  in  its  descending  circles  he  will  become  associated  with 
human  beings  with  bodies  and  souls  and  feelings  like  his  own, 
suffering  under  almost  every  shape  of  physical  and  mental  torture. 
The  residents  of  these  Malebolgian  gulfs,  the  Epicurean  tenants  of 
fiery  tombs,  the  occupants  of  the  regions  of  thick-ribbed  ice,  are 
oppressed  by  the  sorrows  of  living  men,  though  in  a  more  intense 
degree  than  can  ever  be  experienced  on  the  terrestrial  sphere.  To 
adopt  Macaulay's  own  illustration,  no  man  is  ever  affected  by 
"  Hamlet "  or  "  Lear  "  as  a  girl  is  affected  by  the  story  of  "  Little 
Red  Riding  Hood."  It  is  only  by  those  who  devote  their  days  and 
nights  to  the  other  portions  of  this  work  that  the  superiority  of  the 
Hell  will  be  disputed.  Without,  however,  binding  ourselves  to  an 
expressed  opinion  of  the  relative  value  of  the  divisions  of "  The 
Divine  Comedy,"  we  do  not  hesitate  for  an  instant  to  deny  that 
Dante  had  nothing  in  common  with  the  beatified  spirits.  At  issuing 
from  the  infernal  circles  into  the  pure  air  that  surrounds  the  Isle  of 
Purgatory,  **  o'er  better  waves  the  light  bark  of  his  genius  lifts  its 
sail."  Scarcely  has  he  entered  into  this  purifying  region  than  he 
begins  to  comprehend  the  nature  of  the  enjoyment  of  even  those  who 
have  not  commenced  their  course  of  purification.  The  very  first  canto 
of  the  Purgatory  affords  evidence  not  only  against  the  presumption 


^6o  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

OL  Dante's  incapacity  to  appreciate  the  happiness  of  the  elect, 
but  also  against  the  argument  that  the  mind  of  the  poet  was  not 
affected  by  external  nature.  He  sees  the  sweet  hue  of  Eastern 
sapphire  spread  over  the  serene  aspect  of  the  pure  air,  which  inspired 
him  with  unwonted  joy  as  soon  as  he  had  escaped  from  the  atmo- 
sphere of  deadly  gloom.  The  Orient  laughed  under  the  radiant 
Venus  ;  and  in  the  horizon  also  appeared  four  stars  never  seen  since 
they  had  shone  in  the  Paradise  of  our  first  parents. 

On  what  passages  Macaulay  based  his  idea  that  Dante  appeared 
standing  among  the  radiant  spirits  in  Paradise  with  a  scowl  of  un- 
utterable misery  on  his  brow  we  are  entirely  at  a  loss  to  know. 
Instead  of  presenting  an  aspect  of  misery,  he  shows  himself  absorbed 
in  rapturous  delight,  which  clothes  every  object  around  with  un- 
earthly beauty ;  instead  of  disdain,  he  may  be  depicted  as  an  ideal  of 
humility,  following  Beatrice  through  the  planets  with  the  docility  of  a 
child.  When  at  last  he  is  about  to  be  admitted  to  a  glimpse  of  the 
Trinity  and  the  union  of  God  with  man,  he  unites  with  St.  Bernard 
in  supplication  to  the  Virgin  Mary  that  he  may  have  grace  to  con- 
template the  brightness  of  the  Divine  Majesty. 

Hallam,  in  exercising  that  penetrating  criticism  which  has  made 
his  opinion  on  all  subjects  worthy  of  the  respect  so  universally 
accorded  to  his  sober  and  judicial  decision,  has  indirectly  demon- 
strated the  falsity  of  Macaulay's  opinion.  Repeating  the  opinion 
that  light,  music,  and  motion  are  the  three  subjects  treated  of 
throughout  the  Paradise,  he  states  that  Dante  spiritualises  everything 
he  touches — an  excellence  in  which  Milton  yields  to  him.  Macaulay 
again  confutes  his  own  statement  respecting  this  part  of  his  subject, 
inasmuch  as  he  urges  that  Dante's  style  is,  if  not  his  highest,  his 
most  peculiar  excellence ;  in  another  place  he  tells  us  that  that  style 
had  reached  its  perfection  in  the  Paradise.  Style,  we  contend,  is  not 
the  mere  outward  dress  in  which  thought  is  conveyed,  but  the  body 
of  thought  itself,  and  works  are  potent  to  exercise  an  active  influence 
on  the  minds  of  men  only  as  their  words  are  effective  agencies  for 
conveying  and  impressing  the  ideas  they  are  intended  to  represent. 
Dante's  style,  for  instance,  is  so  identical  with  the  ideas  it  has  been 
written  to  perpetuate,  by  which  his  great  epic  is  constituted,  that  the 
alteration  of  the  words  is  synonymous  with  the  disintegration  of  its 
structure  as  a  body  of  thought. 

It  is  in  the  sterner  and  darker  passions  he  delights  to  dwell.  All  love,  except 
the  half  mystic  passion  which  he  still  felt  for  his  buried  Beatrice,  had  palled  on 
the  fierce  and  restless  exile.  The  sad  story  of  Rimini  is  almost  an  exception.  I 
know  not  whether  it  has  been  remarked  that  in  one  point  misanthropy  seems  to 


Macaulays  Estimate  of  Dante.  261 

have  affected  his  mind  as  it  did  Swift's.  Nauseous  and  revolting  images  seem  to 
have  had  a  fascination  for  his  mind,  and  he  repeatedly  places  before  his  readers, 
with  all  the  energy  of  his  incomparable  style,  the  most  loathsome  objects  of  the 
sewer  and  the  dissecting  room. 

This  adds  another  to  the  list  of  Macaulay's  misrepresentations^ 
All  love  had  not  palled  upon  him  except  his  passion  for  his  dead 
Beatrice,  and  to  describe  that  love  as  half-mystic  is  to  totally  mis- 
represent its  character.  He  met  Beatrice  when  he  was  only  nine 
years  of  age.  His  boyish  friendship  for  her  grew  into  a  love  as 
unquenchable  as  his  love  for  his  native  land — a  feeling  which  no- 
vicissitudes  of  circumstances  could  efface.  "  The  Divine  Comedy" 
was  written  in  fulfilment  of  a  promise  made  to  her  hallowed  memory. 
In  his  first  work,  the  "  Vita  Nuova,"  he  says  : — "  Therefore  did  I 
determine  to  write  no  more  of  this  dear  saint  until  I  should  be  able 
to  write  of  her  more  worthily  and  of  a  secret  She  know^s  that  I  study 
to  attain  to  this  with  all  my  powers ;  and  if  it  shall  please  Him  by 
whom  all  things  live  to  spare  my  life  for  some  years  longer  I  hope 
to  say  of  her  that  which  never  hath  been  before  said  of  any  lady.'' 
To  say  that  the  story  of  "  Rimini "  is  the  sole  exception  argues  a 
forgetfulness  on  the  part  of  the  critic  which  would  be  ridiculous  in 
the  consideration  of  the  works  of  a  less  eminent  man.  Through  all 
his  weary  wanderings,  even  while  he  was  eating  the  bread  and 
climbing  the  stairs  of  another,  he  cherished  the  affection  of  a  child 
for  his  native  city.  There  are  few  more  pathetic  passages  in  any 
literature  than  those  which  the  exile  employed  in  his  appeal  to  be 
allowed  to  return  to  "  that  fairest  and  most  renowned  daughter  of 
Rome,  Florence,  which  had  cast  him  forth  out  of  her  sweet  bosom-, 
in  which  he  had  his  birth  and  nourishment,  even  to  the  ripeness  of 
age,  and  in  which  with  her  good  will  he  desired  with  all  his  heart 
to  rest  his  wearied  spirit  and  to  terminate  the  time  allotted  to  him 
on  earth.'* 

Love  for  any  other  woman  than  the  daughter  of  Folco  Portinari 
he  never  knew ;  but  his  affectionate  remembrances  of  those  who  by 
their  kind  treatment  assuaged  the  sorrows  of  his  exile  are  denoted 
in  every  part  of  his  poem  in  which  he  can  recall  the  generous  deeds 
of  his  generous  patrons.  Even  if  the  story  of  **  Rimini"  were  the  sole 
exception  to  the  rule  which  Macaulay  has  laid  down,  the  critic 
should  have  remembered  that  it  is  by  ihat  story  that  thousands  of 
English  readers  know  anything  of  "  The  Divine  Comedy."  We  trust, 
in  the  interest  of  faithful  criticism,  that  no  one  else  has  remarked  that 
misanthropy  affected  Dante's  mind  as  it  did  Swift's,  for  there  is  no 
more  in  common  between  the  rhetorical  images  of  the  two  authors 


262  The  Ge7itlemafis  Magazine. 

than  there  is  between  the  Scripture  records  of  the  destruction  of 
Sodom  and  Gomorrah  and  the  indecencies  of  Wycherley's  comedies. 
Swift  introduces  into  his  recitals  the  most  loathsome  movements  of 
the  human  body,  not  to  illustrate  the  narrative,  but  because  they  had 
a  fascination  for  his  mind.  Dante,  on  the  other  hand,  never  places 
such  images  before  the  minds  of  his  readers.  Swift's  images  are 
filthy :  Dante's  are  awful.  They  are  as  dissimilar  as  the  weird  apos- 
trophes of  the  witches  in  "  Macbeth  "  are  unUke  the  revolting  litanies 
of  "  Rabelais."  Dante  does  not  waste  the  energy  of  his  incom- 
parable style  on  the  most  loathsome  objects  of  the  sewer  and  the 
dissecting  room.  The  only  instance  we  can  recall  in  which  any 
description  in  "The  Divine  Comedy"  could  justify  the  first  part  of 
the  charge  is  the  beginning  of  the  sixth  canto  of  the  Hell,  in 
which  we  are  told  that — 

Grandinc  grossa,  e  acqua  tinta  e  neve 
Per  r  aer  tencbroso  si  riversa ; 
Pute  la  terra  che  questo  riceve. 

Nothing  in  "  The  Divine  Comedy"  suggests  the  association  of  a 
dissecting  room,  unless  it  be  that  terrible  story  of  Ugolino,  univer- 
sally considered  as  Dante's  tragic  masterpiece.  If  this  depict  the 
horrors  ot  the  dissecting  room  the  most  severe  of  Latin  authors  is 
open  to  the  same  accusation.  It  is  doubtful  whether  the  works  of 
Tacitus  were  discovered  in  the  time  of  Dante — the  five  books  of  the 
annals  having  been  found  in  Germany  in  the  reign  of  Leo  X.,  and 
the  first  five  books  of  the  histories  at  Venice  in  1468;  but  it  is 
certain  that  a  similar  case  to  that  presented  by  Dante  is  related  by 
Tacitus  in  the  forty-second  chapter  of  the  fourth  book  : — 

Occurrit  truci  oratione  Curtius  Montanus,  eo  usque  progrcssus  ut,  post  caedem 
Galbxs  datam  interfcctori  Pisonis  pecuniam  a  Regulo,  appetitumque  morsu 
Pisonis  caput  objectarct.     Hoc  ccrte,  inquit,  Nero  uon  cocgit  nee  dignitatem 

nee  saluteni  ilia  sa:vitia  redemisti. 

The  instance  of  Tydeus  and  Menalippus,  cited  by  himself  may 
also  be  adduced  in  favour  of  Dante's  truthfulness  in  depicting 
dramatic  scenes,  appealing  through  the  refining  agencies  of  pity  or 
terror,  or  both. 

The  character  of  Milton  was  peculiarly  distinguished  by  loftiness  of  spirit ; 
that  of  Dante  by  intensity  of  feeling.  In  every  line  of  **  The  Divine  Comedy" 
we  discern  the  asperity  which  is  produced  by  pride  struggling  with  misery. 
There  is  perhaps  no  work  in  the  world  so  deeply  and  sorrowfully  moumfol.  The 
melancholy  of  Dante  has  no  fantastic  caprice.  It  was  not,  so  far  as  at  this  dis- 
tance of  time  it  can  be  judged,  the  effect  of  external  circumstances.  It  was  from 
within.  Neither  love  nor  glory,  neither  the  conflicts  of  earth  nor  the  hopes  of 
Heaven,  could  dispel  it.    It  turned  every  consolation  and  every  pleasure  into  its 


Macaulays  Estimate  of  Dante.  26-3 

own  nature.  It  resembled  the  noxious  Sardinian  soil,  of  Mrhich  the  intense  bitter- 
ness is  said  to  have  been  perceptible  even  in  its  honey.  His  mind  was,  in  the 
noble  language  of  the  Hebrew  poet,  "  a  land  of  darkness  itself,  and  where  the 
light  was  as  darkness."  The  gloom  of  his  character  discolours  all  the  passions 
of  men  and  all  the  face  of  nature,  and  tinges  with  its  own  livid  hue  the  flowers 
of  Paradise  and  the  glories  of  the  Eternal  Throne.  All  the  portraits  of  him  are 
singularly  characteristic.  No  person  can  look  on  his  features,  noble  even  to 
ruggedness,  the  dark  furrows  of  the  cheek,  the  haggard  and  woful  stare  of  the 
eye,  tlie  sullen  and  contemptuous  curve  of  the  lip,  and  doubt  that  they  belonged 
to  a  man  too  proud  and  too  sensitive  to  be  happy. 

Enough  has  been  already  said  to  show  that  Macaulay's  estimate 
of  Dante's  character  is  founded  on  misconception,  or — to  be  more 
accurate — on  the  imperfect  study  of  one  part  of  a  poem,  the  inspira- 
tion of  every  part  of  which  is  different  from  the  spirit  that  induced 
the  author  to  complete  the  other  two.  We  pause  here  merely  to 
direct  attention  to  the  loose  rhetoric  in  which  the  critic  assumes  to 
specify  the  distinctive  features  of  the  characters  of  the  two  epic  poets 
of  Italy  and  England.  There  is  no  opposition  between  loftiness  of 
spirit  and  intensity  of  feeling ;  in  the  lives  of  the  authors  of  which 
he  speaks  there  is  ample  proof  that  they  both  possessed  both  attri- 
butes in  a  prominent  degree.  Milton's  intensity  of  feeling  breathes 
through  every  one  of  his  works,  whether  poetry  or  prose ;  loftiness 
of  spirit  is  as  clearly  perceptible  in  every  prominent  action  and  utter- 
ance of  the  exile  whose  bones  now  lie  on  the  banks  of  the  Adriatic. 
Macaulay's  criticism  on  this  part  of  his  subject  is  little  more  tlian  a 
series  of  antitheses  without  point,  and  epithets  without  distinction. 
Indeed,  throughout  the  whole  essay  he  follows  the  lines  of  Coleridge's 
criticism  on  tlie  Italian  poet,  amplifying  his  propositions  when  they 
are  wrong,  and  distorting  them  when  they  are  right.  Want  of 
originality  distinguishes  every  observation  made  by  the  critic,  both 
in  the  essay  on  Dante  and  in  the  essay  on  Milton ;  and  when  he 
appears  to  give  us  a  penetrating  view  of  the  genius  and  construction 
of  "  The  Divine  Comedy "  he  merely  imitates  Coleridge,  who  was 
himself  egregiously  mistaken  in  his  estimate  of  the  epic,  especially 
in  his  assertion  of  its  non-allegorical  meaning,  the  fallacy  of  which 
will  be  plainly  demonstrated  hereafter. 

However  strange,  however  grotesque,  may  be  the  appearance  which  Dante 
undertakes  to  describe,  he  never  shrinks  from  describing  it.  He  gives  us  tlie 
shape,  the  colour,  the  sound,  the  smell,  the  taste  ;  he  counts  the  numbers,  he 
measures  the  size.  His  similes  are  the  illustrations  of  a  traveller.  Unlike  those 
of  any  other  poet,  and  especially  of  Milton,  they  are  introduced  in  a  plain 
business-like  manner,  not  for  the  sake  of  any  beauty  in  the  objects  in  which 
they  are  drawn,  nor  for  the  sake  of  any  ornament  which  they  may  impart 
to  the  poem,  but  simply  in  order  to  make  the  meaning  of  the  writer  as  clear  to 


264  The  Gentlematis  Magazine. 

the  reader  as  to  himself.  The  ruins  of  the  precipice  which  led  from  the  sixth  to 
the  seventh  circle  of  Hell  were  like  the  rock  which  fell  into  the  Adige  on  the 
south  of  Trent.  The  cataract  of  Phlegethon  was  like  that  of  the  Aqua  Cheta  at 
the  monastery  of  St.  Benedict.  The  place  where  the  heretics  are  confined  in 
burning  tombs  resembled  the  vast  cemetery  at  Aries. 

Again — 

His  similes  are  more  of  the  traveller  than  the  poet.  He  employs  them  not  to  dis- 
play his  ingenuity  by  fanciftil  analogies,  not  to  delight  the  reader  by  affording  him  a 
distant  and  passing  glimpse  of  beautiful  images,  remote  from  the  path  in  which  he 
is  proceeding,  but  to  give  an  exact  idea  of  the  objects  which  he  is  describing  by 
comparing  them  with  others  generally  known. 

In  these  sentences  the  critic  has  supplied  ample  proof,  if  such 
were  needed,  that  Dante's  mind  was  deeply  impressed  by  the  objects 
of  external  nature,  for  the  similes  of  a  traveller  as  such  are  derived 
from  external  nature.  Macaulay  has  overlooked  another  considera- 
tion in  thus  evolving  the  genius  of  Dante  from  his  works — it  is 
that  the  Florentine  had  acquired  some  excellence  in  the  art  of 
designing,  so  that  his  similes  would  be  not  only  those  of  the  traveller 
but  also  of  the  painter.  Again  may  we  quote  the  critic,  to  give  his 
own  words  an  emphatic  and  specific  contradiction.  Dante's  similes, 
we  are  told,  are  introduced  in  a  business-like  manner,  not  for  the  sake 
of  any  ornament  they  impart  to  the  poem.  Let  the  following  passages 
be  read  in  juxtaposition  with  this  opinion : — "  I  cannot  dismiss 
this  pfrt  of  my  subject  without  advising  every  person  who  can 
muster  sufficient  Italian  to  read  the  simile  of  the  sheep  in  the  third 
canto  of  the  Purgatory.  I  think  it  the  most  perfect  passage  of  the 
kind  in  the  world,  the  most  imaginative, .  and  the  most  sweetly 
expressed."  But  it  is  not  necessary  to  bind  the  critic  to  his  own 
specimens  of  heedless  rhetoric ;  internal  testimony  afforded  by  "  The 
Divine  Comedy,"  as  well  as  historical  evidence,  will  supply  the  refuta- 
tion. To  say  that  Dante's  simile.s  are  unlike  those  of  Milton  is  to 
ignore  the  authority  of  that  translation  which  Macaulay  himself  has 
justly  praised.  Not  only  does  Mr.  Gary  give  us  a  translation  of  "The 
Divine  Comedy ;"  he  also  gives  us  those  passages  in  which  our  own 
poet  has  moulded  into  English  form  the  thoughts  of  his  great  Italian 
predecessor.  While  it  would  be  impossible  within  the  limits  of  a 
short  article  to  indicate  all  the  passages  which  have  been  copied  and 
amplified  by  Milton,  a  reference  to  this  translation  will  effectively 
show  their  similitude.  But  it  is  not  only  in  similes  that  any  reader 
can  observe  the  influence  of  Dante  on  Milton's  mind.  The  author  of 
the  "  Paradise  Lost "  told  Dryden  that  he  had  taken  Spenser  for  his 
model ;  but  no  one  can  deny  that  the  English  epic  is  Dantesque  to  a 
great  degree  in  subject  and  also  in  spirit  Even  if  Milton  owed  much 


Macatilays  Estimate  of  Dante.  265 

to  Spenser,  the  author  of  "  The  Faerie  Queene"  owed  much  to  Dante. 
Indeed,  there  is  not  a  great  poet  from  Chaucer  to  Shakespeare  who 
has  not  been  influenced  by  "The  Divine  Comedy."  Chaucer  copies  the 
similes  and  sentences  so  closely  as  to  afford  a  strong  proof  that  Dante 
studied  at  Oxford ;  that  he  inspired  much  of  what  supplied  the  fount 
whence  sprung  the  well  of  English  undefiled  there  can  be  no  question. 
But  what  most  astonishes  one  who  reads  is  Macaulay's  opinion  that 
Dante's  similes  are  unlike  those  of  any  other  poet.  He  must  have 
forgotten  how  much  they  have  in  common  with  the  similes  of  Homer 
and  his  model,  Virgil.  As  instances  of  this,  the  picture  of  the  cranes  in 
the  fifth  canto  of  the  Hell  reminds  one  irresistibly  of  the  passage  in 
the  third  book  of  Homer,  read  by  every  schoolboy,  and  another 
in  the  tenth  book  of  Virgil.  Tme  it  is  that  Dante's  objects  of  com- 
parison are  described  within  a  much  smaller  space  than  that  allowed 
by  our  severe  and  more  diffuse  writers ;  but  even  if  this  were  a  fault  it 
is  caused  by  the  structure  of  his  poem.  Whereas  Homer  presents 
one  or  two  points  of  resemblance  in  a  lengthy  passage,  every  point 
in  Dante's  simile  suggests  a  corresponding  idea  in  the  objects  he 
is  describing.  Anything  superfluous  is  as  little  to  be  expected  in  his 
work  as  an  excrescence  on  the  cheek  of  a  sculptors  Venus.  Macaulay 
gives  the  poet  the  highest  praise  when  he  says  that  Dante  introduces 
his  similes  to  make  his  verses  as  intelligible  to  the  reader  as  to  himself. 
But  one  single  canto — the  22nd  of  the  Hell — will  plainly  show  that 
he  does  give  distant  and  passing  glimpses  of  beautiful  image^emote 
from  the  path  in  which  he  is  proceeding.  Reference  has  been  already 
made  to  the  simile  of  the  sheep  in  the  fifth  canto  of  the  Purgatory,  and 
scores  of  other  similar  instances  may  be  easily  adduced.  It  is  not  to 
be  expected  that  in  describing  the  circles  of  Hell  the  poet  would 
supply  many  comparisons  calculated  to  impart  beauty  to  the  poem ; 
but  when  he  reaches  the  purifying  world,  and  ascends  to  the  regions 
of  the  beatified,  he  finds  an  infinite  supply  of  objects,  by  the  suggestion 
of  which  to  make  clearer  to  his  readers  the  intention  of  his  work;  and 
he  gives  frequently  recurring  glimpses  of  beautiful  objects  to  illustrate 
and  embellish  his  noble  theme.  Not  fifty  lines  of  the  Paradise 
can  be  read  before  proof  of  this  position  is  forthcoming. 

As  from  the  first  a  second  beam  is  wont 

To  issue,  and  reflected  upwards  rise, 

Even  as  a  pilgrim  bent  on  his  return ; 

So  of  her  act,  that  through  the  eye-sight  passed 

Into  my  fancy,  mine  was  formed. 

On  entering  the  moon  the  poet  exclaims  : — 

Meseemed  as  if  a  dead  had  covered  as, 


266  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

Translucent)  solid,  firm,  and  polished  bright 
Like  adamant  which  the  sun's  beam  had  smit. 
Within  itself  the  ever-during  pearl 
Received  us  ;  as  the  wave  a  ray  of  light 
Receives  and  rests  unbroken. 

Again,  in  the  third  canto  : — 

As  though  translucent  and  smooth  glass,  or  wave 

Clear  and  unmoved,  and  flowing  not  so  deep 

As  that  its  bed  is  dark,  the  shape  returns 

So  faint  of  our  impictured  lineaments 

That,  on  white  forehead  set,  a  pearl  as  strong 

Comes  to  the  eye ;  such  saw  I  many  a  face 

All  stretched  to  speak. 

But  it  is  unnecessary  to  pursue  an  argument  which  may  be 
strengthened  by  every  successive  canto  of  the  Paradise.  These  three 
paragraphs  have  been  quoted  in  order  to  show  that  Macaulay's 
opinion  would  have  been  changed  by  reading  the  very  first  sections 
of  that  part  which  he  has  unduly  underrated.  It  must  also  be  borne 
in  mind  that  the  picturesque  beauty  and  glowing  fervour  of  Dante's 
similes  arc  entirely  lost  in  Mr.  Gary's  translation,  which,  though  the 
best  English  version,  but  very  imperfectly  reproduces  in  its  crude 
interpretation  Dante's  unequalled  diction  and  fervid  feeling. 

Poetry  which  relates  to  the  beings  of  another  world  ought  to  be  at  once 
myslcrid^pf  and  picturesque.  That  of  Milton  is  so  :  that  of  Dante  is  picturesque, 
indeed,  beyond  any  that  ever  was  written.  Its  effect  approaches  to  that  produced 
by  the  pencil  or  the  chisel.  But  it  is  picturesque  to  the  exclusion  of  all  mystery. 
This  is  a  fault  on  the  right  side,  a  faul  inseparable  from  the  plan  of  Dante*s 
poem,  which,  as  we  have  already  observed,  rendered  the  utmost  accuracy  of 
description  necessary.  Still  it  is  a  fault.  The  supernatural  agents  excite  an  in- 
terest, but  it  is  not  the  interest  which  is  proper  to  supernatural  agents.  We  feel 
that  we  could  talk  to  the  ghosts  and  demons  without  any  emotion  of  unearthly  awe. 
We  could,  like  Don  Juan,  ask  them  to  supper  and  eat  heartily  in  their  company. 
His  dead  men  are  merely  living  men  in  strange  situations.  The  scene  which 
passes  between  the  poet  and  Farinata  is  justly  celebrated.  Still,  Farinata  in 
the  burning  tomb  is  exactly  what  Farinata  would  have  been  at  an  auto  daf6n 
Nothing  can  be  more  touching  than  the  first  interview  of  Dante  and  Beatrice. 
Yet  what  is  it  but  a  lovely  woman  chiding  with  sweet  austere  composure  the  lover 
for  whose  affection  she  is  grateful,  but  whose  vices  she  reprobates  ?  The  feeling 
which  gives  the  passage  its  charm  would  suit  the  streets  of  Florence  as  well  as  the, 
summit  of  the  Mount  of  Purgatory. 

Here  the  critic  is  again  betrayed  into  error  by  his  wrong  diagnosis 
of  "The  Divine  Comedy."  By  "mystery"  in  this  connection  Macaulay 
obviously  intends  to  say  what  he  had  already  stated  in  other  words — 
that  the  words  of  the  Italian  were  to  be  interpreted  in  their  literal 
sense  and  in  no  other.     That  Macau'ay's  theory  is  not  tenable  has 


Macaiilays  Estimate  of  Dante,  267 

been  proved  from  the  commentary  of  the  Florentine  on  his  own 
immortal  work.  But  if  Milton's  epic  be  mysterious,  to  what 
does  it  owe  this  excellence — if  indeed  such  it  be  ?  Simply  to  the  in- 
spiration of  his  Italian  predecessor.  If  " mysterious"  can  be  predicated 
of  the  personages  introduced  into  the  episode  of  the  "Paradise  Lost," 
it  is  because  new  functions  are  attributed  to  them  and  are  sometimes 
transmuted  to  abstractions.  From  no  other  than  from  Dante  was 
this  plan  derived.  He  it  was  who,  as  Macaulay  himself  has  shown, 
so  successfully  interwove  ancient  mythology  with  modern  poetry. 
Even  so  acute  a  critic  as  De  Quincey  has  failed  to  discover  the  model 
which  the  English  poet  followed  in  the  construction  of  this  part 
of  the  machinery  of  his  poem.  To  Michael  Angelo  De  Quincey 
attributes  the  introduction  of  the  pagan  deities  in  connection  with 
the  hierarchy  of  the  "  Christian  Heavens."  De  Quincey 's  remarks  re- 
specting this  part  of  the  subject  are  so  crude  as  to  suggest  the  notion 
that  he  never  read  "The  Divine  Comedy"  either  in  the  original  or  in  an 
English  dress.  "  One  man  might  err  from  inadvertence,  but  that  two, 
and  both  men  trained  to  habits  of  constant  meditation,  should  fall 
into  the  same  error  makes  the  marvel  tenfold  greater."  Little 
marvel,^however,  is  to  be  felt  when  it  is  plain  that  both  worked  on 
the  same  model.  Dante  introduced  mythological  personages  in  con- 
nection with  the  Christian  hierarchy  because  at  his  time  belief  in  the 
pagan  theocracy  had  not  completely  died  out,  and  lieatheiMleities 
were  regarded  as  objects  of  actual  existence,  and  probably  as  the 
least  fabulous  portion  of  his  wonderful  creations.  The  structure  of 
Milton's  epic  on  a  similar  basis  shows  that  he  copied  the  Italian  with 
wonderful  clearness,  inasmuch  as  at  his  own  time — nearly  three  cen- 
turies and  a  half  after  Dante  lived — the  conception  of  such  a  design 
would  be  almost  impossible.  When  Macaulay  says  that  we  might 
treat  Dante's  supernatural  agents  as  Don  Juan  did — ask  them 
home  to  supper — he  must  certainly  have  forgotten  the  tenants  of  the 
Malebolgian  gulfs.  "  His  dead  men  are  merely  living  men  in  strange 
situations,"  &c.  As  a  curiosity  of  literature  it  may  be  mentioned  that 
in  the  Edinburgh  Revieiv  for  April,  1825 — Macaulay's  essay  on 
Milton  appeared  in  the  same  volume — we  find  a  very  different 
opinion  respecting  the  character  of  the  personages  who  appear  in 
the  episodes  of  "  Tlie  Divine  Comedy."  "  The  images  of  Dante,"  says 
this  contributor  to  "  the  Buff  and  Blue,"  "  pass  by  like  phantasms 
on  a  wall,  clear  indeed  and  picturesque,  but  although  true  in  a  great 
measure  to  fact  they  are  wanting  in  reality.  They  have  complexion 
and  shape,  but  not  flesh  and  blood.  Milton's  earthly  creatures  have 
a  flush  of  living  beauty  upon  them  and  show  the  changes  of  huipan 
infirmity." 


268  The  Gentlemxit  s  Magazine, 

The  poetry  of  Milton  differs  from  that  of  Dante  as  the  hieroglyphics  ofEgj'pt 
differed  from  the  picture  writing  of  Mexico.  The  images  which  Dante  employs 
•speak  for  themselves ;  they  stand  simply  for  what  they  are.  Those  of  Milton 
have  a  significance  which  is  often  discernible  only  to  ihc  initiated.  Their  value 
•depends  less  on  what  they  directly  represent  than  on  what  they  remotely  suggest. 

There  is  not  in  the  whole  range  of  critical  literature  a  statement 
more  calculated  to  mislead  the  student  of  Dante  than  that  made  by 
Macaulay  when  he  says  that  the  images  which  Dante  employs  stand 
simply  for  what  they  are.  Not  only  is  this  not  the  case,  but  there  is 
ample  evidence  that  such  was  by  no  means  the  intention  of  the  poet. 
From  this,  as  from  many  other  parts  of  Macaulay's  commentary,  we 
■can  easily  understand  that  he  studied  the  great  work  of  the  Floren- 
tine very  superficially,  and  that  he  had  not  read  any  of  the  prose  works 
of  the  author,  in  which  the  intention  of  the  author  is  explained,  and 
the  structure  of  his  immortal  "Comedy"  delineated.  If  he  had  referred 
to  the  treatise  entitled  "  II  Convito,"  he  would  have  found  that,  instead 
of  Dante's  images  standing  simply  for  what  they  are,  the  genius 
which  called  them  into  being  meant  that  they  should  be  presented  to 
the  mind  of  the  reader  in  no  less  than  four  different  aspects.  Dante's 
Avritings  are  to  be  interpreted,  firstly,  in  the  literal  sense  which  is 
obvious  ;  secondly,  in  the  allegorical  sense  which,  though  somewhat 
hidden,  can  be  easily  made  intelligible  by  the  context.  The  third — 
the  moral  sense — is  not  conveyed  in  words,  but  is  inferred  from  the 
words.  !►- As  an  instance  of  this,  the  author  gives  the  reader  the 
Gospel  narrative  of  Christ's  transfiguration  when  He  retires  to  a  high 
mountain  with  only  three  of  His  disciples.  The  moral  inference, 
according  to  Dante,  is  that  in  secret  things  we  should  have  but  few 
companions.  (Purg.  xxxii.,  ii6.)  By  the  anagogical  sense  we 
are  enabled  from  the  narrative  of  things  perceived  by  the  senses  to 
learn  things  beyond  the  reach  of  human  perception.  The  Israelites 
passed  out  of  Egypt  (Paradise  xi.,  45) ;  that  is  written  in  Psalm  114. 
Dante  intends  that  another  lesson  should  be  taught  with  equal  dis- 
tinctness— namely,  that  the  human  soul  released  from  sin  passes  from 
captivity  to  liberty. 

In   the   first  canto  of  the  Purgatory  Dante  meets  the  shade  of 

Cato  of  Utica.     Virgil,  having  explained  to  Cato  the  object  of  their 

^visit,  says  : — 

Xon  son  gli  editti  etemi  per  noi  guasti ; 
Che  questi  vive,  e  Minoj  me  non  lega  : 
Ala  son  del  cerchio  ove  son  gli  occbi  casti 
Di  Alai  zla  tua,  che*n  vista  ancor  ti  pre ja 
O  santo  petto,  che  per  tua  la  tegni : 
Per  lo  suo  amore  adunque  a  noi  ti  p'eja 
Lasciane  andar  per  li  tuo'  setti  regni. 


Macaulays  Estimate  of  Dante.  269 

Marcia  was  the  wife  of  Cato,  by  whom  she  had  issue.  She  then  lived 
with  Sempronius,  to  whom  also  she  bore  children.  After  Sem- 
pronius*s  death  Marcia  again  returned  to  Cato.  Now  not  only  does 
this  story,  which  we  take  merely  as  an  example,  not  stand  simply  for 
what  it  is,  but  Dante  minutely  describes,  in  "  II  Convito,"  his  whole 
intention  in  referring  to  it : — "  Marcia  was  a  virgin  :  in  that  state  she 
signified  childhood.  Then  she  came  to  Cato,  and  in  that  state  she 
represents  youth.  She  then  bore  children,  by  whom  are  represented 
the  virtues  which  are  said  to  belong  to  age.  Marcia  at  last  returns 
to  her  first  love,  which  signifies  that  the  noble  soul  has  returned  to 
God."  If,  then,  Milton's  images  have  a  significance  often  discernible 
only  to  the  initiated,  the  same  may  be  predicated  with  even  more 
certainty  and  emphasis  regarding  the  poetic  utterances  of  the  Flo- 
rentine. It  is  this  marvellous  power  of  inculcating  high  moral 
lessons  in  the  shape  of  historical  narrative  which  rivets  the  attention 
of  the  ardent  student  of  "The  Divine  Comedy"  while  passing  in 
spirit  with  his  guide,  through  the  same  regions  of  ineffable  pain 
and  supreme  bliss  through  which  he  had  passed  himself  in  the  com- 
pany of  his  model,  Virgil.  How  much  more  ennobling  is  the  story 
of  Marcia  and  Cato  read  in  the  refining  light  of  Dante's  commentary 
than  as  a  rude  record  of  sensual  passion  ! 

In  the  works  of  Dante  the  political  is  co-ordinate  with  the  moral 
object.  The  theory  that  Dante  did  not  intend  that  his  writings 
should  bear  an  allegorical  or  any  second  intention  is  suppJIted  by 
the  assertions  that  he  has  suppressed  the  existence  of  a  political 
allegory,  and  that  the  onus  probandi  rests  witli  those  who  are  disposed 
to  place  it  among  the  prominent  interpretations  which  it  is  supposed 
to  have  been  his  design  figuratively  to  convey.  It  will  presently  be 
shown  that  tlie  very  ground  plan  of  "  The  Divine  Comedy"  is  founded 
on  a  political  allegory.  In  this  place  it  is  only  necessary  to  say  that 
the  political  allegory  is  manifest  in  the  very  first  canto,  where  the 
leopard  denotes  Florence,  the  lion  the  King  of  France,  and  the  wolf 
the  Court  of  Rome.  It  is  a  matter  of  no  small  surprise  that  a  critic 
possessing  Coleridge's  analytical  power  should  agree  in  the  theory 
that  the  moral,  poHtical,  and  theological  truths  of  "The  Divine 
Comedy  '*  are  not  allegorical,  but  quasi-allegorical,  or  conceived  in 
analogy  with  pure  allegory.  This  statement,  which  cannot  bear  close 
examination  even  as  regards  its  rhetorical  structure,  is  indirectly  con- 
tradicted by  Coleridge's  own  statement  that  in  the  age  in  which 
Dante  lived,  and  the  literary  character  of  which  he  represented, 
allegory  had  succeeded  to  polytheism.  Ample  evidence  has  been 
Vol.  XL,  N.S.  1873.  x 


2  70  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

already  given  to  show  not  only  that  "The  Divine  Comedy"  is  a  com- 
plete allegory,  but  that  it  is  unmistakably  allegorical. 

No  person  can  have  attended  to  "The  Divine  Comedy"  without  observing  how 
little  impression  the  forms  of  the  external  world  appear  to  have  made  on  Dante. 
His  temper  and  his  situation  had  led  him  to  fix  his  observations  almost  exclusively 
on  human  nature. 

This  is  the  most  glaring  and  transparent  of  all  the  mis-statements 
made  in  the  course  of  Macaula/s  commentary.  As  well  might  it  be 
asserted  that  the  tragedy  of  "  Othello  "  does  not  depict  the  excess  of 
jealous  love,  or  that  the  tragic  fate  of  Romeo  and  Juliet  was  not 
attributable  to  the  obstructed  course  of  youthful  affection.  To  prove 
that  Macaulay's  position  cannot  be  sustained  is  like  breaking  a  fly 
upon  a  wheel :  the  accumulation  of  testimony  against  it  is  so  weighty 
as  to  crush  beneath  it  any  one  who  ventures  to  support  the  theory  of 
the  historian.  The  very  first  lines  of  "  The  Divine  Comedy  "  consti- 
tute an  argument'  unanswerable  in  its  cogency  that  Dante  was 
impressed  by  external  nature,  for  he  makes  the  scene  of  the  first 
incident  of  his  vision  a  gloomy  wood.  It  would  be  useless  to 
reiterate  all  the  passages  by  which  evidence  is  afforded  of  the  egre- 
gious errors  of  the  critic.  We  shall  more  effectively  sustain  our  own 
position  by  showing  that  the  whole  ground  plan  of  "  The  Divine 
Comedy "  was  based  on  external  nature.  As  shown  by  Keightley, 
the  historian,  the  geographical  features  of  Italy  formed  the  ground 
plan  OT  the  poem  : — 

The  abode  of  the  Dantcan  God,  the  Emperor,  was  in  Germany,  beyond  the 
Alps,  which  must  be  passed  to  reach  him.  Now  we  find  Dante  in  the  opening 
of  the  poem  attempting  to  climb  a  mountain  where  he  is  impeded  by  three 
beasts  representing  the  Guelfic  powers.  He  has  then  to  turn  back  and  pass,  under 
the  guidance  of  Virgil,  a  native  of  the  sub-Alpine  Mantua,  through  the  Guelfic 
hell,  till  it  reaches  its  central  point.  He  first  comes  to  a  gateway  which  Rosetti^ 
without  any  knowledge  of  the  theory,  has  shown  to  be  Brescia,  whence  he  comes 
to  a  river,  the  Po.  Beyond  this  is  the  Limbo,  the  inhabitants  of  which  Rosetti 
has  regarded  as  leading  Ghibellines,  and  which  I  take  to  be  Bologna,  a  chief  seat 
of  Ghibellinism.  After  this  he  reaches  La  Cill^  di  Dite,  in  which  nothing  but  the 
deepest  prejudice  can  prevent  any  one  from  recognising  Florence.  There  seems 
to  be  a  hint  of  Viterbo,  and  finally  the  poet  arrives  at  the  centre,  the  Guidecca 
(from  Judas),  the  abode  of  the  arch  traitor  Lucifer — i.e.y  the  Pope,  the  rebel  against 
the  enemy  of  God,  the  Emperor.  The  ground-plan  of  the  Purgatory — a  conical 
mountain  ascending  by  ledges  or  terraces — was  also  given  by  one  of  the  natural 
features  of  Italy.  I  have  never  been  at  Lucca,  so  I  cannot  say  whether  the 
practice  continues  or  not ;  but  Montaigne,  in  his  Journal  cPun  Voyage  en  Italic 
(ii.,  256),  gives  the  following  passage : — 

*<  Non  si  pud  assai  lodare,  e  per  la  bellezza  e  per  Putile,  questo  mode  di  coltivare 
le  montagne  fin  alia  cima,  facendosi  in  forma  di  scaloni  delli  cerchi  intomo  d*essi, 
e  I'alto  di  qucsti  scaloni,  adesso  appoggiandolo  di  pietre,  adesso  con  altri  ripari, 
se  la  terra  di  se  non  sta  soda,  il  piano  del  scalone,  come  si  riscontra  piil  largo  e 


Macaulays  Estimate  of  Dante.  271 

pill  stretto,  empicndolo  di  grano,  e  Testremo  del  piano  verso  la  valle,  cio&  ilgiro  b 
rorlo,  aggirandolo  di  \igne  ;  e  dove  (come  verso  le  cime)  non  si  piii  ritrovar  ne 
far  piano,  mettcndoci  tutto  vigne." 

Macaiilay  says  that  he  will  not  take  upon  himself  the  task  of  settling 
the  precedency  between  two  such  writers.  There  can,  however,  be 
no  great  difficulty  about  the  decision.  Dante  not  only  created  a 
language,  but  he  gave  it  energy  and  nerve  which  it  has  never  since 
possessed  when  used  by  other  hands.  Milton  approached  the  com- 
position of  the  "  Paradise  Lost "  with  the  advantage  of  being  able  to 
draw  his  vocabulary  from  the  well  of  English  undefiled,  and  from  the 
English  authors  who  lived  between  the  fourteenth  and  the  seventeenth 
centuries.  Dante,  strictly  speaking,  had  no  model  to  follow  ;  Milton's 
poem  is  to  a  great  extent  Dantesque.  The  influence  of  Milton  on  our 
literature  and  our  political  development  has  been  slightly  felt,  and  his 
works  cannot  be  said  to  be  popularly  read.  The  writings  of  Dante 
have  sunk  deep  into  the  national  soul  of  Italy.  His  spirit  has  inspired 
every  epic,  didactic,  and  lyric  poem  worth  remembering  in  the  literature 
of  the  peninsula,  and  to  him  must  be  attributed  in  no  small  degree 
the  fulfilment  of  the  desires  dearest  to  his  heart,  though  it  has  been 
achieved  five  hundred  years  after  his  death  in  exile — the  expulsion  of 
the  foreigner  and  the  emancipation  of  his  native  land.  After  a  lapse 
of  five  centuries  his  writings  come  to  us  with  undiminished  splendour  \. 
and  if  we  may  modify  the  well-known  prophecy  enunciated  by  his 
critic,  we  would  say  that  they  will  appeal  as  fervently  and  «imestly 
to  the  Italian  heart  when  some  New  Zealander,  having  taken  his 
stand  on  a  broken  arch  of  the  bridge  of  St.  Angelo,  will  sketch  the 
niins  of  St.  Peter's. 


T  2 


Across    the    Alps; 

OR,  GLIMPSES  OF  NORTH  ITALY. 


Yet  vdft  me  from  tlie  luirboar  moath, 
wad  mind  !    I  seek  a  wanneT  sky, 
Atftd  I  will  see  befote  I  die 
The  palms  ami  temples  of  the  Soatk. 


Tntjnsjft, 


jHE  great  eagineerii^  feat  of  the  Moot  Cents  TonoeL  kis 

retniered  crossing  the  Alps  an  every  day  occmrence,  has 

'^        lessened  all  the  hardships  of  mountain  traTei  to  a  nilxray 

Si^        ride  in  a  tunnel  for  some  ft>rtT  minutes^  and  has  to  a 

great  extent  reduced  the  imaginative  part  of  the  jotxroey  to  nothmg. 

Report  speaks  of  another  railway  over  the  St.  Gochard^  so  that  the 
route  to  £iir  Italy  by  carrtjge  or  on  toot  wiH  be  kft  to  bat  a  few  of 
those  noble  passes,  guarded  by  the  lofty  Alps.  A  some«rhsit  less 
untra\-elled  route  is  by  the  Great  St.  Bernard^  w!fckhy  as  oti^zm^  oo 
regular  public  conveyance^  and  not  presentrng  rfje  sterner  scenenr  of 
the  Simplon,  Ck^thard*  or  Spliigeru  is  often  omitted  in  the  category  of 
traveL 

The  approach  to  this  pass  en  the  Swiss  side  es  from  Martigny.  a. 
village  so  well  known  to  all  Chamouni  tounstSv  that  any  descripdoix  of 
its  features  would  be  useless^  Soon  after  leaving  Mart^gny^  tfie  St.  Ber- 
nard road  diverges,  and^  like  all  the  great  mountain  passesy  follows  t^e 
course  of  a  river  here  called  the  E>ranse.  The  length  of  die  road  from: 
end  to  end — that  is^  from  Martigny  in  Switzerland  to  Aosta  mt 
Piedmont — is  some  tbrt\'-dve  miles*  For  ten  or  twehre  miles  m> 
perceptible  ascent  is  felt»  and  then  it  is  very  gradnaL  Oit  the  way^ 
several  large  viliageSv  as  Orsieresand  Liddesv  are  passed.  TmreHtfEv 
two  or  three  in  number,  croi^  ones  path^  and  the  usual  cattle 
driversy  with  their  cows  and  goats,  are  the  chief  accompantments  of 
the  journey.  Occasionally  a  post  cart  or  nufcly  btnlt  carnage  will 
ratde  by,  but  there  are  no  regular  diligencesy  no  string?  of  tiavelleis 
with  much  luggage,  that  one  always  encounters  over  the  .Vlptne 
roods. 

So  &%  there  is  a  primidve  aspect  and  feeling  in:  crossing  the  St. 
BiecisaRL  On  leaving  SC  Pierre,  a  romantic  village  abootthcee  homs 
isQQt  the  top  of  the  passy  the  mountains  begin  to  c^ose  in^  aniiE 


Across  the  Alps.  273 

vegetation  to  an  extent  ceases.  The  carriage  road  also  ends,  and  the 
path  leads  along  a  way  rugged  with  stones,  and  marked  at  intervals 
with  high  poles,  which  in  winter  serve  to  guide  the  traveller  in  the  fall- 
ing snow  to  the  welcome  Hospice  and  shelter.  The  last  two  miles  is  a 
steep  ascent,  when  on  a  sudden  the  Hospice  comes  into  view — a  plain 
stone  building,  situate  in  a  deep  solitude,  with  no  other  habitation 
near.  Here,  some  twenty  brethren  live  and  assist  poor  travellers  and 
others  in  winter.  There  is  a  small  chapel  attached  to  the  Hospice, 
and  among  the  paintings  on  the  walls  is  one  of  St.  Bernard,  the 
founder  of  the  order.  He  is  represented  with  a  huge  St.  Bernard  dog 
at  his  side,  and  the  snowy  Alps  in  the  distance.  The  traveller  is 
lodged  and  entertained  here,  free  of  expense,  but  if  not  indigent,  it 
is  usual  to  leave  some  contribution  for  the  support  of  the  monastery 
or  chapel.  The  brethren  do  not  remain  here  more  than  a  year  or 
two,  but  are  replaced  by  others  from  a  neighbouring  establishment, 
for  the  keenness  of  the  air  does  not  permit  a  long  residence. 

Immediately  on  leaving  the  Hospice  the  descent  of  the  pass  begins, 
several  fine  valleys  open  up,  while  in  the  far  distance  many  a  snow- 
capped summit  peers  forth.     The  farther  one  proceeds,  the  more 
Italian  does  the  scene  grow  :  churches  on  whose  western  fronts  are 
rudely  painted  the  Crucifixion,  Ascension,  or  other  scriptural  subjects 
— vines  not  trained  in  the  regular  upright  manner  of  France  and 
Switzerland,  but  climbing  over  trellised  wood-work  or  growing  con- 
fusedly with  other  plants.     The  first  Italian  town  of  any  note  was 
Aosta,   which,   as  we  approached   in    the  dusky  twilight,   looked 
picturesque  indeed,  as  lit  by  primitive  lamps  suspended  along  the 
narrow,  winding  streets.     Nor  did  the  morning  view  disappoint,  for, 
placed  as  the  town  is,  under  the  shadow  of  the  Mont  Blanc  range 
on  one  side    and  the  maritime  Alps  on  the  other,   there  is  little 
wanting  to  complete  great  natural  beauty.     Some  of  the  streets  were 
arcaded,  and  a  curious  sight  to  English  eyes  was  the  hanging  out  of 
many  wares  for  sale ;  this  appeared  to  be  usual  in  several  Italian 
towns,  giving  the  aspect  of  a  permanent  fair  or  bazaar.     The  road 
from  Aosta  to  Ivrea  was  travelled  over  by  diligence,  of  a  construction 
which  permitted  a  good  outside  view,  thus  enabling  one  to  enjoy  the 
fine  scenery  to  perfection.     In  the  valley  near  were  the  long  stretch- 
ing fields  of  maize,  mingled  with  orchards  of  chesnut,  fig,  and  vine. 
At  distances  of  eight  or  ten  miles  were  large  villages,  picturesquely 
placed,  surrounded  by  some  castellated  crag  or  rock-piled  ruin  to 
increase  the  strange  wonder  and  beauty  of  the  scene.  The  Val  d'Aosta 
has  afforded  many  a  subject  for  the  pencil  of  the  late  celebrated  artist 
Harding.    The  road,  by  its  sudden  bends,  now  hemmed  in  by  lofty 


2  74  The  Gefitlemans  Magazine. 

mountains,  now  opening  out  on  some  fine  pastoral  valley,  admitted  of 
very  diverse  scenery.  The  wayside  chapels  or  shrines,  and  village 
houses,  painted  with  a  scrip tiure  scene  or  sacred  legend,  told  cf  art- 
loving  propensities,  exhibited  even  in  this  a  somewhat  inferior 
manner.  By  degrees  the  landscape,  fairy-like  as  it  was,  began  to 
soften  down,  mountains  lessened  into  hills,  soon  to  be  lost  alto- 
gether in  the  plains  of  Lombardy,  and  it  was  evident  we  had  now 
really  exchanged  the  lofty  heights  and  still  loftier  Alps,  those  "  barriers 
of  another  world,''  for  the  level  tracts  of  Italy. 

The  railway,  too,  confirmed  this  idea,  for  at  Ivrea  was  the  train 
that  conveyed  us  to  Turin. 

This  place  has  many  fine  buildings,  piazzas,  and  curiously  arcaded 
streets.  Turin  has  played  a  conspicuous  part  in  history,  firom  the 
period  when  Hannibal  descended  the  Alps  to  its  impoverishment  at 
the  time  of  the  conquest  of  Piedmont  in  1536,  and  its  final  re-estab- 
lishment as  a  populous  and  brilliant  city.  The  principal  edifices  are 
in  the  centre  of  the  place,  and  the  Piazza  Castello.  The  cathedral  is 
remarkable  for  a  roof  painted  with  scenes  from  the  Old  Testament, 
and  the  novice  in  Italian  travel  will  be  no  less  struck  by  the  hand- 
somely decorated  ceiling  of  the  railway  station  at  the  Porta  Nuova- 
On  this  are  represented,  in  coloured  panels,  the  arms  of  the  chief 
cities  in  Italy,  and  there  is  a  general  boldness  and  massiveness  of 
design,  captivating  to  a  foreign  eye. 

From  Turin  to  Milan  is  a  long  railway  ride,  but  as  all  continental 
trains  (except  expresses)  travel  very  slowly,  one  gets  accustomed  to 
tedious  progress,  and  regards  it  as  a  thing  to  be  endured  and  which 
cannot  be  helped.  Milan,  the  city  of  art  and  opulence,  containing  a 
cathedral  alone  worth  a  journey  to  see,  is  a  central  point  for  North 
Italy.  Its  churches  and  buildings  have  been  described  in  all  hand- 
books, and  so  my  readers  must  be  satisfied  to  search  them  out  there, 
and  be  contented  with  more  general  impressions  of  people  and 
things.  For  to  observe  the  social  characteristics  of  a  nation  is  as 
much  a  point  of  travel  as  to  acquire  confused  ideas  of  churches, 
pictures,  and  other  tourist  experiences.  The  Cathedral,  or  DuonK> 
of  Milan,  cannot  be  passed  unnoticed,  if  only  for  the  remarkable 
affirmation  that  it  was  designed  by  a  German,  although  the  Italian 
mind  supplemented  and  finished  the  work.  Viewed  apart  fix)m  any 
differences  as  to  architectural  merit,  it  is  a  marvellous  creation,  rising 
in  all  the  magnificence  of  its  white  marble  walls.  If  the  exterior  is 
striking,  the  interior  is  doubly  so,  for  the  grandeur  of  proportions 
amazes  at  first,  but  delights  all  the  more  on  intimate  acquaintance. 
Any  description  of  the  noble  and  majestic  internal  effect  fails  when 


Across  the  A Ips.  275 

committed  to  paper,  and  the  reality  alone  will  satisfy  the  mind. 
There  is  a  general  prejudice  against  mounting  towers  of  cathedrals 
and  churches  as  an  ordinary  sight-seeing  accomplishment,  but  the 
ascent  of  Milan  Cathedral  will  repay  the  traveller.  He  will  find 
himself  face  to  face  with  the  countless  statues  (3,400  in  all)  of  saints, 
martyrs,  and  apostles  that  crown  each  pinnacle,  of  which  little  con- 
ception can  be  formed  below.  An  excellent  notion  of  the  intricate 
windings  of  the  Milanese  streets  can  also  be  formed  from  the  height 
of  the  tower,  and  in  fortunate  weather  the  surrounding  level  country 
is  backed  by  the  distant  Alps,  "  so  shadowy,  so  sublime." 

The  stranger  will  find  some  difficulty  in  selecting  from  the  many 
churches  which  to  visit :  those  of  St.  Ambrogio,  St  Eustachio,  and 
St.  Maria  delle  Grazie  commend  themselves  to  the  educated  traveller. 
In  the  refectory  adjoining  the  last  named  church  is  to  be  seen  all  that 
remains  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci's  masterpiece,  the  "Last  Supper." 
How  greatly  injury,  damp,  and  retouching  have  altered  the  original  is 
well  known,  but,  despite  all  these  drawbacks,  it  will  ever  attract  its 
devotees  of  sight-seers  from  all  countries.  There  is  a  fine  marble 
statue  by  Magni  of  this  many-minded  painter  lately  erected  near  the 
La  Scala  Theatre,  and  you  will  often  observe  the  poor  passer-by  stop 
and  gaze  at  the  great  man  with  that  intent  admiration  for  art  in  all 
its  forms  that  seems  to  characterise  both  the  high  and  low  classes  in 
Italy.  The  famous  picture  gallery  is  in  the  palace  of  the  Brera, 
and  the  collection  includes  most  continental  schools.  The  well- 
known  Spolalizio  of  Raphael  is  the  acknowledged  gem,  but  there  are 
other  paintings  of  renown  and  excellence.  During  the  summer  of  1872 
an  exhibition  of  the  works  of  living  painters  and  sculptors  formed  a 
striking  and  interesting  contrast  to  those  of  the  old  masters  in  the 
Brera,  and  showed  that  the  spirit  of  modern  art,  though  here  dis- 
played in  a  different  fashion,  was  as  keenly  alive  as  ever  in  this  its 
natural  and  congenial  home.  Many  of  the  approaches  to  Milan 
are  by  gates,  and  the  Arco  della  Pace,  erected  by  Napoleon  I.,  is  a 
very  imposing  structure,  bearing  some  resemblance  to  the  Triumphal 
Arch  in  Paris. 

One  of  the  literary  glories  of  Milan  is  the  famed  Ambrosian 
Library,  near  the  centre  of  the  city.  The  somewhat  dark  and  sombre 
approaches  to  the  rooms  of  this  building  are  compensated  by  the 
interesting  contents ;  in  one  room  is  a  series  of  illuminated  MSS., 
many  of  which  are  of  the  Italian  school  of  Art ;  the  great  attraction, 
however,  is  a  large  volume  of  original  drawings,  sketches  of  architec- 
ture and  engineering,  &c.,  with  MS.  notes  and  other  memoranda  of 
the  great  Da  \'inci,  acquired  from  a  noble  Italian  family  for  this  library. 


276  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

There  is  also  a  celebrated  MS.  volume  said  to  be  by  the  architect 
Braniante,  containing  drawings  of  antique  tombs,  trophies,  and 
triumphal  arches.  Attached  to  the  library  is  a  good  gallery  of  paint- 
ings, and  among  one  of  the  most  remarkable  is  Raphael's  School  of 
Athens.  There  are  also  many  engravings  and  etchings  of  the  Flemish 
and  Dutch  schools  in  the  various  rooms.  The  interest  of  scanning 
the  works  of  such  great  masters  is  enhanced  by  being  in  the  land  of 
their  birth,  for  many  a  simple  occurrence  of  present  daily  life  in  Italy 
is  as  fresh,  as  original,  as  when  it  formed  an  incident  on  the  canvas  of 
the  mediaeval  painter.  A  glimpse  only  of  the  art  life  of  Italy  is  to  be 
seen  in  a  visit  to  Milan,  for  you  must  proceed  to  Florence,  Venice, 
and  cities  farther  south  to  pursue  all  the  inquiries  that  have,  as  it 
were,  only  been  stimulated  by  a  sight  of  what  this  city  alone  contains. 
Thus  was  Milan  left,  not  to  seek  further  art  treasures,  but  because 
time  warned  that  the  homeward  route  must  be  by  the  three  fair  lakes 
of  Como,  Lugano,  and  Maggiore. 

To  the  travelled  these  lakes  present  many  novelties,  that  neither 
the  romantic  shores  of  Lucerne,  the  rugged  steeps  of  Loch  Katrine, 
nor  the  undulating  banks  of  Windermere  possess.  For  Italy's  lakes 
are  surrounded  by  hills,  wooded  at  times  from  the  very  summit  to 
the  water's  edge — on  the  lake  side  are  handsome  villas  of  Italian 
nobles,  with  many  a  clustering  village,  encircling  a  church  whose 
camj)anile,  standing  apart,  and  often  sweetly  ringing  out  a  deep-toned 
service  bell,  is  sufficient  to  characterise  the  scene  as  novel  at  leaSt. 

Occasionally  a  distant  snow  peak  rises  above  the  wooded  heights, 
but  is  soon  lost  to  sight  in  some  sudden  turn  of  the  landscape.  On 
the  still  water  gondola-shaped  boats  with  gay  awnings  glide  from 
shore  to  shore,  laden  with  market  folk  or  passing  travellers. 

Nowhere  are  so  many  small  boats  to  be  seen,  the  Italian  lakes 
thus  contrasting  remarkably  in  this  respect  with  the  Swiss  lakes, 
where  their  appearance,  owing  to  the  danger  of  navigation  and  sudden 
winds,  is  very  seldom. 

The  town  of  Como  is  not  behind  in  picturesque  beauty,  inaimuch 
as  there  are  arched  gateways,  arcaded  shops,  and  the  Broletto,  or 
town  hall,  and  cathedral.  The  last  two  buildings,  adjoining  the  lake 
side  and  market,  are  very  noticeable,  and  would  form  a  fit  subject  for 
the  artist's  pencil. 

From  the  lake  side  the  steamer  winds  its  way  between  the  wooded 
heights  that  fringe  the  water's  edge,  and  after  passing  some  small  villages 
stops  at  the  important  town  of  Bellaggio.  This  place,  situate  midway 
up  the  lake,  is  considered  one  of  the  finest  situations,  for  the  water 
here  widens  into  a  bay-like  expanse,  leaving  on  one  side  of  this  town 


Across  the  Alps.  277 

the  opening  to  the  small  but  romantic  Lake  of  Lecco.  The  head  of  the 
Lake  of  Como  narrows  considerably,  and  the  mountains  are  propor- 
tionately steeper  as  they  unite  with  the  rugged  chain  of  the  Alps 
towards  the  St.  Gothard  or  Spliigen  passes.  To  see  the  three  chief 
Italian  lakes,  the  route  from  Bellaggio  on  Como  to  Porlezza  on 
Lugano  is  generally  taken.  The  distance  between  these  towns  is 
about  nine  English  miles,  through  very  wooded  heights  and 
occasional  villages,  with  orchards  of  figs,  vines,  and  maize.  The  Lake 
of  Lugano  is  the  smallest  of  the  three,  being  only  about  fourteen  miles 
in  length  and  eleven  miles  and  a  quarter  in  breadth  ;  and  the  town  so 
called  from  the  lake  is  backed  by  verdant  hills  and  is  very  romantic  in 
situation.  Opposite  to  the  town  is  a  conical  shaped  hill,  called  Monte 
Salvatore,  which  so  resembles  the  shape  of  Vesuvius  as  to  receive 
the  name  of  the  modem  Vesuvius. 

In  the  church  of  St.  Maria  degli  Angeli .  is  the  masterpiece  and 
famous  fresco  of  Bernardino  di  Luino,  the  Crucifixion.  A  great  many 
figures  are  introduced,  and  the  varying  scenes  in  this  sacred  drama 
are  treated  with  much  vigour  and  meaning.  To  reach  the  third  lake, 
Maggiore,  an  undulating  ride  of  some  twelve  miles  from  Lugano 
brings  the  traveller  to  Luino,  an  important  town  on  the  upper  end  of 
Maggiore.  This  lake,  some  fifty  miles  long  and  three  miles  broad, 
may  be  called  the  grandest,  uniting  tranquil  beauty  with  the  sterner 
aspects  of  distant  snow  peaks.  The  hills,  or  more  properly  moun- 
tains, on  the  Alpine  side  present  a  bold,  unbroken  series,  while 
behind  them  tower  the  higher  summits  of  Monte  Rosa  and  the  grea* 
snow  range  of  the  Helvetic  Alps.  Some  three  parts  down  the  lake^ 
where  the  towns  of  Pallanza  and  Baveno  are  situated,  the  water  forms 
into  an  extensive  bay,  upon  which  rise,  in  fairy-like  form,  the  four 
Borromean  islands.  The  steamer,  touching  at  Pallanza,  Baveno,  and 
Stresa,  threads  its  way  among  these  isles,  the  most  famous  of  which 
is  the  Isola  Bella  ;  the  other  three  are  called  Isola  Madre,  I  sola  di 
Pescatori,  and  Isola  di  St.  Giovanni.  On  the  Isola  Bella  is  a  noble 
palace,  partly  in  ruins,  partly  modernised.  The  gardens,  laid  out  at  the 
expense  of  one  of  the  Borromean  family,  are  arranged  in  a  successiott 
of  terraces,  where  the  orange,  myrtle,  olive,  and  grape  are  entwined 
with  Oie  delicate  flowers  of  the  sunny  south.  Stresa  or  Baveno  is  the 
favourite  resting  place  for  tourists  ;  and,  indeed,  at  either  Nature  has 
lavished  all  her  possible  charms,  for  the  distant  mountains  form  a 
noble  amphitheatre  encircling  the  town  of  Pallanza,  and  in  an  opposite 
direction  just  terminate  abruptly,  only  to  disclose  a  wider  vision  of 
the  distant  Alps,  while  in  the  foreground  are  the  Borromean  islands,, 
so  placed  that — 

Each  retiring  claims  to  be 
An  islet  in  an  inland  sea. 


278  Tlie  Genilemans  Magazine. 

In  this  favoured  clime,  delicate  flowers,  shrubs,  and  fruits  flourish  at 
will,  while  from  any  of  the  towns  on  this  part  of  the  lake  the  tourist 
can  extend  his  travels  in  many  directions. 

The  nearest  route  home  for  those  who  must  return  "  across  the 
Alps  "  is  by  the  Simplon  Pass,  over  which  an  excellent  carriage  road 
is  made,  so  that,  unless  desired,  walking  is  superfluous.  The  first 
town  on  the  Simplon  road,  after  leaving  Maggiore,  is  Domo  d'OssoIa, 
where  all  who  wish  to  see  the  glories  of  the  pass  by  day  stay  the 
night,  the  diligence  passing  early  the  next  morning.  This  enables 
the  traveller — as  he  should,  especially  for  the  first  time — to  make  his 
acquaintance  with  the  scenery  by  daylight  After  Domo,  the  Italian 
frontier  is  soon ,  passed,  and  the  real  glories  and  wonders  of  the 
Simplon  begin ;  the  road  at  one  time  cut  between  mountains  whose 
summits  seem  well  nigh  to  overhang  and  darken  the  narrow  defiles ; 
at  another  forming  such  a  sudden  bend  that  it  appears  marvellous 
how  any  exit  could  be  made  from  this  mountain  prison. 

The  Simplon  road  is  uniformly  good,  though  its  commence- 
ment was  thought  to  be  an  almost  impossible  feat,  eliciting  a 
famous  remark  of  Napoleon  I.,  who  conceived  the  idea  of  making 
it  a  great  military  road,  after  the  battle  of  Marengo.  On  it  being 
represented  to  Napoleon  that  certain  orders  were  impossible,  he 
exclaimed,  ** Comment?  ce  mot  n'est  pas  Fran9ais."  The  Simplon 
road  was  begun  in  iSoi  and  finished  in  1805^  ^^  the  joint  expense 
of  France  and  Italy ;  it  follows  a  river  torrent  for  many  miles,  and 
in  various  stages  is  cut  through  tunnels  or  galleries  in  the  solid  rock. 
At  those  parts  most  liable  to  danger  from  snow  or  avalanches  houses 
of  shelter,  or  **maisons  de  refuge,"  are  built,  and  some  six  of  them 
at  intervals  line  the  route.  The  village  of  Simplon  is  nearly  at  the 
top  of  the  pass,  and  a  halt  of  half  an  hour  is  usually  made  here,  the 
road  onwards  ascending,  and  the  mountains  somewhat  widening  from 
the  narrow  gorges  in  the  earlier  part  of  the  pass.  At  the  highest 
point,  6,580  feet,  the  bleak-looking  Hospice  is  reached,  and  imme- 
diately afterwards  the  gradual  but  lasting  descent  begins.  The 
route  is  here  so  wonderfully  constructed  that  one- ledge  of  road  seems 
actually  to  rest  in  layers  over  another,  so  that  in  the  zig-zag  descent 
you  can  easily  trace  and  contemplate  the  heights  so  recently  quitted. 
In  the  close  of  evening  you  will  first  espy  the  Rhone  valley,  and 
the  range  of  the  Bernese  Alps ;  and,  almost  before  you  are  aware, 
the  diligence  will  rattle  into  the  quaint  old  town  of  Brieg,  in  the 
Valais.  Here,  again  on  Swiss  ground,  Italy  is  far  behind,  and  the 
descending  journey  is  accomplished  so  quickly  that  you  are  loth  to 
believe  you  have  been  "  across  the  Alps.'* 


Across  the  Alps.  279 

The  palaces  of  Nature,  whose  vast  walls 

Have  pinnacled  in  clouds  their  snowy  scalps, 

And  throned  Eternity  in  icy  halls 

Of  cold  sublimity,  where  forms  and  falls 

The  avalanche — the  thunderbolt  of  snow ! 

All  that  expands  the  spirit,  yet  appals. 

Gather  around  these  summits,  as  to  show 

How  Earth  may  pierce  to  Heaven,  yet  leave  vain  man  below. 

S.  W.  Kershaw,  M.A. 


Cyfarthfa  Castle. 

(from    MRS.    ROSE   MARY   CRAWSHAY's   ALBUM.) 

HINE  were  the  towers,  Cyfarthfa,  thine  the  heights, 

Or  battlemented  summits  such  as  thine, 
Whereto  in  other  summers,  gentle  knights 

Came  glittering ;  haply  home  from  rescued  shrine 
Or  deed  of  valour  wrought  in  beauty's  name, 

And  in  their  coming  gazed  on  one — as  now 
I  gaze — of  gracious  presence,  wide  of  brow. 

Clear-eyed  and  fair  of  face — whose  smile  was  fame. 

The  knights  are  gone,  with  all  their  knightly  deeds. 

Into  the  past ;    but  we  of  other  mould, 
The  workers  in  a  day  of  other  needs, 

Turn  to  Cyfarthfa  still,  like  those  of  old 
Finding  alike  incentive  to  emprise 
And  meed  of  prowess  in  approving  eyes. 

William  Sawyer. 


Two  Arab  Markets. 

BY  EDWARD  HENRY  VIZETELLY. 


I. 

LTHOUGH  considerable  progress  has  been  made  in 
the  colonisation  of  Algeria  during  the  last  fifteen  years, 
yet  it  must  be  apparent  to  any  one  who  has  visited  the 
c^lS^^S^  country  and  looked  into  its  history,  that  far  less  has  been 
achieved  than  might  have  been  the  case  if  it  had  possessed  more 
competent  and  scrupulous  rulers,  and  if  the  character  and  disposition 
of  the  inhabitants  had  been  better  understood  by  those  concerned  in 
its  administration.  If  anything  may  be  gleaned  from  the  general 
outcry  among  colonists,  it  would  appear  that  this  lentor  in  I  he  march 
of  progress  is  in  a  greater  measure  owing  to  military  rule,  which, 
notwithstanding  what  its  champions  may  advance  in  its  defence,  is 
beyond  a  doubt  obnoxious  both  to  the  immigrants  and  the  Arabs,  and 
ruinous  to  the  colony  itself  And  yet  progress,  small  as  it  is,  is 
marked  in  every  acre  of  ground,  in  spite  of  what  may  be  asserted  to 
the  contrary  in  the  different  Radical  journals,  and  of  what  unsuc- 
cessful petitioners  for  Government  grants  may  thunder  out  at  election 
meetings  or  between  a  second  and  third  glass  of  absinthe  at  colonial 
cafes. 

During  the  period  I  have  mentioned  the  crops  have  increased, 
villages  have  been  erected,  farms  have  been  laid  out,  wells  have 
been  sunk,  water  in  many  parts  of  the  country  has  been  brought 
down  from  lofty  hills  and  dispersed  over  the  plains,  bridges  have 
been  built,  broad  highways  have  been  traced  out  and  constructed 
in  every  direction,  and  often  under  the  most  adverse  circumstances. 
Diligences,  too,  now  run  in  something  under  twelve  hours  from 
Algiers  to  the  plain  of  the  Sebaou,  in  the  heart  of  Kabylia,  and  on 
many  of  the  high  roads  these  antiquated  vehicles,  with  their  six  lean, 
knee-bent  Arab  steeds,  have  given  place  to  the  locomotive.  Thus, 
the  journey  from  Algiers  to  Oran,  which  had  formerly  to  be  made  by 
diligence,  unless  the  traveller  preferred  the  sea  route — which  was  cer- 
tainly the  quickest  and  most  convenient,  but,  on  the  other  hand,  the 
least  picturesque  and  most  painful,  if  he  should  happen  to  suffer 
from  sea  sickness — is  now  performed  by  railway.     The  line,  which  is 


% 


2$ 2  TAe  Gcfttlemans  Jlla^azine, 


^> 


a  single  one,  except  at  the  stations,  where  there  are  sidings  to  enable 
the  trains  to  j\iss  one  another,  was  laid  out  by  English  contractors. 
As  it  was  constructed  principally  for  militajy  purposes,  with  the 
monev  and  in  a  certain  manner  to  suit  the  convenience  of  the 
large  timiers  established  on  the  road  to  Oran,  it  is  not  surprising 
th.it  little  attention  should  be  paid  either  to  the  convenience  of 
ordinar}-  travellers  or  to  the  punctuality-  of  trains.  One  is  constantly 
hearing  of  the  engine,  followed  by  one  or  two  carriages^  running  off  the 
line  and  sticking  in  the  sand  at  Hussein-Dey,  because  the  pointanan 
hap^^ens  to  be  engaged  at  a  game  of  piquet  in  the  neighbourxng  wine- 
shops when  the  train  arrives  :  and  it  is  no  uncommon  thing  to  see  the 
engine  driver  and  the  stoker  coolly  drinking  absinthe  while  die  g:uard 
is  whisdin:^  for  the  train  to  s:o  on.  I  remember  on  one  occasion  the 
carriage  in  which  I  was  seated  stopping  exactly  opposite  tiie  bo^t 
at  ikni-Mered.  Wondering  why  the  stoppage  was  so  long.  I  pet  my 
head  our  of  the  window  just  as  the  guard  was  bk>wii^  his  whistle  fior 
the  third  or  focrth  time.  At  die  door  of  the  bciilct  was  the  stoker. 
**  il  £mt  portrr,"  he  exclaimed,  turning  to  his  companion  as  he  per- 
ceived the  ^r.:ird  looking  about  and  heard  the  re!Deitcd  sfcriH  sound  of 
hi5  wiicsde.  "  IVs  betises,"*  answffed  the  other.  ~*Qa*il  sfie.'^  he 
avidevL  af:er  a  pause,  shrugging  his  shoakieTS^  Then  ther  both  fezd 
a  good  la-j^h.  ansd  leKcrely  dnisrsed  therr  absinthe  be&wre  sumtcrinjz: 
La  the  direcnoa  of  the  looxaodve. 

T!::e  d.iv  tha:  I  started  obr  Bltcah.  a  instance  oi  some  tfartr  mSes 
trccn  .ViCiers  i3.to  the  countrv.  I  h^id  anceher  instance  of  the  mcs- 
n:a.rLa^ecae:it  of  Algerian.  raiiwaTSw  We  had  moide  op  a  party,  tsad 
oc  r^e  rriv:i:e>  eveniii'^c  Iiac  D^-^Id  dte  waiter  :c  caZ  us  at  live  aw  « 
6jr  we  tntt!ided  wikin;^  me  six  o  ck)ck  train  rn  crder  to  get  oar  journey 
over  be&.^r<f  the  heat  of  the  dav  set  in.  Perhaps  ajewaicer  hsad  CTrlTeff 
as  b^: ;  peroips  we  bad  bdt  niore  dre^i  man  asuaL  ami  had  been 
reiuctjjit  to  ruit  our  beds  until  the  last  n-anmfnr :  nBswbe  tite  dock 

s  wrong,  or  the  cciiee  oot  ready,  or  cur  boccs  hoc  cftcinnd  or  <He 

Of        y  of  a  hr  mired  tnrggis  may  bst^e-  delayed  ick.   1  ^OBOtesicti^ie- 

I    ■  what  it  was  now.  but  in  anT  case  we  suiidesuTifiEscawcfled  t&ar 

were  beiioad  time,  and  that  wt  had  ocly  tesi  rwimiiys  xs>  fpsSL  id  the 

1        ay  staooQ^  while  irom  where  we  were  staymg  k  ttjok  a  S9<^ 

'.     •*"      :  II  take  a  v      7  ;     i  one.     "^  Xo^  we  caa't.  tor  ibexe  ace 

"^  answered  .nnyhier.    "^Well  wait 

•"XoiK  well  gq  by  cms^**    *^We"BL  ckntee  bl" 

*1       "^  -^^      '  --Yes:"  -"Its absurd:"  -"SiiikmcMs:^  Sadiwoe^e 

idiiice  w'jii:h  e:xch  test  bomni  ta  $jeve iaa 
tt.     EveomairT  we  swallowed  ifee 


Two  Arab  Markets,  283 

of  our  almost  scalding  hot  coffee,  burnt  our  throats,  and  seizing  our 
hats,  rushed  down  the  staircase  into  the  street.  We  hurried  along 
as  if  our  very  lives  depended  upon  the  rapidity  of  our  movements, 
without  glancing  either  to  the  right  or  left  to  observe  the  somewhat 
curious  aspect  of  the  streets  in  the  early  morning.  We  reached  the 
Place  du  Gouvemement  out  of  breath,  and  there  learnt  that  the 
,  omnibus  which  meets  the  train  had  started.  Off  we  went  again 
along  the  Boulevard  de  la  R^publique,  endeavouring  to  console 
ourselves  >vith  the  idea  that  our  watches  and  all  the  clocks  in  Algiers 
were  fast.  We  scrambled  down  the  stone  steps  opposite  the  post- 
ofRce  at  the  risk  of  breaking  our  necks,  and  at  length,  bathed  in 
perspiration,  reached  the  station,  when  the  clock  above  the  entrance 
pointed  to  ten  minutes  past  six.  "  Don't  hurry  yourselves,"  said  a 
gaping  railway  official,  as  we  rushed  by  him,  "  they  have  not  begun 
to  put  the  luggage  in  yet."  We  were,  of  course,  delighted  at  the 
detwuemetit^  but  the  people  who  were  at  the  station  some  time  before 
six  were  evidently  not  so  well  pleased.  We  took  our  tickets  from  a . 
man  looking  lazily  at  us  from  a  pigeon  hole,  and  then  secured  our 
seats  in  the  train,  which  eventually  crawled  slowly  out  of  the  station 
twenty  minutes  after  the  advertised  time. 

In  Algeria  there  are  but  few  people  who  ever  think  of  travelling 
first  class  ;  firstly,  because  there  is  but  little  difference  between  the 
two  classes  insomuch  as  ordinary  comfort  is  concerned ;  and 
secondly,  because  there  are  certain  annoyances  connected  with  the 
'*  quality  carriage "  which  rarely  occur  in  that  which  is  generally 
patronised  in  Europe  by  the  bourgeoisie.  It  is  customary  to  join  so 
few  third  class  carriages  to  the  train  that  when  it  has  proceeded 
about  twenty  miles  on  its  journey  they  are  usually  full,  and  the  con- 
sequence is  that  if  at  one  of  the  stations  ten  or  fifteen  Arabs,  in  filthy 
dirty  burnouses  and  greasy  chachias^  happen  to  be  waiting  to  take  the 
train,  they  are  bundled  pell-mell  into  the  first  class  vehicles  in  spite 
of  the  remonstrances  of  the  few  unfortunates  who  purchased  the 
highest  priced  tickets  with  a  view  of  being  in  select  society.  Second 
class  passengers  generally  escape  this  annoyance,  as  their  carriages 
are  always  tolerably  full. 

To  perform  the  thirty  miles  between  Algiers  and  Blidah,  the  train, 
stopping  as  it  does  at  every  station,  takes  over  two  hours,  providing 
of  course  that  no  accident  occurs.  Along  the  line  we  pass  by 
Hussein -Dey,  Maison-Carr^e,  Le  Gue  de  Constantine,  Birtouta, 
Boufarik,  and  Beni-Me'red,  all  flourishing  villages  inhabited  by 
Europeans,  but  of  which  Boufarik  is  by  far  the  prettiest  and  most 
important      This  prosperous  little  town  lies  almost  in  the  centre 


284  The  Genileman  s  Magazine, 

of  that  beautiful  plain  of  tlie  Mitidfa  which,  together  with  Sicily,  ooce 
formed  the  granary  of  the  Roman  Empire.  It  is  built  on  a  spot 
which  forty  years  ago  was  nothing  more  than  a  small  island  in  the 
centre  of  an  immense  swamp  covered  with  reeds,  where  two  cupola- 
crowned  wells  and  a  white  koubba^  dedicated  to  the  memory  of 
Sidi-Abd-el-Kader-el-Djilani,  a  Mussulman  saint,  rose  amidst  a  cluster 
of  poplar  tr^es;  while  beside  it  stood  a  large  walnut  with  pieces 
of  esparto  grass  rope,  and  sometimes  the  corpses  of  criminals 
whom  the  Agha,  or  prefect  of  the  Arabs,  had  condemned  to 
death,  riangling  from  its  branches.*  On  this  site  a  comely  village 
has  risen  up  in  the  midst  of  a  pretty  wood,  planted  for  sanitary- 
reasons  by  the  colonists,  who  have  learnt  by  exp)erience  that  planta- 
tions of  trees  are  the  best  fever  preventives  in  an  unhealthy  neigh- 
bourhood. It  is  well,  indeed,  that  some  such  safeguard  should  have 
been  discovered,  for  we  find  that  the  number  of  victims  to  this  deadly 
malady  amounted,  in  the  space  of  the  first  few  years  which  followed 
the  founrlation  of  the  village,  to  no  less  than  three  times  its  entire 
population,  which  has  therefore  been  thrice  renewed  by  immigration 
irom  Plurope.  The  swamp  having  in  the  course  of  time  been 
thoroughly  drained  has  produced  ground  which  fetches  as  high  a 
price  as  any  in  Algeria,  and  the  village  itself  is  considered  at  the 
present  day  to  be  one  of  the  healthiest  of  the  plain. 

Previous  to  the  P'rench  conquest,  in  the  dajrs  when  the  warlike 
inhabitants  of  the  Mitidja  paid  tribute  to  the  Pacha  of  Algiers,  the 
Axy  ground,  where  a  portion  of  the  town  now  stands,  could  only  be 
reached  by  a  number  of  narrow  cattle  tracks,  constructed  of  stones 
and  branches,  which  traversed  the  marsh  in  various  directions ;  and 
on  this  oasis  the  neighbouring  -\rab  tribes  assembled  every  Monday 
to  barter  away  their  live  stock  and  produce  with  the  Jews  and  Moors 
from  Algiers  and  IJlidah.  But  they  were  very  careful  to  be  off  before 
the  sun  had  sunk  behind  the  hills  of  the  Beni-Menacer,  for  woe  to 

♦  Kxccutions  were  only  pcrfonned  on  the  market-place  when  it  was  considered 
necessary  to  make  a  public  example,  such,  for  instance,  as  to  prove  to  the  Arabs 
beyond  a  doubt  that  a  popular  rebel  or  an  enemy  to  the  Pacha*s  government 
was  really  dead.  The  Agha  of  the  Arabs,  who  was  a  sort  of  Prefect,  commanded 
the  Turkish  soldiers,  and  came  immediately  after  the  Pacha  Dey  in  rank. 
Supported  by  the  calds,  he  adminbtered  justice, in  criminal  matters  imong  the 
Arabs  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Algiers.  He  sometimes  made  excursions  into 
the  country*,  and  upon  these  occasions  criminals  who  had  incurred  the  penalty  of 
death  were  peremptorily  executed.  The  mode  of  execution  varied.  Arabs  and 
Kabyles  were  hanged,  while  Turks  or  K oulo^lis  were  cither  strangled  or  beheaded. 
In  the  towns  shoemakers  of  the  Hebrew  persuasion  habituaUy  officiated  as 
•CMC       ner^. 


Two  Arab  Markets.  285 

the  man  who  crossed  the  swamp  after  dark  with  a  bag  of  douros 
beneath  his  burnous.  Years  have  elapsed  since  then,  and  the  Turk 
and  the  Arab  no  longer  nile  in  that  part  of  Northern  Africa.  The 
French  have  invaded  the  Mitidja,  and  the  sword  and  the  brand  have 
cut  paths  for  civilisation  and  progress  through  countless  heaps  of 
mangled  slain.  The  soil — which  had  been  left  untilled  during  the 
struggle  against  the  invaders — has  again  been  brought  under  cultiva- 
tion, the  warlike  tribes  of  the  plain  have  either  been  exterminated 
or  subdued,  or  driven  to  another  part  of  the  country,  and  the  whole 
system  of  government  and  administration  has  been  changed.  Yet, 
notwithstanding  this  wonderful  transformation,  notwithstanding  the 
fearful  calamities  of  fifteen  years*  continued  warfare,  sufficient  in  them- 
selves to  have  caused  all  the  old  traditions  to  be  forgotten,  the  Arab 
market  is  still  held  on  the  same  spot,  and  although  it  may  have  lost 
much  of  its  local  colouring  since  the  days  when  the  proud  Arab 
chieftains  attended  it,  accompanied  by  their  followers,  when  the  law 
of  the  strongest  was  the  law  of  the  land,  it  is  nevertheless  a  curious 
sight  to  the  European  wanderer. 

Following,  from  the  town,  a  beautiful  lane  bordered  by  orange  and 
lemon  trees,  one  reaches  a  large  enclosure  bounded  on  the  north  and 
south-western  sides  by  stone  walls,  beyond  which  are  the  river  Kl 
Khanis  and  the  Blidah  road,  and  limited  on  the  others  by  plantations 
skirted  by  thick  hedges.  In  the  interior  the  crumbling  cu[)ola  of  an 
old  well  rises,  amidst  the  branches,  in  the  centre  of  an  avenue  of  wide- 
spreading,  green  foliaged  plane-trees,  which  on  market  days  cast 
their  shade  over  the  assembled  crowds,  while  a  caravansary,  built  by 
Marshal  Bugeaud  in  1847,  stands  close  to  the  principal  entrance.  It 
is  vast  and  even  grandiose  in  appearance,  but  it  is  dirty  and  badly 
managed.  The  walls  are  in  ruins,  the  rooms  dilapidated  and  bare, 
and  dirt,  rubbish,  and  lumber  are  heaped  up  in  every  corner.  The 
wooden  beams  are  covered  with  cobwebs,  the  window  panes  are  all 
either  broken  or  cracked,  or  replaced  by  plaster,  most  of  the  doors 
hnng  upon  a  single  hinge,  and  the  windows  and  shutters  are  devoid 
of  fastenings ;  the  stables  are  a  foot  deep  in  dung,  th j  slaughter- 
houses are  full  of  mud  and  filth,  and  the  fountains  send  forth  undrink- 
able  water.  The  building  is  barely  twenty-six  years  old,  and  it  is 
already  a  ruin. 

Monday  is  the  market  day,  but  from  an  early  hour  on  the  ])rcvic)us 

evening  the  roads  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Boufarik  become  crowded 

with  almost  every  description  of  antiquated  vehicle,  from  the  colonist's 

heavy  and  roughly  constructed  waggon  drav.n  by  four  small  oxen,  to 

the  dirty  broken-springed  gig  of  the  man  who  speculates  on  almost 
Vol.  XI.,  N.S.  1873.  i 


286  Tfie  Ge^itlemans  Magazme. 

every  Arab  market  from  Kabylia,  to  the  plain  of  Mitidja.  Tliere 
are  small  three-horse  omnibuses  from  Algiers  loaded  with  all  sorts  of 
drapery,  hosiery,  and  woollen  goods — which,  having  failed  to  find 
buyers  in  Europe,  have  been  sent  across  the  Mediterranean,  where 
they  are  hawked  about  the  markets  of  Algeria,  and  purchased  by  the 
artless  colonists  as  the  last  Parisian  novelties — open  flys,  hired  for  the 
day,  crammed  full  of  European  boots  and  shoes,  blue  and  white 
blouses,  smock  frocks,  and  various  kinds  of  soft  felt  hats^  others,  con- 
taining a  tobacconist's  stock-in-trade  ;  and  carts  loaded  with  iron- 
mongery. There  are  Arabs  with  aged  knee-bent  horses,  often  either 
blind  or  lame,  lean  looking  mules  and  small  donkeys  with  the  hair 
worn  off  in  many  places,  and  generally  with  a  round  piece  of  skin 
about  the  size  of  a  shilling  purposely  cut  off  the  shoulder  or  the  rump, 
and  used  as  a  mark  for  the  Arab's  pointed  stick,  which  is  thus  felt 
more  acutely.  Their  load  consists  of  a  pack  saddle,  with  two  large 
^baskets  containing  a  tent,  mats,  manufactured  articles,  and  all  the 
implements  and  tools  used  in  their  masters*  trade  ;  or,  if  their  owners 
.happen  to  be  engaged  in  agriculture,  the  baskets  will  be  crammed  with 
fruit  and  vegetables,  while  three  or  four  couples  of  fowls  suspended 
by  the  legs  will  be  hanging  from  either  side,  together  with  little  pails, 
jnade  of  small  pieces  of  wood  bound  together  with  esparto  grass  cord 
and  filled  with  eggs.  In  either  case  the  masters  themselves  are  sure 
to  be  enthroned  on  the  top  of  the  pile,  with  their  legs  dangling  on 
either  side  of  the  animals*  necks.  **  Ar-r-r-r-wa  !  Ar-r-r-r-wa  !  "  they 
cry,  to  encourage  their  tottering  steeds,  and  then  they  poke  them  on 
the  tender  sores  until  the  beasts  increase  their  pace. 

The  herds  of  cattle  and  the  flocks  of  sheep  come  from  the  east  and 
west,  the  former  foaming  at  the  mouths,  and  advancing  at  that  slow 
pace  which  is  peculiar  to  them ;  the  latter,  amidst  a  cloud  of  dust, 
bleating  and  stopping  suddenly  from  time  to  time  ;  then  rushing  off 
with  their  heads  between  their  legs,  or  turning  occasionally  down  a 
by-lane.  Behind  them  are  a  few  half  naked  Arab  drovers,  who  direct 
the  movements  of  the  erring  animals  by  flinging  large  stones  within 
a  few  inches  of  the  leaders*  heads,  by  smacking  their  tongues  against 
the  roof  of  their  mouths,  by  uttering  shrill  cries,  or  by  unsparingly 
thrashing  them  about  the  legs  with  long  sticks.  The  market  men  are 
admitted  within  the  enclosure  on  Sunday,  but  the  flocks  and  herds 
being  only  allowed  to  enter  on  the  following  morning,  pass  the  night 
outside  on  plots  of  waste  ground,  or  in  the  bed  of  the  half  dried-up 
river,  llie  kahouadji^  or  coffee  man,  pitches  his  tent,  unloads  his 
mule,  spreads  out  his  mats  upon  the  ground,  unpacks  his  various 
utensils,  and  proceeds  to  search  for  the  three  stones  which  composed 


Two  Arab  Markets.  287 

his  fire-place  last  market  day.  The  Arabs  who  have  come  a  long 
distance  on  foot  usually  retire  to  rest  as  soon  as  they  arrive.  Pass 
across  the  market-place  any  time  after  dark  and  there  you  will  find 
them  curled  up  together  on  the  ground,  enveloped  firom  head  to  foot 
in  their  dirty  burnouses,  which  at  a  short  distance  give  them  the 
appearance  of  a  heap  of  rubbish.  One  or  two  who  have  some  idea 
of  civilisation  will  perhaps  have  betrayed  their  love  of  comfort  by 
making  a  pillow  of  a  stray  stone.  You  may  trample  under  foot  these 
living  mounds,  and  there  will  be  hardly  a  smothered  grunt  or  growl 
to  warn  you  that  you  are  walking  upon  fellow  creatures.  "It  was 
assuredly  written,"  will  think  the  man  beneath  your  heel,  and  rolling 
himself  closer  in  his  burnous  he  will  return  to  his  dreams  of  houris 
and  Paradise.  Those  who  are  better  off,  the  men  in  easy  circum- 
stances, repair  to  the  tent  of  the  kahouadji^  where,  upon  drinking  a 
cup  or  two  of  coffee,  which  costs  them  a  sou  a  cup,  they  will  be 
allowed  to  seat  themselves  on  the  mat  before  the  fire.  The  merchants 
and  dealers  imsaddle  their  mules  and  donkeys,  and  make  their  beds 
beside  the  pack  saddles,  which  are  placed  on  the  ground  in  rows ; 
and  then  from  about  eleven  o'clock,  when  the  fires  are  extinguished, 
there  will  be  a  deadly  silence,  only  interrupted  at  intervals  by  the 
arrival  of  a  traveller.  An  hour  before  daybreak  the  Arabs  commence 
coughing  most  immoderately,  showing  plainly  enough  that  whether 
one  be  European  or  Arab,  the  damp  soil  is  not  the  most  healthy  of 
l)eds. 

From  early  morning  on  Monday  the  roads  again  assume  an  ani- 
mated appearance ;  there  are  men  on  foot,  on  horseback,  on  mules 
and  donkeys,  and  in  carts  and  carriages ;  buyers,  sellers,  yfj/z^z/rj",  and 
people  who  have  come  out  of  curiosity  all  moving  towards  the  same 
«pot  with  a  rapidity  which  is  in  proportion  to  the  interest  they  may 
happen  to  take  in  the  proceedings.  There  is  the  tenant  farmer, 
mounted  upon  one  of  his  plough  horses  and  wearing  a  blue  smock 
frock,  while  a  large  broad-brimmed,  high-crowned,  grey  felt  hat  protects 
his  head  and  face  from  the  scorching  sun ;  he  smokes  a  briar-root 
pipe  and  carries  a  heavy  cart-whip  in  his  hand.  Behind  him  is  the 
burner  who  cultivates  his  own  land,  seated  with  his  wife  and  family 
in  a  light  cart  or  in  an  ugly  old-fashioned  phaeton,  and  attired  in 
half-town  half-country  style.  Then  there  are  Kabyles  trudging  along 
on  foot,  loaded  like  beasts  of  burden  with  the  produce  of  their 
rugged  mountains,  native  butchers,  blacksmiths,  and  merchants,  and 
small  traders  from  Blidah  of  almost  every  calling,  from  that  of  tobacco 
merchant  to  him  who  sells  a  halfpenny-worth  of  oranges  or  Barbary 

figs. 

u  2 


288  The  Gentlcrjmns  Magazine, 

By  one  o'clock  in  the  morning,  if  it  should  happen  to  be  in  sum- 
mer, or  seven  in  the  winter,  the  market  people  have  chosen  their 
places,  unpacked  their  goods,  and  displayed  them  in  a  manner  best 
calculated  to  attract  attention.     The  crowds  are  at  last  concentrated, 
and  business  commences.     Every  road,  every  lane,  every  pathway 
has  poured  its  flood  of  life  upon  the  same  spot     The  hubbub  of 
human  voices  has  begun,  mingled  with  the  cries  of  the  animals  and 
the  ringing  sound  of  the  blacksmiths*  hammers.     The  market  people 
endeavour  to  tempt  the  passers-by,  who  examine  the  diffeient  articles, 
pull  them  about,  dig  their  fingers  into  the  sheep,  feel  the  fleshy  parts 
of  the  a\cn,  pass  their  hands  along  the  back-bones  of  the  horses,  ex- 
amine their  mouths,  and  buy  nothing.     Then  there  are  quarrels  and 
disputes  in  which  the  ianguc  verfc  is  often  too  freely  used.   The  house- 
wives go  from  dealer  to  dealer  and  from  store  to  store,  as  bees  fly 
from  flower  to  flower,  gathering  wherewith   to  make   their  honey. 
Everything  is  too  dear.     The  buyer  holds  out  until  the  seller  yields, 
which   invariably  happens   after   long   discussions    over  halfpence^ 
carried  on  half  in  French  and  half  in  Sabir,  a  native  dialect     Run- 
ning about  to  customers  dispersed  over  the  market-place,  carrying  them 
either  a  cup  of  coffee  or  a  piece  of  lighted  charcoal  for  their  pipes,  are 
the  waiters  of  the  kahouadjiy  whose  tents  stand  scattered  about  the 
enclosure.    Their  utensils  and  articles  of  furniture  are  few  and  simple ; 
one   or   two   tin  pots,  filled  with  a  black  liquid  bubbling  over  a 
charcoal  fire,  burning  in  the  centre  of  a  few  stones ;  two  or  three 
boxes  of  moist  sugar,  a  dozen  cracked  or  handle-less  cups,  no  two  of 
which  match,  some  tin  measures  for  the  coffee,  a  small  pair  of  primi- 
tive looking  tongs,  a  few  tin  trays,  and  a  couple  of  mats,  made  of 
plaited  dwarf  palm  leaves,  which  are  reserved  for  the  rich  and   influ- 
ential dealers.     The  master,  who  is  generally  an  old  Kou/ougiis*  from 
Blidah,  wears  the  Turkish  costume,  with  a  faded  turban  and  Arab 
shoes.     The  t/tefely  or  waiter,  generally  a  youth  between  twelve  and 
fifteen  years  of  age,  runs  about  with  bare  legs  and  feet     He  b  also 
attired  a  la  turquCy  with  a  blue  apron  tied  round  his  waist  and  a 
turban  made  of  a  fringed  scarf  rolled  round  a  white  skull  cap. 

If  there  is  one  trade  more  numerously  represented  at  the  market  of 
Boufarik  than  another  it  is  that  of  the  cobbler,  which  is  exercised  both 
by  Jews  and  Mussulmans.  There  sits  the  Jew  on  a  wooden  stool 
placed  in  the  shade  of  one  of  the  trees  ;  his  body  is  curved  over  an 
old  sh<^,  which  he  presses  between  his  knees,  covered  with  a  leather 
apron  cut  to  ribbons  ;  his  wrists  are  protected  by  bands  of  leather, 

*  Koulouglis :    the  ofispring  of  a  marriage  between  a  Turk  and  a  Moorish 
woman. 


Tiuo  Arab  Markets,  289 

and  his  thin  naked  arms  working  backwards  and  fOiWards  form  very 
acute  angles  as  he  pulls  the  waxed  cord.  He  wears  a  bluish  cotton 
jacket,  a  greasy  rag  wound  round  a  chachia — red  when  new,  but  which 
years  of  sun  and  rain,  combined  with  dust  and  grease,  have  turned 
various  colours — blue  stockings  without  garters,  and  shoes  that  are 
almost  falling  from  his  feet  for  want  of  repair.  Beside  him  are  a  heap 
of  trimmings  and  the  remnants  of  shoes,  mixed  up  with  an  untanned 
cowhide  and  the  shiny  leather  of  civilisation,  while  upon  a  small 
wooden  stand  are  awls,  wax,  notched  knives,  a  brass  hammer,  and 
several  lasts,  the  latter  being  so  used  and  knocked  about  that  they  no 
longer  bear  any  resemblance  to  the  human  foot.  He  of  the  Mussulman 
persuasion  only  differs  from  the  Jew  in  his  dress ;  both  work  in  the 
open  air  and  confine  themselves  to  repairing. 

The  butchers,  who  are  generally  Moors,  Mzabites,  and  Zouaoua 
residing  at  Blidah  or  Cerfaa,  take  up  their  quarters  in  front  of  the 
northern  facade  of  the  caravansary,  close  to  the  slaughter-hoi 
Here  you  see  numbers  of  solid  poles  with  forked  ends,  fixejj^t^rpen- 
dicularly  in  the  ground,  while  others  rest  horizon  tall  v^ipon  them ; 
hanging  from  these  the  carcases  are  stripped  of  thetf  skins  and  cut 
up.  There  are  also  buckets  of  dirty  water,  blocks  somewhat  hacked 
and  cut  about,  with  the  crevices  filled  up  with  trimmings,  and  rickety 
tables  covered  with  pieces  of  meat,  spits  of  kidneys,  hearts,  and  long, 
pointed  knives,  and  often  with  one  or  more. of  the  legs  bound  on  with 
esparto  rope.  From  the  horizontal  poles  hang  small  headless  sheep, 
bearing  the  Government  stamp,  with  the  fore  feet  crossed  above  the 
necks,  as  if  to  show  that  they  are  really  mutton.  Heads  are  scattered 
over  the  ground  beneath,  and  skins  lie  about  in  piles  like  heaps  of 
dirty  linen.  Such  is  the  appearance  of  the  open  air  stalls  of  the  Arab 
market  butchers.  The  butchers  either  wear  the  Moorish  costume  or 
are  attired  like  the  Mzabites,  with  a  gandoura  and  an  abaia^  which 
resembles  the  dalmatic  of  a  Roman  Catholic  deacon,  and  a  haik 
bound  over  their  chachia  by  a  camels*  hair  cord.  The  receipts  of 
the  day  are  placed  in  embroidered  red  leather  pouches,  made  by  the 
Moors,  and  which  are  carried  slung  across  the  shoulder. 

Close  to  the  shoemakers  are  the  native  blacksmiths  and  farriers, 
differing  from  Europeans  in  their  costume,  their  primitively  fashioned 
tools,  the  shape  and  thinness  of  the  shoes  they  make,  and  their  habit 
of  never  shoeing  with  hot  iron.  Here  and  there  are  the  tents  of  the 
iiththar,  whose  calling  comprises  the  trades  of  grocer,  druggist,  and 
perfumer ;  then  there  are  Moorish  saddlers  from  Algiers,  with  Arab 
.saddles  and  harness,  beautifully  embroidered  with  coloured  silks  and 
gold  and  silver  thread ;  rope-makers  from  Dekakna  and  Haouch- 
Khedam ;  basket  makers  from  Maelwa ;  vendors  of  poultry  and  eggs 


290  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

from  the  Beni-Khelil ;  salt  merchants  from  the  south ;  dealers  in  soft 
green  soap  and  in  Arab  handmills  from  the  Beni-Aaicha ;  burnous- 
makers  from  Blidah ;  negresses  from  the  same  town  selling  negro  bread, 
and  grinning  immoderately  at  the  passers-by ;  and  Kabyle  oil  mer- 
chants, with  goat  skins  filled  with  olive  oil.  The  Kabyles  who  have 
emigrated  from  their  native  hills  to  assist  in  gathering  in  the  har\'est 
cluster  round  the  oil  merchants,  and  from  time  to  time  one  of  them 
advances  within  the  circle  to  have  a  measure  of  oil  poured  into  a 
cake  of  Arab  bread,  from  which  he  has  previously  removed  the 
crumb,  and  which  he  eats  with  considerable  relish  when  well 
saturated  with  the  greasy  juice  of  the  olive.  Beside  the  oil  mer- 
chants are  the  dealers  in  honey,  who  have  journeyed  on  foot  from 
the  lesser  Atlas  mountains,  followed  by  the  bees  they  have  robbed, 
which  buzz  about  their  ears  as  if  demanding  restitution  of  their 
property.  Then  there  are  Spanish  and  Maltese  market  gardeners 
from  the  neighbourhood  of  Blidah,  and  Arabs  from  the  Beni-Khelil, 
with  fruit.  Near  these  are  the  vehicles  of  the  Jew  linendrapers, 
haberdashers,  hosiers,  jewellers,  and  ironmongers,  whose  articles  are 
all  at  prix  fixe^  but  in  purchasing  which  the  buyer  will  take  care  to 
knock  off  two-thirds  of  the  sum  demanded.  Running  about  the 
enclosure  are  Arab  nnd  Jewish  urchins  selling  lucifer  matches  and 
needles ;  they  have  walked  sixteen  miles  to  get  to  the  market  with 
goods  that  may  be  valued  at  a  shilling,  they  make  five  sous  profit,  and 
return  home  contented.  The  tolba  or  public  scribes  are  seated  under 
the  wall  of  the  caravansary  engaged  in  reading  documents  in  Arabic 
to  their  more  ignorant  brethren,  and  in  preparing  any  papers  that 
the  latter  happen  to  require  in  their  business.  They  carry  their 
wooden  inkstands  in  their  belts,  and  >vith  their  paper  placed  in  the 
palm  of  their  left  hand  or  upon  their  knees,  write  as  easily  as  we 
should  on  a  table.  The  folba,  who  wears  the  head-gear  of  the  learned, 
that  is  to  say,  the  haik^  without  the  camels'  hair  cord  which  usually 
binds  it  to  the  chachia^  are  serious  and  silent  men,  generally  mara- 
bouts* and  are  treated  with  the  greatest  respect  by  their  co- 
religionists. 

Pushing  through  the  crowd  are  blind  beggars  bound  to  their  guides 
with  esparto  grass  rope,  dervishes  in  rags  who  have  made  vows  of 
poverty,  guczzarja^'^  with  children  tied  behind  their  backs,  and  who 
for  two  sous  will  tell  you  laforiouna,  with  salt  or  grains  of  corn,  by 
either  of  which  methods  you  are  sure  to  hear,  in  a  composition  of 
Sabir,  Spanish,  and  French,  which  is  very  difficult  to  understand^ 

*  Marabouts :  the  descendants  of  saints. 

t  Guczzana :  fortune-teUers  of  the  tribe  of  the  Beni  Ados. 


Tzvo  Arab  Mai'kets.  291 

that  you  will  have  a  numerous  posterity,  and  that  fortune  will  smile 
on  you  sooner  or  later.  On  entering  the  caravansary  we  find  on  the 
left  the  corn  measurers,  and  on  the  right  the  Mehamka  or  tribunal  of 
the  Cadi,  where,  squatted  cross-legged  on  a  ragged  mat,  supported  on 
cither  side  by  his  two  assessors,  fanning  himself  with  a  plaited  dwarf 
palm  leaf  fan,  made  in  the  shape  of  a  small  flag,  and  surrounded  by  a 
crowd  of  angry  Arabs,  the  Cadi,  after  making  the  witnesses  severally 
swear  upon  the  book  of  Sidi-El-Bokhari,  and  after  hearing  what  each 
has  to  say,  as  well  as  the  stories  of  the  two  principals,  delivers  his 
judgments  in  a  sleepy  sort  of  manner,  and  the  adversaries  retire 
apparently  quite  contented. 

Towards  eleven  o'clock  the  noises  cease,  and  each,  more  or  less 
satisfied  with  his  day's  work,  returns  to  his  habitation.  Transactions 
between  Europeans  are  terminated  at  the  cafes  amidst  sundry  glasses 
of  absinthe  and  bitters,  and  are  generally  followed  by  noisy  discus- 
sions upon  questions  of  colonisation,  agriculture,  and  politics  which 
last  far  into  the  afternoon. 

II. 

Between  Boufarik  and  Blidah,  the  next  station  but  one,  we  pass 
nothing  of  any  interest  to  the  tourist.  Blidah,  which  is  situated 
about  a  mile  from  the  railway  station,  lies  at  the  foot  of  the  lesser 
Atlas  mountains,  and  is  enclosed  by  a  low  wall.  It  is  the  headquarters 
of  the  ist  regiment  of  African  Chasseurs,  as  well  as  of  a  regiment  of 
Turcos,  and  possesses  a  European  population  of  4,000  souls.  The 
houses  are  generally  built  of  plaster  or  stone,  and  in  some  instances 
of  brick,  but  they  are  rarely  more  than  one  storey  high  on  account  of 
the  frequency  of  earthquakes,  one  of  which  visited  the  town  in  1825, 
killing  8,000  of  its  inhabitants,  and  a  second  in  1867  which,  while 
destroying  a  considerable  amount  of  household  property,  was  accom- 
panied by  less  fatal  results  to  humanity.*  The  only  good  hotel  is  the 
Hotel  d'Orient,  standing  at  the  corner  of  the  Place  d'Armes,  a  hand- 
some square,  bordered  on  three  sides  by  large  stone  houses,  with 
colonnades.  Being  a  garrison  town  any  number  of  furnished  apart- 
ments may  be  found  at  very  moderate  prices.  For  instance,  two  or 
three  rooms  with  a  kitchen  may  be  had  at  the  rate  of  ^2  a  month, 
and  living  e?i  fctision  at  the  hotel,  or  having  one's  meals  sent  regularly 


♦  A  great  many  vUlapcs  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Blidah  were  destroyed  by  thist 
latter  eartliquake.  Tents  were  erected  by  the  inhabitants  among  the  ruins. 
Priests  officiated  in  the  open  air,  and  it  was  no  uncommon  thing  to  see  for  days 
after  the  last  shock  advertisements  in  the  local  paper  similar  to  this  : — •*  Madame 
X.  begs  to  inform  her  patrons  that  she  carries  on  her  school  until  further  notice- 
at  tent  No.  4,  on  the  Grande  Place." 


292  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

to  the  bouse,  costs  ^3  for  the  same  period.  There  is  a  plentiful 
supply  of  green  vegetables  and  fruit,  both  of  which  are  cultivated 
upon  a  large  scale  in  the  environs  of  the  town  by  Maltese  and  Spanish 
immigrants ;  and  the  European  market  exhibits  every  morning,  at 
comparatively  low  prices,  a  good  show  of  Mediterranean  fish  caught 
during  the  night  off  Koleah.  Add  to  these  advantages  the  most 
lovely  scenery  and  a  healthy  climate — for  Blidah,  lying  as  it  does  on 
high  ground  at  the  foot  of  the  hills,  is  placed  beyond  the  reach  of  the 
deadly  epidemic  of  the  Mitidja — and  it  will  be  found  to  be  one  of  the 
cheapest  and  most  agreeable  places  of  residence  imaginable. 

"  They  have  called  you  a  little  town,"  said  Mohammed-ben-Yussuf, 

the  wandering  marabout,  **  but  I  call  you  a  little  rose ;"  and  Blidah 

has  ever  since  borne  the  surname   of  "The  Rpse  of  the  Plain." 

Yet   curiously   enough    Blidali,   the    rose,   has    also    been    known 

by  a  much  more   opprobrious   appellation,  concerning    the    origin 

of  which  history  is  silent.*     At  Blidah  water  is  always  fresh,  even 

in  the  height  of  summer,  when  the  intensity  of  the  heat  renders 

it  imprudent  to  stir  out  of  doors  during  the  middle  of  the  day ; 

and  there  in  the  autumn   oranges  may  be  purchased  at   the  rate 

of  a  few  pence  per  hundred,  for  the  town  is  surrounded  by  an  immense 

belt  of  orange  and  lemon  groves,  sending  forth  a  perfume  in  the 

summer  which  can  be  inhaled,  it  is  said,  at  a  distance  of  ten  miles. 

Then  there  are  the  antique,  narrow,  and  irregularly-built  Moorish 

streets,  the  most  curious  of  which  is  the  Rue  Koulouglis,  with  its 

small  Arab  shops  well  stocked  with  all  sorts  of  native  and  Tunisian 

produce,  in  the  centre  of  which  the  master  is  seated,  wrapped  in  his 

burnous  and  philosophically  smoking  his  long  cherry- stemmed  pipe. 

Occasionally  he  will  disturb  himself  as  a  European  passes  before  his 

store,  and  if  the  latter  should  happen  to  be  a  stranger,  will  call 

after  him :  "  Hey !  Hey  I  Mossou !  Mossou !  vous  achetez  que'q'chose?" 

Here  you  may  purchase  a  long  knife,  curiously  inlaid  with  copper, 

sliding   into  a  roughly  carved  wooden  sheath  (an  ugly  customer 

to  meet  on  a  dark  night,  at  the  corner  of  a  lonely  street,  in  the 

hands   of   an   Arab   whom   you   may   have    offended    during    the 

day) ;    or  a  few  measures   of  couscoussou  and  the  small  wooden 

spoon  wherewith  to  eat  it,  which  the  Arabs  often  wear  in  their  belts ; 

or  a  yard  of  Tunisian  tissue,  or  a  richly  embroidered  harness  and 

saddle,  a  long  pipe,  a  pair  of  native  lad/s  slippers,  a  measure  of 

dried  figs,  a  burnous,  a  complete  Arab  costume,  coloured  tallow 

candles  of  different  dimensions  to  bum  at  the  tomb  of  a  marabout, 

pouches  to  keep  your  money  in  and  pouches  for  your  tobacco,  and 

*  Blidah  was  also  called  the  Courtisane, 


Two  Arab  Markets.  293 

plaited  grass  fans  to  drive  away  the  flies.     Squatted  in  the  dust  at  • 

cither  corner  of  the  street  and  attired  in  garments  which  are  nothing 
but  a  mass  of  shreds,  held  together  by  a  few  stitches,  are  gene- 
rally a  couple  of  blind  beggars  covered  witli  sores.  As  you  pass 
between  them  they  mumble  in  Arabic  a  few  words,  evidently  intended 
for  a  prayer,  in  which  the  name  of  Mahomet  is  often  repeated,  and, 
although  no  one  appears  to  give  them  anything,  they  seem  by  no 
means  discouraged.  Advancing  up  the  street  you  suddenly  find 
yourself  in  the  midst  of  a  croivd  of  Arabs,  Moors,  Algerian  Jews, 
French  soldiers,  Turcos,  and  negroes  and  ncgresses,  who  move 
lazily  about  without  any  pushing,  so  that,  although  the  narrow 
thoroughfare  is  packed  as  full  as  can  be,  yet  there  is  room  for  every 
one.  There  is  the  richly  attired  Moor,  with  liis  white  woollen  burnous 
thrown  negligently  across  his  shoulder;  here  is  the  cunning,  dingy- 
looking,  back-bent  Algerian  Jew,  who  apes  the  former  in  almost  every 
detiil  of  his  costume,  save  that  his  turban  is  black  and  his  shoes  of 
Kuropean  make;  here  the  big-boned  Kabyle — the  man  of  the 
mountain,  the  merchant  of  olive  oil — whose  garments,  consisting 
merely  of  a  long  shirt  and  ragged  burnous,  are  saturated  with  grease 
and  as  brown  as  their  owner's  skin ;  here  the  inhabitant  of  the 
^ourhi\  who  only  comes  to  the  town  to  sell  his  produce  in  the 
market  place  and  make  his  purchases,  alternately  pushing  through 
the  crowd  and  poking  with  a  pointed  stick  a  little  donkey,  whose 
large  plaited  grass  baskets  hanging  across  his  back  are  crammed  with 
all  manner  of  necessaries  for  the  tent ;  and  here,  tripping  through  the 
throng,  closely  followed  by  an  old  negress  in  a  blue  check  cotton 
garment,  who  never  loses  sight  of  her  precious  charge,  is  a  Moorish 
woman  on  her  way  home  from  the  baths,  enveloped  from  head  to  foot 
ill  the  finest  and  whitest  of  linen.  As  she  passes  by  you,  (juick  as  a 
flash  of  lightning,  she  fascinates  you  by  her  gaze— by  the  ga/.e  of 
those  piercing  black  orbs  bordered  with  long  lashes.  Instinctively 
your  eyes  wander  from  her  head  to  her  feet — for  it  is  there  that 
you  read  a  Moorish  woman's  age.  You  have  just  time  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  a  small  soft-skinned  foot,  encased  in  a  coquettish  little 
slipper,  and  she  is  gone — vanished  up  a  side  street,  or  through  one 
of  the  narrow  doorways,  or  lost  to  view  in  the  stream  of  human  life 
which  goes  gliding  on. 

Near  to  the  Rue  Koulouglis  is  the  Arab  market,  which  is  held 
every  morning  on  a  square  in  the  north-eastern  corner  of  the  town. 
Seven  o'clock  is  the  best  time  to  visit  it.  If  at  that  hour  you  take 
any  one  of  the  six  streets  that  give  ingress  to  the  square,  it  will  lead 
you  to  one  of  the  most  picturesque  and  interesting  social  sights 
it  is   possible  to  see  on  the  northern  side  of  the    Mediterranean. 


294  '^^^^  Ge7itlcmaii s  Magazine. 

But  supposing  that,  coming  from  the  gate  of  El-Rabah,  or  "The 
Gate  of  the  Savages,"  as  it  is  called,  you  cross  the  piece  of 
waste  ground  planted  with  trees  on  your  right,  and  take  the 
street  in  front  of  you,  on  either  side  of  the  way  you  find  a  row  of 
small  habitations  built  of  brick,  covered  with  plaster,  and  consisting 
merely  of  a  ground  floor.  They  are  devoid  of  windows,  but  each 
has  a  doorway  in  the  centre  which  admits  light  and  air.  These 
dwellings — hardly  ever  more  than  seven  feet  square-  -are  just  large 
enough  to  contain  a  hand-loom,  behind  which  an  Arab  or  a  Moor 
squeezes  himself  and  works  away  with  his  shuttle,  making  hdiks 
and  cloth  for  burnouses  from  early  morning  until  sunset,  excepting 
during  the  hours  set  aside  in  summer  for  the  siesta  or  mid-day  nap. 
In  some  instances  an  enterprising  Mussulman  has  taken  two  of  these 
workshops,  and  in  one  of  them  half  a  dozen  children  may  be  seen 
squatted  cross-legged  like  tailors  on  the  ground,  winding  the  wool, 
while  in  the  other  two  men  are  working  at  the  hand-loom.  Following 
this  street  we  reach  the  Arab  market,  held  in  the  centre  of  a  large 
square,  bordered  on  three  sides  by  European  houses,  and  on  the 
fourth  bv  low  wooden  huts.  If  the  market  is  well  stocked  and  the 
weather  fine,  the  crowd  6f  burnouses  gathered  together,  arguing, 
gesticulating,  and  squabbling  over  halfpennies  is  often  so  dense 
as  to  render  it  extremely  difficult  for  any  one  to  move  among 
them.  Should  it  be  summer,  Arabs  will  be  found  there  attired 
in  the  lightest  of  garments,  standing  or  squatted  on  the  ground 
in  every  direction — some  with  baskets  of  green  figs  before  them ; 
others  with  grapes,  peaches,  pears,  apricots,  capsicums,  pome- 
granates, tomatoes,  and  Arab  and  negro  bread  ;  others  will  have 
a  sack  or  two  of  corn,  a  cow's  hide,  and  two  or  three  goat  skins,  a 
basket  of  aninas  nuts  or  a  small  pailful  of  eggs ;  then  there  are  the 
men  who  hawk  fowls  about,  carrying  a  pair  in  either  hand  with  their 
heads  downwards,  and  two  or  three  men  or  boys  with  young  jackals 
— or  one  of  them  perhaps  with  a  live  eagle — for  sale.  Besides  these 
there  is  the  vendor  of  Barbary  figs — the  fruii  of  the  cactus — seated  in 
the  dust  with  a  sack  beside  him  and  four  or  five  pyramids,  each  contain- 
ing five  figs,  piled  up  on  the  ground  before  him.  **  Karmous  n'sara, 
kamessa  pour  soldi !  Ich'rie  !  Ich'rie  !  Ich'rie  ! "  ("  Barbar}"  figs,  five  a 
halfpenny  !  Buy !  buy  !  buy  I  ")  he  shouts  out  in  Sabir,  to  attract  the 
attention  of  the  loiterers  within  hearing.  The  Barbary  fig,  although  an 
agreeable  fruit  to  eat,  is  extremely  difficult  to  peel,  the  skin  being 
covered  with  innumerable  and  almost  invisible  thorns,  like  those  on 
the  stinging-nettle,  which  when  touched  run  into  the  skin,  and  cause 
considerable  pain,  so  the  Arab  not  only  sells  you  five  figs  for  a  half- 
penny, but,  like  our  London  potato-man,  who  includes  the  pepper 


Tzvo  Arab  Markets.  295 

and  salt  in  the  price  of  the  vegetable,  dexterously  whips  off  the 
skins  with  his  knife  without  making  any  extra  charge.  Turcos,  I 
have  noticed,  are  very  partial  to  this  delicate  fruit.  A  group  of 
them  may  often  be  seen  stooping  down  before  the  figman,  and 
munching  away  as  hard  as  they  can,  while  the  latter  is  only  just  able 
to  keep  time  with  them  in  removing  the  skins  with  his  knife. 
Striding  through  the  crowd,  shouting  louder  than  every  one  else, 
flourishing  his  urms  about,  displaying  his  goods  at  arm's  length,  and 
eloquently  discoursing  in  Arabic  on  their  durable  qualities  to  the 
bystanders  is  the  dealer  in  second-hand  burnouses  and  Mussulman 
apparel  generally — in  fact,  the  Algerian  old  clo'  man.  For  an  old 
burnous  he  will  give  you  a  new  one — that  is  to  say,  if  you  are  pre- 
pared to  add  a  certain  number  of  francs  to  the  dilapidated  garment — 
and  he  is  oi)en  to  buy  any  quantity  of  under-clothing  that  a  Turco 
or  Zouave  can  manage  to  steal  from  his  barracks  or  the  hospital. 
Nor  must  I  forget  to  mention  another  second-hand  dealer  who  gene- 
rally takes  up  his  position  in  front  of  the  wooden  huts  on  the  eastern 
side  of  the  square.  Stooping  beneath  the  trees  he  spreads  out  his 
stock  on  the  ground  before  him :  there  are  old  keys,  bits  of  iron,  hinges, 
and  coffee-cups,  perhaps  a  pair  of  large  pointed  Arab  spurs,  a  square 
piece  of  red  cloth,  a  few  old  shoes,  a  pair  of  Turco's  blue  knicker- 
bockers, some  greasy  chachias^  a  rusty  Kabyle  knife,  one  of  those 
terrible  long-bladedyf/xj'^x  in  a  leather  case,  and  various  other  things. 
Beneath  the  foliage  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  square  are  the  Arab 
and  Jewish  cobblers  seated  on  stools,  and  working  hard  with  their 
bradawls  and  thread  and  large,  peculiarly-shaped  scissors,  with 
which  they  trim  the  leather.  The  manner  with  which  shoe-leather 
is  prepared  in  this  part  of  the  world  is  curious.  When  a  skin  has 
been  removed  from  a  cow,  for  instance,  the  Arab  proceeds  first  of 
all  to  cut  off  the  head,  together  with  the  horns  and  the  hoofs,  and 
then,  hanging  it  up,  he  scrapes  off  all  the  fat  that  may  have  been  left 
clinging  to  the  inside.  When  this  is  done  it  is  well  rubbed  with  salt, 
and  placed  out  in  the  sun  in  the  middle  of  the  road  with  the  inside 
exposed.  Passers  by  trample  it  under  foot  all  day  ;  then,  when  it  is 
perfectly  dry,  it  is  taken  up  and  cut  into  rectangular  pieces  about  a 
foot  long  by  five  inches  broad,  which  are  sewn  on  to  the  shoes — as 
soles — with  the  hair  outside.  Arab  shoes  when  new  cost  from  two 
to  four  shillings  a  pair,  for  which  price  the  very  best  maybe  obtained, 
and  the  charge  for  resoling  them  generally  varies  from  a  shilling  ta 
fifteenpence.  A  considerable  trade  is  done  in  second-hand  shoes 
among  Arabs  in  needy  circumstances.  Wherever,  for  example,  a 
Bedouin  buys  a  new  pair  he  is  sure  to  make  an  arrangement  to  be 
allowed  a  certain  sum  for  the  old  ones.     'Hiese  the  cobbler  mends,  and 


^96  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

eventually  sells  to  some  less  fortunate  countryman,  who,  having  none 
at  all,  and  perhaps  very  little  money  to  purchase  any  with,  is  glad  to 
procure  a  pair  cheap.  Thus  the  market  cobblers  have  always  a  stock 
of  second-hand  shoes  with  them,  which  they  generally  manage  to  get 
rid  of  during  the  course  of  the  morning,  besides  sewing  on  ten  or  a 
dozen  pairs  of  soles. 

If  a  visit  is  paid  to  the  market  in  winter,  a  considerable  change 
will  be  observed  in  its  appearance.  The  attendance  will  be  scantier, 
and  the  well-to-do  Arabs  will  be  wrapped  in  long  thick  black  bur- 
nouses with  hoods.  The  only  articles  then  exhibited  for  sale  are  wood 
^and  charcoal,  native  bread,  poultry,  a  few  winter  vegetables,  and 
oranges  and  lemons,  which  may  be  purchased  at  this  season  of  the 
year  at  the  rate  of  ten  and  fifteen  for  a  halfpenny,  for,  being  windfalls, 
ihey  are  of  no  use  for  packing,  although  quite  as  good  for  eating  as 
the  fruit  which  goes  to  Europe.  Yet  the  cobblers,  the  dealers  in 
odds  and  ends,  and  the  second-hand  burnous  man  are  still  to  be 
seen,  the  latter  elbowing  his  way  through  the  crowd,  and  making  as 
much  noise  as  ever.  In  the  basements  of  the  houses  surrounding  the 
scjuare  are  Moorish  cafes  and  native  barbers'  shops,  general  shops 
similar  to  those  in  the  Rue  Koulouglis,  dealers  in  native  crockery- 
ware,  shoemakers,  corn  chandlers,  manufacturers  of  embroidered 
Moorish  purses  and  pouches,  blacksmiths,  and  coffee  pounders,  but 
the  most  picturesque  of  all  are  the  blacksmiths*  forges.  If  you  pass 
them  about  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening  you  will  see  in  the  ruddy 
light  of  the  fire  three  or  four  muscular  native  workmen,  armed  with 
heavy  hammers  and  naked  to  the  waist,  each  beating  the  red  hot 
ploughshare  in  his  turn.  The  sight  is  all  the  more  striking  when 
one  calls  to  mind  the  Arab's  natural  indolence,  his  love  of  lying 
down  at  the  corner  of  a  street  and  sleeping  all  the  afternoon, 
while  his  wives  slave  at  home ;  and  one  then  perceives  the  immense 
•difference  that  there  is  between  the  man  of  the  plain  and  the  Kabyle, 
who  comes  from  the  mountain,  for  you  may  be  certain  that  men  who 
work  like  these  were  never  bom  in  a  tent.  A  short  distance  beyond 
the  blacksmiths'  forges  is  the  coffee  and  chicory  pounder.  There  may 
he  seen  a  man  whose  back  has  grown  positively  deformed  by  having 
been  for  years  continually  engaged  in  lifting  up  a  huge  iron  pestle, 
umd  letting  it  fall  into  a  large  stone  trough,  in  which  the  coffee  and 
chicory  are  prepared  previous  to  being  used  at  the  Moorish  caf^. 
^  Hours  may  be  passed,  nay,  days  and  weeks  may  be  spent  wander- 
through  the  narrow  streets,  and  across  the  spacious  squares  of 
I,  observing  here  and  there  a  curious  piece  of  architecture, 
p     uresque,  and  studying  the  habits  and  customs  of  this 


My   First    Woodcock. 

IH  AT  EVER  may  be  the  sacred  number  (and  herein 
doctors  differ),  a  peculiar  charm  lies  in  "  the  first !" 
Leaving  out  of  consideration  "  the  first "  of 
September,  all  tender  and  even  roinantic  memories 
cluster  round  the  phrase.  Who  can  ever  forget  "  the  first "  trout  that 
he  cauglit  with  a  fly,  or  "  the  first "  brace  of  grouse  that  sprang  up 
before  him  from  the  heather,  and  which,  needless  to  say,  he  igno- 
miniously  missed?  Then  again,  how  many  delightful  associations 
crystallise  round  "  the  first  rose,"  or  "  first  love,"  or  what  Byron  raves 
about,  "  the  first  kiss  of  love  ! "  But  here  we  are  straying  on  Helicon 
instead  of  our  own  wooded  hill-sides.  One  of  my  most  cherished 
memories  is  the  death  of  my  first  woodcock,  which  happened  in  the 
following  manner.  There  is  nothing  exciting  in  the  narrative,  no  spice 
of  danger  such  as  meets  us  in  the  terrific  tales  of  man-killers  and 
grizzly  bears,  which  we  all  peruse  with  such  satisfaction  in  the 
columns  of  the  Fields  by  the  quiet  fireside,  but  an  English  sportsman 
attaches  at  least  as  much  interest  to  all  that  tells  of  our  well-loved 
recreations.     Homely  reminiscences  possess  an  unfailing  charm. 

Sweet  the  hum 
Of  bees,  the  voice  of  girls,  the  song  of  birds, 
The  lisp  of  children,  and  their  earliest  words. 

I  must  premise  my  story,  such  as  it  is,  by  saying  that  few  boys  ever 
possessed  such  a  thirst  for  sport  of  all  kinds,  with  so  few  opportuni- 
ties of  gratifying  it,  as  was  my  unlucky  case.  Did  I  believe  in  the 
doctrine  of  metempsychosis  (and  most  boys  do  after  reading  **  The 
Transmigrations  of  Indur"),  I  should  suppose  that  in  a  previous  state 
of  being  I  had  existed  as  a  hunting  leopard  or  cheetah.  Long  before 
I  was  eight  years  old  I  remember  with  what  difficulty  my  nurse 
dragged  me  past  those  fascinating  gun  and  fishing-tackle  shops  in 
George  Street,  Perth.  Perambulators  were  not  in  those  days,  else  T 
should  probably  have  been  quickly  wheeled  past,  and  have  lost  the 
chance  of  "  nourishing  my  youth  sublime  "  on  Eley's  patent  cartridges, 
and  the  Never-failing  Kill-Devil.  Then  the  delights  of  running  away 
to  the  "  bothie  "  on  the  North  Inch,  and  seeing  the  boat  put  out, 
as  the  fisherman,  watching  on  the  bridge  that  spans  the  Tay, 
shouted     that     salmon    were    passing    up    stream,    together    with  i 


298  The  Gentlema7is  Magazine. 

the  excitement  of  hauling  in  the  net  with  perhaps  a  pair  of  silvery 
captives  in  it !  Alas  !  the  dark  clouds  soon  closed  in  upon  those 
pleasures.  I  was  dismissed  to  a  grammar  school  in  a  dull  midland 
town,  and  "  well-grounded  "  (as  the  doctor  said)  in  Latin  and  Greek, 
till  I  detested  Edward  VI.  of  pious  memory,  and  would  happily  have 
joined  Jack  Cade  in  hanging  the  founder  of  such  a  school,  for  "most 
traitorously  corrupting  the  youth  of  the  realm,  and  talking  of  a  noun 
and  a  verb,  and  such  abominable  words  as  no  Christian  ear  can 
endure  to  hear."  The  vacations  brought  little  chance  of  sport,  spent 
as  they  were  for  die  most  part  in  that  gloomy  town,  save  that  sundry 
visits  to  an  old  hall  in  Derbyshire  with  a  fish-pond,  which  I  still 
dream  of,  initiated  me  into  the  craft  of  an  angler.  Had  the  Field 
been  in  existence  in  those  days  I  should  certainly  have  sent  it  full 
particulars  of  my  capture  of  an  enormous  eel.  Memory  even  now 
paints  it  as  something  between  a  kraken  and  the  largest  snake 
seen  during  the  fair  week  in  a  surreptitious  visit  to  Wombwell's 
Menagerie.  It  can  easily  be  conjectured,  therefore,  with  what  delight 
I  received  an  intimation  from  my  worthy  preceptor  that  the  Christmas 
holidays  were  to  be  spent  at  (literally)  a  distant  cousin's  of  mine  in 
South  Wales.     Like  the  famous  lovers  in  Dante, — 

Quel  giorno  piii  non  vi  leggemmo  avante, 

and  not  that  day  only,  but  every  day,  till "  we  were  released  from  our 
studies  *'  (as  the  euphemism  ran),  was  spent  in  anticipations  of  sport. 
I  knew  that  my  cousin's  property  was  famed  for  grouse,  and  especially 
for  woodcock,  and  many  of  them  borne  by  on  the  wings  of  fancy  did 
I  bring  down  both  in  day  and  night  dreams  before  we  **  broke  up." 
Even  Wordsworth,  though  he  was  no  sportsman,  says  that  "  Hope  to 
joy  is  little  less  than  hope  enjoyed." 

Perhaps  it  was  more  so  in  my  case  ;  but,  begging  the  readers' 
pardon  for  so  many  false  starts,  let  him  fancy  me  at  length  on  a  star- 
lit frosty  evening  making  my  way  from  a  distant  station,  up  Welsh 
roads  of  marvellous  steepness,  in  a  dog-cart  My  dreams  were  at  last 
beginning  to  be  realised.  I  could  hear  in  imagination  pointers  and 
setters  growling  under  the  seat,  and  see  numerous  woodcocks  flit  over- 
head between  me  and  the  moon.  The  mountains  crested  with  snow, 
which  skirted  the  road,  seemed  little  less  than  sublime  to  my  dull  mid- 
land eyesight.  The  driver  "  had  no  Sassenach,"  and  I  "  had  no 
Cymraeg,"  and  though  (after  the  traditional  story  of  the  country)  he 
did  not  mutter  that  I  was  a  "  diaoul  Sassenach  "  (English  devil),  he 
'probably  thought  so.  In  default  of  conversation,  imagination 
•*  ited  me  as  another  Hannibal  scaling  the  Alps.     I  speedily 


Aly  First  Woodcock.  299 

pursued  the  story  in  dreamland,  and  was  stooping  forward  to  pour 
out  the  vinegar  with  which,  as  every  one  knows,  that  great  general 
dissolved  the  rocks  in  his  way,  when  the  trap  gave  a  lurch,  and  I  sub- 
sided on  to  my  new  hat-box  in  the  bottom  of  the  vehicle,  the  effect 
of  which  was  to  transform  my  Lincoln  and  Bennett,  as  well  as  myself, 
into  a  wide-awake. 

Next  morning  was  a  thorough  Welsh  morning,  grey  and  misty,  with 
cioud-wreatlis  winding  round  the  heads  of  the  long  brown  fells  which 
shut  in  Plas-Newydd,  as  the  old  rambling  country  house  in  which  I 
found  myself  domiciled  was  misnamed.  My  cousin  had  an  engage- 
ment at  Quarter  Sessions,  so  I  was  left  to  my  own  devices.  Speedily 
aiming  myself  with  a  double  barrel,  and  eagerly  followed  by  a  super- 
aimuated  yellow  setter,  who  usually  dozed  next  his  iron  kith  and  kin, 
the  huge  dogs  on  the  kitchen  hearth,  I  betook  myself  literally  to  the 
field.  Having  no  idea  of  the  haunts  of  the  woodcock,  I  sneaked 
gently  up  its  rambling  hedge-side,  full  of  bushes  and  young  trees, 
many  of  which,  being  oak,  still  preserved  their  leaves.  Of  course  I 
Iiad  crammed  both  barrels  with  shot,  and  carried  my  piece  at  full 
cock,  dragging  it  after  me  in  that  approved  way  through  the  hedge- 
lows,  and  occasionally  using  it  as  a  club  to  beat  the  bushes  with  as 
much  sang-froid  as  if  I  were  honorary  member  of  the  Gun  Club,  and 
with  all  that  delightful  indifference  to  accidents  which  distinguishes 
boys  sent  out  for  the  first  time  with  a  double  barrel,  and  no  one  to 
teach  them  how  to  use  it.  At  length,  in  a  thick  bit  of  underwood 
and  gorse,  Ponto  behaved  in  an  uncommon  manner,  glared  out  of 
his  blind  eyes,  set  up  his  tail,  and  performed  divers  actions  which  I 
conjectured  must  be  what  Hawker  termed  "  pointing ;"  (I  liad  read 
him  up  from  the  school  library).  My  heart  was  beating  in  a  way 
which  must  seriously  have  injured  its  mitral  functions.  I  gather  this 
from  the  fact  that,  though  now  a  parson,  1  have  not  yet  arrived  at 
the  dignity  of  a  bishop.  Like  one  treading  on  eggs,  1  advanced  two 
steps.  Ponto  looked  round,  as  much  as  to  say  in  the  language  of  the 
eyes,  **  Now  is  your  chance  !  dont  mull  it !"  There  was  a  sudden 
flip-flap,  and  I  was  aware  of  a  brown  bird  not  unlike  an  owl  flying 
up  and  down  like  a  boy's  kite  between  the  leaf-hung  russet  branches 
of  the  young  oaks.  In  a  moment  I  blazed  away.  I  am  not  certain 
whether  both  barrels  did  not  go  off  at  once,  and  whether  I  was  not 
knocked  down ;  at  any  rate  1  was  deafened  and  stunned,  and  knew 
not  whether  I  stood  on  my  head  or  my  heels.  Do  not  laugh,  gentle 
reader  !  or,  still  worse,  say,  "Incredulus  odi  I"  It  was  tlie  first  time  I  had 
over  fired  a  double  barrel.  When  the  smoke  cleared  away  I  saw  Ponto 
slinking  off,  looking  very  much  disgusted,  to  his  chimney  comer. 


300  The  Genilemans  Magazine.  . 

Notwithstanding  this  palpable  hint  of  what  my  aim  had  been,  I  still 
retained  sufficient  effrontery  to  climb  over  the  hedge  and  look  for 
the  dead  woodcock.  Needless  to  say,  I  did  not  find  him,  but  I 
salved  over  my  disappointment  by  reflecting  that  it  might  be  the 
bird's  habit,  when  hard  hit,  to  run  under  the  long  grass  and  fern.  If 
that  brutal  dog  had  not  slunk  off  home  he  might  have  retrieved  him 
for  mc. 

On  the  following  day  my  cousin  was  at  liberty,  and  we  determined  on 
a  grand  chasse.  After  breakfast  he  entered  the  flagged  courtyard  at 
the  back  of  the  house,  which  was,  as  above  mentioned,  bosomed  in 
high  rolling  mountains.  On  the  sides  of  these,  at  different  altitudes, 
were  perched  farm-houses,  their  whitewashed  walls  gleaming  in  the 
bright  December  sunshine.  Ponto,  my  ally  of  the  previous  day,  and 
a  couple  of  Clumber  spaniels,  bustled  eagerly  around  us,  divining 
the  fun  that  was  to  ensue.  My  cousin  blew  a  tirra  lirra  or  two  on  a 
horn,  and  immediately  from  each  of  the  farms  on  the  hill-sides  might 
be  seen  a  spaniel  jumping  the  outer  wall  and  hurrying  down  the 
moorland  to  the  court-yard.  In  five  minutes  we  had  a  goodly  pack 
of  liver  and  white  spaniels  round  us,  all  wild  to  start  for  the  brakes. 

"Now  then,"  said  my  cousin,  "we  will  first  try  the  wein  goc/i,  or 
*  red  meadow,'  for  a  snipe.*' 

Thither,  accordingly,  we  bent  our  steps,  and  after  a  mile  or  two 
of  rough  walking,  during  which  I  let  fly  at  a  hare,  and  was  told,  to 
comfort  me  for  my  miss,  that^he  **  had  had  a  hair-breadth  escape  of  her 
life,"  we  jumped  over  a  turf  bank,  and  found  ourselves  literally  in  the 
7aeiH  gochy  for  we  were  over  our  ankles  in  ruddy  slime,  exuding  from 
a  peat  bog  covered  with  tufts  of  coarse  rushes.  It  was  a  vast  level 
expanse,  dotted  here  and  there  with  a  sheet  of  water  of  a  red  hue, 
from  the  dead  autumnal  vegetation  and  the  peat  liquor  that  oozed 
up  wherever  we  trod.  Rows  of  the  pretty  cotton  grasses  ever  and 
anon  waved  their  white  banners  in  the  breeze,  like  a  charge  of 
pigmy  lancers  following  some  white-plumed  Navarre.  Walking  was 
difficult,  and  often  consisted  of  a  series  of  hops,  skips,  and  jumps  from 
one  firm  tussock  to  another.  Even  to  my  untutored  eyes  the  place 
looked  a  very  paradise  for  snipe.  Alas  !  our  "  tail "  thought  so  too. 
Being  under  no  discipline,  the  spaniels  rushed  off  howling  in  great 
glee  over  the  meadow.  Round  and  round  did  they  race,  putting  up 
every  snipe  on  it  well  out  of  shot,  and,  spite  of  any  amount  of 
whisding,  calling,  and  objurgation,  continuing  their  fiendish  gambols. 
Even  Ponto  forgot  himself  so  far  as  to  join  their  fun,  and  a  pretty 
plight  were  we  left  in  standing  on  tussocks  near  the  bank  :  my  cousin 
raving,  shouting,  and  swearing,  1  in  a  fit  of  laughter  at  the  absurd 


My  First  Woodcock.  301 

scene.  Now  the  canine  rout  rushed  by  us  again,  haviag.  completed 
the  third  round,  and  so  exasperated  my  companion  that  he  fired  at 
the  rascal  nearest  him,  but  he  was  cunningly  running  just  out  of  shot, 
and  firing  only  egged  the  wretched  animals  on  to  scamper  over  every 
central  spot  which  they  had  previously  missed.  We  saw  the  snipe 
rise  one  by  one  and  wing  their  way  out  of  sight  into  the  grey  clouds. 
Finally,  my  cousin  ascended  the  turf  bank,  and  there^  much  like  Mr. 
Pickwick  (for  he  was  stout  and  wore  knee-breeches),  he  solemnly 
cursed  the  brutes,  all  and  sundry,  the  whole  pack  and  each  one  sepa- 
rately, their  fathers,  grandsires,  even  to  their  remotest  relatives.  I 
shall  never  forget  the  scene,  or  how  I  laughed  at  his  rage.  The 
solemn  curse  by  bell,  book,  and  candle  of  "  The  Ingoldsby  Legends  " 
was  the  only  parallel  to  it  When  the  dogs  did  come  back,  dire  was 
the  thrashing  they  got,  and  much  did  they  howl,  till  that  watery  flat 
in  South  Wales  bore  a  great  resemblance  to  Barking  Creek. 

But  what  has  all  this  to  do  with  woodcock  ?     I  crave  pardon ;  a 
snipe  is  closely  connected  with  a  woodcock,  and  now  we  arrive  at 
our  game.    After  some  hours  of  miscellaneous  shooting  on  the  low 
lands,  where  rabbits,  hares,  partridges,  and  a  snipe  whenever  the  dogs 
passed  it  by,  fell  to  my  cousin's  gun,  we  reached  one  of  those  valleys, 
so  common  in  South  Wales,  which  wind  between  high  hill-sides  of 
dog  oak  and  other  thickets.     More  delightful  cover  for  woodcocks 
could  not  be  found.     Crossing  the  brawling  stream,  which  in  summer 
dries  up  here  and  there,  and  leaves  pools  to  glitter  like  pearls  which 
have  slipped  off  their  string,  but  which  at  Christmas  generally  rushes 
downwards  in  full  volume,  we  turned  in  the  spaniels  and  diverged, 
so  that  one  should  be  below  and  the  other  obtain  a  shot  at  birds 
which  tried  to  leave  the  valley  above.     Ever  and  anon  the  yelp  of 
the  dogs  reached  my  ears,  followed  by  the  discharge  of  a  couple  of 
barrels,  and  a  cheery  "  Mark  !  mark  cock  !"  from  my  companion. 
Then  I  would  obtain  a  glimpse  of  a  bird  threading  the  oak  stems 
rapidly  yet  silently,  and  in  my  turn  awoke  the  echoes  of  the  granite 
bluffs  overhead  with  my  gun,  and  shouted  "  Mark  !  mark  !"  as  if  it 
were  part  of  the  performance.  However,  after  some  fruitless  expenditure 
of  powder  and  shot  in  this  manner,  I  bethought  myself  of  Gilbert 
White's  criticism  on  **  the  new  method  of  shooting  flying,"  and  deter- 
mined,  at   whatever   cost    to    my   character    as    a   sportsman,    to 
secure  a  bird,  even  if  I  should  have  to  stoop  to  shoot  him  sitting. 
The  opportunity  soon  came.      I  was   in   a   very  thick  plantation, 
bending  low  to  escape  the  branches,  and  crawling  along  the  hill-side 
at  the  same  time,  when  I  reached  a  sort  of  path  on  the  track  which 
ran  down  to  the  rivulet  at  right  angles  with  the  line  I  was  pursuing. 
Vol.  XL,  N.S.  1873.  x 


302  The  Gentleman  s  Magazitie. 

Halting  a  moment  to  wipe  my  forehead,  I  happened  to  look  upwards, 
where  the  straight  track  turned  some  fifteen  yards  above  me  into  a 
clump  of  rushes.  Up  that  dark  aisle,  shadowed  over  by  oak  boughs, 
and  skirted  on  each  side  by  high  dead  veronica  plants,  fern,  and  tall 
rank  grass,  my  eye  pierced,  tilL  near  the  aforementioned  rushes  it 
rested  on  a  veritable  woodcock.  There  was  no  mistake.  I  beheld 
his  long  bill,  even  his  beady  sparkling  eyes.  Down  on  one  knee  I 
dropped  like  a  rifleman,  aimed  at  him — pulled — dashed  through  the 
smoke  to  pick  him  up — already  gloated  over  my  triumph.  But  how 
was  this  ?  'J'here  was  nothing  there ;  no  trace  of  the  feathers  which  I 
must  have  blown  off  him  !  Only  two  alternatives  were  possible. 
One  that,  like  Macbeth's  dagger,  my  vision  was  : — 

A  woodcock  of  the  mind ;  a  false  creation 
Proceeding  from  the  heat-oppressed  brain  ; 

and  my  common  sense  assured  me  of  the  falsity  of  this  opinion. 
The  other  alternative,  which  I  was  sadly  compelled  to  pronounce 
true,  was  that  I  had  not  yet  killed  my  first  woodcock. 

However,  it  came  at  last  A  few  days  afterwards  we  started 
to  shoot  a  boggy  piece  of  ground,  interspersed  with  hazels,  and 
here  and  there  covered  with  a  small  larch  plantation.  We  had  the 
parson  of  the  jwirish  with  us  on  this  occasion,  a  noted  woodcock 
shooter,  and  as  keen  at  the  sport  as  his  dog  Rover,  which  is  saying  a 
good  deal.  You  could  not  be  five  minutes  with  him  before  he  spoke 
of  •*  cocks,"  told  you  the  number  he  had  shot  or  missed  this  season, 
and  the  prospects  of  sport  in  ever)'  cover  of  the  neighbourhood. 
His  eyes  were  as  clear  and  sjxirkling  as  the  eyes  of  his  favourite  game ; 
he  would  even,  to  render  the  resemblance  more  complete,  occasionally 
cock  one  of  them  to  emphasise  his  opinions,  and  altogether  I  men- 
tally comiKired  him  to  my  own  gun,  alwa\*s  at  full  cock.  Many  a 
plunge  did  I  take  into  the  bogg>*  ground  that  morning,  and  many  a 
mile  did  we  chase  cock  after  cock  ;  the  "parhedig"  (as  the  parson 
was  termevi  in  the  vernacular)  being  alwa\*s  well  in  front,  shooting 
down  most  of  the  birds  that  rose,  and  pursuing  the  rest  with  cheery 
shouts  to  Rover  .ind  ourselves  from  bush  to  bush,  till  I  began  to 
entertain  interestcvl  views  about  luncheon.  At  length  we  reached  a 
Km  h  plantation,  and  Rover  gave  tongue ;  my  cousin  was  entangled 
in  its  centre  amidst  a  wilderness  of  briars,  the  "parhcdig*  ran  cun- 
ningly to  the  low  side,  and  I,  thinking  the  bird  might  be  foolish 
enough  to  tr>'  the  oju^n,  juminni  into  the  grass  field  on  the  other  side 
of  the  woihU  The  commotion  became  more  intense,  out  flew  the 
CO^  0%"^  my  head.  Rover  Kirked,  my  cousin  ydled  to  me,  the 
'  woke  the  welkin  with  his  loud  **  Look  out !  cock  I'*    It 


My  First  Woodcock.  303 

was  a  tremendous  moment  I  felt  something  of  Napoleon's  heroic 
sense  of  three  thousand  years  looking  down  on  him  from  the  Pyramids, 
as  I  aimed  before  my  companions.  Horrible  thought  as  I  pulled — 
what  if  the  trigger  be  only  on  half  cock  ?  No,  it  went  oflf ;  two  clouds 
cut  oflf  my  vision,  one  of  smoke,  one  of  feathers.  Then  with  a  thud 
a  magnificent  specimen  (of  course  !)  of  scolopax  rusticola  fell  before 
me.  My  readers  will  doubtless  remember  their  own  sensations  in 
a  like  case.  Amid  the  cheers  of  my  cousin  and  the  "  parhedig,"  and 
the  delighted  busde  of  Rover,  the  curtain  falls.  I  had  killed  my  first 
woodcock ! 

Candour  compels  an  ingenuous  confession  ere  I  conclude.  Soon 
after,  I  had  to  leave  South  Wales  for  the  pages  of  Virgil  and 
!/£schylus ;  then  followed  a  reading  man's  life  at  College,  and  vaca- 
tions spent  away  from  shooting ;  then  the  active  business  of  life  suc- 
ceeded, and  the  changed  ideas  and  pursuits  of  a  parson,  marriage, 
children,  &c     That  was  my  first  woodcock  and — it  was  my  last ! 

Pelagius. 


■  w  ,  -v  yx.'"^ 


X  2 


SOMEBODY'S  Child. 

N  the  26th  of  May,  in  the  year  1828,  a  citizen  of  the 
ancient  town  of  Nuremberg,  standing  at  his  own  door 
drinking  in  the  pure  evening  air  through  a  long  tobacco 
pipe,  beheld  advancing  towards  him  a  youth  of  singular 
aspect.  The  object  of  the  citizen's  regard  was  attired  in  pantaloons 
of  grey  cloth,  a  waistcoat  of  a  spotted  red  material  much  the  worse 
for  wear,  and  a  jacket  which  had  plainly  seen  service  as  the  upper 
portion  of  a  frock  coat.  Round  the  youth's  neck  was  a  black  silk 
neckcloth,  his  head  was  roofed  by  a  coarse  felt  hat,  and  the  toes  of 
his  stockingless  feet  peeped  forth  from  a  pair  of  heavy  boots,  which, 
like  each  of  the  other  articles  of  his  motley  attire,  had  never  been 
designed  for  the  use  of  the  present  wearer.  More  singular  than  his 
medley  of  clothing  were  his  motions,  which,  though  not  those  of  a 
drunken  man,  resembled  them,  insomuch  that  though  the  youth's 
spirit  was  evidently  willing  to  gain  the  other  end  of  the  street,  his 
flesh  truly  was  weak,  and  as  to  the  legs  altogether  ungovernable. 
The  citizen  noticed  with  amazement  that  they  gave  way  alternately 
as  the  weight  of  the  youth's  body  rested  upon  them  in  turns  in  his 
painful  endeavour  to  progress,  and  that  they  showed  a  disposition  to 
disperse  in  any  direction  save  that  in  which  the  owner  desired  to 
proceed.  The  youth's  progress  being  under  these  circumstances 
necessarily  slow,  the  citizen  advanced,  and  giving  him  greeting, 
inquired  if  he  might  in  any  way  aid  him.  The  youth  answered  in 
ill-pronounced  German,  "  I  would  be  a  rider  as  my  father  was,"  and 
held  out  a  letter  which  he  carried  in  his  hand,  and  which  was  ad- 
dressed "  To  his  Honour  the  Captain  of  the  4th  Esgatarm  of  the 
Shwolishaz  Regiment,  Nuremberg."  The  good  citizen  oflfered  to 
guide  him  to  the  captain's  quarters,  and  would  have  beguiled  the 
way  with  conversation.  But  to  all  his  observations  the  strange 
youth  answered  only,  "  I  would  be  a  rider  as  my  father  was ;"  and 
his  interlocutor,  presently  arriving  at  the  conclusion  that  the  youth 
with  the  weak  legs  must  be  a  foreigner,  desisted  from  further 
attempts  at  conversation.  Arrived  at  the  captain's  house,  the  youth 
presented  the  letter  to  the  servant,  and  piteously  pointing  to  his 
swollen  feet  moaned  his  moan,  "  I  would  be  a  rider  as  my  father 
was."  The  servant  failing,  as  the  citizen  had  failed,  to  get  any 
further  speech  from  him,  admitted  him  to  the  kitchen  pending  his 


Somebody s  Child.  305 

master's  return,  and  being  touched  by  his  sorrowful  condition  placed 
meat  and  beer  before  him.  The  youth  eagerly  seized  a  piece  of  the 
meat  and  thrust  it  into  his  mouth ;  but  scarcely  had  it  touched  his 
lips  than  he  shook  from  head  to  foot,  the  muscles  of  his  face  became 
horribly  convulsed,  and  he  spat  out  the  morsel  with  every  token  of 
disgust.  Similar  symptoms  following  upon  his  tasting  the  beer,  the 
captain's  servant,  not  feeling  altogether  at  home  in  the  company  of 
so  singular  a  youth,  cautiously  conducted  him  to  the  stable,  where  he 
lay  down  upon  the  straw  and  instantly  fell  asleep. 

On  the  captain's  return  the  letter  was  handed  to  him,  with  an 
account  of  the  bearer's  conduct,  which  lost  nothing  of  its  singularity 
in  the  reporting.  The  missive,  on  being  opened,  was  found  to  be 
dated  with  some  indefiniteness,  **  From  a  place  near  the  Bavarian 
frontier  which  shall  be  nameless,  1828."  The  letter  proceeded  to 
set  forth  that  the  bearer  was  left  in  the  house  of  the  writer  on  the 
7th  of  October,  18 12,  and  that  he  had  never  been  able  to  discover 
who  the  waif's  mother  was.  The  writer  added  that  he  himself  was  a 
poor  day  labourer,  having  ten  children  and  very  little  wherewith  to 
maintain  them ;  that  he  had  never  permitted  the  lad  to  take  a  step 
out  of  his  house,  and  that  he  was  thus  in  total  ignorance  of  its 
locality,  and  so  **  good  Mr.  Captain  need  not  try  to  find  it  out."  The 
letter  concluded  by  commending  the  bearer  to  the  captain's  care, 
but  adding  that  if  he  did  not  desire  to  keep  the  boy  he  might  "  kill 
him  or  hang  him  up  in  the  chimney."  This  mysterious  epistle  was 
written  in  German  characters,  but  enclosed  was  a  note  written  in 
Latin,  enjoining  the  captain  to  send  the  boy  when  he  was  seven- 
teen years  of  age  to  Nuremberg  to  the  6th  Regiment  of  Light  Horse, 
"  for  there  his  father  also  was."  Here  was  a  delicate  and  a  dangerous 
position  for  a  captain  of  Light  Horse,  and  a  married  man  witha^  to 
be  placed  in  !  But  the  captain  of  the  4th  Esgatarm  was  a  man  of 
action,  and  straightway  proceeded  to  the  stable,  determined  to  get  at 
the  bottom  of  what  was  most  probably  the  weak  invention  of  some 
female  enemy.  In  this  intention  he  was,  however,  hopelessly  baffled. 
Whenever  he  paused  for  a  reply  to  his  volley  of  questions  his  guest 
answered  only,  "  I  would  be  a  rider  as  my  father  was,"  words  of 
whose  meaning  he  seemed  to  have  no  more  intelligent  conception 
than  had  Poe's  raven  of  the  "  Evermore  "  it  was  wont  to  croak  from 
its  position  on  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  the  poet's  chamber 
door.  Unwilling  to  be  saddled  with  the  charge  of  so  uncanny  a 
guest,  and  not  caring  to  adopt  either  of  the  mild  methods  of  dis- 
posing of  him  suggested  by  the  letter  of  introduction,  the  captain 
handed  the  stranger  over  to  the  police,  two  of  whom  led  him  away. 


3o6  The  Gentlemaris  Magazine. 

informing  him  on  the  road  that  it  was  of  no  use  his  trying  to  "  come 
the  old  soldier  "  over  them,  and  that  the  sooner  he  told  who  he  was 
and  whence  he  came  the  better  it  would  be  for  him.  On  his  arrival 
at  the  police  station  the  officials  gravely  proceeded  to  put  to  him 
the  several  questions  enjoined  by  law,  to  each  of  which  he  wearily 
wailed  "  I  would  be  a  rider  as  my  father  was." 

Like  the  citizen,  the  captain's  servant,  and  the  captain  himself, 
the  guardians  of  the  peace  of  Nuremberg  were  utterly  at  a  loss  to 
make  anything  of  the  singular  apparition  which  had  dropped  down 
or  sprung  up  upon  their  streets,  and  they  were  not  in  any  wise 
assisted  by  the  magistrates  who  were  summoned  to  the  council. 
The  youth  showed  just  such  signs  of  intelligence  as  might  be 
expected  from  a  baby  recently  relieved  of  the  incumbrance  of  long 
clothes  and  not  quite  comfortable  in  its  mind  by  reason  of  the 
change.  He  stared  with  lack-lustre  eyes  at  the  furniture  of  the 
room,  visibly  brightening  up  when  he  beheld  the  gold  lace  on  the 
uniforms  of  the  officers  present,  and  showing  a  strong  desire  to 
handle  it.  After  spending  several  hours  in  attempts  to  elicit  some- 
thing from  him,  the  burgomaster  in  a  happy  moment  placed  pen, 
ink,  and  paper  before  him,  and  bade  him  write  a  detailed  account  of 
himself.  With  a  childish  laugh,  as  if  he  recognised  an  old  play- 
thing, the  stranger  seized  the  pen,  and  in  a  legible  hand  wrote  the 
words  "Kasper  Hauser,"  and  with  a  repetition  of  this  name  he 
gleefully  covered  the  sheet.  But  it  speedily  became  apparent  that 
as  his  power  of  speech  was  limited  to  the  phrase  touching  his  father 
the  rider,  so  was  his  ability  to  write  exhausted  in  the  production  of 
the  name  "Kasper  Hauser."  This  was,  however,  a  point  gained, 
and  Kasper  was  remanded  on  suspicion  of  being  a  rogue  and  a 
vagtt>ond,  and  accommodated  with  a  cell  accordingly.  Being  offered 
by  his  gaoler  the  prison  ration  of  bread  and  water  he  devoured  it 
greedily,  and  then,  lying  back  on  his  straw,  fell  into  a  peaceful  sleep. 

On  the  following  morning  he  was  again  brought  up  for  examina- 
tion, but  with  no  fresh  result ;  and  as  the  days  went  by  the  convic- 
tion of  his  genuineness  forced  itself  on  the  minds  of  those  who  had 
him  in  charge,  and  instead  of  being  regarded  as  an  object  of 
suspicion,  who  ought  at  least  to  be  made  to  "  move  on, "  this  strange 
being,  whose  cheeks  were  covered  with  the  down  of  approaching 
manhood  while  his  mental  powers  were,  without  natural  defect, 
as  undeveloped  as  those  of  a  two-year-old  baby,  became  an  object 
of  the  deepest  interest  and  the  most  affectionate  regard.  Little  by 
little  the  broad  outline  of  the  story  of  his  life  leaked  out,  and  the 
whole  German  nation  read  with  growing  excitement  that  somewhere 


Somebody  s  Child.  307 

in  their  midst,  and  for  reasons  which  could  only  be  conjectured, 
this  lad,  now  in  his  sixteenth  year,  had  since  his  birth  been 
immured  in  a  room  less  than  six  feet  square ;  that  till  a  few  days 
before  he  entered  Nuremberg  he  had  never  beheld  the  light  of 
Heaven,  the  face  of  Nature,  or  the  likeness  of  man;  that  he  had 
never  stood  upon  his  feet,  never  heard  the  human  voice,  never  eaten 
anything  but  bread,  and  never  drunk  anything  but  water.  Here  was 
a  feast  for  a  philosophical  and  imaginative  nation — a  people  who 
could  evolve  camels  from  their  inner  consciousness,  and  who  were 
ever  on  the  look  out  for  some  fresh  glimpse  of  that  Wonderland  with 
whose  dark  glades  and  sunlit  hills  they  had  been  familiar  ever  since 
the  hour  of  strangely  mingled  pain  and  pleasure  when  they  had 
smoked  their  first  pipe.  The  citizens  of  Nuremberg  flocked  in 
crowds  to  visit  Kasper,  and  as  his  story  spread  travellers  from  a 
distance,  among  whom  were  distinguished  scholars,  nobles,  and  even 
princes  of  the  blood,  made  journeys  to  his  little  court  until  his  levees 
became  so  crowded  that  they  grew  out  of  all  proportion  to  the 
accommodation  that  Nuremberg  could  provide,  and  the  order  went 
forth  for  their  discontinuance.  The  burgomaster  issued  a  formal 
notice  in  which  the  world  was  given  to  understand  that  Kasper 
Hauser  had  been  adopted  by  the  city  of  Nuremberg,  and  in  its  name 
committed  to  the  charge  of  an  instructor,  and  thenceforward  poor 
Kasper,  with  his  ludicrously  disobedient  limbs,  his  wondering, 
wandering  eyes,  his  baby  prattle,  and  his  adolescent  form  ceased  to 
be  on  public  view. 

Of  the  learned  men  in  whose  minds  this  new  and  startling  phe- 
nomenon created  a  deep  interest  was  Anselm  von  P'euerbach,  a 
distinguished  judge  in  Bavaria,  who  devoted  much  time  to  the  study 
of  Kasper's  bodily  and  mental  condition,  and  embodied  the  r^lt  of 
his  observations  in  a  book,  one  of  many  which  were  published  Having 
"  the  child  of  Nuremberg  "  as  a  theme.  Here  we  find  a  full  descrip- 
tion of  Kasper  and  minute  details  of  his  daily  life,  which,  as  forming 
an  altogether  new  chapter  in  the  study  of  man,  possess  an  interest 
apart  fi'om  the  mere  vulgar  one  attached  to  the  mystery  of  the  lad's 
origin.  Kasper  was,  when  the  learned  judge  first  visited  him, 
sixteen  or  seventeen  years  of  age  and  four  feet  nine  inches  in  height. 
He  was  strongly  and  symmetrically  made,  but  so  ignorant  was  he  of 
the  use  of  his  limbs  that  his  hands  were  rather  in  his  way  than 
otherwise,  and  he  had  acquired  a  nervous  habit  of  stretching  out 
three  fingers  on  either  hand  by  way  of  feelers,  hi^  forefinger  and 
thumb  being  meanwhile  joined  at  the  tips  in  the  form  of  a  circle. 
His  method  of  walking  was  precisely  that  of  an  infant,   and   he 


3o8  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

tottered  across  the  room  from  chair  to  chair  with  both  arms  held  out 
to  balance  himself.  Woe  to  him  if  a  bit  of  stick  or  a  book  lay  in  his 
path.  It  was  sure  to  bring  him  flat  on  his  face,  where  he  would  lie 
content  to  sprawl  till  some  one  lifted  him  up  and  gave  him  another 
start.  To  all  descriptions  of  food  and  drink  save  bread  and  water 
he  showed  the  same  signs  of  decided  aversion  which  had  terrified  the 
captain's  servant.  The  presence  of  any  article  of  food  except  the 
two  mentioned  he  could  instantly  detect  by  the  smell,  and  a  drop  of 
wine,  coffee,  beer,  or  milk  mixed  with  his  water,  or  a  morsel  of  meat, 
butter,  or  cheese  placed  in  his  mouth,  caused  him  to  become  violently 
ill.  His  perfect  innocence  cast  out  fear  from  his  mind,  and  he  would 
stand  looking  on  with  childish  delight  while  a  naked  sabre  was 
flashed  within  a  foot  of  his  nose,  and  once  when  a  pistol  was  fired  at 
him  he  objected  to  the  experiment  only  on  the  score  of  the  noise  it 
created.  His  sense  of  smelling  was  peculiarly  keen,  but  for  some 
time  his  senses  of  sight  and  hearing  appeared  to  be  in  a  state  of 
torpor — not  that  he  was  either  blind  or  deaf,  for  his  eyes  were  so 
strong  that  he  could  see  as  well  in  the  dark  as  in  the  light,  and  his 
hearing  lacked  nothing  in  the  power  of  distinguishing  sounds  to 
which  his  attention  was  specially  directed.  But  it  was  a  natural 
consequence  of  the  undeveloped  condition  of  his  being  that  he 
should  behold  things  without  seeing  them  and  hear  without  noticing, 
and  hence  he  stared  vacantly  at  the  objects  of  daily  life  and  heard  its 
sounds  without  receiving  any  impression  therefrom.  One  exception 
must  be  made  in  favour  of  glittering  objects,  which  from  the  first  he 
eagerly  seized  and  played  with,  and  the  ringing  of  bells,  which  threw 
him  into  a  state  of  ecstacy.  His  ideas  of  things  animate  and  in- 
animate, natural  and  artistic,  were  extremely  broad.  He  could 
(listii^ish  a  man  or  a  woman  from  the  lower  order  of  animals,  but 
the  sole  difference  which  his  mind  could  discover  between  the  sexes 
was  that  one  dressed  in  more  flowing  and  brighter  coloured  robes,  and 
was  therefore  the  more  lovable.  Animals  he  also  arbitrarily  divided 
into  two  classes,  white  and  black.  A  white  pigeon  or  a  white  horse 
were  the  same  to  him — things  pleasant  to  behold  and  desirable; 
but  anything  that  was  black  he  abhorred,  and  a  black  hen  which  he 
once  chanced  upon  nearly  killed  him  with  fright.  Of  a  Creator,  or 
death,  or  a  life  to  come,  it  is  needless  to  say  he  had  no  conception 
or  any  capability  of  understanding.  Shortly  after  his  domestication 
in  Nuremberg  divers  devout  and  well-meaning  clergymen  sat  down 
before  him,  and||t  sundry  times  strove  to  accomplish  the  salvation  of 
his  soul.  But  though  he  would  listen  for  a  time  with  the  most 
encouraging  attention,  he  would  presently  make  a  dart  at  the  good 


Somebody  s  Child.  309 

man^s  eye-glass,  or  curiously  fondle  his  whiskers,  or  stoop  down  to 
feel  the  polish  on  his  boots,  or  by  other  and  similar  exhibitions  of 
babyness  satisfactorily  demonstrate  that  he  had  not  the  slightest 
idea  of  what  the  sermon  was  about.  Indeed,  all  through  his  life 
Kasper  entertained  a  strong  aversion  to  parsons,  their  presence 
operating  upon  him  in  somewhat  the  same  way  that  meat  did.  His 
impression  of  the  ceremony  of  public  worship  he  once  summed  up  in 
the  following  pithy  manner  : — "First  the  people  bellow,  and  when 
they  have  done  the  parson  begins  to  bellow. " 

The  struggle  of  this  peculiarly  situated  human  mind  to  grapple 
with  the  ideas  that  had  suddenly  burst  upon  it  wore  deeply  interest- 
ing to  the  psychological  world,  and  Rasper's  education  was  directed 
with  as  anxious  a  care  as  if  the  poor  foundling  had  been  the  Prince 
Imperial  or  the  prospective  Czar  of  all  the  Russias.  Possessing  a 
memory  which,  counting  its  age  by  years,  was  in  its  prime,  and  upon 
which  no  ideas  had  yet  been  written,  and  with  a  disposition  singu- 
larly docile  and  earnest,  Kasper  made  wonderful  progress  in  his 
studies.  In  a  manner  which  shall  presently  be  noted  he  had  made  , 
a  start  in  the  art  of  writing,  and  in  this  he  soon  perfected  himself, 
while  he  daily  added  to  his  vocabulary  of  speech.  His  notions  of 
things  were,  however,  essentially  childish,  and  when  he  passed 
beyond  the  stage  of  impassive  indifference  to  all  around  him  he  con- 
stantly indulged  in  fancies  the  most  grotesque.  He  endowed  images 
and  trees  with  life,  and  if  a  sheet  of  paper  were  blown  off  the  table 
he  regarded  the  act  as  of  its  own  volition,  and  would  **  wonder  why 
it  went."  It  was  a  matter  of  deep  surprise  to  him  that  the  horses 
and  unicorns  which  he  saw  carved  in  stone  upon  the  buildings  of  the 
city  did  not  run  away,  and  he  was  for  ever  guessing  what  the  trees 
were  saying  when  the  wind  rustled  through  them  and  mo^W  their 
big  arms  and  fingers.  Himself  scrupulously  clean,  he  beheld  with 
indignation  a  dirt-encrusted  statue  which  stood  in  his  tutor's  garden, 
often  asking  "  why  the  man  did  not  wash  himself."  He  also  pro- 
pounded a  similar  inquiry  for  the  consideration  of  an  old  grey  cat, 
which  he  viewed  as  wilfully  neglecting  the  ordinary  means  at  its 
command  of  becoming  white. 

At  this  time  his  eyes,  recovering  from  the  state  of  inflammation 
into  which  they  had  been  thrown  by  the  sudden  translation  from 
darkness  to  light,  were  keen  beyond  comparison,  and,  as  I  have 
mentioned,  were  equally  serviceable  by  night  or  day.  His  sense  of 
hearing,  too,  was  peculiarly  acute,  and  he  couldWistinguish  at  a 
great  distance  the  sound  of  a  man  walking  barefoot  His  touch  was 
equally  sensitive,   and  he  was   affected   in  a  powerful  manner  by 


3IO  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

metallic'and  magnetic  influences.  Of  all  the  senses  smelling  was  with 
him  so  highly  developed  as  to  be  a  source  of  daily  torture.  Things 
which  to  ordinary  mortals  are  entirely  destitute  of  odour,  he  could 
scent  from  afar,  and  flowers  or  other  substances  which  possess  a  dis- 
tinguishable perfume  affected  him  so  powerfully  that  it  was  necessary 
to  exercise  constant  care  to  keep  him  without  their  range. 

To  this  state  of  morbid  sensibility  there  succeeded  one  in  which 
his  exceptional  powers  of  memory,  and,  in  a  less  degree,  those  of 
sight,  hearing,  smelling,  taste,  and  touch,  faded,  and  his  abilit)Nlo 
learn  the  lessons  prepared  for  him  steadily  decreased.  This  was 
doubtless  a  natural  result  of  the  forcing  system  which  was  adopted 
by  his  tutors ;  but  it  was  also  coexistent  with  the  change  which  had 
been  gradually  effected  in  his  diet  Education  in  this  direction  had 
been  a  work  of  great  difficulty,  but  by  degrees  Kasper  became  accus- 
tomed to  eat  meat  and  drink  milk,  and  he  throve  so  well  under  his 
new  diet  that  he  was  soon  able  to  walk  the  streets  of  Nuremberg 
without  exciting  doubts  of  his  sobriety.  Of  horses  and  of  riding  he 
was  passionately  fond.  He  was  from  his  first  mount  as  safe  in  the 
saddle  as  a  child  in  its  cradle,  and  thenceforward  daily  rode  out  on 
horseback,  undertaking  without  fatigue  journeys  which  would  have 
worn  out  a  foxhunter. 

In  1829,  the  year  after  Kasper*s  birth  into  the  world — and  it  is 
necessary  to  bear  in  mind  that  it  is  of  his  first  year  I  have  hitherto 
discoursed — the  public  demanded  that  something  more  than  had  yet 
been  accomplished  should  be  done  towards  clearing  up  the  mystery  of 
his  life.  Accordingly  a  court  of  inquiry  was  appointed  by  the 
Government,  and  several  days  were  consumed  in  hearing  depositions 
of  facts  connected  with  the  foundling.  Of  the  scanty  evidence 
adduc4||the  most  interesting  is  a  brief  memoir  written  by  himself  in 
February,  1829,  less  than  twelve  months  after  his  appearance  in 
Nuremberg,  a  production  which  displays  the  wonderful  educational 
progress  made  by  him  in  so  short  a  time.  His  reminiscences  are 
wholly  confined  to  his  existence  in  what  he  calls  **  a  hole,"  which, 
firom  his  comparisons  with  other  localities,  appears  to  have  been  a 
chamber  about  six  or  seven  feet  long  and  five  feet  high.  His  dress, 
he  tells  us,  consisted  of  a  shirt  and  trousers,  with  a  rug  to  cover  his 
legs,  and  he  sat  upon  straw  with  his  back  against  the  wall,  never 
lying  full  length  even  when  he  slept  When  he  awoke  from  sleep  he 
sometimes  found  that  he  had  a  clean  shirt  on,  and  there  was  always 
a  pitcher  of  wate^  and  a  piece  of  bread  on  the  floor  beside  him. 
How  they  came  there  he  never  questioned,  accepting  them  as  a 
matter  of  course^  and  only  occasionally  wishing  tliat  the  supply  of 


* 


Somebody  s  Child.  ^  311 

water  were  more  liberal.  When  he  was  very  thirsty,  and  hSd  druok 
all  the  water  in  the  pitcher,  he  was  wont  to  take  up  the  vessel  and 
hold  it  to  his  mouth,  expecting  that  water  would  presently  flow ; 
**  But  it  never  did,"  and  then  he  would  put  down  the  pitcher  and  go 
to  sleep  again,  and  when  he  awoke  there  was  water.  He  had  for 
playthings  two  wooden  horses,  a  dog,  and  some  pieces  of  red  and 
blue  ribbon,  and  his  sole  occupation  throughout  the  years  he  had 
spent  in  "  the  hole  "  was  to  deck  the  dog  and  the  horses  with  the 
rfcbon.  He  had  no  notion  that  there  was  anything  anywhere  beyond 
the  walls  that  enclosed  him,  and  for  a  long  time  did  not  know  that 
there  was  any  being  in  creation  save  himself.  But  once  a  man 
appeared,  and  placing  a  low  stool  before  Kasper  laid  a  piece  of  paper 
thereon,  and  taking  the  prisoner's  hand  within  his  own  guided  it  in 
forming  with  a  pencil  the  words  "  Kasper  Hauser."  This  he  repeated 
at  intervals,  till  Kasper  could  write  them  himself,  a  practice  in 
which  he  took  great  pleasure,  for  it  varied  the  monotony  of  his 
ordinary  recreation. 

One  day  the  man  came  to  him,  lifted  him  up,  and  placing  hi 
upon  his  feet  endeavoured  to  teach  him  to  stand  upright  and  us 
his  legs.  Kasper  had  never  yet  stood  on  his  feet,  and  the  experi- 
ment gave  him  great  pain.  But  the  man  persevered,  and  by  degrees 
the  position  grew  less  distressing.  After  the  lesson  had  been 
repeated  many  times  the  man  one  day  took  him  up  on  his  back  and 
carried  him  out  into  a  bright  light,  in  which  Kasper  fainted,  and  **  all 
became  night."  They  went  a  long  way,  he  being  sometimes  dragged 
along,  falling  over  his  helpless  feet,  sometimes  carried  on  the  man's 
back.  But  the  man  spoke  no  word  except  to  say,  "  I  would  be  a 
rider  as  my  father  was,"  a  shibboleth  which  thus  became  imprinted  on 
Rasper's  memory.  When  they  got  near  Nuremberg  the  m^  dressed 
him  in  the  clothes  described  at  the  commencement  of  this  article, 
and  upon  entering  the  gates  of  the  city  placed  a  letter  in  his  hand 
and  vanished. 

Nothing  could  be  made  of  this  extraordinary  story,  and  the  court 
of  inquiry,  solemnly  convened,  was  as  solemnly  dissolved,  having 
effected  no  other  result  than  that  of  widening  and  deepening  public 
interest  in  the  history  of  the  foundling.  This  interest  received  a  fresh 
stimulus  from  an  occurrence  which  took  place  on  the  17th  October, 
1829.  On  that  day  Kasper  was  found  insensible  and  covered  with 
blood,  lying  in  the  comer  of  a  cellar  in  the  house  of  the  learned  pro- 
fessor with  whom  he  lived.  When  restored  t^consciousness,  he 
related  how  that  a  man  with  a  black  silk  handkerchief  tied  round  his 
(ace  had  suddenly  appeared  before  him  as  he  sat  alone  in  his  room ; 
how  the  man  had  struck  him  a  heavy  blow  on  the  forehead,  felli 


312  ^       The  Gentlenmti s  Magazine. 

him  to  the  ground ;  and  how  upon  partially  coming  to  himself  he 
staggered  down  stairs  and  into  the  cellar,  where  he  had  fainted. 
After  this  event  Kasper  was  more  carefully  tended  than  ever,  and 
the  process  of  intellectual  cramming  proceeded  with  such  vigour  that 
in  a  couple  of  years  all  his  peculiar  brightness  had  faded.  Writing 
of  him  in  the  year  1832,  Herr  von  Feuerbach  says,  "The  extra- 
ordinary, almost  preternatural,  elevation  of  his  senses  has  been 
diminished,  and  has  almost  sunk  to  the  common  level.  He  is  indeed 
still  able  to  see  in  the  dark,  so  that  for  him  there  exists  no  real  nigWL 
But  he  is  no  longer  able  to  read  in  the  dark,  nor  to  recognise  the 
most  minute  objects  at  a  great  distance.  Of  the  gigantic  powers  of 
his  memory,  and  of  other  astonishing  qualities,  not  a  trace  remains. 
He  no  longer  retains  anything  that  is  remarkable,  except  his  extra- 
ordinary fate,  his  indescribable  goodness,  and  the  exceeding  amiable- 
ness  of  his  disposition."  It  is  astonishing  how  Kasper  wound  him- 
self about  the  hearts  of  those  with  whom  he  came  in  contact.  There 
are  people  still  living  in  Nuremberg  who  remember  him  and  regard 
ium  over  a  space  of  nearly  forty  years  with  a  marvellous  tenderness 
and  an  infinite  pity.  One  such  gave  me  as  a  precious  gift  a  copy  of 
his  portrait.  It  shows  a  lad  of  some  eighteen  years,  full-faced,  with 
short  curly  hair  lying  over  a  broad  high  forehead,  large  eyes,  well- 
shaped  nose,  a  sweet  mouth,  a  dimpled  chin,  and  a  general  expression 
of  the  presence  of  a  great  and  constant  sorrow  uncomplainingly  borne. 
In  the  year  1832  the  Earl  of  Stanhope  prevailed  upon  the  magis- 
tracy of  Nuremberg  to  deliver  up  to  his  care  the  adopted  child  of 
their  city,  and  his  lordship  temporarily  placed  him  at  Anspach, 
purposing  shortly  to  remove  him  to  England.  At  Anspach  the  life 
for  which  poor  Kasper  had  so  little  cause  for  thankfulness  was  closed 
by  the  alkssin*s  dagger.  On  the  17th  December,  1833,  he  went  by 
appointment  to  the  castle  park,  to  meet  a  person  who  had  darkly 
promised  to  give  him  a  clue  to  his  parentage,  and  who  upon  his 
arrival  at  the  trysting  place  treacherously  stabbed  him  to  the  heart 
The  deed  was  done  in  broad  daylight,  but  the  murderer  escaped,  and 
with  him  vanished  all  hope  of  elucidating  the  mystery  of  Kasper 
Hauser's  birth  and  life.  There  were  fresh  inquiries  and  new  con- 
jectures, but  from  that  day  to  this  nothing  capable  of  proof  has  been 
discovered.  "  God,"  wrote  the  pious  Binder,  chief  burgomaster  of 
Nuremberg,  in  a  manifesto  issued  upon  the  death  of  Kasper,  "  God 
in  his  justice  will  compensate  him  with  an  eternal  spring  of  the  joys 
of  infancy  denied  #im  here,  for  the  vigour  of  youth  of  which  he  was 
deprived,  and  for  the  life  destroyed  five  years  after  he  was  bom  into 
the  world.     Peace  to  his  ashes."    This  was  Kasper  Hauser's  epitaph. 

Henry  W.  Lucy. 


The  Town  Palace  of  the 

Percies. 

|HE  princely  Castle  of  Alnwick  in  Northumberland  is 
undoubtedly  that  one  of  their  many  residences  which 
has  the  best  claim  to  be  called  **  The  Historic  Home  of 
the  Percies,"  having  been  in  their  possession  for  more 
than  five  centuries,  even  in  an  age  when  the  Border  warfare  was  at 
its  highest,  since  which  time  it  has  shared  the  fortune  and  vicis- 
situdes of  that  powerful  family.  Sion  House,  too,  at  Isle  worth,  the 
ancient  home  of  the  sisters  of  the  Cistercian  order,  has  belonged 
to  them  ever  since  the  day  when  Henry  VHI.  so  ruthlessly  destroyed 
the  greater  monasteries,  and  so  has  a  fair  right  to  share  in  that 
appellation — that  is  if  three  centuries  and  a  half  constitute  histor||^ 
But  the  mansion  which  is  known  to  us  all  as  Northumberland  House 
in  the  Strand,  or,  to  speak  more  accurately,  at  Charing  Cross,  has 
belonged  to  them  for  only  the  comparatively  brief  space  of  two 
centuries  and  a  half.  Still,  even  that  is  a  long  time  for  a  town  resi- 
dence to  remain  in  one  line, — if  we  are  to  count  the  present  Smithson- 
Percies  as  one  line  with  the  genuine  Percies  of  antiquity.  And  to 
say  the  least,  Northumberland  House  is  the  last  survivor  of  those 
old  historic  mansions  of  our  nobility  which  once  lined  the  north 
bank  of  the  **  silvery  Thames  "  between  Westminster  and  Blackfriars, 
without  the  intervention  of  any  "embankment,"  either  mean  or 
magnificent  9 

In  speaking  of  the  Percies — a  family  whose  nobility  dates  as 
remotely  as  the  sovereignty  of  Normandy,  and  whose  renown,  coeval 
with  its  nobility,  has  flourished  in  every  age  and  coexisted  with 
every  generation  since — a  wiiter  in  a  periodical  work  of  great  ability 
and  influence  says  : — 

Not  more  famous  in  arms  th^n  distinguished  for  its  alliances,  the  house  of 
Percy  stands  pre-eminent  for  the  number  and  rank  of  the  families  which  are  re- 
presented by  the  present  Duke  of  Northumberland,  whose  banner,  consequently, 
exhibits  an  assemblage  of  nearly  nine  hundred  armorial  ensigns,  among  which  are 
those  of  King  Henry  VIII.,  of  several  younger  branches  of  the  Blood  Royal,  of 
the  Sovereign  Houses  of  France,  Castile,  Leon,  and  Scotland,  and  of  the  Ducal 
Houses  of  Normandy  and  Brittany,  forming  a  galaxy  of  Heraldic  honours  alto- 
getber  unparalleled. 

Northumberland  House  itself,  as  we  have  recently  learned,  is  to  be 
pulled  down  almost  immediately.     The  sentence  has  gone  forth ;  t 


314  •        ^'^^  Gentlemaits  Magazine. 

dked  of  purchase  was  signed  at  the  end  of  February  last  between 
the  Duke  of  Northumberland  and  the  Metropolitan  Board  of  Works  : 
and  in  its  place  in  another  year  or  so  we  shall  have  a  wide  and 
open  street  leading  from  Pall  Mall  and  Cockspur  Street  down  to 
that  noble  embankment  which  will  long  remain  the  grandest  monu- 
ment of  Lord  Palmerston's  premiership. 

Our  readers,  therefore,  will  be  glad  just  now  to  learn  a  little  of  its 
history.  Its  walls  have  not  witnessed  the  birth  of  an  English  Sove- 
reign, like  those  of  Norfolk  House  *  in  St.  James's  Square ;  but  ftr 
all  that  it  has  its  own  historical  associations.  A  little  over  two 
centuries  ago  Monk,  Duke  of  Albemarle,  was  a  visitor  within  its 
gates,  busily  engaged  in  concerting  measures  for  the  restoration  of 
monarchy  in  the  person  of  Charles  II. ;  and,  to  come  to  more  recent 
days,  Pepys,  and  John  Evelyn,  and  Horace  Walpole  were  guests  at 
the  grand  old  house  which,  no  doubt  with  the  full  consent  of  its 
noble  owners,  they  have  immortalised  in  their  "  Diaries  "  and  "  Cor- 
respondence." We  cannot  take  up  a  volume  of  Horace  Walpole's 
^musing  and  gossiping  letters  to  Sir  Horace  Mann,  to  Mr.  Mason,  or 
to  Lady  Ossory,  without  coming  across  some  notice  or  other  of 
the  house  and  its  inhabitants,  whether  of  Northampton,  Suffolk, 
Somerset,  or  Northumberland  descent — for  all  of  those  noble  families 
have  owned  it  in  their  turn ;  and  as  for  Horace  Walpole,  he  abounds 
in  anecdotes  concerning  the  balls,  routs,  and  other  entertainments 
for  which  the  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Northumberland  in  his  day  "  sent 
out  their  cards  "  and  "  opened  their  splendid  salons/* 

We  leave  it  for  professed  antiquaries  to  give  a  complete  history  of 
the  house  in  the  times  before  the  Reformation,  when  its  site  was  occu- 
pied by  a  "  Hospital  dedicated  to  the  Blessed  Virgin,"  which  was  a 
cell  to  *  religious  house  in  the  kingdom  of  Navarre.  Suffice  ii  to 
say  that  at  the  Reformation  and  the  dissolution  of  monasteries  the 
land  on  which  it  stood,  some  eight  or  ten  acres  in  extent,  was  granted 
to  one  Carwardine,  probably  a  courtier,  who  sold  the  estate  to  the 
Earl  of  Northampton,  a  younger  son  of  the  chivalrous,  noble,  and 
accomplished  Earl  of  Surrey.  A  house  was  built  on  the  site,  and  it 
came  to  be  called  after  its  owners — Northampton  House.  The 
edifice  was  erected  during  the  last  few  years  of  Elizabeth's  reign, 
being  finished  in  1605  by  Bernard  Jansen  and  Gerard  Christmas, 
the  latter  of  whom  was  in  great  estimation  on  account  of  some 
ornamental  work  which  he  had  designed  and  executed  at  Alders- 
gate.  Like  most  Of  the  houses  to  the  east  and  west,  it  consisted  of 
three  sides,  the  wings  facing  the  garden  and  river. 

•  King  George  III.  was  bom  there,  the  house  in  1739  being  occupied  by 
Frederick  Prince  of  Wales. 


The  Town  Palace  of  the  Percies.     m        315 

Lord  Northampton,  in  his  will,  dated  June  14,  16 14,  makes  thi# 
honourable  mention  of  his  eldest  nephew  : — "  To  my  most  dear  and 
entirely  beloved  nephew,  Thomas,  Earl  of  Suffolk,  I  give  my  jewel  of 
the  three  stones,  one  of  them  being  that  rubie  which  His  Excellent 
Majesty  sent  me  out  of  Scotland  as  his  first  token,  which  jewel  I 
cannot  better  repose  with  any  than  with  him  that  is  so  faithfiil  and 
trusty  to  His  Majesty.  ^And  I  give  him  also  a  cross  of  diamonds  given 
me  by  my  lady,  my  mother.  And  I  heartily  entreat  my  said  nephew 
to  give  his  countenance  and  furtherance  to  my  executors  in  the  execu- 
tion of  my  will."  It  may|  be  added  that  his  lordship  also  bequeathed 
his  mansion  at  Charing  Cross  to  the  Earl  of  Suffolk,  upon  whose 
widow  it  was  afterwards  settled  as  part  of  her  jointure.  Upon  the 
E^l  coming  into  possession,  the  name  of  Northampton  House  be- 
came changed  for  that  of  Suffolk  House.  Dr.  Nott,  in  his  "  Life  of 
the  Earl  of  Surrey,"  states  that  Lord  Northampton  presented  this 
house  to  Theophilus,  Lord  Walden,  as  a  new-year's  gift;  but  this  story, 
says  Lord  Braybrooke,  "  is  of  course  without  foundation ;  nor  did 
it,"  adds  his  lordship,  "  as  has  been  often  asserted,  form  part  of  the|| 
marriage  portion  of  Lady  Elizabeth  Howard,  wife  of  Algernon,  Earl 
of  Northumberland,  who  purchased  the  mansion  of  the  Suffolk  family 
after  the  death  of  Earl  Theophilus  for  ;^  15,000,  and  called  it  by  his 
own  name."*  The  above  statement  is  confirmed  by  the  MS.  book 
of  accounts  of  James,  Earl  of  Suffolk,  preserved  in  the  Public 
Library  at  Cambridge,  wherein  occurs  the  following  entry : — 

September t  1642. — Received  for  Suffolk  House,  sold  to  the  Earl  of  Northum- 
berland, ;f  15,000.    The  Countess's  portion,  paid  at  the  same  time,  ;f  5,000. 

Thus,  it  appears,  this  stately  mansion  came  into  the  possession  of 
the  tenth  Earl  of  Northumberland  of  the  old  line,  at  which^time  it 
came  to  be  called  by  its  present  name.  The  first  thing  which  the 
new  owner  did  was  to  employ  the  aid  or  advice  of  Inigo  Jones,  who 
added  the  river  front,  thus  forming  the  house  into  a  quadrangle.  Up 
to  this  time  the  chief  rooms  had  looked  out  upon  the  Strand,  which 
came  to  be  too  noisy  as  the  intercourse  between  the  twin  cities  of 
London  and  Westminster  grew  and  increased ;  but  thenceforth  the 
Percies  retreated  from  the  north  side  to  the  "new  front,"  as  the 
southern  side  came  to  be  called. 

As  this  Earl  was  the  person  who  played  so  conspicuous  a  part  in 
the  politics  of  the  reign  of  Charles  L,  and  to  whom  the  care  of  the 
King's  children  was  entrusted  by  the  Parliament,  there  can  be  little 
doubt  that  in  many  of  its  rooms  Charles  H.  and  his  younger  brothers 
and  sisters  played  in  childhood,  unconscious  of  their  father's  sufferings 


•  Lord  firaybrooke*s  *•  History  of  Audley  End." 


3 1 6        ^  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

#nd  the  national  "  troubles."  'It  was  while  this  Earl  was  owner  of 
the  house  that  General  Monk,  as  we  have  stated,  was  entertained 
within  its  walls ;  and  it  was  the  daughter  of  his  son  and  successor, 
Josceline,  eleventh  Earl,  the  last  of  the  old  Percies  of  the  North, 
who  carried  the  house  in  marriage  to  the  "  Proud  Duke  of  Somerset," 
of  whom  we  read  so  much  in  the  anecdote  histories  of  the  first 
Hanoverian  kings  and  their  Court.  This  son,  another  Duke  of 
Somerset,  followed  him  in  the  ownership ;  but  both  father  and  son 
found  it  impossible  to  exchange  the  name  of  "  Northumberland  "  for 
"  Somerset  '•  House  ;*  and  it  must  have  been  with  a  feeling  of  satis- 
faction that,  when  death  forced  him  to  leave  it  to  somebody,  he  had 
married  his  daughter  and  heiress,  Lady  Elizabeth  Seymour,  to  Sir 
Hugh  Smithson,  of  Stanwick  or  Stanwix,  in  Yorkshire,  who  had 
obtained  the  King's  permission  to  assume  the  name  and  quarter  the 
arms  of  the  Percies,  with  the  reversion  of  the  (revived)  Earldom  of 
Northumberland.  In  the  long  run  this  Sir  Hugh  Smithson  became 
not  only  Sir  Hugh  Percy,  but  Earl  and  eventually  Duke  of 
^Northumberland,  the  higher  title  being  revived  in  his  favour  by 
George  III.  in  1776.  This  nobleman  it  was  who  faced  the  inner 
quadrangle  with  stone,  and  restored  the  front  towards  the  Strand. 
In  1780  a  good  portion  of  this  northern  front,  including  the  apart; 
ments  occupied  by  Dr.  Percy,  the  learned  author  of  "Relics  of 
Ancient  Poetry,*'  was  destroyed  by  a  fire.  From  that  day  to  this 
the  mansion  has  remained  almost  wholly  in  the  same  state,  both 
externally  and  internally.  The  front  facing  the  Strand  is  familiar 
enough  to  all  "  country  cousins,"  to  whom  almost  the  first  thing  that 
is  shown  on  reaching  London  is  the  Percy  lion  which  crowns  the 
central  gateway,  as  forming  the  crest  of  the  family.  It  is  also  well 
known  to  the  curious  by  Canaletti's  picture,  which  has  been  engraved, 
showing  the  row  of  small  shops  and  humble  tenements  which  stood 
opposite  to  it  reaching  westwards  to  **  the  King's  Mews,"  almost  the 
spot  now  occupied  by  the  Nelson  column. 

The  interior  of  Northumberland  House  is  furnished  in  a  style  of 
magnificence  and  grandeur  which  savours  wholly  of  the  taste  of  the  last 
century,  and  can  be  described  only  by  the  word  "  oppressive."  It  is  all 
on  a  grand  scale,  as  if  it  had  been  put  together  for  giants,  and  not  for 
ordinary  mortals.  The  chairs,  tables,  and  sofas,  at  all  events,  are  so 
large  that  it  is  all  but  impossible  to  move  them,  and  the  grotesque 
faces  of  animals,  &c.,  which  occur  in  the  sculpture  and  other  orna- 
ments are  of  a  corresponding  size  and  dimension. 

Taking  into  account  its  wings  and  other  adjuncts,  it  is  said  to 

♦  Probably  for  the  very  sufficient  reason  that  there  was  already  one  Somerset 
House  in  ihe  Strand. 


The  Toiun  Palace  of  the  Percies,  3 1  7 

comprise  between  140  and  150  rooms  and  chambers,  of  which  the  finest  ^ 
and  most  imposing  is  the  State  Gallery,  or  bail  room,  upwards  of 
100  feet  in  length.  In  this  State  Gallery  was  given  the  great  enter- 
tainment to  Royalty  a  hundred  years  ago  which  Horace  Walpole 
describes  with  such  minuteness  ;  and  much  more  recently  the  same 
splendid  apartment  was  the  scene  of  a  dinner  and  ball  given  to  the 
Prince  and  Princess  of  Wales  soon  after  their  marriage. 

The  late  Duke  of  Northumberland,  and  also  his  immediate  pre- 
decessors, it  is  well  known,  were  very  averse  to  the  idea  of  allowing 
their  town  mansion  to  be  removed,  and  declined  all  idea  of  parting 
with  it,  even  for  a  handsome  "  consideration  ;"  but  the  present  duke, 
reluctant  though  he  is,  and  of  necessity  must  be,  to  abandon  a  great 
historic  house,  "  commenced  by  a  Howard,  continued  by  a  Percy, 
and  completed  by  a  Seymour,"  and  which  for  two  centuries  and  a 
half  has  been  the  residence  of  his  ancestors,  has  at  length  consented 
to  waive  his  personal  feelings,  and  to  sell  it,  in  order  to  make  way  for 
**  public  improvements."  It  does  not,  however,  appear  to  be  at  all 
agreed  as  to  whether  its  removal  will  be  a  public  improvement 
or  a  matter  of  necessity  at  all.  It  is  argued  that,  unless  we  are  to 
have  all  our  streets  constructed  at  right  angles,  like  those  of  old 
Winchilsea,  or  Mull,  and  as  straight  as  one  of  the  military  roads  in 
France,  the  road  which  shall  continue  the  line  of  Cockspur  Street 
to  the  Thames  Embankment  might  pass  along  the  western  side  of 
Northumberland  House  and  its  garden,  and  so  spare  for  future 
ages  a  relic  of  the  past  of  which  a  topographical  writer  just  a 
hundred  years  ago  declared  that  it  was  "  almost  the  only  house 
remaining  in  London  where  the  ancient  magnificence  of  the  English 
nobility  is  upheld." 

It  is  tnie  that  its  site  is  somewhat  spoiled  by  being  confined  within 

liigh  walls,  and  surrounded  by  poor  and  unsightly  houses  on  the  south 

and  east ;  but  these  might  easily  be  removed,  not  only  without  loss, 

but  with  great  and  immediate  advantage  :  and  we  think  that  the 

half  million  of  money  which  is  to  come  out  of  the  pockets  of  the 

British  householder  and  taxpayer  might  be  far  more  usefully  and 

profitably  employed  in  (Ttr////^  v»holesonic  and  convenient  homes  for 

the  working  classes  in  the  more  densely  crowded  neighbourhoods  of 

this  great  metropolis—  Seven  Dials,  Ckrkenwell,  and  Whitechapel  to 

^vit— than  in  pulling  down  and  demolishing  a  mansion  which  is  an 

ornament  to  the  West  End  and  one  of  the  most  valuable,  because 

now  rare,  examples  of  a  style  of  domestic  architecture  that  has  passed 

away. 

E.  Walford,  M.A. 

Vol  XI.,  N.S.  1873.  y 


Berehaven. 

AST  September  I  visited  Castletown,  a  village  at  the 
western  extremity  of  Bantry  Bay,  and  distinguished  from 
other  Castletowns  by  the  addition  of  Berehaven.  Bere- 
haven is  the  name  of  the  surrounding  district. 

The  tourist  who  reaches  Killarney  by  train  from  the  Mallow 
junction  generally  returns  through  Cork,  having  visited  on  his  way 
besides  Killarney,  Kenmare,  Glengariff,  and  Inchigela.  To  these  I 
would  wish  him  to  add  Berehaven,  which  can  be  easily  reached,  and 
well  repays  the  trouble  of  getting  there.  It  lies  about  fifteen  miles 
to  the  west  of  Glengariff,  the  way  lying  through  some  splendid 
inountain  scenery,  and  always  within  sight  of  the  sea.  A  post-car 
runs  from  Glengariff  to  Berehaven  daily. 

At  Berehaven  there  is  a  good  hotel  close  to  the  sea,  being  only 
separated  from  it  by  a  pretty  lawn.  At  the  end  of  the  lawn  there  is 
a  boat  slip. 

The  little  bay  in  front  of  the  hotel  is  very  picturesque,  espe- 
cially as  you  approach  Castletown  from  the  east.  It  is  a  bay 
within  a  bay,  affording  shelter  for  yachts  and  coasting-boats.  The 
anchorage  for  great  ships  lies  between  this  little  bay  and  an  island 
two  miles  to  the  south.  This  island  rises  like  a  mountain  out  of  the 
sea,  and  is  fully  four  miles  long.  The  Channel  Fleet  often  puts  in 
here.  The  moorage  is  considered  the  finest  in  the  world,  being  at 
tlie  same  time  both  capacious  and  safe.  Cork  harbour  is  completely 
exposed  on  one  side.  Berehaven  harbour  is  protected  from  every 
wind  that  blows.  The  aspect  of  the  country  is  that  of  a  huge  amphi- 
theatre, whose  arena  is  the  sea,  whose  sides  are  lofty  and  magnificent 
mountains.  South  and  south-west  winds  are  repelled  by  Bere  island. 
On  the  west  Desart  Hill,  curving  round  southwards  so  as  almost  to 
meet  the  western  extremity  of  Bere,  excludes  danger  from  that 
quarter.  Thence,  as  the  eye  travels  round  towards  the  north  and  east, 
lofty  mountains  succeed  each  other  without  a  break  in  their  sublime 
chain — the  long  high  ridge  of  Knockoura  terminating  in  the  steep 
black  hill  of  Miskish,  the  brown  sloping  sides  of  Mauline,  the  broad 
and  massive  Hungary  king  of  them  all.  Due  east  there  rises  no  near 
mountain  barrier  for  the  moorage,  but  the  wind  from  that  quarter 
blows  from  the  shore  and  its  violence  is  broken  by  the  distant  hills 
that  run  eastward  from  Glengariff.     It  was  in  this  moorage  that  the 


Berehaven.  319- 

French  fleet  cast  anchor  at  the  close  of  the  last  century.  Their 
anchors  are  still  at  the  bottom,  according  to  local  tradition.  They 
could  not  draw  them  up,  and  so  were  obliged  to  cut  the  cables. 

We  generally  spent  the  mornings  either  in  sailing  or  in  climbing 
the  hills.  In  the  evenings  we  fished.  The  whole  aspect  of  this 
country  has  left  an  impression  upon  me  such  as  I  shall  not  readily 
forget :  the  grandeur  of  the  mountains  ;  the  boldness  and  irregularity 
of  the  coast ;  the  size  and  gloomy  magnificence  of  the  caves.  At  the 
western  extremity  of  Bere  island  is  a  succession  of  caves  or  great 
arches  of  rock,  called  Bonaparte's  Bridge.  I  have  rowed  about  here 
by  myself  in  a  small  boat,  overcome  by  the  charm  of  the  place, 
watching  the  sea-gulls  as  they  wheeled  and  shrieked  round  me  over- 
head, and  listening  to  the  lazy  plash  of  the  water  up  the  rocks,  or  its 
deep  thundering  far  away  in  the  recesses  of  the  caverns. 

In  fishing  we  were  very  successful.  It  happened  to  be  the  season 
for  catching  pollock  ixy.  For  a  good  many  evenings  they  gave  us 
some  first-rate  sport.  We  used  to  tie  our  own  flies  ;  a  bit  of  goose- 
feather  fastened  to  a  hook  was  sufficient.  We  sometimes  ornamented 
the  flies  with  red  woollen  thread  tied  round  the  upper  part,  which 
rendered  them  more  conspicuous.  The  bait  is  an  imitation  of  a  little 
fish  called  brit,  and  is  about  an  inch  and  a  half  long.  Very  nide  gear 
is,  however,  often  sufficient.  I  recollect  improvising  a  fly  with  a  strip 
torn  from  my  pocket  handkerchief. 

There  are  three  stages  in  the  growth  of  pollock,  during  each  of 
which  he  enjoys,  at  least  in  Bantry  Bay,  a  different  name  :  killocks, 
crohogues,  and  pollock.  Pollock  spawn  in  the  early  summer,  and 
their  fry  may  be  taken  through  August  and  September.  During  these 
months  they  are  called  killocks.  They  are  then  about  the  size  of  the 
average  brown  trout — that  is,  about  seven  or  eight  inches  long. 
Apparently  they  arc  devoured  by  their  more  mature  brethren,  for 
wherever  these  are  caught  killocks  seldom  make  their  appearance. 
Some  evenings  they  are  ravenous  ;  at  other  times  you  will  catch  few 
or  none.  In  the  former  event,  however,  they  make  very  good  sport. 
We  fished  with  rods,  the  flies  being  trailed  along  the  surface  of  the 
water  as  the  boat  was  rowed  slowly  along.  Sometimes  in  a  good  spot 
we  used  to  stop  the  boat,  and  cast  right  and  left,  as  if  fishing  for 
trout.  When  we  passed  through  "a  school"  the  splashing  and 
leaping  of  the  killocks  was  like  a  heavy  shower  of  haiL  At  these 
times  we  used  to  take  in  three  or  four  at  a  time.  In  the  evenings 
they  will  take,  but  not  during  the  day.  The  hour  before  sunset  is 
the  best  time.  I  hear  they  will  take  at  sunrise,  too,  sharing  in  the 
common  hunger  of  fish  at  that  season. 

V   2 


320  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

I  do  not  know  a  more  delicious  fish  for  breakfast  than  these  killocks. 
They  must  be  sprinkled  with  a  little  salt  at  night,  and  fried  brown  in 
flour  next  morning.  Otherwise  they  are  insipid ;  but  done  in  this 
way  they  are  better  than  trout. 

Out  of  what  we  caught  we  used  to  keep  enough  for  breakfast,  and 
give  the  rest  to  the  boys  who  rowed  us.  In  October  killocks  cease 
to  take  altogether,  and  after  that  are  not  caught  till  the  ensuing 
summer,  when  they  reappear,  very  little  larger  than  they  were  m 
October.  They  are  now  called  crohogues,  and  are  about  the 
size  of  the  white  trout.  They  still  go  in  "  schools,"  but  are  much 
more  adventurous  than  when  they  were  only  killocks.  They  now 
leave  the  "goleens"  and  shallow  inlets  and  creeks  of  the  sea,  and 
haunt  deep  and  rocky  places.  Bonaparte's  Bridge,  which  I  have 
described  already,  we  found  a  very  good  spot  for  our  flies.  The  fish 
were  still  taken  with  the  imitation  of  brit  At  this  place  we  had  some 
glorious  evenings,  as  we  rowed  slowly  between  the  vast' dark  clifl*s, 
where  every  sound  had  its  echo.  The  splashing  and  leaping  of  the 
crohogues  was  sometimes  tremendous,  the  water  behind  the  boat 
being  churned  into  foam,  and  the  noise  of  their  leaping  being 
beyond  description. 

At  the  commencement  we  used  to  make  casting  lines  of  gut  for 
our  flics,  but  finding  that  these  generally  gave  way  before  the  weight 
of  the  crohogues,  and  also  finding  that  these  fish  are  not  very 
fastidious  about  the  implements  of  their  destruction,  we  tied  the 
dropper  of  each  fly  to  the  line  itself,  and  found  it  sufficient.  I  was 
once  bringing  in  two  crohogues  when  the  gut  snapped  as  they  were 
quite  close  to  the  gunwale.  I  watched  the  poor  fellows  going  down 
together,  each  pulling  different  ways,  till  they  were  out  of  sight. 
Crohogues  arc  not  so  good  for  eating  as  killocks. 

In  the  next  year  this  fish  reaches  his  last  stage.  He  is  now  the 
flimiliar  pollock,  and  gets  no  new  name  after  that.  The  fact  that 
this  is  an  English  name,  while  crohogue  and  killock  are  Milesian, 
shows  that  for  the  latter  there  was  little  demand  in  the  fish-market. 
The  English  name  would  naturally  be  applied  universally  to  an 
article  which  is  required  in  the  great  to\nis.  Killocks  are  only 
caught  with  rod  and  line.  The  schools  are  not  large  enough  to 
repay  the  labour  and  expense  of  a  "  sein/*  or  any  kind  of  net  fish- 
ing. Besides,  unless  cooked  exactly  in  the  way  that  I  have 
described,  they  are  very  tasteless.  Should  any  of  my  readers  be 
tempted  to  Bantry  Bay,  or  any  other  place  where  these  are  caught, 
and  enjoy  a  dish  of  fried  killocks  for  breakfast,  I  think  he  will  be 
anxious  to  pay  another  visit  to  the  same  spot 


Berehaven,  321 

Pollock  are  not  often  caught  with  the  fly.  An  eel  is  the  correct 
morsel.  The  eel  is  killed  first,  and  fastened  neatly  on  the  hook — 
the  barb  of  the  hook  protruding.  I  have  never  seen  artificial  eels. 
They  could  be  easily  made,  and  would  save  pollock  fishers  a  good 
deal  of  trouble  and  disagreeable  work,  for  every  fisherman  likes  to 
arrange  his  own  tackle.  We  had  "a  gossoon"  in  pay  whom  we  used 
to  send  forth  armed  with  a  fork  to  stab  eels  for  us.  He  used  to  find 
them  in  the  stream  and  on  the  strand  at  low  water.  They  lie  in  little 
pools  under  stones  when  the  tide  goes  out. 

The  pollock  is  not  quite  so  averse  to  brit  or  so  skilled  in  the  arts 
of  his  enemies  as  to  entirely  overlook  the  charms  of  goose  feather. 
When  he  rises  to  the  fly  he  springs  altogether  out  of  the  water,  and 
then  plunges  down  to  the  bottom.  Pollock  are  not  often  in  a  taking 
mood.  They  seldom  go  in  "  schools."  However,  when  we  had  the 
luck  to  catch  one,  he  gave  very  good  sport,  but  not  so  much  as  one 
would  expect  from  his  size.  A  small  white  trout  gives  better  play 
than  even  a  large  pollock.  For  pollock  we  had  to  row  faster  than 
for  their  brethren,  and  sometimes  to  put  lead  on  our  lines  in  order 
to  keep  the  eel  deep.  Some  evenings  they  would  rise  to  the  surface, 
on  other  occasions  they  would  not. 

In  the  daytime  we  used  to  fish  for  gurnet  and  mackerel.  The 
advantage  of  this  was  that  we  could  sail  and  fish  at  the  same  time. 
These  fish  we  used  to  catch  in  the  open  sea,  no  matter  at  what 
rate  the  boat  was  moving.  Our  "flies"  were  strips  of  their  own  white 
skins. 

I  do  not  think  there  is  a  more  beautiful  fish  as  he  comes  out  of  the 
water  than  the  mackerel.  His  colours  are  then  so  vivid.  I  have 
often  heard  that  he  is  the  swiftest  fish  that  swims,  and  I  can  well 
believe  it,  his  flesh  is  so  firm  and  his  bounds  as  he  comes  into  the 
boat  so  vigorous.  At  the  same  time  his  fins  are  comparatively 
small. 

The  Bcrehavencrs  are  a  handsome  race,  courageous  and  athletic. 
There  was  some  communication  between  that  country  and  Spain  in 
the  days  when  the  O'Sullivans  took  up  arms  against  Queen  Elizabeth. 
Many  Spaniards  are  said  to  have  settled  there  at  that  time.  One  often 
sees  faces  that  make  the  tradition  probable. 

Without  meaning  any  disrespect  to  Killamey  and  sylvan  scenery 
generally,  I  am  much  surprised  that  Berehaven  is  so  little  frequented 
by  the  tourist,  notwithstanding  its  sublime  mountains  and  the  incom- 
parable advantage  of  the  sea.  Even  in  the  way  of  sylvan  scenery, 
Berehaven  is  not  without  its  charms.  Water-fall  river,  which  takes 
its  rise  on  the  sides  of  Mauline,  tumbles  and  plashes  for  the  last 


3^2  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

mile  of  its  short  career  through  nollies,  hazels,  and  mountain-ashes, 
over  large  stones  and  rocks  clad  with  moss.  It  is  as  picturesque  a 
stream  as  I  ever  walked  beside,  and  one  as  deserving  of  a  merry 
picnic. 

There  is  one  splendid  residence  in  the  neighbourhood — Dunboy 
Castle,  recently  built  by  Mr.  Puxlcy.  Probably  there  is  not  in  the 
world  a  finer  view  than  that  commanded  by  this  house. 

We  stayed  at  Berehaven  till  the  fine  weather  was  beginning  to  break, 
and  left  with  reluctance. 

Arthur  Clive. 


V,-V  '  V  X.-"V.'-V  '■■V  '■V-'N     ~X      V  'X  '''k.^V  *"*■  'X  ••X./'^  ' 


Making  the  Worst  of  it, 

BY  JOHN  BAKER  HOPKINS. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

NUMBER   NINETV-SEVEN. 


ii 


ATER  !  Oh  for  water!  Oh  for  a  river  of  ice- 
cold  water — to  plunge  into  it,  and  to  drink  of  it  for 
ever  and  ever ! 

"  Water,  ice-cold  water  !  Ah  !  joy,  there  is  the 
blessing  for  which  I  pray.  Beautiful  fountain  !  What  a  huge  pillar 
of  water  !  It  shoots  up  to  the  blue  sky,  and  the  noise  of  the  fiiUing 
spray  is  loud,  is  like  the  rumbling  of  thunder,  but  such  sweet  music  ! 
Oh,  how  I  bum,  how  I  thirst !  Let  me  go  to  the  fountain.  Let  the 
water  fall  upon  me.  Mercy !  Oh  for  the  water !  Loose  me  !  I 
will  go  !     I  burn  !     The  water ;  for  mercy's  sake,  loose  me  ! 

*'  The  cruel  gaolers  loose  their  hold.  Oh  for  that  beautiful  fountain  ! 
It  is  so  near  me  !  At  a  bound  I  shall  be  in  the  midst  of  the  ice-cold 
falling  water.  They  have  loosed  me.  They  are  not  looking.  Ah, 
fountain ! 

"  Fountain  !  Where  is  it  ?  Help,  help,  help  !  It  is  not  water,  it  is 
not  water  !  I  am  in  a  flaming  furnace  !  Oh,  save  me  !  Save  me  !  I 
burn  !  Drink  !  Oh  cruel  gaolers,  give  me  drink  !  Mercy  !  O  gi^e 
me  water ! 

"  Mother,  where  have  you  been  ?  Don't  be  angry  ;  I  will  do  my 
lessons.  Only  give  me  some  water.  Oh  I  am  so  thirsty.  I  am  on 
fire,  mother.  There  it  is,  mother,  dear.  Not  the  glass,  but  the  pitcher. 
Hold  it  to  my  mouth,  and  oh  !  do  not  take  it  away.  Oh,  mother, 
mother,  mother,  it  is  not  water,  but  iire  ! 

"  Frank  !  darling  Frank.  I  knew  you  would  not  be  long.  Oh, 
Frank,  give  me  drink.     Water,  darling  ! 

"  They  are  burning  him.  Look  !  look  !  look  !  it  is  Lord  Shamvock 
who  holds  my  Frank  in  the  fire.  Loose  me  ;  I  must  go  to  him  !  I 
will  go  to  him  !'  You  shall  not  hold  me.  Mercy  !  Mercy  !  Oh  give 
jne  water !" 

So  passed  the  last  minutes  of  delirium.     The  screams  of  Number 


*»  ■* 


24  The  Gcntleviaris  Magazine, 

ninety  seven  terrified  the  other  patients.  Exhausted,  she  ceased  to 
struggle  against  the  bands  that  bound  her  to  the  bed.  At  length  she 
slept  a  long  deep  sleep,  \\1ien  the  house  surgeon  passed  through  the 
ward  he  listened  to  her  breathing,  and  noticed  that  the  burning  skin 
was  no  longer  dr}'. 

"  Ninety-seven  will  do  now,  nurse.  Give  her  stimulants  when  she 
wakes." 

The  fever  was  conquered.  The  attack  was  severe,  but  not  lasting^ 
and  the  recovery  of  Rose  was  rapid.  When  she  could  converse  she 
asked  how  long  she  had  been  in  the  hospital.  Only  a  week,  but  in 
that  week  no  doubt  Frank  had  written  to  her  and,  perhaps,  was 
offended  and  alarmed  at  her  silence.  If  he  could  see  her  lying  there ! 
Poor  Frank  !     It  was  well  he  was  spared  that  miser)'. 

To  inquiries  about  herself  Rose  turned  a  deaf  ear. 

"  You  were  represented  by  your  landlady  as  Mrs.  Simpson.  Have 
you  a  husband  ?  Have  you  any  friends  to  whom  we  can  write  and 
who  will  take  care  of  you  when  you  are  able  to  leave  us  ?" 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  anything  about  myself,*'  said  Rose.  If  she  did 
Frank  won  Id  never  forgive  her. 

The  lady  visitor  pleaded  gently  and  earnestly  with  her. 

"  You  have  done  wrong,  my  dear,  but  do  not  add  sin  to  sin  and 
cruelty  to  cruelty.  Tell  me  about  your  friends.  I  am  sure  they  will 
be  more  ready  to  receive  you  than  you  are  to  seek  them." 

Rose  shook  her  head,  and  repeated  that  she  could  not  tell  anything 
about  herself. 

The  lady  visitor  was  pained,  but  would  not  abandon  the  girl  with- 
out an  effort  to  save  her  from,  as  she  thought,  a  career  of  shame  and 
miser}'.  She  took  Rose  by  the  hand  as  if  she  had  been  a  loving 
sister  or  yearning  mother. 

"  My  dear,  I  will  not  ask  you  to  tell  me  about  yourself.  But  I  ask 
you  when  you  leave  here  to  come  to  my  home.  I  am  sure  that  I  shall 
nurse  you  well,  and  make  you  happy." 

Rose  was  touched  to  the  heart.  "  Shall  I  make  her  my  friend  ?  "  she 
thought.  "  Yes,"  whispered  her  good  angel.  But  Frank  !  He  would 
never  forgive  her.  With  broken  voice  she  thanked  the  lady,  and 
rejected  her  loving  offer. 

Sometimes  we  entertain  angels  unawares.  How  often  when  the 
angels  would  comfort  us  and  minister  unto  us  do  we  unawares 
repulse  them ! 

I  can  only  pray  for  you,  and  that  I  will  do.     I  will  pray  that  you 

not  return  to  the  road  that  leads  to  destruction.     I  will  pray  that 

K)  tempts  you  to  sin  may  have  no  more  influence  over  you.    My 


« 


Making  tlie  Worst  of  it.  325 

poor  fallen  sister,  why  will  you  not  return  to  the  path  of  virtue,  peacr,^ 
and  happiness  ?  " 

Rose  perceived  the  mistake  as  to  her  character  and  position. 

**  Do  not  think  that  of  me.     I  am  not  a  bad  woman." 

The  chaplain  was  not  more  successful.  Conscious  of  her  integrity. 
Rose  was  angered  at  the  misconception  as  to  her  motive  for  secresy. 
Before  the  first  week  of  convalescence  was  past  she  had  been  able  ta 
sit  in  the  grounds.  Her  anxiety  to  see  Frank  might  have  retarded 
her  recovery  if  it  had  been  less  intense,  but  being  so  powerful  and- 
absorbing  it  gave  lier  strength  to  control  the  disposition  to  fret  and* 
worry ;  and  the  body,  aided  by  the  mind,  regained  its  normal  vigour 
with  a  quickness  not  expected  by  the  doctors. 

"  When  can  I  go  away  ?  " 

"  In  a  week  or  ten  days,"  replied  the  house  surgeon. 

"  I  am  sure,  sir,  I  am  strong  enough  to  go  out  to-day." 

"  If  you  had  any  friends  who  would  take  charge  of  you  I  should^ 
not  object  to  your  going  out." 

"  I  want  to  go  to  my  friends." 

"  That  won't  do.  We  must  know  who  are  your  friends,  or  yott 
will  have  to  remain  here  until  you  are  well  and  able  to  look  after 
yourself.  We  do  not  want  to  keep  any  one  here  longer  than  it  is 
necessar}',  and  for  the  sake  of  the  charity  you  should  let  us  communi- 
cate with  your  friends." 

The  house  surgeon  fiiiled  to  elicit  the  desired  information,  as  the 
lady  visitor  and  the  chaplain  had  fiiiled. 

Another  week  or  ten  days !  Impossible.  Rose  went  into  the 
garden.  She  sat  for  a  few  minutes  and  then  walked  about.  Wait 
for  another  week  or  ten  days  !  Why,  she  could  walk,  and  she  would 
not  keep  her  poor  Frank  in  suspense.     How  could  she  escape  ? 

In  the  afternoon  she  asked  the  nurse  if  she  might  look  in  her  box, 
and  received  permission.  She  happened  to  be  alone  in  the  box  room. 
She  look  out  a  dress,  a  shawl,  a  hat,  and  a  brooch.  These  things  she 
managed  to  conceal  in  her  bedding.     Her  purse  she  could  not  find. 

"  We  searched  your  box  for  your  address,  and  your  purse  was 
taken  away.  It  will  be  restored  to  you  when  you  leave,"  said  the 
nurse. 

Next  morning  at  the  hour  the  visitors  were  admitted  Rose  went 
into  the  garden.  She  entered  a  summer  house,  and  there  put  on  the 
dress,  the  shawl,  and  the  hat  she  had  taken  from  her  box.  The 
dinner  bell  rang.  Several  visitors  left,  and  she  passed  out  with  a 
group  unobserved. 

Fearing  to  be  missed  and  followed,  she  walked  on  quickly,  but  thct: 


326  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine, 

exercise  and  tlie  noise  of  the  streets  made  her  feel  faint  She  hailed 
a  passing  cab,  and  told  the  driver  to  take  her  to  HoUoway,  the  abode 
of  Mrs.  Gibbs. 

The  motion  of  the  cab  was  trying,  but  Rose  bore  it  bravely,  and 
overcame  the  nervous  weakness.  Had  Frank  been  seeking  her  ? 
No ;  for  then  he  would  have  gone  to  King's  Cross  and  ascertained 
her  fate.  Had  he  written  to  her,  and  was  he  wondering  why  his  letter 
was  unanswered?  Or  had  he  arrived  that  morning?  AVhilst  he  was 
asking  Mrs.  Gibbs  about  her,  would  she  arrive  ?  Rose  was  revelling 
in  this  day  dream  when  the  cab  stopped  at  the  house. 

"  Shall  I  knock,  mum  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Rose,  rather  disappointed  that  her  husband  had  not 
rushed  out  lo  embrace  her. 

The  caljuian  knocked  and  rang  and  knocked  again. 

''  This  here  is  a  hempty  crib,  and  the  party  which  is  taking  care 
of  it  is  out." 

A  neighbour,  Mrs.  Gibbs's  gossip,  came  to  the  door  of  the  cab. 

^*  \i  you  want  to  see  the  house,  the  key  is  left  next  door,  which  is 
mine." 

''  I  want  Mrs.  Gibbs." 

"  So  does  a  goodish  many,  and  if  your  head  don't  ache  till  you  find 
her,  it  will  be  a  jolly  long  while  afore  you  get  that  ache." 

*^  Has  she  left  here  ?"  asked  Rose,  faintly. 

**A  regular  flit.  Things  moved  anyhow,  and  key  put  under,  the 
scraper,  where  it  was  found  by  the  milkman.  There  wasn't  ^\^ 
shillings'  worth  in  the  place.  They  had  a  poor  thing  in  as  a  lodger 
who  lost  ever  so  much  money,  and  I  said  then,  as  I  say  now,  that 
there  Mrs.  Gibbs  took  it." 

"  And  no  one  knows  where  they  have  gone  to  ?" 

"  No,  mum,  and,  in  my  humble  opinion,  never  will." 

"  Do  you  know  if  any  one  has  been  asking  for  Mrs.  Simpson  ?  Or 
has  there  been  a  letter?" 

"  Of  course  I  see  it  now,  but  I  should  never  have  knowed  you  if  you 
had  not  spoke ;  but,  to  be  sure,  I  never  saw  you  to  speak  to  you. 
My  dear  soul,  why  didn't  you  have  in  the  police  and  give  them  into 
custody?    You*d  have  got  your  money,  I  warrant." 

"  I've  been  ill.     Give  me  a  glass  of  water." 

"  Step  inside." 

"  No,  thank  you.  I  must  make  some  incjuirics.  Tell  me,  have  I 
•been  asked  for?" 

"  No ;  and  if  you  had  I  must  have  known  of  it,  for  everybody 
"Comes  to  me  aboat  the  Gibbs  lot,  which  is  natural,  seeing  that  I  am 


Making  tJie  Worst  of  it.  327 

next  door  with  the  key.  But,  lor,  why  don't  you  take  my  parlours 
for  a  week  or  two  ?  Wc  shan't  fall  out  about  the  rent,  and  if  any 
Jcttcrs  or  what  not  comes,  you  are  on  the  spot." 

The  proposal  was  like  a  gleam  of  sunshine  to  poor  Rose. 

"  You  must  not  mind  me  being  very  poor  till  he,  my  husband, 
-comes  home.     But  I  will  pay  you  and  thank  you." 

"  Twclve-and-six  a  week  is  all  I  ask,  and  if  you  couldn't  pay  me, 
two  or  three  twclve-and-sixpences  would  not  break  me.  Come  in, 
my  dear." 

"  Not  now.  I  will  be  back  presently.  If  he  should  come,  tell 
him  I  will  not  be  more  than  an  hour." 

After  drinking  a  glass  of  beer — for  the  lady  of  the  key  would  not 
give  water,  which  she  declared  was  no  good  to  anybody — Rose 
departed,  telling  the  cabman  to  drive  to  King's  Cross. 

As  soon  as  the  corner  was  turned.  Rose  pulled  the  check  string, 
which  of  course  did  not  affect  the  driver.  She  let  down  one  of  the 
front  windows  and  asked  the  cabman  if  he  would  be  kind  enough  to 
stop  at  the  pawnbroker's  on  the  right  hand  side. 

"  My  husband  is  away,  and  I  am  obliged  to  get  a  little  money," 
stammered  Rose. 

"  Bless  your  life,  for  one  that  aint  pawned  there's  about  a  thousand 
that's  done  it  more  than  once.  And  what's  the  harm  of  putting  away 
what's  your  own  when  one  is  stumped  ?  The  worst  of  them  blokes 
is  that  it  aint  a  patch  upon  the  value  that  they  gives,  and  what  gets 
into  their  maw  don't  always  come  out  again." 

AVhcn  the  cabman  helped  Rose  out  of  the  cab  he  advised  her  to 
ask  for  half  the  value  unless  it  was  gold  or  silver,  and  then  to  ask 
about  two-thirds. 

"  If  you  ask  less,  it's  less  you  get  If  you  asks  more,  it  is  throwed 
at  you,  and  what  you  get  is  next  to  nothing." 

The  brooch  was  praised  by  the  pawnbroker,  but  he  said  it  was 
more  workmanship  than  gold,  and  he  would  not  lend  more  than  two 
pounds.  Rose  was  too  weary  to  bargain,  and  took  the  two  pounds. 
She  looked  so  weak  and  worn  that  the  cabman  advised  her  to  take 
some  refreshment. 

"  Let  me  get  you  three  of  brandy  cold.  I  don't  go  in  for  drink, 
though  there  is  plenty  of  it  in  our  line,  but  a  drop  of  spirits  is  a  better 
pick-you-up  tlian  physic  when  you  are  down." 

Rose  did  not  refuse,  and  then  drove  to  her  King's  Cross  lodging. 
The  cabman  knocked,  and  the  landlady  came  to  the  cab. 

**  What !  Bless  my  eyes,  am  I  awake  ?  Oh,  my  poor  girl,  what 
are  you  about  ?  " 


328  The  Gentlemaiis  Magazine. 

"  Has  there  been  an  inquiry  for  me  ?  '* 

"  Inquiry  !  I  should  think  so.  Why,  he  can  hardly  be  out  of  the 
street."  1^ 

Rose  tJiought  that  the  woman  spoke  of  Frank.  Her  heart  thumped 
and  her  pale  face  flushed. 

"  Will  my  husband  call  again  ?    Where  has  he  gone  ?  " 

"  Your  husband  !  Poor  dear  soul.  That  wicked  deceiving  brute 
will  not  look  after  you.  It  was  the  hospital  man,  my  dear,  for  they 
are  crazed  at  your  going  off.  You  must  go  back,  my  dear,  and  then 
you  can  leave  when  you  are  well." 

Rose  was  choking  with  disappointment. 

^*  I  won't  ask  you  in,  my  dear,  for  that  would  not  be  fair  with  a 
house  ever  so  full  of  children  and  lodgers.  But  wait  a  minute.  I 
will  pop  on  my  bonnet  and  shawl  and  take  you  back.  They  won't 
scold  you  if  I  ask  them  not." 

When  the  landlady  had  gone  in,  Rose  asked  the  cabman  to  drive 
her  back  to  Ilolloway  as  fast  as  he  could,  and  not  to  stop  for  any- 
body. 

"  Right  you  are,  my  dear.  It  shan't  be  the  fault  of  my  whip  if 
they  runs  you  down." 

When  Rose  got  to  her  new  lodging  she  was  ill  and  exhausted,  but 
a  few  hours'  rest  revived  her. 

"  I  must  not  get  ill  again.  I  am  sure  it  will  not  be  many  hours 
before  my  Frank  is  here.  I  hope  he  will  not  be  angry  about  the 
money,  and  I  could  not  help  being  taken  to  the  hospital." 

CHArTER  XIX. 

ROSE    IS   TEMPTED. 

Hours  and  days  passed  away,  and  Frank  did  not  come.  Rose  was 
alarmed.  Could  he  leave  her  for  so  long  without  writing  to  her  ? 
Impossible.  Perhaps  he  was  ill,  even  as  she  had  been  ill.  It  might  be 
that  he  was  stricken  with  fever,  and  only  strangers  to  watch  over  him. 

Or  perhaps  he  was .     But  Rose  shrank  from  the  horrible  thought 

No,  he  was  alive,  but  too  sick  to  write  to  her  or  even  to  tell  some 
one  to  do  so. 

The  postman  set  aside  the  suggestion  that  Frank  was  ill.  AVhen 
first  spoken  to  he  could  not  recollect  whether  he  had  left  any  letters 
for  Mrs.  Simpson,  but  two  days  afterwards  he  asked  to  see  Rose. 

**  I  thought,  mum,  I  had  left  letters  for  you  at  the  next  door,  and 
now  I  am  sure  of  it.  One  of  them  was  registered,  and  the  receipt  for 
it  was  signed  in  the  name  of  Simpson.     That,  you  see,  I  do  know, 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  329 

Jotting  alone  my  memory,  and  likewise  I  am  sure  that  there  was  other 
letters,  but  of  course  of  that  there  is  no  proof  but  memory,  which 
docs  not  go  for  much  when  you  are  delivering  thousands.  If  so  be 
there  has  been  any  robbery,  you  give  notice  to  our  people,  and  the 
party  would  be  found  if  he  buried  himself  in  a  coal  mine." 

This  was  perplexing  news  for  Rose.  There  was  comfort  in  the 
knowledge  that  Frank  was  well.  It  was  a  comfort  to  be  thus  assured 
of  his  loving  care.  No  doubt  the  registered  letter  contained  money, 
though  he  had  left  her  with  an  ample  provision.  The  other  letters 
were  to  urge  her  to  write  to  him.  Wliat  could  he  think  of  her 
silence  ?  He  could  not  doubt  that  she  had  received  his  letters,  because 
one  of  them  was  registered.  What  did  he  think  ?  Why  did  he  not 
write  again  ?    W1iy  did  he  not  seek  her  ? 

Could  he  suppose  that  she  did  not  care  for  him,  and  had  he  in  his 
anger  left  her  for  ever  ? 

Two  days  more  passed  without  news,  and  Rose  could  endure  the 
waiting  in  vain  no  longer. 

"  I  must  do  something  or  I  shall  be  ill  again.  He  does  not  know 
what  I  have  suffered,  and  he  thinks  I  am  cruel  and  unkind.  He  will 
not  seek  me ;  I  must  seek  him." 

Rose  still  clung  to  the  idea  that  Frank  had  left  her  to  see  his  uncle, 
the  rich  relation,  at  whose  death  she  was  to  be  an  acknowledged 
wife.  All  that  she  knew  about  the  uncle  was  that  he  lived  at  Mal- 
vern, and  she  resolved  to  go  to  Malvern  and  find  Frank. 

It  was  easier  to  resolve  than  to  execute  the  project  Malvern  was 
a  long  journey,  and  Rose  had  neither  money  nor  clothes.  Well,  she 
would  appear  before  Frank  in  such  garments  as  she  had,  because  a 
few  words  would  explain  her  suffering  and  necessity.  But  how  could 
she  procure  the  money  for  the  journey  ?  She  feared  to  claim  her 
money  at  the  hospital  lest  she  should  be  detained  and  punished  for 
her  escape.  She  had  no  property  to  pawn.  She  had  no  friend  to 
whom  she  could  apply  for  a  loan.  Her  landlady  was  already  sus- 
l)icious  and  pressing. 

"Where  is  her  luggage?"  asked  that  person  of  her  husband- 
"'  Left  for  rent  at  some  i)lace  where  they  would  keep  her  no  longer. 
^Vhere  is  the  i)arty  she  calls  her  husband  ?  He  has  given  what  he 
jneans  to  give  and  will  not  turn  up.  She  can^t  pay,  and  she  can't 
stop  in  my  rooms."  The  landlady  was  not  too  delicate  to  let  Rose 
know  her  mistrust,  and  therefore  no  aid  was  to  be  expected  from  her. 
So  in  the  great  city  teeming  with  wealth  Rose  was  worried,  and 
wretclied  and  despairing  for  the  lack  of  a  sovereign.  "Water, 
water  everywhere,  and  not  a  drop  to  drink,"    To  be  in  the  midst  of 


330  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

plenty  and  yet  want,  to  stand  by  rivers  of  drinkable  water  and  not  to 
be  allowed  to  quench  the  raging,  killing  thirst,  is  torture  to  mind  as 
well  as  body.  Rose  bitterly  felt  her  poverty.  It  was  so  strange  and 
so  cruel  that  the  little  she  wanted  should  be  denied  to  her.  She  did 
not  want  alms,  but  a  loan.  But  no  one,  thought  Rose,  would  lend 
her  a  sovereign  to  save  her  life.  Rose  was  wrong.  If  her  need  had 
been  known  ten  thousand  benevolent  hands  would  have  proffered 
her  the  help  she  needed. 

Rose  went  to  Paddington  to  inquire  about  the  fare  and  the  time 
for  starting.  Seek  her  husband  she  would,  and  in  some  way  she 
would  find  the  money.  The  cheapest  fare  was  ten  shillings,  and  the 
earliest  train  started  at  six  in  the  morning. 

"I  will  go  to-morrow  morning,  however  I  get  the  money." 

Nerved  l^y  this  desperate  resolution.  Rose  walked  quickly  until 
she  came  to  the  Edgware  Road,  and  then  she  began  to  think  and  to 
saunter.  The  hours  were  passing.  How  could  she  get  the  money  ? 
Where  should  she  go  ?    What  should  she  do  ? 

She  stopped  before  a  jeweller's  shop.  She  looked,  not  at  the  goods, 
but  at  the  price  tickets,  and  thought  how  happy  the  value  of  the 
least  costly  of  the  articles  would  make  her.  Suppose  she  could 
take  that  watch  or  that  ring,  she  could  return  it  in  a  day  or  two,  and 
who  would  be  the  poorer  ?  She  blushed  at  the  thought,  and  with 
her  heart  throbbing  violently  walked  away  into  the  park  and  sat 
down.  The  impossibility  of  getting  the  money  for  the  journey  was 
apparent,  and  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  was  utterly  hopeless, 
she  was  stricken  with  despair. 

A  lady  plainly  attired  stepped  before  her  and  said,  "  You  are 
Mrs.  Simpson  ;  you  are  ninety-seven.  AVhat  are  you  doing  here,  my 
poor  girl  ?  " 

Rose  looked  up ;  it  was  the  lady  visitor  of  the  hospital. 

"  Do  not  betray  me.  I  should  have  died  from  care  and  grief  if  I 
had  not  left  the  hospital." 

*'  You  not  only  risked  your  own  health  but  the  health  of  others. 
It  was  an  offence  for  which  you  could  be  punished,  but  do  not  think 
that  I  shall  harm  you.     My  desire  was  and  is  to  do  you  good." 

The  lady  visitor  took  a  seat  beside  Rose. 

"  You  look  ill  and  careworn.  What  have  you  been  doing  ?  How 
are  you  living?" 

"  I  have  been  expecting  my  husband.  I  am  going  to  seek  him  in 
the  country." 

**  Have  you  any  money  ?  " 

"  No ;  that  is  my  grief.     If  I  had  a  sovereign  I  could  go  to  him." 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  331 

**  Wliy  not  write  to  him  ?  " 

**  I  must  not  write  to  him." 

*'Whereishe?" 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  anything  about  him." 

"  God's  will  be  done,"  said  the  lady.  "  Some  day  your  heart  may 
be  changed,  and  you  \si\\  seek  the  way  of  peace  and  righteousness.  If 
you  were  as  tnie  to  yourself  as  you  are  to  your  betrayer  you  would  be 
hapi)y  from  this  hour." 

Rose  stood  up,  and  did  not  attempt  to  control  her  indignation. 

"  You  have  no  right  to  call  my  husband  a  betrayer.  That  is  false. 
We  are  true  to  each  other.     Good  morning." 

The  lady  laid  her  hand  on  Rose's  arm. 

"  Foolish,  unhappy  girl.  Would  a  husband  forsake  his  wife  ? 
Would  a  wife  refuse  to  tell  the  name  of  her  husband  ?  I  long  to  help 
you.  Come  with  me  to  my  home.  I  will  never  speak  to  you  of  the 
past.     I  will  give  you  the  opportunity  of  a  virtuous,  peaceful  life." 

Stung  by  the  unjust  suspicion,  Rose  did  not  heed  the  kindness  and 
the  affection  of  the  lady. 

"  I  ask  you  for  nothing,  and  yet  you  insult  me.    Please  let  me  go." 

"  May  He  have  mercy  on  you  ! "  said  the  lady. 

Rose  turned  out  of  the  Park  and  hurried  along  Oxford  Street  until 
she  came  to  Regent  Circus.  It  was  many  hours  since  she  had  taken 
food,  and  she  entered  a  confectioner's  and  ordered  a  cup  of  coffee 
and  some  bread,  first  ascertaining  by  the  list  of  prices  that  her  one 
shilling  would  more  than  pay  for  the  meal. 

There  were  several  ladies  in  the  room,  and  Rose  took  a  place  in 
the  darkest  comer.  \  lady  and  two  little  girls  were  at  the  same  table, 
finishing  a  substantial  lunch.  The  children  complained  that  their 
papa  was  so  long  coming,  and  they  knew  he  would  be  too  late  for  the 
morning  performance.  The  lady  told  them  that  papa  might  have 
been  detained,  but  that  he  would  not  disappoint  them.  Rose  con- 
trasted her  solitude  and  misery  with  their  happiness,  and  she  envied, 
almost  hated  them.  The  lady  said  she  would  pay,  so  that  when  papa 
came  they  could  start  immediately.  A  few  minutes  after  paying  the 
lady  moved  a  little  to  arrange  the  dress  of  the  children.  Rose  saw 
that  the  lady's  purse  was  lying  on  the  back  part  of  the  sofa  seat.  She 
was  about  to  tell  the  lady  of  it  when  the  impulse  was  checked  by  the 
thought  that  the  contents  of  the  purse  would  relieve  her  from  her 
difficulty. 

Rose  bent  over  her  coffee  to  conceal  her  face,  and  she  trembled 
with  a  sense  of  guilt  as  if  she  had  stolen  the  purse.  There  was  a 
sharp  struggle  with  conscience. 


23^  The  Gentleman s  Magazine. 

"  She  will  be  sure  to  miss  it  before  she  leaves.  AVhy  should  I 
speak  ? " 

The  voice  of  conscience  was  silenced.     Alas,  in  the  hour  of  tempta- 
tion how  easy  is  self-deception  !     If  her  intent  was  honest  why  did 
•she  not  tell  the  lady  that  her  purse  was  on  the  sofa?     If  her  intent 
was  honest,  why  did  she  so  eagerly  watch  every  movement  of  the 
kidy  ? 

Tlie  papa  came  in,  and  the  children  clapped  their  hands. 

*'  Come,  my  dears,  we  have  not  a  moment  to  lose." 

""  We  are  ready,  pa,"  said  the  lady,  and  they  departed. 

The  purse  was  left  on  the  sofa. 

There  was  another  and  fmal  stmggle  with  conscience.  She  would 
not  take  the  purse.  But  oh,  not  to  see  Frank!  And  if  she  took  it, 
could  she  not  restore  it?  Another  party  entered  the  room  and 
looked  towards  the  table.  As  Rose  left  she  moved  along  the  seat 
and  sli[)ped  the  purse  into  her  pocket.  She  paid  for  her  coffee  and 
1')read  and  went  out. 

The  bright  daylight  stunned  her.  The  noise  of  the  street  affrighted 
her.  What  could  she  do  ?  Whither  could  she  flee  ?  In  her  guilty 
terror  and  bewilderment  she  hailed  a  cab  and  got  into  it. 

"  WHiere  shall  I  drive,  iniss?'' 

It  was  a  full  minute  before  Rose  answered,  and  she  then  told  the 
iiKin  to  drive  to  the  station  at  Paddington. 

*•  I  cannot  go  to  Holloway.  I  must  be  ready  for  the  morning.  If 
Frank  knew  what  I  have  done  could  he  forgive  me?  What  shall  I 
do?     What  shall  I  do?" 

Before  reaching  Paddington  she  was  smitten  with  another  fear. 
\\'hat  did  the  purse  contain  ?  Perhaps  not  enough  to  pay  her  fare, 
and  her  crime  was  in  vain.  She  took  the  purse  from  her  pocket  and 
opened  it,  holding  it  on  her  lap,  as  if  she  were  being  watched.  The 
purse  contained  two  sovereigns  and  some  silver.  She  put  the  money 
in  her  own  purse,  and  the  lady's  purse  into  her  pocket. 

Rose  went  to  a  coffee-house  just  by  the  station,  the  proprietor 
promising  to  call  her  in  time  for  the  early  train  ;  not  that  there  was  the 
least  risk  of  her  sleeping  too  late.  She  remained  for  two  or  three 
hours  in  her  room,  and  when  it  was  dusk  went  out.  She  must  get 
rid  of  the  lady's  purse.  She  could  not  rest  until  the  evidence  of  her 
guilt  was  away  from  her. 

She  wrapped  the  purse  roughly  in  a  piece  of  newspaper.  She  stood 
on  the  canal  bridge  and  dropped  the  purse  into  the  water. 

Before  returning  to  the  coffee-house  she  made  small  purchases  in 
two  shops.     Not  that  the  purchases  were  needed,  but  she  did  not 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  333 

like  to  have  the  stolen  money  in  her  pocket,  and  at  each  shop  she 
changed  one  of  the  sovereigns. 

"  I  will  not,  going  on  such  a  journey,  pay  for  my  ticket  with  money 
so  come  by,  and  he  shall  not  embrace  me  with  stolen  money  in  my 
pocket." 

A\Tiat  wretched,  miserable  self-deception  ! 

Alas  for  the  fallen  !  What  are  they  to  do  ?  Unless  the  voice  of 
conscience  is  silenced,  they  must  confess  their  guilt,  and  braving  the 
penalty  and  humiliation,  return  to  the  path  of  virtue,  or  else  they 
will  go  mad.  Facilis  descensus  Avcrni,  But  the  ascent  demands 
heroic,  nay,  superhuman  power.  It  is  easy  to  silence  the  voice  of 
conscience  by  lying — egregious,  monstrous  1}  ing ;  but  whoever  falls 
and  is  morally  dead  cannot  rise  again  unless  the  moral  life  is  renewed 
by  the  mercy  of  the  Eternal. 

It  is  impossible  to  defend  Rose.  Stone  her  if  you  will.  Stone 
her  without  mercy.  Yet  it  will  be  well  to  say,  "As  she  is  I  should 
be  if  I  yielded  to  temptation."  And  who  dares  to  presume  that  he 
shall  be  tempted  and  not  fall  ?  He  who  boasts  of  his  strength  is  a 
fool.  The  wise  man  watches  and  prays  lest  he  enter  into  tempta- 
tion. 

But  we  may  not  plead  for  Rose.  She  has  fallen,  and,  if  you 
will,  stone  her  without  mercy. 

CHAPTER  XX. 

DOWNHILL. 

How  often  have  you  seen  the  rising  of  the  sun  in  sweet  summer- 
tide  ?  It  is  good  now  and  then  to  watch  the  dawn  of  day,  but  those 
who  say  that  man  should  rise  with  the  lark  are  shallow  talkers.  While 
the  weary  world  is  sleeping  nature  is  preparing  the  fulness  of  the  day 
for  man.  In  London  and  other  large  cities  very  early  rising  is  dreary 
and  depressing. 

Rose  did  not  wait  to  be  called,  and  was  at  the  station  a  full  hour 
before  the  train  started.  She  was  chilly  and  tired  and  anxious  about 
the  result  of  her  journey.  She  had  no  doubt  about  finding  Frank, 
but  how  would  he  receive  her  ?  Would  he  be  too  angry  to  listen  to 
her  explanation  ?  Then  Rose  pretended  to  deride  her  fears,  and  said 
aloud  **  How  foolish  and  how  wicked  to  suppose  he  could  be  so  un- 
kind." Nevertheless,  the  fear  was  not  conquered,  and  all  the  long 
journey  she  was  thinking  what  she  should  say  to  Frank  when  she 
first  met  him. 

Arrived  at  Malvern,  the  fears  of  Rose  were  redoubled.     How 
Vol.  XI.,  X.S.  1873.  z 


334  ^'^^  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

careful  Frank  had  been  to  keep  her  from  the  knowledge  of  the  ri4:h 
relation.  He  had  told  her  over  and  over  again  that  the  whole  of  his 
prospects  depended  upon  the  concealment  of  his  marriage  until  after 
the  death  of  his  uncle.  She  would  not  betray  the  secret.  Yet  Frank 
might  resent  her  coming  to  seek  him  at  his  uncle's  abode.  Still  her 
husband  could  not  wish  her  to  continue  in  such  misery,  and  no  one 
should  know  who  she  was  or  her  business. 

She  went  into  the  refreshment  room,  and,  having  taken  a  little  food, 
asked  the  barmaid  if  she  knew  the  address  of  Mr.  Boliver.  After 
an  inspection  of  Rose's  clothing,  the  elaborately  arrayed  tapstrcss 
replied  in  the  negative  and  curtly. 

Rose  applied  to  a  porter  who  was  strongly  recommendedby  a  good- 
natured  face. 

"  If  I  aint  clean  off  the  line  I  know  the  party.  It  is  a  party  as  is 
often  down  here.  Pretty  tall  and  pale,  and  aint  very  upright  in  his 
walk." 

"  Yes,"  said  Rose. 

"  Tlien  come  here,  miss,  and  I'll  show  you  where  he  lives,  for  my 
mate  wheeled  up  somethings  for  him." 

The  porter  took  her  out  of  the  station  and  pointed  to  the  hills. 

"  You  see  that  there  house  with  a  verandah,  right  up  in  tlie  hill 
there.  Well,- it  aint  that,  but  it  is  just  above  it,  and  can't  be  seen 
from  here.  Any  one  will  tell  you  when  you  get  up  there.  Will  you 
have  a  carriage  to  take  you  up  ?  " 

"  No,  thank  you,  I  will  walk,"  said  Rose,  putting  a  shilling  into  the 
man's  hand. 

"It's  all  a  mile  and  a  half  by  the  time  you  get  there,  and  all  up  hill.'' 

Rose  again  thanked  the  good-natured  porter  and  set  forth'  on  her 
walk.  When  she  reached  the  town  she  almost  repented  not  taking 
the  advice  of  the  porter.  She  was  already  tired,  and  the  steep  hill 
had  to  be  ascended.  Having  climbed  to  St.  Anne's  Well,  she. drank 
some  of  the  water  and  bathed  her  face  and  hands.  The  afternoon 
was  sultry  and  there  was  scarcely  any  breeze  from  the  hills.  But  her 
sense  of  fatigue  was  deadened  by  increasing  anxiety  as  to  the  recep- 
tion of  Frank.  The  nearer  the  end  of  the  journey,  the  more  she 
doubted  its  prudence.  With  a  heavy  heart  she  continued  the  ascent, 
which  was  the  more  difficult  and  toilsome  because  she  did  not  know 
the  paths.  Bcliind  the  verandah  house  were  several  small  houses, 
but  not  one  of  them  seemed  grand  enough  for  Frank's  rich  relation. 
She  knocked  at  the  door  of  a  house  with  apartments  to  let,  knowing 
that  could  not  be  the  uncle's  abode. 

"  For  how  many  do  you  want  apartments  ?  " 


Makitfg  the  Worst  of  it,  335 

"  1  beg  your  pardon.  I  am  not  looking  for  apartments.  I  am  told 
Mr.  Boliver  lives  near  here,  and  I  cannot  find  his  house." 

"It  will  be  ten  year  come  Christmas  that  I  have  been  here,  and  I 
never  heard  of  that  name  having  a  house  here." 

A  daughter  came  in. 

"  Sarah,  this  lady  has  been  sent  up  here  to  find  a  house  kept  by  the 
name  of  Boliver,  and  I  say  there's  no  such  name  hereabouts.'* 

"Lor  no,  mother,  but  I  know  where  it  is.  It's  an  invalid  old 
gentleman  at  Rook  Villa,  West  Malvern." 

^*  And  please  where  is  that  ?"  asked  Rose. 

"  You  go  down  the  hill  till  you  come  to  the  Promenade,  wliich  is 
•where  the  shops  are,  and  then  you  turn  off  to  the  left  for  ever  so  far, 
and  you  will  know  Rook  Villa  when  you  come  to  it,  for  it's  a  big 
place,  and  the  name  writ  on  the  gates." 

"  Thank jrou,  and  I  am  sorry  to  have  given  you  the  trouble." 

"  You  are  the  worst  off  with  the  walk  for  nothing,  but  it  is  like  the 
station  people,  who  are  bom  stupids." 

There  was  a  zig-zag  road  that  Rose  should  have  taken,  but  she 
began  to'descend  by  a  direct  route  over  the  turf.  The  hill  was  steep, 
and  she  could  not  keep  her  footing.  She  held  on  by  the  bough  of  a 
dwarfed  rugged  tree.  She  looked  down  and  became  tremulous  and 
giddy.     She  sat  down  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 

"  I  cannot  move,  I  shall  never  be  able  to  move." 

The  long-expected  storm  began.  A  few  drops  of  rain,  and  then  a 
pause,  while  the  darkness  of  the  sky  grew  darker.  The  heavy  rain 
fell.  A  fpelting,  pitiless,  angry  rain.  It  beat  and  splashed  upon 
the  hills.  It  fell  on  the  ground  like  a  bubbling,  hissing  flood.  It  tore 
-down  the  hills  and  stones,  and  turf  and  pieces  of  loosened  rock  were 
borne  on  the  rushing  torrent. 

Rose  did  not  move  until  the  darkness  was  for  a  moment  made 
lurid,  blinding  light  by  a  flash  of  forked  lightnmg.  Rose  got  up  and 
held  on  by  the  tree.  The  thunder  appeared  to  roll  from  hill  to  hill, 
and  so  terrible  was  the  noise  that  it  was  pleasant  to  hear  the  splash- 
ing and  the  dashing  and  the  rushing  of  the  rain. 

From  the  hill  could  be  seen  three  storms.  Every  instant,  here  or 
there,  the  heavens  were  riven  and  opened  by  the  lightning,  and  the 
crash  and  roar  of  the  Malvern  storm  were  incessant. 

Rose,  impelled  by  an  indefinable  terror,  tried  to  descend  the  hill. 

She  was  still  holding  on  by  the  tree  when  she  found  that  the  rain  had 

made  the  turf  slippery.  So  she  sat  down  again  shivering  and  quaking. 

5he  shut  her  eyes,  and  held  her  hands  over  her  ears,  yet  she  saw  the 

lightning  and  heard  the  thunder. 

/  2 


*> 


36  T/ie  Gottlentans  Magazine. 


"  Goodness  alive,  why  are  you  sitting  Rere  ?  " 

Rose  looked,  and  there  stood  by  her  the  woman  at  whose  house 
she  had  called. 

"  We  were  looking  at  the  storm,  and  my  girl  said  there  was  some- 
body standing  by  the  sheep  tree,  and  that  it  was  you.  Poor  girl,  it's 
enough  to  kill  you.     Come  with  me." 

"  How  can  I  get  down  the  hill  ?" 

"  I  will  show  you,  or  my  girl  will,  when  tlie  storm  is  over." 

Rose  leant  heavily  on  the  arm  of  the  woman. 

"  How  kind  of  you  to  come  out  in  such  a  rain." 

"  We  don't  mind  rain  here,  and  if  it  rained  frogs  it  wouldn't  get 
through  my  cloak." 

When  they  w^re  in  the  cottage  the  woman  told  Rose  to  take  off 
her  things  and  have  them  dried.  Rose  said  she  wanted  to  get  to 
West  Malvern. 

"  Well,  so  you  shall,  but  not  till  the  storm  is  over,  and  your  things 
will  soon  dr>'  at  my  ironing  fire.  Here,  Sarah,  just  look  after  her 
and  see  that  every  thread  is  dried  fit  for  a  human  body  to  wear." 

Sarah  obeyed  her  mother's  orders. 

"  I  knew  it  was  you,"  said  Sarah,  "  yet  I  could  not  have  gone  to 
you  for  worlds.  Do  you  know  why  ?  The  sheep  tree  is  haunted 
because  a  girl  who  was  forsaken  died  there.  And  they  do  say  that 
when  there  is  a  storm  the  imps  come  out  and  throw  stones." 

The  storm  was  over.  The  sun  shone  brightly,  and  the  only 
vestiges  of  the  storm  were  to  be  seen  on  the  ground.  Rose,  in  her 
rough-dried  garments,  set  out  with  Sarah.  She  thanked  the  woman 
for  her  kindness.  The  woman  was  not  pleased  with  what  she  called 
the  mystification,  for  Rose  would  say  nothing  about  herself  or  her 
business  at  Malvern. 

Under  the  guidance  of  Sarah  the  descent  was  easily  made.  Jn 
spite  of  Rose's  protest,  Sarah  insisted  upon  accompanying  her  to 
Rook  Villa.     The  daughter,  like  the  mother,  was  curious. 

"  It's  quite  a  grand  house  is  Mr.  Boliver's,  and  you  do  look  queer 
after  the  wetting ;  but  I  suppose  they  are  friends  and  won't  care  for 
how  you  look?" 

"  Perhaps  I  may  not  go  in.     I  only  want  a  note  left." 

"  Let  me  leave  it?" 

"  Thank  you,  but  you  will  not  say  a  word?   Only  leave  the  letter." 

"  ril  not  say  a  word.     And  here  we  are." 

Yes,  there  was  Rook  Villa,  but  very  little  of  the  house  could  be 
seen  from  the  road. 

Rose  took  a  note  from  her  pocket  addressed  to  Frank  Boliver,  Esq. 


•     Makiiig^  the  Worst  of  it.  337 

*'  Leave  this  for  mc,  and  tnere  is  no  answer  to  wait  for." 

When  Sarah  had  delivered  the  letter  Rose  wished  her  good-bye, 

and  offered  a  few  shillings  to  buy  a  present. 

**  No,  my  dear,  I  shan't  take  your  money.     But  are  you  going  to 

stop  here  for  an  answer?    I  will  stop  with  you.    Mother  won't  expect 


me." 


Rose  had  to  pray  of  her  to  leave. 

*'Sonie  one  may  fome  to  rae,  and  I  must  be  alone." 

"  I  know  it*s  a  dreadful  love  affair.     Isn't  it,  now?" 

Rose  pressed  her  hand. 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  it  was  so  unlucky  for  you  to  touch  the  haunted 
tree." 

Sarah  walked  away,  but  only  to  the  bend  of  the  road. 

Rose  waited  under  the  high  garden  wall  for  the  answer  to  her  note. 
The  note  ran  thus  : — 

*•  Darling  Frank, 

**  I  have  been  very  ill.     I  am  here.     No  one  knows  me.     Come 
to  me. 

"  Rose." 

A  few  minutes  appeared  a  weary  while  to  Rose.  Perhaps  Frank 
was  out.     Perhaps  he  would  not  see  her. 

A  servant  appeared  at  the  gate.  She  looked  up  and  down  the 
f  oad,  and  then  at  Rose. 

"  Excuse  me,  miss,  but  is  it  you  that  wants  to  see  Mr.  Boliver  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Rose.     "  Is  he  at  home?" 

"Then  please  to  walk  in." 

**  Ah,"  thought  Rose,  as  she  followed  the  servant,  "  he  is  ill,  and 
that  is  why  he  has  not  written  to  me." 

"  Will  you  wait  in  that  room  for  one  minute,  miss  ?  What  name 
shall  I  give  ?" 

"  Not  any.     He  knows  it." 

** Certainly,  miss,"  said  the  girl  with  a  toss  of  the  head  that  manifcited 
resentment  at  the  secrecy  of  Rose. 

The  world  forgives  deception,  but  not  honest,  defiant  secrecy.  If 
Rose  had  taken  the  "  Ix)ndon  Directory"  and  fixed  upon  any  name 
she  fancied,  and  had  told  the  inquisitive  that  her  name  was  Mrs. 
So-and-So,  and  that  Mr.  So-and-So  had  gone  abroad  to  look  after 
some  property,  Mrs.  (iibbs  and  others  would  not  have  believed  her, 
.but  they  would  not  have  been  offended.  The  worst  reasons  would 
have  been  invented  for  the  assumed  deception,  but  it  is  a  stinging 


33^  The  Gentlematis  Magazine. 

insult  to  the  curious  to  say — "  I  shalk  not  tell  you  my  business." 
What  a  much  happier,  more  moral,  more  loving,  and  more  religious 
world  it  would  be  if  it  were  the  rule  not  to  gossip  about  our  neigh- 
bours' business  !  Gossiping,  like  dnmkenness,  is  the  prolific  parent 
of  vices  and  of  crime. 

A  gentleman  leaning  heavily  on  a  stick  came  into  the  room,  sat 
upon  the  sofa,  and  stared  at  Rose,  who  was  too  alarmed  to  move  or 
speak. 

"Well,  ma'am,  my  name  is  George  Boliver.     What  is  yours?" 

How  could  Rose  answer  ?     Had  Frank  sent  his  uncle  to  her  ? 

"  I  come,  sir,  to  see  Mr.  Frank  Boliver." 

"  I  know  you  did.  I  have  your  note  to  darling  Frank.  What  do 
you  want  to  see  him  about  ?     Does  he  owe  you  anything?" 

''  Oh  no,  sir  ! " 

"Oh  no,  sir!  Then  why  do  you  come  here?  How  dare  you 
intrude  yourself  into  my  house?  Tell  me  what  is  your  business  with 
my  nephew,  or  it  will  be  worse  for  you." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  sir,  but  I  wanted  to  see  Mr.  Frank  Boliver." 

**  Why  do  you  think  he  is  here?" 

"  I  have  not  heard  from  him  for  several  weeks,  and  I  thought  he 
might  be  here." 

"  Then  your  thoughts  were  wTong.  He  has  not  been  here  for 
months,  and  he  is  not  wanted  here  again.  When  you  see  him  tell  him 
to  give  my  address  to  no  more  of  his  baggage,  that  I  am  well  again, 
and  tliat  when  I  do  die  he  will  be  none  the  better  for  it.  Now,  be 
off,  and  don't  let  me  find  you  prowling  about  my  place,  or  I  will 
tcacli  you  there  is  a  law  for  rogues  and  vagabonds." 

Rose  went  without  a  word  of  reply.  She  did  not  heed  the  abuse. 
If  the  clioleric  old  gentleman  had  struck  her  with  his  stick  she  would 
not  have  felt  the  blows.  \Vhere  was  Frank  ?  What  mission  took 
him  from  her  ?  Would  he  return  ?  Had  he  not  forsaken  her?  For 
an  instant  she  was  troubled  about  the  anger  of  the  uncle,  but  only 
for  an  instant.  Where  was  Frank  ?  Why  did  he  leave  her  ?  Why 
did  he  leave  her  secretly?  Had  he  forsaken  her?  And  Rose 
thought  he  had  forsaken  her. 

"  It  is  cruel,  it  must  kill  me." 

Wlien  she  came  to  the  road  that  led  to  the  hill  she  stopped.  She 
remembered  what  Sarah  had  told  her  about  the  haunted  tree.  Should 
she  go  there,  remain  tliere,  and  die  there  ? 

And  he  would  not  know  why  she  so  died  !  Rose  continued  her 
way  to  the  station.  She  entered  into  a  compact  with  herself  not  to 
think  about  her  future  until  she  was  in  London.     But  she  did  not 


^      Making  the  Worst  of  it.  339 

keep  the  compact.  Penniless,  friendless,  and  a  stranger.  What 
could  she  do  ?  There  was  one  resource  open  to  lier.  Let  her  declare 
her  name,  and  she  would  immediately  have  offers  of  engagements 
and  an  ample  income.  Frank  might  be  vexed,  for  he  always  hated 
her  to  be  on  the  stage.  What  of  that?  Let  him  see  that  the  woman 
he  had  forsaken  was  not  despised  by  everybody.  He  would  hear  of 
her  success,  and  he  might  believe  that  she  cared  only  for  money, 
and  was  faithless  to  him,  her  husband. 

"  No,  I  will  not  go  on  the  stage.  It  is  far  better  to  die  than  he 
should  think  me  untrue  to  him." 

Rose  slept  at  the  coffee-house.  She  had  seven  shillings  left  after 
tlic  day's  expenses. 

CHAPTER  XXL 

'  MR.    STOT    IS    BOTHERED. 

"  Mv  dear,  yOu  are  not  eating  enough  for  a  mincing  girl." 

Most  of  us  eat  too  little  or  too  much,  and,  unfortunately,  there  is 
no  general  rule  to  be  observed.  The  aphorism  that  a  proper  diet 
means  health  is  more  than  half  truth.  But  what  is  a  proper  diet  ? 
The  dietary  that  gives  health  and  strength  to  one  man  is  injurious  to 
another.  The  dietary  that  agreed  so  well  with  you  five  years  ago 
now  prostrates  you.  Whatsoever  the  quacks  may  say,  there  is  no 
universal  medicine  and  no  universal  rule  of  health.  When  did  you 
see  two  human  faces  exactly  alike  ?  The  whole  body  differs  more 
than  the  face,  and  every  constitution  requires  special  treatment. 

There  seemed,  indeed,  very  slender  reason  for  Mrs.  Stot's  observa- 
tion. Mr.  Stot  had  taken  soup,  fish,  and  did  not  quite  finish  his  plate 
of  roast  meat.  The  soup  and  the  fish  were  an  ample  assurance 
against  inanition,  and  a  slight  falling  off  in  the  third  course  was  not 
an  alarming  incident.  But  Mrs.  Stot  had  great  faith  in  heavy  eating. 
So  long  as  food  is  wholesome,  and  not  a  palate  tickler,  you  cannot 
have  too  much.  If  you  eat  well  you  will  be  well,  and  if  you  don't 
you  won't.     These  were  favourite  maxims  witli  Mrs.  Stot. 

"  Tlie  fact  is,  my  dear,  the  perversity  of  human  nature  would  take 
away  the  appetite  of  an  ostrich." 

"  Anything  \vrong  in  the  City  ?" 

**No.  The  loan  drags,  but  it  will  soon  be  set  going.  You 
remember  Mr.  Boliver,  whose  name  Shamvork  forged,  and  who  went 
out  to  the  States  with  Doloski  ?" 

"Of  course  I  do,  Stot." 

"  Well,  he  has  not  come  home  with   Doloski,  who  got    him  a 


The  Gentlemaris  Magazine. 

o  the  curious  to  say — "I  shaU^not  tell  you  my  business." 
1  much  happier,  more  moral,  more  loving,  and  more  religious 
it  would  be  if  it  were  the  rule  not  to  gossip  about  our  neigh- 
business  !     Gossiping,  like  dnmkenness,  is  the  prolific  parent 
ces  and  of  crime. 

gentleman  leaning  heavily  on  a  stick  came  into  the  room,  sat 
n  the  sofa,  and  stared  at  Rose,  who  was  too  alarmed  to  move  or 
ak. 

'Well,  ma'am,  my  name  is  George  Boliver.     What  is  yours?'* 
How  could  Rose  answer  ?     Had  Frank  sent  his  uncle  to  her  ? 
"  I  come,  sir,  to  see  Mr.  Frank  Boliver." 

"  I  know  you  did.     I  have  your  note  to  darling  Frank.     What  do 
)u  want  to  see  him  about  ?     Does  he  owe  you  anything  ?  " 
''  Oh  no,  sir  ! " 

"Oh  no,  sir!  Then  why  do  you  come  here?  How  dare  you 
trudc  yourself  into  my  house?  Tell  me  what  is  your  business  with 
y  nephew,  or  it  will  be  worse  for  you." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  sir,  but  I  wanted  to  see  Mr.  Frank  Boliver." 
**  Why  do  you  think  he  is  here  ?  " 

'  -'"*  not  heard  from  him  for  several  weeks,  and  I  thought  he 

Hp  ha*;   nnt   been 


340  ^"'^^  Gentleman  s  Magazin^.      ♦ 

commission  in  the  West  that  will  be  a  three  weeks*  run  and  pay  him 
well.  The  day  before  yesterday  I  got  a  letter  from  him  telling  me  that 
he  is  married,  that  his  wife  was  living  at  HoUoway  as  an  alias^  a 
Mrs.  Simpson,  and  that  he  had  left  without  letting  her  know  that  he 
was  going  out  of  t*  e  country.     Prudent  that,  wasn't  it,  my  dear  ?" 

"  No,  Stot,  it  was  foolish.  If  a  man  gets  a  wife  that  he  can't  trust 
with  his  own  movements  he  should  leave  her  for  good  and  all,  for  it 
is  no  good  he  will  get  out  of  her.  But  if  a  woman  is  true,  a  man  is  a 
brute  and  a  fool  not  to  trust  her." 

"  Perhaps  it  was  my  fault,  for  not  thinking  of  his  being  married  I 
made  him  promise  to  keep  his  going  a  secret  from  everybody.  In 
his  letter  he  says  he  is  getting  anxious  about  his  wife,  begs  of  me  to  see 
her,  to  tell  her  when  he  will  return,  and  to  give  her  the  cash  for  a 
draft  that  he  encloses.  This  morning  I  went  to  Belitha  Road,  Hol- 
loway.  Mrs.  Simpson  has  gone  no  one  knows  where,  and  likely 
enough  no  one  ever  will  know." 

**Cjone,  my  dear  !     What  could  make  her  act  in  such  a  way?" 

*'  A  day  or  two  after  Boliver  left  the  poor  thing  was  robbed  of  the 
money  left  her  by  her  husband.  This  I  have  ascertained  to  be  the 
truth,  as  the  police  are  on  the  track  of  the  parties  for  another  job. 
She  was  turned  out  of  her  lodging.  (}ets  no  letters  from  Boliver. 
Comes  back  after  a  fortnight  or  so,  finds  the  house  shut  up.  She 
went  to  lodge  next  door,  and  they  say  she  looked  like  a  starved 
woman.  She  brought  no  luggage  with  her.  What  was  not  sold  for 
food  was  left  for  rent,  I  suppose.  Well,  my  dear,  yesterday  morning 
she  went  out  early,  and  has  not  returned.  I  am  sorry  for  the  poor 
thing,  and  I  am  sorry  for  Boliver.  But  what  vexes  me  is  that  if  I 
had  gone  to  Holloway  the  day  I  got  the  letter  I  should  have  seen  her 
and  saved  her." 

"  Being  sorry  for  the  poor  woman  is  right,  but  how  can  you  be  at 
fault  because  that  Boliver  leaves  his  wife  in  such  a  way?  How  could 
you  know  that  it  was  a  question  of  moments  ?" 

"  I  do  not  say  I  am  at  fault,  but  it  is  not  less  aggravating,  and 
rather  more  so,  since  no  one  is  to  blame." 

"  Think,  too,  of  our  poor  dear  innocent  Alice.  It*s  no  use 
asking  if  there  is  any  clue.  Stot,  I  would  not  say  it  before  her 
poor  father,  but  I  almost  give  her  up  for  lost." 

"  I  don't.  This  is  how  I  put  it.  The  girl  left  the  school  to  be 
married.  From  fear,  or  from  pride,  or  a  mixture  of  the  two,  she 
keeps  her  past  dark.  But  our  advertisements  will  spot  her.  I  am 
sure  they  will.'* 

"  Whilst  you  were  in   Paris,  Stot,  I  made  a  fin 3  gODse  of  myself. 


#  Makino  the  Worst  of  it.  341 

and  it  may  as  well  come  out  now  as  later.  That  Lady  Flippers, 
^hose  head  is  regularly  upside  down,  would  not  let  me  rest  till  I  had 
been  to  one  of  her  spiritualist  seances,  It*s  about  the  most  stupid 
and  likewise  the  most  wicked  invention  ever  tried  on  this  mortal 
earth.  Fancy  gr^wn  up  people  pretending  to  believe  the  spirits  play 
the  banjo,  pinch  legs,  bo.x  ears,  and  such  like  tomfoolery.  And 
worse,  Stot,  for  people  to  think  that  those  they  loved  and  who  are  in 
their  graves  play  the  fool  for  the  gain  of  an  impudent  juggler." 

*'  Ah  !  my  dear,  it's  always  been  my  motto,  *  No  fools,  no  rogues/ 
and  the  fool  is  as  bad  if  not  worse  than  the  rogue.  If  I  go  into 
Parliament  I  shall  bring  in  a  Bill  to  punish  the  father  of  crime,  which 
is  folly." 

"  Then,  Stot,  I  should  have  been  in  for  it.  Next  day  I  told  Lady 
Flippers  my  opinion,  and  she  said  I  should  try  first  before  I  condemned, 
and  she  dared  say  her  medium  would  bring  any  spirit  to  me  I  wanted. 
Well,  in  an  artful  round  go  round  way  she  brought  up  poor  Alice, 
asking  me  if  ever  I  heard  of  that  poor  orphan.  *  The  medium,'  she 
said,  *will  let  you  know  whether  she  is  alive  or  not.'  Well,  I  laughed, 
Stot,  and  said  it  was  rubbish,  but  somehow  that  idea  got  such  hold  of 
me  that  I  went  to  the  mediumV,  and  first  he  put  my  five-pound  note 
into  "his  pocket,  and  then  he  rapped,  and  oh,  Stot,  I  thought  I  shoiild 
have  gone  through  the  floorjwhen  he  rapped  out  *  Alice  Clayton.'  But 
he  wanted  to  do  too  much,  and  made  the  ghost  rap  out  that  her 
father  wanted  to  talk  with  you  through  the  medium.  Vou  sec,  Stot, 
they  thought  she  was  an  orphan  on  both  sides.  When  I  got  to  the 
door  I  turned  round  and  called  the  medium  a  thief.  He  only  smiled; 
he  is  used  to  it." 

Mr.  Stot  laughed  heartily. 

"  My  dear,  I'm  glad  you  were  done,  quite  glad.  If  I  tumble  into 
a  beefsteak  pie  you  will  not  be  able  to  do  a  reprimand,  for  if  you  did 
T  should  call  you  another  and  ask  about  the  medium." 

Mr.  Stot  said  they  would  be  cosy,  and  he  lighted  a  cigar  and 
stretched  on  the  sofa,  whilst  his  wife  filled  a  capacious  easy  chair. 

"  Really,  Stot,  it's  a  downright  treat  to  get  an  evening  alone. 
People  are  always  dropping  in." 

Enter  servant. 

*'  Mr.  Hawes,  sir,  hopes  you  will  be  kind  enough  to  see  him  for  a 
minute  on  most  particular  business." 

"  What,  old  Mr.  Hawes  come  to  see  you  ?  I  would  not  see 
him." 

**  Yes,  my  dear,  we  will.  He  comes  to  me,  and  it  is  my  duty  to 
see  him." 


342  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine, 

I>uikliii|j;  up  is  a  slow  prcwrcss,  but  demolition  can  be  done  with 
1  clcriiy.  What  years  of  labour,  loving  care,  and  prayer,  it  has  taken 
to  turn  out  that  full  fraught  man.  Let  some  fell  disease  fasten  on 
him,  (»r  kt  his  soul  yield  to  the  Tempter,  and  the  man  of  yesterday 
is  to  day  a  physical  or  moral  wreck.  Mr.  Hawes  was  never  a  full 
frau^lu  man,  but  he  looked  respectably  healthy  and  pudgey.  In  a  few- 
weeks  he  has  become  ailing,  tottering,  and  wizened.  Mrs.  Stot,  who 
was  prepared  to  be  extremely  haughty,  stared  at  him  compassionately. 

**  1  know,  Mr.  Stot,  we  parted  enemies,  and  that  I  said  hard  things 
about  you.  but  I  am  in  great  trouble.  I  want  your  advice,  and  I  ask 
you  to  u>ri;et  the  past." 

''  Ju^t  one  or  two  words  alx)ut  that  past.  Vou  have  said  that  I 
used  the  marriage  of  your  daughter  to  grind  nigh  ^8,ooo  out  of 
you.  Why  did  I  put  that  pressure  on  you  ?  When  I  was  not  rich, 
thri>i'.^li  that  scoundrel  Mellish,  you  took  over  ^8,ooo  of  ray  money. 
Vou  cleared  me  out,  kt"i  me  in  debt  and  well  nigh  mined.  When 
yoii  paid  that  Shamvock  forgery  you  did  not  pay  me  the  money  lent 
o:i  those  forgeries,  but  tlie  money  you  took  from  me  years  and  years 
ajo,  end  wc.il  niji  ruined  me." 

"  I  do  nL'i  d-^ny  it,  Mr.  Slot :  let  the  past  bo  forgotten.' 

**  C>ne  more  word  about  that  past,"  said  Mr.  Stot,  not  regarding  the 
a^'pea'iir.g  look  of  his  wife.  "  Even  the  wish  of  making  you  pay  the 
money  did  not  prevent  me  doing  my  duty  to  you  and  to  your 
daughter.  I  warned  voi\  1  bec:i:ed  of  vou  not  to  lei  vour  child  marr\- 
that  5co:.ndrei  Shamvook.  There—  I  have  done  with  the  past.  Wliat 
has  g^  r.c  \\rong  now.  Mr.  Hawes?  ' 

Mrs.  Slot  was  leaving:  the  room. 

'* rk.ise  doni  ;:o.  madam."  said  Mr.  Hawes.  '*  Vou  ma>  be  abk- 
to  he'.]'  Mrs.  Hawes  and  l.ady — 1  mean  Selina  " 

'*C\:r.c.  Hawes,  drink  wha;  1  have  put  Kfore  you.  I  can  pretty 
we:'  gv.css  what  we  are  coming  to.  Siiamvock  has  Ixcn  up  to  sonic 
oi  h:s  itxks, 

"  1*;.:\    Sham — I    mean   Selina — stantxi  with    over    ^1.500    in 
lrinkc:>.     lasi  week  her  jewel  case  was  roMnid.  1  put  the  police  on. 
and  ihv*.  *:ame  tome  .md  <v-:d  'Wc  have  traced  ihe  iemels.     Thcv 
m'cre  taken  by  Lord  Shamvock.'     There  was  a  yuir  of  diamond  ear- 
rings thai  I  bought  din  cheap  for  ^'7cc.  and  could  have  sold  for 
jf  ijOCD  to  break  up.     I  looked  at  her  carnngs  yesterday — for  I  Iiad 
avay  the  rest  of  the  jewels  for  Nife:y~and  I  thought  ihcy 
I  ta     them  to  my  k'Ac!lj.r.     Mr.  S:o:,  ihai  villain 
^diamonds  for  jv.>:e.  * 

d  Mr?.  S:o:.      •*?.::  the  diamonds  are 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  343 

nothing  compared  to  the  misery  of  your  poor  girl  being  tied  to  such  a 
thief." 

**  ^^'s  ^1,500  gonq,  Mrs.  Stot,  and  she  dared  not  say  a  word.  He 
has  hit  her  several  times,  and  she  could  show  you  the  bruises.'* 

Mrs.  Stot  jumped  off  her  chair. 

"Hither!  Bruises!  Why  if  she  was  my  daughter  I'd  put  my 
nails  in  his  face  and  never  leave  it  whilst  there  was  a  bit  of  flesh  to- 
tear  at.     \Vould  I,  Stot  ?  " 

"My  dear,  the  law  is  awkward.  Beating  a  woman  is  a  small  fine, 
but  scratcliing  a  man's  face  is  a  crime.     WTiere  is  Lady  Shamvock  ?  " 

"  At  home,  for  I  have  not  told  you  the  worst." 

**  Well,  I  am  thankful  she  is  at  home,"  said  Mrs.  Stot.  "  That 
Shamvock  is  not  fit  to  be  trusted  with  a  dog." 

"  There  is  a  woman  who  came  forward  and  declared  that  she  is 
Shamvock's  wife,  and  if  so  my  daughter  is  " 

Mr.  Hawes  was  too  agitated  to  finish  the  sentence. 

"  Why,  Hawes,  she  is  not  the  wife  of  the  worst  blackguard,  thief, 
and  criminal  that  crawls  about  the  earth." 

"  All  the  money  thrown  away.  Our  miss  is  not  a  lady,  and  I'm 
not  the  father-in-law  of  a  lord.  The  exposure  will  kill  us.  People 
will  laugh  at  us.'* 

"  No  they  won't ;  and  if  they  did,  what  matters  ?  You  want  11.7 
advice,  Hawes  ?" 

"  Can  anything  be  done  to  save  the  exposure?' 

"  Not  to  save  it,  but  to  put  it  off,  Hawes.  Let  Shamvock  take 
every  sixpence  you  have,  and  for  a  year,  or  perhaps  a  year  and  a 
half,  the  exposure  may  be  put  off.  When  you  are  beggared  it  will 
come.  You  have  a  choice  between  getting  rid  of  Shamvock  now  or 
beggary." 

"  Get  rid  of  him  !"  said  Mrs.  Stot  **  No  one  will  think  the  worse 
of  your  child  for  being  deceived  by  a  scoundrel." 

"  Besides,  Hawes,"  remarked  Mr.  Stot,  "  you  will  keep  your 
money,  and  the  money  that  can  buy  a  title  this  year  can  buy  a  title 
next  year." 

Mr.  Stot  had  an  instinctive  knowledge  of  human  nature.  The 
suggestion  was  like  a  ray  of  hope,  and  it  illumined  the  Egyptian 
darkness  that  oppressed  Mr.  Hawes.  Yes,  he  would  yet  beat  the 
world.  Miss  should  be  a  lady.  A  minute  before  he  hesitated  about 
getting  rid  of  Lord  Shamvock.     Now  he  wanted  it  done  quickly. 

"  If  the  woman's  story  can  be  proved  it  will  be  easy  to  get  the 
marriage  declared  null  and  void.  If  not,  we  must  go  in  for  a  decree 
///>/,  and  prove  our  case.     The  first  thing  is  to  find  out  about  the 


344  ^'^^  Gentlenians  Magazine. 

supposed  first  marriage.  Go  to  Doloski  and  Gouger,  they  will  settle 
the  point  in  a  week.'* 

Mr.  Hawes  turned  red,  played  with  his  fingers,  and  stuttered. 

*'  It  is  too  much  to  ask,  I  know,  but  if  you  would  give  an  hour  to 
this  business  I  am  sure  we  should  settle  it." 

**  I  am  not  ashamed  of  my  detective  fame,  Hawes,"  said  Mr.  Slot, 
iaughing  ;  "  but  I  am  very  busy.  Still  I  will  look  after  it  for  you.  I 
don't  yet  feel  quits  with  Shamvock.  I  will  call  on  you  in  the  morning, 
Hawes." 

In  a  few  minutes  Mr.  Hawes  went  away,  looking  far  less  hopeless 
than  when  he  came. 

"  Well,  my  dear,  I  am  getting  in  for  plenty  of  work.  There's  our 
Alice,  there's  Boliver's  affair,  and  there's  this  business  of  Hawes. 
It  is  fortunate  there  is  not  much  to  do  in  the  City  and  that  I  am  not 
in  Parliament." 

*'  Never  mind  the  work,  Stot,  as  it  i^ll  for  good,  and  you  never 
could  pass  an  hour  doing  nothing.  But  whatever  else  is  to  be  done 
our  own  poor  Alice  must  be  first  and  last  with  you." 

*'  It  has  been  a  day  of  botheration,  anyhow.  Make  my  grog  and 
iet  me  see  if  I  can  have  my  nightcap  in  peace." 

CHAPTER    XXII. 

SEEKING    BREAD. 

Once  upon  a  time  a  poor  fish  was  floundering  on  the  dry  earth. 
The  poor  fish  bitterly  bewailed  its  hard  condition.  **  I  shall  die  ;  I 
shall  die.  Will  no  one  give  me  so  much  as  a  bucket  of  water  1" 
Mr.  Politccon  heard  the  complaint  and  was  wrath.  **  Confound  you 
and  all  other  fish  out  of  water.  Two-thirds  of  the  surface  of  the 
globe  is  water,  and  yet  you  complain.  Why,  there  is  a  stream  within 
twenty  yards  of  you.  Cret  into  it."  The  poor  fish  replied,  "  I  can't 
put  myself  into  the  stream.  Only  put  me  into  it,  kind  sir,  and  I  will 
swim  without  help."  Mr.  Politecon  was  still  more  wrath.  "There 
is  the  stream,  and  there  is  no  barrier  betwxen  you  and  it.  Get  into  the 
water  or  perish.  It  would  be  a  violation  of  principle  to  help  you, 
and  an  encouragement  to  other  fish  to  get  out  of  water."  Mr. 
Politecon  acted  in  true  accord  with  his  principles,  and  the  poor 
tisb  died. 

Did  you  ever  face  the  poverty  of  London  ?  Did  you  ever  visit  the 
abodes  of  the  poorest  of  the  poor,  of  those  emaciated,  squalid  fellow 
•creatures,  whose  lives  are  a  ceaseless  fight  with  famine,  and  who, 
ihappily  for  the  safety  of  property,  are  too  worn  and  too  cowed  in 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  345. 

body  and  in  mind  to  seize  upon  the  plenty  within  their  reach  ?  There 
is  a  certain  sort  of  comfort  in  the  reflection  that  most  of  these  un- 
fortunates, of  these  loathsome  lepers,  are  what  they  are  by  their  own 
folly  or  by  the  folly  of  their  parents.  But  it  is  not  comforting  to  dis- 
cover that  many  of  the  wretched  have  perished  because  in  this  great 
world  of  philanthropy  there  was  no  one  to  give  them  the  little  costless 
help  that  the  poor  fish  vainly  craved. 

"  I  must  get  some  work,"  said  Rose. 

She  took  up  a  daily  paper  and  read  through  the  list  of  places 
vacant.  She  put  it  down  with  a  sigh.  References  were  required,  and  to 
whom  could  she  refer  ?  Perhaps  she  could  get  needlework  to  do. 
A  needlewoman  could  hardly  be  expected  to  have  grand  references. 
She  would  be  honest. 

Would  be  honest?  But  she  had  not  been  honest.  That  stolen 
purse  was  a  burden  that  grew  heavier  every  hour.  She  almost 
ascribed  the  failure  of  her  journey  to  Malvern  to  that  wrongful  act. 
She  felt  as  if  the  brand  of  thief  had  been  burnt  into  her  face,  so  that 
all  who  would  could  know  her  fault.  Should  she  go  to  the  nearest 
police  station  and  confess  her  offence  ?  That  would  not  restore  the 
money  to  the  owner.  It  might  disgrace  Frank,  and  he  was  not  to 
blame  for  her  pressing  poverty. 

Rose  walked  along  the  Edgware  Road  and  Oxford  Street,  looking 
in  the  windows.  There  were  some  announcements  of  milliners  and 
dressmakers  being  wanted,  but  Rose  was  neither  a  milliner  nor  a 
dressmaker.  One  placard  notified  that  there  were  vacancies  for  young 
ladies  in  the  show  room.  Rose  walked  in,  and  saw  the  shopwalker, 
a  sprucely  attired  middle-aged  man,  pompous  to  the  assistants  and 
obsequious  to  the  customers.  He  stared  at  Rose's  shabby  dress,  but 
asked  her  politely  enough  what  she  wanted,  for  the  money  of  shabby 
people  is,  as  far  as  it  goes,  as  good  as  the  money  of  well-dressed 
people.  Rose  explained  her  errand.  The  flabby  cheeks  of  the  shop- 
walker were  puffed  out  with  indignation. 

"  Can  you  read,  young  woman  ?" 

"  Yes,'  replied  Rose,  meekly. 

"  Then  you  see  w^  want  young  ladies.  Parties  of  your  stamp^ 
might  do  in  the  New  Cut.  Off  with  you.  I  can  guess  what  you 
come  for,  but  we  have  too  many  pairs  of  optics  looking  after  the  pro- 
perty to  suit  your  game." 

Rose  was  seeking  an  honest  living.    She  clenched  her  teeth.    She 
was  ready  with  a  passionate,  indignant  rebuke.     But,  oh  !  for  the 
undying  worm  and  the  unquenchable  fire.     She  thought  of  the  purse^. 
and  she  slunk  out  of  the  shop.  * 


346  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine.* 

Whitlier  now  !  Rose  no  longer  hoped  for  employment.  She 
turned  towards  Paddington,  and  slowly  walked  back  to  the  coffee- 
house. Would  that  she  had  died  in  the  fever !  Would  that  she 
could  die  then  !  Her  fate  was  cruel.  Why  was  she  so  friendless 
and  deserted  ?  In  the  days  of  her  prosperity  she  had  never  refused 
to  aid  the  needy.  For  her  there  was  no  aid,  not  even  a  kindly  word. 
She  remembered  how  she  had  that  morning  knelt  by  her  bedside, 
and  prayed  for  forgiveness  of  her  sins  and  for  success  in  her  under- 
taking.    Ah,  she  thought,  it  is  of  no  use  for  me  to  pray. 

Poor  Rose.  In  her  sorrow  and  despair  she  was  as  foolish  and 
profane  as  others  who  have  less  excuse  for  their  folly  and  profanity. 
Prayer  is  not  an  order  that  God  is  bound  to  execute,  but  a  supplica- 
tion to  be  granted,  or  not,  according  to  the  wisdom  of  God. 

Having  returned  to  the  coffee-house,  she  asked  the  landlady  to 
speak  with  her. 

"  I  am  going  away.  What  do  I  owe  you  ?  I  think  I  have  enough 
ito  pay  you." 

Mrs.  Thompson  is  neither  young  nor  beautiful.  A  coarse,  heavy- 
looking  woman  that' you  would  be  ashamed  to  be  seen  speaking  to. 
A  loud-voiced,  rough-mannered  woman. 

Mrs.  Thompson  shut  the  door. 

'*  Going  !     Where  are  you  going  ?  " 

Rose  shrank  from  her  questioner,  and  wished  that  she  had  left  all 
she  had,  and  gone  without  a  word  of  warning. 

"  I  don  t  know  yet." 

"  You  don't  know  yet  ?  Tlien,  I  tell  you,  you  don't  go  yet.  As 
for  the  money,  my  dear,  never  speak  of  that  again.  It's  little  that 
1  have,  and  what  with  the  price  of  provisions  and  rates  and  taxes, 
the  profits  are  nothing.  But  you  are  welcome  till  you  find  some- 
tliing.  From  the  moment  I  set  eyes  upon  you  I  said  to  myself  *  That 
poor  girl  is  in  trouble.'  A  good  deal  of  that  is  seen  in  a  coffee - 
house.*' 

Rose  was  bewildered.  The  language  of  kindness  and  sympathy 
was,  for  the  moment,  unintelligible  to  her. 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  a  coffeehouse  is  the  hotel  of  the  misfortunate. 
Now,  you  need  not  tell  me  anything  about  what  has  happened,  but, 
my  dear,  remain  here  till  you  have  another  roof  to  go  to." 

The  right  hand  of  Mrs.  Thompson  was  neither  small  nor  white.  It 
was  large  and  red,  scalded  and  burnt.  But  Rose  took  it  and  kissed 
it ;  and  then  gave  a  short  account  of  her  late  misfortunes. 

"  Well,  my  dear,  a  husband,  or  whatever  he  may  be,  if  he  can't  be 
found,  and  don't  want  to  be  found,  is  as  good  as  dead.     But  the 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  347 

idea  of  looking  for  a  situation  without  knowing  anybody  and  with 
no  character !  What  were  you  ?  I  can  tell  by  your  hands  it  was 
not  my  sort  of  work.     I  guess  now  you  were  in  the  milliDery  line." 

Rose  shook  her  head.  She  felt  keenly,  as  she  had  often  done 
lately,  the  humiliation  and  trouble  of  concealment. 

"  I  can  see  what  it  is,  my  dear.  Brought  up  to  nothing  except  not 
to  soil  your  hands,  and  left  with  nothing  to  keep  it  up.  Why  not  go 
out  as  lady*s  maid  ?  Til  manage  about  the  reference.  But,  my  dear," 
continued  Mrs.  Thompson,  putting  her  hand  on  Rose,  "  it  is,  I  feel 
sure,  no  use  thinking  of  going  into  a  family  at  present." 

Rose  drew  back,  and  was  angry.  Rose  was  often  angry  now.  I'he 
least  thing  that  disturbed  her,  or  that  thwarted  her,  made  her  angry. 
How  we  blunder  about  temper.  We  praise  this  woman  or  that  man 
because  she  or  he  is  always  cheerful,  always  patient,  always  hopeful. 
W^e  frowTi  on  the  irritable,  cross  person.  As  if  temper  were  a  matter 
of  choice  !  Good  temper  is  the  certain  symptom  of  good  health.  Bad 
temper  is  the  certain  s)rmptom  of  bad  health.  Rose  had  not  always 
been  cross  and  ready  to  take  offence.  She  had  been  meek  and  for- 
bearing.    But  now  she  is  sick  and  in  sorrow. 

"Thank  you,  Mrs.  Thompson,  but  I  must  go,  and  I  must  get 
some  employment." 

Mrs.  Thompson  was  not  offended.  She  is  a  coarse,  rough,  vulgar 
woman,  but  she  was  not  to  be  turned  from  her  loving  purpose  by  an 
angry  word. 

"  My  dear,  I  would  not  keep  you  here  an  hour  longer  than  needs 
be,  and  I  will  get  you  a  situation  as  soon  as  possible.  You  see  I'm 
a  mother.  I  have  a  girl  who  is  with  my  sister  in  the  country,  for  I 
do  not  like  her  to  be  here.  My  dear,  I  am  only  doing  towards  you 
as  I  would  others  should  do  towards  her  if  so  be  she  came  into  your 
sorrow.  And  oh,  my  dear,  you  have  had  a  mother ;  and  think  it's  her 
speaking  to  you,  and  promise  me  that  you  will  not  leave  here  till  you 
have  a  roof  to  go  to." 

Rose  sat  down  on  the  bedside  and  cried. 

"  Don't,  there's  a  dear.  Promise  me  that  mine  shall  be  your'n  till 
you  have  another  shelter.  I  know  I  can  find  you  something  in  a 
week." 

Rose  promised,  and  Mrs.  Thompson  left  her  to  attend  to  the 
customers.  To  shout,  to  scold,  to  fry  bacon,  to  boil  eggs,  to  cut  thick 
hunches  of  bread  and  butter,  to  brew  coffee.  For  Mrs.  Thompson  is 
a  coarse,  vulgar  woman.  Oh  poet,  oh  painter,  you  do  well  to  repre- 
sent the  angels  as  beautiful,  for  holiness  is  the  most  exquisite  beauty. 
Still  let  us  be  mindful  that  the  spirits  of  love — that  is,  the  angels — dwell 


34^  The  Genilemafis  Magazine. 

in  human  forms  that  are  scared  and  distorted  by  the  travail  of  human 
toil  and  woe,  and  that  are  not  beautiful. 

Rose,  even  in  the  deadening  depths  of  her  sorrow,  felt  so  much 
class  pride  that  she  was  more  impressed  with  Mrs.  Thompson's 
coarseness  than  with  her  goodness.  She  became  coldly  grateful,  and 
did  not  see  that  the  coarse,  rough,  tender-hearted  woman  was  the 
angel  sent  in  answer  to  her  prayers  to  minister  unto  her. 

From  early  morning  until  that  hour  Rose  had  been  saying  to 
herself  that  she  would  be  thankful  for  any  situation,  however  menial. 
There  is  a  prospect  of  domestic  service,  and  her  spirit  spurns  it. 

"  What  love  or  care  has  he  shown  for  me  that  I  should  stoop  so 
low  for  his  sake  ?  I  have  only  to  go  to  the  agent\  make  myself 
known,  and  before  to-morrow  night  I  should  be  independent  of  this 
woman  and  every  other  person." 

Thus  would  Rose  have  acted,  only  the  hope  of  again  being  with 
Frank  and  loved  by  him  was  not  so  dead  as  she  believed.  To 
reappear  on  the  stage,  to  be  admired,  flattered,  courted,  and  talked 
about !  And  she  Frank's  wife,  and  her  husband  she  knows  not 
where  ! 

No  ;  she  will  be  a  true  wife.  When  she  meets  him — if  ever  she 
meets  him — she  will  be  able  to  say,  "  Frank,  I  have  suffered,  but  I 
am  your  true  wife.  Whilst  you  have  been  away  I  have  done  nothing 
that  is  wrong,  nothing  that  could  be  called  unworthy  of  a  gentleman's 
wife." 

The  deathless  and  ever  vigilant  worm  gnawed  her.  "  What  about 
the  purse?"  asked  the  still  small  voice.  The  momentary  exultation 
passed  away,  and  Rose  crouched  upon  the  bed,  for  the  spirit  that 
could  battle  with  trouble  was  crushed  by  a  sense  of  guilt. 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 

LORD    SHAMVOCK    IN    CLOVER. 

Lord  Shamvock  often  boasted  that  no  man  knew  better  how  to 
spend  money  than  he  did,  by  which  his  lordship  meant  that  whatever 
money  came  in  his  way  was  devoted  to  the  gratification  of  Lord 
Shamvock's  desires.  W^e  have  once  more  the  pain  of  seeing  his 
lordship  in  clover.  Returning  from  the  shortened  honeymoon,  my 
lord  and  lady  had  put  up  at  the  Grosvenor  and  had  engaged  an  elegant 
suite  of  apartments.  My  lady  had  returned  to  her  papa,  but  my  lord 
did  not  vacate  the  elegant  and  somewhat  costly  rooms.  Why  should 
he?  His  credit  was  excellent;  for  at  the  request  of  Mr.  Hawes, 
and  with  money  supplied   by  Mr.  Hawes,  the  first  fortnight's  bill 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  349 

had  been  paid.  His  lordship  had  no  idea  of  forsaking  such  com- 
fortable quarters.  It  would  be  time  enough  to  move  when  he  was 
obliged. 

His  lordship,  who  had  waded  through  an  elaboratdWinner  and 
was  sipping  port,  looked  cross.  The  immediate  cause  of  the  ruffled 
temper  was  that  two  gentlemen,  young  and  rich,  who  had  been 
invited  to  dinner,  had  sent  apologies  just  as  the  dinner  was  being 
put  on  the  table.  My  lord  had  arranged  for  a  little  hazard,  and  a 
little  hazard  with  two  players  both  young  and  both  rich  signified  the 
filling  of  Lord  Shamvock's  pocket. 

There  were  other  causes  for  a  ruffled  temper,  of  which  the  departure 
of  her  ladyship  was  not  the  least.  Not  that  his  lordship  liked  her,  for 
he  hated  her  almost  as  much  as  she  hated  him.  But  her  going  might 
put  an  end  to  the  bleeding  of  old  Hawes.  Lord  Shamvock  had  a 
smattering  of  law,  an  accomplishment  common  to  swindlers,  and 
before  the  marriage  he  had  conceived  the  design  of  torturing  Selina 
into  leaving  him,  and  then  bringing  a  suit  for  the  restitution  of 
conjugal  rights,  and  settling  the  affair  for  a  fair  annuity.  But  Laura, 
a  woman  supposed  to  be  dead  years  ago,  appears  on  the  scene,  and 
claims  to  be  Lady  Shamvock. 

As  yet,  so  thought  Lord  Shamvock,  he  alone  knew  of  the  existence 
of  Laura,  and  he  was  thinking  how  he  could  silence  her  and  get  her 
out  of  the  way.  What  Laura  wanted  was  a  sum  of  money,  and  his 
lordship  had  no  money. 

"  Confound  the  women !  They  are  all  the  same.  Money, 
money,  money.  That  is  their  continual  cry  and  aim.  Selfish 
brutes  I " 

It  was  natural  that  Lord  Shamvock  should  be  disgusted  at  any 
sign  of  selfishness.  Of  vice  it  is  true  that  like  hates  like.  The  liar 
is  incensed  if  he  is  lied  to.  The  thief  is  enraged  if  he  is  robbed. 
The  adulterer  is  furious  if  the  little  finger  of  retribution  in  kind  is 
laid  upon  him.  The  selfish  man  regards  the  lack  of  generosity  as  a 
crime,  as  the  deadly  sin  for  v;hich  there  cannot  be  forgiveness. 

**^  gentleman,  my  lord." 

"  What  name  ?  "  asked  his  lordship,  not  moving  his  head. 

"  How  are  you,  my  lord?" 

The  gentleman  had  entered  with  the  waiter,  who  left  the  room  and 
<iescended  the  stairs,  with  a  sovereign  more  in  his  pocket  than  he 
had  when  he  ascended  them. 

'*  I  don't  know  you,  sir.     What's  the  meaning  of  this  intrusion  ?  " 

"  Well  known  to  a  gendeman  you  highly  esteem.  Allow  me  to 
present  my  card,  my  lord." 

Vol.- XI.,  N.S.  1873.  a  a 


350  The  Gentlemaris  Magazine. 

"  Mr.  Doloski !  "  said  I^rd  Shamvock,  reading  the  card.  **  Well, 
sir,  your  name  is  strange  to  me.  If  you  have  any  business  you  can 
write." 

"  Some  business  is  better  not  written.  I  will  not  detain  you  many 
minutes." 

Lord  Shamvock  stood  up  and  pointed  to  the  door. 

"  Good  evening,  Mr.  Doloski." 

"Good  evening,  Lord  Shamvock.  My  compliments  to  Lady- 
Sham  vock,  alias  Mrs.  I-aura  Marshall." 

Lord  Shamvock  did  not  maintain  his  heroic  attitude,  but  sat  on 
the  couch. 

**  I  suppose  you  come  from  that  woman." 

**  Does  it  please  your  lordship  to  grant  me  a  few  minutes  of  your 
valuable  time  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

Mr.  Doloski  deposited  his  hat  on  a  side  table,  and  took  a  chair 
so  that  he  faced  his  lordship. 

"  No,  my  lord,  I  do  not  come  from  her  ladyship.  I  only  know 
her  by  name." 

"  You  will  be  good  enough  not  to  give  that  woman  a  title  that 
does  not  belong  to  her." 

"We  will  not  fall  out  about  names  or  titles.  I  come  from  Mr* 
Hawes." 

His  lordship  helped  himself  to  a  glass  of  wine.  His  hand  was  un- 
steady, and  the  wine  was  spilt 

"They  make  these  decanters  ridiculously  heavy,  my  lord." 

"  You  are  a  solicitor,  I  presume;  come  here  to  pump  me?" 

"  No,  not  a  limb  of  the  law,  but  a  sort  of  crutch  of  the  law.  I 
come  here  as  a  friend  of  our  friend  Hawes,  and  to  avoid,  if  it  can  be 
avoided,  a  little  unpleasantness." 

"  What  is  the  business  ?  " 

"The  so-called  Lady  Shamvock  remains  under  the  protection  of 
her  father." 

"  There  is  such  a  thing  as  a  suit  for  the  restitution  of  conjugal 
rights." 

"  Or  the  alternative  of  a  handsome  allowance." 

"Take  a  glass  of  wine,  Mr.  Doloski.  You  are  a  man  of  sense, 
sound  sense." 

Mr.  Doloski  helped  himself  to  a  glass  of  port. 

*'  Capital  wine.  I  dare  say  they  charge  you  a  pretty  high  figure 
for  it ;  something  in  the  teens." 

**  I  never  look  at  any  part  of  a  bill  except  the  total." 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  351 

"  An  excellent  plan.  It  saves  a  world  of  annoyance.  But  to  our 
little  business.     Mr.  Hawes  is  going  in  for  a  divorce." 

"  Bah.  You  will  have  to  prove  cruelty,  desertion,  ^d  adultery. 
Now,  there  has  been  no  cruelty.  I  did  not  desert  my  iTOy,  but  my 
lady  deserted  me.  As  for  adultery,  like  most  men  of  three  score 
who  rrfkrry  a  fortune,  I  have  been  strictly  moral.  The  divorce  scare- 
crow does  not  frighten  this  bird." 

"  Good,  my  lord.  From  that  point  of  view  the  divorce  is  a  farce. 
There  is  not  ground  for  judicial  separation." 

"Just  so.  What  old  Hawes  wants  is  a  separation  by  mutual  con- 
sent.    He  must  pay  for  my  lady's  whim." 

"  No,  my  lord.  The  idea  is  a  suit  for  the  nullity  of  the  marriage. 
The  first  Lady  Shamvock  being  alive,  the  second  marriage  was  null 
and  void." 

His  lordship  laughed,  but  the  mirth  was  forced. 

*•  You  believe  that  ridiculous  tale.  There  was  no  first  marriage, 
and  I  defy  you  to  prove  your  position.     Tr>'  it  on.     Hawes  is  rich." 

"  Do  you  remember  the  name  of  Gouger  ?  " 

"  No." 

*•  I  thought  not.  Twenty  years  ago  or  thereabout  Mr.  Gouger  was  a 
solicitor.  Laura,  Lady  Shamvock,  was  his  client.  He  sifted  her  case. 
We  have  the  papers.  The  ceremony  took  place  in  Ireland,  and 
you  alleged  that  the  marriage  was  invalid  because  Laura  was  a  Protes- 
tant and  you  a  Roman  Catholic,  or  vice  versd,  I  forget  now.  Gouger, 
a  very  cute  man,  my  lord,  found  that  your  lordship  was  mistaken  and 
would  have  compelled  the  acknowledgment  of  the  marriage  as  valid, 
but  your  side  got  at  Laura,  and  she  disappeared,  and,  by  the  way, 
forgot  to  pay  Gouger's  costs." 

Again  Lord  Shamvock  laughed  a  forced  laugh. 

"A  charming /r^r<^j*  verbal.  You  have  it  cut  and  dried.  Your 
gun  is  loaded  and  pointed.  Fire  !  But  there  is  a  weak  point,  or  you 
would  not  be  here.  Perhaps  you  cannot  find  an  entry  of  the  marriage 
in  the  parish  books." 

"  Gouger  arranged  that  twenty  years  ago.  The  priest,  either  be- 
lieving your  story  that  the  marriage  was  unlawful  on  account  of  a 
difference  of  creeds,  or  unlawful  because  the  parents  of  the  girl  did 
not  give  a  consent,  entered  the  marriage  in  his  pocket  book. 
Gouger  obtained  an  authenticated  copy  of  that  entrj'." 

**  Smart,  but  no  use  to  you.  Bigamy  is  a  crime,  you  must  produce 
good  testimony.  Where  are  your  witnesses  to  the  pretended 
marriage  ?  " 

*'  They  will  be  forthcoming.     Why  am  I  here  ?  That  is  the  question 

A  A  2 


352  The  Genileman's  Magazine. 

you  asked  me,  and  now  I  will  answer  it.  I  am  here  as  the  friend  of 
Mr.  Hawes,  and  not  the  enemy  of  Lord  Shamvock.  If  you  do  not 
oppose  the  fuit,  the  diamond  changing  will  not  be  mentioned/' 

"  My  lady  consented." 

*'  But,  my  lord,  the  jewels  did  not  belong  to  the  lady.  They  were 
in  trust.  That  affair  will  not'  be  mentioned.  I  have  a  plan  by 
which  T  can  contribute  ;^5oo  towards  your  lordship's  costs,  which 
will  be  nominal." 

"  I  am  not  a  lawyer,  Mr.  Doloski,  but  I  rather  think  your  plan 
smacks  of  collusion." 

"  There  is  more  collusion,  direct  and  indirect,  than  is  dreamt  of. 
When  a  couple  have  once  been  before  the  court,  living  together  is 
impossible,  unless  they  get  a  divorce  and  fall  in  love  afresh,  and 
the  best  for  both  is  a  decree  nisi.  But,  my  lord,  in  our  case,  there  is 
no  collusion.  You  thought  that  the  Lady  Laura  was  dead.  You 
wish  to  do  what  you  can  to  repair  the  unintended  wrong  done  to 
Miss  Hawes." 

Lord  Shamvock  was  pacing  the  room,  and  as  he  replied  to  Mr. 
Doloski  looked  at  his  watch. 

"  AVell  put,  well  put  indeed.  But  my  time  is  up.  In  fact  I  am 
overdue.  If  you  could  call  here  at  noon  to-morrow  I  would  give  you 
an  answer." 

**  I  shall  do  so,  my  lord,  and  your  lordship  will  pardon  me  saying 
that  we  do  not  budge  a  hair's  breadth  from  our  word  either  one  side 
or  the  other,  and  the  answer  must  be  final." 

"  It  shall  be  final,  Mr.  Doloski.     Good  night" 

Mr.  Doloski  bowed  and  retired. 

"Fools,  to  show  me  their  game  and  their  weakness.  I  shall 
square  Laura,  and  then  for  a  thousand  a  year,  old  Hawes  1  But  I 
must  square  Laura.  I'll  see  her  to-night  Hawes  is  a  fool,  and  his 
friend  is  a  worthy  match." 

He  rang  the  bell  and  ordered  a  hansom. 

"And  tell  the  manager  to  send  me  five  pounds  in  gold  and 
silver." 

Mr.  Doloski  stood  in  the  hall. 

"  Nothing  can  be  done  with  him ;  we  must  tiy  Laura." 

"  A  hansom  for  Lord  Shamvock,"  said  the  waiter  to  the  porter. 

*M\Tiere  can  he  be  going?  I  will  follow  him,"  thought:  Mr. 
Doloski. 

]>efore  Lord  Shamvock  came  down  Mr.  Doloski  was  ensconced  in 
a  cab,  and  he  had  the  honour  of  escorting  his  lordship  fix)m  Pimlico 
to  a  half  stuccoed  square  in  Camden  Town, 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  353 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 

MRS.     LAURA    MARSHALL.  W 

Lord  Shamvock  dismissed  his  cab  and  knocked  at  the  door. 
Except  tight  boots  pressing  tender  corns,  few  incidents  are  more 
trying  to  the  temper  than  being  kept  waiting  on  the  street  side  of  a 
street  door.  His  lordship  knocked  twice  and  no  response.  There 
was  a  light  in  the  passage,  and  a  light  was  flickering  through  the 
meshes  of  the  imperfect  Venetian  blind  and  the  pinned  across  muslin 
curtains  in  the  parlour.     His  lordship  swore  and  pulled  the  bell. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  asked  a  shrill  thin  voice  from  the  area. 

"  I  want  to  see  Mrs.  Marshall." 

**  Vant  will  best  you  to-night.  Missus  is  a  going  to  bed,  and  she 
won't  see  nobody  for  nothing  whatsomeve.'*." 

His  lordship  took  a  card  from  his  case,  doubled  it,  and  threw 
it  into  the  area. 

"  Give  her  that,  and  be  sharp." 

His  lordship  was  left  waiting  for  another  two  minutes.  The  fact  is 
the  household  was  not  in  working  order.  The  general  servant  had 
been  dismissed  suddenly,  and  the  only  resident  servant  was  a  sixteen- 
year-old  runner  of  small  errands.  A  girl  always  down  at  the  heels, 
with  a  smudgey  face,  rough  hair,  flyaway  cap,  and  dirty  apron.  Before 
opening  the  door  she  had  turned  her  apron,  and  partially  smoothed 
her  hair  with  her  nails. 

His  lordship  was  not  kept  wailing  in  the  parlour.  Mrs.  Marshall 
appeared  before  my  lord  had  well  settled  himself  on  the  sofa.  A 
woman  about  forty,  in  the  flush  of  rejuvenescent  beauty.  Well 
rounded  figure,  voluptuous,  but  not  too  stout  to  destroy  the  graceful 
outline.  The  delicate  softness  of  skin  that  almost  rivals  the  fresh- 
ness and  exquisite  tint  of  girlhood.  Eyes  large,  animate,  and  laughing. 
Hair  fair,  and  falling  over  that  rarity,  a  perfectly  rounded  shoulder. 
But  there  is  no  charm  in  the  pert  manner. 

"  ^Vhy,  Laura,  you  look  as  beautiful  as  ever." 

*'  How  clever  you  are  !  Have  you  come  here  at  past  ten  at  night 
to  tell  me  what  I  am  told  about  a  hundred  times  a  day  ?" 

"  Don't  be  crusty,  Laura,"  said  his  lordship,  as  he  took  her  hand 
and  tried  to  put  his  arm  round  her  waist 

She  flung  him  from  her,  and  my  lord  came  down  on  the  sofa  mth 
a  jerk  and  a  bump. 

"  If  you  try  that  game  you  will  bundle  out  quicker  than  you  came 
in.     I  object  to  a  worn  out,  shaky  old  toddler  of  seventy." 


354  ^^^  Gentleman  s  Magaztfu. 

"  You  did  not  always  think  me  so  much  older  than  yourself,"  said 
Lord  Shamvock,  pettishly. 

"  I  always  thought  you  dreadfully  old  for  me.  Now  you  are  like  a 
great  great  grandfather.  Yet  you  are  not  so  old.  I  know  men  as 
old  as  you  that,  so  far  as  age  is  concerned,  I  would  marry.  Bu^ 
lor,  you  are  like  a  mummy  on  wires.  I  suppose  it  b  the  life  yoa 
have  led.*' 

His  lordship  was  annoyed,  and  it  was  manifest  that  Mrs.  Marshall 
intended  to  annoy  and  torment  him. 

"  Why  didn't  you  leave  me  alone  ?  Just  when  I  have  a  chance  of 
a  little  ease  you  turn  up.  You  do  what  you  can  to  injure  me  by  pre- 
tending to  be  my  wife,  and  then  when  I  see  you  I  am  treated  like  a 
dog." 

Mrs.  Marshall  laughed. 

"  It's  so  amusing  to  hear  you  whining  about  bad  treatment.  When 
you  turned  me  adrift  with  ;£^2oo  and  a  curse,  I  went  away  and  did 
not  trouble  you  for  well  nigh  twenty  years.  Why  should  I,  seeing  that 
you  had  not  a  penny  of  your  own,  and  that  you  were  living  on  the 
town  ?  Then  came  the  report  that  you  were  going  to  marry  a  fortune, 
and  that  you  had  spent  thousands  over  that  actress,  Rose  Dulmaine. 
Thinks  I,  now's  the  time  for  me  to  get  my  money  back,  for  you 
remember  that  I  had  ;^  1,500  when  I  married  you,  and  you  spent  it. 
I  wrote  you  a  note  asking  for  an  interview.     No  answer." 

"  I  did  not  receive  that  note." 

"  My  servant  put  a  second  note  into  your  hand,  and  you  sent  me 
an  insolent  message.'* 

"  I  did  not." 

"  My  girl  is  not  a  liar.  Then  I  called  on  your  last  victim,  and  told 
her  that  1  was  Lady  Shamvock.  Then  you  cringed.  You  are  like 
a  dog  a  fellow  once  gave  me  that  I  was  obliged  to  get  rid  of.  It  was 
such  a  brute.  If  I  was  civil  it  snarled.  When  I  whipped  it  it 
cringed." 

"  You  might  stop  this  for  the  sake  of  old  times." 

"  Old  times  !  I  don't  forget  them  when  I  look  at  you.  I  remember 
how  you  lied  to  me,  how  you  robbed  me,  how  you  flung  me  from 
you,  as  few  men  could  fling  a  worn  out  glove  into  the  gutter.  I  am 
not  cruel  or  revengeful,  but  I  hate  you  as  I  do  a  hissing  slimy  serpent, 
and  if  I  saw  you  dying,  and  knew  that  you  were  going  to  perdition, 
as  you  will  if  there  is  a  hell,  I  could  not  hold  up  my  flnger  to  save 
you — no,  not  even  if  my  own  life  depended  on  it" 

Lord  Shamvock  was  pallid,  and  the  muscles  of  his  face  were 
twitching.  He  looked  pleadingly  towards  Mrs.  Marshall  The  woman 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  355 

who  has  been  wronged  and  who  hates  is  as  merciless  as  a  paving- 
stone. 

"  Forgive  the  past,  Laura.     I  was  mad  to  act  so  baSeMfto  such  a 


woman." 


Mrs.  Marshall  laughed  till  she  had  to  put  her  jewelled  hand  to  her 
head. 

"  Talk  about  a  screamer ;  why,  there  is  no  living  actor  can  come  up 
to  you.  Ah  !  ah  !  ah  !  Shamvock  doing  the  penitent !  Sh.imvock 
pretending  to  be  a  man  of  feeling  !     The  Devil  praying  !" 

There  was  another  peal  of  laughter. 

"  Laugh  on,  and  when  you  have  done  let  us  come  to  business." 

"  That  is  better.  Business  if  you  like,  but  no  sentiment.  I  never 
could  abide  sentiment  except  from  one  man,  the  man  I  loved — my 
spoon,  you  know.  He  was  handsome  and  young,  and  a  man  that 
men  loved.     I  hate  a  fellow  like  you  that  men  despise." 

"  Never  mind  about  that  now.  Are  you  going  against  me  in  this 
affair  ?  If  you  are  I  shall  lose  my  chance  of  an  income  and  you  will 
get  nothing.  If  you  do  not  I  shall  secure  an  income  and  I  swear  I 
will  be  just  to  you." 

''Don't  talk  to  me  as  if  I  did  not  know  you.  I  am  not  in  want. 
This  house  is  mine,  so  is  the  furniture  in  it,  and  some  Consols.  All 
settled  in  trust  in  case  of  accident  Still,  I  should  like  to  have  some 
loose  hundreds.  What  I  want  from  you  is  my  own.  Not  the  interest, 
but  only  the  principal.  The  ;^  1,500  you  did  me  out  of.  If  you  give 
me  that  I  shan't  hurt  you.  If  you  don't  I'll  have  revenge  for  my 
money." 

"  Laura,  I  have  not  fifteen  hundred  shillings." 

**  Very  likely ;  but  you  could  find  money  for  your  pleasure,  and 
you  shall  find  it  for  me,  or  I  will  figure  in  a  pretty  romance  as  I^ura, 
Lady  Shamvock.  How  interesting !  How  the  fellows  would  crowd 
about  me  !  My  photograph  would  sell  by  millions.  I  should  get 
more  than  ^^1,500  out  of  the  romance,  only  I  hate  the  bother." 

"  If  I  could  manage  it  would  you  take  part  in  cash  ?  Say  ;^Soo 
down,  and  the  rest  when  the  affeir  is  settled  T 

"  No  \  but  I  would  take  ;^i,ooo  down,  and  from  that  I  won't 
move.     You  will  only  laugh  at  me  for  letting  you  off  so  easily." 

"And  you  will  swear  that  you  were  not  married  to  me,  if 
necessary  ?  " 

"  No,  I  won't.  I  don't  mind  telling  a  fib,  but  I  would  not  be  a 
perjurer  for  my  right  hand.  Why,  I  should  never  expect  to  prosper 
again." 

"  You  will  not  do  much  for  me.   Will  you  write  a  letter  of  denial  ?" 


356  The  Gmtlenians  Magazine. 

"It  is  awkward  to  write  fibs,  for  if  you  are  found  out  there  is  no 
denying  your  handwriting.  However,  you  bring  the  money,  that  is 
the  ;^i,ooo,  anti  I  will  do  anything  short  of  perjury.  And  now  you 
must  go.     I'm  tired,  and  I  shall  lose  my  beauty  if  I  lose  my  sleep.** 

**  Good-night,  Laura  ;  you  will  see  me  to-morrow  or  next  day." 

"  By  the  way  you  have  not  asked  why  I  went  off  as  I  did  for  a 
paltry  ;£^2oo,  when,  as  you  know,  I  had  all  the  evidence,  and  could 
have  set  up  as  Lady  Shamvock.     I  suppose  you  have  no  curiosity  ?"* 

"  You  liked  another  man,"  growled  Lord  Shamvock. 

"  Yes.  I  always  hated  you.  I  could  hardly  make  up  my  mind  to 
marry  you  in  spite  of  wanting  a  title.  After  we  were  married  and  you 
left  me,  I  met  a  man  who  loved  me  and  I  loved  him." 

"  And  you  went  off  with  him." 

"  Yes,  but  not  inmiediately.  Not  until  I  was  the  mother  of  Lord 
Shamvock's  son  and  heir." 

His  lordship  staggered  and  leant  against  the  mantelpiece. 

"  Be  careful  of  the  ornaments." 

"  I  had  a  son  ?  " 

"  Yes.     To  my  grief  I  became  the  mother  of  your  son  and  heir.'* 

" How  long  did  he  live?" 

"  How  should  I  know  ?  " 

"  ^^^lat !     You  deserted  my  child ! "  exclaimed  his  lordship. 

"You  would  make  the  fortune  of  a  performing  booth  in  a  fair.  I 
put  the  child  out  to  nurse.  Three  years  after  I  saw  it.  A  fine  child, 
but  something  like  you,'and  I  hated  it,  and  besides,  it  would  have  beea 
inconvenient  to  have  a  boy  dragging  after  me.  So  I  left  it,  and  that 
is  the  end  of  the  story." 

"  Wretch  !  devil !  where  is  my  child  ?  If  you  had  come  to  me  with 
that  boy — my  boy  ! — what  a  different  life  mine  would  have  been  and 
yours.     Give  me  some  clue."  « 

Mrs.  Marshall  again  laughed  merrily. 

"  Funny  indeed.  A  woman  betrayed  and  deserted  is  to  be  mother 
and  father  to  the  oflfepring  until  it  shall  please  the  man  to  claim  it 
The  man  is  not  to  be  bothered  \\aih  the  child.  Unless  it  is  a  child  of 
marriage  it  does  not  even  bear  his  name.  The  betrayed  and  deserted 
woman  is  to  bear  the  whole  burden.  That  is  the  law  and  the  morals 
of  society.     I  evaded  the  law,  and  I  despise  such  morals." 

"  And  you  left  the  boy,  and  never  saw  after  him  again  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  now  please  to  leave  me.     I  am  sleepy." 

"  Give  me  some  clue." 

"  What  nonsense.     It  is  twenty  years  ago." 

**  With  whom  did  you  leave  the  boy  ?  " 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  357 

"  With  Mrs.  Smith." 

"  Where  ?  " 

"Let  me  see.  It  was  a  street  off  Oxford  Streetgrbut  I  can't 
recollect  the  name  of  it  to-night.  Please  to  go,  or  I  shall  ring  for  my 
servant  to  show  you  the  door." 

"  Will  you  let  her  fetch  me  a  cab  ?" 

"  At  this  hour  I  What  would  the  neighbours  say  ?  You  can  get  a 
cab  round  the  corner." 

"  This  is  an  awful  blow,  Laura.  You  were  devilish  to  desert  my 
boy." 

"  Be  civil,  or  you  don't  come  here  again." 

When  Mrs.  Marshall  slammed  the  door  she  went  into  the  parlour 
and  laughed  boisterously. 

"  What  put  it  into  my  head  to  invent  that  cram  about  a  son  I  cant 
think  !  But  I  am  so  glad  I  tortured  the  wTetch.  If  I  can  only  get 
that  ;^i,ooo  from  him  it  will  be  so  jolly.  I  should  bank  ;^5oo  and 
spend  the  rest.  If  he  can  beg  or  borrow  the  money,  I  shall  have 
it." 

^Vhen  Lord  Shamvock  got  into  the  street  he  reeled  like  a  drunken 
man.  A  policeman  was  disposed  to  take  him  into  custody,  but 
changed  his  mind  when  his  lordship  gave  him  his  name  and  half-a- 
sovereign.  Then  he  took  his  lordship  to  the  nearest  public-house  on 
his  beat  and  from  the  public  house  to  a  cab. 

Going  home  and  through  the  night  Lord  Shamvock  forgot  his  other 
troubles,  and  thought  only  of  his  deserted  son.  What  a  better  man 
he  would  have  been  if  he  had  had  a  son  to  care  for.  Was  he  living  ? 
Could  he  find  him  ?  It  would  restore  his  life  if  he  had  a  son  to  love 
and  who  would  love  him  as  a  father. 

There  was  a  crevice  in  the  iron  incrustation  of  selfishness  that 
cased  the  heart  of  Lord  Shamvock,  and  Mrs.  Marshall  had  inflicted 
a  mortal  wound. 

AVliat  a  bitter  mockery!  The  ruthless  betrayer  of  others,  the 
wretch  who  had  all  his  life  been  making  others  miserable  and  si^eering 
at  their  misery,  was  drivelling  and  tortured  about  the  imaginary  loss 
of  an  imaginary  son.  It  is  a  terrible  retribution.  We  cannot  stay  the 
hand  of  Justice,  but  for  the  present  let  the  curtain  fall  and  veil  the 
scene. 

(To  he  continued.) 


TABLE    TALK. 

BY  SYLVANUS  URBAN,  GENTLEMAN. 


Joaquin  Miller  has  published  an  account  of  his  early  days  under 
the  title  of  "Life  among  the  Modocs"  (Bentiey).  The  work  is 
dedicated  to  the  red  men  of  America,  and  is  a  defence  of  the 
Indian.  Those  who  know  Mr.  Miller's  poems  will  be  glad  to  follow 
him  to  the  sources  of  his  inspiration.  In  this  book  he  takes  us  to  the 
fountain  head,  and  it  is  easy  now  to  understand  the  freshness  and 
vigour  and  originality  of  his  muse.  lie  lived  among  the  Indians  ; 
lived,  loved,  and  married  among  them ;  fought  with  one  tribe  against 
the  whites,  and  fought  with  the  whites  against  other  tribes.  Sitting 
in  the  glorious  shadow  of  Mount  Shasta — the  Olympus  of  the  Indian 
— he  dreamed  of  a  republic  of  red  men;  he  planned  a  scheme^ 
and  sent  petitions  about  it  to  the  American  Government,  but  without 
receiving  any  response  to  his  prayer.  Mr.  Miller  defends  the 
Modocs.  American  soldiers  and  citizens  were  the  first,  he  says^  to 
outrage  the  sanctity  of  commissions  of  peace.  Years  ago,  when 
Captain  Jack  was  a  boy,  one  Ben  Wright,  acting  for  the  United 
States  Government,  induced  a  number  of  Indians  to  meet  in 
amity  with  the  whites  to  discuss  peace,  and  then  fell  upon  them  and 
massacred  them.  The  treachery  of  the  white  man  was  repaid  the 
other  day  in  the  slaughter  of  the  United  States  Peace  Commissioners 
by  the  last  of  the  Modocs.  Mr.  Miller's  narrative  of  his  adventures 
among  the  Indians,  and  his  interpretation  of  their  best  and  wont 
characteristics,  ought  to  make  a  deep  impression  on  public  opinion, 
and  though  it  is  late  in  the  day  to  hope  much,  I  trust  that  good  may 
come  of  it  in  America. 


Referring  to  America,  the  fashion  just  now  at  its  height  of  Eng- 
lishmen going  out  to  lecture  is  a  notable  illustration  of  the  activity  of 
intellectual  life  in  the  States,  where  the  theatre  and  the  lecture  xoom 
seem  to  be  the  chief  media  of  entertainment  and  intellectual  enjoy- 
ment. Americans  must  go  somewhere  in  an  evening.  The  absence^ 
to  a  great  extent,  of  that  quiet  domestic  life  which  is  characteristic  of 
England  gives  the  caterer  for  public  amusements  a  special  position. 
Lectures  have  always  been  popular  in  America,  and,  with  the  spread 


Table  Talk.  359 

of  education,  the  lecture  room  has  grown  in  importance.  Then  it 
happens  that  the  best  known  books  in  America  are  written  by 
English  authors,  and  our  cousins  like  to  see  the  men  who  have 
amused  or  instructed  them.  They  have  a  great  respect  for  talent, 
and  they  are  sympathetic  readers.  Some  of  my  literary  friends  in 
England  have  received  their  highest  and  best  encouragement  from 
America.  A  novelist  told  mc  only  last  week  that  the  most  charming 
letter  he  had  ever  received  was  from  an  utter  stranger,  an  Amencan, 
residing  in  Boston,  who  had  read  and  admired  his  books.  American 
journalism,  it  appears  to  me,  is  largely  personal — I  mean  personal  in 
a  sympathetic  sense.  Readers  like  to  see  and  know  all  about 
the  men  who  ^Tite,  and  this  especially  applies  to  authors  and 
journalists.  Acting  in  the  spirit  of  this  national  feehng,  the 
American  Literary  Bureau  are  making  arrangements  with  our 
leading  men  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic  'to  take  part  in  their 
lecture  tours.  Recently  Mr.  Elderkin  was  in  England  for  this 
purpose.  He  made  arrangements  with  Mr.  Wilkie  Collins, 
Professor  Pepper,  Mr.  Hepworth  Dixon,  and  Mr.  Bradlaugh, 
who  go  out  this  year  and  next.  The  Bureau  is  now  opening  a 
regular  agency  in  England,  to  be  represented,  I  believe,  by  Mr. 
Henry  Blackburn  (author  of  some  charming  books  of  travel),  who 
has  lately  returned  from  the  States.  This  represents  so  remarkable  a 
feature  in  the  history  of  literary  work  nowadays  that  I  record  it 
historically. 

A  New  York  correspondent  calls  my  attention  to  the  Steiger 
collection  of  periodicals  at  the  Vienna  Exhibition,  and  the  catalogue 
of  American  books.  Mr.  E.  Steiger,  publisher,  bookseller,  and 
printer,  has  astonished  his  country.  Singlehanded,  and  without 
being  paid  for  his  work,  he  has  prepared  for  Vienna  not  only  a 
collection  of  the  literature  of  the  States,  but  a  catalogue  also.  The 
library  thus  brought  together  comprises  about  6,000  specimens  of  the 
periodical  literature  of  America,  done  up  in  119  uniform  volumes. 
The  catalogue  is  nothing  like  complete,  many  publishers  declining 
the  trouble  of  furnishing  either  specimens  of  their  works  or  a  list  of 
them.  It  has  occurred  to  one  of  the  New  York  editors  that  the 
apathy  of  the  publishers  in  this  matter  might  possibly  be  referable 
to  a  lurking  misgiving  that  no  American  could  do  anything  of 
so  ideal  a  character — anything  so  un-American — as  to  undertake, 
without  remuneration,  a  work  of  such  dimensions,  and  further,  a 
work  that  could  not  pay.  "An  example  of  this  sort  of  public 
spirit,"  says  the  same  writer,  **  is  from  time  to  time  needed  amoi 


360  The  Gentleman^ s  Magazine. 

and  we  are  strongly  reminded  by  this  matter  of  the  terms  in  which 
several  years  ago  the  German  Consul-General,  Dr.  Roesing,  referred 
to  the  gentleman  who  has  just  concluded  one  part  of  this  arduous 
task  :  *  Such  men  we  require  to  draw  closer  the  bonds  which  unite 
us  to  fatherland,  to  such  men  it  is  due  that  to-day  the  United  States 
look  upon  Germany  as  an  ally  in  future  eventualities.' "  I  do  not 
see  what  America  wants  with  an  ally  in  Germany,  or  how  a  catalogue 
by  Mr.  Steiger  affects  the  present  political  situation  or  future 
"eventualities."  The  Germans  cannot  read  the  American  books, 
and  they  are  too  full  of  intellectual  national  pride  to  care  much 
about  them  if  they  could.  "Ciood  wine  needs  no  bush."  The 
useful  and  generous  work  of  Mr.  Steiger  may  fairly  be  allowed 
to  stand  on  its  own  merits,  and  I  hope  the  publishers  will  gjive  him 
all  tlie  assistance  he  may  require  for  completing  his  important 
project.  The  Emperor  William  has  conferred  upon  Mr.  Steiger  the 
distinction  of  the  Order  of  the  Crown.  If  he  had  been  paid  ever 
so  large  a  sum  for  his  work  he  could  not  have  bought  this  decoration. 
It  cannot,  therefore,  be  said  that  he  has  not  been  rewarded,  and  it 
is  not  likely  that  America  will  be  less  appreciative  than  the  Emperor 
William,  though  I  fail  to  see  what  His  Majesty  has  to  do  with  the 
business. 

There  is  a  notable  article  in  the  Athenaeum  on  Amateur  Actors. 
The  initial  "  D.''  and  the  style  of  the  writer  point  to  Dr.  Donne  as 
the  author.  The  essay,  as  one  might  have  expected  from  the  author 
of  "  Her  Majesty's  Servants,"  is  a  crushing  attack  upon  amateurs ;  but» 
curiously  enough,  the  sting  is  changed  to  a  deposit  of  honey  at  the 
close.  The  amateurs  dealt  with  are  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  the  last 
centiir}',  actors  who  cannot,  fortunately,  be  hurt  by  such  clever  and 
interesting  condemnation.  I  thought  the  critical  animus  applied 
to  amateurs  generally,  and  I  confess  that,  with  certain  reservations,  I 
found  myself  in  accord  with  the  censor.  But  what  was  my  surprise 
at  the  last  to  read  "  England  has  still  her  amateurs ;  but,  as  in  Ireland, 
the  halcyon  time  was  in  the  last  century  or  the  beginning  of  the  pre- 
sent one.  The  amateurs  of  to-day  are  almost  professional.  No 
professionals  could  better  play  *  The  Rent  Day '  and  the  operetta 
*  Out  of  Siglit '  than  the  Amateur  Club  played  these  pieces  at  Can- 
terbury during  the  last  *  Canterbury  Week.' "  I  hope  this  verdict  of 
the  Athe7icenm  will  do  no  harm. 


There  is  an  unworked  mine  of  technical  knowledge  in  the  reports 
and  Blue  Books  of  Her  Majesty's  Government     I  have  a  remarkable 


Table  Talk. 


-,6i 


example  before  me  in  Ihe  "  Reports  on  Forest  Management  in  Ger- 
many, Austria,  and  Great  Britain,"  by  Captain  Campbell  Walker, 
Deputy-Conservator  of  Forests  at  Madras.  The  book  includes  ex- 
tracts from  reports  by  Mr.  Gustav  Mann,  Mr.  Ross,  and  Mr.  T.  W. 
Webber;  and  a  valuable  memorandum  by  Dr.  Brandis,  Inspector- 
General  of  Forests  to  the  Government  of  India.  The  work  is  the 
result  of  arrangements  made  in  1866  to  enable  Indian  forest  officers 
who  come  to  Europe  during  their  furlough  to  increase  their  pro- 
fessional knowledge  by  studying  the  forest  management  of  other 
countries.  Though  it  may  seem  strange  that  forest  officers  from  India 
can  learn  much  from  the  pmctice  of  forestry  under  a  totally  dilTerent 
climate,  yet  Dr.  Brandis  tells  us  that  whatever  progress  has  been  made 
in  Indian  forest  management,  that  progress  is  due  to  a  great  extent 
to  the  lessons  learnt  in  the  public  and  private  forests  of  Europe. 
Capta'Ji  Walker  seems  to  give  the  palm  to  Germany  for  the  scientific 
practice  of  forestry.  He  does  not  advance  the  theory  that  the  Ger- 
man system  is  perfect  or  applicable  to  all  states  or  circumstances ; 
bnt  he  says  that  compared  with  most  of  the  German  States  India  and 
England  are  behindhand  as  regards  the  systematic  and  scientific 
management  of  forests  on  a  large  scale,  and  as  a  part  of  that 
political  economy  to  which  it  is  incumbent  on  a  Government  to 
attend.  Indeed,  the  author  believes  that  we  are  as  far  behind  Ger- 
many in  the  knowledge  and  application  of  scientific  forestry  as  we 
are  in  advance  w'llli  regard  to  agricultural  pursuits.  To  be  told  that 
are  behindhand  ought  to  be  enough  for  us  to  at  once  set  about 
ing  our  practice  of  forestry  on  a  par  with  our  practice  of  agricul- 
ture. We  grow  trees  as  fine  as  Germany,  and  we  know  how  to  plant 
4U)d  rear  young  trees  for  timber ;  but,  like  our  iron  smelters  in  this 
ipcct,  we  work  loo  miicli  by  rule  of  thumb.  The  remedy  is  not 
and  Government '  well  to  set  the  good  example  by 

ins:  lie  necessary  pointed  out  by  Captain  Walker 

tlleagues. 

w"  be  said  to  open  this  month,  pro- 

Mr.  Henry  Irving,  our  Macready 
le   the    part   of  Richelieu,  and 
legitimate  tests  he  will  be  judged. 
takes  the  sole  management  of  the 
ill  be  made  to  revive  and  sustain 
lOUse.     The  Bancrofts  will  go  back 
1  ineffectually  to  be  "  on  with  the 
oe  content,  it  seems,  with  Robertson 


362  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

at  the  Prince  of  Wales's.  Mr.  Charles  Reade  is  at  Liverpool 
superintending  the  stage  arrangements  for  his  "Wandering  Heir," 
which  is  to  be  brought  to  London  if  the  verdict  of  the  northern  city 
be  favourable.  Mr.  Andrew  Halliday  will  give  us  a  grand  spec- 
tacular edition  of  "  Antony  and  Cleopatra  "  at  Drury  Lane,  and  there 
are  new  plays  in  rehearsal  at  several  of  the  minor  houses.  I  shall 
give  some  account  of  the  season  as  it  progresses. 


Several  complaints  have  been  lately  addressed  to  me  relative  to  the 
management  of  the  British  Museum  in  respect  of  the  reading  depart- 
ment. Turning  to  my  back  numbers  for  1758,  I  find  the  following 
regulation  with  regard  to  persons  who  desire  to  make  use  of  the 
Museum  for  study  : — "  A  particular  room  is  allotted  in  which  they 
may  sit,  and  read,  or  ^vrite,  without  interruption,  during  the  time  the 
Museum  is  kept  open ;  a  proper  officer  constantly  attending  in  the 
room.  They  must  give  notice  in  writing,  the  day  before,  what  book 
or  manuscript  they  desire  to  peruse  the  following  day,  which  will  be 
lodged  in  some  convenient  place  in  the  said  room,  and  will  from 
thence  be  delivered  by  the  officer  of  the  said  room  \  excepting,  how- 
ever, some  books  and  manuscripts  of  great  value,  or  very  liable  to  be 
damaged,  and  on  that  account  judged  by  the  trustees  not  fit  to  be 
removed  out  of  the  library  to  which  they  belong,  without  particular 
leave  of  the  trustees  ;  a  catalogue  whereof  is  kept  by  the  officer  of 
the  reading  room."  I  certainly  do  not  see  that  readers  are  much 
better  off  than  they  were  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago,  though  a 
great  deal  has  been  said  to  the  contrary. 


MESMERISM. 

Mr.  Urban, — Ever  since  I  can  remember  I  was  always  fond  of 
anything  connected  with  the  mysterious  or  occult;  when  I  was  a  boy 
I  ferreted  out  all  the  conjuring  tricks  that  I  came  across.  It  used  to 
be  my  boast  that  there  were  no  tricks  that  I  was  not  able  to  account 
for.  Whether  with  truth  or  not  I  will  not  stay  now  to  consider. 
However,  it  was  a  very  long  time  before  I  could  find  oui  the  cause 
and  means  whereby  the  "  magnetisers"  mesmerised  their  subjects.  It 
was  years  before  I  found  an  opportunity  of  penetrating  into  the 
depths  of  this  wonderful  science.  It  will  be  quite  sufficient  here  to 
state  that  I  did  discover  them  ;  and  to  my  gratification  I  found  that 
I  was  a  magnetiser.  Since  then  I  have  magnetised  many  people, 
and  think  I  am  justified  in  an  opinion  about  it. 

The  reason  why  I  am  leJ  to  writing  this  letter  is  that  in  the  July 


Table  Talk.  36 


»% 


number  of  the  Gentleman^ s  Magazine  there  is  an  account  of  "A 
Strange  Experiment."  I  would  wish  particularly  to  impress  upon  my 
readers  that  "  mesmerism  "  cannof  work  miracles,  as  some  good  people 
would  lead  us  to  suppose.  The  means  whereby  the  magnetic  state  is 
induced  are  as  natural  as  every  other  phenomena  on  the  face  of  the 
earth.  If  we  did  not  know  it  for  a  fact  we  should  find  it  rather  hard 
to  believe  that  a  magnetic  battery  has  the  power  to  paralyse  the  limbs 
and  make  us  powerless  while  its  effect  is  upon  us.  But  facts  are 
facts,  and  no  argument  can  put  aside  their  truth.  Before  I  had  studied 
the  science  of  mesmerism  I  was  as  stubborn  to  believe  it  as  any  one 
else ;  but  now  I  cannot  deny  the  existence  of  a  blessing  sent  by 
Jehovah  for  the  alleviation  of  suffering.  To  explain  myself:  mes- 
merism is  useful  in  many  forms  of  disease,  as  rheumatism,  headache, 
&c.,  &c.,  besides  the  use  that  can  be  made  of  it  as  a  narcotic,  whereby 
a  sleep  is  brought  on  so  deep  that  limbs  may  be  amputated  without 
rousing  the  patient  or  his  feeling  any  pain  until  he  wakes.  Of  course 
when  he  wakes  up  again  he  feels  pain  like  any  one  else. 

To  give  a  sufficient  description  of  the  science  would  take  a  great 
deal  more  space  than  kind  indulgence  would  permit ;  but  I  may  just 
say  that  the  means  are  perfectly  natural,  no  narcotic  is  used  in  the 
form  of  salts  or  vinegars,  &c.  When  I  mesmerise  I  use  nothing  but 
my  own  physical  and  mental  systems,  I  may  add  that  those  who 
would  be  mesmerised  should  take  care  who  it  is  that  operates  upon 
them,  as  when  they  are  in  that  state  the  magnetiser  has  power  to  make 
them  do  anything  he  wishes;  they  are  entirely  in  his  power,  as 
entirely  as  the  new-bom  babe  in  the  hands  of  its  mother.  He  can 
make  you  tell  him  anything,  without  your  having  the  power  to  with- 
hold it  from  him.  He  can  make  you  walk  into  the  fire.  This  has 
been  done,  I  speak  from  experience,  I  am  saying  nothing  but  what  is 
perfectly  true.  He  can  make  you  jump  from  the  window.  He  can 
make  you  do  anything  and  everything  he  likes. 

Some  people  are  far  more  easily  "  magnetised  "  than  others.  The 
gentleman  who  wrote  the  paper  in  the  July  number  was  one  of  the 
former.  The  cakes  that  he  describes  were  magnetised ;  there  was  no 
particular  reason  to  have  those  cakes ;  water  would  have  done  as 
well.  I  frequently  give  my  subjects  water  which  I  have  magnetised. 
What  he  says  about  the  feeling  of  subjection  that  he  felt  is  just  the 
same  as  described  by  my  patients ;  they  cannot  resist  me,  they  say, 
they  must  go  to  sleep.  The  mesmeric  sleep  is  very  enjoyable  ;  there 
is  a  sort  of  tranquil  and  peaceful  enjoyment  that  always  induces 
people  to  undergo  it  again. 

I  must  acknowledge  that  I  never  heard  of  the  handling  of  articles 


364  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

causing  the  remembrance  (as  it  were)  to  appear  in  the  mind  of  the 
subject  of  past  circumstances  connected  with  them.  But  it  is  very 
possible.  I  have  known  a  lady  who  was  mesmerised  to  tell  what 
another  pe  rson  was  MTiting  in  the  next  room.  This  is  called  dair- 
voyanccy  and  everybody  is  not  able  to  fulfil  the  wishes  of  the 
magnetiser  to  such  a  high  degree  as  this.  Clairvoyance  is  very  useful 
in  discovering  the  seat  of  disease  in  the  human  body,  as  a  mesmerised 
clairvoyante  is  able  to  see  inside  the  human  body  and  report  the  state 
of  the  organs.  Mr.  Ker  says  that  he  was  in  a  fever  after  it ;  but  I 
think  it  was  the  excitement  about  the  strangeness  of  his  experiment 
that  brought  it  on  :  not  the  actual  mesmerism — such  a  thing  is  im- 
possible. Can  you  fall  ill  of  a  fever  because  you  slept  well  last  night  ? 
No !  The  idea  is  absurd.  No  one  is  harmed  by  mesmerism,  it  is 
against  the  laws  of  nature. 

It  would  be  a  good  thing  if  some  clever  and  experienced  men  of 
science  would  investigate  this  science,  and  not  leave  it  to  the  few 
who,  perhaps,  may  have  discovered  it  by  chance.  What  objection 
-can  they  have  to  it  that  they  shun  it  ?  But  I  suppose  the  world  never 
changes.  Remember  Galileo,  the  philosopher.  People  will  not 
admit  their  ignorance  on  a  subject  such  as  this,  so  they  ridicule  it. 

I  may  as  well  say  that  the  science  was  founded  by  Anthony 
Mesmer,  a  French  physician,  about  1796,  or  thereabouts.  Hoping 
that  this  may  lead  to  an  investigation,  I  will  now  leave  the  matter  in 
the  hands  of  the  unprejudiced  and  liberal-minded,  feeling  sure  they 
will  soon  arrive  at  the  truth.  If  anybody  should  think  it  worth  while 
I  shall  be  glad  to  answer  any  correspondence  on  the  subject 

Oscar  W.  Reuss. 

Old  Traffordf  Manchester, 

[  I  wonder  if  Mr.  Ker  will  be  surprised  to  find  his  "  cakes  "  and 
''articles"  taken  seriously.  Several  distinguished  mesmerists  are,  I 
believe,  anxious  to  have  the  Claimant  mesmerised  in  Court  Mr. 
Bateman,  of  the  Lyceum,  however,  might  object  to  this,  as  an 
infringement  upon  the  chief  scene  in  "The  Bells." — Sylvanus 
Urban.] 


THE 


Gentleman's  Magazine 


October,  1873. 


Clytie. 

A  Novel  of  Modern  Life. 
BY  JOSEPH  HATTON. 

—  ■  -■      —  -   ■  —     -  ■  ■  ■  I         ■        ^  I 

BOOK  II. 

CHAPTER     IV. 

A  SOCIAL  TEMPEST. 

|W0  days  after  Lord  St.  Barnard  received  that  letter  and 
paper  which  stung  him  so  cruelly,  Tom  Mayfield,  the 
"  Kalmat"  of  literary  society,  arrived  in  London.  The 
waif  of  the  sea  and  desert  had  been  blown  back  to  his 
Tiative  shore.  He  had  come  home  from  the  land  of  the  sun,  from 
Mexican  seas,  from  the  deep  gold  valleys  of  tawny  men;  he  had 
come  from  the  vast  spaces  where  Nature  stands  alone  and  swings  her 
brawny  arms  over  mountain  and  prairie ;  where  there  are  forests 
primeval,  like  floating  islands  in  seas  of  sand  ;  where  night  is  night, 
and  day  is  hot  and  glorious,  and  full  of  mighty  shadows  that  follow 
the  track  of  the  sun*s  hot  radiant  beams ;  where — 

The  fair  Sierras 
Are  under  our  feet,  and  the  heart  beats  high 
And  the  blood  comes  quick ;  but  the  lips  are  still 
With  awe  and  >»onder,  and  all  the  will 
Is  bow'd  with  a  grandeur  that  frets  the  sky. 

From   the  steamer  at  Liverpool  he  had  gone  straight  to  the 

Langham  Hotel.     How  tame  and  strangely  familiar  it  all  seemed. 

It  was  night  when  he  arrived  in  London.     He  had  dined  and 
Vol.  XI.,  X.S.  1873.  B  B 


366  The  Gentlematis  Magazine. 

sauntered  into  the  general  room  to  look  at  the  newspapers  that  were 
lying  about,  and  consult  with  himself  concerning  his  movements.    The 
persons  who  were  spending  their  time  in  a  similar  way  looked  up  at  the 
bronzed  grey-bearded  young  man ;  for  even  the  lines  in  his*  face  and 
the  silver  streaks  in  his  hair  did  not  altogether  disguise  the  fact  that  he 
was  not  an  old  man.     He  was  broad  of  shoulder  and  agile  of  tread. 
He  had  great  hard-looking  hands.     There  was  gentleness  and  yet 
defiance  in  his  eye.     Though  it  was  summer  he  wore  a  thick  brown 
velvet  coat,  and  his  collar  was  low  in  the  neck.     His  hair  was  long 
and  grizzly  grey.     His  beard  was  heavy  and  matted  like  a  lion's. 
It  was  not  long,  but  it  seemed  to  hang  down  in  grey  rope-like 
masses.     Even  his  mother,  had  she  been  alive,   might  have  been 
forgiven  for  not  knowing  him.     The  thin,  delicate-looking  student  of 
Dunelm  seemed  to  have  lost  every  point  of  resemblance  in  this 
stalwart  miner,  warrior,  hunter,  and  poet. 

The  latest  arrival  at  the  Langham  sat  down  and  took  up  a  news- 
paper.     He   looked  at  it,   but  he  was  not  reading  it.      He  was 
examining  the  room,  and  thinking  how  different  it  was  to  the  Cali- 
fomian  hotels,  to  the  huts  on  the  mining  river.      There  were  two 
ladies  pretending  also  to  read,  and  several  countrymen  and  foreigners 
yawning  and  wondering  whether  they  should  go  out  to  a  theatre  or 
play  at  billiards.   Half,  a  dozen  others  were  similarly  occupied,  except 
when  they  were  wondering  why  the  gentleman  of  the  thick  grey  hair 
did  not  either  dye  it  or  have  it  cut.     Tom  could  hardly  realise  the 
fact  that  he  was  again  in  England,  and  yet,  now  that  he  sat  here  once 
more  among  English  people  at  home,  the  past  appeared  to  him  to 
be  a  very  long  way  off.     WTiat  had  become  of  Clytie  ?    Did  he  love 
her  yet  ?    Yes,  as  one  loves  a  child  that  is  dead ;  as  one  looks  back 
and  sighs  over  a  once  happy  time ;  as  one  loves  the  days  when  we 
were  young.     He  had  given  up  the  Dunelm  beauty  on  that  fatal 
night  when  he  saw  the  signal  which  was  to  tell  Philip  Ransford  .that 
she  was  ready  to  elope  with  him.     Within  a  mile  of  the  Langham 
there  was  an  old  woman  who  could  have  told  him  that  Clytie  had  no 
hand  in  that  fatal  exhibition  of  the  flowers.     Old  Waller  before  he 
died  impressed  this  upon  the  woman's  memory,  in  order  that  she 
might  do  justice  to  Clytie  in  this  respect  if  ever  Fate  should  bring 
the  lost  child  in  her  way.      But  Tom  Mayfield  could  only  think 
of  events  as  they  had  presented  themselves  to  him,  as  he  had 
seen  them  occur,  and  those  flowers  on  the  window-sill  ten  years 
ago  had  been  the  keynote   to   many  a  sad  and  cynical   line   in 
his  now  famous  book  of  "  Poems  of  the  Prairie."    What  a  psmorama 
of  thought  and  fancy,  of  happy  memories,  of  miserable  days  and 


Clytie.  367- 

nights  passed  before  Tom's  mind,  as  he  sat  thinking  of  the  events 
that  crowded  his  experience  of  the  last  ten  years  !    How  different  it 
might  have  been  had  Clytie  returned  his  love  in  that  old  city  of  the 
North  where  Time  himself  might  stand  still,  if  he  dared,  and  gaze 
upon  the  Temple  of  Stone  rising  into  the  clouds  above  the  banks  of 
the  whispering  Wear !     What  had  become  of  her?    She  had  married. 
that  big  lying,  wealthy  plebeian  Ransford,  no  doubt,  and  possibly  had 
a  house  in  town.    If  she  had  married  him,  she  certainly  was  not  happy. 
He  had  ill-treated  her ;  he  had  grown  jealous  of  her,  and  made  her 
life  miserable.      Kalmat  hoped  not;   he  would  have  her   happy. 
Perhaps  she  had  married  well ;  some  man  who  could  really  love  her 
had  won  her  heart  at  last.     Or  perhaps  she  was  still  unmarried,  stillr' 
living  in  the  Bailey  at  Dunelm,  a  round  dimpled  beauty  in  a  lilac  silk 
dress,  the  pride  and  consolation  of  her  dear  old  grandfather.     The 
faintest  tingle  of  hope  gave  warmth  to  the  poet's  heart  for  a  moment 
as  this  thought  followed  the  others  coursing  through  his  brain,  andi 
then  he   seemed  to  hear  the  sympathetic  music  of  the  dear  old-' 
organ  wandering  through  the  arches  of  St.  Bride's,  and  going  out  into  • 
the  open  air  to  be  lost,  among  the  hum  of  bees  and  the  perfumes  of 
the  lilac. 

A\Tiat  a  delicious  dream  it  was,  this  last  flow  of  memory  back  to  the 
somnolent  city,  with  its  Hermitage,  its  rooms  over  the  College 
gateway,  its  river  and  trees,  and  its  Sunday  morning  walks  after 
church,  and  its  Clytie  real  and  in  the  flesh,  and  its  white  sculptured. 
Clytie  of  Mrs.  Golding's  rooms.  Many  a  time  since,  he  had  thought 
himself  cruel  in  his  destruction  of  that  once  loved  bust;  but  he  hadi 
always  carried  the  image  of  it  in  his  heart  Passing  through  New 
York  on  his  way  to  England,  it  had  given  him  a  pang  to  see  the 
well  known  bust  in  more  than  one  shop  window.  No  one  could, 
possibly  know  how  much  that  figure  symbolised  to  him.  That  was> 
his  own  secret,  however,  and  in  a  grim  sort  of  fashion  he  congratu- 
lated himself  upon  the  fact.  He  lived  within  himself,  this  grizzly 
Kalmat ;  he  nursed  his  own  joys  and  sorrows ;  he  shared  them  only. 
with  the  Muses,  who  asked  no  questions,  who  required  no  details,, 
who'  never  hinted  at  names  and  dates,  but  who  took  his  story 
broadly,  and  gave  him  all  the  consolation  of  confession  without  its- 
reality. 

It  is  sorrow  tliat  makes  the  poet     There  is  no  singer  who  is  alti 

joy.     Nature  in  woods  and  dells  inspired  the  first  poets ;  but  Lovc- 

and  Death  taught  them  the  tender  beaut)'  of  woe.     Poetry  is  the- 

soul  of  things,  and  Kalmat  had  timed  the  melancholy  of  his  own; 

heart  to  the  everlasting  music  which  is  the  most  precious  gift  the 

B  B  2 


368  The  Gentleniafis  Magazine. 

world  can  receive  from  man.  But  we  live  in  a  hard  world,  and 
Kalmat  was  about  to  receive  some  further  blows  from  the  realistic 
liammer  upon  the  poor  shield  behind  which  he  defended  himself. 

In  the  midst  of  his  reverie  he  heard  the  names  of  Mary  Waller, 
Philip  Ransford,  and  Dunelm.  It  was  as  if  Fate  had  moulded  his 
thoughts  into  words  and  had  flung  these  at  him  in  mockery.  He 
turned  round  and  observed  that  the  speaker  was  an  ordinary  looking 
person  sitting  close  by,  and  that  he  was  reading  a  newspaper  to  a 
companion  who  was  lolling  in  an  easy  chair  and  listening  with  evident 
enjoyment.  Tom  Mayfield's  first  impulse  was  to  rush  upon  the 
reader  and  snatch  the  paper  from  him ;  but  he  remembered  that  he 
held  in  his  ov;n  hands  also  an  evening  newspaper.  He  turned  it 
over  and  examined  it  eagerly.  Indeed,  his  sudden  excitement 
attracted  the  attention  of  the  people  about  him.  At  last  Tom's  eyes 
rested  upon  a  well  known  name,  and  he  commenced  to  read.  Word 
by  word,  line  by  line,  he  devoured  a  column  of  the  latest  intelligence, 
uttering  almost  audibly  every  now  and  then,  "  My  God  !"  and  "  What 
can  this  mean  ?"  At  last  all  suddenly  hissed  between  his  teeth  the 
words  "  liar  "  and  "  coward ; "  then  flinging  the  paper  on  the  ground, 
he  strode  hastily  out  of  the  room,  the  only  impression  which  he  left 
behind  being  that  he  was  drunk.  And  so  he  was — drunk  with  amaze- 
ment, anger,  grief,  rage,  thirsting  for  the  truth,  his  whole  soul  pant- 
ing for  satisfaction  and  revenge. 

CHAPTER  V. 

THE   STORY    IN   THE   PAPERS. 

This  is  what  greeted  Tom  Mayfield  on  his  return  to  his  native 
land ;  this  is  what  he  read  : — 

At  Bow  Street  Police  Court  this  day  Philip  Ransford,  of 
Piccadilly,  gentleman,  was  brought  up  charged  with  maliciously  pub- 
lishing a  libel  upon  the  Right  Hon.  Lord  St.  Barnard,  an  oflUcer  of 
the  Queen's  Household,  &c.,  &c.,  with  intent  to  extort  money. 

Mr.  Holland  appeared  for  the  noble  prosecutor,  and  Mr.  Cufling 
conducted  the  case  for  the  prisoner. 

In  a  lengthy  opening  speech,  Mr.  Holland  said  the  charges  against 
the  defendant  were  of  a  very  serious  character,  inasmuch  as  the  libels 
were  obnoxious,  false,  and  malicious,  and  pubhshed  with  intent  to 
extort  money  from  Lord  and  Lady  St.  Barnard,  who  the  prisoner 
thought  would  not  seek  redress  in  a  court  of  justice.  The  leading 
points  of  the  case  might  be  briefly  stated.     Lord  St.  Barnard  married 


Clytie.  369 

Lady  St.  Barnard  at  St  George's,  Hanover  Square,  in  the  presence  of 
mutual  friends  and  relatives  and  numerous  witnesses.  Lady  St  Barnard 
was  Miss  Mary  Waller,  of  Dunelm,  grand-daughter  of  the  late  Mr.  Luke 
Waller,  organist  of  St  Bride's  in  that  city,  a  friend  of  the  late  Lord 
St.  Barnard,  and  a  gentleman  much  esteemed  in  the  Northern  city. 
Previous  to  her  marriage  Lady  St  Barnard  had  known  the  defendant, 
who  had  in  fact  been  a  suitor  for  her  hand.  When  her  ladyship  and 
Lord  St.  Barnard  returned  from  their  hone3niioon,  which  they  had 
spent  in  Italy,  the  defendant  left  his  card  at  Grassnook,  his  lordship's 
seat  on  the  Thames,  and  afterwards  met  the  noble  pair  at  the 
Botanical  Gardens,  and  congratulated  them  upon  their  marriage, 
Lady  St.  Barnard  introducing  Mr.  Ransford  to  her  husband  as  the 
son  of  Mr.  Ransford  of  Dunelm,  one  of  the  late  lord's  principal 
tenants  in  the  North.  After  this  commenced  the  defendant's  perse- 
cutions. Almost  immediately  he  wrote  to  Lady  St  Bartiard  for 
money.  He  demanded  from  her  jQz^^  o^  some  imaginary  claim  for 
money  lent  to  her  grandfather.  She  sent  him  a  cheque  for  it  In  two 
months  afterwards  he  wrote  again  upbraiding  Lady  St  Barnard  for 
all  kinds  of  injuries  which  he  charged  her  with  having  inflicted  upon 
his  family.  It  appeared  that  the  defendant's  father  held  under 
mortgage  a  considerable  property  in  Dunelm,  and  that  owing  to  a 
bank  failure  and  other  misfortunes  he  became  bankrupt,  and  the  late 
Lord  St  Barnard  foreclosed  and  took  possession  of  his  estate,  the 
proceeds  of  which  he  settled  upon  Lady  St  Barnard,  then  Miss 
Waller,  in  whose  welfare  he  had,  as  the  grandchild  of  his  old  friend 
Mr.  Waller,  taken  a  great  interest  from  her  infancy.  In  short,  it 
would  be  conclusively  shown  that  this  child  was  the  granddaughter 
of  the  late  earl,  who  was  charged  by  the  prisoner  with  occupying  the 
position  of  her  "  protector,"  a  phrase  sufficiently  understood  to  render 
any  explanation  of  its  meaning  unnecessary.  The  real  relationship, 
however,  of  the  late  earl  and  Miss  Waller  could  not  have  been 
known  by  the  prisoner ;  and  on  this  point,  if  allowance  of  any  kind 
could  be  made  for  such  a  person,  some  consideration  might  be 
shown  him  on  the  score  of  ignorance  and  his  own  vicious  imagina- 
tion, but  it  must  at  the  same  time  be  borne  in  mind  that  upon  this 
untenable  suggestion  of  his  malice  the  prisoner  had  founded  his 
other  libels.  It  was  no  fault  of  her  ladyship's  that  the  Ransford 
family  came  to  grief,  and  it  was  a  cowardly  thing  to  attack  her 
even  upon  that  ground ;  but  he  could  not  find  words  strong 
enough  in  which  to  denounce  the  libels  that  followed.  How- 
ever, on  this  second  application  for  money  Lady  St  Barnard  con- 
sulted   her   solicitor,    and   the   result   was  the    payment    to    the 


.3/0  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

defendant  of  ;^  I  oo,  and  he  gave  an  acknowledgment  in  full  of  all 

•  demands.  The  prisoner,  it  would  appear,  then  went  abroad,  and 
Lady  St.  Barnard  heard  no  more  of  him  for  three  years,  since  which 
time  he  had  constantly  annoyed  her.  Her  ladyship  was  presented  at 
Court  by  the  Duchess  of  Bolsover,  and  had  frequently  been  at  Her 
Majesty's  Drawing-rooms.  Last  week  the  defendant  wrote  to  the 
Lord  Chamberlain  complaining  of  Lady  St.  Barnard,  stating  that  she 
had  misconducted  herself  in  London  prior  to  her  marriage,  and 
before  his  lordship  could  make  inquiries  into  the  complaint,  the 
defendant  followed  up  his  malicious  letter  by  a  statutory  declaration 
at  this  Court,  which  said  statutory  declaration  was  as  follows : — 

"  I,  Philip  Ransford,  of  Piccadilly,  in  the  county  of  Middlesex, 

rgentleman,  do  solemnly  and  sincerely  declare  as  follows :  (i)  I  have 

■been  for  several  years  past  well  acquainted  with  Lady  St.  Barnard, 

and  I  am  also  acquainted  with  the  Right  Hon.  Edward  Frampton 

Earl  St  Barnard,  of  Grassnook,  in  the  county  of  Berkshire.     (2)  The 

said  Lady  St  Barnard  was  a  Mary  Waller,  of  Dunelm,  in  which 

city  I  was  on  intimate  terms  with   her.       (3)  The  said  Lady  St. 

Barnard,  then   Mary  Waller,   suddenly  left    Dunelm  unknown  to 

her  grandfather  and  friends,  and   sought  lodgings  at  a  notorious 

•house  in  St.  John's  Wood,  and   afterwards  lodged   in  St  Mark's 

•Crescent,  Primrose  Hill.  (4)  The  said  Mary  Waller  afterwards  took  an 

•  engagement  at  the  Delphos  Theatre,  under  the  name  of  Miss  Pitt, 
and  afterwards  lived  in  Gloucester  Road,  Hyde  Park,  under  the  pro- 
tection of  the  late  Lord  St  Barnard,  a  well-known  patron  of  the 

•  drama.  Eventually  she  married  the  present  earl,  nephew  of  the  late 
Lord  St  Barnard.  (5)  My  first  acquaintance  with  the  said  Mary 
Waller  was  at  Dunelm,  when  I  met  her  in  the  Banks  and  asked  her 
if  her  grandfather  was  at  home,  and  I  then  walked  home  with  her.  I 
frequently  visited  her  there,  and  on  one  occasion  spent  several  hours 
with  her  in  a  summer  house  at  the  end  of  the  garden,  where  our 
interview  was  interrupted  by  her  grandfather,  who  dragged  her  into 
the  house  and  denounced  her  as  a  strumpet  (6)  I  subsequently 
.met  the  said  Mary  Waller  in  London,  and  took  her  to  the  Delphos 
Theatre  in  my  brougham,  and  was  with  her  behind  the  scenes,  and 
on  one  occasion  had  luncheon  with  her  in  the  manager's  room,  in 
•company  with  two  other  kept  women.  (7)  After  this  she  went  home 
with  me  to  my  chambers  in  Piccadilly,  and  spent  the  night  there. 
i^8)  The  said  Lord  St  Barnard  knew  when  he  married  the  said  Maiy 
Waller  that  she  was  the  kept  mistress  of  his  late  uncle.  And  I  make 
this  declaration  conscientiously  believing  the  same  to  be  true,  and 
by  virtue  of  the  provisions  of  an  Act  made  and  provided. 


Clytte.  371 

"  Declared  at  the  Police  Court,  Bow  Street,  in  the  county  of 

^liddlesex. 

"Philip  Ransford. 

"  M.  WiNNiNGTON,  one  of  the  Magistrates 

of  the  Police  Courts  of  the  Metropolis." 

Mr.  Holland,  in  concluding  his  remarks,  said  the  prisoner  had  car- 
ried on  his  malicious  persecution  so  long  that  Lord  St.  Barnard  felt 
bound,  in  the  interests  of  society  and  for  the  protection  of  his  wife, 
to  come  to  a  court  of  justice  to  punish  the  delinquent.  He  sliould 
show  the  Bench  on  the  most  undoubted  evidence  that  not  only  was 
the  declaration  of  the  prisoner  Mse  in  every  respect,  but  that  it 
had  no  foundation  in  truth.  There  were,  he  said,  in  the  history  of 
all  of  us  incidents  which  might  easily  be  made  pegs  on  which  to  hang 
suspicious  and  scandalous  charges.  Lady  St  Barnard  in  early  life 
was  unhappy  at  home,  and  like  many  another,  she  had  lefc  home  for 
the  sake  of  independence  and  peace.  Even  in  those  days  the  pri- 
soner, who  was  a  native  of  the  city  in  which  she  was  brought  up,  had 
annoyed  and  persecuted  her,  and  in  such  a  way  as  to  excite  the  anger 
and  jealousy  of  her  grandfather,  who  was  unjust  to  her  in  consequence, 
and  this  chiefly  led  to  her  sacriflcing  a  home  of  plenty  for  the  difiicult 
chance  of  making  a  livelihood  in  London.  In  such  a  history  as  this 
it  was  easy  to  invent  and  imagine ;  mistakes  of  judgment  could  be 
magnified  into  something  like  social  flaws  in  the  hands  of  a  wicked 
and  designing  person  such  as  the  defendant  had  shown  himself  to  be. 
But  the  law  had  a  clear  sight  and  a  calm  judicial  brain,  and  he  was 
sure  that  Society  would  be  fully  avenged  upon  the  prisoner.  Rather 
than  trouble  the  Court  with  a  long  preliminary  address  he  should,  he 
thought,  best  consult  the  feelings  of  the  Bench  and  the  interest  of 
his  clients  by  developing  the  case  practically  and  simply  by  means  of 
the  evidence.  There  were  several  libels,  all  of  a  most  cruel  and 
malicious  character,  and  all  of  which  had  no  foundation  whatever  in 
truth,  and  were  an  outrage  on  humanity.  After  detailing  a  number 
of  documents,  the  learned  counsel  called — 

The  Hon.  Thomas  Semmingfield,  of  Fitzroy  Square,  who  said  he 
had  known  Lord  and  Lady  St  Barnard  for  several  years.  He  was 
present  at  their  marriage.  He  had  met  Lady  St  Barnard  jmor  to 
her  marriage.  She  was  a  visitor  among  well-known  families  in  Bd- 
gravia.  Last  week  he  received  a  letter  from  the  defendant  enclosing 
a  copy  of  the  statutory  declaration.  It  was  in  his  opinion  a  malicioiis 
libel.  He  communicated  with  Lord  St.  Barnard,  who  told  him  that 
tlie  defendant  would  be  arrested  on  a  charge  of  attempting  to  extort 
money  by  means  of  malicious  and  daring  libels. 


37^  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

Mr.  Cuffing:  If  the  allegations  set  forth  in  this  declaration  are 
true,  would  Lady  St.  Barnard  be  a  proper  person  to  be  presented  at 
Court? 

Witness  :  If  they  were  true,  no. 

Mr.  Cuffing  :  I  have  no  other  question  to  ask. 

The  Magistrate  :  How  do  you  know  that  you  received  this  letter 
from  the  defendant  ?    Are  you  acquainted  with  his  handwriting  ? 

Witness :  No,  your  worship. 

Mr.  Cuffing  :  We  admit  that  the  defendant  wrote  the  letter. 

The  Right  Hon.  the  Earl  of  Tamar  said  he  had  known  Lord  St^ 
Barnard  thirty  years.  He  knew  his  lordship's  first  wife,  a  lady  o# 
distinguished  merits,  and  he  had  known  the  present  countess  since 
her  marriage.  He  had  always  found  her  to  be  a  lady  in  every  sense 
of  the  word.  Had  once  met  her  in  society  prior  to  her  marriage, 
but  was  not  then  introduced  to  her.  He  had  received  the  statutory- 
declaration  by  post.     It  was  in  his  opinion  a  malicious  libel. 

In  cross-examination  Mr.  Cuffing  asked  the  noble  witness,  if  the 
statutory  declaration  were  true,  would  Lady  St.  Barnard  be  a  proper 
person  to  be  presented  at  Court  ? 

Witness  :  Certainly  not ;  but  I  am  quite  sure  that  the  statements 
are  as  false  as  they  are  wicked  and  disgraceful.  (Applause  in  courts 
which  was  immediately  checked.) 

Mr.  Holland  was  about  to  call  another  witness,  when  the  magis- 
trate said  the  case  seemed  likely  to  last  some  time^  and  as  it  began 
late  in  the  day,  and  it  was  now  six  o'clock,  he  thought  it  would  be 
necessary  to  adjourn  the  further  hearing  of  it  until  the  next  day. 

Mr.  Holland  agreed  with  his  Worship's  suggestion,  but  he  should 
ask  the  Bench  to  demand  substantial  bail  for  the  defendant's 
attendance. 

Mr.  Cuffing  said  the  prisoner  had,  he  thought,  been  improperly 
arrested,  seeing  that  he  was  quite  prepared  to  appear  and  substan- 
tiate his  statements,  and  he  was  ready  to  enter  into  his  own 
recognizances  to  attend  there ;  but  it  was  necessary  that  he  shoukl 
have  his  liberty  in  order  that  he  might  get  up  his  case,  and  he  did 
not  see  that  the  Bench  was  in  any  way  called  upon  to  ask  for  bail. 

The  magistrate,  however,  said  the  prisoner  must  find  two  sureties 
j^  -^500  ^ach,  and  himself  in  ;£'i,ooo.  The  charge  was  a  very 
serious  one,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  learned  counsel's  appli- 
cation as  to  substantial  bail  was  a  perfectly  reasonable  one. 

Bail  not  being  forthcoming,  the  defendant  was  removed  to» 
Newgate. 

An  editorial  note  upon  the  charge  drew  attention  to  the  fact  that 


Clytie.  373. 

the  wildest  imagination  of  the  novelist  had  been  outstripped  recently 
in  several  cases  that  had  come  before  the  courts.  Without  for  a. 
moment  offering  an  opinion  upon  the  Barnard- Ransford  libel  case 
opened  this  day  at  Bow  Street,  the  editor  still  pointed  out  that  in 
this  business  we  had  either  one  of  the  foulest  and  most  dastardly  and 
cruel  libels  that  could  afflict  social  life,  or  we  had  a  story  of  the  most 
incredible  deceit  and  immorality.  It  was  with  such  materials  as  these,, 
it  seemed  to  the  editor,  that  the  successful  novelist  must  deal :  love, 
revenge,  human  passion  in  their  highest  and  most  daring  flights. 
Why  the  novelist  should  sit  down  and  draw  drafts  upon  his  own 
imagination  when  the  doors  of  Bow  Street  were  open  to  him  daily 
this  editorial  authority  could  not  imagine.  Moreover,  the  mosti 
successful  novels,  the  stories  most  read  and  whose  lessons  took  the- 
deepest  hold  of  the  human  heart,  were  drawn  from  history  proper,  or 
from  history*  as  it  presented  itself  at  the  police  courts  and  the  courts 
of  law  generally.  Charles  Dickens's  "  Oliver  Twist,"  with  the  Fagiiv 
and  Bill  Sykes  episode  ;  Fielding's  "  Tom  Jones  "  and  the  sponging- 
houses ;  Hawthorne's  "  Scarlet  Letter,"  and  the  crime  of  the 
clergyman ;  **  Adam  Bede,"  with  the  seduction  of  Hesther,  and  her 
trial  for  murder  :  these  and  many  more  works  were  cited  as  examples, 
not  only  of  criminal  history  furnishing  the  best  materials  for  the 
novelist,  but  as  an  answer  to  certain  namby-pamby  critics,  who- 
denounced  stories  that  dealt  with  those  very  social  sins  which 
formed  the  strength  of  our  classic  novels,  past  and  present.  The 
harm  was  when  some  weak  writer  drew  upon  his  or  her  imagination,, 
and  mistook  lubricity  for  the  tender  passion ;  when  immorality  was 
gilded  over  and  made  prosperous,  which  it  never  really  is  in  the  end  > 
when  scenes  of  social  depravity  are  dwelt  upon  with  a  sort  of  loving 
care;  when  vice  is  made  attractive  and  virtue  repulsive;. when  the 
Magdalene  is  made  to  look  better  and  purer  and  holier  than  the  true 
and  divine  Mary  herself ;  then  is  society  polluted  by  the  novelist  But 
the  writer  who  had  the  power  to  mould  the  realities  of  life  to  his 
purpose,  and  deal  manfully  and  fearlessly  with  history  as  it  was 
recorded  in  the  newspapers,  could  not  fail  to  secure  a  following,  and 
might  snap  his  fingers  at  the  snarls  of  weak  critics  who  could  not 
discriminate  between  love  and  lust,  between  pruriency  and  humaa 
passion. 

Thus  was  the  most  extraordinary  social  drama  of  modem  days- 
inaugurated.  It  was  more  than  a  drama  in  the  histrionic  meaning — 
it  was  a  tragedy,  as  the  sequel  will  show. 


3  74  ^'^  Gentleman! s  Magazine. 

CHAPTER  VI. 

IN    THE    WITNESS-BOX. 

There  is  a  very  laige  section  of  the  public  ready  and  willing  to 
believe  any  evil  thing  against  anybody. 

Is  it  that  we  are  all  desperately  wicked  ourselves  that  we  judge 
■others  so  harshly  ? 

The  world  takes  a  delight  in  the  exposure  of  people's  af&irs. 
It  likes  to  read  divorce  cases  and  social  scandals ;  it  is  deeply  inte- 
rested in  crime  where  a  woman  is  concerned ;  it  revels  in  a  breach 
of  promise  trial,  and  grows  ecstatic  if  the  ordinary  pleas  are  supple- 
mented with  a  claim  on  the  part  of  the  parent  for  ^oss  of  services. 

The  honour  of  a  respectable  woman,  a  lady  of  position,  is  no 
sooner  attacked  than  all  the  world  bends  its  head  to  see  and 
listen.  What  is  worse,  the  world  likes  to  believe  the  worst  **  Be 
thou  as  pure  as  ice  and  chaste  as  snow  thou  shalt  not  escape 
•calumny ;"  and  calumny  sticks  like  a  bur.  You  may  brush  it  away 
and  think  it  is  gone,  but  some  of  it  is  sure  to  remain.  Mrs.  Grundy 
may  be  convinced,  but  it  is  always  against  her  will.  She  has  a  way 
•of  shaking  her  head  over  the  fairest  reputation. 

Within  t>venty-four  hours  after  Phil  Ransford  appeared  at  Bow  Street 
■all  England  was  talking  about  Lady  Barnard,  and  while  eveiybody  said 
Ransford  was  a  scoundrel,  there  was  a  general  shaking  of  heads  over 
the  lady.  Society  wagged  its  empty  noddle  out  of  jealousy,  and  the 
ordinary  people  were  similarly  influenced.  Lady  St.  Barnard  was  a 
beauty,  and  she  had  won  a  rich  husband  and  a  title ;  that  was  enough 
for  society  to  hate  her.  She  had  been  raised  out  of  the  ranks  of  the 
middle,  classes  to  a  high  place  among  the  aristocracy,  and  that  was 
quite  sufficient  surely  to  justify  the  dislike  of  the  middle  classes.  If 
you  would  not  have  enemies,  you  must  stand  still ;  to  advance  is  to 
offend  all  whom  you  pass  on  the  way.  Dunelm  knew  the  proud  for- 
ward minx  would  come  out  in  her  true  colours  some  day.  What  is  bred 
in  the  bone  must  come  out.  It  was  a  good  thing  old  Waller  died. 
What  could  be  expected  of  a  girl  who  could  break  her  poor  old 
grandfather's  heart  ? 

Dunelm  had  a  special  ground  for  dissatisfaction.  The  proud  dty 
had  received  the  lady  after  her  marriage ;  not  only  had  it  received 
her,  but  it  had  vouched  for  her  respectability,  for  her  well-^ronducted 
youth,  for  her  almost  saint-like  virtues.  Cleric  and  layman,  rich  and 
poor,  all  had  vied  in  their  homage  to  the  countess  who  had  spent 
her  young  life  in  their  midst     The  College  and  the  Town  Hall  had 


Clytie.  375 

€ven  waxed  warm  together  in  their  praises  of  Miss  Waller.  They 
congratulated  the  noble  lord  on  his  great  good  fortune  in  marrying  a 
lady  of  such  distinguished  virtues ;  they  had  conducted  him  to  the 
Hermitage,  where  his  countess  had  lived  as  a  girl,  and  gone  generally 
mad  over  her.  AVhat,  then,  must  be  the  feelings  of  this  pious  and 
virtuous  city  on  reading  the  statutory  declaration  of  Philip  Ransford  ? 
Dunelm  immediately  remembered  a  score  of  suspicious  circumstances 
against  my  lady,  which  it  came  out  into  the  streets  to  magnify  and 
discuss  aloud  and  unabashed. 

Bow  Street  on  the  second  day  of  the  hearing  of  this  famous  case 
was  crowded  to  suffocation.  The  sun  when  it  illuminated  the 
windows  of  the  dingy  court  fell  upon  an  eager  and  excited  crowd. 
The  small  space  allotted  to  the  public  was  packed  with  men  and 
women  who  panted  with  heat  and  curiosity.  Every  available  seat 
and  box  about  the  table  set  apart  for  counsel  and  solicitors  was 
occupied.  Representatives  of  the  press  were  everywhere.  Two 
reporters  were  even  provided  with  seats  in  the  dock,  which  must 
have  been  rather  a  comfort  to  the  prisoner,  who  was  thus  made 
a  trifle  less  conspicuous  than  on  the  first  day.  Lord  Bolsover  and 
Lord  Tamar  had  seats  upon  the  Bench.  Hugh  Kalmat,  the  new  poet, 
our  Tom  Mayfield  of  the  cathedral  city,  was  packed  hard  and  fast 
among  the  crowd  in  the  body  of  tlie  court.  He  had  as  yet  presented 
none  of  his  letters  of  introduction,  and  he  had  resolved  not  to 
announce  his  "arrival  to  a  soul ;  he  could  thus  watch  this  extra- 
ordinary case  unknown,  and  possibly  make  himself  useful. 

The  Dean  of  Dunelm  was  the  first  \\'itness  called  up  on  tlie  second 
day.  He  said  he  had  known  Lord  and  Lady  St.  Barnard  for  many 
years.  He  knew  her  ladyship  as  a  girl  when  she  resided  at  Dunelm 
with  her  mother's  father,  Mr.  Luke  Waller.  He  had  every  reason  to 
believe  that  the  late  earl  under  whose  protection  Mary  Waller  had 
lived  was  her  grandfather.  His  lordship's  son,  the  Hon.  Frank  St. 
Barnard,  eloped  from  London  with  a  Miss  Pitt,  and  married  her,  he 
believed,  at  Boulogne,  and  the  issue  of  that  union  was  the  Miss 
Waller  of  Dunelm.  He  had  always  understood  that  the  young  lady 
was  well  conducted  and  in  every  way  respectable,  and  from  the 
knowledge  of  her  ladyship  before  and  since  her  marriage  he  could 
only  regard  the  charges  brought  against  her  as  false  and  libellous. 

Mr.  Cuffing :  Can  you  offer  to  the  Court  any  proof  of  Miss  Pitt's 
marriage  with  the  Hon.  Frank  St.  Barnard  ? 

The  Dean  :  I  am  sorry  to  say  I  cannot. 

Mr.  Cuffing :  Do  you  know  if  an  effort  has  been  made  to  establish 
this  marriage  by  inquiries  at  Boulogne  ? 


376  The  Gentlemaris  Magazine. 

The  Dean  :  I  do  not  of  my  o\vn  knowledge. 

Mr.  Cuffing :  Do  you  know  why  Miss  Waller  ran  away  from  her 
grandfather's  house  at  Dunelm  ? 

The  Dean  :  I  heard  that 

Mr.  Holland,  interrupting  the  witness :  You  need  not  say  what  you 
heard,  Mr.  Dean.  Answer  only  as  to  what  you  know  of  your  own 
knowledge. 

Mr.  Cuffing  :  Now,  Mr.  Dean,  after  this  caution  of  my  learned 
friend,  be  good  enough  to  answer  my  question.  •  Do  you  know  why 
Miss  Waller  ran  away  from  her  home  at  Dunelm  ? 

The  Dean  :  I  do  not. 

Mr.  Cuffing :  Was  not  the  fact  of  her  levanting  a  subject  of  scan- 
dal in  Dunelm  ? 

The  Dean  :  It  was  talked  of  no  doubt. 

Mr.  Cuffing  :  Was  it  not  a  notorious  scandal  in  the  city  ? 

The  Dean  :  No. 

Mr.  Cuffing  :  Was  there  not  a  paragraph  about  it  in  the  local  paper  ? 

The  Dean  :    I  did  not  see  any  mention  of  it  by  the  press. 

Mr.  Cuffing :   Did  you  know  Mr.  Tom  Mayfield  ? 

The  Dean :  I  did.     He  was  a  student  at  the  University. 

Mr.  Cuffing :  Did  he  not  suddenly  disappear  on  the  same  day  as 
Miss  Waller  ? 

The  Dean  :  I  believe  he  did. 

Mr.  Cuffing  :  And  has  he  since  returned  to  Dunelm  ? 

The  Dean  :  I  believe  not. 

Mr.  Cuffing  :  Did  you  hear  of  a  fight  between  Mr.  Mayfield  and 
Mr.  Ransford  on  the  night  prior  to  Miss  Waller's  running  away  to 
London  ? 

The  Dean  :  Yes. 

Mr.  Cuffing :  It  was  the  talk  of  the  city  ? 

The  Dean  :  I  cannot  say. 

Mr.  Cuffing :  Perhaps  your  reverence  does  not  know  what  they 
talk  about  in  the  city.  Was  it  a  subject  of  conversation  in  the 
College  precincts. 

The  Dean  :  It  was. 

Mr.  Cuffing :  Did  you  ever  visit  Lady  St  Barnard  before  her 
marriage  at  Gloucester  Road  ? 

The  Dean  :  I  did  not. 

Mr.  Cuffing :  Though  you  knew  her  at  Dunelm,  and  sometimes 
called  on  her  grandfather,  and  though  you  believed  her  to  be  the  late 
Lord  St  Barnard's  grand-daughter,  you  never  visited  her  while  she 
w'as  living  under  his  lordship's  protection  at  Gloucester  Gate  ? 


C lytic.  2>17 

The  Dean  :  That  is  so. 

Mr.  Cuffing  :  You  were  at  College  with  the  late  Lord  St.  Barhard, 
I  believe? 

The  Dean  :  I  was. 

Mr.  Cuffing :  And  knew  him  intimately  ? 

The  Dean :  Yes. 

Mr.  Cuffing :  Were  you  in  the  habit  of  visiting  him  when  he  was 
part  proprietor  of  the  Delphos  Theatre  ? 

The  Dean  :  I  did  not  know  that  he  was  interested  in  the  Delphos 
Theatre. 

^Mr.  Cuffing :  Very  well.  One  more  question,  Mr.  Dean,  and  I 
have  done.  Did  the  late  lord  tell  you  that  his  son  married  Miss 
Pitt? 

The  Dean  :  No ;  but  he  always  thought  that  I  suspected  there  was 
a  marriage. 

Mr.  Cuffing :  How  do  you  know  he  thought  so  ? 

Tlie  Dean  :  By  the  manner  in  which  he  spoke  of  the  affair,  and 
by  his  anxiety  about  the  welfare  of  the  child.  I  sometimes  think 
now  that  his  lordship  had  the  proofs. 

Mr.  Cuffing :  Do  I  understand  you,  Mr.  Dean,  to  insinuate  that 
the  late  Lord  St.  Barnard,  your  College  friend,  for  whom  you  enter- 
tained so  deep  a  regard,  and  whose  memory  you  respect  now — do  I 
understand  you,  sir,  that  you  wish  the  Court  to  infer  that  his  lordship 
destroyed  those  proofs,  and  left  his  grandchild  to  her  own  resources, 
and  to  remain  under  the  blight  of  illegitimacy  ? 

The  Dean  :  I  leave  the  Court  to  its  own  inferences,  sir.  I  believe 
the  late  lord  knew  she  was  his  legitimate  grandchild. 

Mr.  Cuffing  :  Did  you  ever  say  so  to  his  lordship  ? 

The  Dean :  No. 

Mr.  Cuffing  :  Nor  to  Mr.  Waller  or  her  ladyship  ? 

The  Dean  :  I  said  so  yesterday  to  her  ladyship. 

Mr.  Cuffing  :  For  the  first  time  yesterday? 

The  Dean  :  Yes. 

Lord  St.  Barnard,  who  had  been  accommodated  with  a  seat  on  the 
Bench,  now  stepped  down  and  took  up  his  position  in  the  witness 
box  just  vacated  by  the  white-headed  Dean,  who  returned  to  his 
place  near  the  magistrate. 

There  was  a  murmur  of  satisfied  curiosity  when  the  noble  lord 
was  sworn.  The  poet  of  the  desert  and  the  mountain  fixed  his 
great  eloquent  eyes  upon  his  lordship  and  examined  him  closely,  and 
seemed  satisfied  with  the  scrutiny,  as  well  he  might,  if  no  jealous 
feelings  interfered  with  his  judgment.    The  earl  had  a  truly  noble 


378  The  Gentlajtans  Magazvte. 

and  manly  presence,  a  striking  contrast  to  the  hulking  crime-seared 
look  of  the  prisoner  at  the  bar,  who,  on  the  application  of  hi& 
solicitor,  had  been  allowed  a  seat,  and  who  looked  every  now  and 
then  half  ashamed  of  his  position.  Tom  Ma}'field  could  only  see 
the  prisoner's  side  face,  but  this  was  quite  enough  to  excite  all  the 
old  animosity.  His  wild  life  among  wild  men  >\'as  not  calculated  la 
make  him  a  patient  spectator  in  a  court  of  justice ;  but  his  deep 
interest  in  the  case,  the  tremendous  issues  raised,  so  far  as  the 
happiness  and  reputation  of  his  old  love  were  concerned,  kept  him 
quiet  among  the  throng. 

Lord  St.  Barnard,  examined  by  Mr.  Holland,  after  describing  his 
titles,  &c.,  said  he  first  met  Miss  Waller  at  a  reception  given  by  the 
wife  of  the  Prime  Minister.  He  was  introduced  to  her  by  Lady 
Stavely.  He  felt  a  sudden  interest  in  Miss  Waller,  and  during  the 
evening  made  incjuiries  about  her.     Lady  Stavely  informed  him 

Mr.  C'uflmg  rose  on  a  point  of  order.  Would  Lady  Stavely  be 
called  ? 

Mr.  Holland  :  She  will,  and  you  will  have  an  opportunity  of  cross- 
examining  her  ladyship. 

Lord  St.  Barnard  continued :  Lady  Stavely  informed  me  that 
^liss  Waller  was  a  lady  from  Dunelm,  where  her  grandfather,  an 
eccentric  gentleman,  had  been  the  organist  of  St.  Bride's.  Miss 
Waller,  she  told  me,  was  received  in  the  best  society,  and  I  after- 
wards met  her  frequently  at  I.ady  Stavely's  house,  at  Lady  Bolsover^s,. 
and  at  some  of  the  most  distinguished  receptions.  ^A^len  I  had 
known  her  lliree  months  I  proposed  for  her,  and  was  rejected. 
Miss  A\'allcr's  reason  for  refusing  me  was  that  she  did  not  think  it 
wise  for  a  lady  to  marry  so  far  above  her  position  ;  and  on  a  second 
occasion  she  supplemented  this  reason  with  another :  that  her  girl- 
hood had  been  unhappy,  and  that  in  consequence  of  this  she  had 
run  away  from  home,  and  had  endeavoured  to  obtain  a  livelihood  on 
the  stage,  and  this  explanation  led  to  her  giving  me  her  entire  history. 
The  wliole  of  the  circumstances  struck  me  as  strangely  romantic, 
and  made  a  deep  impression  upon  me,  the  more  so  that  she  cleared 
up  what  had  been  to  me  a  myster}*.  When  I  succeeded  the  late  earl,. 
I  found  the  Dunelm  estate  settled  in  the  names  of  trustees  for  the 
benefit  of  a  Miss  Pitt,  in  whose  welfare,  since  she  was  an  infant,  the 
earl  had  taken  a  deep  interest.  The  trust  set  forth  that  he  had 
known  her  grandfather  well,  and  had  a  great  esteem  for  him,  and 
that  he  had  ahva}'s  promised  to  take  care  of  the  child  and  provide 
for  her,  which  promise  he  had  liberally  fulfilled.  The  revenue  of  the 
Dunelm  estate  had  been  regularly  paid  by  the  trustees,  and  I  was 


Clytie.  379 

enjoined  by  the  late  earl,  in  a  special  letter  left  to  be  opened  at  his 
death,  not  to  make  any  inquiries  into  the  matter,  but  to  rest  content 
with  the  position  as  I  found  it      This  I   scrupulously  observed. 
When,  however.  Miss  Waller  told  me  that  her  income  involved  a 
curious  mystery,  which  might  lead  to  unpleasant  revelations  as  to  her 
family  and  origin,  and  that  she  was  the  daughter  of  an  actress  named 
Pitt,  I  felt  that  I  should  be  committing  no  impropriety,  and  be  in  no- 
way outraging  the  late  earl's  confidence,  if  I  asked  one  or  two  simple 
questions.     I  accordingly  found  from  the  trustees  and  Miss  Waller 
that  she  was  the  lady  who  received  the  Dunelm  money ;  that  her 
grandfather  and  my  late  uncle  were  on  intimate  terms  of  friendship  ; 
that  the  late  earl  had  made  this  lady  his  protegtc  from  her  birth ;  and 
on  consulting  the  Dean  of  Dunelm  I  >Vas  convinced  that  there  was- 
no  impropriety  in  any  way  as  to  my  proposed  marriage.     I  therefore 
renewed  my  suit,  and  was  accepted     This  was  about  two  years  after 
the  late  earl's  death.     My  wife  has  since  told  me  that  she  believes, 
the  late  earl  was  her  legitimate  grandfather.     His  son,  the  late  Hon. 
Frank  St.  Barnard,  was  the  gentieman  who  eloped  with  her  mother, 
and  she  believes  they  were  married  at  Boulogne.     We  have  not  given' 
up  the  hope  of  being  enabled  fully  to  establish  this  marriage,  which 
the  late  earl  did  not,  we  think,    desire  to  acknowledge  for  family 
reasons.     'We  were  married  at  St.  George's,  Hanover  Square,  in  the 
presence  of  numerous  witnesses,  and  we  spent  the  honeymoon  in 
Italy.     We  returned  to  Grassnook,  and  among  the  cards  left  there 
was  one  of  the  prisoner's,  whom  we  afterwards  met  at  the  Botanical 
Ciardens.     Lady  St.  Barnard  introduced  him,  and  he  congratulated 
us  upon  our  marriage,  spoke  of  the  late  earl  and  also  of  the  Dean 
of  Dunelm  as  his  friends,  referred  to  his  College  career  at  Oxford, 
and  appeared  to  be  a  gentleman.     I  have  lived  and  still  live  happily 
with  Lady  St.  Barnard ;   we  have  two  children  ;   her  ladyship  has  in 
ever)'  way  proved  a  most  estimable  lady,  a  true  wife,  an  affectionate 
mother.   I  saw  nothing  of  the  prisoner  from  the  day  I  met  him  in  the 
Botanical  Gardens  until  about  a  year  ago,  when  her  ladyship  drew 
my  attention  to  him  in  the  park,  and  once  since,  when  he  called  to 
see   her    ladyship  on   some   Dunelm   business,   and  remained    to 
luncheon.     I  was  then  staying  with  my  ^nfe  for  a  few  day  sat  the 
Westminster  Palace  Hotel.     The  prisoner  called  two  days  after  the 
luncheon  and  asked  to  see  me.     He  demanded  a  hundred  pounds 
from  me   for    some   account    which   I   did  not   understand,  and 
on  my  refusing  to  pay  it,  said  he  would  expose  my  wife,  who  had 
misconducted  herself  before  her  marriage.     I  took  him  by  the  collar, 
kicked  him  into  the  passage— (applause  in  court) — and  threatened  to 


o 


80  The  Gmtlemaiis  Magazhu. 


have  him  locked  up.  He  went  away  quietly  and  no  scandal  arose, 
there  bemg  no  waiters  about  at  the  time.  Last  week  I  received  the 
statutory  declaration  which  has  been  read,  and  an  intimation  firom 
the  Lord  Chamberlain  that  Lady  St.  Barnard  must  not  appear  again 
^t  Court  until  the  matter  is  cleared  up.  I  at  once  communicated 
with  the  police,  and  gave  instnictions  for  the  arrest  and  prosecution 
of  the  defendant.  I  solemnly  on  my  oath  say  that  his  statements 
are  false  and  malicious. 

The  Magistrate :  Do  I  understand  you  to  say  that  you  knew 
nothing  of  Miss  Julia  Pitt  until  you  found  that  Miss  Waller  was,  in 
fact,  one  and  the  same  person  ? 

Prosecutor:  Yes. 

Cross-examined  by  Mr.  Cuffing :  Before  renewing  my  third  offer  of 
marriage  I  did  think  Miss  Waller's  statements  worthy  of  some  in- 
quiries. She  did  not  tell  me  at  that  time  that  Philip  Ransford 
climbed  into  the  summer  house  in  her  grandfather's  garden  and 
remained  with  her  for  some  time,  while  her  grandfather  was  dining 
with  the  Dean,  and  that  her  grandfather  dragged  her  into  the  house 
and  called  her  opprobrious  names.  She  has  since  told  me  this,  and 
that  the  injustice  of  her  grandfather's  treatment  on  that  and  another 
occasion  caused  her  to  leave  home.  The  other  reason  was  the  sus- 
picion that  she  intended  to  elope  with  the  defendant,  who  most  un- 
justifiably sent  her  by  letter  a  proposition  of  this  kind,  presuming 
upon  the  unhappy  life  she  led  with  her  grandfather. 

Mr.  Holland  ventured  to  suggest  that  this  line  of  cross-examination 
was  not  in  order.  He  should  call  Lady  St.  Barnard  herself,  and  Mr. 
Cuffing  could  get  the  information  he  sought  direct. 

The  magistrate  said  it  was  more  a  question  of  good  taste,  he 
thought,  than  legal  custom. 

Mr.  Cuffing  said  he  had  nothing  to  do  with  taste,  good  or  bad  :  he 
had  simply  a  duty  to  perform  in  the  interest  of  his  client,  and  he 
sliould  beg  to  be  allowed  to  conduct  his  case  in  his  own  way. 

Cross-examination  continued :  Lady  St.  Barnard  did  not  mention 
to  nie  at  the  time  the  defendant's  application  for  money.  I  sup]x>se 
she  did  not  wish  to  give  me  pain  or  annoyance.  She  had  her  own 
banking  account,  and  was  in  the  habit  of  seeing  her  own  solicitor. 
There  was  nothing  strange  in  that  She  was  very  liberal  in  her  gifts, 
had  endowed  several  schools,  and  had  occasion  to  take  legal  advice 
on  these  and  other  matters.  It  was  four  years  after  my  maniage 
when  the  defendant  called  on  me  at  the  Westminster  Palace  Hotel. 
I  did  not  give  him  into  custody,  because  I  did  not  think  it  worth 
while.     I  soiled  my  fingers  and  boot  by  putting  him  out  of  the  room 


Clytie.  3S I 

.  because  I  was  very  angry.  I  did  not  give  him  into  custody  probably 
on  account  of  my  desire  not  to  create  a  scandal.  I  did  not  mention 
the  circumstance  to  my  wife,  who  was  out  at  the  time.  I  did  not 
visit  Lady  St.  Barnard  at  her  house  at  Gloucester  Gate  regularly  before 
our  marriage.     I  called  there  perhaps  twice. 

Mr.  Cuffing :  Did  you  stay  all  night  ? 

Prosecutor  (addressing  the  Bench)  :  I  appeal  to  your  Worship  for 
protection  against  this  insult. 

Mr.  Holland  rose  indignantly. 

The  Magistrate  :  I  regret  that  I  cannot  interfere.  The  law  gives  to 
counsel  and  attorneys  great  privileges.  The  Bench  can  only  express 
its  regret  that  those  privileges  are  sometimes  abused. 

Mr.  Cuffing  (addressing  Lord  St.  Barnard) :  Did  you  stay  all 
night  ? 

Prosecutor  :  I  did  not 

Re-examined  by  Mr.  Holland :  Miss  Waller  had  a  comfortable 
establishment  at  Gloucester  Gate,  so  far  as  I  could  see;  housekeeper 
and  male  and  female  servants.  There  were  visitors  in  the  house  on 
both  occasions  when  I  was  there,  and  Lady  Stavely,  Lady  Bolsover, 
and  their  lordships,  Lord  Stavely  and  Lord  Bolsover,  were  frequent 
visitors.  Miss  Waller's  position  in  society  was  exceptionally  high, 
her  personal  attractions,  her  amiability,  her  benevolence,  and  her  ac- 
complishments making  her  peculiarly  acceptable.  Since  our  marriage 
she  has  maintained  the  dignity  of  her  position  with  a  special  grace, 
and  no  lady  could  be  more  shamefully  maligned  than  is  Lady  St. 
Barnard  by  that  scoundrel  and  his  confederate.     (Applause.) 

Lord  St.  Barnard  for  a  moment  lost  his  temper. 

Mr.  Cuffing  rose  indignandy  and  demanded  that  the  prosecutor 
should  withdraw  the  offensive  remark  with  reference  to  himself. 

His  lordship  declined  to  withdraw  anything,  and  there  was  a  burst 
of  applause  in  court,  not  because  the  spectators  hoped  Lady  SL  Bar- 
nard would  come  off  victoriously,  but  simply  that  they  admired  his 
lordship's  pluck,  and  acted  upon  their  British  impulse,  which  is  to 
sympathise  with  courage  in  any  shape. 

The  Bench  thought  this  a  good  opportunity  for  adjournment  and 
said  so,  whereupon  Mr.  Cuffing,  not  thinking  it  worth  while  to  inter- 
fere with  Lord  St.  Barnard  any  further  just  then,  applied  that  the 
adjournment  should  be  for  a  week.  This,  he  said,  was  necessary  to 
enable  his  client  to  communicate  with  his  witnesses.  Mr.  Holland 
did  not  oppose  the  application,  and  the  prisoner  being  still  unable  to 
find  bail,  he  was  removed  in  custody  and  the  Court  broke  up. 

(To  he  continued.) 
Vol..  XI.,  N.S.  1873.  c  c 


Getting  Back  to  Town. 

BY  THE  REV.  F.  ARNOLD. 

3^^^(?  ETTING  back  to  town  of  course  implies  getting  away 
iS^n^^Gi     from  town.     I  am  always  glad  to  get  away,  and  alwa^'s 
y^  glad  to  get  back  again.     The  intensity  of  either  glad- 
iL  ness  is  in  proportion  to  the  extent  of  furlough.     Many 
persons  are  only  in  London  for  the  season,  and  many  compress  the 
season  within  very  narrow  limits.    It  was  one  of  the  bad  signs  of  the 
Second  Empire,  that  the  expense  and  extravagance  of  Paris  were  so 
great  that  old  families  from  the  country  narrowed  their  season  visit  to  a 
month  or  two  or  even  to  a  few  weeks.   There  are  those  who  increasingly 
make  only  a  piet/  d  tcrre  in  town,  and  limit  the  season  to  May  and 
June.     People  who  do  the  real  work  of  London,  to  whom  London 
means  work  more  than  fashion  or    pleasure  or  anything  else,  are 
never  away  from   it   long.     I   passed   through,  as  people   say,  in 
September,  on  my  way  from  the  south  coast  to  the  north  coast.     I 
found  that  it  was  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  London  was  for  the  time 
being  obliterated   from   the   mass  of  creation.      On  the  contrary, 
September  in  London  struck  me  as  being  a  remarkably  pleasant  month. 
Only  there  was  a  frightful  vacancy  everywhere.     The  editors  were 
all  gone  away,  and  the  sub-editors  manufactured  the  opinions  of  the 
nation.     The  abbey  and  cathedral  dignitaries  were  gone,  all  except 
melancholy  canons  in  residence.     A  wide  solitude  reigned  in  the 
clubs,  grass  in  Belgrave  Square,  perambulators  in  Rotten  Row  at  seven 
in  the  evening,  cloistral  calm  in  Westminster  Hall ;  there  were  long 
^A'est  End  streets  where  it  was  a  scientific  investigation  to  detect  any 
signs  of  life.    Servants  did  as  you  asked  them,  but  in  a  languid  way  and 
v'ith  an  obvious  sense  of  injury.     Your  coming  to  the  huge  lonely 
Lull  don   house  was   for  a  moment  like   the   coming  of  the  fairy 
prince ;  but  it  was  a  false  alarm,  your  traps  were  unopened  in  the 
hall,  and  once  more  the  page  dosed,  the  maid  servant  stood  still, 
the  butler  raised  the  surreptitious  cup,  the  mansion  fell  asleep,  if  not 
for  a  hundred  years,  for  nearly  a  hundred  days.     I  turned  and  fled  ; 
left  London  for  a  well-earned  holiday. 

But  what  a  talismanic  charm  there  is  in  London  !  She  can  always 
lure  back  the  farthest  of  vagrant  birds.  As  a  man  climbs  the 
Matterhorn,  or  runs  along  the  Pacific  railways,  or  investigates  the 


Getting  Back  to  Town.  383 

peculiar  institutions  of  Utah,  or  flirts  with  negresses  in  the  South 

Sea  Islands,  or  pursues  game  in  Norway,  or  gets  up  Indian  statistics 

on   the   Neilgherries,  or  sketches    among  the  ruins  of  Chicago,  or 

speculates    in  the    streets  of  Melbourne,  or    buries  himself  in  the 

bowery  loveliness  of  Clovelly — I  am  simply  running  over  some  of 

the  Vocation  pursuits  of  some  of  our  camaraderie — he  has  merely  the 

fancied  liberty  of  a  kite  soaring  or  playing  in  mid  air,  and  London 

holds  the  string  that  will  draw  back  the  truant  at  its  will.     There 

is  a  passage  in  Ammianus   Marcellinus  with    which    I   am   always 

amused.     He  speaks  of  a  town  called  London  by  the  ancients  and 

now  known  as  Augusta.     But  the  old  Keltic  London  remains  in  name 

as  before  Caesar's  legionaries  penetrated  the  forests  that  outlay  the 

broad   lagoons  of  the   river.     Those  Latin  acdiles  little  knew   the 

tremendous    vitality  with  which  they  had  to  deal,  and  which  they 

vainly  endeavoured  to  manipulate  by  giving  new  names.     With  that 

same  tremendous  vitality,  that  same  centripetal  force,  London  erects 

her  empire  upon  every  heart  and  brain  worth  recognising  as  such.    I 

strove  to  withstand  the  spell,  to  break  the  rod  and  read  the  words 

backward.     I  would  not  believe  that  the  last  rose  of  summer  was  the 

last ;  1  sought  to  see  other  buds  upon  the  branch.     It  required  a 

sharp  touch  of  vindictive  autumn  to  convmce  me  that  the  days  of 

fishing  and  excursions  and  out-door  amusements  were  really  over.  So 

we  get  back  to  town.     It  was  broad  summer  sunshine  when  I  last 

left  London  ;  the  dull  streets  were  drowned  in  the  glaring  sunlight; 

but  I  come  back  now  to  new  conditions  of  things.     The  air  is  frosty, 

the  blue  mist  creeps  on,  the  crowd  is  broader  and  busier,  everywhere 

is  keenness,  alertness,  concentration.     I  could  almost  fancy  a  crack 

of  the  whip,  as  if  taskmasters  were  impelling  the  hurrying  myriads  to 

toil.  I  accept  the  position,  I  bend  my  back  to  the  burden,  mount  my 

staircase,  and  subside  into  winter  quarters. 

This  is  the  first  aspect  of  getting  back  to  town.     It  is  getting  back 

to  work  and  worry  and  responsibilities.     For  a  time  we  dally  with 

our  work.     We  do  not  settle  to  it  at  once.     We  bethink  ourselves  of 

a  great  variety  of  things  which  we  might  as  well  do  before  we  can 

really  work  with  comfort.     But  the  real  thing  is,  that  we  want  to  put 

off  the  cruel  moment  of  really  working.     My  eye  alights  upon  words 

written   by   one   of  our  weekly   monitors,   perhaps  by   some  great 

l)hilosopher,  or  possibly  by  some  conscience-stricken  writer  like  myself: 

"Nobody  can  be  said  to  have  worked  hard  who  has  not  used  his 

powers  to  the  best  purpose  allowed  him  by  circumstances ;  who  has 

substituted   an   easy   task   for   the   harder  one  that  demanded  his 

energies.     We  are  none  of  us  so  disposed  to  be  busy  on  a  relatively 

c  c  2 


384  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

easy  task  as  when  what  is  really  laborious  claims  us.  Then  is  the  time 
to  write  the  letters  that  have  been  long  on  hand,  to  set  accumulated  or 
tangled  disorder  straight,  to  dig  and  delve,  to  read  up  the  news  in 
which  we  are  behind  hand,  to  look  into  our  accounts — all  things 
that  ought  to  be  done.  But  the  real  duty  lurks  in  ambush  the 
while,  depriving  our  labour  of  all  sense  of  merit  and  satisfaction  ;  we 
have  been  fussy,  busy,  strenuous  even;  but  we  have  not  worked  in 
the  true  sense  of  the  word,  for  we  have  been  shirking.  True  work  is 
efi'ort  and  tension  in  the  business  which  has  the  priority  of  claim. 
With  most  men  this  first  claim  is  simply  the  means  of  subsistence 
for  themselves  and  those  dependent  on  them."  This  is  the  first  and 
most  practical  as[)ect  of  things.  And  there  is  no  leisure  or  relaxation 
so  sweet  as  tliat  which  is  earned  after  strenuous  work.  And  work 
itself  brings  the  sense  of  peace  and  the  sense  of  power.  In  looking 
over  Mr.  Forster's  Life  of  Dickens  one  learns  to  do  justice  to  the 
intense  sense  of  work  and  literary  duty  "  which  the  most  popular 
novelist  of  the  century  and  one  of  the  greatest  humourists  that  Eng- 
land ever  produced  " — thus  Mr.  Forster  sums  him  up — uniformly 
possessed.  The  first  thing  that  he  did  when  he  got  to  a  house,  if  it 
was  only  for  one  or  two  weeks,  was  to  arrange  things  in  his  room 
according  to  his  liking,  and  to  put  his  writing  desk  ready.  He  never 
seemed  to  care  to  how  much  work  he  i)ledged  himself;  and  lii.s 
pledges  were  faithfully  redeemed.  Many  of  his  finest  things  were 
not  thrown  off  si)ontaneously,  but  elaborated  in  the  course  of  self- 
imposed  drudgery.  It  is  this  sense  of  the  necessity  and  even 
of  the  blesseilness  of  hard  work  that  one  gets  very  forcibly  on  getting 
back  to  town.  One  becomes  almost  overwhelmed  with  the  im- 
l)ortan(  e  of  the  working  hours  of  the  day.  It  is  not  so  in  the 
country  and  in  the  holidays.  I  suspect  that  our  sense  of  immor- 
tality is  fuller  and  truer  at  such  seasons.  Why  should  we  be  in 
such  a  hurry  about  things  when  all  eternity  lies  before  us?  I  really 
believe  that  this  is  one  of  the  reasons  of  what  we  sagely  call  the  waste 
uf  time  by  children  and  young  girls.  Life  is  to  them  a  blissful, 
illiniitiible  icon,  without  any  sense  of  narrowness  and  limitation.  As 
we  lie  on  the  emerald  gra^s  beneath  the  sapphire  skies,  we  have  some- 
thing of  this  feeling.  l>ut  when  we  get  back  to  town  we  jealously 
l)ortion  life  off  into  weeks  and  days  and  hours  and  minutes,  and  each 
l>recious  fraction  has  its  value,  for  one  is  obliged  to  work ;  but  to  all 
true  workers  London  has  plenty  of  pleasant  compensation  for  its 
laborious  hours. 

Every  man  about  town  has  his  ways  and  his  haunts.     One  of 
the  pleasures  of  getting  back  to  town  is  to  meet  the  old  faces  and  to 


Get  tin fr  Back  to  Town.  385 

gather  up  the  threads  of  old  incidents.  You  know  a  certain  stair- 
case in  the  Temple,  which  you  rapidly  ascend,  and  you  hear  the 
humming  of  voices  before,  with  old  familiarity,  you  thunder  at  the 
oak.  You  fall  upon  a  knot  of  barristers,  who  are  probably  discussing 
some  of  the  cross-examinations  in  the  Tichborne  case,  or  the  con- 
duct of  the  defence  by  S.  Kenealy.  They  greet  you  as  the  latest 
importation.  The  law  gossip  is  dropped  for  personal  gossip.  The 
man  in  whose  rooms  you  are  has  brought  back  an  armful  of  photo- 
graphs from  Rome  and  Venice.  He  has  great  news  for  his  faithful 
Achates  and  dear  Cloanthus.  He  is  going  to  be  married  by-and- 
by.  "  Met  them  on  the  Lago  di  Garda,  old  fellow.  They  stayed 
at  the  same  hotel  at  Desenzano.  Had  to  do  lots  of  boating  with  them, 
and  go  up  the  mountains  and  explore  Verona,  and  the  little  arrange- 
ment came  off  in  a  gondola  at  Venice."  Ah  !  I  understand  it  all.  I 
know  what  it  is  to  be  sojourning  at  Desenzano,  and  to  be  floating 
about  Venice.  "  They  come  back  to  town  very  soon,  old  fellow.  I 
am  to  eat  a  Christmas  dinner  with  them  at  Eaton  Place,  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing,  and  make  acquaintance  with  all  her  people.  You  must 
meet  them  one  of  these  evenings."  I  must  get  some  lunch.  There  is 
a  very  tidy  little  French  place  somewhere  in  the  Temple.  Then  there 
are  oysters  and  porter  at  Lynn's  or  Pym*s.  Or  a  mutton  chop, 
that  suits  this  cold  weather,  at  the  "  Cock,"  to  which  "  1  most 
resort,"  as  divine  Alfred  calls  it.  A  friend  of  mine  saw  "Alfred'' 
there  one  day,  and  Dickens  and  Thackeray  in  other  boxes.  These 
Temple  men  are  aristocratic  now,  and  have  their  clubs.  "  Sorry  I  can't 
ask  you  to  lunch  at  the  Reform,  old  fellow,"  says  Briefless,  "  but  we 
have  never  yet  been  able  to  carry  that  luncheon  question."  "  I'll  give 
you  some  lunch  at  the  Junior,"  says  Dunup.  But  I  am  not  going 
westwards  to  lunch.  Happily  I  am  not  yet  elected  a  member  of  the 
club  where  I  am  put  up.  Of  course  I  mean  the  great  club,  for 
any  of  the  swarm  of  little  clubs  does  not  signify.  I  do  not  think  I 
should  like  to  get  a  letter  from  the  secretary  of  the  Parthenon 
troubling  me  for  forty  pounds,  the  amount  of  my  entrance-money 
and  subscription.  I  should  be  like  young  Fitzakerly  the  other  day, 
who  was  frantically  rushing  about,  imploring  his  friends  to  black-ball 
him.  I  go  and  show  myself  at  places  where  men  do  show  themselves. 
One  of  the  pleasures  of  getting  back  to  town  is  to  look  at  people 
who  have  got  back  to  town.  If  you  get  into  the  way  of  going  to 
certain  places,  such  as  the  Law  Courts,  or  the  British  Museum,  or 
the  London  Library,  or  some  of  the  hostels,  you  get  hold  of  a  wide 
acquaintance  of  a  certain  sort :  you  know  a  lot  of  people  by  sight, 
by  name ;  you  exchange  inquiries  ;  you  talk  of  your  sum.iier  where- 


586  The  Gentle7)ia7i s  Magazine. 

abouts ;  you  are  gently  jocular  or  %himsical ;  but  you  never  get 
beyond  a  certain  point.  I  have  had  a  nodding  and  chatting 
acijuaintance  with  Jones  for  the  last  eleven  years.  He  was  originally 
a  stripling — speaking  of  the  time  when  I  first  knew  him — studying 
calf-bound  volumes  in  the  reading-room  of  the  British  Museum ;  I 
believe  he  is  now  a  flourishing  lawyer,  with  his  hand  in  some  half- 
dozen  public  undertakings.  About  three  years  ago  he  expressed  a 
hope  that  I  would  take  a  glass  of  wine  with  him  one  of  these  days. 
In  about  three  years'  time  we  shall  take  some  further  steps  towards 
the  accomplishment  of  that  transaction.  There  are  men  with  whom 
we  have  social  and  literary  converse  for  half  a  life  time,  and  yet 
know  nothing,  each  of  each,  of  one's  arcana  and  penetralia. 

All  professional  London  h^s  got  back  to  town,  though  the  fashion- 
ables linger.  I  will,  however,  back  the  professionals  against  the 
fashionables.  Look  at  those  lists  of  preachers  which,  by  a  queer 
fashion,  find  their  way  into  the  evening  papers  on  a  Saturday ;  you  will 
see  that  the  po[)ular  preachers  are  back  again.  They  went  and  they 
got  their  legal  three  months'  holiday,  while  their  curates  preached  to 
the  beadles  and  the  old  women  who  pocket  the  shillings  on  a  Sunday. 
Every  parson  is  entitled  by  law  to  his  three  months'  holiday,  with 
this  significant  proviso — //  he  can  get  it  The  great  physician  has 
got  back  to  his  abode  on  the  magic  south  side  of  Oxford  Street.  He 
has  had  to  investigate  the  new  Continental  medical  vagaries,  the 
grape  cure,  the  mountain  cure,  the  mud  cure,  and  so  on,  and  is  all 
the  better  for  his  mn  into  Germany  and  the  south  of  France.  Every- 
thing is  activity  and  bustle ;  you  are  active  and  bustling  yourself.  I  met 
Jones  just  now.  If  I  had  met  Jones  in  the  summer  season  I  should  have 
entreated  him  courteously  and  fixed  him  for  my  "  diggins,"  and  have 
thought  two  or  three  days  well  laid  out  in  amusing  him.  But  we 
can  only  allow  ourselves  a  nod,  a  minute  to  talk,  and  make  some 
indefinite  engagement  for  a  future  evening. 

Then  I  candidly  own  that  one  of  the  advantages  of  getting  back  to 
town  is  a  little  change  and  amusement.  I  like  the  ruralities  and  I 
cultivate  a  taste  for  solitude ;  but  I  Hke  the  Monday  Popular,  and  a 
Philharmonic,  and  an  oratorio,  and  an  opera.  It  is  a  kindly  welcome  that 
Mr.  Mapleson  gives  me  when  I  find  hat  we  have  a  season  of  winter 
operas.  I  know  nothing  more  luxurious  than  dropping  into  a  stall 
and  listening  dreamily  to  some  of  tlie  most  delicious  music  in 
the  world.  "The  opera,"  as  DeQuinceysaid,  "is  the  highest  outcome  o 
modern  civilisation."  M.  Taine  in  the  Temps  says  rather  queerly  that 
"  worship  is  the  opera  of  souls.''  The  winter  season  has  something  very 
interesting  for  me  in  watching  the  opening  career  of  some  young 


Getting  Back  to  Town.  387 

debutante  who  would  perhaps  nardly  have  a  chance  in  the  full  season. 
I  shall  make  a  point  of  being  good-natured,  and  shall  take  bouquets 
with  me  to  encourage  the  new  songstress.  I  believe  I  ought  to 
have  been  at  the  Literary,  or  the  Geographical,  or  the  Numismatic, 
or  something  of  that  sort ;  but  the  great  charm  and  consolation  of 
getting  back  to  town,  the  compensation  for  all  that  we  have  lost  with 
the  vanished  summer,  is  the  exquisite  delight  of  music,  for  which 
London  now  beats  all  the  capitals  of  the  world. 

The  inimitable  Barber  has  made  his  last  grimace  and  sung  his  last 
note.  I  have  got  back  to  town  and  I  want  to  certify  myself  of  it  by 
moving  about  in  old  scenes.  There  are  other  places  whither  I  might 
go.  I  know  one  of  the  night  birds  of  London  who  towards  midnight 
begins  to  be  cheerful,  takes  tea,  and  is  happy  to  see  any  of  his  friends 
any  time  till  daylight.  But  he  lives  far  away  to  the  west,  and  I  only 
wonder  that  he  is  able  to  keep  any  servants,  but  I  suppose  his  man 
has  carte  blanche  to  lie  as  late  as  he  likes  in  the  morning.  Then  there  is  a 
certain  tavern  of  a  genuine  Johnsonian  character,  the  Mitre  or  Turk's 
Head  order,  where  some  dozen  literary  fellows,  an  important  section 
of  those  men  who  do  the  real  newspaper  work  of  London,  will  take 
their  modest  repast  and  give  you  some  of  the  pleasantest  talk  worth 
hearing.  If  it  is  a  Friday  night  we  shall  have  some  of  the  men  on  the 
**  weeklies"  besides  those  on  the  "dailies."  You  will  find  here  some  fine 
old  specimens  of  the  Captain  Shand  tribes,  which  are  now  becoming 
quite  as  scarce  as  the  Megatherium;  or  I  know  a  club,  which  we  will  call 
the  Sybarites,  where  at  this  hourof  the  evening  a  certain  set  are  habitually 
to  be  found,  who  will  give  a  welcome  to  the  absentee  and  have  much 
to  tell  him  concerning  the  days  of  the  Vacation.  I  dare  say  I  shall  get 
tired  of  all  these  haunts  before  I  have  been  in  harness  long,  but  there 
i^  a  certain  pi(|uancy  in  getting  back  to  them  after  many  days.  There 
is  certainly  every  facility  for  a  man  keeping  late  hours  in  London,  and 
you  must  not  mind  doing  so  if  you  want  a  cosmopolitan  philosophy. 

As  I  move  along  Oxford  Street  and  descend  Regent  Street  I 
meet  with  some  of  my  fair  friends  who  have  come  back  to  town. 
The  Burtons  remind  me  of  their  afternoon  tea  at  ^\^,  Handsome 
Mrs.  Burton  does  me  the  honour  to  consult  my  taste  in  the  choice  of 
a  hat,  and  as  her  house  is  very  near  the  Regent  Circus  I  may  as  well 
come  and  have  my  cup  of  tea  now.  Burton  is  a  great  bookworm, 
and  when  his  work  on  '*  The  Logic  of  the  Middle  Ages  "  makes  its 
appearance  it  is  expected  that  Mill  and  Lecky  will  definitively  shut 
up.  His  work  has  been  in  incubation  some  seventeen  years,  but  it 
would  be  a  mistake  to  suppose  it  is  a  myth.  Some  sheets  have  been 
printed  for  private  circulation,  and  Burton  is  only  bewildered  by  the 


388  The  Gentleman!s  Magazine. 

contradictory  opinions  of  candid  frielids.  I  am  afraid  that  pretty 
Mrs.  Burton  has  never  read  these  sheets,  but  she  has  a  knack  of 
getting  pretty  women  about  her,  and  intellectual  women  too.  Those 
sort  of  women  get  first  copies  of  every  new  book,  and  do  not  give  a 
fellow  any  chance  of  getting  credit  by  starting  a  new  notion.  Burton 
just  shows  himself  for  a  cup  of  tea,  and  goes  back  to  his  work ; 
lucky  thing  for  him  that  he  does  not  have  to  live  by  it.  Mrs. 
Burton  gives  me  to  understand,  of  course  indirectly,  that  he  was  a 
perfect  brute  when  they  were  at  Ilfracombe,  and  could  not  find  time 
to  take  her  any  drives.  It  appears  that  he  has  been  passing  many 
sleepless  nights  in  consequence  of  some  new  ideas  about  the  quan- 
tification of  the  predicate.  I  feel  pretty  certain,  however,  that 
Mrs.  Burton  did  not  dispense  with  her  drives,  and  that  she  found 
companions.  It  does  a  man  an  immense  deal  of  good,  especially  if 
he  has  been  grinding  all  day,  or  talking  with  rough  bearded  fellows, 
to  find  himself  in  a  pleasant  drawing-room  for  an  hour  among  nice 
and  clever  women.  It  has  been  truly  said  that  to  know  a  noble 
woman  is  in  itself  a  sort  of  liberal  education,  and  I  am  of  opinion 
that  it  is  a  kind  of  liberal  education  which  ought  to  be  kept  up 
assiduously.  I  talk  about  good  music,  and  though  it  is  only  four 
in  the  afternoon,  Mrs.  Burton  will  sing  me,  in  her  magnificent  con- 
tralto voice,  some  of  my  favourite  airs,  and  will  send  me  away  glad 
at  heart,  and  with  my  brain  ringing  with  sweet  sounds. 

I  must  call  on  the  Dormers,  because  I  know  they  are  going 
away  this  winter  on  account  of  poor  Alice  Dormer.  As  I  ascend  the 
staircase  I  hear  poor  Alice  cough,  that  kind  of  cough  which  I  least 
wish  to  hear.  You  would  hardly  think  that  pretty,  graceful,  and  by  no 
means  unhealthy-looking  girl  was  entering  on  the  second  stage  of  a 
decline,  and  that  you  might  sketch  out  her  downward  path  step  by 
step.  Mrsv  Dormer  explains  that  I  have  caught  them  on  the  wing. 
They  have  only  lately  returned  from  a  long  journey,  and  are  only 
resting  the  sole  of  the  foot  before  they  take  a  longer  flight  I  under- 
stand all  about  it.  On  account  of  Alice  they  generally  spend  the 
summer  in  the  north  of  Scotland,  and  the  winter  in  the  south  of  France. 
This  is  the  approved  climatic  treatment  in  such  cases.  A  few  weeks 
ago  she  was  in  the  Highlands,  and  this  year  on  the  second  day  after 
Christmas  Day  they  are  to  sail  for  Madeira.  I  humbly  think  that 
they  are  driving  it  rather  late.  But  the  spell  of  London  is  upon 
them ;  they  cannot  pass  through  without  lingering  for  a  few  weeks. 
It  is  just  the  way  of  English  people,  to  drive  things  too  late,  to  leave 
them  to  the  last.  It  is  too  late  in  the  summer  when  they  leave 
town,  and  too  late  in  the  autumn  when  they  leave  the  north.     We 


Getting  Back  to  Town.  389 


Hi 


save  our  trains  only  just  by  a  moment,  and  allow  the  fish  to  get 
spoilt  for  dinner.  We  call  in  the  doctor  too  late,  and  we  take  his 
prescriptions  too  late.  A  more  comprehensive  view  of  life,  and  a 
litde  earlier  marching  in  the  days  of  the  campaign,  and  we  should 
avoid  that  blundering  in  which  most  of  the  mistakes  of  life  consist. 
I  can  only  wish  Alice  good  morning  and  good  bye.  I  stay  for  the 
pleasant  easy  family  dinner  this  time,  but  with  sickness  in  the  house 
and  packing  for  a  voyage,  it  is  no  time  for  visitors.  How  odd  to 
think  that  while  I  am  pacing  the  stony-hearted  terraces  of  London, 
as  De  Quincey  called  them,  my  friends  will  be  on  the  seas,  passing 
onwards  from  zone  to  zone  of  watery  light  and  shade,  coming  to 
milder,  warmer  skies  and  airs,  and  like  Columbus  deciphering 
tokens  of  a  far-off  summer  land,  and  then  see  the  summer  land- 
scape by  the  glorious  sea  nestling  below  the  mighty  mountain.  I 
think  I  could  shape  off  all  these  bronchial  touches  if  I  could  only 
thus  eliminate  a  single  winter  of  my  wintry  life.    Like  our  poet — 

I  would  see  before  I  die 

The  palms  and  temples  of  the  south. 

I  am  forcibly  reminded  that  getting  back  to  London  is  getting  back 
to  catari-h  and  bronchitis.  One  of  our  greatest  physicians  once  told 
me  that  the  two  greatest  dangers  that  London  has  for  delicate 
chested  people — for  be  it  observed  that  London  after  all  is  a  warm 
city  even  in  the  coldest  times — are  the  rushings  of  bleak  air  through 
the  gullies  of  tall  streets,  and  the  damp  penetrating  mud  which  in 
the  course  of  a  long  walk  will  find  its  way  through  the  stoutest 
Wellington,  and  unfortunately  before  you  are  aware  of  it. 

If  I  get  back  to  London  other  people  get  back  too.  Of  this  I  am 
reminded  at  every  turn.  My  revered  Uncle  John  comes  up  to  the 
cattle  show.  I  have  to  fetch  and  carry  a  little  for  my  esteemed 
avuncular  relation  and  his  wife,  but  I  love  my  little  cousins.  There 
is  one  bright,  chubby  little  four-year-older  whom  I  really  think  I 
could  eat.  I  insert  a  spoon  below  his  chin,  and  ask  Mary  the  maid 
to  bring  in  pepper  and  salt.  He  opens  his  large  eyes  magnificentiy, 
and  with  an  air  of  perfect  resignation.  "  When  you  have  gobbled  me 
quite  all  up,  Cousin  Charles,  perhaps  you  will  be  satisfied."  I  enjoy 
the  children  much  better  than  I  do  the  cattle  show.  I  ask  the  eldest 
younker  often  to  come  and  have  some  dinner  with  me.  He  will 
regularly  work  his  way  through  the  menu  like  an  oldster,  and  is 
ready  for  either  cura^oa  or  cigarette.  He  talks  schoolboy  slang  to  me, 
and  treats  me  as  if  I  were  a  big  lad  in  the  next  removal.  I  think  it  the 
correct  sort  of  thing  to  take  him  to  Asdey's.     The  impassive  youth, 


3 go  The  Gentlema^is  Magazine. 

though  he  has  never  been  there  before,  will  exhibit  very  few  signs  of 
mental  disturbance.  He  thinks  he  has  heard  the  clown's  jokes 
before,  and  does  not  change  a  hair  when  a  whole  troop  of  wild 
horsemen  charge  up  the  hill  and  sack  the  tyrant's  castle  amid  a 
blaze  of  blue  lights.  Lads  like  these  have  certainly  lived  before- 
hand and  come  into  the  world  at  the  age  of  fifteen.  I  was  thinking 
of  going  home  by  the  bus,  but  he  hails  a  hansom.  There  is 
certainly  an  awful  want  of  to  oi^aa  about  these  youngsters.  When 
you  come  back  to  London  you  are  on  the  main  rails  of  life,  and 
are  brought  in  contact  with  all  sorts  of  people — all  your  relations  have 
claims  on  you.  It  is  one  of  the  conditions  of  getting  back  that  you 
are  put  en  rapport  with  all  kinds  of  interests.  A  soldier  on  a  field 
of  action,  when  all  are  fighting  around,  knows  he  must  fight  or  be 
shot  or  trampled  down,  and  if  it  be  worth  while  getting  back  to 
London  at  all,  you  must  do  in  London  as  the  Londoners  do. 


.  •v  •>»..->  --s  / 


Alger  s'Amuse. 

BY   EDWARD  HENRY   VIZETELLY. 

HE  Arab  has  none  of  our  civilised  amusements.  He 
has  no  alcoholic  dnnks  wherewith  to  intoxicate  him" 
self;  no  theatres  or  music  halls,  with  their  gorgeous 
ballets  and  prime  dotine^  their  comic  singers  and  won- 
derful acrobats  ;  no  dancing  saloons  where  toes  are  pointed  towards 
the  ceiling,  and  limbs  made  to  take  unnatural  positions  in  the  wild 
oscillations  of  a  can-can.  But  in  lieu  of  these  he  has  the  Moorish 
cafe,  which,  with  the  exception  of  his  home,  and  feasts  and  festivals 
given  to  celebrate  a  marriage  or  tlie  circumcision  of  a  child,  is  his 
only  diversion. 

Although  it  seems  evident  that  the  Moorish  caf^  was  introduced 
into  northern  Africa  during  the  Turkish  domination,  there  are  no 
cafes  in  Algiers  at  the  present  day  which  bear  any  resemblance  to 
those  in  Turkey.  In  Constantinople  and  its  neighbourhood,  for 
example,  they  are  generally  elegant  buildings,  erected  on  picturesque 
sites,  with  trees,  clusters  of  jasmine,  and  immense  vines  to  shade 
them  from  the  piercing  rays  of  the  sun.  In  the  interior  are  fountains 
spurting  forth  streams  of  perfumed  water  into  elegant  sculptured 
marble  basins,  surrounded  by  flowers,  while  along  the  sides  of  the 
room  and  in  the  centre  are  benches,  sofas,  and  divans  covered  with 
costly  Smyrna  carpets.  These  establishments  are  dear  to  the  Turks, 
who  are  the  only  people  who  really  understand  the  enjoyment  of 
what  is  termed  kief — a  Turkish  word  which  represents  an  indispen- 
sable feature  of  Oriental  life. 

Kief  means,  firstly,  to  do  nothing  more  fatiguing  than  to  lie  down 
upon  cushions  smoking  a  hookah  or  a  chibouck  filled  with  the  finest 
tobacco,  which  a  young  Arab  lights  with  a  piece  of  perfumed  tinder ; 
then  to  sip  coffee  drop  by  drop,  or  violet,  orange,  or  rose  sherbets, 
and  to  listen  to  that  peculiar  music  which,  although  dull  and  mono- 
tonous to  us  Europeans,  is  delicious  to  an  Oriental  ear.  Add  to  this 
a  beautiful  site,  which  is  indispensable,  a  warm  dtmosphere,  inspiring 
people  with  an  inclination  for  repose,  shady  trees,  and,  above  all, 
water — if  only  a  corner  of  the  Bosphorus  in  the  distance — and  you 
will  have  the  principal  elements  of  kief.  Previous  to  the  French  inva- 
sion it  is  likely  enough  that  the  inhabitants  of  Algiers  also  unde      ^ 


392  The  Gefitlema^is  Magazine. 

the  meaning  of  kicf^  but  at  the  present  day  their  conception  of  that 
j)lcasiire  dift'ers  widely  from  that  of  the  Turks.  In  Algiers  there  are  none 
of  those  hixurious  retreats  to  dose  away  the  hours  of  which  Turkey 
boasts.  The  poor  man's  idea  of  kief  is  grovelling  in  the  dust  of  a 
public  thoroughfare,  or  sleeping  enveloped  in  his  burnous  beneath 
a  clump  of  trees  ;  while,  although  the  well-to-do  Mussulman 
has  his  cafe,  one  looks  around  it  in  vain  for  the  marble  fountains 
with  perfumed  water  and  fragrant  flowers,  the  divans,  the  sofas,  and 
Smyrna  carpets — for  the  Moorish  cafe  has  none  of  these.  It  gene- 
rally consists  of  a  deep  shop,  having  a  broad  wooden  ledge — which 
is  placed  there  in  lieu  of  a  divan — standing  out  from  the  wall,  and 
extending  round  the  room.  At  the  end  is  a  brickwork  stove,  faced 
with  encaustic  tiles — very  similar  to  what  would  be  found  in  the 
kitchen  of  most  French  houses — in  which  four  or  five  fires  can  be 
lighted  at  once,  and  as  many  utensils  made  to  boil  at  the  same  time. 
The  walls  are  whitewashed  and  completely  bare,  with  the  exception 
of  a  couple  of  stringed  instruments  and  a  tarlwuka  or  drum  hanging  in 
a  corner,  and  the  benches  are  only  covered  at  intervals  with  plaited 
grass  mats,  which  of  an  afternoon  in  summer  are  often  dragged  out- 
side into  the  street.  Business  at  the  Moorish  caf^  begins  with  the 
markets,  and  although  coffee  is  the  only  beverage  which  is  sold  there, 
it  rarely  lacks  custom  throughout  the  day.  The  Moor  and  the  Arab 
have  no  "  hour  of  absinthe,"  and  no  stated  times  for  taking  their 
coffee.  If  after  the  market  they  happen  to  have  nothing  to  do,  the 
chances  are  that  they  will  remain  seated,  squatted,  or  lying  upon  the 
wooden  benches  for  the  entire  day,  during  which  they  will  only  have 
absented  themselves  to  pay  a  casual  visit  to  their  homes,  and  perhaps 
to  administer  corporal  punishment  to  one  or  more  of  their  wives. 
Those  who  have  business  to  attend  to  will  go  to  the  caf^  three  or 
four  times  a  day,  either  lo  terminate  a  bargain,  to  meet  a  friend,  or 
simply  to  smoke  a  pipe  and  lounge. 

To  obtain  a  good  view  of  a  Moorish  caf(^  at  Algiers  in  the 
daytime,  four  o'clock  is  the  best  hour  to  visit  it.  The  sun  is 
then  sinking  rapidly  towards  the  sea,  and  the  day  will  soon  be  on  the 
wane.  The  intense  heat  which  has  kept  people  indoors  or  saunter- 
ing about  the  arcades  and  bazaars  since  an  hour  before  noon  has 
been  succeeded  by  a  deliciously  cool  atmosphere,  which  is  rendered 
even  more  agreeable  by  the  watering  of  the  roads.  Business  is  at  an 
end.  What  were  a  few  minutes  ago  comparatively  deserted  streets 
are  now  crowded  with  pedestrians  and  vehicles ;  you  might  almost 
think  that  the  entire  population  of  Algiers  was  out  of  doors,  so 
thronged  are  its  principal  thoroughfares.    Almost  every  one  looks 


Alger  s  Amuse,  393 

clean.     The  Europeans  have  laid  aside  their  white  suits  and  muslin 
veils,  they  have  changed  their  shirts,  and  attired  in  woollen  garments 
— for  the  evenings,   even  in  the  height  of  summer,  are  invariably 
chilly — are  hurrying  to  the  bathing  establishments  beside  the  sea,  or 
to  the  cafes  overlooking   the   port.     The  Moors  stroll  through  the 
streets  in  fine  white  hnen  breeches,  with  white  woollen  burnouses 
hanging  from  their  shoulders  ;  and  even  many  of  the  Arabs  present 
a  more  cleanly  appearance  than  at  any  other  time  in  the  day.  Ascend- 
ing the  steep  hill  in  the  direction  of  the  Kasbah,  any  of  the  streets 
will  lead  us  to  a  native  cafe,  which  at  a  distance  looks  like  the 
entrance  to  a  passage  conducting  to  a  yard.    On  one  side  of  the  door- 
way is  a  rickety  table  supporting  a  vase  or  two  of  flowers,  and  a  glass 
globe  filled  with  gold  fish,  and  encircled  with  long  strings  of  orange 
blossoms  or  jasmine,  which  are  threaded  by  the  Moorish  women  for 
the  purpose  of  adorning  their  hair.    Several  customers  are  seated  upon 
mats  outside — some  surrounding  an  aged  man,   perhaps  a  Marabout 
or  a  wealthy  merchant  of  the  neighbourhood,  who  sits  cross- legged 
smoking  his  pipe,  and  from  time  to  time  makes  an  observation,  to 
which  his  auditors  appear  to  listen  with  the  greatest  respect  ;  others, 
with  their  backs  against  the  wall  and  their  knees  near  their  chins, 
contemplate  a  group  lounging  in  various  attitudes  round  a  draught 
board,  which  ditTers  from  ours  inasmuch  as  the  squares  are  raised 
and  sunk  instead  of  being  black  and  white,  while  the  draughts  have 
the  form  of  towers  and  pawns  of  the  game  of  chess.     Picking  our 
way  through  the  little  crowd  outside,  we  enter  a  long  room,  and  are 
struck  by  the  contrast  between  it   and  the  French  cafe,  but  not  so 
much  on  account  of  the  simplicity  of  the  interior  as  from  the  kind  of 
life  within.  As  one  passes  through  the  doorway  no  jingle  of  dominoes, 
no  sound  of  billiard  balls  striking  together,  no  clinking  of  glasses,  no 
hubbub  of  voices,  no  triumphal  cries  of  the  man  with  a  good  hand  at 
piquet  greet  the  car.     There  are  no  waiters  in  clean  white  aprons  and 
short  black    jackets,    moving    with    extraordinary    nimbleness    and 
rapidity    among    small    marble    tables,  no  dame  de  comptoir  seated 
sedately  behind  a  rosewood  tribune  ;  but  in  lieu  of  these  quietness 
and  peaccfulness  reign  over  everything.     At  the  end  of  the  room  the 
Kahouadji  or  master,  who  is  generally  a  Moor  or  a  Koulouglis,  is 
standing  before  his  stove,  where  water  is  always  on  the  bubble  and  coffee 
continually  simmering.     As  the  water  boils  he  places  five  or  six  tea- 
spoonsful  of  coffee  into  a  tin  pot  containing  about  two  tumblers  of 
water,  and  carefiilly  removes  the  scum  as  it  rises  to  the  top ;  after 
allowing  it  to  simmer  for  a  few  seconds  he  pours  the  coffee  several 
times    from    one    pot  to  another,  reminding  one  of  an  Ameria 


394  ^'^^  Genthinan  s  Magazifte. 

preparing  a  brandy-cocktail,  and  finally  empties  it  into  small  cups 
— sometimes  fitting  into  metal  stands  resembling  egg-cups,  but  raore 
fi-equently  being  ordinary  European  coffee  cups — which  the  thefel  or 
waiter  hands  round  to  the  customers.     In  some  cafes  the  coffee  is 
roasted  daily  and  pounded  on  the  premises,  as  it  is  generally  con- 
sidered that  it  gradually  loses  its  flavour  when  once  cooked,  but  there 
are  also  shops  where  the  process  of  crushing  is  carried  on  as  a  trade. 
In    these  establishments  you  see  bent  over  a  long  stone    trough, 
resembling  a  manger,  three  or  four  half  naked  men,  who  stand  there 
from  morn  till  sundown,  with  a  rest  of  about  a  couple  of  hours  in  the 
middle  of  the  day,  crushing  the  coffee  with  a  huge  iron  pesde.     The 
Arabs  never  mix  milk  with  their  coffee ;  they  take  it  lukewarm,  and 
sip  it,  stopping  from  time  to  time  to  draw  a  whiff  of  smoke  from  their 
pipes,  or  to  make  an  observation  to  a  neighbour.     On  the  wooden 
benches  surrounding  the  room  the  Moors  and  Arabs  are  seated  with 
their  legs  dangling  towards  the  ground,  squatted  on  their  hams,  cross- 
legged  like  tailors,  or  reclining  in  different  positions.     Some  are  play- 
ing at  cards,  which  are  not  only  of  Spanish  manufacture,  but  go  by 
Spanish  names  \  for  instance,  they  call  the  suits  oros^  copaSy  espardos^ 
bastosy  the  Court  cards  ray^  da  ma,  sota,  and  the  others  atariro,  chicoy 
sds,  &c.,  according  to  their  numerical  order.     This  peculiarity,  which 
surprises  one  at  first,  is  abundantly  explained  by  the  intercourse  which 
has  always  existed  between  the  two  countries,  and  the  fact  of  a  con- 
siderable number  of  Algerian  Moors  having  come  from  Andalusia. 
In  another  part  of  the  cafe  a  group  will  perhaps  be  collected  round 
the  raw/  or  story-teller,  listening  to  some  marvellous  story  similar  to 
a  tale  in  "The  Arabian  Nights  Entertainments,"  in  which  the  words 
^a/,  ga/et,  ga/on  (he,  she,  or  it  has  said),  gal-fil-maisal  (it  is  related  in 
the  story)  continually  strike  the  ear.     Running  about  the  room  is  the 
thefel,  generally  a  youth,  now  carrying  a  cup  of  coffee,  now  returning 
to  fetch  a  piece  of  burning  charcoal,  and  hastening  away  with  it 
again  between  a  pair  of  small  tongs  to  light  a  pipe  or  a  cigarette. 
One  observes  a  group  of  men  seated  together  in  an  obscure  comer, 
among  whom  a  long  cherry-stemmed  pipe  continually  passes  from 
one  to  another ;  each  in  his  turn  places  the  mouth-piece  to  his  lips, 
and  after  taking  as  many  whiffs  as  he  seems  to  care  for  hands 
the  pipe  to  his  neighbour.    Some  eagerly  stretch  out  their  hands 
to  receive  it,  and  after  retaining  it  for  a  few  seconds  blow  large 
clouds  of  smoke  from  their  mouths  and  nostrils ;   others  take  the 
proffered  chilwuck  in  an  indolent  manner,  and  just  press  it  to  their 
lips,  while  others,    again,  overcome  by  languojr,  fall  asleep  before 
their  turn  arrives.     It  is  plain  to  any  one  who  takes  the  trouble 


Alger  s  Amuse.  395 

to  watch  these  men  for  a  few  minutes  that  the  pleasure 
of  listening  to  the  rawi^  of  playing  cards  and  draughts, 
or  of  sipping  small  cups  of  coffee  is  not  the  sole  enjoy- 
ment to  be  obtained  at  the  Moorish  cafd  People  can  also 
intoxicate  themselves  there,  and  that  without  sinning  against  the 
Koran,  which  formally  interdicts  the  use  of  fermented  liquors.  To 
attain  this  state  of  quiet  drunkenness,  which  is  another  and  perhaps 
the  only  real  kind  of  kief,  they  use  several  things.  Some  smoke 
afioun  or  opium,  others  chew  a  particular  kind  of  bean,  which  they 
call  bouzagiiy  and  which  they  pretend  has  the  property  of  being  able 
to  kill  every  kind  of  animal  with  a  tail  or  zaga,  whence  its  name  ; 
others,  and  more  particularly  the  women,  eat  an  opiate  paste ;  but 
the  hachiche  or  finely  chopped  hemp,  which  is  smoked  in  a  small 
pipe,  is  most  commonly  used.  The  kind  of  intoxication  produced 
by  these  substances  is  of  a  very  undemonstrative  nature,  and  those 
who  habitually  indulge  in  them  may  be  easily  distinguished  by  their 
sparkling  eyes  and  animated  countenances,  and  by  a  nervous  laugh 
which  from  time  to  time  contracts  their  countenance,  or  by  a  sort  of 
melancholy  torpor  overshadowing  it. 

On  visiting  the  Moorish  caf^  of  an  evening  quite  a  transformation 
will  sometimes  be  found  to  have  taken  place  since  the  afternoon. 
The  cost  of  a  cup  of  coffee,  instead  of  being  a  sou,  varies  from  ten 
centimes  to  twenty-five,  and  the  number  of  customers  and  attendants 
is  considerably  increased.  Some  grass  mats  are  spread  upon  the 
ground,  a  few  lighted  candles  fixed  into  empty  wine-bottles  stand 
in  various  parts  of  the  room,  and  three  or  four  musicians  are  seated 
cross-legged,  amidst  cushions  and  carpets,  upon  a  small  platform 
erected  temporarily  in  a  corner.  One  will  be  playing  upon  a  two- 
stringed  Moorish  fiddle,  another  will  perhaps  have  one  of  European 
manufacture,  which  he  holds  in  a  similar  manner  to  the  Savoyard 
boys,  with  the  screws  in  the  air  and  the  part  which  is  usually  placed 
beneath  the  chin  resting  upon  his  thighs  \  a  third  will  be  blowing  a 
long  reed  clarionet,  while  the  fourth,  who  is  often  a  pretty  unveiled 
Moorish  girl  attired  in  a  gorgeous  silk  costume  embroidered  with 
gold  thread,  beats  the  measure  upon  a  brilliantly  painted  tarbouka^ 
and  from  time  to  time  takes  up  an  Arab  song  similar  to  the  following 
in  a  high  key : — 

Friend,  why  dost  thou  so  soon  pack  up  thy  tent  and  quit  the  tribe  of  Hachem  ? 

Thou  art  the  finger  of  my  hand,  the  brother  of  my  heart ; 

Remain  in  our  douar  and  become  a  son  of  our  cheiks. 

Thou  shalt  choose  a  hundred  head  among  our  flocks. 

Our  women  are  handsome,  thou  shalt  give  them  the  krolkcU  of  gold. 


396  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

Our  horses  bound  like  gazelles  upon  this  ocean  of  mountains,  among  the  deep 
gorges,  the  ravines,  and  the  precipices,  where  hyenas  and  jackals  have  their 
lairs. 

Remain  in  the  Tell,  fly  not  to  the  desert ! 

Then  a  man's  voice  responds  : — 

Stop  the  cloud  traveller  drifting  above  our  heads. 
Forbid  the  eagle  to  spread  its  wings  and  to  soar  on  high. 
Tell  the  brook  to  remount  the  slope  of  a  hill. 
Reconcile  in  a  brotherly  kiss  the  serpent  and  the  lion, 
But  attempt  not  to  retain  the  Nomad ! 

He  despises  the  townfolk,  pepper  merchants,  and  sons  of  Jews  who  pay  tribute 

to  a  master. 
He  has  never  harnessed  his  horse  to  a  plough  ;  he  merely  touches  the  earth  with 

his  heel. 
lie  has  never  gazed  upon  the  countenance  of  a  Sultan. 
The  Nomad  is  independent  and  proud  ! 

He  has  the  Sahara  and  its  unbounded  expanse,  when  flying  upon  the  wings  of 

his  steed  he  hunts  the  gazelle  and  the  ostrich. 
He  has  women  whiter  than  camels*  milk,  flowers  of  the  desert  periuming  the  pure 

air  of  the  oases. 
The  Nomad  is  happy ! 

Day  and  night  he  answers  the  signal. 

Seizing  his  gun  he  causes  the  powder  to  speak,  and  falls  like  hail  upon  the 

accursed  tribe  who  outraged  his  allies. 
He  kills  the  warriors,  even  to  the  last,  captures  the  negroes  and  the  sheep,  but  he 

sends  the  women  with  their  jewels  back  to  their  mothers. 
The  Nomad  is  generous  and  proud  ! 

Our  holy  Marabout,  Sidi-ben-Abdallah,  descendant  of  the  prophet  (let  Mahomet 

favour  him  !),  has  said  : 
**  The  traveller  is  a  guest  sent  by  God  :  though  he  be  Christian  or  Jew,  divide  the 

date  with  him,  for  all  that  you  have  belongs  to  God. 
"  Give  the  stranger  the  best  place  upon  the  mat  and  accompany  him  to  the 

threshold  saying,  '  Follow  thy  happiness  ! '  '* 

The  Nomad  is  hospitable ! 

The  song  is  ended,  but  there  is  no  applause  on  the  part  of  the 
audience,  for  a  Mussulman  would  never  think  of  betraying  or  gi^nng 
vent  to  his  feelings  in  public.  The  musicians  lay  aside  their  instru- 
ments, sip  their  coffee,  roll  cigarettes  between  their  fingers,  or  fill  their 
pipes  with  tobacco ;  after  a  few  seconds  they  recommence  playing, 
and  so  on  throughout  the  entire  evening,  stopping  only  once  every 
half  hour.  They  receive  every  kind  of  consideration  from  their  em- 
ployers, being  handsomely  remunerated,  and  provided  with  cushions 
and  carpets  to  lounge  upon,  as  well  as  refreshments  and  tobacco  free 
of  charge.   Their  music  is  peculiar.  Europeans  generally  style  it  turn- 


A  Iger  sA  muse.  397 

tuniy  on  account  of  the  slight  variation  of  the  notes.  Listening  to  it, 
however,  in  a  place  where  there  is  no  lack  of  local  colouring,  where 
there  is  one  of  those  magnificently  attired  Moorish  women — whom 
one  sees  unveiled  for  the  first  time  perhaps — and  an  audience  con- 
sisting of  some  two  hundred  Mussulmans,  among  whom  hardly  a 
European  can  be  distinguished,  it  is  by  no  means  disagreeable.  The 
monotony  of  its  notes  produces  a  feeling  of  drowsiness  which, 
altliough  little  in  accordance  with  our  way  of  living,  must  be  admi- 
rably suited  to  the  indolent  and  effeminate  mode  of  life  of  those  for 
whom  it  is  intended. 

From  the  Moorish  cafe  to  an  establishment  frequented  of  an  even- 
ing by  Europeans  the  distance  is  short  enough,  but  the  contrast  is 
great.  We  pass  down  the  riotous  Rue  de  la  Kasbah,  where  half- 
drunken  soldiers,  crowding  dirty  little  cabarets  on  the  ground  floors 
of  old  Moorish  houses,  arc  singing 'snatches  from  popular  French 
songs,  where  the  strains  of  a  guitar  accompanying  an  Andalusian  air  are 
half  drowned  amidst  the  quarrelling  of  a  party  of  Spaniards,  and  where 
you  occasionally  perceive  a  youthful  Moor  seated  at  the  door  of  a  cafe, 
dreamily  playing  upon  a  lute.  We  cross  the  Rue  Bab-Azzoun,  follow 
a  narrow  street  leading  towards  the  sea,  pass  through  a  dirty  yard 
called  a  garden,  and  edge  our  way  into  a  long  rectangular  room 
somewhat  higher  than  an  ordinary  lofty  apartment,  with  a  gallery 
supported  by  iron  pillars,  and  ornamented  by  crystal  gas  brackets, 
running  along  the  southern  side  and  one  end.  Tables  with  marble 
and  wooden  tops,  and  cane-seated  chairs,  are  packed  closely  together 
upon  the  floor.  The  former  are  loaded  with  beer  bottles  and  glasses 
of  various  forms,  from  the  cylindrically-shaped  bock  to  the  thick,  com- 
mon pctit-vcrrc^  filled  with  almost  all  the  liquors  that  are  drunk  in  a 
hot  climate  where  the  French  rule  supreme.  The  most  popular  are 
the  poisonous,  olive  green  absinthe,  a  brandy  which  our  neighbours 
have  very  appropriately  christened  hnVc-gorgc^  lukewarm  beer,  cold 
coffee  diluted  with  water,  orgeat,  and  gooseberry  syrup.  Crowded 
round  the  tables,  swarming  in  the  galleries,  some  leaning  against  the 
pillars  and  some  with  their  elbows  among  the  glasses  and  bottles, 
which  seem  likely  on  the  slightest  movement  to  be  dashed  to  the 
ground  with  a  frightful  crash,  are  men  of  nearly  every  nation  in 
Europe,  huddled  together  with  Mussulmans  and  fat,  debauched-look- 
ing  females  in  gaudy  attire.  There  are  Frenchmen  and  Belgians, 
Italians  and  Greeks,  Englishmen  and  Germans,  Spaniards  and  Mal- 
tese, Turks,  Arabs,  Moors,  and  Jews.  Look  well  into  the  densely- 
packed  multitude,  and  you  will  see  the  black-bearded,  bronze-faced, 
homy-handed  drosky  driver  who  drove  you  into  the  suburbs,  and  the 
Vol.  XL,  N.S.  1873.  D  D 


398  The  Gentlejjtan  s  Magazine. 

waterman  who  rowed  you  to  land  from  the  steamer,  seated  within  a 
few  feet  of  the  son  of  the  banker  who  cashed  you  a  draft  upon 
London,  and  a  group  of  French  officers.     There  are  the  young  bucks 
of  the  town  ruining  their  health  by  the  too  frequent  use  of  intoxica- 
ting drinks,  and  Mussulmans,  regardless  of  Mahomet  and  the  Koran, 
selling  their  chance  of  a  place  in  Paradise  for  the  privilege  of  gradually 
destroying  their  brains  with  a  poisonous  decoction  of  wormwood  and 
water.     Every  one  is  smoking :  some  holding  between  their  lips  the 
ivory  or  amber  mouthpieces  of  long  cherry-stemmed  pipes,  others 
with  cheap  cigars — which  have  possibly  only  been  made  a  day  or 
two  before,  so  great  is  the  consumption — or  ordinary  meerschaum 
or  clay  pipes  blackened  half  way  up  the  bowl,  sticking  out  of  the 
comer  of  their  mouths.     Waiters,  both  Mussulman  and  Christian, 
carrying  small  trays  loaded  with  different  drinks,  move  with  difficulty 
among  the  crowd,  answering  in  every  direction  the  repeated  cries 
of  "  GarfonJ^     Through  the  smoke  which  curls  up  towards  the  ceiling, 
stopping  half-way  and  there  floating  about  in  clouds — rendering  the 
heated   atmosphere  still   more   oppressive,  and  making  the  badly- 
lighted  room  even  more  gloomy  than  would  otherwise  be  the  case — 
we  perceive  a  stage.     In  the  orchestra  the  musicians  refresh  them- 
selves with  beer  or  absinthe  at  every  pause  in  the  music,  and  then  go 
to  work  again  with  renewed  vigour,  producing  from  time  to  time 
sharp  unnatural  sounds,  which  remind  you  of  a  band  of  street  min- 
strels or  of  a  theatrical   performance  at  a  country  fair  in  Europe. 
The  scenery  is  so  worn  and  begrimed  with  dirt  and  dust  that,  not- 
withstanding the  lights,  which  are  arranged  in  proximity  to  it  for  the 
purpose  of  producing  a  good  effect,  you  fail  to  make  out  anything 
but  a  mixture  of  faded  colours  intended  to  represent  a  forest  scene. 
On  the  stage  is  a  young  woman  attired  in  a  low-necked  robe  (t  qutue^ 
which  assuredly  has  done  service  on  more  than  one  person's  back, 
and  which,  to  judge  from  its  elegant  cut,  has  evidendy  seen  better 
days.     Hark !  she  is  about  to  sing  I     What,  we  ask  ourselves,  are 
those  guttural  sounds  and  screeches  proceeding  from  between  those 
pretty  lips  which  a  few  seconds  before  gave  such  a  charming  expres- 
sion to  that  youthful  countenance  now  distorted  by  horrible  grimaces 
which   modern   Frenchmen  style   looking  caiiaille.      Has  Th^&a 
landed  with  Suzanne  Lagier  and  Colombat  in  her  train,  or  is  this 
merely  a  youthful  follower  of  the  same  school,  aspiring  to  similar 
honours  ?     Evidently  the  latter.     The  song  is  finished,  the  audience 
applauds.     The  building  trembles  with  the  clapping  of  hands,  the 
stamping  of  feet  upon  the  floor,  and  the  repeated  cries  of  "  Braw  I" 
and  "  Bis  f^  in  the  midst  of  which  a  man  near  the  stage  gives  a 


Alger  s  Amuse,  399 

shrill  whistle,  which  is  equivalent  to  hissing.  The  young  lad/s  eyes 
sparkle,  and  a  scarlet  tint  mounts  to  her  cheek,  which  the  pearl 
powder  covering  her  visage  is  powerless  to  dissimulate.  Her  fingers 
are  seized  with  a  convulsive  movement  as  if  she  were  impatient  to  claw 
the  face  of  the  man  who  has  dared  to  disapprove  of  her  vocal  per- 
formance ;  but  she  contents  herself  with  calling  him  a  Mte.  He  then 
gets  into  a  temper.  He  threatens  to  jump  upon  the  stage  and 
chastise  the  pert  beauty,  but  is  restrained  by  his  friends,  and  he 
eventually  decides  upon  complaining  to  the  manager  of  the  establish- 
ment, who  has  him  ignominiously  turned  out  by  the  police  for 
creating  a  disturbance.  When  the  tumult  caused  by  this  little  inci- 
dent has  somewhat  subsided  the  singer  appears  in  the  room  and,  as 
is  customary  in  these  parts,  proceeds  to  make  a  collection  among 
the  audience,  who  for  the  sum  of  a  halfpenny  or  a  penny  are  permitted 
to  make  coarse  jokes,  pay  compliments,  or  talk  sentimentally  to 
the  fair  qucteuse  as  they  drop  their  offerings  into  the  plate. 

Overcome  by  the  oppressive  atmosphere,  savouring  of  tobacco 
smoke  and  garlic,  we  rise  to  leave,  but  in  making  our  way  through 
the  crowd  tread  unintentionally  upon  more  than  one  pair  of  shoes, 
for  which  we  are  cursed  and  sworn  at  in  three  or  four  different 
languages.  We  pass  through  the  small  frontage  enclosed  by  trellis- 
work,  where  the  better  dressed  people  are  seated  round  small  zinc 
tables,  looking  in  at  the  performance  through  the  open  doors,  and 
reach  the  Esplanade.  The  crowds  of  people  who  have  been  swarm- 
ing in  the  streets  of  the  European  town  since  dinner  time  are 
directing  their  steps  towards  home,  so  that  the  favourite  promenade 
gradually  becomes  deserted,  until  at  length  nothing  is  left  to  break 
the  spell  of  solitude  that  creeps  slowly  over  everything  but  the  strains 
from  the  orchestra  of  the  cafif  hard  by,  a  party  or  two  lingering 
abroad  until  the  half-told  story  is  completed,  and  a  few  couples  who 
are  too  much  engaged  with  themselves  to  notice  the  dispersing  mid- 
titude  or  to  have  any  idea  of  how  time  flits  away. 


O  D  « 


Hand-Fishing.  • 

HAVE  seen  fishermen  tickle  trout,  and  heard  of  remarkable 
feats  being  performed  in  various  English  rivers.   I  never  was  an 
expert  at  hand-fishing  myself,  though  I  have  taken  craw-fish 
in  this  way  frequently  as  a  boy.     This  kind  of  sport  used  to 
be  more  in  vogue  years  ago  than  it  is  now.  There  is  a  tradition  of  Crick- 
lade  that  a  fisherman  there,  who  was  most  successful  among  fishennen, 
neither  used  rod  nor  line  nor  net.     The  Thames  at  that  point  having 
excavated  the  lower  part  of  the  bank,  and  created  holes  and  crannies, 
the  fish  lodged  themselves  therein.     The  man  dived  into  the  water, 
and  cauglit  the  fish  with  his  hand.    He  was  always  secure  of  his  fish. 
An  ex-Cabinet  Minister  gave  me  an  account  of  a  man  who  years  ago 
used  to  back  lilmself  to  dive  into  a  well-known  hole  of  fish,  and 
bring  up  one  in  liis  mouth  and  one  in  each  hand.     This  narrative, 
and  some  personal  recollections  of  trout  tickling  in  the  Derwent, 
excited  my  interest  in  an  article  upon  the  subject  which  I  met  with 
in  a  French  sporting  paper  during  my  forced  sojourn  in  Paris  under 
the  siege.     I  venture  upon  a  translation  of  the  article,  which  cannot 
fail  to  be  of  great  interest  to  all  who[^are  interested  in  fishing. 

"Child,''  said  my  grandfather  to  me,  "before  learning  to  fish  by 
hand  one  must  learn  to  swim." 

And  when,  the  following  year,  I  began  to  undress, 

"  Child,"  said  my  grandfather  again,  **  before  becoming  a  fisherman 
by  hand  you  must  be  a  diver.'' 

I  was,  I  think,  twelve  years  old.  It  was  with  extreme  impatience 
that  I  waited  for  the  second  year  from  the  preceding.  At  the  end  of 
April  I  was  in  the  water,  by  the  end  of  June  I  dived  better  than  the 
ducks  in  our  poultry  yard. 

Panting  with  joy  on  St.  John's  Day,  the  anniversary  of  my  grand- 
father's birthday,  I  found  him,  and  presenting  him  with  a  large 
bouquet  of  acjuatic  plants — for  notwithstanding  that  he  was  sixty-five 
years  old  he  was  always  a  lover  of  the  things  of  the  deep — "  Grand- 
papa,'' said  I,  "  I  think  I  can  now  make  a  dive  of  twenty  feet. 
Yesterday  I  went  to  the  bottom  of  the  Bull's  Creek." 

"  Come  first  and  embrace  me,"  said  my  grandfather  to  me  in  that 
soft  and  grave  accent  which  was  peculiar  to  him. 

I   sprang  into  his  arms,  and   added  the  good  old  man,  "  For  a 


Hand- Fishing.  40 1 

present  I  shall  give  you  a  sparrowhawk,  but  you  will  not  be  able 
to  make  use  of  it  until  the  next  holidays.  To-day,  as  it  is  a  holiday, 
you  shall  go  out  with  me.  It  is  fine — I  will  endeavour  to  show  you  how 
to  fish  by  hand.  But  always  remember  this  maxim,  my  little  fiiend  : — 
Every  fisherman  by  hand  should  know  how  to  swim  and  to  dive* 
Without  that,  drowning  for  the  rash  perhaps,  but  no  fish." 

Yes,  the  weather  was  as  fine  as  could  be  desired.  Not  a  shadow 
of  the  slightest  cloud  in  the  celestial  vault,  not  a  breath  of  wind,  not 
a  wrinkle  on  the  face  of  the  water.  Yet  the  heaviness  of  the  tempera- 
ture might  have  foretold  some  violent  atmospheric  revolution  for  the 
afternoon.  My  grandfather  led  me  into  his  garden,  of  which  an  arm 
of  the  Seine  hemmed  in  the  extremity  at  the  back  of  the  tanyards, 
and  both  of  us  undressed.  Without  trouble  for  his  great  age,  the 
worthy  man  wished  to  direct  my  first  steps  in  the  piscatorial  career. 

At  this  point  the  river  is  not  ten  yards  wide,  but  its  banks  have  a 
certain  elevation.  Moreover,  they  are  lined  with  willows  and  osiers. 
Numerous  holes  hollowed  out  of  the  soil  appear  along  its  banks.  In 
certain  places  they  occur  in  such  quantity  that  one  might  suppose  a 
hill  frequented  by  rabbits. 

"  Here  are  the  burrows  of  your  game,"  said  my  grandfather, 
smiling.  "  But  listen  to  these  preliminary  instructions.  Each  hole 
is  destined  to  contain  for  you  one  fish,  or  several  crabs,  barbel,  trout, 
eels,  sometimes  carp  and  pike  by  chance.  But  each  hole  may  also 
conceal  a  water  rat,  whose  bite  is  painful,  or  an  otter,  which  might  do 
you  great  harm  with  its  claws  and  teeth.  Remember  for  the  present 
a  part  of  the  catechism  of  hand-fishing.  Observe  whether  the  hole 
has  only  one  outlet  or  more.  If  it  has  but  one,  it  is  not  probable  that 
this  hole  contains  either  a  water  rat  or  an  otter.  The  water  rat  being 
useless  to  us,  we  do  not  pursue  it.  As  for  the  otter,  since  it  is  the 
corsair  of  our  rivers,  its  flesh  is  very  eatable,  and  its  skin  fetches 
something,  if  you  discover  the  animal  you  must  lay  before  the 
difierent  mouths  of  his  hiding  place  weels  of  osier  or  iron  wire  well 
baited  principally  with  live  fish,  or  wait  on  the  watch  for  the  beast, 
and  kill  it  with  a  shot.  It  scorns  the  hook,  and  defies  nets.  By  way 
lOf  parenthesis  I  advise  you  at  first,  when  you  see  a  hole  level  with 
the  water,  or  even  when  you  find  it  under  the  water,  to  feel  its 
dimensions  with  your  hand,  to  search  if  there  are  others  correspond- 
ing near,  and  if  there  are  none,  to  insert  gently  the  fingers  lengthened, 
the  back  underneath,  enlarging  little  by  little  the  entrance  where  it 
ds  narrow.  Should  this  hole  contain  any  crabs  they  will  appear 
generally  with  the  claws  in  front  Take  care  to  seize  them  there,  or 
you  will  be  cruelly  caught  yourself  in  their  grip,  or  the  claw  may 


402  The  Geiitlernaii s  Magazine. 

break,  and  you  will  lose  your  prey.  You  must  then  return  your  hand^ 
the  palm  downwards,  and  taking  the  beast  by  the  middle  of  the  body 
draw  it  out  and  throw  it  into  the  bag,  which  you  should  carry  round 
your  neck.  Often  one  hole  contains  three,  four,  and  even  more.  A 
little  stick  provided  with  an  iron  hook  will  serve  to  extract  them.  A 
trout  also  often  inhabits  a  crab's  hole.  As  it  will  have  entered  head 
first,  as  soon  as  you  feel  the  fish  push  your  hand  softly  along  under- 
neath it,  gently  tickling  it.  If  you  do  not  tremble  too  much,  if  you 
do  not  make  any  too  sudden  movements,  the  trout  will  not  stir.  It  will 
fall  asleep,  fascinated  by  yoiu*  caresses.  But  arrived  near  the  gills, 
quickly  raise  the  thumb  and  forefinger  on  either  side  of  the  fish, 
closing  the  other  fingers  round  him.  Then  withdraw  your  arm,  and 
the  captive  will  soon  be  in  your  game  bag.  If  it  is  a  question  of  any 
other  fish,  proceed  in  the  same  way,  except  with  the  eel.  Notwith- 
standing every  precaution,  notwithstanding  all  your  skill,  this  one 
often  escapes,  owing  to  the  oily  and  glutinous  nature  of  its  skin  and 
also  of  the  sensation  of  disgust  which  is  invincibly  felt  when  its  slimy 
body  coils  round  one's  arm.  But  for  the  practised  it  is  an  excellent 
method  of  seizing  it,  although  little  used,  to  put  on  a  mitten  made 
of  bristly  skin ;  the  sharp  points  enter  its  skin,  and  the  eel  will  no 
longer  succeed  in  sliding  between  your  fingers.  When  near  a  sandy 
bank,  one  can  otherwise  rub  some  of  the  gravel  on  one's  hand  before 
plunging  it  into  the  hole  and  seizing  the  eel ;  especially  if  holding  it 
firmly,  by  the  middle  of  the  body,  you  pass  the  middle  finger 
under  it  and  press  the  upper  side  with  the  fore  and  ring  fingers,  or  if 
near  the  head,  you  bend  the  thumb  so  that  the  nail  breaks  the  skin. 
As  soon  as  the  eel  is  captured  it  is  prudent  to  get  on  the  bank  and 
kill  it,  because  it  will  inconvenience  you  by  its  struggles  if  kept  in  the 
bag.  In  order  to  kill  it  without  lacerating  it  put  one  foot  on  it 
and  cut  the  backbone  in  two  near  the  head.  That  is  why,  my  good 
friend,  every  fisherman  by  hand  ought  to  have  a  strong  knife  in  a 
handle,  also  hung  round  his  neck  or  placed  in  his  bag.  This  knife, 
which  is  of  constant  utility,  becomes  sometimes  an  absolute  necessity. 
It  is  useful  for  enlarging  the  holes  necessary  to  free  the  arm  when  it 
is  difficult  to  withdraw  it  now  and  then  from  a  cavity  into  which  it 
has  been  thrust  If  you  observe  several  holes  appearing  to  be  con- 
nected one  with  another,  stop  up  the  narrowest  with  grass,  stones, 
branches,  or  mud,  before  sounding  the  principal  one.  If  it  is  empty, 
inspect  the  others,  after  having  stopped  that  one  up  in  its  turn.  If 
your  arm  does  not  reach  to  the  bottom  thrust  a  stick  in,  and  if  you 
have  a  companion  with  you,  let  him  mount  the  bank  and  stamp 
violently  over  the  hole.     You  may  be  sure  then  that  the  fish,  if  there 


Hand' Fishing.  403 

is  any  in  the  hole,  will  come  out  A  propos  of  companion,  my  dear 
friend,  a  bit  of  essential  didvict  en  passant  However  good  a  swimmer, 
however  good  a  diver,  you  may  be,  never  go  hand-fishing  alone.  An 
accident  soon  happens.  Without  speaking  of  cramps  and  fits,  which 
may  in  a  moment  paralyse  the  strongest  and  most  robust,  it  often 
happens  that  one  gets  entangled  in  the  grass  and  submerged  weeds, 
or  that  one  gets  one's  arm  into  a  hole  firom  which  it  is  impossible  to 
extract  it  without  another's  help— in  fact,  I  could,  unfortunately,  name 
more  than  one  imprudent  fellow  stifled  and  drowned  by  the  fall  of  a 
bank  undermined  by  the  waters,  and  which  he  had  completed  by 
shaking  it  in  pursuing  the  fish  which  it  sheltered  under  its  treacherous  ■ 
depths.  If  I  add  that  you  ought  always  to  be  cautious,  to  examine 
well  the  places  where  you  wish  to  practise — to  know  the  ground,  in  a 
word,  before  devoting  yourself  to  the  pleasure  of  fishing — ^if  I  advise 
you  never  to  remain  longer  than  an  hour  and  a  half  in  the  water  at 
one  time,  to  avoid  staying  for  long  near  sources,  to  dive  slowly  in 
order  to  avoid  also  the  float-wood,  faggots,  and  herbage,  which  en- 
cumber our  rivers  and  in  which  one  may  be  lost,  to  explore  with  a 
pole  the  creeks  with  which  you  are  not  acquainted ;  if  I  pledge  you 
never  to  insist  once  under  water  in  forcing  holes  too  narrow  for  your 
arm,  to  rise  to  the  surface  as  soon  as  you  experience  the  need  of 
breathing,  if,  finally,  I  recommend  you  not  to  bathe  until  your  food 
has  digested,  that  is  at  least  two  hours  after  eating,  and  unless  you 
really  think  yourself  in  good  health,  I  shall,  my  dear  child,  have  given 
you  the  first  indispensable  instructions  for  becoming  a  fisherman  by 
hand.     At  present  to  the  water  and  to  work.'' 

We  enter  the  river — my  grandfather  slowly  and  carefully ;  I  with 
all  the  fierceness  of  a  young  spaniel. 

"  'Sdeath  !  'sdeath  !"  cried  the  venerable  patrician ;  "  it  is  not  thus 
that  one  must  act.  Walk  sofdy  without  agitation.  Don't  fiighten 
the  fishes.  Whatever  the  savants  of  study  may  say,  they  have  ears, 
and  good  ears.  Look  before  you.  The  water  is  clear :  one  can  see 
to  the  bottom.  If  you  perceive  a  trout,  stop,  cease  moving,  to  follow 
it  with  your  looks.  Perhaps  it  will  soon  go  and  nibble  the  worm  in 
a  hole,  at  the  bottom  of  which  you  will  catch  it  at  your  leisture  by 
complying  with  my  instructions.  But  let  us  begin  to  fish.  Go  along 
the  right  bank  of  the  river ;  I  will  go  along  the  left  bank.  Take  care 
not  to  pass  one  hole,  not  one  root,  not  one  knot  of  herbage,  without 
searching  into  it" 

I  obey  scrupulously.  We  advance  with  caution  in  the  Seine — ^he 
on  his  side,  I  on  mine.   The  weather  is  still  serene.  The  gnats  flutter 


404  The  Gentlentafis  Magazine. 

capriciously  over  our  heads.  Now  and  then  there  glitters  and 
sparkles  a  light  graceful  silvered  form,  adorned  with  shining  rubies. 
It  is  a  trout.  It  is  motionless;  it  would  be  said  that  it  sleeps,  that  it 
is  only  to  stretch  out  one's  arm  to  capture  it;  but  you  make  a 
gesture,  and  the  cocjuette  has  flown,  disappeared  with  the  rapidity  of 
lightning.  Good,  here  is  a  hole  level  with  the  water,  under  the  zx>ots 
of  an  old  decayed  willow.     I  put  my  hand  in.     My  heart  beats  high. 

"Hi!  hi!  hi!" 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  my  grandfather  smiling,  turning 
towards  me  from  the  odier  side  and  balancing  between  his  fingers  a 
pretty  little  barbel. 

"  Oh  !  grandpapa,  I  am  being  pinched." 

"  Eh  !  I  don't  doubt  it  He  becomes  not  a  smith  who  does  not 
burn  himself  a  little.     Pull  your  hand  out" 

I  drew  it  out,  that  poor  hand.  A  great  crawfish  had  seized  my 
forefinger  with  its  claws,  and  certainly  it  did  not  appear  disposed 
to  let  go,  although  I  shook  it  desperately  above  the  river. 

"  Open  your  bag,"  said  my  grandfather  to  me;  "  then,  holding  your 
right  hand  suspended  over  the  opening,  with  the  fingers  of  the  left 
hand  sharply  pinch  the  crawfish  at  the  junction  of  the  tail  with  the 
body,  and  it  ^\dll  let  go,  because  you  thus  stop  its  respiration ;  only 
do  not  crush  it.  A  good  pinch  in  the  part  I  have  indicated  is  often 
sufllicient  to  oblige  it  to  separate  its  claws." 

I  carried  on  my  breast  the  indispensable  square  bag  of  coarse 
cloth,  at  the  bottom  of  which  I  had  put  a  knife  of  little  value,  but 
firm  and  carefully  shut.  It  is  needless  to  say  that  my  grandfather's 
advice  was  followed  and  well  received.  The  old  man  continued : 
"  Another  time  endeavour,  as  I  have  told  you,  to  seize  crawfish  by 
the  back." 

The  practical  warning  to  which  I  had  just  been  subjected  was 
worth  the  best  recommendations.  Half  an  hour  had  not  passed  when 
my  bag  contained  a  score  of  crawfish.  I  had  had,  it  is  true,  my  flesh 
a  little  torn  by  their  unmerciful  pinchers.  My  skin  bore  more  than 
one  bloody  mark  from  them.  But  the  ardour  of  fishing  did  not  give 
me  leisure  to  think  of  these  passing  troubles.  Is  there  elsewhere 
pleasure  ijvdthout  pain  ?  He  triumphs  without  glory  who  conquers 
without  danger.  Meanwhile  if  I  succeeded  with  the  crustaceous,  the 
scaly  fish  made  game  of  me.  Disdainful,  on  the  contrary,  of  the 
former,  my  grandfather  had  made  a  rich  haul  of  the  latter,  and  we 
continued  to  go  up  the  course  of  the  river,  when  he  said  to  me : 
**  Here  is  a  creek;  it  contains  several  holes.  I  baited  them  ycster" 
day  evening ;  you  shall  give  me  an  example  of  your  skill  as  a  diver. 
But  first  of  all  rid  yourself  of  your  bag.    Put  the  bag  on  the  bank. 


Hand-Fishing,  405 

because  it  might  impede  you  or  get  caught  in  some  stump.  More- 
over, as  you  are  going  to  fish  for  scaly  fish,  it  must  not  be  put  in  the 
bag  with  the  crabs,  for  they  would  destroy  it.  If  you  remember  my 
instructions  I  promise  you  a  good  reward.  Forward,  and  the  least 
noise  possible." 

I  allow  myself  to  sink  to  the  bottom  of  the  water.  The  holes 
are  before  me ;  I  can  distinguish  them  well.  My  arm  goes  far  into 
one  of  them.  It  is  very  deep  ;  impossible  to  touch  the  bottom.  But 
I  feel  something  move  at  the  end  of  my  fingers.  I  examine  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  hole ;  two  feet  off  there  is  a  second.  Perhaps 
they  communicate  with  one  another.  Without  losing  sight  of  the 
first,  into  which  I  put  my  right  fist,  I  push  my  left  arm  into  the 
second.  My  nails  do  not  reach  the  cul-de-sac.  Then  I  pull  up  a 
stick  from  the  bottom  of  the  water  and  poke  the  second  hole  while 
my  right  arm  re-enters  the  first.  Ah  !  ah !  on  my  hand,  well  stretched 
out,  palm  upwards,  glides  backwards  a  prey  of  fine  size.  Little  by 
little  softly  my  fingers  bend  round — softly,  also,  they  caress  the  under- 
neath of  a  scaly  quivering  body,  until  suddenly  they  dart  into  two 
openings  situated  forward  of  the  pectoral  fins.  I  immediately  squeeze 
so  that  my  thumb  and  first  finger  meet  through  the  gills  of  the  fish. 
It  is  carried  off  from  its  retreat,  and  I  rise  to  the  surface  of  the  water, 
where  I  brandish  it  triumphantly,  sneezing,  breathing  heavily,  and 
nibbing  my  eyes  with  my  unoccupied  hand.  It  was,  faith,  a  splendid 
barbel  weighing  nearly  four  pounds.  I  would  not  then  have  ex- 
changed it  for  an  empire.  My  excursion  under  water  had  lasted  one 
minute  at  the  most 

*•  Bravo  !  "  cried  my  grandfather.  "  You  have  bravely  won  your 
first  honours.  Come  and  seat  yourself,  and  while  we  refresh  our- 
selves a  little,  I  will  tell  you  how  the  holes  are  baited  for  hand- 
fishing." 

I  did  not  care  to  refuse ;  but  I  admit  that  if  I  was  eager  to  regain  the 
land  it  was  rather  in  order  to  contemplate  to  repletion  my  splendid 
■capture  than  to  listen  further  to  the  teachings  of  my  grandsire. 
He  was  not  the  man  to  tolerate  for  long  the  ebullitions  of  my 
youthful  vanity. 

" 'Sdeath  ! "  said  he ;  "I  much  wished  to  grant  you  at  once  the 
honours  of  a  hand  fisherman ;  that  is  all  the  capture  of  a  barbel  is 
worth  :  do  not  forget  it.  When  you  are  able  to  carry  off  a  trout  you 
will  have  your  epaulets,  and  if  you  manage  one  day  to  grasp  an  eel 
you  shall  have  your  marshal's  b&ton.  But  there  is  a  road  to  travel 
before  then.  In  the  meantime  be  modest.  To  catch  a  barbel  in  a 
hole  when  its  tail  is  towards  one  is  the  simplest  thing  in  the  woiid. 
Even  with  the  head  outwards  it  is  not  very  difficult  to  take  it  either : 


4o6  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

it  is  only  necessary  in  the  latter  case  to  avoid  its  bite,  always  un- 
pleasant, sometimes  dangerous.  With  trout  it  is  a  different  matter. 
To  fascinate  it,  to  lull  it  to  sleep  by  tickling  it  underneath,  is  not 
given  to  all ;  and  I  have  known  on  my  part  many  clever  hand-fishers 
who  have  not  succeeded  in  it  But  you  are  scarcely  listening  to  me. 
'Sdeath  !  Stop  feasting  on  the  barbel  with  your  eyes.  Make  up  a 
bundle  of  while  nettles  and  put  the  fish  in  the  middle  to  keep  it  fresh. 
Then  I  will  teach  you  how  to  bait  the  holes." 

Being  gloved,  I  gathered  the  nettles  and  made  two  layers  of  them, 
between  which  I  laid  all  our  fish,  except,  be  it  well  understood,  the 
crawfish,  and  came  back  to  the  old  man,  who  said  to  me : 

"  Generally  the  baits  used  by  the  angler  to  draw  the  fish  together 
in  one  spot  serve  for  baiting  the  holes.     On  that  point  you  can  con- 
sult the  excellent  work  of  Moriceau.     Only,  instead  of  being  throvi-n 
into  the  water  by  handfuls,  the  baits  are  thrust  as  deeply  as  possible 
into  the  holes.     The  most  common  bait  is  composed  of  a  ball  of  turf 
mixed  with  meat  or  dunghill  maggots,  and  to  which  it  is  well  to  add 
some  horsedung.     This  ball  should  be  hard  enough  to  remain  in  tlie 
water  several  hours  without  coming  to  pieces.     It  is  necessary  then 
to  allow  it  to  dry  a  little  before  lodging  it  in  the  hole  for  which  it  is 
destined.     Balls  made  with  com,  barley,  hemp  seed,  and    beans, 
ground  and  boiled  together,  are  still  better.     This  bait,  like  the  pre- 
ceding, may  be  placed  in  boxes  of  iron  wire  with  very  fine  meshes, 
like  those  used  by  cooks  for  putting  certain  vegetables,  or  rice,  in 
the  pot-iiu-fai.     Snails,   locusts,  flies,   imprisoned  in  these   boxes, 
will  also  attract  the  large  fish  into  the  holes  into  which  they  may 
be   slipped.      A  horsehair  bag,   like  the  grape   sacks,  may   take 
the  place  of  the  metal  envelope.      Coagulated  blood  mixed  widi 
horsedung  will   produce  the  same  result ;   but  as  the  blood    dis- 
solves very  (juickly  it  will  be  necessary  for  the  hand-fisher  to  visit 
the  holes  only  a  few  hours  after  having  baited  them.     Pellets  of  the 
skins  of  barley  just  shooting,  ground  and  boiled,  also  form  a  bait  of 
great  virtue.     In  fact  for  crabs  one  may  use  with  success  the  remains 
of  all  kinds  of  flesh  and  putrid  meat     It  is  unnecessary  to  mention 
that  a  loaf  of  bread  rolled  in  bran,  and  made  into  a  ball  with  a  mix- 
ture of  hcmpseed  oil,  will  always  repay  the  amateur  hand-fisher  for 
his  trouble  and  outlay.      In  well-stocked  rivers,  where  there  are  no 
holes,  some  can  be  made  with  a  pointed  stake  or  a  knife  " 

"  But,  grandpapa,''  I  interrupted,  "  which  is  the  best  time  for  this 
kind  of  fishing  ?  *' 

"  The  best  weather,  my  friend,  is  the  present,"  answered  he. 

I  raised  my  eyes.     The  sky  had  darkened ;  heavy  black  clouds 
were  dotted  over  the  azure  in  places,  and  gave  it  the  appearance  of  a 


Hand'Fishing,  407 

draught  board.  Soon  the  thunder  rolled  and  crashed  overhead  :  the 
rain  fell  in  torrents. 

"  We  had  better  dress  again,  hadn't  we  ?"  said  I. 

"  Presently,  my  friend.  Our  clothes  are  under  shelter.  The  rain 
is  not  cold.  Now  is  the  time  when  the  fish,  especially  trout,  seeks 
the  holes,  though  before  the  storm  it  splashed  and  leaped  on  the  sur- 
face of  the  water,  snapping  up  the  gnats.  Let  us  go  back  to  the 
water." 

And  we  returned  to  it,  and  my  grandfather  really  took  two  beautiful 
young  trout.     As  for  me,  I  missed  as  many  as  I  was  able  to  touch. 

And  that  year  I  did  not  succeed  in  gaining  my  epaulets,  as  my 
grandfather  said.  But  the  following  year  at  Belan,  in  Ource,  a  few 
leagues  from  Chatillon-sur-Seine,  I  distinguished  myself  by  capturing, 
several  salmon  trout,  and  even  won  my  marshal's  b&ton  by  the 
seizure  in  my  hand  of  a  large  eel. 

Since  then  I  have  greatly  liked  and  practised  hand-fishing.  It  is 
no  sport  for  an  amateur  assuredly ;  it  is  not  always  pleasing  to  see 
nor  always  gracefiil  in  the  position  to  which  it  consigns  one.  You 
may  often  return  with  limbs,  body,  and  face  frightfully  torn  by  the 
brambles  and  roots  ;  the  hands  get  stained  with  a  viscous  mud,  of  a 
very  sticky,  greasy  nature,  which  resists  the  most  imctuous  soap,  so 
that  you  finish  by  getting  rid  of  it  by  rubbing  the  hands  with  dry  earth. 
Often  also,  instead  of  fish  one  catches  terrible  rheumatism  and  lum- 
bago of  the  first  quality.  Well,  notwithstanding  all  these  miseries  and 
others  which  I  might  name,  I  still  consider  fishing  by  hand  as  very 
pleasant  and  very  profitable. 

In  the  United  States  and  in  Canada  the  lobster  is  so  common  that 
people  do  not  care  for  crabs.  I  fished  for  them  there  as  much  as  I 
would.  They  mocked  me.  But  while  eating  them  I  said  to  myself^ 
not  without  satisfaction,  that  the  greatest  simpleton  of  the  laughers  or 
the  laughed  at  was  not  perhaps  the  one  they  thought.  What  think 
you,  my  dear  readers  ?  And  during  my  long  and  distant  excursions- 
over  the  territory  of  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company  I  have  more  than 
once  had  occasion  to  bless  the  memory  of  my  grandfather  for  his 
lessons  in  hand-fishing.  Yes,  more  than  once  in  want  of  food,  the  trap 
furnishing  none,  the  fish  refusing  to  bite  at  the  lines,  1  have  had,  by  a 
lucky  catch  at  hand-fishing,  the  pleasure  of  entertaining  a  party  <A 
ten  or  twelve  persons  dying  of  hunger. 

Then  do  not  condemn  this  usefiil  pastime ! 

If  it  offered  no  other  advantage  than  to  furnish  you  with  fisb 
without  much  hardship  and  without  opening  your  purse  it  ought  to 
be  held  in  estimation.  Now  is  it  not  pleasant  when  lounging  away 
the  summer  with  some  friends  on  the  banks  of  the  water,  to  be  able 


4o8  Tlie  Gcfitlenians  Magazine. 

in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  to  present  them  with  a  matelot  or  a  fried 
fish  ?  Is  it  not  delightful  while  bathing  to  refresh  yourself,  also  to 
catch  a  trout  or  an  eel  for  your  dinner  ?  Hand-fishing,  moreover, 
counts  some  eager  devotees.  Though  not  to  be  numbered  with  these 
fanatics,  I  should  not  be  able,  nevertheless,  to  pass  by  a  stream  of 
water  without  scrutinising  its  banks,  and  if  I  perceive  a  likely  looking 
hole,  if  the  temperature  were  not  excessively  severe,  oh !  then,  then 
my  friends,  how  useful  is  hand-fishing!  Ask  our  house- 
keepers. 

But  I  have  known  zealots  enthusiastic  in  a  very  different  manner 
to  your  servant.     P'or  example : — 

Five  years  ago  I  was  walking,  in  the  month  of  January,  along  the 

banks  of  the  Seine,  near  Mussy,  in  Champagne,  with  Mr.  D , 

a  doctor,  well  known  throughout  Chatillonnais.  The  thermometer 
stood  at  lo"  below  zero.  The  banks  of  the  river  were  frozen  in  places 
for  a  little  distance,  then  the  water  appeared  running  and  of  a  dear 
green,  the  look  of  which  was  enough  to  freeze  one's  blood. 

Suddenly  my  companion  threw  down  his  over-all,  his  great  coat, 
took  off  his  boots,  &c.,  and  plunged  into  the  water. 

I  was  stupefied.  Mr.  D was  then  seventy-seven  or  seventy- 
eight  years  of  age. 

He  dived  under  the  ice  and  soon  returned  to  the  surface  of  the 
water,  holding  in  his  hand  a  magnificent  trout 

"Would  you  believe,  my  dear  friend," said  he  to  me  quietly, "  that  for 
•more  than  three  months  I  have  watched  it,  the  jade  ?  Just  now  I  saw 
it  enter  a  hole,  and  there  it  is." 

"  But  a  bathe  at  this  season  !    Are  you  not  afraid  ?  " 

"  Pshaw  !    I  am  accustomed  to  it.** 

It  was  true. 

Every  one,  in  fact,  knew  that  Mr.  D ,  one  of  the  best  hand- 

iishers  who  had  ever  lived  in  the  central  departments,  did  not  hesitate 
to  plunge  into  the  Seine  in  the  hardest  frosts. 

The  passion  for  fishing  had  caused  him  to  acquire  this  habit,  which 
<lid  not  prevent  him  from  fishing  and  good  living,  and  firom  eating 
bruised  olives — for  which  he  had  a  weakness,  poor  man — for  more  than 
three-quarters  of  a  century.  Could  you,  good  readers,  do  the  same, 
even  after  several  lessons  in  hand-fishing  ? 

Moral  of  anecdote. — In  France  and  in  temperate  countries  hand- 
fishing  is  practicable  in  winter  as  in  summer,  in  autunm  as  in  spring. 
Only,  my  friends,  always  respect  that  wise  mother  and  protectress, 
4he  law. 

For  one  fish  taken  at  the  wrong  season — the  spawning  time — of 
•how  many  captures  do  you  not  rob  yourself  1 


The  Thomas  Walkers: 

THE  POPULAR  BOROUGHREEVE  AND  THE  AUTHOR  OF 

"THE  ORIGINAL" 

Two    Biographies   drawn    from   unpublished    Family 
Correspondence  and  Documents. 

BY  BLANCHARD  JERROLD. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE    POPULAR    BOROUGHREEVE. 

R.  THOMAS  WALKER,  merchant,  Wcos  a  conspicuous 
gentleman  in  Manchester  towards  the  close  of  the 
last  century.     Of  gentle  blood,  commanding  appear- 
ance,  generous   instincts,   and    remarkable  abilities, 
he  became  by  fortune  and  by  natural  gifts  the  leader  whom   the 
few    and    disheartened    Liberals    of    Lancashire   wanted  ;     when 
Mr.  Shaw's  Punch  House,  the  Bull's  Head,  the  Crown  and  Shuttle, 
Black  Moor*s  Head,  York  Minster,  the  White  Lion,  Queen  Anne — 
in  short,  nearly  all  the  inns  of  Manchester — were  given  up  to  Church 
and  King  men :  and  when  every  citizen  who  was  bold  enough  to  advo- 
cate reform  in  Parliament  and  the  removal  of  Dissenters'  disabilities 
was  the  subject  of  coarse  jests  and  rough  treatment.     In  those  days 
manners  were  dissolute  and  boorish,  and  public  opinion  was  formed 
by  the  leading  citizens  in  tavern  parlours  over  stiff  and  steaming 
brews  of  brandy.     A  man  of  fastidious  tastes,  studious  habits,  and 
refined  address  was  at  a  disadvantage  at  first,  opposed  to  such  anta- 
gonists as  Mr.  Shaw  cultivated  in  his  hostelry.     Mr.  Shaw  himselt 
contrived  to  help  the  cause  of  King  and  Church  by  shutting  up  his 
Punch  House  early — which,  it  is  recorded,  made  him  popular  with 
the  ladies.     But  the  fearful  odds  at  which  the  Liberals  stood  were  a 
stimulant  to  the  few  gallant  gentlemen  who  fought  the  battle  of  civil 
and  religious  liberty  in  I^ancashire,  for  nearly  half  a  century  before 
their  cause  triumphed  completely  in[the  passing  of  the  first  Reform  Bill. 
The  Walkers  claimed  descent  from  Sir  William  Hubert  ap  Thomas, 
of  Rayland  Castle,  county  Monmouth ;  who,  in  the  reign  of  Henry, 
the  Fifth,  was  knighted  for  his  valour  in  the  French  wars.  Sir  Willianv 


4IO  The  Gentleman  s  Magazifie. 

married  Gladys,  daughter  of  the  Sir  David  Gann  who,  according  to 
Hume,  was  mainly  instrumental  in  deciding  the  fight  of  Agincourt 
The  grandfather  of  the  author  of  "  The  Original,"  and  father  of  the 
patriot  boroughreeve  (bom  in  1 716,  and  died  in  1 786),  removed  from 
Bristol,  where  he  had  carried  on  business  as  a  merchant,  to  Manchester, 
before  his  eldest  son  was  bom ;  and  the  only  note  wc  have  of  him  is 
that  his  wife  was  the  first  person  who  carried  an  umbrella  in  Man- 
chester, and  that  she  was  mobbed  for  her  pains.  This  was  too  bad, 
since  if  there  be  a  place  where  the  carriage  of  an  umbrella  is 
excusable  under  any  circumstances,  it  is  assuredly  the  capital  of 
Cotton.  The  son  who  was  destined  to  take  a  foremost  place 
among  the  worthies  of  Lancashire,  and  whose  name  deserves  to  be 
known  throughout  the  Empire  as  a  patriot  of  the  old  brave  type,  who 
gave  all  his  lusty  years,  his  peace,  and  fortune  to  the  cause  he  believed 
to  be  a  holy  one,  was  born  on  the  3rd  of  April,  1749. 

In  the  year  1784,  when  Mr.  Thomas  Walker  first  took  a  prominent 
part  in  the  public  Liberal  affairs  of  Manchester,  he  was,  as  a  mer- 
chant, a  leading  figure  in  the  town ;  a  gentleman  prosperous  and  of 
high  position,  with  Barlow  Hall  for  his  summer  residence,  and  a 
house  in  South  Parade,  St.  Mar/s,  for  the  winter.  Although  only 
then  in  his  thirty-fifth  year,  the  local  position  which  he  had  won  was 
so  great  that  Manchester  at  once  pointed  to  him  as  her  representative 
and  champion  against  Mr.  Pitt's  odious  Fustian  Tax. 

One  of  the  first  projects  of  Mr.  Pitt  as  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer 
was  to  impose  a  duty — soon  to  be  known  as  the  Fustian  Tax— of 
one  penny  per  yard  upon  all  bleached  cotton  manufactures.  By  the 
operation  of  this  monstrous  Act  the  excise  laws  were  introduced  into 
the  cotton  trade,  and  the  immediate  consequence,  as  felt  in  Man- 
chcsler  and  throughout  the  entire  manufacturing  districts  of  Lan* 
cashire,  was  paralytic.  The  capital  of  the  cotton  trade  became 
profoundly  and  threateningly  agitated.  Fifteen  houses,  representing 
38,000  persons  engaged  in  the  trade,  petitioned  against  the  tax;  and 
the  master  dyers  and  bleachers  announced  that "  they  were  tmder  the 
sad  necessity  of  declining  their  present  occupations  until  the  next 
session  of  Parliament" 

Resolute  action  was  soon  determined  upon.  Two  of  the  principal 
merchants — viz.,  Mr.  Thomas  Walker  and  Mr.  Thomas  Richardson — 
were  deputed  at  the  opening  of  the  next  session  to  wait  upon  the 
Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  and  lay  the  case  before  him.  They 
appeared  before  Pitt,  backed  by  the  whole  body  of  cotton  tzaders, 
and  supported  by  the  powerful  influence  of  the  Duke  of  Bridgewater. 
So  overwhelming  was  the  force  brought  to  bear  upon  the  M]]Uiter» 


Thd  Thomas  Walkers.  411 

that  he  himself  proposed  the  repeal  of  the  tax  he  had  carelessly  laid 
on  a  great  trade  \  and  his  political  opponent,  Fox,  seconded  the 
motion. 

Mr.  Walker  and  Mr.  Richardson  were  received  back  in  Manchester 
by  a  splendid  procession  of  their  fellow  townsmen  on  the  1 7th  of  May, 
1785,  and  to  each  delegate  a  rich  presentation  of  plate  was  made. 
This  public  service  commended  Mr.  Walker  to  the  good  will  and 
confidence  of  Lancashire  and  Lanarkshire,  and  its  success  was,  I 
apprehend,  the  brightest  passage  of  his  career.  The  tranquil  happi- 
ness of  the  prosperous  merchant  and  popular  citizen  was  not  destined 
to  be  of  long  duration. 

In'  1788  he  presided  at  a  great  banquet  held  by  many  of  the 
notables  of  Manchester  to  celebrate  the  centenary  of  the  glorious 
revolution  of  1688.  The  ringing  of  bells  and  military  salutes  fired 
in  St.  Anne's  Square  had  roused  the  enthusiasm  of  the  citizens. 
People  sported  orange  ribands.  The  ladies  were  invited  to  a  ball 
and  supper.  The  politics  of  the  Whig  Churchman  kept  him  in 
good  fellowship  with  his  neighbours  of  his  own  degree.  In  1790, 
still  covered  with  the  glory  of  having  rescued  his  townsmen  from  the 
grip  of  Pitt's  Fustian  Tax,  Mr.  Walker  was  appointed  boroughreeve 
— an  officer  who  has  been  described  as  "  a  sort  of  mayor  without  a 
council."  In  those  days  Manchester  was  not  a  corporate  town,  and 
was  unrepresented  in  Parliament ;  and  the  bcUon  of  the  boroughreeve 
was  the  s)'mbol  of  high  honour  and  authority. 

As  boroughreeve  the  popular  citizen  was  destined  to  experience  the 
first  bitter  fruits  of  public  life  on  the  Liberal  side  in  those  days.  It 
was  his  lot  to  be  assailed  by  violent  and  unscrupulous  opponents 
among  his  fellow  townsmen ;  and  afterwards  by  a  Government  thft 
fought  the  friends  of  the  Liberal  cause  with  the  foulest  weapons. 

The  state  of  public  opinion  in  Manchester  when  Mr.  Walker  was 
its  boroughreeve  is  graphically  illustrated  by  a  long  advertisement 
he  was  compelled  to  publish  in  the  two  papers  of  the  town,  in  expla- 
nation and  justification  of  a  meeting  which  was  held  at  the  Exchange 
under  his  presidency  on  the  19th  of  April,  1791,  "  for  the  purpose  of 
considering  the  present  alarming  situation  of  afilairs  between  this 
country  and  Russia."  The  first  resolution  declared  that  it  was  highly 
necessary  for  the  people  of  Great  Britain  to  take  into  consideration 
the  evils  of  an  impending  war.  But  the  second  was  that  which  gave 
umbrage  to  the  Tories :  "  That  in  the  opinion  of  this  meeting  no 
nation  can  be  justified  in  engaging  in  war  unless  for  reasons  and 
upon  principles  strictly  defensive." 

The  rest  of  the  resolutions  developed  this  theory.    A  commercial 


412  The  Gmtlemafis  Mc^azine. 

country  like  Great  Britain,  whose  taxes  were  heavy  and  whose  debt 
was  enormous,  ought  to  be  particularly  cautious  of  engaging  in  any 
war,  unless  upon  the  most  urgent  and  evident  necessity.     It  was  not 
clear  from  theory  or  experience  that  the  pretext  of  maintaining  the 
balance  of  power  in  Europe  was  a  sufficient  reason  for  plunging  the 
inhabitants  of  this  island  into  the  manifold  evils  attendant   on  war  ; 
and  that  all  treaties  of  alliance  which  tended  to  involve  Great  Britain 
in  the  quarrels  and  disputes  of  the  nations  of  the  Continent  were 
injurious  to  the  interests  of  the  country.      Although  the  power  of 
declaring  war  was  vested  in  the  Crown  of  Great  Britain,  yet,  as  the 
honour  of  the  nation  was  concerned  in  the  justice  of  it,  and  as  the 
labour  and  industry  of  the  people  must  be  taxed  in  support  of  it, 
they  had  a  right  to  full  and  satisfactory  information  of  the  grounds 
and  reasons  on  which  war  was  at  any  time  to  be  declared.     It  did 
not  appear  to  the  meeting  that  any  sufficient  reason  had  yet  been 
assigned  for  involving  England  in  a  war  with  Russia,  and  that  it 
was  the  duty  of  the  people's  representatives  in  Parliament  to  with- 
hold their  assent  to  any  burthens  being  imposed  on  the  people  till 
the  justice  and  necessity  of  it  should  be  fully  shown.     The  resolutions 
to  this  effect  were   signed  by  the  boroughreeve,  as  chairman,  and 
transmitted  to  the  members  for  the  county  of  Lancaster,  with   the 
request  that  they  would  vote  in  accordance  with  them  in  the   House 
of  Commons. 

So  furiously  were  the  boroughreeve  and  his  supporters  assailed  for 
their  princiijles  of  peace,  justice,  and  economy,  that  it  was  deemed 
expedient  to  submit  the  resohitions  to  eminent  counsel  for  their 
opinion  as  to  the  legality  of  them,  and  as  to  the  liability  persons  would 
incur  in  publishing  them.  Mr.  Serjeant  Adair  gave  his  opinion.  He 
could  perceive  no  illegal  nor  unconstitutional  sentiments  in  them.  He 
concludes  by  saying :  "  To  enter  into  further  reasoning  on  this  sub- 
ject would  be  to  write  a  dissertation  on  the  constitution  of  England,, 
which  we  are  mistaken  in  believing  to  be  the  most  free  and  happy  in 
the  world  if  these  rights  of  the  people  can  be  called  in  question." 
Mr.  Lloyd  and  Mr.  Cooper,  two  professional  gentlemen,  were 
instracteil  in  support  of  Mr.  Serjeant  Adair ;  and  they  concurred 
with  the  learned  serjeant,  giving  their  opinion  at  great  length.  In 
one  \)assage  they  observed  :  "  The  resolutions  referred  to  us  all  tend 
to,  and  centre  in  that  point  which  of  all  others  is  the  farthest  from  being 
the  prerogative  of  the  Crown,  and  is  most  peculiarly  the  prerogative 
of  the  peoi)le,  viz.,  the  imposition  of  taxes  ;  and  it  would  be  strange 
indeed  if  the  Commons  of  lOngland  are  not  permitted  to  advise  their 
representatives  upon  that  subject  which  of  all  others  it  is  the  peculiar 
business  of  the  House  of  Commons  to  consider." 


The^Tkomas  Walkers,  413 

But  the  boroughreeve  was  already  a  marked  man.  He  had  iden- 
tified himself  openly  with  the  cause  of  civil  and  religious  liberty.  He 
had  become  the  advocate  of  peace.  Many  years  afterwards  his  boys 
remembered. that  about  this  time  they  were  shunned  at  school,  and 
that  their  schoolfellows  shouted  after  them :  "  There  go  Jacobin 
Walker's  sons!" 

The  Fustian  Tax  battle  involved  Mr.  Walker  in  a  vast  corre- 
spondence with  eminent  persons  of  the  day.  The  Duke  of  Bridge 
water  wrote  to  him  on  Christmas  Day,  1784  : — 

**I  duly  received  the  favour  of  yours,  and  am  much  obliged 
for  the  kind  expressions  in  them.  On  the  receipt  of  the  letter 
I  immediately  apply 'd  to  Mr.  Pit  {sic\  who  continues  in  the 
same  friendly  disposition  you  left  him,  and  proposed  that  previous 
to  the  meeting  of  Parliament,  or  as  soon  as  it  will  be  convenient 
for  the  committee,  to  state  their  case  in  a  memorial  to  the 
Treasury,  when  it  will  have  the  most  fair  and  candid  consideration 
from  him  and  his  colleagues,  in  order  to  show  the  reasons 
against  the  propriety  or  impracticability  of  the  tax.  This,  I 
must  confess,  appears  to  me  to  be  reasonable,  and  what  I  premised 
must  be  his  answer  before  I  left  the  country,  and  when  I  last  saw  you. 
But  as  this  affair  is  of  so  much  consequence  to  the  town  of  Man- 
c  )cstcr  and  its  neighbourhood,  1  must  wish  your  and  Mr.  Richard- 
son's assistance  in  town  on  the  twenty-fourth,  the  day  before  the 
meeting  of  Parliament. — Till  then  1  remain,  your  faithful  and 
obedient  servant, 

"  BRintJEWATF.R." 

The  struggle  brought  the  boroughreeve  also  many  powerful  friends, 
(.'olonel  Kgerton  (afterwards  Earl  of  Bridgewater)  in  a  letter (Septemb# 
1785),  after  the  struggle,  observes  that  he  shall  henceforth  look  upon 
the  Cotton  Tax  (which  formerly  he  had  always  abominated)  as  a 
good  thing,  since  it  brought  them  in  contact.  Some  sent  friends  to 
sec  his  manufactures ;  others  thanked  him  for  courtesies  and  little 
services  rendered.  Lieutenant-Ceneral  Burgoyne  (late  Constable  of 
the  Tower)  wrote  to  him  in  October,  1 785  : — **  I  wish  to  carry  to  town, 
as  a  specimen  of  the  excellency  of  Manchester  manufacture  in 
muslins,  three  or  four  lady's  aprons  of  as  fine  a  sort  as  I  can  get. 
Lady  Horton  has  some  that  were  made  in  Wilis,  and  are  about 
sixteen  or  seventeen  shillings  apiece,  I  believe.  I  should  not  have 
thought  of  troubling  you  about  such  a  trifle,  if  I  had  not  been 
disappointed  at  the  greatest  retail  shops  where  1  have  sent  in  Man- 
chester." The  General  signs  himself  "  with  the  greatest  truth  and 
regard." 

Vol.  XI.,  N.S.  1873.  e  e 


414  ^''^  Gcfitlentans  Magazine. 

Edmund  Burke  writes  to  the  energetic  and  accomplished  Man- 
chester delegate  (May  8,  1788) :  "  If  you  and  Mr.  Co^vper  can  break- 
fast here  this  morning  at  half  after  nine,  I  shall  be  happy  to  converse 
with  you  on  the  subject  of  your  mission.  I  really  very  much  desire 
to  know  distinctly  what  Mr.  Pitt  really  means  to  do  on  the  business 
in  the  next  session,  and  when  it  is  he  proposes  that  the  next  session 
should  begin."  Men  were  early  in  those  days.  An  invitation  to 
breakfast  "this  morning  at  halfpast  nine  "is  seldom  launched  in  these 
days  by  the  busiest  of  members  of  Parliament.  Lord  Derby  was, 
however,  the  staunchest  of  Manchester's  friends. 

"  Sir,"  writes  his  lordship  to  Mr.  Walker,  "  after  the  very  full  and 
'explicit  manner  in  which  I  had  the  honour  on  Friday  last  to  explain 
my  sentiments  to  you  relative  to  the  proposed  duties  upon  fustian, 
and  my  determination  to  take  any  measure  thought  advisable  by  the 
committee  at  Manchester  to  oppose  it  in  every  stage,  I  cannot 
hesitate  a  moment  in  assuring  you  that  I  shall,  in  obedience  to  your 
commands,  set  out  very  early  to-morrow  morning  for  Ix)ndon,  there 
to  take  such  steps  to  prevent  this  Bill  passing  into  a  law  as  may  be 
thought  proper  by  the  committee  appointed  for  this  puipose. 

"  There  is,  however,  sir,  one  objection  which  strikes  me  very 
forcibly  in  opposition  to  the  manner  in  which  (as  at  present  advised) 
your  committee  seem  to  me  directed  to  oppose  the  progress  of  this 
Bill ;  I  lament  most  heartily  the  shortness  of  time  which  prevents  all 
possibility  of  any  interchange  or  consideration  of  ideas  upon  this 
subject,  which  will  therefore  reduce  me  to  the  necessity  of  meeting 
your  committee  without  being  fully  apprised  of  your  meaning,  and 
consequently  under  great  difficulties  how  to  act  in  conformity  to  your 
frishes,  and  at  the  same  time  agreeable  to  those  principles  which  I 
have  laid  down  as  the  guide  of  my  public  life. 

"  If  when  I  aiTivc  in  town  I  shall  find  the  Bill  has  passed  both 
Houses  of  Parliament^  I  shall  with  the  greatest  readiness  accompany 
your  delegates  to  the  foot  of  the  throne,  there  most  humbly  to 
represent  the  reasons  why  this  Bill  should  not  pass  into  a  law,  which 
reasons  should  not  have  been  (from  want  of  time)  represented  to 
either  House  of  Parliament  during  the  progress  of  the  Bill ;  but  in 
case  I  should  find  the  Bill  still  pending  in  the  House  of  Lords,  you 
must  permit  me  to  say  that  I  think  the  most  proper  and  constitutional 
method  of  opposition  to  it  in  the  first  instance  will  be  to  oppose  it 
there  immediately  by  such  arguments  as  such  poor  abilities  of  mine, 
aided  by  those  supplied  by  your  committee,  may  suggest  to  me. 
Should  this,  however,  fail^  I  am  then  (and  not  till  then,  as  I  think  the 
King  should  constitutionally  know  nothing  of  any  Bill  till  presented 


The  Thomas  Walkers.  415 

to  him  for  his  approbation  or  rejection)  ready  and  eager  to  join  with 
your  committee  in  representing  to  His  Majesty  the  reasons  why  this 
fiill  should  not  pass  into  law,  and  I  must  express  a  hope  that  the 
petition  to  the  King  may  be  drawn  up  upon  these  ideas.  I  have 
submitted  my  ideas  to  you  on  this  subject  with  the  greatest  freedoniy 
indeed  I  should  have  thought  I  trifled  with  you  if  upon  a  matter  of 
such  consequence  I  had  used  any  language  which,  however  it  might 
agree  with  your  opinions,  could  at  any  time  have  been  thrown  in  my 
teeth  as  contradictory  to  those  principles  of  the  constitution  which  I 
hope  and  trust  I  shall  make  the  invariable  guide  of  my  conduct  I 
wish  to  serve  not  to  flatter  you,  and  I  would  impress  upon  you  that  if 
I  can  do  so  in  the  remotest  degree,  I  shall  consider  it  as  the  happiest 
circumstance  of  the  life  of, 

"  Sir,  your  very  obedient  and  humble  servant, 

"  Derby. 
"  Knowsley,  Aug.  16,  1784." 

In  the  following  year  Lord  Derby's  relations  with  Mr.  Walker 
had  warmed  into  cordial  regard.  In  a  letter  from  Knowsley,  dated 
August  21,  1785,  about  the  Irish  propositions,  he  says  :  "  If  by  my 
attention  to  your  wishes  during  ^^  progress  of  this  imhappy  business 
I  have  been  fortunate  enough  to  obtain  any  portion  of  your  esteem, 
I  flatter  myself  I  shall  never  by  any  action  of  my  life  show  myself 
either  insensible  to,  or  unworthy  of  it"  A  month  later  he  invites 
Mr.  Walker  to  Knowsley  to  meet  and  talk  with  Mr.  Fox,  who  is 
spending  a  day  or  two  there — adding  that  he  shall  always  be  happy 
in  receiving  him,  or  at  any  opportunity  of  expressing  his  regard 
for  him.  Three  years  later  their  acquaintance  has  improved  9# 
vastly  over  the  public  business  they  had  transacted  in  common, 
that  Ix)rd  Derby,  with  warm  expressions  of  friendship,  consented 
to  be  godfather  to  one  of  Mr.  Walker's  children :  sent  him  an  invita- 
tion to  see  the  play  of  "  Theodosius "  at  Richmond  House  (May, 
1 788),  and  in  the  November  of  the  same  year  was  busy  in  getting  his 
distinguished  Manchester  friend  elected  a  member  of  the  Whig  Club. 
His  lordship  doubted  not  but  the  next  meeting  of  the  dub  would 
be  happy  "  to  elect  a  member  who  would  do  them  so  much  credit" 
In  the  same  letter  (November  28,  1788)  he  speaks  of  the  King: 
^^  His  Majesty  still  continues  exactly  in  the  same  state,  and  I  believe 
that  neither  his  Ministers  nor  physicians  think  there  is  any  chance 
of  his  ever  recovering  his  senses.  All  the^  Council  assembled  yes- 
terday at  Windsor,  and  sat  a  long  time :    I  hear  they  resolved  to 

move  the  King  to-morrow  to  Kew.    By  Pitt's  desire,  Mr.  Addington 

B  E  2 


4i6  The  Gentlentaji s  Magazine. 

(formerly  a  mediocre  man,  and  a  great  friend  of  the  late  Lord 
Chatham)  saw  His  Majesty  yesterday,  and,  I  understand,  agrees 
entirely  as  to  his  insanity  with  all  the  doctors  before  consulted. 
Various  are  the  opinions  of  what  will  be  done  next  Thursday.  I 
rather  think  they  will  propose  a  very  limited  Regency."  Then  Lord 
Derby  wanders  off  to  inquiries  about  his  godson,  and  signs  himself 
"  your  sincere  friend.'' 

In  his  next  letter  (December  6, 1788)  the  earl,  after  congratulating 
his  friend  on  his  election  to  the  Whig  Club,  returns  to  the  subject  of 
the  King's  health.  "  The  doctors,"  he  observes,  "  have  made  a  very 
incomplete  and  confused  report  of  the  King's  health  ;  it  is,  however, 
quite  sufficient  to  proceed  upon,  and  next  week  will,  I  hope,  see 
some  settled  government  in  this  country.  The  Prince  behaves  per- 
fectly well,  and  sticks  steadily  to  his  friends,  so  that  your  fric/id  Pitt 
will  I  hope  very  soon  be  reduced  to  a  private  and  subordinate 
situation.'*  On  the  19th  of  the  same  month  the  earl  wrote  again 
to  Mr.  Walker  on  the  unsettled  state  of  public  affairs  ;  told  him  that 
Fox,  although  far  from  well,  had  been  speaking  splendidly ;  and 
reported  that  the  Prince  still  remained  firm.  The  earl  is  sure  His 
Royal  Highness  will  not  accept  of  the  Regency  (if  limited)  unless 
his  friends  think  it  prudent  and  advisable  so  to  do.  "  He  has  seen 
a  fine  opportunity  to  give  an  example  of  his  future  way  of  acting, 
and  I  think  seems  sensible  of  it  and  determined  to  act  accordingly." 
Other  letters  on  the  crisis  followed  in  quick  succession  :  incessant 
acknowledgments  of  Mr.  Walkers  help  and  advice;  the  reiterated 
thanks  of  Fox ;  the  terms  on  which  the  sole  Regency  was  offered  to 
the  Prince  of  Wales ;  invitations  to  Knowsley  when  the  hares  pro- 
mise him  "  good  diversion ; "  and  notes  on  the  forthcoming  trial — the 
indictments  of  which  appeared  to  the  earl  "  frivolous  and  ridiculous.*' 
In  short.  Lord  Derby  corresponded  confidentially  with  Mr.  Walkei, 
on  the  rumours  of  Court  and  Parliament,  with  the  unreserve  of  the 
completest  friendship.  At  the  same  time  the  indefatigable  merchant 
and  reformer  kept  up  a  correspondence  with  a  crowd  of  celebrities 
on  all  kinds  of  religious,  political,  and  social  questions.  Dr.  Disney 
writes  (September  15,  1791)  to  acknowledge  Mr.  Walker's  donation 
of  ten  guineas  to  the  Unitarian  Society  ;  and  later,  to  thank  him  for 
a  donation  in  relief  of  "  poor  Holt,"  and  to  express  a  hope  "  not- 
withstanding appearances,  possibly  we  may  be  advancing  to  the 
removal  of  many  abuses,  to  the  permanent  establishment  of  civil 
liberty  in  this  country."  George  Dyer,  from  Clifford's  Inn,  begs  him 
to  get  his  new  poem,  "The  Poet's  Fate,'*  subscribed  among  his 
friends  in  Manchester,  the  times  being  "unfavourable  to  poetry'* 


The  Thomas  Walkers.  417 

and  the  volume  only  eighteenpence — and  its  spirit  being  antago- 
nistic to  the  times  and  sacred  to  liberty  and  human  happiness. 
Dr.  Ferriar  addresses  him  :  "  To  the  many  obligations  which  you 
iiavc  conferred  on  me,  and  of  which  I  must  always  retain  the  strongest 
remembrance,  I  hope  you  will  now  add  another — that  of  allowing 
me  to  decline  receiving  any  fee  on  account  of  your  late  indisposition, 
'i'he  persuasion  that  I  have  contributed  to  the  restoration  of  your 
health  is  a  sufficient  reward."  Earl  Fitzwilliam  says  (loth  September, 
1 785) :  "It  makes  me  very  happy  that  I  am  to  have  the  pleasure  of 
-seeing  you  on  Tuesday,  when  you  will  meet  Mr.  Fox.''  Another 
unfortunate  author  (Mr.  Frend)  begs  him  subscribe  a  couple  of  dozen 
of  his  book  "  Animadversions  on  the  Elements  of  Christian  Theology, 
by  the  Rev.  George  Pretyman,  D.D.,  F.R.S. ;"  and  adds:  "  but  if 
you  contribute  one  farthing  towards  the  said  two  dozen,  don't  call 
nie  your  friend."  Earl  Grey  writes  to  him  from  the  Admiralty  (23rd 
February,  1806)  that  \i\^  protege  John  Bates,  "a  landman  on  board 
the  AV///,  shall  be  discharged  from  the  service  as  soon  as  his  father 
has  produced  two  able-bodied  landsmen  to  the  regulating  captain  at 
J  jverpool." 

To  Mr.  Walker,  in  short,  all  the  principal  public  men  of  the  Liberal 
side  wrote  for  information,  advice,  and  assistance ;  from  the  time 
when  he  first  took  up  the  cudgels  for  Lancashire  industry,  and 
achieved  a  victory  for  fustian  against  Mr.  Pitt. 

He  paid  dearly  for  his  victory — that  victory  which  was  the  starting- 
point  of  Manchester's  present  greatness. 


CHAPTER   IL 

A      MARKED     MAN. 

Im)R  thirty  years  after  the  first  French  Revolution  Manchester  was 
ill  the  power  of  the  enemies  of  Reform.  The  principal  inhabitants 
had  been  Jacobites,  and  had  drunk  many  bumpers  in  their  favourite 
taverns  or  punch-houses  to  "  The  King,"  with  green  oak  branches 
Clodding  over  their  tumblers.  But  they  proved  merely  pot-valiant  in 
1715  and  1745  when  something  more  than  toasts  was  confidently 
expected  of  them  ;  and  they  were  ready  for  the  House  of  Hanover 
i>nly  when  they  found  that  the  new  family  were  not  more  dis- 
posed than  the  old  had  been  to  extend  popular  rights  or  religious 
liberty.  The  despotism  of  the  Stuarts  having  been  put  thoroughly 
aside  by  a  House  as  fully  disposed  to  hold  the  people  with  a 
high  hand,  the  sometime    Jacobite  tipplers  toasted  Church  and 


4 1 8  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

King  at  Shaw's  Punch-house,  or  any  handy  inn.  They  tippled 
amiably  enough  in  any  company  after  the  Stuarts  had  been  disposed 
of,  till  a  discussion  arose  in  1789  on  the  Test  and  Corporation  Acts. 
The  Jacobite  and  the  Hanoverian  met  over  one  mug,  the  Churchman 
passed  the  port  blandly  to  the  Dissenter.  While  there  was  no  hope 
of  Reform  there  was  no  reason  for  anger.  But  when  it  suddenly 
appeared  to  the  great  Dissenting  body  of  His  Majesty's  subjects  that, 
the  times  being  quiet  and  easy  and  the  general  spirit  of  the  public 
amiable ;  they  might  renew  their  application  to  Parliament  for  relief 
from  the  shameful  disabilities  which  they  had  suffered  so  long  with 
reasonable  hope  of  success  ;  they  found  that  the  fires  which  they  had 
hoped  were  extinguished  had  only  been  banked  up ;  that  the  old 
hate  had  only  slumbered ;  and  that  they  would  be  met  with  a  fuiy 
and  cnielty  worthy  of  the  days  of  Sacheverell.  Robert  Hall  tells  us 
that  the  petitioners  to  Parliament  were  overwhelmed  with  shameless 
invective.  " Their  sentiments/'  he  said, "have  been  misrepresented, 
their  loyalty  suspected,  and  their  most  illustrious  characters  held  up 
to  derision  and  contempt.  The  effusions  of  a  distempered  loyalty 
are  mingled  with  execrations  on  that  unfortunate  sect,  as  if  attach- 
ment to  the  King  were  to  be  measured  by  the  hatred  of  Dis- 
senters." 

In  truth,  the  clergy  of  the  PLstablished  Church  linked  Church  with 
King  in  the  spirit  of  "The  Vicar  of  Bray" — the  song  in  which  the 
Liberals  of  that  day  retorted  on  their  violent  and  unscrupulous  oppo- 
nents. The  Churchmen's  love  for  the  "  mutton-eating  King  *'  was  a 
loaf-and-fish  loyalty.  It  was  while  their  eye  was  upon  the  tithe  pig 
that  they  most  dearly  loved  His  Majesty — as  they  would  have  loved 
the  Stuart  had  he  got  safely  back  to  St.  James's  in  1745.  The  alarm 
which  they  sounded  in  1789  of  "The  Church  in  Danger"  was  a 
poltroon's  note.  They  knew  it  was  a  war-cry  that  would  lash  cc^rtain 
classes  into  ungovernable  fury  and  send  many  a  man's  hand  to  his 
neighbour's  tlu-oat ;  that  it  would  provoke  bloodshed  ;  that  it  would 
bespatter  '*  illustrious  characters  *'  with  mud ;  and  lastly,  that  the 
Church  was  not  in  danger — yet  they  deliberately  uttered  it  with  no 
more  respectable  excuse  for  their  act  than  the  thief  has  who  raises  a 
cry  of  fire  in  a  crowd. 

The  cry  awoke  all  the  slumbering  animosities  of  the  Manchester 
Tories  and  Churchmen.  They  called  a  meeting  to  consider  and  con- 
sult about  the  impropriety  of  the  application  to  Parliament  of  the 
Protestant  Dissenters.  They  described  the  Corporation  and  Test 
Acts  as  salutary  laws — "  the  great  bulwarks  and  barriers,  for  a  century 
and  upwards,  of  our  glorious  constitution  in  Church  and  State.'' 


The  Thomas  Walkers,  419* 

1'he  clergy  attended  in  their  gowns  and  cassocks* ;  the  meeting  was 
packed,  and  amid  uproar  and  high  words  a  resolution  was  carried  to 
the  effect  that  the  rehgion  of  the  State  should  be  the  religion  of  the 
magistrate,  **  without  which  no  society  can  be  wisely  confident  of  the 
integrity  and  good  faith  of  the  persons  appointed  to  places  of  trust 
and  honour."  Shortly  before  this  packed  Manchester  meeting,  in 
which  clergymen  declared  that  the  integrity  and  good  faith  of  Dis- 
senters could  not  be  relied  on ;  a  debate  had  taken  place  in  the 
House  of  Commons  on  the  Test  and  Corporation  Acts,  in  which  the 
motion  for  the  repeal  of  these  Acts  had  been  rejected  by  a  majority 
of  only  twenty.  One  hundred  and  two  members  had  voted  with  Mr. 
Fox  that  "no  human  government  has  jurisdiction  over  opinions  as 
such,  and  more  particularly  religious  opinions." 

Party  feeling  ran  high  in  those  intolerant  days.  In  a  year  the 
base  cry  of  "  Tiie  Church  in  Danger "  had  increased  the  majority 
against  the  repeal  of  the  Test  and  Corporation  Acts  froin  twenty  ta 
one  hundred  and  eighty-nine.  Mr.  Burice  had  lashed  the  House  into- 
great  excitement  by  telling  members — quoting  a  correspondent — that 
the  object  of  the  Dissenters  was  not  the  destruction  of  the  obnoxious 
Acts,  but  the  abolition  of  the  tithes  and  liturgy.  This  was  enough 
for  the  Church.  Not  the  tip  of  the  tail  of  the  smallest  tithe  pig 
should  be  touched.  The  press  must  be  put  in  a  state  of  bondage  ; 
and  the  editor  of  the  Tinus  was  in  Newgate  to  begin  with.  Mr. 
Prentice,  who  watched  the  hateful  struggle  in  Manchester,  says: 
''  Tlie  pulpit  was  arrayed  against  the  press — and  the  pulpit  had  the 
best  of  it.     It  was  ten  thousand  against  ten." 

These  were  the  odds  when  the  Church  and  King  Club  was  formed 
at  Manchester.  The  Dissenters  had  been  badly  beaten  ;  they  were 
the  poorer  party ;  they  had  few  champions.  The  members  of  the 
new  club  aired  themselves  in  uniforms  enlivened  with  Old  Church 
buttons,  and  sang  over  their  cups,  **  Church  and  King,  and  down 
witli  the  Rump."  Who  would  not  drink  confusion  to  the  Rump  was 
a  man  to  be  tabooed  and  kept  out  of  society. 

At  this  juncture  of  public  afiairs  the  well-known  and  most  respected 
Manchester  merchant,  Mr.  Thomas  Walker,  of  Barlow  Hall,  appeared 
again  prominently  on  the  scene.  He  was  a  staunch  and  fearless- 
Liberal,  yet  a  Churchman,  a  gentleman  of  high  character,  and  a  man 
of  commanding  energy,  enterprise,  and  force  of  intellect.  The  beaten: 
Dissenters  and  Liberals,  few  in  number  and  poor  in  influence,  were 


♦  "Historical  Sketches  and  Personal  Recollections  of  Manchester:  intended; 
to  Illustrate  the  Progress  of  Public  Opinion  from  1792  to  1832."  By  Archibald 
Prentice.    (Charles  Gilpin.     185 1.) 


420  The  Gentlemaiis  Magazine. 

of  lough  material.  Their  answer  to  the  uproarious  Church  and  King 
men  was  the  formation  of  the  Manchester  Constitutional  Society, 
with  Mr.  Thomas  Walker  for  president. 

So  low  was  Liberalism  in  Manchester  when  Mr.  Walker  took  office, 
that  the  two  newspapers  in  the  town  had  begun  to  refuse  commu- 
nications on  the  side  of  liberty.  A  member  of  the  Manchester 
Constitutional  Society  started  a  paper  on  the  Liberal  side,  but  after 
a  stormy  life  of  twelve  months,  pursued  by  hostile  authorities,  and  a 
('hurch  and  King  mob,  it  ceased  to  exist.  The  town  was  completely 
under  the  domination  of  the  enemies  of  all  Reform,  who  had  an  igno- 
rant host  at  their  back,  whom  clergymen  did  not  scruple  to  lead 
against  Reformers  and  Dissenters.  **  Some  twenty  years  afterwaxds," 
Mr.  Prentice  observes,  "  I  used  to  hear  Mr.  Thomas  Kershaw 
recount  the  perils  of  those  days,  and  express  his  joy  that,  however 
little  progress  Liberal  opinions  might  have  made,  it  was  impossible 
then  to  get  up  a  Church  and  King  mob." 

From  the  moment  Mr.  Thomas  Walker  assumed  his  place  as 
president  of  the  Constitutional  Society,  the  Liberal  cause  took  a  new 
and  vigorous  life.  He  and  his  associates  were  very  much  in  earnest 
in  times  when  earnestness  on  the  popular  side  led  very  often  to  the 
county  gaol.  The  declaration  of  the  new  society  read  nowada)'s, 
would  be  acceptable  to  any  Liberal-Conservative.  Mr.  Walker  and 
his  committee  affirmed  that  the  members  of  the  House  of  Commons 
should  owe  their  seats  to  the  good  opinion  and  free  suffrage  of  the 
people  at  large,  and  not  to  the  prostituted  votes  of  venal  and 
corrupted  boroughs.  The  society  disclaimed  any  idea  of  exciting  to 
a  disturbance  of  the  peace.  It  hoped  to  quash  rising  sedition  by 
promoting  a  timely  and  well-directed  reform  of  abuses,  and  so 
removing  all  pretences  for  it.  A  more  moderate  document,  in  short, 
than  that  which  bore  Mr.  Thomas  Walker's  name  could  not  have 
been  issued  by  a  Reform  Society.  Within  a  week  of  its  appearance 
(jovernment  sent  forth  a  proclamation  against  wicked  and  seditious 
writings  (in  which  this  mild  manifesto  was  included),  and  exhorted  all 
loyal  citizens  to  beware  of  such  emanations  of  the  enemies  of  the  public 
weal.  At  the  same  time  the  magistrates  were  exhorted  to  discover  the 
authors  and  disseminators  of  such  papers  as  those  in  which  purity  of 
Parliamentary  election  and  the  removal  of  the  disabilities  of  Dis- 
senters were  openly  advocated.  The  activity  of  Mr.  Walker  and  his 
friends — the  Government  proclamation  notwithstanding — stirred  the 
Manciiester  Church  and  King  Club  to  extraordinary  exertions ;  and 
they  resolved  to  strike  a  blow  on  the  King's  birthday  (4th  June, 
1792)  by  voting  an  address  of  congratulation  to  His  Majesty  on  the 


The  Thomas  Walkers.  421 

Royal  Proclamation.  Mr.  Walker  issued  a  counter  address,  in  which 
he  entreated  the  members  of  all  the  Reform  Associations  in  the  town 
and  neighbourhood  to  keep  clear  of  the  meeting,  in  the  interests  of 
peace. 

"  This  precaution,"  Mr.  Walker  says  in  a  review  of  the  political 
events  which  occurred  in  Manchester  between  the  years  1789  and 
1 794,  "  was  but  too  necessary,  for  in  the  evening  of  Monday,  the  4th, 
a  considerable  number  of  people  assembled  in  St.  Ann's  Square  to 
sec  some  illuminations,  exhibited  by  two  of  His  Majesty's  tradesmen, 
when  the  crowd  became  very  tumultuous  and  assaulted  several 
])eaccable  spectators ;  they  proceeded  to  tear  up  several  of  the  trees 
growing  there,  one  of  which  was  carried  with  great  triumph  to  the 
Dissenters'  chapel,  near  the  square,  and  the  gates  attempted  to  be 
forced  open,  with  violent  cries  of  *  Church  and  King,'  *  Down  with 
the  Rump,'  *  Down  with  it,'  &c.  Another  tree  was  carried  in  the 
same  riotous  manner,  and  with  the  same  exultation,  to  the  Unitarian 
Chapel,  in  Mosley  Street.  Fortunately,  however,  the  doors  withstood 
the  attacks  made  upon  them,  the  people  were  persuaded  gradually  to 
<lisperse,  and  about  one  o'clock  in  the  morning  the  streets  became 

<  111  let,  without  any  further  damage." 

This  was  the  beginning  of  the  campaign,  a  campaign  in  which  the 
ipjnorant  workpeople  were  led  by  the  influential  citizens,  and  stimu- 
lated by  the  clergy  against  those  who  were  peacefully  advocating  the 
principles  of  which,  in  later  years,  Manchester  was  destined  to  be  the 
stronghold.  The  ferocity  with  which  the  Church  and  King  party 
acted  towards  their  antagonists,  took  many  forms.  The  Reformer  was 
shunned,  despised,  and  maltreated.  Many  taverns  were  inscribed 
**  No  Jacobins  admitted  here ;"  and  he  would  have  been  a  bold  man 
indeed  who  had  entered  and  broached  the  very  mildest  Refonn  prin- 

<  iples.  Mr.  Prentice  says  that  so  late  as  1825  one  of  these  boards 
could  be  seen  in  a  Manchester  public-house ;  and  that  it  was  at  length 
removed  because  the  change  which  had  come  over  the  dream  of  the 
citizens  made  it  a  dangerous  sign  to  show.  In  1792  the  clergy, 
accompanied  by  a  tax-gatherer,  went  the  round  of  the  taverns,  and 
warned  the  licensed  victuallers  that  they  would  admit  a  Reform 
Society  within  their  own  doors  at  the  peril  of  their  licence.  At  the 
same  time  they  handed  them  a  declaration  for  their  signature.  Mr. 
Walker  records  that  186  of  the  publicans  were  obsequious,  for  "they 
thought  their  licences  of  more  value  than  our  custom."  The  Church 
and  King  men  were  the  deeper  drinkers.  The  Dissenters  and 
Reformers  met  rather  to  discuss  than  to  make  merry ;  whereas  the 
Tories  had  nothing  to  discuss  about,  being  the  victorious  party,  and 


422  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

having  resolved  to  remain  so,  by  the  help  of  the  police  and  the 
soldiery. 

Tlic  declaration  of  the  publicans  referred  to  a  meeting  which 
Mr.  Walker's  party  had  convened  to  raise  a  subscription  for  the 
sufferers  by  war  in  France. 

Mr.  Prentice  says :  "  The  public-house  was  now  a  most  effective 
auxiliary  to  the  church,  the  publican  to  the  parson,  and  they  formed 
a  holy  alliance  against  the  mischievous  press.  There  was  now  hope 
that  a  more  efhcient  mob  might  be  organised  than  that  which  only 
tore  up  a  few  trees  in  St.  Ann's  Square ;  there  was  the  example  of 
the  four  days'  riots  in  Birmingham,  and  the  destruction  of  Dr. 
Priestley's  house  and  half  a  dozen  others  \  and  there  was  a  strong 
disposition  to  read  a  similar  *  wholesome  lesson '  to  the  disloyal  of 
Manchester.  A  proclamation  was  issued  by  Government  on  the 
I  St  of  December,  obviously  to  excite  and  prepare  the  people  for  war 
against  France ;  and  meetings  were  held,  one  in  Salford  on  the  7th, 
and  one  in  Manchester  on  the  i  ith  of  that  month,  at  which  it  was 
earnestly  striven  to  exasperate  the  public  mind.  Thomas  Cooper, 
the  barrister,  had  issued  an  admirable  address  on  the  evils  of  war, 
but  it  produced  no  effect  on  the  roused  passions  of  the  multitude.  A 
rumour  went  out  that  there  would  be  a  riot  that  evening.  It  was 
known  that  there  would  be  one.  Persons  went  from  the  meeting  to 
the  public-houses,  which  became  crowded,  and  thence  parties  pro- 
ceeded and  paraded  the  streets  with  music  before  them,  raising  cries 
against  Jacobins  and  i^resbyterians — meaning  by  the  latter  term 
Dissenters — and  cany-ing'  boards,  on  which  the  words  *  Church  and 
King '  were  painted  in  large  letters.  As  if  by  a  preconcerted  scheme, 
the  various  i)arading  parties  united  in  the  market-place,  opposite  the 
I)ublication  office  of  Faulkner  and  Birch,  the  printers  of  the  Alan- 
Chester  Jlcralii^  and,  amidst  loud  cries  of  *  Church  and  King/  the}* 
attacked  the  house  and  shop  with  stones  and  brickbats  till  the 
windows  were  destroyed  and  beaten  in  at  the  front  of  the  house. 
Where  were  the  friends  of  *  social  order  *  during  the  destruction  of 
property  ?  They  were  there  encouraging  the  drunken  mob.  Some 
respectable  i)ersons  urged  upon  those  whose  duty  it  was  to  protect 
life  and  pr(;])erty  to  do  their  duty,  but  remonstrance  was  unavailable. 
Unite,  the  deputy  constable,  on  being  applied  to,  said — 'They  are 
loyal  subjects;  let  them  alone;  let  them  frighten  him  9>  bit;  it  b 
good  to  frighten  these  people.'  This  worthy  then  went  to  the  mob, 
and  clapping  on  the  back  some  of  the  most  active  in  the  work  of 
destruction,  said — 'Good  lads;  good  lads;'  and  perceiving  some 
beadles  attempting  to  do  their  duty,  he  said — *  Come  away;  d — ^n  the 


The  Thonias  Walkers.  423 

house,  don't  come  near  it.'  A  gentleman  remarked  in  the  hearing  of  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Griffith,  who  was  standing  looking  on — *  What  scandalous 
work  this  is  !  *  *  Not  at  all,  sir,'  replied  the  reverend  gentleman  ; 
*and  if  I  was  called  upon,  I  would  not  act  against  them.*  One  of 
the  special  constables  was  heard  to  say  in  another  part  of  the  town — 
*  I'll  give  a  guinea  for  every  one  6f  the  Jacobins'  houses  you  pull 
down.'  The  work  was  going  bravely  on,  parson  and  publican  doing 
tlieir  best.  Mr.  Allen  Jackson  went  to  the  house  of  Mr.  Nathaniel 
Milne,  clerk  to  the  magistrates  (father  to  the  present  Mr.  Oswald 
Milne),  and  urged  Mr.  Bentley,  a  magistrate,  to  preserve  the  peace  ; 
but  he  was  told  that  it  was  *  a  scandalous,  shameful,  abominable 
business  to  call  out  a  magistrate  on  such  a  trifling  piece  of  business  as 
breaking  a  few  windows  ! '  Mr.  Jackson  then  found  out  the  senior 
constable,  and  some  of  the  constables  hearing  the  application, 
threatened  to  kick  him  out  of  doors.  So  the  printers  and  their 
friends  were  left  to  defend  the  premises.  *  It  was  good  to  frighten 
such  people.'  From  seven  o'clock  till  eleven  four  several  attacks 
were  made  on  Mr.  Walker's  house.  *  It  was  good  to  frighten  *  such 
a  man  ;  he  was  to  be  frightened  in  another  way  soon.  The  Attorney- 
General  was  to  take  the  place  of  a  drunken  mob.'* 

The  president  of  the  Constitutional  Club,  being  a  man  of  energy 
and  courage,  took  the  commonest  precautions  to  effect  that  which 
the  authorities,  with  the  approbation  of  the  Government,  refused 
to  do  for  him.  He  protected  his  home,  with  the  help  of  some  friends 
and  arms,  against  the  mob.  He  declined  to  have  his  house  ran* 
sacked  under  the  combined  direction  of  the  priests  and  the  publicans. 
Mr.  Fox  called  the  attention  of  the  House  of  Commons  to  the 
reprehensible  conduct  of  the  Manchester  authorities  while  a  "  rabble 
rout  were  battering  in  the  houses  of  peaceable  citizens ; "  but  he  got 
his  answer.  Mr.  Wyndham  excused  both  the  magistrates  and  the 
mob.  "The  indignation  excited  against  Mr.  Walker,"  he  said,  "was 
more  fairly  imputable  to  his  political  opinions  than  to  his  being  a 
Dissenter.  It  was  natural,  and  even  justifiable,  for  men  to  feel 
indignation  against  those  who  promulgated  doctrines  threatening 
all  that  was  valuable  and  dear  in  society ;  and  if  there  were  not 
means  of  redress  by  law,  even  violence  would  be  justifiable.** 

The  i)rcsident  of  the  Constitutional  Society  wanted,  not  only  com- 
jjlete  civil  and  religious  liberty  for  all  classes  of  His  Majesty's  subjects, 
not  only  the  destruction  of  rotten  boroughs  and  purity  of  elections  : — 
he  was  in  favour  of  peace !  Such  a  politician,  in  those  days,  was  indeed 
a  marked  man  ;  and  a  secret  society,  with  a  public-house  for  appro- 
priate head-quarters,  was  formed  to  put  him   and   his  colleagues 


424  The  Gcfitleman's  Magazine. 

<lovvn*  by  force,  by  the  payment  of  spies,  and  other  highly  reputable 
means. 

This  society,  aiding  a  daring  and  hostile  Government,  soon  found 
opportunities  for  making  their  animosity  felt.  Mr.  Walker  was  not, 
however,  without  i)owerful  friends  to  comfort  him.  The  Marquis  of 
I^nsdowne  wrotetohim  (26th  December,  1792):  "I  was  excessively 
^hock'd  when  I  read  the  account  of  the  attempt  made  upon  your 
brother's  house,  and  heartily  glad  to  hear  that  you  escap'd  so  well, 
OS  I  take  it  for  granted  that  you  would  both  have  run  the  same 
risque.  The  times  require  patience,  prudence,  and  firmness.  With 
these  qualities,  every  thing  right  and  reasonable  may  be  expected. 
Without  them  the  i)ublic  have  nothing  to  hope." 


CHAPTER  III. 

JACOBIN     WALKER. 

W'liKN  Mr.  TJiomas  Walker  became  Boroughreeve  of  Manchester — 
tJicn  the  second  commercial  town  in  the  empire — there  can  be  no 
doubt  that  he  was  the  most  popular  citizen  in  it  —  his  political 
■opinions  notwithstanding.  A  merchant  and  manufacturer  whose 
dealings  spread  to  all  the  commercial  ports  of  the  world  ;  a  man  of 
ancient  family,  and  at  the  same  time  a  resolute  Liberal ;  a  citizen  who 
liad  always  been  foremost  in  every  good  cause  affecting  the  liberties 
or  well-being  of  his  fellow-townsmen ;  and  a  speaker  and  writer  of 
■considerable  power,  he  held  a  place  in  the  public  mind  that  drew 
upon  him  the  notice  of  Fox  and  Pitt  His  opinions  were  of  some 
conse(iuence  to  these  statesmen.  Pitt  detested  him  as  the  leader  of 
the  successful  opposition  to  his  Fustian  Tax ;  and  Fox  esteemed  him 
as  a  valuable  ally.  In  a  slight  memoir  of  him  published  in  181 9  by 
AVilliam  Hone,  his  activities  in  the  cause  of  freedom  and  humanity 
are  rapidly  sketched. 

**  His  spirit,"  says  the  writer,  "shall  not  be  insulted  by  extravagant 
])anegyric ;  that  language  would  be  worse  than  valueless,  for  it  could 
not  be  sincere  ;  yet  the  remains  of  Thomas  Walker  must  not  be  con- 
signed to  the  tomb  without  some  tribute  to  his  talents,  his  virtues, 
and  his  sufferings.  Throughout  the  whole  course  of  a  long  and 
active  life,  he  was  a  steady  and  consistent  friend  both  of  civil  and 
religious  freedom  ;  and,  accordingly,  when  the  repeal  of  the  Test 


*  Society  to  put  down  Levellers,  established  at  the  Bull*s  Head,  ManchestCTp 
December  12th,  1792. 


The  Thomas  Walkers.  425. 

and  Corporation  Acts  was  proposed  in  the  House  of  Commons,  Mr. 
Walker,  who  was  then  a  young  man,  stood  forwards  here  [the  paper 
is  dated  fiom  Manchester]  as  a  zealous  and  powerful  advocate  for  the 
removal  of  those  odious  and  illiberal  disqualifications.  During  the 
long  contests  which  preceded  the  abolition  of  the  slave  trade  he  was^ 
a  uniform  and  efficient  enemy  to  that  inhuman  traffic.  His  love  of 
freedom,  his  hatred  of  tyranny,  were  not  circumscribed  within  the 
narrow  limits  of  his  native  land.  Convinced  that  the  natural  ten- 
dency of  liberty  is  to  elevate  the  character  and  increase  the  happi- 
ness of  man,  he  ardently  wished  to  see  its  blessings  extended  all  over 
the  world.  The  commercial  interests  of  this  town  and  neighbour- 
hood were  especially  indebted  to  him.  .  .  .  But  the  most 
important  and  the  most  active  period  of  his  life  was  during  the  early 
stages  of  the  French  Revolution.  His  principles  naturally  led  hin>, 
in  common  with  so  many  of  the  best  and  wisest  of  his  countrymen, 
to  hail  as  an  auspicious  event  the  efforts  made  by  the  French  people 
to  free  themselves  from  the  hateful  despotism  by  which  they  were 
misnilcd.  He  considered  the  original  objects  of  government  as  being 
in  France  completely  inverted,  because  the  sovereign  authority, 
instead  of  being  regarded  as  a  trust  delegated  by  the  people  for  their 
own  benefit,  was  there  exercised,  under  the  pretended  sanction  of 
divine  right,  for  purposes  of  the  most  exaggerated  extortion  and  the 
most  cmel  oppression.  Under  the  influence  of  these  feelings,  Mr. 
Walker  officiated  as  chairman  at  a  public  dinner  intended  to  com- 
memorate the  destruction  of  the  Bastille,  and  perhaps  from  this  time 
may  be  traced  the  commencement  of  that  remorseless  and  malignant 
persecution  which  attacked  successively  his  character,  his  property, 
and  his  life." 

But  in  the  year  of  his  election  as  boroughreeve  we  find  him  in  the 
full  flush  of  his  prosperity,  and  at  the  height  of  his  activity.  He  was 
prominent  not  only  in  political  and  party  questions,  but  also  in  the 
administration  of  the  charitable  institutions  of  the  town — of  which  he 
published  an  account  after  the  expiration  of  his  term  of  office.  It 
was,  indeed,  from  his  attendance  at  the  Infirmar)'in  September,  1790 
— almost  on  the  eve  of  his  election  to  the  chief  magistracy, — that  he 
dated  the  beginning  of  those  troubles  which,  in  the  end,  ruined  his 
fortunes,  and  were  the  sole  reward  of  his  unselfish  life.  No  man- 
could  hold  the  position  Mr.  Walker  held  in  Manchester,  at  the  break- 
ing out  of  the  French  Revolution,  without  incurring  the  active  hostility 
of  a  few  disappointed  or  sour-spirited  fellow  citizens.  Mr.  Walker 
discovered  his  first  determined  enemy  while  he  was  advocating 
additions  to  the  staflf  of  physicians  and  surgeons  for  the  poor  of 


416  The  Gentleman  s  Jllix/i^azine. 

Manchester.  He  was  opposed  by  a  gentleman  lately  returned  from 
America,  ruined  by  the  war ;  and  who,  having  been  called  to  the 
l)ar,  liad  just  selected  Manchester  as  the  theatre  of  his  career.  Mr. 
William  Roberts  was  fired  with  the  besoin  de paraitre.  He  had  made 
a  little  way  ;  but  his  burning  desire  was  to  become  a  household  word 
in  Cottonopolis;  and  he  saw  no  better  road  to  this  sudden  fame 
than  through  an  attack  upon  the  popular  citizen  whom  he  called 
*'  the  great  Walker."  He  first  crossed  swords  with  the  "great "  man 
in  September  :  the  "  great "  man  remaining  all  the  time  utteziy 
unconscious  of  the  engagement.  Proud  of  the  achievement,  he  made 
it  a  subject  of  conversation  at  the  Bridgewater  Arms,  and  at  the  dinner 
table  of  Messrs.  Heywood,  the  bankers.  In  the  coffee-room  of  his 
inn,  whither  he  repaired,  drunk,  from  Messrs.  Heywood's  table,  he 
rallied  the  secretary  of  the  Infirmary  about  the  **great"  man;  observed 
that  he  was  his  match  as  an  extemix)re  speaker  any  day  ;  and  gave  the 
company  in  the  coffee-room  to  understand  that  lie  was  preparing  an 
attack  ui)on  the  greatness  of  his  enemy,  who,  he  alleged,  had  affronted 
him.  Mr.  Roberts,  having  laid  down  his  plans,  went  boldly  to  work, 
<:asting  low  epithets  at  the  gendeman  with  whom  he  was  picking  a 
(juarrel,  and  denouncing  him  in  a  public  room  as  a  proud,  haughty, 
overbearing,  imperious  fellow.  He  proclaimed  that  he  should  take 
the  earliest  opportunity  of  assailing  him  ;  and  he  expressed  his  regret 
that  he  had  not  called  him  a  "  damned  liar  "  at  the  Infirmary. 

It  was  while  Mr.  Roberts  was  polishing  his  weapons,  and  airing 
his  valour  a  good  deal  at  the  Tory  inns,  that  Mr.  Walker  was  elected 
boroughreeve.  His  new  dignity,  no  doubt,  gave  fresh  zest  to  the 
animosity  of  the  enemy  who  was  lying  in  wait  for  him.  Mr.  Roberts, 
in  the  course  of  his  preparations  for  battle,  perceived  a  second 
advantage  to  be  got  out  of  the  encounter.  The  discomfiture  of  the 
« hief  destroyer  of  the  Fustian  Tax  would  be  a  welcome  bit  of  news 
to  Mr.  Pitt,  and  it  might  commend  its  author  to  the  Minister. 

The  celebration  of  the  glorious  Revolution  of  1688 — an  annual 
festival  in  Manchester — was  in  1790  presided  over  by  the  borough- 
reeve.  **  There  were  convened,"  to  use  the  words  of  Mr.  Law,  after- 
wards Lord  Ellenborouijh,  "  for  this  anniversary  many  gentlemen  of 
consideration  and  note  in  the  town  and  neighbourhood  of  Manchester ; 
and  it  happened  that  Mr.  Walker  was  put  in  the  chair  as  president  of 
that  meeting,  by  the  voluntary  election  of  the  gentlemen  present ; 
other  gentlemen  of  consideration  and  property  were  placed  at  the 
Jiead  of  other  tables." 

Could  Mr.  Roberts  have  a  better  opportunity  than  this  ?  It  was  a 
picked  company — including    the   High  Sheriff  for  the  county    of 


The  Thomas  Walkers,  427 

Lancaster.  How  the  occasion  was  turned  to  account ;  and  the  course 
the  boroughreeve  pursued  under  a  low  and  cowardly  affront,  I  will 
leave  Mr.  Law  to  relate.  His  speech,  the  interest  of  the  subject  apart, 
deserves  for  its  masterly  range  over  the  case  and  its  delicate 
eloquence,  to  be  disinterred  from  the  old  pamphlet  in  which  I  have 
found  it  The  speaker  was  Mr.  Walker's  counsel,  when  Mr.  Roberts 
was  brought  by  the  outraged  boroughreeve  to  the  Lancaster  Assizes 
to  answer  a  charge  of  libel,  on  March  28,  1791. 

"  It  often  occurs,"  said  Mr.  Law,  "  in  the  course  of  our  professional 
life,  and  whenever  it  does  occur  a  most  painful  circumstance  it  is, 
tliat  we  are  obliged,  in  the  discharge  of  its  necessary  duties,  to  oppose 
ourselves  to  the  interests,  the  wishes,  and  sometimes  to  the  tenderest 
feelings  of  those  with  whom  we  have  antecedently  lived  in  the  habits 
of  some  familiar  intercourse  and  acquaintance — but  considerations  of 
this  sort,  or  even  of  that  regard  which  grows  out  of  a  near  degree  of 
intimacy  and  friendship,  if  any  such  had  happened  to  subsist  between 
the  defendant  and  myself,  would  not  (as  surely  they  ought  not)  warp 
my  conduct  upon  this  occasion — recollecting,  as'  I  must,  that  I 
represent  Mr.  Walker,  the  gentleman  who  sits  by  me;  a  person 
injured  almost  beyond  the  limits  of  any  recompense  which  it  is  in 
your  power  to  make  him ;  for  I  defy  my  learned  friend  to  tell  me 
how  a  person  applying  himself  with  the  most  deliberate  and 
industrious  malignity  to  ransack  the  English  language  for  terms  of 
the  most  severe  and  cutting  reproach,  could  have  succeeded  better  ; 
or  could,  indeed,  have  found  and  applied  any  that  so  immediately 
strike  at  everything  that  is  honourable  in  man ;  everything  which  con- 
stitutes a  i^art  of  the  general  estimation,  either  of  a  gentleman,  a 
merchant,  or  a  citizen  of  the  community,  as  those  terms  which  his 
client  has  thought  fit  to  employ  on  this  occasion.  The  language  has 
been  ransacked  but  too  successfully,  and  the  paper  I  will  now  read  to 
you  is  the  mischievous  result  of  this  ill-applied  diligence  : — 

Mr.  Thomas  Walker 
Commenced  his  virulence  against  me  like  a*        ♦        Bully. 
Has  conducted  it  like  a      ♦        •        *        ♦        ♦        FooL. 
Has  acted  in  it  like  a*         •         ♦         *        ♦        ♦        Scoundrkl. 
Has  ended  it  like  a    ♦        ♦        ♦        ♦        ♦        *        Coward. 
At  last  has  turned     ♦♦♦♦»♦        Blackguard. 
And  unworthy  of  association  \\'ith,  or  notice  of  any  gentleman 
who  regards  his  own  character. 

William  Roberts. 

This  is  not  a  sudden  gust  of  anger,  arising  out  of  some  unforeseen 
occasion,  as  perhaps  my  learned  friend  may  endeavour  to  impress  you 
that  it  is,  but  is  the  mature  fruit  of  a  deliberate  preconceived  purpose  of 


428  Tlie  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

traducing  and  injuring  Mr.  Walker ;  a  purpose  which  the  defendant 
had  not  only  the  wickedness  to  conceive,  but  the  folly  to  declare, 
long  before  this  publication  found  its  way  into  the  world ;  a  purpose 
of  lowering  and  degrading  him  in  the  estimation  and  within  the 
immediate  circle  of  his  own  fellow-citizens — and  by  the  aid  of  thai 
commodious  vehicle  which  he  has  adopted  for  the  circulation  of  hU 
slander,  of  propagating  his  name  with  every  vile  note  and  appellation 
of  infamy  tacked  to  it,  to  the  remotest  corners  of  the  world,  at  least 
as  far  as  our  national  commerce,  and  the  connections  of  Mr.  Walker 
(which  are,  I  believe,  nearly  co-extensive  with  the  range  of  thai 
commerce),  are  in  fact  extended  and  dispersed." 

Mr.  Law  described  the  scene  at  the  banquet : — 

"  After  the  cloth  was  removed,  toasts  of  course  went  round,  and 
it  is  usual,  you  know,  to  call  for  songs,  and  such  are  generally  called 
for  as  commemorate  either  the  triumphs  of  our  country  or  the  gallant 
achievements  of  individuals  who  have  at  different  periods  adorned 
it ;  after  songs  of  this  kind,  which  are  most  peculiarly  calculated  to 
elevate  the  hearts  of  Englishmen,  any  others  which  are  most  likely 
to  promote  the  niirdi  and  entertainment  of  a  public  meeting  are  in 
turn  brought  forward.'' 

Unfortunately  for  the  mirth  and  the  entertainment  a  gentleman  sug- 
gested, to  follow  "The  Vicar  of  Bray  *'  the  song  of  "  Billy  Pitt  the 
Tory,*'  and  requested  Mr.  Walker  to  call  for  it  Of  the  song  Mr. 
I-^w  remarked  :  "  It  is  a  song  which  I  do  not  know  whether  you  can 
call  perfectly  innocent  and  inoffensive,  but  there  is  certainly  some 
humour  in  it ;  and  I  am  confident  that  the  gentleman  whose  name 
that  song  bears  (being  at  once  a  good-humoured  man^  a  man  of 
humour,  and  cciually  disposed  to  delight  in  the  wit  of  others  as  to 
indulge  the  exercise  of  his  own)  would  have  sat  perfectly  undisturbed 
at  hearing  the  song,  if  he  had  not  even  joined  in  the  laugh  which  it 
occasioned ;  this,  however,  furnished  an  occasion  of  quarrel  to  the 
sore  and  i)remodit<ited  spirit  of  Mr.  Roberts."  He  objected  to  the 
song  "  in  a  clamorous  and  angry  manner,"  and  "  Britannia  rules  the 
Waves  "  was  substituted ;  but  Mr.  Roberts  would  not  let  the  opjior- 
tunily  pass,  and,  stepping  up  to  him,  ended  an  insolent  speech  with 
"  God  damn  you,  but  you  shall  hear  from  me." 

Mr.  Walker  did  hear  from  Mr.  Roberts  accordingly  in  the  fomi 
above  described,  which  Mr.  l>aw  described  as  "  a  wicked  scroll  of 
slander.'  'inhere  is  not  the  least  doubt  that  political  animosities  en- 
venomed the  wounds  which  Mr.  Pitt's  toady  inflicted;  and  that  the 
case  was  carried  to  the  assizes  at  Lancaster  on  the  boiling  tide  ot 
party  hate. 


The  Thomas  Walkers.  429 

The  Tories  of  the  Bull's  Head  were  the  doughty  backers  of  Mr. 
Roberts  ;  and  they  contrived  to  keep  the  fire  of  the  two  antagonists 
unabated  long  after  the  Revolution  dinner  had  been  digested,  and 
to  give  the  quarrel  such  public  importance  that  Mr.  Gumey  was  ^ 
summoned  from  London  to  take  a  verbatim  note  of  the  trial,  which 
note  lies  before  me.  The  evidence  of  the  witnesses  presents  a 
\  ivid  picture  of  the  dinner,  which  began  early  in  the  afternoon,  and 
at  wjiich  the  convives,  on  their  own  confession,  drank  "  a  good  deal 
of  wine."  In  his  cups  one  gentleman  turns  to  his  neighbour  and 
wildly  observes,  "  What  can  Mr.  Roberts  possibly  have  said  to  Mr. 
AValker  that  makes  him  look  so  damnation  poisonous  at  him?" 
Mr.  Walker's  brother-in-law  deposes  that  he  had  drunk  a  good  deal 
of  wine  when  the  quarrel  happened — *'  two  or  three  hours  "  after 
dinner — which  began  at  half-past  three.  It  was  an  uproarious  gather- 
ing of  gentlemen  in  buff  and  blue,  sprinkled  with  visitors  in  brown, 
like  Mr.  Roberts ;  and  the  quarrel,  begun  at  the  dinner  table,  was 
continued  at  sui)pcr  tables  all  over  the  city. 

The  jury  gave  Mr.  Walker;;^  100  damages,  but  they  left  the  hatred 
of  the  Tories — of  Billy  Pitt's  men — concentrated  upon  his  devoted 
Jicad  ;  and  this  hate  soon  made  itself  felt.  In  Mr.  Walker's  vast  corre- 
spondence with  the  notable  political  men  of  his  day,  I  find  not  only 
warnings  against  conspirators  and  spies,  but  intimations  that  it  is 
necessary  to  be  cautious  in  correspondence,  because  "  the  post  is  not 
secure  or  iiiithful."'  Foul  machinery  was  at  work  to  crush  men  of  the 
popular  Manchester  merchant's  influence  and  principles.  Mr.  Thos. 
Brand  HoUis  writes  to  him  in  1793  to  be  discreet  and  cautious  against 
a  certain  clever  and  accomplished  Roman  Catholic  informer  "who 
may  be  on  his  way  to  Manchester."  **  Do  not  expose  yourself  unne- 
cessarily, but  think  of  better  times  when  you  may  be  wanted  !"  Then 
a  pleasant  touch,  "  Franklin  said  of  a  person  of  whom  you  have 
heard,  that  if  there  warn't  a  hell  there  ought  to  be  one  made  on  pur- 
j)ose  for  such  a  villain.'  Again :  "  Too  much  caution  cannot  be 
taken  with  respect  to  speech,  the  temptations  to  information  are  so 
great  and  numerous."  Mr.  Walker's  purse  was  open  to  Paine  (as, 
indeed, it  appears  to  have  been  to  all  with  whom  he  sympathised),  who 
\\  rites  to  thank  him  for  thirty  guineas  which  went  to  advertise  their 
j)ul)lications  in  the  county  papers ;  and  when  Dr.  Priestley  suffered  by 
the  Birmingham  riot,  Mr.  Walker  was  among  the  first  who  came  to 
his  help,  in  conjunction  with  his  Constitutional  Society.  Where- 
upon the  Doctor  wrote :  **  As  a  sufferer  in  the  cause  of  liberty, 
I  hope  I  am  justified  in  accepting  your  very  generous  contri- 
bution towards  my  indenmification  on  account  of  the  riot  in 
Vol..  XI.,  N.s.  1S73.  F  F 


430  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

Birmingham,  and  I  return  you  my  grateful  acknowledgments  for  it. 
Your  address  is  too  flattering  to  me.  It  will,  however,  be  a 
motive  with  me  to  continue  my  exertions,  whatever  they  have  been, 
in  favour  of  truth  and  science,  which,  in  thus  patronising  me,  you 
wish  to  promote.  And  notwithstanding  my  losses,  I  consider  myself 
as  more  than  compensated  by  your  testimony  in  my  favour  and  that 
of  others  whose  approbation  I  most  value.  Permit  me  to  make  my 
more  particular  acknowledgments  to  the  member  of  the  Church  of 
England  who  joined  in  this  contribution.  Such  liberality  does  honour 
to  any  religion,  and  certainly  the  rioters  of  Birmingham  ought  not  to 
be  considered  as  belonging  to  any  Church  whatever." 

Thomas  Paine  (April  30, 1792)  describes  all  his  plans  and  business 
to  his  "  sincere  friend  "  Walker.  "  The  first  and  second  parts  of  the 
*  Rights  of  Man '  are  printing  compleet,  and  not  in  extract.  They 
will  come  at  ninepence  each.  The  letter  on  the  *  Convention  *  will 
contain  full  as  much  matter  as  Mr.  Macauly's  half-crown  answ'  to 
Mr.  Burke,  it  will  be  printed  close,  and  come  at  6d.  of  the  same 
size  paper  as  the  *  Rights  of  Man.'  As  we  have  now  got  the  stone 
to  roll  it  must  be  kept  going  by  cheap  publications.  This  wilt 
embarrass  the  Court  gentry  more  than  anything  else,  because  it  is  a 
ground  they  are  not  used  to." 

Mr.  Walker  was  a  marked  man,  not  only  on  the  Tory  lists,  but  on 
those  of  his  own  party.  The  applications  to  the  rich  merchant  for 
help  were  incessant.  He  subscribed  to  every  fund,  every  publication 
that  was  of  his  side.  Messrs.  Sharp  and  Murray  send  him  (April 
26,  1793)  "  twenty  prints  of  Mr.  Payne's  head,  and  five  proofs  with 
writing  unfinished — it  being  intended  Mr.  Payne  to  have  a  benefit 
arising  from  the  sale  of  this  head."  Three  months  later  the  generous 
merchant  appears  (as  "  Citizen  Thomas  Walker ")  on  the  list  of 
subscribers  for  their  edition  of  Thomson's  "Seasons."  In  1795  ^c 
same  publishers  were  engraving  Mr.  Walker's  "  Head "  after  Rom- 
ney's  portrait.*  "  This  day,"  writes  Mr.  Sharp,  "  I  am  with  Romney, 
for  his  remarks,  that  no  further  delay  may  be  in  the  printing.  If 
you  will  be  kind  enough  to  get  into  a  good  scrape — it  will  make  it 
sell  wonderfully  well."  Jocose  William  Sharp  !  Surely  Mr.  Walker 
had  been  in  scrape  enough,  only  a  year  ago,  to  satisfy  the  greediest  of 
publishers.  A  month  later  (March  3,  1795)  M'"-  Sharp  reports  that 
the  engraving  is  finished :  "  It  is  finished  under  Romne/s  directions, 
submitting  to  him  also  your  letter  dated  1 1  th  February.     The  wrinkles 


*  In  the  possession  of  Mrs.  Eason  Wilkinson  (of  GreenlieyS|  Manchester), 
granddaughter  of  Mr.  Walker, 


The  Thomas  Walkers,  4311 

in  the  forehead  I  have  not  attended  to ;  they  come  and  go  until  sixty 
years  or  seventy — according  to  circumstances,  and  make  no  part  of 
the  character." 

Mr.  Walker  "endorsed  this  letter  with  the  remark  :  "  There  was  very 
great  delay  on  the  part  of  W.  Sharp  in  finishing  this  engraving,  which 
ought  to  have  been  brought  out  twelve  months  sooner." 
Then  was  the  subject  of  it  in  a  very  great  scrape  indeed  I 
It  had  been  preparing  for  a  year  or  two.  In  1792  Mr.  Walker 
wrote  to  his  friend  Cooper  that  the  aristocrats  of  Manchester  were 
endeavouring  to  prosecute  him  for  talking  **  what  they  call  treason  " 
to  some  of  his  neighbours,  in  his  own  house.  "  Since  which  time," 
he  adds,  "  Mr.  Justice  Clowes  has  been  very  busy  taking  depositions 
for  the  purpose  of  prosecuting  me  ;  which  depositions,  I  am  informed, 
have  already  been  sent  up  to  Government." 


(To  he  continued.) 


[Mr.  Jerrold  could  hardly  be  expected  to  tell  the  story  of  "The 
Walkers "  without  taking  the  opportunity  thus  afforded  him  of 
enforcing  his  own  well-known  political  views.  The  Editor,  while 
conceding  to  his  contributor  perfect  freedom  in  this  respect,  desires 
hb  readers  to  understand  that  Mr.  Jerrold's  opinions  do  not  neces- 
sarily coincide  with  those  of  the  Gentleman's  Ma^azine,^ 


!■  F  2 


Our  Athletics. 

\0  have  been  an  honorar)*  secretary  of  an  athletic  club 
meeting,  and  to  have  "  pulled  off  *'  not  one  but  many 
of  those  meetings  successfully,  argue  an  amount  of  zeal 
and  activity  and  a  genius  for  administration  in  a  man 
which  ought  to  render  him  an  object  of  admiration  to,  if  it  did  not 
procure  him  offers  of  advancement  at  the  hands  of,  the  Right  Hon. 
Edward  Cardwcll.  But  if  an  honorary  secretary  of  a  great  athletic 
celebration  is  required  to  display  an  unwonted  capacity  for  business 
and  organisation,  what  shall  wc  say  of,  and  what  praise  bestow  upon, 
a  functionary  of  that  kind  who  combines  with  the  duties  of  his  office 
those  other  and  flir  more  arduous  ones  of  honorary  treasurer  also  ? 

For  be  it  known  that  though  our  club  was  only  that  of  a  large 
school,  or  college — if  you  like  that  title  better,  as  did  not  a  few  of 
the  parents  of  the  alumni — our  sports,  from  the  uniform  success  that 
had  invariably  attended  former  celebrations,  had  assumed  such 
colossal  proportions  as  regarded  the  number  of  **  events "  to  be 
comi:)ctcd  for,  and  were  held  in  such  high  repute  by  the  inhabitants 
of  the  town,  that  the  better  part  of  two  days  was  taken  up  before  we 
could  bring  them  to  a  conclusion.  So  interested,  indeed,  were  the  prin- 
cipal tradesmen  of  the  town  in  the  success  of  our  sports,  that  many 
of  the  more  enthusiastic  among  them  actually  closed  their  shops 
during  the  celebration ;  and,  what  was  of  far  more  consequence  to 
us,  sent  us  such  a  plentiful  supply  of  articles  from  their  stock  as 
prizes  for  the  **  youthful  athletes,"  that  the  treasurer  found  himself 
encumbered  with  an  absolute  emharras  de  richesses^  and  was  sorely 
puzzled  in  the  matter  of  the  distribution  of  these  costly  presents. 

Of  course,  the  treasurer  never  refused  anything  gratuitously  pre- 
sented by  an  cnterjirising  tradesman,  but  the  misfortune  was  that  the 
presents  were  all  too  frequently  of  a  kind  utterly  unfitted  for  pre- 
sentation to  a  youthful  and  successful  athlete.  One  man  would  send 
a  cornopean  and  case,  but  though  the  instrument  was  the  undoubted 
manufacture  of  the  most  eminent  makers,  though  a  better  could 
not  be  had  for  love  or  money,  this  particular  kind  of  prize  was  never 
valued  at  its  true  worth,  and  its  lucky  recipient  was  almost  always 
one  whose  savage  breast  music  had  no  charms  to  soothe.  Another 
tradesman  would  contribute  a  writing  desk,  a  photographic  album, 
or  perhaps  that  now  happily  obsolete  abomination,  a  postage-stamp 


Our  Athletics.  433 

album.  These  articles,  it  is  hardly  necessary  to  remark,  found  no 
favour  among  the  stalwart  competitors  at  our  athletic  sports,  re- 
minding them  as  they  did  too  strongly  of  those  higher  and  more 
intellectual  pursuits  from  which  they  were  enjoying  a  temporary 
release. 

No  difficulty  was  ever  experienced  with  the  jeweller  and  the 
saddler ;  everything  those  gentlemen  supplied,  even  down  to  shirt 
studs  and  spurs  and  leathers,  always  found  a  conspicuous  position 
on  the  prize  list ;  and,  as  it  soon  oozed  out,  in  spite  of  every  precau- 
tion against  such  surreptitiously  acquired  knowledge,  to  what  par- 
ticular competitions  prizes  of  such  inestimable  value  would  be 
awarded,  the  number  of  competitors  for  those  events  was  consider- 
ably greater  than  for  most  of  the  others.  For  the  grand  steeplechase 
— a  race,  by  the  way,  which  for  a  long  time,  in  deference  to  the  wish  of 
constituted  authorities,  we  were  reluctantly  and  foolishly  compelled  to 
designate  and  describe  as  "  a  race  with  leaps  " — in  addition  to  the 
gold-mounted  cutting-whip  and  spurs  and  leathers,  there  was  also 
adjudged  a  silver  medal  emblazoned  with  the  school  arms,  and  for 
this  race  there  was  always  a  large  entry ;  but  it  is  singular  what  little 
value  was  set  upon  the  medal.  It  was  quite  impossible,  however,  to 
smuggle  any  other  kind  of  prize  into  this  race,  the  pihe  de  resistance, 
so  to  speak,  of  the  entire  meeting. 

The  treasurer — for  upon  him  mainly  devolved  the  selection  of  all 
the  prizes  and  their  adjudication — found  himself  much  embarrassed 
in  expending  his  subscription  money  impartially  among  all  the  trades- 
men who  had  been  kind  enough  to  send  in  contributions  from  their 
stock.  Some  of  these  troublesome,  but  enthusiastic,  gentlemen  would 
grumble  unreasonably  if  due  prominence  had  not  been  given  to  their 
display  of  generosity  :  but  these  difficulties  were  at  last  surmounted 
by  the  simple  but  satisfactory  method  of  printing  the  names  of  these 
"  con tribu tori es,''  as  Lord  Cairns  might  call  them,  upon  the  **  correct 
card ;''  and  thus  giving  them  a  wider  advertisement  than  they  ever 
could  have  obtained  through  the  medium  of  the  local  papers,  though 
these  did  circulate,  according  to  their  own  account,  through  any 
number  of  the  adjoining  counties,  the  names  of  which  were  all  duly 
set  forth  and  specified  at  the  top  of  the  first  sheet,  with  the  additional 
announcement  that  the  number  of  advertisements  and  consequent 
increase  of  circulation  were  gratifying  facts  incapable  of  dispute  or 
contravention. 

But  the  cricketing  professional,  after  the  manner  of  his  brethren  in 
that  line  of  business,  was  a  perfectly  insatiable  and  always  dissatisfied 
solicitor  of  custom  for  his  welcome  wares  on  athletic  occasions.     It 


434  ^'^^  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

is  tnie  that  he  presented  a  brand  new  cane-handled  bat,  selected 
personally  from  the  stock  of  one  of  the  most  eminent  of  the  Ix>ndon 
makers,  for  competition  in  a  hundred  yards  race  by  members  of  the 
eleven  and  twenty-two,  and  that  he  took  great  pains  in  measuring  out 
the  ground,  starting  the  runners,  filling  up  the  wet  ditch,  and  perform- 
ing other  necessary  and  arduous  duties ;  but  out  of  these  he  contrived 
to  suck  no  small  advantage,  and  went  so  far  as  even  to  chaige  the 
directorate  no  less  than  tenpence  for  a  small  bag  of  sawdust ;  and  as 
he  provided  all  the  cricketing  apparatus  and  material  throughout  the 
school,  and  to  all  the  boarding-houses — charging  sixpence  for  an 
infinitesimally  small  bottle  of  sweet  oil,  which  he  humorously  denomi- 
nated and  duly  labelled  "  bat  oil,"  declaring  that  the  same  had  been 
expressly  manufactured  by  himself — and  had  in  addition  a  fixed  salary 
paid  quarterly  for  professional  services,  it  will  readily  be  perceived  by 
the  impartial  that  he  was  not  deserving  of  much  extra  custom,  and 
that  he  could  very  well  afford  the  presentation  of  a  bat  to  his  own 
especial  pupils,  though  the  article  was  selected  from  the  stock  of  the 
most  eminent  maker  in  the  world.  But  beyond  bats,  balls,  leg-guards, 
and  racquet  bats,  there  was  not  much  that  could  be  bought  from  the 
cricketing  professional,  and  it  must  be  confessed  that,  as  compared 
with  the  money  laid  out  among  other  tradesmen,  the  sum  spent  in 
his  emporium  was  unavoidably  small.  But  let  us  do  him  the  justice 
to  say  that  after  having  made  his  perfectly  respectful  expostulation  in 
vain,  he  bowed  resignedly  to  the  inevitable,  and — to  use  a  most 
expressive  phrase,  quite  as  English,  at  least,  as  that  of  Dr.  Kenealy 
on  a  memorable  occasion — "  took  his  gruel  like  a  man." 

And  then  the  press  !  Mercy,  if  the  slightest  partiality,  or  the 
merest  semblance  of  it,  was  shown  to  the  representative  of  any  news- 
paper, notwithstanding  the  fact  that  the  finn  might  have  been  the 
publishers  of  the  card,  there  was  certain  to  be  an  irritating  and 
irreconcilable  shindy  that  no  eloquence,  no  matter  how  persuasive, 
could  appease  on  the  part  of  the  rest.  Politics  were  supposed  to  be 
somehow  inextricably  intermingled  even  in  athletic  sports  at  a  great 
school,  and  rival  editors  could  perceive  the  cloven  foot  of  the  fiend 
of  opposition  in  the  smallest  neglect  of  deference  to  their  undeniable 
superiority  of  principles  and  persuasion.  It  is  a  tolerably  well 
ascertained  fact  that  most  if  not  all  of  our  public  and  great  schools 
are  eminently  Conservative  in  their  political  tendencies.  Ours  was 
intensely  Conservative,  and  the  Conservative  "organ"  ground  the 
tune  of  our  praise  to  a  tremendous  extent  so  long  as  we  patronised  it, 
but  when  we  withdrew  our  patronage  it  was  "  all  t'other."  But  the 
editor  had  only  himself  to  thank  for  the  withdrawal  of  our  custom, 


Our  Athletics,  435 

and  lie  made  liimself  so  obnoxious  by  the  persistent  use  of  the  phrase 
"youthful  athletes,"  that  going  over  to  the  camp  of  the  enemy 
became  at  last  a  sheer  necessity.  •The  last  feather  that  broke  the 
camel's  back  appears  to  have  been  an  indulgence  in  a  poetical 
effusion,  or  rather  a  poetical  extract  to  this  effect: — 

Forth,  lads,  to  the  starting — what  boots  it  the  weather  ? 

And  if  by  mischance  you  should  happen  to  fall. 
There  are  many  worse  things  than  a  tumble  on  heather ; 

And  life  is  itself  but  a  game  of  football ! 

The  inapplicability  of  the  quotation  will  become  at  once  apparent, 
when  it  is  remembered  that  football  is  never  on  the  list  of  scholastic 
athletic  sports  at  any  school  in  the  kingdom. 

The  election  of  the  stewards  wzs  always  a  matter  of  ease,  and 
was  accomplished  to  the  general  satisfaction  of  the  rest  of  the 
school ;  but  it  cannot  be  said  that  these  officials  were  always  zealous 
in  the  discharge  of  their  duties,  for  they  devolved  nearly  every- 
thing connected  with  the  preliminary  arrangements  upon  the  devoted 
head  of  the  indefatigable  treasurer,  and  considered  that  they  were 
chiefly  concerned  in  escorting  the  ladies  to  their  seats  upon  the 
Grand  Stand,  and  in  keeping  the  course  clear  during  the  races.  We 
used  to  convene  a  meeting  of  stewards  and  treasurer  to  decide 
upon  the  adjudication  of  prizes  and  the  races  to  be  competed  for, 
the  selection  mainly  resting  upon  the  judgment  and  taste  of  the 
treasurer,  as  being  best  qualified  both  to  control  the  expenditure 
and  to  dispel  the  notion  that  special  prizes  which  the  stewards 
would  most  approve  had  been  apportioned  for  the  races  in  which 
they  were  likely  to  prove  successful. 

"  Who  is  to  give  away  the  prizes  ?  "  was  for  a  long  time  a  most 
momentous  query,  and  one  that  grew  more  difficult  of  solution  every 
year,  until  it  was  decided  that  that  was  a  duty  which  clearly  fell  to 
the  lot  of  the  Principal. 

"  How  are  we  to  get  funds  for  the  Grand  Stand  ?  " 

Another  poser,  but  solved  by  the  resolution  to  charge  so  much  for 
each  ticket  for  admission.  Thus  we  were  enabled  to  erect  a  stand 
capable  of  holding  about  eight  hundred  persons,  and  it  is  needless  to 
say  that  it  was  always  occupied  by  the  chief  residents  in  the  town, 
and  by  the  friends  of  the  boys.  We  used  to  have  considerable 
difficulty  about  the  number  of  tickets  to  be  granted  to  one  purchaser, 
and  the  masters  sometimes  waxed  angry  at  being  poked  into  holes 
and  corners,  but  they  became  used  to  this  after  a  time,  and  we 
treated  all  upon  the  "  first  come  first  served  "  plan. 

**  What  is  to  be  charged  for  the  cards  ?  " 


436  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

"Oil,  sixpence  apiece,  of  course." 

That  was  a  motion  always  carried  nem,  con.y  but  their  sale  never 
realised  the  sum  expected  until  the  cricketing  professional  had  the 
entire  control  over  them,  and  was  made  responsible  for  the  money. 
School  stewards  have  so  many  friends  who  never  pay.  It  was  voted 
that  the  possession  of  a  card  gave  a  right  of  entry  to  the  ground. 
and  by  this  means  a  great  many  "roughs,"  who  would  othen^'ise 
have  gained  admittance,  were  kept  out,  sixpence  being  a  sum  of 
money  not  within  the  reach  of  the  ordinary  rough  element 

"  How  much  will  the  laying  out  of  the  ground  cost  ?  " 

"  Ah,  you'll  find  that  a  heavy  affair.  What  do  you  think,  Jem  ?  ** 
This  important  question  was  put  to  the  cricketing  professional. 

"Let  me  see,"  philosophically  remarked  this  functionary.  "Wet 
ditch,  dry  ditto,  hurdles,  rolling,  ropes,  furze,  sawdust,  flags,  pipe- 
clay. The  lot  can't  be  done  under  fifteen  pounds,  or  perhaps  more, 
gentlemen." 

"  Oh  ;  then  the  band  ? '' 

"  The  band  will  cost  ten  pounds,  and  the  stand  will  pay  itself." 

"  The  bobbies  ?  " 

"  Lots  of  beer  and  a  fiver  will  settle  their  account." 

"  The  engraving  of  the  pewters,  whips,  and  dressing  cases  m\\  be  a: 
heavy  affair?" 

"  No ;  for  there's  a  little  chap  in  the  town  who  has  volunteered  to 
do  that  business  for  nothing  if  he  may  have  the  printing  of  the 
cards.'' 

"  Oh,  he  shall  have  that  by  all  means." 

And  a  very  handsome  card  "  the  little  chap  "  produced  accord- 
ingly, and  engraved  all  the  articles  splendidly.  It  must  not  be 
supposed,  however,  that  he  did  not  frequently  make  mistakes  in- 
orthography  which  caused  vexatious  delay,  but  he  always  rectified 
these  willingly  and  without  complaint ;  and  in  the  matter  of  the  card? 
he  was  accuracy  itself. 

And  the  getting  up  of  the  card  reflected  great  credit  upon  printer^ 
engraver,  and  secretary  alike.  As  for  ornamentation,  it  was  a  perfect 
triumph  of  pictorial  art  ;  and  as  all  the  names  of  the  competitors 
were  numbered,  so  that  after  the  race  it  was  only  necessary  to  chalk 
the  figures  opposite  their  names  on  the  telegraph  that  the  spectators 
might  at  once  know  the  result,  and  as  the  programme  of  the  music, 
with  names  of  composers,  was  also  printed,  it  may  well  be  supposed 
that  the  credit  bestowed  was  not  undeservedly  earned.  The  tickets, 
for  admission  to  the  Clrand  Stand  were  all  numbered  and  coloured, 
and  the  holders  of  them  had  only  to  look  out  for  a  steward,  decorated 


Onr  Athletics.  437 

with  a  rosette  or  some  other  distinguishing  badge  corresponding  to 
that  of  the  ticket,  to  be  assured  of  a  seat.  The  occupiers  of  thc- 
stand  were  not  accommodated  with  too  much  room,  and  the  Principal 
upon  one  memorable  occasion  observed  that  though  very  com- 
modious, it  had  found  space  "  for  a  far  greater  number  of  ladies  than, 
considering  the  fashions  of  the  present  day,  he  could  for  a  moment 
have  conceived  possible  ;  not  that  he  considered  there  were  too  many 
present,  for  the  ladies  were  the  great  inspiration  and  ornament  of  all 
the  meetings  of  the  boys.*'  The  stewards  certainly  looked  upon  the- 
business  of  conducting  the  ladies  to  their  seats,  and  of  talking  to  thenr 
as  opportunity  offered,  as  the  most  pleasant  and  serious  of  their  duties. 
Precious  little  else,  indeed,  did  they  care  about. 

But  the  devoted  secretary  was  well  nigh  worried  to  death  with  these 
admissions  to  the  stand,  and  it  was  not  uncommon  for  him  to  have  ii 
whole  wastepaper-basketful  of  "  rejected  applications "  on  athletic 
occasions. 

"  You  may  remember  possibly  that  my  son  was  in  your  form  a  year 
or  two  ago  ?  '  an  anxious  mamma  would  write. 

*'  We  are  staying  at  the  Royal  Hotel  for  a  day  or  two,  and  if  yoif 
can  fmd  time  to  dine  with  us  to-morrow  we  shall  be  happy  to  see 
you,"  would  write  the  father  of  some  distinguished  pupil  of  a  former 
day.  Hut  the  secretary  who  caved  in  to  any  such  requests  was  a  losJ 
man,  and  ipso  facto  disqualified  for  official  employment. 

The  races  were  pretty  much  of  the  usual  order,  and  among  them 
was  one  which  always  drew  a  great  number  of  competitors  ani> 
caused  much  excitement.  It  was  open  to  all,  and  as  many  as  forty 
nmners  have  been  known  to  start  for  it.  It  was  a  kind  of  match,  to* 
take  up  and  deposit  in  a  basket  fifty  stones — the  stones  being  re- 
presented by  racquet  balls — the  first  stone  to  be  placed  ten  yards 
from  the  basket,  one  yard  between  each  stone.  The  pole-vaulting 
and  the  running  high  jump,  too,  drew  esi)ecial  interest  from  the  ladies, 
and  as  these  contests  took  place  immediately  in  front  of  the  stand 
the  number  of  entries  might  have  been  greater.  But  it  is  not  given« 
to  every  man  to  excel  in  pole-vaulting  or  to  jump  his  own  heights 
and  in  the  former  contests  some  lamentable  accidents  have  beer> 
known  to  occur. 

Every  fellow  with  any  pretensions  to  pedestrian  excellence  was 
desirous  of  distinguishing  himself  in  the  grand  steeplechase,  not  only 
because  of  the  value  of  the  prize  and  the  honour  of  the  competition, 
but  also  and  especially  because  the  number  of  marks  allotted  to  first,, 
second,  and  third  was  greater  than  in  other  races,  and  gave  the  win- 
ners the  best  chances  of  carrying  off  the  Indies'  Prize — a  distinction 


43^  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

conferred  ui)on  the  gainer  of  the  greatest  number  of  a  graduated  scale 
of  marks  throughout  the  two  days.  And  be  it  obser\'ed  that  the  Ladies* 
Prize,  to  say  nothing  of  tlie  honour  of  the  thing,  was  ever  a  most 
valuable  aftair,  well  worth  the  putting  forth  of  any  fellow's  physical 
I)Owcrs. 

The  sack  race  was  a  most  amusing  exhibition,  as  many  as  fifty 
runners  being  "coloured  on  the  card  "  frequently,  bringing  no  end  of 
entrance  money  to  the  funds.  But  the  prettiest  race  of  all  was 
generally  that  for  losers,  commonly — one  might  say  "turfily" — 
described  as  the  "  Consolation  Handicap."  "  This  was  the  prettiest 
race  of  the  whole  list,"  said  the  newspaper  report,  "for  no  less  ("fewer" 
perhaps  would  have  done  better)  than  seventy  of  those  who  had 
before  appeared,  though  unsuccessful,  were  started,  and  this  time  all 
at  once,  the  elder  boys  having  to  take  the  leaps,  and  the  younger 
ones  to  race  on  the  flat.  When  they  were  going  round  the  course,  all 
the  colours  glittering  in  the  sun,  which  had  just  appeared  from  behind 
the  clouds  for  a  few  seconds,  the  scene  was  remarkably  pretty.  It 
would  be  impossible  to  describe  the  race  itself,  there  were  so 
many  crossings  and  re-crossings." 

Our  newspaper  report  of  the  races  was  eminently  graphic,  and  as 
the  sack  race  always  caused  much  emulation  among  competitors 
and  amusement  among  spectators,  it  may  be  as  well,  perhaps,  to 
make  another  "  elegant  extract"  The  report  on  a  very  successful 
occasion  is  as  follows  : — "  If  not  the  most  exciting  race,  this  was 
certainly  the  most  amusing,  and — as  was  the  case  last  year — a  larger 
number  were  entered  for  this  encounter  than  for  any  other  during 
the  day — no  less  ("fewer"  again  would  have  been  more  correct)  than 
forly-six  competitors  appearing  in  sacks  in  front  of  the  stand  at  the 
time  appointed.  The  whole  number  were  then  marshalled  in  front 
of  the  Ladies'  Gallery,  and  the  loud  shouts  of  laughter  as  they 
appeared  all  in  line — though  evidently  unable  to  stand  at  ease — may 
be  more  easily  imagined  than  described.  Twenty-four  of  the  forty- 
six  were  then  taken  to  the  starting  place — some  on  the  shoulders  of 
their  school-fellows,  others  in  wheelbarrows — to  the  infinite  delight 
of  the  crowd  of  spectators  who  had  gathered  round  the  ropes,  and 
when  the  word  *  Oft  !'  was  given,  a  still  more  ludicrous  scene  was 
presented,  for  nearly  two-thirds  were  rolling  on  the  ground  before 
twenty  yards  had  been  traversed." 

I'he  secretary  and  treasurer  is  expected  to  turn  his  rooms  into  a 
kind  of  exhibition  shop,  or  show  room,  and  to  take  his  lunch  in  the 
kitchen,  in  order  that  the  ladies  who  desire  it  may  inspect  the  prizes 
before  they  are  carted  off"  for  distribution.     He  is  required  to  supply 


Our  A  thletics.  439 

the  local  papers  with  lists  of  the  prizes  and  names  of  winners,  and 
especially  is  his  attention  directed  to  the  necessity  of  forwarding  a 
glowing  description  of  the  sports  to  BelPs  Life,  For  all  these 
labours,  and  the  anxieties  consequent  upon  their  due  discharge,  he  is 
rewarded  by  a  round  of  three  cheers,  after  the  greater  luminaries 
and  the  ladies  have  received  an  ovation  at  the  distribution ;  and, 
mayhap,  an  invitation  to  dine  with  some  reverend  Amphitryon  who 
has  taken  an  interest  in  the  proceedings.  Well  might  this  great 
"  dual "  official  exclaim  : — 

'Tis  not  in  mortals  to  command  success, 

But  you  do  more,  Sempronius,  don*t  deser\*e  it, 

And  take  my  word  you'll  get  no  jot  the  less. 

SiRIUS. 


MiNA    Bretton. 

A   STORY. 

[fading  out  of  a  tiny  room  fitted  up  as  a  Jibrar)is3' 
long  narrow  glass  consen'atory ;  one  side  of  it  is  filled 
with  a  mass  of  blooming  flowers,  the  other  with  simply 
twelve  green  boxes  containing  twelve  orange  trees  just 
bursting  into  bloom.     Standing  in  the  room  is  a  solitary  individual 
— a   young   man   about   twenty-five   years   of  age,   nearly  six  feet 
high,  with  broad  masculine  shoulders.     Of  his  face,  the  lower  ha" 
is  concealed  by  a  short  Italian  l>eard,  and   the  up])er  lighted  V)y 
a  pair  of  large  grey   eyes  set  very  far  apart.      This   human  c^'^ 
contains  the  soul,   heart,  and  mind  of  Frank  Legget,  who  is  n^^ 
for   the   first   time    in    his    life    gazing   on   the    flowers    in    M  '••^ 
lirctton's  conservatory.     He  is  fresh  from  Germany,  laden  wit^     * 
letter  for  her  from  her  brother.     He  wonders  what  the  si.ster  of 
friend  will  be  like.       He  congratulates  himself  that  (as  the  mr 
servant  has  just  informed  him)  Mrs.  Bretton  is  out — he  shall  see 
Mina  (of  whom  he  has  heard  .so  much)  a/iwr.     "Girls  never  con 
up  to  a  fellow's  expectations,"  he  tells  him.self  as  he  stands  tber^^ 
half  consciously,  half  unconsciously  waiting  to  fall  in  love  with  he^ 
Talk  of  **  spontaneous  affection,"  or  "  love  at  first  sight,"  this  sort  o^ 
thing  is  generally  predetermined  on.     /.(rir  is  a  .science,  that  takes  if  ^ 
certain  time  to  learn,  so  if  the  j)rocess  is  not  gone  through  after  the 
preliminary  meeting,  it  has  taken  place  before  it ;  unless,  indeeil.  ih 
man  is  of  that  flimsy  material  that  any  "human  form  divine"  in  the 
shape  of  a  woman  fails  not  to  produce  the  same  result.      Now  Frank 
Legget  has  gone  through  the  first  stage,  and  is  all  ready  for  action. 
The  air  is  heavy  with  the  sweet  scent  of  lemon  verbena,  roses,  and 
orange  blooms.     One  last  ray  of  the  setting  sun  sends  a  golden  glow 
aslant  the  flowers,  and  helps  to  dazzle  his  vision,  as  a  quick,  soft 
tread  ascends  the  steps  from  the  garden,  and  a  tall  pale  form,  clad  in 
white,  is  at  the  toj).     Is  this  his  ideal  ?     He  pau.ses  not  to  consider 
whether  or  no — he  but  feels  .she  is  his  fate.     Scarcely  does  he  know 
how  he  introduces  himself  and  his  letter  to  her — afterwards  he  cannot 
recall  to  his  memory  how  they  arrived  at  the  degree  of  intimac}'  he 
feels  they  have  achieved,  ere  Mrs.  Bretton  appears.     Has  he  been 
there,  seated  opposite  to  Mina  Bretton,  ten  minutes — ten  hours — or  ten 


Mina  Bret  ton.  441 

Y^ars?    He  knows  not !    Her  mother  is  in  interruption,  but  not  alto- 
gether an  unwelcome  one,  for  does  it  not  depend  on  her  whether  he 
shall  ever  see  his  divinity  again  ?     Joy  unheard  of !     She  invites  him 
to  stay  to  dinner,  if  he  has  not  a  better  engagement ;  she  is  sure  "  Mr. 
Bretton  will  be  delighted  to  hear  of  his  son  George,  from  the  lips  of 
one  who  has  so  recently  seen  him."     What  other  engagement  could 
Jie  possibly  have  ?     He  accepts  without  a  moment's  hesitation,  per- 
fectly oblivious  of  the  fact  that  Jack  Lawson  is  waiting  dinner  for 
him  at  his  club,  by  appointment.    In  what  a  maze  the  dinner  passes  ! 
He  talks  of  George  Bretton,  he  interests  the  father  with  sketches  of 
^heir  German  student  life,  and  he  watches  to  hear  Mina's  soft  low 
^3^ugh  at  some  quaint  tale  or  other.     He  never  thinks  of  what  he 
^s  eating./   The  first  time  that  he  really  regains  his  senses  since  he 
^3.w  Mina  in  the  conservatory  is  when  she  and  Mrs.  Bretton  rise 
*^'^d  leave  the  room.     And,  as  one  awaking  from  a  dream,  he  hears 
-^^r.  Bretton  say,  **Try  that  port,  Mr.  Legget;  it  is  a  great  favourite 
^^Uh  George,  and  I  suppose  friends'  tastes  agree  in  wine,  as  well  as 
^•^  other  matters — here's  your  very  good  health.     I  am  delighted  to 
*^3.ve  made  your  acquaintance,  and    hope  as   long  as   you  are  in 
^own  you  will  make  this  house  your  head-quarters." 

Frank    expresses  a  ready  acquiescence   to  do  as   the  old  man 
proposes,  and  tosses  off  the  wine  with  sympathetic  alacrity. 

^Vhen  he  and  Mr.  Bretton  enter  the  drawing-room  a  quarter  of  an 

hour  later  he  takes  in  the  scene  at  a  glance.     Mrs.  Bretton  at  the 

tea  table  pouring  out  the  tea,  Mina  seated  on  a  low  chair  with  an 

<^pen  book  in  her  lap,  and  within  a  few  feet  of  her  is  (a  fiend  in 

^uman  shape)  a  young   man   about  his  own  age.     He  is  glad  to 

observe  that  he  is  short  and  stout,  with  round  black  eyes,  and  short, 

crisp,  curly  black  hair.     He  sits  with  his  hands,  which  are  white  and 

^^t,  spread  out  on  his  knees,  and  his  head  thrown  well  back.     This 

creature  appears  to  be  very  intimate  with  the  whole  family,  is  patted  on 

the  shoulder  by  Mr.  Bretton  with  "  Here  you  are,  John,"  and  actually 

t^'ks  to  Mina  as  if  she  were  of  the  same  flesh  and  blood  as  other 

people.    The  "  beast"  has  a  very  good  tenor  voice,  Frank  is  obliged 

to  admit,  and  sings  remarkably  well ;  but  why  should  he  order  Mina 

^0  play  His  accompaniments  in  that  offhand  way,  and  actually  take 

her  to  task  for  not  performing  some  bar  to  his  satisfaction  ?     Frank 

would  like  to  punch  his  head. 

"Ijon't  you  sing,  Mr.  Legget?"  inquires  Mina  presently;  "John 
IS  monopolising  all  the  music."  Poor  Frank  is  fain  to  admit  he  does 
not.  "  Not  a  tiny,  tiny  bit  ?  We  will  forgive  you  if  you  don't  sing 
as  Well  as  John ;  hasn't  he  a  lovely  voice?" 


MiNA    Bretton. 

A  STORY. 

HADING  out  of  a  liny  room  filled  up  as  a  library  is  sc 
long  narrow  glass  conservatory ;  one  side  of  it  is  filled 
with  a  mass  of  blooming  flowers,  the  other  with  simply 
twelve  green  boxes  containing  twelve  orange  trees  just 
bursting  into  bloom.  Standing  in  the  room  is  a  solitary  individual 
— a  young  man  about  twenty-five  years  of  age,  nearly  six  feet 
high,  with  broad  masculine  shoulders.  Of  his  face,  the  lower  half 
is  concealed  by  a  short  Italian  beard,  and  the  upper  lighted  by 
a  pair  of  large  grey  eyes  set  very  far  apart.  This  human  case 
contains  the  soul,  heart,  and  mind  of  Frank  Legget,  who  is  now 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life  gazing  on  the  flowers  in  Mina 
Bretton's  conservatory.  He  is  fresh  from  Germany,  laden  with  a 
letter  for  her  from  her  brother.  He  wonders  what  the  sister  of  his 
friend  will  be  like.  He  congratulates  himself  that  (as  the  man- 
servant has  just  informed  him)  Mrs.  Bretton  is  out — he  shall  see  f//r 
Mina  (of  whom  he  has  heard  so  much)  a/o/if,  "Girls  never  come 
up  to  a  fellow's  expectations,"  he  tells  himself  as  he  stands  there, 
half  consciously,  half  unconsciously  waiting  to  fall  in  love  with  her. 
Talk  of  "spontaneous  affection,"  or  "  love  at  first  sight,''  this  sort  of 
thing  is  generally  predetermined  on.  I.(Kr  is  a  science,  that  takes  a 
certain  time  to  learn,  so  if  the  process  is  not  gone  through  after  the 
preliminary  meeting,  it  has  taken  place  before  it ;  unless,  indeed,  the 
man  is  of  that  flimsy  material  that  any  "human  form  divine"  in  the 
.shape  of  a  woman  fails  not  to  produce  the  .same  result.  Now  Frank 
Legget  has  gone  through  the  first  stage,  and  is  all  ready  for  action. 
The  air  is  heavy  with  the  sweet  scent  of  lemon  verbena,  roses,  and 
orange  blooms.  One  last  ray  of  the  setting  sun  sends  a  golden  glow 
aslant  the  flowers,  and  helps  to  dazzle  his  vision,  as  a  quick,  .soft 
tread  ascends  tiie  steps  from  the  garden,  and  a  tall  pale  form,  clad  in 
white,  is  at  the  top.  Is  this  his  ideal  ?  He  pauses  not  to  consider 
whether  or  no-  -he  but  feels  she  is  his  fate.  Scarcely  does  he  know 
how  he  introduces  himself  and  his  letter  to  her — afterwards  he  cannot 
recall  to  his  memory  how  they  arrived  at  the  degree  of  intimacy  he 
feels  they  have  achieved,  ere  Mrs.  Bretton  appears.  Has  he  beea 
there,  seated  opposite  to  Mina  Bretton,  ten  minutes — ten  hours — or  tea 


Mina  Bretton.  441 

years  ?  He  knows  not !  Her  mother  is  in  interruption,  but  not  alto- 
gether an  unwelcome  one,  for  does  it  not  depend  on  her  whether  he 
shall  ever  see  his  divinity  again  ?  Joy  unheard  of !  She  invites  him 
to  stay  to  dinner,  if  he  has  not  a  better  engagement ;  she  is  sure  "  Mr. 
Bretton  will  be  delighted  to  hear  of  his  son  George,  from  the  lips  of 
one  who  has  so  recently  seen  him."  What  other  engagement  could 
lie  possibly  have  ?  He  accepts  without  a  moment's  hesitation,  per- 
fectly oblivious  of  the  fact  that  Jack  Lawson  is  waiting  dinner  for 
him  at  his  club,  by  appointment.  In  what  a  maze  the  dinner  passes  ! 
He  talks  of  George  Bretton,  he  interests  the  father  with  sketches  of 
their  German  student  life,  and  he  watches  to  hear  Mina's  soft  low 
laugh  at  some  quaint  tale  or  other.  He  never  thinks  of  what  he 
is  eating.  -  The  first  time  that  he  really  regains  his  senses  since  he 
saw  Mina  in  the  conservatory  is  when  she  and  Mrs.  Bretton  rise 
and  leave  the  room.  And,  as  one  awaking  from  a  dream,  he  hears 
Mr.  Bretton  say,  **  Try  that  port,  Mr.  Legget ;  it  is  a  great  favourite 
with  (Jeorge,  and  I  suppose  friends'  tastes  agree  in  wine,  as  well  as 
in  other  matters — here's  your  very  good  health.  I  am  delighted  to 
have  made  your  acquaintance,  and  hope  as  long  as  you  are  in 
town  you  will  make  this  house  your  head-quarters." 

Frank  expresses  a  ready  acquiescence  to  do  as  the  old  man 
proposes,  and  tosses  off  the  wine  with  sympathetic  alacrity. 

When  he  and  Mr.  Bretton  enter  the  drawing-room  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  later  he  takes  in  the  scene  at  a  glance.  Mrs.  Bretton  at  the 
tea  table  pouring  out  the  tea,  Mina  seated  on  a  low  chair  with  an 
open  book  in  her  lap,  and  within  a  few  feet  of  her  is  (a  fiend  in 
human  shape)  a  young  man  about  his  own  age.  He  is  glad  to 
observe  that  he  is  short  and  stout,  with  round  black  eyes,  and  short, 
crisp,  curly  black  hair.  He  sits  with  his  hands,  which  are  white  and 
fat,  spread  out  on  his  knees,  and  his  head  thrown  well  back.  This 
creature  appears  to  be  very  intimate  with  the  whole  family,  is  patted  on 
the  shoulder  by  Mr.  Bretton  with  "Here  you  are,  John,"  and  actually 
talks  to  Mina  as  if  she  were  of  the  same  flesh  and  blood  as  other 
people.  The  "  beast "  has  a  very  good  tenor  voice,  Frank  is  obliged 
to  admit,  and  sings  remarkably  well ;  but  why  should  he  order  Mina 
to  play  His  accompaniments  in  that  offhand  way,  and  actually  take 
her  to  task  for  not  performing  some  bar  to  his  satisfaction  ?  Frank 
would  like  to  punch  his  head. 

"Don't  you  sing,  Mr.  Legget?"  inquires  Mina  presently;  "John 
is  monopolising  all  the  music."  Poor  Frank  is  fain  to  admit  he  does 
not.  "Not  a  tiny,  tiny  bit?  We  will  forgive  you  if  you  don't  sing 
as  well  as  John  ;  hasn't  he  a  lovely  voice?" 


442  The  Gentlema7is  Magazine. 

"  Yes,  1  suppose  so,"  answers  Frank,  in  a  low  tone,  looking 
straight  into  her  face. 

"You  suppose  so  !"  echoes  Mina ;  "don't  you  know?" 

"I  was  not  listening,"  says  Frank.  "I  was  looking  at  you,  and 
wondering  how  and  why  you  stood  his  corrections  so  meekly." 

"  John's  corrections  ! "  returns  the  girl  in  an  amazed  voice ;  **  why, 
I  have  been  used  to  them  all  my  life — I  should  feel  quite  lost  with- 
out them." 

"And  without  him  also?"  inquires  Frank,  hotly. 

"  And  without  him  also,"  laughs  Mina — "  I  have  never  thought  of 
that  before.  Here,  John,  Mr.  Legget  wants  to  know  if  I  should  feel 
lost  without  you." 

"  Yes,  Mina ;  did  you  speak  to  me  ?  "  And  John  Elliot  turns  away 
from  answering  Mrs.  Bretton  and  crosses  the  room — very  like  a  black 
bear,  Frank  thinks.  Is  it  something  in  the  expression  of  Frank's 
large  eyes  that  causes  Mina  to  reply  (with  a  hot  blush),  "  Nothing  of 
any  consequence,  John.     Will  you  come  and  sing  another  song?" 

"Not  to-night,  Mina,  I  think,"  he  answers  gravely.  "You  look 
warm ;  have  I  tired  you  with  my  music  ?  "  (This  last  remark  in  a  tone 
too  low  for  Frank  to  catch.) 

"  No,  I  am  not  tired  of  your  music  or  anything — why  do  you  ask? 
You  are  not  generally  of  so  inquiring  a  nature." 

"  Jiecause  you  do  not  generally  look  as  you  do  this  evening,"  he 
replies ;  "  I  shall  say  good  night,  Mina,"  and  he  holds  out  his  hand. 
Mina  lays  hers  in  it  for  an  instant,  and  simply  returns  "  Good  night.'* 
Frank  feels  obliged  to  follow  in  his  train ;  he  too  holds  out  his  hand. 
"  Good  bye,  Miss  Bretton."  Her  eyes  drop  beneath  his  gaze ;  Frank 
feels  his  power — he  is  satisfied. 

A  fortnight  has  elapsed  since  Frank's  first  visit  to  the  Brcttons. 

He  is  again  standing  in  the  library  alone — again  waiting  for  Mina 
— but  the  scene  is  very  different.  It  is  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening, 
the  room  is  brilliantly  lighted,  and  the  conservatory  gay  with  many- 
coloured  lamps,  for  it  is  Mina's  birthday,  and  this  is  her  birthday /^^. 
During  the  past  ten  days  Frank  has  been  constantly  in  her  society, 
and  the  intercourse  has  ripened  his  love.  He  has  talked,  walked, 
gardened,  shopped,  read  poetry,  fetched  and  carried,  escorted  her 
and  her  mother  to  tca-fights,  theatres,  routs,  and  balls ;  has  quizzed 
all  her  female  and  covertly  abused  her  male  friends,  and  in  short 
made  himself  as  thoroughly,  miserably  happy  as  any  young  fool  of 
his  age  could  well  do  in  fifteen  days  of  love-making.     The  detestable 


Mma  Bret  ton.  443 

John  has  been  absent,  but  Frank  hears  he  is  ^o  be  of  the  party  that 
evening,  although,  as  Mina  observed  at  luncheon,  "  he  didn^t  dance." 

So  there  Frank  stands,  taking  a  last  stare  in  the  glass  at  his  fault- 
less "  get  up,"  and  then  examining  a  large  bouquet  of  red  and  white 
roses  (minus  paper)  in  a  jewelled  holder,  his  birthday  offering  for 
Mina.  He  hears  the  rustle  of  her  dress  ere  she  enters  the  room ; 
she  does  not  know  he  has  arrived,  and  starts  with  a  glad  surprise 
when  she  perceives  him.  Timidly  he  places  the  bunch  of  roses  in 
her  hands,  without  a  word. 

"For  me!"  she  exclaims,  pressing  her  face  down  over  them ; 
"  how  good  of  you !  and  what  a  lovely  holder — it  is  the  prettiest 
present  I  have  had  to-day."  ^ 

Frank  watches  her  pleasure.  "Do  you  know  the  language  of 
flowers  ?  "  he  asks. 

"  No — tell  me,"  she  entreats,  looking  up  into  his  face. 

"  Innocent  yet,"  thinks  Frank.  "  I  can't  now,"  he  answers,  turn- 
ing away  into  the  conservatory. 

She  follows  him. 

"  Isn't  it  all  pretty  ?"  she  asks. 

"  Yes,"  he  replies.  "  If  by  ail  you  mean  yourself  and  your  attire. 
Turn  round,  young  lady ;  let's  have  a  look  at  you.  You  have  a  white 
dress  on  to-night,  I  perceive,  but  it  is  not  so  pretty  as  that  one  I  first 
saw  you  in,  a  fortnight  ago — that  looked  like  an  angel's.' 

"  And  this  ?"  she  laughingly  inquires. 

"  Is  like  a  bride's ;  you  only  want  the  orange  blossom.  Shall  I- 
pick  you  a  bit  ?  " 

"No,  no,  not  for  the  world,"  e.xclaims  Mina;  "don't  touch  them." 

"  Why  not  ?  are  they  sacred  ?  That  reminds  me,  your  mother  told 
me  these  orange  trees  had  a  history  attached  to  them — and  I  was  to 
ask  you  for  it.  Come  and  tell  me  nov/ ;  there  is  plenty  of  time  before 
anybody  comes  ;  here  is  a  seat ;  now  begin." 

Mina  seats  herself,  and  murmurs  "  You  ought  to  know,  I  suppose. 
If  I  tell  you  the  .story  of  my  orange  flowers,  will  you  tell  me  the 
meaning  of  your  roses  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  promise,"  answers  Frank  firmly.  They  have  both  turned 
a  little  paler  than  usual.  She  lays  the  roses  by  her  side,  clasps  her 
hands  on  her  knees,  and  with  half  averted  head  and  cast  down  eyes 
commences  (as  a  child  would  say  a  lesson,  hurriedly  and  mono- 
tonously) :  "  I  was  bom  in  Sicily.  It  is  the  custom  there  to  plant  twelve 
orange  trees  the  day  a  girl  is  bom — the  flowers  to  form  her  bridal 
wreath  when  she  shall  marr}'.  We  came  over  to  England  when  I  was 
five  years  old,  and  papa  brought  the  trees  he  had  reared  with  him. 


444  27/^  Gentlmtatis  Magazuu. 

Vs  ii  child  I  called  diem  mine,  and  watched  as  year  by  year  my 
i^ridal  garland  grew.  I  laughed  and  joked ;  and  wondered  when  the 
trees  would  bloom,  and  when  I  should  wear  their  blossom.  And 
my  kind  cousin  John  teased  and  coaxed,  petted  and  sj^oilt  me, 
until  this  time  last  year — then,  as  I  stood  idly  counting  the  buds  ui>on 
the  trees,  he  came  and  asked  me  to  marry  him.  Papa  and  maiimia 
J)oth  wished  it,  and  so  1  said  I  would.  I  promised  that  this  year's 
Jlowcrs  should  make  my  wreath — and  that  is  all." 

*' .///,  Mina  I  all  I  You  have  left  out  one  thing  in  your  tale 
^'il together — you  have  never  mentioned  the  word  lai'c.  You  want  to 
J;no\v  the  meaning  of  my  roses — they  mean  that  word  love.  In  these 
<lays  I  suppose  it  is  an  exploded  notion  to  join  love  and  marriage 
Jo^clhcr,  and  a  girl  can  make  her  bridal  wreath  of  orange  (lowers 
.ilonc,  and  have  not  one  rosebud  in  the  whole  wreath."  Frank 
raises  his  voice  as  he  finishes.  (And  they  are  both  too  much  occupied 
io  observe  that  John  Klliot  has  arrived  on  the  scene  of  action  before 
the  I  lose  of  Mina's  narrative.  He  stands  in  the  library  concealed 
from  view,  overhearing  the  conversation  between  his  afHanced 
wife  and  a  man  who  a  fortnight  since  was  an  utter  stranger  to  her. 
lie  also  has  his  floral  oftering — a  huge  bepapered  Coven t  Garden 
.1  flair,  all  colours  of  the  rainbow.     Poor  fellow  !  it  is  never  offered.) 

*•  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  this  before  ?  '*  asks  Frank  excitedly. 

**  I  did  not  know — I  did  not  feel,"  Mina  answers  incoherently, 
^landing  up  and  grasping  her  roses  tightly. 

'*  \'ou  will  keep  my  roses,*'  he  exclaims.  "  Mina,  have  I  taught 
vou   their  meaning?  (grasping  her  hand)  tell  me." 

*'  I  hear  some  one  coming ;  let  me  go,"  she  entreats. 

"  (Jne  word — if  you  were  not  going  to  marry  your  cousin — would 
vou  throw  away  my  roses  ?  " 

For  answer  Mina  presses  her  lips  on  to  the  flowers,  pushes  them  back 
into  his  hands,  and  says,  "I  give  them  back  to  you — and  all  my 
]Kipi)iness  goes  with  them;  but  John  loves  me;  and  now  I  know 
wliat  that  word  means ;  I  cannot  ruin  his  happiness  to  make  my  own." 

•*  And  am  I  not  to  be  considered  at  all,  then  ?  "  asks  Frank,  sadly. 

'*  I  c:an't  help  you,''  she  answers.  "  I  have  promised  John,  i)apa, 
mamma,  and  everybody."  Then  suddenly,  as  he  turns  impatiently 
.nvay,  she  cries  out,  "Oh,  my  love  !  my  love  I  are  you  not  satisfied? 
I  )on't  you  see  my  heart  is  breaking  ?  "  And  she  passes  bewildered 
ihrough  the  library,  her  dress  almost  bnishing  the  concealed  lover. 

The  guests  arrive  ;  stout  mothers  and  slight  daughters,  sweet 
seventeens  and  girls  of  seven  seasons  ;  tall  dark  Young  Englanders, 
with    bci)lastered   hair  carefully  parted   down   the   middle  of  their 


Mina  Brelion.  445 

•craniums,  and  liliputian  specimens  of  every  known  flower  carefully 
arranged  in  their  button  holes ;  fair  bearded  men,  from  the  War 
Office,  who  loll  at  the  doorways,  and  tumble  the  artificial  flowers  and 
bows  that  loop  back  the  muslin  curtains — men  who  **  don't  dance," 
^nd  make  themselves  particularly  disagreeable  to  their  hostess,  when 
she  dives  through  the  crowd  in  a  vain  effort  to  look  up  a  partner  for 
«i  girl  unable  to  find  one  for  herself.  Flirtations — valses — ices — 
nonsense — champagne — supper — and  thump,  thump,  thump  on  the 
piano  by  the  hired  musician,  with  more  coat  sleeve  and  knuckle  than 
**  touch,"  as  the  cornet  waxes  louder  and  louder,  and  the  evening 
progresses. 

"  What  a  jolly  valse  !  "  remarks  Angelina  to  Edwin  as  they  pause 
4n  the  dance — hot,  giddy,  and  excited.  Amongst  all  this  moves 
Mina,  the  (jueen  of  ihe/c/c.  Her  crown  seems  to  hurt  her  though, 
if  one  may  judge  by  the  occasional  contraction  of  her  brow.  She 
•dances  the  opening  quadrille  with  John,  as  in  duty  bound  ;  then  in 
iivc  minutes  fills  up  her  i)rogramme  promiscuously  to  the  very  end. 
i*>ank  also  dances  away  industriously.  His  partners  find  his  manners 
<lo  not  come  up  to  his  appearance,  and  **  awfully  slow  I''  is  one  girl's 
verdict  to  another,  in  after-su|)per  confidences. 

'*  Vour  birthday,  Mina,"  observes  old  Mr.  Lucas,  **  and  no  one 
i>rought  you  any  flowers  !  What  have  your  yoving  cavaliers  been 
thinking  about?  Here,  John — Mr.  Legget — how  came  you  to  be  so 
neglectful  ?  1  would  have  provided  my  niece  with  some  myself,  but 
I  thouglit  she  would  be  overwhelmed  with  bouquets."  (Are  there 
aiot  two  withered  bunches  lying  neglected  at  the  foot  of  the  conser- 
vatory steps?  Yet  both  the  young  men  look  as  guilty  as  if  the 
accusation  was  true.) 

At  half-past  three  it  is  over — the  last  "  Good  night "  is  wished — the 
last  carriage  rolls  away,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bretton,  Mina,  Frank,  and 
John,  stand  alone  together  in  the  deserted  drawing-room.  "  Well,  it 
iill  went  off  capitally,"  observed  Mrs.  Bretton  with  hospitable  pride. 
**  But  I  don't  think  Tompkins's  jellies  were  quite  as  clear  as  usual. 
Come,  young  people,  it  is  time  to  think  of  bed.  You  all  three  look 
wofully  tired — not  a  touch  of  colour  in  the  cheeks  of  the  whole  of 
you.    You  must  show  John  your  presents  to-morrow  morning,  Mina." 

**  Yes,  mamma,"  answers  Mina  wearily.  And  she  rises  to  say  "Good 
night."  "Stay  a  moment,  Mina,"  says  John,  " I  have  not  given  you  my 
present  yet — will  you  come  into  the  library  with  me  ?  "  Mina  silently 
acciuiesces,  and  passes  from  the  room  with  him. 

"  We'll  go  to  bed,  my  dear,  if  you  have  no  objection,"  remarks 
Mr.  Bretton  cheerfully — "  and  see  the  present  in  the  morning.  No  use 
Vol.,  XI.  N.S.,  1873.  G  G 


446  The  Gentlematis  Magazine. 

waiting  up ;  lovers  keep  no  count  of  time ;  they  may  be  half  an  hour. 
Ha,  ha,  ha!  Take  my  advice,  Frank,  and  follow  our  example." 
Frank  mutters  incoherently  something  about  having  a  smoke  before 
he  turns  in ;  and  as  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bretton  leave  the  room,  throws 
himself  upon  -the  sofa  and  buries  his  head  in  the  cushion.  John 
leads  the  way,  followed  by  Mina,  silently  along  the  passage,  through 
the  library,  and  into  the  conservatory.  With  two  or  three  exceptions 
the  coloured  lamps  are  all  burnt  out,  and  the  orange  flowers  are  dimly 
seen,  like  shadowy  white  flakes,  resting  on  their  shiny  leaves. 

He  takes  her  hands  and  places  her  on  the  seat  she  has  occupied 
once  before  that  evening,  when  Frank  was  her  companion.  (She  notes 
the  coincidence.) 

"  I  have  brought  you  here,  Mina,  to  give  you  a  birthday  gift ;  but 
before  I  do  so  I  want  you  to  listen  to  something.  A  great,  awkward, 
stupid  fellow  was  foolish  enough  to  fancy  that  he  could  make  his 
cousin  happy  if  she  married  him.  He  thought  his  love  would  smooth 
the  pathway  of  her  life,  and  shield  her  from  all  harm.  He  gained 
her  parents'  consent  to  woo  her,  and  in  the  end  she  promised  to  be  his. 
And  then — then  another  fellow  came  and  stole  her  heart  away.  But 
still  she  remained  loyal  to  her  cousin,  and  thought — ^poor  child  I — 
he  would  accept  her  sacrifice.  One  evening  he  overheiuxi  a  con- 
versation betweei;!  her  and  the — the  other  man.  Not  much  of  it,  but 
yet  enough  to  show  '* 

But  Mina  starts  up  and  interrupts  him.     "  Enough,  John,  enough.* 
Do  not  be  so  cruel.'* 

"  Cruel,  child !"  he  replies  calmly.  "  I  shall  never  be  cniel  any  more. 
My  birthday  present  to  you,  is — your  freedom." 

Mina  stands  before  him  with  dilated  eyes,  and  gasps  out,  "  You 
arc  not  teasing  me,  John  ?  Do  you  mean  it  ?  is  it  true  ?  true  that  I 
am  free  ?  " 

"Yes,  Mina,  it  is  true."  He  presses  his  lips  ui)on  her  forehead 
calmly,  almost  coldly,  stem  resolve  in  every  movement.  "And 
yon  ?  "  she  murmurs  inquiringly. 

"  Never  mind  w^,"  he  answers,  as  he  stoops  to  pick  a  tiny  sprig  of 
orange  blossom,  and  turns  away — a  smile  so  sad  upon  his  face  that 
Mina  puts  her  hands  up  to  her  eyes  to  shut  it  out. 

He  meets  Frank  in  the  hall,  and  quietly  says,  "  Mina  wants  you  in 
the  library."  Then  takes  his  hat  down  from  the  hat-stand,  opens  the 
front  door,  and  steps  out  into  the  cold  pale  morning  light — the  scent 
of  the  orange  blossom  in  his  hand  the  transient  memorial  of  his 
happiness. 

Alice  Lee. 


For  Music 

SAID  to  my  sorrow,  vanish, 

Too  long  hast  thou  lingered  here  I 

At  last  from  my  heart  I  banish 
A  guest  I  have  held  too  dear. 

I  prayed  to  the  years  to  hasten 

My  youth  that  it  might  not  stay; 
But  the  shadow  did  not  lessen, 

And  followed  me  night  and  day. 

I  summoned  the  winds  to  bear  me 

To  isles  of  the  farthest  deep  ; 
But  ever  Grief  hovered  near  me, 

And  ever  it  bade  me  weep. 

I  tried  to  fulfil  a  mission, 

And  toil  in  the  haunts  of  men  ; 
As  soon  as  I  lost  that  vision, 

I  longed  to  see  it  again.. 

I  called  upon  Love  to  nestle 

Within  my  bosom  secure, 
But  Love  was  afraid  to  wrestle 

With  a  foe  so  strong  and  pure. 

I  called  upon  Faith  to  save  me, 

To  lead  to  happier  years ; 
But  a  tear  was  all  she  gave  me. 

As  she  pointed  to  the  spheres. 

Then  I  bade  my  soul  surrender. 

And  fight  no  longer  in  vain. 
When  Music,  divine  and  tender, 

Had  pity  upon  my  pain. 

With  Music  my  grief  was  mated. 

With  Music  my  grief  took  wing ; 
My  sorrow  was  all  translated, 

As  winter  is  changed  to  spring. 

M.  BElIIA.M-EDWARDi. 

G   G   2 


Making  the  Worst  of  it, 

BY  JOHN  BAKER  HOPKINS. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

A    CLUE   TO   THE   MYSTERY. 

lIIIS  is  the  age  of  unrest.  In  the  olden  time  men  worked 
for  competence,  and  having  gained  it  retired  to  pass  the 
evening  of  life — or  shall  we  not  say  the  twilight,  the 
dawning  of  the  better  life  ? — in  repose.  Nowadays  there 
is  no  thought  of  retirement.  Much  toils  for  more.  Success  is  a  call  to 
greater  exertion.  We  work  without  ceasing  until  the  hour  of  death. 
Look  around  the  House  of  Commons.  There  are  many  men 
who  did  not  enter  Parliament  until  they  were  fifty  years  old,  until 
they  had  made  a  fortune  by  trade.  And  at  fifty,  when  tliey  might  enjoy 
the  fruits  of  their  industry,  they  plan  and  conduct  new  ventures,  and 
sit  on  committees,  and  arc  civil  to  hungry  or  exacting  constituents. 
This  unrest  may  not  be  good  for  us,  but  it  is  in  vain  to  admonish. 
The  spirit  of  the  age  is  mighty,  and  commands  the  Reason. 

Mr.  Stot  was  elected  M.P.  for  Mammonton,  after  a  costly  and 
exciting  contest.  The  former  member,  who  was  under  considerable 
obligations  to  Mr.  Stot,  took  the  Stewardship  of  the  Chiltem  Hundreds 
to  oblige  Iiis  financial  friend,  and  the  affair  was  so  well  arranged 
that  Mr.  Stot  had  the  field  to  himself  for  two  days,'  Still  it  was  not 
easy  to  keep  the  advantage,  because  the  other  side  started  tlie  eldest 
son  of  a  peer,  and  heir  to  a  rent-roll  of  ;^6o,ooo  a  year.  Mr.  Stot 
swallowed  pledges  as  a  glutton  bolts  green  peas,  but  the  eldest 
son  was  dainty  and  scrupulous.  Mr.  Stot  was  chaffed  about  his 
career,  and  on  the  hustings  the  eldest  son,  who  was  young  and 
inexperienced,  sneered  at  his  opponent  because  he  had  been  a  police- 
man. That  was  a  fine  opening  for  Mr.  Stot  He  was  not  ashamed, 
lie  said,  of  his  humble  origin.  He  rejoiced  that  he  did  not  inherit 
lands  filched  from  the  people  by  the  favouritism  of  a  degraded 
monarch.  It  was  no  disgrace  to  have  honourably  served  in  an 
honourable  service.  But  it  was  not  what  he  had  been,  but  what  he 
was.  Well,  he  had  done  as  much  for  the  trade  and  industry  of  the 
country  as  any  living  man,  and  he  was  proud  to  have  made  a  fortune 


Making  the  Worst  of  it,  449 

without  anybody's  help.     He  knew  how  to  spend  as  well  as  to  earn. 
His  pockets  were  pretty  full,  and  he  did  not  keep  them  buttoned. 

There  were  three  cheers  for  the  peeler,  and  Mr.  Stot  had  the  show 
of  hands,  and  headed  the  poll.  He  hurried  up  to  town,  and  took 
the  oaths  and  his  seat  It  was  the  last  week  in  July,  and  he  had  only 
ten  days  of  Parliamentary  life  before  the  recess ;  yet  when  he  was 
riding  home,  after  listening  to  the  speech  called  the  Queen's,  he  was 
wondering  why  men  were  so  anxious  to  get  into  Parliament.  It  is 
not  the  best  club  in  London.  It  is  not  select,  and  the  dinners  are 
not  comparable  to  Carlton  or  Reform  dinners,  because  there  is  con- 
stant worry  and  bustle.  Out  of  the  six  hundred  and  fifty-eight 
members  not  more  than  a  hundred  can  hope  to  achieve  distinction 
in  debate.  Is  it  love  of  country  that  prompts  the  five  hundred  and 
fifty-eight  to  fume,  fret,  intrigue,  and  pay  heavily  for  a  seat  in  Parlia- 
ment? The  back  benchers  are  generally  endowed  with  sound 
common  sense,  and  do  not  suppose  that  they  are  indispensable  to 
the  country.  It  is  the  love  of  social  distinction  that  makes  a  seat 
in  the  Commons  worth  from  ;^  1,000  to  ;^2  0,000  for  an  uncer- 
tain period  not  exceeding  seven  sessions.  Well  is  the  country  served 
which  is  served  for  honour,  and  to  gratify  the  craving  for  social 
distinction. 

Perhaps  Mr.  Stot  would  have  been  more  pleased  with  his  legislative 
position  if  he  had  been  less  harassed  by  other  affairs.  In  the  City  he 
was  bothered  with  a  loan  for  a  demi-oriental-semi-potentate.  The 
loan  was  a  good  thing,  money  was  a  drug  in  the  market,  and  yet  the 
loan  did  not  go  off.  The  cause  of  the  mischance  was  the  weather. 
The  heat  was  so  great  that  the  slightest  physical  exertion  plunged 
you  into  a  natural  Turkish  bath.  The  City  was  broiling  hot.  The 
refreshment  bars  were  crowded  with  men  clamorous  for  iced  drinks, 
and  the  thought  of  a  plate  of  soup  at  Birch's  was  unendurable. 
Therefore  everybody  who  could  went  out  of  town  to  lie  under  the 
sliade  of  trees  or  to  get  a  sea  breeze,  and  Mr.  Stot's  loan  was  not 
taken  up  as  it  would  have  been  if  the  thermometer  had  registered 
something  under  70^  in  the  shade.  In  finance  a  slight  accident 
will  ruin  a  splendid  enterprise.  The  cup  of  harass  and  worry  was 
filled  to  overflowing  by  partial  discomfort  at  home.  Mrs.  Stot  was 
continually  fretting  about  Alice  Clayton,  and  instead  of  being  cheerful 
and  forbearing  as  becometh  the  helpmeet  of  a  busy  man,  she  was  dull 
and  querulous.  She  declared  that  with  half  her  husband's  knowledge 
she  would  have  found  Alice,  dead  or  alive.  In  vain  Mr.  Stot  explained 
that  all  was  being  done  that  could  be  done,  and  that  when  they  got  a 
clue  there  would  be  no  difficulty  in  ascertaining  the  fate  of  Alice. 


4£0  The  Gentleman  s  Magtizine. 

Mrs.  Stot  was  not  mollified.  If  people  cared  for  Alice  as  she  did  a  clue 
would  have  been  discovered  long  ago,  and  she  did  not  believe  that 
Doloski  and  Gouger  had  more  sense  than  tom-cats.  As  Mr.  Stot 
conducted  the  investigation,  and  Doloski  and  Gouger  acted  under 
his  orders,  the  murmurings  of  Mrs.  Stot  were  unpleasantly  persooaL 

When  Mr.  Stot  arrived  home,  intending  to  devote  the  hours  befiire 
dinner  to  correspondence  about  the  loon,  he  was  met  in  the  entrance 
hall  by  his  wife. 

"  I  have  been  looking  for  you  ever  so  long.  They  are  waiting  in 
the  study.     I  suppose  I  can  go  in  i^ith  you  ?" 

**  Who  is  waiting  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  forgot ;  you  don't  know.  But  I  am  so  excited.  It  is  poor 
Mr.  Clayton  and  a  clue.     I  am  sure  he  is  a  clue." 

*'  I  am  fagged  as  a  fox  after  a  fifteen-mile  run.  Give  me  a  glass  of 
beer,  which  is  meat  and  drink  combined." 

"  It  shall  be  sent  to  the  study.     Shall  I  come  in  ?" 

"  No,  my  dear.  Most  likely  it  is  a  false  scent,  and  if  not,  the  fewer 
jjresent  the  more  we  shall  get  out  of  the  clue." 

"  Stot,  you  will  not  let  me  have  even  an  hour's  hope." 

"Nonsense.  I  won't  lose  the  game  by  following  false  scents. 
Send  in  the  beer." 

Mr.  Stot  went  into  the  study,  shook  hands  with  Henry,  and  was 
introduced  to  Mr.  Coley,  who  would  be  described  in  advertisement 
language  as  a  young  man  of  gentlemanly  appearance. 

"  Mr.  Coley  thinks  he  has  some  clue  to  the  fate  of  Alice.  I  thought 
it  best  for  him  to  see  you,  though  I  fear  his  information  will  not 
help  us.'* 

"We  shall  see  about  the  value  of  the  information.  Well,  Mr. 
Coley,  you  think  that  you  know  something  about  Alice  Clayton  ? 
Business  is  business,  and  any  information  that  helps  us  will  be 
handsomely  paid  for." 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  Mr.  Coley,  "  I  do  not  want  money.  I  agree 
with  Mr.  Clayton  that  what  I  have  to  communicate  is  not  likely  to 
be  of  use,  but  I  thought  it  a  duty  to  see  you." 

"  You  are  right,  sir.     You  do  not  live  in  England,  I  presume  ?" 

"  I  have  not  done  so  for  some  years." 

"  Exactly.  I  always  said  that  our  clue  was  to  be  found  abroad. 
Please  tell  us  what  you  know." 

Mr.  Stot  busied  himself  in  rubbing  his  elaborate  watch-key  with 
the  cuff  of  his  coat-slcevc  while  Mr.  Coley  spoke. 

"  About  six  years  ago  I  was  staying  in  Paris,  and  I  became  acquainted 
with  a  girl  who  was,  I  think,  seeking  an  engagement  at  a  theatre." 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  451 

"  What  was  her  name  ?"  asked  Henry. 

"  Clayton,  do  not  interrupt  Mr.  Coley.'' 

"  I  called  her  Marie,  and  I  have  forgotten  lier  name,  if  I  ever  knew 
•it  We  were  walking  in  the  gardens  of  the  Tuileries  when  Marie 
stopped  to  speak  to  a  girl  who  was  seated,  and  whom  I  knew  to  be 
English  by  the  accent.  The  English  girl  was  whispering  to  Marie, 
when  a  middle-aged  man  approached  and  roughly  told  her  to  come 
with  him.  Marie  said  that  the  girl  had  been  at  school  with  her,  and 
that  she  had  run  away  from  school  to  Paris,  had  changed  her  name, 
and  was  to  marry  the  Englishman.  I  asked  her  name,  and  she  told  me 
it  was  Alice  Clayton,  but  it  was  a  secret,  and  that  even  the  Englishman 
did  not  know  her  real  name.  I  did  not  believe  the  story,  and  should 
soon  have  forgotten  it,  but  two  or  three  days  afterwards  I  met  the 
^rl  and  the  man  in  the  same  place.  I  began  to  think  about  what 
Marie  had  told  me,  and  wondered  if  it  could  be  true.  The  man  left 
the  girl  on  a  chair  while  he  crossed  the  path  to  speak  to  some 
persons  on  the  other  side.  I  walked  to  where  the  girl  was  sitting  and 
said,  *  I  hope  Miss  Alice  Clayton  is  well.'  I  was  immediately  sorry 
for  what  I  had  done.  I  could  not  speak  to  her  again,  for  her  com- 
panion came  up,  and  she  said,  *  Frank,  I  feel  ill ;  take  me  home.' 
They  left,  and  I  did  not  meet  them  again." 

"  The  man's  name  was  Frank  ?"  asked  Henry. 

"  Yes.  The  terror  of  the  girl  impressed  all  the  circumstances  on 
my  mind.  I  remained  for  a  week  in  Paris,  but  though  constantly  on 
the  look-out  I  did  not  see  her  again." 

"  What  sort  of  man  was  Frank  T  asked  Mr.  StoL 

"  I  should  know  the  girl,  but  not  the  man.  All  I  remember  is  that 
he  was  rough  to  the  girl." 

"  Did  you  see  Marie  again  ?" 

"  No.  I  called  at  the  house  where  she  lodged,  and  1  was  told  she 
had  gone  away." 

"  You  know,  then,  where  Marie  lived  ?  Write  it  down,"  said  Mr. 
Stot,  pointing  to  the  writing  materials. 

"  I  am  sorry  that  I  can  give  you  no  better  help." 

"  Thanks,  Mr.  Coley  ;  your  information  is  clear,  and  it  may  be  a 
clue,  though  we  cannot  catch  hold  of  it  at  the  moment  Where  do 
you  dine  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  engagement" 

"Then  dine  here  at  seven — and  mind  it  is  seven,  (Greenwich 
time." 

Henry  seemed  overcome  by  the  narrative,  and  when  Mr.  Coley 
departed  could  only  press  his  hand. 


45 2  The  Gentlonan  s  Magazine. 

"  Clayton,  if  we  can  track  this  Marie — and  it  is  not  improbable — 
we  may  find  Alice  quicker  than  we  expect  By  the  whispering  it  is 
clear  that  Marie  knew  something  about  her  movements." 

"  We  may  be  sure  that  the  worst  that  could  befall  any  girl  has  be- 
fallen my  child.  Frank  was  the  name  of  her  companion.  That  man  was 
my  enemy.  The  misery  and  shame  of  the  father,  the  affliction  and 
death  of  the  mother,  did  not  satisfy  him.  He  had  heard,  perhaps,, 
that  I  loved  the  child,  and  he  has  destroyed  her."    . 

"There  you  are,  Clayton — plunging  into  speculations  instead  of 
plodding  at  the  facts.     Frank  is  not  such  a  very  imcommon  name." 

Mr.  Stot  could  not  change  the  opinion  of  Henry,  and  indeed  had 
arrived  at  the  same  conclusion,  though  he  would  not  avow  it  to  the 
father  of  the  lost  girl. 

Mr.  Doloski  came  in  the  evening,  and  was  told  about  the  informa- 
tion of  Mr.  Coley. 

"  Vou  will  be  off  to  Paris  and  try-  to  hunt  down  this  Marie.  I 
would  go  myself,  and  let  the  loan  go  bark,  but  you  will  do  the  busi- 
ness better.  I  am  sure  p:;or  Clayton  is  right,  and  that  that  scoundrel 
Mellish  trapped  the  poor  child.  Doloski,  I  am  not  much  in  Civoar 
of  revenge,  but  I  should  like  to  wring  the  neck  of  that  murdering 
villain.'' 

**An  artful  dog.  How  he  cleared  out  of  the  way,"  said  Mr. 
Doloski. 

*'  I  connect  him  with  Alice  in  this  wav.  He  had  his  knife  in 
Clayton,  that  is  clear.  He  knew  where  the  Claytons  lived,  for  the 
scoundrel  confessed  to  me  he  had  written  a  letter  to  the  schools 
mistress  of  the  child,  ^^'e  made  no  secret  to  the  woman  in  charge 
of  the  house  that  Alice  was  going  to  a  school  in  France,  and  I  postedi 
a  letter  to  that  woman — gone,  Doloski,  no  one  knows  where — from 
Alice.  Thus  the  scoundrel  could  get  to  the  whereabouts  of  the 
child.  Then,  Doloski,  the  child  was  unknown  ;  and  what  other  man 
could  persuade  her  to  leave  her  school  and  her  friends  ?  He  could. 
He  terrified  her  about  her  father,  and,  as  Coley  sa)rs,  treated  her 
roughly.  \Miy  should  she  fors;ike  us,  for  she  had  clung  to  Mrs.  Stot  as 
if  she  had  been  her  mother  ten  times  over  ?  Mellish  tempted  her 
into  hiding  away  from  us  for  ever.  And  you  know  tliat  it  was  not 
long  after  there  was  that  to  do  about  the  death  of  Mrs.  Mellish.  It 
might  not  have  been  murder,  but  it  was  cniel  manslaughter.  Do  you 
remember  at  the  inquest  that  there  was  evidence  that  Mrs,  Mellish 
had  provoked  him  by  getting  jealous  ?  Who  was  she  jealous  of? 
Depend  upon  it,  Doloski,  she  had  learnt  something  about  Alice.** 

This  long  speech,  like  other  speeches,  was  not  delivered  as  it 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  453. 

appears  in  print,  but  was  divided  into  paragraphs  by  puffs  at  a  cigar 
and  sips  at  a  glass  of  grog. 

"  It's  Mellish,"  said  Mr.  Doloski,  "  but  he  is  long  past  finding.'' 
"  Perhaps  not  if  he  is  alive.  What  we  want  now  is  to  find  Alice, 
and  if  we  do  that,  we  may  give  Mellish  a  taste  of  the  hulks  before  he 
dies.  We  can  prove  forgery,  and  there  is  the  verdict  of  manslaughter 
against  him.  But  we  must  not  bother  about  Mellish  now.  Look 
up  Marie,  and,  Doloski,  don't  lose  a  chance  for  the  sake  of  sparing, 
the  coin." 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

CITIZEN      DELORME. 

"  So  far,  the  smallest  of  boys  could  have  done  the  business.  I  go  to- 
the  house  in  the  Quartier  Latin,  and,  thinks  I,  they  will  not  remember 
Marie  here.  But  I  was  wrong,  as  most  people  are  who  think  first  and 
inquire  afterwards.  I  saw  a  woman — the  concierge — and  introduced 
myself.  Had  she  been  there  long?  For  ten  years.  Did  she 
remember  Mane  lodging  with  her?  Did  I  mean  Marie  Belloc^ 
Perhaps.  Oh,  yes,  certainly.  She  was  with  her  for  nearly  six 
months.  When  ?  About  six  years  ago.  Was  Marie  visited  by  any 
friends  ?  Only  by  the  lover  who  married  her.  Not  by  an  English 
girl?  Ah,  my  stupid  head.  Yes,  twice.  What  was  the  name  of 
the  English  girl  ?  Ah,  that  was  a  secret.  She  had  run  away  from 
school  and  was  very  tristc.  You  never  heard  her  name?  Three 
times  Jamais,  And  Marie  ?  She  married  Auguste  Delorme.  Where 
are  they  ?  What,  I  come  from  England  and  not  know  about 
Delorme?  No.  Delorme  was  leader  of  a  grand  society  to 
found  a  Republic.  He  was  betrayed,  and  escaped  to  England. 
And  Marie?  They  were  long  separated.  Where  is  Marie?  At 
Baden,  playing  with  the  French  company.  That  is  the  information  I 
get  here.  I  shall  set  off  for  Baden.  Would  it  not  be  well  for  Gouger 
to  look  up  Delorme?" 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Stot  to  his  wife,  "  this  looks  like  getting 
out  of  the  wood.  I  am  not  a  sanguinary  man,  as  my  old  firicnd  the 
Colonel  says,  but  I  would  take  short  odds  that  Goley  has  set  us  in 
the  track.  We  arc  not  likely  to  get  a  word  out  of  Delorme,  and 
Marie  is  the  well  for  us  to  pump.  However,  Doloski  is  right  We 
must  try  the  unlikely  as  well  as  the  likely.  I'd  look  after  the  firog, 
myself,  but  it  won't  do  for  a  finance  swell  and  M.P.  to  do  any 
detecting.     But,  my  dear,  I  often  long  for  the  old  work." 


454  "^f^^  Gentle^nan  s  Magazine, 

Mr.  Gouger  ascertained  that  there  was  to  be  a  public  meeting  in 
favour  of  the  Universal  Republic  and  the  Equality  and  P^lcvation  of 
Mankind,  at  which  Auguste  Delorme,  patriot  and  exile,  was  to  be 
present.  Mr.  Gouger  resolved  to  attend  the  meeting  and  have  a  look 
at  Delorme.  He  was  accompanied  by  Henry,  whose  resignation  and 
patience  were  not  proof  against  the  thought  that  his  child  had  been 
the  victim  of  his  relentless  foe.  The  passions  that  had  slumbered 
for  years  were  awakened,  and  again  Henry  hungered  and  thirsted  for 
revenge. 

The  meeting  was  held  at  the  St.  Gileses  Hall  of  Free  Thought 
and  Human  Progress. 

The  hall  was  a  dark,  dismal  room,  into  which  two  hundred 
people  might  have  been  wedged  by  skilful  packing.  However,  as 
not  more  than  fifty  persons  responded  to  the  invitation  of  the  com- 
mittee, there  was  ample  space.  The  chair  was  taken  by  a  Polish 
refugee,  who  called  upon  the  men  of  England  to  strike  for  freedom, 
happiness,  and  progress  ;  and  he  painted  a  glowing  picture  of  human 
regeneration  and  the  equal  distribution  of  wealth,  when  everybody 
will  be  rich  and  have  leisure  to  enjoy  the  bountiful  gifts  of  Nature, 
which  are  now  monopolised  by  the  band  of  thieves  called  the  pro- 
perty class.  Citizen  Delorme  moved  a  resolution  in  favour  of  the 
Universal  Republic,  and,  though  he  spoke  half  PYench  and  half  English, 
his  speech  was  applauded.  The  French  Revolution  began  with  the 
destruction  of  the  Bastile,  and  the  Universal  Revolution  must  begin 
by  burning  the  gallows  and  razing  the  prisons.  Why  were  men  sent 
to  prison  ?  For  trying  to  take  a  little  of  their  own  from  greedy 
thieves.  As  for  other  pretended  crimes,  it  was  not  the  prisoners,  but 
society  that  was  guilty.  Every  man  was  entitled  to  health,  plenty, 
and  happiness,  and  if  he  had  these  things,  which  were  the  universal 
birthright,  he  would  live  at  peace  with  the  universal  brotherhood. 
Ah,  citizens,  let  us  never  forget  that  the  prisoners  and  the  slavey  of 
the  hulks  are  our  brethren,  and  suffer  for  the  wickedness  of  society, 
and  for  our  apathy.  The  clanking  of  their  chains  is  a  prayer  for 
deliverance.  We  hear  the  prayer.  We  could  deliver  them,  and  we 
do  not.  Citizen  Delorme  was  followed  by  Citizen  Scraggs,  who 
remarked  that  the  poor  were  many  and  the  rich  few,  and  that 
numbers  must  win  if  there  was  equal  organisation.  Why  had  there 
not  been  that  organisation?  Why  had  the  conspiracy  of  wealth 
against  the  rights  of  man  been  successful  for  century  after  century? 
Jkcause  the  many  were  in  the  bends  of  ignorance.  But  what  was 
now  happening  ?  Alanned  at  the  clanking  of  the  chains  of  their 
victims,  the  tyrants  were  striking  off  the  chains.      The  people  were 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  455 

to  be  educatecf,  were  to  be  relieved  from  the  bonds  of  ignorance ;  and 
when  tliat  was  done,  the  people  would  organise  and  seize  their 
rights.  He  did  not  agree  with  Citizen  Delorme  that  the  prisons  should 
be  razed.  They  should  be  kept  for  the  tyrants.  Citizen  Delorme 
observed  that  there  were  plenty  of  lamp-posts,  and,  therefore,  prisons 
would  not  be  needed  for  punishing  the  oppressors.  This  remark  was 
greeted  with  laughter  and  loud  cheers. 

^Vhile  the  Universal  Republicans  were  speaking  Henry  looked  at  a 
man  who  sat  before  them,  and  who  frequently  applauded  Citizen 
Delorme. 

"  Gouger,  that  is  the  fellow  we  saw  in  the  public-house,  and  who 
was  run  over.     I'll  ask  him  about  his  daughter." 

**  Every  one  to  his  taste,  but  I  would  not  speak  to  such  a  hang  dog 
scoundrel  for  the  sake  of  fifty  interesting  daughters." 

Henry  touched  Dick  Feckles  on  the  shoulder.  Dick  turned  and 
scowled  on  Henry. 

"  Don't  you  know  me  ?  " 

"  No,  and  I  don't  want,"  snarled  Dick. 

"  I  helped  you  home  after  that  little  accident.     How  is  Ruth  ?  " 

"  Blazing  for  all  I  care ;  and  will  you  just  leave  me  and  her  alone  ?  " 
snarled  Dick,  as  he  shuffled  higher  up  the  bench. 

"  Ah,"  said  a  woman  who  was  snuffing  freely,  "  Dick  has  temper 
enough  for  twenty  devils,  and  is  a  good  bit  teased.  He  can't  abear 
being  spoken  to  by  a  gent,  because,  as  the  saying  is,  he  were  once  a 
rcg'ler  tipper-topper  hisself " 

The  resolution  and  a  vote  of  thanks  to  the  chainnan  concluded 
the  business  of  the  meeting.  Mr.  Gouger  stepped  up  to  the  platform, 
and  asked  Citizen  Delorme  for  the  favour  of  a  minute's  private  con- 
versation. With  the  grand  politeness  that  is  peculiarly  French, 
Citizen  Delorme  assented,  and  was  moving  to  a  comer  of  the  plat- 
form when  Citizen  Scraggs  warned  him  in  an  audible  whisper  to 
beware  of  spies.     Citizen  Delorme  smiled  a  defiant  smile. 

"  That  gentleman  is  needlessly  alarmed.  I  am  not  a  spy ;  my 
business  relates  to  private  affairs." 

"  Pardon  for  the  error  of  the  Citizen.  He  knows  how  I  am  hunted 
and  spied  by  day  and  night.  Your  Government  would  surrender  me 
but  for  the  fear  of  the  people." 

"  A  friend  of  mine  is  seeking  his  daughter,  who  has  been  missing 
for  years.  She  was  known  to  Madame  Delorme,  and  we  thought  you 
might  give  us  some  information." 

"  1  know  not,  sir,  about  Madame  ma  fcmme  or  her  friends.  Good 
night,  sir." 

**Stop,"  said  Mr.  Gouger.  putting  his  hand  into  his  pocket     "  You 


456  The  Gcntlemaiis  Magazine. 

miglil   remember  about  the  affair,  and  we  will  pay  well  if  you  will 
take  tlie  pains  to  think  it  over." 

"  Ah.  Not  here.  These  citi;tens  would  ask  for  paUicipation  in 
what  I  get." 

"Clood.  Have  a  little  supper  with  lis.  You  knotr  Temple  Bar. 
We  will  wait  for  you  there,  south  side," 

"  I  will  be  quick  there.  I  will  tell  the  citizens  you  want  ray  speech 
for  a  journal." 

While  Henry  and  Mr.  (Jouger  were  ct  ww/^  for  Temple  Bar,  the 
latter  remarked  that  the  Universal  Republicans  would  be  dai^rous 
if  they  had  power. 

"  But  they  have  no  power,"  said  Henry,  "  and  the  scheme  is 
absurd.' 

"Perliaps,  but  Scraggs  made  a  point  about  education.  If  the 
many  had  education  ihcy  might  organise,  and  they  could  tlien  fight, 
though  I  don't  think  they  would  win.  If  I  were  one  of  the  outcasts  1 
should  go  in  for  revolution.  In  my  opinion,  Mr,  Clayton,  we  should 
look  afler  the  bodies  as  well  as  the  minds.  Education  makes  poverty 
dangerous." 

Citizen  Helomie  did  not  keep  them  waiting.  The  trio  went  to  the 
private  room  of  a  taiern,  and  were  speedily  supplied  with  a  substan- 
tial supper.  The  eating  of  Citizen  Pelonne  was  not  creditable  to  the 
cheap  restaurant  dinners  supplied  to  the  Leicester  Square  exiles. 

When  the  meal  was  over,  and  the  parly  had  lighted  their  cigars, 
Mr.  Ciougcr  succinctly  explained  the  circumstances  to  Citizen 
l>eloniu',  omitting  names. 

".\h!"  e\ilaimcd  the  Citizen,  "I  do  know  of  that  affair.  With 
iiu  i\:!iii:c  I  met  them.  Marie  spoke  to  the  girl.  The  man  was  ride. 
I  (oltl  him  in  l^ni^lish,  which  I  s[>oke  perfect  then,  for  my  father  was  in 
cviloheic,  and  1  w.is  in  Knglish  schools  for  many  years.  I  tell  that  he 
nuisi  be  [KiJitv  lo  Mailame  /«.»  fimiin;  or  I  should  slap  in  the  face. 
I'lie  lidiis  siTc.im,  M.irie  took  me,  and  the  girl  the  man,  and  ire 
«erep.ulal-- 

■•  Wh.it  w.is  till'  name  of  the  girl?"  asked  Mr.  Gouger. 

■■  It  i-  j;i'iu-.      I  cannot  s;)y." 

■•■{■lui  is,lpill.•■ 
"  Vh,  but  (he  name  of  the  man  I  do  not  forget.     The  girl  rail  h 
1 1, ink." 

1K-IIU  h>.>k»l  lum)  al  Mr.  GK 

"  riu'itiii  I  iiio  iu)t  MM 

"Wheiv?"  asked  H 
"  In  I  .Diuloii." 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  457 

"  When  ? " 

"  It  may  be  one  month  or  one  and  a  half.  It  was  in  Restaurant 
I'otagc.  He  was  writing  a  letter.  I  spoke  to  him  aiid  make 
ameiuh  honorable  by  telling  him  I  was  too  quick  when  I  met  him  in 
I'aris  with  Madame  ma  femme,  and  I  ask  him  how  is  Madame  Frank. 
He  look  red  and  white,  and  said  he  did  not  know  me.  But  his  face 
say  to  his  tongue,  You  lie," 

"  In  Ixindon  !    We  may  yet  find  him,  Gouger," 

■' Hnd?"  said  Delomie.  "Yes.  1  have  seen  him  often  in  the  street." 

"  When  next  you  sec  him  follow  him  at  any  cost.  We  shall  give 
you  fifty  pounds  for  your  trouble.  Here  is  a  trifle  for  your  informa- 
tion, "    -And  Mr.  (louger  handed  the  Citizen  a  five  pound  note. 

"  I  take  it  because  my  property  is  confiscate,  and  the  people  do 
not  gi\'e  what  they  should  to  those  who  are  martyrs  for  them." 

"  Do  not  divide  that  with  the  citizens,"  said  Mr.  Gouger. 

"  No,  no.     Unless  all  divide  one  cannot  do  so." 

{"itizen  Delorme  departed  with  many  protestations  of  friendship. 

"  Gouger,"  slid  Henry,  "  we  shall  find  that  villain." 

■'  \'es  ;  but  you  had  better  not  join  in  the  pursuit." 

"Why  not?" 

■  Because  the  first  thing  is  to  find  your  child,  and  your  revenge 
iiiight  shut  his  moulh.  There  will  be  time  enough  for  that  when  we 
hai'c  got  our  information." 

"  As  you  will,  Gouger.  If  I  met  him  I  think  he  would  have  Uvcd 
his  last  hour." 

CHAPTER  XXVH. 

ROSE  UEl^  WORK   TO   DO. 

Mrs.  Thompson  leant  against  the  chest  of  drawers.  Rose  sat  in  a 
low-seated,  long-backed  chair  that  was  perhaps  easier  than  it  appeared. 
Mrs.  Thompson,  coarse,  ungainly,  and  her  face  the  colour  of  the  fire 
over  which  she  stood  for  hours  daily  to  cook  for  her  customers. 
Rose,  wrapped  in  a  shawl,  pale,  delicate,  and  downcast 

"  It's  a  &ocy  I've  took  to  you,  my  dear,  and  I  wish  you  had  done 
the  same  l^  ine.     But  ifs  no  good  wishing.     1  might  take  to  liking 

EKtUcst  thing  in  this  wide  world,  but  the  beautifullest  thing 
mtiierwisc  towar  ." 

mOtout  riiising  hi  ,  replied  that  she  was  very  grateful 

r 


wl      I  spoke  of,  my  dear.  .  But 
t  for  any  liking,  even  if  I 


45^^  The  Gaitlemans  Magazine, 

\\\\^  ;in  an^^cl.  But,  leastways,  dear,  stop  here  you  must  till  you  have 
a  niHT  home,  and  as  you  won't  take  my  bread,  which  you  arc  wel- 
come to,  I've  Liot  a  place  for  you  which  was  settled  alx)iit  yesterday 
when  I  was  in  the  Citv.' 

''Why  do  Av.»u  take  so  much  trouble  about  me?" 

Rose  wjb  i»os>e>sed  by  an  evil  spirit,  and  she  almost  resented  the 
loving  kindnos  that  sought  to  save  her  from  perishing. 

*•  There *s  no  trouble,  dear.  If  I  was  you  and  you  w;is  me  you 
would  do  as  much  and  more  for  me.  For  going  into  a  situation  you 
are  not  lit  now.  so.  my  dear,  this  is  how  it's  settled.  A  cousin  of 
mine  who  iioes  bv  inv  name  is  in  Brii:.:s  and  Co.,  in  Milk  Street,  who 
m.ike  pretty  wl-]1  all  the  nner}-  and  frip  that  is  worn.  Well,  ray 
de.;r.  he  is  aj^rced  to  pve  you  out  work  enough  to  bring  you  in  one 
pt^'.mii  a  Week.  (])n  twelve  and  sixpence  I  can  keep  you  with  a  profit. 
So  tlicK  yov.  .-re.  my  dear,  with  no  favour  from  me.  but   the  other 

**  Wni  are  kind  indeed  !"'  said  Rose.     **When  shall  1  begin?" 

••  .\:  o:ul.  my  dear:  tha:  is,  as  soon  as  we  can  get  home  the 
work.  " 

'*  fan  I  s.;o  lor  ::  ?'* 

*  \  es,  and  :!ie  ;oi:rr.ey  v.  ill  do  ycu  good  after  moping  up  here  fur 
a:ys. 

'•  Per :..:;'<  I  >!:.:/.  r.o:  be  .iMe  :o  do  the  work." 

••  1  or,  my  dear :  any  one  can  who>e  lingers  aim  swelleii  and  hard 
b\    Tv.ison  or"  >^T.:1.  Mn^;  and  cookinj." 

Kv  >o  >vi  o:V  :Vt  Milk  ."^treet,  somewhat  relieved  at  the  prospect  of 
r.o:  1\:;\,  o.l;  ;.::v:en:  on  Mrs.  Thomi'son  :  and  Mrs.  Thompson 
o:o:\d  V '..:>.  ni.d  ej^v^^an^I  bacon,  and  brewed  coffee  in  the  best 


Vv:  MiN.  ri.oinrs.n  ;.ad  deceivLd  Kc-e  and  her  cousin.  The 
ev\-.>:-  :.  :,;  !- r  :>..::  if  R.-e  was  vcr}-  ijaick  with  her  needle,  and 
wo:'-v*.  vl  :^  V.   -.v  .::s  a  d.:y,  sne  might  earn  from  iwelve  to  t'lfteen  shillings 

••  M\  V....:  >v  •..!.  :'...::  v.or.*:  do.  Mr>.  Sim; -son  is  not  quick  with 
.'a:  -v\\....  .:ru':  ^.n:":  Wvrk  ten  !:oi:r<  a  d.iy.  and  she  must  have  a 
po'a:u!  a  \\^-^%." 

I  .'e  vv»;>:;i  s-y-^^^vi  ins  snon.oers. 

"lo:,  lo:n.  I  ain:  a  too:.  1  didn't  suppose  that  Mrs.  Simpson 
\\.'<  :>  n  .;  :v^  take  a  nound  a  week  out  of  this  or  any  other  house. 
^.•.\v-  :a!  .  „;::  work  and  pay  her  the  jKumd.  you  looking  to  me  for 

•  rha:  is  v^r\  ;.ne  ;  la:  why  should  you,  with  a  daughter  of  your 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  459 

own^  and  relations,  and  working  hard  as  you  do,  give  away  all  fifteea 
shillings  a  week  ?  " 

"  Lor,  Tom,  I  don't  believe  you  can  see  to  the  end  of  your  nose,, 
though  it  is  a  snub,  leave  alone  an  inch  beyond  it.  What  I  gives  I 
gets,  and  with  a  profit  Only  Mrs.  S.  is  that  peculiar  that  she  won't 
take  nothing  from  her  friends  if  she  thinks  it  is  free  gratis." 

"  I  twig.     It  shall  be  managed,"  quoth  the  cousin. 

Deception  and  falsehood  !  And  the  woman  is  light-hearted  and 
rejoicing  in  the  success  of  her  little  plot.  Now,  stem  moralist,  will 
you  stone  her  ?  Why  should  you  and  I  be  extreme  to  mark  what  is 
done  amiss?  We  are  not  the  accusers,  or  the  witnesses,  or  the 
avengers.  We  are  not  sinned  against  We  shall  stand  in  the  dock 
with  Mrs.  Thompson.  Will  our  indictment  be  as  light  as  hers  ?  It  is 
wrong  to  do  wrong  for  a  good  end.  Are  we  better  because  we  have 
done  wrong  to  compass  an  evil  and  selfish  end  ? 

When  Rose  arrived  at  the  Milk  Street  warehouse  the  cousin  was^ 
prompt  in  his  attendance,  and,  in  City  slang,  he  reckoned  her  up  at 
a  glance.  The  survey  was  satisfactory.  Mr.  Thompson  was  afraid 
of  his  cousin's  money  going  out  of  the  family,  and  he  was  glad  to 
note  that  Rose  was  genteel  as  well  as  poor,  for  that  was  evidence  of 
her  having  friends  able  to  help  her.  He  tried  to  converse  about 
Mrs.  Thompson,  but  Rose  would  not  talk.  Sulky  temper,  thought 
Mr.  Thompson.  He  gave  her  a  small  parcel  of  work,  with  a  pattern. 
Her  earnings  will  be  about  a  shilling  a  week,  thought  Mr.  Thompson. 
It  must  be  admitted  that  the  manner  of  Rose  was  not  winning. 

Rose  entered  the  wrong  omnibus  and  did  not  discpver  her  mis- 
take until  she  was  near  Charing  Cross.  She  alighted,  and  inquiring  the 
way  to  Oxford  Street,  was  directed  to  cross  Covent  Garden  Market 

Covent  Garden !  One  of  the  dear  anomalies  of  England.  The 
vegetable,  fruit,  and  flower  market  of  the  metropolis  of  the  British 
P^mpire,  and  scarcely  large  enough  for  a  first-class  provincial  town. 
Not  only  small,  but  patchy  and  ill-arranged.  Yet  let  not  the  hand  of 
Progress  and  Improvement  touch  the  place  that  is  crowded  with 
most  cherished  memories ! 

As  Rose  walked  through  the  central  avenue  she  lingered  to  look 
at  the  flowers  and  the  fruit,  and  even  returned  to  the  west  end  to 
gaze  at  the  bouquets.  Could  she  help  thinking  of  the  time,  only  a 
few  months  ago,  when  the  choicest  flowers  were  cast  at  her  feet,  and 
now  she  was  friendless  and  an  outcast  ?  Absorbed  in  these  reflec- 
tions, she  did  not  notice  the  eager  scrutiny  of  an  elaborately-attired 
gentleman  who  followed  her  out  of  the  market,  and  when  she  was  in 
I^ng  Acre  came  up  to  her  and  said  : — 


T    ^ 


•;. 


_?       .•■.... 


i->" 


"■-.."-•      -.-.'*    » , 

..«  ^        -.•>  A«.l         *«•■  k 


•     -  -     -  .    — ..  .-:---  ^         .  •  —  ^  •  -,  -*i  ^    , .  »!,  ^ 

•  ••  •«-■        >.—       %.....        ...•■C       a.Atk.      .( 


•     ••  ■*  t   •       ' 


'..'■  —  '     ^  . .:  v.:„  .  r.-.::-;::  r.oi  :e.i  n-.c.     I 

y.                   '       :     ■.      \    ::.  r'.:   :.  M:->  r>::!:\:-:"t.      \\:';:  \^i^l  write  :o 

I  f    •  ■  ■  -  .--.....-  ...^i  •'.  ^   «^.  - », .-,.-  ^ ,«  1  .. ,»]_ 

!•■  .■«■..-•-..,•»       »..C      t«li.*4«^\     .lilLl     "LI* 

I  _        ■       _ 

};   :v  i-f.    .'.1  :'.:^  ..:   ...v.  ::  [  ..:\j7  >::^n;"^  ':.:::,I>  wiih  :hcnuiuccr. 

•■•  V .  t'.  ■_  •  .1  z  »\ .  ■  "i"       '.  >  •■'..  v. 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  46 1 

for  she  is  the  oddest  temper  ever  manager  had  to  deal  with.  But  I 
must  have  her,  and  she  is  the  best  star  out.  When  she  is  back  I'll 
look  after  her  myself." 

Rose,  having  walked  for  a  few  minutes,  stopped  and  turned  round 
to  see  if  she  was  followed.  No.  She  was  alone  in  the  busy  street. 
The  indignation  that  had  sustained  her  gave  way  to  grief.  Frank 
had  deserted  her,  and  she  loved  him  none  the  less. 

She  turned  into  one  of  the  dark  narrow  streets  that  led  from  Endell 
Street  to  the  dank,  noisome  abodes  of  the  \NTetched  and  the  guilty, 
the  dens  of  fever  and  of  moral  pollution  that  lie  between  the  two 
great  thoroughfares  of  London.  She  walked  on,  not  heeding  whither 
she  went.  At  length  she  paused  and  looked  about  her.  The  doors 
of  the  black,  tumble-down  houses  were  open,  and  round  them  were 
groups  of  women  and  children,  the  latter  half-clad  and  sickly,  the 
former  ragged  and  evil-looking.  There  appeared  to  be  no  exit  from 
the  street,  and  she  stopped  with  the  intention  of  inquiring  her  way. 

"  \Miat  do  you  want  ?  Where  are  you  going  ?  '*  asked  a  sweet 
voice. 

It  was  Sister  Ruth  who  spoke  to  her. 

*'  1  am  going  to  Paddington." 

"  Paddington  !  I  cannot  take  you  there.  The  angels  will  not  let 
me  go  to  the  right  or  to  the  left.  But  come,  I  will  bring  you  out  of 
this  place." 

Ruth  took  Rose  by  the  hand  as  if  she  were  leading  a  child. 

"'  Why  did  you  come  here  ?  " 

*'  I  lost  my  way.'' 

"  No  one  will  harm  you,  since  I  am  with  you,  for  they  love  Sister 
Ruth,  and  I  shall  not  be  long  with  them.  I  am  going  away,  but  I 
shall  try  to  come  back  to  them,  though  they  will  never  see  me  again." 

Rose  looked  at  her  companion,  and  her  look  showed  that  she  was 
alarmed  and  did  not  understand  what  had  been  said  to  her. 

"  Do  not  fear  me,"  said  Ruth,  "  I  am  the  sister  of  those  who 
mourn,  and  you  mourn.  I  shall  very  soon  be  always  with  my  mother. 
I  am  weary  with  waiting,  but  the  waiting  and  the  watching  will  soon 
be  over.  My  mother  died,  but  I  don't  know  when,  for  I  never  saw 
her  but  when  I  sleep  or  when  I  pray.     Where  is  your  mother  ?  " 

"  She  is  dead,"  said  Rose. 

"  And  your  father  ?  Gone  too  !  Poor  sister  !  Was  your  mother 
good  ?    Is  she  with  the  angels  ?  " 

As  Ruth  asked  this  question  they  entered  a  narrow  street. 

**  Here  they  will  tell  you  how  to  get  to  the  place  you  want     What 

is  your  name  ?  " 

Vol.  XL,  N.S.  1873. 


^o?  Tiie  Cffitlrmans  Mamsiiu. 

*  Rc><e.  Rose.  I  sh::!]  remoDber  dm  far  2.  iktle  vliik.  Poor 
Ko>e  No  lacihcr  wlih  vou.  aad  ihe  sscels  doi  '»ra  van  as  ihev  jrt 
w-iih  Sister  Ruih.  ^Micn  znv  xnoaier  comes  to  imt  10-aseiit  I  will  ask 
-bou:  vo-jr  laoiher  :Lnd  she  shall  coane  10  vdc  when  too  sfeert.  I 
"srish  }-: ::  -srocji  r:o:  co  iracr.  me.  Be  my  sisier,  snd  rsmna  midi  ine  nil 
I  CO  -"u-v.  K:"w  WT*  sh^-jjd  icve  esd:  oiher  :  Bai  bo.  twi  mcst  jTO 
rror:i  73 r-     I  i^us:  be  iir-se  :f.I  I  co  ro  nrr  mcir^er." 

Ruth  kissed  Rose  ::2d  siill  seemed  jor:  it:  ieive  her. 

••  I  iniiT  see  you  ir^r-,  ihcocti  1  s^hsZ  sor-  he  -"ir:  mr  mjftLei.  If 
i  ao  r.oL  I  vZ  c.tse  to  ycc  »b*::  1  ssr.  s:^  anrsL  Yonr  ssa»r  is 
Rose.   Thi:  is  the  or:h-  T^ime  I  hire  T-rM=ir*crei     /ax  rv^/ij 

Ruih  hijd  hir  cross  ::  Rose  s  hTs;. 

"  Yes^  vooiher  dsir,  I  vill  tj:.:  "inrer.     Tznwtl.  Rose.     »-  ■'^ 
>;>:;-.     The  d;y  is  rcsjsqt:.  :.Dd  rbsre  is  m^rh  irorc  to  t* 
-  xh-  irsd  '-f  ::  is  iso:  do:>e  I  shiZ   do:  sJ!e;7   i=  he:  s. 
she  oor.i-n-ei  .r  i  vr.i5r:iir.  ^  I  30  jot:;  frr  l  sisrer  r:-  ^e  wzft  ZBe,  :c: 

*  TT. -ISZ  7'Ot   T'--        •  "V\„  ^«z   "^TCIT  7  ~*  ^^■', 

.>:.}.i.  I    ^.^^    .^*«  ^   _..:..    ~     «^0l_     .L         "    -»''*'     rc    *SL^«i=L.    ^-._.    w.I>- 
■  •  jj--  -«..  - 


.".:  :>i  io.v  of  'hz  ro5ei-r.'0::sf  >:o.\d  Mt^  .nnnpSL-o. 

'•"  "" "«   ""*"-'   '  *""."'  !''»."'. I  .''^j^  •  "J"  ^"^  T*j>^     ^Tc  ziTT  her*"**  "***^  ^ 
...  rrv  To.x.:"  «:o:.:  v,x.  3:c  horrs.     vrhz:  he?  tect  y:!:; 

R."s;  ;  v./^.T'i'i  :v.:  >hi  "^i  c.'c  ■.":  the  ▼r.xir  nmnTnas  r: 

■  »■.*     ^.    .^    *i~" 

\  o..i":  r:  \:.« ;  coT^r  -vr"  ^o-v  "hr:  tr?rrs  1?  t>:  Jei-Tii£  : 
.  .r       o^  .  :  .'Ojt'v  li^;*:  .i.t      v^octi  Er:  tr;  rarirt.  mi  tii*  * 

.     ■•..^-•».• 
■".::.    ■:'.:.   r:     ,\:.*  "   -^.-rito."  V^  Irrrt  '^L^rrsauii.  -  7,t  there's 
.».*..rv:    .1',    -.:  .,:>;r   ;  x*\.      r^^      ,x :    r:". 'vcr  r.tii?  Ssinr-  ivws  \>a 
\..-i:vr*;      i*r\:    .    .i-,*-v  *-    x^.'-x    :x  ^x*  .1  tnr  ▼'es't  .  :n«£  ^  is  io 
«;i.-;vi     r«,*c   :.'  o,'  **  .r»  :v  .'I'i  ^^s.••    i^  I  'rsnc  sT  ttt  juci  this 

vitric  i^ivr.   .v.rv    T...rv>  :-;  <or:v.  r-.isv^  :rtr  iiir'-js  .x  i* 


Making  the  Worst  of  it,  463 

stitions.  Mrs.  Marshall  was  the  slave  of  petty  superstitions.  She 
would  not  look  at  a  new  moon  through  glass.  She  would  soil  her 
delicate  kid  in  picking  up  a  pin,  because  to  pass  a  pin  was  to 
pass  her  luck.  She  slept  with  a  dream-book  under  her  pillow.  She 
kept  a  pack  of  cards  for  fortune  telling.  She  believed  in  these 
and  other  paltry  stupid  superstitions  because  she  was  little-minded 
and  depraved. 

Mrs.  Marshall  was  disappointed  and  perplexed  about  Lord  Sham- 
vock.  The  story  of  that  imaginary  son  had  entirely  changed  his 
lordship's  views.  The  one  object  of  his  life  had  become  the  recovery 
of  his  son.  So  far  from  opposing  the  dissolution  of  his  marriage 
with  Miss  Hawes,  he  had  done  what  he  could  to  further  it.  He 
had  given  the  solicitor  of  Mr.  Hawes  information  for  the  com- 
pletion of  the  case.  He  had  made^  a  declaration  on  oath  that  when 
he  married  Selina  Hawes  he  believed  that  Laura  Lady  Shamvock  was 
dead,  not  having  seen  or  heard  of  her  for  nearly  twenty  years,  that 
she  had  now  reappeared,  and  that  the  said  Laura  was  his  lawful  wife. 
One  result  of  this  change  of  purpose  was  that  he  no  longer  had  any 
motive  for  bribing  Mrs.  Marshall.  Great  was  her  disgust  and  annoy- 
ance at  finding  that  a  thoughtless  and  impromptu  lie  had  cost  her  a 
thousand  pounds.  She  wanted  the  money.  Like  all  women  of  her 
class,  she  always  wanted  money,  for  the  wages  of  vice  are  never 
<Kiiial  to  the  foolish  extravagance  of  the  vicious.  Her  duns  were 
rude  and  threatening.  When  the  thousand  pounds  was  in  prospect 
she  made  a  list  of  her  debts,  and  to  her  surprise  found  that  they 
amounted  to  over  five  hundred  pounds.  She  thought  they  were 
not  half  that  amount,  for  debts  always  seem  less  than  they  are 
until  set  down  in  black  and  white,  and  the  debtor  boldly  faces  the 
total.  The  five  hundred  pounds  did  not  distress  Mrs.  Marshall.  The 
thousand  pounds  would  pay  her  debts,  and  leave  her  five  hundred 
pounds  to^  spend.  She  had  visions  of  renewed  and  extended  credit, 
of  sumptuous  dresses,  of  a  new  set  of  furs,  of  more  jewels,  of  an 
•autumnal  visit  to  a  swell  watering  place,  and  of  taking  horse  exercise, 
attended  by^a  groom.  Lord  Shamvock  app>eared  on  the  scene,  and 
in  a  moment  the  sweet  apples  of  promise  became  dust  and  ashes. 
Her  lie,  her  unpremeditated,  objectless  lie,  had  cost  her  a  thousand 
pounds,  and  the  ease  and  the  pleasures  that  were  to  be  bought  with 
the  thousand  pounds.  In  vain  she  declared  and  swore  that  she 
never  had  a  son.  Lord  Shamvock  believed  the  lie,  and  he  would  not 
believe  the  denial  thereof.  That  was  another  drop  in  Mrs. 
Marshall's  cup  of  aggravation.  Now  and  then  it  suits  the  liar  to  speak 
thetruth,  and  great  is  the  rage  of  the  liar  that  the  word  of  truth  is  not 

II  H  2 


464  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

believed.  lA'ing  is  not  only  the  worst  of  vices  because  without  lyin^; 
a  continuous  career  of  vice  is  impossible,  but  it  is  also  impolitic.  It 
involves  a  total  loss  of  credit,  and  the  liar  is  given  over  to  believe 
his  or  her  lies,  and  becomes  their  dupe.  Lord  Shamvock  was  con- 
firmed in  his  belief  by  the  sworn  denial  of  Mrs.  Marshall,  which  he 
attributed  to  fear  of  being  punished  for  the  desertion  of  the  child. 

Mrs.  Marshall  had  sent  for  her  dear  friend  Mrs.  Flora  MabeL 
Macgregor  for  consultation  and  advice.  Mrs.  Marshall  had  first  known 
her  friend  as  an  assistant  in  a  millinery  establishment,  passing  under 
the  name  of  Martha  Stubbs.  The  said  Martha  Stubbs  disappeared, 
and  after  a  few  years  reappeared  as  Mrs.  Flora  Mabel  Macgregor^ 
the  daughter  of  a  deceased  clergyman,  and  the  widow  of  an  Indian 
officer.  For  the  present  she  lodged  in  parlours  in  Camden  Town^ 
though  a  fortune  of  about  ;^ 90,000  was  settled  on  her  little  girl.  If 
any  one  ventured  to  doubt  the  autobiography  of  the  metamorphosed 
Martha  Stubbs,  her  bosom  friend,  Mrs.  Marshall,  said  and  swore  that 
she  had  seen  the  marriage  certificate,  and  the  will  bequeathing  the 
;;{^ 90,000  to  the  juvenile  Flora  Laura  Mabel  Macgregor. 

'*  But,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Macgregor,  "  what  a  fortune  to  be  a 
genuine  lady  of  title,  and  to  have  it  put  in  all  the  papers  !  Why,  my 
dear,  you  will  be  known  everywhere,  and  quite  run  after." 

'*  I've  calculated  all  that ;  but,  my  dear  Flo,  don't  you  see  that  I 
should  have  had  the  title  and  the  money  into  the  bargain.  Of  course 
1  should  have  been  put  on  my  oath,  and  of  course  I  was  not  going  to- 
do  such  a  thing  as  to  swear  false  and  to  perjure  myself  out  of  a  title. 
Lord  Shamvock  has  not  a  sixpence,  but  as  sure  as  you  are  alive  he 
would  have  found  the  thousand  if  I  had  not  told  him  that  cram  about 
the  child,  which  the  old  fool  won't  be  persuaded  out  of.  And,  Flo^ 
I  really  want  the  money." 

*'  Can  you  not  get  something  out  of  the  other  paities  ?" 

"  My  dear,  I  should  have  been  well  paid  for  my  evidence,  but  now 
tliey  can  do  without  me.  1  wish  my  tongue  had  been  blistered 
before  it  had  told  that  cram  to  the  old  fool." 

"  Don't  upset  yourself,  my  dear.  Depend  upon  it,  being  a  genuine 
lady  of  title,  and  talked  about  as  you  will  be,  is  equal  to  a 
fortune." 

"  I  must  put  up  with  the  loss ;  but,  Flo,  when  the  old  fool  comes. 
here  snarling,  drivelling,  and  praying  me  to  give  a  clue  to  his  son,  I 
can  hardly  keep  my  hands  from  strangling  him." 

'*  \Vhy,  my  dear  Laura,  I  see  how  you  may  have  him  now.  Pre- 
tend the  story  is  true,  and  that  you  will  give  him  a  clue  when  he 
comes  down  with  the  money." 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  465 

Mrs.  Marshall  jumped  up  and  aflfectionately  kissed  her  friend. 

"  Well,  Flo,  what  a  clever  little  head  yours  is !  I  should  never 
liave  thought  of  it.  The  toddling  stupid  will  be  with  me  to-night, 
and  I'll  work  it" 

"  The  only  difficulty  is,  dear,  whether  he  can  find  the  money,  if 
he  is  so  hard  up  as  you  say." 

"Fellows  like  him,  with  a  title,  can  always  plunder  somebody 
if  they  choose.  Why,  he  spent  thousands  over  that  doll.  Rose  Dul- 
maine.  You  know  the  girl  I  mean.  She  went  off,  no  one  could  tell 
where." 

"To  be  sure,  my  dear.  And,  Laura,  if  he  would  not  part  with 
the  coin  without  some  evidence,  why  I  could  be  Mrs.  Smith,  and 
you  know,  darling,  I  would  do  anything  for  you." 

"  My  dear  Flo,  you  are  years  too  young  to  pass  for  a  woman  who 
took  charge  of  a  child  ever  so  long  ago." 

"  My  dear  Laura,  I  could  make  up  to  look  any  age  over  ten.  I 
can  dress  down  to  nineteen  and  up  to  ninety." 

"  That  would  not  do ;  but  I  tell  you  how  we  could  manage.  You 
might  be  the  daughter  of  the  woman." 

"  So  I  could,  dear.  And  I  could  be  corresponding  with  the  son 
and  produce  a  letter  from  him." 

"It  must  be  in  a  man's  handwriting." 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  there  are  lots  of  fellows  who  will  write  anything  for 
me. 

"  I  may  not  get  the  thousand,  but  I  will  get  something  out  of  him, 
Flo,  and  then  well  go  away  together  and  have  a  jolly  week  or  two. 
He  will  be  here  about  eight.  We  shall  have  time  to  go  to  the  Restau- 
rant Sultan  and  have  a  good  feed." 

"  You  are  an  extravagant  dear." 

"  I  shall  not  be  equal  to  my  task  unless  I  get  something  nice  and 
a  bottle  of  Cham.  Besides,  dear,  if  the  money  goes,  it  comes ;  and 
what  is  the  use  of  hoarding  it?" 

So  Mrs.  Marshall  and  Mrs.  Flora  Mabel  Macgregor  went  out,  got 
into  a  hansom,  and  drove  to  Regent  Street.  Mrs.  Marshall  never  entered 
a  hansom  at  her  door.  Such  a  proceeding  would  have  shocked  the 
jospectable  dwellers  in  the  square,  and  Mrs.  Marshall  was  very  par- 
ticular about  appearances.  The  tomb  that  covered  her  iniquities  was 
/:arefully  whitewashed. 


'A  Tcd  G 


Z'zi.^jrr£3.  XXDL 


^j  v.*  '^Jt  vAjt  rw-,  y :'~-*r.  cr*^^^^ 
7  ;.-r.  a--,a^  1  'T^sJcrLT  Trtrik  iff  :^- ri- — x  zsau  whose  bodr  and 
tti-M  iTt  tnr-tir'i-jt:!  ij  i  Ide  ic  ira^pcy.  ^Vben  rise  combatants 
ir*  /:.  \z.tr/.£lT  riascir-i-  ±-t  rrsc.i  a  csstiin.  2£id  die  figiit  is  not 

Mn.  Min?-il'.  izd  1-er  w:.r±T  ilj.  Nt^  FIcn  Mabd  Macgr^or, 
i*^J^l.'i  tcoIcC  L'^ri  ^2dinvock.  tbcc^  his  k)fcsmp  displayed  more 
fjTJCtr.ct  than  n:i*h:  Ls-t*  been  erpectcd.  He  vocld  not  pay  j£'i,ooo 
for . :.  f  y.-rr^tion.  He  world  do  noting  on  the  unscppoited  vovd  of  Mrs. 
Mar  .r^lL  Then  Mri.  Macgregor  appeared  on  the  scene  as  lliss 
Sr;.!::.,  ari.d  pr^/i-ic^d  a  letter,  the  address  torn  oC  firom  Hcmy 
Mar--l*x:l],  the  irniLginar}'  son.  Lord  Shamvock  turned  on  his  tor< 
rrj';r/.or->.  'ITity  would  not  give  the  address  unless  he  produced  a 
lar;;':  surn  of  money.  He  would  bring  them  before  a  court  of  justice 
an''!  r/>rnpel  them  to  do  so.  Mrs.  Marshall  laughed  meiniy.  What 
did  she  r,are  ?  She  would  take  her  oath  she  never  had  a  soil  After 
fcnriri;(  and  higgling,  Mrs.  Marshall  agreed  to  accept  ^£^500.  Wlien 
that  money  was  forthcoming,  Lord  Sham\-ock  should  have  the  address 
of  the  son. 

J  lis  lorrlship  had  spoken  the  truth  when  he  told  Mrs.  Marshall 
that  he  had  not  fifteen  hundred  shillings.  His  banking  accoimt  had 
c-r;!  lapsed  by  the  refusal  to  honour  a  five-pound  cheque.  His 
jewellery  was  in  the  strong  room  of  a  pawnbroker.  Hitherto  he  had 
kept  a  small  annuity,  but  on  the  strength  of  his  marriage  he  had  sold 
it  and  lost  the  [ifoceeds  at  unlimited  loo  and  chicken-hazard.  His 
r:(inne(  tions  had  long  since  disowned  him  and  would  not  lend  him  a 
sixpcn(e.  His  name  figured  conspicuously  in  a  '^  Trade  Protection 
List,"  and  his  credit  was  gone.  He  had  been  ejected  from  the  hotel, 
and  was  fain  to  put  up  with  a  first-floor  on  Paddington  Green.  He 
existed  for  a  while  by  begging  from  his  former  associates,  but  how 
was  he  to  f;et  £,^00  for  Mrs.  Marshall? 

lie  af;ain  invoked  the  aid  of  Dick  Feckles,  and  Dick,  like  his 
noble  patron,  being  without  money  or  credit,  was  glad  of  another  job. 
Hills  to  the  amount  of  ;^90o  were  drawn  by  Lord  Shamvock  and 
a<(ipte(l  by  Mr.  Hawes  by  Dick's  versatile  pen.  They  were  taken 
to  the  gentleman  who  had  discoimted  the  former  batch  of  bogus bill& 
Ills  lordship  explained  that  he  had  agreed  to  terms  of  separation^ 
ai\d  that  the  bills  were  jiart  of  the  consideration  he  M'as  to  receive. 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  467 

"  Odd  fellow  is  old  Hawes,"  said  his  lordship.  "  Hates  to  part 
with  his  coin  until  he  is  obliged." 

"  Wonderful ! "  said  the  gentleman,  looking  at  the  bills.  "  A  litho- 
graph could  not  be  more  exact." 

"  A  lithograph !"  observed  his  lordship. 

The  bill-discounter  carefully  folded  up  the  documents,  and  handed 
them  to  Lord  Shamvock. 

"  This  game  is  played  out,  Lord  Shamvock.  We  have  all  had 
notice  about  the  Duncan,  Forbes,  and  Co.  affidr,  and  instructions  to 
detaia  any  bills  offered  by  you  for  inquiry.  I  shan't  do  that,  and  you 
are  lucky  to  have  come  to  me  first.  Bum  them  as  soon  as  you  can. 
Shall  I  light  my  taper  ?" 

Lord  Shamvock  muttered  something  about  being  deceived,  and 
that  the  bills  would  be  all  right. 

"  Nonsense.  How  can  they  be  all  right  after  notice  ?  Hawes  and 
Stot  would  be  delighted  to  nab  you.  As  a  matter  of  business  I  decline 
the  bills.     As  a  friend,  I  say,  bum  them.     Shall  I  light  my  tsqper  ?" 

Lord  Shamvock  handed  over  the  bills  without  speaking,  and  saw 
them  slowly  reduced  to  tinder. 

"  Fire  is  a  quick  master,  but  a  slow  servant.  Cut  this  game.  Lord 
Shamvock.     Another  attempt  may  put  an  end  to  your  career." 

"  Yes  ;  but  the  pressure  has  been  awfiiL     Not  duns,  but  worse." 

"  Not  in  want,  surely,"  said  the  bill-discounter,  observing  that  his 
lordship,  who  had  been  noted  for  wearing  jewellery,  had  not  even  a 
watch-chain. 

"  I  have  not  even  thought  of  that.  I  have  lately  heard  of  a  son  by 
my  first  marriage.  He  is  living,  and  his  mother  wants  money  before 
she  will  tell  me  where  he  is." 

The  bill-discounter  sneered  at  the  story,  but  pitied  Lord  Sham- 
vock's  feebleness  of  mind. 

"  Don't  seek  him.  Long-lost  sons  don't  care  about  being  found 
by  fathers  who  have  nothing  to  give  them." 

"  I  suppose  you  would  not  be  my  banker  for  ;^io?'* 

"  Business  don't  run  to  it.  But  you  are  welcome  to  a  fiver.  And 
mark  what  I  say  :  no  more  of  the  game  that  brought  you  here." 

Lord  Shamvock  shook  hands  with  the  bill-discounter,  pocketed  the 
note,  and  departed. 

**  I  never  gmdge  a  fiver  to  a  poor  devil  I  have  done  business 
with."- 

The  bill-discounter  spoke  the  truth.  He  did  not  gmdge  a  fiver  to 
a  beggared  client,  but  the  first  donation  was  also  the  last 

Loid  Shamvock  entered  a  tavern,  drank  some  brandy  and  water. 


-r--,ri  i  '.^^    .lizrt-i  >_^  zjsjt.  izii  ibsi  trek  £  cab  to  Camden 

He  =:.^r:Ll--:  ::  ^•Lr?.  ^LlttC-iZ  iz  Z'.vt^.  ^-ir  bxrzzin  and  tdl  him 
•-  :  i:i*-:=  .:  "•_:  =•:-  t-.±:-.:  iit  is.-rrj;^:  *:c  zhe  monev.  He 
•:   -.-i.r.t^  ::  ?-t  -k'-^l:  It  '-^  '  c.;-r  ii  rei  :re  ziccer.  and  how  he 

-  V : :  t'-'.  .!I  :t'.l  i  iilt  liit  :1j.:  ::  ii'i-se  "wro  ccni  know  you.  A 
r. -r.  Irtc  -v.?.  I:t^  will  z.:c  cl=i:  =.=   if;:  c:  mv  iDoaev.     So  don't 

^  ^  « 

Tr.o'-ih  I-iirs.  Isu^hrl  izi  dii  n::  relieve  d:e  siorv  about  the 
:'::-'-.-<:  Lilli.  she  feircc  tr-i:  ris  Icrd^hir*  wj5  veu-nigh  as  poor  and 
h'j.T.it^^  3.^  r.t  :■_::: t<zr-:t-f.  ^ni  ±e  rhcu^h:  cf  not  getting  the  five 

••  Wr.y  C'^T. :  y:.;  dj  i  r urjzlsr}-  or  i  rubber.-?  You  might  get  oS, 
ar,c  -f  you  were  caj^-h: ::  would  b*  no  miner.  You  mav  as  well  end 
\fy:z  d2iys  in  a  [jrlior^  as  in  a  workhouse." 

Th:.s  taun:  roused  his  Irrdshin.  and  he  rose  from  his  seat  sajing 
ti'.a:  bhc-  should  hej.r  frcni  him. 

"  }jy  the  way.  if  }ou  v.rlte  to  me  cr  come  here,  call  me  bymyngfat 
rjirne.  * 

"  Vo'Ar  rlL^hi  name?" 

"  Ych.     I  am  not  Mrs.  Marshall.     I  am  Ladv  Shamvock." 

'*  ^'ou  have  to  jcove  that  ycL*' 

"It  i.s  fjroved—  f  have  seen  the  solicitor  of  Mr.  Hawes.  He  has 
:.:.own  me  your  aftidavit,  and  he  told  me  to  take  my  right  name. 
When  your  last  victim  is  shot  of  you  I  shall  get  a  separation,  but  I 
>h;ill  '.till  \fi:  I^dy  Sliamvock,  and  a  title  is  worth  something.  I  may 
hMkc  a  fifhi  rate  marriage  when  you  are  dead." 

Laura  wais  a  ficud  to  the  man  whom  she  hated,  and  who  had 
deceived  and  betrayed  her.  It  was  her  delight  to  insult  him,  to  jeer 
;it  him,  to  torture  him. 

*'  I  shall  wear  weeds  that  the  fellows  may  know  Lady  Shamvock 
is  open  to  an  offer.     I  (juite  long  for  a  swell  wedding." 

"  Devil  !"  muttered  I^rd  Shamvock. 

"  You  are  rude.  You  are  so  spiteful.  You  are  savage  because  I 
shall  l)e  so  well  off  and  jolly  when  you  are  dead." 

I  .ord  Shamvock  clenched  his  fists.     Laura  rang  the  bell. 

•*  (iO  ;  unless  you  want  to  be  thrown  down  the  steps." 

Mis  h^rdshii)  called  on  Mr.  Fcckles.  Dick  was  in  his  dingy  second 
floor  front,  and,  as  usual,  smoking. 

**  Arc  you  alunc,  Dick?" 

"  YcH,  I  am  always  alone.     Do  you  see  anything  in  that  corner  ?" 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  .  469 

"  No." 

"  Would  you  dare  go  close  up  to  it  and  look  ?" 

Lord  Shamvock  took  the  light  from  the  table  and  inspected  the 
corner. 

"  What  is  this  foolery,  Dick  ?  " 

".\h,  it*s  gone  at  last.  There's  been  such  a  dreadful  creature 
there  staring  at  me,  and  ready  to  spring  on  me  if  I  moved." 

"  Why,  old  man,  you  have  a  touch  of  the  delicious  trimmings. 
Have  you  been  drinking  ?  " 

*'  Not  a  drop.  They  refused  me  at  the  Castle  for  half  a 
quartern." 

"  You  want  a  drop.  So  do  I  ?  Here,  go  to  the  Castle,  and  get  a 
bottle  of  brandy.     You  can  keep  the  change." 

Dick  took  up  the  sovereign  with  tremulous  eagerness. 

"  I  won't  be  long,  but  I  can't  go  to  the  Castle.  I  owe  a  score 
there,  and  they  would  stop  it  out  of  the  change." 

Prudent  Mr.  Feckles.  Imprudent  Castle.  A  small  credit  not  only 
makes  a  bad  debt,  but  also  keeps  a  customer  from  the  shop.  The 
Feckles  tribe — and  it  is  a  mighty  host — never  take  their  ready  money 
to  the  tradesmen  who  have  trusted  them. 

After  a  tumbler  of  brandy  and  water,  Dick  ceased  to  shake. 

"  That  is  an  awful  pipe  of  yours,  Dick.     Will  you  try  a  cigar  ?" 

*'  Thank  you,  no,  my  lord.  I  can't  do  without  the  pipe.  I  feel 
([uite  lost  without  it." 

"  Well,  Dick,  our  adventure  has  not  succeeded.  For  the  second 
time  I  have  had  the  honour  of  seeing  your  writing  burnt  in  the  flame 
of  a  taper." 

Dick  gulped  down  about  half  of  his  second  glass  of  the  stimulating 
moisture,  and  his  visitor  gave  an  account  of  the  fate  of  the  bills. 

Dick  gulped  down  the  rest  of  the  grog,  and  was  about  to  refill  his 
glass. 

*'  Not  yet,  Dick.  You  must  keep  right  for  a  while.  Nothing  can 
be  done  with  bills.     How  can  I  raise  a  few  hundreds  ?" 

Dick  smoked  in  silence. 

"  You  have  no  plan,  Dick  ?  I  have.  Old  Hawes  opened  an  account 
at  his  banker's  for  his  daughter.  I  have  her  cheque  book.  Suppose 
you  fill  one  up  for  Thomas  Hawes,  and  cash  it  ?     Eh,  Dick  ?  " 

"  Fill  it  up,  yes.  But  not  cash  it.  Sure  to  be  stopped.  You  are 
best  for  cashing  it" 

**  I  am  known  there.  Besides  I  will  make  it  easy  for  you.  I  have 
had  three  bankers,  and  I  have  some  cheques.  Confound  it,  I  never 
had  the  chance  of  using  up  a  book.     We  will  fill  up  three  cheques 


470  The  Getitlemans  Magazine. 

to  a  handsome  tune.  We  shall  pay  in  for  old  Hawes,  and  then  draw 
out.     Eh,  Dick  >    That  will  make  it  straight." 

**  I  will  write.  Get  some  one  else  to  cash.  I  am  nervous.  I  could 
not  do  it." 

"  Have  a  third  party  in  'the  hunt?  Not  if  I  know  it  You  will 
have  a  good  share  of  the  profit,  and  you  will  never  be  found  out. 
Wlio  would  suspect  you  ?" 

"  Let  me  think  it  over  for  a  minute." 

"  For  two  minutes  if  you  like." 

Dick's  thinking  lasted  for  ^\^  minutes. 

**  ril  do  it  if  the  cheque  is  not  a  big  one." 

"Say;^5oo." 

Dick  shook  his  head. 

**  Why  not,  Dick  ?" 

"They  will  never  pay  it  without  looking  and  questioning.  I 
won't  take  it  if  it's  over  two  hundred." 

"  You  may  be  right,  Dick ;  but  what  is  the  use  of  two  hundred  to 
mc  ?    You  know  why. I  must  have  this  money." 

"  Put  fifty  sovereigns  before  her,  and  she  will  tell  you  about  your 
son  rather  than  let  them  go." 

"  Again  I  believe  you  are  right,  Dick.  The  fifty  sovereigns  before 
her  will,  I  dare  say,  do  the  business,  and  if  not,  I  can  try  another 
fifty.     We  will  draw  for  two  or  three  hundred." 

"  Not  over  two  hundred." 

"  Well,  two  hundred  then,  first  paying  in  over  double  the  amount. 
Dick,  I  am  a  genius.  Splendid  idea,  blinding  them  by  paying  in 
hocus-pocus  cheques.  When  shall  it  be  ?  To-morrow  is  Saturday, 
and  a  lucky  day." 

Dick  held  up  his  hand. 

"  Can't  steady  it  before  night." 

"  We  will  do  the  work  on  Sunday  at  my  rooms,  and  draw  on 
Monday.    To  throw  them  off  the  scent  I  will  wait  here  for  the  cash.** 

Dick  agreed,  and  put  his  hand  upon  the  bottle. 

"  Very  well,  Dick,  another  nip  and  I  will  be  off.  Do  not  forget  Sun- 
day at  eight  sharp.    It  is  twenty-five  for  you.    Is  that  your  daughter?" 

It  was  Ruth  who  entered  the  room,  and  did  not  heed  her  father  or 
his  visitor.  She  crossed  to  the  window,  opened  it,  and  holding  her 
cross  in  both  her  hands,  gazed  at  the  starlit  sky. 

"*  Though  the  darkness  hide  thee.'  Ah  me,  I  forget  the  hymn, 
but  the  angels  will  sing  it  with  me  when  I  sleep.  The  stars  say  *Come/ 
and  behold  I  will  not  tarry.  The  angels  say  *  Come,'  and  behold  I 
will  not  tarry.     My  mother  says  *  Come,'  and  I  will  come.    Oh,  I  will 


Making  the  Worst  of  it  471 

not  tarry.  Oh,  earth,  earth,  earth,  hear  the  word  and  let  me  depart,, 
which  is  far  better." 

"  Ruth,"  said  her  father. 

"  The  angels  flee  at  his  voice,  but  they  will  come  to  me  when  I 
sleep." 

She  turned  from  the  window  and  saw  Lord  Shamvock. 

"  Who  is  it,  father  ?  " 

"  Do  you  forget  me  ?  I  am  Lord  Shamvock.  I  promised  to  take 
care  of  your  father,  and  you  promised  to  pray  for  me." 

"  I  have  forgotten.     I  will  pray  for  you  now." 

She  knelt  by  the  side  of  the  bed,  and  presently  rose  with  a  sigh. 

"  You  are  lost,  and  my  father  is  lost.  I  cannot  pray  for  you.  I 
tried,  and  I  cannot.  Those  I  can  pray  for,  I  see  with  the  angels. 
I  can  pray  for  the  sister  I  met  yesterday.  I  forget  her  name,  but  I 
saw  her  with  the  angels  when  I  slept  And  my  sweet  mother,  I  see 
her  with  the  angels ;  but  you  are  not  with  the  angels,  nor  my  father." 

Ruth  beckoned  Ix)rd  Shamvock  to  the  window,  and  looked  in  his 
face. 

"  No,  the  stars  will  not  shine  upon  you.  What  have  you  done  ? 
What  has  my  father  done?  " 

"  Stop  it,  Ruth,"  shouted  Dick. 

'*  Father,  I  remember  it  now.  To-night  a  man  asked  me  who  you 
had  been,  and  I  forget  what.  Also  one  of  my  poor  said  I  should  warn 
you  of  it." 

"  Fool,  you  told  me  that  story  last  night." 

"Was  it  last  night,  father?  Yesterday  is  to-day  with  me,  and  to- 
day is  a  yesterday  ever  so  long  ago.  Whatever  I  do  I  remember 
doing  it  before.  I  can  tell  what  is  to  come.  Something  will  happen 
to  my  father  and  to  you.     What  have  you  done  ?  " 

Dick  raised  his  arm  and  was  about  to  strike  her.  She  smiled  a 
weird  yet  sweet  smile. 

"  Poor  father,  you  cannot.  My  mother  will  not  let  you.  The 
angels  are  with  me." 

Lord  Shamvock  nodded  to  Dick  and  went  away. 

"  Ruth,  what  sort  of  man  spoke  to  you  ?     What  did  he  say  ?  " 

"  What  man  ?     I  do  not  remember  now." 

"  Try,  Ruth." 

"  Hush,  father.  Do  you  not  hear  the  music  and  the  call  ?  Poor 
father,  you  have  not  ears  to  hear  the  music  and  the  voice  of  the 
angels.  They  call  me  to  sleep,  to  heaven,  to  my  mother.  Good 
night,  father.  I  am  coming,  mother.  Your  child  will  not  tarry  when 
the  angels  call." 


47 2  The  Gettilefnatis  Magazine. 

Dick  set  up  another  candle. 

"  That  will  burn  till  daylight.  They  are  after  me,  but  I  will  get 
away  from  them.  Twenty-five  pounds,  says  Lord  Shamvock.  I 
must  have  more,  and  I  must  get  away." 

Dick  shuffled  into  bed,  all  the  while  keeping  his  back  to  the  comer  of 
the  room  that  he  had  asked  Lord  Shamvock  to  examine. 

"Ah,  it  has  not  seen  me.  I  will  get  away  from  it,  and  from 
those  who  are  after  me.  Til  get  away.  I  must  have  more  than 
twenty-five.'' 

CHAPTER  XXX. 

CITIZEN    DELORME   TRAPS    HIS    FOX. 

P^'ERYBODV  was  out  of  humour  or  dispirited.  Mr.  Doloski 
found  the  memory  of  Marie  a  blank  about  Alice  Clayton.  She  was 
too  polite  to  confess  forgetfulness,  but  she  could  not  deceive  her 
acute  questioner.  Mr.  Doloski  did  not  like  being  foiled,  and  he  was 
vexed  at  not  being  able  to  serve  Mr.  Stot,  his  good  and  constant 
friend.  Henry  Clayton  was  not  disappointed  by  the  failure,  for  he 
had  not  hoped  for  success ;  but  the  non-success  of  Citizen  Delorme 
in  finding  Mellish  vexed  him  greatly.  Every  day  he  saw  the  inter- 
national patriot,  to  hear  the  same  tale. 

"  Be  content.  My  eyes  are  not  shut,  and  I  am  qui  vire  always.  I 
will  bring  you  to  Monsieur  Frank."  The  international  patriot  yfzs 
well  paid  for  his  promises,  but  his  dress  did  not  improve.  If  he  had  put 
on  clean  linen  and  unbroken  boots  he  would  have  been  denounced  as  a 
renegade  and  an  aristocrat.  Mrs.  Stot  fumed  and  firetted  about  Alice, 
and  worried  her  husband  at  all  hours  with  questions  and  suggestions. 
Sometimes  she  called  Doloski  a  fool,  and  declared  that  if  she  had  had  the 
management  of  the  business  she  would  not  have  been  baulked ;  which 
was  an  indirect  reflection  upon  the  zeal  and  ability  of  her  husband. 
Mr.  Stot,  a  paragon  of  patience,  became  irritable,  and  the  more  so  as 
he  was  obliged  to  conceal  his  growing  conviction  that  Alice  would 
not  be  found. 

"  It's  throwing  away  the  money,"  said  Mr.  Doloski. 

"  We  must  not  think  so,"  replied  Stot.  **  We  must  keep  up  the 
hunt,  whatever  the  cost." 

To  add  to  Mr.  Stot's  long  list  of  worries  Frank  Boliver  returned 
from  America.  A  letter  informing  him  of  Rosens  disappearance  had 
been  sent,  but  not  received.  He  hastened  to  the  Holloway  lodging, 
and  was  startled  to  find  the  house  shut  up.     It  occurred  to  him  that 


Making  the  Woi^si  of  it.  473. 

she  had  changed  her  abode  by  the  advice  of  Mr.  Stot,  and  he  rather 
resented  the  interference. 

•  ■ 

As  he  stood  before  the  house  he  was  accosted  by  the  ever  vigilant 
neighbour. 

"  Do  you  want  to  see  it,  sir  ?  I  am  the  next  door,  where  the  key 
is.  Thirty  rent,  taxes  low,  good  repair,  and  a  nice  little  bit  of  garden 
at  the  back  which  grows  vegetables  splendid." 

"  I  came  to  see  some  one  who  lived  here." 

"  Oh,  indeed  I  I  am  sure  you  aint  a  friend  of  that  there 
Gibbs." 

**No.     I  came" 

"  Ah  !"  said  the  quick-tongued  matron,  interrupting  him,  "  them 
Gibbses  were  a  pretty  lot.  They  made  a  flit  of  it,  owing  just  two 
quarters,  with  a  score  everywhere  they  could  run  it  up,  and  even 
letting  the  cat's  meat  man  in  for  just  on  three  weeks.  I  don't  grudge 
a  cat  its  ha'porth  of  meat  a  day,  for  in  a  small  family  the  bits 
are  nothing  to  a  hungry  animal,  but  people  who  can't  keep  them- 
selves should  not  keep  a  cat." 

There  was  a  pause  for  breath. 

**  It  was  Mrs.  Simpson  I  came  to  see." 

"  Ah,  poor  dear  deserted  soul.  You  aint  the  first  that's  been  to- 
look  after  a  horse  that  is  stolen.  AVhy,  them  Gibbses  robbed  her  of 
every  farthing  of  the  money  that  was  left  her  by  the  party  as  passed 
for  her  husband,  poor  thing,  and  then  turned  her  out  with  just  what 
she  stood  upright  in.  It  was  three  weeks  after  she  came  back,  and 
the  Gibbses  were  gone,  and^  had  took  the  letters  she  were  expecting. 
She  were  awful  ill,  and  lodged  with  me  for  nigh  a  fortnight,  and  set 
out  one  morning  and  never  comes  back.  Next  day  comes  Mr.  Stot,. 
and  cut  up  he  was  when  he  found  her  gone,  and  he  paid  me  what 
was  due,  which  was  not  much,  and  I  did  not  look  for  it.  But  bless 
me,  sir,  you  do  look  bad.  Surely  you  aint  the  party  as  she  was  a 
looking  up  to  !    Just  walk  in  and  rest  a  minute." 

"  No.     I  cannot  stop  now.     I  will  see  you  again." 

Alarmed  and  bewildered,  Frank  drove  to  Russell  Square.  Where 
was  his  wife  ?  What  had  become  of  her  ?  He  felt  for  the  first  time 
the  full  force  of  his  love,  and  he  remembered  his  unkindness  with 
shame  and  stinging  remorse. 

Mr.  Stot  could  tell  Frank  no  more  than  he  had  heard,  except  that 
a  carefuUy  conducted  inquiry  after  Rose  had  been  abortive. 

"  I  understand,  Boliver,  that  your  wife  was  Miss  Rose  Dulmaine  ?" 

"  Yes." 

''  That  is  a  twist  in  the  case.     It's  clear  as  daylight  that,  come 


174  -*  -^  Gm:Lrrzjxj  J*fj 

ir-^',  :r.^\'^  =^crz  =.**d  T^'Ji  scirr*     See  crxLiO.  hax^  gofoe  to  Blevlite 


f    '    '.  "  '      r  ' 


"  I:  -r-w  zzjj  TiiJi'Jm  Ki-i  5>c«ili  ^-iT-T  aziixi  appear  oo  the  stage." 

'  'iV.  vt*  :  v.:  -^.rr^  ::s  i  ±.:;ce  renrees cesdtation and  obeying 

*::.-.  tr,\r.    of   1   hisbssad  -xn   of  reaicru   die  ober  ts  likely   to  !« 

••  Mr.  "^".o-  -sr.r  -sris  -JiC  best  of  Tiv-es  and  I  the  worst  of  hus- 


*'  U'l;!!.  lioliver,  we  icust  nnd  her.  I  am  worried  enoi^;h  with  a  like 
iftair.  An  o::Iv  diushrer  of  an  old  friend,  who  was  Mrs.  Stot's 
ado;/A-d,  has  disappieared.  and  without  any  other  basiness  one  such 
h»int  is  eno'jgh,  leave  alone  having  a  private  feeling  in  the  matter." 

"J  must  not  trouble  vou  with  mv  sorrow." 

*•  \'es,  you  must  do  so,  Boliver.  Your  loss  is  to  some  extent  my 
f;iuh — that  is,  mv  innocent  fault  It  was  bv  mv  advice  you  crossed 
the  Atlantic  and  kept  your  going  dark,  though  I  did  not  know  }'0u 
were  married.  Then  if  I  had  gone  to  Holloway  the  day  I  got  your 
letter  1  should  have  seen  Mrs.  Boliver.  Vou  go  and  have  a  talk 
with  (lougcr,  of  Doloski  and  Gouger.  He  is  the  best  man  in  the 
world  barring  Doloski,  who  is  equal  to  him.  Don't  trouble  about 
the  cxi)enses.  I  wll  find  the  shot,  and  you  can  repay  me  when  you 
arc  rich." 

**  I  am  now  rich  enough.  My  uncle  is  dead  and  has  left  me  the 
Inilk  of  his  fortune.  He  had  given  instructions  for  a  new  will,  but 
died  before  it  was  prepared." 

**  I  congratulate  you,  Boliver.  Fortune  comes  to  you  at  the  right 
lime.  You  are  young  enough  to  enjoy  it.  You  are  too  old  to 
waste  it." 

"  I  fear  it  comes  too  late  for  happiness." 

"  N'ou  will  be  happy  by-and-by.  But  mind  you,  Boliver,  I  don't 
believe  the  saying  about  a  fat  sorrow.  All  the  gold  in  the  worid 
cant  cure  heart-ache,  and  with  heart-ache  it  is  misery  whether  you 
arc  in  a  palace  or  in  a  workhouse.  But  be  off  to  Gouger.  He  is 
<()ming  here  this  evening,  and  we  will  consult  about  youraf&ir." 

Mrs.  Stot  was  not  very  complacent  about  Frank's  trouble. 

'*  1  think,  Stot,  you  have  enough  to  do  without  minding  eveiybod/s 
l)Usinoss.  Why  did  he  leave  his  wife  like  that?  Why  did  she  go 
away  like  that  ?  No  fear  about  his  finding  her  when  she  hears  diat 
ho  lias  a  fortune,  and  I  suppose  whilst  that  woman  is  being  looked 
al\cr  there  ^ill  not  be  a  thought  about  poor  Alice.  I  wish  I  ooaU 
be  you  for  a  week,  and  the  child  should  not  perish  for  a  hundred 
nuiaway  wivei.^ 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  475 

Mr.  Stot  is  a  wise  and  model  husband.  His  wife  was  angry,  and 
lie  did  not  attempt  to  argue  widi  her  or  even  to  soothe  her.  He 
had  a  pressing  engagement  in  the  City,  and  he  was  about  to  leave 
when  the  servant  put  a  card  into  his  hand. 

"  Gouger,  with  Clayton  and  Delorme !    What  do  they  want  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  you  can  spare  a  minute  to  see  them  in  spite  of  that 
nmaway  wife  and  the  City." 

*'  Show  them  in,"  said  Mr.  Stot  to  the  servant. 

*'  Stot,  I'm  a  cross-grained  wretch.  That's  what  I  am,  and  I  de- 
scr\'e  I  don't  know  what  for  wonying  you  when  you  are  doing  your 
best." 

Mr.  Stot  gave  his  wife  an  audible  kiss. 

**  Nonsense,  my  dear,  you  are  a  woman,  and  a  woman  with  any  go 
in  her  must  let  otf  steam  sometimes." 

Mrs.  Stot  returned  the  audible  kiss,  and  at  that  moment  Mr. 
Gouger,  Henry,  and  Citizen  Delorme  entered.  Mrs.  Stot  was  con- 
fused. It  is  not  etiquette  for  husband  and  wife  to  manifest  any 
affection  for  each  other,  particularly  if  tliey  have  been  married  for 
several  years. 

"  Just  in  time.  I  was  off  to  the  City.  How  are  you,  Clayton  ? 
When  you  get  back  to  the  office,  Gouger,  you  will  find  a  new  client 
waiting  for  you.  Take  a  chair,  Mr.  Delorme.  Is  my  wife  one  too 
many  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  Mr.  Gouger ;  "  Mrs.  Stot  knows  as  much 
about  the  business  as  any  of  us.  The  excellent  Citizen  Delorme  has 
found  the  fox." 

"  Yes.  As  I  said  I  v/ould,  so  I  have  him.  Meet  him,  follow  him, 
trail  him  to  his  den,  and  trap  him.  I  wiD  bring  you  to  him  this  very 
night." 

**  Arc  you  sure  that  it  is  the  right  man  you  have  followed  ?  " 

"  Sure  !  Am  I  Delorme  ?  Are  you  Monsieur  Stot  ?  Sure  !  I 
have  spoke  with  him." 

"  After  defying  law  and  prison  for  year  after  year,  it  is  well  that 
tiie  scoundrel  should  be  caught  Monsieur  Delorme,  we  double  the 
reward." 

"  Good ;  that  is  very  good.  But  I  am  so  pleased,  too,  to  catch 
this  Monsieur  Frank,  who  treats  me  as  I  were  not  gentleman." 

"  Mr.  Clayton  wishes  to  go  with  us,"  said  Mr.  Gouger. 

"  I  will  see  him,  but  you  need  not  fear  any  deed  of  violence." 

Mrs.  Stot  put  her  hand  on  Henry's  arm. 

"  For  Alice's  sake  be  calm.  We  care  only  for  tiie  man  in  the  hope 
of  finding  the  child." 


•  I  :--  I  .-.  -..i^:  :".  r  iii  --.fr-  nsxCC".  "^Tid  CIczoi  E^eiaraie  "old 
:-  v.j.r  -.:=  V::.-  v  v.;  i^--r  I  ^c  ±e  *..i  .iiu  rciewwL  We  hive 
-.n:  -i;';  ;'  ."  :i.-r_ ._.:_;- rjr  mii  ii^»ir-  Aa  .Tifnryr  wii  go  wrrh 
: -.   ,=:"    v.\    :  :'::-i:z      -^-•••r-   :ill   T^f  j;i7»i  "^:iii  :ur  iaj  ^boiii  ML:* 

V^   V.r.,  ' 

i:.   :■.:  .:  v..:;-   t  :>.  :ri  'nj.:  xi  T-^'iT"-  ?i  wziz  a:r  his  coixm&£.~ 

I   .'"./•   -ir-  1..'  =::  ■_:j.-.  :":r  :iic  r±5C  ^  Tcciiin^, ' 

I    "'"-'':    ''■'   i-".'"-    vz  fiL^ll  ':e  5ur;  :-  ztt  or  what  hie  kncws  by 

■ '.'  -  T...  ii;-:  1-  "-  ;o:i  ir  seven.     Ei.  Goccsr?'" 

.  \:iz  Ti.:  u-r-:-:  : .  izxL  ±e  tarr/  secanriiL  each  one  jzluous  lor 
V. :  r..;i*".  .\i:"::!i  tlt  iie  ~«:sc  ixciied.  Ke  repeated  his  promise 
.-.•-,':::  :  :  ..-.ir.*--.  ir..:  ii.iid±j^  ie  TCiiId  coc  haTe  crusted  his 
•jT—'tr  : .  -:---  \Lz..  -:  ili'-t. 

)r*^^.  --_::  .r:::'.  :rri  .:-r  i-iiCJzd  :^  ±i2k  cixIt  of  Alice,  and  to 
'■..'/::. t  ry,r:.-t  t.-...  v.;  -r"""?  ^s  ziicklv  i*  rossible. 

■  A-  .:  .-.  ^:  ■_  I  i~  iiL-Ti-I  :j  pinch  myself  co  keep  quiet,  and 
ji.'.tT.  I'rt  \.::,i  '.'".'<.  :.-j.:  vi'i  iri  iice  :o  £ice  with  the  man  vho 
..  -. '.  v:  : :-:  :*::i    :'  .  .r  -'L-ir  i=:ir  zir!,  I  s^I  be  on  thorns  everv  inch 


r  ■       ■  ■ 


^::.v 


^'^ 


A*  -J..:'.:  , '.'.  x<  : -.t  ;ir:y,  under  ij:e  ccncuc:  of  Citizen  Delormc. 
.:A  a^/.o.v.;  -.7..  A  '. ;.  :t.  :  iriicer?.  arrived  i:  a  house  in  one  of  the 
:;..i:  !r:id  fr.zi  the  5: rand  to  the  ThamesL  Deionne 
K-:\  i:  tr.-j  c>-.r.  i.il  -^hen  i:  was  opened  asked  for  Mr.  Mellish. 
:r'.  p-:r'.or.  Ixired  there.  Did  Mr.  Frank  lodge  there?  No. 
Mr  ( t^y/s^iT  a=ked  the  girl  ]£  the  gentleman  who  lodged  there  was  at 
':.',::,':  f  V?:-.  UVi.-,  i'.e  in  the  parlour?  No  ;  on  the  fiist  floor.  Mr. 
^/'/  :;'■:  -jw*:  tho  -.i^'nal  and  the  pany  pushed  past  the  girl  and  went 
'///iir .,  i/.'.-  ^fr'.fer-,  remaining  below.  Deionne  opened  the  door. 
•  \'»x:. .',(>'       Merc:  is  Monsieur  Frank.       Here  is  the    Monsicuc 

l;;»  til';  ;.";ritlcman  was  not  Frank  Mellish. 

V\'l.;it  rio^'  i  this  mean  ?  '*  said  Frank  Boliver. 
'  A  rfi'rJ.'ikc,  and  a  stupid  mistake,"  said  Mr.  Stot 
"  A  r/>rirr#iiri(Jcd  bungle,"  said  Mr.  Gouger. 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  477 

"  I  do  not  understand,"  exclaimed  Delorme. 

"  You  have  traced  the  wrong  man,  that  is  all,"  said  Mr.  Stot 

"  I  swear  that  is  Monsieur  Frank." 

"Yes,  but  the  wrong  Frank.  Mr.  Frank  Boliver,  not  Frank 
Mellish." 

**  1  swear  that  this  is  the  one  Monsieur  Frank  that  was  met  by  me 
and  by  Madame  mafemme" 

Mr.  Stot  explained  the  circumstances  that  had  led  to  the  uncere- 
monious visit. 

**  Likely  enough  this  person  may  have  seen  me  and  my  wife  in 
Paris.  As  you  are  aware,  my  wife  was  Miss  Rose  Dulmaine.  She 
was  an  orphan,  and  her  father  died  when  she  was  in  infancy." 

"  Coley's  information  was  worthless,"  said  Mr.  Gouger. 

"  No,  Gouger.  Coley,  I  think,  was  right,  but  the  Citizen  has 
brought  us  on  the  wrong  track." 

The  officers  were  dismissed.  Delorme,  who  had  anticipated  having 
a  large  sum  of  money — for  a  hundred  pounds  looks  very  large  in 
francs — could  not  restrain  the  expression  of  his  vexation. 

"  Never  mind,  Delorme,"  said  Mr.  Stot.  "  These  accidents  are 
common  enough.  You  have  done  your  best.  Call  on  Mr.  Gouger. 
We  will  do  something  for  you." 

"  There  is  no  longer  any  hope  of  finding  Alice,"  said  Henry. 

"  I  don't  say  that ;  we  must  try  back.  We  must  work  the  Coley 
clue  in  another  way." 

Mrs.  Stot  was  altogether  unreasonable  and  provoking.  She  won- 
dered that  men  could  be  led  by  a  stupid  and  designing  Frenchman. 
She  hated  Mr.  Boliver  and  his  runaway  wife.  If  it  had  not  been 
for  that  woman  poor  dear  Alice  might  have  been  found. 

Mrs.  Stot  was  still  bemoaning  the  fate  of  Alice,  and  denouncing 
the  Bolivers,  when  Mr.  Stot  fell  asleep.  Let  us  be  veracious.  Mr.  Stot 
was  deaf  on  the  left  side,  and  when  he  wanted  to  stop  a  matrimonial 
lecture  he  turned  on  his  right  side,  breathed  heavily,  and  pretended 
to  be  in  a  deep  sleep. 

CHAPTER  XXXL 

DICK      DISAPPEARS. 

Thieves  are  proud  of  their  achievements,  and  honest  men  foster  the 

vicious  and  foolish  vanity.     The  ingenuity  of  criminals  is  a  favourite 

topic  with  some  writers.     As  well  talk  of  the  skill  of  the  chess-player 

who  checkmates  his  opponent  by  false  moves.      Criminals,  with 

rare    exceptions,    are   men    of  inferior    mental    capacity.      Lord 
Vol.  XI.,  N.S.  1873.  x  i 


478  The  Getitlemans  Magazine. 

Shamvock  and  Mr.  Feckles  are  not  clever,  but  they  are  cunning 
enough  to  perpetrate  a  fraud. 

Dick  kept  his  Sunday  night  appointment  Lord  Shamvock  had 
three  old  cheque  books  by  him,  and  three  fictitious  cheques  amount- 
ing to  over  ;^8oo  were  drawn  by  Dick  in  three  several  names. 
These  were  to  be  paid  into  the  bank  to  the  credit  of  Mr.  Hawes. 
Then  came  the  more  delicate  operation  of  drawing  a  cheque  in  the 
name  of  Mr.  Hawes.  How  did  he  sign  his  cheques  ?  Did  he  sub- 
scribe his  full  name,  or  was  the  Thomas  represented  by  an  initial  ? 
His  lordship  did  not  know,  and  Dick  refused  to  proceed  with  the 
business  until  he  had  seen  the  banking  signature  of  Mr.  Hawes. 
Dick  suggested  several  schemes  for  getting  a  genuine  cheque,  but 
they  were  difficult,  if  not  impracticable. 

"  I  have  a  plan,  Dick.  Call  to-morrow  for  the  pass-book.  If 
you  get  it  we  shall  have  plenty  of  genuine  cheques  for  your  informa- 
tion.    If  you  do  not,  then  they  will  only  tell  you  it  is  not  made  up." 

"  Ever  tried  it  on  before  ?  "  asked  Dick. 

"  Yes ;  but  not  for  drawing  purposes.  Only  to  find  out  what  a 
fellow  had  got  in  the  bank." 

Mr.  Hawes's  pass-book  was  made  up  and  handed  to  Dick,  and  on 
the  Monday  night  a  cheque  was  drawn  for  two  hundred  pounds 
that  would  have  deceived  an  expert.  There  was  a  stiff  balance  to 
the  credit  of  Mr.  Hawes,  and  Lord  Shamvock  was  angry  with  Dick 
for  refusing  to  draw  a  larger  cheque.  But  Dick  was  not  to  be  per- 
suaded. He  said  it  would  spoil  the  game  to  draw  for  more,  and 
little-minded,  cunning  people  do  not  change  their  opinions,  for  to  do 
so  requires  mental  vigour. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Feckles,"  muttered  his  lordship,  when  Dick  had  left 
the  room,  "  you  will  not  get  twenty-five  out  of  that  lot" 

Next  day  the  well  assorted  confederates  met  in  the  City  at  three 
o'clock. 

"  I  shall  go  to  the  bank  a  little  before  four,"  said  Dick,  "  for  that  is 
the  busy  time." 

They  went  into  the  parlour  of  a  dingy  public-house,  in  a  dingy 
street  near  the  General  Post  Office.  His  lordship  drank  brandy  and 
water ;  Dick  stimulated  with  gin,  and  at  half-past  three  set  forth  to 
the  bankers. 

"When  will  you  be  back  ?     In  ten  minutes  ?" 

"  By  four ;  it  looks  queer  to  be  too  fast." 

''  As  quick  as  you  can,  and  if  there  is  any  one  in  this  hole  when  you 
return  not  a  word  till  we  are  outside." 

It  was  a  dreary  half  hour  for  Lord  Shamvock.   He  ordered  another 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  479 

glass  of  grog,  and  paid  the  waiter  so  that  he  might  be  ready  to  start 
when  Dick  returned.  He  tried  to  read  the  newspaper,  but  could 
not  divert  his  thoughts  from  Dick.  A  customer  came  into  the  parlour, 
lighted  a  pipe,  and  began  to  talk.  Lord  Shamvock  wished  he  had 
waited  in  the  street.  The  half  hour  passed.  It  was  four  o'clock,  and 
Dick  did  not  appear. 

The  talkative  customer  left  the  parlour,  and  Lord  Shamvock  rang 
the  bell  to  ask  the  hour.  It  was  a  quarter  past  four.  His  lordship 
thought  that  Dick  had  been  stopped  and  taken  into  custody.  The 
scheme  had  failed. 

The  first  pang  of  disappointment  was  succeeded  by  a  thought  of 
dismay.    Would  Feckles  betray  him  ?     If  he  did,  how  could  his  guilt 
be  proved  ?  He  had  still  the  cheque  books  at  his  lodgings,  and  they 
the  only  witnesses  to  his  guilt,  should  be  destroyed. 

On  his  way  to  Paddington  his  spirits  revived.  The  scheme  was 
too  well  planned  for  detection.  Dick  had  forgotten  the  way  to  the 
public-house  and  would  bring  the  money  to  his  lodgings.  He  hugged 
this  pleasant  explanation,  and  when  he  entered  the  house  asked  if 
any  one  was  waiting  to  see  him. 

"  I  expect  a  person  here  soon  ;  show  him  up  when  he  comes." 

He  was  disappointed.  Dick  did  not  arrive.  What  was  the  mean- 
ing of  it  ?  Perhaps  Dick  had  at  length  found  the  public-house  and 
was  waiting  there.  Cursing  the  folly  of  his  confederate  he  went  out 
as  soon  as  it  was  dusk  and  returned  to  the  City.  He  looked  into  the 
parlour  of  the  dingy  public-house.  Half  a  dozen  men  were  smoking, 
but  Dick  was  not  there.  He  determined  to  call  at  Winsor  Court. 
If  Dick  had  been  arrested  it  would  be  a  risk,  but  any  risk  was 
better  than  the  suspense. 

He  could  see  from  the  court  that  there  was  a  light  in  Dick's 
room.  He  went  up  as  noiselessly  as  the  creaking  of  the  old  stairs 
would  allow,  and  listened  at  the  door.  There  was  no  sound  of 
voices.  He  knocked.  There  was  no  answer.  He  entered  the 
room. 

Ruth  was  sitting  at  the  table  working.  She  did  not  turn  her  head 
or  look  up  from  her  work. 

"  VViiy,  father,  you  are  not  gone.     It  must  have  been  a  dream." 

"  Ruth,  I  am  not  your  father.     Where  is  he  T 

Ruth  arose,  took  up  the  candle,  and  gazed  at  Lord  Shamvock. 

"  Poor  father !  I  am  sorry  he  has  gone.  For  him  there  is  no 
angel.  If  my  mother  would  look  upon  him,  he  might  be  with  us  in 
the  sky.  I  wonder  what  he  did  to.  her.  But  I  must  work.  WTio  are 
you  ?" 


480  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

"  I  am  Lord  Shamvock.     Where  is  your  father?" 

Again  Ruth  took  the  candle  in  her  hand  and  gazed  steadfastly  at 
Lord  Shamvock. 

"  You  are  not  one  of  us.     I  must  work." 

And  she  sat  down  and  began  to  sew. 

**  Come,  Ruth,  I  want  to  see  your  father.  Tell  me  where 
he  is." 

She  looked  up  and  her  eyes  flashed. 

"  Who  calls  me  Ruth  ?  I  am  Sister  Ruth,  and  lords  and  queens 
are  not  as  I  am.  Angels  with  flaming  swords  guard  me.  I  am  Sister 
Ruth." 

"Will  you  tell  me,  Sister  Ruth,  where  I  can  find  your  father?" 

"  Ah.  Who  are  you  ?  Why  did  you  take  him  from  me  ?  Poor 
father,  he  should  have  been  with  me  till  I  slept  for  ever  and 
ever." 

"  I  am  your  father's  friend.     Has  he  gone,  Ruth  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  I  remember  now.  You  are  his  friend.  I  will  try  if  I  can 
see  him." 

She  bent  her  head  over  the  table  and  covered  her  eyes  with  her 
hands. 

"  I  have  seen  thousands  in  my  vision,  yea  tens  of  thousands,  but 
not  my  father.  Only  the  blessed  are  seen  in  visions.  Poor  father! 
Do  you  know  what  he  did  to  my  mother]" 

Lord  Shamvock,  finding  that  no  information  could  be  obtained  from 
Ruth,  was  about  to  leave,  when  he  heard  the  sound  of  people  coming 
up  the  stairs. 

"  It  is  not  Dick,"  he  muttered,  "  and  it  may  be  police  to  search 
his  lodging.  I  must  swear  I  am  here  as  a  charitable  friend  to  this 
girl." 

The  visitors  were  not  the  police,  but  Mr.  Gouger  and  Mr.  Frank 
Boliver,  who  had  found  out  Dick's  address,  and  came  to  see  if  the 
ex-stagedoor-keepcr  of  the  Lion  could  give  any  information  as  to 
Rose. 

"  Is  Mr.  Fcckles  at  home?" 

*'  This  great  lord,"  said  Ruth,  "also  came  for  my  father.     But  he 


is  gone." 


Lord  Shamvock  had  his  hand  upon  the  handle  of  the  door.  Frank 
seized  him  bv  the  arm  ami  threw  him  back. 

"  Gouger,  that  is  the  villain  Shamvock.    W^iat  does  he  want  here?" 

"  Truly  a  surprise,"  said  Mr.  Gouger.  "  Good  evening,  my  lord. 
Would  your  lordship  mind  gratifying  Mr.  Boliver*s  curiosity  ?" 

His  lordship  made  an  unsuccessful  attempt  to  sneer. 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  48 1 

"  We  find  this  lord  associating  with  Feckles.  Does  that  explain  the 
robbery  ?  Has  this  lord  persecuted  my  wife,  and  driven  her  from 
place  10  place?" 

Lord  Shamvock  did  not  try  to  sneer.     Frank  looked  dangerous, 

"  1  have  never  seen  or  heard  of  your  wife  since  she  left  the  theatre, 
and  that  I  swear,  Mr,  Gouger  can  tell  you  I  have  had  too  much 
to  do." 

"  I  am  honoured,  my  lord,  to  be  your  reference,  and  can  assure  my 
friend  Mr.  Boliver  chat  you  have  been  pressed  by  important  business. 
Mr.  Feckles,  I  believe,  acted  as  a  kind  of  secretary  for  you  just  before 
your  late  auspicious  marriage.  But  until  to-night  I  did  not  know 
that  your  clever  penman  and  Feckles  the  door-keeper  were  the  same 
person." 

"  I  knew  Feckles  at  the  theatre.  He  was  in  poverty,  and  I  helped 
him.     That  poor  girl  could  tell  you  the  same." 

Ruth  was  working,  and  did  not  heed  the  remark. 

"  There  is  one  thing  you  must  set  right  before  you  and  I  part," 
said  Frank.  "  You  have  reported  that  my  wife  had  a  large  sum  of 
money  from  you.  So  she  did,  and  by  my  direction.  It  was  about 
;^2oo  in  jewels  and  ;£soo  in  cash.  Why  did  I  get  the  money 
from  you  ?  " 

"  I  owed  it  to  you,"  said  Lord  Shamvock,  sullenly. 

"That  will  not  do.     You  must  be  more  precise." 

"  I  fairly  owed  you  the  money,  and  more  loo." 

"  I  will  help  your  memory.  You  made  me  your  innocent  tool  and 
dupe  in  a  fraud.      Did  you  not  ?  " 

Lord  Shamvock  gave  a  gesture  of  assent. 

"Answer  the  rfiieslion." 

Lord  Shamvock  looked  at  Mr.  Gouger. 

"  You  had  better  an.swer,"  said  that  gentleman.  "  I  shall  not  be 
a  witness  against  you." 

"  I  did  not  use  you  fairly  in  that  aSair." 

"  Was  I  not  your  innocent  tool  and  dupe  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Then,  to  save  myself  from  disgrace,  I  sold  all  the  property  I  had 
and  gave  you  the  money  to  pay  the  forged  bills.  You  used  the 
money  and  did  not  pay  the  bills,  and  when  I  remonstrated  you 
threatened  me  with  a  false  charge.     Is  not  that  true?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Lord  Shamvock.     "  Have  you  done  ?  " 

"I  ought,  perhaps,  to  punish  you  for  your  villainy,  but  it  ta  not 
worth  while,  sinrc  the  world  knows  you  lo  be  a  tliief  and  a  forger. 
You  can  go,  and,  if  you  are  wise,  you  will  do  so  quickly." 


480  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

"  I  am  Lord  Shamvock.     WTiere  is  your  father?" 

Again  Ruth  took  the  candle  in  her  hand  and  gazed  steadfiEistly  at 
Lord  Shamvock. 

"  You  are  not  one  of  us.     I  must  work." 

And  she  sat  down  and  began  to  sew. 

"Come,  Ruth,  I  want  to  see  your  father.  Tell  me  where 
he  is." 

She  looked  up  and  her  eyes  flashed. 

"  Who  calls  me  Ruth  ?  I  am  Sister  Ruth,  and  lords  and  queens 
are  not  as  I  am.  Angels  with  flaming  swords  guard  me.  I  am  Sister 
Ruth." 

"Will  you  tell  me,  Sister  Ruih,  where  I  can  find  your  father?" 

"Ah.  Who  are  you?  Why  did  you  take  him  from  me?  Poor 
father,  he  should  have  been  with  me  till  I  slept  for  ever  and 
ever." 

"  I  am  your  father's  friend.     Has  he  gone,  Ruth?" 

"  Yes  ;  I  remember  now.  You  are  his  friend.  I  will  try  if  I  can 
see  him." 

She  bent  her  head  over  the  table  and  covered  her  eyes  with  her 
hands. 

"  I  have  seen  thousands  in  my  vision,  yea  tens  of  thousands,  but 
not  my  father.  Only  the  blessed  are  seen  in  visions.  Poor  father! 
Do  you  know  what  he  did  to  my  mother?" 

Lord  Shamvock,  finding  that  no  information  could  be  obtained  from 
Ruth,  was  about  to  leave,  when  he  heard  the  sound  of  people  coming 
up  the  stairs. 

"  It  is  not  Dick,"  he  muttered,  "  and  it  may  be  police  to  search 
his  lodging.  I  must  swear  I  am  here  as  a  charitable  friend  to  this 
girl." 

The  visitors  were  not  the  police,  but  Mr.  Gouger  and  Mr.  Frank 
Boliver,  who  had  found  out  Dick's  address,  and  came  to  see  if  the 
ex-stagedoor-ketper  of  the  Lion  could  give  any  information  as  to 
Rose. 

"Is  Mr.  Fccklesat  home?" 

"  This  great  lord,"  said  Ruth,  "also  came  for  my  father.  But  he 
is  gone.' 

Lord  Shamvock  had  his  hand  upon  the  handle  of  the  door.  Frank 
seized  him  bv  the  arm  and  threw  him  back. 

*•  Gouger,  that  is  the  villain  Shamvock.    What  does  he  want  here?" 

"  Truly  a  surprise,"  said  Mr.  Gouger.  "  Good  evening,  my  lord. 
Would  your  lordship  mind  gratifying  Mr.  Boliver's  curiosity  ?" 

His  lordship  mnde  an  unsuccessful  attempt  to  sneer. 


Making  the  Worst  of  it,  48 1 

"  We  find  this  lord  associating  with  Feckles.  Does  that  explain  the 
robbery  ?  Has  this  lord  persecuted  my  wife,  and  driven  her  from 
place  to  place  ?  '* 

Lord  Shamvock  did  not  try  to  sneer.     Frank  looked  dangerous. 

"  I  have  never  seen  or  heard  of  your  wife  since  she  left  the  theatre, 
and  that  I  swear.  Mr.  Gouger  can  tell  you  I  have  had  too  much 
to  do." 

"  I  am  honoured,  my  lord,  to  be  your  reference,  and  can  assure  my 
friend  Mr.  Boliver  that  you  have  been  pressed  by  important  business. 
Mr.  Feckles,  I  believe,  acted  as  a  kind  of  secretary  for  you  just  before 
your  late  auspicious  marriage.  But  until  to-night  I  did  not  know 
that  your  clever  penman  and  Feckles  the  door-keeper  were  the  same 
person." 

"  I  knew  Feckles  at  the  theatre.  He  was  in  poverty,  and  I  helped 
him.     That  poor  girl  could  tell  you  the  same." 

Ruth  was  working,  and  did  not  heed  the  remark. 

"  There  is  one  thing  you  must  set  right  before  you  and  I  part," 
said  Frank.  "  You  have  reported  that  my  wife  had  a  large  sum  of 
money  from  you.  So  she  did,  and  by  my  direction.  It  was  about 
;^2oo  in  jewels  and  ;^5oo  in  cash.  Why  did  I  get  the  money 
from  you  ?  " 

**  I  owed  it  to  you,"  said  Lord  Shamvock,  sullenly. 

"  That  will  not  do.     You  must  be  more  precise." 

"  I  fairly  owed  you  the  money,  and  more  too." 

"  I  will  help  your  memory.  You  made  me  your  innocent  tool  and 
dupe  in  a  frau  i.     Did  you  not  ?  " 

Lord  Shamvock  gave  a  gesture  of  assent. 

"Answer  the  question." 

Lord  Shamvock  looked  at  Mr.  Gouger. 

**  You  had  better  answer,"  said  that  gentleman.  "  I  shall  not  be 
a  witness  against  you." 

"  I  did  not  use  you  fairly  in  that  affair." 

"  W^as  I  not  your  innocent  tool  and  dupe  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Then,  to  save  myself  from  disgrace,  I  sold  all  the  property  I  had 
and  gave  you  the  money  to  pay  the  forged  bills.  You  used  the 
money  and  ditl  not  pay  the  bills,  and  when  I  remonstrated  you 
threatened  me  with  a  false  charge.     Is  not  that  true  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Lord  Shamvock.     "  Have  you  done  ?  " 

"  I  ought,  perhaps,  to  punish  you  for  your  villainy,  but  it  is  not 
worth  while,  since  the  world  knows  you  to  be  a  thief  and  a  forger. 
Y'ou  can  go,  and,  if  you  aie  wise,  you  will  do  so  quickly." 


480  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine^ 

"  I  am  Lord  Shamvock.     Where  is  your  father?" 

Again  Ruth  took  the  candle  in  her  hand  and  gazed  steadfastly  at 
Lord  Shamvock. 

"  You  are  not  one  of  us.     I  must  work." 

And  she  sat  down  and  began  to  sew. 

**  Come,  Ruth,  I  want  to  see  your  father.  Tell  me  where 
he  is." 

She  looked  up  and  her  eyes  flashed. 

"  Who  calls  me  Ruth  ?  I  am  Sister  Ruth,  and  lords  and  queens 
are  not  as  I  am.  Angels  with  flaming  swords  guard  me.  I  am  Sister 
Ruth." 

**  Will  you  tell  me,  Sister  Ruth,  where  I  can  find  your  father?" 

"Ah.  Who  are  you  ?  WHiy  did  you  take  him  from  me?  Poor 
father,  he  should  have  been  with  me  till  I  slept  for  ever  and 
ever." 

"  I  am  your  father's  friend.     Has  he  gone,  Ruth  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  I  remember  now.  You  are  his  friend.  I  will  try  if  I  can 
see  him." 

She  bent  her  head  over  the  table  and  covered  her  eyes  with  her 
hands. 

"  I  have  seen  thousands  in  my  vision,  yea  tens  of  thousands,  but 
not  my  father.  Only  the  blessed  are  seen  in  visions.  Poor  father! 
Do  you  know  what  he  did  to  my  mother?" 

Lord  Shamvock,  finding  that  no  information  could  be  obtained  from 
Ruth,  was  about  to  leave,  when  he  heard  the  sound  of  people  coming 
up  the  stairs. 

"  It  is  not  Dick,"  he  muttered,  "  and  it  may  be  police  to  search 
his  lodging.  I  must  swear  I  am  here  as  a  charitable  friend  to  this 
girl." 

The  visitors  were  not  the  police,  but  Mr.  Gouger  and  Mr.  Frank 
Boliver,  who  had  found  out  Dick's  address,  and  came  to  see  if  the 
ex-stagedoor-kecper  of  the  Lion  could  give  any  information  as  to 
Rose. 

"  Is  Mr.  Fcckles  at  home?" 

**  This  great  lord,"  said  Ruth,  "  also  came  for  my  father.  But  he 
is  gone.' 

Lord  Shamvock  had  his  hnnd  upon  the  handle  of  the  door.  Frank 
seized  hi  in  bv  the  arm  and  threw  him  back. 

*'  Gouger,  that  is  the  villain  Shamvock.    What  does  he  want  herc?^ 

"  Truly  a  surprise,"  said  Mr.  Gouger.  **  Good  evening,  my  lord. 
Would  your  lordship  mind  gratifying  Mr.  Boliver's  curiosity  ?^ 

His  lordship  m:\de  an  unsuccessful  attempt  to  sneer. 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  48 1 

"  We  find  this  lord  associating  with  Feckles.  Does  that  explain  the 
robbery?  Has  this  lord  persecuted  my  wife,  and  driven  her  from 
place  to  place  ?  " 

Lord  Shamvock  did  not  try  to  sneer.     Frank  looked  dangerous. 

"  I  have  never  seen  or  heard  of  your  wife  since  she  left  the  theatre, 
and  that  I  swear.  Mr.  Gouger  can  tell  you  I  have  had  too  much 
to  do." 

**  I  am  honoured,  my  lord,  to  be  your  reference,  and  can  assure  my 
friend  Mr.  Boliver  that  you  have  been  pressed  by  important  business. 
Mr.  Feckles,  I  believe,  acted  as  a  kind  of  secretary  for  you  just  before 
your  late  auspicious  marriage.  But  until  to-night  I  did  not  know 
that  your  clever  penman  and  Feckles  the  door-keeper  were  the  same 
person." 

"  I  knew  Feckles  at  the  theatre.  He  was  in  poverty,  and  I  helped 
him.     That  poor  girl  could  tell  you  the  same." 

Ruth  was  working,  and  did  not  heed  the  remark. 

"  There  is  one  thing  you  must  set  right  before  you  and  I  part," 
said  Frank.  "  You  have  reported  that  my  wife  had  a  large  sum  of 
money  from  you.  So  she  did,  and  by  my  direction.  It  was  about 
;^2oo  in  jewels  and  ;^5oo  in  cash.  Why  did  I  get  the  money 
from  you  ?  " 

**  I  owed  it  to  you,"  said  Lord  Shamvock,  sullenly. 

"  That  will  not  do.     You  must  be  more  precise." 

"  I  fairly  owed  you  the  money,  and  more  too." 

"  I  will  help  your  memory.  You  made  me  your  innocent  tool  and 
dupe  in  a  fraud.     Did  you  not? " 

Lord  Shamvock  gave  a  gesture  of  assent. 

"Answer  the  question." 

Lord  Shamvock  looked  at  Mr.  Gouger. 

"  You  had  better  answer,"  said  that  gentleman.  **  I  shall  not  be 
a  witness  against  you." 

"  I  did  not  use  you  fairly  in  that  affair." 

"  Was  I  not  your  innocent  tool  and  dupe?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Then,  to  save  myself  from  disgrace,  I  sold  all  the  property  I  had 
and  gave  you  the  money  to  pay  the  forged  bills.  You  used  the 
money  and  did  not  pay  the  bills,  and  when  I  remonstrated  you 
threatened  me  with  a  false  charge.     Is  not  that  true?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Lord  Shamvock.     "  Have  you  done  ?" 

"  I  ought,  perhaps,  to  punish  you  for  your  villainy,  but  it  is  not 
worth  while,  since  the  world  knows  you  to  be  a  thief  and  a  forger. 
You  can  go,  and,  if  you  are  wise,  you  will  do  so  quickly." 


482  The  Gentleman's  Magazifie. 

His  lordship  departed  without  a  word.  He  returned  to  his 
lodging.  Dick  had  not  been  or  sent  to  him.  He  concluded  that 
his  confederate  had  been  taken  into  custody. 

"  The  miserable,  hateful  fool  will  not  betray  me,  and  if  he  does,  I 
must  play  the  game  of  brag  and  face  it  out.  There  is  no  evidence 
against  me.  I  could  not  help  Feckles  stealing  the  cheques  from  my 
room.  I  did  not  forge  the  cheques  or  present  them.  My  word  will 
answer  any  charge  brought  by  Feckles." 

But  his  lordship  was  very  uncomfortable,  and  he  had  to  repeat  to 
himself  over  and  over  again  that  there  was  no  evidence  against  him 
before  he  could  think  of  any  other  topic.  Perhaps  the  long  night, 
unrelieved  by  sleep  even  for  a  minute,  would  have  been  less  terrible 
if  he  had  thought  only  of  Dick  and  the  forged  cheques.  The  interview 
with  Frank  enraged  him  and  mortified  him.  To  be  seen  in  such  a  place 
by  the  man  he  had  wronged  and  hated  !  To  have  to  confess  before 
such  a  man  as  Gouger  !  To  be  so  spiritless  and  cowed  that  he  could 
not  reply  to  the  rough  threat  of  Frank  Boliver!  His  face  flushed  as 
he  thought  of  these  things,  and  in  his  impotent  rage  he  clenched  and 
shook  his  fist.  And  he  felt  that  he  was  impotent.  Even  the  ghastly 
lurid  light  of  the  hope  of  revenge  did  not  brighten  the  black  dark- 
ness of  despair. 

What  of  his  son  ?  Oh,  if  he  had  some  one  to  love  him  he  could 
bear  with  his  trouble.  But  how  could  he  find  his  son?  That  fiend 
Laura  would  not  tell  him  his  son's  address  without  money.  If  Dick 
had  returned  with  the  money  he  might  then  have  known  the  address 
of  his  boy,  and  have  been  travelling  to  see  him,  to  own  him,  and  to 
embrace  him.     He  could  get  no  money.     His  son  was  lost  to  him. 

Several  thoughts  at  the  same  moment  disturbed  his  mind.  He 
sprang  from  the  bed.  He  paced  the  room.  He  reeled.  Was 
he  going  mad  ?  Was  he  dying  ?  He  took  a  jug  of  water,  drank 
deeply,  and  bathed  his  head. 

"  I  must  try  to  pray,"  he  muttered. 

He  knelt  by  the  bedside  for  a  moment.     He  rose  in  haste. 

"  That  will  not  do.     That  would  make  me  mad  or  kill  me." 

He  could  not  pray,  but  he  cursed.  He  cursed  his  own  folly.  He 
cursed  Dick,  Laura,  Boliver,  and  Hawes. 

All  the  long,  long  night  he  tossed  about  the  bed  groaning, 
lamenting,  fuming,  fearing,  and  cursing. 

In  the  morning  he  was  shocked  at  his  haggard  face,  and  covered 
the  glass  with  a  towel  so  that  he  might  not  again  see  himself. 

(7b  he  continued.) 


TABLE    TALK. 

BY  SYLVANUS  URBAN,  GENTLEMAN. 


The  question  of  the  burial  or  burning  of  our  deceased  friends  is 
one  that  crops  up  every  now  and  then.  Mrs.  Rose  Mary  Crawshay 
is  reviving  it  in  some  newspaper  correspondence,  and  Joaquin  Miller 
expresses  himself  favourable  to  burning  in  **Life  among  the  Modocs." 
A  recent  number  of  the  Journal  of  the  Anihropoiogicai  Institute  will  be 
specially  interesting  to  those  who  are  troubled  about  these  things.  It 
contains  an  illustration  of  the  head  of  a  Macas  Indian  after  death, 
upon  which  Sir  John  Lubbock  relates  some  curious  facts.  These 
Macas  Indians  of  Ecuador,  when  a  friend  or  relative  dies,  preserve 
his  head.  It  is  severed  from  the  body,  boiled  with  an  infusion  of 
herbs,  and  the  internal  parts  removed  through  the  hole  of  the  neck. 
Heated  stones  are  introduced  into  the  cavity  for  the  purpose  of 
drying  up  the  skin  of  the  head.  A  string  is  attached,  by  which 
the  head  can  conveniently  be  hung  in  the  hut.  The  head  is  then 
solemnly  abused  by  the  owner,  and  its  mouth  at  once  sewn  up  to 
prevent  any  possibility  of  reply.  There  is  a  fine  touch  of  cynicism 
in  this  sewing  up  of  the  mouth. 


The  Early  English  Text  Society,  which  has  done  so  much  good 
work,  has  received  an  important  concession  at  the  hands  of  the 
Marquis  of  Lx)thian,  who  has  given  the  society  permission  to  print 
his  unique  Anglo-Saxon  Homilies  of  the  tenth  century.  He  is  also 
at  his  own  expense  printing  a  selection  of  political  letters  from  among 
the  correspondence  of  his  ancestors  for  presentation  to  the  Roxburghe 
Club.  

Among  the  latest  works  which  I  have  received  from  the  E^rly 
English  Text  Society  are  "  An  Old  English  Miscellany,"  "  Palladius 
on  Husbandry,"  and  **  King  Alfred's  West-Saxon  Version  of  Gregory's 
Pastoral  Care."  The  miscellaneous  volume  contains  the  "  Bestiary," 
firom  the  Arundel  MSS.  in  the  British  Museum.  This  work  has  been 
thrice  printed :  twice  by  Mr.  Thomas  Wright,  and  once  by  Matzner. 
Scraps  from  the  "Bestiary"  are  frequently  to  be  met  with  in  old 


484  The  Gentlematis  Magazine. 

authors.  The  translation  of  "  The  Dove "  is  admirably  done.  I 
must  be  pardoned  for  quoting  so  excellent  a  piece  of  ancient 
morality  modernised  with  so  much  purity  and  beauty  of  expres- 
sion : — 

The  dove  has  good  seven  habits. 

She  has  no  "gall"  in  her. 

Let  us  all  be  "  simple  and  soft." 

She  lives  not  b}'  plunder. 

Let  us  avoid  all  robbery. 

She  picks  up  seed  only,  and  avoids  worms. 

Of  Christ's  love  we  all  have  need. 

She  acts  as  a  mother  to  the  young  of  other  birds. 

Let  us  assist  one  another. 

Her  song  is  a  mournful  plaint. 

Let  us  bewail  our  sins. 

In  water  she  is  aware  of  the  coming  of  the  hawk. 

So  in  the  Book  are  we  taught  to  flee  from  the  devil. 

In  a  hole  of  the  rock  she  makes  her  nest. 

In  Christ's  mercy  our  hope  is  best. 

I  heartily  congratulate  the  Rev.  Dr.  Morris  and  the  society 
upon  this  remarkable  miscellany.  "  Palladius  on  Husbandry,"  from 
the  Colchester  Castle  MS.  of  1420,  is  not  less  notable  in  its  way.  It 
offers  a  fine  practical  illustration  of  the  aphorism  that  "There  is 
nothing  new  under  the  sun."  Of  all  the  unpublished  Old  English 
texts,  Mr.  Henry  Sweet  says  this  other  publication,  **  King  Alfred's 
West-Saxon  version  of  Gregory's  Pastoral  Care,"  is  perhaps  the  most 
important.  Preser\'ed  in  two  MSS.  written  during  Alfred's  lifetime,  it 
affords  data  of  the  highest  value  for  fixing  the  grammatical  peculiari- 
ties of  the  West-Saxon  dialect  of  the  ninth  century.  The  present 
edition  is  the  first  one  of  any  of  Alfred's  works  which  is  based  on 
contemporary  MSS.  Mr.  Sweet  has  done  the  fullest  justice  to  his 
materials.  In  concluding  a  well  written  and  valuable  explanatory 
preface,  Mr.  Sweet  expresses  a  hope  which  must  be  endorsed  by  most 
literary  men  and  students — namely,  that  this  work  may  contribute 
somewhat  to  that  reviving  interest  in  the  study  of  English  of  which 
so  many  cheering  signs  begin  to  show  themselves  in  various  quarters. 
"  Ignorance  and  literary  intolerance  may  sneer  at  *  Anglo-Saxon,'  but 
all  liberal  minds  are  agreed  that,  even  if  Old  English  were  totally 
destitute  of  intrinsic  merit,  it  would  still  form  a  necessary  link  in  the 
history  of  our  language,  and  as  such,  be  well  worthy  of  attention. 
Here,  as  in  all  branches  of  knowledge,  it  may  be  safely  asserted  that 
the  wider  the  range  of  study,  the  more  valuable  will  be  its  fruits. 
Shakespeare  is  ehicidated  by  Chaucer.  Chaucer,  again,  cannot  be  fully 
appreciated  without  a  knowledge  of  the  Oldest  English,  whence  to  the 


Table  Talk.  485 

kindred  tongues  is  but  a  short  step — to  the  Heliad,  the  Edda,  and 
the  classic  prose  of  Iceland." 


Despite  the  moral  that  "  Murder  will  out,"  it  strikes  me  as  the 
most  remarkable  incident  of  the  ingenious  Bank  forgeries  perpetrated 
by  the  Bidwells  and  their  two  friends  that  the  discovery  of  the  crime 
was  so  blunderingly  provided.  To  send  in  for  discount  a  forged  bill 
without  a  date  was  the  very  height  of  carelessness.  But  for  the 
necessity  of  inquiry  upon  this  point  the  forgers  might  have  got  away 
with  all  their  plunder,  and  had  a  good  three  months'  clear  start 
of  discovery  and  pursuit.  It  is  a  new  feature  in  the  history  of  crime 
to  begin  work  with  a  large  capital,  and  the  severe  sentence  of  the 
forgers  in  this  case  needs  no  other  justification.  The  men  first  ob- 
tained confidence  by  a  heavy  deposit  of  cash  at  the  Bank,  then 
discounted  genuine  bills,  and  next  slipped  in  their  forged  paper. 
They  were  emboldened  by  the  fact  that  in  England  bills  are  not 
referred  to  the  acceptor,  as  in  America,  before  being  discounted. 
They  were  discovered,  although  acting  upon  this  English  custom,  by 
themselves  forcing  the  Bank  to  make  this  reference  by  reason  of  their 
neglect  to  date  two  of  the  forged  bills,  thus  preparing  the  net  in 
which  they  were  to  be  taken.  The  chief  lesson  to  be  learnt  from 
this  affair,  so  far  as  the  practice  of  banking  is  concerned,  is  the 
desirability  of  adopting  the  American  system  of  referring  to  the 
acceptors  of  bills  in  all  cases  before  passing  them  for  discount.  The 
other  moral  is  the  old  one  of  honesty  being  the  best  policy,  though 
it  must  be  confessed  that  this  old-world  philosophy  is  rather  sneered 
at  nowadays. 

Lately,  visiting  some  of  the  sheep  farms  of  Lincolnshire,  I  was 
curiously  reminded  of  a  letter  addressed  to  me  by  an  esteemed 
correspondent  more  than  a  hundred  years  ago.  I  noticed  that  while 
the  Midland  farmer  talked  to  his  horse,  and  even  petted  his  oxen, 
he  treated  his  sheep  as  an  animal  peculiarly  devoid  of  intelligence. 
Alexander  Smith,  in  one  of  the  most  charming  of  modern  essays,  "  On 
the  Importance  of  a  Man  to  Himself,"  relates  how  he  once  found 
himself  on  a  parallel  line  of  railway  with  a  cattle  truck,  and  being 
fascinated  by  the  large  patient  melancholy  eyes  of  the  oxen. 
De  Quincey  says  cows  are  among  the  gentlest  of  breathing  crea- 
tures, for  which  he  expresses  a  deep  love.  Now,  I  noticed  among 
my  agricultural  friends  this  general  sentiment  in  practice,  a  sort  of 
general  disregard  for  the  intelligence  or  feelings  of  sheep,  though  to 
mc  there  is  as  much  sad  pitiful  intelligence  in  the  eye  of  a  sheep  as 


486  The  Gentlematis  Magazine. 

there  is  in  the  "  patient  melancholy  "  face  of  a  cow.  While  the  farmer 
has  brought  sheep  to  the  perfection  of  size  and  shape  and  profit, 
that  sort  of  mutual  regard  which  animated  sheep,  shepherds,  and 
shepherdesses  in  the  old  days  seems  to  have  died  out  I  am,  I  say, 
reminded  of  this  by  a  letter  written  to  me  a  century  ago,  inquiring 
into  the  methods  which  the  shepherds  of  Jewry  and  the  Eastern 
countries  followed  in  the  care  of  their  flocks.  St.  John  says,  "To 
him  the  porter  openeth ;  and  the  sheep  hear  his  voice :  and  he 
calleth  his  own  sheep  by  name,  and  leadeth  them  out  And  when 
he  putteth  forth  his  own  sheep,  he  goeth  before  them,  and  the 
sheep  follow  him,  for  they  know  his  voice."  On  these  words 
Dr.  Hammond  observes  that  the  shepherds  of  Judea  knew  every  sheep 
separately,  and  that  "  shepherds  of  that  country  had  a  distinct  name 
for  every  sheep,  which  each  sheep  knew  and  answered  by  obediential 
coming  or  following  to  that  call."  Moreover,  they  trained  up  the  ram 
to  collect  the  flock,  a  far  better  device  than  that  of  the  sheep-dog. 
Homer  endorses  this  in  his  simile  of  Ulysses  drawing  up  his  men  to 
a  ram  ordering  the  flock  : — 

Nor  yet  appear  his  care  and  conduct  small ; 
From  rank  to  rank  he  moved  and  orders  all ; 
The  stately  ram  thus  measures  o'er  the  ground, 
And  master  of  the  flock  surveys  them  round. 

On  the  authority  of  Philo  Judaeus,  a  philosophic  Jew,  bom  and 
bred  in  Egypt,  in  his  first  chapter  concerning  the  Creation  says: 
"  Woolly  rams  laden  with  thick  fleeces  in  spring  season,  being 
ordered  by  their  shepherd,  stand  without  moving  and,  silently 
stooping  a  little,  put  themselves  into  his  hand  to  have  their  wool 
shorn ;  being  accustomed,  as  cities  are,  to  pay  their  yearly  tribute 
to  man,  their  king  by  nature."  This  is  a  very  different  picture  to 
that  of  modern  sheep-shearing,  and  I  commend  the  consideration 
of  it  to  my  country  friends  who  are  practically  interested  in  the 
subject.  I  do  not  often  go  among  cows  and  sheep  ;  the  more  reason 
this  why,  like  poor  Alexander  Smith,  finding  myself  face  to  face  with 
them,  I  should  surprise  myself,  and  them,  too,  perhaps,  by  looking 
straiirht  into  their  eyes  and  losing  myself  in  wondering  about  the 
intelligence  that  lurks  behind  those  large  contemplative  melancholy 
orbs.  

In  these  days  of  inventions  worked  by  the  means  of  joint-stock 
enterprise,  I  wonder  the  modern  successor  of  the  alchemist  docs 
not  turn  up.  I  met  a  man  at  a  scientific  meeting  a  week  ago,  who 
told  me  he  could  make  diamonds.     Why  does  he  not  go  into  the 


Table  Talk.  487 

City,  and  get  up  his  company  ?  That  seems  to  me  to  be  the  natural 
sequel  to  such  valuable  knowledge.  It  is  strange  that  he  should 
consent  to  go  about  London  as  poor  as  Dr.  Johnson  was  when  first 
I  knew  my  illustrious  contributor.  Surely  a  company  to  work  a 
patent  diamond-making  machine  would  be  as  easy  to  float  as  to  form, 
unless  the  facility  of  manufacture  knocked  down  the  price  of  dia- 
monds to  an  unremunerative  price.  -But  the  alchemists,  the  gold- 
makers,  where  are  they  in  these  inquiring  and  gullible  days  .^ 
Metallurgy  is  now  so  thoroughly  recognised  a  science,  and  has  done 
such  wonderful  things,  that  there  are  thousands,  I  am  sure,  ready  to 
believe  in  gold-making,  and  faith,  it  seems,  is  all  that  promoters  ask 
for  at  the  outset  of  a  company,  and  indeed  is  all  that  the  inventor 
requires.  Adverse  critics  might  quote  from  "  The  Alchemist "  against 
the  scheme,  but  that  would  only  lead  to  a  grand  advertising  controversy 
in  the  papers  which  a  clever  promoter  would  turn  to  good  account. 
Diamond  mills  and  gold  factories  are  not  more  absurd  than  many 
schemes  which  float  in  the  City,  and  find  pleasant  havens  of  rest  in 
quiet  comers  of  the  Empire. 


The  combinations  of  capitalists  for  really  stable  undertakings 
are  stupendous.  It  would  almost  seem  as  if  private  enterprise 
were  coming  to  an  end  in  this  age  of  finance.  The  great  works 
and  manufactories  of  the  nation  are  gradually  being  taken  up 
by  public  companies,  and  the  result  is  undoubtedly  a  more  rapid 
development  of  our  national  resources.  The  latest  and  most 
remarkable  instance  of  the  union  of  men  and  money  in  this  direc- 
tion is  the  purchase  of  the  Cyfarthfa  Iron  Works,  which,  in  the 
hands  of  the  Crawshays,  have  become  famous  wherever  iron  is 
known  and  used.  The  works  employ  5,000  men,  and  produce  1,300 
tons  of  pig  iron  and  1,000  tons  of  finished  bars  and  railway  iron  per 
week.  The  ore  and  the  coal  and  limestone  to  work  it  are  all  found 
on  the  spot.  Hearing  that  Mr.  Crawshay  was  disposed  to  retire 
from  business  life,  a  few  capitalists  met  and  purchased  his  works,  the 
price  being  more  than  a  million  and  a  quarter  sterling.  Nor  is 
this  all.  The  buyers,  as  if  they  had  Aladdin's  lamp  and  had  only  to 
rub  it  to  produce  untold  wealth,  looked  about  the  surrounding 
country  and  purchased  other  smaller  works  here  and  there ;  and 
having  done  this,  they  examined  the  South  Wales  coal  basin  and 
secured  leases  of  all  its  unlet  coal.  The  whole  of  their  mineral, 
railway  stock,  and  other  purchases  makes  up  a  fabulous  sum  of  money, 
and  points  to  a  combination  for  mining  in  South  Wales  that  is 
quite  unique  in  its  ambition,  power,  and  prospects.     The  subject  is 


482  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

His  lordship  departed  without  a  word.  He  returned  to  his 
lodging.  Dick  had  not  been  or  sent  to  him.  He  concluded  dial 
his  confederate  had  been  taken  into  custody. 

"  The  miserable,  hateful  fool  will  not  betray  me,  and  if  he  does,  I 
must  play  the  game  of  brag  and  face  it  out.  There  is  no  evidence 
against  me.  I  could  not  help  Feckles  stealing  the  cheques  from  my 
room.  I  did  not  forge  the  cheques  or  present  them.  My  word  will 
answer  any  charge  brought  by  Feckles." 

But  his  lordship  was  very  uncomfortable,  and  he  had  to  repeat  to 
himself  over  and  over  again  that  there  was  no  evidence  against  him 
before  he  could  think  of  any  other  topic.  Perhaps  the  long  nig^t, 
unrelieved  by  sleep  even  for  a  minute,  would  have  been  less  terrible 
if  he  had  thought  only  of  Dick  and  the  forged  cheques.  The  interview 
with  Frank  enraged  him  and  mortified  him.  To  be  seen  in  such  a  place 
by  the  man  he  had  wronged  and  hated  !  To  have  to  confess  before 
such  a  man  as  Gouger  !  To  be  so  spiritless  and  cowed  that  he  could 
not  reply  to  the  rough  threat  of  Frank  Boliver!  His  face  flushed  as 
he  thought  of  these  things,  and  in  his  impotent  rage  he  clenched  and 
shook  his  fist.  And  he  felt  that  he  was  impotent.  Even  the  ghasdy 
lurid  light  of  the  hope  of  revenge  did  not  brighten  the  black  dark- 
ness of  despair. 

What  of  his  son  ?  Oh,  if  he  had  some  one  to  love  him  he  could 
bear  with  his  trouble.  But  how  .could  he  find  his  son?  That  fiend 
Laura  would  not  tell  him  his  son's  address  without  money.  If  Dick 
had  returned  with  the  money  he  might  then  have  known  the  address 
of  his  boy,  and  have  been  travelling  to  see  him,  to  own  him,  and  to 
embrace  him.     He  could  get  no  money.     His  son  was  lost  to  him. 

Several  thoughts  at  the  same  moment  disturbed  his  mind.  He 
sprang  from  the  bed.  He  paced  the  room.  He  reeled.  Was 
he  going  mad  ?  Was  he  dying  ?  He  took  a  jug  of  water,  drank 
deeply,  and  bathed  his  head. 

"  I  must  try  to  pray,"  he  muttered. 

He  knelt  by  the  bedside  for  a  moment.     He  rose  in  haste. 

"  That  will  not  do.    That  would  make  me  mad  or  kill  me." 

He  could  not  pray,  but  he  cursed.  He  cursed  his  own  folly.  He 
cursed  Dick,  Laura,  Boliver,  and  Hawes. 

All  the  long,  long  night  he  tossed  about  the  bed  groaning, 
lamenting,  fuming,  fearing,  and  cursing. 

In  the  morning  he  was  shocked  at  his  haggard  face,  and  covered 
the  glass  with  a  towel  so  that  he  might  not  again  see  himself. 

{To  be  continued.) 


THE 


Gentleman's  Magazine 


November,  1873. 


Clytie. 

A  Novel  of  Modern  Life. 
BY  JOSEPH  HATTON. 

BOOK  II. 

CHAPTER  Vn. 

DURING   THE   ADJOURNMENT. 

^^^HE  bust  was  set  up  again,  and  the  old  worshipper  stood 

llw     before  it. 

Only  the  scene  was  changed,  but  with  this  change  the 
surrounding  circumstances  were  also  altered.  The  bust 
of  Clytie  no  longer  represented  to  Tom  Mayfield  the  fair  girl  in  whom 
all  his  hopes  were  centred,  though  it  was  still  the  deity  of  his  love ;  it 
symbolised  his  early  life,  his  first  dreams  of  happiness,  his  ideal  world ; 
it  also  represented  to  him  ruined  hopes,  the  hoUowness  of  life,  the 
mockery  of  happiness,  the  promise  of  revenge.  Even  now  he  could 
not  look  upon  it  calmly.  It  stirred  his  blood.  It  conjured  up  that 
simple  city  of  the  north  with  its  vision  of  beauty.  It  awakened  the 
echoes  of  the  Bailey.  It  brought  back  sounds  of  music  from  the  old 
organ  loft  of  St.  Bride's.  It  reanimated  a  dead,  faded  out  dream, 
and  for  the  moment  bathed  the  poet's  fancy  in  a  cloud  of  sunshine ; 
but  only  to  invite  the  cloud  and  the  storm  of  falsified  hopes,  of 
despair  and  misery,  with  Philip  Ransford  as  the  evil  genius  of  the 
darkness. 

He  had  set  it  up,  the  well-known  bust;  set  it  up  on  the  mantel- 
shelf of  a  little  room  looking  on  the  courtyard  of  the  old-&shioned 

hotel  at  Boulogne  whither  he  had  gone  the  moment  the  Bamard- 
VoL.  XI.  N.S.,  1873.  K  K 


484  The  Gentleman^s  Magazine. 

authors.  The  translation  of  "  The  Dove "  is  admirably  done.  I 
must  be  pardoned  for  quoting  so  excellent  a  piece  of  andent 
morality  modernised  with  so  much  purity  and  beauty  of  expres- 
sion : — 

The  dove  has  good  seven  habits. 

She  has  no  "  gall"  in  her. 

Let  us  all  be  "  simple  and  soft.*' 

She  lives  not  by  plunder. 

Let  us  avoid  all  robbery. 

She  picks  up  seed  only,  and  avoids  worms. 

Of  Christ*s  love  we  all  have  need. 

She  acts  as  a  mother  to  the  young  of  other  birds. 

Let  us  assist  one  another. 

Her  song  is  a  mournful  plaint. 

Let  us  bewail  our  sins. 

In  water  she  is  aware  of  the  coming  of  the  hawk. 

So  in  the  Book  are  we  taught  to  flee  from  the  devil. 

In  a  hole  of  the  rock  she  makes  her  nest. 

In  Christ*s  mercy  our  hope  is  best. 

I  heartily  congratulate  the  Rev.  Dr.  Morris  and  the  society 
upon  this  remarkable  miscellany.  "  Palladius  on  Husbandry,"  from 
the  Colchester  Castle  MS.  of  1420,  is  not  less  notable  in  its  way.  It 
offers  a  fine  practical  illustration  of  the  aphorism  that  "There  is 
nothing  new  under  the  sun."  Of  all  the  unpublished  Old  English 
texts,  Mr.  Henry  Sweet  says  this  other  publication,  **  King  Alfred's 
West-Saxon  version  of  Gregor/s  Pastoral  Care,"  is  perhaps  the  most 
important.  Preserved  in  two  MSS.  written  during  Alfred's  lifetime,  it 
affords  data  of  the  highest  value  for  fixing  the  grammatical  peculiari- 
ties of  the  West-Saxon  dialect  of  the  ninth  century.  The  present 
edition  is  the  first  one  of  any  of  Alfred's  works  which  is  based  on 
contemporary  MSS.  Mr.  Sweet  has  done  the  fullest  justice  to  his 
materials.  In  concluding  a  well  written  and  valuable  explanatory 
preface,  Mr.  Sweet  expresses  a  hope  which  must  be  endorsed  by  most 
literary  men  and  students — namely,  that  this  work  may  contribute 
somewhat  to  that  reviving  interest  in  the  study  of  English  of  which 
so  many  cheering  signs  begin  to  show  themselves  in  various  quartets. 
"  Ignorance  and  literary  intolerance  may  sneer  at  *  Anglo-Saxon,'  but 
all  liberal  minds  are  agreed  that,  even  if  Old  English  were  totally 
destitute  of  intrinsic  merit,  it  would  still  form  a  necessary  link  in  the 
history  of  our  language,  and  as  such,  be  well  worthy  of  attention. 
Here,  as  in  all  branches  of  knowledge,  it  may  be  safely  asserted  that 
the  wider  the  range  of  study,  the  more  valuable  will  be  its  fruits. 
Shakespeare  is  elucidated  by  Chaucer.  Chaucer,  again,  cannot  be  fully 
appreciated  without  a  knowledge  of  the  Oldest  English,  whence  to  the 


Table  Talk.  485 

kindred  tongues  is  but  a  short  step — to  the  Heliad,  the  Edda,  and 
the  classic  prose  of  Iceland." 


Despite  the  moral  that  "  Murder  will  out,"  it  strikes  me  as  the 
most  remarkable  incident  of  the  ingenious  Bank  forgeries  perpetrated 
by  the  Bidwells  and  their  two  friends  that  the  discovery  of  the  crime 
was  so  blunderingly  provided.  To  send  in  for  discount  a  forged  bill 
without  a  date  was  the  very  height  of  carelessness.  But  for  the 
necessity  of  inquiry  upon  this  point  the  forgers  might  have  got  away 
with  all  their  plunder,  and  had  a  good  three  months'  clear  start 
of  discovery  and  pursuit.  It  is  a  new  feature  in  the  history  of  crime 
to  begin  work  with  a  large  capital,  and  the  severe  sentence  of  the 
forgers  in  this  case  needs  no  other  justification.  The  men  first  ob- 
tained confidence  by  a  heavy  deposit  of  cash  at  the  Bank,  then 
discounted  genuine  bills,  and  next  slipped  in  their  forged  paper. 
They  were  emboldened  by  the  fact  that  in  England  bills  are  not 
referred  to  the  acceptor,  as  in  America,  before  being  discounted. 
They  were  discovered,  although  acting  upon  this  English  custom,  by 
themselves  forcing  the  Bank  to  make  this  reference  by  reason  of  their  ^ 
neglect  to  date  two  of  the  forged  bills,  thus  preparing  the  net  in 
which  they  were  to  be  taken.  The  chief  lesson  to  be  learnt  from 
this  affair,  so  far  as  the  practice  of  banking  is  concerned,  is  the 
desirability  of  adopting  the  American  system  of  referring  to  the 
acceptors  of  bills  in  all  cases  before  passing  them  for  discount  The 
other  moral  is  the  old  one  of  honesty  being  the  best  policy,  though 
it  must  be  confessed  that  this  old-world  philosophy  is  rather  sneered 
at  nowadays. 

Lately,  visiting  some  of  the  sheep  farms  of  Lincolnshire,  I  was 
curiously  reminded  of  a  letter  addressed  to  me  by  an  esteemed 
correspondent  more  than  a  hundred  years  ago.  I  noticed  that  while 
the  Midland  farmer  talked  to  his  horse,  and  even  petted  his  oxen, 
he  treated  his  sheep  as  an  animal  peculiarly  devoid  of  intelligence. 
Alexander  Smith,  in  one  of  the  most  charming  of  modem  essays,  "  On 
the  Importance  of  a  Man  to  Himself,"  relates  how  he  once  found 
himself  on  a  parallel  line  of  railway  with  a  cattle  truck,  and  being 
fascinated  by  the  large  patient  melancholy  eyes  of  the  oxen. 
De  Quinccy  says  cows  are  among  the  gentlest  of  breathing  crea- 
tures, for  which  he  expresses  a  deep  love.  Now,  I  noticed  among 
my  agricultural  friends  this  general  sentiment  in  practice,  a  sort  of 
general  disregard  for  the  intelligence  or  feelings  of  sheep,  though  to 
me  there  is  as  much  sad  pitiful  intelligence  in  the  eye  of  a  sheep  as 


486  The  Gentle^natis  Magazine. 

there  is  in  the  "  patient  melancholy  "  face  of  a  cow.  While  the  farmer 
has  brought  sheep  to  the  perfection  of  size  and  shape  and  profit, 
that  sort  of  mutual  regard  which  animated  sheep,  shepherds,  and 
shepherdesses  in  the  old  days  seems  to  have  died  out  I  am,  I  say, 
reminded  of  this  by  a  letter  written  to  me  a  century  ago,  inquiring 
into  the  methods  which  the  shepherds  of  Jewry  and  the  Eastern 
countries  followed  in  the  care  of  their  flocks.  St.  John  says,  "  To 
him  the  porter  openeth ;  and  the  sheep  hear  his  voice :  and  he 
calleth  his  own  sheep  by  name,  and  leadeth  them  out  And  when 
he  putteth  forth  his  own  sheep,  he  goeth  before  them,  and  the 
sheep  follow  him,  for  they  know  his  voice."  On  these  words 
Dr.  Hammond  observes  that  the  shepherds  of  J udea  knew  every  sheep 
separately,  and  that  "  shepherds  of  that  country  had  a  distinct  name 
for  every  sheep,  which  each  sheep  knew  and  answered  by  obediential 
coming  or  following  to  that  call."  Moreover,  they  trained  up  the  ram 
to  collect  the  flock,  a  far  better  device  than  that  of  the  sheep-dog. 
Homer  endorses  this  in  his  simile  of  Ulysses  drawing  up  his  men  to 
a  ram  ordering  the  flock  : — 

Nor  yet  appear  his  care  and  conduct  small ; 
From  rank  to  rank  he  moved  and  orders  all ; 
The  stately  ram  thus  measures  o'er  the  ground, 
And  master  of  the  flock  surveys  them  round. 

On  the  authority  of  Philo  Judaeus,  a  philosophic  Jew,  bom  and 
bred  in  Egypt,  in  his  first  chapter  concerning  the  Creation  says : 
"  Woolly  rams  laden  with  thick  fleeces  in  spring  season,  being 
ordered  by  their  shepherd,  stand  without  moving  and,  silently 
stooping  a  little,  put  themselves  into  his  hand  to  have  their  wool 
shorn ;  being  accustomed,  as  cities  are,  to  pay  their  yearly  tribute 
to  man,  their  king  by  nature."  This  is  a  very  different  picture  to 
that  of  modern  sheep-shearing,  and  I  commend  the  consideration 
of  it  to  my  country  friends  who  are  practically  interested  in  the 
subject.  I  do  not  often  go  among  cows  and  sheep  ;  the  more  reason 
this  why,  like  poor  Alexander  Smith,  finding  myself  face  to  face  with 
them,  I  should  surprise  myself,  and  them,  too,  perhaps,  by  looking 
straight  into  their  eyes  and  losing  myself  in  wondering  about  the 
intelligence  that  lurks  behind  those  large  contemplative  melancholy 
orbs. 

In  these  days  of  inventions  worked  by  the  means  of  joint-stock 
enterprise,  I  wonder  the  modern  successor  of  the  alchemist  does 
not  turn  up.  I  met  a  man  at  a  scientific  meeting  a  week  ago,  who 
told  me  he  could  make  diamonds.     Why  does  he  not  go  into  the 


Table  Talk.  487 

City,  and  get  up  his  company  ?  That  seems  to  me  to  be  the  natural 
sequel  to  such  valuable  knowledge.  It  is  strange  that  he  should 
consent  to  go  about  London  as  poor  as  Dr.  Johnson  was  when  first 
I  knew  my  illustrious  contributor.  Surely  a  company  to  work  a 
patent  diamond-making  machine  would  be  as  easy  to  float  as  to  form, 
unless  the  facility  of  manufacture  knocked  down  the  price  of  dia* 
monds  to  an  unremunerative  price.  -But  the  alchemists,  the  gold- 
makers,  where  are  they  in  these  inquiring  and  gullible  days  ? 
Metallurgy  is  now  so  thoroughly  recognised  a  science,  and  has  done 
such  wonderful  things,  that  there  are  thousands,  I  am  sure,  ready  to 
believe  in  gold-making,  and  faith,  it  seems,  is  all  that  promoters  ask 
for  at  the  outset  of  a  company,  and  indeed  is  all  that  the  inventor 
requires.  Adverse  critics  might  quote  from  "  The  Alchemist "  against 
the  scheme,  but  that  would  only  lead  to  a  grand  advertising  controversy 
in  the  papers  which  a  clever  promoter  would  turn  to  good  account 
Diamond  mills  and  gold  factories  are  not  more  absurd  than  many 
schemes  which  float  in  the  City,  and  find  pleasant  havens  of  rest  in 
quiet  corners  of  the  Empire. 


The  combinations  of  capitalists  for  really  stable  undertakings 
are  stupendous.  It  would  almost  seem  as  if  private  enterprise 
were  coming  to  an  end  in  this  age  of  finance.  The  great  works 
and  manufactories  of  the  nation  are  gradually  being  taken  up 
by  public  companies,  and  the  result  is  undoubtedly  a  more  rapid 
development  of  our  national  resources.  The  latest  and  most 
remarkable  instance  of  the  union  of  men  and  money  in  this  direc- 
tion is  the  purchase  of  the  Cyfarthfa  Iron  Works,  which,  in  the 
hands  of  the  Crawshays,  have  become  famous  wherever  iron  is 
known  and  used.  The  works  employ  5,000  men,  and  produce  1,300 
tons  of  pig  iron  and  1,000  tons  of  finished  bars  and  railway  iron  per 
week.  The  ore  and  the  coal  and  limestone  to  work  it  are  all  found 
on  the  spot.  Hearing  that  Mr.  Crawshay  was  disposed  to  retire 
from  business  life,  a  few  capitalists  met  and  purchased  his  works,  the 
price  being  more  than  a  million  and  a  quarter  sterling.  Nor  is 
this  all.  The  buyers,  as  if  they  had  Aladdin's  lamp  and  had  only  to 
rub  it  to  produce  untold  wealth,  looked  about  the  surrounding 
country  and  purchased  other  smaller  works  here  and  there;  and 
having  done  this,  they  examined  the  South  Wales  coal  basin  and 
secured  leases  of  all  its  unlet  coal.  The  whole  of  their  mineral, 
railway  stock,  and  other  purchases  makes  up  a  fabulous  sum  of  money, 
and  points  to  a  combination  for  mining  in  South  Wales  that  is 
quite  unique  in  its  ambition,  power,  and  prospects.     The  subject  is 


488  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

creating  intense  interest  in  the  principality  and  elsewhere.  The 
story  of  Cyfarthfa  with  its  castle  and  river  is  a  chapter  in  the  history 
of  mining  not  unworthy  of  the  pen  of  Mr.  Smiles. 


I  HAVE  received  the  following  letter  upon  the  subject  of  St  John's 

Gate  : — 

"  24,  Lmcoln's  Inn  Fields,  London,  W.C, 

27th  August,  1873. 

"  Sir, — Knowing  that  the  future  of  St.  John's  Gate,  ClerkenweU, 
is  sure  to  be  a  matter  of  interest  to  your  readers,  we  hope  you  will 
allow  us  to  explain  that  the  rumour  (so  extensively  circulated)  that  the 
old  tavern  is  to  be  at  once  closed  is  not  founded  on  fact  The  pro- 
perty was  recently  purchased  by  a  private  gentleman,  a  client  of  our 
house,  who  is  a  member  of  the  English  Branch  of  the  Order  of  St 
John ;  and  his  membership  in  that  order  has  apparently  given  rise  to 
the  statement  that  the  property  had  been  sold  to  them,  and  would  be 
almost  immediately  converted  to  their  purposes.  Though  it  is  hoped 
that  the  order  may  ultimately  acquire  this  interesting  building,  there 
is  no  present  prospect  of  the  property  changing  hands ;  but  the 
house  will  continue  to  be  conducted  as  an  old-fashioned  tavern,  and 
a  pleasant  resort  for  antiquarian  and  similar  societies. 

"  We  remain,  Sir,  your  faithful  servants, 

^  ''Chapman  and  Turnul 

"  The  Editor  of  tlie  Gentleman's  Magazine.^* 


THE 


Gentleman's  Magazine 


November,  1873. 


Clytie. 

A  Novel  of  Modern  Life. 
BY  JOSEPH  HATTON. 

BOOK  11. 

CHAPTER  Vn. 

DURING  THE  ADJOURNMENT. 

HE  bust  was  set  up  again,  and  the  old  worshipper  stood 

before  it. 

Only  the  scene  was  changed,  but  with  this  change  the 

surrounding  circumstances  were  also  altered.    The  bust 

of  Clytie  no  longer  represented  to  Tom  Mayfield  the  fair  girl  in  whom 

all  his  hopes  were  centred,  though  it  was  still  the  deity  of  his  love ;  it 

symbolised  his  early  life,  his  first  dreams  of  happiness,  his  ideal  world ; 

it  also  represented  to  him  ruined  hopes,  the  hollowness  of  life,  the 

mockery  of  happiness,  the  promise  of  revenge.     Even  now  he  could 

not  look  upon  it  calmly.    It  stirred  his  blood.     It  conjured  up  that 

simple  city  of  the  north  with  its  vision  of  beauty.     It  awakened  the 

echoes  of  the  Bailey.     It  brought  back  sounds  of  music  from  the  old 

organ  loft  of  St.  Bride's.     It  reanimated  a  dead,  faded  out  dream, 

and  for  the  moment  bathed  the  poet's  fancy  in  a  cloud  of  sunshine ; 

but  only  to  invite  the  cloud  and  the  storm  of  falsified  hopes,  of 

despair  and  misery,  with  Philip  Ransford  as  the  evil  genius  of  the 

darkness. 

He  had  set  it  up,  the  well-known  bust ;  set  it  up  on  the  mantel- 

slielf  of  a  little  room  looking  on  the  courtyard  of  the  old-&shioned 

hotel  at  Boulogne  whither  he  had  gone  the  moment  the  Bamard- 
VoL.  XI.  N.S.,  1873.  K  K 


490  ^'^^  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

Ransford  case  was  adjourned.  He  had  resolved  to  seek  for  those  proofs 
of  the  marriage  of  Clytie's  mother  which  seemed  to  be  a  matter  of  so 
much  moment  to  her.  He  had  loved  her  once  with  all  his  heart  and 
soul ;  aye,  and  he  loved  her  now  for  that  matter.  Nothing  could 
alter  that  early  dream.  He  loved  her  now  net  as  Lady  St  Barnard. 
He  only  knew  her  as  Clytie,  as  the  belle  of  the  cathedral  city,  and  he 
would  go  on  loving  that  vision  of  her  till  the  day  of  his  death.  Simi- 
larly he  hated  Philip  Ransford,  and  he  would  go  on  hating  him, 
though  his  hate  was  now  intensified  by  the  full  realisation  of  his  early 
fears  concerning  Ransford's  true  intentions  with  regard  to  Clytie. 

**  If  1  had  the  scoundrel  out  in  California,"  he  said,  addressing  the 
6gure,  "  I  should  shoot  him  like  a  dog,  Cl>'tie." 

The  trees  in  the  old  courtyard  whispered  in  the  summer  breeze. 
Tom  sat  cross-legged  on  a  chair  and  smoked.  He  was  the  beau-ideal 
of  a  poet  in  personal  appearance.  The  broAvn  velvet  coat,  the  low 
collar,  the  ample  neck,  the  long  white  and  brown  hair,  the  grey 
beard,  the  broad  open  brow,  the  clear  bright  eye,  the  bronzed 
cheeks,  the  long  deep  gaze  that  seemed  to  look  into  the  future. 

"  Oh,  Clytie,  if  you  only  knew  the  suffering  you  have  caused  me  I 
I  once  thought  I  had  wiped  you  out  of  my  memory.  I  scored  out 
your  likeness  from  my  heart  I  thought;  but  I  only  lacerated  the  spot; 
your  soft  eyes  and  pouting  lips  were  there  when  next  I  examined 
myself.  \Vlio  can  obliterate  the  past  ?  Does  it  not  rise  up  before  us, 
even  the  past  before  we  were  born,  and  claim  relationship  with  us 
and  boldly  ask  for  our  sympathy  and  our  tears  ?  Thy  mother,  Clytie  ! 
Yonder  villain  strikes  at  thee,  and  lo !  the  ghost  of  thy  mother  rises 
up  in  court  and  demands  satisfaction.  And  Fate,  who  knew  what 
was  coming,  takes  me  by  the  hand  in  those  far  off  wastes  beyond 
civilisation,  and  says,  'Come,  come,  Kalmat,  they  want  thee  in 
Europe.' " 

The  bust  stood  there  as  if  solemnly  listening  to  the  speaker,  and 
the  trees  went  on  seemingly  whispering  concerning  his  mission. 

**Art  thou  really  the  true  Clytie?"  he  continued,  presently  changing 
his  tone  and  manner.  "  Art  thou  the  sweet,  innocent,  true,  loving 
Clytie,  pure  and  noble  and  gentle  ?  Or  art  thou  indeed  that  other 
Clytie,  and  is  this  hell-hound  of  Dunelm  the  Amyntor  of  Axgos,  \AiQ 
would  put  out  thine  eyes  as  he  did  those  of  his  son  Phoenix ;  nay, 
who  would  lower  thee  to  the  gutter  and  the  stews?  No,  I  will 
believe  nothing  ill  of  thee.  Thou  shalt  be  the  sun-flower  of  my  love. 
Have  I  not  wasted  a  life  upon  thee,  and  shall  I  not  even  have  thee 
as  an  ideal  ?  Is  it  not  enough  that  he  robbed  thee  from  me  in  the 
days  of  my  youth,  that  he  should  now  destroy  even  the  poetiy  of 


4i 


C lytic.  491 

memory,  cast  down  the  altar  at  which  Imagination  bends  the  knee  ? 
Oh,  Clytie,  if  thou  could'st  have  loved  me,  that  had  been  our  true 
destiny !" 

The  poet  was  interrupted  by  a  knock  at  die  door,  followed  by  the 
entrance  of  a'  priest. 

"  Ah,  you  have  come,"  exclaimed  Tom*  "  Welcome !  Have  you 
good  news  ?" 

"  Not  very  good,"  said  the  priest 
Any  trace  of  the  marriage  ?" 
Trace,  yes ;  certainly  I  may  say  that.'* 

"  Good,"  said  Tom,  laying  down  his  pipe.  "Good.  May  I  order 
some  coffee  for  you,  my  father?" 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  priest. 

"It  shall  be  a  grand  day  for  your  Hospital  of  Mary,  my  faAer,  if 
you  can  clear  up  this  business  for  me,"  said  the  poet 

"  I  shall  leave  no  stone  unturned.  The  officiating  priest  of  that 
period  would  be  Father  Lemare,  of  the  Society  of  Jesus.  I  have 
ascertained  that  he  is  still  living." 

"  -\h,  that  is  good  news,  my  father :  that  is  indeed  good  novs," 
said  Tom.     "  Do  you  smok«  ?"  • 

"  A  cigarette,"  said  the  priest 

The  waiter  brought  cigarettes  with  the  coffee,  and  the  priest  settled 
himself  in  an  arm-chair  for  a  comfortable  chat 

"I  always  find  conversation  goes  much  smoother  between  the 
Avhififs  of  a  pipe,"  said  the  poet 

"You  have  had  great  experience,  no  doubt>"  said  the  priest 
*'  You  have  travelled  much." 

"  I  have,  indeed,"  replied  the  poet  "  If  you  are  the  means  of 
giving  me  satisfactory  evidence  of  the  marriage  of  this  English  milord 
and  Miss  Pitt,  I  shall  endow  the  Hospital  of  Mary  with  twenty-five 
thousand  francs  a  year." 

"  -\nd  yet  milord  is  a  Protestant,"  said  the  priest 

"  Milord  is  not  milord  at  allf  only  plain  Mister^  a  wanderer  on  the 
face  of  the  earth,  and  his  religion  is  a  very  simple  business^  my 
father ;  but  he  has  money,  gold  that  he  has  dug  out  of  the  moontain 
side,  washed  out  of  the  river ;  and  he  can  spare  a  thousand »  year. 
In  earnest,  my  father,  there  is  a  small  packet  for  charily;  deai  with  it 
as  you  please." 

The  poet  handed  his  guest  a  hundred  sovereigps. 

"  It  shall  be  well  disposed  ol^"  said'  the  priest 

"  I  am  sure  it  will  be,"  replied  Tom,  sipping  his  coifee.    ^'  Miss  Pitt 

•died  here.     Have  you  found  die  register  ef  her  death  ?^ 

K  K  2 


492  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

"  I  have." 

"  Good ;  and  the  place  of  her  burial  ?'' 

"  I  think  so." 

"  Is  there  a  stone,  or  record  of  any  kind  over  the  grave?" 

"  None,  but  the  spot  is  indicated  in  the  registrar's  books," 

"  Will  you  show  me  the  spot  to-day?" 

"  Certainly." 

"  Can  you  accompany  me  to  Paris  this  evening?" 

"  In  the  interest  of  the  Hospital  of  Mary  and  the  service  of  the 
Church,  yes." 

"  We  can  easily  find  the  Rev.  Father  Lemare  ?" 

"  I  hope  so." 

"  Good.  Will  you  do  me  the  favour  of  calling  for  me  here  in  an 
hour  ?" 

"  With  pleasure,"  said  the  priest,  and  the  two  men  parted  with 
mutual  adieus  for  the  present. 

Tom  Mayfield  turned  to  the  bust  once  more. 

*'  I  shall  establish  that  marriage,  Clytie,  and  your  other  self^  Lady 
St.  Barnard,  will  never  know  who  has  rendered  her  the  service.  I 
shall  do  more  than  that,  Clytie — much  more.  It  is  something  to  come 
home  and  find  occupation." 

While  the  poet  of  the  golden  gates  of  the  sunny  west  is  talking  to 
the  image  of  Apollo's  rejected  love  we  ^411  turn  our  eyes  and  ears 
upon  Grassnook. 

The  hay  has  been  stacked.  The  green  meadows  run  down  to  the 
reeds  of  the  river,  and  seem  to  meet  the  deep-hued  reflection  of  the 
woods  on  the  other  side.  The  smoke  from  the  fine  old  house  of 
Grassnook  goes  up  to  the  blue  sky  in  long  ethereal  colunms.  A  tiny 
yacht  floats  lazily  on  the  bosom  of  the  river.  The  scene  is  so  quiet 
and  peaceful  that  its  very  loveliness  almost  gives  you  a  heart  ache, 
for  you  find  yourself  contrasting  it  v^ith  the  lives  of  people  you  know, 
with  your  own  turbulent  days  may  be,  and  feeling  that  here  in  Nature 
herself  is  a  peace  that  passeth  all  understanding. 

Of  what  is  Lady  St.  Barnard  thinking  ?  A  few  days  have  wrought  a 
remarkable  change  in  her.  Nothing  could  obliterate  her  beauty,  not 
even  death.  But  she  is  pale  and  careworn,  and  there  is  a  settled 
expression  of  despair  in  her  eyes.  She  is  walking  hand  in  hand  with 
her  two  children  upon  the  lawn  that  leads  to  the  river.  The  sensation 
of  the  surrounding  peace  and  quiet,  once  so  sweet  and  dreamy,  firets 
her  spirit,  and  yet  she  will  not  leave  it.  My  lord  is  in  London  pre- 
paring for  the  renewal  of  that  terrible  fight,  working  with  his^detective 
at  the  evidence.     His  wife  has  given  him  facts  and  dates  to  go  upoR 


Clytie.  495 

• 

in  coDnection  with  the  Delphos  Theatre  and  her  lodgings  north  of 
Regent's  Park.  Mrs.  Breeze  and  her  husband  are  in  town.  They  are 
charged  with  the  mission  of  finding  the  policeman  who  took  the  lovely 
girl  to  th^  park  keeper.  My  lord  is  in  persistent  earnest ;  my  lady 
seems  to  have  settled  down  into  a  disposition  of  melancholy  and 
despair.  Her  courage  has  failed  her.  She  can  only  walk,  and  think, 
and  weep,  and  wonder  what  the  end  will  be.  The  statutory  declara- 
tion in  its  savage  details  has  cast  her  down,  and  she  sees  no  hope  in 
a  trial  where  the  law  permits  a  man  to  ask  her  noble  husband  if  he 
remained  all  night  at  Gloucester  Gate. 

"Mamma,  why  are  you  so  sad?"  asked  the  elder  of  the  two 
children. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you,  my  darling,"  says  the  mother,  stopping  to  take 
him  into  her  arms  and  kiss  him. 

"  Do  tell  us,  mamma  dear,"  lisps  the  youngest,  a  little  girl  with  a 
fair  clear  skin  like  her  mother's,  and  deep  violet  eyes. 

The  mother's  only  reply  is  to  fold  the  two  children  in  her  arms  and 
kiss  them.  Presently  they  walk  again,  and  addressing  the  boy  she 
says,  '^Wicked  men  have  said  cruel  things  of  mamma,  and  that  makes 
her  sad." 

**  But  my  tutor  says  *  Do  what  is  right,  and  do  not  mind  what  any- 
body says,'  mamma,"  the  boy  replies,  looking  up  into  the  pale,  sad 
face. 

"  Yes,  my  love,  that  is  good  advice,  but  sometimes  right  looks  so 
much  like  wrong  that  the  world  in  a  great  bitter  chonis  says  it  is 
wrong,  and  then  your  heart  nearly  breaks,  not  for  yourself  but  on 
account  of  those  you  love  and  honour,"  says  the  mother. 

The  boy  seems  to  be  wondering  at  this  for  a  time.  He  is  searching 
his  little  mind  for  a  loving  argument  out  of  the  elementary  ethics 
which  a  good  teacher  was  sowing  there. 

"  Time  takes  care  of  the  truth,  mamma  dear,  and  when  your  con- 
science is  clear  there  is  no  real  cause  for  grief,"  he  says  at  last. 

"  That  is  so,  my  darling ;  keep  it  green  in  your  memory ;  time  is 
my  best  friend.  In  the  futiu-e,  when  they  talk  of  this  time  when  I  was 
so  sad,  try  and  think  how  you  and  I  and  your  dear  little  sister 
Mary  walked  and  talked  on  this  peaceful  afternoon.  Will  you,  my 
Edward  ?  " 

**  I  will  never  forget  it,  mother  dear." 

"  Remember  that  I  said  my  conscience  is  clear,  and  that  God  in 
His  goodness  would  some  day  clear  me.  Remember  that  I  said  I 
had  been  indiscreet ;  that  I  was  vain  and  foolish."  ' 

"  No,  no,  dear  mamma,"  broke  out  the  boy. 


494  ^/^^  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

"  I  mean,  dear,  when  1  was  a  girl ;  I  had  no  kind  tutor  to  teach  me 
ethics  ;  no  dear  niamma  as  you  have  to  guide  and  take  care  of  me  ; 
and  I  was  young  and  brave  and  defiant ;  I  did  not  know,  my  darling, 
that  girls  and  women  cannot  fight  the  world  as  men  can  ;  I  did 
not  know  that  it  was  wTong  to  strive  for  independence,  dear;  I 
did  not  know  that  the  majority  of  men  are  knaves  and  cowards, 
dear;  and  so  I  was  indiscreet;  and  because  your  dear  papa  took  me 
and  loved  me,  and  made  me  his  happy  wife,  and  because  God  gave 
you  and  little  Mar)^  to  me,  and  because  I  was  very,  very  happy,  wicked 
men  said  to  themselves  *  Cast  her  dov^Ti,'  and  then  they  published 
abroad  cniel  falsehoods,  and  asked  our  gracious  Queen  never  to  allow 
me  to  go  to  Court  any  more.  Will  you  try  and  remember  this,  dear, 
when  you  are  a  man  ?  " 

"  And  Mary  too  ? ''  lisped  the  little  child. 

Then  the  mother  must  stop  again  and  fold  them  in  her  arms, 
and  this  time  she  wept  over  them  bitterly,  and  sobbed  as  if  her  heart 
would  break. 

"  There,  darlings,  don't  mind  me,"  she  says,  when  the  paroxysm  is 
over.  "  It  is  unkind  to  make  you  unhappy ;  I  am  better  now.  We 
will  try  and  be  merry.  But  you  will  never  forget  how  much  1  lo\'e 
you,  will  you,  darlings  ?  " 

"  No,  dear  mamma,''  they  both  say  eagerly. 

"  And  if  I  should  be  separated  from  you,  you  will  always  " 

Then  the  children  begin  to  cr}*,  and  there  is  more  embracing,  and 
an  assurance  that  mamma  docs  not  mean  separation  quite,  and  that  if 
she  does  it  might  only  be  for  a  very  short  time ;  and  then  she  smiles 
and  takes  both  their  hands,  and  runs  towards  the  river  with  them,  and 
savs  Thomas  shall  take  them  for  a  row. 

All  the  mother's  instinct  and  self-denial  came  to  tlie  woman's  aid 
when  she  saw  that  she  had  made  the  children  unhappy.  She  brushed 
the  tears  from  her  eyes,  went  to  the  house,  sent  for  Thomas  who  had 
charge  of  the  boats,  bade  him  get  the  shallop  ready,  and  just  as  they 
were  getting  into  the  boat  my  lord  returned  from  town.  He  was  in 
time  to  join  them,  and  did  so ;  and  the  boat  with  its  red  and  white 
awning  and  its  gilded  prow  glided  gently  down  the  stream,  giving  to 
the  green  landscape  all  the  colour  required  to  make  the  picture  perfect 

While  the  boat  is  slipping  away  into  the  sunny  mist  of  trees  and 
rushes,  and  the  calm  plash  of  the  oars  is  beating  sadly  out  of  tune 
\a\\\  two  anxious  hearts  on  board,  Tom  Mayfield  is  standing  by  air 
unrecorded  grave,  and  listening  to  the  sad  soughing  lullaby  of  the 
ocean  as  it  ebbs  and  flows  and  pants  and  sighs  on  the  beach  at 
Boulogne. 


Clytie.  495 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

CLYTIE     IN     COURT. 

The  announcement  in  the  Sunday  papers  tliat  on  the  following  day 
Lady  St.  Barnard  herself  would  appear  in  the  witness  box  brought  a 
special  crowd  to  Bow  Street.  The  magistrate  and  the  police  were 
harassed  almost  beyond  endurance  by  applications  for  seats.  At  ten 
o'clock,  when  the  Court  opened,  Lord  and  Lady  Bolsover  were 
accommodated  with  seats.  Lord  Tamar  and  the  Dean  of  Dunelin 
sat  on  the  Bench.  The  counsel  table  was  packed  with  solicitors  and 
gentlemen  of  the  Bar.  Never  was  the  Press  more  extensively  repre- 
sented. The  reporters'  box,  in  which  usually  sat  a  well-known  gentle- 
man and  his  son,  engaged  upon  the  leading  journal,  was  packed 
with  interlopers.  A  popular  actor  had  secured  the  comer  seat  He 
professed  to  be  making  furious  notes,  but  he  was  drawing  caricature 
sketches  of  the  worthy  magistrate. 

Twelve  o'clock  was  fixed  for  the  adjourned  hearing  of  the  Bamard- 
Ransford  case ;  thus  allowing  two  hours  for  the  general  business 
of  the  Court  —  a  period  which  was  thoroughly  occupied.  The 
magistrate  was  unusually  sententious  this  morning.  Brevity  was 
regarded  as  the  soul  of  evidence.  "  You  are  wasting  the  time  of  the 
Court"  was  looked  upon  as  a  severe  rebuke.  More  than  one  prisoner 
suffered  for  it  in  his  sentence.  **  Get  on,  get  on,  Mr.  Solicitor,"  were 
familiar  words  during  those  two  hours.  The  **  drunk  and  disorderly 
cases"  seemed  quite  proud  of  the  distinction  of  a  large  and 
fashionable  audience.  The  business  of  the  Court  was  conducted  at 
a  pace  that  gave  to  the  audience  a  series  of  dramatic  surprises ;  but 
nothing  toned  down  their  anxiety  for  the  commencement  of  the  great 
event  of  the  day. 

As  the  hour  of  twelve  approached,  Mr.  Holland  in  wig  and  gown, 
accompanied  by  his  clerk,  entered  the  Court,  bowed  to  the  Bench, 
and  commenced  to  sort  his  papers.  Presently  Mr.  Cuffing  appeared, 
dragging  along  a  blue  bag,  which  he  deposited  with  an  air  of  triumph 
upon  the  table,  looking  round  at  the  Coun  with  a  cunning,  defiant, 
cruel  gaze.  He  pursed  up  his  mouth,  opened  his  bag,  and  produced 
his  brief  just  as  a  little  commotion  behind  the  magistrate's  chair 
introduced  Lord  and  Lady  St.  Barnard.  All  eyes  were  at  once  fixed 
upon  her  ladyship,  who  gazed  calmly  upon  the  Court  and  toc^  her 
seat.  She  was  dressed  in  black  silk,  with  simple  gold  and  diamond 
brooch  and  bracelets.  She  was  very  pale.  Her  rich  brouTi  hdr  was 
bound  close  to  her  head.    She  wore  lavender  gloves  and  a  dark 


496  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

bonnet  trimmed  with  ribbon  of  a  similar  hue.  My  lord  was  in  a 
plain  morning  dress.  They  had  no  sooner  taken  their  .seats  than 
Phil  Ransford  was  brought  in  and  placed  at  the  bar,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  afterwards  Lady  St.  Barnard  was  conducted  to  the  witness  box 
by  her  husband,  who  sat  near  her  in  a  chair  provided  by  the  CourL 

On  being  sworn,  the  lady  was  examined  by  Mr.  Holland. 

She  said :  My  name  is  Mary,  Countess  of  St  Barnard.  My  maiden 
name  was  Mary  Waller. 

Mr.  Cuffing  :  Before  her  ladyship  proceeds  further,  I  must  request 
that  all  the  witnesses  in  this  case  leave  the  Court 

The  Magistrate  :  All  witnesses  had  better  retire  at  once. 

This  order  created  a  good  deal  of  commotion  in  Court.  Mrs.  and 
Mr.  Breeze,  Mr.  Wyldenberg,  two  persons  from  Dunelm,  the  dramatic 
agent  who  introduced  Clytie  at  the  Delphos  Theatre,  one  of  the 
ladies  who  had  luncheon  on  that  unhappy  day  when  Phil  Ransford 
met  the  Dunelm  belle  in  the  manager's  room,  and  several  other  wit- 
nesses for  and  against  the  prosecution  left  the  Court 

\jaAy  St.  Barnard  thereupon  resumed  her  evidence  under  the 
examination  of  her  counsel,  Mr.  Holland.  I  married  Lord  St 
Barnard  at  St.  George's  Chapel,  Hanover  Square,  in  the  presence  of 
relatives  and  ftiends.  The  Hon.  Letitia  Bolsover,  the  Hon.  Miss 
Howard,  Lady  Flora  Dorcas,  and  Miss  De  Willoughbye  were  my 
bridesmaids.  The  Dean  of  Dunelm  gave  me  away.  The  wedding 
breakfast  was  given  at  my  own  house,  Gloucester  Gate.  My  father, 
to  the  best  of  my  belief,  was  the  Hon.  Frank  St  Barnard.  My 
husband  belongs  to  a  different  branch  of  the  Barnard  family 
altogether ;  he  was  Mr.  Christopher  George  Welsford  prior  to  his 
succeeding  to  the  title  and  estates  of  St  Barnard,  the  late  lord,  my 
grandfather,  being  a  sort  of  fifth  cousin  to  my  husband.  My  grand- 
father on  my  mother's  side  was  Mr.  Luke  Waller,  of  DunelntL  He 
was  by  profession  a  musician,  and  held  the  position  of  organist  of 
St.  Bride's,  Dunelm,  as  long  as  I  can  remember.  I  was  brought  up 
and  edua.ted  by  my  grandfather  Waller.  I  went  to  a  day  school  at 
Dunelm,  and  had  also  tutors  at  home.  I  took  lessons  in  French 
from  a  professor  of  Dunelm  University.  My  grandfather  taught  me 
music.  I  left  school  when  I  was  about  fifteen,  but  continued  to 
receive  instruction  at  home.  We  lived  in  a  house  called  the  Her- 
mitage, in  the  Bailey,  at  Dunelm. 

Mr.  Holland :  Do  you  remember  the  first  time  you  met  the  prisoner 
at  the  bar  ? — I  think  I  do. 

Mr.  Holland  :  Will  your  ladyship  tell  the  Bench  in  your  own  way 
how  you  were  first  introduced  to  him  ? 


Clyite.  497 

Lady  St.  Barnard  :  I  met  him  one  Sunday  after  church  when  I  was 
walking  in  the  Banks  with  my  grandfather  Waller.  He  stayed  to 
speak  to  my  grandfather  and  he  moved  to  me.  My  grandfather  did 
not  introduce  him  to  me.  A  week  afterwards  I  met  the  prisoner  as 
I  was  returning  from  morning  service  at  the  Cathedral.  He  stopped 
me  to  ask  some  question  about  my  grandfather.  I  think  he  said  he 
wished  to  see  my  grandfather  on  important  business.  I  said  my 
grandfather  was  at  home,  and  the  prisoner  turned  round  and  walked 
by  my  side  to  the  Hermitage.  I  was  about  seventeen  then,  and  the 
prisoner  was  a  man  ;  I  should  think  he  was  thirty  at  least.  He  was 
regarded  as  a  gentleman  of  position  in  Dunelm,  and  was  understood 
to  be  living  most  of  his  time  in  London.  His  father  was  the  prin- 
cipal manufacturer  on  the  Wear,  near  Dunelm,  and  rented  what  was 
known  as  the  Dunelm  Estate,  a  very  fine  residence  on  the  Hill,  over- 
looking the  city.  After  the  prisoner  had  thus  introduced  himself  to 
me,  he  took  off  his  hat  when  he  met  me,  and  I  returned  his  bow. 
This  led  to  his  speaking  to  me  occasionally,  and  once  I  met  him  at  a 
ball  in  the  College  Yard  and  he  saw  me  home.  My  grandfather 
heard  of  this  and  spoke  to  me  about  it.  He  said  he  did  not  like 
Mr.  Ransford  ;  that  his  character  was  not  all  that  could  be  wished  in 
a  gentleman  ;  that  he  had  ruined  the  reputation  of  a  respectable  girl 
only  the  previous  year.  My  grandfather  Waller  did  not  forbid  me  to 
speak  to  Mr.  Ransford  at  that  time.  A  few  months  after  my  first 
introduction  to  the  prisoner  he  called  at  the  Hermitage  with  a  present 
of  fish,  and  my  grandfather  Waller  invited  him  to  stay  and  have 
supper.  Soon  afterwards  he  wrote  to  me ;  the  man  who  blew  the 
organ  for  my  grandfather  Waller  at  St.  Bride's  gave  me  the  letter. 

Mr.  Cuffing :  I  venture  to  ask  if  the  letters  will  be  put  in. 

Mr.  Holland  :  Has  your  ladyship  the  letter  ? — No. 

Mr.  Holland:  Have  you  any  letters  of  the  defendant? — No;  I 
•destroyed  them. 

Mr.  Cuffing :  Then  I  object  to  the  evidence  as  to  letters. 

The  Magistrate :  An  examination  of  this  kind  before  a  magistrate 
hardly  comes  within  the  jurisdiction  of  strict  legal  considerations  as 
to  what  may  or  may  not  be  given  in  evidence.  And  the  case  before 
me  is  so  special  and  peculiar  in  its  character  and  details  that  I  think  it 
best  that  Lady  St.  Barnard  should  be  allowed  a  certain  margin  in  telling 
her  story.  I  would  therefore  suggest,  Mr.  Cuffing,  that  you  waive 
your  objection  as  to  the  letters.  You  can  make  it  when  the  case,  it 
it  should  do  so,  goes  before  a  higher  tribunal. 

Mr.  Cuffing  :  I  bow  to  your  worship's  superior  judgment 

Lady  St.  Barnard  continued  her  evidence :  The  letter  contained 


498  The  Gentleniaii s  Alagaziiie. 

expressions  of  admiration  which  flattered  me.  I  did  not  reply,  but  I 
told  Mr.  Ransford  when  next  he  spoke  to  me  that  he  must  not  write 
to  mc ;  that  my  grandfather  would  be  very  angry.  Shortly  after- 
wards, when  I  was  leaving  church  with  my  grandfather  Waller,  his 
messenger  slipped  a  packet  into  my  hand.  WTien  I  got  home  1 
found  that  it  contained  another  letter  and  a  very  handsome  necklet 
of  pearls  and  diamonds.  About  this  time  my  grandfather  Waller 
introduced  me  to  a  Mr.  Tom  Maj'field,  who  was  a  student  at  the 
Dunelni  University,  and  Mr.  Mayfield  paid  me  special  attention. 
My  grandfather  Waller  spoke  to  me  very  seriously  one  day  about  this 
gentleman  and  Mr.  Ransford.  He  forbade  me  to  speak  to  Mr. 
Ransford,  and  said  if  1  desired  the  attentions  of  any  gentleman  Mr. 
Tom  Mayfield  was  an  honourable  and  upright  young  man  in  whom 
he  had  confidence,  and  for  whom  he  had  a  sincere  regard.  ["  God 
bless  him  I "  said  Kalmat,  the  poet,  almost  aloud]  Mr.  Mayfield 
was  a  frequent  visitor.  He  did  not  inspire  me  with  any  specLil 
sentiment  that  I  remember,  any  more  than  Mr.  Ransford.  I  was 
young,  and  I  suppose  the  attentions  of  these  gentlemen  flattered  me, 
the  more  so  as  it  was  understood  that  almost  any  girl  in  Dunelm 
would  have  been  proud  of  an  offer  of  marriage  from  either  gentleman. 
I  regarded  Mr.  Mayfield  as  a  friend,  and  in  that  character  liked  him 
much.  [Kalmat  thought  of  leaving  the  Court,  but  he  was  fascinated 
by  the  calm,  lovely  face  of  the  woman  who  was  thus  confessing  her- 
self before  the  world.]  Mr.  Ransford  frequently  wrote  letters  to  mc, 
in  which  he  said  I  was  too  good  and  too  pretty  for  Dunelm  ;  that  it 
was  a  shame  that  I  should  remain  in  so  dull  a  place ;  he  regretted 
that  even  if  I  would  have  him  he  could  not  then  marry  me  for  family 
reasons  ;  but  he  drew  a  gay  picture  of  London,  and  offered  to  take 
me  there.  I  was  very  angry  at  this,  and  replied  to  him  by  letter  ex- 
pressing my  feelings  strongly  and  begging  him  to  take  back  the 
necklet  he  had  given  me.  Finding  that  it  was  valuable,  I  did  not 
think  I  ought  to  keep  it  One  evening,  when  my  grandfather  Waller 
was  dining  with  the  Dean  of  Dunelm,  I  was  in  'the  summer  house  in 
our  garden  overlooking  the  river.  I  thought  I  saw  Mr.  Mayfield  on 
the  other  side  of  the  river,  and  in  a  girlish  freak  I  waved  my  hand  to 
him.  Presently  I  saw  that  he  responded,  and  was  coming  towards 
the  garden.  Then  I  discovered  that  it  was  not  Mr.  Mayfield,  and  I 
ran  into  the  house.  Ii  was  summer  time,  June  I  think ;  I  remained 
in  the  house  a  short  time  and  then  returned  to  the  summer  house, 
where  I  found  Mr.  Ransford.  He  had  scaled  the  wall.  The  summer 
house  could  be  seen  from  the  house,  and  also  from  the  adjacent 
gardens,  and  it  was  daylight     Mr.  Ransford  begged  me  on  his  knees 


Ciytte.  499 

to  stay  with  him  a  few  moments.  He  apologised  for  having  insulted 
me  in  his  letter,  and  vowed  he  loved  me  better  than  all  the  world. 
He  frightened  me  by  his  vehemence,  and  I  was  just  going  to  leave 
him  when  my  grandfather  Waller  appeared,  and  suddenly  taking  me 
by  the  arm,  he  half  led  and  lialf  dragged  me  into  the  house.  He  was 
very  angry  and  used  harsh  language.  The  servant,  I  think,  had  gone 
to  the  Dean's  and  informed  him  of  Mr.  Ransford  being  in  the  summer 
house.  This  incident  caused  my  grandfather  Waller  to  be  ver}^  severe 
with  me.  He  loved  me,  I  believe,  very  dearly,  and  was  consequently 
intensely  jealous  of  me.  He  would  not  allow  me  to  explain ;  he 
would  not  see  that  Mr.  Ransford's  visit  was  accidental,  and  he 
exercised  a  most  galling  surveillance  over  me  which  made  me  very 
unhappy  and  set  me  thinking  of  going  away  and  trying  to  earn  my 
own  livelihood. 

Mr.  Holland :  Did  your  grandfather  Waller  .ever  speak  of  your 
parentage  ? 

Lady  St.  Barnard  :  Frequently.  He  told  me  that  some  day  mjr 
other  grandfather  might  acknowledge  me,  and  then  I  should  be  a 
lady  of  title.     This,  he  said,  depended  on  my  good  conduct. 

Mr.  Cuffing  :  Is  Mr.  Waller  to  be  called  ? 

Mr.  Holland  :  Mr.  Waller,  sir,  is  dead. 

A  tear  coursed  slowly  down  Lady  St  Barnard's  cheek  at  this 
mention  of  her  grandfather ;  but  she  continued  her  evidence,  Kalmat 
feeling  as  if  he  would  like  to  slay  Cuffing,  the  lawyer,  upon  the  spot : 
My  grandfather  Waller  told  me  I  was  like  my  mother,  and  he  feared 
that  I  might  liave  an  inclination  for  a  professional  life.  He  told  me 
of  my  mother's  elopement  and  his  search  for  her,  and  of  her  death  at 
Boulogne,  and  of  his  bringing  me  an  infant  home  to  London.  He 
said  my  father  was  a  nobleman,  and  that  some  day,  if  I  were  a  good 
girl,  my  other  grandfather,  who  was  a  great  friend  of  the  Deans,  would, 
acknowledge  me  and  make  me  a  lady.  It  made  me  unhappy  to  see 
my  grandfather  miserable,  and  I  begged  him  to  give  me  back  my  old 
liberty,  promising  that  I  would  never  deceive  him ;  I  told  him  that  I 
really  did  not  care  for  Mr.  Ransford,  and  that  I  would  never  speak 
to  him  again  if  he  wished  me  not  to  speak  to  him.  My  grandfather 
kissed  me  and  trusted  me  again,  and  in  order  that  I  might  be  free 
altogether  in  my  conscience  I  took  Mr.  Ransford's  present  out  whca. 
I  went  for  a  walk  and  flung  it  into  tlie  river.     (Applause.) 

Mr.  Holland :  Was  it  on  this  very  day  that  Mr.  Mayfield  proposed 
for  your  hand  ? — It  was.  1  met  him  outside  the  Dunelm  meadows. 
I  was  gathering  wild  flowers.  He  made  a  formal  proposition  for  my^ 
hand,  which  startled  me  vcr}*  much,  because  he  was  so  earnest   '  I 


500  The  Gentlemaii s  Magazine. 

never  until  then  had  felt  that  flirtation  was  a  serious  matter.  I  con- 
sider I  was  quite  a  girl,  and  I  was  utterly  inexperienced.  It  made 
me  cry  afterwards  to  think  that  I  had  caused  Mr.  Mayfield  pain.  I 
told  him  that  I  did  not  love  him,  and  it  was  true ;  I  did  not  love 
anybody ;  I  did  not  know  what  love  was.  [Kalmat  sighed  deeplyt 
and  the  picture  of  that  summer  day  and  the  lovely  girl  among  the 
flowers  rose  before  him  and  mocked  him.]  I  had  more  respect  for 
Mr.  Mayfield  than  for  Mr.  Ransford.  I  am  sure  he  was  a  good  and 
honourable  man. 

Mr.  Cufling :  As  a  matter  of  information  more  than  as  a  matter  of 
form,  I  wish  to  know  if  Mr.  Mayfield  is  to  be  called. 

Mr.  Holland  :  We  have  no  knowledge  of  Mr.  Mayfield's  existence: 
J  f  he  is  alive  we  know  nothing  of  his  whereabouts. 

[Kalmat  smiled  sarcastically  and  stroked  his  grey  grizzly  beard.] 

i^ady  St.  Barnard  continued :  When  I  returned  home  I  found  my 
grandfather  Waller  in  a  furious  passion.  He  had  seen  me  throw 
something  into  the  river,  and  he  had  obtained  assistance  and 
recovered  the  jewels,  which  he  flung  at  my  feet.  I  told  him 
the  truth  about  them,  but  he  seemed  to  have  lost  his  reason, 
and  behaved  terribly.  He  frightened  me.  I  feared  for  a  moment 
that  he  would  kill  me.  His  anger  was  altogether  unreasonable, 
but  no  doubt  it  arose  out  of  his  love  for  me,  he  was  so  anxious  about 
my  welfare.  He  did  not  understand  me.  If  I  had  had  a  mother  at 
this  time  she  would  have  known  how  to  estimate  such  an  incident 
When  I  went  to  bed  that  night  I  began  to  revolve  in  my  mind  the 
idea  of  running  away.  I  felt  that  life  would  be  a  burden  to  me.  I 
had  no  doubt  that  Mr.  Ransford  would  continue  to  persecute  me. 
Moreover,  Mr.  Mayfield  had  begged  me  to  reconsider  my  refusal  of 
him,  and  I  think,  to  pacify  him,  I  had  half  consented.  Then  the 
woman  servant  whom  my  grandfather  had  engaged  in-as  a  spy  upon 
my  actions,  and  my  grandfather  was  so  strange  in  his  manner  towards 
me  that  I  began  to  feel  that  I  should  only  be  safe  in  flight  I  was 
very,  very  unhappy. 

The  poor  lady  broke  do^vii  at  this  point,  and  gave  i^'ay  to  a  flood 
of  tears.  There  was  a  dead  sympathetic  silence  in  Court  Several 
women  were  crying.  Kalmat  stroked  his  beard,  and  felt  now  that  he 
understood  more  of  the  character  of  that  Dunelm  beauty  than  he  had 
ever  known.  But  just  as  he  was  melting,  he  remembered  that 
letter  of  Phil  Ransford's,  and  the  jar  of  flowers  put  outside  the 
window  as  the  signal  of  consent,  and  then  he  doubted,  though  he 
did  not  cease  to  sympathise  and  to  love. 

Mr.  Holland :  Do  not  agitate  yourself,  Lady  St.  Barnard.     I 


Clytie,  50 1 

sure  the  Court  is  deeply  grieved  that  you  should  be  called  upon  to 
refer  to  these  matters. 

Mr.  Cuffing  half  rose  to  object  to  this  remark,  but  thought  better 
of  it,  and  sat  down  again. 

The  prisoner  at  the  bar  preserved  a  defiant  demeanour.  He  was 
angry  at  being  kept  in  gaol,  and  there  was  a  taste  of  revenge  in  Lady 
St.  Barnard's  tears. 

Ix>rd  St  Barnard  handed  his  wife  a  glass  of  water,  and  pressed  her 
hand. 

In  a  few  moments  her  ladyship  was  ready  to  go  on  with  her  story. 

Mr.  Holland :  Was  it  at  this  time  that  you  received  from  Mr. 
Ransford  a  long  letter  full  of  sympathy  for  your  position,  and  oflfering 
to  conduct  you  to  London,  where  he  said  he  had  great  theatrical 
influence  ? 

Lady  St.  Barnard  :  It  was.  He  intimated  that  he  knew  how 
imhappy  I  was;  he  professed  the  deepest  love  and  respect,  and 
offered  to  take  me  to  London  and  marry  me  there.  He  urged  me  in 
what  seemed  to  be  ver>'  sincere  language,  dwelt  upon  his  wealth,  and 
assured  me  that  when  we  were  married  my  grandfather  would  forgive 
me.  He  said  he  would  have  a  carriage  ready  and  in  waiting  that 
night,  and  we  could  catch  the  mail  train  to  town,  where  he  would 
engage  rooms  for  me,  where  I  could  remain  by  myself  until  the  pre- 
parations for  our  marriage  were  complete.  If  I  accepted  his  ofl"er  I 
was  to  put  out  a  jar  of  flowers  on  the  window  sill.  I  read  his  letter 
in  my  bedroom,  and  I  knelt  down  and  prayed  to  God  to  have  me 
in  his  keeping,  and  to  preserve  me  from  the  persecutions  of  this 
man.  There  was  something  insidious  in  the  language  of  his  letter 
which  impressed  me,  girl  as  I  was.  I  suppose  it  was  instinct.  I 
never  for  a  moment  thought  of  accepting  his  offer.  The  thought  of 
my  position,  the  thought  of  my  grandfather's  unkindness  exposing  me 
to  such  an  attack,  made  me  ill.  I  retired  earlier  than  usual  that 
night,  and  I  felt  happier  than  I  had  felt  for  some  time  because  my 
grandfather  seemed  to  soften  towards  me  when  he  found  I  was  not 
well.  Soon  after  I  had  said  good- night  to  my  grandfather  Waller,  and 
he  had  kissed  me  with  something  like  the  old  affection,  there  was  a 
^eat  commotion  and  knocking  at  the  door  and  a  cry  of  murder.  I 
xan  out  upon  the  landing  to  see.  The  street  door  was  suddenly 
opened  by  my  grandfather,  and  I  heard  the  voices  of  Mr.  Mayfield 
^sand  Mr.  Ran»for<i  in  ^n%Ty  altercation,  and  heard  blows  being  struck. 
J  ran  down.  .My  grandfather  »hut  the  street  door,  and  led  Mr. 
^R-ansford  itiU>  the  dining  room.  He  was  faint  and  bleeding,  and 
M  r.  Mayfield  in  angry  terms  was  telling  my  grandfather  that  he  had 


502  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

prevented  an  elopement  and  saved  the  honour  of  his  child.  [Mr. 
Cuffing  smiled  at  this,  and  took  furious  notes.]  Mr.  Ransford  opened 
]iis  eyes  and  said  he  was  all  right,  and  commenced  to  apologise.  Mr. 
Mayfield  said  he  was  a  black-hearted  scoundrel,  and  my  grandfather 
cursed  me  and  ordered  me  to  bed.  I  retired  to  my  room,  and  pre- 
sently 1  heard  the  door  shut  and  Mr.  Ransford  leave.  Mr.  Mayfield 
remained  with  my  grandfather  some  time,  and  when  he  left  I  put  out 
my  light,  fastened  my  door,  and  pretended  to  be  asleep,  for  I  could 
not  endure  any  more  of  my  grandfather's  most  unmerited  abuse. 

Mr.  Holland :  Let  me  ask  you  here,  Lady  St  Bamaid,  if  you  gave 
the  signal  asked  for  in  Mr.  Ransford's  letter. 

I^dy  St  Barnard :  No,  sir.     [Kalmat  groaned.] 

Mr.  Holland :  Did  you  by  word  or  act  in  any  way  accept  Mr. 
Ransford's  proposition  ? 

I^dy  St  Barnard  :  Neither  by  word  nor  act. 

[Kalmat  was  sorely  exercised  in  mind  at  this ;  for  he  had  seen  the 
signal  given.] 

A\  ould  Fate  lay  the  newspapers  next  day  containkig  this  evidence 
before  tlie  woman  in  Bedford  Street  who  closed  the  eyes  of  poor 
old  Waller  ?  And,  if  so,  would  she  have  sense  enough  to  understand 
it,  and  volunteer  her  evidence  ? 

The  Magistrate :  I  think  this  would  be  a  good  point  for  adjoumr 
ment.     It  is  clear  her  ladyship's  evidence  will  last  some  time. 

Mr.  Holland  :  One  more  question,  yoiu-  worship.  Although  it  is 
liardly  the  proper  time  to  ask  it,  I  am  anxious  that  not  another  report 
of  this  case  shall  go  to  the  world  without  her  ladyship  giving  her 
<.'mphatic  denial  of  this  most  shameful  and  cruel  libeL  We  shall  go 
further  into  this  matter  to-morrow,  your  ladyship.  MeanwhUe,  painful 
as  it  is  to  put  such  a  question,  I  will  ask  your  ladyship  if  at  any  time 
you  have  been  guilty  of  any  improper  intimacy  with  the  defendant 

T  ,ady  St.  Barnard  :  No. 

There  was  something  so  dignified  and  pure,  and  yet  so  scornful 
.and  indignant,  in  her  ladyship's  manner  as  she  uttered  this  expfes- 
sive  monosyllable  that  it  took  hold  of  the  Court  widi  a  strong  sympar 
theticgrip,  and  drew  from  it  a  loud  burst  of  applause.  The  magistrate 
.and  the  ofiicers  endeavoured  to  check  this  demonstratioa  of  feelings 
but  without  avail ;  and  Mr.  Cuffing  was  husded  as  he  left  the  Court. 
He  returned,  however,  to  demand  the  protection  of  the  police,  and 
in  time  for  the  magistrate  to  utter  some  few  emphatic  words  of  warn- 
ing to  the  remnant  of  the  crowd  which  was  gradually  working  its 
way  into  Bow  Street     Lord  and  Lady  St.  Barnard  were  aocommo* 
.dated  with  seats  in  the  magistrate's  room  unt3  the  throng  oattide  the 


Clytie.  503 

Court  had  been  pretty  well  cleared  by  the  police,  when  they  drove  to 
the  Westminster  Palace  Hotel,  where  they  stayed  during  the  trial. 

Kalmat  removed  from  the  Langham  Hotel  to  a  quiet  house  in 
Covent  Garden,  that  he  might  be  less  subjected  to  observation.  He 
was  prompted  to  this  step  on  seeing  a  paragraph  in  the  Times  re- 
ferring to  his  probable  arrival  in  England.  Happily  he  had  in  a 
letter  from  America  only  spoken  in  general  terms  of  his  visit  to  this 
country,  and  no  one  knew  that  he  was  in  England. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

CLYTIE's   life   in    LONDON. 

Ox  the  second  day  of  the  evidence  of  Lady  St.  Barnard  she  came 
to  that  interesting  period  when  she  ran  away  from  Dunelm  to 
London. 

She  said,  referring  to  the  night  of  the  encounter  between  Ransford 
and  Mayfield  :  I  felt  that  I  could  no  longer  stay  with  my  grandfather. 
I  resolved  to  run  away  to  London.  I  could  get  an  engagement  there, , 
I  thought,  to  go  on  the  stage.  My  mother's  name,  I  believed,  would 
be  known,  and  on  the  strength  of  it  I  should  find  employment.  I 
had  a  little  money.  Soon  after  midnight,  when  all  was  quiet, 
I  packed  up  a  few  clothes.  I  kissed  my  grandfather  while  he 
slept,  and  crept  out  of  the  house.  In  taking  a  last  look  at  the 
house  I  was  somewhat  startled  to  see  that  my  jar  of  flowers  was 
on  the  window-sill.  I  have  since  thought  about  this,  and  can 
only  come  to  the  conclusion  that  my  grandfather,  who  believed 
flowers  in  a  room  to  be  unhealthy,  had  put  them  outside  because 
1  was  not  well,  and  that  this  might  have  misled  the  prisoner 
in  thinking  that  I  was  willing  to  go  away  with  him.  Possibly  our 
servant  of  that  time,  if  we  could  find  her,  would  be  able  to  speak  to 
this.  I  walked  to  the  railway  station  at  an  adjacent  village  and  took 
a  train  to  York,  where  I  remained  two  hours,  and  then  went  on  to 
London.  When  I  arrived  I  asked  a  porter  if  there  was  an  hotel  near 
the  station.  He  carried  my  little  luggage  to  an  hotel,  where  I  re- 
mained two  or  three  days.  I  then  searched  for  lodgings.  I  took  an 
omnibus.  I  did  not  know  where  it  was  going,  but  I  got  out  where  I 
liked  the  neighbourhood.  The  trees  at  Regent's  Park  attracted  me, 
and  I  inquired  for  lodgings  at  a  house  in  a  street  near  St  John's  Wood, 
where  a  card  was  exhibited  in  the  window.  I  was  utterly  ignorant  of 
London,  either  as  to  localities  or  manners  and  customs.  I  went  into 
this  house.     The  appearance  of  the  landlady  somewhat  alarmed  me, 


504  The  Gentlemaris  Magazine. 

but  she  spoke  kindly  to  me,  which  disarmed  my  apprehension  of 
anything  wrong  for  a  moment.  I  did  not  take  a  seat  I  only  stood 
inside  the  room.  The  landlady  then  asked  me  to  drink  champagne, 
and  called  to  a  man  in  the  next  room  to  look  at  me,  and  then  I  ran 
out  of  the  house  and  into  the  street.  A  policeman  was  passing,  and 
1  ran  to  him  for  protection.  I  explained  the  whole  business  to  him ; 
he  said  I  had  had  a  narrow  escape,  and  offered  to  conduct  me  to  a 
person  who  would  find  me  respectable  lodgings. 

Mr.  Holland :  Had  you  any  idea  that  the  house  was  in  any  way 
an  improper  house  ? 

Lady  St.  Barnard:  No,  I  did  not  understand  what  an  improper 
Iiouse  was.  I  thought  the  policeman  meant  I  had  had  a  narrow 
es(  ape  of  being  robbed  and  murdered. 

Mr.  Holland  :  How  long  were  you  in  the  house? 

I  ,ady  St.  Barnard  :  Two  or  three  minutes. 

Mr.  Holland :  Did  the  policeman  take  you  to  Mr.  John  Breeze, 
park-keeper  at  the  north  gate,  Regent's  Park  ? 

Lady  St  Barnard  :  He  did,  and  he  directed  me  to  his  wife's  house 
in  St.  Mark  s  Crescent,  where  I  lodged  for  some  weeks.  I  told  Mrs. 
Breeze  who  I  was  and  what  my  intentions  were  with  regard  to  the 
stage.  She  went  with  me  to  Mr.  Barrington's  dramatic  agency. 
Before  that  I  called  upon  Mr.  Chute  Woodfield  at  his  theatre,  and 
he  advised  me  not  to  go  upon  the  stage,  because  he  said  theatres  were 
not,  as  a  rule,  conducted  upon  respectable  or  moral  principles.  But 
i  felt  that  I  could  only  obtain  a  livelihood  by  means  of  the  stage,  and 
I  til  ought  my  mother's  fame  would  help  me.  Mr.  Breeze  accom- 
l)anied  me  to  Mr.  Barrington's,  the  dramatic  agent,  who  introduced  me 
to  Mr.  Wyldenberg,  of  the  Delphos  I'heatre.  I  was  engaged  for  a 
new  piece  then  in  course  of  rehearsal.  I  had  a  part  given  to  me, 
and  studied  it.  The  rehearsals  lasted  about  a  fortnight.  At  the  end 
of  tlie  first  week  Mr.  Wyldenberg  explained  to  the  company,  who 
were  to  have  been  paid  half  salaries  during  rehearsal,  that  he  had  no 
money,  but  would  have  plenty  next  wxek.  When  the  next  week 
came  Mr.  Wyldenberg  promised  to  pay  everybody  on  the  first  night 
of  the  play  being  produced.  There  was  a  great  commotion  among 
the  company,  and  some  persons  left  and  threw  up  their  parts.  On 
the  opening  night  the  musicians  refused  to  go  into  the  orchestra 
unless  they  received  twenty  pounds — (laughter), — and  a  gentleman 
who  was  in  company  with  the  manager  paid  the  money.  Then  the 
leading  actor  refused  to  go  on — (laughter), — and  a  fierce  altercation 
ensued  between  the  ballet  master  and  Mr.  Wyldenberg,  who  struck 
monsieur  —  (loud  laughter),  —  and  discharged  him.      I   was   very 


Clytie.  505 

frightened,  and  had  serious  thoughts  of  going  away,  but  a  person, 
who  afterwards  turned  out  to  be  a  detective  officer,  asked  me  if  I 
was  Miss  Pitt,  and  when  I  said  *'  Yes,"  he  told  me  not  to  be  afraid, 
he  had  authority  to  take  care  of  me.  I  had  hardly  recovered  my 
surprise  at  this  when  I  was  informed  that  Mr.  Wyldenberg  had  just 
received  a  telegram  from  a  noble  lord  who  had  promised  to  provide 
^^500  for  rent  and  other  expenses  that  night,  and  now  declined  to 
do  so,  in  consequence  of  which  the  theatre  would  not  be  opened. 
The  manager  'thereupon  stated  that  his  wife,  who  played  the  leading 
part,  was  taken  suddenly  ill,  and  a  notice  to  that  effect  was  at  once 
written  and  sent  outside  to  be  posted  on  the  doors — (laughter) — and 
we  were  all  told  that  we  might  go  home. 

Mr.  Holland  :  And  in  fact  you  never  made  your  dtHit  at  all  ? 

Lady  St.  Barnard :  No. 

Mr.  Holland :  Never  appeared  on  the  stage  in  public  ? 

Lady  St.  Barnard  :  Never. 

Mr.  Holland  :  Now  permit  me  to  carry  your  ladyship  back  a  few 
days  in  your  narrative.  Did  you  meet  the  prisoner  during  your 
rehearsal  at  the  Delphos  Theatre  ? — I  did. 

Where  ? — In  the  Park.  Mrs.  Breeze  took  me  there  to  show  me 
the  Comer  in  the  season. 

Did  the  prisoner  get  off  his  horse,  and  come  up  to  you  ? — He  did. 

What  did  he  say  ? — He  expressed  some  surprise  at  seeing  me,  and 
I  was  glad  to  see  that  he  had  not  been  seriously  hurt.  He  told 
Mrs.  Breeze  that  he  was  a  friend  of  my  grandfather,  and  begged  to 
be  allowed  to  come  and  see  me.  I  asked  him  to  pledge  his  word 
not  to  communicate  with  my  grandfather,  and  he  did  so. 

Did  Mrs.  Breeze  give  him  your  address  ? — She  did. 

And  he  called  upon  you  ? — He  did.  He  urged  me  to  let  him  be 
of  service  to  me.  I  was  glad  he  called,  because  I  learnt  from  him 
that  Mr.  Mayfield  lefl  Dunelm  the  same  morning  as  that  upon  which 
I  disappeared,  and  it  was  thought  by  some  people  that  he  and  I  had 
gone  away  together.  [Mr.  Cuffing  looked  at  the  prisoner,  smiled, 
and  made  special  notes.]  I  was  enabled  to  disabuse  Mr.  Ransford's 
mind  of  this,  and  I  asked  him  to  make  it  known  in  Dunelm,  without 
giving  a  clue  to  my  discovery.  The  fear  of  what  people  would  say 
about  the  scene  at  the  Hermitage,  and  the  horror  of  being  denounced 
by  my  grandfather,  were  inducements  in  my  running  away,  and  I  was 
desirous  that  Mr.  Ransford  should  clear  me  as  regarded  Mr.  May- 
field.  I  begged  him  not  to  visit  me,  but  he  expressed  to  Mrs.  Breeze 
so  much  interest  in  me,  and  seemed  so  penitent  in  regard  to  the 
l>ast,  that  I  was  prevailed  upon  to  trust  him.  Moreover,  he  said  he 
Vol.  XI.,  N.S.  1873.  l  l 


5o6  The  Gentleviaiis  Magazine. 

knew  Mr.  Wyldenberg  well,  and  could  help  me  in  my  profession.  He 
placed  his  brougham  at  my  disposal,  and  I  used  it  on  several  occa- 
sions. One  day  I  was  invited  to  luncheon  in  the  manager's  room. 
I  declined  the  invitation,  but  I  was  pressed  by  Mr.  Wyldcnbcig,  who 
said  that  he  should  feel  offended  if  I  persisted  in  refusing.  Indeed, 
he  half  intimated  that  he  would  cancel  my  engagement  if  I  refused- 
I  therefore  accompanied  him  after  rehearsal  to  his  room.  There 
were  two  other  gentlemen  and  ladies  present  I  did  not  like  their 
manner  nor  conversation,  and  for  a  moment  I  almost  regretted  that 
I  had  not  taken  the  advice  of  Mr.  Chute  Woodfield  and  tried  any- 
thing but  the  stage  as  a  means  of  living.  At  this  moment  Mr.  Rans- 
ford  appeared,  and  I  was  really  glad  to  see  him,  for  the  first  time  in 
my  life,  because  I  thought  he  would  protect  me.  After  luncheon  the 
conduct  of  the  ladies  and  the  remarks  of  the  gentlemen  displeased 
and  frightened  me,  and  I  felt  suddenly  ill.  I  asked  Mr.  Hansford 
to  take  me  out  and  put  me  into  a  cab.  He  consented,  and  said  his 
brougham  was  at  the  door.  When  I  got  in  I  felt  so  ill  that  I  was 
glad  of  his  offer  to  see  me  home.  I  felt  faint  and  giddy  and  sick. 
By-and-by  the  brougham  stopJ>ed  in  Piccadilly.  Mr.  Ransford  said 
I  ^^'as  seriously  ill,  and  he  would  send  for  a  doctor.  I  refused  to  go 
into  his  chambers ;  but  he  seemed  greatly  hurt  at  this,  and  all  at 
once  I  felt  incapable  of  resistance,  and  entered  the  house.  A 
middle-aged  woman  came  into  the  room,  and  I  flung  myself  into  her 
arms,  and  burst  into  tears,  which  relieved  me  a  little.  Mr.  Ransford 
left  the  room  for  a  few  minutes,  and  I  implored  the  woman  to  pro- 
tect me.  I  had  strange  misgivings.  I  did  not  know  why.  A  tcr- 
rible  fear  came  upon  me.  I  felt  as  if  I  should  faint,  but  I  was  deter- 
mined not  to  faint.  "  Do  not  leave  me,  do  not  leave  me,"  I  said  to  the 
woman.  She  put  her  arms  round  me  and  said  she  would  not,  begged 
me  to  be  calm,  and  told  me  to  have  no  fear,  she  would  take  care  of  me. 

Mr.  Cuffing  asked  for  the  name  of  this  woman. 

Mr.  Holland  said  the  prosecution  were  not  in  possession  of  it ;  but 
they  hoped  that  the  publicity  given  to  the  evidence  of  Lady  St  Bar- 
nard would  be  the  means  of  bringing  this  person  into  Court  as  a 
witness ;  for  he  was  bound  to  admit  that  her  evidence  was  of  the 
utmost  importance. 

Mr.  Cuffing  rubbed  his  hands,  bowed  gravely,  and  sat  down,  and 
Kalmat  thought  to  himself  that  there  was  more  work  for  him.  This 
woman  must  be  found.  He  was  afraid  to  trust  a  detective,  or  he 
would  at  once  have  set  him  to  work,  but  in  his  own  mind  he  framed 
an  advertisement  offering  a  reward  of  ;£'ioo  if  the  woman  would  com- 
mimicate  with  C.  Y.  E.,  General  Post  Office. 


Clytie.  507 

Mr.  Holland,  addressing  the  Countess :  What  happened  after  this  ? 
— I  lost  my  senses.    I  suppose  I  fainted. 

What  did  you  afterwards  have  reason  to  think  was  the  matter  with 
you  ? — I  have  no  doubt  I  was  drugged.     (Sensation.) 

How  ?^-Through  the  wine  I  took  at  luncheon. 

Did  you  take  much  wine  ? — ^Very  little. 

Do  you  remember  what  wine  you  took  ? — Sherry  and  champagne. 

How  long  were  you  insensible? — For  several  hours  I  suppose. 
When  I  awoke  the  woman  was  still  by  my  side. 

Was  any  one  else  present  ? — No. 

Not  the  prisoner  ? — No. 

What  did  the  woman  say  ? — She  said  she  had  had 

Can  you  give  us  the  exact  words  ? — I  think  so.  She  said  "  I  have 
had  a  great  row  with  the  master,  but  I  would  not  leave  you,  for  1  have 
children  of  my  own." 

Were  you  attended  by  a  doctor  ? — No ;  the  woman  said  I  should 
soon  be  better  now ;  she  had  given  me  an  emetic ;  she  said  some- 
thing had  disagreed  with  me. 

Did  she  stay  all  night  with  you  ? — She  did.  I  slept  in  her  room. 
I  was  very  weak,  but  she  conducted  me  upstairs.  There  was  no 
means  of  communicating  with  the  Breezes.  In  the  morning  when  I 
got  up  I  was  much  stronger,  and  Mr.  Ransford  said  he  had  told  the 
Breezes  where  I  was,  and  that  I  need  be  under  no  apprehension. 
Mrs.  Breeze  would  come  to  me  presently.  This  was  in  his  room.  I 
had  my  bonnet  and  shawl  on  ready  to  go,  and  then  for  the  first  time 
the  woman  left  me  to  call  a  cab.  Upon  that  the  prisoner  said 
hurriedly,  and  with  great  vehemence,  '^  Miss  Waller,  you  are  ruined ; 
you  are  compromised  beyond  redemption ;  you  had  better  stay  here 
for  good;  you  shall  have  everything  you  want,  carriages,  jewels, 
money,  position ;  the  world  will  never  believe  your  story  of  last  night" 
He  tried  to  take  my  hand.  There  was  a  knife  upon  the  table ;  I 
seized  it  and  raised  it  as  if  to  strike  him.  I  was  too  indignant  to 
speak.  I  bitterly  felt  my  unprotected  situation.  All  I  could  say  was 
'*  Coward,  coward,''  and  at  this  moment  the  housekeeper  returned, 
and  she  conducted  me  to  a  cab  at  the  door,  and  I  went  to  my 
lodgings.  When  I  reached  St  Mark's  Crescent  I  found  Mrs.  Breeze 
much  excited  and  alarmed.  She  had  received  no  message  from  the 
defendant ;  nor  had  she  been  asked  to  go  to  Piccadilly. 

Mr.  Holland :  Did  you  go  to  rehearsal  the  next  day  ? — No, 
I  was  too  ill;  but  on  the  following  day  I  went,  having  received 
an  urgent  message  from  Mr.  Wyldenbeig  that  I  was  obstructing 
the  business  of  the  theatre.     I  went,  and  did  not  see  Mr.  Rans      ' 

L  L  2 


5o8  Tlie  Gentletnatis  Magazine. 

again  during  the  remainder  of  my  engagement  there.  Mrs.  Breeze 
went  with  me  to  the  theatre  alwa3rs  during  the  remainder  of 
my  stay  there.  She  was  not  behind  the  scenes  on  the  night  when  the 
piece  was  to  be  produced.  I  had  taken  a  box  for  herself  and 
family. 

You  referred  to  Mr.  White,  the  detective  officer? — ^Yes,  he 
introduced  himself  to  me ;  he  said  he  was  employed  by  my  friends, 
and  he  was  instructed  to  get  me  out  of  the  engagement  at 
the  Delphos  Theatre.  He  could  not  tell  me  by  whom  he  was 
employed,  he  said,  but  he  hoped,  he  said,  to  have  my  grandfather 
Waller's  permission  to  carry  out  what  my  friends  proposed.  He 
inquired  for  Mrs.  Breeze.  I  told  him  she  would  be  in  front  of  the 
house.  He  said  I  had  better  hasten  home.  The  Delphos  Theatre 
would  not  be  opened  again  under  the  present  management.  He  gave 
me  his  card.  I  asked  him  what  guarantee  I  had  that  he  was  acting 
bofi^  fide.  The  guarantee,  he  said,  that  he  knew  the  Dean  of  Dunelm, 
and  also  the  father  of  the  nobleman  who  eloped  with  my  mother.  I 
thereupon  went  round  to  the  front  of  the  house,  where  the  Breezes  had 
just  arrived  in  a  cab.  I  went  home  with  them,  and  when  we  arrived 
Mr.  White,  the  detective,  was  standing  upon  the  doorstep. 

Mr.  Cuffing :  I  observe  that  Mr.  White  is  in  Court  I  thought  it 
was  understood  all  witnesses  were  to  leave. 

Mr.  Holland  :  Do  you,  then,  call  Mr.  White? 

Mr.  Cuffing :  No. 

Mr.  Holland  :  Neither  do  we.     (Laughter.) 

The  Magistrate :  Then  Mr.  \\Tiite  may  remain  ;  I  dare  say  he  has 
business  here  ;  Mr.  White  does  not  usually  waste  his  time  as  a  mere 
spectator.  And  now  I  think  we  may  adjourn.  Her  ladyship  must  be 
tired,  and  there  is  no  prospect  of  concluding  her  evidence,  I  fear,  at 
present. 

Mr.  Holland  bowed  to  signify  his  approval  of  the  adjournment ; 
Mr.  Cuffing  went  up  to  the  dock  and  conferred  with  his  client ;  Lord 
St.  Barnard  conducted  his  wife  to  the  magistrate's  room;  the 
reporters  gathered  up  their  note  books  ;  Kalmat  stroked  his  beard, 
and  followed  Lady  St.  Barnard  with  his  eyes ;  Mr.  White  disappeared; 
the  magistrate  quietly  asked  Mr.  Holland  how  long  the  case  would 
last,  Mr.  Holland  said  as  quietly  he  really  did  not  know;  and  the 
Court  adjourned. 

(To  he  continued,) 


A  DAY'S  Cub  Hunting. 

*^'LL  bring  the  hounds  down  in  the  morning;  they  want 
exercise  badly,  and  a  long  trot  over  the  road  will  harden 
their  feet  a  bit,  and  prevent  their  nails  from  growing 
too  long.  Let's  see;  you  are  stopping  at  the  Queen's 
on  the  Parade.  All  right.  Ill  be  past  your  window  at  ten  sharp. 
You  will  have  breakfast  over  by  that  time,  and  we'll  be  able  to  look 
'em  over  all  cool  and  comfortable." 

This  welcome  proposition  was  made  on  board  our  temporarily 
engaged  yacht  to  a  small  and  select  party  of  fellows,  by  whom  it  was 
received  with  every  apparent  demonstration  of  delight  The  month 
of  September  was  more  than  half  over.  We  had  had  plenty  of 
indulgence  in  every  sort  and  description  of  boating  and  ^hing,  had 
had  our  usual  cut  in  at  the  partridges,  and  were  only  too  glad  of  the 
prospect  of  fresh  amusement  of  any  kind. 

The  bare  mention  of  looking  over  a  pack  of  foxhounds  in  the 
month  of  September  is  highly  suggestive  of  pleasures  to  come,  and 
the  chances  of  having  a  turn  at  the  cubs  appeared  to  offer  themselves 
for  consideration  as  the  most  natural  of  corollaries.  The  Jurvr 
vefiaticusj  there  can  be  no  doubt,  seized  upon  every  member  of  the 
motley  crew  of  the  yacht  simultaneously  and  like  an  epidemic. 

The  master  was  his  own  huntsman,  and  his  two  whippers-in  were 
creatures  of  his  own  professional  manufacture,  from  which  fact  it 
may  be  inferred  that  they  were  fisu:  better  workmen  than  their  appear- 
ance and  paraphernalia  would  warrant  a  stranger  in  supposing.  The 
"  lot,"  however,  turned  out  on  the  following  morning  "  in  best  bib 
and  tucker,"  mainly  for  the  reason  that  the  march  past  was  to  take 
place  in  full  view  of  the  visitors  at  the  Queen's  Hotel,  which  hap- 
pened just  then  to  be  full  to  overflowing  of  strangers  from  all  parts. 
It  must  be  confessed  that  the  get-up  of  the  master  and  his  men  was 
not  well  calculated  to  impress  favourably  the  eye  of  a  London  con- 
noisseur, for  their  pinks,  though  unimpeachable  in  shape  and  make, 
bore  the  honoured  stains  of  full  many  a  foughten  field.  But  to  the 
inspection  of  an  experienced  fox-hunter,  there  was  a  rough-and- 
readiness  about  the  entire  turn  out  that  must  have  caused  the  liveliest 
satisfaction.  The  hounds  and  the  horses  looked  as  ''fit  as  fiddles, '^ 
and  the  great  broad-reined  snaffles  and  brown  tops  gave  a  workman- 
like appearance  that  was  not  to  be  denied. 


5  lo  The  Gentleina^is  MagazUte. 

The  gallant  master  drew  up  at  attention  in  front  of  the  Queen's, 
sharp  to  the  minute — punctuality  with  him  being  a  law  of  nature — 
and  blowing  a  thrilling  rec/ucU,  he  drew  the  occupants  of  the  hotel  to 
tlie  windows  "in  their  thousands" — ^according  to  Mr.  Odger's  calcu- 
lation. The  news  that  "  the  dougs  were  coming  out"  had  got  wind 
somehow  or  another,  and,  as  may  be  supposed,  there  was  a  goodly 
assemblage  on  the  Parade  to  welcome  the  arrival  of  the  chief  charm 
of  the  district. 

After  die  first  greetings  were  over,  and  the  whips  had  dived  their 
ancient  mugs  into  a  rare  tankard  of  home-brewed,  we  proceeded  to 
"look  'em  over,"  and  listened  complacently  to  the  encomiums  pissed 
upon  Pillager,  Pantaloon,  and  the  rest ;  learnt  how  Smuggler  was 
bred  from  the  Duke  of  Beaufort's  kennel,  how  Snowdrop  was 
descended  in  a  direct  line  from  Lord  Segrave's  Sunflower,  and  how 
Turpin — ^ha,  ha  !  Turpin— rare,  fine  hound  that;  observe  the  old  filers 
stringhalt — was  out-and-out  the  knowingest  card  in  the  whole  pack. 

"  I'm  going  to  draught  several  of 'em,"  said  the  master,  ^*and  many 
of  'em  are  going  away  in  a  day  or  two.  I  want  to  make  room  for  the 
young  entries.  But  old  Turpin  makes  a  fine  schooiniaster  for  the 
youngsters,  and  as  he  is  not  very  fast  now,  he  must  take  a  turn  at  die 
cub-hunting  with  the  juvenile  members  of  the  femily." 

"  And  when  do  you  begin  cub-hunting?" 

"  Eh  ?  Begin  ?  Well,  that's  the  very  thing  I've  been  thinking 
about  since  I  mentioned  bringing  down  the  pack  for  you  to  sec  I 
should  like  to  show  you  fellows  some  fun  before  you  return  from 
your  rambles.  Hang  it !  What  do  you  say — I  think  we  might  have 
a  day  at  it  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  Oh,  decidedly;  its  the  very  thing  we,  too,  have  been  thinking 
about.  The  mere  notion  of  looking  over  your  pack  suggested  cub- 
hunting  as  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world." 

"  All  right,  then.  I  can't  horse  more  than  one  of  you.  But  you've 
no  idea  what  a  rum  country  mine  is,  and  any  kind  of  quadruped  you 
can  get  hold  of  will  do  for  cub-hunting  with  me.  I'll  have  breakfast 
at  six  for  half-past.  I  like  the  morning,  though  I  believe  I'm  peculiar 
in  that  respect ;  but  I  don't  want  to  lose  any  valuable  dogs  by  con- 
vulsions brought  on  by  the  September  heat,  after  the  manner  of  the 
late  Colonel  Cook.  Au  rnoir,  and  mind  the  hour,  for  I  make  it 
late  to  accommodate  you."  And  sounding  another  f«rAai#— not 
that  there  was  the  slightest  occasion  for  a  display  of  that  nature,  but 
our  master  was  a  skilful  performer  on  the  hunting  horn,  and  liked  to 
show  off  his  powers  when  there  was  no  harm  in  doing  so— he  made 
his  way  slowly  and  with  much  state  off  the  Parade. 


A  Days  Cub  Hunting.  511 

"  If  you  look  in  the  maps  of  the  'orld,"  saith  Fluellen,  **  I  warrant 
you,  you  shall  find,  in  the  comparisons  between  Macedon  and 
Monmouth,  that  the  situations,  look  you,  is  both  alike.  There  is  a 
liver  in  Macedon ;  and  there  is  also,  moreover,  a  river  at  Monmouth  ; 
it  is  called  Wye,  at  Monmouth  ;  but  it  is  out  of  my  prains  what  is  the 
name  of  the  other  river/'  And  as  the  country  which  our  master 
hunts  is  very  like  another  in  a  distant  part  of  the  kingdom,  it  will  not 
be  necessary  to  mention  the  precise  locality.  He  has  a  strong  objec- 
tion to  appear  in  print  himself,  and  nothing  can  offend  him  more 
than  to  read  accounts  of  his  exploits  in  the  newspapers,  furnished  by 
Mnauthorised  hands.  Pufhngton  himself,  when  perusing  in  the 
Sufillingford  Patriot  the  glowing  description  of  a  run  with  his  hounds, 
from  the  joint  brains  and  manipulation  of  Soapy  Sponge  and  Jack 
Spraggon,  could  hardly  have  been  more  enr^ed  than  is  our  friend 
under  similar  circumstances.  Let  it  suffice,  then^  that  his  country, 
being  near  the  sea  coast,  was  of  the  rocky  order,  that  his  foxes  fre- 
quented *'  tors  "  and  furze  brakes,  that  earths  were  comparatively  un- 
known, and  that  for  the  very  necessary  process  of  bolting  a  good 
terrier  was  of  more  use  than  any  number  of  pickaxes  and  shovels. 

The  master  knew  better  than  to*blood  his  young  hounds  on  any- 
thing but  what  they  were  thereafter  to  pursue.  He  discarded  hare 
and  badger  as  being  calculated  to  mislead  rather  than  to  educate  the 
youthful  nose  of  the  foxhound  for  the  future  prosecution  of  the 
highest  description  of  the  chase.  "First  impressions,''  says  Mr. 
Beckford — we  all  remember  the  trite  Latin  proverb  or  phrase, 
"  Tenacissimi  sumus  earum  rerum  quas  pueri  didicimus  ? " — 
"  First  impressions  are  of  more  consequence  than  they  are  in  general 
thought  to  be ;  on  that  account  enter  young  hounds  to  vermin  only, 
use  them  as  early  as  possible  to  the  strongest  and  thickest  woods 
4ind  furzes,  and  they  will  seldom  be  shy  of  them  afterwards ;  should 
there  be  marten  cats  in  the  country  take  young  hounds  where  they 
frequent ;  all  hounds  will  hunt  their  scent  eagerly,  and  the  marten  cat 
being  a  small  animal,  by  running  the  closest  brakes  it  can  find  teaches 
hounds  to  run  cover,  and  is  of  the  greatest  use.  By  being  awed  from 
hare  and  deer,  and  being  taught  to  hunt  only  vermin,  hounds  will 
stop  at  a  word,  because  that  word  will  be  by  them  understood,  and  a 
smack  of  the  whip  will  spare  the  inhuman  trouble  of  cutting  hounds 
in  pieces  for  faults  which  (if  entered  at  hare)  they  have  been  incited 
to  commit" 

Breakfast  over,  our  cavalcade,  consisting  of  the  master,  whips,  and 
kennel  man,  the  yacht  party,  and  sundry  neighbouring  farmers  who 
iiad  got  wind  of  the  thing,  proceeded  to  the  scene  of  action.     The 


512  The  Gentlematis  Magazine. 

terriers— one  of  them,  a  descendant  of  the  celebrated  old  Jock,  a 
present  from  the  humble  writer  of  this  article — ^were  soon  in  requi- 
sition, and  were  tried  at  one  or  two  holts  without  success.  Presently, 
however,  young  Jock  was  heard  hard  at  it  under  an  enormous 
*'  beetling  crag,"  and  a  couple  of  fine  cubs  bolted  gallantly  for  the 
open — that  is  to  say,  bolted  from  their  lair,  came  above  ground,  and 
made  off.  The  terriers  were  caught  up  by  the  old  kennel  man,  and 
the  pack,  with  ancient  Turpin  for  guide,  laid  on  upon  the  line  of  the 
cub  that  looked  most  likely  to  cut  out  the  work. 

The  alacrity  with  which  the  new  entry  stooped  to  the  scent,  under 
the  preceptorship  of  old  Turpin,  would  have  been  surprising  had  it 
not  transpired  that  they  had  already  been  partially  initiated  into  the 
mysteries  of  hunting  by  means  of  a  surreptitious  drag,  manufactured 
out  of  a  tame  fox  bed  under  the  management  of  old  Dick  the  kennel 
man.  Turpin,  too,  was  a  general  favourite  in  the  nursery  it  was  easy 
to  see,  and  his  example  in  instantly  acknowledging  the  game  was 
promptly  followed  by  the  majority  of  the  youthful  pack,  as  if  they 
had  served  a  long  apprenticeship  to  the  most  popular  of  trades. 
The  cub  turned  out  to  be  a  foeman  worthy  of  their  prowess,  for  he 
led  them  and  us  straight  away  over  boulder  and  morass  for  the 
opposite  side  of  the  coast  As  the  crow  flies,  it  was  not  more  than 
seven  or  eight  miles  from  coast  to  coast  of  this  narrow  neck  of  land, 
and  the  travelling  was  wild  and  difficult  in  the  extreme.  The  vixen 
of  this  family  of  cubs,  of  which  it  was  well  known  there  were  four, 
must  have  been  an  admirable  preceptress  of  youth,  and  no  doubt  she 
had  taken  an  early  opportunity  of  teaching  the  young  idea  how  to 
steer  across  country  to  another  haven  of  shelter  when  the  sanctity  of 
their  home  should  be  invaded. 

Only  one  of  our  yacht  party  was  mounted,  the  rest  of  us  following 
the  example  of  the  flying  tailor  of  Cheltenham,  and  pursuing  the 
game  on  foot  It  was  fortunate  for  us,  perhaps,  that  we  did  so,  for 
our  mounted  friend  floundered  into  a  "  custard  pudding,"  and  was, 
to  use  the  sporting  phraseolog)'  of  the  day,  "  out  of  the  hunt "  in  no 
time.  Viile  "Blaine"  for  a  description  of  the  exploits  of  the  Chelten- 
ham tailor,  and  you  will  find  it  worth  your  whUe,  for  he  was  an 
enthusiast,  that  same  sporting  tailor.  The  extrication  of  the  hapless 
flounderer  in  the  bog  could  not  be  eflected  without  the  aid  of  strong 
arms  and  ropes,  and  when  that  event  was  accomplished,  neither 
biped  nor  quadruped  showed  any  further  inclination  for  continuing 
the  chase,  and  a  very  pretty  pair  they  looked  when  we  rejoined  Aem 
after  pulling  down  the  first  cub.  This  feat  the  hounds  achieved  in  a 
manner  that  was  most  gratifying  to  the  master  and  all  who  witnessed 


A  Day's  Cud  Hunting.  5 1 3 

it,  and  augured  well  for  future  distinction.  We  pressed  him  so 
closely,  and  the  hounds  were  so  active  in  cover — a  fiirze  brake  of 
rather  extensive  dimensions — that  we  wore  the  fox  down  before  he 
could  make  his  point,  the  holts  on  the  other  side  of  the  coast,  and 
after  being  deprived  of  his  brush  he  was  thrown  to  the  baying  pack, 
and  broken  up  in  most  approved  fashion  to  the  accompanying  ortho- 
dox cheer  of  the  "  Whoo-hoop." 

The  terriers  were  shortly  again  in  request,  and  it  was  not  long 
before  another  handsome  cub  was  bolted,  the  footers  having  appeared 
upon  the  scene  before  fresh  hostilities  were  commenced.  We  had 
some  trouble  with  this  fellow,  however,  as  he  took  it  into  his  head 
to  traverse  the  ground,  or  at  least  a  good  deal  of  it,  over  which  the 
preceding  chase  had  led  us.  The  process  of  "lifting "had  to  be 
put  into  rather  more  practice  than  was  judicious,  perhaps,  in  the  case 
of  young  hounds,  but  there  was  nothing  else  for  it  under  the  circum- 
stances, as  old  Turpin  was  the  only  old  stager  who  was  sufficiently 
up  to  snuff  in  the  emergency.  Young  Reynard  thought  fit,  under 
the  delay  caused  by  the  hunting  over  the  foiled  ground,  to  rest  for  a 
while  in  the  welcome  shelter  of  the  friendly  brake  alluded  to,  and 
upon  a  fresh  find  the  hounds  settled  on  his  track  with  renewed 
energy,  and  pulled  him  down,  too,  before  he  could  make  his  haven 
of  rest  The  master  courteously  delayed  breaking  him  up  until  the 
field  had  had  time  to  come  up,  and  the  pack  being  now  thoroughly 
well  blooded  and  entered  to  the  future  business  of  their  life,  a  move 
for  refreshment  was  made  to  the  house  of  a  hospitable  fanner  who 
lived  hard  by,  and  whose  invitation  to  partake  of  hunters'  beef  and 
cider  was  not  to  be  resisted.  Our  discomforted  friend  on  the  land- 
lord's horse  was  by  no  means  indifferent  to  such  luxuries,  and  if 
copious  potations  of  the  exhilarating  beverage  mentioned  are  any 
test  of  unimpaired  appetite,  the  sousing  in  the  morass  had  done  him 
no  more  harm  than  was  to  be  cured  by  an  inexpensive  remedy. 
Beef !  Mercy  on  us,  the  consumption  was  what  Dominie  Sampson — 
no  mean  judge,  according  to  "  Guy  Mannering  " — would  have  said 
was  "  pro-di-gi-ous." 

"We  are  hardly  yet  well  breathed,"  said  the  jolly  farmer,  "and 
surely  you  are  not  going  to  take  the  hounds  home  till  we've  had 
another  burst  of  it     Eh,  blaster  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I'm  at  your  service,"  replied  the  master.  "  For  my  part,  I 
never  care  to  go  home  as  long  as  there's  light,  but  you  see  these  are 
young  hounds,  farmer,  and  I  don't  want  to  give  'em  too  much  of  a 
good  thing  at  first" 

"  Well,  to  be  sure  you  might  cow  'em  with  too  much  of  it  at  first ; 


5 1 4  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

but,  bless  your  heart,  they  know  all  about  it,  and  no  mistake,  and 
another  turn  will  do  'era  no  harm/' 

Tlie  fanners  eldest  son,  a  remarkably  precocious  youth,  who  had 
gladdened  the  heart  of  his  father  by  the  performance  of  some  feats 
of  horsemanship  that  would  have  delighted  an  Agricultural  Hall  con- 
noisseur, so  many  purls  had  he  encountered  in  his  headlong  career, 
was  liere  observed  to  look  uncommonly  knowing,  and  to  grin  like 
unto  a  Cheshire  cat.  His  respected  and  affectionate  parent  remarked 
as  much,  and  the  familiar  simile,  so  far  from  abashing  the  youth, 
seemed  rather  to  increase  his  self-satisfied  risibility.  There  was 
something  in  the  bare  mention  of  the  word  "  cat "  that  had  for  him 
a  peculiar  charm,  and  with  a  tremendous  cachinnation  he  presently 
blurted  out, 

"  I  knowad  to  one,  last  week,  down  in  our  orchard." 

**  One  what,  you  mooncalf?"  said  his  father. 

"  Why,  a  marten-cat,  to  be  sure." 

"  A  marten-cat  I"  exclaimed  several,  as  if  simultaneously  struck 
with  the  astounding  nature  of  the  intelligence. 

"  Whew  !  a  marten-cat  I"  apostrophised  the  roaster.  "  The  very 
thing  for  young  hounds.  The  devil  a  bit  will  we  go  home,  farmer, 
if  there  is  any  chance  of  finding  such  game.  A  marten-cat !  D  ye 
think  we  can  find  him,  boy?" 

**  Oh,  ay,  find  him  fast  enough  with  the  taryers." 

*'  Boot  and  saddle,  then,  gentlemen,  and  we'll  soon  see  what 
account  the  new  entry  will  make  of  a  marten-cat.  Old  Meynell 
himself  could  not  desire  better  sport  dian  these  beggars  show,  if 
there  are  not  too  manv  trees  about." 

Accordingly  the  terriers  were  put  about  their  welcome  labours. 
Sure  enough,  as  the  young  Chawbacon  had  anticipated,  the  marten-cat 
was  found  in  the  thickset  hedge  of  the  orchard,  before  they  had  been 
at  work  ten  minutes.  The  terriers  were  suffered  now  to  run  with  the 
hounds,  and  very  effective  service  they  rendered  in  the  brakes  and 
bouklers,  where  the  line  lay,  for  tliey  stuck  to  the  scent  manfully, 
when  otherwise  the  sport  must  have  been  abandoned. 

The  cjuarry  was  forced  t*  resort  to  every  wile  he  was  master  of,  so 
hot  and  determined  was  die  pursuit,  while  Cliawbacon  junior  egged 
on  his  beloved  "  taryers  "  with  all  the  ardbur  of  a  Nimrod,  or  rather 
of  a  Gabriel  Faa  or  a  Dandie  Dinmont.  Now  the  marten  was  "  up 
a  tree,"  now  squatting  beneath  a  rock,  and  ever  and  anon  bursting 
from  scent  to  view,  and  making  most  uproarious  and  enjoyable  fun 
for  tlie  footers,  who  from  the  perpetual  checks  were  always  able  to 
be  on  good  terms  with  the  hounds.     There  were  a  lot  of  stunted 


A  Days  Cub  Hunting.  5 1 5 

trees  of  all  kinds  about,  such  as  may  be  seen  on  Dartmoor  in  "  the 
lonely  wood  of  Wistman,"  and  the  shelter  of  these  the  cat  was 
fretjuently  seeking,  but  always  to  be  summarily  dislodged  by  the 
vigorous  application  of  the  whip  of  young  Hodge,  who  appeared  an 
old  hand  at  the  game.  He  was  never  at  a  loss,  and  whenever  we 
thought  the  thing  all  over/ his  joyous  shout  of  "  Here  *e  be  1"  set  all 
right  again,  and  away  we  went  before  the  wind  as  if  old  Nick  was  at 
our  heels. 

At  last  we  got  the  quarry  into  a  tremendously  thick  furze  brake, 
and  the  hounds  had  had  nearly  enough  of  it,  when  we  came  to  a 
sudden  check  which  we  almost  despaired  of  hitting  off.  We  hunted 
up  to  a  certain  point,  beyond  which  we  could  not  make  it  any  further. 
The  perplexity  of  men  and  dogs  was  remarkable,  but  Hodge  to  the 
rescue.  Most  of  us  had  got  into  the  brake,  and  were  doing  our  best 
to  remedy  the  error,  when  Hodge  made  a  sudden  dart  forward,  and 
with  a  furious  cut  of  his  whip  caused  the  marten  to  dart  off  the  furze 
bush,  on  the  top  of  which  he  had  stretched  himself  out  high  and  dry. 
It  was  about  the  last  pUce  where  anybody  else  would  have  been 
looking  for  him. 

The  terriers  gave  the  marten  short  slirift  now,  and  we  ran  into  him 
within  less  than  five  minutes,  old  Turpin  and  Jock  soon  finishing 
matters  before  the  open  was  reached.  The  master  and  all  hands 
were  delighted ;  and  congratulating  the  former  upon  the  success  of 
ihc  first  day's  cub-hunting  and  the  gallantry  of  the  new  entry — who 
had  had  as  good  an  initiation  as  it  was  possible  to  give  them — 
we  departed  for  the  Queen's,  where,  over  a  good  dinner  and  a  game 
of  billiards,  we,  later  on,  fought  our  battles  o'er  again  with  the  master 
and  a  select  circle. 

SiRIUS. 


Dartmoor. 

THE  SCENE  OF  THETAUTUMN  MANOEUVRES,  1873. 

OMPARATIVELY  few  persons  had  so  much  as  heard 
of  Dartmoor  until  the  announcement  recently  made  that 
the  autumn  manoeuvres  were  to  be  held  there^  and  of 
these  .few  a  very  select  number  indeed  knew  or  know 
what  is  meant  by  the  name.  The  traveller  on  the  South  Devon  line 
with  his  face  set  towards  Torquay,  the  Lizard,  or  the  "  thundering 
shores  of  Bude  and  Boss/'  catches  glimpses  of  a  high  moorland  on 
his  right,  but  from  those  glimpses  can  form  no  adequate  idea  of  the 
wild  and  wide  stretch  of  mountains,  rivers,  morasses,  and  tors  along 
whose  southern  border  he  is  hurrying. 

The  Moor,  as  it  is  par  excdUfict,  and  with  a  sort  of  affectionate 
pride,  always  called  by  those  who  live  near  and  therefore  love  it, 
extends  some  twenty-two  miles  from  north  to  south,  !>.,  from  Oke- 
hampton  to  Comwood,  and  sixteen  or  eighteen  miles  from  east  to 
west,  />.,  from  Ashburton  or  Moreton-Hampstead  to  Tavistock.  And 
within  these  limits  what  a  marvellous  variety  of  scenery  is  there  to 
be  found  by  the  lover  of  nature  who  can  eschew  first-class  carriages 
and  monster  hotels,  and  trust  to  his  legs  for  conveyance  and  to  vil- 
lage inns  and  farm  houses  for  shelter  and  refreshment !  There  are 
the  richly-wooded  combes  or  valleys  on  the  borders  of  the  Moor, 
deep  clefts  where  the  rushing  stream — sometimes  clear  as  crystal,  at 
other  times  turbid  and  swollen  from  the  heavy  rains — ^is  heard  but 
scarcely  seen  for  the  wealth  of  leafage  which  overhangs  it.  There  is 
the  stern  and  desolate  grandeur  of  Yes  Tor  and  Caws  and  Beacon, 
the  highest  mountains  in  England  south  of  Skiddaw.  There  are 
weatherbeaten  tors,  sometimes  surmounted  with  great  piles  of  rocks  of 
most  fantastic  shapes,  castles  you  might  fancy  which  giants  have 
raised,  or  ruins  of  prehistoric  cities  ;  and  where  will  you  find  such 
effects  of  light  and  shade  as  here,  when  the  reflections  of  the  douds 
are  chasing  each  other  along  the  green  valleys  and  up  the  creamy 
sides  of  the  tors  ?  ^Vhere  will  the  invalid  find  more  invigorating 
and  exhilarating  breezes  than  those  which  in  summer  blow  freshly 
across  the  lonely  wastes  of  Dartmoor  ?  Where  will  the  angler  tourist 
find  rivers  and  streams  so  full  of  the  wily  trout  ?  And  where,  if  he 
is  an  archaeologist,  will  he  find  so  great  a  treasure  of  prehistoric 


Dartmoor.  5 1 7 

remains,  stone  circles,  kist-vaens,  Cromlechs,  Dolmens,  and  ancient 
British  hut  dwellings  as  here,  where  modem  artillery  has  just  now 
been  thundering  forth,  and  armies  have  been  arrayed  in  all  the 
pageantry  of  mimic  warfare  ? 

In  the  towns  and  villages  on  the  verge  of  the  Moor,  such  as  Chag- 
ford,  Ashburton,  Okehampton,  and  Lydford,  and  at  the  one  moor- 
land settlement  of  Princetown  (where  the  convict  prison  has  suc- 
ceeded that  for  the  confinement  of  French  prisoners  during  the  war  with 
France  which  ended  at  Waterloo),  are  to  be  found  primitive  country 
inns  with,  as  yet,  primitive  charges.  Here  the  tourist  may  make  trial 
of  squab-pie,  clotted  cream,  and  junket,  and  luxuriate  on  Dartmoor 
mutton,  or  on  the  trout  or  salmon  which  he  has  himself  lured  from 
the  neighbouring  pools. 

I^t  him  spend  his  days  on  the  Moor  in  July  or  August,  where 
though  his  watch  may  mark  conventional  hours  of  morning,  noon, 
or  evening,  it  is  yet  **  always  afternoon ;"  and  where  in  settled  summer 
weather  there  is  a  peculiar  stillness  under  the  brilliant  sun,  whose 
heat  is,  however,  always  tempered  by  the  coolness  bom  of  the  high 
elevation  of  the  Moor,  returning  to  his  temporary  home  as  the 
shadows  of  evening  gather  over  the  scene  he  will  reluctantly  leave ; 
and  no  matter  how  jaded  he  may  have  been  when  he  left  the  busy 
city  for  his  holiday,  he  will  soon  experience  a  sensation  as  of  a  new 
life  and  the  vigour  of  retuming  health  of  mind  and  body. 

Nor  need  such  an  "outing"  be  without  that  spice  of  adventure 
which  may  be  deemed  necessary  by  the  traveller  to  add  piquancy  to 
his  tour.  Even  in  that  short  summer  which  can  scarcely  be  said  to 
begin  before  July  and  which  lasts  only  to  the  middle  of  September 
there  are  certain  experiences — we  can  scarcely  call  them  dangers — 
which  are  peculiar  to  Dartmoor. 

Be  it  understood  that  the  Moor  is  traversed  only  by  one  main 
road,  which  runs  east  and  west,  from  Chagford  and  Ashburton  to 
Tavistock,  though  bifurcating  at  Two  Bridges,  near  Princetown. 
Elsewhere,  the  rough  tracks — for  they  deserve  no  other  name — pene- 
trate some  three  or  four  miles  towards  the  centre  of  the  Moor,  but 
never  succeed  in  reaching  it  or  in  communicating  with  those  which 
come  from  the  opposite  direction.  If  the  traveller  diverges  fi-om 
this  main  road,  either  to  the  north  or  south,  or  if  he  pursues  any  of 
the  minor  roads  or  tracks,  he  very  soon  finds  himself  dependent  on 
map  or  compass  for  guidance. 

As  then  he  takes  the  bearings  of  the  tors  and  shapes  his  course 
accordingly,  a  small  insignificant-looking  cloud  comes  sailing  along 
firom  the  north-west  or  south-west,  and  lingers  on  the  summit  of  one 


5 1 8  The  Gentlanatis  Magazine. 

of  the  tors,  and  the  inexperienced  traveller  thinks  nothing  of  it. 
But  other  clouds  are  soon  attracted,  and  a  curious  gloom,  as  of  ai> 
eclipse,  gathers  over  the  scene.  The  mist  begins  to  roll  doun  the 
slopes  and  to  lie  in  the  valleys  beneath,  and  often  within  twenty 
minutes  of  the  first  appearance  of  the  first  cloud  the  fog  is  so  thick 
that  it  is  impossible  to  see  more  than  a  few  yards  in  any  direction. 

If  it  be  high  summer  there  is  every  chance  of  the  mist  clearing 
away  within  an  hour  or  two ;  and  if  unprovided  with  compass  and 
ordnance  map  it  is  just  as  well  to  sit  down  and  smoke,  and  wait.  If 
you  are  near  a  stream,  indeed,  and  know  something  of  the  locality, 
you  can  follow  its  course  until  you  reach  some  fiuniliar  landmark. 
But  to  knmv  Dartmoor  involves  more  than  one  visit,  or  t^-o,  and  until 
the  tourist  does  know  something  of  the  Moor  and  its  climate  it  is 
better  in  every  way  that  he  should  trust  to  the  guidance  of  one  of  the 
simple  and  obliging  moor-men.  Especially  is  this  advisable,  nay 
even  necessary,  as  the  summer  passes  into  early  autumn,  for  then  the 
fogs  become  more  frequent  and  persistent  The  writer  was  on  one 
occasion  at  Princetown  when  the  fog  came  on  about  ten  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  and  continued  until  two  o'clock  the  next  day.  During 
all  this  time  it  was  impossible  to  see  more  than  a  few  yards  before 
you,  and  to  have  been  then  in  any  of  the  wilder  parts  of  the  Moor 
would  have  certainly  involved  a  damp  bivouac  under  friendly  rocks 
or  in  one  of  the  few  cattle  sheds  whicli  are  to  be  found  in  some  of 
the  valleys.     Such  is  Dartmoor  in  summer. 

And  if  the  Moor  has  its  attractions  and  even  its  spice  of  danger 
for  the  tourist  in  summer,  it  is  scarcely  less  worth  visiting  in  mid- 
winter, for  then,  though  it  is  in  the  verj'  centre  of  semi*tropical  Devon- 
shire, and  though  it  is  within  twenty  miles  of  mild  and  ever-genial 
Torquay,  it  has  features  which  may  be  almost  called  Arctic  A  snow- 
storm or  hail-storm  on  Dartmoor  would  be  no  bad  preparation  for 
moose  hunting  in  Newfoundland,  or  seal  hunting  farther  noitfa.  Then 
the  hardy  moormen  themselves  are  too  wise  to  venture  forth,  unless 
the  cattle  have  to  be  collected  and  brought  in.  The  wind  rushes 
fiercely  and  irresistibly  over  a  score  miles  of  ground  with  not  a  tree 
or  wall  to  break  its  force,  and  is  broken  into  wild  swiris  by  the  granite 
caps  of  the  lofty  tors.  The  snow  drifbs  into  the  valleys  and  around 
the  rocks  in  most  fantastic  shapes,  soon  obliterates  the  lower  land- 
marks, and  ^^'ithin  an  hour  from  the  commencement  of  such  a  storm 
a  great  part  of  the  Moor  is  simply  impracticable  for  travelling. 

A  story,  which  will  give  the  reader  some  notion  of  what  a  Dart- 
moor winter  is  like,  is  told  of  an  adventurous  tourist  who  started  one 
gray  winter's  morning  from  the  Chagford  side  of  the  Moor  to  cross  to 


Dartmoor,  5 1 9 

Tavistock.  The  main  road,  mentioned  above,  was  plainly  enough 
defined  by  the  tall  granite  pillars,  with  the  letters  denoting  the 
parishes  of  Chagford  and  Lydford  on  the  sides,  but  before  half  the 
journey  was  accomplished  the  snow  began  to  fall  heavily.  The 
traveller  plodded  on,  becoming  each  hour  more  and  more  wearied, 
and  his  progress  becoming  slower  and  yet  slower.  Still  the  snow  fell 
thickly,  and  he  became  more  and  more  exhausted.  The  thing  looked 
serious.  The  short  winter's  day  was  rapidly  giving  place  to  night ; 
but  happily  the  growing  gloom  became  the  medium  which  gave  pro- 
mise of  safety,  for  now  he  saw  with  joy  a  gleam  of  light  shining  from 
a  farmhouse  a  little  way  off  the  road.  Needless  to  say  how  eagerly 
he  made  for  the  welcome  signal,  and  how  on  arrival  at  the  house  he 
was  hospitably  received  by  the  inmates,  gathered  tound  the  peat  fire 
on  the  hearth,  and  supplied  with  food  and  a  bed. 

Before  retiring  to  rest,  curiosity  led  him  to  examine  his  room 
narrowly.  Under  the  bed  was  a  long  wooden  box  or  chest,  the  lid 
of  which  was  insecurely  fastened  down.  Having  removed  the  lid,  to 
his  horror  he  saw  therein  the  corpse  of  an  old  man.  His  startled 
fancy  at  once  conjured  up  visions  of  belated  travellers  lured  to  this 
remote  dwelling  by  the  light  in  the  window,  and  murdered,  of  course, 
for  the  sake  of  the  money  or  valuables  they  might  have  about  them. 
There  was  no  sleep  for  him  that  night !  He  hurriedly  barricaded 
the  door  of  the  room  with  such  articles  of  ftimiture  as  he  could  best 
move,  and  in  default  of  a  poker,  and  having  left  his  walking-stick 
downstairs,  he  contemplated  the  contingency  of  having  to  use  the 
leg  of  a  table  as  a  weapon,  and  sat  down  to  wait  for  the  expected 
attack. 

The  long  and  silent  hours  passed  away,  however,  without  incident, 
and  at  last,  his  candle  having  burnt  out,  he  stept  long  and  soundly 
until  awakened  by  a  knock  at  the  door,  which  sounded  on  his  startled 
ear  like  the  stroke  of  doom.  But  it  was  only  a  summons  to  break- 
fast, and  on  venturing  douTistairs,  emboldened  by  the  broad  daylight, 
to  the  room  where  he  had  supped  the  night  before,  his  entertainers 
expressed  the  hope  that  he  had  slept  well  and  %vas  refreshed.  An 
explanation  ensued.  It  appears  that  they  had  designedly  omitted  ta 
tell  him  that  the  body  of  their  late  father  was  lying  in  the  room 
above,  lest  he  should,  by  so  unusual  a  circumstance,  be  prevented 
from  sleeping.  They  had,  in  fact,  been  compelled  to  keep  the  body 
for  more  than  a  week  firom  sheer  inability  to  convey  it  through  the 
deep  snow  to  the  churchyard  at  Lydfwd,  twdve  tniies  away,  but,  they 
naively  added,  they  were  sure  their  guest  coald  experience  no 
unpleasantness,  as  they  had  had  the  old  gentleman  well  salted! 


5  20  Tlie  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

On  the  whole,  however,  it  will  be  admitted  that  for  Dartmoor 
■exploration  summer  is  to  be  preferred  to  winter. 

On  a  certain  summer  day,  the  memory  of  which  is  still  green,  the 
writer  started  with  a  small  party  from  a  village  on  the  northern  skirts 
of  the  Moor,  where  they  were  sojourning,  for  a  visit  to  Cramnere 
Pool.  This  is  a  peculiarly  inaccessible  and  therefore  seldom  visited 
locality,  in  the  very  centre  of  the  northern  half  of  the  Moor,  and 
about  half  way  between  the  main  central  road  mentioned  above  and 
that  road  which  in  an  almost  parallel  line  leads  from  Okehampton  to 
Exeter  along  the  northern  boundary  of  the  Moor.  The  horses  and 
ponies  on  which  we  rode  were  a  very  variegated  selection  indeed. 
The  one  that  fell  to  the  writer's  lot — and  all  through  was  so  given  to 
falling  that  it  would  have  been  better  for  the  rider's  peace  of  mind 
and  comfort  of  body  if  he  had  been  left  at  home — ^i^-as  something 
iike  the  one  described  by  Mark  Twain  in  his  "New  Pilgrim's  Pro- 
gress," and  which  his  temporary  owner  named  "  Baalbee,"  because 
he  was  such  a  magnificent  ruin.  There  was  evidently  some  blue 
blood  in  him,  but  he  had  seen  better  days,  and  those  days  had  not 
been  passed  on  rugged  Dartmoor;  the  enthusiasm  of  youth  had 
departed  with  its  vigour.  For  a  time,  however,  all  went  well.  We 
were  imder  the  guidance  of  a  farmer  from  the  village.  His  wife 
made  one  of  the  party,  and  although  she  had  been  "bred  and  bom"  on 
Dartmoor,  and  had  spent  her  life  within  five  or  six  miles  of  Cran- 
mere,  this  was  her  first  visit  to  "  The  Pool."  We  wended  our  way 
along  the  soft  springy  turf  under  the  slopes  of  Beestone  and  Hock 
Tors,  and  just  beyond  the  "clitter"  (as  the  huge  masses  of  granite 
scattered  in  wonderful  confusion  round  the  bases  of  the  tors  are 
■called)  for  about  two  miles.  Then  leaving  Steeperton  Tor  on  the 
left  (the  Taw  gleaming  and  brawling  in  the  valley  between  it  and  us), 
we  kept  along  the  ground  above  that  river,  passing  some  deserted  tin 
workings  on  the  way,  until  after  about  two  hours*  riding  we  reached 
a  point  where  the  ground,  or  rather  bog,  became  impracticable  for 
horses.  We  were  now  on  the  verge  of  the  highest  plateau  or  rather 
central  morass  of  Dartmoor,  and  more  than  a  mile  of  the  very  worst 
conceivable  sort  of  bog  had  to  be  traversed  before  reaching  the 
Pool. 

We  left  our  horses  and  ponies  in  charge  of  the  boys  who  had 
4iccompanied  us  from  the  village,  and  henceforth  our  mode  of  pro- 
gression consisted  in  picking  out  the  hummock  of  heather-grown  ground 
which  seemed  most  likely  to  bear  our  weight,  mentally  measuring  the 
twidth  of  the  ditch  or  crevasse  of  soft  black  peat  which  separated  us 
from  it,  and  "  taking "  the  leap  as  well  as  our  respective  ages  and 


Dartmoor.  521 

rheumatisms  might  permit  The  gentler  sex  came  out  wonderfully 
well  in  this  rough  sort  of  work,  although  one  or  two  fell  out  (not  in 
happily)  and  professed  themselves  satisfied.  How  our  guide  shaped 
his  course  was  and  is  still  a  mystery  to  me.  The  morass  was  so 
extensive,  and  so  entirely  devoid  of  any  marks  appreciable  even  to 
an  eye  with  some  Dartmoor  experience,  that  I  began  to  think  we 
should  find  ourselves,  like  Christian  of  old,  in  a  real  Slough  ot 
Despond,  with  no  friendly  hand  stretched  forth  to  help  and 
rescue. 

I  have  a  suspicion  that  our  guide  (like  some  guides  in  other 
remote  localities)  was  not  quite  so  well  posted  up  in  the  matter  as 
he  professed  to  be.  After  some  discussions,  doublings,  and  more 
steeplechasing  than  perhaps  ought  to  have  been  expected  of  us,  the 
said  guide,  with  all  the  exultation  of  the  vanguard  of  the  Grecian 
host,  called  out  "The  Pool!  The  Pool!"— to  which  the  short- 
sighted members  of  the  party  rejoined,  as  well  they  might,  "  Where  ? 
Where?" 

A  pool  meant,  we  presumed,  a  collection  of  water  of  some  sort ; 
but  all  we  could  see  here  was  a  sort  of  depression  in  the  surface  of 
the  morass  of  about  three  acres  in  extent  Yet  this  in  popular 
estimation  (and  it  is  a  case  of  "  Omne  ignotum  pro  magnifico  ")  was 
Cranmere  Pool,  "  the  Mother  of  Waters."  And,  indeed,  if  not  here, 
still  from  the  slopes  of  this  great  and  dismal  swamp  rise  the  Taw  and 
the  two  Okements,  which  fall  into  the  Bristol  Channel  on  the  north, 
and  the  Tavy,  the  Dart,  and  the  Teign,  which  flow  southwards  into 
the  English  Channel. 

And  although  disappointed  at  first  at  seeing  no  Pool,  and  no  longer 
having  any  faith  in  Murray,  who  calls  Cranmere  "  the  largest  sheet  of 
water  on  Dartmoor,"  we  could  not  but  congratulate  ourselves  on 
having  reached  so  singular,  so  solitary,  and  so  impressive  a  scene. 
It  was  indeed  the  realisation  of  lifelessness  and  desolation.  Would 
that  Dor^  could  be  induced  to  transfer  its  presentment  to  his  sketch- 
book and  gallery ! 

All  around  as  far  as  we  could  see  was  nothing  but  the  lumpy, 
broken,  deeply-fissured  bog,  which  the  granite  tops  of  the  tors 
encircled  as  the  prehistoric  stones  stand  round  the  mystic  grave 
circles  so  common  on  the  Moor.  There  was  just  one  glimpse,  how- 
ever, of  the  world  we  had  left  to  be  had  to  the  westward.  There  the 
valley  of  the  West  Okement  widened  under  Great  Kneeset,  and 
Yes  Tor  down  to  Okehampton,  and  as  it  reached  the  lower-lying 
ground  was  green  and  full  of  soft  shadows  from  the  western  sinking 

sun.     This  peep  of  life  and  fertility  served  as  an  admirable  foil  to 
Vol.  XI.,  N.S.  1873.  M  M 


522  The  Gentleman s  Magazine. 

deepen  and  fix  the  impression  which  the  solemn  loneliness  and 
barrenness  around  had  produced  on  our  minds. 

We  sat  down  each  on  our  selected  hummock,  rested  for  a  while, 
and  then  set  out  on  our  return  to  the  place  where  we  had  left 
Baalbec  and  the  other  horses  and  ponies. 

On  the  return  journey  the  road  was  rougher  and  more  rocky  than 
that  by  which  we  had  come.  We  kept  more  to  the  westward,  under 
Dinger  Tor,  Higher  Willhayse,  and  Yes  Tor,  the  summits  of  which 
were  now  silvered  over  by  the  clear  light  of  the  rising  moon.  As  the 
light  of  day  faded  and  the  road  became  more  and  more  rocky,  Baalbec 
seemed  to  become  quite  unnerved.  He  took  to  shuddering  vio- 
lently, and  making  sudden  and  most  inconvenient  stops.  M'hen 
urged  to  go  on  he  would  fall  on  his  knees  as  if  praying  to  be  left 
alone  to  die.  Eventually  I  had  to  get  off  and  lead  him,  and  as  he 
every  now  and  then  lurched  helplessly  over  a  granite  boulder  (he 
must  have  been  as  short-sighted  as  his  temporary  owner !)  it  became 
advisable  to  give  him  a  very  wide  berth.  More  than  once  he  knocked 
his  distracted  leader  away  like  a  ball  from  a  cricket  bat,  into  a  water- 
course or  against  a  bank  of  heather.  He  could  not  have  been  more 
thankful  than  the  writer  was  when  we  once  more  found  ourselves  in 
sight  of  the  village  church  and  on  a  macadamised  road. 

Such  is  one  out  of  the  many  enjoyable  rambles  on  Dartmoor  to 
which  the  tourist  is  invited.  One  other  feature  of  this  district  has 
been  just  glanced  at,  but  deserves  more  notice — viz.,  the  arclveo- 
logical.  There  are,  indeed,  no  gigantic  constructions  such  as  Stone- 
henge,  no  vast  mounds  like  Avebury,  to  be  found  on  the  Moor ;  but, 
owing  perhaps  to  the  sparse  population  and  the  inclemency  of  the 
weather  during  the  greater  part  of  the  year,  Dartmoor  is  richer  in 
well-preserved  prehistoric  memorials  than  any  other  part  of  England. 

There  are  stone  circles  at  Scorshill  and  Fernworthy  and  on  the 
Erme  ;  parallel  alignments  at  Merivale  Bridge  of  i>erhaps  a  quarter  ot 
a  mile  in  length,  and  at  Cholwich  Toviti  Moor  near  Comwood ; 
Cromlechs  at  Drewsteignton  (albeit "  restored  "),  Dolmens  at  Merivale 
Bridge,  and  Trowlsworthy  Tor,  all  of  which  can  only  be  matched  at 
Camac  and  in  Algeria. 

Murray's  "  Handbook  to  Devon  *'  and  Rowe*s  "  Perambulations 
of  Dartmoor  "  will  afford  to  the  student-tourist  all  necessary  informa- 
tion as  to  localities,  &c.;  and  among  later  works  he  should  consult 
Ferguson's  "  Rude  Stone  Monuments " '  and  Mr.  Spence  Bate's  con- 
tributions on  the  subject  to  the  "  Transactions  of  the  Devonshire 
Association  for  the  Advancement  of  Literature  and  Science.'* 


The  Thomas  Walkers: 

THE  POPULAR  BOROUGHREEVE  AND  THE  AUTHOR  OF 

"THE  ORIGINAL" 

Two   Biographies   drawn    from   unpublished   Family 
Correspondence  and  Documents. 

BY  BUNCHARD  JERROLD. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

TRIAL    for    conspiracy. 


(HOMAS  WALKER  was,  in  his  way,  a  humourist  as 
well  as  a  patriot.  The  Reformer  was  occasionally  sunk 
in  the  wag.  One  night,  returning  home,  probably  from 
some  meeting  of  his  party,  he  saw  a  man  put  his 
head  to  the  iron  grating  of  a  cellar  window,  and  heard  him  say 
^*  Twig ! "  In  answer  a  hand  was  thrust  out  well  laden  with  tid-bits ; 
and  the  man  went  gaily  on  his  way.  A  few  nights  afterwards,  pass- 
ing the  same  cellar  window  on  his  homeward  road,  Mr.  Walker 
determined  to  try  his  fortune.  He  put  his  mouth  to  the  grating  and 
cried  **  Twig,"  and  waited  a  moment.  A  huge  turkey-leg  was  thrust 
out.  The  magistrate  took  it,  and  carried  it  home  in  triumi)h  to  his 
astonished  family. 

In  1788  we  find  his  friends  Richard  Tickell  and  Joseph  Richard- 
son amusing  themselves  by  forwarding  him  the  following  memo- 
rial : — 

*'A   Joint    Memorial  of   Richard   Tickell   and   Joseph 
Richardson  to  Thomas  Walker,  Esq. 

"  Most  Humbly  Sheweth, — 

**  That  your  memorialists  have  long  been  afflicted  with  close  and 
pressing  Grievances,  to  which  they  have  submitted  with  silent 
Patience  and  exemplary  Resignation.  That  the  former  of  your 
inemorialists  is  touched  by  Distresses  that  go  to  the  very  Bottom  of 
his  Comforts — that  newer  and  closer  DifHculties  press  hard  upon 
the  latter,  and,  as  it  were,  cling  to  his  very  heart  itself. 

''  That  the  one  contemplates  with  melancholy  concern  the  fprlom 
and  desolate  Situation  of  his  Chairs  and  Sopha,  without  a  decent 
•covering  to  rescue  them  from  absolute  Nakedness. 

M  M  2 


524  TIu  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

"  That  the  other  anticipates  with  dismal  Apprehensions  the  coniing 
Horrors  of  approaching  Winter  through  the  ruins  of  dilapidated 
Waistcoats  and  lacerated  Manchester. 

"  That  these  Evils  have  hitherto  been  tolerated  by  your  seatless  zsi<\ 
vcstlcss  memorialists  from  a  firm,  confident,  and  they  trust  well- 
governed  Relyance  on  the  Ability,  the  Justice,  the  good  Faith,  and 
the  undisputed  Honour  of  that  beneficent  Friendship  to  which  they 
thus  humbly  submit  the  melancholy  Statement  of  their  unparalleled 
Necessities. 

**That  your  memorialists  derive  a  further  ground  of  implicit  reli- 
ance on  the  decisive  and  prompt  assistance  of  their  trusty  Patron, 
from  remembering  the  liberal  grants  which  he  has  nobly  bestowed 
upon  a  fellow-labourer  in  the  cause  of  Manchester  and  Freedom ; 
who  now  in  the  capacity  of  a  Doctor  of  Civil  Law  is  relieved  from 
the  many  hard  embarrassments  which  your  memorialists  are  fated 
to  sustain  in  humbler  lines  of  patient  perseverance. 

'*  That,  in  order  to  mark  the  utmost  readiness  upon  their  parts  to 
diminish  the  inconveniences  of  this  joint  taxation  of  their  Friend, 
they  hereby  engage  to  pay  the  carriage  of  the  several  Parcels  to  be 
fonvarded  to  them  upon  this  occasion  ;  and  further,  that  they  hereby 
solemnly  declare  that  neither  their  Upholsterers'  nor  their  Taylors' 
Bills  shall  be  transmitted  to  Mr.  Walker,  for  the  making  up  of  any 
of  the  respective  materials  to  be  by  him  contributed  on  the  present 
emergency ;  however  indispensably  they  may  find  themselves  obliged 
to  send  any  others  of  a  different  description. 

"  That  your  memorialists  most  humbly  conclude  with  briefly  re- 
assuring you  of  their  distresses,  as  well  as  of  your  own  undertaking — 
convinced  that  you  will  feel  for  the  former  with  as  much  humanity  as 
you  will  exercise  the  latter  with  spirit  and  enthusiasm,  more  especially 
when  you  are  acquainted  that  the  Paper  of  the  former's  Apartments 
is  French  Grey,  and  the  Coats  of  the  latter  of  British  Blue. 

"  And  your  memorialists  will  ever  pray,  &c." 

The  fund  of  humour  that  was  in  Jacobin  Walker,  long  after  he  had 
been  very  rudely  buffeted  by  the  world,  and  that  showed  itself  in  the 
midst  of  his  hard  labours,  and  under  the  weight  of  virulent  party 
persecution ;  is  appealed  to  in  the  above  whimsical  memorial  from  a 
side  that  lets  us  see  the  Manchester  merchant's  unflagging  generosity 
also.  In  the  thickest  of  the  fight  he  had  always  time  for  welcome 
kindnesses.  Home  Tooke  writes  to  him  fi'om  Wimbledon  (Feb.  10,. 
1796):— 

"  My  dear  Sir, — On  Sunday  last  (February  7)  I  received  both  your 
letter  and  present,  for  which  I  am  much  obliged  to  you.   Your  goose* 


The  Tkonias  Walkers.  525 

berries  and  potatoes  shall  be  carefully  planted,  and  I  will  not  spare 
manure.  Justice  shall  be  done  to  thera — and  the  same  I  promise  to 
any  other  things,  or  persons,  which  you  may  at  any  time  put  into 
my  hands.     Justice  to  Red  Traitors. 

**  Gumey  has  taken  the  trial  better  than  any  other  man  would  have 
taken  it.  But  it  is  not  quite  fairly  given  as  it  respects  me.  The 
Chief  Justice,  the  Attorney-General,  the  Solicitor-General,  Erskine, 
Gibbs,  were  all  permitted  to  see  it,  previously  to  publication,  con- 
sequently to  correct ;  I  was  not  permitted  to  see  it  Upon  reading 
the  trial,  I  found  there  were  strong  (if  not  good)  reasons  why  I 
should  not. 

"  I  was  too  kind  to  Beaufoy.  He  deserved  hanging  ;  but  not  so 
much  as  his  leaders,  who  are,  I  trust,  reserved  for  it. 

"  I  shall  be  happy  to  see  your  brother — still  happier  to  see  you, 
when  the  opportunity  comes. 

'*  Cooper  is  judge  of  his  district :  I  wish  he  was  Chief  Justice  of 

England.     I  write  hastily,  because  the  frank  will  not  serve  to-morrow. 

God  bless  you  and  your  family.     I  do  not  know  whether  TufTer  is 

yet  come  to  England.     How  long  will  it  be  before  England  comes 

to  itself? 

"John  Horne  Tooke." 

The  friendship  had  warmed  between  the  two  before  1799,  when 
Tooke  writes  : — 

'*  I  this  moment  receive  your  most  agreeable  notice  :  you  break  in 

upon  no  engagement  of  mine;   and  if  you  did,  my  engagements 

should  bend  without  breaking.     We  will  expect  you  till  we  see  you  ; 

desiring  you  to  pay  no  other  regard  to  time,  but  as  it  shall  best  suit 

yourselves.     My  love  to  your  son  and  daughter.    My  girls  desire  the 

same. 

"Your  very  affectionate, 

"J.  Horne  Tooke." 

The  visit  was  impeded  by  an  attack  of  measles,  suffered  by  Miss 
Walker ;  whereupon  Tooke  wrote  : — "  One  of  my  maids  has  left  me, 
and  I  have  not  yet  supplied  her  place.  My  other  maid  is  ill ;  and  I 
am  forced  to  borrow,  in  the  middle  of  the  day.  Sir  F.  Burdett's  only 
maid,  for  at  present  he  has  only  one  in  his  house  (Lady  Burdett 
having  taken  the  four  other  maidservants  with  her.)"  He  adds  : — 
"  If  at  any  time  I  can  make  myself,  my  house,  or  anything  that  belongs 
to  me  useful,  pleasant,  or  convenient  to  you  or  any  of  your  family,  I 
shall  like  myself  and  all  that  belongs  to  me  the  better  for  it,  for  I  am 
most  sincerely  your  affectionate  fnend." 


526  The  Gentle^nans  Magazine, 

It  was  r»Ir.  Walker's  gracious  habit  to  send  his  fruit,  his  game,  his 
flowers,  and  of  his  manufactures  to  his  friends.  Thanks  for  gifts  are 
in  half  the  bulky  volumes  of  letters  he  left  behind  him.  The  Hon. 
Thomas  Erskine  writes  (loth  April,  1787)  to  thank  his  friend  for  his 
present  of  fabrics,  and  says  he  shall  value  it  "  not  merely  for  the 
beauty  of  the  manufacture,  but  for  the  respect  I  have  for  the  giver ; " 
and  hopes  to  be  favoured  with  his  company  to  dinner  before  he 
leaves  town.  Mr.  Erskine  concludes,  **  I  ever  am,  dear  sir,  sincerely 
yours."    Aftenvards  Mr.  Erskine  visited  his  friend  at  Barlow. 

In  Hone's  brief  memoir  he  observes : — "  The  devotedness 
displayed  by  Mr.  Walker,  both  on  this  (the  abolition  of  the  Fustian 
Tax)  and  other  public  occasions,  and  the  personal  sacrifices  he  made, 
were  exemplar)'  if  they  were  not  imprudent."  Their  imprudence  was 
shown  in  tlie  ingratitude  which  rewarded  them,  and  in  the  shameless 
persecution  which  attacked  his  honour  and  sought  his  life.  He 
triumphed  before  a  jury  of  his  countrymen ;  but  as  a  merchant  he  was 
gradually  reduced  from  affluence  to  suffer  by  narrow  means.  Tlie 
beginning  of  his  downward  course  as  a  manufacturer  dates  from  his 
arraignment  for  conspiracy. 

**  Convinced,*'  the  writer  of  the  notice  on  his  death  observes,  "  that 
a  renovation  of  some  parts  of  our  constitution,  of  which  the  lapse  of 
time  had  destroyed  the  stability  or  injured  the  purity,  was  essentially 
necessary  for  the  maintenance  both  of  the  just  rights  of  the  Crown, 
and  the  natural  liberties  of  the  people ;  he  assisted  in  the  establish- 
ment of  an  association  for  diffusing  political  knowledge,  which  was 
called  the  *  Constitutional  Society,'  and  of  which  he  was  chosen  chair- 
man. But  although  the  Minister  of  the  day  had  himself  been  an  active 
promoter  of  similar  institutions,  yet  when  he  had  sacrificed  his  prin- 
ciples to  the  prejudices  of  those  who  looked  with  alarm  on  the 
dawning  liberties  of  France,  the  strong  hand  of  power  was  exerted  to 
check  the  growth  of  liberal  principles  and  constitutional  information. 
Under  tlie  pretexts  of  *  meditated  revolution,'  and  of  danger  to  the 
existence  of  *  social  order  and  religion,'  the  liberties  of  the  subject' 
were  infringed  in  an  unprecedented  and  outrageous  manner,  an 
extensive  encouragement  was  given  to  hired  spies  and  informers,  and 
in  the  latter  part  of  1793  Mr.  Walker  and  six  of  his  friends,  as  well  as 
many  other  men  of  eminence  in  different  parts  of  the  kingdom,  were 
arrested  on  a  charge  of  *  conspiring  to  overthrow  the  Government, 
and  to  assist  the  King's  enemies  in  their  intended  invasion  of  the 
kingdom/  Under  this  charge  these  seven  gentlemen  were  tried  at 
Lancaster  on  the  2nd  April,  1794." 

Mr.  Walker,  to  use  engraver  Sharpens  jocular  phrase,  had  been  kind 


The  Thofjtas  Wall^ers.  527 

enough  to  get  into  a  good  scrape.  The  Government,  in  their  prose- 
cutions, wanted  "to  pick  their  birds,"  and  in  Mr.  Pitt's  Man- 
chester enemy  (who  by  his  energy  had  laid  the  foundation  of  Man- 
chester's greatness)  they  had  secured  a  good  one.  The  shameless 
measures  that  were  used  in  order  to  secure  a  verdict  against  Mr. 
Walker  and  his  companions  were  afterwards  exposed  in  Mr.  Walker's 
**  Review  of  Political  Events  "  in  Manchester.  The  informer  was 
engaged  to  swear  away  the  liberty  of  the  accused.  Benjamin  Booth 
confessed  that  when  he  was  confined  in  the  New  Bailey  every  possible 
effort  was  made  by  the  Rev.  Mr.  Griffith  and  by  the  taskmaster  and 
others — notabilities  of  Manchester — to  make  him  join  evidence  with 
the  informer  Dunn,  "  three  very  young  children  and  a  wife's  distresses  " 
being  continually  held  up  to  him  to  compel  his  assent.  He  was 
assured  that  the  Government  "  did  not  want  to  take  Walker's  life  ; 
but  something  which  would  subject  him  to  fine  and  imprisonment" 
To  the  man's  honour  be  it  recorded  that  he  recanted  the  false 
evidence  which  had  been  extorled  from  him  by  threats  of  the  halter 
and  the  disgrace  of  his  family,  the  moment  he  was  set  at  liberty. 
Dunn,  who  was  kept  as  nearly  drunk  as  possible  by  order  of  the 
Reverend  Justice  Griffith,  went  through  with  his  infamous  task.  To 
humour  him  and  keep  up  his  courage,  this  clergyman  did  not  scruple 
to  give  directions  that  he  should  be  provided  with  all  the  drink  he 
required,  and  that  he  should  board  with  the  taskmaster's  family. 
Dunn  knew  his  power  and  drank  his  fill  The  copy  of  the  bill  for 
Dunn  and  Booth  and  their  wives,  sent  by  the  taskmaster  of  the  New 
Bailey  to  the  clergyman  John  Griffith,  who  had  the  felse  witness  in 
charge,  was  obtained  afterwards  by  Mr.  Walker. 

**  Robinson  says"  (I  am  quoting  Mr.  Walker's  "Political 
Events  ")  "  when  he  first  saw  Dunn  it  was  at  John  Griffith's  (the 
clergyman's),  and  Dunn  was  then  drunk.  Griffith  told  Robinson  that 
Dunn  had  then  drunk  a  bottle  of  shrub  or  sherry,  but  he  don't 
remember  which.  Dunn  told  Robinson  he  thought  of  going  to 
America,  and  they  had  disappointed  him,  otherwise  he  should  not 
have  done  anything  of  this  kind — meaning  swearing  against  Walker, 
Paul,  or  others  ;  he  then  said  he  wished  he  was  dead ;  he  ako  told 
Robinson  he  was  to  have  had  his  place  as  taskmaster  at  the  New 
Bailey,  but  for  his  having  to  appear  in  evidence  against  Walker,  Paul, 
Collier,  Jackson,  and  others,  and  that  it  would  look  bad  if  he  had  it 
Robinson  says  Dunn  hurt  his  fingers,  and  desired  his  wife  to  give  him 
a  little  rum  to  bathe  them  ;  she  brought  out  a  bottle  nearly  fiill ;  but 
Robinson  being  called  away  Dunn  stole  the  rum  and  drank  it  As 
soon  as  Mrs.  Robinson  missed  the  rum  she  went  into  Dunn's  room 


528  The  Gentlciiuxfis  Magazine. 

and  accused  him  with  stealing  the  rum,  and  asked  him  if  he  was  not 
afraid  it  would  kill  him  ;  he  answered  he  wished  it  would,  for  he 
wished  he  was  dead.  Dunn  was  not  well  for  two  or  three  days  after. 
Robinson  says  his  face  seemed  inflamed  and  red  the  next  day.  As 
Robinson  was  ordered  to  indulge  Dunn  in  everything,  he  had  leave 
to  go  with  him  to  Blakely  Rush-burying,  or  wake.  Dunn  ordered 
five  shillings  worth  of  liquor,  and  placed  the  reckoning  to  John 
Griffith.  Robinson  thinks  the  landlord's  name  is  Travis,  but  is  not 
sure;  it  was  a  publick-house  on  the  left-hand  side." 

This  work  of  warming  and  humouring  a  false  witness  obtained 
"  much  credit"  for  the  Rev.  John  Griffith  with  the  High  Church  party 
in  Manchester.  He  did  not  steal  the  praise.  Mr.  Walker  says  : — 
**  The  Rev.  Mr.  Griffith,  junior,  told  a  person,  through  whom  it  comes 
to  me,  that  Dunn  was  a  long  time  before  he  would  say  anything,  but 
that  he  (Griffith)  out  with  a  decanter  of  strong  Hollands  gin,  or  shrub, 
and  made  the  dog  drunk,  and  then  he  began  to  open  ;  that  he  showed 
him  (Dunn)  his  examination  when  he  came  to  himself,  and  that  he 
had  always  stood  to  it  since.  The  same  person  has  also  heard  the 
reverend  magistrate  declare  that  he  would  not  leave  Walker  a  pair  of 
shoes — he  would  ruin  him.  In  conformity  to  this,  Griffith  junior  has 
also  declared  in  the  presence  of  other  persons  his  readiness  to  stab 
Walker,  and  that  he  would  hang  him  if  possible." 

In  this  way  the  testimony  was  produced  on  which  Mr.  Walker  and 
six  others  were  tried  at  I^ncaster  as  "wicked,  seditious,  and  ill- 
disposed  persons,  and  disaffected  to  our  Sovereign  Lord  the  now 
King  and  the  Constitution  and  Government  of  this  kingdom  as  by 
law  established,  &c.''  A  warrant  for  high  treason  had  been  issued — 
but  was  not  executed.  The  prisoners  were  charged  with  having 
conspired  "  with  force  and  arms  "  to  overthrow  the  Government ;  to 
aid  and  assist  the  French,  then  the  King's  enemies ;  and,  for  tliese 
purposes,  with  having  drilled  their  accomplices.  Mr.  Walker  was 
charged,  on  Dunn's  testimony,  with  having  said — "What  are  kings? 
Damn  the  King;  what  is  he  to  us?  If  I  had  him  in  my  power,  I 
would  as  soon  take  his  head  off  as  I  would  tear  this  paper."  With 
this  expression,  Mr.  Walker — according  to  Dunn — tore  a  piece  of 
paper  asunder. 

Mr.  Walker,  when  the  trial  was  called  pn  (April  2,  1794)  at  Lan- 
caster before  Mr.  Justice  Heath,  found  himself  encompassed  by 
powerful  supporters.  Among  his  own  counsel  were  his  staunch  friends 
Erskine  (who  was  his  guest)  and  Felix  Vaughan ;  but  long  before  the 
day  of  hearing  the  public  men  ^^ith  whom  he  acted  had  gathered 
about  him.     I  find  in  Mr.  Walker's  correspondence  a  letter  firom 


The  Thomas  Walkers.  529 

Thomas  Clarkson  dated  November  13,  1793,  from  Chester.  He 
says  :  "  I  have  no  business  at  Manchester,  but  wishing  to  see  you  on 
the  Business  of  the  impending  Tryal,  and  to  go  over  some  points 
•which  it  may  be  useful  to  the  Cause  to  ascertain,  it  is  my  Intention 
to  visit  you.  I  shall  hardly  I  think  be  at  Manchester  till  the  i6th  in 
the  morning.  I  am  on  Horseback.  I  don't  wish  it  to  be  known 
that  I  am  at  Manchester,  and  should  therefore  like  to  ride  up  to 
your  House,  and  spend  the  day  with  you,  and  be  oflf  next 
morning." 

Mr.  Law,  Attorney-General  for  the  County  Palatine  of  Lancaster, 
led  for  the  Crown ;  and  in  his  opening  address  to  the  jury  dwelt  on 
the  heinous  nature  of  the  opinions  and  operations  of  the  Manchester 
Constitutional  Society — as  attested  by  Dunn.     Mr.  Law  said  : 

"It  was  about  the  close  of  the  year  1792  that  the  French  nation 
thought  fit  to  hold  out  to  all  the  nations  on  the  globe,  or  rather,  I 
should  say,  to  the  discontented  subjects  of  all  those  nations,  an 
encouragement  to  confederate  and  combine  together,  for  the  purpose 
of  subverting  all  regular  established  authority  amongst  them,  by  a 
decree  of  that  nation  of  the  19th  of  November,  1792,  which  I  con- 
sider as  the  immediate  source  and  origin  of  this  and  other  mischievous 
societies.  That  nation,  in  convention,  pledged  to  the  discontented 
inhabitants  of  other  countries  its  protection  and  assistance,  in  case 
they  should  be  disposed  to  innovate  and  change  the  form  of  govern- 
ment under  which  they  had  heretofore  lived.  Under  the  influence  of 
this  fostering  encouragement,  and  meaning,  I  must  suppose,  to  avail 
themselves  of  the  protection  and  assistance  thus  held  out  to  them, 
ill  is  and  other  dangerous  societies  sprang  up,  and  spread  themselves 
within  the  bosom  of  this  realm.  Gentlemen,  it  was  about  the  period 
I  mentioned,  or  shortly  after — I  mean  in  the  month  of  December, 
which  followed  close  upon  the  promulgation  of  this  detestable  decree, 
that  the  society  on  which  I  am  about  to  comment,  and  ten  members 
•of  which  are  now  presented  in  trial  before  you,  was  formed.  [The 
Manchester  Society  was  formed  in  October,  1790.]  The  vigilance 
of  those  to  whom  the  administration  of  justice  and  the  immediate 
care  of  the  police  of  the  country  is  primarily  entrusted,  had  already 
prevented  or  dispersed  every  numerous  assembly  of  persons  which 
resorted  to  public-houses  for  such  purposes ;  it  therefore  became 
necessary  for  persons  thus  disposed  to  assemble  themselves  to  do  so, 
if  at  all,  within  the  walls  of  some  private  mansion.  The  president 
and  head  of  this  society,  Mr.  Thomas  Walker,  raised  to  that  bad 
eminence  by  a  species  of  merit  which  will  not  meet  with  much  favour 
or  encouragement  here,  opened  his  doors  to  receive  a  society  of  tl 


530  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

sort  at  Manchester,  miscalled  the  Reformation  Society:  the  name 
may,  in  some  senses,  indeed  import  and  be  understood  to  mean  a 
society  fomied  for  the  puq)ose  of  beneficial  reform ;  but  what  the 
real  purposes  of  tliis  society  were  you  will  presently  learn,  from  their 
declared  sentiments  and  criminal  actings.      He  opened  his  doors, 
then,  to  receive  this  society ;  they  assembled,  night  after  night,  in 
numbers,  to  an  amount  which  you  will  hear  from  the  witnesses ; 
sometimes,   I   believe,   the  extended   number  of  such  assemblies 
amounting  to  more  than  a  hiindred  persons.     There  were  three  con- 
siderable rooms  allotted  for  their  reception.    In  the  lower  part  of  the 
liouse,  where  they  were  first  admitted,  they  sat  upon  business  of  less 
moment,  and  requiring  the  presence  of  smaller  numbers;   in  the 
upper  part,  they  assembled  in  greater  multitudes,  and  read,  as  in  a 
school,  and  as  it  were  to  fashion  and  perfect  themselves  in  ever)'- 
thing  that  is  seditious  and  mischievous,  those  writings  which  have 
been   already  reprobated   by  other  juries  sitting  in  this  and  other 
])laces,  by  the  courts  of  law,  and,  in  effect,  by  the  united  voice  of 
both   Houses  of  Parliament.     They  read,   amongst  other  works, 
l)articularly  the  works  of  an  author  whose  name  is  in  the  mouth  o! 
everybody  in  this  country ;  I  mean  the  works  of  Thomas  Paine ;  an 
author,  who,  in  the  gloom  of  a  French  prison,  is  now  contemplating 
the  full  effects  and  experiencing  all  the  miseries  of  that  disorganising 
system  of  which  he  is,  in  some  respects,  the  parent — certainly,  the 
great  advocate  and  promoter." 

Mr.  Law  went  on  to  ai^e  from  the  r&ading  of  Paine,  and  the 
conversations  that  would  naturally  flow  from  sucli  mischievous  em- 
ployment, that  the  society  drilled  its  members  to  assist  the  French, 
should  they  land,  by  force  of  arms.  All  this  was  based  on  the 
evidence  of  Dunn,  given  after  the  Rev.  Justice  Griffith  had  "out 
with  a  decanter  of  strong  Hollands  gin"  and  "made  the  dog  drunk  ;'* 
and  after  he  had  been  soaked  in  spirits  by  the  taskmaster  of  the  New 
Bailey.  Mr.  l^w  knew  that  his  chief  witness  was  a  man  whose 
character  would  not  bear  the  light ;  and  he  anticipated  the  line  of 
defence  by  insinuating  that  the  defendants  had  tampered  with  him. 
He  endeavoured  also  to  weaken  the  effect  of  Mr.  Erskine's  per- 
suasive eloquence,  by  warning  the  jury  against  entanglement  in  the 
wiles  of  the  famous  advocate.  "  I  have  long,"  said  artful  Mr.  I^w, 
"  felt  and  admired  the  powerful  effect  of  his  various  talents.  I  know 
the  ingenious  sophistry  by  which  he  can  mislead,  and  the  fascination 
of  that  eloquence  by  which  he  can  subdue  the  minds  of  those  to 
whom  he  addresses  himself.  I  know  what  he  can  do  to-day,  by 
seeing  what  he  has  done  upon  many  other  occasions  before.     But,  at 


The  Thomas  Walkers.  531 

the  same"  time,  gentlemen,  knowing  what  he  is,  I  am  somewhat  con- 
soled in  knowing  you." 

Dunn,  in  the  mtness-box,  was  by  far  too  good  a  witness.  He  remem- , 
bered  ever}ahing  that  look  place  at  the  meetings  of  the  Reformation 
Society  at  Mr.  Walker's  house;  that  the  members  were  regularly 
drilled ;  that  there  were  rejoicings  at  the  death  of  the  French  king, 
and  the  general  expression  of  a  desire  that  Capet's  fate  might  be  that 
of  all  kings;  that  Mr.  Walker  said  King  George  had  seventeen 
millions  of  money  in  the  Bank  of  Vienna,  and  that  he  would  not  give 
one  penny  to  serve  the  poor — "  damn  him  and  all  kings ;"  that  the 
number  of  the  French  who  were  to  land  was  estimated  at  fifty  thou- 
sand; and  that  the  members  of  the  society  generally,  entered  Mr. 
Walker's  premises  by  the  back  door.  But  when  taken  in  hand  by 
Mr.  Erskine,  the  perjured  informer  broke  down  completely.  He 
was  insolent,  audacious,  defiant  at  times,  as  when,  in  answer  to  the 
inquiry  who  paid  for  his  drink  in  prison,  he  said  nobody — adding 
**  No,  upon  my  oath ;  that  is  plump."  He  contradicted  himself 
at  every  turn.  Having  sworn  "plump"  that  nobody  gave  him 
a  drop  of  drink,  he  admitted  a  few  minutes  afterwards  that  he 
got  a  glass  of  shrub  from  Mr.  Griffith.  He  denied  that  he  had 
ever  ^been  on  his  knees  to  Mr.  Walker  begging  his  forgiveness 
for  the  wrong  he  had  done  him,  in  bearing  false  >vitness  against 
him.  An  almost  uninterrupted  tissue  of  falsehoods  fell  from  the 
lips  of  this  i)Oor  wretch,  who  could  neither  read  nor  \iTite,  who 
had  been  a  weaver  by  trade,  and  then  a  discharged  soldier;  and 
who,  even  in  the  midst  of  his  infamous  work,  was  moved  by  qualms 
of  conscience  to  wishr  that  death  might  end  his  career.  Yet  on  his 
evidence,  and  some  immaterial  testimony  from  the  constable  who 
watched  Mr.  Walker's  house,  the  case  for  the  Crown  entirely  rested. 
Mr.  Erskine  ooened  the  defence  with  a  most  solemn  exordium : — 
"  I  listened  with  the  greatest  attention  (and  in  honour  of  my 
learned  friend  I  must  say  with  the  greatest  approbation)  to  much  of 
his  address  to  yon  in  the  opening  of  this  cause  ;  it  was  candid  and 
manly,  and  contained  many  truths  which  I  have  no  interest  to  deny ; 
one  in  particular,  which  involves  in  it  indeed  the  very  principle  of  the 
defence — the  value  of  that  happy  constitution  of  government  which 
has  so  long  existed  in  this  island  :  I  hope  in  God  that  none  of  us 
will  ever  forget  the  gratitude  which  we  owe  to  the  Divine  Providence, 
and,  under  its  blessing,  to  the  wisdom  of  our  forefathers,  for  the 
happy  establishment  of  law  and  justice  under  which  we  live ;  and 
under  which,  thank  God,  my  clients  are  this  day  to  be  judged :  great 
indeed  will  be  the  condemnation  of  any  man  who  does  not  feel  and 


532  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

act  as  he  ought  to  do  upon  this  subject ;  for  surely  if  there  be  one 
privilege  greater  than  another  which  the  benevolent  Author  of  our 
being  has  been  pleased  to  dispense  to  His  creatures  since  the 
existence  of  the  earth  which  we  inhabit,  it  is  to  have  cast  our  lots  in 
such  a  country  and  in  such  an  age  as  that  in  which  we  live :  for 
myself,  I  would  in  spirit  prostrate  myself  daily  and  hourly  before 
Heaven  to  acknowledge  it,  and  instead  of  coming  from  the  house  of 
Mr.  Walker,  and  accompanying  him  at  Preston  (the  only  truths  which 
the  witness  has  uttered  since  he  came  into  Court),  if  I  believed  him 
capable  of  committing  the  crimes  he  is  charged  with,  I  would  rather 
have  gone  into  my  grave  than  have  been  found  as  a  friend  under  his 
roof." 

Pointing  to  the  prisoners,  Mr.  Erskine  observed  that  at  the  head 
of  them  "stands  before  you  a  merchant  of  honour,  property, 
character,  and  respect ;  who  has  long  enjoyed  the  countenance  and 
friendship  of  many  of  the  worthiest  and  most  illustrious  persons  in 
the  kingdom,  and  whose  principles  and  conduct  have  more  than 
once  been  publicly  and  gratefully  acknowledged  by  the  community  of 
which  he  is  a  member,  for  standing  forth  the  friend  of  their  commerce 
and  liberties,  and  the  protector  of  the  most  essential  privileges  which 
Englishmen  can  enjoy  under  the  laws." 

Mr.  Erskine  then  went  on  to  describe  the  actual  condition  of 
public  affairs  ;  and  held  that  in  such  times  especially  "  such  a  prose- 
cution against  such  a  person  *'  ought  to  have  had  a  strong  foundation. 
The  Sovereign  had  said  from  the  Throne  that  the  French  Repub- 
licans were  meditating  an  invasion  of  P^ngland ;  and  the  people  were 
astir  from  one  end  of  the  kingdom  to  the  other  to  repel  it  Mr. 
Erskine  asked  : — "  In  such  a  state  of  things,  and  when  the  public 
transactions  of  Government  and  justice  in  the  two  countries  pass 
and  repass  from  one  another  as  if  upon  the  wings  of  the  wind,  is  it  a 
politic  thing  to  prepare  this  solemn  array  of  justice  upon  such  a  dan- 
gerous subject  without  a  reasonable  foundation,  or  rather  without  an 
urgent  call,  and  at  a  time  too  when  it  is  our  common  interest  that 
France  should  believe  us  to  be  what  we  are  and  ever  have  been,  one 
heart  and  soul  to  protect  our  country  and  our  Constitution  ?  Is  it 
wise  or  prudent,  putting  private  justice  wholly  out  of  the  question, 
that  it  should  appear  to  the  councils  of  France,  apt  enough  to  exag- 
gerate advantages,  that  the  judge  representing  the  Government  in 
the  northern  district  of  this  kingdom  should  be  sitting  here  in  judg- 
ment in  the  presence  of  all  the  gentlemen  whose  property  lies  in  the 
county,  assembled,  I  observe,  upon  the  occasion,  and  very  properly, 
to  witness  so  very  interesting  a  process,  to  trace  and  to  punish  the 


The  Thomas  Walkers.  533 

existence  of  a  rebellious  conspiracy  to  support  an  invasion  fron* 
France  ?  " 

Mr.  Erskine  dwelt  on  the  inevitable  effect  of  the  trial,  observing 
that  the  rumours  and  effect  of  it  would  spread  where  the  evidence 
might  not  travel  to  act  as  an  antidote  to  the  mischief.  "  Good  God  !" 
the  advocate  exclaimed,  **  can  it  be  for  the  interest  of  Government 
that  such  a  state  of  this  country  should  go  forth  ? — and  this  on  the 
unsupported  testimony  of  a  common  soldier,  or  rather  a  common 
vagabond  discharged  as  unfit  to  be  a  soldier ;  a  wretch,  lost  to  eveiy 
sense  of  God  and  religion,  who  avows  that  he  has  none  for  either, 
and  who  is  incapable  of  observing  even  common  decency  as  a  wit- 
ness in  the  court."  He  then  described  the  foundation,  object,  and 
aims  of  the  Constitutional  Society  and  the  Reformation  Society — 
bodies  of  Liberals  and  Dissenters  who  advocated  the  reform  of  Par- 
liament, and  the  removal  of  religious  disabilities,  in  an  orderly 
manner,  and  that  met  at  Mr.  Walker's  house  only  after  the  publicans, 
through  the  wanton  pressure  of  the  Church  and  King  men,  had 
driven  them  from  every  place  of  public  meeting  in  the  town. 

**  Gentlemen,"  Mr.  Erskine  resumed,  **  this  is  the  genuine  history 
of  the  business,  and  it  must  therefore  not  a  little  surprise  you  that 
when  the  charge  is  wholly  confined  to  the  use  of  arms,  Mr.  Law 
should  not  even  have  hinted  to  you  that  Mr.  Walker's  house  had 
been  attacked,  and  that  he  was  driven  to  stand  upon  his  defence  ;  as 
if  such  a  thing  had  never  had  an  existence ;  indeed,  the  armoury 
which  must  have  been  exhibited  in  such  a  statement  would  have  but 
ill  suited  the  indictment  or  the  evidence,  and  I  must  therefore  under- 
take the  description  of  it  myself. 

"  The  arms  having  been  locked  up  as  I  told  you  (after  the  memo- 
rable attack  upon  Mr.  Walker's  house)  in  the  bedchamber,  I  was 
shown  last  week  into  this  house  of  conspiracy,  treason,  and  death, 
and  saw  exposed  to  view  the  mighty  armoury  which  was  to  level  the 
beautiful  fabrick  of  our  constitution,  and  to  destroy  the  lives  and 
properties  of  seven  millions  of  people ;  it  consisted  first  of  six  little 
swivels  purchased  two  years  ago  at  the  sale  of  Livesey,  Hargrave, 
and  Co.  (of  whom  we  have  all  heard  so  much)  by  Mr.  Jackson,  a 
gentleman  of  Manchester,  who  is  also  one  of  the  defendants,  and 
who  gave  them  to  Master  Walker,  a  boy  about  ten  years  of  age ; 
swivels,  you  know,  are  guns  so  called  because  they  turn  upon  a  pivot,, 
but  these  were  taken  off  their  props,  were  painted,  and  put  upon  blocks 
resembling  carriages  of  heavy  cannon,  and  in  that  shape  may  be  fairly 
called  children's  toys ;  you  frequently  see  them  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
London  adorning  the  houses  of  sober  citizens,  who,  strangers  to  Mr.. 


534  2^  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

liruwn  and  his  improvements,  and  preferring  grandeur  to  taste,  place 
ihein  upon  their  ramparts  at  Mile  End  or  Islington :  havingbeen,  UkeMr. 
I  )unn  (I  hope  I  resemble  him  in  nothing  else)^  having  like  him  served 
His  Majesty  as  a  soldier  (and  I  am  ready  to  serve  again  if  my 
country's  safety  should  require  it),  I  took  a  closer  review  of  all  I  saw, 
and  observing  tliat  the  muzzle  of  one  of  them  was  broke  off,  I  was 
curious  to  know  how  far  this  famous  conspiracy  had  proceeded  and 
wiiether  they  had  come  into  action,  when  I  found  the  accident  had 
liapi>ened  on  firing  a  feu  de  joic  upon  His  Majesty's  happy  recoveiy, 
and  that  they  had  been  afterwards  fired  upon  the  Prince  of  Wales's 
birthday.  These  are  the  only  times  that  in  die  hands  of  these  conspi- 
rators these  cannon,  big  with  destruction,  had  opened  their  litde 
mouths :  once  to  commemorate  the  indulgent  and  benign  favour  of 
Providence  in  the  recovery  of  the  Sovereign,  and  once  as  a  con- 
gratulation to  the  Heir  Apparent  of  liis  Crown  on  the  anniversaiy  ot 
his  birth. 

''  I  went  next,  under  the  direction  of  the  master  general  of  this 
ordnance  (Mr.  Walker's  chambermaid),  to  visit  the  rest  of  this  for- 
midable array  of  death,  and  found  next  a  little  musketoon  about  so 
high  \iii:scribin^  it\  I  put  my  thumb  upon  it,  when  out  started  a  litde 
bayonet,  like  the  Jack-in-the-box  which  we  buy  for  cliildren  at  a  fair. 
In  short,  not  to  weary  you,  gentlemen,  there  was  just  such  a  parcel  of 
arms  of  different  sorts  and  sizes  as  a  man  collecting  among  his  friends 
Ibr  his  defence  against  the  sudden  violence  of  a  riotous  multitude 
niiglit  be  expected  to  liave  collected ;  here  lay  three  or  four  rusty 
guns  of  ditferent  dimensions,  and  here  and  there  a  bayonet  or  a  broad- 
sword covered  with  dust  so  as  to  be  almost  undistinguishable ;  for 
notwithstanding  what  this  infamous  wretch  has  swoni,  we  will  prove 
by  witness  after  witness,  till  you  desire  us  to  finish,  that  they  were 
l)rincipally  collected  on  the  nth  of  December,  the  day  of  the  riot, 
and  that  from  the  12th  in  the  evening,  or  the  13th  in  the  morning, 
they  have  been  untouched  as  I  have  described  them." 

Mr.  Krskine  referred  to  the  "unnamed  prosecutors,"  and  added 
that  he  was  afraid  to  slander  any  man  or  body  of  men  by  even  a 
guess  upon  the  subject ;  and  talked  of  the  time  when  the  **  unnamed** 
ones  were  beating  about  for  evidence,  keeping  Mr.  Dunn,  the  while, 
"walking  like  a  tame  sparrow  through  the  New  Bailey,  fed  at  the 
public  or  some  ot/ier  expense,  and  suffered  to  go  at  large,  though 
arrested  upon  a  criminal  cliarge  and  sent  into  custody  under  it"  If 
men  were  to  be  tried  on  such  evidence  as  that  of  Dunn,  who  was 
safe  ?  ^Ir.  Erskine  declared  that  he  had  no  occasion  to  feel  himself 
safer  than  his  clients.  '*  I,"  he  said,  "  am  equally  an  object  of  suspicion 


.Tfie  Thonias  Walkers.  535 

^s  Mr.  Walker  :  it  is  said  .of  //////  that  he  has  been  a  member  ot 
a  society  for  the  reforai  of  Parliament ;  so  have  /,  and  so  am  /nt 
this  moment,  and  so  at  all  hazards  I  will  continue  to  be  ;  and  I  will 
tell  you  why,  gentlemen :  because  I  hold  it  to  be  essential  to  the 
preservation  of  all  the  ranks  and  orders  of  the  State,  alike  essential 
to  the  prince  and  to  the  people.  I  have  the  honour  to  be  allied  to 
His  Majesty  in  blood,  and  my  family  has  been  for  centuries  a  part  of 
what  is  now  called  the  aristocracy  of  the  country.  I  can  therefore 
have  no  interest  in  the  destruction  of  the  constitution." 

The  advocate  concluded  with  the  following  powerful  appeal : — 
"  Upon  the  whole,  then,  I  cannot  help  hoping  that  my  friend  the 
Attorney-General,  when  he  shall  hear  my  proofs,  will  feel  that  a  pro- 
secution like  this  ought  not  to  be  offered  for  the  seal  and  sanction  of 
your  verdict.  Unjust  prosecutions  lead  to  the  ruin  of  all  Governments  ; 
for  whoever  will  look  back  to  the  history  of  the  world  in  general,  and 
of  our  own  particular  country,  will  be  convinced  that  exacdy  in  pro- 
])ortion  as  prosecutions  have  been  cruel  and  oppressive,  and  main- 
tained by  inadequate  and  unrighteous  evidence,  in  the  same  pro- 
portion and  by  the  same  means  their  authors  have  been  destroyed 
instead  of  being  supported^ by  them.  As  often  as  the  principles  of 
our  ancient  laws  have  been  departed  from  in  weak  and  wicked  times, 
as  often  the  Governments  that  have  violated  them  have  been  suddenly 
crumbled  into  dust ;  and,  therefore,  wishing,  as  I  most  sincerely  do, 
the  preservation  and  prosperity  of  our  happy  consdtution,  I  desire  to 
enter  my  protest  against  its  being  supported  by  means  that  are  likely 
to  destroy  it.  Violent  proceedings  bring  on  the  bitterness  of  retaliation, 
until  all  justice  and  moderation  are  trampled  down  and  subverted. 
AVitness  those  sanguinary  prosecutions  previous  to  the  aviful  period 
in  the  laist  century,  when  Charles  the  First  fell.  That  unfortunate  prince 
lived  to  lament  those  vindictive  'udgments  by  which  his  impolitic, 
infatuated  followers  imagined  tl  ey  were  supporting  the  throne ;  he 
lived  to  see  how  they  destroyed  H.  His  throne,  undermined  by  vio- 
lence, sank  under  him,  and  tliose  who  shook  it  were  guilty  in  their 
turn.  Such  is  the  natural  order  of  injustice,  not  of  similar  but  of 
worse  and  more  violent  wrongs  ;  witness  the  fate  of  the  unhappy  Earl 
of  Strafford,  who,  when  he  could  not  be  reached  by  the  ordinary  laws, 
was  impeached  in  the  House  of  Commons,  and  who,  when  still  beyond 
the  consequences  of  that  judicial  proceeding,  was  at  last  destroyed  by 
the  arbitrary,  wicked  mandate  of  the  Legislature.  James  the  Second 
lived  to  ask  assistance  in  the  hour  of  his  own  distress  from  those 
whom  he  had  cut  off  from  the  means  of  giving  it  ;•  he  lived  to  ask 
support  from  the  Earl  of  Bedford,  after  his  son,  the  unfortunate  Ix)rd 


536  The  Gentlemaiis  Magazine. 

Russell,  had  fallen  under  the  axe  of  injustice.  '  I  once  had  a  son/ 
said  that  noble  person,  '  who  could  have  served  your  Majesty  upon 
this  occasion  ;*  but  there  was  then  none  to  assist  him. 

"  I  cannot  possibly  tell  how  others  feel  upon  these  subjects,  but  I 
do  know  how  it  is  their  interest  to  feel  concerning  them.  We  ought 
to  be  persuaded  that  the  only  way  by  which  Government  can  be 
honourably  or  safely  supported  is  by  cultivating  the  love  and 
affection  of  the  people ;  by  showing  them  the  value  of  tlie 
constitution  by  its  protection ;  by  making  them  understand  its 
principles  by  the  practical  benefits  derived  from  them ;  and 
above  all,  by  letting  them  feel  their  security  in  the  adminis- 
tration of  law  and  justice.  What  is  it  in  the  present  state  of 
that  unhappy  kingdom,  the  contagion  of  which  fills  us  with 
such  alarm,  that  is  the  just  object  of  terror?  What,  but  that 
accusation  and  conviction  are  the  same,  and  that  a  false  witness  or 
power  without  evidence  is  a  warrant  for  death?  Not  so  here ;  long 
may  the  countries  differ  !  and  I  am  asking  nothing  more  than  that 
you  should  decide  according  to  our  own  wholesome  rules,  by  which 
our  Government  was  established,  and  by  which  it  has  been  ever 
protected. 

"  Put  yourselves,  gentlemen,  in  the  place  of  the  defendants,  and 
let  me  ask  if  you  were  brought  before  your  country  upon  a  charge 
supported  by  no  other  evidence  than  that  which  you  have  heard  to- 
day, and  encountered  by  that  which  I  have  stated  to  you,  what  would 
you  say,  or  your  children  after  you,  if  you  were  touched  in  your 
persons  or  your  properties  by  a  conviction  ?  May  you  never  be  put 
to  such  reflections  nor  the  country  to  such  disgrace !  The  best  service 
we  can  render  to  the  public  is  that  we  should  live  like  one  harmo- 
nious family,  that  we  should  banish  all  animosities,  jealousies,  and 
susi)icions  of  one  another,  and  that  living  under  the  protection  of  a 
mild  and  impartial  justice,  we  should  endeavour,  with  one  heart, 
according  to  our  best  judgments,  to  advance  the  freedom  and  main- 
tain the  security  of  Great  Britain." 

I'he  evidence  for  the  defence  proved  over  and  over  again  that 
Dunn  had  perjured  himself;  and  when  at  length  he  was  recaUed  to 
confront  the  testimony  against  him  he  was  so  drunk  (having  passed 
the  interim  at  a  public-house)  that  his  evidence  was  almost  unintel* 
ligible.  It  had  been  proved  on  irrefragable  testimony  that  in  a 
moment  of  contrition  he  had  sought  Mr.  Walker  out  and  had  fallen 
on  his  knees,  imploring  his  forgiveness  for  having  sworn  falsely  against 
him  ;  but  this  he  denied  at  first,  then  blurted  out  "  1  went  there  when 
I  was  intoxicated,  the  same  as  I  am  now.'     Afteni^'ards  he  denied 


The  Thonuis  Walkers.  537 

the  truth  of  all  the  evidence  of  Mr.  Walker^s  friends,  clerks,  and  ser- 
vants, and  was  stopped  at  length  by  the  Attorney-General  for  the 
County  Palatine,  who,  albeit  for  the  prosecution,  testified  himself  to 
the  honour  of  one  of  the  witnesses  whom  Dunn  marked  as  a  perjurer. 
Mr.  Law  stopped  the  case,  observing — "  I  cannot  expect  one  witness 
alone,  unconfirmed,  to  stand  against  the  testimony  of  these  >vitnesses ; 
I  ought  not  to  expect  it."  The  judge  having  commended  the  course 
adopted  by  the  prosecution,  the  jury  immediately  acquitted  the 
defendants.  Mr.  Erskine  and  Mr.  Vaughan  applied  that  Dunn 
might  be  committed,  and  they  undertook  to  indict  him  for  perjury. 

Mr.  Justice  Heath  :  "  Let  him  be  committed ;  and  I  hope,  Mr. 
Walker,  that  this  will  be  an  admonition  to  you  to  keep  better  com- 
pany in  future.*' 

Mr.  Walker  :  "  I  have  been  in  no  bad  company,  my  lord,  except  in 
that  of  the  wretch  who  stands  behind  me ;  nor  is  there  a  word  or  an 
action  of  my  life,  in  which  the  public  are  at  all  interested,  that  I  wish 
unsaid,  or  undone,  or  that  under  similar  circumstances  I  would  not 
repeat." 

Mr.  Justice  Heath  :  "You  have  been  honourably  acquitted,  sir,  and 
the  witness  against  you  is  committed  for  perjury." 

James  Cheetham  was  waiting  his  trial  "  for  damning  the  King  and 
wishing  he  was  guillotined,"  on  Dunn's  evidence ;  but,,  the  record 
says,  the  witness  having  been  committed  for  perjury,  a  verdict  of  not 
guilty  was  given  at  once. 

Dunn  was  afterwards  tried  and  convicted  of  ten  several  perjuries ; 
and  this  wretched  tool  of  the  Government  was  sentenced  to  two 
years'  imprisonment,  and  to  stand  in  the  pillory.  "  It  must  not  be 
omitted " — I  quote  Hone's  biography  of  Mr.  Walker — "  that  the 
strongest  suspicions  of  direct  subornation  of  perjury  were  attached  to 
some  of  the  most  active  supporters  of  Government  in  this  to^vn 
(Manchester) ;  and  it  was  only  by  the  timely  repentance  of  one  of 
their  hired  informers  that  Mr.  Walker  and  his  friends,  innocent  as 
they  were  of  every  offence  whatever,  escaped  a  charge  o!*  high  trea- 
son. But  the  malice  of  his  enemies  was  not  satiated ;  the  most 
dehberate  attacks  were  made  on  his  character  and  credit ;  and  at 
length  partly  from  these  causes,  and  partly  from  the  events  of  the 
war,  his  fortune  sank  at  the  conclusion  of  a  seven  years'  struggle." 

From  this  period  of  persistent  and  cowardly  persecution,  in  which 

the  agents  of  Mr.  Pitt  were  actively  concerned,  Mr.  Walker  was  a 

victim  to  growing  difficulties — albeit  encompassed  with  crowds  of 

friends,  including  the  foremost  Liberal  men  of  his  time. 

"The  law,"  Mr.  Walker  observes  in  his   "Political  Events"  (it 
Vol,  XI.,  N.S.  1873.  n  n 


538  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

has  been  frequently  said  in  charges  to  grand  |uries»  and  it  is  a 
favourite  sentiment)  "  is  alike  open  to  the  poor  as  to  the  rich  ;"  "  and 
so"  (said  Mr.  Home  Tooke  on  some  occasion)  "is  the  London 
Tavern ;  but  they  will  give  you  a  ver}-  sorry  welcome  unless  }'Ou  come 
with  money  sufficient  to  pay  fpr  your  entertainment" 

"  I  have  no  scruple  to  say,  from  dear-bought  experience,  that  there 
is  no  law  in  this  country  for  the  poor  man.  The  expense  of  attorneys, 
and  the  expense  of  counsel,  and  the  expense  of  witnesses,  and  the 
expense  of  stamps  to  the  Government,  and  fees  to  the  law  officers, 
the  expense  of  time,  and  of  trouble,  the  neglect  of  business,  and  the 
anxiety  of  mind,  are  beyond  calculation  to  those  who  have  not  had 
melancholy  experience  of  the  fact.  Neither  is  there  certainty  of 
justice  even  to  those  who  are  able  and  willing  to  afford  the  expense 
of  a  prosecution,  if  the  minds  of  jurors  can  be  warped  on  the  day 
of  trial  from  all  impartial  considerations,  by  incessant  falsehood  and 
invective,  from  pulpits  and  printing  houses,  and  parish  associations. 
I  have  a  right  to  complain  of  the  expense  of  law  when  I  can  infomi 
the  reader,  with  truth,  that  the  expenses  of  the  trial,  to  which  this  is 
a  sequel,  including  the  prosecution  of  Dunn,  amounted  to  nearly 
three  thousand  pounds. 

**  I  have  a  right  to  complain  of  the  uncertainty  of  justice,  after 
tlie  trial  of  Benjamin  Booth  (who  had  been  implored  '  for  God's  sake 
and  his  family  to  join  in  Dunn's  evidence  against  Mr.  Walker*)  at 
Manchester ;  after  having  perused  the  trial  of  Mr.  Winterbotham ; 
after  having  seen  the  verdicts  of  a  Warwickshire  juiy,  and  compared 
the  compensations  with  the  losses  of  the  Birmingham  sufferers.  I 
know  not  in  what  tone  of  voice,  nor  with  what  cast  of  countenance, 
Mr.  Windham  pronounced  that  *' the  Icnu  was  equally  open  in  all  cascs^^ 
but  it  was  a  cniel  and  malignant  sarcasm  ;  and  Mr.  Windham  could 
not  but  know  that  it  was  untrue  when  he  uttered  it  The  law  is 
indeed  oi)cn  to  those  who  have  the  key  of  the  Treasury  to  unlock  it 
— it  was  open  even  to  Thomas  Dunn  of  infamous  notoriet>'.  Perliaps  it 
would  be  also  open  to  Mr.  Windham — from  the  tender  mercies  of 
whose  recommendation  heaven  defend  the  injured  poor ! " 

CHAPTER    V. 

THE   REFORMERS   OF    1 794- 

Six  days  after  his  acquittal,  Mr.  C.  J.  Fox  i^Tote  to  Mr.  Walker : — 
*'  My  dear  Sir, — I  do  assure  you  that  I  have  seldom  felt  more  true 


*  Speech  in  the  House  of  Commons  (December  17,  1792)  in  reply  to  Mr.  Fox 
and  Mr.  Grev  on  the  riots  at  Manchester. 


The  Thomas  Walkers.  539 

satisfaction  than  I  received  from  Heywood's  letter  from  Lancaster 
giving  me  the  account  of  your  complete  triumph  there.  Your  satis- 
faction ought  to  be  (and  I  hope  is)  proportionate  to  the  malignancy 
with  which  you  have  been  f)ersecuted ;  and  if  it  is  you  must  be  a 
ver\'  happy  man.  I  beg  you  accept  my  sincere  congratulations,  and 
to  believe  me,  dear  Sir,  your  most  faithful,  humble  servant, 

"C.  J.  Fox." 

On  the  23rd  of  May  Mr.  Erskine  wrote  to  his  friend  and  client,  of 
the  prosecutions  that  were  then  rife — "  But  all  redress  is  visionary. 
If  honest  men  can  defend  themselves  they  are  well  off,  without  seek- 
ing to  punish  others.  Your  friends  here  are  much  disappointed  at 
not  seeing  your  trial  published,  and  there  are  catchpenny  things 
circulated  to  pass  for  it.  It  certainly  throws  great  light  upon 
the  businesses  which  agitate  the  public  at  this  moment,  and  its 
appearance  now  would  be  useful.'' 

Congratulations  flowed  in  from  all  sides.  Earl  Stanhope  wTote 
from  Mansfield  Street  (April  7,  1 794) : — "  I  return  you  many  thanks 
for  your  obliging  letter  of  the  12th  of  March,  and  for  the  list  of  Toasts 
therein  enclosed,  drunk  at  the  Church  and  King  Club.  I  beg  to* 
<  ongratulate  you  most  cordially  and  sincerely  on  your  late  acquittal ; 
as  also  the  other  gentlemen  indicted  at  the  same  time ;  being  with 
zeal  and  Respect,  Sir,  your  faithful  fellow-citizen.  Stanhope."  There 
is  an  endorsement  on  Lord  Stanhope's  note  : — 

"Many  years  afterguards  this  republican  peer  had  his  portrait 
taken  with  a  coronet  in  his  hand  I — such  is  the  influence  of  circum- 
stances." 

His  lordship  in  citizen   days  addressed   Mr.  Walker  as  "Dear 
izen." 

Gilbert  Wakefield  wrote  from  Hackney  to  congratulate  the  distin- 
uished  Jacobin  on"the  defeat  of  his  despicable  adversaries."  The  letter 
is  dated  July  15,  1794.  "  Mr.  Walker,"  says  the  writer,  "will  rejoice 
with  him  on  the  glorious  prospect  of  a  speedy  crisis  to  the  abominable 
perversions  of  civil  society ;  in  the  subversion  of  which  Mr.  W.  glories 
to  have  co-operated  with  Mr.  Walker,  tho*  as  a  less  vigorous  and 
conspicuous  agent." 

Passing  through  Bury  St.  Edmunds,  four  days  after  the  trial,  on  his 
\\  ay  to  London,  Clarkson  happened  to  fell  in  with  the  Courier^  which 
gave  him  the  news  of  his  friend's  honourable  acquittal ;  and  he  wrote 
at  once  to  say  that  he  anticipated  it,  was  overjoyed  at  it,  and  con- 
gratulated both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Walker.  His  trusty  friend  Cooper  (the 
ardent  advocate  of  liberty  and  the  vigorous  pamphleteer)  wrote  firom 

N  N  2 


citizen." 


540  Tfie  Gentlematis  Magazitie. 

London  that  he  had  lieard  of  the  acquittal  from  a  friend  who  had 
been  in  company  with  Lord  Derby.  His  lordship  abused  the  Ministiy 
violently  about  the  trial,  and  reprobated  the  conduct  of  the  prosecu- 
tors severely.  Lord  Derby  also  said,  "The  Duke  of  Bedford  is  the 
honestest  man  publicly  and  privately  in  the  kingdom." 

The  trial  created  a  great  sensation  in  T^ondon.  On  the  26th  of 
April  Mr.  Erskine  wrote  to  Mr.  Walker  pressing  him  for  proofs  of 
the  shorthand  notes.  "  I  take  it  for  granted  you  will  publish  it  at 
Manchester,  and  I  am  sure  it  will  be  of  infinite  service  to  the  cause 
of  reform,  and  bring  Government  into  great  disgrace."  Mr.  Erskine 
adds  that  he  shall  meet  Fox,  Sheridan,  and  Grey,  on  the  following 
Monday,  "when  I  mean  to  have  some  talk  with  them  on  that 
subject." 

The  subject  was  in  the  mouths  of  all  political  men.  After  the  war, 
the  continuance  of  which,  with  vigour,  had  just  been  determined  upon 
in  Parliament— in  spite  of  the  exertions  of  th^  Duke  of  Bedford, 
Lords  Lansdowne  and  Lauderdale,  and  Fox  and  Sheridan ;  internal 
discontent,  and  the  agitation  to  which  it  was  giving  ominous  forms 
throughout  the  land,  were  the  subject  of  debate  in  every  society. 
The  conviction  of  two  Scotch  agitators — Muir  and  Palmer — fat 
spreading  Paine's  "Rights  of  Man,"  and  other  tracts  on  cognate 
subjects  distasteful  to  the  Government,  and  for  exhorting  the  people 
to  resist  the  oppression  under  which  they  lived ;  had  created  a  pro- 
found sensation.  The  Scotch  judges  had  sentenced  the  agitators  to 
fourteen  years'  transportation.  Muir  and  Palmer  were  men  of 
education  and  unblemished  character,  and  their  fate  wakened  the 
sympathies  even  of  friends  of  the  Ministry.  The  popular  feeling 
was  deepened  and  extended  when  the  Scotch  judges,  a  few  months 
after  they  had  doomed  Muir  and  Palmer  to  Botany  Bay,  sentenced  a 
batch  of  Scotch  and  English  delegates  of  a  convention  held  at  Edin- 
burgh to  promote  sweeping  Parliamentary  Reforms,  to  a  similar  &te. 
In  vain  did  Mr.  Adam,  a  barrister  of  high  repute  and  a  member  of 
Parliament,  endeavour  to  modify  the  law,  and  to  obtain  mercy  for  the 
convicts,  then  on  board  transports  at  Woolwich ;  in  vain  he  pleaded 
— and  with  rare  learning  and  perspicacity — that  they  had  been  illegally 
sentenced.  Sheridan  and  F'ox  were  the  eloquent  advocates  of  mercy, 
in  opposition  to  Pitt,  the  Lord  Advocate,  and  Mr.  Secretary  Dun- 
das,  who  foimd  that  the  actual  system  was  agreeable  to  the  people  at 
large.  Dundas  was,  indeed,  of  opinion  that  the  law  was  not  suffi- 
ciently severe.  This  remark  drew  upon  him  the  wrath  of  Fox,  who 
•cautioned  Government  against  the  risks  and  perils  of  an  interference 
with  ihe  liberties  of  Englishmen. 


The  Thomas  Walkers.  541 

But  the  friends  of  civil  and  religious  liberty  had  small  favour  in 
those  times,  when  the  upper  classes  were  labouring  under  fears  raised 
by  the  French  Revolution.  The  man  who  advocated  Parliamentary 
Reform  was  a  dangerous  malcontent — z.  Jacobin — ^an  enemy  to  be 
rooted  or  driven  out.  It  was  in  these  days  that  crowds  of  disap- 
pointed English  politicians,  like  Thomas  Cooper — and  later  Mr. 
Walker^s  youngest  son,  George  Henry — emigrated  to  America ;  and 
that  hundreds  who  could  not  emancipate  themselves  from  the  rigours 
of  the  time,  dreamed  of  the  liberty  of  Washington — and  longed 
to  be  quit  of  the  mother  country.  Three  years  after  the  trial  Mr. 
Erskine  wrote  to  Mr.  Walker  (April  6th,  1797)  that  everything  was 
hopeless.  "The  Minister  has  acquired  a  holding  which  will  enable 
him  to  pull  the  country  to  pieces,  and  we  must  all  fall  together.  You 
see  meetings  are  holding  everywhere,  and  undoubtedly  they  are  of 
value.  If  Manchester  is  ripe  for  it  I  hope  you  will  succeed  in  getting 
one."  Mr.  Walker,  much  as  he  had  suffered,  in  mind  and  in  purse — 
and  then,  apparently,  to  no  purpose — ^was  as  ready  as  ever  in  the 
good  cause ;  and  as  active  a  correspondent  and  subscriber  as  ever 
in  all  good  movements. 

Much  of  the  Walker  correspondence  is  interesting,  as  illustrating  the 
feeling  of  the  time  and  the  profound  effect  which  was  created  in  Eng- 
land by  the  startling  series  of  events  that  succeeded  the  dethronement 
of  Louis  the  Sixteenth.  The  severities  practised  in  England  by  the 
Church  and  King  party  upon  all  who  sympathised  with  the  French 
patriots  were  the  cowardly  cruelties  of  fear.  The  trial  of  Mr.  Walker, 
on  evidence  bought  by  a  clergyman  from  a  drunken  weaver,  is  a  fair 
sample  of  the  manner  in  which  Church  and  King  men  proceeded 
in  all  directions  against  the  societies  and  clubs  that  had  spread 
throughout  the  empire — with  Hardy's  London  club  for  organising 
centre.  The  demand  of  these  clubs  was  for  radical  reform.  Their 
sedition  was  no  more  than  that  extent  of  liberalism  which  has  since 
led  tlie  way  to  peerages.  But  the  popular  leaders  of  those  days  were 
before  their  time.  The  prosecution  of  Mr.  Joyce,  a  tutor  in  Lord 
Stanhope's  family,  of  Home  Tooke,  of  Mr.  Kydd,  a  rising  barrister, 
was  on  the  pattern  of  that  by  which  Mr.  Walker  had^suffered.  Mr. 
r'ox  and  Mr.  Grey  raised  their  voices  in  vain  against  Mr.  Pitt's  whole- 
sale severities  ;  and  protested,  unregarded,  that  Ministers  were  inaugu- 
rating a  Reign  of  Terror.  The  societies  against  which  penal  laws  were 
to  be  applied  were  but  associations  for  bringing  about  universal 
suffrage ;  a  convention  was  but  a  general  meeting,  or  assembly,  of 
tliese  thoroughly  lawful  associations.  British  Ministers  were  doing 
exactly  that  which  had  ruined  France.     Had  the  French  enjoyed  the 


540  The  Gentleniatis  Magazifu. 

London  that  he  had  heard  of  the  acquittal  from  a  friend  who  had 
been  in  company  with  Lord  Derby.  His  lordship  abused  the  Ministry 
violently  about  the  trial,  and  reprobated  the  conduct  of  the  prosecu- 
tors severely.  Lord  Derby  also  said,  "  The  Duke  of  Bedford  is  the 
honestest  man  publicly  and  privately  in  the  kingdom." 

The  trial  created  a  great  sensation  in  J^ondon.  On  the  26th  of 
April  Mr.  Erskine  wrote  to  Mr.  Walker  pressing  him  for  proofs  of 
the  shorthand  notes.  "  I  take  it  for  granted  you  will  publish  it  at 
Manchester,  and  I  am  sure  it  will  be  of  infinite  service  to  the  cause 
of  reform,  and  bring  Government  into  great  disgrace."  Mr.  Erskine 
adds  that  he  shall  meet  Fox,  Sheridan,  and  Grey,  on  the  following 
Monday,  "when  I  mean  to  have  some  talk  with  them  on  that 
subject." 

The  subject  was  in  the  mouths  of  all  political  men.  After  the  ^"ar, 
the  continuance  of  which,  with  vigour,  had  just  been  determined  upon 
in  Parliament — in  spite  of  the  exertions  of  th^  Duke  of  Bedford, 
Lords  Lansdowne  and  Lauderdale,  and  Fox  and  Sheridan ;  internal 
discontent,  and  the  agitation  to  which  it  was  giving  ominous  forms 
throughout  the  land,  were  the  subject  of  debate  in  every  societ>'. 
The  conviction  of  two  Scotch  agitators — ^Muir  and  Palmer — for 
spreading  Paine's  "Rights  of  Man,"  and  other  tracts  on  cognate 
subjects  distasteful  to  the  Government,  and  for  exhorting  the  people 
to  resist  the  oppression  under  which  they  lived ;  had  created  a  pro- 
found sensation.  The  Scotch  judges  had  sentenced  the  agitators  to 
fourteen  years'  transportation.  Muir  and  Palmer  were  men  of 
education  and  unblemished  character,  and  their  fate  wakened  the 
symj)athies  even  of  friends  of  the  Ministry.  The  i)opular  feeling 
was  deepened  and  extended  when  the  Scotch  judges,  a  few  months 
after  they  had  doomed  Muir  and  Palmer  to  Botany  Bay,  sentenced  a 
batch  of  Scotch  and  English  delegates  of  a  convention  held  at  Edin- 
burgh to  promote  sweeping  Parliamentary  Reforms,  to  a  similar  fate. 
In  vain  did  Mr.  Adam,  a  barrister  of  high  repute  and  a  member  of 
Parliament,  endeavour  to  modify  the  law,  and  to  obtain  mercy  for  the 
convicts,  then  on  board  transports  at  Woolwich ;  in  vain  he  pleaded 
— and  with  rare  learning  and  perspicacity — that  they  had  been  illegally 
sentenced.  Sheridan  and  Fox  were  the  eloquent  advocates  of  mercy, 
in  opi^osition  to  Pitt,  the  Lord  Advocate,  and  Mr.  Secretary  Dun- 
das,  who  foimd  that  the  actual  system  was  agreeable  to  the  people  at 
large.  Dundas  was,  indeed,  of  opinion  that  the  law  was  not  suffi- 
•ciently  severe.  This  remark  drew  upon  him  the  wrath  of  Fox,  who 
cautioned  Government  against  the  risks  and  perils  of  an  interfeience 
with  the  liberties  of  Englishmen. 


The  Thomas  Walkers.  541 

But  the  friends  of  civil  and  religious  liberty  had  small  favour  in 
those  times,  when  the  upper  classes  were  labouring  under  fears  raised 
by  the  French  Revolution.  The  man  who  advocated  Parliamentary 
Reform  was  a  dangerous  malcontent — a  Jacobin — an  enemy  to  be 
rooted  or  driven  out.  It  was  in  these  days  that  crowds  of  disap- 
pointed English  politicians,  like  Thomas  Cooper — and  later  Mr. 
\\  alker's  youngest  son,  George  Henry — emigrated  to  America ;  and 
that  hundreds  who  could  not  emancipate  themselves  from  the  rigours 
of  the  time,  dreamed  of  the  liberty  of  Washington — and  longed 
to  be  quit  of  the  mother  country.  Three  years  after  the  trial  Mr. 
Krskine  wrote  to  Mr.  Walker  (April  6th,  1797)  that  everything  was 
hopeless.  "  The  Minister  has  acquired  a  holding  which  will  enable 
him  to  pull  the  country  to  pieces,  and  we  must  all  fall  together.  You 
see  meetings  are  holding  everywhere,  and  undoubtedly  they  are  of 
value.  If  Manchester  is  ripe  for  it  I  hope  you  will  succeed  in  getting 
one."  Mr.  Walker,  much  as  he  had  suffered,  in  mind  and  in  purse — 
and  then,  apparently,  to  no  purpose — was  as  ready  as  ever  in  the 
good  cause ;  and  as  active  a  correspondent  and  subscriber  as  ever 
in  all  good  movements. 

Much  of  the  Walker  correspondence  is  interesting,  as  illustrating  the 
feeling  of  the  time  and  the  profound  effect  which  was  created  in  Eng- 
land by  the  startling  series  of  events  that  succeeded  the  dethronement 
of  Louis  the  Sixteenth.  The  severities  practised  in  England  by  the 
Church  and  King  party  upon  all  who  sympathised  with  the  French 
patriots  were  the  cowardly  cruelties  of  fear.  The  trial  of  Mr.  Walker, 
on  evidence  bought  by  a  clergyman  from  a  drunken  weaver,  is  a  fair 
sample  of  the  manner  in  which  Church  and  King  men  proceeded 
in  all  directions  against  the  societies  and  clubs  that  had  spread 
throughout  the  empire — with  Hardy's  London  club  for  organising 
centre.  The  demand  of  these  clubs  was  for  radical  reform.  Their 
sedition  was  no  more  than  that  extent  of  liberalism  which  has  since 
led  the  way  to  peerages.  But  the  popular  leaders  of  those  days  were 
before  their  time.  The  prosecution  of  Mr.  Joyce,  a  tutor  in  Lord 
Stanhope's  family,  of  Home  Tooke,  of  Mr.  Kydd,  a  rising  barrister, 
was  on  the  pattern  of  that  by  which  Mr.  Walker  had^suffered.  Mr. 
Fox  and  Mr.  Grey  raised  their  voices  in  vain  against  Mr.  Pitt's  whole- 
sale severities  ;  and  protested,  unregarded,  that  Ministers  were  inaugu- 
rating a  Reign  of  Terror.  The  societies  against  which  penal  laws  were 
to  be  applied  were  but  associations  for  bringing  about  universal 
suffrage  ;  a  convention  was  but  a  general  meeting,  or  assembly,  of 
these  thoroughly  lawful  associations.  British  Ministers  were  doing 
exactly  that  which  had  ruined  France.     Had  the  French  enjoyed  the 


544  ^'^^  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

Society,  of  your  plan  to  establish  a  correspondence  with  the  French 
Patriotic  Clubs,  Cooper  and  myself  will  be.  much  obliged  to  you  if 
you  will  get  the  society  to  delegate  us  to  the  Club  des  Jacobins,  and 
to  any  other  Patriotic  Societies  which  we  may  visit — for  instance,  those 
of  Nantes  and  Bordeaux. 

"  ^Ve  look  upon  it  that  this  will  be  an  extremely  good  introduc- 
tion for  us,  and  we  have  no  doubt  you  will  easily  effect  it  Tuffin  and 
Cooper  intend  writing  to  Sharp  to  get  them  appointed  as  delegates 
from  the  Society  for  Revolution  at  London.  Upon  our  arrival  at 
Paris  we  shall  immediately  assume  these  characters,  not  doubting 
that  both  you  and  Sharp  will  succeed  in  your  applications. 

**  We  have  as  yet  had  no  specimens  of  the  riot  and  confusion  said 
to  prevail  in  this  country — everything  bears  the  face  of  order ;  but  war 
is  the  general  wish  since  the  late  impertinent  declaration  of  the 
P^mperor.  You  shall  have  all  the  news  as  soon  as  we  can  get  to 
Paris." 

Cooper  added  a  postscript :  *•  The  people  of  France  are  certainly 
not  an  inferior  race  to  the  English — I  think  superior.  I  have  as  yet 
seen  too  little  of  the  country  to  offer  an  opinion.  Procure  us  to 
wait  in  form  on  the  Jacobines,  etc.,  from  our  Man'  Society  and 
speedily."'  Arrived  in  Paris,  the  delegates  appear  to  have  combined 
business  with  patriotism.  Cooper  writes,  (12th  April,  1792,)  "  Watt 
since  he  has  been  at  this  hotel  has  been  very  busy,  I  presume  on 
y  account,  for  unless  in  the  evenings  we  have  not  been  inuch  toge- 
ther. He  does  not  seem  perfectly  satisfied  with  his  success ;  but  I 
really  don't  see  how  it  is  possible  to  do  business  here  when  exchange 
is,  as  it  is  to-day,  at  lyj.  If  the  answer  of  the  Emperor  to  the  Minister 
Dumourier  is  categorical  and  peaceable,  there  will,  of  course,  be  an 
alteration  in  the  Change  very  much  in  favour  of  France.  But  I 
expect  the  answer  will  be  evasive,  and  that  the  French  will  find  them- 
selves awkwardly  situated,  for  it  will  be  extremely  impnident,  in  my 
opinion,  for  them  to  attempt  an  inroad  in  Austria.  However,  a  few 
days  will  determine  this.  Watt  waits  for  this  and  for  y'  ans""  to  his 
last. 

'*  Tell  George  Philips  that  Exchange  is  17I  to-day,  and  the  pre- 
mium on  the  Emprunte  de  125  millions,  3  J.  If  there  is  war  no  doubt 
I  w  advise  to  buy,  for  the  national  property  is  fully  equal  to  the 
exigence.  I  don't  know  whe*"  George  as  well  as  you  is  connected  for 
French  business  with  Perigaux,  but  this  I  can  say,  that  on  the  same 
day  that  I  sold  to  Perigaux  60  louis  for  36  fr.  12  sols  each,  I  sold  30 
to  Delessart,  at  Watt's  persuasion,  for  38.  So  that  I  would  have  my 
friends  not  trust  implicitly  Mr.  Perigaux.     Louis  are  worth  something 


The  Thomas  Walkers.  545 

more  now.  *  *  *  I  shall  return  home  with  all  my  ideas  confirmed 
of  the  superiority  of  French  climate  and  the  improvement  of  French 
people ;  but  more  an  Englishman  than  ever." 

On  the  25th  of  April  the  delegates  had  had  personal  experience 
of  the  Jacobins.     Cooper  writes  : — 

"  I  wrote  to  George  Philips  my  sentiments  of  the  Jacobins  from 
the  impression  of  my  first  meeting.  Subsequent  meetings  which  I 
have  attended  have  convinced  me  that  amidst  all  their  noise  and 
impetuosity  and  irregularity,  amidst  all  their  long  speeches  and  im- 
patience of  contrariety  of  opinion,  there  is  much  important  discussion, 
much  eloquence,  much  acuteness,  and  much  effect.  They  are  the 
Governors  of  the  Governors  of  the  kingdom.  They  keep  a  watchful 
eye  on  the  men  in  place,  they  denounce  (impeach)  them  as  Jacobins 
if  their  conduct  is  suspicious,  and  the  people  are  with  them.  They 
last  night  denounced  almost  all  the  leading  men  now  in  power, 
among  them  Condorcet,  Claireie,  and  Brissot.  These  denunciations 
arc  serious ;  for  as  Jacobins  they  must  justify  themselves  or  become 
unpopular.  I  wish,  therefore,  that  George  Philips  w*^  not  let  my 
sentiments  of  the  Jacobins  to  him  get  among  the  Man  Aristocrats. 
I  have  heard  that  Lee  and  Brydges  are  well  acquainted  with  the 
contents.  A  letter  on  public  men  or  public  business  to  you  or  George 
sh^  be  for  the  well-wishers  of  Liberty  alone ;  tell  George  this,  also 
that  exchange  to-day,  Wednesday,  is  17 J,  and  the  Emprunte  of  125 
millions  (pretty  nearly  the  same  as  our  Consol  3  p.  c.)  4J.  Gold  bears 
a  high  price.  A  guinea  is  now  worth  in  Assignats  44  livres.  The 
best  information  I  can  get  assures  me  that  French  stock  is  safe,  but 
purchases  of  French  land  much  better.  The  present  race  of  people 
arc  bad  to  what  the  next  will  be,  eindently ;  but  yet  much  better  than 
they  were  a  few  years  ago.'' 

Then  follows  a  glowing  description  of  the  fSte  of  Chateauvieux, 
which  Cooper  extols  as  a  meeting  of  200,000  sober,  orderly,  and  at 
the  same  time  enthusiastic  citizens  : — "  The  first  festival  truly  civic 
that  Europe  has  seen." 

By  August  Cooper  was  back  in  London.  He  dates  firom  Thames 
Street,  on  the  4th  : — 

**  The  division  on  Fayette's  business  in  the  Assembly  was  424 
against  226.  Watt  wrote  me  that  the  people  were  so  exasperated 
that  they  were  determined  to  do  something  before  Sunday.  This  I 
heard  in  a  letter  received  from  Watt  yesterday.  To-day  an  express 
has  arrived  at  Thelusson's  containing  the  following  intelligence — viz., 
that  on  Friday  the  people  rose ;  the  Swiss  guards  surrounded  the 
King,  and  defended  him  till  they  were  cut  to  pieces ;  the  King  and 


546  The  Gcnilanaiis  Magazine. 

(^uecn  took  refuge  amid  the  National  Assembly,  where  they  were 
when  the  express  came  away.  Six  members  of  the  Assembly  were 
beheaded.  Such  is  the  tale  I  hear,  and  although  it  is  only  in  detached 
l)articulars,  you  rely  upon  its  being  true  or  nearly  so.  *Te  Deum 
laudamus.'  *  *  •■'  No  body  was  permitted  to  go  out  of  or  enter  Pari.s, 
Lord  Gower's  messenger  was  detained.' 

In  August,  1794,  Thomas  Cooper  sailed  for  America,  where  he 
bec.ime  a  judge  in  Pennsylvania.  Felix  Vaughan,  £rskinc*s  enthu- 
siastic junior  in  the  State  prosecutions,  and  the  devoted  friend  of 
Mr.  AValker,  did  his  utmost  to  dissuade  Cooper  from  emigration. 
Writing  to  Cooper  after  the  conviction  of  Booth,  he  describes  the 
applause  of  the  packed  court  at  the  hardest  things  in  Topping's 
speech.  "  All  this,"  he  says,  **  has  put  me  rather  out  of  humour  with 
the  pious  manufacturers  of  Manchester ;  so  I  shall  leave  them  to  the 
comfort  of  their  own  reflections  to-morrow  for  a  place  more  healthy, 
and  in  hopes  of  meeting  people  less  detestable  if  possible.  *  *  ♦  I 
hope  to  be  in  a  week  in  much  better  temper  and  spirits  before  I  see 
our  worthy  friend  (Mr. Walker)  at  Lancaster  (for  the  trial).  Pray  make 
my  best  respects  to  him  and  tell  him  that  his  townsmen  are  a  pack  ot 
the  dannrdest  knaves,  and  fools,  and  cowards,  and  scoundrels  that  I 
ever  met  with  in  all  my  born  days.  *  ''  ^'  1  conceive  that  in  London 
the  popular  opinion  is  every  (way)  changing  for  the  better,  and  \igpod 
mill  would  not  leave  us,  what  might  we  not  yet  attempt  for  the  good 
l)eople  of  England  !  As  to  the  bad  it  signifier.  little  what  becomes  of 
them.  In  sober  sadness  cast  in  your  mind  whetlier  you  cannot  bear 
with  us  for  a  few^  years  more  and  help  us  to  stem  the  torrent  of  folly. 
They  cannot  refuse  you  coming  to  the  bar  as  they  did  to  our  friend 
the  citizen  of  Wimbledon  (Home  Tooke)." 

]5ut  Cooper,  like  many  others  who  iiad  fought  the  losing  battle, 
went  forth ,  and  FelLx  Vaughan's  next  letter  of  gossip  to  him  (28th 
January,  1796)  is  directed  to  America.  He  touches  upon  their 
political  friends  : — 

**Jn  town  Sharpe  and  Tuffin  are  very  prudent,  and  I  believe 
meddle  with  nothing  but  their  private  pursuits.  Tooke  digs  in  his 
garden  till  he  is  out  of  breath,  by  which  he  has  certainly  increased 
his  health  so  as  to  live  many  years  longer;  at  least  I  hope  so.  His 
namesake  (old  William)  does  the  same,  and  very  likely  may  live  the 
longest  of  the  two.  Harewood  has  taken  a  farm  in  Norfolk,  on 
which  he  lives  with  great  content,  being  ready,  as  at  all  times  he  has 
been,  to  venture  his  life  and  all  for  his  friends  or  for  the  public 
None  of  us  are  very  rich,  and  some  very  poor,  democracy  being, 
as   you    well  know,  one  of   Pharaoh's   lean  kine.     From  an  odd 


The  Thomas  Walkers.  547 

combination  of  things  I  consider  myself  as  the  most  thriving,  altliough 
l>erhaps  I  am  not  the  least  obnoxious,  of  those  who  profess  public 
principles.  The  lawyers  in  this  country  I  look  upon  as  the  janissaries 
of  Turkey,  being  for  some  reason  or  other  more  formidable  in  the 
eyes  of  Government  than  other  people.  I  can  give  no  other  reason 
for  having  escaped  their  vengeance.  In  the  way  of  my  profession  I 
have  been  very  successful  both  in  Yorkshire  and  Lancashire  ;  for  the 
latter  I  need  not  say  I  am  indebted  to  you  and  Walker.  Were  it  not 
for  the  prospect  which  this  holds  out  to  me  of  becoming  useful  at 
some  future  period  by  means  of  the  station  a  man  may  have  gained 
in  society,  I  should  have  quitted  this  country  before  this'  time,  and 
have  travelled  up>on  the  continent  of  Europe  so  as  to  fill  my  mind 
with  all  the  subjects  which  are  requisite  to  form  a  man  of  thorough 
education.^  If  the  appearance  of  things  after  that  had  not  mended, 
I  would  have  sold  my  little  all  here  in  England  and  have  established 
myself  in  America.  As  it  is,  I  have  hopes  that  the  present  system 
must  in  time  wear  out  itself.  Should  the  war  be  continued  for  very 
much  greater  length,  its  expense  has  already  increased  every  article 
of  ilie  necessaries  of  life  so  much  that  at  last  there  will  be  no  living. 
Since  you  were  here  many  things  are  risen  one-third  in  price  at  least; 
and  candles  are  is.  per  lb. ;  butter,  i4d. ;  sugar  of  an  ordinary 
sort,  13d.  House  rent  everywhere  rising,  and  wheat  will  probably 
l)c  at  the  price  it  was  last  summer.  In  the  meantime  the  wages  of 
ihc  poor  are  not  raised,  but  the  gentry  are  forced  to  supply  them 
with  com  in  the  great  scarcities  at  a  low  price,  which,  in  fact,  is  but 
so  much  additional  tax,  not  avowed  nor  appearing  openly.  All  of 
ihcm  say  what  a  shocking  thing  it  would  be  to  raise  the  price  of 
labour,  because  there  would  be  no  reducing  it  to  the  old  standard. 
None  of  them  talk  as  if  they  thought  provisions  would  be  cheaper. 
In  short,  they  are  in  the  mass  a  most  unworthy  set,  and  I  doubt  not 
but  the  Lord  will  reward  them  according  to  their  works. 

*'  In  Manchester  you  perceive  that  Mr.  Pitf  s  last  bills  have  raised 
something  like  a  spirit,  if  we  may  judge  from  the  petition  with  17,000 
signatures  sent  to  Parliament  In  fact  that  petition  came  from  the 
neighbourhood  rather  than  the  town.  During  the  meeting  at  which 
Lloyd  presided,  a  parson  and  some  others  attempted  to  make  a  riot, 
and  succeeded  to  a  certain  extent.  Having  good  evidence  of  this 
Seddon  indicted  them  at  the  last  Quarter  Sessions,  when  the  vir- 
tuous Grand  Jury  threw  out  the  bill,  which  I  hope  therefore  will  be 


*  Erskinc  observed  of  Felix  Vaughan  in  a  letter,  dated  April,  1794  :  "  He  has 
only  to  take  care  of  his  health  to  do  everything.*' 


548  The  Gentlematis  Magazine. 

preferred  at  Lancaster  to  try  whether  all  the  county  feel  in  the  same 
way.  How  happy  may  the  Americans  think  themselves  without  any 
of  the  influence  of  the  executive  government  to  destroy  them  !  In 
this  country  you  smell  it  in  every  comer,  all  opposition  being  so 
unsuccessful  that  people  are  indifferent  to  what  passes,  almost  wholly 
from  that  circumstance.  Money  for  public  purposes  there  is  abso- 
lutely none,  as  you  may  judge  of  in  some  degree  from  the  subscrip- 
tion appearing  in  the  newspapers  after  the  acquittals  of  last  year.  At 
present  there  is  something  of  the  same  kind  going  on  for  three 
poor  men  named  Lemaitre,  Smith,  and  Higgins,  who  are  indicted  for 
what  has  been  usually  called  the  Popgun  Plot.  I  fear  it  goes  on 
lamely.  Erskine  and  Gibbs  have  refused  being  concerned  as  counsel ; 
but  I  am  in  hopes  the  former  will  change  his  mind.  In  justice  to 
him  it  should  be  said  that  of  all  the  Opposition  except  Sheridan  he 
is  the  stoutest ;  and  the  best  principled  by  far  among  the  lawyers. 

** Since  my  writing  the  above  Mr.  Stone  has  been  acquitted,  to  the 
great  mortification  of  a  great  many  folks  who  say  that  treason  is  now 
triumphant,  etc.  For  my  own  part  I  am  heartily  glad  at  it,  because 
I  fear  the  first  conviction  may  be  followed  up  like  the  bead-roll  of 
murders  in  the  last  century.  I  do  not  know  whether  it  was  a  stand- 
ing joke  when  you  were  last  in  England  that  it  was  only  in  Ireland 
and  Scotland  that  people  were  open  to  conviction." 

In  a  letter  to  Mr.  Walker  (i6th  May,  1795),  Felix  Vaughan  notes 
how  matters  are  still  proceeding  with  their  political  friends : — "  As 
to-morrow  is  a  great  lounging  day  with  the  Templars  I  prefer  writing 
to  you  to-night,  more  especially  as  I  have  just  come  from  the 
citizen's"  (probably  Tooke's),  "with  whom  I  dined  to-day,  this  being 
the  anniversary  of  his  arrestation.  You  may  easily  imagine  we  w^ere 
somewhat  jocular  upon  those  gentry  who  are  so  ready  to  prosecute 
otliers  for  nothing,  and  would  make  executions  as  plenty  as  their 
Cabinet  dinners.  However  they  may  have  thought  it  possible  for 
them  to  destroy  us  they  have  not  quite  succeeded.  Our  subscription 
goes  on  well,  and  if  we  could  raise  ^^'ijooo,  or  ^1,500  more  we 
should  have  satisfied  those  concerned  in  the  defences  compleatly. 
Cieo.  Philips  gives  us  ten  guineas,  and  has  very  handsomely  offered 
to  continue  the  matter  at  Manch^"  Mr.  Walker  and  his  friends 
were  steady  supporters  of  Felix  Vaughan  in  his  young  days  at  the 
bar,  when,  as  he  expresses  it,  so  few  advocates  could  gain  powder 
to  their  wigs  or  salt  to  their  porridge ;  and  his  letters  are  full  of 
hearty  acknowledgments.  But  by  his  will  he  best  showed  his 
gratitude. 

(To  he  continued.) 


Stray  Thoughts  on 
Pilgrimages. 

'or  the  last  two  years — in  fact,  ever  since  the  war 
between  France  and  Germany  was  drawing  to  its  close — 
the  world  of  Western  Europe  has  heard  very  much  ot 
"  Pilgrimages."  Lourdes,  Isodun,  Boulogne,  Tours, 
Pontigny,  and  Paray-le-Monial  have  been  names  in  the  mouths  of 
every  one ;  and  the  thousand  English  Roman  Catholics  who  went  in 
the  early  part  of  September  on  their  journey  to  the  shrine  of 
Marguerite  Marie  Alacoque  at  the  last-named  place  have,  by  so 
doing,  brought  the  subject  of  pilgrimages  in  general  home  to  all 
circles  of  English  society.  A  few  "  stray  thoughts "  on  the  sub- 
ject of  pilgrimages  in  general  may  not  be  out  of  place  just  now, 
especially  as  all  danger  of  our  people  dying  by  scores  from  "  pil- 
grimage on  the  brain"  is  rapidly  passing  away  along  with  the  other 
incidents  of  "  the  silly  season." 

It  is  generally  assumed,  though  very  rashly,  that  pilgrimages  are 
an  institution  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Church,  Nothing  can  be 
farther  from  the  truth,  however,  for  they  are  as  old  as  history  itself. 
Herodotus,  "  the  Father  of  History,"  for  instance  was  an  inveterate 
pilgrim ;  at  all  events,  he  spent  his  life  in  visits  of  a  more  or  less 
religious  character  to  every  temple  and  holy  place  to  which  he  could 
get  access  in  the  countries  bordering  on  the  east  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean, including  Egypt  and  Asia  Minor ;  fand  we  learn  on  high 
authority  that  both  Croesus  and  Alexander  the  Great  made  special 
expeditions  to  the  shrines  of  the  heathen  deities  for  certain  purposes 
of  their  own.  Indeed,  there  is  every  reason  to  believe  that  Noah 
and  his  family  in  after-life  did  not  leave  unvisited  the  Mountain  of 
Ararat — that  sacred  spot  on  which  the  Ark  had  rested;  and  if  it  had  not 
been  for  the  unfortunatedestructionof  all  antediluvian  documents  by  the 
Flood,  we  should  probably  have  been  able  to  prove  that  Adam  and 
Eve,  after  their  expulsion  from  Eden,  went  back  more  than  once  to  the 
home  so  sacred  in  their  memories,  and  that,  if  not  in  fact,  at  all  events 
in  wish  and  intention,  they  were  guilty  of  the  sin  of  "  pilgrimage/' 

But,  seriously  speaking,  the  love  of  associating  places  with  persons, 
and  persons  with  places,  is  deeply  ingrained  in  the  nature  of  every- 
body who  has  something  in  him  or  her  higher  and  better  than  plain 
prose  and  dry  matter-of-iact    Our  Yankee  cousins  are  business-like 


550  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

and  commercial  enough  in  their  ways ;  but  who  of  them  that  can 

aftbrd  the  journey  does  not  make  a  pilgrimage,  once  in  his  life,  to 

Europe  and  Old  England  ?  and,  on  reaching  England,  what  places 

do  they  visit  ?    P'irst  of  all,  as  the  good  people  of  Heralds'  College 

will  tell  you,  they  find  out  the  old  parish  churches  where  their  Others 

lie  buried ;  and  when  they  have  made  a  pilgrimage  thither,  they  flock 

in  shoals  to  Stratford-on-Avon,  and  Abbotsford,  and  Diybuxgh  Abbe>% 

and  Newstead^  and  Stoke  Pogis,  in  order  to  tread  the  same  ground, 

and  gaze  upon  the  same  fields,  and  woods,  and  rivers  which  were 

gazed  on  by  Shakespeare  and  Walter  Scott,  by  Byron  and  Gray,  and 

\\\\\c\\  they  fondly  regard  as  still  haunted  by  the  spirits  of  those 

poets.  In  fact,  it  may  be  said  that  every  one  who  takes  an  excursionist 

ticket  to  see  Glastonbury,  or  Malmesbury,  or  Tintem,  or  the  Lakes, 

is  ///  principle  as  much  a  pilgrim  as  those  who  four,  five,  or  six 

hundred  years  ago  walked  along  the  weary  road  to  the  shrines  of  St. 

Dunstan  at  Winchester,  of  St.  Cuthbert  at  Durham,  or  of  Our  Lady 

at  Walsingham,  or  rode,  as  Chaucer's  pilgrims  did,  from  the  "Tabard" 

Inn  along  the  via  sacra  of  Kent,  through  Sittingbourne  and  Faversharo, 

to  the  shrine  of  St.  Thomas  A'Beckett  in  the  Cathedral  Church  of 

Canterbury. 

It  may  be  remembered  that  something  less  than  thirty  years  ago 

half  of  Northern  Germany  made  a  pilgrimage  to  Treves,  to  see  the 

"  Holy  Coat "  which  is  periodically  exhibited  in  that  ancient  city  to 

excite  the  devotion  of**  the  faithfiil."    Critics  sneered^  and  the  worid 

laughed  and  jeered  at  the  fanaticism ;    but  one  learned  and  able 

gentleman,  a  Protestant  member  of  Parliament,  and  since  Chairman 

of  one  of  our  most  important  railway  companies,  looked  deei)er  below 

the  surface  at  the  nature  of  the  movement,  and  wrote  thus  of  the 

pilgrim  principle : 

The  venenition  for  relics  sprinj:^  from  a  nobler  source  than  igHomce  or  luper- 
stition.  Is  it  ignorance  or  superstition  that  makes  the  stem  Scottish  Presbyterian 
regard  with  veneration  the  gown,  the  pulpit,  and  the  Bible  of  John  Knox,  the 
window  at  the  head  of  the  Canon^^ate  from  which  he  preached,  thte  original  mann- 
script  of  the  *•  Solemn  League  and  Covenant,'' or  that  noblest  of  all  the docnments 
M-hich  any  Christian  Church  can  produce,  the  Protest  of  the  376  ministers  of  the 
Free  Church  of  Scotland,  and  their  signatures  to  their  instant  resignation,  for 
conscience  sake,  of  all  the  worldly  interests  that  men  hold  most  dear,  of  their 
liouses,  homes,  and  the  comforts  of  life  ?  Is  It  superstition  that  makes  this  docu- 
ment of  the  sincerity  of  those  376  remarkable  men  circulate  in  fac-simile — that 
makes  it  to  he  venerated  and  preser^-ed  by  all  intelligent  men  In  Scotland,  how- 
ever widely  Ihcy  may  differ  from  the  principles  and  doctrinei  of  the  IVee  Church, 
as  the  most  interesting  relic  of  our  times  }  Is  it  ignorance  that  makes  the  most 
enlightened  men  of  the  age  prize  a  relic  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  or  Robcit  Bams — 
makes  them  search  with  avidity  for  a  genuine  portrait,  an  autograph,  or  other  relic 
of  any  kind,  of  Shakespeare,  Milton,  or  Xcwton  }  Is  this  ignonnice,  superstition. 


Stray  Thoiif^his  on  Pilgrwurgcs,  551 

or  folly  ?  If  it  were  within  the  limits  of  possibility,  and  beyond  all  doubt  on 
historical  and  physical  pounds,  that  a  genuine  portrait  of  our  Saviour  did  exists 
or  that  His  raiment  or  the  nails  by  which  He  was  attached  to  the  Cross  M'ere  pre- 
ser\-ed  uncomipted  by  moth,  rust,  damp,  and  other  natural  agencies  of  decay, 
during  eighteen  hundred  years  and  more,  would  it  be  ignorance  or  folly,  or  gross 
superstition  to  regard  these  relics  with  the  same  interest  and  veneration  that  the 
most  enlightened  of  men  pay  to  similar  relics  of  Shakespeare,  Milton,  Newton, 
Bums,  or  Scott  ?  What  is  the  intellectual  value  of  a  genuine  relic,  portrait,  image,, 
or  other  memorial  of  past  events  or  persons  ?  It  must  be  a  value  founded  in  the 
natural  constitution  of  the  human  mind,  for  it  has  been  given  to  relics  in  all  ages 
and  in  all  stages  of  civilisation.  The  Israelites,  for  instance,  as  we  learn  from  the 
Book  of  Exodus,  took  with  them  the  bones — that  is,  the  relics — of  Joseph,  on  their 
flight  out  of  Egypt.  The  most  enlightened  men,  in  the  most  civilised  ages,  render 
a  similar  respect  to  relics  ;  and  even  the  free-thinker,  the  infidel,  and  the  atheist 
pays  his  homage  to  this  natural  feeling  or  principle  in  the  human  mind,  by  going 
to  Fcmey  for  a  hair  from  the  periwig  of  Voltaire,  or  to  America  for  the  bones  of 
Tom  Paine. 

The  fact  is  that  just  in  proportion  as  the  intellectual  part  of  his 
nature  prevails  over  the  animal  and  sensual  part,  each  of  us  feels  an 
irresistible  tendency  to  realise  what  we  read  and  hear,  and  this 
tendency  lies  at  the  bottom  of  all  intellectual  enjoyment,  and  the 
pleasure  which  we  derive  from  the  fine  arts. 

To  make  a  fact,  to  make  a  vivid  defined  whole,  to  raise  an  intellcctunl  fact, 
though  it  be  out  of  fiction,  out  of  imagined  not  out  of  natural  existences,  to  ^ive 
a  distinct  form  to  the  vague,  to  combine  new  and  unknoii^oi  conceptions  into  one 
whole,  one  fact  which  the  mind  can  grasp  as  a  reality — in  a  word,  to  indiviilunlise 
— this  is  poetry,  painting,  statuary-,  music.  .  .  .  The  fact  itself  which  i>oclry 
or  painting  presents  to  the  mind  may  be  a  false  fact,  a  matter  of  fiction  ;  yet  tlie 
poet  or  painter  individualises  his  fiction,  makes  his  wildest  fancies  intellectual 
truths  to  the  human  mind  by  the  distinct  impressions  of  them  which  his  genius 
has  the  power  of  giving. 

And,  of  course,  it  is  plain  to  all  that  the  veneration  or  love  for 
relics  or  memorials  of  past  events  or  persons,  for  portraits,  images, 
autographs,  books,  bones,  clothes,  and  hair  is  founded  on  this  same 
element  in  the  constitution  of  the  human  mind.  And  why  ?.  Because 
the  **  relic  "  helps  to  realise  the  idea,  to  individualise  the  conception  ;. 
and  this  individualisation  is,  from  the  tendency  of  the  human  mind 
towards  intellectual  truth,  the  highest  of  oiu-  mental  gratifications. 

Dr.  Johnson,  if  any  one,  was  a  sound  and  sober-minded  person, 
and  a  man  in  whom  plain  practical  common  sense  was  at  least  as 
conspicuous  as  any  gifts  of  poetry  or  romance.  And  yet  we  have  it 
recorded  of  him  that  when  on  his  first  journey  to  London,  in  search 
of  his  daily  bread  as  a  writer  for  the  press,  he  came  in  sight  of  St. 
John's  Gate,  at  Clerk enwell,  that  venerable  reh'c  of  other  days, 
where  Edmund  Cave  then  edited  and  published  the  Gentleman  s 


55^  The  Gentlcffmns  Magazine. 

Magazine,  he  stood  and  gazed  in  wonder  and  awe  at  the  abode  of 
Sylvanus  Uruax.  And  why?  Not  merely  because  Edmund  Cave 
lived  in  it,  but  on  account  of  its  old  historic  associations,  which 
helped  him  to  realise  the  past.  And  it  is  in  a  like  spirit  that,  on 
his  visit  to  lona  and  the  rest  of  the  Hebrides,  he  penned  that  famous 
and  oft-quoted  paragraph,  which  shows  that  he  understood  aright  the 
l)ilgrim  idea  : — 

W'c  were  now  treadinj^  that  illustrious  island  which  was  once  the  luminary  of 
the  Caledonian  regions,  whence  savage  clans  and  roving  barbarians  derived  the 
benefits  of  knowledge  and  the  blessings  of  religion.  To  abstract  the  mind  from 
all  local  emotion  would  be  impossible  if  it  were  endeavoured,  and  would  be  foolish 
if  it  were  possible.  Whatever  withdraws  us  from  the  power  of  our  senses,  what- 
ever makes  the  past,  the  distant,  or  the  future  predominate  over  the  present 
advances  us  in  the  dignity  of  thinking  beings.  Far  from  me  and  my  friends  be 
such  frigid  philosophy  as  may  conduct  us,  unmoved  or  indifferent,  over  any  ground 
which  has  been  dignified  by  wisdom,  by  bravery,  or  by  virtue.  That  man  is  little 
to  be  envied  whose  patriotism  would  not  gain  force  upon  the  plains  of  Mara- 
thon, or  whose  piety  would  not  grow  warmer  among  the  ruins  of  lona. 

It  is  clear,  then,  that  the  mental  effort  by  which  men  attach  a  special 
sanctity  to  particular  places  is  an  instinct  implanted  very  deeply  in 
human  nature,  and  that  it  is  idle  to  ignore  it     It  may  have  been 
abused,  like  everything  else  that  is  good ;  it  may  have  been  made 
subservient  to  superstition ;  but  that  is  no  reason  for  fighting  against 
it.     Abusus  non  tolUt  usiim.     Among  the  most  popular  of  books  of 
fact  are  such  works  as  "  Haunts  and  Homes  of  our  Great  Poets,"  and 
"  Pilgrimages  to  English  Shrines ;"  and  though  the  words  "Pilgrimage" 
and  '*  Shrine  "  in  such  a  title  must  not  be  construed  too  closely,  it  must 
be  allowed  that  the  popularity  of  such  titles  is  in  itself  a  testimony  to 
the  pilgrim  idea  as  natural,  and  therefore  true.  As  for  relics  and  relic 
worship,  it  is  a  fact  that,  like  articles  of  domestic  consumption,  auto- 
grai)h  letters  will  fetch  nowadays  at  sales  from  fifty  to  a  hundred  per 
cent,  more  than  they  did  a  (quarter  of  a  century  since  ;  and  that  most 
popular  and  most  permanent  of  our  metropolitan  places  of  amuse- 
ment, Mdme.  Tussaud's  exhibition  of  wax-work  in  Baker  Street,  what 
is  it  after  all  but,  as  the  Church  Times  calls  it,  a  "gigantic  Reliquary"  ? 
Few  places  in  England,  we  fancy,  are  more  dear  to  Protestants  than 
Wycliffe's  church  and  parsonage  at  Lutterworth,where  his  chair  is  kept 
and  reverenced  with  pious  affection  by  others  than  "  bigoted  Catho- 
lics ;''  or  the  south-eastern  comer  of  Sm'thfield,  where  the  Catholics 
burnt  the  Protestants  at  the  stake,  and,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  the 
latter  gave  the  former  many  "  Rolands  for  their  Olivers ;"  or  the  gaol 
at  Bedford,  where  John  Bunyan  wrote  his   "Pilgrim's  Progress." 
Indeed,  with  regard  to  John  Bunyan.  so  high  does  he  stand  in  the 


Stray  Thoughts  on  Pilgrimages.  553 

odour  of  modern  sanctity  that,  if  we  remember  aright,  not  many  years 
ago,  when  a  chair  said  once  to  have  belonged  to  him  was  publicly 
presented  to  Lord  Shaftesbury,  the  noble  earl,  instead  of  occupying 
it  as  chairman  of  the  meeting,  as  had  been  arranged,  protested  that 
he  was  not  worthy  to  sit  in  the  seat  of  so  holy  a  man,  and  contented 
himself  with  a  plain  cane-bottomed  seat. 

It  is,  therefore,  quite  idle  to  suppose  that  the  veneration  of  relics 
or  the  custom  of  making  pilgrimages  will  cease ;  and  indeed  it  is 
asserted  by  foreign  travellers  that  although  this  custom  has  but  re- 
cently been  revived  in  France, .  it  has  never  fallen  into  desuetude  in 
Germany,  where  the  shrine  of  our  Lady  of  Einsiedlein  has  been  a  con- 
stant object  of  veneration  and  of  devotional  visits  from  the  middle 
ages  down  to  the  reign  of  Bismarck.  Among  the  most  celebrated  of 
the  many  visitors  of  late  years  to  the  great  Monastery  of  Monte 
Cassino,  in  Italy,  the  ancient  home  of  the  great  Order  of  St.  Bene- 
dict, are  two  Protestants,  each  of  note  in  his  way.  The  one  is  Ernest 
Kenan,  who  has  inscribed  in  the  visitors*  book  his  signature  with  the 
touching  words,  "  One  thing  is  necessary,  and  Mary  hath  chosen  the 
good  part :"  while  the  other,  who  has  contented  himself  with  writing 
a  single  word  "  Floreat,"  has  added  his  autograph  below, — **  W.  E. 

(iLADSTONE." 

It  is  clear,  then,  that  neither  the  edicts  of  Prince  Bismarck  nor 
those  of  Victor  Emmanuel  will  be  able  to  put  down  pilgrimages, 
though  they  may  temporarily  repress  certain  forms  of  this  common  ten- 
dency in  Ciermany  and  in  Italy.  It  would  be  a  more  statesmanlike 
course,  and  one  showing  a  more  intimate  acquaintance  with  human 
nature,  if  either  the  one  or  the  other  of  those  exalted  personages 
would  acknowledge  the  principle,  and  attempt  to  turn  its  outward 
demonstration  into  sound  and  safe  channels.  Neither  steam,  nor 
water,  nor  air,  can  be  safely  pent  up  too  closely.  The  power  of 
association  is  undeniably  great ;  it  sways  and  will  sway  the  human 
mind,  whether  our  rulers  will  or  no ;  and  there  is  no  reason  why  it 
should  not  be  so  regulated  as  to  be  turned  to  good  account  in  the 
interests  of  religion.  If,  as  Sir  Walter  Scott  says,  tlie  man  is  a 
"  wretch  "  and  "  dead  of  soul "  who  has  not  "  burned  "  with  the  fire 
of  patriotism  on  "  returning  to  his  native  land  "  from  foreign  travel, 
the  same  may  be  said  without  fear  of  those  who  could  visit  Jerusalem 
or  Rome  **  indifferent  and  unmoved  ;"  and  truly  contemptible  must 
be  the  Christian — whether  Catholic  or  Protestant — who  experiences 
no  elevation  of  soul,  no  poetical  enthusiasm,  from  the  contemplation 
of  any  scene,  either  abroad  or  at  home,  where  the  Christian  Cross 

has  won  any  of  its  notable  triumphs. 

Vol.  XI.,  N.S.  1873.  o  o 


Among  the  Kabyles. 

BY  EDWARD  HENRY  VIZETELLY. 

• 

|HAT  is  generally  kno^vn  as  Kabylia,  the  population  of 
which  is  supposed  to  be  descended  from  the  original 
inhabitants  of  Northern  Africa,  or  Barbaiy,  instead  of 
being  mere  conquerors  of  the  soil,  like  the  Arabs  and 
Turks,  is  that  portion  of  the  French  colony  which  lies  in  the  north- 
eastern comer  of  the  province  of  Algiers,  and  which  was  the  principal 
theatre  of  the  last  insurrection.  Kabylia  is  divided  into  two  distinct 
parts,  one  of  which  comprises  the  lower  portion  of  the  Oued  Sahel, 
and  may  be  called  the  Kabylia  of  Bougie ;  while  the  other,  bounding 
it  on  the  western  side,  and  separated  from  it  by  the  high  mountain 
range  of  Djurjura,  extends  as  far  as  the  col  of  the  Beni-Aicha,  only 
thirty  miles  from  Algiers,  and  forms  the  sub-division  of  Dellys.  Both 
speak  the  same  language — a  Berber  dialect — build  villages,  cultivate 
the  olive  and  the  fig,  grow  a  littie  barley,  and  have  many  habits  and 
customs  in  common.  Nevertheless,  their  local  administration  is 
totally  different.  The  Kabylia  of  Bougie  has  been  frequently  invaded, 
notably  by  the  Turks,  who  imposed  upon  the  conquered  the  orthodox 
system  oi  cadis.  The  Kabylia  of  Djurjura,  or  the  Grande  KabylU, 
as  the  French  style  it,  on  the  contrary,  never  abdicated  its  indepen- 
dence until  1867.  Entrenched  in  their  native  villages,  situated 
among  savage  and  almost  inaccessible  mountains,  its  inhabitants 
saw  one  army  of  invaders  after  another  arrested  on  the  plains  below 
them,  powerless  to  penetrate  this  great  range.  The  French  conquered 
them,  but  respected  their  democratic  institutions. 

Thus  every  village  in  the  Grande  Kabylicy  although  attached  to  its 
tribe  by  the  bonds  of  a  common  origin,  preserves  its  entire  liberty  of 
action,  and  forms  a  sort  of  political  and  administrative  microcosm. 
The  executive  power  is  vested  in  the  djemda,  or  assembly,  which  is 
composed  of  an  amtn,  or  president,  who  is  elected  annually  by  the 
entire  djenida ;  an  otikil^  or  financial  agent ;  dahmans  and  euquctls^  or 
coimsellors.  Each  village  is  divided  into  a  certain  number  oikharoubas. 
A  kharouba  comprises  all  the  houses  of  a  family,  and  each  kharouba 
is  represented  in  the  djemda  by  a  dahman.  The  ettquals^  or  coun* 
sellors,  are  usually  chosen  amongst  men  renowned  for  their  wisdom 
and  experience,  the  number  being  in  proportion  to  the  population  of 


A  nwng  the  Kabyles .  555 

the  village,  each  kharouba  naming  one  or  more  counsellors  according 
to  its  numerical  importance.  The  amin^  with  the  exception  of  the 
fines  he  imposes,  according  to  the  laws  laid  down  in  the  Kanoun — a 
book  of  laws — can  take  nothing  upon  himself;  as  chief  of  the  execu- 
tive power  he  is  the  arm  of  the  djtmda,  but  he  is  obliged  to  consult 
it  upon  every  subject.  The  oukil  keeps  the  financial  register  of  the 
village,  and  inscribes  in  it  all  the  receipts  and  outlays  in  the 
presence  of  the  djemda^  by  whom  his  accounts  are  controlled.  The 
da/imans  help  the  amin^  and  are  responsible  to  the  djemda  for  the 
execution  of  its  decisions. 

The  djemda  meets  once  a  week,  generally  every  Friday,  and  holds 
extraordinary  sittings  when  circumstances  render  them  necessary.  It 
takes  cognisance  of  all  questions,  judges  without  appeal,  and  executes 
its  own  judgments.  The  sittings  of  the  djemda,  like  meetings  ot  that 
description  in  Europe,  are  often  noisy,  but  there  is  never  any  kind  of 
confusion,  as  the  judicial  and  administrative  power  is  defined  by  the 
Kanoun,  It  administers  justice  by  applying  the  rules  traced  by  the 
eurf  and  ada — that  is  to  say,  by  custom — and  these  are  often  as 
difierent  from  those  of  the  Koran  as  the  Kabyle  is  from  the  Arab. 

WTiat  are  called  cofs  (unions),  or  parties  which  divide  each  village, 
each  tribe,  and  even  each  confederation,  were  very  common  among 
the  Kabyles.     They  do  not  represent  political  parties  as  in  European 
nations,  and  do  not  aspire  to  maintain  or  modify  any  particular  form 
of  government     They  originated  before  the  French  conquest  in  the 
necessity  for  mutual  protection,  and  to  guard  the  rights  of  an  op- 
pressed minority  against  the  violence  of  a  more  powerful  majority. 
The  cof  lent  its  support  to  such  of  its  members  as  found  themselves 
the  victims  of  an  injustice,  and  if  it  could  not  obtain  reparation,  or 
a  peaceful  solution  of  the  difierence,  it  had  recourse  to  force.     La 
parole  fut  a  lapoudre,  and  civil  war  broke  out  with  all  its  fury.    Com- 
mencing in  one   village,  it  often  extended  to    several  tribes,  and 
only  ceased    on  the  intervention  of  Marabouts,   who,   being   the 
descendants  of  reputed  saints,  acquired  by  their  birth  and  neutrality 
an  influence  which  they  employed  in  restoring  peace.  *  The  French 
conquest,  by  substituting  a  regular  form  of  government  for  this  party 
anarchy,  and  by  suppressing  the  appeal  to  arms,  destroyed 'the  power 
of  the  cofs  at  a  single  blow,  as  well  as  a  great  deal  of  the  influence 
of  the  Marabouts,  which  was  already  weakened  by  the  very  fact  of 
the  conquest.     They  it  was  who  had  preached  the  Holy  War,  and 
had  promised  victory  in  the  name  of  the  saints  whose  bodies  lay 
buried  in  their  mountains.     At  the  moment  of  danger  the  most 

ardent  of   these   Marabouts  sought    $afet>'  in    concealment;  the 

002 


556  The  Gentleman  s  Magazitu. 

sacrilegious  foot  of  the  infidel  invaded  the  tombs  of  their  most 
venerated  saints,  the  utter  powerlessness  of  the  Marabouts  vnxs^ 
clearly  demonstrated,  and  their  influence  almost  entirely  vanished. 

The  association  or  religious  order  of  Sidi-Mahommed-bennabd-er- 
Rahman-bou-Koberein,  or  **  The  I  .ord  of  the  two  tombs,"  speedily 
began,  however,  to  revive  the  si)irit  of  Kabylc  independence.  The 
discontented,  the  eager  and  restless  spirits,  accustomed  to  the  con- 
tentions of  the  co/Sy  and  seeking  therein  a  new  field  for  their  activit}', 
rallied  themselves  to  an  institution  which  not  only  flattered  their 
pride,  but  made  them  the  equals  of  the  Marabouts,  and  gave  them 
,1  chance  to  rise  to  the  highest  rank,  in  spite  of  their  ignorance  and 
obscure  birth.  The  Marabouts  constituted  a  caste  or  aristocracy, 
while  the  order  of  Sidi-Mahommed  was  essentially  of  a  levelling 
nature,  and  admirably  suited  the  democratic  spirit  of  the  Kabyles. 
It  was,  moreover,  a  national  order,  its  founder  having  been  bom  a 
century  before  in  their  mountains.  The  statutes  were  framed  so  as 
to  impose  the  most  absolute  obedience  on  the  brethren  (Khouans). 
They  sought  to  introduce  mysticism  and  hallucinations  by  ordaining 
the  incessant  repetition  of  the  same  formula,  and  made  the  members 
the  docile  instruments  of  their  chiefs'  will.  The  affiliated  soon  began 
to  be  reckoned  by  thousands,  in  the  vicinity  of  Dellys  and  the  Oued 
Sahel,  where  the  present  chief  of  the  order,  Sidi-el-Haj-Amezeian-el- 
Haddad,  resided.  He  is  now  an  old  man  verging  on  eighty  years  of 
age,  and  almost  paralysed,  but  one  of  his  sons,  Si-Azeez,  an  intelli- 
gent, ambitious,  and  resolute  man,  seems  to  be  recognised  as  his 
father's  representative.  This  society  was  all  the  more  dangerous  to 
the  French  as  its  members,  obeying  blindly  a  concerted  signal,  could 
rise  at  any  moment  without  any  precursory  signs  having  revealed  the 
peril.     Such  was  the  case  in  the  last  Kabyle  insurrection. 

There  is  a  ver}'  curious  custom  prevalent  among  the  Kabyles  called 
the  anaya,  which  they  all  equally  respect.  The  apiaya  is  both  a  passport 
and  a  safe-conduct,  with  this  difference,  that  instead  of  its  being  de- 
livered by  the  legal  authority  of  any  constituted  power,  every  Kabyle 
has  the  right  to  give  it.  Not  only  is  the  foreigner  or  stranger  who 
travels  in  Kabylia  under  the  protection  of  the  anaya,  free  from  violence 
during  his  journey,  but  he  is  also  temporarily  able  to  brave  the 
vengeance  of  his  enemies  or  the  penalty  due  for  an  anterior  crime. 
The  Kabyles  rarely  confer  it  on  people  who  are  unknown  to  them  ; 
they  only  give  it  once  to  a  fugitive ;  they  regard  it  as  worthless  if  it 
has  been  sold,  and  any  one  who  obtains  it  by  stratagem  incurs 
the  penalty  of  death.  In  order  to  prevent  fraud,  the  anaya  is 
usually  made  known  by   an    ostensible  sign.     The  person  iriio 


A  7}toug  the  Kabyles.  557 

confers  it  delivers  at  the  same  time,  and  as  an  extra  guarantee,  an 
object  well  known  to  belong  to  him,  such  as  a  gun  or  a  stick.  Some- 
times he  sends  one  of  his  servants,  or  even  accompanies  his  protege 
himself.  The  value  of  the  anaya  is  in  proportion  to  the  quality  of 
the  person  who  gives  it.  Coming  from  a  Kabyle  of  an  inferior  posi- 
tion, it  will  be  respected  in  his  village  and  in  the  immediate  neigh- 
bourhood; but  if  it  is  givxn  by  a  man  who  is  esteemed  in  an  adjoining 
tribe,  it  will  be  renewed  by  a  friend,  who  will  substitute  his  own  for 
it,  and  so  on  until  the  traveller  reaches  the  end  of  his  journey.  If 
it  is  given  by  a  Marabout,  its  value  is  unlimited.  Wliile  a  Kabyle 
chief  can  only  give  his  protection  within  the  circle  of  his  own  govern- 
ment, the  safe-conduct  of  a  Marabout  reaches  even  to  places  where 
his  name  is  unknown.  Whoever  is  the  bearer  of  it  can  travel  all 
through  Kabylia  without  fear  of  molestation,  whatever  may  be  the 
number  of  his  enemies  or  the  nature  of  their  grievances  against  him. 
He  will  only  have  to  present  himself  to  the  Marabouts  of  the  different 
tribes,  and  each  will  hasten  to  do  honour  to  the  anaya  of  the  pre- 
ceding Marabout,  and  replace  it  by  his  own.  A  Kabyle  has  nothing 
so  much  at  heart  as  the  inviolability  of  his  anaya.  In  giving  it  he 
engages  not  only  his  own  personal  honour  but  also  that  of  his  relatives, 
his  friends,  his  village,  and,  in  fact,  the  tribe  to  which  he  belongs. 
A  man  who  would  not  be  able  to  find  a  friend  to  aid  him  in  avenging 
himself  for  a  personal  insult,  could  cause  the  entire  population  of  his 
village  to  rise  if  it  was  a  question  of  his  anaya  being  disrespected.  It 
is  extremely  rare  that  that  ever  happens,  but  tradition  has,  never- 
theless, preserved  to  posterity  a  memorable  example  of  it.  As  the 
story  runs,  a  friend  of  a  Zouaoui*  presented  himself  one  day  at  his 
house  and  asked  for  the  anaya.  In  the  master's  absence,  the  wife, 
who  was  rather  embarrassed,  gave  the  fugitive  a  dog  which  was  well 
known  in  that  part  of  the  countr}-.  Shortly  after  he  had  left,  the  dog, 
covered  with  blood,  returned  alone.  The  inhabitants  of  the  village 
assembled,  and  following  the  traces  of  the  animal,  discovered  the 
traveller's  body.  They  declared  war  to  the  tribe  upon  whose  ter- 
ritory the  crime  had  been  committed ;  a  great  deal  of  blood  was 
shed,  and  the  village  which  was  compromised  in  the  quarrel  bears 
even  to  this  day  the  name  of  Dacheret-el-Kelba^  "  The  village  of  the 
dog."  The  anaya  is  often  given  to  a  person  in  great  distress  who 
invokes  the  protection  of  the  first  Kabyle  he  happens  to  meet  He 
neither  knows  him  nor  is  he  known  ;  nevertheless,  his  request  will  be 
rarely  refused.     The  mountaineer,  delighted  at  being  able  to  exercise 

*  Zouaoui,    The  name  of  a  Kabyle  tribe. 


558  The  Gentlei}ians  Magazine. 

his  patronage,  willingly  accords  his  anaya.  The  women  possess  the 
same  privilege,  and,  being  naturally  compassionate,  seldom  refuse  to 
make  use  of  it.  We  have  the  example  of  a  woman  who  saw  her  hus- 
bands  murderer  being  put  to  death  by  her  brothers.  The  unfortunate 
wretch,  who  had  fallen  to  the  ground,  and  was  endeavouring  to  rise, 
suddenly  seized  her  by  the  foot  and  cried,  "  I  claim  your  afiaya  /" 
The  widow  threw  her  veil  over  him,  and  his  assailants  stayed  their 
blows. 

The  Kabyle  is  of  the  middle  height  j  he  has  broad  shoulders  and  a 
powerful  muscular-looking  body.  His  physiognomy,  unlike  that  of  the 
conquering  races  who  invaded  Northern  Africa  from  Arabia,  is 
Germanic.  His  head  is  large,  his  face  square,  his  forehead  high,  his 
nose  and  lips  thick,  his  eyes  blue,  his  hair  often  red,  and  his  com- 
plexion much  fairer  than  that  of  the  Arabs.  The  Arabs  and  the 
Kabyles  have  a  profound  hatred  for  each  other.  The  contempt  of  the 
hard-working  mountaineer  for  the  inhabitant  of  the  plain  can  only  be 
compared  to  the  proud  disdain  of  the  cavalier  of  the  tent  for  the  man 
who  lives  in  a  stone  house.  This,  in  fact,  is  the  characteristic 
difference  which  exists  between  the  two  races.  The  Arab's  indolent 
character  causes  him  to  love  a  wandering  and  adventuresome  life^ 
while  the  Kabyle  on  the  other  hand  leans  towards  his  domestic  hearth, 
his  house,  and  his  village.  During  three  parts  of  the  year  he  cul 
vates  his  land — sows  and  reaps ;  and  in  winter,  turning  blacksmith 
*and  carpenter,  he  makes  the  tools  which  he  stands  in  need  of.  In 
order  to  obtain  his  scanty  crops  he  is  often  obliged  to  transport  earth 
from  the  plain  to  the  summit  of  his  hills.  Being  endowed  with  extra- 
ordinary intelligence  he  is  efficient  in  almost  every  industry  that  is 
necessarv  to  his  existence.  He  builds  his  own  house,  makes  his 
pottery  ware,  his  linen,  the  woollen  cloth  for  his  burnous,  his  oil- 
mills  and  presses,  the  plaited  grass  baskets  which  his  mule  or  donkey 
carries,  his  roj)c  and  mats,  his  large  plaited  grass  hat,  his  plough,  his 
firearms  and  knives,  powder,  bullets,  and  in  fact  everything  that  he 
reriuires.  The  inhabitants  of  the  village  Ait-el- Hassen  are  even  very 
expert  in  the  manufacture  of  counterfeit  coin,  and  several  specimens 
of  their  skill  are  exhibited  in  the  museum  at  Algiers.  The  Kabyle  is 
used  to  work  and  even  to  fatigue  from  his  earliest  youth.  Clothed  in 
a  coarse  linen  shirt,  with  his  head  exposed  to  the  rays  of  a  broiling 
sun,  he  labours  from  mom  to  night,  and  scrapes  together  by  the  sweat 
of  his  brow  the  modest  sum  that  will  procure  him  a  house,  a  gun,  a 
wife,  and  a  donkey.  Very  few  of  them  are  able  either  to  read  or 
write.  Hiose  who  have  been  educated  are  treated  with  the  greatest 
respect  in  their  tribe,  and  may  easily  be  recognised  by  the  reed  cases. 


Among  the  Kabyles.  559 

filled  with  pens,  which  they  wear  in  their  belts.  These  pens  are 
called  kalams^  and  are  made  with  ordinary  reeds  (arundo  danax)^ 
each  of  which  gives  a  number  of  pens  in  proportion  to  its  size.  When 
the  kalams  have  been  sharpened  on  an  incline,  which  varies  accord- 
ing to  the  kind  of  writing  for  which  they  are  intended,  they  are  split 
like  our  own  pens,  and  a  groove  is  made  to  allow  the  ink  to  run  more 
freely.  Ibn-el-Bawwab,  a  celebrated  Arab  caligraphist  and  poet,  has 
left  a  curious  manuscript,  addressed  to  students  in  caligraphy.  The 
following  is  a  translation  of  it : — 

O  you  who  Mrish  to  be  perfect  in  the  art  of  writing,  and  who  are  ambitiooB  of 

excelling  in  caligraphy, 
If  you  are  sincere  in  your  desire,  and  firm  in  your  resolution,  pray  the  Prophet  to 

make  your  task  easy. 
First  of  all  select  straight  and  strong  kalams,  suitable  for  produdng  beotttifil 

writing. 
When  you  cut  them,  choose  those  of  a  middle  size. 

Examine  the  two  ends,  and  sharpen  that  which  is  the  thinnest  and  most  jdimt. 
Make  the  slit  exactly  in  the  centre,  so  that  the  nibs  are  equal  in  size. 
When  you  have  performed  this  cleverly,  and  like  a  man  who  knows  his  bttslness. 
Devote  all  your  attention  to  the  shape,  for  everything  depends  upon  that. 
Then  place  in  your  inkstand  soot  mixed  with  vinaigre  or  veijuice. 
Add  pounded  red  chalk  mixed  with  yellow  arsenic  and  camphor. 
When  this  mixture  has  properly  fermented,  take  white  paper  soil  to  the  touch. 
Apply  yourself  patiently  and  without  intermission  to  copy  exercises ;  patience  is 

the  best  means  of  attaining  the  end  to  which  you  aspire. 
Let  your  hands  and  your  fingers  be  devoted  only  to  writing  useful  things,  that  yoa 

will  leave  behind  you  when  you  quit  this  abode  of  illusion. 
For  to-morrow,  when  the  register  of  man's  actions  is  opened  and  placed  before  fafaDy 

he  will  find  a  record  of  everything  he  has  done  during  his  lifetime. 

The  Kabyles  know  very  little  of  medicine.  If  one  of  them  falls  ill, 
he  takes  the  juice  of  some  plant ;  if  he  is  wounded  he  makes  a  paste 
of  sulphur,  resin,  and  olive  oil,  and  applies  it  to  his  wound ;  these 
and  a  leather  pouch,  containing  verses  from  the  Koran  or  cettftin 
cabalistic  signs,  which  they  wear  round  their  necks,  are  thfl'ofily 
remedies  that  they  ever  think  of  using.  Their  chief  nourislitnent 
consists  of  a  kind  of  hard  cake  baked  upon  a  clay  plate;  ndlk, 
honey,  and  figs  soaked  in  oil.  Their  luxuries  are  roast  meat  and 
couscoussou.  This  favourite  dish  is  made  in  an  earthenware  atensil 
standing  upon  legs,  which  is  similar  to  our  ordinary  coffee-pot  in 
principle  and  form,  although  much  larger  in  diameter.  A  quantity  of 
olive  oil,  fat,  vegetables,  and  small  pieces  of  meat  or  fowl  seasoned' 
with  herbs  and  spices,  are  placed  in  the  lower  half  of  the  pot,  while 
the  couscoussouy  which  consists  of  grains  of  com  steeped  in  water,  then 
crushed  with  a  stone,  and  finally  exposed  to  the  sun  to  dry,  is  pot  inta 
the  upper  division,  which  is  perforated  with  small  holes  at  the  bottom. 


560  The  Genllcmaiis  Magazine. 

The  utensil  is  then  placed  over  a  slow  fire,  and  the  steam  which  rises 
from  the  various  ingredients  in  the  lower  half  of  the  pot  gradually 
impregnates  the  couscotissou.  When  the  latter  is  sufficiently  cooked 
it  is  turned  into  a  wooden  bowl  and  the  meat  placed  on  the  top. 

The  principal  wealth  of  the  Kabyles  lies  in  the  produce  of  the  olive 
trees,  which  abound  in  Kabylia.  At  Bougie,  in  one  year,  they  sold 
as  much  as  five  million  litres  of  oil.  Unfortunately,  the  machinery 
which  they  use  for  obtaining  the  juice  of  the  fruit  is  so  primitive  that 
they  lose  more  than  two-thirds  of  it  in  the  process,  and  produce  oil 
which  is  useless  for  the  table.  Out  of  a  sCia^  or  about  ninety  pounds 
of  olives,  they  extract  only  three  litres  of  oil ;  while  an  ordinar)' 
European  mill  gives  eight  or  nine  litres.  They  first  of  all  crush 
the  olives  under  a  raill-stone,  which  is  turned  either  by  women  or  a 
mill :  the  pulp  is  then  put  into  esparto  sacks,  and  pressed  in  a 
roughly  constnictcd  hand- press.  In  both  cases  an  earthenware  jar  is 
placed  beneath  the  press  to  receive  the  oil.  Notwithstanding  the 
ordinary  wretched  api)carance  of  the  Kabyle,  he  is  generally  either 
rich,  or,  at  all  events,  in  easy  circumstances,  fi-om  the  simple  fact  of 
his  having  no  means  of  spending  his  money.  He  spends  very  little 
on  his  toilette,  for  the  whole  of  his  garments,  when  new,  could  be 
had  for  a  little  over  a  pound.  His  burnous  costs  him  sixteen  shillings  ; 
his  shoes,  when  he  has  any,  two  shillings ;  his  shirt,  one  and  eight- 
pence;  and  his  chachia  and  white  skull-cap,  one  and  eightpence.  Add 
to  these  a  long  knife,  a  chain  of  beads  to  say  his  prayers  with,  a 
leather  pouch  for  his  money,  and  you  have  a  Kabyle's  every-day 
costume.  His  greatest  outlay  during  his  whole  life  is  when  he  buys 
his  wife. 

Certain  writers  pretend  that  the  Kabyle  has  generally  but  one 
wife,  and  that  she  docs  not  occupy  the  inferior  pK)sition  of  an  Arab 
woman ;  but  from  personal  observation,  and  from  what  may  be  learnt 
from  people  who  have  inhabited  Kabylia  for  years,  and  have 
been  in  daily  intercourse  with  the  natives,  it  is  easy  to  see  that 
although  the  woman's  social  condition  is  better  in  Kabylia  than  in 
other  parts  of  Algeria  it  is  by  no  means  enviable ;  for  between  the 
mule  and  the  woman  there  is  but  little  difference.  The  wife  is  pur- 
chased from  her  family,  often  when  only  twelve  or  thirteen  years  of 
age,  for  a  sum  which  varies  from  a  hundred  francs  upwards,  in  exactly 
the  same  manner  as  the  Arab  woman ;  and  when  she  becomes  old 
and  ugly  or  merely  fanec^  her  husband,  if  he  is  rich  enough,  buys 
another,  and  the  old  love  is  then  considered  as  a  domestic  servant 
and  sent  out  to  work  in  the  fields.  To  be  received  at  the  house  of  a 
Kabyle  a  man  must  be  a  bosom  friend  of  long  standing,  for  the 


A  mong  the  Kabyles.  56 1 

Kabyle,  like  all  Mussulmans,  is  extremely  jealous  of  his  wife.  She 
should  never  speak  to  any  other  man  but  her  husband;  and  she 
should  avoid,  as  much  as  possible,  gazing  on  any  other.  The 
best,  and,  in  fact,  the  only  place  for  a  tourist  to  get  a  look  at 
Kabyle  women  is  at  the  well.  Thus  at  the  foot  of  the  peak  of 
Makouida — some  ten  miles  from  Tizi-Ouzou — on  the  summit  of 
which  is  the  village  of  the  same  name  and  some  old  Roman 
ruins,  they  may  be  seen  early  in  the  morning  and  at  sunset  toiling 
11  !>  and  down  the  hill  with  large  earthenware  pitchers  on.  their 
backs.  During  the  day  they  will  be  found  washing  their  linen  at  the 
brook,  which  is  shaded  by  fig  and  olive  trees.  Women  of  almost 
every  age  and  condition  may  be  seen  at  the  well ;  some  young  and 
pretty,  others  old  and  wrinkled.  Almost  all  are  tatooed  about 
the  face.  Many  of  the  pretty  ones  have  fair  skins — so  fair,  in  fact, 
that,  inasmuch  as  their  complexions  are  concerned,  they  might  be 
taken  for  Europeans.  They  have  piercing  black  eyes  with  long 
lashes  and  short  curly,  uncombed  coal-black  hair,  falling  in  clusters 
about  their  shoulders.  Their  sole  garment  in  summer  consists  of  a 
long  full-sleeved  chemise,  reaching  to  their  ankles  and  fastened  round 
their  waist  by  a  woollen  scarf.  They  wear  coloured  cotton  handker- 
chiefs and  ornaments  in  their  hair,  large  earrings,  and  rings  round 
ihcir  wTists  and  ankles.  They  have  generally  a  very  slovenly  appear- 
ance, and  both  women  and  children  among  the  poorer  classes  are 
rtvoltingly  dirty.  There  is  not  a  single  bath  in  the  whole  of  Kabylia 
of  Djurjura.  The  children  receive  very  little  care,  and  the  result  of  this 
neglect  is  diseases  of  the  eyes,  often  followed  by  complete  blindness. 
Cutaneous  maladies  and  even  hereditary  infections  are  transmitted 
from  generation  to  generation,  and  yet  the  women  are  good  mothers 
who  suckle  their  children  until  they  are  three  or  four  years  of  age, 
and  the  men  laborious  workmen  and  excellent  agriculturists. 

The  Kabyle  women  often  labour  in  the  fields  with  their  husbands. 
\\\  war-time,  if  work  calls  the  men  from  the  village  fortress,  the 
women  keep  watch,  and  at  the  least  sign  or  at  the  slightest  gathering 
in  the  plain  bring  the  arms  and  ammunition  and  excite  their  hus- 
bands against  the  enemy.  If  the  man  falls  wounded  the  woman 
dresses  his  wounds,  and  if  he  is  killed  she  takes  his  gun  and  often 
dies  in  avenging  him. 

Her  lover  sinks — she  sheds  no  ill-timed  tear  ; 

Her  chief  is  slain — she  fills  his  fatal  post ; 
Her  fellows  flee — she  checks  their  base  career ; 

The  foe  retires — she  heads  the  sallying  host. 

'I'he  Kabyle  villages,    which   are   exceedingly  picturesque    at    a 


562  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine, 

distance,  generally  on  account  of  their  position  and  die  hedges  of 
cactus  by  which  they  are  surrounded,  lose  considerably  on  a  near  view  ; 
for  they  are  usually  dirty  and  badly  built.  The  Kabyles,  like  the  Arabs, 
are  very  mysterious  in  their  way  of  living  on  account  of  their  wives. 
Thus  almost  all  their  habitations  are  preceded  by  a  courtyard^  sur- 
rounded by  walls,  which  is  entered  by  a  door  or  gate  resembling  a 
large  hurdle  placed  upon  one  of  its  ends.  Passing  through  the 
\\'icker-work  door\vay  you  generally  find  the  house  either  on  the  left 
or  right  It  is  built  of  large  round  stones  and  a  composition  of  mud 
and  clay ;  the  walls  are  very  thick  for  the  purpose  of  keeping  out  the 
heat,  and  have  no  windows.  The  roof  is  either  thatched  with  barley 
straw  or  made  of  branches  and  mud  covered  with  grass,  or  of  large 
roughly-fashioned  red  tiles.  The  interior  is  divided  into  two  parts 
by  a  mud  wall.  There  is,  however,  but  one  entrance  into  the  build- 
ing, through  which  both  the  live  stock  and  family  pass  into  the 
portion  reserved  to  the  latter.  The  cattle  are  then  driven  through  an 
opening  in  the  mud  partition  into  the  ddatn^  which  serves  both  as  a 
stable  and  a  cowshed,' where  sheep,  goats,  mules  and  donke)rs,  homed 
cattle,  and  sometimes  a  horse  are  huddled  together  at  night  time. 
The  (lounes,  or  living  room,  bears  more  resemblance  to  a  cellar  than 
anything  else,  for  it  is  perfectly  dark.  Round  the  walls  are  solid 
stone  benches,  less  than  a  yard  high  and  about  four  feet  broad,  upon 
which  the  inmates  squat  and  sleep  on  plaited  grass  mats,  which  they 
make  for  that  purpose.  Against  the  walls  are  a  certain  number  of 
large  earthen  jars  five  feet  high,  in  which  the  Kabyles  keep  their  corn. 
These  jars  are  made  by  the  women,  one  of  whom  stands  in  the 
middle  and  works  at  the  inside,  while  others  build  up  the  jar  on  the 
outside.  When  it  is  finished  the  woman  inside  is  lifted  out  and  the 
jar  is  placed  to  dry  in  the  sun  or  in  the  centre  of  a  slow  fire. 

The  scenery  in  Kabylia  is  magnificent.  An  artist  could  hardly 
mo\'e  a  hundred  yards  without  finding  half  a  dozen  subjects  for  his 
pencil.  It  would  be  worth  while  to  travel  a  long  way  if  only  to  pass 
along  the  road  from  Fort  National  to  Tizi-Ouzou,  which  winds 
down  the  hills  amidst  the  most  splendid  scenery  imaginable. 
Sometimes  the  precipice  is  on  the  right,  at  others  on  the  left,  and 
sometimes  on  either  side.  Eagles  fly  about  in  every  direction  ;  now 
hovering  high  up  in  the  sky,  and  then  suddenly  swooping  down 
among  the  trees.  At  every  turn  in  the  road  Kabyle  villages,  perched 
on  the  summit  of  lofty  hills,  in  what  looks  like  almost  inapproachable 
positions,  or  half  hidden  in  shady  groves  of  fig  and  olive  trees — sur- 
rounded by  thick  hedges  of  cactus  covered  wnth  yellow  blossom — 
at  the  bottom  of  deep  ravines,  where  herds  of  sheep,  goats,  and  small 


Among  the  Kabylcs.  563 

oxen  browse  on  the  green  but  somewhat  scanty  pasture.  At  times 
the  rugged,  rocky,  snow-capped  mountains  of  Djurjura  border  the 
view,  appearing  quite  close,  though  far  away ;  at  others  it  is  the  bare- 
looking  valley  of  Sebaou,  covered  with  yellow  barley,  with  the  wide- 
bedded  river,  half  dried  by  the  summer  sun,  winding  through  the 
plain. 

Travelling  in  Kabylia  is  not  expensive,  and  in  peace  time  it  is  not 
dangerous.  From  Algiers  to  Tizi-Ouzou  a  diligence  runs  at  the  rate 
of  2d.  a  mile,  and  there  the  colonists  are  in  daily  communication  with 
Fort  National.  At  this  last  place  a  mule  may  be  hired  with  a  guide 
at  the  rate  of  3s.  or  4s.  a  day,  and  in  ordinary  times  tourists  may 
cross  the  Djurjura  to  Aumale  in  perfect  safety,  or  make  excursions  of 
several  days  into  the  neighbouring  country. 


Zenobia  in  Captivity. 

OULD  I  had  perish'd,  nor  had  seen  this  day  ! 

Who  outlives  glory  lives  too  late ; 
Would  I  had  died,  that  never  men  should  say 
Fall'n  is  Zenobia  the  great ! 
Who  once  was  great,  but  now  is  thus  laid  low ; 

Her  glory  darken'd  like  the  blacken'd  sun, 
Captive  unto  her  baseborn  ruthless  foe, 

And  all  her  matchless  majesty  undone  : 
O  what  is  greatness  that  can  thus  be  brought 
Down  from  its  supereminence  to  naught ! 

O  brightest  gem  amid  the  golden  East, 

Fairest  among  dominions  fair, 
Greatest  of  all  where  great  was  e'en  the  least, 

In  every  splendour  rich  and  rare. 
And  ah,  how  happy,  happy,  too,  my  lot. 

How  blest  beyond  all  other  potentate 
From  east  to  west,  but  that  I  knew  it  not, 

And  only  saw  my  error  when  too  late ! 
Twas  too  much  blessing  brought  about  my  bane, 
As  roots  are  rotted  by  excess  of  rain. 

Yet  I  did  well — so  counsell'd  me  the  wise — 

Not  yielding  to  a  desi)ot*s  frown. 
But  hazarding  my  all  for  such  a  prize 

As,  won,  had  doubled  my  renown  j 
One  victory  more,  a  turn,  a  chance  of  fate, 

A  smile  of  fortune,  and  my  realm  had  been 
Above  the  ver}-  greatest  of  the  great, 

And  I  of  Rome,  as  of  Palmyra,  Queen  ! 
My  glory  Cleopatra's  had  outshone. 
Or  valiant  Dido's  on  her  self-raised  throne. 

And  yet  I  know  not,  I  who  now  survey 

All  things  through  clear  adversity ; 
Haply  it  had  been  better  every  way 

Had  I  not  dared  to  soar  so  high. 


Zenobia  nn  Captivity.  565 

Yet  who,  sovereign  of  such  transcendent  realm, 

With  love  of  all  its  subjects,  too,  endowed, 
Potent  each  rising  foe  to  overwhelm. 

Had  oiMi'd  a  mightier,  and  before  him  bow*d  ? 
There  is  no  medium  between  all  and  all. 
To  souls  like  mine,  and  nothing — hence  my  fall ! 

Lo,  the  sole  comfort  in  my  miser)'. 

Making  my  sad  heart  to  rejoice 
'Mid  all  this  depth  of  woe,  to  know  that  I 

Am  what  I  am  by  noble  choice  ! 
For  surely  it  is  glorious  thus  to  fall ; 

They  are  not  truly  great  who  can  remain 
Content  with  any  tittle  short  of  all 

Whatever  the  power  within  them  to  attain : 
Yea,  tho'  it  prove  less  worthy  than  it  seem'd, 
By  bold  endeavour  failure  is  redeemed. 

O  my  Palmyra,  city  of  my  pride, 

My  hope,  my  joy,  what  art  thou  now  ? 
Queen  of  the  desert,  O  most  beauteous  Bride, 
Down  at  whose  feet  great  Kings  did  bow 
And  pay  thee  willing  homage  as  thy  right ; 

Who  spread  through  all  the  regions  round  about 
A  glor}',  as  the  sun  around  his  might. 

While  all  eyes  turned  to  thee  from  realms  remote — 
By  love  encompassed,  as  the  vines  thereon 
Twine  them  all  round  about  fair  Lebanon  ! 

0  my  Palmyra,  city  of  my  love. 

As  greatest  in  thy  grandeur,  so 
Is  now  thy  downfall  over  and  above 

All  other  in  disastrous  woe. 
Was  ever  ruin  like  unto  thine  own, 

Made  all  of  splendour  so  complete  and  rare  > 
Inimitable  beauty  overthrown, 

Prostrate  magnificence  beyond  compare  ! 

1  lived  but  in  and  for  thy  glory — how 
Shall  I  then  lift  my  head,  thine  own  so  low? 

Oft-times  I  tremble  that  I  dare  to  live, 

Breathing  the  air  that  fed  thy  foes, 
And  help'd  the  bloody  tyrant  to  conceive 

Accomplishment  of  all  thy  woes, 


566  Tfu  GcfUUnians  Alagazine. 

I, est  the  same  curse  that  from  my  pride  of  place 
Hath  sunk  me  lower  than  the  slaves,  thus  low 

In  bonds,  a  sport  for  this  vile  populace, 
Should  to  perdition  drag  my  soul  also  ; 

Better  to  die,  and  dying  out  of  sight 

Leave  no  more  wake  than  swallows  in  their  flighL 

If  so  one  might  but  perish  from  the  earth, 

And  all  our  being  be  no  more 
Than  if  it  never  had  known  any  birth, 

Oblivion-buried  o'er  and  o'er ; 
But  the  chief  part  of  us,  our  deeds,  survive : 

Th^y  cannot  die,  and  cease  not  to  proclaim 
The  good  or  evil  of  our  heart  alive, 

Spreading  abroad  our  glory  or  our  shame  : 
Mortal  ne'er  lived  who  left  the  world,  I  ween, 
Just  all  in  all  as  though  he  had  not  been. 

Lives  not  Longinus  ? — shall  he  ever  die, 

Long  as  his  wisdom  may  endure  ? 
What  are  we  but  our  doing,  low  or  high. 

That  death  can  no  more  kill  than  cure  ? 
Long  after  on  the  mountains  dwells  the  glow. 

For  all  the  sun  went  down  at  eventide : 
And  yet,  ah  me,  to  feel  it  can  be  so ! 

O  my  Longinus,  would  thou  hadst  not  died: 
Dearer  than  ever  now  that  thou  art  dead — 
Yea,  rather  I  had  perished  in  thy  stead ! 

Ne'er  shall  I  gaze  upon  thy  visage  more, 

Devout  disciple  at  thy  feet. 
Hearkening  thy  words  of  wisdom  as  of  yore  ; 

Nor  hold  with  thee  communion  sweet 
In  those  fair  groves  where  oft  from  twilight  hour 

We  sat  and  conversed  far  into  the  night, 
Whilst  thou,  with  eloquent  resistless  power, 

Didst  teach  me  of  the  new  and  wondrous  light 
Uprisen  o'er  the  old,  to  supersede 
And  fill  creation  with  a  grander  creed. 

Alas,  alas !  far  from  me  fades  the  light, 
The  giver  of  the  light  withdrawn  ; 

Again  my  soul  relapses  into  night, 
That  all  but  kindled  into  dawn. 


Zenabia  in  Captivity.  567 

Yet,  inscient  of  the  day,  the  night  was  fair, 

Fair  as  the  day  to  eyes  that  knew  no  more, 
Till  gleamings  broke  athwart  it  unaware, 

Then  left  it  dark  that  was  not  so  before  : 
Yea,  almost  better  never  to  have  seen. 
Seeing  but  shadows  of  what  might  have  been 

Hush'd  are  the  voices  of  my  blissful  hours, 

O  voices  of  the  wise  and  good  ! 
Sad  and  deserted  are  those  peaceful  bowers. 

My  palace  one  vast  solitude. 
Still,  often  in  night-vision  I  am  there. 

Oblivious  of  the  dire  and  dreadful  time, 
And  all  about  my  favourite  haunts  repair, 

And  go  my  way  as  in  my  golden  prime, — 
Till  thou  dost  front  me  in  such  ghostly -wise, 
And  gaze  upon  me  with  sad  thoughtful  eyes  I 

Then  all  is  changed,  and  suddenly,  instead, 

In  woful  silence  side  by  side 
We  wander  as  the  dead  among  the  dead, 

'Mid  all  the  ruin  of  my  pride. 
Temples  and  groves  and  marble  palaces. 

The  homes  of  those  we  loved — or  rather  strive 
To  find  them  where  but  desolation  is, 

And  Death  alone  the  only  thing  alive  ; 
Till  at  the  sight  I  wake,  and  rend  my  hair. 
And  cry  out  to  the  gods  in  my  despair. 

Ah  me,  ah  me  !  what  pity  of  my  pain  ? 

They  heed  not,  though  an  Empress  calls ; 
They  cannot  bring  the  dead  to  life  again 

That  blacken  round  the  crumbled  walls. 
Not  all  their  might  for  ages  could  restore 

The  evil  wrought  by  man  as  in  a  breath ; 
Not  all  their  power  may  ever,  ever,  more 

Remove  from  me  this  curse  of  deathless  death  ; 
Zenobia's  downfall  and  Zenobia's  shame 
Are  henceforth  part  for  ever  of  her  name. 

Hereafter's  blushes  burn  upon  my  cheek, 

I  hearing  down  the  annals  flow 
The  voices  of  the  centuries  that  speak 

Of  all  my  ruin,  all  my  woe. 


568  The  Gefitlematis  Magazine. 

I  tingle,  head  to  foot,  with  all  the  scorn 

Of  all  the  infamy  of  all  the  years, 
Mock'd  by  the  generations  yet  unborn, 

Or  pitied  of,  more  hateful  than  their  sneers ! 
I  am  what  I  for  evermore  shall  be, 
Bearing  the  burden  of  futurity. 

The  air  is  foul  with  my  unburied  ^vrongs. 

And  poisons  all  my  soul  with  hate 
Of  him  they  curse  with  mutilated  tongues, 

Cause  of  their  being  and  their  fate. 
Hence  from  my  palace  prison  I  behold 

His  eagle  legions  at  their  revelry, 
And  hear  the  sound  of  voices  manifold. 

And  wonder  is  their  merriment  of  me  ? 
O  for  one  instant  of  my  power,  that  I 
Might  drown  my  shame  in  blood  of  them,  and  die  ! 

There  is  small  mercy  in  a  gilded  goad. 

And  here  within  this  princely  place 
Small  comfort,  tho*  vouchsafed  for  my  abode 

Out  of  Aurelian's  sovereign  grace. 
Can  I  forget  his  triumph  here  in  Rome  ? 

Ye  gods  !  ye  gods  !  suffer  him  not  to  live 
To  boast  his  greatness  of  me  overcome, 

Or  torture  me  with  bribes  now  to  forgive — 
Rather  in  some  great  horror  let  him  die. 
And  blot  his  name  out  of  humanity ! 

Yea,  what  compassion  or  what  mercy  shown, 

What  penitence  on  bended  knees, 
For  such  ills  heap'd  upon  me  could  atone. 

Or  any  one  the  least  of  these  ? 
Ring  not  their  shouts  exulting  in  mine  ears, 

Their  laughter  and  their  jests? — tho'  hard  to  bear. 
Less  hard  and  hateful  than  their  piteous  tears 

Whose  hearts  did  soften  in  them  unaware, 
Till,  coming  to  make  sport  of  me,  more  just 
They  wept,  when  they  beheld  me  in  the  dust 

How  that  dust  cleaves  to  me,  worse  than  their  mirth, 
Worse  than  tiieir  pity  or  their  scorn  : 

Me,  who  but  deign'd  to  look  upon  the  earth 
As  only  to  be  trampled  on  ! 


Zcnobia  in  Captivity.  569 

« 

O  how  it  seem'd  to  bum  beneath  my  feet, 

And  drag  them  down  and  hold  them  there, 
And  fill  my  being  with  tumultuous  heat 

Of  hate,  and  raging  fierceness  of  despair, 
Until  I  stood  as  on  a  floor  of  fire, 
Consuming,  yet  unable  to  expire  ! 

Farewell,  Palmyra  !     All  thy  pomp  is  o*cr, 

O  my  delight,  my  pride,  farewell ; 
As  thou  art,  thy  Zenobia  is — no  more  ! 

She  perish'd  when  thy  glory  fell. 
Henceforth,  like  unto  thee,  she  is  disgraced, 

And  dead  and  desolate  beneath  the  sun, 
l:lach  trace  of  beauty  ruthlessly  defaced, 
Ruin'd,  o'er-trampled,  utterly  undone  : 
Till  over  her  the  ages  shall  increase. 
And  shroud  her  ashes  in  the  dust  of  peace. 

Robert  Steggall. 


Vol.  XL,  N.S.  1873.  p  p 


Making  the  Worst  of  it, 

BY  JOHN  BAKER  HOPKINS. 


CllAPTKR  XXXII. 

LAURA,    LADV    SHAMVOCK. 

ji^^?^HOl'  shalt  not  covet  the  prosperity  of  the  wicked.  What 
:l*i[^r/     ignoble   covetousness  !     Have  you  not  sinned  in  your 

<^At\{^  heart  ?  You  arc  in  the  wilderness  that  divides  the  Land 
Lt^  of  IJondagc  from- Canaan,  and  you  long  for  the  flesh  pots 
(jf  l^gypi.  ^'ou  covet  the  fruit  of  vice.  You  would  be  vicious,  only 
you  lack  the  courage  to  brave  the  consetiuences. 

\'irtue  i)(M>rly  clad,  poorly  fed,  poorly  housed.  Virtue  with  a  \iah 
wan  fLice  toilin;:r  vear  after  vear  for  bare  existence. 

\'ice  gaily  attired  as  the  Queen  of  Sheba,  daintily  fed  and  lodged 
luxuriously.  Vice  smiling,  and  with  nought  to  do  but  to  sip,  to  quaff, 
lo  drain  the  cup  of  pleasure. 

Poor  \'irtue  is  sorely  tem[)ted  by  nourishing  Vice,  and  too  often 
yields  to  the  temptation. 

Could  you  foresee  the  end  of  the  guilty  career — if  you  knew  the 
weariness  and  the  suftering  of  the  vicious  even  in  the  hour  of  seemirg 
triumph,  you  would  not  be  tempted,  O  poor  Virtue  !  you  would  net 
envy  the  ])rosperity  of  the  wicked. 

I^aura,  who  now  calls  herself  Lady  Shamvock,  has  become  weary, 
restless,  and  anxious.  She  has  broken  a  front  tooth.  The  dentist 
assures  her  that  he  can  supi)ly  one  that  will  det  ydetection.  But  the 
im:ident  reminds  her  that  she  is  no  longer  young,  that  her  long  pre- 
served charms  are  fading  rapidly,  and  thit  soon  no  art  will  be  able  to 
veil  the  ravages  of  Time.  Laura  has  been  worried  about  money.  She 
has  by  coaxing  and  deception  got  enough  to  silence  the  clamour  of 
duns,  and  to  leave  her  a  balance  in  hand  ;  but  she  had  great  difficulty 
in  bleeding  her  fools,  and  it  was  evident  that  her  coaxing  and  her 
deception  were  fast  failing.  If  she  could  only  marry  and  lead  a  quiet 
and  i)eaceful  life !  She  could  marry  if  she  were  legally  free,  A 
young  man  with  no  brains,  but  of  good  family  and  rich,  was  in  love 
with  her.  The  silly  moth  proposed  that  Laura  should  sue  for  a 
divorce.     He  was  in  earnest  about  marrying  her,  and  I^ura  was 


Jl faking  the  Worst  of  it.  571 

vexed,  savagely  vexed  that  she  could  not  avail  herself  of  the  splendid 
opportunity.  She  was  lying  on  the  sofa  fuming  and  fretting  when 
Lord  Shamvock  was  announced. 

**  Well,  what  do  you  want  ?  I  have  your  note  telling  me  you 
cannot  get  the  money.     Why  do  you  come  here  ?  " 

Lord  Shamvock  sat  in  a  chair  and  did  not  reply. 

^•Arevou  ill?" 

The  appearance  of  his  lordship  was  a  sufficient  answer  to  the 
(juestion. 

'•  (iive  me  water.     The  room  goes  round.     I  am  faint." 

"'  Oh  pray  don't  go  oft'  here.  It  would  be  so  awkward.  You  shall 
have  some  brandy." 

Laura  was  more  cheerful  than  she  had  been  for  many  days.  Surely 
he  was  too  ill  to  live  another  month,  and  Laura's  heart  danced  for 
joy  at  the  prospect  of  mdowhood. 

The  spirits  revived  his  lordship,  and  he  told  Laura  what  he  had 
done  to  get  money. 

*'  That  is  false.  You  are  not  fool  enough  to  risk  that,  but  I  dare  say 
you  are  on  your  last  legs.  I  can  do  without  the  money;  but  you 
sliall  not  come  here  bothering  me.  You  look  awiully  bad  to  be  sure," 
sIk^  added.     ^'  You  ought  not  to  go  about  alone." 

''  I  should  soon  be  right  if  I  had  any  one  to  look  after  me.  My 
family  is  very  long  lived.  You  are  my  wife,  Laura;  you  take  my 
name,  and  we  might  live  together.'' 

Laura  laughed  not  merrily  but  scornfully. 

''  Has  that  drop  of  brandy  made  you  drunk  ?  You  live  with  me  ! 
If  you  knew  half  how  I  hated  you,  you  would  not  do  so  if  I  said  yes. 
I  ( ouidn't  keep  from  murdering  you.  I'll  put  on  weeds  for  you  when 
you  are  dead,  and  that  is  the  most  I  shall  do  for  you." 

"  I  do  not  wish  t  j  trouble  you.  Tell  me  where  I  can  find  my  son, 
and  I  will  not  come  here  again."' 

"  You  are  like  most  men  I  have  had  to  do  with.  You  believe 
lies,  but  not  the  truth.  There  is  no  son.  I  told  you  that  tale  to 
annoy  you.     I  stuck  to  it  to  get  money." 

Lord  Shamvock  stood  up  and  struck  the  table  with  his  fist. 

"'  It's  a  lie.  Where  is  he  ?  WTiere  is  my  son  ?  I  will  know,  if  it 
costs  me  my  life  and  yours.  Do  not  trifle  with  me.  Where  is  the 
boy  ?  " 

"Sit  down  and  be  civil,"  said  Laura,  holding  the  bell-rope,  ''or 

you  go  out  quicker  than  your  legs  will  carry  you.     Sit  down  and  be 

civil." 

His  lordship  obeyed. 

p  p  2 


572  The  Gcntlemaii s  Magazine. 

"  I^ura,  I  don't  deny  you  have  cause  to  hate  me,  but  you  have 
had  revenge  enough.  It  will  kill  me  if  I  do  not  find  my  son.  Where 
is  the  boy  ?     As  you  hope  for  mercy  tell  me." 

"  As  I  hope  for  mercy,  I  swear  there  is  no  son.  Why,  if  you  were  not 
mad  you  would  know  the  tale  could  not  be  true.  Did  you  not  see  me 
for  many  months  on  and  off  after  we  had  parted — that  is,  after  you 
deserted  me  ?  '* 

His  lordship  groaned. 

"  You  are  a  devil,  you  torture  me,  you  are  murdering  me.'' 

"Your  abuse  won't  hurt  me,  but  the  passion  will  hurt  you.  In 
your  state  a  little  excitement  may  kill  you  in  a  moment  You  are 
awfully  bad,  and  I  should  not  like  to  have  an  inquest  in  this 
house." 

If  the  love-sick  youth  could  have  seen  Laura  at  that  moment  his 
sickness  would  have  been  cured.  Her  scorn  and  her  malignity 
bedevilled  her  countenance. 

Lord  Shamvock  cringed  and  whined.  The  woman  in  her  ferocious 
hate  was  a  terror  to  him.  He  hated  her.  If  he  had  had  the  strength 
of  body  and  mind  he  would  have  struck  her  and  subdued  her.  But 
he  was  feeble  and  knew  that  he  was  helpless.  So  he  cringed  and 
whined  like  a  thrashed  cur. 

"  Pray  tell  me  where  he  is.  Oh,  pray  do.  I  know  if  I  could  look 
upon  the  boy  I  should  live." 

"  Then  you  will  die,  for  there  is  no  boy  to  look  upon.  And  what 
is  more,  my  lord,  I  am  sick  of  this  fiddle-faddle  rubbish.  If  you 
don't  choose  to  take  my  word  and  my  oath  you  must  go  on  fooling 
yourself,  but  you  don't  fool  me." 

"  I  am  ill,  Laura,  and  I  cannot  get  it  out  of  my  mind.  You  swear, 
may  you  go  to  perdition  if  I  have  a  son  ?  " 

"  I  do.     How  could  I  have  a  child  without  your  knowing  it?  " 

"  Then  it  was  not  true.     I  have  no  son — no  one,  no  hope." 

"  You  had  better  take  another  glass  of  brandy  and  water  and  go. 
I  expect  a  friend  directly.'' 

He  sidled  round  the  table.  He  reeled  and  fell  heavily  on  the 
sofa. 

It  was  dusk,  and  Laura  leisurely  lighted  a  taper  and  then  the  gas. 
She  lowered  the  blinds  and  drew  the  curtains.  Then  she  looked  at 
Lord  Shamvock.  He  was  leaning  back  on  the  sofa  motionless  and 
seemingly  unconscious. 

"  I  think  he  is  going.  That  makes  out  my  cards  of  marrying  a 
heart  and  club  man.  I  suppose  I  had  better  call  some  one  to  be  a 
A\itness." 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  573 

An  old  woman — thin,  cadaverous,  and  soap-suddy — answered  the 
bell. 

"  Mrs.  Gutch,  Lord  Shamvock  has  fainted.  I  think  we  must  send 
for  a  doctor." 

^*  Bless  me,  he  must  not  be  left  in  that  manner.  He  will  be  dead 
before  any  doctor  can  be  got.  Put  up  his  feet,  undo  his  necktie,  and 
douse  him  with  water." 

Mrs.  Gutch  was  about  to  act  upon  the  advice  she  had  given  when 
Laura  stopped  her. 

*'  We  had  better  wait  for  the  doctor.     It  is  a  risk  to  do  anything." 

"  Dear  soul,  he  is  choking.  It  would  be  murder  to  leave  him  like 
that.     He  would  be  a  corpse  in  five  minutes." 

Mrs.  Gutch  laid  Lord  Shamvock  on  the  sofa,  and  sprinkled  his 
face  with  water.     The  patient  breathed  heavily. 

"  Drink,  Laura,"  gasped  his  lordship. 

*' Meddling  fool.  I  wish  she  had  let  him  alone,"  muttered 
Laura. 

Lord  Shamvock  recovered. 

**  You  can  leave  the  room,  Mrs.  Gutch." 

*'Some  people  is  grateful,  anyhow,"  said  Mrs.  Gutch,  as  she 
slammed  the  door. 

"  I  shall  be  well  when  I  am  in  the  open  air." 

**  Then  go  into  the  open  air,  and  don't  show  your  face  here 
ai^MJn.'' 

Lord  Shamvock  put  on  his  hat  and  grasped  his  umbrella. 

"  Laura,  you  are  a  devil.     Your  turn  will  come." 

"  Yours  has  come ;  and  as  for  me,  I  only  wait  till  you  are  dead  to 
marry  and  settle." 

*'  I  may  not  die  yet." 

"  You  would  have  choked  to-night  if  it  had  not  been  for  my  ser\'ant. 
I  should  have  let  you  choke,  and  put  up  with  the  bother  of  the 
inciuest." 

'*  That  would  have  been  murder." 

*'  Would  it  ?  Will  you  go,  or  wait  till  my  friend,  my  lover,  my 
husband  when  you  are  dead,  comes  to  kick  you  out?" 

Lord  Shamvock  left  the  house.  The  devilry  of  Laura  had 
stimulated  his  depressed  spirits.  He  had  something  to  live  for.  He 
would  live  on  and  on  to  foil  that  woman's  purpose.  He  would  live 
on  and  on  till  she  was  old  and  haggard  and  past  marrying. 

He  walked,  not  regarding  the  distance  or  the  route,  and  only 
paused  when  he  was  in  Oxford  Street.  He  was  tired,  and  recollected 
that  he  had  not  taken  food  since  the  previous  day.     He  turned  into  an 


5  74  ^f^^  Gaitlemaiis  Magazine, 

eating-house  that  dubbed  itself  a  restaurant,  and  sat  at  a  narrow  table 
covered  with  a  soiled  cloth,  and  was  served  with  a  cheap  dinner  by  a 
scjueaky-voiced  waiter  clad  in  soiled  linen  and  greasy  black.  His 
lordship,  being  hungry,  swallowed  the  stock-pot  soup  and  some  of 
the  flabby  meat. 

The  waiter  brought  an  evening  newspaper  with  the  cheese. 

*•  Pretty  smart,  sir,  that  dodge  with  the  cheque." 

His  lordship  could  not  prevent  a  start  and  change  of  countenance. 

"  What  is  it,  waiter?'*  asked  his  lordship,  leaning  over  the  cheese. 

"  There's  the  account,  sir,"  replied  the  waiter,  pointing  to  a  para- 
graph in  the  newspaper.     **  It  really  is  a  knowing  dodge." 

The  paragraph  stated  that  **just  before  four  o'clock  yesterday 
afternoon  a  man  came  to  the  counter  of  the  Nugget  Bank,  and 
having  paid  in  £,'62^  in  cheques  to  the  account  of  Mr.  Thomas 
Hawes,  presented  a  cheque  for  j[y2oo  purporting  to  be  signed  by 
Mr.  Hawes.  Tiie  cheque  ^vas  paid  in  gold,  it  being  an  exact 
imitation  of  Mr.  Hawes's  signature  and  writing,  and  further  the 
paying  in  of  ^^827  would  have  allayed  suspicion.  Early  this  morning 
it  was  discovered  that  the  cheques  paid  in  were  forgeries,  and  it  is 
needless  to  add  that  the  ^£^200  cheque  was  a  forgery.  It  appears 
that  on  the  previous  day  the  pass-book  of  Mr.  Hawes  had  been 
obtained  by  a  stranger,  and  thus  the  forger  could  imitate  the  writing 
and  style.  'J'he  guilty  parties  are  known,  and  there  is  no  doubt  they 
will  be  arrested  without  delay." 

The  rage  of  J.ord  Shamvock  may  be  conceived.  He  had  been 
cheated  by  his  tool  Dick  Feckles.  Dick  had  gone  away  with  the 
money,  and  he,  Lord  Shamvock,  was  liable  to  suspicion,  and  might 
even  be  charged  with  the  crime.  He  must  meet  the- difficulty  boldly. 
Feckles  had  access  to  his  papers.  How  could  he  help  Feckles 
stealing  the  chetjue-book? 

"  I  am  safe.  r>ut  to  l)e  cheated  out  of  two  hundred  pounds  by  a 
miserable  cniwling  scoundrel  like  Feckles  !  The  lying  thief.  I  might 
have  had  the  gold  and  been  safe.  I  hope  he  has  drunk  himself  to 
death." 

His  lordship  ground  his  costly  set  of  dress  teeth,  and  on  his  ^'ay 
home  profanely  cursed  the  body  and  soul  of  Dick  Freckles. 

CHAPTER  XXXHI. 

I.AWKER     TO     THE     RESCUE. 

The  next  day  Lord  Shamvock  remained  in  his  room.  He  was 
tired  and  needed  rest.    Moreover,  he  did  not  thoroughly  believe  that 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  575 

Dick  meant  to  cheat  him,  and  thought  he   might  come   to  him  or 
send  him  the  money. 

"  Likely  enough  the  scamp  has  been  helplessly  drunk  for  a  day  or 
two,  and  when  he  gets  sober  will  come  here.  Wiiat  is  left  of  the  gold 
I  shall  take,  but  for  my  own  sake  I  must  hand  him  over  to  the  police. 
A  spell  of  imprisonment  will  not  hurt  him." 

About  nine  o'clock  his  lordship,  who  had  been  dozing  in  the  chair^ 
yawned,  stretched  his  limbs,  and  prepared  to  go  out.  He  counted 
the  money  in  his  purse.  There  were  six  sovereigns  and  some 
silver. 

'•  I  shall  go  to  old  Denlcy  s.  What  is  the  use  of  eating  my  last 
shilling  ?     I  feel  in  luck  to-night.'* 

He  threw  the  gold  on  the  table. 

"  Heads  !  By  Jove  !  they  are  all  heads.  I  know  I  am  in  luck. 
Fortune  always  changes  if  you  are  not  cowed." 

His  lordship  opened  a  travelling  desk  and  took  out  some  dice. 

"  With  these  I  could  beat  Fortune.  But  they  won't  do  at  Denley's, 
and  1  am  not  steady  enough  for  that  game.  They  must  be  kept  for 
private  parties.  To-night  I  will  play  upon  my  luck,  and  I  shall 
wm. 

Mr.  Denley's  establishment  in  Jermyn  Street  was  knov/n  to  a  select 
cliciuc  of  men  who  were  fond  of  chicken  hazard  and  other  games  of 
chance.  It  was  also  known  to  the  police,  but  by  excellent  manage- 
ment Mr.  Denley  had  escaped  from  trouble.  In  the  "  London 
Directory"  the  establishment  was  described  as  a  private  boarding 
house,  but  the  only  inmates  were  the  proprietor  and  his  family. 
There  was  a  table  tf/iotc  at  eight  p.m.,  but,  not  being  publicly 
announced,  only  the  friends  of  Mr.  Denley  partook  of  the  dinner. 
The  first  floor  was  devoted  to  the  accommodation  of  the  Cosmo- 
politan Anglers'  Club.  The  club  room  looked  piscatorial.  There 
were  glass  cases  of  stuffed  and  lavishly  varnished  fish.  Fishing  rods, 
nets,  and  tackle  were  displayed  on  the  walls.  Over  the  mantelpiece 
^vas  a  framed  engraving  of  Izaak  Walton. 

It  was  past  ten  o'clock  when  Lord  Shamvock  entered  the  public 
room.  Mr.  Denley  was  alone,  watching  the  in-comers  through  a  glass 
door.  If  a  stranger  appeared,  Mr.  Denley  touched  a  spring  with  his 
foot  that  rang  a  bell  on  the  first  floor,  and  that  was  a  signal  to  stop 
sport  and  collect  the  tackle.  At  a  second  ring  the  Izaak  W^alton 
engraving  was  lifted  up  and  the  tackle  was  thrown  into  a  shoot  that 
led  from  the  first  floor  to  the  cellar.  As  the  'cute  proprietor  remarked, 
it  is  not  fair  to  put  evidence  before  the  police  and  then  expect  them  to 
shut  their  eyes. 


576  .  The  Gcntlenmns  Magazine. 

"How  are  you,  Dcnley?  At  your  old  post,  guarding  the  jolly 
anglers.'* 

"  Bless  me  I     Lord  Shamvock.     Quite  an  unexpected  pleasure  I" 

"It's  over  two  months  since  I  have  been  in  this  den." 

"  Nearer  four,  my  lord.  First  they  said  you  had  given  up  play. 
Next  that  you  were  married,  and  your  wife  would  not  let  you  out 
after  dusk.     Latterly  they  have  said  something  else." 

**  WTiat  is  the  something  else,  Denley  ?'' 

**  Only  that  your  lordship  had  got  into  a  bother.  Are  you  going 
upstairs?*' 

"  Yes.     Is  there  any  sport  ?" 

**Lord  Walshcr  and  one  or  two  old  anglers  are  amusing  themselves 
with  some  fine  young  trout.     There  are  more  fish  than  fishennen." 

**  I  wish  I  had  dined.     I  am  as  hungry  as  a  wolf." 

"  Don't  work  on  an  empty  stomach.  Here,  Bob ;  bring  the  cold 
fowl  and  a  small  bottle  of  No.  3  Burgundy,  and  be  sharp." 

I  .ord  Shamvock  ate  a  little  of  the  fowl  and  drank  the  wine. 

**  Why,  my  lord,  my  thrush  would  beat  you  at  feeding." 

"It's  months  since  I  have  heard  the  music  of  the  bones,  and  I 
want  to  ease  my  pocket.*' 

"  Take  a  quiet  smoke  before  you  begin.  It  is  very  funny,  but  veiy 
true,  that  the  steady  throw  wins.*' 

Lord  Shamvock  had  a  chilling  reception  in  the  club  roonL  One 
or  two  of  the  members  gave  him  the  tips  of  their  fingers.  His  old 
friend  Lord  Walsher  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  nodded.  He 
also  descended  to  the  public  room  and  abused  Mr.  Denley  for 
admitting  Lord  Shamvock. 

"Wedont  bring  our  friends  here  to  be  hooked  by  a  fellow  who 
has  been  turned  out  of  his  club,  and  who  is  known  to  have  com- 
mitted forgery." 

**  You  know  our  rules,"  replied  Mr.  Denley.  "  We  have  nothing  to 
do  with  what  happens  outside.  Once  an  angler  alwa}'S  an  angler,  so 
long  as  he  angles  on  the  sc^uare  in  this  place." 

Lord  Shamvock  played  and  lost. 

"  Holloa  I  tired  already,  Shamvock?'' 

*•  No,  not  tired.  I  did  not  come  to  play,  and  I  have  no  money 
with  me.     Lend  me  a  tenner,  OT)owd.'' 

Mr.  O'Dowd  was  about  to  comply  with  the  request  when  Lord 
Walsher  interfered. 

"  No,  O'Dowd,  it  is  against  the  rules  to  lend.  WTien  a  felloii*  is 
cleaned  out  he  is  not  to  go  on  with  other  people's  money." 

"  I  have  often  lent  money  in  this  room.  I  have  lent  to  Walsher,* 
exclaimed  Lord  Shamvock. 


.>^ 


Makijig  the  Worst  of  it.  577 

**  It  is  the  nile  now,  and  it  shall  be  kept.'* 

*'  Walsher  is  correct,"  said  Mr.  O'Dowd.  "  I  am  precious  sorry  for 
it,  Shamvock,  for  it's  hard  lines  to  be  cornered  for  the  sake  of  a  few 
pounds.'* 

Lord  Shamvock  lighted  a  cigar  and  sat  watching  the  game. 

Presently  another  angler  came  in,  who  shook  hands  with  his 
lordship. 

"  Glad  to  see  you  in  the  old  haunt  again.  But  why  are  you  a 
spectator  ?     Have  you  given  up  play  ?  " 

**  No,  Stubber.  I  did  not  come  for  play  to-night,  but  I  did  play 
until  I  dropped  all  my  pocket  money.  0*Dowd  offered  me  a  tenner 
to  go  on  with,  but  Lord  Walsher  has  become  particular,  and  he 
objected  to  any  money  being  lent  in  this  room." 

**  ^^'hy,  Walsher,"  said  Mr.  Stubber,  "  how  many  times  a  day  do 
you  nib  your  face  with  a  brass  candlestick  ?  Why,  I  lent  you  a  pony 
when  you  were  stumped,  and  you  carried  off  a  cool  hundred." 

"  It  is  a  new  rule,"  said  Walsher,  sulkily. 

**  I  owe  you  a  brace  of  sovereigns,  Walsher.  Is  it  a  nev/  rule  that 
debts  must  not  be  paid  in  this  room  ?  " 

"  No,  sir.     There  is  no  rule  against  the  payment  of  debts." 

As  Lord  Walsher  spoke  he  threw  the  dice. 

'*  You  have  won  again.  By  Jove  !  I  don't  understand  your  l&ck,"" 
said  the  young  man  he  was  playing  with. 

"  Go  on,  make  it  double  or  quits.  I  run  a  risk  to  stake  my 
winnings  on  the  chance  of  a  fifth  favour  from  the  dear  old  Dame." 

"  Xo,  I  will  wait  for  a  few  minutes." 

*'  Here,  Walsher,"  said  Stubber,  "  is  your  two  quid.  Here,  Sham- 
vock, is  the  tenner  I  have  owed  you  since  last  Ne\>'market  twelve- 
month.*' 

"  It's  a  trick,"  exclaimed  Lord  Walsher. 

Mr.  Stubber  walked  up  to  Lord  Walsher. 

"  Withdraw  that  word,  or  I  will  show  you  I  liave  not  forgotten  the 
trick  of  fisticuffs.  You  are  savage  because  you  cannot  have  all  the 
plucking  of  the  pigeons  to  yourself;  but  you  shall  not  insult  me." 

Mr.  Stubber  was  a  powerful  man,  and  had  been  in  his  younger 
days  a  famous  bruiser.  Lord  Walsher  muttered  an  apology.  Physical 
force  is  the  ruling  power. 

Half  a  dozen  men,  including  Lords  Shamvock  and  Walsher,  stood 
by  the  table  and  played.  The  game  was  simple.  Each  player 
staked  ten  pounds,  and  he  who  threw  the  lowest  had  to  retire  from 
the  game  or  to  stake  another  ten  pounds.  If  the  lowest  number  was- 
tied,  the  tics  had  to  retire  or  put  do>\'n  ten  pounds  each.     Men  being 


578  The  Genllcmaiis  Magazine. 

ex  ritod  with  the  gime,  and  attracted  by  the  ever-increasing  stake, 
oUen  pkiyed  on  until  their  means  were  exhausted,  and  therefore  there 
was  a  rule  that  a  ])layer  could  not  renew  after  the  six  times  for  the 
(  ri:^inal  stake,  but  he  could  renew  three  times  more  by  forfeiting 
double  stakes.  The  play  continued  for  an  hour,  and  at  every  round 
Lord  Shamvock  had  escaped  the  lowest  throw.  The  players  had 
retired  one  after  the  other,  and  the  two  lords  had  to  contend  for  the 
stake,  which  was  over  five  hundred  pounds,  hord  Walsher  was  to 
throw  first,  and  called  for  a  glass  of  brandy  and  water  before  he 
did  so. 

Mr.  1  )enley  came  into  the  room,  and  whispered  to  Lord  Sham- 
vock. 

•'  1  will  come  in  two  minutes.  I  have  to  throw,  and  it  is  the  last 
throw." 

'•  iie  quick,  then,"  w^hispered  Denley.  *•  The  man  is  your  friend, 
and  says  that  they  arc  on  your  track,  and  there  is  not  a  moment  to 

lt)SC." 

Lord  Walsher  threw.  The  dice  turned  up  two  aces  and  a  four. 
A\  ith  a  brutal  blasphemous  oath  he  turned  from  the  table.  The 
vi(  tory  of  his  opponent  was  what  gamesters  call  a  moral  certainty. 

Lcird  Shamvock's  hand  trembled  violently.  'J'hose  who  looked  on 
liiought  he  was  agitated  by  the  ])rospect  of  winning  such  a  large 
stiike. 

*'  Thirty  to  one  on  Shamvock  !"  shouted  Stubber. 

'['here  was  a  derisive  laugh.  No  one  would  take  the  bet  Lord 
Sh..iiivock  threw.  'I'here  were  exclamations  that  brought  Lord 
Walsher  to  the  table.  Again  two  aces  had  been  thrown,  and  this 
time  with  a  deuce.  With  another  brutal  oath  Lord  Walsher  seized 
tliu  stakes,  and  put  tlicm  into  his  pocket.  Lord  Shamvock  did  not 
move  or  sj)eak.     Mr.  Denley  touched  his  arm. 

*•  The  man  is  waiting.     As  for  this,  better  luck  next  time." 

His  lordship  followed  Mr.  Denley,  who  pointed  to  a  little  room  at 
tlvj  bark  of  the  public  room. 

"  There  he  is,  niv  lord.'' 

1 1  is  lordship  looked  hard  at  the  man  who  was  waiting  for  him. 

'*  I  .awker  I     Vou  here  I " 

*•  1  ( ould  not  let  my  old  master  be  trapped  witjiout  trying  to  save 
liini,  and  lliat  is  why  I  am  here." 

'•  \"uu  came  here  to  foil  me,  to  niin  me.  But  for  you  I  should 
have  taken  well  nigh  six  hundred  pounds  at  a  throw.  Through  you, 
you  villain,  1  threw  a  score  of  four  against  a  score  of  six." 

*■  Listen  to  me.     If  your  words  were  as  hard  again  I  should  do  my 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  5  79 

duty.  Maybe  you  don't  know  I  am  butler  to  Mr.  Hawes.  That's 
why  I  know  all  about  it.  That  forgery  for  the  two  hundred  is  traced 
to  you." 

'*  There  is  nothing  against  me,*'  said  Lord  Shamvock.  "  That 
scoundrel  Feckles  may  have  got  to  my  cheque-books,  but  I  cannot 
help  that." 

"  That  I^ura  Marshall  has  given  information  of  what  you  told  her. 
As  she  sticks  herself  up  for  being  your  wife,  her  story  would  not  go 
for  much  in  law,  but  she  has  brought  an  old  woman  who  swears 
she  overheard  what  you  confessed  about  the  forgery." 

"  It  is  a  lie,  Lawker." 

"  Maybe,  but  she  has  sworn  to  it,  and  the  warrant  is  out  against 
you.  The  officers  are  waiting  for  you  at  your  lodgings.  Maybe 
ihey  will  come  here,  for  I  heard  that  spiteful  tabby  the  daughter  tell 
the  officers  this  was  one  of  the  places  you  frequented." 

"  What  shall  I  do,  Lawker?     Tell  me  what  I  shall  do." 

**  Why,  keep  up  your  pluck,"  said  I^wker,  "  or  it  will  be  all  over 
with  you.  Till  it  is  arranged  you  must  hide,  and  get  away.  If  you 
arc  took  now  it's  a  safe  conviction,  and  years  of  penal  servitude." 

Lord  Shamvock  shuddered. 

''  Lawker,  do  not  betray  me." 

*'  Am  I  the  man  to  do  it?  Did  I  ever  betray  you  ?  Should  I  be 
l.cre  if  I  meant  such  villany  as  to  betray  an  old  master?  Mr. 
Hawcs  told  me  of  it,  thinking  I  should  be  glad  of  your  trouble,  but 
he  don't  know  me." 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  outer  door — a  gentle  knock  with  the 
knuckles.  The  sport  of  the  anglers  was  disturbed  by  the  ringing  of 
the  alarm  bell.  The  door  was  opened,  and  two  gentlemen  entered. 
The  alarm  bell  rang  a  second  time.  A  minute  later  Mr.  Denley 
<:ame  to  Lord  Shamvock  and  Lawker.  He  had  a  small  lamp  in  his 
hand. 

"  Come  this  way,  and  be  quick." 

Lord  Shamvock  did  not  move.     Mr.  Denley  spoke  to  lawker. 

"  Bring  him  along;  there  is  not  a  moment  to  lose.  They  have  gone 
upstairs,  but  I  do  not  think  to  look  after  the  angling.  The  back 
court  is  clear." 

lawker  took  his  lordship  by  the  arm,  and  they  followed  Mr.  Denley 
downstairs,  through  a  passage.  Then  Denley  drew  up  a  sliding  panel, 
and  there  was  an  opening  about  three  feet  high. 

'•  Creep  through.  When  you  are  in  the  court,  turn  to  the  right, 
and  be  sharp.     Good  night,  my  lord." 

Lord  Shamvock  was  staggering  like  a  dmnken  man. 


580  The  Gepitlemafis  Magazuu. 

"  Keep  up  as  well  as  you  can,"  said  Lawker.  **  We  shall  be  out  of 
the  net  in  a  minute." 

They  crossed  the  Haymarket. 

**  The  cab  rank  may  be  watched.    We  must  walk  a  few  paces." 

When  they  were  near  Leicester  Square,  Lawker  hailed  a  passing 
cab. 

"  Give  me  some  brandy,  Lawker." 

"  Presently,"  said  lawker.     "  Marble  Arch,  cabby." 

**  Pray,  don't  let  them  take  me,  Lawker." 

*'  There  is  no  danger  now.     But  try  and  pull  yourself  together." 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 
MR.  gol'(;er  works  the  parcel. 

AVhat  is  charity?  How  in  the  language  of  political  economy 
would  the  gift  of  the  benevolent  to  the  needy  be  described  ?  Would 
it  be  correct  to  say  that  the  recipient  of  alms  obtains  money  or  money's 
worth  without  legal  claim  and  without  labour  ?  That  definidon  would 
not  be  universally  or  even  generally  true.  In  the  majority  of  instances 
the  alms  of  the  benevolent  are  hardly  earned,  and  unfortunately  by 
labour  which  is  not  reproductive.  Take  the  actual,  not  the  fanc}* 
beggar  as  an  example.  After  slouching  about  the  street  he  is  more 
worn  at  the  close  of  the  day  than  the  artisan  who  has  earned  a 
fair  day's  pay  by  a  fair  day's  work.  Or  take  the  begging-letter 
impostor  as  another  proof  of  our  statement.  Does  that  pest  of  society 
lead  a  life  of  ease  ?  ^^'hen  he  is  not  busy  with  his  pen  his  brain  is  at 
work  devising  schemes  of  plunder  or  how  to  escape  from  the  hot 
pursuit  of  the  officers  of  Justice.  But  even  those  who  have  a  valid 
claim  on  the  benevolent  have  to  seek  relief,  and  do  not  find  it  readily. 
When  the  gifts  of  charity  are  put  up  for  competition  there  is  a  toil- 
some and  severe  struggle  for  success. 

The  Samaritan  School  for  Fatherless  Children  is  a  flourishing  insti- 
tution. It  has  a  grand  building  a  little  way  out  of  town.  It  feeds, 
clothes,  and  educates  a  hundred  and  fifty  bo)"^  and  girls.  It  has  a 
large  annual  income  and  a  considerable  reserve  fund.  Its  list  of 
patrons  is  long  and  aristocratic.  Its  committee  is  ponderously 
respectable  and  wealthy.  The  secretary  is  one  of  the  most  active 
gentlemen  in  the  business.  The  Samaritan  School  for  Fatherless 
Children  was  cordially  envied  by  other  institutions. 

Mr.  Stot  was  on  the  committee,  and  Mrs.  Stot  was  one  of  the  lady 
visitors.     Twelve  children  were  to  be  elected,  and  there  were  fort}- 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  581 

applicants.  For  months  the  widowed  mothers  (for  only  the  fatherless 
and  not  orphans  are  eligible)  had  been  canvassing,  begging,  praying 
for  votes.  Pathetic  circulars  were  followed  by  personal  visits.  The 
subscribers  were  widely  scattered,  and  the  mothers  had  to  journey 
here  and  there  at  all  hours  and  in  all  weathers.  The  expense  of  the 
canvass  plunged  them  into  greater  poverty,  and  many  of  the  forty 
widows  would  bitterly  repent  the  vain  attempt  to  get  a  child  into  the 
Samaritan  School. 

The  election  was  held  at  the  London  Tavern.  What  a  scene ! 
The  widows  and  their  supporters  pouncing  upon  every  one  who 
appeared,  though  the  voting  had  all  been  settled  before  the  day  of 
election.  Perhaps  there  is  not  so  much  hate  exhibited  in  any  contest 
as  at  a  charity  election.  Not  only  do  the  competitors  hate  each 
other,  but  the  leading  supporters  are  inflamed  by  angry  rivalry. 
Then  there  are  electioneering  tricks.  Tlie  numbers  are  announced 
at  frequent  intervals  in  order  that  the  friends  of  those  who  are  behind 
may  be  induced  to  buy  votes — that  is,  to  subscribe  to  the  institution, 
the  receipt  for  the  subscription  entitling  the  holder  to  record  a 
number  of  votes  in  proportion  to  the  donation.  Therefore,  he  who 
has  proxies  enough  to  carry  his  candidate  will,  to  make  victory  doubly 
sure  and  to  benefit  the  institution,  keep  back  his  votes  till  the  last 
quarter  of  an  hour.  Votes  are  bartered.  A  subscriber  who  has  no 
interest  in  any  of  the  applicants  for  the  Samaritan  School  will 
exchange  his  votes  for  votes  of  another  institution  for  which  he  is 
supporting  one  of  the  candidates.  The  active  and  bland  secretary 
confidentially  remarks  at  least  a  hundred  times  that  the  numbers  are 
wonderfully  near,  and  that  five  or  ten  pounds  worth  of  votes  will  put 
any  one  on  the  winning  side  of  the  list.  But  it  is  not  permitted  to 
find  fault  with  a  deed  done  in  the  name  of  charity.  If  you  visit  a 
fancy  bazaar  and  you  pay  five  shillings  for  a  penny  pen-wiper,  and  the 
fair  seller  defrauds  you  of  your  change,  you  must  not  complain.  The 
plunder  goes  into  the  till  of  charity.     Non  oUm. 

The  Stot  candidate  was  safe.  The  child  was  all  along  at  the  head 
of  the  poll,  and  there  was  a  reserve  of  votes  in  case  of  need. 
Therefore  Mrs.  Stot  had  leisure  to  chat  with  her  friends.  Amongst 
others,  she  had  a  talk  with  Miss  Strode,  a  lady  famed  for  active  bene- 
volence. 

"  How  curious  I  Here  comes  my  husband.  I  will  ask  him 
about  it." 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Stot,  "  we  may  be  off.  Give  me  your 
proxies.  Our  boy  will  be  at  the  top  with  maybe  a  thousand  votes  to 
spare." 


582  The  Gmtlemaii s  Magazine, 

**  Shall  we  give  some  of  our  votes  away  ?'' 

*'  What's  the  good,  my  dear?     If  you  get  in  No.  13  you  keep  out 

No.    12/' 

*'  Miss  Strode  wants  you  to  tell  her  what  she  ought  to  do  about 
such  a  curious  atlair.'' 

"What  is  it,>Miss  Strode?'' 

"  A  few  weeks  ago  a  patient  got  away  from  our  hospital  two  days 
after  she  had'recovered  from  the  fever.  She  left  her  box  A^ith  some 
clothes  in  it,  and,  as  I  learnt  yesterday,  a  purse  containing  nearly 
five  pounds.  I  met  her  afterwards  in  Hyde  Park.  I  offered  her 
shelter,  but,  though  she  was  evidently  in  distress,  she  would  not  let 
me  hel[)  her.  Do  you  not  tiiink  that  the  committee  ought  tc) 
advertise  ?  'I'hey  do  not  like  doing  so,  because  it  does  not  look  well 
for  a  ])atient  to  go  off  without  her  property.'' 

**  I'iie  advertisement  would  be  thrown  away.  The  woman  knows 
where  her  j  property  is,  if  she  has  a  mind  to  claim  it." 

"  I'oor  thing  I  She  would  not  say  anything  about  herself  or  her 
friends.  Wlien  I  met  her  in  the  Park  she  pretended  to  be  going  to 
her  husband,  but  she  would  not  tell  me  his  name  and  where  he  u-as 
living." 

"Ah,  Miss  Strode,  there  are  too  many  of  such  unfortunates,  and 
you  can  do  nothing  for  them.' 

"  Was  she  young?''  asked  Mrs.  Stot. 

"  Yes.    A  young  face,  but  very  careworn." 

"  \Vhat"was  her  name?"' 

"  In  her  tielirium  she  called  herself  Rose.  At  her  lodgings  she  was 
known  as  Mrs.  Simpson.'' 

"  U'hat  :  '  exclaimed  Mr.  Stot.  **  Rose  and  Mrs.  Simpson  !  Why, 
my  dear,  this  may  clear  up  theUioliver  business.'' 

•'  I  did  not  think  of  that  woman.  It  does  not  clear  up  die  fate  of 
my  poor  Alice."' 

"Where  is  the  box?" 

**  At  our  hospital,"  replied  Miss  Strode. 

"  My  deal-,  I  will  take  a  cab  and  letGouger  know  about  this.  Vou 
go  home  in  the  brougham  and  take  Miss  Strode  with  you." 

"  \'ou  are  in  a  mighty  hurry^about  that  runaway  wife.  You  were 
cool  enough  about  poor' Alice.'' 

**My  dear,"  replied  Mr.  Stot,  "it  would  not  help  Alice  to  let 
another  woman  perish.  And,  my  dear,  before  you  execrate  Mrs. 
iioliver  it  will  be^better  to  see  if  she  is  guilty." 

'*  J  can't  help  my  temper,;Stot,  when  I  see  everything  is  cleared  up 
except  about  my  poor  Alice." 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  585 

In  an  hour  Mr.  Stot,  Mr.  Gougcr,  and  Frank  Boliver  were  at  the 
hospital.  The  box  and  the  purse  were  produced,  and  Frank 
recognised  them  as  the  proi)erty  of  his  wife. 

A  reference  to  the  admission  book  informed  them  of  the  lodging 
from  whence  Rose  had  been  taken.  The  King's  Cross  landlady 
could  give  no  information  except  that  she  had  come  to  her  door  the 
day  she  left  the  hospital,  and  driven  away  whilst  the  landlady  was 
getting  her  bonnet. 

*'  If  my  dear  Rose  was  seeking  me  she  would  have  seen  my 
advertisements.  You  will  not  now  tell  me  there  is  any  hope  of  her 
bcini^  alive." 

*'  Not  seeing  the  advertisements  goes  for  nothing,"  said  Mr.  Stot. 
"There  is  Miss  Strode  and  the  Hospital  Committee  anxious  to  find 
Mrs.  Simpson,  and  they  do  not  see  the  advertisements.  It  is 
wonderful  how  long  you  may  advertise  before  you  catch  tl>e  eye  of 
the  right  party,  but  keep  up  the  advertising  and  you  will  do  so  at  last. 
A\'c  must  try  what  a  handsome  reward  will  do." 

The  otVer  of  five  hundred  pounds  for  any  information  leading  to  the 
discovery  of  the  present  address  of  Mrs.  Simpson,  late  of  Belitiia 
Road,  Holloway,  brought  Mr.  Blewlite  to  the  office  of  Messrs.  Doloski 
and  (iouger. 

*'  You  told  me  that  Rose  Dulmaine  passed  as  Mrs.  Simpson.  It  is 
for  the  Rose  you  offer  the  reward  ?" 

*' Yes.  Have  you  remembered  any  information  whereby  to  help 
us  ?  '• 

''When  you  came  to  me  I  thought  it  was  a  trick  of  some  rival 
man.iger  to  get  hold  of  my  star,  and  I  was  silent.  The  offer  of  \\\it 
reward  shows  that  it  is  a  genuine  business.  I  have  some  information." 

*•  Well,  Mr.  Blewlite.  your  silence  is  explained,  and  no\y  for  your 
information.*' 

*'  I'd  rather  give  her  a  year's  engagement,  at  twenty  pounds  a  week,. 
flian  take  the  ;^5oo.     What  a  draw  she  would  be  I  " 

*•  Xo  doubt,  but  we  must  first  find  her.  The  engagement  may 
follow.  Meantime  if  your  information  puts  us  on  the  scent  you  will 
be  ^500  richer." 

*'  A  fortnight  ago  I  met  Rose  in  Covent  Garden  Market.  Followed 
hcf  to  Long  Acre.  She  was  very  badly  dressed,  looked  stxy  ill,  and 
was  carrying  a  parcel.  I  offered  her  an  engagement,  but  she  would 
not  close.  I  offered  her  money,  which  she  refused.  She  promised 
to  write,  but  she  has  not  done  so." 

"  What  sort  of  parcel  ?  " 

"  Pretty  large ;  but  not  large  enough  for  a  dress." 


584  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

"  Anything  more  ?  " 

**'  Xo,  Mr.  Gouger.  }iut  I  suppose  what  I  have  told  you  is  worth 
knowing  ?  '* 

"  As  you  ask  my  opinion,  Mr.  Blewlite,  I  reply  that  I  think  it  is 
likely  to  turn  out  the  correct  tip.  We  will  try  to  make  the  best  of  it, 
and  you  shall  know  the  result." 

When  the  manager  departed  Mr.  Gouger  leant  back  in  his  chair, 
thmst  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  and  half  closed  his  eyes. 

*'  Ah,**  he  said,  after  a  ten  minutes'  reflection,  "  I  shall  work  that 
parcel.  Bad  clothes,  looking  ill,  and  a  pretty  large  parcel  mean 
plying  the  needle  for  a  little  bread  and  no  butter.  It  is  too  late  to-day. 
I  will  begin  to-morrow.'' 

(iouger  and  his  partner  were  in  the  City  by  nine  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  and  they  went  from  warehouse  to  warehouse  asking  \i  a 
Mrs.  Simpson  was  employed.  They  heard  of  four  workwomen  of 
that  name,  and  Mr.  ( iouger,  accompanied  by  Frank,  went  to  the  four 
addresses,  but  not  one  of  the  four  was  the  lost  Rose. 

"  Confound  it !"  said  Gouger.  **  I  wish  it  was  the  law  to  biand 
<ivery  born  infant  with  a  different  number.  What  a  deal  of  trouble  it 
would  save ! " 

Next  day  the  search  was  continued.  The  firm  of  Briggs  and  Co. 
was  visited.  Mrs.  Thompson's  cousin  was  away  ifor  a  holiday,  but  his 
locum  tcncns  knew  that  a  Mrs.  Simpson  worked  for  them,  and  he 
found  the  address.  Had  she  worked  long  for  the  firm  ?  Not  very 
long.  She  was  related  to  Mr.  Thompson,  and  lived  with  a  Mrs. 
Thompson. 

'*  We  have  a  few  more  houses  to  call  at,  and  it  is  not  worth  while 
interrupting  our  work  to  look  after  this  Mrs.  Simpson  of  Pad- 
■dington." 

Another  Mrs.  Simpson  was  heard  of,  and  she  lived  at  Stratford. 
Mr.  Gouger  and  Frank  went  to  Stratford,  and  were  again  disap- 
pointed. When  they  got  back  to  town  it  was  seven  o'clock  in  the 
evening,  and  Mr.  Gouger  had  not  dined. 

''  We  will  have  a  tavern  feed,  Mr.  Boliver,  and  then  we  will  go  to 
Paddington  and  call  on  the  Thompson  Simpson." 

**  Is  it  worth  while  ?     Rose  has  no  relations." 

**  It  is  not  far  out  of  the  way,  and  the  drive  will  do  no  hann  after  a 
feed."' 

When  Mr.  CJouger  had  dined,  smoked  a  cigar,  and  drunk  a  glass 
of  grog,  they  set  off  for  Paddington. 

''  We  are  sure  to  fiiil,  for  clearly  this  Mrs.  Simpson,  a  relation  of 
.the  warehouseman,  cannot  be  my  wife.'' 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  585 

^*  It  may  be  a  wild-goose  chase,  but  it  is  a  duty.  If  I  had  employed 
any  one  on  this  business,  I  should  have  bullied  him  for  not  trying 
.all  the  Simpsons ;  and  the  rule  I  make  for  others  I  obey." 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

FRANK    HEARS    OF   ROSE. 

When  Lord  Shamvock  and  Lawker  arrived  at  the  Marble  Arch 
the  cab  was  discharged,  and  they  walked  down  the  Edgware  Road. 

"  It's  better  to  walk,'*  said  Lawker ;  "  for  if  they  come  out  with  a 
reward,  these  cabbies  are  a  trifle  too  sharp,  whereas  London  flags  tell 
•no  tales." 

"Is  it  not  a  dangerous  road  for  us ?"  asked  his  lordship. 

"Just  t'otherwise.  It  aint  round  your  own  crib  they  will  think  of 
looking  for  you.  When  I  got  out  this  evening  I  made  a  bolt  to  the 
•Green,  and  just  missed  you.  Then  I  came  across  a  snug  coffee- 
'house,  and  there  I  engaged  two  beds — one  for  myself,  and  one  for 
O'Brien,  my  brother-in-law.  I  am  a  party  named  Evans,  and  you  are 
O'Brien.     Just  think  of  them  names." 

His  lordship,  who  was  leaning  on  the  arm  of  Lawker,  gave  a 
lurch. 

"  Hold  up,  my 1  mean,  O'Brien.     We  have  not  far  to  go." 

Even  in  his  fear  and  danger,  Lord  Shamvock  had  felt  the  sting  of 
his  social  degradation.  He  had  to  pass  as  the  brother-in-law  of  his 
valet. 

"  The  governor,  who  is  all  to  the  left  as  far  as  health  goes,  went 
off  this  afternoon  for  a  mouthful  of  sea  air  at  Brighton,  and  I  got 
leave  till  to-morrow  night  AVhat'  I  am  doing  is  a  sell  for  him,  but 
what  right  had  he  to  think  a  fellow  would  stand  by  and  see  an  old 
master  worse  than  murdered  ?  " 

"  But  what  am  I  to  do  ?     I  can't  always  be  hiding,  Lawker." 

**  Do  call  me  Evans,  for  a  slip  in  the  names  might  spoil  us.  This 
will  be  blown  over  in  a  few  months,  and  then  you  can  go  about 
anywhere  abroad  as  safe  as  ever  you  did." 

'*  But  I  have  no  money.  If  you  had  been  two  minutes  later  I 
should  have  had  five  hundred  pounds  in  my  pocket  What  infernal 
luck,  Lawker !" 

"  If  you  can't  call  me  Evans,  call  me  nothing ;  but  do  drop  the 

Lawker,  unless  you  want  to  get  me  into  a  mess  and  yourself  into 

quod.     And  don't  bother  about  that  money.     I  have  plenty  banked, 

and  I  will  draw  enough  for  the  start,  and  I  will  keep  you  from  want 

Vol  XI.,  N.S.  1873.  Q  Q 


586  The  Gentletftans  Magazine. 

for  two  or  three  months.      In  Boulogne  you  can  do  first  rate  on 
two  pounds  a  week.'* 

When  they  turned  down  Praed  Street  Lawker  took  a  neckcloth 
from  his  pocket,  and  tied  it  round  his  lordship's  neck,  and  in  such  a 
way  as  to  conceal  the  lower  part  of  his  face. 

**  We  are  close  by  our  roost,  and  pray  remember  O'Brien,  and  don't 
call  me  I,awker." 

They  stopped  at  Mrs.  Thompson's,  and  the  landlady  herself  answered 
the  bell. 

"  You  are  late,  to  be  sure ;  I  had  almost  given  you  up." 

"  My  brother-in-law  did  not  arrive  till  later  than  I  thought.'^ 

"  Is  he  ill  r 

"  Well,  mum,  he  has  got  a  bit  of  a  cold,  with  a  touch  of  the  ague 
and  face-ache.  But  he  will  be  hisself  again  when  he  has  been 
between  the  sheets.     Won't  you,  O'Brien  ?" 

"  I  am  very  tired,"  said  his  lordship. 

"  Dear  me,  you  have  a  cold  to  be  sure,  Mr.  O'Brien.  Have  a  basin 
of  gruel.  It  is  a  fine  thing  for  the  chest,  with  a  little  butter  and  mm. 
I  will  have  it  ready  before  you  are  in  bed." 

^'  Thank  you,  mum,  but  he  won't  take  anything  but  a  dose  of  bed. 
\\'hich  are  our  rooms  ?'' 

"  Number  6  on  the  first  floor,  and  Number  7  on  the  second  floor," 
replied  Mrs.  Thompson,  handing  the  candlesticks. 

"  Good  night,  mum,  and  sorry  to  liave  kept  you  up." 

Lawker  undressed  his  lordship,  and  could  not  refrain  from  grum- 
bling at  the  state  of  the  clothes. 

"  U'hoever  has  had  the  charge  of  them  clothes  deserves  to  be 
choked  \nth  a  clothes  brush.  I  don't  believe  horsehair  has  touched 
them  since  they  came  from  the  tailor's." 

"  This  is  like  the  old  times.   I  \>4sh  you  had  never  left  me,  Lawker.'* 

'^  There  you  are  Lawkering  again.  Confound  my  old  shoes,  bat  it 
is  aggravating.     Do  you  want  to  be  nabbed  T 

When  his  lordship  was  in  bed,  Lawker  took  a  flask  from  his 
pocket. 

"  Drink  that.  It  is  the  right  sort  of  night-cap.  You  will  have  to 
turn  out  and  lock  your  door  after  me.  And  then  don't  unlock  it  for 
nobody  till  I  come.  You  know  my  tap,  and  also  my  voice.  I  shan't 
be  with  you  before  eleven,  for  I  must  go  out  and  buy  a  lot  of  thii^'^ 

"  Why  need  you  leave  me  here  ?"  asked  his  lordship. 

^^  Why?  To  get  your  disguise.  You  came  in  hereamufHed-upkiid. 
You  must  not  be  seen  till  you  are  so  altered  that  the  fidtblidlest  dog 
that  ever  owned  you  for  master  would  turn  upon  you." 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  587 

"  Well,  be  back  as  soon  as  possible." 

"  And  you  promise  me  on  your  solemn  word  and  honour  you  won't 
open  this  here  door  to  any  mortal  soul  ?  " 

"  I  promise,  but  don't  keep  me  longer  than  you  can  help." 

"  Fear,"  thought  Lawker,  "  will  make  him  keep  his  word." 

Perhaps  Lawker  would  have  thought  aright  if  Lord  Shamvock  had 
not  awakened  with  a  throbbing  headache  and  quivering  nerves.  For 
some  time  his  lordship  restrained  his  desire  for  a  little  stimulant, 
but  every  miimte  he  became  more  prostrate  and  nervous.  Of  all 
the  Demons  that  snare,  enslave,  and  destroy  man  not  one  is  more 
cruel  and  exacting  than  Drink.  If  the  miserable  devotee  fails  to 
sacrifice  to  the  Demon  Drink  at  the  appointed  hour,  he  is  torn  with- 
out mercy.  So  awful  is  the  tippler's  rage  for  drink  that  if  he  were 
tempted  he  would  drain  the  poisoned  chalice.  There  is  death  in  the 
cup,  and  he  knows  it,  but  still  he  drinks.  Is  the  drunkard  mad? 
^^'o^se  than  mad.  He  is  possessed  by  a  devil  that  tortures  him, 
mocks  him,  and  destroys  him. 

Lord  Shamvock  looked  round  the  room  for  a  bell.  He  looked  in 
vain.  The  last  occupant  had  taken  the  bell  cord  to  tie  up  a  bundle. 
Shaking  and  quaking,  his  lordship,  after  a  painful  effort,  shuffled  into 
some  of  his  clothes,  and  opened  the  door.  He  called  ** waiter"  three  or 
four  times,  but  there  was  no  response.  It  was  his  first  visit  to  a 
coffee-house,  and  he  did  not  know  that  waiters  were  not  employed 
ill  such  an  establishment.  He  saw  a  woman  coming  down  stairs, 
and  when  she  reached  the  landing  on  which  he  stood,  he  addressed  her: 

"  My  good  girl,  ^ill  you  tell  the  landlord  to  send  me  some  brandy, 
for  I  am  ill,  and  tell  the  waiter  to  make  liaste  and  I  will  tip  him." 

The  woman  turned  her  face  to  Lord  Shamvock,  and  their  eyes  met 
The  countenances  of  both  changed.  Lord  Shamvock  went  into  his 
room  and  locked  the  door. 

"  It  is  Rose  Dulmaine.  She  did  not,  she  could  not,  know  me. 
How  Lawker  would  rave  if  he  knew  I  had  been  outside  the  door ! 
Hut  she  will  not  betray  me,  for  Y\\  swear  she  could  not  know  me  in 
this  plight.     Lawker  should  have  left  me  some  brandy." 

It  was  thoughtless  of  lawker  not  to  provide  the  brandy,  but  then 

in  the  olden  time  his  lordship  did  not  tipple  before  breakfast     But 

Lord  Shamvock  was  wrong  as  to  not  being  recognised.     Rose  knew 

him  and  returned  to  her  room  and  locked  her  door.     In  spite  of  his 

bravado  Lord  Shamvock  was  terrified  lest  Rose  had  recognised  him 

and  would  betray  him  to  the  officers  of  justice.     Rose  was  for  awhile 

almost  paralysed  by  fear,  for  she  concluded  that  Lord  Shamvock  was 

in  that  humble  abode  to  persecute  her. 

Q  Q  2 


588  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

How  came  he  there  ?  How  came  a  lord  to  lodge  at  a  coffee- 
house ?  He  might  have  seen  her  in  the  street  and  followed  her.  Or 
Blewlite  might  have  followed  her  and  told  Lord  Shamvock  her 
address.  Mrs.  Thompson  must  know  the  man  was  not  one  of  her 
customers.  Ah !  she  could  see  it  all  now.  That  woman  had  been 
bribed  by  his  lordship  to  keep  her  till  it  was  convenient  for  him  to 
carry  out  his  cruel  design.  Now  she  understood  the  woman's  pre- 
tended affection. 

There  was  some  excuse  lor  the  wicked  thoughL  Sorrow  had 
hardened  the  heart  of  Rose,  and  the  appearance  of  Lord  Shamvock 
in  that  place  might  well  suggest  the  evil  and  unjust  suspicion. 

"Vile  wretch  !"  exclaimed  Rose.  "I  did  not  earn  the  money  I 
received.  I  was  sure  of  that  I  have  been  made  to  live  upon  his 
money.     I  am  indeed  fallen,  degraded,  and  lost." 

Mrs.  Thompson  came  to  inquire  if  Rose  was  going  to  the  City. 
Rose  told  her  that  she  had  the  headache  and  would  lie  down  for  an 
hour  or  two. 

**Lor,  my  dear!  what  is  the  matter?  You  have  been  woniting 
yourself)  and  you  should  not  do  it.  Be  patient,  there  is  a  deary,  and 
things  will  soon  come  right.  I'll  make  you  a  cup  of  strong  tea  with 
a  bit  of  toast,  and  then  lay  down  and  get  a  nap." 

Mrs.  Thompson  took  Rose's  hand.    Rose  turned  from  her  angrily. 

"Will  you  let  me  alone  for  a  little  while ?    It's  all  I  ask." 

"  Yes,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Thompson.  "  Try  and  compose  your- 
self.    I  will  come  to  you  by-and-by." 

Mrs.  Thompson  was  not  offended.  She  had  no  idea  there  was 
any  cause  for  offence.  It  is  not  the  good,  it  is  not  those  who  have  a 
clear  conscience  and  a  loving  heart,  who  are  prone  to  take  oflTence. 

"  Abominable  hypocrite  ! "  muttered  Rose  as  she  locked  the  door. 

Meantime  Lawker  returned  and  found  his  lordship  in  a  grumUing 
mood. 

"  I  thought  you  had  gone  off  altogether.  I  am  pretty  well  dead 
from  want" 

'^  I  have  brought  in  some  brandy  and  soda,  and  I  have  ordered 
breakfast  to  be  sent  up  in  half  an  hour.  I  am  rather  late,  but  I 
thought  it  best  when  I  was  in  the  City  to  ^i-ait  and  draw  the  money. 
Have  you  been  long  awake  ?  " 

"  For  hours,"  replied  his  lordship. 

"  You  have  not  been  bothered  by  any  knocking  at  the  door.  I 
■cautioned  the  landlady  not  to  call  you." 

His  lordship  had  resolved  not  to  tell  Lawker  about  breaking  his 
promise  and  seeing  Rose  Dulmaine. 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  589 

"  1  have  bought  you  a  slop  suit,  and  a  done-up  hat,  which  latter  I 
hope  will  be  a  fit,  for  I  am  sure  about  the  clothes.  The  shoes  will 
be  awkward,  for  you  have  always  been  wearing  the  best  make.  But 
the  understandings  must  be  a  match  with  the  suit.  What  do  you 
think  this  lot  cost?"  asked  Lawker,  displaying  a  pair  of  check 
trousers  and  a  faded  cloth  vest  and  cut-off  coat 

*•  What  a  guy  I  shall  look  !"  said  his  lordship  with  a  groan. 

**  It  don't  matter  how  you  look,  if  you  don't  look  yourself.  It  is 
in  the  papers  with  a  reward  of  fifty  pounds.  So  that  will  make  the 
chase  hot  for  a  day  or  two,  and  we  must  go  a  whole  drove  of  hogs 
in  baulking  them.  That  lot,  shoes  and  hat  into  the  bargain,  did  not 
come  to  quite  three  pounds.     Of  course  the  suit  is  soiled  stock." 

His  lordship  was  too  absorbed  reading  a  newspaper  that  Lawker 
had  laid  upon  the  bed  to  notice  the  remarks  of  his  ex-valet  The 
column  that  attracted  his  lordship  was  headed  "  Forgery  by  a  Noble- 
man." 

^^It  has  transpired  that  the  daring  and  ingenious  fraud  on  the 
Nugget  Bank  by  means  of  a  forged  cheque  was  planned  by  Lord 
Shamvock.  Sinister  rumours  have  for  some  time  been  afloat  about 
his  lordship.  He  was  lately  married  to  the  only  daughter  of  Mr. 
Thomas  Hawes,  and  the  unhappy  lady  is  now  suing  for  a  dissolution 
of  the  marriage  on  the  ground  of  bigamy.  We  are  informed  that 
for  very  sufficient  reasons  his  lordship  has  been  turned  out  of  both  the 
clubs  to  which  he  belonged.  A  warrant  has  been  granted,  and  a 
reward  of  fifty  pounds  offered  for  his  apprehension.  The  police  have 
a  certain  clue  to  his  whereabouts,  and  are  confident  of  his  immediate 
capture.  The  disgrace  of  Lord  Shamvock  ought  to  warn  others  of 
the  terrible  consequences  of  a  career  of  dissipation  and  gambling." 

"  I  wish  I  was  at  Boulogne." 

'*  I  have  been  over  that  move,  and  I  don't  think  it  is  safe.  In  a 
place  like  Boulogne  people  will  be  asking  who  you  are,  and  that  will 
be  dangerous.  It  is  best  to  remain  in  London.  Take  a  lodging 
over  the  water,  say  at  Kennington.  Go  out  at  regular  hours,  and 
pretend  you  have  some  sort  of  business.     That  will  be  the  baulk." 

When  his  lordship  put  on  the  soiled  slop  suit  Lawker  was  de* 
lighted. 

"  What  a  disguise  !  You  see  for  years  you  have  been  disguising 
your  real  self  with  padding,  and  without  the  padding  you  are  a  small- 
boned  skeleton.  It's  beautiful.  Sit  down,  and  let  me  operate  on 
the  hair  and  face." 


590  The  Genilemans  MagcLzine. 

**  \Vhat  are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 

''  Shave  the  top  lip,  and  cut  down  the  long  hair  that  [daisters 
over  the  bald  places.  When  I  have  finished  you  will  not  know 
yourself,  and  be  ready  to  swear  you  are  some  one  else." 

"  Must  I  be  made  such  a  walking  mummy?" 

I  .awker  pointed  to  the  newspaper,  and  his  lordship  submitted  to 
the  razor  and  scissors. 

"  How  bald  you  are  !  What  a  genuine  disguise  your  styk  has 
been  for  years  and  years  !     Now  give  me  your  teeth." 

"  My  teeth  !     What  do  you  want  with  my  teeth  ?" 

*'  Do  you  think  we  are  to  be  spoilt  by  your  showing  such  a  set  as 
Nature  can*t  produce,  which  everybody  can  see  aint  your  owuj  and 
must  have  cost  a  pile  of  money  ?  You  can't  go  mumbling  and  splut- 
tering without  teeth,  for  that  would  draw  attention,  and  that  is  not 
what  we  want     Hand  them  to  me,  and  I  will  take  off  the  shine." 

Lord  Shamvock  put  his  hand  to  his  mouth  and  gave  Lawker  his 
costly  glittering  teeth. 

"  Ah,  when  I  was  with  you  these  were  better  looked  after.'* 

I^awker  produced  a  small  hammer,  a  chisel,  and  a  bottle. 

**  What  are  you  doing?  "  asked  his  lordship. 

''  Breaking  two  or  three  of  them  short,  and  blacking  them  with 
gallic  acid." 

**  You  are  cheerful  enough  over  it,"  mumbled  his  lordship. 

"Ah,  we  shall  beat  them  all  round,"  said  Lawker.  "There,  that 
will  do.  Put  them  in.  No  fear  of  any  girl  kissing  you,  unless  it  is 
in  the  pitch  dark." 

**  Pray  let  us  get  out  of  this  confounded  place." 

"  Why,  you  lisp,"  said  Lawker.  "  I  have  broken  the  right  teeth. 
That  is  capital.  Now,  just  look  at  yourself  in  the  glass.  I'll  be  shot 
if  I  don't  almost  think  you  are  the  wrong  man." 

Lord  Shamvock  looked  in  the  glass  and  shuddered. 

"  Being  disfigured  like  this  is  well  nigh  as  bad  as  penal  servitude.^ 

"  They  would  make  a  shorter  crop  in  prison,  and  that  suit  is  fan 
ahead  of  a  convicts  dress." 

Lawker  made  a  parcel  of  his  lordship's  clothes,  remoKsdessly 
crushing  the  elegant  hat. 

'^  Come  on.  We  will  walk  to  a  place  where  we  can  get  something  to 
eat,  and  then  bolt  to  the  other  side  of  the  water  and  find  you  a  crib. 
I  tell  you  what  to  pass  for.  A  worn-out  village  schoolmaster  Yoa 
look  the  character,  and  it  will  account  for  your  hands  shoiring  no 
signs  of  work.' 

**  What  you  like,  but  let  us  quit  this  place.'* 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  591 

At  night  Mr.  Gouger  and  Frank  went  to  the  coffee-house  to  inquire 
about  Mrs.  Simpson. 

"  Of  course  this  is  where  she  lives,  and  I  am^injthat  trouble  about 
her  that  I  can't  attend  even  to  the  boiling  of  an  egg  without  letting 
it  get  like  a  stone  for  salad." 

**  I  am  sorry  you  are  in  any  trouble,"  said  Mr.  Gouger.  "  Mrs. 
Simpson  is  a  relation  of  yours,  is  she  not  ?  " 

"  Lor  no,  poor  dear !  whatever  she  is,  she  is  a  genuine  lady  by 
nature.  I  never  set  eyes  on  her  till,  it  may  be,  three  weeks  ago. 
She  came  here  awfully  down  with  sorrow,  and  too  proud,  poor  dear, 
to  take  my  help.  So  I  got  my  cousin  at  Briggs's  to  give  her  work, 
and  pretend  she  was  earning  a  pound  a  week. 

"  You  are  a  good  soul,"  said  Mr.  Gouger. 

"  Her  name  ?  "  asked  Frank,  eagerly.    "  Did  you  hear  her  name?" 

"  She  has  put  *  Rose '  to  the  letter  she  has  writ  me." 

"  It  must  be  my  Rose,  Gouger.  It  must  be  my  dear  lost  wife. 
Where  is  she  ?  " 

"  Vou  her  husband  I "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Thompson.  "  Oh,  sir,  why 
didn't  you  come  a  few  hours  sooner  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?    Where  is  she  ?  " 

*'  Patience,"  said  Mr.  Gouger.     '*  Has  Mrs.  Simpson  left  you  ?" 

"  She  were  ill  and  out  of  sorts  this  morning,  and  the  poor  dear 
would  take  nothing  or  say  a  word  to  me.  This  afternoon,  when  I 
was  up  to  my  eyes  with  the  teas,  she  slipped  out  unbeknown.  Presently 
I  went  up  to  see  her,  and  to  persuade  her  to  take  something,  and, 
instead  of  her,  I  found  this  letter.' 

The  letter,  as  Mrs.  Thompson  called  it,  was  a  few  words  on  a  slip 
of  paper  : — 

"  For  whatever  you  have  done  for  me  I  thank  you,  but  I  do  not 
choose  to  be  under  more  obligation.  I  shall  not  return  to  your 
house.  "  Rose." 

•*  It  is  her  writing,"  said  Frank.  "  A\Tiy  did  she  leave  ?  Where 
has  she  gone?" 

**  1  am  afraid  that  they  told  her  the  pound  a  week  was  not  earned, 
for  my  cousin  is  on  his  holiday.  Poor  dear,  she  was  as  heartily 
welcome  to  it  as  my  own  child." 

**  Come,  Mr.  Boliver,"  said  Gouger,  "  she  can't  be  far  off.  We  must 
begin  the  search  without  delay." 

*'  Poor  dear,  poor  dear  !  why  did  she  go  ?  If  you  had  been  ever  so 
little  sooner,  what  a  mercy  it  would  have  been  to  her  !     For  she  is 


592  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

in  that  condition  which  is  not  fit  for  her  to  be  without  home  and 
help." 

"My  dear  friend,"  said  Mr.  Gouger,  shaking  Mrs.  Thompson's 
hand,  "  we  will  soon  find  her,  and  you  shall  be  the  first  to  hear  the 
good  news." 

Mrs.  Thompson  was  sobbing,  with  her  elbow  on  the  comer  of  the 
table  and  her  apron  before  her  face. 

Frank  took  her  hand  and  kissed  her  forehead. 

"  God  bless  you  for  your  kindness  to  my  dear  wife." 

And  they  left  Mrs.  Thompson  crying  lustilypand  rubbing  her  eyes 
with  her  rough  apron. 

CHAPTER  XXXVL 

LORD    SHAMVOCK    FINDS   THE   MONEY. 

Mr.  Dick  Feckles,  after  drawing  the  two  hundred  pounds,  walked 
to  the  Old  Kent  Road  and  took  a  room  in  one  of  the  smallest  houses 
of  that  strangely  composite  thoroughfare.  Without  Royal  licence,  or 
troubling  himself  about  legal  formalities,  he  assumed  the  name  of 
Fraser,  and  to  prevent  curiosity,  which  is  always  dangerous  to  those  who 
seek  strict  seclusion  from  friends  and  acquaintances,  he  told  his  landlady 
that  he  came  from  Liverpool  to  settle  a  little  law  business,  and  that, 
having  a  large  family,  he  could  not  afford  to  spend  much  money  over 
himself  As  in  lieu  of  reference  he  paid  a  fortnight's  rent  in  advance, 
the  landlady  was  perfectly  satisfied  with  her  lodger. 

Having  provided  himself  with  all  things  needful  for  his  comfort, 
including  a  bottle  of  gin  and  a  quarter  of  a  pound  of  tobacco,  Dick 
locked  his  door  and  tasted  the  contents  of  the  bottle. 

*'  That  beats  the  Castle,  anyhow.  There's  flavour  and  strength, 
without  burning  your  throat  like  blazing  vitriol.  But  I  mustn't 
indulge  yet  more  than  a  mouthful.  Business  first,  and  then  for 
enjoyment.  But  a  pipe  won't  do  any  harm  to  business.  What  a 
blessing  it  would  be  if  drink  was  like  smoke  !'' 

1  )ick  emptied  his  pockets  and  counted  his  gold.  Then  he  laid  out 
the  sovereigns  and  half-sovereigns  on  the  table  as  a  child  would  play 
with  counters. 

"  One  hundred  and  ninety-eight  pound,  leave  alone  the  odd  silver 
in  the  left  trouser  pocket,  besides  two  weeks*  rent  paid.  It  s  a  fortune* 
It  will  last  two  years,  and  then  something  else  will  turn  up.  Ah,  you 
old  Shamvock,  I  was  to  have  twenty-five,  was  I  ?  You  have  done 
me  before,  but  not  this  time  of  asking,  you  old  scoundrel.  I  wonder 
how  long  he  waited  in  that  public.     They  won't  find  me  in  a 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  595 

blue  moon,  but  they  will  pab  him,  and  I  am  glad  of  it,  for  I  hate 
him." 

Dick  took  oft  his  coat,  and  with  a  pair  of  scissors  opened  the 
lining.  % 

"  Splendid  invention  this  wadding.  It  is  safe  as  a  bank,  and  a 
good  deal  handier.  It  can't  be  got  at  by  forgery,  and  no  bother 
about  missing  cheques." 

With  needle  and  thread  he  sewed  up  his  gold  in  various  parts  of 
his  coat,  only  reserving  two  pounds  for  present  use.  When  the  work 
was  done  he  shook  the  coat  violently. 

"  It  won't  come  out,  I  know,  and  it  don't  jingle.  Here  I  am  out  d 
hirm.  No  worry  from  Mrs.  F.  No  being  crazed  out  of  my  seven  senses 
by  that  Ruth.  No  having  to  beg  for  half  a  quartern,  and  being  refused 
by  that  swindling  old  Castle.  For  a  good  two  years  I  shall  be  jolly. 
I  haven't  been  so  well  not  for  years,  not  since  that  Ruth's  mother  got 
me  into  another  awful  bother." 

Dick  partook  freely  of  the  gin,  and  when  he  was  in  his  usual  state 
of  alcoholic  stupefaction,  got  into  bed. 

"  One  hundred  and  ninety-eight  odd.  Not  a  soul  to  keep  out  of 
it.    Oh  you  old  Shamvock,  won't  I  be  jolly  for  leastways  two  years  !" 

There  was  a  considerable  abatement  of  the  jollity  when  Dick  woke 
up  in  the  morning.     He  was  shaky  and  depressed. 

"  That  is  the  cause  of  it,"  said  he,  looking  at  the  bottle.  "  My  lor  \ 
I  must  have  drunk  over  a  pint  of  spirit.  I  shall  stick  to  beer,  with 
just  one  glass  at  night,  else  I  shall  be  getting  the  horrors  again,  and 
that  red-eyed  devil  will  be  tormenting  me.  What  I  sufiered  that  night 
before  old  Shamvock  came  in  and  chased  it  away !  There  is  no 
horrors  in  beer  if  you  was  to  drink  it  by  the  butt" 

Every  morning  Dick  made  the  same  resolve.  He  began  with  beer. 
He  drank  a  glass  of  bitter  ale,  and  then  a  little  spirit,  because  the 
beer  was  too  cold  for  his  stomach.  He  could  not  eat  without  the 
fillip  of  gin  and  bitters.  He  could  not  digest  his  food  without  a 
glass  of  grog.  A  dry  pipe  made  him  sick,  and  beer  and  tobacco 
did  not  go  well  together.  Thus  according  to  the  custom  of  drunkards- 
Dick  fooled  himself  by  inventing  an  excuse  for  drinking  whenever 
he  craved  another  drop.  Some  think  that  alcohol  is  a  bad  servant- 
^^'ho  can  deny  that  alcohol  is  a  cruel,  ruthless,  and  accursed  master  ? 
Now  that  he  had  ample  means  Dick  drank  more  than  ever,  and  in 
five  days  he  had  an  attack  of  what  he  well  described  as  the  horrors. 

The  red-eyed  devil  crouched  in  a  comer  of  his  room.  It  was- 
in  form  a  wild  beast,  with  eyes  of  fire,  and  it  would  not  move  or 
withdraw   its  deadly,   dreadful  stare.      Trembling  until   his  teeth 


591-  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

chait:;red,  Dick  got  a  long  way  off,  but  without  power  to  turn  his  face 
from  ihe  hideous  apparition.  Once  Dick  shut  his  eyes  for  a  moment^ 
and  opened  them  with  a  fright  and  a  smothered  scream,  for  he 
thought  that  the  creature  had  come  to  him,  and  that  he  felt  its 
hot  breath.  No,  it  has  not  moved,  but  see,  it  is  making  ready 
for  a  spring.  It  shows  its  awful  teeth.  Its  eyes  grow  larger  and 
larger,  and  more  fierce.  It  moves.  The  room  shakes.  The  room 
is  rocking. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door. 

'*i\re  you  awake,  Mr.  Fraser?  Sorry  to  trouble  you,  but  if  you 
could  oblige  me.'* 

The  apparition  retreated  to  the  comer,  and  then  disappeared. 

The  knock  was  repeated.  A  fear  only  less  terrible  than  the 
red-eyed  devil  seized  upon  Dick.  Who  could  ^*ant  him  at  that 
hour.^     Had  he  been  traced? 

**\Vhat  is  it?"  asked  Dick  feebly. 

**It  is  only  me,  Mr.  Fraser,  wanting  to  know  if  you  could  lend 
us  a  drop  of  spirit  for  a  party  who  is  took  very  ilL" 

'*That  is  a  comfort,"  muttered  Dick,  as  he  unlocked  and  opened 
the  door. 

''  Not  in  bed,  Mr.  Fraser  I    You  are  a  sitter-up,  and  no  mistake." 

*'  Would  you  mind  having  a  look  in  that  comer  ?  I  fancy  there 
is  something  there." 

The  landlady  retreated  a  step. 

** Something  in  the  corner,  Mr.  Fraser?" 

**  Yes,  mum.  Perhaps  a  cat  or  a  mouse.  Would  you  mind 
looking  ? '' 

The  landlady  crossed  the  room  and  examined  the  corner. 

"  There  aint  nothing  here.  No  cat,  no  mouse,  and  no  dirt,  for  I 
am  none  of  your  half-cleaners,  but  have  every  corner  regular  routed 
out.  As  for  mice,  there  isn't  one  living  as  could  show  its  nose  twice 
within  a  mile  of  my  cat,  leave  alone  that  there  aint  vermin  where  there 
aint  dirt,  which  is  the  breath  of  their  life,  being  their  nature  to  thrive 
on  what  j)isons  Christians." 

"  Vou  are  right,  mum  ;  there  is  nothing  in  the  comer.  Did  you 
ever  have  the  horrors  ?     The  doctors  call  it  delirium  tremaisJ^ 

**  \o,  I  aint.  Not  counting  tooth-cutting,  measles,  whoo(HQS 
cough,  and  them  things  that  are  the  nature  of  a  child,  I  have  never 
had  nothing  the  matter  with  me  since  I  have  beengrowed  up  except 
bai)ies,  which  are  six,  and  every  one  of  them  living  and  two  married." 

*•  Did  you  not  say  you  were  ill,  and  wanted  a  drop  of  spirit?" 

"  There  now,  that's  how  one  gets  forgetting  everything  when 


Making  the  Worst  of  it,  595 

gets  a-talking,  which  I  never  will  do  till  every  bed  is  made,  and  my 
time  is  my  own.  The  poor  gent  is  a-groaning,  and  gone  from  my 
mind  as  if  he  was  somebody  else,  and  I  had  never  seed  him  well  or 
ill.'* 

Dick  pointed  to  the  gin  bottle. 

"  Of  course,  Mr.  Fraser,  it's  a  lodger  took  in  to-night,  his  name 
being  Mr.  O'Brien  from  Irekind,  but  as  harmless  as  one  of  ourselves. 
He's  old  and  thin  as  a  workhouse  weasel,  which,  as  the  saying  says, 
can  jump  through  the  eye  of  a  needle.  Moreover,  Mr.  Fraser,  and  I 
ought  to  know,  for  as  I  aint  ashamed  to  confess  that  I  know  what  is 
tops  and  bottoms  in  life;  for  if  my  father  had  not  been  easy  with  them 
as  had  no  claim,  and  done  his  duty  by  his  offspring,  we  should  have 
come  into  our  thousands,  and  likewise  my  husband  who  was  took 
from  me  six  years  ago  hicked  away  fortune  after  fortune.  And,  as 
I  was  a-saying,  I  opine  that  Mr.  O'Brien  has  knowed  better  days. 
And  never  because  I  am  betterer  off  will  I  crow  over  one  as  isn't,  for 
the  best  of  us  may  see  worserer  days,  being  all  born  and  not  dead,  as 
tlic  saying  says.' 

When  the  voluble  dame  paused  for  breath,  a  voice  was  heard  from 
the  upper  landing. 

"  Pray  bring  me  the  brandy  if  you  can  get  it" 

*•  Coming,  sir,  coming.  If  you  was  to  fly  it  would  be  crawling  in 
tlic  eyes  of  some  gents.  Mr.  O'Brien  is  took  with  the  shudders,  and 
asks  for  brandy,  which  stops  them,  when  all  the  publics  are  shut  up, 
and  1  don't  keep  it  by  me." 

"  I  have  no  brandy,  but  there  is  some  fine  Old  Tom." 

"  Which  is  a  word  I  never  hear  without  a-fancying  I  see  my  poor 
dear  husband  a-sitting  before  me  drinking  his  glass  over  his  pipe. 
Me  always  called  it  the  venerable  Thomas,  and  didn't  he  like  it  over 
his  pipe !  Well,  he  had  his  faults,  for  he  drank  up  two  homes, 
besides  being  brutal  in  his  cups,  as  I  had  to  call  in  the  neighbours 
and  also  the  police  to  save  me  from  his  blows ;  but  this  I  will  say, 
and  I  am  j)roud  to  say  it,  that  a  more  genteelerer,  a  more  aristo- 
craticker  bom  gent  never  put  one  leg  before  the  other." 

Again  the  landlady  paused  for  lack  of  breath,  and  again  was  heard 
the  voice  from  the  upper  landing. 

*•  Will  you  bring  me  the  brandy?" 

**  Mr.  Fraser  aint  got  none,  but  he's  got  Old  Tom,  and  nothing 
better  for  the  shudders  you  can't  take.' 

"  I  don't  understand,"  said  the  voice,  descending  the  stairs. 

**  He's  coming  down.  I  declare  he  would  fidget  the  life  out  of  a 
tortoise." 


596  The  Gentlefnan's  Magazine. 

"  \Vell,  mum  !"  said  the  voice  in  the  passage.  "  \\Tiat  about  the 
brandy?" 

"  It  is  this  way,"  said  the  landlady,  going  to  the  door.  "  You  see 
the  publics  is  closed,  and  Mr.  Fraser  aint  got  no  spirit  but  Old  Tom; 
to  which  you  are  welcome.*' 

**I  will  borrow  a  little  of  your  gin,"  said  Mr.  O'Brien,  putting  his 
head  in  the  room.  "  Brandy  is  my  physic,  but  I  dare  say  the  gin 
will  stop  this  confounded  shiver." 

Dick,  whose  back  had  been  turned  to  Mr.  O'Brien,  took  the  bottle 
from  the  table  and  handed  it  to  the  shivering  applicant  Mr. 
O'Brien  had  the  bottle  in  his  hand  when  he  caught  sight  of  Dick's 
face.     Down  fell  the  bottle  with  a  smash. 

"The  devil!"  exclaimed  Mr.  O'Brien. 

"Where,  where?"  asked  Dick  in  alarm,  and  looking  in  the  appa- 
rition comer. 

"  Dear  me  !  Mr.  O'Brien,"  said  the  landlady ;  "  if  you  only  hadn*t 
come  down.  There's  the  waste  of  the  Old  Tom,  leave  alone  the 
splintered  glass,  which  no  sweeping  will  get  up." 

"  Here's  another  bottle,"  said  Dick.  "  I  will  take  a  glass,  and  give 
you  the  rest." 

"  Send  it  up,  for  I  am  awfully  cold." 

Mr.  O'Brien  was  already  ascending  the  stairs  when  he  spoke. 

"  Show  me  a  fidget,  and  I  will  show  you  a  waster  and  everything 
that  is  bad.  My  husband  was  that  fidgety  towards  the  last  that  he 
had  not  temper  to  hear  a  body  speak,  but  I  always  would  have  my 
say  if  I  died  for  it,  as  the  saying  says." 

"  Here  is  the  bottle,"  said  Dick,  when  he  had  filled  a  tumbler  with 
the  spirit. 

"  (iood  night,  Mr.  Fraser.  After  this  here  performance  you  wont 
be  for  rising  much  afore  breakfast  is  eaten  and  likewise  washed  up. 
I  never  let  my  things  stand  over  from  one  meal  to  another." 

The  landlady  made  her  exit.  Dick  glanced  at  the  apparition 
comer. 

"It's  not  come  back,"  whispered  Dick.  "I'll  be  in  bed  before  it 
knows  I  am  alone." 

Mr.  O'Brien  thanked  the  landlady  for  the  gin. 

"  Very  kind  of  Mr.  Fraser.     Has  he  been  with  you  long?" 

"  His  first  week  aint  up.     He  came  on  the  Tuesday." 

"  Well  off,  I  dare  say  ?  " 

"  I'm  puzzled  what  to  make  of  him,  unless  he's  a  miser.  Paid  me 
a  fortnight.  No  stint  so  far  as  drink  goes.  Twice  he  has  give  me 
sovereigns  to  change.     But  there  is  no  luggage,  and  the  shirt  he  took 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  597 

off  was  coarse  enough  for  riddling  cinders  through  it ;  and  as  for 
colour  the  black  was  regularly  grimed  in/* 

**  Good  night,  ma'am." 

**  Good  night,  sir.  You  shall  have  a  cup  of  tea  as  soon  as  ever  the 
kettle  boils  and  the  milk  cornes." 

Mr.  O'Brien,  or,  to  be  veracious,  Lord  Shamvock,  mixed  some  ot 
the  gin  with  water  and  drank  it. 

**  Better  than  cold  water,  and  I  suppose  I  am  welcome  to  it,  as  it 
was  paid  for  with  my  money." 

His  money !  He  could  not  have  been  more  enraged  with  Dick  it 
the  two  hundred  pounds  had  indeed  been  his  money.  There  is  a 
torturing  sting  about  retribution  in  kind.  It  is  hard  to  be  robbed  of 
honestly  earned  money,  but  probably  no  one  feels  robbery  so  keenly 
as  tlie  thief  who  is  plundered  of  his  plunder.  The  man  who  never 
pays  his  debts  is  often  a  remorseless  creditor.  The  slanderer  resents 
the  slightest  misrepresentation.  The  critic  who  prides  himself  on  his 
merciless,  scathing  criticisms  is  very  often  absurdly  sensitive.  The 
surgeon  shrinks  from  the  application  of  the  surgeon's  knife  to  his  own 
body.  What  a  divinely  comprehensive  prayer  that  is,  "Do  unto 
others  as  you  would  that  others  should  do  unto  you,"  and  how  few  ot 
us  could,  if  memory  were  vivid,  pray  that  prayer  from  the  depths  of 
the  heart ! 

**  To  meet  him  here !  To  run  down  the  scoundrel  by  a  fluke ! 
"VMiy,  I  would  have  given  a  little  finger  to  have  done  it.  The  wretch 
should  be  in  prison  within  the  hour,  but  I  must  be  cautious.  You 
won't  have  so  soft  a  bed  to-morrow  night,  and  I  shall  sleep  the 
easier,  you  scoundrel,  from  knowing  that  you  are  getting  some  of 
your  deserts.  You  robbed  me,  but  you  shall  pay  for  it,  and  I  shall 
put  you  to  prison.  And  some  time  or  other  you  shall  learn  that  I 
did  it.     That  will  torture  the  scoundrel." 

His  lordship  opened  a  cheap  and  handy  writing-case  provided  by 
the  thoughtful  Lawker,  and  wrote  as  follows : — 

"  At  No.  I,  Niagara  Falls  Villas,  Old  Kent  Road,  there  is  lodging 
in  the  first-floor  back  room  a  man  who  calls  himself  Mr.  Fraser.  He 
is  Dick  Feckles,  the  man  who  last  week  robbed  the  Nugget  Bank  of 

^200." 

"  Before  eight  in  the  morning  I  shall  get  a  man  or  boy  to  leave 
that  at  the  nearest  police-station.  Soon  after  eight  o'clock  the 
scoundrel  who  robbed  me  will  be  roused  up  and  see  two  oflicers 
standing  over  him.     How  the  wretch  will  shake !     Not  a  taste  of 


598  The  Gentlenimis  Magazine. 

spirit  for  him  if  it  was  to  save  his  life.  I  must  not  be  seen,  but  I 
hope  I  shall  hear  the  scoundrel  yell  and  blub.  Those  who  rob 
Shamvock  get  the  worst  of  it." 

The  haggard,  contorted  face  was  flushed  at  the  prospect  of  revenge 
on  Dick  Feckles. 

"  It  would  complete  the  scoundrel's  torture  if  he  could  be  told 
that  I  had  got  the  money.  If  his  door  is  open  I  will  have  a  look 
round.  He  is  too  drunk  to  rouse  easily,  and  if  he  does  I  can  scare 
him  out  of  his  senses.  I  shouldn't  think  he  has  run  the  risk  of 
leaving  the  money  at  a  bank.'* 

His  lordship  waited  for  half  an  hour,  every  now  and  then  drinking 
a  little  of  the  gin,  and  every  time  he  did  so  grumbling  at  the  liquor. 

"  The  vile  scoundrel !  Why  did  he  not  buy  brandy  ?  Why  did 
tlie  thief  waste  my  money  for  such  stuff  as  this  ?  I  suppose  the 
rascal  has  spent  freely.  I'll  have  a  look  for  what  is  left.  I  shall  be 
floored  if  the  door  is  locked.  If  I  get  in  and  he  wakes  I  will  scare 
him." 

He  took  off  his  boots  and  went  down  stairs  as  quietly  as  he  could* 
and  was  irritated  at  the  creaking,  which  sounded  very  loud  in  the 
dead  of  the  night. 

When  he  came  to  the  door  of  Dick's  room  he  put  his  ear  to  the 
keyhole  and  listened.  There  was  no  sound.  He  rattled  the  handle. 
There  was  no  sound.  He  turned  the  handle  and  the  unlocked  door 
opened. 

Dick  was  in  a  deep  sleep.  His  lordship  was  in  an  almost  uncon- 
trollable rage.  He  shook  his  fist  at  the  sleeper.  His  eyes  gleamed 
with  malignant  hate.  He  held  the  flame  of  the  candle  near  to  the 
bed  curtains,  but  before  the  scorch  became  a  blaze  he  removed  the 
light. 

"  It  might  wake  him  and  lead  to  inquir>'.  Besides,  penal  servitude 
will  be  worse  for  the  scoundrel  than  burning  to  death.  Where  is  the 
money?"' 

His  lordship  looked  round  the  room,  but  there  was  no  luggage. 
He  opened  the  drawers,  and  they  were  empty.  He  felt  in  trousers 
and  waistcoat  pockets,  and  transferred  to  his  own  pocket  a  sovcicigii» 
some  silver,  and  coppers. 

"  He  shan't  have  a  copper  if  I  can  help  it  Where  is  the 
coat  ? " 

His  lordship  searched,  but  could  not  find  the  garment. 

"  Wherever  the  scoundrel's  coat  is,  there  is  the  gold."* 

His  lordship  searched  about  the  bed  and  discovered  the  coat 
tucked  under  the  pillow.    Dick's  head  had  slipped  off  the  pillow  taCfae 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  599 

bolster,  so  that  the  coat  could  be  removed.  His  lordship  seized  it 
and  carried  it  up  to  his  own  room. 

He  thrust  his  hands  into  the  pockets,  and  then  flung  down  the  coat 
with  a  horrible  oath. 

"  Why  did  he  have  it  under  his  pillow  ?  .The  security  for  the 
money  is  concealed  in  it." 

He  took  up  the  coat,  turned  the  pockets  inside  out,  and  then  felt 
the  linings. 

He  could  not  restrain  a  shout  of  triumph. 

"  The  scoundrel !  I  have  it.  As  soon  as  the  thief  is  in  prison  I 
shall  l)e  otf  with  the  money.'* 

He  tore  the  linings  with  his  hands,  and  there  was  the  gold.  Each 
sovereign  was  separately  sewn  in,  but  he  soon  broke  the  stitches,  and 
there  was  a  glittering  pile  on  the  table. 

"  I  will  be  off  with  this  directly  the  thief  is  caged.  The  scoundrel 
has  sewn  it  tight  enough." 

One  sovereign  was  hard  to  remove.  He  dragged  it  out  with  his 
teeth,  and,  in  doing  so,  disarranged  them. 

He  jerked  back  his  head.  The  coin  passed  into  and  stuck  in  his 
throat.  His  face  became  scarlet.  He  started  to  his  feet,  wildly 
struggling  with  his  hands.  He  caught  the  table  cloth,  and  off  it 
came,  the  gold  rattling  on  the  floor,  and  over  went  the  candle,  and 
the  light  was  extinguished.  He  made  a  movement  in  the  dark.  His- 
foot  slipped.  He  fell  heavily,  the  back  of  his  head  striking  on  the 
edge  of  the  fender. 

The  noise  disturbed  Dick,  but  he  only  turned,  and  again  slept 
soundly. 

CHAPTER  XXXVH. 

THE    DEAREST    FRIEND    FLORA.. 

I^)RF»  Walsher  was  surprised  at  receiving  a  note  from  the- 
Dowager  Lady  Hare  requesting  him  to  favour  her  with  a  call  at 
his  earliest  convenience.  Lady  Hare  was  a  prominent  member  of 
the  distinguished  society  from  which  men  like  Lord  Walsher  are 
rigidly  excluded. 

"  I  suppose  the  Hon.  Noel  has  told  his  ma  that  he  is  in  the  depths 
of  debt,  and  perhaps  that  I  have  eased  him  of  his  ready  money  at 
chicken  hazard.  I  don't  mind  a  lecture.  It  will  be  a  refreshing 
novelty." 

Lady  Hare,  a  stately  dame,  gave  I/Ord  Walsher  a  very  formal,, 
freezing  reception. 


6oo  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

"  Although  we  are  strangers,  I  believe  your  lordship  is  acquainted 
-with  my  son,  and  I  have  troubled  you  to  call  on  me  about  an  afiair 
•that  nearly  concerns  his  happiness  and  honour.** 

"  The  Hon.  Noel  Hare  is  my  friend,  and  any  service  I  can  render 
Jiim  will  be  a  pleasure,  and  not  a  trouble." 

"  Do  you  know  a  person  who  calls  herself  Lady  Shamvock  ?  " 

'*  There  are  two  claimants  to  that  name." 

"  I  see  by  the  newspaper  that  Lord  Shamvock  was  a  bigamist  I 
-mean  the  woman  who  claims  to  be  the  lawful  wife." 

"  I  have  heard  of  her,  and  indeed  I  liave  seen  her,  but  she  is  not 
A  person  whose  acquaintance  any  gentleman  would  own." 

"  1  presume,  then,  that  I  have  been  correctly  informed,  and  that 
she  is  a  low,  disreputable  creature,  who  may  or  may  not  have 
married  Lord  Shamvock,  and  who  has  for  many  years  led  a  scan- 
<lalous  life." 

"  That  is  a  fair  description  of  the  woman.  She  must  be  getting 
old  now,  but  ten  years  ago  I^ura  Marshall — that  was  her  name — ^was 
a  notorious  profligate.  I  am  at  a  loss  to  understand  why  your  lady- 
ship condescends  to  mention  her." 

"  Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  have  named  her,  but  to  have  left  my 
son  to  his  fate — his  infamous  fate." 

'^  Surely  my  friend  can  have  no  association  with  this  woman.  If 
-so  he  will  soon  be  disenchanted." 

"  But  the  disenchantment  maybe  too  late  to  save  him  from  lasting 
shame.  The  Hon.  Noel  Hare  threatens  to  marry  this  profligate 
woman,  this  widow  of  a  bigamist,  thief,  and  forger." 

*'  Impossible  !     Noel  cannot  contemplate  such  folly." 

"  Folly  is  not  the  word,  my  lord.  It  would  be  a  crime  to  brand 
his  family  with  disgrace." 

**  May  I  ask  your  ladyship  who  told  you  of  this  shocking  pro- 
ject ?'' 

"  My  son.  The  day  the  death  of  Lord  Shamvock  hi  the  hovel  to 
which  he  had  fled  from  the  pursuit  of  justice  was  announced,  my  son 
told  me  a  stupid  story  about  the  woman  I^ura,  and  that  he  intended 
to  marry  her.  I  represented  to  him  the  horror  and  in&my  of  allying 
himself  to  the  widow  of  a  notorious  culprit  He  replied  that  he  pro- 
mised to  marry  her  when  she  was  free,  and  that  he  would  do  so.  I 
consulted  ]my  solicitor,  and  from  him  I  learrtt  that  the  woman  is  a 
debased  profligate." 

"  Unless  I  had  heard  it  from  your  ladyship,  I  should  not  have 
believed  the  statement" 

*^  My  eldest  son  inherits  the  estates.     Noel  has  dissipated  die 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  60 1 

small  fortune  left  to  him  by  his  father.  For  his  present  support  and 
for  his  future  prospects  he  depends  upon  me.  My  solicitor  will  be 
here  before  dinner  with  a  codicil  to  my  will  revoking  every  bequest 
to  Noel,  and  leaving  him  only  fifty-two  pounds  a  year,  to  be  paid  to 
him  weekly,  if  he  marries  the  woman.     He  knows  of  this,  and  defies 


mc.' 


"  He  must  be  mad.  He  must  in  some  way  be  saved  from  utter  ruin." 

'*I  shall  rejoice  if  the  fool  can  be  saved.  How  can  it  be  at- 
tempted ?  I  sent  for  your  lordship  to  ask  if  there  is  any  plan  that 
can  be  tried." 

"  Tiiese  cases  of  infatuation  are  not  easily  managed.  Persuasion 
and  threats,  instead  of  curing,  increase  the  disease." 

**  If  the  woman  were  told  that  my  son  would  be  a  beggar  if  he 
married  her,  would  she  go  abroad  for  a  sum  of  money  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  not.  She  would  not  believe  that  Noel  was  penniless, 
and  for  such  a  woman  it  is  a  fortune  to  marry  into  a  noble  family." 

**  I  thank  you  for  your  candour.  Lord  Walsher,"  said  Lady  Hare, 
in  a  voice  that  betrayed  her  deep  vexation.  "  I  see  that  nothing 
can  be  done.     If  my  son  will  persist  he  must  perish." 

*'  Pardon  me,  but  I  do  not  think  we  need  despair.  With  your  lady- 
ship's permission  I  will  try  what  can  be  done  with  the  woman,  and 
to  open  my  friend's  eyes  to  his  folly,  and,  I  will  add,  crime." 

"  I  thank  you  for  the  attempt,  and  if  you  succeed,  you  impose  on 
me  a  debt  of  gratitude.  Noel  has  been  my  favourite  son,  and  I 
would  make  any  sacrifice  to  save  him  from  such  a  terrible  fate." 

"  I  will  try,  and  I  do  not  think  I  shall  fail  May  I  call  in  a  day 
or  two  and  report  progress  ?  " 

"  Call  as  soon  as  you  can,  and  accept  in  advance  my  hearty  thanks 
for  the  trouble  you  are  undertaking." 

Lord  Walsher  was  delighted  with  her  ladyship's  cordial  farewell, 
which  was  in  strong  contrast  to  his  firigid  reception. 

**  By  Jove  !"  he  said  when  in  the  street,  **  this  may  be  a  splendid 
connection  for  me  if  I  can  stop  the  marriage.  Noel  is  an  idiotic 
mule,  and  Laura  Marshall  is  as  cunning  as  she  is  high,  but  1  may 
checkmate  her." 

The  interview  with  the  Hon.  Noel  was  even  more  unsatisfactory 

than  Lord  Walsher  anticipated.      His  lordship  did  not  oppose  the 

marriage,  for  he  knew  it  would  be  worse  than  useless  to  do  so. 

Fanaticism  and  infatuation  are  strengthened  by  open  opposition. 

Neither  did  he  directly  refer  to   the  career  and  character  of  the 

woman,  but  he  irritated  the  Hon.  Noel  by  speaking  of  her  as  Laura 

Marshall. 

Vol..  XI.,  N.S.  1873.  i  i 


6o2  The  Gentlcfnafis  Magazine. 

*'  Her  name  is  I^dy  Shamvock,  and  if  any  one  speaks  of  her  by 
the  name  the  villany  of  her  husband  forced  her  to  assume  I  shall 
resent  the  insult." 

"  It  was  a  slip  of  the  tongue,  my  dear  Hare.  When  yoa  were 
doing  your  football  and  cricket  at  Eton  I  was,  like  other  fellows  in 
town,  an  admirer  of  her  ladyship,  and  all  the  world  and  his  wife 
knew  her  as  I^ura  Marshall.  But  I  am  wrong  about  the  dates. 
How  time  flies  !  AN'hy,  Hare,  you  could  not  have  been  in  your  teens 
when  your  bride  elect  was  a  reigning  belle.  She  slipped  out  of  sight. 
Some  said  she  was  dead,  and  others  that  she  was  nuuried,  but 
clearly  both  reports  were  false." 

The  heightened  colour  of  the  Hon.  Noel  showed  that  the  obseT\'a- 
tions  of  his  lordship  did  not  please  him. 

"We  will  drop  the  subject,  Walsher.  I  love  her,  and  I  tell  you 
she  is  worthy  of  the  love  of  a  better  man.  I  shall  many  her  if  it  cost 
me  fortune  and  family,  and  turned  me  out  of  society." 

**•  1  supj)ose  the  suit  for  the  dissolution  of  the  second  maniage 
will  soon  be  settled?" 

"That  does  not  concern  I^dy  Shamvock.  I  shall  mazry  her 
immediately." 

"  Well,  Hare,  invite  an  old  friend  to  the  wedding." 

"  There  will  be  no  fuss  ;  but  if  you  will  be  my  best  man  I  shall  be 
glad." 

"Delighted,  my  dear  fellow." 

Lord  Walsher  ascertained  the  address  of  Laura  and  called  upon 
her.  lie  adroitly  spoke  of  the  intended  marriage,  and  lamented  the 
detennination  of  Lady  Hare  to  stop  her  son's  income  and  to  disin- 
herit him.  1  .aura  was  of  opinion  that  the  mother  would  relent,  and  if 
not,  she  was  content  to  take  her  chance  vnth  the  son. 

Mrs.  Macgregor  came  in,  and  was  introduced  as  "my  dearest 
friend.'  It  occurred  to  Lord  Walsher  that  the  dearest  friend  mi^t 
be  a  useful  ally.  So,  having  left  the  house,  he  waited  in  the  street 
until  Mrs.  Macgregor  appeared,  accosted  her,  and  readily  persuaded 
her  to  dine  with  him.  His  lordship  was  kind,  sociable,  xmd  attentive^ 
and  the  fliscinating  Flora  was  communicative. 

Flora  was  secretly  displeased  and  out  of  humour  with  her  dearest 
friend  I^ura.  It  was  provoking  that  Laura  should  be  so  lucky,  whilst 
Flora,  years  younger,  had  not  the  remotest  prospect  of  a  settlement 
Laura,  too,  had  become  patronising  in  her  manner,  and  had  assured 
Flora  tliat,  though  it  would  be  impossible  for  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Nod 
Hare  to  receive  Mrs.  Macgregor,  yet  they  would  continue  fiiends  in 
secret.    This  indiscreet  speech  filled  Flora  with  indignatioD. 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  603 

"  Because  she  may  fool  an  honourable  into  marrying  her,  that  won't 
make  her  any  the  better.  If  you  only  knew  what  I  do  about  her  you 
would  wonder  how  she  could  bounce,  and  how  any  man  could  think 
of  marrying  her.'* 

**  My  dear  girl,"  said  Lord  Walsher,  filling  Flora's  glass  with  spark- 
ling wine,  "  I  know  more  about  her  than  you  suppose." 

"  I  wonder  you  let  your  friend  marry  such  a  woman.'* 

"  My  dear  soul,  I  don't  mind  telling  you  in  confidence  that  his 
family  would  give  a  thousand  pounds  to  you  or  anybody  else  who 
stopped  the  marriage.     But  I  am  afraid  it  is  hopeless.  I  have  known, 
many  of  these  cases,  and  if  a  man  resolves  to  crown  himself  with  dirt, 
why  he  will  do  so,  and  that  is  the  end  of  it. " 

"  She  is  so  old — though  I  must  say  it  is  a  beautiful  make  up." 

"Ah,"  said  Lord  Walsher,  smiling,  "I  suspected  the  hair  was 
attached  and  the  complexion  chemical." 

"  Why  she  is  nearly  bald,  and  ignorant  as  a  coster's  cat.  I  write 
all  her  love  letters  and  begging  letters  for  her.  I  read  one  of  the 
honourable's  to-day  in  which  he  says  he  kisses  her  precious  letters  a 
thousand  times,  and  sleeps  with  them  under  his  pillow.  Wouldn't 
he  be  jolly  savage  if  he  knew  they  were  mine  !" 

*'  He  would  not  believe  it  But  what  do  you  mean  by  begging 
letters  ?' 

"  Oh,  letters  to  fellows  she  knows  asking  for^money  on  all  sorts  of 
crams.  How  they  can  be  taken  in  I  can't  think,  but  she  bores 
them  out  of  the  money." 

**  Could  you  get  hold  of  two  or  three  of  the  replies  ?'* 

"  As  easy  as  possible." 

"  Do  so.  You  shall  be  well  rewarded  for  your  trouble.  I  have 
another  idea  that  may  prevent  the  (foolish  business.  Don't  suppose 
you  are  really  injuring  your  fiiend,  for  if  she  marries  Hare  he  will  be 
a  beggar." 

**  Don't  call  her  my  friend.  I  am  sick  of  her  deceit  and  bounce. 
And  I  am  sure  it  is  a  shame  for  an  old  creature  like  her  to  hook  a 
young  swell  like  the  honourable." 

*'  My  dear,  you  are  a  clever,  sensible  giri.  You  are  very  nearly  her 
height,  but  not  her  figure  or  face." 

"  The  height  is  exact." 

**  Could  you  make  yourself  look  something  like  her,  with  a  veil  on?" 

"  Yes,  and  without  a  veil.   I  have  worn  her  dresses,  though  they  are 

a  loose  fit,  and  with  her  paint,  ^d  chalk,  and  hair,  I  would  defy  you 

to  know  me  for  a  miaute  or  tWP.     It  is  easy  to  copy  a  maJce-up. 

Moreover,  I  am  a  good  taker-offl     See." 

K  &  2 


6o4  The  Gcntlentatis  Magazine. 

Flora  mimicked  Laura's  manner,  and  even  imitated  her  voice. 

**  Capital,"  said  Lord  Walsher;  "you  would  make  a  fortune  on  the 
stage.** 

"  I  wish  some  one  would  put  me  on  the  stage." 

"  I  will  do  so.  I  can  do  as  I  please  at  the  Lion.  You  could 
borrow  one  of  Laura's  dresses,  and  get  some  hair  about  her  colour." 

"  I  could  borrow  the  hair  too — that  is,  by  taking  it  without  leave. 
She  has  two  lots,  so  that  she  has  one  to  wear  whilst  the  other  is  at 
the  hairdresser's." 

"  Excellent.  I  will  let  you  know  if  we  want  you  to  be  Laura  for 
five  minutes.  Meantime,  get  the  letters,  and  be  sure  that  Lady  Hare 
will  not  be  ungrateful  for  what  you  do  for  her  son.  Lady  Hare  is 
rich,  and  you  will  find  her  generous." 

Flora  returned  to  her  lodging  in  excellent  spirits.  She  had  made 
the  accjuaintance  of  a  lord.  She  had  drunk  freely  of  champagne. 
She  had  gone  fortli  with  an  empty  purse,  and  now  it  enclosed  a  ten- 
pound  note.  She  had  the  cheering  prospect  of  a  lai^e  sum  rf 
money.  She  was  still  more  exhilarated  by  the  hope  of  becoming  a 
belle  of  the  stage.  Above  all  else  she  was  delighted  that  there  was 
a  fair  chance  of  Laura  being  disappointed  and  humiliated.  Lord 
Walsher  could  not  have  lighted  upon  a  more  zealous  and  unscrupulous 
ally. 

A  bundle  of  letters  addressed  to  Laura,  and  sent  to  the  Hon. 
Noel  Hare  by  an  anonymous  friend,  had  an  effect  that  alanned  Lord 
Walsher.  The  infatuated  young  man  came  to  his  lordship's  chambers, 
and  said  that  he  had  received  the  letters,  and  that  after  reading  two  or 
three  of  them  he  burnt  them. 

**  Perhaps  they  were  forgeries,"  said  his  lordship.  "Would  it  not 
be  well  to  call  upon  one  or  two  of  the  alleged  iiiiters  and  make 
inquiries  ?  " 

^^  No,  Walsher.  That  would  imply  a  doubt,  and  a  man  is  a  knave 
and  a  fool  who  doubts  the  woman  he  is  going  to  marry.  I  will  not 
trust  myself  any  longer  to  fight  against  the  enemies  of  Lady  Sham- 
vock.  That  is  how  I  will  silence  the  slanders  and  end  the  opposition 
to  my  marriage." 

He  handed  Lord  \\'alsher  a  marriage  licence. 

"When  is  the  ceremony  to  take  place?" 

"  On  Saturday." 

"  And  tc-day  is  Thursday.     Not  much  time  for  prepaxation," 

*'  I  would  have  married  her  to-morrow  morning,  but  Laura  Aids 
rriday  an  unlucky  day.  If  you  do  not  like  being  present^  Walsher,  I 
will  let  you  off." 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  605 

"  Certainly  not,  Hare.  Where  is  the  place,  and  what  is  the 
hour  ?'» 

"  You  are  a  good  fellow,  Walsh er.  The  church  is  just  by  Laura's 
house.  I  will  let  you  know  the  hour  to-morrow.  And,  Walsher,  will 
you  lend  me  a  hundred  pounds  ?  I  am  stumped  now,  but  you  may 
be  sure  I  will  repay  you.  When  the  job  is  done,  and  cannot  be 
undone,  my  mother  will  come  round." 

"  You  are  welcome  to  the  money.  When  you  look  me  up  to-morrow 
I  will  give  it  to  you." 

"  Shall  we  say  in  the  morning  ?' 

"  No,  my  dear  boy,  I  shall  be  out.  Be  here  at  six  o'clock,  and  you 
can  eat  your  last  bachelor's  dinner  with  me.  I  am  rather  pushed 
myself,  or  I  would  offer  a  largei  sum." 

He  pressed  his  lordship  s  hand  with  fervour. 

"  Good  night,  Walsher.     I  shall  never  forget  your  kindness." 

"This  is  a  crusher,"  said  Lord  Walsher,  when  he  was  alone. 
'*  There  is  not,  as  far  as  I  can  see,  a  hope  of  success.  I  shall  play  the 
last  card.  It  is  a  desperate  game,  but  if  it  fails  we  are  none  the  worse 
off." 

The  Hon.  Noel  Hare  arrived  at  Lord  Walsher*s  chambers 
punctually  at  the  s^ppointed  hour.  He^entered  without  ceremony. 
The  anteroom  was  empty.  He  was  about  entering  the  adjoining 
room,  his  lordship's  saloon,  the  door  of  which  was  pardy  open,  when 
he  heard  his  friend's  voice.  He  paused,  and  was  unable  to  move  or 
speak  whilst  he  listened  to  the  following  conversation  between  Lord 
Walsher  and  a  lady  whose  voice  he  immediately  recognised  : — 

Lord  Walsher  :  Nine  o'clock  is  awfully  early.  The  young  man  is 
in  a  hurry  to  be  polished  off. 

The  lady  :  I  take  him  whilst  he  is  in  the  humour  I  wouldn't  take 
him  at  all,  you  dear  old  love,  if  you  would  take  me. 

Lord  Walsher  :  I  am  lending  him^a  hundred  pounds  to  make  your 
wedding  day  happy.  Drown  your  care  in  wine.  Besides,  Laura,  you 
will  not  have  him  always  with  you.  We  can  meet  as  often  as 
ever.  You  will  be  as  dear  to  me,  whether  you  are  called  Marshall, 
or  Shamvock,  or  Hare.  But  he  may  be  here  soon  for  the  coin.  Come, 
my  pet,  I  will  see  you  to  the  entrance.  Drop  your  veil  and  jump  into 
the  first  cab. 

The  door  was  then  opened.  The  lady,  followed  by  Lord  Walsher, 
advanced  a  few  steps.  There  stood  Mr.  Hare,  his  face  puckered  with 
rage  and  agony,  and  his  fists  clenched.  The  lady  screamed  and 
rushed  into  the  room  she  had  just  left,  and  Lord  Walshbr  closed  the 
door  on  her. 


6o6  The  Gentlentafis  Magazine, 

His  lordship  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  this  conduct,  Hare  ?  I  told  you  that 
Laura  was  an  old  friend  of  mine." 

"  Stop  !  '  gasped  Mr.  Hare.  "  I  have  been  here  some  minutes.  I 
have  heard  your  conversation." 

"  How  dare  you  play  the  eavesdropper  here?" 

*'  Lord  \\'alsher,  you  are  a  villain,  a  brute,  a  wretch.  You  can  tell" 
r.ady  Shamvock  that  she  is  as  free  as  I  am.  As  for  you,  it  is  enough 
that  your  plot  is  foiled.  I  despise  Lady  Shamvock  as  much  as  I  have 
loved  her.  That  makes  you  safe  from  any  fear  of  vengeance.  But 
remember  that  henceforth  we  are  enemies." 

He  pushed  by  Lord  Walsher  and  opened  the  door,  but  he  spoke 
without  entering  the  room. 

"  Lady  Shamvock,  you  can  have  a  *  jolly  night'  with  Lord  Walsher. 
You  need  not  return  at  nine  or  make  any  excuse." 

He  took  up  his  hat  and  departed. 

Next  morning  the  church  was  opened  and  Laura  was  dressed  for 
her  bridal,  but  the  bridegroom  did  not  come.  He  had  left  town  in 
haste  the  previous  night.  I^ura  did  not  hear  of  him  again  until  she 
read  in  the.pai)ers  that  the  Hon.  Noel  Hare  had  been  married  in 
Paris. 

Lord  AA'alshcr  went  to  I^dy  Hare  s  parties,  and  was  received  into 
the  cream  of  society. 

1  .aura's  furniture  was  sold  off  under  an  execution  for  rent,  and  she 
retreated  to  lodgings,  and  found  it  convenient  to  drop  her  title.  A 
lady  of  title  in  poorly  furnished  parlours  was  an  intolerable  incon- 
gniity. 

Mrs.  Flora  Mabel  Macgregor  took  a  house  and  furnished  it.  She 
also  was  engaged  at  the  Lion  Theatre^  and  the  boxes  and  stalls  were 
crammed  at  her  first  appearance  by  an  aristocratic  and  bouquet- 
throwing  audience. 

*•  Ah  I'*  said  Blewlite,  "  the  critics  may  call  her  a  stick,  but 
splendid  dress  and  patronage  will  fill  a  house  with  money." 


C  H  A  P  T  K  R     XXXVIIL 
HENRY  Clayton's  revenge. 

Dick  Fkckt.i:s  left  his  lodging  without  a  coat.  The  only  ofie  he- 
had  was  found  lying  under  Lord  Shamvock,  and  the  police,  lAo 
were  called  in  before  Dick  was  aroused,  would  not  have  parted  with 
the  garment  if  Dick  had  been  so  foolish  as  to  demand  it     Dick 


Making  tlie  Worst  of  it.  607 

confused,  almost  demented,  by  the  landlady's  story.  Her  lodger 
liad  been  found  dead,  and  he  was  not  Mr.  O'Brien,  but  Lord  Sham- 
vock,  who  had  stolen  two  hundred  pounds  from  a  bank,  and  the 
money  was  found  with  him,  some  of  it  stitched  up  in  a  coat.  Dick 
looked  under  his  pillow.  The  coat  was  gone.  What  did  it  mean  ? 
His  coat  taken  from  him.  Shamvock  in  the  house.  The  stolen 
money  found  with  Shamvock,  part  of  it  stitched  in  a  coat.  Shamvock 
(lead .  Was  he  dreaming  ?  Was  he  mad  ?  A  policeman  <:ame  into 
the  room  and  asked  Dick  if  he  could  give  any  information.  The 
ready- tongued  landlady  replied  that  Mr.  O'Brien  was  a  new  lodger, 
and  Mr.  Fraser  had  not  seen  him.  The  policeman  said  that  Mr. 
Kraser  would  be  required  at  the  inquest  to  state  what  he  knew  about 
giving  the  gin.  When  the  policeman  and  landlady  left  the  room, 
Dick  left  the  house  and  walked  as  fast  as  he  could,  not  thinking  of 
any  destination,  not  heeding  the  stare  of  curiosity  at  his  shirt  sleeves, 
but  absorbed  by  the  desire  to  get  as  far  as  possible  from  his  late 
abode. 

Presently  he  reached  the  confines  of  the  great  city,  where  country 
and  town  are  mingled.  He  turned  aside  into  a  field,  and  sat  on  a 
felled  tree.  He  was  tired,  and  at  length  had  noticed  the  curiosity  of 
tliose  who  met  him.  He  determined  to  remain  where  he  was  until  dark. 

And  when  it  was  dark  ? 

How  came  he  there?  What  had  happened?  His  coat  gone?  How 
was  it  lost?  Lord  Shamvock  dead?  The  stolen  money  found  with 
Lord  Shamvock?  He  sitting  in  the  field?  Was  he  dreaming?  Was 
he  mad? 

Perhaps  he  had  been  drinking  over  much,  and  for  awhile  lost  his 
senses.  But  where  was  his  coat?  Had  he  left  it  at  his  lodging? 
Where  was  he?  Where  was  his  lodging?  Was  it  at  Winsor  Court? 
Xo.  He  had  not  been  to  Winsor  Court  since  he  drew  the  money  fipom 
the  bank.  Ah  !  where  was  his  coat  ?  Lord  Shamvock  dead  ?  Over 
and  over  again  the  same  questions,  until  exhausted  in  body  and  mind 
1  )ick  slipped  from  the  felled  tree  to  the  ground,  and  for  awhile  he  sat 
\acantly  gazing  at  the  hedge  that  screened  him  from  the  road.  He 
was  neither  awake  nor  asleep.     He  was  in  a  stupor. 

It  was  a  chill  autumnal  day,  and  the  rain  began  to  fall — not  a 
drizzling  rain  or  a  pelting  rain,  but  a  straight,  steady  rain.  Dick  was 
soon  wet  to  the  skin,  and  he  shuddered.  The  shuddering  aroused 
him  from  the  stupor. 

*'  It's  cold.  I  must  go  somewhere.  The  coat  gone  and  the  money. 
Old  Shamvock  dead  !  Where  am  I?  Where  is  he?  I  say,  old 
.shamvock,  I  am  so  cold." 


6o8  The  Gcntlemaii s  Masrazine. 


%' 


He  shuddered  and  laughed.  With  an  effort  he  reseated  himself 
on  the  felled  tree.  It  was  dusk.  Down  came  the  rain,  and  the  fall 
was  heavier.  The  murky  clouds  seemed  almost  resting  on  the  tops 
of  the  trees  and  the  houses.  The  ground  had  beconne  a  swamp. 
There  was  no  traffic  in  the  road.  The  gloomy  silence  was  only 
broken,  not  relieved,  by  the  sound  of  the  falling  rain. 

"  rd  better  go.  I  must  go.  Where  ?  I  don't  know  anything. 
Now,  Dick,  don't  you  begin  laughing  again.  I  do  hope  I  shan't 
laugh  again.     It's  awful  cold.     I'll  have  a  drink." 

Dick  felt  in  his  pockets.  It  took  him  a  long  time  to  do  so,  for  he 
was  shivering,  and  his  garments  were  wet  through  and  through. 

"  All  gone.  The  coat  gone,  and  all  gone.  But  I  must  go  from 
here.     It's  awful  cold  and  dark." 

He  arose,  and  tried  to  walk,  but  his  limbs  were  shaking,  and  so 
weak  that  he  could  not  move  his  feet.    He  sat  down  again. 

"  There  it  is.  It  has  followed  me.  It  will  spring  on  me.  It  will 
kill  me.     Its  eyes  burn  me." 

Dick  tried  to  call  out,  but  the  phantom  of  the  red-eyed  creature 
tongue-tied  him  with  terror.  A  few  minutes  passed,  Dick  moaning 
and  staring  at  the  phantom. 

"  Its  eyes  burn  me.  It  opens  its  mouth.  It  breathes  fire.  Fire, 
fire !  See,  it  is  coming ;  it  is  coming.  Mercy !  It  is  on  me. 
Mercy!" 

And,  with  a  shrill  shriek,  Dick  slipped  from  the  felled  tree,  and 
lay  moaning  on  the  slushy  grass. 

Hcnr)'  Clayton  was  passing  along  the  road,  and  heard  the  scream. 
He  turned  into  the  field,  and,  guided  by  the  moaning,  found  Dick 
lying  on  the  ground. 

"  Have  you  fallen  ?    Are  you  much  hurt  ?    Let  me  help  you." 

"  It  has  killed  me.     Mercy  !     I  am  so  awful  cold." 

** Don't  be  alarmed.  I  will  help  you.  Poor  fellow!  how  long 
have  you  been  here?"  asked  Henry,  as  he  lifted  Dick  from  the 
ground. 

"It's  gone!"  said  Dick  feebly.  "Take  me  away.  Don't  let  it 
come  after  me." 

"  Who  is  it?     No  one  is  here." 

"It  burnt  me  with  its  red  eyes." 

Henry  took  off  his  overcoat  and  put  it  round  Dick. 

"  My  coat  is  gone,  and  Shamvock  is  dead." 

"  Shamvock  !     Who  are  you  ?" 

"  I  forget.  Take  me  away.  Give  me  drink.  My  coat  gone,  and 
all  gone.     Take  me  home." 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  609 

Henry  put  his  arm  round  Dick  and  carried  him  into  the  road. 
There  was  a  lamp,  and  Henry  could  see  the  face  of  the  man  he  had 
rescued. 

"  Is  it  possible  !     You  are  Feckles,  the  father  of  Ruth." 

"  Don't  give  me  up.     In  mercy  don't." 

**  Poor  fellow !  No,  I  will  not  give  you  up.  Where  shall  I  take 
you  ?    Where  is  your  home  ?  " 

"  I  forget  My  coat  is  gone.  I  don't  know  my  name.  Don't 
give  me  up." 

"  Shall  I  take  you  to  a  hospital  ?    You  are  very  ill." 

**  No,  not  there.     They  would  find  me." 

"  That  is  true.    For  to-night  you  shall  come  to  my  house." 

Henry  hailed  a  passing  cab  and  took  Dick  to  his  home.  It  was  not 
a  great  distance,  for  Henry  had  bought  and  taken  up  his  abode  in  the 
-house  wherein  his  wife  had  lived  and  died.  Mrs.  Stot  had  vainly 
opposed  what  she  called  hugging  his  unhappiness.  But  it  made 
iittle  difference  to  Henry  where  he  lived.  His  sorrow  was  too  deeply 
graven  on  his  heart  to  be  alleviated  by  change  of  scene. 

Stimulants  were  administered  to  Dick  without  any  perceptible 
effect.  He  continued  to  shake  and  moan,  and  he  did  not  reply  to 
the  questions  of  Henry  or  the  doctor.  Probably  he  did  not  heed 
•what  was  said  to  him. 

"  Your  benevolence  has  brought  some  trouble  on  you,'  said  the 
doctor. 

Henry  took  the  doctor  aside. 

**  Can  anything  be  done  for  him  ?  " 

**  Nothing.  The  poor  creature  is  going,  and  I  cannot  even  give 
ease  to  his  last  moments." 

** How  long  will  he  last?    He  has  a  daughter." 

"  Send  for  her  immediately.  The  struggle  may  continue  for  three 
or  four  hours,  but  it  may  be  over  in  an  hour." 

"  I  must  go  for  the  girl.  She  is  not  altogether  right  in  her  mind, 
and  would  not  understand  a  messenger.  Can  you  remain  with  him 
whilst  I  am  absent  ?  " 

"  Yes.     I  will  not  leave  the  poor  creature  until  your  return." 

Whilst  Henry  was  hurrying  to  Winsor  Court  he  could  not  but 
Temember  the  last  death  scene  he  had  witnessed  in  that  room.  What 
a  contrast  between  the  dying  !  His  pure  devoted  wife,  and  now  a 
drunkard — a  thief  fleeing  from  justice. 

It  needed  great  tact  and  perseverance  to  induce  Ruth  to  leave 
Winsor  Court.  She  did  not  comprehend  that  her  father  was  sick 
unto  death.     She  smiled  and  said  he  had  gone  on  a  long  journey. 


6  ro  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

and  would  come  back,  but  not  yet.     Eventually  Henry  succeeded 
b\'  telling  her  that  she  had  not  far  to  go,  and  could  return  to  sleep. 

Dick  was  quieter  when  Henry  returned  with  Ruth. 

"Is  he  asleep  ?  "'  asked  Henry. 

''  Well,  he  is  unc  onscious.  It  seems  a  pity  to  disturb  him,  but  the 
(huighter  will  no  doubt  like  to  speak  to  him.  Poor  girl,"  he  whis- 
pered, "they  will  not  be  long  parted.*' 

Ruth  went  to  the  bed-side. 

*•  ^^'hy,  this  is  father  \  Who  brought  him  here  ?  Let  him  come 
home.  Father,  do  come  home  and  be  with  me  till  I  go  to  my 
niother.      Do,  father."' 

I  )ick  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  at  her. 

*•  Father,  do  come  home.  I  have  cried,  father,  because  you  left 
nie,  and  the  angels  were  not  angry.  Come,  father  dear ;  it  is  a  dark 
night,  but  the  angels  will  guide  me." 

"  Ruth,  dear  Ruth  :  ' 

"  You  are  not  well,  fluher.  Kiss  this;'*  and  she  held  the  cross  to 
his  lips. 

"  Pray  for  me,  Ruth." 

Ruth  turned  from  the  bed  and  laid  her  hand  on  the  doctor. 

*'  You  arc  the  doctor  ?  1  )o  not  let  my  father  die  till  I  have  prayed 
for  him,  nnd  behold  the  angels  shall  watch  over  you  now  and  for 
ever,  amen  I " 

She  went  to  the  bed-side  again,  knelt,  and  covered  her  face. 

I  )ick  moved.  Henry  i)ut  hi.-*  arm  under  his  head  and  raised  him  a 
little. 

"  I  am  ill.      1  want  to  tell  Ruth  about — '' 

Ruth  rose  hastily.      Her  face  was  flushed  and  her  eyes  sparkled. 

'■  Father,  fiither,  at  last  my  mother  has  called  for  you  too.  She 
smiles  on  you.  The  angels  are  with  you.  You  go  to  her  as  I  go  to 
her.      Father,  father,  oh  bless  my  mother  I  '* 

"  \'our  father  would  speak  to  you,''  said  the  doctor. 

"  Hold  me  uj),"'  said  Dick  feebly.     "  Ruth,  come  near  to  me." 

Ruth  leant  across  the  bed  and  took  her  fathers  hand.  The  doctor 
whispered  to  Henry  that  he  would  wait  doA\'nstairs. 

*'  Ruth,  dear,  I  had  a  great  sorrow,  and  that  made  the  home  un- 
hn])py.    But  I  loved  your  mother  then  and  always.  I  am  faint,  dear.'* 

Ruth  gave  him  some  brandy.  He  swallowed  a  little,  and  spoke 
more  distincdy. 

*'  I  was  wretched  because  I  swore  falsely  against  a  friend,  my  only 
friend.  From  the  hour  when  he  went  to  prison  I  have  been 
wretched — fearful,  ^^Tetched,  lost.'" 


Making  the  Worst  of  it,  6 1 1 

Henry  was  pale  even  to  his  lips. 

**  Father,  my  mother  smiles  on  you,  and  the  angels  are  \>ith  you."^ 

**Riith,  dear,  my  name  is  Frank  Mellish,  and  my  friend  is  Henry 
Clayton.     If  he  knew  my  misery  he  would  forgive." 

Surely  the  thumping  of  Henry's  heart  must  be  heard  by  the  dying 
man.  He,  Henry  Clayton,  ministering  to  his  enemy,  in  that  place,  too, 
in  the  room  wherein  his  wife  died.  Shall  he  forget  his  wrongs,  and  those 
oaths  of  revenge  ?  Shall  he  keep  his  vow,  take  Mellish  by  the  throat, 
and  let  him  die  with  a  curse  smiting  his  ear? 

"  He  was  my  only  friend,  dear  Ruth.  We  loved  each  other,  and 
I  know  Clayton  would  forgive." 

"  Mellish,  Frank,  I  am  here.  I  am  Henry  Clayton.  Forgive  me,, 
as  I  forgive  you.' 

"  That  is  the  voice.  Nearer  to  me.  More  light.  It  is  Clayton. 
Henry,  forgiveness.     Kiss  me,  Henry." 

And  Henry  stooped  and  kissed  Frank  Mellish. 

'*  I  am  falling.     Hold  me  tightly.     Henr}%  pray  for  me." 

Henry  repeated  the  Lord's  Prayer,  and  the  dying  man  roused 
himself  at  the  supplication  "forgive  us  our  trespasses,  as  we  forgive 
them  that  trespass  against  us." 

"  Help  me,  Ruth.     Kiss  me,  Henrys." 

Again  Henry  stooped  and  kissed  Frank  Mellish. 

"  I  am  hapi)y,  Henry." 

A  smile  played  over  the  face  of  the  dying  man.  He  looked  so 
young,  so  changed.  No  one  would  have  recognised  in  him  the  out- 
cast of  Winsor  Court. 

**  Father,  dear,  speak  to  me." 

But  his  last  word  had  been  spoken,  and  with  that  smile  he  had 
died. 

The  doctor  was  called,  and  he  coaxed  Ruth  from  the  room. 

Henry  remained  for  awhile.  He  closed  tlie  dead  man's  eyes.  He 
kissed  him  once  more  and  tenderly,  and  tears  fell  on  the  cheek  of 
the  dead. 

Such  was  the  revenge  ot  Henr}-  Clayton. 

(Tt;  he  concluded  next  month.) 


»    '•^^•^       ■v>'^       v  •■ -%  .  "x  ^  "V.  •'■  > 


TABLE    TALK. 

BY  SYLVANUS  URBAN,  GENTLEMAN, 


I  WISH  I  could  see  the  figures  which  old  De  Piles  would  have 
placed  after  the  name  of  Sir  Edwin  Landseer.  The  ingenious*  critic 
drew  out  a  list  of  about  fifty  of  the  more  famous  painters  of  Italy, 
France,  Flanders,  and  Holland,  and  after  their  names  he  drew  four 
columns  wherein  for  various  merits  he  awarded  to  those  immortal 
men  so  many  marks,  as  if  they  were  competitors  in  a  Civil  Service 
examination  :  the  greater  the  number  of  marks  the  higher  the  honour. 
The  heads  of  merit  were  "composition,"  "design,"  "colouring," 
and  "expression/*  Thus,  Corregio  stood  13  in  composition,  13  in 
design,  1 5  in  colouring,  and  1 2  in  expression ;  while  to  Rafaelle  were 
given  17  for  composition,  18  for  design  (the  highest  on  the  list  except 
Claude  Lorraine,  who  also  took  18),  12  for  colouring,  and  18  for 
expression.  Kighteen  was  the  greatest  number  of  marks  attainable, 
and  the  only  men  in  the  list  who  secured  highest  honours  in  the 
composition  column  were  I^rraine,  Guercino,  and  Rubens.  Only 
two  are  placed  at  the  top  figure  for  colouring,  namely,  Gioigione  and 
Titian,  while  Rubens  has  to  be  thankful  for  17  against  the  x8  marks 
of  those  two  more  fortunate  rivals.  There  are  several  noughts  in 
these  columns.  Thus,  (Juido  Reni  draws  a  blank  for  compo- 
sition, Polidoro  da  Caravaggio  and  Pietra  Testa  for  colouring, 
and  there  are  fi\'ti  utter  failures  in  expression — namely,  Bassano, 
John  Bellini,  Claude  Lorraine,  Michael  da  Caravaggio,  and  Palma 
the  Elder.  I  supi)ose  the  late  Sir  Edwin  Landseer,  who  has 
just  left  so  wide  a  gap  in  the  front  rank  of  British  painters, 
would  have  been  entitled  to  18  marks  under  one  or  more  of 
these  heads.  In  "expression,"  surely  De  Piles  would  not  have 
withhold  his  highest  award,  even  though  on  his  whole  list  I  find 
only  one  who  wins  1 8  for  expression,  and  that  one  is  the  transcendant 
Rafaelle.  If  the  shade  of  I.)e  Piles  permit  me,  I  will  set  down  18 
marks  to  Sir  Edwin  for  expression,  even  though  Rafaelle  alone  shares 
with  him  the  dignity.  Then  what.  Monsieur  De  Piles,  may  I  say  for 
conii)osition  ?  If  Claude  Lorraine,  Giovanni  Guercino,  and  Rubens 
among  the  old  masters  enjoyed  the  highest  number  of  marks  under 
this  head,  while  Rafaelle  stood  at  1 7, 1  think  Sir  Ed^-in  oughtto  have  17. 


Table  Talk.  613 

For  design  I  suppose  I  must  not  give  him  more  than  10,  since  Albert 
Durer,  Holbein,  and  Paul  Veronese  had  to  be  content  with  that  figure; 
while  for  colouring  I  am  afraid  De  Piles  would  not  have  given  him 
more  than  8  or  9,  for  he  awards  only  9  to  Reni  and  Giordano,  only  8 
to  Lebrun  and  Salviati,  and  only  6  to  Nicholas  Poussin.  But,  after  aU, 
he  must  have  made  a  new  column,  I  think,  for  Landseer.  For  where  is 
there  one  among  these  old  masters  who  saw  certain  forms  of  animate 
nature  as  Landseer  saw  them  ?  The  faculty  is  modem,  and  wholly 
outside  De  Piles's  category.  It  is  only  in  these  later  ages  that  there 
has  existed  that  broad  sympathy  with  the  manifold  forms  of  creation 
which  gave  Sir  Edwin  Landseer  his  splendid  position. 


Taking  counsel  with  friends  upon  ordinary  matters  of  the  world 
may  be  a  good  thing ;  but  I  have  long  since  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  in  authorship  a  man  is  his  own  best  counsel.  The  writer  who 
has  not  the  power  to  plan  and  construct,  who  has  not  the  creative 
faculty,  who  has  not  the  boldness  to  go  out  of  the  common  groove 
and  be  original,  has  not  the  patience,  nor  the  capacity,  nor  the  genius 
of  execution.  I  say  this  apropos  of  nothing  at  the  moment,  and  with- 
out the  fear  of  Dr.  Johnson,  who  is  said  to  have  been  called  up  at  a 
West  End  spiritual  seance  lately  to  discuss  poetry  with  a  well-known 
critic.  The  doctor  declined  to  acknowledge  any  of  the  modem  poets^ 
and  actually  quoted  as  superior  to  Morris  and  Buchanan  verses  from 
the  Gentleman^ s  during  the  days  of  Cave.  Taste  in  these  matters  is 
the  creation  of  the  age  in  wjiich  we  live  and  have  our  education* 
"  Men  grow  out  of  fashion  as  well  as  language." 


Luxury  in  the  pit  districts  is  becoming  a  favourite  theme 
with  joumalists.  The  increase  of  wages  is  said  to  be  making  itself 
apparent  in  expensive  dresses  and  extravagant  living.  » It  is  certain 
that  a  collier  beat  his  wife  to  death  a  short  time  ago  because  she  gave 
him  veal  for  dinner  two  days  mnmng.  At  all  events,  that  was  the 
excuse  he  made  for  his  violence.  The  pitmen,  no  doubt,  do  live 
and  dress  better  than  they  did  fifty  years  ago ;  but  the  illustrations 
given  in  the  Press  of  the  change  which  has  recently  come  upon  pit 
districts  are  exaggerations.  Some  of  them  are  humorous  exag- 
gerations, and  only  as  such  deserve  permanent  record.  The  following 
story  is  told  by  a  Glasgow  paper.  Two  young  colliers  firom  Carluke 
drove  down  in  a  waggonette  to  a  coal  pit  near  Wishaw  for  the  pur- 
pose of  inspecting  a  working  place  which  they  had  secured  firom  the 
underground  manager  on  the  previous  day.    They  were  extravagantly 


6i4  The  Gentleman s  Magazine. 

dressed,  and  wore  heavy  gold  watch  chains.  They  had  rings  on  their 
lingers  and  gold-headed  canes.  On  driving  up  to  the  pit  they  asked 
a  man  wlio  happened  to  be  near  if  he  would  '^  haud  the  horse/'  and 
they  would  give  him  •*  something  tae  himseF."  The  man  agreed. 
Our  two  friends  went  down  the  pit,  inspected  their  "  rooms/'  came 
uj)  again,  and  on  the  pit-head  held  the  following  consultation : — 
First  Collier :  '*  Hoo  muckle  will  we  gie  that  cove  for  haudin'  the 
horse  ?'  Second  Collier :  **  Oh,  dasht,  well  gie  him  a  shilling.  He's 
a  hard-up-looking  sowl."  Accordingly  the  **  hard-up-looking  sowl"  re- 
ceived the  shilling,  touched  his  hat,  thanked  them,  put  the  coin  into  his 
pocket,  and  retired,  with  a  (^ueer  smile  stniggling  for  a  place  on  his 
features.  He  was  the  proprietor  of  the  collier)'.  If  a  little  extra 
money  in  wages  has  already  made  such  a  change  in  "  Geordie/'  wh::t 
will  the  educated  pitman  of  the  future  be  like  ? 


Following  up  some  thoughts  about  animals  in  my  talk  of  last 
month,  I  am  reminded  of  a  characteristic  stor>'  of  my  illustrious 
<:ontributor  Dr.  Johnson.  The  Kev.  Mr.  Dcanes  essay  on  the  future 
lives  of  brutes  c.roi)ped  up  in  conversation.  The  doctrine  of  another 
world  for  animals  was  insisted  upon  by  a  gentleman  whose  un- 
orthodox speculations  were  discouraged  by  Dr.  Johnson.  Presently 
the  metaphysical  gentleman,  with  a  sadly  puzzled  expression  of  £au:e, 
s;ii(l,  **But  really,  sir,  when  we  see  a  very  sensible  dog,  we  don't 
know  what  to  think  of  him.**  The  doctor  was  delighted ;  he  had  the 
would-be  i)hilosopher  on  the  hip  at  once.  His  face  beamed  with 
the  hai)py  reply  which  came  to  him  at  the  moment.  "  True,  sir," 
he  said  ;  "and  when  we  see  a  very  foolish  fellow  we  don't  know 
what  to  think  of  him." 


An  esteemed  correspondent,  referring  to  my  note  last  month  on 
ihc  alchemists,  says  the  public  mind  is  rarely  occupied  with  more 
than  one  great  illusion  at  a  time,  and  that  spiritualism  is  the  '*  popular 
fad  "  of  the  hour.  He  thinks,  however,  that  there  is  an  opening  for 
the  return  of  the  alchemists,  especially  judging  from  the  credulity  of 
the  public  upon  subjects  connected  with  money.  My  friend  refers  to 
1  )r.  Mackay's  descriptive  essay  on  "  The  Alchemists  "  as  one  of  the 
best  narratives  concerning  the  searchers  for  tlie  philosopher's  stone 
and  the  water  of  life  in  all  ages.  Oevotees  of  the  art  of  alchemy 
re^^'ard  Moses  as  the  greatest  of  the  brotherhood.  He  gained  his 
knowledge  in  Kgypt,  and  the  32nd  chapter  of  Kxodus  is  cited  in 
favour  of  the  theory.     A  learned  Jesuit  says  alchemy  was  practised 


Tabu  Talk.  615 

by  the  Chinese  two  tliousand  five  hundred  years  before  the  birth 
of  Christ  Pretenders  to  the  art  of  making  silver  existed  in  Ronje 
at  the  commencement  of  the  Christian  era.  In  the  fourth  century 
the  transmutation  of  metals  .was  believed  in  at  Constantinople. 
Dr.  Mackay  says  jthe  Greek  ecclesiastics  wrote  much  upon  the  sub- 
ject "  Their  notion  appears  to  have  been  that  all  metals  were 
composed  of  two  substances :  the  one  metallic  eartli,  and  the  other 
a  red,  inflammable  matter,  which  they  called  sulphur.  The  pure 
union  of  these  substances  formed  gold ;  but  the  metals  were 
mixed  with  and  contaminated  by  various  foreign  ingredients.  The 
object  of  the  philosopher's  stone  was  to  dissolve  or  neutralise  all 
these  ingredients,  by  which  iron,  lead,  copper,  and  all  metals  would 
be  transmuted  into  the  original  gold."  The  last  of  the  great  pre- 
tenders to  the  philosopher's  stone  was  Cagliostro,  who  was  bom  at 
Palermo  about  1743.  His  career  is  perhaps  one  of  the  most  re- 
markable stories  of  imposture,  fraud,  and  at  last  unjustifiable  punish- 
ment, on  record.  The  study  of  this  spurious  art,  however,  was  of 
material  advantage  to  science.  "  While  searching  for  the  philosopher  s 
stone,  Roger  Bacon  discovered  gunpowder ;  Van  Helmont  dis- 
covered the  properties  of  gas  ;  (ieber  made  discoveries  in  che- 
mistry which  were  equally  important ;  and  Paracelsus,  amidst  his 
perpetual  visions  of  the  transmutation  of  metals,  found  that  mercury 
was  a  remedy  for  one  of  the  most  odious  and  excniciating  diseases 
that  afflict  humanity."  Though  alchemy  in  Europe  is  exploded,  it 
still  flourishes  in  the  Elast 


In  these  days,  when  a  flesh  and  blood  school  of  poetr)'  shuts  out 

heaven  altogether,  the  question  of  a  future  state  for  animals  seems 

more  than  ever  out  of  place ;  but  eminent  writers  in  all  ages  have 

thought   the   subject   worthy  of  discussion.     I^andor  and  Southcy 

evidently  believed  in  a  new  life  for  animals  after  their  worldly  end. 

Mr.  Jacox,  who  has  an  interesting  chapter  in  one  of  his  recent  com- 

mentatory  compilations,  thinks  Landor  rather  implied  that  some  of 

his  homy-eyed  readers  might  be  soulless  than  that  the  insect  king 

is  immortal  when  he  wrote  : — 

Believe  me,  most  who  read  the  line 
Will  read  with  homier  eyes  than  thine  ; 
And  yet  their  souls  shall  live  for  ever, 
And  thine  drop  dead  into  the  rivei  ! 
God  pardon  them,  O  insect  king, 
Who  fancy  so  unjust  a  thing. 

Mr.  Charles  Bonnet,  the  Swiss  naturalist,  settled  in  his  own  mind 


6i6  The  Gentleman* s  Magazine. 

the  nature  and  character  of  the  various  paradises  to  which  both 
man  and  animals  would  be  translated.  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt  regretted 
that  he  could  not  settle  the  matter,  at  the  same  time  confessing  that 
he  would  fain  have  as  much  company  in  Paradise  as  possible,  and 
he  could  not  conceive  much  less  pleasant  additions  than  of  flocks 
of  doves  or  such  a  dog  as  Pope's  '^  poor  Indian  "  expected  to  find 
in  that  universal  future.  A  London  cab-horse,  upon  the  doctrine  of 
punishments  and  rewards,  is  surely  entitled  to  some  consideration  in 
the  future.  Meanwhile,  I  would  like  to  leave  him  with  his  'bus  com* 
panion  in  the  hands  of  Mr.  Smiles  and  his  "  Friends  in  Council, ' 
who  have  lately  taken  certain  of  our  dumb  animals  under  their 
special  literary  protection. 


THE 

Gentleman's  Magazine 

December,  1873. 

Some  Letters  of  Charles 

LAMB; 

WITH     REMINISCENCES     OF     HIMSELF     AWAKENED 

THEREBY. 

BY  MARY  COWDEN  CURKE. 

IHE  other  day,  in  looking  over  some  long-hoarded  papers, 
I  came  across  the  following  letters,  which  struck  me  as 
being  too  intrinsically  delightful  to  be  any  more  withheld 
from  general  enjoyment  The  time  when  they  were 
written — while  they  had  all  the  warm  life  of  aflfectionate  intercourse 
that  refers  to  current  personal  events,  inspiring  the  wish  to  treasure 
them  in  privacy — has  faded  into  the  shadow  of  the  past.  Some  of 
the  persons  addressed  or  referred  to  have  left  this  earth  ;  others  have 
survived  to  look  back  upon  their  young  former  selves  with  the  same 
kindliness  of  consideration  with  which  Charles  Lamb  himself  confessed 
to  looking  back  upon  "  the  child  Elia — that  *  other  me,'  there,  in  the 
background,"  and  cherishing  its  remembrance.  Even  the  girl,  then 
known  among  her  friends  by  the  second  of  her  baptismal  names, 
before  and  not  long  after  she  had  exchanged  her  maiden  name  of 
Mary  Victoria  Novello  for  the  married  one  with  which  she  signs  her 
present  communication,  can  feel  willing  to  share  with  her  more  recent 
friends  and  readers  the  pleasure  derived  from  dear  and  honoured 
Charles  Lamb's  sometimes  playful,  sometimes  earnest  allusions  to  her 
identity. 

The  first  letter  is,  according  to  his  frequent  wont,  undated ;  and 
the  post-mark  is  so  much  blurred  as  to  be  undecipherable ;  but  it  is 
addressed  "  V.  Novello,  Esqre.,  for  C.  C.  Clarke,  Esqre. " : — 

"  My  dear  Sir, — Your  letter  has  lain  in  a  drawer  of  my  desk. 
Vol.  XI.,  N.S.  1873.  s  s 


6 1 8  The  Gentlematis  Magazine. 

upbraiding  me  every  time  I  open  the  said  drawer,  but  it  is  almost 
impossible  to  answer  such  a  letter  in  such  a  place,  and  I  am  out  of 
the  habit  of  replying  to  epistles  otherwhere  than  at  office.  You 
express  yourself  concerning  H.  like  a  true  friend,  and  have  made  me 
feel  that  I  have  somehow  neglected  him,  but  without  knowing  very 
well  how  to  rectify  it  I  live  so  remote  from  him — ^by  Hackney — that 
he  is  almost  out  of  the  pale  of  visitation  at  Hampstead.  And  I  come 
but  seldom  to  Gov'  Gard**  this  summer  time — and  when  I  do^  am 
sure  to  pay  for  the  late  hours  and  pleasant  Novello  suppers  which  I 
incur.  I  also  am  an  invalid.  But  I  will  hit  upon  some  way,  that 
you  shall  not  have  cause  for  your  reproof  in  future.  But  do  not 
think  I  take  the  hint  unkindly.  When  I  shall  be  brought  low  by  any 
sickness  or  untoward  circumstance,  write  just  such  a  letter  to  some 
tardy  friend  of  mine — or  come  up  yourself  with  your  friendly  Henshaw 
iace — and  that  will  be  better.  I  shall  not  foiget  in  haste  our  casual 
day  at  Margate.  May  we  have  many  such  there  or  elsewhere  I  God 
bless  you  for  your  kindness  to  H.,  which  I  will  remember.  But  do 
not  show  N.  this,  for  the  floutmg  infidel  doth  mock  when  Christians 
cry  God  bless  us.  Yours  and  his^  too^  and  all  our  little  circle's  most 
affect*  C.  LiUfB. 

^'  Mary's  love  included." 

^  H."  in  the  above  letter  refers  to  Leigh  Hunt ;  but  the  initials 
and  abbreviated  forms  of  words  used  by  Charles  Lamb  in  these 
letters  are  here  preserved  verbatim. 

The  second  letter  is  addressed  ''C.  C.  Clarke,  Esqre.,"  and  has  for 
post-mark  "  Fe.  26,  1828"  :— 

''Enfield,  25  Feb. 
'*  My  dear  Clarke, — You  have  been  accumulating  on  me  such  x 
heap  of  pleasant  obligations  that  I  feel  uneasy  in  writing  as  to  a  Bene- 
factor. Your  smaller  contributions,  the  little  weekly  riUs,  are  refresh* 
ments  in  the  Desart,  but  your  large  books  were  feasts.  I  hope  Mrs. 
Hazlitt,  to  whom  I  encharged  it,  has  taken  Hunt's  Lord  B.  to  the 
Novellos.  His  picture  of  Literary  Lordship  is  as  pleasant  as  a  dis? 
agreeable  subject  can  be  made,  his  own  poor  man's  Education  at  dear 
Christ's  is  as  good  and  hearty  as  the  subject  Hazlitf  s  speculative 
episodes  are  capital ;  I  skip  the  Battles.  But  how  did  I  deserve  to 
have  the  Book  ?  The  Companion  has  too  much  of  Madam  Fkurta. 
Theatricals  have  ceased  to  be  popular  attractions.  His  walk  home 
after  the  Play  is  as  good  as  the  best  of  the  old  Indicators.  The 
watchmen  are  emboxed  in  a  niche  of  fame,  save  the  skaiting  one  dial 
must  be  still  fiigitive.   I  wish  I  could  send  a  soap  for  good  wiH  Bat 


Some  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb.  6 1 9 

I  have  been  most  seriously  unwell  and  nervous  a  long  long  time. 
I  have  scarce  mustered  courage  to  begin  this  short  note,  but  con- 
science duns  me. 

''  I  had  a  pleasant  letter  firom  your  sister,  greatly  over  acknow- 
ledging my  poor  sonnet  I  think  I  should  have  replied  to  it,  but  tell 
her  I  think  so.  Alas  for  sonnetting,  'tis  as  the  nerves  are ;  all  the 
siunmer  I  was  dawdling  among  green  lanes,  and  verses  came  as  thick 
as  ^cies.     I  am  sunk  winterly  below  prose  and  zero. 

''  But  I  trust  the  vital  principle  is  only  as  under  snow.  That  I  shall 
yet  laugh  again. 

"  I  suppose  the  great  change  of  place  affects  me,  but  I  could  not 
have  lived  in  Town,  I  could  not  bear  company. 

'^  I  see  Novello  flourishes  in  the  Del  Capo  line,  and  dedications  are 
not  forgotten.  I  read  the  Atlas.  When  I  pitched  on  the  Ded* 
I  looked  for  the  Broom  of  '  Cowdm  knows '  to  be  harmonised,  but 
'twas  summat  of  Rossini's. 

''  I  want  to  hear  about  Hone,  does  he  stand  above  water,  how  is 
his  son  ?  I  have  dela/d  writing  to  him,  till  it  seems  impossible. 
Break  the  ice  for  me. 

''The  wet  ground  here  is  intoleral^  the  sky  above  dear  and 
delusive,  but  under  foot  quagmires  from  night  showers,  and  I  am  cold- 
footed  and  moisture-abhorring  as  a  cat;  nevertheless  I  yesterday 
tramped  to  Waltham  Cross  \  perhaps  the  poor  bit  of  exertion  neces- 
sary to  scribble  this  was  owing  to  that  unusual  bracing. 

'*  If  I  get  out,  I  shall  get  stout,  and  then  something  will  out — I 
mean  for  the  Companion — ^you  see  I  rhyme  insensibly. 

''  Traditions  are  rife  here  of  one  Clarke  a  schoolmaster,  and  a  run- 
away pickle  named  Holmes,  but  much  obscurity  hangs  over  it  Is  it 
possible  they  can  be  any  relations  ? 

*<  'Tis  worth  the  research,  when  you  can  find  a  sunny  day,  with 
ground  firm,  &c  Master  Sexton  b  intelligent,  and  for  half-a-ciown 
hell  pick  you  up  a  Father. 

*'  In  truth  we  shall  be  most  glad  to  see  any  of  the  Novellian  circle^ 
middle  of  the  week  such  as  can  come,  or  Sunday,  as  can't  But 
Spring  will  burgeon  out  quickly,  and  then,  we'll  talk  more. 

"  You'd  like  to  see  the  improvements  on  the  Chase,  the  new  Cross 
in  the  market  place,  the  Chandler's  shop  from  whence  the  rods  were 
fetch'd.  They  are  raised  a  fiuthing  since  the  spread  of  Education* 
But  perhaps  you  don't  care  to  be  reminded  of  the  Holofemes'  days, 
and  nothing  remains  of  the  old  laudable  profession,  but  the  dear  finn 
impossible-to-be-mistaken  scho<dmaster  text  hand  with  which  is  sub- 
scribed the  ever  welcome  name  of  Chas.  Cowden  C.    Let  me  crowd 

s  s  a 


620  The  Gentlematis  Magtzzine. 

in  both  our  loves  to  all.  C.  L.  [Added  on  the  fold-down  of  the 
letter :]  Let  me  never  be  forgotten  to  include  in  my  rcmemb*" 
my  good  friend  and  whilom  correspondent  Master  Stephen. 

"  How,  especially,  is  Victoria  ? 

"  I  try  to  remember  all  I  used  to  meet  at  ShacklewelL  The  little 
household,  cake-producing,  wine-bringing  out,  Emma — ^the  old 
servant,  that  didn't  stay,  and  ought  to  have  staid,  and  was  always 
very  dirty  and  friendly,  and  Miss  H.,  the  counter-tenor  with  a  fine 
voice,  whose  sister  married  Thurtell.  They  all  live  in  my  mind's 
eye,  and  Mr.  N.'s  and  Holmes's  walks  with  us  halfback  after  supper. 
Troja  fuit !" 

His  hearty  yet  modestly  rendered  thanks  for  lent  and  given  books ; 
his  ever-affectionate  mention  of  Christ's  Hospital ;  his  enjoy- 
ment of  Hazlitt's  "Life  of  Napoleon,"  minus  "the  battles/'  his 
cordial  commendation  of  Leigh  Hunt's  periodical,  The  Companion 
(with  the  witty  play  on  the  word  "fugitive"),  and  his  wish  that  he 
could  send  the  work  a  contribution  from  his  own  pen ;  his  touching 
reference  to  the  susceptibility  of  his  nervous  system;  the  sportive 
misuse  of  musical  terms  when  alluding  to  his  musidan-friend 
Vincent  Novello,  immortalised  in  Elia's  celebrated  "Chapter  on 
Ears ;"  his  excellent  pun  in  the  word  "  insensibly  f  his  humorous 
mode  of  touching  upon  the  professional  avocation  of  his  clerkly 
correspondent's  father  and  self — the  latter  having  been  usher  in  the 
school  kept  some  years  previously  at  Enfield  by  the  former — ^whUe 
conveying  a  genuine  compliment  to  the  handwriting  which  at  eighty- 
five  is  still  the  "clear  firm  impossible-to-be-mistaken  schoolmaster 
text  hand"  that  it  was  at  forty-one,  when  Lamb  wrote  these  words; 
the  genial  mention  of  the  hospitable  children  ;  the  whimsically  wrong- 
circumstanced  recollection  of  the  "counter-tenor"  lady;  the  allusion 
to  the  night  walks  "  half  back"  home ;  and  the  classically  quoted 
words  of  regret — are  all  wonderfully  characteristic  of  beautiful- 
minded  Charles  Lamb.  In  connection  with  the  juvenile  hospitality 
may  be  recorded  an  incident  that  illustrates  his  words.  When  William 
Etty  returned  as  a  young  artist-student  from  Rome,  and  called  at  the 
Novellos'  house,  it  chanced  that  the  parents  were  from  home ;  but 
the  children,  who  were  busily  employed  in  fabricating  a  treat  of 
home-made  hard-bake  (or  toflfy),  made  the  visitor  welcome  by 
offering  him  a  piece  of  their  just  finished  sweetmeat,  as  an  appro- 
priate refection  after  his  long  walk  ;  and  he  declared  that  it  was  the 
most  veritable  piece  of  spontaneous  hospitality  he  had  ever  met  with, 
since  the  children  gave  him  what  they  thought  most  delicious  and 


Some  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb.  621 

best  worthy  of  acceptance.  Charles  Lamb  so  heartily  shared  this 
opinion  of  the  subsequently-renowned  painter  that  he  brought  a 
choice  condiment  in  the  shape  of  a  jar  of  preserved  ginger  for  the 
little  Novellos*  delectation ;  and  when  some  officious  elder  suggested 
that  it  was  lost  upon  children,  therefore  had  better  be  reserved  for  the 
grown-up  people,  Lamb  would  not  hear  of  the  transfer,  but  insisted 
that  children  were  excellent  judges  of  good  things,  and  that  they 
must  and  should  have  the  cate  in  question.  He  was  right ;  for  long 
did  the  remembrance  remain  in  the  family  of  that  delicious  rarity, 
and  of  the  mode  in  which  "  Mr.  Lamb"  stalked  up  and  down  the 
passage  with  a  mysterious  harberingering  look  and  stride,  muttering 
something  that  sounded  like  conjuration,  holding  the  precious  jar 
under  his  arm,  and  feigning  to  have  found  it  stowed  away  in  a  dark 
chimney  somewhere  near. 

Another  characteristic  point  is  recalled  by  a  concluding  sentence 
of  this  letter.  On  one  occasion — when  Charles  Lamb  and  his 
admirable  sister  Mary  I^mb  had  been  accompanied  "  half  back  after 
supper"  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Novello,  Edward  Holmes,  and  Charles 
Cowden  Clarke,  between  Shacklewell  Green  and  Colebrooke  Cottage, 
beside  the  New  River  at  Islington^  where  the  Lambs  then  lived,  the 
whole  party  interchanging  lively  brightest  talk  as  they  passed  along 
the  road  that  they  had  all  to  themselves  at  that  late  hour — he,  as 
usual,  was  the  noblest  of  the  talkers.  Arrived  at  the  usual  parting- 
place.  Lamb  and  his  sister  walked  on  a  few  steps ;  then,  suddenly 
turning,  he  shouted  out  after  his  late  companions  in  a  tone  that  startled 
the  midnight  silence :  "  You're  very  nice  people ! "  sending  them  on 
their  way  home  in  happy  laughter  at  his  friendly  oddity. 

The  third  is  addressed  to  "  C.  C.  Clarke,  Esqre.,"  without  date ; 
but  it  must  have  been  written  in  1828  : — 

"  Dear  Clarke, — We  did  expect  to  see  you'with  Victoria  and  the  No- 
vellos  before  this,  and  do  not  quite  understand  why  we  have  not  Mrs. 
N.  and  V.  [Vincent]  promised  us  after  the  York  expedition ;  a  day  being 
named  before,  which  fail'd.  Tis  not  too  late.  The  autunm  leaves 
drop  gold,  and  Enfield  is  beautifliller — to  a  conmion  eye — than  when 
you  lurked  at  the  Greyhound.  Benedicts  are  close,  but  how  I  so 
totally  missed  you  at  that  time,  going  for  my  morning  cup  of  ale 
duly,  is  a  mystery.  'Twas  stealing  a  match  before  one's  fece  in 
earnest.  But  certainly  we  had  not  a  dream  of  your  appropinquity. 
I  instantly  prepared  an  Epithalamium,  in  the  form  of  a  Sonata — ^which 
I  was  sending  to  Novello  to  compose — but  Mary  forbid  it  me,  as  too 
light  for  the  occasion— as  if  the  subject  required  anything  heavy — so 


622  The  GetUUmatis  Magazine. 

in  a  tiff  with  her,  I  sent  no  congratulation  at  alL  Tho^  I  proDEiise 
you  the  wedding  was  very  pleasant  news  to  me  indeed.  Let  your 
reply  name  a  day  this  next  week,  when  you  will  come  as  many  as  a 
coach  will  hold ;  such  a  day  as  we  had  at  Dulwich.  My  very  kindest 
love  and  Mary's  to  Victoria  and  the  Novellos.  The  enclosed  is  from 
a  friend  nameless,  but  highish  in  office,  and  a  man  whose  accumcy  of 
statement  may  be  relied  on  with  implicit  confidence.  He  wants  die 
expost  to  appear  in  a  newa^per  as  the  ^  greatest  piece  of  XegpX  and 
Parliamentary  villainy  he  ever  rememb^'  and  he  has  had  expe- 
rience in  both ;  and  thinks  it  would  answer  afterwards  in  a  cheap 
pamphlet  printed  at  Lambeth  in  8^  sheet,  as  16,000  families  in  that 
parish  are  interested.  I  know  not  whether  the  present  Examimer 
keeps  up  the  character  of  exposing  abuses,  lor  I  scarce  see  a  paper 
now.  If  so,  you  may  ascertain  Mr.  Hunt  of  the  strictest  truth  of  the 
statement,  at  the  peril  of  my  head.  But  if  this  won't  do^  transmit 
it  me  back,  I  beg,  per  coach,  or  better,  bring  it  with  you. 

"Yours  unaltered, 

"C.  Lamb." 

This  letter  quaintly  rebukes^  yet,  at  the  same  time^  most  affec- 
tionately congratulates,  the  friend  addressed  for  silendy  making  honey- 
moon quarters  of  the  spot  where  Charles  Lamb  then  resided.  But 
lovely  Enfield — a  very  beau-ideal  of  an  English  village — was  die 
birthplace  of  Charles  Cowden  Clarke ;  and  the  Greyhound  was  a 
simple  hostelry  kept  by  an  old  man  and  his  daughter,  where  there 
was  a  pretty  white-curtained,  quiet  room,  with  a  window  made  green 
by  bowering  vine  leaves  j  combining  much  that  was  tempting  as  an 
unpretending  retirement  for  a  town-dweller  to  take  his  young  new- 
made  wife  to.  The  invitation  to  "  name  a  day  this  next  week "  was 
cordially  responded  to  by  a  speedy  visit ;  and  very  likely  it  was  on 
that  occasion  Charles  Lamb  told  the  wedded  pair  of  another  bridal 
couple  who,  he  said,  when  they  arrived  at  the  first  stage  of  their  mar- 
riage tour,  found  each  other's  company  so  tedious  that  they  called 
the  landlord  upstairs  to  enliven  them  by  his  conversation.  The 
"  Epithalamium,''  here  called  a  "  Sonata,"  is  the  ^  Serenata "  con- 
tained in  the  next  letter,  addressed  to  "  Vincent  NoveUo^ 
Esqre.":— 

"  My  dear  Novello, — I  am  afraid  I  shall  appear  rather  tardy  in 
offering  my  congratulations,  however  sincere,  up<m  your  dau^ter's 
marriage.*    The  truth  is,  I  had  put  together  a  little  Serenata  upon 


*  Which  maniage  took  place  5th  July,  1828. 


Some  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb.  623 

the  occasion,  but  was  prevented  from  sending  it  by  my  sister,  to 
whose  judgment  I  am  apt  to  defer  too  much  in  these  kind  of  things ; 
so  that,  now  I  have  her  consent,  the  offering,  I  am  afraid,  will  have 
lost  the  grace  of  seasonableness.  Such  as  it  is,  I  send  it  She  thinks 
it  a  little  too  old-fashioned  in  the  manner,  too  much  like  what  they 
wrote  a  centiuy  back.  But  I  cannot  write  in  the  modem  style,  if  I 
try  ever  so  hard.  I  have  attended  to  the  proper  divisions  for  the 
music,  and  you  will  have  little  difficulty  in  composing  it  If  I  may 
advise,  make  Pepusch  your  model,  or  Blow.  It  will  be  necessary  to 
have  a  good  second  voice,  as  the  stress  of  the  melody  lies  there : — 

SERENATA,  FOR  TWO  VOICES, 

On  the  nuirriage  of  Charles  Cowden  Clarke^  Esqre,^  to  Victoria,  eldest  daughter 

of  Vincent  Novello,  Bsqre, 

Duetto. 

Wake  th'  hannonioas  yoice  and  string, 
Loye  and  Hymen's  triumph  sing, 
Somids  with  secret  channs  combining, 
In  melodious  union  joining. 
Best  the  wondrous  joys  can  tell. 
That  in  hearts  united  dwell. 

RSCFTATIVK. 

First  Voice,       To  young  Victoria's  happy  fame 

Well  may  the  Arts  a  trophy  raise. 

Music  grows  sweeter  in  her  praise. 
And,  own'd  by  her,  with  rapture  speaks  her  name. 
To  touch  the  brave  Cowdenio's  heart, 

The  Graces  all  in  her  conspire ; 
Love  arms  her  with  his  surest  dart, 

Apollo  with  his  lyre. 

Aia. 

The  list'ning  Muses  all  around  her 

Think  *tis  Phoebus'  strain  they  hear ; 
And  Cupid,  drawing  near  to  wound  her. 

Drops  his  bow,  and  stands  to  hear. 

RscrrATFVB. 
Second  Voice,    While  crowds  of  rivals  with  despair 

Silent  admire,  or  vainly  court  the  Fair, 

Behold  the  happy  conquest  of  her  eyes, 

A  Hero  is  the  glorious  prize  1 

In  courts,  in  camps,  thro'  distant  realms  renown'd, 

Cowdenio  comes ! — Victoria,  see. 
He  comes  with  British  honour  crown'd, 
Love  leads  hii  eager  steps  to  thee. 


624  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

Air. 

In  tender  sighs  he  silence  breaks. 

The  Fair  his  flame  approves, 
Consenting  blushes  warm  her  cheeks, 

She  smiles,  she  yields,  she  loves. 

Recitative. 

First  Voice.        Now  Hymen  at  the  altar  stands, 

And  while  he  joins  their  faithful  hands. 

Behold  !  by  ardent  vows  brought  down, 
Immortal  Concord,  heavenly  bright, 
Array'd  in  robes  of  purest  light. 

Descends,  th'  auspicious  lites  to  crown. 
Her  golden  harp  the  goddess  brings  ; 

Its  magic  sound 
Commands  a  sudden  silence  all  around. 
And  strains  prophetic  thus  attune  the  strings. 

Duetto. 

First  Voice.        The  Swain  his  Nymph  possessing. 
Second  Voice,     The  Nymph  her  Swain  caressing. 
First  d:  Secofid,  Shall  still  improve  the  blessing, 

For  ever  kind  and  true. 
Both.  While  rolling  years  are  flying 

Love,  Hymen's  lamp  supplying 

With  fuel  never  dying. 

Shall  still  the  flame  renew. 

"To  SO  great  a  master  as  yourself  I  have  no  need  to  suggest  that 
the  peculiar  tone  of  the  composition  demands  sprightlinesSy  occa- 
sionally checked  by  tenderness,  as  in  the  second  air, — 

She  smiles, — she  yields, — she  loves. 

"  Again,  you  need  not  be  told  that  each  fifth  line  of  the  two  first 
recitatives  requires  a  crescendo. 

"And  your  exquisite  taste  will  prevent  your  falling  into  the  error 
of  Purcell,  who  at  a  passage  similar  to  that  in  my  first  air, 

Drops  his  bow,  and  stands  to  hear, 

directed  the  first  violin  thus  : — 

Here  the  first  violin  must  drop  his  bow. 

"  But,  besides  the  absurdity  of  disarming  his  principal  performer  of 
so  necessary  an  adjunct  to  his  instrument,  in  such  an  emphatic  part  of 
the  composition  too,  which  must  have  had  a  droll  effect  at  the  time,  all 
such  minutiae  of  adaptation  are  at  this  time  of  day  very  properly  ex- 
ploded, and  Jackson  of  Exeter  very  fairly  ranks  them  under  the 
head  of  puns. 


Some  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb.  625 

"  Should  you  succeed  in  the  setting  of  it,  we  propose  having  it 
performed  (we  have  one  very  tolerable  second  voice  here,  and  Mr. 
Holmes,  I  dare  say,  would  supply  the  minor  parts)  at  the  Greyhound. 
But  it  must  be  a  secret  to  the  young  couple  till  we  can  get  the  band 
in  readiness. 

^*  Believe  me,  dear  Novello, 

"  Yours  truly, 

"  C.  Lamb. 
"  Enfield,  6  Nov.,  '29." 

Peculiarly  Elian  is  the  humour  throughout  this  last  letter.  The 
advice  to  "make  Pepusch  your  model,  or  Blow;"  the  affected  "divi- 
sions "  of  "  Duetto,"  •*  Recitative,"  "  Air,"  "  First  Voice,"  "  Second 
Voice,"  "  First  and  Second,"  "  Both,"  &c. ;  the  antiquated  stiflfness 
of  the  lines  themselves,  the  burlesque  "  Love  and  Hymen's  triumph 
sing;"  the  grotesque  stiltedness  of  "the brave  Cowdenio's  heart," and 
"a  Hero  is  the  glorious  prize;"  the  ludicrous  absurdity  of  hailing  a 
peaceful  man  of  letters  (who,  by  the  way,  adopted  as  his  crest  and 
motto  an  oak-branch  with  Algernon  Sydney's  words,  ^^Flacidam  sub 
libertate  quUtem")  by  "In  courts,  in  camps,  thro*  distant  realms 
renown'd  Cowdenio  comes!";  the  adulatory  pomp  of  styling  a  young 
girl,  nowise  distinguished  for  anything  but  homeliest  simplicity,  as 
"  the  Fair,"  "  the  Nymph,"  in  whom  "  the  Graces  all  conspire ;"  the 
droll  illustrative  instructions,  suggesting  "  sprightliness,  occasionally 
checked  by  tenderness,"  in  setting  lines  purposedly  dull  and  heavy 
with  old-fashioned  mythological  trappings ;  the  grave  assumption  of 
technicality  in  the  introduction  of  the  word  "  crescendo ;"  the  pre- 
tended citation  of  "Purcell"  and  "Jackson  of  Exeter;"  the  comic 
prohibition  as  to  the  too  literal  "  minutiae  of  adaptation "  in  such 
passages  as  ^^ Drops  his  baw^  and  stands  to  hear;"  the  pleasant  play 
on  the  word  in  "  the  minor  parts ;"  the  mock  earnestness  as  to  keep- 
ing the  proposed  performance  "  a  secret  to  the  young  couple ;"  are 
all  in  the  very  spirit  of  fun  that  swayed  Elia  when  a  sportive  vein  ran 
through  his  Essays. 

The  next  letter  is  to  Charles  Cowden  Clarke ;  though  it  has  neither 
address,  signature,  date,  nor  postmark  : — 

"  My  dear  three  C's, — The  way  from  Southgate  to  Colney  Hatch 
thro*  the  unfrequentedest  Blackberry  paths  that  ever  concealed  their 
coy  bunches  from  a  truant  Citizen,  we  have  accidentally  fallen  upon 
— the  giant  Tree  by  Cheshunt  we  have  missed,  but  keep  your  chart 
to  go  by,  unless  you  will  be  our  conduct — at  present  I  am  disabled 


626  The  Gentlemaris  Magazine. 

from  further  flights  than  just  to  skirt  round  Clay  Hill,  with  a  peep  at 
the  fine  back  woods,  by  strained  tendons,  got  by  skipping  a  skipping 
rope  at  53 — hei  mihi  non  sum  qualis — ^but  do  you  know,  now  you 
come  to  talk  of  walks,  a  ramble  of  four  hours  or  so-— there  and  back 
— to  the  willow  and  lavender  plantations  at  the  south  comer  of 
Northaw  Church  by  a  well  dedicated  to  Saint  Claridge,  with  the 
clumps  of  finest  moss  rising  hillock  fashion,  which  I  counted  to  the 
number  of  two  hundred  and  sixty,  and  are  called  'Claridge's  covers' 
— the  tradition  being  that  that  saint  entertained  so  many  angels  or 
hermits  there,  upon  occasion  of  blessing  the  waters  ?  The  legends 
have  set  down  the  fruits  spread  upon  that  occasion,  and  in  the  Black 
Book  of  St  Albans  some  are  named  which  are  not  supposed  to  have 
been  introduced  into  this  island  till  a  century  later.  But  waiving  die 
miracle,  a  sweeter  spot  is  not  in  ten  counties  round ;  you  are  knee 
deep  in  clover,  that  is  to  say,  if  you  are  not  above  a  middling  man's 
height — ^from  this  paradise,  making  a  day  of  it,  you  go  to  see  die 
ruins  of  an  old  convent  at  March  Hall,  where  some  of  the  p^*"t^ 
glass  is  yet  whole  and  firesh. 

"If  you  do  not  know  this,  you  do  not  know  the  capabilities  of  diis 
country,  you  may  be  said  to  be  a  stranger  to  Enfield.  I  found  it  oat 
one  mommg  in  October,  and  so  delighted  was  I  that  I  did  not  get 
home  before  dark,  well  a-paid. 

'^  I  shall  long  to  show  you  the  clump  meadows,  as  they  are  called ; 
we  might  do  that,  without  reaching  March  Hall — when  the  days  aie 
longer,  we  might  take  both,  and  come  home  by  Forest  Cross,  so 
skirt  over  Pennington  and  the  cheerful  litde  village  of  Chuichley  to 
Forty  Hill. 

'*  But  these  are  dreams  till  summer;  meanwhile  we  should  be  most 
glad  to  see  you  for  a  lesser  excursion — say,  Sunday  next,  you  and 
another,  or  if  more,  best  on  a  week-day  with  a  notice,  but  o'  Sundays, 
as  far  as  a  leg  of  mutton  goes,  most  welcome.  We  can  squeeze 
out  a  bed.  Edmonton  coaches  run  every  hour,  and  my  pen  has  run 
out  its  quarter.     Heartily  farewell" 

Charles  Lamb's  enjoyment  of  a  long  ramble,  and  his  (osoally) 
excellent  powers  of  walking  are  here  denoted.  He  was  so  proud  of 
his  pedestrian  feats  and  indefatigability,  that  he  once  told  the  Cowden 
Clarkes  a  story  of  a  dog  possessed  by  a  pertinacious  determination 
to  follow  him  day  by  day  when  he  went  forth  to  wander  in  the 
Enfield  lanes  and  fields ;  until,  unendurably  teased  by  the  pertinacity 
of  this  obtrusive  animal,  he  determined  to  get  rid  of  him  by  fiuriy 
tiring  him  out!    So  he  took  him  a  circuit  of  many  miles,  indndiqg 


Some  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb.  627 

several  of  the  loveliest  spots  round  £nfield,  coming  at  last  to  a 
by-road  with  an  interminable  vista  of  up-hill  distance,  where  the  dog 
turned  tail,  gave  the  matter  up,  and  laid  down  beneath  a  hedge, 
panting,  exhausted,  thoroughly  worn  out  and  dead  beat ;  while  his 
defeater  walked  freshly  home,  smiling  and  triumphant 

Knowing  Lamb's  fashion  of  twisting  facts  to  his  own  humorous 
view  of  them,  those  who  heard  the  story  well  understood  that  it 
might  easily  have  been  wryed  to  represent  the  narrator's  real  potency  in 
walking,  while  serving  to  cover  his  equally  real  liking  for  animals  under 
the  semblance  of  vanquishing  a  dog  in  a  contested  foot  race.  Far  more 
probable  that  he  encouraged  its  volunteered  companionship,  amusing 
his  imagination  the  while  by  picturing  the  wild  impossibility  of  any 
human  creature  attempting  to  tire  out  a  dog — of  all  animals !  As 
an  'instance  of  Charles  Lamb's  sympathy  with  dumb  beasts,  his  two 
friends  here  named  once  saw  him  get  up  from  table,  while  they  were 
dining  with  him  and  his  sister  at  Enfield,  open  the  street-door,  and 
give  admittance  to  a  stray  donkey  into  the  fix>nt  strip  of  garden, 
where  there  was  a  glass-plot,  which  he  said  seemed  to  possess  more 
attraction  for  the  creature  than  the  short  turf  of  the  common  on 
Chase-side,  opposite  to  the  house  where  the  Lambs  then  dwelt  This 
mixture  of  the  humorous  in  manner  and  the  sympathetic  in  feeling 
always  more  or  less  tinged  the  sayii^  and  the  doings  of  beloved 
Charles  Lamb ;  there  was  a  constant  blending  of  the  overdy  whimsical 
expression  or  act  with  betrayed  inner  kindliness  and  even  pathos  of 
sentiment  Beneath  this  sudden  openii^  of  his  gate  to  a  stray 
donkey  that  it  might  feast  on  his  garden  grass  while  he  himself  ate 
his  diimer,  possibly  lurked  some  stung  sense  of  wanderers  unable  to 
get  a  meal  they  hungered  for  when  others  revelled  in  plenty, — a  kind 
of  pained  fancy  finding  vent  in  playful  deed  or  speech,  that  firequendy 
might  be  traced  by  those  who  enjoyed  his  society. 

The  next  letter  is  addressed  "  C.  C.  Clarke,  Esqre.,"  with  the  post- 
mark (much  defaced)  "  Edmonton,  Fe.  2,  1829'* : — 

''  Dear  Cowden, — ^Your  books  are  as  the  guying  of  streams  in  a 
desert  By  the  way,  you  have  sent  no  autobiographies.  Your  letter 
seems  to  imply  you  had.  Nor  do  I  want  any.  Cowden,  they  are  of 
the  books  which  I  give  away.  What  damn'd  Unitarian  skewer-soul'd 
things  the  general  biographies  turn  out  Rank  and  Talent  you  shall 
have  when  Mrs.  May  has  done  with  'em.  Mary  likes  Mrs.  Bedinfidd 
much.  For  me  I  read  nothing  but  Astrea — it  has  tum'd  my  brain — 
I  go  about  with  a  switch  tum'd  up  at  the  end  for  a  crook;  and  Lambs 
being  too  old,  the  butcher  tells  me,  my  cat  follows  me  in  a  green 


628  The  Gentlemmis  Magazine. 

ribband.  Becky  and  her  cousin  are  getting  pastoral  dresses,  ind 
then  we  shall  all  four  go  about  Arcadizing.  O  cruel  Shepherdess ! 
Inconstant  yet  fair,  and  more  inconstant  for  being  fieur !  Her  gold 
ringlets  fell  in  a  disorder  superior  to  order ! 

"  Come  and  join  us. 
"  I  am  called  the  Black  Shepherd — ^you  shall  be  Cowden  with  the 
Tuft. 

"  Prosaically,  we  shall  be  glad  to  have  you  both, — or  any  two  of 
you — drop  in  by  surprise  some  Saturday  night 

"  This  must  go  oflf. 

"  Loves  to  Vittoria. 

"  C.  L." 

The  book  he  refers  to  as  "  Astrea "  was  one  of  those  tall  folio 
romances  of  the  Sir  Philip  Sidney  or  Mdme.  de  Scudtfry  order, 
inspiring  him  with  the  amusing  rhapsody  that  follows  its  mention ; 
the  ingeniously  equivocal  ^^ Lambs  being  too  old";  the  familiar 
mingUng  of  "  Becky "  (their  maid)  "  and  her  cousin  "  with  himself 
and  sister  in  "pastoral  dresses,"  to  "go  about  Arcadizing";  the 
abrupt  bursting  forth  into  the  Philip-Sidneyan  style  of  antithetical 
rapturizing  and  euphuism ;  the  invented  Arcadian  titles  of  "  the 
Black  Shepherd  "  and  '*  Cowden  with  the  Tuft  "—are  all  in  the  tone 
of  mad-cap  spirits  which  were  occasionally  Lamb's.  The  latter 
name  ("  Cowden  with  the  Tuft ")  slyly  implies  the  smooth  baldness 
with  scant  curly  hair  distinguishing  the  head  of  the  friend  addressed, 
and  which  seemed  to  strike  Charles  Lamb  so  forcibly  that  one 
evening,  after  gazing  at  it  for  some  time,  he  suddenly  Inroke  forth 
with  the  exclamation,  " '  Gad,  Clarke !  what  whiskers  you  have  behind 
your  head  ! " 

He  was  fond  of  trying  the  dispositions  of  those  with  whom  he 
associated  by  an  odd  speech  such  as  this ;  and  if  they  stood  the  test 
pleasantly  and  took  it  in  good  part  he  liked  them  the  better  ever 
after.  One  time  that  the  Novellos  and  Cowden  Clarkes  went  down 
to  see  the  Lambs  at  Enfield,  and  he  was  standing  by  his  book-shelves 
talking  with  them  in  his  usual  delightful  cordial  way,  showing  them 
some  precious  volume  lately  added  to  his  store,  a  neighbour  chancing 
to  come  in  to  remind  Charles  Lamb  of  an  appointed  nuoaible,  he 
excused  himself  by  saying  : — "  You  see  I  have  some  troublesome 
people  just  come  down  from  town,  and  I  must  stay  and  entertain 
them  ;  so  we'll  take  our  walk  together  to-moirow."  Another  time, 
when  the  Cowden  Clarkes  were  staying  a  few  days  at  Enfield  with 
Charles  Lamb  and  his  sister,  they,  having  accepted  an  invitation  to 


Some  Letters  of  Charles  Lamb.  629 

spend  the  evening  and  have  a  game  of  whist  at  a  lady-schoolmis- 
tress's house  there,  took  their  guests  with  them.  Charles  Lamb, 
giving  his  arm  to  "  Victoria,"  left  her  husband  to  escort  Mary  Lamb, 
who  walked  rather  more  slowly  than  her  brother.  On  arriving  first 
at  the  house  of  the  somewhat  prim  and  formal  hostess,  Charles 
Lamb,  bringing  his  young  visitor  into  the  room,  introduced  her  by 

saying : — "  Mrs.  ,  Fve  brought  you  the  wife  of  the  man  who 

mortally  hates  your  husband  ";  and  when  the  lady  replied  by  a  polite 
inquiry  after  "  Miss  Lamb,"  hoping  she  was  quite  well,  Charles  Lamb 
said  : — "  She  has  a  terrible  fit  o'  toothache,  and  was  obliged  to  stay 
at  home  this  evening ;  so  Mr.  Cowden  Clarke  remained  there  to  keep 
her  company."  Then,  the  lingerers  entering,  he  went  on  to  say, — 
"  Mrs.  Cowden  Clarke  has  been  telling  me,  as  we  came  along,  that 
she  hopes  you  have  sprats  for  supper  this  evening."  The  bewildered 
glance  of  the  lady  of  the  house  at  Mary  Lamb  and  her  walking-com- 
panion, her  politely  stifled  dismay  at  the  mention  of  so  vulgar  a  dish, 
contrasted  with  Victoria's  smile  of  enjoyment  at  his  whimsical  words, 
were  precisely  the  kind  of  things  that  Charles  Lamb  liked  and 
chuckled  over.  On  another  occasion  he  was  charmed  by  the 
equanimity  and  even  gratification  with  which  the  same  guests  and 
Miss  Fanny  Kelly  (the  skilled  actress  whose  combined  artistic  and 
feminine  attractions  inspired  him  with  the  beautiful  sonnet  be- 
ginning 

You  are  not,  Kelly,  of  the  common  strain, 

and  whose  performance  of  "  The  Blind  Boy  "  caused  him  to  address 
her  in  that  other  sonnet  beginning 

Rare  artist !  who  with  half  thy  tools  or  none 
Canst  execute  with  ease  thy  curious  art, 
And  press  thy  powerful*st  meanings  on  the  heart 

Unaided  by  the  eye,  expression's  throne  !) 

found  themselves  one  sunny  day,  after  a  long  walk  through  the  green 
Enfield  meadows,  seated  with  Charles  Lamb  and  his  sister  on  a  rustic 
bench  in  the  shade,  outside  a  small  roadside  inn,  quaffing  draughts 
of  his  favourite  porter  with  him  fi-om  the  unsophisticated  pewter, 
supremely  indifferent  to  the  strangeness  of  the  situation ;  nay,  heartily 
enjoying  it  with  him.  The  umbrageous  elm,  the  water-trough,  the 
dip  in  the  road  where  there  was  a  ford  and  foot-bridge,  the  rough 
wooden  table  at  which  the  little  party  were  seated,  the  pleasant 
voices  of  Charles  and  Mary  Lamb  and  Fanny  Kelly, — all  are  vividly 
present  to  the  imagination  of  her  who  now  writes  these  few  memorial 
lines,  inadequately  describing  the   ineffaceable  impression  of  that 


630  The  Gentlemafis  Magazine. 

happy  time,  when  Lamb  so  cordially  delighted  in  the  responshre  ease 
and  enjoyment  of  his  snrrounders. 

The  last  letter  is  addressed  "  V.  Novello,  Esqre.,**  with  postHSiaik 
"No.  8,  1830":— 

Tears  are  for  lighter  griefs.    Man  weeps  the  doom 
That  seals  a  single  victim  to  the  tomh. 
But  when  Death  riots,  when  with  whelmhig  sway 
Destruction  sweeps  a  family  away ; 
When  Infancy  and  Youth,  a  huddled  mass. 
All  in  an  instant  to  oblivion  pass, 
And  Parents*  hopes  are  crush'd :  what  lamentatJon 
Can  reach  the  depth  of  such  a  desokition  ? 
Look  upward,  Feeble  Ones  !  look  up,  and  trust 
That  He,  who  lays  this  mortal  frame  in  dust. 
Still  hath  the  immortal  Spirit  in  His  keeping. 
In  Jesus*  sight  they  are  not  dead,  but  sleeping. 

'<  Dear  N.,  will  these  lines  do  ?  I  despair  of  better.  Poor  Maxy 
is  in  a  deplorable  state  here  at  £nfield. 

''Love  to  ally 

**CLamb." 

These  tenderly  patiietic  elegiac  lines  were  written  at  the  request  of 
Vincent  Novello  in  memoiy  of  four  sons  and  two  daughters  of  John 
and  Ann  Rigg,  of  York.  All  six — ^respectively  aged  19,  18,  17,  16, 
7,  and  6 — ^were  drowned  at  once  by  their  boat  being  run  down  on 
the  river  Ouse,  near  York,  August  19, 1830.  The  unhappy  survivmg 
parents  had  begged  to  have  lines  for  an  epitaph  fix>m  the  best  poetical 
hand ;  but,  owing  to  some  local  authority's  interference,  another  thin 
Charles  Lamb's  verse  was  ultimately  placed  on  the  monument  raised 
to  the  lost  children. 

The  rather,  therefore,  dear  Svlvanus  Urban,  is  it  transcribed 
from  the  original  manuscript  and  enshrined  in  your  pages  for  the 
behoof  of  yourself  and  your  readers  by 

Mary  Cowdsn  Clarke. 

Villa  NoveUot  Genoa, 


Making  the  Worst  of  it. 

BY  JOHN  BAKER  HOPKINS. 
CHAPTER  XXXIX 

THE    STOLEN    SCARF   PIN. 

IVING  up  all  the  days  of  his  life  and  also  his  family 
for  the  sake  of  running  after  a  wicked  hare  that 
wasn't  worth  catching  if  it  had  nm  into  his  game 
bag,  and  then,  when  he  did  catch  it  begging  the  hare's 
pardon.  I  tell  you,  Stot,  I'm  disgusted  with  such  bite  yoa  to^y 
and  kiss  you  to-morrow  nonsense,  and  it  will  be  a  two  montihi  moon 
before  I  feel  the  same  towards  Henry  Clayton." 

"  My  dear,  they  were  children  together,  boys  together,  and  yoong 
men  together.  Then  comes  the  quarrel  Mellish  got  into  a  passion, 
which  is  the  same  as  getting  mad ;  told  a  lie  of  his  friend,  and  whilst 
he  was  on  his  back,  the  stupid  doctor  thinking  the  wound  was 
mortal,  Clayton  was  taken  into  custody.  Mdlish,  still  smarting  a  little, 
stuck  to  the  lie  when  he  got  up,  or,  probably,  had  not  the  pluck 
to  say  he  had  lied.  One  word  from  Clayton  would  most  likely  have 
saved  all  the  trouble,  but  that  word  Clayton  would  not  speak.  When 
it  is  too  late  Mellish  repents.  He  got  a  terror  on  him  that  stuck  to 
him  for  life,  and  he  became  a  criminal  and  an  abject  outcast 
Clayton  thought  only  of  revenge,  though  for  the  worst  of  his  troubles 
his  own  obstinacy  was  to  blame.  Now,  old  love,  I  think,  and  so  do 
you,  that  the  least  Clayton  could  do  was  to  forgive  the  dying  man 
who  had  suffered  so  much  for  his  bad  temper  and  &lse  oatfa.^ 

''  He  would  have  been  a  brute  not  to  foigive,  but  irhj  didn't  he 
forgive  years  and  years  ago?" 

"  Because  it  is  human  nature  to  be  perverse.  If  a  man  gets  a  hurt 
he  knocks  his  head  against  the  first  post  he  comes  ta  A  fellow  gets 
into  some  sort  of  trouble,  very  often  poverty,  and  instead  of  taking 
the  black  ox  by  the  horns,  he  takes  to  drinking  and  goes  headlong  to 
destruction." 

Mr.  Stot  is  right  We  are  most  of  us  prone  to  make  the  worst  and 
not  the  best  of  the  storms  of  life.  An  adverse  wind  stops  the  onward 


632  The  Gentlemati 5  Magazine. 

progress  of  our  ship.  If  we  are  patient  and  wise  we  make  a  little 
progress  by  tacking  in  spite  of  the  adverse  gale.  Too  often  we  are 
impatient  and  unwise,  and  we  oppose  the  prow  of  the  ship  to  the 
fury  of  the  wind,  or  we  abandon  the  helm  and  let  the  ship  take  her 
chance,  and  by  so  doing  we  are  engulfed  in  mid  ocean  or  wrecked  on 
the  rocky  coast. 

The  perversity  of  Rose  is  very  provoking,  but  those  who  have 
suffered  the  most  will  be  the  least  disposed  to  condemn  her.  Sorrow 
is  apt  to  warp  the  judgment  When  we  are  under  the  cloud  all 
things  we  look  at  through  the  encircling  darkness  seem  black.  A 
word  of  pity  is  scorned  as  an  insult  A  word  of  hope  is  resented  as 
a  cruel  mocking  at  our  misery.  A  trifling  incident  is  accepted  as  a 
conclusive  proof  that  our  gloomy  foreboding  is  correct  Thus  it 
was  with  Rose.  The  moment  she  heard  that  Frank  had  not  been  at 
Malvern  the  thought  took  possession  of  her  mind  that  her  husband 
had  deserted  her.  Why  if  he  were  not  going  to  visit  his  rich  rela- 
tion should  he  leave  in  haste  and  not  tell  her  whither  he  was  going  ? 
Surely  then,  believing  that  she  was  deserted  and  being  penniless,  she 
should  have  returned  to  her  profession.  Instead  of  that,  she  submits 
to  direst  poverty.  When  she  met  Blewlite  and  had  the  oflfer  of  a  suffi- 
cient income  she  did  not  for  a  moment  think  of  returning  to  the  stage. 
She  still  loved  Frank,  for  though  neglect  may  kill  the  lover,  the  love 
is  immortal.  She  would  not  do  that  which  might  make  him  doubt 
her  love.  And  the  resolution  formed  by  her  love  was  supported  by 
anger.  Let  her  suffer  and  let  her  die.  Perhaps  he  might  hear  of 
her  misery  and  repent  his  cruelty.  Alas,  for  the  perversity  of  human 
nature  !  Rose  would  if  she  could  afflict  the  man  she  loved  with  a 
bitter  and  lifelong  regret 

We  have  thus  the  key  to  her  rejection  of  Mrs.  Thompson's  kindness. 
She  did  not  want  kindness.  She  did  not  want^ comfort  She  did  not 
wish  her  husband,  if  ever  he  heard  of  her,  to  be  told  that  she  had 
been  well  cared  for.  Let  him  hear  only  a  tale  of  misery.  So  when 
Rose  left  the  coffee-house  with  a  few  shillings  in  her  pocket  she  was 
glad  to  escape  not  only  from  the  persecution  of  Lord  Shamvock,  but 
also  from  the  loving  kindness  of  Mrs.  Thompson.  Her  conscience  was 
not  seared,  and  she  hugged  the  thought  that  Mrs.  Thompson  was  a 
hypocrite  and  the  vile  tool  of  the  vile  lord. 

It  was  the  first  cold  night  of  autumn.  Coats  were  buttoned,  un- 
gloved hands  were  thrust  into  pockets,  in  thousands  of  London 
homes  the  first  parlour  fire  of  the  season  was  being  enjoyed  by  old 
and  young.  Rose,  though  thinly  clad,  did  not  feel  the  cold.  She 
walked  quickly  until  she  came  to  Regent's  Park.     The  enclosures 


Making  ike  Worst  of  il. 

were  shut  for  the  night,  but  she  sauntered  along  the  dark  paths  that 
skirt  them. 

What  should  she  do  ?  She  was  friendless  and  penniless,  but  neither 
friends  nor  money  could  give  her  happiness.  Forsaken  by  the  man 
she  loved,  only  death  could  end  her  misery  and  her  bitter  humiliation. 
But  to  die,  and  for  Frank  not  to  know  of  her  affiction,  her  devotion,, 
and  her  death !  Eut  for  Frank  to  live  on  thinking  she  was  living, 
and  perhaps  happy  :  That  was  an  intolerable  tiiought.  She  woulJ 
die,  but  he  must  know  that  she  was  dead,  and  that  she  loved  him 
unto  death. 

What  had  she  suflered  since  the  day  he  left  her  t  The  cruel  robbery 
and  the  still  more  cruel  fever.  Her  escape  from  the  hospital  that  she 
might  find  her  husband.  The  theft  of  the  purse  that  she  might  have 
the  means  of  seeking  hira.  The  anxious  journey  to  Malvern.  The 
toilsome  ascent  of  the  hill.  The  terrible  storm.  The  awful  roar 
of  the  thunder.  Thi;  noise  of  the  heavy,  beating  rain.  The  light- 
ning that  flashed  tlirough  her  closed  eyelids.  And  then  the  discovery 
that  Frank  had  deserted  her.  If  the  woman  had  not  come  to  her 
from  the  hill-side  cottage  she  would  have  died  without  learning  that 
he  did  not  love  her.  But  he  would  not  have  known  of  her  fate.  She 
must  die,  but  he  shall  hear  of  her  sufferings  and  her  death. 

What  did  the  giil  tell  her  about  the  tree  to  which  she  clung  during 
the  storm  ?     It  was  called  the  haunted  tree. 

"There  I  wiU  go.  and  by  the  side  of  that  tree  I  will  lie  until 
starvation  and  cold  and  sorrow  kill  me.  Oh,  Frank,  if  you  had  known 
my  love !" 

Love!  Yes,  and  also  the  hope  of  revenge.  Rose  imagined  that 
Frank  had  forsaken  her  for  anoUier.  She  pictured  him  and  the 
woman  he  loved  as  liajipy  and  undisturbed  by  a  thought  about  the 
deserted  wife.  TJiey  should  both  think  of  her.  They  should  both 
liear  how  the  deserti^d  « ifc  died  by  the  haunted  tree. 

Rose  returned  to  the  main  road,  and  got  into  an  omnibus  going 
eastward.  She  took  iliat  direction  because  slie  did  not  wish  to  remain 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  Mrs.  Thompson.  She  alighted  at  the  City 
Road.  Presently  she  saw  a  coffee-house,  and  inquired  if  she  could 
have  a  bed. 

"Not  at  this  crib,"  said  the  man.  "Single  women  aint  in  our 
line,  nor  more  aint  double  ones  which  have  been  mislaid  by  their 
husbands.     No,  mum,  tliis  aint  the  rub  for  your  hob." 

Rose  did  not  wait  to  hear  the  conclusion  of  the  man's  reply.  Ii 
was  late,  and  she  had  no  desire  to  be  in  the  streets  all  nighl. 

An  hour  or  two  ago,  and  the  prospect  would  not  have  troubled 
Vol.  XI.,  N.S.  1873.  t  t 


634  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

her,  but  now  she  had  something  to  live  for.  She  had  resolved  to  die 
by  the  haunted  tree,  and  in  such  a  manner  that  Frank  and  the 
woman  he  loved  might  hear  of  her  &te.  In  her  feeble  health  a  night 
in  the  streets  might  kill  her,  and  then  she  would  die  like  a  houseless 
dog,  and  he  would  not  know  that  she  had  loved  unto  death  and  had 
died  for  him. 

A  shabbily  dressed  woman  accosted  Rose. 

"  If  you  are  in  luck,  my  dear,  for  pity's  sake  stand  me  three  of 
something  warm.  I  swear  I  have  not  touched  food  to-day,  and  togged 
as  I  am  no  fellow  will  give  me  so  much  as  a  drink  of  porter.  I'd 
do  the  same  for  you  or  any  other  soul  that  asked  me  to-morrow,  for  I 
shall  have  money  in  the  morning.  Don't  say  *  No,'  there's  a  kind  dear. 
I  am  so  cold,  and  I  know  a  quiet  place  where  you  won't  be  seen 
with  me." 

"  I  have  very  little  money,  but  you  shall  have  what  you  want 
Can  you  tell  me  of  a  respectable  coffee-house  where  I  can  get  a 
bed?" 

"  What,  are  you  a  stranger,  and  on  the  search  for  a  bed  ?  You  seem 
so  well  up  that  I  should  never  have  guessed  it." 

"  Do  you  know  of  one  T  asked  Rose. 

"  There  are  a  good  few  about  here,  and  most  of  them  queer,  and 
those  that  are  not  queer  turn  their  noses  up  at  women." 

**  What  shall  I  do?"  said  Rose. 

"  Go  halves  in  my  bed.  It's  very  humble,  being  a  second  floor 
back,  with  furniture  that  wouldn't  fetch  a  crown,  but  it's  the  best  I 
can  afford,  and  that  comes  to  ten  shillings  a  week.  If  I  starve  I 
always  pay  the  landlady,  for  you  know  what  a  landlady  is  if  you  are 
behind  a  day." 

After  a  moment's  hesitation,  Rose  accepted  the  offer. 

"  I  will  pay  you  what  I  should  have  to  pay  elsewhere." 

"  No,  you  won't,  my  dear.  My  place  is  quite  near,  being  a 
turning  out  of  Shepherdess  Walk.  Come  and  let  us  have  a 
drink." 

**  I  don't  want  to  drink.  But  you  get  what  you  please,"  sjud  Rosie 
offering  her  a  shilling. 

"  If  you  are  ashamed  to  drink  with  me  because  my  st}'le  does  not 
equal  yours,  keep  your  money.  Although  I  am  down,  I've  got  a 
trifle  of  spirit  in  me  yet.  Besides  I  told  you  I  know  of  a  quiet 
place." 

"  I  will  go  with  you,"  said  Rose,  who  was  faint  after  her  .long  fast 
and  long  walk. 

"  What's  your  name  ?"  asked  the  woman. 


Mctking  the  Worst  of  it. 


"  Oh,  I  like  Rose.  Mine  is  Violet.  That  is  wliat  my  lover  called 
me,  and,  my  dcv,  I  was  fair  as  the  violet,  and  as  innocent,  when  I 
first  knew  hin,  and  that  is  not  so  long  agp.  I  shall  not  be  twenty- 
two  till  ccBoe  naxt  spring,  but  when  a  gfrl  is  cast  on  the  world  she 
soon  growa  old" 

They  entered  the  narrow  side  door  compartment  of  a  public-house, 
in  which  only  glasses  were  served  and  no  smoking  was  allowed. 
Rose  and  her  companion  wet;;  the  sole  occupants,  but  on  the  other 
side  of  the  low  screen  a  crowd  of  men  were  smoking,  drinking, 
laughing,  and  chaffing. 

"  Give  me  four  of  gin  hot,  and  with  a  good  piece  of  lemon  in  it. 
My  friend  will  take  a  glass  of  stout." 

The  barman  shook  his  head  and  jerked  his  thumb  in  the  Erection 
of  a  black  board  covered  with  ch^k  marks. 

"  Sorry  to  disoblige,  but  the  stopper  must  be  drove  in  at  some  point. 
Can't  do  another  drain  on  tick." 

"  Nobody  wants  your  tick.     My  friend  will  pay." 

The  gin  hot  with  lemon  and  the  stout  wereTonhcoming,  and  were 
paid  for  by  a  shilling  banded  to  Violet.  Wlien  Rose  looked  at  her 
companion  she  half  regretted  the  promise  to  pass  the  night  with  her. 
A  woman  with  a  thin  pale  face,  on  which  was  the  stamp  of  dissi- 
pation, perhaps  of  vice.  Shabby  black  dress,  with  a  bright  scarf 
about  the  throat.  Altogether  an  appeacmce  that  does  not  inspire 
confidence ;  but  it  was  very  late,  and  Rose  had  no  lodging. 

Violet's  room  was  one  of  those  intensely  shabby  lodgings  that  are 
almost  peculiar  to  London.  In  other  cities,  both  at  home  and 
abroad,  there  is  some  attempt  at  decoration  in  the  poorest  lodgings, 
but  in  Violet's  room  a  painted  wooden  bedstead,  with  the  paint  for 
tlie  most  part  worn  ol^  two  cane  chairs,  old  and  creaking,  a  deal 
washatond,  with  a  cracked  basin  and  handleless  ewer,  and  a  large  tin 
candlestick,  thickly  bespattered  with  tallow,  were  the  only  articles  of 
utility  or  ornament. 

"  There,  my  dear ;  and  my  old  ogress  of  a  landlady  has  die  cheek 
to  call  the  place  cheap  at  ten  shillings  a  week.  But  you  see,  my 
dear,  when  you  are  down  a  worm  can  walk  over  you." 

"  Do  you  live  here  alone  f    Do  yon  work  i^' 

"  I've  tried  it,  my  dear ;  but,  working  myself  blind,  I  couldn't  get 
my  rent     I  don't  know  how  I  live,  and  I  don't  care." 

Rose  felt  uncomfortable,  and  repented  not  seeking  another 
lodging. 

Violet  did  not  improve  on  acquaintance. 

T  T  I 


636  The  Gentlematis  Magazine. 

"  You  have  got  the  badge,  and  so  have  I,"  said  Violet,  holding  up 
her  finger.     "  Are  you  married  ?" 

"  Yes.    But  you  are  tired.  Go  into  bed.    I  will  rest'on  the  chairs." 

"  Not  likely,  my  dear,"  said  Violet.  "  Married,  eh  !  Some  girls  would 
give  their  heads  to  be  married,  but  many  are  none^the  better  off  I 
dare  say,  if  you  had  your  time  over  again,  you  would!  keep  single^ 
instead  of  running  helter-skelter  to  church." 

"  Please  don't  talk  about  me.  I'm  tired,  and  I  have  a  long  way  to 
go  to-morrow." 

"  Where  ?  " 

"  To  Malvern." ' 

"  How  far  is  it  ?  " 

"  Over  a  hundred  miles." 

"If  it  had  been  nearer  I  would  have  gone  with  you.  A  few 
hours'  change  would  do  me  worlds  of  good.  How  much  does  it 
cost  ?  " 

"Ten  shillings,  and  I  have  only  five  in  my  pocket  Do  you 
think,"  continued  Rose,  colouring, ''  I  could  get  a  few  shillings  on  some 
of  my  things  ?  " 

"  It's  shameful  little  they  lend  on  clothes,  unless  it's  a  brand  new 
silk.  But,  my  dear,"  said  Violet,  taking  her  hand,  "  that  ring  of  youis 
looks  like  gold." 

"  Yes.  It  is  gold,"  said  Rose,  rather  wondering  at  the  suggestion 
that  her  wedding  ring  was  made  of  base  metal. 

**  What  a  thick  beauty  it  is !  Why,  my  dear,  you  can  get  ten 
shillings  on  that  for  certain,  and  perhaps  twelve.  I  had  a  gold  one 
once,  quite  a  thin  thing,  and  I  got  six  on  it." 

"  I  could  not  part  with  my  wedding  ring,"  said  Rose,  with  deter- 
mination. 

"  Nonsense.  A  sixpenny  imitation — of  course  the  penny  ones 
are  no  good — looks  like  the  real  thing  for  a  month.  I  have  worn  this 
over  two  months,  and  if  it  didn't  black  the  finger  no  one  would 
notice  it." 

"  I  could  not  part  with  my  ring.  Would  my  cloak  fetch  five 
shillings  ? '' 

"And  if  it  would,  my  dear  —  which  it   wouldn't — you  could 
not  go  a  long  journey  without  a  penny  in  your  pocket     But  I 
may  help  you.    What  do  you  think  of  that  ?    I  am  no  judge  of  these 
things." 
Violet  drew  from  her  pocket  a  scarf-pin. 
"  It  looks  good,"  said  Violet.     "  Is  the  stone  real  ?  " 
"  Yes,"  replied  Rose  ;  "  it's  a  diamond." 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  637 

"  That  is  jolly,  I  thought  it  sparkled  like  a  real  gem  when  I  saW" 
it  in  the  scarf  of  Chat  spoony  young  swell.  He  will  think  he  lost  it, 
for  he  was  pretty  well  gone." 

"  Did  you  steal  it  ?  "  asked  Rose  indignantly. 

"What  is  that  to  you,  Mrs.  Virtuous?  This  is  the  reward  of  being 
kind.  Perhaps  if  ii  were  known  it  would  come  out  that  you  had  not 
been  particular  when  you  were  hard  up." 

Rose  remembered  the  purse,  andjshe  sat  on  the  chair  abashed. 

"  Do  not  be  angry," 

"  I  am  not  ai^ry,  my  dear.  I  wish  you  would  take  it  for  me  in  the 
morning.  You  look  genteel,  and  you  could  say  it  was  your  husband's. 
You  shall  have  a  pound  out  of  it,  and  that  will  pay  your  journey,  and 
make  you  comfortable." 

Rose  thought  the  proposal  was  in  itself  a  retributive  judgment. 
The  last  time  she  had  gone  to  Malvern  with  stolen  money,  and  that 
money,  though  she  knew  not  liow,  was  the  cause  of  her  misery. 
Would  she  do  so  again  ?  No,  let  her  wedding  ring  be  pawned,  and 
let  the  pawn  ticket  be  found  upon  her  when  she  was  dead.  That 
would  tell  Frank  the  depth  of  her  misery. 

Violet  was  cross  and  abusive,  and  at  length  hysterical,  on  account 
of  Rose  refiising  to  pawn  the  scarf  pin.  Again  and  again  she 
bemoaned  her  hard  fate,  saying  that  she  was  kind  to  everj'body,  and 
everybody  was  unkind  to  her.  However,  before  sleeping  she  asked 
Rose  to  forgive  her,  and  vowed  eternal  friendship.  It  was  agreed  that 
Violet  should  rise  early  andjpawnjthe  ring,  and  that  Rose  should  lend 
her  dress  and  cloak  for  the  errand , 

"  You  see,  dear,  if  you  look  poor  they  won't  lend  you  nearly  so 
much,  besides  suspecting  you," 

Violet  went  out  aljout  nine  in  the  morning,  and  was  absent  for  an 
hour  and  a  half.     She  was  in  exuberant  spirits  on  her  return. 

"  I  could  not  be  quicker,  my  dear,  for  I  had  to  go  to  the  West.  In 
this  neighbourhood  they  lend  nothing  on  good  things.  What  do  you 
tliink,  my  dear?  I  asked  ten  on  the  pin  and  they  gave  me  eight 
pounds.  And  then,  my  dear,  I  got  fifteen  shillings  on  your  ring.  Let 
us  have  a  jolly  day,  and  you  can  go  to  Malvern  to-morrow." 

Rose  said  she  must  leave  immediately,  and  in  spite  of  Violet's  pro- 
tests refused  to  accept  the  loan  of  a  sovereign. 

"  Oh,  I  wish  you  would  have  stopped  here,  or  taken  me  with  you. 
I  do  want  some  one  to  love." 

Rose  shrank  from  the  parting  embrace.  She  was  shocked  about 
the  scarf  pin — shocked  and  pained.  If  she  had  not  taken  that 
purse  she  would  not  have  gone  to  Mrs.  Thompson's,  and  would  not 


638  The  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

have  known  Violet.  The  stolen  scarf  pm  had  inicked  her  consdence. 
Would  he  not  despise  her  as  she  despised  him  ?  If  she  had  not  takei> 
that  purse  she  might  yet  have  had  some  hope.  Perhaps  he  might 
hear  of  her  guilt  after  she  died,  and  despise  her. 

Rose  was  riding  in  an  omnibus  when  these  gloomy  thoughts  filled 
her  mind. 

"  Are  you  not  well,  mum  ?  *  asked  a  fellow  passenger. 

The  question  roused  Rose,  and  she  replied  that  she  was  very 
well. 

**  Ah,"  she  thought,  "  let  him  despise  me  if  he  can.  I  have  been 
true  to  him,  and  I  am  dying  because  I  love  him  better  than 
life." 


CHAPTER  XL. 

BY    THE    HAUNTED    TREE. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  Rose  stood  before  the  house  at 
Malvern  at  which  she  had  been  so  roughly  received  by  Prank's  uncle. 
She  wished  before  she  died  to  see  the  house  in  which  Frank 
had  lived,  and  in  which  he  would  live  when  she  was  forgotten.  If 
she  could  look  upon  him  for  a  moment,  that  glance  would  comfort 
her  even,  as  she  thought,  in  the  moment  of  death.  But  no,  she  must 
not  hope  for  such  a  joy  as  once  more  seeing  her  husband.  But  was 
it  possible  that  he  had  been  reconciled  to  his  uncle,  and  was  perhaps 
staying  in  the  house  ?  Even  that  would  "be  some  solace.  When  she 
was  l>-ing  by  the  haunted  tree,  it  would  be  a  blessing  to  think  that  he 
was  near  to  her,  that  perhaps  when  he  heard  that  she  had  perished, 
he  would  look  at  her,  and  for  a  minute,  only  for  a  minute,  be  sorry 
that  he  had  forsaken  her  for  another. 

Presently  a  man,  groom  or  gardener,  came  to  the  gate.  Rose 
timidly  approached  him,  and  timidly  asked  if  young  Mr.  Boliver  had 
been  there  lately. 

"  Young  Mr.  Boliver !  May  be  you  are  strange  in  this  place.  And 
lucky  if  you  are,  for  a  month  of  it  has  given  me  a  sickener." 

"  Yes,  I  am,"  said  Rose. 

"You  haven't  heard  of  the  death  then?" 

Rose  caught  the  gate,  or  she  would  have  fallen. 

"  Dead  !     Oh,  mercy !     Dead  !" 

"  Did  you  know  the  old  gentleman?" 

"The  old  gentleman !" 

"Yes,  the  old  boy,  the  uncle.     He  died  about  three  weeks  aga 


Making  the  Worst  of  it. 

I'm  in  here  to  take  care  of  the  place  for  the  nephew,  He's  tumble^ 
in  for  a  tidy  haul. " 

"  He's  not  here,  then?" 

"  No.  Malvem  is  a  good  deal  too  near  solitary  confinement  with 
the  toothache  to  suit  his  complaint.  Mr.  Boliver  is  in  London  enjoying 
tlie  old  boy's  savings." 

"Do  you  know  if  he  is  married?" 

"The  lawyer  recommended  roe  this  job.  I  hax'e  only  seen  him 
once.  Do  you  want  anything  of  him  ?  I  shall  be  writing  in  a  day 
or  two  just  to  say  all's  right." 

"  Only  please  to  tcU  liim  that  Rose  called  here,  and  was  glad  to 
hear  he  was  well,  and  hopes  he  may  be  happy.     Will  you  do  so  ?" 

"  I  suppose  you  were  in  the  family  service?" 

"  Do  as  I  ask  yoii,  for  Mr.  Boliver  will  be  glad  to  hear  I  called." 

"  Come  in  and  lake  a  little  something." 

"No,  thank  you.  I  have  some  distance  to  go.  Good  night. 
Pray  don't  forget  the  message.  Rose  called  and  is  glad  he  is 
happy." 

Rose  turned  from  the  house  and  walked  down  the  road.  The  man 
shut  the  gate,  and  went  into  the  house.  Presently  Rose  returned 
and  put  her  hand  through  the  bars  of  the  gate  to  pluck  a  sprig  of 
jasmine,  but  she  could  not  reach  the  ilower. 

"  I  have  no  right  to  the  flower.  They  are  his  and  hers.  But  he 
will  not  mind  if  1  take  this." 

She  stooped,  picked  up  a  fallen  leaf,  kissed  it,  and  put  it  into  her 
bosom. 

"  Again  I  feel  the  life,  but  we  must  not  live.  I  can't  live  without 
him,  and  he  is  lost  to  me.  And  his  child  shall  not  live  to  be  despised 
b}'  her  or  fed  by  her.  If  Frank  knew  my  suffering  he  would  hate 
her  for  taking  him  from  me." 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  twilight. 

"I  must  hasten.  In  the  dark  I  might  not  find  the  haunted  tree, 
and  have  to  suffer  another  day." 

Her  mind,  weakened  by  bodily  and  mental  suffering,  was  con- 
trolled by  the  thought  that  if  slie  lay  by  the  haunted  tree  she  would 
clii;  ere  morning.  And  towards  the  spot  thus  deemed  fatal  she 
sct^nied  drawn  by  an  irresistible  force.  She  wished  she  had  never 
bcL-n  in  Malvern,  She  wished  the  girl  had  not  told  her  of  the 
h.tunted  tree.  She  wi5hed  some  one  would  compel  her  to  return  to 
London.     Yet  on  she  went,  shivering,  sorrowing,  doubting. 

She  paused  for  a  minute  at  the  turning  leading  to  the  ascent. 
Some  men  were  talking  in  the  public-house,  and  it  refreshed  her  to 


640  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

hear  the  sound  of  human  voices.     Then,  after  a  glance  at  the  lighted 
shops,  she  began  to  toil  up  the  hill. 
At  the  Well  she  moistened  her  lips  with  water. 
"  I  will  not  drink ;  for  the  more  faint  I  am,  the  sooner  it  will  be 
over.     Oh,  the  life  within  me.     Peace  !  mercy  !  oh,  is  there  no  one 
who  will  save  me  ?" 

She  continued  the  ascent,  guided  by  the  lights  in  the  windows  of 
nhe  houses  on  the  hill.  She  frequently  stumbled,  but  toiled  on  and 
«on.  She  stole  past  the  cottage  that  had  given  her  shelter.  She  came 
:at  last  to  the  solitary  rugged,  haunted  tree.  There  she  sat  down,  and 
vainly  tried  to  fix  her  thoughts  on  the  fate  before  her. 

She  listened  to  the  moaning  and  whistling  of  the  wind.  She  watched 
the  stars  as  they  appeared  one  after  another  to  cheer  the  darkness  of 
the  night.  She  was  utterly  prostrate  and  benumbed  with  cold.  She 
stretched  upon  the  ground  and  slept  Unless  disturbed  she  would 
not  have  awakened  from  that  sleep. 

A  man  who  lived  in  one  of  the  cottages  was  returning  from  the 
town,  and  his  road  lay  within  a  few  yards  of  the  haunted  tree.  His  dog 
had  been  scampering  hither  and  thither,  and  ran  to  the  haunted  tree. 
He  barked  furiously. 

"  Hist.    Here,  boy,  here." 

The  dog  ran  towards  his  master,  and  then  back  to  the  haunted 
tree,  and  did  not  cease  his  barking. 

"Whatisit,boy,whatisit?  A  woman  lying  here  ?  Off,  boy.  Off,  sir." 

The  man  carried  a  lantern,  and  he  turned  it  towards  the  fkce  of 
Rose,  and  then  shook  her  violently. 

"  Oh,  Frank,  dear,  do  not  leave  me  again." 

"  Wake  up,"  said  the  man,  shaking  her.  "  \Vhat  brings  you  here  ? 
Where  have  you  come  from  ?  Where  do  you  live  ?  You  might  have 
died  here  if  it  had  not  been  for  my  dog." 

Rose  was  bewildered,  and  did  not  speak. 

"  You  must  come  into  the  cottage,  anyhow.  You  can't  stop  here 
to  perish  of  cold,  whatever  you  may  be." 

He  was  a  burly  man,  with  the  strength  of  an  ox,  and  he  lifted 
Rose  from  the  ground  and  carried  her. 

"Hist,  boy,  go  and  tell  mother." 

The  dog  ran  forward,  and  at  the  door  of  a  cottage  ^stopped  and 
barked. 

"  Where  is  the  father?"  asked  a  woman  who  opened  the  door. 

"  Here  I  am,  mother,"  said  the  man  to  his  wife.  "  I  am  bringing 
in  a  queer  load,  but  don't  be  scared." 

**  Fa  thcr,  what  rre  you  can*) ing  ?  " 


Making  the  Worst  of  it, 

BY  JOHN  BAKER  HOPKINS. 
CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

THE    STOLEN    SCARF    PIN. 

IVING  up  all  the  da3rs  of  his  life  and  also  his  family 
for  the  sake  of  running  after  a  wicked  hare  that 
wasn't  worth  catching  if  it  had  run  into  his  game 
bag,  and  then,  when  he  did  catch  it  begging  the  hare's 
pardon.  I  tell  you,  Stot,  I'm  disgusted  with  such  bite  you  to-day 
and  kiss  you  to-morrow  nonsense,  and  it  will  be  a  two  month  moon 
before  I  feel  the  same  towards  Henry  Clayton." 

"  My  dear,  they  were  children  together,  boys  together,  and  young 
men  together.  Then  comes  the  quarrel  Mellish  got  into  a  passion, 
which  is  the  same  as  getting  mad ;  told  a  lie  of  his  friend,  and  whilst 
he  was  on  his  back,  the  stupid  doctor  thinking  the  wound  was 
mortal,  Clayton  was  taken  into  custody.  Mellish,  still  smarting  a  little, 
stuck  to  the  lie  when  he  got  up,  or,  probably,  had  not  the  pluck 
to  say  he  had  lied.  One  word  from  Clayton  would  most  likely  have 
saved  all  the  trouble^  but  that  word  Clayton  would  not  speak.  When 
it  is  too  late  Mellish  repents.  He  got  a  terror  on  him  that  stuck  to 
him  for  life,  and  he  became  a  criminal  and  an  abject  outcast 
Clayton  thought  only  of  revenge,  though  for  the  worst  of  his  troubles 
his  own  obstinacy  was  to  blame.  Now,  old  love,  I  think^  and  so  do 
you,  that  the  least  Clayton  could  do  was  to  forgive  the  dying  man 
who  had  suffered  so  much  for  his  bad  temper  and  false  oath.^ 

**  He  would  have  been  a  brute  not  to  forgive,  but  why  didn't  he 
forgive  years  and  years  ago  ?  " 

"  Because  it  is  human  nature  to  be  perverse.  If  a  man  gets  a  hart 
he  knocks  his  head  against  the  first  post  he  comes  to.  A  fellow  gets 
into  some  sort  of  trouble,  very  often  poverty,  and  instead  of  taking 
the  black  ox  by  the  horns,  he  takes  to  drinking  and  goes  headlong  to 
destruction." 

Mr.  Stot  is  right  We  are  most  of  us  prone  to  make  the  wont  and 
not  the  best  of  the  storms  of  life.  An  adverse  wind  stops  the  onward 


642  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

"  If  you  will  give  me  shelter  for  the  night  I  shall  be  so  thankful, 
and  I  will  go  in  the  morning.  If  not,  I  will  go  now,  but  how  shall  I 
get  down  the  hill  ?  " 

The  woman  took  her  husband  out  of  the  room. 

"  Father,  may  be  you  are  in  the  right.  I  cannot  make  fish,  or 
fiesh,  or  fowl  of  her.  She  shall  stay  here  for  the  night,  but  where  will 
she  go  in  the  morning  ?  Let  them  hear  about  it  at  the  station  and 
come  early  to  look  into  it." 

"  That  is  just  my  way  of  looking  at  it,"  said  Tom,  and  he  whistled 
his  dog  and  went  on  his  errand. 

The  inspector  of  police  was  of  opinion  that  he  could  not  interfere. 
On  what  ground  was  he  to  take  the  woman  into  custody  ?  Did  Tom 
know  anything  against  her  more  than  that  she  was  on  the  hill  when 
she  ought  to  have  been  under  shelter  ? 

*'  I  have  done  my  duty  in  giving  notice  to  the  authorities,"  said  Tom. 

**  But  you  have  come  to  the  wrong  shop.  You  should  see  one  of  the 
fjuardians.  Mr.  Brook  is  hard  by,  and  I  will  send  one  of  our  men 
with  you." 

Mr.  Brook  commanded  Tom  for  taking  care  of  the  woman. 

"  If  anything  happens  it  gets  into  the  papers,  and  does  harm  to 
Malvern ;  it's  scandalous  that  tramps  and  wanderers  come  near  a 
place  that  is  kept  so  perfectly  respectable." 

"  She  looks  a  decent  sort  of  body  in  a  peck  of  trouble.  But  who 
i.he  is,  what  she  is,  or  where  she  is  going  she  will  not  say." 

"She  will  tell  me,  I  warrant ;  I  shall  be  at  the  cottage  soon  after 
i.)reakfast,  and  I  give  you  authority  to  keep  her  till  I  come." 

Mr.  Brook,  the  parochial  magnate  of  Malvern,  found  Rose  still 
exhausted,  though  much  better  for  her  night's  rest.  But  she  would 
icll  him  nothing  about  herself.  As  coaxing  did  not  succeed  he  used 
threats. 

"  Do  you  know  that  I  could  send  you  to  prison  as  a  rogue  and 
\'agabond,  and  keep  you  there  till  you  told  us  who  you  are  ?  " 

Rose  did  not  reply ;  Mr.  Brook,  as  one  of  the  guardians  of  the 
extra-varnished  respectability  of  Malvern,  was  averse  from  turning  her 
loose  and  perhaps  shocking  some  of  the  gorgeously  arrayed  and 
immaculate  visitors. 

"  Are  you  going  to  London  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Have  you  the  money  for  your  fare  ?  " 

Rose  was  indignant  at  this  questioning. 

"  I  have  committed  no  crime,  and  you  have  no  right " — and  then 
she  faltered,  for  the  taking  of  the  purse  was  remembered. 


Making  the  Worst  of  it. 

"  Crime !  what  do  you  call  coming  to  tlie  genteelest  place  ir 
England  without  a  penny  in  your  pocket  and  being  found  sleeping  on 
the  hill  ?  If  I  undenook  to  pay  your  fare,  would  you  go  to  London  by 
the  afternoon  train?" 

"  If  you  choose  to  lend  me  the  money  I  will  do  so." 

"  If  your  purse  was  equal  to  your  pride  it  would  not  be  over  light. 
Here,  Tom,  take  this  person  to  the  afternoon  train  and  see  her  off. 
Here's  the  money  for  her  ticket." 

"  It  shall  be  done,  sir." 

"And  Tom,  a  word  with  you.  Don't,"  said  Mr.  Brook  when  they 
were  outside  the  door,  "  take  her  till  it  is  dusk ;  don't  breathe  a  word 
of  this  afiair,  or  else  it  may  get  into  the  papers  ;  don't  trust  her  with 
the  money,  Vou  can  call  and  let  me  know  that  she  is  off.  There  are 
plenty  of  places  for  such  baggage  as  this  without  coming  to  Malvern. 
What  with  excursionists  and  vagabonds  coming  here  we  shall  he  no 
moregenteelthanotherplaces,  and  then  down  goes  the  class  of  visitors 
and  down  go  our  profits.  See  her  off,  Tom,  and  keep  an  eye  on  her 
till  she  Starts," 

Rose  was  ns  anxious  to  be  in  London  as  Mr.  Brook  was  for  her  to 
be  out  of  Malvern.  She  knew  not  what  she  could  do  for  her  living ; 
she  would  think  of  that  presently.  Her  one  thought  was  that  Frank 
being  in  London  she  might  see  him.  She  was  not  to  speak  to 
him.  He  was  not  to  see  her.  Rose  was  alone  for  a  minute  before 
leaving  the  cottage,  and  she  went  on  her  knees  and  returned  thanks 
for  her  rescue  from  death. 

Poor  Rose  !  She  knew  not  the  secret  purpose  of  her  heart  and 
mind.  She  knew  not  that  her  hope  was  not  to  see  Frank  only,  but 
to  woo  him  for  a  little,  ever  so  little,  regard  for  his  deserted  wife. 
The  paroxysm  of  passion  that  had  brought  her  to  the  verge  of  the 
grave  was  over,  and  her  thoughts  and  her  purpose  were  true 
womanly.  Love  was  victorious  over  the  bitter  sense  of  cruellest 
wrong,  and  if  the  opportunity  came  she  would  ask  him  to  suffer 
her  for  a  moment  to  caress  the  hand  that  had  Btmck  the  dreadful 
blow. 

CHAPTER  XLI. 

MRS.   STOT  PtrrS   ON  NOUHNING, 

If  a  physician  were  limited  to  tlie  use  of  a  single  dnig  he  would 
choose  opium.  \'<\\\.\  all  the  pharmacopceia  at  his  disposal  the  phj-sician 
cannot  cure  a  disease.  It  is  the  function  of  physic  to  help  the  effort 
of  Nature  to  overcome  disease.  Now,  the  curative  power  of  Nature 
is  most  effective  during  the  hours  of  sleep.      Therefore,  all  drugs 


I 


634  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

her,  but  now  she  had  something  to  live  for.  She  had  resolved  to  die 
by  the  haunted  tree,  and  in  such  a  manner  that  Frank  and  the 
woman  he  loved  might  hear  of  her  fete.  In  her  feeble  health  a  night 
in  the  streets  might  kill  her,  and  then  she  would  die  like  a  houseless 
dog,  and  he  would  not  know  that  she  had  loved  unto  death  and  had 
died  for  him. 

A  shabbily  dressed  woman  accosted  Rose. 

"  If  you  are  in  luck,  my  dear,  for  pity's  sake  stand  me  three  of 
something  warm.  I  swear  I  have  not  touched  food  to^Uiy,  and  togged 
as  I  am  no  fellow  will  give  me  so  much  as  a  drink  of  porter.  Td 
do  the  same  for  you  or  any  other  soul  that  asked  me  to-morrow,  for  I 
shall  have  money  in  the  morning.  Don't  say  *  No,'  there's  a  kind  dear. 
I  am  so  cold,  and  I  know  a  quiet  place  where  you  won't  be  seen 
with  me." 

"  I  have  very  little  money,  but  yon  shall  have  what  you  want 
Can  you  tell  me  of  a  respectable  coffee-house  where  I  can  get  a 
bed?" 

"  What,  are  you  a  stranger,  and  on  the  search  for  a  bed  ?  You  seem 
so  well  up  that  I  should  never  have  guessed  it." 

"  Do  you  know  of  one  ?"  asked  Rose. 

"  There  are  a  good  few  about  here,  and  most  of  them  queer,  and 
those  that  are  not  queer  turn  their  noses  up  at  women." 

**  What  shall  I  do  ?"  said  Rose. 

"  Go  halves  in  my  bed.  It's  very  humble,  being  a  second  floor 
back,  with  furniture  that  wouldn't  fetch  a  crown,  but  if  s  the  best  I 
can  afford,  and  that  comes  to  ten  shillings  a  week.  If  I  starve  I 
always  pay  the  landlady,  for  you  know  what  a  landlady  is  if  you  are 
behind  a  day." 

After  a  moment's  hesitation,  Rose  accepted  the  offer. 

"  I  will  pay  you  what  I  should  have  to  pay  elsewhere."  • 

"  No,  you  won't,  ray  dear.  My  place  is  quite  near,  being  a 
turning  out  of  Shepherdess  Walk.  Come  and  let  us  have  a 
drink." 

"  I  don't  want  to  drink.  But  you  get  what  you  please,"  wA  Rose 
offering  her  a  shilling. 

"  If  you  are  ashamed  to  drink  with  me  because  my  style  dpes  not 
equal  yours,  keep  your  money.  Although  I  am  dowu,  Fvc  gpt  a 
trifle  of  spirit  in  me  yet.  Besides  I  told  you  I  know  of  a  quiet 
I)lace." 

"  I  will  go  with  you,"  said  Rose,  who  was  faint  after  her  .long  &st 
and  long  walk. 

"  What's  your  name  ?"  asked  the  woman. 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  635 

"  Rose." 

"  Oh,  I  like  Rose.  Mine  is  Violet.  That  is  what  my  lover  called 
me,  and,  my  deu^  I  was  fair  as  the  violet,  ami  as  innocent,  when  I 
first  knew  him,  and  that  is  not  so  long  a^.  I  shall  not  be  twenty- 
two  till  come  next  spnng,  hut  when  a  git^l  is  cast  on  the  world  she 
soon  grows  old." 

They  entered  the  narrow  side  door  compartment  of  a  public-house, 
in  which  only  glasses  were  served  and  no  smoking  was  allowed. 
Rose  and  her  companion  were  the  sole  occupants,  but  on  the  other 
side  of  the  low  screen  a  crowd  of  men  were  smoking,  drinking, 
laughing,  and  chaffing. 

"  Give  me  four  of  gin  hot,  and  with  a  good  piece  of  lemon  in  it. 
My  friend  will  take  a  glass  of  stout." 

The  barman  shook  his  head  and  jerked  his  thimib  in  the  direction 
of  a  black  board  covered  with  chalk  marks. 

"  Sorry  to  disoblige,  but  the  stopper  must  be  drove  in  at  some  point 
Can't  do  another  drain  on  tick."^ 

"  Nobody  wants  your  tick.     My  friend  will  pay." 

The  gin  hot  with  lemon  and  the  stout  were^^forthcoming,  and  were 
paid  for  by  a  shilling  banded  to  Violet  When  Rose  looked  at  her 
companion  she  half  rcgntted  the  psomise  to  pass  the  night  with  her. 
A  woman  with  a  thin  pale  face,  on  which  was  the  stamp  of  dissi- 
pation, perhaps  of  vice.  Shabby  black  dress,  with  a  bright  scarf 
about  the  throat.  Altogether  an  appeai:ance  that  does  not  mspire 
confidence ;  but  it  was  very  late,  and  Rose  had  no  lodging. 

Violet's  room  was  one  of  those  ioteosely  riliabby  lodgings  that  are 
almost  peculiar  to  London.  In  other  cities,  botfi  at  home  and 
abroad,  there  is  some  atUmpt  at  decoration  in  the  poorest  lodgings, 
but  in  Violet's  room  a  painted  wooden  bedstead,  with  the  paint  for 
the  most  part  worn  ofl^  two  cane  chairs,  old  and  creaking,  a  deal 
washstand,  with  a  cracked  basin  and  handleless  ewer,  and  a  laige  tin 
candlestick,  thickly  bespattered*  wkh  tallow,  were  the  only  articles  of 
utility  or  ornament 

''  There,  my  dear ;  and  my  old  ogress  of  a  landlady  has  ^e  cheek 
to  call  the  place  cheap  at  ten  shillings  a  week.  But  you  see,  my 
dear,  when  you  are  donim  a  worm  can  walk  over  you." 

"  Do  you  live  here  alone?    Do  you  work  ?" 

"  I've  tried  it,  my  dear ;  but,  working  myself  blind,  I  couldn't  get 
my  rent     I  don't  know  how  I  live,  and  I  don't  care." 

Rose  felt  uncomfortable,  and  repented  not  seeking  another 
lodging. 

Violet  did  not  improve  on  acquaintance. 

T  T  2 


636  The  Gentlemaris  Magazine. 

"  You  have  got  the  badge,  and  so  have  I,"  said  Violet,  holding  up 
her  finger.     "Are  you  married?" 

"  Yes.    But  you  are  tired.  Go  into  bed.    I  will  rest'on  the  chairs." 

"  Not  likely,  my  dear,"  said  Violet  "  Married,  eh  !  Some  girls  would 
give  their  heads  to  be  married,  but  many  axe  none^the  better  ofil  I 
dare  say,  if  you  had  your  time  over  again,  you  would^  keep  single^ 
instead  of  running  helter-skelter  to  church." 

"  Please  don't  talk  about  me.  I'm  tired,  and  I  have  a  long  way  to 
go  to-morrow." 

"  Where  ?  " 

"  To  Malvern." ' 

"  How  far  is  it  ?  " 

"  Over  a  hundred  mDes." 

"If  it  had  been  nearer  I  would  have  gone  with  you.  A  few 
hours'  change  would  do  me  worlds  of  good.  How  much  does  it 
cost  ?  " 

"Ten  shillings,  and  I  have  only  five  in  my  pocket  Do  you 
think,"  continued  Rose,  colouring,  '^  I  could  get  a  few  shillings  on  some 
of  my  things  ?  " 

"  It's  shameful  little  they  lend  on  clothes,  unless  it's  a  brand  new 
silk.  But,  my  dear,"  said  Violet,  taking  her  hand,  ''  that  ring  of  youis 
looks  like  gold." 

"  Yes.  It  is  gold,"  said  Rose,  rather  wondering  at  the  suggestion 
that  her  wedding  ring  was  made  of  base  metal. 

**  What  a  thick  beauty  it  is !  Why,  my  dear,  jrou  can  get  ten 
shillings  on  that  for  certain,  and  perhaps  twelve.  I  had  a  gold  one 
once,  quite  a  thin  thing,  and  I  got  six  on  it" 

"  I  could  not  part  with  my  wedding  ring,"  said  Rose,  with  deter- 
mination. 

*'  Nonsense.  A  sixpenny  imitation — of  course  the  penny  ones 
are  no  good — looks  like  the  real  thing  for  a  month.  I  have  worn  this 
over  two  months,  and  if  it  didn't  black  the  finger  no  one  would 
notice  it.' 

"  I  could  not  part  with  my  ring.  Would  my  doak  fetch  five 
shillings  ? '' 

"And  if  it  would,  my  dear  —  which  it  wouldn't — you  could 
not  go  a  long  journey  without  a  penny  in  your  pocket  But  I 
may  help  you.  What  do  you  think  of  that  ?  I  am  no  judge  of  these 
things." 

Violet  drew  from  her  pocket  a  scarf-pin. 

"  It  looks  good,"  said  Violet     "  Is  the  stone  real  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Rose  ;  "  it's  a  diamond." 


Making  the  Worst  of  it,  63  7 

"  That  is  jolly.  I  thought  it  sparkled  like  a  real  gem  when  I  saw 
it  in  the  scarf  of  that  spoony  young  swell.  He  will  think  he  lost  it, 
for  he  was  pretty  well  gone." 

"  Did  you  steal  it  ?  "  asked  Rose  indignantly. 

"  What  is  that  to  you,  Mrs.  Virtuous  ?  This  is  the  reward  of  being 
kind.  Perhaps  if  it  were  known  it  would  come  out  that  you  had  not 
been  particular  when  you  were  hard  up." 

Rose  remembered  the  purse,  and|she  sat  on  the  chair  abashed. 

"  Do  not  be  angry." 

"  I  am  not  angry,  my  dear.  I  wish  you  would  take  it  for  me  in  the 
morning.  You  look  genteel,  and  you  could  say  it  was  your  husband's. 
You  shall  have  a  pound  out  of  it,  and  that  will  pay  your  journey,  and 
make  you  comfortable." 

Rose  thought  the  proposal  was  in  itself  a  retributive  judgment. 
The  last  time  she  had  gone  to  Malvern  with  stolen  money,  and  that 
money,  though  she  knew  not  how,  was  the  cause  of  her  misery. 
Would  she  do  so  again  ?  No,  let  her  wedding  ring  be  pawned,  and 
let  the  pawn  ticket  be  found  upon  her  when  she  was  dead.  That 
would  tell  Frank  the  depth  of  her  misery. 

Violet  was  cross  and  abusive,  and  at  length  h3rsterical,  on  account 
of  Rose  refusing  to  pawn  the  scarf  pin.  Again  and  again  she 
bemoaned  her  hard  fate,  saying  that  she  was  kind  to  everybody,  and 
everybody  was  imkind  to  her.  However,  before  sleeping  she  asked 
Rose  to  forgive  her,  and  vowed  eternal  friendship.  It  was  agreed  that 
Violet  should  rise  early  andjpawn*the  ring,  and  that  Rose  should  lend 
her  dress  and  cloak  for  the  errand. 

'*  You  see,  dear,  if  you  look  poor  they  won't  lend  you  nearly  so 
much,  besides  suspecting  you." 

Violet  went  out  about  nine  in  the  morning,  and  was  absent  for  an 
hour  and  a  half.    She  was  in  exuberant  spirits  on  her  return. 

'^  I  could  not  be  quicker,  my  dear,  for  I  had  to  go  to  the  West  In 
this  neighbourhood  they  lend  nothing  on  good  things.  What  do  you 
think,  my  dear?  I  asked  ten  on  the  pin  and  they  gave  me  eight 
pounds.  And  then,  my  dear,  I  got  fifteen  shillings  on  your  ring.  Let 
us  have  a  jolly  day,  and  you  can  go  to  Malvern  to-morrow." 

Rose  said  she  must  leave  inmiediately,  and  in  spite  of  Violef  s  pro- 
tests refused  to  accept  the  loan  of  a  sovereign. 

'*  Oh,  I  wish  you  would  have  stopped  here,  or  taken  me  with  you. 
I  do  want  some  one  to  love." 

Rose  shrank  fix)m  the  parting  embrace.  She  was  shocked  about 
the  scarf  pin — shocked  and  pained  If  she  had  not  taken  that 
purse  she  would  not  have  gone  to  Mrs.  Thompson's,  and  would  not 


638  TJie  Gentlemarts  Magazine. 

have  known  Violet.  The  stolen  scarf  pin  had  pricked  her  conscience; 
Would  he  not  despise  her  as  she  despised  him?  If  she  had  not  takeo 
that  purse  she  might  yet  have  had  some  hope.  Periiaps  he  might 
hear  of  her  guilt  after  she  died,  and  despise  her. 

Rose  was  riding  in  an  omnibus  when  these  gloomy  thoaghts  filled 
her  mind. 

"  Are  you  not  well,  mum  ?  "  asked  a  fellow  passenger. 

The  question  roused  Rose,  and  she  replied  diat  she  was  vei}' 
well. 

"  Ah,"  she  thought,  "  let  him  despise  me  if  he  can.  I  have  been 
true  to  him,  and  I  am  dying  because  I  love  him  better  than 
life." 


CHAPTER  XL. 

BY    THE    HAUNTED   TREE. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  Rose  stood  before  the  house  at 
Malvern  at  which  she  had  been  so  roughly  received  by  Frank's  mide. 
She  wished  before  she  died  to  see  the  house  in  tdiich  Frank 
had  lived,  and  in  which  he  would  live  when  she  was  foigoUeu.  If 
she  could  look  upon  him  for  a  moment,  that  glance  would  comfort 
her  even,  as  she  thought,  in  the  moment  of  death.  But  no,  she  must 
not  hope  for  such  a  joy  as  once  more  seeing  her  husbtod.  But  was 
it  possible  that  he  had  been  reconciled  to  his  unde,  and  was  perhaps 
staying  in  the  house  ?  Even  that  would  "be  some  solace.  When  she 
was  l>'ing  by  the  haunted  tree,  it  would  be  a  blessing  to  think  that  he 
was  near  to  her,  that  perhaps  when  he  heard  that  she  had  perished, 
he  would  look  at  her,  and  for  a  minute,  only  for  a  minute,  be  sony 
that  he  had  forsaken  her  for  another. 

Presently  a  man,  groom  or  gardener,  came  to  the  gate.  Rose 
timidly  approached  him,  and  timidly  asked  if  young  Mr.  Boliver  had 
been  there  lately. 

"  Young  Mr.  Boliver !  May  be  you  are  strange  m  tMs  place.  And 
lucky  if  you  are,  for  a  month  of  it  has  given  me  a  sickener." 

"  Yes,  I  am,"  said  Rose. 

"You  haven't  heard  of  the  death  dien?" 

Rose  caught  the  gate,  or  she  would  have  fallen. 

"  Dead  !     Oh,  mercy !     Dead  !" 

"  Did  you  know  the  old  gentleman  ?" 

"The  old  gentleman!" 

"Yes,  the  old  boy,  the  uncle.     He  died  about  three  ireeks  aga 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  639 

I'm  in  here  to  take  care  of  the  place  for  the  nephew.  He's  tumble^ 
in  for  a  tidy  haul." 

*'He's  not  here,  tlien?" 

**  No.  Malvern  is  a  good  deal  too  near  solitary  confinement  with 
tlie  toothache  to  suit  his  complaint.  Mr.  Boliver  is  in  London  enjoying 
the  old  bo/s  savings." 

"  Do  you  know  if  he  is  married  ?" 

"  The  lawyer  recommended  me  this  job.  I  have  only  seen  him 
once.  Do  you  want  anything  of  him  ?  I  shall  be  writing  in  a  day 
or  two  just  to  say  all's  right" 

"  Only  please  to  tell  him  that  Rose  called  here,  and  was  glad  to 
henr  he  was  well,  and  hopes  he  may  be  happy.     Wll  you  do  so  ?" 

"  I  suppose  you  were  in  the  family  service?" 

"  Do  as  I  ask  you,  for  Mr.  Boliver  will  be  glad  to  hear  I  called." 

"  Come  in  and  take  a  little  something." 

"  No,  thank  you.  I  have  some  distance  to  go.  Good  night. 
Pray  don't  forget  the  message.  Rose  called  and  is  glad  he  is 
happy." 

Rose  turned  from  the  house  and  walked  down  the  road.  The  man 
shut  the  gate,  and  went  into  the  house.  Presently  Rose  returned 
and  put  her  hand  through  the  bars  of  the  gate  to  pluck  a  sprig  of 
jasmine,  but  she  could  not  reach  the  flower. 

"  I  have  no  right  to  the  flower.  They  are  his  and  hers.  But  he 
will  not  mind  if  I  take  this." 

She  stooped,  picked  up  a  fallen  leaf,  kissed  it,  and  put  it  into  her 
bosom. 

"  Again  I  feel  the  life,  but  we  must  not  live.  I  can't  live  without 
him,  and  he  is  lost  to  me.  And  his  child  shall  not  live  to  be  despised 
by  her  or  fed  by  her.  If  Frank  knew  my  suffering  he  would  hate 
her  for  taking  him  from  me." 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  twilight. 

"  I  must  hasten.  In  the  dark  I  might  not  find  the  haunted  tree, 
and  have  to  suffer  another  day." 

Her  mind,  weakened  by  bodily  and  mental  suffering,  was  con- 
trolled by  the  thought  that  if  she  lay  by  the  haunted  tree  she  would 
die  ere  morning.  And  towards  the  spot  thus  deemed  fatal  she 
seemed  dra\\'n  by  an  irresistible  force.  She  wished  she  had  never 
been  in  Malvern.  She  wished  the  girl  had  not  told  her  of  the 
haunted  tree.  She  wnshed  some  one  would  compel  her  to  return  to 
London.     Yet  on  she  went,  shivering,  sorrowing,  doubting. 

She  paused  for  a  minute  at  the  timiing  leading  to  the  ascent. 
Some  men  were  talking  in  the  public-house,  and  it  refreshed  her  to 


640  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

hear  the  sound  of  human  voices.    Then,  after  a  glance  at  the  lighted 
shops,  she  began  to  toil  up  the  hill. 
At  the  Well  she  moistened  her  lips  with  water. 
"  I  will  not  drink ;  for  the  more  faint  I  am,  the  sooner  it  will  be 
over.     Oh,  the  life  within  me.     Peace  I  mercy  !  oh,  is  there  no  one 
who  will  save  me?" 

She  continued  the  ascent,  guided  by  the  lights  in  the  windows  of 
nhe  houses  on  the  hill.  She  frequently  stumbled,  but  toiled  on  and 
«on.  She  stole  past  the  cottage  that  had  given  her  shelter.  She  came 
:at  last  to  the  solitary  rugged,  haunted  tree.  There  she  sat  down,  and 
vainly  tried  to  fix  her  thoughts  on  the  fate  before  her. 

She  listened  to  the  moaning  and  whistling  of  the  wind.  She  watched 
the  stars  as  they  appeared  one  after  another  to  cheer  the  Harlrnesg  of 
the  night.  She  was  utterly  prostrate  and  benumbed  with  cold.  She 
stretched  upon  the  ground  and  slept  Unless  disturbed  she  would 
not  have  awakened  from  that  sleep. 

A  man  who  lived  in  one  of  the  cottages  was  returning  from  the 
town,  and  his  road  lay  within  a  few  yards  of  the  haunted  tree.  His  dog 
had  been  scampering  hither  and  thither,  and  ran  to  the  haunted  tree. 
He  barked  furiously. 

"  Hist.    Here,  boy,  here." 

The  dog  ran  towards  his  master,  and  then  back  to  the  haunted 
tree,  and  did  not  cease  his  barking. 

"  What  is  it,  boy,  what  is  it  ?  A  woman  lying  here  ?  Off,  boy.  Off,  sir.** 

The  man  carried  a  lantern,  and  he  turned  it  towards  the  face  of 
Rose,  and  then  shook  her  violently. 

"  Oh,  Frank,  dear,  do  not  leave  me  again." 

"  Wake  up,"  said  the  man,  shaking  her.  "What  brings  you  here? 
Where  have  you  come  from  ?  Where  do  you  live  ?  You  might  have 
died  here  if  it  had  not  been  for  my  dog." 

Rose  was  bewildered,  and  did  not  speak. 

"  You  must  come  into  the  cottage,  anyhow.  You  can't  stop  here 
to  perish  of  cold,  whatever  you  may  be." 

He  was  a  burly  man,  with  the  strength  of  an  ox,  and  he  lifted 
Rose  from  the  ground  and  carried  her. 

"Hist,  boy,  go  and  tell  mother." 

The  dog  ran  forward,  and  at  the  door  of  a  cottage  ^stopped  and 
barked. 

"  Where  is  the  father?"  asked  a  woman  who  opened  the  door. 

"  Here  I  am,  mother,"  said  the  man  to  his  wife.  "  I  am  bringing 
in  a  queer  load,  but  don't  be  scared." 

**  Fa  il;tr,  ^^  l.at  ere  you  carr)  ing  ?  " 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  64 1 

"  Why  Nip  found  this  poor  woman  sleeping  under  the  haunted 
tree.     I  couldn't  leave  her  to  freeze  to  death," 

"  Poor  soul.     No.     But,  I  say,  Tom,  she  looks  uncommon  bad." 

Rose  had  been  laid  on  the  sofa,  and  for  awhile  was  motionless. 

"  Had  I  best  get  the  doctor  to  her  ?  "  asked  Tom. 

"  No,  she  will  be  herself  before  long,  and  then  she  shall  have  a 
basin  of  tea.     She  is  just  frozen,  that's  what  ails  her." 

Rose  shivered,  opened  her  eyes  and  closed  them  again. 

"  Just  lift  her  up,  Tom,  whilst  I  try  if  I  can  get  a  little  warm  tea 
down  her  throat" 

Rose  swallowed  some  of  the  tea,  and  then  began  to  sob  violently. 
Tom  was  alarmed. 

"  She  is  all  right  now,  father,  or  leastways  will  be  before  long. 
When  it  has  come  to  the  crying  it  has  come  to  the  mending.  Least- 
ways that  is  the  nature  of  woman." 

Tom  beckoned  his  wife  to  the  further  comer  of  the  small  room 
and  spoke  in  a  whisper — 

*^I  shall  hie  away  to  the  police  station  and  tell  them  what  has 
happened." 

"What  for?  Why  should  you  give  a  fellow  creatiure  that  has 
never  hurt  you  into  custody." 

"  Why  you  see,  mother,  it  is  but  right  to  let  the  authorities  know 
about  it." 

'*  Smother  the  authorities  !  They  might  find  out  for  themselves. 
Nip  is  our  dog,  and  Nip's  findings  is  our  keepings." 

"  I  hold  it's  the  law  to  give  the  information." 

**  Suppose  it  may  be,  don't  you  be  the  one  to  think  the  authorities 
object  to  the  law  being  broken  if  it  does  no  harm  and  saves  them 
trouble.  Your  tea  is  ready,  and  take  it,  unless  you  have  lost  your 
appetite." 

'*  That  I  never  do,  except  for  half  an  hour  after  the  Christmas 
dinner." 

Tom  took  his  tea,  whilst  his  wife  attended  on  Rose,  chafing  her 
limbs,  giving  her  tea,  and  asking  her  questions.  Then  Rose  ex- 
pressed, as  warmly  as  she  could,  her  thanks,  for  the  paroxysm  of 
despair  was  over  and  she  rejoiced  at  her  rescue.  She  had  been 
by  the  haunted  tree  and  had  not  died  there.  The  spell  was  broken. 
Frank  was  in  London.  She  must  go  to  London.  He  would  never 
look  on  her,  but  she  might  see  him.  When  the  woman  asked  her 
what  she  was  doing  in  Malvern,  how  she  came  to  be  on  the  hill,  what 
was  her  name,  and  who  was  her  husband,  the  questions  were 
unanswered. 


642  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

*'  If  you  will  give  me  shelter  for  the  night  I  shall  be  so  thankful, 
and  I  will  go  in  the  morning.  If  not,  I  will  go  now,  but  how  shall  I 
get  down  the  hill  ?  " 

The  woman  took  her  husband  out  of  the  room. 

"  Father,  may  be  you  are  in  the  right.  I  cannot  make  fish,  or 
f.esh,  or  fowl  of  her.  She  shall  stay  here  for  the  night,  but  where  will 
she  go  in  the  morning  ?  Let  them  hear  about  it  at  the  station  and 
come  early  to  look  into  it." 

"  That  is  just  my  way  of  looking  at  it,"  said  Tom,  and  he  whistled 
his  dog  and  went  on  his  errand. 

The  inspector  of  police  was  of  opinion  that  he  could  not  interfere. 
( )n  what  ground  was  he  to  take  the  woman  into  custody  ?  Did  Tom 
know  anything  against  her  more  than  that  she  was  on  the  hill  when 
she  ought  to  have  been  under  shelter  ? 

*'  I  have  done  my  duty  in  giving  notice  to  the  authorities,"  said  Tom. 

**  But  you  have  come  to  the  wrong  shop.  You  should  see  one  of  the 
guardians.  Mr.  Brook  is  hard  by,  and  I  will  send  one  of  our  men 
with  you." 

Mr.  Brook  commanded  Tom  for  taking  care  of  the  woman. 

"  If  anything  happens  it  gets  into  the  papers,  and  does  harm  k> 
Malvern ;  it's  scandalous  that  tramps  and  wanderers  come  near  a 
l)lace  that  is  kept  so  perfectly  respectable." 

**  She  looks  a  decent  sort  of  body  in  a  peck  of  trouble.  But  who 
::hc  is,  what  she  is,  or  where  she  is  going  she  will  not  say." 

"She  will  tell  me,  I  warrant ;  I  shall  be  at  the  cottage  soon  after 
breakfast,  and  I  give  you  authority  to  keep  her  till  I  come." 

Mr.  Brook,  the  parochial  magnate  of  Malvern,  found  Rose  still 
exhausted,  though  much  better  for  her  night's  rest  But  she  would 
tell  him  nothing  about  herself.  As  coaxing  did  not  succeed  he  used 
threats. 

"  Do  you  know  that  I  could  send  you  to  prison  as  a  rogue  and 
^agabond,  and  keep  you  there  till  you  told  us  who  you  are?" 

Rose  did  not  reply ;  Mr.  Brook,  as  one  of  the  guardians  of  the 
extra-varnished  respectability  of  Malvern,  was  averse  from  turning  her 
loose  and  perhaps  shocking  some  of  the  gorgeously  arrayed  and 
immaculate  \'isitors. 

"  Are  you  going  to  London  ? '' 

"  Yes." 

"  Have  you  the  money  for  your  fare  ?  " 

Rose  was  indignant  at  this  questioning. 

"  I  have  committed  no  crime,  and  you  have  no  right " — and  then 
she  faltered,  for  the  taking  of  the  purse  ^ras  remembered. 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  64J 

"  Crime !  what  do  you  call  coming  to  the  genteelest  place  in 
England  without  a  penny  in  your  pocket  and  being  found  sleeping  on 
the  hill  ?  If  I  imdertook  to  pay  your  fare,  would  you  go  to  London  by 
the  afternoon  train  ?  " 

"  If  you  choose  to  lend  me  the  money  I  will  do  so." 

"  If  your  purse  was  equal  to  your  pride  it  would  not  be  over  light. 
Here,  Tom,  take  this  person  to  the  afternoon  train  and  see  her  off. 
Here's  the  money  for  her  ticket." 

"  It  shall  be  done,  sir.'' 

"  And  Tom,  a  Avord  with  you.  Don't,"  said  Mr.  Brook  when  they 
were  outside  the  door,  "  take  her  till  it  is  dusk  \  don't  breathe  a  word 
of  this  affair,  or  else  it  may  get  into  the  papers  ;  don't  trust  her  with 
the  money.  You  can  call  and  let  me  know  that  she  is  off.  There  are 
plenty  of  places  for  such  baggage  as  this  without  coming  to  Malvern. 
What  with  excursionists  and  vagabonds  coming  here  we  shall  be  no 
more  genteel  than  other  places,  and  then  down  goes  the  class  of  visitors 
and  down  go  our  profits.  See  her  off,  Tom,  and  keep  an  eye  on  her 
till  she  starts." 

Rose  was  as  anxious  to  be  in  London  as  Mr.  Brook  was  for  her  to 
be  out  of  Malvern.  She  knew  not  what  she  could  do  for  her  living ; 
she  would  think  of  that  presently.  Her  one  thought  was  that  Frank 
being  in  London  she  might  see  him.  She  was  not  to  speak  to 
him.  He  was  not  to  see  her.  Rose  was  alone  for  a  minute  before 
leaving  the  cottage,  and  she  went  on  her  knees  and  returned  thanks 
for  her  rescue  from  death. 

Poor  Rose !  She  knew  not  the  secret  purpose  of  her  heart  and 
mind.  She  knew  not  that  her  hope  was  not  to  see  Frank  only,  but 
to  woo  him  for  a  little,  ever  so  little,  regard  for  his  deserted  wife. 
The  paroxysm  of  passion  that  had  brought  her  to  the  verge  of  the 
grave  was  over,  and  her  thoughts  and  her  purpose  were  true 
womanly.  Love  was  victorious  over  the  bitter  sense  of  cruellest 
wTong,  and  if  the  opportunity  came  she  would  ask  him  to  suffer 
her  for  a  moment  to  caress  the  hand  that  had  struck  the  dreadful 
blow. 

CHAPTER  XLI. 

MRS.   STOT  PUTS   ON   MOUI^NING. 

If  a  physician  were  limited  to  the  use  of  a  single  drug  he  would 
choose  opium.  With  all  the  pharmacopoeia  at  his  disposal  the  physician 
cannot  cure  a  disease.  It  is  the  function  of  phjrsic  to  help  tlie  effort 
of  Nature  to  overcome  cfisease.  Now,  the  curative  power  of  Nature 
is  most  effective  during  the  hours  of  sleep.      Therefore,  all  drugs 


644  TJie  Gmtlentans  Magazine. 

but  one  being  proscribed,  the  wise  physician  would  select  opium  for 
his  patients. 

Rest  not  only  restores  health,  but  preserves  the  priceless  boon  that 
is  never  duly  appreciated  until  it  is  lost  All  work  or  all  play  is  alike 
destructive  to  life.  In  this  age  the  idlers  are  few,  the  incessant 
workers  many.  If  you  want  to  be  well,  and  to  see  your  children's 
children,  let  one  day  in  seven  be  a  day  of  rest  from  work.  Strive  for 
an  annual  holiday.  The  month  or  six  weeks  devoted  to  recreation 
is  not  waste,  but  the  truest  economy  of  time. 

The  seventh  day  of  rest  and  the  yearly  holiday  are  not  of  them- 
selves sufficient  Daily  rest  is  indispensable  to  health  of  body,  mind, 
and  soul.  The  interval  between  toil  and  bed  may  be  short,  but  it 
should  be  an  interval  of  cheerful  peace.  That  means,  the  home 
should  be  happy.  Domestic  unhappiness  is  a  deadly  foe  to  health 
and  longevity. 

Mr.  Stot  was  unwell.  There  was  no  organic  disease,  but  his 
nervous  force  was  debilitated.  He  had  been  working  hard,  and  had 
not  taken  a  regular  holiday  for  years.  Latterly — and  this  was  worse 
for  him  than  the  work — ^his  home  had  not  been  cheerfid  and  peaceful 
Mrs.  Stot  had  become  morbid  about  Alice,  and  was  perpetually 
talking  on  the  subject  and  reproaching  her  husband.  If  Mr.  Stot 
kept  silence  he  was  upbraided  for  his  hard-hearted  indifference.  If  he 
attempted  to  convince  Mrs.  Stot  that  nothing  had  been  left  undone, 
she  tried  his  patience  by  asserting  over  and  over  again  that  if  Alice 
had  been  a  runaway  wife  something  else  would  have  been  done.  It 
is  not  surprising  that  Mr.  Stot  determined  to  have  a  three  months' 
tour  as  soon  as  he  had  arranged  his  City  business,  and  that  he  con- 
templated a  visit  to  America  because  Mrs.  Stot  had  an  invincible 
dread  of  a  sea  voyage. 

The  search  for  Alice  had  become  a  troublesome  afiair  to  Messrs. 
Doloski  and  Gouger.  The  reward  of  ^^500  had  been  offered  fixr 
any  information  as  to  the  present  whereabouts  of  Alice,  or  for  any 
satisfactory  evidence  of  her  death.  It  is  needless  to  remark  that 
Mrs.  Stot  was  excessively  angry  at  the  assumption  of  the  possible 
death  of  Alice,  but  Mr.  Stot  was  persuaded  that  the  assumption  was 
true,  and  hoped  by  proof  of  death  to  put  an  end  to  his  wife's  fretting 
and  pining.  There  was  a  shoal  of  answers  to  the  advertisements, 
and  nearly  all  of  them  were  flung  into  the  waste-paper  basket  as  soon 
as  opened.  People  who  had  heard  of  the  death  of  a  Miss  Clayton 
thought  that  the  deceased  might  be  the  Alice  Clayton ;  and  others 
who  had  heard  of  the  death  of  a  Mrs.  Alice  Somebody  thought  that 
the  deceased  might  be  the  Alice  nie  Clayton.    Letters  came  from 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  645 

abroad  offering  information  if  a  small  advance  was  made  for  the  pur- 
pose of  prosecuting  an  inquiry.  A  few  letters  were  noticed,  but  they 
led  to  no  result.  Thereupon  the  advertisements  were  stopped,  every 
one  but  Mrs,  Stot  being  convinced  that  any  further  search  was  use- 
less. Messrs.  Doloski  and  Gouger  had  tied  up  the  Alice  Clayton 
papers  and  put  them  out  of  sight,  when  Citizen  Delorme  appeared 
and  announced  that  he  had  information. 

Mr.  Gouger,  who  was  not  favourably  impressed  with  the  Universal 
Revolutionist,  told  him  that  the  proof  must  be  forthcoming  at  the 
trouble  and  expense  of  the  informant. 

"  I  tell  you  that  what  I  have  now  is  sure  quite." 

"  You  were  quite  sure  about  the  party  called  Frank,  and  we  spent 
money  over  the  clue,  and  it  turned  out  that  you  were  quite 
TVTong." 

'*  Bah !  It  was  a  mistake  that  [for  Mr.  Gouger  was  also  not 
impossible.  But  now  I  say  I  have  no  mistake.  You  offer  reward 
for  something.     I  have  that  something." 

"  If  you  have  the  information  we  seek  the  reward  is  yours.  But  I 
tell  you  we  are  not  going  to  spend  a  sixpence  on  the  clue.  We  will 
only  pay  for  satisfactory  proof  of  the  whereabouts  or  of  the  death  of 
Alice." 

*'So  much  will  I  tell  you,  Mr.  Gouger.  It  is  of  the  death  that 
1  have  the  proof." 

"  Produce  it" 

"  Pardon,  Mr.  Gouger.  The  proof  is  with  the  lawyers  Bull  and 
Spearman,  who  help  me  to  get  documents.  It  is  Bull  and  Spearman 
who  v^ill  give  you  proof" 

"  Well,  your  lawyer  can  call  on  me." 

"  He  shall  this  day." 

"  Not  to-day ;  I  am  busy.    Say  to-morrow  or  the  next  day." 

**  If  you  do  not  want  to  know  quick,  it  must  be  the  same  for  us." 

**  You  see,  M.  Delorme,  there  is  no  hurry  for  a  few  hours  about 
the  proof  of  death." 

"  You  say  /^5oo  for  life  or  for  proof  of  the  death." 

"  Precisely.  If  Messrs.  Bull  and  Spearman  produce  the  proof  of 
death  they  shall  have  our  cheque  for  ^500." 

Mr.  Gouger  had  a  consultation  with  Mr.  Stot 

*'  No  doubt,"  said  Mr.  Stot,  "the  Citizen  thinks  he  has  the  proof, 
or  he  would  not  have  gone  to  the  lawyers  after  the  liberal  way  we 
treated  him.  He  made  a  nice  picking  out  of  Clayton,  besides  what 
he  got  from  me." 

''  He  had  an  idea  we  should  do  him  out  of  the  reward,  or  deduct 


€46  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine, 

what  he  has  had  for  the  Frank  blunder.  We  must  be  careful,  for 
Bull  and  Spearman  are  not  wlute  sheep." 

"You  can  tackle  thera,  Gouger.  I  would  give  him.  £^00  for 
information.  Mrs.  Stot  worries  about  it  so  that  I  believe  a  few  weeks 
more  of  uncertainty  will  cover  my  hat  with  crape." 

"  Won't  the  news  of  the  death  make  her  worse  ?" 

**  It  will  be  a  break-down  blow,  but  she  will  get  over  that.  ^Vhat 
kills  is  uncertainty.'' 

Mr.  Spearman,  of  Bull  and  Spearman,  called  on  Mr.  Gouger,  and 
he  proceeded  with  a  degree  of  caution  that  bordered  on  the  oflieosive. 

*'  Have  you  any  other  clue  in  hand?  If  so,  our  information  can 
keep  until  your  investigation  is  over.  Any  dispute  in  a  matter  of 
this  sort  is  unpleasant." 

''Very politely  put,  Mr.  Spearman.  I  mil  repay  your  politeness 
with  candour.     We  have  no  clue  whatever.'' 

"  So  far  so  good.  Now  do  not  be  offended,  for  no  offence  is 
meant.  It  is  not  Bull  and  Spearman  dealing  ^vith  Doloski  and 
Gouger,  or  tliere  would  be  no  reserve  and  no  preliminaries ;  but  it  is 
our  client,  a  suspicious  fox,  dealing  with  your  client,  and  formalities 
must  not  be  neglected." 

"  The  advertisement  is  a  legal  guarantee." 

"  Perfectly,  Mr.  Gouger,  perfectly.  But  it  would  be  well  for  you 
to  give  us  a  letter  stating  that  at  this  date  you  have  no  information 
that  can  clash  with  the  information  to  be  disclosed  by  us  on  behalf 
of  our  client." 

'•  I  will  do  so  on  one  condition." 

"  AMiat  is  that,  Mr.  Gouger  ?" 

'•  That  you  promise  me  to  charge  your  client  an  extra  guinea  for 
obtaining  the  letter." 

*'  My  dear  sir,''  said  Mr.  Spearman,  laughing,  "we  know  enough 
of  the  law  to  make  out  a  bill  of  costs,  and  depend  upon  it  we  shall 
not  forget  the  item  you  mention." 

The  letter  was  written  and  pocketed  by  Mr.  Spearman. 

*'  And  now,  Mr.  Gouger,  for  the  information.  It  is  soon  told,  and  is 
authenticated  by  documents  I  have  with  me»  We  start  with  the 
assumption  that  Alice  Clayton  was  married  to  Francis  Maztin,  but 
we  have  no  proof  of  the  marriage.'* 

"  You  are  far  too  shrewd  to  build  on  a  mere  assimiptioiL  In  these 
affairs  the  foundation  must  be  solid" 

"  Perfectly,  Mr.  Gouger,  perfectly.  We  do  not  build  on  a  mairiage 
that  we  cannot  prove.  But  we  say  and  we  prove  that  whether  mar- 
ried  or  unmarried,  Alice  Gayton,  the  daughter  of  Henry  Oaytoo,  who 


Making  tlie  Worst  of  it,  647 

was  put  to  school  in  France  by  Mr.  James  Stot,  lived  with  Francis 
Martin  as  his  wife.  For  our  purpose  that  renders  a  certificate  of 
marriage  superfluous." 

'*  Yes,  the  legality  of  the  marriage  is  not  in  question." 

"  Perfectly,  Mr.  Gouger,  perfectly.  We  come  to  the  proofs. 
Letters  written  by  Alice." 

*'  Any  proof  of  the  handwriting  ?  " 

"  We  have  better  evidence  than  handwriting,  or  I  should  not  have 
spoken  so  positively.  I  will  show  you  how  the  letters  are  proved 
to  be  Alice's.     You  had  an  interview  with  Madame  Delorme  ?  " 

**  My  partner  had." 

*'  Perfectly,  Mr.  Gouger,  perfectly.  The  lady  could  give  no  infor- 
mation about  her  early  friend." 

*•  She  could  only  recollect  what  she  was  told  by  Mr.  Doloski." 

*'  But,  my  dear  sir,  afterwards  she  remembered  that  she  received 
some  letters  from  Alice,  and  that  the  letters,  unless  destroyed,  were 
in  a  box  at  her  old  Paris  lodgings.  Of  this  she  informed  her  husband, 
who  had  renewed  correspondence  with  her.    Delorme  consulted  us." 

"  A\'ithout  knowing  whether  the  box  was  to  be  found,  or  if  the 
letters  were  in  the  box,  or  if  the  letters  were  worth  finding  ! " 

*'  He  came  to  us  because  he  had  no  money.  If  he  applied  to  your 
people  they  might — he  is  a  suspicious  fox — take  the  clue  and  refuse  the 
reward.  By  our  advice  the  box  was  delivered  by  the  woman  into 
the  hands  of  the  police.  There  is  her  sworn  declaration  that  the  box 
had  been  in  her  hands  and  not  opened  for  four  years  at  least." 

"  That  is  your  proof  as  to  the  date  of  the  letters  ?  " 

"  Any  additional  proofi  though  not  much  by  itself,  is  a  link  in  the 
chain.  Here  is  a  list  of  the  contents  of  the  box  certified  by  the 
official  who  opened  it.  Here  are  two  letters  certified  to  be  taken 
out  of  the  box." 

After  glancing  at  the  certificates  Mr.  Gouger  read  the  letters  which 
purported  to  be  written  by  Alice  Martin.  Neither  of  them  was 
dated,  but  both  were  enclosed  in  one  envelope  which  bore  the  Paris 
postmark.  Although  under  one  cover  they  were  written  at  different 
periods,  and  Marie  explained  that  she  was  in  the  habit  of  putting 
several  letters  into  one  envelope  if  she  wished  to  keep  them.  One 
letter  stated  that  the  writer  had  been  two  months  married,  that  she 
was  not  happy  on  account  of  her  husband  being  cross  and  jealous. 
She  entreated  lier  friend  never  to  mention  her  maiden  name.  The 
other  letter  announced  that  the  writer  was  leaving  Paris  for  Bremen, 
and  that  from  Bremen  she  and  her  hnsband  were  going  to  America. 
"  You  alone  know  my  secre',"  she  wrote, "  and  I  am  sure  you  will  not 


648  The  Gentlemaiis  Magazine. 

betray  me.  My  husband  thinks  that  my  name  was  Stot,  which  was  the 
name  of  my  guardian  who  took  me  to  the  school  The  only  dread  I 
have  in  going  to  America  is  that  I  don't  know  where  my  fiaither  is, 
and  he  may  be  there,  and  if  he  met  me  what  would  he  do  to  me  for 
leaving  the  school  as  I  did  ?  Oh,  Marie,  I  often  wish  I  was  back  there."* 

**  What  do  you  think  of  the  letters  ?  You  are,  I  presume,  so  far 
satisfied?" 

"  The  value  of  the  letters  depends  entirely  upon  the  verification  ot 
the  story  that  they  were  for  years  in  the  possession  of  this  woman. 
There  is  nothing  in  the  letters  that  could  not  have  been  found  out 
by  any  one  who  knows  our  client,  and  nothing  is  unknown  to  your 
client." 

''  But  the  oath  of  the  woman  is  not  to  be  lightly  set  aside,  and  I  am 
sure  the  letters  would  be  received  as  good  evidence  in  a  Court  of 
I^w.  But  it  happens  that  the  letters  are  further  verified.  Ha\'ing 
business  in  Liverpool,  I  conducted  the  inquiry,  and  found  that  in  the 
year  Miss  Clayton  disappeared  Francis  Martin  and  Alice  Martin 
sailed  in  the  steamer  Orient,  bound  for  New  York.  There,  Mr, 
Gouger,  is  an  attested  copy  of  the  entry  in  the  shipbroker's  books. 
I  thought  it  better  to  have  the  case  clear." 

"  It  is  clear  that  Francis  and  Alice  Martin  sailed  in  the  Orient." 

"  And  what  became  of  them,  Mr.  Gouger  ?  Here  is  the  affidavit 
of  the  broker  that  the  Orient  was  wrecked  on  that  voyage,  and  that  only 
a  few  of  the  passengers  were  saved.  There,  Mr.  Gouger,  is  an 
attested  list  of  the  passengers  who  were  rescued.  It  does  not  include 
the  names  of  Francis  Martin  or  Alice  Martin." 

*'  I  think  it  is  fair  to  conclude  that  Francis  and  Alice  Martin. 
perished.*' 

*'  Perfectly,  Mr.  Gouger,  perfectly.  And  if  the  letters  are  genume,, 
that  the  Alice  Martin  was  Alice  Clayton  ?** 

"  The  presumption  would  be  strong.  Speaking  without  pledging 
my  client,  I  should  say  strong  enough  to  entide  your  client  to  the 
reward." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Gouger,  if  our  case  rested  only  on  the  oath  of  the  woman, 
backed  as  it  is  with  collateral  evidence,  we  should  claim  the  reward, 
and  if  necessary  ask  it  at  the  hands  of  a  jury.  But  we  have  another 
bit  of  evidence  that  will,  I  must  think,  pretty  well  satisfy  3rou.  For 
three  years  this  box  was  kept  in  a  room  occupied  by  a  lodger  who 
swears — here  is  her  attested  declaration — that  she  was  told  it  had 
been  left  there  by  a  former  lodger,  and  that  for  the  three  years  the 
box  was  not  touched,  and  that  she  was  witness  to  the  box  being  given. 
to  the  police  in  the  state  it  had  been  for  the  three  years." 


Makmg  the  Worst  of  it.  649 

"  Does  that  complete  your  case ?' 

*'  Yes ;  and  it  is  a  case  that  cannot  be  answered.  I  presume  you? 
will  consult  with  your  client,  and  perhaps  make  inquiries.  I  will  send 
you  copies  of  the  documents." 

Mr.  Gouger  and  his  partner  were  indisposed  to  credit  the  informa- 
tion, even  after  an  investigation  in  Paris  and  Liverpool  had  so 
far  confirmed  the  statement  of  Mr.  Spearman.  Mr.  Stot  contended 
that  it  was  a  case  that  would  perfectly  satisfy  a  jury,  and  ought  to 
satisfy  them. 

"It  is  not  presented  at  the  commencement  of  the  search,  but 
when  the  search  has  failed  and  there  can  be  no  reasonable  doubt  that 
Alice  is  dead." 

With  the  consent  of  Mr.  Clayton,  the  reward  was  paid.  For  two 
or  three  days  Mrs.  Stot  refused  to  believe  in  the  death  of  Alice,  but 
at  length  was  convinced,  put  on  deep  mourning,  and  bore  her  grief 
])elter  than  her  husband  had  hoped. 

*•  She  has  gone,  poor  dear,  where  no  pining  will  bring  her  Back, 
and  I  will  try  not  to  sorrow  more  than  I  can  help,  for,  Stot,  it  is  wicked 
of  me  to  make  you  miserable  for  a  misfortune  that  is  not  your  fault" 

The  house  became  peaceful,  if  not  cheerful,  and  Mr.  Stot  gave  up 
his  trip  to  America. 

CHAPTER  XLII. 

ROSE     MEETS     RUTH. 

There  is  no  better  training  for  the  temper  than  chess.  By  that 
game  we  are  taught  to  submit  to  the  sharp  spur  of  Necessity.  The 
play  of  our  opponent  compels  us  to  make  a  probably  fatal  move.  The 
choice  is  between  resistance  and  immediate  checkmate.  The  player 
makes  the  unpleasant  move,  and  then  does  his  best  in  the  new  situa- 
tion. In  war  nothing  is  more  remarkable  than  the  way  in  which 
the  will  of  a  commander  is  controlled  by  the  tactics  of  his  opponent 
The  spectators  of  the  contest  condemn  this  or  that  movement  as 
unwise,  but  they  do  not  know  that  it  was  inevitable.  It  may  be  very 
well  for  the  soldiers  not  to  know  when  they  are  defeated,  but  such 
ignorance  in  the  general  is  fraught  with  disaster. 

It  was  under  the  compulsion  of  the  heartless,  soulless,  terrible 
t>Tant  Necessity  that  Rose  determined  to  apply  to  Mr.  Blewlite  for 
help.  It  was  not  the  course  that  would  be  approved  by  her  husband. 
Frank  hated  Blewlite,  and  would  not  allow  his  wife  to  accept  a 
bouquet  from  her  manager.  But  who  else  would  help  her  ?  The 
Vol.  XI.,  N.S.  1873.  u  u 


650  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

lioiirs  of  agony  on  the  Malvern  hill  had  reconciled  her  to  life.  She 
would  work  and  live  independently,  no  matter  how  poorly.  She 
would  see  her  husband  perhaps  once,  perhaps  oftener.  In  that 
thought  there  was  the  germ  of  hope  of  happier  days.  Rose  was  not 
conscious  of  the  hope  that  had  warmed  her  almost  dead  heart  All 
her  days  were  to  be  days  of  affliction.  There  was  to  be  no  return  of 
her  love,  not  even  a  look  of  kindness.  But  the  future  depended  on 
the  present.  She  had  paid  for  a  night's  lodging.  She  had  paid  for 
a  meal.  She  was  alone  in  London  with  sixpence  in  her  pocket.  It 
might  be  days  before  she  could  get  work.  It  might  be  a  fortnight 
before  she  could  get  any  money  by  her  work.  ^Vhat  could  she  do  ? 
Perhaps  Violet  would  lend  her  two  or  three  pounds.  No.  Not  for 
life  itself  would  she  touch  stolen  money.  She  was  sure  that  her 
heavy  sorrow  was  in  some  way  connected  with  the  taking  of  the 
purse.  As  she  sauntered  along  a  boardman  thrust  a  bill  into  her 
hand.  It  was  a  bill  of  the  Lion  Theatre,  announcing  the  prodigious 
success  of  the  new  burlesque  "Hamlet  and  his  Orchard."  Rose 
started.  Blewlite  had  offered  to  lend  her  money.  WTiynot  go  to  him? 
Frank  would  be  angry.   She  remembered  her  poverty  and  destitution. 

"I  will  ask  him.  This  bill  seems  like  the  interposition  ot 
Providence." 

It  wanted  two  hours  to  the  time  of  opening,  but  Rose  went  direa 
to  the  theatre,  for  she  knew  that  the  manager  sometimes  arrived 
early.  She  walked  up  and  down  the  street  until  it  was  dark, 
and  then  she  stood  near  the  stage  door.  She  recognised,  or  thought 
she  did,  two  or  three  of  the  people  who  went  in.  A  lady  arrived  in 
a  brougham.  No  doubt  she  was  the  star  of  the  burlesque.  Rose  did 
not  envy  her,  and  had  no  desire  to  again  appear  on  the  stage.  She 
was  not  an  artist,  or  she  would  have  done  so.  The  company  had 
gone  in,  and  Mr.  Blewlite  had  not  appeared.  Perhaps  he  had 
entered  by  the  front 

She  pushed  open  the  stage  door.  Dick's  successor,  like  other 
stage-door  keepers,  was  a  ginny,  ill-clad,  rough-mannered  num. 

**  A\'ho  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  :\Ir.  BlewUte." 

"  What's  your  business  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  see  Mr.  Blewlite." 

Tlie  doorkeeper,  who  was  regaling  himself  with  bread  and  cheese 
and  porter,  eyed  her  with  contempt 

"  Then  you  just  won't  First  and  foremost,  he  never  sees  any  we 
as  don't  send  in  their  business ;  and  next,  he  don't  happen  to  be 
hcTe.'' 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  65 1 

"  Do  you  expect  him  soon  ?" 

"  Not  for  a  week.   Letters  forwarded.   Now,  mum,  out  of  the  way.*' 

The  disappointment  well  nigh  stunned  Rose.  She  had  been  so 
confident  of  getting  the  help  she  needed.  She  had  reconciled  herself 
to  apply  to  Mr.  Blewlite  by  the  reflection  that  he  was  her  sole 
resource.  The  words  of  the  doorkeeper  smote  on  her  ear  like  a 
sentence  of  desolation  and  death.  For  a  moment,  only  for  a 
moment,  she  wished  that  she  had  died  by  the  haimted  tree.  Should 
she  seek  Violet  ?  Worn  and  weary,  sick  and  sad,  destitute  and 
desponding,  she  resolved  to  do  so. 

Utterly  wearied  and  worn,  sick  and  sad,  destitute  and  forsaken* 
she  sat  on  a  doorstep  and  wept 

"  Why  do  you  cry  ?  Do  you  not  know  the  Father  of  the  father- 
less ?    Why  do  you  cry  ?  " 

^*  I  am  ill  and  alone.     ^Vhat  shall  I  do  ?  " 

**  Not  alone.     The  angels  are  with  those  who  mourn." 

Rose  uncovered  her  face  and  looked  up.  Sister  Ruth  stood  before 
her. 

"  Pray  help  me,  or  I  shall  die." 

"  Are  you  going  home  ?  " 

"Don't  leave  me.  I  am  so  ill,"  said  Rose,  taking  hold  of  Ruth's 
cloak. 

"  UTio  are  you  ?  ^Vho  thinks  that  Sister  Ruth  would  |pave  the 
afflicted  ?    I  am  their  angel  to  minister  unto  them." 

"  I  am  Rose.     You  were  kind  to  me  a  little  n-hile  ago." 

"  Rose  !  Yes,  that  was  the  name  of  the  sister  sent  to  me,  and  she 
is  gone.     But  I  see  her  often  with  die  angels." 

"  You  forget  me,"  said  Rose. 

She  stood  up  and  Rose  looked  at  her  face. 

"  Why,  sister,  you  are  not  gone.  It's  for  you  I  have  prayed.  It 
is  you  I  have  seen  with  the  angels.    My  mother  has  sent  you  to  me." 

Ruth  put  her  hand  on  Rose  and  kissed  her. 

"  I  am  not  alone,  dear,  because  the  angels  are  with  me ;  but  I  have 
prayed  for  a  sister  to  be  with  me  till  I  go  to  my  mother." 

"lamsoilL     What  shaU  I  do ? " 

"  Come  with  me,  sister." 

**  I  am  poor  and  homeless." 

"  I  am  rich,  dear.     I  take  no  thought  for  the  things  of  life,  and  all 

things  are  provided.  Come,  sister,  you  shall  be  with  me,  and  remain 

with  me." 

u  u  2 


652  Tlie  Gmtleman's  Magazine. 

Ruth  took  Rose  by  the  hand,  and  in  a  few  minutes  they  were  at 
the  old  lodging  in  Winsor  Court  It  was  now  clean  and  comfortable. 
Henry  Clayton  had  striven  to  persuade  Ruth  to  leave  Winsor  Court, 
and  failing,  he  had  the  rooms  cleansed  and  furnished.  He  had 
also  instructed  the  landlady  to  give  Ruth  what  she  required,  and  to 
look  to  him  for  payment 

"  Rest  yourself,  dear.  Not  there,  not  there.  That  is  my  father's 
comer.    He  is  out  No,  dear,  not  out    He  has  gone  to  my  mother." 

"  Is  he  dead  ?    I  am  sorry  for  you." 

"  Sister,  dear,  do  not  say  *  Dead  !*  I  want  to  be  with  my  mother 
and  my  father,  yet  to  die  is  dreadful." 

Ruth  shuddered,  and  kissed  her  cross. 

'*  If  I  could  go  to  her  without  dying !  If  I  could  be  taken  away  !  I 
will  tell  you,  dear,  why  I  ran  away  when  my  father  had  gone  to  my 
mother.  I  am  not  afraid  of  going  to  heaven,  but  I  dare  not  look  on 
death." 

"  I  am  faint.    Will  you  give  me  a  little  water  ?  " 

"  Faint,  dear  ?  You  want  food.  I  shall  get  it  for  you.  I  do  so 
for  my  poor." 

Ruth  stirred  the  fire  and  made  tea. 

"  All  things  are  provided.  The  angels  minister  unto  me.  Do  you 
know — but  sister,  tell  me  your  name." 

"  Rose." 

"  Rose,  Rose.  I  will  not  forget  it.  Rose  and  Ruth,  Ruth  and  Rose." 

R.uth  sat  on  the  floor,  and  leant  her  head  on  Rose's  lap. 

''  Rose,  my  head  and  my  eyes  bum  and  ache.  But  if  you  abide 
with  me  I  shall  be  well.  I  have  been  lonely  since  he  left  me.  You 
will  not  leave  me,  Rose  ?  " 

"  No,  I  will  not  leave  you.     But  oh,  I  am  so  ilL" 

"  Do  not  be  ill.  Do  not  go  from  me.  UTien  the  angels  call  you 
ask  them  to  let  you  abide  with  Sister  Ruth,  and  they  will  do  so,  for  the 
angels  love  me." 

Ruth  went  to  the  window,  and  drew  aside  the  curtain. 

"  The  stars  will  not  shine  to-night,  but  I  can  always  see  them  when 
I  shut  my  eyes,  and  they  shine  so  brightly  that  my  head  aches.  When 
I  was  a  little  child  I  saw  the  sea.     Have  you  seen  it,  Rose?** 

"Yes,"  said  Rose  faindy. 

'^  Is  it  not  awful  and  sad  ?  People  die  in  the  sea,  and  they  moan 
for  ever  and  ever.  Every  night  before  I  sleep  I  hear  the  moaning, 
but  my  mother  does  not  moan.  She  is  happy,  and  sings  such  sweet 
hymns  to  me  when  I  am  in  heaven.    When  I  sleep  I  go  to  heaven, 


Making  the  Worst  of  it.  653 

and  when  I  wake  the  angels  bring  me  back  to  earth.  When  I  go 
come  to  me,  Rose,  and  I  will  sing  to  you  so  sweetly  that  you  will  not 
wish  to  leave  me." 

"  I  am  very  ill,  dear.    Let  me  lie  down." 

'^  Oh,  Sister  Rose,  do  not  be  ill.  Come  to  bed.  I  will  sing  you  to 
sleep." 

"  Are  you  alone  here  ?  " 

"  Alone  ?  Yes,  Rose.  My  mother  never  was  here,  and  father  has 
gone  to  her.  At  last  she  smiled  on  him,  and  he  is  with  her,  and  Ruth 
is  alone." 

"  What  shaU  I  do  ?    lam  ill.    What  shall  I  do  ?  " 

"  You  are  ill.    You  must  have  a  doctor.    I  will  go  for  hinu" 

"  Do  not  be  long.     I  am  so  ill,  Sister  Ruth." 

Ruth  departed,  and  in  less  than  half  an  hour  returned  with  the  doctor. 

"  I  do  not  understand  this,"  said  the  doctor.  "  Who  is  this  ?  How 
came  she  here  ?  " 

**  This  is  Sister  Rose.     My  mother  sent  her  to  me." 

"  Are  you  related  to  Sister  Ruth  ?  " 

Rose  was  in  too  great  suffering  to  reply. 

"  I  must  see  the  landlady." 

'^  You  must  make  Rose  well,  for  if  you  let  her  die  the  stars  will  not 
shine  on  you,  and  the  angels  will  not  love  you." 

"  I  will  look  after  her,  but  first  call  the  landlady." 

When  the  woman  of  the  house  appeared,  the  doctor  took  her  aside 
and  spoke  to  her. 

"  I  have  not  set  eyes  on  her  till  this  moment.  She  may  beardative, 
but  most  like  to  be  a  whim  of  Sister  Ruth's." 

''  Any  way,  it  is  almost  too  late  to  think  of  moving  her.  No  doubt 
Mr.  Clayton  will  be  vexed,  but  I  will  explain  to  him  that  it  is  not  my 
fault  or  yours." 

''  He  said  that  Sister  Ruth  was  to  do  whatever  she  chose,"  replied 
the  woman. 

"  Sister  Ruth,  the  landlady  will  find  a  bed  for  our  patient" 

'*•  Find  a  bed  ?    Sister  Rose  shall  lie  on  no  bed  but  mine." 

"  We  will  find  her  a  comfortable  bed  in  another  room." 

Ruth  drew  herself  up,  and  her  eyes  flashed. 

''  Sister  Rose  shall  not  be  taken  from  my  rooms.  And  you  know 
that  the  angels  are  with  Sister  Ruth  to  do  her  bidding." 

''  So  be  it,  Sister  Ruth.  Here,"  said  the  doctor,  handing  Ruth  a 
note  he  had  penciUed,  "take  that  to  my  wife,  and  bring  back  what  she 
gives  you.     I  ask  you  to  go,  Sister,  because  you  are  the  quickest" 


l*C— C-. 


..-*^        .-■«.      '•«    ^     *  »  ^  X        m    ^        »» «  ^        *  *    -  -        ^  ^   ' 


»  -^  •■',.'--^-      1*'      -  B^^      '  *"  c       r  •■         •T—  •"T     *"j^     j""*"*.^      p*»«»^      _M«^-.- 

-    '-*! --.J    ...^ c 1    >.cc_..       l->0  — -■-    *d«.    ^-sIcT  rv->: 

•     *  .-.-  J)-         -  •      '..*       '-,-■»     f*'rfi 

7 .  -r  ''^jr t'^r  t:   ;:  ;.  .y  r.a.r.d,  and  was  about  to  sreak  when  they  hear: 

r  •■     •  -    —    P  ''v*- 

•  f  •  *  •  •■ 

•■  ^;!-.  I  :.r;  v  v.u  c:,  r.ot  let  her  die  !  ' 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

DVIXG     AND     UNKNOWN. 

/•.  -.ww.i.}  c::.-j  to  her  father  and  said:  *' They  tell  me  that  there 
L.or-j  ht..r^  x.-.'.w  have  ever  been  seen;  that  there  are  beautiful 
♦!...:  \\\  t'.i'j  i\'z*y,j  -ea;  that  l!o-»vers  grow  in  places  where  there  is 
I.'.  ^:.':  to  lool:  n:  ti.eni.  WTiat  is  the  use  of  flowers,  and  beautiful 
t!  ;;.'_>,  ;.nd  :-hi:vir:^-  rtL^rs,  if  no  one  sees  them?"  The  father  replied: 
*•  My  d.':rling.  j.erl-.vaps  the  angels  see  them.  Certainly  God  sees  them, 
1  vr  \'\\  tiiirjL's  :;ic  (TL-ated  by  Him  for  His  glor)'."' 

.\ga:n  the  child  came  to  her  father,  and  said :  "There  was  a  frost 
].:  x  i::.i:I:t.  and  the  blossoms  are  lying  on  the  ground,  and  the  gar- 
d'  i..:r  -ays  there  will  be  no  fruit  Tell  me  why  God  lets  the  cruel  frost 
V\\\  t:ie  blossoms.'  The  father  replied:  "My  darling,  because  it 
pl'.ases  God,  :i::d  all  that  is  done  on  earth  is  for  our  good,  and  for 
Hi..  Lrlory." 

It  is  not  aUva\s  easy  to  answer  a  child.  How  impossible  it  is  to 
s.iiisfy  our  own  minds  I  We  behold  a  great  crowd  of  infants  and 
little  children  continually  passing  through  the  Gates  of  Death. 
\Miy  are  the  loved  ones,  the  shining  stars,  the  things  of  beauty,  the 
sweet  Howers  of  home  taken  away,  leaving   the   home    dark   and 


Making  tJie  Worst  of  it.  655 

gloomy?  Why  do  the  blossoms  of  humanity  fall  to  the  ground? 
Philosophy  does  not  help  the  mquirer.  Religion  alone  can  calm  the 
soul  and  heal  the  wounded  heart.  Behold  the  Gates  of  Death  are 
still  open.  At  the  end  of  the  Dark  Valley  there  shines  the  light  of 
the  life  immortal,  ever  to  be  seen  by  the  eye  of  Faith,  The  mourners 
must  pass  through  that  Valley  and  enter  by  those  Gates.  Those  for 
wliom  you  mourn  are  not  lost.  You  will  be  with  them  in  the  Eternal 
Hume. 

There  is  a  pillow  on  an  easy  ciiair  by  the  side  of  Rose's  bed.  On 
the  pillow  swathed  in  wool  is  an  infant.  But  that  it  moves,  and  now 
and  then  utters  a  feeble  cry,  you  might  think  it  was  one  of  Chantrey's 
cxc^uisite  works,  save  that  the  marble  is  somewhat  discoloured.  The' 
(luctor  said  that  the  infant  would  not  survive  an  hour,  yet  hour  after 
hour  it  moved,  and  now  and  then  roused  the  mother  by  a  tiny  cry, 
i'lie  eyes  were  closed,  and  would  never  see  the  light  of  the  sun.  The 
attempt  to  give  food  failed.  When  the  doctor  came  again  Rose 
asked  him  if  the  baby  might  not  live.  He  told  her  it  was  impos- 
sible. Still  it  lived  until  the  next  morning.  For  hour  after  hour 
Rose  watched  the  struggles  of  her  child.  It  seemed  such  a  trying 
ciiort  for  life,  such  a  terrible  struggle  with  Death.  Every  two  or  three 
u'iinutes  the  face  was  puckered,  and  the  tiny  arm  was  drawn  to 
the  head.  The  nurse  told  her  Uiat  the  babe  was  not  conscious  and 
<lia  not  feel  pain.     The  woman  spoke  according  to  her  knowledge. 

When  the  struggle  was  over,  when  the  feeble  cry  was  hushed,  and 
ti.e  face  was  still.  Rose  would  not  be  persuaded  that  her  child 
\\  as  dead.  Sometimes  she  thought  she  heard  the  feeble  cry  or  saw 
.1  movement  cf  the  sheet.  The  babe  had  been,  save  for  the  feeble  cry 
and  the  movement,  like  death  when  it  lived ;  and  now  when  it  was 
\}iK:.\d,  more  like  life.  Yet  not  lifelike,  but  as  marble  made  lifelike 
by  tiie  art  of  the  sculptor. 

The  doctor  convinced  Rose  that  the  child  was  dead,  and  she  whis- 
I  ered  to  him  that  the  child  was  to  be  buried  with  her. 

•'  Come,  come,  this  won't  do.     You  must  cheer  up,  my  dear." 

*'  Oh,  Sister  Rose,  do  not  leave  me !"  cried  Ruth. 

*'  I  want  to  sleep,  dear,"  replied  Rose. 

Ruth  looked  pleadingly  at  the  doctor. 

**  Let  her  sleep  now,  if  she  will.     I  will  soon  be  back." 

i'iie  doctor  hastened  to  Mr.  Clayton's,  and  told  him  what  had 
hai»'i/ened. 

"  The  poor  thing  may  go  off ;  it  is  a  very  critical  case,  aind  we 
ought  to  find  out  who  she  is.     It  is  useless  to  ask  Ruth." 


656  The  Gentleman* s  Magazine. 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  done  what  you  could  for  her.  Most  likely 
she  is  one  of  Ruth's  poor  friends." 

"  If  we  could  get  a  lady  to  see  the  patient  she  might  discover  who 
she  is.  Women  can  always  manage  these  things  better  than  men. 
Do  you  know  anybody  who  would  visit  her  ?  " 

"  I  will  ask  Mrs.  Stot  to  do  so.  There  is  not  a  kinder  or  more 
motherly  woman  in  the  world." 

"  Let  her  go  as  soon  as  possible." 

Mrs.  Stot  was  to  start  in  two  days  for  the  Contment  with  her  hus- 
band and  Henry  Clayton.  She  wished  to  see  Paris,  where  Alice  had 
lived,  and  the  school  at  which  Alice  had  been  left.  She  was  busy 
preparing  for  the  journey ;  but  when  Henry  had  told  his  errand,  she 
ent  o  r  a  cab,  and  set  off  for  Winsor  Court  without  delay. 

On  entering  the  room  she  remarked  that  it  was  very  dark. 

"  Yes,  mum,"  said  the  nurse ;  "  it's  by  the  doctor's  orders.  Shall 
IletinalitUelight?" 

"  Of  course  not.     Do  as  the  doctor  tells  you." 

Ruth  was  crying,  and  asked  her  to  save  her  sister. 

**  My  dear  girl,  if  you  had  followed  my  advice  when  your  kind 
friend  brought  you  to  me,  you  would  not  have  been  in  this  trouble. 
But  there,  never  mind.  I  dare  say  it's  all  for  the  best  Keep  a  good 
heart,  Ruth." 

Mrs.  Stot  looked  for  a  moment  at  the  baby. 

''  Poor  dear,  she  must  feel  it  But,  nurse,  the  little  thing  shoukl 
be  moved.  She  will  never  be  better  whilst  it  is  in  the  room  with 
to-." 

There  Tvas  a  whisper  and  a  moan  from  Rose. 

•**  What  is  it,  my  dear  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Stot 

^*  Do  not  take  it  from  me.     I  shall  soon  die." 

*'  Well,  if  you  are  good  it  shall  remain  a  little  while ;  but,  instead 
of  talking  of  dying,  you  must  try  and  get  well." 

"  She  will  take  nothing,  mum ;  not  physic  or  food." 

*^  I  will  soon  see  to  that  Give  me  a  teaspoonfiil  of  that  brandy 
I  have  put  on  the  table,  mixed  with  a  tablespoonful  of  water.** 

**  Let  me  die,"  whispered  Rose. 

''If  you  were  not  low,  you  would  not  talk  such  wicked  non- 
sense. Now,  my  dear,  you  must  swallow  this,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
another,  and  then  some  gruel.  Come,  my  dear^  take  it,  or  else  away 
the  child  goes." 

Rose  swallowed  the  brandy  and  water. 

"  There,  that  will  do  you  more  good  than  physic    Nurse,  you  go 


Making  the  Worst  of  it,  65  7 

and  get  some  sleep.  There  are  too  many  breaths  in  this  small 
room.     You  may  do  the  same,  Ruth.     I  will  look  after  the  patient" 

"  I  must  not  leave  her,"  said  Ruth. 

"  Lie  down  with  me,"  whispered  Rose. 

**  Very  well,"  said  Mrs.  Stot,  "  but  I  will  have  no  talking,  no  crying, 
and  no  nonsense." 

The  room  was  very  dark,  and  no  one  could  see  that  Mrs.  Stot's 
cheeks  were  wet  with  tears. 

When  the  doctor  came  Rose  and  Ruth  were  asleep. 

"  That  is  her  best  chance  of  life.  But  we  must  expect  the  worst. 
The  poor  creature  is  utterly  exhausted.  The  moment  she  wakes 
give  her  stimulants,  and,  if  you  can,  get  down  some  beef  tea.  If 
she  recovers,  she  will  owe  her  life  to  your  attention." 

"  I  hope  she  will  get  over  it." 

"  There  is  life,  and  there  is  hope.  You  have  not,  I  suppose,  found 
out  who  she  is?" 

"  It  was  no  use  questioning  her  whilst  she  was  so  low." 

"  You  are  right     I  will  call  again  in  two  hours." 

Rose  became  resdess  in  her  sleep.     Presently  she  began  to  talk, 

"  Oh,  why  did  you  leave  me?  No,  dear,  I  did  not  leave  you. 
They  took  the  money,  and  I  was  ill.  But  you  have  come  to  me  at 
last,  and  I  am  happy.    You  know  how  I  love  you,  Frank ! " 

Mrs.  Stot  listened  attentively,  in  the  hope  that  she  might  learn 
something  about  the  patient. 

"  I  thought  you  had  deserted  me.  But  no,  dear,  I  never  told  our 
secret  I  would  not  tell  my  name.  In  all  my  trouble,  I  never  said 
I  was  the  wife  of  Mr.  Boliver.  Indeed  I  did  not,  Frank.  Don't  go 
away  from  me,  Frank.     Kiss  me,  and  don't  look  so  angry." 

Mrs.  Stot,  who  was  astonished  at  the  revelation,  pencilled  a  few 
lines  to  her  husband,  and  bade  the  nurse  take  the  note  to  Russell 
Square.  Mrs.  Stot  thought  of  the  surprise  that  awaited  Frank  Boliver, 
and  of  the  sorrow  he  would  feel  when  he  beheld  the  suffering  and 
misery  of  his  wife.  Mrs.  Stot  also  remembered  how  bitterly  she  had 
spoken  of  the  runaway  wife ;  and  it  now  appeared  that  Rose  was 
altogether  an  object  of  compassion,  Mrs.  Stot  was  deeply  humiliated, 
on  account  of  her  harsh  and  hasty  judgment 

The  doctor  came  and  stood  for  some  time  at  the  bedside,  and  then 
he  signed  to  Mrs.  Stot  to  leave  the  room  with  him. 

**  Sister  Ruth  will  look  after  the  patient." 

Ruth  followed  the  doctor  to  the  door,  and  took  him  by  the  hand. 

"  Is  my  sister  better?" 


6i;S  The  Gentlcniaiis  Mamzhie. 


'^ 


"  No,"  said  the  doctor,  **  but  we  must  be  cheerful  and  hope  for 
the  best.'' 

Ruth  kissed  his  hand. 

*'  Let  the  lady  mother  soon  return." 

"  I  am  afraid,"  said  Mrs.  Stot,  when  tliey  were  out  of  the  room, 
"  that  you  think  the  poor  thing  is  worse." 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Stot,  I  fear  she  is  sinking.  AVe  must  stimulate  her 
frequently,  and  even  rouse  her  to  do  so.  But  there  are  indications 
that  she  is  sinking.  It  is  unfortunate  that  we  have  no  clue  to  her 
identity." 

Mrs.*  Stot  told  the  doctor  of  the  discover}^  she  had  made,  and 
briefly  explained  the  circumstances  of  Frank  and  the  search  for  his 
v.'ife. 

*•  Very  sad,  Mrs.  Stot.  Her  husband  should  be  sent  for  instantly. 
Sp.c  may  live  for  hours,  or  it  may  be  that  her  life  can  only  be  counted 
by  minutes." 

*'  You  have  no  hope,  then  ?"  said  Mrs.  Stot,  mournfully. 

*'  No,  there  is  no  hope.  But,  my  dear  madam,  we  will  do  all  that 
can  be  done." 

''  It  seems  so  hard  that  she  should  die  just  when  she  could  be 
b.appy  with  her  husband." 

''  Death  always  seems  hard  and  untimely  ;  but  we  must  remember 
il.at  He  who  is  the  giver  of  life  decrees  the  moment  of  the  great 
cliani^'e.     Where  is  the  husband  ?" 

"  I  have  sent  for  Mr.  Stot,  and  told  him  in  my  note  that  the 
patient  is  Mr.  Boliver's  wife.     I  think  he  has  arrived." 

Mr.  Stot  and  Frank  Boliver  entered  the  room.  Mrs.  Stot  was 
ci\ing,  and  there  was  a  moment's  silence. 

^*Am  I  too  late?" 

"  No,  my  dear  sir,"  said  the  doctor.  "  Your  wife  lives,  but  her 
life  is  in  extreme  jeopardy." 

**  Let  me  see  her." 

"  She  must  be  prepared  for  the  inter\iew ;  for  the  shock  might  be 
nual." 

**  Then  there  is  hope  of  recovery  ?"  said  Frank,  eagerly. 

"  I  must  not  say  that,"  replied  the  doctor.  "  I  mean  that  by  pre- 
l>aring  her  for  the  surprise  the  shock  may  not  be  instantly  fatal 
Come,  Mrs.  Stot,  we  will  adjourn  to  the  sick  roonL  You  will  soon 
l;c  wanted,  Mr.  Boliver,  and  keep  yourself  calm." 

"  Bear  up,  there's  a  dear  soul,"  said  Mrs.  Stot 

**  Yes.     But  let  me  see  her  soon." 


Makifig  the  Worst  of  it.  659 


CHAPTER   XLIV. 

HENRY   CLAYTON    IS    REWARDED    FOR    HIS    KINDNESS   TO   DICK. 

It  was  with  difficulty  that  Rose  was  aroused  from  her  stupor. 

"  It  is  cruel,"  said  the  doctor  to  Mrs.  Stot,  "  to  the  patient ;  but  if 
we  can  restore  her  to  consciousness  we  must  do  it  for  the  sake  of  her 
husband." 

*'  Let  me  sleep,"  murmured  Rose. 

"  Hold  her  up.     You  must  take  this,  my  dear." 

"  Let  me  sleep,"  said  Rose. 

**  Sister,  dear,  do  take  it,"  safd  Ruth. 

Rose  slowly  swallowed  the  liquid. 

**  Now  let  me  sleep." 

"  Not  yet,  my  dear,"  said  the  doctor.  "  Please  to  prop  her  up. 
My  dear,  you  are  not  trying  to  help  us.  When  you  feel  a  little  better 
V.  e  have  something  to  tell  you." 

''  I  am  so  tired." 

*^  Rose,  we  have  heard  of  your  husband,"  said  the  doctor. 

Tliere  was  a  flush  on  the  face  of  Rose,  and  she  looked  at  the 
doctor. 

*'  Here,  my  dear,  take  another  dose,  and  I  will  tell  you  more." 

Rose  swallowed  the  medicine,  her  eyes  still  fixed  on  the  doctor. 

"  We  have  heard  of  your  husband.  He  has  been  seeking 
you. 

*'  Frank,"  whispered  Rose. 

*'  Yes,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Stot.     "  He  so  longs  to  see  you." 

**  Frank!" 

"  He's  coming  to  see  you,"  said  the  doctor. 

Rose  put  her  hand  to  her  head  and  sighed. 

**  Let  him  come,"  said  the  doctor  to  Mrs.  Stot  "  We  can  do  no 
more." 

Mrs.  Stot  brought  Frank  to  the  bedside.     He  took  her  hand. 

"  Rose,  my  love.    Rose.     I  am  here,  dear." 

Rose  opened  her  eyes.  She  looked  at  Frank.  There  was  a  con- 
vulsion of  the  whole  body.     Then  her  eyes  closed. 

'*  She  has  fainted,"  exclaimed  Frank. 

It  was  a  wear)'  half  hour  before  the  restoratives  had  any  effect. 
When  she  gave  a  sign  of  vitality,  the  doctor  told  Mrs.  Stot  and  Ruth 
to  leave  the  room. 


66o  The  Gentlmians  Magazine. 

"  She  must  be  alone  with  her  husband.  I  shall  remain,  but  out  of 
sight" 

Ruth  refused  to  obey  the  doctor  until  he  warned  her  that  disobe- 
dience might  cost  the  life  of  the  patient.  She  remained  outside  the 
door,  and  for  the  greater^part  of  the  time  on  her  knees. 

Mr.  Stot  was  severely  tried.  He  urged  his  wife  to  go  home.  Mis. 
Boliver  would  be  provided  with  the  best  attendants,  and  why  should 
Mrs.  Stot,  who  was  in  delicate  health,  exhaust  herself  by  nursing  a 
stranger?  Besides,  to-morrow  they  and  Clayton  were  to  start  for  the 
Continent,  and  there  were  many  things  to  arrange. 

'^  You  go,  Stot,  my  dear,  and  don't  think  that  it  is  unkind  of  me 
to  stop  here.  Who  is  to  speak  to  that  poor  man  when  it  is  all 
over  ?  " 

Mr.  Stot  paced  the  little  room  like  a  gigantic  and  untamed  lion  in 
an  uncomfortably  small  cage.  He  was  tormented  by  a  suppression 
of  temper.  If  he  could  have  told  his  wife  that  she  was  unreasonable 
and  foolish  he  would  have  been  at  ease,  but  a  word  of  reproach  was 
impossible  when  his  wife  was  crying  and  sighing.  Still  the  position 
was  aggravating.  His  plans  were  likely  to  be  frustrated  on  account 
of  a  woman  he  had  never  seen,  and  whom  his  wife  had  not  seen  until 
that  day.  Mr.  Stot  was  not  hard-hearted,  but  it  was  provoking^  as  his 
wife  could  do  no  good  by  remaining,  and  would  most  likely  be  laid 
on  a  sick  bed.  He  smoked  cigar  after  cigar  with  vindictive  energy. 
Nearly  two  hours  passed  before  the  doctor  appeared. 

"  You  need  not  tell  me,"  said  Mrs.  Stot,  sobbing.  "  I  know  it  is 
all  over.     Poor  girl,  poor  Frank  Boliver  ! " 

''  My  dear  madam,  it  has  been  a  terrible  crisis,  but  I  believe  the 
worst  is  over.  I  hope  she  will  recover.  She  knows  her  husband  and 
is  crying.    When  there  are  tears  I  am  sanguine." 

"Bless  you  for  that  hope.  I  will  go  and  do  what  I  can  for 
her." 

"  No,"  said  the  doctor.  *'  You  must  not  see  her.  Ruth  is  with 
her,  and  I  shall  remain  in  the  house  for  some  hours.  But  I  do  not 
want  her  to  speak  to  anybody  except  her  husband." 

"  I  am  glad  there  is  good  news,"  said  Mr.  Stot,  "and,  my  dear,  I 
think  you  should  now  go  home.  If  you  don't  get  rest  you  are  sure 
to  be  ill,  and  the  doctor  will  let  us  know  how  she  is  before  we  go  to 
bed.    Won't  you,  doctor  ?  " 

Reluctantly  Mrs.  Stot  yielded  to  the  wish  of  her  husband  and  went 
home.  Henry  Clayton,  who  had  been  making  arrangements  for  the 
trip  to  the  Continent,  was  at  his  friend's  house.    When  he  heard 


Making  Ike  Worst  of  it,  66 1 

what  had  happened  at  Winsor  Court  he  expressed  regret  that  Mrs. 
Stot  should  have  had  such  a  long  day  of  anxiety  and  misery. 

**  Knowing  that  you  are  still  weak  and  ailing  I  ought  not  to  have 
told  you  of  the  affair." 

"Well,  Clayton,  it  has  turned  out  well.  If  Mrs.  Stot  had  not 
been  there  the  poor  creature  would  most  likely  have  died,  and  no 
one  would  have  known  who  she  was.  As  it  is,  I  hope  she  will  live 
and  be  happy  with  her  husband.  And,  my  dear,"  he  continued 
addressing  his  wife,  "  you  must  take  some  refreshment  and  then  to 
bed.     You  will  have  little  rest  to-morrow  night." 

"  Had  we  not  better  wait  for  a  day  or  two  to  see  how  Mrs. 
Boliver  gets  on  ?    I  shall  feel  so  anxious." 

"Really,  my  dear,  that  is  too  bad.  You  can  do  no  good  by 
remaining.  Mrs.  Boliver  will  have  the  best  attention,  and  for  your 
own  sake  and  mine  we  ought  to  be  off.  I  feel  ill,  and  I  know  that  I 
must  get  change  if  I  am  not  to  be  laid  up." 

"  Of  course  we  will  go,  Stot.  I  am  getting  the  most  selfish  woman 
in  the  world.     I  think  of  nothing  but  my  own  whims  and  feelings." 

"  Never  mind,  my  dear,  a  fortnight  of  moving  about  will  make  us 
all  right" 

The  servant  brought  in  a  note. 

"  It's  from  Boliver.     I  hope  it's  good  news." 

"  I  can  see  by  your  face  that  it  is  not  good  news.  Oh,  Stot,  has 
the  poor  dear  gone  ?  " 

"  No.  It  is  only  two  lines  from  Boliver  asking  you  to  see  his  wife 
immediately.     You  ought  not  to  go  out  again  to-night." 

**  I  must  go,  Stot.     You  would  not  have  me  refuse." 

"  Well,  no;  but  I  hope  it  will  not  make  you  downright  ill.  Go 
with  us,  Clayton.     You  have  the  most  influence  over  Ruth." 

When  Mrs.  Stot  entered  the  sick  room  at  Winsor  Court  the 
doctor  pressed  her  hand  and  whispered  to  her  that  she  must  keep  up 
her  courage.     Rose  was  leaning  on  her  husband. 

"  My  love,  here  is  Mrs.  Stot." 

•*  Tell  her,  Frank.     Speak  to  her." 

"  Come,  my  dear,  this  will  not  do.  You  must  be  calm,  and  get 
well  for  the  sake  of  your  poor  husband." 

•*  I  mentioned  your  name  to  my  dear  wife,  and   then  she  told 


me  - 


Frank  paused. 

**  I  am  Alice.     Oh,  pray  forgive  me." 

The  doctor  brought  the  candle  and  held  it  so  that  the  light  fell  on 


^62  The  Gentlemofis  Magazhu. 

the  face  of  Rose.  Mrs.  Stot  gazed  for  a  few  moments^  and  then, 
with  an  outcry  that  was  heard  by  her  husband  and  Henry  Clay- 
ton, she  knelt  by  the  bed. 

"  Oh,  Alice.    Speak  to  me." 

Mr.  Stot  and  Henry  came  into  the  room. 

"^\^lat  is  the  matter  with  Mrs.  Stot?"  asked  her  husband, 
anxiously. 

She  arose,  and  seeing  Henry  put  her  arms  about  him. 

"  Oh,  Clayton,  pray  for  us,  pray  for  us.  Oh,  my  dear,  it's  our 
Alice ! " 

Again  Henry  stood  by  the  bedside  of  his  child  after  years  of 
separation,  and  this  time  Alice,  with  what  strength  she  had,  fondly 
embraced  her  father. 

The  End. 


i  ^V<'<w/^k,»V'> 


Our  Merry  Mass  Song 

1873. 

BY  EDWARD  CAPERW. 

THE  merry  merry  Mass, 

With  its  ever  merry  hum  ; 
Let  us  fill  again  the  glass 
For  joy  that  it  is  come. 
Hear  the  old  familiar  ringing 

Of  laughter  in  the  bells, 
And  the  sweet  and  simple  singing 
Of  children  in  the  dells. 

O  the  merry  merry  Mass, 
With  its  ever  merry  hum ; 

Let  us  fill  again  the  glass 
For  joy  that  it  is  come. 

There  is  magic  in  the  air. 

And  a  witchery  on  earth  ; 
For  Love  is  everywhere. 

With  Charitv  and  Mirth. 
Ope  the  door  unto  the  mummers, 

See  the  mistletoe  is  in ; 
Give  a  greeting  to  all  comers, 

And  let  the  games  begin. 

O  the  merry  merry  Mass, 
With  its  ever  merry  hum; 

Let  us  fill  again  the  glass 
For  joy  that  it  is  come. 

Throw  wider  yet  the  door, 

Feast  away  until  you  tire  ; 
Give  the  first  place  to  the  poor. 

And  stir  the  cheery  fire 
Till  the  lights  dance  on  the  holly, 

Making  crimson  every  wall ; 
While  that  antiquated  folly, 

Sweet  kissing,  fiUs  the  hall. 

O  the  merry  merry  Mass, 
With  its  ever  merry  hum, 

Let  us  fill  again  the  glass 
For  joy  that  it  is  come. 


Life  in  London. 


X.— ON  'CHANGE. 


ERHAPS  you  have  never  been  bonneted  on  'Change? 
I  have.  It  is  one  of  the  liveliest  experiences  in  the  Life 
of  London ;  and  perhaps  the  sweetest  revenge  I  can  take 
upon  the  pleasant  and  amiable  Bear  who  put  me  through 
the  ceremony  is  to  throw  together  in  the  congenial  pages  of  the  Gentle- 
man s  a  little  of  his  chit-chat  over  a  botde  of  claret  about  the  life  of  this 
mysterious  and  all  but  inaccessible  fortress  of  the  City — ^the  Tatter- 
sal  Is  of  commerce — the  business  that  is  carried  on  there,  the  men 
by  whom  it  is  carried  on,  its  system  of  government,  its  rules  of  work, 
and  its  laws  and  customs. 

It  is  only  candid  to  say  at  once  that  the  Stock  Exchange  is  one  of 
the  most  dangerous  courts  within  the  Metropolitan  Police  District. 
It  is  governed  by  lynch  law,  tempered  only  by  a  beadle.  The 
police  know  nothing  of  it — know  no  more  of  it  than  they  know  of 
Tattersall's  or  the  Carlton.  Perhaps  as  a  special  compliment  the 
Shah  might  have  been  allowed  to  pass  beyond  the  glass  vestibule 
which  surrounds  the  dais  of  the  porter  who  guards  this  sanctuary  of 
Plutus ;  but  no  one  less  than  the  descendant  of  Darius  ought  to  tempt 
his  fate ;  for  Bulls  and  Bears,  stock-jobbers  and  stock-brokers,  hang 
together  like  Whitechapel  thieves  and  game  preservers,  and  administer 
a  merciless  code  of  laws  with  the  promptitude  and  energy  of  a  band 
of  Texan  hunters.  The  Stock  Exchange,  perhaps  I  need  hardly  say, 
lies  in  the  centre  of  a  wilderness  of  courts  and  alleys  off  Throg- 
morton  Street.  Here  and  there  as  you  stroll  along  you  may  come 
across  the  facade  of  a  noble  pile ;  but  take  this  part  of  the  City  all  in 
all,  it  is  a  dingy  region,  distinguished  neither  by  the  beauty  of  its 
architecture  nor  the  historic  interest  of  its  relics.  The  streets  are 
narrow.  The  paths  are  narrow.  All  the  men  you  meet  are  in  a 
hurr}',  all  trampling  upon  each  others  heels,  and,  except  perhaps  a 
flower  girl  or  an  orange  woman,  you  will  meet  no  one  but  men  in 
this  wilderness  of  courts  and  alleys.  It  is  a  bit  of  old  London,  the 
London  of  Sir  Dudley  North  and  of  Sir  Thomas  Gresham;  and 
although  the  builders  arc  now  playing  pranks  with  it  that  are  enough  to 
make  these  worthies  turn  in  their  shrouds,  it  still  retains  enough  of 


Life  in  London.  665 

its  original  chaKicter  to  be  worth  a  visit  on  its  own  account  This 
part  of  London  must  ori^ally  have  been  built  upon  the  plan  of 
Rosamond's  Bower,  and  afterwards  jumbled  together  by  an  earth- 
quake. Its  present  state  of  confusion  is  to  me  inexplicable  upon 
any  other  hypothesis.  The  Stock  Exchange  forms  the  centre  of  ^his 
chaos  of  courts.  It  stands  at  the  lower  end  of  Capel  Court,  and  is 
distinguished  by  its  large  pillared  front  It  is  guarded  by  a  poacter, 
who,  like  the  doorkeeper  of  the  House  of  Commons,  knows  everybody, 
keeps  his  eye  upon  everybody  who  presents  himself  at  these  glass  doors, 
and  can  tell  a  member  of  the  House  from  a  stray  visitor  by  a  talisman 
that  would  have  puzzled  even  the  Persian.  You  may  contrive  now  and 
then  to  pass  that  glass  door — it  is  a  risk  ;  and  if  you  can — I  did  a  few 
days  ago  even  alone — you  will  find  yourself  in  what  is  to  commerce 
and  commercial  men,  to  finance  and  to  financiers  all  over  the  world, 
holy  ground  There  is  nothing  in  the  place  to  take  the  eye.  There  is 
nothing  like  architecture  about  it  There  is  not  a  spark  of  luxury.  You 
will  find  no  tesselated  pavements  here — no  club  settees — no  ornate 
decoration  upon  the  walls.  It  is  as  bald  and  bare  as  a  Norfolk  com 
exchange.  It  is  simply  a  large  hall  with  desks  and  tables  dotted 
here  and  there,  a  stand-up  bar  where  you  may  call  for  a  glass  of  stout 
and  a  sandwich,  an  ice  or  a  glass  of  clareit,  and  a  rostrum  Jbr  the 
beadle,  who  plays  the  part  of  a  semaphore  by  shouting  out  the  names 
of  the  Yorks  who  are  wanted  here  and  there  all  through  the  day  to  do 
business.  All  that  you  see  is  a  crowd  of  men,  made  up  apparently 
of  the  odds  and  ends  of  all  the  professions  of  London.  All  that 
you  hear  is  a  buzz  of  talk,  a  horse  laugh  now  and  thexi^  and  the 
shouts  of  the  porter,  which  rise,  like  the  voice  of  the  toastmaster, 
above  the  general  hum  of  conversation.  Perhaps  if  you  keep  your 
ears  open  as  you  pick  your  way  through  the  throng  you  may  hear, 
say,  "No.  40,"  passed  on  from  mouth  to  mouth  oftener  than  is 
pleasant  to  think  of,  if  you  are  not  quite  sure  about  yourself  and  do 
not  wish  to  find  yourself  hunted  from  pillar  to  pos^  with  a  kick  and  a 
cuff,  and  turned  out  into  the  street  at  the  end  in  the  style  .of  a  pan- 
taloon disappearing  through  a  trap  door  at  the  close  of  a  stage  revelry 
at  Christmas.  But  that  is  all.  The  Stock  Exchange,  for  anything 
you  can  note  at  a  glance,  might  be  an  auction  room,  a  wing  of  Tat- 
tersall's,  one  of  the  lobbies  of  the  House  of  Commons,  or  a 
cockpit 

Yet  this  hall,  with  its  bare  whitewashed  walls,  is  the  heart  of  the 
city  of  London — an  institution  rivalling  in  power  even  the  Bank 
itself ;  and  these  men  lounging  about  with  buff  waistcoats  and  flowers 

in  their  coats,  with  their  hats  cocked  awry  and  their  hands  under  their 
Vol.  XI.,  N.S.  1873.  x  x 


666  The  Gentlemaiis  Magazine. 

coat  tails,  taHung  and  laughing  as  if  talking  and  lau^^iing  were  the 
business  of  their  lives,  hold  the  credit  of  all  the  States  of  Europe 
in  their  hands.  To  men  of  business  in  all  parts  of  the  g^bbe^ 
in  the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  in  the  iEgean  Sea,  in  the  treaty  ports 
of  the  Chinese  Seas,  this  hall  is  holy  ground.  It  is  the  Mecca 
of  commerce.  It  is  the  international  centre  of  the  commercial 
world.  It  governs,,  by  its  price  current,  all  the  Exchanges  of 
Europe — the  price  of  gold  at  New  York,  and  the  rate  of  exchange  at 
Calcutta.  It  is,  in  money  matters,  the  market  of  markets.  All  the 
surplus  cash  of  this  country,  and  most  of  the  surplus  ca^  of  Europe, 
of  America,  of  India,  of  Australia,  and  the  rest  of  our  colonies,  finds 
its  way  through  the  banks  and  the  bank-brokers  to  the  Stock  Ex- 
change for  investment ;  and,  by  a  corresponding  process,  boiroweis 
are  brought  face  to  face  with  lenders  fix)m  Monte  Video  and  Calputtt 
— from  Constantinople  and  San  Francisco.  The  Stock  Exchange, 
through  the  brokers,  acts  the  part  of  an  intermediary.  All,  or  nearly 
all,  the  great  loans  that  are  raised,  either  by  Governments  or  by  private 
speculators,  are  brought  out  in  Capel  Court  If  the  Elmperor  of 
Russia  wants  to  annex  the  territory  of  the  Khan  of  Bokhara,  to 
restore  the  fortifications  of  Sebastopol,  to  emancipate  the  serft,  or  to 
open  up  his  country  by  a  network  of  railways — ^if  the  Sultan  of 
Turkey  waists  to  build  a  new  palace  at  the  Golden  Horn,  to  set  up 
an  iron  fleet,  to  suppress  an  insurrection  in  Crete,  or  to  erect  a  fiesh 
nest  of  fortresses  on  the  Danube — ^if  the  Emperor  of  Austria  wants 
to  convert  his  paper  currency,  or  to  re-arm  his  troops — ^if  a  French 
speculator  wants  to  construct  a  Suez  Canal,  to  tunnel  the  Alps,  or  to 
make  a  railway  across  the  steppes  of  Turkestan  firom  the  shores  of  the 
Caspian  to  the  foot  of  the  Hindu  Koosh — ^if  a  German  Jew  takes  it 
into  his  head  to  set  up  Persia  with  all  the  apparatus  of  civilisati<m 
complete  at  a  commission  of  5  per  cent  to  cover  the  risk — ^if  an 
English  engineer  wants  to  make  a  railway  from  Shanghai  to  Pddn, 
and  from  Pekin  to  Hong  Kong,  to  construct  irrigation  woiks  in 
Odessa  or  Berar — or  if  a  set  of  London  merchants  take  it  into  their 
heads  to  establish  tea  plantations  on  the  slopes  of  the  Himalayas,  to 
boil  down  sheep  in  Australia,  to  cultivate  the  pampas  of  the  Rivet 
Plate,  or  to  work  diamond  mines  in  the  highlands  of  Brazil, — they 
all  go  to  the  Stock  Exchange,  like  Mr.  Micawber,  to  do  their  litde 
bill ;  knowing  that  there,^  and  there  only,  they  can  raise  all  the  cash 
that  tbey  require ;  whether  it  be  simply  an  odd  ;^  10,000  to  add  a 
fresh  wing  to  a  cotton  kctory  in  Lancashire,  or  ;^i 0,000,000  to  woik 
a  revolution  cm-  to  carry  on  a  war. 
All  these  schemes,  however,  if  they  are  to  be  floated  in  the  Eng^iik 


Life  in  London.  667 

market,  must  first  of  all  pass  under  the  eye  of  the  Stock  Exchange 
Committee ;  and  perhaps  few  people  beyond  the  shade  of  Capel 
Court  have  any  conception  of  the  power  of  thb  committee.  It  i» 
simply  marvellous.  Self-constituted,  possessing  no  more  legal  powers 
than  the  committee  of  a  trade  union,  or  the  benchers  of  an  mB 
of  court,  the  Stock  Exchange  Committee  plays  the  part  of  a  high 
commercial  police,  keeping  a  keen  and  vigilant  eye  upon  all  financial 
and  commercial  schemes  that  are  brought  out,  investigating  their 
bona  fides ^  testing  their  prospectuses,  considering  the  objects  and 
antecedents  of  their  promoters,  and  exercising  generally  the  powers 
of  a  commercial  court  of  jtusdce  as  fieu:  as  our  own  speculations  are 
concerned,  and  the  powers  of  an  mtemational  high  court  of  appeal 
on  all  general  questions  of  commercial  and  financial  morality.  Comr 
pared  with  the  power  of  this  Committee  of  the  Stock  Exchaoige,  the 
power  of  the  Council  of  Ten  in  the  Republic  of  St.  Mark,  the 
power  of  the  Committee  of  Public  Safety,  and  the  powers  of  the  Star 
Chamber  and  High  Commission  Court,  were  nothing  Bciore  than  the 
powers  of  a  petty  oand  of  inquisitors,  administering  a  rough  and 
lawless  justice  by  the  aid  of  the  stiletto  and  the  thumbscrew. 

I  have  the  rules  and  regulations  of  this  committee  bef(^  me» 
They  are  very  brief  and  very  simple.  But  with  all  their  sin^licity 
and  brevity,  these  rules  and  regulations  form  the  most  elective  code 
of  commercial  and  international  molality  that  you  can  find  in  Europe. 
The  object  of  each  member  of  the  Stock  Exchange,  taking  them 
individually,  is  simply  to  do  all  the  business  that  he  can  get  Yet 
you  have  only  to  run  your  eye  through  this  code  of  rules  to  find  the 
Committee  of  the  Stock  Exchange,  systematically  and  upon  principle^ 
postponing  their  own  personal  interests,  sacrificing  brokerages  and 
"  turns,"  to  what  they  believe  to  be  the  geneial  interest,  protecting 
the  public  against  frauds  which  the  public  cannot  protect  themselves 
against,  and  administering,  with  rare  impartiality  and  vigour,  a  code 
of  laws  that  strikes  at  the  very  root  of  commercial  and  financial  firaud, 
and  strikes  at  it  more  directly  and  more  efiectively  than  any  Act  of 
Parliament  can  possibly  do. 

The  necessity  for  rules  and  regulations  of  this  kind  will  easily  be 
understood  by  any  one  who  runs  his  eye  through  the  Tinu^  City 
article,  and  reflects  for  a  moment  upon  the  nature  and  extent  of  the 
business  that  is  carried  on  in  Capel  Court  Even  within  these 
rules  and  regulations  there  is  scope  and  verge  enough  for  every 
form  of  speculation  consistent  with  anything  like  the  principles  of 
honesty,  and  for  some  forms  of  speculation  bordering  very  closely  upon 
chicanery ;  and  I  need  not  say  that  there  is  plenty  of  speculation 

X  X  2 


668  The  Gentlematis  Magazine. 

of  both  descriptions  carried  on  under  the  wings  of  the  Stock  Ex- 
change Committee.     The  Stock  Exchange  is  the  great  gambling- 
house  of  the  Empire,  of  all  the  capitalists  and  speculators  of  Europe, 
and  of  many  of  those  of  America ;  it  is  the  chief  market  for  invest- 
ments all  the  world  over,  and  the  amount  of  money  in  stocks  and 
bonds  that  is  turned  over  by  the  brokers  of  this  dark  and  dingy  court 
upon  a  good  settling-day  is  larger  than  the  whole  of  that  which  is  yearly 
turned  over  in  all  the  rest  of  the  Exchanges  of  Europe  and  America. 
The  City  articles  of  the  newspapers  give  no  idea  of  the  amount  of 
business  done ;  but  now  and  then,  in  times  of  excitement,  we  get  a 
glimpse  of  the  working  of  the  machinery  by  which  the  business  of 
the  Stock  Exchange  is  carried  on ;  and,  reflecting  on  the  mass  of 
capital  in  the  form  of  securities  that  is  floating  about, — not  only  in 
our  OA^Ti  markets,  but  in  the  markets  of  Paris,  Frankfort,  Vienna,  and 
Amsterdam, — seeing  how  all  these  markets  act  and  re-act  on  each 
other — ^we  may,  by  the  exercise  of  a  little  imagination,  form  some 
sort  of  conception  of  the  extent  of  the  business  that  is  carried  on. 
The  electric  telegraph  has  brought  all  these  markets  within  speaking 
distance ;  and  a  note  of  war  or  peace  sounded  yesterday  at  Constan- 
tinople or  Washington,  at  Paris  or  Berlin,  St.  Petersburg  or  Vienna, 
sets  all  the  Exchanges  next  morning  in  a  flutter.     Take  the  recent 
panic  on  the  Bourse  of  Vienna.     It  came  upon  us  like  a  bolt  from 
the  blue.     A  few  days  before  the  storm  burst  all  was  still.     There 
was  not  a  single  breeze  to  ruffle  the  waters.     Prices  were  high,  and 
these  prices  had  been  run  up  principally  hy  speculation.     But  every 
one  believed  the  securities  which  he  held  to  be  as  safe  as  the  Bank 
Every  one  was  apparently  rich  and  flourishing.  A  suspicion — a  whisper 
— a  little  pressure — and  all  this  was  changed.     The  system  of  credit 
upon  which  all  this  prosperity  was  built  collapsed  in  an  hour  like  a 
pricked  balloon.     Banks  put  up  their  shutters  by  the  dozen — the 
market  was  flooded  with  securities.     Prices  fell.     Vienna  was  panic- 
stricken.     People  lost  their  heads.    Business  was  brought  to  a  stand- 
still.    This  was  on  a  Friday.     The  feeling  of  insecurity  spread  to 
Frankfort,  Berlin,  Hamburg,  and  Paris;  and  from  those   markets 
on  Saturday  morning  came  heavy  orders  to  the  brokers  of  London  to 
sell  all  descriptions  of  foreign  stock.     The  prices  of  these  stocks  of 
course  at  once  fell,  in  many  cases  two  or  three  per  cent — ^fell  so 
nuch  that  even  the  price  of  the  Three  per  Cents,  was  brought  down 
at  a  bound  a  quarter  per  cent,  upon  a  capital  of,  say,  five  hundred 
millions !    Now,  when  we  recollect  that  these  stocks  represent  the 
funded  debt  of  all  the  Governments  of  Europe,  from  British  Consolf 
to  Greek  Coupons,  Turkish  Consolid^s,  and  Spanish  Passives,  and 


Life  in  London.  669 

that  a  iall  in  the  value  of  these  stocks  brings  down  with  a  run  the 
price  of  700  or  800  inferior  forms  of  stock — bank,  railway,  and 
mining  shares,  for  example — it  will  be  well  understood  that  it  is  not 
very  easy  to  set  down  in  plain  black  and  white  a  precise  and  arith- 
metical account  of  the  commercial  portent  known  as  ''  a  panic  on  the 
Stock  Exchange.**  English  railway  stocks  alone  represent  a  capital 
sum  of  four  hundred  millions  sterling,  half  the  amount  of  the  National 
Debt  The  panic  of  1866  and  1867  reduced  the  value  of  these  stocks 
to  the  tune  of  seventy-five  millions ;  and  the  depreciation  in  the 
value  of  bank  shares  in  the  corresponding  period  was  double  even 
this  amount,  one  hundred  and  fifty  millions.  It  is  impossible  t&  esti- 
mate with  anything  like  exactness  the  total  amount  of  all  these  kinds 
of  security.  But  taking  the  amount  at  a  thousand  millions  sterling, 
and  assuming  that  in  the  ordinary  way  of  business  only  one  per  cent^ 
of  this  amount  changes  hands  every  day,  the  amovnl  of  the  daily 
business  of  the  Stock  Exchange  is  ten  millions  >  and  in  times  of 
panic,  when  the  suiplus  paper  of  all  the  Bourses  of  the  Continent  is 
thrown  upon  our  market,  and  every  pulsation^  of  the  telegiaph  brings 
orders  to  sell,  these  ten  millions  may  be  trebled,  and  even  quad- 
rupled. 

In  a  general  way  the  transactions  of  the  Stock  Exchange  may  be 
said  to  represent,  not  the  real  work  of  the  counHy,  but  the  gaiabling 
of  capitalists  upon  that  work.  The  annual  savings  of  the  country 
have  been  set  down  by  Mr,  Gladstone  at  fifty  millions;  and  the 
greater  part  of  this  Sttm>  the  spare  cash  of  the  country,  finds  its  way 
through  the  banks  and  the  bank  brokers  to  the  Stock  Exchange  for 
investment  Then^  too,  in  addition  to  this,  there  is  the  surplus  of 
what  I  may  call  the  floating  capital  of  the  country,  in  contradistinc- 
tion to  its  fixed  capital,  money,  that  is,  intended  for  the  purposes  of 
trade  and  commerce,  but  temporarily  out  of  employment,  and  existing 
generally  in  the  form  of  balances  at  the  banks :  this  money  ordinarily 
finds  its  way  into  the  Stock  Exchange  for  investment  When  trade 
is  slack  every  avenue  of  the  Stock  Exchange  is  gorged  with  this 
spare  cash,  the  rate  of  interest  is  low,  and  the  price  of  sound  and 
good-paying  securities  is  high.  If^  on  the  other  hand,  trade  is  active, 
this  surplus  cash  is  taken  up  in  the  form  of  commercial  discounts, 
and  if  concurrently  with  this  demand  for  discount  there  is  a  demand^ 
by  credit  and  international  banks,  for  investment  in  foreign  worka^ 
say  in  India,  China,  Australia,  or  America,  or  by  £«ropean  Govern- 
ments, there  must  be  what,  in  the  language  of  die  City,  is  caUed 
*'  tightness  "  in  the  money  market ;  and ''  tightness,'' I  need  hardly  add, 
means  a  high  rate  of  interest    The  rate  of  interest  is  the  barometer 


670  The  Gentleman* s  Magazine. 

of  the  money  market;  and  perhaps^  varying  the  figure,  I  may 
call  the  price  of  the  Fimds  the  thermometer  of  the  Stock  Exchange. 
It  is  the  gauge  of  credit ;  and  every  variation  in  its  reading  is  tele- 
graphed to  all  the  great  emporiums  of  trade  and  commerce — to  New 
York,  to  San  Erancisco,  to  Calcutta,  and  Shanghai,  as  well  as  to  all 
the  money  markets  of  the  Continent  The  price  of  the  English 
Funds  is  the  regulator  of  the  price  of  all  descriptions  of  stock  in  eveiy 
part  of  the  world ;  and  the  City  article  of  the  Tiwtes  is  the  fint  part 
of  the  paper  that  a  man  of  business  turns  to  over  his  cup  of  oofiee 
and  his  egg  in  the  morning. 

The  distinction  I  have  drawn  between  the  regular  business  of  the 
Stock  Exchange  and  the  gambling  part  of  its  operations  represents 
the  line  of  division  which  it  is  necessary  to  draw  between  the  haUhib 
of  Capel  Court  The  regular  business  is  canned  on  by  stock- 
brokers. The  gambling  is,  for  the  most  part,  carried  on  by  stock- 
jobbers. Not  wholly,  of  course ;  for  if  there  were  no  gamblers  on 
the  Stock  Exchange  but  the  jobbers  themselves,  Ibe  business  of 
gambling  would  soon  come  to  an  end.  But  th^  are  the  only 
gamblers  who  are  seen  there ;  and  any  one  who  wishes  to  take  part 
in  this  lottery  of  profit  and  loss  must  do  his  business  thioagh  a  broker. 
The  broker  is  the  intermediary  between  the  public  and  the  jobben. 
He  never  dabbles  in  stocks  (Mi  his  own  Account  His  business  is 
simply  to  buy  and  sell  cm  commission.  He  has  an  account  with 
most  of  the  jobbers,  and  when  he  gets  a  commission  to  buy  tx  sell 
all  he  does  is  to  walk  into  Capel  Court,  find  a  dealer  with  the  stock 
he  wants,  and  ^'make  a  bargain" — that  is,  setde  the  price.  At  the 
moment  the  jobber  may  not  have  a  single  share  or  bond  of  any  kind 
in  Ihs  possession.  Wlhat  he  does,  however,  is  this :  he  undertakes  to 
deliver  the  stock  required,  and  to  deliver  it  at  tiie  price  fixed  by  the 
bargain  the  next  settling  .day.  The  transaction  between  the  broker 
and  the  jobber  is  thus  settled  by  the  exchangeof  a  couple  of  cheques 
or  an  entry  in  a  book,  llie  real  pnochaser,  or  seller,  makes  no 
appearance  on  the  scene.  The  broker  is  his  trepresentadve^  and  the 
broker  stands  in  relation  to  the  jobber  pretty  much  in  the  position  of 
an  attorney  to  a  barrister.  He  is  simply  an  adviser  and  a  go-between, 
paid  by  a  trifling  commission,  varying  firom  an  eighth  per  cent  on 
Consols  to  a  fourth  on  inferior  descriptions  of  stock.  The  broker,  I 
need  not  say,  is  a  great  convenience  on  the  Stock  Exchange.  That 
is  obvious.  He  facilitates  the  transaction  of  business.  Dealing 
with  an  intermediary  whom  he  knows,  the  jobber  is  able  to  devote 
his  whole  mind  to  his  own  peculiar  line  of  business  without  troubling 
himself  with  petty  trifles  of  credit  or  commission  which  the  broker 


Life  in  London.  671 

must  take  into  consideration.  It  may  also,  I  think,  be  said  that  the 
broker  is  a  protection  to  the  public  against  the  frauds  and  machinar 
tions  that  might  otherwise  be  practised  by  experts  on  the  Stock 
Exchange.  The  position  of  the  stock-jobber  dififers  a  little,  and  but 
a  little,  from  that  of  the  broker.  His  true  description  is  a  privileged 
gambler.  He  is  a  man  who,  by  the  payment  of  a  trifling  fee  to  the 
Lord  Mayor  and  Aldermen  of  the  City,  is  permitted  to  act  as  his 
own  broker,  and,  possessing  this  privilege — a  very  valuable  one — he 
buys  and  sells  stock  on  his  own  account,  looking  for  his  profit,  not 
to  fees  levied  upon  buyers  and  sellers  in  the  form  of  brokerages,  but 
from  the  variations  of  the  market  value  of  the  stock  he  deals  in.  The 
jobber  is  the  life  and  soul  of  the  Stock  Exchange.  He  is  the  author 
of  most  of  the  excitement  that  generally  develops  in  the  newspapers 
into  "  a  monetary  panic ; "  and  it  is  to  his  manoeuvres  and  to  his 
speculations  that  investors  owe  for  the  most  part  those  violent  fluctua- 
tions in  the  value  of  stock  which  one  day  sends  them  into  Mahomef  s 
seventh  heaven,  and  the  next  varies  their  sensations  by  a  fit  of  blue 
devils.  It  is  his  business  to  job  in  shares,  and  he  plays  a  usefiil  part 
in  testing  the  value  of  stock.  In  order  that  he  may  cany  on  his  busi- 
ness, such  as  it  is,  with  anything  like  success,  it  is  necessary  that  a 
stock-jobber  should  be  keen,  adroit,  and  bold.  He  ought  not  \m 
possess  a  spark  either  of  passion  or  sentiment  Contemplating  the 
revolutions  of  States,  and  the  rise  and  fall  of  rival  statesmen,  it  is  his 
business  to  look  only  at  two  points — ''Will  this  or  that  GovernmeoC 
or  statesman  pay  the  interest  on  their  bonds,  and  keep  up  the  credit 
of  the  State  ?"  and  those  two  points  represent  the  Alpha  and  Omega 
of  all  political  discussions  on  the  Stock  Exchange.  All  considerar 
tions  beyond  these  points  are  superfluous.  All  infcnrmation  bearing 
upon  either  of  them  is  in  the  highest  degree  valuable.  It  was  in 
search  of  information  upon  points  of  this  kind  that  Mr.  Disraeli,  ii^ 
"  Coningsby,"  sent  Sidonia,  the  beau  idkU  of  a  thoroughly  educated 
City  banker,  to  all  the  Courts  of  Europe,  to  Senuaar  and  Abyssinia, 
to  Tartary,  Hindostan,  and  the  isles  of  the  Indian  Sea,  to  Valparaiso, 
the  Brazils  and  Lima,  Mexico,  and  the  United  States,  in  quest  of  the 
information  that  made  him  "  lord  and  master  of  the  money  market  of 
the  world,  and,  of  course,  virtually  lord  and  master  of  everythiog 
else."  The  stock-jobber  who  wishes  to  be  prepared  for  anything  that 
may  turn  up,  to  know  the  true  meaning  and  value  of  every  telegram 
that  is  published  in  the  morning's  Tinus^  ought,  like  Sidonia,  to 
know  every  ruler  and  his  policy,  fix>m  the  Shdi  of  Persia  and  the 
Mikado  of  Japan  to  the  Presidents  of  the  United  States  and  of 
Honduras ;  and  to  know,  if  possible,  not  only  the  ruler,  but  hit 


672  The  Gentlematis  Magazine. 

Ministers^  and  possible  Mimsters^  and  their  ideat  of  policy.  He  ought, 
like  Fouch^y  to  have  his  spies  and  correspondents  everywhere.  Had 
Talleyr^id  turned  his  thoughts  to  the  business  of  finaadal  speculatioii, 
he  might  have  founded  a  house  of  business  wealthier  and  more 
powerful  than  even  the  house  of  Rothschild.  That  remark  of  his 
about  the  Austrian  Ambassador— *'  What  can  pos»Uy  have  induced 
my  dear  brother  of  Austria  to  go  to  bed  with  the  scarlet  fever  at  a 
crisis  like  this  ? "  hits  off  the  cool,  sceptical,  and  scrutinising  temper 
of  the  Stock  Exchange  speculator  to  a  T.  He  sets  down  nothing  to 
accident  He  looks  for  the  cause  of  everything,  and,  like  Talley- 
rand, passes  a  sleepless  night  in  speculating  upon  the  mystery  of  ai 
Ambassador  taking  to  his  bed  with  a  fever. 

It  is  impossible,  of  course,  for  eveiy  stock-jobber  and  broker  to  be 
the  equal  of  Talleyrand  in  keenness  or  of  Sidonia  in  tnlormatioii ;  asd 
very  few,  if  any,  attempt,  like  Baron  Rothschild,  to  speculate  in 
every  kind  of  stock.  Here,  as  everywhere  else,  there  is  «  dsrision 
and  a  sub-division  of  labour.  One  broker  takes  French  Rentes,  or 
Mexican  Bonds,  or  Greek  Coupons.  Another  takes  American 
Bonds,  or  Spanish  Passives,  or  Turkish  Consolid^  Confimng  his 
attention  thus  to  one  or  two  countries,  noting  every  political  incident 
that  occurs  there,  and  every  incident  in  the  general  politics  of 
Europe  bearing  on  its  policy,  and  therefore  on  the  value  of  its  stock, 
the  jobber  is  able,  with  a  clear  head  and  shrewd  intelligence,  to  time 
his  purchases  and  sales  so  as  to  find  himself  at  the  end  of  die  year 
with  a  handsome  balance  in  the  form  of  profit  upon  his  capital 
Stock-jobbers,  like  other  people,  do  occasionally  come  to  grie(  for 
none  of  us  are  exempt  from  blunders>  and  even  stock-jobbers  may 
BOW  and  then  find  it  impossible  to  square  up  a  Bear  account  on 
settling  day.  But  this  is  a  very  rare  occurrence,  and  a  stock-jobber 
who  understands  his  business,  and  does  not  attempt  to  play  toodeep^ 
generally  finds  himself,  like  the  professional  whist-player,  with  a  good 
balance  at  his  banker's  at  the  end  of  the  year,  even  though  he  may 
now  and  then  have  lost  heavily  by  honours.  It  is  the  points  that 
tell ;  and  in  making  points  skill  more  than  balances  luck.  To  the 
outsider,  to  the  man  who,  like  Sam  Weller,  looks  upon  Consols  as 
things  that  run  up  and  down  in  the  City,  perhaps  nothing  is  niflic 
mysterious  than  the  fluctuations  in  the  price  of  stock.  '^Consols  left 
off  yesterday  at  92},  opened  this  morning  at  92^,  and  subsequently 
touched  92|.  The  final  price  was  92  J."  You  may  read  these  sen- 
tences, with  perhaps  a  slight  variation  now  and  then  in  die 
amount  of  the  fractions,  in  the  City  article  of  the  Times  nearly  evdy 
day  in  the  week.     I  take  them  as  they  stand  in  the  first  paper  that 


Life  in  London.  673 

lies  on  my  table.  To  nine  people  out  of  ten  these  sentences  are 
simply  a  conundrum — a  mystery  to  be  solved,  if  at  all,  by  the  rule  of 
three.  Yet  to  men  of  business  these  mysterious  figures  and  their 
fractions  are  fraught  with  the  highest  interest  To  them  the  price  of 
the  Three  per  Cents,  is  the  final  test  of  the  value  of  money  in  the 
central  money  market  of  Europe.  It  marks  the  rate  of  interest — the 
rate  of  interest  upon  the  highest  form  of  security  to  be  foimd  for 
investment  in  the  Stock  Exchange,  and  the  fluctuations  upon  this 
price,  illustrating  as  they  do  every  variation  in  the  rate  of  interest,  or 
the  loanable  value  of  money,  are  telegraphed  to  all  the  centres  of 
trade  and  commerce  in  the  world.  Permanently  the  price  of 
Consols,  like  that  of  every  other  variety  of  stock,  is  governed  by  the 
credit  of  the  State  ;  but  their  price  from  day  to  day  is  ruled  by  the 
Bank  rate  of  discount  The  price  follows  that  as  a  shadow  follows  the 
sun,  although  there  are  scores  of  trifles  happening  from  hour  to  hour 
to  alter  the  quotations; and  only  those  who  keep  their  eyes  closely  upon 
the  money  market  can  form  anything  like  an  adequate  conception  of 
the  trifles  that  affiect  the  price  of  stock,  even  of  Consols.  The  hero 
in  "  Vivian  Grey,"  crossed  in  love,  or  out  of  sorts  for  some  cause  or 
other,  occasions  a  depression  in  the  Funds  fatal  to  half  the  banking 
houses  in  Europe.  That  of  course  is  caricature ;  but  there  is  a 
grain  of  truth  at  the  bottom  of  it,  nevertheless ;  and  even  this  bit  of 
caricature  expresses  broadly  and  generally  the  nature  of  the  causes 
which  fi'om  day  to  day  govern  the  price  of  stock. 

The  general  impression  of  the  Stock  Exchange  is  that  it  is  the  native 
region  of  calm  sense  and  keen  critical  intelligence.  This  is  all  a  delu- 
sion. The  Stock  Exchange  is  the  most  sensitive  and  least  critical  quarter 
within  the  Three  Kingdoms.  It  is  open  to  every  rumour — even  the 
wildest  It  is  influenced  by  every  trifle :  a  whisper  puts  it  in  a  panic. 
I  have  known  a  slip  of  the  pen  on  the  part  of  a  Times*  reporter  keep 
the  price  of  Consols  firm  all  day,  and  its  correction  the  next  morning 
by  the  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  lower  the  quotations  an  eighth. 
And  the  iacilidcs  which  the  telegraph  has  established  for  prompt 
intercommunication  upon  politics  and  business  has  made  the  Stock 
Exchange  ten  times  more  sensitive  than  ever  it  was.  The  Bourses 
act  and  re-act  on  each  other.  What  afiects  one  afiiects  all.  They 
are  all  within  the  influence  of  a  single  electric  current  A  panic  in 
the  Gold-room  of  New  York  is  reflected  the  next  day  by  a  panic  at 
Frankfort ;  and  the  price  of  American  bonds  is  within  a  fiaction  at 
San  Francisco,  New  York,  and  Hambuig.  A  fall  in  the  value  of 
French  Rentes  at  Paris  lowers  the  price  of  European  stocks  all 
round ;  and  if  the  fall  be  severe,  as  it  often  is,  and  if  it  be  occasioned, 


674  ^>^^  Gmtlemads  Magazim. 

as  it  generally  is,  by  a  mmoor  of  war,  originadng  no  one  knows  how 
— in  a  hazy  suspicion,  in  the  suggestion  of  a  newspaper  editor,  or  in 
the  haphazard  interpretation  of  a  few  words  of  mystery  or  bravado 
fix)m  some  powerful  ruler — a  fall  in  French  Rentes  may  end  in  a 
series  of  Stock  Exchange  panics,  in  the  ruin  of  hundreds  of  nervous 
people,  flustered  out  of  their  wits  by  a  diplomatic  stmw,  and  in  the 
enrichment  of  a  few  Bears  by  perhaps  a  million  of  money.  It  is  in 
moments  of  excitement  and  panic  like  these  that  the  men  of  inibnna- 
tion,  the  Sidonias  of  the  Exchange,  make  their  fortune ;  for  tfaey 
alone  are  in  a  position  to  estimate  the  value  of  the  rumour,  and  to 
discount  the  fact  when  the  rumour  has  grown  into  a  fiKrL  At  no 
time  was  this  information  more  valuable  than  it  is  at  present;  for 
with  all  our  forms  of  government  the  destinies  of  Europe  are  to-day 
as  much  in  the  hands  of  half  a  dozen  men  as  they  were  in  Aose  days 
of  autocrats  and  anarchy  when  three  or  four  Sovereigns  and  their 
secretaries  met  together  in  a  German  village,  and  by  a  stroke  of 
the  pen  abolished,  ipso  factOy  all  the  free  constitutions  of  Eniope. 
Politics,  especially  the  high  politics  of  war  and  peace,  are  the 
imperial  influences  that  govern  the  Stock  Exchange ;  and  the  man  who 
knows  the  secrets  of  Cabinets — who  knows  when  a  State  has  a  good 
round  sum  in  its  exchequer,  and  when  it  is  renewing  its  ImIIs-— can 
interpret  by  the  help  of  a  hint  the  diplomatic  hieroglyphics  which  are 
every  day  put  into  circulation  under  the  form  of  ^Renter's  tde* 
grams,''  may  manipulate  the  markets  to  the  tune  of  zoo,ooo/.  a  year, 
if  he  have  the  capital  or  the  credit  to  launch  into  speculation,  and 
the  skill  of  a  Rothschild  to  take  the  market  at  its  turn  and  to  wait 

The  customary  hours  of  business  on  'Change  are  from  xi  to  a  or  3, 
and  the  prices  which  are  published  day  by  day  in  the  newspapers  are 
the  prices  which  were  quoted  during  that  time — ^the  official  prices^ 
although  a  large  amount  of  business  is  sometimes  done  ''after  hours  f 
but  even  during  the  three  or  four  hours  of  chit-chat  and  speculation 
which  constitute  the  official  hours,  five,  ten,  or  even  fifteen  millions  of 
property  may  pass  through  the  hands  of  the  two  or  three  hundred 
gentlemen  in  frock  coats  and  white  hats  who  represent  the  plutocnqr 
of  London,  and,  as  its  representatives,  give  the  cue  to  aU  the  monej 
markets  of  Europe.  To  say  nothing  at  all  of  our  own  funds,  nspre* 
senting  in  themselves  many  millions  of  capital,  the  official  list  of  tibc 
Stock  Exchange  comprises  the  funded  debts  of  not  only  eveiy  Power 
in  Europe,  but,  with  the  exception  of  Persia,  of  China,  and,  tiUto-dqTt 
of  Japan,  the  debts  of  every  Government  to  be  found  upon  the  fiwe 
of  the  globe  three  degrees  out  of  the  picturesque  dvilisatioa  of 
feathers  and  paint ;  and  over  and  above  these  Govenunent 


ji 


Life  in  London.  675 

the  scrip  of  all  our  own  railway,  banking,  mining,  and  telegraph  com- 
panies, moimting  up  probably  in  value  to  a  higher  figure  even  than 
the  amount  of  the  largest  debts  in  Europe,  those  of  Great  Britain  and 
France.  Taking  the  amount  of  diese  stocks  at  a  thousand  millionSi 
and  assummg  that  one  per  cent  of  the  paper  changes  hands  every 
day,  the  average  business  of  the  Stock  Exchange  would  be 
;^io,ooo,ooo  ;  and  in  times  of  excitement,  when  a  whisper  may  put 
the  Bourses  of  Paris  and  Frankfort  in  a  panic,  when  every  fiesh 
paragraph  in  an  official  or  semi-official  newspaper  brings  orders  to  buy 
or  sell  this  or  that,  stocks  may  pais  from  hand  to  hand  to  the  tune  of 
fifty  millions  in  three  or  four  hours.  Of  course  as  a  rule,  and 
especially  in  times  like  these,  the  business  does  not  mount  up  to 
perhaps  more  than  five  or  six  millions.  But  even  now  a  settlement 
which  represents  less  than  ^^20,000,000  is  thought  poor,  and  the 
Clearing  House  returns  often  run  up  to  ^25,000,000  and 
;^3o,ooo,ooo.  These  Clearing  House  returns  are  the  gauge  of 
business  on  'Change ;  and  by  keeping  your  eye  upon  these,  and  com- 
paring them  with  the  returns  of  previous  periods,  yon  may  test  the 
state  of  the  market  and  the  course  of  business  at  a  glance.  If  we 
take  the  annual  total  of  these  Clearing  House  returns  at  ;^5oo,ooo,ooO| 
we  shall,  I  believe,  be  wittnn  the  mark ;  and  the  brokerages  and  turns 
upon  this  business  represent  the  aggregate  income  of  the  Stock 
Exchange. 

Of  course  a  large  proportion  of  this  business  is  confined  strictly  to 
the  four  walls  of  '*  the  House,"  and  represents  nothing  more  than 
speculative  dealing ;  but  the  transactions  of  the  brokers — the  business, 
that  is,  which  is  done  upon  orders  firom  investors — is  often  as  much  as 
;^5 00,000  a  day,  and  of  course  when  speculation  is  active  it  may  be 
very  much  more.  It  is  not  at  all  unusual  for  the  Government  Broker 
to  purchase  stock  for  a  long  period  at  the  rate  of  ;^20,ooo  a  day;  and 
when  the  estates  of  millionaires  like  the  Crawshays  and  the  Brasseys 
are  in  course  of  partition,  a  million's  worth  of  stock  may  pass  through 
the  hands  of  a  single  broker  in  a  day,  a  scrawl  on  a  strip  of  paper 
changing  its  proprietorship  as  completely  as  the  tedious  and  .costly 
process  which  the  conveyancers  have  invented  in  the  course  of  500 
years  to  transfer  an  estate  in  land.  The  commission  upon  these  tzan- 
sactions  varies  firom  \  per  cent,  or  2s.  6d.  in  the  pound,  upon 
Consols,  to  \  per  cent  on  miscellaneous  stock ;  and  tiie  transfer  of 
the  ;^8oo,ooo  which  Mr.  Crawshay  held  in  the  Three  per  Cents,  put 
;^i,ooo  at  a  stroke  into  the  hands  of  the  broker  by  whom  it  was 
carried  out,  with  very  little  more  trouble  than  would  have  been 
involved  in  the  transfer  of  ^800.    A  stock-jobber  may,  and  often 


676  Tlie  Gentleman^ s  Magazine. 

does,  make  twice  and  thrice  this  amount  upon  a  transaction.  But  m 
the  case  of  a  jobber  this  profit  represents  insurance  againsl  risk  as 
well  as  remuneration  for  his  skill,  whereas  in  the  case  of  the  broker 
it  is  payment  for  work  that  involves  no  risk,  very  little  trouble, 
perhaps  nothing  more  than  a  scrawl  and  a  ticket,  and  an  entry  in 
a  pocket  book.  All  that  the  broker,  with  a  commission  to  lay  out 
;^i 0,000,  say,  in  Consols,  or  to  invest  ^100,000  in  Indian  Railways^ 
has  to  do  is  to  walk  into  Capel  Court,  find  out  the  jobber  who  deals 
in  these  stocks,  and  make  a  bargain.  The  transaction  is  but  the  woik 
of  three  minutes  and  an  entry  of  a  couple  of  lines  in  a  note-booL 
The  delivery  of  the  scrip  itself  generally  stands  over  till  settling  day, 
perhaps  ten  days  or  a  fortnight  hence ;  and  it  is  quite  possible  that 
the  jobber  who  sells  the  stock  may  not  at  the  moment  possess  a 
single  bond  in  his  pigeon-holes.  Perhaps  if  the  stock  is  plentifid  in 
the  market  he  may  have  a  handfiil  of  scrip  in  hand.  But  it  is  a  mere 
chance;  and  as  a  rule  it  may  be  taken  that  the  jobber  does  not 
possess  the  stock  which  he  deals  m.  All  he  does  is  to  undertake  to  find 
it  for  you  by  hook  of  by  crook  on  settling  day,  and  to  sell  it  to  yoa 
then  at  the  price  of  to-day.  He  looks  for  his  profit  firom  the  tarns  d 
the  market,  that  is,  from  the  variations  in  the  daily  price  of  stocks 
which  the  newspapers  note  in  their  City  articles  with  such  particularity 
about  the  firactions ;  and  if  he  has  sold  to  you  at,  say,  92^  he  most 
manipulate  the  market  so  as  to  buy  at  90  or  at  any  intermediate  sum ; 
or,  if  he  cannot  do  this  before  the  day  fixed  for  the  settlement,  he 
must  purchase  or  borrow  the  stock  at  any  price  at  which  it  is  to  be 
had,  if  you  insist  upon  its  delivery,  or  pay  you  a  trifle  to  pat 
off  the  delivery  till  the  next  settling  day  if  you  are  in  no  huiiy  for 
the  stock  itself. 

This  is  stockjobbing  in  its  simplest  form ;  but  most  of  the  business 
that  is  carried  on  upon  'Change  is  pure  speculation.  It  is  a  game 
partly  of  chance  and  partly  of  skill  between  the  Bulls  and  the  Beaxs, 
with  the  public  standing  by  to  pay  the  scot  when  the  game  is  op. 
The  function  of  the  Bull  is  by  far  the  pleasantest,  and  is  often  the 
most  profitable.  It  is  simply  to  run  up  the  price  of  stock  to  the 
highest  possible  amount,  and  to  appropriate  as  much  of  the  price  as 
he  can  for  his  pains.  In  popular  estimation  the  Bull  is  an  appce- 
ciator  of  values,  and  it  is  very  seldom  that  one  hears  even  a  whisper 
against  his  operations  for  a  rise.  All  the  odium  of  the  Stock  Exchange 
falls  upon  the  head  of  the  Bear.  It  is  the  business  of  the  Bear  to 
run  down  stock,  to  depreciate  values ;  and  the  popular  imagination 
still  thinks  of  the  Bear  as  he  was  sketched  in  1762  by  the  author  of 
*'  Every  Man  his  Own  Broker,"  as  a  creature  with  meagre,  haggard 


Life  in  Loftdon.  677 

looks  and  avaricious  fierceness  in  his  countenance,  continually  on  the 
watch,  seizing  on  all  who  enter  the  alley,  and  by  his  terrific  weapons 
of  groundless  fears  and  false  rumour,  firightening  all  around  him  out  of 
the  property  he  wants  to  buy — as  much  a  monster  in  nature  as  his 
brother  brute  in  the  woods.  What  the  Bear  was  in  1762  he  is  in 
1873 — "a  person,"  as  Mr.  Mortimer  put  it,  "who  has  agreed  to  sell 
any  quantity  of  the  public  funds,  more  than  he  is  possessed  of,  and 
often  without  being  possessed  of  any  at  all,  which,  nevertheless,  he  is 
obliged  to  deliver  against  a  certain  time.  Before  this  time  arrives  he 
is  continually  going  up  and  down,  seeking  whose  property  he  can 
devour.  You  will  find  him  in  a  continual  hurry,  always  with  alarm, 
surprise,  and  eagerness  painted  on  his  countenance ;  greedily  swal- 
lowing the  last  report  of  bad  news ;  rejoicing  in  mischief  or  any 
misfortune  that  may  bring  about  the  wished-for  change  of  fall  in  the 
stocks,  that  he  may  buy  in  low  and  so  settle  his  accounts  to  advantage." 
A  year  or  two  ago  all  England  was  in  arms  against  the  Bears,  and  all 
the  failures,  or  nearly  all  the  failures  of  Black  Friday  were  traced  to 
these  wreckers,  as  it  was  then  the  fashion  to  call  them.  The  Times 
denounced  them.  Investors  anathematised  them.  The  House  of 
Commons  talked  of  making  their  tactics  a  penal  offence.  And,  of 
course,  the  Bears  do  play  frightftil  havoc  in  the  market  But  there 
are  Bears  and  Bears,  and  Bears  acting  honestly  within  the  limits  of 
their  function  may  and  do  play  a  useful  part  in  the  City.  Their  true 
function  is  to  counteract  the  freaks  of  the  Bulls,  to  test  every  pro- 
spectus to  the  bottom,  to  prove  all  things,  to  find  out  the  true  value 
of  stock,  and  to  keep  the  quotations  of  the  market  fluctuating  as 
nearly  as  possible  about  that  amount.  Of  course  now  and  then  the 
Bear,  like  the  Bull,  overdoes  his  part,  plays  pranks  with  stock  that 
would  bring  him  into  the  hands  of  the  police  in  no  time  if  they  were 
played  in  the  street  with  people's  pocket-handkerchiefs  or  watch 
chains,  starting  all  sorts  of  canards^  attacking  the  credit  of  railways, 
banks,  and  companies  in  a  way  that  would  bring  a  newspaper  into 
Court  in  no  time,  if  any  newspaper  were  to  print  what  the  Bear  is 
whispering  about.  But  where  the  business  of  a  railway  or  the  credit 
of  a  bank  is,  as  it  ought  to  be,  above  suspicion,  the  Bear  in  the  long 
run  ruins  no  one  but  himself;  and,  perhaps,  in  the  case  of  a  house 
like  Overend  and  Gumey,  or  in  the  case  of  a  bank  like  the  Agra,  the 
sooner  its  credit  is  blown  upon  the  better,  when  it  is  doing  business 
which  must  in  the  end  bring  its  proprietors  to  grief.  A  concern  that 
is  strong  enough  to  stand  against  the  Bears  is  all  the  stronger  after 
its  shares  have  been  beared,  and,  where  it  is  not,  perhaps  the  sooner 
it  is  broken  up  by  the  Bears  the  better. 


678  The  Gentlematis  Magazine. 

The  ordinary  business  of  the  jobber  is  a  very  different  thing  to  dus. 
It  is  to  anticipate  the  market,  to  find  out  how  things  are  going;  where 
stocks  are  likely  to  come  down,  to  find  out  what  the  public  will  wish 
to  sell  before  long,  and  to  sell  that  stock  in  anticipation  of  its  present 
holders.  To  know,  for  instance,  that  a  country  like  Egypt,  Tkukcy, 
or  Portugal  is  reduced  to  the  necessity  of  raising  money  or  renewing 
bills  ought  to  be,  and  probably  is,  worth  ;^  10,000  to  a  Bear,  for  there 
is  the  indication  of  another  loan  before  long,  and  another  loan 
weakens  the  credit  of  the  State,  and  lowers  the  price  of  its  stock, 
and  a  Bear  in  possession  of  a  fiict  of  this  kind  sets  to  work  at  once 
to  speculate  for  a  fall — that  is,  to  sell  Egyptian,  Turkish,  or  Poitir 
guese  stock  at  a  price  i  or  2  per  cent  below  the  quotation  of  the 
market,  trusting  to  the  public  rushing  into  the  market  when  the  fibct 
is  known,  and  offering  its  stock  at  a  still  lower  price.  This  is  the 
meaning  of  a  Bear  account,  and  it  is  practised  upon  every  stock  in 
turn,  even  upon  the  Three  per  Cents.  It  is  generally  the  easiest 
thing  in  the  world  to  flutter  the  Volscians  into  throwing  their  sciq> 
upon  the  market,  and  this  tendency  of  the  public  to  take  alann 
at  trifles  and  to  sell  pell-mell  is  the  datum  of  the  Bear's  calcu- 
lations. All  that  he  has  to  do,  as  a  rule,  is  to  sell  and  to  win.  But 
now  and  then  the  fuse  hangs  fire.  There  is  a  slight  fizz,  a  smell  of 
damp  powder,  and  that  is  all  The  plot  fails.  The  biter  gets  Intten, 
and  when  the  settlement  comes  round  the  Bear  has  none  of  the  stock 
he  has  been  selling  to  deliver.  The  stock  may  even  be  higher  in 
price  than  it  was  when  he  opened  his  account  His  raid  ends  in  a  losa 
But  even  in  that  case  the  Bear  need  not  at  once  throw  up  the  carda 
He  may,  perhaps,  borrow  the  stock  and  pay  for  its  use — and  this  is 
often  done.  Or  he  may  continue  the  speculation  till  the  next  settle- 
ment by  the  payment  of  what  is  called  a  *'  backwardation,"  and  take 
his  chance  of  picking  up  the  stock  from  weak  holders  in  the  mean- 
time. This,  too,  is  often  done,  and  may  end,  as  it  ended  a  year  or 
two  ago  in  the  case  of  the  Caledonian  Railway  stock,  in  a  grand  Ofi^ 
for  the  Bear.  This  prolongation  of  a  speculation  is  peculiar  to  the 
Stock  Exchange,  and  the  method  is  expressed  by  these  two  wonls  ot 
Stock  Exchange  coinage — "contango"  and  "backwardation."  The 
rates  for  "  contango"  and  "  backwardation"  depend  chiefly  on  the 
state  of  the  account,  as  disclosed  on  the  "  making-up  day  f  that  tt^ 
two  days  before  the  "  account  day,"  when  the  brokers  and  jobbeis  or 
dealers  arrange  the  transactions  of  the  previous  fortnight,  tf  it 
should  then  be  found  that  there  is  a  "  Bull  account,"  or  more  pur- 
chases than  sales  requiring  to  be  "  continued,"  the  rates  for  **  ooo- 
tango"  are  high,  but  if  the  purchases  prove  to  be  real  instead  of 


Life  in  London.  679 

speculative,  and  the  stock  is  paid  for  and  withdrawn  from  the  market, 
the  demand  for  "contango"  is  small,  and  the  rates  low.  On  the  other 
hand,  if  the  speculative  sales  for  the  fall  are  foimd,  on  "  making  up/' 
to  exceed  the  speculative  purchases  for  the  rise,  it  is  designated  a 
"  Bear  account,"  and  the  rates  for  "  continuation  "  are  low,  or  it  may 
even  be  that  the  rates  of  "  backwardation  "  are  high ;  but  real  sales 
increase  the  supply  of  stock  in  the  market,  and  tend  to  diminish 
rates  of  "  backwardation."  This  is  a  fair  specimen  of  the  slang  of 
the  Stock  Exchange ;  it  is  an  uncouth  dialect.  Egyptian  Bonds  are 
"  Mummies."  Turkish  Six  per  Cents,  are  "  Muttons,"  because  the 
loan  was  issued  on  the  security  of  the  sheep  tax.  American  Five- 
Twenty  Bonds  are  "  Greens."  Bank  new  Shares  are  "  Babies." 
North  Staflfordshire  Railway  Shares  are  "Potts,"  because  the  line 
runs  through  the  Potteries.  And  this  is  the  way  in  which  most  of 
these  abbreviations  are  coined.  The  shares  of  the  South-Eastem 
Railway  are  "  Dovers."  The  shares  of  the  Great  Northern  are 
"  Yorks."  Those  of  the  Lancashire  and  Yorkshire,  of  the  North 
Eastern,  and  of  the  London  and  North  Western,  are  "Leeds," 
"  Berwicks,"  and  "  Brums ;"  and,  upon  the  same  principle,  British- 
Indian  Extension  Telegraph  Shares  are  "  Singapores."  Hardly  any 
stock  passes  on  'Change  by  its  own  name.  Almost  every  stock  has 
its  nickname,  English  and  Australian  Copper  Shares,  for  instance, 
passing  as  "  Smelts,"  and  Newfoundland  Telegraph  Shares  as 
"  Dogs."  It  is  all  in  this  style ;  and  the  technical  description  of  the 
business  of  the  Stock  Exchange,  if  published  in  the  Times  of 
to-morrow,  would  put  Paterfamilias  in  a  fever.  Almost  the  only 
Stock  Exchange  phrase  that  appears  in  the  Times  now  is  "for  account," 
although  now  and  then  we  may  hear  a  whisper  about  Bulls  and 
Bears  and  the  "  backwardations  "  or  "  contangos  "  that  they  have  to 
pay  to  keep  their  accounts  still  open.  But  it  is  only  one  glimpse  of 
the  day's  business.  A  large  amount  of  business  is  done  every  day 
for  the  "  coming  out,"  that  is,  for  the  special  settlement  which  the 
Stock  Exchange  Committee  fixes  after  the  issue  of  the  scrip  of  a  new 
company.  The  mystery  of  "  giving  for  the  put,"  or  "  call,"  or  "  giving 
for  the  put  and  call,"  it  is  not  so  easy  to  explain  in  a  sentence.  It  is 
a  species  of  option  dealing,  and  is  a  special  business  by  itself.  It  is 
the  chicken-hazard  of  Stock  Exchange  gambling.  Generally  it  may 
be  said  that  the  public  gives  for  the  put,  that  is  to  say,  pays  the 
jobber  a  premium  to  deliver  to  him,  say  ten  days'  hence,  ;^i,ooo 
worth  of  stock  in  a  specified  company,  and  that  the  jobber  takes  "  for 
the  put,"  or,  in  plain  English,  agrees  to  take  stock.  This  is  one  of  the 
most  interesting  strokes  of  business  on  the  Stock  Exchange ;  but  you 


68o  The  Gentlematis  Magazine. 

must  know  well  what  you  are  about  before  you  enter  upon  it,  must  be 
able  to  look  ahead,  to  see  how  the  world  is  going,  what  the  course  of 
the  market  is  likely  to  be,  and  you  ought  to  be  able  to  see  how  the 
public  is  likely  to  act  in  the  investment  of  its  spare  cash  in  every  con- 
tingency that  may  arise  in  the  course  of  the  "  option  "  that  you  are 
dealing  in. 

Yet  with  all  this  regular  business — ^with  all  this  apparently  hap- 
hazard speculation — with  all  this  mysterious  buying  and  selling  at 
"eighths,"  "sixteenths,"  "thirty-seconds,"  and  "fiddles,**  you  never 
by  any  chance  come  across  a  sovereign  or  even  a  bank-note  on  the 
Stock  Exchange.     It  is  all  carried  on  by  means  of  bits  of  paper,  by 
orders,  by  entries  in  note-books  and  ledgers ;  and  the  account  is 
finally  adjusted  by  means  of  a  crossed  cheque  which  is  passed  through 
the  Clearing  House.    All  that  you  see  on  the  Stock  Exchange  four 
days  out  of  five  are  groups  of  men  lounging  about  with  their  hands 
under  their  coat  tails,  with  their  hats  often  at  the  back  of  their  heads, 
or  with  a  flower  in  their  button-holes,  discussing  the  politics  of  the 
day,  the  prospects  of  war  or  of  peace,  the  rates  of  exchange,  the  state 
of  the  Bank  balances,  the  prospects  of  the  harvest,  and  the  value  of 
money ;  and  all  that  you  hear  of  the  business  that  is  being  done  in 
this  fashion  is  a  shout  from  the  beadle  occasionally  for  a  broker  with 
Mummies  or  Potts.     It  is  as  quiet  as  Tattersall's.     It  is  a  trifle  more 
talkative  perhaps,  and  it  can  be  noisy.  But  there  is  nothing  theatrical 
about  it  even  when  every  moment  has  its  whisper,  and  every  whisper 
is  big  with  the  fate  of  a  bank  like  Overend  and  Gume/s  or  Master- 
man's,  when  a  strip  of  yellow  paper  with  a  few  ciphers  upon  it^  passed 
secretly  from  hand  to  hand,  may  announce  a  war  or  proclaim  a  peace. 
It  can  and  does  sometimes  work  itself  up  into  a  panic — say  once  or 
twice  in  seven  years.     But  even  then  the  English  Stock  Exchange  is, 
in  comparison  with  the  Gold-room  at  New  York  or  the  Bourse  at 
I'aris,  like  the  lobby  of  the  House  of  Conunons  in  contrast  with  the 
gallery  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre  on  Boxing-night       On  the   Paris 
Bourse,  when  there  is  anything  like  a  storm  in  the  air,  you  may  meet 
men  and  women  of  all  ranks,  from  coimtesses  to  ballet-giris,  from 
senators  to  cab-drivers,  elbowing  each  other  to  get  to  their  broken, 
and  shouting  at  the  top  of  their  voices  to  the  brokers  to  sell  or  to 
buy  this  or  that  stock  ;  and  though  the  Gold-room  at  New  Yoik  is  a 
little  more  select,  it  is  hardly  less  passionate  and  demonstrative  tl^n 
the  Paris  Bourse,  especially  when  millionaires  are  manipulating  the 
shares  of  the  Erie  Railway,  or  politicians  in  the  White  House  at 
Washington  are  talking  commercial  treason  about  Five*Twenty  Bonds. 
Anything  like  tiunult  or  passion  or  enthusiasm  is  as  religioudy  tabooed 


Life  in  Lo7idon.  68 1 

in  Capel  Court  as  it  is  round  the  gambling  tables  of  a  German 
Kursaal ;  and  with  the  exception  of  a  spurt  now  and  then  among  the 
Bulls  and  Bears,  you  will  see  nothing  more  in  the  Stock  Exchange, 
where  hundreds  of  thousands  are  changing  hands  every  ten  minutes, 
than  you  will  see  in  the  Cloth  Hall  of  Leeds  or  on  the  Liverpool 
flags.  Now  and  then  you  may  hear  a  call  for  Egyptian  Bonds  or 
Russian  Railways  or  Peruvian  Bonds,  Midlands  or  Metropolitans ; 
but  this  is  only  when  speculation  for  a  rise  or  fall  runs  high  and 
stocks  are  scarce,  and,  as  a  rule,  the  business  of  the  Stock  Exchange 
is  carried  on  as  quietly  as  the  business  of  a  provincial  com  market. 
The  topics  of  the  day  are  discussed  here  as  they  are  there,  and 
perhaps  nowhere  are  they  canvassed  with  more  keenness  and  point, 
or  with  a  more  vivid  appreciation  of  the  real  value  and  meaning  of 
facts ;  but  men  with  special  intelligence  do  not  talk  about  it — they 
use  it  in  the  piu-chase  or  sale  of  stock,  and  use  it  as  if  they  knew  no 
more  of  the  current  of  events  than  you  know  yourself.  Two  men 
meet,  chat  for  a  moment  or  two,  crack  a  joke,  laugh,  make  an 
entry  in  their  books,  exchange  a  strip  of  paper,  and  part ; 
and  it  is  not  till  the  next  day  that  you  find  out  what  it 
was  all  about — that  one  of  these  men  was  in  possession  of  a 
secret  which  was  worth  perhaps  ;£"  100,000  to  him,  and  that  he  used 
this  secret  to  clear  the  market  of  stock  which  he  can  now  sell  at  his 
own  price,  or  in  selling  the  stock  of  other  people  at  a  handsome 
price  which  he  can  now  pick  up  for  an  old  song.  Acting  alone, 
acting  in  secret,  acting  from  calculation,  and  acting  against  people 
who  in  the  mass  may  be  said  to  act  merely  from  impulse,  buying  or 
selling  upon  the  strength  of  the  day's  rumour  or  the  caprice  of  the 
hour,  the  jobber  who  has  his  wits  about  him  can  hardly  help  finding 
himself  at  the  end  of  the  year  with  a  handsome  balance  in  hb  bank- 
book.   Of  course, 

The  best-laid  schemes  o*  mice  and  men 
Gang  aft  a-gley ; 

and  the  jobber  may  now  and  then  find  himself  on  the  wrong  side  of 
the  hedge.  But  the  chances  are  ten  thousand  to  one  in  his  favour ; 
and  it  must  be  very  strange  indeed  if  in  this  game  of  "  pull  devil, 
pull  baker  " — where  the  mass  of  investors  are  acting  upon  nothing  but 
a  haphazard  reckoning  of  profit  or  loss,  with  no  basis  for  their  calcu- 
lations but  their  own  hopes  or  fears,  a  newspaper  article,  a  speech  in 
the  House  of  Conunons,  or  a  prospectus,  and  where  the  Bull  and  the 
Bear,  working  upon  different  lines  of  attack,  are  acting  nevertheless 
upon  profound  calculation,  and  perhaps  upon  secret  information — the 
public  do  not  go  to  the  wall.  These  Bulls  and  Bears  often  do  a 
Vol.  XI.  N.S.,  1873.  Y  Y 


682  TIu  Gentlematis  Magazine. 

great  deal  of  mischief,  playing  Old  Harry  with  the  investments  of 
quiet  people,  to-day  perhaps  inflating  stock  far  above  its  value,  and 
to-morrow  depreciating  it  far  below  its  natural  value :  but  tbey  are 
both  necessary  on  the  Stock  Exchange ;  and  in  these  days  of  specu- 
lative finance,  of  international  banks,  and  of  co-operative  associations 
for  working  the  mines  of  Ophir,  for  planting  tea  plantations  on  the 
slopes  of  the  Himalayas,  for  cultivating  the  pampas  of  the  River 
Plate,  for  intersecting  China  with  railways,  and  for  working  out  eveiy 
chimera  that  the  yA\.  of  man  can  suggest  and  that  capital  and  skill 
can  accomplish,  it  is  '^impossible  to  deny  that  these  men  do  a  great 
deal  more  of  good  than  of  evil  in  testing  the  bona  fides  and  the  pro- 
spects of  success  of  the  schemes  that  are  every  day  floated  in  the 
market  through  the  agency  of  the  Stock  Exchange. 

Charles  Febody. 


The  Thomas  Walkers: 

THE  POPULAR  BOROUGHREEVE  AND  THE  AUTHOR  OF 

"THE  ORIGINAL." 

Two    Biographies  drawn    from   unpublished   Family 

Correspondence  and  Documents. 

BY  BUNCHARD  JERROLD. 


CHAPTER  VI. 
correspondence  with  wedoewood. 

T  was  in  1785  that  Mr.  Pitt  submitted  to  Parliament  an  out- 
line of  his  unfortunate  plan  "  for  finally  adjusting  commercial 
intercourse  between  the  two  kingdoms ;  admitting  Ireland  to 
^][3&  an  irrevocable  participation  in  the  commercial  advantages  of 
England  ;  and  securing,  in  return,  a  permanent  aid  firom  that  country, 
in  protecting  the  commercial  interests  of  the  empire."  On  the  12th 
of  May  the  Premier,  in  an  exhaustive  speech,  introduced  his  scheme, 
in  the  form  of  twenty  resolutions,  to  the  House  of  Commons.  He 
was  opposed  by  Fox  and  Sheridan,  representing  English  manufac- 
turers, who  had  declared  the  measure  fatal  to  English  interests.*  The 
light  in  which  Josiah  Wedgewood  looked  upon  Pitt's  measure  may  be 
inferred  from  the  foUoTving  note  to  Mr.  Walker,  written  while  the 
Bill,  after  having  passed  the  Commons,  was  under  consideration  in 
the  House  of  Lords : — 

*  Mr.  Wedgewood  presents  his  best  compliments  to  Mr.  Walker  and 
tlie  triumphant  corps — congratulates  them  on  the  many  hours  and 
days  of  festivity  they  have  spent  with  their  friends,  and  is  sorry  to 
disturb  it  one  moment  about  business — ^but  must  just  observe  that 
nothing  but  petitions  can  save  us,  and  the  tone  of  petitioning  now  is 
for  union^  expressing  the  affection  we  feel  for  our  sister, — that  we  wish 
to  do  everything  to  promote  her  welfare,  etc.,  etc  ;  but  are  fully 

*  Grattan  described  the  measure  in  the  Irish  Hoose  of  Commons  as  :  "A  cove- 
nant not  to  trade  beyond  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope  and  the  Straits  of  Magellan ;  a 
covenant  not  to  take  foreign  plantation  produce,  nor  American  produce,  but  as 
Great  Britain  shall  pennit ;  a  covenant  never  to  protect  their  own  manufactures, 
ne\*er  to  guard  the /niMtfrn  of  those  manufactures.*' 

Y  T  1 


684  The  Geiitlevtans  Magaziiu. 

persuaded  that  the  present  resolutions,  mstead  of  promoting  that 
harmony  and  mutual  goodwill  which  we  wish  for,  would  tend  rather 
to  sow  discord  between  the  two  nations,  and  that  nothing  short  of 
union  in  commerce,  policy,  and  legislation  can  answer  the  de- 
sired end. 

"  Great  George  Street, 

"May  23,  1785." 

The  next  question  on  which  the  two  enterprising  manufacturers 
corresponded  was  Chambers  of  Commerce,  the  value  of  which  was 
( lear  to  both.     Mr.  Wedgewood  writes  : — 

"  Dear  Sir, — I  was  much  disappointed  by  the  fall  from  my  horse, 
having  promised  myself  much  pleasure  from  our  intended  interview 
iit  Buxton,  othenvise  I  rec**  no  harm  at  all,  and  am  much  oblig'd  by 
\  our  kind  enquiries.  I  hope  you  are  now  in  perfect  good  health  and 
sjnrits,  and  the  full  enjoyment  of  your  friends  in  Manchester,  and 
shall  be  happy  to  hear  that  you  are  so,  when  you  have  a  moment  to 
si:are  to  tell  so. 

**  I  have  just  now  been  with  Mr.  Daintry  of  Leek.  He  is  fully 
sensible  of  the  necessity  of  the  General  Chamber  in  London  being 
supported,  and  engages  to  form  a  provincial  chamber,  if  possible,  in 
Leek  and  Macclesfield,  but  they  wiJl  wait  the  event  of  your  meeting 
in  Manchester,  and  which  I  now  expect  to  hear  a  good  accoimt  ot 
every  day. 

"  You  would  easily  perceive  why  I  wished  a  short  history  of  the 
General  Chamber  to  be  given  at  your  meeting,  and  of  consequence 
to  appeal  in  the  public  papers.  Such  a  history  is  very  much  wanted 
to  set  people  right  upon  that  subject  I  know  it  would  do  a  great 
deal  of  good,  and  am  therefore  anxious  for  your  introducing  such 
a  thing  in  some  way  or  other. 

"  You  have  no  doubt  heard  of  the  prohibition  of  our  manufactures 
in  the  Venetian  States ;  what  will  they  leave  us  soon  ?  I  beg  my 
respectfull  compts.  to  Mrs.  Walker,  and  your  good  brother,  and  all 
our  friends,  and  am, 

"  Dear  Sir, 

"  Most  sincerely  yom^ 

"Jos.  Wedgewood. 
"Etruria,  17  Nov.,  1785." 

The  correspondence  between  Thomas  Walker  and  Josiah  Wedge- 
wood, as  indeed  between  the  Manchester  merchant  and  many  other 
1  nglish  merchants,  betrays  the  unsettled ,  state  of  the  commercia 


TJie  Tliontas  Walkers. 

mind  in  those  days ;  and  how  manufacturers  lived  in  perpetual  fear 

of  rivalry.      Wedgevvood  hastens  to  forward  the  following  scrap  of 

intelligence : — 

"  Etruria,  Jan.  7,  1786. 

"  Dear  Sir, — I  wrote  a  line  to  you  yesterday,  and  trouble  you  with 
another  to-day,  just  to  convey  to  you  the  following  piece  of  informa- 
tion which  I  have  since  received.  It  may  be  of  no  moment  to  you, 
in  which  case  you  will  bum  the  letter,  and  believe  me  to  be, 

"  Dear  Sir, 

"  Yours  faithfully, 

"Jos.   WeDGE\V30D. 

—  "  News  I  have  none  to  tell  you,  for  to  say  that  the  French 
are  exerting  themselves  as  much  as  possible  to  rival  us  in 
manufactures  is  no  news  to  you.  A  Mr.  Mills,  late  of  Manchester, 
now  in  France,  has  obtained  great  privileges  from  the  Government 
for  establishing  machines  for  spinning  cotton,  which  my  informant 
•  says  (and  he  is  no  bad  judge)  are  the  completest  he  knows,  and  have 
less  friction  than  any  he  has  seen.  My  countrymen  must  therefore 
continue  to  exert  themselves  to  keep  our  continental  neighbours  at  a 
due  distance  behind  us  in  trade  and  manufactures,  which  they  now 
begin  to  feel  are  the  only  means  of  support  that  a  country  has  to 
depend  on  with  certainty." 

A  few  days  later  he  refers  to  a  German  edict,  and  advises  that  the 
(leiieral  Chamber  should  take  action. 

"Etruria,  Jan.  15,  1786. 

"  Dear  Sir, — I  have  received  your  favour  of  the  12th  (written  at  the 
suggestion  of  Mr.  Fox),  enclosing  copy  of  a  letter  from  Messrs.  Rom- 
berg and  Son,  respecting  a  German  edict  which  I  think  would  be  a 
ver)-  proper  thing  for  all  our  manufacturers  to  be  acquainted  with,  and 
therefore  a  suitable  thing  to  come  from  the  General  Chamber.  If  you 
think  so  I  hope  you  have  sent  it,  or  will  send  it  on  receipt  of  this,  to 
our  secretary.  To  save  you  trouble,  I  will  send  him  a  copy  of  the 
letter,  but  tell  him  not  to  publish  it  till  he  hears  from  you — so  you 
will  be  so  good  as  to  send  him  a  line  by  the  next  post. 

*'The  Birmingham  resolutions  struck  me  much  in  the  same  manner 
as  they  did  you.  Mr.  Hustler  has  written  to  our  secretary  to  say  that 
the  manufacturers  of  Yorkshire  still  make  use  of  the  stale  objection  to 
the  Chamber  that  it  is  a  mere  party  affair,  and  that  we  never  applied 
at  all  to  the  Minister  or  his  friends,  but  only  to  Mr.  Fox  and  his  party, 
and  that  if  he  could  contradict  these  objections  authoritatively,  some- 


686  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

thing  might  still  be  done.  You  well  know  they  might  be  contradicted, 
but  by  what  mode  might  such  an  authority  be  given  to  that  contra- 
diction as  would  silence  the  gainsayers  ?  I  have  a  great  aversion  tL 
putting  my  name  to  such  things  in  the  public  prints,  and  I  dares2} 
you  and  your  brother  would  have  the  same  feeling ;  otherwise  I  ccu'.c 
say  with  great  tnith,  and  produce  vouchers  too  for  the  truth  of  ever} 
syllable,  that  after  being  examined  before  the  Committee  of  Privy 
Council,  I  waited  upon  Mr.  Pitt  in  Downing  Street  He  was  himscli 
engaged,  but  I  had  two  meetings  with  his  private  secretary  upon  th-: 
Irish  business ;  after  which  your  brother,  Mr.  Sylvester,  and  mysel: 
waited  upon  Mr.  Pitt  as  a  deputation  from  the  General  Chamber- 
that  after  this  I  had  a  meeting  by  appointment  in  a  committee  rojm 
of  the  House  of  Commons,  with  Mr.  Pitt's  confidential  friends,  Mr. 
A\*ilberforce  being  one  of  them — that  I  never  once  waited  upon  Mr. 
Fox,  nor  ever  once  exchanged  a  single  word  with  him  ui>on  the 
subject. 

t:  **  I  must  conclude.  Mr.  Eden  teUs  me  he  does  not  leave  England 
before  the  middle  of  next  month,  so  I  shall  wait  your  further  determi- 
nation about  going  to  town.     Adieu. 

"  Yours  sincerely, 

"Jos.  Wedge^'ood." 

Mr.  A\*edgewood  was  anxious,  it  would  appear,  to  prove  that  his 
opi^osition  to  Pitt's  Irish  resolutions,  which  he  had  been  compelled 
to  withdraw  before  the  determined  hostility  of  the  Irish  House  ot 
Commons  and  the  English  manufacturers,  was  entirely  independent  of 
party.  The  excitement  of  the  time  is  shown  in  a  hurried  letter, 
signed  Denis  0'Br}'en,  dated  from  Llangollen,  August  1 7,and  addressed 
to  Mr.  \\*alker  : — 

"  Dear  Sir, — I  have  tidings  for  you  that  i^nll  gladden  your  heart 
In  my  way  from  Dublin  (whither  I  went  last  week  to  see  the  fate  of 
the  propositions)  I  snatch  a  moment  from  the  expedition  of  my 
journey  to  let  you  know  that  the  Empire  is  rescued  from  this  banefull 
I)roject  of  our  precious  Government.  Mr.  Orde,  fairly  beaten  out  of 
the  field,  notified  to  the  House  of  Commons  that  the  scheme  was 
abandoned — never  to  be  revived  again — on  Monday  night  I  con- 
gratulate yourself,  your  fellow  citizens,  and  the  two  kingdoms  upon 
this  signal  victory  over  the  most  iniquitous  attempt  ever  made  upon 
the  tranquility,  the  happiness,  and  the  property  of  two  nations — and 
I  have  the  greatest  satisfaction  in  assuring  you  that  the  Irish  people 
and  the  Irish  Parliament   entertain  not  any  ideas  hostile  to  your 


Tlte  Thomas  Walkers.  687 

manufactuxes,  nor  feel  the  least  dispo$itioa  to  alienate  their  interests 
or  affections  from  this  country.  In  truth  it  was  the  King's  Govern- 
ment against  the  two  nations,  and  not  Ireland  against  England.  The 
whole  Irish  nation  is  in  a  blaze  of  exultation  upon  this  defeat  You 
wUl,  I  think,  rejoice  no  less  in  the  event 

"  Let  me  recommend  among  jour  toasts  that  you  will  drink 
Grattan  and  the  loS  of  last  Friday.  If  ever  minority  was  virtuous 
they  were  so— for  they  resisted  every  art  of  corruption,  influence,  and 
power,  and  the  Minister  dared  not  to  fight  them  a  second  time.  The 
termination  of  the  business  was  at  one  o'clock  on  Tuesday  morning, 
and  I  sett  off  about  4  hours  after.  I  write  this  at  a  place  called 
Langollen,  in  Denbyshire,  vhile  the  chaise  is  getting  ready,  and  I 
shall  drop  it  in  Shrewsbuiy.  If  it  goes  directly  across  the  country 
you  will  have  the  intelligence  long  before  it  reaches  Government 
They  will  not  have  it  before  Friday  night,  for  I  left  their  messenger 
30  miles  behind  me.    Again  and  again  I  congratulate  you. 

"  Yours  very  truly, 

"  D.  CyBRYEN, 
"  Of  Craven  Street 

"  Wednesday  Evening,  1 7th  August" 

At  the  end  of  1786  Wedgewood  and  Walker  and  others  were 
in  correspondence  on  the  French  treaty.  Mr.  Walker  in  his 
letters  said  that  Manchester  busied  itself  with  the  subject  only 
in  its  relation  to  cotton  manufactures ;  and  that  opinion  was  almost 
universally  in  &vour  of  it  as  advantageous  to  the  industry  of  the 
locality.  Mr.  Walker  himself  was  not  so  sanguine — basing  his  doubts 
on  the  comparative  cheapness  of  French  labour,  and  on  the  duty  raised 
on  the  expcMt  of  French  cotton,  which  made  it  2d.  per  pound  dearer 
to  the  Manchester  than  to  the  French  manufacturer.  He  argued  that 
the  treaty  would  give  the  balance  of  trade  to  France^— she  having 
both  raw  material  and  majiufactares  to  send  to  England,  Efjgland 
having  only  the  latter  to  return  to  her. 

'^  Recij^odty^"  the  Manchester  manuiSftCturer  exclaims,  "(Irish,  I 
suppose,  with  ye  advantage  all  upon  one  side)  is  pretended  to  be  ye 
basis  of  this  Treaty ;  now  I  would  ask  what  reciprocity  there  is  in  ye 
Articles  which  permit  a  French  manu&eturer  to  settle  in  this  country, 
and  thereby  afford  him  an  opportunity  to  inq[>ect,  search,  pry  into, 
and  make  himself  conqplete  JDWSter  ^  our  xnanufi8u:turing  skill,  and 
whether  it  is  counterbalanced  by  an  English  fanner  having  permission 
to  make  himself  equally  master  of  ye  culture  of  a  vine,  and  ye  other 
productions  of  a  country,  which,  when  he  returns,  the  nature  of  his 


688  The  Gefitlenian's  Magazine. 

own  climate  absolutely  prevents  him  from  ever  deriving  any  advantage 
from  his  knowledge  ?  Is  not  thi§  part  of  ye  reciprocity  of  ye  4th 
and  5th  Articles  ? 

"  With  respect  to  what  duties  there  are  in  France  upon  their  manu- 
factures, or  upon  the  raw  materials  of  their  manufacturesy  I  believe — 
despotick  as  ye  country  is — that  Monster  ye  Excise  is  unknown  there 
— neither  do  I  understand  that  ye  French  Government  imposes  any 
duty  upon  any  raw  material  which  they  use  in  their  own  manufac- 
tures ;  in  most  places  I  am  informed  they  have  town  duties  upon  ye 
admission  of  all  goods,  and  which  are  from  three  to  five  per  cent. 
upon  ye  values ;  ye  Duke  de  Penthi^vre,  I  am  informed,  has  a  grant 
which  amounts  to  about  one  'penny  per  lb.  upon  all  cotton  which 
comes  from  St.  Domingo,  but  which  is  equally  paid,  whether  it  is 
consumed  in  France  or  exported ;  whether  ye  French  will  look  upon 
it,  that  they  have  a  right  to  countervail  these  duties,  is  yet  to  be 
determined,  taking  it  for  granted  that  my  information  is  correct,  but 
which  I  am  not  certain  of  I  expect  in  the  course  of  ten  or  so  days 
some  letters  from  France  upon  these  points;  if  there  is  anything  worth 
communicating  to  you  in  them,  you  shall  hear  from  me  again. 

"Should  my  suspicions  respecting  ye  cotton  manufacture  prove 
groundless,  does  it  appear  to  you  that  ye  introduction  of  it,  hard- 
ware, and  earthenware  into  France,  upon  ye  duties  specified  in  3rc 
Treaty,  is  in  any  degree  an  equivalent  for  ye  admission  of  wines, 
vinegars,  brandies,  oils,  and  cambricks  from  France  ?  admitting  at  ye 
same  time  that  no  injury  is  done  either  to  our  West  India  Islands,  or 
to  the  navigation  of  this  countr)' ;  ye  balance  of  the  other  manu- 
factures stipulated  for  on  each  side,  I  take  it,  is  in  favour  of  France. 

"  From  ye  spirit  of  this  Treaty,  unless  it  can  be  made  appear  that 
it  is  as  easy  for  England  to  grow  grapes,  &c.,  as  it  is  highly  probable 
that  France  will  manufacture  cottons,  &c.,  we  may  in  my  opinion  at 
ye  expiration  of  ye  twelve  years  drink  her  wines ^  provided  we  oscajhtd 
money  to  pay  for  tlieni^  but  I  am  much  afraid  that  she  will  leant  few  of 
our  vianufactures^  and  what  will  then  be  ye  comparative  state  of  ye 
British  and  French  marine,  is,  I  am  much  afraid,  a  matter  of  still 
more  serious  consideration,  should  this  Treaty  take  effect" 

In  a  postscript  Mr.  Walker  adds : — 

"  I  am  this  moment  informed  that  ye  French  have  issued  an  Edict, 
which  prohibits  the  exportation  of  cottons ;  how  are  we  to  reconcile 
that,  and  ye  Edict,  which  revokes  ye  priviledge  of  arrests,  with  a 
sincere  intention  on  their  part  to  preserve  a  good  understanding 
between  ye  two  countries  ?  " 


The  Thomas  Walkers.  68 

In  addressing  Mr.  Wedgewood  on  the  same  subject  two  days  later, 
Mr.  Walker  prefaced  his  opinion  with  an  expression  of  regret  that  k 
differed  so  widely  from  that  of  one  whom  he  so  much  valued  and 
esteemed,  and  from  whom  he  had  often  received  so  much  good 
counsel  and  useful  instruction. 

"  From  ye  Treaty  as  it  stands,"  he  admits,  "  probably  some  tem- 
porary advantages  may  be  gained  in  some  articles  of  manufacture, 
but  when  ye  general  principle  of  it  is  taken  into  consideration,  and  it 
is  viewed  either  in  a  political  or  in  a  commercial  light,  as  far  as  I 
understand  ye  subject,  it  appears  in  a  very  objectionable  point  ot 
view,  and  fraught  with  much  evil  to  ye  general  interests  of  Great 
Britain." 

These  views  are  identical  with  those  which  were  expressed  by  Dr. 
Watson,  Bishop  of  l.landaff,  in  an  exhaustive  speech,  when  the 
Treaty  was  under  discussion  in  the  House  of  Lords  in  the  following 
year.  But  they  did  not  prevail.  The  argument  of  Pitt,  that  it  was 
ridiculous  to  imagine  the  French  would  consent  to  Jffeld  advantages 
without  any  idea  of  compensation,  and  that  the  Treaty,  if  it  benefited 
France,  would  benefit  England  more,  carried  the  day ;  and  a  joint 
address  of  thanks  for  an  act  calculated  to  promote  goodwill  between 
the  two  countries  and  to  preserve  peace,  was-  enthusiastically 
adopted. 

CHAPTER  Vn. 

CORRESPONDENCE   WITH    FOX. 

The  position  which  Mr.  Thomas  W^alker  held  in  Lancashire  and 
beyond  Lancashire  in  the  time  of  Fox  and  Sheridan,  is  shown  by  the 
correspondence  which  these  leaders  of  the  Liberal  party  held  with 
him ;  by  the  anxiety  with  which  they  courted  his  advice,  by  the 
respect  which  they  paid  to  his  opinions,  and  by  the  strong  personal 
regard  in  which  Mr.  Fox  at  any  rate  held  his  doughty  ally.  So  far 
back  as  January,  1786,  we  find  Mr.  Fox  asking  for  advice  from  the 
l)ractical  men  of  the  north  on  the  Emperor's  Arret — the  "  German 
edict "  referred  to  by  Wedgewood  in  his  letter  of  January  15, 1786  : — 

"  Dear  Sir, — I  have  not  been  in  I^ondon  since  the  news  arrived  of 
the  Emperor's  Arret,  and  consequently  have  had  no  opportunity  oC 
informing  myself  of  the  effect  it  is  likely  to  have.  The  circumstance 
of  its  being  announced  by  the  Chamber  of  Manufacturers  leads  me 
to  suppose  that  it  must  be  considered  by  them  as  a  matter  of  im- 
portance, while  on  the  other  hand  the  great  indifference  with  which 
it  is,  as  I  hear,  received  by  the  Ministry  would  make  one  suspect 


690 


The  Genticmans  Magi 


that  iliey  hav<;  some  groiind  to  suppose  it  ht] 
tlie  conseiiuencL's  naturally  to  be  dreaded  fix 
I.undon  in  a  day  or  two  to  stay,  when  I  shal 
tLinities  of  learning  what  sentiments  are  enter 
manufacturers  and  trades  in  the  south  upon 
should  wish  very  much  to  know  what  is  thoi 
and  ])arlicularly  in  Lancashire  and  Yorlcshi 
obliged  to  you  if  you  would  favour  me  will 
subject.  If  the  thing  be  really  as  mischievou 
t«o  t;uestions  will  naturally  arise — first,  whel 
been  taken  to  prevent  it.  and  next  what  reme 
apjilieJ  to  the  evil.  With  respect  to  the  first 
that  I  may  have  belter  means  of  information 
country,  or  those  who  have  not  been  in  politi' 
respect  to  the  next,  I  should  wish  very  much 
may  have  suggested  themselves  to  persons  " 
subjects  is  nearer,  and  whose  opinions  opo 
than  those  of  theorists  and  politicians, 

"  I  have  not  yet  heard  it  given  out  that  ai 
the  prevention  of  the  measure.  Upon  the  fin 
as  a  politician,  that  the  j^articular  situatioi 
especially  while  the  Exchange  of  Bavaria  was 
anijile  means  for  prevention ;  but  I  would  not 
this  till  I  ha\'e  made  further  inquiries,  which 
it  easy  to  do.  Permit  me  to  take  this  occas: 
I  riLver  can  forget  the  ver^'  obliging  manner 
)xu:rjelf  to  nie  at  Manchester,  and  that  I  1 
rt't^ard,  dear  sir, 

"  Your  obedient,  hu 

■'  St.  Anne's  Hill,  6  Jan.,  '86. 

■■  \'ou  will  be  so  good  as  to  direct  to  me  in 

'I'lie  most  important  communication  whit 
from  Mr.  l-ox  was  one  bearing  date  nth  Jan 

'■  My  dear  Sir, — It  was  with  great  sati 
received,  a  feiv  days  since,  your  very  obliginf 
<in  the  African  trade  are  just  what  you  suppo: 
thoughts  of  having  attacked  it  mj-self  in  Parli 
had  not  been  beforehand  with  me.  There 
.itn  glad  he  has  undertaken  it  rather  than  I, 
that  I  can  be  very  useful   in  preventing  1 


The  T/tomas  Walkers.  691 

cause,  if  he  should  be  so  inclined,  which  I  own  I  saspect.  Nothing, 
I  think,  but  such  a  disposition,  or  a  want  of  judgment  scarcely 
credible,  could  induce  him  to  throw  cold  water  upon  petitions.  It  is 
irom  them  and  other  demonstrations  of  the  opinion  without  doors 
that  I  look  for  success ;  and  I  am  the  more  happy  that  the  town  of 
Manchester  sees  the  matter  in  this  light,  because  the  cotton  manu- 
facturers were  one  of  the  classes  of  men  who  were  expected  to  think 
less  liberally  than  they  ought  upon  this  subject.  I  am  not  at  present 
well  informed  what  are  the  other  branches  of  manufeicture  the  vent 
of  which  is  supposed  to  be  encouraged  by  this  infernal  traffic,  but  if 
the  towns  and  places  principally  concerned  in  such  branches  would 
follow  the  noble  example  of  Manchester,  it  would  be  of  great  advan- 
tage to  the  cause,  and  do  great  honour  to  themselves ;  and  I  think 
it  will  be  difficult  even  for  Liverpool,  Bristol,  etc.,  to  appear  openly 
in  support  of  so  invidious  a  cause  as  the  defence  of  the  trade. 

"  I  shall  be  very  happy  to  see  you  next  month  in  town  on  every 
account,  but  particularly  to  talk  over  with  you  the  business  of  the 
expiration  of  the  East  India  Company's  Monopoly.  That  event  will, 
I  believe,  happen  in  1791 ;  but  I  am  not  sure.  I  never  inquired 
enough  into  the  subject  to  know  what  are  the  commercial  objections 
to  the  opening  of  the  trade.  I  am  very  sure  indeed  that  of  political 
and  constitutional  reasons  there  are  abundance  for  it,  and  none 
against  it.  .  .  I  have  still  more  reasons  than  I  can  well  men- 
tion in  a  letter  for  suspecting  Wilberforce  in  the  business  of  the  Slave 
Trade,  which  I  will  tell  you  when  I  have  the  pleasing  of  seeing  you, 
and  at  any  rate  it  is  certain  that  he  will  make  his  conduct  on  ^is,  as 
on  every  occasion,  entirely  subservient  to  what  he  thinks  Pitt's 
interest ;  but  yet,  the  more  I  think  of  it,  the  more  I  think  it  is  lucky 
that  he  is  the  leader  in  the  business. 

"  I  am  with  great  truth,  dear  Sir, 

"  Yours  ever, 

«  C.  J.  Fox. 
"  St  Anne's  Hill,  1 1  Jan.,  '88." 

"  I  leceived  the  game  very  fresh  and  good,  and  return  you  many 
thanks  for  it 

''  P.S. — ^Upon  looking  over  my  letter  I  find  I  have  fQi|;ot  taking 
notice  of  what  you  say  of  your  intention  of  making  me  acquainted 
with  Mr.  Cooper.  I  shall  be  very  happy  to  be  acquainted  with  a 
gentleman  who  has  taken  so  spirited  A  part  in  this  business^  and  whose 
love  of  liberty  seems  to  be  ao  genuine  and  sincere." 

As  chairman  of  the  Mandiester  Committee  for  the  Abolition  of 


692  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

Slaver}',  Mr.  Walker  was  in  constant  communication  with  the  active 
friends  of  that  holy  cause.  His  purse,  his  time,  and  his  influence 
were  all  enthusiastically  given  to  it.  Granville  Shaq),  Major  Can- 
Wright,  Clarkson,  Lord  George  Gordon  (from  Newgate),  Lord  Ix)ugh- 
borough,  James  Philips,  Wilberforce,  and  others  were  among  his 
correspondents. 

Fdx's  anticipations  as  to  the  subser\'iency  of  Wilberforce  to  Pitt 
were  amply  realised  in  the  course  of  the  year.  Pitt  recommended 
that  a  Committee  of  the  Privy  Council  should  be  appointed  to  inquire 
into  the  facts  and  allegations  contained  in  the  petitions  presented  to 
Parliament,  and  on  the  9th  of  May  took  the  place  of  Mr.  Wilberforce, 
who  was  ill,  by  moving  that  the  circumstances  of  the  slave  trade 
should  be  taken  into  consideration  next  Session.  Both  Fox  and 
Burke  condemned  the  delay,  and  the  inquiry  given  over  to  the  Pri\T 
Council  maintaining  that  it  should  have  taken  place  before  the  House 
of  Commons  ;  but  Mr.  Pitt  had  his  own  way.  Moreover,  Liverpool 
and  Bristol  had  the  audacity  to  petition  against  the  suppression  of  the 
horrors  of  the  Middle  Passage. 

An  active  and  friendly  correspondence  was  kept  up  between  the 
fLimilies  of  Mr.  Fox  and  Mr.  Walker  to  the  day  of  the  great  states- 
man's death.  Among  Mr.  Walker's  papers  is  a  letter  from  Mr.  Fox 
to  Mr.  T.  Stanley,  in  which  he  points  out  the  conflict  and  confusion  that 
would  arise  when  the  Irish  propositions  took  effect  in  the  glove  and 
stocking  trade. 

*'  With  respect  to  the  business  you  mentioned/*  Mr.  Fox  writes, 
*'  nothing  occurs  to  me  but  what  must  of  course  have  occurred  to 
others.  In  regard  to  the  glove  and  stocking  trade,  the  great  danger 
seems  to  arise  from  smuggling.  In  the  first  of  these  trades  it  has 
been  thought  to  be  so  dangerous  that  the  onus  probandi  is  thrown 
iijDon  the  person  accused  of  selling  foreign  gloves.  This  Act  could 
hardly  have  passed  if  it  were  not  absolutely  necessary,  and  yet  all 
the  eflect  of  it  will  be  lost  when  the  Irish  propositions  shall  have 
taken  effect.  The  seller  of  gloves  will  only  have  to  allege  that  the 
gloves  are  Irish,  which,  after  these  now  laws,  may  be  legally  imported  1 
\'ou  cannot  put  upon  him  to  prove  they  were  made  in  Ireland,  and, 
of  course,  all  tlie  benefit  to  the  glove  trade  resulting  from  theAct  alluded 
to  will  be  lost.  The  stocking  trade  will  be  equally  liable  to  fraud.  The 
threat  security  against  French  stockings  is  that  no  foreign  stockings 
are  importable  into  this  countr}',  but  when  the  Irish  are  once 
admitted,  who  shall  discern  the  Irish  from  the  French,  and  may  it 
not  become  the  interest  of  the  Irish  to  be  the  depdt  for  smuggling 
these  and  all  other  foreign  commodities  into  Great  Britain  ?*• 


The  Thomas  JValkers.  693 

During  the  last  illness  of  Mr.  Fox,  Mr.  Walker  appears  to  have 
been  in  constant  communication  with  Mrs.  Fox.  Her  letters  are  full 
of  thanks  for  inquiries,  for  fruit,  for  offers  of  service,  &c.  A  box 
of  apricots,  "  a  few  Lancashire  apples  and  pears,"  &c.,  were  con- 
stantly on  their  way  from  Longford  to  Mr.  Fox's  residence.  In  reply 
Mrs.  Fox  writes  (August  26,  1806)  that  Mr.  Fox  is  a  great  deal  better  ; 
and  that  on  the  morrow  they  were  going  to  Chiswick  for  a  day  or 
two,  and  then  to  St.  Anne's  Hill,  where  they  hope  the  good  air  will 
soon  make  him  quite  well.  But  the  end  was  at  hand.  Lord  Holland 
wrote  (September  11) : — "Though  I  do  not  wish  to  rafse  any  hopes 
of  a  final  recovery,  of  which  there  is  but  a  bare  possibility,  yet  I  have 
the  satisfaction  of  saying  that  Mr.  Fox  has  been  for  twenty-four  hours 
better  than  we  ever  expected  to  see  him,  and  that  he  has  gained  and 
is  gaining  strength  and  ease. " 

I  find  a  letter  from  Mr.  Walker  to  Mrs.  Fox,  dated  October  3,  1806, 
frciii  the  Grecian  Coffee  House  : — 

'*  Dear  Mrs.  Fox, — Had  it  been  in  my  power  to  have  offered  you 
the  least  consolation  on  the  death  of  that  great  and  good  man,  to 
know  whom  was  to  admire  and  love  him,  I  should  have  been  among 
the  first  to  have  paid  so  grateful  a  tribute  to  his  revered  memory. 
Not  only  the  great  affection  and  respect  I  bore  to  Mr.  Fox,  but  the 
marked  civility  and  attention  I  experienced  on  your  part  the  few 
times  I  had  the  honour  of  seeing  you,  would  have  prompted  me  to 
discharge  this  melancholy  duty.  But  judging  from  my  own  feelings, 
I  was  convinced  I  should  only  have  added,  if  possible,  to  the  poignancy 
of  yours.  The  same  consideration  would  restrain  me  from  now 
addressing  you,  did  I  not  flatter  myself  that  after  the  first  acute  sen- 
sations of  afiiiction,  the  mere  expression  of  sympathy  (for  consolation 
I  have  none  to  offer)  from  one  who  so  dearly  loved  Mr.  Fox,  and 
who  feels  with  pride  and  pleasure  that,  in  retura,  he  enjoyed  some 
portion  of  his  esteem,  may  not  be  wholly  unacceptable  to  you. 

"  With  most  fervent  and  sincere  wishes  for  your  health,  and  all 

possible  happiness,  I  have  the  honour  to  be,  with  the  highest  respect 

and  esteem, 

"  Dear  Madam, 

"  Your  very  faithful  and  much  obliged  servant, 

"Thomas  Walker." 

Mrs.  Fox  replied  from  St.  Anne's  Hill  on  the  8th : — 

"  Dear  Sir, — I  feel  greatly  obliged  to  you  for  your  kind  letter. 
The  only  consolation  I  can  now  have  is  in  the  soothing  attentions  I 


694  ^'^^  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

receive  from  the  friends  of  my  ever  to  be  lamented  husband,  amongst 
whom  I  am  sure  you  were  highly  esteemed ;  and  from  reflecting  that 
the  Almighty  in  His  infinite  goodness  gave  me  strength  of  body  and 
mind  to  go  through  my  last  sad  duty  in  the  way  that  I  was  surt 
would  be  most  satisfactory  to  his  feelings.  Oh,  my  dear  sir,  it  iras 
indeed  a  dreadful  task ;  but  he  is  now  happy,  and  I  feel  convinced 
that  we  shall  meet  again  in  a  better  and  happier  world,  though  at  the 
same  time  I  feel  that  the  remainder  of  my  journey  in  this  must  be 
solitary  and  joyless.  I  am,  I  thank  God,  very  well  in  health,  and 
though  the  sight  of  this  place  was  dreadfully  agonising  at  first,  I  am 
convinced  I  shall  be  happier  here  than  anywhere  else.  I  beg  you  to 
believe  me  to  be,  dear  sir,  with  best  wishes  for  yours  and  Mrs. 
Walker's  health  and  happiness,  your  sincerely  obliged 

''Elizabeth  Fox." 

With  the  death  of  Fox  expired  all  chance,  if  not  every  spark  of 
hope,  that  the  WTiigs  would  show  common  gratitude  to  a  gallant  ser- 
vant of  the  good  cause,  who  had  spent  his  fortune  as  well  as  the 
belter  part  of  his  life  in  promoting  every  popular  question  that  had 
arisen  in  his  time ;  and  who  never  tired  of  work  for  what  he  con* 
ceived  to  be  the  public  good.     In  1804  he  writes  in  profound  dis- 
couragement to  John  Cartwright :  "  For  some  weeks  after  I  had  the 
pleasure  of  last  writing  to  you  I  was,  by  the  continuance  of  indis- 
position, unable  to  leave  home.     I  have  since  been  in  Manchester, 
where  I  have  seen  several  persons  who  profess  themselves  the  fiiends 
of  freedom  and  of  Sir  Francis  Burdett ;  but  I  am  very  sorry  to  say  it 
appears  to  me  that  neither  their  love  of  the  former  nor  their  respect 
for  the  latter  will  lead  them  to  make  any  effort  in  support  of  their 
professions.    Apathy  and  timidity  seem,  at  present,  to  be  the  order 
of  the  day  in  a  place  which  some  years  ago  did  not  confine  itself  to 
u*ishiNg,  ...  A  wicked  and  a  corrupt  Minister  is  a  much  more  dan- 
gerous enemy  than  any  foreign  one ;  but  a  money-mongering  and  a 
besotted  people  are  worse  than  either." 

Ten  years  later  we  find  the  veteran  Reformer  as  elastic  and  eager  as 
ever.  Writing  to  his  son  Charles*  he  goes  into  the  Com  Bill  with 
vigour,  after  having  expressed  his  delight  at  a  recent  chastisement 
given  lately  "  to  that  impudent  and  incorrigible  old  rogue — George 
Rose." 

*  Charles  James  Stanley  Walker,  now  in  his  85th  year;  who  hat  throogfaont 
his  life,  both  as  magistrate,  and  a  public  scrrant  tnmany  capacities,  enjoyed  a  high 
reputation  for  hb  public  spirit,  and  his  devotion  to  the  puUic  weal  in  Lancaihire. 


Tfie  T/tomas  Walkers.  695 

"  A  principal  object  of  the  clamour  that  has  been  raised  against  the 
Com  Bill,"  he  opines,  "  ii  to  prevent  a  union  between  the  landed 
and  commeicial  interests  in  favour  of  refonn,  and  against  the  authors 
and  supporters  of  the  late  sanguinary,  expensive,  and  unnecessary  war ; 

ihe  origin  of  which,  at  present,  seems  to  be  entirely  lost  sight  of  by 
the  simple  and  undisccming  people.  We  must  not  go  into  the  Baltic 
for  our  loaf ;  when,  if  agriculture  is  only  properly  encouraged,  we  may 
always  have  it  cheaper  at  home.  Our  price  of  labour  is  regulated  nal 
by  the  price  of  com,  but  by  the  demand  which  there  is  for  it ;  the 
wages  in  the  cotton  and  all  other  manufactures  are  sometimes  high 
when  com  is  cheap,  and  sometimes  low  when  grain  is  dear." 

It  was  shortly  before  the  death  of  Fox  that  Mr.  Walker  was 
encouraged  to  hope  that  his  broken  fortunes  (his  trial  alone  in  1794 
cost  him  over  ^3,000)  would  be  mended  somewhat  by  a  Govern- 
ment appointment  In  May,  1S06,  he  wrote  to  Fox  claiming  his 
interest  (which  Fox  had  cordially  promised  him)  to  obtain  one  of  the 
Commissionerships  of  Customs  for  the  port  of  London — a  position  for 
which  his  extensive  knowledge  and  life-long  pursuits  eminently 
qualified  him.  He  wrote  abo  to  Lord  Erskine,  The  Commissioner- 
ship  of  Customs  having  eluded  his  grasp,  he  wrote  in  July  of  the  same 
year  to  Lord  Erskine  for  a  vacant  Commissionership  for  auditing  the 
public  accounts,  adding  that  Fox  was  too  ill  to  receive  any  application 
on  the  subject  For  the  second,  and  last  time — so  far  as  any  record 
remains — he  failed. 

Vet  neither  neglect,  ingratitude,  nor  loss  of  fortune  slackened  the 
zeal  of  this  true  and  earnest  man.  Nor  did  the  injustice  with  which 
his  party  treated  him  prevent  the  chief  of  it  from  having  recourse  to 
his  experience  and  his  sagacity,  to  the  end  of  his  life. 

In  1 808  he  is  deeply  engaged  in  a  Manchester  Waterworks  Bill.  In 
June,  1813,  he  is  giving  advice  to  Lord  Dundas,  and  describing  the 
au-ful  condition  to  which  Manchester  had  been  reduced.  In  1812  he 
is  subscribing  to  the  fund  for  the  trial  of  "  Mr.  Knight  and  the  36  other 
friends  of  Peace  and  Reform,"  then  in  confinemcDt  in  Lancaster  Castle; 
and  obtaining  Lord  Brougham  (through  his  &iend  Major  Caitwright)  to 
defend  them.  His  friend  Richaidson,  of  the  Temple,  once  bantered 
him  on  his  public  spirit  and  his  perpetual  sacrifices  of  self,  "  Inti:test 
is  the  tutelary  Deity  that  presides  over  all  Places  of  Trade,  and  I 
look  upon  you  as  an  odd,  oat  < 
Divinity  of  Manchester." 
remained  to  tlie  end ;  3 
his  affectionate  friend  a 


696  The  Gcfitlemans  Magazine. 

would  have  died  in  poverty.  Vaughan  bequeathed  his  fortune  to  the 
wife  of  Mr.  Walker,  and  then  to  the  wife  of  his  brother  Richard ;  and 
this  godsend  kept  the  Longford  family  together  for  many  years  after 
the  death  of  the  first  and  foremost  of  the  political  worthies  of  modern 
Lancashire. 

Thomas  Walker  died  at  Longford  on  the  2nd  of  February,  181 7, 
and  was  buried  at  St.  Clement's  Church,  Chorlton-<:um-Hardj, 
Lancashire. 


A  Lawn  Meet. 

F  not  exactly  a  model  lawn  meet,  the  one  I  am  about  to 
attempt  to  describe  was  at  least  somewhat  exceptional  of  its 
kind,  and  very  characteristic  of  the  "rough  and  ready" 
order.  Model,  indeed,  it  hardly  could  have  been,  for  it  did 
not  take  place  in  either  of  the  "grass  shires ;"  nor  was  it  even  in 
Devonshire,  in  praise  of  which  county,  remarkable  runs  over 
Exmoor  and  Dartmoor,  stag-killing  at  Watersmeet,  and  fox-hunting 
at  Ivy  Bridge,  poets  and  historians  have  of  late  run  rampant  It 
was,  in  short,  in  a  county  beyond  the  reach  of  the  ordinary  sort  of 
modem  fox-hunters,  and  though  our  master  boasted  hard  riders 
enough  in  his  field,  they  were  peculiar  of  their  kind,  and  would  have 
cut  but  a  sorry  figure  in  Leicestershire,  or  with  the  York  and  Ainsty. 
Yet  were  they  for  the  most  part  gentlemen  of  the  right  fox-hunting 
quality,  and  being  well  accustomed  to  the  peculiarities  of  their  own 
county,  would  be  found  very  hard  to  beat  by  the  best  grass-shire 
man  that  ever  rode  to  hounds. 

And  many  of  them  were  peculiarly  aristocratic  withal,  sprigs  of 
nobility  cropping  up  amongst  them  in  unwonted  exuberance ;  and 
all  were  suflSciently  confident  of  their  own  prowess,  and  inclined  to 
under-estimate  the  cross-country  qualifications  of  visitors  from  other 
and  better  known  hunting  localities.  This  feeling  of  superiority  fre- 
quently engendered  a  wholesome  rivalry,  which  was  attended  with 
results  always  creditable  and  sometimes  disastrous.  The  strangers 
would  generally  come  out  with  fleet-going  thoroughbreds,  who  would 
cut  out  the  work  all  well  enough  while  there  was  plain  sailing ;  but  they 
and  their  riders  as  a  rule  would  come  to  irremediable  grief  when  the 
"going"  was  heavy  or  the  fencing  plentifiil  and  diflScult  The  hunt, 
for  the  most  part,  boasted  horses  with  a  fair  sprinkling  of  blood  enough 
for  the  work  they  had  to  do,  but  bred  less  with  regard  to  fashion  than 
with  a  view  to  adaptability  to  country  requirements.  Thus  it  was  that  in 
such  a  special  gathering  as  a  lawn  meet  "  the  hunt "  did  not  show  to 
the  best  advantage  when  opposed  in  contrast  with  visitors  from 
distant  counties,  who  put  in  an  appearance  more  out  of  respect  to  the 
venerable  master  than  from  any  very  sanguine  expectation  of  a  good 

run  or  of  desperate  rivalry.    These,  indeed,  knew  firom  disappointing 
Vol.  XI.  N.S.,  1873.  z  z 


698  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

experience  that  lawn  meets  are  seldom  productive  of  much  reallj 
good  sport,  and  that  the  most  famous  runs  have  rarely  been  wi:- 
nessed  after  such  exceptional  gatherings.  Lawn  meets,  however,  mu5t 
be  held  occasionally,  or  how  on  earth  is  the  master  of  foxhounds  to 
maintain  his  popularity  among  "  trencher  men,"  and,  what  is  of  far 
more  consequence  in  the  opinion  of  aJl  good  sportsmen,  continue  in 
the  enjoyment  of  the  appreciation  of  the  fair  sex  ? 

The  master  always  had  a  party  with  him  at  his  seat  during  the  prin- 
cipal hunting  fortnight  or  so  of  the  season,  though  the  fiunily  resi- 
dence was  left  to  the  care  of  an  aged  housekeeper  except  on  such  an 
occasion,  the  best  part  of  the  country  lying  some  miles  distant  Tbe 
especial  lawn  meet  was  always  attended  by  the  suiiounding  masters 
of  hounds  of  every  description,  fox,  hare,  and  otter ;  and  many  a 
county  magnate,  from  the  lord-lieutenant  and  the  rector — ^the  latter 
sometimes  a  regular  **  top-sawyer" — to  the  miserable  little  ^  squireen^ 
— half  gentleman  and  half  horse*chaunter  without  a  licence — showed 
up  in  honour  of  the  great  event  In  fact,  the  necessity  of  coming 
out  in  best ''  bib  and  tucker  "  at  the  lawn  meet  was  regarded  among 
the  natives  of  the  vicinity  pretty  much  as  a  rack  rent  iisuiner  would 
regard  that  of  appearing  at  the  parson's  tithe  dinner.  Not  to  appear 
would  be  considered  by  the  rest  as  a  tacit,  but  most  convincing,  procC 
of  a  fall  in  worldly  circumstances,  or,  worse  than  that-^tfaough  that  is 
bad  enough,  in  all  conscience — as  an  incontestable  evidence  of  a 
lapse  from  orthodoxy,  a  clear  case  of  vulpeddismy  and  a  homUe  sus- 
picion that  -the  backslider  had  adopted  the  views  of  Mr.  Freeman 
and  abjured  the  wholesome  doctrines  of  Anthony  Thdlope,  whom 
fox-hunters  revere. 

On  the  occasion  of  this  particular  lawn  meet  every  old  boggy, 
shandr}'dan,  dog-cart,  gig,  whitechapel,  and  other  available  con- 
venience that  could  be  begged,  borrowed,  or  hired  at  the  neighbov- 
ing  town  was  pressed  into  the  service  for  conveying  all  dasses  of  the 
population  to  the  well-known  rendezvous  for  the  puxpose  of  aeeiqg 
the  hounds  throw  off,  and  of  partaking  of  the  master's  good  thii^  if 
nothing  else  could  be  done.  \Vhat  mattered  it  to  them,  so  long  as 
the  '*  stomach  timber ''  was  in  abundance,  and  the  hounds  being  main- 
tained entirely  at  tlie  master's  individual  expense;  they  coold  eiqoy  the 
fun,  feed  themselves  to  their  heart's — ^and  stomach's^-^conteDt^  and 
never  fear  being  called  upon  for  a  subscription  ?  The  lawn  meet  was 
to  them  the  very  "  'Appy  'Ampton'^of  foxJiuntinfe  and  thiMg^  they 
were  unable  to  ''get  a  quid  on"  any  event  during  the  daj— «Bd 
this  to  a  great  many  must  have  been  a  sore  drawbackt  fior  what 
is  sporting  without  the  excitement^  of  betting  7-*thcj  voidd  bavea 


A  Lawn  Meet.  699 

day's  "outing"  free  of  expense,  and  find  information  among  the 
*'  nobs  "  to  hold  conversation  and  swagger  about  as  if  they  had  been 
to  the  manner  of  fox-hunting  bom. 

But  why  such  an  unconscionable  number  of  footers  of  the  horsey 
and  fustian  class  ?  Why  such  a  mob  of  that  seedy  order  of  frozen- 
out  stable  cad  that  one  sees  hanging  about  TattersalFs  on  the  eve  of 
a  great  "  event "  ?    Not  touts  any  of  these  gentlemen,  surely  ! 

Remote,  unfriended,  melancholy,  slow 

they  come  out  upon  the  lawn  and  hang  upon  the  outskirts  of  the 
general  company,  as  though  by  common  consent,  and  by  a  well-under- 
stood arrangement  of  societ}',  they  were  disqualified  from  closer  inter- 
mingling \\\\h.  any  kind  of  company  supposed  in  the  remotest  degree 
to  be  respectable.  \\Tiy  this  thundercloud  of  "  rowdyism,"  as  if  the 
back  purlieus  of  London  had  sent  forth  an  unpleasant  exhalation  to 
infect  mankind  in  far  off  lands  ?  There  must  be  something  in  it. 
Let  us  endeavour  to  ascertain  what  it  is  all  about. 

"  They  tell  me  Tin/s  come  down  to  give  the  crack  a  quiet  gallop 
this  morning,  so  we  shall  be  able  to  take  stock  of  him  here  all  snug. 
Have  you  had  a  look  at  him  yet,  Bill  ?  " 

"  Not  I ;  been  loafing  about  here  for  a  fortnight  or  more,  and  never 
so  much  as  got  a  peep  at  him." 

"  They  are  keeping  it  precious  dark,  and  no  mistake.  Not  that  I 
think  the  old  Squire  means  bonneting  in  the  business  ;  he's  too 
straightgoing  a  bloke  for  any  black  work  of  that  sort.  We  shall  see  a 
gallop  all  on  the  square  this  morning." 

"  Ah,  but  who's  to  tell  what  weight  the  colt's  to  carry  ?  TTiey  tell 
me  the  old  boy  never  lets  the  jockey  know  what* s  up,  and  I  hear  he 
puts  in  the  lead  with  his  own  hand,  and  nobody  gets  fly  to  the  real 
amount  of  what  he's  carrying." 

"  Never  mind ;  we  shall  see  whether  the  colt  can  use  his  legs  well 
anyhow,  and  111  wire  particulars  up  to  town  and  put  a  few  of  my 
pals  up  to  the  straight  tip,  for  blow  me  if  I  don't  think  this  'ere  colt  of 
the  Squire's  is  a  clinker,  and  no  mistake  about  it." 

''  A  clinker  he  is  by  all  accounts,  and  he's  going  into  strict  traming 
after  this  morning,  I  can  tell  you.  Tin/s  come  down  just  to  show 
his  paces  before  the  Squire's  friends,  don't  you  see?" 

**  Right  you  are  ;  I'm  fly  to  the  whole  business.  We  must  wire  to 
Bob  Russell  to  rig  the  market,  or  the  Commissioner  will  be  before- 
hand with  us.  If  the  old  Squire  won't  bet  himself  there's  plenty  here 
as  knows  when  they've  got  a  good  thing  to  hand,  and  the  stable  will 

be  on  to  a  man." 

z  z  2 


700  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

And  such  was  the  fact.     Wherever  and  by  whatsoever  means  these 
worthy  gentlemen  obtained  their  information,  they  were  not  wrong  in 
relying  upon  it ;  for  before  the  sausages,  ham,  and  ale  had  been  well 
consumed  by  the  occupants  of  the  lawn,  the  redoubtable  "  crack " 
appeared  upon  the  scene  with  "  Tiny  "  Wells  in  the  saddle,  and  took 
a  smart  gallop  across  the  lawn,  led  by  old  Frederika — ^the  heroine  of 
many  a  local  race  meeting — with  a  stable  boy  fired  with  a  noble 
ambition  of  one  day  becoming  whipper-in  to  the  hunt "  up."  "  Nobody 
knew,  except  them  as  was  in  the  swim,"  as  the  touts  before-mentionti! 
might  have  been  overheard  to  remark,  what  impost   the   comicg 
favourite  for  the  Derby  was  carrying,  for  Tin/s  diminutive  body,  the 
weight  of  which  modest  portion  of  frail  humanity  was   calculated 
among  the  "fraternity"  to  the  accuracy  of  an  ounce,  could  notgiu- 
them  anything  like  a  reliable  criterion  to  draw  a  conclusion  from,  the 
saddle  flaps  being  carefully  plugged  by  the  venerable  master  in  person. 
The  trial  spin  of  the  colt  gave  great  satisfaction,  and  upon  his 
removal  to  the  training  establishment,  which  has  since  those  days 
been  the  unhappy  hunting-grounds  of  hosts  of  cripples,  was  forthwith 
installed  in  the  lofty  position  of  first  favourite  for  the  Derby-,  a  digni- 
fied position  from  which  it  may  perhaps  be  as  well  to  remark  he 
afterwards  fell  like  Lucifer,  and  never  rose  again,  being,  in  short,  such 
an  utier  and  incorrigible  slug  that,  upon  failing  to  carry  the  whip 
efikiently  to  the  hounds,  he  was  in  the  end  shot,  and  put  piecemeal 
in  the  boiler  with  the  turnips  and  potatoes  to  aid  in  making  a  savoury 
mess  for  "  the  dowgs."    Of  his  famous  jockey,  "  Tiny  Wells,"  it  skills 
not  here  to  speak,  for  who  that  has  taken  the  field  in  any  kind  of 
sporting,  or  has  studied  his  jPr//with  any  ordinary  degree  of  devotioD, 
has  not  witnessed,  heard,  or  read  of  the  exploits  of  that  famous  horse- 
man ?    Alas  poor  Tiny !  who  shall  tell  of  thy  glorious  contests  and 
triumphs  in  the  pigskin  ?  From  the  days  of  Fisherman  and  Mr.  Tom 
Parr,  the  generous  and  astute  "  Squire  of  Wantage,"  to  those  of  Sir 
Joseph  Hawlcy,  whom  Turf  scribes  have  an  odiously  vulgar  habit  of 
styling  **  the  lucky  baronet,"  and  Blue  Gown ;  from  his  first  Leger  on 
S'aucebox  to  his  last  on  Pero  Gomez,  John  Wells  has  presented  a 
career,  if  not  of  unbroken  success,  at  least  one  of  brilliant  skill  in  his 
profession,  and  of  unwavering  fidelity  to  his  employers. 

The  house  party  was  composed  of  many  of  the  true  membeis  of 
the  hunt,  the  bone  and  sinew,  so  to  speak,  of  the  establishment,  and 
there  were  a  few  officers  of  the  regiment  in  garrison  at  the  iar  off 
great  seaport  of  the  neighbouring  county.  My  Lord  and  Lady 
F'itiwigram  and  a  select  circle  of  satellites,  after  paying  their  respects 
and  partaking  of  a  modest  refresher  in  the  shape  of  wine  and  sand- 


Jl 


A  Laiju  Med.  701 

wiches,  had  taken  up  a  position  under  a  tree  at  the  far  end  of  the 
lawn ;  and  Mr.  Marplot,  with  his  blooming  and  evidently  intriguing 
daughter,  had  fastened  on  to  the  military  for  reasons  which  an  acute 
observer  would  not  be  at  any  loss  to  account  for. 

For  the  rest,  there  were  some  rough-and-ready  performers  out  that 
morning,  and  these,  from  the  host  to  Mr.  Marplot,  clearly  meant 
business  to  some  extent,  Miss  Marplot  possibly  having  some  little 
interest  in  the  result  from  being  conscious  of  having  more  than  one 
admirer  in  the  field.  The  principal  performer  of  the  opposition  was 
a  Mr.  Hope,  and,  from  his  frequent  mishaps  and  dexterity  in  regain- 
ing his  saddle  and  position  among  the  first  flight  this  daring  eques- 
trian provoked  the  remark  from  a  wag  that  "  hope  sprung  eternal  in 
the" — saddle.  The  quotation  was  not  creditable  perhaps  to  the 
originality  of  the  plagiarist's  genius,  but  it  was  very  telling  for  all  that, 
and  the  military  and  Miss  Marplot  enjoyed  it  immensely.  Hope 
was  an  admitted  first-flight  man  by  all  who  had  ever  seen  him  cross 
a  country.  But  he  was  not  much  at  a  breakneck  gallop  straight 
away  until  he  had  got  up  his  Dutch  courage  by  the  aid  of  a  little 
*'  jumping  powder,"  but  with  such  invigoration  he  would  ride  like  one 
possessed. 

After  a  magnificent  display  upon  the  lawn,  during  which  more  than 
one  of  the  party  had  exhibited  his  skill  of  manige — with  a  view  pro- 
bably of  effecting  an  advantageous  deal  before  the  day  was  over — a 
grand  blare  of  trumpets,  and  after  the  trenchers  had  been  consi- 
derably relieved  of  "  all  the  delicacies  of  the  season  "  both  indoors 
and  out,  a  move  was  made  for  Foxtor  Rocks,  where  a  find  was  a 
matter  of  certainty.  There  was  a  fine  thinning  of  the  crowd  then,  and 
the  carriage  company  became  very  meagre  fortunately,  but  the  num- 
ber of  footers  was  still  something  awfiil,  although  the  touts  had  cut  it 
after  the  gallop  of  the  Derby  favourite.  But  these  fellows  were  very 
>\'ell  pleased,  and  sufficiently  full  of  beer,  with  which  care  had  been 
taken  that  they  should  be  well  supplied.  Enjoyment  was  what  ever}'- 
body  was  bent  upon,  but  everybody  has  not  the  same  idea  of  enjoy- 
ment. That  was  the  worst  of  it  Now,  foot  gentry  are  apt  to  be 
ncMsy  after  a  "  skin-full  of  beer,"  and  when  out  with  the  hounds. 
They  were  outrageously  so  that  morning,  and  there  was  no  6uch 
thing  as  keeping  the  beggars  within  decent  bounds.  As  it  was  known 
that  Hope  would  crowd  all  sail,  the  master  had  mounted  Captain 
Orant — let  no  noble  captain  of  that  name  suppose  that  uncompli- 
mentary or  any  other  allusion  is  meant  for  him ;  for  with  no  intention 
of  being  either  offensive  or  laudator)^,  it  may  be  remarked  that  this 
Captain  Grant  was  a  gentleman  of ''  another  kidney  " — upon  his  own 


702  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

crack  hunter,  Warleigh,  for  the  honour  of  the  hunt,  and  the  Captain 
was  prepared  to  do  or  die. 

Captain  Grant  was  well  known  in  the  hunt  as  very  hard  to  beat, 
being  always,  as  he  was,  well  n^ounted,  and  having  a  reputation  for 
daring  to  which,  however,  he  was  not  thoroughly  entitled.  On  this 
occasion,  whatever  might  have  been  his  shortcomings  on  others,  he 
was  bound  to  do  all  that  might  become  a  man,  for  was  not  Miss 
Marplot  at  his  elbow,  and  had  not  that  fascinating  damsel  singled 
him  out  from  the  crowd  as  her  especial  esquire  for  the  day  ?  Ah, 
Grant,  Grant,  my  boy !  now  is  your  time  or  never.  Look  well  to 
your  stirrup  leathers  and  girths,  my  friend,  for  the  fox  will  be  on  foot 
in  the  twinkling  of  a  bed-post,  and  Warleigh  has  not  been  hunted 
for  some  seasons  without  learning  the  dodges  characteristic  of  a 
hunter  of  some  experience.  But,  before  reaching  the  Rocks,  the 
field  met  with  a  contretemps  that  well  nigh  spoiled  tlie  sport  of  the 
entire  day.  Some  ruffians  had  made  an  ex  tempore  drag  out  of  the 
bedding  of  the  master's  tame  fox  by  tying  it  into  a  knot  and  towing 
it  at  the  end  of  a  rope  across  the  fields  and  roads  between  tlie  lawn 
and  Foxtor.  The  hounds  hit  the  familiar  scent  upon  the  bank,  and 
away  they  went,  heads  up  and  sterns  down,  as  if  all  the  fiends  that 
haunted  Phlegethon  were  at  their  heels.  In  vain  the  huntsman  ob- 
jurgated and  old  Marplot  vociferated.  Fruitless  all  the  efforts  of  the 
whips  to  cut  the  leading  hounds  off  the  line.  Merryboyand  Minstrel 
had  got  the  start  of  them,  and  the  remainder  had  scored  to  their  lead 
in  such  earnest  that  it  was  full  twenty  minutes  before  they  could  be 
whipped  off,  and  that  only  by  a  fluke. 

At  length  Foxtor  is  reached,  and  Charley  is  soon  bolted  by  the 
terriers,  and  away  well  before  the  wind.  The  hounds  were  not  of  the 
breed  of  Theseus,  which  we  learn  were — 

Bred  out  of  the  Spartan  kind, 
So  Hewed,  so  sanded ;  and  their  heads  are  hung 
With  ears  that  sweep  away  the  morning  dew  ; 
Crook-kneed,  and  dewlapped  like  Thessalian  bulls; 
Slow  in  pursuit,  but  matched  in  mouth  like  bells, 
Each  under  each. 

On  the  contrary,  they  were  not  of  a  kind  to  allow  a  fox  to  live  long 
in  covert,  but  rather  disposed  to  cause  him,  like  the  guests  at  Lady 
Macbeth's  memorable  supper,  **  to  tarry  not  upon  the  order  of  his 
L^^oing,  but  to  go  at  once.'*  The  country  was  most  tr}dng  for  the 
h(^rses,  being  intersected  by  numerous  roads  of  the  worst  parochial 
ilescription,  and  Mr.  Hope  had  an  early  opportunity  of  "  springing 
eternal,'  for  at  the  very  first  fence  tliat  gentleman's  charger  contrived 


j 


A  Lawn  Meet,  703 

to  unship  him,  saddle  and  all,  by  bursting  both  girths  perfectly. 
The  horse  had  learnt  a  knack  of  drawing  up  his  old  barrel  into  the 
most  inconceivably  limited  space,  and  of  distending  it  again  almost 
to  bursting,  like  the  frog  in  the  fable.  Poor  Hope  had  to  cut  in 
with  the  "  cocktails  "  for  some  time,  and  rode  out  the  remainder  of 
the  run  with  a  single  girth,  which  he  procured  from  an  obliging 
farmer. 

The  military  showed  well  in  front  as  soon  as  the  more  open  ground 
was  reached,  but  Captain  Grant  on  Warleigh  was  always  master  of 
the  situation.  Miss  Marplot  kept  with  him  gallantly  until  her  horse, 
l)utting  his  foot  into  a  rabbit  hole,  rolled  over  and  threw  her  a 
harmless  cropper.  Grant,  gnashing  his  teeth  with  vexation  at  being 
choused  out  of  a  good  thing,  was  not  quite  of  the  kidney  of  Horace's 
hunter  and 

Regardless  of  his  gentle  bride, 

but  was  compelled  in  common  civility  to  "  tarry  by  her  side,"  and 
not  go  from  it  in  such  a  predicament  He  was  really  frightened  at 
first  at  the  thought  that  the  young  lady  had  been  seriously  injured. 
Lut  he  did  not  comprehend  the  daring  nature  of  Miss  Laura  Marplot 
She  thought  no  more  of  a  purl  in  the  hunting  field  than  he  himself 
would  have  done.  Pretty  Laura  blushed  profusely  as  she  sprang 
lightly  to  her  feet,  and  answered  Grant's  eager  inquiries  as  to  her 
safety,  begging  him  to  capture  her  peccant  steed  while  she  recovered 
from  her  confusion. 

The  gallant  Captain  forgot  all  about  "  the  good  thing,"  and  fell  in 
with  the  hounds  after  they  had  killed  their  first  fox.  There  is  a 
report  to  the  effect  that  that  fall  of  Miss  Marplot's  is  likely  to  be  the 
cause  of  an  appeal  to  the  parson  before  long,  or,  as  the  natives  phrase 
it,  **  the  matter  is  like  to[go  to  Church."  Miss  Marplot's  feats  in  the 
hunting  field  were  of  such  a  well-known  and  intrepid  kind  that  other 
young  ladies  of  the]J:  neighbourhood,  who  can  boast  ndtlicr  Miss 
^Llrplot's  beauty  nor  her  intrepidity,  have  been  heard  to  remark 
that  the  exploit  at  the  rabbit  hole  was  a  "  part  of  the'j>erformance." 

l>c  that  as  it  may.  Miss  Marplot's  nerves  were  not  proof  against 
another  cross-country  gallop  that  morning,  and  prudently  placing 
herself  under  the  escort  of  her  father,  slit  wcadcd  iicr  way  homewards, 
well  content  with  the  vindication  of  her  ciiaracter  ai.  liiv  Lttann  of 
the  hunt,  if  nothing  else.  'ITie  Ca;naic  wuuid  nixy*:  UrciJ  ^iad  enough 
to  follow  her,  but  he  had  to  cut  dg^rn  i-io^.  wr  a*,  uoomcd  10  sufter 
a  relegation  to  the  Lml/o  of  cufln%'  lu:.-u.iJAia:.>  wa  >  T7reu.T  f 
to  business. 


704  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

Another  fux  was  soon  on  foot,  and  poor  Hope   had  a  second 

opportunity  of  disi)laying  his  springing  powers.     His  horse  got  his 

I  bit  well  round  his  tooth,  and  badly  measuring  his  distance  at  a  mise- 

;  rable  bank,  or  perhaps  thinking  too  meanly  of  the  fence,  contrived  to 

i  get  two  legs  on  either  side  of  it.     Finding  himself  in  this  difficulty, 

Hope  doubled  himself  up  and  quietly  rolled  off,  and  thus  got  his 

\  horse  over  in  a  twinkling.     Still  Grant  "had  his  measure,"  as  they 

'  say,  and  well  knowing  that  an  account  of  his  achievement  would  be 

■j  listened  to  hereafter  by  at  least  one  fair  hearer,  he  was  bent  upon 

^  having  the  brush  in  spite  of  all  the  endeavours  of  a  family  of  Hopes. 

The  fox  turned  out  a  real  friend  in  furthering  his  wishes,  for  the 

animal,  after  being  headed  two  or  three  times  and   coursed  by  a 

sheep-dog,  made  straight  for  the  cliff  as  his  only  chance  of  shelter 

and  escape  from  his  bloodthirsty  foes.     "  Tis  the  pace  that  kills." 

\  some  sage  remarks,  and  Hope  discovered  the  truth  of  the  saying, 

and  from  his  spurring  too  fast  betimes  his  horse  tired  betimes,  and  in 

charging  a  fence  with  rather  a  high  drop  came  down  all  of  a  heap, 

head  foremost,  and  nearly  unseated  his  hapless  rider,  and  was  almost 

"of  Hope  bereft."    It  was  all  up  with  Hope  now,  and  his  horse,  who 

iL  had  looked  so  clean  and  well-appointed  in  the  early  morning,  was  in 

most  pitiable  plight,  his  flanks  heaving,  his  nostrils  distended,  and  his 

,T  coat  bristling  *'  like  quills  upon  the  fretful  porcupine." 

The  snow  was  now  falling  fast,  and  drifting  bang  into  the  teeth  of 

fv.)\-,  hounds,  and  horsemen.    So  thick  and  blinding  was  the  " niveal*" 

storm  that  poor  Reynard  dashed  clean  over  the  cliff,  being  unable  to 

'  discover  the  brink  in  his  headlong  career.     Some  few  of  the  hounds 

found  their  way  down  by  a  dangerous  path,  and  Grant,  thro^Tng  the 

reins  to  one  of  the  whips,  descended  on  foot  through  a  circuitous 

route  which  was  known  only  to  a  select  few.     He  was  not  long  in 

'  finding  the  quarry,  and  having  shorn  it  of  the  bmsh,  he  re-ascended 

and  joined  the  small  remainder  of  the  field,  which  by  this  time  had 

come  up.   The  bmsh  was  clearly  his  by  all  the  honours  of  fox-hunting 

and  hardjiding.     The  "\Vhoo-hoop  !"  was  then  lustily  sounded,  and 

a  return  to  the  master's  decided  upon,  everybody  having  had  their 

s  fill  of  hunting  for  that  day,  at  all  events. 

The  dinner  that  wound  up  the  lawn  meet  was  of  the  usual 
order,  and  "  Success  to  fox-hunting "  was  drunk  with  an  enthusiasm 
that  would  have  gladdened  the  heart  of  the  late  Mr.  John  Jorrocks 
himself,  and  the  ** Tally-ho's"  that  accompanied  the  drinking  of  the 
toast  threatened  the  downfall  of  the  roof  of  the  grand  old  mansion. 
The  huntsman  and  whips  were  called  in  to  quaff  the  good  old  toast ; 
and  Tom  Rogers,  the  good  old  huntsman  himself,  proposed  the 


A  Lawn  Meet.  705 

health  of  the  gallant  Captain  Grant,  the  undeniable  hero  of  the  day, 
"coupling  with  the  toast"  the  name  of  the  redoubtable  Warleigh, 
who  unfortunately  could  not  have  returned  thanks  had  he  been 
allowed  to  appear  in  propria  personL  Never  mind,  the  Captain  was 
equal  to  the  occasion,  and  rattled  off  a  short  and  pithy  speech  fairly 
smacking  of  foxes  and  fox- hunting.  But  it  was  not  until  the  parson 
proposed,  "  May  the  coward  never  wear  a  red  coat  nor  the  hypocrite 
a  black  one  !"  that  all  eyes  somehow  were  turned  upon  Grant,  as  if 
there  was  no  man  in  the  company  upon  whom  so  peremptorily 
devolved  the  duties  of  saying  something  concerning  that  manly  senti- 
ment as  he.  There  was  no  man  at  the  table  less  of  a  hypocrite  than 
the  Captain ;  but  for  a  moment  or  t\^'0  he  hung  his  head,  and  looked 
as  sheepish  as  the  veriest  clodhopper  in  all  the  country  round. 
I^ooking  up  presently,  however,  he  rallied  when  he  saw  a  smile 
stealing  over  the  glowng  countenances  of  his  friends ;  and  he  finally 
sat  do\ni  without  saying  a  word,  though  he  had  arisen  with  the  inten- 
tion of  avowing  his  entire  and  cordial  sympathy  with  both  the  toast 
and  the  proposer.  The  parson,  in  fact,  had  merely  blurted  out  the 
toast  as  a  feeler  for  Grant,  suspecting  how  matters  had  been  with  the 
Captain  and  his  fair  friend  in  the  morning. 

^'Cedant  arma  togce,  my  boy!"  shouted  the  clerical  functionary. 
"  Leave  the  matter  to  me,  and  never  say  die.  Paterfamilias  is  one  of 
the  right  sort ;  and  with  the  brush  of  the  fox  as  a  present  in  the 
morning,  I  think  I  can  manage  to  make  matters  all  straight  for  you. 
There's  no'.hing  like  consulting  the  parson  in  aflfairs  of  that  kind." 

And  thus  all  knew  to  what  cause  to  attribute  the  Captain's 
unwonted  bashfulness,  and  not  a  man  of  them  thought  it  in  the 
remotest  degree  bordering  upon  hypocrisy.  A  tremendous  "  \Vhoo- 
hoop'  and  jingling  of  glasses  proclaimed  the  appreciation  of  the 
parson's  kindly  interposition,  and  copious  libations  were  poiured  forth 
in  approval  of  a  certain  forthcoming  event  which  was  already  regarded 
as  di/ait  accompli. 

The  Captain  has  applied  for  and  obtained  leave  of  absence  "  on 
urgent  private  affairs  ;"  and  it  is  the  general  rumour  that  the  master's 
fine  old  mansion  is  being  put  in  apple-pie  order  for  the  reception  of  a 
bride  and  bridegroom  who  will  spend  a  portion  of  their  honeymoon 
in  those  enviable  quarters. 


%^^^^^^^^ 


WOOLMER'S  PICTURE:  ThE  StORY 

OF  Leander. 

ID  sullen  chorus  from  the  loud-mouth'd  deep ; 

Mid  shifting  hells  of  swiftest  dark  and  bright ; — 
Wide-hoUow'd  waves  with  crests  of  curling  white ; — 
Came  fear — despair — mad  effort — eodless  sleep  1 
She  knows  not  }-et  what  cause  she  has  to  weep. 

Who,  but  the  briefest  space  from  where  he  lies, 

Still  trims  the  lamp,  and  looks,  with  weeping  eyes, 
For  him  who  will  not  glad  her  sight  again  : — 
Across  the  waste — across  the  waste — in  vain  ! 
"  'Tis  YuuNO  Leander  1 "     But  not  he  alone 

Has  measured  might  against  that  glooming  sea  ; 

Who,  full  of  youth,  and  glad  with  victoiy 
Swam  bravely,  careless  of  the  distant  moan 

Of  gathering  tempest     Not  alone  for  him 
Loves  lamp  shone  sweeUy  o'er  the  swelling  wave  ; 
Not  for  one  life  ya«Ti'd  that  insatiate  grave ; 

Xot  only  one  sweet  mourner's  eyes  grew  dim  ! 
Celestial  Lo\er  !  who,  thro'  yearning  tears, 

Dost  wait  my  coming  on  the  heavenly  shore  j 
Thy  love  lies  drown'd  in  barren  depths  of  years 

And  thou  and  he  sliall  meet  no  more — no  more  ! 

D.  Christie  Murray. 


Clytie. 

A  Novel  op  Modern  Life. 
BY  JOSEPH  HATTON. 

BOOK  II. 

CHAPTER  X. 
clytie's  evidence  continued. 

jHIS  was  the  third  day  of  Lady  St  Barnard's  examina- 
tion. She  appeared  in  the  same  attire  as  before,  with 
the  same  pale  calm  face,  and  attended  by  her  husband. 
Continuing  her  evidence  from  the  point  at  which  Mr. 
A\'hite  appeared  upon  the  scene,  she  said : —  Mr.  White  told  me 
tliat  ray  reputation  would  be  jeopardised,  as  a  good  girl  and  a  respect- 
able woman,  if  I  continued  my  connection  with  the  stage.  My  intro- 
duction to  the  profession  through  the  Delphos  management  was  an 
cTror.  He  was  commissioned,  he  said,  to  relieve  me  on  certain  con- 
ditions from  the  necessity  of  acting.  I  asked  him  to  name  them. 
W'liat  little  I  had  seen  of  the  stage  had  not  enchanted  me.  Indeed 
I  was  greatly  disappointed.  If  I  would  accompany  him  on  the 
morrow  to  the  Burlington  he  said  I  could  meet  the  nobleman  who 
was  my  grandfather  Waller's  friend.  He  would  provide  for  me.  I 
ask-d  if  an>'thing  had  been  heard  of  my  grandfather,  and  he  said 
*'  No."  They  had  searched  everywhere  and  made  every  inquiry,  but 
without  avaiL  Mrs.  Breeze  was  present  during  this  interview,  and 
she  said,  "  How  do  we  know  that  you  are  telling  the  truth  ?  You 
may  be  one  of  the  Ransford  lot"  Mr.  White  said  Mrs.  Breeze  could 
accompany  me.  On  the  next  day  we  went  accordingly  to  the  Bur- 
lington. Mr.  White  took  us  into  a  private  room,  where  we  saw  the 
late  Lord  St.  Barnard.  He  was  sitting  in  an  easy  chair  and  could 
not  move.  I  believe  he  had  the  gout  He  was  very  much  affected 
when  he  saw  me.  He  took  my  hand  and  called  me  his  dear  child. 
He  said  I  was  tlie  image  of  my  mother,  but  that  I  had  poor  Frank's 
eyes.  It  was  a  sad  affair,  he  said,  but  I  ought  not  to  suffer  for  it, 
and  should  not  It  was  a  pity,  he  said,  that  Frank  had  not  confided 
in  him,  and  then  all  might  have  gone  well,  and  I  should  have  been 


7o8  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

a  lady  of  title  and  position.  He  said  the  next  best  thing  should  be 
done.  He  would  settle  upon  me  a  handsome  income,  and  I  could 
live  in  to\vn  if  I  liked,  and  my  grandfather  need  not  remain  in 
Dunelm.  He  asked  me  many  questions  about  my  early  life,  and  I 
answered  them.  I  told  him  all  I  thought  he  would  care  to  know, 
and  wlien  I  mentioned  Mr.  Eansford  he  said  that  person  was  a 
scoundrel.  This  was  not  until  he  had  heard  my  account  of  his 
taking  me  to  Piccadilly.  The  late  Earl  said  that  Mr.  White  would 
be  at  my  service  at  any  time.  Meanwhile,  he  said,  there  was  a 
house  belonging  to  him  at  Gloucester  Gate  which  I  could  have,  and 
I  could  set  about  furnishing  it  at  once.  Mrs.  Breeze  was  evidently  a 
respectable  woman  ;  she  might  help  me,  and  I  should  have  his  own 
housekeeper  from  Grassnook  as  my  principal  servant  As  he  could 
not  find  my  grandfather  he  said  he  must  make  these  arrangements 
apart  from  him.    He  would  place  the  matter  in  the  hands  of  trustees. 

Mr.  Holland :  Did  you  ask  his  lordship  if  your  mother  was  mar- 
ried to  his  son  ? — I  did. 

What  did  his  lordship  say  ? — He  did  not  give  me  a  direct  answer. 
He  shook  his  head  and  said  it  was  a  sad  business. 

Were  Mr.  WTiite  and  Mrs.  Breeze  present  during  the  whole  of  the 
conversation  ? — They  were. 

Were  they  near  enough  to  hear  all  that  passed? — Yes.  His 
lordship  said,  if  not  in  the  eyes  of  men,  I  was  his  daughter  in  the 
eyes  of  God,  and  I  should  be  taken  care  of  as  befitted  my  right  and 
position.  But  I  must  promise  him  that  I  would  think  no  further 
about  going  on  the  stage.  I  demurred  a  little  to  this ;  but  when  he 
showed  me  a  letter  with  my  portrait,  which  he  had  received  from 
Mr.  Wyldenberg,  I  gave  him  my  word.  He  said  he  had  always  been 
kept  ail  courant  with  my  history  at  Dunelm,  and  that  he  had  long 
been  thinking  of  providing  for  me  in  a  better  style,  and  was  about 
communicating  with  my  grandfather  Waller  on  the  subject  when  he 
learnt  that  I  had  left  Dunelm. 

Did  his  lordship  then  ])ut  you  in  communication  with  his  soli- 
citors ? — He  did. 

Did  he  open  a  banking  account  for  you  at  the  Bank  of  England  ? 
—He  did. 

In  what  name  ? — Miss  Waller. 

Did  the  solicitors  inform  you  that  you  were  to  have  what  reasonable 
sum  you  might  require  beyond  the  ^5,000  which  was  placed  to 
your  credit  until  the  settlements  proposed  by  his  lordship  were 
ready  ? — They  did. 

When  did  you  leave  St.  Mark's  Crescent  ? — Not  until  three  months 


Clytie.  709 

afterwards.  I  preferred  remaining  there  until  my  house  at  Gloucester 
Gate  was  ready.  I  thought  it  would  be  ungrateful  to  leave  the 
Breezes  the  moment  I  was  rich.     (Applause.) 

Did  his  lordship  give  Messrs.  Danvers  and  Co.  carte  blanche  under 
your  directions  to  furnish  your  house  ? — He  did. 

Did  he  give  you  letters  of  introduction  to  his  friends  ? — He  did 

To  whom? — To  Lady  Bolsover,  Lady  Stavely,  the  Countess 
Tamar,  and  to  several  others. 

Were  the  letters  open  ? — They  were. 

Did  you  present  them  ? — Most  of  them ;  and  in  addition  to  which 
the  late  Earl  said  he  had  written  a  long  letter  of  explanation  to  Lady 
Bolsover. 

Mr.  Cuffing  :  I  am  sorry  to  interrupt  this  most  interesting  and,  I 
must  say,  informal  narrative,  but  I  must  ask,  as  to  this  letter  at  all 
events,  whether  it  exists  now. 

Mr.  Holland :  It  does,  and  will  be  produced  by  Lady  Bolsover. 

Mr.  Cuffing  said  "  Thank  you,"  but  he  looked  disappointed. 

How  long  was  it  afler  your  interview  with  the  late  Earl  before  you 
took  up  your  residence  at  Gloucester  Gate  ? — Four  months. 

Did  his  lordship  ever  visit  you  there? — No.  He  was  taken 
seriously  ill  about  that  time. 

And  when  did  he  die  ? — Four  weeks  afterwards. 

Did  you  ever  see  him  after  that  first  interview  at  the  Burlington  ? — 
Xo. 

Did  you  go  into  mourning  ? — I  did,  and  I  saw  no  society  for  several 
months. 

\Vho  called  upon  you  ?  —  Lady  Bolsover,  Lady  Stavely,  Mrs. 
Duboix,  Lord  and  Lady  Tamar,  the  Dean  of  Dunelm,  the  Hon. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Henry,  the  Duchess  of  Southcaim,  and  many 
others. 

In  the  season  of  that  year  did  you  go  regularly  into  society  ? — 
Ves. 

Did  you  receive  at  your  own  house  ? — I  did. 

Among  the  distinguished  company  who  honoured  your  receptions, 
were  there  some  of  the  highest  personages  in  the^land  ? — Yes* 

A\Tiere  did  you  first  meet  the  present  Earl,  your  husband  ? — ^At  a 
Ministerial  reception. 

Did  you  frequently  meet  him  in  society  ? — Yes,  frequently. 

Her  ladyship  then  gave  an  account  of  his "  proposing  for  her  and 
her  refusal  of  him,  differing  only  slightly  in  detail  from  the  evidence 
of  Lord  St  Barnard.  She  said  she  was  simply  influenced  in  her 
rejection  of  him  by  the  fear  that  her  origin  and  position  were  not 


7IO  The  Ge7itlemans  Magazine. 

equal  to  his,  and  that  her  running  away  from  Dunelm  and  going  on 
the  stage  might  some  day  come  out  and  be  personally  annoying  to 
him. 

Did  he  know  anything  of  your  origin  when  he  first  proposed  ? — 
No. 

Did  Lady  Bolsover  know  that  he  had  proposed  ? — No ;  not  until 
the  second  time.  I  told  him  it  was  best  not  to  speak  of  it.  I  feared 
he  might  feel  humiliated.  I  would  have  accepted  him  but  for  the 
reasons  already  given,  because  I  admired  and  loved  him.  Indeed 
he  was  the  only  man  who  had  ever  made  me  think  seriously  of  mar- 
riage. WTien  first  he  proposed  I  was  greatly  shocked,  because 
secretly  in  my  own  mind  I  thought  we  were  closely  related ;  but  look- 
ing at  the  Peerage,  I  found  that  there  were  no  barriers  of  that  kind  to 
our  union.  Before  he  proposed  to  me  a  third  time  I  think  he  had  a 
private  and  confidential  interview  with  Lady  Bolsover.  I  know  that 
from  what  I  told  him  and  what  he  learnt  elsewhere  he  discovered 
that  I  was  the  Julia  Pitt  upon  whom  the  Dunelm  estate  was  settled. 
He  did  not  know  that  I  was  the  late  Earl's  grandchild,  and  I  did  not 
tell  him  then ;  for  I  had  begun  myself  very  much  to  desire  the  mar- 
riage, and  I  thought  I  had  done  enough  for  conscience  sake  to 
prevent  it.  I  loved  his  lordship,  and  was  very  happy  when  I  had 
accepted  him. 

How  soon  alter  the  late  Earl's  death  was  it  that  you  married  ? — 
About  two  years. 

Her  ladyship  then  described  the  marriage  at  St.  George's,  and 
gave  the  names  of  the  witnesses,  which  agreed  with  the  evidence 
previously  recorded. 

You  kept  your  honeymoon  in  Italy  ? — We  did. 

On  your  return  to  England,  did  you  go  to  Dunelm  ? — ^Yes.  We 
were  invited  by  the  Mayor  and  Corporation  to  accept  a  public 
reception  and  an  address  of  congratulation.  We  were  received  with 
great  demonstrations.  The  city  was  decorated  with  flags.  A  throne 
of  state  was  erected  at  the  Town  Hall.  I  was  conducted  to  a  seat 
upon  it  by  the  Mayor,  but  my  lord  and  myself  stood  during  the 
reception.  The  Mayor  made  a  speech,  in  which  he  referred  to  my 
early  life  in  Dunelm. 

Mr.  Cuffing :  Will  his  Worship  be  called  ? 

Mr.  Holland  :  He  wilL  Meanwhile  we  put  in  the  address  of  the 
Mayor  and  Corporation  on  behalf  of  the  city. 

The  address  was  then  identified  by  her  ladyship  and  read  by  Mr. 
Holland.  It  was  a  tribute  to  the  greatness  and  fame  and  benevo- 
lence of  the  house  of  St.  Barnard.    At  the  same  time  it  referred  to 


Clytie.  7 1 1 

the  early  life  of  the  Countess  in  Dunelm ;  mentioned  her  as  a  lady 
who  during  her  early  days  had  been  a  model  of  excellence  in  every 
respect,  and  referred  to  her  late  grandfather  as  a  gentleman  whom 
the  city  had  revered  and  loved.  The  town  congratulated  his  lordship 
on  winning  such  a  bride  as  Miss  Waller,  and  congratulated  her  upon 
her  high  and  dignified  position,  which  her  grace  and  beauty  well 
qualified  her  to  adorn.  # 

Mr.  Holland  :  What  accompanied  this  address  ? — A  handsome 
present  of  plate  and  porcelain. 

Did  you  take  his  lordship  to  The  Hermitage  during  the  day  ? — I 
did.  We  spent  an  hour  in  the  house.  My  wish  to  visit  it  being 
communicated  to  the  tenant,  the  Dean  and  several  distinguished 
citizens  met  us  there  and  we  partook  of  refreshment  in  the  summer- 
house.  In  the  evening  there  was  a  grand  ball  at  the  Town  Hall. 
We  stayed  in  Dimelm  all  the  next  day,  being  entertained  at  the 
Deanery.  We  attended  Divine  service  at  the  Cathedral  in  the  after- 
noon, and  left  for  York  at  five,  and  remained  there  all  night  In  the 
morning  I  showed  my  husband  where  I  had  walked  when  I  ran  away 
from  Dunelm.  I  showed  him  the  very  pew  in  which  I  knelt  and 
prayed  during  that  unhappy  time.  We  knelt  there  together  and 
thanked  God  for  His  goodness  to  us. 

The  memory  of  the  time  was  too  much  for  her  ladyship.  Up  to  this 
point,  except  once,  she  had  given  her  evidence  with  remarkable  calm- 
ness ;  but  here  she  broke  down  for  the  second  time  during  the  terrible, 
ordeal  to  which  she  was  subjected.  The  magistrate  addressed  some 
commonplace  remarks  to  Mr.  Holland  in  order  to  give  her  ladyship  , 
time  to  recover,  and  to  divert  the  attention  of  the  spectators ;  but 
they  were  not  to  be  deprived  of  the  spectacle  they  had  come  to 
witness.  They  kept  their  eyes  upon  the  poor  lady  while  she  sat  and 
wept  Mr.  Cuffing  fidgeted  with  his  papers.  The  prisoner  looked 
round  the  court,  but  speedily  relapsed  into  a  sort  of  gloomy  in- 
difference. Kalmat  felt  his  manliness  sorely  tried.  He  stroked  his 
beard  and  bit  his  lips.  It  was  all  he  could  do  to  keep  back  his 
tears,  as  he  thought  of  all  this  success  and  happiness,  of  this  young 
life  so  full  of  promise  and  hope,  blighted  by  that  fiend  in  the  dock. 
All  his  own  lost  life  was  ignored.  He  only  thought  of  the  woman  he 
had  loved,  made  wretched  and  miserable  by  the  machinations  of  the 
scoundrel  whom  he  hated  It  seemed  to  him  a  mockery  of  justice 
that  this  wretch  should  sit  there  to  enjoy  his  triumph.  They 
managed  these  matters,  he  thought,  after  all,  much  better  outside  the 
pale  of  dvilisarion. 

Lady  St  Barnard  presently  recovered  her  seU^possession,  and 


712  TJu  Gentlematis  Magazine. 

continued  her  evidence : — We  arrived  at  Grassnook  the  next  day. 
We  had  a  very  hearty  reception  on  the  part  of  the  tenants  and 
local  gentry.  Many  cards  had  been  left,  and  amongst  them  was  one 
bearing  the  name  of  Mr.  Philip  Ransford. 

Did  this  person  write  to  you  ? 

Witness :  Yes. 

When  ? 

Witness  :  After  I  had  been  at  Grassnook  about  a  month. 

Is  this  the  letter  ? 

Witness  :  It  is. 

Mr.  Cuffing  put  out  his  hand  to  see  the  letter,  took  it,  turned  it 
over  doubtingly,  and  handed  it  to  the  magistrate's  clerk.  The  letter 
was  respectfully  wTitten,  and  asked  for  ;^3oo  as  a  loan.  The  writer 
stated  that  his  family,  as  Lady  St.  Barnard  knew,  were  utterly  ruined, 
through  no  fault  of  their  own.  Finance  and  trade  had  been  against 
them.  He  was  sure,  from  what  he  knew  of  I^dy  SL  Barnard,  that 
she  would  be  good  enough,  under  all  the  circumstances,  to  send  him 
a  cheque. 

Mr.  Cuffing,  while  rummaging  among  his  papers,  remarked  that  he 
would  like  to  know  what  objection  could  be  raised  to  a  letter  of  that 
kind. 

Mr.  Holland  :  Are  you  addressing  the  Court,  Mr.  Cuffing  ? 

Mr.  Cuffing  :  I  was  simply  making  a  private  remark  to  the  Table; 
sir.     I  will  address  the  Bench  if  you  desire  it 

The  Magistrate  :  Pray  proceed,  Mr.  Holland ;  the  Court  has  no 
time  to  waste. 

Mr.  Holland :  Wiat  reply  did  you  make  to  this  letter,  Lady  St 
Barnard? 

I  wTote  a  note,  regretting  that  Mr.  Ransford's  family  had  been 
unfortunate. 

Mr.  Holland :  Yes,  and  you  sent  him  a  cheque  for  ^300,  I 
believe  ? 

I  did. 

Mr.  Holland  :  Soon  after  this  did  you  see  him  ? 

Yes,  soon  aftenvards. 

Mr.  Holland  :  Where  ? 

In  the  Horticultural  Gardens. 

Mr.  Holland :  Was  your  husband.  Lord  St  Barnard,  with  you  at 
the  time  ? 

He  was. 

Mr.  Holland  :  Be  good  enough  to  tell  the  Bench  what  occurred. 

I  was  walking  \vith  my  husband  when  Mr.  Philip  Ransfozd  came 


C lytic.  7 1 3 

up  to  us.  I  introduced  him  to  my  husband.  "  Mr.  Philip  Ransford," 
I  said,  "  an  old  friend  from  Dunehn,  son  of  the  late  lord's  friend,  Mr. 
Ransford."  Lord  St.  Barnard  shook  hands  with  him,  and  Mr.  Philip 
Ransford  congratulated  him  upon  our  marriage,  and  said  he  had  had 
the  honour  to  leave  cards  at  Grassnook. 

Mr.  Holland :  Was  the  prisoner  well  dressed  ? 

Yes ;  in  every  way  he  had  the  appearance  of  a  gentleman,  except 
that  I  noticed  a  peculiar  kind  of  expression  in  his  face,  a  sort  of 
sottish  expression.  He  talked  to  my  husband  about  Dunelm,  and 
also  about  Oxford.  He  had,  he  said,  belonged  to  the  same  college 
as  the  late  Earl  at  Oxford. 

The  Magistrate :  Will  your  examination  last  another  hour,  Mr. 
Holland  ?    Pardon  me  for  interrupting  you. 

Mr.  Holland:  It  may  last  another  day,  perhaps  two^I  really  cannot  say. 

Mr.  Cuffing  :  My  learned  friend  spins  his  story  out  with  the  adroit- 
ness of  a  London  journal  novelist. 

Mr.  Holland :  I  do  my  duty  to  my  clients. 

Mr.  Cuffing :  I  really  think  my  client  should  know  when  the  case 
for  the  prosecution  is  likely  to  be  over ;  it  is  very  hard  that  he  should 
continue  in  confinement 

Mr.  Holland  :  He  will  get  used  to  it  by-and-bye. 

Mr.  Cuffing  :  That  is  a  most  improper  remark  to  make. 
.    Mr.  Holland  :  Indeed 

Mr.  Cuffing :  A  most  improper,  unprofessional,  and,  I  may  say, 
impertinent  remark. 

Mr.  Holland :  You  may  say  whatever  you  please,  sir. 

The  Magistrate  :  We  will  adjourn  until  to-morrow,  gentlemen. 

Whereupon  the  Court  broke  up. 

There  are  some  wrongs  which  seem  only  capable  of  being  wiped 
out  in  blood.  At  one  time  or  another  most  men,  who  are  men,  have 
felt  the  desire  for  physical  vengeance  upon  an  enemy.  Nothing  is  so 
satisfying  to  a  hot  manly  temperament  as  dashing  the  fist  in  a  slan- 
derer's face,  or  spuming  him  fiercely  with  your  foot  Lord  St.  Bar- 
nard had  felt  his  blood  boil  to  assaulting  pitch  many  a  time  during 
this  terrible  persecution  of  his  wife.  If  he  could  only  have  five 
minutes  with  Ransford  and  Cuffing  in  some  quiet  place  outside  the 
pale  of  the  law !  All  his  aristocratic  training  and  instincts  were  not 
strong  enough  to  check  this  natural  longing  to  chastise  the  cowards 
who  were  permitted,  day  after  day,  to  heap  insult  and  ignominy  on 
his  brave-hearted  wife  and  himself,  on  their  name,  on  their  children, 

on  the  noble  house  of  St  Barnard. 

Vol.  XI.,  N.S.  1873.  3  a 


7 1 4  The  Gentlemafis  Magazine. 

Kalmat  had  felt  sensations  similar  to  these,  but  they  did  not  fret 
him.  He  liad  made  up  his  mind  about  Ransford  long  aga  Though 
fierce  fires  burned  behind  Kalmaf  s  calm-looking  face,  he  held  them 
in  subjection ;  and  he  now  came  into  Court  with  one  firm  resolve  as 
to  Ransford.  He  would  kill^  him — ^when  and  how  would  depend 
upon  circumstances. 

"  Do  not  fear/'  he  said,  addressing  the  bust  on  this  fifth  day  of 
the  hearing  at  Bow  Street;  'Mo  not  fear  that  justice  shall  not  be 
done.  I  am  Justice  !  It  is  well  they  think  something  of  a  life  in 
this  tame  old  England  of  ours.  Out  in  the  Western  wilds  they  would 
think  nothing  of  a  life  such  as  his.  He  would  be  found  dead  in  the 
gutter  or  hanging  to  a  lamp-post,  and  there  an  end.  But  here,  his 
death  will  be  an  event,  an  incident  worthy  of  the  slayer's  hand.  Do 
not  look  with  soft  eyes  and  pouting  lips,  my  Cl3rtie;  thou  shalt 
be  avenged  :  thou  and  I,  my  love." 

He  smoked  as  he  talked  to  his  silent  companion  in  the  private 
room  of  his  hotel ;  smoked  and  gazed  at  the  statue  with  his  great 
eloquent  dreamy  eyes ;  and  the  pictures  of  a  stormy  past  were  flitting 
through  his  brain  to  the  music  of  sad,  sad  memories. 

"  Do  you  remember,  Clytie,  when  we  were  young  and  full  of  hope; 

when  the  skies  were  blue  and  the  summer  golden  ?    Oh,  that  moss- 

gro^vn  city  of  the  north,  with  its  peaceful  days,  and  its  calm  starlight 

nights.     And  its  dreams,  its  songs,  its  perfumes^  its  matin  bell,  and 

its  curfew  chimes !    There  is  a  poet,  Clytie,  whose  words  seem  to 

breathe  the  thoughts  and  language  of  my  own  seared  souL     Do  not 

hear  the  wail  of  his  broken  heart     Let  me  turn  my  head  to  tell  his 

lines. 

You  liad  better  be  drown*d  than  to  love  and  to  dream  ; 

It  were  better  to  sit  on  a  moss-grown  stone, 

And  away  from  the  sun,  and  for  ever  alone, 
Slow  pitching  white  pebbles  at  tiont  in  the  stream, 

Than  to  dream  for  a  day,  then  awake  for  an  age. 
And  to  walk  through  the  world  like  a  ghost,  and  to  start. 
Then  suddenly  stop  with  the  hand  to  the  heart 

Pressed  hard,  and  the  teeth  set  savage  with  rage. 

Alas  for  a  heart  that  is  left  forlorn  ! 

If  you  live  you  must  love ;  if  you  love,  regret— 
It  were  better  perhaps  we  had  never  been  bom. 

Or,  better  at  least  we  could  well  forget 

'^  Hail  to  thee,  brother  of  the  melancholy  heart !  May's!  thoa  fiad 
happiness  in  yonder  kmd  beyond,  where  curs  and  sneaks  and  cowaidii» 
and  all  that  crawl  and  creep,  are  left  to  rot  i'  the  earth  and  have 

resurrection  !" 


Clytie.  7^5 

With  which  ejaculation  Kalmat  placed  the  bust  of  Clytie  in  a  case 
specially  made  for  it,  and  went  forth  into  the  London  streets  to 
muse  and  think  in  the  awfiil  solitude  of  mighty  crowds. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE   FOURTH   DAY  OF   CLYTIE'S   EXAMINATION. 

Ladv  St.  Barnard's  examination  was  continued.  The  court  was 
crowded  as  before.  Kalmat  watched  the  case  for  Destiny.  He 
seemed  to  be  standing  at  the  bar  of  Fate.  Sometimes  he  felt  that  it 
was  all  a  dream,  just  as  Lady  St.  Barnard  herself  felt ;  but  a  glance  at 
the  cowardly  accuser  brought  Tom  Mayfield  back  to  the  bitter  reality ; 
while  the  mterrogations  of  Mr.  Holland  and  the  pressure  of  her 
husband's  hand  were  enough  to  bring  home  to  Clytie  any  wandering 
thoughts. 

Mr.  Holland :  When  we  adjourned  last  night  your  ladyship  had 
just  described  to  us  the  interview  with  the  prisoner  at  the  Horticul- 
tural Gardens.  How  soon  after  this  did  you  again  see  or  hear  from 
the  prisoner? 

About  three  months  afterwards. 

Did  you  receive  a  letter  ? 

I  did. 

Is  this  the  letter  ? 

Yes. 

The  letter  was  then  put  in  and  read.  It  contained  an  account 
purporting  to  be  a  bill  against  the  late  Mr.  Luke  Waller  for  money 
lent,  JC200.  The  letter  was  written  in  a  much  more  familiar  strain 
tlian  the  first  one.  The  most  notable  paragraph  in  it  was  as  follows  : 
"  I  only  learnt  the  other  day  that  it  was  you  who  received  the  pro- 
ceeds of  the  Dunelm  property,  of  which  your  so-called  protector,  the 
late  Earl  St.  Barnard,  robbed  my  father.  I  say  *  robbed '  advisedly, 
and  I  also  lay  stress  on  the  words,  *  your  so-called  protector ;'  you 
will  quite  understand  what  I  mean.  Does  your  husband  know  your 
relationship  with  the  late  Earl?  Or  shall  I  communicate  with  him 
upon  this  subject  ?  I  do  not  wish  to  raise  a  scandal,  but  will  not 
hesitate  to  do  so,  unless  you  send  me  the  money.  Perhaps  you  may 
think  it  worth  while  to  add  the  value  of  that  necklace  I  gave  you 
when  you  received  my  addresses  in  Dunelm.  Of  course  it  is  con- 
venient to  forget  all  this  ;  and  also  your  adventures  at  the  Delphos 
Theatre.  It  is  a  fine  thing  to  have  a  pretty  face  and  languishing  eyes, 

3  A  2 


7  J  6  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

but  a  lord  wants  something  more  than  this  in  his  wife,  as  you  will  one 
day  discover  if  you  are  not  discreet" 

I^dy  St.  Barnard  turned  a  shade  paler  than  usual  as  the  letter  was 
read ;  her  husband  glanced  at  the  prisoner ;  but  only  saw  the  gleam- 
ing eyes  of  Kalmat,  who  occupied  a  more  prominent  place  in  court, 
and  nearer  the  dock  than  he  had  hitherto  thought  it  wise  to  occupy. 
There  was  a  sympathetic  movement  in  court  as  the  cruelty  and 
cowardice  of  the  letter  became  more  and  more  apparent. 

Mr.  Holland  :  Calm  yourself,  Lady  St  Barnard.  All  England  will 
denounce  the  cruelty  of  that  letter.     (Applause.) 

Mr.  Cuffing:  Your  Worship,  I  must  appeal  against  this  kind 
of  examination  and  comment,  and  also  against  applause  in 
court. 

The  Magistrate  :  Confine  yourself  to  the  evidence,  Mr.  Holland  ; 
it  will  save  time. 

Mr.  Holland :  Did  your  ladyship  take  that  letter  and  account  to 
your  solicitors  ? 

I  did. 

Mr.  Holland  :  The  solicitors  to  whom  the  late  Earl  introduced  you  ? 

The  same. 

Mr.  Holland :  Did  they  send  for  Mr.  AVhite,  and  consult  him  in 
your  presence  ? 

They  did. 

Mr.  Holland  :  What  did  Mr.  White  advise? 

'I'he  immediate  arrest  and  prosecution  of  the  writer  of  the  letter. 

Mr.  Holland  :  What  was  the  opinion  of  the  lawyers  ? 

That  they  should  see  Mr.  Ransford,  pay  him  the  account,  take  a 
receipt  in  full  of  all  demands,  and  explain  to  him  that  for  the  sake  of 
his  family  I  had  declined  to  prosecute  him. 

Mr.  Holland  :  That  was  the  decision  after  much  discussion  ? 

Yes ;  the  lawyers  argued  the  matter  with  Mr.  White,  and  I  did  not 
wish  to  prosecute,  though  I  left  the  matter  in  their  hands,  requesting 
them  to  consult  my  husband  upon  the  subject 

"  Did  she  consult  him  ? "  Mr.  Cuffing  asked  in  a  whisper,  while 
pretending  to  sort  his  papers.  The  whisper  could  be  heard  through- 
out the  court 

Mr.  Holland :  Really,  your  Worship,  I  cannot  submit  to  these 
interruptions. 

The  Magistrate  :  What  interruptions,  Mr.  Holland  ? 

Mr.  Holland :  Did  you  not  hear  a  remark  made  by  the  prisoners 
solicitor  ? 

The  Magistrate  :  I  did  not 


C lytic.  717 

Mr.  Holland :  Then  we  will  proceed.  What  did  your  lawyers 
finally  advise  and  do  ? 

They  advised  me  not  to  trouble  Lord  Sl  Barnard  in  the  matter, 
unless  they  considered  it  necessary ;  it  would  only  give  him  useless 
annoyance.  I  was  to  leave  the  business  with  them,  and  they 
would  do  what  my  honour  and  peace  required ;  and  I  afterwards 
understood  that  they  paid  the  money  and  obtained  the  receipt  as 
suggested. 

Mr.  Holland,  having  informed  the  Bench  that  this  receipt  and 
other  documents  would  be  put  in  by  the  lawyers  themselves,  whom 
he  should  call,  proceeded  with  his  examination :  When  aid  you  hear 
from  the  prisoner  again  ? 

Not  for  three  years. 

Mr.  Holland  :  \\Tien  was  your  first  child  bom  ? 

A  year  after  my  marriage. 

Mr.  Holland  :  And  the  next? 

Two  years  after  my  marriage. 

Mr.  Holland  :  I  believe  you  lost  this  one  ? 

Yes,  it  died  at  three  months. 

Mr.  Holland  :  You  have  two  children  living  ? 

I  have. 

Lady  St.  Barnard  thought  of  their  prattle  two  or  three  days  ago 
when  she  appealed  to  their  young  souls  for  sympathy,  and  the  tears 
rolled  slowly  down  her  white  cheeks. 

Mr.  Holland  :  Was  it  soon  after  the  birth  of  your  third  child  that 
you  heard  again  from  the  prisoner  ? 

Yes,  between  three  and  four  years  after  my  marriage. 

Mr.  Holland  :  Will  your  ladyship  kindly  relate  the  circumstances 
to  the  Bench  ? 

I  received  a  letter  fi-om  him  marked  "  Private,"  and  requesting  an 
interview. 

Mr.  Holland  :  How  long  ago  was  this  ? 

About  a  year.  I  did  not  reply  to  the  note ;  but  sent  it  to  m) 
solicitors.  In  a  week  afterwards  he  called  at  Grassnook.  Lord  St. 
Barnard  was  in  Scotland.  I  saw  the  prisoner.  He  told  me  thai  he 
had  been  abroad  and  that  ill-fortune  followed  him  everywhere.  I 
said  ill-fortune  sooner  or  later  overtool^  all  those  who  did  not  deserve 
to  be  successful.  I  told  him  that  I  felt  much  to  blame  for  seeing 
him,  as  I  had  sent  his  note  to  my  lawyers ;  but  I  did  not  like  that 
my  door  should  be  shut  upon  any  person  in  distress.  He  looked  ill 
and  badly  dressed,  and  he  said  he  was  in  want  I  g 
and  then  informed  him  most  solemnly  that  I  would 


7 1 8  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

communication  with  him.  He  begged  me  to  forgive  him  for  his 
kicked  persecution  of  me,  and  went  doiiMi  upon  his  knees  and  kissed 
my  hand.  He  said  my  kindness  had  conquered  him ;  he  was  too 
wicked  to  live,  and  that  he  would  yet  atone  for  the  past.  I  ad\ised 
him  to  go  to  my  lawyers  and  say  all  that  he  had  said  to  me ;  he  said 
he  would,  and  that  if  I  desired  it  he  would  i^Tite  me  a  letter  declaring 
his  crimes  and  his  unfounded  charges  or  insinuations  against  me.  I 
felt  sorry  for  him,  and  told  him  to  do  whatever  his  conscience  and 
his  better  nature  dictated. 

Mr.  Holland :  How  soon  after  this  did  you  see  the  prisoner  again? 

About  a  week  afterwards. 

Mr.  Holland  :  AVhere  ? 

In  the  park.  I  was  staying  with  my  husband  at  the  Westminster 
Palace  Hotel.  We  rode  in  the  park  daily.  I  saw  the  prisoner  once 
and  did  not  move  to  him.  He  was  very  gaily  dressed  and  leaning 
upon  the  railings  in  the  Row.  The  next  day  he  forced  himself  upon 
my  attention,  and  I  returned  his  salute,  as  also  did  Lord  St.  Barnard. 
After  dinner  that  evening  I  told  his  lordship  how  Mr.  Ransford  had 
called  at  Cirassnook  in  distress,  and  that  I  had  given  him  £^0, 

Mr.  Holland  :  Did  the  prisoner  call  at  the  Westminster  Palace 
Hotel  ? 

Yes,  during  the  week. 

Mr.  Holland  :  How  long  after  your  seeing  him  in  the  park  ? 

Two  davs  afterwards. 

;Mr.  Holland  :  Were  you  alone  ? 

A'es,  Lord  St.  Barnard  was  attending  a  Committee  at  the  House  of 
T^ords. 

Mr.  Holland  :  What  transpired  ? 

;Mr.  Ransford  was  announced,  and  before  I  could  deny  myself  to 
him,  he  had  entered  the  room,  having  followed  the  servant  without 
the  man's  knowledge. 

Mr.  Holland  :  Upon  what  pretext  did  he  call  ? 

He  said  he  wanted  the  address  of  my  lawyers  in  order  that  he 
might  say  to  them  all  he  had  said  to  me  at  Grassnook.  He  had 
forgotten  their  address.  I  gave  it  to  him.  He  then  asked  me  to 
lend  him  ;^ioo,  and  I  declined  to  do  so.  I  said  I  would  vTite  to  the 
law )ers  after  he  had  called  upon  tliem,  and  if  they  approved  of  my 
lending  him  the  money  I  would  do  so.  This  is  all  that  had  transpired^ 
when  Lord  St.  Barnard  came  in  and  luncheon  was  at  the  same  time 
announced.  Mr.  Ransford  said  he  was  going  to  America  on  the 
next  day  and  should  probably  not  be  in  England  again  for  many 
years,  and  under  these  circumstances  he  had  called  to  say  good-bye 


C lytic.  719 

to  the  only  friends  he  now  had  in  England.  He  told  Lord  St. 
Barnard  a  pitiful  story  of  his  misfortunes,  and  said  he  hoped,  howev^^ 
to  find  a  wealthy  uncle  at  South  Carolina,  where  he  should  probably 
settle.  Luncheon  being  again  announced,  I  asked  Mr.  Ransford  to 
stay,  and  he  remained  accordingly.  The  prisoner  called  upon  my 
husband  two  days  afterwards ;  but  I  have  not  seen  him  since,  except 
when  I  saw  him  here  in  the  dock. 

Mr.  Holland  :  I  have  no  more  questions  to  ask  your  ladyship  at 
present. 

There  was  a  buzzing  of  excitement  in  court  as  Mr.  Cuffing  rose. 
Even  the  prisoner  roused  himself  and  ventured  to  look  round  the 
court  when  he  saw  his  own  advocate  in  possession  of  the  ear  of  the 
magistrate. 

Mr.  Cuffing,  addressing  the  Bench,  said  he  would  prefer  not  to 
commence  his  cross-examination  to-day.  It  only  wanted  half  an  hour 
to  thehr  usual  time  for  adjournment ;  and  he  would  like  to  consult 
his  client  before  entering  upon  a  cross-examination  which  must,  so 
far  as  he  could  see,  last  several  days. 

The  Magistrate  :  Does  an  adjournment  meet  with  your  approval, 
Mr.  Holland  ? 

Mr.  Holland  :  I  would  rather  go  on,  but  leave  myself  in  the  hands 
of  your  Worship. 

The  Magistrate  :  How  many  witnesses  do  you  intend  to  call  ? 

Mr.  Holland  :  I  have  a  very  long  list  of  witnesses,  yom:  Worship ; 
but  I  hope  you  will  not  consider  it  necessary  that  I  should  call  any 
of  them.  Already,  with  great  respect,  I  would  submit  that  you  have 
ample  evidence  for  committal. 

Mr.  Cuffing  :  I  entirely  diflfer  with  my  learned  friend. 

The  Magistrate  :  I  think  we  had  better  adjourn. 

Mr.  Holland  :  Very  well,  your  Worship,  till  when  ? 

The  Magistrate  :  Twelve  o'clock  to-morrow. 


CHAPTER  XIL 

MR.    CUFFING   CONSULTS   WITH    HIS   CLIENT. 

**  Well,"  said  Mr.  Simon  Cuffing,  when  the  door  of  his  client's  cell 
was  closed  and  there  was  no  chance  of  being  overheard,  **  you're  a 
pretty  fellow  to  have  for  a  client" 

**  AVhat  do  you  mean  ?  You're  a  pretty  lawyer  to  leave  a  client  in 
a  hole  like  this  I "  said  Phil  Ransford,  sighing  for  the  freedom  of 
poverty,  in  spite  of  its  short  commons. 


720  Tke  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

"  Leave  you  here  ! "  said  the  little  lawyer,  seating  himself  upon 
the  prisoner's  truckle  bed.  "  You  should  not  have  told  me  a  pack 
of  lies.  When  you  consult  a  lawyer,  my  friend,  you  should  be  as 
free  and  open  with  him  as  you  are  with  your  doctor." 

"  I  was  perfectly  open  and  candid  with  you,"  said  Phil ;  "  and  I 
wish  I  had  kept  my  wTongs  to  myself" 

"  Your  wrongs  ! "  said  Cuffing,  shrugging  his  shoulders. 

"  You  said  if  only  half  of  what  I  told  you  were  true  there  would  be 
no  difficulty  about  making  money  out  of  them,"  whined  the  prisoner. 

"  Money !  you  humbug  !  but  you  have  made  money  out  of  them." 

"  I  told  you  I  had." 

**  You  did  not  tell  me  how  much,  nor  when,  nor  how,  nor  any  oi 
the  circumstances.  And  look  what  a  mull  you  made  of  the  old  Earl 
business  !    Why,  the  examination  upon  that  point  damns  our  whole 


case.*' 


**  You  don't  think  so,"  Ransford  replied,  looking  for  the  first  time 
at  the  lawyer,  his  eyes  having  wandered  hitherto  in  every  othei 
direction  than  that  in  which  Mr.  Cuffing  sat  contemplating  him  with 
keen  watchfulness. 

"If  your  Piccadilly  incident  breaks  down  we  are  done  for.  Yoi 
will  get  six  months'  imprisonment  at  the  very  least ;  perhaps  six 
years,"  said  Cuffing,  spitefully. 

Ransford  shuddered,  and  commenced  to  pace  the  narrow  celL 

"  Wliat  will  Wyldenberg  and  his  lot  really  say  when  we  get  them 
into  the  box?" 

"The  truth!'  exclaimed  Ransford,  stopping  suddenly  and  con 
fronting  the  law^^er. 

"Bravo!"  said  Cuffing.  "That  is  more  like  yourself.  That  is 
the  idea  to  get  into  your  head.  Feel  it  when  you  stand  in  the  dock 
to-morrow.  Don't  look  like  a  coward  and  a  sneak;  try  to  look  like 
a  mart>T.  By  the  way,  have  you  an  enemy  ?  I  don't  mean  that ;  oi 
course  you  have  ;  but  an  enemy  who  owes  you  a  long-standinf 
grudge  ;  a  fierce,  bearded  fellow,  with  deep,  speaking  eyes." 

"Not  that  I  know  of,"  said  the  prisoner. 

"  What  has  become  of  that  Dunelm  student  ?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"What  was  he  like?  Was  he  strong?  I  mean  the  fellow  whc 
licked  you  on  the  doorstep  of  The  Hermitage?" 

"  Strong  !  I  could  have  broken  him  over  my  knee,  but  he  tool 
me  by  surprise  and  in  the  dark,"  said  Phil,  drawing  himself  up  t< 
his  full  height. 

"  Ah,  then,  the  grizzly-looking  fellow  who  is  in  court  eveiy  day 


Clytie.  721 

watching  you  like  a  wild  cat  waiting  for  the  release  of  a  rat  from  a 
cage,  cannot  be  he,"  said  Cuffing,  reflectively. 

Ransford  turned  pale. 

**  You  have  noticed  him  ?  "  said  the  lawyer,  quickly. 

"  Yes,  once ;  but  it  is  not  Tom  Mayfield,  though  his  eyes  are 
like ;  I  wondered  why  he  scowled  so  at  me ;  he  is  twice  the  size  of 
Ma}'field  ;  perhaps  it  is  some  friend  of  Lord  St  Barnard." 

"  A  devilish  eye,  has  he  not  ?"  said  Cuffing,  enjoying  the  prisoner's 
evident  fear. 

"  Yes,"  said  Phil,  "  but  I  thought  you  came  to  see  me  about  the 
cross-examination." 

"  So  I  did,"  said  the  lawyer. 

"  When  I  first  seriously  talked  with  you  about  this  case  you  said  a 
clever  fellow  with  a  secret  such  as  mine  ought  not  to  be  drinking  in 
a  common  coffee-house  with  a  common  lawyer  like  you." 

"Ah;  then,  you  see,  you  are  not  a  clever  fellow,  and  the  common 
law}'er  phrase  was  a  bit  of  the  pride  that  apes  humility ;  you  have  a 
good  memory  for  some  things." 

"  I  have,  and,  by  the  Lord,  if  you  don't  soon  get  me  out  of  this, 
Cuffing,  when  I  do  come  out  I  shall  remember  who  got  me  into  the 
scrape,"  said  the  prisoner,  angrily. 

"  Pooh  !  You  forget  that  six-shooter  I  told  you  of,  my  friend,  and 
you  ought  to  remember  that  I  am  not  a  coward ;  only  the  bravest 
lawyer  in  London  would  have  taken  up  you  and  your  black-mailing 
case.  Apologise  to  me  for  your  impertinence,  or  111  leave  you  in 
gaol  to  rot  like  the  cur  you  are." 

Cuffing  rose,  picked  up  his  bag,  and  took  up  his  hat 

"Good  heavens.  Cuffing,  don't  leave  me.  My  dear  fellow,  I 
apologise  humbly,  and  with  all  my  heart.  Don't  desert  a  poor  devil 
like  that     There's  my  hand." 

Cuffing  took  two  of  Phil's  fingers,  and,  returning  them  to  their 
owner,  said — 

"  All  right ;  now  to  business ;  sit  down." 

"  Pardon  me  a  moment ;  don't  you  think  we  could  settle  the  case; 
withdraw  for  a  certain  sum  before  this  cross-examination  begins  ?  " 

"  Too  early,"  said  the  lawyer. 

"  You  thmk  so  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I'm  sure  so." 

"  You  know  best,"  said  the  prisoner,  with  a  sigh. 

"  Now,  as  to  the  line  of  the  cross-examination,  I  am  quite  dear 
about  that,  and  I  hate  that  feUow  Holland;  his  manner  towards  me 
is  very  insolent ;  1*11  be  even  with  him." 


722  The  Gentleman s  Magazine. 

"  He  is  a  snob  \  but  then  he  is  a  barrister,  and  has  weight  with  the 
Bench,"  suggested  Phil. 

"Weight!  I'll  chuck  him  over  the  house,  youH  see.  Did  the 
lady  ever  go  anywhere  with  you  in  addition  to  the  Delphos 
Theatre  ?  " 

"  No,  I  think  not,"  said  Phil,  looking  inquiringly  at  the  lawyer. 

"  Never  to  Cremorne,  for  instance  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Nor  to  the  Alhambra,  the  Argyle,  nor  any  place  of  that  kind  ?  " 

There  was  no  mistaking  Cuffing's  manner ;  he  plainly  wished  the 
prisoner  to  say  *^  Yes." 

**  I  think  not." 

"Quite  sure  she  did  not  go  to  Cremorne  withjrou?  Did  you  not 
once  tell  me  that  she  created  some  disturbance  there,  and  you  had 
to  bring  her  away  ?  " 

"Did  I  tell  you  so?" 

"  I  think  you  did,"  said  Cuffing,  taking  out  a  pencil  and  making 
a  note  on  the  back  of  his  brief,  "  it  is  a  very  important  point,  espe- 
cially in  cross-examination  ;  it  does  not  pledge  you,  because  you  are 
not  on  your  oath ;  I  can  only  ask  her  the  question.^ 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  remember — ask  her  the  question,  confound  her." 

"  Good,"  said  Cuffing,  making  notes ;  "  and  about  the  Aigyle,  you 
must  have  taken  there  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  did,  and  to  the  Alhambra  as  well." 

"  Of  course ;  memory  is  a  most  singular  arrangement,"  said  Cuffing, 
as  if  talking  to  his  notes ;  "  touch  one  chord  and  a  whole  instrument 
of  chords  and  harmonies  comes  into  play  j  yes,  5rou  took  her  to  the 
Argyle  and  to  the  Alhambra.     Any  particular  date  ?  " 

"  After  the  Piccadilly  night,  and  once  before,"  said  PhiL 

"  Yes,"  said  Cuffing,  still  >vriting.  "  Did  she  not  sup  with  you 
once  or  twice  at  a  cafe  in  the  Haymarket  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Phil. 

"  Tr>'  and  remember,"  said  Cuffing,  looking  at  him ;  "it  is  no  good 
half  doing  the  business  ;  in  for  a  penny,  in  for  a  pound ;  make  a  clean 
breast  of  it ;  the  lady's  honour  is  not  worth  considering  now ;  you 
don't  like  to  kiss  and  tell,  I  know ;  the  feeling  is  honourable  to  you ; 
but  it's  no  good  shirking  at  this  period  of  the  case ;  they  have  forced  us 
to  oj)en  our  mouths,  and  we  must  do  it — we  are  in  the  dock,  not  they." 

"  Give  me  your  hand,  Cuffing,  fairly  as  man  to  man,"  said  Rans- 
ford  with  sudden  energy. 

"Wiatfor?" 

"  Pledging  yourself  that  you  will  be  true  to  me." 


Clytie.  7  23 

"  True  to  you  I — any  lawyer  who  is  not  true  to  his  client  deserves  to 
be  kicked  by  all  honest  men." 

**  Yes,  yes,  I  know ;  but  ours  is  a  different  matter ;  give  me  your 
hand,  and  let  us  vow  to  be  true  and  faith^l  to  each  other,  come 
what  may." 

''  Ransford,  you  are  an  ass ;  but  there  s  my  hand ;  is  it  not  enough 
that  I  am  here?'' 

The  prisoner  took  the  lawyer's  hand  in  his  and  gripped  it. 

"  There,  Cuffing,  I  give  myself  up  to  you  ;  we  will  be  true  to  each 
other." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Cuffing,  withdrawing  his  hand ;  "  oC  course  we  will." 

Phil  sighed,  and  buried  his  head  in  his  hands. 

"  Now,  when  you're  ready,"  said  Cuffing,  "  we  will  get  on." 

"  I  am  ready,"  said  Phil,  "  ready  to  go  the  whole  hog." 

"•  Yes  ;  she  supped  with  you  frequently  at  cafe's  in  the  Ha)anarket ; 
she  paid  a  visit  to  Brighton  with  you ;  she  twice  went  to  Cremome 
with  you,  and  once  created  a  distiu-bance  there;  she  went  to  the 
Argyle  several  times,  and  you  twice  had  a  private  box  at  the 
Alhambra,"  said  Cuffing,  waiting. 

"  Yes,"  said  Phil  with  firmness. 

"  Good ;  now  is  the  time  to  shake  hands,"  said  the  lawyer ;  "  but 
no  matter,  we  will  proceed.  Was  that  true  about  your  sending  letters 
to  Miss  Waller  through  the  organ-blower  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

*•  And  is  her  story  about  your  first  meeting  true  ?  " 

"  Yes.'' 

"  Charming  girl  she  must  have  been  in  those  days." 

*'  Ah,  she  was,  she  was." 

''  Splendid-lookingjwoman  now,"  said  Cuffing,  still  making  notes, 
and  talking  to  them. 

"  Sometimes  I  feel  sorry  for  her,"  said  Phil. 

'*  You  are  afiraid  of  being  shot,  eh  ?  " 

Phil  shuddered. 

**  Steer  clear  of  that  fellow  with  the  beard  and  the  eyes.  What  did 
you  give  for  the  jewels  you  presented  to  Miss  Waller?" 

"  A  hundred  guineas." 

"  Ah,  you  were  flush  of  money  then." 

"  I  was." 

"  During  the  time  you  were  paying  your  addresses  to  Miss  Waller 
did  you  ever  intend  to  marry  her?" 

'*  No." 

'*  Cruel  youth  !     Taking  her  evidence  altogether,  is  it  tolerably 


724  The  Gentlematts  Magazine. 

correct ;  there  are  flaws  in  it  I  know,  of  course,  and  I  shall  tear  it  to 
tatters ;  but,  for  my  own  information,  tell  me  is  it  generally  correct  ?  " 

"  It  is." 

''That  is  a  grand  point  in  our  favour,  her  admission  about  taking 
lodgings  in  St.  John's  Wood ;  there  is  evidence,  of  course,  to  rebut 
our  charge  on  that  head,  but  we  will  worry  and  harass  them  long 
before  that ;  and  I  think  there  may  be  a  crisis  in  the  cross-examina- 
tion at  which  Lord  St.  Barnard  will  desire  to  treat " 

*'  Yes,  yes,"  said  Ransford  eagerly. 

**  How  soon  you  show  the  white  feather !"  said  Cuffing,  laying  down 
his  pencil,  and  folding  up  his  brief  and  notes. 

"  Not  the  white  feather ;  but  money  is  my  game,  not  vengeance." 

"-  Well,  and  suppose  Lord  St  Barnard  asked  you  on  his  knees  to 
take  pity  on  his  wife,  and  put  her  right  with  the  world,  what  is  your 
idea  as  to  money  ?  " 

"  Ten  thousand  pounds." 

*'  He  might  ask  you  to  sign  a  document,  or  make  another  statutory 
declaration  on  your  oath,  that  all  you  have  said  is  false ;  giving  you  a 
sort  of  undertaking  not  to  prosecute  you,  and  also  letting  you  get  out 
of  the  country  before  publishing  your  own  condemnation ;  I  don't 
know,  of  course,  what  he  could  or  would  propose,  or  how  it  could  be 
done." 

"  I  would  act  on  your  instructions." 

''  I  don't  see  how  I  could  advise  you ;  compromises  are  made 
sometimes,  but  there  is  a  crime  called  compounding  a  felony ;  I  don't 
know  whether  that  would  apply,  but  it  is  not  well  to  discount  the 
future,  and  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  go  into  the  question  of  com- 
promise with  me — not  now,  at  any  rate,  not  now,"  said  Cuffing,  with 
a  look  of  virtuous  rebuke. 

"  Are  you  going  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  we  quite  understand  each  other,"  said  Cuffing,  ham- 
mering at  the  door,  which  was  promptly  opened  by  a  police  officer. 

"  Oh,  it  is  so  infernally  lonely  here,"  whined  Ransford. 

''It  is  lonelier  for  prisoners  after  committal,"  said  Cuffing,  coldly. 
'"  Good-bye  ;  I  shall  see  you  to-morrow." 

The  next  moment  Phil  Ransford  was  alone,  and  Cuffing  was 
nodding  a  pleasant  au  rnmr  to  Bow  Street 

(To  he  continued.) 


An  Oxford  Problem. 

QUESTION,  not  within  the  range  of  the  new  Com- 
mission, but  scarcely  less  important  than  that  of  the 
management  of  college  revenues,  is  slowly  working 
itself  out  in  Oxford.  It  is  well  known  that  tuition  in 
the  University  is  falling  more  and  more  into  the  hands  of  married 
men  living  outside  the  college  walls.  Whether  the  change  would  be 
for  good  or  evil  was  once  a  favourite  subject  for  debate,  but  now 
that  it  is  actually  being  made  there  is  little  left  for  outsiders  but  to 
await  silently  the  issue  of  a  practical  trial.  And  just  now  the  pleasing 
and  picturesque  side  of  the  matter  is  so  much  the  more  prominent 
that  many  have  forgotten  that  they  ever  saw  any  other. 

If  none  but  the  brave  deserve  the  fair,  the  first  married  Fellow 
may  be  thought  to  have  made  good  his  title.  Love  ventiures  are 
supposed  to  require  nerve  under  the  most  ordinary  circumstances, 
and  the  situation  becomes  almost  heroic  in  a  grim,  exclusive  common- 
room,  under  the  unsympathetic  gaze  of  a  corporate  body.  But,  the 
suit  once  made,  the  judges  became  petitioners  in  their  turn.  Like 
the  Chinese  jury  at  a  certain  famous  trial,  they  no|h  only  acquitted 
the  offender  but  lost  no  time  in  following  his  example.  \Vhen  it 
was  found  that  the  portrait  of  the  Founder  had  not  leapt  from  its 
frame  at  the  removal  of  the  opposing  statute,  timid  men  who  had  held 
their  breath  began  to  gather  heart  and  feel  their  way  towards  a  liberty 
of  which  they  had  never  before  dreamed.  And  now  there  is  no  more 
strangeness  in  the  news  that  a  junior  Fellow  is  going  to  be  married 
than  in  the  announcement  that  he  has  taken  his  Master's  degree. 

With  the  luxury  of  dLplacens  uxor  comes  the  necessity  of  a  donius. 
A  new  suburb  on  the  north  side  of  the  city  has  been  created 
thereby,  and  has  that  overpowering  effect  upon  the  soberness  of  the 
reason  which  the  poet  felt  on  beholding  the  neighbouring  spires, 
domes,  and  towers.  The  groves  of  Academus  have  been  trimmed  to 
the  likeness  of  the  shady  haunts  of  Clapham.  Villas,  detached  and 
semi-detached,  of  every  conceivable  design  and  placed  at  every 
possible  angle,  raking  one  another  with  multitudinous  windows,  and 
vying  with  one  another  in  the  pretty  fancifiilness  of  their  names,  have 
risen  up  to  meet  the  wants  of  the  married  don.  Here  the  man  of 
letters  seeks  companionship  with  the  outer  world ;  cultivates  friendly 


728  The  Gentle7)tans  Magazine. 

and)  measuring  his  gains  by  his  needs,  has  no  scruples  about  bdng 
a  pluralist.  Will  not  the  result  be  an  increasing  anidety  to  secure 
bye-works,  and  an  active  canvassing  for  small  appointments,  with  all 
the  heart-burnings  and  petty  jealousies  which  arise  when  personal 
failures,  trifling  enough  in  themselves,  are  mourned  over  as, family 
disasters  1 

Nor,  it  is  sometimes  argued,  will  these  domestic  complications  be 
without  effect  upon  the  learning  of  the  University.  Not  that  study 
and  reflection  are  impossible  amid  the  toil  and  stress  of  married  life, 
but  that  unremunerative  lines  of  work  are  likely  to  be  abandoned 
for  those  which  will  pay.  Only  the  solitary  student,  as  a  rule,  can 
afford  to  wait  for  a  late  harvest  and  run  the  risk  of  receiving  an 
intangible  reward ;  the  family  man  must  have  immediate  returns  in 
good  marketable  shape.  The  great  work  which  was  projected  in 
youth  to  be  the  triumph  of  old  age  comes  forth  in  the  interval  as  a 
modest,  but  widely  advertised,  school  manual,  or  is  bom  prematurely 
in  the  pages  of  a  magazine.  This  is  a  convenient  mode  of  dis- 
counting all  personal  claims  on  posterity;  but  whether  the  future 
fame  of  the  University  as  a  learned,  as  well  as  an  efficient,  teaching 
body  will  be  advanced  thereby  is  open  to  question. 

Briefly,  then,  the  misgivings  expressed  on  the  whole  question  are 
based  on  two  principles :  first,  that  the  discipline  of  a  college,  like 
that  of  a  ship  or  regiment,  cannot  be  maintained  unless  those  who 
enforce  it  are  also  governed  by  it ;  secondly,  that  the  efficiency  of 
a  college  is  in  proportion  to  the  completeness  with  which  the  lives 
of  the  members  composing  it  are  concentrated  upon  the  objects 
for  which  they,  as  a  Society,  exist  That  there  will  be  no  loss  under 
either  head  when  scattered  schoolmasters,  heads  of  families,  are 
substituted  for  resident  unmarried  tutors,  appears  to  be  the  counter- 
position  ;  and  it  is  because  many  earnest-minded  men  doubt  its 
strength  that  we  thrust  these  untuneful  notes  amid  the  pleasant 
pipings  of  its  friends. 


if 


*%     -^    -^^  ■  ■    *"N»^X   -•V.^X.'  V-^^*^X  •'V.^X. 


An  Oxford  Problem.  727 

and  daughters  must  sooner  or  later  have  a  disturbing  effect  upon  the 
grave  traditions  of  the  place.  Their  interest  in  the  studies  and 
ceremonials  of  the  University  may  be  praiseworthy,  but  it  is  distract- 
ing. It  is  whispered  that  they  already  overflow  the  benches  of  the 
public  lecture-rooms,  outnumber  the  undergraduates  in  some  of  their 
own  chapels,  flutter  through  the  aisles  of  St.  Mary's,  and  spread  a 
gay  fringe  round  the  House  of  Convocation.  It  is  hardly  to  be 
wondered  at  if  ancient  customs  have  a  queer  look  in  such  a  setting, 
and  sometimes  fail  to  be  impressive.  At  Oxford,  as  elsewhere,  there  are 
certain  ceremonies  which,  to  be  solemn,  presuppose  certain  assemblies, 
or,  for  want  of  these,  slip  at  once  into  pantomime.  But  perhaps  that 
which  is  most  feared  from  a  mixed  population  is  the  influx  of  gaieties 
and  fashionable  follies  hitherto  excluded.  Theatricals  and  dances, 
musical,  tea-drinking,  and  croquet  parties  are  inseparable  accidents 
of  feminine  life  hardly  favourable  to  the  sober  repose  of  a  place  of 
learning.  The  bulk  of  undergraduates  may  be  disturbed  by  them  not 
at  all ;  many  only  in  a  trifling  degree  ;  but  to  some  they  may  be  posi- 
tively hurtful.  A  favoured  few  receive  admission  to  society  from  which 
the  majority  are  debarred.  Attentions  and  invitations  which  would 
be  commonplace  elsewhere  become  seductive  amid  the  restraints  of 
college  life.  There  is  a  sort  of  adventure  and  flattering  sense  of  privi- 
lege in  being  the  hero  of  half  a  dozen  drawing  rooms  in  a  place  where 
admission  to  one  is  a  novelty  and  an  exception.  And  when  it  is 
considered  that  the  distinction,  such  as  it  is,  may  r^y  be  based 
on  nothing  more  solid  than  a  reputation  for  being  a  go&d  dancer,  an 
actor,  or  a  comic  singer,  it  is  sometimes  asked  whether  so  poor  an  am> 
bidon  ought  to  be  allowed  to  And  a  field  amid  the  aims  of  Universify 
life.  There  is  the  risk,  moreover,  of  certain  prematxire  entangle- 
ments to  which  judicious  parents  may  be  expected  to  ask  that  their 
sons  should  not  be  exposed. 

Have  the  advocates  of  the  new  movement  ever  taken  into  account 
the  financial  difliculties  which  are  likely  to  arise  ?  Housekeeping  is 
a  game  pretty  enough  at  the  outset,  but  apt  to  grow  grave  and  com- 
plicated towards  the  end.  As  the  college  funds  are  distributed  by  a 
scale  of  bachelor  wants,  a  further  source  of  income  will  at  last  become 
necessary  by  way  of  supplement  The  stray  crumbs  of  University 
offices  are  not  likely  to  be  overlooked.  These  have  not  hitherto  been 
valued  for  the  emoluments  attached  to  them,  and  have  often  been 
passed  by  and  left  to  those  who  had  more  time,  or  were  more  fitted, 
for  their  discharge.  But  such  a  pitch  of  high  motive  will  hardly, 
perhaps,  be  possible  under  the  urgency  of  household  wants.  A  man 
whose  pockets  are  half  empty  never  knows  when  his  hands  are  full, 


728  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

and,  measuring  his  gains  by  his  needs,  has  no  scruples  about  being 
a  pluralist  Will  not  the  result  be  an  increasing  anxiety  to  secure 
bye-works,  and  an  active  canvassing  for  small  appointments,  with  all 
the  heart-burnings  and  petty  jealousies  which  arise  when  peisonal 
failures,  trifling  enough  in  themselves,  are  mourned  over  as, family 
disasters  1 

Nor,  it  is  sometimes  argued,  ^-ill  these  domestic  complications  be 
without  effect  upon  the  learning  of  the  University.  Not  that  study 
and  reflection  are  impossible  amid  the  toil  and  stress  of  married  life, 
but  that  unremunerative  lines  of  work  are  likely  to  be  abandoned 
for  those  which  will  pay.  Only  the  solitary  student,  as  a  rule,  can 
afford  to  wait  for  a  late  harvest  and  run  the  risk  of  receiving  an 
intangible  reward ;  the  family  man  must  have  immediate  returns  in 
good  marketable  shape.  The  great  work  which  was  projected  in 
youth  to  be  the  triumph  of  old  age  comes  forth  in  the  interval  as  a 
modest,  but  widely  advertised,  school  manual,  or  is  bom  prematurely 
in  the  pages  of  a  magazine.  This  is  a  convenient  mode  of  dis- 
counting all  personal  claims  on  posterity;  but  whether  the  future 
fame  of  the  University  as  a  learned,  as  well  as  an  efficient,  teaching 
body  will  be  advanced  thereby  is  open  to  question. 

Briefly,  then,  the  misgivings  expressed  on  the  whole  question  are 
based  on  two  principles  :  first,  that  the  discipline  of  a  college,  like 
that  of  a  ship  or  regiment,  cannot  be  maintained  unless  those  who 
enforce  it  art  also  governed  by  it ;  secondly,  that  the  efficiency  of 
a  college  is  in  proportion  to  the  completeness  with  which  the  lives 
of  the  members  composing  it  are  concentrated  upon  the  objects 
for  which  they,  as  a  Society,  exist  That  there  will  be  no  loss  imder 
either  head  when  scattered  schoolmasters,  heads  of  ^milies,  are 
substituted  for  resident  unmarried  tutors,  appears  to  be  the  counter- 
position;  and  it  is  because  many  earnest-minded  men  doubt  its 
strength  that  we  thrust  these  untuneful  notes  amid  the  pleasant 
pipings  of  its  friends. 


if 


TABLE    TALK. 


I  RELINQUISHED  long  Ego  the  plan  of  publishing  an  obituary 
of  distinguished  people  as  they  disappear  fh)m  society,  from  th* 
studio,  from  the  Courts  of  Law,  from  St  Stephen's,  and  from  Albemarle 
Street ;  but  I  do  not  think  I  ought  to  pass  over  the  names  of  men 
like  Sir  Henry  Holland,  Lord  Chief  Justice  BoviU,  and  Vice-Chan- 
cellor Wickens,  because  all  three  of  these  were  thoroughly  characteristic 
men.  Perhaps  Sir  Henry  Holland  will  be  more  generally  missed 
than  the  able  and  accomplished  lawyers  whom  I  link  with  him,  be- 
cause he  possessed  a  more  striking  personality  and  touched  society  at 
more  points.  He  was  the  beau  idtcU  of  a  fashionable  ph3rsician«  and 
therefore  of  a  race  of  men  who  are  fast  disappearing  from  the  world. 
Most  of  the  men  who  are  at  the  head  of  the  profession  now  are  hard 
students,  men  who  have  worked  their  way  to  the  positions  they  hold  by 
sheer  hard  work — that  is,  by  devoting  themselves  heart  and  soul  to 
one  special  study ;  and  you  hardly  ever  see  or  hear  anything  of  them 
except  at  the  hospitals  or  in  the  sick  room.  But  Sir  Henry  Holland 
and  the  men  of  Sir  Henry  Holland's  stamp  won  their  laurels  in  the 
dra^nng-room  by  their  courtly  manners,  their  high  breeding,  their 
intelligence,  or  their  wit.  You  met  them  everywhere  :  at  the  tables 
of  the  aristocracy,  at  the  club  house,  at  the  Opera,  at  the  Royal 
Societ}',  at  Almack's ;  and  everyAvhere  you  met  them  in  the  thick  of 
life  and  work,  interesting  themselves  in  everything  that  interested  their 
patients.  And  this  was  the  secret  of  their  success.  All  that  a  hand- 
some and  stately  young  physician  had  to  do  to  make  a  name  and  a 
fortune  was  to  gain  an  tnirce  into  Holland  House  or  some  centre  of 
fashion  of  that  sort,  to  take  a  house  in  Brook  Street,  put  up  a  brass 
plate,  publish  a  treatise  developing  a  taking  theory,  make  himself 
agreeable,  talk  well,  and  he  might  in  a  year  or  two  pick  up  guineas 
as  a  pigeon  picks  up  peas.  You  do  not  require  a  very  profound 
knowledge  of  medicine  to  deal  with  most  of  the  cases  that  you  meet 
with  in  a  fashionable  practice;  and  Sir  Henry  Holland  did  not 
possess  this  knowledge.  *'  It  is  so  nice,  you  know,"  women  say,  "  to 
have  some  one  to  whom  you  can  talk  all  about  yourself  now  and 
then  ";  and  that  .was  the  raison  d'etre  of  the  fashionable  physician. 
He  was  a  man  to  talk  to  about  yourself  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  every 
day,  to  tell  you  the  last  thing  out,  to  give  you  a  sketch  of  hb  travel' 
Vol.  XI.,  N.S.  1873.  3  » 


730  The  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

in  the  autumn,  of  the  geysers  of  Iceland,  of  the  flora  of  the  Caucasians, 
to  explain  the  newest  idea  in  science,  and  to  draw  a  pen-and-ink 
portrait  in  your  album  of  Mehemet  Ali  or  of  General  Jackson.  This 
originally  was  the  source  of  Sir  Henr\'  Holland's  popularity.  The 
physician  was  grafted  upon  the  man  of  science  and  the  savant  But 
all  this  is  reversed  now,  and  the  man  of  fashion  or  the  savant  must 
be  grafted  upon  the  physician  if  the  physician  wislies  to  touch  the 
world  at  any  other  than  the  professional  point.  And  this  makes  all 
the  difference  in  the  world 


Sir  William  Bovill  was  a  fair  representative  of  the  Parliamentary 
lawyer  in  contradistinction  to  the  Chamber  lawyer  represented  by 
Vice-Chancellor  Wickens.  The  Lord  Chief  Justice  knew  best  how 
to  deal  with  men  ;  the  Vice-Chancellor  knew  best  how  to  deal  with 
books  and  briefs.  You  may  make  a  fortune  at  Nisi  Prius  in  no  time, 
if  you  happen  to  possess  the  trick  oi  winning  verdicts,  without  know- 
ing much  of  law  or  anything  at  all  of  cquit}%  and  some  of  the  most 
successful  advocates  in  recent  years  have  been  men  who  are  learned 
only  by  the  courtesy  of  the  court.  Of  course  here  and  there  you 
may  pick  out  men  quite  as  much  distinguished  by  their  learning  as 
by  their  keenness  and  their  eloquence.  Sir  Roundell  Palmer  was 
one  of  these.  Sir  John  Karslake  is  another.  But  these  are  men  in  a 
thousand.  "  At  Nisi  Prius,"  I  once  heard  a  clever  lawyer  say,  '*  the 
first  thing  is  to  have  a  long  nose.  At  the  Equity  Bar  the  first  tiling 
is  to  have  a  long  head/'  And  that  is  the  fact  Vou  can  tell  an 
Equity  lawyer  from  a  Nisi  Prius  man  at  a  glance.  It  all  lies  in  the 
nose,  and  you  have  only  to  walk  into  Westminster  Hall  and  look  at 
the  judges,  and  then  to  stroll  into  Lincoln's  Inn  and  spend  an  hour 
with  the  Vice-Chancellors,  to  see  how  much  the  nose  tells  for  at 
Westminster  in  comparison  with  Chancery  Lane.  The  most  dis- 
tinguished men  upon  the  Bench  are  the  men  with  the  longest  noses. 
Brougham's  was  the  perfection  of  a  Nisi  Prius  nose.  It  was  the  only 
feature  he  had  to  talk  about  But  it  made  him  Lord  ChanceUor  at  a 
botmd.  You  could  not  have  asked  a  man  with  that  nose  to  take  a 
Puisne  judgeship.  It  made  Brougham  the  first  man  at  the  Bar,  the 
first  man  in  the  House  of  Commons  (at  least  he  had  no  second)^  and 
the  first  man  in  the  Courts  of  Law — and  that,  too,  in  spite  of  Lofd  St. 
Leonards'  exquisite  epigram  that  if  the  owner  of  that  nose  had  kncyim 
a  little  of  equity  he  would  have  known  a  little  of  everything.  The 
late  Lord  Chief  Justice  had  but  one  ^ult — and  thai  lay  in  Us  note. 
He  had  no  nose  worth  talking  about.  But  you  could  always  depend 
upon  him.    He  was  not  a  brilliant  man:    He  hardly  made  aaj  mark 


Table  Talk,  731 

n  the  House  of  Commons.  But  he  always  read  his  briefs.  He 
always  knew  every  point  of  his  case  ;  and  this  >vas  ample  compensa- 
tion for  everything  else.  The  fusion  of  law  and  equity  will  bring 
more  of  these  men  to  the  front,  and  we  shall  probably  see  more  stuff 
gownsmen  taking  their  seats  upon  the  Bench  after  loitering  a  few 
years  at  the  Utter  Bar,  and  fewer  Parliamentary  barristers.  The 
House  of  Commons  is  at  present  the  avenue  to  the  highest  honours 
of  the  law.  But  I  do  not  know  that  it  is  the  best.  It  may  give  us. 
keen  and  brilliant  Nisi  Prius  judges.  But  it  does  not  give  us  the 
best  Vice-Chancellors  or  Lords  Justices.  Sir  John  Wickens  never 
sat  in  the  House  of  Commons ;  and  this  is  the  case  with  three  or 
four  of  the  most  eminent  of  the  Puisne  judges.  We  shall  have  less 
elocjuence  on  the  Bench  when  we  cease  to  take  our  judges  from  the 
House  of  Commons.     But  we  shall  probably  have  more  law. 


But  with  Sir  Roundell  Palmer  on  the  woolsack,  ^-ith  Sir  Alexander 
Cockbum  in  the  Queen's  Bench,  and  Sir  John  Coleridge  in  the 
Common  Pleas,  we  need  not  trouble  ourselves  overmuch  about 
eloquence  on  the  Bench.  These  men  are,  perhaps,  three  of  the  most 
accomplished  s})eakers  in  England.  They  are  not  orators  either  of 
them  in  the  American  sense  of  **  a  steam  engine  in  breeches  ; "  but  if 
you  run  off  on  your  fingers  the  great  masters  of  jmre,  pictiu-esque,  and 
graceful  English,  you  can  hardly  omit  the  Lord  Chancellor,  the  Lord 
Chief  Justice,  and  the  e.vAttomey-General.  And  this  is  what  English 
eloquence  is  more  and  more  coming  to.  It  is  simply  fluent  and 
graceful  talk.  The  Parliamentary  orators  are  an  extinct  race,  or  >vill 
soon  be  ;  for  the  only  men  now  left  in  the  House  of  Commons  with 
the  true  instincts  of  the  orator  are  Bright  and  Gladstone.  All  the 
rest  are  simply  talkers  :  and  it  is  only  once  or  twice  in  a  Session  that 
these  men  find  an  opportunity  for  the  exercise  of  their  imperial 
powers.  The  talk  that  takes  best  with  the  House  of  Commons  is  Mr. 
Disraeli's,  and  this  is  the  highest  and  most  perfect  form  of  Parlia- 
mentar)'  talk.  Mr.  Disraeli  is  never  ridiculous  except  when  he  tries, 
as  the  Americans  say,  to  orate.  And  the  explanation  is  easy.  He 
has  no  passion.  He  has  wit,  humour,  sarcasm,  imagination,  every- 
thing that  goes  to  make  the  orator,  except  passion  ;  and  eloquence  in 
its  highest  sense  is  the  language  of  j>assion.  You  cannot  infuse  passion 
into  statistics ;  and  the  most  successful  and  taking  of  Parliamentary 
speakers  in  our  time  are  the  men  who  can  jmt  life  into  statistics,  w^ho 
can  make  a  Budget  speech  as  picturesque  and  as  pleasant  to  listen 
to  as  an  article  in  one  of  the  quarterlies.  All  the  orators  of  Eurof  e 
are  now  to  be  found  in  S;?ain.     France  has  only  one  of  the  biahest 

3  B  2 


732  The  Gentieman's  Magazine. 

rank,  M.  Rouher ;  for  Thiers,  like  Mr.  Disraeli,  is  only  a  brilliant  and 
epigrammatic  talker.  The  Germans  do  not  know  what  eloquence  is 
in  any  form  except  that  of  music  It  was  extinguished  in  Italy  by  the 
statecraft  of  Cavour  and  the  sword  of  Garibaldi.  The  Swiss  are  the 
Scots  of  the  Continent,  and  a  Scot  only  rises  to  eloquence  of  the 
highest  kind  when  in  the  pulpit  The  old  race  of  Irish  orators  dis- 
appeared with  O'Connell.  You  could  not  find  one  now  across  St 
George's  Channel  even  with  a  lantern.  The  Act  of  Roman  Catholic 
Emancipation  cut  the  tongues  out  of  the  Irish  orators,  and  Free  Trade 
cut  the  tongues  out  of  the  English.  Perhaps  a,  great  religious  or 
political  injustice  might  bring  orators  once  more  to  the  front ;  but 
what  play  can  even  a  Burke  make  ^ith  the  Malt  Tax,  except  perhaps 
in  the  Town  Hall  of  Ipswich  or  Norwich,  or  witli  the  25th  Clause, 
unless  you  pack  Exeter  Hall  beforehand  ?  Orators,  like  orchids,  are 
only  to  be  cultivated  in  a  rank  soil  and  an  artificial  atmosphere.  You 
might  as  well  try  to  grow  oaks  in  a  flower  pot  as  to  try  to  grow 
orators  in  the  present  House  of  Commons ;  and  the  tone  of  the 
House  of  Commons  now  is  the  tone  of  the  whole  country. 


Yet,  if  I  may  strike  a  fresh  note  upon  this  string,  I  should  say 
there  is  no  country  in  the  world  now  where  eloquence  of  the  sort  I 
am  talking  of— that  is,  the  power  to  think  on  your  legs  and  to  chat 
pleasantly  and  perspicuously— ^is  thought  more  of  than  it  is  with  us. 
What  fortunes  men  make  with  it  at  the  Bar!  What  handsome 
sinecures  they  pick  up  with  it  in  the  House  of  Commons  !  This  gift, 
of  course,  is  generally  allied  with  other  and  higher  gifts ;  but  take  two 
men  of  equal  powers,  of  equal  training,  and  turn  one  into  a  barrister 
or  a  member  of  Parliament,  and  the  other  into  an  author,  and  what 
will  be  the  position  of  the  two  men  thirty  years  hence  ?  A  note  of 
Mr.  John  Oxenford's  in  the  Times  suggests  this  question.  He  and 
Sir  William  Bovill  sat  at  the  same  desk  in  an  attorney's  ofike  in 
Tokenhouse  Yard  thirty  years  ago ;  Bovill  took  to  the  Bar,  Oxenford 
to  literature— and  what  is  the  result  ?  Mr.  Oxenford  is  the  finest  of 
critics  ;  and  yet,  although  the  critic  of  the  Times^  is  hardly  known 
out  of  the  Garrick  and  the  green  room.  Perhaps  at  the  Bar  Mr. 
Oxenford  might  have  risen  as  high  as  his  companion  of  Tokenhouse 
Yard ;  but  upon  the  Press  the  Lord  Chief  Justice  might  have  thought 
h  imself  lucky  if  he  could  make  ;^i,ooo  a  year  by  his  pen.  The  worst 
profession  now  in  England  is,  I  believe,  literature.  Its  emoluments 
are  poor.  Its  honours  are  nil.  You  may  perhaps  make  an  income 
equal  to  that  of  a  second-rate  whist-player  if  you  c^n  strike  out  a  fresh 
vein  of  fiction  \  but  fiction  is  almost  the  only  literature  that  does  \  ay, 


Table  Talk.  733 

and  even  fiction  must  be  fresh  and  fresh  if  it  is  to  take.  The  most 
brilliant  and  original  of  historical  works  now  fall  flat.  But  this  is  a 
delicate  question  to  handle  in  a  dozen  lines.  All  I  want  to  do  to-day 
is  to  note  the  fact  and  to  suggest  the  contrast  It  is  a  fact  that  will 
bear  reconsideration. 


What  is  the  cost  of  a  Nine  per  Cent.  Rate  of  Discount  to  us  ? 
Has  that  question  ever  been  answered?  Can  it  be  answered?  I 
wish  some  one  would  take  it  up.  Currency  is,  I  know,  generally 
tabooed  as  Table  Talk,  but  this  is  an  interesting  question  inde- 
pendently of  all  theories  of  currency.  Take  the  amount  of  ouf 
commercial  bills  afloat  say  on  the  ist  of  October,  the  amount  of  our 
outstanding  accounts  on  which  the  rate  of  interest  is  governed  by  the 
Bank,  and  double  or  perhaps  treble  the  interest  upon  these  at  a 
stroke,  and  what  will  the  fine  amount  to  ?  Is  it  an  exaggeration  to 
set  it  down  at  ten  millions  ?  Yet  this  is  generally  only  part  of  the 
loss ;  for  every  rise  in  the  Bank  rate  means  a  contraction  of  credit,  a 
restriction  of  trade,  a  slackening  of  employment,  lower  profits  and 
lower  wages,  or  perhaps  no  wages  and  no  profits  at  all.  The  con- 
traction of  credit  under  our  present  sjrstem  is  to  commerce  what 
bleeding  is,  or  used  to  be,  to  the  hunmn  'system.  It  reduces  the 
volume  of  life,  the  energy,  the  strei^th ;  and,  if  carried  too  far,  is  apt 
to  end  in  paralysis.  Yet  even  this  is  only  part  of  the  loss.  What 
figures  will  represent  the  depreciation  in  the  value  of  the  stocks  dealt 
in  upon  'Change?  This  point  is  partly  answered  by  one  of  my  con- 
tributors in  the  current  number  of  the  GentlimatCs.  But  of  course 
the  best  answer  can  only  be  a  conjecture.  It  would  take  the  quickest 
accountant  in  the  City  six  months  to  audit  the  Official  List  of  the 
Stock  Exchange  after  a  panic,  to  add  up  the  total  amount  of  the 
stocks,  and  to  reckon  up  the  amount  of  depreciation  upon  each.  It 
is  impossible,  I  know,  to  change  the  present  state  of  things.  It 
exists,  and  must  exist  apparently  till  the  end  of  the  chapter.  But  a 
system  of  currency  can  hardly  be  the  perfection  of  reason  under 
which  the  loss  of  a  couple  of  millions  of  gold  from  a  hoard  inflicts  a 
loss  upon  men  of  business  and  stockholders  of  perhaps  ^20,000,000. 
I  know  the  answer, — that  it  is  not  the  system  of  currency  but  the 
system  of  credit  that  is  at  fault,  that  manufacturers  and  merchants 
should  not  carry  on  their  business  on  credit  to  the  extent  they  do, 
and  that  people  should  not  hold  stock  upon  borrowed  capital.  But 
all  the  elasticity  and  vigour  of  our  trade  springs  from  this  system  of 
credit ;  and  were  it  not  for  our  system  of  credit  ^e  should  hardly 
be  the  commercial  equal  of  Holland. 


734  ^'^^  Gentleman  s  Magazine. 

A  f^ofos,  perhaps  I  niay  add  how  the  Bank  Rate  s  fixed.  It  is 
generally  supposed  to  be  governed  by  the  amotint  of  the  Resen-e  in 
the  banking  departznent  of  Threadneedle  Street  and  by  the  coarse  of 
the  Exchanges ;  but  this  is  only  true  in  a  sense.  Of  course  the  first 
object  of  the  Bank  of  England,  like  eveiy  other  bank,  is  to  be  safe — 
that  is,  to  be  able  to  pay  all  its  customers  who  ask  for  their  deposits 
in  cash — and  if  seven  per  c«nt.  is  to  be  made  on  capital  in  America 
iyr  Germany  when  only  four  or  five  per  cent,  is  to  be  made  here, 
(:a];ilalists  are  sure  to  pack  up  their  gold  in  sawdust  and  send  it  off  to 
New  York  or  Frankfort,  and  the  Exchanges  will  turn  against  us. 
There  is  but  one  way  to  act  upon  these  Exchanges  and  to  keep  our 
capital  at  home,  and  that  is  \yy  putting  up  the  rate  of  discount,  by 
bidding  against  the  Americans  or  the  Germans,  and  thus  keeping  our 
floating  cash  at  home  in  our  own  markets.  The  value  of  money 
a<  ross  the  Atlantic  and  across  the  English  Channel  is  therefore  one 
iS  the  first  points  that  the  directors  of  the  Bank  have  to  consider. 
i:i:t  it  is  not  the  only  point;  and  this  is  where  most  of  the  news- 
j'.r,)ers  err  in  their  criticisms  upon  the  action  of  the  Court  of  Direc- 
luis.  If  the  Reser\'e  looks  well  upon  paper — that  is,  if  there  happens 
to  be  36  per  cent,  in  cash  against  the  liabilities  of  the  Bank — ^and  the 
fiircctors  put  up  their  rate,  the  writers  in  the  Press  call  them  to 
account  at  once  in  the  style  of  the  Professor  who  read  a  lecture  to 
Ilanniluil  on  the  art  of  war.     But  the  truth  is,  the  Bank  mav  be 

m 

weaker  with  a  Reserve  of  36  per  cent  to-day  than  it  was  yesterday 
uiili  30  ]>er  cent.,  or  than  it  may  be  to-morrow  with  25  i>er  cent 
1'i;e  only  true  criterion  to  act  upon  is  the  state  of  the  accounts,  and 
tlicse  are  looked  into  every  morning  by  the  Governor  and  his  working 
as><>ciateb  ;  the  "  dangerous  classes,"  as  they  are  called,  are  weeded 
uWi :  and  the  amount  of  the  Reserve  to  be  kept  is  fixed  with  a  special 
UN  u  to  these.  There  is  no  hard  and  fast  rule  to  guide  the  Bank  ;  and 
ii  i^  because  "writers  will  persist  in  assuming  that  there  is  a  hard  and 
fivt  line  to  go  by  that  so  much  of  the  criticism  upon  the  Bank  is  at 
lault.  The  Bank,  of  course,  has  its  rules  and  its  traditions;  but 
t!:esc  rules  and  traditions  leave  a  large  margin  for  the  exercise  of 
inde])endent  judgment ;  and  all  that  most  of  us  can  do  is  to  take 
that  judgment  ui>on  trust  The  public  are  not  in  a  position  to  ariticise 
e\cej)t  at  haphazard.  It  is  not  a  pleasant  acknowledgment  this  to 
ir.ake  to  ourselves  ;  if  we  were  to  deal  quite  frankly  with  oarselves  we 
hh.ould  make  it,  and  till  we  do  we  must  not  suppose  our  criticism  to 
be  worth  much. 


« ^^  ^  \  *^  *^  -%  rf"^  ••^.*^»,*"*»  '^  ' 


\ 


-  .'-I